Great and notable events, involving consequences of the highest importance, often arise from circumstances seemingly insignificant. If, in life’s decline, we look back on its first and earlier stages, it will not unfrequently appear that the incident which gave the deciding bend and direction to our fortunes, and, in the end, fixed our prospects and position in the world, was itself so excessively trifling that it passed unheeded. The reflection ought to afford us a high and invaluable lesson. As we believe that nothing has been created without a purpose, so we may suppose, on the same grounds, that every prompture of the human heart has its effects, and that the very least of man’s acts accomplishes a certain object. In the onward progress of the mind, this may be too slight to incur notice, or it may, as has been remarked, give the leading tone and impulse to our life; but the issue is the same, and is alike infallible and decisive.

If Shedlock had paid Sir Walter Raleigh the sum he engaged to contribute towards his expedition to America, on the conditions stipulated between them, at the time their agreement was drawn up, Sir Walter would have had no occasion to visit Shedlock’s countinghouse, and thus, in all probability, would not have been brought in contact with Hildebrand Clifford. If this providential circumstance had not ultimately led him to Hildebrand’s prison, and, pursuing its train of consequences, subsequently caused him to regard Sir Edgar and Evaline de Neville as that person’s particular friends, and the victims of a vile persecution, he might have beheld Sir Edgar suffer without sympathy, and with a conviction that he was guilty of the heinous crime imputed to him.

But the course of events was destined to operate otherwise. On discovering Hildebrand in the prison, he learned from that cavalier, in answer to his inquiries, how he had been engaged since he left his ship, and thus ascertained the facts of the affair which had led to Sir Edgar’s arrest. From that moment he became Sir Edgar’s fast friend. As has been shown, he accompanied Hildebrand in his visit to his prison; and there, preparatory to taking more effective measures in his behalf, revealed his friendly intentions by promising to procure his liberation.

The excitement arising from the departure of his favourite ship, which was described heretofore, did not banish from his mind his generous promise. On returning to Topsham Quay, after bidding farewell to Hildebrand, and seeing his gallant bark sail on her voyage, he began to consider how he could carry it out; and, as a first step towards this end, communicated it to the two friends who accompanied him.

One of the individuals referred to appeared to be not incompetent to give him good counsel. His countenance, though not handsome, was strikingly intelligent; and only for a scornful curl of the nether lip, which frequently expanded into a haughty and decided sneer, and was always repulsive, would have been prepossessing. His gait, however, on which the appearance so greatly depends, was careless and clumsy, and was by no means set off by his attire, which was shabby in the extreme. His years, judging from his hair and complexion, could not have been more than thirty, if they were even so many; yet his forehead was crossed, immediately below his hair, with several distinct wrinkles, and his bushy brows were already overlaid with the weight and cares of age.

The other cavalier had just attained that interesting period of life which lies between youth and manhood. His proud and graceful step, and elegant dress, which was arranged with the most perfect accuracy, engaged attention at once; yet they were less remarkable than his personal beauty. He possessed this, indeed, in such an extraordinary degree, that Nature seemed to have endowed him with all her charms, and to have left nothing undone that could make him an object of admiration.

They both listened to Sir Walter’s communication with earnest attention; but the younger cavalier, whether from natural warmth of heart, or personal attachment to the narrator, evidently was the more interested of the two.

“By my word,” he cried, when Sir Walter had finished his narrative, “I pity the knight’s fair daughter! Cannot his worship be set free at once?”

“Faith, my Lord of Essex,” said the other cavalier, “thou wouldst make marvellous quick work on’t, as a fair lady is concerned. An’ the knight have no better evidence of his innocence than we have heard from Sir Walter, I doubt if he will be set free at all.”

“Dost thou really think so, Sir Robert Cecil?” asked Sir Walter.

“Faith, Sir Walter, I think he will be hanged,” answered Sir Robert Cecil, with a smile. “But it gives one no good odour, in these days of peril, to be mixed up with such folk; and I would have thee wash thy hands of them.”

Sir Walter, whether from surprise, or sheer vexation, bit his lip on hearing this remark, but said nothing. His companion, however, with the unguarded impetuosity of youth, cast all considerations of policy aside, and gave his feelings utterance.

“Shame on thee, Sir Robert Cecil!” he exclaimed, angrily, “for giving such counsel. I hold Popery to be a damnable error; but, ’fore God, I would no more see a Papist wronged than I would do wrong to a true Christian.”

