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THE 
 
 YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 BY 
 
 ROBERT FOLKSTONE WILLIAMS, 
 
 AUTHOR OF " SHAKSPEARE ; AND HIS FRIENDS," "THE 
 SECRET PASSION," ETC. 
 
 "^ 
 
 All the world's a stage, 
 And the men and women merely players. 
 They have their exits and their entrances. 
 And one man in his time plays many parts. 
 
 SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Triumph, my Britain ! thou hast one to show 
 To whom all scenes of Europe homage own. 
 
 Ben Jonson. 
 
 /> fHjila&elpfyia: 
 
 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS; 
 
 306 CHESTNUT STREET. 
 
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 
 
 306 CHESTNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA, 
 
 HAVE JUST PUBLISHED A NEW AND BEAUTIFUL EDITION OF THE 
 
 CELEBR-A-TED 
 
 SHAKSPEAEE NOVELS. 
 
 BY 
 
 ROBERT FOLKSTONE WILLIAMS. 
 
 Each one being issued complete in a large octavo volume, neatly 
 done up in paper covers. The following are the names of these cel- 
 ebrated works: 
 
 I. 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 PRICE ONE DOLLAR, 
 II. 
 
 SHAKSPEAEE AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 PRICE ONE DOLLAR. 
 III. 
 
 THE SECRET PASSION. 
 
 PRICE ONE DOLLAR. 
 
 Copies of either of the above works will be sent to any one, to any 
 place, free of postage, on receipt by us of One Dollar; or a com- 
 plete set, of the three works, will be sent to any one, free of postage, 
 on receipt by us of Three Dollars. 
 
 Address all orders and remittances to the Publishers, 
 
 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 
 
 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa., 
 And they will receive immediate and prompt attention. 
 
% 
 
 <? 3-T 
 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 AH was this Land ful filled of Faerie, 
 The Elf-Quene with hire jolie company 
 Daunsed full oft in many a grene mede, 
 This was the old opinion, as 1 rede. 
 
 Chaucer. 
 
 The vallies rang with their delicious strains, 
 
 And pleasure reveled on those happy plains. 
 
 Chalkhill. 
 
 What if my lordinge doo chaunce for to miss me? 
 The worst that can happen his cudgel will kiss 
 me. 
 Tragicall Comedte of Apius and Virginia. 
 
 Oh ! what a beauteous night was that 
 time-honored twenty-third of April, in the 
 year of our Lord one thousand five hundred 
 ind sixty-four ! The air was clear as any 
 crystal, and the wind just shaking the fra- 
 grance from the young blossoms, as it 
 swept along to make music in the fresh 
 leaves of the tall trees, did create such har- 
 mony and sweetness therein, that nothing 
 could have appeared so delectable, save the 
 star-best added sky above, wherein the lady 
 moon was seen to glide with so silvery a 
 brightness that the sapphire heavens, the 
 flowery earth, and the sparkling water, 
 were appareled in one mantle of the deli- 
 catest light. Peradventure so fair a night 
 hath never been seen before or since ; yet, 
 of such bountiful beauty as it v< r as through- 
 out, there was one spot wherein its ex- 
 quisite rare attractions were heaped to- 
 gether with so prodigal a hand, that the 
 place, for the exceeding pleasantness of 
 its aspect, must have been like unto thaf 
 
 famous garden of Paradise, that held out 
 first parents in their primitive innocency 
 and happiness. 
 
 It was a low meadow field, marked by 
 sundry declivities and inequalities, where- 
 on a goodly show of all manner of spring 
 flowers were sleeping in the moonlight, 
 even to the very waves of that right famous 
 river the Avon, which was flowing along 
 in all its refreshing loveliness, at its margin. 
 Trees were here and there of divers kinds, 
 garmented in their newest livery of green ; 
 a row of alders, a clump of beeches, a soli- 
 tary oak, a shady- coppice, were stretching 
 far and wide in one direction ; and hedges 
 of hawthorn and elder, interspersed with 
 crab, wild plum, and towering elms, would 
 intersect the country in others. Close at 
 hand was the town of Stratford, with the 
 tall spire of the church, and the quaint 
 eaves of the houses distinctly visible. Here 
 stood the mansion of one of its persons of 
 worship. There the more modest dwelling 
 of an industrious yeoman. At one place 
 was the cottage of the sturdy laborer ; in 
 another the tenement of the honest miller ; 
 whilst, as the eye stretched out to the dis- 
 tance, other buildings might be faiutly seen 
 which doubtless marked the situation of the 
 neighboring villages. 
 
 But, although signs of habitation were 
 thus plentiful, of man or woman not one 
 was there in sight ; for this especial reason, 
 all manner of honest folk had laid them 
 down to sleep long since. Little could be 
 seen of live things, excepting perchance a 
 water-rat swimming upon the Avon, or 
 mayhap, a fold of sheep on the adjoining 
 (9) 
 
10 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 form ; or heard, save the tinkle of the 
 sheep-bells, or the bark of the shepherd's 
 dog, occasionally responded to by some dog 
 afar off; or the rushing of the water at the 
 mill-wheel, or the croaking of the frogs 
 among the rushes, or the hooting of an owl 
 as she passed by, intent on a mousing expe- 
 dition to the nearest barn ; and these sounds 
 made as excellent sweet music as ever 
 poet did delight to hear. Certes this was 
 just such a scene, and these the very pro- 
 perest accompaniments for awakening in 
 the heart that profound sympathy with na- 
 ture which the few to whom such feeling 
 is familiar give expression to, in sentiments 
 that partake of the same beauty and immor- 
 tality as the source whence they spring. 
 All at once a new and unfamiliar sound 
 came floating upon the air. It was faint 
 and indistinct, a mere murmur ; yet music- 
 ally soft and low. Gradually it grew upon 
 the ear, as a blossom opening to the sun- 
 shine. A gentle harmony became distin- 
 guishable ; then came tones of such ex- 
 quisite melodiousness, it was ravishing to 
 listen to them. At last voices, seeming 
 in some number, were readily heard, and 
 then, words becoming audible, they were at 
 *ast distinctly repeated in the following 
 order : 
 
 " We come from the violet's azure cells, 
 We come from the cowslip's golden bells, 
 From the hawthorn's odorous bloom we fly ; 
 From the dewy eaves 
 Of the primrose leaves, 
 From the daisy's blushing buds we hie ; 
 And fill the air with sounds and sights 
 
 As though to earth all heaven was streaming, 
 More sweet than lover's stolen delights, 
 
 More bright than aught loved maid is dream- 
 ing. 
 We come from the snowdrop's pallid head, 
 We come from the heather's lowly bed, 
 From the wild bee's haunt and the wood-lark's 
 home ; 
 
 From the grassy couch 
 Where the lev'rets crouch, 
 And the coney hides ; — we come ! we come !" 
 
 Whilst this roundelay was being sung, 
 there appeared moving in the atmosphere, 
 all manner of bright colors, like unto a 
 goodly rainbow in the heavens, or a shower 
 of all the delicatest flowers upon the earth, 
 and presently forms could be distinctly 
 traced amongst them ; and as they ap- 
 proached the banks of the river, it was seen 
 that they were crowds of tiny beings, of 
 shape as beautiful as ever the eye looked 
 on ; garmented very daintily in what seem- 
 ed to be blossoms of divers kinds and colors. 
 Their complexions were marvelous fair; 
 heir hair of a bright golden hue, curling 
 
 very prettily, decorated with exceeding 
 small wreaths, or, mayhap, a dainty sweet 
 flower worn as a helmet ; and they floated 
 on the air with infinite ease in every possi- 
 ble position ; some plunging head down- 
 wards ; and others, as it were, reclining 
 backwards, looking to observe who came 
 after them. On they came, as countless as 
 the stars ; and in the centre was one, round 
 whom the rest were thronging with a won- 
 derful show of love and reverence ; and she 
 reclined in a car, carved of pearl that seem- 
 to be as light as a gossamer, was shaped 
 like a shell, and drawn by two bright-wing- 
 ed butterflies. Her face was as lovely as 
 the morning light, and on her brows she 
 wore a coronal of jasmine studded with 
 fresh dew drops. A scarf of rose color oi 
 a singular fine fabric, the material whereot 
 had doubtless been stolen from the silk- 
 worm's web, was tied from the shoulder to 
 the hip, where it was fastened in a bow 
 over a close vest of a sapphire hue, richly 
 ornamented with gold leaves ; and the rest 
 of her appareling was of the like pretty fan- 
 tasy. Scarcely had this exquisite fair crea- 
 ture and her companions alighted on the 
 enameled banks of the river, and the voices 
 had become hushed into an indistinct mur- 
 mur of pleasure at finding themselves at 
 their journey's end, when the air was again 
 filled with the same wondrous harmonies 
 and delicate words, that had there been cre- 
 ated so recently ; but the voices now were 
 of a deeper tone. 
 
 Presently there appeared, hovering about, 
 a vast crowd of similar little beings as 
 those that had a moment since alighted on 
 the ground, only these were of a more mas- 
 culine aspect, and garmented in hose* and 
 doublet, fitting tight to the body, of divers 
 delicate colors, wearing famous pretty 
 feathers in their caps, mayhap filched from 
 the small birds ; and some had quivers of 
 arrows at their backs. Some wore a smart 
 rapier, of at least the length of a tailor's 
 needle ; and many carried spears of a mar- 
 velous fine point and thinness. -These 
 were floating on the air in all manner of 
 picturesque attitudes, save one who sat ia 
 a fair car of gold, drawn by a pair of gi 
 gantic dragon-flies, attended by a company 
 who appeared to act as a guard of honor. 
 He wore a crown on his head, and a rapier 
 at his side, and a purple robe of fine velvet, 
 richly embroidered with stars, over his vest. 
 Perpetual youth sat smiling on his counte- 
 nance, and his limbs were of so graceful a 
 shape, my poor words have not the cunning 
 to describe it. As this assembly descended 
 to join the other, a chc rus of mutual coi* 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 11 
 
 gratulation arose, whereof the burthen of 
 ■Jie sylphs was, " Hail Oberon !" and that 
 of the others, "Hail Titania '" — showing 
 hat those two were the king and queen of 
 "airie, — which seemed to be sung with such 
 wonderful joy and so sweet a spirit, that it 
 was exquisite to hear beyond all conceiv- 
 ing. 
 
 King Oberon having stepped from his 
 car, advanced to that of his queen close by, 
 and with a very excellent courtesy, did 
 hand the fair Titania out, perchance to 
 tread a measure on the verdant mead ; 
 whereupon their discourse ran thus : 
 
 " Light of my life, and life of all my joy !" 
 rapturously exclaimed the fairy king. 
 " In whose fair eyes, the fountains of my bliss, 
 My soul drinks sweeter and more delicate 
 
 draughts 
 Than flowers or fruits provide ; say with what 
 
 aim, 
 For well I know some hidden purpose lies 
 Within the covert of thy fantasy, 
 Have I been summoned with my company 
 From the deep dingle in the emerald wood, 
 Where, 'mid the tangled roots and gnarled 
 
 boughs 
 Of reverential oaks and hoary pines, 
 With our rude mirth we rouse the dappled deer 
 Or chase the owlets to their dark retreats." 
 " And what wouldst give to know 1" 
 asked Titania, with a pretty seriousness. 
 
 " What give, sweetheart 1" replied he. 
 *' How like a very woman art thou grown ! 
 Thou hast some pretty meaning in the act, 
 Some quaint device, mayhap some harmless 
 
 jest, 
 Whereby the rosy hollows of thy cheek 
 Shall be arrayed with all thy fairest smiles, 
 To bear glad witness how man's wiser mind 
 Can by a woman's wit be set at nought. 
 And for the secret thou'lt a bargain make, 
 Which having ratified, the secret's told ; 
 And in its nothingness must lie the jest, 
 And in its point thy triumph." 
 
 " Tush, my lord !" 
 cried his fair companion, half turning from him. 
 " Art thou so little curious as this 1 
 Nay, by the trembling beam that leaves the 
 
 skies 
 To steal soft kisses from the yielding wave, 
 I'll hie me hence and tell thee not at all." 
 " In pity say not so !" said he. 
 
 " I'll say and do !" 
 answered the other with a famous show of re- 
 solution. 
 " Seem'st thou not more inclined to learn the 
 
 drift 
 Of why on such a night of all the year, 
 1 bade thee hasten to this favored spot." 
 
 " Then am I curious to such excess," ob- 
 served her lord, 
 ■ As passeth all conceiving. I prithee say 
 What was thy purpose. Tell it straight, 
 
 For my impatience is so powerful 
 As will endure no hindrance." 
 
 "" O' my word !" cried Titania, 
 " Thy nature grows impatient of a sudden. 
 Fie on thee, my lord ! Dost mock me so ! 
 With such conceits dost think a woman caugh 
 Who for a curious humor hath been famed, 
 And therefore knoweth how it shows itself? 
 Hadst thou a secret, I would never rest 
 A minute, nay, a moment of the hour, 
 Till I became its mistress. I would watch 
 All fittest opportunities to ply 
 The searchingest questions ever spoke ; 
 And at thy rising and thy lying down. 
 The hunt, the walk, the banquet or the dance , 
 In brief, in every time and ev'ry place, 
 I'd importune thee with such earnestness, 
 And in a way so lovingly withal, 
 Thou couldst not hold it from me if thou 
 
 wouldst ; 
 Or shouldst thou still attempt to keep it hid, 
 Then would I venture close to where it hides, 
 And with sweet force dislodge it from thy lips." 
 " Then thus such sweet enforcement I em- 
 ploy." 
 
 Thereupon his elfin majesty very gallant- 
 ly did salute his lovely queen, the which 
 she received as if in no way inclined to an- 
 ger, as may be supposed ; and then they, 
 saying manifold loving pleasantries unto 
 each other, walked to were there was a 
 banqueting table, set out for them, with all 
 manner of tempting delicates, and sat them- 
 selves down, each in a sort of throne ; for 
 the reader must be made aware, that whilst 
 the king and queen of Fairie were convers- 
 ing as hath been described, there were 
 raised upon the green sward by their attend- 
 ants, a royal canopy of crimson silk and 
 gold, and a goodly display of most delecta- 
 ble cheer ; and hundreds of the little people 
 were running about putting the things in 
 order, whilst groups of beautiful sylphs 
 were receiving notable sweet courtesies 
 from tueir elfin gallants ; some reclining 
 their graceful figures on the delicate grass, 
 and others standing up as if preparing for 
 the dance ; and in another place, there 
 were seen a score or so of musicians, 
 tuning of their records, theorbos, citterns 
 harps, sackbuts, and the like choice instru- 
 ments. Presently the queen gave the sign 
 for them to begin their revels, and then the 
 music struck up a most ravishing minstrel- 
 sy ; the dancers commenced treading a 
 measure with such infinite grace as hath 
 never been visible to mortal eyes, and the 
 rest were disporting of themselves in all 
 parts of the meadow, laughing, jesting, 
 feasting and making merry with such a 
 prodigality of happiness as dull mortality 
 hath no knowledge of. Some were a hunt* 
 
12 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 ing of the field-mice into their holes, or 
 driving the leaping frogs into the river, with 
 a famous hallooing and admirable cheerful 
 noise ; others of the merry elves Wfe amu- 
 sing of themselves by jumping ^^r the 
 toadstools that grew thereabouts, and may- 
 hap one, not being so good a leaper as his 
 fellows, would jump clean into one of these 
 dry fungous plants, to the near smothering 
 of himself in its dust, and choking of his 
 companions with laughter. Then some of 
 the sylphs, who were not of the dancers, 
 were engaged in making wreaths of the 
 delicatest blossoms in season, either for 
 those they affected of the other sex, or for 
 their own wear. Others were putting to- 
 pather a true-love posie. Here and there 
 might be seer a couple, apart from the rest, 
 uy the ex.ju>>te earnestness of their coun- 
 tenances, dt faring themselves to be em- 
 ployed in such delectable manner as showed 
 there was no lack of affectionateness be- 
 twixt them ; and a company of others had 
 got in the midst of them an elf of a most 
 jocund spirit, known to divers by the sever- 
 al names of Puck, Robin Goodfellow, and 
 Will-o'-the-Wisp, who, as was evident from 
 their faces, with his droll jests and diverting 
 tricks, kept them in a constant humor of 
 laughing. Here would be one mischievous 
 elf running after a sylph with a huge worm, 
 which it was manifest she liked not the 
 looks of ; and there another pelting a 
 companion with cowslips, who was making 
 ready to fling at him with a like missile. 
 Everywhere there was the appearance of 
 the very absolutest free-heartedness ; not a 
 grave face was to be seen, not a sigh was 
 to be heard. 
 
 Now there were seen amongst them such 
 abundance of pleasant pastime, as was quite 
 a marvel to behold, in the which the tricksy 
 Will-o-the-Wisp, or Puck, or Robin Good- 
 fellow, as he was variously called, did ap- 
 pear to enjoy himself to the very bent of his 
 humor. In the meanwhile Titania and 
 Oberon moved from the banquet, and were 
 soon pleasantly engaged treading of a 
 measure to the delicatest music ever known. 
 Ml of a sudden as they were disporting of 
 themselves, every one of them very merrily, 
 there came one hastening from the other 
 end of the meadow, crying out something, 
 the which as soon as it was heard, banquet, 
 canopy, dancers, musicians, and all the fairy 
 world disappeared in the twinkling of an 
 sye, and of that gallant company no vestige 
 now remained. The blades of the young 
 ■"-ass, unharmed by the light footfalls of the I 
 jay dancers, bent t-> the midnight wind, j 
 «*he frogs came needing from the rushes 1 
 
 and the timid water-rat ventureu *o put her 
 head out of the covered hole beneath the 
 river's bank, wherein she had made her 
 home. 
 
 " It be woundy cold o' nights, still dame, 
 for all it be getting so nigh unto the flowery 
 month of May," exclaimed an awkward var- 
 let, looking to be something betwixt man 
 and boy, and dressed in a humble suit of 
 russet, famously worn and soiled, that fitted 
 him not at all, as, carrying of a huge lan- 
 thorn with an outstretched arm before him. 
 he seemed to be guiding of a short stout 
 woman, well wrapped up in a serviceable 
 cloak and muffler, who bent her steps 
 through the field towards the neighboring 
 town. 
 
 " Ay, it be cold enough, out of all doubt,'' 
 replied his companion, in a quick thick 
 voice, half swallowed in her muffler, as she 
 endeavored to keep as near as possible tc 
 his heels. " Yet do I remember me a colder 
 night than this, two years ago this very 
 day." 
 
 " Odd zooks ! was it so indeed ?" asked 
 the other in a tone of monstrous won- 
 dering. 
 
 " Ay, that was it, Humphrey," replied the 
 woman with impressive earnestness. " That 
 night I had laid me down to rest my weary 
 bones, and nigh unto midnight I had got me 
 into the comfortablest slumber weary body 
 ever had, when there came at the gate so 
 huge a noise, I had like to have been fright- 
 ened out of my sleep and my wits too. I 
 dressed me in a presently, wondering who 
 could be a sending at that time, not expect- 
 ing to hear from Mistress Hathaway, for a 
 month to come, nor from Dame Hart, for a 
 full week ; when looking out from the lattice 
 I spied a horseman, in a cloak that swept 
 down close upon his horse's heels, who, in a 
 terrible high voice, bade me come quick, for 
 life and death depended on my speed. 
 Thereupon, as may be suppposed of me, I 
 made all convenient haste in my appareling 
 — for thou knowest, Humphrey, I like to 
 keep none waiting." 
 
 " O my life, Gammer Lambswool,'' ex- 
 claimed the other drily, "kept you not 
 me an hour by the clock, ere I got sight of 
 you, I know not what waiting means." 
 
 " Nay, nay, — thou couldst not have been 
 at the gate so long as that," replied the old 
 woman ; " for ere thou badst well knocked 
 twice, I called to thee from the lattice." 
 
 "■So God me save," cried out Humphrey, 
 with wonderful emphasis, " I knocked some 
 scores of times — to say nought of the mon- 
 strous bawling I kept up, loud enougn to 
 wake the seven sleepers : and I doubt no! 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 13 
 
 at all, master will give me a taste of the 
 cudgel for having tarried so long." 
 
 "He shall do thee no such unkind office, 
 be assured," said Gammer Lambswool, 
 u for J will take care to bear thee blameless 
 in the matter. But to return to what I was 
 a saying," added she, too glad at having a 
 listener, to let him off without the whole story. 
 " On coming to the gate, the stranger was 
 for having me mount upon a pillion behind 
 him, which I liked not at first : but upon 
 his pressing the emergency of the case, 
 and placing a gold piece in my hand, I 
 made no more to do — for I like not appear- 
 ing over scrupulous in matters of jeopardy, 
 tie more especially when an honest wager 
 :js to be gained by it. T had scarce got my 
 seat when the stranger said he must needs 
 blind-fold me, the which I liked less than 
 the other ; but upon his assuring me I 
 should suffer no harm, and placing another 
 gold piece in my hand, I suffered it to be 
 done, for thinks I, mayhap, the occasion re- 
 quireth secresy ; and I oft had a huge sus- 
 picion there was no necessity for me to 
 seem to know more than those who required 
 my aid, would allow ; if so be they paid me 
 well for holding of^my curiousness." 
 
 " Here be a villainous thick cloud about 
 to cover up the moon, and be hanged to 
 it !" exclaimed her companion in a tone of 
 vexation, as, with a face waxing marvelous- 
 ly fearful, he watched the approach of a 
 broad black cloud spreading over the sky. 
 u Make more speed I pray you, good Gam- 
 mer, else we shall be left in the dark before 
 we haye got out of this field, which hath 
 the horridest reputation of any place in 
 these parts ; and I like not passing through 
 it at this late hour, I promise you." 
 
 " In honest truth it be not in good re- 
 pute," observed the old woman, quickening 
 her pace somewhat. " Unnatural strange 
 sights have been seen here, and it be well 
 known that they by whom they have been 
 looked on, have never been themselves 
 Bjnce. But to my story. Hardly had he 
 oiindfolded me when he spurred his horse to 
 so monstrous a pace, that it seemed more 
 like unto flying than riding ; and, not having 
 been used to such, perchance I should soon 
 have been jolted from my seat, had not I 
 held my companion round the girdle as firm 
 as a vice. Now began I to repent of my 
 too great willingness to venture on this er- 
 land. T was going I knew not where, with 
 I knew not whom, to do I knew not what ; 
 but when I bethought me of the stranger's 
 largess, I took heart, for out of all doubt a 
 piece of gold is a notable fine recommenda- 
 tion in anew aofiaintance ! and methinks 
 
 it be ungrateful to think ill of those who 
 have behaved handsomely to you ; so 1 said 
 nought, and proceeded on my journey with 
 as much contentation as I might." 
 
 " A grace of G6d, Gammer, make more 
 speed .'" cried her companion earnestly. 
 
 " I be getting on as fast as my old legs 
 can carry me," answered she; and then 
 continued her gossip. " Well, we travelled 
 on at this terrible pace for I know not how 
 long a time, till the horse came to a dead 
 stop ; and, with an injunction to be silent, 
 my companion quickly alighted, carried me 
 some little distance in his arms, led me up 
 some steps, and then leading me yet a little 
 further, suddenly pulled the bandage off my 
 eyes. I found myself in a very stately 
 chamber, having the most costly hangings 
 eye ever beheld, and everything of a like 
 splendor about it. Lights were burning on 
 a table close upon the bed's foot, but I had 
 not time to notice one half of what was 
 there, when my conductor haughtily bade 
 me look to my patient, as he pointed to the 
 bed ; ana hearing a most piteous groan, 1 
 hastened to do his bidding." 
 
 " Mercy, good Gammer, make mere speed! 
 These clouds be close upon the moon, and 
 we not half through this terrible field yet ;" 
 cried Humphrey, evidently more attentive 
 to the look of the sky than the speech ot 
 his companion. 
 
 " Marry, 'tis so sure enough !" exclaimed 
 the old dame, taking a hasty glance at the 
 moon. " Well, there found I a dainty young 
 creature, assuredly in as doleful a strait as 
 poor lady ever was ; and I came in the very 
 nick of time, to do her such desirable ser- 
 vice as she required of me. I sought to 
 give her what comfort I could, but 1 was 
 stopped by the voice of him who had brought 
 me, angrily bidding me hold my prate, and 
 speed my office ; and then broke he out into 
 such bitter invectives against the poor lady, 
 as were dreadful to hear, to the which she 
 replied never a word, for indeed she could 
 not, she was in such severe travail. At 
 last, to my great joy, the lady became a 
 mother ; but scarce had I took the babe in 
 my arms, when my gentleman, who had 
 been all this time striding across the roon. 
 seemingly in a bad humor, hearing the child 
 cry, darted towards me, snatched it rudely 
 away, and hurried out of the room with it. 
 I felt at that moment as if 'twould be an 
 easy matter to knock me down with a 
 feather. I could have no doubt there waa 
 a most cruel mischief a-doing, and my blood 
 run cold within me, at the thought of it." 
 
 " There ! the moon hath gone clean oul 
 of sight !" exclaimed Humphrey, as if in 
 
14 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 otter despair. " Alack, what an unchristian 
 place for an honest poor body to be in at this 
 ate hour." 
 
 " Well, we must e'en get on as well as 
 « r e can, and the lanthorn will help us to 
 make sure we go not astray," observed the 
 „4her consolingly. 
 
 " What to do I knew not," continued 
 «he. " The poor mother looked to be scarce 
 alive, that was pitiful enough to see, let her 
 ault have been what it might ; but taking 
 way the life of an innocent babe that had 
 scarce began to breathe, could not be ought 
 else than a very devilish and unnatural 
 murder." 
 
 " Nay, talk not of murder I pray you, 
 good Gammer !" cried her companion very 
 movingly ; " I cannot see the length of my 
 arm, and I know not what monstrous fear- 
 ful things may be in the darkness, ready to 
 pounce out upon us." 
 
 " Nothing unnatural can hurt you if you 
 be not evil inclined, let them here- lie ever 
 bo thick," observed the old dairfl : but this 
 seemed not to add much to the other's small 
 stock of courage, for he continued to walk 
 along, looking suspiciously about him in as 
 perfect a fear as ever was, whilst Gammer 
 Lambswool strove to keep as close at his 
 heels as she could. 
 
 " Ere I could recover myself from the 
 strange fright, what had been that moment 
 done, had put me in, he returned, and with- 
 out the child," added she with much empha- 
 sis. "Whereupon I was so confounded 
 and terrified at the sight of him, that I re- 
 member not what further took place, till I 
 . found myself at mine own door with a full 
 purse in my hand ; but less glad at the 
 sight of it than I was to be quit of the vil- 
 lain's company." 
 
 " Mercy, Gammer, what be that !" cried 
 Humphrey, in a monstrous fearful voice, as 
 he lifted up his lantern, evidently a trem- 
 bling from head to foot, and seemed to be 
 gazing at something in the distance. 
 
 " Where, I pray you !" inquired the oth- 
 er eagerly, as she strove to raise herself on 
 her toes for to peep over his shoulder. 
 
 " It moves !" whispered her companion, 
 drawing his breath hard. 
 
 " Heaven save us from all harm !" mut- 
 tered the old woman, beginning to partake 
 of the other's alarm, though she knew not 
 as yet what it was caused by. 
 
 " By St. Nicholas, it be making towards 
 us!" added he as plainly as his fright 
 would allow, and the next moment the lan- 
 tern dropped from his trembling hands, and 
 
 with an ague. Gammer Lambswool, being 
 in the dark — for their light had been extin 
 guished by the fall — and hearing something 
 approaching, was about to take to her 
 prayers also, when she was startled by a 
 quick succession of blows, that seemed to 
 fall upon her companion with a force that 
 quickly put all conceit of a ghost out of her 
 head. 
 
 " Why, thou idling varlet !" exclaimed a 
 voice close beside her. " Wert not strictly 
 told not to tarry a moment, and thou hast 
 been gone nigh these two hours past — a 
 murrain on thee." 
 
 " Oh, master !" bawled Humphrey, most 
 lustily, writhing under the punishment he 
 was receiving. " Hurt me no more, I pray 
 you. Mercy, good master ! In honest 
 truth I tarried no more than I could help." 
 
 " Indeed, Master Shakspeare, he is not tc 
 blame, for I was hindered from coming," 
 cried the old woman. " But tell me, I be- 
 seeeh you, how fareth your sweet wife ?" 
 
 " Badly, as she needs must, when she 
 hath been crying out for you so long," an- 
 swered he, as if somewhat out of humor. 
 
 " Well, dear heart, lead you the way, 1 
 will haste to her without a moment's more 
 delaying,' ' said the Gammer, in a sort of 
 coaxing voice ; upon which Humphrey, 
 picking up his lantern, and quite forgetting 
 his fear in the cudgelling he had lately had, 
 although, in honest truth, he had been 
 scarce hurt at all — seeing his master and 
 the midwife moving off as fast as they 
 could — kept close to their heels till they 
 reached John Shakspeare's dwelling in 
 Henley Street. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 At first THE INFANT. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 Porter. On my Christian conscience, this 
 one christening will beget a thousand ; here 
 will be father, godfather, and all together. 
 Man. The spoons will be the bigger, sir. 
 
 Ibid. 
 He ruleth all the roast 
 With bragging and with boast, 
 Borne up on every side 
 With pomp and with pride. 
 
 John Skelton. 
 
 Now there was an admirable jovial com- 
 pany assembled at the dwelling of Dame 
 Shakspeare, to do honor to the christening 
 tie fell on his knees, saying of "his prayers, I of her child, and among them were many 
 with his teeth a chattering as if he was taken I of the worth v burgesses ef Stratford; far 
 
THE YOUTH UP SIIAKSPEARE. 
 
 15 
 
 be it understood, Jo in Shasspeare was 
 known to be a thriving mr,, and such are 
 Ber<j to have no lack of." acquaintances ; and 
 his excellent partner having come of a family 
 01 some repute in those parts, being no 
 other than the heiress of Arden, was much 
 looked up to ; and, as she appeared unto all, 
 of an honest kind heart ar. J admirable sweet 
 aature, she possessed e-"ery onrs good 
 word ; of which the consequence was, the 
 house coiild scarce contain the company 
 ihe occasion had assembled, Some stooa 
 about the porch jesting and making merry ; 
 others were in the garden, especially of the 
 vounger sort, amusing themselves w'.ta 
 pleasant talk one with another. One or 
 two decent motherly dames were in the 
 kitchen bustling to and iio, lookir.g to the 
 dinner, of which a huge fire covered with 
 pots and kettles, and having a famous large 
 ioint at the spit, a little ragged urchin ^ept 
 turning — being well minded of all not ;o let 
 it burn — showed some preparation — the 
 whilst a stout wench with famous red 
 cheeks and elbows, evidently in her best 
 finery, along with Humphrey, in his Sunday 
 ierkin, kept hurrying in and out, laden with 
 knives, napery, drinking vessels, trenches, 
 and other needful things at a feasting. 
 
 In the best chamber of the whole house 
 which looked to be newly strewed with 
 fresh rushes, and garnished here and there 
 with such flowers as were in season, some 
 in china bowls, and some in parcel-gilt 
 goblets, there was a large recess, made by 
 that end of the room abutting out into the 
 street, wherein were most of the principal 
 personages of the company. First, for in 
 respect of his caJing, I would give him 
 precedency of the others, there sat Si^ Na- 
 thaniel the curate, easily to be known by 
 his portly person, his merry eye, his loud 
 laugh, and his free speech. It was bruited 
 abroad that he lored good living better that 
 became a churchman, and his maple face 
 and famous rou.id belly did confirm such 
 tales wonderfully. In apparel he was slov- 
 enly, and not o^er clean in his linen ; but 
 being of a ready wit and of a cheerful hu- 
 mor, he went on from day to day feasting 
 wherever there was any store of victual, a 
 welcome if not an honored guest. Beside 
 him was one Stripes the schoolmaster, and 
 as folks said, a notable conjurer, who had 
 a very lean look with him, and wore such 
 garments as seemed to be clean past all 
 recovery of tailoring, they were so thread- 
 bare. By whai was goicg on ; it appeared 
 as if ne was content to oe the butt of thj 
 other, for he took in good part at the jests 
 the curate aimed at his shrunk shanks, hie 
 
 lantern jaws, his darned hose, and his old 
 fashioned doublet, and moreover assented to 
 what the other said, with a readiness that 
 savored much of servility. Nearer this way 
 sat a substantial looking yeoman, by name 
 Richard Hathaway, clad in honest home- 
 spun, in deep discourse with a neighboring 
 wealthy sheep farmer, concerning the mar- 
 ket price of wool, the state of the crops, and 
 the like matters. A knot of burgesses 
 were standing round two aldermen of the 
 town, who were debating very stoutly upo»< 
 business connected with the corporation . 
 and the parish clerk, a little dumpy mar 
 with monstrous thick legs, was leaning ha/ 
 out of the casement, in earnest talk with 
 some one in the street below. 
 
 At the further end of the chamber were 
 all the women congregated, appareled in 
 their very best, and talking as though none 
 had a mind to listen. The rich farmer's 
 wife, sitting very stately in a robe of fine 
 scarlet, with a white hood, a gay purse, and 
 a bunch of keys at her side, hanging from 
 a silken belt of silver tissue ; whilst her 
 waist was bound with a sash of grass-green 
 silk richly embroidered, no lack of jewels 
 about her, and on each ringer two rings at 
 least, divided the admiration of her compan- 
 ions with the aldermen's wives in watchet- 
 colored tunics and fringed kirtles, with 
 golden coifs and other costly toys, where- 
 with they had attired themselves. In the 
 midst of them sat Dame Shakspeare, mod- 
 estly and matronly clad, and without doubt, 
 as seemly a woman as any there, looking 
 contented and happy, and giving very earnest 
 thanks to her good friends and guests as 
 they made up to her with some pretty gift 
 or another — mayhap, a set of apostle spoons, 
 or a standing cup of silver, or a gilt bowl, 
 for the boy, who, with the chrisom-cloth 
 about him in token of his recent baptism, 
 lay in the arms of his nurse — a rosy faced 
 dame, who stood beside her mistress com- 
 mending of the babe to all comers above 
 babes that ever lived. And lastly, by the 
 door, giving a hearty welcome to all who 
 entered, dressed in an excellent suit of Lin- 
 coln green, and having as cheerful face as 
 a man ever wore, stood worthy John Shaks- 
 peare, the giver of the feast. 
 
 " Come in, neighbors ! I pray you come 
 in !" exclaimed he, as some were entering. 
 " I am heartily glad to see you, and n» t good 
 dame be as ready to give you a welcovne I'll 
 be bound for't. Well met Thomas Hart ! 
 Robert Bruce I commend me to your good 
 will. Worthy Hammet Sadler I am much 
 beholden to you for this visit. Ha, Oliver 
 Dumps !" cried he, as his eyes lighte on a 
 
16 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 melancholy looking little man, in a new 
 .eathern jerkin and black karsie hose. 
 " Though most men hugely mislike visits 
 of the constable, I greet you well." 
 
 " God requite you, neighbor," answered 
 the man, not altering a whit the solemness 
 of his aspect. 
 
 " Methinks we are all indifferently hon- 
 est," continued his host. " Yet are we well 
 inclined you should exercise your office 
 amongst us with as little hindrance as may 
 be." 
 
 " Marry, 'tis a villainous world !" ex- 
 claimed the constable. " But if any disho- 
 nesty hath been done, point me out the 
 knave, that I may take him up before his 
 worship." 
 
 " Nay, by your leave not so," replied the 
 other. "If* you are for taking up, we are 
 only willing you should take up the dinner : 
 but with such an offender we doubL not being 
 able to play the high bailiff as well as any 
 in the county, and would on the instant 
 commit him to safe custody in our own 
 keeping." Thereupon there was a laugh 
 of those around ; for when the host taketh 
 upon himself to jest, even if his wit be not 
 of the brightest, the guests must lack good 
 manners sadly, if their mirth break not out 
 at it without stinting. 
 
 " See you, John a Combe ?" inquired the 
 buxom wife of one of the aldermen to the 
 other, as they now stood somewhat apart 
 from the rest, observing the scene I have 
 endeavored to describe. 
 
 " Ay, yonder is he, Mistress Alderman 
 Malmsey," replied the other, pointing to one 
 who had just entered, and seemed by his 
 apparel to be somewhat of a gallant, for he 
 was very daintily dressed in a new puce- 
 colored doublet, with scarlet hose, buff 
 Bhoes, and fine rosettes to them : a well 
 Btarched ruff below his beard, and a hand- 
 some rapier at his girdle. 
 
 " By our Lady, Mistress Alderman Dow- 
 las, he beareth himself bravely," exclaimed 
 the first. 
 
 " I'faith methinks he is as pretty a man 
 as any of his inches," added the other. 
 
 " And then to note how civilly he behaveth 
 bimself," continued Dame Malmsey. " He 
 ever speaketh of us women in such delicate, 
 respectful terms as would do a woman's 
 heart good to hear ; and if any so much as 
 Insinuate aught to our prejudice, it moveth 
 him so, he will be ready to fight the biggest 
 man of them all." 
 
 w And yet I marvel he should still remain 
 a bachelor," observed Dame Dowlas. " He 
 cannot be less than a good manly age, for as 
 Master Alderman, my husband, hath told me, 
 
 it was twenty-five years come Whitsur«ti«k^ 
 since old John a Combe bought his wedding 
 suit of his father ; and that he is well accom* 
 modated for a wife there can be no question, 
 seeing that he hath ever a fair sum of money 
 in his purse at a friend's need, and old John 
 a Combe hath the reputation of well filled 
 coffers." 
 
 " Perchance the old man is not willing his 
 son should marry," said her companion.-*- 
 "Or, mayhap, thinks it fit he should wed 
 with none but the chiefest families, for he 
 hath taken infinite pains, and spared not the 
 cost, he should have as good schooling as 
 any in the land ; whereof the consequence is, 
 you shall find young John a Combe one of 
 the properest gentlemen to be met with in all 
 Warwickshire." 
 
 " Certes, he seemeth not to affect one more 
 than another," exclaimed Dame Malmsey." 
 " But I would wager my best kirtle, there is 
 never a maid for five miles round Stratford, 
 who would not give her ears to have him for 
 a husband." 
 
 " In all sincerity I say it, I wish he may 
 find a wife worthy of him," said the other, to 
 which her companion added a like sincere 
 wish. In the meanwhile, the object of their 
 friendly commendations passed across the 
 chamber, very courteously returning the 
 courtesies of those he met, — and few were 
 there that did not hasten to greet him, as 
 soon as they caught sight of him at his en- 
 trance, which showed in what estimation he 
 was. These as quickly as he well could be 
 parted from, and made up to Dame Shak- 
 speare, who with a face radiant with her 
 choicest smiles, gave him her hand at his 
 approach. 
 
 " I beseech you, pardon me, I have come 
 so late," said he to her, in a very soft, gentle- 
 manlike voice ; "I have been detained against 
 my will, else would I have been here long 
 since." 
 
 " I pray you, trouble not yourself about 
 it," replied she, with an excellent pleasant 
 kindness. " Believe me, you are infinitel) 
 welcome, Master Combe, honor our poo 
 dwelling when you will." 
 
 " In sooth, I regret exceedingly not having 
 sooner paid my respects to our young master 
 here," added he, looking from the smiling 
 mother to the pretty babe with a delighted 
 countenance. " For never saw I, in all my 
 days, a child whose exquisite comeliness 
 made earliest acquaintance so desirable." 
 
 " Nay, sweet Sir, it is your goodness that 
 maketh you think so," replied she, though 
 pleased beyond measure with the compli- 
 ment. 
 
 " An' it please your worship, it be very 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 17 
 
 firquisilc comeliness, indeed !" exclaimed 
 the nurse with some emphasis, as she held 
 sut the child to be seen by him more conve- 
 niently. " In all honesty I say it, I know 
 no* the babe so choicely featured. I pray 
 / ou, note how fair a forehead it hath — the 
 -.air, no silk ever was of such marvelous fine- 
 ness — here are cheeks that bees would clus- 
 ter at taking them to be such delicate rari- 
 jies as they have had no experience of — but 
 the eyes. I pray your worship, look at these 
 eyes ! What pretty twinklers they be ! So 
 mild, so soft, so loving, and so roguish withal ! 
 I'faith, eyes of so rare a sort surely no child 
 ever had ; and as for this dainty little mouth 
 ■ — if there shall be found any cherry so tempt- 
 ing to look upon, I am no true woman." 
 
 " O my life, he is wonderfully pretty !'' 
 ^ied John a Combe, gazing with an admir- 
 ing eye upon its many attractions. 
 
 " Dost think so, really?" asked the happy 
 Mother. 
 
 " But then, it hath such strange, wise, 
 notable ways with it as exceed all my 
 cunning to describe," continued the nurse, 
 jumping her charge up and down abit as 
 nurses do. " And for a curious nature, his 
 exceedeth all comprehension. There shall 
 nothing pass in his presence unnoticed of 
 him ; and if any thing new come within his 
 reach, doubt not he will have hold of it in a 
 presently; nay, his curiousness is of so ex- 
 treme a sort, that if he but get sight of a 
 thing, he will allow of no peace till he have 
 it in his hand, and thereby gain some know- 
 ledge what stuff it be made of." 
 
 " Methinks, nurse, there is much sign of 
 after wisdom in being so early a learner," 
 observed John a Combe. 
 
 " Ay, an it please your worship,, that is 
 there I'll warrant you," replied she. " Then 
 as for his temper, he is so sweetly disposed, 
 none can help loving him. He is none of 
 your cross-grained, restless, ill-behaved little 
 brats that be ever a squalling and bawling 
 from morning till night, disturbing of every 
 one — not he by my halidom ! for he is so 
 peaceable, you might live in the house and 
 not know a babe was in it. He goeth to 
 sleep just when it is proper for him, and 
 wakes himself up only at such times as may 
 be most convenient for him to be looked to. In 
 shoit, I will be bound for't, his like is not to 
 be found in this world ; and if he come not 
 Jo be a bishop or at least a justice o' the 
 peace, I shall be hugely mistaken in him." 
 
 " O my word, nurse, you have mighty 
 hopes of him," exclaimed Dame Shakspeare, 
 gazing fondly, and somewhat proudly, on 
 the object of so much eulogy, as it lay dandl- 
 ing in the arms of her attendant. " In good 
 
 truth, I cannot expect for the boy any such 
 famous fortune, and should be well satisfied, 
 could I be assured he would live to play the 
 part of an honest man, and die in the esti 
 mation of his fellows." 
 
 " If such be your desire, believe me the 
 assurance is easily come at," remarked John 
 a Combe, courteously ; " for it is manifest 
 from what nurse hath said of him, that he 
 possesses his mother's excellent rare virtues, 
 and with such commendable gifts he cannot 
 fail to realize all honorable expectations." 
 
 " I am proud of your good opinion, worthy 
 Master Combe," answered she, with the un- 
 affectedness of a truly modest woman. " It 
 shall at least keep me at my powerfulest en- 
 deavors to deserve.it better." 
 
 " As some small token of my regard, I 
 beseech you, accept of me this poor trifle 
 for your sweet son," said he, as he produced 
 a very daintily wrought silver cup and cover. 
 
 " Beshrew my heart, but that is as pretty 
 a present for a babe as I have seen this many 
 a day," exclaimed the nurse ; and then ad- 
 dressing the infant, as she let him rise and 
 fall in her arms, cried out, " Hoity toity, my 
 young master ! thou hast a goodly store of 
 friends methinks ! But thou deservest it 
 every bit, thou dost, thou pretty rogue ! ' 
 And then she fell to tickling of him with one 
 hand upon his chest, whilst she held him by 
 the other, till the babe laughed after so de- 
 licate a fashion as was exquisite to see. 
 
 * I feel too much beholden to you, worthy 
 Master Combe, to say aught of the matter," 
 said the delighted mother. 
 
 " And here, nurse," he added, taking out 
 of his purse a piece of silver, which he 
 placed in her hands, " is some small token 
 you should bestow your best attentions on 
 this my young friend here." 
 
 " That will T, your worship, .depend on't, 
 and a million of thanks for your worship's 
 largess," exclaimed the other, dropping a 
 curtsey, as she accepted the coin. " Well, 
 commend me to Master Combe, for a true 
 gentleman !" continued she as he had re- 
 tired to another part of the chamber. 
 
 " He is ever so," answered her mistress. 
 " He giveth signs of a most liberal heart, 
 and is at all times a ready mean for the do- 
 ing of any good. Perchance one might 
 travel masy miles, and not meet with so 
 good a neighbor, so true a friend, or so 
 worthy a Christian." 
 
 " Now, neighbors ! now friends ! an it 
 please you in to dinner," cried John Shaks- 
 peare : on the instant, all were in prepara- 
 tion to obey the welcome summons, and John 
 a Combe hurrying back to Dame Shakspeare, 
 gallantly led the way with her, followed ty 
 
18 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Jhe rest of the company, till he had placed . 
 ler in her proper seat. After Sir Nathaniel 
 nad said grace, the company set down to a 
 dinner that would have gladdened any but 
 to have beheld ; for there was brought upon 
 the table a famous store of all things in 
 season, with plenty of excellent liquor, both 
 ale and cider, and all set to with good ap- 
 petites and with an evident determination to 
 enjoy the cheer that had been provided for 
 them. Of these, none so distinguished 
 himself as did the curate and the school- 
 master. Stripes sat nearly bolt upright in 
 his chair, as serious as a judge and as rave- 
 nous as a wolf ; yet there was not so glar- 
 ing an impudency in his proceedings as was 
 in the other, for he was not importunate — he 
 waited to be asked — eat what was given 
 him — was ready again ; and with small 
 pressing, continued at it till long after all 
 else had done. 
 
 The host and hostess seemed ever anx- 
 ious that each person should have what he 
 liked, and plenty of it, and kept Maud the 
 girl, and Humphrey, the boy, at their vigil- 
 ance, supplying of what was needed, whilst 
 John a Combe busied himself in pressing 
 those nighest him to make good cheer, and 
 looked as if he cared not what he had him- 
 self, as long as the rest fared well. Of a 
 Burety every one appeared to enjoy himself 
 to his heart's content, nor were the women 
 altogether unmindful of the bountiful hospi- 
 tality that had garnished the board ; for they 
 eat and praised, and smiled in such a sort 
 as showed how well they were pleased with 
 their entertainment. 
 
 At last the meal was over, the dishes re- 
 moved, and in their stead the tables were 
 covered with a plentiful variety of cakes, such 
 fruit as could be got, Marchpane, apples and 
 comfits, stewed prunes and dishes of other 
 preserves, syllabubs for the younger folks 
 muffle of new milk and verjuice, and wine 
 for the elders of two or three several kinds ; 
 besides which, John Shakspeare was brew- 
 ing a goodly bowl of sack with sugar in it, 
 for such as affected such delicate drink, of 
 whom the two aldermen were most conspic- 
 uous, swearing there was no such liquor in 
 the world, whilst his excellent sweet wife 
 opposite was preparing a jug of spiced ale, 
 such liquor being desired, above all others, 
 by such of her guests as were farmers or 
 yeomen ; ever and anon saying something 
 to the nurse, who was standing behind her 
 chair with the babe in her arms ; or ac- 
 knowledging with some few gracious words, 
 the courtesies of John a Combe, who sat 
 nigh her and by his own readiness took 
 heed that she should have everything she 
 
 needed ready at her hand. Tito jingling of 
 glasses and the like noises, caused by the 
 moving of bottles, and other drinking ves- 
 sels, having in some degree subsided, and 
 all having before them what they most de- 
 sired, it was observed that John a Combe 
 stood up with his glass filled in his hand ; 
 and, with some ado, the rude prating of Sir 
 Nathaniel being stopped, he was heard to 
 speak after this fashion : 
 
 " My worthy good neighbors and friends ! 
 There is a custom now of old standing in 
 this our very dear country, which methinks 
 should be held in good esteem of all true 
 English hearts ; to wit, the drinking of 
 healths, which, I take it, is a great encoura- 
 ger of honest love ; and keepeth true friend- 
 ship in excellent remembrance among all 
 men. Now it may be known unto you, that 
 this same estimable custom is in most re- 
 quest amongst those of old acquaintance. 
 Therefore I beseech you pardon me, if on 
 this occasion I require of you to follow the 
 custom with some alteration. There is 
 no old familiar friend I would now ask your 
 remembrance of; but one whose very name 
 hath been unknown to you till this day. I 
 cannot point out to you what noticeable vir- 
 tues he hath shown, worthy of your com- 
 mendation ; for as yet I have been so little 
 in his company, he hath not had time to 
 show his goodness to me ; but knowing his 
 father's extreme honesty of soul, and his 
 mother's manifold excellencies of nature, I 
 I am assured he cannot fail to have in him 
 such bountiful gifts, as in good time mus» 
 bring to him all good men's affections. 
 Neighbors ! I pray you, with full cups joii 
 with me very heartily in drinking — healtb 
 to our young friend, William Shakspeare, 
 long life and a prosperous !" 
 
 Methinks there should be no need to as- 
 sure the reader that the desire of John a 
 Combe was followed on the instant with the 
 sincere good will of all present. 
 
 " Well done, John a Combe," shouted 
 Sir Nathaniel ; " O' my life, a truly excel- 
 lent proper speech ; and very scholarly spo- 
 ken. What sayest Ticklebreech ?" cried 
 he familiarly to the schoolmaster, who sat 
 over against him. " Is not the speech a 
 sound speech, ay, and a notable speech, ay, 
 and a speech of marvelous discretion ?" 
 
 " An' it please your reverence," replied 
 Stripes, looking all the whilst as solemn as 
 if it was a matter of life or death with him ; 
 " touching the speech that hath lately had 
 utterance amongst us, I will make so bold 
 as to say, that a properer speech shall not 
 be found, even should you seek for it in the 
 choicest of Demosthenes his Philippics, or 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 19 
 
 of Cicero his Orations. It is a speech that 
 hath in it these several excellences ; excel* 
 lence of matter, excellence of rhetoric, and 
 excellence of" — 
 
 " It may be known of all here I am no 
 scholar, like unto our good friend and neigh- 
 bor Master Combe," observed John Shaks- 
 peare, with his honest cheerful face all of a 
 glow, and to the complete cutting short of 
 the schoolmaster in what threatened to be 
 an exceeding prosy discourse. " Yet had I 
 what I lack the most, I doubt it would do 
 me such good office as sufficiently to assure 
 him of the full great love I bear him in my 
 heart for the friendliness he hath shown to 
 me and mine on this and other occasions. 
 Fain would I dilate concerning of what 
 numberless famous proofs he hath exhibited 
 of the generousness of his humor, but that 
 I know none of you stand in any ignorance 
 of them. From his earliest life he hath been 
 given to all manner of truly estimable vir- 
 tues ; and now his riper manhood, in its 
 thorough honesty and free-heartedness, de- 
 clareth what proper effect hath come of the 
 exceeding virtuousness of his youth. I feel 
 proud that Stratford can boast of such a 
 one ; and I pray you pardon me, when I add, 
 my pride is none the less at finding such a 
 one should hold me in his commendation ; 
 for, as I take it, to be well spoken of is ever 
 to be desired ; but the praise of the praise- 
 worthy is a thing beyond all price. In tes- 
 timony that your opinion accordeth with 
 mine own, I beseech you neighbors, join with 
 me in drinking to the health of our wor- 
 thy townsman, John a Combe, desiring that 
 he may long continue to live amongst us, 
 in the same pride and honor as he doth at this 
 present."' 
 
 " Marry, but this looketh to be the pro- 
 perest speech of the two !" exclaimed Sir 
 Nathaniel, as all prepared themselves, and 
 with evidence of great good will, to do as 
 their host would have them ; " What sayest, 
 Pedagogus ?" 
 
 " Indeed, and as your reverence out of 
 your singular wisdom hath observed," said 
 the schoolmaster, refraining awhile from the 
 pippin he was a moment since intent upon 
 adding to the great mass of victual that had 
 gon3 before it. " It be out of all compari- 
 son the properest speech. In short, it shall 
 be found, on the very searchingest exami- 
 nation, of so proper a sort, that its fellow 
 shall not be met with, seek where you will." 
 
 Much more of the same poor stuff he 
 might have added, had not the voice of John 
 a Combe sent him, nothing loath to the 
 munching of his pippin ; for he was of that 
 well-disposedness, he would hold his prate 
 
 when his betters were talking ; but among 
 poorer folk he would say out his say, were it 
 a mile to the end ; and heed none, should 
 they talk ever so. Master Combe, thereup- 
 on quickly disclaimed any title to praise for 
 whatever he had done ; asserting that it was 
 what every man should do, regardless of all 
 else but the good that came of it. This 
 brought others to speak, especially the al- 
 dermen and burgesses of his particular 
 acquaintance, who in homely fashion gave 
 their evidence of his worthiness. In fact, 
 every one appeared anxious to say in what 
 great estimation he was held of them, only 
 with one solitary exception. Of the com- 
 pany was one Master Buzzard, a gentleman 
 of those parts, who, for all he was of bet- 
 ter estate than any there, was an ignorant 
 vain person, living in great dissoluteness, 
 with such companions as the priest and the 
 schoolmaster, and other roysterers; and 
 cared for nothing so much as hawking and 
 spending his time in riotous ill-living among 
 such as were ready to fall into his humor. 
 He was of a middle size with strong body 
 and full look, and affected to mislike any- 
 thing like niceness in apparel. Indeed, his 
 manners were of the rudest, but being an 
 excellent customer of John Shakspeare, he 
 got invited to the christening. At hearing 
 the praises that were so bountifully lavish- 
 ished upon John a Combe, his soul was 
 stirred with a very devilish envy ; and 
 though he said nought, save 'twas to mutter 
 some contemptuous expression, unheard of 
 any but those nighest him, it was easy to be 
 seen that he was in wonderful ill-humor. 
 
 At this time a many of the company were 
 amusing themselves at the game of Barley 
 Break, in the warehouse and places where 
 the wool was stored, and other things in 
 which John Shakspeare dealt ; and it did 
 so happen that Master Alderman Dowlas, 
 the draper, was shut up in the middle room 
 with the buxom wife of his neighbor, Mas- 
 ter Alderman Malmsey, the vintner, and he 
 must needs be making love to her, though 
 he had as exquisite fair a wife of his own 
 as any honest man need desire. Now this 
 worthless draper was a man of no par- 
 ticular likelihood to fall in with a pretty 
 woman's fantasy, having features by no 
 means comely ; a long thin nose, and a 
 mouth about as expressive of any particular 
 affectionateness as a roll of broadcloth. In- 
 deed, there was a sort of sanctimoniousness 
 in the cut of his beard, and the cropping of 
 his hair, and the sober suit of grey in which 
 he was usually appareled, that seemed to 
 give the flattest contradiction to love of any 
 sort, unless it were the love of godlinew 
 
20 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 and a decent life. Whether what he had 
 been drinking put into his head any such 
 villainy, or that he was of a very amorous- 
 ly disposed nature at all times, I know not ; 
 but certain it is, he left the table to play at 
 Barley Break; of an equal surety is it, he 
 was, in the course of the game, shut up in 
 the middle room with the young comely 
 wife of his brother alderman ; and it is be- 
 yond all contradiction that, after flattering 
 " the very infiniteness of her most absolute 
 and inconceivable beauty," as he was 
 pleased to style her somewhat attractiveness, 
 in a sufficiency that ought to have satisfied 
 the vainest woman that ever lived, he in a 
 monstrous earnestness, swore he loved her 
 better than aught else in the universal world. 
 
 " Fie on you, Jonathan Dowlas !" cried 
 the pretty woman, evidently, from the 
 twinkling of her merry dark eyes, taking 
 the affair as an excellent good jest. " I 
 marvel you should so conduct yourself to 
 your friend's wife, and you a godly man 
 too, that hath been married this seven year ! 
 — as I live, methinks it is too bad of you." 
 
 " Alack, adorable sweet creature !" cried 
 the Alderman, twitching his chair as nigh 
 as possible to hers, the which she marked 
 by immediately increasing the distance be- 
 tween them. " 'Tis all on account of the 
 insufficiency of the flesh. The flesh re- 
 belleth against all discretion. It stirreth, 
 as it were, yea, it be exceedingly moved." 
 
 " I would it would move farther off then," 
 exclaimed his fair companion, as she remo- 
 ved herself a short distance, upon finding 
 him again attempting to get closer to her 
 than she liked. 
 
 " Sweet, Mistress Malmsey," continued 
 the draper, very pathetically, " as the hart 
 panteth for the water brooks, doth my enam- 
 ored soul thirst after thine incomparable 
 sweet perfection." 
 
 " Then you must quench your thirst at 
 other fountains, I promise you," pithily re- 
 plied the vintner's wife. " My husband hath 
 a famous store of wines. I doubt not, if 
 you would give him an order for some, a 
 draught or so occasionally would do you, 
 out of all comparison, more benefit than 
 would the draining of my incomparable 
 sweet perfections to the dregs." 
 
 " Nay, that never could be, my honey sweet !" 
 exclaimed the Alderman, trying to take her 
 hand, which she presently snatched away 
 from him. " Sooner shall princes wear 
 buckram, and penniless rogues ruffle it in 
 ready money better than credit, and large 
 costliest cloth of gold. Believe me, as I love 
 profits before any loss, I shall grow into a 
 deeperation, succeed I not in my suit." 
 
 " Your suit is like to go unshod, for it is 
 bootless," answered Mistress Malmsey, 
 with a pretty laugh at her own jest ; then 
 added, more seriously, " Marry to prevent 
 such a mischance as your falling into des- 
 peration, I would acquaint your wife with 
 your desires, and doubt not at all she'd suit 
 you in a presently." 
 
 The Alderman looked as if he relished 
 not this raillery. He spoke never a word 
 for a minute or so. What more he might 
 have said, I know not ; for soon after 
 by the chances of the game, they were re- 
 leased from their imprisonment, and she 
 allowed him no more opportunity of having 
 any such conversation with her that day. 
 In the meanwhile, they at the table were 
 still jovially employed in making good cheer. 
 John a Combe was intent upon setting off 
 every one to enjoy themselves after such 
 fashion as pleased them most, and seeing 
 that all had proper refreshment when their 
 sports had tired them in any way. John 
 Shakspeare was employed in a like manner, 
 and so was his good dame ; whereof, the 
 consequence was, as has been acknowledg- 
 ed many times since, that there never was 
 known, at any merry-making, such a gene- 
 ral contentation of the guests ; and he who 
 was the general cause of this great content 
 lacked no honor which the occasion seemed 
 to warrant. He was praised as bountifully 
 as if each had taken a cue from the nurse- 
 all the women must needs have a kiss of 
 him ; and divers among those nigh unto mar- 
 riageable estate would not be satisfied with- 
 out dandling him a bit in their arms — may- 
 hap to show certain of the young men there 
 how apt they were at so notable an exercise. 
 At last, having been caressed and praised 
 of all, with a liberality that exceedeth con- 
 ception, amid much regret of the young 
 folks nurse took him away — as in sooth, it 
 was high time he should be asleep in his 
 cradle. 
 
 Master Burrard continued at the table 
 eyeing, with a marvelous sour and gloomy 
 aspect, the attentions that were paid to John 
 a Combe and it fretted him to find that he, 
 for all his greater state was held in no such 
 estimation. Along with him, were Sir Na- 
 thaniel, Stripes, and Oliver Dumps; and 
 sometimes others would join them for a 
 time, upon getting weary of their sports ; 
 but these four appeared to like nothing so 
 well as continual tippling of such liquors 
 as were before them, seasoned with such 
 talk as persons so disposed, were most like 
 to affect. 
 
 " It may be, or it may not be," observed 
 Sir Nathaniel, after rehearsing to his listen* 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 ai 
 
 ers a scandalous story ; " but here is a child 
 found, and as far as my learning may go, I 
 know of no child having been born without 
 the help of a mother. What sayest, Sir 
 Conjuror ?" 
 
 " There can be no doubt of it, please 
 your reverence," replied the schoolmaster. 
 " Though it hath been asserted, by divers 
 creditable historians that Venus sprang 
 from the foam of the sea, and Minerva from 
 the brain of Jove ; for my own part, I would 
 maintain, yet with all due deference, the 
 utter impossibility of any one person com- 
 ing into this world without having to boast 
 of a mother, and perchance, if there should 
 be no doubt on't, of a father also." 
 
 " Thou art a fool old hocus pocus, and no 
 conjuror !" exclaimed the curate, sharply, 
 " a very fool, and as ignorant as a heathen. 
 Had Adam a mother, or Eve ? Surely thou 
 hast forgotten thy Testament — thou Ba- 
 laam's ass ! But thou never wert half so 
 wise an animal as he ; for it be well known 
 of all men, that once upon a time, when he 
 was carrying off Potiphar's wife into Egypt, 
 he spake unto Moses, saying, ' Paul ! Paul ! 
 thou almost persuadest me to be a Christian.' " 
 
 " Methinks asses must have been wiser 
 in those days than they be now," said the 
 constable, gravely. " My father hath had 
 an ass of his own a long time past, but it 
 never gave any sign of speech." 
 
 " It hath begun at last, then ecce signum," 
 cried Sir Nathaniel, laughing famously, in 
 which he was joined by his companions. 
 " But touching this child. It doth appear 
 that Dame Lucy made discovery of a young 
 child that had been abandoned, as it was said ; 
 and as it could not have been Sir Thomas 
 Lucy's, it could not, with any toleration, be 
 Sir Thomas Lucy's wife's. That child the 
 good dame had me christen, some short time 
 since, by the name of Mabel ; and she hath* 
 resolved, as she told me, to bring it up as 
 her own ; the which she must needs do with 
 the perfect likeness that ever was, for many 
 do say she hath other right to it than that of 
 first discoverer." 
 
 " By God's body, it be infamous !" cried 
 Master Buzzard, in a rude loud voice that 
 attracted the attention of all within reach of 
 it. " The vileness of these women hath no 
 rivalry save the craft with which they hide 
 it. They are traitors to honesty, all of them ; 
 and I would as soon believe in the trustwor- 
 thiness of a cut-purse, as I would in the vir- 
 tuousness of any one of them." 
 
 " An' it please you, Master Buzzard, the 
 Queen's Highness whose unworthy con- 
 stable I am, is a woman, as I have heard," 
 here remarked Oliver Dumps, with the air of 
 
 one who cometh to the resolution of doing 
 his duty though it be unpleasant to him. 
 " And though no later than yesterday 1 did 
 put in the stocks, for wantonness, one Marian 
 Loosefish, a woman also, as in my conscience 
 I do firmly believe ; yet as it seemeth to me 
 it be like to bring her Majesty's name into 
 contempt among all her loving subjects — the 
 which be against the law — to say that wo- 
 men be given to all manner of villany, and 
 to assert at the same time that the Queen's 
 Highness is a woman, I must maintain 
 it by virtue of my office, that if all wo- 
 men may be ■ queans, then is the queen no 
 woman." 
 
 " Pooh !" exclaimed Master Buzzard. 
 
 " But I will not have it ' pooh,' " cried the 
 constable, raising his voice, and seeming in 
 some indignation. " It be flat contumacious- 
 ness, and very sedition. . I will allow of it 
 on no account ; and I charge you, on your 
 allegiance declare the Queen's Highness no 
 woman, or any such vileness, else will I 
 straight with you to the cage." 
 
 " What, would st put a gentleman in the 
 cage ?" cried Sir Nathaniel, as if in some 
 surprise. " Hath no respect for persons ?" . 
 
 " No, nor for parsons either, should they 
 conduct themselves unadvisedly," answered . 
 the little man determinedly. " I am put in 
 authority for the preservation of the peace, 
 and it behooveth me to keep good heed there 
 be no idle prating like to lead to a brawl." 
 
 " The man's an ass," said Master Buz- 
 zard, in very evident contempt. 
 
 " Hullo, my masters ! what hath caused 
 this unseemly to do amongst you?" called out 
 John a Combe, as, drawn by the constable's 
 loud voice, and violent manner, he, with 
 others, was attracted to the table. "I mar- 
 vel, on such an occasion as this, to see any 
 quarrelling. I pray you, say the matter of 
 difference betwixt you, that I may do my 
 best, as speedy as may be, to bring it to an 
 amicable ending." 
 
 *" Marry, this is it," replied Oliver, in no 
 Way abating the greatness of his indignation, 
 whilst Master Buzzard sat with a perfect 
 mdifferency, mingled with some scorn of the 
 whole business, rocking himself on his chair, 
 " Master Buzzard hath given me ill words, 
 and I will have the law of him ; moreover, 
 he hath spoken shamefully of the queen's 
 grace, for the which he shall have to make 
 proper amends ; and, lastly, he hath insinu- 
 ated evil opinions of my lady, the wife of his 
 worship Sir Thomas Lucy, in particular 
 and of all women in general, saying that 
 they be notoriously dishonest, and ever givec 
 to unlawful behavior." 
 
 " What he hath spoken ill ©f you, worthy 
 
S3 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Master Constable, be sure he said in jest," 
 remarked John a Combe. " And I cannot 
 believe you to be so unneighborly as to allow 
 of such a thing moving you." 
 
 " Nay, but he hath called me an ass, Mas- 
 ter Combe, and there be no jest in that as I 
 can see," cried out the offended constable. 
 
 " He meant it as a jest depend on't," re- 
 plied the other. 
 
 " Ay, 'twas a jest out of all doubt," here 
 observed Sir Nathaniel, just after draining 
 his goblet. " Didst not take it take it for a 
 jest, Ticklebreech ?" added he, turning to 
 his companion. 
 
 " O' my life yes, an't please your reve- 
 rence," answered the schoolmaster ; " as 
 excellent good jest as ever I heard." 
 
 " Well, an' it be a jest, indeed," said Oli- 
 ver Dumps, in a quieter tone ; " believe me 
 I was ignorant of it, else would I have said 
 nought of the matter, for I am not so crab- 
 bed as to take offence where none be intend- 
 ed ; but what saith he concerning his ill 
 speech of the queen ? that was no jest, at 
 least he will find it none, I warrant you." 
 
 " You must have misunderstood his mean- 
 ing surely ?" observed John a Combe. " 'Tis 
 not at all in reason that one known to be so 
 well -disposed towards her Majesty as is 
 Master Buzzard, should say so much as one 
 single word to her prejudice." 
 
 " If he said not all women be mere wan- 
 tons, count me the lyingest knave in Chris- 
 tendom," asserted the constable with some 
 vehemence. 
 
 " Perchance he may have said, it, but that 
 he had any such meaning will I never be- 
 lieve," remarked Master Combe. 
 
 " I will wager my life on it he had a very 
 different meaning," exclaimed the curate. 
 Then called he to his sworn-fellow, " What 
 sayest, Lanthornjaws ?" 
 
 " Please your reverence, I will vouch for 
 it, his meaning must needs have been of a 
 clean contrary sort," readily answered the 
 schoolmaster. 
 
 " Marry then, since that be the opinion 
 of these honest gentlemen, I will not stir in 
 the matter further," said Oliver. " I would 
 torture no man's speech to do him hurt, not 
 I, even though I might be made alderman to- 
 morrow for't. But touching my lady, Sir 
 Thomas Lucy's wife, I heard of a child she 
 had found and bringeth up as her own, of 
 the which if I remember me, Master Buz- 
 zard believeth the good lady to be the mo- 
 ther, without consent first had and obtained 
 of his worship, her husband ; and this I take 
 it, can be no other than scandalum magna- 
 tum — a terrible heinous offence as I have 
 board." 
 
 " I cannot believe Master Buzzard would 
 speak of such a matter, save - as the common 
 talk of the vulgar sort, who know no bet- 
 ter," said John a Combe. For mine own 
 part, there is nothing of which I am so well 
 assured as of the wonderful excellence of 
 woman. All that extreme force of rhetoric 
 could speak, or most famous cunning of the 
 pen could describe, in my humble opinion 
 could never give her such sufficient justice - 
 as her infinite merits deserve. Whatever 
 there is of goodness — whatever there is of 
 kindness, of pitifulness of heart, of noble- 
 ness of disposition, have their chiefest place 
 in her, and she is the origin of that mar- 
 velous sweet power that gives humanity its 
 rarest excellence, and binds all nature in 
 one unending chain that never rusts, that 
 will not clog, and that cannot be sundered 
 — the links whereof are those endearing 
 sympathies that join to form the universal 
 bondage of the affections. Such bountiful 
 store of graces does she possess, that al- 
 though poets from earliest time have been 
 endeavoring to make them known to the 
 world, in our own day such attractions as 
 have escaped notice, are found to be out of 
 all number ; and it hath been well asserted, 
 the same is like to continue to latest pos- 
 terity. Methinks there shall be no need of 
 saying aught to show what great share she 
 hath in the production of everything that 
 tendeth to happiness in this world, for you 
 cannot help knowing that all true pleasure 
 is of her giving. Of her excellence I 
 would content myself with asking — What 
 virtue is like to a woman's ? — What honesty 
 is like to a woman's ? — What love, what 
 courage, what truth, what generousness, 
 what self-denial, what patience under afflic- 
 tion, and forgiveness for wrong come at all 
 nigh unto such as a woman showeth ? Be- 
 lieve me the man who cannot honor so truly 
 divine a creature, is an ignorant poor fellow, 
 whom it would be a compliment to style a 
 fool ; or an ungrateful mean wretch, whom 
 charity preventeth me from calling a villain." 
 
 " Thou liest, knave !" shouted Master 
 Buzzard, starting to his feet, and drawing 
 his rapier, and looking to be in a monstrous 
 deadly rage. " Thou art thyself but a pal- 
 try villain as ever lived, and a coward to 
 boot, as I will presently prove — so come on, 
 or I will make no more account of thy pes- 
 tilent body than I would of a stinking 
 mackerel." 
 
 " Aid in the Queen's name, you that be 
 good men and true !" exclaimed the consta- 
 ble, amidst the shrieks of the women and 
 the outcries of the men, as he bustled up 
 between the expected combatants. 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 38 
 
 "Put down your weapon, Master Buz- 
 Eard, I pray you," cried John Shakspeare, 
 hastening with others to the scene. 
 
 " I will cut off thy ears as a supper for 
 my dogs !" continued Master Buzzard, seem- 
 ing to increase in his passion. 
 
 " A riot ! a riot ! Surrender you my pris- 
 oner in the Queen's name !" added Oliver 
 Dumps, advancing close to the offender, as 
 if with the intention of seizing him. 
 
 " Out fool, or I will pin thee to the wall," 
 shouted Master Buzzard, making a pass at 
 the constable, the which to avoid he made 
 a leap of so prodigious a length, it hath 
 been said he never did such a feat before or 
 since. 
 
 " Oh, here will be a foul murder done !" ex- 
 claimed Dame Shakspeare, piteously wring- 
 ing of her hands. 
 
 " Come on fellow, and take thy death !" 
 cried Master Buzzard, going furiously at 
 John a Combe, who had got his weapon out 
 in readiness to defend himself, but ere his 
 opponent reached within thrusting distance, 
 John Shakspeare had fast hold of his arm, 
 and others springing on him at the same 
 moment, he was soon deprived of all means 
 of offence. 
 
 " I marvel a person of your quality should 
 be for a quarrel at such a time as this," ob- 
 served his host. 
 
 " Is't fitting such a pitiful coxcomb of a 
 fellow should preach to me," cried the other 
 very furiously, striving to break from those 
 who held him. 
 
 "Hold him fast, good neighbors," ex- 
 claimed Oliver Dumps, now coming nearer, 
 seeing that his prisoner was disarmed. " Let 
 him go on no account, I pray you. He 
 hath sought to do me deadly injury in the 
 execution of my office, and it cannot but go 
 hard with him at assize." 
 
 " I beseech you, pass it over !" said John 
 a Combe. " It was but some sudden heat 
 of temper in him, and I doubt not he will 
 regret it in the morning." 
 
 " Away coward ; I spit at thee !" shouted 
 Master Buzzard, in a fiercer rage than ever, 
 as he was being borne out at the door. " I 
 do long to be at thee. I would make more 
 holes in thy body than shall be found in a 
 sieve." 
 
 " Bring him along, neighbors," cried the 
 constable. " We'll spoil this killing humor 
 of his, I promise you." 
 
 Master Buzzard was forcibly carried out 
 of the house, yet without any rudeness on 
 the part of his bearers, who because of his 
 
 Suality were lcth he should be punished for 
 is brawling; and after much opposition 
 froa Oliver Dumps wanting to be thought 
 
 the Queen's trusty officer, who liked not of 
 an offence being hushed up, it was agreed 
 that no notice should be taken of it, on con- 
 dition of the offender's going peaceably 
 home. In the mean time, the guests re- 
 covering from their alarm, got to dancing a 
 measure, and other diversions, as if nought 
 had happened to disturb their sports, and 
 went not away till late, vowing that of all 
 the merry meetings, they had been at, for 
 the pleasure they had had, none had been 
 like to the christening of William Shaks- 
 peare. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 These things begin 
 To look like dangers, now, worthy my fates. 
 Fortune, I see thy worst ; let doubtful states, 
 And things uncertain hang upon thy will ; 
 Me surest death shall render certain still. 
 
 Ben Jons .Mr. 
 I held it ever 
 Virtue and cunning were endowments greater 
 Than nobleness and riches ; careless heirs 
 May the two latter darken and expend ; 
 But immortality attends the former, 
 Making a man a god. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 Their angry looks, their deadly daunting blows, 
 Might witness well that in their hearts remained 
 As cankered hate, disdain, and furious mood, 
 As ever bred in bear or tiger's breast. 
 
 Gascoyne. 
 
 " Saul, what art doing ?" 
 
 " Looking to see that the gesses and bells 
 of this tercel gentle be in the properest trim, 
 master." 
 
 " Ay, well thought of; but, as I have 
 ever marked, thou hast wonderful foresight." 
 
 " Marry, my sight be good enough ; me- 
 thinks I can trace a hawk as well as any." 
 
 " In truth thou hast many commendable 
 qualities, and I would fain give some token 
 of how well esteemed they are of me." 
 
 " Indeed ! but that be kind of you, master ; 
 monstrous kind ! and, as for my qualities, I 
 doubt they be anything out of the common. 
 Peradventure I am as cunning at the rear- 
 ing of hawks as any fellow in Warwick- 
 shire ; at quarterstaff, wrestling, pitch the 
 bar, running at< the quintain, and other 
 games, care for none; and will dance a 
 morrice, play tne hobby-horse in the May 
 games, or take a fling at a Shrove-tide cock, 
 with as much perfectness as you shall see 
 among a thousand." 
 
 His master was silent for a minute or so ; 
 yet his aspect wore a troubled, and by no 
 
u 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 asea..is pltasing expression, that looked as if 
 be wanted to disburden his mind of some- 
 v.\ing. For a while he kept feeding of a 
 Lawk he held on his wrist. His companion 
 yas a sturdy varlet of some thirty years, 
 with a freckled face, a thick clumsy head, 
 and features expressive of one alike reck- 
 less and impudent. He was clad in a for- 
 ester's frock of Kendal green, confined at 
 the waist with a belt, having a pocket at 
 the side, below which little could be seen, 
 save his crimson hose and thick buff boots ; 
 and he wore a rapier and a dagger. Of 
 these two the one was Master Buzzard, of 
 whom the reader hath already some know- 
 ledge, and the other was his man Saul, his 
 chief favorite and confidant. They were to- 
 gether in the hall, once a fair chamber, in 
 Master Buzzard's house, with a famous tim- 
 ber roof, and a goodly store of old armor 
 hung about, but on account of the great 
 number of hawks and dogs that were kept 
 in it, some being here and some there, a lit- 
 ter of pups in one corner and a cast of fal- 
 cons in another, with lurchers, deer-hounds, 
 and spaniels of every kind, running in and 
 out of every hole and corner, witli little re- 
 gard to cleanliness, the place was scarce fit 
 for any human being to be in. All amongst 
 the corslets and plates of mail, were nailed 
 the skins of herons and the tails of foxes, 
 the antlers of a stag and the heads of divers 
 kinds of wild fowl, badgers, pole-cats, and 
 other vermin ; and there seemed to bet but 
 little furniture in ordinary use, as chair or 
 table, unencumbered with things necessary 
 for hawking, or hunting, or fishing, or some 
 sport of a like nature. On a corner of a 
 ong table, close to where Master Buzzard 
 jvas standing, there stood a tray with the 
 remains of a pasty, and a flagon beside it, 
 which was some sign that the place, how- 
 ever unsightly it might be, was not badly 
 off for victual. 
 
 " Thou knowest, Saul, how good a master 
 I have been to thee," continued Master 
 Buzzard. 
 
 " Ay, by gog's blood, that do I !" exclaim- 
 ed his man, with great earnestness, " and 
 'jiany thanks to your worship. I'faith, there 
 ,s no denying I am well off for a master, for 
 one more cunning in hunting, and hawking, 
 and all such goodly sports, of a more valor- 
 ous nature, let his weapon be what it may ; 
 or of a more truly prodigal disposition, upon 
 any proper occasion, I doubt hugely, I should 
 meet with, sought I ever so. Marry, if your 
 worship is as well off for a servant as am I 
 for a master, then ought we to be envied of 
 •U men." 
 
 " By God's I value not my best goshawk 
 
 as I do thy faithful service," repJed his mas- 
 ter, still seeming to keep his attention fixed 
 upon his bird. "In truth, Saul, I do look 
 upon thee as my right hand ; and I do in- 
 tend, before any very long time hath passed, 
 to show thee such excellent instance of my 
 good will as must rejoice thee inlinitely to 
 see." 
 
 " 'Fore George ! master, I want none 
 such," said his companion, albeit with a 
 marvelous lack of sincerity. " Yet would 
 I on no account baulk the generousness of 
 your humor. I am not unmindful how oft 
 your worship hath stood between me and 
 harm, when a parcel of poor linsey wolsey 
 knaves of the town yonder, went about tell- 
 ing of me the horriblest slanders that ever 
 was heard." 
 
 " Ay, it hath been said of many thou 
 wert'he who stabbed Daniel Short, of Bars- 
 ton, who was found dead in the meadow," 
 observed the other, regarding of his goshawk 
 with a more intense earnestness. " But I 
 heeded them not. It was sworn before the 
 high bailiff thou didst misuse Joan Spring- 
 field at the town end. and he was for pro- 
 ceeding against thee with as much severity 
 as might be ; but I stayed him in the matter. 
 And there was much ado made of thy 
 shooting at Daniel Buckthorn, of the Mill ; 
 and it would have gone hard with thee had 
 I not stepped in and hushed all up." 
 
 " Never was man so abused!" exclaimed 
 Saul with a very monstrous vehemency. " I 
 have enemies, master, — scores of them, I 
 promise you ; and they be such thorough- 
 going cowards and dastardly poor villains as 
 cannot come with any fair weapon before 
 me, and challenge me with the infamy they 
 would lay to my charge, that I might disprove 
 it on their pestilent bodies, but needs must 
 whisper all manner of the horriblest false 
 stuff that ever was uttered, among such piti 
 ful fools as they can get to listen to them 
 'Slife, master ! there be no living for such, 
 knaves, and an honest man might as well go 
 hang at once as be pestered with them. For 
 mine own part, I do think the ridding of the 
 world of any a very commendable thing • 
 and could I meet with one who had been 
 playing his knave's tricks on your worship, 
 or on any other for whom I am so bound, 
 I would slit his weason for him whenever 
 the time served, and none should be the 
 wiser." 
 
 A smile of peculiar meaning appeared on 
 the face of Master Buzzard at this inti 
 mation. 
 
 "Dost know John a Combe?" inquired 
 the latter with an assumed indifferency. 
 
 " Know John a Ccmbe I" exclaimed Saul 
 
THE YOUTH (j* SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 25 
 
 m some surprise, and with a more evident 
 contempt. "Is lie not the errantest skip- 
 jack in all the country round ? — a fine Sun- 
 day gentleman, forsooth ! that looks as if he 
 layeth himself up in lavender o'nights, that 
 he may smell sweet i'the morning ? Why he 
 is as common as the stocks, and as like to be 
 avoided by all true men as is the pillory or 
 the whipping-post. I should as soon expect 
 Gammer Lambsvvool to inquire for the gos- 
 sip's bridle, as your worship to ask after John 
 a Combe. 'Sblood ! he taketh upon him, 
 too, to come Master perfection over us, and 
 must needs be seeking to be thought an ex- 
 ample of goodness, and wisdom, and every 
 virtue under the sun, thinking to be as fa- 
 mous as Sir Guy of Warwick. I would 
 forfeit a year's wages found I not more vir- 
 tue in a bunch of nettles than you shall 
 discover in him, search you from now till 
 doomsday." 
 
 Master Buzzard sought not to interrupt 
 his man in his speech, for a very excellent 
 reason, because it v/as much to his liking, 
 the which the other knew full well ; for 
 he was a cunning knave, that ever stu- 
 died to jump with his master's humor at all 
 times, and was aware of what had passed 
 betwixt him and Master Combe, and more- 
 over, was willing enough to reap advantage 
 of it. 
 
 " Indeed, I take him to be as scurvy a 
 fellow as any that lives," observed Master 
 Buzzard with wonderful bitterness. 
 
 " That is he, out of all doubt," replied his 
 man in much the same sort of spirit. " I 
 hate such popinjays. It be monstrous fine 
 certain'y for such a paltry knave as he is to 
 be ever schooling of your worship, as it 
 were" — 
 
 " I tell thee, Saul, I will endure his swag- 
 gering airs no longer !" exclaimed Master 
 Buzzard, interrupting his man with great 
 fierceness. " He is ever thrusting him- 
 self in my way — a murrain on him ! I 
 cannot do as my wont for his pestilent med- 
 dling. Wherever he is I must need play 
 mumchance. All run to John a Combe ; all 
 bend to John a Combe ; all listen to John a 
 Combe ! 'Slife ! it maketh me mad to see 
 him so noticed, so praised, so courted, whilst 
 his betters must be thrust aside as worthy 
 of no better heed than a mangy cur." 
 
 " Doth the caitiff" ruffle it so bravely ?" 
 inquired t he other. " Well, never heard I 
 of such thorough im pudency. But what 
 ignorant poor fools must be they who would 
 be led by him ! Marry ! I am so moved 
 with indignation at the slights put on your 
 worship by sc paltry a villain, that I know 
 
 not what mischief I should be ready to de 
 him.-' 
 
 " But that is not the worst of it," con 
 tinued his master with more vehemence. 
 " He hath put on me intolerable affronts, 
 and as yet all attempts, seek I when I would, 
 to be revenged of him, have been bootless. 
 No later than this very morning, scarce an 
 hour gone, meeting him alone in the back 
 lane, I drew upon him, thinking I had him 
 sure ; but the villain carried some amulet or 
 devilish charm; for though I made my 
 deadliest thrusts with all the skill of which 
 I am master, he remained unhurt, and in a 
 short space my weapon was sent flying out 
 of my hand a full twenty yards ; whereupon, 
 with a Judas smile, the villain bowed to me, 
 and wishing me ' Good day,' took himself off 
 on the instant." 
 
 " O' my life ! 'twas but a coward's trick, 
 master!" cried Saul. "I marvel you did 
 not after him and stick him as he went." 
 
 " By this hand, I would gladly have done 
 it!" exclaimed his master. "But I was so 
 confounded at the flight of my rapier, and 
 at the fellow's assurance, that I knew not 
 what to be at, and ere I had resolved, he 
 had gone clean out of sight. Doubtless he 
 will go bruiting it abroad, as far as he can, 
 how he had me at his mercy and spared my 
 life. 'Slife !" continued he with an exceed 
 ing uneasy and malignant look with him 
 " methinks I am poorly served when such a 
 fellow as this can do me all manner of of- 
 fence, and go unharmed." 
 
 " Nay, ' by your leave, master, not so,' 
 quickly answered Saul, " when you have 
 had my service in this business, I will be 
 bold to say you shall not count yoursel* 
 poorly served." 
 
 "I would I could be well rid of him,' 
 said Master Buzzard in a lower voice. 
 
 " If it please you, master, let that be my 
 care," observed the other. 
 
 " I hear that he is oft to be met with af 
 ter dark in the narrow lane at the town 
 end," observed Master Buzzard, his voice 
 gradually sinking to a whisper. 
 
 " A goodly place, and a goodly time too,' 
 added the other, with a sort of half audible 
 laugh, " but mayhap his worship shall choose 
 to go there once too often." Thus went they 
 on, as bad men do concert their villanies 
 half ashamed to look each other in the face 
 and as their intentions became manifest, 
 dropping their voices to a close whisper 
 that the evil they would be about might not 
 be heard of any. But in this I can follow 
 them no longer, having game in view mow 
 worthy of the reader's attention. 
 
M 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 There was a ha'll to be ho*Gen at the town 
 that day, at which the aldermen and others 
 of the corporation had been summoned in 
 euch terms as showed it to be a matter of 
 the very hugest importance that called them 
 together. Whether it related to certain in- 
 telligence of some rebellion broke out against 
 Yhe Queen's Highness, to risings of the pa- 
 pists, or to rumors of invasion from the 
 Spaniards, seemed not to be clearly ascer- 
 vained ; for among the honest burgesses who 
 had got note of this extraordinary meeting, 
 here were heard is many reasons for it as 
 here were tongue., to speak them, whereof 
 •he general belief at last rested upon the 
 three above named. Thai nothing threaten- 
 ed to affect the immediate safety of the town 
 was apparent from the usual air of careless- 
 ness and security that prevailed throughout 
 the principal street. Here might be seen a 
 troop of boys fresh broke out from school, 
 hallooing like mad ; there a knot of a mean- 
 3r sort at play, whilst a little one from the 
 school, though hastening home to his pa- 
 rents, kept castirg Vhini him a wistful 
 /ook, as if he did lc g to join in their pas- 
 time. One or frvc tJg dogs were seen 
 stretched at their le^^h by their master's 
 doors, and now and then some one or 
 other of a smaller kind would dart out of a 
 doorway, yelping at the heels of the noisy 
 children, till one mor.} courageous than his 
 fellows would up with a stone, and send him 
 back yelping louder tl an he came, making 
 Jie tailor leap from his board, the cordwain- 
 er throw down his lapscone, and the appren- 
 tice lu; ive his work, to see what was the 
 hubb..j. Here and there careful mothers 
 were calling out of their casements to has- 
 ten home their boys, or s >me provident house- 
 wife would be casting s store of victual for 
 the feeding of her stock of fowls, who, with 
 fluttering wings and eag it throats, would be 
 eeen eagerly flocking to 7ards her. 
 
 In several places, there might be seen 
 some two or three of the neighbors convers- 
 ing soberly and with great show of earnest- 
 ness, more particularly about the doors of 
 khe principal burgesses ; and in front of the 
 casements of Master Alderman Malmsey, 
 the vintner, where there was a famous 
 ,;roup, with a horseman in the midst, look- 
 .ag to be so busy of speech as to pay but 
 ,.ttle heed to the tankards and drinking 
 -ors£ ]?e.W by seme of the l. Opposite was 
 ■he dwelling of Master A derman Dowlas, 
 die draper, with its lower windows showing 
 -livers rolls of cloth of sundry colors, whilst 
 *i the open < asem^nt a hove ar-t his buxoi.i 
 fair wife, with Mistrt ** Malmjey at her side, 
 j^jrs§r / iis» r&fjy.; /)& ♦ very cor *c: end- 
 
 able industry, and as it seemed using her 
 tongue with a like speed. Coming down 
 the street was a drove of cows, some of 
 which must needs put their heads in the 
 water-tiough before the inn, thinking to 
 have a good drink, but the stable boys would 
 not allow of it, for they drove them off pre- 
 sently, by throwing up their arms, and mak- 
 ing a great shouting. A little curly-haired 
 child scarce big enough to run alone, was 
 standing in the midst of the road m< % oing at 
 the cattle as bold as you please and putting-* i; 
 out its little hands as if to prevei it then? ^ ' 
 going further ; and an elder skter, with a 
 marvellous anxious frightened fact; vr«s 
 rushing from a neighboring d'/ur-wxy to 
 hurry him out of danger. All the case- 
 ments, and nearly all the doors, stood invit- 
 ingly open for it was p. hot summer's da v 
 at the latter end of June, and every wb/>*» 
 there where signs of a desire to be reli^-* 
 of the oppressive sultriness of the afu*v 
 sphere, either by seeking of the shadv Js^% 
 or where a draught of cooler air > jght 
 gained, or by drinking of tankr is of c' ' 
 and other refreshing liquors, wherever V 
 might be had. 
 
 For all this gossiping and ca^ «5ssL.ess 
 on every side, it was noted that vne or two 
 of the elder aldermen who were going to the 
 hall, wore visages of exceeding gravity, and 
 seemed intent upon avoiding the approaches 
 of such of their townsmen as they met in 
 their way, with looks so suspicious and 
 fearful, that the latter knew not what to 
 make of it. Presently, there came by John 
 Shakspeare and Master Combe, likewise on 
 their way to the hall ; but they looked to be 
 in a more serious humor even than the a** 
 dermen, and would on no account stop fc 
 any, which was the more strange, becausa 
 both were well known to be of a rnosv 
 friendly spirit, and had ever cheerfully an 
 swered any man's salutation. 
 
 " Whether so fast, my master ?" shouted 
 Sir Nathaniel, as he popped his fat rosy face 
 out at the casement to call them. " Dost 
 pass so exquisite a house of entertainment 
 as this, at the pace thou art going, when the 
 sun seemeth to be intent upon making of us 
 so many St. Bartholomews ? Two rabid 
 dogs could not have behaved less reasonably 
 towards good liquor. Prithee, come and 
 share with us, and doubt not being welcome, 
 even if thou pay for all." 
 
 To this invitation, the two merely shook 
 their heads and continued on their way, to 
 the huge disccr.tent of the curate a! d the 
 schoolmaster, who, at the sight of t? « n, ex- 
 pected to have had at Inast an extra tankaid 
 or two withou' hint'- V»> - r» purses. 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Jo.in Shakspeare and his friend then pro- 
 ceeded without further hindrance to the 
 church, and soon afterwards entered the 
 vestry — a chamber of no great dimensions, 
 furnished only with a long table, at the head 
 of which was a high-backed chair, and on 
 each side were a couple of benches. In 
 the chair was the high bailiff, one Timothy 
 Mallet, the wheelwright. Opposite, on a 
 low stool, with a many papers, and two or 
 three huge books before him, sat the dimin- 
 utive form of Jemmy Catchpole, the town 
 lawyer, who was said to be so learned in the 
 law as to be fitter to be a judge of assize 
 than any living. His sharp grey eyes 
 twinkled with a perpetual restlessness, and 
 his parchment-skin seemed growing of a 
 deeper yellow, as, with a pen in his hand, 
 he watched or made notes of the matter pro- 
 ceeding. On each side were seated such 
 of the aldermen as attended, likewise others 
 of the corporation who were not of the al- 
 dermen; and Master Alderman Malmsey, 
 with his purple in-grain countenance and 
 very puncheon of a person, who affected the 
 orator in no small measure, was on his 
 legs, if such round things as he had might 
 be so called, denouncing with a monstrous 
 vehemency a motion, then under discussion, 
 for repairing the parish well. Some listened 
 to him attentively, others were conversing 
 apart ; but it might have been noted, that a 
 few wore aspects so anxious as plainly 
 showed their minds were intent on another 
 matter. His argument was to the effect, 
 that water was a thing which all honest 
 men ought to eschew, unless as at the mar- 
 riage at Cana it could be turned into wine, 
 and that wine was a thing most absolute 
 and necessary to a man's well doing ; there- 
 fore, it would be much better to buy a pipe 
 of such fine hippocras as he could sell them, 
 for the use of the corporation, than to apply 
 any of its funds for the repairing of so un- 
 profitable a thing as a well. At this, up- 
 started at once a baker and a butcher, 
 swearing with equal vehemency, that no- 
 thing was so necessary as plenty of bread 
 and meat, and advocating the greater lauda- 
 bleness of laying in a store of such victual, 
 which they could not do better than have of 
 them, to wasting the corporation funds in 
 the project that had so injudiciously been 
 proposed. Others might have followed in a 
 like strain, but at this instant John Shaks- 
 peare, who had waited with his stock of pa- 
 tience getting to be less and less every mo- 
 ment, now rose, and with his honest face 
 somewhat pale and of an uneasy expression, 
 proceeded to take a share in the debate. It 
 Was noticed, that on his rising, the few who 
 
 had appeared so unmindful of what was go- 
 ing on, looked marvelously attentive ; and 
 the others, as if curious to know what one 
 so well esteemed had to say on the matter, 
 were no less careful listeners. 
 
 " I pray you lose not the precious time in 
 such idle stuff as this," exclaimed he. " We 
 want your wisest counsel. We are threat- 
 ened with such calamity as is enough at the 
 mere thought of it, to strike us dead with 
 fear. We cannot thrust it aside. It hath 
 come upon us unprepared. All that can be 
 done is to endeavor to keep the mischief in 
 as narrow a compass as may be possible. 
 Up and be doing then, my masters, without 
 a moment's delaying, for the negligence of 
 one may be the destruction of all." 
 
 At the hearing of this discourse, so differ- 
 ent from what all, excepting the anxious 
 few, expected, the greater number stared in 
 absolute astonishment, and the rest waited 
 as if in the expectation of hearing what was 
 to follow. 
 
 " My friends !" continued the speaker, in 
 a low, thick voice, as if he could scarce 
 speak, " The plague is in Stratford .'" 
 
 " The plague ?" exclaimed many in the 
 same moment of time, leaning forward from 
 their seats, breathless with horror and sur- 
 prise. 
 
 " I would to God there could be a doubt 
 of it !" replied John Shakspeare. " My 
 worthy and approved good friend, Master 
 Combe, of whose honorableness there can 
 be none here present who have not had 
 excellent evidence, hath, in one of the mani- 
 fold generous offices he is ever intent upon 
 doing to his poorer neighbors, made this 
 doleful discovery; and with the advice of 
 divers of the most experienced of my fellow 
 burgesses, who alone knew of it from me, I 
 have had you here assembled, that you might 
 learn from him the exact truth, and then 
 consider amongst yourselves which will be 
 the fittest way of providing for the common 
 safety." 
 
 At this there was a dead silence ; and 
 when Master Combe stood up, every eye 
 was strained to scrutinize him, and every 
 ear stretched forward to hear the most dis- 
 tinctly the promised communication. 
 
 " I pray you, my worthy neighbors and 
 friends, fear nothing !" exclaimed John a 
 Combe ; " fear will only make you the vic- 
 tim of what you dread ; but courage and 
 good conduct will help you to drive the pes- 
 tilence from your door. That it doth exist 
 amongst us, I wouldl could doubt ; and this 
 is how I came at the knowledge of it. Hear 
 ing that there was a poor family visited witn 
 a sudden sickness, of which some were lik« 
 
28 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 to die had they not help presently, I speeded 
 thither with what medicine I usually carry 
 on such occasions knowing them to he of 
 special benefit in divers disorders. In a low 
 cottage, ruinous, and exceeding dirty, I came 
 upon the sufferers. As God me save, I 
 there saw a sight such as I have not seen in 
 my whole life before ; and trust in Jesu 
 never to see again. I entered at the kitchen, 
 where, in one corner, on a litter of rushes, I 
 beheld one dead, the father of this wretched 
 family, and, by his side, his wife in the last 
 agonies ; the fixed stare of whose yellow 
 eyeballs settling into death, I saw at a 
 glance made all help of medicine out of the 
 case. A babe was crawling on the floor 
 towards her ; but it had a sickly look with 
 it that was ghastly to see. In another cor- 
 ner was a young girl dead also, her fair face 
 getting to be discolored and unsightly ; and 
 in a chair was a boy who, by his dress, I 
 knew was used to labor in the fields, and he 
 complained he felt so deadly bad he could 
 not return to his work. I went into another 
 chamber, where was the old grannam, lying 
 upon a truckle bed, moaning terribly, but 
 saying nought ; and doubled up at her feet 
 was the figure of another ancient dame, who 
 had been her nurse till she dropped where 
 she was, and could not be got to move hand 
 or foot. I was informed, by a charitable 
 neighbor who came in with me, that this ill- 
 ness had only appeared amongst them since 
 the preceding night, soon after unpacking of 
 a parcel they had received by the carrier 
 from some friends in London. On hearing 
 this I had a sudden misgiving, for I had re- 
 ceived certain intelligence the day previous, 
 that the pestilence had broke out there. My 
 heart was too full to speak ; and when I was 
 further told, that in addition to the inmates 
 of the cottage, sundry of the neighbors who 
 had called in, hearing of their sickness, had 
 been taken with a like disorder, one of whom 
 had given up the ghost not half an hour 
 since, my suspicion took firmer ground. 
 Presently I examined one of the dead. My 
 fears then received terrible confirmation. 
 The plague spot was upon him. Having 
 given such orders as I thought necessary, 
 without exciting any alarm, I fumigated 
 myself well, and acquainted my good friend, 
 John Shakspeare, with the fearful truth ; 
 and by his advice you have been called here 
 to take instant measure:? to prevent the 
 spreading of this direful calamity. In what- 
 soever thing I may be of service at this un- 
 happy time, I pray you use me as one friend 
 would use another. Believe me, I will do it 
 lovingly, whatever may be required." 
 Though the speaker concluded what he 
 
 had tr say, for some moments' spac« nonft 
 sought to interrupt the awful silence which 
 followed, but sat like so many statues of fear 
 with eyes almost starting from their sockets, 
 mouths partly open, and big drops of perspi- 
 ration standing upon their wrinkled fore- 
 heads. Of the most terrified was the little 
 lawyer upon the stool, who, leaning his el- 
 bows on the table, and with his pointed chin 
 resting upon his palms, kept his sharp eyes 
 fixed upon John a Combe, looking more 
 frightened as the other proceeded in his nar- 
 ration, till he gave voice to his consternation 
 in an audible groan. Presently, some began 
 to turn their gaze from Master Combe to 
 each other, and finding in every face the hor- 
 ror so visible in their own, they remained 
 stupified and bewildered, till one nigh unto 
 the door rushed out, and with the look of one 
 struck with a sudden frenzy, ran home, shout- 
 ing at the top of his voice, " The plague ! the 
 plague !" and many others of that assembly, 
 put out of all discretion by the greatness of 
 their fear, made from the place with as much 
 speed of foot as they could use, in the hope 
 of securing the safety of themselves and fa- 
 milies. They that were left then proceeded 
 to take counsel among themselves what was 
 fittest to be done ; and Master Combe, being 
 invited by them to assist in their delibera- 
 tions, did give such excellent advice, that it 
 was agreed to by all, with wonderful admira- 
 tion of his wisdom and greatness of heart ; 
 and they sat for several hours making reso- 
 lutions in accordance with what he had pro- 
 posed. 
 
 " I cannot hear of a denial," said Master 
 Combe to John Shakspeare, as they were re- 
 turning together from the hall. " This can 
 be now no proper place for your sweet wife 
 and her young son, or any of her family. 
 Stay they here, it must be at the hazard of 
 their lives, for none can say who shall escape 
 whilst if they seek refuge in my poor dwell- 
 ing till the danger hath passed, they need 
 have communication with none, and so shall, 
 be in no peril." 
 
 " In honest truth, I like it well, Master 
 Combe, and am "much beholden to you for 
 your friendly care," replied his companion. 
 " Yet am I fearful "of accepting of your cour- 
 tesy, thinking it may put you to inconveni- 
 ence, and to some danger also." 
 
 " Speak not of it, an' you love me," said 
 the other, with a very sincere earnestness ; 
 " it is at your entire disposal, as long as it 
 may be at your need. As for myself, this is 
 my place. Whilst so many of my neighbors 
 are in such imminent peril, here will I remain 
 to do them whatever office may be expedient 
 for their good." 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 29 
 
 •An' if it please you, worthy sir, I will as- 
 sist you with what humble ability I have," 
 added John Shakspeare ; " I will take order 
 that my dame and her babe proceed forthwith, 
 with their attendants, to the security pro- 
 vided for them ; for which sweet kindness I 
 and mine shall feel bound to you ever after, 
 and will make provision for her having all 
 things necessary ; and then I will hold my- 
 self in readiness to do whatsoever you shall 
 think fittest." 
 
 " I would accept of no help in this matter 
 sooner than your own," answered Master 
 Combe ; " knowing your thorough honesty 
 and well disposedness, as I do ; yet, methinks 
 you shall find sufficient in this strait to watch 
 over the safety of those dearest to you, and 
 cannot advisedly, when they are looking to 
 vou for help, put your life in jeopardy for the 
 security of others." 
 
 " Nay, by your leave, Master Combe, 
 Jiough I am no scholar, I cannot allow of 
 .hat," exclaimed John Shakspeare, with some 
 eagerness ; methinks my duty to my neigh- 
 bors calleth me to their assistance when they 
 shall require it of me, quite as loudly as it 
 may yourself." 
 
 " But forget you how many are dependant 
 on your exertions for an honest living, which 
 is not my case," answered his companion. 
 
 " I will see to their safety, and I will look 
 with as much care as I may to my own," said 
 the other earnestly ; " but, in mine own opi- 
 nion, I should be deserving of the good will 
 of none, were I to slink away when danger 
 was at the heels of my friends, and leave 
 them to stand it as they might, whilst I cared 
 only for the safety of myself and what be- 
 longed to me." 
 
 " Your hand, honest John Shakspeare !" 
 cried Master Combe, shaking his friend's 
 hand very heartily in his own. " Believe me, 
 I love you all the better for having such no- 
 tions. But I must down this lane," conti- 
 nued he, as they stood together at the corner. 
 I beseech you hasten your sweet wife as 
 much as you can, that she may out of the 
 town with as little delay as need be at such a 
 time, and I will with all convenient speed to 
 my house to prepare for her reception. A fair 
 good night to you, neighbor." 
 
 " God speed you, worthy sir, in all you 
 do !" exclaimed the other, with the same 
 friendly feeling, as Master Combe proceeded 
 on his way. " There wends as good a man 
 as ever broke bread !" continued he, when the 
 object of his praise was out of hearing ; and 
 he stood where he was for some minutes, 
 sailing on his staff", with his honest heart 
 full of admiration, watching the progress of 
 his companion, till a turning of the lane hid 
 
 him from his view. It was now just up on 
 twilight, and the lane being bordered by tall 
 trees, closely planted and in their fullest foli- 
 age, a great portion of it was in deep shadow : 
 but this seemed only to make more fresh and 
 vivid the high bank on the other side which 
 led up into a cornfield, whereof the rich yel- 
 low ears, and the crimson poppies blushing 
 beneath them, as seen in every gap of the 
 hedge, gave promise of abundant harvest : 
 and the hedge, being of elder in great patches 
 of blossom, looked at a distance like unto 
 pure white linen a drying on the green 
 branches. John a Combe, as he walked 
 along, noticing the quick movements of the 
 bats, whirling here and there in quest of such 
 insects as formed their victual, on a sudden 
 had his eye attracted by a gleam of light on 
 the opposite bank, which at first he took to 
 be a glow-worm, but the next moment distin- 
 guished a large black mass moving in the 
 deep shadow ; the which he had scarce made 
 out to be the figure of a man, when two men, 
 armed and masked, rushed upon him from 
 that very spot. As quick as lightning his 
 rapier was out and he on his defence. A 
 muttered execration was all he heard, as they 
 came upon him both at once, in such a sort 
 as proved they would have his life if they 
 could. John a Combe was on the brink of a 
 dry ditch, and within a few yards of a gate 
 leading to the cornfield, over against which 
 was an opening in the trees that gave a fair 
 light to see all around ; and for this he made, 
 defending himself the whilst so briskly, that 
 neither of his opponents could get him at an 
 advantage. Here having got himself with- 
 out hurt of any kind, he put his back to the 
 gate, and now, seeing that he had before him 
 two stout varlets in masks, who pressed on 
 him as though they would not be baffled in 
 their aims, he presently put forth what cun- 
 ning of fence he had, and so nimble was his 
 steel, and so quick his movements, that he 
 avoided every thrust. This, however, only 
 seemed to make them the more savage and 
 desperate, and they pressed closer upon him. 
 What might have been the end on't, had 
 things gone on, I cannot take on me to deter- 
 mine ; but the conflict was stopped much 
 sooner than was expected of any, for one of 
 the tv/o was felled to the earth from an un- 
 seen hand, and the other varle* at the same 
 moment got such a thrust in his wrist ag 
 made him incapable of any mischief. 
 
 " Lie there, caitiff!" exclaimed John Shak- 
 speare, who, loitering at the top of the lane, 
 had heard the clash of the weapons, and has- 
 tening to the spot had come in time to deal 
 a blow with his staff that rid his friend of the 
 fiercest of his assailants. " Lie there for a 
 
30 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 pitiful coward, and a knave to boot. I doubt 
 not hanging be too good for thee, thou mur- 
 derous villain, to seek the life of one of so 
 excellent a nature. But thou hast not done 
 amiss in hiding of thy face, for I warrant we 
 shall find rascal writ in every line of it. As 
 I live, Master Buzzard !" cried he, in some 
 surprise, as he took off the mask of him he 
 had knocked clown. 
 
 " And here have we no bigger a villain to 
 help him than his man Saul !" exclaimed 
 John a Combe, as he tore off the visor of the 
 other. Master Buzzard came to himself pre- 
 sently, for he was but little hurt, and finding 
 he had been completely baffled, he said never 
 a word. As soon as he regained his footing, 
 with a look of devilish malignity he took him- 
 self off, leaving his man to follow as he best 
 might. Neither received hindrance from 
 Master Combe or his trusty friend, who were 
 in truth monstrous glad to be rid of the com- 
 pany of such thorough paced villains. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 And what's a life 1 A weary pilgrimage, 
 Whose glory in one day doth fill the stage 
 With childhood, manhood, and decrepit age. 
 And what's a life ? The flourishing array 
 Of the proud summer meadow, which, to-day, 
 Wears her green plush, and is to-movrow — hay. 
 
 Quarles. 
 
 How now ! Ah me ! 
 
 God and all saints be good to us ! 
 
 Ben Jonson. 
 
 Death may usurp on nature many hours, 
 And yet the fire of life kindle again 
 The overpressed spirits. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 The house of John a Combe, so hand- 
 somely offered by him for the reception of 
 Dame Shakspeare and her infant son, lay 
 about a mile from Stratford, the nighest way 
 across the fields ; and had been built some 
 twenty years in a famous quaint pretty style, 
 with projecting gables, curiously formed and 
 carved ; a latticed porch, whereon all man- 
 ner of delicate flowers were climbing very 
 daintily, and it was enclosed with its garden 
 in a high wall that had iron gates, in an arch- 
 way in front, from which a broad path led on 
 each side of a well-kept lawn right up to the 
 house. 
 
 Dame Shakspeare had a famous fire of 
 good logs burning in her chamber, the light 
 whereof shewed the goodly hangings of the 
 bed, and rich arras brought from beyond seas 
 that were about the wainscot, with all the 
 
 store of needful furniture in high presses 
 cupboards, chairs, tables, and the like, ex 
 quisitely carved in choice woods that stood 
 around her on every side. The good dame, 
 clad in a simple long garment of linen that 
 wrapt her all around, sat at some short dis- 
 tance from the fire-dogs, knitting of a pair 
 of hose, whilst over against her sat nurse 
 Cicely, with the babe in her lap, the front of 
 his white frock hid under a dowlas cloth, 
 that was carefully tucked under his chin, 
 feeding him with a pap-spoon. Nurse talked 
 on without ceasing, gossipping to the mother 
 and prattling to the babe, all in a breath ; 
 but Dame Shakspeare scarce spoke a^vord. 
 Indeed, her thoughts were in a strange mis- 
 giving humor, fearing for the present, and 
 doubting of the future, till her eye would 
 light on her sweet son ; and then noticing of 
 his exceeding happiness at what he was 
 about, her aspect would catch a sudden 
 brightness, and mayhap she would say some- 
 thing is if there was nought to trouble her. 
 
 " Of those who are dead some say there 
 is no knowing for the number," continued 
 nurse. " They die out of all calculation ; 
 not here and there one, as in honest fashion 
 they should, but everywhere scores. Hum- 
 phrey heard at the gate, of Oliver Dumps, 
 that they went so fast, it was supposed there 
 would soon be none left to tend the sick. — 
 Ods lifelings, what an appetite thou hast !" 
 added she, as she kept feeding of the child. 
 " Beshrew my heart, but thou wouldst eat up 
 house and home kept thou this fashion at all 
 times. Well, it's all one. They that are 
 dead cannot help themselves ; and for the 
 living they must trust in God's mercy. How 
 now, chuck ? What, more ! Well, heaven 
 send thee good store of victuals ! By my 
 troth, methinks Master Combe shall deserve 
 well of us all our days. As for myself, I 
 wish I could know the service I might do his 
 worship, I would not spare my old bones, I 
 promise you. He hath been a mean for the 
 preserving of our lives, that be a sure thing ; 
 for it standeth to reason, had we remained in 
 the town, we should have been no better than 
 loathsome corpses long since." 
 
 Dame Shakspeare replied not ; but her na 
 ture was too forcibly impressed with the 
 load of obligation she lay under, not to as- 
 sent to all her attendant would express on 
 that point. 
 
 " And thou hast especial reason to be 
 thankful to him, my young master," con- 
 tinued the old woman to her charge ; " by'r 
 lady, thou hadst best make haste to be a 
 man, and shew his worship how grateful of 
 heart thou art for his goodness. And then 
 to put us all in so delectable a place as 
 
 I 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEaIIE. 
 
 81 
 
 this," added she, looking round the chamber 
 in evident admiration. " O' my life, 'tis a 
 house fit for a prince, and it hath in it every 
 thing that heart could desire. This is his 
 worship's own bed-chamber, as I have heard. 
 Happy the woman who shall have the own- 
 ing of it, say I ! I protest when I hear how 
 nobly he hath borne himself throughout the 
 dreadful raging of this doleful pestilence, I 
 ion clean lost in wonder and astonishment 
 at his infinite goodness." 
 
 " Surely, nurse, it must be somewhat be- 
 yond the time they usually come ?" here ex- 
 claimed Dame Shakspeare ; " I hope nought 
 amiss hath happened to either, and yet I 
 fear. Alack, it would go hard with me 
 were I to lose my husband; and Master 
 Combe hath showed himself so true a friend 
 I could not but grieve at his loss. I pray 
 God, very heartily, both are safe." 
 
 " Amen !" said the nurse very devoutly. 
 " But keep up a good heart, I pray you, 
 mistress. I would wager my life on't no 
 harm shall happen to them. They must 
 needs be much too useful to be spared when 
 such pitiful work is going forward. But 
 concerning of the time of their usual com- 
 ing, I cannot think it hath yet arrived, 
 though mayhap it shall be found to be no 
 great way off. Peradventure, rest you pati- 
 ent awhile, you shall hear Humphrey give 
 us note of their approach before long. Ha ! 
 my young rogue!" continued she, address- 
 ing the babe, and fondling him very prettily, 
 upon finding he would take no more of her 
 food. " I warrant me now thou hast had a 
 famous meal ! Art not ashamed to devour 
 6uch monstrous quantities, when victual is 
 so scarce to be had ? O' my conscience, he 
 laughed in my very face ! By your pati- 
 ence, mistress, this son of yours is no other 
 than a very horrible young reprobate, for he 
 seemeth to care for nought when he hath all 
 that he standeth in need of." 
 
 " Bless his dear heart !" cried the much 
 delighted mother, rousing up from her me- 
 lancholy at sight of her babe's enjoyment. 
 " It glads me more than I can speak to see 
 him looking so hearty, and in so rare a 
 humor. But I must to the casement, I am 
 impatient of this seeming long delay ;" and 
 so saying she suddenly rose from her seat, 
 and made for the window, a broad casement 
 which looked out over the porch, for the 
 chamber was above the ground-floor, and 
 opening it she leaned out to watch for her 
 husband. The night had set in, though it 
 was scarce eight of the clock ; but being the 
 latter end of October that was no marvel. 
 Dark clouds were floating heavily in the 
 •ky, and the trees, though half denuded of 
 
 their foliage, made a famous rustling as the 
 wind came sweeping among their branches. 
 Every thing looked indistinct and shadowy 
 within the range of sight, and beyond, all 
 seemed as though closely wrapt up in a 
 shroud. Certes, to one of Dame Shakspeare's 
 disposition, the prospect around must have 
 appeared wonderful melancholy, and it gave 
 a chill to her heart that filled her with mon- 
 strous disquietude. All was in perfect silence 
 and solitude, save down below, where Hum- 
 phrey, armed with a rusty harquebus, was 
 marching to and fro within the gate, of 
 which station he was exceeding proud, as 
 was manifest; for, immediately he caught 
 sight of his mistress at the casement, he 
 held his piece firm to his side, made himself 
 look as tall as" he might, and with a terrible 
 valorous countenance, as he supposed, con- 
 tinued to walk backwards and forwards at 
 his post. 
 
 " Hast seen any thing, Humphrey ?" in- 
 quired Dame Shakspeare. 
 
 " Yes, mistress, an'it please you," replied 
 he, stopping short in his walk, and holding 
 of himself as upright as any dart. " I have 
 seen old Grammer Lambswool's two sandy 
 colored pigs making for home with all the 
 speed of foot they were master of." 
 
 " Psha ! hast seen any thing of thy mas- 
 ter ?" added the good dame. 
 
 " No, mistress," answered he. 
 
 " Hast seen ought of Master Combe ?'-' 
 
 " No, mistress." 
 
 Hearing no further questioning; Hum- 
 phrey continued his marching ; and his mis- 
 tress, in no way satisfied with his intelligence, 
 remained at the casement silent and ab- 
 stracted. She could hear nurse Cicely 
 walking up and down the chamber, evidently 
 by her speech and occasional humming striv- 
 ing to get the boy into a sleep. 
 
 " Well, never saw I the like!" exclaimed 
 Cicely, in tones of such monstrous astonish- 
 ment as drew the mother's attention in an 
 instant. " Instead of getting into a good 
 sound sleep as I was assured thou hadst 
 fallen into, I know not how long since, here 
 art thou as wide awake as am 1, and listen- 
 ing to my poor singing with a look as if thy 
 very heart was in it." Certes, it was as the 
 nurse had said. The babe lay in her arms, 
 seeming in such strange wonder and de- 
 lights as surely no babe ever showed before. 
 Even Dame Shakspeare marveled somewhat 
 to note the amazed smiling aspect of her 
 young son. 
 
 " By my fay !" continued the old woman, 
 " if this babe come not to be some great mas- 
 ter of music, I am hugely mistaken in him. 
 I remember me now, this is the first time ] 
 
82 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEaiie. 
 
 have chanced to sing in his hearing. — Marry, 
 an' if his worship be so taken with my music, 
 I warrant me he shall have a rare plenty of 
 it, for I have as famous a store of ballads as 
 any woman in Warwickshire." 
 
 " I doubt not they will be well liked of 
 him, judging of the manner he hath taken the 
 first he hath heard," observed his mother. 
 
 At this moment there was heard such 
 horrible unnatural screaming and strange 
 uproar, that made Dame Shakspeare, more 
 full of misgiving than ever, rushed back to the 
 casement with as much speed as she could 
 use. The first object that met her eye was 
 no other than Humphrey, half lying on the 
 ground, supporting himself with one arm, 
 and one leg doubled under him, and with 
 the other hand holding in his trembling 
 grasp the harquebus he made so brave a 
 show with a few minutes since. He was 
 shaking in every limb; his hat had fallen 
 off, leaving his face the more visible, which 
 bore an aspect of the completest fright ever 
 seen. His eyes were starting forward, his 
 cheeks pale, and his mouth half open, one 
 jaw knocking against the other as hard as 
 they could. Turning her gaze in the direc- 
 tion in which the boy was staring, as if in- 
 capable of moving away his eyes, though 
 for a single instant, she saw a sight the hor- 
 ribleness of which made her scream out- 
 right. It was a spectral figure at the gate, 
 with long bare arms and legs, all livid and 
 gastly, and a face that seemed more terrible 
 to look on than death itself. The pesti- 
 lence in its worst stage was apparent in 
 every feature ; and the glaring eye, blue 
 skin, gaunt jaw, and ragged beard, were 
 more distinguishable for the sheet in which 
 the head and part of the body were wrapped. 
 He shook the iron bars of the gate as if he 
 • would have them down, and tried to climb 
 them, all the whilst giving out such piercing 
 shrieks as made the blood run cold to hear. 
 " Jesu preserve the child !" exclaimed the 
 terrified mother. 
 
 "Flames and the rack !". shouted a hollow 
 sepulchral voice, as he shook the iron bars 
 again and again. " Hell rages in my every 
 vein ! Fires eat into my heart ! O mercy !" 
 Then arose another scream more wild and 
 piercing than any that had preceded it, and 
 the poor wretch flung his head about, and 
 twisted his limbs, as if in the horriblest torture. 
 • Drive him away, good Humphrey !" 
 cried Dame Shakspeare, the sense of her 
 child's danger overcoming all other feelings 
 in her. 
 
 " Ye — ye — ye — yes, mistress !" answered 
 Humphrey as plainly as his fright would 
 allow him, but moved he never an inch. 
 
 "Oh, good God!" shrieked the disessed 
 man in his phrenzy. " Oh, the Infinite . 
 Great One ! Thif '.s the day of doom ! Hide 
 — hide, ye wicked ! — the ministers of judg- 
 ment compass ye all about. There is no 
 'scape from the co. ; suming fire. It scorches 
 my flesh — it burneth my bones to ashes. 
 Ah !" and again the same horrible yell pierced 
 the air as he writhed under his pains. 
 
 " Humphrey, I say, drive him away, I 
 prithee !" cried the frightened mother more 
 earnestly than at first. " Alack ! if he 
 should break in now we are clean lost !" 
 
 " Ye — ye — yes, mistress," muttered Hum- 
 phrey, but he sought not to move either his 
 eyes from the man, or his limbs from the 
 ground. However, it did so fall out, that 
 the terrible cause of all their fear, after 
 spending of his strength in vainly essaying 
 to shake down the gates, screaming and 
 calling after the fashion that hath been told, 
 in the height of his frenzy fell from the 
 place he had climbed to down to the hard 
 ground within the walls, where, after twist- 
 ing himself about for some few seconds in 
 the horriblest contortions, and shrieking as if 
 in the last agonies, he finally lay stiff, silent, 
 and manifestly dead. 
 
 " Humphrey ! Humphrey ! get you in 
 doors this instant," exclaimed his mistress 
 in a manner as though she scarce knew 
 what she said. Then wringing of her hands 
 exceeding pitifully, exclaimed in a low voice, 
 " Woe is me ! the plague will be upon us, 
 and no remedy." 
 
 Dame Shakspeare had called to Humphrey 
 many times, and though he answered her at 
 first, he paid but small attention to her com- 
 mands; but when the frightful object got 
 within the walls, he did nought but keep re- 
 garding of his motions with an uneasy stare, 
 as if his wits had clean gone ; and now his 
 mistress again called to him, he moved not, 
 nor spoke a word, nor gave any sign, save 
 the loud chattering of his teeth, that he was 
 one of the living. Presently there was heard 
 the sound as of sundry persons, running, and 
 ere any very long time there appeared at the 
 gate 'divers of the town watch, and others, 
 with torches and lanterns, armed with long 
 staves and other weapons. 
 
 " Get you in, dame, I pray you, and shut 
 to the casement," cried Master Combe from 
 among them. 
 
 " In with you, in God's name, or you are 
 lost!" almost at the same moment of time 
 shouted John Shakspeare ; and h : s wife, 
 with a hurried ejaculation of her great com- 
 fort at hearing of their voices, did as sho 
 was bid, and sunk into a chair more dead 
 than alive. 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 33 
 
 " I would rather have given a thousand I 
 pounds than he should have escaped," said 
 Master Combe. " I pray God no harm come 
 of it to your sweet wife and children." 
 
 " I cannot help but fear, the peril is so 
 great," replied John Shakspeare in a some- 
 what desponding tone. 
 
 " Lord ha' mercy upon us !" muttered a 
 voice not far off of them. 
 
 "As I live, 'tis my knave Humphrey!" 
 exclaimed his master, looking through the 
 bars of the gate. " Why how now ! what 
 art doing there ? Get thee in by the back 
 way on the instant, and stir not while we 
 are gone." 
 
 " La, what, be that you, master, indeed ?" 
 cried out Humphrey with a sort of foolish 
 joy, as he recognized the voice. 
 
 " Get thee in, I tell thee !" replied the 
 other sharply, and Humphrey not caring to 
 take another look at .the dead man, walked 
 himself off, and soon disappeared behind the 
 house ; whereupon his master with a key he 
 had, opened the gate, and by the directions 
 of Master Combe, the corpse was presently 
 placed upon a hand-barrow and carried 
 away by the watchmen ; then a fire of dry 
 sticks was made on the spot where it had 
 fallen, in which certain aromatics were 
 flung, which made a cloud of smoke that 
 filled the air all round about for a great 
 space. After it had burned some time, 
 John Shakspeare called to his wife that she 
 might ope the casement, and she waited no 
 second calling. Then passed they nigh 
 upon an hour in very comfortable discourse 
 one with another, as if it was a customary 
 thing of them, she leaning out of the cham- 
 ber, and her husband and worthy Master 
 Combe standing upon the lawn beneath, 
 closely wrapped up in long cloaks, and car- 
 rying lighted torches in their hands. 
 
 " I cannot express to you how glad I am 
 lo hear of the abating of the pestilence," 
 said Dame Shakspeare. " 'Tis the pleasant- 
 est news I have heard this many a day. 
 But think you it may be relied on ?" 
 
 " I have taken the very surest means of 
 
 S roving its perfect credibleness," answered 
 laster Combe. 
 " Not so many have died of it to-day by 
 twenty as died yesterday," added her hus- 
 band ; " and yesterday we buried ten less 
 than the day before." 
 
 " I am infinitely thankful !" exclaimed she 
 in a famous cheerfulness. " I heartily pray 
 it may continue so." 
 
 " So do we all, sweet dame," answered 
 Master Combe. " And I have good assu- 
 rance, now we are blessed with the prayers 
 of one so worthy, we cannot help but speed 
 
 in our endeavors. But the night wears on 
 apace. I pray you pardon me for hurrying 
 away your husband. O' my life I would not 
 do it, only we have that to look to this night, 
 which cannot be done without him." 
 
 " Ay, Dame, we must be going," added her 
 husband. " So a good sweet rest to thee, 
 and kiss my boy lovingly for me I prithee." 
 
 " That will I dear heart, without fail," 
 answered she. " And a fair good night to 
 you both, and may God above preserve you 
 in all perils." 
 
 K Good night, sweet dame, and infinite 
 thanks for your kind wishes," said Master 
 Combe ; and then he and his associated left 
 the house, locking the gates after them; 
 and proceeded straight to the town. 
 
 Now was there a wonderful difference in 
 this town of Stratford to what it had been 
 only a few months since, when I sought the 
 picturing of it ; for in place of all the pleasant 
 riot of children and general gossiping of 
 neighbors, all was dumb as a churchyard ; 
 save at intervals, the wail of the sorrowful 
 or the shriek of the dying disturbed the 
 awful stillness. Scarce a living creature 
 was to be seen excepting the watchman 
 keeping guard, to whom divers of the un- 
 happy burgesses would talk to out of their 
 windows, inquiring who of their friends were 
 yet spared, or one or two having been close 
 prisoners in their own houses, would creep 
 stealthily along the street to breathe the 
 fresher air, looking about them suspiciously 
 and in great dread, and ready to fly at any 
 unusual sound ; and instead of the sun 
 throwing its warm beams upon the house- 
 tops and other open places, there was a sul- 
 len darkness everywhere about, except just 
 where one earned a torch or a lantern with 
 him, which made a faint red light therea- 
 bouts, or when the moon burst out of the 
 deep black clouds, and disclosed to view tha 
 deserted streets grown over with patches of 
 rank grass ; the melancholy houses, — many 
 untenanted because of the pestilence having 
 spared none there, — divers with a red cross 
 upon their doors in evidence that the plague 
 had there found a victim, and the rest with 
 doors and windows carefully barred and 
 lights streaming through the closed shutters 
 — a glad sign that there at least none had 
 yet fallen. 
 
 John Shakspeare and Master Combe, 
 closely wrapped in their cloaks, entered the 
 principal street just as the moon made a 
 clear path for herself in the sky, and threw 
 such a light as made them distinguish objects 
 for the time almost as well as in broad day. 
 The first person they met was no othei 
 
34 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 than Oliver Dumps, armed with a bill, and 
 wearing a face so wo-begone as was pitiful 
 to look on. 
 
 "Well Oliver, what news?" inquired 
 Master Combe. 
 
 " News !" exclaimed the constable in his 
 dolefullest manner. "Prithee what news 
 canst expect to hear at such a miserable 
 time ? As I am a Christian man, and a sin- 
 ful, I am nigh worn out with melancholly. 
 What a world is this ! Alack, what will be- 
 come of us f I see no end to the evil where- 
 of this town is so full. We are all villainy 
 — very villainy, as I am a Christian man." 
 
 "Why what hath happened, good Oli- 
 ver?" asked John Shakspeare. 
 
 "Wickedness hath happened," replied 
 Oliver Dumps; "the veiy shamefullest 
 wickedness ever I came a nigh. Well may 
 we be visited by plagues. Our natures are 
 vile. We run after iniquity as a curtail 
 dog runs i' the wheel." Then, being further 
 pressed by Master Combe to come to the 
 point, he added, " First, there is Sir Nathan- 
 iel, who will not be moved to do any good 
 office for the sick; and Master Buzzard, 
 who, setteth his dogs at me, should I venture 
 to ask of him to assist his poor neighbors. 
 Then Stripes is ever getting of money from 
 a parcel of ignorant wretched folk to con- 
 jure the pestilence away from their houses ; 
 added to which, no longer ago than scarce 
 the half of an hour, I came upon Simon 
 Lumpfish and Jonathan Swiggle, two of the 
 town watch, in the kitchen of an empty 
 dwelling, making use of a barrel of strong 
 beer without any color of warrant, by each 
 laying of his length on the floor, and put- 
 ting of his mouth to the bung-hole." 
 
 " They shall be looked to," observed Mas- 
 ter Combe ; " but come you with us, good 
 Oliver, perchance we may need your assis- 
 tance." Then turning to one of the watch, 
 who was stationed at a door-way, he in- 
 quired how things went in his ward. 
 
 " One hath died within this hour over at 
 Peter Gimblet's, an' it please your worship," 
 answered the man respectfully ; " and there 
 are two sick here at Dame Holloway's. 
 They do say that Morris Greenfinch be like 
 to recover ; and in some houses hereabouts, 
 where the plague hath been, they have 
 taken it so kindly that it hath scarce been 
 felt." 
 
 After bidding of him keep strict watch, 
 they continued their walk; and presently 
 heard a voice of one calling across the way 
 to bis neighbor opposite. 
 
 u How goeth all with you ?" 
 
 " We are all well, thanks be to God ! 
 neighbor Malmsey. And how fareth your 
 
 bed-fellow ?" replied one from a casement 
 over against him. 
 
 " Bravely, neighbor Dowlas, I thank you," 
 said his brother alderman ; " they do say 
 there is some show of the pestilence abating ; 
 I would it were true, else shall we be all 
 ruined for a surety. 1 have not so much as 
 sold a pint of wine for the last week past." 
 
 " Nor I a yard of cloth, for a month," 
 added the other. " I pray God, the survi- 
 vors may have the decency to go into 
 mourning for their lost relations." 
 
 " And so your good dame is well, neigh- 
 bor ?" asked Alderman Malmsey. 
 
 " As well as heart could wish," replied 
 Alderman Dowlas. 
 
 " Commend me to her, I pray you," said 
 the other ;^ and then with a " good night," 
 each closed his casement. Upon proceed- 
 ing a little further on, the party were stop- 
 ped by the melodious sweet sound of several 
 voices, intent upon the singing of some holy 
 hymn. Perchance it might have ^proceeded 
 from some pious family; for in the quiet 
 night, the ear could plainly enough distin- 
 guish the full deep bass of the father, join- 
 ing with the clear sweet trebles of his wife 
 and children. And exceeding touching it 
 was at such a time to hear such proper 
 singing ; indeed, so moved were the three 
 listeners, that they sought not to leave the 
 spot till it was ended. 
 
 " That be David Hurdle's voice, I will 
 be bound for it," exclaimed the Constable. 
 " Indeed, it be well known he hath, during 
 the raging of the pestilence, spent best part 
 of the day in praying with his family, ana 
 in the singing of godly hymns. He is a 
 poor man — some call him a Puritan, but I 
 do believe him to be as honest good Chris- 
 tian man as any one in this town, be they 
 rich or poor, gentle or simple. But what 
 villainous rude uproar is this, my masters ! 
 that treadeth so close on the heels of such 
 exquisite music ?" 
 
 1 'faith, Oliver Dumps had good cause to 
 cry out as he did ; for all at once they were 
 startled by a number of most unmannerly 
 voices, shouting in very boisterous fashion 
 such profane words as these : — 
 
 " If we boast not a fire, 
 
 That is just our desire — 
 
 What then ? We must needs burn the bellows ; 
 
 And if here there's a man 
 
 That hath nought in his can — 
 
 What then? He's the prince of good fellows." 
 
 "Odds, my life !" exclaimed a voice that 
 was heard, amid the din of laughing and 
 shouting, and other lewd behavior. " Odd% 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 35 
 
 my life, that is as exquisite a catch as ever 
 I heard. Methinks, 'tis the very movinest, 
 mirthfullest a . What sayest Tickle- 
 breech ?" 
 
 " Exactly, so, an' it please your rever- 
 ence," replied the voice of the schoolmaster, 
 in a tone somewhat husky. 
 
 " By'r lady, master parson," said another, 
 " methinks 'tis of that superlative exquisite- 
 ness 'twould tickle — (a hiccup) the ribs of 
 a tombstone." 
 
 Master Combe, and his companions, 
 peeped through the crevices of the shutters, 
 and beheld Sir Nathaniel seated at the head 
 of a table covered with drinking vessels, 
 with Stripes opposite him, and nigh upon a 
 score of low idle disorderly vagabonds sit- 
 ting round making merry, but with mon- 
 strous little assurance of sobriety in their 
 looks. 
 
 " Lord ! Lord ! an' these fellows be not 
 heathens, I marvel what they shall rightly 
 be called," said the scandalized constable. 
 
 " It grieves me to see Sir Nathaniel so 
 Teadily accommodate himself to such dis- 
 creditableness," observed John Shakspeare. 
 
 "'Slight!" exclaimed Master Combe, 
 whose nature was vexed to behold such a 
 scene with such actors in it ; " he is a very 
 hog that will swill any wash that is given 
 him, let it be where it may." 
 
 The ringing of a large hand-bell now at- 
 tracted their attention elsewhere ; and look- 
 ing along the street, they observed a cart 
 slowly proceeding towards them, accompa- 
 nied by two or three stout fellows, some 
 carrying torches, and others armed with 
 bills. It stopped at a house where was a 
 red cross on the door, at which having 
 knocked, and the door opening, two stepped 
 in, and presently returned, bearing of a 
 heavy burden betwixt them, with the which 
 they ascended a short ladder, and, without 
 any word spoke, cast into the cart. Then 
 ringing of the bell again they continued 
 their way, till some door opening noiseless- 
 ly, they stopped, entered, and with the same 
 dreadful silence carried out, what on nearer 
 approach, proved to be a corpse, which was 
 added to the rest they had, in the manner 
 that hath been described. 
 
 "Hast taken many this round?" asked 
 Master Combe, of one of the watchmen 
 walking in front of the horse. 
 
 "No, your worship, God be thanked," 
 replied the man. 
 
 " Hast many more to take ?" asked John 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 " I expect not master," said the other. 
 Indeed, from all I have witnessed and can 
 
 get knowledge of, it seemeth to me the pes- 
 tilence be abating wonderfully." 
 
 " God send it may come to a speedy end- 
 ing," excaimed Oliver Dumps, with some 
 earnestness ; it maketh me clean out ot 
 heart when I think of what ravage it hath 
 made." 
 
 The three now walked at the horse's 
 head, conversing concerning of who had 
 died, and who were sick, and the like mat- 
 ters, stopping when the cart stopped, and 
 going on when it proceeded ; but always 
 keeping before the horse, because of the 
 wind blowing from that direction. At one 
 house the men remained longer than was 
 usual, and the door being open, there was 
 heard a great cry of lamentation as of a 
 woman in terrible affliction. 
 
 " Ah, poor dame, she hath infinite cause 
 for such deep grieving," said the constable. 
 
 " Go, get you hence !" cried one very ur- 
 gently from within the house. " As God 
 shall judge me, he shall not be touched." 
 
 "What meaneth this?" inquired John 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 " I say it shall not be," continued the 
 same voice. " I will die ere I will let him 
 be borne away from me. Hast hearts? 
 Hast feelings ? Dost know of what stuff a 
 mother's love be made ? Away villains." 
 
 " 'Tis a most pitiful story," observed Mas- 
 ter Combe. Wondrous pitiful ! in sooth, 
 she hath been sorely tried. But I must in, 
 else in her desperation she will allow of no- 
 thing ; and mayhap they may be violent 
 with her." 
 
 "What wouldst do?" inquired John 
 Shakspeare, catching his friend by the arm, 
 as he was making for the door. " Surely, 
 if there is one dead here, you will only be 
 endangering of yourself by venturing in, 
 and no good come of it to any." 
 
 " I pray you think not of it," cried Oliver 
 Dumps, seeming in famous consternation. 
 " There hath more died in that house than 
 in any two in the town." 
 
 "Fear nothing; I will be back anon," 
 said Master Combe, as he broke away and 
 entered at the open door. 
 
 "Alack, think not of following him, I 
 pray you, John Shakspeare !" called out the 
 constable, in increased alarm, as he beheld 
 the one quickly treading upon the heels of 
 the other. " Well, never saw I such wan- 
 ton seeking of death. They be lost men. 
 'Twill be dangerous to be in their company 
 after this; so I'll e'en have none on't." 
 And away started he in the direction of his 
 home. In the mean while the other two 
 reached an inner chamber, where was a 
 sight to see that would have melted any 
 
36 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 ■tone. On a low bed there sat a matronly 
 woman, of decent appearance, with an as- 
 pect pale and exceeding careworn, and her 
 eyes full of such thorough anguish as is- 
 utterly impossible to be described ; and she 
 held, folded in her arms, the body of a youth 
 seeming to be dead of the pestilence. 
 
 " The last !" exclaimed she, in most mov- 
 ing tones, as she fixed her tearful gaze on 
 the discolored object in her lap. " Husband 
 — children — all gone, despite my tender 
 nursing, and constant hope this one might 
 be spared, and now that — each followed the 
 other, and here am I — woe is me ! — widow- 
 ed, childless, and heart-broken. Alack, 'tis 
 a cruel world !" And thereupon she sobbed 
 in such a sort as could not be seen of any 
 with dry eyes. 
 
 " But they shall never take thee from me, 
 my dear boy," continued she in a like piti- 
 ful manner. " Heretofore I have borne all 
 and flinched none ; but thou hast been my 
 last stay, whereon all the love 1 bore thy 
 good father and thy brave brothers, was 
 heaped together ; and losing thee, I lose my 
 very heart and soul ; so, quick or dead, I 
 will cling to thee whilst J have life. Away ! 
 insatiate wretches !" she cried, turning her 
 mournful aspect upon the two men ; " Hast 
 not had enough of me ? Dost not see how 
 poor a case I am in for the lack of what I 
 have been used to ? Begone !" And then 
 she hugged the lifeless youth in her arms as 
 if she would part with him on no account. 
 Neither Master Combe or John Shakspeare 
 felt as they were complete masters of them- 
 selves ; but they knew it could not be proper 
 that the dead should stay with the living. 
 
 " Believe me, we sympathize in your great 
 afflictions with all our hearts, good dame," 
 at last observed the former to her, with that 
 sweet courteousness which was so natural 
 to him. " But I prajf you, have some pity 
 on yourself, and be resigned to that which 
 cannot be helped." 
 
 "Ah, Master Combe!" cried she, now 
 first observing him, " I would I could say 
 I am glad to see you ; for, in truth you 
 have been an excellent good friend to me 
 and mine in our greatest need ; but as it 
 seemeth to me my heart's strings be so upon 
 the stretch, 'twould be but a mockery to say 
 so, Oh, the misery !" and then she bowed her 
 head and wept exceedingly. At this Master 
 Combe endeavored all he could to give her 
 comfort ; and as his speech was wonderfully 
 to the purpose, though at first she was deaf 
 to all argument of the sort, by degrees he 
 won her to some show of reason. 
 
 " But he shall not be touched !" she ex- 
 elaimed, mournfully, yet determinedly. 
 
 " Who so proper to carry him out of tha 
 world as she who brought him in it ? I will 
 have no rude hand laid on his delicate 
 limbs. I will to the grave with him myself. 
 Alaek ! poor boy, how my heart aches to 
 look at thee !" Then carefully wiping oflf 
 the tears she had let fall upon his face, she 
 proceeded to wrap him in a sheet, ever and 
 anon giving of such deep sobs as showed in 
 what extremity she was in. This Master 
 Combe sought not to interrupt ; and John 
 Shakspeare's honest nature was so moved 
 at the scene, he had no mind to utter a 
 word. Even the men, used as they must 
 have been to sights of wretchedness, re- 
 garded not what was going on in total in- 
 differency, as was manifest in their aspects. 
 But the movingest sight of all was to see 
 that hapless mother, when she had disposed 
 of her dead son as depently as she could, 
 bearing the heavy burthen in her arms with 
 a slow step, looking pale as any ghost, and 
 in such terrible despair as can never be con- 
 ceived. The men, as they led- the way with 
 a lantern, were forced more than once, to 
 draw the cuffs of their jerkins over their 
 eyelids ; and Master Combe and John Shak- 
 speare followed her, full of pity for her sor- 
 rowful condition. She bore up bravely till 
 she came to the door, when the sight of the 
 dead-cart, made visible by the red glare of 
 the torches, came upon her with such a sud- 
 denness, that she swooned away, and would 
 have fallen on the ground, had not Master 
 Combe ran quickly and caught her in his 
 arms. Then, by his direction, her dead son 
 was placed with the other corpses, and she 
 carried back to the room she had left ; and 
 after seeing she had proper attendance, he 
 and John Shakspeare proceeded with the 
 watchman and others that had the care of 
 the cart, calling nowhere else as they went 
 in so doleful a humor that they spoke never 
 a word all the way. They came to a field 
 outside of the town, where was a great hole 
 dug, and a large mound of fresh earth at the 
 side of it. At this time, some of the men 
 took in their hands mattocks which were 
 stuck in the soil, others backed the cart so 
 that the end of it should come as nigh as 
 possible to the pit, and the rest held torches 
 that the others might see the better. Scarce 
 any spoke save Master Combe, who, in a 
 low tone, gave such orders as were needed. 
 Presently the cart was tilted, and in the 
 next moment the bodies of those dead of the 
 pestilence swept into the rude grave pre- 
 pared for them. 
 
 " By God's body, I heard a groan !" cried 
 John Shakspeare, with a famous vehemence. 
 In an instant there was so dead a sii«Mj« 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 37 
 
 >->a might have heard a pin drop. What had 
 b^en said was true enough, for ere another 
 minute had elapsed, all there distinctly 
 heard a sound of groaning come from the 
 pit. Each of the men looked at his neigh- 
 bor in silent terror, and speedily as they 
 might brought their .torches to throw as 
 much light as they could into the pit's 
 mouth. 
 
 " Alack ! I fear we have buried the living 
 with the dead !" exclaimed Master Combe, 
 evidently in a monstrous perplexity. Every 
 eye was strained to note if any sign of life 
 was visible amongst the mass below. What 
 a sight was there presented to the horror- 
 struck gazers ! Arms and legs and upturned 
 faces that had burst from their frail cover- 
 ings, all discolored and ghastly, looking more 
 hideous than can be conceived. 
 
 " As I live, something moveth in this cor- 
 ner !" cried John Shakspeare. 
 
 "Alight here, ho !" shouted Master Combe 
 in a voice that brought every torch to the spot 
 ere the words had scarce been uttered ; and 
 all were breathless with expectation. To the 
 extreme consternation of every _one there, 
 Master Combe suddenly seized a torch out of 
 the hands of one of the watch who was nigh- 
 est to him, and leaped in amongst those foul 
 bodies, close upon the spot pointed out by 
 John Shakspeare. 
 
 " Help all, if ye be Christian men ! " cried 
 Master Combe, as if he was exceeding mov- 
 ed, whilst those above were gazing down up- 
 on him, bewildered with very fear. " Help, 
 I pray you ! for here is the widow's son alive 
 yet ; and if care be used without loss of time, 
 perchance we shall have such good fortune 
 as to restore him to her to be her comfort all 
 her days." 
 
 Methinks there needs no telling of what 
 alacrity was used to get the youth out of the 
 pit with all speed, every one forgetting of his 
 danger in the excitement of the case. Suf- 
 fice it to say, he was rescued from his ex- 
 pected gnare before he had any conscious- 
 ness of being there, and that such treatment 
 was used as soon turned to his profit ; for he 
 recovered, and grew to be hale soon. Of the 
 infinite joy of the late bereaved mother, when 
 that her dead son was restored alive to her 
 loving arms, shall I not attempt to describe, 
 for to my thinking, it is beyond the extremest 
 tunning of the pen. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee ; 
 When thou art old there's grief enough for thee. 
 
 Greene. 
 flatterer false, thou traitor born, 
 What mischief more might thou devise 
 Than thy dear friend to have in scorn, 
 And him to wound in sundry wise ? 
 Which still a friend pretends to be, 
 And art not so by proof I see. 
 Fie, fie upon such treachery ! 
 Wm. Hunnis. (Paradise of Dainiie Devices.) 
 Who will not judge him worthy to be robbed, 
 That sets his doors wide open to a thief, 
 And shows the felon where his treasure lies 1" 
 Ben Jonson. (Every Man in his Humor.) 
 
 Time passed, and with it passed away all 
 sign of the dreadful scourge that had fallen 
 so heavily on the good town of Stratford. So 
 out of mind was it, that the honest burgesses 
 scarce ever talked of the subject, save per- 
 adventure some long winter's eve, when tales 
 were going round the chimney corner, some 
 one or another would vary the common gos- 
 siping of ghosts and witches, fairies and such 
 like, with a story of the fearful plague, the 
 which never failed to make the hearers, ere 
 they entered their beds, down on their mar- 
 row-bones, and very heartily thank God they 
 had escaped such imminent, terrible danger 
 Everything was going on just in the old plea- 
 sant way. 
 
 John Shakspeare had been made an alder- 
 man of, and was now advanced to the dignity 
 of high bailiff, being also in a fair way of bu- 
 siness, and in excellent repute, for his tho- 
 rough honesty, among his fellow-burgesses ; 
 nor was it forgotten of them the good part 
 he played with Master Combe in the time 
 of the pestilence. Of these, neither had suf- 
 fered by the manifold dangers in which they 
 had oft ventured ; nor had Dame Shakspeare, 
 or her family either, notwithstanding of the 
 frights he had been put to. As for her sweet 
 son William, he grew to be as handsome and 
 well behaved a child as ever lived in the 
 world, and the admiration of all who could 
 get sight of him. Concerning of his intelli- 
 gence above all other children that ever liv- 
 ed, nurse Cicely gave such marvelous ac- 
 counts, that he must needs have been a pro- 
 digy ere he was in short coats. Be this as it 
 may, there can be no manner of doubt he 
 gave, at an exceeding early age, many signs 
 of excellence, anil of aptitude for such learn- 
 ing as the inquisitive young mind is ever 
 most intent upon. 
 
 Once when John Shakspeare, with Hum* 
 
38 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 phrey and others who assisted him in his bu- 
 siness, were laboring hard in weighing and 
 sorting and packing certain tods of wool, the 
 good dame was in her chamber seated, ply- 
 ing of her needle famously, and on the floor, 
 just at her feet, was her young son, having 
 by him certain toys such as children com- 
 monly find some pretty pastime in. Some- 
 times he would seem monstrous busy divert- 
 ing of himself with these trifles, prattling to 
 himself all the whilst ; anon he would leave 
 off, and lifting up his face, would ask some 
 question of his mother, the which if she an- 
 swered not, be sure he would importune her 
 with infinite earnestness till she did. Close at 
 hand there was a spinning-wheel ; on the 
 wainscot were two or three samplers, con- 
 taining divers fine texts of Scripture, with 
 flowers worked round the border, doubtless 
 of the good dame's own working. On a 
 square table of oak was a basket with threads 
 and tapes and the like in it ; beside it was 
 some cloth of a frolic green, of which she ap- 
 peared to be making a new frock for the boy, 
 with such pretty fantasy of her's in the fashi- 
 oning of it, as she thought would become him 
 most. The casement, which looked out into 
 the garden, being unclosed, there was upon 
 the ledge a large ewer filled with sprigs of 
 lavender, that made the chamber smell very 
 daintily. Nurse Cicely was assisting of 
 Maud in a further room, the door of which 
 being open, the two could be seen at their 
 employment, getting up the linen of the fa- 
 mily — for nurse had grown greatly in her 
 mistress' confidence, because of her constant 
 affectionateness and care of the child, and of 
 her trustworthiness and wonderful skill in all 
 household matters. 
 
 " Mother, I pray you tell me something 
 concerning of the fairies of whom Nurse 
 Cicely discourseth to me so oft !" exclaimed 
 the boy. 
 
 " Prithee, wait till nurse hath leisure," re- 
 plied his mother. " She knoweth more of 
 them than do I." 
 
 " An' you love me, tell me are they so 
 mindful of good little children as she hath 
 said ?" added he more ungently. 
 
 " In deed, I have heard so," answered the 
 dame. 
 
 " I marvel where they shall find lodging, 
 be they of such small stature ?" observed 
 the child. 
 
 "It is said they do commonly sojourn in 
 the cups of the sweetest flowers," said she ; 
 " hiding themselves all the day therein, in the 
 deepest retreats of woods and lonely places : 
 and in the night time come they out in some 
 green field, or other verdant space, and dance 
 merrily of a summer's eve, with such deli- 
 
 cate, sweet enjoyment as is unknown to mor» 
 tals, till the morning star appeareth in the 
 skies, when away hie they to their hiding 
 places, every one as swiftly as if he had winga 
 to carry him." The boy listened with his 
 fair eyes upturned, gazing in his mother's 
 face in a famous seriousness and wonder 
 then seemed he to ponder awhile on wha* 
 had been told him. 
 
 " And how many little children be possess • 
 ed of such goodness as may make them bp 
 well regarded of these same fairies ?" asked 
 he at last. 
 
 " They must give way to no naughty be- 
 havior," answered his mother. " They musl 
 not be uncivil, nor froward, nor capable of 
 any kind of disobedience or obstinacy, nor say 
 any thing that is not true, nor be impatient 
 or greedy, or quarrelsome, nor have any un- 
 cleanly or untidy ways, nor do any one thing 
 they are told not." 
 
 " I warrant you I will do none of these," 
 exclaimed the boy. 
 
 " But above all they must be sure learn 
 their letters betimes," continued the other ; 
 " that they may be able to know the propel 
 knowledge writ in books, which if they know 
 not when they grow up, neither fairy nor any 
 other shall esteem them to be of any good- 
 ness whatsoever." 
 
 " I warrant you I will learn my letters as 
 speedily as I can," replied the child eagerly. 
 " Nay, I beseech you mother, teach them to 
 me now, for I am exceeding desirous to be 
 thought of some goodness." The mother 
 smiled, well pleased to notice such impati- 
 ence in him, and bade him leave his toys and 
 fetch her a horn-book that was on a shelf with 
 a few books of another kind, the which he 
 did veiy readily ; and then as he stood lean- 
 ing on her lap, seriously intent upon observ- 
 ing of the characters there put down, she told 
 him of what names they were called, and 
 bade him mark them well, that he might be 
 sure not to mistake one for another. This 
 very willingly he promised to do, and for 
 sometime, the whilst she continued her work, 
 yet with a frequent and loving eye on his 
 proceedings he would pore over those letters, 
 saying to himself what their names were, or 
 if he stood in any doubt, straightway questi- 
 oning of his mother upon the matter. 
 
 " But what good are these same letters of, 
 mother ?" inquired he all at once. 
 
 " This much, replied Dame Shakspeare — 
 " knowing of them thoroughly one by one, 
 you shall soon come to be able to put them 
 together for the forming of words ; and when 
 you are sufficiently apt at that, you snail 
 thereby come to be learned enough to read 
 all such words as are in any sentence— 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 39 
 
 ▼'hich you shall find to be made up of such ; 
 and when the reading of these .sentences he 
 familiar to you, doubt not your ability to mas- 
 ter whatsoever proper book falleth into your 
 hand — for all books are composed of such 
 sentences." a 
 
 " Is it so, indeed !" observed the boy in a 
 pretty sort of innocent surprise. " And do 
 any of these 'goodly books discourse of the 
 fairies yon spoke of awhile since ?" 
 
 " Ah, that do they, and famously I warrant 
 you," answered his mother. 
 
 " Oh ! how glad of heart shall I be when 
 I can master such books f" exclaimed the 
 child very earnestly ; " for I do long to learn 
 more of these fairies. Dost know, mother, 
 that after nurse hath sung me songs of them, 
 or told me marvelous pretty tales of them, as 
 is her wont till I have fallen asleep, it hath 
 seemed to me as if crowds of such tiny folk 
 out of all number, shining so brightly in their 
 •gay apparel of the finest colors, as though I 
 was with them in the fair sunshine, have 
 come thronging to me, offering me this dain- 
 ty nice thing and the other dainty nice thing, 
 and singing to me sweeter songs than nurse 
 Cicely sings, and dancing and making sport 
 with such infinite joy as would make any 
 glad to be of their company ; and whilst they 
 continue, they show me such wonderful great 
 kindness, and afford me such extreme plea- 
 sure, it grieveth me when I wake to find they 
 are all gone. So that I am exceeding de- 
 sirous, as I have said, to make myself as 
 good as I can, and to learn my letters as 
 speedily as I may, that I may be admitted to 
 play with them, and be loved of them as much 
 as they will let me." 
 
