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Youths' Department.

SHAKESPEARE'S BIRTHPLACE.

(With Engraving.)

Or the many great men who flourished in England in the sixteenth century, William Shakespeare, the immortal bard, is about the best known and the most widely celebrated.

He was, beyond question, the greatest dramatist England ever produced. And, hence, we this month purpose to give a little information respecting the birthplaces of both himself and his wife. Our present engraving represents the house where he was born, and our second cut shows the house of Ann Hathaway, whom he married.

Shakespeare was born at Stratford-on-Avon, early in the reign of Queen Elizabeth; the day of his baptism was April 26th, 1564, and it is believed the day of his birth was the 23rd of the same month. His father, John Shakespeare, was a substantial tradesman and farmer. His mother's maiden name was Mary Arden. They had several other children, but none of them attained to any eminence but William. The town of Stratford-on-Avon can boast of a high antiquity, and was very old even in Shakespeare's time. It is situated on the right bank of the river Avon, and as its name indicates (Strete, road, and ford, a place where the river could be crossed before bridges were erected,) it is a place where the highway from Henley in Arden, and other places, leading through Oxford to London, crossed the Avon. The river at this point ceases to be navigable, and from this it may be supposed, it would be a depôt for goods, and hence the site of a town. The population of Stratford in Shakespeare's time would probably be about 1,600. The town consisted of low thatched cottages, and timber-framed houses, built in a very irregular and scattered fashion, with gardens separated by walls and ditches. The present town has a population of several thousands, and is a clean and pleasant place. There are several interesting places in the town and neighbourhood, but the chief interest centres in the old church, the grammar school, and Shakespeare's house. Tradition and concurrent evidence point to an old tenement on the north side of Henley-street, as the house in which the great poet was born, and it must have been the home of his boyhood for

several years, It is an old oak-framed building, having a very antique aspect. No doubt it was a highly respectable dwelling three hundred years ago; but times and tastes have changed. The basement floor, until recently, was used as a butcher's shop, and a back kitchen. By the hearth of the old kitchen we may suppose young Shakespeare would often sit to read his books, and get up or off his school lessons. Ascending by a dark and narrow staircase, we enter the chamber where it is said the poet first saw the light. It is a rather low room; the old ceiling is covered with lath and plaster, but the antique oaken floor remains as of old. The whole surface of the interior, walls, window, ceiling, &c., is covered with inscriptions. We noticed there, on a recent visit, the names of some of the most celebrated men and women of England, Ireland, Scotland, France, Germany, and America. Among others we saw the autographs of Lord Byron, Sir Walter Scott, and Prince Louis Napoleon. Washington Irving, the American author, says, "The walls of this squalid chamber are covered with names and inscriptions in every language, by pilgrims of all nations, ranks, and conditions, from the prince to the peasant, and present a striking instance of the spontaneous and universal homage of mankind to the great poet of nature."

In this room there is a plaster bust, which represents very clearly the head and face of the bard. The room looks dingy, as might be expected, but for the sake of what it was, it is still an object of continued and extensive curiosity. We never saw a room in which were so many names inscribed as in this birthplace of Shakespeare.

We cannot here give many particulars of the life of the poet; but we may say that his genius was unrivalled, his education only limited, and if history is to be credited, his morals not always of the best. Many of the gems of his poetry derive their prime beauty from their references to the fine sayings and teachings of the Scriptures; and if Shakespeare had been a converted man, no one can calculate the amount of good he might have accomplished. How well it is when gifts and graces meet in the same person, and we trust all our readers will covet earnestly the best gifts; that, although they may never attain in this life to the eminence of a Shakespeare, they may hereafter attain to a kingship and a glorious priesthood before the throne of God in heaven.

In the town of Stratford a new Primitive Methodist Chapel is in course of erection, which we trust will

become a birthplace of souls as precious as that of Shakespeare, born in the old house in Henley-street.

EDITOR.

CARDINAL WOLSEY.

I SUPPOSE that most of my readers know something of English history. If you have studied it with any degree of attention, you will probably remember the name of Cardinal Wolsey.

Thomas Wolsey was born at Ipswich, a pleasant town in Suffolk, near the junction of the rivers Orwell and Gipping. Some say that he was the son of a private gentleman; but the most generally received opinion is, that he was the son of a butcher. However this may be, it is pretty certain that his parents were both able and willing to give him a good education. After some preliminary instruction, he was sent to Magdalen College, Oxford, where it would appear he must have worked rather hard; for we find that, by the time he was fifteen years of age, he had taken a degree; being called "the boy bachelor," because of his youth.

