LETTERS FROM THE OLD WORLD---NO.LXXVII

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THE CROFTS, near STRATFORD-ON-AVON, Sept. 31.

MY DEAR FRIEND:— I have dispatched epistles to you from the regions of Burns, the home of BYRON, and the land of Scott, but never until now, from Shakspearian regions. I know you visited Warwick Castle, and Kenilworth Castle some years ago, but I do not think you ever made a pilgrimage to the birthplace of the bard of Avon, or saw the spot where all that is mortal of an immortal poet peacefully rests, (and undisturbed shall rest,) until the resurrection morn shall dawn; for what defiant hand dare remove the stone on which is inscribed the ominous words:

"Good Friend! for Jesus' sake forbeare
To digg the dust enclosed here;
Blest is the man that spares these bones,
But CURST is that moves these stones."

Whether or not the above inscription was written by SHAKESPEARE himself, or by a friend of his, appears left in doubt—the fact remains that, in the chancel of the venerable church of Stratford, which rises on the banks of the winding Avon, beneath a ponderous stone, inscribed as above, with his wife, ANN HATHAWAY, by his side, lie the mortal remains of our SHAKSPEARE, THE WORLD'S SHAKSPEARE, and that hither people throng from every country and every clime, and will continue to do so while the English language lasts.

It is long ago since I first visited the pretty little town of Stratford, and stood for the first time in the room where SHAKSPEARE was born. I have travelled many thousand miles since then, looked on many scenes of intense interest, and visited many shrines of the great and the good, but I can distinctly recall to memory my sensations on first entering that little chamber, and on first standing on that last resting-place. Since then the house has been purchased by the Shakspearian Society, which Society, it is much to be regretted, did not spring into existence years ago, before that surly tenant occupied the dwelling, who cut down SHAKSPEARE'S mulberry tree, and did his best to destroy the house! Shame on him, whoever he was!—The few tables and chairs in the rooms, tho' of ancient date, are not those of SHAKSPEARE'S time. Every inch of the walls, the ceiling, and the window is covered, crossed and recrossed with the names of people who have been here. I never saw but one other room so lined with signatures—that was the room in which BURNS first saw the light. Some of the most famous names have been lost by those of small people, who have been eager to transcribe their unknown names largely.—Thus, BYRON, MOORE, WELLINGTON, WASHINGTON IRVING are swallowed up and seen no more! Happily, Sir WALTER SCOTT'S name, (written by himself on a pane of glass in the chamber window,) thus far is apparent, and highly prized, I understand. "You've seen the painting in the back room, of course?" (said the good lady who now is appointed to show the house). I had not even heard of this portrait, and was, therefore, as much astonished as delighted to find myself opposite to a likeness of SHAKSPEARE, at once so noble and so attractive that I cannot doubt its being a genuine portrait of him. "Where did it come from?" "Who was the artist?" were, of course, my questions, and more easily asked than answered. The value of the painting

has, its seems, but recently been discovered; its beauty had become dim and obscured, and it had been unlooked at and uncared for in some old place, (called New Place, I rather think,) for years, when a family change bro't it to a gentleman's house at Stratford, where a picture dealer saw it, and before cleaning it, offered five hundred guineas for it. "No," was the reply. He cleaned it, and made divers offers for it, (so my informant told me,) to the amount of three thousand guineas.—I shall not sell the picture," was the answer; and the disinterested, public-spirited owner (a lawyer in Stratford) presented this beautiful gem of art and great object of interest to the Shakspearian Society, for the purpose of its being exhibited in the old home of the wondrous bard, where it stands out from the canvass, and illumines the ancient walls, an all but living representation of WM.
SHAKSPEARE. Speculation is endless as to the painter of this masterly portrait; it is taken such care of that it is kept in an immense iron case, which case is firmly fastened to the wall and locked up every night. I was interested in perusing some lines of LUCIAN BUONAPARTE, written on visiting this spot in 1810:

"The eye of Genius glistens to admire
How memory hails the sound of Shakspeare's lyre.
One tear I'll shed to form a crystal shrine
For all that's grand, immoral, and divine."

