now waves a corn-field." The site of the Globe is equally inscrutable.

But if no trace remains to indicate the hallowed spot, one thing survives on which the eyes of gentle William must many a time have rested— the river. How often must he have gazed upon its silvery expanse, and mused upon that other river of human life, whose ebb and flow, whose smoothness and turbulence, whose every movement, from tiniest ripple to stormiest wave, he knew to the uttermost, and into whose depths he dived deeper than any other searcher into the soul of man. And may we not imagine him, having left the heat and noise of the theatre, pacing thoughtfully along the cool and tranquil river bank, when the heavens were inlaid with patines of bright gold, and the cares of management and lesseeship were heavy upon him; when, perhaps, Coriolanus had threatened to throw up his engagement, or Touchstone had insisted on an increase of salary, a free benefit, and the unlimited right to improve on the text after the fashion of his kind; when the increasing length and lankness and the frequent ominous hoarseness of the gentle lady wedded to the Moor warned the poet that Desdemona was outgrowing his part, and the immortal manager thought with a shudder of the roar that would follow "Alas! that was my lady's voice?" Nor could uneasy feelings of the way that young Jonson was advancing, and gloomy forebodings as to the price of candles, have been entirely absent from the thoughts of one who could not have been so very great without being very human.

From Shakespere to Crosby Hall is the easiest transition. And how have his countrymen showed their respect for a place sanctified by the master's

notice, and indissolubly associated with the most pathetic passage of our history? Nobly of course. Yes, they have made it a cookshop. What more could they do? Are not eating and drinking the supreme concerns of life? Does not Mr. Carlyle assure us that hunger is the basis of human life? Are not nine-tenths of the painful toils of existence caused by the demands of an organ that will brook no denial? This being so, how better can we show our veneration for the few precious relics of the past, than by making them the storehouses where the a-hungered may find food, and drink they who are athirst, as cheaply as any house in the trade, considering the gorgeousness of the decorations, and the abolition of fees to the servinggirls? Let us thank our stars we are not a rich nation, else, under the enervating influences of wealth, we might sink into such a state of maudlin sentimentality, that we should pass Antique Monuments Preservation Bills, instead of rejecting them, and in our absurd transcendentalism utilise historic buildings as public museums, instead of converting them into eating-houses. And this

is the more to be feared, as we have now a Commissioner of Works who, it is believed, can be approached with safety, and who is culpably deficient in that sublime contempt for the Beautiful on which his predecessor justly valued himself. As to whether that superbly unæsthetic gentleman's retirement from office destroys the hope that the finances of the nation may be benefited by the leasing of Westminster Abbey as a concert hall and skating-rink, or the conversion of St. Paul's Cathedral into a central railway terminus, it is, perhaps, premature as yet to inquire. There is another pilgrimage that I sometimes make, and in which I am never disappointed. The shrine is

not difficult to find, and its Spartan simplicity is more eloquent than storied urn or animated bust could make it, even though a Phidias or a Michael Angelo had lavished on it a labour of love. I turn away from the roaring sea of the Strand, and passing through a narrow channel, find myself, as it were, in a tranquil bay, where the clamour of the waves beyond is scarcely heard, for a reef of houses shuts out their tumult. Not a costly shrine is this, nor bedecked with votive offerings, for the pilgrims who visit it pay their tribute in gentle sighs, in tender, pitying words, and sometimes even in tears. I gaze upon it long, and fall into a deep reverie. Presently I am aware that I am not alone. Surely these silent comers have faces not unknown to me. This kind-looking, elderly gentleman, in clerical costume of the last century, I have certainly seen before. Why, of course, it is Dr. Primrose, and the handsome lady leaning on his arm is the stricken one, Olivia. Ah! I'm afraid Thornhill has not reformed. Poor thing! Dear me! Here are Sir William and Lady Thornhill; and as I live, that shrewd face must belong to Mr. Jenkinson, despite the cast of sadness it wears. These must assuredly be Mr. and Mrs. Marlow; you remember she was a Miss Hardcastle, and her marriage was the result of a most amusing series of complications. Who can that be, blubbering in schoolboy fashion? To be sure, it is that Tony Lumpkin. Poor fellow! I daresay his heart is tender enough. But I do wish that Croaker, for certainly that is he, wouldn't attempt a jeremiad here. That man's grief is suspicious. That good-natured fellow Honeywood, and his wife, who twits him to this day about his Bailiff friends, have come to lay a wreath; and there is quite a crowd, among whom it is easy to recognise

another parson and a schoolmaster from the sister island. All these, besides a score more familiar faces, have assembled to pay their tribute of respect at this simple stone, for, read the inscription, "Here lies Oliver Goldsmith."

THE OPIUM DENS OF LONDON.

I.

ND so you're going on a tramp through them opium dens in the East End? It's

villains, I call them; that's my name for the smokers of such rubbish, which I don't hold with such goings on, and never did; it's as much as your life is worth-though that's not much, dear knows-to go into their 'orrid dens; it's a hunderd to one that I shall never see you alive again; and there's five weeks' rent due on Saturday next at three o'clock, through your coming in at that very hour; anyhow, if you're bent on going, as in course you are, you'd better leave your watch behind you, which I never did think it was silver, but only Britannia's metal; but, such as it is, I may as well 'ave it as them furrin rascals, as looks more like Chinese than true-born Englishmen." "The reason is, my dear Mrs. Boskett, that, as a matter of fact, they are Chinese, and not trueborn Englishmen, I don't apprehend the least injury at their hands; but since you desire it, take my watch. I share your doubts as to its metallic value, but in case of anything happening to me, it may go to my credit, for what it is worth, in liquidation of my debt. There are a few valuable books in my bedroom. Good-bye!" So saying,