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550      DOUGLASS' MONTHLY.      NOVEMBER, 1861

has, it seems, but recently discovered; its beauty had become dim and obscured, and it had been unlooked at and uncared for in some old place, (called New Place, I rather think,) for years, when a family change bro't it to a gentleman's house at Stratford, where a picture dealer saw it, and before cleaning it, offered five hundred guineas for it.  "No," was the reply. He cleaned it, and made divers offers for it, (so my informant told me,) to the amount of three thousand guineas.——"I shall not sell the picture," was the answer; and the disinterested, public-spirited owner (a lawyer in Stratford) presented this beautiful gem of art and great object of interest to the Shakspearian Society, for the purpose of its being exhibited in the old home of the wondrous bard, where it stands out from the canvass, and illumines the ancient walls, an all but living representation of Wm. SHAKSPEARE.  Speculation is endless as to the painter of this masterly portrait; it is taken such care of that it is kept in an immense iron case, which case is firmly fastened to the wall and locked up every night.  I was interested in perusing some lines of LUCIAN BUONAPARTE, written on visiting this spot in 1810:

"The eye of Genuius glistens to admire
How memory hails the sound of Shakspeare's lyre.
One tear I'll shed to form a crystal shrine
For all that's grand, immortal, and divine."

SHAKSPEARE's garden that was has long been uprooted and dismantled, and the trees that once lent him a shade have been cut down by rude hands (a grievous pity!) 

Since the place was purchased with a view to its preservation from further barbarous devastation, a new garden has been laid out on the old spot, where a cutting from the old and famed mulberry tree now flourishes, and where divers young trees and shrubs are vigorously sprouting forth.  At present this youthful garden looks extensively out of keeping with the old tenement adjoining; but in twenty years' time this will be remedied.

We drove direct from SHAKESPEARE's house to Shottery, to see the cottage of ANN HATHAWAY, his wife.  A lovely drive of scarcely two miles brought us to the old fashioned country village of Shottery, and in this village stands the low long cottage from which, in his earlier youth, SHAKSPEARE married his ANNE, of whom not a single record exists; but she was his wife, and, therefore, people look with keen interest on her old home and its surroundings, and wonder which was the short cut across the fields taken by him on his Sunday afternoon walks, and week night strolls thither?  The country is lovely on all sides——rich green meadows, winding lanes, lined with thick hedges and overhung with majestic trees. 

I reached home in a dreary contemplative mood, wondering and conjecturing endlessly as to what had been, and what had not been in existence nearly three centuries ago!

The Stratford of the present is a pretty, little, clean town, pleasantly situated on the winding, silvery Avon; the river is spanned by a fine old bridge at the entrance of the town, and from this bridge we have the best view of the tapering spire of the church which peeps out amidst a rich wood of trees, pointing heavenward.  The choir connected with the church is deservedly renowned.  We had full cathedral service there last Sunday, and exceedingly I enjoyed it.  To worship in this time-worn, venerable edifice, with the dust of the mighty genius silently lying beneath one's feet; to hear the sublime words of the spirit wrapt Isaiah sounded forth by finely cultivated voices, accompanied by the rich notes of a full toned organ, was, indeed indescribable.  "In that day shall this song be sung in the land of Judah," was the recitative preceding the chorus; and such a chorus of sacred song followed!  "Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee," was among the richest and loftiest strains I ever listened to, and carried one's thoughts far above this lower state of existence, and these earthly choruses of the church militant, to that Heavenly song which shall be sung by people of every country and clime throughout eternity. 

I understand that, to the disintegrated self-devotion and industry of the Rev. W. MORTON, the curate of Stratford, are the people mainly indebted for the grand chaunting, and the excellent choir. 

