he was convinced, as he told us, from the first, by his own sensations, that he should not live, and occasionally suffered much pain,and, throughout, extreme languor and faintness, his cheerfulness, and, above all, his resignation, never forsook him.

At this moment Mrs. Hall was interrupted by the entrance of the worthy vicar of Stratford, the Rev. Thos. Rogers, who had returned that morning from London, and who had called upon the Doctor to state, that he had, according to his wishes, seen Stanton the sculptor, who had promised, as soon as he was free from his present numerous engagements, to undertake the monument which he, Dr. Hall, purposed erecting to the memory of his father-in-law.

"I am happy to tell you, my friends," said the Doctor, addressing Montchensey, Hubert Neville, and his lady, "that, I trust, I shall be able to transmit to posterity a faithful resemblance of our admirable townsman; for I have had a cast taken from his features, and, as his illness was very short, and neither distortion nor emaciation were its consequences, it will present him to the world, provided Stanton

does but justice to his model, with a great portion of that sweetness, benignity, and intelligence of expression, which was wont to animate his countenance, and delight all who approached him."

"Ah! would to heaven, you could perpetuate," cried Hubert Neville, with eager emotion, "a portion also of his genius and his talents; but, to adopt his own emphatic language, we ne'er shall look upon his like again! It would, however," he continued, "be a great satisfaction to myself, to my Helen, and her father, could we be permitted, ere the sun goes down, to visit the spot where you have laid all that remains of our beloved friend, to me, indeed, a more than father!"

"I will be your conductor," said the Vicar; "for though it is a melancholy office, it is one likewise which can never fail to be productive of many great and useful, and ennobling emotions." "I also will accompany you," said the Doctor; "but as for you, Susanna,” he added, turning to Mrs. Hall, who had been for some time meditating such an attempt, "I am afraid, my love, you are not yet equal to the task." As he

uttered these words in a somewhat hesitating manner, Mrs. Hall burst into tears, and Helen, whose heart felt tenderly interested for her, took her hand, and they left the room together.

"I do not wonder," remarked the Vicar, addressing Dr. Hall," that your lady should still continue thus deeply afflicted; for, I believe, no father ever loved a daughter more affectionately than did Shakspeare his Susanna; nor did ever daughter, I will venture to affirm, more truly and correctly estimate the extraordinary worth and talents of a parent than Mrs. Hall. I have often thought, indeed, that she might have adopted, in reference to him, the touching language of the amiable Ruth, and have said,

Where thou diest will I die, and there will I be buried: the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me!'"

There was something in these observations of the aged Vicar which seemed peculiarly to affect all present, and it was not until they had come within sight of the hallowed fabric which protected the remains of the poet, that the silence was materially broken. Then it was that the singularly solemn aspect of the church,

venerable and magnificent in its architecture, situated on the very margin of the Avon, and in the centre of an extensive cemetery, embosomed as it were in a grove of lofty elms, and approached through a long avenue of lime trees, drew from Montchensey and his son-in-law, repeated exclamations of deep feeling and admiration. "How awful, yet how beautiful, is this sacred pile !" said the former, as they entered the buttressed and embattled porch which forms the north entrance into the nave, "and how worthy of being the depository for the ashes of our immortal bard!”

They now, preceded by the Vicar, traversed the building in deep silence, and on entering the chancel, whose lofty and highly-finished windows, filled with stained glass, shed a rich but sombre light over the whole choir, every earthly emotion, every thought save what was prompted by religious feeling and the solemn purport of their visit, seemed to die within them. "Beneath yonder flag," said the Vicar, pointing to one somewhat remarkably distinguished, at the moment, by a setting sun-beam lingering

on its site," rests all that can perish of our beloved Shakspeare !"

They drew near, and, after an unbroken pause of some minutes, during which more than one tear was heard to fall upon the stone which covered his remains, Montchensey read, though in a somewhat tremulous voice, the four following lines, which he found inscribed upon its surface:

Good frend, for Jesus sake forbeare
To digg the dust encloased heare;
Blest be y man yt spares thes stones,
And curst be he yt moves my bones.

"This rather singular inscription," remarked the Vicar, as soon as Montchensey had ceased reading," was written by our friend, and at his request placed upon his grave, in order, if possible, to protect it from a violation to which many of the tombs in this church, I am sorry to say, have been for ages subjected, and which, however custom may have reconciled it to the general mind, he viewed with abhorrence. You perceive that ornamented door on your left hand, it opens into a Saxon crypt or charnel