CHAPTER IX.

"Between two hawks, which flies the higher pitch,Between two dogs, which hath the deeper mouth,Between two girls, which hath the merrier eye—I have, perchance, some shallow spirit of judgment;But in the nice sharp quillets of the law,Good faith, I am no wiser than a jackdaw."

"Thou canst rhapsodize at a good rate, my son," said the father, "that I well know. But in good truth thou must turn over a new leaf with Lawyer Grasp, or he will turn thee off, William!"

"Nay," urged the youth, "since we have entered upon this matter, I must tell thee, father, that never since the pupil age of Adam was there poor wight more unfitted for a lawyer than myself; my pen runs riot when I put it upon parchment; I cannot indite the undoing of the widow and the orphan, even when thefoulcopy lies before my nose. I turn a writ into a love-song, and when I should copy out an ejectment, lo! I find I have penned the words of a madrigal."

"The more the pity, William," said the father, "for to speak sooth to thee, I find myself by no means in so thriving a condition as I could wish. There be a many of us now in family, great and small. Business slackens with me, and in good sooth, lad, an I do not better in the next three months than I have done the last, I may e'en close my books, shut the house, and stick up bills to let the premises. Ruin, William, stares me in the face, if matters mend not anon. A bad time such for you to be thinking of changing from the vocation I have placed you in."

"Neither would I think of changing, father," returned the son, "did I think that, by remaininginthe law, I could help you or advance myself. But believe me, so opposite is the dull routine of the desk, so abhorrent to my soul is the craft of a lawyer, that rather than follow such a calling I would take the sword my grandsire won at Bosworth, and seek a livelihood in any place where men cut throats in the way of profession. Those were sad times, father, but they were stirring times, those days of York and Lancaster, when—

"Trenching war channell'd our fields,And bruised our flowrets with the armed hoofsOf hostile paces."

As the youth uttered this with something of a theatrical air, and giving the words great force by his utterance, his father looked at him with considerable curiosity. "Now, by my halidame," he said, "I cannot half fathom thee, William. Truly thou art a riddle to make out. Seeming fit for nothing, and yet good at all things. I would I knew, in good sooth, what to put thee to."

The lad smiled. "Nay," he said, "I must not be undutiful towards one so good. I will then continue to try and please this godless lawyer till something better turns up. And now I must tell thee I have made a friend of one well known to thee, and who is willing to serve us in requital for some little service he hath received at my hands."

"Of whom dost thou speak, William?" inquired the father.

"Of Sir Hugh Clopton," returned the youth.

"Nay, and thou hast made friends of Sir Hugh and his family," said John Shakespeare, "thou hast done thyself good service, and, mayhap, he may advance thee in life: though what he will find thee fit for, William, I wot not."

"Truly, father," said William, "I confess myself but a tattered prodigal, only fitted to eat draff and husks. Nevertheless, an thou wilt but admit me, I would fain join these hungry varlets at their evening meal, and beg a blessing of my honoured mother, whose sweet face I have scarce looked at these two days past."

"Well, come thy ways in, thou scoffer," said John Shakespeare, good-naturedly. "I defy the evil one to be angry with such a madcap as thou art."

So saying, Master John Shakespeare turned and entered the house, his eldest son following with all his little brothers and sisters clinging to him—one upon his back, another in his arms, and the remainder pulling at the skirts of his coarse gray doublet.

To picture the private hours of the great is a difficult, as well as a thankless, task we opine, since oft-times more is expected than is in reality to be found; and our readers will scarce be contented to find the youthful Shakespeare—in all the freedom, amiability, and kindness of his disposition—the great, the illustrious, the unmatchable—the mere playmate of his little brothers and sisters, and, whilst sitting beneath the huge chimney in that small dark room, as he watches the preparation for the evening meal, engaged in a joyous game of romps.

Yet such is the case. The gentle William, despite the greatness of his spirit and the waywardness of his disposition, which seems inclined to settle to nothing, is the darling of that home circle, the joy of his brothers and sisters, and, when at home, entering into all their little amusements and pastimes with heart and hand,—nay, their nurse when sick, and even assisting his mother oft-times in her little attentions towards them,—ere he himself, in all "the unyoked humour of his idleness," sallies out to join his youthful associates of the town.

Our readers will, therefore, not be surprised to find that great mind, which in a single line could send a thrill through the soul of his readers, intent upon an infantine game in the "ingle neuk."

The pecuniary difficulties John Shakespeare had hinted at to his son were consequent upon his having maintained a somewhat "more swelling port than his faint means would grant continuance." No man in Stratford was better thought of or more respected than neighbour Shakespeare. There was something about him so well bred and so superior to his station in life, that he bore with him a degree of influence seldom granted except to rank and fortune.

The chief magistrate of the body corporate of Stratford was in the early charters called the high bailiff. This office Master John Shakespeare had filled some few years previous to the date of our story, and the execution of such office had led him into expenses which he had since in vain tried to abridge. "To some men, their virtues stand them but as enemies," and thus the good and companionable qualities of Master Shakespeare, notwithstanding his domestic habits, were so greatly esteemed that his hospitality was taxed accordingly, and his hearth seldom unhonoured by guests after business hours. Nay, at no hour was the little back parlour of his house entirely free from the gossiping neighbour who came down to talk over the politics of the town, or discuss the latest floating rumour of the stirring events of Elizabeth's reign.

Newspaper intelligence, we have said, there was none at this period, and, in the absence of such a vehicle for information, men's mouths were filled with any stirring tidings, and they donned their castors and hurried about in a country town, stuffing each other's ears with false reports, and frightening the place from its propriety when any event of particular import happened.

"From Rumour's tonguesThey brought smooth comforts false, worse than true wrongs."

"Heard ye the news, neighbour Shakespeare?" said Master Doubletongue the mercer, entering the small parlour we have attempted to describe, and joining the family circle. "Heard ye the news to-night?"

"Good or bad be it?" said John Shakespeare smiling, "it would have been curious news an it had travelled hither before you brought it, neighbour Doubletongue. Come, sit, man, sit, fill your cup and give us your news. What! hath Dame Illwill been brought to bed of twins, or how goes the story?"

"Nay, neighbour," returned Doubletongue, who was one of the veriest scandal-mongers in Stratford, "Dame Illwill hath not produced twins, neither do I think she will produce the half of twins. By the same token, I heard the Leech say, 'twas after all but a dropsy that had caused all this scandal in her disfavour. But body o'me, heard ye not the news just now brought to town?"

"That Dame Illwill's affair is likely to end in a bottle of smoke? why, man, thou hast just told us as much."

"Ah," said Doubletongue, taking off his cap like one who found he had in him wherewithal to interest his auditor, "then Iseeyou have not heard the news. Ergo, the news is mine to give."

"Then I take it, neighbour," said John Shakespeare, "there are but two ways, either to give or to retain it. Come, another cup will perhaps help its deliverance."

"Nay," said Doubletongue, who but half relished the lack of excitement his intended communication seemed to make, "you will scarce keep the native colour in your cheek, neighbour, when I do tell ye what's afloat to-night. The affair, then, gossips, is thus——"

"Whose affair?" interrupted John Shakespeare, "not the one you just now spoke of?"

"Did I hint anything?" inquired Doubletongue.

