with its flag floating in the air, the Boar's Head, and the Falcon? Uncle Timothy rose, and in a voice faltering with emotion, articulated "Shakspere!" An impressive pause followed, and high and holy thoughts sanctified the antique, sombre apartment wherein we sat. "I blush not," he resumed, "to be thus moved. Tears brace the heart as well as melt. If Marlborough's general1 wept over the inspired muse of Addison; shall not woman's weapons, waterdrops, stain my man's cheeks' when under the spell of the divine Shak spere?

6

"For since the birth of Cain, the first-born man,

To him that did but yesterday suspire,

There was not such a gracious creature seen!""

Suddenly the strings of a harp were struck.

“Listen!” said Uncle Timothy, "that is no everyday hand.” The chords were repeated; and, after a symphony that spoke in exquisite tones a variety of passions, a voice melodious and plaintive

sang

knaves, that were now neither lords nor ladies, but honestly wore their owne clothes (if they were paid for").

In 1598 an unsuccessful attempt was made by the puritanical vestry of Saint Saviour's to put down the Globe Theatre, on the plea of the "enormities" practised there. But James the First, when he came to the throne, knocked their petitions on the head by granting his patent to Shakspere and others to perform plays, "as well within their usuall house called the Globe, in Surrey," as elsewhere. It was what Stowe calls "a frame of timber," with, according to John Taylor, the water-poet, "a thatched hide." Its sign was an Atlas bearing a globe. It was accidentally burnt down on St. Peter's day, June 29, 1613. “And a marvaile and fair grace of God it was," says Sir Ralph Winwood in his Memorials, "that the people had so little harm, having but two little doors to get out."

Sir Henry Wootton's relation of this fire is exceedingly interesting. "Now, to let matters of state sleep, I vvill entertain you at the present vvith vvhat hath happened this vveek at the Banks side. The King's players had a new play, called All is true, representing some principal pieces of the raign of Henry 8, which was set forth with many extraordinary circumstances of pomp and majesty, even to the matting of the stage, the knights of the order, with their Georges and garters, the guards with their embroidered coats, and the like: sufficient, in truth, within a mile to make greatness very familiar, if not ridiculous. Now, King Henry making a masque at the Cardinal Woolsey's house, and certain canons being shot off at his entry, some of the paper, or other stuff wherewith one of them were stopped, did light on the thatch, where, being thought at first but an idle smoak, and their eyes more attentive to the show, it kindled inwardly, and ran round like a train, consuming within less than an hour the whole house to the very ground.

"This was the fatal period of that vertuous fabrique, wherein nothing did perish but wood and straw, and a few forsaken cloaks; only one man had his breeches set on fire, that would perhaps have broyled him if he had not, by the benefit of a provident wit, put it out with bottle-ale. The rest when we meet.”—Reliquiæ Woottona.

A military tale-bearer, hoping to fix the stigma of effeminacy on his brother officer, told the Duke of Marlborough that one of his generals had wept at the tra gedy of Cato. How grievously was he disappointed when that renowned warrior replied, "Never mind; he will fight none the worse for it."

The same great man, on being asked in the house of a titled lady from what history of England he was quoting, answered, “the only one I have ever read-Shakspere!"

Bonaparte did not believe in friendship: "Friendship is but a word. I love no one-no, not even my brothers; Joseph, perhaps, a little. Still, if I do love him, it is from habit, because he is the eldest of us. Duroc! Yes, him I certainly love: but why? His character suits me he is cold, severe, unfeeling; and then, Duroc never weeps."

THE OLD HARPER'S SONG.

Sound the harp! strike the lyre !-Ah! the Minstrel is old;
The days of his harping are very nigh told;

Yet Shakspere, sweet Shakspere! thy name shall expire
On his cold quiv'ring lips-Sound the harp! strike the lyre!

Its music was thine when his barp he first strung,
And thou wert the earliest song that he sung;
Now feeble and trembling his hand sweeps the wire-
Be thine its last note!-Sound the harp! strike the lyre!

I've wander'd where riches and poverty dwell;
With all but the sordid thy name was a spell.
Love, pity, and joy, in each bosom beat higher;

Rage, madness, despair!-Sound the harp! strike the lyre!

The scenes of thy triumphs are pass'd as a dream ;
Bat still slows in beauty, sweet Avon-thy stream.
Still rises majestic that heaven-pointed spire,

Try temple and tomb !—Sound the harp! strike the lyre!”

«Gentlemen.” said Uncle Timothy, and his eye glistened and his lip trembled," the old minstrel must not depart hence without a full purse and a plentiful scrip. But first to bespeak him the best bed that this hostelrie affords, and compound a loving cup to warm his heart as he hath warmed ours. For myself, I never was so moved by music before. This chimney-corner shall be his harp's restingplace for the night, as perchance it hath been of many long since silent and unstrung.”

The middle-aged gentleman rose to usher in the minstrel; but paused as the same harp and voice were again attuned, but to a livelier measure.