 The good dame marvelled somewhat to 
 hear this, and to note with what pleased ex- 
 citement it was said, for sooth to say, it was 
 a right pleasant picture, as ever limner drew, 
 to see those intelligent eyes so full of deep 
 expressiveness, and the fair forehead sur- 
 rounded with its clustering, shining curls, 
 and the delicate, rosy cheek and smiling 
 mouth, that could of themselves have dis- 
 coursed most exquisite meaning, even though 
 that most melodious voice had failed in its 
 proper office. 
 
 " Marry, but you have pleasant dreams, 
 methinks !" exclaimed she at last. 
 
 " Ay, that have I," replied the boy : " yet 
 I like not waking, and all this sweet pleasant- 
 ness go away, I know not where. But I must 
 to my lesson of the letters," added he, as he 
 took to his horn-book again ; " else shall the 
 fairies take me to be of no manner of good- 
 ness, and straightway have none of me. 
 
 " Yes, an' it please you, mistress is within. 
 T way you enter," nurse Cicely was here 
 
 o 
 
 heard to say in the next chamber — " I doubt 
 not she will be exceedingly glad of your 
 company ; so walk in, I beseech you. Here 
 is Mistress Alderman Dowlas, an' it please 
 you, mistress !" exclaimed she, entering the 
 chamber, closely followed by the draper's 
 wife, looking very cheerful, and dressed in 
 a scarlet cloak and a hat, with a basket in 
 her hand and her purse at her girdle, as 
 though she were going to marketing. 
 
 " Ha, gossip, how farest ?" inquired the 
 visitor, making up to her host, with a merrj 
 tripping pace. 
 
 " Bravely, neighbor, I thank you heartily,' 
 replied she, and then they two kissed each 
 other affectionately, and nurse Cicely got a 
 chair, and having wiped the seat with her 
 apron, sat it down close to her mistress. 
 
 " And how's the dear boy ? Come hither, 
 you pretty rogue, I would have a kiss of 
 you !" exclaimed the alderman's wife, as 
 she sat herself at her ease, and gave the bas- 
 ket for nurse to place on the table. 
 
 " An' it please you, I am learning of my 
 letters," said the child, shrinking closer to 
 his mother's side. 
 
 " Nay, by my troth, this is somewhat un- 
 civil of you," cried the dame, though she 
 laughed merrily all the time. " But I doubt 
 you will use a woman so when you get to be 
 a man." 
 
 " He will have none of his father in him 
 an' he do," observed nurse, " for he had the 
 wit to win one of the very comeliest women 
 all the country round." 
 
 " La, nurse, how idly you talk !" exclaim- 
 ed Dame Shakspeare, then bending her head 
 to her young son to hide a slight blush that 
 appeared on her fair cheeks, she said to him 
 — " Go you to neighbor Dowlas like a good 
 boy I pray you." 
 
 " Ha, come hither straight, and mayhap I 
 shall find you some keepsake ere we part," 
 added her neighbor. The child moved 
 slowly towards her, with his eyes steadfastly 
 regarding of his horn-book, till she raised 
 him on her knee and caressed him ; and yet 
 he was as intent on the letters as ever. 
 
 " And what has got here, I prithee, that 
 thou art so earnest about ?" asked Mistress 
 Dowlas, as she examined what he had in his 
 hand. " A horn-book, as I live ! and dost 
 really know thy letters at so early an age ?" 
 
 " By'r lady, of all children ever I met, he 
 exceedeth them in aptness at any sort of 
 learning," cried nurse Cicely, putting of his 
 frock straight because of its appearing some- 
 what rumpled ; " as I live, I never heard of 
 his fellow : wilt believe it, mistress ? — if by 
 chance I sing him a ballad — the which he is 
 ever a calling of me to do, he will have it 
 
40 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 again and again ; and, perchance, ere the 
 day is over, he will be playing with his toys 
 and singing of that very ballad all the whilst !" 
 
 " Oh, the dear boy !" exclaimed the dra- 
 per's pretty wife, as she cuddled him closer 
 in her arms, the mother looking on with a 
 famous satisfaction in her features ; " and 
 canst tell me those pretty letters ?" inquired 
 she of him. 
 
 " Nay, I doubt I can tell you them all," 
 replied the child ingeniously ; " but methinks 
 I know a good many of them." Then point- 
 ing with his finger on the several characters 
 as he named them, he continued — " first here 
 is A, that ever standeth astraddle ; — next him 
 is B. who is all head and body and no legs ; 
 — then cometh C, bulged out behind like a 
 very hunchback ; — after him D, who doeth 
 the clean contrary, for his bigness is all be- 
 fore ; — next," here he hesitated for some few 
 seconds, the others present regarding him 
 with exceeding attentiveness and pleasure 
 — " next here is — alack, I have forgotten of 
 • what name this one is called : mother, I pray 
 you tell me again !" It was told him pre- 
 sently. Then went he on as before, with 
 great seriousness naming of the letters with 
 some few mistakes, in most of which he 
 quickly corrected himself, and coming to a 
 halt when he was in any doubt of the matter 
 — which ended in his asking help of his mo- 
 ther — none interrupting him till he came to 
 the last of them. 
 
 " There is a scholar for you !" cried nurse 
 Cicely in an ecstacy of admiration ; " saw 
 any such wonderful cleverness ? O, my 
 Christian conscience, I am amazed at be- 
 holding of such a marvel ! Well, an' he 
 come not to be some famous learned clerk I 
 shall be hugely disappointed." 
 
 " Dear heart, how I love thee !" exclaimed 
 Mistress Dowlas, kissing him with an earn- 
 est show of affection ; " nurse, prithee give 
 me the basket ; I have got him there a deli- 
 cate piece of march-pane, which I doubt not 
 will give him infinite content ; and here in 
 my purse I have got a bran new silver groat 
 fresh from the mint, which he shall have of 
 Bie as a keepsake." 
 
 " Marry, what a prodigal goodness !" 
 cried nurse, as she did what was required of 
 her without loss of time ; but he meriteth it 
 well, he doth, I will be bound for him, and 
 every good thing in this world that might 
 grace his having." 
 
 "What say you to neighbor Dowlas for 
 her great kindness ?" inquired the much de- 
 lighted mother, as her young son took in his 
 lands her visitor's gifts. 
 
 "I thank you right heartily, neighbor 
 Dowlas," reolied he, lifting up his fair eyes 
 
 with such modesty and gratefulness express- 
 ed in them, as charmed her heart to see. 
 
 " I'faith, should I be inclined to become 
 covetous, methinks here I should find ample 
 excuse for it," observed the draper's wife, 
 patting of the child's rosy cheeks as she put 
 him down from her lap ; then rising, added, 
 " But now I must hie me home as speedilj 
 as I may for the getting of dinner ready, foi 
 I have tarried so long a space since my com- 
 ing out, that perchance my good master shall 
 give me up altogether." 
 
 The draper's wife having gossiped all 
 she had to say concerning of her neighbors 
 and their doings, kissed the boy and his 
 mother very lovingly, and took her leave. 
 
 Now the reader hath already had some 
 acquaintance with those worthies, Master 
 Alderman Dowlas and Master Alderman 
 Malmsey, but methinks 'tis high time he 
 should know more df them for the better 
 understanding of this story. Both had been 
 married some time to two as proper women 
 as ever were seen. The former of the two 
 was a rigid, serious, methodical fellow T to all 
 outward appearance ; somewhat tall and 
 slender, with hard solemn features, as hath 
 been described ; and the other was one of a 
 right jolly face and portly person, with a 
 merry dark eye, ever a winking at some 
 pretty woman or another, and a short black 
 beard, with hair of a like color. Each was 
 turned of forty, and therefore ought to have 
 been of discreet behavior ; and as for their 
 wives, if ever men had inducement to honest 
 conduct, they had in possessing of such 
 women ; for they were ever of an admirable 
 pleasant humor, of notable excellence in 
 what women ought to be, and in all res- 
 pects such good wives, that it was,not pos- 
 sible to say ought to their discredit. Each 
 was a little short of thirty, and having had 
 no children, had not yet parted with their 
 youthfulness, and the innocent happy care- 
 lessness which is so oft its companion. They 
 were friends from girls, and loved each other 
 as though they were sisters. 
 
 " Neighbor Dowlas !" cried a well-known 
 voice, as the draper's wife was crossing to 
 her house ; and looking up, she saw her 
 gossip Mistress Alderman Mamlsey leaning 
 out of her casement. " I pray you come in a 
 while, I have a matter of some moment for 
 your private ear." 
 
 " I'll come to you this very instant," an- 
 swered the other, and straightway passed 
 into the vintner's dwelling. Scarce had she 
 got within the threshhold, when the jolly 
 vintner bustled up to her with a marvelous 
 obsequious courtesy welcoming her to the 
 house, pressing her to taste of his bestv* ♦• 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 41 
 
 Una leering in her face the whilst, whisper- 
 ing all sorts of sugared compliments in her 
 ear. 
 
 " Nay, prithee let me go !" exclaimed she, 
 striving to free her hand, which he held in 
 his as they stood at the bottom of the stair. 
 "• You h urt my fingers, you vile wretch, with 
 your intolerable squeezing." 
 
 " Oh, delectable Mistress Dowlas !" cried 
 he, kissing of her hand in seeming rapture ; 
 " the stars are but pitiful rushlights to those 
 exquisite bright eyes, and that delicate fair 
 cheek out-rivaleth the peach's richest 
 bloom." 
 
 " Away with you, and your poor flatter- 
 ing stuff" !" said the draper's pretty wife, still 
 striving to break away from him ; " I'm 
 not to be cozened so easily, I promise you." 
 
 " I beseech you, dearest life, allow me one 
 sweet salute !" whispered he, in most en- 
 treating tones, as he brought his face as 
 close as he could to her's." 
 
 " There's one prithee, make the most 
 on't !" exclaimed she, as she took him a box 
 on the ear that made the place ring ; and 
 then ran laughing up stairs. 
 
 Neighbor Malmsey wore a more serious 
 face than was her wont. At least so thought 
 neighbor Dowlas, as she entered her cham- 
 ber ; and after the customary courtesies 
 were over, and the two were seated close 
 together, neighbor Malmsey looked more 
 serious still. 
 
 " I have a matter to speak of, that mak- 
 eth me exceedingly dull at heart," com- 
 menced Mistress Malmsey. - 
 
 " Doubtless, 'tis concerning the improper 
 behavior of her wretch of a husband," 
 thought Mistress Dowlas ; then added aloud. 
 "Believe me, I am infinitely concerned also." 
 
 " I hope you will not think the worse of 
 me for telling you," continued the vintner's 
 wife ; " but 1 assure you, rather than allow 
 of your being unhappy by knowing it, I have 
 for many years past endured much of un- 
 pleasantness at his hands, and said nought 
 but rebuke him for his wantoness. 
 
 " Alack, we cannot all have good hus- 
 bands !" exclaimed her gossip, in a conso- 
 lotary sort of manner. 
 
 " Now, my Jonathan " 
 
 " But he only groweth the bolder for my 
 forbearance," continued neighbor Malmsey, 
 interrupting the other. Indeed, he getteth 
 to be quite abominal, and mast have a 
 speedy check put to his misdeeds, or his 
 wickedness will soon make such a head, 
 there will no putting of him down." 
 
 " O' my life, I cannot count him so bad 
 an that," observed neighbor Dowlas, as if, 
 Vith a view of affording the ill-used wife 
 
 some comfort. " Perchance, it is only a 
 little wildness that good counsel will make 
 him ashamed of speedily. Now, my Jona- 
 than " 
 
 " I am glad you think no worse of him," 
 quickly answered the vintner's wife ; " but 
 methinks, it looketh to be a very shameful 
 impudency in him to go on so, and have so 
 good a wife." 
 
 " Ay, 'tis monstrous that, of a surety !" 
 cried her gossip. 
 
 " But I have done with him," added 
 neigbor Malmsey, with some earnestness : 
 " he hath lost my good opinion long since. 
 I will foreswear his company, an' he mend 
 not soon." 
 
 " Prithee, take not to such extreme mea- 
 sures !" said the other, concernedly. " Find- 
 ing no profit in it, I doubt not he will alter 
 his way, and I will take good heed he shall 
 do you no matter of dishonesty." 
 
 " Marry, I can answer for that," observ- 
 ed her companion ; " but I do assure you I 
 have talked to him many times of the 
 heinousness of the offence, and never at 
 any time have given him the slightest pro- 
 vocation for such notorious misbehaving to 
 you." 
 
 " Of that I feel well assured," answered 
 neighbor Dowlas ; and if at last he do not 
 love you as fondly as ever man loved his 
 wife, I shall be hugely mistaken." 
 
 '•Eh? What? Love me?" exclaimed her 
 companion, looking in a famous wonder. 
 " But I marvel you should make jest of it. 
 I would not in such a case I promise you ; 
 but it glads me infinitely to say there is no 
 fear of such a thing. My Timothy giveth 
 me no sort of uneasiness." 
 
 " Indeed !" cried her neighbor, seeming 
 in a greater amazement than the other had 
 been. 
 
 " I would your husband would take a pat- 
 tern of him." 
 
 " I would nought of the kind, neighbor 
 Malmsey," quickly ejaculated the draper's 
 wife, with a very absolute earnestness. " 1 
 like not my husband to be ever a running af- 
 ter another man's wife, seeking of unlawful 
 favors of her, as for years past Master 
 Malmsey hath done to me, I promise you." 
 
 " My Timothy run after you, neighbor 
 Dowlas !" screamed out the vintner's wife, 
 bounding from her seat in as absolute as- 
 tonishment as ever was seen. 
 
 " By my troth, yes," answered her com- 
 panion. 
 
 " Oh the horrid villa\n !" exclaimed the 
 other. 
 
 " He is ever pestering of me with hi* 
 foolish flatteries and protestations of kvOt 
 
42 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 and the like poor stuff," added the draper's 
 wife, "I have no rest from him when I 
 have such ill-hap as to he in his company. 
 Nay, as I came in here he would needs 
 have a kiss of me at the stair-foot, but I up 
 with my hand and gave him so rude a sa- 
 lute on the ear, I doubt not I have taken all 
 conceit of such favors out of his head." 
 
 " Oh, the abominable caitiff!" cried 
 neighbor Malmsey. 
 
 " I liked not telling you of it, thinking it 
 might vex you," continued the other, " so 
 I bore it as good humoredly as I could, and 
 should not have spoke of it now had you 
 not begun the subject upon my entering of 
 the room." 
 
 " 'Twas of Master Dowlas's shameful 
 behavior to me I was speaking," said the 
 vintner's wife. " He hath followed me up 
 and down for years in this way, spite of all 
 I could say or do." 
 
 " What, my Jonathan !" now cried the 
 other, starting from her chair in a greater to 
 do than her companion had been. " The 
 absolute wretch ! But I will be even with 
 him, I warrant you. Please you, neighbor 
 Malmsey, to leave the revenging of the 
 wrong done us by these pitiful hypocrites ; 
 if. shall be done after such a sort as shall 
 punish them handsomely for their intended 
 v.; ilainy, and in remembrance of it, keep them 
 from all such baseness for the future." 
 
 " That will I, and willingly, gossip," an- 
 swered her companion with the tears in her 
 eyes. " But he hath oft pressed me to give 
 him a private meeting, prithee, say what I 
 had best do." 
 
 " I have a merry cousin of mine, who 
 will help us in this purpose of ours," replied 
 neighbor Dowlas. " So you must e'en in- 
 vite him to sup with you alone at Widow 
 Pippins.' I will do the same with my wor- 
 shipful gallant, and if you learn your part of 
 me, we will have as exquisite sport as ever 
 misused woman had of a vile husband." 
 
 " Rely on me," said neighbor Malmsey. 
 " But, as I live, I hear the voice of your 
 precious partner talking to mine on the 
 stair-fqot !" exclaimed she. 
 
 " Doubtless they will both make for here, 
 so do you as I have said, and leave the rest 
 to my managing," added the other. She 
 had scarce said the words, and they had re- 
 seated themselves, when, as they appeared 
 intent upon some deep discourse, there 
 entered Master Alderman Dowlas, with his 
 usual great soberness of manner, having his 
 brother alderman behind him in a jesting 
 humor, as he seemed, as if quite forgetful of 
 the oox of the ear he had just had.. 
 
 " Perdie ! here is one about to, send' the 
 
 town crier after you, fair Mistress Dowlas !" 
 exclaimed he, making up to her as gallantly 
 as ever. 
 
 " Indeed, I have marveled hugely on ac- 
 count of your long stay abroad, knowing 
 not how you had disposed of yourself," said 
 the draper. " But I am wonderfully con- 
 tent to find you in such admirable company. 
 And how doth my fair life ?" whispered he, 
 glancing at his friend's wife most enamor- 
 edly, as he followed her to a distant part of 
 the chamber, and vowing and entreating and 
 flattering of her, as though it were done for 
 a very wager. Nor was Master Malmsey 
 in any way behind him in such ill-doing, as 
 may be supposed, for he sat down with his 
 back to the other, before Mistress Dowlas, 
 exercising of his tongue with the movingest 
 expression he could think of, and gazing at 
 her comeliness as though it were' the rarest 
 feast for the eye that the wnole world con- 
 tained; Neither thought of glancing to- 
 wards where was his wife. Indeed, each 
 was too intent on what he was about to heed 
 what the other was a doing, not imagining 
 such a thing as his friend attempting of the 
 same thing as be was himself straining 
 might and main to accomplish. Howsoever, 
 in the space of a few moments this private 
 talk was broke up, manifestly to the excee- 
 ding contentation of these worthless hus- 
 bands. 
 
 " What an absolute fool is neighbor Malm- 
 sey, that he looketh not closer after his 
 wife !" thought Master Alderman Dowlas, 
 as he descended the stair looking solemn as 
 an owl. 
 
 " What a very ass is neighbor Dowlas, 
 that he cannot see that I am making love to 
 his wife before his face ?" thought the vint- 
 ner, with an inward chuckle of satisfaction 
 at his own cleverness and better fortune. - 
 
 All that day the draper appeared in a 
 most exquisite satisfaction with himself. 
 The seriousnesss of his aspect was oft dis- 
 turbed with a happy smile, and as the noon 
 wore out, he kept ever asking of the hour. 
 
 " Dame," said he at last, after he had 
 spent a wonderful time in washing and 
 decking himself out in his best apparel, till 
 he looked as spruce and stiff as a roll of 
 buckram; "there is a certain godly man 
 over at Hillsborough, that I have promised 
 neighbor Hurdle to go and hear preach this 
 night ; if, peradventure, I should tarry lon& 
 prithee, get thee to bed betimes. I am kwth 
 thy rest should be shortened by waiting up 
 for me." 
 
 " Marry ! I should like to go myself to 
 hear, the good man,!' observed his wi '«, 
 somewhat mischievously by the way, u 1 ■* 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 43 
 
 •wethinks his preaching cannot help being 
 as good for me as for you." 
 
 " But the distance is far too great for thy 
 walking, dame, else shouldst thou without 
 fail," replied he very readily. 
 
 " Nay, but I walked to Barston last 
 Shrovetide, which is a good mile longer," 
 said she. " I doubt not such a jour- 
 ney will do me aji especial good service, 
 to say nought of the godliness of it." 
 
 " Indeed, I would take thee with all my 
 heart," added her husband, " but since the 
 last rains some parts of the road are utterly 
 impassible for huge deep ponds that go right 
 across." 
 
 " Then will we borrow John a Combe's 
 grey horse, and I will ride behind you on a pil- 
 lion," answered his wife, as if desirous to 
 bring him to a nonplus. 
 
 " O' my life ! I cannot wait to go a bor- 
 rowing now, so I must e'en wish thee good 
 bye, and take thee another time," replied 
 Master Dowlas ; and then, as if fearful she 
 would more strongly desire to go, as quick 
 as he might he took himself straight out of 
 the house. Scarce had he entered the 
 street when he was hailed by his jolly 
 neighbor opposite, standing at his door in 
 nis Sunday jerkin and new gallygaskins, 
 as finely trussed as ever he was when a 
 good score years younger. To his question 
 where was he going so fine, the draper an- 
 swered as he had told his wife, then Master 
 Malmsey declared to the other that as his 
 good dame had gone a visiting to her aunt's, 
 he intended making a night on't with a few 
 choice spirits at his cousin Birch's. Thus 
 each were deceived, and each laughed in his 
 sleeve at the other's credulity. 
 
 Jonathan Dowlas proceeded on his way, 
 hugging himself Tn his own conceit at the 
 pass he had brought matters to with the 
 buxom Mistress Malmsey, till he came to 
 the outskirts of the town, where was a small 
 inn known as " The Rose," kept by the 
 widow Pippins, in famous repute for her 
 careless free humor, and fondness for jests 
 of all sorts. The building, or buildings, for 
 there seemed more than one, were comiected 
 by a wooden gallery that run across right 
 in front of the yard, on one side of which lay 
 the more respectable portion of the tenement, 
 with its boarded front covered with grapes, 
 that hung in famous clusters even up to the 
 thatch. The other part looked to be the sta- 
 bles, pigsties, and the like sort of places. 
 Jonathan made for the entrance holding up 
 his head as high as he might. 
 
 " Ha, ha ! Master Alderman, ar't there !" 
 exclaimed a voice from the gallery, and 
 looking up, the draper's eye caught sight of 
 
 the widow Pippins. There was she leaning 
 on her elbows over the railing, as if watch 
 ing for him, her brown face crinkling upon 
 her red arms, like a rasher of bacon on the 
 burning coals. Perchance she might be 
 laughing, but Jonathan Dowlas was not 
 nigh enough to see very distinctly. Get 
 thee in quick, I prithee, and I will be witl 
 thee straight." 
 
 The alderman obeyed her bidding with a 
 stately alacrity, and he had scarcely got 
 fairly housed when he was met by mine 
 hostess, whose still bright eyes, albeit though 
 she was a woman, somewhat advanced in 
 years, twinkled with a most merry mali- 
 ciousness. 
 
 " Follow me," whispered she, evidently 
 striving to suppress a laugh, and then giving 
 him a sly nudge and a wink, added, " Oh, 
 thou villain !" led the way to a chamber, 
 of the which she had scarce closed the door, 
 when she burst out into a long loud laugh, 
 the draper looking on as though he knew 
 not what to make of it. " By my fay, now 
 who would have thought of this !" exclaim- 
 ed she, holding of her sides, and looking 
 at him with exceeding, yet with a mon- 
 strous ludicrous intentness. " Where didst 
 get the powder to make so exquisite fair a 
 woman so infinitely in love with thee as is 
 Mistress Malmsey?" The alderman re- 
 laxed somewhat in the seriousness of his 
 aspect at hearing this intelligence. " She 
 dotes on the very ground thou dost walk 
 on !" continued she, and the alderman smiled 
 outright. " But who would have suspect- 
 ed this of one so serious as thou art ? O 
 my womanhood ! what a very rogue thou 
 art !" saying which she fetched Master 
 Dowlas so sore a thump on the back, that it 
 went some way towards the knocking of 
 him off his legs. 
 
 " Poor Master Malmsey !" cried she, as 
 plainly as she could in the midst of her 
 laughing, " Alack ! he hath no suspicion of 
 his wife's huge fondness for thee, I'll be 
 bound for't. Knowing of thy notable grav- 
 ity, he cannot have the slightest color of 
 jealousy. But, I charge thee, use hef with 
 a proper handsomeness. She is none of 
 your light madams — she hath a most gentle 
 spirit, and is the very delicatest, sweetest 
 creature I ever came nigh." Then fixing 
 on him a look in which seriousness and 
 mirth seemed striving for the mastery, she 
 cried, " Go to, for a sly fox !" and hitting 
 of him just such another thump as she gave 
 him a moment since, — with a fresh burst 
 of laughter — she left him to himself. 
 
 Jonathan found that he was in a long 
 narrow chamber, strewed with rushes, wilS 
 
44 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 a door at each end, and one at the side, at 
 which he had entered — having in the mid- 
 dle a small table set out for supper, with a 
 larger one at the further end of the chamber, 
 completely covered with a cloth that fell 
 down to the ground on all sides of it, and it 
 was fairly hung round with arras, some- 
 what the worse for its antiquity, for it 
 gaped in some places sadly. He had hard- 
 ly noticed these things when the door at 
 the bottom of the room opened, and there 
 entered Mistress Malmsey, clad in her very 
 gayest attire, and looking, as the alderman 
 thought, more blooming than ever he had 
 seen her. He with an exceeding forma] 
 sort of gallantry, hastened to get a chair 
 for her, expressing of his extreme rapture 
 at her goodness in giving him this appoint- 
 ment, and then sat himself down as close 
 to her as be could, taking her hand very 
 lovingly in his, and commencing his fa- 
 mous hne compliments, protestations, and 
 entreaties, with an earnestness that he im- 
 agined was sure of prevailing with any 
 woman. The vintner's wife answered with 
 some coyness, that convinced him what the 
 widow Pippins had said was true enough, 
 and he straightway redoubled his exertions, 
 fully assured that his suecess with her was 
 beyond all doubting. 
 
 " Divinest creature !" exclaimed the 
 enamored draper, looking at his companion 
 as lack-a-daisical as a hooked gudgeon, 
 " fairest, sweetest, super-finest she alive ! 
 I do assure thee my affections be of the best 
 nap, and will wear in all weathers, and I 
 will give thee such liberal measure of my 
 love as shall make thee infinitely loath to 
 have dealings elsewhere."' 
 
 " Alack, men are such deceivers !" cried 
 Mistress Malmsey. " They soon depart 
 from what they promise." 
 
 " Count me not as such, I pr'ythee," re- 
 plied the alderman, " I am warranted fast. 
 I do assure thee, I am none of such poor 
 fabrics — I am of the finest quality, even to 
 the fag end. Oh, exquisitest Mistress 
 Malmsey, an' you do not take pity on me 
 straight, I must needs lie on the shelf like 
 a considerable remnant, of which the fash- 
 ion hath gone out of date." 
 
 " Hush ! as I live, there is my husband's 
 voice !" here exclaimed the vintner's wife, 
 to the great alarm of her lover, and both 
 started up together, seeming in a wonderful 
 surprise and affright. 
 
 " What ho ! house here !" shouted Mas- 
 ter Alderman Malmsey, from the stair 
 foot. 
 
 " Hide thee, good master Dowlas, or I 
 am lost," exclaimed the vintnei' wife, and 
 
 before Jonathan could look about him, ah* 
 had vanished out of the bottom door ; but 
 he was not allowed time to think what he 
 should do in such a dilemma, for he heard 
 the footsteps of his neighbor close upon the 
 door, so, as speedily as he could, he crept 
 under the table at the further end of the 
 room, imagining that the other was merely 
 paying of a passing visit, as he was pro- 
 ceeding to his cousin Kirch's, and would 
 tarry but a short time. Here he lay snug- 
 ly ensconced, not daring to peep out for 
 fear he should be seen. Presently, in 
 came the jolly vintner, humming of a tune, 
 and bandying jests with the widow Pippins, 
 who led the way with a light — it getting to 
 be nigh upon dark — and, by her loud laugh- 
 ing, was in as fine a humor at beholding 
 him in her house, as she had before been at 
 seeing his neighbor. 
 
 " Odds pittkins, what a jest !" cried the 
 merry widow, putting the light upon the 
 supper table. "Happy man!" added she* 
 looking on him as seriously as she could, 
 and then giving him a sly poke on the ribs, 
 exclaimed, as plain as her loud laughing 
 would allow, " but what a monstrous poor 
 fool is her husband !" At which saying of 
 hers, Master Malmsey joined in the laugh 
 right earnestly. 
 
 " There is never such an ass in Strat- 
 ford," said he, when his mirth would allow 
 him words. He is so weak of conceit in 
 the matter that he will allow of my making 
 love to his wife before his eyes. But mum, 
 widow — mum's the word," said he, myste- 
 riously, " I should not like of his knowing 
 what kindness I am doing him. Mayhap 
 he would take it somewhat uncivil of me. 
 So be close, widow, I prithee. 
 
 " As a fox," replied the other knowingly. 
 
 " Dost not think, a man who taketh no 
 better heed of his wife, ought to be so serv- 
 ed ?" inquired the vintner. 
 
 " O' my troth, yes !" answered the widow, 
 breaking out into a fresh peal of laughter ; 
 " And trust me, I would think it good sport 
 to help make a fool of him." 
 
 " I thank thee exceedingly," said Mastef. 
 Malmsey. 
 
 " Nay, thou hast small cause of thanks, 
 believe me, Master Alderman," replied his 
 merry companion, with the tears running 
 down her cheeks from sheer mirth ; " I do 
 it out of good will — out of good will, 1 do 
 assure thee." Then nudging him o' the 
 elbow, having an exceeding sly look with 
 her, she added — " Art thou not a rogue, 
 now, — an especial rogue — a very cozening 
 rogue, to make the flower of all Stratford 
 to be so taken with ihee 1" 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 45 
 
 * It cometh entirely of her fool of a hus- 
 band," answered the vintner, chuckling 
 mightily. " He would allow of our being 
 together at all times, and was ever thrust- 
 ing of her, as it were, into my arms. How 
 could 1 help myself. I am but a man, and 
 she so exquisite sweet a creature ! So, 
 whilst he was humming and hawing to my 
 good dame, I had her up in a corner, ma- 
 ting of love to her by the hour together." 
 
 "Fie on thee, Master Alderman!" said 
 she, shaking her head as if with a famous 
 seriousness. " Thou art a dangerous man 
 for any poor woman to be with, so I will 
 e'en be quit of thy company. I'faith thou 
 art a sad rogue." Then fetching him a 
 poke i' the ribs that made him gasp for 
 breath, she hurried out of the room laugh- 
 ing more heartily than ever. 
 
 All this made Jonathan Dowlas prick up 
 his ears, and he marvelled hugely who could 
 be the frail wife his neighbor was enamored 
 of as he had had no suspicion of such athing; 
 whereof the knowledge of it he had now 
 gained, made him think of his designs on 
 Mistress Malmsey a proper punishment for 
 bis brother alderman's unpardonable con- 
 duct towards his friend, whoever he might 
 be. Full of all sorts of speculations on the 
 matter, he remained in his hiding place 
 without moving, for he could hear the vint- 
 ner humming of a tune, and walking to and 
 fro, and was cautious his hiding place might 
 not be discovered. Presently the door 
 opened and some one entered, whom Master 
 Malmsey addressed in such a manner as 
 made Jonathan feel assured it was the very 
 woman the other declared he so loved. She 
 answered in so small a voice she could not 
 be well heard in the draper's hiding place ; 
 and, in a minute after, the two seated them- 
 selves at the farther end of the room, where, 
 although he had heard each word his neigh- 
 bor spoke, because of the greater loudness of 
 his speech, of his companion distinguished 
 he never a word, it seemed to be uttered in 
 such a whisper. The extreme movingness 
 of the vintner's speech at last filled his 
 neighbor with so absolute a curiousness to 
 know who it was the other was so intent 
 upon loving, that he began with wonderful 
 cautiousness, to lift up a part of the table 
 ' cover, so that he might take a peep without 
 betng seen. 
 
 The first thing he got sight of was neigh- 
 bor Malmsey, kneeling on one knee with his 
 hand to his heart, with nothing but the most 
 desperate and uncontrollable affection in his 
 looks, and such an absolute irresistibleness 
 in his speech, that it was as if no woman 
 must stand against it. Before him was 
 
 seated a female very prettily attired, wb 
 face being somewhat in the shade, and « 
 little turned from him, Master Dowlas could 
 not at all make out. The candle wanted 
 snuffing abominably, or perchance he would 
 have seen better. 
 
 " Prithee turn not away those lustrous 
 eyes," exclaimed the vintner in a rare im- 
 passioned manner ; " the poor knave thy 
 husband heedeth not their brightness ; and 
 that most delicious lip, that rivaleth my 
 choicest wines in the tempting richness of 
 its hue, — why should such a sorry fellow as 
 he is have its flavor to himself, who mani- 
 festly careth not for it. All my heart 
 longeth but for a taste. My dear sweet, 
 prithee allow it but this once. I will be 
 bound to thee ever after. I will hold thee 
 in more regard than my chiefest customer. 
 Come, we dally with opportunity. I will 
 be bold and steal it an' thou wilt not give 
 after so much asking." Just at this mo- 
 ment the speaker made an effort as if to 
 salute his companion, and she moving at 
 the same time brought her full face to the 
 light, and Jonathan Dowlas beheld his own 
 wi'fe. A clap of thunder would not have 
 startled him more than, such a discovery; 
 indeed so monstrous was he moved, at it 
 that he clean forgot where he was, and 
 rising quickly hit himself so sore a crack o' 
 the crown against the table, that he could 
 do nought for some minutes after but rub 
 his pate and vow vengeance against his 
 false wife and wicked treacherous neigh- 
 bor. 
 
 " By'r lady now, I must go up," cried Mis- 
 tress Malmsey from below, so loud that all 
 heard her. 
 
 " O' my troth, here is your wife coming, 
 and if she catch us I shall be undone !" ex- 
 claimed Mistress Dowlas, immediately after 
 which the unhappy draper heard the shuffling 
 of feet, and he was left in darkness. 
 
 " Now if his wife come here, I will have 
 excellent revenge," thought he. Presently 
 he heard a door open, and some one cry out 
 in a whisper — " Master Alderman," where- 
 upon he stealthily left his hiding place. 
 
 " Hist !" cried he, fumbling his way on tip- 
 toe across the room. 
 
 " Hist !" replied some one else, evidently 
 making towards him with as little noise as 
 possible. 
 
 " Prithee where art, my honey sweet ?" 
 inquired the former ; " since thy departure 
 here hath been that most wretched villain, thy 
 husband, seeking to do me the most mon- 
 strous wickedness with my wife ; but if I pay 
 him not handsomely there is no smoothness 
 in velvet. Come hither quick, nay dear life, 
 
THE YOUTli OF SHAKSPBaKA 
 
 Pot I am impatient to have thee in my most 
 fond embrace !" 
 
 " Ha, indeed !" cried Master Ma'nnsey, 
 who had hid himself behind the arras when 
 his fair companion had ran off with the light, 
 and hearing a voice cry " Master Alderman," 
 crept out, thinking she had returned to him. 
 " Take that and be hanged to thee !" where- 
 upon he made a blow ; but, being in tne dark, 
 ho hit nothing. 
 
 " Villain, art there !" exclaimed Master 
 Dowlas in as towering a rage as his neighbor; 
 " let me but get at thee, I'll maul thee 1 war- 
 rant ;" and both proceeded to strike the empty 
 air in a most terrible passion ever seen — ever 
 and anon giving the panels such famous 
 thumps, that it made their knuckles smart 
 again. 
 
 " Dost call this going to hear a godly man 
 at Hillsborough, thou traitorous caitiff?" sar- 
 castically asked the vintner, hitting on all 
 sides of him, and jumping here and now 
 there, in his desire to punish his false neigh- 
 bor. 
 
 " Ay, marry, as much as it be going to 
 Cousin Birch's,'" retorted the other, coming 
 on more cautiously and with less noise, yet 
 no less intent on vengeance. In consequence 
 of the one being so wonderful quick in his 
 movements, and the other so quiet he could 
 not be heard moving, there was no harm done 
 for a good space, save by hurting themselves 
 stumbling over chairs and the like, which was 
 sure to make he who was hurt in a greater 
 rage than ever, and to be more intent upon 
 having his vengeance of the other. It wo uld 
 have been a goodly sight to have seen this 
 precious pair of husbands, if they could have 
 been seen in the darkness, each so earnest 
 upon punishing of the other for the same 
 thing he was himself guilty of, and giving 
 vent to no lack of ill names and execrations, 
 which he who uttered quite as richly merited 
 as he to whom they were addressed. At last 
 the vintner got within an open door s,t the 
 top of the room, where the draper pounced 
 upon him like a cat, and as they were tuss- 
 ling away with all their might it was closed 
 behind them and fastened without their know- 
 ledge. Neither had the slightest idea he was 
 now in a different chamber, for in truth nei- 
 ther had time to give the matter a thought, 
 each having enough to do to defend himself 
 from the other's hearty cuffs, sometimes roll- 
 ing together on the floor, and anon hustling 
 each other on their legs, yet with no great 
 damage to either. After some minutes spent 
 tois way both left off, being completely out 
 of breath with their great exertions. Some- 
 what to their astonishment they heard loud 
 toureteof laughter from the adjoining cham- 
 
 ber, and noticing the ±ignt streaming from 
 under the door, both impelled by the samifr 
 curiousness, crept softly towards it. Jona- 
 than Dowlas stooped to take a peep at the 
 keyhole ; Timothy Malmsey put his eye to a 
 crack in the panel, — each was aware of the 
 other's vicinity, but not a word was said by 
 either. They looked and beheld a supper- 
 table well laid, at which two handsome gal- 
 lants, clad in delicate suits, with rapier and 
 dagger, were regaling themselves and mak- 
 ing merry, evidently to their heart's content- 
 ment ; whilst the Widow Pippins stood by as 
 if waiting upon them, and giving them a nar- 
 ration, which she seemed as though she could 
 scarce tell for laughing. 
 
 " Indeed, an' it please your worships, it 
 be the very excellentest trick ever I heard 
 of," said she, holding of her sides. " Here 
 came these poor fools of husbands, each des- 
 perately enamoured of his friend's wife T 
 which these merry women allowed of only 
 that they might the better punish them as 
 they deserved. I' faith, what wittols must 
 they have been to have fancied themselves 
 likely to prevail with such. They ought to 
 have known that when a pretty woman is so 
 inclined she looketh to something above her. 
 There is no temptation in it else. Little 
 guess Master Dowlas and Master Malmsey, 
 that 'tis to your worships they care for, and 
 none other." 
 
 " Here's a horrid villainy come to light !' 
 muttered the draper. 
 
 " Oh, what a vile quean have I for a 
 w'fe !" exclaimed the enraged vintner in the 
 same low voice. 
 
 "Little guess they how often yon two 
 have had secret meetings here with their 
 buxom wives," added the widow ; " or what 
 exquisite, sweet pleasure you have found in 
 their delectable company." 
 
 " O' my word, neighbor, methinks we have 
 been foully wronged !" cried Jonathan in a 
 monstrous dismal tone. 
 
 " 'Slight, there be no doubt on't !" an- 
 swered Timothy, manifestly in a still worse 
 to do. " Alack ! my head aches horribly." 
 
 " By my troth, I do feel a sort of shootdng 
 pain there myself," added the other, rubbing 
 his forehead with his palm very dolefully. 
 
 " I pray your worships, make haste," 
 continued the laughing widow. " There 
 is Mistress Malmsey below stairs, and 
 Mistress Dowlas in the next chamber, 
 wonderfully impatient to have with them 
 their several lovers. Never saw I women 
 so dote on men ; they dote on your wor- 
 ships, alack for their simple husbands !" 
 
 "We've been infamously abused, neigh- 
 bor !" said the draper, whilst the others 
 
Tlli'i lUulH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 49 
 
 ." the next chamber were uutfuing very 
 nifc/rily. " As I live, we are two miserably 
 wwtclied husbands." And thereupon, niay- 
 hav out of sympathy for his brother in mis- 
 tortune, ne tnrew nis arms around his necK, 
 and moaned very pitifully. 
 
 " God's precious ! I shall go mad !" cried 
 the vintner, lifting up one leg and then Ihe 
 other, like a goose treading on hot bricKS. 
 " But shall wo not burst in on these dainty 
 gallants, neighbor, and spoil their sport ?" 
 
 " Nay, nay, see you not they have weap- 
 ons," whispered his more cautious compa- 
 nion. " Peradventure they would give us 
 our deaths were we to venture upon them 
 unarmed. Let us seek to get out of this 
 place as speedily as we nitty, and find assist- 
 ance • doubtless we shah ie in time to dis- 
 turb them at their villanies, and so rid our- 
 selves of our cozening false wives, and be re- 
 venged on tiieir paramours." 
 
 " Ha ! prithee set about it on the instant," 
 said the other ; " then Master Dowlas began 
 feeling of his way along the wainscot with 
 his brother alderman close at his heels do- 
 ing the like thing, till they came to a door, 
 which was soon opened by the former, and 
 to the great joy of both, proved to lead out 
 into the gallery. From here they were not 
 long before they found themselves in the 
 parlor of the house, where was a famous 
 company assembled of their friends and 
 neighbors, among whom were John Shak- 
 speare, the high bailiff, and Oliver Dumps, 
 the constable. These were quickly informed 
 of the grievous wrong doing, in such moving 
 terms, that the whole party, arming them- 
 selves with what weapons they could conve- 
 niently lay a hold on, proceeded under the 
 command of their chief magistrate to seize 
 upon the offenders. 
 
 "What a villainous world is this !" ex- 
 claimed Oliver, putting on his most melan- 
 choly visage. " Marry, an' aldermen's wives 
 must needs take to such evil courses, how 
 shall a constable's wife escape ?" 
 
 They soon burst into the chamber, where 
 they found the two gallants up in a corner 
 with their backs towards them, with the Wi- 
 dow Pippins standing in a manner as though 
 she would not have her guests rudely med- 
 dled with. 
 
 " Hollo, my masters !" exclaimed she. — 
 w Are j^e mad — that ye enter thus unman- 
 nerly before two gentlemen of worship ?" 
 
 " Mind her not, neighbors — she is nothing 
 jetter than a very villainous go-between !" 
 exclaimed Master Alderman Malmsey in his 
 deadly rage flourishing of a spit he had got 
 in his hand, as if he would do one or other 
 s^them some dreadful iniurv. 
 
 I " These be the same two fine fellows that 
 must needs be meddling with our wives :— 
 1 will take my oath on't !" cried Master Al- 
 derman Dowlas, in a horrible bad passion, 
 po> nting towards them with the kitchen po- 
 ker. 
 
 "Down with them !" shouted one 
 
 " Let us dispatch them straight !" bawled 
 a second. 
 
 " By goles, we will be their deaths — the 
 monstrous villains that cannot let honest 
 men's wives alone," cried a third ; and all 
 seemed moving forward with mischief in their 
 looks. 
 
 " Respect the law, neighbors, respect the 
 law !" exclaimed the constable, striving all 
 he could to repress the desire for instant 
 vengeance so manifest in his companions. 
 
 " Ay, we must have no violence, my mas- 
 ters," added John Shakspeare. " If these 
 persons have done aught amiss, I will take 
 care they shall answer for it, but I cannot al- 
 low of their being hurt." 
 
 " Oh, what monstrous behavior is this in 
 an honest woman's house !" cried the Wi- 
 dow Pippins. 
 
 " Stand aside, mistress, I prithee," ex- 
 claimed Oliver Dumps, pushing by the wi- 
 dow, and seizing hold of one of the gallants 
 by the shoulder, added, in a louder voice, 
 " surrender you in the Queen's name." 
 
 " Now, neighbor Dowlas," said John 
 Shakspeare, " look you in the face of this 
 one, and say if you can swear him to be the 
 villain that playeth the wanton with your 
 wife ; and you, neighbor Malmsey, do the 
 same with the other." 
 
 " I warrant you," replied both, moving 
 with alacrity, and with the terriblest re- 
 vengeful aspects ever seen, to do what their 
 high bailiff had required. Each caught hold 
 of one of the dainty young gentlemen with 
 great rudeness, and poked his beard close in 
 his face, and each at the same moment 
 started back as though he had been shot, 
 amid the loud laughter of every one in the 
 room. These gallants proved to be no 
 other than their own wives ; and all been 
 let into the secret by them for the more 
 more complete punishing of their faithless 
 husbands . 
 
 " Go to, for a sly fox !" cried the Widow 
 Pippins, giving Master Dowlas just such 
 another famous slap of the back as she had 
 saluted him with on his first entrance to the 
 chamber. " I'faith, thou art a sad rogue," 
 added she, fetching Master Malmsey so ab- 
 solute a poke i' the ribs that it put the othej 
 poke, bad as he had thought it, clean out of 
 his remembrance. The jests that were 
 broke upon these poor aldermen by theil 
 
48 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEAkL. 
 
 neighbors were out of all calculation, and 
 tney were so ashamed they could say never 
 a word for themselves. And indeed they 
 made a famous pretty figure — their best ap- 
 parel be ing aH covered with dust and broken 
 rushes from rolling on the floor, and their 
 •iands and faces, hair and beards, instead of 
 being in such delicate trim as when they 
 first entered " The Rose," were in as dirty a 
 pickle as was any chimney-sweep's. How- 
 ever, they ever after turned out to be the best 
 of husbands, and would as lief have taken a 
 mad bull by the horns as sought to make love 
 to another man's wife. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Ana, then the whining school-boy 
 With satchel and shining morning face, 
 Creeping, like snail, unwillingly to school. 
 Shakspeare. 
 Some there are, 
 Which by sophistic tricks, aspire that name 
 Which I would gladly lose, of necromancer ; 
 As some that used to juggle upon cards, 
 Seeming to conjure, when indeed they cheat; 
 Others that raise up their confederate spirits 
 Bout windmills, and endanger their own necks 
 For making of a squib ; and some there are 
 Will keep a curtal to show juggling tricks, 
 And give out 'tis a spirit ; besides these, 
 Such a whole ream of almanack-makers, figure- 
 
 flingers, 
 Fellows, indeed, that only live by stealth, 
 Since they do merely lie about stolen goods, 
 They'd make men think the devil were fast and 
 
 loose, 
 With speaking fustian Latin. 
 
 Webster. 
 
 " Bring hither thy hat, William, I prithee, 
 'tis nigh upon school time," said Dame 
 Shakspeare to her young son, as they were 
 together in her chamber. 
 
 " Ay, that is it," replied he, doing what he 
 was desired with a very cheerful spirit. 
 " 'Sooth, though I lack knowing what man- 
 ner of pleasure is found in school, methinks 
 it must needs be none so little, nurse Cicely 
 speaketh of it so bravely." The mother 
 carefully smoothed the hat, and placed it on 
 her child's head, smiling the whilst either at 
 what had just fallen from him, or mayhap at 
 his exceeding comeliness, now she had, after 
 intinite painstaking, attired him with such a 
 ahow of neatness and cleanliness as made 
 him appear worthy of any mother's love, 
 Were she the proudest in the land. 
 
 " Nay, school hath its pains also," replied 
 Ate ; " but such are unknown of any, save 
 
 unworthy boys, who care more for play than 
 for book, and will learn nothing that is set 
 them." 
 
 " Well, an' they behave so ill, it be plain 
 they deserve no better," observed the boy. — 
 " Yet it seemeth to me from what I have 
 learned of nurse Cicely in ballads and sto- 
 ries, and from such sweet stories as you nave 
 ofttimes repeated to me concerning of brave 
 knights and fair ladies, that if other pleasures 
 of a still sweeter sort are to be found in 
 books, whereof you can know only by going 
 to school and conning your lesson with all 
 proper diligence, school cannot help being as 
 pleasant a place for good boys as any goodly 
 place that can be named." 
 
 "Doubtless," answered the mother, evi- 
 dently pleased at noting in her son such sen- 
 sibleness at so early an age. Then she bu- 
 sied herself in putting each part of his dress 
 as it should be, smoothing this, and pulling 
 down that, and turning him round with a 
 thorough, yet most affectionate scrutiay, that 
 no fault should escape her. At last, she 
 appeared satisfied with her labors, and hang- 
 ing round his neck a satchel, that looked as 
 if it contained no great weight of books, she 
 quickly put on her own hat and cloak, and, 
 laying hold of him by one hand, carrying of 
 a basket in the other, with many cheerful, 
 pleasant words to his unceasing interrogato- 
 ries, she led him out at the door. 
 
 The good dame and her young son pro- 
 ceeded together through a part of the town, 
 with such passing commendation and salu- 
 tations from such of the neighbors as were 
 standing at their doors or approaching them 
 as they went, till they came to the lane 
 where John a Combe was set on by Master 
 Buzzard and his man Saul, as hath been re- 
 lated, when, in the middle of some speech of 
 his, the boy let go his mother's hand, and so 
 forgetful of school, of goodly books, and of 
 sweet verses — which had formed the staple 
 of his talking all along — as though such 
 things had neVer been, he on a sudden, dart- 
 ed oif as fast as he could after a butterfly 
 that came flying past him. Dame Shak- 
 speare called many times, but it appeared as 
 if he heard not her voice, for with his hat in 
 his hand he run, now on one side of the lane, 
 now on the other, and now dodging hither 
 and thither wheresoever the dainty insect 
 spread its delicate wings, as if there could 
 not be in this whole world any one thing of 
 such huge importance to him as the catching 
 of that butterfly. At last, his mother was 
 obliged to hasten after him, finding he heed- 
 ed not her calling, called she evur so, and 
 succeeded in overtaking her little truant, 
 just as he stood, with his hat thrown on the 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 grass in a vain essay to catch what he had 
 Seen in such earnest chase of — with hands 
 and eyes uplifted, watching with some vex- 
 edness in his aspect, the swift retreat of the 
 enticing insect over the hedge. 
 
 Some scolding followed this as the good 
 dame wiped her son's hot face, and dusted 
 and smoothed his hat, and set it on his head 
 again; but he made such famous excuses 
 concerning of the marvelous beautifulness 
 of this same butterfly beyond-all butterflies 
 he had ever seen, that the loving mother 
 contented herself in the end with kissing 
 him, and bidding him never again run from 
 her side. The great delight he had found 
 in what he had previously talked so largely 
 of now left him altogether, and he could say 
 nought, save of what rare pleasure would 
 have been his had it been his good hap to 
 have captured that choice fly, with sundry 
 pertinent questions concerning of whence 
 came such brave toys, how lived they, and 
 whether they could not be kept at home, and 
 fed on marchpane, and such other delicates 
 as he could give them, to all which she 
 answered as she best could. On a sudden 
 he started a new subject, for spying of many 
 wild flowers on the bank he must needs stop 
 to gather some. In vain his mother re- 
 minded him of what great promise he had 
 made of diligence in learning, and alacrity 
 in going t« school, he implored so movingly, 
 she could not help allowing him what he re- 
 quired of her ; and this led to his stopping 
 at other flowers he saw, to do the like thing, 
 "making such pretty exclamations of admira- 
 tion at the sight of them, that the good dame 
 could not iind it in her heart to speak of 
 his tarrying as he did, with any harshness. 
 Presently, a bird flitting through the hedge, 
 would make him pause in a strange wonder 
 to look after it ; and all his talk of flowers 
 in a moment changed to as importunate a 
 questioning upon the birds. Indeed, school 
 now seemed to have no more charm for him 
 than hath the brightest landscape for a blind 
 man ; and he kept so tarrying for this thing 
 and for the other, as showed he was in no 
 little reluctance to be taken away from such 
 fair sights. 
 
 Certes, it is a long lane that hath no turn- 
 ing, and the boy, with his mother, got at last 
 to meir journey's end, which proved to be a 
 low mean building at the outskirts of the 
 'own, whereof part of the casement having 
 been broken, the missing panes had been 
 pasted over with leaves of copy-books. It 
 was a wooden building, crumbling with age 
 in many places, with a ragged thatch, of 
 so dark a color it could not help being of 
 some standing, underneath which were 
 
 sundry nests, with the birds flying in and 
 out ; and upon it, up to The roof-top, was a 
 famous company of sparrows, flitting about 
 and making so great a chirruping as was 
 wonderful to hear. The door being open, 
 there was heard a low murmuring as of the 
 humming of a whole hive of bees, which 
 increased in loudness as they came nearer 
 till it was interrupted by a loud rough voice, 
 calling out " Silence !"' when it sunk a little. 
 At this moment they entered at the door. 
 They came first into a chamber with a brick 
 flooring, where they saw a number of small 
 boys ; some seated upon old forms, clipped 
 at the corners, and carved with letters of 
 every sort, as might be seen by tire empty 
 ones ; and others, in groups, standing before 
 one or two bigger boys, each of whom held 
 a book as if hearing others their lessons ; 
 but as soon as the strangers were observed, 
 there was seen on the instant, an infinite 
 lack of both learning and teaching amongst 
 all. One whispered to another — others 
 pointed — and some stood up to have a better 
 view; and all stretched their necks, and 
 strained their eyes, in a very absolute mar- 
 vel, as to the intent of the dame and her son 
 in coming there at that time. 
 
 The two were curiously and steadfastly 
 gazed on by every boy there, as they ad- 
 vanced up two steps that led to a part of 
 the same chamber, having a boarded floor, 
 where were some long desks, at which 
 bigger boys had been writing of copies, with 
 one of a greater height at the top, where 
 sat on a tail stool no less a personage than 
 Stripes the shoolmaster, of whom the reader 
 hath already some knowledge. He sat up 
 stiff as a post ; his gaunt visage as thin and 
 shar.p as though his ordinary diet was of 
 flint stones, or other such matter that afford- 
 eth wonderful poor nourishment ; his hair 
 and beard standing in great need of the bar- 
 ber's art ; an old gaberdine on, which for its 
 rags the cursedest old Jew that ever clipped 
 coin would have been ashamed to have been 
 seen in; his falling bands rumpled and 
 soiled ; his bases open at the knees, and his 
 hose in slovenly folds falling down his shrunk 
 shanks to his heels, where a pair of huge 
 pantofles, of the oldest out of ail doubt, hid 
 in some measure the numberless holes that 
 had there begun to show themselves. He 
 held a cane upright in one hand, and in the 
 other a book, having before him a boy, who 
 by the earnest scratching of his head, and the 
 intentness of his gaze at the broken ceiling, 
 had doubtless come to a halt in his lesson ; 
 and his dull stupid face wore an aspect of 
 severe seriousness, which boded no good to 
 the young student. But for all this as ha 
 
00 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 caught sight of Dame Shakspeare with her 
 son advancing towards him, the cane was 
 put out of sight in the twinkling of an eye, 
 and a sort of something that was meant to 
 be a smile became visible in his cadaver- 
 ous countenance, as he gave the unprepared 
 scholar back his book, and bade him to his 
 place. 
 
 Marvelous to look on was the suavity with 
 which the pedagogue heard Dame Shaks- 
 peare say she had brought her son William 
 to have his schooling, hoping he would prove 
 an apt scholar ; thereupon famously did he 
 launch out into all manner of fine scholar- 
 like phrases, whereof it was in no way easy 
 for any to find where lay the sense, and then 
 proceeded he to catechise the child in a 
 monstrous pedantical humor, and to examine 
 him as to the extent of his acquirements in 
 the rudiments of profane learning ; and al- 
 though the boy showed some shyness, which 
 was exceeding natural at his age, before so 
 forbidding a person, yet, by dint of his 
 mother's praises, he was got to evince a 
 tolerable acquaintance with the spelling of 
 simple words. All this time the curious- 
 ness of the entire school exceedeth concep- 
 tion. No sign of studiousness was visible 
 in any ; instead of which the eyes and ears 
 of the whole assembly were bent upon get- 
 ting the completest knowledge of what was 
 going on ; and whilst some of the highest 
 part of the school kneeled on their seats, or 
 leaned over their school-fellows, sundry of 
 the bottom part stood on their forms, and a 
 few crept up the steps, with countenances 
 all agog to learn as much as they could of 
 this strange matter. 
 
 " And 1 have brought you here a fine 
 capon for your own eating, worthy Mr. 
 Stripes," said Dame Shakspeare to the 
 schoolmaster, whose mouth seemed to water 
 at the very name of such delicate food, as 
 she took from her basket a fowl carefully 
 wrapped about in a clean white cloth ; " the 
 which I hope will prove to your liking, and 
 I do trust you will favor me in what my 
 heart most covets, so much as to give what 
 attentiveness you can to my boy's schooling, 
 that he may do you credit in his after 
 years." 
 
 " I am a very heathen an' I do not," 
 replied he, taking the gift with a famous 
 willingness. 
 
 " Then I will now leave him to your 
 charge," observed the dame, and, kissing of 
 her young son, with a loving admonition to 
 be a good boy and speed in his learning, she 
 departed out the door. Stripes, first placing 
 of his new scholar amongst others of his 
 age in the lower room, which movement of 
 
 his caused a famous show of studiousness 
 amongst all the boys he came nigh, and 
 setting him a lesson, returned to his desk ; 
 and then, undoing the cloth, examined the 
 capon both with his eyes and his nose, 
 with such extreme satisfaction, it looked as 
 though he cared not to wait for the cooking. 
 At last, putting it in the cloth again, he 
 marched with it out at a door close upon his 
 desk, feasting his eyes upon it as he went. 
 Scarce had the door well closed upon him, 
 when there arose such a hubbub in the 
 school, of talking and shouting one to 
 another of all the boys concerning of the 
 new comer ; those who had some know- 
 ledge of his parentage telling others who 
 had none, and some of the bigger boys 
 leaving their places to have a closer view of 
 him, or ask him questions, as seemed to 
 astonish William Skakspeare exceedingly ; 
 but he was not allowed to be in a long 
 marvel, for the door opened presently, and 
 then there was an instant scuttling to places, 
 and an infinite affection of attentiveness 
 everywhere. Speedily as this was done it 
 escaped not the eye of the master, who 
 seized on his cane in a twinkling as soon 
 as he had entered, with an eye of severe 
 menace, and thundered out his commands for 
 sundry of the offenders to come up to him 
 without delay ; for although he was so ob- 
 sequious in his spirit before Sir Nathaniel 
 and others he was fearful of offending, no 
 greater a tyrant ever lived than was he to his 
 scholars. » 
 
 " So, Jemmy Sheepshanks !" cried he, as 
 the first offender approached him with some 
 backwardness ; " prithee, what need hadst 
 out of thy proper seat without any color of 
 warrant, thou horribly abominable young 
 caitiff?" 
 
 •' An' it please you, master, I only " 
 
 " Silence !" shouted the pedagogue in a 
 voice that appeared to make the little cul 
 prit shake in his shoes. 
 
 " Art not ashamed to have accommodatea 
 thy worthlessness with the graces of my 
 instruction for so long a time as thou hast, 
 and never so much as brought me a single 
 egg, much less a fine capon, such as worthy 
 Dame Shakspeare, on her first coming, hath 
 appurtenanced me with — and thy mother 
 having such a prodigal store of poultry? 
 By Jove, his searching thunders ! thou art 
 as barren of good fruit as a whipping-post. 
 Prithee, hold me thy digital extremity." 
 
 " In good fay, master, I only went " 
 
 " Thy hand, Jemmy Sheepshanks !" bawl- 
 ed Stripes, in a manner which brought forth 
 a right dolorous wailing, and the tremulous 
 projection of a palm of considerable dirtiness 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 fil 
 
 A few inches befoite the offender's stomach. 
 " Elevate it somewhat!" continued he, eye- 
 ing the shaking ringers as a vulture would 
 the prey he was about to sweep down upon. 
 " Somewhat more .'" added he in a louder 
 voice ; and whack went the descending cane 
 across the dirty little hand. " Ya !" scream- 
 ed the boy, and thereupon he doubled him- 
 self up as if he had an inward pain of great 
 fierceness, and then he shook his hand and 
 rubbed it against his jerkin, and held it in 
 the other, as though he had a hot cinder in 
 it, and made such a yelling all the whilst 
 as was pitiful to hear. 
 
 " And now thy sinister manus ; for rae- 
 thinks it be very monstrous injustice one 
 should 'scape, and the other not," observed 
 the schoolmaster, getting his weapon in 
 readiness. 
 
 " Nay, o' my life, good Master Stripes !" 
 roared the urchin in a deprecating tone ; 
 but he was not let off so easily, for the left 
 hand presently fared as badiy as the right, 
 and then, with a parting crack o' the crown 
 for jerking his hand away, so that the peda- 
 gogue missed it more than once, Jemmy 
 Sheepshanks in a terrible uproar was sent 
 back to his seat. The rest of those who had 
 been called up looked on as though they 
 would have given all they were worth to 
 have been a good hundred miles from the 
 spot. The other boys were studying of 
 their separate tasks with a teeming dili- 
 gence that could never have been exceeded, 
 and their new schoolfellow was thinking in 
 his mind, from this first example he had had 
 of school, it was no such brave place after 
 all. Each of the offenders went through 
 the same discipline, save the last, and was 
 as well reminded as the first had been of 
 certain remissness on his part in not having 
 brought some nice thing or other for their 
 worthy master. 
 
 " Ha, Mat Turnspit ! thou art most su- 
 perlatively offensive !" exclaimed the peda- 
 gogue, looking at the remaining one with 
 the same savage aspect as had been the 
 forerunner of the other's punishments. " I 
 have cast up the sum of thy offences, the 
 product whereof " 
 
 " An' it please you, master, father killed 
 a hog last night," cried out the boy sharply, 
 yet not without some trepidation. 
 
 " Marry, what then ? The particulars — 
 the conclusion, I prithee !" cried his master. 
 
 " An' it please you," answered little Mat, 
 " mother told me to say, an' your worship's 
 Btomach stood in any way affected towards 
 pig's chitlings, she would send you as 
 famous a dish of them as should delight the 
 cockles of your heart mightily." 
 
 " Thy mother, I would wager to be as 
 honest a woman as any of her inches," ob- 
 served Stripes, his aspect of a sudden chang- 
 ing to an absolute graciousness. " And 
 touching pig's chitlings, I would have thee 
 communicate to her auditories, I consider 
 them a savoury diet as any thing that can 
 be eaten, and will accept of a dish with 
 abundance of thanks. As for thyself, Mat 
 Turnspit, I doubt not thou hadst excellent 
 cause for being out of thy seat. Get thee 
 back again straight, and be sure thy re- 
 membrance plays not the truant with the 
 pig's chitlings." 
 
 After this, the first class were called up 
 to their reading lesson, and putting up their 
 copies, each holding of a book, presently 
 stood in a half circle before their teacher, 
 who, seated on his high stool, with his cane 
 in his hand, and the lesson before him, 
 never failed to apply the former to the palms 
 of such as were amiss in their reading — 
 constantly commenting on the exceeding 
 properness of behavior shown by Dame 
 Shakspeare and Dame Turnspit, in the mat- 
 ter of the fat capon and the pig's chitling's. 
 All this while there was a famous thinking 
 going on in the young mind of the new 
 scholar, whose faith in the pleasantness of 
 schools diminished with every blow he heard 
 given, till at last he came to the conclusion, 
 that it was the very horriblest bad place he 
 had ever entered : nevertheless he applied' 
 himself to his lesson as earnestly as he 
 might, with no greater interruption than 
 what came from some little neighbor sliding 
 up to him with a civil speech, intent upon 
 being on the best terms with a schoolfellow 
 so well recommended to their master. 
 
 As Stripes was very furious lecturing of 
 a boy, about to undergo the customary dis- 
 ci pUne, the door behind him opened, and 
 there appeared at it a strange looking object 
 in the likeness of an overgrown boy. To 
 all appearance, the schoolmaster looked as 
 lean a dog as ever licked an empty trencher, 
 but he was of a very corpulency in com- 
 parison with the walking bunch of bones 
 known throughout the town as Skinney Dick- 
 on, the schoolmaster's boy, that now entered 
 the school-room. His face had the project- 
 ing jaws of a ravenous crocodile, with the 
 complexion of a kite's foot, and his rusty 
 hair straggled over his skull like a mop 
 worn to the very stump — this was support- 
 ed on a long thin neck bare of all clothing 
 to the shouider blade, where a leather jerkin, 
 made for a boy half his size, was buttoned 
 tight with a small skewer (for lack of but- 
 tons, which had all been worn off), whereof 
 the sleeves came only to his elbows, show- 
 
52 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 ing his naked arms, like the picked drum- 
 sticks of some huge fowl, with the claw left 
 on. A pair of greasy gaskins, that seemed 
 as though they had been made for a grass- 
 hopper, encased the lower part of his body 
 to his knees, below which two bare legs, as 
 barren of calf as an andiron, descended till 
 they were partly lost sight of in two old 
 shoes, whereof the wide gaping of the upper 
 leathers told plainly of the whereabouts of 
 the owner's ten toes. 
 
 "How now, Dickon!"' exclaimed his 
 master, as soon as he became aware of the 
 other's vicinity. 
 
 " An' it pul-pul-pul-pul, please your wor- 
 ship, the kick-kick-kick-kick cat's run off 
 with the kick-kick-kick-kick capon." 
 Scarce had the words got loose from the 
 chopping teeth of his stuttering boy, ere 
 Stripes jumped from his stool with a ludi- 
 crous astounded look, and brushing by his 
 intelligencer with such furiousness as to 
 lay him his length on the floor, sought the 
 thief, swearing all sorts of horrible oaths 
 and direful imprecations ; after running 
 frantically to and fro, the enraged school- 
 master spied puss on a shelf in an outhouse, 
 tearing up the flesh of the fowl after a 
 fashion as evinced her appreciation of its 
 goodness. She was an old, large, black 
 animal, whose projecting ribs manifested 
 the like relationship with famine as appear- 
 ed in the master and boy ; and made despe- 
 rate by extreme hunger, she raised her back, 
 glared with her green eyes, and commenced 
 so brisk a spitting and swearing, as the 
 schoolmaster, in a terrible tearing passion, 
 began cutting at her with his cane — though 
 at a respectful distance — as proved she 
 would not be got to part with her prize with- 
 out a tustle ; and mayhap he would have 
 been but badly off had she flown at him, the 
 which she appeared monstrously inclined to 
 do, but at this moment she spied Dickon 
 hastening to the rescue with the stump of a 
 broom, which caused her to make a move- 
 ment as though she would carry off her 
 booty — however, before she had got a firm 
 hold of the fowl with her old teeth, Dickon 
 gave her so sore a blow with his weapon as 
 sent her flying off the shelf into an open 
 water-butt that stood a yard or so off where- 
 upon she was glad enough to save her nine 
 lives the best way she could, as if capons 
 had, never been. 
 
 This occurred not without some stir in 
 the school ; but scarce had Stripes returned 
 to his desk after placing of his heart's trea- 
 »ure in a place of safety, when his anatomy 
 of a boy again made his appearance at the 
 open door, at sight of whom he opened his 
 
 lanthorn jaws, quite aghast with surprise, 
 thinking that the villainous cat had again 
 made away with his dainty; but Dickon' 
 came only to announce the arrival of one 
 Mother Flytrap on an errand of conjuring, 
 which speedily allayed his master's alarm. 
 Dismissing the class to their seats with a 
 perilous threat kept they not as quiet as 
 mice till his return, the pedagogue stalked, 
 with an air of marvellous solemnity — little 
 in accordance with his slovenly gaunt figure 
 — into an inner chamber, meanly furnished 
 with an old table and a chair or two, yet, 
 having, in the shape of a globe in the win- 
 dow, a snake in a bottle over the chimney, 
 and a curious hieroglyphic book spread out 
 upon the table : various signs that it was 
 in especial use for learned purposes. A 
 little woman, whose shrivelled skin savored 
 of some antiquity, stood in a corner of the 
 chamber, in a grey cloak and peaked hat, 
 leaning with both hands upon a stick she 
 held before her. 
 
 " An' it please your worship," began she, 
 parting the exceeding closeness of her nose 
 and chin, and hobbling two steps forward 
 as Stripes entered, " be it known to you, of 
 all the days in the year, last Wednesday 
 was a week, wanting of a spoon for a gossip 
 of mine — as worthy a good soul as ever 
 broke bread, for all it hath been said of her 
 she taketh to her aquae vitas bottle more than 
 is becoming an honest woman : — but Lord ! 
 Lord ? who shall escape the bruit of slander- 
 ous tongues in this cantankerous age ; — as 
 I was a saying, over a sea-coal fire, at Dame 
 Marigold's — who was making as famous a 
 bowl of spiced ale, with a roasted crab, as 
 ever passed mortal lips. Indeed, of all 
 women 1 know, an' it please your worship, 
 she excelleth in the brewing of such deli- 
 cate liquor ; and last sheep-shearing I did 
 hear little Jack Maggot, of Maggot Mill — 
 he that got his head broke at a bout at single 
 stick with Job Styles, the hedger of our 
 town — say he knew none of these parts that 
 had such cunning in these preparations. 
 Mercy o' my heart ! I have known the 
 time when Job Styles was better off than 
 he is, by a good ten crowns a year. But 
 we are all mortal." 
 
 " Hast lost a spoon ?" enquired the school- 
 master, when his companion stopped to take 
 breath. 
 
 " Ay, marry," replied Mother Flytrap, 
 " as goodly a silver Evangelist as you shall 
 find come of any god-father; and the only 
 one of the four left. O' my word, it vexeth 
 me to find the world groweth every day 
 more dishonest ; and no more heed is taken 
 of so goodly a gift as an Evangelist spoon. 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 fta 
 
 than of a dish of beans. Well — flesh is 
 grass : so it's what we must all come to — 
 more's the pity — more's the pity." 
 
 " When lost thou this spoon ?" asked 
 Stripes. 
 
 " Marry, an' it please your worship, I 
 know not," replied his companion ; " but 
 last Wednesday was a week, as I have said, 
 when it was getting nigh upon noon, I had 
 made me a porridge fit for the Sophy, with 
 good store of leeks in it, for my dinner, 
 when who should enter at my door but 
 Gammer Bavins, whose son went to the 
 wars and died beyond seas ; whereupon de- 
 siring of her to rest herself, as in all civil- 
 ness I was bound, seeing that her mother's 
 cousin's great uncle and my grannum 
 were cousins - german, I asked of her 
 to have some of my famous porridge, to 
 the which she cheerfully gave her consent- 
 ings ; and thinking 'twould be but respect- 
 ful of me to allow of her having a silver 
 spoon instead of a lattern one, the whilst* 
 she was telling of me an excellent famous 
 story of what brave eating was in porridge 
 such as she was wont to make for her gaffer 
 when he came home from the woods — for 
 your worship must know he had been a 
 woodman, and of some repute in the craft — 
 and how monstrously he took to it when 
 she could chop in a handsome piece of bacon 
 fat, with a pinch of mustard — though for 
 mine own part methinks good hog's lard in 
 some quantity, with a sprinkling of bay salt^ 
 giveth much the delicater flavor " 
 
 " So the spoon was missing ?" here put 
 in the schoolmaster. 
 
 " La you ! what a wonderful conjuror is 
 your worship !" exclaimed Mother Flytrap, 
 lifting up her hands and eyes in amazement ; 
 " ay, was it : and though I have since search- 
 ed high and low in every crack and cranny 
 hole and corner from housetop to floor, if I 
 have caught as much as a glimpse of it 
 there is no hotness in ginger. Peradven- 
 ture " 
 
 " Thou hast come to learn of thy missing 
 spoon ?" said Stripes, knowing full well 
 should he let her run on, there would be no 
 stopping of her tongue. 
 
 " Odds codlings, yes, an' it please you," 
 replied she : " well ! never saw I your like 
 at finding out things : as I live I said not a 
 word of the sort. Mayhap your worship 
 knoweth v/hom I suspect of stealing it ; and 
 by my troth I doubt not it shall be found 
 without some grounds, for she hath the re- 
 putation of a horrible pilferer." 
 
 " Thy suspicions rest upon a woman !" 
 answered Stripes with a very proper solem- 
 nity. 
 
 "A grace of God! your worship must 
 needs have dealings with the old one ! cried 
 his companion in a famous astonishment; 
 " Marian Eoosefish be as nigh 10 a woman 
 as ever she will be, for she hath had two 
 children and never a husband, and hath 
 been thrice put into the stocks for misbe- 
 comingness. But we are all mortal. More's 
 the pity — more's the pity !" 
 
 " And thou wouldst have me ascertain by 
 virtue of my art, with what correctness thou 
 dost suspect this woman ?" added the school- 
 master. 
 
 " Ay, dear heart, out of all doubt, and I 
 have brought your worship as exquisite nice 
 a black-pudding as ever was made," an- 
 swered the other, producing from under her 
 cloak a large sausage of this sort, which 
 her companion eased her of with marvellous 
 alacrity ; " and will, besides, give your wor- 
 ship a tester for your pains, provided you 
 can put the stealing of it upon her with such 
 certainty she shall never be able to deny it, 
 and so I get back my spoon again." 
 
 " Prithee stay where thou art, and keep 
 strict silence," said the schoolmaster, with 
 a very earnest seriousness, as he took a 
 long black wand out of a corner, and put on 
 his head a strange looking conical cap of a 
 blood-red color, which made his visage look 
 all the more lean and ghastly ; then gazed 
 he with terrible severity on his book, turning 
 over the leaves for some minutes, Mother 
 Flytrap looking on with a fearful curious- 
 ness, as dumb as a stone. 
 
 " Mercury in the sixth house," muttered 
 the conjurer as if to himself. 
 
 " I warrant you that is my house ; for 
 mine is just the sixth in the row as you enter 
 the town," observed she. 
 
 " Silence, woman !" shouted Stripes, au- 
 thoritatively, then presently added in an un- 
 der tone — " Jupiter and Venus in conjunc- 
 tion, whereof the affinities in equilibrio being 
 geometrical to their qualities, giveth sign of 
 some heavy metal, of an express white color, 
 and in shape of some narrowness, with a 
 concavity at the determination. Ha ! what 
 meaneth this ! — Diana under a cloud " 
 
 " That's her -an' it please you !" said 
 Mother Flytrap, eagerly ; " she hath been 
 ' under a cloud' at sundry several times, 
 which will be well known of many, for she 
 is as absolute a " 
 
 "Peace, I tell thee !" bawled the conju- 
 ror ; a wouldst turpify my astrologicals ? 
 Prithee hold thy prate :" after which he 
 continued without other interruption a deal 
 more of similar heathenish words. " My 
 art telleth me these three things," observed 
 he to her at last, as grave as any judge • 
 
M 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 " to wif? — thy spoon hath been stolen, an' 
 tfeou hast not mislaid it in some secret place ; 
 — provided a thief hath got it, there shall be 
 no doubt.it hath been stolen ; and should it 
 be found upon Marian Loosefish, beyond all 
 contradicting she may be suspected of the 
 theft." 
 
 " Wonderful !" cried the old woman, in a 
 huge amazement ; u of all conjuring never 
 heard I of anything like unto this ! I would 
 have sworn it was her before your worship 
 had told me a letter of her name ; for I have 
 all along suspected her and no other. I 
 protest I am in so great an admiration of 
 your worship's marvellous deep knowledge. 
 I scarce know what to be at. Odds cod- 
 lings, what wonders the world hath !" 
 
 " At thy peril, speak another word till I 
 tell thee !" exclaimed the reputed conjuror, 
 in a formidable solemn voice, as if desirous 
 of still more impressing his customer with 
 his thorough knowledge of the occult sci- 
 ence : " I charge thee make no manner of 
 noise, else ill will befall thee. I would know 
 more of this matter, and will have my fami- 
 liar to acquaint me with the particularities." 
 At this the old dame, dumb with extreme 
 fright and curiousness, backed herself into 
 a corner of the chamber, as Stripes, waving 
 of his wand mysteriously, and repeating 
 some unintelligible jargon, stalked round 
 and round the table. All at once they heard 
 a horrible strange sort of sound, like unto 
 the deep grunting of an over-fed hog, which 
 the conjuror, in ignorance of its cause, fan- 
 cied to be something unnatural coming to 
 punish him for his vain-glorious boast of in- 
 timacy with a familiar, and straightway 
 stopped his conjurations ; and Mother Fly- 
 trap, too frightened to speak, hearing the 
 sounds, and observing the half-starved black 
 cat at this . moment push her way through 
 the unclosed door, — her back raised and her 
 eyes glaring as she caught sight of her mas- 
 ter with the uplifted wand, supposing he was 
 about to punish her for her dishonesty, — had 
 no doubt she was a demon invoked by the 
 schoolmaster, and thereupon striking out with 
 her stick convulsively before her, she com- 
 menced crouching down into the corner, 
 every time uttering of a scream so piercing 
 it seemed as though she were about giving 
 up the ghost. 
 
 Her outcry soon brought Skinny Dickon 
 into the chamber, who, spying of the two in 
 such a terrible monstrous fear, looked from 
 one to the other with his jaws gaping like a 
 hungry pike, till hearing of the strange un- 
 earthly sound, and seeing his master had 
 been at his conjurations, a horrible suspicion 
 seemed to come across him of a sudden ; 
 
 and he dropped on his knees, as though he 
 had been shot. Presently, some of the 
 scholars came creeping towards the door, the 
 back ones peeping over the forward ones 
 shoulders, with aspects alarmed and anxious", 
 and the old woman's screams continuing,- 
 sundry of the neighbors rushed in at another 
 door by which she had herself entered, mar- 
 velling prodigiously to hear such a distur. 
 bance ; and marvelling the more, to note 
 what they beheld at their entrance. 
 
 "In God's name, neighbor, what meaneth 
 this strange scene ?" enquired a sober 
 honest-looking artisan, in his leathern apron 
 and cap, gazing from one to an other of the 
 group in famous astonishment. 
 
 " Ya !" screamed Mother Flytrap, again 
 crouching down in the corner, and poking 
 out her stick, with her eyes fixed upon the 
 object of her exceeding terror, as though it 
 held a spell over her. 
 
 " Mum-mum-mum-mum-Master's been — 
 rer-rer-rer-rer-raising the devil !" stuttered 
 out Dickon, as plain as he could, for the 
 fright he was in. 
 
 " Ya !" repeated the old woman; with the 
 same look and gesture. 
 
 "He's there ?" muttered the trembling 
 schoolmaster, pointing to a closet whence 
 the sounds seemed to proceed; whereupon 
 there was an instant -backward movement 
 of his neighbors, save only the artizsjn ; and 
 the old woman screamed more lustily than 
 ever, for she believed the cat was meant, as 
 having her gaze fixed upon the animal, she 
 had not seen where the frightened pedago- 
 gue had pointed. 
 
 "With the Lord's help, mayhap I will 
 unkennel him, if there he be," observed the 
 artisan, making a forward movement. 
 
 " Nav, 'o my life, David Hurdle, thou 
 must be mad, sure !" exclaimed one ; and 
 others cried out against his seeking of such 
 danger, and many were for holding him, to 
 prevent his destruction, as they thought. 
 
 " Fear nought," said the artisan, break- 
 ing from his alarmed neighbors ; " we are 
 in the Lord's hands. He will not deliver 
 his people into the power of the spoiler." 
 Then walking boldly up to the closet, the 
 door of which he fearlessly opened, he ad- 
 ded, in a firm voice, " I charge thee, if thou 
 art an unclean spirit, depart from the dwell- 
 ing of this man." 
 
 The interior was too dark for any there 
 to see into, therefore was nothing visible; 
 but the terror-struck people noticed the in- 
 stantaneous stoppage of that smothered 
 grunting which sounded so unearthly ; and 
 could plainly enough distinguish a rustling 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 53 
 
 aa of some one mo ring, which again caused 
 an instant rush to the door. 
 
 " I charge thee begone I" cried David 
 Hurdle, undauntedly. 
 
 "What dost charge me?" grumbled a 
 deep thick voice from the closet. " Prithee, 
 keep it on the score, and give us 'tother pot. 
 Eh, Ticklebreeeh ?" 
 
 "As I live 'tis Sir Nathaniel !" cried se- 
 veral voices at once, to the wonderful relief 
 of the rest; and sure enough, Sir Nathaniel 
 it was, who, after so absolute a carouse the 
 previous night with his customary boon 
 companions, his senses had completely left 
 him, had returned home with the school- 
 master, without whose knowledge he had 
 thrust himself into the closet, where he had 
 been snoring the whole morning, coiled up 
 like a monstrous caterpillar ; whereby he 
 had put so sudden a stop on his friend's 
 conjurations, and had nigh driven Mother 
 Flytrap out of her five wits. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The mery lark, mesengere of the day 
 Saluteth in her song the morowe gray ; 
 And fine Phebus ryseth up, so bright 
 That all the orient laugheth at the sight : 
 And with his stremis dryeth in the greves, 
 The silver dropis hanging in the leves. 
 
 Chaucer. 
 For I am servant of the lawe, 
 Covetouse is myne ovvne felowe. 
 
 Old Morality. 
 Out on you theefles, bouth two ! 
 Eieh man maye see you be soe, 
 
 Alby your araaye 
 Muffled in mantles none such I know, 
 I shall make you lowte full lowe, 
 Or I departe you free. 
 
 Antichrist. 
 
 Master Buzzard sat at a 'table eating 
 of a pasty made of game birds, and ever and 
 anon flinging a bone to one of the many 
 dogs looking wistfully up at him. He was 
 taking of his morning repast in the same 
 hall of his, which hath before been des- 
 cribed, at interims enjoying frequent and 
 plentiful draughts at a tankard that stood 
 close at his trencher ; and then again, 
 swearing lustily at such of the dogs who, in 
 their impatience to have of the delicate 
 victual, mayhap would leap to his lap, or re- 
 mind him of their nearness by giving him a 
 smart blow of the leg with one of their fore- 
 paws. At a respectful distance, with his 
 hat on his knees, and his stick beside it, sat 
 the Bhrunk-up figure and parchment physi- 
 
 ognomy of Jemmy Catchpole, the town 
 lawyer, seneschal, baliff, attorney, and stew- 
 ard, as he was indifferently styled. 
 
 " All precepts have been served, an' it 
 please you," observed Jemmy Catchpole ; 
 " we have him in fee simple with fine and 
 recovery, but the defendant pleadeth extreme 
 poverty, and prayeth in aid that the suit may 
 be stopped from and after the determination 
 of the last action, else shall he be forced to 
 such shifts as shall put your honor's hand 
 and seal to his ruin, and cut the entail from 
 all remainders in perpetuity — in witness 
 whereof he hath but now demised, granted, 
 and to farm-let his desire to me that I might 
 be a feodary in this act for such an interval- 
 lura as your honor may please to allow." 
 
 " An I wait another hour I'll be hanged !" 
 rudely exclaimed Master Buzzard, thumping 
 the table with his fist with such force as to 
 startle some of the hawks. " If he hath not 
 the means of paying his bond, strip him of 
 what he hath. What ! Shall I lend my 
 money to a paltry burgess, and he do me ill 
 offices, and then, when cometh time for 
 payment, shall such a fellow think to get off 
 by whining a dolorous plaint concerning of 
 his poverty ? 'Slife ! when I let him, cut 
 me into collops for my hounds." 
 
 " As your honor wills it," replied the 
 lawyer ; " then will I, without let or hin- 
 drance, plea or demurrer, make an extent 
 upon his house and lands, immediately pro- 
 vided in that case he doth not give instant 
 quittance for his obligation." 
 
 " Make him as barren as a rotten branch," 
 cried the other, with a frowning indignant 
 look that spoke as bitterly as his words. 
 " At one swoop bear off his whole posses- 
 sions. By God's body, an' thou leavest him 
 as much as wo^ld keep his beggarly soul 
 for a day, I will have nought to do with thee 
 ever after." 
 
 " I am mortgaged to your honor's will," 
 observed his companion very humbly, as he 
 took his hat and stick in his hand, and rose 
 from his seat. Not long after he had taken 
 himself out of the hall, there entered Saul, 
 booted and spurred, and soiled with dust, as 
 though he had just come off a journey. 
 
 " Ha, Saul, art there !" cried his master, 
 his sullen features brightening up abit at the 
 sight of his man ; " I expected thee not so 
 soon. But how fareth my noble kinsman ?" 
 
 " As comfortless as a hound covered with 
 bots," replied Saul, putting on a grin at his 
 conceit. " Down Towler ! Away Bess ! 
 Back Ponto !" cried he, as sundry of the 
 dogs came leaping up to him, in sign of his 
 having staid from them some time. His 
 honorable lordship walketh about like a das' 
 
56 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 lurbed spirit ; liis face has lost the humor 
 of smiling, and carryeth the affectation of 
 melancholy with as much intentness as a 
 lean raven. He crosseth his arms, and 
 paceth his chamber, and sigheth heavily, 
 and seemeth to have parted with all enjoy- 
 ment in this world ; were he papist now, I 
 doubt not he would turn monk presently." 
 
 " 'Tis well," observed Master Buzzard, 
 taking to his meal as if with a fresh appe- 
 tite, at hearing such intelligence ; " 1 am 
 infinitely glad matters go on there so bravely. 
 Here, assay some of this pasty. Perchance, 
 thou art a hungered after thy ride." Saul 
 waited not for a second bidding, but with the 
 familiarity of a long-tolerated villain, drew 
 to the table, and helped himself without 
 
 • etint. 
 
 " What dost think, Saul ?" inquired his 
 master, putting down his knife, and looking 
 with a peculiar knowingness at his man, 
 after they had been silently discussing the 
 pasty for some few minutes. 
 
 " I'faith, I know not, master," replied the 
 other, raising his eyes from his trencher. 
 
 "I have got that lewd rascal and poor 
 knave in my toil at last," said Master Buz- 
 zard. 
 
 " What, John Shakspeare ?" asked his 
 companion, as though in a sort of pleased 
 surprise. 
 
 " No other," answered his master, evi- 
 dently with a like devilish satisfaction. 
 " He shall presently be turned upon this 
 world as bare as a callow owlet. I have 
 taken care he shall be stripped of all his sub- 
 stance, even to his Sunday jerkin, and sent 
 adrift as complete a beggar as ever lived." 
 
 " O' my life, excellent !" exclaimed his 
 man, chafing of his hands as if in great 
 glee ; " body o' me, I have not heard such 
 pleasant news this many a day. He will 
 never fine me forty shillings again for brea- 
 king a man's head, I'll warrant, or coop me 
 a whole day in the cage, on suspicion of 
 being over civil to a comely woman, as his 
 high baliffship hath done. Well an' I make 
 not good sport of this, count my liver as 
 white as a boiled chicken. But here's a 
 goodly stock of patience to him, that he may 
 bear this pitiful change of fortune as he 
 best may !" And so saying, he lifted the 
 tankard to his mouth, and took a hearty 
 draught of it. . 
 
 " He hath no John a Combe now to help 
 him at his need," added Master Buzzard. 
 
 • " Methinks too I have carved out such work 
 for that wight as will keep him like a rat to 
 his hole : for I have at last taken such ven- 
 geance as will hurt him more than ever our 
 
 rapiers could, had we succeeded as I at first 
 wished." 
 
 " Truly, he showed himself a very devil 
 at his weapon," observed the other ; " and 
 handled me so in the lane — a murrain on 
 him ! I shall bear on my body the marks of 
 his handwriting to my life's end: therefore, 
 am I all the more glad you have given him 
 his deserts." 
 
 " Now truss me with all speed," said his 
 master, at the finishing of his repast, " for 
 I am bound to Sir Thomas Lucy's, and must 
 needs appear becomingly before his wor- 
 ship." 
 
 " Ay, marry," replied Saul, trussing his 
 master's points. Shortly after which Master 
 Buzzard mounted his horse, which had been 
 got ready for him at the gate, and rode off 
 in the direction of Fulbroke Park. 
 
 It was a fresh morning at the latter end 
 of April, and great rains had fallen for some 
 time, the young foliage was marked with 
 such transparent green as was truly deli- 
 cate to see — the hedges being fairly clothed 
 all in their new liveries, save here and there 
 a backward hawthorn, or a stump of an old 
 oak the last frosts had taken a stout hold of, 
 showed its unsightly bare branches. On the 
 banks thsre was no lack of verdure, sprink- 
 led in famous plentifulness with groups of 
 primroses, cuckoo flowers, snap-jacks, dai- 
 sies, cowslips, violets, and other sweet har- 
 bingers of the summer season. The small 
 birds were making a brave chirruping in 
 and out of the hedges — sparrows, linnets, 
 finches, and tits, out of all number — anon, 
 the traveler would disturb a blackbird cr 
 thrush feeding, who would fly off with some 
 noise — close over the adjoining field of rye, 
 high-soaring, was seen the lark, pouring 
 from her throat such a gush of thrilling 
 music as nought else in nature hath compa- 
 rison with ; at openings in the hedge might 
 be observed glimpses of the adjoining coun- 
 try, which looked very prettily — here, a pas- 
 ture with numberless sheep on it all cleanly 
 cropped from the late shearing, among which 
 the young lambs were beheld making excel- 
 lent sport with each other, or running with 
 an innocent plaintive " ba" to the mother 
 ewe, whose deeper voice ever and anon came 
 in with a pleasant harmony — there, a field 
 partly ploughed by a team of oxen, followed 
 by a choice company of rooks, who came to 
 make prey of the worms that were turned up 
 in the furrows — and not a stone's throw from 
 them was a man scattering of seed in the 
 newly raised soil — whilst close at hand were 
 sundry old people busily engaged at weeding 
 a coming crop. Other fields, of various dif- 
 ferent tints, stretched themselves out far and 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 m 
 
 wide, till nought could be seen but the hedge 
 rows ; and the far off hills and woods, the 
 greenness whereof seemed to vanish in the 
 distance to a deep dark blue. 
 
 Nothing of all this brave sight was noticed 
 by Master Buzzard, who rode on his horse 
 with a tercel on his wrist, and a brach-hound 
 at his horse's heels, careless of all things in 
 nature save only his own selfish schemings 
 and villanous plottings against the happiness 
 of others. He was one for whom the beau- 
 ties around him had no attractions at any 
 time, unless, peradventure, it afforded him 
 good sport in hawking or in such other pas- 
 times as he took delight ; in fact, from a rio- 
 tous, headstrong youth, he had grown to be a 
 man void of all principle, seeking his own 
 pleasures, heedless of whatsoever might be 
 in their way ; and never hesitating to stoop 
 to any villainy that promised employment to 
 his bad passions, and advantage to himself. 
 Such a one nature might look in the face, 
 smiling in all her most exquisite comeliness, 
 and he would take of her no more heed than 
 would he the squalid lineaments of a beggar's 
 callet. Indeed, the numberless moving graces 
 of our inestimable kind mother, can only be 
 sufficiently appreciated by those whose eye- 
 sight is free from sensual and selfish films, 
 and whose deep hearted love helpeth their 
 vision more admirably than can any glasses, 
 nowever magnifying they may be. 
 
 Master Buzzard proceeded on his journey 
 at a briskish amble, seemingly by the con- 
 traction of his brows, and unpleasing gravity 
 of his aspect, to be meditating somewhat; but 
 of what he was thinking I care not to tell ; for 
 it is a standing truth, a bad man's thoughts 
 will do good to none. Sometimes he would 
 start from his reflections to whistle to his 
 hound, should the dog seem inclined to wan- 
 der away upon the fresh trail of coneys or 
 hares ; and then swear a lot of terrible oaths 
 when she returned to his side ; or he would 
 walk his horse, to talk and trifle with his 
 hawk ; and then, tired of that, away he would 
 bound again, through the deep lanes, and over 
 the fields, to Charlcote, with his dog some 
 little way behind, carrying of her nose close 
 to the ground, or running on before with a 
 sharp quick bark, constantly stopping and 
 twirling of her head around to look back at 
 her master ; and away again, as though it 
 was fine sport to her to be so early a roving. 
 Thus they went till they came to a white 
 gate, at the which Master Buzzard was 
 forced to dismount to open it, and then rode 
 on again through a pasture marked by sweep- 
 ing undulations, dotted here and there with 
 magnificent oaks and beeches, through which 
 Ute sunshine came in glances, in a manner 
 
 as if desirous of having the best aspects of 
 this sylvan scene. 
 
 Here the palfrey ambled his prettiest paces, 
 for the close herbage was as velvet to his 
 hoofs, and he stretched out his neck, and 
 shook his mane, and pawed the ground as he 
 went, in a marvellous fine fashion : but all at 
 once he stopped of a sudden, for right across 
 his path, a little in advance of him, there 
 rushed a numerous troop of deer, and Master 
 Buzzard had a great to do m shouting and 
 whistling to call back his brach-hound, who 
 at the first glance of them was for giving 
 chase at the top of her speed. It was a 
 famous sight to see them bounding across 
 the wide valley, and then up the next accliv- 
 ity, where they stopped, — perchance to note 
 if they were pursued — the young fawns 
 using their slender legs with exceeding swift- 
 ness ; and amongst the rest might be seen a 
 delicate white doe, made all the more mani- 
 fest by the sleek backs of her dappled com- 
 pany. Farther on more of these were met 
 with, and, if at any distance, the bucks would 
 not stir ; but with antlers erect, they would 
 get together and examine the strangers with 
 a marvellous bold front — anon a partridge 
 would rise before the horse with a startling 
 whirr ; and other signs of a like nature met 
 them as they went, which proved plain 
 enough that they were in some goodly park 
 »or another. Peradventure, whilst Master 
 Buzzard is making his way to Charlcote, 
 the courteous reader will be right glad to be 
 rid of his villanous company. 
 
 At this time Sir Thomas Lucy and his 
 dame were taking a morning's walk in their 
 garden and orchards — mayhap to see how 
 looked tile trees for fruit, and the ground for 
 vegetables and flowers. These two were 
 both of some age, that is to say, neither were 
 short of fifty. The knight was somewhat 
 older, of a middle size as regards length, yet 
 his limbs were slim, and waist no great mat- 
 ter. His countenance was of the simple 
 sort, yet merry withal, for he affected a jest 
 at times, and never failed to laugh at it the 
 heartiest of any ; but his constant affecta- 
 tion was of boasting what wild pranks he had 
 done in his youth for all he was now a jus- 
 tice of peace ; nevertheless when any offence 
 was put upon him, he would take upon him- 
 self to be in as monstrous a rage as the 
 greatest man in the shire. He wore a high- 
 crowned hat a little on one side, and moved 
 his head with a jaunty air, humming of a 
 song he had learned when at college ; and a 
 short ruff surrounded his peaked grey beard. 
 He wore a plum-colored doublet, with such 
 boad stuffed breeches to his hose as had been 
 lately in fashion, and carried his rapier as 
 
£8 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 daintily as any young gallant. As for his 
 dame, she kept at his side with a dignity, as 
 she imagined, becoming of her station ; for 
 as she fancied a justice of peace to be nigh 
 upon the most worshipful of all offices, and 
 her husband, Sir Thomas, to be the most, 
 famous justice that ever lived, anything in 
 her behavior that might savor of levity she 
 would have nought to do with — always ex- 
 cepting she would laugh a little at her hus- 
 band's jests, as she believed in all obedience 
 she was bound, though she never failed to 
 cry out " fie — fie" as she did it, when they 
 smacked of any naughtiness. In short, she 
 was a simple honest-hearted creature as any 
 that lived, ever ready to make up with kind- 
 ness what she wanted in sense. She was 
 dressed in an excellent stiff brocade, with a 
 long stomacher and a notable ruff, plaited 
 and set out in the best fashion, and wore high- 
 heeled shoes, which gave her walk a gravity 
 she could not have otherwise attained ; and 
 had her own hair partly concealed under a 
 French hood. 
 
 It may be remembered that it was this very 
 lady of whom Master Buzzard spoke so un- 
 civilly at William Shakspeare's christen- 
 ing, touching a young child she had found 
 in her walks abandoned of its parents, and 
 had resolved to bring up tenderly ; but in 
 truth, all he said was a most lewd libel, as I 
 doubt not will readily be believed of him, for 
 she was too simple a woman to do anything 
 unlawful, and the child was a true foundling, 
 to whom she had shown from tbe first a very 
 womanly charity and affection. Her greatest 
 faults were her unreasonable partialities, 
 which blinded her completely. She could 
 see no wrong in ought that was done by her 
 husband, Sir Thomas, who was not altoge- 
 ther blameless, — or her only son, a boy of at 
 least fifteen years, and a very tyrant to the 
 gentle Mabel, now grown to be a child of 
 exquisite graces of disposition, and his junior 
 by some five or six years. 
 
 It hath already been said that the knight 
 and his dame were taking of a morning's 
 walk together ; but some way behind these 
 was seen a fair girl, whose clustering light 
 ringlets were caught up by every breeze that 
 blew, setting off as admirable a mild, sweet 
 countenance as the most innocent age of 
 childhood ever exhibited. Behind her was a 
 lubberly boy, dressed very daintily in doublet 
 and hose like a young gentleman ; and he 
 was amusing himself by picking up small 
 stones and flinging them at her, many of 
 which hit her sore thumps ; yet the only 
 ilgn she showed of her dislike of such unci- 
 vil treatment, was to beg he would not hurt 
 her so much. These two were the poor 
 
 foundling and the son of her benefactress— 
 and this was a sample of the sort of treat- 
 ment she had of him whenever he could get 
 her away from the observation of those likely 
 to check his rudeness ; for he knew of old 
 she would never complain of him, let his 
 usage of her be ever so bad, and therefore 
 he might continue it, as he thought, with per- 
 fect impunity. 
 
 " Pray you, sweet Master Thomas, hit me 
 not so hard !"' exclaimed the pretty Mabel, 
 in such winning accents as one might have 
 thought would have subdued a savage, as 
 she strove unavailingly to save herself from 
 the hard missiles with which she was pelted 
 by putting up her little hands, and shrinking 
 fearfully every time a stone was thrown. 
 
 " Tut, how can I hurt thee, thou little 
 fool ?" replied young Lucy, desisting not a 
 moment from his unmannerly behavior. 
 
 " Indeed, you do exceedingly, else would 
 I say nought of the matter," added she. 
 
 " Then thou shouldst have the wit to avoid 
 my aim," said the boy with a rude laugh. — 
 " But thou makest brave sport, Mabel. O' 
 my life, I should like to have thee fixed to a 
 stake as cocks are at a shrovetide, I warrant 
 I'd give thee famous knocks." 
 
 " I would do you no such unkindness, 
 believe me," answered his fair companion. 
 " Nor would I wish to hurt any that live." 
 
 " The more fool thou," exclaimed her tor- 
 mentor, t 
 
 " I marvel you should use me so uncivil- 
 ly," continued the poor girl, smarting with 
 the pain from a fresh blow, " I am sure I 
 have done nought that should give you any 
 displeasure, and do all you require me at a 
 moment's bidding, even though it may have 
 in it a great distastefulness." 
 
 "Marry, what infinite goodness!" cried 
 the boy in a jeering manner. " Why, of 
 what use art, if not to afford me some sport 
 for the lack of better ? Dost know the dif- 
 ference betwixt a good-for-nothing, beggarly 
 brat and a young gentleman of worship ? — 
 and what so fit, I prithee, as that the one 
 should be the pastime of the other ?" 
 
 " I would rather it should be in some 
 other fashion, an' it please you," observed 
 Ma,bel very humbly. " I will roll the ball 
 that you should strike it, and then to my ut- 
 most speed to bring it back to you again — I 
 will be your horse, your spaniel, your deer ; 
 nay, aught in this world you most approve 
 of, and do all that in me lies to pleasure you, 
 so that you give me no more cruel blows 
 with those uncivil stones." 
 
 " 'Tis my humor, I tell thee," sharply re- 
 plied the petty tyrant. " And why should I 
 be balked in my humor by so mean a per- 
 
THE YOUTH OP SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 69 
 
 •on? Thou art ever a crying out about 
 thy hurts, forsooth ; and 1 doubt not at all 
 thou art no more hurt than am I." 
 
 " Nay, and indeed, sweet Master Tho- 
 mas — " 
 
 " Hold thy prate !" exclaimed he, picking 
 up another missile, somewhat larger in size 
 than what he had previously thrown, which 
 he caught hold of because he would not 
 wait to seek any smaller. " See, I have got 
 me a stone of some bigness, and if thou art 
 not nimble, 'tis like thy crown will stand 
 some chance of being cracked." The poor 
 child cowed down as she saw him fling ; but 
 the blow struck hard, for a slight scream es- 
 caped her involuntarily, as she hastily put up 
 her hands to her head. v 
 
 " Hang thee, why didst tbou not take heed 
 as I told thee !" cried the unfeeling boy, 
 searching about as if for another stone ; but 
 it so happened that the cry of Mabel was 
 heard by his parents, who turned back to see 
 what caused it. The poor foundling was 
 standing in exactly the same position as when 
 she was struck. 
 
 " Ha ! what aileth thee, Mabel ?" shouted 
 Sir Thomas, as he approached her. " Hast 
 been stung by a bee ? Well, 'tis but a small 
 matter. But never knew I a woman yet that 
 could not cry out lustily at trifles ; neverthe- 
 less, received she any great damage that 
 need not be told, she had the wit to hold her 
 tongue. I warrant you." 
 
 " Fie, fie !" exclaimed the dame, as usual, 
 joining in the knight's laugh ; and then re- 
 suming her customary dignity swept forward 
 to see if there was anything amiss. 
 
 " Thou shouldst not cry out, child, upon 
 slight causes," added she, as she came close 
 to the poor foundling. " Bees have stings, and 
 as is exceeding natural they will use them 
 when provoked to it, and perchance thou 
 shalt be forced to bear the smart ; but 
 come thou with me, I have in my closet the 
 
 sovereignest remedy . Alack, what a 
 
 sight is this !" cried the old lady in some 
 amazement and alarm, as, in taking the 
 child's arm, she noticed blood trickling 
 through her fingers, and over her waving 
 ringlets down to her back. 
 
 " O' my life, dame, methinks she hath 
 sufficient cause for her crying," observed 
 the knight. "But how came this about? 
 Dost know aught of the matter, son Tom ?" 
 inquired he, as the boy came up to the spot. 
 
 " 'Troth, father, I was flinging at a bird, 
 and mayhap struck her by chance," said his 
 Bon, as he noticed the mischief he had done. 
 
 "Plague on't, why dost not take more 
 toed V exclaimed his father. 
 
 "lam not much hurt, I thank you,"' said 
 
 Mabel, but so faintly as proved she was nigh 
 upon swooning ; and, indeed, the blow had 
 been so sharp it had stunned her for a time. 
 " And Master Thomas meant not it should 
 strike me." 
 
 " Thou shouldst not have got in his way, 
 child !" observed Dame Lucy, very gravely. 
 " But come with me — this wound must be 
 looked to straight." And so saying, she led 
 the fair child along to the house, ma"king 
 sage remarks all the way of the properness 
 of little girls keeping away from places 
 where any stones were being thrown. 
 
 " I marvel thou shouldst be so awkward, 
 son Tom,'" said the knight, as he followed 
 slowly behind the other two. " Now, when 
 I was of thy age, none could match me at 
 flinging at a mark. Many's the cock-spar- 
 row I have knocked off his perch ; nay, I 
 have been so quick of eye as more than 
 once, taking aim at a running leveret with 
 a stone of less than an ounce weight, I 
 have hit him between the ears, and tumbled 
 him over as though he had been shot." 
 
 Thus this unmannerly boy escaped the 
 punishment he deserved for his heartless 
 mischief, and thus the four returned to the 
 house, the dame intent upon dressing the 
 child's wound, for she was famous in the 
 knowledge of simples, and in small surgery, 
 as all good huswives should be ; and the 
 knight rehearsing to his son what marvel- 
 lous feats he had done in his boyhood with 
 the flinging of stones. Close upon the en- 
 trance they were met by a serving man, an- 
 nouncing the arrival of Master Buzzard, 
 come to see his worship on business. 
 
 '* How fare you, Master Buzzard — how 
 fare you," cried Sir Thomas, welcoming his 
 visitor in the old hall, where he transacted 
 justice business. " I must have your com- 
 pany to dinner, Master Buzzard, when my 
 dame shall do you all proper courtesies." 
 Then, unheeding aught he had to say on 
 the matter, the old knight gave instant or- 
 ders that the horse of his guest should be 
 well tended, and preparations made for as 
 famous a dinner as the cook could provide. 
 " Ha ! hast got a falcon ?" continued he. " I 
 doubt not 'tis a brave bird by the look of it, 
 Master Buzzard. Indeed, in my time, I have 
 been as cunning in falconry as the best man 
 living. I remember me I had a hawk of my 
 own training that was the admiration of all 
 the country, and lords and bishops and great 
 courtiers came to beg that bird of me, but I 
 would part with her on no account ; she 
 went at her quarry as no bird ever did — and 
 all of my own training. And how fareth 
 your noble kinsman ?" 
 
 " Bravely, I thank you, Sir Thomas," w 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 plied Master Buzzard courteously ; and then 
 nolding out the bird, added, " this hawk is 
 accounted one of ten thousand, as I doubt 
 not you shall find her on trial, so I pray you 
 accept of her, Sir Thomas, for I have had 
 her trained so that she should be worthy of 
 belonging to so excellent fine a judge." 
 
 " Count me your debtor, Master Buzzard," 
 said the knight, taking the gift very readily. 
 " I shall be proud to do you any good ser- 
 vice, believe me. By the mass, 'tis a brave 
 bird ! And so your noble kinsman is well," 
 continued he, as they sat together under a 
 raised dais at the top of the hall. " I wonder 
 if he hath forgot his old acquaintance, Tho- 
 mas Lucy — valiant Thomas Lucy, as he was 
 wont to call me, because once I got my head 
 broke by a tinker for kissing of Ms wife. I re- 
 member me now, his good lordship laughed 
 when the fellow offered to solder it for me for 
 a groat, and put his irons in the fire for the 
 purpose. That was a good jest i' faith." 
 
 "My lord often speaketh kindly of you, 
 Sir Thomas,' ' replied his guest, though he 
 had never heard his kinsman mention the 
 knight's name. 
 
 " O' my heart, doth he now ?" exclaimed 
 Sir Thomas delightedly. " Well, we have 
 been sad boys together that's a sure thing — 
 such coney-catchers — such roysterers — such 
 lads of metal were not to be found in all Ox- 
 ford. We kept the college in a roar, that did 
 we, with our tricks ; and if any of the citi- 
 zens so much as said us nay, we would out 
 with our toasting-irons and show them how 
 famously we could pass the montant, the 
 punto, the reverso, and other signs of our 
 cunning in fence, till they were glad enough 
 to take to their heels with whole skins. We 
 had not our match at the duello, I promise 
 you, and my lord was a3 choice a man at his 
 weapon as might be met with in those days. 
 As for me, he would say I deserved to be 
 fencer to the Czar of Muscovy, I was so 
 quick at it, and that my nimbleness of motion 
 made me as difficult to be hit as a flea with a 
 cannon ball ; odds my life, that was wittily 
 said." 
 
 '■ In truth, a notable jest," said his guest, 
 joining in the justice's laugh. 
 
 " And so he wears well, doth he, Master 
 Buzzard ?" inquired the knight. " I'm glad 
 on't — heartily glad on't — for he was a true, 
 jovial spirit as ever I have met with, and I 
 have known some mad fellows in my time, I 
 warrant you. 'Troth, you would marvel fa- 
 mously to hear of what terrible, wild doings 
 I have been a party to in my younger days 
 — a March hare was not so mad as was I — 
 Borne called me Hector of Greece, because 
 of my valor — others the King of the Swing- 
 
 bucklers, I was so ready to be a leader to the 
 rest in any mischief. I was the terror of all 
 the drawers round about, I would beat them 
 so readily ; and the constables of the watch 
 have oft been heard to say they would as lief 
 meddle with a savage bear as lay a hand on 
 me when I was in any of my wild humors. 
 That is a fair hound of yours," continued 
 he, all at once noticing the dog his guest had 
 brought with him. " There are few so apt 
 as am I in a proper knowledge of dogs. I 
 can tell a good one on the instant. Indeed, 
 I have been accounted as exquisite a judge 
 in the breeding and breaking of them as could 
 be found in the county ; and I have had in 
 my time such dogs as could not be seen 
 elsewhere. A fallow greyhound had I of a 
 most choice breed that beat all she run 
 against. O' my life, I have won such wages 
 on that dog's head as are clean incredible. 
 But your's is a fair hound, Master Buzzard, 
 take my word for't." 
 
 "'Tis at your service, Sir Thomas — I 
 brought her here for no other intent," replied 
 the other. 
 
 " Nay, I cannot rob you of so fair a hound. 
 Master Buzzard," said the justice, patting 
 and commending the dog as she crouched at 
 her master's feet. 
 
 " You will do me wrong in denying me 
 such a favor, Sir Thomas — so I pray you take 
 her," answered his guest. 
 
 " Nay, I should be loth to do any man 
 wrong !" exclaimed the knight with great 
 earnestness. " Methinks a justice of peace 
 should be no wrong-doer — so I will e'en ac- 
 cept of your hound, and thank you very 
 heartily. Is there aught in which my poor 
 ability may do you a service, Master Buz- 
 zard ?" 
 
 " There is a matter I have come upon, to 
 the which I should like to have your wor- 
 ship's countenance," began his companion 
 with a famous hypocritical serious face. 
 
 " Count upon it, Master Buzzard !" cried 
 the justice. " Believe me, I would strain 
 a point for you with great willingness, that 
 would I, as I will show at any time there is 
 good warrant for it*" 
 
 " I am much bound to you, Sir Thomas," 
 replied the other ; " then this is it. There is 
 one John Shakspeare " 
 
 "What, he of Stratford?" inquired the 
 knight quickly. " A man of fair, round face, 
 who married Arden's daughter. I have heard 
 him well spoken of by divers of the burgesses 
 as passing honest, and, at your instigation, 
 Master Buzzard, I will countenance him 
 against any man." 
 
 " You have been hugely deceived in him, 
 Sir Thomas," observed his guest. 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 61 
 
 * Marry, would ne seek to deceive a justice 
 of peace !" exclaimed tlie other. " What 
 monstrous villainy !" 
 
 " I have heard him speak most abominable 
 slander of your worship," continued Master 
 Buzzard. 
 
 " Oh, the horrid caitiff!" cried the offend- 
 ed justice. " Nay, but 'tis actionable, Mas- 
 ter Buzzard ; and I will have him cast in 
 swinging damages. O' my life, never heard 
 I so infamous a thing ! I will straightway 
 issue my warrant for his apprehension. I 
 will teach him to slander Sir Thomas Lucy, 
 knight o' the shire and justice o' the peace, I 
 warrant you ! 'Tis not fit such villains 
 should live ; and methinks 'twould be ex- 
 ceeding proper in the law could so heinous 
 an offence be brought in hanging." 
 
 " As I live, I am of your worship's opini- 
 on !" said his guest. " But he is a very pes- 
 tilent knave, this John Shakspeare, and one 
 of no manner of honesty whatever, as I can 
 presently prove ; for sometime since, at his 
 urgent pressing, believing him to be sueh 
 creditable person as your worship thought, I 
 lent him a hundred crowns on his bond, the 
 which he hath not paid to this day, putting 
 me off with all sorts of paltry excuses con- 
 cerning of what losses he had had ; but 
 knowing, by certain intelligence, he was 
 merely striving to get off payment, I have 
 instructed Master Catchpole to proceed 
 against him and seize what he hath for the 
 payment of my just debt." 
 
 " I warrant you," observed the knight, 
 " never heard I of such thorough dishonesty. 
 What, borrow a hundred crowns at his need, 
 and at a proper time be not able to pay it 
 back ! O' my life, 'tis clean villainy !" 
 
 " Perchance I should not have been so 
 rigorous with him, had I not heard him give 
 your worship such iil words," added Master 
 Buzzard ; " fori care not so much for losing 
 of such a sum ; but I could not allow of one 
 who slandered so noble a gentleman going 
 unpunished." 
 
 " By'r lady, Master Buzzard, I am greatly 
 beholden to you !" exclainied the justice ; 
 " but I will trounce him famously — ay, that 
 will I ! — and keop his unruly tongue fromali 
 such lewd behavior forever after." 
 
 " Nay, if it please you, Sir Thomas, I 
 "would he should not be attacked in this 
 matter," said Master Buzzard. The burg- 
 esses might take it ill of me, he being one 
 of the corporation, and of some influence 
 amongst them, were I to seem to press him 
 too hard. So [ should take it kindly if you 
 would make no stir in it ; but keep you your 
 eye upon him, and if he should be found 
 transgressing, as it is very like he will, 
 
 then, if it so please you, I shall be well con- 
 tent you punish him as your wisdom may 
 think fittest." 
 
 It is only necessary to add to what hath 
 just been set down, that Master Buzzard 
 stayed dinner with Sir Thomas Lucy, and 
 was well entertained of him and his lady, 
 ever laughing at the knight's jests and mai- 
 velling at his incredible narrations, but 
 never failing to say something now and 
 then which should strengthen the other's 
 misliking of John Shakspeare, which failed 
 not of its purpose ; for the justice was so 
 weak of conceit as to be easily enraged 
 against any who seemed not to think of 
 him so famously as was evident he thought 
 of himself. 
 
 CHAPTER VUL 
 
 Tt is decreed : and we must yield to fate, 
 Whose angry justice, though it threatens ruin, 
 Contempt and poverty, is all but trial 
 Of a weak woman's constancy in suffering. 
 
 Ford. 
 
 Tn felawship well could she laugh and carpe ; 
 She was a worthy woman all hire live, 
 Housbondes at the chirche dore had shemad five. 
 
 Chaucer. 
 I exact not from you 
 A fortitude insensible of calamity, 
 To which the saints themselves have bowed 
 
 and shown 
 They are made of flesh and blood ; all that 1 
 
 challenge 
 Is manly patience. 
 
 Massingeb. 
 Hold out now, 
 And then thou art victorious. 
 
 Ford. 
 
 Two persons were standing in an empty 
 chamber bare to the very boards. A pain- 
 ful seriousness was on the features of each : 
 but there was no doubting each strove to con- 
 ceal from the other the exact state of their 
 feelings. They spoke low ; their voices 
 having that subdued sound which betokeneth 
 great excitement of mind, with great efforts 
 to keep it from other's knowledge. One, a 
 man seeming to be of the middle age, and 
 in the prime of manhood, leaned his elbow on 
 the window sill, with his forehead resting on 
 his palm ; the other, a woman of an admira- 
 ble matronly appearance, had her arm 
 around his waist, and her fair cheek resting 
 upon his shoulder. These were John Shak- 
 speare and his wife. They spoke only at 
 intervals, in the manner described ; and, as 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 usual in all troubles, the woman appeared 
 to be playing the part of the comforter. 
 
 " Take it not to heart, John, I pray you," 
 said she, as she seemed to press him closer 
 to her side. " We shall do bravely anon. 
 We must put up with these buffets as we 
 best may ; and, for my own part, I can con- 
 tent myself wondrous well, be my condition 
 ever so humble." 
 
 " I doubt it not, dame," replied her hus- 
 band ; " but canst content thyself with bare 
 lying, naked walls, and an empty larder ?" 
 
 " Ay, dear heart !" answered she very 
 readily ; " for a longer space than they are 
 like to visit us. We may be considered as 
 poor as any that live ; but whilst I have for 
 my yoke-fellow a good husband, a tender 
 father, and one so industriously disposed 
 withal, as you have oft shown yourself to be, 
 I know of no poverty that could trouble me 
 a jot." 
 
 " But the children, dame," observed John 
 Shakspeare in a huskish sort of voice. 
 "Alack ! Alack ! what shall become of 
 them ?" 
 
 " O they will do well enough, I warrant 
 you !" replied his wife with a cheerfulness 
 she was far from feeling. " They can en- 
 dure some slight discomfort, or they are none 
 of mine, more especially when they take 
 heed of their loving father's brave exertions 
 to keep up his heart and make head against 
 this sudden adversity." . 
 
 " I am bewildered what to set my hand 
 to," said he, rising from his position with 
 a countenance somewhat irresolute ; but 
 when I look upon my stripped dwelling, 
 and remember how delicately thou hast been 
 brought up " 
 
 " Tut, tut, dear heart !" exclaimed his 
 good dame, taking one of his hands in hers, 
 and gazing affectionately in his face ; " I 
 should scorn myself could I not bear the ills 
 that might visit my helpmate. Think not 
 of me, 1 pray you, for there livethnot in the 
 world one so hardy as am I in all such mat- 
 ters." John Shakspeare shook his head 
 mournfully as he looked in her pale face, 
 as though he had his doubts she was as 
 strong as she said. 
 
 " I will essay all that a man can," said 
 he at last, " in the express hope this change 
 of fortune will do thee no hurt, for thou 
 hast been an excellent good wife to me, 
 dame ; and 'twould go to my heart were 
 any evil to happen to thee." At this com- 
 mendation she said never a word ; but all 
 the woman was in her eyes presently, and 
 she suddenly threw her arms around his 
 neck, and laid her face on his bosom. 
 
 " Woe's nre, what poor foolishness is 
 
 this ?" cried she, rising from him a minute 
 afte: with an endeavor to look more cheer- 
 ful ; " but I am wonderful pleased you will 
 try to be doing something, and I care not 
 what it be, so that it keep sad thoughts from 
 your head ; nay, I am assured of it, you 
 shall live prosperously the rest of your days, 
 put you forth all your strength now to bear 
 these troubles." 
 
 " That will I without fail, sweet heart," 
 cried he. After a brief space he left the 
 chamber. 
 
 Dame Shakspeare when alone, felt the 
 whole weight of her misfortune, for she 
 had given such great keaps of comfort to 
 her husband, she had not a bit of ever such 
 smallness remaining for herself. She lean- 
 ed out of the empty casement, but of the 
 spring flowers blooming in the garden saw 
 she nothing ; she beheld only her hapless 
 partner and her poor innocent children 
 lacking those comforts they had been used 
 to, and she powerless as to helping them in 
 their need. The wife and the mother was 
 so moved at the picture she could not avoid 
 drawing, as to feel a sort of choking, and 
 such heaviness of heart, that at last she 
 dropped her face upon her hands and there 
 smothered her sobs. All at once she caught 
 the sound of a very sweet singing, and 
 listening with what attention she could, 
 heard the following words. 
 
 A COMFORTABLE CAROL. 
 
 " Cheer thee, my heart ! Thy life shall have a 
 crowning 
 This poor appareling cannot beguile ; 
 Phoebus himself hath worn as dark a frowning, 
 And lo ! all heaven is radiant with his smile ! 
 Bravely thy spirit bear, 
 Far from each coward fear ; 
 What though some trouble come, is all joy ban- 
 ished 1 
 
 Prithee a lesson read, 
 In ev'ry shivering weed, 
 That knows in winter's rage springs have not 
 vanished. 
 Pleasure is borri of thee, comfort is near thee, 
 Glory thy boon shall be — Cheer thee, O cheer 
 thee ! 
 
 Cheer thee, my heart ! Heed not the present 
 
 sorrow 
 " Let future gladness flash in every thought ; 
 Never a night so black but hath its morrow, 
 Whose splendor laughs all gloominess to nought. 
 Though thou shouldst feel the wound, 
 'Tis but to plough the ground — 
 Looks not the soil as barren in the furrow ? 
 Yet o'er the sightless clods, 
 Countless great plenty nods, 
 When the rich harvest clothes the wide fieli 
 through ! 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 03 
 
 Pleasure is born of thee, comfort is near thee, 
 Glory thy boon shall be — Cheer thee, cheer 
 thee !" 
 
 It was nurse Cicely singing to the chil- 
 dren in an upper chamber, as was her wont. 
 It had been noted, that however much giv- 
 en to singing was she, she never sang any 
 such songs as were familiar to her hearers ; 
 but she would say when spoke to on the 
 matter she had learned them in her youth, 
 and knew not by whom they were writ. It 
 was the marvel of many that they looked 
 to be of a higher language than ordinary 
 ballads, whereof the tunes were the delica- 
 test sort ever heard. Dame Shakspeare 
 felt exceeding comforted at hearing the 
 foregoing verses, and rising from her lean- 
 ing place, hastily brushed away a tear from 
 her eyelids, as though it was some base 
 rebel that would needs be in arms against 
 her authority. As she did this she was 
 suddenly aware of a great talking of voices 
 in what had been the warehouse, and her 
 chamber door being presently thrown open, 
 she beheld the whole place thronged with 
 her neighbors, mostly women and children, 
 carrying spare tables and chairs, and other 
 such conveniences as they thought she 
 stood most in need of. 
 
 " This way, neighbors, this way !" ex- 
 claimed the merry Widow Pippins, who 
 seemed to be the leader of the party. 
 
 " Ha ! dame, how dost do ?" inquired she, 
 as she put an old arm chair by the side of 
 her. So the villains have not left thee so 
 much as a rush for thy floor ? But mind it 
 not, gossip, for they have given thee all the 
 better cause for caring not a rush for the 
 whole pack of them." Thereupon she had 
 a hearty laugh, and then bustled herself 
 about giving directions where to put things, 
 which all did with great alacrity, that pres- 
 ently there seemed some sort of comfort in 
 the chamber, albeit though no two chairs 
 were alike. Mistress Malmsey and Mis- 
 tress Dowlas were each at the side of Dame 
 Shakspeare, for she was more overpowered 
 by the kindness of her neighbors than ever 
 she had been at the great reverse she had 
 just experienced ; and they two having got 
 her seated, were pressing of her to take 
 some wine the vintner's wife had brought 
 with her, and were bestowing on her all 
 sorts of friendly consolation. 
 
 " Now get you gone, all of you, and let 
 us see which hath the best pair of heels," 
 said the widow, in her cheerfulest humor to 
 the others. ** Mayhap if you search thor- 
 oughly, you shall still find some odd thing 
 or another serviceable to our good neighbor ; 
 and methinks 'twould be infamous of any 
 
 who have wherewithal to spare, to keep it 
 from one who is in such need." 
 
 " Ay, that would it," said David Hurdle, 
 who had run from his work on the news of 
 John Shakspeare's misfortune, with a heavy 
 oak table nigh as much as he could carry. 
 
 " Methinks I have a knife or two, and 
 mayhap a spare trencher," observed Mother 
 Flytrap. " But alack ! what a monstrous 
 shame was it to have been so hard upon so 
 sweet a woman. Odds codlings ! I could 
 find it in my heart to do them a mischie. 
 for't." 
 
 " Use thy legs briskly, and thy tongue 
 shall last the longer," exclaimed the Widow 
 Pippins merrily. 
 
 . " That will I, I warrant you !" replied 
 the old woman, hobbling along with her 
 stick at a rate she had not attempted for 
 many a day. 
 
 " As I live the world groweth more vil- 
 lainous every hour !" cried Oliver Dumps, 
 putting on one of his dolefullest faces. 
 " What abominable uncivilness and horrible 
 tyranny is" this — what shameful usage and 
 intolerable cruelty !" 
 
 " Fine words butter no parsnips, Master 
 Constable," said the widow. " Hast brought 
 any useful thing for our good neighbor ?" 
 
 " Nay, I clean forgot," answered Oliver. 
 
 " Speed thee, then, and give handsomely," 
 exclaimed she. " What dost come here for, 
 with thy melancholy visage like that of a 
 frog in a long drought ? Get thee gone for 
 a good dozen of trenchers, else if ever I draw 
 thee a drop of my liquor again call me a 
 horse. And, prithee," added the merry wo- 
 man, as he was moving himself off, " strive 
 if thou canst not find out a good store of 
 wholesome victual to put in them ; and 
 count on for brimming measure from me the 
 rest of thy life." 
 
 " How now sweetheart," cried she, when 
 there were no others left with Dame Shak- 
 speare save only herself, Mistress Malmsey, 
 and Mistress Dowlas, " be not so downcast. 
 By my patience, there is nought in this you 
 should so much care for. Look at me, who 
 have buried five husbands — seem I in any 
 way woe-begone ? O' my fife, no ! Per- 
 chance I should seem none the less satisfied 
 had I buried a hundred, for there would still 
 be plenty as good above ground, or I am 
 hugely mistaken. Troth, care and I have 
 never been bedfellows, that's a sure thing." 
 
 " An' it please you, dame, I will take the 
 boy William to our house till things are 
 more settled than they now, are," observed 
 the draper's wife. 
 
 " And I will move my Tim 3thy to be * 
 
 \ 
 
64 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SIIAKSPEARE. 
 
 mean for setting your good man on his legs 
 again," said the other, as affectionately. 
 
 " I heartily thank you," was all Dame 
 Shakspeare could say in reply. 
 
 "Prithee look a little more cheerful," 
 cried the widow. " Smile a bit now — 
 'twould do you wonderful good, I warrant ; 
 and a famous burst of laughing would be 
 worth any money to you." 
 
 Their attention was, at this moment, at- 
 tracted by some loud talking in the adjoin- 
 ing chamber or warehouse, which proved to 
 be Master Buzzard's man, Saul, conducting 
 of himself with intolerable insolency towards 
 John Shakspeare, evidently with a view of 
 provoking him to some breach of the peace. 
 
 " Humph !" exclaimed he carelessly beat- 
 ing of his boot with an ashen stick he had 
 with him, as he stared about the naked 
 chamber with exceeding impudence, " me- 
 thinks thy wits must needs take to wool- 
 gathering, to help thee to a new stock, else 
 must thy customers lack serving, for here is 
 as goodly a show of nothing as ever I 
 saw." 
 
 " Get thee gone, fellow !" observed John 
 Shakspeare, with that indifference an honest 
 man ever feels at the insults of a low vil- 
 lain. 
 
 " Fellow !" cried Saul sharply, " who dost 
 call fellow, I prithee ? I have a few pounds, 
 at least, stored up, with a something in my 
 purse to spend ; but thou art not worth a 
 
 finch of salt with all thou hast, is more than 
 can see any color of warrant for thinking. 
 Marry, I marvel to hear beggars give their 
 betters ill words." 
 
 " Wilt get thee gone ?" cried the other 
 in a louder key ; " what dost want here ? 
 Say thy business, and be off." 
 
 " Business, quotha !" exclaimed the man, 
 with a sneering laugh, " O' my life, this be 
 a rare place for business. What hast got to 
 sell, John Shakspeare — spider's webs ? 
 I'faith, 'tis like thou wilt drive a brave trade 
 anon, provided thou canst keep up a fair de- 
 mand for such merchandise." 
 
 " O' my word, if thou dost not take thyself 
 quietly out of my dwelling in a presently, I 
 will turn thee out," said John Shakspeare, 
 determinedly. 
 
 " Ha, indeed," replied the fellow, twirling 
 his stick about, and eyeing his companion 
 superciliously from head to foot, " an' I be 
 not hugely mistaken, 'twould take a some- 
 what better man than thou art, to do any 
 such thing." 
 
 " Away, fellow ! thou art contemptible," 
 exclaimed the other, making great efforts to 
 withhold his anger ; " an' I were but half 
 as vile a wretch as thou, I would take me 
 
 a rope and hang myself without anotbei 
 word." 
 
 " How darest thou call names, thou piti- 
 ful, beggarly wretch !" cried Saul, approach- 
 ing his companion with a savage menacing 
 look. " Dost think to play the high bailiff 
 again ? 'Slife ! hear I any more of thy 
 bouncing speech, I'll crack thy crown for 
 thee." 
 
 " Wouldst !" exclaimed John Shakspeare, 
 seizing the fellow so suddenly by the collar 
 of his jerkin, that he had no time for putting 
 of his threat in execution. " Wouldst, 
 caitiff!" continued he, shaking him in his 
 strong grasp till he appeared to have shook 
 all his breath away. Then drawing him 
 close to his breast, he thrust his insulter 
 from him with such force, that he sent him 
 reeling to the other end of the chamber, 
 saying, " Get thee gone for a villain !" 
 
 As soon as the man got his footing he 
 was for flying at the other in a horrible 
 deadly rage, to do him some mischief, when 
 he was stopped by the Widow Pippins 
 Mistress Malmsey, and Mistress Dowlas, 
 rushing in before him from out of the ad- 
 joining chamber. 
 
 " Away, thou scurvy rogue !" exclaimed 
 the widow. 
 
 " Get thee hence, thou pitiful rascal, or I 
 will clout thy head off !" cried the vintner's 
 wife, with no less earnestness. 
 
 " By my troth, an' thou stayest here 
 another minute, I'll be as good as hanging 
 to thee, thou intolerable villain !" added 
 Mistress Dowlas, in as great a rage as 
 either. 
 
 " Go to, thou art a drab !" said Saul, im- 
 pudently, as he tried to push by them. 
 
 " Am I a drab, fellow ?" exclaimed Mis- 
 tress Malmsey, hitting of him a box on the 
 ear with all the strength of her arm. 
 
 " Dost call me drab, villain !" cried the 
 draper's wife, giving him so sore a one on 
 the other side of his head that it nearly 
 turned him round. 
 
 " I'll drab thee !" said the widow, lifting 
 up her foot the next moment, and giving 
 him a kick behind of such force it sent him 
 some paces ; and the three women followed 
 him up with such vigor, that after standing 
 a moment, quite bewildered with the quick- 
 ness and fierceness of their blows, the fel- 
 low was fain to take to his heels ; but not 
 before the widow had given him a parting 
 benediction with her foot, in the use of 
 which she showed a marvellous cleverness, 
 that gave him a good start to begin with. 
 
 " As I live that was well done of us !" 
 exclaimed the merry widow, as soon aa 
 Saul had disappeared, and laughing with 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 es 
 
 her usual free-heartedness ; " never knew 
 I so goodly a foot-ball, or ever played so 
 famous a game. Indeed, 'twas exquisite 
 sport. I would not have missed my share 
 in it for another husband. O' my life, an' 
 he rindeth himself comfortable sitting for 
 the next month, he must be rarely fashioned. 
 He must needs forswear chairs, and rest as 
 gingerly on a stool as would a cow upon 
 broken bottles. I'faith, 'twas rare sport !" 
 
 The other two appeared to be nearly as 
 well amused, as they returned to Dame 
 Shakspeare, who had come as far as the 
 door in some alarm, when her neighbors 
 burst into the warehouse ; but there were 
 two others, who had observed Saul's inso- 
 lence from the kitchen, and these were 
 Maud and Humphrey, and were quite as 
 much moved at it as any there. The former 
 had been crying ever since the seizure, and 
 the other had been endeavoring, with a vast 
 show of awkward affectionateness, to give 
 her some comfort. 
 
 " Humphrey!" cried she, suddenly jump- 
 ing up from the ground where she had been 
 sitting, at hearing of her master so insulted, 
 and gazing on her companion with a very 
 monstrous earnestness ; " An' thou dost not 
 go and cudgel that knave within an inch 
 of his life, I'll forswear thy company. Ay," 
 added she with a most moving emphasis ; 
 " though I die a maid for't !" 
 
 " ^y goles, thou shall never do so horrid 
 a thing!" exclaimed Humphrey, hastily 
 catching hold of a cudgel that had often 
 done good service on himself, and darting 
 out at the back door as Saul made his exit 
 at the front. Now Humphrey was not 
 much given to valor: indeed, to speak the 
 exact truth, he could be terrible fearful 
 upon occasions ; but what will not love do ? 
 All at once Humphrey felt himself a hero ; 
 and to save his Maud from so unnatural a 
 catastrophe as she had threatened, he would 
 that moment have dared any danger, had 
 it been ever so great. As he proceeded 
 quickly along, be threw out his arms, jerked 
 up his head, expanded his chest, and flour- 
 ished his cudgel, with the air of a con- 
 queror. No one knew Humphrey. I doubt 
 hugely Humphrey knew himself, he was so 
 changed. 
 
 Saul left John Shakspeare's house in a 
 terrible bad humor, as may be supposed. 
 His head seemed to spin like a parish top, 
 
 and as for but methinks the courteous 
 
 reader needeth no retrospective allusions. 
 Suffice it to say he was in a tearing pas- 
 sion, and went his way monstrous chap- 
 fallen, muttering all sorts of imprecations, 
 with his eyes on the ground as though in- 
 
 tent on studying every pebble he trod on. 
 All at once some one ran against him with 
 such force as nearly to send him off his 
 legs. 
 
 " A murrain on thee ! dost wan*, thy fool's 
 head broke ?" shouted Saul. 
 
 " Ay, marry, and why not, if thou canst 
 do it!" replied Humphrey in a big voice 
 that almost frightened himself. " Go and 
 bite thy thumb at a stone wall, and be 
 hanged to thee ! My head be as good a 
 fool's head as thine, I warrant ; and I care 
 not who knows it. I tell thee I take thee 
 to be a scurvy villain; so have it in thy 
 teeth thou coal-carrying knave!" 
 
 " Bravely said, Humphrey !" cried a 
 neighbor, astonished at such a display in 
 one so little noted for valor. 
 
 " Well done, my heart of oak !" ex- 
 claimed another, patting him on the back 
 with the same commending spirit. 
 
 " Why, thou pitiful worsted knave !" 
 bawled out Master Buzzard's man, recover- 
 ing from his surprise at being so abused of 
 so mean a person. " 'Slife ! an' do I not 
 beat thee to shavings, I am a Jew." 
 
 '•' A ring, my masters — a ring !" bawled 
 out another ; and very speedily there was a 
 circle of some twenty men and boys, form- 
 ed round the two combatants. Never were 
 two persons so badly matched. Saul was 
 the best cudgel-player in the whole country; 
 but all Humphrey's knowledge of it came 
 of the blows he had had of his master, and 
 not without deserving it ; yet was Humphrey 
 the favorite of the spectators beyond ques- 
 tion, all of whom held the other in huge 
 dislike, for very efficient causes, and Hum- 
 phrey was so encouraged and commended 
 of them, that although his feelings were 
 somewhat of a dubious sort, for all the show 
 he made, it kept up his valor famously. 
 Presently the two began playing of their 
 weapons very prettily ; but Humphrey was 
 in so monstrous an eagerness to pay his 
 antagonist, he did nothing but strike away 
 as hard as he could, in a manner that quite 
 confused the practised cudgel-player. Saul 
 was in a horrible passion, which in con- 
 junction with other things, mayhap might 
 have made his skill avail him so little ; but 
 when he found his head broke, and heard 
 the shouts of triumph of those around him, 
 he became like a mad beast, and struck out 
 wherever he could at mere random. Certes 
 Humphrey got no lack of thumps ; but his 
 head looked to be to the hardness of a bullet, 
 and gave no sign of being touched, while 
 Saul could scarce see out of his eyes for 
 the blood running from his broken head. 
 
 As it was now a mere trial of endurance, 
 
 \ 
 
66 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 it was easy to see who would get the hest 
 of it, for Saul might have cudgelled a post 
 with as much sign of success as he had 
 with his present antagonist; and nothing 
 could exceed the gratification of all present 
 at the heartiness with which John Shaks- 
 peare's man gave it to the other. In short, 
 Saul got such a drubbing as he had never 
 had since he was born ; and at last, when 
 his strength was nearly exhausted, a sharp 
 blow sent him to the ground like a stone. 
 Then rose a shout of triumph such as 
 Stratford had rarely heard, and Humphrey 
 mounted on the shoulders of two butcher's 
 apprentices, and followed by half the town 
 hurraing him as he went — they were in 
 such delight he had behaved himself so 
 valorously, and punished as he deserved so 
 notorious a knave — was carried like a hero 
 to his master's dwelling. 
 
 "Maud !" cried the victor, as he entered 
 the back door, with his heart swelling with 
 exultation. 
 
 " Well, Humphrey," said she. 
 
 " I have given that varlet his deserts." 
 
 " Hast ?" added she, approaching him 
 closely, and looking earnestly into his face. 
 
 " By goles, I do think I have gone as 
 nigh killing the knave as was possible." 
 
 " Hast ?" repeated she with a smile break- 
 ing over her chubby cheeks. " Then here's 
 at thee !" Thereupon she suddenly seized 
 Humphrey by his two ears with her huge 
 fists, and gave him as hearty a buss as ever 
 man received of woman since the world 
 commenced. 
 
 Mosca. 
 Volpone. 
 Mosca. 
 Implies it. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 There's nought impossible. 
 
 Yes, to be learned, Mosca. 
 no ; rich 
 
 Hood an ass with reverend purple, 
 So you can hide his two ambitious ears, 
 And he shall pass for a cathedrel doctor. 
 
 Ben Jonson. 
 Of an old English gentleman who had an old 
 
 estate, 
 And kept up his old mansion at a bountiful 
 
 rate, 
 With an old porter to relieve the poor at his 
 
 gate, 
 Like the Queen's old courtier, and a courtier 
 of the Queen's. Old Ballad. 
 
 It cannot be supposed William Shaks- 
 peare was well off in his schooling under so 
 ill a master as Stripes, who, though he did 
 not treat him uncivilly, in token of such 
 
 welcome gifts as his mother ofttimwi 
 brought, was of too ignorant pedantic a 
 nature to have that heed which a young 
 scholar of any promise requireth : neverthe- 
 less William took to his book very kindly 
 to the wouderful admiration of Dame Shaks* 
 peare and her gossips, and in especial of 
 Nurse Cicely, which never failed to bring 
 forth notable prophecies of his future great- 
 ness from her, whereof more than one per- 
 son entertained them as exceeding credible. 
 There was no wake, or lamb-ale, or other 
 festival in the neighborhood the boy was not 
 invited to with his mother, at which he was 
 continually called upon to repeat such 
 verses he had learned of his mother, or sing 
 such ballads as his nurse had made him 
 familiar with; and the goodly manner he 
 would perform what was required, so won 
 upon the hearts of the spectators, that 
 praises out of all number, and other things 
 more substantial in great plenty, were the 
 sure consequences. As soon as he had 
 learned to read, wonderful was the diligence 
 with which he perused all manner of books 
 — albeit he quickly exhausted the poor stock 
 that could be had for his reading, for these 
 merely consisted of a few volumes, chiefly 
 poems of Dame Shakspeare's, and one or 
 two here and there of some neighbor. Cer- 
 tes, no great matter of knowledge was to 
 be gained of such books; but they served 
 to excite the young mind, and keep it in a 
 restless yearning for more delectable food ; 
 and therefore were not entirely unprofitable. 
 It is not to be imagined that a child so 
 disposed took no delight in the proper pas- 
 times of his age ; for the entire contrary is 
 nighest to the truth. Among all his school- 
 fellows, who entered into any sport with 
 such absolute zest as Will Shakspeare? 
 He was the wildest of any. His free spirit 
 made such play among them as soon gained 
 for him the liking of the whole school. He 
 grew up at last to be the chief leader in 
 their games — the captain of their exploits, 
 and the very heart and principal of all their 
 revels. If Will was not of their company, 
 doubtless were they as much at a loss as a 
 hive of bees without their queen ; but when 
 they were heard as merry as crickets by a 
 winter's hearth, calling lustily to each other, 
 crowding here and running there, sending 
 the football bounding along the grass, or 
 leaping over each other's backs as though 
 they had wings, of a surety he was to be 
 found amongst the very foremost. But it 
 should be borne in mind that there were 
 times, and many times too, when the day 
 was in its freshest glory, and every one of 
 his companions were enjoying themselves 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 67 
 
 to his heait's content, lie would be in some 
 out of the way corner, half sitting half re- 
 clining on the floor, leaning deeply studious 
 over some old volume he had provided him- 
 self with ; and the merry shoutings close at 
 hand, or the pressing entreaties of those he 
 most liked, had never power to draw him 
 thence till he had gone through it every 
 page. 
 
 More than once too, when they were out 
 together a maying, or nutting in the woods, 
 he would stray from the rest, perchance led 
 away by the sweet singing of the birds, or 
 the delicate beauty of the blossoms ; and in 
 some shady place would sit him down to 
 rest, conning of a book the whilst, he had 
 carried under his jerkin, till somehow or 
 another he would fall asleep, — and O the 
 exquisite pleasant dreams he had at that 
 time ! At the end he would suddenly start 
 up, rubbing of his eyes and looking in every 
 place for the great multitude of the fairy 
 folk, who a moment since in their delicate 
 finery seemed to be dancing so bravely be- 
 fore him, and singing to him such admirable 
 choice ditties, and doing him all manner of 
 delectable courtesies ; but finding no sign 
 of such searched he ever so, he would be in 
 huge disappointment, till the shouting of 
 his fellows woke him from his strange be- 
 wilderment ; and he would then make what 
 haste he could to join his company. 
 
 Of his disposition, it is not too much to 
 say it savored of as much sweetness as 
 ever lay in so little a compass. There was 
 no aptness to sudden quarrel with him — no 
 giving of ill words — no beating of lesser 
 boys than himself — no tendency to mere 
 rude mischief ; neither selfishness, nor 
 covetousness, nor any unmannerly quality 
 whatsoever, such as are frequently in other 
 boys ; but he would give freely of what he 
 had, and assist those in their tasks who were 
 backward, and very cheerfully do any civil 
 thing for another that was in his compass, 
 and could not bear to see any cruelty, or 
 unkind treatment of any sort let it be among 
 big or little. From this it will readily be 
 conceived, that for his master he had but 
 small affection, even though Stripes used 
 him with more civil ness than was his wont 
 to others. This seeming partiality, how- 
 ever, lasted only as long as Dame Shaks- 
 peare's gifts ; for when the family grew to 
 be too poorly off to send him any, the 
 schoolmaster showed his savage humor to 
 him as much as to the rest. 
 
 At the complete poverty of his father by 
 Master Buzzard's ruthless proceedings, it 
 was thought William would be taken alto- 
 gether from school to assist his parents in 
 
 such things as he could, for he was now 
 grown to be of some bigness, and John 
 Shakspeare had not withal to keep either 
 Maud or Humphrey — who straightway 
 made themselves of the pale of matrimony 
 — and was striving as he best might to do 
 a little trade as a glover, whereof his means, 
 with his neighbors assistance, was only 
 enough to accomplish ; but it was resolved 
 by the two alderman's wives, who were the 
 prime movers of all things in his behalf, 
 that it would be best, as he was getting so 
 forward, William should keep school hours, 
 and assist his father at other times ; and in 
 consequence, he continued to receive such 
 instructions as Stripes could give in read- 
 ing and writing, the science of simple arith- 
 metic, and the study of the Latin grammar, 
 for some time longer, wherein he got to be 
 the very head of the school, despite of hav- 
 ing so unworthy a teacher, and of the 
 monstrous negligence and wanton insolency 
 with which he was treated. 
 
 Now this fellow of a schoolmaster was in 
 the habit of using his boy Dickon, worse 
 than any turnspit dog might be treated by a 
 brutal scullion. What his wages were has 
 never been known ; and indeed, save in the 
 way of blows, he had never had anything of 
 the sort. He got such little victual, that it 
 was supposed of some he would long since 
 have taken to eating of himself, only he 
 knew not where to find a mouthful. Truly 
 flesh and blood could not stand such usage ; 
 indeed it appeared as though they had long 
 had nought to do with the business, leaving 
 skin and bone to manage everything between 
 them. Dickon was reduced to such a strait, 
 that if he caught sight of a eur looking for 
 bones, he would take to his heels presently, 
 with the full conviction the animal would 
 make a grab at him an' he got in his way. 
 In him, however, such leanness was but the 
 natural result of poor living ; but his master, 
 though he eat and drank greedily whatever 
 he could lay his hand on, looked not a jot 
 more full of flesh than ordinary. Indeed, 
 he starved both his boy and his cat, eating 
 from them their share of victual, yet seemed 
 to carry nigh upon as hungry a look wtih him 
 as either. His tyrannical humor he often' 
 enough showed upon his scholars, but this 
 was nothing to be compared with the sav- 
 ageness with which he was ever falling 
 upon poor Dickon for any trifling faults; 
 and it was his custom, when he fancied 
 there was anything amiss in the poor boy'a 
 behavior, to drag him into the school-room, 
 to be horsed by some of the biggest of his 
 scholars; and then he would lay on him 
 with a great rod with such fierceness as was 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 horrible to see, caring not a jot for his cries, 
 or the entreaties of the whole school he 
 should be let go. 
 
 These exhibitions of his master's cruelty 
 were intolerable to William Shakspeare, 
 and many of his schoolfellows ; so one day, 
 after such a sight, he got several of them 
 together he had confidence in, and they be- 
 ing moved with wrath and indignation, re- 
 solved among themselves they would allow 
 of it no longer, no matter what might follow ; 
 and the first class, which were the chiefest 
 for strength, entered into a bond of mutual 
 protection. Others of the greatest spirit 
 were drawn into the confederacy, and in a 
 little time the whole school was in a ferment 
 upon the matter. The very smallest of tho 
 lot was seen to double up his little fist, with 
 a look of vengeance that spoke volumes of 
 meaning. All things, however, were left to 
 the management of Will Shakspeare, and 
 every one vowed to stand by him, though 
 they were whacked to ribbons. The secret 
 was well kept. Stripes had not the slight- 
 est knowledge of any such feeling against 
 him, and the next day rushed into the school- 
 room, hauling in Dickon by the ear, who 
 was making of a pitiful lamentation, and 
 cutting him mercilessly by the way. 
 
 " Will Shakspeare !" shouted the school- 
 master; "horse me this villain straight." 
 The boy moved not an inch. 
 
 " Will Shakspeare, I say !" thundered 
 Stripes, with increased rage ; " horse me 
 this caitiff, I tell thee." Still his scholar 
 kept the same unmovedness, and every one 
 appeared studying of their tasks with more 
 than ordinary diligence, nevertheless their 
 little hearts were a beating famously. 
 
 " Why, thou villain, what dost mean by 
 this ?" exclaimed the pedagogue, furiously, 
 letting go his hold of Dickon, and catching 
 up his cane. " I'll make thee hear, I war- 
 rant." In the twinkling of an eye every 
 boy was out of his form. 
 
 '* Now, Tom Green !" cried one. 
 
 " Now, Jack Hemings !" shouted another. 
 
 " At him, Dick Burbage !" exclaimed a 
 third. 
 
 " On him, Harry Condell !" bawled a 
 fourth ; "and in an instant, there was a rush 
 upon the astonished schoolmaster from all 
 parts of the school. 
 
 " Ha ! dost rebel ?" screamed he, making 
 furious efforts to cut them with his cane, 
 with his cadaverous visage livid with pas- 
 sion. " 'Slight, I'll make thee rue it !" 
 
 But for all his terrible efforts he was 
 speedily overpowered. The boys came upon 
 him with all the spirit of ants disturbed in 
 their nest ; some clung to a leg, others to 
 
 an arm. They jumped upon his neck, and 
 hung upon his jerkin in such numbers, that 
 he could do nought in the world, but threat- 
 en them with the horriblest imprecations. 
 At this stage of the proceedings, Dickon, 
 who had regarded this sudden movement 
 out of his wits with sheer amazement, was 
 called to hold his back to take his master 
 on ; and though at first he showed some 
 sign of unwillingness, he was soon forced 
 by the conspirators to do as they bade him. 
 
 "I'll have thee hanged, villains!" bawled 
 the pedagogue, as he was being hoisted by 
 the strongest of his scholars upon the back 
 of the poor boy he had used so inhumanly, 
 malgre all his strugglings and turnings. "I 1 il 
 lash the skin off thy pestilent bones. I'll 
 scourge every one of thee to death. Let 
 me go, thou vile wretches !" 
 
 <; Hold on, Dickon !" cried some. 
 
 " Keep him fast, my masters !" exclaimed 
 others, and shouts of encouragement arose 
 from all. Dickon did hold fast, doubtless in 
 some slight pleasure, for all his seeming un- 
 willingness, and he had no lack of helpers 
 in his office ; so that Stripes was very 
 speedily prepared for that punishment he 
 had with so little discretion inflicted upon 
 others. As soon as he" began to be aware 
 of what was intended for him, he was like 
 one in a phrenzy. Mad with fear, rage, and 
 indignation, he redoubled his threats and his 
 struggles, but all to small profit : for, whilst 
 he was held down as firm as in a vice by 
 some, others, one after another, laid into him 
 with all their might, till he roared for mercy. 
 These, then, taking the places of his holders, 
 divers in their turn assisted in the tyrant's 
 punishment, till not one of the whole school 
 but had repaid him with interest the unde- 
 served blows he had received at his hands. 
 To describe the joy with which all this was 
 done by the scholars, their uproarious shouts 
 and cheers, or the horrible bad humor of 
 their master, is clean out of the question. I 
 doubt not it will be imagined of many. The 
 end was, at a signal he was. dropped on the 
 floor, so completely tamed of his tyrannical 
 humors, he would not have struck at a 
 mouse,— where he was left to put himself 
 to rights as he might, — and then the whole 
 school took their leaves of him very orderly. 
 
 The next day they came to the school as 
 usual, but all in a body ; the bigger boys 
 first, and the little ones coming after, and 
 every one went to his place, and took to his 
 studies, as if nothing had happened out of 
 the ordinary. Doubtless, they had come to 
 the resoluon to have at him again, showed 
 he any more of his insufferable cruelties ; 
 but there was small need of any such thing, 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 for there never was so altered a man seen 
 as was Stripes, the schoolmaster, fie heard 
 them their lessons with a sort of suavity 
 that was marvellous beyond all things — 
 praising of every one as though he had got 
 for his scholars such prodigies of genius as 
 could not be met with elsewhece — and 
 taking no more thought of canes and rods, 
 than if such things had never been in his 
 experience. As for Dickon, he showed his 
 master a fair pair of heels directly he had 
 him off his back, and was shortly after taken 
 into the service of an honest yeoman, father 
 to one of the scholars. 
 
 It so happened, once on a time, as Wil- 
 liam Shakspeare and his chief companions 
 were strolling together, they came upon the 
 town crier giving note to the inhabitants, 
 that my Lord of Leicester's players being 
 in the town, would perform a play at a cer- 
 tain hour, to which the citizens were in- 
 vited at a small charge. This put some of 
 them in a monstrous desire to behold so 
 goodly an entertainment — particularly Wil- 
 liam Shakspeare, who had beheld nought of 
 the kind in all his life : but others, his eld- 
 ers, had seen plays more than once, and they 
 gave him such moving accounts of what ex- 
 quisite pleasant pastime was to be found in 
 them, that he did nothing but wish he could 
 get to a sight of such. Unluckily, he had 
 no money of any kind, and his father's ne- 
 cessities were so great he knew none could 
 be spared him. What to do he knew not ; 
 for though he could get standing room for a 
 penny, no sign of a penny could he see 
 anywhere. He knew that divers of his 
 schoolfellows were intent upon going, and 
 he would have been glad enough to have 
 joined them, but he saw no hope of the kind, 
 by reason of wanting the necessary price of 
 admission. It however did so turn out, that 
 the father of one of the boys was an espe- 
 cial acquaintance of the head of the players, 
 by which means Richard Burbage not only 
 got to see the play for nothing, but moved 
 his father to allow of his schoolfellow, Will 
 Shakspeare, having the like permission ; 
 which, to the latter's extreme comfort was 
 granted. 
 
 The players gave their entertainment in 
 the inn yard of the Widow Pippins, on a 
 raised platform in front of the gallery. They 
 were not troubled with scenery, and made 
 no particular display of a wardrobe, but the 
 merry interlude, called " Gammer Gurton's 
 Needle," a huge favorite at that time, which 
 was then and there played by them, required 
 little such accompaniment. The spectators, 
 at least the greater number, stood in the 
 yard; but those who chose to pay more, 
 
 were accommodated with seats at the gal- 
 lery and casements. William Shakspeare, 
 by going early with his fellows, got a front 
 place, and waited, in a marvellous eagerness, 
 to see the interlude. Presently there was a 
 movement made by his neighbors, which 
 caused him to turn round like the rest, and 
 he saw it was occasioned by the entrance 
 into the gallery of Sir Thomas Lucy, his 
 lady, and his son, who took the best places ; 
 elsewhere was seen Mistress Malmsey and 
 Mistress Dowlas, in their choicest finery, 
 pointing out their acquaintances to each 
 other ; and either up or down, half the good 
 folks of Stratford might have been recog- 
 nized, intent upon nothing so much as see- 
 ing the play. 
 