"About a certain female you did," said John Shakespeare.

"Of illustrious rank?" said Doubletongue. "Why, then youhaveheard?"

"We have heard what you have just told us," said John Shakespeare.

"The news?"

"The news."

"What! of Queen Elizabeth?"

"Nay, Heaven forbid we should sit to hear such words uttered about our gracious Queen," said John Shakespeare with much solemnity. "'Tis even dangerous to breathe such a scandal in such a quarter."

"Then of whom were we speaking?" said Doubletongue. "I gave no news. I have none to give out concerning our gracious——"

"Of Dame Illwill, I thought you spoke?" said John Shakespeare.

"Dame Illwill," said Doubletongue, contemptuously, "who cares about Dame Illwill? and who, think ye, neighbour, would trouble themselves to stab her?"

"Stab her!" said John Shakespeare, "who talked of stabbing?"

"I do," said Doubletongue; "its my own news, man. It's what I am come to propound, to expound, and to promulgate. Only you will not bear with me. The Queen is stabbed, killed, and murdered; our good and gracious Queen hath been murdered, I say; now, there is my news."

"Heaven forbid!" said John Shakespeare, starting to his feet. "That would bode ill luck to England at this moment. Heard you this report, Master Cramboy?" he continued, addressing another of the townsmen who entered at the moment.

"Which report, and whence derived, neighbour?" said Cramboy (who was master of the free-school at Stratford); "for there be many rumours just now come into town; the difficulty is to get the true one."

"That relating to the death of the Queen by the hand of an assassin," returned John Shakespeare, "and just now given us by neighbour Doubletongue here."

"Where gott'st thouthatnews, goodman Doubletongue?" said the schoolmaster, with considerable asperity in his manner, "and how came you to take upon yourself to promulgate, disseminate, and divulge such a fable?"

"Nay," said Doubletongue, who stood somewhat in awe of the pedant, "I know no harm in relating what I have just heard from neighbour Suddle of our town."

"Out upon the barbarmonger," said Cramboy, "He is ever inventing one lie or other; I advise thee to shut thy ears against all his monstrous conceptions, and thy door against his visits. Know'st thou not, simple mercer as thou art, that to imagine the Queen's death is treasonable as to attempther life. Ergo, thou hast committed, or rather aided in spreading the contagion of matter containing treason, and artparticeps criminiswith that lying knave Suddle, who goeth about seeking whom he may deceive."

"Nay," said Doubletongue, "if such be the case, I will myself go about to retrace my steps, and gainsay all I have said."

"'Twere best you did so," said Cramboy, "with the addition, Master Doubletongue, that for the future the good folks are never to believe any rumours either you or Suddle may bring them. And harkee, neighbour, when you are asked the real state of the case, you can tell your friends that it is not the Queen who has been stabbed, but the Prince of Orange. For that is the actual verity."

"Body o'me, but that is it, then, is it?" said Doubletongue: "well then, there has been a royal personage murdered, after all. Grant that, my veracity; grant that, and God be praised, therefore, I am not then altogether a liar. But stay, an I obey your first injunctions, good Master Cramboy, who will believe this second report at my hands? I shall scarce be credited, methinks."

"So much the better, neighbour," said Cramboy; "the less men credit in these days of trouble, always excepting holy writ, and the more they keep to their own affairs, the better for them. And therefore gonotaboutat all; but sit ye down and fill your tankard, whilst I expound what really hath happened."

"One way or other, we shall at last learn the rights of this matter," said John Shakespeare, laughing; "you said but now, Master Cramboy, that the Prince of Orange hath been murdered?"

"At Delft, by the hands of a misguided fanatic, such is the awful story, John Shakespeare. For what saith the book? 'Villany that is vigilant will be an overmatch for virtue, if she slumbereth.' One Balthazar Gerard, a Burgundian, it seems has long entertained this design against the Prince of Orange, and, in order to destroy that famous restorer of religious liberty, has, at the same time, sacrificed his own life. On my word," continued the pedant, "these Jesuits are fearful fellows, and will murder us all in the end. Nay, it is affirmed the Spanish arms are making rapid progress in the Netherlands, and that Antwerp is ta'en. Truly, the Prince of Parma carries all before him in those parts. Nay, 'tis further said the States are reduced to such extremity, that they have sent an ambassador to London to offer to acknowledge our blessed Queen for their sovereign, providing always she will grant them her protection and assistance."

"And there it is," said Master Doubletongue, "there hath not been so bloody a wild beast seen ravening, burning, and destroying us poor Protestants, as that terrible Spaniard Philip since the world began. Heaven keep us from his hot pincers, his thumb-screws, his iron boots, his hostile intrigues, and cruel enterprises!"

"Amen, neighbour, say I," returned Master Cramboy, "though I marvel much you will allow your tongue so much liberty, neighbour, seeing that, as I firmly believe, Philip of Spain hath a paid spy and intelligencer in every town of the kingdom. Nay, his wicked designs are said to be fully directed against England at this moment."

"I trust no paid spy is to be found within my house, neighbour Cramboy," said John Shakespeare, laughing, "so that my worthy friend Doubletongue is quite at liberty to rail upon the Spaniard to his heart's content here."

"I meant nothing but in the way of caution to our good neighbour," said the pedant, "and whose tongue would be much the better for an occasional bridle, whilst the unrighteous are in sight. By the same token there are at this moment some half-dozen strangers staying at the hostel of the Checquers, whom none of us can fathom. Master Mumble, the headborough, talks of paying them a visit, and putting them to their purgation. Truly, we are in a dangerous condition, neighbour, and it behoves every one to look well to the main chance."

"I think with you," said John Shakespeare, "that our prospects seem not so fair as hitherto they have seemed. There is no question but that Philip of Spain, with all the power of his united empire, will fall upon England anon. His sole aim is the entire subjection of the Protestants. But come, since your news hath driven off my wife and all her children, let us even walk down to the Falcon and discuss these matters further. 'Tis now eight o'clock, and I dare be sworn the Dolphin parlour is well filled with guests. Heaven keep our blessed Queen in its own safety, for an these paid spies and jesuitical villains should hit her life, I fear me we shall be devoured by the wolf of Spain."

So saying, Master Shakespeare rose, and accompanied by his son and two fellow-townsmen, took their hats and sallied forth.

During the foregoing discussion so many bumpers had been tossed off by the two newsmongers, that Master Doubletongue was becoming a trifle double-sighted, whilst the pedant, who was sufficiently domineering over his neighbours on most occasions, was now rendered doubly important and overbearing.

"Methinks, Will," whispered the elder Shakespeare to his son, "you had better give Master Doubletongue the aid of your guidance, lest he measure his length in the gutter. He seems somewhat flustered, and inclined to quarrel with the road for not being of sufficient width."

"Thank ye, good William, thank ye," said the mercer, as he availed himself of the youth's assistance, "the causeway seems progressive to-night, the stones wherewith it is paved, ever and anon, do rise up to salute my nostrils, and there they come again."

"Now that's what I call a circumstance," said Cramboy, "neighbour Doubletongue has been fuddled every night before curfew, for the last twenty years of his life, and has not yet learnt to carry his liquor seemly. An the watch pass us they will be scandalized at his condition, and take us all up for being drunk at unseasonable hours in the streets. I pr'ythee, good William, convey him to his own door, and deposit him in safety there."