He had the art of making friends wherever he went; and this was, probably, due as much to his winning and pleasing manners, for which he was noted in early life, as to his great natural ability and his keen judgment of character. There is some truth, you see, in the proverb, 'Manners make the man." I am sorry to tell you, however, that, notwithstanding his great talents, his conduct was not always good; and even after he was settled at Lymington, in Somersetshire, he was put in the stocks for some misdemeanour.

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In those days the clergy could fill any secular office in the State; and we find that soon after Wolsey became chaplain to King Henry VII., he was employed on an embassy that required much tact and dispatch. He managed the affair cleverly; for he had been to Brussels, transacted what he was commissioned to do, and was back again in London before the king knew that he had

set out.

When Henry VIII. came to the throne, Wolsey's rise was even more rapid than before; and so necessary was he to the young king, that soon the reins of government fell almost entirely into his hands. Instead, however, of using his great influence for good, he lent himself to the vices and follies of his master, that he might the more easily retain the power he had obtained; for, as is often

the case, the more he had, the more he wished to have. "Increase of appetite had grown by what it fed on." The magnificence of his house and the dress of his attendants were in keeping with his own extravagant and gorgeous attire. Few could vie with him, and scarcely royalty itself. His household was usually composed of five hundred people, among whom might be found earls, knights, and esquires. He built a palace at Hampton Court, and made a present of it to the king.

But Wolsey had to learn, from bitter experience, the truth of that passage of Holy Writ," Put not your trust in princes." His insolence and ambition raised him up many enemies. When at the zenith of his power and grandeur, the king caused him to be arrested on some frivolous pretext, and he was at once deprived of all his wealth. For a little time, it is said, he was almost in want of ordinary comforts. His unworthy friends forsook him; but, to their honour be it spoken, his domestics showed great attachment to their fallen master.

In the following year, 1530, the capricious king reinstated him in some of his honours; but this return of prosperity did not last long. In the autumn of the same year, when, not having learned wisdom by the past, he was making magnificent preparations for his installation in the see of York, he was again arrested, and this time on the charge of treason. On his way to London, to be tried, he was seized with that illness which terminated his life. As he entered the monastery at Leicester, where he died, he said, "Father abbot. I am come to lay my bones amongst you." And so it proved; for in three days his restless, active spirit had passed away,not without a strong suspicion that he had taken poison to prevent himself from falling into the hands of those who had determined to accomplish his ruin. Shortly before his death he gave utterance to these memorable words, Had I but served my God as diligently as I have served my king, He would not have given me over in my grey hairs."

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It has been said, "The ill that men do lives after them, the good is oft interred with their bones." But in the case of Cardinal Wolsey, some of the good has outlived its author. With all his faults he was a munificent and consistent patron of learning. To him Oxford is indebted for her Christchurch College; at that time called the Cardinal's. He also founded a school at Ipswich, which for a time was said to rival both Eton and Winchester. The Latin rules were drawn up by Wolsey himself, and

are still preserved. Judging by the gateway, which still stands, the building must have been a fine one in its day. EARLY DAYS.

THE VIOLET'S WORK.

THE sun had only just risen when little Freddy Weir opened his eyes, one bright spring morning, and, jumping out of bed, ran to the window to discover what kind of weather it was. Being fully satisfied on that point, he dressed himself quickly; and having said his prayers, hurried downstairs, and out into the garden.

At the lower end of it, near the bower, was his own little plot, which, in summer-time, was very gay, I can assure you; but just then the plants were only sprouting, excepting a few snowdrops and crocuses, that had managed to spring up in spite of the snow, which, until lately, had covered the ground.

This morning Freddy ran straight down to his garden to count his flowers; and, while stepping very carefully across some green leaves to look at one of the crocuses, he spied, to his great joy, drooping its little purple head, a violet.

It was the first he had seen since last summer; and, gleefully picking it, he laid it carefully in his hand, for fear any harm should befall it, and scampered back to the house again. So quickly did he run, that he frightened all the little birds away to the trees that

stood round the house.

He was almost breathless when he reached the house; and, at the door of the breakfast-room, met his Mamma. "O, Mamma!" he shouted; "look! A violet!"

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"Yes," answered his Mamma. It is the first I have seen this year. The scent is delicious. Now, Freddy, what will you do with it,-the first violet of the year? "O, Mamma! I will wear it in my button-hole. It will look so pretty, and smell so nicely."

"That would be rather selfish," said Mrs. Weir. "Cannot you think of a better use for it ?"

"You shall have it, dear Mamma," said Freddy.

"No," replied Mrs. Weir. "Think again. There is a better use for it still."

"What! better than giving it to you, Mamma ? Freddy said, looking grave. "I know. I will take it to poor Nelly," he shouted, joyously. "She cannot go out, you know, Mamma. That is the best use for it: is it not ?

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