more about the fool, who died like a rotten sheep among the darnels, his Latin might have held out for the father, and might have told people he was as cool as a cucumber at home, and as hot as pepper in battle. Could he not find room enough on the whinstone, to tell the folks of the village how he played the devil among the dons, burning their fingers when they would put thumbscrews upon us, punching them in the weasand as a blacksmith punches a horse-shoe, and throwing them overboard like bilgewater? "Has Oxford lost all her Latin? Here is no capitani filius; no more mention of family than a Welshman would have allowed him; no hic jacet; and, worse than all, the devil a tittle of spe redemptionis, or anno Domini."

Willy!" quoth Sir Thomas, "I shrewdly do suspect there was more, and that thou hast forgotten it."

"Sir!" answered Willy, "I wrote not down the words, fearing to mis-spell them, and begged them of the doctor, when I took my leave of him on the morrow; and verily he wrote down all he had repeated. I keep them always in the tin-box in my waistcoat-pocket, among the eel-hooks, on a scrap of paper a finger's length and breadth, folded in the middle to fit. And when the eels are running, I often take it out and read it before I am aware. I could as soon forget my own epitaph as this."

Simpleton!" said Sir Thomas, with his gentle compassionate smile; "but thou hast cleared thyself."

Sir Silas. I think the doctor gave one idle chap as much solid pudding as he could digest, with a slice to spare for another.

Shakspeare. And yet after this pudding the doctor gave him a spoonful of custard, flavoured with a little bitter, which was mostly left at the bottom for the other idle chap.

.. Sir Thomas not only did endure this very goodnaturedly, but deigned even to take in good part the smile upon my countenance, as though he were a smile-collector, and as though his estate were so humble that he could hold his lacedbonnet (in all his bravery) for bear and fiddle.

He then said unto Willy,

"Place likewise this custard before us." "There is but little of it; the platter is shallow," replied he; "'twas suited to Master Ethelbert's appetite: the contents were these:

"The things whereon thy whole soul brooded in its innermost recesses, and with all its warmth and energy, will pass unprized and unregarded, not only throughout thy lifetime, but long after. For the higher beauties of poetry are beyond the capacity, beyond the vision, of almost all. Once perhaps in half a century a single star is discovered, then named and registered, then mentioned by five studious men to five more; at last some twenty say, or repeat in writing, what they have heard about it. Other stars await other discoveries. Few and solitary, and wide asunder, are those who calculate their relative distances,

their mysterious influences, their glorious magnitude, and their stupendous height. "Tis so, believe me, and ever was so, with the truest and best poetry. Homer, they say, was blind; he might have been ere he died; that he sat among the blind, we are sure.

"Happy they who, like this young lad from Stratford, write poetry on the saddle-bow when their geldings are jaded, and keep the desk for better purposes.'

"The young gentlemen, like the elderly, all turned their faces toward me, to my confusion, so much did I remark of sneer and scoff at my cost. Master Ethelbert was the only one who spared me. He smiled and said,

66 6

Be patient! From the higher heavens of poetry, it is long before the radiance of the brightest star can reach the world below. We hear that one man finds out one beauty, another man finds out another, placing his observatory and instruments on the poet's grave. The worms must have eaten us before it is rightly known what we are. It is only when we are skeletons that we are boxed and ticketed and prized and shown. Be it so! I shall not be tired of waiting.'

"Reasonable youth!" said Sir Thomas; "yet both he and Glaston walk rather a-straddle, methinks. They might have stepped up to thee more straightforwardly, and told thee the trade ill suiteth thee, having little fire, little fantasy, and little learning. Furthermore that one poet, as one bull, sufficeth for two parishes; and that, where they are stuck too close together, they are apt to fire, like haystacks. I have known it myself: I have had my malignants and scoffers."

Shakspeare. I never could have thought it. Sir Thomas. There again! Another proof of thy inexperience.

Shakspeare. Matt Atterend! Matt Atterend! where wert thou sleeping!

Sir Thomas. I shall now from my own stores impart unto thee what will avail to tame thee, showing the utter hopelessness of standing on that golden weathercock which supporteth but one at a time.

The passion for poetry wherewith Monsieur Dubois would have inspired me, as he was bound to do, being paid before-hand, had cold water thrown upon it by that unlucky one, Sir Everard. He ridiculed the idea of male and female rhymes, and the necessity of trying them as rigidly by the eye as by the ear; saying to Monsieur Dubois that the palate, in which the French excell all mortals, ought also to be consulted in their acceptance or rejection. Monsieur Dubois told us that if we did not wish to be taught French verse, he would teach us English. Sir Everard preferred the Greek; but Monsieur Dubois would not engage to teach the mysteries of that poetry in fewer than thirty lessons, having (since his misfortunes) forgotten the letters and some other necessaries.

