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A MEMORY FROM STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 



BY G. R. TWINN, ESQ. 



In the early part of April, T made a pilgrimage to Stratford-on-Avon, 

 to view the places and objects, that cannot but be interesting to every 

 Englishman, for whom genius and thought are able to present enduring 

 and invaluable charms. The day was one of the warmest and loveliest of 

 the present spring, and our drive along country roads for twenty-four 

 miles, was most enjoyable; for young lambs and goslings, high banks of 

 primroses and anemones, "willow buds swathed in down," and bright ex- 

 panding leaves on many a tree; the lark's rich melody, and the black- 

 bird's song on fir-tree bough, made such thrills of joy and grateful thought 

 arise in our breast, that we were indeed "overcome." 



The Shakspere Hotel was our resting-place, and having arranged for our 

 bodily wants, we ventured on a tour of the town, and it is to record 

 what (that pertains to Natural History) fell in my way, I pen this 

 notice. 



Walking through Henley Street to the house of the immortal poet's 

 birth, we saw revelling in the sunlight at different periods, one specimen 

 of the Brimstone Butterfly, (Papilio rhamni;) five of the Small Tortoise- 

 shell, (Vanessa urticue;) and one of the Large White Cabbage, (Pieris 

 brassicce.) In the house itself I was gratified at the nice feeling displayed 

 in so many glasses of primroses and violets neatly arranged; pyramids of 

 daffodils, and a green spray of hawthorn studded with daisy stars, wreathing 

 a bust of the poet. 



In the churchyard of the Trinity I sat and watched the lovely Avon 

 sparkling in the gorgeous sun; and over it I saw skimming my first 

 Swallows of the season, in a very noon-day rapture. The Blue Tit and 

 Redbreast I saw busy at their nests, and the Rookery around the sacred 

 building was pregnant with cawing and working. Inside, we saw all that 

 was dear and venerated; read the poet's well-known epitaph, and promenaded 

 that delightful avenue of yew and other trees, that leads to the north 

 entrance. We afterwards rambled along the Avon, and saw the leaping 

 fish beneath the pendant willows on its banks; admired the Golden Crow- 

 foot's gorgeous glare, and thought of Desdemona's song, "Sing all a green 

 willow must be my garland." 



At a later period we visited Miss Reason's collection of Shaksperian 

 curiosities, examined the many singular autographs of visitors; and in a 

 private room two nice cases of British Butterflies and a few Bats. 



The Mulberry Tree "that Shakspere loved" was not forgotten by us; 

 (it is in the centre of a fine bowling-green,) and we certainly had a day 