When the pair reached the Falcon, they found a goodly assemblage in the "Dolphin" parlour of that hostel. This apartment was appropriated to a certain clique of jolly companions in the town, who often met together after business hours,—a sapient and most self-important fraternity, which in our own times would have been designated a sort of club. They were indifferently ignorant upon all subjects unconnected with their respective trades and callings, and according to their ignorance was their importance and self-conceit.

Matters connected with their own town and county it was their especial privilege, they thought, to discuss, but affairs in general, and the politics of the world, were also brought under consideration. Their oracle, or as we should at present term him, president, was one Master Michael Teazle, the clothier, who, in his wisdom and his care, sought in his various harangues to "dress the threadbare state of the commonwealth and turn it, and set a new nap upon it,"—generally concluding, like Cade, that the Queen's council were no good workmen, and that he himself, being a working-man, could best understand the management of the State.

This man was, in fact, a somewhat extraordinary individual, and in possession of considerable talent; one who, in our own times, would have most likely been either a popular sectarian preacher, or a violent demagogue. But in Elizabeth's day, there being no proper vent for the effusion of such a spirit, he was merely the oracle of his gossiping society of his own town. Too indolent for real and useful work, he neglected his own business to spy into the affairs of his neighbours, and too dissipated for any profitable employment; except that he was kept from utter ruin by an industrious wife, he would, with all his wise saws, have starved.

The piece of news which had in the present instance reached Stratford, had called forth from Master Teazle a considerable harangue upon the state of the country, and the imminent danger Her Majesty's government, her own life, and the safety of themselves individually, were exposed to from the intrigues of the Catholics; and in taking upon him to expound whathadalready been done, he took upon him also to say whatshouldbe done.

"I maintain, my masters all," said he, "that these Jesuits should be pistolled like mad dogs wherever one can light upon them; for look ye, are they not educated, and brought up, and fed, and nourished, in superstition and bigotry? Are they not infused with a bitter hatred against our Queen, whom they treat as an usurper, a schismatic, a heretic, a persecutor of the orthodox, and one excommunicated and made horrible by theridiculousPope." Here he stopped and looked around with great importance. "Nay," he resumed, "look but upon this affair of the Prince of Orange! Sedition, rebellion, and assassination are the expedients by which they effect their purposes."

"For mine own part," said Master Lambe, the glover, "I know not precisely in what consists a Jesuit."

"Why, then, lament therefore," said Teazle, "since not to knowin whatconsists a Jesuit, is not to know the danger to be apprehendedfroma Jesuit."

"Expound unto us, neighbour," said goodman Hyde, the tanner, "what is your version of such a wild beast?"

"Wild beast is a bad term to apply to a Jesuit," said Teazle, "as you will see by the story. To propound what is a Jesuit, we must e'en go back to the order of Jesuits founded at Douay by Philip of Spain; and thus it is:—he erected a seminary for Catholics to send their children to, in order that they might be brought up, and educated with a view to the crown of martyrdom. Neither to be deterred by danger nor fatigue from maintaining their principles. And into the breasts of these pupils is instilled the most inveterate hatred against Protestant England in general, and Stratford town in particular; and to our blessed Queen nothing but poison, steel, and perdition. Ahem!"

"There art thou wrong, brother," said Master Cramboy. "The order of Jesuits was erected when the Pope perceived that his lazy monks and beggarly friars sufficed no longer to defend the Church, and that the unquiet spirit of the age required something more keen, active, and erudite to defend it."

"Well, neighbour, well," said Teazle, (who was generally somewhat in awe of the learning of the pedant), "I sit corrected. Be it, however, as it may, you will bear with me in holding that prevarication, and every stratagem which serves their ghostly purposes, are the especial privileges of the Order."

"Thereafter, as may be," said Cramboy; "we will discuss that point anon. Meanwhile, thou art right, insomuch that the seminary you have mentioned, and which the Cardinal of Lorraine has imitated at Rheims, and the Pope has also followed the example of at Rome, are all under the direction of Jesuits—violent, intolerant, and dangerous. And, therefore, may Heaven bless our glorious Queen, who put that caitiff Campion to the rack so lately, and broke his bones under the very nose of the Duke of Alencon, whilst he was making suit for her hand in marriage."

"A decent hint to him of the sort of martyrdom he might expect in case his suit was a successful one," said John Shakespeare, laughing.

"A grievous martyrdom had all England suffered, an the French duke had prospered," said Teazle.

"'Twere best not to pursue that theme, neighbour," said Master Lambe, "lest we run into dangerous ground, like Charles Arundel Stubbs, of Lincoln's Inn, who wrote a book, and called it 'The Gulph in which England was to be swallowed by the French marriage,' and lost his right hand, as a libeller, for his pains."

"A severe sentence upon a loyal subject," said Cramboy, "for look ye how Stubbs bore his punishment! I was there, and saw him suffer. He took his hat off with his left hand, and waving it over his head, cried, 'God save good Queen Elizabeth!' Methinks the right hand of such a man would have been better unlopped. It might have done good service hereafter."

"Go to, my masters, 'enough said is soonest mended,' as the old saw goes. An I were the Queen, after what has happened, I would take Spain by the beard," said Teazle; "for look ye, my masters all, how that king of red-hot ploughshares and burning pincers groweth more powerful daily. Already hath he made himself lord of Portugal, and gained settlements in the Indies; not only arrogating to himself the commerce of those regions, but all the princes of Italy, and even the Pope of Rome, are reduced to subjection beneath his sway. Austria and Germany, too, are connected with, and ready to supply him with troops at his beck. See, too, how the bloated toad sitteth upon his throne, swelling and sweltering in wealth as well as bigotry; with all the treasures of the Western Ind in his diadem."

"O' my word, neighbour," said Master Lambe, "an such be the case I should be chary, an I were the Queen, of chasing such a swollen reptile, lest he spit poison upon me, and burnt me up with the breath of his powerful nostrils; methinks, an I were Her Majesty, I should be careful how I gave my crown to the chance of battle with such an enemy."

"Go to, neighbour," returned Teazle, "thou lookest but along thy nose, and no farther. See'st thou not that whatmustcomewillcome; andwillcome, may come when mostunwelcome. Now, an I were the Queen, I would take Philip of Spain by the nose at once, ere the Netherlands relapse again into servitude, assailed as they are by those veteran armies employed against them. By my manhood, I say Elizabeth should at once trust to her people, and assault the whole force of the Catholic monarch ere it grow so great that it will swallow up the world. Nay, an I were appointed general-in-chief, I would conduct an army over to Holland, and deliver the country from the danger at once."

"Perhaps, neighbour," said John Shakespeare, "you have heard a rumour that some such measure has in truth been thought of. A power of dauntless spirits are, it is said, at this moment assembling under the Earl of Leicester."

"A fico for the Earl of Leicester," said Teazle; "pr'ythee what sort of a soldier is he to oppose against the experienced captains and sturdy infantry of Spain? Now, an I had been called to name the man fit for such command I should have named——"

"Thyself," said Cramboy. "Ah, ah! a very pretty piece of soldiership we should have in thee."

