Strange thoughts pass through my mind, and deep emotions stir my heart, as I wander through the house wherein was born the man who wrote not for an age, but for all time; as I stand in the church of the Holy Trinity, and look upon the grave, the tomb, and bust of him who analyzed character as chemists analyze material substances. He probed to the heart, and by the light of his own genius read unuttered thoughts and discovered the secret motives of men. Human faces were to him so many books wherein he could “read strange matters.” About a mile from Stratford is the cottage of Anne Hathaway, who first initiated Shakespeare into that sweetest and most delightful of all human mysteries—love. “That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man, If with his tongue he can not win a woman.” Yes, he won her, and afterwards he could say: “She is mine own, And I as rich in having such a jewel As twenty seas, if all their sands were pearl, The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold.” It is a matter of congratulation that our people appreciate Shakespeare as much or more than Englishmen. The register at the poet’s house shows that at least one-half of the number who visit his grave are Americans. Nor are our people slow to give material proof of their love for the myriad-minded bard. Mr. G. W. Childs, of Philadelphia, whom to mention is but to praise, has, within the last twelve months, erected in Stratford a costly and beautifully designed fountain to the memory of Shakespeare. We might write many other things about our mother country, but we must away to the Continent. So, adieu, adieu; but I hope not a final farewell to merry England. The English Channel is only twenty-five miles wide, but it is usually rough and boisterous, and is an object of terror to travelers. As we start across, Johnson says: “Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea For an acre of barren ground.” But the Lord tempers the wind to the shorn lamb. The Channel for once is all that could be desired. The weather is pleasant, the sea placid as a lake. As I land on the Continent at Ostend, the thing that most impresses me is the fact that I can not impress any one. The custom-house officers surround me. I tell them who I am, where I am from, and what my business is; yet this does not satisfy them. I repeat my statement once, twice, three times, and still they do not seem to comprehend. I say: “Gentlemen, I have told my story as plainly as I can speak. Do you now understand?” And when I come to find out, they do not understand what “understand” means. Buildings on this side of the Channel wear a century-old, time-touched appearance. The people have strange, odd, and old-time ways of doing things. For instance, they work one horse to a two-horse wagon—not in shafts, but on one side of the tongue. Frequently they work one ox and one horse together. This is what Johnson calls being unequally yoked.