CHAPTER LXII.

"The owl shrieked, the fatal bellmanWhich gives the sternest good night."

Suddenly, as Grasp glanced upon that will, he became, as it were, transfixed. At the same moment a sort of hubbub seemed to pervade the house. In place of the silence which the sick Earl had commanded there was suddenly heard an opening and shutting of doors—a summons of persons in all haste, and something apparently of dreadful import in agitation.

Grasp, however, heeded it not. He seemed still engrossed with the parchment before him. He held it back at arm's length; he drew it close to his nose; he uttered an exclamation of astonishment, and the word "codicil" escaped, as one of the domestics rushed into tho room to announce that the Earl was dying in fearful agony.

Without heeding the news, Grasp fled from the room, rushed to the stable, mounted his horse, and rode off for Oxford. With the will still in his hand, the excited lawyer dismounted from his steed, and strode into the tavern, where, heeding not the assembled guests, he threw himself into a vacant seat, with the air of one possessed by a demon. And, again, with fearful eye, regarded the instrument he hold in his hand.

"Can such things be?" he said. "Can the dead return to life, or is it the evil one himself who thus palters with my sight and senses?"

The tavern was on this night tolerably well filled with guests. One of them, who was seated opposite to the lawyer, was a person of a most expressive and pleasant style of countenance. His conversation and wit had indeed been setting the whole assemblage, gentle and simple, in roars, during the entire evening—the host and hostess of the tavern being not the least amused.

The advent of Grasp in his perturbed state, his extraordinary grimaces, his abstracted demeanour, and his travel-stained appearance altogether, called forth from this person so many curious remarks, that the laughter which had for the moment been interrupted by his entrance was renewed tenfold at Grasp's expense, till, as on unfixing his gaze from the basilisk he seemed to hold in his hand, he looked round upon the assemblage, and then steadily regarded his tormentor, he beheld himself face to face with the old subject of his former enmity—Master William Shakespeare.

"There is no rest for the wicked," saith the old proverb; and the renewed roar which followed the expression of Grasp's countenance at this sudden recognition, was actually driving him from the room, when Doubletongue, who had followed his friend, suddenly entered, and whispered something in his ear.

"Poisoned say ye?" exclaimed Grasp, starting in surprise; "my Lord of Leicester deceased—dead—defunct, and thus suddenly? Poisoned, say ye? Art sure 'tis the Countess you mean?"

"No, 'tis the Earl himself," said Doubletongue; "and your having been with him just before, together with your sudden departure, hath raised a suspicion among the household that——"

"'Fore heaven, what mean ye?" said Grasp. "They surely suspect not that I had ought to do with the poisoning of my Lord of Leicester? There must have been some dire mistake in the matter. 'Fore heaven, I shall be hanged through this mistake!" and Grasp immediately left the room, bribed the ostler to procure him a fresh horse, and set off with all speed towards Stratford-upon-Avon.

Scarce had he gained a dozen miles when he came up with a couple of riders progressing the same road as himself. Company was ever welcome in those days, and the horsemen gladly acceded to his request to be allowed to ride in their escort.

The habitual caution of the lawyer, however, caused him to cast certain searching glances at his companions as often as the moon's light gave him opportunity of doing so, and ere long he became almost confirmed in the belief that in one of the armed riders he was accompanying he had fallen in with the identical female in male apparel whom he had before been in search of. There was comfort, at all events, in this supposition, and as they emerged from the dark covert of a wood they had been progressing through, he managed to push his horse between them and gain a good look at their features. And here again Grasp apparently beheld that which renewed his former perturbation. The face of the rider he first encountered wore the actual expression of one he had reason to believe had long been dead, and as he turned his startled glance upon the other, he beheld the exact lineaments of Clara de Mowbray. Pale she looked, as if her features were of sculptured alabaster; but as she turned her countenance full upon him, he could not be mistaken in their identity.

Conscience had already made a coward of Grasp—his clear spirit was puddled. The deep sea had apparently cast up the dead to discomfort him, and clapping spars to his steed, he fled onwards on his route towards Stratford-upon-Avon.

Our story now draws towards conclusion, and we once more return to the point from which we at first started. Clopton Hall, after so many years of gloom, may now be said to have quite resumed that appearance of hospitality and prosperity as when we first beheld it in the early passages of our story, and ere disease, death, and misery, had so prevailed there.

