had more vitality than at the present moment, nor such a wide breathing space among men. While looking at the dark and dense network of names written upon the walls and windows of the room in which Shakespeare was born, there was one I would have walked a hundred miles to see. It was not Lucien Bonaparte's, nor Sir Walter Scott's, nor Burns's, nor Washington Irving's. It was the name of the man who first pencilled one upon the virgin plaster over the cradle-place of the poet. It would be exceedingly interesting to know who he was, when he did it, and what moved him to this act of homage. What a procession of names his headed! The whole space is covered with layers of them, several deep. If they could all be brought to light, every square inch would reveal fifty at least. The house and garden are in good repair. The latter is beautifully laid out and kept, and is marked by this interesting characteristic: all the flowers that Shakespeare has celebrated in his plays are here planted, watched, and tended with the nicest care. As a reward for the dew and light his genius shed over them two centuries and a half ago, their sweet eyes keep vigils over his birthplace and perfume it with their morning breath.
Printed by Josiah Allen, jun., Birmingham.
