CHAPTER XLVII.

"And now sits expectant in the air,"

for whilst the sea bears upon its bosom the opposing fleets, the shores of England are bristling with the armed legions watching the event. The islanders standing "like greyhounds in the slips straining upon the start," and thus, whilst "borne by the invisible and creeping wind," the ships neared each other, was to be seen those characteristics of the islanders which furnished forth descriptions like the blast of trumpet to a Briton's ear.

"On! on! you noblest English,Whose blood is set from fathers of war proof!Fathers, that, like so many Alexanders,Have, in these parts, from morn till even fought,And sheathed their swords for lack of argument.Dishonour not your mothers. Now attest,That those that you call'd fathers, did beget you;Be copy now to men of grosser blood,And teach them how to war."[21]

It is not our purpose fully to describe the action with, and the discomfiture of, the Huge Don, only such portions of the engagement as embraces the fate of those connected with our story being necessary.

Suffice it then that the fleet of the mighty Spaniard came on slowly, awfully, and, according to the description given by Camden, so tremendous in appearance that the very winds seemed tired of propelling and the ocean groaned with its weight. That the English ships, dwarfs as they appeared by comparison, and few as they were in number, resolutely encountered, and, like bulldogs, which never leave the animal they are pitted against whilst life lasts, stuck to and worried the bloated Don till they completely pulled down his pride.

The proximity of Plymouth to the Spanish coast had rendered it probable that that part of England would be selected by the enemy for his first attempt, and there accordingly the Queen had appointed as Guardian one of the noblest and most approved soldiers of her realm. That aspiring hero, the gallant Sir Walter Raleigh, in himself a host at such a moment, was appointed Lord-Warden of Plymouth, with office of Lieutenant-General of the county of Cornwall, and 5,000 men under him.

No post or appointment on land, however, could satisfy such a man, when he himself knew the element on which the English ought to meet their foes was the sea. Accordingly, the blast of war and the thunder at the cannon found Sir Walter amidst the foremost, fighting hand to hand like some avenger, and covered with the smoke and blood of the hot encounter. Sir Walter, indeed, with a brilliant company of nobles and gentlemen, had left Plymouth in a small squadron, and quickly came up with the Spanish fleet. As they sighted the enemy, it was joined by a small force fitted out by Walter Arderne, and the two made into the midst of the fight.

Notwithstanding, however, the desperate valour of Sir Walter Raleigh, and which at times amounted to rashness, in the present instance he displayed his superior seamanship, and used discretion. He was aware that the lighter and less numerous vessels of the English had an advantage over the unwieldy Spanish galleons, provided the former avoided close quarters.

He therefore ran near the floating castles of the enemy, and poured in his broadsides, whilst they found it almost impossible to bring their great ordnance to bear, ere he was off again. This plan of operation was adopted by the whole English fleet. Ever asunder, but always in motion, they took advantage of the wind to tack whenever they could most annoy the foe; pouring in broadside after broadside, and sheering off out of range of the Spanish guns, and then again boldly returning ere the latter could well reload; performing, as Sir Henry Wooton described it, a perfect morris-dance upon the water.[22]

It was in vain that the Spanish fleet bore down upon their antagonists, anxious, by bringing them to a closer action, at once to destroy them. The skilful English sailors avoided the contact by continually separating into small divisions. Six of the English ships, however, led by Sir Martin Frobisher and Lord Thomas Howard, were so disjoined from the rest, that the galleasses of the Armada came close upon them, and continued a desperate engagement for many hours. At the same time, another squadron of the English fiercely assailed the division of the Armada stationed to the westward; nay, such was the desperation of the English, that they in a short time disabled every ship in the line there.

Amidst the storm of hurling iron, hid from one another by volumes of white smoke which hung upon the waters and enveloped everything around, two individuals sprang from their vessels, and, followed by their crews, sword in hand, clambered with desperate energy up the hull of one of the Spanish ships. The dense smoke on all sides is only relieved by the rapid volume of fire which seemed to pour out of every part of the Spaniard. The tearing of timbers, the shriek of agony, the cry of despair, and the deep curse, is answered by the wild joyous cheer of the jolly Briton. Amidst a storm of blows, the two leaders, the forlorn hope of the boarders, gaining the high deck of the Spanish craft, sprung upon the enemy's deck, where they were instantly followed by their strong-armed countrymen. What can resist, what can front them and live! Their blows are like the lightning's flash! Their force, strength, and ire, is terrible to look upon! They carve a passage; they bear down all before them! The deck of the Spaniard is slippery with blood; the thunder of the cannon is even hushed for the instant; and then is heard the ringing noise of hundreds hand-to-hand,—the cold dull smite of steel upon the body, the deadly curse, the cry of horror, and the shriek of death.

During this terrible encounter, even whilst mounting the side of the Spanish vessel, the two men we have first described caught sight of, and recognised each other. In the face of him who sprang from a small craft called the Falcon, one of the sometime players of the Globe recognized Walter Arderne; and in that countenance beside him, although now with smoke and powder disguised "as if besmeared in hell," Arderne has for an instant recognised the features of one known in fair Warwickshire in happier days. They see, they recognized each other, but their thoughts are as the red flash of the artillery around them, and the next moment they are in the midst of blows and death. A contest of this sort, so fought and followed, is seldom of long duration. One side or other must generally be overborne; and, accordingly, the entire crew of the Spanish galleon were either driven to the poop of their vessel, or dead upon her decks. So numerous, however, were the Spaniards, that even in this desperate extremity they were formidable; and still the contest raged.

In the midst of themelée, the player who we have before seen amongst the first to board the Spaniard, is now fighting hand-to-hand with the Spanish captain.

Hard pressed, (for the rapier of the Englishman bears theinvincibleDon almost to the planks of his vessel,) the latter turns and flies below. Entering his cabin, he snatches up a pistol, and attempts to fire it into a huge barrel of gunpowder, and so blow up his vessel. Like lightning the Englishman strikes the pistol from his grasp, and calls upon him to yield.

The Spaniard, however, renews the contest like a tiger at bay. Rushing upon his foe, for the moment he bears him backward; he then as suddenly turns towards a youth who, crouched in one corner of the cabin, seemed terrified, and unable to protect himself. Him the Spaniard now rushes upon, and attempts to pierce with his rapier; but the Englishman again anticipates him, strikes the weapon aside, and pierces theinvincibleDon to the heart at the very moment the vessel is captured; and one loud English cheer fills the air. Curiosity and humanity leads the victor to approach the boy whom he had so opportunely saved. He drags from before him the body of the Spanish captain, bids the lad look up and fear nothing; but, overcome with the terrors of the situation, the lad had fainted. At this moment the cabin is filled with the excited captors—they are maddened with rage and blood, and ready to strike down all before them. Anxious for the poor boy, the gallant player lifts him up, throws him across his shoulder, and carries him upon deck, never leaving him till he has placed him in safety in his own vessel.

Amidst the turmoil, confusion, and horror of such a scene, (for, of all battles, perhaps a sea-fight presents the most savage and desperate picture of warfare,) the "poor player," who had thus rescued the youth from death, and borne him to a place of comparative safety, had but small leisure to pay attention to him.

Nevertheless, as he placed him in the cabin of the English vessel, he could scarcely fail to observe his extreme beauty; and as the lad came to himself, and thanked his preserver, the player found, by his accent, that the lad was English born.

