I told my wife Betsy when I left home that I should go to the
birthplace of the orthur of "Otheller" and other Plays. She said
that as long as I kept out of Newgate she didn't care where I
went.

"But," I said, "don't you know he was the greatest Poit that ever
lived? Not one of these common poits, like that young idyit who
writes verses to our daughter, about the Roses as growses, and
the Breezes as blowses--but a Boss Poit--also a philosopher, also
a man who knew a great deal about everything."

She was packing my things at the time, and the only answer she
made was to ask me if I was goin to carry both of my red flannel
night-caps.

Yes. I've been to Stratford onto the Avon, the Birthplace of
Shakspeare. Mr. S. is now no more. He's been dead over three
hundred (300) years. The peple of his native town are justly
proud of him. They cherish his mem'ry, and them as sell pictures
of his birthplace, &c., make it prof'tible cherishin it. Almost
everybody buys a pictur to put into their Albiom.

As I stood gazing on the spot where Shakspeare is s'posed to have
fell down on the ice and hurt hisself when a boy, (this spot
cannot be bought--the town authorities say it shall never be
taken from Stratford), I wondered if three hundred years hence
picturs of MY birthplace will be in demand? Will the peple of my
native town be proud of me in three hundred years? I guess they
won't short of that time because they say the fat man weighing