“And dost thou know, my fair Lord of Essex, if wrong hath been done to this Papist?” demanded Sir Robert Cecil. “By my troth, one would think, from the discourse followed by thee, that justice held not an even course in the land. Thou shouldst measure thy words more prudently, or, in some evil hour, they may be reported to the Queen’s Highness.”

“What I have a mind to say,” cried the young Earl, petulently, “I would say in her Highness’s presence—ay, or in her father’s either, were he living.”

Sir Walter Raleigh, alarmed at the Earl’s indiscreet expressions, here laid his hand gently on his arm, and, having thus induced him to pause, sought to give his words a harmless interpretation.

“So might any one, an’ their thoughts were as loyal and dutiful as thine,” he said. “But let us have no more hard words. I must help this knight; for, besides that I am inclined thereto by my will, he hath security for my aid in my plighted word. Thou art with me, I know, my Lord Essex; and if thou wilt make it a request to Sir Robert Cecil here, we will even have him also; for I dare swear, from the regard he hath for thee, that he can refuse thee nothing.”

“That can I not,” murmured Sir Robert Cecil.

Whether he intended it, or not, his words, though hardly distinguishable, reached the ears of the young Earl; and the haughty look that had just mounted to his face, as if to say it was out of the question for him to make any request, immediately vanished.

“Faith,” he said, laying his hand familiarly on Sir Robert’s shoulder, which, from his superior height, he could do easily,—“Faith, I verily believe thou lovest me. Give us thy hand in this matter, then, as thou wouldst do me a service.”

“Have with thee, my hopeful Earl!” exclaimed Sir Robert. “But before we can further the design, we must to London.”

“I fear me, it is even so,” observed Sir Walter Raleigh. “I will but write a word of cheer to the imprisoned knight, and, with your good leave, we will then on to London.”

His two friends agreed to his proposal, and their discourse, which they did not allow to stop, thereupon passed to other topics. They were still conversing, when they arrived in front of an hostel, at the extremity of the long, straggling town, where, on the previous night, they had baited their horses. After a short conference, they entered the hostel, and proceeded to a room in its rear. Here, by the direction of Sir Walter, they were speedily supplied with a substantial breakfast, which they discussed at their leisure, and with all that hilarity and enjoyment, springing from a pursuit of the passing moment, which attend on health and appetite.

On the conclusion of their meal, Sir Walter, according to his previously-expressed intention, wrote to Sir Edgar de Neville, repeating his promise to procure him his liberty, and informing him, in a few words, how he purposed to pursue it. He entrusted the delivery of the note to one of his servants, and, not knowing that Sir Edgar had been removed, charged him to leave it at the gaol of Exeter, and then ride after him to London.

He and his two friends did not tarry long after the servant’s departure. Interchanging a few remarks on the subject of his mission, they rose from the breakfast-table, and proceeded to arrange the preliminaries of their journey to town. These were soon settled; and, after a short interval, they sallied forth from the hostel; and, mounting their horses, and attended by their several grooms, they set out for the metropolis.

Three days elapsed before they arrived at that place. On the third evening subsequent to their departure from Exeter, they came to Durham House, in the Strand, where Sir Walter Raleigh resided. There, after partaking of a light supper, his two friends took leave of Sir Walter, and, with the understanding that they were to meet again on the morrow, departed to their respective lodgings.

It was at the palace of Queen Elizabeth, at Westminster, that the friends had arranged to meet; and the following morning found Sir Walter on his way to the court at an early hour. Early as it was, however (and the clock of Westminster had not yet struck ten), the road to the palace was already a scene of bustle, and presented to view passengers of every order. From these persons Sir Walter received many a hearty cheer as he passed along, which he acknowledged with a graceful bow, and occasionally, when the cheering was accompanied by the waving of some fair one’s handkerchief (which was several times the case), by doffing his plumed hat, and bowing to his saddle-pow. Thus he rode along for some distance, when, just as he came in sight of the palace, he was overtaken by another horseman, who appeared to be almost equally in favour with the passing people.

The stranger was a slender young man, seemingly about eighteen years of age. He might, indeed, be two or three years older; but the freshness of his complexion, and his exceedingly slight figure (though the mould of his figure was unexceptionable), would hardly support such a conjecture. He was dressed with great splendour; but it was not his costly habits, but the charms which he derived from nature, that made his appearance imposing; and he needed no meretricious attractions to prepossess every unenvious eye in his favour.