Commending him, therefore, hastily to the care of some of the sailors at hand, (as his ear again caught the wild huzza of the victors,) the player again sprang upon the deck of his own ship, and the next moment was once more amidst the scene of death and slaughter—enveloped in smoke and fire—deafened with the roar of guns, and in the midst of crashing timbers and falling spars.

The Spanish galleon had been captured ere he again reached her decks; but still on went those English red-handed from slaughter to slaughter, "with ladies' faces, and fierce dragon's spleens," they assailed ship after ship of the squadron they had become entangled with, and night only arrested the terrible encounter.

Awful indeed is the destructive power of man, when once his rage is let loose upon his fellow. Those stately Spanish vessels, covered with gilding and ornament, and which had come heaving upon the wave, stately in movement, and beautiful in appearance as a bevy of swans, were now dismantled wrecks, blackened, half burnt, and, as if tortured into madness by their swift enemies, they vomited forth their fire at random, their shot flying over the heads of their adversaries, and hurting each other in the confusion of the scene.

In other parts of the engagement the English had been equally industrious; and had it not been for the gross mismanagement of those in authority, and through whose parsimony the ships ran short of ammunition, the success would have been instantly followed up; as it was, the parsimony of the Queen might have cost her her crown, for thrice were the English baulked in the midst of success for want of ammunition, and obliged to take advantage of wind to get out of fire, and as often did they return, like avengers, to smite and destroy.

The sequel of this glorious contest is too well known for us to dwell upon; only so far as it bears upon our story have we followed it. To that poor player, the intrepidity of demeanour, the confidence in the love of her subjects, and the activity and foresight of the royal Tudor, was not lost. He saw of what his own countrymen were capable; and when he dipped his pan in his own heart, and described deeds of knightly fame, he wrote as he felt.

The noble Howard of Effingham, profiting by the faults of the Duke of Medina, and the difficulties experienced by the Spanish seamen in manœuvring their floating castles, made a terrible example of the enemy, and all around is crushing ruin, flight, and pursuit. Those ships which were scattered he followed, and the whole fleet of Medina was already vanquished and flying, when the elements effected the rest.

"So, by a roaring tempest as the flood,A whole Armada of collected sailIs scatter'd and disjoined from fellowship."

It was during the continuance of tho storm which followed, and whilst the few Spaniards who returned to their own shores were filling the ears of their countrymen with reports of the desperate valour of the English, and the tempestuous violence of the ocean which surrounded them, that two solitary travellers took their way along the old Kent road leading from Sandwich to Canterbury. Having quitted the ships in which they had arrived at the old Cinque Porte town, the two wayfarers were now making their way towards the metropolis.

In our own times they would have come under the denomination of strollers, since one of them was in reality an actor, and, in the form of the other who walks by his side, our readers must recognise the youth rescued during the preceding action with the Armada.

Light is the step and joyous the voice of that player. It almost cheers the heavy heart of the melancholy lad, his companion. Nay, it does, in some sort, apparently chase from his memory some rooted sorrow; for the large glowing orbs of the boy are oft-times turned towards the player as he speaks, and his step becomes more firm as they proceed.

Scarce a mile has been traversed from the town, ere the eye of the player catches sight of a gray and massive ruin on his right, and the steps of both are turned towards it.

Long lingered their footsteps beside that magnificent relic, and deeply ponders the player upon the surrounding scene.

His companion listened to his words with breathless interest. The glittering helmets of the cohorts of Rome seem to pass within the arena.

Nay, the spirit of the Roman, who reared the fortress, like a rock, upon that elevation, eighteen hundred years before, seems still to pervade the spot. There—where the thistle rears its lonely head, and the long grass of centuries waves in the wind—the shadowy forms of the imperial soldiery seem to glide by.

"And such," said the youth, as he listened to the words of his companion, "is in truth the impression felt in each locality where the pick and spade of the Roman has left trace of his conquering arm. The feelings you have just described, the shadowy remembrance such locality seems to conjure up, I have oft-times felt whilst at Clopton."

The player started. "At Clopton?" he said, as he looked curiously at the expressive countenance of his companion. In both there was a sort of dreamy recollection of having met before. "At Clopton, boy? True, there is a Roman trench in the park there. And so, then, thou knowest fair Warwickshire?"

The youth sighed,—his usual answer when his companion, during their short acquaintance, had inquired his history. "I do," he said.

"And know you Stratford-upon-Avon?" inquired the player.

"But too well," answered the youth, again sighing.

"Ah," said the player thoughtfully, "then well may I."

"And wherefore?" said the lad, looking archly in his face.

"I was born there," returned the player. "Have friends, wife, children at Stratford."

"And your name?" inquired the youth.

"Shakespeare, for fault of a better," said the player. And the pair soon afterwards left the Roman ruin and wended on towards London.

And now a new epoch seems to have arrived, and England (for the time being) may indeed be called "merrie England." The good old days of good Queen Bess are now in full force. The nation seems like a burly giant, who, lately weighed down by some heavy disease, and which it required all the strength of his constitution to surmount, suddenly finds himself again in health and strength.

"Now he breathes again, and can give audience to any tongue,Speak il of what it may."

The enjoyment of the sometime invalid is tenfold from the sudden rebound. Earth and sea, air and sky, look doubly beautiful, and each hour is one of enjoyment. The whole nation revels in the excitement and the joyous feelings consequent upon its deliverance from a fearful yoke. The anticipation of dishonour, torture, and slavery, are no more. The overweening Spaniard, "that Armado hight," has been smitten with deadly vengeance, and all care is thrown to the winds. The Queen, the courtiers, the soldiers, sailors, citizens, nay, all the realm are dancing a galliard through the country. And of all those dancers none danced more vigorously, or cut higher capers, than the royal Tudor herself and her dancing chancellor, Sir Christopher Hatton.

"Full oft within the spacious walls,When he had fifty winters o'er him,My grave lord-keeper led the brawls,And seals and maces danced before him.His bushy beard, and shoe-strings green,His high-crowned hat and satin doublet,Moved the stout heart of England's Queen,Though Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it."

Leicester, Essex, Raleigh, and Hatton, the especial gallants of the Court, "glittering in golden coats like images," are amongst those revellers.

In London and its environs, bear-baitings, bull-baitings, masques, morris dancers, theatrical exhibitions, and all sorts of diversions filled up the hours.

Great crowds of noblemen and gentlemen (who had met the Queen on her landing at Westminster after the dispersion of the Armada) attended her to St. James's Palace, and, day after day, entertained her, "all furnished, all in arms," with tilts and tourneys.

Fully did the English at this moment appreciate the merits of their Queen. She was extolled, glorified, and almost deified in the exuberance of their joy and loyalty.[23]

Oh that it came within the compass of our pen to describe the appearance of the Court. To introduce our reader, but for one short hour, within the walls of the palace; amidst that throng of princely gentlemen and stately dames clustered around one of the most gifted and extraordinary women that ever wielded a sceptre. Alas! the times are so changed, that the might, the magnificence of royalty, the grandeur of the scene within, and the halo shed around even the precincts of the palace, can scarcely be understood. The stately forms of the bearded yeomen; the glitter of the halbert, and the flash of weapons amidst tower and turret; the emblazoned doublet; the measured tread of men-at-arms on every post, and port, and passage; the lounging pages and servants, who throng the courts and offices; the hundreds of hangers-on upon royalty at this joyous period. The very sacred character of much that pertained to a palace seems to have vanished. The bold grandeur of the times seem to have departed with those cloistered and embattled buildings and the stately beings who inhabited them.