“THE PEDLAR'S PACK.

"Needles and pins! Needles and pins!
Lads and lasses, the fair begins!

Ribbons and laces

For sweet smiling faces;

Glasses for quizzers ;
Bodkins and scissars;

Baubles, my dears,

For your fingers and ears;
Sneeshing for sneezers ;
Toothpicks and tweezers;
Garlands so gay

For Valentine's day;
Fans for the pretty;

Jests for the witty;
Songs for the many
Three yards a penny!

I'm a jolly gay pedlar, and bear on my back,

Like my betters, my fortune through brake and through briar;

I shuffle, I cut, and I deal out my pack;

And when I play the knave, 'us for you to play higher!

In default of a scrip,

In my pocket I slip

A good fat hen, lest it die of the pip!

When my cream I have sipp'd,
And my liquor I've lipp'd,

I often have been, like my syllabub-whipp'd.
But a pedlar's back is as broad as it's long,
So is his conscience, and so is his song!"

"An arrant Proteus!" said Uncle Timothy, "with the harp of Urien, and the knavery of Autolicus. But we must have him in, and see what further store of ballads he hath in his budget."

And he rose a second time; but was anticipated by the Squire Minstrel, who entered, crying, "Largess! gentles, largess! for the poor harper of merry Stratford-upon-Avon.'

The personage making this demand was enveloped in a large, loose camlet cloak, that had evidently passed through several generations of his craft till it descended to the shortest. His complexion was of a brickdust rosiness, through which shone dirtiness visible; his upper-lip was fortified with a huge pair of sable mustachios, and his nether curled fiercely with a bushy imperial. His eyes, peering under his broad-brimmed slouched beaver, were intelligent, and twinkled with good humour. His voice, like his figure, was round and oily; and when he doffed his hat, a shock of coal-black wiry hair fell over his face, and rendered his features still more obscure. "Well, goodman Harper," cried Uncle Timothy, after viewing attentively this singular character, "what other Fittes, yet unsung, have you in your budget?"

"A right merry and conceited infinity!" replied the minstrel. "Almonds for Parrots; Nutmegs for Nightingales! a Fardle of Fancies, stewed in Four Ounces of the Oyle of Epigrams; a Balade of a priest that loste his nose for saying of masse, as I suppose; a most pleasant Ballad of patient Grissell; a merry new Song how a Brewer meant to make a Cooper cuckold, and how deere the Brewer paid for the bargaine; a merie newe Ballad intituled the pinnyng of the Basket; the Twenty-five orders of Fooles; a Ditty delightful of Mother Watkin's ale; A warning well wayed, though counted a tale; and A prettie new Ballad, intytuled

The crowe sits upon the wall,
Please one, and please all !'

written and sung by Dick Tarlton! Were it meet for

you, most

1 Tarlton was a poet. "Tarlton's Toys" (see Thomas Nash's "Terrors of the Night," 4to. 1594,) had appeared in 1586. He had some share in the extemporal play of "The Seven Deadly Sins." In 1578, John Allde had a license to publish "Tarlton's device upon this unlooked-for great snowe." In 1570, the same John Allde" at the long shop adjoyning unto Saint Mildred's Church in the Pultrye,” published "A very Lamentable and Wofull Discours of the Fierce Fluds, whiche lately Flowed in Bedford Shire, in Lincoln Shire, and in many other Places, with the Great Losses of Sheep and other Cattel, the 5th of October, 1570." We are in possession of an unique black-letter ballad, written by Tarlton. It has a woodcut of a lady dressed in the full court costume of the time, holding in her right hand a fan of feathers.

"A prettie newe Ballad, intytuled:

The crowe sits vpon the wall,

Please one and please all.

To the tune of, Please one and please all.

Imprinted at London for Henry Kyrkham, dwelling at the little North doore of Paules, at the Sygne of the blacke Boy."

VOL. IX.

L

reverend and rich citizens, to bibo with a poor ballad-monger, I would crave your honours to pledge with me a cup to his merry

memory."

“Meet!” quoth Uncle Timothy. "Gramercy! Dick Tarlton is meat, av, and drink too, for the best wit in Christendom, past, present, and to come! Thy calling, vagrant though it be, shall not stand in the way of a good toast. What say you, my friends, to a loving cup with the harper, to Dick Tarlton, and Merrie Eng

land? *

The cup went round; and as the harper brushed his lips after the spicy draught, so did his right mustachio!

Uncie Timothy did not notice this peculiarity.

Might I once more presume on my noble masters," said the harper. I would humbly-”

Thou art Lord of Misrule for to-night,” replied Uncle Timothy. * Go on presuming.”

The memory of the immortal Twenty-nine, and their patron, Holy Saint Thomas of Canterbury!" And the minstrel bowed his head lowly, crossed his hands over his breast, and rising to his harp, struck a chord that made every bosom thrill again.

-Thy touch hath a finish, and thy voice a harmony that betoken cultivation and science."

