WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

AS HE LIVED.

An Historical Tale.

BY CAPTAIN CURLING,

Author of "John of England." "Soldier of Fortune."

"Sweet are the uses of adversity,
Which like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head."

As you Like it.

WARWICK:

H. T. COOKE & SON, PUBLISHERS, HIGH STREET.

(COPYRIGHT.)

PREFACE.

The nature of the following work is sufficiently indicated by the title. In it the most interesting portions of the career of Shakespeare, taken from the best accredited sources, are brought forward in a pleasing narrative, the dialogue being in the style of the Elizabethan period.

Throughout the work the writer has endeavoured, amidst a great deal of stirring incident, and a subordinate tale of much interest, to place the Poet constantly before the reader, whether on or off the scene. The story commences when he was about seventeen years of age, and carries him through some of the eventful "chances" of that glorious epoch which called forth his own "muse of fire," and caused him to ascend "the brightest heaven of invention;" and, after showing him the sharp "uses of adversity," leaves him at the moment of success, whilst Elizabeth and the entire Court-circle are turned to him whose matchless genius has just enchanted them.

CONTENTS.

[CHAPTER I. A Forest Scene]
[CHAPTER II. The Youthful Shakespeare]
[CHAPTER III. Charlotte Clopton]
[CHAPTER IV. The Family of the Cloptons]
[CHAPTER V. A Domestic Party in Elizabeth's Day]
[CHAPTER VI. A Disagreeable Visitor]
[CHAPTER VII. Plots and Counterplots]
[CHAPTER VIII. Stratford-upon-Avon]
[CHAPTER IX. The Tavern]
[CHAPTER X. The Churchyard of Stratford-upon-Avon]
[CHAPTER XI. The Stratford Lawyer]
[CHAPTER XII. The Sonnet]
[CHAPTER XIII. Mother and Son]
[CHAPTER XIV. The Lovers]
[CHAPTER XV. Charlecote]
[CHAPTER XVI. The Attack]
[CHAPTER XVII. The Capture]
[CHAPTER XVIII. A Revel at Clopton]
[CHAPTER XIX. The Plague at Stratford]
[CHAPTER XX. More Trouble at Clopton]
[CHAPTER XXI. Domestic Affliction]
[CHAPTER XXII. Bereavement]
[CHAPTER XXIII. The Vault]
[CHAPTER XXIV. The Village Fete—Ann Hathaway]
[CHAPTER XXV. The Twelfth-tide Revelry]
[CHAPTER XXVI. The Misled Wanderer]
[CHAPTER XXVII. The Suitor]
[CHAPTER XXVIII. Shottery Hall]
[CHAPTER XXIX. The Lovers]
[CHAPTER XXX. The Adventurers]
[CHAPTER XXXI. The Benedict]
[CHAPTER XXXII. The Hostel]
[CHAPTER XXXIII. The Deer Stealers]
[CHAPTER XXXIV. The Adventure]
[CHAPTER XXXV. More Matter for a May Morning]
[CHAPTER XXXVI. The Lampoon]
[CHAPTER XXXVII. The Garden]
[CHAPTER XXXVIII. The Flight to London]
[CHAPTER XXXIX. Old London]
[CHAPTER XL. The Poor Player]
[CHAPTER XLI. The Tavern Revel]
[CHAPTER XLII. More Strange than True]
[CHAPTER XLIII. England on the Defensive]
[CHAPTER XLIV. The Boar's Head, in East Cheap]
[CHAPTER XLV. The Camp at Tilbury]
[CHAPTER XLVI. The Invincible Armada]
[CHAPTER XLVII. The Player at Court]
[CHAPTER XLVIII. Sir Thomas Lucy in London]
[CHAPTER XLIX. The Theatre of the Blackfriars]
[CHAPTER L. The Scenic Hour]
[CHAPTER LI. The Tavern]
[CHAPTER LII. The Player in his Lodging]
[CHAPTER LIII. The Poet and his Patron]
[CHAPTER LIV. A Consultation]
[CHAPTER LV. Ill Weaved Ambition]
[CHAPTER LVI. The Associates]
[CHAPTER LVII. The Poet and his Friends]
[CHAPTER LVIII. Stratford and its Neighbourhood]
[CHAPTER LIX. Kenilworth]
[CHAPTER LX. The Return]
[CHAPTER LXI. The Discomfited Scrivener]
[CHAPTER LXII. Old Friends]
[CHAPTER LXIII. Which ends this strange eventful History]

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE AS HE LIVED,

Stratford-upon-Avon, and Queen Elizabeth.

CHAPTER I.

A FOREST SCENE.

It was one morning, during the reign of Elizabeth, that a youth, clad in a grey cloth doublet and hose (the usual costume of the respectable country tradesman or apprentice in England), took his early morning stroll in the vicinity of a small town in Warwickshire.

Lovely as is the scenery in almost every part of this beautiful county, which exhibits, perhaps, the most park-like and truly English picture in our island, it was (at the period of our story) far more beautiful than in its present state or cultivated improvement.

The thick and massive foliage of its woods, in Elizabeth's day, were to be seen in all the luxuriance of their native wildness, unpruned, unthinned, untouched by the hand of man, representing in their bowery beauty the wild uncontrolled woodlands of Britain, when waste, and wold, and swamp, and thicket constituted all.

The fern-clad undulations and forest glades around, too, at this period, were peopled by the wild and herded deer—those "poor, dappled fools—the native burghers of the desert city"—which, couched in their own confines, their antlered heads alone seen in some sequestered spot amongst the long grass, gave an additional charm to the locality they haunted, in all the freedom of unmolested range, from park to forest, and from glade to thicket.

In these bosky bournes and sylvan retreats, unmolested then by the axe of an encroaching population; nay, almost untrodden, save by the occasional forester or the fierce outlaw; the gnarled oaks threw their broad arms over the mossy carpet, giving so deep a shade in many parts, that the rays of the mid-day sun were almost intercepted, and the silent forest seemed dark, shadowy, and massive, as when the stately tramp of the soldiery of Rome sounded beneath its boughs.

As the youth cleared the enclosures in the immediate vicinity of the town, and brushed the dew from the bladed grass on nearing the more sylvan scene, the deep tones of the clock, from the old dark tower of the church, struck the third hour. The sound arrested him; he paused, and turning, gazed for some moments upon the buildings now seen emerging from the mint of early morning. At this hour no sign of life—no stir was to be observed in the town.

"The cricket sang, and man's o'er-labour'd sense
Repaired itself by rest."

Although the youth looked upon a scene familiar to his eye (for it was the place of his birth, and from whence as yet his truant steps had scarcely measured a score of miles), his capable eye dwelt upon every point of interest and beauty in the surrounding picture.

He had reached the age when the poetry of life begins to be felt; when an incipient longing for society of the softer sex, and an anxiety to look well in the eyes of the fair; to deserve well of woman, and to be thought a sort of soldier-servant and defender of beauty, is mixed up with the sterner ambitions of manhood.

Perhaps few forms would have been more likely to captivate the fancy of the other sex than the figure and face of this youth, as he stood at gaze in the clear morning air, and contemplated the landscape around. In shape, he was slightly but elegantly formed, and his well-knit limbs were seen to advantage in the close-fitting but homely suit he wore. Added to this figure of a youthful Apollo, was a countenance of genius, intelligence, and beauty, peculiarly indicative of the mind of the owner. His costume, we have already said, was homely; it was, indeed, but one remove from the dress of the common man of the period. A gray doublet of coarse cloth, edged or guarded with black, and tight-fitting trunks and hose of the same material; to those were added a common felt hat with steeple crown, and shoes without rosettes. In his hand he carried a stout quarter-staff, shod with iron at either end. No costume, however, could disguise or alter the nobility of look and gallant bearing of that youth. After regarding the view presented to him in the clear morning air for some moments, he turned, leaped the last enclosure which pertained to the suburbs of the town, and pursued his way through a wild chase or park, avoiding the more thick woods on his right.

How slight and trivial are sometimes the accidents which control the fate of man!