The very precincts of the Court,—the "whereabout of royalty," seemed invested with a sacred character during the reign of Elizabeth. The stern grandeur which pervaded tho habitations of the terrible Harry, her father, still surrounded the various dwellings of the no less majestic daughter.

Our readers must now imagine the Court in all its splendour at that old palace whose gateway and flanking towers still bear the cognizance and initials of the burly Harry; not as now, however, where the echoes of the drum and trumpet which rings and rattles out upon occasion of pomp and parade, reverberated from the goodly dwellings and ample streets by which it is neighboured.

St. James's palace, in Elizabeth's day, stood in the open country. It had been built upon the site of the dissolved hospital of St. James, by the bluff King, and its buttressed walls were surrounded by a sort of chase or park, the grounds of which to the north were, for the most part, wet and marshy. The heron flapped his wing in the pool where now the Green Park is situated, and amidst the tall trees upon the hill, at present called Bond Street, the deer couched in the fern. It was indeed a picturesque and noble building, exceeding handsome, as a writer of the sixteenth century describes it, built of brick, embattled for defence, and surrounded at the top with crenelles, the chase always green, and in which the Court can walk in summer. Indeed, every part around St. James's, built upon and populated as it now is, at the period of our story was the occasional haunt of Queen Elizabeth, where she rode, walked, and meditated, considered her household affairs, or disported with her ladies, her courtiers, and her lovers.

And what a picture did the scene without the palace exhibit a few weeks after the dispersion of the Armada, and whilst many of these noblemen and gentry, who, at the moment remained in London, were in constant attendance upon the Queen, and endeavouring to outshine each other in their devices and designs.

It is near the hour of noon; the sun shines upon tower and turret, and glances bright upon the arms of the various sentinels upon rampart and gateway. Within, the courtyard is crowded with men-at-arms and persons of all ranks passing in and out. And amongst these are the stately forms of many whom the page of history has had occasion to tell of. In the park without, numerous youthful cavaliers are careering about, mounted upon steeds splendidly caparisoned, whilst a mounted guard of honour stands enranked about a bow-shot in front of the principal entrance. Huntsmen and falconers too, bedight with the royal arms, their greyhounds in couples, and other dogs of the chase, are seen amidst the clank of arms, as the sentinels are relieved. Nay, the perfume of the scented courtiers pervade the air as they dismount and enter the palace. The steaming smell of hot dishes and savoury viands also salute the nostril, as cooks, scallions, servitors, and pages, are seen in the inner court leading from the kitchen, as the hour approaches for the royal banquet.

Shift the scene to the interior, and a magnificent sight strikes the eye, "the presence strew'd." The walls are hung with rich tapestry, and on either hand are the nobles of the Court, "a glittering throng." The Queen is about to pass through, and all are bare-headed. What a picture do those men present! Cloaked, ruffed, and rapiered, their Very apparel and arms studded with jewels, their bearded faces, so celebrated for manly beauty,—for the Queen loves to look upon the handsomest men the age can produce,—and limbs, and thews, and features, are sure to find favour in her sight. Whilst the nobility stand thus enranked, (many of lesser note at the bottom of the chamber,) a gentleman usher, dressed in velvet, with a golden chain, suddenly appears, the doors are thrown open, and the majestic Tudor is announced as at hand.

First come forth, with proud step and reared heads, some of those lately so celebrated in the "world's debate." Bare-headed, they have had especial and private audience in the presence. Raleigh, with hawk's eye and aquiline features, his very spirit glancing as he looks good-naturedly, but haughtily around. Then Essex, majestic in mien and regal-looking in demeanour, and seeming to carry on his dress the cost of whole manors. Then Leicester, splendid in person and dress, but with somewhat of a restless, uneasy, and sinister expression; dark as a gipsy, and so haughty and unbending in demeanour, that his countenance freezes the blood in the gazer's veins, and yet withal wearing a sort of smile, ever and anon, to shew his pearly teeth; his hand plays nervously with the hilt of his jewelled poniard, as he bows to the several nobles he recognises. And so they file in, and fall into line on either hand.

And now, whatever of conversation, amidst the assemblage, has been going on, suddenly ceases; and each man standing erect, and with his embroidered cloak advanced somewhat over the left arm, the one hand upon the rapier's heavy hilt, the plumed hat in the other—with eyes of expectation, await the moment of the Queen's appearance. A flourish of twelve trumpets and two kettle-drums immediately ring and rattle out; the battle-axes of the gentlemen-at-arms are lowered; and, lo, the Majesty of England has passed the door.

Elizabeth at this period of her reign was fifty-six years of age. Her face, although exceedingly majestic, shewed the deep furrows of care—the care which is the heir-loom of the diadem; her nose was somewhat hooked; her lips, narrow; her teeth, discoloured. In her ears she wore two enormous pearls with rich drops; and her small crown rested upon a mass of false red hair. Her bosom it was her pleasure to display uncovered (the custom of all English ladies before marriage); on her neck was a necklace of costly jewels. The dress she wore was of white silk, embroidered with enormous pearls, larger than beans. Over this dress she wore a costly mantle of coloured silk, shot with silver threads; and her long train was borne by a marchioness. In addition to all this, she wore, in place of a chain, a magnificent collar of gold and jewels. Her aspect upon the whole was at first sight pleasing; but on a steady view of her countenance, there was to be found the unendurable look of a line of kings. The eye that could gaze down a lion; the fierce glance of the royal Harry, was there; a glance which proclaimed the excitable nature of the Tudor blood.

She remained stationary for a few brief moments as soon as she entered the room, and seemed to comprehend the whole assemblage in one rapid glance. She then advanced, with her bevy of attendant ladies, and, at her pleasure, spoke first to one and then another of the nobles present. To one or two giving her hand to kiss, as a mark of special favour, her favourites (albeit they had already been favoured with a private audience) being every now and then appealed to; whilst the moment her eye detected any person of peculiar note, or not immediately belonging to her circle, she fixed him like a basilisk.

"Ah! Master Spenser," she said, as she stopped near the author of the "Faery Queen," "hast thou received the guerdon I promised thee for thy song yet? We rated Burleigh soundly for disobeying our orders, and bringing forth that jangling rhyme of thine, which touched our honour. Let me see how went it;" and the Queen repeated, with good emphasis and discretion, the words of the poet:

"I was promised on a time.To have reason for my rhyme:Since that time until this season,I have had nor rhyme nor reason."

"I was promised on a time.To have reason for my rhyme:

Since that time until this season,I have had nor rhyme nor reason."

"The radiant Gloriana," said Spenser, "doth overmuch honour my poor couplet by repeating it; nevertheless the rhyme still hath reason. Of that, our shepherd of the ocean[24]can testify."

"How! Raleigh," said the Queen, "hath not thy friend received the hundred pounds I promised him? This is overbold of Burleigh!" And the eye of the Queen shewed the lioness' glance as she looked around for the offender. Burleigh, however, had anticipated a storm, and sought the lower end of the room; meanwhile Raleigh, who seldom let an opportunity pass for pressing any suit he had to carry, replied that Spenser had as yet received nothing of the promised coin.

