ing the
book, I resolved I would take a pilgrimage to the birth place of the
great Swan of Avon.

"I had never yet visited this retreat, so I started at once, and
determined to put up in the village for some time. With what a thrill of
delight, awe, and enthusiasm I crossed the threshold of that humble
domicile! _His_ foot had once crossed that same spot! Here was the
window that _he_ used to look out of. The identical glass, too, all
carefully preserved by a network of wire. _His_ table and _his_ chair!
There was something magical to me in that low-roofed chamber, with its
old-fashioned beams.

"This, then, was the birthplace of that giant brain destined to illumine
the world with the rays of his genius! Who knows how many plays had been
conceived and worked out within those four walls? To me, the spot was
hallowed ground. _I_ could not inscribe my name on those sacred panels.
It seemed almost sacrilege for me to sit down in his chair, but I did
so; and begged to be left alone for a time, that I might meditate on the
life and genius of the greatest of poets.

"It was not without a feeling of regret that I tore myself away from
this hallowed shrine. I wandered through the almost deserted streets,
and read the names over the village shops. 'William Shakespeare' here
caught my eye; 'John Shakespeare' there; descendants, no doubt, of the
great poet. Shakespeare seemed a common name here. I wondered whether
any of them inherited his genius. No matter, it would be something to
say that one was descended from so great a man, without possessing any
further recommendation. I called upon a certain William Shakespeare, and
inquired into his pedigree. He seemed a very ordinary sort of personage.
He did not appear to know, nor yet to care much, if he were really
descended from the bard or no. There was no genius about _him_. I called
upon another, and then another, bearing the name of the poet, but could
not discover the slightest spark of the fire that kindled the soul of
the great dramatist in any one of them. I strolled on to the church, and
visited the tomb. A sensation of awe crept over me as I read the simple
couplet engraved over the vault containing the ashes of the bard:

Blessed be he who spares these stones,
And cursed be he who moves my bones.

"I shuddered to think of the awful consequences that might ensue to the
sacrilegious hand that should dare move his honoured dust. There was his
effigy placed withi