For the first time for many years its rooms and offices, its stalls, kennels, and falconries, were all tenanted. After so many vicissitudes and strange events, in which its inmates had been separated, and became wanderers in the world, such of them as were in being were again assembled within its old walls.

The coming Christmas, that season so ceremoniously observed at the period, promised again to be the harbinger of festive scenes and old world rites of hospitality.

The old knight, for the first time for many years, seemed really to hold up his head, and glance around him with feelings of pride and contentment. His dearly beloved nephew was again with him; he had just come from over sea with Essex, and having left the Earl on the road towards Kenilworth, had galloped forward to Clopton.

In addition to this, too, which seemed to give Sir Hugh as much content as astonishment, that tried old friend, the trusty and shrewd Martin, who had so long been mourned as dead there, had suddenly reappeared at Clopton.

The old knight could scarce contain himself within bounds as he looked upon the pair. 'Twas hardly to be thought of, so much of contentment, after having so long been a lonesome mourner; for one way or other, Sir Hugh had now been in trouble so many years, that his happiness almost alarmed him, lest something should turn up to mar it afresh.

It was on the evening of the day on which we have introduced our readers to the inmates of Kenilworth that Martin and Arderne, together with others connected with our story, were seated beneath the hospitable roof of Sir Hugh.

To describe the unmixed pleasure experienced by these good and amiable friends on that evening exceeds the power of our pen; albeit we may attempt to describe some portion of the conversation which took place. Few things, we opine, are more gratifying than to glance upon a circle of true friends, so bound together as the ones in question, and on this occasion the party consisted of some half-dozen individuals, for, besides those we have already named, the circle contained the worthy Captain Fluellyn, and, "though last, not least," William Shakespeare sat a guest beneath that old chimney.

'Twas indeed a goodly fellowship, and in which, though perhaps 'tis a rare thing to say, where six mortals quaffed a loving cup together, not a particle of envy, hatred, or uncharitableness, pervaded.

The divine expression of Shakespeare's face, as he sipped the ruby liquor, the noble countenance of Arderne, as he glanced first at one and then another of the friends around, the excitement of the old host, as he pushed the cup about, the quaint look of the shrewd Martin, and the bluff, jovial style of the sea captain, as he puffed away at his capacious pipe, our readers must imagine. They sat in a circle round the huge log upon the hearth, and each and all had something to relate or something to listen to of stirring interest, for as each spoke of his own adventures, 'twas as if some brother told the tale.

"Your story, good Martin," said Shakespeare, as Martin paused after telling some portion of his adventure and escape from the Spaniard, "on mine own authority I would hardly dare avouch. 'Tis like some of those events in real life which scarce pass even in fiction."

"I dare be sworn on't," said Martin. "'Tis an over credulous and yet unbelieving world this, an' I may so word it, a mad world, my masters, and yet, ha, ha, 'tis a pleasant world, too. Aye, and this not altogether so bad a way of passing the time in't. What says the song,

"'Tis merry in hall when beards wag all,And welcome merry Christmas."

"I pr'ythee, good friend," said Arderne, "continue the narrative of this tragedy; for I must needs call that a tragedy which comprehends the loss of so exquisite a lady as Clara de Mowbray."

"Aye, truly so," said Martin; "that was a sigh, indeed, Master Walter. Sighing, however, is of little avail when the object is beyond reach. 'Tis too true an evil; the Lady Clara is lost to us."

"Thou did'st, however, aid her escape from that burning carrick?" said Fluellyn, "and in which, indeed, we all suffered with those we saw suffer. 'Twas a fearful sight."

"I take some credit to say I did so," returned Martin, dallying with his glass, and looking at the red flame of the fire through the ruby liquor. "Ah, ah, methinks I see those overweening Dons grilling in their treasure ship at this moment. I did aid in the lady's escape by the same token, I myself caused the conflagration that aided our escape; I myself, in my immaculate valour, destroyed the enemy, as Drake hath it, I singed the Dons' whiskers with a vengeance. Ha, ha."

"Tell us the manner of the exploit," said Shakespeare, who, by the way, had heard it from other lips.