"My friend is as unlucky as myself," he said; "for neither hath he received his guerdon, any more than I myself have obtained the grant of lands your gracious bounty half promised."

"Ah!" said the Queen, (who spite of her partiality for the wit, genius, and valour of the adventurous and daring knight, little relished his rapacity). "Ah!" she said, "what, that suit of the fields at Mitcham again? And when will you cease to be a beggar, Raleigh?"

Raleigh saw he had half offended, but his impudence and readiness brought him through. "When your Majesty ceases to be a benefactress," he said, gracefully bowing.

The angry spot left the Queen's brow. She smiled and shook her head. "Thou art an accomplished courtier," she said, as she passed on, "but thou gettest not the Mitcham meadows of us yet notwithstanding."

"What mutterest thou, Tarleton?" she continued sharply, to one of the attendant clowns or comedians, whom she frequently admitted to her presence.

"I mutter nothing that I will not stand to, Madona," said Tarleton; "and that which your Majesty calls muttering, was but an assurance to my gossip, Raleigh, of all he requires, Raleigh hath but to open his mouth, and the tid bits from your royal table are sure to be cast into it."

"So!" said the Queen, rather angrily.

"Yes," returned the bold jester, "Look but on my lord there—he of the dark eye and olive complexion. By my fay, he hath swollen to such a huge bulk in the sunshine of your royal eye, that anon we shall all be overwhelmed!"

This sally of Tarleton's against the Earl of Leicester was received with a titter of applause, and Burleigh, who had indeed tutored the poor jester, greatly enjoyed it.

Elizabeth saw the feeling, and affecting to hear it with unconcern, turned to another of the court fools. "Well, Pace," she said, "and now I suppose we shall hear from you also of our faults."

"What is the use of speaking of that which all the town is talking of?" growled Pace.

Although the Queen permitted considerable license to men of this class, she was more deeply offended than she chose to shew, and passed on without another word. A few moments afterwards, however, both Pace and Tarleton were observed, at a hint from one of the gentlemen-at-arms, to quit the presence.

"Ah, Bacon," said the Queen to her ample-browed Lord Keeper, "we are sorry to see thee still suffering from the old enemy, the gout. Remain not standing here, my lord; go sit thee down. We make use of your good head, not your bad legs!"

Lord Bacon, nothing loth, bowed and hobbled off.

"My Lord Bacon's soul lodgeth well," she observed to one of her ladies, "and truly do we honour him therefore. We are the enemy of all dwarfs and monsters in shape, and would have all appointments, either civil or military, bestowed on men of good appearance. What sayest thou?"

"Certies, I am woman enough to be of your Majesty's opinion," answered the lady; "and yet your Majesty cannot always suit wit and judgment with a splendid dwelling: witness your royal choice of Sir Robert Cecil."

"True," said the Queen, "Cecil hath both a mean look and an ugly expression; but we cannot want the crook back."

The Queen now turned, and taking Leicester aside, held him for some time in conversation, during which all kept aloof. She then, as it was near the hour of dining, again passed down the line, still speaking to and noticing all she felt any inclination to propitiate, Leicester, Raleigh, and one or two of the more privileged courtiers following. As she passed into the second chamber, she observed amongst theéliteseveral whose rank had not entitled them to be in the presence-chamber; and wherever her eye fell on a handsome face and form, she stopped and made inquiry concerning such persons.

"I pray you, Mignonne," she said, turning to one of her ladies, "who is yonder handsome youth—he who stands there near the door?"

"I know not his name, Madam," said the lady.

"Pshaw," said the Queen, "I have ever those about me who are ignorant. Leicester," she continued, "what is the name of yonder youth?"

"He whom your Majesty's eye hath fascinated, even to the crimsoning of his cheeks," said Leicester, "is Charles Blount."

"Nay," said the Queen, "I could have sworn there was good blood in his veins. He is brother of Lord William Mountjoye, is he not so?"

"He is, Madam," said Leicester, "his younger brother, and now studying at the inns of court. He was in Drake's ship, and did good service against the Spaniard."

"Nay," said Elizabeth, "by my fay, an he was with Drake, he was like to be where blows were rife. Bid him approach."

The youth accordingly came forward and knelt to the Queen, who, still more struck by his handsome form and features, gave him her hand to kiss.

"Come again to Court, good Master Blount," she said, "and I will bethink me of your future fortunes."

The young man again blushed, and being extremely bashful, stammered some incoherent reply of thanks which, still more interested the Queen, and again she added words of encouragement.

The Earls of Essex and Leicester smiled contemptuously, and Essex, who stood near the Queen, made some sneering remark, which was partially overheard. Not even, however, could the favourite Essex escape censure at such a moment.

"Ha!" she said (turning sharply upon him), "say'st thou, my Lord? Stand back, lest we teach you manners here."

Essex bit his lip, but he was fain to obey, observing to my Lord Southampton "that every fool he thought was coming into favour."

"Then," said Southampton, who stood near, "'tis fit we introduce something not altogether so silly, and there is one here to-day I much wish her Majesty to notice. Ha! and look ye, she hath already found him."

"Of whom speak ye?" inquired Essex.

"Of one well beloved by thee," said Southampton. "See thou not the man there standing amidst the throng, somewhat behind the beefeaters?"

"I do," said Essex. "'Tis Will Shakespeare."

Meanwhile, whilst Essex, whose proud spirit being somewhat chafed, had thus remained behind the royal party, the Queen passed on talking right and left as was her wont, and discussing matters of political interest with those near her. "We will think of this matter, my Lord of Effingham," she said, in answer to something that noble had said. "I am ready, as thou hast seen, to arm for defence, but I make no wars."

"Nevertheless, your majesty should strike a blow at Spain ere he recover the effects of his discomfiture. I hear again of formidable preparations being in contemplation to avenge the destruction of his ships. Nay, Philip hath affirmed, and that on oath, that he will be revenged even if he is reduced to pawn the last candlestick on his altar."

"Nay, my Lord," said the Queen, "if the dollars of silver and ingots of gold, and which the wretched Indians work for in their native mines, could effect the conquest of this realm, he would assuredly succeed, hut I fear him not. We have stout hearts and heavy blades here in England to oppose to his glittering coin. Whilst you yourself, Raleigh, Frobisher, Drake, and other daring spirits are ready for the sea, we shall hold our own, my Lord."

"Nevertheless, your Majesty will, I trust, hear at a future opportunity what myself and my Lord of Essex have to urge in favour of an expedition against Spain."

"It may be we will hear both," said the Queen, "but in truth Essex is hardly to be entrusted with command. His impetuosity requireth a bridle, my Lord, rather than a spur. He is the soul of chivalry, but rash as he is brave; and see you there now," she said, turning and looking after Essex, "I reproved him but with one word, and his choler is aroused even towards us, his benefactress."

The Queen turned now to a tall, gaunt, but exceedingly noble looking old man, his costume partaking both of the soldier and the courtier. "Sir Thomas Lucy," she said, "we have heard of your gallantry during the action with the Armada. We thank, in your presence, all those gentlemen of fair Warwickshire for their alacrity in fitting out ships, and their bravery in fighting them. We heard of you Sir Thomas, in the hottest part of the battle."

