his ordinary style. "Doubtless such sights are edifying, but then of
time, madam,--of time,--we must be even more liberal, for look ye, if
(as is not uncommon) two royal persons fall in love, we may see these
lovers become parents of a chubby boy. Then, your Majesty, such boy
becomes stolen and lost, and after many traverses he groweth to man's
estate, falleth in love in time, and _in time_ is ready to marry
and all this (an it so please ye) in some two hours' space."

"Nay, Sir Philip," saith the Queen, " methinks you are now taking some
pains to appeal to our imagination yourself, lest we should weary ere
the performance commences. But, look ye, in good time the drums have
ceased and the curtain rises."

CHAPTER L.

THE SCENIC HOUR.

When the curtain rose, it discovered the representation of a private
street, very rudely painted upon a sort of hanging screen at the back of
the stage, with a couple of wings to match, and upon a board or placard
was also written in good-sized characters an intimation for the benefit
of the spectators, worded thus:--"Scene during the greater part of the
play in Verona; once in ye-fifthe act, at Mantua," a flourish of
trumpets meantime rung out as the stage was displayed, and one dressed
in character as "Prologue," entered, and bowing low towards the royal
box, delivered the well-known but now omitted argument of the piece:--

     "Two households, both alike in dignity,
     In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
     From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
     Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
     From forth the fatal loins of these two foes,
     A pair of star-crossed lovers take their life;
     Whose misadventur'd piteous overthrows
     Do, with their death, bury their parents' strife.
     The fearful passage of their death mark'd love,
     And the continuance of their parents's rage
     Which, but their children's end, nought could remove,
     Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage:
     The which if you with patient ears attend,
     What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend."

"Methinks, my Lord of Essex," said the Queen, who had listened with
great interest to the words, "Master Prologue promiseth well. Marked you
how much was contained in those few lines? And lo, here begins the
piece."

As the Queen spoke, Sampson and Gregory, with their swords and bucklers,
and clad pretty much after the fashion of serving men of their own day,
entered, and instantly commenced their animated dialogue.

Not, however, be it understood "slubbered over" by inferior actors, as
in our times, but with exceeding humour, and with force and emphasis in
every word; for even these minor characters were performed by actors of
great talent.

Nothing could exceed the curiosity and interest in the audience even at
this, the very commencement. The lively and sharp dialogue, the action
so suited to the times in which the spectators lived; the animosity of
the Capulet underlings towards the servitors of the Montagu family--and
which bore so hardly upon several nobles present, whose followers
frequently brawled and fought in the streets--produced a great effect;
till, at length, as the lie was given, and Gregory, being prompted to
remember his swashing _blow_, drew out his weapon, and the whole four
engaged, the excitement, especially in the pit, was extraordinary. A
murmur of delight was heard, and whilst some clapped their hands upon
their rapiers, others shouted and seemed half inclined to jump upon the
stage, and "fight on part and part." The entrance of Benvolio and
Tybalt, however, produced a deep and silent attention.

    "What, art thou drawn amongst these heartless hinds?
    Turn thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death."

There was, indeed, now amongst the audience no inclination to pursue
their accustomed practical jokes--no mewling of cats, squeaking of pigs,
and tickling each other's ears with the rushes. The wondrous words of
the poet held them in a state of enchantment. The nobles of the Court
for the moment forgot the accustomed homage of eye and ear. Their
bearded faces betrayed their interest, and the templars and students, as
they stood leaning upon their heavy-hilted rapiers, sent their eyes upon
the stage as if they could have devoured each line.

Indeed, to have any ideas of the interest created, we most again call to
the reader's remembrance how great was the contrast between that which
_had been_ and that which _was_; and if the melody of the verse of
Shakespeare can, in the present day, make such an impression whilst we
have so many and such varied productions suited to the hour and the
time, in how much more was it likely to strike the senses of all
present, when it seemed to have descended at once, in all its glorious
beauty, like the music of the spheres!

There is that in theatrical representation, it has been observed by one
of the greatest writers of our day, which perpetually awakens whatever
of romance belongs to our characters. The comic wit, the strange art
that gives such meaning to the poet's lightest word, the fair exciting
life that is detailed before us, crowded into some little three
hours--all that our most busy ambition could desire, love, enterprize,
war, glory, the exaggeration of the sentiments which belong to the
stage--like our own boldest movements.

Meanwhile the interest increased momentarily. The audience, from the
Queen down to the meanest person there, seemed held in a state of
enchantment as the piece proceeded. How different was it already from
anything they had ever conceived of theatrical representation! It was a
picture of life, such as is in the order of nature; there was the
buoyant spirit of youth in every line! The Knight of Charlecote even
became young again; he cast his eyes for a moment around, and was
edified at beholding the deep, the breathless attention of the audience.
The royal Tudor, "with eye and ear attentive bent," the lovely faces of
her attendant ladies, each thrust forward and eager to catch the words
of the poet, and the fine features of the attendant cavaliers, lighted
up and animated with an expression of deep interest; the whole
assemblage seeming, he thought, to hang upon each word.

As the eye of Sir Thomas again turned from the audience and rested upon
the stage, he observed that the scene had been fresh placarded, and was
now "a street in fair Verona." Indeed the serving-man who had announced
to Lady Capulet, in the preceding scene, that "supper was served, Juliet
asked for, the nurse cursed in the pantry, and everything in extremity,"
had before his own exit changed the placard, and the next moment, as a
gay party of revellers filled up the back of the stage, Romeo, Mercutio,
and Benvolio, clad in masking costume, vizors in their hands, entered.

The masquing robes of Mercutio were partially dashed aside as he spoke
the few words which constitute his opening speech.

    "Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance."

At the same moment, too, the vizor which had bean held before his face
was lowered, and as the glance of the torch-light fell upon his rich
Italian dress and elegant figure, Sir Thomas started, whilst a murmur of
applause ran through the theatre, gradually breaking into load plaudits,
for in Mercutio they beheld the author of the piece--Shakespeare was on
the stage.

The applause, however, was hushed almost at its commencement in the
interest of the scene, and then came those startling lines which have
since become as household words:--

    "O, then, I see Queen Mab has been with you."

They came from the tongue of him who composed them, now uttered to an
audience for the first time. Who shall attempt to describe their
impression upon the hearers? Who shall describe the manner--the
look--the utterance of him who then gave them? Shall we go too far if we
say the world had since nothing to compare with that representation? The
life, the brilliancy, the style of the character was suited to the
actor. He was all fire, energy and spirit,--Mercutio was Shakespeare's
self,--the most mercurial and spirited of the production of his comic
muse; and the impressive manner in which he gave the words of the
character, and their fire and brilliancy, his exquisite intonation, nay,
the very dash of his look was irresistible.

The Queen, as he finished his speech, glanced around her. "'Fore Heaven,
my Lord of Essex," she said, "but is not this exquisite?"

The answer of Essex was drowned in the applause which at the moment
burst from all around as the graceful actor continued his part.

To ourselves, perhaps, at this moment, it would appear extraordinary
that even greater approbation and louder plaudits had not followed.
Shakespeare upon the stage, and speaking his own words, would seem to
call forth acclaiming shouts within the walls of that old monastic
playhouse which should almost have rent its roof in twain. To ourselves
it would seem that the spectators should have almost expired with their
enthusiasm; that "throats of brass, inspired with iron lungs," should
have greeted him. But, be it remembered, that, exquisite as the whole
performance was, as yet the audience knew little of the man, that the
consideration of years had to mature the judgment of the world. He was
actually giving them that which was too exquisite for the rudeness of
the age in which they lived.

And so the play went on, new beauties every moment coming over the ears
of that courtly audience, and at the same moment filling with delight
those of inferior degree.

Amongst the audience constituting the Court circle were two spectators
who stood somewhat apart, and beneath the arched entrance which admitted
to the rude gallery constituting the dress-circle. With folded arms they
watched the performance with, if possible, greater interest than any
there.

They were an old and a young man, who had been drawn to see this
performance from having heard the name of the author on their arrival in
London. Both were from the neighbourhood of Stratford-upon-Avon, and
(albeit they could scarce believe this play was the production of one
whom they had long lost sight of), still they came.

As the play proceeded they became convinced from the language that it
was indeed the production of the youth they had formerly known.

"By 'ur Lady," said Walter Arderne, "this must be our sometime friend!"

"No man else could have written even what we have already heard," said
Sir Hugh Clopton.

"I am amazed," said Walter; "and yet I ought not, for well do I remember
what the lad was."

"Hist," said Sir Hugh, "the scene is changed. Ah! and see, too, yonder
masquer just now speaking those lines of fire. Is it not he?"

"It is himself!" said Walter. "O glorious fellow!"

"Soft, good Walter," said Sir Hugh. "In God's name let us hear."

As Mercutio finished his speech, the uncle and nephew looked at each
other. The tears were in the eyes of Sir Hugh. "My poor Charlotte
prophesied this," he said. "Rememberest thou her words about this
Shakespeare when we first became acquainted with him?"

"I do," said Walter; "and she was indeed the only one amongst us who
fully appreciated his merits. Nay, from the very first, an you remember,
she said he would one day surprise us."

All further attempt to describe the progress of this play, and its
effect upon the minds of the spectators, we feel to be a mere
impertinence. It seems indeed to ourselves, as in imagination we after
eye it, a play within a play--where all is like romance. The audience,
that theatre, the players, that "foremost man of all the world" speaking
his own words; all is like the fabric of some vision seen before,--a
shadowy recollection of some brilliant hour set apart from the dull
stream of life, and that too, during a glorious epoch.

As the play proceeded, and the progress of Romeo's sudden passion
developed itself, the thoughts of that stately Queen returned to her
early youth, ere the sterner feeling of pride and power had obliterated
all gentler sensations. She thought upon the days when she loved the
handsome Sudley, with all the violence of a first passion.

And if the royal Tudor and all around her were delighted with the
delicious picture presented before them, in the halls of old Capulet,
and the masque held there, they were still more charmed with the garden
scene. They felt enchanted whilst they listened to the images of beauty
which appear to have floated in such profusion before the poet's mind.

The richness of that glorious Italian picture held them in a state of
enchantment. It had the sweetness of the rose, and all its freshness in
every line. All was bright as the moonlight which tipped with silver the
fruit-tree tops of the orchard, and yet all was soft as a southern
spring. The very air of that garden seemed to breath a transport of
delight; one almost expected to hear the language of the nightingale's
song. And then the refinement and delicacy of the author's conception of
the female character delighted the hearers as they listened to the words
of Juliet.

    "Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face,
    Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek
    For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night.
    Fain would I dwell on form, fain deny
    What I have spoke--but farewell compliment;
    Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say, ay,
    And I will take thee at thy word. Yet, if thou swear'st,
    Thou may'st prove false; at lovers' perjuries,
    They say Jove laughs. Oh, gentle Romeo,
    If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully;
    Or, if thou think I am too quickly won,
    I'll frown and be perverse, and say thee nay
    So thou wilt woo: but else not for the world.
    In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond;
    And therefore thou may'st think my 'haviour light;
    But trust me gentleman, I'll prove move true
    Than those who have more cunning to be strange."

"The world hath nothing like this," said Raleigh to Southampton.

"'Tis heaven on this base earth," returned Southampton. "Said I not the
master-mind of this man would produce wondrous matter?"

"Nay," said Sir Courtley Flutter, who was an ancient fop of the first
water, "'Fore Gad, my lords, 'tis indeed perfect paradise sent down upon
us poor worldlings here. I feel inspired altogether--repaired as it
were; my heart palpitates--my blood circulates! Ha! I am young again,
positively in love myself. Look, how these exquisite ladies, with the
Queen there, are overcome. Nay, my Lord Burleigh seems to have forgotten
the cares o' the state, and Bacon his gout. An we have another such
masque as that just now represented, Sir Christopher Hatton will
assuredly fling out amongst the dancers, and give us a coranto."

"By 'ur Lady!" said Sir Christopher, "I would ask no more beatitude in
life, during the mighty changes of the world, than what appears in this
changing drama, and the stuff of which it is composed. This lower world
hath no such bliss. Let me see how went it:--'A hall, a hall,--give way,
and foot it, girls!' Oh, 'twas exquisite stuff!"

The limits of the chapter we have dedicated to a description of "the
play" permits not of a full dilation upon all therein enacted, neither
can we describe the particular excellence of each actor; for each and
all performed their parts with a richness and appreciation of the
author's meaning the very tradition of which seems to have worn out from
the stage.

To the want of scenery during this period we are perhaps indebted for
many of those glorious descriptions with which the author has favoured
the world in his works.

One thing, and which with a more modern audience would have gone far to
take from the delight experienced, was the circumstance of Juliet's
being personated by a youth of some sixteen years of age. This, together
with the shambling clowns, who, with loose gait and slippery tongue
strolled about and vented their sourril jests amongst the audience,--one
moment tagging idle rhymes together, and the next venting truths deep as
the centre, shewing a most pitiful ambition to make themselves
prominent. These circumstances, in some sort, took from the effect.

As for Mercutio, the fire and dash of his character so excited the
spectators that they could hardly contain themselves within bounds. He
was like some bright exhalation, lending fire to the sphere in which he
moved. And when, with the foot and hand, he gave the speech ending "Ah,
the immortal passado! the punto reverso! the hay!" the Court gallants,
the benchers of the temple, and the citizens, shouted with delight. His
death took all by surprise, and his absence from the scene was felt as a
shock of reality. It was an age of bright deeds and fierce doers, and
accordingly there was a murmur of disapprobation and disappointment when
"Tybalt, alive, in triumph," made his exit,--till, as Romeo breaks
through his apathy, and, assuming some of the fire of his kinsman's
spirit, fiercely encounters and kills "the envious Capulet," a shout of
gratified vengeance filled the house. Queen Elizabeth had herself been
delighted with Mercutio. "That was a character, my Lord of Essex," she
said, "after my own heart. But he was too brilliant to last. His were
the faults that travellers give the moon,--

    "He shone too bright. But died, alas! too soon."

