The old legendary sexton of Irving’s visit has passed away, and another reigns in his stead. Availing myself of his keys, I excused him from any further effort of his tongue, and surveyed the solemn interior in peace. Here, too, the hand of restoration has been freshly at work, and has set the holy house in order. The Church which enfolds the tomb of Shakspeare is dedicated to the Holy Trinity—the God who made him, and whom he adored. The meagre god of unbelief would never have filled such a soul as his, or moved him to kneel down; but how often that overwhelming Mystery of Faith must have thrilled him here, as he repeated the creed, or chanted the _Te Deum!_ At last I stood before the famous bust, and looked upon that sublime forehead, and those composed features, and said to it silently those brotherly lines of Milton, which the sight brings naturally to mind. Then I read the inscription, and spelled out, letter by letter, the words of that imprecatory verse, in which Shakspeare’s self is as legible as anything else. “Good friend, for Jesu’s sake,” etc.—_Amen_, was my response. It was a moment to remember, but not to describe. I next tried to satisfy myself as to the sense of _Mistriss Hall’s_ epitaph, which is ambiguous; and on which the inspection of the original throws little additional light. It tells us _first_, that she was “witty above her sexe,” and _second_, that she was “wise to salvation,” and then adds: “Something of Shakspeare was in _that_—but _this_ Wholly of him, with whom she’s now in blisse.”