One of the finest views near Stratford is attainable from the beautiful grounds of "Welcombe," which rise to a considerable height, nearly from the banks of the Avon.——New beauties are visible here from every turn of the romantic winding paths.  We had perfect weather for the drive, the ramble, the pic-nic, and the view, and we made the most of it, since perfect weather, in our English climate, is something unusual.  How you, my dear friend, would have gloried in the panorama that was spread before us as we stood on the Pavilion Hill, overshadowed with some of the finest trees I ever beheld!  Such a combination of thorough English rural home beauties as thence met our eyes I have rarely seen surpassed.  An amphitheatre of green pastures and sunny meadow, separated from one another by thick hedges, and beautified by majestic single trees——here and there, rich woods varying the aspect of the scene——the quiet little town of Stratford appearing below us on our right, environed by rich foliage, and backed by hills——the pretty village of Tiddington at our feet, separated from us by the softly flowing Avon and the "Welcombe" woods——the picturesque village and church of Alveston, between the trees on our left——more distant villages dimly appearing, with ever and anon an old fashioned country mansion, or farm house, or cottage looming up between the ever rich, full foliage of pleasure grounds, parks and woods——the Loxley hills bounding our view in one direction——the far more distant Malvern range meeting the horizon on the other.  But description is vain! alas, I cannot make you see this pretty picture; but you will imagine how all this, with deep blue sky above us, light fleecy clouds gracefully sailing over us, casting their soft shadows here and there, beautiful gardens all round us, and bright sunshine smiling on everything, formed a picture never to be forgotten, with balmy breezes fanning our cheek, and singing birds gladdening our ears, we sat on the heights regaling ourselves, not only with the beauty of the landscape, but with more substantial fare, which had been bountifully provided by my considerate friend and hostess; and then after further exploring the lovely pleasure grounds of "Welcombe," with the tiny Lake, and its more tiny island, we regretfully bade the lovely scene adieu, and after descending from our glorious hill, and driving "through the emerald woods," we were once again on the Queen's highway, and in common every day life.

Every one familiar with the little there is to know of the early days of SHAKSPEARE, will remember the names of "Lucy," and "Charlecote Park."  We drove to Charlecote one morning lately, through four miles of fine country; in many places the rich masses of full foliage met above our heads as we passed through the shady lane that led us (along the side of the Park where hundreds of deer were bounding, and many sheep grazing) to the trim little church, which was built, only nine years since, on the edge of the park nearest to the village, in place of an ancient edifice taken down.  The celebrated monuments of the LUCY family were then removed, and now stand in the Lucy Chapel of the new church, and are objects of exceeding interest, for several reasons.  There never were but three Sir THOS. LUCYS, and they all lie here.  The first Sir THOMAS LUCY of SHAKSPEARE's time erected a huge, massive, monument to his wife, and round it is an inscription written by him, representing her to have been a woman adorned with every possible virtue.  As I read this high panegyric, the sexont's wife (who was showing me the monuments) remarked, "Sir THOMAS wrote that, ma'm, because SHAKSPEARE had said bad things of the lady."  Sir THOMAS died five years after his wife, and their effigies, of immense size, are carved in stone, and side by side they lie over the tomb in which their bodies are interred.  1600 is the date of his death.  The monument to the second Sir THOMAS LUCY (erected by his widow) is one of the finest pieces of sculpture I ever saw.  It is said that the lady sat for her likeness, and had her own effigy prepared while she lived, to insure its accompanying that of her husband; and truly, there is more of life than of death in that beautiful form, which seems but to slumber softly, as her husband looks down upon her; the grouping of the figures is perfection, and the execution marvelous.

The monument to the third Sir THOMAS LUCY is quite a curiosity, and but for the assurance of the sexton and the date, (1640,) I should have deemed it the more ancient of the three.  Sir THOMAS reposes alone on the top of the monument; and by his side kneels a queer little figure drest in black, with hands uplifted in prayer, preceded by six smaller female figures in black——the daughters——and followed by eight small male figures——the sons——all with their hands raised in prayer, but of the quaintest possible cut, so that to keep a grave face while looking at them would be a difficult task.  One cannot but wonder at the singular task of the Lady Lucy who devised or acquiesced in such a mausoleum.

The memorial windows in the church, erected by the present family of LUCYS, are very beautiful.  There is nothing remarkable in the outer appearance of the old Hall, which is within sight of the church, and is the seat of the LUCYS still.  The Park is renowned for the loftiness and stateliness of the many magnificent trees that adorn it.  Here the oak, the elm, the beech, the ash, the chestnut and the sycamore vie with one another in size and beauty.

Warwickshire is famous for fine wood, and whichever way we drive, we are inclined to think the trees we see are among the finest we