 At last the curtain was moved, and a be- 
 ginning was made of the play by the ap- 
 pearance of Hodge and Deacon. The piti- 
 ful manner in which the one complains to 
 the other of the bad state of his lower gar- 
 ment, and the right doleful way of his com- 
 panion's condolences on the matter, were 
 received by the audience with loud roars of 
 laughter. Then, when Deacon acquaints 
 Hodge of Gammer Gurton and her maid 
 Tib having been by the ears together, mak- 
 ing of the House a perfect Bedlam, and the 
 other protests he was monstrous afraid some- 
 thing serious would happen, having taken 
 note of the awful manner in which Tom 
 Tankard's cow frisked her tail, there was no 
 less mirthfulness. Upon Hodge proceeding 
 homeward and meeting with Tib, and hear- 
 ing that all this turmoil had been occasioned 
 by the Gammer losing of her needle ; when, 
 upon spying of Gib, the cat, up to the ears 
 in her milk-bowl, she let fall the breeches 
 she was clouting with all diligence, the 
 humor of the dialogue seemed equally well 
 relished. But when it came to Gammer 
 Gurton's terrible to do because of her loss, 
 her monstrous anxiousness to recover it, 
 her suspicions of the honesty of her neigh- 
 bors, her intrigues and quarrels with them, 
 and the interference of no less a person than 
 the parson of the parish, Dr. Rat, to make 
 peace again, there was a choice roaring I 
 warrant you ; and this was only exceeded 
 when Hodge, upon sitting of himself down, 
 discovered the lost needle, to his great smart, 
 in consequence of its having been left stick- 
 ing in his rent garment. 
 
 I doubt much whether the finest play 
 ever writ, was so well relished of an audi- 
 ence as was this rude coarse interlude, by 
 the simple burgesses of Stratford. Even Sir 
 Thomas Lucy laughed as though he would 
 never have done. As for William Shaks*. 
 peare, it made such impression on hira, never 
 
70 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 having- se&n anything of the sort, that the 
 next day, and very often after, he was to be 
 seen, with his companions, Burbage, Green, 
 Condell, and Hemings, making players of 
 themselves in an out-of-the-way corner of 
 the town, essaying to play that very inter- 
 lude, by one taking one character and the 
 rest others ; and it was said by some who 
 saw them at it, that the seeing these boys 
 aping the players out of their own heads as 
 they did, was nigh upon as rare a sight as 
 seeing the players themselves. All these 
 five were ever at it ; and the playing of Gam- 
 mer Gurton's Needle took the place of all 
 other sports whatsoever. Suffice it to say, 
 that the Earl of Leicester's company got 
 such reception, they repeated their visits fre- 
 quently ; and young Burbage's father having 
 shown some talent as a player, they took him 
 to be of their company. 
 
 On one occasion, William Shakspeare 
 was sent with some gloves to a certain Sir 
 Marmaduke de Largesse, living at Wilne- 
 cott, at an excellent old mansion there, who 
 delighted in keeping up the country sports 
 and festivities, and was noted for miles round, 
 what extreme pleasure he took in anything 
 that smacked of antiquity. His hospitality 
 was unbounded, and his table was ever loaded 
 with the choicest of good victual, to which 
 all might seat themselves according to their 
 quality ; and what was left was given to the 
 poor by the porter at the gate. No one ever 
 came there hungry that did not leave with 
 as much as he liked to eat and drink, under 
 his belt; and, if it was needed, a something 
 in his purse to carry him along. In his 
 cooking he was more careful there should 
 be a good plenty of wholesome viands, than 
 that any show of extreme niceness should 
 be visible in the dishes ; and as for what he 
 gave to' drink, it was chiefly honest ale, of 
 his own brewing, of such fine flavor and 
 strength as was not to be matched, go where 
 you would. 
 
 Having passed through an avenue of lofty 
 trees, which led up to the house, admiring, 
 as he approached it, its fair appearance and 
 antique character, on making known his er- 
 rand he was ushered by a jolly-looking but- 
 ler into a spacious stone-floored chamber, 
 lighted with transome windows, the walls of 
 which were garnished with a prodigal as- 
 sortment of corslets and helmets arranged 
 in rows, with coats of mail, military jerkins 
 or shirts of leather, halberts, bucklers, pikes, 
 bills, crossbows, and all manner of the like 
 weapons and defences. An oak table that 
 went the whole length of the chamber, was 
 covered with smoking viands, brimming 
 black jacks, and full trenchers. The upper 
 
 and lower messes being divided by a huge 
 saltcellar, — all around was a busy company 
 of friends and retainers, doing honor to the 
 feast : and at the head of the table in a fa- 
 mous tall chair, sat a ruddy, stout, pleasant- 
 faced gentleman, with hair and beard white 
 and plentiful ; a full ruff such as might have 
 been in fashion some score of years since, 
 and a serviceable doublet, with trunks and 
 hose of a sober color. The hilt of his ra- 
 pier came up to his breast, but he held it as 
 carefully as if it had been an old friend, and 
 I doubt not would sooner have gone without 
 his napkin at his meals, than without so ap- 
 proved a companion. He kept discoursing 
 cheerfully with those nighest him, ever and 
 anon glancing his eyes round to see that the 
 carver did his duty, and that all were well 
 served. This was Sir Marmaduke de Lar- 
 gesse. 
 
 William Shakspeare had not entered the 
 hall many minutes ero» he was spied by the 
 old knight, who in a kind voice bade him 
 come near and state his business. 
 
 "Gloves, eh!" exclaimed he pleasantly, 
 upon hearing of his errand. " Hie then to 
 a seat at the table — get thee a good meal 
 and a fair draught — after that if thou art in 
 the humor come to me and I will attend thy 
 business with all proper diligence." 
 
 There was such sweetness in the beha- 
 vior of this old gentleman, that it was im- 
 possible for the boy hesitating to do what he 
 was desired, even had he cared not to be of 
 the feast, so he went with due deference 
 below the salt, where place was cheerfully 
 made for him, and every one of his neigh- 
 bors commenced pressing of him to this and 
 the other tempting dish with such cordiality, 
 as soon put him quite at home with them. 
 A trencher full of excellent fare, he quickly 
 found smoking at his hand so enticingly, 
 that he was fain to set to with exceeding 
 good will, and it was a truly pleasant part of 
 the entertainment to note the anxiousness of 
 his neighbors, that he should have what he 
 liked best, and as much of it as he could 
 fancy. In all honesty he made a famous 
 meal, and after drinking sparingly of the 
 ale, he was ready to attend to his errand. 
 Presently a most thankful grace was said 
 by the chaplain, and in a few minutes thr 
 tables were cleared, and all had gone their 
 several ways, save only some guests who 
 kept their places, and continued conversing 
 with their bountiful kind entertainer. Wil- 
 liam Shakspeare did *iot move, for he was 
 waiting for some sign from the knight of his 
 being at leisure. 
 
 " Prithee let me hear that ballad of Wil- 
 liam the Conqueror, thou wert speaking of,, 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 71 
 
 Master Peregrine," said Sir Marmaduke to 
 a curious sort of pantaloon-looking person, 
 wearing a huge pair of spectacles, mounted 
 on his peaked nose. 
 
 " O' my life, I doubt hugely I can say but 
 a verse or two," replied Master Peregrine, 
 in a thin small voice. I heard it when I was 
 a boy, and never since, nor have I met it in 
 print anywhere, though I have searched 
 wherever there was likelihood of its being 
 to be found. Indeed I would give something 
 to know it thoroughly, for I doubt not 'tis 
 exceeding ancient, and one of the very rarest 
 ballads that ever were made." 
 
 " Let us hear what of it is in your re- 
 membrance, 1 pray you," exclaimed the 
 chaplain, who was one with a venerable 
 worthy aspect, and was then employed in 
 brewing a cup of sack for the old knight 
 and his guests, in the which he was esteemed 
 famous. 
 
 " Well, said, Sir Johan," said a young 
 gallant, a near kinsman to Sir Marmaduke. 
 " I love an old ballad as well as any." 
 
 " Thou lovest a pretty woman better of 
 the two, Sir Valentine, I'll warrant," cried a 
 companion merrily. 
 
 " That doth he Sir Reginald, I'll be sworn, 
 or he is none of my blood," replied the old 
 knight in the same humor. 
 
 " Well, I care not to deny the impeach- 
 ment," answered his kinsman with a smile. 
 " Doubtless I can con either upon occasion, 
 and get them by heart too if they be wor- 
 thy." 
 
 " Marry, and very properly," cried Sir 
 Marmaduke, and then with a famous arch 
 look added, " I doubt though you would like 
 to have your pretty woman as old as your 
 ballad, — eh, nephew ?" 
 
 " No, by St. Jeronimo !" exclaimed Sir 
 Valentine with such emphasis, it raised a 
 laugh all round. 
 
 " Well, give me an old ballad for my 
 money," cried Master Peregrine with a mar- 
 vellous complacency. "Methinks there is 
 nothing like the delicate pleasure it afford- 
 eth, if so be you stick it on the wall with 
 some of its fellows, and go to the perusal of 
 it when you have a mind." 
 
 " There the ballad hath it hollow," obser- 
 ved Sir Johan gravely, yet with a twinkle in 
 his eye that savored of some humor. " Being 
 of the church, perchance I am not the fittest 
 to speak on so light a matter, but in all my 
 philosophy, I know not of ever a pretty 
 woman who allowed herself to be stuck on 
 the wall with her fellows, were it even for a 
 eingle moment." This sally also occasioned 
 great laughing, after which Master Pere- 
 grine was pressed for his ballad. 
 5 
 
 " It is of some length," said he ; " and if I 
 remember me right, is writ in three separate 
 fyttes or divisions." 
 
 Then each of the company listened with 
 courteous attention, Master Peregrine com- 
 menced repeating of the verses he had 
 spoken of. 
 
 " I regret my memory faileth me in the 
 rest of the verses, for I doubt not they would 
 be found well worthy of a hearing," said the 
 antiquary, suddenly coming to a halt. 
 
 " Think a while — mayhap they shall return 
 to your remembrance," said the chaplain. 
 
 " Ay, do, Master Peregrine ; for I should 
 be loath to lose any part of so goodly a bal- 
 lad," added the old knight, who, with the rest, 
 appeared to take infinite interest in it. 
 
 " Nay, as I live, I know not a verse more," 
 replied the other, seemingly in some vexa- 
 tion when he found his thinking was to no 
 profit. " Indeed, I should be heartily glad 
 could I meet with the other parts, for they 
 are of a very singular curiousness." 
 
 " I'faith, I should be well pleased myself 
 to hear the rest on't," remarked Sir Marma- 
 duke, and his guests spoke much to the same 
 purpose. 
 
 " An' it please your worship, methinks I 
 can give you every line of it," said young 
 William Shakspeare, who had fidgetted 
 about sometime without daring to speak. 
 
 " Ha, Gloves ! art there ?" exclaimed the 
 old knight, merrily ; " in very truth I knew 
 not of thy presence. Come hither, I prithee." 
 
 " Dost indeed know ought of it, young 
 sir ?" inquired Master Peregrine, looking at 
 the boy earnestly through his spectacles, as 
 he approached him. 
 
 " Every word, an' it please you," replied 
 William. 
 
 " Let us hear of it then, and quickly," 
 cried Sir Marmaduke, putting his hand 
 kindly on the boy's head. William Shaks- 
 peare saw all eyes were fixed upon him ; 
 yet there was a friendliness in every aspect 
 which gave him nought to fear. Standing 
 where he was, with a graceful carriage of 
 himself, and a wonderful pleasant delivery, 
 he presently went on with the verses. 
 
 " Bravely spoken !" exclaimed the old 
 knight, who had observed and listened to the 
 boy manifestly with a more than ordinary 
 satisfaction in his benevolent aspect. " Never 
 heard I aught more properly delivered." 
 
 " Nor I, by'r Lady," said Master Pere- 
 grine, in a similar excellent humor. " Where 
 didst learn this exquisite ballad, young sir V* 
 
 " An' it please you, my mother taught it 
 me," replied William Shakspeare. 
 
 " Hast any more such in thy memory 1* 
 inquired the other. 
 
72 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 * A score at least, an' it please you," an- 
 swered the boy ; " most moving ones of the 
 doings of valiant knights ; and sundry of a 
 delicater sort, concerning of the love of fair 
 ladies ; besides which I have store of fairy 
 roundelays, that I learned of Nurse Cicely, 
 which smack most sweetly of the dainty 
 blossoms." 
 
 " O' my life, thou art a treasure !" ex- 
 claimed Master Peregrine, in a most pleased 
 astonishment. 
 
 " Stick him against the wall, I prithee !" 
 cried Sir Reginald merrily. 
 
 " Marry, methinks he is a wall of himself, 
 or at least as good as one that is ever so well 
 covered with ballads," remarked Sir Valen- 
 tine ; " you could not have fallen into more 
 choice company, Master Antiquarian." 
 
 " So thou art John Shakspeare's son, of 
 Stratford," said Sir Marmaduke kindly to 
 him, after he had made the boy say some- 
 thing of who he was ; " we must be of better 
 acquaintance. Come thou here as often as 
 it pleaseth thee ; and if thou art for books, 
 I have some thou wouldst be glad to be rea- 
 ding of, I make no manner of doubt. I tell 
 you what, my masters," added he, turning to 
 his guests, " I have a pleasant device in. my 
 head, which perchance may be exceedingly 
 profitable to us all ; and it is no other than 
 to take this good boy with us to Kenilworth, 
 to see the queen's highness, and he shall en- 
 tertain us on the road with some of those 
 rare ballads he hath spoken of." 
 
 This suggestion was heartily received by 
 the company, and after being well commen- 
 ded, and received bountiful tokens of good 
 Will from all, William Shakspeare returned 
 home, bearing a message to his father to the 
 effect just alluded to. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 See, she comes : 
 
 How sweet her innocence appears ; more like 
 
 To Heaven itself, than any sacrifice 
 
 That can be offered to it. 
 
 Massinger. 
 I'll go hunt the badger by owl-light : 
 'Tis a deed of, darkness. 
 
 Webster. 
 
 . The next morning early there was a won- 
 derful stir amongst the neighbors at noting 
 a brave cavalcade enter Henry Street, and 
 stop at .John Shakspeare's door, and pre- 
 sently there came out the boy William, 
 whom lus mother had . carefully dressed in 
 his best apparel, grieving. in her heart she 
 
 had no better to give him, and by his father 
 was set upon an ambling palfrey, that ap- 
 peared to have been brought for him. All 
 of his acquaintance were grouped about, 
 marvelling famously to see Will Shakspeare 
 riding away in the midst of persons of wor- 
 ship with as great an air with him as he 
 were a lord's son. They could scarce believe 
 their eyes ; but what sweet pleasure and 
 pardonable pride were felt by the parents, 
 who, after their respectful salutations to the 
 good knight and his company, at their door 
 watched their young son as long as ever 
 they could hold him in sight, sitting his pal- 
 frey so gallantly, he was the admiration of 
 all who saw him. I'faith ! It was a thing to 
 talk of for the rest of their days, and the good 
 dame was never known to tire of it. 
 
 Away they went ; Sir Marmaduke, his 
 two kinsmen, Master Peregrine, Sir Johan 
 the chaplain, and young William, and some 
 half dozen of the knight's serving men, all 
 on horses ; and their passing along the town 
 made the citizens come running out, and 
 the dames were seen lifting up their babes 
 that they might get a sight of good Sir Mar- 
 maduke. Nothing was like the respect 
 shown him wherever he passed, and for all 
 he had cordial greeting, and some kind wore 
 or another. Indeed, he was held in especial 
 esteem wherever his name was known, and 
 few there were in the whole country who 
 knew it not, for the old knight was a gentle- 
 man of ancestry and blood, of exceeding an- 
 cient name, and of large possessions, whereof 
 the greater part had been possessed by his 
 family many generations. The De Larges- 
 ses had also held high offices ; had been 
 famous soldiers, prelates, judges, and the 
 like honorable persons, and had ever been 
 known for a fair name and an open hand. 
 The present possessor appeared to have in- 
 herited all the good qualities of his ances- 
 tors ; and though he was called by no higher 
 title than good Sir Marmaduke, I doubt 
 hugely any prouder title could have become 
 him better. He had never been known to be 
 in a passion ; and though ever inclined for 
 a jest, his mirth had no offence in it at any 
 time. There sat he as stout of limb as of 
 heart, on a noble grey horse, sleek-coated 
 and well limbed, ever and anon patting his 
 graceful neck with some commendable 
 speech, which the poor brute beast took as 
 proudly as though he knew the value oi 
 such behavior from so respected a quarter. 
 
 On each side of him rode his kinsmen in 
 all the bravery of the times. They had 
 gone to the wars in their youth, and though 
 still scarce upon manhood, Sir Valentine 
 being but twentv, and his cousin Sir Regi 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 ft 
 
 Bald five years his senior, had shown such 
 valor against the enemy that they had re- 
 ceived knighthood. The first was full of 
 fine chivalrous notions, as became his sol- 
 diership ; and would have dared all manner 
 of great dangers to have gained the kind 
 opinions of fair ladies, as became his man- 
 hood. Of the inestimable sweet pleasures 
 of love could he think by the hour together ; 
 and when he took to his gittern, doubtless it 
 was to breathe forth some soft lay learned of 
 him in France of the gallants there. Yet of 
 a most honorable heart was he, as became a 
 true lover ; and his rapier was ready to leap 
 out of its scabbard at the bruit of any wrong 
 done to any woman. He was of a clear 
 transparent skin, whereon the delicate mous- 
 tache had already come to some conspi- 
 cuousness, and the sharp outline of each 
 fair feature had such fineness as was exqui- 
 site to behold. Eyes had he in color like 
 unto a bright sky in harvest time, and his 
 hair was of a rich soft brown, that grew in 
 waving folds over all his head and neck. 
 
 Sir Reginald was more manly-looking ; 
 darker in complexion, hair, and beard ; less 
 delicate in his notions; more free in his 
 speech ; and was as ready for loving any 
 pretty woman, yet did so with an indiscrimi- 
 nateness which the other never affected. 
 Both were strict friends, as they had proved 
 in many a time of need in the hour of battle, 
 and both were alike honorably disposed, and 
 of unblemished reputations. These two 
 young gentlemen rode their palfreys like 
 gallants, putting them to their prettiest paees 
 one against the other, and ever and anon 
 turning round their handsome cheerful faces, 
 with one hand holding the back of the saddle, 
 and the other reigning up their gamesome 
 steeds to see how their sport was relished by 
 their kinsman, who it may well be believed 
 took it very pleasantly, for he was ever an 
 encourager of any innocent pastime that 
 served to make more happy the passing 
 hour. 
 
 Behind them, a little way, rode Sir Johan, 
 the chaplain, who would sometimes jog on 
 alongside of his good patron, discoursing 
 very soberly concerning how bountiful Pro- 
 vidence had been to the surrounding country, 
 seasoning his speech with such learning as 
 did not savor of pedantry. For all this he 
 was not indifferent to a jest on any proper 
 occasion. Right well could he laugh at one 
 himself, and with as much aptness furnish 
 one for his company. Indeed, he was one of 
 those rare divines who take upon them to 
 think that whatsoever good thing may be 
 met with, is provided for our especial enjoy- 
 ment, and that tomislike them argueth utter 
 
 ignorance, a wonderful lack of discretion, 
 and a most unwarrantable and absolute in- 
 gratitude. Therefore Sir Johan was never 
 seen with a long face and a miserable 
 preaching. His orthodoxy was evidently of 
 a most comfortable sort. It agreed with him 
 exceedingly, and sat on his round cheeks 
 after a fashion that must have been wonder- 
 fully enticing to all wretched fosterers of 
 schism *nd heresy. Yet was he no Sir 
 Nathaniel, but his very opposite. It is true 
 he would eat and drink heartily at all rea- 
 sonable hours ; but then he never forgot to 
 give as hearty thanks, and always conduc- 
 ted himself on such occasions with a credi- 
 table decency the other was far from show- 
 ing. Nothing was like the vigor of his piety 
 after he had enjoyed himself to his heart's 
 content; and the eloquence, the learning, 
 and the zealousness with which he would 
 then dilate upon the marvellous goodness of 
 Providence, carried conviction to all hearers. 
 His scholarship would have become a bishop, 
 though he was nothing but a poor master of 
 arts ; nevertheless, he was content with his 
 station, and like a wise man enjoyed to the 
 full whatever honest pleasures it brought 
 within his reach. 
 
 By his side usually rode Master Peregrine, 
 in an antique suit that might have belonged 
 to his grandfather ; in his figure an admi- 
 rable contrast to the full proportions of the 
 worthy chaplain; and he talked to the latter, 
 or to the boy riding between them, when he 
 could not get the other as a listener, as if he 
 could never tire at it, of old books and bal- 
 lads, their histories, contents, character, 
 form and complexion. Indeed, he seemed 
 familiar with everything that had been prin- 
 ted since the invention of the art. The very 
 talk of a rare book would put him into a 
 rapture, and a ballad that was not to be met 
 with he would think more precious than 
 gold. Then he would speak in such choioe 
 terms of Chaucer, and Gower, and Wyatt, 
 and Surrey, and a many others, as though 
 none could be of so great account ; but 
 when he got to the speaking of ballads, 
 nought could exceed the delectable manner 
 in which he dilated upon them, in especial 
 of such as were of a by-gone age. 
 
 Wilham Shakspeare, as he rode between 
 these two last, learned more of books than 
 he had known all his days before. Nothing 
 could be so pleasant to him as such dis- 
 course. He listened with such earnestness 
 as was the admiration of his companions, 
 and asked questions so to the purpose, that 
 they were never indisposed to answer him. 
 More and more delighted was he to hear 
 6uch famous books might be met with as 
 
94 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 those notatJe classic authors, both Greeks 
 and Latins, Sir Johan spoke so learnedly on, 
 and those exquisite sweet poets and roman- 
 cers Master Peregrine mentioned so lovingly ; 
 and he was quite in an ecstacy when they 
 promised to make him better acquainted with 
 their worth at such times as he chose to 
 visit them at Sir Marmaduke's mansion. So 
 rode he along in his neat suit of frolic 
 green, as much at his ease as any of the 
 company, till he was called upon to furnish 
 their entertainment, as had been designed ; 
 and then unfolded his store of ballads, and 
 Master Peregrine assisted him with such 
 particulars of their history as had come to 
 his knowledge, that all allowed so proper a 
 companion for a journey they could never 
 have met with. 
 
 On they proceeded in this orderly manner 
 till they came to the town of Long Iching- 
 ton, some seven miles distant, where my 
 Lord of Leicester had erected a tent of such 
 capaciousness and grandeur, never was 
 seen the like ; and here it was intended to 
 give her Majesty a truly magnificent ban- 
 quet, previous to her departure to his Lord- 
 ship's famous Castle of Kenilworth she 
 was coming to honor with a visit. Now it 
 should be known to all, the Earl of Leices- 
 ter was in especial favor of the Queen, his 
 mistress. No man more so; and as her 
 Majesty in one of her progresses at that 
 time, had given him assurance she would do 
 him such honor as to make his castle her 
 residence for some little while, he had busied 
 himself with prodigious expenses to make 
 becoming preparations. This visit of the 
 Queen engrossed the public talk, and as a 
 knowledge of the splendor of its accompany 
 ments got abroad, the inhabitants of the ad- 
 jacent neighborhood became the more im- 
 K'ient to behold them. As for my Lord of 
 icester, he was diversely reported ; some 
 asserting there was not his like for a prodi- 
 gal disposition ; and others, though they 
 cautiously mentioned the matter, spoke of 
 him as one who held no discipline over his 
 passions, save before those who could punish 
 him for his misdoings ; and that he scrupled 
 not to use his great power to the furthering 
 of any great wickedness he had a mind to. 
 
 Be this as it may, our young traveller and 
 his worshipful company, after seeing all at 
 this town they could get a sight of, departed 
 towards the evening, with her Majesty and 
 an immense concourse of her royal subjects, 
 to the Castle of Kenilworth. There, at her 
 first entrance, was beheld a floating island 
 on a pool, made bright with a many torches, 
 whereon sat the lady of the lake with two 
 nymphs, who, in very choice verse, gave her 
 
 Highness a famous account of the history 
 of that building and its owners. Close by 
 was a Triton riding on a mermaid, at least 
 some eighteen feet in length, and also Arion 
 on a dolphin. The Queen passed over a 
 stately bridge, in the base court, on each 
 side of which, upon tall columns, were placed 
 a store of all manner of delectable gifts, sup- 
 posed to come from the Gods, such as a 
 cage of wild-fowl from Sylvanus, sundry 
 sorts of fruits from Pomona, great heaps of 
 corn from Ceres, vessels of choice wine from 
 Bacchus, divers kinds of sea-fish from Nep- 
 tune, warlike appointments from Mars, and 
 instruments of music from Phoebus : which 
 rare conceit was much relished of all, and 
 shouts rent the air as her Highness took 
 note of them. 
 
 AH this afforded wonderful entertainment 
 to William Shakspeare ; but his marvel be- 
 came the greater, when he beheld the infi- 
 nite variety of such things which met him 
 at every turn. He could never tire of ad- 
 miring the rare beauty of that stately castle 
 carved out of the hard quarry, the magnifi- 
 cence of such of the chambers as his com- 
 panions got him access to ; and the ravish- 
 ing beauty of the garden, with its bowers, 
 alleys, obelisks, spheres, white bears, with 
 the ragged staff, the armorial bearings of the 
 lordly owner, exquisite flowers, and deli 
 cious fruits, that met him go which way he 
 would. Again was he in a great pleasure 
 at sight of a cage of some twenty feet, the 
 outside garnished with all manner of shining 
 stones, the inside decked with fresh holly 
 trees, and furnished with cavernous places, 
 where a multitudinous collection of foreign 
 birds of all parts had been collected ; and, 
 also, at beholding the grand fountain in 
 fashion of a column made of two athelets, 
 back to back, supporting a huge bowl, which 
 by means of certain pipes, did distil con- 
 tinual streams of water running, where a 
 plenty of lively fishes were disporting oi 
 themselves, along side of which were Nep- 
 tune, with his trident and sea-horses; 
 Thetis, in her chariot and dolphins ; Triton, 
 in company with his fishes ; Proteus, herd- 
 ing of his sea bulls ; and other of the like 
 famous emblems, set in eight different com- 
 partments, with admirable sculpture of 
 waves, shells, and huge monsters of the 
 deep, with the ragged staff in fair white 
 marble at top, and gates of massy silver for 
 entrance. 
 
 But the sports that were then and there 
 enacted for the Queen's pastime, none 
 could have so relished as did he, especially 
 the chase with the savage man, clad in ivy, 
 and his company of satyrs ;, the bear-bait* 
 
THE YOUTH OP SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 ingg and the fire-works, the Italian tumblers 
 the festival of the brideale, and the games 
 of running at the quintain and morrice danc- 
 ing. Beside which, to his great diversion, 
 he witnessed the Coventry men playing the 
 old play of Hock Tuesday, representing in 
 a sort of tilting match, and in dumb show, 
 the defeat of the Danes by the English, in 
 the time of King Etheldred, the which so 
 pleased her Majesty, that she bestowed on 
 the players two bucks, to make good cheer 
 with, and five marks in money, to garnish 
 the feast ; and after supper, the same even- 
 ing, he was taken into the castle, to see a 
 play of a higher sort played by men better 
 approved in their art, that was then writ, 
 and played for her Majesty's particular delec- 
 tation ; and though it lasted two long hours, 
 he was so enamored of the manner in which 
 it was set forth, he would have been glad 
 enough to have stayed all night, had they 
 not come to an ending. 
 
 All this, and wonderful deal more of 
 splendor, pageantry, and pastime, was con- 
 tinued in infinite variety for nineteen days, 
 with such prodigal feasting and rejoicing as 
 none had previously been acquainted with ; 
 and the entire of it good Sir Marmaduke 
 took care his young companion should see, 
 during which he had him as well lodged, 
 and as carefully provided, as if he had been 
 his own son, he was so well pleased with 
 him ; and either he, Master Peregrine or 
 Sir Johan, explained the character and pur- 
 port of such things as he knew not of, so 
 that he reaped both pleasure and profit 
 wherever he went. Every thing was to 
 him so new and strange, that he was kept 
 in a continual state of pleasurable excite- 
 ment he had never known all his life before 
 — even the choice excellence of Gammer 
 Gurton's Needle was eclipsed by the singu- 
 lar fine recreation he was then enjoying. 
 
 It did sometimes happen that although he 
 strove all he could to keep with his com- 
 pany, the}' would get separated in the throng, 
 and then he would have a great to do to find 
 them again ; and once after the old knight 
 had promised he would take him to see her 
 Majesty, of whom he had not as yet got a 
 sight, because of the crowd of nobles that 
 were ever around her, a sudden press of 
 persons going in a contrary direction set 
 them so far asunder, that in a few minutes 
 the boy found himself in a place where there 
 were many turnings, of which it was im- 
 possible to say which might be the one his 
 friends had taken. Believing he was not 
 like to gain the required knowledge by ask- 
 ing, where such a multitude of strange per- 
 sons were assembled, he chose a path with 
 
 the determination of seeking all ways till he 
 found the right one. He wandered up and 
 down the green .allies, greatly admiring the 
 deliciously various trees, bedecked with 
 apples, pears, and ripe cherries, the beds of 
 blushing strawberries, and the plots of fra- 
 grant herbs and flowers, which cast beauty 
 and sweetness wherever he walked, yet of 
 his friends saw he not the slightest sign ; 
 indeed, he had gone so far he at last met 
 with no person of any kind. Getting to be 
 somewhat bewildered at searching so long 
 with such small profit, upon turning round 
 a corner he came suddenly upon a lady and 
 gentleman, with a grand company at some 
 distance behind. The gentleman was most 
 gorgeously apparelled. Nothing could be so 
 costly as the rich satin embroidered with 
 gold and jewels that formed his cloak, save 
 the delicate fabric of his doublet, wherein 
 the same glorious magnificence was appa- 
 rent. A massy gold chain of a curious 
 fashion, hung over his breast — gems of 
 price glittered on the handle of his dagger 
 — his sword seemed wrought with the like 
 preciousness — his hose were of the delicat- 
 est pink silk, woven with silver threads all 
 over the upper part of the leg where they 
 joined the trunks, which were of crimson 
 and orange color prettily slashed and richly 
 embroidered like the sleeves of the doublet. 
 The rest of his appointments corresponded 
 with what hath been already described, and 
 being of a fine make and somewhat hand- 
 some countenance, they became him infi- 
 nitely. He appeared to be playing the gal- 
 lant to his fair companion, for there was an 
 air of exceeding deep homage and admira- 
 tion in the looks with which he regarded 
 her. 
 
 The lady was attired in a full robe of 
 white satin ornamented with rosettes in 
 great number, — in the midst of which was 
 a pearl in every one, — trimmed with the 
 richest lace. A rufF of lace still more costly 
 lay in folds upon her neck, surmounted by 
 wings of stiffened lawn, set all round with 
 pearls- Her hair was combed from the 
 forehead, and pearls of a very large size set 
 in it, with othe,r pearls equally precious; 
 but pearls appeared to be a favorite orna- 
 ment, for besides what have been mentioned, 
 they were in her ears, — they were round her 
 neck, and upon her bosom, — a long string 
 of them hung down to her stomacher, — ana 
 they were worked into the material of her 
 dress wherever there was place for them. 
 She was of a fair complexion, well featured, 
 though she could not be called in her youth, 
 of an agreeable aspect, and of an excellent 
 stately deportment, and appeared to be Us- 
 
76 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 tening with singular satisfaction to what 
 fell from the gallant at her side. 
 
 " What ho, my young master, what seek- 
 est thou ?" exclaimed she, upon noticing of 
 William Shakspeare standing looking at the 
 two, as if so dazzled with the brave show 
 they made, he knew not at first whether to 
 turn back or go on ; but believing them to 
 be persons of worship, had taken off his hat, 
 and stood respectfully to let them pass. 
 
 1 An' it please you I have lost my way," 
 cried he. " 1 have been forced to part from 
 my friends, by reason of the great crowd, 
 and should I not overtake them soon, per- 
 chance I may miss seeing the Queen, the 
 which famous sight they were proceeding to 
 when T was forced away from them." 
 
 " Hast never seen the Queen ?" inquired 
 the lady seemingly charmed with the in- 
 genuousness of the boy's manner. 
 
 " No, indeed, I have not, by reason of the 
 throng about her," answered he. " But I 
 should be right glad to see her, for never 
 yet have I seen a Queen of any kind, and I 
 have heard say our Queen Elizabeth is a 
 most gracious lady." At hearing this the 
 lady looked at her companion, and he at her 
 with a peculiar smile, doubtless of some 
 pleasant manner. 
 
 "And suppose I show thee Queen Eliza- 
 Deth, my little master, what wouldst say to 
 ner ?" asked she. 
 
 " Nay, I would say naught of mine own 
 iccord," said the other, " as methinks it 
 might savor of a too great boldness in me ; 
 Dut asked she of me any question, I would 
 with all proper courtesy answer as I best 
 could, — and doubt not I would thank you 
 heartily for affording me so brave a sight." 
 
 " By my troth, well said !" exclaimed the 
 lady, as if in an excellent satisfaction. 
 " What say you, my Lord of Leicester, shall 
 we show this youngster, that speaks so pret- 
 tily, what he has such huge desire to see ?" 
 added she, turning with an arch look to her 
 gallant. 
 
 " O' my life, to my thinking he deserveth 
 no less," replied the nobleman. 
 
 " An' it please you," said William Shak- 
 speare respectfully, " it seemeth to me you 
 must needs be the Queen Herself I" 
 
 " Ha , young sir ! and why dost fancy 
 that ?" exclaimed Queen Elizabeth, for as 
 the reader may readily believe it was no 
 other. 
 
 "Because you have so brave an appear- 
 ance with you," answered he, " and look so 
 gracious withal. Indeed, an' you, are not 
 her in truth, I should be well pleased and 
 you were, for never saw I so excellent sweet 
 a lady." 
 
 " Indeed ! But thou playest the courtier 
 betimes, my pretty master !" cried her ma- 
 jesty in an admirable good humor. 
 
 " And the varlet doth it so gracefully I" 
 added my Lord of Leicester, who seemed to 
 be as much taken with him as was his royal 
 mistress. 
 
 " Here is a remembrance for thee," said 
 the queen, giving him a gold piece out of 
 her purse ; " I do applaud thy wit in having 
 made so notable a discovery ; and doubt not, 
 if thou goest on as well as thou hast com- 
 menced, thou and fortune will shake hands 
 anon !" 
 
 Then calling to some of those her officers 
 who were behind her, her majesty gave the 
 boy to them with strict charge to seek out 
 his friends, and deliver him to them safely ; 
 but it so happened he had not proceeded far 
 in such custody, when he met them ; and 
 all were in some marvel to hear what 
 strange adventure he had fallen into. 
 
 It wae getting towards eve of the same 
 day, when two persons stood close' under the 
 terrace that lay along the castle. One was 
 closely muffled up, and endeavoring all he 
 could to hide his face and person from ob- 
 servation, and he kept continually turning 
 of his eyes in every direction to note if any 
 were watching, whilst he spoke in a low 
 voice to his companion. The other was also 
 cloaked, but seemed more intent upon heark- 
 ening to the discourse of his associate than 
 to any other matter. 
 
 " Art sure of her person ?" asked the first 
 in a low whisper. 
 
 " I marked her well, my lord," answered 
 the other in the same subdued voice ; " O' 
 my fife, never saw I so exquisite fair a crea- 
 ture I" 
 
 " Indeed she is of ravishing perfections — 
 a very angel in the bud !" exclaimed his 
 companion in a fervent ecstacy. " Fresh in 
 youth and perfect in beauty ! in brief, I have 
 never seen her peer in all my experience. 
 Do as I would have thee, thy fortune' 
 made." 
 
 " Count upon her as your own, my gooa 
 lord." 
 
 " But be cautious, on your life." 
 
 " Be assured, in subtlety I will beat the 
 cunningest fox that ever robbed hen-roost." 
 
 " Away ! I cannot stay another minute, 
 or mv absence will be marked." Where- 
 upon both glided different ways in the sha- 
 dow, and were no more visible. 
 
 Among the company the fame of these 
 princely pleasures had attracted to Kenil- 
 worth, were Sir Thomas Lucy and his good 
 dame, who had brought with them, as an at 
 tendant to the latter, no other than theil 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 77 
 
 pretty foundling, the gentle Mabel, now 
 grown to be that indefinable delicate exam- 
 
 Ele of feminine graces that lieth betwixt girl- 
 ood and womanhood. Under the careful 
 instruction of her patroness, she had been 
 well schooled in all such learning as was 
 proper for a young person of sued humble 
 fortunes ; but of her own natural well-dis- 
 posedness she acquired such wisdom as 
 would have have fitted her had she come of 
 the noblest families. Of her parents none 
 knew a syllable ; and Dame Lucy fancying 
 none but mean persons could behave so 
 meanly as to desert their child, had brought 
 her up in such fashion as showed she consid- 
 ered her origin to be of the humblest, intend- 
 ing her for a servant, and ever attempting 
 to impress on her mind a humility corre- 
 sponding with one meant for so pitiful a con- 
 dition. However, having resolved she should 
 go to Kenilworth in their company the good 
 Dame had taken care her attire should be of 
 
 better sort than what she usually wore, 
 never failing the whilst she gave them for 
 her wearing, to accompany them with a no- 
 table fine homily upon the wickedness of 
 poor girls seeking to put on them such ap- 
 parelling as was above their station. 
 
 Mabel was that evening standing between 
 her elderly companions beholding the fire- 
 works. There was a huge crowd a little 
 way before her. A strange gallant very 
 courteously directed the attention of the 
 knight and his lady to what was worthiest 
 of notice, and in a very friendly manner gave 
 them intelligence of what was going to be 
 done, at what cost it had been made, and by 
 whose skilfulness it was constructed ; to the 
 which, Sir Thomas Lucy in especial, gave 
 famous attention, entering cheerfully into 
 the discourse, and striving to appear as fa- 
 miliar with the matter as his instructor. 
 
 " I warrant you !" exclaimed he ; " me- 
 thinks I ought to know something of such 
 things. Ay, marry, I have been as familiar 
 with them as am I with my hand." 
 
 " As I live, I took you to be some learned 
 gentleman when I had first sight of you," 
 cried the stranger, with an appearance of 
 monstrous respect ; " you have it in your 
 face, sir; indeed your look savoreth so much 
 of sagacity that none can mistake it. Doubt- 
 less you are some great Doctor ?" 
 
 " O' my word, but a simple knight o' the 
 shire, good sir," replied the other in a fa- 
 mous satisfaction. 
 
 " And a justice of peace, Sir Thomas," 
 added Dame Lucy, anxious her husband's 
 greatness should not be imperfectly known. 
 
 " I would have sworn it !" exclaimed their 
 »50mpanion. 
 
 " By'r Lady now, is it so visible ?" cried 
 the other, as much astonished as gratified. 
 
 " But, as I was about saying, when I was 
 at college I was wonderfully given to the 
 study of chemicals and alchemy ; ay, to such 
 extreme that I make no manner of doubt I 
 should have got at the philosopher's stone 
 had I kept at my experiments long enough." 
 
 " Of that I am assured," observed the 
 stranger. 
 
 " But my chief pleasure was in the mak- 
 ing of strange fires that would burn of ail 
 colors," continued the knight. " These I 
 learned of a famous clerk, who was study- 
 ing chemicals, and was considered more apt 
 at it than any of his time." 
 
 " A very Friar Bacon, doubtless, Sir 
 Thomas," said his companion. 
 
 " Marry, yes, that was he," replied the 
 justice. 
 
 " Now, I was ever a letting off my fires, 
 to the terror of all.simple people, who could 
 not fancy they were of this world, and mar- 
 vellous proper sport had I on such occasions ; 
 for, as I live, I was such a fellow at tricks I 
 had not my match, go where I would." 
 
 " I would I had known you then ; I was 
 just such another," exclaimed the stranger, 
 very merrily. 
 
 " Ay, it would have done your heart good 
 to have seen the tricks I have played," con- 
 tinued Sir Thomas, laughing with exceed- 
 ing heartiness. " I have been as wild a colt 
 as ever broke his tether, 1 promise you." 
 
 " No, indeed, have you ?" cried the other, 
 joining in his companion's mirth to some 
 excess. 
 
 " By cock and pye, yes ; and among the 
 bona robas too," added he, in a voice and 
 manner meant to be still more facetious, as 
 he gave his companion a sly nudge at the 
 elbow. 
 
 " Odds my life, Sir Thomas !" exclaimed 
 the stranger, apparently increasing the 
 greatness of his humor, " you were a fit 
 companion for the Sophy." 
 
 " I was as familiar with them all as though 
 we had been cousins," added the knight, af- 
 ter the same fashion. " Indeed I was so 
 partial to these pretty ones, that if any my 
 fellows said, ' Yonder is a kirtle,' ofi' would 
 I start on the instant, though I had a mile to 
 run." 
 
 " Fie, fie, Sir Thomas !" exclaimed Dame 
 Lucy, good humoredly ; then turning to the 
 stranger with a monstrous innocent sort ot 
 countenance, added, " Think not so ill ol 
 him, good sir, I pray you, for I have known 
 him this thirty year and more, and he hath 
 never done ought of the kind, I'll warrant." 
 
 " I doubt it not, believe me," replied the 
 
78 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 other, with more sincerity than he chose 
 should be known. " But if it please you to 
 come a little more to this side," said he, 
 with exceeding courteousness, " You shall 
 behold what is far beyond what you have 
 already seen." 
 
 " We will, and thank you," answered Sir 
 Thomas, eagerly, and he with Dame Lucy, 
 presently moved in that direction. 
 
 In the meanwhile, another courteous gen- 
 tleman was paying similar attentions to the 
 fair Mabel, who received them in a thank- 
 ful spirit, as she ever did any appearance of 
 kindness from another. He told her the 
 wonders of the castle — the great power and 
 princely magnificence of the possessor — 
 what famous noble lords and fair ladies were 
 of the company, and the unparalleled pre- 
 ciousness of the jeweled silks and velvets 
 that were of their wearing; and he took 
 care to season all with some delicate flat- 
 tery or another, well suited to win the ear 
 of one of her youth and inexperience. 
 
 " Indeed these nobles have a fine time of 
 it, methinks," said her companion. " They 
 have everything that heart can wish for, at 
 their command ; and any fair creature who 
 is so fortunate as to win the love of such, 
 cannot help knowing that extreme happi- 
 ness few have any notion of. Dost not 
 think women so fortunate are greatly to be 
 envied, sweetest ?" 
 
 " Doubtless, honorable sir. if they be 
 worthy," replied Mabel. 
 
 " Crowds of servants come at their com- 
 mand," continued the stranger, more earn- 
 estly. " Whatever they can fancy, let it be 
 of ever such cost, is brought to them ere 
 they can well say they want it — the exquis- 
 itest sweet music fills the air around them 
 day and night — all manner of ravishing per- 
 fumes of flowers and herbs and odoriferous 
 gums, enrich the atmosphere they breathe ; 
 and he whose princely nature they have so 
 bound in their chains as to hold him prison • 
 er to their admirable lustrous eyes, is ever 
 at their will, glorifying them with his praise, 
 deifying them with his devotion, and mak- 
 ing every hour of their lives redolent with 
 the unutterable ecstacies of his sovereign 
 and most absolute affections. Dost not 
 think such women infinitely fortunate ?" 
 
 " I know not how they could help being 
 so. were they well disposed," answered the 
 foundling. 
 
 " Just so, sweetest one," observed the 
 gallant. " Now, supposing such thing as 
 this should happen ; — some such noble per- 
 son as I have described — the equal of the 
 proudest — the master of the wealthiest, get- 
 ting sight of your most absolute graces — " 
 
 " What, I ?" exclaimed Mabel, in a fa- 
 mous astonishment. 
 
 " And straightway falling enamored of 
 the bright perfections of your spotless na- 
 ture," continued he ; " his princely heart 
 thrilling with thedivinest sensations, should 
 be in a feverish impatience to cast his great- 
 ness at your feet, and all out of love for 
 such inestimable choice beauty of mind and 
 feature, should be ready to fall out with life, 
 if by chance you deny him the happiness he 
 would find in your inestimable company." 
 
 " Surely, you are jesting, good sir," ob- 
 served his fair companion. " I know not of 
 such things as you speak of. Indeed, I am 
 so humble a person, none such as you have 
 said, would ever trouble themselves about 
 me for a single moment; nevertheless I 
 thank you kindly for your good opinion of 
 me, and should be right glad to possess any 
 merit that would make me deserve it better 
 than I do." 
 
 " That cannot be, o' my life, excellent 
 creature ?" replied the gallant, with a seem- 
 ing fervor. " 'Tis your too great modesty 
 that preventeth you from seeing your own 
 notable divine excellencies." 
 
 " Indeed you think toe well of ,me — I have 
 no sign of any such thing," said Mabel ; 
 her truly unassuming nature shrinking from 
 the flattery; then looking round, for the 
 first time observed that Sir Thomas and 
 Dame Lucy were nowhere near her. — 
 " Alack ! where can they have gone !" ex- 
 claimed she, in some to do. " They will be 
 exceeding angry I took not better heed to 
 keep close to them wherever they went, as 
 they told me." 
 
 " Speak you of your friends, sweetest ?" 
 inquired the other, in an indifferent manner. 
 " I saw them myself not a moment since, 
 moving round this way. If you will allow 
 of my protection, I will take care you join 
 them so soon you shall not be missed at all." 
 
 " I should be loth to put you to such trou- 
 ble on my account, I thank you heartily," 
 answered his fair companion, " I will seek 
 them myself the way you have kindly told 
 me." Thereupon, she moved in that di- 
 rection, the gallant keeping at her side, but 
 not a sign of the knight or his good dame 
 could they see. 
 
 " Woe is me, I have lost all sight of them !" 
 cried Mabel, now in no little trouble of mind. 
 " How heedless I must have been to have 
 let them go away without my knowing it." 
 
 " Surely there they are yonder !" exclaim- 
 ed the stranger, pointing to two figures dim- 
 ly discerned at the top of one of the green 
 alleys, walking slowly away. 
 
 " Indeed they have some likeness to them," 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 T9 
 
 die replied, yet seeming to hesitate about 
 their identity. 
 
 " They cannot be any other, I would swear 
 it," said the gallant, with monstrous earnest- 
 ness ; " see you not the knight's very doub- 
 let ? nay, an' you do not make some speed, 
 they will turn the corner, and mayhap you 
 may lose sight of them altogether." There- 
 upon, Mabel, without another word, tripped 
 lightly along the path — her companion still 
 keeping close to her side — and when they 
 got to the top they beheld the two persons 
 they had seen turning round a corner into 
 an alley beyond ; at the sight of which the 
 poor foundling started off again in great 
 anxiety to overtake them, but with no better 
 success ; for however fast she ran, as she 
 got to the end of one path, the figures were 
 seen turning round at the end of another, 
 and so it continued for such a time she would 
 have given up the pursuit in despair, had 
 not the gallant kept encouraging her to pro- 
 ceed. At last, when she was nigh exhaust- 
 ed with her exertions, and in extreme dis- 
 comfort, because now she saw no appear- 
 ance whatever of those she took to be the 
 knight and his lady, on a sudden she heard 
 a loud whistle behind her, that appeared to 
 come from her companion — the which it did 
 beyond %1 contradiction, for he had that mo- 
 ment put a whistle to his mouth — and ere 
 ehe could think what was the meaning of 
 such strange behavior, two or three stout 
 fellows rushed from a grove of trees close at 
 hand, and despite of a sharp scream she 
 gave, threw a large cloak over her, in the 
 which she was muffled up in a minute, and 
 borne helplessly along. 
 
 " Never was hawk lured so cleverly," 
 said the gallant, in evident gratification at 
 the complete success of his villainous 
 scheme. 
 
 " She is now hooded, and must to her 
 mews with what speed we can. Slight !" 
 here sharply exclaimed he, seemingly in a 
 very absolute vexation ; " what pestilent in- 
 terruption is this ? But they are but two, 
 bo haste, for your lives, we can give them 
 work enough, prove they for meddling." 
 
 It so happened that Sir Valentine and his 
 friend were together in an adjoining walk, 
 when they heard the whistle, and the. scream 
 following close upon it ; their rapiers were 
 out in an instant, and they were-just in time 
 to see a female muffled up and borne away. 
 This brought them to the spot presently. — 
 Two of the villains carried Mabel, and were 
 making off, whilst their companions were 
 engaged with the young knights, who were 
 using their weapons briskly with each an 
 opponent ; but suddenly coming to the rest 
 
 of Sir Valentine's party,. led by Sir Marma- 
 duke, who had plucked out his trusty ra- 
 pier, the moment he heard the clashing of 
 blades, his imposing appearance struck a 
 panic amongst them. The two fellows 
 dropped their burthen, without caring to 
 make his acquaintance, and, with the rest, 
 made off in different directions. 
 
 It was difficult to say which was most af- 
 fected with the unusual loveliness of the 
 gentle Mabel, Sir Valentine or Sir Reginald, 
 as they disengaged her from her unwelcome 
 covering, whilst the others assured her of 
 her perfect safety. They were dumb with 
 excess of admiration. Nothing they had 
 seen or imagined came in any way like the 
 exquisite innocency and faultless loveliness 
 of her features. She seemed to them to be 
 some fair spirit of a better world, such as 
 ancient poets have described haunting clear 
 streams and mossy caves, and the deep hol- 
 lows of the emerald woods, by such names as 
 sylphs, dryades, and the like. Woman she 
 could scarce be styled, she looked so y^ung, 
 and yet each was loath she should be called 
 any other name, believing nothing was so 
 worthy of love and reverence. As for the 
 poor foundling, she was in some confusion 
 to be so gazed upon by strangers ; she had 
 not yet recovered from the surprise and fear 
 she had been put to by the treachery of her 
 late companion, and gazed about her, the 
 prettiest picture of amazement that had ever 
 been witnessed. Even the antiquarian stared 
 through his spectacles at her so earnestly as 
 he had at the ancientest ballad that had 
 fallen into his hands ; and William Shak- 
 speare, boy as he was, appeared as though 
 there was a power in her admirable beauty 
 he felt all through his nature, yet with a 
 confused sense of its particular meaning, 
 that would take no definite interpretation. 
 It is here only necessary to add that the 
 young and graceful creature found every 
 possible attention and respect from those in 
 whose company she had so fortunately fallen. 
 A search was quickly commenced for the 
 knight and his lady, and after some trouble, 
 taken of the young knights as the sweetest 
 pleasure they had ever enjoyed, she was re- 
 stored to them, but not without such thanks 
 from her, as, for the gentle, sweet gracious- 
 ness with which they were accompanied, 
 never left their memories from that time for- 
 ward. As for William Shakspeare, he re- 
 turned to his loving parents, surprising them 
 greatly with the goodly store of gifts he 
 would needs pour into his mother's lap, 
 which had been bestowed upon him by his 
 friends ; but putting them in a still greater 
 wonder at his marvellous relations of what 
 
80 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 strange adventures he had had, and famous 
 sights he had beheld, since he had been 
 away. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 His browny locks did hang in crooked curls, 
 
 And every light occasion of the wind 
 
 Upon his lips their silken parcels hurls. 
 
 His qualities were beauteous as his form, 
 
 For maiden-tongued he was and therefore free. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 For him was lever han at his beddes hed 
 A twenty bokes, clothed in black or red, 
 Of Aristotle, and his philosophie, 
 Than robes riche, or ridel, or sautrie. 
 
 Chaucer. 
 Oh, ye gods, 
 Give me a worthy patience ! Have I stood 
 Naked, alone, the shock of many fortunes ! 
 Have I seen mischiefs numberless and mighty 
 Grow like a sea upon me 1 Have I taken 
 Danger as stern as death into my bosom, 
 And laughed upon it, made it but a mirth, 
 And flung it by. * * * Do I 
 Bear all this bravely, and must sink at last 
 Under a woman's falsehood ! 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher. 
 
 " Nat, I cannot abide these new-fangled 
 novelties," observed Master Peregrine, who 
 with the others of the squire's company, 
 with William Shakspeare in the midst, ap- 
 peared to be examining of certain shelves of 
 books that were in an antique oak chamber 
 in Sir Marmaduke's mansion. " They be 
 but for the delighting of dainty ears, and 
 such whose fantasies are only to be tickled 
 with fine filed phrases. I like not the boy 
 should have such poor reading." 
 
 " I assure you the Mirrour for Magis- 
 trates is in excellent repute of all men," 
 said Sir Reginald. " It is a very admirable 
 fine poem, or series of legends, relating the 
 falls of the -unfortunate princes of this land, 
 first originating with my Lord Sackville, 
 and now carried on by divers authors of re- 
 putation." 
 
 " Nay, I have here one that he will more 
 approve of," cried Sir Valentine, as he held 
 a volume in his hand that looked quite new. 
 " It is called the Paradyse of Daynty De- 
 vises, aptly furnished with sundry pithie and 
 learned inventions, devised and written for 
 the most part by Master Edwards, sometime 
 of her Majesties chappel ; the rest by sun- 
 dry learned gentlemen of honour and wor- 
 shippe. It is full of delectable poems, I pro- 
 mise you, that are read and hugely admired 
 by all persons of quality." 
 
 " I doubt not," said the chaplain, who bad 
 also a book iri his hand. " But methinks I 
 have something here far more fitting, of the 
 ingenious Master Tuberville, being no other 
 than the heroical epistles of the learned poet 
 Publius Ovidius Naso, with Aulus Sabinus' 
 answers to certaine of the same, a very fa- 
 mous and proper classic." 
 
 "What have we here?" cried the old 
 knight, examining a volume he had just 
 taken off the shelf. " A hundreth Good 
 Pointes of Husbandrie, as I live, and very 
 profitable reading doubtless." 
 
 " Pish, what wants he with books of such 
 a sort ?" inquired Master Peregrine impati- 
 ently, as he regarded with particular satis- 
 faction a huge folio from the same place. 
 " This is such as he will like most. O' my 
 word, it is a treasure beyond all price. This 
 great rarity is entitled, A book of the noble 
 Hystoryes of Kynge Arthur, and of certeyn 
 of his Knyghtes," and is from Caxton's own 
 press, and bears the date anno 1485. O 
 what a jewel ! — O what a pearl of price ! — i 
 In good fay, I can searce take my eyes ofl 
 such an inestimable rare volume." 
 
 William Shakspeare turned his intelligent 
 eyes from one to another, as each recom- 
 mended his particular book, almost puzzled 
 which of these goodly volumes he should 
 choose first, but in a wonderful impatience to 
 be at one of them. 
 
 " Methinks, after all, 'twill be best to let 
 him make his own choice," observed Sir 
 Marmaduke. " What say you, young sir, 5 ' 
 said he to him. " Which of all these books 
 think you the properest for your reading ?" 
 
 " An' it please your worship," replied 
 William, with much simplicity, " I must 
 needs read them all before I can say which 
 is best, with any justice." 
 
 " E'en do so, then, if it likes you." ex- 
 claimed the old knight, laughing heartily 
 with the rest. " There are they — you are 
 welcome to their perusal come when you 
 will. But there is one volume I would have 
 you take great note of, and that is called 
 The Gentleman's Academie, or the Booke 
 of St. Albans, writ by one Juliana Barnes, 
 containing the choicest accounts of hawk- 
 ing, hunting, armorie, I have met with any- 
 where." 
 
 " Truly, 'tis a most ravishing work !" said 
 Master Peregrine. " A notable rare speci- 
 men of the types of Wynkyn de Worde. 
 But if you be for grave reading, choose you 
 The Seven Wise Masters. If you are for . 
 mirth, pitch upon The Hundred Merry Tales 
 — if for the reading of other light tales, 
 nought will so well serve your turn as The 
 Palace of Pleasure. Take you to romances 
 
TRS YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 81 
 
 »tj* mav tfnd cxquioks Aversion in Amidis 
 of Gaul, i"alinoiii k of England, Huoh of Bor- 
 deaux, Sir Bfcvis of Southampton, Sir Guy 
 of Warwick, The Seven Champions, Valen- 
 tyne and Orson, The Squire of Low De- 
 gree, The Knight of Courtesio, and the La- 
 dy Faguel, The Castle of Ladies, and a hun- 
 dred others of equal great merit : but if you 
 are for ballads, my young master, exquisite 
 choice ballads and songs of old time, look 
 you out for the Blind Beggar of Bethnal 
 Green, Queen Dido, Fortune my Foe, Pep- 
 per is Black, Adam Bell, Clymof the Clough, 
 and William of Cloudesly, Robin Hood and 
 the Pindar of Wakefield, and othens out of 
 all number of every kind, subject, and qua- 
 lity, which are here ready for your reading." 
 
 " All such are well enough in their way," 
 observed Sir Johan. " But if he take to 
 reading of the classics, all other reading 
 whatsoever advanceth him not a whit in his 
 education. What can he learn of ancient 
 history, save out of Herodotus, Thucydes, 
 Zenephon, Titus Livius v Tacitus, and Cae- 
 sar ; where in Philosophy can he have such 
 guides as Aristotle, Socrates, Epicurus, Eu- 
 clid, that famous master of figures ; Pliny, 
 that curious observer of nature, that profound 
 expounder of surgicals. In poetry what is 
 like unto the works of Homer, Pindar, Ana- 
 creon, Virgil, Horace, or Ovid ? And in 
 eloquence, what can come in any way near 
 unto Demosthenes, or Cicero ? Truly then 
 the classics should be before all other books, 
 for the study of any young person, and so it 
 will be found in all colleges and schools 
 throughout Christendom." 
 
 These .advocates for modern and ancient 
 learning, might have waxed warm in their 
 dispute, had they been allowed, and the two 
 young knights also took part in it in praise of 
 chivalrous tales, Italian sonnets, and French 
 lays and romances ; but Sir Marmaduke 
 good humoredly put an end to the argument 
 by telling them the dinner bell was a ring- 
 ing, which caused them to forget their books 
 awhile, and look to their appetites. 
 
 Thus it will be seen that William Shaks- 
 peare was bountifully provided for in all 
 manner of learning, and it may well be be- 
 .ieved he was not long in avai : ing himself 
 of the treasures so liberally placed at his 
 disposal. All spare time he could get was 
 passed in the old knight's library, where he 
 kept like a bird in a granary, feeding on the 
 pienteous store in a most grateful spirit, and 
 with no desire to move from such excellent 
 neighborhood. But he was rarely left alone 
 for any great period, for Sir Marmaduke and 
 'lis friends were too well pleased with his 
 iickness of apprehension and untiring in- 
 
 dustry, not to do all in their power to assist 
 the studies of so promising a scholar ; there- 
 fore he was sure to have with either the old 
 knight himself, who would readily go over 
 with him any creditable book of legends, or 
 ancient customs and sports ; or his chaplain, 
 who took huge pains he should not be in- 
 different to the treasures of classic lore, 
 never forgetting by the by to put in on an 
 occasion, some most moving discourse on the 
 gotidnes3 of Providence, and explain the chief 
 points of afl moral doctrine. Then came 
 Master Perregrine ready to cuddle him with 
 delight, should he find him intent upon some 
 worm eaten blank letter folio, or a bundle of 
 old ballads, and h& would not rest till he had 
 made his pupil familiar with whatsoever 
 concerning of them he thought worthy of 
 knowing — and at another time he would be 
 visited by the two young knights with whom 
 he was in particular esteem, and they were 
 ever striving to possess him with the notion 
 that the gallantest accomplishments were 
 the most worthy of study, especially of the 
 Italian tongue, and that nought was like 
 unto the sweetness of Petrarch, the pleas- 
 antry, of Boccacio, or the grandeur of Dante, 
 Tasso and Ariosto. 
 
 From this it is evident on the face of, that 
 none could have a fairer schooling than our 
 young scholar. Indeed, he now gained 
 more knowledge in a day than he could have 
 had of that pedantic, poor ignoramus, his 
 schoolmaster, all his life ; and it was the 
 marvel of all to notice how famously he got 
 on in his learning. There appeared to be 
 nothing he could not give a reason for, or 
 description of, for he took infinite trouble by 
 asking questions of all sorts of people, as 
 well as by conning of every book in Sir 
 Marmaduke's library, to remain ignorant of 
 as little as possible. Hour after hour hath 
 he passed at a time over some pithy book, 
 till his head would ache with the intentness 
 with which he would give his mind to the 
 matter of it — then away he went like a 
 wild buck of the forest, broke loose from 
 confinement,- over the green fields and 
 through the nutty woods, hither and thither 
 everywhere, drinking within his nostrils, 
 choked with the closeness of musty volumes, 
 the sweet pure air freshened with the cool 
 breeze — and at his aching eyes, tired of the 
 sameness of so much paper and print, taking 
 in with as greedy a draught the pleasant 
 greenness of the teeming soil, and the deli- 
 cate soft blue of the expanding heavens. 
 
 Some how or another it happened, that he 
 often found himself thinking of the beauti- 
 ful fair creature he had seen rescued by his 
 lYriends, from the hands of villains, when he 
 
83 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSI £ARE. 
 
 was enjoying the princely pleasures of Ken- 
 ilworth. In his solitary musings, whereof 
 after any deep study, he had of late taken 
 to, her radiant features would suddenly glide 
 into his youthful mind, like as a sudden 
 burst of sunshine pierceth the leafy branches 
 of a young tree ; and all his thoughts took 
 a character of such brightness on the in- 
 stant, as showed there was some power of 
 brilliancy in her image that made resplend- 
 ent its whole neighborhood. This to him 
 was both new and strange. The forms of 
 beauty of which he had had experience, and 
 they were by no means few, had given him 
 delight — but here was something presented 
 to him of a totally different character — of a 
 most singular admirable loveliness ; and the 
 pleasure he derived from its observation he 
 felt to be of a far more exquisite sort than 
 he had known heretofore. The varied dies 
 of the delicatest flowers peeping from their 
 vernal coverts — the tall monarchs of the 
 forests, bending their haughty heads to the 
 rude wind — the soft mingling of field and 
 wood, hill, stream and valley, bathed in their 
 mellow tints, that made up the ravishing fair 
 landscape — the glorious show of unsurpass- 
 ed magnificence, visible at the sun's rising 
 and going down, which clothed the skies, 
 like an oriental conqueror, in a garment of 
 purple and gold, and the more graceful 
 splendor of the quiet night, when earth's 
 unrivalled roof seems as though carved all 
 about with the likeness of a goodly almond 
 tree, as 'tic seen at eve, with its verdure 
 deepening into a dark blue, spread over in 
 every part with myriads of silvery blossoms 
 — he could enjoy with such huge zest as 
 hearts attuned to sympathy with the beauti- 
 ful can alone have knowledge of; but in the 
 outward lineaments of this novel sign of the 
 presence of nature's unrivalled handiwork, 
 there appeared such moving graces, that 
 plainly showed the masterpiece confessed ; 
 and he had some glimpses, in the delicious 
 raptures which an increasing familiarity 
 with his mental perception of the beautiful 
 promised him, of that marvellous deep 
 meaning which Heth most manifestly in the 
 choicest and perfectest shape in which our 
 bountiful mother hath given it a dwelling. 
 Let none feel incredulous of what is here 
 
 Eut down. Though still in years apparent, 
 nt of an unripe boyhood, the child had in 
 him the greatness of the man in embiyo. 
 Take you the bud, examine it narrowly, you 
 shall find in it a miniature-tree, perfect in all 
 its parts ; or the bean — as its sides have 
 opened to show some promise of what it 
 will be — and behold all the characters of 
 the plant minutely visible to your close in 
 
 spection ! Nature never varyeth from hex 
 first original type. In all things that pro- 
 mise a profitable increase, the power is fold- 
 ed up in the germ, where, despite of disad- 
 vantages, it will gradually unfold itself, till 
 the character she hath put forth upon it is 
 perfectly developed to all men's eyes. Could 
 we look into the immaturity of any of those 
 great ones, whose mental fruits have been 
 the nourishing diet of every age that hath 
 passed since they flourished, be sure that 
 we should find at such early period, the very 
 appearances and manifestions of their after 
 perfection, as are here imperfectly described 
 concerning of William Shakspeare. As for 
 beauty, it is the very sunshine of the soul, 
 without which shall the seed of greatness 
 lie dormant as in a perpetual frost ; but di- 
 rectly it beginneth to make itself felt, out 
 come stem, root, and leaflet, with such 
 goodly vigor, that in a presently the brave 
 plant putteth out its branches so lovingly, 
 nought can resist its progress ; and lo ! in a 
 little while, what numberless rare blossoms 
 appear, manifesting in themselves the quali- 
 ty by which they were created. 
 
 But our young scholar was not the only 
 one on whom the attractions of the gentle 
 Mabel had made a powerful impression. Sir 
 Valentine, and his friend, oft spoke of her to 
 each other with exceeding admiration, to 
 which if in his company, the boy would 
 listen with a flushed cheek and a throbbing 
 heart, seeming to be poring over his book- 
 but this he had as clean lost sight of for the 
 nonce as if it and he were a hundred miles 
 apart. * 
 
 " She is, indeed, a delectable creature !" 
 exclaimed Sir Valentine, as they three were 
 together in the library. "She seemed a 
 being just stepped out of some French ro- 
 mance, one of the virtues perchance, or 
 better, some incomparable damsel, possessed 
 of them all in her own fair person, who was 
 about falling into the hands of a powerful 
 ogre, or other monstrous villain that is a toe 
 to chastity, when we two knights going 
 about to redress wrong and defend oppressed 
 innocence, each tor the honor of chivalry 
 and his liege lady, stepped up to her rescue, 
 and by the help of our valor, quickly deliv- 
 ered her from her enemies." 
 
 " A most moving picture," cried Sir Regi- 
 nald, laughingly ; " I would give something 
 to see it done in tapestry." 
 
 " O' my word, 'twould be a fine subject," 
 said his friend, with some earnestness; "I 
 doubt not, too, of especial profit to the gazer ; 
 and I would have it worked in this sort. 
 There should be yourself, and I, your ap- 
 proved friend and companion in arms, giving 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 83 
 
 two of the villains furious battle ; and in a 
 little way off our brave kinsman — another 
 famous pillar of knighthood — shall be putting 
 to flight the other two rascals away from 
 their expected victim, who shall be lying 
 
 E rostrate under a tree, where she hath been 
 ;ft, in a very moving tribulation. A little 
 way from this we will have a second pic- 
 ure, with the villains making oft in the dis- 
 tance — the lady now in a pretty fright and 
 Dewilderment, looking about her with Mas- 
 ter Chaplain, Master Antiquarian, and our 
 young scholar, as country persons natural 
 of those parls, gazing at her with exceeding 
 curiousness, whilst her three valiant cham- 
 pions shall stand, leaning on their weapons, 
 as though they were amazed at beholding 
 such heavenly grace in so pagan a place." 
 
 "Never heard I so brave a limner!" ex- 
 claimed the other, in the like pleasant humor ; 
 " Why thou wouldst beat the cunningest mas- 
 ter of the art out of the field. O' my life, in 
 thy hand the painted cloth would be more 
 moving than history ; and we should speed- 
 ily have all lovers of true valor, instead of 
 seeking the enemy's encampment, studying 
 lessons of knighthood from thy arras." 
 
 "Well I should be right glad to know 
 what hath become of her," said Sir Valen- 
 tine. I like not parting so quickly with so 
 rare an acquaintance, I promise you. Nev- 
 ertheless methinks 'tis marvellous such a 
 strange person as that Sir Thomas Lucy 
 should have so exquisite a daughter. Had 
 he been in any way civil I would have be- 
 stowed some pains to please him, shrivelled 
 pippin as he looks to be ; but he spoke so 
 sharply to the gentle creature, and looked 
 at us with so crabbed an expression, that I 
 was in haste to be quit his company ; therefore 
 I have been in perfect ignorance up to this 
 date where she is to be found." 
 
 " I have at least discovered the old fel- 
 low's residence," said Sir Reginald. 
 
 " Ha, indeed !" cried Sir Valentine, in a 
 famous exultation. " Perdie, that is excel- 
 lent news. Where doth the pagan place so 
 fair a jewel ? Tell me, I prithee, for I would 
 impawn my heart to get but another sight 
 of her." 
 
 " Marry, but I think 'tis impawned al- 
 ready, good cousin," observed his friend 
 with an arch smile. " Thou seemest so 
 monstrous eager on the matter ; but not to 
 baulk thy exceeding curiousness, for my 
 humor jumps with it, believe me, — know 
 that this peerless damsel hath her bower at 
 Charlcote, where the knight of despite, her 
 father, holdeth his court." 
 
 " To horse, for Charlcote ho !" exclaimed 
 his young companion, rising from his seat 
 
 in a merry manner, as if impatient to be 
 gone. 
 
 " But let me advise thee of sufficient cau- 
 tion," said his kinsman with an admirable 
 mock gravity ; great dangers beset thy path. 
 Ogres, giants, basilisks, and dragons await 
 thee on every side. Horror will cross thy 
 steps ; despair dog thy heels ; revenge com* 
 eth on thy right hand, and cruelty on thy 
 left. By my valor, sir knight, methinka 
 thou hadst best refrain from so perilous an 
 adventure." 
 
 " Amor vincit omnia !" replied the other 
 after the same pleasant fashion; and thus 
 jesting and bantering, the two friends a few 
 minutes after, left our young scholar — who 
 had drunk in every word of their discourse 
 to pursue his studies in solitude. Little 
 more of the book before him attempted he 
 acquaintance with for some time before and 
 long after their leaving him. He thought, 
 and the more he thought the more thought- 
 ful he grew ; but his thoughts were as gos- 
 samer webs hovering over a field, that catch 
 nought but other webs of a like sort ; they 
 appeared moreover to have no purport ; they 
 went in no direct path ; but proceeded over 
 and across, around and about, always re- 
 turning to the starting point, — and what 
 should that be but the same fair creature he 
 had seen at Kenilworth, that the gay knights 
 had talked of in such delicate terms. 
 
 In the meanwhile, at all proper intervals, 
 he assisted his father as far as in him lay ; at 
 other times running of errands with an alacri- 
 ty and cheerfulness none could help admiring. 
 John Shakspeare strove all that honest man 
 could to keep his family in comfort. He 
 would seek to do a little in his old trade of 
 wool, and also something as a glover ; but 
 though thrift and diligence were twin com- 
 panions with him at all times, the expenses 
 of a family would often run him down at 
 heel. Perchance, however desirous he 
 might be to pay as he went, and no man 
 more so, it might happen when the baker 
 called there was no money. Mortaging a 
 small property brought him by his wife car- 
 ried him on a little ; but this could not last 
 forever, do what he would, and it became no 
 uncommon thing when he was ready for 
 his dinner, to have no dinner ready for him. 
 His neighbors were ever ready to lend him 
 a helping hand ; but having experienced 
 their friendly feeling in some measure, he 
 liked not letting them know he required it 
 again, fearing to exhaust their goodness. 
 xW that our young scholar gained by friend- 
 ly gifts was presented to his parents as 
 speedily as he could : and be sure he felt 
 more exquisite gratification in so bestowing 
 
84 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 it, than he experienced in any other thing 
 whatsoever ; but it sometimes happened 
 when he was at Sir Marmaduke's, or 
 other bountiful friends, before a goodly 
 meal, the thought that his loving parents 
 had at that time nothing of the sort to put 
 before them, would so move him he could 
 not touch a morsel of anything, however 
 tempting it might be. And as for his good 
 mother and father, they cared more their 
 son should keep a decent appearance, so 
 that he might do no discredit to his compa- 
 ny, than they heeded their own eomforts. 
 
 Methinks there cannot be in nature so 
 truly pitiful, and yet a sight so noble withal, 
 as an honest man struggling with adversity. 
 Note how he labors to bt.'.o - up his heart 
 against the crushing weight of his stern 
 necessities. See his nature — a proud na- 
 ture, perchance, for there is no pride like 
 that of honesty — reduced to the mean re- 
 sorts of poverty's most absolute rule. Be- 
 hold the fallacious smile and abortive cheer- 
 fulness under which he would strive to hide 
 the iron entering his soul ! Want winds 
 her serpent folds around him, and eats into 
 his vitals ; Ruin hovers over him on vul- 
 ture's wings to seize him for her prey ; 
 Disgrace points at him; Shame follows on 
 his steps ; and Fear seeks to disturb the 
 pleasant shelter of his dreams ; but the hon- 
 est man holds up his head like a flag upon 
 a wreck, and when that rude villain Death 
 would take the wall of him, doffs his beaver 
 with a natural dignity mere gallantry can 
 have no example of. 
 
 Such it was with John Shakspeare. He 
 did his best, but his best failed. He put 
 forth all his strength, but all his strength 
 was insufficient. The brand of poverty ap- 
 peared to have marked him for her own ; 
 but worse than that to him, he saw his 
 wife pining, and his children wanting 
 nourishment. In such a state of things it 
 might have been thought that he would 
 have made application to some of the per- 
 sons of worship in his neighborhood, whose 
 characters were a guarantee it would not 
 . ave been made in vain ; but worthy per- 
 sons when they fall to those poor shifts as 
 render such an act necessary, are found 
 monstrous loath to trouble the rich and pow- 
 erful with their necessities. Sir Marma- 
 duke doubtless would have very readily 
 done him such service ; but he had no in- 
 timation his assistance was required.; Wil- 
 liam Shakspeare always making such an 
 appearance, by means already spoken of, 
 which prevented him from entertaining any 
 ei'-spicions his father was in any other but 
 comfortable circumstances ; and the poor 
 
 glover, however meanly off he might be, 
 could never bring himself to hazard his son's 
 prospects with so great a friend, by impor- 
 tuning of the latter with his own hapless 
 condition. • 
 
 At last, after a protracted struggle with 
 himself on the matter, and things getting to 
 wear a more serious aspect, he made up his 
 mind he would venture to move his old 
 friend John a Combe. Strange rumors had 
 been afloat for some time concerning of this 
 good gentleman. On a sudden he had been 
 missed from Stratford, and after some years 
 stay, had again returned — but oh, how 
 altered a man ! Those who saw him scarce 
 knew him, and those whom he saw he seem- 
 ed determined he would not know. It was 
 said there were such marked lines in his 
 pallid countenance, as though a thousand 
 cares had ploughed their furrows in the 
 flesh, and tiiat when he walked abroad, 
 which was something rare in him, he 
 would mingle with none, greet none, be 
 known of none — but move slowly along, 
 with his body bent, and his eyes fixed sul- 
 lenly on the ground, sometimes moving of 
 his lips — though what fefl from them none 
 could say. It was also reported that he had 
 become an usurer — lending of his money at 
 exorbitant charges, and being exceeding 
 strict in forcing the payment. Not a word 
 of this would John Shakspeare believe. 
 What, that noble heart become a selfish sol- 
 itary, he had known of so social a spirit — or 
 that generous nature debase itself with ava- 
 rice, he had seen risking tJio horriblest death 
 out of pure philanthropy ! Jt was clean 
 impossible. They must most grossly belie 
 him who reported of him any such mean- 
 ness. So thought the poor glover of his old 
 acquaintance, and with these thoughts he 
 one morning took his staff in his hand and pro- 
 ceeded to his dwelling. 
 
 At his first entrance at the gate, John 
 Shakspeare saw there was at least a nota- 
 ble change in the house once so familiar to 
 him. Everything around^ and about it look- 
 ed strange and desolate, and as opposite to 
 the state in which it used to be kept, as any 
 two things could chance to be. The fair 
 garden that once was the pride of the place 
 for its order and trimness, appeared now a 
 mere heap of weeds, straggling bushes, and 
 withered plants. The goodly trees that 
 were wont to be so well trailed against the 
 wall, had broke from their bindings, and lay 
 with their straggling branches almost leaf- 
 less, with the unchecked ravages of vermin 
 and neglect. The dwelling seemed no lesu 
 wretched. A broken casement, and a porch 
 dirty and crumbling with decay, spoke how 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 €5 
 
 little outward appearances were now cared 
 for by the possessor. John Shakspeare 
 shook his head at noting of these things. 
 It then occurred to him that some fearful 
 change must have taken place in John ft 
 Combe, else John a Combe's dwelling could 
 never have come to so pitiful a condition. 
 
 The door was cautiously opened by a 
 sour looking slovenly old dame, instead of a 
 neat pretty handmaid, and active young ser- 
 ving man, that had used to have been so 
 ready to show a visitor all proper courtesy, 
 and alter sharply interrogating him on his 
 business, she led him through the hall — 
 where everything spoke a similar story of 
 indifferency to all comfort and cleanliness, 
 as did the ruined garden and delapidated 
 porch — into a small back chamber choking 
 with dust. Here before a heap of many pa- 
 pers and parchments, sat his worthy and 
 esteemed friend Master Combe. John 
 Shakspeare looked with greater intentness 
 ere he would believe his own eyes. He 
 saw before him a man he knew to be in the 
 pride of manhood, with all the externals of 
 decrepid age. The grey hair, the blanched 
 cheek, and the sunken eye, could not be 
 mistaken ; but besides these unwelcome 
 signs, there was in his aspect a mingled ex- 
 pression of agony and distrust, that was 
 more moving than all. John Shakspeare's 
 honest heart sunk within him, as he beheld 
 this painful spectacle which exhibited the 
 more wretchedness, by the mean habiliments 
 in which it appeared, — for he who had used 
 to dress in so becoming a fashion, he was 
 admired of all, was now attired in coarse 
 clothes and uncleanly linen, unworthy of a 
 person even of the lowest quality. 
 
 Master Combe stared at his old friend 
 without the slightest sign of cordiality, or 
 even of recognition ; and seemed as though 
 he would have him say his errand without 
 delay ; whereupon his visitor though more 
 distressed at such a moment at the condi- 
 tion of one he had known to be so good a 
 man, than his own, presently gave an un- 
 varnished tale of his losses and sufferings, 
 and the stern necessity which had compelled 
 him to ask a loan to aff >rd him some pre- 
 sent help. Master Combe sat the tale out 
 with a stone-like indifference. 
 
 " What security hast got ?" said he at 
 last, rather sharply. 
 
 " None,'' replied his visitor, much pained 
 at hearing of so unexpected a question. 
 
 " What, come to me seeking of money 
 without security !" exclaimed Mister Combe, 
 as if in a monstrous surprise.'" Dost not 
 know I am an usurer, and dost not know 
 usurers lend not, save on sure grounds and 
 
 profitable terms ? I must have ten in the 
 hundred, and I must have something to hold 
 upon of such value as will ensure the safe- 
 ty of the loan." 
 
 " Alack, 1 have it not," answered John 
 Shakspeare, marvelling the generous nature 
 of his old companion should have taken so 
 ill a turn. " I expected not you were so 
 changed, else I would not have troubled 
 you. 
 
 " Changed !" cried the other with a bitter 
 emphasis. " Marry, yes, and a goodly 
 change it must needs be. What, wouldst 
 suppose I would remain all my days the 
 generous confiding fool I have once been ? 
 Have I not given without stint — have I not 
 endured without flinching for the good of 
 my fellows, and none ends else ? Lived I 
 not in the strong belief of the excellence of 
 humanity, and sought all means to show I 
 was mysef a parcel of the whole? What 
 good thing have I left undone that was in 
 my power. Whe have I failed in the 
 exercise of an impar : .. i benevolence ? When 
 gave I not every 011.7 his !'.io, c kept my- 
 self back when one unjust ...v. .'Gquired a 
 defender ?" 
 
 "Never, as I gladly tc :''y'' reclaimed 
 his companion. 
 
 " And what hath been r.y ] fit ?" in- 
 quired Master Combe, s'dli "ore !. tterly, as 
 he rose from his seat in a ' i'i'v\ sing ex- 
 citement ; " hopes blighted, neaitn ruined, 
 and happiness destroyed ! Look on me— 
 see you one particle of what I was ! Yet 
 is the change without, in no comparison 
 with that which is within. My whole na- 
 ture is blasted, riven and torn up by the 
 roots. Not a green leaf shall you find on 
 it, search where you will. Not a sign of 
 any goodness whatsoever. An earthquake 
 hath trampled on me — a pestilence hath 
 eaten up all the pure essence of my being — 
 what is human of me is stifled, poisoned, 
 crushed, and cast otit of all likeness with 
 humanity. I am a moving desolation — a 
 living desert — a well that the scorching air 
 hath left dry as a stone." 
 
 John Shakspeare looked on and listened^ 
 quite forgetful of his own wretchedness. 
 
 " See you that spider in the crack ??' in- 
 quired Master Combe, suddenly taking the 
 other by the arm. 
 
 " Ay, I see it plain," replied he, looking 
 narrowly to the spot pointed out. 
 
 " He is spinning his web in the ruin 
 around him," continued his companion, as 
 if in some sort of exultation. " He means 
 to make prey of all he can. John Shaks- 
 peare, I am intent upon a like thing," added 
 he, sinking las voice to a mere whisper 
 
86 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 u Take heed of yourself, else you will find 
 yourself in my snare. To the door with 
 what speed you have." 
 
 John Shakspeare, so moved he scarce knew 
 what he was about, took up his cap ; hut, 
 finding it feel unusually heavy, looked in it 
 with some narrowness, and there, to his 
 great surprise, saw a purse of money. 
 
 " How came this here ?" exclaimed he, 
 taking it in his hand. " As I live, there 
 was nought of the kind in my cap a moment 
 since, when I laid it down." 
 
 " How should I know, i'faith ?" cried 
 Master Combe, sharply. 
 
 " It must needs belong to you, worthy sir, 
 for it cannot be mine," said his companion, 
 seeking to give him the purse. 
 
 " Marry, what new folly is this !" exclaim- 
 ed the other, putting it away. " Dost think 
 I would give thee such? Doth usurers 
 pan with their money after such fashion ? 
 Fanciest I would allow of thy spreading the 
 rare intelligence amongst thy acquaintance, 
 that John a Cornbe is as monstrous a fool as 
 ever he was, and liketh nought so well as 
 helping some one in his need ? Go get thee 
 gone, John Shakspeare," added he, pushing 
 his companion to the door, " thou art honest, 
 and must needs be a fool — thou hast no lack 
 o; •. utue, therefore cannot escape being 
 to.At;ii for a knave ;" and in the next moment 
 the door was closed upon him. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Over my altars hath he hung his lance, 
 
 His battered shield, his uncontrolled crest, 
 And for my sake hath learned to sport and dance, 
 
 To coy, to wanton, dally, smile, and jest.' 
 Shakspeare. ■ 
 Take heed, sweet nymph, try not thy shaft, 
 
 Each little touch will pierce a heart ; 
 Alas ! thou know'st not Cupid's craft, 
 
 Revenge is joy, the end is smart. 
 
 Davison. 
 Bat what on earth can long abide in state ? 
 Or who can him assure of happy day ? 
 Sith morning fair may biing ioul evening" late, 
 And least mishap the most blessed alter may ? 
 For thousand perils lie in close await, 
 About us daily to work our decay, 
 That none except a god, or God him guide, 
 May them avoid or remedy provide. 
 
 Spenser. 
 
 "I think it exceeding improper of thee, 
 Mabel !" exclaimed Dame Lucy, with a 
 countenance of more than ordinary gravity, 
 whilst she walked in the gr< unds appertain- 
 
 ing to her husband's mansion at Charlcote^ 
 in all her pride of farthingale and headtire. 
 
 " What else could I do, I pray you, dear 
 mistress ?" said the fair creature in a de- 
 precating tone, following of her closely.. 
 " These good gentlemen would needs speak 
 with me, and surely there was no offence in 
 their speech." 
 
 " O, monstrous offence ! beyond all doubt- 
 ing," replied the dame. " Thou canst have 
 no conception, child, what offence may be 
 in speech without it being visible. There 
 are meaning in words that are horrible to 
 think of, albeit they appear of ever such in- 
 nocency." 
 
 " I took it but as a mere greeting," added 
 her companion, in some surprise at what 
 had fallen from the other. " They were 
 infinitely kind in their inquiries ; and so 
 courteous withal, it is hard to believe any- 
 thing uncivil of them. 
 
 " Trust not to such kindness," said her 
 mistress somewhat oracularly, " 'tis a poor 
 stale to catch woodcocks. I marvel what 
 such fine fellows should want of so poor a 
 person ! No good, by my fay ! Doubtless, 
 would they seek to fill thee with foolish fan- 
 tasies improper for thy humbie station, and 
 so turn it to their advantages. But me- 
 thinks I haye given them a right proper re- 
 ception. I showed them such dignity of 
 behavior as proved how little I thought of 
 them and their fine words. They will not 
 come here again, I'll warrant." 
 
 " Dost not think, dear mistress, 'twas 
 marvellous good of them to rescue me from 
 the hands of those rude persons who were 
 for taking me away, I know not where, 
 whilst we were at Kenilworth ?" 
 
 " Nay, o' my life, I know not," replied the 
 dame, " I cannot speak of that of which I 
 have no certain knowledge. Perchance, if 
 the truth should be come at, more mischief 
 would be found in those who stayed thee, 
 than in those who were for carrying thee 
 oft*. I liked not their looks. They have a 
 horrible suspicious appearance with them." 
 
 " I saw it not, believe me," said her young 
 companion. " Indeed they did appear to 
 me the noblest, kindest, honorablest young 
 gentlemen, it hatli ever been my good hap 
 to meet." 
 
 " Tilly vally, stuff o'nonsense, child !" 
 exclaimed Dame Lucy, with some sharp- 
 ness. " Marry, how shouldst know aught 
 concerning of honorable young gentlemen ; 
 and what dost want with such ? Prithee 
 hold thy silly prate. Thou wilt have enough 
 to do to get thy bread with an honest name 
 without troubling thyself with any such im- 
 proper matters. Honorable young gentle 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 87 
 
 men, forsooth ! The world mnst be clean 
 topsy turvy when persons of thy quality take 
 to such notions." # 
 
 The poor foundling was silenced, and the 
 two continued their walk without ever a 
 word more ; yet though her tongue was at 
 resi, her thoughts were right busy. Obedi- 
 ent as she was, and yielding as was her 
 nature, nothing of what her companion had 
 6aid, had convinced her, the handsome gal- 
 lants who had so bravely rescued her from 
 she knew not what peril, and that, after so 
 long a time — hearing where she lived, had 
 gone on purpose to inquire how she had 
 fared- after her great alarm — had treated her 
 with such extreme courteousness, were any- 
 thing but truly noble gentlemen, who meant 
 her well. Doubtle/s it was something new 
 to her to be treated with delicate respect by 
 persons of quality, as they appeared ; for 
 she was only regarded as a servant, and only 
 aisociated with such, save at those times 
 she was attending of her mistress ; therefore 
 the impression they made upon her might 
 have been the more powerful than could 
 have been produced under ordinary circum-. 
 Biances. Women in general, and especially 
 of the younger sort, who have been used to 
 \rs meanly thought of, are wonderfully grate- 
 ful for any slight courtesy from a superior, 
 and are ready to give all their hearts for 
 auch attentions, should they believe them to 
 be sincere ; and Mabel, whose gentle nature 
 was overflowing with gratitude at any kind- 
 ness, took, at the most liberal appreciation, 
 «he attentions of the two young knights. 
 
 Certes Mabel continued to think very 
 kindly of Sir Valentine and his friend, and 
 was famously glad she had met with thera 
 again ; for ever since she had first formed 
 their acquaintance, she had wished she 
 might see them once more, and now she had 
 a second time beheld them, she hoped it 
 might chance they would again meet. She 
 thought not one whit more of one than of 
 the other ; she felt she should desire to be 
 well esteemed of both. In accordance with 
 such feelings, whenever she could get away 
 from the old dame for a walk by herself, 
 she would direct her steps towards the spot 
 where she had last met her brave deliverers. 
 Mayhap it was chance which led her that 
 way ; but as it occurred every time she was 
 for a stroll in the park, methinks it was of 
 that order of chances which savor marvel- 
 lously of design. But it so happened these 
 walks of her's ended as they commenced. 
 She met not those whose company she de- 
 sired, and she began to think such great 
 pleasure could never be hers again. 
 
 Some months after the interview to which ' 
 6 
 
 allusion hath just been made, she was re- 
 turning homewards from her ordinary ram- 
 ble, somewhat out of heart at her many 
 disappointments, when, to her wonderful 
 great exultation, she suddenly espied Sir 
 Valentine wending his way towards her 
 through the trees. The young knight made 
 his greeting with all the courtesy of a true 
 soldier, gazing with most admiring glances 
 on the fair creature before him, who, to his 
 thinking, had grown to be infinitely more 
 beautiful ev.en than when he had last had 
 sight of her;. but the truth was, she was 
 now all smiles, gladness, and animation — 
 happiness was beaming in her sunny 
 glances, and pleasure basked in the soft 
 hollows of her radiant cheek. Such sweet 
 simplicity, such genuine truth, — so artless 
 and unworldly a nature Sir Valentine had 
 had no knowledge of ; and he, whose truly 
 chivalrous disposition was so ready to take 
 on trust the admirable qualities of woman, 
 could not fail to appreciate such excellences 
 as he had now held in his personal ac- 
 quaintance. He looked as though he could 
 never tire of such exquisite company. His 
 handsome smiling features spoke what ab- 
 solute satisfaction he was . then and there 
 enjoying ; and the longer he stayed in her 
 bewitching presence, the less inclined ap- 
 peared he to take himself away from it. 
 
 As for Mabel, nought in this world could 
 equal the exceeding pleasantness she ex- 
 perienced in listening to her companion's 
 soft mellow voice and polished delivery, de- 
 scribing to her such of the princely pleasures 
 of Kenilworth she had not beheld. She en- 
 tirely forgot she was a poor despised found- 
 ling, and in her fantasy accompanied her 
 eloquent companion through all the glorious 
 pageantries, noble banquets, and courtly 
 recreations, that were enjoyed by the noble 
 company at the castle, as though they had 
 been her customary and most familiar pas- 
 time's, from the beginning of her earliest 
 remembrances. I question she would have 
 been as properly entertained with the reality 
 of what she heard, as was she with their 
 mere narration ; but when the narrator di- 
 gressed from his subject in any manner, to 
 express, with winning civilness, his great 
 comfort at having been so fortunate, r as to 
 have made her acquaintance — which* he 
 thought more of than could be a thousand 
 Kenilworths — a thrill of exquisite rapture 
 seemed to pass through her whole nature, 
 and she would return her thanks for such, 
 estimation with a heartiness that showed 
 clearly whence it proceeded. This continu- 
 ed as they remained strolling carelessly along 
 under those shady trees, without taking the 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 slightest heed of time, till the thickening 
 shadows gave them warning how long they 
 had dallied with the hours. Then some sign 
 of separation became manifest. 
 
 " Let me beg one favor at your hands, 
 ere I depart from your sweet presence," 
 said Sir Valentine, as he was still lingering 
 by her side near the park gate. 
 
 " In truth, good sir, I would grant you 
 anything in my poor power," answered his 
 fair companion. 
 
 " It is but to know your name," added he. 
 
 " O' my word now, good sir, have you not 
 known it all this time ?" inquired she, as if 
 in some little surprise. " Surely I am no 
 other than Mabel, of whom all persons, me- 
 thinks, have some knowledge." 
 
 "Mabel!" repeated the young knight, 
 somewhat to himself as it were, yet all the 
 time gazing on the ingenuous countenance 
 of his fair partner, as though he was conning 
 it for some pleasant task, — then added, with 
 a deep expression in the words, " I will not 
 forget it." 
 
 " But I pray you, give me knowledge of 
 your name!" exclaimed Mabel, with a most 
 pressing earnestness, " an' you think it not 
 over bold in me to ask such a thing of you ; 
 for in very truth, I should be exceeding glad 
 to know it." 
 
 " i am called Valentine de Largesse," re- 
 plied he, charmed with the exquisite fashion 
 in which the question had been put to him. 
 
 " How good a creature !" said the gentle 
 girl to herself, as she was returning home 
 after he had left her. " Valentine de Lar- 
 gesse ? 'Tis a name that meaneth all 
 honorableness and true valor, I will be 
 bound for't:" 
 
 How strange of Dame Lucy to think there 
 could be evil intent in any such ! 
 
 This was not the only meeting they had 
 under those shady trees. Sir Valentine was 
 too well pleased with his last interview not 
 to desire to repeat his visit, and in conse- 
 quence of his friend Sir Reginald being ab- 
 sent in a distant part of the country, he had 
 such leisure as enabled him, when all other 
 circumstances concurred, to realise his own 
 wishes as often as he would. His behavior 
 began imperceptibly to take upon it the cha- 
 racter of that tender gallantry, with which 
 it was customary among the more chivalrous 
 Sort of gentlemen, to address their sovereign 
 lady. His homage knew no bounds— his 
 respect was equally without limits, and his 
 admiration, though the powerfulest of the 
 three, was of that choice sort which is 
 shown more in delicate actions than in a 
 fair commodity of terms. These attentions 
 gave the gentle Mabel a pride in herself she 
 
 had never experienced before, whicn in- 
 creased as she grew more familiar with 
 them. As it made progress did her simpli- 
 city diminish ; and she presently took such 
 things, albeit they had once been so new to 
 her, as if they were what she looked for, 
 and was properly entitled to receive. 
 
 Yet did this pride sit upon her as grace* 
 fully as it might upon the noblest lady in 
 the land. When at her humble duties, she 
 was no more to all appearance than a poor 
 foundling ; but after tiring of herself with 
 such genuine taste as to make her poor ap- 
 parel look more becomingly on her, than re- 
 gal garments would on many others, she 
 stood by the side of Sir Valentine receiving 
 his devotions, with so courtly an air as made 
 her seem quite another creature. Her step 
 was firm, her brow erect, her carriage state* 
 ly, and her look spoke of such proud happi- 
 ness as a noble maiden might experience in 
 attracting to herself the exclusive attentions 
 of some princely gallant. At such times it 
 was evident she had lost all knowledge of 
 her humble fortunes. Indeed her behavior 
 was of such a sort her companion not only 
 had not the slightest suspicion she was of 
 so low a station- — but he more and more 
 marvelled such unmannerly strange persons 
 as Sir Thomas and Dame Lucy appeared to 
 him — could have so noble a daughter. Ma- 
 bel never gave the matter a thought, else, 
 had she suspected any such thing, her inge- 
 nuous nature would have led her to unde- 
 ceive him on the instant. She was gratified 
 with his company out of all doubt, but she 
 saw nothing beyond the present moment ; 
 and although these meetings were clandes- 
 tine, and, as she had good reason for believ- 
 ing, against the consent of the old knight 
 and his lady, as there appeared no offence 
 in what she did, she could not see she had 
 done any. 
 
 It was her good fortune during all this 
 time to escape suspicion at home — for her 
 well-disposedness was so familiar to them 
 that her conduct was never inquired into, 
 and as her great trouble and annoyance, 
 young Lucy, was at college, she was in the 
 enjoyment of more happiness than she had 
 known her whole life long. Pity such feli 
 city should be of such short endurance. But 
 so is it ever. — Nothing is certain save un- 
 certainty, which showeth its troublesome- 
 ness just at those times we are least pre- 
 pared to put up with it. Often and often is 
 it we see in the sweet spring-time of the 
 year, a goodly tree almost hid beneath its 
 innumerable fair blossoms, giving such prodi- 
 gal promise of fruit as maketh the owner'g 
 heart leap with joy — a frost cometh in the 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 89 
 
 Bight, the blossoms are nipped, shrivelled, 
 and cast off, and the tree remaineth with 
 nothing but barren branches for all that sea- 
 son. Methinks the knowledge of this should 
 keep the sanguine from too steadfast an ex- 
 pectation ; but what availeth all knowledge 
 against disposition ? — a score of times shall 
 such meet with the terriblest disappoint- 
 ments, and the next day shall find them hop- 
 ing, trusting, and anticipating, with greater 
 earnestness than ever. This, however, 
 could not be said of Mabel, for she antici- 
 pated nothing ; and, as hath been said, 
 looked only upon the present moment She 
 was scarce of an age to trouble herself 
 much about the future, and the extreme hu- 
 mility of her fortunes kept her from any- 
 thing that savored of ambition. This inno- 
 cency of her heart was her best buckler in 
 this apparent lack of foresight. Proud she 
 was it cannot be denied, but hers was the 
 pure essence of pride, and not the dross. 
 
 As she was returning from her usual 
 stroll, though without meeting with her 
 usual gratification, she came upon a sight 
 which fixed her attention so profoundly she 
 could not stir from the place. It was in the 
 pleasant twilight of the first month of au- 
 tumn when the heated air fanned by the 
 seasonable breeze was growing to a pleasant 
 coolness, and the rustling groves were don- 
 ning their embroidered livery. Over head 
 was all of a clear grey save in the west a 
 rich copper hue was visible at the verge, 
 gradually fading till it took the color of the 
 surrounding sky. The herbage was crisp 
 and short, and the flowers had got to be of 
 some rareness. Low upon the mossy lap 
 of the venerablest oak in the whole grove, 
 lay a youth in the most absolute perfection 
 of youthful symmetry. Surely he might 
 without any great stretch of fancy, have 
 been taken for that lovely boy who playeth 
 6uch vagaries with our humanity, as poets 
 feign ; and she, who crept to him on tiptoe 
 with such a marvelling, pleased, and cautious 
 look upon her exquisite fair features, would 
 have made an admirable representative of 
 that divine creature the spiritual Psyche of 
 the same ideal world. He slept — one arm 
 supporting his head from which the hat 
 had fallen, the other holding an open book. 
 And who could this be but the youthful 
 Shakspeare wearied out with the long deep 
 studiousness he now, more than ever in- 
 dulged in. She however had no knowledge 
 of who it was, but could not help gazing 
 with a pleasant wonder upon the pale 
 thoughtful brow, and delicately beautiful 
 countenance of the young sleeper. 
 All at once the expression of her features 
 
 changed exceedingly. She now looked all 
 fear and terrible anxiety. The cause of 
 this was she beheld a hornet hovering over 
 his face, seeming every moment as if it 
 would alight on the half closed lips, whose 
 luscious richness of color doubtless tempted 
 it thereto. Mabel was in an agony of dread 
 that the touch of the insect would cause the 
 young student to start, and so he would get 
 stung : and she dared not seek to wake him 
 from a like fear. So there stood she, bend- 
 ing with extreme anxiousness, and anon 
 shrinking back with horrible affright. This 
 continued for some moments, with increasing 
 alarm on her part, when with such a lively 
 sense of joy as had visited her but seldom, 
 she beheld the hornet take its departure 
 without doing of any mischief. She lingered 
 a moment longer, half inclined to wake the 
 sleeper, and tell him of his danger, but as 
 she could not bring upon herself to break 
 such sweet slumbers as he appeared to en- 
 joy, she presently turned away and contin- 
 ued her walk. 
 
 She knew not all this while that she was 
 narrowly watched by two persons, who, 
 creeping from tree to tree with such cau- 
 tiousness as might prevent their approach be- 
 ing noticed, followed her closely as she went. 
 " 'Tis her !" whispered one, drawing 
 close to the other. 
 
 " Let her get to the next clump of trees, 
 and then upon," answered the other, in the 
 same low voice. They then separated 
 again, and crept along as before till they 
 had passed the sleeper some paces, and 
 were rapidly but cautiously advancing upon 
 the objeet of their so much regard, when 
 Mabel turning round to take a last glance 
 at the sleeping student, to her monstrous 
 surprise and alarm, found two strange men 
 close upon her foot-steps. 
 
 . " I pray you come with us, sweet dam- 
 sel," said one of them, whom she immedi- 
 ately recognized as her treacherous gallant 
 at Kenilworth. " We will do you no sort 
 of harm should you come quietly — for we 
 are of your friends, anxious to lead you to 
 such great good fortune as falleth to the lot 
 of few. But if you show any unwilling- 
 ness," added he, seizing her firmly by the 
 wrist, seeing she evinced an evident reluc- 
 tance to be of his company — " Or make any 
 outcry, we shall be forced to use such means 
 to compel you, as you would find of the 
 roughest." 
 
 " Unhand me, sirrah !" cried Mabel, in- 
 dignantly, striving to free her from his hold. 
 " I have seen enough of you to wish for no 
 farther acquaintance, and will go with voa 
 on no account." 
 
90 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAESPEARE. 
 
 u Then we must e'en take to making you, 
 Bweetest," replied be, catching her up in his 
 arms, as though he would carry her away, 
 which set her to screaming and struggling 
 with all her might. At this moment, awaken- 
 ed by the scream, the youthful' Shakspeare 
 started from his sleep, and to his extreme 
 consternation beheld the fair object of his 
 most pleasant dream borne away from him, 
 struggling in the arms of some rude villain. 
 
 " Hold, caitiff, on thy life 1" shouted he, 
 starting after them, with such speed of foot 
 as soon brought them within his reach, but 
 just as he had bravely seized the ravisher 
 by the collar of his doublet, he was felled to 
 the earth by a blow from a heavy riding 
 whip the other villain had with him. The 
 two then made what haste they could with 
 their burthen, despite her cries and resist- 
 ance, till they camo to their horses under 
 some adjoining trees. The gallant got on 
 one holding Mabel before him, then when 
 his companion was mounted, both rode 
 across the country, at a pace which speedily 
 took them out of sight of that neighborhood. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 O fortune, now my wounds redress, 
 
 And help me from my smart, 
 It cometh well of gentleness, 
 To ease a mourning hearte. 
 
 Old Sons. 
 Away with these self-loving lads, 
 Whom with cupid's arrow never glads ! 
 Away poor souls that sigh and weep 
 In love of those that lie asleep .' 
 For Cupid is a merry god, 
 And forceth none to kiss- the rod. 
 
 Lord Brooke. 
 
 These strange and sudden injuries- have fallen 
 
 So thick upon me, that I lose all sense 
 
 Of what they are. Methinks I am not wronged ; 
 
 Nor is it aught, if from the censuring world 
 
 I can but hide it. Reputation ! 
 
 Thou art a wo'd, no more. 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher. 
 
 On recovering consciousness, the youth- 
 ful Shakspeare found himself lying stretched 
 on the grass, with a confused sense of pain 
 and sickness, which prevented him from 
 forming any distinct idea of where he was. 
 He could just discern divers black masses of 
 sundry shapes, moving around and about 
 him, whilst above, myriads of stars were 
 twinkling upon the surface of the surround- 
 ing sky ; a thick white haze floated over the 
 grassy earth as far as he could see ; and 
 not a sound, save the rustling of the leaves, 
 
 — which at first came upon his ear with a 
 most unnatural strangeness — could be heard. 
 His earliest perception was that the ground 
 was wet with the dews, and he almost im- 
 mediately afterwards discovered that his 
 clothes were saturated with the same mois- 
 ture. This made him make an immediate 
 attempt to rise, whereupon he felt that his 
 limbs were stiff and aching. Sitting, sup* 
 porting himself by one arm, he strove to as 
 certain where he was ; but everything upon 
 which he turned his eyes floated in such 
 shadowy outline he could distinguish no- 
 thing ; and so fearful a pain was in his 
 head, he was forced to lean it upon his hand 
 as he rested his elbow on his lap. He then 
 found his brows covered with a clammy 
 moisture, which stuck to his palm with a 
 peculiar unpleasantness, and an overpower- 
 ing sense of sickness prevented him from 
 attempting to regain his feet. In this posi- 
 tion, and with these sensations, he remained 
 for some time. 
 
 Nature appeared in the rising dews be- 
 neath the starry canopy, like to some mighty 
 empress lying in her shroud under a jeweled 
 pall ; but this awful magnificence was now 
 lost upon him, who at any other time woidd 
 have seen and felt it more thoroughly than 
 could any other. In his present state she 
 might have put on herself her proudest 
 apparelling, and he would have paid no mora 
 heed to it than if he had had no foreknow- 
 ledge of her visible existence ; and for th& 
 time being, in his comprehension not only 
 all this glorious garnishing in which he had 
 oft taken such exquisite delight, was utterly 
 done away with, but that absolute and un- 
 rivaled Beauty, whose infinite attractions so 
 set off, had bound his spirit to her will, 
 seemed to have suffered a perfect dissolu- 
 tion into the elements from which she 
 sprung ; and had at once become a darkness 
 — a chaos — and a nothing. This, however, 
 as must be manifest to all, was a mere fan- 
 tasy. The chaos lay in the mind, and not 
 in Nature; who, however funereally she 
 may choose to array herself, hath a per- 
 petual life, that cannot be made the property 
 either of Time or Death. All the singular 
 fine faculties and curious conceptions of the 
 young student, in the state of half-con- 
 sciousness in which he now existed, were 
 as if they had never been ; and in intelli- 
 gence — alack that there should be so hu- 
 miliating a truth, — a sudden visitation of 
 physical pain had reduced the promising 
 scholar below the level of the most unlettered 
 hind. 
 
 At last he managed to raise himself upon 
 his feet, and leaned against the trunk of a 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 91 
 
 tree close by which he had fallen. He 
 looked around, and it appeared as though 
 everything wore an unfamiliar and unfriend- 
 ly countenance ; helpless and faint with 
 pain, he turned his appealing gaze to those 
 fair ministers on high, who at such num- 
 berless occasions, had looked down so invit- 
 ingly on his meditations ; but they seemed 
 at this present to regard him with a cold in- 
 difference which struck a chill to his heart. 
 He felt weaker and weaker every moment ; 
 the mists appeared to be thickening around 
 him so that he could scarce breathe ; the 
 tree passed away from his touch; the 
 ground slipped from under his feet ; and 
 with a look of anguish that was a most deep 
 reproach unto Nature for having so aban- 
 doned him in his extremity, he again fell out 
 »f all sign of existence. 
 
 At this moment, lights were seen in the 
 distance, and a confused shouting of men 
 and barking of dogs was plainly audible. 
 Amid this the name of Mabel might be dis- 
 tinguished, called out by several different 
 voices, and other cries, which proved that 
 the party were in search of the poor found- 
 ling. 
 
 "Mabel!" shouted Sir Thomas Lucy, 
 some yards off, as loud as he could for the 
 wrapper his careful dame had put around 
 his throat to protect him from the damp mist. 
 ** Murrain on the wench, what hath become 
 of her I wonder." 
 
 " Hoy !" bawled out a stout old game- 
 keeper for the space of nigh half a minute, 
 carrying of a lantern, which great cry of his 
 brought on such a fit of coughing there 
 6eemed to be no end of it. 
 
 " Prithee wiien we return, good Sampson, 
 ask some of my julep of me," said Dame 
 Lucy, who prided herself hugely on her skill 
 in medicaments, and was ever as anxious to 
 lay hold of a patient as was any 'pothecary in 
 the land ; " 'tis famous for the cure of all 
 manner of coughs, asthmatics, quinsies, cold, 
 hoarseness, and other diseases of the like 
 sort, — so if thou wilt take it steadily it can- 
 not help to be a sovereign remedy for" thy 
 asthma." 
 
 " Ay, mistress, an' it please you," replied 
 Sampson, although he knew full well the 
 virtues of that same julep, having had it put 
 upon him for a good score years, let him 
 have whatever complaint he might. 
 
 " A fig for such villainous stuff!" ex- 
 claimed Sir Thomas ; " I'll cure thy asth- 
 matics, I'll warrant ! When I was at 
 college, I. was as famous for my studies in 
 medicine as was any physician of them all. 
 Indeed I got me the name of little Escula- 
 pius, I had acquired such great cunning in 
 
 it. There was no such cures ever Heard of 
 as I have made. But it led me so into the 
 playing of tricks, that I was obliged to give 
 it up or I should have been expelled for my 
 many mischiefs. Oh, the love powders I 
 have made that distressed damsels came to 
 me for ! Oh, the wonderful charmed phi. 
 tres, and magical elixirs, I have given them 
 for bringing back their stray lovers. By 
 cock and pye, I tickled them so with my 
 stuff, that if a man of any kind, whatever he 
 might lack in handsomeness, did but show 
 himself in the High Street, women of all 
 ages, sorts, and conditions, rushed from 
 every house with a monstrous uncontrollable 
 eagerness, intent upon the having him 
 whether he would or no." 
 
 " By'r lady, I never heard this before, Sir 
 Thomas !" cried his dame, in some surprise, 
 yet in the fullest conviction here was an- 
 other wonderful proof of her husband's ex- 
 traordinary rare wisdom. " Believe me, 
 had I known of it, I would have asked your 
 advice numberless times when I have not." 
 
 " Mabel !" shouted the knight again, and 
 again Sampson set up a prolonged cry, and 
 half choked himself in the midst of it, and 
 two dogs they had with them recommenced 
 barking, as if they thought their voices 
 stood as good a chance of being recognized 
 by their kind friend, the poor foundling, as 
 any. 
 
 " Plague on't !" exclaimed Sir Thomas ; 
 " T am nigh hoarse with bawling ; and de- 
 spite of our mufflers and other covering, I 
 doubt not we shall have terrible colds from 
 wandering about here when the dew is so 
 thick." 
 
 " Ay, Master Justice," observed the game- 
 keeper, scarce ceasing one minute to give 
 evidence this coming out agreed not with 
 his asthma. 
 
 " I marvel she should serve us this way," 
 added the knight, after another call from 
 him, another broken-winded cry from his 
 man, and another famous howl from the two 
 dogs, with as little success as had attended 
 them all along ; " I hope no harm hath come 
 to her." 
 
 " By my troth a thought strikes me !" 
 cried Dame Lucy, suddenly coming to a 
 full stop in her walk, to the exceeding as- 
 tonishment of the justice and his man. 
 
 " Marry, I hope 'twill strike thee hard 
 enough to tell us what 'tis about, dame," 
 said her husband merrily. 
 
 " Doubtless that pestilent fine fellow hath 
 run away with her," added she, as if horror- 
 struck at the idea. 
 
 " Ey, who ? What fine fellow ?" ex- 
 claimed the knight, rapidly ; " run away 
 
93 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 with a servant of a justice o' the peace ! 
 'Slight ! 'tis as heinous a matter as sheep- 
 stealing ! But who's the villain? 'Fore 
 George ; if he be a low person, he shall 
 swing for't ; and if he be one of any sort of 
 quality, I'll make a Star-Chamber matter 
 on't. I will be no rearer of coneys for other 
 men's catching, I promise you." And there- 
 upon he thumped the ground -with the end 
 of his stick a most determined blow. 
 
 Nay, good heart, be not in so deadly a 
 passion," cried the good dame, earnestly. 
 
 "Passion!" bawled the justice, in a 
 louder voice, and seemingly in an increased 
 rage. " Wounds ! but methinks here is 
 fine occasion for it. It is but fitting I should 
 be in a passion — in a horrible, tearing pas- 
 sion, at such a villainous affront as this. 
 O' my life, I should be monstrous glad now 
 to do some deadly mischief." And at this 
 he pulled his rapier a little out of the sheath, 
 and then sent it back with a whang that 
 sounded fearfully to his alarmed wife, and 
 astonished game-keeper. 
 
 " I pray you, take not on so murderously, 
 Sir Thomas," cried the good dame. 
 
 " Valor o' me ! tell me this caitiff on the 
 instant !" exclaimed the knight, in a voice 
 that appeared to admit of no dallying. 
 
 " He was one of those who made them- 
 selves so busy with Mabel whilst we were 
 at Kenilworth," replied the old lady, trem- 
 blingly ; " but he cannot be a fit object for 
 the receiving of your just indignation." 
 
 " Ha ! Is it so ?" cried Sir Thomas, in 
 no way abating the terribleness of his anger. 
 " O' my word, I did suspect them of no good. 
 'Twas a trick I'll wager my life on't — a 
 cozening trick to get them into my good- 
 will ; but I go not so easily into a trap, I 
 promise you. I saw the bait, and did ima- 
 gine the mischief on the instant. How 
 dost feel so certain one of them hath carried 
 off our Mabel?" asked he, and at this 
 the good dame up and told, how one day 
 she was walking with Mabel in the park, 
 and they were accosted by these same fine 
 fellows with a marvellous show of delicate 
 behavior ; but she, giving them instant proof 
 she was not to be deceived by their crafti 
 ness, they departed from her presence with 
 more speed than they had come in it. Then 
 the knight became more brave in his speech 
 than ever, and was talking very largely how 
 he would have driven them both out of his 
 grounds at the very point of his rapier, had 
 he been in her company at that time, when 
 his attention was suddenly diverted from the 
 subject in hand, by a strange barking of the 
 dogs a litt'e in advance of them. Sampson 
 
 made haste to the spot, with his lantern to 
 see what it meant. 
 
 "Perchance the dogs have found her," 
 observed Dame Lucy; and it may be she 
 hath been taken with a fit, or sudden swoon- 
 ing, and so could get no further." 
 
 " Murder !" cried Sampson as loud as he 
 could, upon catching a glance, by aid of the 
 light he carried, of what appeared to be a 
 dead body. 
 
 " Oh, the poor wench !" exclaimed the good 
 dame in very doleful accents. 
 
 " What dost say, knave ?" inquired the 
 knight, in somewhat of a trepidation. 
 
 " Here's a horrid mangle !" bawled the 
 serving-man, gazing with real terror on the 
 blood-stained face of the youthful Shak- 
 speare. 
 
 " Thou shalt not go, Sir Thomas !" cried 
 his dame in a nervous apprehension, cling- 
 ing tightly to his arm. "Perchance the 
 murderers may not be far away. Keep 
 down thy valor, dear heart, I prithee ! Nay 
 sweet life, thou shalt go on no account ! 
 Thy brave spirit will lead thee to some hurt 
 — thou hast no occasion to be so exceeding 
 valiant. Remember, chuck ! thou art get- 
 ting to be old, and no fit match, for I know 
 not how many monstrous horrible cut-throat 
 villains who may be lurking about." 
 
 " Shall a justice o' the peace stand play- 
 ing of mum-chance, when murder stalks 
 abroad ?" exclaimed Sir Thomas, who, be- 
 lieving that the supposed villains must by 
 this have got them to some place of safety, 
 had drawn his rapier, and was advancing 
 with a marvellous show of resolution as fast 
 as Dame Lucy would allow him. " Must 
 Sir Thomas Lucy, knight of the shire, and 
 late sheriff of the county, hide his valor, 
 when deadly mischief is doing on his own 
 land 1 ? Dame ! dame ! I will not be hinder- 
 ed ; I feel as full of fight as a drawn badger 
 — my valor must spend itself. Where are 
 the monstrous pitiful caitiffs that have done 
 this mischief ? 'Fore George ! I will slay 
 them every man !" 
 
 " Hodge ! Anthony ! David !" cried his 
 dame urgently to divers of the serving-men 
 and keepers who were at a little distance 
 behind. " Help me hold thy master. Here 
 is a foul murder done upon poor Mabel, and 
 he is so moved, he must needs be attacking 
 of all the murderers at once." The men 
 came up in wonderful tribulation at hearing 
 of the fate of the gentle foundling ; and with 
 pressing entreaties to their master he woula 
 not wilfully seek his own oeath. They 
 sought to hold him fast ; but the more hft 
 was held, the more boldly he threatened. A, 
 last they all arrived at the spot where Sacaj^ 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 9,1 
 
 son and the dogs were examining with ex- 
 treme curiousness the body of our young 
 scholar. 
 
 " Ha ! how is this ?" exclaimed the knight 
 in exceeding astonishment, as soon as he be- 
 held the young Shakspeare, by the aid of the 
 lanterns. " This is no Mabel ; this is some 
 boy or another." 
 
 " I warrant you, master, observed one of 
 the men gladly, " our Mabel hath darker 
 hair." 
 
 " And she wore not jerkins of any kind," 
 said another. 
 
 " Nor trunks, that ever I saw," added a 
 third. 
 
 " 'Tis not our Mabel, out of all doubt !" 
 cried Dame Lucy, gazing upon the motion- 
 less body with mingled feelings of awe and 
 curiousness. " I never gave her to wear any 
 such clothes as these ; and such as she had 
 of me for her apparelling were honest gowns 
 of a sober color, with petticoats of a proper 
 stuff, blue hose, and shoes of a fair strength, 
 with a round hat, for every day ; and then 
 for Sundays " 
 
 " Gog's wouns ! — he lives, master !" hur- 
 riedly exclaimed Sampson, who had lifted 
 up the head of the supposed corpse, and feel- 
 ing him move, could not forbear crying out 
 — ,the which completely put a stop to the 
 dame's account of her handmaid's wardrobe. 
 
 " Mass ! he breathes, sure enough," ob- 
 served Hodge ; " and that, as I have been 
 told, be an excellent sign of life." 
 
 " Nay, as I live, he openeth his eyes !" 
 cried Anthony. 
 
 * And now he be a moving of his fingers !" 
 added David with a like marvelling ; and then 
 all watched with a famous interest the symp- 
 toms of returning consciousness in the 
 wounded youth. The justice was some- 
 what puzzled what to do in so strange a 
 case. Here was a murdered person coming 
 to life, and no sign of Mabel was to be seen 
 any where. He thought it was exceeding 
 suspicious ; and then believing he had given 
 sufficient evidence of his valiant spirit, he 
 sheathed his rapier, took his stick from one 
 of the men who had picked it up on coming 
 along, and leaning on it, kept considering 
 how he should behave. In the meanwhile, 
 William Shakspeare, with all the lanterns 
 bearing upon his face, was looking upon 
 those around him, greatly bewildered, yet 
 beginning to have some confused ideas of 
 where he was, and what brought him there. 
 Nevertheless, the faces, as far as he could 
 distinguish, were unfamiliar to him. He 
 felt weak, and ever and anon gave a strong 
 shudder, as though his blood was chilled by 
 to long lying in the dew and the night air. 
 
 " Methinkshe hath on him something of 
 an ague," observed Dame Lucy. "Could we 
 get him home with us, now, some of my ju- 
 lep would do him famous good service, 1 
 warrant you." 
 
 " Humph !" cried Sir Thomas, gazing up- 
 on the stranger with a terrible penetrating 
 look, upon hearing of this hint of the good 
 dame, backed by assurances of its efficacv 
 from each of the serving-men. 
 
 " An' it please you, sweet lady," said the 
 youthful Shakspeare, faintly addressing 
 Dame Lucy, emboldened to it by the evi- 
 dence he had just heard of her considerate- 
 ness for him, " I beseech you tell me am I not 
 still in the park of his good worship, Sir 
 Thomas Lucy ?" 
 
 " That are you, beyond all question," re- 
 plied she very courteously, for she was well 
 pleased with the civilness with which the 
 question had been put to her. 
 
 " Ay, you be just upon the very middle of 
 Fairmead Grove, my young master," added 
 one of the men. 
 
 " I thought I could not help being at the 
 same place," observed the youth. 
 
 " But how didst come to that place, and 
 what dost do at that place at so late an 
 hour ?" asked the justice, in a style that sa- 
 vored wondrously of a disposition in him to 
 doubt the honesty of the person he question- 
 ed. Thereupon William Shakspeare, with- 
 out acquainting any with the reason of his 
 visit to the park, told the knight how he had 
 been a witness to the carrying off of M'-ibel 
 by two villains, and how when striving to 
 stop one, he was felled to the earth by the 
 other. 
 
 " So !" exclaimed Sir Thomas, looking 
 with more severity than ever, " Thou hast 
 got a fine story ; but I doubt 'twill do thee 
 any good at assize." Just as the knight 
 had uttered this, the youth gave a sudden 
 start upon noting for the first time his hands 
 were covered with blood, which discovery, 
 and the manner of his behavior at that mo- 
 ment, was well observed by the justice. — 
 " Ha !" cried he, " How didst get thyself so 
 dabbled ? Dost tell that cozening tale to me 
 when thy hands and face bear evidence thou 
 hast murdered our Mabel !" 
 
 "Murdered her!" exclaimed William, in 
 extreme astonishment. " Believe me I would 
 much rather have died in her rescue." 
 
 " 1 believe thee fellow !" cried the justice, 
 with extreme emphasis. " O' my life, 1 do 
 believe thee to be a most notorious horrible 
 villain ! But how didst get thyself in so sus- 
 picious a way ? answer me that. The truth, 
 fellow, the truth." 
 
 " As for what I see on my hand," ob* 
 
94 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 eerred the youth, " I am as much surprised 
 at it as yourself can be : but on reflection, 
 methinks 'tis easy to be accounted for." 
 
 " Is't, indeed ?" replied the knight. " Mar- 
 ry, I doubt it hugely." 
 
 " Doubtless the blow I received hath made 
 a wound," continued the other. " And hold- 
 ing my aching head awhile, hath brought my 
 hand to the state you see." 
 
 " Heart o' me ! here be a wound, indeed, 
 master," cried Sampson, closely examining 
 the head of the suspected person by the aid of 
 his lantern. 
 
 " By'r lady, and so there is !" added 
 Dame Lucy. " I would he were where I 
 could apply to it some of my famous julep ; 
 'tis the sovereignest thing on earth for a 
 o-reen wound." 
 
 With the friendly assistance of the serv- 
 ng men, with whom there was not a doubt 
 remaining of his perfect innocency, William 
 Shakspeare stood upon his feet, and presently 
 missed the book he had been studying be- 
 fore he fell asleep under the tree. The 
 justice, somewhat perplexed in his notions, 
 stood regarding him with a most scrutiniz- 
 ing look. 
 
 " What dost want looking about so ?" in- 
 quired he. 
 
 " A book, an' it please your worship," 
 answered the other. . " A book of sweet po- 
 ems I was intent upon studying, before I 
 beheld her you called Mabel being carried 
 away, screaming in the arms of a villain." 
 
 "»I did kick my foot against something 
 not a moment since," said Dame Lucy ; 
 " Perchance that may be it." Hearing this, 
 the serving men and keepers looked careful- 
 ly about with their lanterns. 
 
 " Thou saidst nought about her screaming 
 just now," observed the justice sternly, upon 
 whom this addition came with a very mar- 
 vellous suspiciousness. "But tell us who 
 thou are — they name, fellow — they name ?" 
 
 " My name is William Shakspeare," an- 
 swered the youth. 
 
 " What, John Shakspeare's son, of Strat- 
 ford ?" asked Sir Thomas quickly. 
 
 " The same, an' it please your worship." 
 
 " Then 'tis clear — 'tis mani|est — 'tis most 
 absolute and undeniable, fellow !" exclaimed 
 the justice, with a severity greater than all 
 he had yet shown. " Mass, I thought I could 
 not suspect thee without warrantable assur- 
 ance. Thy name proves it. If thou hast 
 not committed this foul murder, I will be 
 sworn an ass all the rest of my days. Thou 
 hast a most discreditable name, fellow. I 
 know not a name of such ill repute that can 
 be found anywhere. 'Tis a bad name ; and 
 being a bad name must needs be an ill name ; 
 
 and being an ill name cannot help being a 
 name that a man shall chance to go to the 
 hangman with." 
 
 " Here's the book, sure enough," cried one 
 of the serving-men. 
 
 " Book me no books," said the knight 
 sharply, whose remembrance of what had 
 been told him by Master Buzzard, made him 
 careless of this new proof of the youth's in- 
 nocence. " Take him away ! I will look 
 into this matter with more strictness. God's 
 precious, so notorious a name no man ever 
 had ! But let me examine the same book of 
 which he hath spoken so confidently." Hav- 
 ing got it in his hand," the justice had a lan- 
 tern held to him and scrutinized it very nar- 
 rowly. 
 
 " Ha 1 O' my life I thought as much !' 
 added he, looking from the book to the sup- 
 posed murderer. " Thou hast stolen it. Here 
 is in it the name of Sir Marmaduke de Lar- 
 gesse." 
 
 " He lent it me, as he hath done many 
 other," replied William Shakspeare. 
 
 " He lend thee, fellow !" cried the knight 
 disdainfully. " A person of his quality lend 
 books to so horrible low a person as the son 
 of John Shakspeare. How dost dare put so 
 impudent an assertion on a justice o' the 
 peace ! Mass, 'tis manifest thou art a most 
 thorough villain by thy name — 'tis as clear 
 thou hast stolen this book, and doubtless 
 many others by thy professions — and there 
 is no doubt thou hast done a foul murder by 
 thy being in the neighborhood at the time 
 the wench was missing, and found here un- 
 der such suspicious circumstances. Bring 
 him along, Sampson. Thou art my close 
 prisoner. I charge thee escape on thy peril." 
 
 Our young student, to his exceeding as- 
 tonishment, found himself taken into custo- 
 dy ; but to be accused of destroying that ex- 
 quisite fair creature who had so long been 
 the exclusive subject of his sweetest medita- 
 tions, appeared to him so unnatural a thing, 
 he could scarce believe it possible it could be 
 thought of for a single moment. Confused 
 as he was by the effects of the blow, and 
 still more bewildered by the behavior of Sir 
 Thomas Lucy, his apprehensions for the 
 safety of the gentle Mabel completely thrust 
 aside everything like fear for himself, and all 
 the way to the house he did nothing but 
 think of the possible dangers she might be 
 exposed to in the hands of those desperate 
 villains he had beheld carrying of her off*. 
 When he arrived at the mansion, he was led 
 up stairs into a room where there was no 
 possibility of escaping; and Dame Lucy 
 presently came and washed his wound, ap- 
 plied to it some of her famous julep, and put 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 8fl 
 
 on it a clean bandage, for although, as a wife, 
 ■he would not for a moment doubt of the 
 correctness of her husband's opinion, she 
 -, could not allow such an opinion, bad as it 
 was, to interfere with the wounded youth's 
 receiving the advantage of her skill in re- 
 medies. 
 
 It was a small chamber, with a standing 
 bed in it, whereon was a fair coverlet of the 
 dame's needle work. A little table, with 
 materials for washing, stood close at hand, 
 which had evidently been in use ; and be- 
 side them were sundry towels, pieces of 
 cloth for bandage, bottles, scissors, and the 
 like necessary sort of things for the dress- 
 ing of a wound. The dame sat, with a fa- 
 mous serious aspect, in an arm chair, at the 
 side of the table, fastening the bandage on 
 the head of her patient, who knelt down at 
 her feet. Close by the suspected murderer, 
 holding- a candle, stood a comely little dam- 
 •ei, whose bright eyes had gradually lost 
 tint fearfulness with which she at first re- 
 garded the wicked wretch she had been told 
 he was. 
 
 Watching these, at a little distance, stood 
 two simple looking fellows — the one with 
 a long sheepish face, surrounded with strag- 
 gling lanky locks, which was Hodge ; and 
 the other, with a head as round as an apple, 
 of which the countenance was marked out 
 of all contradiction, for it would have rivalled 
 any old buckler in the number of dents it 
 had ; and he was David. Each was leaning 
 on a formidable looking harquebus, and be- 
 side which they were armed with sword and 
 dagger. 
 
 " Dost feel any more comfort now ?" in- 
 quired the good dame, as her patient stood 
 up before her, immediately the dressing of 
 his wound was finished. 
 
 " Wonderful, I thank you very heartily," 
 exclaimed the youth, leaning of himself 
 against a chair — for he felt exceeding weak. 
 " I'm glad on't," added his physician, 
 carefully pouring into a cup some of her 
 famous julep ; then giving the bottle to the 
 black-eyed Kate, with an injunction to be 
 mindful and put it down safely, she offered the 
 cup and its contents to her patient. " Drink 
 this, I prithee," said she, " and be assured 
 'twill do thee as much efficacy taken as an 
 inward medicine, as thou hast already found 
 wnen used as a lotion for a wound." Wil- 
 liam Shakspeare again thanked her with a 
 like sincerity, and cheerfully swallowed the 
 draught to the last drop. His behavior had 
 already pleased her, and the alacrity with 
 which he drank what she had given him, 
 delighted her still more. She rose from her 
 seat, ordering the handmaid to clear the 
 
 table, and get a bowl of milk and a manchet 
 for the youth's supper ; and then telling the 
 two men Sir Thomas desired they left not the 
 room on any account, nor once took their 
 eyes Qff of their prisoner, she seemed as if 
 about to take her departure. Yet still sh» 
 lingered. 
 
 " I marvel thou dost not confess thy wick- 
 edness," said she, at last, to her young patient, 
 manifestly more in sorrow than in anger. 
 " Prithee say what thou hast done with the 
 body ; for methinks the least thou canst do 
 is to let her have Christian burial." 
 
 " Whose body, dear lady ?" inquired he. 
 " Why, poor Mabel, whom thou hast 
 so foully murdered, answered the dame. 
 " Alack ! 'tis a grievous thing one so young 
 — and so well behaved too — should do so 
 horrible a thing." Kate stood still a mo- 
 ment, and regarded the suspected murderer 
 with a wonderful searching glance. 
 
 " I beseech you, think of me not so vilely !" 
 exclaimed the youthful Shakspeare, with 
 great earnestness. " By all things most 
 sacred, I do assure you, I got this blow in 
 endeavoring to stay the villains who carried 
 her off." Kate returned to her work with a 
 look of infinite satisfaction. 
 
 " Didst not hear what Sir Thomas said ?" 
 inquired the old lady, very gravely ; " and 
 dost really imagine that one of thy years 
 can know better of a thing than a justice 
 o' the peace, and a knight o' the shire, who 
 owneth lands in five counties ?" There- 
 upon the good dame shook her head with a 
 wonderful solemnity, and walked, in her 
 stateliest manner, out of the chamber. 
 
 " Prithee, Kate, bring us a jug of small 
 ale!" exclaimed the man with the indented 
 face, as he threw himself into a chair, 
 directly his mistress had closed the door. 
 " I'm horrible thirsty after all this fruitless 
 searching for poor Mabel." 
 
 " Body o' me, so am I, David !" said be 
 with the sheepish countenance, following 
 the other's example. " 1 feel as though I 
 had lived on pickled herrings for a whole 
 month of fast days, I be so uncommon dry. 
 Come Kate, bring us a tankard." 
 
 " Wait till thy betters be served, Hodge," 
 replied the girl, quickly. David looked hard 
 at Hodge, and Hodge looked hard at David ; 
 and then both looked very hard at their 
 prisoner. 
 
 " I pray you, good sir, to seat yourself," 
 said Kate to the latter, who still stood lean- 
 ing against the back of a chair, looking 
 faint and pale ; and thereupon she moved 
 the chair round fer him, convenient for hia 
 sitting. " Methinks you must want rest 
 exceedingly." 
 
96 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 * I thank you," replied he, taking her prof- 
 fered kindness very courteously ; I am in- 
 deed somewhat weary." 
 
 " O' my life I am monstrous sorry," ob- 
 served she, regarding him with an evident 
 sympathy ; " but I will make what speed I 
 can with your supper, so that you shall to 
 bed quickly and get you a good sleep, for 
 which I doubt not you shall be much the 
 better." 
 
 " I have no stomach for anything, I thank 
 you all the same," said the patient faintly. 
 
 " Nay, but you go not to bed supperless, 
 I promise you," exclaimed Kate, with one 
 of her pleasantest smiles ; " such light 
 victual must needs be what would do you 
 most good; and I will take care it shall 
 be greatly to your liking." As soon as 
 she had left the room, Hodge again looked 
 at David and David looked at Hodge, and 
 both looked at their prisoner harder than 
 before. After which the former laid his 
 piece carefully on his lap, and the other 
 did the same immediately ; then he of the 
 well-marked countenance, stooped forward, 
 poking out his chin and his lips towards 
 his companion, making a sort of half- 
 stifled whistling, and the owner of the 
 sheep-face lost no time in following his ex- 
 ample. 
 
 " I beseech you tell me," said William 
 Shakspeare, " if there exists any evidence 
 other than what I have stated for suppos- 
 ing the gentle Mabel hath come to any 
 hurt?" At hearing of this question the 
 two men looked at each other a little 
 harder, and whistled a little louder than 
 they had previously done. 
 
 " I would gladly hear any intelligence of 
 her safety," added he, upon finding he got 
 no answer ; but these words merely pro- 
 duced an accompaniment to the whistling 
 in the shape of the drumming of three 
 fingers of each of his guard upon the table 
 before them. Observing they did not choose 
 to speak, he delisted of his questions till the 
 entrance of the pretty handmaid with his 
 supper, of whom he inquired in a like man- 
 ner, telling her also he could get no answer 
 of. any kind from the persons she had left 
 with him. 
 
 "Why so churlish, I prithee !" exclaimed 
 Kate as she placed close to the wounded 
 youth a bowl of hot milk spiced with nutmeg 
 and cinnamon, and a fair white loaf, knife 
 and spoon, on a tray covered with a cloth 
 that seemed to rival the milk in whiteness. 
 4 Methinks 'twill do you no great harm to 
 open your mouths a bit, the which you are 
 ready enough to do over a full trencher." 
 
 " The justice hath commanded that we 
 
 have no communications with the prisoner," 
 observed David with extreme seriousness. 
 
 " And moreover hath desired that we 
 speak to him at our peril," added Hodge. 
 
 " A fig's end for the justice !" cried their 
 pretty companion, to the infinite astonish- 
 ment of the serving men ; " art so weak of 
 conceit as to suspect this good youth of so 
 improbable a thing as the killing of our 
 Mabel ? Why thou hast no more brains 
 than a blighted apple." Then turning to 
 the supposed murderer with an increased 
 kindness of manner, assured him that no- 
 thing was known concerning of the missing 
 person but what he had himself told, and 
 pressed him urgently to partake of what she 
 brought, so that he could not refuse; and 
 when she had again taken herself out of the 
 room David and Hodge looked at each other 
 and then at their prisoner so terrible hard, 
 their eyes must have ached for some niinutes 
 after. William Shakspeare took no notice 
 of them, although they were watching of kitm 
 narrowly. All at once the two men snatched 
 up their harquebusses as if they would have 
 them in readiness for immediate use, and 
 put all the valor they possessed into their 
 looks. They had observed he had taken a 
 knife into his hand, as they thought with no 
 other purpose than to stab them and then 
 make his escape ; but he merely used it for 
 the cutting of a slice off the loaf to sop in 
 his milk. This did not assure them. They 
 kept their gaze on his every motion with 
 extreme seriousness, save when he happen- 
 ed by chance to raise his eyes from the sup- 
 per he was languidly tasting, when on a 
 sudden they would be diligently examining 
 one or the other of their legs they were 
 swinging to and fro on the chair, with as 
 complete a carelessness as if they were 
 thinking of nothing. 
 
 Presently Kate returned again, bearing a 
 brimming tankard, which she put down be- 
 tween the two serving men. 
 
 " I doubt hugely thou dost deserve any- 
 thing of the sort," said she to them ; " thou 
 showest such uncivil behavior towards this 
 good youth. I would wager my life on't 
 he knoweth no more of the murder than a 
 child unborn." 
 
 " But his worship declareth he doth know 
 of it, Kate," observed David with more than 
 ordinary solemnness. 
 
 " And moreover hath determined 'twas 
 done by this person and no other," added 
 Hodge after the like fashion. 
 
 " I care not for fifty worships," replied she 
 flashing her dark eyes very prettily ; " or 
 for what they say, or for what they do, when 
 they show such marvellous injustice. Io" 
 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 W 
 
 •easonable— is't natural — is't credible, one 
 ot his years, with a countenance too as in- 
 aocent as is a lambkin — should take to such 
 rillainous courses? Why, what shallow- 
 witted poor creatures must they be who 
 would entertain such intolerable notions." 
 
 The rough-featured serving-man, as she 
 turned her back to approach the prisoner, 
 shook his head with a very wonderful so- 
 lemnity ; and then, not knowing what better 
 to be at, put his mouth to the tankard, and 
 whilst he drank, kept his watchful eyes 
 squinting over the rim in the direction of 
 the supposed murderer. After a time had 
 elapsed, which his companion thought was 
 considerable longer than it ought to have 
 been, he handed his sheep-faced companion 
 the tankard, wiping of his mouth with the 
 cuff of his jerkin at the same moment, and 
 looking such volumes of hidden meaning as 
 t is utterly impossible to express, to which 
 tie other responded by giving a hasty glance 
 at the roof and then a prodigious long one 
 into the tankard, to which his jaws appeared 
 to be fixed with such firmness there was no 
 getting of them apart. 
 
 " Now a fair good night to you ;" ex- 
 claimed the smiling little creature finding, 
 with all her kind persuading, she could not 
 ^et him to eat more of his supper. " You 
 fan go to bed as soon as you have a mind ; 
 fad I hope you will enjoy an excellent sweet 
 rest. Good night," repeated she, and gave 
 with it so soft a glance as if she intended to 
 have subdued all the manhood in his na- 
 ture. 
 
 " Good night !" replied William Shak- 
 speare earnestly ; and a million of thanks 
 for your great kindness." 
 
 Directly Kate had departed, David threw 
 himself back in the chair in the fullest con- 
 viction, from what he had observed, that she 
 entertained a design for the prisoner's es- 
 cape ; and doubtless the same conclusions 
 were come at by Hodge, for he put on his 
 countenance much the same sort of expres- 
 sion, and, seeing the supposed murderer 
 rising from his seat, both his guards grasped 
 their arms firmly on the instant, and started 
 to their feet, manifestly suspecting he was 
 about to rush upon them. This movement 
 of his, however, was merely made for the 
 purpose of throwing himself on the bed, 
 which he soon did with the clothes on, for 
 with a delicacy suitable to his years, he 
 liked not undressing of himself before 
 strangers. In truth, he was thoroughly ex- 
 hausted by pain, anxiety, and weariness, 
 and in a few minutes was in as deep a sleep 
 as ever he had enjoyed in his whole life. 
 
 The two serving men had returned to their 
 
 seats. Both gazed upon the young student, 
 and then at each other, as if they had huge 
 doubts he had any intention of sleeping. In 
 a short time all was as silent you might have 
 heard a pin drop, which silence seemed ex- 
 ceeding irksome to the guard. Each looked 
 to see his weapons were in good order — each 
 snuffed the candle — and each buried his 
 nose in the tankard; but the prisoner re- 
 mained motionless, and the silence grew all 
 the greater. It was evident from a number 
 of fidgetty ways they were continually exhi- 
 biting, that they could not longer remain 
 without some talking. 
 
 " Methinks Sampson's niece groweth hor- 
 ribly bold, Hodge ;" observed David at last 
 in a low voice. 
 
 " Ay, that does she," answered Hodge in 
 a whisper. " I never heard of such extreme 
 impudency in any wench." 
 
 " Heart o' me !" said the other ; " I did 
 myself hear her cry out, ' a fig for the jus- 
 tice !' which seemeth to me to smack abom- 
 inably of a wilful rebelling against these in 
 authority." 
 
 " Ay, David," added his companion ; " and 
 as I remember, she had the infamousness to 
 assert she cared not for fifty worships." 
 
 " My hair stood on an end at hearing it," 
 said David. " But I doubt not 'twill bring 
 down on her some awful judgment." 
 
 " It cannot help doing so," replied Hodge. 
 
 "Nevertheless, we must not say aught 
 against her of what we have heard," ob- 
 served he of the marks. " For she has some 
 lusty fellows of her acquaintance, who, per- 
 chance, might not take it civil qf us." 
 
 " Ah, that she hath!" quoth the sheepish 
 looking one with a famous seriousness. 
 " One of whom broke my head at the last 
 May games, because I laughed when she 
 slipped down, and showed somewhat more 
 of her ancle than is customary." - 
 
 " At least, we will take good heed she 
 shall not assist the prisoner to escape ;" ob- 
 served David. 
 
 " I warrant you," said Hodge. Again 
 there was so dead a silence it seemed to 
 make their flesh creep ; and they looked on 
 the sleeping youth in such a manner as 
 proved they would have liked any other 
 company. They turned over in their minds 
 the possibility of his suddenly rising ani 
 making some desperate effort at their des- 
 truction, with the expectation of saving his 
 own life by it ; and the more they thought of 
 it, the more convinced they were it would 
 be done ere they could be aware. This state 
 of apprehension at last became insupportable, 
 and both made a movement at the same 
 moment to turn their attention to another 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 matter. David raised the tankard to his 
 mouth to drown his fears in a full draught; 
 and Hodge snatched up the snuffers, despe- 
 rately intent on lessening the wick of the 
 candle, which he had been screwing up his 
 courage to do for the last half hour. Alack, 
 the trepidation he was in, caused him to snuff 
 it out ; and then they were in total darkness. 
 To be in company with an unfettered mur- 
 derer was bad enough of all conscience, but 
 to be left in the dark with him was more than 
 mortal courage would allow of. David 
 trembled so lie could not hold the tankard, so 
 down it went, and the noise it made so fright- 
 ened him and his associate, that they drop- 
 ped their harquebusses, and making for the 
 door, rushed down stairs at the top of their 
 speed, crying out, " murder !" as loud as 
 they could bawl. 
 
 About five minutes afterwards a most 
 formidable armament composed of every 
 male in the house armed to the teeth, some 
 half dressed, and here and there a nightcap 
 u) show they had been disturbed from their 
 sleep, crept cautiously up the stairs. They 
 gained the landing — the justice having plac- 
 ed himself in the centre of his household, in 
 a night-gown and slippers, a velvet cap on 
 his head, a drawn sword in one hand, 
 and a pistol in the other. Before him were 
 Sampson the gamekeeper and two of his 
 sons — all stout fellows, in foresters frocks, 
 carrying loaded pieces — then came Anthony, 
 David and Hodge, with drawn rapiers — the 
 knight next, and after him the grooms and 
 scullions with lights in one hand and some 
 goodly weapon in the other. Besides which, 
 from open doors were seen divers of the 
 women in their night dress, taking a peep 
 at what was going on, with a scarce repres- 
 sible inclination for a good scream. When 
 the men got near the door, upon David and 
 Hodge reminding them that the murderer 
 had with him two loaded harquebusses, no one 
 seemed inclined to go in before his fellows. 
 
 " How know you not he may be this very 
 moment behind the door," said David in a 
 terrible frightened way, that carried convic- 
 tion to most of his hearers. " Nay, I do 
 believe I hear him now levelling of his 
 piece !" This occasioned a sudden backing 
 of the armed party, and a famous scream 
 from the women. The knight said nothing 
 — for an indisputable reason — he had no- 
 thing to say — but he felt that he had known 
 the murderer had been so terrible a fellow, 
 he would have been hanged ere he would 
 have meddled with him. The dispute among 
 the leaders still raged high. • Every one 
 seemed desirous of giving his neighbor the 
 hono of going first ; but not one of all that 
 
 body but modestly declined having to do with 
 any such greatness. At last the argument 
 was put a stop to by the sudden appearance 
 of Kate with a lighted candle in her hand. 
 
 " What dost want, Kate ?" 
 
 " What dost want, Uncle ?" was said at 
 the same moment by the stout Sampson and 
 his pretty niece. 
 
 "The murderer is seeking to escape us •,'' 
 replied Anthony. 
 
 " Prithee get thee hence, or thou wilt be 
 shot," exclaimed one of her cousins. 
 
 " I marvel there should be such foolish- 
 ness !" observed Kate ; and the next mo- 
 ment, to the infinite horror and astonishment 
 of the whole party, walked deliberately into 
 the formidable chamber. 
 
 " I prithee come here, uncle Sampson, if 
 thou hast not lost thy wits as completely as 
 the rest," added she from the interior. 
 " Thou shalt see a sight as little akin to 
 violence as can be seen anywhere." Samp- 
 son creeped cautiously — his sons followed 
 their father with the like heed — the serving 
 men trod in the steps of the gamekeepers, 
 Sir Thomas Lucy and the rest of his de- 
 pendants, half curiousness and fear, pushed 
 forward in the like direction, and the women 
 with what they had hastily put on, came to 
 take a peep where they could. To the great 
 marvelling of all, there lay the supposed 
 murderer as fast asleep as ever he could be ; 
 and there lay the broken tankard ; and there 
 lay the fallen harquebusses. Now who was 
 so valorous as the justice ; he seemed as 
 though he would have cut his cowardly 
 serving-men into ribbons for having woke 
 up the whole household with so fabulous a 
 tale as they had told of the sudden and out- 
 rageous attack upon them of their prisoner ; 
 however, he contented himself with ordering 
 them to stay where they were and keep 
 better watch ; and then he, with the rest, 
 presently retraced their steps to their severa. 
 beds. 
 
 In tne morning William Shakespeare 
 woke up, marvellously refreshed by his 
 night's rest, and the first objects that met 
 his sight were his guards sound asleep, 
 snoring loud enough to wake anybody. 
 Inconceivable was the consternation of 
 David and Hodge, upon opening their eyes, 
 to find so dreadful a person close upon them, 
 but taking of them no more heed than if they 
 had been a couple of drowned puppies left in 
 a dry pond. Each cautiously sought to gain 
 possession of Ins fire-arms, which stood at a 
 little distance from them upon neighboring 
 chairs, and to their great joy this they suc- 
 ceeded in doing. Our young student, in his 
 turn, was in a considerable astonishment. 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 when, upon turning round with his face 
 dripping with water, to get to the towel, he 
 encountered the fixed fearful gaze of his 
 guards, whom a moment since he had beheld 
 m so perfect a state of somnolency. He 
 could not avoid standing looking at them for 
 a few moments, there was so strange an 
 expression in their countenances ; and they 
 gazed as though he had such power in his 
 eyes they could not turn their own aside. 
 However, directly he went to the towel, and 
 was rubbing himself with it, the two stared 
 at each other more intently than they had 
 ever done. 
 
 He had just got himself in his cleanest 
 trim, and feeling wonderfully comfortable, 
 when his pretty little friend the gamekeep- 
 ers niece, made her appearance with his 
 breakfast, in a kinder mood than ever ; and 
 he was sufficiently improved to do justice to 
 her catering, even had it not been garnished 
 with such winning entreaties and smiling 
 looks as accompanied it. He had scarce 
 made a finish of his meal when Dame Lucy 
 entered, bottle in hand, and finding him so 
 much better, she again washed his wound 
 with her infallible juiep, and then made him 
 «wallow a cup of the same, with a very visi- 
 ble satisfaction, especially when he grate- 
 fully ascribed his better health to her won- 
 derful medicine. Th> sld dame could not 
 forbear sighing at the thought of losing so 
 goodly a patient, and in her own mind 
 thought it monstrous pitiful one so tractable 
 in the taking of medicine, should be turned 
 over to so disreputable a physician as the 
 nangman. 
 
 . About an hour after this, closely escorted 
 by his guards, the prisoner entered the 
 justice's room. Sir Thomas sat in a high- 
 backed cushioned chair, with a screen at his 
 back to keep off the wind, and a table be- 
 fore him to hold such papers, books, and 
 utensils of writing as he needed. Jemmy 
 Catchpole sat at the end of the table mend- 
 ing of a pen, for he was sure to be sent for 
 on all knotty cases, to advise with the jus- 
 tice, and see that the law was properly 
 administered. There were several persons 
 — farmers and yeomen they looked to be — 
 setting on a long settle at the farther end of 
 the chamber, perchance on some business 
 with his worship, gnawing their sticks, fidd- 
 ling their hats, and staring about them, as 
 men do who are kept waiting in a strange 
 place, when they would rather be elsewhere. 
 Sampson, the stout gamekeeper, and his two 
 stout sons, with Anthony, a bull-headed, 
 pig's-eyed serving-man, having remarkable 
 thin legs, very much after the fashion of a 
 pair of nut-crackers, and two or three stupid 
 
 blubberly fellows of clowns, carrying staves 
 in token of their being constables, stood in 
 a half circle at a yard or so from the table. 
 Justice leaned back in his chair, looking 
 awfully solemn at Jemmy Catchpole, the 
 lawyer leaned forward on his stool, gazing 
 with equal solemnity at his worship ; and 
 the constables, gamekeepers, and serving- 
 men, stared from the ground to the ceiling, 
 and from the ceiling to the ground, with a 
 solemnness more awful than either. This 
 was the moment of the prisoner's appearance. 
 
 " Call William Shakespeare !" exclaimed 
 Sir Thomas, as soon as he noticed that there 
 was no occasion to do anything of the sort. 
 
 " Call William Shakespeare," repeated 
 the lawyer to one of the constables. 
 
 " WilPm Shuk — spur !" hoarsely bawled 
 out a short, thick, bandy-legged man, with 
 a face that would have out-blushed a poppy 
 
 The youth was just before him, and an- 
 swered readily to his name. 
 
 " William Shakespeare !" said the justice, 
 in his gravest voice ; " you are brought 
 before me, her Majesty's justice o' the 
 peace, on a charge — that is to say, you are 
 here before me accused of — yes, accused of 
 and charged with — -charged with divers 
 horrible offences — that is to say, criminally 
 charged with, or I might say, accused of, all 
 manner of misdemeanors, and with perpe- 
 trating and committing divers horrible "of- 
 fences against the peace of our sovereign 
 lady Queen Elizabeth ; whereof the first 
 against you is no less a crime than to be 
 accused of, or otherwise charged with, the 
 horrible offence of stealing — against the 
 peace of our sovereign lady Queen Eliza- 
 both, as aforesaid." 
 
 Having made so imposing a display of 
 his judicial oratory, his worship cried out— 
 " Call Anthony Gosling !" Jemmy Catchpole 
 repeated the command to the hoarse man 
 with the bandy legs. 
 
 " Ant'ny Gos — lin !" bawled the consta- 
 ble. 
 
 " Here !" replied a voice from the bull 
 headed serving man, and the thin legs made 
 two steps out of the half circle towards the 
 table. 
 
