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Oh, sing ye to Jehovah, for he hath triumphed gloriously!

MOSES.
The horse and his rider hath he thrown into the sea. The nations have heard, and are afraid ;

Sorrow hath seized the inhabitants of Palestine.
MOSES.

Already are the dukes of Edom in consternation;

The mighty men of Moab, trembling hath seized them: Pharaoh's chariots and his hosts hath he cast into the sea; | All the inhabitants of Canaan do faint: And his chosen captains are drowned in the Red Sea.

Through the greatness of thine arm they shall be still as The depths have covered them, they went down

& stone, They sank to the bottom as a stone.

Till thy people, Jehovah, pass over (Jordan); Thy right hand, Jehovah, is become glorious in power;

Till the people pass over whom thou hast redeemed. Thy right hand, Jehovah, dasheth in pieces the enemy. Even at the blast of thy displeasure the waters are gathered | GRAND CHORUS BY ALL, with flourish of music, and with together,

dances. The floods stand upright as a heap, Congealed are the depths in the very heart of the sea. I JEHOVAH FOR EVER AND EVER SHALL REIGN!

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A DAY AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON.

BY THE REV. THOMAS BRAINERD.

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We read travelling sketches as our children play with their kaleidoscopes. Nothing new can be exhibited—but as each revolution of the instrument developes new combinations, so every traveller has his own mode of shadowing forth his recollections. If ambitious of novelty, I should select scenes of minor interest; but sufficient reasons move me to lead the reader to the most familiar spots in Old England—to ground made classic ages ago—to scenes illustrated by the pens of biographers, poets, and philosophers—for the same causes which have consecrated these shrines still exist to create excitement and stimulate curiosity. As the very announcement of the subject stirs a responsive chord in the hearts of all, my task is as easy as that of the Arab who is guiding the caravan towards well-known springs of pure water.

I love Old England! Two hundred years ago my ancestors left her shores, because they there found, according to their convictions, no “Freedom to worship God.” But if England finally exiled, she first made the Puritan stock

—and where else in Europe could a race of such intelligence and manly virtues have found an origin? The intolerance which exiled the Pilgrims, was an heirloom of ages, which even

264 the fathers of New England were slow to surrender.

England is Old America—and America, Young England. The national antipathy between the two is a family rivalship. Each is very proud of the other, except when their paths cross; and then is heard a right oldfashioned family scolding—more unrestrained IN and clamorous from the near relationship of the parties.

During the war of words on “Oregon boundary,” I saw stuck up in the windows of London, a caricature of John Bull and Jonathan.

BUST OF SHAKESPEARE. John was, as usual, a stout, burly, ruby-cheeked old fellow, whose glorious “ British Constitu- , with a stout cane in hand, before Jonathan, tion” had been enlarged and invigorated by and gave him a look in which irritation, free indulgence in roast beef and plum pudding. jealousy, impatience, and pride struggled, His hat was set on proudly. His watch-chain with a little of the relenting and respectful air dangled ostentatiously from his portly chest. of relationship and good-will, while he saidHis boots were double-soled, (or, as Mrs. Kirk- “ Boy,--will you strike your own daddy ?land pertinently says, “ hoof-like,”) implying Jonathan, a tall, overgrown, but well-knit not alone the solid foundation beneath him, and hardy youngster, was looking up impubut that the impulsive force of his lower extre-dently and flourishing his fist, as if he asked mities was admonitory! He stood bolt upright, no odds, but had fairly set up for himself. It

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did my heart good to see even in this carica- , pains for our entertainment. This family conture, that the parental and filial relation was sisted of Mrs. P— and some six children. In still recognised by British satirists, in those systematic arrangement, tidiness, comfort, days when the madness of politicians came courtesy, and unobtrusive but sincere piety, it near involving us in war.