"Thou hast said it, not I, neighbour," returned Teazle. "But, an I had said myself, I had at least named one quite as equal to the emergency of the case as the man of rings and carcanets, of broaches and feathers, thou hast just named."

"Methinks 'twere wise not to pursue such comparison further," said Master Lambe; "'twere best for those to speak civily of the bear who are such near neighbours to his hold, lest the ragged staff reach our coxcombs."

"What gentlemen of note are engaged in this expedition?" inquired Cramboy.

"I hear," said John Shakespeare, "that he carries with him a glorious retinue, being accompanied by the young Earl of Essex, Lords Audley and North, Sir William Russell, Sir Thomas Shirly, Sir Arthur Basset, Sir Walter Waller, and Sir Gervase Clifton, added to which five hundred gentlemen ride in his select troop."

"Still do I maintain," said Teazle, "that the selection of my Lord of Leicester is not a good one; he possesses neither courage nor capacity equal to the task, and were I in presence of the Queen, with the Earl leaning at the back of her chair, I would say the same."

"And how would you speak of those in commission with him?" inquired Cramboy, "To begin with Essex, what think you of him?"

"As of one better to be led than to lead. Essex is a brave boy doubtless, and a clever, but then he is rash, headstrong, and unweighing. Curb him never so little and he flings up in your teeth. Give him his head and he knocks out his own brains."

"What of Lords Audley and North?"

"Put into the scale against the other one and their weight will about weigh against his lightness. Ergo, the three together are as naught."

"And how say ye to Sir William Russell?"

"But so so. Marry a good blade and a stout man, a proper fellow of his hands. But for brains the accompt is very minute indeed."

"How of Sir Arthur Basset?"

"As of one fitter to feat in a couranto, at court, than trail a pike in the Low Countries."

"Nay, then, 'tis vain to say more," said Cramboy, "since of the whole five hundred in my Lord of Leicester's troops I dare be sworn, in thy opinion, there is not one fit to wield a rapier or poise a caliver."

"Thou hast again said it, neighbour, and not I," returned Teazle. "Though in sooth, an I had, I had not been far out."

"'Tis well then," said Cramboy, "that in maritime affairs a better selection hath been made. Heard ye, my masters all, that Sir Francis Drake hath been appointed Admiral, with a fleet of twenty sail and two thousand three hundred volunteers, besides seamen to serve in it? They have already sailed for the West Indies against the Spaniards. How like ye that piece of news?"

"That likes me somewhat better," said Teazle, "and I can venture to predict some good to accrue therefrom. Drake is the man to make the settlements smoke for it. He will burn, sack, and destroy all along the Spanish main, whilst the other will but make a sort of harnessed masque through the Low Countries. Such is my poor opinion, and time will prove in how much it is correct. So fill a cup to Sir Francis Drake, another for our gracious Queen, and one more for Stratford town. Huzza! huzza! huzza!"

After this loyal outbreak there was a short pause. This was at last broken by neighbour Dismal, who (albeit he drank his quantum at these meetings) seldom spoke much, and when he did so generally threw a gloom over the whole assemblage. He always had, however, hisone say, which was a sort of concentration of the worst piece of news he could collect for the nonce. And as he was a man of undoubted veracity, unless he was pretty well assured of the truth of what he uttered, he never uttered it at all.

This usually gave hisone wisdoma most startling air of gloom and horror, and when he rose to speak, or even coughed his preliminary ahem, he was honoured by the most startling silence. On the present occasion he prepared to broach the subject matter with peculiar solemnity, actually rising from his seat, and, as he steadied himself with both hands upon the table, delivering himself, somewhat after the following lively fashion.

"Neighbours all," he said, "I have listened to the discussion of the foregoing matter with considerable interest. Our good neighbour, Teazle, hath handled the subject of the proposed expedition in very able style. He hath been replied to quite as cleverly by my learned and worthy Fellow-townsman, Cramboy. Such discussions are, however, at the present moment, methinks, better left to those whom they most concern, inasmuch as subjects of nearer interest toourselves, it doth appear to me, more nearly concernourselves. Neighbours, I know I have been accused of being a kill joy, a melancholy man. Some call me Goodman Death: and the little boys hoot at me, as I walk at night, and say, 'There goeth Goodman Bones.' Nevertheless, I have been merry twice or once ere now. I was merry on the day I married Mistress Dismal, and I was merry the day I buried her. I was also merry when my father died, and left me in possession of his business. But I cannot say I am merry just at this time. Neighbours and jovial friends, I will conclude my speech briefly and heartily. By the same token, I wish you all your healths, and, at the same time, hope we may some of us meet here again next weekwellandhappy. How far we are likely to do so is another matter, and of that you will be better able to judge when I tell you that The Plague is in Stratford-upon-Avon at the present moment!"

After young Shakespeare had safely deposited Goodman Doubletongue at his own door, and left him in charge of the good housewife, he turned his steps towards the Falcon, with the intent of rejoining his father there, and hearing the news of the town; for the son and sire were upon the delightful terms we sometimes, though not often, may observe between parent and child.

In both the elements of high character were so mixed that there could be no drawback to their love: they were more like companions of the same age than father and son. The same tastes, the same pursuits, the same high spirit and honourable feelings pervaded both.

Certes, the mind of one was of a far more extraordinary character than that of the other, but that in no degree lessened the feeling of respect and love young Shakespeare felt for his father, and that father's example and influence helped to form the man.

Always the creature of impulse, the youth, after conveying Master Doubletongue home, as he neared the Falcon, suddenly resolved to turn his steps in another direction; and, in place of listening, in the hot sanded parlour of the hostel, to the discussions of the Stratford wise-acres, whilst he felt the influence of the balmy breeze of night upon his cheek, he passed the hostel and strolled towards the outskirts of the town. He felt indeed that the hour was more fitted for communion with his own thoughts than listening to the ridiculous dogmas and politics of the goodly fellowship of the Falcon.

Since his visit to Clopton a new scene had opened to him, and his feelings had become somewhat changed. He had beheld, nay, become intimately acquainted with a being of a superior order to any he had yet met with, and in the lovely and amiable Charlotte Clopton he had found that perfect specimen of female excellence which his imagination had, even at this early period of his life, loved to picture. Nay, perhaps, had he not in youth thus beheld some such bright excellence—some such reality of his conceptions—we might have wanted those delineations of grace and purity, those fairest flowers of perfect excellence—the Viola, Miranda, Desdemona, Juliet, and the sweetest Imogene of his maturer years.

To see and to feel the influence of companionship even for a couple of days with the fair Charlotte, so soft in manner, so fair in form and feature, so anxious to express her feelings of gratitude for service rendered, and not to love her, was impossible. And during his visit the bright face of the young lad might have been observed beaming with admiration and affectionate regard upon Charlotte as she sang and accompanied herself upon the spinnet, and which, had it been noticed by her betrothed, might have perhaps caused some sparks of jealousy and uneasiness.