 " Swear him !" exclaimed the justice, and 
 the lawyer, laying hold of a little book, 
 mumbled a few sentences in a quick low 
 tone, at the conclusion of which Anthony 
 made a bob with his head towards the book, 
 and then held up his head again very stiff, 
 and looked very desperate. Just as this 
 was done, an interruption appeared in the 
 person of the pretty gamekeeper's niece 
 who presented a letter to the justice, the 
 sight of which set him making of another 
 
100 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 famous speech, accusing the prisoner of 
 stealing sundry books belonging to Sir 
 Marmaduke de Largesse ; and then putting 
 forth the letter as one just received from Sir 
 Marmaduke in answer to a communication 
 sent that morning by himself, concerning of 
 the charges against William Shakspeare, 
 he bade Jemmy Catchpole read it, as it 
 doubtless contained decisive evidence of the 
 prisoner's guilt. Jemmy Catchpole read it 
 very carefully, and the farther he read the 
 more astonished was the justice, for it not 
 only' contained a clear acknowledgment 
 that the book had been lent by the writer to 
 the prisoner, but spoke in the highest terms 
 of eulogy of this identical William Shak- 
 speare as a youth of admirable character, 
 whom he had long known and respected, 
 and begging Sir Thomas Lucy, as a partic- 
 ular favor, to treat that person honorably, to 
 let him retain the book which he had false- 
 ly been accused of stealing, and allow him 
 to return to his house immediately, on a 
 horse he had sent by one of his serving-men. 
 Sir Thomas would not believe his ears, 
 and could scarce believe his eyes, even 
 when he had himself closely examined the 
 hand-writing and the seal ; but he could not 
 so easily be brought to part with his prison- 
 er. There was the charge of murder yet 
 to be entered into ; and he was proceeding 
 in his usual rambling manner to state the 
 accusation, when one of the yeomen on the 
 settle started up on a sudden, and stated he 
 kd seen, when returning from work the 
 light before, the said Mabel carried in the 
 irms of a strange gallant, accompanied by a 
 companion, and both were riding at so great 
 a pace, they were quickly lost sight of. No 
 sooner did his worship hear this statement, 
 than sharply ordering Jemmy Catchpole to 
 return the book to the prisoner and dismiss 
 him, he stalked indignantly out of the cham- 
 ber, and could not be brought to do any 
 more justice business all that day. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Ah, my swete swetyng ! 
 My lytyl prety swetyng, 
 
 My swetyng wyl I love wherever I go ; 
 She is so proper and pure, 
 Full stedfast, stabill and demure, 
 There is none such ye may be sure, 
 
 As my swete swetyng. 
 
 Old Sons. 
 
 Mabel awoke in a feverish uneasy state 
 the morning after her abduction, and found 
 
 herself in a strange bed, having to it hang 
 ings of the costliest description. By de- 
 grees, the adventures of the preceding night 
 came upon her memory. She could dis- 
 tinctly remember the treacherous gallant 
 of her former acquaintance, and the forbid- 
 ding features of hi.- servile companion ; and 
 then she had some faint remembrance of a 
 courteous lady, who had assured her of her 
 safety, and after a wondrous show of kind- 
 ness and protection, had made her take such 
 refreshment as she needed, and then con- 
 ducted her, as she said, to her own chamber, 
 that she might sleep with a full sense of se- 
 curity. Sometime passed whilst the poor 
 foundling endeavored to collect her scattered 
 thoughts, to find out the reason she had been 
 forcibly taken from her home. 
 
 After wandering from one topic to another 
 with no other result than to get more be- 
 wildered than she was at first, she resolved 
 to dress herself forthwith, believing it to be 
 far beyond her usual hour for so doing ; but 
 when she sought her clothes, not a vestige 
 was to be seen in any part of the chamber. 
 This seemed stranger than all. She re- 
 membered the kind lady helping her to un- 
 dress with manifold assurances of her per- 
 fect safety ; and she recollected also placing 
 of her things upon a chair that stood within 
 a few paces of the bed ; but there was the 
 chair with its tapestry cushion uncovered 
 by so much as a single thread. As she was 
 marvelling* at so unaccountable a disappear- 
 ance, the door of her chamber opened, and 
 there entered a lady of considerable attrac- 
 tions, both in form and figure, yet a close 
 observer might have detected, despite the 
 artful bloom on her cheek, that she had pas- 
 sed her youth. Her head was dressed in 
 the latest Venetian tire ; an open collar of 
 the newest fashion disclosed the whiteness 
 of her neck, and a dress of orange tawney 
 silk, fairly trimmed with the whitest lace, set 
 off the proportions of her figure to the com- 
 pletest advantage. She was followed by a 
 female, who seemed by her dress to be a 
 servant, carrying on her arm what appeared 
 to be sundry articles of wearing apparel. 
 
 Doubtless the first of these two was the kind 
 lady of whom Mabel had been thinking, for 
 she came smiling to the bedside, kissed the 
 fair foundling with an amazing affectionate- 
 ness, asked a thousand questions in a breath 
 how she had fared, how she had slept, whether 
 she would rise, and what she would choose 
 to break her fast with ; and then scarce al- 
 lowing the other opportunity to give a single 
 answer, she informed her she had brought 
 her servant to tire her in such apparelling 
 as she had considered fittest for her weai^ 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 10) 
 
 as the things her young friend wore were 
 of far too mean a sort for a person she loved 
 so dearly. Mabel was not suffered to make 
 any objection. The rich beauty of her new 
 attire was temptingly displayed before her 
 admiring eyes, and jewels of the, fairest wa- 
 ter lay dazzlingly beside it. She thought 
 them a rare sight indeed ; but 'twas all in 
 vain she declared them to be much too 
 fine for her wearing, the kind lady would 
 hear nothing of the sort, stopped her mouth 
 with all sorts of endearing expressions, and 
 fairly pulled her from the bed, entreating 
 she would allow her sweet lovely person to 
 be attired without a word more. 
 
 As she was being dressed, she could not 
 help observing the exquisite work in the ar- 
 ras that surrounded the chamber, upon 
 which was depicted, in the most, glowing 
 colors the loves of Venus and Adonis. No- 
 thing could be so beautiful she thought, 
 save the carved corners of the bedstead, each 
 of which represented a naked Cupid, fig- 
 ured to the life, grasping the stem of a palm 
 tree with one arm, holding back the silken 
 curtains with the other, and looking under 
 them with an expression that seemed to say 
 there was in the bed something beyond con- 
 ception admirable. At each corner of the 
 chamber were fair statues of marble, the 
 very loveliest and lovingest objects that had 
 ever been produced by the sculptor's art, 
 and there was scarce any one thing about 
 her that did not bear on it such forms of 
 beauty as are most enticing to the young 
 and imaginative mind. Certes, for all such 
 cunning was displayed in these figures, 
 whereon whatever art could do in fashioning 
 what was most graceful had been essayed, 
 a piece of nature's more perfect handiwork 
 there present outstripped them all. 
 
 "O' my iife, sweetest creature! how ex- 
 ceeding beautiful thou art !" exclaimed the 
 lady, gazing on Mabel, as if in absolute 
 wonder. 
 
 " Dost think so, indeed !" replied the half- 
 dressed beauty, blushing somewhat, to the 
 great heightening of her most moving 
 graces. 
 
 "Think so ? O, thou dear rogue!" said 
 . the lady in an arch way ; " wouldst have 
 me believe thou knowest nothing of the mat- 
 ter ! Hast never looked on those unrivalled 
 features ? Hast never beheld those exquis- 
 ite limbs ? Fie ! fie ! Thou canst help 
 knowing it better than any, and thinking of 
 it too." 
 
 " Believe me, I have thought of it but lit- 
 tle," answered the pretty foundling. 
 
 " Nay I will believe nothing of the sort," 
 responded the other : " there was never a 
 
 woman yet that knew not her own attrac- 
 tiveness, and it is said some do occasionally 
 see and think more of it than other folks ; 
 but that there should exist in this world a 
 creature of the most ravishing loveliness 
 ever beheld, who knoweth, and thinketh but 
 little of her own rare perfections, is clean 
 out of all credibility." 
 
 " I assure you, it is as I have said," ob- 
 served Mabel. 
 
 "Heaven forgive thee!" exclaimed the 
 lady, shaking her head, and laughing very 
 prettily ; " never met I so undeniable a story 
 teller, and yet coming from so fair a source, 
 no truth could appear half so winningly. 
 Prithee, take my word then, since thou hast 
 such lack of proper acquaintance with the 
 subject ; and be assured, one more semely 
 featured, and gracefully limbed withal, is 
 not to be met with, search the whole king- 
 dom through." Then turning to the tire 
 woman, whose large eyes and full rounc 
 face, expressed somewhat of wantonness 
 she added, " What dost think of it, Abigail T 
 
 " An' it please you, my Lady Comfit, me- 
 thinks there needs no questioning," replied 
 the tirewoman, then on the floor fitting on an 
 embroidered shoe, seemingly of the smallest 
 size, as Mabel sat on a chair with the lady 
 leaning over her. " Touching the face, if 
 ever any man gazed on features so moving, 
 beauty hath gone out of my knowledge ; and 
 as for the person — who hath ever looked on 
 so neat a foot, so delicate an ankle — or sc 
 exquisite a leg as there are here ?" Mabel 
 blushing deeper than ever, because of there 
 being at that moment a greater display of hei 
 symmetry of limb than she thought becom- 
 ing, drew away her foot hastily, and rose 
 from her seat. 
 
 "Oh, the pretty rogue, how rosily she 
 blushes !" exclaimed Lady Comfit, laugh- 
 ingly drawing the abashed maiden towards 
 a large mirror. " Now, if thou wilt not be- 
 lieve other evidence, deny thyself if thou 
 canst." And thereupon her companion 
 pointed to the reflection. Mabel saw before 
 her a form and figure such as hath been de- 
 scribed, arrayed with all the choiceness 
 which skill in dress could give to them, for 
 she wore a velvet suit of a plum color, worn 
 low, and delicately powdered with gold and 
 pearl, her fair neck embraced with a neck- 
 lace of blushing rubies, and jewels of greater 
 rarity in her hair, ears, and stomacher. Tne 
 poor inmdling could hardly believe she was 
 the admirable creature she saw in all that 
 bravery, and Lady Comfit and Abigail look- 
 ed at each other, as if they mightily enjoy «*i 
 her astonishment 
 
 " Methinks I have never appeared eo 
 
103 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 comely in all my life before," observed the 
 6imple girl. 
 
 " Thou art right I doubt not," replied the 
 lady, with a smile ; " but thou shalt no 
 longer hide so bright a light. Come along, 
 I prithee, my sweet creature. Such rare 
 attractions should be rarely appreciated, or 
 huge wrong would be done thee. Thou 
 shalt have choice worshipping. This way, 
 1 dear sweet rogue, and I will tell thee more 
 anon." So saying, with her arm round the" 
 Waist of the gentle Mabel, Lady Comfit en- 
 tered an adjoining chamber. . 
 
 If the humble foundling had been dazzled 
 by the costly furnishing of the bed-chamber, 
 how much more reason had she to be simi- 
 larly influenced, when she beheld the great 
 splendor of the chamber she had just enter- 
 ed. The arras was more gorgeous, and on 
 it was depicted, in the very richest color- 
 ing, the loves of Jupiter, and others of the 
 heathen deities. In one place was Danae, 
 yielding her enamored nature to the golden 
 shower — a type of that species of affection- 
 ateness still met with in woman, that can 
 be -easily procured by the like means. 
 There, Leda caressing of the stately swan, 
 tvhose graceful movements and fair apparel- 
 ing, had so won upon her admiration — sym- 
 ►m'-h! of that sort of loving amongst the 
 t.x. which hata no better origin than mere 
 outward appearances ; and elsewhere, Eu- 
 ropa, borne over the yielding waves by the 
 bull, whose lustiness of limb had provoked 
 her to such hardihood as lost her to her 
 company — a right true picture of that sort 
 of feeling in women occasionally met with, 
 miscalled love, which doth so conspicuously 
 savor of the mere animal. Besides these, 
 were subjects out of all number of a like 
 description, so movingly delineated, that it 
 was scarce possible for any that gazed on 
 them, not to find their dispositions softened 
 into a similar tendency. 
 
 But every object in both chambers seemed 
 studiously fashioned so as to breathe of love 
 — not that love which is the pure offspring 
 of the affections, and can only live in the 
 rare atmosphere of intellectual beauty ; but 
 that more gorgeous blossom often mistaken 
 for t e modest flower of the same name, — 
 that springs from rank rich soils, and thrives 
 best in the stifling air of luxurious indul- 
 gence. Botl) apparently are warmed by the 
 same sun, so are the rose and the poppy— 
 and oft appear of the same glowing com- 
 plexion, as shall be found in the flower and 
 the weed just named ; but the one hath in 
 it so sweet an essence, that ever so small a 
 particle deligbteth the senses by its exqui- 
 siteness, and can do harm to none — whilst 
 
 the other secretes deadly intoxicating juices, 
 which give an unnatural stimulus to those 
 who take it for their enjoyment, fevers the 
 blood, poisons the nature, and kills the soul. 
 
 Lady Comfit allowed the simple girl to 
 admire as much as she would, without in- 
 terruption, the costly and subduing beauty 
 of the several ornaments of the chamber, 
 and then led her to a table prodigally gar- 
 nished with all manner of spicy viands and 
 stimulating wines. Meats and pasties, di- 
 vided the space with glass bottles filled with 
 the products of the choicest vineyards, rich 
 silver cups and platters, china dishes, and 
 embroidered napery. Mabel who had all 
 her life eat her simple meal of cold meat 
 and bread, off a wooden trencher, accompa- 
 nied with a draught of small ale from a 
 horn cup, looked in some amazement at 
 such store of tempting delicacies displayed 
 in vessels of such extreme value as here 
 presented themselves for her accommoda- 
 tion. Lady Comfit pressed her to name her 
 choice, and she seemed so sore puzzled that 
 the lady kindly recommended such dishes 
 as she herself most approved of, portions of 
 which the poor foundling thankfully ac- 
 cepted, and found of a marvellous delectable 
 flavor. 
 
 " And now what wine dost prefer, sweet- 
 est ?" inquired the lady lovingly. 
 
 " An' it please you I would rather a cup 
 of small ale," replied Mabel, at which the 
 lady and her tirewoman laughed very plea- 
 santly. 
 
 " Small ale, dear heart !" exclaimed Lady 
 Comfit. " Such drink is never for ladies — 
 'tis fit only for serving men, and such low 
 persons." 
 
 " Then perchance, a draught of spring 
 water might be had readily?" asked her 
 companion, at which the other two laughed 
 more pleasantly than before. 
 
 " Water !" cried the lady at last. " I'faith 
 I should be much to blame were I to let thee 
 swallow such unwholesome stuff. Here is 
 wine for thee, and plenty — the choicest 
 withal that ever came of the grape." 
 
 " But I am monstrous thirsty," observed 
 Mabel, " and wine is of too great a strength 
 for one so unused to it as am I, to quench 
 their thirst with." 
 
 " Tush, my sweet creature," replied Lady 
 Comfit ; " this wine is not so strong as small 
 ale, be assured of it. Is it, Abagail ?" asked 
 she of her attendant. 
 
 " 'Tis made expressly for ladies' drink- 
 ing, an' it please you, my ladv," answered 
 Abigail, very readily. "A child might 
 drink a bottle of it with as much innocence 
 as though it was mere water " 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 103 
 
 ** Without doubt," added his mistress, ta- 
 king one of the bottles and pouring part of 
 its rich contents into a silver goblet. " I 
 will myself show thee how harmless a beve- 
 rage it is." So saying she raised the brim- 
 ming vessel to her lips and swallowed it at 
 a draught. Assured by this that there could 
 be no harm in it, the unsuspicious Mabel al- 
 lowed herself to take a moderate draught, 
 seeing which her companions looked at each 
 other with a peculiar smile, and presently, as 
 she found the spicy nature of what she had 
 eat so plentifully, made her mouth hot and 
 dry, after the same pressing entreaties and 
 earnest assurances, she repeated it. At last 
 finding the simple girl could not be persuaded 
 to eat or drink a mouthful more, the attend- 
 ant cleared away the things, and Mabel was 
 'eft alone with the lady. 
 
 Directly they were alone the latter drew 
 aer chair close to that of her companion, 
 and with an irresistible air of sincerity and 
 friendliness, took one of the poor foundling's 
 hands in her own. 
 
 "What a happy woman thou art!" ex- 
 claimed Lady Comfit, with wonderful em- 
 phasis, and observing Mabel looked as 
 though she could not comprehend what 
 should make her so very happy, added with 
 Increasing earnestness, " What a proud wo- 
 man thou art !" This exclamation appeared 
 to be less understood than the preceding. 
 " At least thou shouldst be," added the lady, 
 in a marked manner. " I doubt not there are 
 thousands of women would give all they are 
 worth in the world to have thy good fortune." 
 
 " Indeed !" cried Mabel, in a famous as- 
 tonishment. 
 
 " Ay, that would they, my sweet crea- 
 ture," cried her companion, pressing her 
 hand very affectionately. " But who of 
 them all hath thy desert? Art thou not 
 formed to be loved as no woman was ever 
 loved before ?" At hearing this the poor 
 foundling appeared to marvel too greatly to 
 say anything. ' 
 
 " O' my word, thou art like to become the 
 envy of all women," continued Lady Com- 
 fit. "Methinks 'twould be a most pitiful 
 shame to allow of such perfections as thou 
 hast, to be shut up in an obscure place 
 where they can be seen of none who would 
 hold them in proper appreciation, whilst the 
 powerfulest noble in the land is sighing of 
 his heart away with a sweet hoping so fair 
 a creature might be esteemed of him, cher- 
 ished by him, and caressed by him in such 
 fashion as she is most worthy of. But I 
 will wager my life on't thou hast too noble 
 a spirit to be of such poor commodity ; and 
 ait of too kindly a disposedness to let a 
 
 princely gentleman, anxious to gratify thy 
 every wish, linger out his days in hopeless 
 misery, for lack of that happiness thou alone 
 art capable of bestowing." 
 
 " I ?" exclaimed Mabel, incredulously. 
 " Believe me, I know of no such person ; 
 have seen no such person. Surely there is 
 some huge mistake in this." 
 
 " Never did truer thing occur," replied the 
 lady. " It matters not that thou shouldst 
 never have beheld him — be assured he hath 
 seen thee, and, as it could not help being, at 
 the first sight of so much ravishing beau'ty, 
 his noble heart was taken close prisoner, 
 and he hath ever since been in a passionate 
 phrenzy of impatience for the gaining of thy 
 dear love." 
 
 " Methinks 'tis a strange way of showing 
 such, to tear me from my friends," observed 
 the poor foundling. 
 
 " 'Tis the way of these great ones, sweet- 
 est," answered her companion. "But 'tis 
 done out of no disrespect, be assured ; for 
 he hath ordered thou shalt be treated with as 
 much honor as though thou wert a crowned 
 queen." 
 
 " 'Tis exceeding strange !" said Mabel, 
 marvelling the more, the more she heard. 
 
 " Thou wilt see him anon," added the 
 other. " And doubt not he will love thee 
 with so deep a fondness, he will leave thee 
 no cause for one moment's disquietude. 
 Thou wilt be made happy straight — and 
 such happiness shalt thou enjoy as thou 
 hast never had experience of. All that di- 
 vinest love and boundless magnificence can 
 effect, shall crown thy wishes — never end- 
 ing pleasures shall entice thy inclinations 
 the whole day long — the splendid pageant- 
 ries of state— the homage bestowed on ab- 
 solute power — the observances and ceremo- 
 nials of highest rank shall be for thy par- 
 ticular honor on all occasions ; and wherever 
 thou art inclined to turn thy steps, thou shalt 
 meet with some new delight of infinite ex- 
 quisiteness provided for no other end than to 
 assist in making perpetual thy inconceivable 
 felicity." 
 
 "Indeed I know not what to say on such 
 a matter," observed her young companion, 
 somewhat bewildered at so magnificent a 
 perspective. " I am so very humble a per- 
 son,! cannot think myself fit to be raised to 
 so proud a station ; and in all sincerity I 
 say it, I would rather back to my friends, to 
 give place to some one more worthy." 
 
 " I will never allow of thy doing so fool- 
 ish a thing," exclaimed Lady Comfit, in 
 some seeming astonishment. " Thou must 
 needs be the worst possible judge of the 
 matter that exists ; and I am thy friend, 
 
104 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 sweetest, and therefore the very properest 
 to advise thee in such a case." And there- 
 upon the lady squeezed the foundling's hand, 
 and gazed on her more affectionately than 
 ever. 
 
 " I should fuel extremely hounded to you, 
 would you counsel me what to do," said the 
 simple girl. " In very truth, my humble- 
 ness seemeth to me utterly inconsistent with 
 such grandeur as you have spoken of. 
 
 " Nay, : tis thy modesty maketh thee think 
 so," replied the other. " None can be so fit 
 as thou art. Didst not note how famously 
 thou didst become these costly vestments ? 
 Just so admirably wilt thou become the love 
 of that princely gentleman who commanded 
 them for thy wearing. Trouble thyself 
 nothing concerning of thine own thoughts. 
 Thou art too young, sweetheart, to see these 
 things in the properest light. Let it suffice, 
 that the proud noble who loveth thee with 
 such infiniteness, in his heart alloweth of 
 none being so exalted ; and to convince thee 
 how great is his respect, hath required me, 
 Lady Arabella Comfit, an earl's daughter, 
 to be thy companion and friend, and show 
 thee such prodigal kindness as I would show 
 to no other living." 
 
 The poor foundling could scarce express 
 her estimation of being treated with such 
 handsomeness as to have an earl's daugh- 
 ter for her companion, and the latter having 
 at last managed to allay her doubts and ex- 
 cite her curiousness, bade her amuse herself 
 as she chose for a short time ; and then ca- 
 ressing her with extreme aftectionateness, 
 left the chamber. Mabel felt in a strange 
 state of excitement. Not a thought of ex- 
 treme unsuspiciousness which exists only 
 in perfect innocency and genuine truthful- 
 ness — a nature which, like a clear mirror 
 in the fair sunshine, is made to throw o'er 
 what it looks on, the light shining upon 
 itself. 
 
 In the meanwhile the Lady Arabella pro- 
 ceeded to a distant chamber, with an expres- 
 sion on her countenance very unlike what 
 she had put on before the gentle Mabel, and 
 as soon as she had opened the door, she 
 gave way to a most unequivocal satirical 
 sort of laugh. There was no one present 
 but a gallant of a middle age, dressed in the 
 foppery of the times, who had the look of 
 confirmed dissoluteness which a long course 
 of prodigal living usually bestows, and h» 
 was idling the time away by picking of his 
 teeth, with the remnants of his recent meal 
 before him. The room was nothing like so 
 choicely furnished as those the lady had left, 
 yet it had sufficient comfort in it to content 
 any ordinary person. 
 
 " Ha ! how flyeth the game, Mol ?" ex- 
 claimed the gallant, on noticing the en- 
 trance of his visitor. " Doth she take the 
 lure bravely ? Cometh she fairly into the 
 decoy ? But I see by thy laughing she hath 
 been so prettily mewed, that she careth not 
 to ruffle her feathers against the golden 
 wires of her cage." 
 
 " O, my life, thou hast hit it," replied the 
 lady, as she threw herself into a chair 
 " The pretty fool is in such conceit of her 
 splendid prison, she seemeth well content tc 
 stay in it all her days." 
 
 " She hath more wit than I have seen in 
 her, if she can get it to last beyond a month 
 or so," observed her companion ; " then she 
 may fly where she lists. But hast taken 
 care to fill her sufficiently with my lord ?" 
 inquired he. 
 
 " To the very throat," answered the other. 
 " Indeed, I have so crammed her with him, 
 that it must needs take some hours ere she 
 can require another meal." 
 
 " Nay, keep up her stomach, I prithee, 
 Moll," cried the gallant, laughingly. " When 
 my lord comes she may carve for herself. 
 I shall start off on the instant, to acquaint 
 him with the joyful intelligence, and ride 
 like a post all the way ; and I hope he will 
 bountifully remember my monstrous pains 
 to provide him with so dainty a leman ; for 
 in sober truth, my long ill luck at the 
 cards, a murrain on them ! hath left me as 
 near bare of coin as a pig's tail is of feath- 
 ers." So saying, with a laugh half stifled 
 with a yawn, he rose from his seat, stretch- 
 ing his arms out to the near bursting of his 
 doublet. 
 
 " As I live, I do look for some famous re- 
 ward myself, or I would not be so intent 
 upon the matter !" observed the lady ; " and 
 yet I marvel he should get so desperately 
 enamored of a raw chit, that hath scarce 
 sense enough to know that she walks upon 
 two legs." 
 
 " Methinks he had better have taken to 
 thee, Moll, eh ?" inquired he, somewhat in 
 sarcastic manner, " Mass ! there is exceed* 
 ing little of the raw chit about thee, I'll war- 
 rant ; and as for knowing, I would wager a 
 dozen marks thou couldst spare a goodly 
 share of thy knowledge, and yet be all the 
 better for't." 
 
 " For which I have to thank thee, thou 
 thrice accursed villain !" fiercely exclaimed 
 his companion, starting into a sudden rage 
 at the taunt. "I was well enough ere I 
 listened to thy beguiling." 
 
 " Doubtless," coolly replied the other ; 
 " well enough for one that is no better. And 
 as for beguiling, thou took it so readily, it 
 
 / 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 105 
 
 *u ■"-*>• t 'twas an exceeding familiar ac- 
 quaintance with thee." 
 
 " Thou lyest, thou paltry cozening knave !" 
 cried the lady, looking monstrous black at 
 him. " There could not be one more virtu- 
 ous in this world ere I had such ill hap as 
 to meet with thee." 
 
 " Marry, but I have huge doubts of that, 
 Moll," said the gallant, quietly putting on 
 his hat ; " virtuousness such as thine must 
 needs have been wonderfully cheap to the 
 haver, for, as I well remember, I did but 
 give thee a few pretty trinkets, a few pretty 
 words, and a few pretty caresses, and thy 
 virtue went to pieces, like a rotten apple un- 
 der a cart-wheel." 
 
 " Why thou infamous pitiful wretch, how 
 dost dare say such things of me !" exclaim- 
 ed the Lady Arabella, looking as terribly in- 
 dignant, and as horribly enraged, as a bad 
 woman could, who is taunted with her infa- 
 my. " Thou hast had the villainy to plot 
 my undoing — thou hast sought me, flattered, 
 fondled, and betrayed me to ruin — day after 
 day thou hast sworn thy honorableness and 
 thy undying affection into my deluded ears, 
 and I believing — poor fond fool ! — thy pro- 
 digal oaths and protestations, left a worthy 
 gentleman who loved me as his life — left 
 home, friends, all things that were most 
 worthy of my caring for, to cling to such 
 baseness as I have here before me !" 
 
 " Well said, Moll, o' my life well said !" 
 he observed, as if applauding her to the 
 echo. " I read the same notable speech, 
 word for word, in a book of jests I had 
 t'other day of one of my lord's players. I 
 should not have credited thy memory was so 
 good." 
 
 " Get thee gone, thou pestilent jackal, to 
 the lion thy master," cried his companion, 
 with no little bitterness ; " thy riotous ill-liv- 
 ing hath brought thee to such a pass, that 
 thou art a disgrace to thy family, and a 
 shame to thy friends, and can only continue 
 thy discreditable existence by coney-catch- 
 ing for some more prodigal villain than 
 thyself." At hearing this the other took to 
 whistling, yet he did it with so ill a grace, 
 'twas evident he was in no humor for mu- 
 sic. " Out on thee, thou cozening rascal !" 
 continued she, with increasing emphasis ; 
 " away, thou contemptible cheat ! What 
 new trick hast learned to take gulls by? 
 Art not in a brave humor for stealing 2 
 Wouldst cut a purse — wouldst cog — wouldst 
 foist — wouldst forswear thyself a thousand 
 times ? Go get thee a rope for thine own 
 hanging, and thou wilt save the constables 
 *he trouble of carrying thee to the gallows !" 
 
 " Hold thy cursed prate, thou foul-mouth- 
 
 ed ronyon !" said the gallant, in that deep 
 sort of voice which usually heralds a mon- 
 strous passion. 
 
 " Thou art a scurvy knave that would 
 willingly do such dirty work as other men 
 would scorn," replied the lady with infinite 
 disgust. 
 
 " Away, thou callet !" exclaimed tho 
 other contemptuously. " Thou wouldst 
 needs pass for a lady, forsooth, and hast a 
 monstrous hankering after gentility. Fine 
 o' my fife ! Moll Crupper a lady ! Alack, 
 for good manners ! The saddler's daughter 
 transformed into Lady Arabella Comfit. 
 Here's goodly coney-catching ! A fine 
 morning to you, an' it please you, my lady ! 
 I commend myself very heartily to your 
 ladyship's excellent consideration. Believe 
 me I am infinitely bound to you for your 
 ladyship's exquisite sweet condescension, 
 and very humbly take my leave of your 
 ladyship's most absolute and very admirable 
 noble nature." 
 
 So saying her companion, with a profu- 
 sion of mock respect, was making his way 
 towards the door, when Moll Crupper, who 
 liked so little to be minded of her bad dis- 
 posedness, evidently liked less to be told of 
 her low origin, for she darted from her 
 chair with a violent execration, and sprung 
 upon her accuser with the fury of a tigress, 
 pulling him by the hair with one hand, 
 whilst she curried his face famously with 
 the other. But this was borne with any- 
 thing save patience by the gallant. No lack 
 of coarse abuse mingled with the common- 
 est oaths accompanied her endeavors to do 
 him hurt, till after twisting her wrists till 
 she desisted of her attack, and cried out with 
 the pain, he pushed her away from him with 
 such force, that she fell on the floor as if 
 every sign of life had fled. This put the 
 gallant in some sort of fear, for he had many 
 reasons for at that moment no great harm 
 should happen to her, so he ran and lifted 
 her up with an extraordinary show of affec- 
 tion. But the pretended lady was far from 
 being dead. She knew what was going 
 forward, and was disposed to take advan- 
 tage of it, for she was well aware she could 
 not exist without the assistance of her com- 
 panion. She remained motionless as a 
 stone, till her associate in villainy had ex- 
 hausted every epithet of affection upon her 
 and every species of execration upon him- 
 self. And then she gradually opened her 
 eyes, gradually employed her limbs, and gra- 
 dually found the use of her tongue, as she 
 had been in the habit of doing during a long 
 series of similar conflicts. 
 
 " What a wretch have I been to use thm 
 
106 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 so uncivilly, my sweet life," said he, with 
 all a lover's fondness, as she rose from the 
 floor, half reclining in his arms, drawing 
 her hands over her face with a look that be- 
 spoke a perfect unconsciousness of what 
 had been going forward. " 1 know not 
 what devilish spirit possesseth me. " 'Slight, 
 I could go and beat out my brains against a 
 post, I feel such hatred of myself; for never 
 truer woman lived than thou art, my dear 
 Moll, and so exquisite a creature to love, I 
 shall never meet anywhere." 
 
 " Nay, nay, I have been to blame, sweet 
 heart," replied the fictitious Lady Arabella 
 very kindly. " I had no need to have an- 
 gered thee, for thou hast ever been a mon- 
 strous deal more good to me than I have de- 
 served." 
 
 " Say not so, my wanton," exclaimed her 
 companion with increased affectionateness. 
 " Thy deserts are beyond all reckoning, and 
 I hold thee in such absolute love as cannot 
 cease unless my life be extinguished." 
 
 " Dear heart, how I love thee for saying 
 that," cried she, in a perfect ecstacy. 
 " Thou art a noble, bountiful, brave gentle- 
 man as ever breathed, and I care not a rush 
 ferthe finest fellow that wears a head, for 
 lie can be nought in comparison with thy 
 inestimable sweet goodness." 
 
 What followed may be readily imagined. 
 Each of these two worthies, who a moment 
 since joined so soundly in mutual abuse, and 
 were desperate to do some mischief, now 
 held up each other's qualities, as beyond all 
 parallel, and would have gone through all 
 manner of dangers to have saved the other 
 from hurt. But these sort of scenes had 
 been common with them for a long time 
 past. They caressed, abused, and drubbed 
 one another with infinite heartiness — and 
 the next moment caressed, abused, and 
 drubbed, and with more heartiness than 
 ever. But it so happened on this occasion, 
 having gone through the regular series, they 
 left off at the first stage of the next, in con- 
 sequence of the gallant being forced to take 
 Ms departure without further delay. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 And then the lover, 
 Sighing like jwrnace, with a woful ballad 
 Made to hie mistress's eyebrow. 
 
 Shaespeare. 
 He coude songes make and wel endite, 
 Juste and eke dance, and wel pourtraie and 
 
 write. 
 So hote he loved that by nighteTtale 
 He slep no more than doth the nightingale. 
 Curteis he was, lowly, and servisable, 
 And carf before his fader at the table. 
 
 Chaucer. 
 If I had wytt for to endyte 
 Off my lady both fayre and free, 
 Of her goodnesse then wolde I write — 
 Shall no man know her name for me. 
 
 Old Song. 
 
 Sir Marmadttke de Largesse, his wor- 
 thy chaplain, and his old acquaintance the 
 Antiquary, were sitting round a table in the 
 library seemingly wonderfully intent upon 
 something. The good old knight sat back 
 in his seat with one hand upon the handle ol 
 his rapier, and the other resting upon the 
 arm of his high-backed chair, his benevolent 
 cheerful countenance impressed with a sort 
 of curious pleasure, and his white beard and 
 hair looking more silvery than ever they 
 had. At a little distance from him sat Sir 
 Johan, getting to be almost as lustily limbed 
 as his patron, his plump sleek features prov* 
 ing he had as much reason to be as prodi- 
 gally grateful to Providence as he had been 
 at any time ; and also exhibiting in his 
 countenance a pleasant mingling of curious- 
 ness and satisfaction. Both of these gazed 
 upon Master Peregrine, who, with as much 
 of the pantaloon in his appearance as ever, 
 sat forward leaning of his elbows on a large 
 book open upon the table, his hands holding 
 a paper, and his eyes peering through his 
 spectacles with a marvellous gratification, 
 sometimes at his companions, and anon at 
 what he held in his hands. 
 
 " Never read I anything so sv^eetly fash- 
 ioned !" exclaimed he. " I remember with 
 what singular exquisite satisfaction I first 
 read the most choice ballads of Fair Marga- 
 ret and Sweet William, Lord Thomas and 
 Fair Eleanor, and Little Musgrave and Lady 
 Barnard, but the pleasure was nought in 
 comparison with what I felt on perusing 
 this most rare writing." 
 
 " Marry, give me Cherry Chace, or the 
 Battle of Otterborne!" cried Sir Marma- 
 duke. " I never hear a verse of either but 
 it stirreth me like a very trumpet." 
 
 " I deny nothing of their excellence," ob- 
 •erved the chaplain ; " but who ceuld for a 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 10T 
 
 moment compare them with the inestimable 
 sublimity of Pindar, the luscious sweetness 
 of Anacreon, or the moving melodiousness 
 of Musaesus ? I do assure you, that among 
 the Greeks — to say nought of the Romans 
 — there is sucli brave store of odes, songs, 
 and elegies of the very choicest sort, as doth 
 exceed all possible comprehension." 
 
 " Tut, tut !" replied the antiquary, impa- 
 tiently; "wouldst make me believe there 
 hath ever been anything writ, or thought of, 
 more gallant than Havelok the Dane, more 
 pastoral than Harpalus, or more touching 
 than Lady Greensleeves ?" 
 
 " Beyond the possibility of doubting, wor- 
 thy sir," answered Sir Johan ; — f* there 
 shall easily be found in Homer things more 
 martial, in Theocritus things more natural, 
 and in Sappho things more tender." 
 
 "Passion o' my heart! what hath become 
 9f thy. wits, I wonder!" exclaimed Master 
 Peregrine, in a manner between astonish- 
 ment and indignation ; " I marvel that thou 
 fhouldst essay to prove thyself such an addle 
 wain. 
 
 " Nay, if any brains be addled, Master 
 Peregrine, it must needs be your own," re- 
 plied the chaplain ; for 'tis out of all sense 
 ind reason to slight the infinite choicer beau- 
 6es of classic song for a parcel of silly old 
 fctties." 
 
 " Silly old ditties !" echoed the enraged 
 antiquary, looking over his spectacles, as 
 though he had a mind to do Sir Johan some 
 grievous harm. " Is ' Lustely, lustely let 
 us saile forthe 1' a silly old ditty ? Is ' Kytt 
 hathe lost hur key,' a silly old ditty? Is 
 4 Jolly good Ale !' a silly old ditty ? Is Guy 
 of Colbronde, or Sir Tristrem, or John Dory, 
 or a thousand others of the like unmatchable 
 perfectness, silly old ditties ? thou shallow- 
 witted, ignorant, poor goose, thou !" 
 
 " I cry you mercy, my masters," exclaim- 
 ed Sir Marmaduke, good-humoredly, as he 
 had oft done on many similar occasions. 
 " When you get to talk of these matters, 
 you are like unto two lusty bulls, who can- 
 not enter the same pasture without going 
 to loggerheads. Surely, in advocating the 
 excellency of a thing, there is no argument 
 in squabbling." 
 
 " Silly old ditties !" repeated Master Per- 
 egrine, with considerable emphasis. 
 
 "For mine own part," continued the 
 knight, " though I will in no way seek to 
 lessen the estimableness of the ancient wri- 
 ters, either Greek or Latin, some how or other 
 these same old ballads afford me that rare 
 pleasure I have never found in songs of a 
 more classic sort." 
 " Perchance, I am somewhat to blame, in ■ 
 
 having expressed myself so slightingly of 
 such things," observed Sir Johan, whose or- 
 thodoxy never led him to oppose his patron's 
 opinion; "I meant no offence, believe me. 
 Indeed, I do opine some of these excellent 
 fine ballads, so liked of my esteemed friend 
 here, are of a wonderful delicate concep- 
 tion ; but Providence, who is ever so ex- 
 ceeding bountiful, hath wisely ordained us 
 different tastes, that one liking one thing, and 
 another liking something different, no one 
 thing should exist without being held in 
 some estimation." 
 
 "Silly old ditties!" Master Peregrine 
 would have said again, but his better nature 
 prevailed, and he swallowed the muttered 
 words ; yet, with an air of triumph, as if he 
 thought himself on a par with one of his 
 beloved heroes of the Round table. 
 
 " And now for that sweet song you have 
 promised us," exclaimed Sir Marmaduke; 
 you have spoken of it so fairly I am all im- 
 patient to be hearing it." 
 
 " O' my word . and so am I," replied his 
 chaplain, eagerly ; " and as Master Peregrine 
 hath such famous judgment in these matters, 
 I doubt not he hath a rare treat in store for 
 us." At this compliment to his judgment, 
 all trace of displeasure vanished from the fea- 
 tures of the antiquary ; and he said some civil 
 speech, in modest denial of having more judg- 
 ment than so learned a person as Sir Johan, 
 took off his spectacles, wiped them carefully, 
 replaced them, hemmed some twice or thrice, 
 brought the paper somewhat closer to his 
 nose, and with an appropriate serious man- 
 ner read what is here set down : 
 
 THE POETS SONG OF HIS SECRET 
 LOVE. 
 
 " Upon the dainty grass I lay me down 
 When tired of labor on mine eyelids rest, 
 
 And then such glad solaee I make my own. 
 As none can know, for none can be so 
 blessed. 
 
 For then my sweeting comes so gallantlie, 
 
 I cannot but eonceive she loveth me. 
 
 I prythee tell me not of such bright fires 
 As burn by day or night in yon fair skies ; 
 
 For when I bring her to my ehaste desires 
 Sun, moon, and stars are shining in her eyes. 
 
 For then my sweeting, so well-favoredlie, 
 
 With Heaven-like gaze declares she loveth me ! 
 
 The tender blossoms blush upon their bowers. 
 The luscious fruit hangs trembling by the 
 Leaf: 
 
 But her rose-tinted eheek out-glows all flowery 
 Her cherry lips of fruits I prize the chiefl 
 
 For then my sweeting so delightsomelie, 
 
 Doth take her oath upon't, she loveth me ! 
 
108 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Alack, what pity 'tis, such moving sight 
 
 Should cheat my heart within an idle dream ! 
 
 Tis fantasy that brings such loving light — 
 The fruit I never taste — but only seem : 
 
 Oh, would my sweeting in all honestie, 
 
 Vouchsafe to give some sign she loveth me 
 
 I take no pleasure now in pleasant sports, 
 I find no profit in books old or new ; 
 
 I hie me where my life's fair queen resorts, 
 For she's my pastime and my study too : 
 
 And of my sweeting, say I urgentlie — 
 
 What would I give to know she loveth me ! 
 
 Yet though my heart with her so long hath 
 been, 
 I know not she takes heed of my behoof, 
 I gaze on her, yet care not to be seen — 
 I long to speak, and yet I keep aloof. 
 And whilst my sweeting fills my thoughts— 
 
 Perdie ! 
 How oft I think — perchance she loveth me. 
 
 Wher'er I turn methinks I see her face, 
 If any lovely thing can there be found ; 
 
 The air I breathe is haunted with her grace, 
 And with her looks the flowers peep from the 
 ground. 
 
 I pray my sweeting, very earnestlie, 
 
 She may incline to say she loveth me. 
 
 But when from all fair things I travel far, 
 Enwrapped within the shroud of darkest 
 night; 
 
 She rises through the shadows like a star, 
 And with her beauty maketh the place bright. 
 
 And of my sweeting breathe I tenderlie, 
 
 Fortune be kind, and prove she loveth me !" 
 
 " Indeed, 'tis a sweet ballad and a simple !" 
 exclaimed Sir Marmaduke, who had listened 
 with a famous attentiveness. 
 
 " And of a most chaste and delicate fancy," 
 added his chaplain, who seemed not a whit 
 less pleased. " O' my word, it is long since 
 I have heard verses writ with so natural a 
 grace, or of so truly dainty a conceit. It 
 remindeth me of those exquisite simple, ten- 
 der poems, that are to be found here and 
 there scattered amongst productions of the 
 minor Greek poets." 
 
 " Dost not know by whom it is written, 
 Master Peregrine," inquired the old knight, 
 seemingly to prevent the scornful reply the 
 antiquary was about making to Sir Johan's 
 allusion to the superiority of the classic 
 writers. 
 
 " No, nor can I guess," answered Master 
 Peregrine ; " I have never seen nor heard of 
 it before, and I am in some doubt as to its 
 exact age, yet I could venture to make a 
 guess from certain marks it hath, that it 
 cannot be later than the time of Henry the 
 Eighth." 
 
 " 'Tis like enough," observed Sir Marma 
 duke. " Perchance, it may be one of those 
 same ballads our young scholar hath learned 
 of his mother, and hath copied for your ex- 
 press delectation, left it in the book, and so 
 forgot it." 
 
 " Nay, that can scarce be," replied the 
 antiquary; for he hath oft times told me he 
 knew of no more than such as he had already 
 given," 
 
 Just at this moment, the conversation was 
 stopped by a knocking at the door, and the 
 entrance of the very, person they were speak- 
 ing of, who received a hearty welcome from 
 all, but particularly from the good old knight. 
 William Shakspeare glanced around as if in 
 search of some one, but evidently by his 
 looks, he saw not the one he wanted. 
 
 " What, hast had a bout at cudgel play ?" 
 exclaimed Sir Marmaduke, merrily, as he 
 noticed the bandage that still remained upon 
 William Shakspeare's wounded head. There- 
 upon, he presently told how he had got it, 
 which seemed to set them marvelling great- 
 ly, and the old knight was much moved at 
 hearing that the fair creature he had helped 
 to save from villains at Kenilworth was now 
 completely in their power. He kept asking 
 of questions about which way they went, 
 and what sort of persons were they, inter- 
 mingled with expressions of grief for the 
 fate of the pretty damsel, and of hostility 
 against her betrayers. He got, however, 
 but indifferent answers, for in truth the youth 
 knew a very little more than himself. Mas- 
 ter Peregrine, whose appreciation of ballads 
 was much higher than that of women, man- 
 ifested no inconsiderable impatience at this 
 turn in the conversation. 
 
 "Will Shakspeare!" cried he, at last; 
 "Prithee come here ; I want thee awhile." 
 The young student left Sir Marmaduke, and 
 approached close to the antiquary. " Thou 
 wilt do me a service, if thou wilt tell me 
 where gottest thou this ballad." William 
 Shakspeare glanced his eye at the paper, 
 and on the instant, a very perceptible blush 
 mantled his fair features. " Where didst 
 have it from ?" 
 
 " I wrote it, an' it please you, worthy sir," 
 answered the young student, somewhat fal 
 teringly. 
 
 " Ay, 'tis in thy hand, I see ; but whence 
 came it ?" inquired the other, more urgently. 
 
 " By'r lady, I do suspect the young rogue 
 hath made it of his own invention," exclaim- 
 ed the old knight. 
 
 " So think I," added the chaplain. 
 
 " Ey ; dost mean to say these delicate 
 verses are out of thine own head ?" cried 
 the antiquary, in exceeding astonishment 
 
1HE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 109 
 
 t Indeed, they are truly of my poor indit- 
 !>g,'" replied the young poet, modestly. 
 S*drce were the words well out of his mouth 
 when Master Peregrine, in an ecstacy of 
 admiration, threw his arms round his neck, 
 and hugged him as though he were a prodi- 
 gal son returned to his old father after a long 
 absence. 
 
 " Why thou delectable sweet rogue !" ex- 
 claimed he, " where didst get such admira- 
 ble choice ideas ?" 
 
 " Methinks 'tis plain enough whence they 
 proceeded," observed Sir Johan, with mar- 
 vellous satisfaction. " I have taken huge 
 pains for some length of time our young 
 friend should have a proper acquaintance 
 with the treasures of classic song, both Greek 
 and 'tis an easy matter to see how much my 
 scholar hath profited by my instruction : for, 
 as I said when I first heard those verses. 
 they do remind me powerfully of some spe- 
 cimens of the minor Greek poets." 
 
 " Remind thee of a fig's end !" exclaimed 
 Master Peregrine, contemptuously. Cannot 
 any one see with half an eye — save those 
 ignorant poor coxcombs who are blind as 
 bats — that this is a true ballad of the choice 
 4ld school ; and it is not well known what 
 fcrtreme pains-taking I have had with this 
 ly scholar from the first, that he should be 
 well-grounded in ballad lore ; and lo ! here 
 is my reward — which in very truth, exceed- 
 eth my most sanguine expectations." 
 
 " Nay, I will be bound by his answer," 
 said the chaplain, not at all disposed to give 
 up the honor of having produced so credi- 
 table a scholar. "Prithee declare, my ex- 
 cellent young friend, whether I have not, at 
 all convenient times, bespoke thy commen- 
 dation of all that was most admirable in 
 classic song ?" 
 
 " That have you, honored sir, and I thank 
 you very heartily," replied the youthful 
 Shakspeare. Sir Johan looked satisfied. 
 
 " And tell me this, my king of nightin- 
 gales," cried Master Peregrine, too confident 
 of his own right to allow of being deprived 
 of them. " Have I not taken opportunity by 
 the hand with thee, to make thee familiar 
 with the rarest ballads that ever were writ ?" 
 
 "Indeed you have, worthy sir, and I shall 
 feel beholden to you all my life long," an- 
 swered the young post. Sir Guy never 
 looked so triumphant as did our antiquary. 
 
 " I will maintain, those verses are of the 
 true lyric fashion," observed Sir Johan, " and 
 therefore they cannot help being the result 
 of an acquaintance with their classic pro- 
 totype." 
 
 "Classic pudding!" exclaimed Master 
 Peregrine, getting to be somewhat in a rage. 
 
 " If any will prove to me these verses are 
 Greek verses, or Latin verses either, then 
 will I allow they came of such teaching ; 
 but since it is plain to common sense, that 
 what I here hold is a ballad, and, moreover, 
 an English ballad of the true, simple, grace- 
 ful, chaste style of English ballad writing, 
 methinks it shall want no conjuror to say it 
 had its origin in that inimitable famous 
 school, and oweth not one jot to Greek or 
 Latin, or any such pitiful, poor, weak, dull, 
 shallow, unprofitable rubbish." 
 
 Rubbish!" cried the chaplain, astonished 
 and indignant in no small measure ; and he 
 would doubtless have expressed himself with 
 some force to that effect, had not Sir Mar- 
 maduke at that moment stopped him, by 
 asking William Shakspeare if he had 
 written anything of the sort before. To 
 which he replied it was his first attempt ; 
 and to further questions answered, he had 
 been reading of some choice love songs, and 
 all at once he had a great desire to essay 
 something of a like kind. Thereupon he 
 got paper, and with a pen wrote those lines, 
 which, not thinking muclvof, he had left in 
 the book, intending to try and do something 
 better at another time. This made all 
 marvel greatly. 
 
 Certes, it was far out of ordinary things to 
 find one, still a boy as it might be said, 
 wooing of the Muses in such proper style. 
 Yet, though none saw it, there had been 
 gradual preparation of this for some time. 
 The youthful poet had held communion with 
 the philosophy of nature for years past, 
 through that spirit of intelligence which 
 breathes o'er all which belongeth to the 
 beautiful and the good. He had laid down 
 to dream of it; he had woke up to worship 
 it. Wherever he went he beheld its pre- 
 sence. In all seasons he had felt its influ- 
 ence. The voices of the murmuring river 
 called to him in his solitude — the shadows 
 of the deep dark woods fell upon his thoughts 
 — the opening glade, the far-off hills, and 
 the fair skies, in all their glorious pageantry, 
 haunted his hours of rest — the silent night 
 rung with the echoes of a thousand songs 
 tuned by the rarest band of forest choristers, 
 and even in the chillest winter, when the 
 trees bear naught but icicles, and the hard 
 ground is smothered with frost and snow, 
 where'er he walked the choicest flowers 
 bloomed in their most fragrant robes — the 
 sun smiled lovingly before his eyes; and 
 verdure, sweetness, and beauty, made for 
 him, all around, a garden of. the very ex- 
 quisitest delight. 
 
 But of late he had felt a something more 
 than this ; all the lovingest things of natur* 
 
*10 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 he had made of his familiar acquaintance, 
 and had found in them such wisdom as 
 nature never hath bestowed elsewhere ; but 
 to comprehend this wisdom in its fullest 
 meaning required the assistance of an in- 
 terpreter. This interpreter was Love. This 
 Love though, let it be known, as yet he was 
 content with knowing at a distance. He 
 had seen of him but little, just enough to 
 know him by, and liked not appearing too 
 bold a visitor, but rather a respectful ac- 
 quaintance or humble poor friend, that would 
 be glad of some help, but dare not, out of 
 reverence, attempt any such familiarity as 
 the acquainting him with his wants. Never- 
 theless he had managed in this slight com- 
 panionship to acquire at his hands some 
 small portion of that power which argueth 
 a knowledge of all natural wisdom — and 
 that was poetry. It had made its appear- 
 ance like a fresh pure spring trickling in 
 the delicatest, clearest drops down a fair 
 hill covered with verdure and studded with 
 all manner of sweet blossoms; and now 
 having it at its source, all that is to be done 
 is to trace the progress of the stream, till it 
 rushed a mighty river into the great ocean 
 of immortality. 
 
 Finding that Sir Valentine had gone to 
 join a hunting party some miles off, the 
 young poet bent his steps homewards in 
 great trouble of mind, because he knew not 
 what to do regarding the poor foundling. 
 As he was crossing the field, so lost in his 
 musings as to be perfectly regardless of all 
 other things, on a sudden a pair of hands 
 from some one behind caught him round the 
 head and blindfolded him, and a loud laugh 
 burst from several voices, after that fashion 
 used by boys when they have succeeded in 
 playing off any famous drollery. 
 
 " Now Will !" cried one, " use thy wits, 
 I prithee, and tell us who hath hold of thee ?" 
 
 ■'Nay, let me hear the voice," replied 
 William Shakspeare, taking their pleas- 
 antry in very good part, though he felt not 
 in the humor to join in it as heartily as he 
 was wont. 
 
 " Odds codlings, that thou shalt, I'll war- 
 rant," answered a trembling old woman's 
 voice close behind him ; " for as I was a 
 saying no later than the week before last 
 Martlemas, over a brave fire in the chimney 
 corner of Neighbor Bavins -." 
 
 " Why, Mother Flytrap !" exclaimed the 
 youthful Shakspeare, who had listened in 
 exceeding astonishment, " how didst get so 
 close to me and I not know it ?" At this 
 the laugh was louder than before. 
 
 " Here is a vile world !" cried some one 
 in the dismalest tones ever heard ; " here is 
 
 a monstrous villainy ! How darest thou to 
 do such intolerable wickedness as to play 
 the infamous game of hot-cockles in so holy 
 a place as the church-yard ?" 
 
 " I, Oliver Dumps !" exclaimed the blinded 
 youth in huge consternation : " believe me, 
 I have not played at hot-cockles this many a 
 day." Whereupon the young rogues ap- 
 peared as though they would have rolled 
 themselves in the grass they enjoyed them- 
 selves to such excess. 
 
 " An' it pul-pul-pul-pul please you," stut- 
 tered another familiar voice, "mum-mum- 
 mum-mum master says, he wer-wer-wer-wer 
 wants you to send him word — wer-wer-wer- 
 wer what sixpenny gloves are a pair !" 
 
 "Why, sixpence, to be sure, Dickon," 
 replied the other. " But I have a monstrous 
 suspicion thou hast been sent on a fool's 
 errand." Upon this all laughed so long and 
 loudly, it looked as if there would be no end 
 to their mirth. 
 
 " O' my life, now here is Tom Greene at 
 his tricks again!" said William Shaks- 
 peare all at once, for the other had betrayed 
 himself by vainly attempting to stifle his 
 laughter, and at this the hands were taken 
 off his eyes amidst the uproarious shouting 
 of the whole party, and turning round, hi 
 beheld his old schoolfellows, Greene, Bui 
 bage, Condell, and Hemings, staggeriia 
 about with all sorts of strange motions, ani, 
 filling the air with peal after peal of laughing. 
 
 " 1 was thinking of another matter, Tom," 
 said the youthful Shakspeare, " else should 
 I have found thee out much sooner, for all 
 thou art so famous a mimic." 
 
 " Was ever so rare a jest played !" ex- 
 claimed one with a handsome cheerful 
 countenance. (i No hungry luce ever took 
 a hooked gudgeon more unsuspiciously than 
 did Will Tom's well-managed baits. Mother 
 Flytrap, Oliver Dumps, and stuttering Dic- 
 kon, he would have sworn were behind him 
 with as little remorse as a pig eats chesnuts ; 
 yet I will forswear pippins and marchpane 
 if any other spoke save Tom Greene." 
 
 " I'faith ! the cheat was well managed, 
 Dick, I will allow," answered young Will ; 
 " but Tom is so Proteus a varlet, 'tis an 
 easy matter for him to play the old woman, 
 or perchance make such a wfttol of himself 
 as Dickon, or even take off the melancholy 
 constable till such time as the melancholy 
 constable may choose to take off him." 
 
 S' What, wouldst have me in the stocks, 
 thou rogue !" exclaimed Tom very merrily. 
 " Marry. ! I like not such hose to my legs. 
 But come, let us play a play, Will ; we 
 have not had that pleasant pastime of guts 
 for weeks past " 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 " A play, Will— a play, I prithee!" cried 
 Dick Burbage. " We have been looking for 
 thee far and near, for I have got me a right 
 ; mirthful interlude which my father ha^h left 
 behind him, and if thou wilt take a part, we 
 will do it in brave style, I warrant." 
 
 "Nay, let us have Gammer Gurton 
 again!" said a stout sturdy little fellow, 
 rather urgently. 
 
 " Thou art ever for playing Gammer Gur- 
 ton, Condell," observed a tall, sharp-looking 
 boy. " Let us have that goodly play of the 
 Four P's. Will Shakspeare can do the 
 Poticary, Dick Burbage the Pedlar, Tom 
 Greene the Pardoner, and I the Palmer." 
 
 " And prithee, what shall I do in it, Hem- 
 ings ?'" asked Condell. 
 
 u As I live, thou shalt have enough to do !" 
 replied his companion ; " for thou shalt play 
 U.e part of all the spectators." At hearing 
 this there was another good laugh amongst 
 
 tbeui. 
 
 * At present I have neither time nor hu- 
 mor for playing," answered William Shaks- 
 peare ; " nor can I tariy a moment longer, 
 for pressing matters hurry me away." This 
 answer was evidently but little relished by 
 any of the party, and they tried no lack of. 
 entreaties and persuasion to get him to join 
 in their sports. Nevertheless they could not 
 prevail in any wav and finding such to be 
 the case, they parted with him at the top of 
 Henley-street, and straightway made for a 
 field called Salisbury-pit* ce to have a play by 
 themselves. 
 
 John Shakspeare had been enquiring of 
 the neighbors the whole morning long ; but 
 getting no intelligence of his son, he had 
 returned with a little misgiving io his anxi- 
 ous wife. With her he found the Widow 
 Pippins, in as merry a mood as ever, and 
 Mistress Malmsey and Mistress Dowlas 
 looking with such kindness and comeliness 
 as if they never intended to lessen the 
 pleasantness of their features or behavior ; 
 and they had stepped in, hearing that Wil- 
 liam was not to be found, to offer their ad- 
 vice and sympathy, and hopes for the best, 
 to their somewhat desponding neighbor. 
 The widow had just described an exquisite 
 jest she had played upon a drunken falconer, 
 by abstracting the game from his bag, and 
 putting therein a litter of kittens she had 
 drowned the day before, and the aldermen's 
 wives were laughing heartily to induce their 
 ead hearted gossip to follow their goodly 
 example. At this moment returned John 
 Shakspeare from his fruitless errand, who 
 was assailed by a whole succession of ques- 
 tions from all the women, to which his an- 
 swers appeared in no way satisfactory, for 
 
 though they spoke very forcible their con- 
 victions, he was in this place or in that, 
 beyond all contradiction, they marvelled 
 exceedingly where he could have got to. 
 
 " It is so little like him to play the tru- 
 ant with us," observed Dame Shakspeare, 
 striving to appear more satisfied with the 
 matter than she was. " Indeed, he giveth 
 me but small cause of blame, save that he 
 will sometimes be poring over a book when 
 he should be taking of his proper rest." 
 
 " Well, it doth puzzle me famously to 
 know what some folks see in books," said 
 the merry widow. " For mine own part, I 
 care not for the best that ever was WTit, 
 unless it be a book of jests or riddles, and 
 then I must have some one to read them, for 
 reading never took to me, and therefore 'tis 
 natural I never took to reading. By my 
 troth, now I do remember a fine jest as ever 
 was played upon Sir Nathaniel, with a cer- 
 tain book of riddles that was left at my house 
 by a strolling minstrel." 
 
 The widow Pippins had scarce com- 
 menced her narrative, when the door opened, 
 and he whom they had been in such travail 
 about, made his appearance. All manner of 
 exclamations saluted his entrance ; some 
 began to scold, and some to question, but he 
 took no heed of then till he had received hia 
 mother's caresses, and then very readny 
 made them acquainted with all that had 
 happened to him. Here was famous matter 
 for marvelling, and none of the gossips al- 
 lowed it to lie idle on their hands. The 
 aldermen's wives, who knew every body and 
 everything, entered into a famous history 
 of Mabel. As for the forcible abduction, 
 some considered it done by the parents to 
 recover their child secretly, others suspected 
 it was a scheme of Tom Lucy, assisted by 
 some of his college companions as wild as 
 himself, with no honest intention, but the 
 widow stuck out it was nothing more than 
 a jest of Sir Thomas' to afford himself a new 
 subject for boasting of his marvellous clever- 
 ness in the playing of tricks. 
 
 Having exhausted all they had to say 
 upon the subject, the gossips took their de- 
 parture, and John Shakspeare was left to the 
 society of his wife and children. Of him it 
 may be necessary here to say, he had gone 
 on struggling, but the same reverses met all 
 his exertions. He could scarce get a living 
 even in the humblest manner, and he was 
 often reduced to the saddest shifts that pov- 
 erty can endure, but he went on with the 
 same resolution, making no complaint to any, 
 and striving to appear as contented as the 
 rest. As for John a Combe, he proceeded 
 much in the same way — unsocial, uncharita- 
 
112 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 ble, careless of his own comforts, and heed- 
 less of that of others — never opening his 
 mouth to any person, save in the way of bu- 
 siness, unless to breathe such bitterness of 
 heart as showed the fearful change that had 
 come over his once noble and generous na- 
 ture. But what had worked this fearful 
 change none knew. The effects were ter- 
 ribly conspicuous. Every one beheld them 
 and grieved at them ; and put up with his 
 uncivilness out of respect for the honorable- 
 ness of his behavior at an earlier time. Yet 
 of the cause the most knowing of the gossips 
 of the town knew nothing whatever. They 
 marvelled more and more every day, till its 
 commonness took off the edge of their won- 
 der. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 The subject of all verse 
 Sydney's sister, Pembroke's mother. 
 
 Ben Jonson. 
 
 Give place, ye lovers, here before 
 
 That spent your boasts and brags in vain ; 
 
 My lady's beauty passeth more 
 
 The best of yours, I dare well faine, 
 
 Than doth the sun the candle light, 
 
 Or brightest day the darkest night, 
 
 Lord Surrey. 
 
 Art thou my son, that miracle of wit, 
 
 Who once, within these three months, wert es- 
 teemed 
 
 A wonder of thine age throughout Bononia 1 
 
 How did the university applaud 
 
 Thy government, behavior, learning, speech, 
 
 Sweetness, and all that could make up a man !" 
 
 Ford. 
 
 Both flowers and weeds spring when the sun is 
 warm, 
 
 And great men do great good or else great harm. 
 
 Webster. 
 
 In an ante-room adjoining of the Queen's 
 presence-chamber, in her highness's palace 
 of Nonsuch, there was a famous company 
 of lords and ladies in different groups. Here 
 would be a famous party of gallants paying 
 of their court to the fairest of the throng, 
 whereof the greater number were exceeding 
 fair, and she was no other than Lady Rich, 
 usually styled " The beautiful Lady Rich," 
 and well she deserved so admirable a title, 
 for nought could exceed the sweet exquisite- 
 noes with which the lily and the rose united 
 their choicest graces to deck her delicate 
 cheek ; or the soft subduing light that shone 
 bo delightsomely within the fountains of her 
 radiant looks. All her features were of the 
 
 same unrivalled perfectness, and over thea 
 the spirit of beauty breathed so wooingly, 
 that such as gazed upon the temple were ir- 
 resistibly drawn there to pay their devotions. 
 Foremost in the circle of her admirers was 
 one who, by the choiceness of his dress, the 
 neatness of his speech, and the studied court- 
 liness of his manner, was manifestly born 
 only to shine in the atmosphere of a court. 
 Every thing about him spoke the desire to 
 please, and the ready smile that accompa- 
 nied the delicate flattery, appeared to prove 
 how aptly he could receive pleasure of ano- 
 ther. This was Sir Christopher Hatton, the 
 very mirror of courtesy and text-book of com- 
 pliment, and the most finished courtier of his 
 day. His apparel was not more dainty Shan 
 his phrases, and his behavior was of a kind 
 fittest to accord with both. He moved as 
 though he thought himself under the eyes 
 of the graces, having every gesture so prop- 
 erly produced, it went not a hair's breadth 
 from the most graceful position that could 
 be accomplished under the circumstances. 
 His features were so fashioned as to make 
 all fair weather in his calendar. The sun 
 shone every day in the week. There was 
 no winter, no clouds, no eclipses. He would 
 as soon have hanged himself as frowned. — 
 He would sooner have thrown himself into 
 the Thames river than allowed an uncivil 
 word to escape him. What was his age it 
 would be difficult to guess with any exact- 
 ness, for as he had been heard to say he con- 
 sidered age to be an exceeding vulgar fellow 
 with whom he would hold no acqaintance, 
 it is possible he disguised himself as much 
 as he could to prevent his being known by 
 so rude a person. 
 
 But Sir Christopher was not without pos- 
 sessing something of other talent beside the 
 courtly accomplishments of fencing, danc- 
 ing, and compliment, nevertheless his whole 
 ambition was to apply such gift as part of 
 the necessary appliances of a courtier, and 
 he never made use of it, save only to help 
 him at a pinch to exhibit his continual de- 
 sire to please. About him were divers gal- 
 lants and young gentlemen of the palace, 
 who looked up to him as their model, and 
 framed their speech, their apparel, and their 
 behavior as nigh as might be to their great 
 original. His last phrase by their means 
 travelled quickly to all persons choice in 
 their speech ; and it was by the same as- 
 sistance the last new step of his came into 
 use amongst such as wished to be consi- 
 dered the very fashionablest dancers of the 
 time. 
 
 In the recess of a window that looked out 
 upon the grounds were another group, the 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 118 
 
 cynosure of which appeared to be a lady of a 
 most delectable presence, whose ample deli- 
 cate forehead and intelligent gaze, gave to- 
 ken of as rare a mind as ever was worthy 
 of the choicest and beautifulest framing. — 
 She was a notable instance of woman's per- 
 fectness — whose moving graces created the 
 exquisitest thoughts in the minds of those 
 gifted ones who came within their influence ; 
 but the poetry of her own nature was full as 
 exquisite as any that she called into being. 
 Her voice breathed its very atmosphere — 
 and her eyes were such bright casements, 
 within which it hath ever loved to find its 
 home. It is no marvel then she should be 
 bo much the admiration of all true lovers of 
 excellence — that her good opinion should be 
 so much coveted of such as sought after 
 praise that is the most valuable, or that her 
 smiles made wherever she went a midsum- 
 mer garden of the mind's unfading flowers. 
 Methinks 'tis scarce necessary to add that 
 her perfect modesty kept worthy companion- 
 ship with her noble mind, for it may be ta- 
 ken as an indisputable truth that high intelli- 
 gence doth ever signify the presence of mo- 
 ral feelings equally exaked. Be sure that 
 where the mind displays itself ,in its most 
 sterling character, there is no alloy of any 
 baseness. It is clean impossible it can be 
 otherwise, for however it may sometimes 
 seem, nature alloweth of no such unnatural 
 alliances. Signs of great intellect may ap- 
 pear where want of goodness is equally ma- 
 nifest, but the former of these signs on close 
 scrutiny, turn out to be not so admirable as 
 they look — in fact, instead of being the ster- 
 ling gold in its native purity, they are only 
 such ores as require so much cleansing to 
 put them into use, as will hardly repay the 
 labor. It may perchance have been found, 
 that this preciousness hath bad a bad look 
 with it, but it only followeth of the rubs it 
 may get of such base things as it may come 
 in contact with. It is still as sterling as 
 ever, despite appearances ; and fair usage 
 will keep it in that brightness it ought al- 
 ways to wear. 
 
 Leaning affectionately over the countess's 
 chair, was a young gallant of a like noble 
 brow, and of an aspect somewhat similar in 
 its intelligent expression. There was some- 
 thing more of gravity, and there was some- 
 thing less of sweetness in the countenance.yet 
 there were the same highmindedness beam- 
 ing out of the sparkling eyes, and a similar 
 thoughtful eloquence smiling around the 
 corners of the delicate mouth. It was easy 
 tp be seen by this likeness and by the tender 
 familiarity with which one behaved to the 
 ether, that they stood in some relationship. 
 
 They were brother and sister. Such a bro- 
 ther and sister as the world sees not in many 
 ages, — perchance, may never see again, for 
 they were not more alike in the admirable- 
 ness of their outward lineaments, than they 
 were in all manner of moral and mental 
 qualities. 
 
 Where shall we meet with another Count- 
 ess of Pembroke, — the ready patroness of 
 merit, yet outshining all merit with her own 
 — ever ready to pay her homage to virtue, 
 yet in herself possessing such virtue as ex- 
 ceeded all other examples ? And where 
 shall we look for another Sir Philip Sydney 
 — the soul of honor, the spirit of chivalry, 
 the courtliest among the courtly, and the 
 bravest among the brave — though scarcely 
 in the full dawning of his manhood, his wis- 
 dom went beyond that of the most experi- 
 enced counsellors, and though formed by the 
 choicest gifts of nature to fill the proudest 
 seats in the chiefest places of greatness, his 
 ambition never went beyond the performing 
 of valiant and generous deeds, writing wor- 
 thily on honorable subjects, living with a 
 proper respect, and dying with a becoming 
 nobleness. In him knighthood possessed its 
 last and rarest ornament, and manhood one 
 of its most admirable examples. Genius ac- 
 knowledged him as her son, and honor 
 claimed him as her champion ; and every 
 virtue that could grace humanity, where all 
 in him that was human was of so gracious 
 a nature, might justly have put forth a boast, 
 that in him they showed to the world how 
 well they could adorn a man. 
 
 It may readily be imagined that this truly 
 gallant gentleman was the love, the model, 
 and the admiration of all the gallant hearts 
 of his age. Indeed, by such as possessed 
 the genuine chivalrous spirit, he was re- 
 garded as a sort of deity. They considered 
 no station so great as to be of his acquaint- 
 ance, and no honor so estimable as to have 
 his praise. It therefore followeth very na- 
 turally that Sir Reginald and Sir Valentine 
 should have eagerly sought his friendship, 
 the which their valor and honorable conduct 
 had gained for them ; and this known, it is 
 in no way surprising the former of these 
 young knights should now be standing at 
 his elbow, joining in the conversation with 
 Master Arthur Gorges, a young gallant of 
 great worthiness, — my Lord Buckhurst, a 
 nobleman favorably known to the muses, and 
 divers other knights and nobles, whose love 
 of song went hand in hand with their admira- 
 tion of true valor. 
 
 Besides these there were a great crowd of 
 nobles, knights, and ladies, gallants, courti- 
 ers, officers of the queen's household, conv 
 
114 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 danders by sea and land, learned judges, 
 grave prelates, and others of her highness's 
 loving subjects of different ranks twid condi- 
 tions, intent upon paying of their court to 
 their sovereign, as soon as she concluded 
 her audience with certain ambassadors with 
 whom she was now closeted. There was a 
 great variety in the colors of the different 
 rich stuffs, but with the exception of some 
 few in their robes, every gallant wore the 
 same fashioned doublet, trunks, hose, and 
 ehoe-roses, and every lady the same long- 
 stomached dress with a stiff poking-out far- 
 thingale. Some were whiling the time by 
 admiring the figures on the cloth of tissue. 
 The commanders were conversing of the 
 famous good fortune of Sir Francis Drake, 
 in his last voyage. The ministers were spe- 
 culating on the probability of the queen's 
 marriage with the Duke of Anjou. The 
 courtiers amused themselves with tales con- 
 cerning of the differences between my Lord 
 of Leicester and the Earl of Sussex. The 
 gallants were putting off their last learned 
 graces of behavior on such of the fair dames 
 they could get to heed them. The ladies 
 were conversing either of the newest Ve- 
 netian fashion, or tae latest jest of Master 
 Tarleton, her highness's jester. And the 
 judges and prelates were lamenting together 
 the intolerable evils of witchcraft and pa- 
 pistry ; but the circle around the Countess of 
 Pembroke and Sir Philip Sydney were be- 
 wiling the hour in a manner more profitable 
 to themselves than did any of the others, as 
 I will here endeavor to show. 
 
 " Touching the capabilities of our nature," 
 observed that illustrious scholar, " I am in- 
 clined to believe there is no greatness it 
 may not aim at. But there can .be no true 
 greatness independent of the affections, for 
 these are the springs that do refresh the 
 ground, and make it bear the noblest and 
 choicest plants at all proper seasons." 
 
 " I cannot help thinking the same thing," 
 added his sister. " Perchance there have 
 been philosophers to whom all such feeling 
 as love appeared utterly unknown ; they 
 might have scoffed at it in themselves and 
 ridiculed it in others ; but such examples 
 should be looked upon as the result of unnatu- 
 ral circumstances — like unto flowers that lose 
 their color by growing in the dark — or fruits 
 that part with their flavor by being planted 
 in an improper climate. That is sure to be 
 the truest wisdom that cometh of the most 
 benevolent mind, for it embraces the whole 
 world with some everlasting truth which 
 hath universal happiness for its object ; 
 whilst the philosophy of such as have no 
 such feeling in their hearts can be born only 
 
 of books ; they are mere scholars that hate 
 no better object in view than raising them- 
 selves above their fellows, instead of striv- 
 ing to raise themselves up to them. Such a 
 philosopher attains celebrity only by feeding 
 on those who went before him : — his cunning 
 is of a like kind with that of the serpent of 
 Moses, which swallowed up all the rest." 
 
 " Just so," said Sir Philip Sydney ; " for 
 if we notice how love works upon the mind? 
 we shall readily come at the philosophy of 
 the affections. Taking the two examples 
 of this feeling in ordinary acceptance, to wit, 
 the lover and the philanthropist, we imme- 
 diately see how generous love hath made 
 them in their notions, — the one is ready to 
 undertake any danger in the conviction of 
 his mistress's superiority to all her sex ; the 
 other would make any sacrifice to benefit 
 those who required his assistance, in the 
 express belief of the worthiness of the whole 
 human race. The valor of love is equal to 
 its generosity ; and methinks these twins of 
 comeliness will be found together in every 
 example of a true knight and complete 
 gentleman. Nothing can be so valiant as 
 love, which makes so undeniable the Latin 
 adage which declareth that love conquereth 
 all things, — for love hath achieved the 
 brightest deeds that are the glory of chivalry. 
 But as love granteth whatever is most ad- 
 mirable to the object of its regard, it seeketh 
 by all honorable means to make itself of a 
 like perfectness ; and is thus by degrees led 
 to the attainment of the noblest offices, and 
 to the possession of the most honorable ac- 
 complishments that can be acquired." 
 
 " So I have thought, though, as must 
 needs be not in so excellent a fashion !" ob- 
 served Sir Reginald. 
 
 " But surely there is a vast distinction 
 between what is called gallantry and genu- 
 ine affection ?■" exclaimed Lord Buckhurst. 
 " There are hundreds of fine popinjays to be 
 met with, protesting a monstrous affection- 
 ateness for every woman they meet, and I 
 never saw in them any of the virtues of 
 which you spoke." 
 
 " So there are hundreds that affect great 
 religiousness," observed Sir Philip Sydney, 
 " which is done not out of any true reve- 
 rence, but merely because it is the fashion. 
 But genuine gallantry is of an exceeding 
 different nature. It is of a kin with that 
 ancient worship that honored all deities 
 alike. Nevertheless, even in these instances 
 there will be found a niche in the temple of 
 the heart dedicated to the service of some 
 unknown god; and througnout the whole 
 nature there exists a continual anxiousness 
 to have that place worthily supplied. la 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 115 
 
 rid time such desire is accomplished ; and 
 assured, the idol there placed hath more 
 worship than all the rest together." 
 
 "The true worship of love is goodness," 
 added the Countess ; " and it is a sign by 
 which genuine affection may always be dis- 
 tinguished from mere profession. True 
 love is purity, honesty, truth, honor, cour- 
 tesy, and bravery confessed in action. Where 
 there is any meanness, where there is any sel- 
 fishness, where there is ought of falsehood, im- 
 modesty, uncivilness, cowardice, or villainy, 
 love never abideth. Doubtless some may as- 
 sert this sweetener of life hath been found with 
 some such base accompaniments as I have 
 just named ; but out of all doubt the latter is 
 entirely different, and should be avoided for 
 its unwholesomeness. It is like unto such 
 honey as divers sorts of wild bees have been 
 known to make from poisonous flowers." 
 
 " But how rarely shall we find this love 
 in all its perfectness and purity !" exclaimed 
 Lord Buckhurst. 
 
 " Nay, my good lord, it is none so rare !" 
 replied Sir Reginald, with some earnestness. 
 " Wherever woman hath a fair field for the 
 development of her infinite perfections, such 
 love will follow, as naturally as light springs 
 from the sun ; and to a knowledge of these 
 absolute graces originated that proud sense 
 of honor, and true nobleness of feeling in 
 man, which hath done such famous achieve- 
 ments throughout Christendom, under the 
 estimable name of chivalry." 
 
 " True, Sir Reginald," observed Sir 
 Philip Sydney, with a glance of approbation 
 at his young friend. " There are two states 
 of society, in all outward appearance as far 
 asunder as are the poles — where true love 
 is ever to be met with. The one is the 
 courtly empire of knights and ladies, which 
 
 Eroduceth the gallantest deeds and the 
 onorablest behavior — the other is the sim- 
 ple republic of shepherds and sheperd- 
 esses, where innocence is crowned with a 
 garland of the freshest flowers of the field, 
 and honesty jogs merrily along, enjoying the 
 pleasant minstrelsy of the pipe and tabour." 
 " Which think you, is the happiest state ?" 
 inquired Master Arthur Gorges. 
 
 " That in which the wants are the fewest, 
 and the desires of easiest attainment," re- 
 plied the other. " It is doubtful to which 
 we ought to give the preference. Happiness 
 •nay exist indifferently in either state ; 
 but according to what we know of Arca- 
 iian manners, these same swains and 
 •ymphs must have enjoyed the most blame- 
 'ess sweet life ever heard of. I cannot ima- 
 gine any more moving picture than a choice 
 torapany of such, tending of their woolly 
 
 flocks in the fresh pastures — or in the cool 
 eventide dancing away the joyous hours, 
 with their sweet music ; whilst in some 
 green arbor nigh at hand, the enamored 
 Colin whispers a love tale to his blushing 
 Daphne, and the seniors of the village sit 
 under the shadow of the friendly trees, 
 quaffing the rich juices of their vineyards, and 
 telling of marvellous stories and merry jests." 
 " Ha ! cousin Philip, art there again !" 
 exclaimed the Earl of Leicester in a plea- 
 sant manner, as he entered the circle, cloth* 
 ed with such gorgeousness as far exceeded . 
 all the tiring around. " Why thy moving 
 descriptions of Arcadian life will presently 
 make all persons of worship in a frenzy to 
 attain the like happiness. My Lord Burgh- 
 ley sweareth he hath serious thoughts of 
 retiring from court, and keeping sheep at 
 Theobalds. Sir Christopher Hatton hath 
 been heard, for hours together, practising on 
 a small pipe, in hopes of getting the queen's 
 ladies to dance to his piping in the true 
 rural style ; and as for myself, I have been 
 looking for weeks past for a crook and a 
 shepherdess, that I may in the very proper- 
 est manner sit me down in some enamelled 
 plain, and there happily live out the re- 
 mainder of my days, dividing of my cares 
 betwixt my lambs and my love." 
 
 " Methinks, my lord, you would soon pine 
 for the pleasant pageantries you had left 
 behind," observed the countess, with a 
 smile. 
 
 " The gentle shepherd would be ever a 
 sighing to be once again the most accom- 
 plished knight in the tourney," added Sir 
 Philip Sydney with a like pleasantness. "He 
 would be right glad to change his seat on 
 the enamelled plain for the saddle of his 
 good steed — his crook for a spear — his flock 
 for a company of valiant knights — and his 
 faithful shepherdess for as many fair ladies 
 as he could get to witness his admirable 
 matchless prowess." 
 
 " Nay, prithee try me ere I am condemn- 
 ed," answered the earl, laughingly. "I 
 doubt hugely I should be so easily tired. 
 For is there not a famous variety of amuse- 
 ments ? Could I not delight myself by carv- 
 ing of my true love's name wherever I could, 
 till there should be found more Chloes on a 
 tree than acorns ? and then would I not sing 
 such songs against the rival swains of her 
 unmatchable rare beauties, that they should 
 be dumb ever after ; and play on my pipe 
 till the feathered choristers of the grove 
 would hold themselves silent to learn of my 
 wondrous skill." 
 
 " Perchance it may be so, my good lord," 
 said the countess in the same good humor 
 
116 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 K but take it not as a want of courtesy in 
 me, if I doubt the possibility of so great a 
 marvel." 
 
 " Now, without flattery, never met I so 
 perfect a disbeliever," exclaimed Leicester, 
 gallantly. " I would the fates had so or- 
 dered it as to have made the Countess of 
 Pembroke an Arcadian shepherdess, and I 
 her scarce worthy, yet too happy swain. 
 Methinks so enviable a lot exceedeth all 
 honor of chivalry ; and whether in the valley 
 or the grove, at the dance, or tending of my 
 flock, believe me the enjoyment of such 
 rare happiness would put out of mind, as 
 things only to be de-spised, such poor plea- 
 sures and distinctions as I have now in my 
 possession." 
 
 " I am bound to you, my lord, for enter- 
 taining of such thoughts," replied his ac- 
 complished companion, courteously ; " yet am 
 I still of opinion, the noble place you now 
 occupy would content you more than the 
 most perfect state of shepherd life that is to 
 be found. For as it is, you have in your 
 power infinite opportunities of doing good, 
 by affording your counsel and assistance to 
 all such worthy objects as may require it ; 
 whilst by your prominence in the public eye, 
 you can, by acting as becomes your dignity, 
 be an example of honor that ever honorable 
 nature would be glad to copy." 
 
 " Such I will strive to be with all my 
 heart," exclaimed the Earl, with a seeming 
 great sincerity. " Indeed the most pleasur- 
 able part of the high station in which for- 
 tune, rather than my poor ability, hath plac- 
 ed me, I find to consist in the benefits I am 
 enabled to confer on deserving persons. 
 Nothing delighteth me more than to honor 
 merit as it deserves ; and I would gladly go 
 out. of my way any distance to meet with 
 some worthy creature whom I could make 
 happy." 
 
 Every one was famoflsly pleased at hear- 
 ing of so proper a speech from the Queen's 
 favorite ; but such was his usual manner, 
 and such his customary words. 
 
 " Finding you, my good lord, in this 
 happy mood," observed Sir Philip Sydney, 
 " I would crave your countenance in behalf 
 of a worthy friend of mine, who would be 
 right proud of possessing it." ji 
 
 " Say who he is, and be assured of Oils 
 merits receiving proper attention at *my 
 hands," said Leicester. 
 
 "His name is Edmund Spenser," replied 
 the other ; " and I look upon him to be as 
 true a poet as ever wrote verse." 
 
 "Prithee bring him to me whenever it 
 suits you," said the Earl, in his most win- 
 ning mannetr. " I am all impatient to be 
 
 acquainted with one who hath acquired sucl 
 high honor as to be so lauded of Sir Philip 
 Sydney." 
 
 " Believe me, my brother hath said no 
 more than the worthiness of Master Spen* 
 ser gives him title to," added the Countess. 
 " As far as I am capable of judging, he is 
 one whom future ages will delight to rever- 
 ence." 
 
 " I'faith, this Master Spenser hath great 
 good fortune, methinks, to have his merits 
 so approved by two such absolute judges," 
 cried Leicester. " O' me life, I shall not be 
 contenttill he number me among his friends. 
 But thoikgh I am exceeding loth to leave 
 such delectable society, I must fain hie me 
 hence." 
 
 He had scarce ut'ered these words when 
 he feJt a nudge at his elbow, and, looking 
 round, his eyes evidently met a familiar 
 face, for, with a cheerful countenance, he 
 called out, "Ha! Tarleton, what news?" 
 The person he had so addressed, had a merry 
 eye and a ruddy countenance ; and in figure 
 stood rather under the middle size — the 
 which was neatly garmented in a suit of 
 Lincoln green. This was no other than 
 Tarleton the player, who was in such es- 
 teem of the Queen for his many witty jests, 
 that it was thought of some he had as much 
 influence with her as any man living. Be- 
 ing so great a favorite, he was allowed to do 
 much as he pleased ; and if his wit smacked 
 of some sharpness, few were so unwise as 
 outwardly to take offence at it. Then he 
 had with him so odd a way of saying his 
 drolleries, that he forced many to laugh who 
 liked not being trifled with. 
 
 " News, quotha !" replied the jester, after 
 his comicalest manner ; " ay, great news, I 
 warrant. An honest intelligencer of my ac- 
 quaintance told me, my Lord of Leicester 
 was about going on an embassy to Prester 
 John, with a suit of motley for his wear, 
 and a case of toothpicks to hide in his 
 beard." 
 
 " Marry, that is news indeed," answered 
 Leicester, somewhat seriously ; " and per- 
 adventure it came of the same honest intelli- 
 gencer who assured me that one Tarleton, 
 a player, stood in great likelihood of being 
 committed to Bridewell for allowing of his 
 wit to run foul of his discretion." 
 
 " Nay, o' my life, that is no news !" ex- 
 claimed the undaunted jester, " 1 nave heard 
 it this ten year ; and the last time it was 
 said in my hearing, there was added to it 
 that my Lord of Leicester might have taken 
 offence at the merry player, only the gencr- 
 ousness of his nature put him above such 
 ungraciousness. 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 117 
 
 ** I tell thee what, Master Tarleton," said 
 the Earl, taking the other's humor very pleas- 
 antly, " there seemeth to be what learned 
 mediciners call sympathy, in the effects of 
 thy wit — for the weapon that makes the 
 wound can as readily perform the cure." 
 
 " O' my life, yes, an' it please you, my 
 lord," replied the jester, making of a mock 
 doleful face exceeding ludicrous. " But my 
 curing hath in it more of the cook than the 
 chirurgeon — for it seemeth to be ever a get- 
 ting me into a famous pickle." Thereupon 
 there was a manifest sign of laughing in 
 every face that stood within ear-shot. 
 
 " Peradventure that accounteth for the 
 attic saltness of thy jests," observed Sir 
 Philip Sydney. 
 
 " Ay, and if he selleth his wit he must 
 needs be a salt-cellar," added Lord Buek- 
 hurst. 
 
 " Troth, then, let those who are below the 
 salt look to their manners," said Master 
 Tarleton. "But touching this conceit of 
 the salt, if it is so, I shall be forced to keep 
 me a respectful distance, else will every 
 lewd fellow be taking a pinch of me with 
 which to savor his porridge." 
 
 " Then will he have more wit in his por- 
 ridge than ever he had in his head," said 
 Leicester, good hamoredly. : ' Take such 
 pinches as lovingly as thou canst, Master 
 Jester, for niethinks 'tis this very saltness 
 which keepeth thy wit so long good." 
 
 u . I promise you," replied Master Tarle- 
 ton. " But peradventure too much of that 
 savor is like to get me the reputation of a 
 dry wit." 
 
 " Nay, before thou canst be properly dried, 
 thou must stand a good hanging," re- 
 joined the Earl, with a laugh in which all 
 joined. 
 
 " O' my life, I would as soon be put to the 
 rack at once," said the Jester, " and, in truth, 
 I protest against being used so piggishly." 
 
 " Truly, thou art hard to please !" rejoined 
 the Earl, and then graciously taking his 
 farewell of the Countess and her party, he 
 sauntered along on his way to the Queen's 
 chamber. The courtiers thronged to pay 
 their respects, and commanders, prelates, 
 iadges, and other dignitaries, seemed all 
 alike anxious to gain his attention. Some 
 were petitioners for his influence, others 
 came to thank him for some favor con- 
 ferred, and to all he was alike courteous ; — 
 listening patiently and answering gracious- 
 ly ; and as he went, took with him the good 
 wishes of those he left behind. Spying the 
 beautiful Lady Rieh, encircled by her usual 
 throng of admirers, he quickly made his way 
 to her side, and soon proved himself tha most 
 
 accomplished gallant of them all. The 
 compliments of others were insipid, in com- 
 parison with such as he offered, and the 
 lovely object of them appeared to appreciate 
 the distinction, for he received her most win- 
 ning smiles. 
 
 " Many take me to be of some wealth," 
 observed he to her, in that resistless sweet 
 passion he was so famed for ; " but w hen I 
 make comparisons, I cannot help thinking 
 myself in a very monstrous poverty. It is 
 long since I have beheld the poorness of my 
 state, and envied some their greater fortune ; 
 yet I can say, in all honesty, were I Rich 
 now, I should be rich indeed." 
 
 " Truly, I know not who should thant 
 you most for that pretty speech of yours, my 
 lord or myself," replied the beautiful crea- 
 ture, with one of her exquisitest looks. 
 
 " I protest 'tis a very delicate choice con- 
 ceit," said Sir Christopher Hatton, with his 
 customary, elegance of manner, as he raised 
 a gold pouncet box to his nose ; " infinitely 
 worthy of my Lord of Leicester, his extreme 
 sufficiency of wit ; and absolutely corre- 
 sponding with my Lady Rich, her rare pro- 
 digalness of merit." Whilst the young gal- 
 lants around were endeavoring to impress 
 this fine sentence on their memories, Tarle- 
 ton the jester approached, and spying of Sir 
 Christopher Hatton, he suddenly turned 
 round and advanced backwards towards him, 
 with every sign of a most serious courtesy, 
 making a profusion of becks to a half blind 
 old courtier in the distance, whereof the con- 
 sequence was he presently stumbled against 
 Sir Christopher, and trod on his toes. Now if 
 anything would ruffle a man's temper, me- 
 thinks it should be when he is essaying to 
 make himself excessively agreeable to the 
 loveliest woman of her age, one should drive 
 against him awkwardly, and tread with some 
 heaviness on his feet. All expected Sir 
 Christopher would have been famously ruf- 
 fled ; but the accomplished courtier smiled 
 upon the Queen's jester, — as Tarleton turned 
 round with a grave indifferent face, on the 
 instant he had done what there is but small 
 doubt he intended — and with a most winning 
 graciousness apologised for having been in 
 his way. 
 
 " Nay, I hope I have not hurt you, sweet 
 Sir Christopher !" exclaimed the merry play- 
 er ; "1 was but of paying a proper courtesy 
 to my Lord Bumble, and could not gue*s 
 your worship was so nigh." 
 
 '' T return you a bountiful load of thank- 
 fulness for the wonderful friendliness of 
 ' your inquiries, worthy Master Tarleton," rs- 
 j plied the text-book of compliment ; 1 wiii 
 entomb such preciousness in my heart. Let 
 
118 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SI.AKSPEARE. 
 
 your excess of goudness be gratified in the 
 conviction that I am in no way hurt." 
 
 " O' my life, I did think I trod on your 
 toes somewhat heavily," said the jester, with 
 extreme seriousness. 
 
 " Toes, worthy Master Tarleton," added 
 the mirror of courtesy with one of his bland- 
 est smiles, " belong only to vulgar persons. 
 A gentleman hath no such pedal appurte- 
 nances. It may be said of such a one that 
 he hath a handsome foot," continued he, 
 looking at, and moving one of his feet into 
 the gracefullest positions; "but to say he 
 hath feet, is no sort of phrase for the politer 
 6ort ; and toes are altogether banished from 
 courtly language." 
 
 " Nay s if you are for depriving me of irty 
 toes, I "must e'en take to my heels," an- 
 swered the other, and thereupon made off 
 from the circle with all speed. 
 
 In the meantime the Earl of Leicester 
 had whispered a quick succession of the 
 delicatest flatteries into the ear of the smil- 
 ing beauty he was addressing, which she 
 seemed to receive, more as a homage long 
 usage had accustomed her to, than from any 
 particular excess of vanity in her nature. 
 Thence he went to other lovely dames, 
 where it was evident lie was no less wel- 
 co.ne ; and finally departed to the Queen's 
 chamber, beyond all contradiction the most 
 admired, the most courted, and the most 
 honored of all the gallant company assem- 
 bled in that goodly chamber. 
 
 It was evening of the same day, when in 
 a thick grove, at a bow-shot from the palace, 
 a gallant, in a large horseman's cloak and a 
 broad slouched hat, which completely con- 
 cealed him from observation, was seen walk- 
 ing from tree to tree, backwards and for- 
 wards ; sometimes whistling, sometimes 
 humming a tune, but continually looking in 
 one particular direction, as if he was in ex- 
 pectation of some person coming that way. 
 Anon, he would grow impatient, and utter 
 something that smacked of an oath; then 
 he would wrap his cloak closer round him, 
 lean against a tree, and amuse himself 
 awhile by digging of his heels into the soil. 
 In these pursuits he had been engaged for 
 some length of time, wk?n he became aware 
 of the approach of some person, disguised 
 after a like fashion as himself. It was evi- 
 dent, these were the same two persons that 
 had stood together under the shadow upon 
 the terrace of Kenilworth Castle. They 
 exhibited a similar caution, and they behaved 
 with a like mystery. 
 
 " What news V inquired the new comer, 
 in a low voice ; *' hast secured the prize ? 
 
 Hast not let her slip through thy fingers a 
 second time?" 
 
 " Never was prize so secure, my lord," 
 answered the other. 
 
 " Good ! Exceeding good !" exclaimed 
 the noble, as if with a wonderful excess of 
 gratification. 
 
 " The former plot failed not from any lack 
 of cunning in the planning," added his com- 
 panion; " I was baulked of my success, just 
 when I had made secure of it — a murrain 
 on the pitiful fools who were so meddle- 
 some ! But, in this instance, fortune hath 
 been more kind ; and, though not without 
 exceeding painstaking, I have been free from 
 all possibility of any such pestilent inter- 
 ference." 
 
 " Then make sure, fortune shall be 
 thy friend from this time forward," replied 
 the one addressed as my lord. "But art 
 sure none know into whose hands she hath 
 fallen !" 
 
 " They could not have the slightest guess 
 of it, I have managed matters so well," an- 
 swered the other. "None saw her taken, 
 none know where she is gone ; and I have 
 given her in charge to one, who is too per- 
 fect in her lesson, to allow of her prisoner's 
 having knowledge of at whose suit she hath 
 been arrested." 
 
 " I approve thy discretion infinitely," ob- 
 served the nobleman ; " I would not be known 
 in the business, on any account, either to her 
 or any other. But how doth she look, and 
 how takes she her sudden removal from her 
 friends ?" 
 
 " 'Tis beyond all art of mine to express 
 her looks, my lord," replied Ids associate ; 
 " nought but your own eyes can do her ex- 
 quisite perfections justice. Beautiful as she 
 was, she hath made such progress in come- 
 liness, that her present appearance putteth 
 clean out of memory the graces she was 
 then possessed of." 
 
 " O' my life, then she must be of a most 
 rare creature," exclaimed the other delight- 
 edly. 
 
 " Truly, she is, my lord, and were I io 
 any way richer than I am, I would wager a 
 dozen marks you will readily acknowledge 
 on beholding here, there lives not her peer 
 in this world." 
 
 "Well, here is something for thy dili- 
 gence," said his companion, giving him a 
 well filled purse, which he took very readily. 
 " But 'tis only a token of what shall follow, 
 find I the original to come up to thy lim- 
 ning." 
 
 " Would I were as sure of all other 
 things," exclaimed the other. " But I pray 
 you take good speed in your coming, for 8M 
 
THE YOUTH OF SIIAKSPEARE. 
 
 119 
 
 hath been made so curious about you, that 
 if you come not straight, I know not what 
 her impatience may lead her to." 
 
 " Be sure the first moment I can without 
 suspicion absent myself from court, I will 
 fly like a hawk," replied the noble. " But 
 in the meanwhile let her lack nothing by 
 way of amusement to make her content with 
 her condition. The players may be had to 
 entertain her, or any other pastime she is 
 likely to take pleasure in. Spare neither 
 expense nor trouble. Have ever ready such 
 variety of enjoyments that she can get tired 
 of none ; and so possess no time to reflect 
 on any other matter, save the bountifulness 
 of the provider." 
 
 " It shall be done, my lord, without de- 
 lay." 
 
 " And mark me," continued his com- 
 panion. 
 
 " Ay, my lord," answered the other. 
 
 " Let Mistress Crupper take proper heed 
 that this sweet angel of mine firmly be- 
 lieveth herself to be amongst persons of 
 worship. Let her manners be in accor- 
 dance with her assumed station, at the 
 same time that in every point she behaveth 
 with the most delicate respect to her fair 
 prisoner." 
 
 " I have already so ordered it," replied his 
 associate ; " and Moll knoweth her own in- 
 terests too well to mar them by any misbe- 
 having. I do assure you, my lord, she play- 
 eth her part in the choicest fashion — never 
 a lady in the land could do it better." 
 
 " Provided that be the case, she shall 
 have a suitable reward," said the nobleman. 
 " But I must be gone. Haste back, and 
 keep her in continual impatience of my com- 
 ing. But above all things be cautious my 
 name be not dropped on any consideration, 
 nor ought done which might in any manner 
 point to me as holding the slightest share in 
 such proceedings. 
 
 " Rely on it, my lord," answered his com- 
 panion, and so saying both departed their 
 several ways, the one chuckling at the 
 weight of the purse, which had rewarded 
 his infamous proceedings, and the other 
 congratulating himself on the apparent suc- 
 cess of his villainous agen.t. 
 
 CHAPTER XVH. 
 
 I have been readie at you hand 
 
 To grant whatever you might crave, 
 I have both waged life and land 
 
 Your love and good will for to have. 
 I bought thee kerchers to thy head 
 
 That were wrought fine and gallantly, 
 I kept thee booth at boord and bed, 
 
 Which cost my purse well favoredly. 
 I bought thee peticotes of the best, 
 
 The cloth as fine as might be ; 
 I gave thee jewels for thy chest, 
 
 And ali this cost I spent on thee. 
 
 Ballad of Lady Greensleeves. 
 
 Thou art a shameless villain ! 
 A thing out of the overcharge of nature ; 
 Sent like a thick cloud to disperse a plague 
 Upon weak catching woman ! Such a tyrant 
 That for his lust would sell away his subjects, 
 Ay, all his heaven hereafter. 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcheb 
 
 Mabel was left in as bad hands as it 
 could be possible for her to fall into. It is 
 a question whether so vile a pair could else- 
 where have been met with — a matter of 
 huge congratulation to all virtuous minds. 
 These two were thoroughly heartless, be- 
 cause thoroughly selfish — lost to all sense 
 of shame from being deaf to every murmur 
 of conscience — careless of report, knowing 
 they had no character to lose, and wishing 
 only to live, out of extreme disinclination to 
 die. They had been in companionship with 
 each other for years, believing such villainy 
 as they possessed would only be tolerated by 
 those who were most familiar with it ; but 
 their bad passions were ever breaking forth, 
 and it appeared as if they were allowed to 
 live, the better to remind each other of the 
 monstrous baseness of their behavior. 
 
 All that such wretches could do, aided by 
 the most consummate hypocrisy, and with 
 every help unbounded wealth could procure, 
 was essayed to render the pure mind of the 
 poor foundling accessible to the villainy that 
 had been devised against her. Turn where 
 she would her eyes met images of voluptu- 
 ousness — and at all times her ears were 
 invaded with meanings of opposition to all 
 honorable notions ; but the extreme craft of 
 this, overthrew itself. The mind of the gen- 
 tle Mabel was so essentially pure, that al- 
 though it would admit readily every image 
 of beauty, such characters came there com- 
 pletely divested of ought of an objectionable 
 shape, and her nature was so perfectly in- 
 nocent, that indelicacy of any sort was to 
 her a foreign language, which she heard but 
 could not understand. Whereof the conse* 
 
 / 
 
tao 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 quence was she remained despite of all this 
 great expenditure of subtlety, as chaste in 
 heart as the day she first entered those pol- 
 luted walls. 
 
 If anything could lead a woman from her 
 own integrity, the incense which was con- 
 tinually being offered to her vanity, in artful 
 praises of her person, and in the constantly 
 varying costliness of its decorations, might 
 have sufficed ; but the vanity of the poor 
 foundling seemed so remotely seated, that 
 this precious artillery never touched it. — 
 She took the flattery as said out of good- 
 ness ; and wore the apparel as sent out of 
 kindness. 
 
 Many days had passed and Mabel still 
 remained unconscious of her danger, and 
 in less anxiousness concerning of the old 
 knight and the good dame, than she was at 
 first, because her assumed friend, the fictiti- 
 ous Lady Comfit, had assured her she had 
 informed them of her safety and comfort. 
 Her only desire was that the youthful sleep- 
 er, who had got himself so roughly used for 
 her sake, might not have been much hurt, 
 and that she should be allowed some early 
 opportunity of thanking him for his extreme 
 readiness to help her in her need. She was 
 rarely left alone, and scarce a moment was 
 allowed her for reflection : and the conver- 
 sation of her crafty companion kept her in 
 a constant state of marvel, admiration, and 
 curiousness concerning of the princely gen- 
 tleman who had, as she thought, taken such 
 strange means to show his love for her. 
 One day, as it were by accident, she had 
 been left by herself, and naturally fell to 
 musing on the mystery of those transactions 
 in which she had been made so prominent a 
 feature. She sat clothed in all the splendor 
 of Venice and Milan — and it might be truly 
 said her beauty more became her tiring than 
 her tiring improved her beauty — her arm 
 rested on the side of the richly carved chair, 
 with the full sleeve falling back disclosing 
 its perfect whiteness and symmetry, clasped 
 by a bracelet of purest gold and jewels, and 
 her fair face was supported by her hand, of 
 which the delicate fingers were half lost in 
 the meshes of her glossy hair. Her radiant 
 eyes were fixed upon the fresh rushes at 
 her feet, but their long silken lashes gave 
 so soft an expression to the deep sweet 
 thoughtfulness of her exquisite countenance, 
 that it is doubtful their full gaze could have 
 appeared more admirable. 
 
 Thus she thought over the recent events, 
 bewildered with their strangeness, and per- 
 
 Slexed as to their purport, till she was sud- 
 enly startled from her reverie. 
 " Heavens L how exquisitely beautiful !" 
 
 exclaimed a deep-toned voice; and, looking up 
 to her exceeding astonishment, she observ- 
 ed a tall person, enveloped in a huge cloak, 
 and his head covered with a broad beaver 
 hat, consequently she could see of him noth- 
 ing but his face, which seemed nobly fea- 
 tured, and the eyes lustrous with a very 
 passionate adoration. She had scarce had 
 a moment for thinking who this stranger 
 could be, and what he wanted, when the 
 cloak and hat fell at his feet, and she beheld 
 a stately figure, clad in such magnificence 
 as she had had no imagination of. The de- 
 licatest white silk, daintily embroidered with 
 gold, formed his hose ; and his doublet was of 
 a light pink, fancifully ornamented with the 
 choicest pearls, having the sleeves quaintly 
 trimmed and slashed with amber satin, like 
 unto the round full part of his trunks. His 
 ribbon garters and shoe roses were of a cor- 
 responding costliness ; and as some sign of 
 his nobility, he wore the order of ihe garter 
 round his leg, and a St. George gold chain, 
 of the costliest character, pendan< frc\i his 
 neck. 
 
 It might be imagined that before such ex- 
 cessive splendor the poor foundling would 
 have been somewhat abashed, and that he.r 
 gentle nature would have sunk before the 
 ardor of his gaze ; but this was far from the 
 case. The look, the manner, the appear- 
 ance of the stranger, convinced her that he 
 was no other than her princely lover, of 
 whom she had heard so much ; and the only 
 sign she gave of his presence was rising 
 from her seat the moment his nobility stood 
 confessed. No royal queen could ever have 
 received the homage of her courtiers with a 
 truer majesty, than did the gentle Mabel 
 stand before the enamored glances of this 
 magnificent noble. 
 
 " Nay, I beseech thee, do not stir 1" mur- 
 mured he in a most passionate gallant man- 
 ner, as he took her hand, and pressed it 
 tenderly in his own. " I regret having dis- 
 turbed such a miracle of loveliness, and yet 
 I could not, had I strove ever so, have re- 
 frained from expressing in some measure 
 the intenseness of my admiration. Much as 
 I had heard of thy marvellous beauty, and 
 deeply as I had been impressed with the 
 glimpse I had of it hi the garden of Kenil- 
 worth, I was totally unprepared for such 
 ravishing perfections as I beheld when, un- 
 noticed, I softly entered this chamber. He 
 who held the apple when the three god- 
 desses disclosed their rival graces to his ad- 
 miring eye, could -have seen, in all their 
 moving loveliness, nought half so worthy of 
 pre-eminence as then met my wondering 
 and most enamored gaze-" 
 
 \ 
 
THE YOUTH OP SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 191 
 
 * My lord, for such I believe you are styl- 
 ed," replied Mabel, with a simple courtesy 
 that became her better than all art of com- 
 pliment; "you are pleased to say this, as 
 you have been pleased to show me other 
 signs of a like civilness in you ; and for 
 these, believe me, I am as truly grateful as 
 ever heart was." 
 
 " O' my life, it delighteth me infinitely to 
 hear thee express thyself so well disposed 
 towards me," answered h%r companion rap- 
 turously kissing of her fair hand. " But 
 what I have done is nought to what the 
 greatness of my love shall lead me to. But 
 prithee tell me the happy subject of thy deep 
 study." 
 
 " Indeed it was no other than yourself, my 
 lord," answered the poor foundling very 
 readily. 
 
 " How proud am I of having so rare a 
 student !" exclaimed the other, looking fondly 
 in her face, and pressing her hands with a 
 similar aflectionateness. " How dost like 
 the volume ? wilt get it by heart ?" 
 
 " In my then thinking, I was seeking the 
 cause for my having been put by you in this 
 place, 1 ' answered Mabel. 
 
 " The cause, my sweet life !" cried the 
 gallant, as if in some extreme astonishment ; 
 " why, what else cause can there be than 
 thy most exquisite self? Look on those 
 lustrous eyes, observe that delicate cheek, 
 regard that eloquent and delicious mouth, or 
 take the perfectness of those matchless fea- 
 tures and peerless shape combined, and note 
 if they contain not such prodigal cause of 
 love as might warrant any such behavior in 
 a lover, as that I have been forced to take 
 advantage of." 
 
 " Methinks, my lord, love might be better 
 shown," observed the gentle foundling. 
 
 " In some cases, doubtless," replied her 
 companion ; " but not where the lover is so 
 circumstanced as am I. I have essayed in 
 all manner of things thou shouldst meet / 
 such respect as true love delighteth to show. 
 Thy tiring is of the noblest, thy lodging the 
 most sumptuous that could be had, and thy 
 fare the delicatest that wealth and skill could 
 unite in producing. Thou hast been waited 
 on as became the guest of a prince ; and so 
 gallantly entertained as might be shown to 
 an enthroned queen !" 
 
 " Truly I have, and I thank you right 
 heartily, my lord — yet " 
 
 " Dost lack anything ? Hast any desire ? 
 Hast aught proper been forgotten ?" con- 
 tinued the noble, with increasing earnest- 
 ness. 
 
 u Indeed no, I have store of things of 
 every sort, — but— —" 
 
 " Dost not like the dwelling ? thou shalt 
 be removed to a palace," added her com* 
 panion without allowing her to finish her 
 sentence. " Dost not approve of thy tiring, 
 all Italy shall be searched for costiler stuffs 1 
 Hast fault to find with thy attendants, thou 
 shalt have such honorable persons as thou 
 cannot help approving of? Or is anything 
 amiss with thy fare, the skilfullest cooks, 
 and the daintiest cates shall be fetched from 
 all parts of Christendom, to give thee better 
 entertainment ?" 
 
 " Truly there is no need," she replied ; 
 " methinks I should be wondrous discontent 
 seemed I not satisfied with the bountiful 
 great splendor with which I am surrounded ; 
 still there is one thing I would have you do, 
 which surely you cannot avoid doing, if you 
 have for me the exceeding love you have 
 just expressed." 
 
 " Name it," said her companion, in an 
 impassioned manner. "If it taketh up my 
 whole fortune — -which is considered to be in 
 some excess— or requireth all my influence 
 — which is said to be second to none in the 
 kingdom — whatever thou dost require shall 
 be done on the instant." 
 
 " Return me to my friends," answered 
 Mabel. 
 
 "What!" exclaimed the gallant, evidently 
 having expected from her something very 
 different, " wouldst have me, ere I have 
 scarce had an hour's acquaintance with so 
 inestimable a treasure, to send it away where 
 perchance I may never see it again ?" 
 
 " I doubt not you could see me at all pro- 
 per times, with worthy Sir Thomas Lucy's 
 permission," said the poor foundling. . 
 
 "Believe me, my dear life, there is no 
 possibility of such a thing, else should I 
 have preferred doing so," observed her com- 
 panion, with a famous earnestness. " There 
 is such absolute reason for what has been 
 done, as would convince any, were I allow- 
 ed to say it ; but at the present I must needs 
 be dumb on the matter. Give me but fair 
 trial, and if, after some time, thou shouldst 
 desire again to see thy friends, thou shalt 
 go, and willingly." 
 
 " I thank you for that assurance, my lord," 
 replied Mabel, somewhat comforted. " In 
 very truth I am most anxious to return home, 
 with as little tarrying as possible, and you 
 will make me more bound to you, by help- 
 ing me in my wish, than could you by de- 
 taining me, though you furnished my stay 
 with the honorablest entertainment in your 
 power." 
 
 " I beseech thee, my fair queen, move ma 
 not to it at this present," continued her 
 noble gallant, very passionately " ThcMi 
 
133 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 knowest not what great travail hath been 
 mine for thy sweet sake, since I first had 
 glimpse of thy enchanting graces. Allow 
 me some solace after my so long trouble; 
 believe me night or day hath been one con- 
 tinual darkness with me, in which my hopes 
 would appear like stars, in bright assurance 
 the sunrise of my happiness was nigh at 
 hand ; and yet it came not, till my heart 
 was nigh upon being weary with so much 
 longing. Nought but the remembrance of 
 those dazzling beauties, as they came upon 
 me, like a sudden flash of heaven to a poor 
 heathen, kept me in countenance with my- 
 self; for that remembrance brought with it 
 such good warrant of gentle treatment, of 
 excellent kind sympathy, and of generous 
 sweet affection, as a nature well disposed to. 
 reward the infinite sufferings of unbounded 
 love, is ever possessed of. Let it not be I 
 have rested on a broken reed." 
 
 " I should be loath to deal harshly with 
 you, my lord," replied the simple foundling ; 
 " nor am I in any way so given towards 
 any one. Yet I see not I could give you 
 any relief stayed I here ever so." 
 
 " Be assured, sweetest, nothing is so 
 easy," observed her companion, gazing on 
 nor as enamoredly as though he had put his 
 whole heart and soul into a glance. " Let 
 those entrancing eyes discourse with mine 
 the true language they were made to ex- 
 press, till volumes of loving meaning beam 
 in every look; twine those delicate arms 
 around me as I would use mine own, till 
 heart throb fondly against heart in natural 
 unison, and every nerve throughout our en- 
 amored natures thrill with the same soft 
 ecstacy — and bring me hither those delici- 
 ous lips that make the ruby pale, and look 
 more tempting than the ripest ruddiest cher- 
 ry, to refresh my thirsty soul with the pre- 
 cious rapturous, exquisite sweet balm with 
 which they are bedewed." 
 
 " Indeed, my lord, I " 
 
 " Behold me here thy poor petitioner," 
 continued the enamored nobleman, kneeling 
 on one knee at the feet of the gentle Mabel, 
 with such a look and with such a manner 
 few women could have resisted. " Note to 
 how mean a strait my greatness is reduced — 
 see the equal of princes, the very humblest 
 of slaves. Dear, excellent fair creature ! My 
 whole being is bound up in the gaining of 
 thy choice affections. Show me some sign — 
 a smile, a word, a look — my case is not en- 
 tirely desperate and I will fill the air thou 
 makest holy with thy presence, with my un- 
 ceasing love and very earnest thankful- 
 Bess." 
 
 Thus proceeded this accomplished gallant 
 
 with the innocent gentle Mabel — now ap» 
 pealing to her sympathies, — now endeavor- 
 ing to awaken her pride a moment after 
 striving with equal earnestness to excite her 
 vanity, and anon straining every nerve to 
 move her ambition ; and thus he continued 
 with the most passionate assiduity for several 
 days, breathing into her ear the most delicate 
 flattery, and exhausting every source of en- 
 tertainment likely, to dazzle or captivate an 
 inexperienced tender woman. Save with 
 her sympathies he scarce made any advance, 
 which made him marvel infinitely, for he was 
 the most irresistable lover that ever sought a 
 fair lady's affections, and had achieved more 
 triumphs over the sex than had any half 
 dozen of his acquaintance. There was not 
 a turn of their hearts with which he seemed 
 not familar, and he appeared to know the 
 cunningest baits to draw up their desires. 
 But this exceeding knowledge was derived 
 from the court circles, or those who took 
 after them in manner, where such gifts as he 
 possessed' could scarce fail of having a most 
 absolute influence. The mere fine ladies, 
 or those eager to be thought so, readily gave 
 way to his many fascinations, but the poor 
 foundling was of a very different sort. There 
 was in her nature a marvellous combination 
 of simplicity and pride — the one kept her 
 ignorant of the treaciery of her companion 
 — the other received his delusive attentions 
 as though they were her just right and title. 
 Something of this she had shown when in 
 company with Sir Valentine, when the 
 modesty of her apparel seemed out of place 
 with the air of graceful dignity and easy 
 self-possession with which she shared in the 
 court-like converse of the young knight ; — 
 but now, clothed in all the delicate splendor 
 of the times, she listened to the dangerous 
 homage of her princely gallaDt, with a man* 
 ner so noble as must have convinced any 
 spectator she took them more as proper res- 
 pect than as a matter for gratification. 
 
 Her noble lover's ecstacies availed him 
 nothing — the fondness of his behavior and 
 discourse made as little impression — but his 
 unceasing efforts to afford her by the most 
 lavish expenditure, signs of the unbounded 
 estimation in which she was held by him, 
 were accepted with gratitude ; and the seem- 
 ing terribleness of his sufferii gs when her 
 behavior put him into a despairing mood, 
 were regarded with a natural sympathy. 
 Here she was in some danger, for there ia 
 no such nigh relations to love as gratitude 
 and pity. 
 
 In the meanwhile William Shakspeare 
 having at last met with Sir Valentine, in- 
 stant proceedings were taken to endeavor ta 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 193 
 
 < *aoe out the place to which the gentle Mabel 
 had been carried. Nothing could exceed the 
 manner in which the young knight was 
 moved at the relation of his fair mistress's 
 abduction. All the chivalry of his nature 
 was up in arms in a moment, and he was for 
 chasing the villains to the uttermost corners 
 of the earth. With the feelings with which 
 he had regarded her many moving graces, 
 bo that she had become to him the sovereign 
 of his heart's wishes, he felt bound by every 
 principle of knighthood to peril life and limb 
 in her service, and mounting his palfrey he 
 rode in every direction to find some traces of 
 her flight. He was at last so fortunate as to 
 meet with the man elsewhere spoken of, who 
 had seen her borne past him, and had watched 
 her direction, whilst he could keep her in 
 sight ; and with this intelligence he sat off as 
 soon as he could from his kinsman's house, 
 accompanied only by his favorite companion, 
 he youthful Shakspeare, riding of a grey 
 gelding, who was quite as eager as himself 
 to go on such an errand. 
 
 The feelings of these two were as different 
 as their different natures could make them. 
 The young knight in the fresh bloom of his 
 manhood, saw beauty only as it was expected 
 a soldier should see it — as something worthy 
 of being honored by the honorablest achieve- 
 ments. The young student in the first soft 
 glow of youth, saw beauty only as in such 
 cases it might be seen of a student — as some- 
 thing to worship at a humble distance with 
 the purest and noblest thoughts. The one 
 believing it to be his duty, would have boldly 
 proclaimed the name of Mabel as first in his 
 esteem wherever he went, — the other feeling 
 it to be his nature, would have thought it sa- 
 crilege to have mentioned her name in idle 
 company, although his estimation of her was 
 not a whit less than was that of his compa- 
 nion. 
 
 They proceeded on in the course directed, 
 at all reasonable opportunities Sir Valentine 
 entertaining of his young associate with a 
 very gallant discourse concerning the doings 
 of certain famous knights in love with no- 
 table fair ladies, and ever and anon, season- 
 ing it with divers pretty passages out of Pe- 
 trarcha, his sonnets of love, to which the 
 youthful poet would seriously incline his ear, 
 get explained to him whatever he knew not 
 the meaning of, and observe, question, and 
 reply upon all he heard, with such spright- 
 liness of wit and ingenuity of learning, as 
 both astonished and delighted his fellow 
 traveller. 
 
 They passed all manner of pleasant man- 
 sions, with excellent parks of deer, and beheld 
 the country round showing a thousand signs 
 
 of the decay of summer, yet still possessing 
 so much of greenness as gave it a seraely 
 aspect. Occasionally, they would meet with 
 a brave company going a hawking, each with 
 a favorite bird on the wrist, and riding on an 
 ambling palfrey, accompanied by attendants 
 carrying of other hawks together, perched in 
 a circle, all hooded in their fairest gesses and 
 Milan bells, ready to be cast oft at a moment's 
 notice. Anon, they would hear the loud 
 " Soho !" of some eager huntsman, and they 
 would rein in their steeds awhile to see the 
 goodly sight of the hounds in 'full chase, and 
 the gallant assemblage of men and horses 
 speeding after them over hedge and ditch, 
 hill and hollow, with some a tumbling in this 
 place, others leaping in that, here a steed gal- 
 lopping without his rider, and there a rider 
 running to catch his steed : and a little way 
 further, they would come upon divers honest 
 anglers, pursuing of their delicate sport by 
 the sedgy margin of the brook, to the mAnifest 
 catching of sundry luce, greyling, perch, 
 bream, and dace, then uselessly flapping of 
 their tails in the angler's basket. 
 
 The partridges hid their heads among the 
 stubble — the snipe lurked unseen in the 
 water-courses — the wild-ducks floated in 
 flocks over the broad ponds and marshy lakes, 
 and the great heron lay in her haunt, amid 
 the thick reeds of the same waters. On a 
 branch of a withered old tree upon the banks, 
 the gaudy kingfisher was making a choice 
 repast, and in his hole deep in the sandy soil 
 beneath, the greedy otter was busying him- 
 self with a like occupation. Great companies 
 of small birds seemed pursuing of each other 
 over the open fields, and far over head the 
 noisy rooks gathered their black bands to 
 ravage the distant country. As the travelers 
 skirted a wood, they observed the nimble 
 conies running into their holes, or a stray 
 leveret rushing hither and thither, without 
 knowing where, scared by the sound of the 
 horses feet. Presently, a young pigeon was 
 noticed plying of her wings with the desperate 
 eagerness of despair, as she left the wood for 
 the open country ; but a murderous hawk fol- 
 lowed in her track, and as she sank panting 
 with agony behind a tree, he swept down 
 upon her swifter than the wind, and in the 
 same minute fixed his sharp talons in her 
 heart. 
 
 Having from many of the laboring coun- 
 try-people continued, as they proceeded, to 
 gain such intelligence as still led them on, 
 they had gone a famous distance, but full of 
 ardor to accomplish their adventure, they 
 pushed forward, regardless of all else, save 
 the rescue of the gentle Mabel. It so hap« 
 pened, that at last, to their constant inqui 
 
124 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 ries, nothing profitable was gained. No one 
 had seen any such persons as were des- 
 cribed to them: Finding this to be the case, 
 they retraced their steps towards the place 
 . where they obtained the latest information, 
 with the idea, that if any house Jay conve- 
 nient, it was probable there she had been 
 carried. They now rode slowly, and took 
 close scrutiny of the neighborhood. After 
 so doing for some time, they spied a fair 
 house down in a hollow, almost hid up with 
 trees, and completely surrounded with a high 
 wall. Within less than a quarter of a mile 
 of it was a small village, of some half-dozen 
 houses, most distinguishable of which was 
 the open smithy, the little inn, and a shop 
 for the sale of all manner of things needed 
 in such a place. It was thought advisable 
 to make for this village at once, as being the 
 likeliest spot to gain the necessary intelli- 
 gence, and where they could get refresh- 
 ments for themselves and beasts, whilst they 
 made their inquiries. 
 
 As they rode into the yard, William Shaks- 
 peare caught a glimpse of a man, in whose 
 unpleasing features he immediately recog- 
 nized the villain who had struck him when 
 he seized his companion. The fellow saw 
 not who had observed him, for he was busy 
 playing at bowls under a shed with divers 
 other persons. The youthful poet resolved 
 on saying nothing of this discovery till a 
 more fitting opportunity presented itself, 
 therefore quietly followed the example of the 
 young knight, in dismounting, giving his 
 palfrey in charge to the landlord, and enter- 
 ing the inn. Upon sitting himself in a 
 chamber to which he and Sir Valentine were 
 shown, he observed a decent sort of a man, 
 of a middle age, seated on a settle, with a 
 book in his hand, and a jug of ale on the 
 table before him. As William Shakspeare 
 took himself to make a hearty meal of what 
 was set before him, he gave another glance 
 at the person with the book, and another 
 after that, and he still thought, as he had ima- 
 gined when he first came into the room, that 
 the countenance was familiar to him. Sir 
 Valentine, finding a stranger with them, was 
 pondering with himself whether he should 
 abstain from seeming curious, which might 
 perchance defeat his object, or attempt cau 
 
 in a pleased surprise — " yes, it must be. O 
 my life, 'tis either Will Shakspeare or hia 
 
 very person. However, it so fell out, that 
 the stranger raised his eyes from the book, 
 on which he seemed as intent as though he 
 were the most scholarly person that had ever 
 lived, and thereupon encountered the some- 
 what earnest gaze of the youthful Shaks- 
 peare. 
 " Why, surely !" exclaimed the stranger, 
 
 " 'Tis myself, worthy Master Burbage, 
 replied the young poet, proceeding quickly 
 to take the proffered hand of the father of 
 his friend and school-fellow. 
 
 " Glad to see thee, by'r lady !" said the 
 other, giving his young acquaintance a 
 hearty shake of the hand. 
 
 " And how do thy excellent parents — and 
 how is Dick, my son — and how are all my 
 honest friends at Stratford ?" The youthful 
 Shakspeare quickly gave him the intelli- 
 gence he required ; Sir Valentine remaining 
 silent, yet glad they were known .to^ach 
 other. 
 
 " But what hath brought you here, worthy 
 Master Burbage ?" inquired the young poet 
 at last. 
 
 " Ey, what, indeed !" replied the player, 
 somewhat dolefully. " 'Sprecious ! I would 
 I had never come nigh the place. Methinks 
 I cannot help getting myself into a famous 
 trouble on account of it, which may spoil 
 my fortune ever after." 
 
 " Alack, that is woeful news !" observed 
 William Shakspeare. •' But, I pray you, 
 tell me how that is so like to be ?" 
 
 " Why, this is it," answered Master Bur- 
 bage : "I have been sent down with my 
 company to play stage plays and interludes 
 of the entertainment of some ladies living in 
 a house hard by." 
 
 " I pray you, tell me if the fellow in green, 
 now playing at bowls, belongeth to that 
 house ?" inquired the young poet, very 
 earnestly. 
 
 " Out of all doubt, he doth," replied the 
 player. " He is the serving-man of my 
 Lady Arabella Comfit." 
 
 " The house hath an ancient look with it, 
 and lieth hid among trees somewhat to the 
 left of this ?" observed his youthful friend ; 
 and at hearing this, Sir Valentine listened 
 with a very singular curiousness. 
 
 " Ay, that is the place," said Master Bur- 
 bage, a little impatiently. " Now, we have 
 been ordered to get ourselves perfect in a 
 new play by the next day after to-morrow at 
 noon, to play before this noble lady and her 
 friends, at her own house ; and as we are 
 
 tiously to make the necessary inquiries of this all intent upon studying our parts, a certain 
 
 boy of our company who playeth principal 
 woman, hath the ill hap to be taken with a 
 desperate illness; and we know not what 
 to do on account of it, for we cannot play 
 without him ; and it is impossible for him to 
 assist us in any manner, he is in so bad a 
 state." 
 William Shakspeare, mused on their isv 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 126 
 
 diligence f»r some minutes, then asked 
 sundry questions concerning the part the 
 eick boy was to have played, which Master 
 Burbage showed him by the book he had in 
 his hand ; and afterwards, both to the sur- 
 prise of Sir Valentine and the other, offered, 
 on condition Master Burbage should pass 
 off himself and his companion as of his com- 
 pany, he would himself diligently essay the 
 playing of the part the sick boy ought to 
 have played. Drowning men catch at straws ; 
 and just so eagerly did Master Burbage avail 
 himself of this offer — promised what was re- 
 quired, and, moreover, offered to give the 
 volunteer such instructions in the playing 
 of the part as might be necessary for him to 
 know. Upon the first opportunity, William 
 Shakspeare told Sir Valentine his reasons 
 for having done as he had ; with the which 
 the latter was so greatly satisfied, that he 
 became a player on the sudden, with as 
 much willingness as he would have entered 
 a. battle field. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Come, I'll be out of this ague, 
 For to live thus is not indeed to live ; 
 It is a mockery and abuse of life ; 
 I will not henceforth save myself by halves ; 
 Loose all or nothing. 
 
 Webster. 
 
 Paul. Thou shall not go in liberty to thy grave, 
 
 For one night a sultana is my slave. 
 Mustapha. A terrible little tyranness. 
 
 Massinger. 
 But though this mayden tendre were of age, 
 Yet in the brest of hire virginitee 
 There was enclosed sad and ripe corage. 
 
 Chaucer. 
 
 Master Burbage was delighted at a re- 
 hearsal at finding not only how well his 
 young friend became his petticoats, but how 
 truly and gracefully he enacted the different 
 scenes in which he was to play. Certes 
 William Shakspeare was not a player for 
 the first time, as witness his early playing 
 of Gammer Gurton's Needle, and divers oth- 
 er interludes with his schoolfellows Green, 
 • Burbage, Hemings, Condell ; but he felt 
 there was a monstrous difference betwixt 
 doing of such things in the manner of school- 
 boys, for their own amusement only, and at- 
 tempting it in the fashion of real players for 
 the entertainment of a gallant company. 
 But by the aid of Master Burbage he got 
 over much of the difficulty. 
 
 The play appeared cunningly writ with 
 
 no other end than to lead to the undoing of 
 the gentle Mabel. At least so thought Sir 
 Valentine and his youthful friend ; and it 
 was agreed between them the young knight 
 should play one of the minor characters in 
 the which there was little to say or do, but 
 excellent opportunity of Sir Valentine's no- 
 ting who were of the company, and if such 
 persons as they expected should be among 
 them, it afforded a mean for her recognizing 
 him, and so knowing friends were near. 
 This was done in case she should not know 
 again the features of William Shakspeare, 
 as he thought it possible she might not. 
 There was another incident in the plot, but 
 this the young player kept to himself. 
 
 The time arrived, and the players were 
 ready. Master Burbage was encouraging 
 his youthful companion with great store of 
 praise, who, dressed in feminine apparel, 
 was to personate a young country girl. In 
 the first scene a noble lover appears, ac- 
 quainting his confidant how he had seen 
 such perfection in womanhood, as he must 
 sigh his heart away for, was he not allowed 
 her sweet society to ease his pain, where- 
 upon in pity of his lord's dolorous moan, the 
 other is made to offer to carry her off on the 
 instant, to the which, seeing no other way 
 of having her, the passionate lover gives 
 his reluctant consent. Then followed an 
 attempt to carry off the damsel, with her 
 rescue by the interference of her friends. 
 Here the young player came upon the stage, 
 which was one end of a large chamber, the 
 players coming in by a door at each side. 
 At the other end he observed four persons 
 sitting, but to his amazeme* they were all 
 masked? as persons of quality often were. 
 The first near him was a lady of a most 
 graceful figure, dressed in as great magnifi- 
 cence as he had seen Queen Elizabeth at 
 Kenilworth. The next was a gallant, in 
 apparel equally gorgeous, who occasionally 
 turned from the lady to speak to another 
 gallant less nobly clad, sitting on the other 
 side of him, and beyond him was another 
 lady very richly garmented, but in no com- 
 parison with the first. 
 
 Whether the lady so bountifully attired 
 was the fair creature of whom they were in 
 search he had no means of knowing, for she 
 gave no sign of recognition at his appear- 
 ance. When Sir Valentine came on the 
 stage she started somewhat, and asked some 
 questions of her companion, and appeared 
 to take greater interest in the play. Then 
 was enacted her being carried off from her 
 home, to the house of a kinswoman to the 
 noble gallant's confidant. Here the coun- 
 try maid was seen clothed in the richest 
 
120 
 
 THE YOUTH OP SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 stuffs and jewels, and paid all manner of 
 honorable attention. At the sight of Sir 
 Valentine, again the youthful lady gazed on 
 him with more earnestness than she did be- 
 fore, and her interest in the play evidently 
 grew deeper and deeper. After this the 
 princely lover entered, and with the fondest 
 rhetoric implored the love of the seeming 
 Mabel, till he so moved her, as it appeared, 
 she was content to promise him all manner 
 of happiness, to his infinite contentation. 
 To end all, there was to be a soliloquy to be 
 spoken by the heroine, in which she was to 
 applaud herself to the echo for her gener- 
 ousness> in behalf of a gentleman who had 
 shown towards her such extreme honor, and 
 vow to be his true love, and his alone ever 
 after, till death should put asunder their 
 mutual loving hearts. 
 
 This the players considered the difficult- 
 est passage of the whole, to be done with 
 proper effect. As yet their new companion 
 had conducted himself beyond their expec- 
 tations ; but this long soliloquy was a diffi- 
 cult part for the ablest ; and fears were en- 
 tertained he might lose himself in it, and so 
 break down. To prevent this as much as 
 possible, Master Burbage stationed himself 
 at one of the open doors, so as not to be in 
 sight of the audience, to prompt him in case 
 he was at a loss. There was the fictitious 
 Mabel, in all the splendor of her supposed 
 greatness, and there stood the anxious 
 prompter with book in hand, hoping with all 
 his might the play would end as well as it 
 had proceeded. The prompter gave the 
 cue, but to his extreme astonishment the 
 young player ^)oke words clean different. 
 The prompter in an agony of dread»that all 
 would be marred, gave out the cue again 
 somewhat louder, but still the young player 
 proceeded with a speech as opposite to that 
 he ought to have said as two different things 
 could be. Horror-struck, the poor player 
 cast down his book, and began pulling of 
 his hair, kicking the ground, and muttering 
 imprecations against the author of his ruin, 
 as he imagined the youthful Shakspeare to 
 be, that all the players eame marvelling to 
 see what had produced such strange effects. 
 
 But if Master Burbage was so moved, 
 not less so was the lady nighest to the stage. 
 Her three companions were engaged in 
 earnest converse, without paying the slight- 
 est attention to what was passing elsewhere. 
 The intentness of the three to the subject 
 of their converse, did not escape the notice 
 of the young player ; and though he sus- 
 pected the fair deity of his dreams was the 
 lady who paid such unceasing attention to 
 the play, he essayed to have some certain 
 
 knowledge of it by a device of his oww 
 Therefore instead of speaking the prcpe. 
 soliloquy, he spoke the following passage 
 which he had written to say in its place, iJ 
 circumstances served : — 
 
 " Now with my heart let me hold conference. 
 This lord, he speaks me fair, he clothes me fine 
 He entertains me honorably and well ; 
 But how know I his purport in all this ? 
 Is it in honesty, is it in respect ? i 
 
 Doth it mean well or ill, or good or bad ? 
 His words are cups that brim all o'er with love, 
 But is there sign of wedding in this cheer 1 
 Perchance the love he proffers comes to me 
 In some polluted vessel, that hath been 
 Lipped by dishonored maids in wantonness, 
 Or drained by thoughtless women in their 
 
 shame ] 
 These gaudy trappings, are they meant to be . 
 The tire of marriage sent by honest love, 
 Or the more tawdry livery of guilt 1 
 And all this splendor, all this bounteous state, 
 This worship, travail, reverence, and respect — 
 'Tis prodigal, 'tis admirable, 'tis rare, 
 Most choice, most noble, delicate, and sweet — > 
 But doth it cover any meaner thing ? 
 A thing so base, so vile, so infamous, 
 It doth require to be thus thickly gilt 
 To make the metal take a sterling shape 1 
 I'll think of this." 
 
 The lady appeared somewhat agitated 
 during the delivery of these passages, and 
 leaned forward in her chair, drinking in 
 every word, evidently with the most intense 
 interest. The young player noticing these 
 signs, and observing too that her companions 
 were still paying no heed to him, proceeded 
 with these words : — 
 
 " Alack, I cannot doubt 
 These words mean villainy, these garments 
 
 shame, 
 This entertainment mischiefs of the worst. 
 Methinks the very air I breathe, feels thick 
 With craft and malice, treachery and crime ! 
 And I am here alone — far from all help — 
 Close watched, well guarded, providently kept. 
 But hush ! there needs great caution. Not a 
 
 word, 
 A sound, a gesture, dare I give to show 
 I look suspiciously upon these schemes. 
 And yet there might be present even here 
 Friends who would strain their hearts for my 
 
 escape, 
 Showed I some sign I would assay their aid. 
 At least I'll let them see I wear a face 
 That needs no mask — for I can truly swear 
 As yet it holds no intercourse with shame." 
 
 In an instant the mask was taken off* the 
 lady so deeply interested in the play, and, 
 as the youthful Shakspeare had for some 
 minutes anticipated, he beheld the guileless, 
 beautiful countenance of the gentle Mabel, 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 137 
 
 flushed with excitement, and gazed upon 
 him with so imploring anxious a look, it was 
 plain she had felt every word he had uttered. 
 The face was again masked, quite unob- 
 served by her companions. The young 
 player made a sign of recognition, and con- 
 cluded with these lines : — 
 
 " These friends I'll trust, I know they may be 
 
 found 
 Out by the gate that ends the garden wall. 
 There will I seek them with what speed I may ; 
 Having assurance, by their means to 'scape 
 The living hell that holds me round about ; 
 And back return to innocence' and peace, 
 An honored dwelling, and a spotlress name." 
 
 " Come, sweetest, the play is ended," 
 whispered her noble gallant. Mabel me- 
 chanically rose, and accompanied her to 
 his own chamber. Her feelings were in 
 such a state of tumult she dared not speak. 
 She repeated to herself the lines — 
 
 " 1 know they may be found 
 Out by the gate that ends the garden wall," 
 
 as if she would impress them so firmly on 
 her memory, there could be no chance of her 
 forgetiing them : she also remembered the 
 hint that had been given her to be cautious, 
 but she had been so little accustomed to dis- 
 guise, that here she somewhat feared for 
 herself. The revulsion of feeling had been 
 so deep, so strong, and so sudden from a sense 
 of security and gratitude to a sense of dis- 
 gust and abhorrence, that it left her for 
 some minutes so greatly bewildered, she 
 scarce knew what she was about. Present- 
 ly, her lover and herself unmasked. The 
 signs of a disturbed nature so visible in her, 
 he seemed to expect as a natural conse- 
 quence of his craftily-devised play, and he 
 nad not the slightest doubt it had produced 
 s.,11 the effect he had desired. ' It was time 
 now, he thought, to follow up his advantage 
 Wore the simple girl could have opportunity 
 f'-r reflection, and he made himself ready. 
 w f .h the desperate earnestness of a deter- 
 r_4'.iieu profligate, to conclude the plot against 
 her, as it had been settled by his companions 
 in iniquity, during the delivery of the con- 
 cluding soliloquy. He came close to her, 
 and wound his arm fondly round her waist, 
 as she was endeavoring to put her disorder- 
 ed thoughts into something resembling pur- 
 pose, bringing his face as near to hers as he 
 might, and gazing into her eyes with the most 
 fond and passionate glances. 
 
 " My sweet life," murmured he, in such 
 soft and thrilling tones as he fancied would 
 be most effective, " We dally with opportu- 
 nity. The happiness I have so long coveted 
 and so thoroughly strove to deserve, should 
 
 now, methinks, be my just reward. Love 
 beckons us to mutual bliss. Hither with me 
 awhile, upon those balmy lips to breathe new 
 life, and taste such joy as the enamored soul 
 alone can know. Prithee, come this way, 
 my heart ! — my queen ! — my treasure !" — 
 The gentle Mabel allowed herself to be borne 
 unresistingly towards the next chamber — 
 seemingly as if stupefied by the fascinating 
 gaze of her licentious companion, who hung 
 over her exquisite countenance as he drew 
 her along, like a gloating serpent — but the 
 noble pride of her nature at last made itself 
 manifest, for as she came near the door, on a 
 sudden she burst from his hold, and retreat- 
 ing back a pace or two, fixed on him a look 
 of such utter scorn as would have crushed a 
 meaner wretch to the earth. 
 
 " Thou shameless villain !" exciaimed 
 she, her voice half choked with the fulness 
 of her emotions. " Thou pitiful traitor to 
 all true love and honesty ! Dost call this 
 nobleness ? Dost style this honor ? How 
 darest thou attempt to pass off such base- 
 ness for the behavior of a princely person ?" 
 
 " Why, how now ?" cried the gallant in 
 real astonishment. " What meaneth this 
 •unworthy language and these terrible indig- 
 nant looks ?" 
 
 " What mean they ?" replied the poor 
 foundling, her lustrous eyes flashing with 
 scorn, and her whole countenance, as he 
 had justly observed, looking terribly indig- 
 nant. " They mean that thou hast been 
 hugely mistaken in me, as hitherto have I 
 been in thee. I am not of such worthless 
 stuff as thou hast supposed. I did believe 
 thee all thou didst assume, and therefore, 
 felt no fear. Thou didst seem honorable. 
 I thought thee so." 
 
 " Prithee, let us have no more of this," 
 observed the gallant, impatiently. " I mar- 
 vel thou shouldst get into so famous a pas- 
 sion about nothing, after having enjoyed at 
 my expense such bounteous entertainment." 
 
 " I needed it not — I asked it not," answer- 
 ed Mabel. " It was forced on me under color 
 of honorable intents ; but now I know the 
 baseness of its ends, I will not be a partaker 
 of it another minute of my life." 
 
 " Not so fast, my pretty tyrantess !" ex- 
 claimed her companion. " I cannot part 
 with thee so soon, or lessen the splendor 
 of which thou hast so liberally partaken.— 
 Nor can I believe theu wouldst play so ill 
 a part as this thou art about. Come, come, 
 sweetest ! this humor becomes thee not at 
 all." 
 
 " Away — I am not to be beguiled !" cried 
 the fair foundling, eluding his approaches. 
 
 " Nay, 'tis too hard a thing — I cannot think 
 
128 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 of it," replied the other, standing before the 
 •ioor she sought to make her exit out of. " I 
 must not see my full great pains and cost 
 all come to nought — 'tis out of justice and 
 against all right. Marry, wouldst take thy 
 pleasure and not pay the price !" 
 
 " I tell thee once again, I took it, thinking 
 it was honorably given," said Mabel. " Thou 
 didst not mention price, thou talked of honor ! 
 Didst think that I would barter away my own 
 respect to lie in costly lodging and be clothed 
 in delicate attire ? Take back thy pitiful 
 bribes," continued she, as she tore from her 
 person her jewels, her chains of gold, and 
 sparkling rings, and dashed them at his feet. 
 " I loathe all I have had of thee— I loathe 
 still more the villain who could put them to 
 so base a purpose." 
 
 " Ha, dost, indeed !" exclaimed her gal- 
 lant, his face now assuming some anger. — 
 " O' my life, I will not be so easily thrust 
 aside. I have done what ought to satisfy 
 any reasonable woman: Indeed, I have had 
 more cost and pains taken with thee than 
 with any half dozen others I have fancied ; 
 but if fair words will not do with thee, foul 
 deeds shall. Thou art so completely in myj , 
 power that resistance is useless. 'Tis vain 
 struggling. Thou must needs submit." 
 
 " Oh, I beseech thee, have some pity !" 
 cried the poor foundling, falling on her knees 
 at his feet with a look so moving, the sa- 
 vagest beast must have been tamed at the 
 sight of it. " Surely, thou meanest not 
 such evil as thou speakest ; I cannot think 
 so ill of thee. Thou art, indeed, that princely 
 person I once thought, and knowest and feel- 
 est in thy inmost heart, it is no part of no- 
 bleness to wrong a poor maid. Let me go 
 in honor from thy house, I'll pray for thee 
 all my days. I'll hold thee ever after a true 
 good friend — a bountiful sweet lord, the very 
 noblest gentleman that breathes. My lord — 
 my worthy lord — my honorable, good lord — 
 as God shall pity thee, so pity my poor state." 
 
 She might have implored a stone. The 
 licentious noble, with his looks burning with 
 his dishonest passions, drew her in his arms 
 towards the adjoining chamber, though she 
 clung to his limbs with desperate grasp, and 
 continupd with straining eyeballs and hoarse- 
 thick voice, to pray his mercy. As he held 
 her before him, her hands, clutching him 
 wildly as she was borne along, at one time 
 fell upon the jewelled pommel of his dagger. 
 In a moment the blade was out of its sheath 
 — in the next she had twisted herself free of 
 his grasp, and stood at some distance from 
 him, with one hand striving to stay the throb- 
 bing of her heart, and the other, holding out 
 the weapon threateningly before her. The 
 
 beauty of her countenance was now abso- 
 lutely sublime. There was in it a lofty 
 grandeur of expression that can scarce be 
 conceived. Her eyes seemed fountains of 
 living lightning, and her beautiful lips ap- 
 peared to curl with an unutterable sense of 
 outraged majesty no language can give the 
 remotest idea of. 
 
 " Touch me at thy peril !" exclaimed she, 
 as audible as her perturbed state would al- 
 low. Her companion seemed so completely 
 taken by astonishment, that for a moment he 
 stared at her as if uncertain what to be about. 
 At last he made a movement as if he would 
 approach her, and on the instant, her left 
 arm was pointed towards him as stiffly as 
 though it had been iron, whilst her right 
 clutched the dagger a little behind her. — 
 She elevated herself to her full height, and 
 threw her head somewhat back, with a look 
 and a manner that showed a stern determi- 
 nation. 
 
 " I warn thee !" muttered the poor found- 
 ling, in a terrible earnestness;, "if thou 
 dost but come within arm's length of me to 
 follow up thy villainous intentions, as Jesu 
 shall save my soul, I'll cleave thy heart in 
 twain .'" 
 
 The profligate drew back. He dared not 
 battle with the fierce storm he had raised ; 
 so, saying he would send to her those who 
 would soon have her out of her tragedy hu- 
 mor, he turned on his heel to seek the as- 
 sistance of his vile associates. Mabel, in 
 the same attitude, and with the same look, 
 followed him step by step to the door. When 
 she heard his departing foot, she looked to 
 the fastenings, there were none inside the 
 chamber — she dropped her dagger and clasp- 
 ed her hands in despair. On a sudden, a 
 thought struck her. She ran to the case- 
 ment and threw it open. It looked into tlie 
 garden, above which it stood some ten feet. 
 
 Without a moment's hesitation she leaped 
 out, and finding herself sftfe when she came 
 to the ground, flew down the garden like an 
 escaped bird. Keeping the wall in view, she 
 came, out of breath, to a door at its extremi- 
 ty. It was partly open. She dashed through 
 it, staggered forward, and fell, with a wild 
 hysterical laugh, into the ready arms of Sir 
 Valentine. 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 129 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Forth goeth all the court, both most and lest, 
 To fetch the flourc ^icsh, and branch and blome, 
 And namely hauthorn brought both page and 
 
 grome 
 And then rejoysen in their great delite : 
 Eke ech at other throw the floures bright, 
 The primrose, the violete, and the gold, 
 With fresh gaiiants party blew and white. 
 
 Chaucer. 
 There's not a budding boy or girl, this day 
 But is got up, and gone to bring in May. 
 A deaje of youth, ere this, is come 
 Back, and with white-thorn laden home. 
 
 Herrick. 
 In this our spacious isle I think there is not one, 
 But he hath heard some talk of him and eke of 
 
 Little John, 
 Of TucK the merry friar, which many a sermon 
 
 made [trade, 
 
 In praise of Robin Hood, his outlaws, and their 
 And of his mistress dear, his loved Marian. 
 
 Drayton. 
 Shall the hobby horse be forgot then 1 
 The hopeful hobby horse, shall he lie foundered] 
 Beaumont and Fletcher. 
 
 The feeling with which the youthful poet 
 regarded the fair object of his recent adven- 
 ture, if it should be called love, was very dif- 
 ferent from the passion which goeth under 
 that name. In fact, it was more a senti- 
 ment than a passion — rather the offspring of 
 the intellect than of the affections. It was 
 the first rosy hues of light which ushereth 
 in the sunshine of the soul, producing the 
 fairest glimpses of heaven, before the atmos- 
 phere hath heat enough to warm the blood. 
 Love it was beyond all doubt, but it was that 
 peculiar species which is found only to visit 
 the very young and very imaginative. It is 
 true it hath a natural source; but it is equal- 
 ly undeniable, it dwelleth in the fairy regions 
 of the ideal. Where there is early sign of 
 great intellect, there will also be found a 
 like early sign of deep feeling. The one is 
 supported by the other, fostered, encouraged, 
 and fed by it. Beauty is indeed the air it 
 breathes, but imagination is the soil from 
 which it draws its nourishment. The boy 
 genius is ever the boy lover, and having 
 found some gentle being worthy to be en- 
 shrined in the sanctuary of his hopes, he 
 proceeds not only to invest her image with 
 all loveable attributes, but with such loveable 
 behavior as seemeth most proper for the en- 
 tertainment of his fantasy. 
 
 He finds a spirit rising over 1 his thoughts, 
 which gives them a sort of softened halo, 
 that at some favorable opportunity taketh the 
 shape of song or sonnet delicately fashioned 
 
 — a sensible adoration — an inspiration be 
 ginning and ending in a spiritual heaven of 
 its own. Ideas take to themselves wings, 
 and fly east and west, and north and south, 
 bringing back the riches, rarities, and per- 
 fections of the whole globe with which to 
 deck this favored deity. He ransacks the 
 deepest hollows of the sea — he snatches 
 glory from the shining stars — he makes the 
 enamelled earth show all her bravest tapestry 
 that he may choose the daintiest piece of all 
 — and far above, beneath, around, and about, 
 where splendor shines, or modest beauty 
 hides, he bears away their gifts, as offerings 
 worthiest of so pure a shrine. 
 
 Truly, as hath just been said, this is the 
 love of the cool morning of life, that differ- 
 eth as much in its nature from the blushing 
 sunrise of youth, as from the noon-tide 
 heats of manhood ; and like unto that early 
 season of the day, it soon glides into a 
 warmer atmosphere. Love, such as this, 
 will always be found to have no purpose, 
 save the deification of its object, which it 
 loves to worship, rather than worships to 
 love. This way it goeth on, like the silk- 
 worm in its cocoon, only known by the 
 pleasing mantle it weaves around itself; and 
 having at last spent all its energies, it comes 
 forth, some brief space after its labors, as 
 different in character and appearance as any 
 two things can be. 
 
 This love, though, let it be remembered, 
 made William Shakspeare a poet, some sign 
 of which, albeit, it must be thought of "all 
 judges, one of no particular greatness, may 
 be seen in the simple ballad found by the 
 antiquary in the book of songs, which did 
 so much delight the good old knight and his 
 companions ; but it should also be borne in 
 mind, such are ever first efforts. The ma- 
 terials of poetry may lie in prodigal heaps 
 within the brain, but. the fashioning thera 
 into the properest shape comes but after 
 many trials. The soliloquy the young poet 
 spoke in the place of the one intended to end 
 the play, deserveth praise only for the readi- 
 ness with which it was written, and aptness 
 for the occasion which wrought it into ex- 
 istence. It cannot be expected the finish of 
 an experienced writer, or the sufficiency of 
 a mature genius should be found in such 
 things. They should be taken merely for 
 what they appear. Nevertheless, if it be 
 thought the poet was but in his pot-hooks, 1 
 doubt not in good time to show such craft of 
 penmanship in him, as shall be all men's ad- 
 miration unto the end of time. 
 
 Still was he as diligent a student as ever 
 and never could scholar have more caretui 
 teachers than William (Shakspeare ^ad j„ 
 
130 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Master Peregrine, the antiquary, and Sir 
 Johan, the chaplain. Ever since the affair 
 of the ballad, each of these two watched till 
 they could find the young student alone, and 
 then they would strive as never they strove 
 before he should profit by their instructions, 
 in full belief all the whilst, that from his 
 teaching alone, the youth had gained all the 
 knowledge he possessed. By their means 
 he obtained such an acquaintance with what 
 was worthiest of note in ancient English 
 literature, and Greek and Latin classic lore, 
 as it was scarce possible he could have ob- 
 tained by any other means. But about this 
 time he began more to observe than he had 
 hitherto done. He made comparisons — he 
 judged — he looked into the meanings of 
 things — he commenced studying the appli- 
 cation of words, and he analyzed and weigh- 
 ed, and sifted what he read, and what he 
 saw, till he could point out where lay the 
 good and where the bad — how they might 
 be distinguished, and what was the differ- 
 ence between any two particular matters 
 that looked to be alike. This study was not 
 confined to books : he pursued it wherever 
 he went, and found no lack of subjects in 
 the common phenomena of nature. Even a 
 drop of rain was some object for speculation 
 — the shooting of a star, the fructification of 
 a plant, and the falling of a leaf seemed as 
 worthy of inquiry. A storm never rolled 
 over him but the lightning flashed some new 
 meaning into his mind — and he never wit- 
 nessed the rising of the sun, but with it 
 came some fresh light into his thoughts. As 
 he saw the emmets crowding to and fro 
 among the grass, he would say, " Wherefore 
 is this ?" and whilst he watched the builders 
 of the grove making their delicate dwellings 
 in the forked branches of the tree, he would 
 exclaim, " How is this done ?" High or low 
 he sent his curious mind seeking intelli- 
 gence. Nothing escaped him, and to his 
 eager questionings, all things in nature gave 
 him ready answers. 
 
 The gentle Mabel he saw not again all 
 this time. He frequented her favorite haunts, 
 but she was nowhere visible. Day after day 
 found him stealing among the trees where 
 he had so oft watched her graceful progress, 
 but his anxious gaze was never blessed with 
 the slightest sign of her presence. He 
 changed the time. He took the early morn- 
 ing by the hand and roamed the park before 
 the hind had left his bed of rushes; but 
 though nature rose wooingly to meet his 
 glance, he looked upon her graces only as a 
 sort of faint cold picturing of those he de- 
 sired to meet in all their living freshness in 
 a much fairer original. He made himself 
 
 familiar with the moon, and still did nature 
 court him with her lovingest looks, and still 
 did she receive such attentions as proved 
 she was merely regarded „:? the ambassador 
 of the fair sovereign of his thoughts. And 
 he lingered out the hours with twilight, till 
 she was lost in the embraces of the shadowy 
 eve, but with no other result than had ac- 
 companied his earlier seeking. Thus passed 
 the winter, till the frost was gone, the hearth- 
 side tales forgotten, the Christmas sports but 
 faintly remembered, and everything around 
 was full of green promise and blooming ex- 
 pectation. 
 
 The chief companions of his own age 
 had long been the four schoolfellows before 
 described — of whom Tom Greene was such a 
 compound of oddness and drollery as was 
 not to be met with elsewhere. None like 
 him could play the Hobby-horse in Friar 
 Tuck, or the Fool in the May Games, or the 
 Lord of Misrule in a Twelfth Night revel, or 
 the Vice of a Moral Play. At plough Mon- 
 day none was so much in request, and not 
 less so was he at Candlemas eve, or Shrove- 
 tide, or Hocktide, or at Witsun-ales, at a 
 sheep-shearing, or a harvest home. Dick 
 Burbage was more for the playing of inge- 
 nious tricks, which he carried off with such 
 a careless happy impudence, that its pleas- 
 antry often took away all offence. Hemings 
 had none of this humor, though he could 
 enjoy it in others ; yet when he joined his 
 companions, he choose to play a courtly part, 
 if such could be had. As for Condell he 
 was ready enough to do whatever the others 
 did. He would play with them at shuffle 
 board, or shove-groat, in a mumming, or an 
 interlude, as eagerly as he would join them 
 in running at the quintain, or assist them in 
 the threshing of a shrove-tide hen. In fact 
 he seemed to care not what it was, so he 
 was one of the party, but if he might be 
 allowed a preference he would gladly stand 
 out for the playing of Gammer Gurton's 
 Needle. 
 
