Thou soft flowing Avon, by thy silver stream
Of things more than mortal sweet Shakspeare would dream;
The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed,
For hallowed the turf is which pillowed his head.
GARRICK.

To a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide world
which he can truly call his own, there is a momentary feeling
of something like independence and territorial consequence,
when, after a weary day's travel, he kicks off his boots, thrusts
his feet into slippers, and stretches himself before an inn fire.
Let the world without go as it may; let kingdoms rise or fall,
so long as he has the wherewithal to pay his bill, he is, for
the time being, the very monarch of all he surveys. The arm.
chair is his throne, the poker his sceptre, and the little parlor,
of some twelve feet square, his undisputed empire. It is a
morsel of certainty, snatched from the midst of the uncer-
tainties of life it is a sunny moment gleaming out kindly on
a cloudy day; and he who has advanced some way on the
pilgrimage of existence, knows the importance of husbanding
even morsels and moments of enjoyment. "Shall I not take
mine ease in mine inn?" thought I, as I gave the fire a stir,
lolled back in my elbow-chair, and cast a complacent look
about the little parlor of the Red Horse, at Stratford-on-Avon.

The words of sweet Shakspeare were just passing through
my mind as the clock struck midnight from the tower of the
church in which he lies buried. There was a gentle tap at
the door, and a pretty chambermaid, putting in her smiling
face, inquired, with a hesitating air, whether I had rung. I
understood it as a modest hint that it was time to retire. My

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