It was lucky, however, in young Shakespeare's case, that the great mind of the youth came to his aid in this situation, and whilst in company with her of whom even a previous glance had called forth his admiration. During his visit he had also comprehended the politics of the family he was introduced amongst. He beheld the thorough gentleman, the confiding honourable old cavalier, the knightsans peur et sans reproche, in Sir Hugh Clopton. He saw the youthful esquire, the lusty bachelor, the free open-hearted, brave, and devoted servant, the lover, whose whole soul and every thought were upon his fair mistress, in Walter Arderne; whilst in that cunningest pattern of excelling nature, the lovely Charlotte, he saw one far removed from his own sphere of life. So much so, indeed, that "it were all one, that he should love some bright particular star," "and think to wed it," she was so much above him. So thought the modest youth. And yet again it was easy for him also to observe that the strong affection of the lady's suitor was unrequited, and his feelings unreturned, save by those of esteem and friendship. Under these circumstances, we say, the strong sense of the youth came to his aid, and, if it did not hinder him from falling desperately in love, it somewhat curbed his feelings, and hindered him from discovering them to the object of his admiration. He felt the barb of the arrow rankle in his heart; but his pride and proper feeling helped him to subdue, and conceal the smart. So true it is that—

"As in the sweetest budThe eating canker dwells, so eating loveInhabits in the finest wits of all."

We fear it must be acknowledged that the youthful poet, at this period of his life, was of a most untamed and wandering disposition; that his life and his employments were rather desultory; and that when once his steps turned towards the wild scenery which so abounded around his native town, all was forgotten of home duties, and engagements pertaining thereto.

This must, however, be excused in one whose mind was of so extraordinary a character.

Amongst other haunts which young Shakespeare loved to frequent at times, and even when the shadows of night gave a more solemn feeling to its precincts, was the churchyard of his native town. And perhaps those who have lingered, and looked upon that sweet scene during night's silent reign, whilst the moon has silvered the tops of the surrounding trees, and the waters of the Avon mirrored the beautiful structure on its banks, will better understand the feelings of young Shakespeare in such a place. Things more than mortal seem to steal upon the heart, and thoughts of early and shadowy recollection to haunt the mind.

Let those who have not visited this locality at "the witching hour," take a stroll into the ancient churchyard of Stratford. Let them feel the influence of the man everywhere around them, and imagine him at such a time. Let them look up at those demoniac heads which the cunning architects of the Norman period have carved on every coigne of vantage, together with the shadowy grandeur of the walls and buttresses.

Let them glance over the verdant mounds and the mossy tombstones of the silent tenants around, and then ask themselves what were the thoughts engendered in such locality? Have they not some dark and shadowy conceptions of Elsineur? Doth not the postern of the old churchyard wall open to admit the Monkish procession for the obsequies of the fair Ophelia, with all the pomp and circumstance of the times? Do they not see before them the whole scene, and hear the words of the distracted Laertes as he stands beside the open grave of his sister:—

"Lay her i' the earth,And from her fair and unpolluted fleshMay violets spring! I tell thee, churlish priest,A minist'ring angel shall my sister be,When thou liest howling."

Or, in that moonlight scene of beauty, and whilst the reverential awe it engenders steals upon the heart, doth not some remembrance of Juliet's tomb, the hour, and the deeds therein performed, float over the mind, and the words of him who sleeps so near recur?

Those, we say, who can feel this impression, can best imagine the influence the hour, and the hallowed spot, had upon the youthful mind of him who in after-life was to draw upon such feelings in order to produce the scenes we have mentioned. At the present time, and whilst young Shakespeare took his way through the churchyard, the feeling of awe which is sure to pervade the mind, more or less, in such a place, was peculiarly impressed upon him. It seemed a presentiment of some evil to come, which he could not shake off. He stopped and gazed around, and a chaos of wild thoughts and imaginings coursed one another through his brain as he did so. Within that sacred pile the knightly and the noble, the soldier of the cross, the fierce Norman, and the proud Churchman were entombed,—"hearsed in death,"—the very men who had lived in the days he was so fond of dwelling on; those fierce times of contention and civil butchery.

The associations connected with such a scene are indeed peculiar; the beings of a former age in all the panoply of war re-appear, and (as we gaze upon the architectural beauty of the holy edifices they have left behind them) we love to imagine their steel-clad forms,—their deep devotion; whilst remembrance of their heroic acts in the field is mixed up with the superstition and feelings of their day.

Whilst the youthful Shakespeare gazed upon the mounds, and the mossy tombstones, and the soft flowing river; as he listened to the dreary whisper of the breeze through the trees, a feeling of awe crept over him, and his imagination reverted to the world of spirits—

"When churchyards yawned and graves stood tenantless."

The living stood alone amongst the dead. Slowly he took his way, that extraordinary youth: his thoughts and conceptions seemed a wonder to himself; at one moment he gazed upwards at the o'erhanging firmament, "that majestical roof, fretted with golden fire;" then he stood upon the margin of the flowing river, and watched its waves, as they passed onwards and were lost in the distance, like the hours passing into eternity, and mingling with those before the flood.What were those thoughtsat that hour and period of his life? who could write them, or could he himself have described them?We think not—perhaps he may have himself given us something nearly akin. He mayhavethen thought with his own Prospero—

"The cloud capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,The solemn temples, the great globe itself,Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;And like this unsubstantial pageant faded,Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuffAs dreams are made of, and our little lifeIs rounded with a sleep."

Man holds strange communion with himself in such a sanctuary. "The present horror of the time suits with it." There is even a sort of fascination to the spot, and a longing, a yearning after something supernatural. Even the hoot of the owl, or the cloistered flight of the bat, hath a charm in character.

Such, perhaps, were the thoughts of this youth, for he lingered long in the churchyard wrapt in his own imaginings. At length, as he heard an approaching footstep along the path, he slowly turned from the sacred edifice, leaped the wall, and sought the woods of Charlecote.

As young Shakespeare left the churchyard, the person whose approach had interrupted his meditations slowly walked up to the porch of the church.

As the new comer turned, on reaching the porch, the clock from the tower sounded the first hour after midnight; a deep and clanking note which swam over the adjoining fields and was lost in fainter replications. "'Tis the hour," said he, "and now for the man."

The midnight visitor was apparently a tall figure, wearing the long riding cloak of the period, and which completely enveloped his form, whilst his broad-brimmed hat, and the sable plumes with which it was ornamented, as effectually shadowed his features.

"'Tis the hour," he said, as the iron tongue sounded from the tower. "And now for this unsafe partisan." A low whistle (as if from some person lying perdue without the wall of the churchyard) was almost immediately heard, and in a few minutes another footstep was also to be distinguished as if from the town.

The figure in the cloak immediately advanced towards the approaching sounds, and as he did so he freed his right arm from his cloak, and, pulling it more completely over the left shoulder, felt that his rapier was easy in the sheath, that his other weapons were free to his hand, and also that the dagger in his girdle was handy to his grasp.

Readiness in the use of the various weapons (at that time a part of the costume of a completely dressed cavalier) was one of the accomplishments of a gentleman, and the steps and bearing of the person we have described (although but partially distinguishable in the shade of the tall trees of the churchyard) proclaimed that he was a person of some condition.

He walked slowly and deliberately down the path towards the gate, so that by the time he had traversed half its length, the swinging sound of its opening and closing proclaimed that the person advancing had passed into the churchyard. The moon at this moment had become hidden behind one of the dark clouds which seemed to threaten a coming storm, so that (in the deepened gloom of the avenue) the tall cavalier (although the closing gate and approaching footsteps proclaimed the proximity of the new comer) could not at the moment distinguish him.