"'Fore heaven, Sir Christopher Hatton," she continued, "we will not let
Mercutio altogether die. An he was so brilliant that the author was
enforced to kill him thus early, we will ourself raise him up. Go round,
Sir Christopher, and summon that Shakespeare to our presence, in order
that we may express to him our approbation of his efforts. What think
ye, ladies," she continued, turning to her female attendants, "we will
have both the character and the creator of the character beside us."

Shakespeare accordingly, by royal command, entered the royal stand or
box, where he knelt and kissed the Queen's hand. After which he remained
beside her.

And thus he stood on the right hand of the Queen with his face turned
towards the royal countenance, his side towards the stage, and as the
play proceeded, he received the compliments of Elizabeth, and answered
the various questions she put to him. Nay, she ordered back whoever came
so close as to inconvenience the poet, and seemed altogether delighted
at having him so near her.

"We will keep you beside us, Master Shakespeare," said she, "and whilst
your play proceeds, you shall act as chorus, explaining what may seem
wanting to our duller senses."

Shakespeare bowed his thanks. "I attend your Highness," he said, "with
all true duty,"--and thus he remained immovable as a statue during the
remainder of the play, the mark of more than one bright glance from the
fair bevy in attendance. This was the poet's triumphant hour, and yet
the mind of the man was too great to be elevated beyond bounds.

He knew "the art o' the Court," and the uncertain favour of the great;
and that there was--

    "Between that smile, he would aspire to,
    That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
    More pangs and fears, than wars or women have."

Amongst the audience, there was a female bright and exquisite as one of
the creations of that author's after years. She stood with an attendant,
and almost concealed beneath one of the gothic arches of the building,
and wore (as was indeed not uncommon at that period) a sort of masking
costume. Her features, indeed, were so completely concealed by her mask
that only her brilliant eyes were visible.

It was one who, even at this early period of the poet's career, fully
appreciated his genius and talents, and (like Charlotte Clopton) at once
saw what the world would take years to discover. And what a sight was it
for that private friend to behold! She saw him, to whom she owed so
much, in his hour of triumph, and marked his expressive countenance as
he stood beside the Queen. She marked, too, the surprise and delight
pourtrayed upon the countenance of Walter Arderne and Sir Hugh Clopton,
as they looked upon the poor player thus honoured in the presence of the
mighty Tudor; and then she beheld with a smile, for she knew his story,
the astonishment of Sir Thomas Lucy, as the knight's eyes wandered to
the stage, and again returned to the figure of the sometime
deer-stealer; and whilst his ears drank in the honeyed words of that
poet, Sir Thomas felt he could forgive all his juvenile delinquencies,
and longed to grasp him by the hand.

"Pshaw," he said, "I have been an ass. I am an ass--_ergo_, we are all
asses in comparison to this _one_ man, this Shakespeare."

CHAPTER LI.

THE TAVERN.

It was about an hour after the performance we have attempted to
describe, that a solitary individual stood near the water-gate of the
monastery of the Blackfriars. He stood, apparently lost in thought, and
listening to the distant sound of music on the waters--the roll of the
kettle-drum and the flourish of trumpet, as the Queen and her party
returned towards St. James's.

As Shakespeare stood thus alone (after having attended the Queen to the
Abbey stairs, and seen her embark), all around seemed dark and sombre.
The cloisters of that abbey no longer flashed in the torch-light; the
theatre was empty and deserted; all that was brilliant had
departed--vanished like the pleasures of the world, and left a dreary
contrast behind him.

"Oh, time," he thought to himself, "thou art the most indefatigable of
things! The past is gone, the future to come, and the present becomes
the past even while we attempt to define it,--like the flash of
lightning, it exists and expires."

His companions of the theatre had sought the genial license of the
tavern, there to revel over the success of the night, and canvass the
merits and demerits of what they had enacted; and whilst he, the poet
himself, the idol of the hour, and whom all wished to have with them,
felt at that moment unfitted for society.

As he cast his eyes up at the "brave o'erhanging firmament, fretted with
golden fire," he felt that "the wide, the universal theatre," was at
that moment most congenial to his soul.

Whilst numerous boats continued to pass and repass, many of them filled
with companies who had witnessed the performance, he hailed one he
observed disengaged; and after rowing to his own lodging, and changing
his dress, he re-embarked.

We have already stated that the mind of the man had not been elevated
beyond bounds at the success he had achieved. To such a mind as
Shakespeare's the prosperity of the hour was more likely to produce a
degree of melancholy than any undue elevation. An incomprehensible
feeling of contempt and distrust of all worldly success. Perhaps of all
mortals this great man was the least given to vanity. The present hour
would indeed seem to proclaim as much. He was on that night wished for,
sought for, not only by many of the nobles who had witnessed his play,
but his companions of the stage too sought for him to join their tavern
revel after the performance, and several of the audience had even
lingered about the doors, to gain a look at him as he came forth, whilst
the unconscious poet, wrapped in his own thoughts, slowly floated down
the river. Nay, so utterly careless was he of all he had effected, that
the very play which had made so great a sensation scarcely existed but
in the memories of the performers who had recited it.

It had, previous to performance, been copied into lengths, as the
several parts are technically denominated, and given to the actors to
study, whilst the manuscript itself was left casting about amidst the
properties of the theatre, to be searched for, if required, at the next
performance.

As the gentle Shakespeare, during the silent hour of night, passed
slowly along the stream, his thoughts indeed were of other matters
rather than his own particular affairs. The ripple of the water, the
plash of the oars, the faint sound of music from afar, soothed his
thoughts after the false exciting hour.

        "Soft stillness and the night,
    Became the touches of sweet harmony."

Meantime, whilst the poet floats onwards, we must return to the city,
and observe the events taking place immediately after the representation
of his play.

In a goodly room of a good-sized tavern, situated in the purlieus of Old
St. Paul's, were congregated, on this night, many who had been
spectators of the recent performance at the Blackfriars, and several
other chance customers.

Besides the more respectable merchants, who had put into the tavern
after the play, there were several ruffling blades of the inns of Court,
one or two bullying fellows whose moans and professions were extremely
doubtful--a sort of Alsatian companions, "as ready to strike as to
speak," who drank deep wherever they could obtain liquor, and diced
whenever they could pick up a cully; and also several guests from the
country.

The Londoners, who constituted a party by themselves, sat at a table
extending about half-way along the ample room; whilst two or three
smaller tables were occupied by those parties who had sought the hostel
on matters of business, and who transacted their affairs or enjoyed
themselves apart from the rest.

The aspect of the room shewed that it had been reduced to its present
state from a more respectable occupation. The ample window which ran
along one entire side, looked into a good-sized court: and on the
capacious stone chimney was carved various coats-of-arms, and all sorts
of herald devices and designs.

Those guests who were apart from the sort of ordinary, or common table,
were at the upper end of the room, and on either side the chimney. They
carried on their conversation amongst each other, and were, for the most
part, strangers to the town.

At one of the smaller tables, placed quite up in the corner of the room,
were seated a party of four individuals, and two of them being natives
of the town of Stratford-upon-Avon, our readers are already acquainted
with.

This company consisted of Lawyer Grasp; a rich client, for whom he was
professionally employed; a member of the Temple, with whom he was in
consultation; and Master Doubletongue.

Besides these, there were also four or five other persons seated upon
the long bench beneath the window, and they also carried on their
occupation apart from either the guests at the supper table, or the
other parties in the room. Some two or three were deeply engaged in
play, rattling the dice and staking their coin with an eagerness equal
to the absorption of their comrades who watched the game.

Such being the mixed nature of the assemblage, as two fresh guests
entered the room and made their way to the upper end of it, the
conversation of the various parties formed a sort of confused jargon,
very like the cross-reading of a modern newspaper.

Such as it was, it seemed greatly to interest the late arrivals, and, as
they stood with their backs towards the fire-place, they lent an
attentive ear, more especially to the conversation of Grasp and his
small party, and a look of intelligence ever and anon passed between
them.

The table at which Grasp sat was covered with the produce of his eternal
blue bag, and, as his quick moving fingers pointed to the various
documents and deeds, he held forth with his accustomed volubility whilst
every now and then a roar from the table, or a dispute amongst the
dicers, interrupted his dissertations.

"Here," he said to the Temple lawyer, "here we have the matter duly
executed. And here," he continued, "I will prove our right."

"Stay," said the Temple lawyer, "if I remember rightly, there is no
mention of this place in the Conqueror's survey."

"A fico for the Conqueror and his survey," cried Grasp; "trouble not
yourself upon that subject; mark and perpend--from Geoffrey Clinton it
descended to the Verduns in marriage with Leosceline, daughter of that
same Geoffrey, as did also the manors of Brandon, and I take it--"

"On my word," roared a tall Alsatian-looking fellow at the long table,
"I take it that this Romeus and Julietta, or whatever else 'tis called,
is the most exquisite piece ever submitted to a crowned head."

"A pestilence seize Romulus and Julia," said Grasp; "how that fellow
bawls. And now, sirs, that name Anselm de Clinton, of whom I was before
speaking, was first enfeoffed thereof."

"Up with his heels then," cried one of the dicers, as he threw. "Play.
Ha! seven by Old Paul's. More sack, drawer!"

"The fiend sack those dicers," said Grasp, "marry and amen; as I was
saying, good sir, by a multitude of testimonies I can prove--"

"A lie, knave, throw again." "Ha! ha!" roared another of the gamblers.

"They are certified to hold it," continued Grasp, "of that family by the
service of half a knight's fee, and they of the Earls of Warwick. Now my
client here--"

"A cheater, I'll be sworn. A murrain take thee!" cried another of the
gamblers.

"But how said ye," inquired the Temple lawyer, "that you became opposed
to this Arderne? Methinks, when I last consulted you, you were employed
and trusted by him."

"At first, _only_ at first," said Grasp. "In virtue of my having
informed him of his good fortune he did employ me,--entrusted me with
management of his estates, and I did but eject--"

"Cheatery, villany!" cried the dicer. "I'll not restore a dernier."

"Pshaw," said Grasp, "I did but eject one or two of the poorer tenants,
and put relatives of mine own into their holdings, when he ejected both
them and myself. This, my good sir, I liked not, and, as upon careful
examination I found one I thought more nearly related to the deceased,
and the will distinctly says next of kin. I forthwith sought out my
client; there now is our case."

"The case is a good case, an exceeding good case, and so I said from the
first," said the Templar. "You have this Arderne fairly upon the hip, an
he pay not he must to jail, unless you give him time."

"Not a day, not an hour," said Grasp; "we got a verdict in a former
suit, and he shall incontinent to prison."

"Such is the law of a verity," said the Templar, emptying his glass,
filling his pipe, and turning now to regard the guests at the ordinary,
as they seemed getting up a dispute upon the subject of the play they
had witnessed.

"I perfectly agree with you," said a person who sat opposite to the tall
Alsatian, "in so far as regards the excellence of the play we have this
night seen. But in respect of its newness to the world there I
disagree."

"How?" cried the other fiercely, "dost mean to affirm that such
exquisite portraits as that lady who loved the youth Romeo, that
brilliant Mercutio, and that hot-brained Tybalt were ever drawn by
mortal man before? Didst ever behold any thing so like reality as that
loquacious, secret, obsequious nurse, or the little Peter who carried
her fan? Didst ever--"

"Pshaw," said the other, "I quarrel not with your nurse, neither do I
take exception at Peter,--what I say I will maintain with my rapier here
or elsewhere. And thus it is: the subject-matter of that play is not new
to the world. 'Tis manifestly constructed upon the novel of Italy,
written by Luigi da Porto, a Venetian gentleman now deceased--gainsay
that who will." And the student rose, drew up his tall form, twisted his
mustachio, and looked fiercely around.

"We shall assuredly have a riot here," said Grasp, looking up from the
copy of a will he was perusing. "I like it not."

"Nay," said Doubletongue, "'tis but a controversy upon a play. I saw the
greater portion of it myself, and came away to my appointment here.
'Twas but a paltry performance methought, full of bombast and fustian."

"Was it not then liked?" inquired the Temple lawyer.

"'Fore Heaven, I cannot answer for that," said Doubletongue. "I only
know it liked me not."

"Methinks," said the Templar, "you are hard to please, good Master
Doubletongue. Master Shakespeare is somewhat of a favourite here."

"Who, said ye?" exclaimed Grasp, looking over his glasses, and speaking
with great rapidity. "Master Shakespeare--methinks I ought to know that
name. Comes he from Warwickshire? Is he to be met withal? Canst tell me
aught of Master Shakespeare? 'Fore Heaven, I have matter on hand with
Master Shakespeare, an' his name be William, and he cometh from
Stratford-upon-Avon."

"I pr'ythee settle one thing at a time, my good Grasp," said the London
lawyer. "Permit me to glance at that testament you was perusing once
more."

"Here 'tis," said Grasp. "Nay, you shall find that I do hear a brain;
whoso trusts to Lawyer Grasp shall be--."