"And where your Highness shall ever find me when the foes of England are to be met," said the old knight, proudly, and at the same time rearing his head as he watched the progress of the royal Tudor, Presently, however, the countenance of Sir Thomas underwent a slight change, he seemed to start at some name her Majesty pronounced. His pale iron-gray visage became flushed; nay, had Sir Thomas received an insult in the presence, the expression of his countenance could not have more instantly changed. Slowly and with contracted brows, his eyes rested upon the person Her Majesty was speaking to, and that, indeed, not five paces from where he himself stood. He was fixed—astonished. He could scarcely believe his eyes.

"What! Master Shakespeare," said the Queen, as her eagle-eye caught sight of the poet standing amongst a crowd of officials, "and so thou too hast come to Court? We have not ourself yet seen thy last poem—thy Tarquin and Lucrece, but Raleigh and Essex have repeated some passages to us."

Shakespeare bent his knee and presented a small roll of paper to the Queen, which she received graciously, and after glancing at it, "'tis well," she said, "we will, good William, be present." She then gave the poet her hand to kiss and passed through the door.

As Shakespeare rose from his knee he was immediately accosted and congratulated by the Earls of Essex and Southampton, whilst many others of the Court came about him.

Sir Thomas Lucy, meanwhile, continued to exhibit the utmost astonishment. The countenance of the poet he could hardly mistake. The name, too, he had caught the sound of, and in the person of one apparently on the most familiar terms with the grandees of Elizabeth's court, nay, one who was received with favour by the haughty Tudor herself, he saw the individual who had broke his park, stolen his deer, and decamped to avoid punishment for his offence.

Whilst, therefore, Shakespeare stood amidst the glittering throng, Sir Thomas still continued rapt in astonishment. Proud as he himself was, he felt (in common with all country squires), that removed from his own little domain, and transplanted into the wondrous world of fashion of London, he was but a "cypher in the great accompt." But a small mite indeed, helping to swell the grandeur of the court.

"A substitute shines brightly as a kingUntil a king be by, and then his stateEmpties itself (as doth an inland brook,)Into the main of waters."

"A substitute shines brightly as a kingUntil a king be by, and then his state

Empties itself (as doth an inland brook,)Into the main of waters."

"A parliament member," he muttered to himself, as the lampoon kept recurring to his mind, and as he watched the courtiers, so interested and so joyous, whilst in the influence of Shakespeare's wit. "It must be him—I am sure it's him—I know it's him—A justice of peace," he muttered: "at home a poor scarecrow. And on such terms here at court too! In London an ass," he continued, as he approached somewhat nearer, and took a more keen survey of the unconscious poet. "Yes, it is him sure enough; and yet—I'll make bold to make sure," and Sir Thomas accosted Sir Christopher Hatton, and inquired somewhat tartly, the name of the gentleman who seemed to keep the Lords Essex, Bacon, Leicester, and Sir Walter Raleigh, in such exceeding mirth.

"His name?" said Hatton, who was himself hastening to the feast of wit, "Why, it's our Shakespeare, man—The gentle Will—Knowest thou not Will Shakespeare, the very element of wit and pleasantry?"

"Shakespeare!" said Sir Thomas. "Shakespeare! Thank you. Sir Christopher. Shakespeare! the element of wit and pleasantry! And what may be the present calling of this element of whit?" he inquired.

"His calling; why, he's an actor, Sir Thomas—a poet, and a right good one. A player, sir, and a writer of plays; one, too, who keeps us amused.

"Oh!" said Sir Thomas, "'Tis so, is it? Good!—an actor—a mummer—a morisco."

"Come, Sir Thomas," said Sir Christopher, "I'll make him known to thee; I'll assure you he's a rare fellow, this Will Shakespeare."

"I thank you, la," said the knight truly. "I hold not acquaintance with mummers and wild moriscos. Farewell, Sir Christopher, I am away to Warwickshire. An ass, quotha. Well, this 'tis to have deer, and parks, and warrens—this 'tis to be a player. The world's turned athwart. Farewell, Sir Christopher, (he continued hurriedly to the dancing favorite,) fail not to come to Charlecote, we'll kill the buck there—eh?" And so Sir Thomas left the palace.

The more Sir Thomas Lucy heard, during his sojourn in London on the subject that had so startled him at Court, the more he wondered.

It was but a few days after he had caught a glimpse of the Warwickshire lad, whom he had hunted from his native town, that he found the name of William Shakespeare in the mouths of almost all he met. That his name should be at all subject of conversation at this precise moment, was indeed astonishing, considering the habits and pursuits of the generality of the Londoners. The warm citizens of London were for the most part a staid and grave set. The more juvenile were rude and rough; fond of athletic sports and out-door pastimes. They loved to see the bear tug and hug the hound; to witness the cruel conflict 'twixt mastiff and monkey; to see the bull driven to madness; or to shout over the bout at quarter-staff. Added to these pastimes it must be owned, however, that the patience with which they could sit at a (so-called) theatrical exhibition, and listen to the long-winded orations, speeches, and mysteries then in fashion, and which had been handed from their more ignorant ancestors, was a perfect marvel; for except that the fool or clown uttered here and there a conceit, a theatrical exhibition was a weary business. Shakespeare, who had now spent some time, in a sort of apprenticeship, amongst the players, had already altered this style; and just before the invasion of the Spaniards, he had perfectly astonished the town by producing a piece of his own writing—a play, which, albeit in our own time it is in comparison but slightly regarded, possessed in Elizabeth's day peculiar attractions. This play, which was called Pericles, had greatly delighted the Court and the city. It in some sort partook of the style of production most suited to the taste of the time, and prepared the way for more perfect productions.

It is not therefore matter of so much surprise, that just at this precise moment, when the fierce revelry consequent upon the dispersion of the Armada was beginning to pall upon the "monster with uncounted heads," the circumstance of William Shakespeare being about to produce another play, should make some stir.

As Sir Thomas passed through the Golden Chepe, he found, by the conversation of many whom he met, that the Queen intended to be at the Blackfriars Theatre that afternoon.

Now Sir Thomas had never in his life been inside a theatre in London. He had seen mysteries, mummeries, morris-dances, and Christmas revels in his own hall at Charlecote. But other sort of dramatic representation, in common with others of his class, he had no conception of or care for.

"Diccon," he said to one of the attendants who walked behind him (for Sir Thomas always promenaded the town with half-a-dozen serving men at his back,) "What is this play we heard my Lord Keeper speaking of?"

"Marry, Sir Thomas, it is a play written, I be informed, by one Sampson Beakspere of this town."

"Ah," said Sir Thomas, "Beakspere, said ye? Art sure that is the name?"

"One cannot be sure of anything, an it so please ye, in this sink of iniquity," said Diccon, "where lying, thieving, and every sort of villany existeth in open daylight. Nay, one cannot be sure of finding one's throat hale and sound in the morning when one lays down at night. By the same token, at the hostel where I lay, they cut off the badge containing the three silver pike-fish from all our sleeves."

"Beakspeare," said Sir Thomas, merely glancing at the denuded coat sleeve of his head serving-man. "Art sure it is notShakespeare, Diccon?"

"I cannot tell your honour. Beakspere was the name I understood, but it may probably be Shakespeare. Nay, I should not be surprised even if it was the very fellow who stole your honour's deer and stuck up bills against our park-gates. Nothing is too bad for this town and the people in it. I would we were fairly back in Warwickshire."