On setting out from his own home, the stripling had intended to traverse the woodlands which lay between his native town and Warwick, in order to keep an appointment he had made with some youthful associates of the latter place—some wild and reckless young men with whom he had lately become acquainted. The church clock, however, whilst it informed him he had anticipated the hour, determined him to change his intention of going straight to the trysting-place, and he turned his steps in a different direction. He therefore left the deep woodlands on his right, and sought the enclosures of Clopton Hall.

This change of purpose, in all probability, saved the life of the handsome lad. As he turned from the woodlands on his right, and sought the fern-clad chase and plantations in which Clopton Hall is embosomed, a tall, fierce-looking man, clad in the well-worn suit of a ranger or forester, stepped from the thick cover. As he did so, the forester lowered a cross-bow, with which he had been taking a steady aim at the stripling, from his shoulder, and stood and watched him till he disappeared.

"Now the red pestilence strike him," said the man. "He has again escaped me. But an I give him not the death of a fat buck ere many days are over his head, may my bow-string be the halter that hangs me."

"Nay, comrade," said a second forester, at that moment coming forward, "believe me, 'tis better as it is; thou must e'en drop this business, and satisfy thy revenge by a less matter than murder. I half suspected thy intent, and, therefore, have I followed thee. Come," he continued, "thou must, I say, forgive the affront this lad has put upon thee."

"May the fiend take me then!" returned the ruffian.

"Nay, thou art most likely the property of St. Nicholas methinks. Whatsoever thou dost," said the other, "certainly he will catch thee by the back if thou should harm this youngster."

"Why, look ye," said his fellow. "Have I not reason for what I do? The varlet (who I shrewdly suspect hath an eye upon the deer) constantly haunts our woods. Not a nook, not a secluded corner, not a thicket but he knows of, and explores. At all hours of the day, and even at night, have I caught sight of him wandering alone. Sometimes I have seen him, lying along, book in hand, under a huge oak, in Fullbrook wood; at other times I have watched him as he stood in the twilight beside the brook, which flows through Charlecote Park. As often as I have tried to gain speech with and warn him from our haunts, he has been ware of me; plunging into the covert (nimble as a stag), so escaped.

"Once, however, I came warily behind him while he stood watching the deer as they swept along a glade in Fullbrook; and heard him repeating words which rivetted me to the spot, nay almost took from me the power of accosting him. Not, however, to be outworded by a boy, I pounced upon him."

"Go to!" said the other laughing, "then you collared him, I suppose, and took him off to the head-ranger to give an account of his trespass. Was't not so! Eh?"

"You shall hear," returned the ranger. "At first I felt too much respect to rebuke him. There was something in his look I could not away with. He seemed somewhat angered too at being molested and caught by surprise; and there was that in his eye which could look down a lion, methought. After awhile, however, I gave him some of my mind, threatened to report his trespass to the knight our master, and to give him a taste of the stocks, or the cage."

"Good," said his fellow, laughing. "You said well!"

"Nay, 'twas not so good either, as it turned out," said the ranger.

"How so?" inquired his comrade.

"Why, he took my rebuke mildly at first, merely saying he sought not to molest the game, but only to enjoy the liberty, freedom, and leisure of the wild woods."

"Well," interrupted the other, "between ourselves, that seems natural enough. But, an all the lads in the country were to do the same, they would soon drive the deer from their haunts, and render our trade a poor one."

"So I told him; and that I should not be so easy the next time I caught him straying in our woods. Nay, that I would then, indeed, cudgel him like a dog."

"Ha! ha! and how took he that threat?"

"Mass! I would you could have seen how he took it," said the irate ranger, "for I shall never forget the change it wrought. He looked at me with an eye of fire, reared himself up like a startled steed, and railed on me in such terms as I think never man either heard or spoke before. Nay, an I had not known he was the son of a trader here in Stratford, I had taken him for the heir of some grandee, for never heard I before such a tongue, or such words of fire."

"Go to!" said the other; "and how answered ye that?"

"At first I felt awed; but, when he dared me but to raise a finger in the way of assault, and stirred my wrath so, that I laid hands on him, he struck me to the earth; when I rose, and again attacked him, despite my skill at quarter-staff, he cudgelled me to his heart's content."

"What, yonder lad?"

"Ay, yonder boy! His strength and skill were so great that, had I not cried peccavi, I had died under his blows."

"And for this you are resolved to shoot him!"

"I am! I cannot forget the disgrace of his quarter-staff. My very bones ache now at the bare remembrance."

"Aye, but thou must forget it, comrade," said the other; "for to shoot him, look ye, might get the rangers all into trouble. He hath, you see, gone out of our bounds this morning; but let us follow, and if we find him we will both beat him. As far as that goes, I am your man. 'Tis allowable, and in the way of business. But for shooting the lad—fie on't! 'tis cowardly and dangerous. Ever while you live, forbear your bullet on a defenceless person."

"Well, be it so!" said his fellow. "I agree. He hath had the best of me, for once in his life. But, at least, will I be revenged:—blow for blow."

"Hath he good friends, said ye?"

"None of note."

"What then is his father?"

"The wool-comber who dwells in Henley Street."

"Enough! Now let us but catch him, and by 'r lady, we'll beat him so that he shall scarce disport his curiosity amongst our woods again."

"Nay, but if we kill him?" said the other, with a sneer.

"Then must our master bear us out; we are hired to keep off all lurking knaves. By fair means or foul, it must be done. An we kill him, we'll e'en knock over a buck, and lay it to's charge. Swear we caught him red-handed in the fact, and there an end."

CHAPTER II.

THE YOUTHFUL SHAKESPEARE.

About a couple of hours after the above conversation between the two rangers, the subject of it might have been seen lying along, "like a dropt acorn," book in hand, under cover of the thick belt of plantation skirting the grounds of Clopton Hall. Occasionally, his gaze would turn upon the huge twisted chimneys and casements of the building, just now beginning to show symptoms of life. The thin blue smoke mounted into the clear air, and the diamond panes of the windows glittered in the morning sun. At this period the sports of the field formed the almost daily avocation of the country gentlemen in England. Men rose with the sun, and with hawk and hound and steed commenced the day at once. Scarce was the substantial breakfast thought of till it had been earned in the free air, amidst the woods and glades. Accordingly, as our student lay perdue in the covert, he beheld the falconer of the household of Clopton with the ready hawk, the grooms with the caparisoned steeds, the coupled hounds, and all the paraphernalia of the field.

The family of the Cloptons were not altogether unknown to the youth, and the hall being only a mile from the town, Sir Hugh was a sort of patron of Stratford, and in constant intercourse with the inhabitants.

As his party had oft-times ridden through the streets, our hero had scarce failed to remark amongst the cavalcade a beautiful female of some seventeen years of age. This fair vision, who with hawk on hand, looked some nymph or goddess of the chase, was, indeed, the only daughter of Sir Hugh Clopton.

To one of the ardent and poetic soul of our young friend, the mere passing glance of so exquisite a creature as Charlotte Clopton had suggested more than one sonnet descriptive of her beauty. Yes, the glance of the lowly poet from beneath the pent-house which constituted the shop of his father, had called forth verses which, even at this early period of his life, surpassed all that ever had been penned; and Charlotte Clopton first caused him to write a stanza in praise of beauty. At this early period of his life, too, his fine mind teemed with the germs of those thoughts which, in afterdays, brought forth so many lovely flowers. The impression of his own passionate feelings in youth furnished him with the ideas from which to pourtray the exquisitely tender scenes of his after-life.

To a youth of spirit, the sight of preparation for the sports of the field was full of excitement. Most men love the chase, but mostly those of a bold determined courage.

Participation in the sports of people of condition was, however, denied to the lad, as his condition in life barred him from aught beside the sight of others so engaged. His capacious mind conceived, however, at a glance, all the mysteries of wood-craft, and his truant disposition leading him to become a frequent trespasser, the haunts and habits of the wild denizens of the woods were familiar to him.

If, therefore, he was debarred from following the chase himself, he loved to see the hunt sweep by—

"When the skies, the fountains, every region near,
Seemed all one mutual cry."

In addition to this, there was an insatiable craving after information of every kind. He had been educated at the Free School of his native town, and had far outstripped all competitors in such lore as the academy afforded, and he now perused every book he could procure, making himself master of the subjects they treated of with wonderful facility. He was drinking in knowledge (if we may so term it) wherever it could be reached; whilst, in his truant hours, no shrub, no herb, no plant in nature escaped his piercing ken.