"Ruined, hip and thigh," cried one of the dicers, hurling the dice-box
at the head of his opponent, whilst, at the same time the disputants at
the ordinary being also pretty well flushed, a general riot immediately
ensued, and swords being drawn the whole room became a scene of
confusion.

The two guests who had last entered took advantage of this scene to
press close upon the table at which Grasp and his party had been seated.
They were both clad in the costume of sea-faring men of the period,
their sea-caps so completely drawn over their heads that their features
were not discernible, though one appeared a slight youth, and the other
a middle aged and powerful man.

As Grasp, in some alarm, seized upon his blue bag and withdrew more into
the corner, the elder of the strangers, as if to keep from the fray,
seated himself in the chair the lawyer had left, and whilst he puffed
out huge volumes of smoke from his pipe, abstracted from amongst the
papers the will the Templar had been perusing. Handing it then to his
youthful companion, the latter seized a pen, and, unobserved, wrote a
codicil to it. He then restored it to its place, and as the riot
increased and Grasp seized upon his papers and thrust them into his bag,
the pair took an opportunity of withdrawing as quietly as they had
entered.

CHAPTER LII.

THE PLAYER IN HIS LODGING.

All that Shakespeare had lately seen and gone through made considerable
impression upon his mind. In the short period during which the national
convulsion we have described was taking place, it seemed to him that he
had lived whole years.

Those events, and the great men which the stirring times had produced,
seemed indeed to have passed before the poet, for the very purpose of
finishing and perfecting the great mind of the man.

He sat himself down on his return to London, and, as he thought over the
past experience of his life, such a chaos of bright thoughts and
wondrous images presented themselves before and seemed to overflow his
brain, that, at first, it seemed utterly impossible to turn them to
shape.

Already had his "muse of fire" given him employment at various times,
and even taken a dramatic shape; nay, the room he inhabited was filled
with fragments--unfinished beginnings; and one or two of the novels of
the period had been partially dramatized and then cast aside, after the
inspiration which called them forth had, in other pursuits, been
forgotten.

His avocations as a player had too frequently led him into scenes of
revelry. His way of life was still desultory. He knew not his own value.
And whilst his brilliant wit and companionable qualities had kept him
too much among the society of men in his own class, he had failed to
carry out any of his bright conceptions. His companions hunted him,
haunted him, took him from his own thoughts, and dragged him, even when
satiated with revelry, into more company; for what party was complete
amongst them that had not in it _that one_--that "foremost man of all
the world."

His poetry was beginning to be appreciated ere the national danger had
fully occupied men's minds, and so fully employed them that all else for
the time being was necessarily forgotten. He had written a poem
peculiarly suited to the taste of the age, and which was greatly the
fashion amongst the gay cavaliers of Elizabeth's Court. This he had
dedicated to Lord Southampton, a nobleman, whose acquaintance he had
made on the boards of the theatre. Added to this, some sonnets, which
had almost by accident found their way into circulation (for no man was
more careless or thoughtless of his own works than William Shakespeare)
were greatly admired. Nay, the Queen had been so much struck with one or
two of them, that she had shewn favour to the poet; and spoken words of
encouragement in his ear.

The starched and stately Tudor was indeed becoming extremely fond of
dramatic representations, tedious and ill-contrived as they, for the
most part, were; and now often frequented the theatre, in place of the
bear and bull-baiting arenas. Besides his stage companions, also
Shakespeare had, amongst his acquaintance, at this period of his life,
some of the most brilliant of the courtiers--Sydney and Raleigh, Essex
and Spenser, all were personally known to the gentle Willie. They sought
his society for his wit; and they respected him for his fine feelings,
his noble sentiments, and his universal knowledge. Nay, these great men
felt an internal conviction, whilst in the society of Shakespeare, that
great as they themselves were, this man, of almost unknown origin, was
immeasurably their superior; that, had his station in life been more
elevated and his opportunities greater, he might have risen to the
highest eminence in the State. They saw in him--

    "The courtier's, soldier's, scholar's eye, tongue, sword."

The war was now for the present over, and amidst the general excitement
around him, Shakespeare sat himself down to think upon all he had
beheld. The quick result of such confederation our readers will as
quickly imagine. The poet seized his pen,--

    "Imagination bodied forth the form of things unknown."

His pen "turned them to shape, and gave to airy nothing a local
habitation and a name."

Scarce had the joyous shouts for the glorious victory over the
invincible Don subsided, ere the poet bad completed one of those
finished productions which left all competition behind. Yet stop we here
for a space in our narrative, even whilst the reader looks upon
Shakespeare thus engaged.

This is indeed a period in the man's life which most of us have sought
for with the mind's eye.

The living Shakespeare, still comparatively unknown, still
disregarded--for, however he might have been appreciated by the very few
who were acquainted with him at this time, the wide and universal
theatre had yet to discover the greatness of the man. The living
Shakespeare, employed in writing that language never equalled, never to
be equalled, deserves somewhat of a pause to look upon. The room, the
house, the chairs, the tables, each and all, require an especial
description. Like his own Iachimo, we must "note the chamber. Such and
such pictures. There the windows. Such the adornment of the bed. The
arras and figures. Why such and such."

Stay, then, gentle reader, if only for a brief space, and look upon the
man--the gentle Shakespeare, as he was denominated amongst his
familiars. He sits in a room, which to all appearance has belonged to a
building of some pretensions in the palmy days of such edifices. The
chamber is large, low in roof, and somewhat gloomy withal. A good-sized
bay window, heavy in mullion, and which looks out upon the silver Thames
beneath, affording a delicious view of the Surrey hills on the opposite
side, gives light to (at least) one-half of the apartment. The morning
sun streams through small diamond panes of many colours, which ornament
the upper part of the casement, and is reflected in fainter hues, like
a fading rainbow upon the oaken floor. The ceiling is richly carved. It
displays the cunning skill of the architects of old. And on the heavy
oaken beam, which traverses it, is cut from end to end the coats of arms
of some city functionary of Old London, for the house (albeit it is now
but partially inhabited by one or two of the actors of the Blackfriars
theatre, and some portion of it even suffered to run to decay) has, in
the preceding reign, belonged to one of the citizen princes--the
merchants of Blackfriars. "The chimney-piece, south of the chamber," is
elaborately carved, with gigantic figures, "exceedingly ugly;" and
tapestry, (albeit it is somewhat faded), displaying pictorial scenes
from scriptural and mythological history, hangs to the wall. One side
has King David dancing before the ark; the other, "Cytherea hid in
sedges."

A massive oaken table stands near the fire-place; a high-backed chair on
either hand, and two more in the embayment of the window; and an antique
cabinet occupies a place directly opposite the chimney.

The house, we have said, is situated on the river bank, and has once
been occupied by a rich merchant, but is now let out in compartments.
You ascend to the chamber which Shakespeare occupies, by a broad carved,
oaken staircase, and advance along a vast passage which has rooms on
either side.

The autumn wind sighs, and soughs, in this old dwelling, as it rushes
through the long passages from the water side. In such room our
Shakespeare sits and writes. Sometime he stops and considers for a
space--thinks, and thinks deeply. Then again his pen glides swiftly over
the paper before him, and he writes like the wind. The table at which he
is seated is but little removed from the embayment of the window, and
his eye, ever and anon, glances out upon the rushing tide, and wanders
over the opposite landscape, then consisting of green meadows and
stunted trees.

As he thus looks out upon the river, he sees boats filled with gay
parties, cloaked and ruffed, and rapiered, attended by other boats,
carrying musicians, who make the air resound with their melody--a gay
and gallant sight, for these are courtiers going to Greenwich, or
Mortlake, or Chelsea, such excursions being common in Elizabeth's day.

As the poet writes, there seems no effort in the composition. His
thoughts flow, for the most part, so easily, that it seems but the
careless noting down of whatever comes uppermost. He writes as his own
Falstaff speaks--as if almost without the trouble of thought. Anon, he
smiles and pauses; then he rises from his high-backed chair, takes a
turn through the room, and gives utterance to the conceit which has
suddenly struck him. The actor predominates over the author at such a
moment, and he recites aloud the recent thought, and which his "often
rumination" upon, the extravagance of action, amongst his associates,
has conjured up.

CHAPTER LIII.

THE POET AND HIS PATRON.

Whilst he gives his thoughts tongue, the door opens, and a bulky form
seems to fill up the entrance--no other, indeed, than our old Stratford
acquaintance John Froth.

"Ah! thou mad compound," said Froth, "and is such thy advice to the
fraternity of the Blackfriars?"

"It is," returned Shakespeare.

"Then would we might see it approved in the acting," said Froth; "but
'tis thrown away upon me, as thou know'st. I am not for the personation
of aught requiring such rules. If I am to turn mummer, I must enact
something fit for a man of my parts to appear in."

"And therefore," said Shakespeare, "will I write a character fit only
for thy huge bulk and greater follies."

"Nay, by my fay," said Froth, "I thought thou hadst already put me into
shape, for so hast thou promised any time these two months past."

"'Tis better as it is," said Shakespeare, "for till I saw thy vagaries
during this last affair with the Spaniard, thy arrant cowardice, thy
shifts, for preferment, and then thy desire to keep out of action, I
hardly could have displayed such a marvellous compound of frailty and
flesh."

"Trouble me not with the remembrance thereof," said Froth; "I received
my guerdon, my remuneration, and that was the aim in end."

"And which remuneration thou hast already dissipated in dice and
liquor,--is't not so?" inquired Shakespeare.

"Thou hast spoken it, and not I," said Froth, "and so spoken it that I
may hardly venture to gainsay it. Wilt furnish me forthwith a few crowns
for present need, good William?"

"The more readily," returned Shakespeare, as he handed him the coin, "as
I would fain be rid o' thee. See'st thou not, thou idle reveller, that I
am busy here with deep premeditated lines--with written matters
studiously devised?"

"Well, Will, I will hinder thee not. I will mar not thy labours. I will
but fill me a chalice, and drink success to thy muse, and then to the
tavern."

So saying, Froth helped himself from the flask upon the table, and
pledged the health of his friend, smacking his lips after the draught
with a sense of ineffable relish.

"Thou art a wondrous fellow, Will," he said, as he looked upon his
friend; "thou wilt thrive. But, in sooth, envy already begins to dog thy
heels. Green and Marlow like thee not, William; Green calls thee an
upstart crow dressed with his feathers."

"Ah!" said Shakespeare, smiling, "methinks Green hath little reason to
speak thus, seeing I have imp'd his wing with some of my own feathers.
He will scarce say that to my face."

"Nay," said Froth, "I dare be sworn he will not, for many of them know
thee too well to offer insult to thy face. Marlow too speaks of thee as
that 'tiger's heart wrapped in a player's hide.'"

"Well," said Shakespeare, "their sayings pass by me like the wind. I
pr'ythee be nought awhile, if thou art to remain here, or else betake
thyself to other haunts."

"Farewell," said Froth; "you shall find me at the old haunt in Paul's
whilst this coin holds out."

Scarcely had Froth departed, ere the sound of horses was heard without,
and a man of noble presence, dressed in the extreme of fashion of that
age of brave attire, entered the room. Shakespeare instantly rose, and
advanced to meet him.

"I am proud to welcome my Lord of Southampton to my poor lodging," said
the poet.

"Nay, by my fay, not altogether so poor either," said the noble, looking
around him. "I am glad to find thee removed from thy old haunt to so
goodly a lodgment, good William."

"And am I not indebted to your lordship's kind favour and friendship for
being thus well lodged?" said Shakespeare. "When we first met, my lord,
I was somewhat lower in estate than at the present time. A poor
unfriended outcast; I do, indeed, owe thee much."

"Not a whit," said the Earl; "you owe all to your own surpassing
excellence. I am greatly charmed with thy Tarquin and Lucrece. Nay,
Raleigh, Essex, and others do swear by it as the most exquisite thing
extant. I, who know thee better, think even better of thee than shall
here say."

"You do me too much honour, my Lord," said Shakespeare; "like Venus and
Adonis, (and which I had the honour of dedicating to you), Tarquin and
Lucrece was but a first effort, when I was green in judgment. I shall
hope better to deserve with more experience."

"I pray you to inform me," said Lord Southampton, after a pause, "who
and what is yonder companion of thine, and whom I met as I entered the
house,--a gross, fat man?"

Shakespeare smiled at the question. "A strange fellow, my Lord," he
replied, "and who was known to me in my native town, and whom I have
lately fallen in with here. Like myself, he was obliged to fly from
Stratford, and being in some difficulties, I procured him employment in
the theatres."

"A somewhat bulky actor," said Lord Southampton, "is he not."

"Nevertheless one whom I think even of giving a part to. The man is
himself a character worth the studying, and if he exhibits himself
before the curtain as he does in his true character, cannot fail to keep
the audience in continual laughter. His peculiar humour, tone of voice,
look, and jesture, coupled to such a person, are almost indescribable.
Added to this, he is so extraordinary a mimic that no one of us can move
or speak before him, but he carries their voice, look, mien, and motion
into another company.

"And yet upon the stage he may not be able to execute the same degree of
perfection," said Southampton. "Some of your companions of the theatre,
I have found prime fellows and witty knaves over their cups, and yet but
heavy upon the boards."

"Truly so, my lord," said Shakespeare; "this is one of Nature's secrets,
and which I have observed. Necessary qualifications which cannot be well
spared in an actor, oftimes exist in men of the profession; and yet,
with the assistance of all these united, we see such persons come forth
upon the boards but poor and barren. In writing a character for my
friend, I shall avoid making him play off his ordinary parts, except to
produce himself when I think he will tell forcibly."

