originating during the time of the first two earls:  the first being Arth or Arthgal of the Round Table—­Arth meaning bear—­and the second Morvid, who in single combat overcame a mighty giant who came against him with a club—­a tree pulled up by the roots and stripped of its branches; and in remembrance of his victory over the giant the “ragged staff” ever afterwards appeared on the coat of arms of the Earls of Warwick.

[Illustration:  CAESAR’S TOWER, WARWICK CASTLE.]

At the end of the hospital stood St. James’s Chapel, built over the West Gate of the town, which we left by the footpath leading both under the church and its tower, on our way to Stratford-on-Avon.

[Illustration:  SHAKESPEARE’S HOUSE (Before Restoration).]

We walked the eight miles which separated the two towns at a quick speed, and, leaving our luggage at the “Golden Lion Inn” at the entrance to Stratford, we went to explore that town, and soon arrived at the birthplace of Shakespeare, one of the few houses in England where no fire is ever lit or candle lighted.  It was a very old-fashioned house built with strong oak beams, the ceiling of the room in which Shakespeare was born in 1564 being so low that visitors could easily reach it, and they had written their names both on it and the walls until there was scarcely an available space left.  Written with lead pencil, some of the autographs were those of men distinguished in every rank of life both past and present, and would doubtless have become very valuable if they had been written in a book, but we supposed Visitors’ Books had not been thought of in those days.  We wondered if the walls would ever be whitewashed again, and this thought might have occurred to Sir Walter Scott when he scratched his name with a diamond on one of the window panes.  It was at another house in the town that Shakespeare wrote his plays and planted a mulberry-tree in the garden.  This mulberry-tree used to be one of the objects of interest at Stratford, nearly every pilgrim who arrived there going to see it.  There came a time when the house and garden changed hands, and were sold to a clergyman named Gastrell, who we were sorry to learn was a countryman of ours, as he belonged to Cheshire.  He had married a “lady of means,” who resided at Lichfield, and they bought this house and garden, we supposed, so that they might “live happily ever afterwards”; but the parson, who must have had a very bad temper, was so annoyed at people continually calling to see the mulberry-tree that he cut it down.  It was probably owing to this circumstance that he had a furious quarrel with the Corporation of Stratford because they raised the rates on his property.  When he complained that they were excessive and the surveyor insisted on their being paid, Gastrell ended the matter by pulling the house down to the ground, and leaving the neighbourhood, so we supposed it was then a case of—­

  Where he’s gone and how he fares
  Nobody knows and nobody cares.