 During the time his thoughts were so busy 
 feeding of his fantasy for the fair maid of 
 Charlcote, William Shakspeare had joined 
 his companions but seldom. In very truth 
 he somewhat shrunk from their boisterous 
 mirth, for he liked best to be alone ; but 
 seeing nought of Mabel, his mind for want 
 of that necessary nourishment, relaxed 
 something in the earnestness of its worship 
 At such an age and with such a nature this 
 ideal idolatry requireth at least the frequent 
 presence of the object, before it can take 
 upon itself that warmer devotion which alonfl 
 is lasting and natural ; and without sight oi 
 the idol, the mere imaginative existence ol 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 131 
 
 this boyish love soon becomes manifest. 
 Gradually the thoughts relax in their search- 
 ing after admirable things with which to 
 tire their gentle deity. They go not so far 
 — they stay not so long — they bring home 
 less and less every day ; and thus it goeth 
 on, the circuit of their visits lessening by 
 degrees, and their labor becoming corres- 
 pondingly unprofitable, till at last they cease 
 altogether going on any such errands. Now 
 it may be considered the idolatry is at an 
 end, though some faint vestige of it may 
 linger about the mind ; but it is a bygone 
 superstition belonging to an ideal world, that 
 will only be remembered by some beautiful 
 presence in nature with which it was wont 
 to be accompanied, as some will still believe 
 they see the dryad in the tree and the nymph 
 in the fountain. This was the time for en- 
 tertaining that deeper worship to which al- 
 lusion has just been made, and the young 
 poet was not long without meeting with a 
 suitable deity willing to excite and to re- 
 ceive it. 
 
 Hemings' friends lived at Shottery, a vil- 
 lage at a little distance from Stratford, to 
 which William Shakspeare and others of 
 his companions occasionally resorted, and 
 one pleasant afternoon as the young poet 
 was returning from a visit he had been pay- 
 ing to his schoolfellow, he was aroused from 
 his customary meditations when alone, by a 
 ■vveet voice singing these words : — 
 
 THE SPINSTER'S SONG. 
 
 " Damon came a praising me, 
 
 Vowing that he loved me too — 
 None like I so fair could be, 
 None like him could be so true. 
 I meant to chide, but spoke no sound — 
 And still my wheel went round and round. 
 
 " Damon, somewhat bolder grown, 
 In his hand mine fondly placed, 
 Pressed it gently in his own, 
 
 Then his arm twined round my waist. 
 Somehow I smiled instead of frowned, 
 And still my wheel went round and round. 
 
 " Damon brought his face nigh mine, 
 
 Though he knows I kisses hate ; 
 I would baulk his base design — 
 But, the wretch, he did it straight ! 
 And then again ! — and still I found 
 That still my wheel went round and round." 
 
 During the singing of these verses, the 
 young poet was engaged in observing the 
 singer. At a little distance from the road, 
 running between Shottery and Stratford, was 
 a neat cottage, trailed all over with a goodly 
 pear tree, then in full blossom, with a grass 
 
 plat before it. It was not one of the com 
 mon sort of cottages, for it possessed an ap- 
 pearance of comfort and respectability which 
 showed it belonged to some person at least 
 of the rank of a yeoman. There was in 
 one place a famous brood of poultry, and in 
 another a good fat sow, with a litter of pigs, 
 wandering about at their will. A fair gar- 
 den and orchard stood beyond the house, 
 and in a neat paddock at the side were a cow 
 and a favorite pony. At the open door, 
 through which might be seen notable signs 
 of the soI& comfort that prevailed within, 
 some two or three very young children were 
 taking of their supper of porridge in wooden 
 bowls, occasionally throwing a spoonful to 
 the fowls, to the monstrous gratification of 
 both parties ; whilst farther off a boy, of some 
 eight or ten years was amusing himself with 
 a tame rabbit. The singer, however, was 
 none of these. At a spinning wheel, placed 
 close to the house at a few yards from the 
 door, there sat a blooming girl, attired with 
 that sort of daintiness with which such fair 
 creatures do love to set off their comeliness. 
 She was the singer. There was a laughing 
 careless air with her as she sung the words, 
 that, in the eyes of the spectator, much 
 heightened the provocation of her pouting 
 lips, and large, soft, languishing eyes, her 
 rich dark complexion, and the budding full- 
 ness of her figure. 
 
 William Shakspeare had crept unseen be- 
 hind a large walnut tree that stood in front 
 of the cottage, where he stood like one spell- 
 bound, drinking in at his eyes such intoxi- 
 cating draughts of beauty, that they put him 
 into a steep forgetfulness of all other mat- 
 ters in a presently; and here doubtless he 
 would have stood, I know not how long, had 
 not the singer made some sign she was aware 
 of his vicinity — perchance she knew it all 
 the time — however, spying of a handsome 
 youth gazing on her in a manner she could 
 not misinterpret, she rose from her seat in a 
 seeming great surprise, and as she did so 
 the young poet, in voluntary homage to the 
 power he had so well inclined to honor, un- 
 covered his head. There they stood, notic- 
 ing of 'nothing but each other, and neither 
 saying a word. All at once the little chil- 
 dren dropped their bowls, and with infantile 
 exclamations of delight ran as fast as they 
 could to a tall, honest-looking, manly sort of 
 a man, who with a keg slung across his 
 shoulders, and in a working dress, seemed as 
 if he had just come from his labor in the 
 fields. The young poet turned and beheld 
 this person close behind him, with the chil- 
 dren clinging to his legs with every appear* 
 ance of exquisite sweet pleasure. 
 
iaa 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 "Hallo, young sir! what dost want?" 
 inquired he, eyeing the youthful Shaks- 
 peare with some curiousness. 
 
 " Truly, I want nothing," replied the latter, 
 a little taken by surprise, as it were ; " I 
 was but attracted here by some sweet sing- 
 ing, and did not imagine I was doing of any 
 wrong by listening." 
 
 " Humph !" exclaimed the elder, perfectly 
 conscious that this was the truth; for he, 
 having been behind the youth from the first, 
 had witnessed the whole affair. " What's 
 thy name ?" added he. 
 
 " William Shakspeare," was the answer. 
 
 " Thought so, give's thee hand," said the 
 other frankly, and in the next moment the 
 young poet found his palm grasped by his 
 new acquaintance with a friendliness that 
 quite astonished him. " Thy father and I 
 are old friends from boys. Ask of him if he 
 know not John Hathaway. Many a time 
 hath he been in my house, and as 9ft have I 
 been in his ; and famous sport have we had 
 together, I'll warrant. But some how I have 
 seen nought of him of late. As for thyself, 
 I have heard very creditable report of thee, 
 and therefore say, with all heartiness, I am 
 glad to see thee here — so thou must needs 
 come in and take a bit of supper with us." 
 
 William Shakspeare was in no mood for 
 refusing of such a request ; he accepted the 
 invitation as freely as it was given, and both 
 entered the cottage together. There the 
 rack filled with bacon — the logs blazing 
 comfortably in the deep chimney, with the 
 gun hanging above, and the store of platters, 
 bowls, trenchers, and other household things 
 that surrounded him on every side, were 
 most convincing proof to the visitor that the 
 owner lived in no sort of want. 
 
 " Here, Anne, take these things, and draw 
 us a jug of ale," cried John Hathaway, put- 
 ting down on the table what he had carried 
 on his shoulder, as the singer hastened to- 
 wards him, and would have a kiss with the 
 rest — a proceeding by the way, which his 
 guest regarded with something of envy. 
 " Then put these young ones to their beds, 
 and afterwards cut us a delicate rasher, with 
 such other things as thou hast for eating ; 
 for here is the son of an honest friend of 
 mine who meaneth to sup with us." 
 
 " You shall have a most dainty supper 
 anon, father," replied his daughter, busying 
 herself without delay to do as she was re- 
 quired. In the meanwhile the youthful 
 Shakspeare was making friends with the 
 children, and by the kind affectionateness of 
 his manner quickly won their little hearts. 
 
 " Come, draw up *Jiy chair, friend Will, 
 tod take a drink," said his host, seating 
 
 himself in the chimney corner, where theft 
 were seats on each side. William Shaks- 
 peare did as he was bid, nothing loath, and 
 presently the two fell into conversing about 
 ordinary matters, and from these to other 
 topics of more interest. The young visitor 
 appeared desirous of making a favorable 
 impression upon his host, for he endeavored 
 to make all his talk turn upon what the 
 other was most familiar with, and spoke so 
 learnedly upon the state of the crops^tlw 
 best system of tillage, the prospects of the 
 lambing season, and the breed of live stock, 
 that he not only won the honest yeoman's 
 heart, but he astonished him monstrously 
 into the bargain. All the whilst he failed 
 not to give an occasional admiring glance at 
 the movements of his new friend's buxom 
 daughter, who for her part seemed to give 
 back his looks with some interest. 
 
 "How dost like our Anne's singing?" 
 inquired John Hathaway, when his daughter 
 had left the chamber to put the children to 
 their beds. 
 
 % " Very exceedingly I do assure you," 
 replied the youth, with a notable siitcerity. 
 
 " Humph !" exclaimed the father, as 
 though he were a thinking of something he 
 cared not to give speech to. "Indeed she 
 hath a sweet throat." Nothing more was 
 said on that head at that moment ; and they 
 again talked of country matters, till his host 
 cound not any longer contain his great won- 
 dering at his guest's marvellous insight into 
 such things, and inquired how he acquired 
 it ; whereupon the other truly answered he 
 got it questioning of those whose business 
 it was. In good time the yeoman's bloom- 
 ing daughter returned, and busied herself 
 with preparations for supper, taking care 
 whenever she could to have her share in 
 the discourse which she did with a pretty 
 sprightliness exceedingly agreeable to her 
 young admirer. Seeing her attempting to 
 move the great table nearer to the fire, he 
 must needs jump up, and with a graceful 
 officiousness, seek to do it himself, the 
 which she appeared to object to in some 
 manner, and there was a little arguing ot 
 the matter betwixt them — the father looking 
 on with a glimmering smile, as if he could 
 see in it something exceeding pleasant. 
 The end was, that the two young people 
 carried the table together, manifestly to 
 their extreme satisfaction. 
 
 This John Hathaway was one of the most 
 industrious yeomen in the country, and had 
 been sometime a widower. He was of a 
 famous pleasant temper, but was far from 
 making a boisterous show of it. He delight- 
 ed greatly to assist in the honest pleasures of 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 113 
 
 any other, yet few could guess from his 
 manner on such occasions, that he took the 
 interest in it he did. Indeed he was some- 
 what of a sly humor, and liked none to know 
 when he was most pleased. His honest, 
 well-embrowned countenance, set off with 
 hair and beard, getting to be grey, never 
 ventured on such occasions beyond a lurking 
 smile, and ewen then he seemed to take care 
 the parties who had excited it, should not 
 see. Doubtless he was in a rare humor 
 with his new acquaintance, but though he 
 lacked nothing in hospitality, he appeared to 
 hear him and regard him with so staid an 
 ispect, it was difficult for the latter to know 
 whether he was satisfied with him or other- 
 wise. Still the youth continued seeking to 
 entertain his host with his converse, having 
 sufficient reward in the approving glances of 
 the other's sprightly daughter, who was well 
 enough acquainted with such things to take 
 a singular pleasure in observing the skill 
 with which her young admirer spoke of them. 
 In due time the rashers were done, and 
 with a store of other wholesome victual, 
 were put on a fair white cloth, that covered 
 the table, and William Shakspeare was 
 pressed with blunt courtesy by the father, 
 and a more winning persuasiveness by the 
 daughter, to partake of the fare set before 
 him. This he essayed to do with a notable 
 good will. After this the blooming Anne 
 brewed a goodly posset, and whilst they 
 were enjoying it, her father called on her to 
 sing him a song, the which she seemed a 
 little, — a very little to hesitate upon, with a 
 sort of pretty coyness time out of* mind cus- 
 tomary under similar circumstances, but 
 after the handsome youth had pressed her 
 with an excellent show of rhetoric, she sung 
 a dainty ditty, then popular, concerning of 
 " The little pretty Nightingale," and at least 
 one of the listeners thought it most exqui- 
 site sweet singing. Then John Hathaway 
 would needs have a song of his guest, to 
 the which his daughter added her entreaties 
 so prettily, the youthful Shakspeare found it 
 impossible to resist, whereupon he com- 
 menced the singing of a favorite love-song 
 of the time, beginning " If I had wytt for to 
 endyte." The words were of a pleasant 
 conceit which gained considerably in ad- 
 mirableness by the manner of his singing, 
 and the tune, by means of his rich, clear 
 voice, came upon the air a very river of 
 melody. Whether the yeomen liked the 
 song could only be told by the pleasure 
 lurking in the corners of his mouth, and 
 shining quaintly in his half-closed eye-lids, 
 which might be interpreted he saw more in 
 it than the singer imagined — however, that 
 
 his daughter relished it there could be no 
 questioning, for her smiles were full as evi- 
 dent as her praises. 
 
 " Now friend Will, thee must be a going," 
 exclaimed John Hathaway at last, in his 
 usual plain countryman sort of manner. 
 " 'Tis my custom to go to bed with the lamb, 
 and rise with the lark — an excellent good 
 custom I'll warrant— so I'll e'en bid thee a 
 fair good night — nevertheless I will add to it 
 I shall be happy to see thee at all times — > 
 and if I be not at home, perchance Anne will 
 be as happy to see thee as myself." He 
 said this with a look of humor that shone 
 through all the staidness of his aspect, and 
 shaking his visitor heartily by the hand, he 
 opened the door for his exit. His daughter 
 denied not a word of what her father had 
 said. Indeed, her glances, as she bade the 
 youth good night, as plainly said — " Come 
 again," as ever was expressed by a pair of 
 bright eyes since the world began. 
 
 William Shakspeare returned home with 
 his feelings in a sort of delicious pleasure, 
 perfectly new to him. Be sure he would 
 have hastened to the cottage next day, only 
 he was forced to be at Sir Marmaduke's 
 according to promise. The old knight took 
 huge delight in having all festivals and holi- 
 days kept with due ceremony at his mansion. 
 He would not have omitted the slightest 
 things savored of the old times. Knowing 
 this, the antiquary called his young scholar 
 to his counsels, for the express purpose of 
 getting up the festival of the May in such a 
 manner as should outdo all former things of 
 the like sort, and the youth had been com- 
 missioned to press into his service whoever 
 he thought could afford him proper assist- 
 ance. These he had to make familiar with 
 their duties. But if he did not visit the fair 
 singer that day, be sure he did the day fol- 
 lowing, invested with extraordinary powers 
 by his friend Master Peregrine, with which 
 he acquainted his new acquaintance John 
 Hathaway, and to his exceeding satisfac- 
 tion found they were favorably entertained 
 of him : the purport of which will be seen anon. 
 
 Scarce had the last day of April closed, 
 when, by the sweet moonlight, William 
 Shakspeare, with a famous company of both 
 sexes — friends, tenants, servants, and others, 
 started to a neighboring wood, where they 
 searched about for all manner of flowers then 
 in season, which they gathered into nose- 
 gays and garlands ; and broke down blos- 
 soming boughs of trees, chiefly of birch, 
 green sycamore, and hawthorn, to carry home 
 with them to deck the doors and porches 
 withal, and make a goodly Maypole. Fa- 
 mous sport had they all the while, laughing 
 
134 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Mid shouting, frolicking in the grass, and 
 wandering about dispersedly, making the 
 whole country ring with their mirth. About 
 sunrise they again joined company — men, 
 women, and children — each laden with the 
 spoil of the Spring. A tall elm had been 
 cut down, and a straight and taper pole fitted 
 to the end of it, and painted in spiral lines of 
 yellow and black. It was then prodigally 
 adorned with garlands of fresh flowers and 
 new ribbon of the gayest colors. Some 
 forty yoke of oxen belonging to Sir Marma- 
 duke, with each a sweet posey at the tip of 
 his horns had then to draw it home, accom- 
 panied on its slow march with the whole of 
 the company, bearing their green boughs, 
 savory herbs, and odorous blossoms, — sing- 
 ing, leaping, and dancing, as if nothing could 
 exceed their pleasure. 
 
 The Maypole having been drawn to an 
 open place in the park, convenient to the 
 house, was raised up .on high with a great 
 shouting and glee ; and it was a right dainty 
 sight to note the streamers dancing merrily 
 in the breeze, and the various colors of the 
 delicate blossoms. Having done this, the 
 principals of the festival had other prepara- 
 tions to make, which they set about with a 
 proper earnestness. All the armor in the 
 old hall was presently hid under boughs and 
 flowers, and the like decorations were pro- 
 digally bestowed in every direction about the 
 house. On the floor the long tables were 
 spread with cakes and other choice cates 
 for whoever chose to come. The whole 
 neighborhood looked like a fairy bower, and 
 crowds of persons in strange garments camf 
 thronging in and out, looking as joyful as 
 ever they had been in their days. 
 
 After this, wholesome viands:, and ale of 
 the best might be had in different bowers 
 made of branches of trees in the park ; and 
 at dinner there was a most prodigal banquet 
 of everything for to eat and to drink that 
 could be procured. Here was a gammon of 
 bacon-pie, there a lamb dressed whole — in 
 one place a venison pasty, in another a great 
 iish, a shield of brawn with mustard, a chine 
 of beef roasted, baked chewets, a kid with a 
 pudding in the belly, and all manner of 
 poultry, made but a small stock of the won- 
 derful load of victual under which the table 
 groaned. Even the lower messes had most 
 handsome entertainment, and every place 
 bore sign of most sumptuous feasting. The 
 great variety of dresses then worn, and the 
 happy joyous faces there visible, made the 
 whole scene as pleasant a one as could be 
 imagined ; but the goodliest feature of it all 
 was old Sir Marmaduke in hi.° customary 
 place at the top of the table, regarding every 
 
 one with the same graciousness, and only 
 looking around him to see that all present 
 were as happy as he thought they ought to 
 be. Of the jests that flew about, or of the 
 tricks that were played, I can make scarce 
 any mention. The strangeness, however, of 
 some groups, methinks should not escape 
 notice ; — for in one place St. George and 
 the dragon, forgetful of their deadly enmity, 
 were shaking hands introductory to drinking 
 each other's health ; in another, Robin Hood 
 and little John, as regardless of their mutual 
 love, were seeking which could lay fastest 
 hold of a tankard each had got a hand upon ; 
 here the fool was cunningly emptying of 
 Friar Tuck's full trencher into his own 
 empty one, whilst the other was turning a 
 moment on one side in amorous gossip with 
 his acquaintance, maid Marian ; and then 
 the hobby-horse was knocking together 
 the heads of Will Stukely and Much, the 
 miller's son, who were leaning over each 
 other, laughingly regarding tne proceedings 
 of their friend in motley. 
 
 After this, by the great exertions of young 
 Shakspeare, this goodly company returned 
 to the park in the following order : — first, 
 went one playing on the bagpipes, and 
 another on the tabor, making as much noise 
 as they could ; then followed the Morris- 
 dancers, with their faces blackened, their 
 coats of white spangled fustian, with scarfs, 
 ribbons, and laces flying from every part, 
 holding rich handkerchiefs in their hands, 
 and wearing purses at their girdles, garters 
 to their knees, with some thirty or forty lit- 
 tle bells attached to them, and feathers at 
 their hats, with other bells at their wrist3 
 and elbows. They danced as they went, 
 and flaunted their handkerchiefs very brave- 
 ly. Then came six comely damsels, dressed 
 in blue kirtles, and wearing garlands of 
 primroses. After them, as many foresters 
 in tunics, hoods, and hose, all of grass green, 
 and each of them with a bugle at his side, 
 a sheaf of arrows at his girdle, and a bent 
 bow in his hand. 
 
 After them walked William Shakspeare, 
 equipped as Robin Hood, in a bright grass 
 green tunic, fringed with gold ; his hood 
 and hose part-colored blue and white ; his 
 handsome head was crowned with a garland 
 of rose-buds ; he bore a bow in his hand, a 
 sheaf of arrows in his girdle, and a bugle- 
 horn suspended from a baldrick of light blue 
 tarantine, embroidered with silver, worn from 
 his shoulder. A handsome sword and dag- 
 ger formed also part of his equipments. On 
 one side of him walked Hemings, as Little 
 John ; on the other Condell, as Will Stuke- 
 ly ; and divers others of the merry outlaw's 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 133 
 
 companions followed, two by two, all in their 
 suits of green, and each with a sheaf of ar- 
 rows at his girdle, and a bent bow in his 
 hand. Then came two fair damsels, in or- 
 ange colored kirtles, with white court-pies 
 or vests, preceding Anne Hathaway, as Maid 
 Marian, attired in a watchet-colored tunic 
 reaching to the ground, with a white linen 
 rochet, with loose sleeves fringed with silver, 
 and neatly plaited, worn over it, her girdle 
 of silver baudeken fastened with a double 
 row on the left side ; her long silken hair, 
 divided in many ringlets, flowed down upon 
 her fair shoulders ; the top of her head or- 
 namented with a net-work caul of gold with 
 a garland of silver, decked with fresh blue 
 violets above : truly as tempting a Maid 
 Marian as ever seduced outlaw to the merry 
 green wood. After her came a company of 
 her maidens : some in sky-colored rochets 
 girt with crimson girdles, with garlands of 
 blue and white violets ; and others with 
 green court-pies, with garlands of violets 
 and cowslips. 
 
 Then came Sir Marmaduke's fat butler, 
 as Friar Tuck, carrying a huge quarter staff 
 on his shoulder ; and with him Oliver Dumps, 
 the constable, as Much, the miller's son, 
 bearing a long pole with an inflated bladder 
 attached to one end of it. Who should 
 come next but Tom Green, as the hobby- 
 horse, frisking up and down, gallopping, 
 curvetting, ambling and trotting after so 
 moving a style, it naturally forced a horse- 
 laugh from a great portion of the spectators. 
 It should be remembered, that this ancient 
 feature in a May-day festival, was a horse 
 of pasteboard, having false legs for the rider 
 outside, whilst the real legs stood on the 
 ground, concealed from the spectators by the 
 saddle-cloth which enveloped the hobby-horse 
 all around ; and great art was required to 
 make a proper exhibition of horsemanship, 
 by the person appearing to be its rider. 
 Then came our old acquaintance Humphrey, 
 in the form of a dragon, — hissing, yelling 
 and shaking his wings in a most horrid 
 manner; and after him Dick Burbage, as 
 St. George, in full armor, ever and anon, 
 giving his enemy a poke behind, with his 
 wooden spear, that made him roar again. 
 Following these were a motley assemblage 
 of villagers and guests, and Sir Marmaduke, 
 with his chaplain, in the midst. 
 
 When they came to that open part of the 
 park before described, the sports recom- 
 menced with the spirit they had not known 
 all the day before. The foresters shot at 
 the target, and Robin and his Maid Marian 
 were of course the chiefest of all for skill. 
 Some danced round the Maypole ; but the 
 9 
 
 dragon, who had drank more of the knight's 
 good ale than became any dragon of gentil- 
 ity, must needs be after kissing divers of the 
 maidens — married man though he was, and 
 this got him some whacks from Much, the 
 miller's son, besides a decent cudgelling 
 from Will Stukely and Little John. Master 
 Robin, Sir Marmaduke's fat butler, made a 
 most jolly Friar Tuck ; for with an irresist- 
 able droll humor in his roguish eyes, he 
 would walk among the people propping of 
 his heavy quarter-staff upon their toes, 
 whereupon if" any cried out, he would very 
 gravely preach them a famous sermon on 
 patience under pain and affliction ; and bid- 
 ding them count their beads and say their 
 paternosters, he would go his way. 
 
 Many persons had come to see these 
 sports from the neighboring villages, and 
 these formed a crowd nearly all round the 
 place. Sir Marmaduke and his guests had 
 placed themselves on a piece of rising 
 ground in front of the house, some lying 
 of their lengths on the grass, some leaning 
 against trees, some sitting, and some stand- 
 ing. Sir Johan kept by the side of his pa- 
 tron with a pleasant gravity, making a most 
 admirable choice thanksgiving for the boun- 
 ties all had received that day. Sir Reginald, 
 who had only returned to the mansion the 
 same morning, was with his friend Sir Val- 
 entine, gallantly attending upon a bevy of 
 fair ladies who had come to witness the 
 sports ; and Master Peregrine was bustling 
 about in a sort of fidgetty delight, explaining 
 to every listener he could lay hold of, the 
 history and antiquity of every part of the 
 festival. It so happened that whilst St. 
 George was stalking round the place, armed 
 with spear and buckler, striving to look as 
 heroic as ever could have done that renown- 
 ed champion, he spied the dragon playing at 
 bo-peep among the Morris-dancers, and 
 almost at the same instant the dragon spied 
 him. At which the latter commenced ad- 
 vancing into the middle of the open space 
 betwixt the Maypole and the guests, shaking 
 of his wings, yelling, and hissing enough to 
 frighten all the champions in Christendom. 
 
 St. George, however, was after him with 
 long strides, till they met in a very choice 
 place for fighting, when he addressed him in 
 these words : — 
 " Hullo, thou pitiful villain, art thou for turning 
 
 tail! 
 Stay here, I prithee, a moment, and I will 
 make thee wail !" 
 
 "Whereupon the dragon answered in a 
 monstrous fustian voice — 
 
 " Out on thee, Jack Pudding ! or if thou need*, 
 must stay, 
 
136 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Fll swallow thee — bones and all — and leave the 
 rest for another day." 
 
 Then exclaimed the champion very val- 
 iantly, as became him — 
 " Peace, knave ! have done with thy humming 
 and hawing." 
 
 And thereupon the monster replied, in an 
 equally tearing humor — 
 " (Jugs zounds, if thou coniest anigh me I'll 
 give thee a famous clawing !" 
 
 After a little more such brave language, 
 in which each got famously abused by the 
 other, they seemed intent upon a desperate 
 combat of life and death. The dragon made 
 more noise than ever he had ; and came up- 
 on his adversary with his claws extended, 
 and his mouth wide open, as though he 
 meant to make of him but a mere mouthful : 
 but St. George seemed quite up to his tricks, 
 for he presently clenched his spear and 
 braced his buckler, and gave the monster so 
 sore a poke, he yelled till the place echoed 
 with him. Then cried he out very lustily — 
 " Wounds ! thou caitiff vile ! thou hast broken a 
 
 joint of my tail — 
 •I die ! I'm dead ! Oh for a drop of small ale !" 
 
 At this moment up comes Much, the mil- 
 ler's son with his pole and bladder, exclaim- 
 ing to the deceased monster : — 
 " What ho, Sir Dragon ! hast indeed ceased thy 
 
 snubbing I 
 Mayhap thou wouldst be the better for a decent 
 
 drubbing." 
 Upon which he began to lay upon the mon- 
 ster with his bladder with such force the 
 other started to life roaring like a town bull, 
 crying out, as he rubbed himself, very piti- 
 fully- 
 
 " Go, hang for a knave, and thy thumping cease, 
 Canst not let a poor dragon die in peace 1" 
 
 But as the miller's son evidently had no 
 bowels Tor the monster, the dragon would 
 not stay any longer to be drubbed, and rose 
 o take himself off with what speed he 
 might ; but just at this moment up came the 
 hobby-horse, capering away in the most del- 
 icate fashion, and he thus addressed the 
 other : — 
 
 " List, lordlings list ! I am here in my best graces 
 With my ambles, my trots, and my Canterbury 
 
 paces. 
 Is not my tail fresh frizzled, and my mane new 
 
 shorn, 
 And my bells and my plumes are they not 
 
 bravely worn 1 
 Stand up Sir Dragon, and swear me sans remorse 
 There never was seen so rare a hobby horse." 
 
 Upon saying which he neighed like a young 
 Sllv, and cantered and careered round the 
 
 monster, so that he could not move in any 
 way. Others of the characters came up, 
 and they all had some droll thing or another 
 to say ; and it ended with the whole party 
 joining hands for a dance round a Maypole, 
 which seeing, Master Peregrine, who had 
 for the last hour fidgetted about as if he 
 knew not what to do with himself, suddenly 
 started from his place at the top of his 
 speed, and in the next minute had got the 
 dragon by one hand and the hobby-horse by 
 the other, dancing round the Maypole, to the 
 infinite delight of the spectators, with as 
 prodigal signs of glee as though he were the 
 merriest of the lot. 
 
 The youthful Shakspeare played the part 
 of king of the festival, and in princely sort 
 he did it too : for it was remarked of many, 
 so choice a Robin Hood and Maid Marian 
 they had never seen. Doubtless he had 
 famous opportunities for increasing his ac- 
 quaintance with the blooming daughter of 
 John Hathaway, and there is every reason 
 for supposing he turned them to good ac- 
 count. In due time the sports ended, and 
 he walked home with her and her father — 
 who with his family had purposely enjoyed 
 a holiday, induced to it by the representa- 
 tions of his new acquaintance — if not per- 
 fectly in love, as nigh to it as was possible 
 for him to be. 
 
 It was late in the evening of the same day 
 when Sir Reginald, for the first time, found 
 himself alone with his friend Sir Valentine, 
 he having managed to draw the latter to walk 
 with him in the park, convenient to the 
 house. The sounds of revelry had ceased, 
 and both actors and spectators had retired to 
 their homes. The two young knights 
 strolled together silently in the shadow of 
 the trees, Sir Valentine thinking it would 
 be a favorable opportunity for him to ac- 
 quaint his friend with what had taken place 
 betwixt him and the sovereign of his heart' 
 affections, and ask his advice and assistance 
 to carry on his suit to her to an honorable 
 conclusion. 
 
 "Dost remember that exquisite sweet 
 creature we rescued from villains at Kenil- 
 worth?" inquired Sir Reginald. 
 
 "Indeed do I, marvellously well," replied 
 Sir Valentine, somewhat wondering his 
 friend should begin to speak of the very sub- 
 ject of his own thoughts. 
 
 " I tell thee, Sir Valentine," continued the 
 other, with exceeding earnestness, " all the 
 whilst I was at court, even amongst the 
 choicest damsels of the chiefest families of 
 the kingdom, I could think of none other but 
 her ; for each did but remind me of her in- 
 finite superiority in aL Moveable delectable 
 
THE YOUTH OP SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 187 
 
 gnjcA* His young companion walked on, 
 listening with a pale cheek and a throbbing 
 heart. ' ; The first thing I did on approach- 
 this neighborhood," continued the other, 
 * was to hie me to Charlcote, in the hope of 
 delighting mine eyes with a glimpse of her 
 fair beauty once again. I was so fortunate 
 as to meet with her. She appeared lovelier 
 than ever, and a sort of sadness was mani- 
 fest in her dainty fair countenance, that 
 made its attractiveness infinitely more touch- 
 ing. She seemed glad to see me. I assure 
 thee I lingered in her delightsome society, 
 utterly incapable of tearing myself away. 
 Never met I a maiden of such moving 
 graces, or of such delicate behavior. In 
 brief, I love her — as absolutely as ever fond 
 heart can." Sir "Valentine felt as though he 
 could scarce breathe. 
 
 " I have sought thee here to tell thee of 
 this," added Sir Reginald, ** knowing thou 
 art the truest friend that ever knight had. 
 And I would make such trial of thy friend- 
 ship as I would of none other living. My 
 entire happiness is in the keeping of this 
 most divine creature ; and I would give 
 worlds could I sigh at her feet, or bask in 
 her smiles as often as I desire. But I have 
 plighted my word to my honorable good 
 friend, that notable brave gentleman, Sir 
 Philip Sydney, to accompany him in a cer- 
 tain expedition he is preparing for, and 
 therefore it must needs be f can have but 
 small occasion for carrying on my suit. Be- 
 ing in this strait, and knowing of thy ex- 
 treme trust-worthiness, and exceeding love 
 for me, I would obtain at thy hands such 
 true service, as for thee to seek out my 
 soul's idol on all warrantable occasions, and 
 with such affectionate rhetorfc as thou canst 
 master for so loving a purpose, urge her on 
 my behalf. Give her no cause to mark my 
 absence. Press her with passionate impor- 
 tunities. Let thy talk be ever of my devo- 
 tion to her, and thy manner of such a sort 
 as should convince her of its earnestness." 
 
 Sir Valentine essayed to speak, but the 
 words died unuttered in his throat. 
 
 " Can I have such important service ren- 
 dered me ?" inquired Sir Reginald. " But 
 I am assured I cannot appeal to so true a 
 friend unprofitably. I know enough of that 
 honorable worthy nature to convince me no- 
 thing will be left undone that these circum- 
 stances require." 
 
 Sir Valentine managed at last to utter his 
 xaisent to do what was required of him ; and 
 flien fearful he should betray his own feel- 
 ings if he stopped where he was, he made 
 an excuse for hurrying away, wrung his 
 friend's hand more affectionately than ever 
 
 he had done, though at that moment his ow» 
 heart was more forcibly wrung by the fierce 
 trial he was undergoing, and left him to 
 school his nature into the doing of what he 
 had undertaken. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Come, my Celia, let us prove, 
 Whilst we can the joys of love ! 
 Time will not be ours forever : 
 He at length our good will sever. 
 Spend not then his gifts in vain 
 Suns that set may rise again + 
 But if once we lose this light, 
 'Tis with us perpetual night. 
 
 Ben Jonsow. 
 Oh with that 
 I wish to breathe my last ; upon thy lips 
 Those equal twins of comeliness, I seal 
 The testament of honorable vows. 
 Whoever be that man that shall unkiss 
 The sacred print next, may he prove more thrifty 
 In this world's just applause, not more desertful. 
 
 Ford. 
 
 The behavior of the youthful Shakspeare 
 to the yeoman's blooming daughter, might, 
 perchance, be to the marvel of some who 
 have it in their remembrance the infinite 
 delicacy and retiringness of his conduct to- 
 wards the beautiful foundling at Charlcote, 
 but these things are to be considered — to 
 wit, that he had in a manner outlived that 
 age of boyish shyness which so manifestly 
 appeared in him, and with it that mere ideal 
 adoration with which it was accompanied. 
 His love for Mabel was but a sentiment, 
 born in the mind and dying there, yet her- 
 alding the coming of another love, partaking 
 more of passion than of sentiment, engross- 
 ing both the heart and the mind in all their 
 entireness, and showing such a vigorous ex- 
 istence as plainly proved how firm a hold it 
 had on the powerfullest energies of fife. 
 Anne Hathaway was altogether different 
 from the foundling. Her rich rosy com- 
 plexion — her careless free glance, and her 
 eloquent soft smiles expressed quite another 
 character. Her manners were equally op- 
 posite — being of that heedless enticing sort, 
 which draweth all eyes admiringly, and soon 
 suns them into a social delightsome warmth. 
 But this was nothing more than the outward 
 display of a natural fond temperament, 
 where the heart was overflowing with gen- 
 erous sweet feelings, and was anxious for 
 an object on whom to display its exceeding 
 bountifulness. Such a one, clothed wita 
 such resistless fascinations, was sure to 
 
138 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 produce an extraordinary impression on the 
 ardent nature of the young poet. Her ap- 
 proving glance — her seductive smile — or 
 her slightest touch, filled him with a sense 
 of joyousness no language could express. 
 
 These were unequivocal signs of love in 
 its riper stage. At this period of youth the 
 imprisoned affections burst from their womb, 
 and start into life with impulses that will 
 allow of no controlling. Everything wear- 
 eth a new aspect. A rosier light shines 
 through the atmosphere. A warmer breath 
 is felt upon the breeze. A multitude of new 
 feelings seem struggling in the breast to 
 have free development, and in fact the whole 
 humanity appeareth to take on itself a char- 
 acter perfectly distinct from that which it 
 had previously worn. Nature now whis- 
 pereth in the ear a secret unthought of 
 hitherto ; and all the man riseth at the intel- 
 ligence, filled with a mysterious influence — 
 a sense of happiness and power — and a 
 knowledge of that sweet philosophy whose 
 right use maketh a very Eden of delight to 
 the Adams and Eves of every passing gen- 
 eration. 
 
 Anne Hathaway received the advances 
 of her youthful lover so welcomingly, that 
 he lacked nothing of inducement to proceed. 
 Indeed, hers was not a disposition to with- 
 stand the passionate ardor of so prepossess- 
 ing a wooer, and from the first hour Of their 
 meeting, she had regarded him with most 
 favorable sentiments. It was sometime af- 
 ter the May-day festival that the blooming 
 Anne, as was customary with her, sat ply- 
 ing of her wheel in her old place, whilst her 
 youthful lover, as was usual with him, had 
 drawn a seat close to hers, having his arm 
 resting on the back of her chair. Some ex- 
 quisite speeches and passionate admiring 
 looks from him, were followed by a suffi- 
 ciency of sprightly answers and bright pro- 
 voking glances from her. Thus had their 
 mutual passion advanced and no further, 
 but it was soon to show more endearing signs. 
 
 " Canst affect verses, Anne ?" inquired 
 the young poet. 
 
 " Ay, a sweet love song, of all things," 
 replied the village beauty, in her ordinary 
 free-hearted way. 
 
 " Wouldst approve of them any the more 
 if thou wert their subject ?" asked he. 
 
 "Should I not?" answered she, archly. 
 " Marry, 1 must needs think them the finest 
 sweetest verses ever writ." 
 
 " I have essayed the writing of some," 
 continued her youthful lover in a more ten- 
 der manner. " But I am rather out of heart 
 I have not produced a poem more worthy of 
 thy exceeding merit." 
 
 " Hast, indeed, written something of me 1" 
 exclaimed the yeoman's buxom daughter, 
 glancing at him a look of infinite curiosity 
 and pleasure. " O' my word, now, I should 
 be right glad to see it." 
 
 " If thou wilt promise to pardon my too 
 great boldness, I will here read these, my 
 poor verses," said the young poet. His 
 companion was too eager to know what 
 could he have written about her, to care 
 much what she promised: so, whilst she 
 sent her wheel round very diligently, her 
 youthful lover drew a paper from beneath 
 his doublet, and soon, with an exquisite im- 
 passioned manner, and soft mellow voice- 
 somewhat tremulous here and there — he 
 commenced reading what is here set down. 
 
 LOVE'S ARGOSIE. 
 
 " Awhile ago I passed an idle life 
 
 Like as a leaf that's borne upon the breeze ; 
 
 Thoughtless of love as lambkin of the knife, 
 Or the young bird of hawk, among the trees. 
 
 I knew not, thought not, cared not for the mor- 
 row, 
 
 And took unblessed my daily joy or sorrow. 
 
 I saw the bounteous hand of Nature fling 
 Her princely largess over each green place j 
 
 I saw the blushes of the tender Spring 
 
 Hiding within the summer's warm embrace 
 
 I saw the burthened Autumn fast expiring, 
 
 And Winter, in the year's grave, make a cheer- 
 ful firing. 
 
 " Yet all the time was I as blind as mole 
 
 Who digs his habitation in the dark, 
 Though light there was, it fell not on my soul, 
 A fire burned bravely that showed me no 
 spark ; 
 Whilst all owned Nature's spells, I saw no 
 
 charming, 
 And still kept cold whilst others were a wann- 
 ing. 
 
 " When suddenly my eyea threw ope their doors 
 And sunny looks flashed in their fond desires ; 
 The chambers of my heart found glowing floors 
 For there each hearth blazed with continual 
 fires : 
 I saw the magic, felt the bliss 'twas bringing, 
 And knew the source whence these delights 
 were springing. 
 
 " For then it was indifference met its death, 
 And my new life new climates seemed to 
 seek; 
 The sweet south flung its odors from thy breath, 
 And the warm East came blushing o'er thy 
 cheek. 
 Thy smiles were endless Summer's rosy dance*. 
 And the soft zone shone in thy torrid glances, 
 
 " And as thy wondrous beauty I beheld. 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 189 
 
 A thousaud unknown raptures on me came ; 
 The flood of life by some strange power im- 
 pelled, 
 Rushed through its channels, turned to liquid 
 flame ; 
 And then with me there seemed such blooming 
 
 weather, 
 As though all seasons showered their flowers 
 together. 
 
 " And as I basked in thy subduing gaze, 
 
 And caught the thrilling spirit of thy smile ; 
 
 I marvelled I had lived so many days 
 So blind, so cold, so ignorant the while ; 
 
 ' Certes,' quoth I, ' I've been in far off places, 
 
 Else had I sooner known such moving graces. 
 
 " Ay — in strange latitudes and unknown waves, 
 Having no compass, aid of chart denied, 
 
 There rose before me mountains, plains, and 
 caves, 
 And a new world my curious vision spied : 
 
 And then it was that fair country, thy beauty, 
 
 Brought me to anchor — a most welcome duty. 
 
 " To turn discovery to best account, 
 
 I studied every feature of the land ; 
 I scanned where'er the highest fruit could 
 mount, 
 I touched the tender produce of thy hand ; 
 And every where such heaps of sweets were 
 
 growing, 
 No place on earth could be so worth the know- 
 ing. 
 
 " Then having this bright world so newly found, 
 And learned its fitness for an honest home, 
 
 Must I be now on a fresh voyage bound, 
 Again in unknown latitudes to roam 1 
 
 Oh might I name it, hold it, own it, rather, 
 
 And from its spoil a matchless fortune gather ! 
 
 " Dear heart ! sweet life ! most admirable fair 
 saint ! 
 To thee my soul its fond devotion brings, 
 Like a poor pilgrim weary, worn, and faint 
 
 To taste the comfort which thy beauty brings : 
 Hear how thy praise all excellence excelleth ! 
 Hear how my prayer within my worship dwel- 
 leth ! 
 
 " Believe me the fond charm thou dost possess, 
 Is not a gift meant to be idly used, 
 
 But a kind solace that should come to bless 
 That heart whose blessings thou hast not re- 
 fused. 
 
 I see it in a promise and a token 
 
 Of flowery bands that never can be broken. 
 
 " And now like those bold mariners of ships, 
 That from all ports do take their merchan- 
 dize 
 My bark would I unlaid upon thy lips, 
 
 Which awhile since I freighted at thine eyes, 
 Yet e'er from such kind port my sails are fad- 
 ing, 
 Doubt not I bear away a richer lading. 
 
 " Bring here the ivory of thy fair arms, 
 
 And lustrous jewels which thine eyelids 
 
 hold, 
 
 Bring here the crowning of thy store of charms, 
 
 The silky treasures which thy brows enfold ; 
 
 Bring here the luscious fruits thy soft cheek 
 
 beareth, 
 And those rare pearls and rubies thy mouth 
 weareth ! 
 
 " But that which doth them all in rareness 
 beat — 
 The choicest traffic brought from loving 
 isles — 
 Bring me the dainty balm and odorous sweet, 
 
 That fills thy tempting treasury of smiles : 
 That whilst I'm filled with beauty's precious 
 
 blisses, 
 Thou makest me — an argosie of kisses !" 
 
 It was 6carce possible to have met with a 
 prettier sight than the yeoman's blooming 
 daughter listening with her eyes sparkling 
 unutterable pleasure, as the young poet read 
 to her her tuneful praises. The wheel went 
 round, but she spoke not a word. Indeed 
 she would not hazard so much as a syllable, 
 fearful she might by it lose some part of 
 those, to her, exquisite verses. At the con- 
 clusion, wherein his voice sunk to a tremu- 
 lous soft murmur, he lifted his gaze from 
 the paper to the flushed countenance of his 
 fair companion, and received a glance 
 he could not fail to understand. Upon a 
 sudden, his arm fell from the back of her 
 chair, and encircled her girdle, and — and — 
 and the wheel stopped for a full minute. 
 
 " Humph I" exclaimed a familiar voice, 
 close at hand, and starting from their affec- 
 tionate embrace, they beheld John Hatha- 
 way with that peculiar expression peeping 
 from the corners of his eyes and mouth, 
 which marked the more than ordinary plea- 
 sure he took in anything. In a moment 
 the blushing Anne was diligently looking 
 on the ground for something she had never 
 lost ; and her youthful lover, in quite as 
 rosy a confusion, was gallantly assisting her 
 to find it To the father's sly question the 
 daughter answered a little from the purpose ; 
 and as for the young poet he all at once re- 
 membered some pressing duty that called 
 him thence, took a hurried leave of hia 
 friend the yeoman, who was evidently 
 laughing in his sleeve the whilst, and with 
 a quick fond glance, repaid with interest, tc 
 
140 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 his fair mistress — whose sprightlmess had 
 somehow forsaken her — he wended his way 
 back to Stratford. 
 
 In very truth, he was in far too happy a 
 state to have stayed where he was, and a 
 third person by. His feelings were in a 
 complete tumult ; his thoughts in a delicious 
 confusion. He felt as if he could have 
 taken the whole world in his arms, he was 
 on such friendly terms with every one. He 
 experienced the delightful consciousness of 
 being loved — to him a new and rare enjoy- 
 ment — and his was a disposition fitted to re- 
 ceive it with a sense of such extreme plea- 
 sure as humanity hath seldom known. 
 What were his thoughts when he could get 
 to any reasonable thinking — or his feelings, 
 when he returned to his ordinary sensations, 
 £ cannot take upon me to say ; but all point- 
 ed to one subject, and rose from one subject ; 
 and whether he regarded himself or the 
 world around him, it came to the same matter. 
 To him everything was Anne Hathaway; 
 but especially all wisdom, goodness, beauty, 
 and delight, took from her their existence, 
 and gave to her their qualities. She was, in 
 brief, the sun round which the rest of crea- 
 tion must needs take its course. In this 
 excitement of mind and heart he proceeded 
 on his path, only brought to a more sober 
 state as he neared home. It so happened, 
 at the outskirts of the town, his attention 
 was forcibly attracted by the riotous shout- 
 ing of a crowd round the horse pond. 
 
 " Prithee tell me, what meaneth this huge 
 disturbance ?" inquired he of one of the 
 knot of old women, who beating the end of 
 her stick furiously on the ground, knocked 
 together her pointed nose, and chin, as she 
 poked her head towards one, and then to- 
 wards another, with all the thorough earn- 
 estness of a confirmed gossip. 
 
 "Meaneth it?" replied Mother Flytrap, 
 in her eraeked treble, as she rested her two 
 hands upon her stick, and thrust her ancient 
 visage close to the face of the querist. " By 
 my fackings, it meaneth the very horriblest, 
 infamousness that ever was seen in this 
 mortal world. But it's what we must all 
 come to." 
 
 "Ay, marry — flesh is grass!" said an- 
 other old beldame. 
 
 "But I have my doubts — I have my doubts, 
 gossip," mumbled out another of the tribe ; 
 " it hath been credibly said strange lights 
 and unchristian noises have appeared in her 
 cottage ; and I did myself see, standing at 
 her door, the very broom some do say she 
 flies through the air upon." 
 
 u Odds codlings, hast though, indeed !" in- 
 
 quired Mother Flytrap, with something like 
 horror muffled up in the hues of her parch- 
 ment skin. "Well, if she be a witch, she 
 must either drown or swim — that's one com- 
 fort." 
 
 " Who's a witch ?" asked William Shak- 
 speare, who had turned from one to the 
 other of his companions, in a vain hope of 
 getting the intelligence he required. 
 
 " God's precious ! who but Nurse Cicely, 
 that hath bewitched Farmer Clodpole's 
 cows," replied one of the women; and 
 scarce were the words out of her mouth, 
 when the young poet, with an infinite small 
 show of gallantry, pushed his way through 
 them, and rushed with all his force into the 
 crowd. The outcries he heard seemed to 
 him the yells of savage beasts eager for 
 blood. Shouts of " In with her !" — " Drown 
 the old witch !" and all sorts of oaths and 
 ribald expressions came to his ears, with the 
 half-choked screaming of their victim. He 
 thrust himself forward, pushing the crowd 
 to the right and to the left, till he stood upon 
 the brink of the pond ; and just beheld his 
 faithful old nurse emerging from the water, 
 gasping for breath, while some dozen or so 
 of rude ploughboys, butchers, and the like 
 characters, kept encouraging one another in 
 helping to drown the poor creature. With- 
 out a word said, William Shakspeare sprung 
 upon the busiest of the lot, and tumbled him 
 into the pond, evidently to the exceeding 
 pleasure of the majority of the spectators. 
 Perchance, his companions would have re- 
 sented this, but directly young Shakspeare 
 made his appearance, a throng of his old 
 associates hurried from all parts of the 
 crowd, and made a simultaneous rush upon 
 the tormentors of the poor nurse, by which 
 help, divers of them were presently sent 
 floundering alongside of their fellow, the 
 which the lookers on seemed to enjoy above 
 all things. 
 
 Whilst Humphrey, now growing to be 
 monstrous valiant, Green, Burbage, Hem 
 ings, and Condell were, with others of a like 
 spirit, putting to flight such of the lewu 
 villains as seemed inclined to stand out upon 
 the matter, William Shakspeare carefully 
 drew Nurse Cicely out of the pond, untied 
 her bonds, and bore her, all dripping as she 
 was, to her own cottage, where, with the 
 assistance of some humane neighbors, he at 
 last succeeded in rescuing her from the 
 death with which she had been threatened. 
 The gratitude of the poor creature was be- 
 yond all conceiving ; and at last the object 
 of it felt obliged to take himself out of hear* 
 
THE TOJTJ 0? SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 141 
 
 ing of her earnest prodigal thankfulness and 
 praise. 
 
 Among the observers of the scene just de- 
 scribed, regarding the chief personage in it 
 with more intentness than any there, was a 
 somewhat crabbed-looking man, meanly clad, 
 who, from beside a tree a little above the 
 pond, had witnessed the whole transaction. 
 When the woman was rescued, he followed 
 her deliverer at some distance, accosting 
 none, and replying to such as were hardy 
 enough to speak to him, in so rough unman- 
 nerly a manner few sought acquaintance 
 with him. Whilst William Shakspeare was 
 in the cottage, this person loitered at a little 
 way from it, occasionally leaning on his 
 staff, with his eyes fixed on the ground — then 
 glancing at the cottage-door, and strolling 
 leisurely about without losing sight of it. 
 
 As the young poet was hastening from his 
 old nurse's dwelling, in a famous pleasure 
 with the result of his exertions, he heard 
 some one clo.se at his heels. Presently, a 
 hand was laid upon his shoulder, and turn- 
 ing round, he beheld John a Combe, the 
 usurer. He had long been familiar with his 
 person, having met with him before fre- 
 quently, and had imbibed a respect for his 
 character from the favorable opinions of him 
 expressed by his parents. Such portion of 
 his history as was known he had been made 
 acquainted with from many sources, but the 
 mystery which had enveloped him since his 
 extraordinary change, he never had acquired 
 any more knowledge of than the rest of his 
 townsfolk. 
 
 " Dost shrink from me, boy ?" inquired 
 John a Combe, in a sharp thick voice, as he 
 noticed a sudden start of surprise in the 
 youth when he recognized the usurer. " Art 
 ashamed of being seen with Old Ten in the 
 Hundred ? Wouldst desire no acquain- 
 tance with one whose heart clingeth to his 
 gold, and shutteth his soul against all sym- 
 pathy with humanity ?" 
 
 " I think not of you in that way, Master 
 Combe, believe me," replied his young com- 
 panion, With his usual gentle courtesy. 
 
 ■" Then thou art a fool, Will Snakspeare !" 
 gruffly exclaimed the other ; heed thou the 
 general voice. Ask of whomsoever thou 
 wilt concerning of John a Combe, the usurer. 
 Will they not tell thee he is a very heartless 
 tyrant, who liveth upon the widow's sighs 
 and the orphan's tears, — who grinds the 
 poor man's bones, and drinks the prodigal's 
 blood ? Do they not swear in the very 
 movingest execrations he is a persecuting 
 relentless enemy to all his race, who careth 
 only to set baits for their carcases, and 
 whea he hath got them in his toils, showeth 
 
 them no more mercy than a hungry wolf?" 
 
 " I never heard of such things," replied 
 William Shakspeare. " Indeed, I have known 
 divers speak of you as having shown such 
 honorable good qualities as entitled you to 
 the love of all honest men." 
 
 " Then were they greater fools than thou 
 art," sharply exclaimed John a Combe, ' ; I 
 tell thee I am such a one. I find my hap- 
 piness in the misery of others. I live whea 
 my fellows die. My heart is but a pedest.tl 
 that carryeth a golden image, at which I 
 force all the children of want to bow them- 
 selves down, and then trample on their necks 
 to make me sport." 
 
 " In very truth, I can believe nothing of it, 
 worthy sir," observed his young companion. 
 " Methinks too, what you have said is so op- 
 posite to what I have heard from the credi- 
 blest testimony you have done, that it is too 
 unnatural to be true. Was it not Master 
 Cvymbe, who spent his substance freely to 
 better the condition of his poorer neighbors ? 
 Was it not Master Combe, who~held his life 
 as at a pin's fee, to guard his fellow creatures 
 from the destroying pestilence ?" 
 
 " Ay, I was once of that monstrous folly," 
 said the usurer with great bitterness ; " I 
 carried wine in a sieve — only to be spilled 
 upon barren ground. What have I learned 
 by this prodigal expenditure and silly pains- 
 taking? The notable discovery that nfen 
 are knaves and women wantons — that friend- 
 ship is a farce and love a cheat — that ho- 
 nesty is a fool and honor a bubble — and that 
 the whole world hath but one particular in- 
 fluence on which its existence holds — and 
 that is utter villainy." 
 
 " As far as I have seen, everything of 
 which you have spoken hath an entire dif- 
 ference," said the other. " That there may 
 be bad men amongst the good I cannot take 
 upon me to deny ; but that this should con- 
 demn all mankind for vileness, seemeth ex- 
 ceeding unjust. According to what I have 
 learned, man in favorable circumstances will 
 generally be found possessed of the best 
 qualities of manhood ; and such is the natural 
 excellence of his nature that even under most 
 unlit occasions the proper graces of humanity 
 will flourish in him as bravely as though they 
 had the most tender culture." 
 
 " Tut !" cried John a Combe, impatiently : 
 " 'tis the opinion of such as have gained their 
 knowledge in closets. They take for granted 
 what is told them, and their poor pride will 
 not allow of their crediting anything that is 
 to the prejudice of their own natures." 
 
 " And as for woman," continued the youn-j 
 poet more earnestly, " 'tis hard to say one 
 word against a creature so excellently gifted 
 
14S 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Methinks she would make praise a beggar, 
 by her worthiness taking all he hath !" 
 
 " Ha J ha !" exclaimed the usurer in a sort 
 of scornful laugh. " Why, boy, thy nature 
 is in a rare humor to be cozened. Didst ever 
 hear of any particular villainy out-viling all 
 things, that did not come of a woman ? Who 
 was it that first held fellowship with a serpent 
 for man's undoing, — on which occasion she 
 showed how near her disposition was to the 
 crawling crafty venom of her chosen asso- 
 ciate. But she soon outdid the reptile in his 
 own vocation ; and now her craft would 
 laugh the fox to scorn, and her guile cheat 
 the serpent to his face." 
 
 " I should be loath to think so ill of her, 
 having had most convincing proofs of her 
 different character," said the youthful Shaks- 
 peare, with a very pleasurable remembrance 
 of one at least of that sex. " For mine own 
 part I conceive there is no telling all her 
 goodness ; but I do remember some senten- 
 ces in which it doth appear to me her true 
 nature is most admirably painted, and they 
 are these : — ' of her excellence I would con- 
 tent myself with asking — what virtue is like 
 to a woman's ? What honesty is like to a 
 woman's ? — What love— what courage — 
 what truth — what generousness— what self- 
 denial— what patience under affliction, and 
 forgiveness for every wrong, come at all 
 nigh unto such as a woman showeth ? 
 Believe me, the man who cannot honor so 
 truly divine a creature, is an ignorant poor 
 fellow, whom it would be a compliment to 
 style a fool, — or an ungrateful mean wretch, 
 whom charity preventeth me from calling 
 a villain !' Said you not these words, Master 
 Combe, for I have been told they were of your 
 own speaking ?" 
 
 " Doubtless !" exclaimed John a Combe 
 with a sarcastic emphasis. " I was, when I 
 uttered such words, as thou art now — moved 
 by a strong belief in the existence of quali- 
 ties with which my wishes were more fami- 
 liar than my vision. Appearances looked 
 fair, and I took for granted all things were 
 what they seemed. But of most choice mat- 
 ters woman seemed infinitely the rarest. 
 There is nought I would not have said, there 
 is nought I would not have done, to prove how 
 far aboye ordinary merit I thought her ex- 
 ceeding' excellence. I was a fool — a poor, 
 ignorant, weak fool, who will readily take 
 brass well gilt for the sterling metal. I had 
 to learn my lesson, and in good time it was 
 thoroughly taught me. Experience rubbed 
 off the external show of worth that had chea- 
 ted mine eyes into admiration and my heart 
 into respect ; and the base stuff in all its 
 baseness stood manifestly confessed before 
 
 me. Woman!" added ht with increasing 
 bitterness, " go search the stagnant ditch that 
 fills the air with petilential poison — where 
 toads and snakes fester among rotting weeds, 
 and make a reeking mass of slime and filth 
 around them, — I tell thee, boy, nothing of all 
 that vileness approacheth to the baseness of 
 her disposition. Woman ! She is an outrage 
 upon nature, and a libel upon humanity. — A 
 fair temptation that endeth in most foul dis- 
 appointment. — The very apples on the shores 
 of the dead sea, that are all blooming with- 
 out and all rottenness within — a thing that 
 hath never been truly described save under 
 those shapes believed in a past religion, whose 
 features were human, and whose person 
 bestial. Woman ! She is. the mother of in- 
 famy, ready to play the wanton with all the 
 vices, and fill the world with a fruitful pro- 
 geny of crimes. She is the cozener of hon- 
 esty — the mockery of goodness — a substan- 
 tial deceit — a living lie !" 
 
 " I pray you pardon me," said his young 
 companion ; " these are most intolerable ac- 
 cusations, and no warrant for them as I can 
 see." 
 
 " Warrant !" cried the usurer, now with 
 his whole frame trembling with excitement ; 
 " I have had such warrant — such damnable 
 warrant, as leaveth me not the shadow of a 
 doubt on the matter. I have heard — I have 
 seen — I have felt !" continued he grasping 
 the shoulder of the youth convulsively, then 
 seeming to make a mighty effort to conquer 
 his emotions, which for a moment appeared 
 almost to choke him, he added in a calmer 
 voice — " But it matters not. Perchance thou 
 wilt have the wit to discover all that I would 
 have said. I am in no mind to let the gossips 
 of the town meddle with my secrets. I like 
 not they should say ' poor John a Combe !' 
 for I care not to have their pity. Say not tot 
 any thou hast spoke to me on such a subject 
 and when thou hast a mind to pass an hour 
 with Ten in the Hundred come to my dwel- 
 ling ; I should be glad to see thee, which I 
 would say of no other person. Thou art the 
 son of an honest man, and I have seen signs 
 in thee that prove thou art worthy of thy 
 father." Saying these words, John a Combe 
 hastily took his departure down a turning in 
 the 6treet, leaving William Shakspeare mar- 
 velling hugely at what had passed between 
 them. 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 143 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Follow a shadow, it still flies you, 
 Seek to fly, it will pursue ; 
 
 Lo court a mistress, she denies you, 
 Let her alone she will court you. 
 
 Ben Jonson. 
 
 "And now I "dare say," said Sir Robert, 
 * that Sir Launcelot, though there thou liest, 
 thou wert never matched of none earthly 
 knight's hands. And thou wert the curtiest 
 knight that ever beare shield. And thou wert 
 the truest friend to thy lover that ever bestrod 
 horse. And thou wert the truest lover of a 
 sinful man that ever loved woman. And thou 
 wert the kindest man that ever stroke with 
 sword. And thou wert the goodliest person 
 that ever came among presse of knights. And 
 thou wert the meekest and the gentlest that 
 ever eat in hall among ladies." 
 
 A book of the noble historyes of Kings Ar~ 
 t'liir, and of certeyn of his knightes. 
 
 6m Valentine found be had undertaken 
 ft most hard duty. The more he essayed to 
 struggle with his own inclinations, the more 
 strongly they rose against such usage. He 
 tried to preach himself into a cheerful acqui- 
 escence with the obligation imposed upon 
 him, from every text of honor, friendship, 
 and chivalry, with which he was acquainted, 
 but he found nature rather an unwilling con- 
 vert, as she is at all* time when her faith 
 already resteth upon the religion of love. 
 Nevertheless, he determined to do Sir Regi- 
 nald the promised service, however difficult 
 of accomplishment it might be. In very 
 truth he was one of those rare instances of 
 friendship that act up to the character they 
 profess. In numberless cases there are per- 
 sons calling themselves friends, who are 
 friends only to themselves. They are ready 
 enough to take the name, but shrink from a 
 proper performance of the character. Friend- 
 ship in its honorablest state is a continual 
 self-sacrifice on the altar of social feeling, 
 combined with a devotion which ever incli- 
 neth to exalt the object of its regard above 
 all humanity. A true friend alloweth him- 
 self as it were to be the shadow of another's 
 merit, attending on all his wants, hopes, and 
 
 Eleasures, and ever keeping of himself in the 
 ack ground when he is like to interfere with 
 his happiness. And yet there have been 
 such despicable mean spirits who would hide 
 their contemptibleness under so fair a cloak. 
 They profess friendship but they act selfish- 
 ness. Nay, to such a pitch do they debase 
 themselves, that they would behold unfeel- 
 ingly him they call their friend pining away 
 his heart for some long expected happiness, 
 and basely rob him of it when it required but 
 
 their assistance to insure it to nis glad poMM* 
 sion. 
 
 The young knight was of a far different 
 sort. Even with so powerful a competitor 
 as love, he would give himself entirely t» 
 friendship. He knew that the assistance he 
 had promised to render his friend would cost 
 him his own happiness, but he could not for 
 a moment tolerate the idea of building his 
 enjoyment with the materials of his friend's 
 felicity. He believed that if Sir Reginald 
 knew what were his feelings towards the 
 object of their mutual affection, he would on 
 the instant resign his pretensions, that his 
 friend's hopes might not be disappointed ; 
 and therefore the young knight was the 
 more resolute in fulfilling the wishes of his 
 faithful companion, and as an important step 
 towards the consummation, kept the secret of 
 his own love locked up closely in his breast. 
 He heard Sir Reginald again express his 
 desires, and again did he declare his readi- 
 ness to„assist in their realization. He saw 
 his friend depart to join Sir Philip Sydney, 
 and experienced an exquisite satisfaction in 
 knowing that the other had left him without 
 the slightest suspicion of his own true feel- 
 ings. 
 
 Time passed on, and Sir Valentine strove 
 to perform his task. He had seen but little 
 of Mabel for a long time past, for she scarce 
 ever ventured alone any distance from the 
 house, fearing she might be again carried 
 off as she had been before ; and this accoun- 
 ted for her not having been seen for so long 
 a period by the youthful Shakspeare. At 
 last the young knight contrived to speak with 
 her, and his entreaties for her private com- 
 pany, to acquaint her with a matter of some 
 importance it was necessary she should know, 
 she named a spot in the park where she would 
 meet him that evening after dusk. And 
 there she attended true to her appointment 
 Sir Valentine as he gazed upon her admir- 
 able beauty, felt that he had much to per- 
 form, but he tried all he could to stifle his 
 feelings, and think of no other thing save 
 the advancement of his friend's wishes. 
 Alack ! he was setting about a most peri- 
 lous task. To play the suitor of an exqui 
 site fair creature as proxy for another, 
 methinks for one of his youth and disposition 
 was great temptation ; but having already 
 loved her with all the ardor of a first fond 
 affection, now to woo her merely as the 
 representative of his friend, looks to be a 
 thing out of the course of nature. 
 
 " Methinks this friend of yours must need 
 have . taken entire possession of your 
 thoughts," observed Mabel, with a smile, up- 
 on finding that at every interview the young 
 
144 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 knight could say nought but praise of Sir 
 Reginald. " I cannot get you to talk of any 
 other thing." 
 
 " Indeed, so gallant a gentleman and so 
 perfect a knight doth not exist," replied Sir 
 Valentine. " I have seen him, lady, in the 
 tnickest of the field, bearing himself so 
 bravely as was the marvel of both foes and 
 friends." 
 
 " And were you in that battle ?" inquired 
 she, with a singular curiousness ; " I pray 
 you tell me how it was fought. I should 
 like much to hear what share you had in it. 
 I doubt not you behaved very gallantly." 
 
 " I kept in«the press as nigh to Sir Regi- 
 nald as I could," continued the young knight ; 
 '•- for I knew that much honor was only to 
 be reaped where he led the way. Truly he 
 is a knight of most approved valor." 
 
 " I cannot doubt it, since you have so said," 
 replied Mabel, impatiently. " But I beseech 
 you leave all speech of him, and take to tel- 
 ling me of your own knightly achieve- 
 ments." 
 
 " By this light, lady, I am nought in com- 
 parison with Sir Reginald," said his friend, 
 earnestly: "never met I a gentleman so 
 worthy of the love of woman. Indeed I 
 know he is kindly esteemed of many noble 
 dames ; yet in his estimation all such have 
 been but indifferently thought of, since his 
 knowledge of your so much brighter perfec- 
 tions." 
 
 " Surely, he doth great wrong to those 
 noble dames by thinking at all of me," ob- 
 served the fair foundling. 
 
 " He doth consider you so pre-eminent in 
 excellence, language cannot express his ad- 
 miration," added Sir Valentine. 
 
 " I feel bound to him for his good opinion," 
 eaid Mabel. " Yet I should have been glad 
 had he shown more discretion than in be- 
 stowing it so prodigally." 
 
 " The love of so noble a knight ought to 
 be regarded as a most costly jewel," contin- 
 ued the young knight. " I cannot think so 
 proud a gift is to be met with." 
 
 " Perchance f not," replied his companion, 
 coldly. "Yet I cannot say it hath any par- 
 ticular attractions in my eyes." 
 
 Here was a new difficulty to be overcome. 
 The lovely object of his friend's attachment 
 cared not to be loved by him. This he had 
 not calculated upon. Sir Reginald's happi- 
 ness appeared farther from his possession 
 than Sir Valentine could have imagined. 
 Nevertheless, the latter was not to be daunted 
 by such an appearance. 
 
 Mabel had by this time met Sir Valentine 
 many times, almost with as much confi- 
 
 dence as she had known at their first inter 
 views, for she had neither seen nor heard o! 
 her noble gallant and the villains his asso- 
 ciates, since her escape. The young knight, 
 at his earliest convenience, had rode to the 
 house for the express purpose of punishing 
 the traitor for his intended villainy, when he 
 found the place shut up close and deserted, 
 and none could tell him where its late in- 
 mates had gone ; from which it was argued 
 they had left that part of the country out of 
 fear their offences had been discovered. 
 N evertheless, it was not till recently the poor 
 foundling could hazard herself by walking in 
 the park, as she had used ; though, to make 
 her venturing as secure as possible, Sir Val- 
 entine, from a neighboring eminence, 
 watched, on a fleet steed, her coming and 
 returning. In truth, the chiefest pleasure 
 she had was meeting this gallant gentleman ; 
 and she could think of no evil when she 
 found him leading of his palfrey by the bn 
 die, walking at her side in some retired part 
 of the grounds ; or having tied the animal to 
 a branch, standing by her under the shelter 
 of a neighboring tree, entertaining of her 
 with his choice discourse. Still did she 
 listen with manifest disrelish to whatever 
 the young knight reported of his friend, and 
 the more admired the honorableness of the 
 speaker, without caring a whit for the object 
 of his eulogy. She had noticed that of late 
 such tender gallantries as he had been ac- 
 customed to exhibit, he had altogether with- 
 drawn, and this she regarded with especial 
 uneasiness. He was always repeating his 
 friend's opinion of her, and ceased to say one 
 word of his own thoughts on that subject ; 
 and this behavior in him pleased her not at 
 all. She often considered the matter very 
 intently, and upon coming to the conclusion 
 she had become indifferent to him, it put her 
 into a great discomfort. It hath already been 
 said she had some pride in her — pride in its 
 gracefullest shape — and at such instigation 
 it was like to be called into action ; but if it 
 did show itself, it came so garmented in hu- 
 mility, that none would have known it for 
 what it was, save those nobler natures with 
 whom such appearances are familiar. 
 
 " I am much grieved at noticing of this 
 change in you," said Mabel to her compan- 
 ion, on one occasion. " If you think of me 
 unworthily, methinks il would more become 
 your gallant disposition to tell me in what I 
 am amiss, or go seek the company of some 
 more proper person. Should I have lost 
 your esteem I cannot be fit for your soci- 
 ety." 
 
 " O' my life, I do esteem you above all 
 creatures!" exclaimed the young knujfai, 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 145 
 
 fervently, and then, as if recollecting of him- 
 self, added, " for one that is so highly es- 
 teemed of my noble friend, cannot but be 
 worthy of my highest estimation." 
 
 u Truly, I would rather you rated me at 
 vcur own judgment, than followed the ap- 
 preciation of any other," observed the beau- 
 aful foundling, in something like a tone of 
 disappointment. 
 
 " Then, be assured, I rate you at a value 
 immeasurably beyond all other estimation !" 
 earnestly exclaimed Sir Valentine. 
 
 " Indeed !" murmured the defighted Ma- 
 oel. 
 
 " I mean — I would so esteem you, were I 
 'he worthy Sir Reginald," added the young 
 knight, quickly. 
 
 "Ah, me ! it is ever Sir Reginald with 
 you !" cried his fair companion, in evident 
 dejectedness. " Against Sir Reginald's 
 worthiness I could not say one word, because 
 vou have affirmed it; but I do declare to 
 vou, for the hundredth time, I heed it no 
 more than if I never heard of it !" 
 
 " But surely you will not allow h^ honor- 
 able regard of you to come to an unprofitable 
 ending ?" said Sir Valentine, in a famous 
 moving manner. " O' my life, he deserveth 
 not his fortunes should be of such desperate 
 issue. I beseech you, think better of his 
 princely qualities. I pray you, have proper 
 consideration of his noble character." 
 
 " 'Tis impossible that J can regard him as 
 he is desirous I should," observed the other. 
 
 " And why not ?" inquired the young 
 knight. " Allow me at least the privilege 
 of asking your reason for leaving to intoler- 
 able wretchedness, one who would devote 
 his heart to your service ?" 
 
 " Tell him," said Mabel — sinking of her 
 voice almost to a whisper— " tell him I re- 
 gard another so entirtiy, no one else can 
 have footing in my thoughts." 
 
 " Alack ! what ill news for him !" ex- 
 claimed Sir Valentine. " But think me not 
 over bold at asking of you, is he so worthy 
 — is he so noble — is he so valiant a knight, 
 and so true a gentleman, as my poor friend ?" 
 
 " Ay, that is he, I am assured !" cried the 
 poor foundling, with an earnestness that 
 came from the heart. 
 
 " Truly, I thought not such another ex- 
 isted," replied the young knight. " Indeed, 
 I would willingly go any distance to meet 
 with so estimable a person." 
 
 " Methinks you need not go far to find 
 him," murmured Mabel, as she bent her 
 looks so upon the ground her long eye-lashes 
 appeared perfectly closed. Sir Valentine 
 was silent for some few minutes. He could 
 sot mistake the meaninsr of her words. At 
 
 first the gratification they gave him was be- 
 yond conception exquisite ; but then fol- 
 lowed the reflection, how poorly he would be 
 playing the part he had undertaken, did h.6 
 attempt in any way to take advantage of the 
 confession she had just made. 
 
 " In all honesty, I must say, this person 
 you so honor hath not a tithe of the merit of 
 Sir Reginald," said the young knight, in a 
 voice that faltered somewhat. " Neither in 
 the suitable accomplishments of a knight, 
 nor in the honorable gifts of a man, can he 
 for a moment be compared with my gallant 
 friend. I beseech you, let not one so little 
 worthy of your regard, receive of you the 
 estimation which should only belong to one 
 so truly deserving of it as the noble Sir Re- 
 ginald." 
 
 " I see ! I see !" exclaimed the poor 
 foundling, exceedingly moved by this speech 
 of her companion. " You cannot disguise 
 it from me, strive you ever so. I have fallen 
 from your esteem. I have lost your respect. 
 Fare you well, sweet sir. This must be ouf 
 last meeting. I hold your noble qualities 
 too deeply in my reverence to allow of their 
 standing hazard of debasement by their as- 
 sociation with any unworthiness." 
 
 In vain the young knight gave her all 
 manner of assurances she was the highest 
 in his esteem — in vain- he sought the help of 
 entreaties and persuasions she would stay 
 and hear the reason of his so behaving, she 
 seemed bent on leaving him that moment, 
 with a full determination never to see him 
 more. At last, however, she yielded so far 
 as to promise to meet him the next evening 
 at the same place, for the last time, and then 
 returned home in a greater sadness than she 
 had ever known. From that hour to the 
 hour appointed for this final interview, Sir 
 Valentine passed in considering what course 
 he should adopt under these trying circum- 
 stances. On one side was the happiness of 
 his absent friend entrusted to his custody — 
 on the other, the affections of a most beauti- 
 ful sweet creature he had obtained by seek- 
 ing of her society. Honor demanded of him 
 he should not do his friend disadvantage, 
 and love entreated he would not abandon 
 his mistress now that he had completely won 
 her heart. The more he thought the less 
 easy seemed his duty, for he saw that in 
 each case if he attended to the claim of one, 
 it would destroy every hope of the other. 
 
 Mabel was true to her appointment. Sir 
 Valentine rode up to her, and as usual tied 
 his horse to a branch. The customary 
 greetings passed, and the young knight ob- 
 served that his fair companion looked wond 
 rous pale and agitated. 
 
146 
 
 THE lOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 " What hatli so moved you ?" inquired he, 
 courteously. 
 
 " Hitherto I have thougnt myself safe 
 from further molestation from the villains 
 into whose power I once fell," replied Mabel. 
 u But I have just discovered that they are 
 again pursuing of their treacherous inten- 
 tions." 
 
 "I pray you tell me where I may find 
 them," said Sir Valentine, with a most ear- 
 nest eagerness. " I promise you they shall 
 molest you no longer." 
 
 " I thank you with all my heart !" ex- 
 claimed the poor foundling fervently ; " yet 
 your interference can be of no avail at this 
 time. The very traitor who bore me forci- 
 bly from this park, and from whose base 
 grasp you previously rescued me in the gar- 
 dens of Kenilworth, is now being entertained 
 by Sir Thomas Lucy." 
 
 " Surely Sir Thomas when he is told of 
 his baseness, will drive him from his house !" 
 observed the young knight. 
 
 " He will hear of nothing against him — 
 nor will Dame Lucy," answered Mabel. 
 * They say I am mistaken, though I could 
 swear to him among a thousand. They 
 will have it he is a person of worship, whom 
 they have known many years ; yet I am con- 
 rinced he is as paltry a wretch as ever dis- 
 graced this world." 
 
 " By this hght, dear Mabel, I will go and 
 make' him confess his villainy !" cried Sir 
 Valentine, moving, as if he would to the house 
 on the instant. 
 
 ," I beseech you, do not, sweet sir," im- 
 plored his fair companion, as she caught 
 hold of him by the arm. " Ever since my 
 escape I have lived a most unhappy life, 
 though never made I any complaint, — for 
 both the justice and the dame will have it I 
 must have been greatly to blame, else none 
 would have laid a hand on me ; and say what 
 I would, I could not persuade them of my 
 innocency. Of all persons living, they look 
 on you with greatest suspicion, though I am 
 certain you have given them not a shadow 
 of cause, ar*d your appearance at this or any 
 time would do me more mischief than you 
 can imagir j." 
 
 " But it 'jannot be that you are to be left ' 
 to this ui civil treatment," exclaimed the 
 other urgently. " I will not allow of a 
 thing so monstrous. Never heard I such 
 unjust, i anatural usage. It must not be 
 suffered." 
 
 " Ind«"5d it must — for there is no honest 
 way of escaping from it as I can see," an- 
 gwemd he poor foundling. " There is some 
 BCbemo afoot, I feel assured, else why is the 
 caitiff ' here — and that evil is intended me 
 
 by it, I have had more than sufficient proofs 
 or I should not have known him to be the 
 villain he is ; but as yet I know not in what 
 shape it will come. I am in terrible appre- 
 hension of the worst, yet I see not how I can 
 avoid it if it visit me." 
 
 " There is one way," said Sir Valentine, 
 whose feelings had been put into such ex- 
 treme excitement, he could think of nothing 
 but the safety of the fair creature who seem- 
 ed now so completely thrown on him for 
 protection. "There is but one way, dearest 
 Mabel," repeated he, in a fonder tone than 
 he had allowed himself to use a long while. 
 " If you have that regard for me you have 
 expressed, and will not be moved to favor 
 my friend's suit, I beseech you honor me to 
 that extent as would lead you to trust your 
 happiness to my keeping ; and I promise you 
 by the word of a true knight, I will carry 
 you from the evils with which you are threat- 
 ened, to the sure refuge of my kinsman's 
 house, where without delay I will give my- 
 self that firm title to be your protector which 
 can only be gained from the honorable bonds 
 of marriage." 
 
 " Marriage ?" repeated Mabel, with a 
 more unhappy aspect than she had yet 
 shown. " Surely, you have been all this 
 time in a strange ignorance : and I too — 
 methinks I have been in a dream. That 
 word hath fully wakened me. I see n©w, 
 for the first time, how I have been dressing 
 up my heart in shadows. Oh, how great 
 hath been my folly ! I have sought what I 
 thought an innocent pleasure from sources 
 as far above my reach as are the stars. — 
 Alas, what extreme thoughtlessness ! what 
 marvellous self-delusion !," 
 
 " What meaneth this ?" inquired the young 
 knight, full of wonder at this sudden change 
 in her. 
 
 " Know you not, honorable sir, I am only 
 a poor foundling ?" asked Mabel earnestly. 
 " Have you not heard I am a poor friendless 
 creature, picked up by chance, and fostered 
 by charity ?" . . 
 
 " In very truth, I have not," replied Sir 
 Valentine, surprised at hearing such intelli- 
 gence. 
 
 " Then such I am," said the poor found- 
 ling. " Nay, I am so poorly off, that even 
 the very name I bear is a stranger's gift. — 
 Mother or father have I never known ; and 
 such is my mean estate that I cannot claim 
 kindred with any of ever so humble a sort. 
 Oh, would you had known o( this before, f 
 am much to blame for not telling you of i* 
 sooner ; but in all honesty, sweet sir, it neve* 
 entered my thoughts." 
 
 " That I have remained ignorant of wb*» 
 
THE YOUTH OP SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 147 
 
 yon have just told me, is mine own fault 
 only," replied her companion. " But I can- 
 not think of drawing back from my engage- 
 ments at such a discovery. Rich or poor, 
 noble or simple, you are the same admirable 
 fair creature I have so long loved, and that 
 hath honored me with her regard, therefore 
 if you will trust yourself to my care, doubt 
 not of obtaining at least the respect my poor 
 name can bestow upon you." 
 
 " It cannot be !" exclaimed the other de- 
 terminedly. " I could never do you so nota- 
 ble a wrong as to thrust my meanness into 
 your honorable family. I could not bear yOu 
 to be ashamed of me, and such it must needs 
 come to when any put questions to you of 
 your wife's lineage. Oh, I now see more 
 and more how ill I have acted in seeking of 
 your society. I enjoyed the present moment, 
 totally regardless of the bar between us, that 
 divided our fortunes an impassable distance. 
 I beseech you to forgive me, honorable sir. 
 As quickly as you can, forget that one of 
 such humble fortunes as your unhappy Ma- 
 bel ever existed. I would not I should give 
 you a moment's uneasiness. As for myself, 
 whatever may be my wretched fate, or how- 
 ever degraded my condition, I shall have a 
 happiness in my thoughts which will ever 
 rank me with the most worthy, for I can re- 
 member I have attained to such proud eleva- 
 tion as to be the love of the noblest, truest, 
 and most perfect gentleman fond heart ever 
 loved." 
 
 " Dearest ! sweetest life !" cried Sir Val- 
 entine, passionately clasping her in his em- 
 braces. Mabel for a few moments allowed 
 herself to receive his endearments, then sud- 
 denly tore herself from his arms, looking more 
 pale and sad than before. 
 
 " This must not be," exclaimed she, with a 
 desperate effort, as she motioned him back. 
 " If you will not break my heart, I pray you, 
 — I beseech you, honorable sir, grant me one 
 request." 
 
 " Willingly," replied the young knight, for 
 tears were on her eyelids, and she looked on 
 him so movingly, he could have refused her 
 nothing. 
 
 " Never approach me again," said the hap- 
 less Mabel, in a voice almost stifled by her 
 feelings. " Nay," exclaimed she, with more 
 firmness, as she noticed he appeared about 
 to speak, " if you hold me in any respect — 
 if I am not the abject thing in your eyes, I 
 am with the rest of the world, seek not to 
 hinder me in my resolution. I must see 
 you no more. I cannot — will not allow of 
 another meeting. On reflection, your own 
 honorable nature will assure you that this is 
 M much for my welfare as your own. May 
 
 the sweetest happiness that should crown 
 such nobleness as yours wait upon all your 
 doings. Again, and for the la3t time, honor- 
 able sir ! — fare you well !■" 
 
 " Mabel ! dear, sweet Mabel ! I beseech 
 you leave me not thus ! I will not live with- 
 out you ! I cannot love another !" 
 
 " Truly, this is playing a friend's part, Sir 
 Valen^njgJ" cried Sir Reginald, rudely 
 graspingthe young knight by the arm, as 
 he seemed about to follow the retreating 
 Mabel. "Why, thou pitiful traitor! thou 
 shame to knighthood — thou dishonor to 
 friendship ! What demon hath tempted 
 thee to such villainous doings ? By my 
 troth, now, had I not seen this with mine 
 own eyes, I would never have believed it." 
 Sir Valentine was a little confounded at 
 the unexpected appearance of his friend ; 
 and knowing the circumstances in which 
 he had been found, he was sensible they 
 gave color to Sir Reginald's accusation he 
 might find it difficult to remove. " Indeed, 
 I am but little to blame, Sir Reginald," re- 
 plied he ; " and I doubt not you will ac- 
 knowledge it readily, when you have heard 
 all I have to say to you." 
 
 " Doubtless," observed the other, in a man- 
 ner somewhat sarcastic ; " I go on a distant 
 journey, placing such confidence in thy 
 seeming honorableness as to entrust thee 
 with the furthering of my suit to my mis- 
 tress during my absence ; and I return tc 
 find thee basely seeking to rob me of my 
 happiness, by proffering her thine own af- 
 fections ! Truly, thou art but little to 
 blame !" 
 
 " I do assure you, Sir Reginald " 
 
 " Fie, sir !" exclaimed his companion, 
 roughly. " Thou hast a rapier — methinks 
 thou should st know the use of it. Leave thy 
 tongue, and take to a fitter weapon." And 
 so saying, he drew his own from its scab- 
 bard. 
 
 "By all that's honorable in knighthood 
 
 "What!" exclaimed the other, fiercely 
 interrupting him ; " wouldst play the cow- 
 ard as well as the villain ! wouldst do me 
 such foul wrong as thou hast been about, 
 and then shrink from the punishment thou 
 hast so justly deserved ? O' my conscience, 
 I thought not so mean a wretch was not to be 
 found. Draw, caitiff, without a word more, 
 or I will beat thee like a dog." 
 
 " As Heaven is my witness, I entertain 
 this quarrel most reluctantly," said Sir Va- 
 lentine, drawing out his rapier. " I cannot 
 see that I have wronged you in any way ; 
 and I am convinced you would be the first 
 to say os, knew you all that hath happened." 
 
148 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 " To thy defence, sirrah !" replied Sir Re- 
 ginald, angrily. " I am not to be cozened 
 out of a proper vengeance." And at this 
 he began very furiously to thrust at his 
 companion, who sought only to defend him- 
 self, which he did with such skill, that his 
 opponent got more enraged every moment, 
 and gave him all manner of ill words ; but 
 still Sir Valentine kept on his defence, and 
 would not so much as make a single pass 
 at bis friend. This continued till Sir Re- 
 ginald, pressing on with desperate haste, 
 fell on his opponent's rapier with his whole | 
 force. 
 
 " Alack, what have I done !" exclaimed 
 the young knight, as he beheld his faithful 
 companion in arms drop bleeding to the 
 ground. " Oh, I have slain the noblest 
 knight that ever wielded spear, and the 
 truest friend that ever was sincere to man. 
 O" rny life, I meant to do you no hurt, and I 
 can say with the same honesty, I have done 
 you no offence. Finding he got no answer, 
 he knelt beside his wounded friend, and took 
 his hand, and entreated him very movingly 
 he would not die at enmity with him, if he 
 was as dangerously hurt as he seemed. — 
 Still he received no reply, which put him 
 almost in a frenzy by assuring him he had 
 killed him. Finding, however, that Sir Re- 
 ginald breathed, he very carefully took him 
 in his arms, and placed him so that he might 
 recline against the broad stem of a neigh- 
 boring tree, and then leaping on his steed, 
 he started off at the top of his speed to get 
 the necessary assistance. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 How that foolish man, 
 That reads the story of a woman's face, 
 And dies believing it, is lost for ever : 
 How all the good you have is but a shadow, 
 1' the. morning with you, and at night behind 
 
 you, 
 Past and forgotten. How your vows are frosts 
 Fast for a night, and with the next sun gone : 
 How you are, being taken all together, 
 A mere confusion, and so dead a chaos, 
 That love cannot distinguish. 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher. 
 I washed an Etbiope, who, for recompense, 
 Sully'd my name. And must I then be forced 
 To walk, to live, thus black ! Must ! must ! 
 
 Fie! 
 He that can bear with " must," he cannot die. 
 
 Marston. 
 
 The love of the youthful Shakspeare for 
 the yeoman's blooming daughter flourished 
 
 the more, the more it was fed by her sonny 
 glances, and in these, he basked as often aa 
 he could find opportunity ; but, at this peri* 
 od, his visits to the cottage were mostly late 
 at night, when her father and the children 
 were asleep in their beds. This arose from 
 a cause which must here be described. He 
 was now growing towards man's estate, and 
 it often occurred to him, when he was in his 
 own little chamber, fitted by himself with 
 his own two or three books on a shelf — a 
 chair for sitting — a little table for writing on 
 — and a truckle bed for his lying, — that he 
 ought to be doing of something for himself, 
 and to save his poor parents the burthen of 
 his provision. Such reflections would come 
 upon him, when he had been wearing away 
 the deep midnight with anxious study ; and 
 so one morning, having come to a resolution, 
 he dressed himself with all neatness, and 
 bent his steps towards Jemmy Catchpole's, 
 whom he had heard was in want of some 
 one, to copy papers and parchment and such 
 things, lie saw the little lawyer, after 
 waiting a monstrous time in a low narrow 
 chamber, whereof it was difficult to say 
 whether the boards or the ceiling were in 
 the dirtiest state, who, hearing of his errand, 
 made him write as he dictated, at which he 
 looked very intently, and though it was as 
 fair a specimen of penmanship as might, be 
 seen any where, he found wonderful fault 
 with it. However, the end of it was, Jem- 
 my Catchpole offered to employ the youth, 
 and for his services give him a knowledge 
 of the law for the first year or so ; and after 
 that, should he have made any reasonable 
 progress in his studies, he would pay him a 
 handsome wage. This offer was gladly ac- 
 cepted, for although he could gain no pre- 
 sent profit by it, his sanguine nature saw in 
 it a inn: t bountiful prospect.' 
 
 Behold him now, in that den of a place 
 just alluded to, surrounded by musty parch- 
 ments and mouldering papers, with scarce 
 ever any other company than the rats and 
 the spiders, sitting on a tottering stool at a 
 worm-eaten desk, writing from the early 
 morning till late into the evening, save at 
 such times as he was allowed to get his 
 meals, or to go of errands for his employer. 
 It was about this time that he began to take 
 especial note of the humors of men, wher- 
 ever he could get sight of them ; marking in 
 his mind that distinctiveness in the individu- 
 al, which made him differ from his fellows ; 
 and observing, with quite as much minute- 
 ness, the manner in which the professions 
 of his acquaintances were in accordance or 
 in opposition to their ways of living. Bf 
 this peculiar curiousness of his, he took 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 149 
 
 characters as a limner taketh portraits, 
 having each feature so set down from the 
 original, that he could carry such about 
 with him wherever he went. This he had 
 certain facilities of doing in his new occu- 
 pation, as, finding him exceeding apt, the 
 lawyer soon employed him as his assistant 
 wherever he went, which brought him into 
 every sort of company ; for Jemmy Catch- 
 pole had every body's business on his hands, 
 or, at least, he made many think so, and he 
 bustled about from place to place, as if the 
 world must needs stand still unless he gave 
 it his help. 
 
 Such occasions, and the observations he 
 drew from them, afforded the youthful Shaks- 
 peare some little amusement in the dulness 
 of his present life. What books the lawyer 
 had, related only to his own particular voca- 
 tion. Th -j papers and parchments were the dry- 
 est stuff that ever was read or written : even 
 the very atmosphere of the chamber seemed 
 to breathe of law ; and as for Jemmy Catch- 
 pole, his talk was a mere patchwork of law 
 phrases, that required considerable familiar- 
 ity with legal instruments to m.ike the slight- 
 est sense of. In fact, the little lawyer had 
 so used himself to such a style in his wri- 
 tings and readings, that it was impossible 
 for him to talk, think, or write, in any other. 
 The tediousness of this was sometimes al- 
 most insupportable to the young poet, and he 
 only made it tolerable by the occasional 
 writing of some sweet ballad of his fair mis- 
 tress, when he should be engrossing a sheet 
 of parchment for his busy master. 
 
 But then, after all this weary labor, how 
 famously did he enjoy his midnight meetings 
 with the sprightly Anne Hathaway. There 
 would they stand together, under the friend- 
 ly shadow of the walnut-tree before the cot- 
 tage, in such loving fashion as I never can 
 sufficiently describe, till the stars disappeared, 
 and the sun's crimson pennon began to peep 
 above the eastern hills. Nothing in imagi- 
 nation can come at all nigh to the passion- 
 ate earnestness of his manner at these times. 
 It came to the ear of the enraptured maiden, 
 in a resistless torrent of eloquence that swept 
 down all denyings. There appeared a 
 breathing fire in his words that made the air 
 all around to glow with a delicious warmth ; 
 and his looks beamed with such exceeding 
 brilliance, that to the enamored damsel they 
 made his beautiful clear countenance like 
 unto the picture of some saint, clothed with a 
 continual halo. It was not possible for the 
 most scrupulous discreet creature to have 
 resisted so earnest a wooer, therefore it can- 
 not be considered in any way strange, that 
 the fond nature of the blooming Anne should 
 
 have acknowledged his complete influence. 
 It so happened, that after passing the hours 
 in such delicate pleasure as such a lover 
 was likely to produce, on his taking leave of 
 her, he sung the following words to a plea- 
 sant tune that had long been a favorite of 
 his. The song was thus styled in a copy he 
 gave to her soon after : — 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE's GOOD NIGHT. TO UTS 
 SOUL'S MISTRESS. 
 
 " Good night, sweet life ! yet, dearest, say, 
 
 How can that night be good to me, 
 That drives me from my bliss away, 
 
 Whilst taking off mine eyes from thee ? 
 Good night ! — the hours so swiftly are fleeting, 
 
 We find no time to mark their flight ; 
 And having known such joy in meeting, 
 
 'Tis hard to say — Good night ! good night ! 
 Good night, sweet life ! ere daylight beams, 
 
 And sleep gives birth to hopes divine, 
 May 1 be present in thy dreams, 
 
 And blessed as thou shalt be in mine. 
 Good night ! yet still I fondly linger 
 
 I go, but do not leave thy sight : 
 Though morning shows her rosy finger, 
 
 I murmur still — Good night ! good night !" 
 
 This was the song, simple though it may 
 be; but his impassioned manner of singing 
 it, which clothed every word with unuttera- 
 ble passion, 1 cannot give. 
 
 " I tell thee what it is, friend Will," ex- 
 claimed a familiar voice from an open case- 
 ment above them, so much to the astonish- 
 ment of the lovers that they started from the 
 affectionately closeness of their position on 
 a sudden ; " if thou wilt not come a wooing 
 at decent hours, or dost again wake me out 
 of my sleep with the singing of love-songs, 
 I'll have none of thy company. And I tell 
 thee what it is, Mistress Anne, — if thou al- 
 lowest of such loud kissing, thou wilt aljinn 
 the whole country within a mile of thee !" 
 
 " Heart o' me, father how you talk !" 
 cried the blushing criminal. John Hatha- 
 way closed the casement and returned to 
 his bed, chuckling like one who had just 
 succeeded in playing off some exquisite 
 pleasant jest. 
 
 About this period the youthful Shakspeare 
 was ever meeting John a Combe. Althou b li 
 he could scarce be get to speak to any other 
 person in the town, save on business, John 
 a Combe never failed to accost the young 
 poet whenever they met. It was evident 
 each took pleasure in the other's society; 
 for although Master Combe was marvellous 
 bitter in his speech upon all occasions, ha 
 was ever betraying to the close observance 
 of his companiof',, a kindness of nature which 
 
160 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 the latter could well appreciate. He sus- 
 pected that beneath this covering of gall and 
 wormwood the sweet honey of humanity lay 
 in exhaustless heaps ; and knowing of his 
 history, and his former greatness of soul, he 
 was exceedingly curious to learn the secret 
 cause that had made him apparently so 
 changed a man. Once, when he met him, 
 the usurer made him promise to call at his 
 house immediately he had done his labors of 
 the day, as he wished to see him on a mat- 
 ter of deep importance. William Shaks- 
 peare promised, and that evening, instead of 
 going to his mistress, he was found seated in 
 John a Combe's chamber, where one candle 
 gave just sufficient light to make the 
 cheerlessness of the place most conspicuous. 
 The usurer sat before him, with that restless 
 look and manner with which a man who has 
 determined to do a thing which he likes not, 
 prepares to set about it. 
 
 " I've heard thou art playing the lover — 
 is't true ?" inquired he, in his usual sharp 
 voice. 
 
 " Most undeniable," replied the young po- 
 et with a smile. 
 
 " O' my life, I did not think thou hadst 
 such marvellous lack of brains," observed 
 the other. " Wouldst cater for thine own 
 misery ? — Wouldst build thy towering Ba- 
 li u> the skies, to end in the utter confu-. 
 si.jii of thy thoughts ? Have more discre- 
 tion." 
 
 " Indeed I find in it so sweet a happiness, 
 J would not abandon it at any price," said 
 his companion, with all the fervor of a true 
 lover. 
 
 " Is not the poison sweetened to attract 
 the fly!" exclaimed the usurer more ear- 
 nestly. " I tell thee thou shouldst avoid 
 the temptation as thou wouldst a pestilence. 
 It will destroy thee, body and soul. It will 
 madden thy brain and wither thy heart, — 
 make thy blood a consuming fire, and thy 
 life an intolerable wretchedness !" 
 
 " Truly I have no such fear," replied the 
 youthful Shakspeare. 
 
 " When does youth fear when there is a 
 fair prospect before it !" cried John a Combe. 
 " What a desperate folly it is. Point out the 
 gaping precipice within its path, it will go 
 madly forward. Of a surety nature might 
 well wear a robe of motley, for she presi- 
 deth over a goodly company of fools. I tell 
 thee, boy, there is no such danger as that 
 thou seemest so enamored of; and if nothing 
 else will turn thee from thy destruction, I 
 will unfold to thee the story of mine own 
 Fearful experience of this blight upon hu- 
 manity." 
 
 William Shakspeare listened. ;, » "ilence, 
 
 for, as hath been said, he had a strange cu- 
 riousness to know what his companion had 
 promised. 
 
 " I require of thee, first of all, that thou 
 declarest to none one word of the secret I 
 am about to entrust to thee." The young 
 poet readily made his assurance he would 
 not repeat a syllable; and presently the 
 usurer continued his narration in these 
 words : — 
 
 " Perchance thou has heard of one John 
 a Combe, whose goodness of heart was the 
 thfime of all of his acquaintance. I was 
 that John a Combe. I had such store of 
 love in my breast that I scattered it far and 
 wide, and yet it seemed to grow the greater 
 the more it was so squandered. No matter 
 what evil I might see, I regarded it only as 
 the weeds in a corn field, surrounded by 
 such bountiful provision of good that it was 
 scarce worthy the observation of any person 
 of a thankful nature. My youth was cher- 
 ished with such pleasing feelings. My man- 
 hood flourished upon the same teeming soil. 
 I sought te, sow benefits broadcast wherever 
 there was place and opportunity ; and found, 
 or fancied I found, the crop am, ly repay me 
 for the labor. I made friends wherever I 
 met faces. All men seemed to me my 
 brothers ; and every woman I looked upon 
 as a domestic deity deserving honorable 
 worship. At last I met one who regarded 
 me as an enemy. I strove to win him to 
 better feelings, and failed. He essayed to 
 destroy me in honest battle — I disarmed him 
 and went my way unhurt. He then tried to 
 rob me of my life by treachery ; but here he 
 was both baffled and punished, whilst I re- 
 mained as uninjured as at first. He was a 
 demon — a fiend of hell, let loose on the 
 earth. 
 
 " I had met with many women seeming 
 in every way worthy of my love, and show- 
 ing such signs as proved I should have no 
 great difficulty in the winning of their af- 
 fections : but my soul was somewhat curi- 
 ous in the pursuit of female excellence. It 
 must needs have a phcenix. It would not 
 be satisfied with what appeared good — it 
 strove to procure possession of the best. I 
 sought for such an object, for a long time 
 unavailingly. At last in a neighboring 
 town I met with one who seemed all I re- 
 quired. She was of a poor family, the 
 daughter of a man supporting himself and 
 her by the profits of a humble trade. She 
 was fair — young — of gentle manners, and 
 of a winning mode.-t innocency. What 
 more could be wanted ? On further ao- 
 j quaintance her merits rose in greater con 
 ' spicuousness, and the perfect simplicity of 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 151 
 
 ker dispositi .in won on me more and more 
 •tery day. Was not this a phoenix ? — a 
 
 {maenix that rose from the flames her bril- 
 iant beauty raised in my heart. I grew 
 enamored : and she with an admirable deli- 
 cacy retired from my advances. I perse- 
 vered, and saw in her some faint signs 1 
 was making way in her esteem. (Still there 
 was such sweet air of purest chastity in her 
 every action, it kept me a worshipper at so 
 respectful a distance, I could not believe my 
 success to be in any certainty. 
 
 " What did I do upon this. I determined 
 to take every opportunity of studying her 
 nature, with the hope of so moulding it to 
 my ideas of womanly excellence, I should 
 by possessing her, secure myself a life of 
 such exceeding happiness the most blessed 
 could have but little notion of. To say I 
 loved her, methinks is scarce to say enough, 
 yet of the mere outward show of passion 1 
 afforded the world so little, none could have 
 believed I had been so desperately enamored. 
 It was that nice sense of delicacy in her, 
 and modest shrinking from familiar praise, 
 that took me captive. To win her love I 
 strove with all the earnestness of manhood 
 flushed with its proudest energies. But how 
 to win it was the question. I would not 
 purchase it by gifts, for that suited not my 
 humor. I would only have it come as the 
 price of her appreciation of my merit, for 
 then I thought I could the better count on 
 its sincerity and duration. With this fine 
 fantasy of mine, I would not let her know I 
 was in such good estate as I really was. I 
 affected some humbleness of fortune, think- 
 ing by gaining her in such guise I should 
 be sure that no alloy of selfishness could 
 mingle with the pure sterling of her love. 
 
 " I took up my abode in her father's house 
 to have the fullest means of completing my 
 honest purpose. She seemed to grow under 
 my hand like a flower of my own planting. 
 She began to regard me with a softer ten- 
 derness. I doubled my assiduity, and she 
 gradually warmed into a graceful fondness; 
 yet in all that she did or said there was so 
 exquisite an artlessness, I was more charm- 
 ed than had she been a thousand times more 
 affectionate without such simple coloring. 
 I loved more and more. At last the crown- 
 ing of all my toil I gained from her the 
 much longed-for confession — the treasure 
 of her regard was mine and mine alone. I 
 did not betray myself even then, delighted 
 as I was beyond all measure ; but I resolv- 
 ed the next day to leave the house, return 
 in my true character as speedily as I might, 
 and, before all her acquaintance, wed her 
 with such honorable ceremony as worth like 
 10 
 
 hers deserved. I thought my bliss complete, 
 and my gratitude to the author of it knew 
 no bounds. 
 
 " I slept in a chamber directly under hers, 
 and often as I lay in my bed have 1 enjoyed 
 more exquisite sweet pleasure in hearing 
 her gentle footsteps pass my door, and up 
 the stairs to her sweet rest — to which, in 
 consequence, as she told me, of her house- 
 hold labors, she was the last to retire of any 
 in the house. That night thinking of my 
 great happiness to come, 1 kept awake long- 
 er than had been customary with me ; and 
 all at once I marvelled I had not yet heard 
 her light footfalls, for it was far beyond her 
 usual time of coming up stairs. Another 
 hour passed by and yet no sign of her com- 
 ing. I began to get somewhat alarmed, as 
 lovers will upon anything out of the ordi- 
 nary in their mistress's behavior. At last 
 when I had nigh worked myself into a fever 
 with imagining of all sorts of dangers that 
 might have happened to her, to my infinite 
 joy I heard her softly approach my door. 
 Almost at the instant I heard other footsteps 
 ascending with her. In the next moment 
 I distinguished a slight whispering in a 
 strange voice. Then two persons together 
 proceeded past my door — together they as- 
 cended the stairs — together they entered her 
 chamber — the door was locked — I could then 
 distinctly hear above me, mingled with her 
 light footfall and gentle voice, the full deep 
 tones and heavy step of a man. 
 
 " At this discovery I started up as though 
 I had been bit by an adder — the bed shook 
 under the fierce trembling of my limbs — my 
 heart beat in my breast as a madman rushes 
 against his prison bars — my veins seemed 
 filled with the flame, and my brain scorch- 
 ing with fire ; and a hot blighting wind ap- 
 peared so to fill the place around me, I 
 breathed as though every breath would be 
 my last. But this was but the beginning of 
 my tortures. Had I possessed the power of 
 moving I would have done a deed of just 
 vengeance, which should have remained a 
 monument of terror unto the end of time ; 
 but I was there like one chained, having no 
 other senses but those of hearing and feel- 
 ing. Talk of the sufferings of the damned, 
 what were they to the agonies I endured. 
 Lash me with scorpions — plunge me into 
 everlasting fires — goad me with serpents 
 stings — strain every nerve and artery with 
 pullies, racks and wheels — 'tis but a mere 
 ordinary aching in comparison. At last, 
 nature could hold out no longer, and all sen-- 
 sation left me. 
 
 "When I recovered consciousness, tlie. 
 sun was streaming in at my casement ; but 
 
152 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 it was no sun for me. I was no more the 
 man I had been twelve hours before, than is 
 a withered bud a blooming flower. A per- 
 petual darkness took possession of mine 
 eyes — my veins held a running poison — the 
 sweet feelings of humanity had turned to a 
 sourness that corroded their vessels — all my 
 hopes were consumed to ashes, and scat- 
 tered to the four winds ; and all my belief 
 in the existence of the worthiness of hu- 
 manity burst like a bubble in the air, leav- 
 ing no sign to tell that such a thing had 
 ever appeared. Wherever I looked I spied 
 the darkness of a sepulchre — wherever I 
 moved I smelt the filth of a charnel. Villainy 
 was branded on every face. Craft made its 
 dwelling in every habitation. I saw the 
 world intent on my destruction. I declared 
 war against the whole human race. 
 
 " I took counsel with myself, and deter- 
 mined before I left that hateful place to dis- 
 cover one thing. I had dressed myself in 
 readiness to set about the fulfilment of my 
 resolution, when who should make her ap- 
 pearance but the object of my late care and 
 regard — my phcenix! my best among the 
 excellent ! Towards me she came looking 
 as simple, innocent, pure, and artless as she 
 had looked from the beginning. I managed 
 by a desperate effort to keep me a calmed 
 countenance, though there raged so fierce 
 a tempest within me as beggareth all de- 
 scription. 
 
 " She sat herself down as usual, and with 
 her accustomed gentle kindness commenced 
 asking concerning of my health. I calmly 
 drew a chair next to hers, quietly seated 
 myself as near to her as I could — quickly 
 seized one of her wrists in each hand, and 
 with my face close to her own, looked into 
 her eyes as though I would read there the 
 deepest secret of her soul. She shrunk from 
 my scrutiny with every sign of consciou 
 guilt. I then poured out on her the pent-up 
 flood of contempt, indignation, and abhor- 
 rence; and she trembled in pallid shame. 
 I saw she was humbled to the dust with 
 fear, and rung from her reluctant lips the 
 whole history of her infamy. It was a com- 
 mon case. An excess of vanity disguised 
 by matchless craft, made her seek to be- 
 come above her natural station. She sought 
 to be the envy of her companions, by wearing 
 of such ornament as they could not obtain. 
 These she cared not to obtain honestly, 
 txagh she employed an exhaustless stock 
 of artifice to make it appear they were so 
 acquired. The tempter was at hand, ready 
 to take advantage of her evil-disposedness. 
 A few trinkets and other pretty baubles, 
 with a fair commodity of oatns and flatteries, 
 
 completed the* bargain. The price paid, slu} 
 sold herself, body and soul. Still I stopped 
 not here. I insisted on the name of her com- 
 panion in iniquity. After a while she gave 
 it. It was mine enemy. 
 
 " He had seen where I had stored up all 
 my hopes — he had noticed my infinite pains- 
 taking to make my happiness complete — he 
 had watched — eagerly — delightedly watch- 
 ed the progress of the enamored game I was 
 playing, till I had staked every thought and 
 feeling on the issue ; and then he came with 
 his damnable base villainy, and so cheated 
 me, I not only lost what I had staked, but 
 lost myself as well. At the mention of his 
 name I flung her from me like a toad : and 
 as the fear-struck wretch lay prostrate be- 
 fore me, I heaped on her guilty soul the 
 abundant measure of my honest execrations. 
 She hid her face in her hands, and writhed 
 like a bruised worm ; but I left her not till 
 I had exhausted every term of infamy and 
 scorn I had at my will. Doubtless, though 
 the next hour she went about wearing of 
 the same simple, artless, innocent counte- 
 nance as first attracted me ; and as token 
 of her worthiness, exhibited to her envious 
 companions the letters and verses of my 
 writing, wherein I bestowed on her that 
 estimable rare clothing with which true 
 love delighteth to attire its deity : — and, I 
 make no manner of question, hath since 
 palmed herself off on others, as she strove 
 to do with me, as the purest, kindest and 
 best among the most admirable of her 
 sex. 
 
 " As for the villain that did me this in- 
 tolerable wrong, I sought him in all places, 
 but he managed to elude the strictness of 
 my search. If there remain for me one 
 glimpse of happiness in this world, it can 
 only come when I shall toss his body to the 
 ravens, and leave his bones a crumbling x 
 monument of matchless perfidy, to whitec 
 in the blast. Bowed down, as I am, with 
 the weight of those memories which crush 
 my humanity to the dust, my arm seems 
 nerved, and all my limbs clothed with a 
 giant's power, whenever I see in my mind's 
 eye the arrival of my day of vengeance. I 
 know it will come. Nature hath been out- 
 raged beyond all previous example. The 
 punishment shall be in proportion to the 
 offence. The breath of life is kept within 
 my miserable frame only by an unconquer- 
 able desire to execute this natural decree ; 
 and till that longed-for time shall come, the 
 scorn, the detestation, the hatred, the con- 
 tempt, the disgust, the loathing and abhor- 
 rence that bubbles from my heart, will fall, 
 for want of beingdiscnarged upon its piopef 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 153 
 
 •f jfcc t, upon those who have the ill hap to 
 
 *ome within my influence. 
 
 " Boy !" exclaimed John a Combe, in a 
 voice scarce audible from the greatness of 
 his emotions, " when I think of what I might 
 have become, and behold what I am, my 
 heart feels as if it would shiver in my breast. 
 There are many who may still remember me 
 in my better days, but I doubt they knew 
 the happiness I had then in myself and my 
 doings. From philanthropy to usury is a 
 huge step ; yet I took it at a bound. May- 
 hap I am mad — I have had cause enough 
 for it — but I can assert of a certainty, I am 
 — most miserable." 
 
 William Shakspeare had listened to the 
 preceding narration with exceeding interest; 
 but the last few words were spoken with 
 such a touching earnestness, he was more 
 deeply moved than ever he had been in his 
 life before. He saw this was no case for 
 common consolations — he therefore attempt- 
 ed nothing of the sort. 
 
 ■" Never breathe to me a word of woman's 
 honorableness," continued the usurer, with 
 increased earnestness. " This creature that 
 1 had worshipped with so pure a spirit, 
 whose worthiness I exalted above all virtue, 
 and whose excellence I so honored, it out- 
 topped every example of goodness, not only 
 did me this inhuman wrong out of her own 
 infinite baseness; but as soon as I had rid, 
 myself of her infamous society, she took to ' 
 slandering me with the coarse, vile coloring 
 ©f the blackest malice — thinking, by so do- 
 ing, my testimony of her shame would not 
 be believed. I alone had knowledge of her 
 evil doing — the fear which guilt produces 
 continually haunted her — and she strove to 
 save her reputation by destroying mine. 
 She gave out I had sought to use her dis- 
 honestly, so she would have none of me ; 
 and accused me of sueh horrible behaving 
 as none but the degraded, debased thing she 
 had made herself, could have conceived. 
 Here, then, was I by my abundant love of 
 virtue, and prodigal generousness, in seek- 
 ing to make others happy, stripped hopeless 
 —and then daubed with the pitch of infamy 1 
 I have said nought of this matter hitherto, 
 believing I might escape the outstretched, 
 finger, and the reviling eye, of the unjust 
 world, by a strict secrecy. My pride would 
 not allow of my offering one word in my 
 own defence, convinced that men's minds 
 have such an inclination for villainy, they 
 will readily entertain it, let it come in any 
 shape. No where will there be found any 
 sympathy for abused confidence, for the 
 man that is deceived is looked upon as a 
 poor weak fool, that should have had more 
 
 wit than to have suffered such cozening. 
 
 " I felt convinced that every one around 
 me were striving to get to a knowledge of 
 my secret, that they might enjoy the plea- 
 sure of thinking ill of me ; so I was before- 
 hand with them — abused all and kept all 
 from the slightest approach to that famili- 
 arity which they desired should lead to con- 
 tempt. But what a life is this I am living! 
 and when I behold thy fresh young nature 
 pursuing the same course which mine hath 
 gone, have I not reason to fear it will come 
 to a like dreadful ending ? Boy ! look at 
 me, and pause in thy career. I have been 
 as thou art now — a worshipper of fair ap- 
 pearances. I loved the goodly garnishing 
 of the bright world, and would have rushed 
 against a thousand levelled spears in de- 
 fence of its integrity. Thou seest me here 
 decrepid in my prime, inwardly affected 
 with a moral leprosy, that eateth my heart 
 to the core— outwardly, one entire sore, that 
 causeth nae to shrink from the world as from 
 a scorching fire. I am at strife with my 
 fellows — I am at war with myself — the day 
 bringeth no peace for me — the night no re- 
 pose. Merciful God !" exclaimed the un- 
 happy usurer, in his deep frenzy, clasping 
 his hands together, with a wild look of agony 
 and supplication. " Is there no peace for 
 the guiltless ? — Is there nought but perpet- 
 ual torture for the doer of good ? Tear not 
 my heart-strings with so rude a grasp ! I 
 have wronged none. I have loved all. I 
 have worshipped fervently each excellent 
 evidence of thy perfect handiwork. Let not 
 mine enemy prevail against me. He hath 
 done me most intolerable injury. Pity for 
 my undeserved sufferings ! Justice against 
 the villainy that produced them ! Mercy I 
 help ! vengeance !" 
 
 Shouting these last words in the most 
 piercing tones, John a Combe tottered for- 
 ward a few steps, and before his young com- 
 panion could reach the place where he was, 
 fell exhausted upon the floor. 
 
 CHAPTER XXDI. 
 
 Is this your manly service ? 
 A devil scorns to do it. 
 
 Massinger. 
 Now whether it were providence, or luck. 
 Whether the keeper's or the stealer's buck. 
 There we had venison. 
 
 Bishop Corbet. 
 
 " See that this plot of thine have a more 
 profitable issue than thy preceding ones." 
 
154 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 a It cannot fail, my lord, it is so cunning- 
 ly devised." 
 
 *' So thou saidst of the others, yet I reaped 
 no advantage of them." 
 
 " That was owing to no fault of mine, 
 believe me, but to circumstances which, as 
 it was clean impossible they could be fore- 
 seen of the piercingest wit, it is plain they 
 could not have been prevented." 
 
 Thus spoke two of whom the reader hath 
 already some acquaintance — to wit, the li- 
 centious noble and his villainous assistant ; 
 and they were sitting together in a small, 
 mean chamber of an obscure inn in the 
 neighborhood of Charlcote — the former, as 
 usual, so closely wrapped up, as if he feared 
 being recognized ; and the other in finer fea- 
 ther than he had ever been in before, as 
 though he was intent in playing some ex- 
 ceeding gallant part. 
 
 " I marvel,. my lord, you should waste so 
 much labor on so poor an object," observed 
 the meaner villain. " Methinks you might 
 have won a nobler prize at half the pains. 
 Indeed, I have been credibly informed this 
 Mabel is nothing better than a very mean 
 person, — a mere foundling — mayhap, the 
 chance offspring of vulgar parents — that 
 hath now become a sort of humble servant 
 to the good dame by whom she was disco- 
 vered." 
 
 "Dost tell me this story, fellow !" exclaim- 
 ed his companion, rising from his seat with 
 most haughty indignant glances. " Why, 
 where hath flown thy wits,, that thou couldst 
 credit so shallow a tale ? — Foundling ! o' 
 my life, I would gladly give a thousand 
 crowns to pick up such a foundling but 
 once or twice in my life. Vulgar parent- 
 age ! By this handjl have ' seen her wear 
 so regal an air with her, as Elizabeth, in her 
 proudest mood, never came up to. Ser- 
 vant ! Hast noted her look and move, and 
 speak with that unrivalled dignity she pos- 
 sesseth, and talk so idly ? 'Slife, thy brains 
 are addled." 
 
 The gallant looked all humbleness. He 
 knew it would be somewhat unprofitable to 
 him to differ in opinion with his employer 
 on such a matter ; so he made no more ado 
 than to express his entire disbelief of the 
 story he had been told, and avow he had ne- 
 ver entertained it from the first. 
 
 " I must say this plot seemeth to me a 
 famous good one for the purpose," observed 
 the other, as he was making for the door. — 
 " But, mark me, if that knave of thine lay 
 but his sacrilegious finger on her, I'll cut 
 him to shreds !" 
 
 " Be assured, my lord, everything shall 
 be done according to your noble wishes," 
 
 replied his associate. Soon afterwards botfc 
 mounted their horses at the door, the noble 
 then started off in one direction, and the 
 other, accompanied by the same ill-looking 
 fellow, that had dealt William Shakspeare 
 so fierce a blow in the park, at Charlcote, 
 took a different road. These two rode to- 
 wards Sir Thomas Lucy's house in deep and 
 earnest converse all the way ; the former 
 ever anon breaking off his discourse by 
 muttering the words " fellow," and " so my 
 brains are addled!" in a manner which 
 showed he had taken huge offence at those 
 expressions. In another hour they were 
 seated with the justice in his favorite cham- 
 ber, making famous cheer of his good ale ; 
 the gallant appearing to be a marvellous 
 great person ; and his fellow dressed in a 
 falconer's suit of green, played the^part of 
 the honest, humble serving man, that his 
 master, out of regard for his exceeding me- 
 rit, sought to make happy. He spoke sel- 
 dom, and then only to praise his good mas- 
 ter, or say some respectful speech to hia 
 worship the justice. However, his compa- 
 nions left him but little opportunity for much 
 talking, had he been so inclined ; for what 
 with his master's marvellous accounts of his 
 influence at court, and the many noble per- 
 sons he was held in such esteem of, they 
 could refuse him nothing, and Sir Thomas's 
 still more incredible accounts at his familiar 
 acquaintance with these notable person- 
 ages, in their youth, and the famous tricks 
 he and they had played together, there was 
 but little room for a third party to bring in 
 a word. 
 
 We must, however, leave these worthies 
 for the present, and accompany the courte- 
 ous reader to another chamber, wherein the 
 gentle Mabel was receiving a grave and 
 somewhat severe lecture from Dame Lucy. 
 The poor foundling looked pale and sad. — 
 She was striving to resign herself to the 
 humility of her fortunes, but there was 
 something in her nature that would not be 
 content. 
 
 "I beseech you, sweet mistress, let me 
 hear no more of the marriage," said she at 
 last, in a manner pitiful enough to have 
 moved any person. M This man I know to 
 be one of those who assisted to carry me off, 
 and the other his master was the mainspring 
 of the whole villainy." 
 
 " Did any ever hear of such presump- 
 tion !" exclaimed the old dame, in a famous 
 astonishment. " Doth not Sir Thomas de- 
 clare that the gentleman hath been his good 
 friend nigh upon this twenty year, and tha 
 the other, his falconer, he believes to be a* 
 honest a man as ever broke bread. Dost 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 165 
 
 pretend to Know more than the justice ? I 
 marvel a: thy horrible impudency !" 
 
 11 1 cannot be mistaken, for they have 
 given me but too good cause to hold them 
 nrmly in my remembrance," added the poor 
 foundling. 
 
 " Here's ingratitude !" cried her ancient 
 companion, seeming to be getting a little 
 out of temper ! " Here's obstinacy ! Here's 
 disobedience, and undutifulness to thy pro- 
 per advisers. Art not ashamed to be setting 
 thyself in opposition to thy betters, who have 
 clothed thee, and fed thee, and given thee 
 lodging, and made of thee a Christian ? — 
 By my troth, I would not have believed such 
 hugevbaseness was in the whole world." 
 
 "But I have no desire for marriage, an' it 
 please you. good mistress," said Mabel ; 
 " methinks I am well enough as I am." 
 
 " How dost pretend to know anything of 
 the sort," answered Dame Lucy, sharply. — 
 " Is not the justice the better judge ! Hath 
 he not said thou art ill off, and dost dare, in 
 the face of it, to say thou art well enough ? 
 But I see it plain. Thou art hankering af- 
 ter those fine fellows who met thee at Kenil- 
 worth ; and would sooner be the leman of a 
 gay gallant than the wife of an honest man. 
 But I will put a stop to thy villainy straight. 
 The justice hath declared thou art to marry, 
 and to marry thou must speedily make up 
 thy mind. I will see that thou art properly 
 wedded with all convenient speest*; and, as 
 earnest of my intentions, I will send thee 
 the honest man who is to be thy husband. — 
 Prithee, take heed thou entertain him well." 
 
 Mabel saw her mistress leave the cham- 
 ber, and sank into a seat with a mind nigh 
 paralyzed with apprehension. She had sus- 
 pected, for some time, some plot was hatch- 
 ing by which she was to suffer, and she now 
 saw its villainous shape and purpose. She 
 perceived it was planned with such extreme 
 subtlety, that it afforded scarce any chance 
 of .escape. Her thoughts were sinking into 
 a very desperate hopelessness, when the 
 door opened, and there entered the chamber, 
 with a half-respectful, half-familiar look, 
 and in an awkward, clownish manner, the 
 man that awhile since was making cheer 
 with his master, and the justice. Mabel 
 knew him at a glance, and, in a moment, 
 sprung to her feet, eyeing him with a look 
 of scorn and detestation that appeared to 
 discompose him somewhat. There was 
 scarce a bolder villain in existence, yet it 
 was evident he felt not quite at his ease be- 
 fore the flashing glances of the poor found- 
 ling. He seated himself on a chair, holding 
 his hat before him with his knees close toge- 
 ther j and presently shifted his position, and 
 
 then again changed it. Neither had spoke 
 by word of mouth ; but the looks of Mabel 
 seemed to have the searchingest language 
 fnat ever was said or written, and the villain 
 read it, understood it, and felt it. At last, 
 he commenced speaking : — " His worship 
 hath had such goodness as to " 
 
 " Wretch !" exclaimed Mabel, interrupt- 
 ing him in a deep low voice, in which utter 
 contempt seemed to breathe its most humi- 
 liating spirit ; 'and then advancing towards 
 him two or three steps in all the haughty 
 dignity of virtue, continued with an elo- 
 quence of look and gesture which exceed- 
 eth all powers of description, to address him 
 thus : — " The spawn of the toad hath a 
 name, the slough of the adder may be called 
 something ; but what art thou, monster of 
 baseness, for whom language hath no fit ti- 
 tle. Art a man ? Manhood spits at thee ! 
 Art a beast ? The most bestial thing that 
 crawls, knoweth nothing of the vile office 
 thou hast undertaken. Avaunt, thou out- 
 rage upon nature ! Away, thou shame on 
 humanity ! Go, hide thee, if hiding thou 
 canst find ; for if thou couldst crawl within 
 the deepest bowels of the earth, the earth 
 would sicken at thy touch, and cast thee up 
 — the sea would raise her gorge at thee — 
 the mountains heave at thy approach — and 
 all the elements of matter shrink from thy 
 neighborhood, as from an abomination too 
 gross to be endured '." 
 
 The man winced under this address, as if 
 every word of it had been a goad that touch- 
 ed him to the quick. His dark scowling 
 eyes glanced restlessly about, he changed 
 color several times, and looked in that pe- 
 culiar expression of indecision that betokea- 
 eth a state of mind in which a person know- 
 eth not what to do with himself, though he 
 would be glad to be anywhere but where he 
 was. 
 
 ''• What desperate demon put thee on this 
 mischief," continued Mabel in the same force 
 of language and manner. " Canst seek such 
 detestable employment and live ? Hast no 
 sense of shame ? No fear of punishment ? 
 No dread of an hereafter ? Look at what 
 thou art about to do. Hold it before thy 
 gaze unshrinkingly, if thou canst. Doth 
 not thy soul shrink in disgust at entering 
 upon such loathsomeness ? Man ! If thou 
 hast not parted with every tittle of the de- 
 cent pride of nature, spurn the outrageous 
 infamy thou wouldst thrust thyself into. — 
 Get thee to thy employer, and tell him thou 
 dost abhor such inhuman villainy, or thou 
 wilt be hunted through the world like some 
 foul fruit of monstrous practices, all nature 
 riseth to destroy from very shame." 
 
1M 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 The viLain evidently trembled, and the 
 big drops starting on his wrinkled forehead, 
 showed how deeply he was moved. 
 
 " Rememberest thou, thou hadst once a 
 mother ?" added the foundling in a deeper 
 and more subduing tone : " think of her, 
 friendless as I am. How wouldst thou re- 
 gard the man who suffered himself to be- 
 come the tool of a villainous base traitor, to 
 secure his doing her such foul wrong as 
 honesty stands aghast to contemplate? — 
 Wouldst not be ready to tear his heart from 
 his breast, and trample it in the nighest 
 dunghill, to rot with its kindred filth ? Canst 
 behold this vileness in another and not see 
 it in thyself? Thou art the tool for com- 
 passing this mischief, and I the guiltless ob- 
 ject at which 'tis aimed. If I have done 
 thee any wrong I will do all possible repara- 
 tion. If I have given thee any offence, I 
 will endure any corresponding punishment. 
 I charge thee say in what I have injured thee, 
 that thou shouldst pursue me with so unna- 
 tural a hatred !" 
 
 " Nay, sweet mistress, I have never re- 
 ceived ill at your hands," replied the man 
 with a faltering voice, and a manner tho- 
 roughly ashamed. " And if I in any way 
 assist in doing of you an injury, may I be 
 hanged on the highest gibbet that can be 
 found." So saying, he hurried out of the 
 chamber so completely chap-fallen as no 
 villain had ever been before. He immedi- 
 ately sought his master, and found him alone. 
 
 " Ask of me to stab, to poison, or to rob, 
 and I care not to refuse," exclaimed he. 
 " But if I am caught within looking or talk- 
 ing distance of that wench again, I will eat 
 myself by handfuls. 'Slight I her words 
 and glances have so scourged me, I would 
 sooner have took the whipping-post the long- 
 est day o' the year, than have endured a 
 tithe of* such punishment." 
 
 " Why, thou ape, thou beast, thou fool, 
 thou pestilent knave and coward I what dost 
 mean by this ?" cried his master in as great 
 rage as astonishment. " Wouldst spoil the 
 goodliest plot that ever was devised ; and 
 mar the making of our fortunes when we 
 are sure of success ?" 
 
 " Truly, I care not if I do," said the man 
 doggedly. " But I will be no mean for the 
 doing of her any mischief. I will assist 
 thee in any decent villainy, but if ever I 
 meddle with her again, I'll forswear living." 
 
 It was in vain that the other tried by 
 promises and then by threats to turn his 
 companion's resolution ; and the result was, 
 Mabel was left at peace till some more wil- 
 ling agent could be found. 
 
 fn the meanwhile the passion of the youth- 
 
 ful Shakspeare for the yeoman's blooming 
 daughter continued to develope itself with 
 increased fervor, despite of the usurer's 
 warning ; and John Hathaway with his own 
 notions of the matter, at last on one of his 
 usual evening visits, bluntly asked him how 
 he should like his fair mistress for a wife ; 
 whereupon, as might be expected, the young 
 lover answered nought in this world would 
 make him so happy. Then the father grave- 
 ly inquired into his means of supporting a 
 wife, at which his companion looked the 
 gravest of the two, and acknowledged that 
 all he had was the wage he received from 
 Master Catchpole, which scarce sufficed to 
 keep him in shoe leather ; and that the yeo- 
 man looked monstrous concerned, and be- 
 gan to preach a notable fine homily on the 
 necessity of marrying with sufficient provi- 
 sion, to all of which the young poet had not 
 a word of reply ; but sat in a very desperate 
 unhappiness, fully convinced every hope of 
 gaining his dear mistress was at an end. 
 
 " I tell thee what it is, friend Will," said 
 John Hathaway, after regarding his compan- 
 ion's doleful visage till he found he could no 
 longer disguise the sly pleasure he was him- 
 self enjoying all the time, " Keep thy heart 
 above thy girdle, I prithee. I and thy hon- 
 est father settled the matter yester-eve, over 
 a full tankard. Thou shalt be married at 
 Lammas, and shalt lack nothing for thy par- 
 ticular comfort I can procure thee. A fair 
 good night to thee, son Will." Before the 
 delighted lover could recover from his ex- 
 ceeding astonishment at this welcome intel- 
 ligence, his intended father-in-law, mayhap 
 the most pleased of the two, had made his 
 way to his bed-chamber. 
 
 Every hour of the intervening time went 
 joyfully with the youthful Shakspeare. — 
 Even the musty parchments and dull law 
 writings took a pleasant countenance at this 
 period, and he labored so diligently and so 
 much to the satisfaction of his master, with 
 whom he had become in famous esteem for 
 his cleverness at his duties, that he hearing 
 of his coming marriage, promised him 
 week's holidays previous to his wedding-day 
 that he might the better employ himself in 
 the necessary preparations, and a week after 
 his nuptials, that he might have sufficient 
 space to enjoy himself to his heart's content. 
 
 But the little lawyer was a marvellous 
 shrewd person. He suspected did he not 
 get rid of his clerk at such a time, he would 
 be marring of everything he put his hand 
 to by thinking of other matters. 
 
 The week previous to the wedding had 
 arrived, and the young lover was in such 
 state of happy expectation as lovers at such 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 157 
 
 ft time only can. know. His cheerful, free 
 humor had made him an especial favorite of 
 the young men of his own age, who could 
 claim with him any sort of acquaintance, 
 and now more than ever his heart was open 
 to every appearance of sociality. His ap- 
 proaching marriage became known over the 
 town, and this led many to ask him to par- 
 take with him a friendly draught, that they 
 might wish him all manner of happiness, the 
 which he could not without an unbecoming 
 discourtesy refuse, consequently, when he 
 was not in company with his dear mistress, 
 of whom by reason of her being in almost 
 constant occupation preparing for this great 
 festival of her life, he saw only for a brief 
 space each day, he was engaged in social 
 revelling with his friends. Perchance some 
 of these, being of an idle turn, and of some- 
 what unbridled inclinations, were not the 
 very properest companions he should have 
 chosen, but he knew of nought to their par- 
 ticular disadvantages, and their exceeding 
 friendliness towards him, in his present hu- 
 mor, made him readily embrace any frolic 
 they wished *him to share in. They pro- 
 posed that to make the wedding feast the 
 more perfect, they should go together over 
 night and kill a deer, and as this was re- 
 garded by persons of his condition at that 
 period as a mere customary youthful frolic, 
 he readily promised to be of the party. 
 
 It chanced to happen, that afternoon, as 
 they were standing together at the inn door, 
 who should come by but Oliver Dumps, the 
 constable, having as his prisoners no less 
 important personages than Sir Nathaniel, 
 the curate, and Stripes, the scholmaster. — 
 The cause of which was, that these two had 
 become such inveterate offenders in the way 
 of drunkenness, and Oliver was so desirous 
 of showing himself the Queen's proper offi- 
 cer, that he had at last come to the deter- 
 mination of putting them both in the stocks ; 
 and to the stocks, which lay convenient to 
 the inn, in the market-place, the constable 
 was bringing them, making the dolefulest 
 lamentation, bytho way, of the horrid wick- 
 edness of the world that had forced him to 
 so exercise his authority. It was amusing 
 enough of all conscience to the throng of 
 children and idlers that so novel an incident 
 had brought together, to note the manner in 
 which the two offenders bore themselves as 
 they were carried along. The schoolmaster 
 hung his head as if he felt a little ashamed 
 of his situation, but the curate assumed an 
 air of dignity so monstrously ridiculous, none 
 could look on it in any seriousness. Pre- 
 sently the board was opened, their legs 
 placed in the holes, and having had it fas- 
 
 tened down on them with a strong padlock, 
 they were left to their own reflections. 
 
 Sir Nathaniel, seated on a low stool, with 
 his fat legs stuck fast in the board, seemed 
 not at all comfortable ; and Stripes, hanging 
 of his head, with his thin shanks dangling 
 through the holes, looked amazing sheepish. 
 The curate glanced feelingly at the school- 
 master, and the schoolmaster turned a simi- 
 lar look of suffering at the curate. 
 
 " Hard lying, — ey, Ticklebreech ?" ex- 
 claimed Sir Nathaniel, in a low voice. 
 
 " Monstrous !" replied Stripes, in as sad a 
 tone as ever was heard. It was evident the 
 curate was not well pleased with his seat, 
 for he turned on one side and then on the 
 other, and then supported himself with his 
 hands behind, with a visage as woeful as 
 drunken man ever wore. 
 
 " I would these pestilent stocks had been 
 a thousand miles away, and be hanged to 
 'em !" cried the uncomfortable Sir Nathani- 
 el, with an earnestness that bespoke his sin- 
 cerity. 
 
 " I'faith so would I, an' it please your 
 reverence !" answered the pedagogue, with 
 more than ordinary fervor. As the minutes 
 passed, neither appeared to grow a whit 
 more satisfied with his situation. The crim- 
 son face of the one every moment took a 
 deeper hue, and the lantnorn jaws of the 
 other assumed an increasing elongation. 
 
 " Too much drinkin's a villainous bad 
 thing, Pedagogue !" said the curate, with a 
 notable emphasis that showed how convinc- 
 ed he was of the truth of his assertion. 
 
 " Horrible !" replied Stripes, evidently in a 
 like assurance. 
 
 " 1 marvel a man should be so huge an 
 ass as to be ever addling his brains with 
 abominable filthy liquor," continued his 
 companion. " For mine own part, I would 
 such vile stuff was put clean out o' the land. 
 I hate it. But 'tis all the fault of those base, 
 thorough-going rogues of tapsters, who se- 
 duce one's innocence ; and then, when thp 
 draughts have become in any number 
 straightway take to asking for paymert 
 What infamous villainy!" 
 
 " Marvellous, o' my word !" exclaimed tb< 
 other. 
 
 " Well, an' they catch me drinking anj 
 more of their abominable potations, I'll turt 
 hermit," observed Sir Nathaniel, in a greatei 
 earnestness. " 'Sprecious ! there is no ho- 
 nesty in swallowing anything of the sort. — 
 Ale is against all Christian doctrine, and 
 wine is scarce fit for a Jew. Not a drop 
 of such deceitful base wash shall pollute my 
 throat. Wilt taste any more on't, Tickle- 
 breech ?" 
 
Ifi8 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 " Never ! an' it please your reverence," 
 cried the schoolmaster monstrous determin- 
 edly. The whole of this little scene of re- 
 formation had been heard and witnessed by 
 the youthful Shakspeare and his companions, 
 to theirexceeding amusement ; and soon af- 
 *er, one of the former came before the topers, 
 carrying of an ale-can frothing over at the 
 top. 
 
 " Thinking thou cannot help being terri- 
 athirst sitting there so uncomfortably, I have 
 brought thee a draught of right good liquor," 
 said he, very carefully laying down the can 
 within a short distance of them, and then re- 
 turning to his companions. 
 
 " I thank thee, boy — I thank thee ; my 
 tongue cleaveth to my month, I am so dry," 
 replied the curate, eagerly stretching out his 
 arm towards the vessel ; but it was beyond 
 his reach : thereupon he earnestly moved his 
 companion to bring it him ; and Stripes, ma- 
 nifestly no les« eagerly, stretched out his 
 whole length of limb, but could only get with- 
 in an inch of it. 
 
 "Now, Pedagogus !" cried his companion 
 pushing the other with all his might over 
 the stocks, " prithee, send thy hand a little 
 farther. Stretch away, Ticklebreech ! Thou 
 hast it within a hair's breadth ; now, give it 
 a fair grasp and 'tis ours." But it was all 
 labor in vain ; ' Stripes stretched, and Sir 
 Nathaniel pushed with equal desire ; but all 
 their united exertions only succeeded in 
 bringing the schoolmaster's fingers to touch 
 the tantalizing ale-can ; and, at last, Stripes 
 roared out he could endure no more squeez- 
 ing, for his body was pressed against the 
 edge of the board with a force that threat- 
 ened to cut him in two. Whilst both were 
 lamenting the hardness of their fortune, up 
 came another of the young men, and pushed 
 the can a little nearer and went his way.-— 
 The schoolmaster in a moment had it in his 
 careful hold, but the other greedily snatched 
 it out of his hand, claiming the first draught 
 as A}0 to his superiority, and quickly raised 
 it to his lips. He had not swallowed more 
 than a mouthful or two when he dashed 
 down the can, spluttered out what he was 
 swallowing, and made one of the most dis- 
 satisfied countenances ever seen, to the ex- 
 ceeding astonishment of his companion and 
 the infinite delight of the spectators. The 
 can, instead of " right good liquor," con- 
 tained nothing better than a mess of soap- 
 suds, fetched by the merry knave who of- 
 fered it, from a tub in which the maids of 
 the inn were washing the household linen. 
 
 Whilst the enraged curate was making of 
 all manner of strange, forbidding grimaces, 
 and abusing those whc had put so unpalata- 
 
 ble a jest on him in most outrageous chol- 
 eric terms, there rode up to him a very se- 
 date old gentleman, with others in his com- 
 pany, who regarded Sir Nathaniel and his 
 companion with a singular severe scrutiny. 
 In consequence of continued complaints made 
 by divers of the worthy burgesses of Strat- 
 ford, concerning of the unsemely behavior 
 of their parson and schoolmaster, the bishop 
 of that diocese had determined to look into 
 their conduct, and had arrived in the town, 
 with his retinue, where, after inquiring for 
 the curate, he had been directed to the stocks. 
 The result of this visit was both Sir Na- 
 thaniel and Stripes were -a very short time 
 after dismissed from their offices, and driven 
 out of the place they had so long disgraced 
 by their presence. 
 
 The moon was shining clearly in the starry 
 sky, when William Shakspeare, armed with 
 John Hathaway's gun, and accompanied 
 by three or four of his associates, to 
 help to carry the game, crept cautiously 
 through the shrubberies that skirted the 
 park, where he knew deer in plenty were 
 to be found. Hitherto all his shooting had 
 been directed against small birds and coneys, 
 but now he looked for nobler spoil. Having 
 made a long circuit to avoid being noticed, 
 he came to a grove of thick trees — his com- 
 panions keeping a little behind him — where, 
 after he had advanced stealthily along for 
 about a hundred yards, he beheld a goodly 
 company of fallow deer,, some lying, some 
 standing, and most of them cropping the 
 herbage at the edge of the grove, where the 
 open pasture sweeps up to the trees. Tak- 
 ing the wind in his face, the young deer- 
 stealer crept from tree to tree, pausing 
 behind each to mark if the game was dis- 
 turbed, then proceeding noiselessly in the 
 same direction. He never remembered hav- 
 ing felt such excitement — he could scarce 
 breathe, he was so moved. He had singled 
 out the tallest buck of the herd, that stood 
 like a sentinel, a little nigher to him than 
 the rest, seeming to sniff the air, and stamp- 
 ing with his foot as if he suspected some 
 danger, and knew not whence it was com- 
 ing. William Shakspeare crouched behind 
 the trunk of a neighboring tree, as still as a 
 stone, afraid that the very beating of his 
 heart would betray him. His companions 
 laid themselves down in the grass as soon 
 as they caught sight of the deer. He peeped 
 from behind his hiding place, and beheld the 
 buck quietly cropping the herbage with his 
 back towards him. He then looked at his 
 gun, and saw everything was as it should 
 be. His great anxiety now was to reach an 
 old decayed stump — the ruin of what had 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 159 
 
 OUee been the finest of the whole grove — 
 which lay between him and his game. He 
 issued from his hiding place as if his life 
 depended on the quietness of his footsteps, 
 and to his wondrous satisfaction succeeded 
 in gaining the desired place without being 
 discovered. Yet it was manifest the buck 
 was in some way alarmed, for the young 
 deer stealer had scarce concealed himself 
 when he turned sharply round, looking now 
 in this direction and now in that, and stamp- 
 ing with more violence than before. The 
 stump was completely open from the direc- 
 tion in which the youthful Shakspeare ap- 
 proached it ; and inside were seats all round, 
 for it was so large it would accommodate 
 many ; just under the bench a hole had been 
 gnawed or broken away, and to this he cau- 
 tiously raised his head as he lay his full 
 length on the ground ; then lifted he the 
 barrel of his gun, and as the deer was glan- 
 cing suspiciously in the direction of his 
 GOBcealment, he took a fair aim at his open 
 breast and fired. The whole herd disap- 
 peared in a moment. 
 
 "Bravo, Will!" cried one of his compan- 
 ions, hastily running up to the spot, " thou 
 has killed the delicatest bit of venison I have 
 seen this many a day." 
 
 Sure enough, the buck lay at a little dis- 
 tance from where he stood awhile since, 
 shot through the heart ; overjoyed at their 
 success, they bound his four legs together, 
 intending to carry him away on a long thick 
 staff they had brought with them. 
 
 " Run ! Will, run ! Here be the keep- 
 ers !" all at once shouted another of them ; 
 and on the instant, as if they had wings to 
 their legs, every one ran in different direc- 
 tions. The young Shakspeare caught up 
 his gun to follow their example, without loss 
 of time, but he found himself in the grasp of 
 two stout fellows, with whom he soon saw 
 it was useless struggling. These were the 
 two sons of Sampson, the gamekeeper, who 
 with their father, had been watching from 
 behind the treds the whole scene ; and not 
 caring to pursue the others, they pounced 
 upon the unlucky deer-stealer in the very 
 act of committing his offence. Sampson 
 carried the slain deer and the gun, and his 
 eons bore their prisoner to the lodge at 
 Daisy Hill. They abused him somewhat at 
 first, but he managed to gain on their good 
 will as they proceeded ; and when they arri- 
 ved at the place where they intended confin- 
 ing him till they could take him before the 
 justice at a proper hour in the morning, the 
 father ordered a tankard of ale to refresh 
 himself withal. 
 
 Who should bring it in but his fair ac- 
 
 quaintance, Kate, the gamekeeper's pretty 
 neice, whom he had met many times since 
 he first had sight of her when she waited on 
 him at Sir Thomas Lucy's. She was fa- 
 mously surprised I doubt not, at beholding 
 him there, and more so when she learned 
 what occasion brought him ; but she had the 
 wit not so much as to recognize him before 
 her uncle and cousins. As for the culprit, 
 as he believed his punishment would be but 
 trifling, the offence was generally considered 
 so slight, he took the matter very pleasantly, 
 and so amused his captors by his merry 
 jests and his excellent famous singing, that 
 they ordered j-ug after jug of ale, and sung 
 their songs and made their jests, and swore 
 he was the drollest knave they ever came 
 anigh. Each of these men drank without 
 stint, and Kate seemed to take care they 
 should have as much as they could fancy; 
 but their prisoner sipped sparingly, and 
 the result was, in two or three hours after 
 his capture, Sampson and his two sons were 
 snoring in their chairs, and their prisoner 
 was conveyed out of the chamber by his 
 kind confederate. 
 
 I doubt though the would have shown 
 him any such good service had she known 
 he was to be married that very day, for she 
 gave him no lack of signs she was more than 
 ordinary fond of him. What passed between 
 them the few minutes she detained him in 
 the kitchen, hath never been correctly ascer- 
 tained, therefore I cannot describe it to the 
 courteous reader ; but at the last moment 
 of it she helped him to put the slain deer, 
 there lying, to hang by his gun, over his 
 shoulder'; then she opened the door for him 
 — and then he made the best of his way 
 homewards. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 Your master is to be married to-day ? 
 Else all this rosemary is lost. 
 
 Middleton. 
 Come strew apace. Lord ! shall I never live 
 To walke to church on flowers ? O' tis fine 
 To see a bride trip it to church so lightly, 
 As if her new choppines would scorn to brush 
 A silly flower. 
 
 Barry. 
 
 " O' my Christian conscience, the mon- 
 strousness of this world passeth belief!" 
 exclaimed Oliver Dumps, in his miseraDieBt 
 manner, as he flung himself into a seat in 
 the chimney corner of the widow Pippin'i 
 comfortable kitchen — a place he seemed 
 
166 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 more partial to than any other in all Strat- ' 
 ford. 
 
 " Why, what's i' the wind now, master 
 constable ?" inquired the laughing widow, 
 as she brought her visitor his customary 
 tankard, dressed more gaily than she had 
 been seen for many years. 
 
 The melancholy Dumps looked up to her 
 jolly features and sighed heavily ; took a 
 draught of the tankard and sighed again. 
 'Tis a villainous world, that's the truth on't," 
 said he shaking his head very woefully. 
 
 " Villainous fiddlestick !" replied his 
 merry companion. " By my fackings, the 
 world be a right pleasant world, and is as 
 full of delectable jests as world can be." 
 
 " Only think of young Will Shakspeare 
 taking to deer stealing," observed the con- 
 stable, gravely. 
 
 '*Who ? Will Shakspeare!" cried the 
 widow, with a look of exceeding astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 " TaKen oy tne keepers in the very act," 
 replied Oliver Dumps. " Conveyed by them 
 to the lodge at Daisy Hill, for the night. 
 Made his escape in a most unaccountable 
 manner, carrying off the deer he had slain, 
 and the gun he had done it with. Sir 
 Thomas Lucy had issued a warrant for his 
 apprehension, I have it to execute on him 
 without delay ; and hearing he is at John 
 Hathaway 's cottage, about to be married, 
 am going there to carry him before his 
 worship " 
 
 " Tilly vally ! thou art jesting, master 
 constable," exclaimed the other. " Will 
 Shakspeare is not like to do anything of the 
 sort, I will be bound for it." 
 
 The queen's proper officer looked into his 
 pouch, took out a folded piece of paper, and 
 gave into her hands. 
 
 " That's the warrant," said he. 
 
 " An honest neighbor, that is now in my 
 parlor, shall read it to me, seeing I cannot 
 read a word of it myself," answered the 
 widow Pippins ; " and as I am going to 
 John Hathaway's as soon as I have got on 
 my hat and muffler, if thou wilt wait a brief 
 while, we will walk together." The con- 
 stable promised to wait any reasonable time, 
 for in truth he was well pleased to have her 
 company, he, as many shrewdly imagined, 
 having long been seeking to be her sixth 
 hueband ; and thereupon the widow went to 
 get the warrant explained to her. 
 
 A short time before this took place, a pro- 
 cession moved from the yeoman's cottage, 
 in the direction of the church which, me- 
 thinks, deserveth here to be set down. First 
 rode an old churl, blowing of such a peal on 
 hie bagpipes as if he was determined to 
 
 expend his wind as quickly as he could, his 
 long pipes and his cap decked with rosemary 
 — then followed a merry company of lusty 
 lads and bold bachelors of the neighborhood, 
 two and two, in their holiday jerkins, every 
 one clean trussed, with a blue buckram 
 bride lace upon a branch of rosemary, upon 
 his left arm, on horses of all sorts and col- 
 ors ; William Shakspeare, the bridegroom, 
 riding at their head in a new suit of frolic 
 green, gaily decked with ribbons, with a 
 branch of rosemary at his cap, and a true 
 love posey at his breast ; and on each side 
 rode a bridesman, in tawney worsted jackets, 
 straw hats on their heads with a steeple 
 crown, and harvest gloves on their hands, 
 similarly appointed with ribbons, rosemary, 
 and posies. All the way he went, the bride- 
 groom pulled off his cap courteously to the 
 spectators, who, seeing so gallant a youth, 
 could not help loudly greeting him with their 
 good wishes. 
 
 Then came a company of morris-dancers 
 on foot, jingling it very prettily, with a most 
 moving accompaniment of pipe and tabor. 
 After them, six fair maidens in fair white 
 court-pies and orange tawney kirtles, gar- 
 landed with wreaths of wheat, finely gilded, 
 on their heads, and casting of flowers, by 
 handfuls, out of small wicker baskets, gaily 
 decked for the occasion. Then came the 
 two bridemaids, most daintily tired, carrying 
 before them each a large spice cake, fol- 
 lowed by the bride's brother, a fair boy, 
 carrying himself very bravely, choicely ap- 
 parelled, bearing the parcel-gilt bride-cup, 
 full of sweet ippocras, with a goodly branch 
 of rosemary gilded and hung about with 
 ribbons of all colors streaming in the wind ; 
 next came Anne Hathaway, the blushing 
 blooming bride — her apparelling of appro- 
 priate whiteness, rarely garnished with rib- 
 bons and flowers, her hair curiously combed 
 and plaited, and crowned with a garland of 
 white roses — answering very gracefully the 
 hearty salutations of her neighbors. On 
 each side of her walked a fair boy, with 
 bride laces and rosemary tied about his 
 silken sleeves. After these, ' several musi- 
 cians, with flutes, sackbuts, and other deli- 
 cate instruments, made excellent music. 
 Then rode the father of the bride, between 
 the father and mother of the bridegroom, in 
 their holiday garments, with no lack of 
 proper garnishing ; and, lastly, came the 
 friends invited to the bride-ale, also wearing 
 of their best suits, decorated with bride laces 
 and DOsemary. 
 
 In this order they reached the church at 
 a slow pace, where the priest soon did hia 
 office for them ; the bride-cup was then 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 161 
 
 emptied by the company to the health and 
 happiness of the new-married folks ; and 
 they returned in much the same fashion as 
 they went, save that the bride rode on a pil- 
 lion behind the bridegroom. John Hatha- 
 way's dwelling would scarce hold the guests; 
 but they managed to accommodate them- 
 selves pretty well, for evtry room was thrown 
 open, rilled with a most bountiful provision 
 of things for convenience and honest cheer, 
 beside which there lay the orchard, the pad- 
 dock, and the garden, for any that chose out 
 of door pastime. The revels that followed 
 exceed description — all sorts of games were 
 going on in every direction — here a blind 
 harper singing of ballads to a well-pleased 
 audience, of all ages — there sundry young 
 people, sitting in a circle with one in the 
 midst, playing at hunt the slipper — another 
 set at barley break — a third at a dance — the 
 old, the young, the middle-aged, maidens 
 and bachelors, husbands, wives, widows, 
 and widowers, striving all they could to enjoy 
 the pleasant humor of the hour. 
 
 Among the company were many of the 
 courteous reader's old acquaintances ; for 
 in the principal chamber were Master Al- 
 derman Malmsey, and his neighbor Master 
 Alderman Dowlas, like marvellous proper 
 husbands as they were, attending on their 
 still comely good-humored wives — there was 
 the widow Pippins, with a famous laughing 
 countenance, that seemed to savor of a jest 
 — there was honest John Shakspeare and 
 his matronly sweet wife, looking such satis- 
 faction as 'tis impossible to describe — there 
 was the manly yeoman, going about with 
 his sly pleasantry, more manifest than ever, 
 as he looked to see all were enjoying them- 
 selves to their heart's content — there was 
 the blooming bride, and there the gallant 
 bridegroom, in exquisite content with them- 
 selves and the whole world ; and with these 
 were also a many others, whose names I 
 have forgotten. Still one more requireth 
 my notice, and he was no other than Oliver 
 Dumps, who sat in a corner, looking mon- 
 strous miserable, though each of the prettiest 
 women was ever coming up to him with all 
 manner of d 'licacies, pressing him to partake 
 of them, and smiling on him as she smiled 
 on no one else in the room. But the more 
 good cheer he made the more miserable he 
 looked. In fact he was not at all at his 
 ease. He wished to prove himself the 
 queen's proper officer, without favor of any 
 person, and yet he liked not interrupting the 
 mirth of so bountiful a company. 
 