"In few, then," said Martin, "and to continue from where I left. You are to know that the commander of the carrick no sooner beheld us upon his deck than he was about to cast us off again, and into the roaring sea. As he seized, however, upon my companion in misfortune, lo! you, he discovered he had prisoner of a female. The stately Don upon this steadily regarded his prisoner, and became struck all on a heap with her beauty. He then transferred his gaze to me, and (albeit he saw nothing extremely feminine, or even beautiful in my outward form) he was pleased to extend his clemency to us both. In few the blood of the Castillian was inflamed at the sight of the exquisite Clara; and, whilst the two ships lay glaring upon each other, we were both hurried down below, there to remain till more leisure should enable the magnifico to pay personal attention to us. My fate, doubtless, was to have been the sea. My companion's, perhaps, even worse. Whatever fate, however, was in store for us at the hands of the Don, we determined in no wise to submit to it. The cabin in which we were confined had a window in roar of the carrick. Without that window hung a boat. My companion got into that boat, and after I myself had lighted a bonfire in the cabin, and placed several barrels of gunpowder in very dangerous proximity thereto, I managed to lower that boat after getting into it, and finally, to cut her adrift. The blow-up of the barrels, and the gloom of the coming night, effectually diverted attention from our frail craft, as we mounted upon the crest of wave after wave. As we did so, we were horrified spectators of the scene of terror we had caused. One moment the burning ship was lifted on high, like some huge beacon, and the nest lost in the deep valley of waters. Thus did we escape, for that time, the death and dishonour that awaited us, and, weak and debile ministers, destroyed our foes at one and the same time. But oh," continued Martin, "conceive us, my masters all, wanderers upon that vast heaving world, in a rotten carcase of a boat—no knowledge where to steer for, no knowledge how to steer, if we knew where to steer—no expectation but death. Do I not seem to ye like one sitting here telling of things imagined in a dream? That heaving water, in which our boat could scarce live—those roaring winds, which almost stopped our very breathing in their violence—that lady, whose form every sea drenched, and who for two long nights endured this extremity of dire distress."

"And died she so?" inquired Arderne.

"Not a whit," said Martin. "Her's was a miserable strait to be reduced to; but her spirit was great. She had scarce time to die. She helped me to bale out the waters, as they continually washed into our boat. She shared my small portion of biscuit with me, and she drank from the flasket I filched from the cabin when we escaped from the ship; and so she lived, good sir, lived to be picked up in the dreary waste of waters. For, look ye, we had constructed a sort of sail, when the wind moderated, and that betrayed us to the companion of the carrick we had burned. Yes, we were descried and picked up by another Don, commanded by another courageous Captain of Compliments, and forthwith carried off to the country of the Spaniard."

"And that lady," said Arderne. "Pr'ythee, good Martin, follow out your story. Her fate I dread to ask, and yet would learn."

"Nay," said Martin, archly, "methinks mine own fate might in some sort interest my hearers. But truly I seem not to command much attention in this story of adventure: and yet I showed myself courageous, and aided the weaker vessel too."

Shakespeare smiled, and a look passed between him and Martin. "'Tis the duty of doublet and hose to show itself courageous to petticoat," he said. "We are naturally given to pity the young and beautiful, rather than the strong and sturdy. Besides, thou hast escaped, art here to avouch it thyself."

"And so may that lady, for aught I know to the contrary," said Martin.

"How!" exclaimed Arderne. "Escaped! Methought she died, died in Spain."

"It may be so," said Martin, "but I never said it. When we arrived in Spain, we were both clapped up as heretics between the walls of the Inquisition, where, doubtless, I for one should have died upon the rack, but that I was eventually made useful at the oar. My companion's fate I cannot further avouch. I myself was rescued whilst helping against my will, to invade my native land, amongst other galley slaves. The craft we worked in was captured by one of Frobisher's vessels, and in that vessel I was forthwith carried to the Indies after the fight, and in that vessel have I returned; and here I am once more at Clopton."

"Nay then," said Arderne, "if such be the case, thou hast but momentarily raised my hope and dashed it again, good Martin. Had that lady lived, and were I of all kingdoms king, I would give all for but one scattered smile of one so excellent."

The narration of Martin caused a sudden check to the previous hilarity of the company, since it recalled to most there the loss of kindred or relatives in former days.

