a place of terror and fatal recollections; his infant had perished in the flames which destroyed his property. But it seems impossible that one in his social position could die for lack of bread. He died most probably of that which kills as surely as hunger—the “hysterica passio" of Lear. In a few days most of those we have named would be gathered round Spenser's grave in Westminster Abbey "his hearse attended by poets, and mournful elegies, and poems, with the * that wrote them, thrown into his tomb." One of the ablest writers pens of our day, in his quaint and pleasant Citation and Examination of William Shakspeare,' &c., says, "William Shakspeare was the only poet who abstained from throwing in either pen or poem,—at which no one marvelled, he being of low estate, and the others not having yet taken him by the hand." This is the language only of romance; for assuredly when Shakspere stood by the grave of Spenser, he of all the poets then living must have been held to be the head. Five years before, Spenser himself had without doubt thus described him : "And there, though last not least, is Aëtion ; A gentler shepherd may nowhere be found: Jonson says "He seems to shake a lance As brandish'd at the eyes of ignorance." Fuller compares him to the poet Martial "in the warlike sound of his surname, whence some may conjecture him of a military extraction, hasti-vibrans, or Shake-speare." We cannot doubt of the allusion. He could not have meant to compare the poet with the Roman painter Aëtion. The fancy of Spenser might readily connect the "high thoughts" with the soaring eagle—żɛrós— and we might almost fancy that there was some association of the image with Shakspere's armorial bearings-" his crest or cognizance, a falcon, his wings displayed." The spring of 1599 saw Shakspere's friends and patrons, Essex and Southampton, in honour and triumph. "The 27th of March, 1599, about two o'clock in the afternoon, Robert Earl of Essex, Vicegerent of Ireland, &c., took horse in Seeding Lane, and from thence, being accompanied with divers noblemen and many others, himself very plainly attired, rode through Grace Street, Cornhill, Cheapside, and other high streets, in all which places, and in the fields, the people pressed exceedingly to behold him, especially in the highways for more than four miles space, crying, and saying, God bless your Lordship, God preserve your honour, &c., and some followed him until the evening, only to behold him. When he and his company came forth of London, the sky was very calm and clear, but before he could get past Iseldon [Islington] there arose a great black cloud in the north-east, and suddenly came lightning and thunder, with a great shower of hail and rain, the which some held as an ominous * Camden. + Colin Clout's come Home again,' 1594. prodigy."* It was perhaps with some reference to such ominous forebodings that in the chorus to the fifth Act of Henry V.—which of course must have been performed between the departure of Essex in March, and his return in September-Shakspere thus anticipates the triumph of Essex : "But now behold, In the quick forge and working house of thought, *Stow's Annals.' MARSTON'S Comedy, as it appears by the edition of 1605, was then played by Shakspere's company, "the King's Majesty's Servants;" but it had been previously played by another company, as we learn from the very singular Induction, in which some of the most eminent of Shakspere's fellows come upon the stage in their own characters. We have here William Sly, Harry Condell, and Dick Burbage; with Sinklow (of whom little is known beyond his twice being mentioned by accident instead of the dramatic character in the folio of Shakspere) and John Lowin, famous for his performance of Falstaff. The Induction itself presents so curious a picture of the theatre in Shakspere's time, that we may properly fill a little space with a portion of it :— "Enter W. SLY; a Tire-man following him with a stool. Tire-man. Sir, the gentlemen will be angry if you sit here. Sly. Why, we may sit upon the stage at the private house. Thou dost not take me for a country gentleman, dost? Dost thou fear hissing? I'll hold my life thou took'st me for one of the players. Tire-man. No, sir. Sly. By God's-slid, if you had I would have given you but sixpence for your stool. Let them that have stale suits sit in the galleries. Hiss me! He that will be laughed out of a tavern, or an ordinary, shall seldom feed well, or be drunk in good company. Where's Harry Condell, Dick Burbage, and William Sly? Let me speak with some of them. Tire-man. An 't please you to go in, sir, you may. Sly. I tell you no; I am one that hath seen this play often, and can give them intelligence for their action. I have most of the jests here in my table-book. Sly. O! cousin, come, you shall sit between my legs here. Sinklow. No indeed, cousin; the audience then will take me for a viol de gambo, and think that you play upon me. Sly. Nay, rather that I work upon you, coz. Sinklow. We staid for you at supper last night at my cousin Honeymoon's, the woollen-draper. After supper we drew cuts for a score of apricots; the longest cut still to draw an apricot; by this light, 't was Mrs. Frank Honeymoon's fortune still to have the longest cut. I did measure for the women. What be these, coz? Sly. The players. God save you. Enter D. BURBAGE, H. CONDELL, and J. LoWIN. Sly. I pray you know this gentleman, my cousin; 't is Mr. Doomsday's son, the usurer. Condell. I beseech you, sir, be cover'd. Sly. No, in good faith, for mine ease; look you, my hat's the handle to this fan: God's so, what a beast was I, I did not leave my feather at home! Well, but I take an order with you. [Puts a feather in his pocket. Burbage. Why do you conceal your feather, sir? Sly. Why do you think I'll have jests broken upon me in the play to be laugh'd at? This play hath beaten all young gallants out of the feathers. Backfriars hath almost spoiled Blackfriars for feathers. Sinklow. God's so ! I thought 't was for somewhat our gentlewomen at home counselled me to wear my feather to the play; yet I am loath to spoil it. Sly. Why, coz ? Sinklow. Because I got it in the tilt-yard: there was a herald broke my pate for taking it up. But I have worn it up and down the Strand, and met him forty times since, and yet he dares not challenge it. Sly. Do you hear, sir? this play is a bitter play. Condell. Why, sir, 't is neither satire nor moral, but the mere passage of an history: yet there are a sort of discontented creatures that bear a stingless envy to great ones, and these will wrest the doings of any man to their base, malicious appliment; but should their interpretation come to the test, like your marmoset, they presently turn their teeth to their tail and eat it. Sly. I will not go far with you; but I say, any man that hath wit may censure, if he sit in the twelve penny room and I say again, the play is bitter. Burbage. Sir, you are like a patron that, presenting a poor scholar to a benefice, enjoins him not to rail against anything that stands within compass of his patron's folly. Why should not we enjoy the ancient freedom of poesy? Shall we protest to the ladies, that their painting makes them angels? or to my young gallant, that his expense in the brothel should gain him reputation? No, sir, such vices as stand not accountable to law should be cured as men heal tetters, by casting ink upon them. Would you be satisfied in anything else, sir? Sly. Ay, marry would I: I would know how you came by this play? Condell. Faith, sir, the book was lost; and because 't was pity so good a play should be lost, we found it, and play it. Sly. I wonder you play it, another company having interest in it." ABOUT the close of the year 1599, the Blackfriars Theatre was remarkable for the constant presence of two men of high rank, who were there seeking amusement and instruction as some solace for the bitter mortifications of disappointed ambition. My Lord Southampton and Lord Rutland came not to the Court; the one doth but very seldom; they pass away the ti erely in going to plays every day."* Essex had arrived from ir September, 1599-not "Bringing rebellion broached on his sword," not surrounded with swarms of citizens who "Go forth, and fetch their conquering Cæsar in," "The 28th of * Letter of Rowland Whyte to Sir Robert Sydney, in the Sydney Papers. |