Sir Thomas looked hard at his serving-man, so unusually talkative in his presence. "Amongst other things they do in this town, Diccon," he said sharply, "it seems they have taught you to drink more strong beer before breakfast than your brains can bear. Go to, sirrah; less circumstance when you answer." And the stately knight held his way along Chepe.

On this morning he was intending to pay a visit to an old friend residing at Dowe-gate, and afterwards to take boat, at Styll-yard, and cross over to Bank-side, there to see the bear-bayting, and accordingly his serving-men turned down Bucklersbury, traversed Canwick Street, and completely bewildered themselves in East Chepe.

These thoroughfares were somewhat strait and exceedingly intricate in Elizabeth's day, whilst the encroaching stories of the houses grazed the plumes on the tall knight's castor, as he walked, so much so that he was fain to hold down his head. By which proceeding he, ever and anon, run full butt against some tall fellow or other, receiving such abuse as rather kept his philosophy from rusting.

"How now, thou mandrake, thou thin-faced gull!" said a tall man, dressed with great bravery, and who, accompanied by several others, was advancing from the water side; "how mean ye by that? Thou hast run thy hatchet visage full in my breast, and murdered my ruff, thou ass!"

"I cry ye mercy, fair sir," said Sir Thomas, who was always the gentleman. "I am as ready to make amends, as I have unconsciously offended."

"Offended, quotha," said the gallant, as he stood pluming himself, like a bird, and pinching out his crushed ruff, which starched with yellow starch stood out a foot at least from his neck. "Thou hast murdered my ruff, I tell thee, and shalt duly answer it."

"Of a verity," said Sir Thomas, "an I have endamaged thy ruff I will pay thy laundress coin wherewith to re-stiffen it. An I have ruffled thine honour I will give the reparation with my rapier, always presuming thou art a gentleman of coat armour, and fit opponent for my poor person, for thy language, to say sooth, is foul, and thy manner coarse even for this foul town."

"How speakest thou,—a gentleman and fit opponent for thee? Betake thee straight to thy weapon. Know I am a gentleman to the Earl of Leicester."

"Diccon," said Sir Thomas, sheathing his half-drawn rapier and stepping aside, "this is thy business. Tell this caitiff, that the language and behaviour of a menial should be at least civilized when he encounters a gentleman."

"Wilt not fight with me?" said the bully, who, together with his fellow, now rudely pressed upon the knight's party.

"Not willingly will I fight with a scavenger," said Sir Thomas, "the quarrel shall be a good quarrel, for I will fasten it upon the Earl thy master. I stand aside here—smite him, Diccon—well, Diccon—lay on my men all, and clear a passage. I would pass on."

Upon this the followers of Sir Thomas threw the round targets they carried on their left arms, before their breasts, and, spreading out over the whole width of the thoroughfare, drew their blades, and advancing upon the rude followers of the Earl of Leycester bore them back, so that Sir Thomas passed on his way to the bear-bayting.

In our times the profession of an actor presents a picture of uninterrupted drudgery and discomfort. In Elizabeth's day such was not the case. There was not then that continual craving after novelty, that constant production of pieces, written for the hour and the topic of the day, which gives an actor no rest. In comparison to our own race of actors (excellent as many of them are for the sort of work they have to do,) the actors of Elizabeth's day were a company of magnificoes, "proper fellows of their hands," and "tall gentlemen in their own esteem."

The thing they took easily, and with a certain dignity of deportment. It was indeed edifying to see one of these goodly fellows with part in his hand, his plumed hat, "short cloak and slops," and eke his rapier, taking his early walk, either in the fields or on Bank Side, or peradventure hiring a boat at the Blackfriars, and thus gesticulating, with a short and diminutive bowled pipe in his mouth, studying the author's meaning to the letter, andgetting up his lengths.

Sometimes they went forth in companies, these men, to some favourite rural haunt, some delightfully situated hostel or tavern by the river's bank, or to the bowery woods near Richmond or Greenwich. On such occasions they would take boat, and make the river echo with their jokes, and puns, and witticisms, as they were wafted along on its glassy surface. At other times a select few would hire horses and beat up the towns of Windsor, Mortlake[25], and other places which the occasional residence of the Court made more gay and populous; for these actors loved to haunt the whereabout of royalty. Their professional knowledge made them exceeding good companions too. Glorious fellows. And then how dearly too did "mine host of the tavern," enter into their joviality, and aid them in those little waggeries they were so prone to engage in.

None but those who have mixed amongst actors of talent, and know them intimately, can have an idea of the charm of their society. The very characters they have to personate, good or ill, and the moralities taught in the pieces they are obliged to study, ought to, and does, render them better men. Their study also is to give peculiar effect to all they say and do. And oft-times with them the most common place sentence is pointed into something witty. They understand the "jest's prosperity," and in an instant they penetrated through the follies, the ignorance and the cunning of the common-place. Their ideas being for the most part free, unfettered, and unshackled by mercantile matters, their sentiments are ennobled by the study of those parts they have to perform.

And oh, what fascination, what delight, what a world of itself, is the scenic hour! The romance of feeling, the inexpressible charm, belonging to that brilliant little period, none know but the actors themselves. It is oft-times their all of life; the rest is flat and stale? they live but for those few brief moments in which they glitter the observed of all observers, the admiration, the delight, nay, almost the envy of the audience. Like the lunatic, the lover, and the poet, they are "of imagination all compact." The actor has thrown himself into the author's conception. The poet's world is also the world of him who enacts the part the poet has written. He lives in his author's period, not only whilst acting, but whilst studying the part. The loves, the hates, the fears, the joys, the doing of all around are pertaining to himself—as if "'twas reality he felt."

Some of these men were very noble fellows, (if we may so term it), noble at least in sentiment, if not in blood, and who would have scorned to perform the mean acts perpetrated by men in a class far above them. They knew, too, in what the point of honour consisted, and were "sudden and quick in quarrel" where they conceived themselves insulted; and it was this virtue in the better sort of the actors of Elizabeth's day which made them sought for, and associated with, by many of the best of the nobility. Nay, it must be remembered that at a somewhat later period of England's history, and when civil war "channelled her fields," the actors were, to a man, found enranked amongst the cavaliers, and fighting "on the party of the King." Their professional education taught them to "hold in hate the canting round-heads," and they fought and bled for the better cause.

How dearly Shakespeare loved the scenic hour his own doings have, we think, proclaimed. The world around him, too, at the period in which he lived and wrote presented much that was grand and exciting. He had but to note what he observed in the vicinity of Elizabeth's Court, in order to pourtray some of his scenes.

From the first moment of his introduction within the walls of the theatre, he had felt the fascination of the "scenic hour," and become captivated with the society of the actors, oven rude as the pieces were which he found them performing. To one of his own natural parts and brilliant wit, there was to be found an endless fund of amusement amongst such men. Their way of life also had its charm. How he loved those summer excursions amidst the sweet scenery of Old Windsor—those country revels in which he mingled amongst the rural throng, in all the sports and pastimes "of the old age." He had now been resident in London some time, and besides being noticed by many of the "choice and master spirits of the age," had become acquainted with some of the native burghers of the city, and their connexions in the country around.