"I feel some curiosity to know this witty knave," said the noble
"pr'ythee bring him with thee to Southampton House when next you come."

"Providing your lordship can away with his grossness, and resist the
attacks he is sure to make upon your purse," said Shakespeare, "you will
be amused with him. But, unluckily, 'tis a familiar creature who makes
himself enemies as easily as his humour delights."

"And this new play of thine," said Southampton, "holds it still for next
week?"

"It does, my lord," said Shakespeare.

"Then have I news for thee of price, good William," said Southampton.
"The Queen intends to be present. She takes wondrous interest in all
that thou dost, and has of late spoken most approvingly of thy efforts."

"I am much bounden to her Majesty," returned the poet; "and there again
must feel grateful to your lordship for having turned her eye of favour
towards my unworthy efforts."

"Thou hast sufficiently delighted us all, good William," said Lord
Southampton; "and, if I am to judge by the mass of papers I behold here,
you intend still further to delight us. Are these portions of manuscript
pertaining to another production of the same sort?"

"In truth, my lord," said Shakespeare, "they do in some sort tend that
way. But at present I am somewhat desultory in my doings. I have so many
plans, on so many subjects, that what you behold are but the rough notes
of such ideas as pass current. The scraps are of all sorts; perhaps fit
for little else but to be cast to the waves without."

"Thou art, at least industrious," said Southampton, "and permit me to
say, I believe not in the valueless quality of what I behold here. May I
look upon one of these same unworthy scraps?" And Lord Southampton took
up a fragment of paper containing some few lines of blank verse.

At first he seemed disposed to read it cursorily, as one slightly
curious to know what had employed the pen of his friend. The very first
line, however, seemed to strike him, and he read the verse attentively
from beginning to end. He then recommenced it, and read it more slowly,
observing the wondrous force of the lines more and more as he did so. He
then stopped and looked at the pleasant smiling countenance of the
writer, so unassuming, so devoid of all self-conceit, and then he read
aloud--

    "Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back,
    Wherein he puts alms for oblivion,
    A great-siz'd monster of ingratitudes:
    Those scraps are good deeds past: which are devour'd
    As fast as they are made, forgot as soon
    As done: Perseverance, dear my lord,
    Keeps honour bright; To have done is to hang
    Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail,
    In monumental mockery. Take the instant way;
    For honour travels in a strait so narrow,
    Where one but goes abreast: keep then the path;
    For emulation hath a thousand sons,
    That one by one pursue. If you give way,
    Or hedge aside from the direct forth right,
    Like to an enter'd tide, they all rush by,
    And leave you hindmost;--
    Or, like a gallant horse fallen in first rank,
    Lie there for pavement to the abject rear,
    O'errun and trampled on. Then what do they in present,
    Though less than yours in past, most o'ertop yours:
    For time is like a fashionable host
    That slighly shakes his parting guest by the hand;
    And with his arms out-stretch'd as he would fly,
    Grasps in the corner: Welcome ever smiles,
    And farewell goes that sighing."

"Why," he said, "thou hast written here a whole volume in a few brief
lines. Not all the learning of the ancients ever produced so much in
such compass. I will learn these lines, and have them ever before me. To
what pertain they, good William?"

Shakespeare smiled. "Nay, 'tis but a fragment," he said. "My often
rumination supplies many such. I shall perhaps adopt them in a play I
have been thinking of writing."

"Thou wilt completely alter the old style of representation," said
Southampton.

"'Tis my purpose so to do," returned Shakespeare.

"From what thou hast before shewn me," said Lord Southampton, "I think
thou wilt do much. But bethink ye, William Shakespeare, albeit thou hast
a quick wit and rapid pen, thou must not let things come hastily from
thy hands. Good works, I take it, are plants of slow produce. The city
lads and the inns of court have, I find, began to regard thee since thou
hast remodelled the company of the Blackfriars. And hast thou,"
continued the earl after a pause, "still the name purpose of becoming a
part proprietor in the theatre here?"

"Such is my ambition," said Shakespeare; "but that must be at a future
period, when further success shall give warranty to my hopes."

"Nay, want of means shall not baulk thee, good William," said Lord
Southampton, "since I see plainly that more power will greatly
facilitate the bringing forth thy inimitable works. Look," he continued,
taking the pen Shakespeare had been writing with, and scrawling a few
lines, "there is an order for a thousand pounds; present it to my
steward when thou wilt, and 'tis thine. Nay, double the sum, if
required."

Shakespeare thanked his generous patron in terms of manly gratitude; and
soon afterwards the noble, after appointing his poetic friend to visit
him, took his leave.

After the departure of Lord Southampton, the poet sat for some time,
with his forehead leaning upon his hand, gazing upon the order his
friend had given him.

Between my Lord Southampton and Shakespeare there was the most sincere
friendship. The young noble appreciated the genius of the man, and felt
quite a veneration for him; whilst the poet honoured one possessed of
the fine feelings and generous and heroic spirit belonging to a more
early and chivalrous age.

Since Shakespeare's flight from Stratford some time had now elapsed,
during which he had not returned there. He had made a vow not to do so
until he could re-appear under circumstances that would disarm the
malevolence of his enemies; not until he had achieved a name. Oft-times
had he written, and as often heard from his friends, sending them the
greater portion of his earnings his efforts continually brought in. This
was not the first gift of Lord Southampton; and a considerable sum he
had before received had enabled him to settle his wife and children in
comfortable circumstances in his native town. The money his noble friend
had just now conferred upon him gave him a nearer prospect of revisiting
Stratford be thought. And so the poet, with renewed energy, seized his
pen, and again gave vent to his wondrous conceptions. As he writes, he
remembers former days, and his thoughts revert again to his own sweet
home and its neighbourhood, and again he dips his pen in his own heart.
Then he revels in the recollection of those orgies amidst the choice
spirits of Old London. Those tavern suppers in the quaint dark courts
where the hostels of the crowded city are situated. Those secluded
taverns of Old London town now, indeed, no longer to be found. The
player's loved haunt, and where the rollicking 'prentice and even
occasionally, the nobles of the Court congregated. Where he himself had
fallen in with the Alsatian bully, the humourist, and all the varieties
of the tavern haunter of the age; and from such he now draws his
character, life-like and real, as if they walked and breathed and spoke
before him.

And so the first part of the day passes, and still Shakespeare writes,
for the fit is upon him, and like many of his class, albeit he spends in
whole weeks, at times in joviality, excursionising with his comrades to
Windsor and Greenwich, and "dafling the world aside" with the idlest;
still there comes upon the man fits of deep thought, which are only to
be relieved by the pen.

Whilst he writes, as the clanking tones of the clock of Barnard's Castle
strike the sixth hour, the sound of a lute is heard in an adjoining
apartment, accompanied by a voice of ravishing sweetness.

CHAPTER LIV.

A CONSULTATION.

As those dulcet sounds reached the ears of the poet, he laid down his
pen and listened attentively. That voice, no rich in tone, so sweetly
modulated, seemed deeply to affect him; and, as the song ceased, he rose
and paced the apartment.

Again, he bears a short prelude upon the instrument, and pushing aside
the arras from the wall, he opened a sliding panel, leading into a
narrow passage; one of those passages so peculiar to old buildings, and
which communicate from chamber to chamber, oft-times along, one entire
wing of such edifice.

As he did so, the voice of the singer is again and again more plainly
heard. How sweetly it sounds in that house, and at that hour, for the
shadows are beginning to descend upon Old London.

The poet stands transfixed. His glorious countenance so softened by the
sorrowful notes of the musician, proclaim how powerfully the strains
affect him--"He is never merry when he hears sweet music."

Again the strains cease and all is silent, save the moaning of the wind
without, and which hums through the casement like an Æolian harp. After
a pause, the poet again withdrew the tapestry which hung before the
doorway, and, traversing the passage, knocks gently against a small door
which stood partially open at its extremity.

A sweet voice bids him enter, and the next moment he is in the presence
of a young and beautiful female. Traces of recent illness are to be
observed upon her cheek, as she sits, half inclined, upon a sort of
couch placed near the window of the apartment;--a small lamp, placed
upon a table near, giving better light for an attendant female, who is
occupied in knitting.

The lady half rises, as the poet enters and as she does so, he sinks
upon one knee, and respectfully kisses the hand she extends to him.

Nothing, indeed, can exceed the respectful attention with which the poet
stands in the presence of that female. He does not even take the chair,
placed near the couch on which she is seated, till she requires him to
do so. And well indeed might Shakespeare gaze with interest, and no less
admiration, upon that lady, as she again reclined upon the couch from
which she had half risen at his entrance.

The perfect proportions of her form and features, softened as they both
were in the subdued light of that antique apartment, rendered her in the
eyes of the poet even more beautiful. Her dark hair fell in wavy
ringlets upon her shoulders, and her large eyes beamed with an
expression of sweetness and regard upon him, which made them full of
peril to one so impassioned.

Frankly and gracefully she again stretched forth her hand. "My kind
preserver," she said, "my generous and noble friend; but that weakness
keeps me a prisoner to my couch, 'tis I who ought to kneel to thee."

"I heard the sweet tones, lady," said the poet, "which gave notice that
I might approach."

"Alas!" she replied, "how can I ever requite thy generosity? Had it been
my fortune to fall into other hands, I might, indeed, have been unhappy;
but thou, oh! thou art different from other mortals."

"Beauty, lady," said Shakespeare, "provoketh thieves even sooner than
gold. Nay, it is that beauty which has made fearful of trusting you in
this evil town, save whilst I can myself guard over you. The wild and
reckless spirits who dwell around us here, the desperate characters of
many who, in their outward seeming, are of the virtuous, render a
sojourn in this city unsafe, and therefore have I brought thee hither;
and therefore have I constituted myself thy sole guardian till recovered
strength shall enable you to take the journey you contemplate."

"You will forgive me, then," said the lady, "that although I have
related to you some portion of my story, I yet conceal my own, and the
name of those connected with the tale".

"I am in all thy friend and servant," said Shakespeare.

"And now that I have somewhat recovered," she continued, "recall to me
in how much I am indebted to you during my illness. The attendant you
have furnished me with hath partially informed me of your goodness, but
I would fain hear the recital from your own lips."

"Your disguise," said Shakespeare, "whilst we journeyed hitherward,
beguiled me, or I had never so far taxed your strength."

"Ah! but that journey," said the lady, "so travelled, can one mile of
it, think you, be forgotten?"

"Nay," said the poet, smiting, "still can I not forgive myself. Those
moonlight walks during our route have, I fear, wearied you."

"Could it be possible," said the lady, "for mortal to feel fatigue
amidst those scenes, I might have wearied."

Shakespeare again smiled. He felt gratified at the compliment paid him.
He was no perfect mortal, and to say that he could look coldly upon the
glorious creature before him, would be to belie his nature. He could no
more do so than he could have "held a fire in his hand by thinking of
the frosty Caucasus." His finer feelings, however, rendered that
unprotected female as safe whilst beneath his roof, as if she had been
guarded by a host. He seated himself again beside her, and an he calmly
and kindly regarded her exquisite form, whilst he again spoke, a bright
and pure beam of divine expression was on his bearded face, an
expression, which diffused a calm feeling of happiness and contentment
over the soul of her who beheld it.

The long crushed spirit of the lady felt the influence of his presence.

"That I had in my ignorance of your sex somewhat overtaxed your strength
during our journey," he said, "the result has shewn, since on our
reaching London, you was seized with an illness which nearly cost your
life."

"I remember nothing," said the lady, "after our arrival at the hotel of
the Globe."

"Unluckily," said the poet, "it happened that some seamen who
disembarked but a few days before had brought the plague into that
neighbourhood. That disease in London is usually so dire in its effect,
that, for mere suspicion, the inhabitants act as if for surety. Your
ship-boy's semblance, and your illness, gave the host of the tavern a
suspicion that you was infected, and he expelled us from his door. Nay,
such was the rapidity with which the alarm travelled, that I found it
impossible to procure a shelter for you in that neighbourhood; and it
was whilst conveying you, still insensible, to the water-side, that I
became suspicious of your sex. This discovery increased the difficulty
of our situation, till I recollected an asylum in which I could safely
carry you, and e'en procure the assistance of medicine. I remembered an
old poor man, one so needy, starved, and miserable, that I had oft-times
sought, and alleviated his condition. Nay, gratitude had prompted me so
to do, since, in my own need, and when, alone and friendless, I first
sought this town, he himself befriended me. To the habitation of this
man, who indeed, possesses considerable skill in leechcraft, I conveyed
you, and to his care, attention, and skill, for night and day did he
watch over you, are you indebted for your life."

"And whilst yourself also cared for me," said the lady, "still fearless
of the tyrant fever with which I was burnt up; nay, you have since
removed me hither, and so continued to guard over me. And all this in
favour of one alike hopeless and friendless."

"Such circumstances, lady," said the poet, "should in themselves alone
suffice to enlist me in your service. But come," he continued, "we will
no more of this. A letter I have just received from my sometime home, in
Warwickshire, gives much of news. I have unfolded to you so much of my
history, that I may now further inform you there is hope of once more
revisiting the friends I left whilst in trouble and disgrace."

"This is, indeed, pleasing intelligence," said his companion. "My own
destination is in that neighbourhood."

"To guard over you till I can safely convey you amongst those friends
you have hinted at," said Shakespeare, "is my wish; nay, our exertions,
and the generosity of a nobleman, my friend, has enabled me to complete
a purchase I had in contemplation--a share in the neighbouring theatre
here. I have also another play toward, and should it succeed in the
represental, I will then attend on you with all true duty."

