at an old-fashioned hostelry, whose doorway was
decorated by a counterfeit presentment of the Bard, and I observed that
similar effigies were placed above several of the shops as I walked
along the streets. These images somewhat resemble those erected to
Buddha in certain parts of India, being similarly bald, but
terminating--not in crossed legs, but a cushion with tassels. However, I
was not able to discover that it is the custom for even the most
ignorant inhabitants to do anything in the nature of poojah before these
figures any longer, though probably usual enough before CROMWELL, with
the iron sides, ordered all such baubles to be removed. In a hole of the
upper wall of the Town Hall there is a life-size statuary of SHAKSPEARE,
with legs complete, showing that he was not actually deficient in such
extremities and a mere gifted Torso: and it is presumable that the
reason why only his upper portions are generally represented is, that
marble in these parts is too precious a commodity to be wasted on mere
superfluities.

We visited the church, and saw his tomb, and there again was the
superior half of him occupied with writing verses on a cushion in a
mural niche, supported by pillars. Upon a slab below is inscribed a
verse requesting that his dust should not be digged, and cursing him who
should interfere with his bones, but in so mediocre a style, and of such
indifferent orthography, that it is considered by some to be a sort of
spurious cryptogram composed by Hon'ble BACON.

On such a _vexata quaestio_ I am not to give a decided opinion, though
the verse, as a literary composition, is hardly up to the level of
_Hamlet_, and it would perhaps have been preferable if the poet, instead
of attempting an impromptu, had looked out some suitable quotation from
his earlier works. For, when an author is occupied in shuffling off his
mortal coil, it is unreasonable to expect him to produce poetry that is
up to the mark.

When I advanced this excuse aloud in the church, a party of Americans
within hearing exclaimed, indignantly, that such irreverent levity was a
scandal in a spot which was the Mecca of the entire civilised universe.

Whereupon I did protest earnestly that I meant no irreverence, being
_nulli secundus_ in respect for the _Genius Loci_, only, as a critic of
English Literature, I could not help regretting that a poet gifted with
every requisite for producing a satisfactory epitaph had produced a
doggerel whic