Shakespeare, as he glanced around, remembered former scenes of mingled grief and joy in that house; the melancholy of Arderne was a melancholy of his own, the sundry contemplation of his mishaps and misfortunes, founded, as he then thought, principally upon the loss of one, who when alive, was unappreciated; whilst the captain and Martin also, in pure melancholy and troubled brain puffed away at their pipes with double vigour.

"Come," said Sir Hugh, who observed this gloomy fit stealing over his party, "we trifle time when we sorrow for what is past and irrevocable. It draws toward supper time. Remember, neighbours and friends, this is the first time of our meeting together after long years and much misery. Gloom shall not hold sovereign sway over Clopton again, an I can drive it hence. Music ho!" he said, rising and clapping his hands. "'Fore heaven, nephew, we will e'en be jovial to-night. Have we not Shakespeare here, and can'st forget those scenes he furnished forth at the Blackfriars? Come, let music play, and serve the supper, lads!"

The custom of the period permitted this in the halls of the great. Many of the nobles and even gentry of condition kept up a sort of orchestra or band composed of their own domestics or servitors, and which gave a degree of enjoyment to their entertainment unknown to modern times. The sweet tones of the instruments kept off that starched etiquette, that awkward stiffness oft-times felt during the intervals of conversation, that struggle for wit that came not when called for, it filled up the evening, and the soft strains of melody engendered bright thoughts, whilst they soothed the mind at the same time. Whatever of romance is in our character is called forth at such a time by music.

And so the party sat around the festive board in their quaint costume, old and young, poet and philosopher, whilst as the musicians puffed at tho French horn, and drew forth dulcet sounds from those antiquated stringed instruments, serving-men hastened about, trencher in hand, and bearing liquor on their salvers. Topics of conversation were plentiful, for still flowed the tide of interest concerning each other's separate fortunes during their career, and the jest's propriety lay in the ears of those who listened, whilst Shakespeare was the speaker.

Sir Hugh promised his friends a merry Christmas at Clopton; a Christmas observed with all due observance of the time.

In Elizabeth's day, most people, even of the higher grade of society, kept comparatively early hours. Those who dined at eleven and twelve, necessarily supped at five or six. The supper too, was the most festive meal, and most enjoyed; and when the season of the year, or old custom, gave warranty, your old English host not unfrequently kept wassail all night long.

On the present occasion the old Knight felt inclined to drink deep and sit late. He seemed resolved for a carouse. Martin and Shakespeare banded about their quaint sayings, and Sir Hugh seemed to revel in the idea of a merry Christmas at Clopton, observed with all due observance of the time; an observance, which in Warwickshire at that day was looked upon by old and young, rich and poor, with a feeling of enjoyment and love amounting to a passion. Every sport was got up with religious fervour; every old-world custom regarded with a veneration unknown to our own squalid days.

Christmas Day was at hand, and the old Knight talked of it like a child talks of a new toy; but whilst he spoke of good cheer and wine and wassail to set before his guests, a reeking post arrived, inviting himself and all consorting him to a feast held during the Christmas week at Kenilworth. The Countess of Leicester greeting her friend Sir Hugh, bade him welcome to her poor house of Kenilworth, to come with hawk and hound, kith, kindred and friends presently consorting him.

The Countess of Leicester was one in whom Sir Hugh had much interest. She was the daughter of his old friend, Lettice, Lady Knolleys, sister to Carey, Lord Hundsdon.

The Knight pitied her for her misfortune in marrying the evil-minded Leicester, for he had indeed loved her with a paternal affection; albeit the troublous current of his own life had lately hindered him from seeing much of her.

Under these circumstances, Sir Hugh felt delighted with the invitation, and resolved, if his party agreed, to accept it.

"How say ye, lads," he said, "shall we to this feast? Methinks I should like hugely to visit Kenilworth, and my charming friend, after so many years of absence. How say ye, Walter, shall we dine once more beneath the towers of old John of Gaunt, and Geoffrey Clinton?"

The company, as a matter of course, left it to their entertainer to accept or refuse, as he thought best.

"I am for a revel and a brawl any bow," said Martin, "now I have come once more to a Christian land. Be it at Clopton or Kenilworth, all's one to Martin."