was a model household-such as may often be England, yet covetous of dominion, antici- found in England. I felt at home, and yielded pates the growing decline of age, and is queru- myself delighted to the benevolent plans adopted lous. Young America looks forward to her for making my visit agreeable. own rising power and final supremacy, and is As is my custom, I first explored Leamington impertinent and reckless. This is the position itself. It was formerly only a small village, of the two nations. I am happy to believe, overshadowed by the pretensions of the more however, that in both countries, the ties of ambitious Warwick and Kenilworth. The blood, language, commerce, and religion, modern tendency to congregate at wateringabsorb and annihilate among thousands, the places, for recreation, has given it an impulse, jealousy and alienation which the peculiar so that it has the air of a modern, ruralized condition of the two nations is likely to engen | city of twenty thousand inhabitants. Its hot

r. This is certainly the case with the middle springs, celebrated for three centuries past, as class in England, who have nothing to fear, but well as its contiguity to places made classic by much to hope from the example and tendency historical or poetic association, concentrate in of our free institutions. I had the honour to winter a crowd of the aristocracy, whose taste address crowded assemblies, and know that no is gratified by all the conveniences and embelsentiment could enkindle so sudden and rap- lishment deemed essential by the most fastiturous enthusiasm-an enthusiasm which Bri- dious class in Europe. But it is not of Leamtish audiences are not slow to indicate by clap- ington itself, that I desire to speak. When the ping and shouts—as allusion to the common reader is told, that at Leamington he is only origin, and the perpetual harmony of England three miles from Warwick, six from Kenilworth, and America—the Anglo-Saxon race of the and ten from Stratford-on-Avon, he will readily East and of the West. As an American, my conclude that we found more pleasure in outeyes often moistened while crowds before me side excursions, than in the town itself, beau-, acknowledged their paternal relation to my tiful and charming though it be. countrymen, and their desire for perpetuated Our excursion to Stratford-on-Avon was a good-fellowship As Americans, we need feel | day to be remembered. No sun ever rose more no envy in view of what England, by the growth beautiful. And here I will vindicate English of a thousand years, now is, and we hope that

weather from scandal, by asserting that for all our British brethren will rejoice and not repine

the month of August, 1846, we had but two at the anticipation of what America is yet to be.

rains and no fogs. Mr. P had arranged that Her noble achievements in the past are our

we should travel post, if that term can be common heritage; and in the final elevation

applied to a ten miles' journey. At an early which our national youth and opportunities hour our carriage made its appearance. Its promise, our triumphs will be her victories- |

solid, heavy aspect, contrasted strangely with our expansion over the continent of the West,

the gaudy and monkey-like dress of our posthe diffusion of her race, her literature, hertilion. Imagine a fat, animalized man of thirty, language, and her religion.

