to do that still; and not only has he to go outside his native town, but outside his native land. In America his works are much better known, loved, and honoured than in Great Britain; in France, where it is difficult to understand him owing to the insuperable obstacles of his language for Frenchmen, there is a “société” founded by an erudite Israelite, with a British committee who are entirely unknown as _real_ students of Shakespeare, but who have “names” distinguished in other walks of life. In Russia the bard is viewed as a sort of demi-god, for his verse translates into Russian superbly; and in the Germany of the past Lessing’s translation of the plays made him the father of German literature, as represented by Goethe, Schiller, and others who distinguished themselves before the black night of Hohenzollern decadence. But if we take our own islands--in Scotland he is hardly understood; in Ireland, seldom read or acted; in Wales, almost a sealed book; while in England itself--well, as Martin Harvey has recently said, a quarter of one day’s war expenses would establish a National Theatre, where the great plays could be produced in a fitting manner as part of the national education. * * * * * In Stratford-on-Avon this year’s anniversary of the poet’s birth and death has passed almost unmarked. No actor has urged his willing service to his Master in the theatre by the Avon, though this, for many reasons, is not to be wondered at. True, the bells of the church rang--true, the flags of nations were unfurled, and there was a dolefully shabby “flower” procession; but in the Memorial Theatre there was only a lecture, _not_ on Shakespeare, but on a movement inaugurated by the lecturer himself. Then there were all the usual “pats on the back” of every person to the other concerned, a trifle of music, and there an end. Shakespeare himself was nowhere, though--yes!--perhaps out in the moist woods, where the primroses are beginning to push through the mould and the call of the cuckoo is faintly heard, one might have met his tranquil Spirit moving apart from all “alarums and excursions,” and have heard his voice in words which he could well address just now to England. “Nay, if you read this line, remember not The hand that writ it, for I love you so, That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, If thinking on me then should make you woe.” “DON’T TRAVEL” A HARD HIT (_Published in the “Pall-Mall Gazette”_)