their presence, on September 15, 1832,--the parents of Charles Edward Flower and Edgar Flower, of Stratford, the former being the founder of the Shakespeare Memorial. There are several eccentric tributes in the register, but the most of them are feeble. One of the better kind is this: "Not in that palace where the dead repose In splendid holiness, where Time has spread His sombre shadows, and a halo glows Around the ashes of the mighty dead, Life's weary pilgrim rests his aching head. This is his resting-place, and save his own No light, no glory round his grave is shed: But memory journeys to his shrine alone To mark how sound he sleeps, beneath yon simple stone. "Ah, say, art thou ambitious? thy young breast-- Oh, does it pant for honours? dost thou chase The phantom Fame, in fairy colours drest, Expecting all the while to win the race? Oh, does the flush of youth adorn thy face And dost thou deem it lasting? dost thou crave The hero's wreath, the poet's meed of praise? Learn that of this, these, all, not one can save From the chill hand of death. Behold Childe Harold's grave!" CHAPTER IX HISTORIC NOOKS OF WARWICKSHIRE Stratford-upon-Avon, August 20, 1889.--The traveller who hurries through Warwickshire,--and American travellers mostly do hurry through it,--appreciates but little the things that he sees, and does not understand how much he loses. The customary course is to lodge at the Red Horse, which is one of the most comfortable houses in England, and thus to enjoy the associations that are connected with the visits of Washington Irving. His parlour, his bedroom (number 15), his arm-chair, his poker, and the sexton's clock, mentioned by him in the _Sketch Book_, are all to be seen, if your lightning-express conductor will give you time enough to see them. From the Red Horse you are taken in a carriage, when you ought to be allowed to proceed on foot, and the usual round includes the Shakespeare Birthplace; the Grammar School and Guild chapel; the remains of New Place; Trinity church and the Shakespeare graves in its chancel; Anne Hathaway's cottage at Shottery; and, perhaps, the Shakespeare Memorial library and theatre. These are impressive sights to the lover of Shakespeare; but when you have seen all these you have only begun to see the riches of Stratford-upon-Avon. It is only by living in the town, by making yourself familiar with it in all its moods, by viewing it in storm as well as in sunshine, by roaming through its quaint, deserted streets in the lonely hours of the night, by sailing up and down the beautiful Avon, by driving and walking in the green lanes that twine about it for many miles in every direction, by becoming, in fact, a part of its actual being, that you obtain a genuine knowledge of that delightful place. Familiarity, in this case, does not breed contempt. The worst you will ever learn of