CHAPTER XLII.

"Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest,From his moist cabinet mounts up on high.And wakes the morning, from whose silver breastThe sun arises in his majesty;Who doth the world so gloriously behold,That cedar tops and hills seem burnished gold."

Scarcely had he thus commenced when a slight tap at his door disturbed him, and his new friend the player entered.

"Ah! by St. Paul," said the player, "have we writers here? How, Sir traveller, inditest thou thus early? I aroused thee not—I called thee not—I disturbed thee not; for much toil maketh the limbs weary, and I would have thee, good rustic, freshened and refreshened. But lad, I find thee up and working with brain and pencil. Come—I have brought thee a chalice for thy morning draught. Indue thy habiliments—descend to the lower world—and I will take thee before Master Marlow, who will, peradventure, find thee apt, and capable of preferment."

Shakespeare thanked the player, whose bombast considerably amused him; and putting up his poem, accompanied him to the common apartment of the tavern, then filled with a motley assemblage. After procuring something by way of a breakfast, which the remaining portion of the money given him the night before enabled him to do, he accompanied his new acquaintance over to the Globe.

Early as was the hour, the business of the morning had commenced, and many of the actors engaged in rehearsing a new play.

The scene altogether was a new and striking one, and instantly engaged his attention.

As his eye took the whole interior in its glance, a forcible impression was made upon his mind. The stage—the rude half-circle of seats and benches, seen thus in the shadowy light admitted from several small openings—the various picturesque figures sitting and lounging about, some of them being on the centre of the stage, and rehearsing their parts—the melody of the tragic rhythm—all impressed him. He even, at the moment, conceived a visionary project of one day making the means and appliances he beheld around subservient to his own mighty conceptions. In an instant, the want of something long sought seemed found; and then again, as he looked round, and his mind grasped the possibility of his project he said to himself—

"But, can this cock-pit holdThe vasty fields of France? or may we cramWithin this wooden O, the very casquesThat did affright the air at Agincourt?"

Whether it could or not, he was not then permitted further to consider. The possibility of such an event, time was to show; and in the meanwhile the player disturbing the current of his thoughts, tapped him on the shoulder, and invited him to follow to a small apartment, situated on one side of the building, and which constituted a sort of manager's room.

The proprietor of this apartment was at the moment engaged in the composition of a new piece; and as he wrote, he ever and anon rose from his seat, and with voice and gesture, recited a portion of his composition, though, perhaps, had he better known the man introduced into his presence, he would have been less verbose before him.

As it was, he continued to rehearse in a ranting tone, sawing the air with his hand, and strutting up and down to give effect to the lines.

During a pause of consideration, he observed the player and his companion, "Ah!" he said, "what wants that youth?"

"Pay and employment, good master mine," said the player.

"Hath he wit?—can he speak?—are his legs strong?—arms pliant?"

"He is young, strong, and of good parts," said the player—"I can avouch it."

"Then will we find him in employment," said the manager; "he shall have charge of the foot-lights, and snuff the lamps." And so Shakespeare became attached to the theatre.

In a former chapter we have seen Walter Arderne, after many and various adventures by flood and field, returning to the home and haunts of his childhood. The good and gallant youth (although from station and prospects he might reasonably have hoped for ease and happiness in life) had hitherto seemed but a step-son of fortune after all. And now, "like a younker and a prodigal" lean, rent, and tattered, having endured shipwreck and been sold to slavery by the insolent foe, by a sudden freak of fortune was once more safe in Warwickshire and with his beloved uncle at Clopton. The meeting between Sir Hugh and his nephew was extremely affecting. They were now all in all to each other, for both had experienced losses which to both were irreparable. The grief, however, they experienced for past sorrows had now considerably abated, so that they could hold converse upon bygone events and even find benefit from such communion.

Still, when Walter looked around him in his old neighbourhood, like Sir Hugh when he had first returned, he felt at times a sense of desolation which was almost insupportable. The loss of his old and tried friend, the eccentric Martin, was also a heavy blow to him; and in addition to this the absence and delinquency of the singular friend, whose conversation had made so great an impression upon them all during their short acquaintance, especially grieved him. The breath of slander, when he came to inquire into the facts leading to young Shakespeare's departure, had rendered that youth's conduct so reckless and even criminal that Walter was us much surprised as grieved at all he heard.

"It was a good thing," Mr. Doubletongue said, "that theNe'er-do-wellhad made off with himself, or the Lord knew what he would be after next. Stealing of deer by night, and catching rabbits by day, would perhaps have been the least part of the story. Nay," he continued, "the lad (albeit he had a most comely female to wife) had as sharp an eye and as devilish a tongue for the lasses in Stratford as—"

When the lawyer accordingly entered, he made so many contortions of body, and bent and bowed so often and so humbly to the three gentlemen, never even venturing to lift his eyes from the floor, that the Knight of Clopton desired him to desist from his prostrations, and deliver himself.

Upon this Master Grasp muttered some words about his sorrow for past passages, and his desire to oblige the good Sir Hugh, and ended by depositing on the table the eternal blue bag he always carried; saying, as he did so, that he had no particular business at that moment with Sir Hugh Clapton at all.

"Then, if such is the case," said Sir Hugh, "as I especially hate law and all appertaining, Master Grasp, as speedily an convenient, remove yourself from our premises."