"But your letter?" said the lady; "pardon my seeming curiosity. In
happier days I have owned friends in the neighbourhood of your home.
Speaks it of any resident around Stratford-upon-Avon?"

"It does," said Shakespeare. "It is from my father, and gives much
gossip of the locality. Amongst other matter it informs me of some
difficulties a gentleman, my friend, has fallen into."

"And his name," said the lady, "is Walter Arderne?"

"The same," returned Shakespeare.

The lady's face immediately became crimson, and then deadly pale. "And
how then hath Walter Arderne fallen into difficulties?" she inquired.
"Methought I heard from you, during our journey, that he had succeeded
to great wealth."

"It was even so," said Shakespeare, "but I fear I am again taxing your
strength. You look somewhat pale."

"'Tis nothing," said his fair companion. "Proceed, I beseech you, I am
most anxious to know of the welfare of this Arderne."

"The young man, then," continued Shakespeare, "it appears by the story,
after coming into possession of this fortune, and many parks, and walks,
and manors, in England, hath busied himself in various acts of goodness.
Amongst other things he hath built alms-houses, hospitals, for the use
of the afflicted."

"To such a one," said the lady, "fortune should ever belong; but to your
story. What more of this Arderne? Methinks I am overfond to hear of so
much generosity."

"There is little more to tell," said Shakespeare. "The sums he hath
bestowed and the various charities he hath endowed, have involved him in
difficulties. His virtues have served him but as enemies. Nay, he seems,
I am grieved to say, on the brink of ruin; for, in addition to all I
have enumerated, it appears he hath expended large sums during the
invasion of the Spaniard, both in fitting out numerous ships, and
enrolling and embodying men, all which vessels, through his desperate
valour in leading them into the hot encounter, have been either
destroyed or returned to port rent and beggared."

"Nay, but," said the lady, "I am still in ignorance how this could
possibly involve Walter Ardene in ruin. The fortune he inherited would
have borne all this, methinks, and much more, without endamagement."

"Truly so, lady," said Shakespeare; "but it hath suddenly transpired
that Walter Arderne is not the lawful heir. A caitiff wretch, named
Grasp, and whose ferrit eyes and evil spirit are always seeking
mischief, hath, by dint of searching over worm-eaten deeds and musty
parchments, hunting out tombstones, and manufacturing pedigrees, somehow
found a nearer relation; and all the sums Master Arderne hath expended
since the hour he came into possession, the law will enforce him to
refund. This, together with the suits he is involved in, will go nigh to
ruin both himself and his good uncle, Sir Hugh Clopton."

"And this nearer kinsman!" said the lady. "Does your information extend
so far as to name the person of such claimant?"

"'Tis one who is the friend of a powerful noble," said Shakespeare, "of
one whom it is dangerous to speak of in other terms but those of
respect."

"Methinks I can name him," said the lady. "It is one whose unbounded
stomach and high ambition long soared towards a crown by marriage; one
whose evil disposition would halt not to obtain power or riches,
magnificent as his fortune already is. The Earl with the dark
countenance and gloomy soul--he whom Sussex calls the Gipsey; the
dangerous Leicester."

"The same," said Shakespeare.

"Nay, then, an Walter Arderne hath that noble for an enemy, let him
beware the cup, as well as the law, for Leicester is sure to succeed by
fair means or foul. He is the most successful dealer in poison in the
kingdom."

"Would to Heaven," said Shakespeare, "some help might be found; for the
strait this generous man is like to be driven to sorely oppresses him!"

"Let it no longer do so," said the lady. "Continue to inform me of the
progress of events; I will be warranty for his safe extrication from all
his difficulties."

Shakespeare looked surprised; but he forbode remark; and soon after this
conversation retired to his own lodging.

After the interview, the poet reflected deeply upon the conversation
which had taken place, and as he did so, many things which had not
previously struck him forced themselves upon his mind regarding his
mysterious friend, and which now enabled him in some sort to pluck out
the heart of her mystery.

During the time he had watched over her during her illness, and the
delirium consequent upon it, she had uttered names which recalled former
passages of his life. She had called upon Charlotte Clopton, and bade
her leave the horrid charnel-house in which she had been entombed alive,
and even named localities familiar to him in his native county.

These things, whilst they contributed to elucidate her story, more
deeply interested him. He saw she could appreciate a true heart and bold
spirit in man, and could love with all the truth and innocence of a
Juliet. There was in her no false pride or prudery, but unconscious of
her own excellence, she was indeed one of those bright creatures so
often bestowed where they are unvalued. Had such a one fallen to his own
share, he thought, how would he have worshipped! But such was not to be.
He who was the gentlest, the noblest of mankind, was not to be so
companioned. His course was steered, at this period, alone. For him,
high birth and bright excellence should have been reserved, because he
so well could have appreciated them.

There was, however, to be observed in this singular female a sort of
character which even more interested him than her radiant beauty. With
all her amiability, she possessed a determination of purpose, which made
it impossible to control her designs. From what he could fathom of her
intentions and her story, she seemed only anxious to confer or secure
some important benefit to the individual she loved, and then to retire
from the world, to enter some convent abroad, "and be for aye in shady
cloister mew'd." And so, as the poet sat and thought over these matters,
he again seized his pen, and wrote.

CHAPTER LV.

ILL WEAVED AMBITION.

The machinations of Pouncet Grasp had not been without their due effect.
His evil disposition was as great as his industry, and his very face and
form, twisted and contorted as both were, proclaimed the mind of the man
as plainly as if he had carried a window in his breast.

Few specimens of the human countenance presented indeed less of the
divine about it than did that of the Stratford lawyer. The term _ugly as
sin_ might, in verity, have been applied to him, for, when he was
hatching any particular piece of rascality, the working of his features
gave him a diabolical look.

Not only had he succeeded in his design of weaving a web about Walter
Arderne, and getting incarcerated within the walls of a prison for debt,
but he even managed, by some strange underhand practice, to bring him
under the suspicion of the Queen's council for treasonable matter. And
yet, with all this malignancy of disposition, Grasp carried about him
such an air of _bonhommie_ that, until he was found out, he was seldom
distrusted. After he had, by the most careful approaches, (like a spider
securing a victim in his web, who is too powerful to be openly
attacked), fairly enmeshed Walter Arderne, he turned his thoughts upon
his old Stratford enemy, William Shakespeare, and, whose whereabout he
now had little difficulty in discovering, since after the successful
performance of Romeo and Juliet, the author's name was in the mouths of
many.

Sir Thomas Lucy had departed only few days before for Stratford, or
Grasp would immediately have sought him out, and, as he himself was also
on the eve of returning to Warwickshire, together with his new client,
in order to take immediate possession of the inheritance succeeded to,
he resolved to delay till his arrival the discovery he had made.

Meanwhile, the situation of Arderne was sufficiently disagreeable. He
was arrested for an enormous sum, and-when Sir Hugh Clopton sought to
clear him of the difficulty, by making some great sacrifices, that good
old man found, to his further dismay, that some secret foe had denounced
his nephew as a conspirator against the life of the Queen.

In Elizabeth's reign, those persons of condition who came under
suspicion and were confined within the walls of a prison found it no
easy matter to clear themselves, and some, even in the higher ranks of
the nobility, without any sustained charge but "for mere suspicion, were
treated as if for surety," finding their graves in the dismal chambers
of the Tower.

The news of the imprisonment of his early friend greatly troubled
Shakespeare. He was just at this time contemplating a return to his
native town, for now that he had so far achieved success, and felt
within himself the power of future fame, the longing for home, added to
the desire of once more embracing all he had dear there, he felt to be
irresistible.

To leave London, however, without an effort to serve his early friend
was impossible. He visited Arderne in his prison, and afterwards sought
Lord Leicester in order to interest that noble in his favour.

The time was, however, somewhat out of joint for making a successful
suit to Leicester at this moment. He was in one of those periodical fits
of ill-temper which usually attacked him when his "high-reaching"
schemes failed. He was out of favour with the Queen too, somewhat on the
sudden, and so wide was the breach that, albeit he was seeking by some
underhand contrivances to regain a place in her good graces, all his
attempts were futile.

To explain this to our readers, we must remind them that after the
services of Leicester at Tilbury, Elizabeth had created for the
favourite the office of Lord Lieutenant of England and Ireland; an
office which would have invested him with greater power than any
sovereign of this country had ever ventured to bestow on a subject. The
patent for this unprecedented dignity was actually made out, and only
awaited the royal signature, when Burleigh and Hatton, by their earnest
remonstrances, deterred Her Majesty from investing him with such power.

It was during the fit of rage consequent upon disappointment, that
Leicester had behaved with a degree of intemperance so distasteful to
Her Majesty, that she dismissed him in anger, and refused to be
reconciled.

The despondence which followed the violence of his rage on this occasion
brought on an illness, from which he, in truth, never recovered.

At the moment Shakespeare obtained an interview, he accordingly found
the earl in so ill a frame of mind, that he refused to interest himself
in favour of Walter Arderne.

He was about, he said to quit London for his castle of Kenilworth, and
was so utterly disgusted with Courts and all pertaining, that he vowed
to Heaven he would no more return.

As the poet looked in the face of this ambitious and still powerful
noble, he thought it not unlikely his words would prove true; for the
inroads of his peculiar disease were so apparent in his countenance,
that the grisly tyrant seemed to have put his mark upon him.

Leicester, at this period of his life, had grown bulky, and lost much of
that striking beauty of face and form for which he had been so
celebrated. His countenance shewed traces of his ungovernable temper and
evil disposition; his hair, lately coal-black, had become a "sable
silvered;" his frown had contracted into an habitual scowl; his dark
complexion, and from which he had obtained the _sobriquet_ of "The
Gipsey," had changed to a sickly yellow; his fine features had become
bloated; and every part about him seemed blasted with premature age.

As he rose from his seat during the interview, the poet observed that he
looked the personification of an evil-disposed but powerful man. One who
was torn by the fiend of avarice, the lust of power, and the chagrin of
blasted ambition. The Court smile was gone for ever from that once
pliant brow, and the scowl of hate seated in its stead.

To the surprise of the poet, whilst he flatly refused interference on
the subject of Arderne's imprisonment, he even seemed to experience
satisfaction at that youth's danger. The poisonous mind of the most
successful poisoner of the age was now recklessly displayed. He seemed
to rejoice in the misfortunes of his fellow-men, whilst he felt that his
own further success in life was ended. He was indeed at that moment
sinking into the grave a hopeless unbeliever, "a bold bad man."

"Sir Thomas Lucy," he said, rudely and abruptly, "hath sought me on the
subject of this Arderne, praying of me to intercede with the Queen. But
I meddle not again with matters of state or the business of others. My
health requires change from the pestilential vapour of this city. I have
done with Courts and seek my castle at Kenilworth."

Shakespeare bowed, and was about to withdraw, when Leicester turned and
again spoke.

"I advise you yourself, Master Shakespeare," he said, "to keep free of
such matters. Peril not your present favour by mixing in treasonable
affairs, and so farewell."

"Nay, my Lord," said Shakespeare, "this gentleman, my friend, hath been
most unjustly accused. He is one to whom I owe much love. I may not
cease from making what interest I can in his favour."

"And I tell thee then," said Leicester, imperiously, "that in me you
will find an opponent in his cause; my interest lieth in the very
opposite direction, since I am informed by a law-man of your native town
that, in right of my wife, I can claim some of those estates in
Warwickshire so lately in possession of this Arderne."

Shakespeare felt surprised at this intimation, and immediately the
interview terminated.

There was evidently a secret enemy at work, he thought, as he left the
house; and, as he passed through the gateway, he ran against a man who
was entering.

The poet was so wrapped in his own thoughts that he observed not the
features of this person; but Grasp (for it was no less a person who was
entering the courtyard) started at the well-known form of his sometime
clerk, and, hesitating for the moment, seemed divided as to whether he
should not defer his present business and follow the poet.

Whilst he stood undecided, Shakespeare took boat, and so Grasp turned
towards the building.

"I shall find the pestilent fellow," he said, "and I shall also
penetrate into the mystery of that fair Lindabrides who dwells beneath
his roof, and masquerades about the city at nights. My certie, but I'll
spoil his actings, his writings, his inditings, his poetizing, and
rhapsodizing. I can myself indite, aye, and play a part, too, as well as
he; and so, Master William Shakespeare, look to thyself, for thou art in
jeopardy;" and so Grasp turned and proceeded, across the court of
Leicester House rejoicing.

CHAPTER LVI.

THE ASSOCIATES.

So great were the talents possessed by Grasp for smelling out a plot,
whether it existed or not, that he seemed peculiarly fitted for the
period in which he lived, and in which conspiracies, either real or
pretended, were so frequently agitating the kingdom.

Plot and pestilence, indeed, during Elizabeth's reign seemed the
bug-bears of the time. At one moment the Court was driven from its
locality, by some of the attendants being seized at the very palace
gates with some infectious disorder, and the next, some dark,
evil-minded fanatic was apprehended, dagger in hand, almost in the very
presence-chamber.

Since the execution of the Queen of Scots those conspirators had been
more hopeless of success; yet still, ever and anon, a new and dangerous
attempt against the life of the Queen was brought to light.

Just at the present period of our story, such a design was pounced on by
Grasp; but, like all over-zealous persons, he was liable, in his
eagerness, to run upon a wrong scent, and lose sight of the game he had
started.