The first poem I ever wrote was in the character of a shepherd, to Mistress Anne Nanfan,

daughter of Squire Fulke Nanfan, of Worcestershire, at that time on a visit to the worshipful family of Compton at Long Compton.

We were young creatures; I but twenty-four and seven months (for it was written on the 14th of May), and she well-nigh upon a twelvemonth younger. My own verses (the first) are neither here nor there; indeed they were imbedded in solid prose, like lampreys and ram's-horns in our limestone, and would be hard to get out whole. What they are may be seen by her answer, all in verse:

Faithful shepherd! dearest Tommy!

I have received the letter from ye,
And mightily delight therein.

But mother, she says, "Nanny! Nanny!
How, being staid and prudent, can ye
Think of a man, and not of sin ?"

Sir Shepherd! I held down my head,
And" Mother! fie for shame!" I said;

All I could say would not content her;
Mother she would for ever harp on't,
"A man's no better than a sarpent,

And not a crumb more innocenter."

I know not how it happeneth, but a poet doth open before a poet, albeit of baser sort. It is Lot that I hold my poetry to be better than some other in time past, it is because I would show thee that I was virtuous and wooed virtuously, that I repeat it. Furthermore, I wished to leave a deep impression on the mother's mind that she was exceedingly wrong in doubting my innocence.

Shakspeare. Gracious Heaven! and was this too doubted?

Sir Thomas. May-be not; but the whole race of men, the whole male sex, wanted and found in me a protector. I showed her what I was ready to do.

Shakspeare. Perhaps, sir, it was for that very thing that she put the daughter back and herself forward.

Sir Thomas. I say not so, but thou mayest know as much as befitteth, by what follows:

Worshipful lady! honoured madam !

I at this present truly glad am
To have so fair an opportunity
Of saying I would be the man
To bind in wedlock Mistress Anne,
Living with her in holy unity.
And for a jointure I will gi'e her
A good two hundred pounds a-year
Accruing from my landed rents,
Whereof see t'other paper, telling
Lands, copses, and grown woods for felling,
Capons, and cottage tenements.

And who must come at sound of horn,
And who pays but a barley-corn,

And who is bound to keep a whelp,
And what is brought me for the pound,
And copyholders, which are sound,

And which do need the leech's help.
And you may see in these two pages
Exact their illnesses and ages,

Enough (God willing) to content ye;
Who looks full red, who looks full yellow,
Who plies the mullen, who the mallow,
Who fails at fifty, who at twenty.

Jim Yates must go; he's one day very hot
And one day ice; I take a heriot;

And poorly, poorly 's Jacob Burgess.
The doctor tells me he has pour'd
Into his stomach half his hoard

Of anthelminticals and purges.
Judith, the wife of Ebenezer
Fillpots, won't have him long to teaze her;
Fillpots blows hot and cold like Jim,
And, sleepless lest the boys should plunder
His orchard, he must soon knock under;
Death has been looking out for him,

He blusters; but his good yard-land
Under the church, his ale-house, and
His Bible, which he cut in spite,
Must all fall in; he stamps and swears
And sets his neighbours by the ears ..
Fillpots! thy saddle sits not tight!

Thy epitaph is ready; "Here
Lies one whom all his friends did fear
More than they ever feared the Lord;
In peace he was at times a Christian;
In strife what stubborner Philistian!
Sing, sing his psalm with one accord."
And the brave lad who sent the bluff
Olive-faced Frenchman (sure enough)

Screaming and scouring like a plover,
Must follow; him I mean who dasht
Into the water, and then thrasht

The cullion past the town of Dover. But first there goes the blear old dame Who nurst me; you have heard her name (No doubt) at Compton, Sarah Salways; There are twelve groats at once, beside The frying-pan in which she fried Her pancakes.

Madam, I am always, &c.

SIR THOMAS LUCY, Knight.

I did believe that such a clear and conscientious exposure of my affairs would have brought me a like return. My letter was sent back to me with small courtesy. It may be there was no paper in the house, or none equalling mine in whiteness. No notice was taken of the rent-roll; but between the second and third stanza these four lines were written, in a very fine hand:

Most honor'd knight, Sir Thomas! two
For merry Nan will never do;
Now under favour let me say 't,

She will bring more herself than that.

I have reason to believe that the worthy lady did neither write nor countenance the same, perhaps did not ever know of them. She always had at her elbow one who jogged it when he listed, and, although he could not overrule the daughter, he took especial care that none other should remove her from his tutelage, even when she had fairly grown up to woman's estate.