"Nay," said Grasp, "good Sir Hugh, I pray you bear with me, since I come to bring joyful tidings to onenearanddearto you—even your worshipful nephew there, Master Walter Arderne. And in order to convince you thereof, with permission, I will enter upon the matter at once." As he said this, Grasp emptied the contents of his bag upon the table, and forthwith began to fumble amongst a whole heap of parchments, strewing them about in most admired disorder.

"Gad-be-here!" exclaimed the old knight, as he looked with astonishment upon the vast quantity of documents and deeds. "Here be matter enough to undo half the families in Warwickshire. 'Fore Heaven, I ne'er looked upon such a mass of parchments before. Lord help thee, Walter, and keep pen and ink out of thy hands, for an thou settest thy name to these deeds, thou'lt never be thine own man again. I pr'ythee," he continued to the lawyer, "leave sorting that mass, and explain thy business."

Grasp, however, had now made good his footing, and produced his impression. And, as he pointed with fore-finger from paper to paper, he began to recapitulate the various tracts of land, domains, and estates and all and sundry thereunto belonging, with messuages, tenements, and matters appertaining, so rapidly that Sir Hugh stood aghast, with eyes starting and face of wonder, as he listened.

At length, the knight put a stop to it all with a voice of thunder, and insisted upon a more clear demonstration of the matter in hand. "What, in the fiend's name," he said, "hath my nephew to do with your heirs male, your tenures, domains, your castles, windmills, your fee-simples, your tails and entails, your arable lands, wastes, commons, fishponds, and woodlands, and all the litany of impertinence you have been jittering for the last half hour?"

"In fact and in right," said Grasp, "de factoandde jure, all and every thing hath your nephew to do herewith."

"How so?" said Arderne. "I know nought about the lands you have named, unless it be that here, in Warwickshire, I have heard such places exist."

"Nevertheless, as sure as they exist, they to all appearance are at this moment your own, good Master Arderne," said Grasp.

"Mine?" said Arderne. "The man is mad. I pray you explain."

"I will so," said the lawyer. "May I be permitted to sit in this presence."

"Take a chair," said Sir Hugh. And the lawyer accordingly seated himself, wiped his glasses, and commenced again.

"You doubtless are aware that, by the father's side, you can claim kindred with the noble house of Plantagenet," he said.

"It's a far-away relationship then," said Arderne. "Nevertheless I believe such is the case; but what of that?"

"You know it well enough, good Master Arderne," said Grasp; "for it is a thing to thank God and to be proud of; and you also know that the Lady Clara de Mowbray was also akin to you. As thus:—Geoffrey Plantagenet wedded with——."

"Well, a truce with all matter of that sort," interrupted Arderne. "I know my lineage well as thou canst tell it me, Master Grasp. But what of Clara de Mowbray? Granting I am her distant kinsman, and distant indeed must the relationship be——."

"Nevertheless it is true, as I am in a condition to prove," said Grasp. "Nay, not only are you her kinsman, but you are her sole remaining kinsman, and to obviate all controversy about succession, she hath constituted and appointed you her sole heir."

"You do, indeed, astonish me," said Arderne; "is then the beautiful Clara de Mowbray dead?"

"'Tis so rumoured, set down, and given out," said Grasp.

"She is said to have gone to foreign parts," said Sir Hugh; "died she there!"

"She did," said Grasp.

"Alas! my poor daughter's dear and only friend!" exclaimed Sir Hugh. And then there was a pause of some moments amongst the party, whilst Grasp, whose heart was as hard and dry as the parchment he idolized, became again so deeply involved amongst his papers, that he seemed to lose sight of everything else around him; nay, even Sir Hugh and Arderne seemed totally to have forgotten his presence. Arderne, indeed, was lost in the thoughts this intelligence had conjured up. He called to mind the exceeding beauty of the high-born lady who thus had made him the heir to all her vast possessions; and as he did so, many little passages between them, during his intimacy with his cousin Charlotte, flashed across his brain. At length, as his eye fell upon Grasp, he again questioned him.

"You were apparently employed," he said, "by the Lady Clara de Mowbray as her lawyer, Master Grasp?"

"I had that honour," said Grasp. "I was the instrument by which, under direction of her major-domo, or house steward, she gathered in her various rents. May I hope for a continuance of favour for the like, from your honour?"

"Know you the circumstances of the lady's decease, and where she died?" inquired Arderne.

"I do," said Grasp, "inasmuch as having been bound for the term of one year to keep the circumstances pertaining to the event secret; that time having now expired, I am at liberty to divulge to this honoured company all I know thereof."

"I pray you to proceed," said Arderne.

"It seemeth, then," said Grasp, "as I am given to understand by the steward or major-domo before-named, that since the melancholy fate of the daughter of the honoured master of this house, and who was (under favour for mentioning it) buried alive——"

"How! buried alive?" said the captain, laying down his pipe, whilst Sir Hugh groaned aloud, rose from his seat, and walked to the window, and Walter Arderne started as if he had received a bullet through his brain.

"Buried alive!" iterated Grasp, as he watched his auditors with the utmost satisfaction and curiosity. "I conceive it is no libel to say so much,inasmuchas it is well known, and has indeed made some talk at the time."

"I pray you," said Arderne sternly, "to continue your relation, without further circumstance. You pain us all by such unnecessary particulars."

