"When the Prince walks through a street, he no doubt looks at the
shop windows."

The man said, "No doubt."

"And the enterprisin tradesman," I continnerd, "the moment the
Prince gets out of sight, rushes frantically and has a tin sign
painted, By Appintment, H.R.H.! It is a beautiful, a great
idee!"

I then bought a pair of shoe strings, and wringin the shopman's
honest hand, I started for the Tomb of Shakspeare in a hired fly.
It look't however more like a spider.

"And this," I said, as I stood in the old church-yard at
Stratford, beside a Tombstone, "this marks the spot where lies
William W. Shakspeare. Alars! and this is the spot where--"

"You've got the wrong grave," said a man--a worthy villager:
"Shakspeare is buried inside the church."

"Oh," I said, "a boy told me this was it." The boy larfed and
put the shillin I'd given him onto his left eye in a inglorious
manner, and commenced moving backwards towards the street.

I pursood and captered him, and after talking to him a spell in a
skarcastic stile, I let him went.

The old church was damp and chill. It was rainin. The only
persons there when I entered was a fine bluff old gentleman who