There seemed no desire for concealment on the part of either, as they walked boldly past each other. Only a close observer might have observed in the motions of each considerable caution and distrust. The hand closed over the hilt of the half-drawn dagger, and each gave the other what sailors term a wide berth in passing.

The gloom of the place, at this moment indeed, completely hindered the features of either party from being distinguished even in passing; nevertheless, as they moved by, each stared the other in the face with a sharp and piercing eye, and after having passed a few paces, both simultaneously wheeled round and retraced their steps. As they did so, the first comer repeated in a low tone a single word, as if to himself, which was immediately answered by the other, and both turned; a sign then passed between them; some mysterious signal, perhaps, like the words they had uttered, only known to the parties themselves.

"Gilbert Charnock!" said the first comer. "Is't not he?"

"The same," returned the other; "and dost not thou answer to-night to the name of Gifford?"

"Right," said the first; "you have come at the hour named."

"I am sworn to do so," replied Charnock.

"And are you armed to do as sworn to do?" inquired Gifford.

"I am, if on trial the object of our meeting here is found to be dangerous to the cause."

"He has been found so," said Gifford.

"And yet our friend. One joined heart and hand in that cause. And yet to die by our hands."

"Either he or ourselves, besides others implicated in the plot: nay, the cause itself demands the sacrifice."

"And he will be here to meet us?" inquired Charnock.

"He has sworn it."

"Which of us is to deal with him?"

"Why this question? The lot was drawn by you."

"Enough: and he is even now in concealment at Sir Hugh Clopton's. Is't not so?"

"So far I traced him by the mad acts he hath committed since leaving France, and by which conduct our faction is placed in jeopardy."

"But come; it still wants several minutes of the appointed time. Walk aside here, and I will tell you in how much the man is unfortunate in his position. You know the circumstance of his coming amongst us, and how he undertook to be the instrument, the steel, the dagger, as it were, by which our arch enemy was to be reached."

"I do, and how he refused to share the glory of the enterprise with others, and resolving to take the whole upon himself, suddenly and secretly set off, without further circumstance."

"There shone out the dangerous madness of the man," returned the other, "and by-and-by comes a reaction, by which we are all endangered, as thus: it appears that on his arrival in England this Parry was as suddenly seized with scruples, and under influence thereof he goes about to certain gentlemen, to advise with them as to the propriety of his undertaking this pious act. Luckily, it seems, he hath, as yet, consulted with men who are deemed at least safe, or we ourselves had scarce been here to-night. By some he was told that the enterprise was criminal and impious; whilst others, again, applauded it. Nay, even Ragazoni, the Nuncio, and the Pope himself (to whom he wrote a letter), desired him to persist in his resolution."

"Methinks that such authority might have satisfied his scruples."

"Not a whit as you shall hear; for so deeply did the fiend palter with him in favour of the heretic Elizabeth, that even when he had opportunity twice, thrice, nay, a dozen times repeated, he could not strike the blow."

"The evil one surely mounts guard over that iron-hearted woman," said Gifford, "or she could never have escaped the many designs set on foot to cut her off."

"One would think it," returned Charnock, "and in the instance I am speaking of, she seems to have been specially guarded by some familiar; inasmuch as although Parry, albeit he managed matters so well that he gained an introduction and a private audience of the Queen, no sooner did he find himself in the presence, than his scruples returned with so much force, that he commenced an exhortation in place of driving his dagger to her heart; and after praying of her to tender her life, and grant us Catholics more indulgence in the exercise of our religion, he actually informed her there were numerous conspiracies at that moment formed against her."

"And how escaped he being apprehended and examined?" inquired Gifford.

"Ah, there consists the marvel," returned Charnock; "but it seems the Queen looked upon him as a harmless maniac, and took little account of what he uttered. She trusted for safety to God and to her people's love, she said, and so dismissed him."

"Indeed," continued Charnock, "it seems then, that the interview for the time completely prostrated all Parry's energies; and lest he should be tempted, as he owned, by the opportunities he found of approaching her ere his words could have effect, he always came to court unprovided with any offensive weapon."

"And then he afterwards relapsed into his former violence; was't not so?"

"It was. He returned to France, saw the Nuncio and Ragazoni, became again confirmed in his first intent, and has again recrossed to England, where his madness and his extravagant conduct are likely to compromise all his friends. Nay, an he is not speedily silenced, we shall assuredly perish by the gibbet."

During the foregoing conversation of the conspirators, thus met in the seclusion of the churchyard of Stratford, (a trysting place they had fixed on as more likely than any other to be unmolested by the prying eyes and ears of the curious,) they had slowly traversed round the sacred edifice; and now, as the taller stranger finished his discourse, they arrived at the north porch, and stood concealed in its shadow.

"We seek an edifice dedicated to the service of religion for a strange and awful purpose," said Gifford, as he gazed along the footpath leading from the church.

"Since it is to serve the purposes of the true religion," said Charnock, "let us trust to the greatness of the cause to sanctify our doings. Hast thou any scruples?"

"None," said Gifford. "But time passes. How, if our man fail?"

"That would bode us ill," said Charnock; "though I think it unlikely that he will do so. Between the hours of one and two was the time I appointed him to be here, and he swore to me that he would not fail."

"And how didst thou get opportunity of speech with him?" inquired Gifford.

"By following him to Clopton soon after his arrival; where I gained an interview, and bade him hither in the name of our leader. Hark, the signal; 'tis he!" and the two conspirators advanced along the path, whilst at the same time footsteps were heard.

The arrival of strangers to take up their abode for any length of time in such a town as Stratford-upon-Avon, always furnished matter of curiosity and speculation amongst the inhabitants. The neighbours were known to each other so well, and there was comparatively so little travel, that a certain degree of suspicion attached to all new-comers in those dangerous days. When any of the townsmen had business, even a few miles off, it was usual for them to arrange matters go that two or three might travel in company. Neighbour Fustian, the hosier, having business in Warwick, agreed to travel the road in company with neighbour Lambe, the glover, whose trade made him a visitor to Coventry, whilst the latter stayed the convenience of mine host of the Falcon, who was, peradventure, bound for the latter town, and all three, mounted and armed, went and returned in company, rather than trust purse and person singly to the chances of the road.

Robbing on the highway, although by no means so common as in the preceding reign, was still frequent. The woods were thick in this part of Warwickshire, and the gentlemen of the shade found it easy to elude pursuit after a highway robbery. Nay, but a few short years before, and during the York and Lancaster feuds, which had deluged the land with blood; what with disbanded men-at-arms, thieves, and caitiffs of one sort or other, the roads were but cut-throat defiles, and the country round a continued battle-field.

So that during the troublous reign of Henry VI. it had been especially ordered, that between the towns of Coventry, Warwick, and Stratford-upon-Avon, the highways should be widened, by cutting down trees on either hand, in order that travellers and wayfarers might have more room to defend themselves against the numerous robbers and caitiffs infesting those parts.