“A fair morning to your worship!” he cried, on coming up with Sir Walter. “What fell and desperate design hast thou now in hand, that thus thou bearest down, equipped with all the art of a lover, on the court of our virgin Queen?”

“Now, fair befall thee!” replied Sir Walter, with a merry smile; “but thy love for worthy Will Shakspear, an’ it go on at this length, will one day turn thy head, and thou shalt finally sink into an absolute player. But, what news? what news, I prithee?”

“News?” cried his companion. “News that will make thy heart glad, renowned knight! Sweet Will Shakspear—”

“By my lady’s hand,” exclaimed Sir Walter, laughing, “I would have wagered my good steed against an old wife’s thimble, which to me were as nothing, that the sum and burthen of thy news would be only Will Shakspear! But let us hear it—let us hear it, my trusty Southampton; for, after all, what concerns Will, concerns the whole world.”

“Now, do I love thee for those words!” cried the young nobleman, his cheeks mantling with a flush of pleasure. “But, to tell thee my news, renowned knight! Thou must know, first, that Master Shakspear will this day bring out a new play, at his noble playhouse of the Globe; and, secondly, that the Queen’s Highness, on my special petition, purposes to grace the performance with her royal presence.”

“That is right welcome news, indeed,” answered Sir Walter; “but tell me, I prithee, what is the theme and burthen of the play?”

“An admirable good theme,” replied the Earl of Southampton: “no other, indeed, than the most pathetic history of Imogen, which was first made known to the world by old Boccaccio, in his right famous Decameron.”

“I mind the story well,” observed Sir Walter, “and, in good sooth, ’tis a marvellous excellent one. But see! yonder is Master Harrington, an’ I be not mistaken.”

“Faith, is it!” answered the Earl. “Let us on.”

Without more ado, they spurred forward, and soon came up with the individual who, at the distance of some hundred yards, had attracted their attention. When they first distinguished him, he was standing at the palace gate; but, hearing the clatter of their horses’ hoofs, he turned round, and observed them approaching. As they drew nigh, he advanced a few paces to meet them; and with the air of a courtier, which his elegant apparel, and youthful and engaging features, well supported, exchanged with them a cordial and friendly greeting. Sir Walter and the Earl then alighted; and, resigning their steeds to the care of their grooms, who had ridden up to receive them, took Master Harrington by the arm, and thus passed together into the palace.

As they entered the palace-hall, they encountered a large circle of courtiers, with most of whom, if one might form a conjecture from their polite greetings, they appeared to be on the footing of friends. With some, however, they exchanged only a formal bow, and evidently sought to avoid acquaintance. They were about to press forward to the great staircase, when the entrance of another cavalier, who seemed to be an object of general respect, led them to prolong their pause. He was an elderly man—indeed, an old one; and his habits, which were grave and homely, corresponded with his advanced years. There was, however, no trace of slovenliness in his appearance, and his deportment was still noble and dignified. A smile rose to his lips as he discovered Sir Walter Raleigh; and with more of the gait of a soldier, than the light air of a courtier, which ruled the movements of those around, he advanced to salute him.

“Knight! knight, I have been discoursing of thee the whole morning!” he cried, shaking Sir Walter by the hand. “I promise thee, that staid Cecil, with whom my converse was carried on, hath given me such a report of thy brave expedition to America, as hath pleased me mightily. Ah, my Lord Southampton! the good time of the day to your Lordship! Master Harrington, give thee a fair morning! how go the sports at the Paris-garden?”

“Faith, my Lord Sussex, I have changed my bent,” answered Harrington. “’Tis Shakspear now, my Lord—Shakspear is your modern vogue.”

“I had rather see a good bear-fight,” said the Earl of Sussex. “Yet, for my Lord Southampton’s sake, I will even go see this notable player to-day. But do you attend her Highness?”

“We are with you, my Lord,” replied Sir Walter Raleigh.

