In Charlcote Church is a memorial to Sir Thomas Lucy; and there is a glowing epitaph that quite upsets any of those taunting and defaming allusions in “The Merry Wives.”  At the foot of the monument is a line to the effect that the inscription thereon was written by the only one in possession of the facts, Sir Thomas himself.

Several epitaphs in the churchyard are worthy of space in your commonplace book, but the lines on the slab to John Gibbs and wife struck me as having the true ring: 

    “Farewell, proud, vain, false, treacherous world,
    We have seen enough of thee: 
    We value not what thou canst say of we.”

When the Charlcote Mansion was built, there was a housewarming, and Good Queen Bess (who was not so awful good) came in great state; so we see that she had various calling acquaintances in these parts.  But we have no proof that she ever knew that any such person as W. Shakespeare lived.  However, she came to Charlcote and dined on venison, and what a pity it is that she and Shakespeare did not meet in London afterward and talk it over!

Some hasty individual has put forth a statement to the effect that poets can only be bred in a mountainous country, where they could lift up their eyes to the hills.  Rock and ravine, beetling crag, singing cascade, and the heights where the lightning plays and the mists hover are certainly good timber for poetry—­after you have caught your poet—­but Nature eludes all formula.  Again, it is the human interest that adds vitality to art—­they reckon ill to leave man out.

Drayton before Shakespeare’s time called Warwick “the heart of England,” and the heart of England it is today—­rich, luxuriant, slow.  The great colonies of rabbits that I saw at Charlcote seemed too fat to frolic, save more than to play a trick or two on the hounds that blinked in the sun.  Down toward Stratford there are flat islands covered with sedge, long rows of weeping-willows, low hazel, hawthorn, and places where “Green Grow the Rushes, O.”  Then, if the farmer leaves a spot untilled, the dogrose pre-empts the place and showers its petals on the vagrant winds.  Meadowsweet, forget-me-nots and wild geranium snuggle themselves below the boughs of the sturdy yews.

The first glimpse we get of Stratford is the spire of Holy Trinity; then comes the tower of the new Memorial Theater, which, by the way, is exactly like the city hall at Dead Horse, Colorado.

Stratford is just another village of Niagara Falls.  The same shops, the same guides, the same hackmen—­all are there, save poor Lo, with his beadwork and sassafras.  In fact, a “cabby” just outside of New Place offered to take me to the Whirlpool and the Canada side for a dollar.  At least, this is what I thought he said.  Of course, it is barely possible that I was daydreaming, but I think the facts are that it was he who dozed, and waking suddenly as I passed gave me the wrong cue.