SHAKSPEARE'S garden that was has long been uprooted and dismantled, and the trees that once lent him a shade have been cut down by rude hands (a grievous pity!)

Since the place was purchased with a view to its preservation from further barbarous devastation, a new garden has been laid out on the old spot, where a cutting from the old and famed mulberry tree now flourishes, and where divers young trees and shrubs are vigorously sprouting forth. At present this youthful garden looks extensively out of keeping with the old tenement adjoining; but in twenty years' time this will be remedied.

We drove direct from SHAKSPEARE'S house to Shottery, to see the cottage of ANN HATHAWAY, his wife. A lovely drive of scarcely two miles brought to us to the old fashioned country village of Shottery, and in this village stands the low long cottage from which, in his earlier youth, SHAKSPEARE married his ANNE, of whom not a single record exists; but she was his wife, and, therefore, people look with keen interest on her old home and its surroundings, and wonder which was the short cut across the fields taken by him on his Sunday afternoon walks, and week night strolls thither? The country is lovely on all sides—rich green meadows, winding lanes, lined with thick hedges and overhung with majestic trees.

I reached home in a dreamy contemplative mood, wondering and conjecturing endlessly as to what had been, and what had not been in existence nearly three centuries ago!

The Stratford of the present is a pretty little, clean town, pleasantly situated on the winding, silvery, Avon; the river is spanned by a fine old bridge at the entrance of the town, and from this bridge we have the best view of the tapering spire of the church which peeps out amidst a rich wood of trees, pointing heavenward. The choir connected with the church is deservedly renowned. We had full cathedral service there last Sunday, and

exceedingly I enjoyed it. To worship in this time worn, venerable edifice, with the dust of the mighty genius silently lying beneath one's feet; to hear the sublime words of the spirit wrapt Isaiah sounded forth by finely cultivated voice, accompanied by the rich notes of a full toned organ, was, indeed, indescribable. "In that day shall this song be sung in the land of Judah," was the recitative preceding the chorus; and such a chorus of sacred song followed! "Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee," was among the richest and loftiest strains I ever listened to, and carried one's thoughts far above this lower state of existence, and these earthly choruses of the church militant, to that Heavenly song which shall be sung by people of every country and clime throughout eternity.

I understand that, to the disinterested self-devotion and industry of the Rev. W. MORTON, the curate of Stratford, are the people mainly indebted for the grand chaunting, and the excellent choir.

One of the finest views near Stratford is attainable from the beautiful grounds of "Welcombe," which rise to a considerable height, nearly from the banks of the Avon.—

New beauties are visible here from every turn of the romantic winding paths. We had perfect weather for the drive, the ramble, the pic-nic, and the view, and we made the most of it, since perfect weather, in our English climate, is something unusual. How you, my dear friend, would have gloried in the panorama that was spread before us as we stood on the Pavilion Hill, overshadowed with some of the finest trees I ever beheld! Such a combination of thorough English rural home beauties as thence met our eyes I have rarely seen surpassed. An amphitheatre of green pastures and sunny meadows, separated from one another by thick hedges, and beautified by majestic single trees—here and there, rich woods varying the aspect of the scene—the quiet little town of Stratford appearing below us on our right, environed by rich foliage, and backed by hills—the pretty village of Tiddington at our feet, separated from us by the softly flowing Avon and the "Welcombe" woods — the picturesque village and church of Alveston, between the trees on our left—more distant villages dimly appearing, with ever and anon an old fashioned country mansion, or farm house, or cottage looming up between the ever rich, full foliage of pleasure grounds, parks and woods—the Loxley hills bounding our view in one direction—the far more distant Malvern range meeting the horizon on the other. But description is vain! alas, I cannot make you see this pretty picture; but you will imagine how all this, with deep blue sky above us, light fleecy clouds gracefully sailing over us, casting their soft shadows here and there, beautiful gardens all round us, and bright sunshine smiling on everything, formed a picture never to be forgotten, with balmy breezes fanning our cheek, and singing birds gladdening our ears, we sat on the heights regaling ourselves, not only with the beauty of the landscape, but with more substantial fare, which had been bountifully provided by my considerate friend and hostess; and then after further exploring the lovely pic-nic grounds of "Welcombe," with the tiny lake and its more tiny island, we regretfully bade the lovely scene adieu, and after descending from

