"Shall
I not take mine ease in mine inn?" thought I, as I gave the fire a
stir, lolled back in my elbow-chair, and cast a complacent look
about the little parlor of the Red Horse, at Stratford-on-Avon.
The words of sweet Shakspeare were just passing through my mind as
the clock struck midnight from the tower of the church in which he
lies buried. There was a gentle tap at the door, and a pretty
chambermaid, putting in her smiling face, inquired, with a
hesitating air, whether I had rung. I understood it as a modest hint
that it was time to retire. My dream of absolute dominion was at an
end; so abdicating my throne, like a prudent potentate, to avoid being
deposed, and putting the Stratford Guide-Book under my arm, as a
pillow companion, I went to bed, and dreamt all night of Shakspeare,
the jubilee, and David Garrick.
The next morning was one of those quickening mornings which we
sometimes have in early spring; for it was about the middle of
March. The chills of a long winter had suddenly given way; the north
wind had spent its last gasp; and a mild air came stealing from the
west, breathing the breath of life into nature, and wooing every bud
and flower to burst forth into fragrance and beauty.
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