His exquisite imagination, unfettered and free as the air he breathed in the lovely scenery of his native country, created worlds of fancy, and peopled them with beings which only himself could have conceived. In the solitude of the deep woods he loved to dream away the hours.

"On hill or dale, forest or mead,
By paved fountain, or by rushy brook,"

it was his wont to imagine the elfin crew, as they "danced their ringlets to the whistling wind."

It was observed, too, amongst his youthful associates, that he seemed to know things by intuition. Those who were brought up to the different mechanical trades in the town or neighbourhood found in him a master of the craft at which they had worked. "Whence comes this knowledge," they inquired of each other, "and where hath he found time to pick it up?" "Body o' me," his father would oft-times say, "but where hath our William learnt all this lore? Thus worded too! Master Cramboy, of the Free School, albeit he comes here continually to supper, and uses monstrous learned words in his discourse, never tells us of such things as this lad discourses to us." Neither was all this superfluous knowledge, "ill inhabited like Jove in a thatched house." He was already a poet, turned things to shape, and gave to airy nothing

"A local habitation and a name."

CHAPTER III.

CHARLOTTE CLOPTON.

Clopton Hall was situated in a sort of wild chase, or park, in which hundreds of broad, short-stemmed oaks grew at distant intervals; and through this chase a deep trench had been cut in former days by the legions of Rome, the thick plantation which formed the belt immediately around the house being just in rear of the Roman ditch.

The hawking party, on this morning, as they gradually assembled and mounted their steeds in the court of the mansion, rode through the gate-house, along the avenue and into the chase. Here they breathed their coursers and careered about till Sir Hugh had mustered the different servitors and attendants appertaining to a matter of so much moment as his morning diversion, and was ready to go forth.

As they did so, the youth noticed the lady he had before seen, and whose exquisite form had made some slight impression upon his imagination. Nothing could be more skilful than the way in which she managed her horse, he thought—nothing more lovely and graceful than she altogether appeared. The steed she rode was a magnificent animal, and one which none but a most perfect horsewoman could have backed; and as he plunged, and "yerked out his heels," he shewed his delight at being in the free air, and proved "the metal of his pasture."

It was a fair sight to behold one so delicately formed as that lady restrain the ferocity, and, by her noble horsemanship, reduce to subjection the wild spirit of that courser; and so thought the studious boy in the gray jerkin.

Well, however, as she had hitherto managed the animal, now that it was growing even more excited by the number of horses around, it seemed every instant becoming more and more unruly. It was in vain that a tall handsome cavalier, who had kept an anxious eye for some time upon the movements of her horse, now spurred his own steed beside the lady, and kept near her bridle-rein. The brute reared, and stood for a few moments, striking wildly with his fore feet. After a while, however, and whilst all sat in helpless alarm, the lady still keeping her seat, the steed recovered himself, plunged forwards, and bolted from the party.

Few situations could be more perilous than that which Charlotte Clopton now found herself in; few more distressing to the spectators to witness; since to attempt aid is oft-times to hasten the catastrophe.

To follow a runaway steed, in the hope of overtaking it is, perhaps, one of the worst plans that can be adopted, as the very companionship of the pursuing horse is sure to urge on and accelerate the pace of the flyer.

Yet this course the tall dark cavalier (who seemed Charlotte Clopton's principal esquire) unhappily adopted.

As he beheld the maddened horse tearing across the park, swerving amongst the oak trees, and threatening every instant to dash out the brains of the rider amongst the branches, he set spurs to his own courser, and galloped after her. It was in vain that Sir Hugh shouted to him to return. In vain he roared and railed, and called to him that he would murder his child by such folly.

The lady, however, kept her seat. She managed even to guide her steed into the more open part of the chase. For (like the mariner in the storm) she well knew that whilst the tempest roars loudest, the open sea gives the vessel the better chance.

The sound of the horse following, however, totally ruined her plan, and rendered her own steed more determined. He flung aside, turned from the direction his rider had coaxed him into, and galloped towards the spot where our hero was standing amidst the trees. It was by no means difficult to conjecture that destruction to the beautiful creature, thus borne along as if on one of the "couriers of the air," was almost inevitable.

The next minute, as the youth of the grey doublet, in a state of breathless anxiety, stood and watched this race, himself concealed in the thick foliage, the horse (like some wild deer seeking cover) plunged headlong into the Roman ditch.

The entrenchment was of considerable depth, so that both steed and rider, for the moment, disappeared below the grassy ridge. It was, however, but for a moment: the next, the maddened steed sprung up the opposite bank.

The rider was, however, no longer on his back: she had been cast headlong from the saddle, and our hero saw, with terror, that her riding-gear was entangled on the saddle, and that she was being dragged along the ground by its side.

But few minutes of exposure to such a situation, and that sweet face had been spurned out of the form of humanity, and her delicate limbs broken, torn, and lacerated. But the youth (although he saw at once that it would be vain to attempt to arrest the powerful brute by seizing the bridle) in a moment resolved upon a bolder measure. As the horse neared him, he rushed from his concealment and (ere it could swerve from his reach), with the full swing of his heavy quarter-staff, struck the animal full upon its forehead, and with the iron at the extremity of his weapon, fractured its skull.

So truly and well was the blow delivered, that the steed fell as if struck by a butcher's pole-axe, and the next instant was a quivering carcase upon the grass.

In another moment the achiever of this deed had unsheathed the sharp dagger he wore at his waist-belt, cut away the entangled garment of the lady from the saddle, and was kneeling beside her insensible form. As he did so, he felt that he could have spent hours in gazing upon those lovely features.

Meanwhile, the cavalier who had followed (but who reined up his horse when he observed the steed of the lady dash down the slope, and then remained gazing on all that followed in a state of utter helplessness), as soon as he beheld the extraordinary manner in which she had been succoured, again set spurs to his horse.

Dashing recklessly across the Roman trench, he galloped to the spot, and throwing himself from the saddle, snatched the lady from the supporting arms of her rescuer.

There was a retiring diffidence, an innate modesty about the youth who had aided the lady, which kept him from intrusion. Nevertheless, he felt hurt at the manner in which the handsome cavalier had snatched her from his arms. His indomitable spirit prompted him almost to thrust back that officious friend, and like Valentine, exclaim—

"Thurio, give place, or else embrace thy death;
I dare thee but to look upon my love!"

The next moment, however, remembrance of his own condition, and the station in life of her he had saved, flashed across his brain. He drew a pace or two back, and recollected how far removed he was from her he had so promptly succoured. As for the attendant cavalier, he seemed to see nothing but the still insensible form he hung over. "Oh! thank heaven. Oh! thank heaven, she breathes," he said wildly, "she is not dead—speak to me, Charlotte—speak but one word to your poor cousin, if but to assure him of your safety."

"I think she is recovering, fair sir," said the youth, again approaching. "See, she opens her eyes."

"She does—she does!" said the cavalier, as he raised her in his arms. "I would we had a few drops of water to sprinkle in her face; 'twould do much towards hastening her recovery."

"That shall she soon have," said the youth; and darting off, he hastened towards a rivulet, which, brawling along on the other side of the plantation, ran through the marsh land beyond, and emptied itself into the Avon.

Taking off his high-crowned hat, he dipped it in the stream, and returned as speedily. As he did so he observed that Sir Hugh Clopton, and such of his party as were mounted, had now reached the spot; whilst the fair Charlotte, having regained her senses, was clasped in her fond father's arms.

Handing the water to one of the attendants, he again drew back, and leaning upon his quarter-staff, stood regarding the party unnoticed.

"Now praise be to heaven for this mercy," said Sir Hugh. "In my pride and joy of thee, my Charlotte, I bred yonder steed for thy especial use. I thought to see thee mounted as no other damsel in Warwickshire, and see the result. Ha, by my halidame, I swear to thee, that had not the brute perished in his own wilfulness I had killed him with this hand."

"Nay, blame not my poor Fairy," said the lady; "he did but follow the bent of his joyous spirit, when he found himself in the fresh pasture. 'Twas thy timely succour, coz," she said, turning to the tall cavalier beside her, "which I suspect saved me when I fell."