our glorious hill, and driving "through the emerald woods," we were once again on the Queen's highway, and in common every day life.

Every one familiar with the little there is to know of the early days of SHAKSPEARE, will remember the names of "Lucy," and "Charlecote Park." We drove to Charlecote one morning lately, through four miles of fine country; in many places the rich masses of full foliage met above our heads as we passed through the shady lane that led us (along the side of the Park where hundreds of deer were bounding, and many sheep grazing) to the trim little church, which was built, only nine years since, on the edge of the park nearest to the village, in place of an ancient edifice taken down. The celebrated monuments of the LUCY family were then removed, and now stand in the Lucy Chapel of the new church, and are objects of exceeding interest for several reasons. There never were but three Sir THOS. LUCYS, and they all lie here. The first Sir THOMAS LUCY of SHAKSPEARE'S time erected a huge, massive monument to his wife, and round it is an inscription written by him, representing her to have been a woman adorned with every possible virtue. As I read this high panegyric, the sexton's wife (who was showing me the monuments) remarked, "Sir THOMAS wrote that, ma'am, because SHAKSPEARE had said bad things of the lady." Sir THOMAS died five years after his wife, and their effigies, of immense size, are carved in stone, and side by side they lie over the tomb in which their bodies are interred. 1600 is the date of his death. The monument to the second Sir THOMAS LUCY (erected by his widow) is one of the finest pieces of sculpture I ever saw. It is said that the lady sat for her likeness, and had her own effigy prepared while she lived, to insure its accompanying that of her husband; and truly, there is more of life than of death in that beautiful form, which seems but to slumber softly, as her husband looks down upon her; the grouping of the figures is perfection, and the execution marvelous.

The monument to the third Sir THOMAS LUCY is quite a curiosity, and but for the assurance of the sexton and the date, (1640,) I should have deemed it the more ancient of the three. Sir THOMAS reposes alone on the top of the monument; and by his side kneels a queer little figure drest in black, with hands uplifted in prayer, preceded by six smaller female figures in black—the daughters—and followed by eight small male figures—the sons—all with their hands raised in prayer, but of the quaintest possible cut, so that to keep a grave face while looking at them would be a difficult task. One cannot but wonder at the singular task of the Lady LUCY who devised or acquiesced in such a mausoleum.

The memorial windows in the church, erected by the present family of LUCYS, are very beautiful. There is nothing remarkable in the outer appearance of the old Hall, which is within sight of the church, and is the seat of the LUCYS still. The Park is renowned for the loftiness and stateliness of the many magnificent trees that adorn it. Here the oak, the elm, the beech, the ash, the chesnut and the sycamore vie with one another in size and beauty.

Warwickshire is famous for fine wood, and whichever way we drive, we are inclined to think the trees we see are among the finest we ever saw; but, surely few can equal those in Charlecote Park!

Time and space fail; I must tell you in my next letter of the "Warwickshire Agricultural and Horticultural Show," held here a few days ago. We are to celebrate "Harvest Home" on Tuesday, and are hoping for as fine a day as we were favored with for the recent fete.

Do not think that my friends in the States are forgotten; we eagerly seize upon American news, and are always disappointed. The only gleam of hope I see is in General FREMONT'S Proclamation. If these proclamations multiply, then we may hope. Meantime I can but point my dear oppressed colored friends to God, and bid them look up, and have faith in Him. "GOD REIGNS IN ETERNITY."

Ever your faithful friend,

JULIA G. CROFTS.