with a close-fitted cloth cap, tasseled, -closely I love to speak thus kindly of Old England fitted and button-bedizened blue jacket-white for I have many a debt of gratitude to discharge cravat, and white short-clothes-long, tasseled for the open-handed hospitality of her citizens. | boots, from which project enormous spursTo estimate a cordial welcome in one's own and whip in hand, which ever and anon he language in a foreign land, one must know | flourishes with a coachee air, and you have our the solitude of a stranger. An agreeable redoubtable postilion. But to see him in his incident of this kind occurred at Leamington, glory, you must let him mount--and casting a in Warwickshire, the geographical centre of responsible look behind him, apply whip and England. My friend, Mr. C- of London, was spur, while he goes bobbing up and down in about to spend a week with his friend Mr. P | the saddle, according to the most approved a merchant of Leamington, and invited me to transatlantic model of horsemanship. share in the excursion. Common sympathies Our company consisted of Mr. and Mrs. C— , in the cause of temperance led to our acquaint- | Mr. and Mrs. P— , myself, and Miss P- , a ance, and he persuaded me to believe that I sweet little maiden of ten summers, who was a might be useful as well as pleased by the jaunt. | pet of the party. Emerging from town, we It was in August, 1846, when we visited Leam entered the vale of the Avon, and near the old ington-and were most hospitably received by castle and town of Warwick we crossed that his friend, who, with his family, spared no quiet, classic stream, on a massive and wide bridge. We entered and passed through the , it quietly reposes on the margin of its classic gates of Warwick—for that remarkable city river, with its noble church spire piercing the has two gates of entrance and departure, but sky. Its four thousand inhabitants, like those no walls. We must not detain the reader at of all towns thronged by genteel visiters, have Warwick, because we may make a special pil- more than an average share of civility of mangrimage to it for his benefit-provided always, ners, and sharpness in a bargain. Its chief we ever fairly bring him to and from Stratford- glory is its giving birth to Shakespeare ;-its on-Avon. Leaving Warwick, we had nothing chief treasures, his natal mansion and his to interrupt the full impression of the rural sepulchre. Though it rests beautifully in the beauty around us. All along we luxuriated in /vale of the Avon, and unites the venerableness the vision of the velvet, deep green lawn, pecu- | of age with something of the neatness and liar to the British Isles; the well-trimmed briskness of a modern village,-yet separate hedges chequering the fields, and clustering the great name of Shakespeare from it, and no with flowers and autumnal fruits; the elms, one would think it worth a paragraph. The rich in drapery, so thickly planted as to seem citizens feel this. Boys meet you in advance forest-like, yet opening here and there to reveal with the inquiry, “Will you see the house?” rich pastures, on which cattle and sheep of “Shall I show you to the church?"--assuming unsurpassed beauty and thrift were grazing; that all travellers are pilgrims to the shrine of the road, nicely graded and white with pul- | Genius. For this impression they have abunverized rock, making a line of silver over hill dant reason. While to them the birthplace and dale, before and behind us; the Avon and and grave of Shakespeare are commonplace its little tributaries, now hidden by hills, now things, they see strangers, without distinction indicated only by the livelier green and richer of nation, rank, or sex, possessed by a comshrubbery fringing their border — and now mon enthusiasm on this classic ground. Kings, glancing out, like mirrors, to reflect a summer Queens, Princes, Nobles, Hierarchs, Statesmen, sun; cottages frequent, always of stone, white- | Philosophers, Poets, and Theologians, here bow washed and embowered with green; here and with profound reverence before the majesty of there an aristocratic mansion, like its owner, the great creative intellect which has thrown recluse and unapproachable, but sublime in its its scintillations broadcast over the earth. Nor solitude and frowning magnificence ;—this is is their interest more intense, nor their devoEnglish scenery, and it is found nowhere else tion more sincere than that of tradesmen, but in Old England. In jaunting amid such mechanics, and rustic labourers, who mingle scenes, our young dreams of the Fatherland gratitude with their admiration of one who, are realized; and to an Anglo-American tra- rising from their own level, beat down all acciveller, romance is made reality.

dental distinctions in his way to greatness, and In England, it would seem that almost every retained, in the eye of the world, the simple road is a turnpike. While John Bull thus levels habits, the love of nature and of man, which mountains and elevates valleys to make smooth he bore from his native village. paths for his subjects, it will readily be believed Milton, Pope, Dryden, Cowper, Scott, Wordsthat he does not spare their pockets. But if worth, Coleridge, Southey, Moore, and Byron, turnpike gates occur with marvellous frequency have each roused an enthusiastic admiration, in his dominions, they are not such outlandish and had devoted worshippers. But world-wide bars and posts as we meet in the United States. and enduring as the influence of each has been The English enjoy the enduring public works of and is, it has been limited to certain classes. past centuries, and when they build, they build It has given rise to poetic schools and cliques, for centuries to come. An English turnpike gate and elicited literary affinities and antipathies. is a graceful and massive structure, refreshing Each has been worshipped and hated-adored to the eye of taste, if not to the vision of ava- and despised, according to the mental strucrice. Its neat cottage, too, around whose doors ture, education, taste, and character of those and windows ivy creeps and flowers nestle; its who have sat in judgment. Not so with Shakegarden with its miniature subdivisions marked speare. Trained at the feet of no literary or by clipped box; and, above all, its keeper, a poetic Gamaliel, he had no master to imitate; little inflated, as all English, high or low, are and writing with no ambition or expectation of with office;—but not, like the servants of the fame, he stretched himself to the “iron bed” nobility, having the arrogance of rank without of no clique, class, or faction. His percepits courtesy.