The amusements of the early portion of Elizabeth's reign for the most part consisted in her dearly-loved bull and bear-baiting, with occasionally the more refined masques and pageants. These latter, however, were of rare occurrence, and usually called forth by some exciting occasion, such for instance as the visit of a foreign ambassador, the celebration of a victory, or the return of some joyous festival. The votaries of the "deformed thief, Fashion," did not then herd together as now. Factions, jealousies, and fears together with the dangerous intrigues which the great carried on against each other, and which oft-times brought the heads of such contrivers to the block, kept the grandees apart. Added to which, those mediums of varied amusement which assemble theélitewith one another in our own day, were not in existence.

At the period in which our story had now arrived, however, an event was about to take place which made some little stir, and drew a large concourse from both Court and city into one focus.

This was neither more nor less than a new play, written as was then said, by "a right pleasant and merry conceited companion," named William Shakespeare. It was to be enacted within the walls of an old monastery called the Blackfriars. The performance was entitled "The Lamentable Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet;" and so great was the interest created, that the Queen, with such of her Court as she chose should attend her on the occasion, had signified an intention of being present.

It will doubtless appear somewhat extraordinary to many of our readers to find such a performance taking place within the walls of a religious edifice. But the civic authorities had so often opposed the representation of regular performance in the city that the actors at last sought a place without their jurisdiction, and finally obtained the deserted building within the precincts of the dissolved monastery of the Blackfriars, and fitted some parts up for a theatre.

In the preceding reigns there had been no public buildings exclusively appropriated to dramatic entertainment. The most common places of performance were the yards of the Chaucer-like hostels, in the various towns through which the actors wandered.

Some of these inns are even yet remaining, although altered and modernized, in the city of London, and also along the Old Kent Road. The gateways of such houses formed one side of the quadrangle, whilst the balconies, being accessible from the various chambers, obviated all necessity of descending amongst the vulgar in the yard.

In such galleries kings and nobles, the fierce Norman of the Crusades, the knight, the esquire, and the damsel of high decree, had leant over the rails in the olden time, and witnessed the miracle-plays and mysteries then exhibiting. Such for instance as the miracle-play of the Creation, wherein Adam and Eve appeared "in puris naturalibus," and were, as the play quaintly says, "NOT ASHAMED." The earliest of theatres were churches; the earliest performers, monks and friars; and for the most part their exhibitions being on religious subjects, such as the descent of our Saviour to liberate our first parents, John the Baptist and the prophets from the lower regions. On the accession of Henry the Eighth, acting had become an ordinary profession, and companies of players were attached to each town; but previous to the reign of the bluff monarch, plays on general subjects were unknown, yet long before that period it had been customary for great noblemen to have companies of players attached to their household.

Such, then, is a short summary of theatrical affairs previous to the period in which Shakespeare startled the town by his productions,—making a single vault from the lowest depth of misrule and barbarity to the highest pinnacle of excellence in dramatic art and composition; and, apparently without any ostensible guide whereby to steer his course, at once striking out a path, so exquisitely conceived, so laden with perfumed flowers, so filled with romance and beauty, that all the world of after-times has bowed down in worshipful adoration. Of after-times, however, it is not our hint to speak. The sight and impression of Shakespeare's own play, in the infancy of his career, himself enacting a part, and speaking his own words, is what we have to look upon. To bring before the reader's eye that "poor player, who strutted his hour upon the stage, and then was heard no more." "Heard no more!"—his own words! How "rounded in the ear," and yet how strange to reflect upon.

We have already said that the expected performance had on this occasion drawn together a considerable audience both from Court and city.

Such was indeed the case, and taking into consideration in what consisted a considerable audience at that period, and when accommodation was at best but scant, the concourse of persons hieing to witness Master Shakespeare's new play was very great.

Theéliteof the Court, for the most part, took boat from their own residences, or from Westminster, where they waited within the Abbey walls for the arrival of the Queen. The citizens, on the contrary, came thronging through Paul's and Ludgate, and over Flete Bridge, and along Knight Ryder's Street, filling the open space before the Abbey, citywards, and cracking their jokes with each other on that side, whilst other nobles and their attendants being congregated about the water-gate or sauntering within the wall, (at that period extending along the Thames from Baynard Castle to Bridewell), presented a gay and brilliant appearance.

All along this part and up to the point of entrance, through the various gateways and passages, until the theatre itself was reached, the actors had strewn fresh rushes, and to and fro upon these flags walked several whose names were famous in the world; and as they walked they debated of matters appertaining.

And now, as the chimes sounded from Old Paul's proclaiming the hour of 4 p.m., soft music was heard upon the water at some little distance, with the sullen boom of the kettle drum. Soon after which, boats containing the yeomen of the guard touched the Abbey stairs, the men as they landed falling in file by file in extended order beneath the various arches and along the passages; and shortly afterwards, as boat after boat discharged its brilliant freightage and shot off again, the Queen, with several of her ladies attendant, and theéliteof the Court, stepped on shore. As they took their way amidst the cloisters and gothic arches of that old building so darkly venerable, and besides whose walls flowed the broad Thames, it seemed singular to hear the echo of the gay courtier, to listen to the clash of weapon, and the measured tread of the guard, as they followed the royal Tudor, together with the mincing step and affected voice of the Court fop. On the other side, and in the same precincts was also to be heard the ribald jest of the 'prentice of Chepe, and the ringing laugh of the city madam, as they entered the theatre.

Within, too, what was the sight there? Methinks our readers will be anxious to look within those walls, where their own Shakespeare was living, breathing, nay, at that moment, perhaps, dressing for his part, and about to fret his hour.

The aspect of the interior, as it bursts upon the gazer's eye, is indeed curious.

Here was no vast triumphal specimen of architecture; the whole seemed got up for the nonce. But oh! how exquisite—how characteristic of him who was then striving against so many difficulties.

The partition-wall between two large apartments of the monastery had been cut through, so as to form the stage, the proscenium, and the circle. Nay, so rude was the whole construction, that, to a modern eye, it would have seemed only suited to some "play of ten words long," wherein there was not "one word apt, one player fitted." And yet doth a single glance within this rude theatre present all we can expect to find. The boxes were a sort of gallery, along which stood and leant the gallants and ladies of the Court. The Queen and her own especial party being enthroned in ft sort of canopy in the centre—looking indeed very like the lady in the lobster.

The rude throne on which she sat was merely railed off from the other seats, and standing behind her chair, on either hand, were several of her favourites. On her right stood Leicester, on her left Essex—both magnificent in look and apparel. Immediately behind her also, on the right of her chair, (stepping down whenever she addressed him), was Sir Philip Sidney. Beside him stood Sir Christopher Hatton, and Bacon was seated near, not being able to remain long on his gouty foot. The rich costume of these magnificent looking men, and their splendid jewels, and weapons, glittered in the reflection of the many torches held by some of the Queen's servants, and even several of the guard held flaming torches in their hands.

In what would now be called the pit, were congregated the citizens. The members of the inns of court, etc., they stood (for there were no seats in that part of the theatre), leaned upon their rapiers, and intentlywatched, as it was then termed, the play.

The stage, which was somewhat elevated above the pit, was on each side furnished with three-legged stools, and strewed with rushes and seated thereon, and even, (one or two of them throwing their careless lengths along), nay even smoking their diminutive pipes, were also several of the privileged of the Court. Raleigh was upon one side, Spenser on the other; my Lord Southampton was also half reclined upon the rushes, whilst others of the privileged sprawled about.