It happened, during his visit to London at this time, and in an interval
spared from his numerous avocations, (for Grasp was now a man in full
business), that he, one night, amused himself by witnessing an execution
in company with his friend Doubletongue.

This execution was one possessing considerable interest, inasmuch as
several criminals were to suffer for conscience-sake, and that was
always a popular exhibition during Elizabeth's reign. Six were Catholic
priests, who were hung, drawn, and quartered, for conspiring against the
Queen's life. Two more were laymen, who, having embraced protestantism
and returned to the old belief, were to be burned alive in company with
a wretched atheist named Francis Wright, alias Kit Wyndham. Besides
these there was one other named Word, who was to be executed for
concealment of Catholics under suspicion of treason.

The execution took place in Smithfield, and, like those of more modern
times, when the cut-purse is seen to exercise his vocation beneath the
gallows on which a fellow thief was struggling, so was treason watching
within the scorching influence of the fire which burned these traitors.

One Reginald Deville, an usurer and an informer, who also bore the
appropriate cognomen of Reynard Devil, had tracked a suspicious
character into Smithfield on this very night; a fanatic being, whose
husband had been in the service of the Queen of Scots, and who, in the
disguise of a man, was known to be in concealment in London for the
purpose of assassinating Elizabeth.

In the crowd, and during the excitement of the execution, Deville had
lost sight of this person, almost at the moment he was about to gain
assistance and pounce upon her; and, as he was prying about, he stumbled
upon Grasp, whom he had formerly known.

Now Grasp himself, besides his other business, occasionally did a little
in the informing way. Such pursuit formed a sort of afterhour recreation
with him. He and Doubletongue, at such times, hunted in couples, and as
evil speaking, lying, and slander, were the peculiar talents of his
friend, so the more covert villany was his own peculiar forte.

The moment Reginald Deville stumbled upon Grasp and his friend, in his
eagerness he half divulged the secret intelligence with which he was
furnished.

"Ah," he said, "my good friend Grasp, I am glad to meet. Hast seen a
slight rakish figure pass this minute, wearing a cloak of scarlet serge,
a red feather in his hat, a brace of petronels in his girdle, and drab
trunks with hose to match?"

Grasp was never at fault. "I have," he said hastily.

"Which way went he, in God's name," said Deville. "Quick, or I lose a
chance--he's worth the having, I can assure you."

"I will put you upon his trail," said Grasp, "perhaps inform you where
he haunts, an you promise half profits and tell me what's his crime."

"Treason is his crime," said Deville, "'Tis a female in man's apparel,
one Margaret Lambrun. Her husband died of grief after Queen Mary was
executed. The woman was in the service of Mary, and hath resolved on the
death of the Queen. I had secret intelligence from a cousin of my own in
Scotland, and have been in pursuit for some days."

"Well, then," said Grasp, "I can only tell you in return for your secret
that your man, or woman rather, was here beside me in company with four
others. Catholics, I dare be sworn, for they looked upon the burning of
yonder priests with a devilish expression of horror, in place of viewing
it as you and I. They marked me as I watched them, and they are off; but
I heard one of them name some place in Blackfriars as where he resided."

"How said ye," exclaimed Doubletongue, "in Blackfriars? then, by my fay,
I think I can give ye a clue to this same female."

"As how?" inquired Grasp, eagerly.

"As thus," said Doubletongue. "Dost remember the night on which we
consulted with Lawyer Quillet at the Blue Boar Inn?"

"Truly so," said Grasp, "and what o' that?"

"On that night I marked, although you did not, a couple of persons who
kept themselves altogether apart from the other guests--a young and a
middle-aged person. Nay, I especially marked the younger of the twain,
and as I looked upon the tiny foot, the sparkling eyes, and the slender
form, methinks I penetrated through the disguise worn, and beheld a
female."

"Ah! caitiff," said Grasp, "thou were't ever a devil to spy out a
farthingale. And so--"

"And so, I said to myself, where disguise is there mischief is meant,
and I resolved to know more. Acting upon this resolve, albeit I lost
sight of them during the riot which ensued in the tavern, I followed
them out into the street, dodged them to their lair--"

"And that is--?" inquired Deville impatiently.

"In the Blackfriars, at a house down by the water-side, and which I can
point out."

"But thou may'st have been mistaken," said Grasp, "appearances may have
deceived thee."

"Not a whit," said Doubletongue. "I took some pains to make assurance;
for, sooth to say, I was taken with this mysterious female. I watched
about the house till I again saw her. I even ventured within, concealed
myself during the absence of herself and him who seemed her protector,
and I found in the room which she inhabited--"

"What?" said Grasp, who expected a written list of the conspirators. "In
God's name what did you find?"

"Her doublet and hose," said Doubletongue. "The very pair of nether
garments in which I had seen her masquerading at the Blue Boar the first
night I beheld her."

"Oh, monstrous!" said Grasp. "Tis, undoubtedly the person of whom you
are in quest. See, the execution is over and the criminals burnt.
Wherefore not at once, proceed to Blackfriars and identify the house?
To-morrow we will procure assistance and pounce upon her;" and the two
immediately pushed their way through the crowd and left Smithfield.

CHAPTER LVII.

THE POET AND HIS FRIENDS.

The success of Shakespeare's play of Romeo and Juliet had placed him in
a somewhat different situation amongst his companions of the theatre. By
the majority he was immediately looked up to as a rising star, and
whilst others again viewed him with increasing envy, there were one or
two who were so much struck with the extraordinary merit of the
composition that they already pronounced him the wonder of the age.

Such, however, was the agitated state of the kingdom at the moment, and
fears, factions, and jealousies, so absorbed the minds of men of all
ranks, that except beyond the circle of his own professional brethren,
and amongst his own immediate friends of the Court, my Lord of Essex,
Sir Walter Raleigh, Lord Southampton, &c., the effect produced was,
after all, but evanescent.

The English nation at this time was yet struggling to emerge from
barbarity. The philology of Italy had been transplanted hither in the
reign of Henry the Eighth, and the learned languages cultivated by
Lilly, Linacre, More, and others. Greek was now taught in some of the
principal schools, and many of the learned read the Italian and Spanish
poets. But still literature was even yet confined in a great measure to
professed scholars, or persons of high rank. The body public was but
gross and dark; and to read and write, an accomplishment valued
according to its rarity.

Thus, then, the people who witnessed the great curiosity of
Shakespeare's new play hardly knew how to judge. It was welcome even to
the most rude and vulgar; they looked at it with a sort of childish
wonder. It was a delicious and startling change from the giants,
dragons, and enchantments they had been used to. Nay, it even bid fair
to supersede the interesting exhibition of the bear hugging the dog to
death, or the bull driven into madness by agony. The show and bustle of
the new play even charmed the rudesby's, who could scarce even
comprehend the beauty and elegance of the poetry.

It was on the morning of the same day on which Grasp had witnessed the
execution in Smithfield, that Shakespeare made his unsuccessful
application to the Earl of Leicester in behalf of his friend Arderne.
After his interview with the fallen favourite, the poet returned, sad
and somewhat out of sorts, to his new lodgings in Blackfriars. As was
his wont on all occasions wherein his capacious mind had received an
impression, he contemplated the object that had furnished it. Indeed,
his interview with that ambitious courtier, whose whole life had been a
mistake, had been to him a whole volume. "How wretched," he thought, "is
that poor man that hangs on prince's favours!" and then he seized his
pen and wrote,--

                        "Fling away ambition,
    By that sin fell the angels, how can man, then,
    The image of his Maker, hope to rise by it."

Whilst the poet wrote, as was not uncommonly the case, a whole levée of
visitors continually interrupted his labours. This, however, was a
circumstance that seemed rather to aid than disturb the current of his
thoughts. He laid down his pen to laugh with the light-hearted, and he
thrust aside his manuscript to listen to the more serious. He was all
things with all men. The courtier, the soldier, the scholar, all and
each found in him something to wonder at and admire. On this day, which
was the sixth for the representation of his play, his visitors were
numerous. In addition to many of his brother authors, several of the
actors and other persons connected with the theatre, the Earl of Essex,
Sir Walter Raleigh, Lord Southampton, and the poet Spenser, sought him
in his lodging. Master Doubletongue too, who on this day had been
seeking an opportunity of introducing himself into the house, as he met
with some actor or other visitor coming out, hesitated as to the safety
of such espial. Nay, he felt considerably astonished at the number and
quality of the persons who seemed, as the day advanced, to come
thronging about the locality.

Whilst he continued watching for some person he appeared to expect, he
beheld the open space in front of the house filled with the attendants
of several nobles of the Court; their magnificent steeds, gaily
caparisoned, being led up and down, or held by servitors with the
emblazoned badges of the favourites of the Queen.

It is indeed curious to consider the poet himself during the visit of
these magnificoes, and who, in the enjoyment of his society, sought a
new pleasure; visitors who, like himself, were elevated above "the
common cry of curs," and, leaving their high rank out of the question,
worthy of the friendship of Shakespeare. The poet himself, too, was
perfectly at his ease in the company of these haughty nobles. He sat and
conversed with them in all the freedom of unchecked enjoyment.

To attempt any description of the conversation carried on amongst these
choice and master spirits of the age would be vain and ridiculous, since
it exceeds the power of our pen to describe it. Nay, were it possible so
to do, we must of necessity furnish forth to the world a dialogue such
as is only to be found in the page of him who acted as the host to the
assemblage.

Let us look at the picture, for it is one worthy of regard. Shakespeare
sits beneath the ample chimney, his table is before him, strewed with
papers. He leans back in his chair; a divine expression, a sweet smile
is on his bearded face. Opposite to him is his patron, Lord Southampton,
his chin resting upon the hilt of his sheathed rapier, his eyes and ears
intent upon the subject Shakespeare is speaking of. Beside Shakespeare,
leaning his cheek upon his hand, his elbow upon the table, sits the
magnificent Essex; he also is intently regarding the poet, admiration in
his gaze. Standing somewhat behind Lord Southampton, his back against
the carved chimney, is the poet Spenser. Raleigh sits within the
embayment of the window; his plumed hat is carelessly thrown down beside
him, and his quick, restless glance is ever and anon turned from the
poet towards the different craft which pass and repass upon the Thames
below. Beside these, _élite_ of the company, there is Tarleton, the
comedian and Court fool, who, under cover of his folly, shoots his bolts
upon all the party. One more addition, and the party is completed; and
it is made up by the dissolute friend of the poet, the fat and jovial
Froth.

Whilst they are engaged in conversation, the drawer from an adjoining
tavern enters with wine and other refreshments. From long-necked and
quaint-looking bottles is poured the wines of Gascony and Spain. The
means, too, and appliances for indulgence in Sir Walter's favourite weed
is then handed round, and (as was the custom of the period) each guest
takes a whiff; the thin blue smoke mounts into the air, and eddies about
the carved ceiling; and, as the mirth and joviality of the party grows
faster, time flies unheeded by, the shadows descend upon the Thames,
again and again the bottles are renewed, and another day dawns upon the
party, ere they recollect how the hours have fled.

Can our readers wonder at this, when they remember of what that party
consisted, and their entertainer? Those magnificoes had come to pay the
poet a morning visit, and they had stayed half a day and one entire
night. Shakespeare was their entertainer!

As the first faint streaks of dawn began to "lace the severing clouds,"
the poet stood alone in his apartment. His guests had left him, and his
room shewed tokens of the revel they had been engaged in.

The revellers had drank deep, for they were such as would be most likely
to give themselves up to the peculiar enjoyment of the hour. Shakespeare
had cheered the cup for them.

As the glorious poet glanced upon the heap of empty flaskets, broken
bottles, remnants of long-necked glasses, and capacious bowled pipes,
together with all the _débris_ of a long-continued orgie, he smiled, and
stepping to the lattice-window, threw it open, and stood to enjoy the
refreshing breeze from the river.

Whilst he stood and gazed upon the Thames, the boats containing his
recent guests glided past, on their way to Greenwich; for Essex and
Southampton, when they found themselves regularly set in for an orgie,
had some time before sent away their steeds.

They waved their hands an they passed, on observing the poet, and he
remained listening to the music from the boat which followed the barge
of Essex, as it grew fainter and fainter in the distance.

As Shakespeare turned from the window, the arras near the fire-place was
lifted, and two persons noiselessly entered. He started as he beheld
them, for by the faint morning light he distinguished in one of them the
beautiful female we have before remarked, dwelling beneath his roof; the
other was our old friend Martin. Something more than ordinary he well
knew must have caused her to enter the wing of the building he
inhabited; in addition to which, he saw she was equipped in her
masculine costume, and, together with her companion, prepared for a
journey.

"We have come to bid you farewell," she said, as the poet stepped up to
her, and took her hand.

"This is somewhat sudden," he returned. "I hoped to have been of your
party into Warwickshire."

"Certain spies, good Master Shakespeare," said Martin, "have it seems
noted this lady's residence beneath your roof, and she has fallen under
suspicion of treasonable matter."

"Yes," said the lady, "my faithful friend and adviser here has
discovered so much. My presence here might even compromise you, my kind
friend and preserver. We have therefore resolved, at once, to set off on
our journey."

"And how then have you learnt this?" inquired Shakespeare.

"Nay, heed not my means of intelligence," said Martin. "Thou know'st I
possess the secret of divination, or I could never have at last escaped
the Spanish Inquisition, and discovered the residence of this lady in
London. Suffice it we know our danger, and must fly."

"And do you then still purpose seeking Kenilworth?" inquired Shakespeare
of his beautiful friend.

"I do," she replied. "Lady Leicester is my friend. She will, I trust,
be able to do service to him we wish well to. My best hope is from that
quarter."