The Earl, availing himself of the precedence which his friends opened for him, hereupon stepped forward, and led the way to an upper saloon. There, in the course of a little time, as they waited for the appearance of the Queen, his party associated with several other courtiers, and were shortly afterwards joined by Essex and Robert Cecil. They had just received this accession, when another party, headed by an elderly, but still very elegant cavalier, entered the saloon, and proceeded to its further end. They passed by the friends of Sussex, who were standing in the centre of the saloon, without extending to them the slightest notice; and seemingly so intent on the discourse of their leader, which the light laugh that occasionally broke from them announced to be of a lively nature, that the personages around did not incur their observation. For all his fluent discourse, however, there was a settled melancholy on the handsome countenance of their leader, and, whenever his eye could be viewed observantly, a tameness and restlessness in his gaze, that spoke his mirth to be hollow, and his ease and lightness of heart merely affected. As he passed along, no few eyes regarded him with scorn and contempt; and it was evident that, though he might yet enjoy the favour of the Queen, the wretch who had murdered one wife, and attempted the life of a second,—who had submitted to be abused by Arundel, and cuffed by Norfolk,—no longer swayed at will the destinies of the court.

“Methinks, my Lord of Leicester looks somewhat grim at thee, my fair Lord,” whispered Sir Robert Cecil to Essex.

“I marked it not,” replied Essex. “An’ thou art sure he did, I will presently make him say wherefore.”

“Hist, my dear Lord!” returned Cecil. “Her Highness approaches!”

While he was yet speaking, the doors at the end of the saloon, where Leicester and his party had posted themselves, were thrown open, and the ladies of the Queen’s household made their appearance at the aperture. Following them, a few paces in their wake, came the Queen herself, walking under a canopy, borne by the four ladies of her chambers, and attended, in the rearward, by four more ladies, who probably were maids of honour.

The ladies were all dressed, according to the practice of the royal household, with great simplicity; but this did not contract or reduce the effect of their beauty, but rather served, by its freedom from meretricious attractions, to exhibit their personal charms to advantage. Their simplicity of attire, however, had not been adopted by the Queen; and, whether that she wished to be singular, or had really a love for finery, she was dressed with extravagant splendour. Her ruff, or frill, of the most costly lace, was raised almost to the level of her mouth; but its excessive height, it must be acknowledged, was not unsuited to her aspect, and it lent the commanding tone of her features a visible support. Her stomacher of white satin, sprinkled with diamonds, was enclosed by a robe of blue velvet, descending into a long train; and, as if the rich velvet were not itself costly enough, this robe, or gown, was loaded with pieces of gold, wrought into the shape of various animals.

Though she was now long past her fiftieth year, Elizabeth, on the whole, did not misbecome her magnificent apparel. Her form, though impaired, was still graceful, and, as much from her habits as from nature, full of dignity; and her face presented very many traces of its former charms.

A murmur of “God save your Highness!” not loud, but deep, ran through the assembly as she entered, but she rendered no acknowledgment of the salutation, if such it may be called, till she had passed to a high seat, raised a step or two from the floor, near the middle of the saloon. Then, sitting down, she bowed gracefully round, and, as her eye fell on the Earl of Leicester, accompanied her bow with a kind smile.

There was a pause for a moment, when the Queen broke the silence.

“Is my Lord of Sussex in presence?” she asked.

“At your Highness’s command,” answered Sussex.

“We have a charge for thee, then,” pursued the Queen. “The captain of our guard, after urgent importunity, obtained our licence to be absent for a week, which expired on the morn of yesterday. As he did not then return, we direct thee, in our name, to have him diligently sought for, and, when found, attached as a deserter.”

“That will I do straightway, my liege,” answered Sussex, smiling. And, turning round, he laid his hand on Sir Walter Raleigh, who was standing directly behind him, and added:—“Sir Walter Raleigh, I attach thee, in the name of our Sovereign Lady, as a false knight, and a deserter.”

“I appeal from thee to the clemency of her Highness!” cried Sir Walter Raleigh.

And pushing past the Earl, who seemed willingly to give way to him, he sprang towards the Queen’s chair, and threw himself on one knee at her feet.

“A boon! a boon, dread Sovereign!” he exclaimed.

“By my father’s hand, no!” answered Elizabeth. “No! no! Thou shalt be punished, deserter, to the very stretch of my prerogative. Henceforth thou shalt forfeit thy liberty altogether. To prove that I speak earnestly, I now charge thee, first, to attend me to the Globe playhouse; thence to Greenwich; afterwards—”

“Oh, thanks! thanks, my gracious Queen!” cried Sir Walter.

“By my faith, the knave takes his sentence as a great boon!” exclaimed the Queen, with a look of gratification. “I would be sworn, now, instead of putting on him a heavy punishment, I have even dealt him a guerdon.”

