t" graciously bestows on us the
useful information that "William Shakespeare was born on the Twenty-first
day of April, Fifteen Hundred Sixty-three, at fifteen minutes of two on a
stormy morning."

Concise statements of facts are always valuable, but we have none such
concerning the early life of George Eliot. There is even a shadow over
her parentage, for no less an authority than the "American Cyclopedia
Annual," for Eighteen Hundred Eighty, boldly proclaims that she was not a
foundling and, moreover, that she was not adopted by a rich retired
clergyman who gave her a splendid schooling. Then the writer dives into
obscurity, but presently reappears and adds that he does not know where
she got her education. For all of which we are very grateful.

Shakespeare left five signatures, each written in a different way, and
now there is a goodly crew who spell it "Bacon."

And likewise we do not know whether it is Mary Ann Evans, Mary Anne Evans
or Marian Evans, for she herself is said to have used each form at
various times. William Winter--gentle critic, poet, scholar--tells us
that the Sonnets show a dark spot in Shakespeare's moral record. And if I
remember rightly, similar things have been hinted at in sewing-circles
concerning George Eliot. Then they each found the dew and sunshine in
London that caused the flowers of genius to blossom. The early
productions of both were published anonymously, and lastly they both knew
how to transmute thought into gold, for they died rich.

Lady Godiva rode through the streets of Coventry, but I walked--walked
all the way from Stratford, by way of Warwick (call it Warrick, please)
and Kenilworth Castle.

I stopped overnight at that quaint and curious little inn just across
from the castle entrance. The good landlady gave me the same apartment
that was occupied by Sir Walter Scott when he came here and wrote the
first chapter of "Kenilworth."

The little room had pretty, white chintz curtains tied with blue ribbon,
and similar stuff draped the mirror. The bed was a big canopy affair--I
had to stand on a chair in order to dive off into its feathery
depths--everything was very neat and clean, and the dainty linen had a
sweet smell of lavender. I took one parting look out through the open
window at the ivy-mantled towers of the old castle, which were all
sprinkled with silver by the rising moon, and then I fell into gentlest
sleep.

I dreamed of playing "I-spy" through Kenilworth C