We attempted to walk to the church where Shakespeare lies buried, but the heat overcoming one lady of our party, we sought shelter on a friendly door-step in the shade, while the gentlemen went back for carriages. The door behind us softly opened and revealed the features of an elderly lady, who kindly invited us to enter, saying, "I am sure the rector of the parish would not like to see ladies reduced to sitting on his door-step. Pray walk in." We accepted the gracious invitation, and were soon rewarded by the presence of the rector, a good-looking, well-bred man. He told us that of all the visitors to Shakespeare's tomb the Americans constituted one-sixth; that they were by far the most interested in the visit. He preached every Sunday in the famous church where Shakespeare's bust and body are enshrined; and he knew Miss Bacon well, but was, I thought, a little astonished that she lodged at a shoe-maker's. He gave me some local details of the place, and offered us refreshments with true English hospitality.
The old church is delightfully situated close to the banks of the Avon. "We went in, read the inscription:
"Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbear!"
and looked at that wonderful bust which gives us all we can see of the most astounding genius the world has ever known.
We drove away silently, too full of delicious reverie to talk. Nothing roused us till our coachman said, two or three miles from Stratford, "Charlecotes, the seat of Sir Thomas Lucy; now the property of Mr. Lucy. Strangers not permitted to enter." So the family keep up the traditional inhospitality. We allowed our eyes to enter, however, and saw through the barred gate the