 It appeared as if there was some conspi- 
 racy among the women — doubtless set on 
 by the merry widow who s«emed very busy 
 
 amongst them, whispering, laughing, and 
 pointing to the constable — for they would 
 not allow him to remain by himself a mo- 
 ment, and kept insisting so winningly on his 
 drinking the delicious draughts they brought, 
 that he found he could do nothing, save, with 
 a pitiful sighing, the performing of their 
 requests. At last, with a sudden great effort, 
 he broke from a circle of them and gravely 
 walked up to the bridegroom. To the mar- 
 vel of the greater number of the guests, he 
 claimed William Shakspeare as his prisoner, 
 and commanded him to accompany him on 
 the instant to his worship the justice. 
 
 " Eh ! what dost say ?" exclaimed John 
 Hathaway, advancing hurriedly, with divers 
 others, there present, to know the meaning 
 of such strange behavior. 
 
 " Deer stealing !" hiccuped the constable, 
 evidently with his senses somewhat confused 
 by the many draughts of strong wine he had 
 been forced to swallow, yet holding himself 
 up with what he considered to be the true 
 dignity of the queen's proper officer. 
 
 " Nay, it cannot be, worthy Master 
 Dumps," said Mistress Malmsey, coaxingly, 
 on one side of him. 
 
 " 'Tis a mistake, depend on't, sweet sir," 
 added Mistress Dowlas, in an equally insin- 
 uating manner. 
 
 "Don't believe any thing of the sort, 
 good Oliver," said one of the buxom bride- 
 maids, pulling him affectionately by the arm. 
 
 " 'Tis impossible so sensible a person as 
 you are can give ear to so incredible a story," 
 said another, taking a like pretty liberty with 
 his other elbow. Oliver Dumps heard all 
 these seducing expressions, and glanced from 
 one to the other of the bewitching aspects 
 of the speakers, with a monstrous struggling 
 in his breast, and then with a becoming 
 gravity, as he thought, took a paper from his 
 pouch. 
 
 " Here's the warrant," answered he. John 
 Hathaway received the paper from him, un- 
 folded it, and commenced, in an exceeding 
 droll manner, reading a ballad there printed, 
 which was famous popular at the time, be- 
 ginning — 
 
 " Alas, my love ! you do me wrong, 
 
 To cast me off discourteously ; 
 And I have loved you so long, 
 Delighting in your company. 
 
 Greensleeves was all my joy, 
 Greensleeves was my delight, 
 Greensleeves was my hart of gold, 
 And who but Lady Greensleeves V 
 
 Oliver Dumps looked quite confounded, 
 for he saw the jest that the merry widow 
 had played upon him. The laughing %ad 
 
162 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 joking of those around him he took as pleas- 
 antly as ht could, which in sooth was rather 
 of a miserable sort — for he liked not confess- 
 ing how he had been tricked ; and the end 
 of it was, the queen's proper officer allowed 
 himself to join in the festivity of the day 
 as regardless of warrants and justices, as 
 though he intended to play the constable no 
 more. However, the affair of the deer steal- 
 ing went not off so quietly. Sir Thomas 
 Lucy when he heard of it was in a terrible 
 rage, and when he found the offender was 
 not brought before him, he waxed more 
 wroth than before. Other warrants were 
 issued, and other constables employed, and 
 the next morning the young deer-stealer 
 was dragged into the justice-room, followed 
 by such of his friends who had gained know- 
 ledge of his capture. The news, however, 
 soon spread, and occasioned a notable com- 
 motion. 
 
 Nothing could exceed the astonishment of 
 Jemmy Catchpole when he beheld his clerk 
 brought before him in custody on such a 
 charge ; but being a shrewd man he did not 
 so much as recognize him. The justice 
 entered into the charge with much the same 
 formalities as had been exhibited by him and 
 his attendants on a previous occasion — 
 abusing the prisoner with great bitterness, 
 and allowing of none to say a word in his 
 defence. The evidence of the keepers proved 
 the offence beyond all contradiction, and 
 when Sir Thomas demanded of the offender 
 to give up the names of all those who were 
 participating with him in the offence, and 
 the latter would not tell the name of so 
 much as one person, the, justice broke out in 
 such a passion, there never was the like. 
 This the prisoner endured with a composure 
 which exasperated the other the more, as it 
 seemed so like holding him in contempt, and 
 setting his authority at nought. He threat- 
 ened him with the pillory, the whipping-post, 
 and even the gibbet, but still William Shaks- 
 peare was not to be got to betray his com- 
 panions. He smiled at the threats, and, 
 with a fearless aspect, confessed he alone 
 had committed the offence, and that he was 
 ready to receive the punishment. 
 
 The constables, keepers, and serving-men, 
 looked awe-struck at what they considered 
 to be the prisoner's horrible impudency, in 
 so behaving before so great a man as his 
 worship ; and the poor justice seemed scarce 
 in his right senses, he spoke so fast, and in 
 so tearing a passion — at last, swearing it 
 was a pity he could not hang so abominable 
 a villain, he got frsm the little lawyer the 
 fullest punishment, provided by the statute 
 of Elizabeth for such offences, which was 
 
 the infliction of a fine, treble the value of 
 the venison, an imprisonment for three 
 months in the county gaol, and security for 
 good behavior, for seven years ; to the whicli 
 he presently sentenced the offender. The 
 youthful Shakspeare cared only for the im- 
 prisoning part of his sentence, as he felt it 
 hard to be separated from his wife, and he 
 scarce married to her ; but he could not 
 allow himself to say anything in mitigation 
 of punishment, although his father and 
 father-in-law did so for him ; and the lattei 
 offered to pay the fine, and the two aldermen, 
 his father's old friends, came forward as his 
 security : nevertheless, his worship, so far 
 from according with what was required, 
 abused the parties heartily for saying ought 
 of the matter, and bade them out of his door 
 straight, or they should all to prison to- 
 gether. 
 
 There were few presons who heard of the 
 sentence, but were famously indignant a 
 mere youthful frolick should meet with such 
 heavy punishment, and many of the prison- 
 er's companions swore he should never to 
 prison if they could prevent it. Never had 
 there been such a ferment in Stratford be- 
 fore. All abused Sir Thomas Lucy for his 
 unwarrantable behavior, and unreasonable 
 severity, and both men and women took it as 
 monstrous so young a couple should be thrust 
 asunder for so trifling a cause. For all this, 
 the youthful Shakspeare, gyved like a felon, 
 and guarded by two constables, was sent off 
 to Warwick jail. No one seemed in any 
 way surprised when intelligence was bruit- 
 ed abroad that they had scarce got a mile 
 from Charlcote, when the constables were 
 set upon and soundly cudgelled, and the 
 prisoner carried off in triumph, by sundry 
 unknown persons with blackened faces. 
 Certes, such was the case. The young 
 husband had been rescued by divers of his 
 companions, relieved of his fetters, and 
 brought back to his distressed wife. 
 
 It is not to be expected that a young man 
 of any spirit would sit down and tamely 
 suffer the insults that had been heaped upon 
 him by this shallow-pated justice. William 
 Shakspeare had committed the offence it is 
 true. He never denied it, and was ready to 
 endure any fitting punishment; but the 
 abuse and the gyves were the gratuitous 
 insolence of power, desirous of insulting the 
 weak ; and, smarting under a sense of 
 wrong, the young poet penned a bitter ballad 
 against the old knight, and a mad-cap com- 
 panion fixed it on the justice's park gates 
 Sir Thomas was one of the first that spiec. 
 it ; and the excessive rage it put him into, 
 was as ludicrous a thing as can be con* 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 163 
 
 Mived. He grew pale and red in a breath 
 —stormed till he was hoarse, and called 
 about him his little army of constables, 
 game-keepers, and serving-men, questioned 
 them as to who had dared to commit so un- 
 paralleled an indignity, and abused the hor- 
 ror-struck varlets all round because none 
 could give him the slightest information on 
 the subject. This ballad which among other 
 offensive things, bore a burthen to it with a 
 play upon his name, by no means the deli- 
 catest piece of jesting in the world, coming 
 so quickly after the drubbing of his officers, 
 to one of so tender a skin in such matters, 
 seemed like enough to throw him into a 
 fever. 
 
 His dignity, however, was fated to get 
 still harder rubs. He issued warrant after 
 warrant for the apprehension of the escaped 
 deer-stealer, in a perfect phrenzy of passion 
 to hear he was still at large ; and sent con- 
 stables with them in all directions, with strict 
 orders to carry him to prison dead or alive ; 
 but flung himself into such desperate rages 
 when he heard the fruitlessness of their 
 travail, that the poor constables cared not to 
 go near him. Oliver Dumps had received 
 a significant hint from the merry widow, 
 that if ever he laid a hand on Will Shaks- 
 peare she would have none of him for a sixth 
 husband, therefore, it cannot be in any way 
 strange he never could find the escaped 
 prisoner searched he ever so. As for the 
 other constables, one had incautiously made 
 know his errand, and boasted v at the black- 
 smith's that he would find Will Shakspeare 
 before the day was over ; and about an hour 
 afterwards the unhappy officer found himself 
 dragged through the horse-pond, with an 
 intimation when allowed to get away half 
 drowned, that if caught again under similar 
 circumstances, he would not escape without 
 hanging. This, together with the intempe- 
 rate behavior of the justice, operated with 
 wonderful effect upon the whole body, and 
 they unanimously adopted the opinion the 
 offender had left the country. 
 
 Some time after these occurrences his 
 worship gained intelligence that young 
 Shakspeare had been all the while residing 
 at the cottage of his father-in-law, and more- 
 over that he was the very infamous base 
 caitiff who had penned the bitter ballad that 
 had been stuck upon his gates. This was 
 adding fuel to the flame. The justice was 
 in such a monstrous fire of indignation that 
 he hardly knew what to set about. The un- 
 lucky constables were ordered to attend him 
 instantly, and upon these he poured out the 
 violent rage that was brimming over in him. 
 TUey declared their conviction the escaped 
 
 prisoner had gone from those parts altogether 
 — nay, one confidently asserted a brother of 
 his had seen bim in London selling oysters, 
 and another was as ready to swear he had 
 been met with by a cousin of his on a pie- 
 bald horse, within a mile or so of Oxford. 
 His worship was puzzled, and the more puz- 
 zled his worship appeared, the more confi- 
 dent did the constables become in their as- 
 sertions. At last he ordered them to accom- 
 pany him, and then started off in the midst 
 of them, on the roa^o the yeoman's cottage. 
 
 William Shakspeare was busily engaged 
 with a party of farm laborers in putting up 
 a hay-rick in his father-in-law's paddock, 
 when one of the children came running in 
 all haste to say his worship was approaching 
 the house with a great company of men — in 
 an instant he was covered up in the hay as 
 snugly as possible, and his companions, care- 
 lessly singing, continued their work lifting 
 up the new hay to the top of the rick and 
 there spreading it smooth and even. Pres- 
 ently the expected party made their appear- 
 ance. Sir Thomas, in a terrible anxiety to 
 find the culprit, and the constables quite as 
 anxious he should be found. 
 
 " Dost know anything of one William 
 Shakspeare, fellow ?" inquired the knight 
 authoritatively of a freckled-face knave lame 
 of a leg. The latter gazed with open mouth 
 for a few moments at his interrogator, and 
 then turning round to his next neighbor, 
 very gravely repeated the question — his fel- 
 low looked up very hard, and then looked 
 down very hard, and then addressed another 
 of his companions with the same question— 
 and thus it went round the whole six of them 
 with exactly the same result. His worship 
 was horribly inclined to break out into a 
 deadly passion. 
 
 " Wounds, I ha' got un !" exclaimed he of 
 the freckled face, slapping his knee very 
 sharply with his palm. " His worship no 
 doubt, wants the blind piper that lives down 
 yonder below the mill." 
 
 " I'll warrant, so he do," added another, 
 with a like gravity. 
 
 " I tell thee no ! I tell thee no !" bawled 
 out the justice, as the haymakers were 
 shouting their information into his ears, as 
 if each was striving to be heard above the 
 other ; " I want no such person. I seek 
 one William Shakspeare, a convicted dear- 
 stealer, who married John Hathaway's 
 daughter." 
 
 At this the lame one cast an exceeding 
 long face, rubbed his knuckles against his 
 eyes, and turned away very pitifully ; and 
 the others did just the same. 
 
 " What hath become of him, I say ?" cnei 
 
184 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 the knight, more imperatively, not exactly- 
 knowing what to make of these demonstra- 
 tions. 
 
 t( An' it please your worship," cried freck- 
 led face, blubbering as if his heart was a 
 breaking, " no man can help it. I would he 
 had lived longer, perchance he might have 
 been all the older for it." 
 
 " Is he dead indeed, now fellow ?" in- 
 quired the old knight, looking somewhat 
 confounded at this unexpected news. 
 
 " An' it please you, Wieard he made so 
 fine an end, it was better than a sermon at 
 fast days," observed another, as woeful as 
 his companion. 
 
 " Who's that laughing ?" exclaimed Sir 
 Thomas, very sharply ; " there's some one 
 behind the rick. Bring him' here ! Body 
 o' me, I'll teach the unmannerly knave bet- 
 ter behavior." The constables hurried be- 
 hind the rick, but not the slightest sign of 
 any one was there. This put his worship 
 into a rage. He had ceitainly heard some- 
 body, and felt a monstrous inclination to 
 punish a person guilty of treating him with 
 so little respect. One of the men thought 
 it was an owl, another took it to be a bat, 
 and a third assured his worship it was only 
 the old sow, who, on an occasion, could 
 grunt in a way marvellous like one laugh- 
 ing. The justice did not appear to be per- 
 fectly satisfied with these explanations ; but, 
 after questioning the men some short time 
 longer, and getting from them no greater 
 intelligence, he found himself forced to turn 
 away no wiser than he came. Threatening 
 them all with the terriblest punishments, if 
 he discovered they had told him falsely, the 
 old knight retraced his steps, resolving to 
 see his intelligencer again, and examine him 
 strictly on the correctness of his information, 
 of the which he now entertained some doubts. 
 
 " Take heed of the dog, an' it please your 
 worship," cried one of the hay-makers, 
 •doubtless with most benevolent intentions ; 
 but unfortunately, he gave the caution a mo- 
 ment too late, for as the justice was picking 
 his way carefully along, a dog rushed out 
 of a kennel close upon him, and gave him 
 so smart a bite in the leg, that he roared 
 again. The youthful Shakspeare peeped 
 from bis hiding place at hearing this noise, 
 and had the satisfaction of seeing the old 
 knight hopping along the yard at the top of 
 his speed, furiously pursued by a flock of 
 noisy geese and turkeys, who seemed quite 
 as much inclined for a bite of his legs as the 
 dog had been. His little army did not make 
 their retreat in a much more orderly manner, 
 tor the house-dog flew at them as they pass- 
 ted his kennel, and the turkeys and geese 
 
 pursued them when they crossed the yard- 
 His worship was more hurt by the shouts of 
 laughter which followed his undignified exit, 
 than he had been by the bite he had received, 
 but oh, more unpalatable than all ! — as he 
 was returning home in a most horrible hu- 
 mor, what should he hear, but a parcel of 
 little children singing the offensive ballad 
 writ upon him, as loud as they could baw) 
 it. His wrath was too great for utterance. 
 He felt he could have hanged every little 
 rogue of them all ; but resolved to go to 
 town, and complain to the privy council how 
 infamously he had been used. 
 
 After well abusing the constables, and ev- 
 ery one else that . came within his reach, he 
 sought the unhappy Mabel, and poured out 
 the remainder of his rage upon her ; swear- 
 ing she should marry his friend's servant 
 and no other, and bidding her prepare her- 
 self for doing so within a month at least, as 
 he was determined it should then take place. 
 The poor foundling too well knew the char- 
 acter of her companion tc attempt to parley 
 with him on the subject. It was manifest 
 her villainous persecutors would not let her 
 rest whilst there remained the slightest 
 chance of their getting her into their power ; 
 and having the positive and unsuspicious 
 knight, and his most obedient lady to assist 
 them, they fully persuaded themselves their 
 success was certain. The only bar seemed 
 to lie in the disinclination of her affianced 
 husband to be an agent in the business ; but 
 at last, the bribes he was offered appeared 
 to stifle his conscience, and he promised to 
 carry on the matter to its conclusion. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Not a word spake he more than was nede, 
 And that was said in forme and reverence, 
 And short and quike, and full of high sentence, 
 Souning in moral virtue was his speche, 
 And gladly would he learn, and gladly teche. 
 
 Chaucer. 
 
 Kath. What our destinies 
 
 Have ruled out in their books we must not search, 
 
 But kneel to. 
 
 War. Then to fear when hope is fruitless, 
 
 Were to be desperately miserable ; 
 
 Which poverty our greatness does not dream of, 
 
 And, much more, 3corns to stoop to ; some few 
 
 minutes 
 Remain yet, let's be thrifty in our hopes. 
 
 Ford. 
 
 Time passed on, and in due time the yotmg 
 husband was made a father.. This occai>» 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 185 
 
 rence gave his feelings a new impulse. A 
 vouth of nineteen, possessed of such deep 
 sympathies, and so ready to indulge them on 
 all natural objects as was the youthful 
 Shakspeare, on such an occasion must needs 
 experience a most choice and exquisite grati- 
 fication. He felt he had got a stronger 
 claim on his exertions than had he hitherto, 
 and labored with higher aims than he had 
 before known. Jemmy Catchpole, much as 
 he inclined to do so, knowing of his worth, 
 did not dare employ him ; and when he was 
 not assisting his father-in-law in farming, 
 his chief occupation was teaching the sons 
 of the neighboring farmers and yeomen such 
 matters of schooling as it was customary for 
 them to learn ; and this he did so tenderly, 
 and in so scholarlike a manner, that by the 
 parents he soon got to be approved of before 
 all teachers. During this time he failed 
 not to continue his own studies in such fash- 
 ion as he had been used to ; and it was ac- 
 knowledged, of every person of his acquaint- 
 ance, that, for learning, they had nover met 
 with his peer. 
 
 Yet, all this while, he was far from being 
 happy. The ardor of his passion for the 
 yeoman's blooming daughter had blinded 
 him to many faults he could not avoid per- 
 ceiving in her on closer acquaintance. She 
 had been spoiled by indulgence all her life. 
 Her father had allowed her to do much as 
 she pleased, which had put into her the notion 
 that what she did must always be right, and 
 she would not have it gainsayed of any. 
 
 The youthful Shakspeare discovered too 
 late, his wife's deficiencies in the necessary 
 qualities of mind. Indeed she was perfect- 
 ly uneducated, and her ignorance made her 
 unconscious of the mischief she was doing 
 by her ungracious conduct. She was not 
 naturally of an unamiable disposition ; in- 
 deed, at times she was too prodigal in the 
 display of her kinder feelings, but vanity 
 had filled her with most preposterous preju- 
 dices ; and if her husband opposed her, how- 
 ever slightly, in any matter, however reason- 
 able on his part, she would regard it as 
 using her exceeding ill, and get out of tem- 
 per speedily, and say uncivil words, and 
 show all manner of discourteous behavior. 
 This made her youthful helpmate see into 
 her character more, and more, and the more 
 he saw the less he li <ed, and the less he 
 liked the less he respected. The charm of 
 her beauty gradually vanished away ; and 
 as she had nothing in her conversation to 
 attract him, she had no sort of hold over him 
 beyond that of being the mother of his child. 
 Still he treated her as affectionately as ever 
 he had done, considering himself the most 
 
 to blame for his too great precipitancy, al- 
 lowing her no just cause of complaint — and 
 striving whatever he could to bring her, by 
 fair persuasions, to a more admirable way 
 of behaving. 
 
 Every day he beheld stronger proofs of a 
 vain disposition acting upon a weak mind. 
 Fits of sullenness followed close upon the 
 heels of outbi-eaks of temper — she neglected 
 the proper duties of a wife and a mother, to 
 enjoy any pastime that was within her reach 
 — and by the lack of ordinary comfort to be 
 had at heme, she frequently drove her hus- 
 band to seek his pleasure where he could. 
 It was a grief that touched him where he 
 could have little or no defence ; for when he 
 attempted to remonstrate, in order that he 
 might fail in nothing to induce her to act 
 more commendably, it was sure to end in 
 such a scene of obstinacy, wounded self- 
 love, and unamiable behaving, as plainly 
 showed him there was marvellous slight 
 hopes she Would mend. 
 
 Again he became a father. On the first oc- 
 casion his child was a girl, that he had had 
 christened by the name of Susanna, and now 
 his wife brought him twins, a boy and a girl, 
 that were severally named Hamnet and Ju- 
 dith. For a time this made him regardless 
 of the mother's deficiencies, and increased 
 his kindnesses to her : besides which he en- 
 tertained many anxious thoughts of the future. 
 His own means were in no way adequate to 
 his wants, and although John Hathaway 
 took heed of these, so that he should feel 
 them but lightly, he would rather, by many 
 degrees, have satisfied them of his own labor. 
 His old companions, Greene, Burbage, Con- 
 dell, and Hemings, had one by one gone to 
 join the players ; and such reports of their 
 well-doing had reached him, as made him 
 marvellous desirous of following their ex- 
 ample. 
 
 Unfortunately, his wife merely regarded 
 this late increase in her family as a vast ac- 
 cession to her claims to have her will in 
 everything that was most preposterous ; and 
 more than ever was inclined to behave her- 
 self as she pleased, and resent in every pos- 
 sible way, any attempt to thwart her incli- 
 nations. Consequently she daily made 
 greater demands on her husband's patience, 
 which sometimes forced from him weli- 
 meant arguments, the which she took very 
 bitterly : and lie rinding her to grow so much 
 the worse, so much the more he strove by 
 kindness to make her better, at last made 
 her to know he would leave her, did she not 
 seek to lead him a pleasanter life. But thia 
 was far from making her alter her ungra- 
 ciousness towards him. for she appeared to 
 
166 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 take it as if she would as soon he went as 
 staid. Still the young husband was reluc- 
 tant to give her up. He would have been 
 glad to have had any friend's advice, for he 
 saw nought before him but an increasing 
 wretchedness, remained he where he was ; 
 and to quit her and the children, although 
 he was well aware her father would properly 
 provide for them, he could not reconcile his 
 conscience to ; but he had no friend at this 
 time fit to advise with him in such a strait. 
 His friends at Sir Marmaduke's he had not 
 seen sometime, for as he grew to manhood 
 he felt he could not associate with persons 
 so far above him as he had done whilst a 
 boy, and went there less and less, till he re- 
 frained from such visits altogether ; and he 
 liked not going to John a Combe, remember- 
 ing how urgently he had warned him 
 against pursuing the very course of which 
 he was now feeling the evil consequences. 
 
 After many long and comfortless reflec- 
 tions, he resolved on making a last effort. 
 One fine May morning, a few months after 
 the christening of the twins, he presented 
 himself before her. They were alone. She 
 was tiring of herself in all her choicest bra- 
 veries, to attend some festival in the neigh- 
 borhood. A sort of sprightly indifference 
 was in her manner as she saw her husband 
 &,> Much ; as he noticed this, and heard one 
 of trie children crying unheeded, in the next 
 chamber, he had no great hope of success 
 in his present undertaking — nevertheless he 
 felt it to be his duty to proceed in it. He 
 walked up and down the chamber with an 
 aching heart, she humming of a tune the 
 while, and decking herself in her finery as 
 if in a perfect carelessness of everything 
 save her own pleasure. 
 
 " Anne, I pray you look to the child, it 
 cryeth most pitifully !" exclaimed he at last. 
 
 " Joan is there," replied she, carelessly. 
 
 " It seemeth that it requireth its mother, 
 and will not be satisfied with Joan," ob- 
 served her husband. 
 
 " Then it must be satisfied with her, for I 
 cannot be ever with the children," answered 
 his wife, with some pettishness. 
 
 " Methinks the gratifying the natural 
 desires of a young babe should be held he- 
 fore all other things wi h its mother," said 
 William Shakspeare. '" She hath a sacred 
 obligation imposed on her which she ought 
 in no way to neglect for the furthering of 
 her own immediate convenience." 
 
 " Tut ! what should men know of such 
 matters !" cried his companion. " Truly, a 
 fine life of it a poor woman would lead who 
 followed such old saws. I will do no such 
 
 folly, depend on't. I marvel you should in- 
 terfere in things so out of your province; 
 but 'tis done merely to prevent my taking 
 my proper pleasure — nevertheless it seemetfi 
 to me good I enjoy it." 
 
 " I cannot have the slightest wish to debar 
 you of your proper pleasures," replied her 
 husband ; " in very truth I would strive my 
 utmost you should enjoy as much happiness 
 as woman can." 
 
 " You don't !" exclaimed the other, sharp- 
 ly ; " you are in a constant mood of finding 
 fault with me — you will never do as I wish : 
 and when I am for the pleasuring myself 
 with my neighbors, you fail not to raise all 
 manner of foolish improper objections." 
 
 " I cannot call any such proper pleasures, 
 when your neighbors are looked to and your 
 children neglected," observed he. 
 
 " Marry, I care not what you call them," 
 she answered ; " 1 will do as I list, take it 
 a3 you may." 
 
 " Anne, I implore you to pause in this 
 most unsemely behaving," said her com- 
 panion, very urgently ; " it doth cause- me 
 infinite unhappiness to see you so forget 
 yourself. The ordinary duties of a fond 
 good wife and mother are thrust aside and 
 lost sight of, through utter carelessness. 
 None could furnish my house so pleasantly 
 as yourself, if it chose you to do so ; but you 
 seek to make it as wretched as you can by 
 all manner of unbecomingness, unkindness, 
 and neglect. I pray you change such a 
 course for one more desirable to me and 
 more creditable to yourself ; and you shall 
 find I do not lack gratitude." 
 
 "Gratitude!" echoed the spoiled woman, 
 with considerable bitterness. " O' my word 
 I have had enough of your gratitude. I 
 have left divers rich suitors to take up with 
 you, who had not so much as would buy me 
 a day's meal. I have brought you every 
 comfort you have in the way of lodging, 
 clothing, and victual; and moreover three 
 as fine children as an honest father could 
 desire ; and yet I am treated as though I 
 had done nothing of all this. 'Tis a fine 
 thing, truly, to treat one so ill who hath been 
 so bountiful to you ; but I will put up with 
 no such treatment, I promise you. I will 
 act as it seemeth best to my humor ; and in 
 no case will I be driven from my innocent 
 pastime at the will of an ungrateful worth- 
 less husband." 
 
 " I have already told you I strive not to 
 check you in anything innocent at a proper 
 time," replied her husband ; " but I cannot 
 see you ruin your own happiness and mine 
 by a wilful obstinacy in doing wrong." 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 167 
 
 You're a base inhuman wretch !" ex- 
 claimed the yeoman's daughter. 
 
 "I have sought all occasions and all ar- 
 guments, to persuade you to act more be- 
 comingly," continued he, " and only brought 
 on myself bitter taunts and ungenerous re- 
 flections." 
 
 " I wish I had never seen your f tee, you 
 ungrateful vile caitiff !" added his com- 
 panion. 
 
 " There now remaineth but one thing for 
 me to do," said William Shakspeare, betray- 
 ing by his voice the struggle in his nature ; 
 " as 'tis impossible we can live happily to- 
 gether, we must part !"' 
 
 " Oh, you may go!" replied she, with a 
 careless toss of her head ; " and I care not 
 how soon — and I shall not fret for your com- 
 ing back, I promise you." 
 
 " I beseech you, as my last request, show 
 such love to the dear children as their ten- 
 der years entitle them to," said the youthful 
 father, so moved he could scarce speak. 
 
 " I pray you despatch yourself, since you 
 are for going," answered the thoughtless 
 wife more bitterly than before ; " and forget 
 not o take with you all that you brought !" 
 Her husband cast one look of reproach on 
 the once object of his so great love — turned 
 away almost choking with his overpower- 
 ing sensations, and in the next moment had 
 left the cottage, — the scene of a thousand 
 exquisite pleasures — never to enter it again. 
 He iirst bent his steps toward'Henley Street, 
 to take leave of his parents, and then left the 
 town without speech of any other, for with 
 his present feelings he cared not to be idly 
 talked to and questioned. When he had 
 gone some little distance he stopped to take 
 a last look of his native place. There lay 
 the steeple of the old church, towering above 
 the surrounding houses and trees — the fair 
 land-mark he had hailed returning from so 
 many pleasant rambles ; there lay his fa-, 
 ther's dwelling, hallowed in his recollection 
 by a whole history of early studies, struggles, 
 and pleasures ; there lay the winding Avon, 
 in whose sweet waters he had so often laved 
 his limbs, or gathered from its banks con- 
 tinual store of blooming treasure ; and there 
 lay a hundred other spots equally well de- 
 Berving of his remembrance, as the scene of 
 some childish sport or youthful adventure. 
 
 He gazed in another direction, and if the 
 yeoman's pretty cottage was not made oyit 
 in the landscape, he had it in his eyes as 
 clearly as when he first beheld it, attracted 
 thereto by the cheerful singing of the bloom- 
 ing girl at her spinning-wheel. Then fol- 
 lowed scene after scene of exquisite enjoy- 
 ment The evenii£ meetings, where she 
 11 
 
 waited for him at the next style — their deli- 
 cious salutations there — their gentle . stroll 
 together back to the old walnut tree, and all 
 the goodly entertainment he had under its 
 friendly shadows, till, after some dozen re- 
 luctant farewells, he forced himself away. 
 And last of all came sullen looks and pro- 
 voking words, and a crowd of attendant 
 miseries, created by the unfeeling thought- 
 less carelessness of that weak vain woman. 
 And now he saw himself a wanderer to go 
 wheresoever he would, driven from his home 
 by the very means that had brought such 
 home to him, and deprived of happiness by 
 having had the possession of what he had 
 so long believed could alone secure it him 
 forever. These remembrances took such 
 painful hold of his heart, that the anguish 
 he endured at that moment was beyond 
 everything he had hitherto suffered. 
 
 " Thou shalt see better days anon, dear 
 heart !" exclaimed a familiar voice, aric 
 turning round, he beheld Nurse Cicely 
 " Pleasure cometh after suffering as natu- 
 rally as the green buds after the early rains. 
 All things have their season. Thy time ia 
 now for sorrow ; but bear up nobly, and be 
 assured greatness shall come of it beyond 
 thy brightest hopes. A fair journey to thee 
 my sweeting !" — So saying, the old woman 
 hobbled away, leaving the youthful Shaks- 
 peare in an especial marvel at her strange 
 words. She had often addressed him in a 
 like manner previously, but he had paid little 
 attention, to what she had said, — now, how- 
 ever, he pondered on it as he went along, 
 and not without some particular satisfaction. 
 He had not proceeded a quarter of a mile 
 when he met John a Combe. He would 
 have avoided him if he could, for he liked 
 not his company at that moment ; but the 
 usurer came suddenly upon him from a lane 
 which led into the road, along which Wil- 
 liam Shakspeare was passing. 
 
 " So !" cried John a Combe, in his usual 
 bitter manner, " thou wouldst not be led by 
 my advice, and art now smarting for't. 
 Serves thee right. But every fool doth the 
 same. Tell them where lies the mischief, 
 they run into it on the instant, — suffer first 
 and repent after. Prithee, what dost intend 
 doing ?" 
 
 " I am for making the best of my way to 
 London, where I expect meeting with cer- 
 tain friends of mine," replied his young com- 
 panion. 
 
 " Ay, boy, thoult meet fools enough there, 
 I'll warrant," answered the usurer, sharply. 
 " But 'tis a long journey, and requireth some 
 expense on the way. How art off for 
 means ?" 
 
168 
 
 THE YOUTH OP SHAKSPEAItE. 
 
 " In truth not over well — but I must e'en 
 do as I best may," said the other. 
 
 " Give me thy purse !" exclaimed John a 
 Jombe, and without more ado, he snatched 
 tfrom his girdle, and then turned his back 
 to him to see what was in it. " As I live, 
 no more than a groat and a shilling !" con- 
 tinued he, in seeming monstrous astonish- 
 ment. " Why, ere thou has got a good 
 dozen mile thou will be forced to eat thyself 
 for lack of victual. Here, let me put thy 
 purse in thy girdle again." And then the 
 usurer carefully replaced it. " Thou and 
 thy wits have parted company, that's a sure 
 thing." 
 
 " I would ask one favor of you, good Mas- 
 ter Combe, before I leave you." 
 
 " Nay, I will lend thee no money !■"' quick- 
 ly replied his companion. " It be not a 
 likely thing a usurer should trust one who 
 starteth on a long journey, with only a knob- 
 bed stick by way of weapon, with a bundle 
 of linen at the end on't carried over his 
 shoulder by way of luggage, and a shrove- 
 groat shilling, and a cracked groat in his 
 purse, for store of money for spending." 
 
 " I do not require of you such a thing," 
 replied William Shakspeare. " All 1 would 
 of you is that if my dear parents need what 
 you have to spare, you will do your good 
 offices to them, and as soon as fortune fa- 
 voreth me somewhat, I will return whatever 
 you are so generous as to furnish." 
 
 " Truly a fine story !" remarked John a 
 Combe. " Though art sure to come to great 
 wealth with so prodigious a beginning ! It 
 would be monstrous like a usurer, methinks, 
 to lend on such poor security." 
 
 '■' An' you will not I cannot help it," said 
 the other dejectedly. 
 
 " Nay, I said not I refused !" exclaimed 
 the usurer. " So there is no great occasion 
 thou shouldst look so woe-begone. Indeed, 
 I care not to acquaint thee, for thy comfort, 
 seeing though art not likely to come back 
 and tell my neighbors of my infinite foolish- 
 ness, I have been thy honest father's friend 
 this many a year, and he not know it." His 
 young companion seized his hand gratefully, 
 and looked more thanks than he could have 
 spoken had he twenty tongues. He knew 
 that some secret person had. for a consider- 
 able period of years been sending sums of 
 money when his parents were in their great- 
 est need, and now it came out it was Mas- 
 ter Combe and no other. 
 
 " I cannot get out of my old folly, try how 
 I will," continued he, more moved by the 
 other's simple manifestation of his feelings 
 Jian he chose to show. " Of the baseness 
 of the world, methinks I have had proof 
 
 enough. O' my life ! there cannot oe found 
 more convincing evidence than an honest 
 worthy man suffering poverty in mean 
 clothing and poor victual, while baseness in 
 a fine doublet, taketh sauce with his capon, 
 and hath money to spare." 
 
 " Doubtless the world containeth some un- 
 worthy persons," observed William Shaks- 
 peare. " It is scarce reasonable to expect 
 it can be otherwise, when such countless 
 multitudes are to be met with in each part 
 of the globe. We shall find weeds in every 
 field ; but surely the field deserveth to be 
 called a good field for all that. But why 
 should we dwell on such things ? There 
 are flowers, peeping out from our very foot- 
 steps go where we will, and yet we will not 
 see them, but care only to spy what is un- 
 sightly and unprofitable. In honest truth, 
 worthy sir, methinks we do Nature a huge 
 wrong by such behavior of ours. 'Tis man- 
 ifest injustice to be so blind to merit, and to 
 see only that which is -not likely to call for 
 our admiration." 
 
 " Nay, boy, 'tis the world that is blind to 
 merit, not I," answered the usurer. " I be- 
 hold thy honest parents struggling all they 
 can to live with a fair credit though terribly 
 pinched i' the ribs, and. the world shutteth 
 its Argus eyes and passeth by. I behold 
 their worthy son showing signs of an hon- 
 orable disposition, and talents deserving of as 
 high estimation, yet the world doth appre- 
 ciate him at so low a price, it will allow of 
 his starting a long journey to London on a 
 chance errand to fortune, with no greater 
 provision than a shilling and a groat. All 
 this while the world giveth to villains place 
 and ceremony, and maketh a shallow-witted 
 coxcomb with broad acres pass for a. knight 
 o' the shire, and justice o' the peace." 
 
 " But how know we this state of things 
 will always continue ?" said his young com- 
 panion ; " it may be, for such changes have 
 happened before, that when Master Justice 
 is feeding of the worms, my dear parents 
 shall be enjoying of as much comfort as their 
 hearts can desire ; and I, whom he hath so 
 often strove to play his poor spite upon, may 
 leave to my children a better name out of 
 such poor talents as I have, than could he, 
 out of all his broad acres and fine house, 
 serving-men and constables, his worship and 
 knightship, and every other sign of great- 
 ness whereof he is used to make such fa- 
 mous boasting, into the bargain." 
 
 " See I this, I will believe it," said John a 
 Combe ; " yet, with the knowledge I have 01 
 the world's baseness, I expect no such wel« 
 come changes. Justice is painted blind, 
 and blind she is beyond question." 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 169 
 
 * I have other thoughts of that," replied 
 William Shakspeare. " I believe that it 
 very rarely happens, when merit showeth 
 itself in any conspicuousness, it is not kind- 
 ly taken by the hand to be exalted above all 
 meaner natures." 
 
 " Ay, boy, on the pillory or the gibbet," 
 drily added the usurer ; " but thou art past 
 arguing. Just as I was at thy age art thou. 
 I would allow none to convince me of any 
 such thing as injustice in nature. Marry, I 
 had such convincing at last, as left me with- 
 out a doubt to stand upon. I would have 
 thee grow wiser than thou art, but in mercy 
 I would not wish thee any such resistless 
 arguments as crushed my favorable opinions 
 out of me. Get thee gone Will Shakspeare, 
 and speed on thy errand as well as thou 
 canst. If so be thou art not doing well, 
 write to me without fail ; but at any rate let 
 me know how thou art proceeding." 
 
 " One thing more, worthy Master Combe," 
 said his young companion urgently ; " since 
 you have been so good as to talk of writing, 
 I would you would do me such kind service 
 as to see my children as oft as may be con- 
 venient to you, and let me know how they 
 get on in all things." 
 
 " And their mother ?" added the usurer, 
 with somewhat of sarcasm. 
 
 "If you know any thing concerning of 
 her worthy to be told, acquaint me with it 
 by all means ; but if of another nature, I 
 care not to hear of it." 
 
 " Ha !" exclaimed the usurer, sharply ; 
 " let it be even so. And now fare thee well, 
 W ; .ll Shakspeare. I wish thee every man- 
 ner of good, though I am in huge doubt any- 
 thing of the sort is to be found." 
 
 " Truly, I cannot help seeing it in your- 
 self, worthy Master Combe, despite your un- 
 gracious seeming," replied his young friend, 
 parting with him in sincere regret. After 
 going a few paces, he turned round to take 
 another glance at his old acquaintance, and 
 to his surprise, beheld him standing still, 
 looking after him with an aspect of deeper 
 feeling than ever he had observed in him be- 
 fore ; but immediately he was noticed, he 
 took on himself the same severe expression 
 of countenance he was wont to wear, and 
 then turning quickly away, paced onwards 
 towards the town. 
 
 As William Shakspeare was thinking 
 over the strangeness of his companion, his 
 eyes suddenly lighted on his purse, which 
 seemed to be much increased in size since he 
 last had sight of it, he took it into his hand, 
 and looking to its contents, to his prodigious 
 marvelling, discovered as goodly a store of 
 coin as he could need the whole length of his 
 
 journey. Here was a fresh instance of th« 
 unhappy usurer's secret manner of doing 
 kindness where it was most needed, and the 
 discovery of it had such effect on the sensi- 
 tive nature of him he had so providently 
 thought of, that it refreshed him with many 
 sweet feelings, and sent him on his long 
 journey with a more cheerful spirit than he 
 had known a long time. He appeared now 
 to have at his will the means of procuring 
 what he most wished. For with such a 
 sanguine disposition as he possessed, he be- 
 lieved that were he once in London, he 
 should speedily get such employment as he 
 desired, and then he had in him that convic- 
 tion he would raise himself greatly, often 
 attending upon the youthful and imagina- 
 tive. 
 
 Filled with these considerations, and with 
 manifold fine plans and excellent fair pros- 
 pects, he trudged manfully along. 
 
 The day was well-favored a day to look 
 on as ever appeared in that merry month ; 
 the hedges being all over covered with deli- 
 cate May, and the banks as prodigally gift- 
 ed with the dainty gifts of the season, which 
 made the air so exquisite, nothing could ex- 
 ceed it in delectable sweetness ; added to 
 which, such, crowds of small birds were 
 tuning of their little pipes upon every tree 
 and bush, as made most ravishing music all 
 along the road. I doubt much the delight- 
 some aspect of Nature was as pleasantly 
 regarded as it deserved to be by the youthful 
 wanderer ; for although he had but a few 
 minutes since determined in his mind he 
 would think no more of his unhappiness, the 
 sight of the odorous flowery hedges brought 
 to his memory that gay morning he went a- 
 maying with his then so deeply loved Anne 
 Hathaway, and the unutterable gladness he 
 enjoyed because of her sharing with him the 
 excellent brave pastimes of that memorable 
 day. 
 
 Whilst he was so deeply engaged with 
 such thinking, he did not notice he had a 
 companion, evidently striving to keep up 
 with him, whom he had just passed. This 
 person appeared to be, by his dress, a young 
 boy of some gentle family ; for he was clad 
 very neatly in a suit of fine broadcloth, of a 
 gay orange-tawney color, with good kersey 
 hose, shoes with roses, a well appointed hat 
 and feather on his head, and a light stick 01 
 staff in his hand. In person he was of an 
 exceeding elegant shape, indeed such deli- 
 cate symmetry of limbs is rarely to be met 
 with ; and in features he was of a fair hand- 
 someness, yet of a complexion so wan and 
 sickly, it looked as though he was fitter to 
 be in his bed than to be a traveller for ever 
 
170 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 so short a distance. He looked fatigued, 
 and it was manifest he could ill keep up with 
 the manly strides of the youthful Shaks- 
 peare. 
 
 " I pray you, sweet sir, walk not so fast, 
 for I should be wondrous glad of your hon- 
 est company." 
 
 The other turned round somewhat sur- 
 prised, not knowing any one was so nigh 
 him, and was moved with extreme pity at 
 the slight glance he took of the pallid suf- 
 fering countenance of the young stranger. 
 He lessened his pace on the instant. 
 
 " Go you far on this road, my young mas- 
 ter ?" inquired he courteously. 
 
 " Truly, I know not," replied his com- 
 panion, in a manner somewhat hesitating ; 
 " but the farther I get from the place I have 
 left, the more pleased I shall be." 
 
 " Yet you seem in no way fit to go on a 
 journey," observed William Shakspeare, in 
 some marvel at what he had just heard. " I 
 doubt you are strong enough for much walk- 
 ing." 
 
 " I have been in a great sickness a long 
 time, sweet sir," replied the other ; " but as 
 I recovered, I found such villainy approach- 
 ing me, that I thought it better to trust to 
 the chance of perishing on a strange road 
 than remaining where I was." At hearing 
 this his companion marvelled the more. 
 
 "Keep a good heart, I pray you !" ex- 
 claimed the youthful Shakspeare, ready at 
 a moment to sympathize with any unhappy 
 person. " If it please you to let me bear 
 you company, I will take such heed of you, 
 you shall come to no hurt. But to what 
 place are you bound 2" 
 
 " To any, where I can live in proper hon- 
 esty," replied the young stranger. " I will 
 willingly essay my strength in such humble 
 manner of living as I can get, with no higher 
 end than the keeping me a worthy name." 
 
 William Shakspeare said nothing, but he 
 thought in his mind his fellow-traveller had 
 but a poor chance of a living, relied he only 
 on his strength, and resolved st least, that, 
 as he wanted a friend, a friend he should 
 have. With the true delicacy of a noble 
 mind, he refrained from asking him any 
 questions which might seem to come of over 
 ouriousness, but began to talk cheerfully to 
 him, telling him to hope for better times, and 
 entertaining him with such pleasant dis- 
 course as he had at his commandment. And 
 so these two proceeded together. The one 
 in the full strength of early manhood, and, 
 though bereft of his happiness, full of health 
 and hope — the other, apparently in the fresh 
 dawning of youth, and in as little comfort of 
 body as of mind. 
 
 Methinks this, chapter in no case ought to 
 be brought to a conclusion, without requir- 
 ing of the courteous reader especial notice 
 of a matter therein treated ; which, it is to 
 be hoped, will be to his singular profit. In 
 the development of this my story, there hath 
 been made manifest how that kind of love, 
 which is merely ideal, endeth in a complete 
 nothingness, as far as its object is concerned, 
 it being only a fair herald of a more natural 
 passion ; but in the later pages it is shown, 
 that the affection which cometh but of the 
 delight taken by the senses in personal come- 
 liness, must meet with a still more unsatis- 
 factory conclusion. It is true that Nature 
 hath planted in the human heart a capacity 
 for enjoying the beautiful, and a desire to 
 obtain its possession ; and the affections of 
 the individual, like unto clear waters, do, most 
 perfectly bear in them the resemblance of 
 whatsoever shape appeareth to them in most 
 perfectness ; but it should ever be borne in 
 mind, that there are beauties of far sweeter 
 and lasting value, than such as are wont to 
 lie on the surface of things, and that these 
 constitute the sole proper source of their 
 admirableness. The flowers, the stars, and 
 every form of matter, animate or inanimate, 
 impressed with the configuration most pleas- 
 ing to the sight, possess qualities which make 
 them the love* of the poet and the true philo- 
 sophic sort of persons, exceedingly more so 
 than their mere appearance. They exhibit 
 signs of intelligence, by which they are 
 known to be part of the universal good ; and 
 for the worth they show are worthily appre- 
 ciated. 
 
 Such should it be with things that more 
 intimately appertain to humanity. The 
 agreeable face and graceful person are the 
 unprofitablest of objects, unless they carry . 
 with them the fairer signs of mind and feel- 
 ing. They may be regarded as such fruit 
 as come of plants imperfectly cultivated, 
 that look tempting to the eye, but are in- 
 tolerable to the taste ; and save the pretty 
 sort of way in which they do garnish their 
 boughs, are of no goodness whatsoever. In 
 this same goodness — which is nought else 
 but another name for intelligence — lieth the 
 real source and conclusion of all honest love. 
 This is it that sows the seed — this is it that 
 obtains infinite crops of exquisite sweet fruit. 
 Where there is no moral excellence, there 
 can never be any moral advantage. The 
 youthful Shakspeare, therefore, in showing, 
 as he did, a total indifference to aught else 
 save the personal charms of the blooming 
 daughter of John Hathaway, brought on 
 himself the positive evil which proceedeth 
 from insufficiency of good. But thus aro 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE, 
 
 171 
 
 the marvellous lessons of Nature taught, 
 and how oft are they placed before us in 
 this very fashion ! The youth of both sexes, 
 full of the delicious sympathies so newly 
 grown within their breasts, regard in the 
 other, symmetry of limb and loveliness of 
 feature, as vouchers for whatsoever is pro- 
 perest and most desirable, and, at times, do 
 get their several senses so intoxicated by 
 allowing of their imaginations to be excited 
 by the strong draughts proceeding from rosy 
 smiling lips and lustrous enticing eyes, that 
 they clean forget there is aught else in the 
 world worthy of their having. The capacity 
 for enjoyment satiated, quick on the heels 
 of it followeth the ordinary ending of such 
 foolishness. 
 
 At the age of eighteen years, it is incon- 
 sistent with experience to expect the human 
 heart to be philosophical. Before that age, 
 William Shakspeare found his whole nature 
 thrilled with a passion for a female eight 
 years his senior, and consequently, in the 
 possession of every charm of mature woman- 
 hood. He revelled in the delusive gratifica- 
 tion of an attachment placed on no surer 
 foundation than personal beauty, and fixing 
 his happiness there, on due time found it 
 levelled to the dust. The result hath ren- 
 dered him a homeless adventurer, banished 
 from his domestic hearth to seek, amongst 
 strangers, that comfort he had lost every 
 hope of where he believed it to be most 
 secure. Now must he work out the penalty 
 of his offence, and, by his example, teach a 
 great moral lesson unto all humanity, which, 
 perchance, shall not be altogether lost sight 
 of at this time, or at any other. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 Example I fynde of Alesaundr Nexam as he 
 wryteth, how there was sumtyme a knyght 
 came from ferr cuntries woude seek aventures. 
 So it fortuned to a forrest wher he herd a grete 
 noyce of a beste crying. 
 
 Harleian MSS. No. 2247. 
 The misery of us that are born great. 
 We are f.uced to woo, because none dare woo us ; 
 And as a tyraut doubles with his words, 
 And fearfully equivocates, so we 
 Are forced to express our violent passions 
 In riddles and iu dreams, and leave the path 
 Of simple virtue, which was never made 
 To seem the thing it is not. 
 
 Webster. 
 
 "Ifea.e me I cannot proceed further," 
 •aid the younger of the two travellers, lean- 
 
 ing against a tree, with head drooping, and 
 every sign in him of thorough exhaustion 
 and faintness. 
 
 " I beseech you good Bertram, lean on me !" 
 exclaimed William Shakspeare, urgently. 
 " Let us get out of this wood as speedily as 
 we may, for the sun hath set some time, and 
 we are liked to get benighted in this strange 
 place, stay we where we are much longer.'' 
 
 " I doubt my strength will hold sufficient, 
 yet I will strive my utmost," replied his 
 young companion, in a very feeble voice. 
 Thereupon he leaned his head upon the 
 other's shoulder, whilst the latter held him 
 round the waist with his left arm, and thus 
 they proceeded, at a slow pace, following a 
 path which led through a thick wood on each 
 side of them. The trees, principally hazel, 
 were in their freshest leaves, save some that 
 were only a budding, and those of the wild 
 plum and cherry were clothed in all their 
 delicate bloom . The roots of the larger trees 
 were wra^pt in a soft covering of dainty green 
 moss, through which the lance-shaped leaves 
 of the lily of the valley made their appear- 
 ance in countless numbers — seemingly as 
 far as the eye could see — mingled with a 
 very prodigal display, not only of all manner 
 of seasonable flowers of divers colors, but 
 with numberless plants and herbs, some 
 savory and others noxious, that thrust them- 
 selves out at every corner. Nothing was 
 visible around but trees and underwood such 
 as hath been described, save here and there, 
 when they came to an open place where the 
 wood had been thinned ; and then they be- 
 held some once goodly tree recently felled, 
 stripped of its branches, barked, and lying 
 on the ground a shapeless, naked trunk ; and 
 in other places were small logs for burning, 
 piled up in heaps, with great store of hurdles, 
 bavins, faggots, and other things belonging 
 to the woodman's craft. 
 
 It was evident the men had left work— 
 the whole place was so still — not a sound 
 heard the ^oung travellers when they ceased 
 talking, but the monotonous note of the 
 cuckoo. The path was not in any way a 
 pleasant one, for it was in a hard, rough 
 soil, with deep ruts on each side, formed by 
 the passage of heavy carts when the ground 
 was in a softer state, and led now up and 
 now down — crossed occasionally b)' other 
 paths of a like appearance, with some nar- 
 rower and less worn, which appeared to be 
 only for foot passengers, with room for but 
 one at a time. Yet along this unpleasant 
 way the two pursued their journey in the 
 manner already mentioned ; the more youth- 
 ful one manifestly sinking at every step, 
 despite of the other's tender charge of him. 
 
na 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 and encouraging speech to help him along. 
 
 Truly, it was a sight well worthy to be 
 looked on, these gentle persons travelling in 
 bo friendly a way, the handsome manly face 
 of William Shakspeare beaming with a 
 sweet benevolence, as with all the tender 
 sympathy of his nature, he gazed upon the 
 upturned pallid countenance of his more 
 youthful associate ; but although the latter 
 strove, as forcibly as he could, to get along, 
 it was easy to see, by the languid style in 
 which he drew one leg after the other, and 
 the quick paling of his lips, that he could 
 continue even this sort of progress but a very 
 little longer. 
 
 " Cheer thee, sweet sir !" exclaimed the 
 elder of the two, in the kindest accents, 
 " thou wilt be better anon. Put thy foot 
 forward gallantly, we shall be out of this 
 wood straight, and get us to a village where 
 we can have fair lodging for the night." 
 
 " Alack ! I feel sinking rapidly," replied 
 the other, evidently in extreme faintness. 
 " Bear me up strongly, I pray you — the 
 ground seemeth to be falling." 
 
 " Prithee heed it not at all — 'tis mere fan- 
 tasy," said William Shakspeare, holding him 
 as affectionately as a brother. " Courage, 
 my young master, our journey will be at an 
 end speedily — so we shall have brave resting, 
 continue we to proceed. Woe is me, he 
 hath swooned !" The speaker stopped in 
 great anxiety and pitifulness, for he had 
 noted the arm of his companion drop, list- 
 lessly off his shoulder, and the head fall so 
 droopingly, the youth must have gone to the 
 ground had it not been for the care of his 
 tender guardian. The first thought of the 
 latter was to carry his now helpless fellow- 
 traveller— as no time was to be lost in get- 
 ting out' of the wood before nightfall — and 
 the next minute the young poet was pro- 
 ceeding, gallantly bearing the other in his 
 arms, with all proper gentleness, till at last 
 he was obliged to put him down to rest 
 himself. 
 
 His anxiety of mind may*be imagined 
 when he beheld by the dim twilight, the 
 countenance of his young companion set, as 
 it were, in the pale complexion of death, 
 with his limbs motionless, and his eyes 
 closed. So sad a sight smote him to the 
 very heart. What to do he knew not. The 
 shadows of the night were gathering fast 
 around him, and no habitation near, or sign 
 of help at hand. To stay in the wood all 
 night without succor were to make certain 
 f««r his associate what already looked more 
 than possible — his decease ; and yet to get 
 out of it he knew no means, for although he 
 had gone a great way, still in which ever 
 
 way he looked, nought met his eye but im- 
 penetrable dark masses of trees and shrubs. 
 As he made the seeming lifeless Bertram 
 recline aganst his breast — supporting him 
 with one arm to beguile the other of its 
 weariness — whilst gazing on the pallid as- 
 pect, he was so moved by pity that he scarce 
 knew what to be a doing. All at once, as 
 he was making the saddest refieetions at the 
 poor prospect he had of saving him, he heard 
 the faint barking of a dog, to which he gave 
 on the instant, so huge a welcome as he had 
 rarely given even to what had seemed to him 
 the pleasantest of human voices. It afford- 
 ed a most sweet assurance of present help, 
 for, as it appeared to him, it was a sign of 
 some dwelling nigh at hand, or of some per- 
 son or persons in the wood, of whom he 
 might have the assistance he required. 
 
 Presently he shouted as loud as he could 
 to attract the attention of such people as 
 were witkin hail, thinking it could not fail 
 of drawing them to the spot where he was. 
 He listened with extreme anxiousness, and 
 a moment after again heard the barking. 
 The sound seemed to come from some place 
 considerably in advance of him, so taking up 
 his burthen more tenderly than ever, he 
 proceeded along the path, till he came to 
 where another path crossed it, and here he 
 shouted again, and listened with a like in- 
 tense anxiety. It was true he heard the cry 
 of the dog repeated, but he heard no answer- 
 ing shout — which was what he most desired ; 
 and this gave him some uneasiness. He 
 turned the way, where he thought the animal 
 and those he belonged to might be found, 
 until somewhat weary of what he carried, 
 he placed him on his feet as before ; and 
 then made the wood resound, he set up so 
 main a cry. To his exceeding disappoint- 
 ment nought replied to him but the hound, 
 and in not much louder tones than at first, 
 At this, the idea struck him, that he might 
 bring help to his fellow-traveller a famous 
 deal more quickly than could he bring him 
 where it might be found, so placing of Ber- 
 tram upon a mossy bank about a foot or so 
 above the path, with his back reclining 
 against the broad trunk of a tree, behind 
 which he flung his bundle and stick, he 
 first of all made the pierdngest halloo he 
 could, and when he heard the same reply as 
 hitherto, he started off at the top of his speed 
 toward the place whence the cry of the dog 
 came. By stopping at intervals and repeat- 
 ing his shouting, and marking the direction 
 of the beast's bark, he soon found to his 
 marvellous content it gradually became 
 louder to his ear, till it was so distinct tb.6 
 animal could not he many yards from him, 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 173 
 
 «^and jet he had heard no human voice, 
 nor seen the slightest sign of habitation. 
 
 He had turned down all sorts of paths 
 narrow and broad — sometimes forced to 
 thrust his way through the crossing branches, 
 the trees grew so close, and at others to pick 
 his way with more care than speed, the path 
 was so crooked and uneven ; at last he came 
 out of this thick wood into an open space 
 and thought he perceived before him some- 
 thing resembling a thick volume of smoke. 
 He approached it closely, and discovered 
 that it proceeded from a monstrous black 
 mass which he speedily recognized as one 
 of those heaps of dry underwood that are 
 usually kept burning slowly a day or two 
 that they may be turned into charcoal. The 
 yelping" of the dog was now incessant and 
 so close, there was no occasion for more 
 shouting. Directly William Shakspeare 
 passed the pile of charcoal he beheld both 
 the animal and his master standing in the 
 door-way of a mud cabin, in which a blaz- 
 ing fire of logs threw so great a light, the 
 dingy forms of the charcoal-burner and his 
 little four-footed companion as black as him- 
 self might be seen distinctly. The former 
 appeared to be an old man of a very crab- 
 bed visage, short of stature, thick-limbed, 
 and hump-backed. How he was attired it 
 was not easy to say, for his garments seem- 
 ed of a color with his skin — as though he 
 had been charred all over — but there he 
 stood idly at the door of his habitation, and 
 doubtless there he had been standing the 
 whilst he had heard the shouting of the 
 young traveller ; and yet he had never at- 
 tempted to give him any answer, or move 
 from the spot to show that help was at hand. 
 
 " Why dost make such a bawling, and be 
 hanged to thee !" exclaimed the hunch-back 
 surlily, as soon as he caught sight of the 
 youth, the cur the whilst yelping with all 
 his might. 
 
 " I pray you, come with me on the in- 
 stant !" said William Shakspeare, with ex- 
 treme earnestness. " I have a friend hard 
 by like to be dying forthelackof assistance." 
 
 " 'Sdeath ! thou dost not take me to be 
 so huge a fool surely," replied the charcoal- 
 burner, moving never a whit from his place. 
 " Body o' me, 'twould be a fine thing was I 
 to take to running about the wood, at this 
 late hour, at any body's asking. Get thee 
 gone straight, or may be the dog will give 
 thee a sharp bite o' the legs, or I a smart 
 crack o' the crown." At another time such 
 a threat would have cost him dear ; but the 
 ether was too wise not to know that vio- 
 lence would go no way towards the assist- 
 **jg of his fellow-traveller. 
 
 ts I beseech you come to my poor friend's 
 help, and I will pay you handsomely !" ex- 
 claimed he, with more urgency, " and here 
 is some earnest your kind labor shall not go 
 unrewarded." So saying, he took from his 
 purse a couple of silver groats, which he 
 placed in the old fellow's hand. The sight 
 of the purse and the touch of the money, as 
 had been anticipated, had an instantaneous 
 effect. 
 
 " Prithee tell me, good sir, where your 
 friend may be found, and I will give him 
 what help I can without fail," answered the 
 hunch-back, putting his foot forward very 
 readily ; and then cried out angrily to his 
 yelping cur, to whom he gave a slight kick, 
 " a murrain on thee — stay thy rude noise 
 how darest thou bark at so worthy a per 
 son !" Whereof the consequence was, that 
 in a very few minutes the whole three were 
 trudging amicably together in search of the 
 helpless Bertram. Young Shakspeare soon 
 became somewhat bewildered as to the path 
 he should follow, he having in his speed 
 taken no great note of the right one ; so he 
 went up one and down another, without ex- 
 actly knowing he was going his proper way 
 or not. Nevertheless, after proceeding a 
 considerable distance with no Drofit, he be- 
 gan to have a suspicion he had come in a 
 wrong direction, and hinted as much to the 
 charcoal-burner, which brought them to a 
 full stop, and a consultation as to what was 
 best to be done. 
 
 " Didst heed nothing anigh the place you 
 left your friend ?" inquired the hunch-back. 
 " Nothing notable in the tree, or in the place 
 close upon it, by which you might distin- 
 guish it again ?" 
 
 " As I remember there was something," 
 replied the other; "I perceived a number 
 of different small animals — I know not of 
 what sort, for I could not distinguish them — 
 hanging from the tree's branches." 
 
 " Body o' me !" exclaimed the charcoal- 
 burner, in a sort of famous surprise, " that 
 be the Tyburn oak, as we call it in these 
 parts, for 'tis used by the keepers as a gib- 
 bet, upon which they do execution upon all 
 manner of weasles, pole-cats, foxes, owls, 
 shrikes, and other wild destructive things 
 that are caught in traps, set in different parts 
 of these woods ; and it lies down in Dead 
 Man's Hollow, at least a full mile from this. 
 Had you turned to the left instead of to the 
 right, when starting from my cot, we had 
 reached it long since." 
 
 For this mistake there was no remedy but 
 to retrace their steps, which they did with 
 as much speed as they could, — William 
 Shakspeare somewhat uneasy at having left 
 
174 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 his young companion for so long a time, and 
 his guide in an eager humor to be touching 
 some more of the other's money. In due 
 vime they arrived at the tree, the same tree 
 out of all contradiction from which the lat- 
 ter had started in pursuit of assistance for 
 his friend ; for there lay behind it the bun- 
 ble and the stick he had thrown there, but 
 of Bertram there was no sign. This put 
 him in a fearful perplexity. He thought, 
 perchance, on returning to consciousness, 
 and finding himself, as he might think, 
 abandoned, the youth had strayed away in 
 hopes of discovering a path that led out of 
 the wood ; and this idea put him in huge 
 discomfort ; for, as it appeared to him, the 
 young stranger was almost sure to be lost 
 in the numberless different paths that led 
 here and there in all directions. He pres- 
 ently fell to acquainting the hunch-back 
 with his thoughts. 
 
 " I doubt that, master," replied the char- 
 coal-burner ; " an' he were in such a strait 
 as you have said, methinks it must needs be 
 he could have been in no case for further 
 journeying. I am more apt to think he hath 
 been moved by other persons." 
 
 " How can that be ?" inquired the other. 
 " I saw no one in the wood but ourselves." 
 
 " That might be, master," said the hunch- 
 back ; " but at this late hour, when the 
 place seemeth to be deserted of every one. 
 iie Lord Urban, whose property it is, as 
 well as great part of the surrounding coun- 
 try, wandereth alone in it for hours toge- 
 ther, and 'tis like enough my lord hath fal- 
 len on your friend in his rambles, and see- 
 ing how much he wanted immediate suc- 
 cor, as you have said, hath borne him to his 
 own fair mansion, scarce half a mile from 
 this place." 
 
 "It may be," observed the young traveller, 
 considering the probability of what had just 
 been advanced ; " but who is this Lord Ur- 
 ban, for I should be glad to know if my 
 friend is in safe hands ?" 
 
 " Be assured he cannot be better off," an- 
 swered the hunch-back, " and if you will 
 with me, and share the shelter and the cheer 
 of my cot, I will tell you whatever you may 
 require concerning of him, and in the morn- 
 ing direct you the nighest way to his man- 
 sion." 
 
 Believing that nothing more desirable 
 could be done, William Shakspeare assented 
 cheerfully to the charcoal-burner's proposal, 
 on condition that they should previously 
 search about where they were, to see if the 
 lost youth had lingered in the neighborhood. 
 Finding nothing of him, they then bent their 
 steps towards the mud cot, and in a few 
 
 minutes entered it together. The new 
 comer found it the most primitive habitation 
 he had ever been in, in all his days, there 
 being no windows to it, the ground consti- 
 tuting the floor, in the centre of which was 
 a large fire burning, which the hunch-back 
 quickly replenished with fresh logs. The 
 smoke had no other way of exit but through 
 the open door, and therefore gave a most 
 dingy coat to the whole interior. On the 
 fire was a sort of kettle swung. A foot of 
 two from it was a table and chair, at tho 
 other side a kind of bed, made of branches 
 of green broom, with a log of wood by way 
 of pillow, and in the corner a rude cup- 
 board; beside which there were in other 
 parts of this chamber divers woodman's 
 tools, and spades, gins, and other instru- 
 ments. Against one part of the wall was a 
 hare hanging, and nearly opposite a leather 
 jerkin. 
 
 The charcoal-burner wiped the chair for 
 his visitor, who in honest truth was glad to 
 find such resting, did the same office for the 
 table, and presently placed on it, with tren- 
 chers, knives, latten spoons, and other neces- 
 saries, a smoking dish of stewed coneys, 
 that smelt so savory, the young traveller did 
 not require much pressing to induce him to 
 have at them ; and his companion, making 
 himself a stool out of a tall log, eat and 
 drank with such extreme heartiness, it could 
 not fail being a provocation of itself ; but 
 the edge of the other's appetite was sharp 
 enough without such setting, in consequence 
 of a long and tiresome journey, and he made 
 as good a meal as he had done any "day of 
 his life before. The old fellow then gossip- 
 ped about his lord sundry marvellous stories, 
 till the other gave a hint he would be glad 
 of getting some sleep. 
 
 " If you can bring yourself to accept of 
 such poor lying as I have, 'tis at your com- 
 mandment," replied the charcoal-burner, 
 pointing to the bed of broom-branches at the 
 other side of the fire. 
 
 " Truly, I think it as pleasant a couch, 
 for one as weary as am I, as a king's bed," 
 answered the other ; " but how mean you to 
 take your sleep ? I like not depriving you 
 of your customary comfort." 
 
 " Heed me not, master. I can sleep on a 
 chair as fast as I can anywhere," said the 
 old fellow. Whereupon, his young compan-- 
 ion presently went, and threw himself upon 
 the charcoal-burner's bed, and the other sat 
 himself in the chair, and in a few minutes 
 it appeared as if both were in as sound 
 sleeping as they could well have. But as 
 regards the hunch-back, his slumber was 
 but feigned. He T ound he could get no rest 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 175 
 
 for thinking of the young stranger's purse, 
 with a greedy longing to make it his own, 
 and yet he c®uld not resolve himself into at- 
 tempting to deprive him of it. He was 
 striving in his mind, to find some way by 
 which he might do so in perfect security. 
 If he took it privily as he slept, he might dis- 
 cover the loss on waking, and could not fail 
 of suspecting the robber, and would straight- 
 way demand its restitution, or might speed 
 to the Lord Urban's where he was bound as 
 he said, and acquaint some of them there 
 with his having been so plundered, by which 
 speedy punishment was likely to follow. 
 This suited the charcoal-burner not at all. 
 Still, he was intent upon having the money 
 — for the demon of covetousness had a fast 
 hold on him — but hours passed without his 
 coming to any determination. At last, an 
 idea was started in him, that appeared to 
 give him the purse, and provide against all 
 dreaded consequences ; yet, such was the 
 character of this idea, that as soon as it was 
 well conceived of him, he gazed stealthily 
 round the chamber, to note if any were nigh 
 enough to get note of it. Assured that none 
 were within the cabin save the stranger, 
 and that, as his breathing declared, he was 
 in a deep sleep, the hunch-back quietly rose 
 from his seat, and cautiously picking some- 
 thing from a corner, stole with the noiseless 
 step of a cat, out of the place. 
 
 The youthful Shakspeare had got himself 
 into a famous dream. He fancied he was 
 in a fierce battle, in company with his once 
 notable kind friends the two young knights, 
 wherein, after much brave fighting on his 
 part, he had been overthrown, and lay so sore 
 wounded he could not move. He heard the 
 battle raging around him — the clashing of 
 the swords, the blows of the curtle-axes, the 
 cries of the combatants, and the groans of 
 the wounded, and these so nigh, it seemed 
 plain he should be crushed to death in the 
 melee, still he had no power of moving, 
 strove he ever so ; and this horrible dread so 
 increased, that upon a sudden rush of the 
 battle towards him so tumultuously it was 
 manifest his doom was sealed, divers fell so 
 heavily upon him, he started at the shock 
 and awoke. He could still hear the clash- 
 ing of the swords though his eyes were wide 
 open ; but gradually he became conscious, 
 as he looked about him, he had been in a 
 dream, and he remembered where he was 
 lying. The fire in the centre of the hovel 
 was now burning low, so as to throw an in- 
 distinct lurid light about the place — the 
 dreamer looked for his host ; but there was 
 the table, with the supper things still un- 
 cleared away, and there the chair, in which 
 
 he had last seen the charcoal-burner, reposing 
 himself for his last night's rest, bare of a 
 tenant ; nor did he appear to be anywhere 
 in the cabin. At this discovery, the dream- 
 er marvelled somewhat. As he listened 
 more attentively, his quick sense of hearing 
 could plainly distinguish, that what he had 
 taken to be the noise of swords clashing to- 
 gether, was the sharpening of some weapon 
 with a stone. Whereupon, he fell into a 
 greater wonder than before. It seemed 
 strange the hunch-back should want to be 
 sharpening of anything at that hour. On 
 a sudden he called to mind the covetous 
 looks of the old fellow whenever he glanced 
 at his purse, and then he had some suspi- 
 cions the other meant him no good. 
 
 In a moment he reached down the old 
 jerkin that was hanging on the wall, and 
 with it covered the log of wood that had 
 served for a stool, which he laid in the exact 
 place in which he had been recently lying, 
 keeping himself back in the deep shadow, 
 for the purpose of watching to note whether 
 his suspicions were well or ill-grounded. 
 Presently, he beheld the charcoal-burner 
 with a very devilish visage, as it appeared 
 by the light of the fire cast upon it, enter 
 the hovel, and stealthily approach his bed, 
 with a woodman's bill in his hand, the edge 
 of which he was feeling with his thumb, 
 mayhap to note if it was sharp enough for 
 his purpose. In the mind of the youthful 
 Shakspeare, there now could not be a doubt 
 of the old fellow's murderous intentions. 
 Indeed the eager, cautious, fiend-like look he 
 had as he crept along with his weapon, was 
 sufficient evidence of the deadliness of his 
 object. The supposed sleeper lay still as 
 death close against the wall, and that portion 
 of the chamoer being fartherest from the 
 fire, it was so dark no object could be seen, 
 and about the bed of broom, there was only 
 so much light as to see forms without clear- 
 ly distinguishing them. 
 
 The hunch-back approached the bed 
 closely. He stopped as he got nigh to the 
 top of it. At this, William Shakspeare was 
 in some apprehension the other would spy 
 the cheat, and was preparing himself for a 
 desperate conflict, if such should be the case. 
 However, presently, he beheld his treach- 
 erous host lift his weapon above his head, 
 and the next moment it came down with such 
 monstrous force, it cut through the jerkin, 
 and stuck firm in the log beneath. Then 
 the pretended sleeper sprung from his con- 
 cealment, but not in time to secure the vil- 
 lain, who, the instant he heard the rustling 
 of his intended victim as he rose from hia 
 hiding, saw clearly enough he had been 
 
176 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 foiled in his murderous purpose, and with 
 a muttered execration rushed from the hovel 
 at the top of his speed, pursued by his dog, 
 who had been a curious spectator of the 
 whole scene. The other did not think it ad- 
 visable to follow them into the intricacies 
 of the wood at such a time, so he first pul- 
 led out the bill from the log, the which took 
 all his strength to do, it was buried so deep 
 in the wood, meaning to use it in his own 
 defence should there be occasion ; then 
 made the fire burn bravely, resolving to wait 
 where he was till daylight. 
 
 Finding himself in no way molested after 
 some time, he went to the door and looked 
 out. The heap of charcoal was still smok- 
 ing. All around lay the spreading trees, 
 and above, the cold grey sky, such as it ap- 
 peareth in the early morning. The stillness 
 was most profound ; but this lasted only a 
 brief while. Presently, the wind came 
 sweeping among the leaves, sighing heavily 
 as if in a great weariness, and making a 
 notable trembling of all the tender green 
 things it passed over, as if they liked not the 
 approach of such a visitor. It died away, 
 and all was still again. Again it rushed 
 onward in its broad path with the like con- 
 sequences, and anon, the whole wood was 
 hushed into a deep sleep : and so it continued. 
 After an hour or so of these changes, ob- 
 served by the young poet with such pleasure 
 as none but minds like his, so perfectly at- 
 tuned to the sweet harmonies of nature, can 
 be familiar with, on a sudden, he heard a slight 
 chirping ; then another in a different direc- 
 tion, and answering to that a third, and ere 
 another minute had passed, there was so 
 goodly a chorus of chirpings, whistling, 
 warbling, and all manner of such choice 
 singing, from the whole neighborhood, as was 
 quite ravishing to hear. Then numberless 
 small birds, of different hues, were seen 
 busily whetting of their beaks against the 
 tiny twigs, or hopping in and out amid the 
 branches, or descending to the ground, feed- 
 ing on such palatable things as they could 
 find ; and in noting of their different songs, 
 their pretty ways, and their soft glossy plu- 
 mage, the youthful Shakspeare forgot all 
 thoughts of preparing himself against threat- 
 ened murder. Indeed, he could not enter- 
 tain any idea of violence amongst such 
 pleasant happiness as now surrounded him. 
 After enjoying of this fair scene for some 
 time, and impressed with the conviction the 
 charcoal-burner had no mind to return, fear- 
 ing to be punished for his villainy, the young 
 traveller once more took to his bundle and 
 stick, and ventured out of the hovel, in the 
 txpectation of meeting some one or another 
 
 coming to his work, who would be his guiae 
 to the Lord Urban's mansion, in case he 
 should not be able to find it by following the 
 direction given by the murderous hunch-back 
 the preceding night. He proceeded on his 
 path, bent upon ascertaining as well as he 
 could how his young friend had fared, and 
 then continuing his journey as speedily as 
 he might. He met nothing, save the proper 
 denizens of the wood, coneys, hares, and 
 sundry different sorts of birds, who speedily 
 took themselves elsewhere at his approach, 
 till he turned the corner of the path ; and 
 then he stopped suddenly, for he beheld a 
 scene, the like of which he had never wit- 
 nessed before. Opposite him, leaning against 
 a tree, stood a tall man, apparently of some 
 fifty years or so, negligently clothed in 
 handsome apparelling. His countenance 
 was the most woe-begone he had ever seen, 
 pale, haggard, and care-worn, with misery 
 written in every line ; notwithstanding which 
 there was something so truly noble in his 
 features, that the grief they expressed seem- 
 ed as though exalted beyond the reach of 
 ordinary sympathy. His arm resting against 
 the tree afforded a support for his head, in 
 which position he had placed himself, with 
 his eyes fixed upon the ground, and ever 
 and anon, giving of such groans and deep 
 sighs as were exceeding pitiful to hear. 
 Presently he moved, clasped his hands forci- 
 bly together, and lifted up his eyes to the 
 sky with a look so heart-rending, he who 
 alone saw it could never forget it. Sorrow 
 in any, appealeth to the heart of the specta- 
 tor ; but when the majesty of manhood put- 
 teth on its sad livery, there is no such 
 moving sight in the whole world. 
 
 The stranger then took to walking two or 
 three paces, to and fro, in the path with his 
 eyes fixed on the ground, and his aspect 
 bearing the signs of a consuming grief. 
 Again he stopped — and the expression of his 
 countenance changed greatly — it bore a ter- 
 rible suspiciousness ; and then anger, scorn, 
 and hatred followed each other rapidly. 
 
 "Infamous wretch!" exclaimed he, in a 
 voice so hollow and broken, it did not appear 
 to belong to a living creature ; " her punish- 
 ment hath been as intolerable as her crime ! 
 'Tis fit — 'tis fit such guilt should be so vis- 
 ited. A most just judgment — a proper 
 vengeance." At this he walked about as 
 before, and soon returned to the more quiet 
 sadness he had at first exhibited ; and then 
 he groaned, and smote his breast with his 
 clenched fist, and shook his head most woe- 
 fully, and muttered something which could 
 not be heard. The youthful Shakspeare ( 
 with a natural delicacy, liking not to be seen 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 171 
 
 taking note of the stranger's actions, was 
 turning away, when he was discovered. 
 
 " Ah, fellow, what dost here ?" angrily 
 cried the distracted gentleman, rushing upon 
 him with the speed of a young deer ; and 
 then placing himself in his path, appeared 
 to examine him with a severe scrutiny. A 
 glance seemed to suffice, for the expression 
 of his features changed instantly ; and he 
 spoke in a gentler voice, " Heed not any- 
 thing you may have heard," said he, putting 
 his hand on the youth's shoulder. " I am 
 subject to strange fits — and I rave about I 
 know not what. I pray you, think not 
 hardly of me, if you have listened to aught 
 to my disadvantage." And then he took the 
 other tenderly by the hand as if he was an 
 especial friend, and gazed in his face in such 
 a manner as might one who would show in 
 his looks his affectionate regard of a com- 
 panion he talked with. 
 
 " Be assured I heard nothing I could place 
 to your discredit," replied the young poet, 
 much moved at the other's strange way of 
 addressing him. " And what I did hear, I 
 came on accidentally, and listened to from 
 sympathy rather than curiousness." 
 
 " Ah ! doubtless !" said the earl, hurriedly. 
 " But how came you in this place so early ? 
 — it is not usual to be travelling at such an 
 hour." 
 
 William Shakspeare then spoke of his 
 last night's adventures ; to which the other 
 listened with singular . curiousness ac- 
 knowledging himself to be the Lord Urban, 
 and that it was he who had removed the 
 helpless Bertram, finding him in the case he 
 was — asking many questions about him, and 
 at last inviting his new acquaintace to see 
 him at the house where he lay. To this 
 the other gladly assenting, these two pro- 
 ceeded there together. The mansion was 
 the largest and fairest to look at William 
 Shakspeare had seen, save only Kenilworth 
 Castle, and it lay in the centre of a noble 
 park. As they approached it they came 
 upon several parties of men — perchance 
 going to their labor of the day — all of whom 
 did the earl a notable reverence, that he ac- 
 knowledged with a suitable graciousness ; 
 soon after which the young traveller follow- 
 er his noble guide, by a private entrance, 
 »nto the interior of that stately dwelling. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 I was wery of wandering, and went me to rest, 
 Under a brode banke, by a bourne side, 
 And as I lay and lened, and loked on the water, 
 I slombered into a sleeping, it swyzed so mery. 
 The Vision of Pierce Plowman. 
 
 Clown. What hast here ? ballads ? 
 Mopsa. Pray now sing some ! I love a ballad 
 in print, o' life, 
 For then we are sure they are true. 
 Auto. Will you buy any tape, 
 Or lace for your cape, 
 My dainty duck my dear-a? 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Borach. Tush ! I may as well say the fool's 
 the fool. But see'st thou not what a deformed 
 thief this fashion is ] 
 
 Watch. 1 know that Deformed : he has been 
 a vile thief this seven year : he goes up and down 
 like a gentleman. 1 remember his name. 
 
 Ibeo. 
 
 When William Shakspeare left his fel- 
 low traveller, it was with unfeigned regret to 
 part with one for whom, as it seemed, he 
 had conceived so great a liking ; but it was 
 also with a singular satisfaction on his part 
 that the youth had fallen into such good 
 hands. Bertram had resolved to stay where 
 he was, partly from having been much pres- 
 sed to do so by the Lord Urban, who had 
 used him exceeding civilly; and in some 
 measure, because he felt quite unable to at- 
 tempt any further travel, he was in so help- 
 less weak a state. Having received, from 
 divers of the earl's serving men, the neces- 
 sary directions for pursuing his way, and 
 having not only refreshed himself famously, 
 but been liberally provided with a prodigal 
 store of choice eating and drinking for his 
 comfort on the road, the young traveller trudg- 
 ed manfully on pursuing of his journey. 
 
 It chanced, after he had walked till he 
 was getting to be tired, he came to a brook 
 side which murmured very pleasantly, and 
 sitting himself down on the grass, under an 
 alder tree, he presently fell to making a 
 meal of the victual he had; the which 
 pleased him infinitely, for the meat was of 
 the best, and though he had no sauce save 
 his own hunger, that latter gave so sweet a 
 relish no other was wanting ; and then he 
 drew a flask of wine from under his doublet, 
 and took a fair draught of it, which also 
 gave him wonderful content. Now, whether 
 it was he had had but little sleep many 
 nights, or whether it was the strength of 
 the wine got into his head, or the murmur- 
 ing of the brook made him drowsy, I know 
 not ; but after yawning several times most 
 
178 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 unequivocally, and stretching his arms out. 
 and showing other signs of oppressive 
 weariness, presently he lay his strength on 
 the grass, with the bundle under his head, 
 and the stick in his hand, and in a few 
 minutes was in the enjoyment of as sweet a 
 slumber as he had known a long time. 
 
 But mayhap it was the pleasant dream 
 which then visited him that gave his sleep 
 sucn absolute pleasantness; for, truly, it 
 was as delectable a dream as sleep ever pro- 
 duced — though it was made up of all man- 
 ner of strange pageants and unheard of 
 famous marvels. Sometimes it took the 
 shape of a goodly theatre rilled with a noble 
 company, and he a player whose very pre- 
 sence made the whole place to resound with 
 plaudits — anon he had writ a play to be 
 played before the Queen's Majesty and the 
 great lords and ladies of her court ; and he 
 received most bountiful commendation from 
 such glorious audience : — and then he would 
 be writing of poems that should be so liked 
 of all persons of worship, there should 
 scarce be anything in such esteem. And 
 so the dream went on in divers other scenes 
 of a like sort, as if there could be no end to 
 the greatness they promised him ; and, in 
 the end, there danced before his eyes the 
 same pretty company of fair dancers, sing- 
 ers, and revellers, as had used to haunt his 
 slumbers in his younger days ; and one 
 more delicately apparelled than the rest, and 
 of surpassing beauty, beckoned him onward 
 as she flitted gracefully before him, singing 
 c' some words of exquisite hopeful meaning. 
 At this he woke suddenly, and the bright 
 visions changed into a fair landscape — the 
 sweet music was turned to the faint hum- 
 ming of the water ; and the press of tiny 
 ' shapes, in their rare bravery, changed to 
 innumerable small insects that were skim- 
 ming the surface of the brook. The sleeper 
 started from his position, and after refresh- 
 ing himself by laving of his face in the- 
 water, as he lay down on the bank, he 
 shouldered his little burthen, and continued 
 his journey in a gayer humor than he had 
 been in since its commencement. He now 
 more than ever took to the laying of plans 
 and drawing out of schemes for his ad- 
 vancement ; and the first and most notable 
 of these was to make the best of his way to 
 London, to find out the elder Burbage, who 
 was the chief of a company of players there, 
 and offer himself to be of his company ; the 
 which he doubted not would be allowed, 
 Burbage having already knowledge of his 
 fitness for to be a player, having witnessed 
 his first essay when he so readily undertook 
 to fill the post of the sick boy. 
 
 On entering a town on market day, and 
 having passed long lines of pens for sheep 
 and pigs, and droves of cattle — rude carts 
 laden with sacks of grain, piles of cheese 
 heaped up in the open place, along side of 
 baskets of eggs, poultry, and butter, with 
 here a show perchance of a wild Indian — 
 there a famous doctor on a platform, offering 
 to cure all diseases — in another spot the 
 notablest conjuror and astrologer in the 
 whole world, surrounded by gaping crowds 
 of farmers, yeomen, and rustical sort of 
 people — and elsewhere a harper singing of 
 old ballads in a circle of well pleased listen- 
 ers of both sexes, he was stopped by a throng 
 of persons of all ages and conditions, who 
 seemed to be laughing very merrily at the 
 rivalry of two travelling chapmen, seeking 
 by dint of volubleness of tongue and low 
 humor to get off their wares. The one was 
 an amazing red-nosed old fellow, with one 
 eye, but there was in it so droll a twinkle, 
 and it seemed so active withal, it was evi- 
 dent it grieved not for the loss of its partner. 
 He had got with him a handful of ballads 
 and broad sheets, and a bundle at his back, 
 which he was striving all his craft of tongue 
 to dispose of. The other was a pedlar — a 
 rare rogue, of a most facetious vein, who 
 whilst in serious commendation of his wares 
 failed not to utter a sly jest at his rival 
 He had his .pack opened before him, dis» 
 playing all manner of ribbons and trinkets, 
 which he showed as openly as he could, 
 and praised as though nothing half so good 
 could be had anywhere. 
 
 " Out with your pennies, my masters !" 
 cried the ballad-monger. " Here is a choice 
 time for spending. Delicate ballads ! Rare 
 ballads, new and old! Here is one of an 
 amorous turnspit who got so madly in love 
 with his master's daughter, he forgot his 
 proper duty to that extreme, he basted him- 
 self instead of the meat. It was sworn be- 
 fore the mayor he never came to his right 
 senses till the cook run a knife into him to 
 see if he was done. No history so true. 
 Here is another of a merry apprentice, who 
 kissed all the women, beat all the watch, 
 and hanged all the cats within five miles of 
 him, and how he afterwards became the 
 powerfulest merchant in the world. All 
 writ down in an especial edifying manner for 
 the instruction of young, persons. Here is 
 the dialogue of the Oxford scholar, and the 
 tanner of Woodstock, concerning of woman, 
 whether she be fish, flesh, or fowl. Full of 
 most delectable fine argument and deep 
 learning. Buy, my masters, buy ! Xerer 
 had I such prodigal penny-worths. Most 
 true ballads — only happened t'other day was 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 179 
 
 a month. I sal no copper brooches for 
 
 fold. Here are no glass beads to pass for 
 ne stones. I seek not to cozen you with 
 pewter for silver. These are ballads, my 
 masters — none so good have been writ this 
 hundred ' year — choice for singing — choice 
 for reading, and choice for sticking against 
 the cupboard door." 
 
 " Here is Paris thread of the best," said 
 the pedlar. " Here are ribbons for holiday 
 wear, that when given to a comely damsel, 
 force her to be so desperate after the giver, 
 he shall marry her in a week. Here are 
 garters so exquisitely fashioned, they make 
 a neat ankle of so ravishing a shape, not an 
 eye shall gaze on it without being lost in 
 love' for the owner. Here are pins and 
 needles warranted to prick none, save those 
 they run into. Here are leather purses that 
 have been charmed by a conjuror, so that 
 they have the virtue to double whatever 
 money they shall hold. Here is famous 
 goldsmith's work in wedding-rings of metal 
 that cannot be matched for sterlingness, and 
 are moreover known to keep all wives true 
 to their husbands, and to hold them so obe- 
 dient withal, they shall take a cudgelling or 
 a kissing with a like good will. Here are 
 locks for hair — brooches and ear-rings, gar- 
 nished with stones beyond all price — neck- 
 laces and chains from beyond the seas, and 
 all so marvellous cheap they should be a 
 bargain at thrice what I will sell them for. 
 All true lovers come to me, I will insure 
 you your desires at a small cost. All gener- 
 ous good husbands now is your time to win 
 your wives to honest affectionateness. I am 
 no dealer in monstrous dull lies that would 
 make a dead man stir in his grave the hear 
 of such roguery. Here is no poor foolish 
 stuff put into measure to £heat simple per- 
 sons into a laugh. I have my eyes about 
 me, and believe others not to be so blind as 
 some that take but a half look at things do 
 fancy. Judge for yourselves. Note how 
 excellent are my wares. Whatever you 
 lack you shall have of such fineness and at 
 so cheap a rate as you can never have 
 again.' Girdles, belts, points, laces, gloves, 
 kerchiefs, spoons, knives, spurs, scissors, 
 thimbles, and all other things whatsoever, 
 made so well and fast, they shall last till 
 you die, and after that serve you as long as 
 you may have use for them." 
 
 In this strain the two continued, to the 
 huge entertainment of the assembled rustics, 
 who greedily bought of each, and laughed 
 loudly at their sly allusions to the other's 
 efforts to cheat them. The young traveller 
 passed on as soon as he could — somewhat 
 amused at the droll rogueiy of those merry 
 
 knaves, till he came to another crowd about 
 the town-crier, who had just made the whole 
 neighborhood resound with the clamor of 
 his bell, causing persons to throng around 
 him from all parts. William Shakspeare 
 could only get near enough to hear a word 
 or so that was bawled louder than the rest, 
 so he asked of a staid simple-looking man 
 at his elbow, what it meant. 
 
 " It meaneth that the Queen of Scots 
 hath escaped," replied he, " and hue and 
 cry hath been made for her from town to 
 town, and from tithing to tithing. And, 
 moreover, that London hath been set on fire, 
 and that the papists are rising in all parts, 
 bidding of every man to get himself in ar- 
 mor, in readiness to do battle in defence of 
 the Queen Elizabeth, and to search for and 
 seize on the false Queen of Scots wherever 
 she may be found." 
 
 This intelligence surprised the young tra- 
 veller exceedingly, and amongst the market 
 people it caused a singular commotion, for 
 presently they all broke up into little knots 
 discoursing of no other matter — some alarm- 
 ed — some valiant — some threatening, and 
 every one talking or seeking to talk of the 
 escaped queen, the fire, and the papists. 
 William Shakspeare was proceeding on his 
 way as speedily as he could, marvelling at 
 what he had heard, when of a sudden he 
 found himself seized firmly, and turning 
 round beheld the person he just spoke to, 
 with his face flushed as though in some ex- 
 traordinary excitement, and his whole frame 
 in such a tremble as if he was taken with a 
 sudden ague. 
 
 " I charge you to surrender yourself 
 peaceably," exclaimed he to his astonished 
 prisoner. 
 
 " For what cause I pray you ?" inquired 
 the latter. 
 
 " I arrest you as a false traitor and hor- 
 rible malefactor against the queen's high- 
 ness, our sovereign lady, whose poor con- 
 stable I am," replied the other, seeming in 
 terrible fear lest he should escape. " Ask 
 of me no questions, but come straight before 
 his worship the mayor — at your deadly 
 peril." 
 
 " I assure you I have done no offence — 
 there must be some mistake in this*" said 
 his companion. 
 
 " An' you seek to breed a bate by any 
 show of false words, I will call on true men 
 to bear you along forcibly," added the con- 
 stable. Believing both resistance and argu- 
 ments would be useless, the prisoner allowed 
 himself to be led by the person who had de- 
 tained him, followed by a throng of the curi- 
 ous, of whom many, especially the women, 
 
180 
 
 THE YOUTH OP SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 grieved to see so handsome a youth in such 
 custody. In a few minutes he found him- 
 self at the end of a long chamber, with a 
 portly looking fellow, manifestly a miller by 
 the flour with which his garments were 
 covered, that could be seen under his may- 
 or's gown — sitting at the top of a table, in 
 close and earnest conversation with a butch- 
 er on one side of him, and a vintner on the 
 other, and then dictating to a bull-headed 
 sturdy knave in the common dress of a 
 smith. 
 
 " Silence in the court !" cried the miller, 
 the moment the constable opened his mouth 
 to make his accusation, and the mayor spoke 
 so commandingly, the other contented him- 
 self with keeping fast hold of his prisoner ; 
 and seeming in a wonderful anxiousness 
 and solicitude. It appeared that these wor- 
 thies were the chief officers of the corpora- 
 tion, and they were about sending of a letter 
 to the queen's council concerning of the 
 important intelligence of which the reader is 
 acquainted, saying what they have done, 
 and asking what further they should do. 
 Everything was first debated betwixt the 
 miller, the butcher, and the vintner, who ap- 
 peared to be as thoroughly ignorant of proper 
 forms of speech in which to express them- 
 selves, as any three persons could ; and yet 
 they spoke as confidently as if they con- 
 sidered themselves amongst the sages of the 
 land. 
 
 " Now, Alderman Hobnail, read what hath 
 been writ, and our memories shall hold it 
 the better," said the mayor, whereupon the 
 scribe took the paper in his hand, and slowly, 
 as if he could make out his own writing 
 with some difficulty, he read what fol- 
 lows : — 
 
 " An' it please you, right honorables, we 
 have had a certain hue and cry arrive here, 
 charging of us to make diligent searchings 
 in all manner of our lanes and alleys, high- 
 ways and byeways, for the Queen of Scots, 
 who is fled ; likewise of her majesty's city 
 of London, by the enemies set on fire ; 
 whereby in great haste we have got ready 
 our men and armor, with such artillery as 
 we have, on pain of death, as by the pre- 
 cept we were commanded ; and have charged 
 divers of our constables to seek out and 
 apprehend the said Queen of Scots, if so be 
 she is lurking in our township ; but as yet 
 we have gained no intelligence she hath 
 ventured herself into these parts — " 
 
 " Please your worships, the Queen of 
 Scots is here in my safe custody !" exclaimed 
 the constable, who found it utterly impos- 
 sible to withhold any longer the intelligence 
 of the important capture he imagined he had 
 
 made. At hearing this, the mayor and 
 alderman started from their seats in such 
 amazement as they had never shown before ; 
 but their surprise was far exceeded by that 
 of the prisoner, who at last could not help 
 laughing outright. " Please your worship 
 the fact be manifest. This person came up 
 to me, whilst the crier was giving out the 
 intelligence of the Queen of Scots' escape, 
 and not hearing what Master Giles said, he 
 having a pestilent hoarseness, asked of me 
 what he was saying ; and on the instant I 
 told him — her I should say — he — she I mean 
 — took himself, or rather herself, off with 
 the design of escape, as hastily as might be. 
 Whereupon I felt assured he — she I should 
 say — was no other than this escaped queen ; 
 for, as I remember, the Queen of Scots is 
 said to be fair, so is this person — and in no 
 way deformed, which tallies with this person 
 to a hair — and of a well favored counten- 
 ance, the which this person hath also ; and 
 in huge trouble and anxiousness lest he — 
 she should escape, I made him — her I mean, 
 my prisoner, and have herewith brought him 
 — her I should say — into your worship's 
 presence, to be further done with as your 
 worships shall think fittest." 
 
 The whole assembly seemed in so mon- 
 strous a marvel, they appeared as if they 
 could do nothing but stare at the supposed 
 queen. 
 
 " Surely this person looketh but little like 
 a woman," observed the mayor at last ; at 
 which the vintner very pithily remarked, 
 there were divers of that sex who looked 
 not what they passed for ; and the butcher 
 added, with a like shrewdness, it was well 
 known of many women, that on an occasion 
 they could enact the man so much to the 
 life, their husbands could not do it half so 
 well. Hearing these fine arguments, the 
 miller looked somewhat puzzled, and again 
 the constable put in sundry other reasons of 
 his for coming to the conclusion he had — 
 all which, with his singular confusion of 
 he's and she's which marked his discourse, 
 appeared to afford infinite diversion to the 
 suspected Queen of Scots. Presently, being 
 called upon to give an account of himself, 
 the latter strove to convince the worthies of 
 the corporation of the ridiculous blunder of 
 the constable, by pointing to his mustache, 
 saying as gravely as he could, he never 
 knew that formed any part of the escaped 
 queen's countenance ; ,and then uncovered 
 his head to show how different his hair was 
 to a woman's ; but this only led to a con- 
 sultation of the mayor with his chief advi- 
 sers, and hearing something about empanel? 
 ling a jury of matrons, the young traveller 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 18! 
 
 immediately lore open his doublet, and put 
 beyond a doubt — to the horrible disappoint- 
 ment of the constable — that he was neither 
 her highness of Scotland, nor woman of any 
 kind. After which, he made such choice 
 jests of the affair, that he set the whole cor- 
 poration laughing right heartily, and was 
 dismissed from custody, amid the merry 
 congratulations of every one present, save 
 only Master Constable, against whom, his 
 doings of that day, furnished his acquain- 
 tance with a continual jest. 
 
 William Shakspeare got out of the town 
 without further molestation ; and, on the 
 road, coming up to a heavily laden waggon, 
 drawn by six horses, he made a bargain with 
 the waggoner to take him to Oxford. On 
 getting into the vehicle, lie nearly placed 
 himself in the lap of an old lady there seated, 
 in consequence of his not seeing clearly, 
 the interior was so dark ; but he excused 
 himself so gracefully, that he soon got to be 
 on exceeding friendly terms with her. As 
 soon as his eyes became more used to the 
 darkness, he began to make out the figures 
 of his fellow-travellers. First there was the 
 old lady, a notable motherly sort of dame, 
 going to London to visit her daughter. She 
 was marvellous social, talking of her affairs 
 as if each one present was her intimate dear 
 friend and gossip of long standing, although 
 she had seen none before she joined them in 
 the waggon. 
 
 Next to her was a sickly looking boy, 
 going with his mother, who seemed to hold 
 him very tenderly, to get advice of the nota- 
 blest chururgions of London for his ailments. 
 These spoke but little, and only in a few 
 whispers one to another. Beside these were 
 two young Oxford scholars, keeping up a 
 continual arguing on all manner of subjects, 
 as if they could not live a minute without 
 showing of their skill in logic, yet neither 
 could convert the other to his opinion, for 
 each debated the more strongly, the more 
 closely he was combatted. There was but one 
 more of the party, and he was a stout glover 
 from Woodstock, who had been staying with 
 some friends in Wales. He was a great 
 devourer of news, and was no less desirous 
 of playing the intelligencer himself, than he 
 was to listen to the news of another. The 
 young traveller was soon seized on by the 
 old dame going to London, and the stout 
 glover of Woodstock, as a listener for one, 
 and an intelligencer for the other. 
 
 " By my troth, I shall be right glad to get 
 to my journey's end," said the former ; " as 
 1 told my maid Lettice the very morning I 
 •tarted ; and she said she had a monstrous 
 longing to be of my company, so that she 
 
 might see London streets paved with gold, 
 and to get but a glimpse of the queen's 
 glorious majesty of whom she had heard 
 such marvels ; but my husband, who loveth 
 a jest dearly, said that she was in no condi- 
 tion to have her longing gratified, and must 
 first be married a decent time ere she should 
 speak of such things. Indeed, my husband 
 hath an exceeding merry humor ; but he 
 meaneth no harm by it to man, woman, or 
 child, I promise you. I was but a girl when 
 he took me to wife. I remember the day as 
 well as though it were but yesterday ; and 
 in honest truth it will be just forty years 
 come Candlemas. Ah ! I little thought then 
 I should ever be taking a long journey to 
 see a daughter of mine own settled in Barbi- 
 can, whose husband is so highly related he 
 hath a brother, whose wife is first cousin to 
 my lord Mayor ! Ay, I thought no more of 
 it than could an unborn babe. But none 
 can foresee what great things shall come to 
 pass." 
 
 " Know you any news, good sir ? in- 
 quired the glover, who had been waiting im- 
 patiently to put that question for some 
 minutes. The young traveller acquainted him 
 with what he had heard in the town he 
 lately left, not forgetting the droll blunder 
 of the constable in taking him to be the es- 
 caped Queen of Scots, to which his com- 
 panion listened with prodigious interest, as 
 no news could, in his conceit, be so credible 
 as that which is given by the party who had 
 been an actor in it. 
 
 " Ha !" exclaimed the Woodstock man, 
 " there have been continual bruits of the 
 Queen of Scots escaping, ever since she hath 
 been a close prisoner. Perchance it is like 
 enough to happen. I did myself hear of a 
 horrible conspiracy she had entered into to 
 let in the Spaniards and destroy all the pro- 
 testants in the kingdom. Truly she is a 
 most pestilent base woman. Yet know I for 
 certain, that my Lord of Shrewsbury's deal- 
 ings with her have not been honest. Indeed, 
 I could tell of a certain christening of which 
 I have had the minutest particulars — secret 
 though it was. But of such scandals about 
 her there is so famous a plenty, that if but 
 one half be true, it maketh the other half 
 credible." 
 
 " My husband, as I remember told me she 
 was a horrible papist," said the old dame ; 
 " and I heard worthy master curate declare, 
 after service, the very Sunday before I left, 
 she must needs be a most wicked wretch, 
 else would she forswear all toleration of such 
 villainy : and as fair a preacher is he as 
 you shall find in any pulpit ; and taketh his 
 dinner with us some twice at least in. tht 
 
18S 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 week, and always commendeth my skill in 
 cookery ; and, as iie hath himself told me, 
 esteemeth my husband as the goodliest 
 Christian-man he hath ever known ; and 
 myself as the notablest perfect housewife in 
 the whole parish." 
 
 " Heard you any fresh matters in Scot- 
 land ?" asked the glover. " Are the French 
 busy there in any new intrigues, think you ?" 
 
 " Really, I know not ; for I have spoke 
 with none capable of rightly informing me 
 of such things," replied the youthful Shaks- 
 peare. 
 
 " Is it true, the unhappy news of the 
 murder committed on the poor Prince of 
 Orange ?" inquired the other with huge ear- 
 nestness. " And is there any intelligence 
 to be relied on concerning of the embassy of 
 Sir Philip Sydney to condole with the French 
 king on the death of his dear brother, the 
 Duke of Anjou ?" A number of other 
 questions of news followed these in quick 
 succession, whereby it appeared that this 
 greedy intelligencer, was seeking to get note 
 of everything going forward in every part 
 of the world ; but his companion gave him 
 such scanty answers, he was fain at last to 
 give up all hope of turning him to any more 
 Drofit — and the old dame having told the 
 ages of her children and grand-children, 
 with the fullest particulars of their several 
 aistories, also rested her tongue — so that he 
 was left to attend to the dialogue of the 
 Oxford students, who had hitherto heeded 
 nothing but their own arguing. 
 
 " Nay, that cannot be, for Aristotle de- 
 jlareth the very reverse," said one,, with 
 prodigious earnestness. 
 
 " But what sayeth Socrates on that head ?" 
 replied the other somewhat triumphantly. 
 ' Ay, and Epicurus and others of the an- 
 cients. I doubt you can do away with such 
 evidence. Methinks you must needs ac- 
 knowledge yourself to be well beaten in this 
 argument, for trulv you are now at your 
 last shifts." 
 
 " Nay, be not in such conceit of the mat- 
 ter," rejoined the first, in any manner 
 rather than like one who suffereth defeat. 
 " I never was so well off in my logic since 
 the question was started. Now I will main- 
 tain, even at the stake, these my proposi- 
 tions, which I doubt not to make good with 
 all proper weapons of rhetoric, and refer- 
 ences of highest authority. First, the body 
 hath a soul." 
 
 " Granted," said his companion. 
 
 " All souls are, therefore they, exist." 
 
 " I let that pass." 
 
 " To exist, argueth to live, and to live 
 requireth the proper sustenance of life" 
 
 " That hath to be proved," grave y t&> 
 marked his opponent. 
 
 "Proved!" exclaimed the other, as if in a 
 monstrous astonishment. u Is there anything 
 that can live without victual ? Have not ar 
 animals, whether of bird or beast, fish or in- 
 sect, a natural commodity of mouth and sto- 
 mach, whereby they are used to eat what 
 pleaseth them ?" 
 
 " There be sundry sorts of creatures who, 
 it is credibly known, live without any man- 
 ner of victual whatsoever," said his compa- 
 nion. " I pass over what is so notorious as 
 the barnacle that is the fruit of a tree, there- 
 fore can require no feeding, yet is an animal 
 with no deficiency of stomach or mouth ; 
 and the chamelion who is a beast, yet useth 
 himself to no victual. I will say nought of 
 the toad, that may live a hundred years shut up 
 in the crevice of a rock. I will scarce so much 
 as mention the salamander, the phoenix, the 
 cockatrice, and other familiar animals, which 
 divers famous philosophers maintain do sup- 
 port themselves after- a like fashion. But I 
 will at once to the stronghold of my argu- 
 ment, which is, that ghosts have never been 
 known to eat and drink even of the delicatest 
 things that came in their way." 
 
 " By our lady I have great doubt of that," 
 exclaimed the other ; " hast forgot the ghost 
 of the drunken tapster, that used to haunt 
 the very cellar in which his corpse was dis- 
 covered ; and what should a ghost want in 
 such a place, think you, but to refresh him- 
 self with a draught of good wine of which 
 he had used to be so fond? Dost not re- 
 member how the spirit of a certain ancient 
 housekeeper was known to walk the j»antry 
 of her master's house, and for what reason- 
 able purpose could that be, save to feast on 
 the store of delicacies she knew was there 
 to be found ? But there is a fresher and 
 more convincing instance that happened at 
 our college only last vacation to Master Pip- 
 kin, the proctor. Now he and a certain lame 
 doctor of divinity were sworn brothers. Dr. 
 Polyglott was of an exceeding gravity, and 
 as learned a scholar as Oxford could pro- 
 duce. It was said that he was at his books 
 all day and all night, and that he liked no- 
 thing so well ; but, in truth, he had a mon- 
 strous liking for roast pig with codling sauce, 
 and this the proctor knew. So he asked the 
 doctor to come and sup with him at an hour 
 named, and he should have most choice 
 feasting on this his favorite dish ; and he 
 having gladly assented, Master Pipkin got 
 things in readiness. At the appointed time, 
 the learned scholar hopped across the proc- 
 tor's chamber towards the table much in the 
 ordinary way, and feasted as he had neve! 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 18S 
 
 feuted "before ; but he looked graver even 
 han he v/as wont to look, and spoke never a 
 word the whole time he was engaged in de- 
 vouring this delicate food. Nevertheless, 
 this did not excite in his host any strange 
 surmises, knowing his old friend to be given 
 to fits of such deep thinking, he would not 
 speak for hours, no matter what he might be 
 about. But the strange greatness of his appet- 
 ite did create a very singular marvelling in the 
 Droctor, for the learned scholar continued to 
 fill his trencher, and to empty it with such 
 'requency, that in the end the roast pig was 
 oicked to the bones, and the oodling-sauce 
 eat up to the last mouthful. As soon as this 
 Became manifest, Dr. Polyglott hopped out 
 if the ehamber as gravely as he had hopped 
 ato it. The next morning little Pipkin 
 walled on his old friend, to inquire whether 
 ie had slept well after so heavy a supper, 
 when, to his extreme horror, he learned that 
 Jie poor doctor had been dead since noon the 
 areceding day. Now it followeth from this, 
 hat the worthy doctor of divinity evinced 
 lis wonderful fine wisdom, in taking the op- 
 portunity to banquet on his favorite dish to 
 the last morsel as he did, knowing that such 
 delicacies as roast-pig with codling sauce, 
 the most fortunate of ghosts cannot hope to 
 fall in with but rarely." 
 
 The youthful Shakspeare was somewhat 
 amused at what he had heard, and presently 
 ie joined in the argument with as serious 
 an earnestness as either, much to the marvel 
 9f the Oxford scholars, who thought it most 
 wondrous, a plain countryman as he appear- 
 ed, should talk so well and wisely. It was 
 manifest he soon had the best of the argu- 
 ment. Indeed, he brought forth such con- 
 vincing reasons, clothed in such brave lan- 
 guage, that his opponents quickly got more 
 into the humor of listening to his discourse 
 than of offering any speech of their own. — 
 Grave as he appeared, he was but entertain- 
 ing of himself with their credulity. 
 
 " But concerning of ghosts, there is a 
 thing that puzzleth me out of all telling," 
 said he, in conclusion. " It cannot be for a 
 moment supposed any person would be so 
 heathenish ignorant, or so deplorable foolish 
 as to think such things are not to be met 
 with — yet there is a matter connected with 
 them that methinks goeth a great way to- 
 wards such thinking, an' it be not properly 
 explained by those having most knowledge 
 of the subject. This I will here proceed to 
 lay open to you, as I should be infinitely 
 glad to be instructed by your opinion. Now, 
 as far as the wisest philosophers have writ- 
 ten, a ghost is immaterial, of no sort of sub- 
 stance, being but the mere shadow, as it 
 12 
 
 were, of the body from which it aath been 
 separated ; and that none, save only man 
 who hath a soul, can come into the state 
 that is commonly called being a ghost." 
 
 " Truly sir, there can be no disputing any- 
 thing so clearly put," observed one of the 
 scholars. 
 
 " Now mark you this, my masters," conti- 
 nued the young traveller, with a more pro- 
 found gravity ; " there never yet was an in- 
 stance of a ghost who appeared without pro- 
 per, apparelling — none so abominably ill-be- 
 haved as to show himself deprived of clothing 
 of every kind." 
 
 " Nay, so horrible improper a thing can- 
 not be conceived of them," said the other. 
 
 " Indeed, I thought as much," added Wil- 
 liam Shakspeare. " Now there is a ghost 
 of a person of worship seen, just as he used 
 to be when he lived. How came he with a 
 doublet ? Garments have no souls aa Xhave 
 ever heard ; and therefore neither hcoe nor 
 trunks, nor cloaks, nor hats, nor apparel of 
 any kind can be ghosts. And how c»,n they 
 be worn of a ghost being of substance as 
 they must needs be, not being of the imma- 
 terial nature of a spirit ? If the lWiter, as 
 hath been credibly affirmed, can slide through 
 the crack of a door with ease, the«e is no 
 clothing of ever so fine a fabric 1 ut what 
 cannot help staying behind at such a time ; 
 and so leave the poor ghost without a thread 
 to cover him. And when a ghost estandeth 
 before any person, his garments being hea- 
 vy, and he so exceeding light, they must 
 needs fall to his heels for lack of proper sup- 
 port, to the horrible scandal of all decent 
 spectators." 
 
 The Oxford scholars looked as perfectly 
 puzzled as it was possible for any men to be ; 
 and evidently knew not what to say on so 
 perplexing a matter, for they had wit enough i 
 to see there could be but two conclusions to 
 such an argument, which were a sort of 
 Scilla and Charybdis to the theory of ghosts 
 — for if they would affirm ghosts went with- 
 out clothing — seeing that none could be had 
 of any material that would stay on a sha- 
 dow for a single moment — they would put 
 themselves against the best authorities that 
 had writ or spoken on the subject, all of 
 whom vouched for their being properly clad 
 in ordinary tiring ; and if they ventured to 
 maintain garments might be of the same 
 nature with ghosts, they by it expressed 
 their conviction, that every article of apparel 
 was possessed of a souL which they knew 
 to be a proposition so contrary to common 
 sense, no sober person would allow of such 
 a thing for a single instant. Doubtless, the 
 young traveller felt famous satisfaction at 
 
134 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 having brought these rare logicians to so 
 complete a nonplus ; for truly they seemed 
 to have been struck with a sudden dumb- 
 ness. At last one acknowledged that what 
 had just been advanced, involved an argu- 
 ment the which had never been started be- 
 fore, and he was not then prepared to give 
 it answer, as it required a monstrous deal of 
 profound thinking, it was of so abstruse a 
 nature ; and the other followed with some- 
 thing to the same purpose ; and presently 
 they managed to turn the disputation into 
 another channel. 
 
 In this way the whole party proceeded on 
 > their journey ; the only variation being some 
 of them would occasionally get out of the 
 waggon and walk by the side of the wag- 
 goner, amongst whom the youthful Shak- 
 speare might be found more frequently than 
 any other, inquiring of him the names of the 
 places they passed through, and of the fair 
 mansions of persons of worship that lay 
 within sight, for it was a most welcome re- 
 lief to the former after having been tho- 
 roughly tired of the humors of his compa- 
 nions, to delight himself with observing the 
 beauties of the surrounding country, and the 
 appearance of the different classes of per- 
 sons he met on the road. Every face bore 
 to him signs of a certain character, no two 
 of whom seemed to be alike ; and from these 
 he could, in his own mind, read the history, 
 habits, and thoughts of all he gazed on. — 
 Mayhap, a great portion of this was mere 
 speculation — nevertheless, it served to be- 
 guile the time with a very fair entertain- 
 ment. 
 
 " And what place come we to next, Mas- 
 ter Giles ?" inquired he of the waggoner. 
 
 " Oxford, an' it please ye," replied the 
 man. 
 
 '.' Do we make any stay there ?" asked 
 the other. 
 
 " Ees, maister, we bide a whole night at 
 comely Mistress D'Avenant's, at the Crown 
 Inn," answered the waggoner, seemingly 
 endeavoring to attend to his horses and his 
 companion at the same time. " John 
 D'Avenant hath just taken her to wife. — 
 Coom, Bess ! put the best leg forrard — do 
 now, I prithee — and I'se warrant ye she's as 
 semely a host as ever drew spigot. Ma- 
 ther-away !" 
 
 " Doubtless, an hour or so with a pretty 
 woman maketh your journey to be all the 
 pleasanter," observed the young traveller. 
 
 " Doant it thoa !" exclaimed the man, 
 with a grin that displayed a pair of jaws of 
 extraordinary capaciousness. " Gogs wouns, 
 maister ! When it be my good hap to get 
 me alongside the shafts o' so goodly sweet a 
 
 creature as Mistress D'Avenant, I feels mf 
 heart for to pull stronger nor the best beast 
 o' the whole team. Gee-whut ! get thee 
 along, I tell thee ! — and I takes it as daintily 
 as a fore-horse going down hill. Body o' 
 me ! when she bringeth me a pint o' tickle- 
 brain, and letteth her sloe-black eyes to rest 
 upon me, whilst I be a fumbling o : the mo- 
 ney out o' my leathern purse, I feels so diz- 
 zy, and so strange, and so full o' monstrous 
 sweet pleasantness fro' top to toe, I've no 
 more heed o' the waggon than the waggon 
 has o'me." 
 
 " Methinks, by this, you must be in love 
 with the good dame," said his companion 
 jestingly. " But surely you will not think 
 of doing mine host of the Crown so ill a turn, 
 as to be loving of his wife when you stop at 
 his house ?" 
 
 " Wouldn't I, thoa ?" cried Giles, w th an 
 inexpressible, sly wink of his somewhat 
 roguish eyes, as he lifted his cap with his 
 left hand and scratched his head, cou try- 
 man fashion. " As far as I can guess, ^ 
 doant take a waggoner to be any more free 
 of temptation than any other man, but it any 
 manner of man whatsoever can come withir 
 the glance of Mistress D'Avenant's sloe- 
 black peepers, and not think within himself 
 how blessed would be his condition were he 
 John D'Avenant, and John D'Avenant he — 
 he must needs be such a mortal as be clean 
 different from the ordinary sons of Adam." 
 This, and other conversation to the 
 same purpose, excited some faint curiosity 
 in the young traveller to behold her whose 
 charms had made so forcible an impression 
 on the susceptible heart of Master Giles 
 and this curiousness of his in due time waa 
 indulged. At their entrance into Oxford 
 which was at dusk of the evening, the tw» 
 scholars left the waggon, and it proceedeo 
 leisurely along till it stopped in the yara 
 of the Crown Inn. It was too dark to dis 
 tinguish objects very clearly, but as far as 
 could be judged of it, the inn was a capac : 
 ous building well accommodated for its pu? 
 poses. Lights were streaming from man. 
 casements, and the burthen of a popular 
 ballad came in full chorus from one of them. 
 A door being open, figures could be seen 
 moving about in the red glare of the kitchen- 
 fire ; and on a cry being raised of " the wag- 
 gon ! the waggon ! Here be Master Giles 
 come, mistress !" two or three persons came 
 rushing out. 
 
 " John ! prithee make all speed to help 
 the travellers out !" cried a female, who waa 
 approaching with a lighted candle, which 
 she shaded with her hand. 
 
 " Ay, sweetheart ! I'll be with thee on the 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 185 
 
 lastant," replied a young man coming after 
 her, and then calling into the house, ex- 
 claimed — " Come Ralph ! Come Robin ! 
 Wilt be all night a bringing of those steps ?" 
 
 " Welcome to Oxford, good friends !" 
 cried the first speaker, very pleasantly, as 
 she appeared at the end of the waggon. 
 
 " Ha ! Master Giles, how dost do ?" said 
 the other cordially greeting the driver as an 
 old acquaintance. 
 
 " Bravely, Master D'Avenant, bravely !" 
 replied he. " And your fair mistress. Body 
 o' me, an' she doant look more bloomingly 
 than ever !" 
 
 " Marry, Master Waggoner ! when am I 
 to come to my full bloom, think you ?" said 
 the first speaker with a pretty laugh, as she 
 left him to pay attention to her new guests. 
 William Shakspeare was assisting his fellow 
 travellers to alight, but he could not help 
 turning round to take note of this Mistress 
 D'Avenant ; and in honest truth he saw be- 
 fore him as delicious a face as any man need 
 desire to see, with lustrous dark eyes, rich 
 complexion, and a most bewitching mouth 
 glowing as it were, under the light thrown 
 upon them by the candle, and ornamented 
 with a becoming head-tire. 
 
 " Take him down gently, I pray you, good 
 6ir, for he is exceeding weak," said the ten- 
 der mother, as the young traveller was help- 
 ing her sick son out of the waggon. 
 
 " Truly, he shall be as tenderly handled 
 as if his own kind mother were a helping 
 him," replied he ; this gentle speech of his 
 brought on him the notice of the pretty 
 hostess, who looked with a pleased surprise 
 at beholding of so handsome manly a youth. 
 In due time all had alighted. The Wood- 
 stock man had already departed. The 
 mother and child, with the old dame, led the 
 way— the latter as usual, making herself 
 wondrous gracious with the host ; and the 
 youthful Shakspeare walking last, by the 
 side of his comely hostess, with whom he 
 appeared already to be affording some pleas- 
 ing entertainment, for she manifestly took 
 his converse with infinite satisfaction. The 
 waggoner stood behind, gazing after the 
 last two as he scratched his head, with a 
 look as though he had much rather Mistress 
 D'Avenant had stayed where she was, or 
 that her companion had come to any inn at 
 Oxford sfltve the Crown. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 f 
 The trustiest, lovingest and gentlest boy 
 That ever master kept. 
 
 Beaumont and Fietchbr. 
 The love of boys unto their lords is strange ; 
 I have read of wonders of it. Yet this boy, 
 For my sake (if a man may judge by looks 
 And speech) would outdo story. I may see 
 A day to pay him for his loyalty. 
 
 lBrt>. 
 Ah ! dere God ! what mai this be 
 
 That a'Ue 4hing weres and wasteth awai ; 
 Frendschip is but a vantye 
 Unnethe hit dures all a day. 
 
 Vernon M S. 
 Alas! 
 There are no more such masters ; I may wander 
 From east to Occident, cry out for service, 
 Try many, all good, serve truly, never 
 Find such another master. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 " What dost think of my lord's new 
 page ?" inquired the grave old butler of the 
 equally grave old housekeeper of the Lord 
 Urban, as they sat together in' a smal. 
 chamber adjoining the buttery of the earl's 
 mansion, taking of their morning repast. 
 
 " Truly a most well favored youth and a 
 gentle," replied the old dame. " I be hugely 
 mistaken in him, good Adam, an' he be not 
 of a most kindly disposition. Never saw 
 youth so courteous, and yet so humble 
 withal. He is ever ready to do all mannei 
 of friendly offices to whoever he cometh 
 anigh ; and yet of such humility as he seemeth, 
 there is a look and behavior with him that 
 is manifestly much above the service h# 
 hath put himself upon." 
 
 " Ay, Joyce, that hath struck me mor6 
 than once," observed Adam. "But there ia 
 another thing which I have observed in this 
 Bertram, in which he differs greatly front 
 youths of his own age, as far as I have seer 
 — and this is, his constant refraining from 
 all kinds of pastime. Despite of his appa- 
 rent cheerfulness I cannot help thinking he 
 hath some secret sorrow which he alloweth 
 to prey on his gentle nature. I have not 
 lived these years without acquiring some 
 cunning in observing of faces ; and I do de- 
 tect in his such signs as assure me he is in 
 no way happy." 
 
 " Perchance that shall make him the bet- 
 ter company for my lord," said Joyce. " In 
 deed, they are so like in their humors 
 methinks they cannot help taking to each 
 other with a mutual good will. It is evi- 
 dent the page loveth his lord, he speaketh of 
 him so fondly, and attendeth on him with M 
 
186 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 affectionate a reverence ; and as it appear- 
 eth to me, the ea-rl is wonderfully partial to 
 his young attendant, for he is never easy 
 save when he is present." 
 
 " Truly I think so," added the old butler. 
 
 " I marvel he hath hot come," observed 
 the housekeeper. 
 
 " He tasteth nothing himself till his mas- 
 ter hath sufficed himself," replied Adam; 
 •' and 'tis as pretty a sight as can well be 
 seen, to note how, with what store of sweet 
 persuasions, the page getteth his lord to par- 
 take of the dainties he setteth before him, 
 till he hath made a fair meal. But here 
 ;omethhis light footstep along the passage." 
 
 The next minute the youth who had been 
 William Shakspeare's fellow traveller en- 
 ered the chamber, clad like a page in the 
 ^very of the Lord Urban, with a sword and 
 tagger, much improved in his looks, though 
 still of a more delicate appearance than is 
 common with one of his age. Courteously 
 le saluted the two ancient domestics, in a 
 manner as gentle as if they were his good 
 oarents rather than his fellow servants, and 
 -ook his place beside them, accepting what 
 they helped him to with abundance of thank- 
 fulness, and only regretting he should put 
 them to such trouble. And this behavior 
 of his so took the hearts of old Adam and 
 nis companion, that they appeared as if they 
 could not do half enough to show how won- 
 drously it pleased them. 
 
 " And how fareth our noble master, sweet 
 sir ?" inquired the housekeeper. 
 
 " He mends apace, good dame," replied 
 the youth. " Indeed, I am now in hopes he 
 may be got out altogether of his unhappy 
 frenzies and terrible sad fits of melancholy. 
 Alack ! 'tis a most grievous thing so noble 
 a gentleman should be in so sad a case as 
 he is !" 
 
 " Ah ! that is it," exclaimed Adam sor- 
 rowfully. " But dost know what great cause 
 he hath had for such deep sadness ?" 
 
 " Nay, not a word of it," answered Ber- 
 tram ; " nor am I in any way desirous to 
 learn, unless my lord think it fit I should. I 
 only know he is a most unhappy gentleman, 
 and methinks that should be enough know- 
 ledge for me to strain my exertions to the 
 utmost, to lead him into more pleasing feel- 
 ings." 
 
 "I do famously approve of such discre- 
 tion," said the old dame ; and then, as was 
 customary of her, recommenced pressing 
 him to make a better meal. " Truly, never 
 met I/any person with such strange lack of 
 appetite," she added, on finding her endea- 
 vors of no avail. " O' my Word, you must 
 not hope to attain any stoutness of flesh, go 
 
 you on with so poor a stomach. But may 
 hap there are other things you might more 
 relish. There is a fair portion of a roast kid 
 now, cooked but yesterday, that would make 
 most delicate eating for your breakfast, that 
 I will get for you, please you to say you 
 could fancy it — or I will have for you a ten- 
 der pullet broiled on the instant, an' you tell 
 me you have a mind for so nice a dainty." 
 
 " Indeed I thank you very heartily, I am 
 well content with the excellent bountiful 
 meal I have made," replied the page. There- 
 upon the old butler entreated him to make a 
 more prodigal use of the ale on the table, or 
 allow of his fetching him a cup of choice 
 malmsey or canary : but the youth cour- 
 teously thanked him, yet could not be in- 
 duced to taste a drop more beyond what he 
 had drank. Immediately after this, one of 
 the grooms of the chamber came to tell Ber- 
 tram his lord wanted him ; upon which he 
 made what haste he could towards that part 
 of the building where the earl had chose to 
 lodge himself. Whilst the youth is making 
 his way through the long passages and 
 broad staircases of this goodly mansion, the 
 reader shall at once be transported to the 
 Lord Urban's chamber. 
 
 It was a gloomy apartment of some di 
 mensions, lighted only by a window of stain- 
 ed glass. On one side of it^yas a large 
 book-case, well stored with volumes of dif- 
 ferent sizes — the chimney-piece was carved 
 all round with armorial bearings, in almost 
 numberless different compartments — the 
 chairs and couches were covered with the 
 same dark tapestry as the panels, and the 
 table in the centre bore a coverlet of some . 
 black stuff, ornamented with a deep border 
 of the same color. At the end of the cham- 
 ber opposite the book-case, on each side of 
 the window, were two large portraits, in 
 carved oak frames, — one a handsome young 
 knight, in full armor, doubtless meant for 
 the earl in his younger days : and the other 
 was completely hid under a black cloth. 
 There were two doors to this chamber, one of 
 which was the entrance, and the other led 
 into an ante-chamber where the page slept, 
 and to the earl's bed-chamber which was 
 beyond it. There was no sign of living 
 thing near, save a fine grey-hound that was 
 listlessly stretching himself by sliding his 
 fore paws close together along the glossy 
 flooring till they were thrust out their full 
 length, and then he would make a faint sort 
 of whining as he looked about and found 
 himself alone. 
 
 Presently a noise like the turning of a 
 key was heard, which made the dog some- 
 what more attentive, but instead of looking 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 187 
 
 tottfards either of the doors, his eyes were 
 fixed in a different direction, and the next 
 moment a concealed door was seen to open, 
 and thereat with exceeding cautiousness, 
 the Lord Urban made his appearance, clad 
 in a suit of black velvet, and looking as if 
 moved with so monstrous a sadness no heart 
 could live under it. After closing the door 
 as cautiously as he had opened it, the earl 
 flung himself into a couch, and with an as- 
 pect of a most woful sort, he fixed his eyes 
 on the black curtain that covered the pic- 
 ture. All this while it was evident his 
 mind was in great trouble. His lips would 
 move and curl into strange expressions, far 
 from pleasing ; his eyes seemed to strain as 
 If after some object that was fading from 
 heir sight, and then he would start back. 
 His breast heaved, and his face grew cloud- 
 ed. He would frown till the wrinkles on 
 nis forehead appeared to be so pressed and 
 squeezed together they must needs crack — 
 and draw in his lips so long and strongly, his 
 mouth disappeared under the beard of the 
 lower part of it. The greyhound looked as 
 though he had again composed himself to 
 sleep ; yet would he open his eyes and fix 
 them on his master with a curious interest, 
 at every start or sudden exclamation the earl 
 made. 
 
 " 'Twas a rightful deed !" muttered the 
 Lord Urban, in deep thick tones that spoke 
 a far profounder meaning than the mere 
 wards conveyed. '■ 'Twas a just vengeance ! 
 The greatly guilty should be greatly pun- 
 ished!" ^Presently a strong shuddering 
 passed over him, and his aspect changed 
 from a severe sternness to a painful melan- 
 choly. " 'Twas a most infamous deed !" 
 exclaimed the earl, in broken accents that 
 were scarce audible; " a deed by which I 
 have forfeited all reputation here, and hope 
 hereafter. An unknightly deed — a coward- 
 ly deed — a most horrible base murder ! 
 Ha !" screamed the unhappy man, when, on 
 raising his eyes, he met those of his page, 
 upon whom he hastily rushed, and seized by 
 the throat as though he were about to stran- 
 gle him. " Dost come prying and listening, 
 fellow ! Nay — nay — " he added, as sudden- 
 ly letti ng go the youth as he had laid hold of 
 him. " I mean thee no hurt, boy ! — O' my 
 life, I will not harm thee. But why didst 
 enter without knocking ?" 
 
 " I knocked many times, my lord, but you 
 answered me not," replied Bertram, with 
 more sympathy in his looks than fear. " And 
 }ou having sent for me pressingly, I made 
 bold to enter without further delaying." 
 
 " Right, boy, right !" said his lord hurried- 
 ly. " I did send for thee I reir.ember me 
 
 well, and doubtless I was too deeply engaged 
 i'n mine own thoughts to take any heed of 
 thy knocking. But didst hear me say any 
 thing discreditable ? — Ought to my disadvan- 
 tage ? Spoke I at all of ?" The earl 
 
 seemed as though the word choked him, for 
 he could not speak it, and wrung the hand of 
 his young attendant, which he had affection- 
 ately seized when his humor changed from 
 its sudden furiousness, and turned away. 
 
 " Alas, my lord, such I have heard too 
 often to pay them any manner of heed," an- 
 swered Bertram sorrowfully. "They are 
 but the natural offspring of your phrenzy — 
 that none, who know you, and love you, 
 would take, save as evidence of your exceed- 
 ing unhappiness." 
 
 " And dost not believe I have committed 
 such wrongful act as I have declared ?" in- 
 quired the Lord Urban, again taking his 
 page kindly by the hand, and looking into 
 his face with a countenance of sadness 
 mingled with affection. 
 
 "How could I credit so intolerable a 
 thing ?" exclaimed the youth. " Methinks 
 the generous treatment I have received at 
 your hands would suffice to plant your no- 
 bleness firmly in my opinion, but what I 
 have seen of your other actions is of the 
 like honorable character ; and surely these 
 common acts are the properest evidence to 
 judge you by — against which the idle say- 
 ings of your distempered fancy can weigh 
 only as a feather in the balance." 
 
 " True, boy, true," cried the earl, a faint 
 smile making itself visible on his noble fea- 
 tures, as he more tenderly pressed the hand 
 he held in his own. " Such things must 
 need be of my mind's disorder. I cannot be 
 so horrible base a wretch as I do sometimes 
 think myself. I do assure thee I have been 
 in wonderful reputation of the noblest per- 
 sons, for all truly famous and noble qualities. 
 Indeed, I have been from my youth ready to 
 cast aside every one thing most valued, 
 rather than the slightest blemish should rest 
 upon my honor. Surely then it cannot be 
 I should in a moment thrust away from me 
 the fame I had labored so long and well to 
 acquire, and do so cruel a deed all men that 
 knew it would cry shame." 
 
 " It is too improbable to be considered a 
 moment, my lord," replied his young com- 
 panion. 
 
 " And yet thou knowest not the provo- 
 cation that may lead to such things," added 
 his lord, with a more touching earnestness. 
 " It seemeth to me the very honorablest sort 
 of man may be maddened by wrong into the 
 showing of such notorious ill behavior. 
 Thou art too young to judge of this. Tho» 
 
188 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 canst not yet enter into the feelings of a, 
 man who having attained the highest emi- 
 nence of nobleness, in extreme confidence 
 he shall so live and die, on a sudden findeth 
 himself reduced to the lowest base abject- 
 ness, by one who was the last of all in his 
 expectation to do him any evil." 
 
 " Truly, I never heard of so hapless a 
 case," observed the page. 
 
 " Doubtless 'tis somewhat rare," said the 
 earl. " But, prithee, get me a book and 
 read. I would be amused out of this hu- 
 mor. Fetch the same goodly romance thou 
 wert engaged upon yesterday." The page 
 cheerfully did as he was required, believing, 
 by so doing, he should beguile the earl of 
 his unhappiness ; and presently sitting him- 
 self in a chair with a huge volume in his 
 lap, commenced reading of the marvellous 
 adventures of certain famous knights. He 
 soon got to be too much interested in the 
 narrative to attend to his hearer, whom he 
 fully believed to be as completely taken with 
 the book as himself, — but such was far from 
 being the case, for though the earl at first 
 appeared attending to what was being read 
 to him, in a few minutes it was evident from 
 the changed expression of his countenance, 
 his mind was engrossed by a very different 
 matter. A hollow groan at last forced the 
 page to desist awhile from his reading. 
 
 The noble features of the earl now ap- 
 peared black and distorted, as though under 
 the influence of a great agony — his eyes 
 with a sad fixedness staring at vacancy, 
 and his hands clenching fast the arms of the 
 chair on which he sat — his head leaning 
 forward, one leg under the seat and the 
 other projecting stiffly before him — in brief, 
 the whole attitude as strained as a mere ef- 
 figy of stone. 
 
 " Murder !" muttered he in the most thril- 
 ling tones Bertram had ever heard. " Oh, 
 infamous ! Oh, most base deed ! Oh, in- 
 oolerable foul blot upon mine honor ! Nought 
 can erase the stain. Reputation ! thou art 
 .ost to me forever ! But who slandereth 
 Tie ? Who dare say ought to my discredit ?" 
 inquired he in a louder voice, and with a 
 fierce frowning look. " Am I not Urban de 
 la Pole ? Urban the reproachless ? 'Twas 
 a just deed ! Who dares " proclaim it to be 
 a murder ?" 
 
 " My lord ! my lord ! I pray you out of 
 this phrenzy !" exclaimed the page urgent- 
 ly, as he pushed his lord slightly on the 
 shoulder to arouse him from his strange 
 fancies. At this the latter started of a sud- 
 den, and grasped his young companion's 
 arm with both his hands, staring upon him 
 with a somewhat bewildered gaze. 
 
 " Ha ! what dost say, boy ?" hastily in* 
 quired he, just above his breath, as it were. 
 
 " I beseech you, my lord, not to allow of 
 these violent terrible fits to get so much the 
 better of you," replied Bertram, in a most 
 earnest voice, and with a look of deepest 
 sympathy. " Believe me, there is no one 
 person anywhere nigh unto you, would 
 breathe one word but to your well-deserved 
 praise. It grieveth me to the heart to see 
 so noble a gentleman so moved. I marvel 
 such gloomy shadows, the mere cheats of a 
 disordered mind, should have such power 
 over your excellent sweet nature." 
 
 " I do believe thou lovest me, boy," said 
 the earl, taking the other's hand in his 
 wonted kind manner. 
 
 " Ay, that do I, right heartily, my lord !" 
 exclaimed the youth, with a most convincing 
 sincerity. " I love you for your truly noble 
 character — such as I have heard from divers 
 of your honest faithful servants — for the 
 greatness of your heart and honorableness 
 of your conduct — as shown in a long career 
 of truly glorious deeds — for your bountiful 
 generousness of disposition to every dis- 
 tressed poor person of whose wants you can 
 gain intelligence ; — and I love you for your 
 noble behavior to myself — the very creature 
 of your prodigal kindness — whom you have 
 saved from the horriblest evils humanity 
 can endure. You found me with nought 
 else to recommend me to your notice but the 
 desperateness of my state. You took 
 charge of me, attended me as a dear friend 
 rather than a master ; gave back to me the 
 health which long suffering had deprived me 
 of ; and the home that villainy had forced 
 me from ; and yet, with the full confidence 
 of a perfect honorable nature, up to this 
 hour you have afforded me all the succor 
 needed, without asking me one word of the 
 cause that brought me into such necessity 
 I might not be the thing I seemed — per 
 chance, one quite unworthy of your smallest 
 esteem ; but out of your own abundant good- 
 ness, you found me such qualities as I most 
 needed, and took me into your service, with- 
 out trial, question, or doubt. Truly, my 
 lord, methinks you have given me great cause 
 to love you.' 
 
 " I bless the hour I met thee in the wood," 
 said the Lord de la Pole, with affectionate 
 earnestness. " I have received more com- 
 fort of thy untiring heed of me than have I 
 known, I scarce can say the day when, it 
 seemeth so long since. I will prove anon 
 how much I do esteem thy loving ser- 
 vice." 
 
 "I care to have but one proof, an' it 
 please you, my lord," said Bertram, ** and 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 !89 
 
 Aat is what I have been laboring for to gain 
 all this time." 
 
 " Ay, indeed ? Prithee say what it is ?' 
 asked the earl. 
 
 " It is but to have you return to the gal- 
 lant activity and proper cheerfulness shown 
 by you in times past," replied his young 
 companion. At hearing this the Lord Ur- 
 ban shook his head mournfully. 
 
 " Ah, boy, that can never be !" said he, 
 witlra deep sad emphasis that went direct to 
 the hearer'! heart. 
 
 " Try, my lord, I beseech you," added the 
 other imploringly. " Hie you to court, and 
 Joubt not the example of your nobleness 
 would be of especial advantage to every gal- 
 .'ant spirit that shall there be found. Take 
 your proper place among the powerfullest 
 lords of the realm, and be ever ready to af- 
 ford them that counsel which your expe- 
 rience teacheth you — or be as you have so 
 often been before, the valiant leader of the 
 chivalry of England, bearing your resistless 
 banner into the very heart of the battle." 
 
 " Ay, talk of these things, boy — talk of 
 them as long as thou wilt !" exclaimed the 
 earl, as a gleam of proud triumph seemed 
 shining in his eyes. " I was not always as 
 I am. There hath been many a hard fought 
 field wherein my spear and curtle-axe have 
 done notable service. Those were glorious 
 days, — those were gallant scenes. The 
 neighing of the war steed, as he rusheth to 
 the conflict at the piercing cry of the trump- 
 et, soundeth in my ears even now, — and the 
 waving penons and the glittering lances, 
 and the resistless rush of knights and men- 
 at-arms, again return to mine eyes. I feel 
 stirred in every vein. Methinks I could seek 
 the enemy with all the valor of my early 
 manhood, and raise the same resounding 
 war cry that hath made the fiercest of the 
 battle to rage around me wherever I passed." 
 
 " Ay, that could you, my lord, I would 
 wager my life on it !" cried the page, de- 
 lighted beyond measure to notice such a hu- 
 mor in the earl. " England hath still ene- 
 mies to subdue — and there yet remain for 
 her gallant defenders many hard fought 
 fields to be won. Would you remain in 
 inglorious ease when the foes of your 
 country are striving for her overthrow, and 
 give yourself up to a vain grief when the 
 dangers that threaten the land require you to 
 hasten to the rescue ? I beseech you free 
 yourself from the trammels of your sorrow 
 — don your favorite armor — bestride your 
 choicest steed — call to your standard the old 
 compankms of your valor, and speed wher- 
 ever glory is to be gained or wrong re- 
 dressed ; and be assurei that net only shall 
 
 the greatness of your fame exceed your 
 former reputation, wherever your name can 
 be heard, but that you shall enjoy such con- 
 tent, such marvellous comfort, and such 
 wonderful sweet happiness, as have never 
 visited you all your life before." 
 
 " Ah boy, thou knowest nothing of what 
 I have endured," answered the Lord Urban, 
 and to his companion's exceeding disconten- 
 tation, manifestly in as complete a sadness 
 as ever. "Thou speakest in entire ignor- 
 ance, else wouldst thou have refrained from 
 so perfect a mockery as speaking to me of 
 happiness. Be sure, that were I not held 
 to this spot by a chain, from which nought 
 but the grave can release me, long ere this, 
 I would have sought in the thickest of the 
 enemy a death, by which my name might 
 obtain that honor which hath been denied to 
 my life. Comfort !" exclaimed he, in tones 
 scarce articulate, as he let go the hand he 
 had held so long. " Prithee, speak not to 
 me such a word again ;" and so saying, he 
 rose from his seat, and slowly traced his 
 way out of the chamber. 
 
 Bertram gazed after him, with eyes full 
 of the tenderest solicitude, and remained for 
 some moments after his lord had disappeared," 
 in a deep reverie of thought. 
 
 It may be taken as an invariable truth, 
 that a truly honorable mind is ever a confi- 
 ding one, and taketh every fair appearance 
 to be what it resembles. Doubt and suspicion 
 belong only to the meaner sort. Those 
 whose intentions are thoroughly honest put 
 the fullest confidence in the dealings of their 
 associates ; and when once opinion getteth 
 to be fixed in them of another's worthiness, 
 a prejudicial thought finds such difficulty of 
 entrance in their unsuspecting minds, that it 
 requireth some extraordinary evidence before 
 it will be entertained. Thus was it with 
 this youth. Of his lord's nobility of charac- 
 ter he had formed so strong a conviction, 
 from what he had heard and seen of him, 
 that such a thing as suspecting him of 
 a dishonorable action, was utterly beyond 
 the bounds of possibility ; therefore, all the 
 Earl's self accusations and dark allusions 
 the other could only treat in the manner 
 already described, as distempered fantasies 
 arising from the gloomy melancholy in 
 which he had indulged, as the page had 
 heard, since the death of his Countess. 
 
 And thus it went on for many months, the 
 faithful Bertram striving all he could to win 
 the Earl from the terrible sorrow, with which, 
 as it seemed to him, his lord was afflicted ; 
 and ever imagining he was succeeding in 
 his endeavors, till some violent fit of frenzy 
 would make its appearance in the object of 
 
190 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEAitE. 
 
 his grateful love, and prove how little he had 
 gained by his affectionate painstaking. He 
 had observed, with some marvelling, that 
 when he had left the Earl for any length of 
 time in the chamber that served for his 
 library, on his return he was sure to find 
 him, either gloomily abstracted, or in some 
 violent excitement. Sometimes, long fits of 
 dreadful self-reproach would follow, and at 
 others, he would fiercely insist he had done 
 a right thing. In the end he was sure to 
 relapse into his customary sadness, from 
 which it was with exceeding difficulty he 
 was thoroughly roused. It chanced to hap, 
 that wanting Lord de la Pole on one occa- 
 sion, to acquaint him with, something he had 
 forgot, Bertram returned to the library, where 
 he had left him a few minutes since, and 
 not finding him there, there waited, believing 
 the Earl had retired to his bed-chamber. 
 
 Finding his lord's stay was longer than 
 he anticipated, he took up a book and sat 
 himself down. He had not been long en- 
 gaged in reading, when he heard a noise 
 close to him, and glancing towards the spot 
 whence it proceeded, to his exceeding won- 
 der, beheld a portion of the book-case open 
 like a door, and immediately after, the Earl 
 enter the chamber by its means, and close it 
 carefully after him. It was manifest the 
 Lord Urban had no expectation of finding 
 his page where he was at that time ; for, on 
 the instant he caught sight of him, he started 
 with a sudden exclamation of surprise, and 
 his look was angry, and his manner more 
 severe towards Bertram than ever the youth 
 had known it to be. 
 
 " How darest thou come here unbid ?" ex- 
 claimed the Earl, as with folded arms he 
 regarded his youthful companion with a 
 stern scrutiny. " Dost seek to pry into my 
 secret ? Have I then all this time been but 
 encouraging a pitiful spy, who laboreth to 
 thrust his curiousness into my most hidden 
 affairs, that he might betray me to the 
 world ?" 
 
 " My lord 1 my lord ! believe me, I never 
 entertained so base a thought," replied the 
 page, much affected his lord should think so 
 ill of him. 
 
 " Wilt promise never to divulge what 
 thou hast seen ?" inquired the Lord de la 
 Pole, with increased earnestness. 
 
 " In very truth, my lord, I never should 
 have mentioned it to any person living if I 
 thought you so desired," said the other. 
 
 " Swear it !" cried the Earl, suddenly 
 grasping his companion firmly by the wrist, 
 seemingly violently agitated. " Down on 
 thy knees and swear by all thy hopes of hap- 
 piness here and hereafter, thou wilt hint to 
 
 none there is other entrance to this chamber 
 save those with which all are acquainted." 
 The page knelt as he was desired, and re- 
 peated, as his companion stood sternly over 
 him, the form of the oath he was required to 
 take. 
 
 " As Heaven is my witness, you need no 
 oaths to bind me to your will," urgently ex- 
 claimed the youth. 
 
 The Earl appeared scarcely satisfied even 
 by this solemn security he had exacted. He 
 was still showing most undeniahle signs he 
 was terribly influenced by some dark pas- 
 sion, for anger flashed from his eyes, and 
 distrust appeared in every feature of his 
 countenance; his breathing was hard and 
 loud, and at every gasp of breath his breast 
 heaved as though it would force its fasten- 
 ings. 
 
 " Be assured, my lord, I am your obedient 
 poor servant, and would die rather than 
 betray any secret you might entrust me 
 with," continued the other. " But it grieveth 
 me to the heart you should think so ill of 
 me. I could bear anything rather than you 
 should doubt of my entire allegiance. Other 
 friend than you have I none in the wide 
 world, and therefore what could induce me 
 to play the traitor to your confidence. I 
 beseech you, my lord,, put away so ungra- 
 cious a thought. As I trust in God's mercy, 
 I have done nought t© merit it." 
 
 " Well, well, boy, perchance I have been 
 too hasty," replied the Earl, somewhat 
 moved by the touching earnestness of the 
 youth's speech. But never stay in this 
 chamber, even for a minute, when I am not 
 present. I should have told thee of this, my 
 desire, sooner, but it never struck me there 
 would be necessity for it." 
 
 The promise was cheerfully made, and 
 the Lord Urban's customary kindness re- 
 turning, all trace of unpleasantness speedily 
 vanished from both. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 Should we disdain our vines because they 
 
 sprout 
 Before their time ? Or young men if they 
 
 strove 
 Beyond their reach 1 No ; vines that bloom 
 
 and spread 
 Do promise fruit, and young men that are wild 
 In age grow wise. 
 
 Greene. 
 
 The best room at the Crown Inn at Ox- 
 ford was filled with noisy boisterous students, 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 191 
 
 ■oat of whom were seated at a long table, 
 covered with drinking vessels, at the top 
 of which was no other person than Wil- 
 liam Shakspeare, for whom indeed all had 
 assembled. The two scholars that had 
 been his fellow travellers in the waggon, 
 spread amongst their acquaintance of their 
 different colleges, the fame of the young 
 countryman who had so charmed them 
 with his eloquent sweet rhetoric, and this 
 presently brought whole companies of stu- 
 dents to see this marvellous person. They 
 were so delighted with his ready wit and 
 admirable perfect knowledge of all man- 
 ner of subjects, that they increased his re- 
 futation so over the university, the dwel- 
 ling of John D'Avenant, large as it was, 
 could scarce contain the wonderful great 
 press of guests that flocked into it. 
 Doubtless this made the cause of such 
 famous custom to be in especial liking with 
 mine host — but independent of these consi- 
 derations, he could not help relishing his 
 guest's society, it was so full of cheerful ease 
 and pleasant humor ; and as for mine hos- 
 tess, if there existeth any language in a pair 
 of lustrous dark eyes, she did discourse to 
 him right eloquently of the favor in which 
 he was held by her. 
 
 Doubtless these latter would gladly enough 
 have kept their young guest where he was, 
 but he had expressed his determination to 
 start for London the following morning, and 
 this becoming known, the scholars must 
 needs give him a parting entertainment, and 
 therefore were they crammed so thick in 
 that chamber. Divers were thronging up to 
 the head of the table, wine cup in hand, to 
 pledge him, and there was a monstrous shak- 
 ing of hands and shouting of good will ; 
 others were talking across the table, or 
 leaning over others to claim the attention of 
 a distant fellow student. Mistress D'Aven- 
 ant was attending to her numerous guests as 
 well as she could, now listening with pretty 
 coquetry as one of the mad youths retained 
 her by the hand, as he whispered something 
 in her ear, which was sure to be followed by 
 a box of his own from the comely woman, 
 though not one that argued any great spite- 
 fulness, and the offender would laugh as if 
 he had performed some excellent sweet mis- 
 chief; and presently answering the num- 
 berless sweet compliments, which poured oa 
 her from every side, with some sprightly jes- 
 ting speech, which appeared to put every 
 bearer into a sudden exstacy. 
 
 A party had got hold of her husband in a 
 corner, and were trying him with all the 
 forms of pleading used in a court of justice, 
 tad he appeared to take the jest very plea- 
 
 santly, defending himself with what wit he 
 had, and leaving his case to the merciful 
 consideration of his judges. Another party 
 in another corner were dancing of a measure 
 to their own singing. Such a curious num 
 of voices surely hath rarely been heard 
 before. Sometimes the speeches were in 
 Latin, and at others English. Here was 
 shouted the fag end of a macaronic verse, 
 there the well known burthen of a popular 
 ballad ; and this was mingled with a din of 
 cries for more wine to the drawers ; a 
 knocking of cups and flasks to attract the 
 attention of their companions, and peals of 
 laughter so long and loud it would often out- 
 drown every other noise. 
 
 " WiH Shakspeare ! Will Shakspeare !" 
 bawled several of the revelers at the table. 
 
 " What wouldst, my hearts of oak ?" re- 
 plied their companion, almost hid amongst 
 the throng of laughing riotous scholars, who 
 had left their seats the better to enjoy his 
 admirable jests. 
 
 " Prithee heed not those knaves of Ba- 
 liol," said a round faced stout little fellow at 
 his elbow, who made himself the noisiest and 
 merriest of the whole party. 
 
 " ' Knaves of Baliol,' thou Brazen-nose 
 calf," exclaimed, from the other end of the 
 table, a tall youth with long hair, and a nose 
 that served his associates as a peg to hang 
 their jests upon, it was of so unusual a 
 length. " Away with thee, thou cinnamon 
 rogue ! What ! because thou art a lord, 
 shalt thou call names ? Though thou look- 
 est so merry, thou art but a sorry lord. I 
 would carve a lord out of a piece of ginger, 
 and he should give a nobler flavor to a bowl 
 of toast and ale, than wouldst thou to a butt 
 of malmsey." 
 
 " Out on thee," replied the young noble- 
 man. " Truly thou art a famous carver, 
 for thou hast carved thy nose to a fine point. 
 I would I could say as much for thy wit : 
 and thou hast monstrous need of ginger, for 
 there shall be found more savor in a dry bis- 
 cuit than can be got out of thee after such 
 pressing." 
 
 " Nay, press him not too hard, I prithee," 
 said another, whose face appeared as red as 
 though it would have out-glowed the rising 
 sun. " At so social a meeting I should not 
 like to see any bones broke." 
 
 " What dost say thou salamander ?" cried 
 the scholar of Baliol somewhat incensed at 
 this sly allusion to his poorness of flesh. 
 *' Go and cool thy red hot aspect in the river, 
 it causeth the whole place to Feel like an 
 oven, it burneth so terribly." 
 
 " As I live he will make the place too hot 
 to hold thee, anon," observed a companion, 
 
192 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 mischievously. " If thou wouldst not have 
 
 us all roasted alive, blow not on him g»ood 
 Martlemas." 
 
 "Pooh," exclaimed he of the red face. 
 " The nose of such a bellows must needs 
 carry too^mall a wind to inflame me." 
 
 " My nose in thy teeth, fellow !" cried 
 Master Martlemas, in a rage. 
 
 " I thank thee very heartily, but I want 
 not so delicate a toothpick," drily replied the 
 other, to the infinite amusement of his com- 
 panions. 
 
 " O my life, have I got amongst a party 
 of cunning limners, my masters," here 
 exclaimed William Shakspeare, good hu- 
 moredly. " Never saw I such cleverness in 
 taking off features." The laughter which 
 followed this conceit, restored every one to 
 an amiable pleasantness on the instant ; but 
 such choice spirits could never keep toge- 
 ther a moment, without a trial of their young 
 wits, and therefore no opportunities were al- 
 lowed to pass in which one could aim his 
 weapon at another. 
 
 " Sweet Mistress tTAvenant !" whispered 
 a handsome youth, as he caught his hostess 
 round the waist as she was passing him. 
 '' By those two lustrous stars of love, I 
 swear I have a most infinite affection for 
 thee. Contrive for me a private meeting, I 
 will give thee good proof of it." 
 
 " Canary, did you say, my lord?" inquired 
 the pretty woman aloud, with a provoking 
 indifferent asjpect, as she glided out of his 
 embrace — much to the dissatisfaction of the 
 enamored noble. 
 
 " Hither my delectable dainty, Hebe !" 
 cried another close at hand. " Brew us an- 
 other bottle of goodly Sack, and look thy 
 sweetest the while — I warrant it shall want 
 no sugar." 
 
 " O' my word, I would it were so, Master 
 Lamprey," said Mistress D'Avenant archly. 
 " I could make conserves with little trouble 
 and small expense ; and who knows but in 
 time I should attain to such exceeding skill 
 in the producing of sweet subtleties, I might 
 have an Oxford scholar or two done in sugar." 
 
 " Make choice of me, I prithee, for thy 
 first experiment," murmured one at her el- 
 bow. ' I would give thy tempting lips most 
 delicious entertainment." 
 