On the morning following the transactions we have recorded in the foregoing chapter, there were several subjects of interest commented upon and discussed in the little back room which constituted the office of one Pouncet Grasp, the head-lawyer of the town. One was the sojourn of several strangers, whom no one knew anything about, at one of the hostels: another was a dark and alarming rumour of a suspicious sort of illness having broken out in the suburbs: and another was the circumstance of a man, having all the appearance of a person of condition, having been found, stabbed in several places, and lying, with the pockets of his doublet rifled, a stiffened and unhandsome corse, in the road leading to the ferry beyond the church.

Master Pouncet Grasp himself was seated upon a high stool near the window of his office, which looked into a green and bowery garden, having at its further extremity a most pleasant bowling-green; the river just to be distinguished in the distance beyond, amongst the marshy meadows.

Some two or three clerks were seated in different parts of the apartment, all busily engaged, pen in hand, scrawling strange hieroglyphics upon certain sheets of parchment before them, making a dreadful sound of incessant scribbling with their pens.

Master Grasp himself, the monarch of all he surveyed, and an especial tyrant over the unfortunate clerks he presided over, was the only personage in that small apartment who seemed to have freedom of thought and motion, and license to take his attention from the crackling parchments beneath his nose.

If our readers have ever taken the trouble to picture to themselves the clerk of Chatham, with his pen and ink-horn hung round his neck, they will have some idea of the figure of our Stratford lawyer in his own office. Only that, whereas we imagine the clerk of Chatham to have been a sort of dreamy, drawling person, Master Pouncet was rather more swift, sententious, and mercurial. Law had sharpened his wit, irritated his temper, levelled his honesty, and urged his avarice.

Any one to have watched him when alone in his glory, and only seen by his clerks, would have taken him to be half insane. The moment, however, a client or a stranger appeared, he put on a new face and a demeanour suited to the occasion; appearing wise in council, amiable in disposition, and staid and sober in manners, whereas before he had been like a chattering ape irritated with a hot chestnut.

"Now do I wonder who these strangers may be," he said, leaving off his writing and jumping round in his seat; "truly I must run down to goodman Doubletongue and confer with him on the subject. Will Shakespeare," he said, jumping back again, "get thee down to——Ah, I forgot that pestilent Shakespeare hath not been to the office for a whole week. Ah, the caitiff! Oh, the villain! See, too," he said, opening his desk and searching amongst his papers, "the vile rubbish he inditeth when he is here in place of copying what is set before him. What! you grin there, do ye? driving wights that ye are. Grin, my masters,whilst ye work, an ye list. But, an yeleave offto grin, see an I brain ye not with this ruler. Shakespeare—ah, a pretty name that, and a precious hounding scamp is the fellow that owns it. Here's goodly stuff toward! Here's loves of the gods and goddesses for you! Here's Venus, Adonis, Cytherea, hid in the rushes; Proserpina and Pluto, besides half a dozen heathen deities, devils, satyrs, and demigods, all dancing the hays in a lump!" So saying, Pouncet Grasp turned over the leaves of a sort of manuscript poem, written upon a quantity of backs of letters and dirty sheets of paper, and, after glancing through the contents, sent them fluttering and flying at the head of one of his clerks.

"There," said he, "that's the way my ink is spoiled, and my documents destroyed. I suppose now, that your friend and crony there," he continued, addressing himself to the young man at whose head he had thrown the manuscript, "I suppose your unintelligible friend calls that incomprehensible and unaccountable rubbish a sort of rough draught of a poem. I'm not learned in such productions, but methinks he that wrote of such lewd doings ought to be whipped at the cart's tail, or put in the stocks at least."

"I was not aware," said the youth addressed, (and who under cover of his industry had been laughing all the time Master Grasp was reading the poem), "I was not aware William Shakespeare has ever written a poem about the gods."

"Si-lence," cried Grasp, sticking his pen behind his ear and looking fierce, as he wheeled round and faced about, first to one and then to another of his clerks. "Si-lence, ye scoundrel scribblers, or by the Lord Harry——"

The clerk, who knew from experience the irritable nature of his taskmaster, took the hint and redoubled his exertions with the pen and parchment before him, only occasionally, as he stole a furtive glance at his companions and observed the lawyer's attention in another direction, lolling out his tongue or executing a hideous grimace at him.

"I pr'ythee, sirs, inform me," said Grasp, again interrupting the silence he had commanded, "when was that mad-headed ape last in this office?"

"Of whom was it your pleasure to speak?" inquired the youth who had received the compliment of the poem at his head.

"Of whom should I speak, sinner that I am, but of him of whom Ilast spoke—that incomprehensible, uncontrollable varlet—that scribbler of bad verse—that idle companion of thine?"

"He was here but yesterday," said the lad.

"Yesterday!" said Grasp, "why Isawhim not; Iheardhim not; neither did he indite a line of that I left for him to work at."

"He was fetched away almost as soon as he came," said the lad.

"Fetched away! who should fetch William Shakespeare away I trow, and from my house, without leave, licence, and permission grantedfromandbyme to take the person of the said Shakespeare?"

"Master Walter Arderne, from the Hall, called for him, and they went away together," said the lad.

"Master Arderne, an called for one of my lads here! why what's in the wind now I trow, and why sent ye not to the Falcon for me, ye sinner?"

"He asked not for you, sir," returned the lad, "he asked for William Shakespeare."

"Now the fiend take thee for a stupid dolt," said Grasp; "what an if he did ask for William Shakespeare, of course it was me he wished to confer with; only, as he found I was out, he inquired for the first idiot who had sense enough to take his message, and the chance fell upon the greatest scrape-grace and the most consummate ape in the whole lot.

"Miserable sinner that I am! That varlet hath forgotten to deliver the message he received from Master Arderne. Who knoweth the import of such message, so entrusted, and confided, and given, and—and—lost perhaps for ever?——Ah! and——Peradventure Sir Hugh Clopton hath been seized with apoplexy, and I have been sent for to confer about his will, or mayhap Master Arderne hath wished for my advice, anent drawing up the articles of marriage betwixt himself and that most beautified of young ladies his cousin.——Or, peradventure the match may have been broken off, and he may wish for my advice on the let and hindrance thereof. Nay, it is impossible to say in how much I am deteriorated and damaged, both in purse, person, and reputation by the mistakes, misconduct, and mismanagement of that pestilent conglomeration of vices, idleness, and villany—that scurvy companion, that ill favoured——"

"William Shakespeare, I suppose you mean," said that youth himself, who at the moment entered unperceived, and stood smiling at the door whilst he listened to the scurrility of Grasp. "Nay, finish your sentence, and fill up the measure of your abuse, master-mine," said Shakespeare, advancing towards Grasp, who seemed struck all of a heap by his presence. "I have heard it is your pleasure to rail upon me behind my back, and, as I well know I deserve some slight portion of your anger, I am as well content to receive it myself, in place of its being put upon these lads, my fellows."

"Nay, good William," said the lawyer (whose excitement seemed to have vanished in a most unaccountable manner, in the presence of his clerk); "I named you not, I meant you not, I spoke not your name, that I am aware of. At least not at this precise moment. Did I name our good William lads? Did I couple his name—?"