And so the party resolved to join in the Christmas revels at Kenilworth.

The festival held at Kenilworth on occasion of Christmas-tide, was not on such an extended scale as on former occasions had been customary there, when Norman kings feasted and kept wassail, and when "kettle-drum and trumpet brayed out the triumph of their pledge."

In Elizabeth's reign, however, when a noble held a festival in his own halls, the entertainment was sufficiently magnificent, and conducted with all the observances of older times.

The late demise of the dark Earl, of necessity curtailed the hospitalities: yet, still the enjoined rites of the period gave the Countess an excuse for some circumstance, some little pageantry of the season. Her brilliant son, too, "the glass of fashion and the mould of form," was to be with her. And, albeit the party she invited to meet him was but small, still it was composed of some of theéliteof the country round. Almost all entertainments of this period partook of the dramatic character, the taste for such was universal; and it seemed, indeed, as if he who was in reality to create the drama in England, had sprung up just at this period to supply the want of that which wan so imperfect, to substitute his own brilliant conceptions for those heavy long-winded stupid exhibitions then in vogue.

With all her power of persuasion, the Countess had not been able to persuade her friend, Clara de Mowbray, to promise her presence and participation during the intended festivities. All she could obtain being a promise, that, as that lady's departure was fixed to take place in a few days, she would remain over Christmas-eve; as on that night the Countess had invited Shakespeare to be present.

The fair Clara had before taken leave of her friend the poet in Stratford; but still, to see him at Kenilworth, and during the gaieties enacted there, would, she felt, be a great treat.

The Countess resolved to receive her son in the great hall of the Castle, an apartment which, those who have carefully perused the building will doubtless remember,—eighty-six feet long by forty-five in width. It had, some few years before, beheld those fierce vanities, what time Leicester, "with pomp, with triumph, and with revelling," entertained the Queen and her followers for seventeen successive days; and now, all in that lighted hall was green with holly and winter ornaments. The large bow window was festooned with "rarest mistletoe," the various arms and trophies were covered with green boughs, whilst the white-hall, the presence-chamber, and other rooms of which nothing now remains but the fragments of walls and the staircases which led to them, were lighted up and ornamented for the nonce. There is ever something cheering in the aspect of all around at this period of the year; something bright and joyous in the country, when old Hymns "with his icy crown," seems to wield his severe sceptre and pervade the scene; when cottage and castle, lake and forest,—all are bound down by the sharp and biting frost. The good fellowship of the world seems then more rife, and Christian feeling and brotherly love to prevail. Perhaps, the good cheer enjoyed, and expectation of more to be enjoyed, openeth the heart of men. At Kenilworth, all was hospitality. The Countess was soon to give up possession to Ambrose, Earl of Warwick, her late husband's brother; and she resolved to quit the neighborhood in no niggardly fashion. Butts of ale were broached for the poor in the villages and hamlets around, and oxen and sheep were roasted. The young Earl was expected on the eve of Christmas-day, and his popularity was just then so great, especially in that neighbourhood, that the coming of royalty itself could scarce have made a greater sensation.

The day was one of excitement to the Countess. Dearly she loved that brilliant Noble, and well she knew the dizzy pinnacle on which he stood. Her fears even then anticipated that ruin which was to ensue. Conversant with "the art o' the Court," and the dangerous mood of Majesty, she saw already a dark cloud in perspective. Nay, that which she was now about to do, namely, to receive her son, and entertain him beneath the towers of Kenilworth, when it came to be known, would be attended with danger. The Queen liked not interference with her pleasures or her purposes. She was at that moment seeking to beguile the tedium of the favourite's absence by visiting the seats of her different nobles; and during which her irritability was but too apparent. He, the adored, the magnificent, should on his arrival in England, have bent the knee in all haste, and asked pardon for his truant disposition. But he was haughty and rash as his queenly relative. The day had been one of excitement to the fair Countess. There is ever something to be thought of and arranged, even by the great. The Earl was to dineen routewith his array at Rugby, and afterwards ride forward to Kenilworth, so as to join the select friends invited to meet him. In Elizabeth's day nothing was more thought of than dancing and playing (says Rowland White), and the invitation given by Lady Leicester might have parodied that of Capulet to his friends. There came Sir John de Astley and his wife and daughters, the noble knight of Clopton and his friends consorting, the Lord de la Warde and his beauteous sisters, the Lady widow of Lord Falconberg, good Master Murdake and his nieces, Sir Thomas Lucy and his lovely daughters, the Lady Wolvey, and the lively Throckmorton. These guests, for the most part, were in the castle, but more were expected as the evening advanced.