"I have already seen the Earl," said Shakespeare, "and my own
expectations, in that quarter, touch ground."

"From the Earl himself I never entertained a particle of hope," said the
lady, "his Countess may, however, serve us, for she is my friend."

"All good angels, then, speed you on your journey!" said Shakespeare. "I
have myself other chances here. The Earl of Essex hath promised to speak
with the Queen, ere another day passes, added to which, Lord Southampton
and Sir Walter Raleigh have sworn to back his suit."

"Have you, then, seen the Earl of Essex on this matter?" inquired
Martin, in some surprise.

"He and Lord Southampton were here but now," said Shakespeare, smiling,
and pointing to the confused state of the apartment. "Behold the witness
of their revel. Some ten minutes back they left me to take boat for
Greenwich, where the Queen at present stays."

"Farewell, then," said the lady sorrowing, "we dare no longer stay, may
we soon meet again!"

"Heaven grant it, fair excellence," said Shakespeare, "until I again
revisit my home in Warwickshire, I shall have but small contentment. But
until I see my friend out of jeopardy, and clear of imprisonment, I have
neither home nor friends there."

"'Tis like yourself," said the lady. "Farewell! We shall soon then meet,
I trust. Walter Arderne once relieved from durance, and my task is
effected."

CHAPTER LVIII.

STRATFORD AND ITS NEIGHBOURHOOD.

After absence from a well-known locality how fresh and verdant seems
every spot there. The mind which has dwelt, again and again, upon every
nook and corner, unmarked perhaps and unappreciated whilst in the
neighbourhood, becomes enamoured absolutely of trivialities and trifles.
How well doth the exile, eating the bitter bread of banishment, perhaps
breathing the hot air of the tropics, many, many thousand leagues from
the quiet village in which he first drew breath--how well doth he
recollect, and dwell with fondness upon each street or lane of the
village suburb, the school-boy spot, the home the wanderer longs for
with an undying desire!

And if such be the case, how anxiously, and even sadly, do we think upon
those relatives and friends domesticated in the far-away home, and see
them in their old-accustomed places. Relations so dear and friends so
esteemed, yet, perhaps, never again to be met with in life, and
therefore more cherished in our thoughts.

And Shakespeare had oft-times felt this anxiety during the time his
self-exile lasted. In his own mind he had resolved that, until he had
"name and fame," he had "nothing at Stratford." Those dearly loved
friends should not again look upon the unthrift younker; and unless the
man redeemed the courses wild of the youth, he would no more return.

How far he had already succeeded our readers have seen; and even the
little world of Stratford began to feel pride in him they had before so
lightly regarded.

Master William Shakespeare, it was affirmed amongst the wise-acres of
the Falcon Inn, had indited two several poems, some said three, of such
exceeding merit, that they had afforded exceeding delight to the
grandees and gallants of Elizabeth's court. Sonnets, too, innumerable,
had fallen amongst the fair dames of the palace, like the perfumed
flowers blown by the sweet south.

Nay, William Shakespeare was said to be a favourite with the Queen
herself. Two plays he had also produced--plays of most exquisite fancy.
The Adonis of the Court,--the "wealthy-curled darling of the land," the
favourite Essex, was his personal friend. My Lord Southampton his
patron. And more than this, than these, than all, William Shakespeare
had made money, thriven, purchased property, become a proprietor of one
of the theatres in London.

"'Fore Heaven, I wonder what made him ever go away from us?' said Master
Mumble, the head-bailiff.

"I always said there was something in him," said Master Lamb.

"He was ever a clever dog though a mischievous one," said Cramboy.

"Dost think he will come back amongst us?" inquired Teazle. "Methinks I
long to look upon one who hath written three poems, a whole litany of
sonnets, and two masques or mysteries."

"An he do come amongst us again," said the head-bailiff, "I, for one,
vote we make him master of the free school."

"Nay," said Cramboy, "I know not how far to agree with you there, before
we go to such lengths, let us peruse his works; there is some
difference, my masters all, between teaching one's boys their _quis_,
their _quæs_, and their _quods_, and writing jingling rhymes for the
amusement of the Londoners and the Court."

"Well," said the mayor, "we might make him parish-clerk. Something we
ought to offer him, methinks, an he comes back amongst us. Body o' me,
hath he not written two poems and a play? There be those amongst us who
cannot even write their own names, much more a poem such as 'tis said
this William Shakespeare hath produced."

"Hath any one seen these poems you speak of?" inquired Master Scourge.

"Truly, I believe mine host hath a copy of one brought from London by a
gentleman of the Court, and left behind him. I saw it myself not a week
ago and looked at the title-page, 'tis called Tartquin and Lucrece, a
very clever book, if I may judge from the look of the binding."

"We will see that poem," said the bailiff; and the host, being
accordingly summoned, produced a small volume, which the head-bailiff
with infinite gravity, after laying aside his pipe and adjusting his
spectacles, proceeded to read. Scarcely, however, had he got through one
verse ere he paused and looked over his glasses at the grave auditors
who sat in judgment upon the production, whilst they themselves puffed
out such clouds of smoke, that it appeared they were resolved the
bailiff should scarce observe the impression produced.

"You do not speak, my masters," said the head-bailiff, "have you heard?"

"Perfectly," returned Master Cramboy.

"And do you approve?" inquired the head-bailiff.

"Ahem," said the mercer, "'Speak that I may know thee,' saith the
proverb; proceed;" and the bailiff read another verse.

"Fie! fie!" said Master Teazle, "what stuff is here? My service to you,
my masters all, and a merry Christmas. How say you now to making Master
William Shakespeare master of the free school,--eh?"

"Shall I proceed any further?" inquired the head-bailiff.

"Not a line," said Cramboy. "I feel quite scandalized. What a depraved
taste the Court must have! Allow me, however to look at the binding of
this volume," and Cramboy quietly noted down where the book was to be
bought in order that he might procure and read it as soon as he could,
the rest of the company quietly following his example.

"Well," said John Peto, the tanner, "after all what is fame? Here hath
our fellow-townsman gained much celebrity by such matter as we have
heard. Trash, my masters; lies, conjured up by the fumes of sack and
Canary. Marry, the lad hath a quick wit, I dare be sworn, but how he
hath gotten himself into the good graces of the powerful by such matter
I marvel."

"I remember me," said Master Richard Coomb, (who was known amongst his
co-mates by the sobriquet of Thin Beard, from the circumstance of his
wearing a starved cane-coloured beard), "I remember me that our
townsman, John Shakespeare, father of this William, had from his youth
upwards, a quick and shrewd wit. Nay, by 'ur Lady, he must be about my
own age; by the same token I played oft-times with him when he was a boy
and living with his father at Snitterfield."

"Aye," said Mumble, "he came to Stratford from Snitterfield. He held
lands there when he was better off. Did'st know Richard Shakespeare,
grandfather to this William? He was well to do, and had lands and beeves
at Snitterfield."

"I did know him," returned Coomb; "that is, I do remember me of him. By
'ur Lady, a proper man of his hands as ever you would wish to look
on,--aye, and a pleasant man to speak with too."

"Did not your brother, John Coomb, accommodate Master John Shakespeare,
at his need, with moneys, not long back?" inquired Cramboy.

"In sooth did he," returned Thin Beard, "more than once, I can tell
thee."

"And did I not hear that John Coomb pressed him hard for repayment, and
would have clapped him up in jail but for the debt being defrayed by
this poet of our's,--this William his son,--so soon as he became aware
of it?"

"Nay, 'tis true enough," said Thin Beard; "I may not deny that my
brother doth press hard for moneys due."

"Go to," said Mumble; "we all know John Coomb and his usances well
enough without your confession. 'Tis creditable to Master hath been
given to courses wild. I like him better for his befriending his father
than for his poetry."

"Come," said the head bailiff, laying down his pipe, and rising from his
chair, "Let us drink the health of our good townsman, since he hath so
far done honour to the place of his birth. Who knows, he may do even
better yet! We have not altogether approved of the production here
before us, peradventure his songs and sonnets are in better taste than
his lampoons. Fill, my masters, to the brim. Since the Queen delights to
honour Master Shakespeare, here's his health, and may he soon return
amongst us!"

And if such was the feeling entertained towards the poet by the more
mechanical portion of the community of Stratford, those of higher degree
felt a proportionable share of respect, since they could better
appreciate his merits.

And now, having once more returned to the spot from whence we started,
we must again revisit some of the localities in and around that sweet
neighbourhood. Sir Hugh Clopton having also returned from London on
business of import, is once more to be seen in his old dwelling.

Since we last beheld him located there, many stirring events have
transpired. His life, on the whole, has passed, since the action with
the Armada, in ease and quietude. At the present moment, however, he is
in some trouble, consequent upon the untoward events connected with his
nephew. Nay, he has returned to London for the purpose of parting with
all he possesses, so that he may but pay off the huge debts Walter
Arderne has become liable for, and save him from the other difficulties
he is surrounded by.

It is now far advanced in the month of September. The season is wet and
dreary,--one of those unhealthy seasons which produce much sickness
throughout the land. The continued rain had flooded the country around.
The roads, never at this period good, are now almost impassable. The
woods are wrapped in mist, and the marsh lands a perfect sea.

    "The fold stands empty in the drowned field,
    And crows are fatted with the murrain flocks,
    The nine men's morris is filled up with mud,
    And the quaint mazes in the wanton green,
    For lack of tread, are undistinguishable;
    Whilst on old Hyem's chin and icy crown,
    An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds,
    Is, as in mockery, set."

Sir Hugh, after conferance with his man of business, is preparing in a
few days again to set off for London. A journey of such extent is,
however, matter of some consideration and considerable danger at such a
season, with weather so unpropitious.

As the old knight looks out upon the chase, the gloom of the aspect adds
to the gloom of his spirits.

Such a prospect is always calculated to beget a certain share of
despondency, even in the most cheerful temper, and Sir Hugh has had
enough of sorrow in his time to make him rather a grave than a merry
companion.

The old knight, however, is not the man to give way to despair under
circumstances like the present.

"Goods news, an Heaven will," he said, as he suddenly descried a
horseman, with head bent to the saddle-bow, come sparring against the
driving wind, his cloak blown into a balloon, the mire and water flying
into the air as he dashed across the chase towards the mansion.

During the prevalence of heavy and continued rain, any object which
enlivens the wet landscape, even in our own dull times, becomes of
interest. In Elizabeth's day, when so many events of import were
transpiring, and when news came but rarely to a country place, the
arrival of a post as tho armed and heavily-accoutred horseman was
called was of peculiar interest. He brought, perhaps, intelligence of
the danger or death of those nearest and dearest, and now heard for the
first time. He bore, perchance, some secret intelligence of warning,
some caution against an imminent, deadly foe, some hint to put the seas
between the receiver and his native land.

To Sir Hugh the sight of the coming horseman, as he emerged from the
belt of plantation, and dashed into the open chase, was fraught almost
with alarm.

"God grant," he said, an he strained his eyes to observe if he could
recognize the features of the rider, "that this new comer may bring me
good tidings of our Walter."

The increasing gloom, however, for it was now evening, hindered the
knight from recognizing the person of the horseman. He heard the clatter
of the hoofs of the steed along the approach, and, as he threw open the
door, the rider having dismounted, unceremoniously entered the room. The
next moment his hand was caught in the iron gripe of Captain Fluellyn.

"Thou hast news, Captain," said Sir Hugh, "news of import, or thou
would'st scarce have left my nephew in his captivity?"

"I _have_ news, good Sir Hugh," said the Captain; "and when I have in
something recovered wind enough, I will unfold it to you!"

"Good! an Heaven will," said Sir Hugh; "my nephew, good Captain--?"

"Is well," returned the Captain, "and commends him to you. Nay, he is,
in some sort, out of his difficulties--that is to say, in as far as the
charge of treason goeth."

"Nay, then, Heaven be praised for that!" said Sir Hugh, "for the other
matter, the worst is but worldly loss."

"We are not so sure of that, either," returned the Captain, "affairs
have altogether taken a new turn. Your nephew hath desired my return at
once to inform you thereof, so as to stop your making any sacrifice of
property."

"'Fore Heaven, this doth surprise me!" said the Knight, "but come, we
will hear such matter at more leisure, and after you have refreshed
yourself, for you seem to have ridden far and fast since morning."

"I have," said the Captain. "I am stained with variation of each soil,
'twist this seat of yours and the town of Oxford, and the ways are
wondrous foul and hard to travel over, too. A cup of wine and a rasher
will be welcome."

"You shall have the best that Clopton can afford," said the Knight,
hurrying out, and calling lustily to his servants to prepare the evening
meal without delay.

Accordingly, the Captain, having divested himself of his heavy
riding-cloak, and removed the long petronels, rapier, and dagger from
his side, was in a few minutes more seated cozily in a high-backed chair
beneath the chimney, and opposite his host.

Between the pair stood a small table, plentifully furnished with several
sorts of wine. A glorious log of wood blazed upon the hearth, and whilst
the servants brought in the refreshments which furnished forth the
evening meal, the new comer between each mouthful delivered his news to
the greedy ears of his host.

"Many events of import have transpired," said he, as he at length pushed
his plate from him, in token that the inner man was satisfied; "aye, and
that too in the short period since you left London to arrange matters
here. In the first place, I need not inform you that both yourself and
Walter Arderne had a secret foe at Court."

"Of that I have long been aware," said Sir Hugh.

"Most probably," said the Captain. "A foe is generally found sooner or
later, like the blind mole, by the effects of his progress; but I have
unearthed this mole."