"Nay," said Grasp, "I crave pardon; but as the particularly horrible nature of that young lady's end was in some sort necessary to what follows, I felt obliged, in some sort, to refer to it. Howbeit, I will now expedite my narrative, taking it from the events I have thus brought back to your remembrance. It seems, I say, that the particularly awful nature of the said Miss Charlotte Clopton's death made a great impression upon the mind of the before-named Lady Clara de Mowbray, and whose intimate friend the before-mentioned Charlotte was; and that moreover the said Clara de Mowbray mourned over her said friend's sad fate with strict observance of privacy for many months. Nay, that on the news first being told her of Mistress Charlotte's having been buried, she, in fact, shut herself up from all communion with the world."

"We heard as much," said Arderne; "I pray you to proceed. She resided at Shottery Hall at that time I think?"

"She did so," continued Grasp, "and where, somewhat on the sudden (as I learn from her confidential servant,—also my client,) she conceived the idea of changing the current of her thoughts and ameliorating her grief by seeing foreign lands. In pursuance of which design she fitted out a vessel, hired a crew, engaged a gentleman of approved valour as captain, and sailed for the New World."

"How! said ye," exclaimed Captain Fluellyn, "fitted out a ship, engaged a crew and captain, and adventured to the New World?"

"What ship did she sail in, Master Lawyer Rasp?"

"Grasp, good sir, and it so please ye," said the lawyer.

"What ship, quotha—let me see. I have a document here, signed by one of her followers, and which states the name of the ship, the number of her crew, the title of the said captain, and all thereunto appertaining and belonging. Ah! let me see," he continued, (fumbling about amongst his papers.) "the 'Eagle'—the 'Estridge'—the 'Heron'—the 'Hawk'—no, it was none of those. The—ah! here it is—the 'Falcon,' that was the vessel; Fluellyn, captain commanding; owner, Count Falconara."

The Captain looked at Walter Arderne, in whose face was reflected the astonishment depicted in his own; and both, as if by common impulse, rose from their seats, and walked forth into the open air.

Arderne took a turn along the dark walk which led to the rivulet at the bottom of the garden, ere he spoke. At length he approached the Captain (who, out of respect, had remained near the house).

"This is a strange matter!" said Fluellyn.

"It is indeed!" said Arderne. "It seems to me like something unreal. I can scarce believe that Clara de Mowbray hath perished in such a venture."

"You knew the lady, then?" said the Captain.

"I did," said Arderne. "She was the friend and intimate of Charlotte Clopton, she of whom ye have heard me speak, and consequently in former days much here; nay, she rented a mansion at Shottery for the purpose of being near her friend."

"Perhaps" said the Captain, "for the purpose of being near herfriend'sfriend. 'Tis evident she loved you, and you saw it not."

"Nay!" said Arderne, "she knew I was betrothed to my cousin."

"Tush, man! that mattered not amaravedi," said the Captain; "she loved you, spite of fate, and against hope. 'Tis not uncommon with women. She heard of your desolate condition through the worthy Martin; and (urged by her strong love) she persuaded him to adventure with her, in the hope of discovering and rescuing you from your desolate situation: so much I can myself answer for. How she bore herself in that adventure, I have also reason to know. All we required to know further was the name of this Count of quality, and, behold! we have it. Come—thou art at least a richer man by the knowledge."

"Would to Heaven," said Arderne mournfully, "she were in the enjoyment of her own wealth. I seem to make shipwreck of all that interest themselves in my welfare."

"Ah!" said the blunt Captain, "I doubt thee not, good Master Arderne. Such a woman were worthy of an emperor's love; one to worship in life, and evermore sigh for when dead. But come—no more sad brow and sighing breath. Thou art the likeliest man in all the country,—hast fair domains, castles, parks, and warrens, according to yonder scrivener. Such an one need not sigh for a wife methinks. Let us in, lest the old knight and the law-man fall to buffets, spite of the news brought."

"Sir Hugh must indeed not know of this," said Arderne, "at least, not at present; 'twould but revive his grief for Martin's loss. Over a cup of Canary after dinner we will relate the story."

And thus did Walter Arderne become the possessor of many fair domains in Warwickshire and other countries; for as there was none at that time to dispute possession, and as their former possessor was fairly identified, and her death deposed to by more than one of her own followers, so there was nothing to hinder him in the succession.

There was, however, a certain degree at melancholy attached to the whole affair, which seemed to throw a gloom over the estates, as he in turn visited them,—a something wanting—a deserted look—an inexpressible feeling of dislike to assume the mastery and ownership of these fair and fertile lands. "I can even yet hardly reconcile to myself the right of proprietorship here," he said to Sir Hugh, as they looked forth one day from the towers at Hill Morton upon a vast chase below. "It seems to me that I am an interloper—an usurper here."

"Tush—man!" said Sir Hugh; "this is to be overscrupulous. Take the good the gods send, and make no words on't."

And thus matters rested quietly for days, weeks, and months, and then there arose matter which took the thoughts of men, throughout the land, from their own particular concerns, and (whilst the whole nation rang with the news) called up the energies of all.

Sir Hugh was with his nephew and friend when the first intimation of the certainty of this event reached Clopton. The day was hot, for it was just at the end of April, and the knight had ordered the dinner to be served in the hall, where they were enjoying the half hour after their meal "with pippins and cheese" and a whiff or two of the pleasant weed.

The soothing influence of his pipe was just composing the old knight to sleep when the sharp sound of hoofs were heard in the court without, and a messenger, "bloody with sparring, fiery red with haste," came clanking into the presence.

