not laughing but crying sins they will require to be forgiven. The breath of such hearts would wither even the flowers of Paradise.'

Could we sit at the Tabard, and not remember the ancient Globe,*

not but with much paine, in an envous spleene, smarting ripe, runs after him, fals at fistie cuffes with, but the fellow belaboured the foole cunningly, and got the foole's head under his arme, and bobb'd his nose. The foole remembering how his head was, strikes it up, and hits the fellowes mouth with the pitchat place, so that the haire of his head, and the haire of the cbwnes beard were glued together. The fellow cryed, the foole exclaimed, and coull not sodainely part. In the end the people (af ter much laughing at the jest) let them part faire; the one went to picke his beard, the other his head. The constable came, and askt the cause of their falling out, and knowing one to bee Leonard the leone foole, whom hee had a warrant for from the gentleman to search for, demaunds of the fellow how it hapned? The fellow hee could answere nothing but "um—un,” for his mouth was scaled up with wax. "Dost thou scorne to speake?" says hee. I am the King's officer, knave!" "Um-um,” quoth hee againe. Meaning hee would tell him all when his mouth was cleane. But the constable, thinking hee was mockt, clapt him in the stocks, where the fellow sate long houre farming his mouth, and when hee had done, and might tell his griefe, the constable was gone to carry Leonard to his maister; who, not at home, hee was enforced to stay supper time, where lee told the gentleman the jest, who was very merry to heare the story, contented the officer, and had him to set the fellow at liber. ty, who betimes in the morning was found fast asleep in the stocks. The fellow knowing himselfe faulty, put up his wrongs, quickly departed, and went to work betimes that morning with a flea in his eare.'

Jacke Oates was a fellow of infinite jest,' and took to the fullest extent the laughing licence that his coat of motley allowed him. His portrait is contained in A Nest of Ninnies, and is quite as minute and interesting as the true effigie of Leane Leonard, which we place by its side.

This Foole was tall, his face small,
His beard was big and blacke,
His necke was short, inclin'd to sport
Was this our dapper Jacke.
Of nature curst, yet not the worst,
Was nastie, given to sweare:
Toylesome ever, his endeavour
Was delight in beere.
Goutie great, of conceit

Apt, and full of favour;
Curst, yet kinde, and inclinde

To spare the wise man's labour. Knowne to many, loude of any, Cause his trust was truth! Scene in toyes, apt to joyes,

To please with tricks of youth. Writh'd i' th' knees, yet who sees Faults that hidden be?

Calf great, in whose conceit

Lay much game and glec.
Bigge i' th' small, ancle all,
Footed broad and long,

In Motly cotes, goes Jacke Oates,
Of whom I sing this song.'

Curled locks on idiot's heads,

Yeallow as the amber,

Playes on thoughts, as girls with beads,
When their masse they stamber.

Thicke of hearing, yet thin ear'd,
Long of neck and visage,

Hookie nosde and thick of beard,
Sullen in his usage.
Clutterfisted, long of arme,

Bodic straight and slender'd,
Boistrous hipt motly warm'd,

Ever went leane Leonard.
Gouty leg'd, footed long,
Subtill in his follie,
Shewing right, but apt to wrong,
When a'pear'd most holy.
Understand him as he is,

For his marks you cannot misse.'

*Each playhouse,' says W. Parkes, in his Curtain-drawer of the World, 4to 1612, advanceth its flag in the air, whither, quickly, at the waving thereof, are summoned whole troops of men, women, and children.' And William Rowley, in A Search for Money, 1609,' whilst enumerating the many strange characters assembled at a tavern in quest of The Wandering Knight, Monsieur L'Argent,' includes among them four or five flag-falne plaiers, poore harmlesse merrie

with its fing floating in the air, the Boar's Head, and the Falcon ? Uncle Timothy rose, and in a voice faltering with emotion, articulated Shakspeare!' 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 general* wept over the inspired muse of Addison, shall not "woman's weapons, water-drops, stain my man's cheeks" when under the spell of the divine Shak. speare?

Suddenly the strings of a harp were struck.

'Listen!' said uncle Timothy, that is no every-day 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 Sa. viour'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 Shakspeare 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 waterpoet, 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 lit. tle 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 flenry 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 was 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 bat 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.'-Reliquia Woottone.

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 tragedy 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 readShakspeare!

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 Shakspeare, sweet Shakspeare! thy name shall expire
On his cold quivering lips-Sound the harp! strike the lyre!

Its music was thine when his harp 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 wandered 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 passed as a dream;
But still flows in beauty, sweet Avon! thy stream.
Still rises majestic that heaven-pointed spire,

Thy 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!
Ribands 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, 'tis 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 sipped,
And my liquor I've lipped,

I often have been, like my syllabub-whipped.
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 Urion, and the knavery of Autolycus. 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 camblet 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 at tentively 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 lost 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 intytuled the pinnyng of the Basket; the Twenty-five orders of Fooles; a Ditty delightful of Mother Watkin's ale; A warning well weighed, 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

6

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 licence 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 wood-cut 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.'

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, ay, 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 England?"

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

Uncle 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 betokens 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 conjuror'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, Who, and what art thou?'

I'm a palmer 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 bargain.

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 hath? 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, flour. ishing with his ton sword and describing a procession of the Coventry men in celebration of Hock Tuesday, he introduces Fyrst, Captain Cox, an old man I promiz yoo; by profession a mason, and that right skilful; very cunning in fens, and hardy az Gavin; for hiz ton-sword hangs at hiz tablz eend; great oversight hath he in matters of storie; for az for King Arthurz book, Huon of Burdeaus, the four sons of Aymon, Bevys of Hampton, the Squyre of lo degree, the Knight of Courtesy, the Wido Edyth, the King and the Tanner, Robinhood, Adam Bel, Clim