"By my troth then, nephew," said the old knight, grasping the youth's hand, "'twas well done of thee, and thou hast redeemed thy first fault in following the runaway horse."

"Alas, uncle," said the cavalier, "I fear me I have redeemed no fault, neither deserve I any praise. I saw my fair cousin cast headlong to the earth, and then dragged beneath the heels of yonder horse. No mortal help, it appeared, could avail her. I felt the blood rush to my brain; I was about to fall from my saddle, when lo, a lad stepped from beside the trunk of yonder oak, I heard a heavy crashing blow, I saw Fairy fall as if pierced by a bullet in the brain, and I found thee, Charlotte, saved. And that reminds me," continued the cavalier, looking round, "he who did this gallant deed was this moment by my side."

"Ha, say'st thou, Walter," said the burly knight, "where, then, be this lad whom we have not even thanked for his service? Stand back, my masters."

As Sir Hugh spoke the attendants fell back, and discovered the graceful figure of the youth in the grey doublet, as he leant beside the tree. The old knight immediately stepped up, and grasping the youth by the hand, led him into the circle, whilst the young cavalier was more fully describing to the lady the bold and instantaneous manner in which she had been rescued.

The youth sank on one knee, and taking the lady's hand, pressed it to his lips. "Believe me, lady," he said, "the delight I experience in serving one so fair and exquisite, a thousand times o'erpays the duty."

"Why, gad a mercy," said the old knight, "thou art a high-flown champion, methinks. Nevertheless, lad, we are indebted to thee in more than we can either dilate on, or thou listen to with patience fasting. Let us return to the house, my masters all.

"Come Sir Knight of the quarter-staff," he continued, "'fore gad, we'll not part with thee till we have learnt how to do thee good service.

"Yet stay," he said, as he was preparing to mount, and whilst steadily regarding the youth, "art not of the town here? Have I not seen thy goodly visage somewhere in Stratford? Troth have I. Why man, thou art the son of my respected neighbour, the wool-comber in Henley Street—John Shakespeare."

"His eldest son, an it so please ye," said the youth, blushing.

"'Fore Heaven, and so thou art!" said Sir Hugh. "And what, good Philip?—is not thy name Philip?"

"William," said the youth.

"And what good wind, then, good William Shakespeare, hath blown thee so opportunely this morning to our neighbourhood?"

"Marry, the same wind, good Sir Hugh," said a tall, dark-looking man, dressed in the habiliments of a forester, and accompanied by a companion quite as ill-favoured as himself, and who at this moment thrust himself into the circle: "the same ill wind, Sir Hugh, that makes him haunt every wood and dell in the county."

This interruption somewhat startled the party. Sir Hugh turned and looked at him with surprise, whilst the object of the remark of the forester in an instant confronted the man. "Thou art an insolent caitiff," he said, "thus to speak of one of whom thou knowest nothing."

"An I know nothing of thee," said the forester contemptuously, "'tis more than my comrade here can testify. By the same token, thou has stolen upon his forest-walk, 'will he, nill he,' and beaten him on his own beat, as it were, and so put him to shame."

"And I am as like to do the same by thee with the like provocation," returned young Shakespeare. "Thy comrade laid hands upon me, and dishonoured me by a blow. For the which," he continued, significantly, "I beat him."

"And for which," returned the forester, "we have followed thee hither; and, time and opportunity serving, will return the beating with interest. Thou art warned, so look to thyself, and keep from our woods in future."

"Gramercy," said Sir Hugh, now interrupting the dispute, "but what saucy companions are these?"

"We are outlying keepers of Sir Thomas Lucy, of Charlecote, Sir Hugh," said the man, doffing his hat, and making a leg.

"Outlying, I think, by'r Lady," said Sir Hugh, "in every sense of the word. Thou hast railed on thyself, Sir Ranger, in accusing this youth of the offence of trespass, since thou art even now thyself trespassing here, and putting an affront upon a youth whom it is our pleasure to hold in good esteem. Begone, lest I give my people a hint to cudgel thee for thy presumption."

"Nay, then our master shall hear of it," said the keeper; "an thou encouragest those who lurch upon his grounds, the sword must settle it."

"'Tis with thy master I will settle it, thou arrant knave," said Sir Hugh; "I talk not with such caitiffs."

"And yet dost thou take up with yonder son of a trader in Stratford town," said the fellow, with a sneer. "'Want of company,' saith the proverb. Eh?"

"Hark ye, sirrah!" said young Shakespeare (like lightning seizing the keeper by the green frock, and forcing him up to the dead horse), "trader or noble, I warn thee to put no further affront upon me before this fair company; for, by the hand that brained yon steed, I can as easily teach thee as awful a lesson. Begone!" he continued. "I am alike ready to meet thee on thine own or other grounds, singly or together, with quarter-staff, or rapier and target."

The man looked cowed, he glanced towards his comrade, and both disappeared.

CHAPTER IV.

THE FAMILY OF THE CLOPTONS.

To Charlotte Clopton the introduction of the stranger youth, the relation her cousin gave of his opportune appearance, and the ready manner in which he had rescued her, seemed like some dream.

Indeed, under circumstances such as she now for the first time beheld the youthful poet, he was scarcely to be regarded, we opine, by a lady's eye with impunity.

Rendered insensible, as we have seen, by her severe fall, on recovery she found herself almost miraculously saved from a dreadful death. Whilst he who had rescued her, appeared to have come to her assistance "like some descended god."

"Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?" The heart of Charlotte was from that moment hopelessly, irrecoverably, lost.

The family of the Cloptons was of ancient descent. Sir Hugh was a widower, having no other offspring but the daughter we have already introduced to our readers. Of suitors doubtless the fair Charlotte might have had plenty and to spare; for, when broad lands are coupled with exceeding beauty,

"From the four corners of the earth they come
To kiss the shrine."

Sir Hugh had, however, made election for his daughter, of one who had been her companion from childhood, a cousin of her own, Walter Arderne. This young man, who was now about two and twenty years of age, absolutely doated on his affianced bride. His fortune was ample, and the woods of Arderne could be seen from the grounds of Clopton. Added to this he was extremely handsome, of a most amiable and generous disposition, brave as the steel he wore, and "complete in all good grace to grace a gentleman."

And yet withal, although Charlotte loved him as a brother, esteemed him as a friend, and had been taught to regard him as her future husband, to entertain any more tender feelings towards him she found impossible.

Still, Walter Arderne being thus the constant companion, the affianced husband of Charlotte, although numerous other cavaliers saw, and seeing, admired, their brief bow was soon made. They saw—they were smitten by the blind bow-boy—but they felt that the prize was appropriated worthily and withdrew.

Few men, indeed, were more worthy of a lady's eye than Walter Arderne. Gentle, generous, and frank, as we have before described him—rich and handsome withal—it seems scarcely possible that his fair cousin could fail in returning the strong love he felt for her. Yet so it was, and whether this love "chosen by another's eye" was distasteful to her, or that she thought the near relationship any bar to a more tender feeling, it is certain the very thought of her betrothment was disagreeable. Still Walter had been her friend, her companion, and her champion from childhood's hour, and under his fostering care and tuition she had become a sort of Dian of the woods and groves. Dearly did she love the bounding steed and the chase: the wild, the wold, the hawk, and the free air.

Her father's wishes also were law to her, and as she found it would be a terrible disappointment to him were she to own her dislike to a marriage with her cousin, she had suffered the engagement to remain unchallenged.

For centuries the Cloptons had seemed a doomed race; as if some ban was upon them they had been strangely unlucky by flood and field. Gentle by birth, noble in spirit, and in the enjoyment of all the world could give, they seemed doomed to be unfortunate. There was even a melancholy about the old hall itself consequent upon the mishaps and disasters that appeared the hereditary portion of the family. The sons were brave, their banner ever in the van, but they fell early in the fight. The daughters were chaste as they were beautiful, but an early grave had almost always closed over them. Nay, the villagers called the old manor-house the house of mourning, so invariably had most of its numerous occupants been swept off. An old legend (they affirmed) proclaimed this near extinction of the line of Clopton, and that the hall would be unlucky whilst their race continued its owners.

The brave old knight, gentle and even-tempered as he was, and whom on ordinary provocation it was difficult to anger, was peculiarly sensitive on this subject. Any allusion to the wild legend from a servitor, or rustic on his estate, would be sure to be followed by displeasure or dismissal; whilst mention of it from one in his own rank would have been considered equivalent to an invitation to the dark walk at the end of the pleasance, armed with rapier and dagger.

Sir Hugh had beheld his children fade away, apparently of hereditary disease, one after another in their early youth; all except the beautiful Charlotte, the pledge of a second marriage, and whose mother had died soon after giving birth to this their only child, and he was in consequence tremblingly alive to the slightest alarm of accident or illness. It was under such circumstances that Sir Hugh, in accepting the guardianship of his nephew, had learned to look upon the well-favoured Walter almost with the eye of a parent, and had set his heart upon a marriage between him and his lovely child.

Under such circumstances, too, had young Shakespeare performed the piece of service we have described,—a service beyond reward (as the old knight worded it), beyond aught he had to bestow; and it was under such circumstances that the youth became an occasional visitor at Clopton Hall, where he was admitted on an equality with the inmates, and received in a manner perhaps no other circumstances would have been likely to lead to.

The line drawn between persons of different condition in life was then more strictly kept, and more accurately defined than in our own day. But the good sense of Sir Hugh led him to appreciate superior attainments wherever they were to be found. The ignorance of youth proceeded, he thought, from idleness; the continuance of ignorance in manhood from pride—the pride which is less ashamed of being ignorant than of seeking instruction. At Clopton, therefore, men of worth were received, even though of low estate.

CHAPTER V.

A DOMESTIC PARTY IN ELIZABETH'S DAY.

On the evening of the day on which the accident had happened to Charlotte Clopton, that lady, together with her father, her cousin Walter, and young Shakespeare, were assembled in an ample apartment at Clopton Hall, situate on the ground floor, the windows looking out upon the lovely pleasure-grounds in the rear of the building. The youth had spent the entire day at the hall, and in the society of those to whom he had rendered so great a service.

Indeed any person (albeit he might not so well deserve consideration by this good family) would still have been a cherished guest; nay, even an "unmannered churl," under the same circumstances, would have been tolerated and made much of; but in this lad, Sir Hugh and his family found something so extraordinary, so superior, and of so amiable a disposition, that it appeared a blessing and an honour to have him as an associate beneath their roof.

Those who can associate with persons above them in rank, it has been said, and yet neither disgust or affront them by over-familiarity, or disgrace themselves by servility, prove that they are as much gentlemen by nature as their companions are by rank and station. If our readers wish to picture the youthful Shakespeare's first introduction into "worshipful society," and amongst people of condition of his day, and where he received those first impressions from which some of his delicious scenes have been drawn, they must imagine to themselves a large and somewhat gloomy oak-pannelled room, whose principal ornament is the huge elaborately-carved chimney-piece, which, in truth, seems to occupy one entire side of the apartment, and appears inclined also to march into the very centre thereof. The apartment (albeit it was, as we have said, by no means stinted to space, and had an exceeding quiet, retired, and comfortable look withal) was by no means constructed or fashioned after the more approved style of modern architecture. The ceiling was somewhat low, traversed by an enormous beam, and cut and carved elaborately, displaying fruits and flowers, heraldic devices of the brave, and all those extraordinary and grotesque figures which the cunning architects of old were so fond of inventing. On the side of the apartment opposite the huge chimney-piece, and on which side hung several scowling and bearded portraits, stood a sort of spinnet or harpsichord, and beside that leant an instrument, fashioned somewhat like a bass viol of the present day, but of a more curious form, and elaborately inlaid with ivory, a viol-de-gamba, an instrument then much in vogue. Two ample casements which opened inwards, and which were festooned by creeping plants, the eglantine and sweet jessamine, and which casements, as we have before said, looked into the green and bowery garden, and through which the soft evening breeze of May breathed the most exquisite perfume, gave a sort of green and fairy light to the interior. A heavy oaken table with enormous legs was placed near the window. Upon it were to be seen a silver salver, with several bottles of antique and most exquisite pattern, containing liquors of comfortable appearance and delicious flavour. These were flanked by high glasses of Venetian workmanship. In addition to these articles, several high-backed cane-bottomed chairs and one or two stools formed the remaining furniture of the room, and which, in comparison with our own over-crowded style, would perhaps have been termed only half furnished.

Nic-nacs there were few or none. Two or three dull-faced miniature mirrors, looking all frame, hung heavily against the pannelling, and even a cross-bow, several rapiers, one or two matchlocks, and other weapons of ancient fashion, were to be observed; whilst, to complete the picture, on the ample hearth (although the room constituted what in the present day would have been called the withdrawing-room of the mansion) sprawled several of the smaller dogs then used in field sports, and an enormous hound, sufficiently large and powerful to pull down a stag; and in the enjoyment of the sight and flavour of the good wines placed before him, sat the portly form of the master of the house. Beside the open window stood the youthful cavalier Walter Arderne, and on one of the oaken lockers or benches in the embrazure of the casement, was seated Charlotte Clopton. As she leant her cheek upon her hand, one moment she gazed abstractedly into the bowery garden, the next her eyes wandered into the softened light of the interior of the apartment, and rested upon the features of her deliverer, young Shakespeare. This youth stood beside the spinnet, and (unconscious of the sensation his narrative produced upon the ears and hearts of his hearers, and of the beauty of the description) was giving them the plot of a tale in verse which he had that morning been perusing, when the lady's danger interrupted him.

He related the story briefly, but in such language that his listeners were wrapt by the recital. He even accompanied his description by some action, and where he wished to impress his hearers more especially he endeavoured to recollect and repeat the lines of the poem, piecing out the story, when memory failed him, with such verses as he made for the nonce.

In addition to these, the principal personages of our chapter, there was one other individual in the room, who (albeit he occupied the background of the scene, being crouched up in a corner) is also deserving of a description.

This was a sort of hanger-on, or appendage to the establishments of the old families of condition in England not then quite extinct—a sort of good familiar creature, attached to the master of the house principally, and indifferently familiar with all and sundry, in doors and out—a sort of humorist—a privileged, seeming half idiotic, though in reality extremely shrewd and clever companion, who used his folly "like a stalking-horse, under cover of which, he shot his wit;" but who was indeed more the friend than the fool of the family, and oft-times consulted on matters of moment by the good knight.

This individual, clad in somewhat fantastic costume, fashioned by himself, be it understood, and which it was his especial pleasure to wear, (for Sir Hugh would by no means have forced any one in his establishment to wear motley,) was seated in a huge high-backed arm-chair, in a corner of the apartment, where, with his legs drawn up under him on the cushion, his hands clasped together over his breast, and his thumbs in his mouth, he kept a shrewd eye upon the other occupants; the long ears of his cap every now and then, as they shook with a sort of nervous twitch of the head, alone proclaiming that he was not some stuffed ornament, occupying the position it was his wont usually to choose in the apartment.

The story Shakespeare had related seemed to have made an impression on his own youthful mind. It professed to pourtray that baneful passion jealousy—a passion which, when once indulged, is the inevitable destroyer of conjugal happiness. It formed one of the old romances then in vogue amongst such as delighted in reading of the sort; for in those days of leisure, sobriety, and lack of excitement amongst females in the country, reading, spinning, embroidery, and other ornamental needlework, principally occupied the hours of the elder; and out-door amusements and music the younger. Those females who were given to literature, however, would, in our times, have indeed been considered learned, since many (albeit they eschewed light reading) understood both the Greek and Latin tongues to perfection, and many were no less skilful in the Spanish, Italian, and French.

In the narration of this story, and whilst (as we have said) young Shakespeare gave his own version, might have been observed gleams of that mighty genius which was, in after-times, to astonish the world.

His relation had, indeed, much of the fire and descriptive beauty which he afterwards threw into every line of his writings. He called up before his hearers the fiery openness of the injured husband; boundless in confidence, ardent in affection. He touched upon the soft and gentle simplicity of the victim; her consciousness of innocence; and her slowness to suspect she could be suspected. And, lastly, he described the clever devil, the fiend-like and malignant accuser, with matchless power.

Indeed the enormity of the crime of adultery, and upon which this story touched so forcibly, was in after days (as our readers doubtless recollect) made by the great dramatic moralist the subject of not less than four of his finished productions.