 " Methinks you are sweet enough upon 
 me as it is," replied the pretty hostess, in 
 the same merry humor. " But I care not to 
 make a trial of you provided you allow your- 
 self — as it is necessary in such cases — to 
 simmer over a good fire till you are reduced 
 to a proper consistence, and I have scum off 
 Jt you every portion of what grossness you 
 
 hearty laughing of all within hearing of it, 
 
 for the person to whom it was addressed wag 
 far stouter of flesh than any in the room — 
 indeed, he was of a singular corpulence for 
 hi'fo years. 
 
 " Prisoner at the bar !" cried one, with a 
 famous mock seriousness, who acted as 
 judge in the little court who had been trying 
 their host. " After a long and most impar- 
 tial trial, you have been condemned by a ju- 
 ry of good men and true, on the testimony 
 of divers most approved witnesses, whose 
 evidence hath not been shaken one tittle by 
 your defence to be a most notorious traitor 
 and horrible offender against a certain very 
 just and proper law, made and provided for 
 the express comfort of this good city of Ox- 
 ford — to wit, that all the comeliest damsels 
 within a circuit of five miles more or less, 
 are and ever must be wards of the very 
 worshipful the scholar of the University, 
 with whom can no man living contract a 
 marriage, without first obtaining their privi- 
 ty and consent. You John D'Avenant, have 
 dared wickedly to seek after the true excel- 
 lentest fairest creature that ever deserved to 
 be in such covetable wardship, and with a 
 most monstrous horrible villainy that all 
 honest men must needs stand aghast at, you 
 have taken her to wife against the law 
 aforesaid, and against the inclinations of 
 divers honorable members of the very wor- 
 shipful gentlemen scholars, who desired.her 
 for their own particular delectation. 
 
 " Silence in the court there !" shouted 
 the judge as if in a terrible seriousness, for 
 many were taking the jest very merrily. 
 " Master Attorney I am shocked to see you 
 so behave yourself at so awful a moment." 
 
 " My lord, I humbly beg pardon," an- 
 swered a merry varlet, who seemed to be 
 doing all he could to keep in his laughing ; 
 but the jests and mirthful behavior of certain 
 of the jury and his brother counsellors, were 
 such as might provoke the mirth of a more 
 serious man. 
 
 " Prisoner at the bar !" continued the 
 judge, waxing more ludicrously solemn as 
 he proceeded. "]t becometh to be now my 
 painful duty to pass on you your sentence. 
 Hope not for mercy, for, methinks, guilt 
 such as yours ought to expect none. I 
 grieve to see so young a person, and one of 
 otherwise good character, take to the doing 
 of so insufferable an offence. But it is evi- 
 dent you have lacked good counsel abomina- 
 bly. Had you sought myself now, previoua 
 to your marriage with that exquisite sweet 
 creature, I doubt not it would have been to 
 both our contents. I would have paved the 
 
 This speech was followed by the way for your obtaining your h mest desire^ 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 193 
 
 in such a manner that you should have done | 
 nothing unlawful. 
 
 "Master Attorney!" cried the judge, 
 with a notable grave dignity, as a roar of 
 laughter broke from that unlawyer-looking 
 person, " see I any more of this unsemely 
 conduct, I'll commit you for contempt." — 
 Then he added, turning to the culprit, who 
 strove all he could to keep a serious coun- 
 tenance, though with but an imperfect suc- 
 cess. " John D'Avenant, it would be but 
 a proper punishment of your horrible crime 
 to pass on you the extreme sentence of the 
 lav/, but in consideration of this being your 
 first offence, and out of regard for your youth 
 and inexperience, I make this your sentence 
 — Your wife shall be kissed before your 
 face, and you shall yourself appoint the per- 
 son to execute that punishment. Officers, 
 keep fast the doors." 
 
 In a moment some hastened to prevent 
 Mistress D'Avenant's escape, and others 
 crowded round her husband, recommending 
 themselves as capital executioners who 
 would do their office neatly, with as little 
 pain as need be. The uproar of voices was 
 greater than ever, and nothing but shouting 
 and laughing prevailed all over the chamber. 
 The young husband, who was rather of a 
 more careless idle humor than was proper 
 for one in his vocation, though he never took 
 so much heed of his handsome wife as was 
 necessary, liked not these wild scholars to 
 be over familiar with her, and he would, if 
 he could, have done away with the sen- 
 tence ; but he knew full well the sort of 
 characters he had to deal with, and that 
 there was nothing for it but to submit with 
 a good grace. A thought suggested itself 
 to him that it was better his wife should be 
 caressed by a stranger who was not like to 
 see her again, than by one who would re- 
 main in the neighborhood, and might per- 
 chance seek opportunities for obtaining a 
 repetition of such pleasure — therefore, to 
 the importunities of those by whom he was 
 surrounded he presently named William 
 Shakspeare as the person who should fulfil 
 the sentence. 
 
 Amid all this din and very J3abel-like con- 
 fusion of tongues, the young traveller had 
 been engaged in an interesting discussion 
 with one or two kindred minds he had dis- 
 covered amongst the mass, but when he was 
 called on to do the duty assigned him, he 
 rose nothing loath, and entered into the spirit 
 of the jest very readily. In a very short 
 time the busy laughing scholars cleared the 
 tabie for to ba the place of execution, and a 
 certain divinity student there present, was 
 appointed to be the prisoner's ghostly com- 
 
 forter, and to preach a sermon on the sub- 
 ject, for the edification of all present — at the 
 conclusion of which the sentence was to be 
 carried into effect. 
 
 " Truly, my masters, these are most sad 
 doings," exclaimed Mistress D'Avenant, who 
 was fast held by two young men, who took 
 upon themselves the duty of constables. 
 " I marvel you should behave so uncivilly 
 against a poor woman who hath done no ill 
 to any of you." Thereupon, the judge very 
 gravely told her that the course of justice 
 must not be perverted for the favoring of any 
 individual ; and the preacher commenced a 
 famous lecture on the duty every person 
 oweth to those put in authority over them. 
 In this way she was brought to stand in the 
 center of the table — her husband at a short 
 distance, also held by two scholars, with the 
 preacher at his elbow, bidding him repent of 
 his sins for his time was come — William 
 Shakspeare close by, gravely asking of his 
 pardon, swearing he bore him no malice, 
 but did his terrible office because he waa 
 bound by his duty so to do ; and the judges, 
 assisted by the sheriffs and constables that 
 stood upon the stools round the table, were 
 commanding silence from their riotous mad- 
 cap companions on the floor. 
 
 Then the preacher began his sermon, and 
 such a sermon as he then delivered had ne- 
 ver been heard there or anywhere else. He 
 started with endeavoring to prove the neces- 
 sity there was for the furtherance of the 
 public morals, that learned persons should 
 possess and keep in their charge all comely 
 maidens of a tender age, — for they being 
 wiser than any other class, had alone the 
 discretion necessary for the proper bringing 
 up of such gentle creatures. No doctrine 
 was ever considered half so orthodox ; but 
 the preacher seemed inclined to put it be- 
 yond the possibility of cavil, for he presently 
 fell to quoting divers of the Fathers — brought 
 forward long passages from the writings of 
 the most famous theologians, and referred to 
 what had been laid down on the subject by 
 the Council of Trent, and in various bulla 
 published by the most influential of the Ro- 
 mish pontiffs ; and this was done with so 
 earnest a seriousness, that many did imag- 
 ine that such things had really been said 
 and written. 
 
 " Oh, fine preacher !" cried one. 
 " Thou shalt be a bishop, Sir Topas !" ex- 
 claimed another. 
 
 " Marry, thou wouldst convert a dead In- 
 dian, thou speakest so movingly," added a 
 third. Others compared him to Peter the 
 Hermit, and some questioned him, how he 
 stood affected towards martyrdom — he ap* 
 
194 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 pearpd bo fit for it. But the preacher went 
 on as gravely as he could, and then alluded 
 to the unhappy man who had fallen under 
 the vengeance of offended justice, and beg- 
 ged the prayers of all good Christians in his 
 behalf, seeing that he was about making 
 amends for the wrong he had done, through 
 punishment by the secular arm. Then he 
 recommended the culprit to their charitable 
 thoughts with such a monstrous earnestness 
 — drawing so pitiful a picture of the terrible 
 sufferings he was about to undergo — that 
 the hearers fell to wailing and weeping most 
 woefully. 
 
 " Alack, that any man should come to so 
 miserable an end !" moaned Master Lamprey. 
 
 " And one that sold such brave liquor too !" 
 cried Master Martlemas, in still more doleful 
 accents. . 
 
 Then the preacher concluded with a fa- 
 mous exhortation to his auditory ever to 
 bear in mind the notable example now set 
 before them; and having gained from the 
 culprit that he confessed the justice of his 
 sentence, and was ready to meet his punish- 
 ment, master sheriff called forward the ex- 
 ecutioner to do his duty without delay; 
 whereupon William Shakspeare readily 
 stepped up to Mistress D'Avenant, who 
 looked as though she had not made up lier 
 mind whether to make a struggle or take 
 the matter quietly. 
 
 " I pray you, most sweet hostesss, to par- 
 don this my compulsory duty," said the ex- 
 ecutioner, as seriously as any of them. " I 
 assure you, were I not bound by a superior 
 power, I would not do it — at least I would 
 not do it so publicly — I would spare you all 
 this painful exposure. I would, believe me." 
 
 " Away with you ! O' my word, 'tis a 
 shame you should play such a jest upon 
 me," answered Mistress D'Avenant, as she 
 made some show of struggling, but it was 
 of so slight a sort that very little sufficed to 
 overcome it, and the next minute every one 
 had demonstrated the awful sentence of the 
 law had been carried into effect. This was 
 followed by shouts of triumph from some, 
 and cries of condolence by others, to the 
 now liberated husband and wife ; and in a 
 short time after, the whole party again found 
 their places at the table, and were jesting, 
 drinking, and laughing as famously as ever. 
 Mistress D'Avenant scolded her partner right 
 eloquently, for allowing of such scandalous 
 behavior, and mine host assured her he 
 would gladly have helped it if he could : but 
 she did not seem to be quite comforted with 
 such excuses — for all which, it was confi- 
 dently believed by some, she was not the 
 least pleased of the company. 
 
 All at once there was a great cry for Wil- 
 liam Shakspeare to sing them a song. Tliia 
 he had already done several times, to the 
 delight of his hearers, that they seemed as 
 though they could never have enough ot 
 such delicious minstrelsy ; nevertheless they 
 promised, would he favor them with one 
 more, they would be content. After re- 
 questing their indulgence for a simple ditty 
 — the only thing he could at the present 
 moment call to his mind — he sang the fol- 
 lowing verses ; the noisy scholars the whilst 
 hushed to as complete a peace as if none 
 were in the chamber : 
 
 A SONG OF FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 " Sweet friends ! let Pleasure's social law, 
 
 Our souls to genial thoughts dispose, 
 For life's rich stream doth freely thaw, 
 
 And bloom and sun smile where it flows. 
 'Tis now with us the budding May, 
 
 From nature's bank let's freely borrow, 
 Around our Maypole dance to-day, 
 
 Our fates may make us pipe to-morrow. 
 
 " Dear friends ! the rosy morn is ours 
 
 To sport away : the hunt is up ! 
 But crown your game with twin-like flowers— 
 
 The brimming heart and brimming cup. 
 Now Phoebus glows through all the east ; 
 
 And joy, our lord, hath banish'd sorrow ; 
 Then haste to take his welcome feast — 
 
 Our fates may make us fast to-morrow. 
 
 " Brave friends ! let Time no vantage gain, 
 
 Entrench your camp, your want3 provide ; 
 Whilst Youth and Love your fight sustain, 
 
 You may for years his siege abide. 
 As friendly looks shed round their light, 
 
 From star or moon you need not borrow ; 
 Enjoy them while they shine to-night— 
 
 Our fates may quench their beams to-morrow. 
 
 Universal were the plaudits which fol- 
 lowed the conclusion of William Shaks- 
 peare's singing, and well deserved were they 
 too, out of all doubt ; for in the belief that 
 this was the last night he should see the 
 friendly company around him, he put such 
 expression into the words as could have 
 been produced by no other. Perchance the 
 greater portion of his new acquaintances 
 saw in him only an exceeding pleasant per- 
 son, but he was regarded in a much more 
 brilliant light by some two or three present ; 
 whom, with that unerring sympathy which 
 leadeth great minds to their fellows, he had 
 singled out from their more noisy compan- 
 ions, to show to them somewhat of his true 
 nature. As they listened to the thrilling el- 
 oquence of his language, and perceived how 
 pregnant it was with new and profound 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 195 
 
 meanings, they did marvel exceedingly ; and | so unhappily accommodated in marriage, to 
 
 as the natural nobility of the man developed 
 itself before their amazed glances, there en- 
 tered into their hearts a loving reverence — 
 the worship of true greatness among kin- 
 dred natures — they had never felt during 
 their whole lives. It was far into the even- 
 ing before the party broke up, and it ended 
 with abundance of good wishes from the 
 
 thoughtless many ; and earnest hopes of i through continual thinking of the approach' 
 again meeting, from the discerning few. ing separation ; and, earlier than usual, 
 When the young traveller rose in the Mistress D'Avenant left her husband sleep- 
 
 be placed in. Each could not help desiring 
 to be well esteemed of the other, as the best 
 token they could have of their own worthi* 
 ness ; and neither could avoid holding the 
 other first in their esteem, their qualities 
 were so much more estimable than those of 
 any person of their acquaintance. Both 
 had had but little sleep this last night 
 
 morning to continue his journey, he found 
 Mistress D'Avenant in a chamber by herself, 
 putting his things together ready for his tak- 
 ing with him. She was a woman as far 
 superior in mental as she was in personal 
 endowments to persons in her sphere of life ; 
 for her natural strong mind had been care- 
 fully cultivated ; and possessed of such gifts, 
 she was the very sort of woman that would 
 most appreciate a man so prodigally gar- 
 nished with admirable qualities as was her 
 youthful guest. Her marriage had not been 
 one of affection, and her husband quickly 
 proved himself a person whose weakness of 
 character she could hold in no esteem. Her 
 superior intellect soon exerted its proper in- 
 fluence, which he very readily acknowledged, 
 leaving his affairs to her entire management, 
 whilst he sought for nothing but the enjoy- 
 ment of his thoughtless pleasures ; but such 
 conduct still more lessened her respect for 
 
 him ; and when she beheld the manly dispo- kan evident restlessness, and such listless 
 
 sition of William Shakspeare, and caught 
 glimpses of the marvellous noble mind with 
 which it was accompanied, she could not 
 help wishing Heaven had blessed her with 
 so" choice a husband. As for the young 
 traveller, he could not avoid seeing and ad- 
 miring the extraordinary capacity his beau- 
 tiful hostess evinced in such converse as he 
 had with her, and the extreme perfectness 
 with which she fulfilled her household du- 
 ties ; and more than once he found himself 
 making comparisons between such estima- 
 bleness, and the neglectful and obstinate 
 Dehaving of his vain and ignorant wife, 
 whereby the latter's unworthiness was shown 
 in most glaring colors. At the end, he would 
 grieve he had not met with so excellent rare 
 a partner as had John D'Avenant. 
 
 Having now been staying at the Crown 
 several days, on a footing of the completest 
 intimacy, he had ample opportunity for in- 
 creasing the admiration he felt for his charm- 
 ing hostess ; and she getting more knowledge 
 of his notable excellences, laid herself out to 
 please him as much as she could. It was a 
 dangerous situation for two young persons, 
 ao admirably gifted in mind and person, and 
 
 ing off the effects of his evening reveling, 
 to prepare for the departure of her youthful 
 guest. When the latter made his appear- 
 ance before her, there was a tear upon the 
 long lashes of her dark eyes, but she speed- 
 ily commenced affecting her customary cheer- 
 fulness ; and he too, merely addressed her 
 with his ordinary gallantry; yet, in their 
 hearts the while, there were feelings as dif- 
 ferent to their outward conduct, as is light 
 to darkness. 
 
 For all this show of indifference, neither 
 could conceal from the other the extent to 
 which they were feigning. The trifling 
 speech which kept so carefully to all man- 
 ner of matters of little moment, as it had 
 never done before, grew less and less, and 
 then came to brief sentences, spoken with 
 tremulousness, till, for a time, words would 
 fail them altogether ; and the careless man- 
 ner of their behavior, gradually left them for 
 
 doing of their occupations, as bore witness 
 to the extreme confusion of their thoughts . 
 and feelings. Mistress D'Avenant was put- 
 ting the last knot to the little bundle of things 
 her companion had brought with him, and 
 she was engaged upon it with so extraordi- 
 dinary a care, pulling it to a proper tight- 
 ness, and smoothing the folds of the bundle, 
 as though she could never satisfy herself 
 with her work; and William Shakspeare 
 close beside her, was putting on his left- 
 hand glove, so deliberately, and with such 
 prodigious heed that every finger should fit 
 well into the leather, as if such a thing waa 
 an affair only to be attempted with the at- 
 tentiveness of a matter of vital importance. 
 As these things were doing, their hearts 
 were beating high and wildly, and each felt 
 the scarce endurable struggle of the power- 
 fullest impulses of humanity laboring for a 
 free existence. " Well, this must needs 
 do," said Mistress D'Avenant, with a great 
 effort, as she placed the little bundle near 
 her guest. 
 
 " Oh, it will do exceeding well," grate- 
 fully replied he, giving it a hasty glance. 
 He appeared to have got his glove on to hii 
 
196 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 liking, or rather, he thought like his fair 
 companion, the time was now come for ac- 
 tion. He held out his ungloved hand before 
 her, and forced a faint smile into his hand- 
 some countenance. 
 
 " It is full time I should be on my jour- 
 ney," he added, hurriedly ; " so now I must 
 take my leave of you." She seized his 
 hand, with a very desperate grasp, as it 
 were, her own trembling all the while ; and 
 looked up into his eyes with a glance, where- 
 of the expression baffleth all my powers of 
 description — it was so imploringly tender. 
 He continued, " I cannot attempt to thank 
 you for the very bountiful sweet kindness 
 you have shown unto me, since it hath been 
 my good hap to dwell beneath this roof: but, 
 believe me, the memory of it cannot pass 
 .away, as long as my grateful nature bear- 
 eth any token of thought, feeling and life." 
 
 " Oh, sir, methinks it scarce deserveth any 
 mention, replied his beautiful hostess, with 
 such emphasis, as words have only when 
 they come direct from the heart. " Had I 
 been a thousand times more attentiveto your 
 desires, I could not in mine own opinion, 
 have done for you one half sufficient. But 
 you are going. I just begin to learn how 
 to appreciate your inestimable excellences, 
 when you hurry yourself away ; and, per- 
 chance, I may never have sight of you 
 again." 
 
 " O my life, sweet Mistress D'Avenant, I 
 will not allow that to be, for my own sake !" 
 exclaimed her companion. " Be assured, I 
 know the infinite worth of the treasure I 
 leave behind me too well, to neglect it ; and 
 of whatever I most covet of Fortune, a 
 speedy return to, and a long continuance of 
 your generous behavior have the first place. 
 My only fear is, my .poor name may be too 
 speedily forgotten." 
 
 "Never, Master Shakspeare !" cried the 
 beautiful woman, earnestly, " truly I must 
 be dead to every sense of goodness, when 
 my memory faileth me on so goodly a sub- 
 ject. Believe me, in future times, I will 
 look back upon the days I have known you 
 as the very sunniest of my existence ; and 
 might I have any hope of such enjoyment 
 again, I could endure my miserable state 
 with a proper patience. Go, sweet sir, since 
 it must needs be. I mistake you, hugely, if 
 you can think ill of me at my now adding, 
 you take with you all that 1 can deem of 
 most sterling preciousness in this world." 
 
 " Dear Mistress D'Avenant ! assure your- 
 self I will essay all means to deserve such 
 honorable opinion," replied he, much touch- 
 ed by this proof of confidence in his integ- 
 rity ; " what my feelings are for you I can- 
 
 not trust myself to express ; and yet nothing 
 is so true as that their whole tendency is to 
 hold you as a pattern of everything that is 
 noblest in woman." 
 
 Thus parted the youthful Shakspeare and 
 the lovely Mistress D'Avenant ; and soon 
 after he was once more a traveller, trudging 
 his way manfully along the high road with 
 his little burthen on his shoulder — his 
 thoughts looking towards Oxford and his 
 steps directed in the way of London. Hither- 
 to his journey had been productive of infinite 
 profit to him in getting acquainted with the 
 humors of men — his favorite study ; but his 
 stay at the great university had been pro- 
 digiously to his entertainment, for he visited 
 every college, and examined every building, 
 with an especial veneration for their learned 
 character, and a particular delight in their 
 historical associations. As he proceeded on 
 his journey his mind dwelt delightedly on the 
 events of the preceding days, till it, at last, 
 fixed itself with a truly marvellous pleasure, 
 on the handsome young hostess of the Crown 
 Inn. He could not have avoided observing 
 how unsuitable to such a woman was her 
 husband ; and it was too apparent to him 
 that her situation was far from pleasing to 
 her. To be as tenderly esteemed of so ad- 
 mirable a creature, as she had given him 
 reason to believe he was, gave him with 
 an inexpressible sweet pleasure, a peculiar 
 pride in himself, for he — in the true spirit of 
 nobleness which influences the high-minded 
 man when he findeth himself beloved by a 
 worthy woman — looked upon it as the chief 
 est honor his humanity could attain ; and, 
 beyond all doubting, there is nothing of which 
 true manhood should be so proud ; and when 
 as in this instance, a woman, so unhappily 
 circumstanced, showeth herself to be above 
 all petty prejudices and selfish cares, and 
 declareth her feelings in fullest confidence, 
 believing their cause and their tendency to 
 be too exalted to produce any base conclu- 
 sions, the man must be a disgrace to the 
 name he bears, if he do not feel himself as 
 proud a creature as may be found in the 
 whole world. 
 
 A being so well-disposed as was William 
 Shakspeare, most assuredly would appreciate 
 such conduct at a price beyond all telling. 
 Now, filled as he was by the thrilling im- 
 pulses of early manhood, when a sympathy 
 for what is loveable stirs in every vein, he 
 was peculiarly open to favorable impressions 
 from the other sex, but his sense of good 
 which so completely had the custody of 
 affections, exerted over him a higher power 
 arid were directed to better purposes, than 
 could any mere admiration ; and whilst it 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 19? 
 
 tttrew open his mind and heart to chamber 
 worthily the excellence of beauty, it kept for 
 them there a still more honorable lodging 
 for the beauty of excellence. He felt, the 
 whilst, a motive free from selfish considera- 
 tions, for hitherto he had sought but for to 
 raise himself and those belonging to him ; 
 but now he would seek his exaltation rather 
 as a pedestal to place another's goodness at 
 its summit. Mistress D'Avenant in her 
 avowal, had exhibited that fearlessnees, 
 which those only know, who, whatever may 
 be their situation, are under the noblest in- 
 fluences. A meaner nature so circum- 
 stanced would have sought to hide her feel- 
 ings, and exhausted the artillery of feminine 
 dissimulation ere she would have allowed 
 them to be known ; but in such a disposition, 
 those feelings would have argued a weak- 
 ness, and, perchance, have led to a crime, 
 whilst in the other, they were an undeniable 
 evidence of strength, and, more than any 
 other thing, would have induced to virtue. 
 
 It is more than idle for any to assert that a 
 married woman to love any man save her 
 partner, is not to be tolerated under any 
 circumstances, for where she is ill-matched, 
 there cannot be so notable a way to keep 
 her to the proper duties of good wifehood, 
 than to place her affections in so honorable 
 a quarter, she must needs know that only by 
 the most excellent behavior can she be held 
 in such esteem there as she desires — whereof 
 the consequence must be, she will bear with 
 the humors of a bad husband, and show a 
 cheerful endurance of her unhappy fate in- 
 fluenced by the gladdening hope of gaining 
 what she most covets. Deprived of so com- 
 fortable a stimulus, the chajices are the un- 
 happy wife would sink into a miserable 
 apathy, or, in disgust of her condition would 
 easily become the prey of any dishonest 
 artifices that might be directed against her 
 by a pretended lover. Mayhap some may 
 say such ennobling love so produced is rarely 
 to be found, but I place my faith too strongly 
 on the honorableness of woman, to doubt it 
 would be familiar enough, were men to be 
 met with of sufficient worthiness to call it 
 into more frequent existence. At least, such 
 was the affection with which Mistress D'- 
 Avenant regarded the youthful Shakspeare, 
 and the latter entertained it as of such a sort, 
 and fully resolved it should so continue, if its 
 lasting depended on his efforts to deserve it. 
 His thoughts very profitably employed, the 
 young traveller pursued his journey. The 
 waggon had gone too far to be overtaken by 
 his walking, and though he was passed, or 
 came up to divers carriers laden with pack- 
 ages of all kinds, his expenses had already 
 
 so diminished his means, that he found him- 
 self unable to purchase a sitting in any of 
 their carts, without leaving himself penni- 
 less ere his journey was finished. Indeed, 
 as it was, by the time he reached Uxbridge, 
 when he had paid his bill for lodging he 
 started in the morning with his purse emp- 
 tied of the last coin. This was a discovery 
 that would have come exceeding unpleasant- 
 ly to many in a like situation with himself, 
 for he was still a good distance from his 
 destination and nothing wherewith to get 
 him bed or board when he there arrived ; but 
 with the eager hope of youth, he trudged 
 along in high spirits, fully convinced he had 
 but to show himself to the elder Burbage, 
 and his old acquaintance would welcome 
 him with all proper heartiness. 
 
 As he was trudging manfully along, and 
 had got within a mile or so of Tyburn, he 
 came up to three men dressed with some 
 appearance of respectability, who seemed to 
 be comporting of themselves very merrily. 
 The one was a stout fellow with a bold 
 swaggering and an impudent daring look 
 with him, his face pimpled, and his nose of 
 a somewhat prominent redness about the top 
 of it. He was attired in an old plum-colored 
 velvet doublet — stained down the front, as if 
 with wine — his hose were scarlet, though 
 the tint was fading through dirt and age ; 
 and his trunks had been of an orange 
 twaney, but by this time they were nigher 
 of a sad color. He wore roses in his shoes, 
 but they looked as though they had grown 
 in a chimney, and his hat was of that sort 
 that are distinguished by a high crown, but 
 a spectator might look as high as the skies 
 and yet see no crown of any kind. His 
 companions were garmented in no better 
 fashion — one of whom, was a blear-eyed 
 youth, with a famous large mouth drawn on 
 one side as though he had been in the habit 
 of biting round a corner : and the other was 
 chiefly noticeable, for a short, stiff, red beard, 
 that stood out of his chin like a broken brick 
 hanging over an old door-way. 
 
 " Ha, truly a good jest, Master Sugarsob, 
 — a good jest o' my fife," cried the first, 
 seeming to be in a famous mood for laughing. 
 " Bots on't !" exclaimed he, with the wry 
 mouth, " I see not the jest, Captain Sack, 
 and if a jest it be, I like not the humor on't I 
 promise you." 
 
 " By this hand, my Lord Cinnamon, I 
 meant no offence in't !" exclaimed the own- 
 er of the red-beard, with prodigious earnest- 
 ness. 
 
 " I like not the humor on't — I like not the 
 humor on't," muttered he who had been 
 styled Lord Cinnamon, twisting his mouth in 
 
198 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 a manner as though he had a marvellous 
 inclination to bite off the end of his left ear. 
 
 " I tell thee," 'tis a most exquisite jest," 
 cried the one called Captain Sack, laughing 
 out of all moderation. " What sayst Master 
 Countryman ?" 
 
 The young traveller felt somewhat sur- 
 prised at being appealed to in a matter of 
 which he was entirely ignorant, but he 
 could not help feeling amused at the droll 
 figures of the persons before him. 
 
 " I prithee tell me the jest, and I will say 
 what I think of it," replied he. 
 
 " 'Tis no more than this," said the pimple- 
 faced gentleman, as he very impudently 
 stared the other in the face,' whilst he cut 
 the youth's purse from his girdle, and on 
 the same instant, the other two stood on 
 each side of him, with their daggers' points 
 at his throat. He saw at a glance resist- 
 ance Was useless. 
 
 " 'Ifaith, if that be all the jest, I see not 
 much in it," observed William Shakspeare, 
 who could not resist his natural tendency 
 even at such a moment. 
 
 " Why, how now, and be hanged to thee !" 
 exclaimed the disappointed thief, as he be- 
 held the emptiness of the purse he had taken. 
 " Dost put thy quips upon us ? How darest 
 to come abroad in such heathen fashion. 
 'Slight 'tis a jest with a vengeance !" 
 
 " I see not the humor on't — I see not the 
 humor on't!" cried his wrymouthed com- 
 panion, seemingly as if he enjoyed his as- 
 sociate's dissatisfaction. 
 
 "Nor I either, Jemmy," answered the 
 cut-purse; "but at least here is better 
 jesting." And thereupon he snatched away 
 from the youth his little bundle of linen. At 
 this moment, a string of pack-horses becom- 
 ing visible in the road, the three thieves 
 made off as fast as they could down a bye 
 lane, leaving the young traveller to continue 
 his journey not only without money of any 
 kind, as he was before, but without a single 
 thing for his wearing, save what he had on 
 his back. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 Goe, little Booke ! thyself present, 
 As child whose parent is unkent, 
 To him that is the President 
 Of Nobleness and Chivalrie. 
 And if that envy bark at thee— 
 As sure it will — for succor flee 
 Under the shadow of his wing. 
 
 Spenser. 
 
 Methinks, it is now high time, the courte- 
 u reader should know something concern- 
 
 ing of the two young knights, kinsmen to 
 Sir Marmaduke'de Largesse, who were left 
 in so ^ore a strait sometime since, Sir Re* 
 ginald being badly wounded by one whom 
 he had so unjustly regarded as a false friend, 
 and Sir Valentine seeming to be still more 
 hurt he had done his companion in arms such 
 damagement. Little time was lost in con- 
 veying the latter to his kinsman's residence, 
 where his loving cousin night and day at- 
 tended on him better than could have done 
 the faithfulest nurse that ever was known.. 
 The wounded knight could not be indifferent 
 to such loving service, and when he was 
 told the exact history of his behavior to their 
 mutual fair mistress, he loved him more than 
 ever he had done, and on the instant, gave 
 up all pretension to her in favor of his friend ; 
 but this the latter took no advantage of. He 
 remembered the last words he had of the 
 poor foundling, and the determination they 
 evinced; and feeling also, that, could he 
 succeed in getting her to change her mind, 
 he could not with any satisfaction to himself 
 enjoy the happiness whereof his friend was 
 deprived, he resolved he would see her no 
 more. As for her, it may be sufficient to 
 say, she was where she fancied herself free 
 from her vile persecutors, yet was she much 
 nigher to danger than she imagined. 
 
 Sometime after this, the two friends join- 
 ed their commander and tutor in chivalry, 
 the noble Sir Philip Sidney, and accom- 
 panied him on his embassy, to condole with 
 the French king, on the death of his dear 
 brother, the Duke of Anjou. They made a 
 most gallant figure at the court of France. 
 Many fair ladies gave them excellent con- 
 vincing proofs they were well esteemed of 
 them, the which the elder received very readi- 
 ly, and lacked not a suitable return ; for his 
 disposition could accommodate itself to love 
 — as he called it — as many as would allow 
 of his passion ; but the younger was not of 
 this sort. He could give his affections to 
 one only, and they were unalterably fixed 
 on the gentle Mabel ; and though he receiv- 
 ed the favors of the kind dames of France 
 with the courtesy becoming a true knight, 
 his heart was wandering through the groves 
 of Charlcote after that exquisite, yet most 
 unhappy creature, who had the sole claim 
 of its sovereignty. 
 
 They were now strolling together in the 
 garden of the Queen's palace at Whitehall, 
 whilst Sir Philip was with her Majesty, and 
 divers of the great lords and officers, hold- 
 ing of a privy council, to deliberate on cer- 
 tain important matters affecting the national 
 honor and safety. Of this council, methinks 
 some description would here be in good place, 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 199 
 
 m a, spacious chamber, richly hung with 
 arras, the Queen's Highness sat in robes of 
 state — with a small crown of gold on her 
 head — on a raised throne covered with rich 
 carving and embroidery. One arm rested 
 on the arm of the seat, with her jewelled 
 hand imbedded in a fair white handkerchief, 
 very fine and delicately worked ; the other 
 elbow rested on the other arm of the chair, 
 her hand supporting her head, and her body 
 resting against the back of the seat. In 
 this position she remained with a famous 
 gravity in her features, listening to what 
 was advanced by each speaker; but she 
 rarely remained in it long, for if anything 
 dropped that she liked not, she would take 
 the orator up with some tartness ; and when 
 the speech met with her views, she would 
 add to it something of her own, which show- 
 ed how much it was to her satisfaction. 
 
 Before her in their robes of office sat the 
 chief officers of the crown, save only the 
 one who might be at that moment speaking, 
 who stood up ; and chiefest of these were 
 the Lord Treasurer Burleigh, the Secretaries 
 of State, Walshingham and Davison, the 
 Earl of Leicester, the Earl of Sussex, Charles 
 Howard of Effingham, the Lord High Admi- 
 ral, Sir Nicholas Bacon, and Sir Philip Syd- 
 ney. The subject under discussion related 
 to the state of affairs in Flanders, and the 
 necessity of there keeping a powerful force. 
 It might be somewhat tedious to give the 
 speeches of the different members of the 
 council. Suffice it to say, as was usual the 
 case when anything was to be done that re- 
 quired an outlay from the treasury, my Lord 
 Treasurer strongly advised great caution, 
 and argued, if peace could be procured, even 
 at some sacrifice, 'twas infinitely better than 
 the uncertainties of a war ; and in his policy 
 he was seconded by the two secretaries and 
 Sir Nicholas Bacon. My Lord of Leicester, 
 on the other side, was for carrying on pre- 
 parations in that country worthy of Eng- 
 land's greatness ; and spoke of the important 
 results which would follow by so doing. My 
 Lord of Sussex was for a like dealing, only 
 he differed with the last speaker as to the 
 manner it should be done, and that too with 
 an honest bluntness, that spoke more of the 
 soldier than the courtier. Whereupon the 
 other replied, defending his views with much 
 apparent calmness and courtesy, which 
 brought a sharp rejoinder from my Lord of 
 Sussex ; and, as was often the case at the 
 council, here would have followed a very 
 angry disputation, had not her Highness 
 quickly put an end to the dispute by rebuk- 
 ing them both. These two powerful noble- 
 »ea rarely met without having some words: 
 13 
 
 . but my Lord of Leicester, by a famous com- 
 mand of temper, always made it appear he 
 was in no way blameable ; and my Lord of 
 Sussex, who was usually rash enough to 
 express what he thought, and manifestly 
 thought no good of his opponent, was by 
 many looked upon as the one in fault. 
 
 The other commanders there advocated 
 the views of the Queen's favorite, save only 
 Sir Philip Sydney, who had not yet expres- 
 sed his opinions. At this her Highness, who 
 held him in high esteem, commanded him to 
 what he thought would be best in the handl- 
 ing of such a business, upon which he gave 
 a most eloquent and elaborate view of the 
 present state of Europe, particularly dwel- 
 ling on the hostile designs of the King of 
 Spain upon this country, as evinced in the 
 immense warlike preparations he was mak- 
 ing in all parts of his dominions ; and show- 
 ing in the clearest light what gain would 
 accrue to England, by conducting her ope 
 rations in Flanders with sufficient means 
 and a proper spirit. It is utterly impossible 
 to convey anything like unto an adequate 
 idea of this notable speech ; but it was put 
 forward with amazing fineness of rhetoric, 
 and with such excellence of language, that 
 it was clear any who had the slightest com- 
 prehension of the matter, must be convinced 
 of the properness of what Sir Philip had ad- 
 vanced. 
 
 Then Queen Elizabeth spoke at some 
 length, expressing how naturally averse she 
 was to any proceedings likely to give hurt 
 to her good subjects ; but as war was forced 
 upon her for the protection of the kingdom 
 from Popish snares, and that to fight abroad 
 was better for the people than to fight at 
 home, it must needs be she could do no 
 other than assist those who were combatting 
 against her worst enemies, and so endeavor 
 to keep the war from her own doors. Her 
 speech was very spirited and full of sage 
 quotations from Latin and other authors, 
 to show her justice somewhat — to show her 
 learning somewhat more. The end was, 
 that she not only adopted the views of Sir 
 Philip Sydney, but gave him the command 
 of some forces that were to be sent into 
 Flanders, to disembark at Flushing, of which 
 place she appointed him governor. Other 
 things were also to be done, but as these do 
 not much affect our story, methinks there 
 shall be no need of the relation. After this 
 the council broke up, and Sir Philip returned 
 on horseback with the two young knights to 
 his own dwelling. 
 
 Shortly after, the three companions in 
 arms joined the Countess of Pembroke in 
 the library, a fair chamber well stocked with 
 
200 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSFEARE. 
 
 ail manner of books, especially of romances 
 and poems both English and foreign. The 
 countess seemed intent on a large manu- 
 script ; but this she put on one side at the 
 entrance of her brother and his friends, 
 whom she welcomed very gladly. Presently 
 they fell to conversing as was their wont 
 on such topics as were of the most intellec- 
 tual character, for it was a custom with this 
 truly famous woman to endeavor as much 
 as possible to draw out the minds of her 
 associates, and where she found them defici- 
 ent, to show them glimpses of the know- 
 ledge they wanted in its most delightful as- 
 pect, and give them a zest to acquire it 
 more fully. This made her so much the 
 admiration of the learned of her time. In 
 truth I have some reason for thinking she 
 diffused the spirit of intelligence more widely 
 by the fascinations of her eloquence, than did 
 one half the colleges in the kingdom with 
 all their notable efforts at teaching. A 
 familiarity with the best classic writers was 
 then the fashion — perchance set by her high- 
 ness, who was no contemptible scholar— and 
 to this there was frequently joined consider- 
 able knowledge of the Italian poets and the 
 French romances. But with the countess, 
 and with her equally gifted brother, the fashi- 
 on made itself apparent, arrayed in those 
 graces of humanity, whidh might make it 
 most enchanting, — and to them flocked such 
 scholars as wished to be thought of the 
 fashion, and those more fashionable sort of 
 persons who sought to be regarded as schol- 
 ars. The two young knights were among 
 the very sincerest admirers of the Countess 
 of Pembroke : — but Sir Valentine regarded 
 her with an enthusiastic reverence, which 
 exceeded even the feeling of the same kind 
 with which he looked on Sir Philip Sydney, 
 and few of their numerous circle of friends 
 were so well esteemed of these illustrious 
 persons as were those gallant gentlemen. 
 
 "I have had notable rare company, brother, 
 since the morning," said the countess. 
 
 " Truly, I cannot see how it could well be 
 otherwise," answered Sir Reginald, with a 
 very ready courtesy. " For even were you 
 left alone, you must needs be in such excel- 
 lent company as can nowhere else be met 
 with." 
 
 " I' faith, Sir Reginald, methinks you are 
 taking a leaf from the book of my kinsman, 
 Leicester," observed my Lady Pembroke,with 
 an exquisite smile. 
 
 " Nay, I think he hath been taking a lesson 
 from the courtly Sir Christopher Hatton," 
 observed her brother with a laugh. 
 
 " By this hand !" exclaimed the young 
 knight earnestly, "the last lesson I took 
 
 of any man was from a better master thaffl 
 either." . 
 
 " And who might that be ?" inquired Sir 
 Philip. " For surely he must be exceeding 
 worthy — my kinsman being a very noble 
 gentleman, and Sir Christopher, though a 
 very courtier, is not without some good 
 qualities." 
 
 " I doubt not I could make a shrewd guess 
 at this right famous master of yours V said 
 the countess, with an approving glance. 
 
 " I cannot imagine one who knoweth his 
 excellence so thoroughly, could name any 
 other," replied the knight. 
 
 " Let us have his title, and quickly, Sir 
 Reginald," cried Sir Philip. " For my me- 
 mory is at fault." 
 
 " Assuredly it is one Sir Philip Sydney, 
 well known of all men to be the best master 
 of knights that can be met with in this our 
 age," replied Sir Reginald. 
 
 " And with all proper pride I do acknow- 
 ledge myself also to haye profited by his 
 right admirable lessons," added Sir Valen- 
 tine,, with a warmer enthusiasm. 
 
 "Well, although, as I take it, you- do over- 
 rate the master hugely," replied the object 
 of their eulogium, but not without a sensible 
 satisfaction at its thorough honesty, " I musS 
 say this — I would every master were as ho- 
 norably off for pupils. But who were of your 
 company this morning, my dear sister ?" in- 
 quired he, seeming anxious, as great mindaf 
 ever are, by shifting of the conversation, to 
 avoid his own praises. 
 
 " Truly, 1 have had so many, I scarce can 
 remember one half of them," replied his ac- 
 complished relative. " First there came the 
 merry Bishop of Bath and Wells, to intro- 
 duce to me a certain learned scholar of his 
 acquaintance, who was exceeding anxious 
 to be known to me, with whom I had much 
 choice discourse, made more pleasant by 
 some droll sayings of my Lord Bishop." 
 
 " Methinks Dr. Still is somewhat of tocr 
 jesting a nature for a grave prelate," ob 
 served her brother, good-humoredly. " His 
 ' Gammar Gurton's Needle,' smacketh very 
 little of the church, and his talk hath just as 
 much of the sermon." 
 
 " My next comer was a certain Master 
 John Lily," continued the countess. '' He 
 hath brought me a play of his, entitled ' Alex- 
 ander and Campespe,' which though I fin^ 
 to lack something in plot and character, is- 
 not without some fair signs of merit." 
 
 " Ah, Master Lily, I know him well,' 
 said Sir Philip. " He hath left the college 
 for the play-house, but I doubt his great fit- 
 ness for either. He hath lately sought tf 
 set himself up as Master Grammarian, ta 
 
THE ¥OUTH OP SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 SOI 
 
 teach us a new style of English, but surely 
 nothing so strained and unnatural was ever 
 heard of!" 
 
 " Then I had with me the famous author 
 of Jeronimo," added his sister. 
 
 " Ay, Master Kyd hath got himself into 
 marvellous repute," observed the other. 
 " He hath a most moving skill in the compo- 
 sition of his plays. His blank verse is ex- 
 ceeding spirited, and not without a proper 
 touch of true poetry — nevertheless, he pos- 
 sessed many faults of extravagance, it 
 would be advisable in him to eschew." 
 
 " After him I had the knight of the 
 smirched mantle." 
 
 " Ha ! my very excellent good friend Sir 
 Walter Raleigh !" exclaimed Sir Philip, with 
 much earnestness and some pleasantry. 
 " By this light his throwing his fine cloak 
 into the puddle, hath put his acquaintance 
 on so fair a footing with her highness, he is 
 like to make a gallant stand at court. But in 
 justice I must acknowledge he is a truly 
 valiant young soldier, and hath in him the 
 best gifts of the scholar and the gentleman 
 to an extent greater than that of any of 
 whom I have knowledge." 
 
 "At least so he hath seemed to me," said 
 the Lady Pembroke, and then the two knights 
 added their testimony of his worthiness, for 
 he was of their particular approved friends 
 — but more of his truly noble character anon 
 gentle reader^ 
 
 " After these there came persons of all 
 kinds/' continued the Countess of Pembroke. 
 " I was like unto a besieged city sore 
 pressed. Hither came gallants to idle their 
 time — poets to read to me their verses — 
 play writers to bespeak my presence at the 
 play-house to see their play— booksellers to 
 offer me the very newest Works they had 
 published, hoping for my commendation, — 
 and many poor scholars seeking to be au- 
 thors, who required only my poor influence, 
 at least so they believed, as a stepping stone 
 to fame. I did my best for all— =and all ap- 
 peared in excellent content with their visit." 
 
 After this the subject of their converse 
 turned upon a certain work recently written 
 by Sir Philip Sydney, since well kaown to 
 every reader as the right famous Arcadia. 
 
 " Nay, dear brother, but the merit cannot 
 be denied." exclaimed his fair relative, after 
 the author had expressed a humble opinion 
 of it. " I will not hear of your speaking 
 of it slightly. It is a work just as I should 
 have expected from you — a combination of 
 chivalry and scholarship put into the most 
 delectable apparelling." 
 
 " You must needs be too partial a judge to 
 pass an honest sentence in this case, sweet 
 
 sister," said Sir Philip Sydney, good humor* 
 edly. 
 
 " That I can in no way allow," cried Si? 
 Reginald. " That my Lady Pembroke is a 
 good judge, and a fair judge, methinks would 
 be stoutly maintained by every one who 
 hath the honor of her acquaintance ; not 
 only because she is in herself peculiarly 
 good and fair, but because her opinions par* 
 take so largely of the like qualities ; and 
 though she cannot help regarding the writer 
 of so notable a work with considerable par* 
 tiality, because of his standing in such near 
 relationship to her, it doth not follow she 
 cannot properly appreciate its excellences. 
 Indeed I am apt to think she would look 
 more closely into the nature of any produc- 
 tion from such a source, and therefore known 
 its quality and character better than could 
 any other." 
 
 " Surely there can be no doubt of this," 
 added Sir Valentine, more earnestly. " Even 
 were my Lady Pembroke less gifted than 
 she is, it is scarcely possible her love for the 
 writer could mislead her in her judgment of 
 the book ; for as all that most perfect wit 
 could do would be to praise, her affections 
 are surely not likely to stand in the way of 
 so appropriate a duty. But surely, of all 
 persons my lady ought to be the best quali- 
 fied to be a judge in such case, else that no- 
 bleness of nature so many have found, can 
 be but of small advantage to her." 
 
 " O' my word, you are all alike !" ex- 
 claimed Sir Philip, seeking to turn off the 
 question as pleasantly as he could ; then 
 taking up a book which lay on the table be- 
 fore him, he added, " Want you now, a book 
 deserving of your warmest encomium, here is 
 one. It is no other than ' The Shepherd's 
 Calendar,' written by my esteemed friend 
 Master Edmund Spenser, who hath done me 
 the honor of its dedication. It is a sort of 
 rustic poem, or series of eclogues, wherein 
 the poet, in the feigned name of Colin, ex- 
 pressed very movingly his infinite griefs 
 caused by the treachery of a false mistress, 
 to whom he hath given the title of Rosa- 
 linde." 
 
 " I am apt to think this poem of Master 
 Spenser's is not altogether a fiction," ob- 
 served the countess. " There is a heartiness 
 in it, a truth and vividness, which never 
 come of the imagination alone." 
 
 " You are right," replied her brother. " I 
 heard of Doctor Gabriel Harvey, to whom I 
 am indebted for my introduction to the poet, 
 that he had formed a deep attachment to some 
 female, who, after seeking, by all manner of 
 artifices, to ensnare his affections, when she 
 found they were hers beyond recall, treated 
 
302 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 him with unexampled perfidy, and soon after 
 married some obscure person — doubtless as 
 worthless as herself. The general cry on 
 hearing of such instances is, ' a good rid- 
 dance :' and this may be true enough to a 
 certain extent ; but men of Master Spenser's 
 stamp, when they do love, do so entwine the 
 filaments of their hearts with the beloved 
 object, that any disunion is to them the ter- 
 riblest laceration that can be imagined, and 
 leaveth a wound which afflicteth them with 
 a continual agony." 
 
 " Of aH men living, such as are of the 
 highest imaginations are most likely to meet 
 with such a fate," said his gifted sister. 
 " None do so readily become the prey of an 
 artful woman — for their love of the pure and 
 beautiful which is the powerfullest impulse 
 of their natures, leadeth them to put their 
 faith, and heart, and soul, in fair appear- 
 ances; and when a woman, under such 
 guise, showeth signs of being favorably dis- 
 posed to them, they enrich her with their 
 sweetest thoughts and sympathies, and look 
 to her, and to her alone, for the realization 
 of their happiness. I doubt not, as it gen- 
 erally happens in such a case, the original 
 of Master Spenser's Rosalinde was an ob- 
 scure person, who, assuming the qualities 
 with which such a disposition as that of her 
 gifted lover, is most apt to be taken, was 
 honored with his regard ; and then, merely 
 out of selfish vanity to possess so proud a 
 gallant, she made his confiding nature 
 believe she truly loved him, till she had 
 thoroughly enslaved his feelings, and forced 
 his adoration to be subservient to advance 
 sufficiently her own pride. I regret to say 
 such women are by no means rare. They 
 are of the thoroughly heartless, who reck- 
 lessly enter into a mischief for which they 
 can never render adequate compensation, 
 careless of ought save the gratification of 
 their vanity. 'Tis lamentable that such 
 base idols should receive such precious sac- 
 rifice." 
 
 Both Sir Valentine and Sir Reginald, 
 with their acccustomed gallantry, were for 
 asserting that women so treacherously dis- 
 posed were not to be found ; but the coun- 
 tess would not allow of statements so flatter- 
 ing. She honored them for their opinion ; 
 but her own deeper knowledge of the sub- 
 ject, and honesty of heart, made her refuse 
 't as erroneous. 
 
 "It matters not," observed her brother, 
 interrupting the disputation. " There are 
 6pots on the sun, and if that we meet with 
 similar blemishes in that wonderful fair lu- 
 minary, woman, we ought to remember 
 how many are her admirable qualities, and 
 
 how hapless would be our case without her 
 shining light to warm and illumine our 
 world." 
 
 " I would grant all that very gladly," re- 
 plied the countess ; " and right proud am I 
 to hear my sex so considered. But this 
 altereth not the case ; there are, unfortu- 
 nately, women of the sort I have alluded to ; 
 and, be they few or many, the evil they do is 
 out of any calculation ; for they single out 
 for their victims the truest and noblest na- 
 tures ; and the mischief endeth not with 
 them, for the misery of such must needs af- 
 fect the wide circle who take in them' the 
 interest they deserve. In the particular in- 
 stance of Master Spenser, I feel more moved 
 than perchance I otherwise might be, know- 
 ing, as I do his good qualities so intimately. 
 He is the gentlest creature I ever met, and 
 a very child in simplicity and affectionate- 
 ness — thoroughly ingenious, unobtrusive, un- 
 offending, kind, and grateful. Gifted, too, 
 as he is, with the highest powers of mind, it 
 seemeth a marvel to me he should be other- 
 wise looked on by any woman save with ad 
 miration and homage." 
 
 " The worst feature in the case is the in- 
 gratitude of these false Rosalindes," added 
 Sir Philip. " The poet honoreth such a 
 woman by attiring her in the exquisite fair 
 livery of his genius, to the complete hiding 
 of her natural poor apparelling ; and then 
 thus admirably garmented, she. quitteth him 
 to whom she is so greatly indebted, and, by 
 means of his gifts, palmeth her worthless- 
 ness upon some other." 
 
 " Now here is most excellent evidence of 
 the noble qualities of our esteemed friend," 
 said his sister, putting her hand upon the 
 manuscript before her. " It is the first part 
 of a great poem in heroical verse, wherein 
 he intendeth to represent all the moral vir- 
 tues, assigning to each a knight, in whose 
 conduct the operations of that virtue, where- 
 of he is the acknowledged protector, are to 
 be expressed, and by whom the vices and 
 unruly appetites, that are opposed to it, are 
 to be overthrown. Truly, a most compre- 
 hensive design ; but the surprising richness 
 of the imagery — the purely imaginative char- 
 acter of the language — the high and chival- 
 rous feeling which pervades every part— 
 and the perfectly original character of each 
 conception, as far as I have read of it — ara 
 equally manifest." 
 
 " Truly, ' The Fairy Queen,' promisetn to 
 be a work of lasting fame," added Sir Philip. 
 " From the specimen entrusted to me, I. hes- 
 itate not in saying, it cannot help proving to 
 be a mine of the very richest ore." 
 
 "But what most deserveth our eulogium 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 301 
 
 ■ the purifying and ennobling tendency of 
 this poem," continued the countess. " The 
 object appeareth to be to exalt humanity, 
 and show to what heights it can climb ; 
 that those who may be ambitious of great- 
 ness, shall have proper guidance to the ele- 
 vation they aim at. With this idea in view, 
 the poet bringeth before the reader, man in 
 all his nobleness, and woman in all her pu- 
 rity — everything that can make knighthood 
 appear in such chivalrous character, as must 
 be most worthy of female adoration ; and all 
 that can give to feminine beauty that perfec- 
 tion, which is the truest excitement of 
 knightly achievements." 
 
 " Surely Master Spenser hath earned for 
 himself the gratitude of every knight in 
 Christendom !" exclaimed Sir Reginald. 
 
 " Ay, that has he," added Sir Valentine, 
 with a like earnestness. " Indeed I know 
 not how a great mind, such as his must 
 needs be, could have found employment so 
 profitable to virtuous feeling and honorable 
 conduct." At this moment, the conversation 
 was interrupted by the appearance of a 
 serving man, announcing the name of Mas- 
 ter Spenser, and presently there entered a 
 man of handsome mild features, somewhat 
 touched by the spirit of melancholy, but not 
 sufficiently so to render their gravity un- 
 pleasing. His eyes were clear, and beam- 
 ing with the gentlest expressions ; and his 
 beard short, and rounded under the chin. 
 He wore a suit of a sober cut, with a falling 
 band round his neck, cut into points. In 
 figure he was somewhat slim, and in beha- 
 vior of a graceful courtesy. All rose to 
 welcome him at his approach, and though 
 the greeting of the others was exceedingly 
 hearty, there was in that of the countess the 
 tenderness of a sister. He received these 
 tokens of their good-will with a modesty of 
 demeanor, that bespoke the natural retiring- 
 ness of his disposition. 
 
 The conversation soon returned to its 
 former subject — the writings of Master 
 Spenser. Sir Philip Sydney mingling with 
 his praises some show of criticism ; but his 
 gifted sister was evidently in no mood for 
 playing of the critic, for she spoke most elo- 
 quently in their commendation. The poet 
 listened with looks of delight and gratitude, 
 attending to the opinions they expressed with 
 the deepest respect, knowing what oracles 
 his judges were, and seeming to marvel any- 
 thing of his invention could be so veil 
 thought of. 
 
 " I am greatly bound to you for such hon- 
 orable mention of my poor performance," 
 obaerved he, with an impressive sincerity ; 
 " 1 have merely trod in the footsteps, and, 
 
 as must needs be, at a humble distance ot 
 those illustrious masters of the epic art, Ho- 
 mer, Virgil, Ariosto, Dante and Tasso ; and 
 I will strive all I may to continue in so glo- 
 rious a path. But I am come here with the 
 hope of seeing justice done to a poet, who, 
 as far as I can judge of the example of his 
 powers that hath accidentally fallen into my 
 hands, is like to overtop the ablest writers of 
 his age." 
 
 This speech created exceeding surprise in 
 those around him, and the speaker was quick- 
 ly asked to what he alluded ; whereupon he 
 continued — 
 
 " I had just parted with my gallant and 
 noble-hearted true friend, Sir Walter Ra- 
 leigh, about an hour since, when, as I was 
 passing by Dowgate, my attention was forc- 
 ibly attracted by a decent-looking young 
 countryman, struggling in the rude grasp of 
 divers constables, who were hurrying him 
 off to prison, for what offence I know not. 
 Whilst observing him, I noticed a paper fall 
 from his doublet, which all else about him 
 were too busy with their prisoner to regard; 
 I presently stepped forward and picked it up. 
 I found it to be a poem, the which, with your 
 gracious permission, I would gladly read to 
 you." 
 
 Permission being very readily granted, — 
 for every one appeared singularly curious 
 on so strange a matter, — Master Spenser 
 produced a paper, from which he read what 
 is here set down : — 
 
 " THE POET OWNETH HIS SUBMISSION TO THE 
 SOVEREIGN BEAUTT." 
 
 " Lo ! from the feathery foam I see thee rise 
 
 'Scaped from the arms of th' enamored billow, 
 A thousand balmy airs stoop from the skies, 
 
 And round about thee hold their pliant pillow ; 
 
 The beach is gained — the oak, the elm, the 
 willow, 
 With all their ancient heraldry appear, 
 
 Owning a brighter sunshine in thine eyes, 
 Streams laugh beneath thy looks ; and far and 
 
 near, 
 Doth the whole landscape thy rich livery wear. 
 
 " First-born of Nature ! Queen of Life and 
 Light ; 
 Mother of Love ! (whose power supports thy 
 beirig) 
 Whose flames the quenchless lamps of night, 
 And flasheth where morn's burning car ii 
 
 fleeing, 
 Hither to me ! My fettered thoughts be 
 freeing ; 
 And, as the obedient slaves their mistress own, 
 
 With thy divine apparel make them bright, 
 That men may see they're thine, and thine alone, 
 And where they go they may thy might make 
 known. 
 
804 
 
 THE YOU1H OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 " I call thee ! I, thy fervent worshipper, 
 Whom thou hast gazed on from thy sec/et 
 places, 
 Seeking to be thy holy minister ; 
 
 Enclasp my spirit in thy fond embraces ! 
 Delight each feeling with thy gladd'ning 
 graces ! 
 Teach every sympathy thy gentle lore ! 
 Be for my hopes a ready messenger ; 
 And all that's best of me instruct to soar, 
 Where thou hast garnered thy most precious 
 store. 
 
 " Ere I knew thee I was like some deep nook 
 O'ergrown with gnarled trunks and weeds 
 entangled, 
 Where smiling nature never deigned to look, 
 And wind and water wrestled as they wran- 
 gled ; 
 I met diy gaze ; — then all my verdure span- 
 gled 
 With countless myriads of refreshing dews ; 
 
 The sullen flood turned to a sparkling brook, 
 And the hushed wind no more would show his 
 
 thews, 
 Where virgin buds betrayed their blushing hues. 
 
 " Then was I filled with store of sunny gleams, 
 As some rich pattern skilful hands are weav- 
 ing, 
 
 All shot about in threads with golden beams ; 
 Or ears of grain the harvest lord is sheaving, 
 Ere the great ripener his hot couch is leaving. 
 
 And such hath been the magic of thy glance, 
 A change fell o'er my thoughts, my hopes, 
 my dreams, 
 
 And I became, through my allegiance, 
 
 A wilderness turned to a fair pleasance. 
 
 " I saw thee when thy mother Nature held 
 
 Thee in her lap before my marvelling glances, 
 When breeze and billow their rough music 
 quelled 
 To soothing lullabies and cheerful dances, 
 When all earth's chivalry of blades and lances 
 Leaped into motion over hill and dale, 
 
 And blooming youth and patriarchal eld 
 On bow'rs and banks, the rock, the wood, the 
 
 vale, 
 Donned in thy name their brightest coat of 
 mail ! 
 
 " I knew thee by the soul-enthralling good 
 That threw its rosy halo round thy dwelling, 
 
 By banishment from thy pure neighborhood 
 Of things that show no token of excelling, 
 By tuneful praises, every voice was telling. 
 
 Of plumed courtier grateful for thy smile ; 
 And the sweet incense, not to be withstood, 
 
 Shed by a thousand censers all that while 
 
 Swung to and fro beneath each forest aisle. 
 
 " I loved thee for the kind and open hand 
 
 Thou hast at all times held out at my greeting, 
 For lessons of the true, the rare, the grand, 
 
 That made my entertainment at our meeting 
 For bounteous largess ever more repeating, 
 Of precious favors delicately choice ; 
 
 And more than all for sky, and sea, and land, 
 Which, in thy braveries, thou madest rejoice 
 With graceful form and music-breathing voice. 
 
 " Seen, known, and loved of me so long and j 
 well, :,, 
 
 Methinks I hold such fond familiar footing, '*■ 
 That shouldst thou slumber in some moss-grown 
 cell, 
 Or ruin hoar where reverend owls are hooting, 
 Whilst time its strong foundations is uproot- 
 ing, 
 Unto thy private chamber I might hie, 
 
 On tiptoe, breathless, lest I break the spell 
 Which holds thine eyelids with so firm a tie, 
 And couched beside thee lovingly might lie. 
 
 " Therefore I call thee now, sweet lady, mine,, 
 Come forth, my queen, from thy most glorioiu 
 palace ! 
 Dear Priestess, leave thy star-enamelled shrine 
 That boasts its river font, and floral chalice, 
 To the storm's rage or cloud's most gloorrT 
 malice, 
 And in my mind make thou thy present bow«i i 
 Shed there thy warmest, brightest, puwy 
 shine, 
 And as 'tis nurtured by the genial power, 
 Each fresh idea shall show a rarer flower. 
 
 " As 'tis of thee that I essay to sing, 
 
 On me let thy immortal worth be grafted, 
 My nature then thy precious fruit would briny 
 
 Like .odors on the summer zephyrs wafted ; 
 
 Or some rude weapon gemmed and golden, 
 hafted, 
 To be a sign unto an after age, 
 
 That I had been thy knight, thy \cxd, tb 
 king, 
 Thy scholar, by thy teaching rendered sage, 
 Thy slave, whose labor brought a goodly wage 
 
 " Ah me ! perchance thou art not so inclined 
 And think'st it better to be gaily straying, 
 
 Giving thy tresses to the wanton wind 
 
 As thou dost wander up and down a maying 
 Or art by clearest waters idly straying, 
 
 Lost in delight of thine own loveliness, 
 
 Mirrored within the wave — and there dos» 
 bind 
 
 A delicate garland o'er each dainty tress, 
 
 And all thy charms doth tire in such brav« 
 dress. 
 
 " Well, if 'tis so indeed — it needs must be, 
 
 I cannot give thee any such adorning, 
 Still shall all natural things witness for me 
 In courts where there hath never been sub- 
 orning, 
 That noon and twilight eve, eve and early 
 morning, 
 Only to gain thy love I cared to live ; 
 But surely if 'tis vain to hope for thee, 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 206 
 
 Thoa canst thy highest power and purpose give 
 
 To some befitting representative ? 
 
 " And such a one know I, whose great desert 
 
 Giveth her comeliness its noblest garnish ; 
 Her spirit, that makes envy fall inert, 
 
 Gleams like a blade that Knows no soil or 
 tarnish, 
 
 Or painting shining in its freshest varnish ; 
 Oh ne'er hath been such costly carcanet ! — 
 
 A truth that none who live can controvert, 
 For in and out all Stirling gifts are met, 
 And every gem of price therein is set. 
 
 " Doubtless so rare a being hath obtained 
 
 From thee the title of her rarity : » 
 For from what other source could she have 
 gained 
 
 Her embassy of love and charity? 
 
 'Twixt ye there is such small disparity, 
 I oft have thought she was herself the queen, 
 
 Thou her, — and near her have remained, 
 Paying that rev'rence to her shape and mien 
 I would but give to thee hadst thou there been. 
 
 " And long may she such glorious office hold ! 
 
 And long to me present her fair credentials 
 May in each word her embassy be told, 
 
 Each look convey the same divine essentials 
 Thy mightiness alone hath meaning for : 
 
 Then with a tribute richer far than gold 
 Will I do homage as thy servitor 
 And ever honor thy embassador. 
 
 " Truly, I'll find her lodging of the best, 
 
 All furnished in a fashion most endearing, 
 To be its mistress rather than its guest ; 
 
 And give such gallant vestment for her wear- 
 ing, 
 
 As shall the best become her noble bearing ; 
 I'll have before her Fame's loud trumpet sound ; 
 
 Upon her head I'll place a jewelled crest : 
 And wheresoe'er her footsteps shall be found, 
 My monuments shall glorify the ground. 
 
 " And thus my whole affections I subject, 
 Whilst o'er my cheek the hue of life is florid, 
 
 To use thy laws, thy rule, thy dialect, 
 Forswear all brutal hate and vengeance horrid, 
 From zone to zone, the frigid and the torrid 
 
 Whist of this world I am a denizen ; 
 And ever show the loyalest respect 
 
 Where'er thy signet is apparent, when 
 
 Thou seekest dealings with my fellow men." 
 
 A famous marvelling was exhibited by all 
 present, at the reading of these verses, and 
 much was said of the unknown author, for 
 whom exceeding interest had been excited ; 
 and, at last, Sir Philip Sydney hurried 
 Master Spenser away with him, that they 
 might learn who he was, and where he 
 might be found, with as little delay as pos- 
 sible. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 This fool comes from the citizens, 
 Nay, prithee do not frown ! 
 
 1 know him as well as you 
 By his livery gown — 
 Of a rare horn-mad family. 
 
 Anok. 
 Tell Fortune of her blindness, 
 
 Tell Nature of decay, 
 Tell Friendship of unkindness 
 
 Tell Justice of delay ; 
 And if they dare reply, 
 Then give them both the lie. 
 
 Sis Walter Raleigh. 
 
 By dint of constant inquiries of carmen, 
 pedlars and others, the youthful Shakspeare 
 found his way to the Bankside, where, as 
 he had heard, stood the playhouse whereof 
 the elder Burbage was manage. He en- 
 tered London by the Uxbridge road, in a 
 strange wonder at the number of persons he 
 met, as soon as he had got to the held called 
 the Hay-market, near Charing, where the 
 country people held a market of hay and 
 straw, for the convenience of the Londoners. 
 There, the abundance of splendid mansions 
 he passed, and numberless houses of the 
 citizens, the shops, the warehouses, the 
 churches, the great din of traffic, that soun- 
 ded along the streets, of itinerant chapmen 
 bawling their wares — with the rolling of 
 carts and waggons, and the goodly caval- 
 cade of nobles and gallants riding their 
 sprightly palfreys, astonished him exceed- 
 ingly, whilst the more closely he approached 
 the city, the path became more thronged 
 with persons of all kinds and conditions, in 
 such exceeding variety of appearance, that 
 it seemed an endless puzzle to the young 
 traveller to guess their several characters 
 and vocations. 
 
 By the time he arrived at the Globe play- 
 house, he was weary with hunger and walk- 
 ing. A flag was flying at the roof, which 
 denoted that the play had commenced, as he 
 learned from a bystander ; so he thought it 
 would be most advisable to wait till it was 
 over, before he presented himself to any of 
 his "old companions ; therefore he strolled 
 about the place amongst the venders of 
 fruit, and crowds of idlers that stood nigh 
 the building. As he was noting, with his 
 accustomed curiousness, the manners of the 
 sorts of persons in his neighborhood, on a 
 sudden a horseman rode up, and alighting 
 beside him, cried, " Here, fellow, hold my 
 horse, and I'll give thee a groat at my 
 return," fifing him the bridle and quickly 
 vanished into the playhouse. William Shaka- 
 
\ 
 
 9M 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 peare was taken somewhat by surprise at 
 this occurrence, but remembering that his 
 purse was penniless, and himself both tired 
 and hungry, he was well enough disposed for 
 the earning of any sum, even though it came 
 of such humble employment as the holding of 
 a horse : nevertheless, whilst he walked the 
 animal up and down, his mind was wonder- 
 fully busy in forming all sorts of bright am- 
 bitious prospects, as completely at variance 
 with his present poor shift, as any matter 
 could be. 
 
 Thus he employed himself, till the people 
 coming thronging out of the doors of the 
 playhouse, told him that the play was done ; 
 and presently, up comes the gallant, whose 
 horse he had in charge, gave him the pro- 
 -mised groat, and rode away ; but it so hap- 
 pened, while he was engaged with the latter, 
 two young ^nen, very fairly clad, who were 
 passing near, when they caught sight of the 
 young Shakspeare stopped of a sudden, and 
 regarded him with a very curious and mar- 
 velling aspect. 
 
 " It must be him, Dick !" said one. 
 
 " Ay, marry, it is ; but who bringeth him 
 here, holding of horses, Tom ?" added the 
 other. The object of their attention, as 
 soon as he had parted with the gallant, was 
 for proceeding to the Globe, but he was stop- 
 ped by these two persons making up to him, 
 whom he had no great difficulty in recogni- 
 zing as his old school-fellows, Tom Greene 
 and Dick Burbage. Great was the joy of 
 this meeting on both sides ; and the young 
 traveller soon told what brought him to 
 London, and his adventures on the journey, 
 even to the holding of the horse, which was 
 received by his merry companions with some 
 interest and more laughing. The latter 
 seemed to be just the same careless, free- 
 hearted fellows they had been when boys ; 
 and, I doubt not, were quite as ready to 
 pass off an ingenious jest here in London, 
 as ever they had been in merry Stratford. 
 
 " Where's thy father, Dick ?" inquired 
 Green. 
 
 " Methinks, he must now be intent upon 
 the getting rid of his blackamoor's face," 
 replied young Burbage. 
 
 "Come thou with us, Will," said the 
 former to the youthful Shakspeare. " We 
 will to Master Manager at once, and get 
 him to give thee a place in our company — 
 amongst whom thou wilt meet Hemings and 
 Condell, thy once chosen associates — then, 
 leave the rest to us, and if we lead thee not 
 a right merry life, it cannot be other than 
 thine own fault." Talking of their old 
 pranks, in a famous humor at every allu- 
 sion to them, the three proceeded together 
 
 into the playhouse, and after passing through 
 some strange places — as the young traveller 
 took them to be, — they arrived at a door ;— 
 William Shakspeare, in famous spirits and 
 full of pleasant anticipation, for all his hun- 
 ger and weariness. 
 
 " What, ho, Master Manager !" cried 
 Tom Green, knocking loudly ; " Give us 
 entrance, I prithee ! 1 bring thee aid — I 
 bring thee strength — I bring thee comfort — . 
 I bring thee a marvel, a prodigy, a phoenix, 
 — I bring thee present profit and future 
 greatness." 
 
 " Come in, a God's name, Tom !" replied 
 a voice from within, with prodigious ear- 
 nestness. The young traveller had some 
 difficulty in recognizing his old acquain- 
 tance, in the smut-faced personage half 
 unclad that was pulling off his hose, in the 
 meanly furnished chamber, in which the 
 former now found himself. 
 
 " Heart o' me !" exclaimed Greene, laugh- 
 ingly, as the manager at the entrance of a 
 stranger began hastily a drawing on his 
 hose again." " Care not for thy legs j 
 methinks they are well enough for a black 
 fellow." 
 
 " Well enough !" echoed the manager 
 glancing at his limbs with a very manifest 
 pride. " Well enough for a black fellow, 
 saidst thou ? I tell thee what it is, Tom, 
 black fellow or white fellow, or even a 
 Greene fellow, for the matter of that, hath 
 never been able to boast of such handsome 
 things to stand on since the world began." 
 
 " Bravely said, Legs !" replied the other 
 in the same merry humor. " But here I 
 have brought with me a certain friend of 
 mine whose great merit I can vouch for, 
 who desireth to be a player, and of our 
 company." 
 
 " 'Tis Will Shakspeare, father, from 
 Stratford," added his son. 
 
 " Away with him !" angrily cried the 
 elder Burbage, to the extreme astonishment 
 of every one else. " 'Slight, I've had enough 
 of Will Shakspeare to last me the rest of my 
 days." 
 
 " Why, what hast had of him, I wonder !" 
 exclaimed Greene. 
 
 " Had, quotha !' replied the manager ; I've 
 had of him what was like to get me a speedy 
 hanging on the highest tree. Some six years 
 since or more, I met him, when, with my 
 company about to play at a noble lady's 
 mansion in the country, and he got me to 
 consent to his playing of a part in a new 
 play that I had sent me to represent before 
 her visitors — well, the varlet was not con- 
 tent with marring the end on't by saying of 
 a parcel of stuff instead of what had been 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAR3PEARE. 
 
 90V 
 
 nut down for him ; but scarce an hour after 
 ne mends the matter by assisting of a com- 
 panion to run off with a young damsel there 
 on a visit. It was well for me I showed my 
 prudence by affecting a perfect ignorance of 
 the whole proceedings, for had it come to 
 my lord's ears I had shared in them in any 
 way, I should have been ruined outright, 
 clapped in a prison and ordered for execu- 
 tion without hope of reprieve." 
 
 William Shakspeare explained the cir- 
 cumstance just alluded to, but the more he 
 explained the more enraged seemed the 
 manager, that he should have been put in 
 such jeopardy as he had been to assist in a 
 scheme of which he was kept in entire igno- 
 rance, and not even the entreaties of Greene 
 and his own son could induce him to alter 
 his resolution to have none of Will Shaks- 
 peare for to be of his company. Dick Bur- 
 bage got vexed at this look, but Greene, con- 
 fined not his vexedness to looks. He spoke 
 out warmly in behalf of his friend, and said 
 such sharp words to the elder Burbage that 
 he grew choleric, and there would have been 
 a complete falling out betwixt them, had not 
 the cause of it interposed, and implored 
 them not to make him an occasion for quar- 
 relling. The young traveller left the cham- 
 ber with a much heavier heart than he had 
 entered it. Here were all his proud hopes 
 overthrown at a blow, and he, faint with 
 hunger, and his long journey, without a 
 place to lay his head in, or ought for his 
 many necessities but the solitary groat he 
 had received from the gallant for holding of 
 his horse. He had only got a few steps 
 from the playhouse when he was overtaken 
 by Tom Greene. 
 
 " Care not for that old churl ;" said he, 
 " Perchance thou wilt do as well elsewhere ; 
 so keep up thy heart, Will ; and Dick and I 
 will devise something for thy advantage. I 
 have now an appointment which will take 
 me an hour or so ; in the me-anwhile speed 
 thee over London Bridge, and inquire thy 
 way to the house of Mistress Colewort who 
 selleth simples, and herbs, and such things, 
 at the sign of the Phoenix, in Bucklersbury 
 — there is my lodging ; call for what thou 
 wilt, and make thyself at home there, till I 
 come." The kind-hearted player hurried 
 away; and his old schoolfellow full of grate- 
 ful feelings retraced his steps the way he 
 had come. He remembered Bucklersbury, 
 having passed it going from Cheap to Lom- 
 bard-Street, therefore, he never thought of 
 questioning any as to his road, but pro- 
 ceeded on, thinking over his heavy disap- 
 pointment so intently, he regarded nothing 
 else. He had passed London Bridge, and 
 
 not being very heedful, had taken a wrong 
 turning out Fish Street Hill. He had got 
 some distance along sundry winding nar- 
 row streets, when all at once, he was brought 
 to a stand still by some authoritative voice, 
 and he quickly found himself surrounded 
 by persons in long gowns trimmed with fur, 
 that seemed some officers of the corporation, 
 and others who, by their bills and apparel- 
 ling, he took to be constables of the watch. 
 
 " Stand, fellow, and give an account of 
 yourself!" exclaimed one. 
 
 " What brought thee here ? Whose 
 varlet art thou ?" inquired another. 
 
 " An' he be not a masterless man, Master 
 Fleetwood, I know not one when I see 
 him," observed a third. 
 
 " A very vagrom, I'll swear," cried an 
 ancient constable, poking his grey beard into 
 the young traveller's face. " I pray you, 
 Master Recorder, to question him of his 
 calling. I am in huge suspicion I have had 
 in my custody some score of times already." 
 
 " What is thy name, caitiff ?" demanded 
 he who styled Master Fleetwood, in a very 
 high and mighty sort of manner. 
 
 " First tell me, why I am thus rudely 
 questioned and stopped, my masters ?" said 
 the youthful Shakspeare, who liked not being 
 so handled. 
 
 " Oh, the villain !" exclaimed one of the 
 constables, in a seeming amazement. " Here 
 is monstrous behaving to his worship master 
 Recorder, and so many honorable aldermen ! 
 Dost know no manners ? Wilt show no 
 respect of persons ? Here are divers of the 
 worshipful corporation going about taking 
 up all manner of masterless men and house- 
 less vagroms that infest the city ; and if thou 
 art one of them, thou art a most graceless 
 fellow. Tell master Recorder thy name on 
 the instant, or thou shall to Newgate in a 
 presently." 
 
 " You have no business with me, or my 
 name either," answered their prisoner, get- 
 ting to be a little chafed at his treatment. 
 
 "Who is thy master, caitiff," inquired one 
 of the aldermen. 
 
 " I have none," replied the youth, some- 
 what proudly. 
 
 " There, he confesses it, an' it please 
 your worship," cried the constable. " I 
 could have sworn he was a masterless man, 
 he hath such a horrible vagrom look." 
 
 " To prison with him !" exclaimed Master 
 Fleetwood, with some asperity. " This 
 country gear of thine, I doubt not, is only 
 worn as a blind. Thou hast a very (iishonest 
 visage ; an exceeding cutpurse sort of coun- 
 tenance ; and 1 feel assured that when thoa 
 
308 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 art hanged, there will be at least one rogue 
 the less." 
 
 " And I feel assured," said William Shak- 
 Bpeare, " that when thou departest this life — 
 no matter in what fashion — there will be at 
 least one fool the less." 
 
 " Away with him, for a rude rascal !" 
 cried the enraged recorder. The aldermen 
 made similar exclamations, and five or six 
 of the watch so held and hustled him, that, 
 for all his struggles, which were very great, 
 he was presently dragged like a felon, 
 through the public streets with no lack of 
 abuse and blows, till he was safely lodged in 
 the prison of Newgate. Here he scarcely had 
 opportunity for the noticing of anything till 
 he found himself in a large yard, surrounded 
 by amazing high walls, wherein there were 
 several prisoners of different ages, most of 
 whom looked to be necessitous poor fellows, 
 who had most probably been driven into dis- 
 honest courses by the pressure of some 
 fierce want ; but there were others, whom, 
 at a glance, it was easy to see, were down- 
 right villains — and some few whose appear- 
 ance bespoke their only crime to have been 
 their want of friends. 
 
 Some were amusing themselves at foot- 
 ball, others at bowls — some at cards, others 
 at dice ; and these were generally of the 
 villainous sort. Here and there might be 
 seen one walking about in very woeful coun- 
 tenance, who joined in none of the sports ; 
 and these were of the friendless. As soon 
 as he had entered the place, the young play- 
 er was surrounded by several of his fellow- 
 prisoners — some curious, some abusive, and 
 all apparently thieves outright, for they pre- 
 sently snatched from him whatever they 
 could lay a hand on, that had been spared in 
 the examination of the constables and turn- 
 keys ; and this they did with such thorough 
 artifice, he could not see by whom it was 
 done. However, when they had discovered 
 he had nothing more they could readily de- 
 prive him of, or saw better entertainment 
 elsewhere, they left him to his own reflecti- 
 ons, which, it may well believed, were none 
 of the comfortablest. 
 
 Tired of the noise and ribaldry of his 
 companions — their fierce oaths, and coarse 
 vulgar manners, the young traveller took to 
 observing those who kept aloof. Some of 
 these appeared to be of a much higher rank 
 than the other ; and with one he soon made 
 acquaintance ; for it was impossible for any 
 well-disposed person to behold the counten- 
 ance of William Shakspeare and not feel in- 
 clined to be on friendly terms with him ; and 
 from this person he quickly learned the 
 names and characters of most of his fellow- 
 
 prisoners and in return was told how he 
 came to be among them. 
 
 " Ah, worthy sir," said the stranger, " you 
 have been placed here by the same meddle- 
 some person as hath imprisoned me — to wit, 
 Master Recorder Fleetwood, who seeketh 
 by over-business, to pass with her highness's 
 sage counsellors, for a famous, loyal, and 
 notable zealous officer. I have been thrust 
 here merely because he chose to suspect me 
 of the high crime of being of the Catholic 
 faith, and of attending to the rites and sol- 
 emnities of such religion ; and for no greater 
 offence than this, divers worthy gentlemen 
 who have been by him so ignominiously 
 treated. Some sent to one prison — some to 
 another ; and all punished with heavy fines 
 and grievous imprisonment." 
 
 " I marvel such outrage upon justice 
 should be allowed," observed the youth, 
 warmly. 
 
 " I grieve to say such things are grown 
 too common to make marvels of," replied 
 his companion. " Perchance the Queen and 
 her chief ministers are not disposed to coun- 
 tenance such pestilent tyranny ; indeed, I 
 question they ever hear of it in any way 
 like the truth ; but such is the unhappy 
 state of things in the city in consequence of 
 the meddlesomeness of this same tyrannical 
 recorder, that for a man to dare attend the 
 service of the religion he conscientiously 
 believeth to be the true one, he shall be ac- 
 counted the worst of villains ; and for one 
 that cometh to any poverty and hath not a 
 friend in the world, he is forthwith thrust 
 into prison, to consort with felons and the 
 vilest of characters. All this while, almost 
 under the very noses of these zealous offi- 
 cers, are to be found houses where cutpurses 
 may be met with by scores, teaching their 
 art to young boys, and enjoying of their ill-got 
 booty in every manner of drunkenness and 
 riotous infamy, and they are left undisturbed 
 to do as they list." 
 
 " And how long, think you, worthy sir, ua 
 poor victims of such intolerable wrong, shall 
 be kept in this horrid place ?" inquired the 
 other. 
 
 " Truly, there is no knowing," answered 
 his fellow-prisoner. " If you have a friend 
 at court who will take up your cause, 'tis 
 like enough you will soon get your liberty ; 
 but if you are not so provided, there is no 
 saying of what length may be your imprison- 
 ment." 
 
 This was but sorry consolation for the 
 young traveller, and it left him nothing but 
 an endless prospect of bolts and bars, and 
 stone walls. The time came for the prison- 
 ers to be locked up for the night in separate 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 909 
 
 cells, and a sullen fellow of a turnkey con- 
 ducted William Shakspeare to a most dis- 
 mal-looking narrow dungeon, furnished with 
 nothing save a little straw, a jug of water, 
 and a loaf of bread. Long as had been his 
 fast, he felt no desire to break it ; but the 
 bed was welcome, and he flung himself on 
 it with a heart overburthened with most un- 
 happy feelings. A famous ending had his 
 glorious anticipations come to ! The visions 
 of greatness that could awhile since scarce 
 be spanned, save by imagination, were now 
 cribbed within a cold narrow cell. All Ms 
 fine hopes that a few days before looked to 
 be heir apparent to the brightest honors of 
 genius, now must needs put up with straw 
 for lying, bread and water for victual, and 
 bare stone walls for lodging. To say he 
 was not cast down at such ill fortune, were 
 to depart from the truth strangely, for in 
 very honesty, he was in a desperate sad- 
 ness — as will be found all very sanguine 
 natures when they come to find their high 
 expectations overthrown ; and assuredly he 
 had some reason, for when he should have 
 his liberty was most uncertain, and to a free 
 aspiring mind like his, confinement in such 
 narrow limits was hardly to be endured. 
 
 But it soon struck him, that despondency 
 would do him but small service, and the only 
 way to get off the unpleasantness of his pre- 
 sent strait, was to bear it patiently. He lay a 
 thinking what he should do. He cared not 
 how soon he got away from his present com- 
 panions — for he had already had enough of 
 them, and determined as the first thing to let 
 his old schoolfellow, Tom Greene, know 
 where he had been placed, that if by his 
 means his liberation could be effected, it 
 might be done with all convenient speed. — 
 In this he overlooked the difficulty there was 
 of his getting any communication conveyed 
 from Newgate. Had he any sufficient bribe, 
 there would be some chance of it, but in his 
 penniless state, he was like enough to re- 
 main where he was till doomsday, ere his 
 friends could know of his hapless case, 
 through the assistance of his jailors. For- 
 tunately, of this he was ignorant, for he pre- 
 sently fell to more agreeable thoughts, and 
 a% he was in fancy fondling his dear chil- 
 dren — weary with trouble and exhausted by 
 fatigue, he fell into a deep sleep. 
 
 Here, in this noisome dungeon, he was 
 again visited by the glorious dreams of his 
 early days. The place became a most fair 
 landscape, beautifully garnished with ravish- 
 ing sweet blossoms, and the whole neigh- 
 borhood filled with a fairy company, as 
 choicely apparelled as beautifully featured, 
 singing as delectably and dancing with as 
 
 delicate a grace as ever ; and, as usual, 
 brighter than them all shone her who seem- 
 ed their queen, and she regarded him with a 
 very marvellous kindness, led the others to 
 do him all imaginable gentle courtesies, and 
 in music of exquisite pleasantness sung him 
 such comfortable words as appeared to fill 
 him with greater hope than he had known 
 his whole life long. But besides this, she 
 addressed him with language of counsel, to 
 the effect he would keep his nature unsul- 
 lied by evil doings ; pointing out the profit 
 of honorable behavior, and assuring him of 
 the notable truth, that he who seeks for fame 
 never can hold it for any time, save with pure 
 hands and a noble heart. 
 
 Then she bade him look in a certain di- 
 rection, and there he beheld the figure of 
 himself, done to the very life, seeming to be 
 hungry, weary, and a prisoner as he was — 
 anon the scene changed ; he had his liberty, 
 but he was struggling with manifold hard- 
 ships, one following on another so closely 
 there was no rest for them, and each press- 
 ing with exceeding severity it seemed a mar- 
 vel how they could be tolerated ; they lasted 
 a long space, but gradually appearances 
 looked more favorable ; the prospect became 
 brighter, the scenes changed rapidly from 
 one delightful landscape to another, till it ap- 
 peared as though a whole world of splendor 
 and happiness lay open to his view. From 
 one quarter the applause of assembled thou- 
 sands were shouted in his ears ; from ano- 
 ther came the commendations of whole mul- 
 titudes of the learned ; here, in some hum- 
 ble hearth-side, resounded the honest praises 
 of the poor and lowly ; and elsewhere from 
 the hall, the bower, the garden, and the grove, 
 plaudits as fervent were breathed from 
 gallant knights and honorable fair ladies. — 
 Certes he would have been glad enough to 
 have dreamt such a dream as this all his 
 days : but a rough voice and a rude shake 
 put it to a sudden ending, and starting up he 
 found one of the turnkeys standing over 
 him with a lanthorn, his ill-featured counte- 
 nance forming a most revolting contrast to 
 the sunny faces he had gazed on in his vi- 
 sion. 
 
 " A murrain on thee, wilt thou never 
 wake ?" exclaimed the jailor sharply. — 
 " Why, thou sleepest as though thou hadst 
 no hope of sleep again. " Marry, and 
 thou takest such rest the morning thou art 
 to be hanged, they must needs put thee to 
 the rope in the midst of it." 
 
 " What want you with me ?" inquired the 
 prisoner. 
 
 " Thou must along with me with all 
 speed," replied the man. 
 
910 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 a For what purpose, I pray you ?" asked 
 the youth. 
 
 "Purpose, quotha, how should I know ?" 
 said the jailor. " Mayhap 'tis the pillory- 
 mayhap the stocks — mayhap a goodly whip- 
 ping ; they be the only purposes that travel 
 to Newgate, I'll warrant. But come along, 
 I tell thee, I can allow of no tarrying." 
 
 Believing it useless to say anything more, 
 William Shakspeare rose and followed his 
 guide through numberless narrow passages 
 so dark he could scarce see his way along 
 even with the help of the lantern his com- 
 panion carried before him, the jailor grum- 
 bling at every step, and his prisoner in a mood 
 hardly more social, from having been dis- 
 turbed in such pleasant dreaming. From all 
 he could gather from the sulky turnkey, his 
 being led to another part of the prison boded 
 him no good ; and he supposed it was to re- 
 ceive some degrading punishment or ano- 
 ther, such as is commonly bestowed on per- 
 sons whose chief crime happeneth to be 
 their poverty. 
 
 In such manner the two arrived at a door 
 in a distant part of the building, which the 
 jailor opening, bade the other enter by him- 
 self. On gaining admission into the cham- 
 ber, the latter found three persons seated to- 
 gether, whom he took to be his judges going 
 to sentence him to the dreaded punishment. 
 One was a very severe looking personage, 
 from whose aspect he could gather but few 
 hopes, and was clad somewhat in jailor 
 fashion, with sundry large keys at his belt. 
 The others had much of the gallant in their 
 appearance, and possessed countenances 
 that savored considerably more of humanity. 
 
 " An' it please you to leave his examina- 
 tion to me, I will have the truth from him 
 speedily," said the first to his companions ; 
 and then turning sharply to the young 
 prisoner, commenced questioning him after 
 the following fashion, the other answering 
 as follows : — 
 
 " Fellow ! what's thy name ?" 
 
 " William Shakspeare." 
 
 " Where dost come from ?" 
 
 " Stratford on Avon, in Warwickshire." 
 
 * How long hast been in London?" 
 
 " Only a few hours." 
 
 " What brought thee here ?" 
 
 " I came to be a player in the company of 
 Master Burbage at the Bankside." 
 
 "Now Master Turnkey, this evidently 
 proves him to be no vagrant," observed one 
 of the gallants. 
 
 "I pray your worship stop awhile," re- 
 plied the jailor. " These fellows have some 
 famous fine story always at their command- 
 ment. O' my life, I do believe, were you to 
 
 examine the most notorious rogue under my 
 hands, he would presently make himself out 
 to be as honest a man as any in the city. 
 Let me ask of him a few more questions." 
 Then turning to his prisoner, he added — 
 " How long hast been a player ?" 
 
 " I cannot say I have ever been a player," 
 answered the other. 
 
 "There, I said I would presently make 
 him show himself for what he truly is — a 
 masterless man, and no player !" exclaimed 
 the turnkey, exultingly, to his companions, 
 and then turning sharply to the prisoner, 
 added — " Prithee have done with thy coney- 
 catching ; I am not to be so caught, my 
 young master. Thou saidst but a moment 
 since thou wert a player, and now thou hast 
 the impudency to declare thou hast never 
 been a player. What dost mean by that, 
 fellow?" 
 
 " I mean just what I said," replied Wil- 
 liam Shakspeare, undauntedly ; " I have 
 many times played in plays ; but as I have 
 done it solely for my own amusement, I could 
 not consider myself a player, who playeth 
 only for his own living." 
 
 " Truly, a just distinction," said one of 
 the gallants. 
 
 "A. monstrous fine story, I'll warrant," 
 exclaimed the turnkey. "But if there be 
 any truth in what thou hast advanced, per- 
 chance thou wilt name some person of re- 
 pute who will testify to thy honesty." 
 
 " Very readily," replied the prisoner ; 
 " Thomas Greene, a player at the Globe, who 
 hath his lodging at the sign of the Phoenix, 
 in Bucklersbury, where I was proceeding 
 when I was taken hold of by the constables 
 and conveyed here ; he will vouch for me 
 at any time, for he hath been my school-fel- 
 low ; as have also the younger Burbage, 
 Hemings, and Condell, other players at the 
 Globe." 
 
 " Marry, players must make but sorry 
 vouchers, for, methinks, they be little better 
 than vagroms," observed the jailor. 
 
 " The persons named I know to be of a 
 very fair character," replied the gallant who 
 had before spoken. " William Shakspeare, 
 allow me to ask you one question ?" 
 
 " Any number, if it please you, sir," an- 
 swered the prisoner, charmed with the cour- 
 teous manner of his interrogator. 
 
 " Have you lost anything since your arri* 
 val in London ?" 
 
 " I have lost all I had," replied the other. 
 " The constables deprived me of what they 
 could lay their hands on, and the prisoners 
 here in Newgate took from me what was 
 left. I should have cared the less, if they 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 911 
 
 had spared me certain writings I had about 
 me." 
 
 " What sort of writings were they ?" 
 
 "Verses chiefly." 
 
 " Were they your own composition ?" 
 
 " They were." 
 
 " Is this one of them ?" inquired his ques- 
 tioner, placing a paper in his hand. 
 
 " Indeed it is, and the one I last wrote of 
 them all," replied the young poet, glancing 
 at his own lines, as if glad to have them 
 back. 
 
 " I am convinced of it," added the other. 
 " It was picked up by my companion, Master 
 Edmund Spenser, on the spot where you 
 had been struggling with the constables." 
 
 " I deem myself wondrous fortunate in 
 having been there at such a time," said 
 Master Spenser, warmly. " And having 
 read its worthy contents, I hurried to my 
 noble and esteemed good friend here, Sir 
 Philip Sydney, and succeeded, as I expected, 
 knowing his truly generous disposition, in 
 interesting him to seek you out, and deliver 
 you from your undeserved imprisonment." 
 
 William Shakspeare was surprised and 
 delighted beyond measure, at hearing of 
 names he had for some time looked up to as 
 the most honorable in the kingdom, and ex- 
 pressed himself very gratefully for the trou- 
 ble they had been at on his account. But 
 the matter rested not here. He presently 
 walked out of Newgate, with his two famous 
 new acquaintances, without hindrance from 
 the jailor, for they had brought with them 
 the Earl of Leicester's authority for his li- 
 beration, which none dared gainsay : and 
 shortly after, to the infinite satisfaction of all 
 parties, he found himself seated by the side 
 of his early patrons, Sir Valentine and Sir 
 Reginald, at the house of Sir Philip Sydney, 
 by whom he was . very kindly and liberally 
 entertained. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 To you I have unclasped my burthened soul, 
 Emptied the storehouse of my thoughts and 
 
 heart, 
 Made myself poor of secrets ; have not left 
 Another word untold which hath not spoke 
 All that I ever durst, or think, or know. 
 
 Ford. 
 Give me a key for this, 
 And instantly unlock my fortunes here. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 "Bar* can I trust thee ?" 
 
 " Ay, my lord, with your heart's deepest 
 
 secret; and the grave itself shall not be 
 more silent than your poor page." 
 
 " I do believe thee. I have tried thee long, 
 and found thee the faithfullest honest crea- 
 ture master ever knew. That thou lovest 
 me I am assured. I have had good proof 
 on't. I thought there was not one heart in 
 which I could meet the slightest sympathy, 
 but in thee there are signs of such great 
 abundance as make me amends for the un- 
 feelingness of others. My spirit is weary of 
 long-suffering. My health is broken. 1 
 cannot disguise from myself I am sinking 
 fast. It therefore becometh necessary I 
 should procure some one to perform for me 
 those offices I shall soon be disabled from 
 attempting. To do this I must betray a 
 secret I have kept as jealously as if my 
 whole life depended on its preservation ; and 
 in none can I put faith, save only thee. 
 Thou canst serve me if thou wilt, as page 
 never served his lord before ; but if the duty 
 should be distasteful to thee, as 'tis very like 
 to be, I hold thee free to refuse ; and if after 
 what I am about to tell thee, thou canst look 
 on me no more as one worthy to be thy mas- 
 ter, I will honorably provide thee with all 
 things necessary for thy living elsewhere*" 
 
 " My lord, I am in heart and soul a crea- 
 ture of your own ; and whatever service I 
 can render necessary for your safety, de- 
 pend on it, it shall be done faithfully and 
 well, according to my poor ability." 
 
 This conversation took place between 
 the Lord de la Pole and his page, after one 
 of the fearfullest of those fearful fits to 
 which the unhappy Earl was generally sub- 
 ject, when he was left alone in the mourn- 
 ing chamber. It was evident, as he had 
 said, that his health was fast declining, for 
 his right noble countenance looked more 
 haggard than it was wont ; and his dark 
 lustrous eyes appeared to be rapidly losing 
 the fire which had so brightly lighted them. 
 His raven hair too had been thinned of its 
 luxuriance, and all about him bespoke that 
 breaking up of the constitution, which long 
 continued grief marks its victim for the 
 grave. His youthful companion wore a si- 
 milar melancholy, doubtless caused from 
 constant observation of his lord's sufferings, ' 
 and this gave a very touching expression 
 to his handsome boyish features, which in- 
 creased greatly whenever he chanced to 
 turn his gaze upon the Earl. The latter, 
 still in his mourning suit, sate in the library 
 before mentioned ; and Bertram, in vest- 
 ments of the same color, seated himself at 
 a short distance, where he remained in an 
 attitude of the profoundest attention, and 
 with an expression of the most intense in* 
 
212 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 terest, whilst the Earl proceeded with the 
 promised narration. 
 
 " Of my family, methinks I need say no- 
 thing," commenced he ; " the greatness of 
 the Suffolks, of which I am a branch, must 
 be sufficiently known, but the fame of their 
 power and nobleness so influenced my early 
 life, I could not rest till I had done some- 
 thing worthy of the name I bore. My 
 youth was spent in foreign wars, under the 
 most famous leaders ; and whenever I heard 
 of any one celebrated for deeds of arms, I 
 sought all ways to surpass him ; nor would 
 I be satisfied till my pre-eminence was ac- 
 knowledged. But this was by no means 
 the whole of what I did. I had been well 
 instructed ; a ad perchance, I may add, I was 
 ever of a well-disposed nature, whereof the 
 consequence was, I took especial heed my 
 conduct elsewhere should be of a piece with 
 my achievements in the field. Honor was 
 my idol — honor I worshipped : in no case 
 could I be prevailed on to meddle in any 
 matter wherein honor was not clearly con- 
 spicuous to all men's eyes ; and to the same 
 extent that I strove carefully to attain every 
 title honor could bestow, I was jealous that 
 my right to it should have no questioning. 
 None could be more desirous of good opinion. 
 To hear myself well spoke of, was an in- 
 finite pleasure; but to have any one's ill 
 word, to be ridiculed, slandered, or misused 
 in speech, fretted me beyond measure. May- 
 hap this was a weakness ; but whatever it 
 was, it kept unslacked in me the impulse to 
 exert myself to gain a lasting reputation, till 
 the name of De la Pole stood, as I proudly 
 believed, second to none in every commend- 
 able quality. 
 
 " I pass over my labors, to build me up 
 this goodly reputation : suffice it to say, I 
 returned to my native land in the full vigor 
 of manhood, and at the court of her High- 
 ness Elizabeth was speedily recognized, as 
 what I had sought so earnestly to be. 
 Hitherto I had thought nothing of love ; my 
 career of honor left me no time for tender 
 dalliance, or else I was indifferent to the 
 charms of such fair creatures as I had seen ; 
 but amongst the queen's ladies there was 
 one, whose youth, beauty, character and sta- 
 tion, united to form, as I then thought, the 
 noblest damsel in the realm. In her, fame 
 had left no one part which envy might as- 
 sail ; and fortune had surrounded her with 
 such prodigality of gifts, as if to show how 
 delighted she was in having so worthy an 
 object on whom to bestow them. Methinks 
 'tis almost needless to say she had suitors. 
 She had broad lands ; she was of one of the 
 powerfu lfamilies of the kingdom ; and she 
 
 appeared as peerless in conduct as she was 
 in person ; and such attractions could not 
 fail of bringing to her feet a sufficiency of 
 wooers. I had heard much in her praise 
 before I beheld her ; but ere I had an hour's 
 acquaintance, I doubted she had been done 
 justice to. Still I kept aloof from the crowd 
 by whom she was always surrounded, and 
 satisfied myself with observing her at a dis- 
 tance. Every day I saw her she seemed to 
 grow more admirable ; and each relation I 
 heard of her exceeded the preceding one, 
 towards proving her wondrous well disposed- 
 ness. 
 
 " A message from herself brought me at 
 last to her side — a message so expressive of 
 compliment, I attended her summons with 
 more pleasure than ever I had known from 
 similar commendations, gratifying as they 
 had always been to me. Once there, it ap- 
 peared as though I must there stay. At first 
 she would scarce allow me to be anywhere 
 else ; but in a fair interval, I found myself 
 under so strong a charm, nowhere else would 
 I remain could I avoid it : in brief, I loved 
 her. Some months afterwards, I gained 
 from her, that long before she had seen me 
 she h?.d ioved me for my reputation. After 
 a delicious sufficiency ' of most exquisite 
 courtship, my happiness seemed to be com- 
 plete, when I received her in marriage. In 
 a little while, I believed my real felicity had 
 only commenced, so much did my enjoyment 
 then exceed all that I had known before. 
 Every day she evinced in her character 
 some new and admirable feature ; the more 
 I saw of her, the more cause saw I to con- 
 gratulate myself I had been blessed with so 
 rare a partner. Her love for me looked to 
 be mingled with an honorable pride, that 
 made it all the more flattering to one of my 
 disposition. None could seem so exceeding 
 content— none could have appeared so truly 
 affectionate. It may be easily imagined, my 
 love of praise at this time partook largely 
 of a desire of having my wife as famously 
 commended ; in fact it was the same identi- 
 cal feeling, for I looked on Lady Blanche as 
 the best and dearest part of myself ; and I 
 wished to see her pre-eminence in every 
 good quality universally acknowledged, be- 
 cause any contrary opinions might reflect 
 unfavorably on the other portion of me. 
 
 " At this period to add to her other pow- 
 erful claims upon my love, she promised to 
 become a mother — an event I looked for- 
 ward to with an interest which exceedeth 
 all conceiving. Then it was there came on 
 a visit to me a young kinsman of mine. I 
 had heard rumors of his being of a wild 
 reckless disposition ; and that he bore him- 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 218 
 
 «elf more carelessly than became any one 
 Wishing to be honorably thought of. I liked 
 not this. It grieved me that one in any way 
 related to me should be so ill reported. One 
 day I took him aside and told him what I had 
 heard to his disadvantage, but he swore so 
 solemnly he had not deserved what was said 
 of him, that I could not help believing he 
 had been maligned, as he declared, by false 
 envious persons. I then counselled him to 
 marry some worthy woman, which would 
 put a stop to such slanders for the future, 
 and pointed to the happiness I enjoyed as 
 the best inducement to it he could have ; but 
 he answered somewhat confusedly, that some 
 often considered themselves exceeding happy 
 from ignorance of matters-, which, when 
 known, would make them the miserablest 
 persons in the world. Thereupon I said 
 such might be the case, but as regarded my- 
 self there could be no possibility of such a 
 thing. He replied very earnestly, ' long may 
 you think so,' and with a deep sigh left me 
 to my own reflections. 
 
 " My kinsman had ever shown to me a 
 marvellous frank and social spirit; but of 
 late I had noticed that he had rather avoided 
 me — gazed on me with a countenance full 
 of pity, and when he talked, spoke with an 
 ambiguous and mysterious fashion, of which 
 I could make nothing, save a lamentation 
 that villainy should be so fairly disguised. I 
 marvelled, and not without an undefinable 
 uneasiness, at such sort of speech, but though 
 I pressed him to explain himself, he would 
 only shake his head, and say it was a thing 
 he had not the heart to do. Following close 
 Upon the heels of this, he would oft regret 
 that so noble a gentleman as myself should 
 be so grossly imposed upon ; and that, out of 
 extreme love for me, those who knew of the 
 cheat should be forced to allow of its con- 
 tinuance. All these hints and inuendoes, 
 and the mysterious manner in which they 
 Were uttered, in time produced in me a most 
 fearful state of anxiousness and disquietude. 
 
 " It looked as though some extraordinary 
 mischief was impending, known only by 
 this kinsman, who liked not the office of 
 breaking such ill news, but in what quarter 
 it threatened, or in what shape it was to ap- 
 pear, I was completely at a loss ; and what 
 made the matter worse, so seemed likely to 
 remain. 
 
 "At last he dropped something concerning 
 of my dishonor. I fired at the word. My 
 whole nature was stirred as if with a mighty 
 earthquake. We were alone. I presently 
 declared to him did he not tell me on the in- 
 stant the cause of what he had said, I would 
 elay him where he stood* He begged and 
 
 prayed most movingly I would let him off a 
 task he so hugely misiiked, but the more 
 earnestly he strove to excuse himself, the 
 more fiercely I insisted on his declaring to 
 me whatever there might be to say. Then 
 he added with extreme seriousness, that the 
 consequences must rest with me — that I was 
 hurrying on to meet my misery; but if I 
 would force the secret from him, that I must 
 give him my assurance to take no measures, 
 or to show to any one a knowledge of it, 
 till he had given such proofs of its correct- 
 ness as he had at his disposal. This I sol- 
 emnly promised. My ears drunk in with 
 horror the tale he told me ; it was that once 
 being out late he had observed a gallant at 
 the dead hour of the night ascending by a 
 ladder of ropes to the Lady Blanche's cham- 
 ber — so strange a sight made him . marvel 
 exceedingly, and he stopped to see what 
 would follow. The gallant entered the 
 chamber, and there remained upwards of 
 an hour. When he again appeared at the 
 window there was a female in his company, 
 and they there embraced very fondly. Then 
 he descended to the ground and made off, 
 and the ladder was immediately drawn up 
 into the chamber. I felt as if I could have 
 torn my intelligencer limb from limb ; for it 
 angels had sworn matter of the like ten- 
 dency, I would not have credited a word of 
 it ; but I dissembled so much of my passion 
 as to ask him if he recognized the female 
 he saw at the window. He said he did, for 
 he had such view of her as could not mis- 
 lead him. I bade him without fail confess 
 to me who it was. He replied on no ac- 
 count could he do so, as it might lead to ir- 
 reparable mischiefs : and added that he had 
 gone to the same place at the same hour 
 every night since, and had witnessed the 
 same proceedings. 
 
 " But I would have the name ; and by dint 
 of threats, and repeated promises to behold 
 the proofs he spoke of, I gained it from him. 
 It was the countess. This I had anticipated 
 from the foregoing ; but on hjs confirming 
 my suspicions, I contented myself for the 
 present with determining in my own mind 
 to bestow a proper punishment on so vile a 
 traducer. However, I demanded of him to 
 lead me to the spot where he had seen what 
 he had related, fully convinced I should there 
 disprove every particular of his relation. Till 
 the hour appointed I kept myself as quiet as 
 I could, though my restlessness must have 
 been evident to all. 1 said to none what I 
 had heard. The countess retired to her 
 Chamber somewhat earlier than usual, but 
 this I ought to have looked for, knowing the 
 state in which she was. Her manner w»» 
 
314 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 in no way different from the ordinary, save 
 she would have it I ailed something, assert- 
 ing she had rever seen me look so strangely, 
 and imploring me to take heed of my health. 
 To one, like myself, who placed such im- 
 mense importance on honorable opinion, 
 what had been told by my kinsman was like 
 enough to produce very terrible consequen- 
 ces. Certes I would not allow of its possi- 
 bility ; yet, for all that, I was filled with ap- 
 prehensions almost as unendurable as the 
 most perfect conviction could have been. 
 
 " To my great relief, midnight arrived, 
 and wrapping ourselves in large cloaks, my 
 kinsman and I proceeded behind some trees, 
 at a convenient distance from the Lady 
 Blanche's chamber window. The night 
 was somewhat dusky ; but not as I thought, 
 dark enough to prevent our seeing objects 
 as far off as was required. There I stood 
 with the full intention of punishing my 
 companion's treachery as speedily as it might 
 become manifest. Having waited a consid- 
 erable time and seen nothing, I had just 
 commenced denouncing, with the fiercest 
 bitterness, his baseness in striving to impose 
 on me with so improbable a tale, when he 
 caught hold of me forcibly by the arm, cry- 
 ing 'hush!' and pointed in a certain direc- 
 tion. To my exceeding astonishment 1 then 
 beheld a man, closely wrapped up, stealing, 
 with extreme cautiousness, towards the 
 house. My wonder became the greater 
 when I observed him. stop exactly under- 
 neath my wife's chamber window, and clap 
 his hands thrice ; and nought could exceed 
 the strange amazement I was in when I no- 
 ticed a female open the window and throw 
 out a ladder of ropes, on which the gallant 
 mounted rapidly — the two caressed at the 
 window with every sign of mutual fondness, 
 and the next moment the ladder was drawn 
 up, and they disappeared. 
 
 "I could not very plainly distinguish the 
 features of the lady, but the figure was man- 
 ifest beyond all mistaking. No one in the 
 house was in the same state ; and the dress, 
 too, was equally evident. It was the count- 
 ess. The horror, the shame, the rage, the 
 indignation with which I was filled at this 
 discovery, made me incapable of motion — 
 nay, I stood breathless, as though I had been 
 turned to stone. My senses were a com- 
 plete whirlpool of furious passions. I knew 
 not what to be about : all in me bespoke a 
 confused, bewildered, desperate madness. 
 My kinsman asking me what should be 
 done, roused me to a proper consciousness. 
 I bade him remain where he was, and if the 
 gallant, whoever he might be, sought to es- 
 cape by the window, to fall upon him and 
 
 hold him fast till I returned. At that be 
 drew his sword, and swore very earnestly he 
 should not escape alive. I then hastened 
 into the house. All slept — or appeared to 
 sleep. There was a deathlike quiet in every 
 part of the mansion, that seemed in marvel- 
 lous contrast to the wild riot in my breast. 
 I gained the door of my wife's chamber. 
 For the first time I had so found it, it was 
 locked. This discovery added fuel to the 
 fire. I strove with all my might to break it 
 open. It was too strong to be so forced, but 
 the violence of the shock I had given it 
 brought my wife to it presently. She in- 
 quired, in some seeming alarm, ' who was 
 there ?' I answered, commanding her to 
 open the door immediately. It was done. 
 
 " On my entrance she complained some* 
 what of my disturbing her rest so strangely. 
 I gave a rapid survey of the chamber, and 
 not finding him I sought for, I fixed a fierce 
 look on my wife, who was gazing on me as 
 it seemed, in the confusion of conscious 
 guilt. At this moment I heard the clashing 
 of swords, and running to the casement, 
 observed my kinsman fighting furiously 
 with the same person I had seen enter the 
 countess's chamber. The ladder of ropes 
 had been left attached to the window, and I 
 was proceeding -to descend by it, when my 
 faithless wife caught hold of my arm, and 
 implored me not to venture myself into any 
 danger. I took this as a crafty design to 
 assist the escape of her paramor, and with 
 violent execrations rudely thrust her from 
 me, and, as rapidly as I could, descended 
 the ladder. Ere I had got to the bottom I 
 beheld my kinsman fall and his opponent 
 take to flight. I pursued, thirsting with 
 the horriblest vengeance, but at the distance 
 of about a hundred yards, to my infinite 
 rage and disappointmeig;, I beheld him mount 
 a fleet steed and ride off at a pace that left 
 all pursuit hopeless. 
 
 " I returned to my kinsman, and found 
 him bleeding, and from his manner, appear- 
 ing to have been badly hurt. I assisted him 
 into the house ; but this took some time to 
 do, for he complained at every step, that he 
 could scarce endure the motion. I at last 
 got him to his chamber. I found the house 
 in the same quietness as it had been when I 
 had entered it a short time previous ; and its 
 undisturbed state gave me i hope I might 
 still conceal my dishonor from the world — a 
 hope I eagerly caught at. 1 extracted from 
 my wounded kinsman a solemn oath, that 
 what he had known and seen should never 
 pass his lips ; then proceeded I to the cham- 
 ber of a servant of mine, who had lived all 
 his life in my family, ind in whose fidelity 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 215 
 
 I could place implicit confidence. I called 
 him up, and as briefly as I could, acquainted 
 him with what had transpired. He readily 
 enough promised to do whatever I might 
 require at his hands. I then sent him to 
 call up my kinsman's servant, whilst I pro- 
 ceeded to my lady's chamber. I found her 
 lying on the floor senseless. I placed her 
 in her bed. In a short time, she began to 
 exhibit signs of consciousness, and with it 
 gave me reason to believe she was about to 
 become a mother. Thereupon I hastened 
 to the stables, saddled me a horse, and rode 
 at the top of his speed to the nearest mid- 
 wife ; and blindfolding her, and taking every 
 possible precaution, that she should not 
 know where she was going, I brought her 
 back with me. She did her office. As soon 
 as I became aware of the child's birth, I 
 snatched it from her hand, and hurried with 
 it to the next chamber, where my faithful 
 Adam was waiting as I had desired, and to 
 him I gave it, with strict commands that 
 instant to drown it in the deepest part of 
 the Avon, which he vowed to do in such a 
 manner as should prevent the slightest clue 
 to discovery. Then I hurried the midwife 
 away with the same secrecy with which I 
 had brought her. 
 
 " On my return, Adam acquainted me 
 tha»t he had fulfilled my intentions to the 
 very letter, wbich gave me inexpressible 
 satisfaction, for there was at least a riddance 
 of one witness to my dishonor. To the false 
 woman, its mother, I had resolved on satis- 
 fying my just vengeance by a punishment 
 worse thin death. None of the domestics 
 were yet stirring, and I gave orders on no 
 account should any be allowed to go to 
 their lady's chamber, on the plea she was 
 in so bad a state she was not expected to 
 live. Thus I prevented her being seen by 
 any of the domestips for several days, during 
 which time my kinsman was confined to 
 his own chamber by the hurt he had receiv- 
 ed, and therefore remained in as perfect ig- 
 norance of what was going on as the rest. 
 In the meanwhile, with the assistance of my 
 faithful Adam, every thing was privily being 
 done as I desired. It was reported by him, 
 that the countess was daily getting worse, 
 and at last, to their infinite great grief and 
 sorrowing, it was given out she was dead. 
 A sumptuous funeral was prepared. I had 
 every sign of mourning placed about the 
 mansion ; and those signs I have never al- 
 lowed to be removed. But before the per- 
 formance of the funeral obsequies, I had 
 secretly removed the countess from her 
 chamber to another part of the building, 
 which had hitherto been scarcely ever used. 
 14 
 
 " Here was she shut up close from all 
 knowledge, save Adam and myself. He hath 
 never seen her from the date of her im- 
 prisonment till the present time, nor hath 
 she since then been allowed to behold any 
 human being but myself, her so deeply in- 
 jured husband; for such was my intended 
 punishment. All common necessaiies she 
 had, but her clothing was reduced to a coarse 
 mourning habit. Thus I had secured my 
 honor, but as I speedily found, at the ex- 
 pense of my peace of mind. Lady Blanche 
 made but one attempt to turn me from my 
 purpose, and that was at the birth of her 
 offspring ; but finding it needless, she never 
 after sought to move my commiseration with 
 a single word, and seemed to have resigned 
 herself to the justice of her sentence. At 
 first, I took a sensible satisfaction in show- 
 ing myself to her, clad in the trappings of 
 woe. I declared to her what I had done, 
 and told her she was as dead to me as she 
 was to the world ; but in consideration of 
 the virtues she had assumed, my mourning 
 for her should only cease with my life. She 
 bowed her head submissively, and replied, 
 she was well content it should be so since 
 I had so willed it ; but before any very long 
 time had passed, I began to have doubts 
 that the manner in which I had endeavored 
 to keep the secret of my dishonor, was less 
 dishonorable than would have been its pub- 
 licity. An act which vengeance had not 
 allowed me to see in its proper colors, now 
 stood before me in all its horrible injustice. 
 I could easily reconcile my conscience to 
 any punishment of a guilty wife, but the 
 murder of an innocent poor babe seemed 
 incapable of any justification. 
 
 " Nought in this world can exceed the 
 fierce struggles I have had to satisfy myself 
 with the deed; but conscience, instead of 
 being overpowered by them, appeared to 
 grow the stronger after every encounter. 
 Previously, my dishonor, great as it might 
 be, was occasioned by no fault of mine own, 
 and by some, I doubted not, my reputation 
 would have stood in no way affected by it ; 
 but so ruthless a murder as that I had plan- 
 ned and put in practice, I felt was a crime 
 of the blackest die, the whole guilt of which 
 was mine, and if it was made public, I be- 
 lieved I should be condemned and shunnem 
 of all men. Remorse pursued me wherever 
 I went. Sleeping or waking the deed haunt- 
 ed me. I was perpetually goaded with the 
 reflection that Urban de la Pole, who had 
 won so many titles of pre-eminence, had 
 now made himself irrevocably on a level 
 with the basest and vilest in the land. Yet 
 all this time I sought as urgently as ever to 
 
*1» 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 excuse myself, by every manner of argu- 
 ment. Sometimes I succeeded, but only for 
 a brief space ; and again I was tortured by 
 the same dreadful feelings of self-condem- 
 nation. 
 
 "Years passed on ; but every year ap- 
 peared to increase my sufferings, and time 
 added to my misery, till it moved me like 
 a madness. During this long space the 
 countess bore her imprisonment without a 
 murmur — she never once complained of her 
 privations — she never once sought to re- 
 proach me for such stern usage of her — she 
 never once by word, look, or sign intimated 
 to me the slightest desire to change her way 
 of life. Whenever I presented myself to 
 her, she wore a contented submissive look ; 
 which through twenty years of rigorous con- 
 finement hath remained the same, I found 
 out at last, that instead of punishing her I 
 was punishing myself. My sufferings were 
 becoming intolerable, whilst "she did not 
 seem to suffer in any manner. Still I at 
 all times noticed in her an expression of 
 countenance which I felt deeply, but I can- 
 not describe. It seemed to appeal to me 
 more strongly than the most conspicuous 
 Bhow of wretchedness could have done; and 
 yet it was not one of wretchedness. It in- 
 variably made me, on my leaving her, ask 
 of myself, why I continued to bury her in 
 bo merciless a manner ? and then followed 
 a raging storm of conflicting opinions for 
 and against her, in which remorse for the 
 murder I had perpetrated took its full share. 
 But in the end, I felt that death alone had 
 the power of affording her release. 
 
 " My kinsman, although he had got hurt 
 entirely in his zeal for me, I could not bear 
 the sight of. I know not why it was, but I 
 looked on him as the cause of my misery. 
 He it was who had first wakened m$ from 
 the dream of happiness and honor in which 
 I had been indulging; and I thanked him 
 not for his painstaking. When he was well 
 of his wound, I hastened his departure ; and 
 though he doth occasionally pay me visits, 
 the only part of them that pleaseth me is 
 when he turneth his back to be gone. 
 Since thou hast been with me I have seen 
 nothing of him, for which I am infinitely 
 thankful ; but I am in daily expectation of 
 hearing of his arrival. His nature and mine 
 can have no sort of assimilation. He never 
 comes but he goads me into frenzy with his 
 consolations and condolences, and a thou- 
 sand foolish speeches that call to my mind 
 my dishonor and my crime. Now I dread 
 his presence worse than ever, for the fangs 
 of remorse have worked in my heart such 
 deep wounds, methinks such probing as his 
 
 must needs destroy me quite. It is with 
 the knowledge of my growing weakness, 
 and noting that my faithful Adam is getting 
 old apace, and witnessing thy extreme af- 
 fectionateness, that I came to the determi* 
 nation of putting such confidence in thee as 
 to require thy attendance on the countess 
 in place of myself. 
 
 " Thou hast not sought this secret of me. 
 I have seen such vouchers for thy honor- 
 able nature that I could trust thee, as I now 
 do, with the custody of my very soul. But 
 remember, as I told thee, that if thy disposi- 
 tion revolteth at the idea of serving a mur 
 derer, I hold thee free to go at any time, 
 and will take careful heed thy going shall 
 do thee credit. As for myself I can only 
 say, could a thousand years of severest suf* 
 fering undo the deed, I would set about it 
 with a cheerful spirit. Now tell me, I pri- 
 thee, what thou art inclined to do. I offer 
 thee no reward for staying, and doing me 
 this great service, save my undivided love 
 and most absolute gratitude ; shouldst thou 
 choose to go, I will enrich thee for life 
 Make thy choice." 
 
 " My lord you surely cannot doubt my 
 choice," replied Bertram, in a most winning, 
 affectionate manner. " I do as sorely la- 
 ment the deed that hath been done as can 
 you ; but our lamentations will never lessen 
 its enormity. Still from what I have just 
 learned, I cannot help perceiving you have 
 had monstrous provocation ; but provoca- 
 tion that justified the crime I cannot say — 
 for methinks there can be no justification 
 where there is a crime — or no crime where 
 a justification can be allowed. Neverthe- 
 less, I must surely be made of those base 
 materials, were you twenty times as guilty 
 as you are, were I to desert you after you 
 have put such entire confidence in me. Be- 
 lieve me, my Lord, my love for you is of 
 such a sort that I desire of all things to serve 
 you in honesty and faithfulness my whole 
 life through; and shall think my fortune 
 desperate, indeed, when it cometh to me in 
 such ill shape as my being forced to leave 
 so kind a master." 
 
 The Earl gave no answer to this earnest 
 and loving speech, unless it were replied by 
 his looks ; which, truly, appeared to be full 
 of right eloquent expression. He presently 
 continued : — 
 
 " Thou hast had opportunity for noticing 
 that a portion of this book-case hath been 
 ingeniously contrived to be a secret door, 
 known only to myself and my faithful 
 Adam. This opens into a passage, beyond 
 which is a chamber, which is no other than 
 the prison of my false Countess. There for 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 217 
 
 twenty years she, a daughter of one of the 
 noblest families, hath endured such priva- 
 tions as the commonest menial scarce ever 
 is forced to resort to. I would have thee 
 now go to her and acquaint her with my 
 desire thou shouldst attend to her wants in 
 place of myself."' 
 
 The page readily arose to fulfil his er- 
 rand, and the secret door being opened he 
 passed through it. Now he experienced 
 most strange feelings — an infinite dread and 
 dislike of appearing before this dangerous 
 bad woman, who had done such terrible 
 mischiefs. He could not tolerate the in- 
 famy she had brought on herself, knowing, 
 as he did, the noble nature of the man she 
 had so basely wronged, and therefore thought 
 not her confinement to be too great a pun- 
 ishment for her crime. He therefore pre- 
 pared himself to meet a woman whom he 
 should thoroughly detest at the first glance 
 — one whose attractions must have faded 
 under the rigor of such long imprisonment, 
 and whose state, the lack of ordinary at- 
 tendance had made slovenly in attire and 
 uncleanly in person. He pictured too, in 
 his mind, her prison to be exceedingly dirty, 
 cheerless, and neglectful. His surprise may 
 be imagined, when he entered, where every 
 thing was as comfortable, neat, and orderly 
 as in the best apartment in the mansion. 
 Nothing could be so cleanly as seemed every 
 part of the chamber, and the only sign of" 
 cheerlessness it had was its being entirely 
 covered up with black cloth. 
 
 If he was so greatly surprised with the 
 prison, he was far more so with the prisoner. 
 He beheld before him a lady of extreme 
 beauty, looking to be in the very prime of 
 life. She was dressed simply in a black 
 robe, but the most splendid apparel could 
 not have shown to more advantage her ma- 
 jestic figure, or give such admirable con- 
 trast to her noble countenance. She was 
 sitting reading of a book at the entrance of 
 the page ; but as soon as she aoticed him 
 she started up in a great marvel. Her won- 
 der was not without cause, for not having 
 seen any human baing save her lord for so 
 long a space, she could not but be infinitely 
 astonished at the presence of him she now 
 beheld. Truly, at any place Bertram was 
 no common sight, for by this time the hag- 
 gard, sickly expression which long sickness 
 and suffering had left on his features, when 
 he first entered the house, was changed to 
 one of health and comfort, wherein the 
 softtsss of early youth was made more win- 
 ning by the owee*. and pensive melancholy 
 with which his handsome features were 
 
 overcast. Now, with his intelligent eyes 
 radiant with wonder as he gazed on the 
 beautiful woman before him, he looked more 
 handsome than ever he had been whilst in 
 his present abode. His hair, in rich profu- 
 sion, fell down even to the white falling 
 bands spread open round his neck, which 
 added much to the picturesque expression of 
 his countenance, and his close-fitting suit 
 was famously adapted to display to the most 
 notable advantage the grace and symmetry 
 of his limbs. 
 
 After having thus wondrously gazed on 
 each other for many seconds, the Lady 
 Blanche at last broke the strange silence by 
 inquiring of the youth his errand. He spoke 
 it with so gentle a courteousness that none 
 could help being charmed with him, but the 
 countess took his message in very sorrowful 
 part. 
 
 " I pray you, tell me, young sir, for what 
 cause is it my lord refuseth to see me ?" in- 
 quired she in a most urgent manner. 
 
 " His health, lady, is getting to be in so 
 decayed a state, it preventeth him," replied 
 the page. 
 
 " Alack !" exclaimed the Lady Blanche. 
 " I have marked his changed aspect a long 
 time past. Whilst I was allowed sight of 
 him I cared not for being shut out from the 
 world, for from the first time I heard of his 
 gallant name, he hath been all the world to 
 me. But now I feel I am punished indeed. 
 I beseech you, gentle sir, implore him for 
 me that I may attend on him in his illness. 
 No servant shall serve him more humbly or 
 truly, than his once happy and honored 
 Blanche. Ah, me ! How wildly do I talk ;" 
 added the Countess, suddenly changing her 
 ardent, impassioned manner, to one of strict 
 patience and submissiveness. " Nay, if it 
 is my lord's will, it must needs be. Tell 
 him, gentle sir, I am ready to fulfil his 
 wishes." 
 
 When Bertram left her, his lord's faith- 
 less wife, whom a short time before he had 
 felt so disposed to detest from his heart, he 
 found he could not bring himself to mislike 
 her in any manner ; nay, she had awakened 
 in him feelings of a direct opposite tendency. 
 He marvelled a guilty woman could bear 
 such rigorous imprisonment so long a time 
 and it have no evident effect on her, he mar- 
 velled more, with the knowledge of her infa- 
 mous evil doing, she should wear so noble, 
 bright a countenance ; but all this could not 
 erase from his mind the impression of his 
 lord's narrative. He remembered the ter- 
 ribleness of the wrong she had wantonly 
 done so noble a gentleman, and strove to 
 
SIS 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 fortifv his heart against the entrance of 
 those feelings, her language, looks, and 
 manner, had created in him ; nevertheless, 
 he found his thoughts taking to themselves 
 the shape of this question — " Surely, this 
 lady, is not so wicked as I though!, her." 
 
 On returning to the earl, he told him every 
 syllable the countess had uttered in his 
 hearing, at which the former appeared ex- 
 ceeding moved, asked divers questions, hur- 
 riedly and anxiously, as to how she spoke, 
 and what she had said ; and every answer 
 manifestly did the more increase his uneasi- 
 ness. For a while he seemed lost in thought 
 — but it was easy to see from the changing 
 expression of his aspect — his deep sighing, 
 and violent hard breathing, that some such 
 struggle as had been but too common with 
 him, was going on in his nature. Bertram 
 stood observing "him with a sincere, sweet 
 sympathy, expressed in every feature of his 
 countenance; but saying never a word, 
 knowing how useless was speech on such 
 occasions. After a time the Earl recovered 
 sufficiently to express what he would have 
 done. 
 
 " Methinks, 'tis full time this punishment 
 should cease," said he in a somewhat fal- 
 tering voice. " I can endure it no longer. 
 This marvellous sweet patience of hers 
 subdues mc. My vengeance is gone, of my 
 honor I am careless. Go, tell her, she is 
 free to go where she will, so long as I may 
 never have sight of her again." 
 
 The page hastened to do his lord's bid- 
 ding, his thoughts by the way, busy in the 
 entertainment of every possible prejudice 
 against that false bad woman who had 
 brought such fearful sufferings upon her 
 generous, noble-hearted husband. He de- 
 termined to look on her as a very monster — 
 an ungrateful, base creature, lost to every 
 serise of womanly excellence ; and expedite 
 her removal from the mansion by all means 
 in his power. He presented himself to the 
 lady a second time, and despite of his recent 
 stern determinations, delivered his message 
 as gently as though he spoke to some 
 person great in his respect. The Countess 
 heard it in evident emotion. Her cheek 
 grew pale and then red, of a sudden — her 
 lips quivered somewhat — but in the end her 
 whole countenance expressed a lofty pride 
 and noble majesty, which made her young 
 companion marvel more than ever. 
 
 " It cannot be ;" replied she at last. 
 " Were I again to appear in the public eye, 
 perchance my lord's reputation would suffer ; 
 he, having for so long a period allowed it to 
 he closed against me. If my character hath 
 
 gone, my death is no fiction. To what my 
 lord hath sentenced me I patiently submit. — 
 Unless I can be wholly restored to his affec- 
 tions, which, methinks, 'tis vain to hope, I 
 wish here to live out my days, to the last his 
 poor prisoner, and humble, loving wife : and 
 I will pray for him very earnestly on the 
 knees of my heart he may enjoy every man- 
 ner of happiness that is most to his liking. 
 I beseech you, gentle sir, tell him this much 
 from me — that I will endure with all proper 
 submissiveness, whatever he shall think of 
 letting the world know of my existence : and 
 the only favor I would ask of him is, that 
 he will let me here remain till I have become 
 the thing he hath feigned. " 
 
 Again there was a change in the page's 
 thoughts of his lord's faithless wife ; his feel- 
 ings were now in her favor as strong as ad- 
 miration could make them. Her language, 
 her look, her bearing, savored so marvellous 
 little of guilty consciousness, that he could 
 not help saying to himself on leaving her, 
 " Surely this lady cannot have done the 
 wickedness with which she is charged." 
 He acquainted the Earl with what had pas- 
 sed in consequence of his message, where- 
 upon, the unhappy man seemed more moved 
 than before, for he presently broke out into 
 a wonderful great passion of self accusa- 
 tions. 
 
 " Every word of hers cometh upon me 
 like a scourge !" exclaimed he, when his 
 frenzy had somewhat abated, " I have made 
 a^terrible mistake ; I have been torturing of 
 myself all this while, instead of punishing 
 her. O reputation ! reputation ! what a 
 poor idol of brass thou art !" And' in this 
 strain went he on, so much to the exceeding 
 grief of his faithful Bertram, that he knew 
 not what judgment to come to. He could 
 not believe his lord had misstated to him 
 anything, having had such manifold proofs 
 of his extreme honorableness of nature, 
 therefore he must needs consider the Count- 
 ess to be the very basest wretch breathing ; 
 and yet he could not thiri'k ill of that lady, 
 after having beheld in her as he had beha- 
 vior so thoroughly opposed to an unworthy 
 disposition. He considered much of the 
 matter ; his reflections suddenly turned into 
 a new channel, and, as he left the chamber, 
 he put this question to himself — " SurHy, 
 there is some huge villainy at the bottom -rf 
 these woeful doings !" 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 919 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 Thk company were lightly the lewdest in 
 tlje land — apt for pilfery, perjury, forgery, or 
 any other villainy. 
 
 Greene (Groatsworth of Witte) 
 
 " Oh twine fresh roses round thy brow 
 
 And pledge the wine-cup high ; 
 Leave fears and cares to misers' heirs, 
 
 Leave tears to those who sigh. 
 For is there neath heav'n a bliss so divine 
 As that which now beams in the sparkling 
 wine ? 
 
 Brighter than gems 
 In kings' diadems, 
 And fragrant as buds upon odorous stems. 
 
 Then fill to the brim ! Fill to the brim ! 
 Fill whilst such joys on the green earth abound, 
 'Ere Pleasure grow pensive or Friendship 
 look dim, 
 
 Fill to the brim around ! 
 
 " Oh twine fresh roses round thy brow, 
 
 And pledge me once again : 
 Till we have quaff 'd the rosy draught 
 
 And warmed the heart and brain. 
 Our life is but short and our pleasures but few, 
 And time makes us old when our youth is but 
 new : — 
 
 Wine then alone, — 
 To all be it known, — 
 Can grant us new life and a world of our own. 
 
 Then fill to the brim ! Fill to the brim ! 
 Fill whilst such joys on the green earth abound, 
 Ere Pleasure grows pensive or Friendship 
 looks dim, 
 
 Fill to the brim around ! 
 
 " Bravo, Robin ! O, my life, our sweet 
 Robin is a brave songster !" 
 
 " Excellent well sung, as I live, Master 
 Greene ; and as Kit Marlowe most aptly 
 calleth thee, thou art our own delectable 
 sweet Robin." 
 
 " Nay, Chettle, we will not have him so 
 mean a bird ; he is a swan at the very least." 
 
 " Ay, truly, Master Lodge, by this hand, 
 a good thought. A swan — a very swan ! 
 What " sayest, Peele ? What sayest, Kyd ? 
 What sayest, Nash ? Is not Greene as right 
 famous a swan at singing, as though he 
 were the mighty Jove himself, going a bird- 
 ing after the delicate fashion told in the old 
 story ?" 
 
 "Prithee keep to the Robin, good Kit!" 
 replied the singer, in the same merry humor 
 with 'his boisterous companions ; methinks 
 the conceit of the swan is somewhat dan- 
 gerous, it being a bird so nigh in feather to 
 a goose." 
 
 " Nay, nay, there is a huge difference in 
 Uie holding of the head," cried Kit Mar- 
 
 ilowe, laughingly; "so if it chance to be 
 ' thou art only but a goose, if thou wilt but 
 have thy neck stretched, thou shalt presently 
 be the braver bird, beyond all contradic- 
 tion ?" 
 
 " Then is Tyburn a choice place for 
 swanhopping ?" observed Lodge, amid the 
 uproarious mirth of his associates. 
 
 " More wine ! more wine ! tapster !" 
 bawled Chettle ; " 'Slight ! after such mov- 
 ing praise of thy liquor, thou shouldst empty 
 thy casks for us, and charge nothing." 
 
 " Ay. by Bacchus, that thou shouldst, out 
 of sheer gratitude," added Nash. 
 
 " Truly my masters ; and for mine own 
 part, I care not," said a miserable-looking, 
 threadbare knave, in a most abject manner, 
 " indeed, I care not in any sort of manner ; 
 yet, as I cannot live unless I sell my liquor 
 at some profit, I humbly beseech your wor- 
 ships, pardon me, that I would rather live 
 and sell, than give away and be ruined." 
 
 These were a party of play-writers, met 
 together round a rough table, in a mean 
 chamber of a common inn, near the Globe 
 playhouse, on the Bankside : they seemed to 
 be much alike as regarded their humors, be- 
 ing a set of as wild, licentious, unbridled 
 roysterers, as might he met with in any tav- 
 ern in Christendom. It was manifest on a 
 little stay with them, that they had more wit 
 than discretion, and less honesty than either ; 
 for their talk was either of tricks they had 
 practised, when reduced to any shifts, or 
 abuse of certain players they misliked, or 
 slander of certain writers, whose success 
 they envied. Their dress smacked of a 
 tawdy gentility ; in some instances showing 
 signs of shabbiness, that could not be hid, in 
 others of expense that could not be afforded ; 
 for these worthies were of that unthinking 
 sort, who feast to-day and fast to-morrow ; 
 carry their purses well lined on a Monday, 
 and ere the week hath half gone, have not a 
 groat. So improvident were they, that they 
 would have their canary for an hour or two's 
 enjoyment, though they should be reduced tc 
 take their custom to the water-bearer, for 9 
 month after ; and of so little principle were 
 the greater number, that as long as they 
 could get such indulgences as they most af- 
 fected, which were often of an exceeding 
 disreputable sort, they cared not a jot whe- 
 ther they had or had not in their power the 
 means of paying. Nevertheless, divers of 
 them were men of approved talent in their 
 art ; but this, methinks, should draw on them 
 greater censures ; for when men have know- 
 ledge, and use it not honorably, they should 
 be accounted infinitely more blameab/e, than 
 such as offend through ignorance. 
 
290 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! by this light a most admirably 
 conceited jest, my dear boy," exclaimed 
 Greene, who, by the way, was a marvellous 
 different person from Tom Greene the player. 
 " But what dost think of this for a goodly 
 example of coney-catching. There hath 
 been a certain publisher to me, who is known 
 well enough to all here, requesting of me to 
 write him something. I asked of him of 
 what kind, and thereupon he spoke so mov- 
 ingly of the great good — to say nought of 
 the great profits that come of pious writings, 
 that on the instant I offered to compose a 
 repentance of my monstrous sinful life, 
 which should be so forcibly penned that the 
 wickedest persons that live should take ex- 
 ample of it, and straightway fall into godli- 
 ness. At this surely no man was ever in 
 such huge delight as was my saint-like sel- 
 ler of books ; and he offered me such fair 
 terms for a pamphlet of this tendency, that 
 I closed with him presently. Since then, I 
 have commenced my repentance ; and I can 
 say most truly few have ever repented them 
 their sins with such profit as have I ; but 
 the jest of it lieth in this — that my gain by 
 such labor must needs lead me into fresh 
 outbreaks, which at my need will form 
 goodly materials for another repentance, still 
 more cunningly to be wrought out for the 
 edification of strayed sheep, which will again 
 enrich my exchequer for advancing me 
 through a new career of revelry, to be fol- 
 lowed of course by the most pitiful repent- 
 ance of any. And in this manner mean I 
 to live sinning and repenting, and repenting 
 and sinning, till there shall be no good to be 
 reaped by it, either for myself or any other." 
 
 Riotous shouts of laughter, and a famous 
 store of sharp witty saying, not worthy of 
 being written, accompanied this speech ; and 
 there was not one there present who did not 
 appear to regard it as fine a jest as ever they 
 heard. 
 
 " O' my word, but this is delicate coney- 
 catching indeed !" cried Nash, joining 
 heartily in the same humor. " When I am 
 hard pushed I will not fail following such 
 exquisite proper example ; and I only hope 
 I shall have grace sufficient to turn it to as 
 notable great advantage." 
 
 " This showeth the utter foolishness of 
 such matters," exclaimed Kit Marlowe — a 
 noted infidel. " And proveth that if you 
 bait your discourse sufficiently with relig- 
 ion, you may have in your power as many 
 gulls as can get within reach of it. But 
 hearken to the rare trick I played my hostess 
 when I was reduced to such shifts for lodg- 
 ings I scarce knew where I should find my 
 lying for the next day. This woman was 
 
 coarse and fat, and a desperate shrew ; and 
 I being somewhat backward in paying her 
 pestilent charges, she opened her battery on 
 me at all hours, and at last swore very 
 roundly I should to prison and out of her 
 house, did I not settle what I owed by a cer- 
 tain day. Now it fortunately chanced so to 
 hap, her villainous house had two doors, one 
 front and one back, and she being usually 
 in a front chamber, put me upon practising 
 my wit in such a manner as should most 
 punish her, and most enrich me. So I pre- 
 vailed on a broker of my acquaintance to 
 purchase of me all the goods in my lodging, 
 on the condition that they should be removed 
 when I desired. Having got the money the 
 day before the day appointed for my paying 
 the grasping old avarice my hostess, I went 
 to her chamber, and told her I had come to 
 settle with her, her charges, which put her in- 
 to so rare a humor, that I kept her a full hour 
 talking and jesting, with the money in my 
 hand. Then thinking the broker had as I 
 designed, removed the old dame's chattels 
 by the back door and got clear off, I begged 
 she would let me have of her some sort of 
 memorandum of the cancelling of my debt, 
 and quickly commenced counting of my 
 money on the table. My request she thought 
 so reasonable, she lost not a moment in seek- 
 ing to gratify it ; but the instant I heard her 
 proceeding to an upper room where I knew 
 she kept her pen and ink, I whipped up the 
 money and was out of the front door ere I 
 could draw breath. Truly, it must have 
 been most absolute and irresi stable sport, to 
 have noted the visage of my chap-fallen 
 hostess when she discovered not only the 
 loss of her money she was so desperate 
 about, but the departure of her lodger leav- 
 ing of his lodging bare to the very walls." 
 This narrative was received with more 
 riotous acclamations than the preceding, 
 and divers others of the company told the 
 like sort of tales, to the excessive mirth of 
 the rest, who looked upon them as most ad- 
 mirable jests ; and thus they kept drinking 
 and showing of their several humors. Aftet 
 sometime they commenced talking of the 
 players, and not one was named who in their 
 thinking possessed the slightest share of 
 merit. Greene was a mere ape — the elder 
 Burbage a scare-crow — the younger a poor 
 fellow that marred everything he spoke, 
 for lack of sense to know the meaning on't, 
 and Hemings and Condell very twins of 
 stupidness, who could do nought but strut 
 and fume, and blunder through such parta 
 as they undertook to play ; and so they pro- 
 ceeded with nigh upon all the players, 
 accompanying their opinions with marvel- 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 aai 
 
 kmfl lamentations their plays should be so 
 ill handled. 
 
 " Hast marked this new player, my mas- 
 ter ?" inquired Greene. 
 
 " What, him they call Shakspeare ?" 
 asked Marlowe. 
 
 " Ay," answered his companion. " Didst 
 ever note so senseless foolish a person ] 
 Marry, if there shall be found in him a 
 greater commodity of brains than may serve 
 him to truss his points withal, I have an 
 infinite lack of penetration." 
 
 " Slight, my dog would make a better 
 
 {)layer!" exclaimed Marlow contemptuous- 
 y. " Didst ever see any finger-post hold 
 itself so stiffly ? Didst ever find a drunken 
 tinker so splutter his words ! He hath a 
 little grace in his action as a costard-mon- 
 ger's jackass ; and as for his aspect, I could 
 get as much dignity out of a three-legged 
 stool." 
 
 " Well, well, he cannot do us any great 
 harm by his playing," observed Lodge. " He 
 is only put into the very poorest parts that 
 are written." 
 
 " Which he maketh a monstrous deal 
 poorer by his wretched performance," added 
 Greene. 
 
 " But who is this Shakspeare ? inquired 
 Nash. 
 
 " A very clown," replied Marlowe. " A 
 fellow that hath left the plough's tail and 
 his brother clods of the soil, in such utter 
 conceit of himself as to imagine he shall 
 become a famous player." 
 
 " He deserveth the whipping-post for his 
 monstrous impudence," said Peele. 
 
 " Give him a cap and bells, and dress him 
 in motley," added Kyd. 
 
 " Nay, I doubt he hath even wit enough 
 to pass for a fool," cried Greene, amid the 
 contemptuous laughter of his companions ; 
 and so went they on turning the edge of 
 their wits upon the new player, till the door 
 opening, there entered with young Burbage 
 the very person they were so sharp upon. 
 In an instant the whole company hailed " the 
 poor fellow that marred everything he spoke, 
 for lack of sense to know the meaning on't," 
 as though none could be so well esteemed of 
 them. 
 
 " Sit thee down, my prince of players !" 
 cried Marlowe. 
 
 " Excellent Dick, I drink thy health," ex- 
 claimed Greene in the same extreme friend- 
 liness of manner. 
 
 " A p : nt of wine, tapster, for Master Bur- 
 bage ' ' shouted Lodge, who had a new play 
 in nana, and thought it good policy to be in 
 11 generous humor with the manager's son. 
 
 "Truly a good thought," added Nash, 
 
 who was more famous for commending of 
 another's generosity than of taking it as an 
 example. " It would be a notable remiss- 
 ness in us, to one to whose admirable choice 
 playing we stand so much indebted for the 
 success of our play, were we not at all times 
 to welcome him with open arms." 
 
 " Truly, I am beholden to you greatly," re- 
 plied young Burbage, sitting down amongst 
 thcr., by the side of his companion. " I 
 shall be glad enough I warrant you, to do 
 my best in your honorable service, in espe- 
 cial when it cometh to be followed by such 
 fair wages. But your bountiful goodness 
 hath emboldened me to ask a liberal welcome 
 for my friend here, Will Shakspeare, whose 
 true social qualities, perchance, will lead 
 you, ere long, to thank me for his acquaint- 
 ance." Thereupon every one of the com- 
 pany greeted the stranger with as absolute 
 cordiality as ever was seen. 
 
 " O' my word, I have taken great note of 
 you, Master Shakspeare," exclaimed Mar- 
 lowe. " You promise well, sir ; by this light 
 you do ! I have not seen a young player 
 take to his art so readily since I first beheld 
 a play." 
 
 " Indeed you have the requisites, young 
 sir, of a complete master of playing," added 
 Greene. " You will shine. You will be 
 more famous than any of your day. You 
 will show the whole world how far an Eng- 
 lish player can exceed all that hath been 
 done of the ancients." The others followed 
 in the same vein, as if one was striving to 
 exceed the other in the extravagance of 
 panegyric : to this the young player replied 
 very modostly, as he at that moment believed 
 them to be sincere. This modest manner 
 of his seemed to convey to his new associates 
 an idea that he was of a poor spirit, as well 
 as vain enough to take to himself anything 
 in the shape of compliment, so they com- 
 menced covertly making of him their butt, 
 passing sly jests at his expense, and in pre- 
 tended compliments seeking to be terribly 
 satirical ; all which he took in such a man- 
 ner as seemed to strengthen them in their 
 small opinion of him. Do*ubtless, this made 
 them somewhat bolder with their wits. 
 
 " I pray you now, listen to me, Master 
 Countryman," said Marlowe, as if with a 
 monstrous show of affectionateness. " I 
 will give you famous advice, I promise you. 
 As to your walk, methinks 'tis well enough 
 — it showeth at least you are inclined to put 
 your best leg foremost, if you knew which 
 it was ; but methinks you are somewhat too 
 long in making up your mind which should 
 have precedence. As to your look, let it 
 pass — it cannot be bettered — I defy any one 
 
222 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 to show such a face for a player. Then for 
 your arms — to make them swing like the 
 sails of a windmill, is a new grace in motion, 
 and, I doubt not will take exceedingly with 
 the groundlings : but, perchance of the two 
 styles you most affect, that in which you 
 seemed you were holding of a plough, is the 
 most delicately natural. I commend it 
 wondrously, only I would have you turn out 
 your elbows more than you do — it seemeth 
 as if you determined to make for yourself 
 elbow-room. Lastly, of your voice— O' my 
 life, I never heard a carter with a better 
 voice ; and the way you deliver your speech- 
 es, as though you were talking to a horse, 
 must be infinitely effective on a stage : but 
 I would have you speak louder — let the ap- 
 prentices in the topmost scaffold know you 
 have lungs, and can use them to some pur- 
 pose. To keep up a good bawling is highly 
 commendable." 
 
 "Ay indeed, that is it," added Greene, 
 after the same fashion : " some there are of 
 the sock and buskin who play a feeble old 
 man with the throat of a boatswain ; but 
 when you come on as a courtier, looking so 
 much the sturdy hind, one fancieth every 
 moment you will be feeding of hogs or 
 thrashing of corn, which to my thinking is 
 exceeding more wonderful." 
 
 Others of their companions went on in the 
 same biting humor, the object of it all the 
 whilst, to the marvelling of young Eurbage, 
 who saw the drift, — taking what they said 
 with a show of notable simplicity, without 
 offering a reply. At last when he thought 
 they had exhausted their wit he spoke. 
 
 " I thank you heartily my masters, for 
 your excellent counsel," replied he very 
 gravely. " Believe me I do not undervalue 
 it, knowing that the very ' meanest things 
 that breathe may oft do 'a wondrous fine 
 service — as witness the cackling of the 
 geese that saved Rome. Some of you have 
 been good enough in commending of my 
 perfections, to speak famously of several of 
 the notablest parts of my body ; but divers 
 qualities of them have been left untold : the 
 which, for the lack of a better chronicler, I 
 will now seek to give you some notion of. 
 He who spoke so movingly of my legs, forgot 
 to add that on an occasion, they could kick 
 an impudent shallow coxcomb to his heart's 
 content. Of my face it is as God made it. 
 Perchance it would have been better gifted, 
 had any of such persons as are here given 
 it tbe benefit of their greater skill, for I 
 doubt not I could prove in a presently, some 
 of you possess a very marvellous facility in 
 tiie malting of faces. As for my arms,, 
 doubtless they have a sort of swing with 
 
 them, I having in me so much of the sturdy 
 hind; but though sometimes it is my hap to 
 come where the hogs feed themselves, the 
 thrashing part of my supposed duty I am 
 ready enough to perform, as long as there is 
 such necessity for it as there appeareth at 
 present. And with regard to my voice, 
 Master Marlowe, if I have in my speech at 
 times past appeared, as though I were talk- 
 ing to a horse ; surely, at this moment, there 
 is in it a notable likelihood I am speaking to 
 an ass." 
 
 No speech was ever received with such 
 astonishment by any company, as the pre- 
 ceding. Every man of them seemed as 
 much confounded as though they had raised 
 a hornet ; and, as the concluding sentences 
 were so pointedly directed to the foremost 
 of them in their sharp attack upon the so 
 despised "Master Countryman," he was 
 manifestly the, most touched by it of them 
 all. 7 
 
 " Fellow, dost adddress gentlemen in this 
 style ?" exclaimed he, as if half inclined to 
 be in a rage. 
 
 " Truly I think not," was the cutting 
 reply. 
 
 "Nay, 'tis all a jest of his, Master Mar- 
 lowe," said young Eurbage, endeavoring to 
 keep the discomfitted wits in something like 
 good humor, " he is the very admirablest 
 fellow at such things that can be found 
 anywhere ; and try him at it when you will, 
 you shall find him so expert at his weapon, 
 there is no getting the better of him." 
 
 " O' my word, I canaot say much about 
 getting the better of me," observed William 
 Shakspeare, laughingly. " But can I serve 
 any of this worthy company, assuredly they 
 shall have the best of what ability I "have." 
 Such of the worthy company that had been 
 in any way inclined for a quarrel, after suffi- 
 cient note of " the sturdy hind," thought 
 proper to look as if they were famously 
 amused ; and in honest truth, whether it 
 was from his natural cheerful humor, or a 
 desire to conciliate, the former so entertained 
 them with his delectable choice wit, that 
 presently the whole place was kept in a roar 
 by him. In the midst of this the tapster 
 came and whispered to Master Greene. 
 
 " Oh, let him up, let him up," replied he : 
 then turning to the company, added, seeming 
 in an exceeding pleasant mood, " Here is a 
 certain well-known honest friend of mine, 
 coming to join us, one Cutting Ball — he 
 hath done me many services. Indeed, a 
 right excellent good fellow is he, and a 
 useful." 
 
 " I promise you," replied Marlowe, with a 
 knowing wink, " Cutty standeth by you, out 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 333 
 
 of return for your standing by his fair sis- 
 ter." 
 
 " Let that be as it may," cried the other, 
 joining in the general laugh, " but to Master 
 Ball I owe much ; for he is so vigilant a 
 watch, that he alloweth not a pestilent bai- 
 liff to shew 'nis nose within a mile of me ; 
 and if any should chance to come, seeking to 
 make me their prisoner, Cutty and his fel- 
 lows do so pay them my debts, that they are 
 glad enough to 'scape with broken crowns, 
 for lack of better coin." 
 
 These remarks were put an end to by the 
 entrance of the object of them ; but, to the 
 surprise of all present, no sooner had he en- 
 tered, than young Shakspeare jumped on his 
 legs, stared at Cutting Ball, and Cutting 
 Ball stared at him, though in a manner as if 
 Cutty was somewhat confused. 
 
 "I greet you well, Captain Sack!" ex- 
 claimed the former at last ; " I pray you tell 
 me, how are your worthy, honorable com- 
 panions, Master Sugarsop, and my Lord Cin- 
 namon ? Truly I should have been right 
 glad had you brought them with you." 
 Then addressing Greene, he continued in 
 something of the same strain, evidently to 
 the prodigious marvelling of the company, 
 " Marry, Master Greene, but this same hon- 
 est friend of yours, and I, are old acquaint- 
 ance. Methinks if I could forget that 
 stained velvet doublet, I could not put out of 
 my memory a visage that hath so many 
 marks to know it by. In brief, your honest 
 friend, with two others of a like honesty, de- 
 spoiled me a short distance from Loadon, on 
 the Uxbrid'ge Road ; and I pray you, make 
 your honest friend return me the things he 
 robbed me of, else shall I be obliged to in- 
 troduce your honest friend to one Master 
 Constable, who, if your honest friend shall 
 get his deserts, may chance to assist him in 
 making the acquaintance of one Master 
 Hangman." 
 