"If you did, I care not," said the youth, "since (as I have before said) I feel myself in some sort deserving of your censure. The law suiteth not my disposition, neither can I give my mind up to its dry study. I wrong thee, Master Grasp, when I attempt to serve thee, and I should use oceans of ink and reams of paper ere I learnt even how to serve a writ properly. It is easier to pretend to be what we are not, than hide what we really are, Master Grasp, and I will be content to be under imputation of those ill names you have given me, provided you add not lawyer to the number; only, in as much as you have favoured me with those terms, we must be content to part. I do notbeat thee, Master Grasp, because thou art weak in body, and somewhat old; but I do warn thee not to couple my name in future, when you speak of me, with those opprobrious epithets you have just used. I am no villain at least, and so farewell for ever, Master Grasp." And Shakespeare turned abruptly and left the office.

"Now that's what I call a circumstance," said the lawyer; "here's a large mouth, here's a goodly gentleman: a stipendiary, a stripling, a mere school-boy, who hath scarce been two months in my office, and to rebel, and take himself off thus. Well, be it so. I am well rid of the rebel, but an I have him not on the hip ere long, my name is not Grasp. And now I forgot to demand of him the message sent to me from Clopton Hall. My boots! my boots!" he called to the serving-wench, "and tell Davey to clap saddle upon Sorrel. Troth I will ride to Clopton, and inquire me of the steward what's amiss there."

When the serving-man brought the lawyer his boots, he announced a client in waiting. "One to advise with your worship," said the man, "upon matters of import, as he saith."

"Ah," said Grasp, "what manner of man, Davey man, and where from,——what's his name too?"

"A would not give his name, but a said he were from Warwick," said Davey.

"From Warwick, Davey? eh? Right, good Davey. I do expect one from Warwick to-day,—I had forgotten as much—and so you showed him into the front chamber?"

"I did, master," said Davey.

"And is all in order in that apartment, Davey?"

"It be so," said Davey.

"Papers, parchments, deeds, and strong boxes, all in their places, Davey?" inquired Grasp.

"Yes, master, like nest-eggs. He! he! he!"

"And you told him I was engaged with another client on business of import,—of immense import,—eh, Davey?"

"Trust I for that!" said Davey.

"Good, then, take him a cup of wine, Davey. Tell him I will see him the moment I am disengaged, and then bring me hither my capon and tankard. And d'ye hear,—after you have done that, mount Sorrel yourself, and ride over to Clopton; make some excuse to introduce yourself into the servants' hall, and just take a look, and observe if there be anything out of the common there. You understand?"

"He! he! hap I do," said Davey, with a knowing wink, as he hurried out to execute his several commissions.

When the important little lawyer condescended to give audience to the particular client his serving-man David had announced, he found himself in company with a tall aristocratic-looking person, dressed in the somewhat faded appointments of a military man of the period: that is to say, he wore the leathern doublet usually covered by the breast-plate and back-piece, the stains upon it showing it had seen much service in the field as well as the table, whilst the scarf and jingling spur still farther denoted the profession of arms.

"Master Algernon Neville!" said the man of parchment, as soon as the striking figure of the visitor saluted his eye on entering the room. "I would your honour had sent in your name. I should hardly have kept you so long in waiting here. Body o' me, I had no idea it was your honourable self."

"Nor much desire so to find it, I dare be sworn, Grasp," said the visitor. "But, sooth to say, I am come to thee again, and upon the same errand as when I last was here."

"Advice, eh?" said Grasp; "truly your honour shall have it,—the best I can give."

"I am bounden to thee, good Grasp," said the visitor, "for thy advice; but there was, as thou knowest, something else I required of thee besides thy advice, good as it doubtless was."

"Moneys?" said Grasp. "Truly I am not likely to forget I did also advance certain moneys,—moneys you required to take you over to Scotland."

"And now, if I require more moneys," said the visitor, "can you accommodate me again?"

"Marry can I," said Grasp; "what sum does your honour require?"

The visitor hesitated. He looked shrewdly at Grasp, and taking the pen from the inkstand marked on a piece of paper several figures.

"I want that," he said, handing the paper to Grasp.

"Mass, a round sum!" said Grasp; "but upon such security as you can give you shall have it, honoured sir. Nay, double an you want it."

"Why, gad a-mercy!" said the visitor, in some surprise, "hast thou been the Virginian voyage since I saw thee last? Rich thou hast always been since I knew thee, but so ready to part with thy moneys I never knew thee before."

"Your honour will pardon me for the simile," said Grasp; "but there are a sort of men who are fortune's favourites, and who like cats ever light upon their legs. Your honour hath surely heard a piece of news which nearly concerns you?"

"I know of no news likely to effect my fortunes," said the visitor, "having but lately arrived in England. Hast thou anything of import to communicate?"

"Body o' me," said Grasp, "why, I concluded youhad heard, or I had communicated it immediately I saw you! Know you not the Earl of Westmoreland is dead!"

"Nay, is this true?" said Neville, starting.

"True as that your honour is his next heir," said Grasp.

"And where died he?" inquired the visitor.

"In Italy, where he hath been long in exile, as thou know'st."

"Ah!" said Neville, "this is somewhat unlucky!"

"Unlucky?" said Grasp. "Heard ye ever the like o' that! What can be unlucky that bodes your honour so much good? You are in fact and in right,de facto et de jure, next heir to the earldom of Westmoreland."

"Would that I had known of this but yesterday!" said Neville, abstractedly; "'twould have spared me from participating in this last business."

"Did your honour observe anything?" said Grasp, staring at his visitor, who seemed wrapped in the thought and cogitations consequent upon the news he had just heard.

"'Tis no matter," he muttered at length to himself, "I will betray them all. Harkee, good Grasp," he continued, after a considerable pause, "'tis quite true, that which thou say'st. I am next heir to the title and estate of Westmoreland. But it follows not, therefore, that I shall succeed to them, as I am in disgrace and under suspicion. Could I indeed do some acceptable service to the Queen, I might recover those estates and honours forfeited by the rebellion of the earl just now deceased."

"That were, indeed, a way to recover," said Grasp; "but does your honour know of any acceptable service that might do yourself honour and her majesty pleasure?"

"I do," said Neville, "and you can aid me in it; but I warn you, it is attended with danger."

"In aiding you I serve the Queen, it seems," said Grasp, "Is't not so?"

"It is so," said Neville.

"Ergo, it is profitable," said Grasp.

"It is so," said Neville.

"Then am I content to encounter the danger," said Grasp, "since I am well aware that titles, honours, and profit are not to be gained without some sort of risk; and now tell us, honoured sir, what is to be done."

"To discover a plot and arrest the traitors," said Neville.

"Ah," said Grasp, with alacrity, "that were indeed a circumstance. An you could find such a matter as a ready-made plot, and light upon a nest of traitors, I should say you were in luck's way, as usual, good Master Neville."

"I can do both, good Grasp," said Neville, "and that not a thousand miles from this town; nay, not a thousand yards from this house."

"Ah, say'st thou," said Grasp, "not a thousand yards from this house? As sure as my name is Grasp, your words point at the strangers who have been for the last two days playing at hide-and-seek at the Checquers. Am I right, good sir?"

"You are," said Neville.

"Now, praise be to my sagacity," said Grasp, "I all along suspected those mysterious men of being evil-doers. There is treason and concealed villany in their very shadows as they glide about. What is the nature of their designs and their intent, good Master Neville? are they emissaries of the Spaniard? or are they——"

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