Mistress Bridges, the most beautiful of the Queen's maids of honour, she whom Essex loved, and of whom the Queen was so jealous that she is said to have publicly struck her; Blount, too, the lover of the Countess of Leicester, and the Lady Katharine Howard, all were expected to grace the assemblage. And, at length, as the Countess and her guests awaited the hour in the great hall, the trumpet from the gate-house announced the Earl's arrival.

It was a brilliant sight to behold;—that gallant youth amidst the associates he brought with him. The magnificent Essex, looking some paladin of romance, came forth from amidst the glittering band, and gracefully saluted his handsome mother. A something regal was in his look, which suited well with that magnificent hall.

Nay, 'twas almost the last occasion on which those buildings entertained so noble an assemblage: they seem to have afterwards fallen to decay, as though later times and fashions would be unsuited to their grandeur—as though their work was done—their hour passed away.

On this night, however, as Essex and his followers entered, there came one individual with a somewhat smaller party, whose presence was more worthy of note than oven the Plantagenet Kings who had dwelt there—one whose name would live

"Spite of cormorant devouring time,The heir to all eternity."

He passed on with Sir Hugh Clopton and others of lesser note; and after exchanging a few words with the noble hostess, he perused the assembled company at his leisure. As he did so, he entered the building called the White Hall, and stood for a moment to gaze upon all around, for such a scene was likely to make a deep impression upon his mind. Softly the sounds of music floated through those vast rooms, and where all he beheld spoke of the past, and conjured up scenes he has himself impressed upon us all. For when, indeed, doth sweet music in lordly chambers, or in solitude, steal upon the ear, but imagination bodies forth those scenes which Shakespeare, and Shakespeare alone, is identified with. All the poetry of life is associated in those charming ideas. The man himself seems to glide around us. At such hour—assembled amidst the lovely and the high-born, amidst minstrelsy and lighted halls, there doth his glorious spirit seem to pervade.

And so Shakespeare passed on amidst the company, and quietly took his way through the gorgeous rooms.

It was evident the poet had before visited those chambers, for he appeared familiar with the various passages he passed through, till at length he reached a room at the extremity of the buildings. Here he stopped, and quietly regarded the apartment, which in its magnificent style might well have furnished forth the description he has left us in his own Cymbeline, for Shakespeare adopted in many of his descriptions the costume of the time.

Whilst he stood, a small door opened, and a figure, lovely as his own Juliet, advanced towards him. It was Clara de Mowbray! She uttered an exclamation of joy when she beheld the poet, and in an instant was at his side. The poet took her hand and led her to a seat, and the pair held converse together for some time.

Whilst they did so, it was evident the tongue of that poor player made some impression on his fair hearer.

"Marriage is a matter of more worth, lady," he said, as he at length rose from his seat; "than to be dealt in by attorneyship. You consent to an interview with my friend."

Clara, whose eyes were bent upon the ground in deep thought, glanced quickly upon Shakespeare. There was no mistaking the expression of that face. He was gazing upon her with feelings of mingled admiration and regret. The next moment, as if unwilling again to meet her glance, he turned and hastily left the apartment.

A few minutes more, and the Countess of Leicester entered the room, accompanied by a tall cavalier, clad in mourning costume. The sad expression, however, which for many months had suited with his habit, now however gave place to surprise, joy and admiration; and Walter Arderne beheld the living original of the portrait his eyes had loved to dwell upon. He knelt at the feet of Clara de Mowbray.

Our story is now so far ended. The sequel may be gathered "by what went before." Time and space alloweth not of dilation upon the gay revel held that night in the halls of Kenilworth. Shakespeare, whose mind was but ill-fitted for revelry, soon afterwards left the castle.