As the middle-aged gentleman made this observation, the mustachio that had taken a downward curve fell to the ground; its companion (some conjurer's heir-loom,) played at follow my leader; and the solitary imperial was left alone in its glory.

The harper, to hide his confusion, hummed Lodoiska. Uncle Timothy, espying the phenomenon, fixed his wondering eyes full in the strange man's face, and exclaimed,

what art thou **

Who, and

« I'm a paimer come from the Holy Land." (Singing.) * Doubtless!" replied Uncle Timothy. "A palmer, I take it, of travellers' tales upon such ignoramuses as will believe them. Why, that mysterious budget of thine contains every black-letter rarity that Captain Cox of Coventry rejoiced in, and bibliomaniacs sigh for. Who, and what art thou?"

Tarlton's wife, Kate, was a shrew; and, if his own epigram be sooth, a quean into the bangain.

"Woe to thee, Tarlton, that ever thou were born,

Thy wife hath made thee a cuckold, and thou must wear the horn:
What, and if she bath? Am I a whit the worse?

She keeps me like a gentleman, with money in my purse.”

He was not always so enduring and complaisant: for on one occasion, in a storm, he proposed to lighten the vessel by throwing his lady overboard!

Laneham, in his Account of the Queen's Entertainment at Killingworth Castle, 1575, represents this military mason and bibliomaniac as "marching on valiantly before, clean trust, and gartered above the knee, all fresh in a velvet cap, flourishing with his ton sword;" and describing a procession of the Coventry men in celebration of Hock Tuesday, he introduces "Fyrst, Captain Cor, an od man I promiz yoo; by profession a mason, and that right skilfull; very cunning in fens, and hardy az Gavin; for his ton-sword hangs at hiz tabbz eend; great oversight hath he in matters of storie: for az for King Arthurs book, Huon of Burdeaus, the oour sons of Aymon, Berys of Hampton, the Squyre of lo degree, the Knight of Courtesy, the Wido Edyth, the King and the Tanner, Robinhood, Adam Bel, Clim

"Suppose, signors, I should turn out to be some eccentric nobleman in disguise, —or odd fish of an amateur, collecting musical tribute to win a wager,—or, suppose—”

"Have done with thy supposes!" cried the impatient and satirical-nosed gentleman.

"Or, suppose-Uncle Timothy!" Here, with the quickness and adroitness of a practised mimic, the voice was changed in an instant, the coal-black wiry wig thrown off, the bushy imperial sent to look after the stray mustachios, the thread-bare camlet cloak and rusty beaver cast aside, and the chaffing, quaffing, loud-laughing laureat of Little Britain stood confessed under a stucco of red ochre !

"Was there ever such a mountebank varlet!" shouted the middle-aged gentleman, holding fast his two sides. "And d'ye think," leering with the rich unctuous humour of Jack Falstaff,-" d'ye think I didn't know you?

"As my Lad of the Castle did the true Prince !" replied Mr. Bosky. "I followed close upon your skirts, and dogged you hither."

"Dogged me, puppy!

!"

"Mr. Moses, the old clothesman, provided my mendicant wardrobe, and mine host lent the harp, which belongs to an itinerant musician, who charms his parlour company with sweet sounds. I intended, dear Uncle Timothy, to surprise and please you."

"And in truth, Benjamin, (for 'tis useless to deny it,) thou hast done both. I am surprised and pleased!" And drawing nearer, with a suppressed voice, he added, "When sick and sorrowful, sing me that old harper's song. When unkindness and ingratitude have done their worst, and thou only art left to smooth my pillow, and close my eyes, sing me that old harper's song!

"Twill make me pass the cup of anguish by,

Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died.''

The laureat of Little-Britain hurried out of the room, as he said, for water to wash the red paint off his face. But a flood of tears had well-nigh done that office ere he reached the spring.

"And you, Jacob Jollyboy, to plot against me in conjunction with my buffooning nephew, and that Israelitish tatterdemalion retailer of cast-off duds, Mr. Moses!" cried the satirical-nosed gentleman, labouring hard to conceal his emotion under a taking-to-task frown exceedingly imposing and ludicrous.

Mr. Jollyboy looked all confusion and cutlets. "Where do you expect to go when you die?

of the Clough and William of Clondsley, the Wife lapt in a Morels Skin, the Sak full of Nuez, Elynor Rumming, and the Nutbrown Maid,

"What should I rehearz heer, what a bunch of Ballets and Songs, all auncient; as Broom broom on Hill, So Wo iz me begon, troly lo, Over a Whinny Meg, Hey ding a ding, Bony lass upon a green, My hony on gave me a bek, By a bank as I lay : and a hundred more he hath fair wrapt up in parchment, and bound with a whip cord. To stay ye no longer heerin, I dare say he hath as fair a library for theez sciencez, and az many goodly monuments both in prose and poetry, and at after noonz can talk az much without book, az ony inholder betwixt Brainford and Bagshot, what degree soever he be."