"Good," said Sir Hugh, "that's a point gained any how."

"Nay, more, I have discovered you have also a secret and powerful friend
at Court, and the friend is more powerful than the foe. Witness the
effects. Your nephew is released from all responsibility on the subject
of the treasonable charge trumped up against him, and, as he himself
bade me deliver to you, is in a fair way of getting rid also of other
matters appertaining."

"And how is this derived?" said Sir Hugh. "You amaze me with so much
good news, I pray you expound unto me the names of these persons who
have interested themselves for and against me and mine. Set this foe
before me, that I may know him, good Captain. 'Fore Heaven, I am old,
but I have still some skill in fence. Thou shalt bear a cartel to the
caitiff."

"It could be easily done," returned the Captain, filling his pipe and
puffing out a volume of smoke.

"'Fore gad, then," said Sir Hugh, lighting a fellow pipe, and performing
upon it with equal gusto, "you shall find it shall be as promptly done."

"Have you ever had personal quarrel with the Earl of Leicester?"
inquired the Captain.

"None, as I am a gentleman," said Sir Hugh.

"And yet," said the Captain, "hath it been through his means that your
nephew's late troubles have been brought to a serious issue, so indeed
as to threaten his life as well as deprive him of his liberty."

"Were he twenty times an earl," said Sir Hugh, "he shall answer it. Thou
shalt seek him, Captain, in my name, and demand the why and wherefore."

"I had much rather be excused," said the Captain, eyeing the gyrations
of the smoke, and then peeping at Sir Hugh.

"How?" said Sir Hugh. "Wilt not be then my friend, good Captain? Well,
be it so, I will to my good neighbour, Sir Thomas Lucy. He is a man to
beard fifty earls, be they ever so powerful."

"Sir Thomas Lucy could hardly do your message either," said the Captain.

"Ha, say'st thou! Truly, then, thou knowest not the goodness and
hot-valour of the knight of Charlecote; he is a true friend, and right
honest. But wherefore should Sir Thomas refuse to carry a cartel to the
Earl?"

"Because Sir Thomas would scarce carry a cartel to one unable to reply
to it," said the Captain. "The Earl of Leicester is dead. He died two
nights back at Cornbury, on his way to Kenilworth. So much I learnt as I
tarried at Oxford, where, moreover, I further heard strange rumours of
the manner of his death."

"Gad-a-mercy!" said Sir Hugh, "this doth indeed surprise me. What a
world is this we live in. Dead, quotha! and mine enemy too! Well this is
news, indeed. But then this friend at Court, good Captain? methinks I
should not forget to ask for him."

"Ahem!" said the Captain. "Of that, anon. Bless me! how heavily the rain
beats against the casement. Foul weather this, good Sir Hugh, for
travellers. Truly the night hath come down dark, as a wolf's mouth, and
ways be both foul and dangerous."

"Hast any friend on the road to-night, good Captain?" inquired Sir Hugh.

"I was consorted," said the Captain, "as far as Oxford by one who
over-rode me on the way soon after leaving London, and whom I left at
Oxford with a purpose of following hitherward. He is a native of
Stratford, and one of pleasanter mood I never travelled withal. The man,
I think, you know."

"And his name?" inquired Sir Hugh. "Come, fill your glass."

"William Shakespeare," said the Captain. "He who wrote the play we saw
in London."

Sir Hugh laid down his pipe, and rose to his feet. "Is Shakespeare
coming back?" he said. "'Fore Heaven, thou canst not think, my good
friend the pleasure such information gives me. Thou canst not tell what
I feel towards that young man--so little known, yet so well
appreciated."

"Ha," said the Captain, "so have I heard you say."

"I have before named to thee," said Sir Hugh, "former passages in which
my family became acquainted with this Shakespeare, and how we received
an inestimable service from him in his early youth. And I tell thee now
my very soul yearned to go to that man when in London and clasp him to
my heart, but I was ashamed. I gave ear to the tales of his enemies; I
believed him to have become worthless and an outcast in the world. And,
as I shamed to take part with him in adversity, so I shame to see his
face in his hour of triumph. But I love that man. Nay, I am old,
Captain, but the words of his poetry, as we listened to it that night,
yet ring in mine ears."

"Truly then," said the Captain, whose rough nature was in something
moved, "your friendship is not ill bestowed. This Shakespeare hath
bestirred himself in your nephew's favour, and procured his release from
the graver charge of treason. He hath interested the Queen, through my
Lords of Essex and Southampton, and hath given me a clue by which I have
discovered the villany of our Stratford lawyer here, Pouncet Grasp, the
secret foe through whose influence the Earl of Leicester was made
instrumental. Nay, Shakespeare hath been your good friend, Sir Hugh."

"And is he in sooth coming back to Stratford?" said Sir Hugh, rubbing
his hands. "In prosperity or adversity, he shall be welcome as if he
were mine own son."

"Truly," said the Captain, "I can in some sort almost feel the same
towards this friend of thine, for never travelled I with one who so
cheered the long miles 'twixt post and post. He was right pleasant and
facetious all the miry way 'twixt Acton and Oxbridge. I wished the miles
twice us long whilst we pricked across the waste land towards
Beaconsfield. Neither wind nor rain, or mud or mire, could alter his
merry mood, as, by night, we made our way towards Walting Town; and when
we lost our route, and were nearly drowned in the marshes of Abingdon,
he turned our danger into a jest. Nothing came amiss to this
Shakespeare; he had a saying for every mistake, and a good word for
every misfortune."

"Such a comrade," said Sir Hugh, "were worth something on a journey."

"Nay, Sir Hugh," returned the Captain, "I have travelled far and near,
yet never met I with such another. By 'ur Lady, I have consorted with
your Dane, drank with your Hollander, revelled with your Frenchman, and
fought with your Spaniard, yet none did I ever find who could hold
comparison with this man."

"I marvel you came not on further together," said Sir Hugh, "since you
so well relished his companionship."

"He tarried, as I told you, at Oxford," returned the Captain, "where it
seems he had appointed to meet other company. Nay, I myself also tarried
one night at Oxford, to rest my horse. We put up at the hostel of the
Crown, and, in sooth, a merrier night I never spent withal. This
Shakespeare hath a peculiar art. He made himself familiar amidst the
various guests, and drew them out to exhibit themselves after the most
exquisite fashion. Nay, the hostess of the Crown was herself a woman of
exceeding wit and beauty, and seemed to relish the society of the
player."

"I know that hostel," said Sir Hugh. "'Tis kept by one Davenant; and the
hostess is indeed, as you say, 'a most sweet wench.'"[26]

[Footnote 26: There is an anecdote extant in Oxfordshire, of the
intimacy subsisting between this hostess and Shakespeare. Shakespeare is
said to have always rested at the Crown, at Oxford, whilst _en route_
from London to Stratford.]

CHAPTER LIX.

KENILWORTH.

Our readers, we doubt not, have for some time entertained a shrewd
suspicion regarding the somewhat indistinct character latterly flitting
about amongst the _dramatis personæ_ of our story. The Lady Clara de
Mowbray, in her own proper person, has of late been but little seen in
the twisted and ravelled skein of this history.

The fortunes of him who is enshrined in all hearts, has of necessity
thrown all minor characters into the shade.

Nevertheless, the doings of so exquisite a creature as Clara de Mowbray,
are worthy of the contemplation of our readers, for both in station and
disposition she was considerably elevated above the ordinary fragments
of the world.

She was a being in whom the best elements were mingled that she might
well have been the worshipped idol of the noblest of the other sex. And
yet have we seen this female, by one of those curious chances so common
in real life, left alone almost in the world, steering her course across
the ocean of adventurous deeds, unknown, and, apparently, unappreciated.
And is not thin oft-times the case? Do we not oft-times see in the world
the most paltry portions of humanity, the most impudent and assuming?
The moat common-place, the most vain, and the most unworthy, exacting
the most homage? Nay, succeeding in life better than the good and
virtuous?

Clara de Mowbray was one worthy of an emperor's love; a creature we do
occasionally, but rarely, meet with in the world; a sort of descended
angel amongst mortals, sent apparently as the pattern, the model, for
the baser worldlings to "dress themselves by." The world, however, would
perhaps be likely to censure Clara, and her virtues to stand her but as
enemies--her innocence and her regardlessness of form and ceremony, her
recklessness of paltry opinion, be considered unmaidenly and bold! and
so might the world think and say, for Clara possessed a spirit as
undaunted in the resolve to carry out her projects as she was pure in
heart and beautiful in person. If she had a fault it was her unbended
determination to go through with any thing she once undertook. She was
the creature of romance too, and altogether would have been better
suited for a more romantic age than that in which she lived. Albeit her
own times gave some scope for the exercise of her peculiarities.

We have seen that from childhood she had loved Arderne; she had had so
many opportunities of observing his excellence and worth, that spite of
her better reason, and against hope, she had loved. It was one of those
unselfish passions which hopes all for the being beloved, and nothing
for self. She knew that the object of her thoughts had been engaged
elsewhere, that his affections were buried in the tomb of Charlotte
Clopton, but that altered not her feelings towards him a jot. Whilst he
lived, it was something to breathe in the same hemisphere; and to add to
his happiness and prosperity, even by stealth, was her study.

Hence have we seen her in disguise seeking to deliver him from the
horrors of captivity or starvation on a desolate shore. Herself enduring
the extremity of mishap, and then rescued from captivity of the
Spaniard. Hence have we seen her bequeathing, in the event of her own
death, all she possessed upon the one so beloved, and hence have we
seen her, and her extraordinary disposition revelled in such a
situation, the disguised comrade, and then the guest of the wonderful
man whose course of life it has been our task to follow. And hence we
find her, up to the present period of our story, still bending all her
energies to restore the fortunes and happiness of Walter Arderne.

In all things, however, Clara de Mowbray, as we have before hinted,
chose to follow her own notions comparatively unknown, certainly she
thought unloved by the object of her affections. She shrank from all
idea of being recognised as the benefactor of Arderne, lest he should
consider himself bound to tender her the devotion of the life she had
sought to save. She pursued, therefore, an extremely cautious and
erratic mode in all her proceeding. Even Shakespeare, the friend, the
wonderful man who had saved her from the Spaniard, she feared entirely
to place confidence in. The poet, however, had carefully studied the
character of this beautiful female, resolved to thwart her ultimate
intentions regarding herself, and if possible, to make her happy.

How strangely then flows the tide of human events. Clara de Mowbray
alive, in health, and the real possessor of enormous wealth, was
apparently dead to the world as to herself, her affections she thought
unrequited. On the object of those affections she had conferred all her
worldly goods, and herself she had intended to dedicate to Heaven.

She was a Catholic, and she meant, as soon an she saw all her schemes in
a fair way of completion, to seclude herself from the world. She had
arranged matters so as to retire to a convent in Navarre. With Arderne
the case was as singular. This youth, so much thought of for his
excellent disposition, albeit he mourned the beautiful Clara as one
dead, adored her memory as a reality, and, had he suspected her of being
in life, would have put a girdle round the earth to find her out.

    "Love like a shadow flies, when substation love pursues,
    Pursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues."

And that such should be the case,--that the melancholy Walter should
become enamoured of what seemed but a shadow, is not surprising in a man
of his disposition. The splendid domains be had succeeded to, the
romance of the situation altogether, his remembrance of the sometime
heiress of these broad lands, at last caused him to be so enamoured of
her bare memory that the subject of her beauty formed the entire subject
of his thoughts. It seemed to him that she haunted each dell and glided
about the stately halls of her forefathers, sighed in the winds which
swept around the battlements of her ancestry; and, indeed, pervaded
every spot around the woods and groves she had conferred upon him. The
remembrance of his former love was by a newer object quite obliterated.
The good Walter, in short, became a sort of dreamy person. For hours
together would he stand in the long gallery at Shottery, and
contemplate the picture of Clara de Mowbray; and had not Grasp's
machinations, by driving him from these thoughts and from possession of
the domains, driven him from the haunts that engendered them, he would
most probably have become a melancholy maniac or a misanthrope.

Clara de Mowbray had in her early youth, beside the unfortunate
Charlotte Clopton, one other dear and valued friend, the unhappy
Countess of Leicester. This beautiful woman, whom the dark Earl had
become enamoured of whilst her first husband was alive, he was reported
to have "played most foully for." He was said, indeed to have poisoned
Walter, Earl of Essex, in order to gain her hand.

The sorrowful Countess, who had ample leisure to repent of her second
marriage, had been greatly attached to Clara, and frequently when she
could escape from the splendid cares, "the glistering grief," of her own
home, had been wont to pour her sorrows into the ear of the heiress. She
had consequently been the only person, except the eccentric Martin, who
was the entire confident of Clara. She had known of her attachment, and
also had been privy to her adventure in search of her lover; she also
knew of her determination to retire from the world it she succeeded, and
in common with the world, she imagined Clara had perished in the
attempt; but as she had been sworn to secresy by her young friend, ere
she departed, so she had faithfully kept counsel.

Now, however, but a few days before the Earl of Leicester's death, to
her astonishment, in the disguised individual who sought her at
Kenilworth, the Countess beheld her dearly-loved friend, accompanied by
the long lost Martin. How they had escaped from shipwreck and all the
"portance of their travelled history," the Countess had small time to
learn, for soon after their arrival she herself was summoned to the sick
Earl at Cornbury Park.

The Countess, however, had granted Clara the boon she asked,--a letter
to the Queen in favour of Arderne; and this letter, together with the