milk in the cocoa-nut, but for the coffee with
boiling milk, accompanied by hot rolls and a
cold capon—I will not say fowl in this connexion
—with which we were presently refreshed.
Passed several hours in a ridiculous attempt to
be lively and wide awake, and just giving it up
and sinking into the arms of Morpheus and an
easy-chair, when the Ghost of Hamlet's Father,
who is used to late hours, cries out, "More
Shakespeare!" and we all start to our feet, and
find, on consulting the dials in our pokes,
that it is time to hie us to the Oak. So away
we go through the gate, and past a cluster of
genteel villas, to the base of the mountain,
whereon a number of flying merchants and
perambulating speculators have seized the occasion
to revive the glories of Chalk Farm fair. Oi
Polloi in great force, vox populi very loud,
harshly and hoarsely inviting us to eat oranges
—though that was not particularly enjoined if we
only bought them—to drink sherbet, to have a
shie at a cocoa-nut three sticks a penny, to treat
ourselves to an electric shock, to try our weight,
to buy gingerbread-nuts. Some confusion of
ideas apparent with respect to the occasion.
Shakespeare a good deal mixed up with
Garibauldy. Boys, evidently unable to grapple with
the subject in hand, give vent to their general
feelings in the exclamation, "Whoop,
Shakespeare!" which may, or may not, have been
intended to be complimentary. I perceive that the
tree has been already planted, but there is no
great sensation in its immediate neighbourhood.
The flying merchants and the perambulating
speculators cannot complain that the Bard is
exercising any superior attraction. He isn't.
Populace cannot be induced to pay a shilling for
admission to the enclosure round the tree. If
there is anything that is considered not for an
age, but for all time, it is the game of three
sticks a penny. Some slight sensation, but not
much, when Mr. Phelps is brought along, a man
on each side of him holding him fast by the
arms. It occurs to me that Mr. Phelps is in
custody, and that the two men are policemen in
plain clothes—very plain clothes, I may remark
—taking him off to the station. I follow,
intending to offer myself as bail, and try to catch
the tragedian's mournful eye, but he is evidently
ashamed of himself, and does not wish to be
recognised; so I spare his feelings, and remain to
review the procession, which consists of six
men and a boy, the last carrying a brown
paper parcel, which a youth of an inquiring
mind, who turns himself upside down to read
the inscription on the cover, informs me
contains the "hode."

I followed Mr. Phelps with my eyes until I
saw him dragged into the station-house and
confronted with the inspector, who immediately
took down the charge, the two officers in plain
clothes evidently asseverating that the tragedian
had assaulted them in the execution of their
duty, and had been very obstropolous and
voilent. What they did with him after that I
cannot say, and few apparently cared to know;
for, after the procession passed, the populace
resumed the shieing of three sticks, and cracked
nuts, and weighed itself, and took electric shocks,
and generally dispersed itself over the hill out
of sight of the Oak and out of hearing of the
Ode. In the comfortable belief that I had seen
all and done my duty, I now turned my steps
homewards, but had not proceeded far when I
heard the strains of martial music, and presently
came upon a small army of Foresters marching
on to the field, like the Prussians at Waterloo,
a little late in the day. I understand that at
this moment Mr. Phelps was standing with his
watch in his hand wishing that either Chaos or
the Foresters were come. That the Foresters
were late seemed to be entirely owing to their
zeal and love of glory, for they insisted upon
bringing the banner of the Bard of Avon lodge
with them, and the banner being large, requiring
two poles, and the wind contrary, the army,
which, in respect of its mainsail, seemed to be
one of foot-marines, made rather a slow march,
or rather voyage of it. That its progress had
been an arduous and disastrous one became
painfully evident to me as I proceeded onward. All
along the road I encountered stray Foresters
who had fallen out of the ranks, overcome by
fatigue and—as they were generally showing
their exhaustion in close proximity to a public-
house—possibly beer. One gentleman in a full
suit of Lincoln green and a hat with three
exhausted feathers, was being danced round by a
little circle of boys and girls, who seemed to
have some vague notions that he might be
Shakespeare, or at any rate some celebrity
deserving of honour. This is the last glimpse I
have of the celebration in London.

In little more than three hours after I am at
the little station at Stratford-upon-Avon, in
company with about a dozen others, who are all
the pilgrims who have come by the G. W. R.
that evening to worship at the shrine. As I had
never visited Stratford before, I declined a
conveyance, and walked into the town, prepared to
feel that I was treading sacred ground, and to
be much moved by all I saw. I expected to
come upon "the House" suddenly, and I felt
sure I should know it from its portraits. Every
now and then I thought I saw it looming in the
distance, and began to feel a thrill, but I was
mistaken again and again, and the thrill subsided
—subsided past recal, when I suddenly found
myself in front of a yellow caravan, where they
were exhibiting waxwork and a Scotch giant.
This diverted my thoughts. I began to think
of the pushing character of the people north of
the Tweed, who had sent this Scotch giant to
compete with the great English giant on his
own ground and on his own natal day.
Certainly the Scotch giant had the best of it in one
respect. He was alive, O! alive!

Not coming upon the house fortuitously, as I
expected, I thought it prudent—particularly as
I had heard alarming accounts of the great
influx of pilgrims, and the scarcity of accommodation
—to look out for an hotel. Found one in
the principal street, and was asked a guinea a
night for a bed. Explained that I was not