Now, after all this condescension and confidence, promise me, good lad, promise that thou wilt not edge and elbow me. Never let it be said, when people say, Sir Thomas was a poet when he willed it; so is Bill Shakspeare! It beseemeth not that our names do go together cheek by jowl in this familiar fashion, like an old beagle and a whelp, in couples, where if the one would, the other would not.

falsely, can not be called a perjurer, since perjury is breaking an oath. But breaking half an oath, as he doth who toucheth the Bible or crucifix with one lip only, is no more perjury than breaking an eggshell is breaking an egg, the shell being a part, and the egg being an integral.

William did take the Holy Book with all due reverence the instant it was offered to his hand. His stature seemed to rise therefrom as from a pulpit, and Sir Thomas was quite edified.

"Obedient and conducible youth!" said he. "See there, Master Silas! what hast thou now to say against him? who sees farthest?"

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The man from the gallows is the most likely, bating his nightcap and blinker," said Master Silas peevishly. "He hath not outwitted me yet." "He seized upon the Anchor of Faith like a martyr," said Sir Thomas, "and even now his face burns red as elder-wine before the gossips."

Shakspeare. I await the further orders of your worship from the chair.

Sir Thomas. I return and seat myself. ..And then did Sir Thomas say with great complacency and satisfaction in the ear of Master Silas,

Joseph and Euseby; and, sooth to say, there be many worse. But William had them not in his eye; his thoughts were elsewhere, as will be evident, for he went on thus:

. . . . "If ever I forget or desert thee, or ever cease to worship* and cherish thee, my Hannah!" Sir Silas. The madman! the audacious, desperate, outrageous villain! Look-ye, sir! where he flung the Holy Gospel! Behold it on the holly and box boughs in the chimney-place, spreaden all abroad, like a lad about to be whipt!

Sir Thomas. Miscreant knave! I will send after him forthwith! Ho there! is the caitiff at hand, or running off?

..Jonas Greenfield the butler did budge forward after a while, and say, on being questioned, "Surely, that was he! Was his nag tied to the iron gate at the lodge, Master Silas?"

"What should I know about a thief's nag, Jonas Greenfield?"

"And didst thou let him go, Jonas? even thou?" said Sir Thomas. "What! are none found faithful?"

"Lord love your worship," said Jonas Greenfield; "a man of threescore and two may miss

But Master Silas answered not.
Shakspeare. Must I swear, sir?

Sir Thomas. Yea, swear; be of good courage. I protest to thee by my honour and knighthood, no ill shall come unto thee therefrom. Thou shalt not be circumvented in thy simpleness and inexperience.

.. Willy, having taken the Book of Life, did kiss it piously, and did press it unto his breast, saying, "Tenderest love is the growth of my heart, as the grass is of Alvescote mead.

"May I lose my life or my friends, or my memory, or my reason; may I be viler in my own eyes than those men are".

Here he was interrupted most lovingly by Sir Thomas, who said unto him,

"Nay, nay, nay! poor youth! do not tell me so! they are not such very bad men; since thou appealest unto Cæsar; that is, unto the judgment

seat."

make folks the faithfuller, or that youth yonder beats us all in faithfulness.

"Look! he darts on like a greyhound whelp after a leveret. He, sure enough, it was! I now remember the sorrel mare his father bought of John Kinderley last Lammas, swift as he threaded the trees along the park. He must have reached Wellesbourne ere now at that gallop, and pretty nigh Walton-hill."

Sir Thomas. Merciful Christ! grant the country be rid of him for ever! What dishonour upon his friends and native town! A reputable wool-stapler's son turned gipsy and poet for life. Sir Silas. A Beelzebub; he spake as bigly and fiercely as a soaken yeoman at an election feast this obedient and conducible youth! Sir Thomas. It was so written. Hold thy peace, Silas!

....

TWELVE days are over and gone since William Shakspeare did leave our parts. And the spinster, Hannah Hathaway, is in sad doleful plight about him; forasmuch as Master Silas Gough went yesterday unto her, in her mother's house at Shottery, and did desire both her and her mother to take heed and be admonished, that if ever she, Hannah, threw away one thought after the runagate William Shakspeare, he should swing.

The girl could do nothing but weep; while as the mother did give her solemn promise that her daughter should never more think about him all her natural life, reckoning from the moment of this her promise.

And the maiden, now growing more reasonable, did promise the same. But Master Silas said,

"I doubt you will, though."

"No," said the mother, "I answer for her she shall not think of him, even if she sees his ghost.” Hannah screamed, and swooned, the better to forget him. And Master Silas went home easier and contenteder. For now all the worst of his hard duty was accomplished; he having been, on the Wednesday of last week, at the speech of Master John Shakspeare, Will's father, to inquire whether the sorrel mare was his. To which question the said Master John Shakspeare did answer, "Yea."

"Enough said!" rejoined Master Silas.