The old tavern was still there, but the old host slept in God's acre near by, while the lads we knew ten years before, had, like ourselves, gone out into the world for fame and fortune. William sought out his father and mother, and then Anne Hathaway and the children, who still resided at the old Hathaway cottage at Shottery. I remained at the tavern for contemplation. Time and age mellow the most violent spirits; and the temper of Anne had become modified by family troubles, inducing an inward survey of self, which brings a reasonable person to the realization of the fact that he or she is not the only stubborn oak in the forest of humanity. A practical stubborn wife and a lofty poet never can assimilate. Shakspere had no equals or superiors. Shakspere was simply SHAKSPERE. _At home he found a scolding wife, Abroad he felt the joys of life, While all his glory and renown Were reaped at last in London town. He looked for truth in crowds of men, In field, in street, in tavern, And mingled with the moving throng To hear their story and their song, He pictured life in colors true, As brilliant as the rainbow hue, And all his characters display The pride and passion of to-day. He cared not for the crowds of men-- As fierce as beasts within a den, And looked alone to Nature's God Displayed in heaven, in sea and sod, And held the scales of justice high- Uplifted to the sunlit sky, Weighing the passions of mankind With lofty and imperial mind. The Puritan and Pope to him Were overflowing to the brim With bigotry and cruel spleen That desolated every scene. The midget minds of men in power He satirized from hour to hour, And on the stage portrayed the greed Of those who live by crime and creed. He tore the masks from royal brows And showed their guilt and broken vows, Exposing to the laughing throng The horrid face of vice and wrong. In every land and every clime, He honored truth and punctured crime, And down the years his god-like rhyme Shall be synonymous with Time!_ We remained among relatives and friends in Warwickshire until the middle of September, when we heard that the London plague had abated and the theatrical profession were busy preparing for a winter campaign of dramatic glory. Shakspere had several plays partly or nearly finished, and, as Burbage and Henslowe desired our immediate services, we took our departure from Stratford, with the friendship of the town echoing in our ears. The flowers and growing fields, the leafy forests and circling and singing birds seemed to say good-bye, good luck and God bless you! We felt happy and hopeful ourselves, and consequently Dame Nature echoed the feeling of our souls. All was joy, song, feasting and laughter. William, on our way to Oxford, in one of his original flights taken from an ode of Horace, impulsively exclaimed: