Shakespeare s Tomb. 133 



us to make a special visit to his shrine to worship him. 

 His mighty shade alone fills the mind. True mono- 

 theists are we all who make the pilgrimage to Stratford. 

 I have been there often, but I am always awed into 

 silence as I approach the church ; and when I stand 

 beside the ashes of Shikespeare I cannot repress stern, 

 gloomy thoughts, and e sk why so potent a force is now 

 but a little dust. The inexplicable waste of nature, a mill- 

 ion born that one may live, seems nothing compared 

 to this — the brain of a god doing its work one day and 

 food for worms the next ! No wonder, George Eliot, 

 that this was ever the weight that lay upon your heart 

 and troubled you so ! 



A cheery voice behind me. "What is the matter? 

 Are you ill ? You look as if you hadn't a friend in the 

 world ! " Thanks, gentle remembrancer. This is no 

 time for the Scribe to forget himself. We are not out 

 for lessons or for moralizing. Things are and shall be 

 " altogether lovely." One must often laugh if one 

 would not cry. 



Here is a funny conceit. A worthy draper in the 

 town has recently put an upright stone at the head of 

 his wife's grave, with an inscription setting forth the 

 dates of her birth and death, and beneath it the follow- 

 ing verse : 



" For the Lord has done great things for us, whereof 

 we are exceeding glad." 



The wretch ! One of the wives of our party declared 