Another thing remarkable, and which struck all present, was the facility with which, by a touch as it were, he ever and anon (and as if by some incomprehensible magic of description) impressed the climate and country, the manners and customs of the actors in this romance, upon the hearers.

The relation had, indeed, seemed to the auditors like a dramatic performance. The melody of the speaker's voice, and the lines he uttered, left his audience as we sometimes feel after the scenic hour. There was a want of some soother of the excitement produced.

The old knight felt this. He took his viol-de-gamba and drew his bow lightly across the strings, producing that silver and somewhat solemn sound which those who have heard the instrument so well remember—sounds suited to the hour, age, and scene, and which give their own impressions of days long passed away.

"Come, Charlotte," said Sir Hugh, after executing one of the pieces of music then in vogue, "now a madrigal in which all can join. This youth hath put a spell upon us with his sad story. Come, a madrigal; and after that our evening meal in the garden, beneath the mulberry-tree. Do thou take the first, whilst I and Walter chime in second and third, and Martin shall e'en do his best to help us."

"Nay, uncle," said Martin, jerking out his legs straight before him, then putting them to the ground gently, and then lightly executing a sort of somersault and coming forward, "I pr'ythee hold me excused. I shall but spoil your music: my voice is rugged. I am not gifted to sing squealingly with a lady. A psalm or so at church, or a quaver after supper I can execute; but my voice is like the howl of an Irish wolf when I sing a part with the lady Charlotte: blessings on her celestial throat."

"Nay, Martin," said Charlotte, as she seated herself, "thou wilt not refuse when I tell thee it is to pleasure our new friend, to whom we owe so much."

Martin glanced quickly upon Shakespeare, as she said this, and then slowly turned his eye upon the young lady.

He stroked his chin knowingly, and seemed to be considering them both very curiously. "Truly so," he said, "we do indeed owe much to this lad. May God requite the debt." So saying, the familiar walked to the window, and, looking affectionately in the handsome face of Walter, as he stood leaning against the casement and regarding Charlotte, he put his arm through that of the young cavalier, and remained beside him whilst the madrigal was sung; his own fine bass voice coming in with singular effect, and belying his modest assertion of incompetency.

To say that the voice of the lovely Charlotte delighted Shakespeare would be to say little; he felt ravished and enchanted, and it left an impression upon the young poet which he never forgot from that hour!

And oh! how calmly, how contentedly, and how quietly flowed the hours of private life even during such a reign of glory as that of the great and good Queen Bess!

In those days the whirl of events, the increasing villany of the world, the petty doings of the actors in this vale of tears, the very minutiæ of crime and sin, the most paltry acts "committed on this ball of earth," in town, city, village, and hamlet were not as now, printed and published and blown into every corner of the kingdom, a few hours after commission. Even the leading events of the day, the acts of the great amongst the nations of the earth, and all the stirring deeds going on in the world, and which shook and overturned thrones; even these travelled slowly, and though posts "came tiring on," still rumour, full of tongues, made oft-times many slanderous reports ere the true one was manifest.

To the country gentleman his domain was his little world, his court, wherein he received the homage of his neighbouring dependents and tenants.

The charm of life consisted in these pursuits, those associations—nay even those superstitions, and those antiquated customs which modern utilitarianism has driven from the world. Whilst, as we have said, mighty events shook the nation, men continued to pursue their even way in that station of life in which it had pleased Heaven to call them.

After the madrigal, the old knight, with the viol-de-gamba clutched between his legs, fell fast asleep, his wonted custom in the evening; and having gently relieved him from all care of the instrument by withdrawing it from his custody, Charlotte invited the trio to a stroll in the garden, where they held converse upon various matters, occasionally interrupted in their discourse by the quaint sayings and witticisms of the shrewd Martin.

CHAPTER VI.

A DISAGREEABLE VISITOR.

'Twas a pleasing picture, that old knight taking his evening nap in his oak pannelled room, so quiet and so retired, so undisturbed, except by the cooing of the wood-pigeon, or the distant bay of the hound in the kennel.

The evening breeze sighed drearily through the branches of the gigantic cedar-tree in the garden, and whispered softly through the luxuriant plants and shrubs which hung about the diamond-paned windows.

'Tis a sweet time that evening hour, in an old mansion far removed from the bustle of the world. The oak floor, too, in the centre of the apartment, was coloured faintly by the many tints reflected through the stained glass in the upper compartments of the windows, and where the arms and crest of the Cloptons were variously multiplied and emblazoned. The dark polished oak of the huge chimney-piece, as the shadows of evening descended, seemed framed of iron or ebony, the grotesque figures, here and there ornamenting the higher parts, with their demoniac faces and satyr-like bodies, seeming ready to pounce upon whoever came within their reach.

Whilst the old knight enjoyed his siesta, every now and then giving a sort of start in his deep sleep, or a prolonged snore, and then twitching his muscular face and changing his position, the door of the apartment was gently opened, and a tall shadowy figure, after hesitating for a few moments at the threshold, and looking round, entered cautiously, and approaching the sleeper stood and gazed long and fixedly at his countenance.

What a contrast might a looker-on have observed in those two faces!—the one round, ruddy, redolent of health, and shewing no traces of guilt or care; the other worn, pale, anxious, and cadaverous-looking. The broad brim of the stranger's hat was drawn down and pulled low over his forehead, his dark and grizzled hair looked thin and perished, matching well with the iron gray of his complexion, and his forked beard, presenting altogether a worn and haggard appearance, a man of dark passions, evil thoughts, and sinister disposition.

After gazing for some time at Sir Hugh, the stranger laid his heavy gauntlet upon his shoulder and suddenly awoke him.

The knight opened his eyes, stared at the dark countenance so suddenly presented to him for a few moments, and then starting up, stepped a pace or two back and laid his hand upon the hilt of his rapier.

The grim stranger smiled at the startled look of the old knight, "Fear me not, Sir Hugh," he said. "I come not with intent to do thee harm."

"Fear thee," said Sir Hugh contemptuously, "wherefore should I fear? But thou comest upon me in my secure hour here—and I know thee not. Stand off, lest I smite thee."

"That would be a poor reception for an old friend," said the other, smiling a grim smile.

"An old friend!" said Sir Hugh, in tones of surprise; "truly then thou art an old friend with a new face. May heaven protect me, if ever I looked upon that white-livered visage of thine before."

"Art thou quite sure of that, Sir Hugh Clopton?" said the stranger. "Look again; time and care and climate have written, I dare be sworn, strange defeatures in my face, but yet methinks twenty years ago the name of Parry was not altogether unknown at Clopton."

"Parry!" said Sir Hugh, starting; "art thou Gilbert Parry? and what doth the banished traitor Parry within my walls? Hence, sirrah; I wish for the companionship of no man polluted with crimes such as thine."

"Nay, soft, Sir Hugh," said the visitor, "I come with credentials from one thou darest not slight. Look ye, I am bearer of a letter from the Nuncio Campeggio, and I demand speech with Father Eustace, who dwells in thy house here."

Sir Hugh again started; he took the letter from the hand of his visitor, and read it attentively.

"Truly," he said, "the letter is as thou say'st. In it I find I am ordered to give thee shelter here for the space of one week; affording thee and those with whom thou consortest such secresy and seclusion as thou may'st desire. I dare not deny the hospitality so enjoined, but in good sooth I had as lief thou had'st sought it elsewhere, Gilbert Parry."

"'Tis well," said Parry, taking his riding-cloak from his shoulders; "Clopton hath secret chambers, I know, as well as that devoted servants of the Catholic Church dwell beneath its roof."

"May I not know," inquired Sir Hugh, "of the business which employs the talents of Gilbert Parry, and makes the Pope's Nuncio his introducer within my walls?"

"At more fitting opportunity perchance thou mayest," returned Parry, whose manner had become more assured after he observed the impression the letter he had delivered had made; "at the present moment I require rest and refreshment."

Sir Hugh said no more; he stepped to a concealed pannel beside the huge chimney-piece, and drawing it aside, ushered his guest into a small closet-like apartment, and then carefully closed the pannel again. A narrow winding staircase ascended from this small room into the chamber above, and which was only known or used by Sir Hugh himself, together with Martin and the priest, who occasionally visited at the Hall.

