228 
preservation, and only one satyrV head is replaced; the remain¬ 
ing ornaments are not in the least injured. 
During my walk through the park, I passed along the bank of 
the Avon, which runs at the foot of the rock, on which the castle 
is built. On a small black slate, attached to the rock, there is an 
inscription, stating that a young man, one of the Bagot family, was 
drowned there while bathing. The unfortunate father has erect¬ 
ed this little monument to the memory of his son. On my re¬ 
turn to the castle, I ascended one of the towers, called Gay’s 
tower, about one hundred and fifty feet high; this tower is very 
well preserved, and is provided with fortifications. In the in¬ 
terior there is a small room, and from the top of the tower there 
is a fine and extensive prospect. 
On my return to the city, the stage for Stratford-on-Avon was 
about starting; I took a seat, and after eight miles journey, found 
myself once .more on the grand turnpike leading from Birming¬ 
ham to Oxford, 
Stratford is a small, inconsiderable, ill-built town, but cele¬ 
brated as the birth place of Shakspe are. Oneof the smallesthouses 
bears the following inscription, “in this house the great Shakspeare 
was born.” It is now a butcher’s stall and belongs to strangers, 
to whom Shakspeare’s posterity were compelled by poverty to 
dispose of it. It is said that he was born in a room of the upper 
story; in this apartment are several old pieces of furniture, the 
existence of which they flatteringly endeavour to trace from the 
days of Shakspeare, also a poor portrait of the poet, and a copy 
of his will; and a spectacle case made of the wood of a mulber¬ 
ry tree, which they say was planted by him. 
At Stratford I took a post-chaise, proceeded on my journey, 
and at ten o’clock in the evening reached Oxford, which is thirty- 
nine miles from Stratford. I took up my lodgings in the Star 
Hotel. As I had seen Oxford three years previous, I merely so¬ 
journed there half a day, with the intention of beholding once more, 
in the Bodleian Library, the lovely portrait of the unfortunate 
Mary Stuart, painted by Zucchero, and which had formerly pleas¬ 
ed me so much that I considered it as the best likeness I had ever 
seen of that interesting woman. I therefore proceeded to that 
library: I hurried through the library hall, but made a much 
longer stay in the gallery of paintings. The sight of the portrait 
of Mary Stuart renewed all my old impressions, and I gazed in¬ 
tently upon it for a considerable time with the greatest pleasure. 
I likewise remarked a collection of seven paintings by Schalk, 
effects of light, representing the seven mortal sins, very well 
painted, moreover a number of pieces by English painters, and a 
number of portraits of the patrons and benefactors of the univer¬ 
sity, of its chancellors, and several of the most celebrated literati 