tion of " what was in man," seemed to be almost But I will now bring the reader through intuitive, and has never been surpassed on these turnpike gates, which have so impeded earth, save by Him, the Infinite—with whom his progress. An hour and a half of pleasant to compare the finite, would be irreverent pretravelling brought us to the sight of Stratford-sumption. A poet by nature, and great by on-Avon. It is a beautiful town in prospect, as endowment rather than human instruction, he bowed to no earthly authority—but, like a of a city in Iowa or Wisconsin; and though it spirit of another world, above human partiali- may give a prosaic chill to the poetic admirers ties, wrote not for a class, but a race. When of the great Bard, the truth must out, that the the nature of the subject allowed it, he diverges house where Shakespeare was born is a meatfrom the strict claims of the matter in hand, | shop! If any consolation is available for this, to utter grand moral principles, which have it may be found in rejoicing that it is no worse. been made the proverbs of moralists and mer I entered the house at Ayr, where Robert Burns chants, of statesmen and soldiers, of poets and drew his first breath, and found it a dram-shop! ploughmen. The fact that his eye penetrated -filled with those who resembled “Scotia's every strata of society—that he felt the uni- sweetest bard” only in the habit which injured versal pulse of human passion and enriched his character and happiness, health and life. universal human nature, accounts for the com- The only other room on the ground floor of the mon affection and enthusiasm with which he is Shakespeare house, is used as a kitchen for regarded. He not only is not the property of the widow and daughter who claimed propriea class, but no nation nor age can claim him. torship of the mansion. The back chamber, His memory is the treasure of his race. If it on what we call the second floor, and Englishbe suggested that his writings are exception- men the first floor, was the dormitory. The able in reverence for sacred names, and often front chamber of this story—the Shakespeare indelicate—it is only saying that he adapted birthplace, specifically-is the family parlour. himself to the object he had in view, and to Since the Poet's time, it has passed through the standard morality and taste of his age. In many hands. Of its original furniture nothing his period, a dramatist would feel himself justi- remains—though its place has been supplied fied in adopting for the stage expressions not with articles of like age. A visiter is amazed then deemed improper for the lips of bishops at the lowness of ceiling, which allows men and queens. We must hold him responsible for of ordinary stature to reach and write their the taste of his own times, not ours—and may names on it. The room never had any paper; well marvel, that one who wrote professedly but this was fortunate—as it has given thouonly for the amusement of mankind, strewed sands an opportunity to aspire to immortality, the path of pleasure with gems of sober and by there inscribing their names. Above, around, . enduring truth.

all over, every inch is covered with autographs But enough of digression. We have not yet of visiters. You may be sure the Yankees are reached Stratford-on-Avon. Indeed, we are in fairly represented. It is amusing to see, indidanger of imitating the New York Dutchman, cated by various tricks of chirography, an so facetiously described by Washington Irving, effort to make a name “stand out from the who ran a long way to get an impulse to leap mass." Our cicerone seemed to regard the a wall, but when he reached it was out of great majority as an incumbrance, but she breath, and crawled over it.

| took much pride in pointing to some royal sigOn arriving at Stratford, we were driven at natures. This place must be a paradise to once to the house where Shakespeare was born, autograph hunters. and having alighted, and ordered the carriage The Album is an old book, “tattered and to the “Red Horse Hotel,took a survey of the torn," but still legible. It has many impremises. It is the only ancient house in its promptu effusions, among which that of Washblock. All the others are modern erections, ington Irving is regarded as the best, not only towering above it, and rendering its antique from its originality, but because it is richly peculiarity more striking. It is two stories in spiced with the laudation so grateful to English height, and low at that. In its erection, like ears. It is free from a vice most prominent in some ancient houses among our early Germans, many of these effusions, an effort to magnify a frame was first put up, and then filled in one's self while professing to laud Shakewith stone and mortar-still leaving the timber speare. visible, like a rough mosaic. Its windows are It is said that the earthly immortality of venerably small-but the panes of glass redeem those who have inscribed their autographs on in number what they lack in size, so that some these walls, was once put in fearful jeopardy. light actually enters the interstices of the huge A female tenant who had long enjoyed the prosash. The lower window, by the side of the fits of this show-room, unwilling to pay an indoor, is without sash or glass, but longitudinal creased rent, was warned to leave the premises. in its position, and furnished with a trap-door She devised a right feminine but most Vandal opening outward, on which a butcher exhibits scheme of vengeance. Having hired another his meat on market days. If the expression house, to which she conveyed the Album, and be not Hibernian, I would say that the lower | all the Shakespeare relics, she next took & rooms are floored with stone—which is about brush, and if not “at one fell swoop,” by reas even and beautiful as the first stone paving peated appliances covered the whole with a

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