After entering, Sir Hugh signed to his guest to ascend the staircase.

"Thou wilt find every accommodation here in this chamber," he said, "and refreshment shall be served to thee by one I can trust. Father Eustace is at present absent from Clopton, but to-morrow I expect he will return."

"I would confer with him without delay," said Parry, "so soon as he returns."

"Be it so," said Sir Hugh, retiring from the apartment, and descending the stairs; seeming, as he did so, by his manner, not sorry to withdraw from the companionship of his new guest.

As soon as he had descended into the small apartment we have before described, he paused for a few moments, and then unlocked and opened a low postern door, which admitted into the garden, and, guided by the voices of his daughter and her party in the distance, immediately sought them.

It was by no means uncommon for the Catholics, during this reign, to hold secret intercourse with each other after the fashion we have just described, going from house to house with the utmost care; the more violent and remorseless making it their practice to seek refuge oft-times amongst the quieter gentry, and, under cover of their respectability, carrying on their designs with greater security.

In pursuance of such custom, Sir Hugh's new visitor had now sought shelter at Clopton. He had, on that same evening, arrived at Stratford in company with others, and immediately on dismounting from his horse, had walked across the meadows, entered the grounds, and being well acquainted with the localities, introduced himself into the house without being seen by any one.

When Sir Hugh joined his daughter and her party, there was a something of anxiety upon his brow which was not usual with him. But so deeply interested were Charlotte and Walter Arderne with the conversation of their new formed acquaintance, that they observed it not. The quick eye, however, of the shrewd Martin (who so well knew his old master's habits) saw at a glance that something had puddled the clear spirit of the knight; and advancing towards him, they walked apart and held converse together.

"Is there ill news toward?" said Martin. "Something I perceive hath disturbed you, and broken in upon your slumbers."

"I have had a visitor, Martin," said Sir Hugh; "one with whom I had long closed the accounts of acquaintanceship as a dangerous companion."

"Know I the man?" inquired Martin.

"Like myself you did so," returned Sir Hugh; "but evil courses drove him from the country some years back. You remember Gilbert Parry?"

"What," said Martin, "he who was condemned to death as a traitor some five years ago, and to whom the Queen graciously granted a free pardon?"

"The same. He hath been with me just now."

"He was ever a restless dangerous knave," said Martin; "his visit might well have been spared. I trust it was a short one."

"Nay," said Sir Hugh, "he hath claimed the hospitality of Clopton on matters of moment connected with holy mother Church, and hath shewn me letters from the Nuncio Campeggio, and from Ragazoni at Paris."

"He comes from abroad, then, I dare be sworn," said Martin, "and on no good errand depend on't, and he makes Clopton his place of residence on his first arrival, in order to be in security whilst he spies into the localities, and sounds his instruments; ah, and by my fay, 'tis a crafty and a dangerous companion, whose designs may get us into trouble. But an I dive not into his contrivances I would I might never taste hippocras again."

"I would have thee do so, Martin, if it be possible," said Sir Hugh, "for I like not such guests; albeit, their visits are sanctioned and enjoined by the mighty in our Church. Nay, it was but last week I had a visit from Ralph Somerville, of Warwick, who held me in dangerous converse a whole hour, upon the necessity of smiting all heretics and persecutors. His discourses on religious matters shewed a distempered brain. Troth, I was glad to be rid of him."

"'Tis strange," said Martin, "to behold the spirit which everywhere actuates those who profess more religion than their neighbours, both Protestants and Catholics. By my faith, men will dispute upon the subject, cut a throat for religion, indite most learned matter appertaining,—anything but live for it."

"'Tis even so, Martin," said Sir Hugh with a sigh, "and therefore doth it behove us, and all those who are not of this bigoted and intolerant spirit, to guard our hearths from the danger of such association. A presentiment of evil is upon my mind since this man's coming, which I cannot shake off. Be it thy business to look to his wants this evening. To-morrow Father Eustace returns, and we shall then know more about his designs."

"Ah, that Eustace!" muttered Martin to himself. "Hath he ever seen this man?" he inquired aloud.

"I think not," said Sir Hugh; "they have never met to my knowledge."

"Enough," said Martin; "leave him to me. Now break we off, and let us join our party. See where the lady Charlotte leads her two attendant swains toward the house yonder. This new-found friend, Sir Hugh," continued Martin, "this youth, whose merits seem so far beyond his fortunes, is he likely to remain long at Clopton?"

"He tarries here to-night, Martin," said Sir Hugh, "and shall be ever welcome. We are deeply his debtor."

"Humph," said Martin significantly, "I supposed as much, and I suppose it must even be so,—but——"

CHAPTER VII.

PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS.

England, up to the period of Elizabeth's reign, at which our story has now arrived, had been blessed in the enjoyment of the most absolute security.

The scene, however, was now beginning to change, and multiplied dangers to threaten the maiden Queen from various quarters.

Scotland and its affairs gave Elizabeth continued uneasiness, and every new revolution amongst the wild and turbulent nobles of that rude land caused her fresh anxiety, because that country alone being not separated from England by sea, and bordering on all the Catholic and malcontent countries, afforded her enemies an easy mode of annoying her.

Nothing could be more romantic, wild, and extravagant than the stories which those of the English who had penetrated far north brought back of the state of the nation, and the manners and disposition of the inhabitants; and which, if they were to be believed, described the chieftains in the hill countries as living amidst their wild and savage retainers in a singular style of feudal grandeur and semi-barbarism.

Nay, such was, in reality, the nature of the rude Highlanders in the remoter districts of Scotland, that, for an Englishman to attempt to penetrate into their fastnesses, would have been attended with the same difficulty and danger as at the present time a journey into the centre of Africa is exposed to. So that to the generality of the English nation the interior of Scotland was a terra incognita; whilst the dark and ominous rumours continually floating about, pictured the very court itself of that distracted country in a most strange and unnatural light. Murders, conspiracies, rebellions, and every sort of consequence upon misrule and headstrong passion, seemed the every-day occurrence there.

In Ireland, too, (where the inhabitants were equally wild, reckless, and opposite to England,) every invader found ready auxiliaries.

Alienated by religious prejudices, that nation hated the English with a peculiar and deadly animosity; an animosity which has rankled in their breasts up to the present time, and caused the shedding of rivulets of blood.

The anxiety of the Queen, on account of the attempts of the English Catholics, never ceased during the course of her reign, and was at this period greater than ever: whilst the continued revolutions happening to all the neighbouring kingdoms were the source of her continued apprehension Plots after plots were concocted in all quarters against her life, and which were being as constantly brought to light by one extraordinary chance or another.

The Cloptons, as we have seen, were members of the Church of Rome, though they were of the milder sort of Catholics, steering clear of all those intrigues and conspiracies which the more bigoted of their persuasion were so continually engaged in.

They were, indeed, well thought of and regarded by the government and the queen, and the good Sir Hugh was beloved and respected by all parties. Still the iron rule of the Church of Rome was upon him and his household, and held him under subjection. Many, therefore, were the narrow escapes he had experienced from being drawn into the violent and bloody plots and conspiracies the more dangerous and bigoted members of his creed had already been engaged in.

In a former chapter our readers have seen a person of this latter sort arrive stealthily at the Hall, and fasten himself upon the secret hospitality of Sir Hugh, in virtue of the powerful letters he produced.

What the designs of this man might be it was impossible to fathom, and Sir Hugh well knew that from the circumstance of his being himself considered but a mild and luke-warm Catholic by the more zealous and violent party, (although he might be made use of,) he would scarcely be initiated by them into their secrets.

Under such circumstances, the faithful Martin, (whose devotion towards the family of his old friend and patron amounted to a species of worship,) in taking upon himself the office of attendant upon the unwelcome guest, resolved to play the spy upon him at the same time, and, if possible, pluck out the heart of his mystery. The absence of the priest (who frequently resided at the Hall) favoured this design; and (on leaving Sir Hugh) Martin ascended to the apartment usually occupied by Father Eustace, where he doffed his motley coat, and induing the garments of the priest, suddenly presented himself before Parry.

The talent for humour possessed by this singular being made his design peculiarly agreeable to him, for to play a part (even under dangerous circumstances) was quite in accordance with his disposition.