The sealed brief he handed to Sir Hugh—with the words, ride, ride, ride, upon the cover, in a few minutes after its perusal effectually dispelled the influence of the weed Sir Walter loved, inasmuch as it was from Sir Walter himself, and dated from Deptford.

"Come forth, my old friend," said the letter, "the time hath arrived for all to be stirring, 'Tis now certain the Armada is about to sail. Let your nephew look to his command and bring up his companions. Our ships are ready for sea and men are wanted. 'Fore Heaven,we will singe the Dons whiskers for him,[19]or smoke for it ourselves."

Our story having now (with swift passage) glided o'er some two years, we arrive at a period in which all England was aroused by the alarm of a dreadful invasion.

All corners that the eye of Heaven visited throughout the island were indeed frightened from their proprietary by the mighty preparation of the Spaniard,—a preparation of such vast magnitude that it shewed the determination of the foe to subdue, and put to indiscriminate slaughter, the whole population of the country, if possible exterminate heresy at one blow, and acquire eternal renown by reuniting the whole Christian world in the Catholic Communion. England at this period, it must be owned, was in a critical situation. A long peace had deprived it of all military discipline and experience. It was exposed to invasions from all quarters, as it was in reality neither fortified by art or nature; whilst the numerous Catholics, with which it still abounded, it was feared would be ready to join the invader the moment he succeeded in landing.

In addition to this, men began to consider the difference between the English and Spanish forces. To remember the overwhelming power of the naval force of the Spaniard, and the vast numbers, reputation, and veteran bravery of his armies, and then—as they sat and brooded over these matters—they reflected that the fate of England must be decided in two battles, one at sea and one on land. Deep and portentous were the thoughts and fears these things conjured up when the certainty of the visitation became apparent. Whole families, high and low, rich and poor, looked each other in the face with vacant horror and dire apprehension. From the hut to the castle, from the cottage to the baronial hall, spread the whispered fear. Not altogether the fear of being beaten in fair and open fight, but of being overwhelmed by the mighty power of a tremendous foe without chance of a successful defence. Nor is it to be wondered at, if the hearts of the islanders did quail at this juncture, when we remember the three years' preparation which (now completed) was about to be precipitated like a mighty torrent upon the shores of England.

According to a letter of Sir John Hawkins, written at the time to Sir Francis Walsingham, the main strength of the Armada consisted in a squadron of fifty-four magnificent and invincible ships, embracing nine galleons of Portugal, twenty great argosies of Venice, twenty huge Biscayns, four large Galleasses, and a ship of the Duke of Florence of 800 tons. Besides these were thirty smaller ships and thirty hulks, which, together with others, amounted to 132 ships and 20 caravals.

On board this huge fleet were 8,766 mariners, and 21,855 soldiers, besides 2,088 galley-slaves; and in addition, the Armada contained stores for the army, cannon, double cannon, culverin, and field-pieces, 7,000 muskets, 10,000 halberts, 56,000 quintals of gunpowder, and 12,000 quintals of match. Nay, so confident were these overweening Spaniards of success, that their huge ships even contained horses, mules, carts, waggons, spades, mattocks, baskets, and everything necessary for settling upon the land they meant, at one blow, to conquer and enslave.

Both fleet and army were also provided on a scale of unexampled profusion, and the officers who were to lead, and who were of the noblest families of Spain, even embarked their suites of attendants and their physicians. But, perhaps, the most galling accompaniment to the Englishman, and which this dread Armada, had provided itself with, was one hundred and eighty monks and Jesuits, carrying with them chains, wheels, racks, and whips to be employed in the conversion of those heretics they might choose to spare from the infliction of a cruel death. In fact, every part of the vast empire of the malignant Spaniard had resounded with "dreadful note of preparation and the noise of armaments," whilst all his ministers, generals, and admirals were sweating in aid of the design.

But this was not all that England had to fear, for the Duke of Parma and Asmodeus of Savoy had also prepared in the Netherlands an army of 30,000 men; whilst the Duke of Guise was conducting to the coast of Normandy 12,000 troops, in order to embark and land on the west of England. So that in the Netherlands also the air resounded with the busy hammer of smiths and carpenters, collected in Flanders, Lower Germany, and the coasts of the Baltic, and who "making the night joint-labourer with the day," were engaged in the construction of vessels and flat-bottomed boats, for the transport of their infantry and cavalry.

The hearts and minds of many for the moment quailed under the thought of this tremendous armament; whilst all Europe apprehended that England was doomed, and must be overwhelmed and enslaved.

A deep gloom and a secret horror was indeed upon the hearts of all. They stooped, however, but for a moment beneath the tide, and then the whole nation seemed to start up at the imperious challenge of Spain, sword in hand, sheathed in complete steel.

Not a county in England, not a town or village even, but seemed to rise simultaneously in arms—not a corner of the land but rang with preparation and muster, and awoke endeavour for defence! Nay, such was the incredible alacrity with which from shire to shire the soldiers were raised, and mustered and marched, that from Cornwall all along southward towards Kent, and thence eastward to Lincolnshire, (as the account of the period is worded) "was there a place to be doubted for the landing of these foreigners; but that within forty-eight hours, on horseback or on foot, 20,000 men, completely armed, with ammunition, provision, and carriages, commanded by the principal nobles of their counties, and captains of knowledge, would be ready to oppose them."

In the interior, also, every man capable of bearing a weapon, rushed to arms.