 At the hearing this, it was difficult to 
 say which looked the most confounded, 
 Master Greene or his honest friend ; and as 
 for the rest, few of them seemed to take the 
 matter very pleasantly. 
 
 " Plague on't, Cutty, how couldst act so 
 unworthily !" cried Marlowe, as if in a fa- 
 mous indignation. 
 
 ',' 'Slight man, 'tis monstrous !" exclaimed 
 Nash, looking to be exceeding angered. 
 
 " O' my life ! had I known thee to be so 
 •iesperate a rogue, Cutty, I'd have been 
 4anged ere I would have tolerated thy infa- 
 nous company !" said Lodge, in a like fash- 
 Ion. 
 
 " S'blood ! but you must give up what 
 you have so basely taken, Master Ball," 
 
 cried Kyd, " we will tolerate no such vil- 
 lainy. Restore your ill-got booty, fellow." 
 
 " Ay, truly," added Greene, as stern- 
 ly as any of them. " Give Master Shaks 
 peare his goods again, I prithee. O, 
 my word ! I am ashamed thou shouldst act 
 with so thorough a disgracefulness. I in- 
 sist that thou give back every tittle of what 
 thou hast taken." 
 
 '• Of course ! of course !" shouted one and 
 all. 
 
 " I do confess, I made bold with certain 
 things belonging to this good gentleman," 
 replied Cutty Bail, seeing there was no use 
 in denying the robbery ; " but had I known 
 he was a friend, I would have despoiled my- 
 self rather than have touched ought that be- 
 longed to him." 
 
 " I thank you, Captain Sack, or Cutty 
 ' Ball, or whatever your name may be," an- 
 swered young Shakspeare; "but 1 should 
 thank you more would you be so good as 
 give me back those same things ; for truly I 
 stand so much in need of them, I shall be 
 forced to get them with the assistance of 
 such persons as I just now promised to make 
 you acquainted with, should you not return 
 them speedily." 
 
 " Ay, without doubt, and I will see to it 
 myself," exclaimed Marlowe and others of 
 his companions, who appeared equally in- 
 tent upon making the thief restore what he 
 had stolen. 
 
 " I'faith, I should be right glad enough 
 to do it, honorable sir, only in honest truth, 
 I have them not," said the thief. 
 
 " By this hand, that shall never pass," ex- 
 claimed Marlowe. 
 
 " O' my life, I will have thee get back 
 these goods, even if thou hast parted with 
 them," cried Greene, with equal earnest- 
 ness. 
 
 " Bots on't, so will I if I can !" replied 
 Cutty, somewhat sharply, " although I have 
 not the honest gentleman's things, methinks 
 he shall not have to go far to find them ; for 
 I have good reason for knowing, Master 
 Greene at this present hath on one of his 
 shirts ; and Master Marlowe a pair of his 
 hose. Master Peele now weareth his falling 
 bands ; and Master Lodge had of me certain 
 other articles of linen, which make up the 
 whole of what I took." 
 
 Terrible was the confusion of these four 
 worthies — who had been so forward in call- 
 ing for restitution, at finding that they them- 
 selves possessed the plunder : nevertheless, 
 with the best grace they could, they prom- 
 ised every thing should be restored to the 
 lawful owner, protesting most vehemently, 
 that when they accepted them, they believed 
 
224 
 
 1HE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 them to be honestly come by; all which 
 their friend Cutty Ball heard with an easy 
 impudency, that did in some manner belie 
 their assertions; and the young player, 
 though having penetration enough to spy 
 into the real nature of the transaction, ap- 
 peared to be satisfied. Soon after Master 
 Burbage whispering to Lodge that the read- 
 ing of his new play was fixed for twelve o' 
 the clock, took his leave of the party, taking 
 his friend with him. 
 
 " I thank thee, Will, for the very proper 
 castigation of those fellows," exclaimed 
 young Burbage, laughing heartily ; " me- 
 thiuks. they would rjow as lief meddle with a 
 mad dog, as pi&y their s^».cy humors on 
 thee. Surely, never wert a set of insolent 
 biting jackanapes so quickly brought to their 
 marrow-bones." 
 
 " Truly, they chafed me somewhat, or I 
 would not have answered them so sharply," 
 replied his companion. 
 
 It may here be proper to advertise the 
 reader, that the young player had profited 
 nothing by his introduction to Sir Philip 
 Sydney, or by his falling in with his old 
 friends, Sir Reginald and Sir Valentine, 
 he not having informed them of his need be- 
 fore they left England for Flanders. Nor 
 had his acquaintance with Master Spenser 
 as yet availed him anything, for almost as 
 soon as they became known to each other, 
 that the right famous poet had been forced 
 to go a voyage to Ireland. For his becom- 
 ing a player, he was solely indebted to the 
 exertions of his schoolfellows, who absolute- 
 ly forced their manager to make him one of 
 their company. This the elder Burbage did, 
 and with an especial ill grace, for no man 
 relisheth doing any thing against his will ; 
 but it was evident he had taken a huge dis- 
 like to the young player. He put him into 
 playing only such poor characters as could 
 gain him no reputation ; and gave him for it 
 bo small a wage, that he could not so much 
 as find himself a decent living. During all 
 this while he had to bear all manner of priva- 
 tions, and hardships innumerable, — now at a 
 loss for lodging — now for victual — and now 
 for raiment ; and yet making so little show 
 of the great straits to which he was so often 
 reduced, that his true friends knew it not un- 
 less by some accident it came to their know- 
 ledge. 
 
 This sort of life was a monstrous differ- 
 ence to what his golden anticipations had 
 made out to him. But he bore his ill-fortune 
 with a most cheerful spirit — still as san- 
 guine as ever — believing he should yet 
 raise for his dear children such a heritage 
 as should enrich and ennoble them to the end 
 
 of time. As soon as he found himself in some 
 way of settlement, he wrote to John a Combe, 
 among other things, inquiring for his off 
 spring with all the eloquence of a fond 
 father, and of himself, merely saying there 
 was likelihood he should do as well as he 
 wished : in reply to which he received a 
 very comfortable letter, marked with the 
 caustic sharpness the writer so much affec- 
 ted, yet for all that, betraying such natural 
 goodness of heart as was customary with 
 him. As the young player expected from 
 his knowledge of her character, it also in- 
 formed him that his wife assumed the bear- 
 ing of one horribly ill-used. This intelli- 
 gence brought him to reflect on the amiable 
 sweet qualities of the accomplished Mistress 
 D'Avenant, whose letters to him — full of fe- 
 minine purity and highmindedness — now 
 formed the chiefest pleasure his poor fortunes 
 set at his disposal. 
 
 At twelve o' the clock he was with the 
 rest of the company, on the stage assembled 
 to hear the reading of a new play written by 
 Master Lodge. The elder Burbage sat in a 
 chair, with the MS. in his hand ; his brother 
 players, the author and divers of his friends 
 standing about him, or getting seats where 
 they could. The whole place looked ex- 
 ceeding dismal and comfortless. Below the 
 stage, where the groundlings were wont 
 to stand, was an old woman, busy sweeping 
 out the dirt, bitten apples, orange-peel and 
 nut-shells, which had there been left. In 
 the rooms above, were one or two other such 
 remnants of humanity, engaged in scouring 
 and cleaning. From one part of the stage 
 the hammer of a carpenter was heard, noisily 
 enough putting together the materials of a 
 castle, — in another, a painter was brushing 
 away in a great hurry, to make his canvas 
 assume something of the resemblance of a 
 deep forest — albeit it seemed the likeness 
 did not promise to be very notable. Here 
 was a fellow on his knees, polishing of a piece 
 of rusty armor ; and there a tailor, in his 
 shirt-sleeves, stitching away at a torn doub- 
 let. The light came in from the open roof, 
 very brightly ; but for all that the building 
 had a monstrous miserable sort of look 
 with it. 
 
 It was thus situated the Manager read the 
 new play — which proved to be a singular 
 admixture of ta»lent and bombast — unnatural 
 characters — extravagant scenes, and such a 
 labyrinth of a plot nothing could be made of 
 it : yet despite of these great blemishes, the 
 play lacked not merit. There was force in 
 the language, and occasionally beauty — and 
 amid heaps of confused nonsense, there were 
 a few clever touches of nature that appeared 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 225 
 
 he more admirable for being so surrounded ; 
 nevertheless, the chief players condemned it, 
 and the elder Burbage spoke more against it 
 than any. 
 
 " I think the play would do well enough 
 were it altered somewhat ;" observed Wil- 
 liam Shakspeare. 
 
 " A good jest, I'faith !" exclaimed the 
 manager, sarcastically, "what dost thou 
 know of plays, I wonder ? Marry, but 'tis 
 like thy impudency to give an opinion on 
 such a matter !" 
 
 " Truly, I think he knoweth as much of 
 the matter as any of us," said Tom Greene. 
 
 " Indeed does he !" cried old Burbage with 
 a look of seeming great amazement ; " per- 
 chance, Master Clevershakes, thou wilt thy- 
 self essay to make this play well enough ?" 
 
 " I doubt not I could so make it ;" replied 
 the young player. 
 
 " What intolerable presumption !" ex- 
 claimed the manager. " O' my life, Will 
 Shakspeare, so vain a person as thou art, 
 never met I in all my days. Thou art, as it 
 were, new to the stage, and yet thou talkest 
 of altering plays for the better, writ by one 
 well used to such writing !" 
 
 ' I beseech you, Master Manager, let him 
 try his hand at it, if he will," said Master 
 Lodge. " If I be not hugely mistaken, we 
 shall have at least some sport in his altera- 
 tions." 
 
 " Ay, let him have it, Burbage ;" added 
 Tom Greene ; " Will must needs have a fa- 
 mous talent if he can mend such a play as 
 this." 
 
 " Wilt take it in hand ?" asked the man- 
 ager. 
 
 " Gladly," replied young Shakspeare. 
 
 " Heaven help thee out of thy conceit !" 
 cried old Burbage giving him the MS. as he 
 rose from his seat. Some of the players 
 laughed — the authors sneered, but William 
 Shakspeare took the despised play to his 
 lodgings full of confidence in his own re- 
 sources — and then by altering, omitting, and 
 adding, where he thought such was most 
 needed, he after many days study, made it to 
 his mind. Certes he was glad of such an 
 opportunity to distinguish himself, and took 
 marvellous pains he should do well what he 
 had undertaken. At last he brought back 
 the play, and it getting to be known what he 
 had assayed, there came that day all the 
 chiefest play-writers to have a laugh at his 
 expense — even his old schoolfellows thought 
 he had promised to do more than he could 
 perform. 
 
 " I have brought you here the amended 
 play of Master Lodge," said the young 
 Shakspeare to the manager — offering him 
 
 tne MS. DacK again. " Perchance you will 
 now be so good as read it in its present state. 
 
 " Nay, an' you catch me reading your 
 foolish stuff you are cleverer than I take you 
 to be," replied the other, and at this the 
 play-writers set up a loud laugh. 
 
 " Well, an' you will not do that, mayhap 
 you will allow my reading it," added the 
 young player, evidently in no way discon- 
 certed. 
 
 " Read it or eat it — 'tis all one to me," 
 answered the manager ; and again the wits 
 had a laugh at the expense of " Master 
 Countryman." With this permission Wil- 
 liam Shakspeare commenced reading the 
 altered play. At first, the players were 
 heedless, and the play-writers amused them- 
 selves by tittering at the style of the young 
 player's reading ; nevertheless, the latter 
 read on. As soon as the alterations became 
 evident, he had a much more attentive au- 
 dience, — the players were surprised — the 
 play-writers amazed, and the manager lis- 
 tened and stared, as though under an en- 
 chantment. He continued the play, the 
 faultless delivery of which must of itself 
 have been a sufficient treat to any one caring 
 to hear an admirable reading : but the pas- 
 sages of exquisite sweet poetry — the bursts 
 of passion, the powerful sketches of charac- 
 ter, and the thrilling interest of the scenes 
 which Master Lodge's play now possessed, 
 appeared to all present something truly 
 marvellous. 
 
 " Shall this play be played, my masters ?" 
 inquired young Shakspeare, something tri- 
 umphantly by the way, as he noted the effect 
 the perusal of it had made upon his au- 
 dience. • 
 
 " Played !" exclaimed Tom Greene, in a 
 famous pleasure, " I'faith, we shall deserve 
 to count for precious asses all our days, 
 should we let so gocxlly a play escape us.'' 
 
 " By this light, 'tis the movingest, natu- 
 ralest piece of writing I ever heard," cried 
 young Burbage, in a like humor. His father 
 said nothing : for he was one of those, who 
 when they contract a prejudice against a 
 person are exceeding slow in getting it re- 
 moved ; but he was too old a judge of such 
 things not to know the nature of the perfor- 
 mance as it stood. As for the play-writers, 
 they looked at one another as if each was 
 striving to exceed the other in the expression 
 of his wonder ; but as Master Lodge, seeing 
 he could not help it, acknowledged his play 
 had been greatly improved, they confessed it 
 needs be so, as the author had said it. As 
 all the players were of one mind as to its 
 fitness for being played, the parts, were im- 
 mediately given out, and a day for a first 
 
226 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 rehearsal fixed. The most envious of the 
 play-writers then went away, consoling of 
 themselves with the hope it might be damned. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 Some men with swords may reap the field 
 And plant fresh laurels where they kill ; 
 But their strong nerves at last must yield, 
 They tame but one another still. 
 Early or late 
 They stoop o fate, 
 And must give up their murmuring breath 
 When they, pale captives, stoop to death. 
 Shirley. 
 
 To set a lawe and kepe it nought, 
 There is no common profit sought ; 
 But above all, natheless, 
 The lawe which was made for pees, 
 Is good to kepe for the beste ; 
 For that sette all men in reste * 
 
 Gower (Confessio Amantis.) 
 The villainy you teach me I will execute, 
 and it shall go hard but 1 will better the in- 
 struction. Shaksfeare. 
 
 I must ask of the courteous reader to wend 
 awhile with me in the company of one , of 
 whom the historian has said nothing ; but, 
 as is ordinarily the case when he hath a 
 proper object, he hath not said one half suf- 
 ficient ; I allude to that accomplished gentle- 
 man, and truly valiant soldier, Sir Philip 
 Sydney. He possessed the comprehensive 
 mind that could only be fully developed in a* 
 wide field ; but, unfortunately it was con- 
 tracted to suit the comparative subordinate 
 parts he was called on to fill ; and it took 
 refuge by idling itself in its leisure, in the 
 fashioning of quaint conceits, that suited the 
 age in which they were produced, but were 
 not enough true to catch the favor of Time ; 
 besides which he possessed that truly intel- 
 lectual nature which exists entirely free 
 from the clay of human selfishness. He had 
 no absorbing passion, that suck all into self, 
 till the soil becometh to be a mass of abomi- 
 nation, that polluteth what it touches. His 
 humanity was as different to this as is sun- 
 shine to a cloud. There was at one time 
 some talk of his being elected to the vacant 
 throne of Poland ; but Queen Elizabeth 
 would not have him leave her, she held him 
 bo high in her esteem. Would he had been 
 a king ! what a glorious lesson he would 
 have set the community of crowned heads ! 
 and, in honest truth, as far as I have seen 
 of them they do lack infinitely some such 
 teaching. 
 
 It hath been already said, ' that during the 
 
 prosecution of the war in Flanders, Sir 
 Philip was sent out as governor of Flushing, 
 which was to the huge content of the ma- 
 gistrates and citizens. Here he stayed, well 
 liked of all persons, his chiefest companions 
 being Sir Reginald and Sir Valentine. Hav- 
 ving by his wise rule and courteous beha- 
 vior won the love of the whole town, he set 
 off with the two young knights to join the 
 army. Doubtless were all three sufficiently 
 desirous of meeting the enemy in a fair field ; 
 but the ardor of Sir Reginald and his young 
 friend was very properly tempered with the 
 prudence and circumspection of their more 
 experienced associates. They at last came 
 to the camp at Zutphen, where were assem- 
 bled with the besieging forces the Earl of 
 Leicester, as lord-lieutenant, with some of 
 the valiantest of England's chivalry, among 
 whom might be named the Lord Willoughby, 
 the Lord Audley, the Earl of Essex, Sir 
 John Norris, Sir William Stanley, and Sir 
 William Russel ; but as soon as they knew 
 he was amongst them, they thronged to do 
 him honor, with as great show of love and 
 reverence as though he were the comman- 
 der of them all. The Earl of Leicester pre- 
 sently showed himself to be a better courtier 
 than a general ; for he did little beyond dis- 
 playing his magnificence. 
 
 The siege commenced on the fifteenth of 
 September, and wherever there was any 
 fighting there was sure to be Sir Philip 
 Sydney and his two companions. As yet, 
 neither had received hurt ; but what spare 
 time he had Sir Philip would spend in his 
 tent, putting his papers in order and writing 
 his will : and by his sober discourse, show- 
 ing he held himself in readiness should he 
 fall in the coming battle. But like a careful 
 master he took every possible opportunity 
 of teaching his disciples a knowledge ot 
 their art. He showed to them how the en- 
 trenchments were made, explained to them 
 the nature of the artillery, and made them, 
 familiar with the character and uses of the 
 several fortifications. Indeed all that might 
 be learned of the properest method of besieg- 
 ing a fortified town he taught them in the 
 camp before Zutphen ; and he laid it down 
 with such clear principles that nothing could 
 be so manifest to the understanding, as was 
 his teaching. A famous scene was it for 
 all young knights. 
 
 Great rows of tents spread far and wide with 
 the panoply of war conspicuous about them, 
 from which officers at the head of their com- 
 panies issued at divers times, some on foot 
 and some on horse — some to forage for the 
 army in the surrounding country — others to 
 cut off the enemy's victual if any such could 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 321 
 
 be found. Then came the great guns and 
 the ammunition waggons, with a strong 
 guard for the forming of a battery — and par- 
 ties of soldiers hastening to relieve those 
 working in the trenches. Here and there 
 would be seen the captains inspecting the 
 different posts or hurrying to their comman- 
 ders to acquaint them how matters stood. In 
 the distance might be noticed the flames of 
 some neighboring village where had been 
 some skirmish ; and in another spot a de- 
 tachment driving cattle and grain to the en- 
 campment — whilst afar off to the verge of 
 the horizon, the smiling country looked as 
 though such a thing as war was as far from 
 them as is Hell from Heaven. 
 
 The enemy were of exceeding force in the 
 town, numbering many thousands, composed 
 chiefly of Spaniards and Italians, with Alba- 
 noys, both horse and foot, well equipped 
 with all things necessary for fierce fight- 
 ing ; and they had made their works of a 
 very notable strength, but they were some- 
 what distressed for provisions, which was 
 well known to the besiegers, and gave them 
 great hopes of overcoming the place. It was 
 late one evening, about a week after the 
 commencement of the siege, that Sir Philip 
 Sydney and his two companions were pro- 
 ceeding round the lines to see that proper 
 watch was set, and note if the enemy showed 
 the disposition to do them any molestation. 
 They were afoot and not in their armor. 
 The night was somewhat clouded, but there 
 was in the sky many signs it would soon 
 turn to a clear starlight ; nevertheless, in 
 the distance everything lay in great obscu- 
 rity, save at the moon's occasional escape 
 from her shadowy canopy, when the chief 
 features of the landscape became more con- 
 spicuous. Sir Philip was very eloquently 
 discoursing to his young companions, con- 
 cerning of the right famous battle of Azin- 
 cour, when to their somewhat astonishment 
 he came to a sudden break in his speech. 
 
 " What noise is that ?" said he very ear- 
 nestly, as he turned his gaze towards the 
 open country. 
 
 " I hear nought but the flowing of the 
 waters," replied Sir Valentine. 
 
 " Nay, but this is no such sound, my 
 
 • friend," added Sir Philip Sydney. " Mark 
 
 you those moving objects indistinctly seen 
 
 in the distance, creeping rapidly along by 
 
 the side of yonder hedge ?" . 
 
 " I do see something moving," answered 
 the other. 
 
 " Ah, there are many figures, and if I 
 mistake not a multitude of carriages of some 
 isort," added Sir Reginald, gazing hard 
 towards the spot pointed out. 
 
 " True !" exclaimed their companion. 
 " and those, figures, my friends, you may 
 now plain enough see to be a detachment of 
 horse, and those carriages are some hun- 
 dreds of waggons, doubtless, of victual and 
 other necessaries for the relief of this town. 
 They must be stayed, or we are like to lose 
 our labor. See," continued he, as he turned 
 his piercing glance towards the besieged 
 town, on which the moon suddenly threw its 
 brilliance. " There are numbers of persons 
 bustling about very busily, nigh upon the 
 church. Of a surety they have knowledge 
 of their friends coming, and are preparing 
 to help their approach. Speed you, Sir 
 Valentine, to the tent of the lord general of 
 the horse, the Earl of Essex, and tell what 
 you have seen, that he may have his men in 
 readiness ; and you, Sir Reginald, to the 
 tent of the Lord Willoughby, on a like errand. 
 I will to his excellency, the Lord Lieuten- 
 ant, my honorable kinsman, where you can 
 say I am gone ; then get you to horse, and I 
 will join you anon." 
 
 The three knights, as rapidly as they could, 
 returned to the camp, Where they imme- 
 diatetely spread the alarm, and the trum- 
 pet's shrill alarum presently called up the 
 sleeping soldiery ; and then there was a con- 
 fusion of running hither and thither, for this 
 and for that — the grooms getting ready the 
 horses — the knights donning their armor — 
 the ensign bearers running to their compa- 
 nies — the captains mustering their men. and 
 the commanders hastening to the tent of the 
 Earl of Leicester for to receive his orders, 
 as turned the peaceful encampment that a 
 minute or two since sounded of nought else 
 but the measured tread or startling challenge 
 of the guard, into a very Babel of confused 
 noises and thronging multitudes. Sir Philip 
 Sydney quickly wakened up his kinsman, 
 but ere the latter was in readiness, the com- 
 manders came hastening in, desiring to be 
 placed where they could reap the most glory ; 
 all talking — all pressing — all urgent to set 
 out against the enemy without delay. Leav- 
 ing these for awhile, I must here describe 
 other matters that well deserve mention. 
 
 There was in the camp two notable brave 
 gentlemen, to wit, Sir William Stanley and 
 Sir John Norris, who a long time back had 
 had a quarrel in Ireland, and had been •• 
 enmity ever since. It chanced so to h*£ 
 Sir William was first ready with his com- 
 pany — some two or three hundred strong 
 which was of foot, and was sent to stand as 
 a bescado, when, as he was on his way, Sir 
 John Norris, who commanded among the 
 horse, overtook him — being sent to the same 
 
228 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 service. Then thus spoke these enemies 
 one to another : — ' 
 
 " There hath been," said Sir John, " some 
 words of displeasure between you and me ; 
 but let it all pass, — for this day we both are 
 employed to serve her Majesty. Let us be 
 friends ; and let us die together in her Ma- 
 jesty's cause." Then quoth the noble Sir 
 William — 
 
 " If you see me not this day, by God's 
 grace, serve my Prince with a valiant and 
 faithful courage, account me forever a cow- 
 ard ; and if need be I will die by you in 
 friendship." Thereupon these brave soldiers 
 embraced very lovingly, to the exceeding 
 content of all present ; and as soon after as 
 might be, Sir William Stanley marched with 
 his footmen, intending to take up a position 
 at a church in the suburbs, fciit this the 
 enemy had entrenched before hand, and there 
 lay to the number of more than two thou- 
 sand muskets and eight hundred pikes. 
 Before he could come to skirmish with them, 
 the Lord Audley joined him with a hundred 
 and fifty men — in desperate haste to be in 
 the first conflict. The fight soon began with 
 hot vollies of musket-shot. The English 
 pressing upon their opponents at the push 
 of the pike, till they drove them into their 
 hold ; and then they retreated out of the 
 range of the muskets, there to make a stand. 
 At this the enemy issued in great strength 
 of horse, mostly Spaniards and Italians, and 
 at that moment there came up on the Eng- 
 lish side, the Lord General of the Horse, 
 the Earl of Essex, the Lord Willoughby, 
 Sir William Russel, and Sir John Norris, 
 and other valiant officers of a like fame with 
 their companies ; and these presently charged 
 the enemy with such fury, that they were, 
 after some hard fighting, fain to retreat to 
 their pikes, leaving a famous number of 
 dead and wounded, beside some twenty of 
 their principal commanders who had been 
 made prisoners. 
 
 In this charge Sir John Norris led with 
 his wonted valor, but in discharging of his 
 pistol it would not go off, which seeing, he 
 stroke it at the head of his enemy and over- 
 threw him. His associates used their lances 
 till they broke ; then plied they their curtel- 
 axes with such vigor of arm, that the enemy 
 took them to be more of devils than men, 
 '-hey were so terrible. 
 
 " For the honor of England, my fellows, 
 ollow me !" shouted the Earl of Essex, as 
 ne threw his lance in rest, and wherever 
 he saw six or seven of the enemies together, 
 he would separate their friendship with more 
 ■peed than might be in any way comfor- 
 table to them. But surely of all these valo- 
 
 rous noble soldiers, none so behaved Mm 
 self as did Sir Philip Sydney. His two com 
 panions kept close to him wherever he 
 charged, and with lance and with curtel-axe 
 so played their parts, that each was an 
 honor to the other. Even in the great ex- 
 citement of this hot conflict, Sir Valentine 
 thought of his humble, yet noble hearted 
 mistress ; and, inwardly resolved to do such 
 feats for her at that time, as might any 
 knight for the proudest lady that lived. Sir 
 Reginald's valor also was impelled by a fair 
 lady whom he had left in England, and 
 loved since he had last seen the gentle 
 Mabel ; but the valor of Sir Philip was all 
 for the honor of England. His war cry 
 might be heard in the loudest uproar of the 
 battle, rising amid the din of the artillery, 
 and the shouts, groans, shrieks and cries of 
 the wounded, and the righting. 
 
 His lance had long since been shivered, 
 and his curtel-axe seemed to have the power 
 of Jove's thunder-bolt, for nothing was like 
 unto the dreadful destruction he spread 
 around. None won so much admiration as 
 did he, although every one appeared to be 
 endeavoring to signalise himself above the 
 bravest of those brave soldiers that were on 
 his side. He charged the enemy thrice in 
 one skirmish, spreading terror and death 
 wherever he appeared ; at last, as he was in 
 the very fury of the conflict, he fell to the 
 ground, shot through the leg. His fall was 
 quickly avenged, especially by Sir Valen- 
 tine and Sir Reginald ; and when they had 
 beaten back the enemy, they carefully con- 
 veyed their wounded friend to the tent of his 
 kinsman. All his old associates were pre- 
 sently about him, in most anxious suspense, 
 whilst the chirurgeon examined his wound ; 
 and when it was pronounced to be mortal, 
 there was most doleful visages in every one 
 present. 
 
 " O Philip, I am sorry for thy hurt !" ex- 
 claimed Leicester, as though he was deeply 
 affected. 
 
 " O ! my lord, this have I done to do your 
 lordship and her majesty service," replied 
 that great ornament of his age. Then came 
 to him Sir William Russel, who kissed his 
 hand, and said with tears in his eyes, 
 
 " O, noble Sir Philip ! there was never 
 man attained hurt more honorably than you 
 have done, nor any served like unto you." 
 And after him, others of that valiant com- 
 pany did testify their love and grief after 
 much the same moving fashion ; but he an- 
 swered them every one very cheerfully, and 
 seemed as though he were the only content- 
 ed person in the place. As speedily as was 
 ; possible he was removed from the tent wide? 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPP'.ARE. 
 
 339 
 
 the especial guardianship of his sorrowing 
 disciples — the two young knights — to a 
 neighboring place called Arnam ; and the 
 skilfullest chirurgeons in the army were 
 sent to him to see if anything might be done 
 to save one whose true greatness could be 
 so ill spared. But it was soon seen his 
 hours were numbered. Then the priest was 
 sent for, that he might have proper Christian 
 consolation in his extremity. 
 
 There lay the dying Sir Philip Sydney on 
 a couch, supported by pillows, with one hand 
 clasping Sir Valentine, — the other laying as 
 affectionate hold of Sir Reginald, as they 
 knelt beside him in great tribulation — his 
 old companions grouped about, looking on as 
 though their hearts would break ; and even 
 the chirurgeons, seeming by their aspects 
 to regard their honorable patient with ex- 
 ceeding sympathy. He had already ex- 
 plained his last desires, which he had done 
 with such singular sweetness of humor and 
 quietness of mind, that none, when they had in 
 their remembrance the severity of his hurt, 
 and the extreme painfulness which naturally 
 come of it, could sufficiently marvel. He 
 was now intent upon expressing his opinion 
 on his approaching death, which he did 
 with so much calmness of true philosophy 
 that every one present appeared to listen in 
 a perfect amazement. At this moment en- 
 tered the priest. He had a venerable mild 
 countenance, and his bearing was altogether 
 that of a worthy minister of the Christian 
 Church. 
 
 " Welcome, excellent sir !" exclaimed Sir 
 Philip, with the same marvellous cheerful- 
 ness he had shown ever since he had re- 
 ceived his deadly hurt, " I am heartily glad 
 to see you, more especially, because, had 
 you not come, I might never more have en- 
 joyed the sweet comfort of your honorable 
 society. Methinks there can be no dis- 
 course so precious, as, when the soul hover- 
 eth over its mortal dwelling, pluming its 
 wings, as it were, for its last long flight, 
 that which cometh of a religious friend. 
 Then is the fittingest time of all for grave 
 counsel ; — for he that is departing, is like 
 to a knight about setting upon a journey, he 
 scarce knoweth where, and requireth some 
 wiser mind to advise with him, exhort him 
 to honorable valor, and acquaint him with 
 those infinite delectable consolations that 
 spring from a life well spent. Surely wick- 
 edness must be very foolishness ; for he that 
 is unjust, or doeth any manner of evil, put- 
 teth away from him every hope of contenta- 
 tion in his - extremity — he can only procure 
 for himself a disreputable living and a miser- 
 able end ; but what absolute sweet solace 
 
 hath a good man when death claimeth his 
 acquaintance ! He looketh back to the 
 bright vista of bygone years, and beholdeth 
 so fair a landscape, it cannot help being the 
 delight of his heart. There lie before his 
 gaze charitable thoughts, chaste feelings, 
 and noble achievements, blooming like 
 flowers in Paradise, whose freshness and 
 beauty know no fading ; then when he seek- 
 eth to peer into the future, it spreadeth out 
 for him such glorious store of starry hopes, 
 that it seemeth as though the brightest Hea- 
 vens were opening of their treasures to re- 
 ward him for his desert." 
 
 " Surely, I have no need here !" cried the 
 priest, evidently in some Wondering, as he 
 stood by the couch of the dying soldier, wit- 
 nessing his extreme patience. 
 
 " O my master ! my fathe 1 ! Alack 'tis 
 pitiful, most pitiful thou sho 1 dst leave us !" 
 exclaimed Sir Valentine, in a voice scarcely 
 audible for the greatness of his emotion. 
 
 " His last hour is come," whispered one 
 of the chirurgeons to another ; and this, the 
 increasing paleness of his lips in some man- 
 ner testified. 
 
 " Yet of all deaths for a Christian knight," 
 continued Sir Philip, with the same mar- 
 vellous composure, "surely that is mostly 
 to be coveted which cometh in defence Oi 
 his country. To die in defending the rights 
 of the oppressed orphan or wronged widow, 
 is doubtless exceeding honorable ; to fall 
 whilst advancing the Christian banner 
 against the approaches of villainous heathen 
 Pagans, must also be a death to be envied ; 
 but the enemy's of one's country must needs 
 be the oppressor of its orphans, the wronger 
 of its widows, and the subverter of its reli- 
 gion ; and he who falleth in his country's 
 defence, hath all the glory that can be gain- 
 ed in the combined cause of liberty and 
 virtue. The Spaniard is the ruthless enemy 
 of England ; he seeketh her disgrace, he 
 seeketh her dishonor ; he would trample on 
 her laws, violate her liberties, desecrate her 
 altars, enslave, tyrannize, and bring to 
 shame all her gallant men and admirable 
 fair women, who could not endure his rule. 
 Against such an enemy I have received my 
 hurt. Surely then I ought to account my- 
 self infinitely fortunate ; and you, my friends, 
 instead of sorrowing for my ioss, should 
 rather envy me my proper ending. 
 
 " Sir Valentine, 1 know you to be a truly 
 valiant knight, and a most honorable gentle- 
 man," added he, turning his eyes affection- 
 ately towards his favorite pupil ; " grieve 
 not for me, I beseech you : so much faith 
 have I in your well disposedness and gallant 
 qualities, I feel convinced you will do fa- 
 
230 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 raoua credit to my instruction. Believe me, 
 1 experience exquisite comfort in knowing 
 J leave behind me a young knight of such 
 rare promise." 
 
 "Oh, noble Sir Philip," exclaimed Sir 
 Valentine right piteously, " O my dear mas- 
 ter ! I cannot help but grieve with all my 
 heart ; I shall never behold so worthy a com- 
 mander." Then the dying soldier addressed Sir 
 Reginald and the other officers one after an- 
 other, and every one he commended for such 
 qualities as he had taken note of ; and each 
 he exhorted to continue in the like behavior. 
 After this, he courteously and gravely talked 
 with the priest on religious matters, and feel- 
 ing his end drawing nigher, he asked to 
 have his prayers. Thereupon the good man 
 prayed by his couch very fervently, Sir. 
 Philip joining in such devotions with a pla- 
 cid countenan % his lips moving though he 
 made no sound , and nothing else was audi- 
 ble in the chamber, save the half-suppressed 
 sobs of those who could not conceal their 
 grief. The prayer was finished, but the lips 
 of the dying man still moved occasionally, 
 with a sort of indistinct muttering ; once 
 only he spoke audibly, and then the words 
 were, " For the honor of England," which 
 plain enough told what lay next his heart ; 
 and these were the last words he was heard 
 to utter. His eyes were rapidly getting to 
 be more dim, and aspect of a more deathly 
 paleness. At last, there was a sound heard 
 in his throat, which set every one to hiding 
 of his face ; and the bravest commander 
 there present did groan outright. 
 
 " In my life I have seen many deaths," 
 said the priest, a few minutes after all was 
 over, " but never saw I the dying of so esti- 
 mable a man, or so Christian a soldier !" 
 
 And thus perished, in the very flower of 
 life, one of the noblest examples of chivalry 
 England hath produced ; but numerous as 
 may have been her heroes, never before or 
 since hath she set up one so truly worthy of 
 the title. In him there seemed to be ever 
 manifest, manhood in its brightest attributes, 
 the noblest properties of mind, and the purest 
 influences of feeling. His valor was divest- 
 ed of that animal dross which is too gene- 
 rally found mingled with it, in the shape of 
 cruelty, love of strife, outrageous violence, 
 or coarse unfeelingness ; and it arose out of 
 onu motive, the honor of England, which 
 was in his nature a very Pactolus, enriched 
 with golden sands. Of the sterlingness of 
 b : s Intellect, methinks he hath left good evi- 
 dence ; yet it cannot in any way be com- 
 pared with what might have resulted from 
 euch a source, had he lived to disencumber 
 himself of the affectations of his age. But 
 
 of his virtues, surely there cannot tx> such 
 excellent witness,— for no knight ever died 
 more lamented of the brave, the noble, the 
 just, the true and the wise. Old and young 
 rich and poor, and all sexes and conditions, 
 received the intelligence of his decease with 
 the deepest grief. Few men have been so 
 loved — none so sore lamented. But- from a 
 scene so instructive as the death of so great 
 a man, I must now hurry the reader to one, 
 which, mayhap, hath also its lesson, though 
 never could difference be so complete, as 
 shall be found in their chief features. It is 
 necessary to say, that the event about to be 
 related followed upon the foregoing, after 
 some lapse of time. 
 
 The noble, of whom the reader hath al- 
 ready some knowledge through his base 
 attempts on the poor foundling, sat with his 
 ordinary companion in iniquity, the gallant 
 before described, in a chamber, which for the 
 sumptuousness of its furnishing, might justly 
 be styled regal. He no longer swmed as 
 though he sought concealment, being d ^ired 
 in such gorgeousness as language can give 
 but a faint idea of ; his countenance, full of 
 confidence, ever and anon brightened <vith a 
 social sort of smile, as he listened to his 
 dependant. The latter looked more the 
 worn-out profligate than ever ; but he was 
 more bravely clad than was his wont; 
 and appeared as though his infamous ser- 
 vices earned him liberal wages. In what 
 he spoke there was the triumphant villain 
 rejoicing in the success of some foul scheme 
 just brought to a foul conclusion — with a 
 manner half laughing, half sneering, in re- 
 lation to the subject, yet as regarded his 
 hearer, marked with a mingled assurance 
 and security that sufficiently bespoke the 
 nature of his service, and his dependance 
 on, his employer. 
 
 The table before them contained vessels 
 of wine, with silver cups, and dishes of gold 
 filled with dried fruit, cakes, conserves, anc 
 other delicates, as if they had been making 
 good cheer. The chamber was of such 
 dimensions and of so fair a structure, aa 
 made it evident it appertained to some prince- 
 ly castle, and the battlements and towers 
 seen from the windows appeared as strong 
 witnesses to the same purpose. The noble 
 sat on a richly embroidered chair, in great 
 state, resting of his feet on a cushion of 
 costly stuff, beside the table, carelessly using 
 of a diamond-hafted tooth-pick; and the 
 galiant sat over against him on as proud a 
 seat, telling the staple of his discourse, and 
 making the whilst as famous cheer as, he 
 could. 
 
 'Twas well done, if no suspicion fellow it 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 231 
 
 Sir Piers," obsen 3d the former, as if musing 
 somewhat. 
 
 " Nay, suspicion is clean impossible, my 
 lord," replied the other. " The man is dead, 
 and I defy tli3 searchingest pryers to discover 
 how he came to his death. As for me, my 
 disguise was so perfect, none could suspect 
 who I was, and even could that be possible 
 — believing me as I affected to be your bitter 
 enemy, they would as lief suspect themselves 
 of the deed as your honorable lordship." 
 
 " Did he make no outcry ?" inquired the 
 noble. 
 
 " Not a whisper," replied the gallant. 
 
 " Was tnere no fierce convulsions ?" ask- 
 ed the former. 
 
 "Scarce a struggle!" answered his com- 
 panion, " the poison is the most subtle I ever 
 heard of. It seemed to have entered into 
 his very marrow, ere you could say he had 
 well taken it, and left the face unmarked by 
 any blackening, or disfigurement, like one 
 who dieth of a sudden, without apparent 
 disease. Truly, 'tis a notable ridder of ene- 
 mies, I knew not so invaluable a mixture 
 could be had anywhere." 
 
 " I had it of an Italian woman who was 
 reputed the skilfullest compounder of such 
 things that ever lived," said his lord care- 
 lessly. K But this is not the first trial I have 
 made of it. Thou hast managed the affair 
 most cleverly I must confess. I would thou 
 hadst succeeded as well in procuring me the 
 beauteous Mabel." 
 
 " O' my life, my lord, I did all that most 
 extreme cunning could accomplish," replied 
 his dependant very earnestly. " Some pes- 
 tilent thing or another ever thwarted me 
 when I thought myself to be securest ; and 
 her long interest came, a murrain on't! 
 when I believed the devil himself could not 
 have snatched her from my net." 
 
 " 'Tis strange, Sir Piers, thou shouldst 
 never have heard ought of her since," ob- 
 served the noble. 
 
 " Nay, who could have supposed the 
 wench would have given me the slip when 
 the physicians said she was scarce able to 
 leave her chamber," replied the gallant. " I 
 have searched for her since then far and 
 near, and my man hath penetrated into all 
 6orts of places the whole country round 
 where it was supposed she might have got 
 shelter, but not so much as glimpse of her 
 have either of us gained. " 
 
 "She was a noble creature !" exclaimed 
 his companion. " I have seen nought to 
 compare with her either amongst our court 
 beauties here in England, or the lovely 
 dames I met during my stay abroad. I 
 aever have been so monstrously disappoint- 
 15 
 
 ed as in her escape. I would have given 
 thousands to have prevented it." 
 
 " By this hand I was never so vexed all 
 my days !" added the other with similar 
 earnestness. After this there was a pause 
 of a minute or so, in which the former seem- 
 ed thinking of his loss, whilst the other re- 
 plenished the cups with wine, and helped 
 himself freely to the tempting cates before 
 him. 
 
 " Does that follower of thine know any- 
 thing of what thou hast lately done for me ?" 
 inquired the noble.- 
 
 "Not a syllable," replied the gallant. 
 " He is faithful enough I doubt not, but I 
 would trust none in so dangerous a matter." 
 
 " Doth think he hath any suspicion of it?" 
 
 " Not the slightest." 
 
 " Nor any of the menial people about 
 me?" 
 
 " 'Tis utterly impossible, my lord, I have 
 been so close." 
 
 " 'Tis well," exclaimed the noble. " Thou 
 hast managed this matter very delicately, 
 Sir Piers. Thou hast proved thyself a true 
 friend withal, and I assure thee I will reward 
 thee fittingly." 
 
 " I thank you, my lord," replied his associ- 
 ate. " You have already bestowed on me 
 many marks of your honorable favor, and 
 methinks I cannot do enough to show my 
 readiness to serve so bountiful a master." 
 
 " Depend on't what I have done is nought 
 to what I intended doing," answered the 
 other. " Thy knighthood is but a small 
 honor to what I can now gain for thee. I 
 am paramount in the council, and with her 
 highness I have so fixed myself, I can do as 
 I will. Go get thee, good Sir Piers, to my 
 privy chamber — there is my George-collar I 
 would have out of the jewel-case on the 
 dressing-table. Bring it me straight, I pri- 
 thee, and tell my grooms not to come to me 
 unless I send to them." 
 
 " Readily, my lord," answered Sir Piers, 
 and taking the key of the jewel-case from 
 his patron, the newly made knight — surely 
 never was knighthood so dishonored — pro- 
 ceeded out of the chamber. Directly the 
 door closed on him, the noble sprung from 
 his seat, and very carefully took a small 
 paper packet from beneath the silken lining 
 of his velvet doublet, and cautiously opening 
 it, poured its contents into the silver cup of 
 his dependant, and then briskly stirred up 
 the wine with his jeweled dagger. The 
 latter he first wiped on his handkerchief, 
 and replaced in its sheath ; and then saun- 
 tered to the window, gaily bumming of a 
 popular tune. Sir Piers presently returned 
 with what he had been sent for, and took it 
 

 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 to the table, and his lord remained a minute 
 or so at the window, as if intent on noting 
 something in the base-court that had attract- 
 ed his attention, and then sauntered back to 
 his seat humming of his tune with the same 
 careless manner as he had commenced it. 
 
 " You are merry, my lord !" exclaimed 
 the knight, who had now regained his seat. 
 
 " Merry ! ay, and why not, my friend ?" 
 replied the other very socially, as he put 
 round his neck the magnificent chain he 
 had sent for. " Methinks, I have right 
 famous cause, Sir Piers. Everything con- 
 spireth to make me the greatest man in these 
 realms. I have no peer, look where I will ; 
 and I have borne myself hitherto with such 
 marvellous prudence, none can urge against 
 me ought to my prejudice." 
 
 " Marry, then you have famous cause for 
 singing," cried his dependant. 
 
 " Truly, have I, my faithful worthy friend," 
 said his companion, taking the wine cup in 
 his hand, with the look and manner of a 
 true reveller, " Come, Sir Piers, prithee 
 pledge me. As thou shalt share my for- 
 tunes, 'tis but fitting thou shouldst drink to 
 my lasting prosperity." 
 
 " Most gladly will I," answered Sir Piers, 
 quickly rising from his seat, and following 
 his lord's example in grasping his wine cup. 
 
 " Now, mark me, and do thou likewise — 
 
 I will proclaim thee a sorry drinker !" and 
 thereupon the noble drunk ofF at a draught 
 the contents of his cup. 
 
 " Bravely done, my lord !" cried the other, 
 very merrily ; and I will now show how apt 
 a scholar I am. My lord I drink to your 
 continual prosperousness." And then Sir 
 Piers finished his draught in as rapid a 
 fashion as his lord had done. 
 
 " Thou art indeed an apt scholar !" replied 
 the noble, manifestly with more than ordi- 
 nary satisfaction, as he placed his empty 
 cup on the table, and reseated himself — the 
 knight at the same time doing the like 
 thing ; and then the former commenced 
 humming of his tune again, and using of his 
 toothpick, with as careless a look as if no 
 person could be so content as was he. Sir 
 Piers poured out more wine for himself, and 
 continued eating of the dried fruit. All 
 at once he smiled somewhat, and just at that 
 moment his patron, taking a sudden glance 
 at him, noticed it. 
 
 " Ha, are thy thoughts so pleasant, Sir 
 Piers !" cried the other, and then went on 
 humming of his tune. 
 
 •' Exceeding pleasant, my lord," said his 
 companion, and smiled more evidently than 
 before. At this the noble looked at him 
 very hard, saying never a word ; and the 
 
 knight kept his eyes on those of his empidyer 
 asj^f he cared not for such scrutiny, for hi« 
 smile continued to become more palpable. 
 The lord now looked surprised — then amaz- 
 ed — then distrustful — his tune ceased ere it 
 had half ended — the tooth-pick fell from his 
 hand, and laying convulsive hold of the 
 arms of his chair, he leaned forward, fixing 
 a stare of horror on his companion. The 
 smile of the latter now had a sort of devilish 
 derision in it, and his eyes glared on the 
 other with a very fiendlike mockery. The 
 noble now snatched at his dagger, holding 
 himself up with the strength of the other 
 arm, whilst the agbny expressed in his face, 
 whence the blood had all rushed, leaving it 
 of a deadly paleness, and the strange manner 
 in which he began twisting his body, be- 
 spoke in him some terrible suffering ; but at 
 this his companion laughed outright, 
 
 " Caught in thine own trap ! cried his 
 triumphant partner in guilt. " O'' my life, 
 never was traitor so well served ! What ? 
 After I had done at thy bidding all manner 
 of villanies, a dog's death was to be my re- 
 ward ; and so thou get rid of every evidence 
 of thy matchless infamy ! Prithee, my lord, 
 stop up thy key-hole whilst preparing to 
 poison thy familiars, when thou hast sent 
 them out of the way awhile, else they may 
 do as I have done, spy thy intention, and on 
 their return make so bold as change the 
 drugged cup for another, and so the poisoner 
 get the poison for himself." 
 
 Here the knight laughed again more scorn- 
 fully than before. At this, his lord made a 
 convulsive effort to rise — his horrible fierce 
 looks distorted as if with the most racking 
 intolerable pains — his eyes seeming- to dilate 
 to a wonderful bigness, and flashing forth 
 most dreadful deadly malice — his teeth 
 gnashing together, and his every limb start- 
 ing and trembling with the mightiness a 
 his agony ; but as soon as he had got him- 
 self to stand upright, his eyes rolled in their 
 sockets most frightfully ; violent fierce 
 spasms and convulsions shook him in every 
 part — the uplifted dagger dropped from his 
 nerveless grasp, and the next moment its 
 lordly owner fell to the ground a corpse. 
 
 " So ends my Lord of Leicester !" ex- 
 claimed his villainous associate, as he ap- 
 proached the body. " Truly a very suitable 
 ending. But it will scarce be proper to 
 leave him here, else I may chance to follow 
 him more quickly than I desire." Saying 
 this, Sir Piers carefully placed the dead man 
 leaning back in his seat as if he slept, and 
 then hurried out of the chamber. Thus 
 finished his career, the most, accomplished 
 villain of his age r who was bo admirable a 
 
THE YOUTH OP SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 33S 
 
 master of duplicity, that his real character 
 was suspected of but few ; and so cautious 
 in the doing of his villainies, that he rarely 
 left the slightest ground for suspicion. At 
 last, his over-anxiety to secure himself ended 
 in his own destruction, as hath been related. 
 Nevertheless, few knew him to be what he 
 was ; and by those few he was so thorough- 
 'y detested for his extraordinary craft and 
 treachery, that amongst them he was usually 
 called by the nickname of " The Gypsey." 
 By the majority he hath been held in re- 
 membrance as " The Great, Earl of Leices- 
 ter;" but his title to such greatness as they 
 would confer on him, was grounded on his 
 magnificence, his unrivalled power in the 
 kingdom,and the consummate policy of his en- 
 deavors to retajn it. He was a brilliant char- 
 acter, but it was the brilliance that cometh 
 of a base metal, where the art used to give 
 it a shining appearance, out of all comparison 
 exceedeth the value of the stuff on which it 
 is exerted. 
 
 Many such men there are, who by their 
 high position in the social fabric and won- 
 drous subtlety in outwardly conforming with 
 established opinions, pass for monuments 
 worthy of admiration and reverence, whilst 
 divers of the truly great, who have no other 
 title than honesty, and little wealth beyond 
 their daily crust, are passed over as of no 
 account, and all that cometh of their noble 
 aims as far as the world is concerned — is 
 the oblivion of an unhonored grave. Never- 
 theless, be sure Nature taketh a proper heed 
 of these last, and whenever that vile partial 
 chronicler, History, braggeth most loudly of 
 his proud lords and sanguinary conquerors, 
 ehe whispers in the ears of all just men, 
 the loving kindnesses, the generous self- 
 denials, the true nobility, and imperishable 
 worth of her own peerage. Thus, among 
 the well-judging few, models of true great- 
 ness are ever to be found worthy of close 
 copying, which, age after age, lead to the 
 production of others of a like merit ; and 
 thus nature fulfilleth the mission of truth, 
 and laugheth the mere brags of history in 
 utter and everlasting scorn. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 Behavior, what wert thou, 
 Vi'il this man showed thee ? and what art thou 
 now? 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 William Shakspeare sat in a miserable 
 rarret which boasted of no better furniture 
 
 than an old table, on which were some books 
 and papers, an old stool to match, whereon 
 he was sitting, a truckle bed of a like hum- 
 bleness, that served for his nightly rest ; and 
 a worm-eaten chest that played the part of 
 cupboard, of press, and of book-case also. 
 The casement was small and dirty, and 
 the wainscot and ceiling crumbling in many 
 places. I said amiss when I asserted .there 
 was no better furniture in the chamber, for 
 there was in it its gifted tenant ; and this 
 made the poor place to be more richly fur- 
 nished than could have been the stateliest 
 hall throughout the kingdom. Mayhap he 
 was studying of a part in some play, for he 
 sat leaning his arms on the table, with his 
 hands supporting his head^knmediately over 
 a written paper ; and so serious was he in 
 this studying, that he heard not the opening 
 of the door, and the entrance of a visitor. 
 
 " Ha ! there thou art, by this hand !" ex- 
 claimed Master Greene, the play-writer, with 
 as much seeming gladness as though the 
 young player was his dearest friend ; and 
 thereupon he went hastily up to him, and 
 shook him famously by the hand, inquired 
 after his health, and making such bountiful 
 show of friendship as was quite refreshing 
 to see. Master Shakspeare was courteous 
 as was his wont ; but still he could not help 
 marvelling what brought his visitor to him, 
 for they had never been on any notable inti- 
 macy. After awhile, Master Greene sat 
 himself on the end of the bed, for he would 
 not accept of the stool, though it was pressed 
 on him with some urgency. Then he talked 
 of the Queen of Scots' execution, and the 
 last conspiracy of the papists, and other 
 matter of news, as glibly as an intelligencer ; 
 to which the other listened with the utmost 
 civilness, joining in the discourse when it 
 seemed necessary, yet wondering exceed- 
 ingly such a person should put himself to 
 the trouble of calling on him merely to talk 
 to him on subjects with which every one 
 was familiar. At last the conversation 
 gradually approached the subject of plays. 
 
 "That play of Lodge's went bravely," 
 said he ; " but I said it needs must succeed 
 when I heard it read by you. Surely you 
 must have made marvellous alterations. I 
 detected them on the instant. I did, by this 
 hand ! Indeed they were filled with such 
 exquisite beauty, it was clean impossible 
 they should pass for the invention of Lodge, 
 who, between ourselves, is exceeding shal- 
 low — a sorry scribbler, who hath written 
 nought deserving of serious commendation." 
 
 " Nay, Master Lodge is not without mer- 
 it," replied his companion. 
 
 " Merit he hath, it may be allowed," re 
 
234 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE 
 
 sponded the other ; " but be assured 'tis 
 monstrous little. He could never write a 
 play of any judgment, believe me. Mere 
 bombast for passion, dullness for wit ; and by 
 way of dialogue, the most tedious poor stuff 
 that ever was writ. A knowledge of this 
 made me the more admire your wondrous 
 excellent genius in fashioning so admirable 
 fine a play out of such sorry materials." 
 
 " I did as well as my poor ability would 
 allow," observed the young player. " But 
 for mine own part, I think not so highly of it. 
 J trust I may live to do much better things." 
 
 " Ay, that shall you, Master Shakspeare !" 
 exclaimed Master Greene, very earnestly. 
 " And I will do all that in my power lieth to 
 put yon in the way of attaining the excel- 
 lence you desire." 
 
 " I am much beholden to you, good sir," 
 said William Shakspeare. 
 
 " Not at all, not at all — O' my life ! my 
 sweet friend, cried tbe play writer ; " it is 
 your merit commands it. I am right glad 
 and happy to be of service to so estimable a 
 gentleman. By the way, I prophesied from 
 he moment I noted your first appearance on 
 he stage, you would, ere long, distinguish 
 ourself famously. I saw it in you ; I did 
 y this hand." Now, considering that the 
 speaker was one of the bitterest of^those 
 who spoke so slightingly of the young player 
 at the tapster's, it was somewhat bold of him, 
 and impudent withal, to venture such an as- 
 sertion as this last, but his companion was 
 not of a nature to treasure up slights, and, 
 he took what was told him as truly genuine 
 kindness. 
 
 " It is scarce fitting of me to speak of my 
 own works," continued Master Greene, in 
 some manner that was meant to be hugely 
 modest. " Methinks they should speak for 
 themselves. There is my play of 'The 
 History of Orlando Purioso,' which, as it 
 hath taken so well of all judges, leaveth me 
 nought to say of it. There is another of 
 mine, 'A Looking-Glass for London and 
 England,' the popularity of which is even 
 greater than the preceding. Again, there 
 is ' The honorable History of Friar Bacon 
 and Friar Bungay,' that hath been no less 
 praised ; and also, ' The Comical History of 
 Alphonsus, King of Arragon,' held in simi- 
 lar great liking : but surely my plays must 
 be familiar enough to you, they having had 
 such marvellous success." 
 
 " In most of them I have played," replied 
 the other ; " and as far as I could judge, 
 they were amazingly relished of the audi- 
 ence." 
 
 a Indeed, I have no reason to be dissatis- 
 fied with my writings," added his compan- 
 
 ion ; therefore, it seemeth to me that I should 
 be an exceeding proper person to give you 
 assistance in any such performances, design 
 you, as you should, to essay further efforts 
 at the writing of plays." 
 
 William Shakspeare remembered, that 
 Master Greene was of some note for his 
 learning, having taken degrees at both Ox- 
 ford and Gambridge; and, being an experi- 
 enced play-writer, seemed a very fit person 
 to give instructions in whatever he might be 
 deficient. 
 
 " Truly I shall be glad of your friendly 
 advice, worthy sir," replied he ; " and I thank 
 you very heartily for being so kindly dis- 
 posed toward me." 
 
 " Believe me, it all cometh of my love of 
 your extreme worthiness, .Master Shaks- 
 peare !" exclaimed the other, with a seem- 
 ing wonderful sincerity. " O' my life, I would 
 do anything within my compass for your ad- 
 vantage ; and this affectionateness leadeth 
 me now to offer to write a play with you as 
 speedily as may be most to your liking, after 
 the manner usual in such cases ; that is to 
 say, you shall write such a part of it, and I 
 will write another part of it, on a design 
 beforehand approved of us both." 
 
 " I care not how saoon we set about it, 
 Master Greene," answered his companion 
 very readily. 
 
 " Then meet me at Paul's, after the play 
 is over to-day, and we will talk the matter 
 more at length," said the play-writer, rising tc 
 take his leave, with an aspect of considera- 
 ble satisfaction. " But one thing before I 
 leave you, my dear sweet friend — on no ac- 
 count mention what we are about doing to 
 Kit Marlowe, or any other writer of plays. 
 Between ourselves, Kit is a horrible slippery 
 sort of a person, a desperate consy -catcher 
 and his companions Lodge, Peele, and Nash, 
 are no better than he. You will via well in 
 having nought to do with such." 
 
 The young player promised to say nothing 
 of the matter ; and soon after, with an 
 abundance of friendliness, the visiw took 
 his leave. He had not been gon» many 
 minutes, when a quick step was hes-d as- 
 cending the stairs, and presently in came 
 Kit Marlowe, apparently in an ex-..uisite 
 good humor, full of boisterous greeting, and 
 laughing and talking as though his young 
 host and he had been boon companions a 
 thousand years. He too sat himself ax the 
 bed's foot, and after the first great gladness 
 of meeting was over, talked very free* -fab 
 manner of gossip, intermixed with jes* 1, or 
 such as were intended to pass for such tad 
 [ a continual accompaniment of laug tog, 
 which proved at least, he could relisl fc» 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 335 
 
 own wit. He too, after a fit interval, led 
 the discourse almost imperceptibly to plays, 
 and when he got fairly hold of Master 
 Lodge's production, he broke out into such 
 praises of the amendments, as far exceeded 
 what Master Greene had said. 
 
 " As for Lodge, I marvel he should attempt 
 play-writing," added he ; " there is more wit 
 in a sour hedge crab, than in all he hath 
 done, which showeth what sweet grafting he 
 must have had, to have produced such good- 
 ly fruit as the last. Indeed, it hath a most 
 luscious flavor ; as different. to that of the 
 old stock as is honey to verjuice. But 'tis 
 natural enough, that whatsoever forceth one 
 to make a wry face, as have I scores of 
 times, I warrant you, at Lodge's poor per- 
 formances, must needs be of manifest un- 
 ripeness." 
 
 " Surely, you hardly do him justice, Mas- 
 ter Marlowe ?" observed the young player. 
 
 " Justice, quotha !" exclaimed his com- 
 panion, with a loud laugh ; " by this light, 
 had he j ustice, he would be badly off indeed. 
 Nay, nay, Master Shakspeare, he is as bar- 
 ren as a whipping post; therefore am I bet- 
 ter able to acknowledge the merit which is 
 your due in altering of his play. You have 
 transmuted his baseness into a most sterling 
 commodity. But you must not rest here, my 
 friend ; you are let slip, and you must for- 
 ward now like a true hound." 
 
 " Be assured, I would not throw away an 
 opportunity for advancing myself, came it in 
 my way," said William Shakspeare. 
 
 " I'faith, you would be notably to blame, 
 were you to do'so," added the other. " Now, 
 you know I have written some few trifles ; 
 for instance, there is my ' Tamburlaine the 
 Great ;' there is my ' Doctor Faustus ;' there 
 is my ' Jew of Malta ;' there is my ' Massa- 
 cre of Paris ;' and there are also one or two 
 other similar affairs of my unworthy endit- 
 ing ; I think but poorly of them- 2 - but it hath 
 pleased his worship the World to have a 
 different opinion. Mayhap, his worship is 
 an ass ; but trust me, I will not quarrel with 
 him, whilst he beareth me on his back as 
 bravely as he doth. Nevertheless, be my 
 plays well or ill, they take, which methinks 
 is the main point ; and it showeth I have 
 6ome sort of skillfulness in knowing what 
 will please." 
 
 " Doubtless !" replied his companion. 
 
 " Now my dear sweet friend," continued 
 the other very cordially, " it is evident you 
 are possessed of a like quality, else could 
 not Lodge's play have the success it hath 
 met with : therefore I have devised a plan, 
 by which we may both profit exceedingly, 
 and hold the field against all comers." 
 
 " Indeed !" exclaimed William Shaks- 
 peare, in some sort of surprise. 
 
 " Ay, my dear rogue, and this is my plan." 
 replied Kit Marlowe, " we two will club our 
 wits and write a play in conjunction. 1 
 will bring forth what gifts I have that have 
 so long been wont to please the public, and 
 you shall add to them the same inimitable 
 choice talent you have already shown in 
 your first efforts ; and the result cannot help 
 being such a play as the world hath never 
 yet seen, and which shall at once place ua 
 far above the paltry bombastic scribblers 
 who now thrust -their worthless inventions 
 on the stage. What sayest, Master Shaks- 
 peare ? How dost affect this plan of mine 
 my sweet friend ?" 
 
 " In honest truth I like it well enough, 
 Master Marlowe," replied his companion, 
 holding in mind the other's reputation as a 
 writer of plays, which at that time stood se- 
 cond to none. " If you think it will be at- 
 tended with such famous results, we will 
 commence it as soon as you please." 
 
 " Well said, my heart of oak !" cried the 
 other, now rising with a notable pleased 
 countenance, " I will call on you this time 
 to-morrow to confer further on the matter. 
 But I charge you, break not a word of it 
 to Greene, or Peele, or Nash, or any of that 
 set ; and have no dealings with them on any 
 account. There* is neither conscience, 
 truth, nor honesty in them. They are coz- 
 eners all ; and that Greene, he is the very 
 blackest sheep of the flock. Keep aloof 
 from them, I beseech you, else you will suf- 
 fer for it terribly ; and I promise you, if you 
 will allow of my true « friendship, I will, ere 
 any very long time hath passed, put you in 
 such good case, you shall consider fortune 
 and yourself are sworn brothers." So say- 
 ing, and with as prodigal a show of affec- 
 tionateness as Master Greene had exhibited 
 in his leave taking, Kit Marlowe also de- 
 parted. 
 
 The young player marvelled somewhat 
 that persons of such reputation as were his 
 two visitors, should come to one obscure as 
 himself on such an errand ; but he thought 
 there might be advancement for him in 
 availing himself of their offers, and there- 
 fore very gladly accepted them. Their 
 abuse of each other, and of their compan- 
 ions, amused him, for he saw thoroughly in- 
 to it. Whilst he was engaged in reflections 
 upon these visits, another step on the stairs 
 betokened another visitor, and in came 
 Peele. He went through much the same 
 sort of seer e as his predecessors, exhibited 
 the like extravagant joy at meeting — gos- 
 sipped about similar mdifferent subjects, till 
 
236 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 he skilfully led the converse to plays — | 
 abused Lodge as heartily as the others had 
 done, and spoke with the same liberality of 
 commendation on the amendments of Wil- 
 liam Shakspeare, proposed to write a play 
 conjointly with the young player — and after 
 'varning him against his brother play wri- 
 ters, more especially against Greene and 
 Marlowe as notorious bad characters, he 
 took his leave. He was followed by Chet- 
 e, Kyd, Nash, and others of the play wri- 
 ers, all of whom, in much the same sort of 
 .utine, either offered to write plays with 
 ;.m, or brought him plays they had already 
 writ, to do as he liked by, or some they had 
 commenced, to get him to finish as it pleased 
 him best. And every one— albeit, forgetful 
 how greatly they had previously abused him, 
 came in such fashion as seemed most to ap- 
 prove their extraordinary love of him ; and 
 none departed without denouncing all of his 
 companions, who had gone before, or were 
 like to come after. 
 
 The young player answered them as well 
 as he could — monstrously amused at the 
 whole affair, for he had wit enough to see 
 what they aimed at ; but resolved, as far as 
 he could, to make them subservient to his 
 own particular advancement. In this me- 
 thinks he showed his wisdom ; for as affairs 
 stood, it was not at all possible for him to 
 make way either as a player, or a play wri- 
 ter without some such assistance. The 
 manager was as inveterate against him as 
 ever, because the success of the piece Wil- 
 liam Shakspeare had taken in hand, convic- 
 ted him in the eyes of his associates of pos- 
 sessing a marvellous lack of judgment He 
 could plain enough see the great mer.t of the 
 alterations, but his wounded self-love now 
 made his prejudices all the stronger, and he 
 seemed for it only the more disposed to keep 
 the young player's talents as much in the 
 back ground as he could. This unworthy 
 treatment the latter bore with wonder- 
 ful sweet patience and dignity ; neverthe- 
 less it fretted his high aspiring mind exceed- 
 ingly at times, and the bitter poverty in which 
 it kept him, exposed him to such humiliations 
 and sufferings as were scarce endurable. 
 
 His chiefest pleasures lay in hearing of 
 his children, which . he never failed to do 
 with a famous regularity, by the kind as- 
 sistance of John a Combe ; and in the con- 
 tinuance of his correspondence with the 
 lovely Mistress D'Avenant, who more and 
 more developed to his quick perceptions the 
 prodigal gifts of mind and heart of which 
 she was possessed. It is to be expected that 
 their correspondence should be marked with 
 a tone of more endearing earnestness as they 
 
 made more familiar acquaintance with each 
 other's manifold loving virtues. Tins in- 
 sensibly took place as their intimacy pro- 
 ceeded. The language of passionate devo- 
 tion mingled in greater portion witli graver 
 discourse. Intellect came warmed with a 
 more endearing philosophy, and sympathy 
 took on itself sweeter and deeper feeling. 
 This change was first evident in Mistress 
 D'Avenant, and indeed it continued most 
 conspicuous in her correspondence. It 
 seemed as though she could set no bounds 
 to her affection for one of so truly loving a 
 nature, and that it would scarce be justice if 
 her admiration of his genius came not to the 
 utmost extravagance of idolatry. Never did 
 any woman show a more generous self- 
 abandonment upon the altar of true devo- 
 tion ; but in this, as she imagined no ill, she 
 believed no ill could exist. She felt herself 
 ennobled by her feelings, and thought she 
 could not sufficiently testify her gratitude to 
 the honorable source whence they sprung. 
 
 Her frequent writing was of essential ser- 
 vice, for she never failed to hold out to him 
 the most brilliant hopes. Nothing seemed 
 she to love so much as the picturing of his 
 future greatness ; and her appreciation of 
 his worth was such, that these anticipations 
 were beyond all things magnificent. She 
 piled up a very pyramid of hopes to his 
 honor, which she fondly believed should last 
 unto eternity. This not only fired his am- 
 bition, but kept the flame burning with an 
 increasing brightness — but it did more — the 
 high opinion of his desert, which it evinced, 
 awakened and kept alive in him a deep con- 
 tinual anxiousness to make his conduct ac- 
 cord with it as much as was possible. Per- 
 chance this occasioned that marvellous 
 sweet patience he exhibited under the petty 
 tyranny of the elder Burbage, and that free- 
 dom from every sort of discreditableness 
 shown by him whilst suffering the fiercest 
 pressure of poverty. It is here necessary 
 to add that in his frequent letters to his af- 
 fectionate sweet friend at Oxford he gave n« 
 intimation of the poorness of his estate, so 
 that she was in complete ignorance of his 
 sufferings and privations. This arose partly 
 from a certain delicacy which kept him from 
 acquainting her with such matters ; and ir. 
 some measure, from a peculiar pride which 
 allowed him not to betray the immense dif 
 ference of his case betwixt what she desired 
 and what he endured. But to give the rea- 
 der a proper understanding of her character, 
 methinks it will be necessary to introduce 
 here some specimen of the style and matter 
 of her writing. Here followeth an extftuj* 
 from one of her letters : — 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 237 
 
 * Lot. «tPi beseech of you to take sufficient 
 baea oi yourself , so that no hurt follow those 
 deep studies to which, you tell me, you give 
 all your leisure. Remember that this con- 
 stant wear and tear of the mind is infinitely 
 destructive of the body. I am fearful your 
 extreme ardor to fulfil your glorious destiny 
 may bring you to a halt ere half the journey 
 hath been accomplished. Think of this. I 
 pray you essay to curb in your impetuous 
 spirits. He who would win a race starteth 
 not off' at the top of his strength, whereby 
 he might soon spend his energies ; but be- 
 ginneth at a fair pace, which he can keep 
 up without fear of exhaustion, and mayhap 
 increase where there shall appear need of it. 
 Ever bear in mind the greatness of the prize 
 for which you are running ; and never part 
 with the conviction that it cannot help being 
 vours, use you but common prudence in its 
 attainment. I often find myself wishing I 
 were with you, that I might see your health 
 suffered nothing by your studiousness. I 
 doubt not I should keep such excellent 
 watch for your safety as should be an ex- 
 ample to all vigilant officers ; and surely 
 this is the more fitting of me, knowing as I 
 do, above all others, the exceeding covetable 
 preciousness of such a charge. 
 
 " But as with you I cannot be, I hope you 
 will allow of my desires exerting their salu- 
 tary influence as my poor thoughts express 
 them in this present writing. To live to 
 see you so proudly circumstanced as your 
 merit gives you fairest title to, is what I most 
 fervently hope for. This, as it seemeth to 
 me, can only be marred by your own want 
 of proper care of yourself; and having 
 marked how marvellous little of the selfish 
 
 Erinciple exists in your disposition, I cannot 
 elp, at times, dreading the consequence. 
 Pardon me my importunity — I must again 
 beseech you to be heedful. Let me at least 
 have the exquisite consolation of knowing 
 that my life hath been for some good pur- 
 pose ; for should it be my ill hap to behold 
 you, from want of proper guardianship, fall 
 short of my expectations, 1 should from that 
 moment consider, and with strict justice, my 
 existence to have been a blank. But what 
 I am, or may be, must be of little moment 
 in so important a matter. I would rather 
 you should keep in mind the thousands and 
 ten of thousands to whose delight your bril- 
 liant destiny calleth you to minister. In 
 brief, do for yourself as I desire of you ; and 
 all people, all times, and all countries shall 
 look to jou. as their chief debtor. 
 
 " I believe the amount of human happiness 
 to be none so large in comparison with the 
 countless numbers that would draw upon it ; 
 
 and look upon such persons as yourself— 
 Ah ! where shall I find me such another !— . 
 as keepers of banks who are wont to issuj 
 their own coinage for to be circulated gerier 
 ally — to the vast increase of comfort in tk 
 whole community. Having this office, neve . 
 forget for one single moment how great is 
 your responsibility. Should any accident 
 happen to prevent the proper fulfilment of 
 your services, how much will the world lose 
 of what is most sterling and necessary. 
 Perchance for lack of such, all manner of 
 baseness may be made to pass for the true 
 coinage, and poverty become more general 
 by reason of the spreading of such worthless 
 counterfeits. I conjure you be regardful in 
 this point. Take what recreation cometh to 
 your hand. Meet you with disappointments 
 or mishaps, look on them as the natural lets 
 of life, and pass them by with the proper in- 
 difierency that should belong to a philoso- 
 phic mind. Envy you may meet with — slan- 
 der you may meet with — which with injus- 
 tice, insolence, and oppression, mayhap will 
 seek to stop your way — for these are the 
 common obstacles to greatness in its early 
 development; but of such, — I know you 
 will make of them mere straws that shall 
 not hinder you a step. It is of yourself I 
 fear. No one else can prove himself your 
 real enemy. Take care then of yourself. 
 Watch yourself narrowly. Strengthen your- 
 self by all possible means ; and by so doing, 
 marvel not that you weaken the power of 
 yourself to do your fortunes injury. 
 
 " I expect you to bear with me for my so 
 constant repetition of this my request. My 
 zeal will not allow of my stopping short in 
 endeavors so paramount for the securing of 
 your welfare. You are to me all wisdom, 
 virtue, and excellence — all nobleness, all 
 honor, all truth, charity, and love. In the 
 spirit of the devout worshippers of old, I am 
 not content with the conviction that the tem- 
 ple at which I pay my devotions is the wor 
 thiest in the whole world ; I would lay such 
 liberal offerings on the altar as should go far 
 to make it so. I devote all my acquirements 
 to its use — such treasures as I have in my 
 thoughts, feelings, hopes, blessings, and 
 prayers, I give as jewels to enrich so admi- 
 rable a shrine — and all I dare desire for my- 
 self for so doing, is that when the edifice 
 hath attained its deserved celebrity, — and 
 far and near come throngs of earnest wor- 
 shippers, — in the innermost sanctuary there 
 should be one little nook concealed from the 
 vulgar eye, wherein should be entombed the 
 heart of her whose deep affections helped U) 
 secure its fame." 
 . On a nature like that of William Shaks- 
 
238 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 peare, it was not possible for such an inti- 
 macy bo conducted, to exist without produ- 
 cing the best effect. There could not be a 
 more different person than was he at this 
 time to what he had been the first two years 
 of his marriage. He was proud of being 
 loved by so noble a woman. He felt there 
 was in it an honor, which for real value the 
 objects of his highest ambition could not ex- 
 ceed ; and this raised him so far above the 
 lowness of his condition that he was enabled 
 to endure it as well as he did. It so hap- 
 pened that this last letter remained unan- 
 swered a long while, which made him write 
 again ; but he heard not of her any the more, 
 which filled him with some uneasiness, for 
 she was ordinarily most punctual in her 
 writing. Not knowing whether his letters 
 had miscarried, or that she had been taken 
 with any sudden illness, he felt in some way 
 perplexed as to what would be best for him 
 to do. On the morning that the play-writers 
 had shown towards him such exceeding 
 friendliness, after he had got rid of the last 
 some half hour or so, and believed he should 
 have no more such visits, he heard another 
 footstep which put him into no little discon- 
 tent, for he was tired of such company. 
 Nevertheless seeing he could not well do 
 otherwise, he resigned himself to his fate, 
 and when a knock was heard at his door, 
 bade his new visitor enter. Thereupon the 
 door, opened, and to his exceeding wonder, 
 who should appear at it but Mistress D'Ave- 
 nant, and to his greater astonishment she 
 was attired in the ordinary mourning of a 
 widow. 
 
 The sort of greeting may be imagined be- 
 tween two such persons under such circum- 
 stances ; but still there was something in it 
 not likely to be conceived of any. It ap- 
 peared that John D'Avenant had been at- 
 tacked with a fierce disease, and all the time 
 it lasted his wife attended him so closely day 
 and night, she had not a moment to spare 
 for any other purpose. It is true he had 
 been any thing rather than a proper hus- 
 band to her ; and his own unworthiness had 
 brought him to his present condition ; but in 
 her eyes these facts could be no bar to her 
 showing of him in his extremity the proper 
 duties of a wife : whereof the consequence 
 was her unremitting kind nursing of him to 
 the very moment of his death, so exhausted 
 her, that she was fain to keep her bed for 
 some weeks after. On her recovery she 
 thought, instead of writing to the young 
 player, she would be herself the bearer of the 
 intelligence, and thereupon proceeded to 
 London. At the play-house where she had 
 been used to direct her letters, she learned. 
 
 his address, and not long after tb&t Rfte ar- 
 rived at his lodgings. Perchance., this oo< 
 havior of hers may be thought monstrous lr 
 regular by many ; but as she sought no evu, 
 she took in no sort of consideration any ones 
 opinion on the matter. In their meeting 
 there seemed a mutual restraint — in her it 
 seemed to arise from the overpowering in- 
 fluence of her feelings — in him it was the 
 result of an embarrassing idea, that at once 
 and for the first time presented itself to his * 
 mind. 
 
 During his stay at Oxford he had never 
 alluded to his own marriage, perchance as 
 much from dislike of the subject as from im- 
 agining such allusion to be unnecessary ; 
 and in his after correspondence the feeling 
 which prevented him troubling her with his 
 own particular griefs, kept him silent on the 
 matter. Thus, his youth and his genera* 
 conduct, might, he thought, have impressed 
 her with the belief that he was unmarried ; 
 and his ardent affection for her which he had 
 made too conspicuous to be mistaken, might 
 now have brdught her to London, with the 
 conviction he would immediately make her 
 his wife. There is no doubt nothing would 
 have given him such true pleasure as the 
 fulfilling of such expectations, had he the 
 power of so doing, but knowing its utter im- 
 possibility, and the terrible disappointment 
 the knowledge of it might create in a confi- 
 ding loving woman, he was for some min- 
 utes perfectly bewildered as to what he 
 should do for the best. However, beingwell 
 convinced that to delay making her acquain- 
 ted with his real situation, would but in- 
 crease the likelihood of evil, he determined 
 to break it to her as gently as he could with- 
 out loss of time. Thereupon he took occa- 
 sion as they conversed together, to speak of 
 his children, doing it in such a manner aa 
 might gradually prepare her for the know- 
 ledge of his marriage ; after which he in- 
 formed her of the circumstances under which 
 it had taken place, and without imputing 
 blame to any save himself, gave her such 
 insight into its unhappiness, as he thought 
 necessary. i 
 
 Perchance Mistress D'Avenant had en- 
 tertained some notion of being made his wife, 
 as she could not but be aware how dear she 
 was to him, for on her perceiving the purport 
 of his converse, her beautiful countenance 
 suddenly took on it the paleness of death. 
 There was a fixed unmeaning stare in her 
 brilliant eyes, and a sort of quick swallow- 
 ing at her throat ; but these signs passed al 
 most on the instant they made their appear- 
 ance, and she presently listened to this unex- 
 pected intelligence with scarce more than 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 239 
 
 an ordinary interest. Doubtless the disap- 
 pointment had been poignant enough ; but 
 she was of too noble a disposition to betray 
 her real feelings, seeing it could only contri- 
 bute to her lover's unhappiness ; and heard 
 him out without interruption. 
 
 " 'Tis marvellous our fortunes should 
 have been so much alike," observed she. 
 " Like you I married too young to know 
 what I was preparing for myself, and in per- 
 fect ignorance of the nature of the person 
 to whom I was united. Like you I have 
 been deceived by fair appearances, and after 
 the discovery of the huge mistake I had 
 made, lived a life of hopes overthrown, and 
 cares which every day made less endurable. 
 When I became honored with your acquain- 
 tance, a new light shone on my path. I felt 
 I could endure a martyrdom but to seem 
 worthy in your eyes. Although I quickly 
 loved you with my every feeling, from the 
 moment I coveted your affection, I bent my 
 mind and my heart so to my duties as a 
 wife, that the most exacting husband could 
 have found in me no manner of fault — for I 
 had in me the conviction, that one who was 
 amiss as a wife,*must needs be unworthy as 
 a woman, and that such a woman had no 
 shadow of title to the sympathy of a dispo- 
 sition so allied to excellence as your own." 
 
 The young player replied not to this ; 
 6a ve only as he sat by her side, the hand he 
 had hitherto held in his own, he fondly 
 raised to his lips. She continued : — 
 
 " When I learned I was loved by you, it 
 gave me a value in mine own eyes I knew 
 not till then. I appeared as though I had at- 
 tained the very noblest and most glorious 
 dignity a woman could possess. How liber- 
 ally you garnished my poor state with the 
 wondrous magnificence of your genius, I 
 have not power enough of language to state ; 
 but on every fresh occasion, you bound my 
 nature to you with a chain more precious 
 than gold, and more durable than adamant. 
 Believe me I am grateful ; but I despair of 
 ever being grateful enough. In the after 
 time, when I hear — as hear I must — the uni- 
 versal voice breathing your immortal praises 
 over the land, methinks I cannot help being 
 the proudest creature on the earth, for I can 
 feed my heart with the exquisite sweet truth 
 that I, a humble creature of no worldly rank 
 or quality whatsoever, was singled out, es- 
 teemed, and loved of so truly honorable a 
 person." 
 
 " Ay, dearest, truest, and be&t of all wo- 
 men !" exclaimed her lover as he rapturously 
 pressed her to his breast. " But there is a 
 truth that methinks would be still more satis- 
 factory to you at such a time, and that is — 
 
 your desert alone made me enamored, and 
 by the proper influence of the same admira- 
 ble cause, I continued in the same fond feel- 
 ing. Think you I have no call for gratitude ? 
 Surely I have far more need to show it than 
 yourself ? I doubt not at all, had it not been 
 my inestimahle good fortune to have found 
 myself at such a time supported by your en- 
 couraging and ennobling hopes, I should 
 have sunk under the harrassing vexatious 
 toils and troubles which met me at every 
 turn. Truly 1 am wondrously indebted to 
 you ; never was service so great as that which 
 you have done me ; and if ever I should rise 
 to that lofty summit your affections have de- 
 clared accessible, believe me I shall attribute 
 — in nought but strict justice— <-the whole 
 honor of it to her whose bountiful sweet 
 goodness brought it within my compass. At 
 present I have nought better to offer as a 
 proof of the grateful sense I entertain of 
 your most prodigal kindness, save the im- 
 perishable feelings it hath awakened. All 
 of me which I believe to be worthy of com- 
 mendation — every proper thought — every 
 excellent sympathy — each sensation, impulse 
 and sentiment that most deserves entertain- 
 ment, do declare my love of you. If such 
 love content you well, count on it for the 
 lasting of my life. I am yours, and if, as 
 you have afforded me such indisputable evi- 
 dence, I may claim a loving property in your 
 affections, I beseech you very earnestly, con- 
 tinue me in the inexpressible delicious com- 
 fort of believing you are mine." 
 
 " Ah, Master Shakspeare, methinks I lack 
 not readiness to do that," exclaimed Mistress 
 D'Avenant with marvellous impressive ten- 
 derness. " That I should be greatly con- 
 demned for my conduct is more than proba- 
 ble ; but such condemnation frighteneth not 
 me. It seemeth that my loving you is ne- 
 cessary to your happiness, and that your 
 happiness cannot help but produce a very 
 cornucopia of delights unto the many thou- 
 sands that may come within your influence 
 The conviction of the universal good ] may 
 effect, maketh my love to know no bounds. 
 I ask nothing — I wish for nothing but the 
 enviable office of driving all discomforts 
 from your neighborhood, and so securing for 
 you a gladdening existence. That my merit 
 is so little I regret, but if you hold me in 
 such appreciation as you have oft made me 
 imagine, I am here the creature of your 
 love. If it be necessary for your welfare 
 here am I, ready to live for you in all loving- 
 ness, devoting the best energies of my 
 nature to afford you the necessary facilities 
 for fulfilling your glorious ministry, till you 
 become what I would have you be — the 
 
240 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 E ride, the ornament, and the benefactor of all 
 umanity." 
 
 How this loving speech was received it 
 mattereth not to tell ; but doubt not the 
 nobleness it breathed was as nobly regard- 
 ed. Perchance there shall be found many, 
 who would spy in the conduct of Mistress 
 D'Avenant something to take offence at, the 
 which their own prejudices shall speedily 
 distort into matter not to be tolerated ; but 
 such persons are of that close watching, 
 magnifying sort, who, if they find a flea on 
 a neighbor's jerkin, straightway hie them 
 with a very microscopic malice, to show the 
 world what a monster they can make of it. 
 Such methinks are entitled to no manner of 
 consideration. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 She stirs ! Here's life ! 
 Return fair soul from darkness and lead mine 
 Out of this sensible hell. She's warm ; she 
 
 breathes ! 
 Upon thy pale lips I will melt my heart, 
 To store them with fresh color. Who's there ? 
 Some cordial drink ! 
 
 Her eye opes, 
 And Heaven in it seems to ODe, that late was 
 
 shut 
 To take me up to mercy. 
 
 Webster. 
 
 The Page was alone, sitting in one of the 
 unfrequented chambers of his Lord's man- 
 sion, where he had of late been wont to re- 
 tire for the sake of more perfect privacy in 
 the indulgence of his own thoughts. He 
 had for some time been in an exceeding 
 comfortless state of mind. Doubts of the 
 Lady Blanche's guilt had grown stronger in 
 him at each succeeding interview, and his 
 huge dislike of her had turned to an affec- 
 tionate sympathy, as deep and true as ever 
 rose out of unmerited suffering. That the 
 Earl was the dupe of some base villainy, of 
 which his wife and child were made the 
 victims, he could not help believing; and 
 yet the story of her shame looked to be so 
 proved against her, that he knew not at 
 times whether to regard her conduct as the 
 evidence of a sincere repentance, or of a 
 consciousness of perfect innocence. To 
 him there appeared something so truly beau- 
 tiful in her uncomplaining endurance, that 
 whatever she might have been, there could 
 not be a doubt in his mind, she was of a 
 most sweetly disposed nature ; and this so 
 won upon his own gentleness of character, 
 he felt he would gladly lay down his life to 
 
 prove her guiltless of the horrible offences 
 laid to her charge. 
 
 All this time the Lord Urban seemed to 
 be fast sinking to the grave. He gave him- 
 self up more than ever to solitary rambles ; 
 and his fits of remorse became daily more 
 terrible. The murder he had done appeared 
 to be everlastingly in his thoughts ; and the 
 sufferings that came of it were of so moving 
 a sort, the beholding of them must needs 
 have softened the sternest heart in his favor. 
 On one so affectionately inclined as was his 
 youthful attendant, their effect may readily 
 be conceived : Bertram did all that faithful- 
 ness and love could do, towards bringing his 
 lord into a proper comfort ; but the iron had 
 entered too deep to be withdrawn by such 
 gentle surgery. Often and often, whet? he 
 found his efforts fruitless, had he stolen into 
 this unfrequented chamber, and there be- 
 moaned his uselessness, and strove to hit on 
 some plan which might restore peace to this 
 noble family. Alack ! there seemed not the 
 slightest hope of such a thing. He liked 
 not questioning of theservants ; and Adam, 
 who alone knew the facts of the case, as he 
 believed — though he was "communicative 
 enough on every other matter, from affection 
 for the youth, never spoke on the subject. 
 
 At this time it was that the Earl's kins- 
 man before alluded to, arrived with his serv- 
 ing man at the mansion. He came late at 
 night, and Bertram knew not of his visit 
 till the morning. The unhappy De la Pole, 
 as soon as he had intelligence of his kins- 
 man's arrival, rushed out of the house in a 
 desperate frenzy, as if he could in no man- 
 ner endure the sight of a person, who, 
 whether his intentions had been good or 
 otherwise, had been so instrumental to his 
 long-continued, unspeakable misery ; and his 
 youthful attendant, scarce less sad at heart, 
 retired to the privacy before mentioned, to 
 consider with himself how he could best get 
 rid of so unwelcome a person. Whilst he 
 was so engaged, he heard footsteps approach 
 the door, and with them voices he recogniz- 
 ed on the instant. In an agony of dread he 
 rushed behind the arras ; and there conceal- 
 ed himself, just before two persons entered 
 the chamber. 
 
 " Here we are safe," observed one, as he 
 closed the door after him. " We need fear 
 no spies. Now, as I take it, the surest and 
 profitablest thing, is to put him out of the way 
 without any further delaying ; what sayest ? 
 Shall we live like persons of worship, or 
 starve like contemptible poor villains?" 
 
 " Nay, I am for no starving, an it please 
 you, master," replied the other ; " I can have 
 no sort of objections to such a course, see 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 241 
 
 tag kow many of the sort i have already 
 had a hand in ; but methinks, I have hither- 
 to been looked over somewhat. Here are 
 you, advanced to honor chiefly by my good 
 help, and likely to be put in possession of 
 abundant great wealth and broad lands, by 
 the same seasonable aid, whilst I am kept 
 to no better state than a humble, poor slave ; 
 and, as far as I can see, in such paltry case 
 I may ever chance to continue." 
 
 " By God's body, that shall never be !" 
 exclaimed his master, with wonderful ear- 
 nestness ; " serve me in this matter, which 
 shall be the last aid I will seek at thy hands, 
 I will make thee a gentleman, and settle on 
 thee in lands or money at least two hundred 
 pounds a year." 
 
 " That contenteth me well enough," an- 
 Bwered his associate ; " I want only to live 
 in some sort of peace and comfort, for I am 
 getting to be tired of the life I have led : 
 but let us heed our courses. My lord hath 
 store of powerful friends, and get we sus- 
 pected, it must needs come to a speedy 
 hanging with us." 
 
 " Tut ! where didst pick up so silly a 
 thought?" cried the other; "I have good 
 reason for knowing, his death would be in- 
 finitely acceptable to persons in authority ; 
 for since I have been at court, I have noted 
 how much the Poles are hunted after, be- 
 cause of their nearness to the royal blood, 
 and though my Lord Urban is but a distant 
 Dranch, he is of the family, and that is suf- 
 ficient; to make his destruction exceeding de- 
 sirable in high places." 
 
 " I would he had died of his own accord," 
 exclaimed his companion ; " I'faith, I won- 
 der he hath lived so long in such monstrous 
 misery." 
 
 " Methinks we have waited for his dying 
 long enough, of all conscience," said his 
 master ; " and as I am circumstanced at this 
 present, his death is my only help." 
 
 " How desire you it shall be done ?" ask- 
 ed the meaner villain. 
 
 " There is nought so easy," answered the 
 other; " he is doubtless now wandering in 
 the neighboring wood ; there, whilst he is 
 wrapped in his miserable humor, we can 
 steal on him unseen, and despatch him with 
 our daggers, ere he hath opportunity for de- 
 fence. This achieved, nothing is so easy 
 as preventing all suspicion falling on our- 
 selves, and making it appear it was done by 
 Jhieves, or other lewd characters : then our 
 fortunes are made, and we shall live plea- 
 santly the rest of our days." 
 
 " Prithee, let us about it at once, then ; 
 for I care not how soon it be over," added 
 tok companion 
 
 The page at first marvelled how such vil- 
 lains as he knew them to be, got into the 
 house, and feared only for himself; but 
 when he heard the vile deed they were plot- 
 ting, his senses seemed utterly confounded 
 with horror. His fear was now entirely for 
 his lord, and he dreaded every moment tho 
 violence of his excitement would betray him, 
 and so he be prevented from defeating tho 
 intended villainy. At last, having suffici- 
 ently matured their plan, the murderers left 
 the chamber, to proceed, to its instant exe- 
 cution; and the page emerged from his 
 hiding place, with infinite terror and intense 
 anxiousness. 
 
 " Haste you Adam to the wood, or my 
 lord will be foully murdered!" exclaimed 
 he, distractedly, as he passed through the 
 hall, wherein were several of the domestics ; 
 " to the wood !" cried he ; and stopping not 
 to be questioned of the astonished serving 
 men, he bent his steps as fleetly as he could 
 towards the. place he had named. Here he 
 for sometime continued running along every 
 path where he had hope of falling in with the 
 Earl, in a state of such alarm for his lord, 
 as exceedeth all conceiving. Every minute 
 lost might secure to the murderers the suc- 
 cess of their horrible plot ; yet many such 
 minutes passed in fruitless hurrying from 
 one part of the wood to another. Almost 
 hopeless, breathless and exhausted, on a 
 sudden turn he caught sight of those of 
 whom he had been in search. At a dis- 
 tance was the Earl leaning abstractedly 
 against a tree, as was his wont, his back 
 being to the path, and his senses so entirely 
 given up to his melancholy reflections, he 
 could have no knowledge that at the dis- 
 tance of a few yards a man was creeping 
 stealthily towards him armed with a dagger, 
 closely followed b}' another, coming on with 
 a like caution and a similar weapon ; and 
 these latter were too intent on their wicked 
 object to note that, in a few seconds, they 
 were being rapidly gained on by the quick 
 light footsteps of their young pursuer. 
 
 Bertram, in a very agony of fear he should 
 be too late, seeing how near the murderers 
 were getting to their intended victim, pres- 
 sed on with a noiseless pace. The villain 
 who followed his companion was almost 
 within the youth's touch, but the latter was 
 fearful that whilst he attacked him, the other 
 might strike the fatal blow, and so render 
 his assistance of no service. At a bound 
 he presently passed the fellow before him. 
 
 " To your defence, my lord !" cried he as 
 loudly as he could, and in the same moment 
 he sent the foremost villain reeling to me 
 earth with a blow of his dagger. The earl 
 
243 
 
 THE YOUTH OP SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 started from his reverie, gazed amazedly to 
 find his kinsman standing a few paces from 
 turn with a drawn weapon — the kinsman's 
 servant stretched on the ground, as though 
 with a deep wound, and his page grasping a 
 reeking dagger, facing his kinsman with 
 looks of terribls determination. But the 
 murderer waited not a moment of such fac- 
 ing, for directly he beheld his servant fall, 
 and the youth's bloody weapon before him, 
 he fled with such precipitancy into the thick- 
 est of the wood, that he was quickly lost 
 sight of. Scarce had Bertram acquainted 
 the Lord de la Pole of the meaning of what 
 ne had witnessed with such extreme aston- 
 ishment, when old Adam came up in great 
 haste and alarm, accompanied by divers of 
 the serving-men well armed. No pursuit 
 was made after the treacherous kinsman ; 
 and finding that the wounded man was not 
 dead — though apparently no great way from 
 it — he was carried to the mansion. Surely 
 no one could be so happy as the page, in 
 having saved his lord, and none so truly 
 grateful as was the earl for such timely 
 rescue at his hands ; but with this service 
 the former rested not satisfied. It seemed to 
 Bertram something more might be done, and 
 to the surprise of Adam, his companions, 
 and their master, he went to the side of 
 the couch whereon the wounded man was 
 lying, and took him kindly by the hand. 
 The dying villain opened his eyes ; but as 
 soon as he beheld the youth's features, he 
 started in a strange amazement. 
 
 •' Saul," said the page to him in an ex- 
 ceeding earnest and- impressive manner, 
 "you have long sought my destruction, and 
 I never harmed you by word or thought. 
 You have now fallen by my hand ; but from 
 no desire of vengeance for my own wrongs. 
 As I hope for mercy hereafter, I never wish- 
 ed you hurt, till to prevent my lord's murder, 
 I was forced to lift my weapon against your 
 life. I have before this knocked at your 
 heart, and found you not so great a villain as 
 vou seemed. I would think well of you if 
 T could. I beseech you forget not that your 
 wound is mortal ; and that but a brief inter- 
 val remains to allow of your crowning your 
 bad life with an honest repentance. I im- 
 plore you to do it. I am confident you can 
 effect a great good by a free confession of 
 certain deeds, whereof there remaineth no 
 doubt in my mind you had the principal 
 handling. I allude to the Lady Blanche. I 
 charge you as you look for your soul's com- 
 fort, reveal the whole truth." 
 
 At this the man fell to a pitiful lamenta- 
 tion of his monstrous wickedness, and very 
 readily confessecf that the countess was in- 
 
 nocent of all that had been laid to feet 
 charge, and that his master, for certain de 
 signs of his own, had got one of the Lady 
 Blanche's attendants to represent her mis- 
 tress, after she was in bed and asleep, — ana 
 that he, Saul, was the cloaked person who 
 had ascended the ladder of ropes, entered the 
 chamber, and caressed the waiting woman, 
 who was his leman, and that this woman 
 was afterwards privily made away with, to 
 prevent her from declaring the part she had 
 taken in the deception, which she seemed apt 
 enough to do, believing it had caused the 
 death of her mistress. 
 
 " God help me, I have murdered mine own 
 child !" groaned the unhappy earl ; and 
 thereupon he fell into such a paroxysm of 
 anguish as was fearful to look on. 
 
 " My lord ! my lord ! as I am a sinful 
 man, that child received no hurt," exclaimed 
 Adam. 
 
 " Speak that again," shouted his master, 
 wildly catching the old man by the arm. — 
 " Repeat it — assure me of it, and I will bless 
 thee to my life's end." 
 
 " An' it please you, my lord, it is as I have 
 said," replied Adam. " I liked not the deed, 
 though I felt bound to do you whatever ser- 
 vice you required of me. I took especial 
 heed of the babe till morning, and soon as I 
 thought 'twas fit time, 1 rode to a charitable 
 lady's some miles off, and placed the new- 
 born child so conspicuously, she could not 
 fail seeing it on her going her morning's 
 walk. I waited in concealment till she ven- 
 tured out of her dwelling, as I knew she 
 was wont to do ; and I saw her take up 
 the child and carry it within doors. I made 
 you believe I had done as you desired, and 
 having no doubt of my lady's guilt, I never 
 thought it necessary to say the truth." 
 
 " But what name hath that place ?" in- 
 quired his lord hurriedly, and with a wond- 
 rous eagerness. " To horse, my fellows ! to 
 horse ! we must there on the instant." 
 
 " The place was called Charlcote, and ly- 
 eth convenient to Stratford on the Avon," 
 replied the old man. 
 
 " Look to the page — by heaven, he hath 
 swooned !" exclaimed the earl, as he beheld 
 his faithful attendant fall senseless to the 
 ground. 
 
 "My lord !" murmured the dying man, as 
 he raised himself a little on the couch, " let 
 me at least make some lasting happiness 
 where I have produced such dreadful mise- 
 ry. That is no page. That is Mabel, the 
 foundling. To escape from the plots of Sir 
 Piers Buzzard and myself, then set on by 
 hopes of great reward, and striving all we 
 could, to get her into the power of my Lord 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 jms 
 
 of Leicester, who was enamored of her, she 
 at last disguised herself and got away from 
 Charlcote, and hath hither fled. My lord, 
 be assured of it, she is your daughter, and 
 none other." 
 
 " Will my heart-strings crack !" exclaimed 
 the bewildered happy parent, as he pressed 
 the still senseless page within his arms, 
 with such marvellous affection as none 
 could see unmoved. " Help, I prithee, 
 knaves — or my brain will turn at this sight. 
 Open thy lids, my child, and behold that un- 
 natural fierce father, who doomed thee to 
 death ; and to whom thou since played so 
 loving a part — my faithful servant, — my 
 brave preserver, — my gentle-hearted, true 
 daughter! In mercy revive. Unworthy 
 though I am, I do beseech thee afford me 
 the exquisite comfort of thy full forgiveness. 
 Ha! she stirs ! My head swims with excess 
 of joy. Oh, my dear sweet noble child, from 
 what a hell of torment has this discovery re- 
 lieved me !' 
 
 The feelings of the poor foundling, so sud- 
 denly raised to greatness and honor, passeth 
 description. She whom no lowness of cir- 
 cumstance could render servile, and that the 
 desperateness of danger turned from maiden 
 gentleness to most fearless heroic valor, was 
 not of a nature to meet such an event as 
 hath just been described, without her whole 
 being experiencing its influence ; but during 
 all the time, she poured out her heart's ex- 
 quisite affections on the bosom of her father, 
 there was one whom she was longing most 
 ardently to join, whose love could alone 
 make perfect the happiness she was enjoy- 
 ing, : and waiting till the earl's transports 
 became more calm, she whispered to him the 
 words " my mother !" which in truth was all 
 she could at that moment utter. 
 
 " How shall I appear before that most 
 wronged of women ?" replied he. " But 
 justice commandeth it. We will to her on 
 the instant." Then turning to the astonish- 
 ed domestics, and pointing to the funeral 
 hangings that still covered the walls, he add- 
 ed, " Pluck down that mockery of woe. — 
 Your mistress, for whom you have so long 
 mourned, is still alive. Follow me, and you 
 shall have sight of her." Thereupon, hold- 
 ing of his daughter by the hand, he led the 
 way to the library, followed by his wonder- 
 ing household ; and throwing open the se- 
 cret door in the old book-case, they proceed- 
 ed through the passage into the adjoining 
 chamber, where ; to their equal marvel and 
 delight, they beheld their long lost lady. — 
 Doubtless, she was the most amazed of all 
 to see her husband coming to her with so 
 great a company ; but how much more was 
 
 she astonished to behold him kneel at heT 
 feet, and declare how deeply he had wronged 
 her, then proceed to state he cause ofher 
 sufferings, and the manner in which he had 
 discovered her innocence : and, in the page 
 whosckgentleness had so won on her affecti- 
 ons, gave her back the child she had ever 
 since its birth believed had suffered a cruel 
 death. Mother and daughter in a moment 
 were so fondly clasped, and there was such 
 a prodigal sweet show of smiles, of tears, 
 of caresses, and the like exquisite affection- 
 ateness, as did all hearts good to look on. 
 
 " Blanche !" exclaimed the suppliant, " I 
 know not what amends to make you for the 
 unjust treatment you have had of me. Aa 
 for myself, I have had such punishment of 
 it already, nothing I might be sentenced to 
 could come in any way nigh. Truly never 
 was punishment so merited. For a phantom 
 of mine own creating — that fantastic idol, 
 reputation, I hurried myself into deeds that 
 were far more completely its enemies than 
 either the deed I suspected, or the know- 
 ledge of it I so sought to prevent. My guilt 
 is none the less because things have turned 
 out as they are. I might have been the 
 murderer of my own child — I have been a 
 merciless tyrant to a faithful loving wife. — 
 Your humiliation I kept secret ; but I would 
 have my own a spectacle for the whole 
 world. Thus publicly I crave your pardon. 
 Banish me from your presence — do with me 
 according to my desert ; but to my last hour 
 I will hold your name in my heart as the 
 gentlest, lovingest, and truest wife that ever 
 suffered of an unworthy husband." 
 
 " My lord !" replied the countess, as she 
 raised him very fondly to her embrace, with 
 tears in her eyes and deepest love in every 
 look, " I beseech you no more of this. You 
 have been the dupe of your false treacherous 
 kinsman, who poisoned your ear with vil- 
 lainous wicked perjuries, for his own base 
 ends. I have suffered scarce any thing. I 
 had always with me the conviction that your 
 noble mind had been abused in some such 
 manner ; and that the day would come when 
 my innocence would be proved to you : — 
 therefore I waited in patience till such happy 
 time should arrive. Although my return to 
 your affections I expected, never expected I 
 sight of my dear child again : methinks the 
 happiness of that should counterbalance all 
 offences. My lord, I ever was your fond 
 obedient wife ; this nothing can change. — 
 And now, as there can be no hindrance to 
 my leaving of this my prison, — seeing ycu 
 have yourself made it known and are satis- 
 fied of my perfect loyalty — if it so p.ease 
 you, I will live differently ; but let me live 
 
244 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 as I may, if I exist not for the securing of 
 your honor and happiness, be assured, in 
 mine own opinion. I shall live exceeding ill." 
 
 Shortly after, this fair model of womanly 
 patience and every other womanly virtue, 
 departed out of that chamber, supported on 
 one side by a daughter, in all respects wor- 
 thy of such a mother ; and on the other by 
 a husband, saving some faults, worthy of 
 such a wife — amid the honest boisterous joy 
 of every member of the household. Mabel 
 blessed the hour she thought of disguising 
 herself in a left-off suit of young Lucy's, 
 and friendless, penniless, and scarce able to 
 proceed from long illness, trusted herself to 
 the uncertain chance of fortune : but more 
 fervently she blessed that exhaustion which 
 led to her becoming an inmate with persons 
 who, after exciting her powerfullest sympa- 
 thies for months, till she loved them more 
 dearly than her life, proved to be those who 
 by nearness of blood and excellence of na- 
 ture, were best entitled to hold such place in 
 her affections. Here methinks 'tis but pro- 
 per to add, that despite of her many anxie- 
 ties and cares, she had oft thought and with 
 exceeding gratefulness, of that honorable 
 and gallant young gentleman, Sir Valentine, 
 who had loved her, and desired to make her 
 his wife, when she was a poor, despised 
 foundling. But we must now leave her to 
 the care of her good parents, whilst taking 
 to matter more necessary here to be handled. 
 
 Sir Piers Buzzard fled from the scene of 
 his intended murder, cursing of his unlucky 
 stars with all the fervor of a baffled villain, 
 and scarce knowing where to go or what to 
 be about. Truly he would have been glad 
 enough now to have remained Master Buz- 
 zard, roystering with Sir Nathaniel the cu- 
 rate, Stripes the schoolmaster, and others 
 of his boon companions he was wont to ca- 
 rouse with at Stratford, before he set upon 
 plotting against his kinsman's happiness, 
 that it might cause him to die without issue, 
 and so he profit by it — or even the life he 
 led immediately afterwards when he gam- 
 bled away his patrimony at the dice, and so 
 being ready for any sort of service to retrieve 
 his fortune, readily became an agent for my 
 lord of Leicester, who never lacked such ser- 
 vants, or proper employment to set them up- 
 on. At last, he seemed in so desperate a 
 Btrait, he thought it might have been better 
 had he swallowed the poison his noble mas- 
 ter had prepared as a reward for his ser- 
 vices of a like sort upon others, the earl's 
 enemies; for he had become a disgraced 
 man, his character was known, and he knew 
 not where to look for even so much as a bare 
 eubsietence. 
 
 In a mood of extreme desperation he came 
 to a narrow causeway that led close by the 
 mouth of a pit, — once worked for coal, but 
 now filled with water, — of a famous depth 
 and vastness. He saw an old man ap- 
 proaching him, nearly bent double, as if by 
 infirmity, and advancing slowly with the aid 
 of his staff. When they came to within a 
 few yards of each other, the old man looked 
 up. In an instant such a change was ap- 
 parent in him as surely had never before 
 been witnessed. All traces of age or weak- 
 ness in him vanished as if they had never 
 been. He stood up firm and erect, with eyes 
 flashing and a look as fierce as human aspect 
 could express. 
 
 " Mine enemy !" muttered he at last, be- 
 tween his teeth, as his staff fell from his 
 hand, and his sword leaped from its scab- 
 bard. 
 
 " John a Combe, get thee hence quietly, or 
 thou shalt d@arly rue it !" said Sir Piers, 
 drawing his weapon as quickly as he could. 
 
 " Hence, sayest !" shouted the usurer ; — 
 " have I lived for this hour to go at thy bid- 
 ding ? Expect not so idle a thing. I have 
 an account to settle with thee of long stand- 
 ing ; — intolerable foul wrongs cry for re- 
 venge — years of hopeless misery demand 
 recompense. The time hath come at last. 
 Prepare ! Hell yawns for thee, thou match- 
 less damnable villain !" 
 
 At this he leaped towards the man who 
 had done him such unspeakable injury, and 
 commenced with him most desperate battle. 
 Sir Piers knew his enemy's cunning of fence 
 of old, and took to his defence with such 
 caution as the fear of death generally gives. 
 He had hoped that age had weakened the 
 usurer's arm, or loss of practice had lessen- 
 ed his skill ; but never was hope so vain. — 
 The old man, as he looked a moment since, 
 plied his weapon with such briskness the 
 eye could not follow its rapid movement : — 
 and though his opponent was in the full vi- 
 gor of manhood, and had of late years been 
 in the constant practice of his weapon, John 
 a Combe beat his defence aside as though 
 he had been but a weak unskilful youth. — 
 There seemed a supernatural fury in his at- 
 tack. He breathed hard through his clenched 
 teeth ; and gazed on his enemy so wild dead- 
 ly a glance, it might of itself have appalled 
 the stoutest heart. 
 
 Sir Piers, for all he strove his best, pre- 
 sently found himself wounded. At the 
 sight of his trickling blood the usurer set up 
 a scream of exultation that setteth all de- 
 scription at defiance, and fell on his opponent 
 with a fiercer hostility than ever, ever and 
 anon reminding him of the treacherous fou. 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 845 
 
 villainy he had perpetrated against his peace. 
 Thrust followed thrust, and all craft in par- 
 rying was of no help in avoiding blows so hot- 
 ly put. One wound soon succeeded another, 
 till the efforts of the knight for his own de- 
 fence, from loss of blood and despair of heart, 
 became more like those of a reeling drunk- 
 ard than of aught else. Still the relentless 
 weapon of his enemy pressed upon him — 
 pierced his flesh, and drew such streams 
 from his veins that his path became slippery 
 with his own gore. In the end, his rapier 
 fell from his relaxed grasp, and tottering 
 with a faint supplication for mercy, he lost 
 his footing, and fell with many wounds to the 
 ground. 
 
 " Mercy !" shouted John a Combe. " By 
 God's passion thou shalt have the same mer- 
 cy thou didst show to me." 
 
 " Spare my life ! I beseech thee kill me 
 not ! good John a Combe ! worthy Sir !" — 
 
 " Away with thee, thou abhorred and in- 
 famous villain !" cried the usurer ; and de- 
 spite of the other's struggles and abject 
 pleadings, he took him in his grasp as though 
 he were a child, and with a giant's strength 
 hurled him into the pit. There chanced to 
 grow just below the brink of this fearful 
 chasm, a bush, a branch of which in his de- 
 scent the knight caught hold of, and there 
 he hung clinging to it with so powerful a 
 hold, as if the terribleness of his danger had 
 given him new strength. Below him lay 
 the unfathomable depths of the mine, cloth- 
 ed with a thousand horrors, and nought pre- 
 vented his being dashed to pieces against its 
 rugged sides, and then swallowed in its 
 pitchy waters, save the twig by which he 
 swung above them. Jn this fearful situa- 
 tion he made the abyss echo with his pierc- 
 ing screams as he clung convulsively to his 
 hold. John a Combe stretched himself on 
 the ground, with his head leaning over the 
 pit's mouth, and fierce as he was against his 
 enemy, gazed in horror at beholding the ter- 
 rible spectacle that met his eyes. Sir Piers 
 looked up with an aspect so marked with 
 terror and agony, that it savored more of a 
 tortured demon than of a human being, his 
 countenance was black and distorted fright- 
 fully, his eyes starting from their sockets — 
 and he grasped the branch of the bush with 
 such terrible force, that the blood oozed out 
 of his finger nails. But the struggle, though 
 horribly violent, was exceeding brief. It was 
 manifest he was monstrous loath to die, or he 
 would not so desperately have sought to 
 prolong his existence. 
 
 Weak as he must have been from his re- 
 cent wounds, and certain as was his destruc- 
 tion, he struggled and screamed to the last 
 
 moment in a manner awful to see or hear. 
 As if to add to the extremeness of his de- 
 spair, he felt the bough by which he hung 
 giving way from the fierceness of his tugs. 
 He saw it crack and peal — fibre after fibre 
 snapt — and the tough green substance of 
 the branch was gradually breaking away. 
 John a Combe, unable to bear so dreadful a 
 scene, stretched out his arm with the hope 
 of saving his enemy, but at that moment the 
 branch was severed from the bush, and he 
 beheld the screaming villain turning over 
 and over as he fell into the yawning chasm, 
 till a loud splash, followed by a death-like si- 
 ence, told him that all was at an end. 
 
 And in the manner related in this pre- 
 sent chapter, perished Master Buzzard and 
 his man Saul — a pair of those pests of so 
 ciety which occasionally are allowed to rn? 
 their career of crime — to do their vile ims- 
 chiefs unchecked — nay, in divers instance* 
 to obtain honor and profit by effecting the 
 misery of the noble and the good ; and thea 
 when they fancy themselves to be most se- 
 cure in their villainy, are overtaken ami 
 overthrown, and, by shameful and terriWa 
 ends, become monuments of avenging jus- 
 tice. And may all such manner of men 
 meet such fit reward, till the world becometh 
 to be purged of their baseness, and the ever- 
 lasting heart of nature rejoice in the posses- 
 sion of a generous, loving, and honorable 
 humanity. 
 
 John a Combe sheathed his own weapon, 
 and flung that of his slain enemy into the 
 pit ; then kicking of his staff on one side aa 
 a thing no longer necessary, he went his 
 way. Truly, there was little in him of the 
 infirm old man now, for he walked as proud 
 and erect as he had done in his best days. 
 It seemed, that in the fulfillment of the ven- 
 geance he had so long and vainly sought, he 
 had cast from him the load of suffering that 
 had bowed him to tiie earth. The sense of 
 intolerable wrong that had effected in him 
 so fearful an alteration, appeared to have 
 left him the instant his idea of justice had 
 been accomplished, and with it had departed 
 forever every sign of the change it had pro- 
 duced. His miseries had died with the 
 cause of them, and his truly benevolent na 
 ture, that no wrong or suffering, however 
 monstrous, could affect to any great extent, 
 now returned to all its natural, healthy, and 
 generous influence. 
 
 It must not be imagined, that it is in any 
 way unnatural for a gentle-hearted liberal- 
 minded man, as was Master Combe in his 
 early manhood, to become so fierce and un« 
 relenting as hath been shown ; for it hath 
 ever been found that such ardent trusting 
 
146 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 tre 
 ha 
 
 dispositions do readily leap to violent ex- 
 tremes, at the sudden discovering of their 
 ppiness destroyed by such villainous 
 means as were used by Master Buzzard. A 
 rankling wound givetb sore pains, and 
 wounds that come of over-confidence in 
 honorable appearances, and deepest truest 
 love outraged and put to shame, rankle most, 
 and are the longest healing. This breedeth 
 and keepeth alive a sense of wrong, which 
 feeds on hopes of fitting vengeance, till long- 
 suffering giveth to it so great a strength as 
 to make it the moving impulse of existence. 
 Methinks it followeth as a natural conse- 
 quence, that one so fiercely used should be 
 no less fierce in his resentment. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 Thus far, with rough, and all unable pen 
 
 Our bending author hath pursued the story ; 
 In a little room confining mighty men, 
 
 Mangling by starts the full course of their 
 glory. 
 Small time, but in that small, most greatly lived, 
 This Star of England. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Why do you dwell so long in clouds, 
 
 And smother your best graces. 
 'Tis time to cast away those shrouds, 
 And clear your manly faces. 
 
 Shirley. 
 Now all is done ; bring home the bride again, 
 
 Bring home the triumph of our victory ; 
 Bring home with you the glory of her gain, 
 
 With joyance bring her and with jollity. 
 
 Never had man more joyous day than this, 
 
 Whom Heaven would heap with bliss. 
 
 Spenser. 
 
 "I prat you tell me, Master Spenser, 
 your honest opinion of this my play," said 
 William Shakspeare to his friend, after as 
 it seemed, reading a manuscript he had be- 
 fore him, as they sat together in his lodging. 
 
 " Truly, I scarce know what to say of it, 
 Master Shakspeare,'" replied the other, with 
 a look of as sincere delight as ever was seen. 
 " Nothing I have met with either among 
 ancient or modern writers cometh at all nigh 
 to it for truth, beauty, or sweetness. De- 
 spite the sad unhappy deaths of these ex- 
 quisite young lovers, Romeo and Juliet will 
 live as long as the language, out of which 
 you have carved their imperishable story, 
 shall endure." 
 
 " Indeed, I am infinitely pleased to hear 
 you say so," observed his companion ; "your 
 acknowledged admirable taste and judgment 
 making you the fittest person whose opinion 
 
 should have greatest weight with me, anA 
 your excellent friendliness creating in me a 
 confidence you would give me your advice, 
 saw you anything amiss in it." 
 
 " Believe me, it hath such abundance of 
 merit as to put all faultiness out of the 
 case," answered Edmund Spenser ; ," I am 
 enraptured beyond expression that I left Ire- 
 land at this time. I would not have missed 
 the hearing of so choice a performance for 
 a king's ransom. Oh, I would the noble Sir 
 Philip Sydney were living at this time, what 
 extreme pleasure he would have taken in its 
 manifold rare beauties ! But I will shortly 
 find means of making you known to a gal- 
 lant gentleman of my acquaintance, who I 
 take to be the only man in the world capa- 
 ble of filling the void left by my glorious de- 
 parted friend." 
 
 " Be assured, I should be right glad of his 
 countenance, if he is so worthy a person," 
 observed the young player. 
 
 " He is no other than Sir Walter Raleigh," 
 replied his celebrated brother poet. " A3 
 ripe a scholar as was Sir Philip, and no less 
 perfect a gentleman. But how came you to 
 hit on so truly charming a subject, and work 
 it out with such inimitable delicacy ? Have 
 you writ more such plays ?" 
 
 " I will tell you," answered William 
 Shakspeare ;" for sometime past, I have 
 taken to the altering of plays of divers play- 
 writers, who, finding any of their perfor- 
 mances in which I had a hand, went better 
 with the public than those I had net meddled 
 with, took care to employ me sufficiently. 
 With some I wrote conjointly, and the plays 
 of others I amended ; but all that I gained by 
 so doing, the affair having in every case been 
 kept secret betwixt us — was the denial 1 
 had done them any such service, with no 
 lack of slander behind my back. This put 
 me on attempting something on mine own 
 account; nevertheless, 'in consequence of 
 the intrigues and enmity of my rivals, as I 
 believe, though I have already produced 
 more than one play of my own writing 
 solely, I have not met that success which 
 would be most to my liking. Certes, none 
 of my performnnces have failed ; nor have 
 they been as yet in any notable admiration 
 of the public." 
 
 " I would wager my life, that is the effect 
 of sheer malice of those paltry play-writers," 
 observed his companion, warmly. 
 
 " So I have been told," answered the 
 other ; "I have therefore been advised to 
 act with some cautiousness. Meeting with 
 the story of Romec anu Juliet, 1 saw its ca- 
 pability for the sts,??. aiui have written it as 
 you see. This I •'s-eos w rwve read pri- 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 247 
 
 fately to the company, every one of whom, 
 «ave the manager, I believe to be my true 
 friends ; and though old Burbage is chur- 
 lish, I do not think him capable of caballing 
 against me with my rivals. Afterwards it 
 shall be got up with a great secresy as to 
 the author, and performed without their 
 having suspicion of its relationship to one 
 they manifestly mislike so hugely. I am 
 apt to think, from what you have so hand- 
 somely expressed, it cannot fail of succeed- 
 ing ; and if I chance to meet such good for- 
 tune, methinks I shall have famous cause 
 for laughing at the whole herd of play-writers 
 from that time forth." 
 
 " Ay, that shall you, Master Shakspeare," 
 6aid his gentle friend; "and, believe me, I 
 am most earnest to aid you with what help 
 I may, that they shall afford a sufficiency of 
 sport. I will now take my leave of you 
 for a brief space, having had such delectable 
 cdnviction of your resources in expressing 
 the beautiful and the true, that all my life 
 long I shall have but one longing, which 
 must needs be, that in after ages, the 
 name of Edmund Spenser may be found in 
 honorable companionship with that of his 
 estimable rare brother in love, and associate 
 in letters, William Shakspeare." 
 
 To this handsome speech, the young 
 player replied in a like admirable manner, 
 and these bright planets of their age sepa- 
 rated in perfect mutual appreciation of each 
 Other's unrivalled genius. Nor could this 
 be in any way extraordinary, for in many 
 things were they marvellously alike. Each 
 was possessed of that greatness of soul, 
 which payeth ready homage to excellence 
 wherever it may be found. The mind of 
 either was embued with that lofty spirit, 
 which emanates from the universal wisdom ; 
 and in their several hearts were those feel- 
 ings of gentleness, of purity, of sweetness — 
 of love of truth, and sympathy for wrong, 
 which can exist only in such as are selected 
 by nature to be the chief priests of her im- 
 macular temple. William Shakspeare had 
 more studied the humors of men — Edmund 
 Spenser had acquired greater acquaintance 
 into the learning of books. The latter 
 sought to purify mankind of unmanly im- 
 pulses, by bringing before their eyes the 
 noblest achievements of the most romantic 
 chivalry ; but the other was disposed to show 
 the lights and shadows of the actual world 
 — the virtues, merits, vices and follies that 
 do commonly make for themselves homes, in 
 • very age and condition — and, embodying 
 in their portraiture so palpable and imperish- 
 able a philosophy, that they shall afford most 
 16 
 
 estimable teaching unto all persons, unto thff 
 uttermost end of time. 
 
 I pass over the effect produced on his 
 brother players, by the reading of that honey- 
 sweet play ; suffice it, that every one took 
 to the studying of his part with such boun- 
 tiful good will as he had never known be- 
 fore. Even the elder Burbage hoped great 
 things of it ; and, as some symptom his 
 churlishness was giving way before an in- 
 creasing knowledge of his young associate's 
 manifold excellences of heart and mind, he 
 insisted on drawing him out of his obscurity 
 as a player, and pressed him to take the 
 principal part in his new play. William 
 Shakspeare gladly accepted this offer ; for 
 it was a character written after his own 
 heart, and, to a great extent, the expression 
 of his own feelings. The full strength of 
 the company was employed in the perform- 
 ance ; and every precaution taken to keep 
 the authorship a secret. 
 
 The young player was in such excitement 
 during the whole time it was in rehearsal, 
 as he had never known on any other occa- 
 sion. He knew that the life of hardship he 
 had led for some years past, could only have 
 an ending through the complete success of 
 this, his recent and favorite production — he 
 saw that there was no way to attain the 
 greatness his ambition aimed at, save by 
 giving to the world something of his which 
 should be stamped by the seal of universal ap- 
 proval ; and he felt that a failure was likely 
 to give so rude a check to his proud aspir- 
 ings, that it would go nigh to deprive him 
 of that confidence in his own resources, 
 without which no truly great work can be 
 produced. In brief, he was well aware that 
 his every hope depended on the manner in 
 which his Romeo and Juliet should be re- 
 ceived of the audience. He studied his part 
 very carefully, and not without the belief, 
 an imperfect personation of the lover might 
 mar the whole performance ; but the praises 
 he received at the rehearsals assured him, 
 and the more perfect he got, the more com- 
 pletely he abandoned himself to the true 
 spirit of the character. 
 
 The day of the first representation of 
 Romeo and Juliet arrived. In a state of 
 monstrous anxiousness he was leaving his 
 lodgings to proceed to the playhouse, when, 
 who should he meet but his old tried friend 
 John a Combe. Not a sign had he of the 
 miserable crabbed usurer ; but in dress and 
 manner looked to be as true a gentleman as 
 might be met with anywhere. He had c^-ae 
 expressly to look after the young player, 
 believing he was not advancing his fortunes 
 
248 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 no rapidly as he desired. After most hearty 
 greeting, the two bent their steps towards 
 the Globe, at the Bankside, Master Combe 
 relating all Ihe news at Stratford, his own 
 recent adventures, and the state in which he 
 had left his companion's wife and children, 
 parents and friends, — whereof the greater 
 portion was exceeding comfortable to the 
 hearer ; and William Shakspeare in his turn 
 acquainting the other with all he had been 
 about of late, and the to him, important ex- 
 periment he was now on the eve of trying ; 
 whereupon John a Combe swore very lustily 
 he would not take bit or sup till this same 
 play he had seen, and so encouraged the 
 young player with his prophecies and praises, 
 that he arrived at the playhouse in as mar- 
 vellous pleasant content as though success 
 was certain. 
 
 When he entered upon the stage, a scene 
 disclosed itself, which more than any other 
 thing was like to fill him with a proper en- 
 couragement. As far aa his experience 
 went, the audience used to be chiefly com- 
 posed of idlers of different classes, with oc- 
 casionally some person of note and credit 
 drawn to the place by curiosity. The play- 
 house was rarely full in any part ; for the 
 sports of the bear-garden seemed much more 
 approved of those persons of chiefest fashion 
 and infi uence, who were wont to draw crowds 
 after them wherever they go — but now, 
 when his eye fell upon the space where the 
 groundlings stand, it met a complete den of 
 faces, crammed to very suffocation. The 
 rooms above were filled with so brilliant a 
 company as he had never seen before, com- 
 posed principally of the noblest ladies and 
 gallants of the court — and up to the topmost 
 scaffold, every place was as full of specta- 
 tors as close pressing could make it. This 
 was in a great measure the result of the 
 friendly exertions of the gentle Edmund 
 Spenaer, who so moved his friend Sir Walter 
 Raleigh — then the Queen's especial favorite 
 — with the infinite merits of the new play, 
 and the surpassing genius of its author, that 
 he presently took in its success such interest 
 as though it had been his own, and prevailed 
 on all his acquaintances to accompany him 
 to witness its representation. Where the 
 Queen's favorite went there hurried, of 
 course, the courtiers ; and where the court 
 came, all persons of fashion were sure to 
 follow — and where fashion appeared, all who 
 were desirous of some claim to respectability, 
 were right eager to make themselves of the 
 party. It followeth from these premises, 
 that Romeo and Juliet was like to have as 
 fair and full- an audience as playhouse ever 
 beld. 
 
 The young player could not help seeing, 
 among the most prominent of the ground- 
 lings, Greene, Marlowe, Lodge and their 
 companions, seemingly in a monstrous curi- 
 ousness to see a play that none could name 
 the author of. He saw these his envious- 
 rivals, of whose readiness to work him injury 
 he had had sufficient experience ; but his 
 confidence gained by the sight of them. 
 With such an audience before him, he felt 
 that nothing was to be feared ; and he en- 
 tered into the playing of his part with a spirit 
 which had never till then been seen upon the 
 stage. It is scarce possible any could have 
 been so fit to have personated the passionate 
 lover, as he who drew him in such imperish- 
 able rosy coloring. William Shakspeare 
 was possessed of all the graces of early 
 manhood, an intellectual handsome counte- 
 nance, that could take on itself the most elo- 
 quent enamored expression with exceeding 
 readiness, and a figure, which for manly 
 symmetry of limb and graceful motion in 
 exercise, was not to be excelled search 
 where you would ; added to which, his voice 
 was so rich, mellow, and sweet, and he de- 
 livered the exquisite poetry of his sentences 
 with such ravishing expression, that with 
 music so delicate and new, no ear had hith- 
 erto held acquaintance. 
 
 The young player soon forgot audience, 
 rivals, and all other present matters, in the 
 intensity with which he entered into the 
 feelings he was expected to feign. Now it 
 seemed he had before him the gentle fair 
 foundling, whose exquisite beauty had won 
 the secret adoration of his boyhood — anon, 
 the yeoman's blooming daughter appeared 
 in the most seductive charms of loving 
 womanhood, to rouse in him the uncontrol- 
 lable passionate impulses of his youth — and, 
 lastly, the trusting, self-denying, noble-heart- 
 ed Mistress D'Avenant, enriched with those 
 sterling gifts of mind that afford a woman 
 her truest title to divinity, seemed ready to 
 pour out the treasures of her bountiful sweet 
 affections, as if to call on him to meet her 
 marvellous bounty by an immediate out- 
 pouring of every thought, feeling, hope and 
 sentiment, that existed in his nature, as the 
 proper inheritance of manhood . With such 
 deep moving stimuli, his exertions may in 
 some measure be imagined. As for the 
 effects they produced, it looked as if every 
 spectator was spell-bound. One would be 
 seen in the pauses of the playing, gazing on 
 another with such strange delight and mar- 
 velling as he could not find words to express-. 
 All the females from the noblest to the hum- 
 blest, were so stirred by the thrilling lan- 
 guage and the passionate manner of the 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 249 
 
 Toung lover, that their very hearts were 
 bound up in the story, and ere he had half 
 played his part he had both old and young at 
 his devotion. Such unanimous hearty plaud- 
 its had never before resounded in a play- 
 house ; but proud as he felt at them, he was 
 not a whit less pleased at the honest prodi- 
 gal pleasure of his old schoolfellows and 
 brother players, with his worthy friend John 
 a Combe, who every time he came off the 
 stage, rivalled each other in their commen- 
 dations, and sent him on again with fresh 
 assurances and renewed happy spirits. 
 
 In brief, the whole performance was a 
 triumph from the commencement ; and so 
 brilliant a one, perchance no player or play- 
 writer had ever enjoyed. His envious rivals 
 were forced into the expression of the gen- 
 eral voice ; doubtless much against their 
 several wills, but as they believed his share 
 in the popular approbation proceeded solely 
 from his skill in playing, they beheld not in 
 it any particular injury to themselves. As 
 for the play, never were men put in so 
 strange a state by one. They saw how vain 
 must be any effort of theirs to mar its success, 
 and kept perplexing of themselves with fears 
 of the author's topping them in the public 
 eye ; and wondering more and more who he 
 was. At the end the curtain fell amid such 
 an uproar of shouts and plaudits, as is be- 
 vond conceiving. Every man seemed to 
 triumph in the triumph of the play ; and 
 every woman regarded the author's success 
 as the cause of true love and honorable de- 
 votedness. 
 
 William Shakspeare, thoroughly exhausted 
 by his wondrous exertions, was receiving the 
 earnest congratulations of his friends in a 
 chamber of the playhouse, when the manager 
 rushed towards him, and pulling him by the 
 arm, implored him to come with him on the 
 instant, before the curtain, for the audience 
 were making of such a terrible din and 
 racket he expected he should have the whole 
 house pulled about his ears, if the young 
 player did not speed to pacify them. At this 
 the latter made what haste he could — for, in 
 truth, he heard such a disturbance as was 
 enough to frighten the boldest manager that 
 lived. As he came nearer the stage, he could, 
 amid the universal uproar, plain enough dis- 
 tinguish his own name shouted by hundreds 
 of voices. This was gratifying enough — 
 but as soon as he made his appearance, the 
 plaudits and shoutings recommenced with 
 tenfold fury. The ladies and gallants stood 
 up in the rooms ; the former waving of their 
 fair white handkerchiefs, and the latter clapp- 
 ing of their hands and crying out all manner 
 
 of praises. As for the groundlings and those 
 in the scaffolds, such a storm of shouts and 
 cries, and other boisterous noises, came from 
 them as gave to no one the chance of a hear- 
 ing- Some few appeared aware of who ^« 
 the author, but by far the majority were ft.s 
 ignorant of it as the play-writers. The 
 young player acknowledged the honor that 
 was done him by the approval of the audi- 
 ence, with a graceful courtesy that la'-.w^d 
 not a sufficiency of admirers ; and so "e 
 waited to know their will, as he could not 
 at first make out, among the confusion ot 
 sounds, what it was they were crying for. 
 At last, one of famous strong lungs nW« 
 himself heard above the rest by putting of thy 
 question, " Who wrote this play ?" Where- 
 upon the young player advanced nearer to 
 the audience, which they taking as a sign 
 he was about to tell them what they so much 
 desired to know, and there was a silence in 
 a presently. His rivals listened with all 
 their ears. 
 
 " An' it please you, I wrote this play," 
 replied William Shakspeare. In an instant 
 the storm burst out more furiously than 
 ever. Hats and handkerchiefs were waved 
 by every hand, and a chorus of cheers and 
 praises broke forth from every throat. The 
 chief nobles and gallants left their company 
 and got upon the stage, thronging publicly 
 around the young player, to give him their 
 countenance and commendation ; and his 
 gentle friend, Edmund Spenser, who ap- 
 peared to enjoy his success as though it had 
 been his own, made known to him as many 
 as were of his acquaintance. William 
 Shakspeare felt that all his hardships and 
 sufferings were more than recompensed by 
 the proud triumph of that hour. As for his 
 envious rivals, never men wore such black 
 visages as did they at hearing the young 
 player acknowledge himself the author of 
 that choice performance ; and they slunk 
 out of the playhouse as quickly as they 
 could. It may here be necessary to say of 
 them, that Greene died of great poverty, 
 brought on by his own notorious ill living, 
 after finishing his last " Repentance" — 
 wherein, with a sufficiency of canting la- 
 mentation of his own vileness, he stoutly 
 abused his quondam friends, and secretly 
 slandered his fortunate rival ; that his asso- 
 ciate, the infamous Cutting Ball — whose 
 sister he kept as his leman — was hanged at 
 Tyburn for his many crimes and wicked dis- 
 honest courses — a fate he richly merited ; 
 and his chief companion, Kit Marlowe, in 
 seeking to stab a dissolute associate with 
 whom he had quarrelled at tables in a low 
 
sso 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 tavern at Deptford, was miserably slain by 
 him on the spot, with a stroke of a dagger 
 thrust through his eye. Of the others, 
 though they lived and produced plays, little 
 is known to their credit, either of them or 
 their publications. 
 
 But the success of William Shakspeare's 
 admirable performance appeared to increase 
 every day it was repeated ; crowds came to 
 see it, who went away so charmed that it 
 presently became the talk both of the court 
 and of the citizens. This can be in no way 
 surprising, when the monstrous difference 
 is considered, that lies betwixt the graceful 
 perfections of Romeo and Juliet, and the 
 poor contemptible bombast of the Jeronimos, 
 the Tamberlaine the Greats, and Orlando 
 Furiosos, which had previously been favo- 
 rites of the public. The appearance of a play 
 in every way so amazingly superior, and so 
 filled with the sweet graces of natural beauty, 
 worked a prodigious change in favor of the 
 playhouse. It shortly became the most po- 
 pular as well as the most fashionable enter- 
 tainment of the time ; and the players, from 
 being looked upon as little better than vaga- 
 bonds, were now resorted to by the best 
 company in the land. The throngs which 
 t be performance of Romeo and Juliet brought 
 to the Globe, completely obliterated the ma- 
 nager's prejudices against the author; and 
 wnen in consequence of the favor in which 
 that production was viewed in high places, 
 it was ordered that the company should be 
 styled the Queen's Players, old Burbage, to 
 show his gratitude to the one who had been 
 of such important service, made him a 
 shareholder in the property of the company. 
 By this measure the young player found 
 himself in the possession of a fair provision, 
 and saw that nought was wanting but pro- 
 per exertion on his part to lead him to for- 
 tune and greatness. 
 
 As soon as his circumstances allowed, he 
 resolved on paying a visit to his native 
 Stratford, fondly longing to see his dear 
 children, and to make such arrangements 
 for his parents, as would place them beyond 
 the reach of those bitter necessities they had 
 had such prolonged experience of ; and tak- 
 ing John a Combe to be of his company, they 
 started on their journey. The day before 
 their departure from London, the latter in 
 passing along one of the streets with his 
 friend, was attracted by the appearance of a 
 ragged filthy-looking woman, in a state of 
 evident drunkenness, dragged along by a 
 party of the city watch, who loaded her with 
 such abuse, as if she had been the most no- 
 torious vile creature that lived, which, in 
 
 honest truth, she went nign to be. Master 
 Combe suddenly left his companion, and 
 went close up to her, regarding her with a 
 searching scrutiny ; but directly she cast 
 eyes on him she screamed fearfully, and 
 tried to hide her face with her hands. 
 
 " 'Tis she !" exclaimed her former lover, 
 and left her, with an aspect of mingled 
 horror and disgust. This woman was the 
 pretended Lady Arabella Comfit,- the leman 
 of Master Buzzard, who was so conspicu- 
 ous an agent in the vile attempt upon the 
 foundling; and having gone through all 
 the grades of infamy, was now in the hands 
 of justice, about to answer for a whole ca- 
 talogue of her wicked base offences. 
 
 William Shakspeare travelled very dif-, 
 ferently at this time from the manner in 
 which he made his journey to London, for 
 he rode a good horse, as did also his com- 
 panion, whom he amused famously on the 
 road by recounting his adventures and mis- 
 haps in his former travels. The country 
 now was in no way like what it was. The 
 poor Queen of Scots had long ceased to be 
 made an engine for harassing the people 
 with vain alarms ; and wherever the travel- 
 lers went,- the inhabitants seemed mad with 
 the recent triumph of England over the 
 Spanish Armada. Bonfires were lit in every 
 town, and divers of the worthy country 
 people, if they might have had their will, 
 would have made logs of such " wretched 
 villainous papists" as were nighest at. hand. 
 Little of note occurred on the journey. The 
 young player passed but one night at Ox- 
 ford ; but doubtless that visit was infinitely 
 to his contentation. They were nearing 
 their destination, when they approached a 
 cavalcade of horsemen, who seemed going 
 the same road. Among them William 
 Shakspeare quickly recognized his former 
 venerable benevolent patron, Sir Marma- 
 duke de Largesse, and putting spurs to his 
 steed he was soon by his side. 
 
 Great was the gratification on both sides 
 at this meeting ; the old knight acquainting 
 his young companion, that after arming his 
 vassals, and marching at their head to help 
 guard the coast during the threatened inva- 
 sion, he had disbanded them, and having 
 then proceeded to court to attend upon her 
 Highness, he was returning home, first in- 
 tending to call in his way on an old ac- 
 quaintance and brother-in-arms, who was 
 about giving a grand tournament. 
 
 " Truly I should be glad to see it," re- 
 plied the other. 
 
 " Well, wend with me to my Lord de la 
 Pole's, and you shall have as good a sight a 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 251 
 
 it as any," r*A Sir Muormaduke ; " besides 
 which you shall behold h\a fair daughter, the 
 Lady Mabel, whose history is so marvellous 
 strange." 
 
 " De la Pole ! — Mabel !" exclaimed Wil- 
 liam Shakspeare, in excetding astonish- 
 ment. " Surely that cannot oe the exquisite 
 sweet creature brought up &a a foundling by 
 Dame Lucy." 
 
 " The same, Master Shakspeaie, the 
 same, o' my life ! I know the whole story," 
 answered the old knight. 
 
 " Never heard I anything so wondrous," 
 6aid the young player. " As I live, Sir 
 Marmaduke, that very Mabel travelled with 
 me, disguised in male apparel, from close 
 upon Stratford to the neighborhood of the 
 Lord Urban's mansion. Despite her gar- 
 ments, I recognized her ere I had been long 
 in her company ; but fancying she might 
 feel some disquietude if she thought I knew 
 who she was, I treated her for what she ap- 
 peared to be. She gave me to understand 
 she fled from some villainous intentions : 
 and believing, when my Lord de la Pole 
 benevolently took charge of her, taking her 
 to be what she represented, that there was 
 no likelihood of her being so safely disposed 
 of elsewhere, I took my leave of her ; but I 
 have often thought of the gentle, graceful 
 
 intend making any acquainted with the 
 proper cause of it, till the whole company 
 are assembled." 
 
 " I have had excellent evidence for know- 
 ing Sir Valentine loved the Lady Mabel," 
 observed William Shakspeare, " and I doubt 
 not at all his refusals of marriage were cre- 
 ated from his affection being engrossed by 
 the humble beauty at Charlcote whom lie 
 must long have lost sight of." 
 
 " I hope it may be the case with all my 
 heart !" exclaimed his companion earnestly, 
 " for doubt I not — to say nought of his own 
 merit, which methinks should make its way 
 anywhere — my old friendship with the earl 
 will give no little help to my nephew's 
 successful wooing of his daughter : and I 
 should be right glad to see him happy, for 
 he hath seemed in very woful case a long 
 time past." 
 
 " Think you he will be at the tournament ?" 
 inquired the other. 
 
 " Surely, he cannot fail," replied Sir Mar- 
 maduke. ' He taketh great delight in such 
 things ; and it is scarce possible he should ■ 
 not have intelligence of it. Nevertheless, if 
 I find him not amongst the company, I will 
 use all despatch in making him acquainted 
 with whatsoever is most desirous he should 
 know." Here the conversation was inter- 
 
 creature since then, and this present moment I rupted by the approach of Master Peregrine 
 am journeying to my lord's mansion to make and Sir Johan, to whom John a Combe, in 
 
 inquiries concerning of her fortunes 
 
 At this Sir Marmaduke marvelled greatly, 
 and not without a famous admiration of the 
 honorableness of his young friend's deli- 
 cate behavior to the distressed damsel. 
 After some further talk on the subject, he 
 spoke of his nephews : Sir Reginald had 
 lately married ; and Sir Valentine, after 
 distinguished himself very notably, had pro- 
 mised in a few months to visit his kinsman. 
 
 " He might have had the most covetable 
 matches in the kingdom," added the old 
 knight ; h but he seemeth in no way in- 
 clined to marry. Methinks the death of his 
 noble friend, Sir Philip Sydney, hath so 
 grieved him, he cannot be got to care to 
 love any other person." 
 
 " Doth he know of this change in the 
 foundling's fortunes ?" inquired the young 
 player. 
 
 " Not a word," replied the knight; " for I 
 received not advice of it myself till I was on 
 the point of starting from London — he being 
 then with the court at Greenwich ; and from 
 what I have learned — ray intelligence coming 
 from no other than the happy father — that 
 though the earl hath sent, far and near, in- 
 vitations to his entertainment, he doth not 
 
 the meanwhile, had been relating his young 
 friend's notable success. 
 
 "This cometh entirely of those proper 
 studies we pursued together," gravely ob- 
 served the chaplain, after a sufficiency of 
 congratulation : — " be assured, young sir, 
 there is nought so like to lead to greatness 
 as deep study of the classic writings of the 
 ancient Greeks and Romans." 
 
 " Ancient pudding !" exclaimed the anti- 
 quary, in a monstrous indignation. " Dost 
 claim my admirable rare scholar of me on 
 such weak pretences? Hast forgot the 
 many hours I have passed in Sir Marma- 
 duke's library teaching of this my pupil ? 
 Ancient Greeks ! Ancient fig's ends ! I 
 tell thee all his fame proceeded from my ex- 
 treme pains-taking he should be familiar 
 with every one of those sweet repositories 
 of delectable knowledge, the old ballads." 
 
 " Old fiddlesticks !" retorted Sir Johan, 
 less inclined now than ever to lose the repu- 
 tation of having instructed so worthy a 
 scholar ; and there was like to be again very 
 desperate war between them on this point, 
 had not the young player made such ac- 
 knowledgments as went far towards the 
 satisfying of both parties. F«r ail which 
 
252 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 to the day of theii deaths, each considered 
 Master Shakspeare' s infinite genius came 
 exclusively of his teaching. 
 
 Before the latter could get sight of the 
 Lady Mabel, she and her noble parents had 
 been informed of his arrival by Sir Marma- 
 duke, who took especial care aught he knew 
 to his advantage should have a faithful in- 
 telligencer ; and there could scarce be any 
 persons who could so perfectly appreciate 
 the conduct of his young friend as those to 
 whom he spoke. The youthful student the 
 poor foundling had beheld with such interest 
 asleep under the tree, and who had rescued her 
 so gailantly from the power of the licentious 
 lord and his villainous assistants, and had 
 moreover behaved so brotherly during her 
 painful travelling after her escape from 
 Charlcote, was sure to be received by the 
 high-born lady, with sincere welcome and 
 gratitude. Indeed, the earl and the count- 
 ess did vie with her how they could best 
 show their respect to one to whom they 
 considered themselves so deeply indebted ; 
 but her particular delight seemed to be to 
 have him with her on every occasion, to 
 hear him discourse, which on all matters he 
 could right eloquently, but if there was one 
 subject she preferred to others, doubt not it 
 was his former companion and excellent gal- 
 'iant friend, Sir Valentine. 
 
 In honest truth, her thoughts had been 
 in that channel far . more than ever, 
 since the discovery of her parentage ; and, 
 with a woman's gratitude, she longed for 
 nothing so much as some opportunity to tes- 
 tify to the generous-hearted gentleman who 
 would have taken her to wife though she 
 was of such humble poor condition, that she 
 lacked not a proper estimation of his true 
 affection. Whilst preparations were going 
 on for a grand chivalrous entertainment 
 which the earl had decided on giving for 
 purposes of his own, a little plot was got up 
 by him and others — of whom was William 
 Shakspeare — to assist in carrying it on to 
 the conclusion all desired. On the day ap- 
 pointed, the principal nobles and gallants in 
 the land came thronging to the lists, and a 
 crowd of. curious spectators, from far and 
 near, assembled in the great park, to see them 
 engage. Proper buildings had been there 
 erected ; and in a commanding situation the 
 Countess and her daughter sat surrounded 
 by the chief nobility of the country, to wit- 
 ness the proceedings. Among the knights 
 present the Lady Mabel looked in vain for the 
 one she most desired to see. She heard their 
 titles, she beheld their cognizances, but all 
 were strange to her ; and she looked on with 
 
 a careless eye, and took no sort of interest in 
 the scene. Her attention was now almost 
 entirely devoted to Master Shakspeare, whom 
 she had made sit close behind her. All at 
 once a great shouting arose from the crowd, 
 which made her look again upon the con- 
 tending knights, and then she beheld one 
 whom she had not seen before, and whose 
 title she had not heard. He had entered the 
 barriers when she was most deeply engaged 
 in conversing with the young player, having 
 arrived late. He was clothed in a complete 
 suit of black armor, with his visor down. 
 Noting that this knight overthrew all who 
 opposed him, she asked who he was ; there- 
 upon Master Shakspeare gave her a very 
 moving history of him, stating that he was 
 called the black knight, and was an exceed- 
 ing mysterious personage, of whom none 
 knew anything, whereof the consequence 
 was no person was so much talked of. 
 Among other things, he said he had heard 
 his aspect was so marvellously ill-favored 
 that he rarely made it visible. 
 
 Nevertheless, of that press of chivalry 
 none showed such skill as the Black Knight 
 — ill favored as he might be — and he was 
 publicly declared to be the chiefest of all 
 for knightly accomplishments. When the 
 tourney was over, the Lady Mabel left her 
 seat, exceedingly dull at heart, her lover 
 had not fulfilled her expectations by being 
 one of the actors in the scene she had just 
 witnessed. She was in one of the principal 
 chambers in the mansion, in the midst of a 
 most courtly company, in her attire rival- 
 ling the splendor of the noblest dame pre- 
 sent, and in her beauty far surpassing the 
 loveliest. The young player was beside 
 her, seeming to be very intent on affording 
 her some sort of amusement, by telling her 
 strange tales of the Black Knight in which 
 it was difficult to say whether the horrible 
 or the ludicrous most predominated. Whilst 
 he kept her attention engaged, there ap- 
 proached towards them the Very object of 
 their conversation, with his vizor up, accom- 
 panied by the Earl and Sir Marmaduke. He 
 stopped suddenly as he caught sight of her, 
 and gazed in rapt astonishment on her ex- 
 quisite fair countenance and majestic figure. 
 
 " Sir Knight," said the Earl, after he had 
 allowed the other, as he thought, to marvel 
 to an absolute sufficiency, " this is my daugh- 
 ter of whom I spoke. It grieveth me to the 
 heart I cannot, after all I have said, get you 
 to entertain the idea of becoming my son-in- 
 law." 
 
 " Mabel !" rapturously exclaimed the 
 Black Knight, and so audibly, the *ady 
 
THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 251 
 
 torned her gaze upon him on the instant. 
 The voice stirred her deepest affections ; 
 a34 one glance sufficed to call them into 
 fuller action. The knight was Sir Valen- 
 tine, who had worn black armor since the 
 death of his lamented and valiant friend Sir 
 Philip Sydney. All traces of the Earl's suf- 
 fering had vanished, under the gladdening 
 influence of those excellent ministers of 
 good, whom he had treated with such mon- 
 strous injustice; and their happiness was 
 now his sole care. He took care to make 
 public the wrong he had done, that his story 
 might be a lesson unto all such mere slaves 
 of reputation, and their merit might be ex- 
 amples to every honest wife and affectionate 
 daughter, as long as the world lasted. His 
 efforts were crowned with a deserved suc- 
 cess. The Countess, who was hailed by 
 her friends as one risen from the grave, was 
 in such content as she had never till then 
 had knowledge of; and her daughter, in the 
 fond devotion of Sir Valentine, enjoyed such 
 extreme happiness, as was the fittest recom- 
 pence for her many painful troubles. Of 
 the spectators, not one so much enjoyed the 
 spectacle of her felicity, as he whose boyish 
 dreams she had made so radiant with her 
 early beauty. He had entered heart and 
 enul into the little plot that had been design- 
 ed for the purpose of bringing the lovers to- 
 gether; and witnessed the mutual delicious 
 pleasure of their recognition, with a heart as 
 pregnant with true enjoyment as had either. 
 
 Having promised every one of that now 
 happy family, to their united earnest pressing, 
 he would be present at the nuptials of Sir 
 Valentine and Lady Mabel, he once more 
 pursued his journey, accompanied by the 
 same party with whom he had visited the 
 Earl's mansion. As he drew nigh the fami- 
 liar places bordering on Stratford, every spot 
 called up a thousand delightful associations. 
 Far different were his feelings at approach- 
 ing his native town, to what they had been 
 when he last left it. Then, desperate unhap- 
 piness had banished him, friendless and ob- 
 scure — but now, he returned full of pleasure 
 in the present, and hope in the future, lack- 
 ing neither store of friends, nor sufficiency of 
 reputation ; and having no sort of anxieties, 
 save for those from whom he had been so 
 long parted. Whilst his mind was filled 
 with sweet loving thoughts of his dear chil- 
 dren and parents, kindred and friends, he was 
 accosted by a voice he could not fail of re- 
 cognizing in a moment. 
 
 " Said I not so, my lambkin ?" exclaimed 
 Nurse Cicely, seeming to be overjoyed at 
 beholding her foster-child returning to his 
 
 native town in so gallant a fashion. She 
 stood in the very same spot where he had 
 last seen her and he now remembered the 
 fair hopes she had given him when he was 
 in so despairing a humor. He gladly stop* 
 ped and greeted the old affectionate creature 
 in his kindest manner, and bid her be of good 
 heart, for he would visit her anon, which put 
 her in such garrulous contentation, she went 
 off to her gossips, and would talk of nothing 
 else. Everything seemed just as he had left 
 it, and his old acquaintances appeared in no 
 way altered, — save only Skinny Dickon, 
 who had grown to be as stout a man as any 
 m the town. As he rode by, there stood 
 the Widow Pippins, leaning over the rail in 
 her gallery, laughing with as notable a 
 heartiness as ever, at no other than that still 
 most miserable of constables, Oliver Dumps, 
 upon whom it looked monstrous like as if 
 she had been playing some of her jests. — 
 There sat the two merry wives, Mistress 
 Dowlas and Mistress Malmsey, gossipping 
 at the latter' s casement, whilst the worthy 
 aldermen, their husbands, were standing at 
 their several doors, shouting little matters of 
 news across the street ; there was Mother 
 Flytrap and Dame Lambswool, Maud and 
 her partner Humphrey, gaping with open 
 mouths at the approaching cavalcade till the 
 latter, recognizing his old master's son, 
 threw up his cap in the air, and shouted hia 
 congratulations in so hearty a manner, the 
 whole town were soon made acquainted 
 with their visitor. All this was exquisite 
 to William Shakspeare ; but when, on en- 
 tering Henly Street, he beheld his honest 
 old father in his homely jerkin, standing at 
 the door looking to see what made that sud- 
 den outcry, his feelings became so powerful, 
 he put spurs to his horse, and rode up to the 
 door as rapidly as he could ; but the joyful 
 cry to his dame of John Shakspeare, as he 
 beheld his son, brought out the fond mother 
 in a marvellous haste, and the young player 
 was scarce free of his saddle when he found 
 her loving arms around his neck. A few 
 minutes after, his happiness was completed 
 by holding in his tender embraces first one 
 and then the other of his dear children ; and 
 this he did in such a manner as seemed to 
 show he knew not which of the three he 
 ought to love the most. 
 
 " Ah !" exclaimed the youthful father, in 
 an impassioned burst of tenderness, as he 
 pressed them in his fond embrace, — the 
 others, with delighted aspects, noting hia 
 famous enjoyment, " Such sweet happiness 
 never tasted I all my days ! Who would 
 not toil — who would not suffer — who would 
 
254 
 
 THE YOUTH OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 not school his affections unto virtuous 
 honest purposes through the bitterest 
 pangs humanity hath knowledge of, to 
 crown his labor with pleasure of so 
 sterling a sort ? — Truly, methinks such 
 
 glad occasions prove with the choicest 
 of argument, all else but goodness is 
 utter folly, • and as absolute desperate 
 ignorance as ever existed." 
 
 TflE END. 
 
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