On entering he found the object of his visit seated upon the small truckle bed with which the room was accommodated, and which (except two chairs) was all the furniture in it—the bed standing in a recess.

The room itself was one of those small, curious chambers peculiar to the buildings of the Catholic gentry during this and the subsequent reign. It seemed evidently to have been contrived for purposes of seclusion and concealment, and was more like the cell of a monastery than a chamber in a private dwelling. Cribbed, as it seemed to have been, out of some corner of the edifice, where an apartment would never have been thought of; the only light by which this closet-like room was illuminated in the day-time being from a small concealed window, so contrived as not to be visible from the grounds without.

So deep in his own contemplations was the occupant of this chamber, that, at first, he did not observe the entrance of the disguised Martin. When he did so, however, he quickly started to his feet, and the riding cloak which he had unfastened slipping from his shoulders shewed that he was armed (as the phrase goes) to the very teeth. Rapier and dagger were by his side, a pair of the huge, ill-contrived, petronels of the period at his waist, and in place of a shirt it was evident that he wore a sort of hauberk of linked steel beneath his upper garments; in fact, a more dangerous-looking and dishevelled companion the shrewd Martin had seldom beheld.

"The peace of Heaven be upon thee, my son," said Martin, as the visitor confronted him.

"Such peace as Heaven wills," returned the other.

"Those who have to do the work are not permitted peace of mind or body in this world. Art thou him to whom I am secretly commended at Clopton, the good Father Eustace?"

"Such is the name men usually give the wearer of these garments of the Church, my son," returned Martin. "I would they clove to the body of a more worthy representative."

"The business I have with thee, good father," said Parry, "is of that dangerous and imminent nature that I may not trust to thy word alone. I must be furnished with proof of thy identity. Sir Hugh Clopton affirmed but now that Father Eustace was at present absent from the Hall."

"I have but now returned," said Martin, "and immediately have sought thee out by Sir Hugh's desire. What you have to communicate can either be withheld or given freely, I seek not to know the secret of others. Letters of import, as I learn, hath procured thee a secret asylum here, without which, as thou art aware, thou could'st not have been received, neither can I hold converse with thee, unless thou canst shew such documents or explain the reasons of thy coming hither."

"Enough said, father," returned Parry, thrown off his guard, "those documents thou shalt have; meantime hear the reasons which have moved me to this visit, and my intent in seeking thee."

"Proceed," said Martin, seating himself, whilst the other walked restlessly up and down the small room, apparently carried away by the violence of his own thoughts.

"Thou knowest my early history," he said, "and how that after being an undutiful son, a sabbath-breaker, and a blasphemer, the devil lured me to the commission of crimes by which my life was forfeited to the laws?"

"I have heard these things," said Martin, "and such part of the story needs no repetition. The Queen granted you a free pardon, for which you are doubtless grateful, and resolved in making amends?"

"I had resolved on doing so," said Parry, "and hoped for days of repentance and happiness, but none came, as you shall hear. The fiend still held possession. I wandered about in woods and solitary places, for the sight of my fellow creatures was horrible to me. Nay, I thought every one seemed happy but myself, and the evil one constantly whispered that there was no mercy for Gilbert Parry. Again, therefore, I sought society, gave the reins to my evil desires, and myself up to evil ways, and again conscience troubled me. I had rest neither by night nor day. I feared the night, lest the enemy should take me before morning. I tried to pray, but could not. I passed whole days as if my body had been pricked down irrecoverably, persuaded the fiend was in my apartment. Nay, my very body was in flames. To cry for help was vain, no relief came, and I was ever filled with evil thoughts. Such, holy father, were the torments I endured for five years. At length it appeared to me that this state of persecution arose from some cause in which I was called upon to exert myself. Then considered I of the persecuted state of our religion, and that I was called upon to strike a blow for its welfare. In short I resolved to do a deed which (by destroying the great enemy of our Church) should obtain for me the crown of martyrdom."

"Proceed, my son," said Martin, who, seated with his chin upon his doubled fists, was listening to and contemplating the excited Parry with the utmost attention. "Proceed, my son, wherefore dost thou stop?"

The narrator of his own troubled thoughts regarded Martin with a deep and searching look. "Methought I saw a devilish smile upon thy face," he said sternly. "Is the relation of such things subject of ridicule?"

"Rather of pity," said Martin; "I smiled to think that a whip and a dark room might have dispelled such phantoms. The most absurd doctrines are not without such evidence as martyrdom can produce."

"You think, then," said Parry, "that penance and flagellation were required?"

"Call it so, an if you will," said Martin, "fasting is good for digestion, and real pain for imaginary suffering. Doubtless you lived well whilst this frenzy lasted. You was, you say, leading a wild life, perhaps drunk one-half of the twenty-four hours, and mad the other. A bad state of the stomach produces fumes upon the brain. I would have exorcised the fiend by blood-letting, blisters, purgation, and purification. But proceed, you was about to say what this continued spiritual ague wrought you to."

"The cutting off of one who is the bitter enemy of our creed, the usurper of the throne of these realms," said Parry, "the putting to death of Elizabeth Tudor."

"Ah, ah," said Martin, "methought 'twould tend that way. She to whom you are indebted for a life, is to pay the forfeit of life for her clemency."

"And you disapprove of my project, then?" inquired Parry.

"Nay, I said not so much, did I?" returned the shrewd Martin.

"But you inferred so much, did you not?" again inquired Parry.

"Mayhap I did, mayhap I did not," said Martin, who saw by the eye of Parry that his own situation, thus shut up with such a man, and under false colours, was somewhat perilous, especially as Parry in his excited state begun to fumble with the poniard at his waist. Martin in short now saw that his companion was mad. Under such circumstances to shew fear or distrust is to perish.

"In trusting Father Eustace," said Parry, placing himself between Martin and the door, "I was led to expect I should find one ready in every way to forward and aid so great a design. Such was the assurance I received from Ragazoni. I brook no prevarication, priest; neither will I run the risk of betrayal." So saying, Parry drew his dagger from the sheath, looking at Martin at the same time with the ferocity of a tiger ready to spring.

"'Tis not often that ministers of the Holy Mother Church are threatened thus," said Martin coolly, and without altering his position.

"I will drive my dagger to the heart of every member of this household," said Parry, "rather than endanger the success of my project."

"That in itself would ruin the project, as far as you are its executor," returned Martin, "since you would be likely to be apprehended and suffer for your violence."

"Swear upon the hilt of my poniard not to divulge what I have just related," said Parry, becoming somewhat less excited, and thrusting his dagger close to the mouth of Martin. "Swear."

"I am ready to do so," said Martin, quietly moving the steel from its close proximity to his lips, "with one reservation however, that Sir Hugh Clopton is to be informed of it."

"Ah," said Parry, seeming to reflect, and as suddenly changing from his excited state to comparative calmness, "was I not told to take the advice of Father Eustace, as to the propriety of making Sir Hugh Clopton acquainted with this design? And you advise such measure, do you, father?"

"Most assuredly; for what other purpose have you sought his roof?"

"For the purpose," said Parry, "of being in the vicinity of others cognizant of my design in this country, and of conferring with yourself in security, since my steps and motions, until I took refuge in Warwickshire, have been closely watched."

"Good," returned Martin. "Now, wilt follow my advice since you have been sent to seek it?"

"I will," said Parry.

"Thus it is," said Martin; "dismiss all further thoughts connected with your design to-night: partake of the refreshments I have brought with me, and then seek the repose you so much need. To-morrow we will talk further, taking Sir Hugh into our counsels; and so I take my leave." As he said this Martin rose, and was about to pass Parry, carefully making a circuit so as to get between him and the door, the latter following him as he did so with a doubtful eye.

"You are a different man from the person I was led to expect in Father Eustace," said Parry, still dallying with his drawn dagger.

"I am as you see me," said Martin, "true to my word and to the master I serve."

"And you swear not to divulge?" said Parry.

"Except to Sir Hugh—I swear," said Martin.

"Be it so," said Parry, sheathing his dagger and stepping aside. "Good night, father."

"To-morrow early I will again be with you," said Martin. "Good night", and the next moment he was outside the small apartment.

CHAPTER VIII.

STRATFORD-UPON-AVON.