The green fields, near Tilbury in Essex, gleamed with the white tents of 22,000 foot, and 2,000 horse, whilst another army, close at hand, counted 28,000 men.

The narrow streets of London, too, resounded night and day with roll of drum and blast of trumpet; every church and tower and hall was rummaged for arms and armour. Each citizen stood in harness of proof. The armour, which had "hung unsecured by the walls" even from the Crusades, was taken down and put in requisition; and in addition to this, 10,000 additional troops were raised within the walls, together with 5,000 more as a reserve.

All this, however, against the overwhelming moral force of Philip, in the minds of many experienced men, was thought insufficient; and whilst the bold spirits of the leaders of the host led them to affirm that they were strong enough to cut to pieces the whole Spanish force the moment they land, there were others quite aware that the ocean was the element on which to meet the foe.

"A mighty power," said the great Raleigh at the juncture, "in a goodly fleet of ships, and which neither foot nor horse can follow, cannot be desirable to land where it list in England; unless it be hindered and unconnected by a fleet of answerable strength." It was accordingly under advice of men of approved valour and conduct, that Elizabeth set about to equip a fleet suitable, as far as possible, to the occasion.

Notwithstanding, however, the almost incredible exertions made to meet the foe on the seas, the naval power of England seemed quite inadequate to resist so terrible an enemy upon the waters. All the sailors in England amounted to but 14,000 men, and the size of the shipping was so small that, with the exception of a few of the Queen's ships of war, there were not four vessels belonging to the merchants which exceeded 400 tons. The royal navy consisted but of twenty-eight sail, many of them of small size, and indeed for the most part deserving the name of pinnaces rather than ships.

To counterbalance this disproportion, however, the English felt consolation in the known dexterity and valour of her seamen, their constant custom of sailing in tempestuous seas, and being undeterred by the dangers of the element on which they had now to fight; a virtue which will ever render our glorious sailors more than a match for any foe.

In addition to this small navy, all the commercial towns in England furnished forth ships. The citizens of London fitted out and equipped thirty vessels, and the gentry and nobility hired, armed, and manned forty-three ships.

Such then was the mighty preparation of the Spaniard, and such was the "awakened endeavour of England for defence,"—an endeavour perhaps without parallel in the history of our country, and which we have thus minutely brought to the recollection of our readers, because it was witnessed and keenly observed by one whose mighty mind seized upon whatever came within his piercing ken, and who, whilst he was the most careful of observers, was, at the same time, possessed of judgment as remarkable as his imagination and genius were wonderful; one who treasured up what he then beheld, although he stood, apparently, but as "a cypher to that great accompt;" and whilst he thus in reality, beheld "a kingdom for a stage, princes to act, and monarchs to behold the swelling scene," himself possessed—

"A muse of fire; that would ascendThe brightest heaven of invention;

afterwards giving his observations to the world in descriptions of chivalrous grandeur, such as none other in any age has equalled. One who himself saw that brave fleet so hastily collected and prepared for the occasion.

"With silken streamers the young Phebus fanning,And in them beheld,Upon the hempen tackle, ship-boys climbing;Heard the shrill whistle, which did order give,To sounds confus'd. Beheld the threaden sails,Borne with the invisible and creeping wind,Draw the huge bottoms through the furrowed sea,Breasting the lofty surge.Who stood upon the rivage and beheldA city as the inconstant billows dancing,For so appeared the fleet majestical."

Yes, whilst the choice-drawn cavaliers of Elizabeth's age stood in arms, and whilst, upon the waves rode those adventurous seamen, Shakespeare stood amongst the file, and as his capable eye marked the big muster, his heart beat with each roll of the drum, as it resounded amidst the narrow streets of old London.

And what, indeed, must have appeared to such a man "this post haste and homage through the land," this "threatening of the threatener," this "pomp and circumstance of glorious war?" What must have been the feelings of that one man as he stood amidst the throng—

"For who was he, whose chin was but enrichedWith one appearing hair, that would not followThose culled and choice-drawn cavaliers?"

He saw the daily and hourly preparation; he beheld the knightly and the noble "all plumed like ostriches;" he saw the closes, the streets and alleys of Lud's old town swarming with men-at-arms.

"He beheld the strict and most observant watch,Which nightly toiled the subject of the land:The impress of shipwrights, whose sore taskDid not divide the Sunday from the week:And then he put himself in arms."

Whilst London, and indeed all England, was thus aroused by this sound of deadly preparation, a gay and jovial party sat carousing in one of the apartments of an antique tavern in East Cheap.

They sat around a huge table situated in the centre of the apartment, and which was indifferently well furnished with savoury viands and generous wines; and a single glance sufficed to proclaim them the choice spirits of the tavern. Daring, reckless blades, companions who daffed the world aside, men heeding nothing, caring for nothing, dreading nothing, and to whom the spirit of the times was peculiarly delightful. They loved action, those revellers. Their lives were made up of the false fleeting excitement of some four hours' exhibition before the flickey foot-lights of a theatre. They were indeed actors all, but their vocation was over for the time amidst the excitement of the coming war.