For some reason, which we are unable to explain, he felt unfitted for society. He left the hall of Kenilworth, and in the free air gave vent to the feelings with which he was oppressed. In the woods of Stoneleigh, the dawn found him, despite the coldness of the season, laying along "under an oak, whose boughs were mossed with age," and "high top-bald with dry antiquity." And as his eye glanced from heaven to earth—from earth to heaven, whilst the deer swept by,[29]his imagination bodied forth the forms of Jaques and Rosalind in Arden.

About a fortnight subsequent to the revel at Kenilworth, a noble-looking cavalier, accompanied by a lady (both mounted and attended by a numerous retinue,) rode on to the green before old Hathaway's cottage at Shottery. The cavalier and the lady dismounted, and left their horses with the attendants, and as they approached the cottage, they conversed upon the subject of some dearly-loved friend.

"I offered him," said Walter Arderne, "in your name, dearest Clara, half of what we possess, so he would but remain with us here; but the spirit of the man is great, and he will pursue his fortunes after his own fashion. Listen to what himself says;" and Arderne produced a letter, which he read an extract from, worded somewhat thus:—

"The portion of time I have spent amongst my companions of the theatre has made me desire to continue in my vocation. The success I have already achieved gives warranty to my expectations. I have friends, to, as thou knowest, amongst the nobles of the Court; and the spirit of my father, which I think is within me, leads me to think I can yet go on towards even a higher fortune than this that I have reached. In few, I could not with contentment at this period of my life sit down here in Stratford. My residence will be at my old haunt, where I shall hope yet to see those I so dearly love."

"In London, then, we will see him, Walter," said the lady.

"We will so," returned Arderne. "After our marriage, Clara, we will yet hope to visit our friend."

And should our readers also wish to visit the poet, amidst his associates of the theatre in London, we will also follow him to his old haunt in Paul's.

[1]"Twelfth Night."

[2]This song, which, no doubt, was a favourite in its day, is inserted in Beaumont and Fletcher's "Bloody Brother."

[3]Schegel's estimate of Shakespeare.

[4]See Correspondence of Sir Christopher Hatton.

[5]All these were popular beliefs.

[6]Clobie's "Divine Glimpses." I adopt these lines because they allude to the curious old opinion, that bread carried about the person was a charm against tricks of Robin Goodfellow, though they bear date 1659.

[7]This song has been attributed to Ben Jonson, and in the old black-letter copies it is directed to be sung to the tune of Dulcina. As it embodies some of the freaks of Robin, I have given it here.

[8]The sprite was sometimes so named at this period.

[9]This was the first attempt of the English to form such settlements; and although they have since surpassed all European nations, they had been so unsuccessful that they abandoned the place.

[10]"Cymbeline."

[11]A name at that time to be found at Stratford.

[12]"Twelfth Night."

[13]"Much ado about Nothing."

[14]People of condition in the country generally rode with numerous followers at the period.

[15]"As you like it."

[16]Such an account was in reality given by the adventurers who sailed with Sir Humphrey Gilbert, the father of our plantations, and the brother of Sir Walter Raleigh, and who was lost in the storm following the portentous sounds we have described. Might not this very incident have suggested to Shakespeare the description of the island in the "Tempest."

[17]This sort of ejectment was not uncommon in Elizabeth's reign.

[18]The Earl, besides other things, had represented Arion on a dolphin, with rare music, whilst fireworks were seen in the air. Shakespeare, more than once, alludes to Arion on a dolphin's back. Might not these things have made early impression upon his mind?

[19]A saying of Sir Francis Drake's at this time.

[20]Cæsar denominated this county, Cantium; time, therefore, has made no further alteration than in giving it an English sound.

[21]"Henry the Fifth."

[22]Oldy's "Life of Raleigh."

[23]Stow mentions a little jobbing tailor who absolutely went mad for love of, and died glorifying the perfections of the Queen.

[24]Raleigh.

[25]Elizabeth, with her court, frequently moved to these places.

[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.

[27]Elizabeth was expressed in those letters by the figures 1500; Essex by 1000; _a—a_ was the crown.

[28]A seditious Catholic publication, dedicated to Essex, to ruin him.

[29]Amongst the few traditions concerning Shakespeare, in Warwickshire, there is one which was kindly communicated to me by a nobleman resident there, namely, that he wrote the character of Jaques, in the park of Stoneleigh.

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