Such was, indeed, a custom of the time (albeit it was exceedingly distasteful to the audience), as these gallants, whilst they swaggered with their rapiers, or combed their long curls, interfered frequently with the business of the hour, mewing like cats, hissing like serpents, tickling each other's ears with the rushes, and, if they had any pique against actor or author, "damning him utterlie." Nay, it was extremely fashionable at this period for a gallant to salute his friend in the boxes, in the midst of the performance, or carry on a loud conversation so as utterly to discontinue and distract the business of the hour, and being thus in the very midst of the actors, perhaps, himself and company would then get up and withdraw, making as much noise as possible. In addition to this was the rudeness of the "all licensed clowns," who laughed in order to set on the barren spectators tolaughtoo, though, in the mean time, "some necessary question of the play had to be considered."

On the present occasion, however, albeit the conversation was somewhat of the loudest, the company were necessitated to be somewhat restrained within the bounds of propriety out of respect to the Queen.

The orchestra, we fear, must haverather"split the ears of the groundlings." The performers were, for the most part, situated behind the scenes. It consisted principally of wind instruments and two kettle-drums, which, ever and anon, sounded out a wild flourish of martial music, whilst a viol-de-gamba and several fiddles occasionally created a sort of relief to the troubled ear.

In our own times, indeed, magnificent as the whole scene must have appeared, it would have been criticised severely. The loud talking of those on the stage, the impertinence of the clowns, the rudeness and small dimensions of the stage, and whole theatre, and which latter indeed was calculated to give the actors a gigantic appearance, bringing them too close to the audience, would have been cavilled at. In addition to all this, was the lack of scenery and decorations; nay, so great was the dearth of painted scenery at this interesting period, that the spot on which the scene was supposed to occur, was indicated by a board or placard, upon which was written the particular locality.

Still, with all those deficiencies, the whole aspect of the interior would have presented an extraordinary effect to a modern spectator.

The Queen, beneath her canopy of state, for so was it be-fashioned; her splendid guard standing immediately beneath, and bearing "staff torches," which threw their glare upon the spectators, and lit up the Gothic architecture of that abbey playhouse. The stage itself being also, on this occasion, lighted by torches held by servitors having the royal arms emblazoned on their doublets. Then those choice spirits of the Court too, sitting or lying on either hand, and several of the gentlemen-pensioners on guard at each wing. Altogether, rude as was the theatre, the entire scene was, as we have already said, one of peculiar splendour. Meanwhile, during the few brief minutes before the curtain rises, a lively conversation was going on amongst the audience.

"Ah, what, Sir Thomas Lucy, art thou, too, come to see the play to-night?" said Lord Burleigh to our old Warwickshire acquaintance, who was elbowing his way into the gallery amongst theélite. "By cock and pie, but 'tis long since thou and I have met at masque or revel."

"Fie! my lord. 'Tis so indeed," returned the knight, "some twenty winters is it since we foregathered at Arundel Castle."

"Go to, Sir Thomas," said Lord Burleigh, "By 'ur Lady, 'tis thirty years come Martinmas. Rememberest thou the revels there, what time we saw enacted in the great hall the Castle of Perseverance?"

"Truly, I had forgotten that," said Sir Thomas Lucy. "Yet now I do remember me thereof."

"Go to," said Lord Burleigh, "those were princely revels. Dost remember in the performance how rare it was to see the seven deadly sins do their parts?"

"Ah, and how featly the dancers tripped it?" struck in Sir Christopher Hatton.

"I do now remember me," said Sir Thomas, "of those deadly sins. Let me see, there was Pride, Wrath, Envy, Luxury, Sloth, and Gluttony. By the same token they came mounted on their hobbys, and assailed the castle."

"Aye," said Hatton, "and then Humanum Genus (who defended it) was sore bested; truly it was excellent, and then came Mors, or Dreary Death, and took Humanum Genus and carried him off."

"Aye, but then the fool, Sir Thomas!" said Burleigh, "rememberest thou the scurvy knave of a fool? By my fay, ha was the life o' the night. Truly, Sir Thomas, the fool was a most worthy fool; not altogether an ass,—eh?"

"Ahem!" said Sir Thomas, who liked not the word ass, "methinks Her Majesty doth glance towards this part, nay, now she peradventure wisheth a word with you."

"Go to," said Burleigh, "I will attend. Oh, that fool! methinks I had as lief go hang as go see a play without a fool in't. Oh! that ass, Sir Thomas; and Sir Thomas, and Lord Burleigh, and Hatton sidled up towards the Queen, and joined in the conversation carried on there upon theatrical subjects.

"Your Majesty will understand," said Lord Revel (who was something of a fop), "that this Shakespeare hath a new style, which is very commendably excellent. A most perfect style, altogether his own. Hast seen anything yet of his producing, my Lord Burleigh?"

My Lord Burleigh shook his head, an old custom with him. "I have not," he replied, "but I hear great things of his poetry."

"Go to," said the Queen, in answer to some remark of Sir Philip Sydney's. "Those matters, Sir Philip, were good, but here be better. Didst thou witness the former play of this man's writing, Sir Thomas Lucy?" she enquired of the Knight of Charlecote.

"If it is so, please your Majesty, I did not," he returned.

"'Fore Heaven, then, thou hadst a great loss. You heard of it? peradventure."

"Truly, your Majesty, we hear not of such matters in Warwickshire as these your London plays," said Sir Thomas drily.

"But you have heard of Master Shakespeare, and seen his verse? Nay, methinks you must have seen his verse."

Sir Thomas coughed (he glanced at her Majesty in order to see if she was bantering him), "His verse, your Majesty," he said.

"Truly so," said the Queen. "How like you Master Shakespeare's verse, Sir Thomas."

"Very scurvily, in verity, what I have seen of it, that is to say. Ahem!"

"That is singular," said the Queen. "Methinks there could hardly be a double opinion upon Master Shakespeare's verse. It is most exquisite and unmatchable."

"I cannot say I have seen anything I particularly admire in it nevertheless," said Sir Thomas, drily.

"What verse have you seen?" inquired the Queen. "Can you repeat a stanza?"

"Ahem! Your Majesty," said Sir Thomas, "I am not altogether good at repeating poetry. I like it not. Sir Philip Sydney was about to observe something,—he understands these matters."

"I am but saying to my Lord of Leicester," said Sir Philip, "that according to the present system, those stage matters are managed in a somewhat more rapid style than was wont to be the custom. Now, for instance, we must tax our imagination. For look ye, if in the play the ladies walk forth before one's eyes and gather flowers, what skills it but your Majesty is forthwith to imagine the stage a garden. By-and-by two wet mariners speak of shipwreck in the same place. Then indeed, are we to blame an we accept it not for a barren sand or rock. Upon the back of that cometh out a hideous monster with fire and smoke issuing from his nostrils; and then the miserable beholders are bound to take it for a cave, whilst in the meantime two armies flying in are represented by some half-a-dozen swords and bucklers, and then what hard heart will not receive it for a pitched field?"

"By my fay, Sir Philip," said the Queen, "we must then have imaginations as fertile as him who writeth these changeful varieties."

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

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

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