And as they sat at supper at one of their old haunts, the Boar's Head in East Cheap, they aroused the neighbourhood with their revelry. Amongst them, however, was one whose voice in an instant caused attention. When he spoke their clamour ceased, and whilst some envied, others wondered at, and one or two even disliked (for amongst men of this sort there is ever a something of jealousy) all listened to and sought to catch his slightest remark. Nor was it at all surprising that such should be the case, for this man, who had joined their company, and become an actor about a couple of years before, had made an extraordinary impression upon them all. He had come amongst them a stranger, a fugitive, and in distress. He had taken the meanest, the most subordinate parts in the dramatic representations then performing; but his words, appearance, and manners had been instantly recognized as something uncommon.

Amongst those men, and whom he had accidentally, and as if by a sort of fate, at once fallen in with, were some who read character deeply and instantly, who caught peculiarities and appreciated talent at a glance.

Such then is the association in which we again, after a brief interval look upon Shakespeare. The actor's of Elizabeth's day—a jovial racy set—men who could play the parts assigned them in the inn yard, or with the hawthorn-bush for a scene, and trust to their own good acting and energy to keep their audience amused.

And these men had Shakespeare astonished by the genius and talents he possessed, whilst his conversation displayed the wildest sallies of fancy, the most brilliant wit, and the utmost depth of observation. In fact, he had become their oracle, their adviser, their leader. He had already altered and improved some of the rude scenes of their dramas, shewn them how to put them effectively upon the stage, taught them to suit the action to the word, and in short shewn a taste and genius for the profession that at once astonished and delighted all.

To many it will doubtless appear strange and startling thus to mark Shakespeare down to a period of our island history, which for stirring import had never been exceeded, to find him thus, with his companions of the theatre, on the eve of so terrific an encounter as was then about to take place "between two mighty monarchies," to behold him a living, breathing man, at a moment when all England was aroused to beat off the invader from her shores, or fall and perish miserably beneath the yoke.

The feeling of the thousands then in arms was as of one man; not an islander stood enranked with iron upon his breast, but owned a heart as brave and true as the weapon by his side; nay, every right arm felt a limb of steel, and each fist, as it grasped the rapier's hilt, was ready to rain its storm of blows upon the crests of the overweening Spaniard, and smite him dead upon the earth he came to invade. And such will it always be in "this sceptered isle."

'Twas a picturesque-looking party that assemblage in the old room of the tavern in East Cheap. The chimes, sounding from the tower of St. Paul's, proclaimed the hour of midnight through an open casement which admitted the fresh and balmy breeze of May. In different parts of the room were to be seen portions of the arms and armour the wearers had cast aside when they sat down to their carouse,—the heavy rapier, the cuirass, the helmet, and the plumed hat are thrown carelessly into corners, whilst the story, the biting jest, and the song is heard:—

"And let me the canakin, clink, clink, clink,And let me the canakin clink,A soldier's a man, and life's but a span,Why then let a soldier drink."

We have said that Shakespeare had obtained an influence amongst the men with whom he had become associated, and the present circumstance of this tavern meeting shews it,—"that tiger's heart wrapped in a player's hide, had stirred them up to join him in the present enterprise." The players have turned soldiers, and are about to seek service amongst the troops embarking with Drake, Hawkins, and Frobisher. With the dawn they are to take boat, and drop down towards Tilbury Fort, where the Queen in person is to inspect her troops; and this night they hold perhaps their last revel in one of their old haunts, this night perhaps they drain their last cup in old London.

Fast and furious grows the revel. The spirit of the time lends its charm to men so easily excited, so "of imagination all compact." They drink deep to the healths of the bold spirits of the day. To Lord Howard of Effingham, who commands upon the seas; to the Earl Leicester, who defends the capital at Tilbury; to Lord Seymour; to Lord Hunsdon; to the Queen,—

"Cup her till the world go round."

And then thatone man'svoice is heard, as he rises and drains his glass, and his tongue gives utterance to words which still more fire the hearts of his hearers. For he speaks of his native land:

"That England hedged in with the main,That water-walled bulwark, still secureAnd confident from foreign purposes.England, that never did, nor ever shallLie at the proud foot of a conqueror,Unless she first doth help to wound herself."

And now, as the breaking dawn sheds a faint and pale light upon tower, and church, and lofty roof, gradually redeeming the narrow and overshadowed streets from the gloom of night, the sounds of bustle are heard around. Then comes the rattle and roll of drum, the blast of horn, and the quick tramp of armed men. Up Fish-street Hill, down St. Magnus Corner, rattles and reverberates the rolling sheepskin; now it sounds dead and dull beneath the caves and penthouses of St. Margarit's and Pudding Lane; and now it beats loud and shrill as it emerges into Chepe, whilst Aldgate, and Houndsditch, and Hog Lane, and Tower Street, and Cornhill, and Budge Row, also are filled with replications of the clamour.

As the tongue of war thus suddenly startles the ears of the revellers, they start from their seats, and hastily resume the defensive armour. A few minutes more and East Cheap seems filled with men, and all the crafts of London to have turned out and put themselves in arms. Then comes the short quick word of command, the halt and front, the trail of the puissant pike, and the ringing noise of caliver upon the hard ground.

Then, as the Golden Cheap, as it was called, displays its rich treasures from each window, its cloth of gold and silver, and velvets of various hue, its arras and rich carpetings and silk, and, more than all, its comely wives and the handsome daughters of the wealthy burghers standing at the casements they have thus adorned,—then on come the levies destined for the defence of the coast, or about to embark in various ships, lying in the Thames, and which, passing through the double rank of the civic battalions, with quick pace and heavy tramp, turn towards London Bridge.

As these sounds, we say, salute the ears of the revellers, they leave their flagons, and, hastily selecting their various arms and defensive armour, call lustily for something substantial else they join the newly-raised levies. They go forth to the war as to another revel,—those players. They vow to singe the whiskers of the overweening Don. And Shakespeare halloos them on.

"Hostess, my breakfast, come,O, I could wish this tavern were my drum."

To describe minutely the magnificent force assembled at Tilbury, and the camp there, would be both a tedious and a twice-told tale. My Lord of Leicester (who had the ordering of all matters thereunto appertaining) had arranged things not altogether so unskilfully. It was at his instigation, and invitation too, that the Queen herself paid a visit to her troops there; for, says his letter to her on this occasion, "If it may please your Majesty, your army being about London, as at Stratford, East Ham, Hackney, and the villages thereabout, shall be not only a defence, but a ready supply to Essex and Kent, if need be. In the meantime your Majesty, to comfort this army, and the people of both these counties, may (if it so please you) spend some days to see both camps and forts." And so the bold Tudor, in martial array, visited the camp; and never, perhaps, did the world witness a more heroic sight. The glorious sun of a summer's day poured its rays upon a glittering host. Line beyond line they stood enranked on either side, and beyond the blockhouse, as the Queen landed; and as the drums rattled, and the cannon roared, when she stepped from her barge, down went ensign, and pike, and caliver.

The Earl of Leicester and his officers received her on landing; and two thousand horse, dividing into two brigades, together with two thousand infantry, formed her immediate guard.

The next day she reviewed her troops on the hill near Tilbury church, attended by the Earls of Leicester and Ormond. She wore a corslet of polished steel upon her breast, (a page bearing her plumed helm,) and thus, bare-headed, and carrying a marshal's truncheon in her hand, she rode through the ranks amidst the most deafening cheers; after which she harangued the host in a speech of considerable length.

The scene was one likely to make a deep and lasting impression upon the minds of all who witnessed it. The assembled troops were, in themselves, worthy of note; for, besides the regular and trained infantry and cavalry of the period, there stood enranked, anddoing the duty of private volunteers, some of the noblest in England. The gentry of the various counties had donned their harness, and come forth to do the duty of common soldiers; scarfed, and plumed, and belted, they stood there, resolved to lay down their life, ere they yielded one foot of their native land to the invader. As the Queen passed on amidst this steel-clad host, there was one who stood somewhat apart, and in an interval of the lines of infantry; he raised his voice amidst the general enthusiasm, as the royal Tudor rode along the rank near which he was posted; and then he lowered his weapon, and as he leaned upon it, keenly observed the whole scene.

He saw that lion-hearted woman, and who had then borne the sceptre for thirty years; her body cleped in steel; her high pale forehead furrowed with care; her bright and piercing eye, and her majestic form unbent by the pressure of years. He saw her thus, mounted upon her magnificent steed, like a true daughter of the Plantagenet, vindicating the honour of her kingdom. He saw her thus, undismayed by the tremendous armament threatening her coast, pass on from rank to rank, "with cheerful semblance, and sweet majesty;" and as she rode—

"A largess universal, like the sun,Her liberal eye did give to every one."

Those who have stood in the ranks of an English battalion can perhaps best imagine the proud feeling which must have animated the breast of Shakespeare at this moment. His eye passed rapidly over the glittering files, and then it dwelt with curiosity upon the stern features of the troops, as each glance was bent upon that one form, "so regal, so majestical;" and, as he looked upon the expression of those bearded men, he felt that no power which the invader could bring would be likely to subdue such a host. The English might be struck dead—blasted—annihilated by some wrathful bolt from the skies, but, unless the power of Heaven fought against them, no foreign force could subdue thatisland-hostupon their own ground. And then, whilst he gazed upon this inspiriting sight, as the Queen passed off the ground, and took her way "so strongly guarded" amongst the innumerable white tents, a wild flourish of martial music floated through the air, the firm unbent forms of the soldiery relaxed, the sword point was lowered, the pike trailed, drum and fife sounded, and the various companies wheeled off then-several positions and followed through the camp. As column after column moved past, still that observant eye was rivetted upon them. The musqueteers in the front rank; the pikemen in a dense column behind; then came the cavalry, slow and stately, with a rushing ringing sound, the horses reined back to keep time to the trumpets' clang. Squadron after squadron, they moved past with stately pace and slow; the several leaders armed in steel, galloping up and down the ranks, and giving the word as they wheeled round and moved off the field. They were led by one scarce two-and-twenty years of age, who seemed, on his magnificent charger, with his beaver raised, "the prince of chivalry," the "arm and burgonet of men." The young Earl of Essex, just then in the zenith of his fame, and to whom the Queen had given command of the cavalry.

And so the eye of the "poor player" pierced through the camp and witnessed all the "pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war;" himself, in his humble suit of buff, with buck and breast and helm of a common soldier, the greatest man there. He saw the tented field, so as only a nation's "endeavour for defence" could have shown it him. He mingled amongst tho white tents of the soldiery, and he visited the huts made of boughs of trees and poles, beneath which many of the gentry from the various counties and their followers were sheltered.

At this period of his life his profusion had made him known to many of the nobles and leaders present, and those who fell in with him were pleased to have a word with "the pleasant Willie" amidst the excitement and bustle of the hour. As he turned from the scene, and, with his companions threaded his way amidst the crowd of soldiers, suttlers, and the other accompaniments of a huge army, he was met and accosted by one high in authority amongst the host.

"Ah! Will Shakespeare," said the noble, "hast thou too put thyself in arms? 'Fore Heaven, man, thou shalt come with me to my tent. See, here is my Lord of Southampton, and other gallants, 'the very elements of the camp,' would fain have a rouse ere they wait upon the Queen. Come, man, a word from thee will spice the cup. No denial," continued the noble, as Shakespeare endeavoured to excuse himself on the plea of wishing to make on toward Dover that night. "No denial. Come, thou shalt cup us this day in the field. I could better lack the best of my followers on the day of battle than lose thee now we have once met here. What says't thou, my Lord of Southampton, thou canst not excuse the gentle William, eh?" And so it was late in the day ere Shakespeare left the tented field of Tilbury.

When he did so he crossed over a bridge of boats and barges which had been drawn across the Thames at Gravesend. This bridge had been constructed for the purpose of opposing the passage of the invading fleet, should any portion of the expedition succeed in crossing the Nore, and to afford a means of communication for supplies of men and munition from Kent and Sussex.

With two or three companions (and who, like himself, were resolved to hasten to the coast and, if possible, get on board some vessel at Dover,) Shakespeare hastened, after leaving Gravesend, along the Old Kent Road, then the most beaten track in England.

Thus then, under circumstances so peculiar, the players found themselves in the county of Kent, that interesting county, which has been the battle-ground of the English for so many centuries, and which yet retains the ancient name Cæsar,[20]conferred upon it upwards of eighteen hundred years before.

Much as was the traffic on this thoroughfare at the period of our story, the road was still in a very primitive state, thickly shadowed by trees on either side, ill kept and full of deep ruts and quagmires, whilst the country on either hand seemed one entire forest, and thus, amidst the bustle of the time, troops marching and counter-marching, "posts tiring on," pack-horses, and wains, and carriers occasionally overtaking them, Shakespeare took his way.

We leave our readers to imagine the feelings of the poet as he passed along this, the old Roman road.

As his eye pierced through the gloom, he beheld the road ascending through a leafy tunnel, and as he mounted a steep hill, he looked into the thick shadow on either hand, and then stopped and contemplated the place with a curious eye. It is more than probable, whilst he looked upon this locality, covered as it was with enormous trees, the road darkened by their shadow, the overhanging bank covered with fern, the crow winging to his nest, the moon just beginning to appear, that some passages he had perused in one of the old chronicles of England flashed across his brain, for in the scene thus beheld at so sweet an hour Shakespeare looked uponGad's Hill.

And now, as the players left the woodlands, and descended the hill on the other side, a magnificent sight was presented to their view,—looking in the pale moonlight like some romantic view exhibited during the scenic hour, the Keep of Rochester, white and spectral, towered above the flanking walls that surrounded it; the rushing waters of the river flowing just beneath; the old picturesque town (then in comparison but a hamlet) lying dark and sombre on the left. 'Twas a scene that spake of former passages in Britain's history; and as Shakespeare looked upon it he felt the impression. There beneath him flowed the broad Medway, where the Britons had made their stand against the legions of Rome. On the bank, surrounded with battled towers, frowned the tower of the Norman Gundulph, now, as of yore, filled with glittering troops; the flaming cresset glaring from its walls, and reflected in the stream. The "panoply of war, grim-visaged, but glorious war," once again had revived its thick-ribbed towers. And in the old hostel of the Crown, Shakespeare and his troop slept that night,—a locality since immortalised, for 'tisthe inn-yard at Rochester, of the scenic hour.

At a time when every rank of men in England buried all party distinctions, and prepared with order, as well as vigour, to resist the violence of the invaders, the Catholics throughout the land were not found wanting. Many gentlemen of that sect, conscious that they could not justly expect either trust or authority, entered themselves as volunteers in the fleet or army, whilst many equipped ships at their own charge, and gave the command of them to Protestants; others again bestirred themselves, and animated their tenantry, servants, and neighbours to join in the defence.

Amongst these, Sir Hugh Clopton and Walter Arderne had manfully bestirred themselves. Sir Hugh had mustered his servants and followers, and putting them under conduct of his good friend, Sir Thomas Lucy, marched off as a simple volunteer to Tilbury Camp, whilst Walter Arderne, with no less zeal, and tenfold means, (for be it remembered he was now the possessor of an enormous fortune,) had equipped several ships at his own charge, intending to join Sir Francis Drake.

And thus having brought our readers to this period of general enthusiasm, we now almost lose sight of the individuals more immediately connected with our story in the universal excitement. The huge Armada, after having by a variety of reports seemed to threaten every foot of the coast in turn, was at length first discerned making its approach. A Dutch pirate brought intelligence to Plymouth that the Duke of Medina Sidonia was in reality in the English Channel. The captains and commanders of the English vessels were at the moment of this intelligence being brought playing at bowls at Plymouth; and Sir Francis Drake, with the true spirit of an English seaman, insisted upon playing out the game. "Play it out," my masters all, he said, "play it out. We have plenty of time to win the game first and beat the Spaniards afterwards."

A south-west wind, however, blew so strongly at the moment that the vessels had considerable difficulty in warping out. At length, however, by the tremendous efforts of all hands, (for the anxiety of the troops and sailors to get at the enemy is hardly to be described,) the English ships were fairly at sea, and, with every sail set, bearing up for the enemy.

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