“Indeed, my liege,” cried one of the ladies, “I have heard him say, more times than one, that he could not live out of your Highness’s presence.”

“I have heard him swear to ’t,” cried another lady.

“And, what your Highness will regard more,” said the Earl of Sussex, “I believe he swore true.”

“A word from my Lord Sussex makes up the game,” observed the Earl of Leicester.

“My Lord Leicester,” began Sussex, haughtily—

“Hold!” cried the Queen. “Dare any to bandy words here? Soft answers, an’ you please, my Lords! As for thee, knight,” she added, in her former bantering tone, to Sir Walter, “thou mayst now rise, but thy sentence must have full force. Now for the playhouse, my lords! the playhouse!”

With a murmur of “Room for the Queen! room for her Highness!” the courtiers swept back on either side; and Elizabeth, leaning on the arm of the Earl of Leicester, and followed by her ladies, passed down the saloon between them. As she proceeded, her eye glanced wistfully round, and seemed, in the course of its survey, to take note of every face. Thus progressing to the door, she came opposite to the Earl of Essex, whom the crafty Cecil, not doubting that he would catch her eye, and divert her attention from Leicester, whom he hated, had pushed into the front.

“Aha!” cried Elizabeth, suddenly pausing, “here is this fair youth grown into a man, and we have hardly marked him. By my troth, a proper man, too—a marvellous proper man!”

“What an exceeding sweet face!” whispered one of the ladies of the bedchamber, loud enough to be heard by all.

“The eye of Mars!” observed another, in the same tone.

“Hush, for shame!” resumed Elizabeth. “Do ye not see,” she added, as her eye fell on a light gold chain, of the most chaste and delicate workmanship, which was turned into the Earl’s vest, “he hath lost his heart, and hath his lady’s image guarding it? By my troth, I will know who this fair one is!”

“Your pardon, my liege,” replied Essex, with some confusion.

“Nay, Sir Earl, I will know it,” returned Elizabeth, angrily. And, seeing that the Earl was not inclined to satisfy her, she rudely seized the chain herself, and drew it forth. The portrait of a female, set in diamonds, was appended to the end of the chain, and, as the Queen drew it forth, all pressed round to see who it represented. A deep blush mantled the face of the Queen, and her eyes, which had just before worn an angry expression, sparkled with pleasure: it was a portrait of herself.

“A true lover! a true lover!” she cried. “Now could I swear, by bell and candle, the fair youth would have died of his love ere he could have spoken it! Dost think us so cruel? Well, well, we must not leave thee hopeless. My Lord of Leicester, how awkwardly thou walkest of late! There, there, drop thine arm! Give me thine, my fair Lord Essex! give me thine!”

“My heart fails me, my gracious liege,” replied Essex, at the same time drawing the Queen’s arm through his:—“yet what marvel, since I have lost it?”

“Faith, now, an’ thou speakest so soothly, I will think thee false,” answered the Queen. “But, no! no! I’ll believe thee! Now for the barge! the barge!”

Leaning fondly on the arm of Essex, she led the way, down the adjacent staircase, and through the hall below, to the shore of the river, where the royal barge, with a number of private barges, belonging to the several members of the court, waited her approach. In these conveyances the whole party embarked, and in a short time, being favoured by the tide, arrived at Milbank, and there landed.

The Globe playhouse, where their excursion was to end, was now close at hand, and, by the Queen’s direction, they proceeded thither on foot. The house was already well filled; but two spacious boxes, opening on to the stage, one on either side, had been reserved for the court, and in one of these, to which she was conducted by the Earl of Southampton, the Queen bestowed herself. Her maids of honour stationed themselves on her left hand; and, at her command, the Earls of Southampton, Essex, Leicester, and Sussex, with Sir Walter Raleigh, and one or two others, took their places on her right. The rest of the court, including many ladies, and some few peeresses, were dispersed over the theatre.

The public acclamations excited by the Queen’s appearance had hardly subsided, when the curtain, which hitherto had kept the stage from view, was drawn up, and the performances commenced. The early passages of the play passed off tamely, till the entrance of Cymbeline, the father of the heroine, and king of Britain, and who gave the play its name, drew from all parts of the theatre one burst of applause.

The actor thus welcomed showed a fair augury for his powers in his majestic person. Though not very tall, his figure, whatever quarter it was viewed from, was faultless, and sufficiently high to be commanding. But it was in his countenance that Nature had exhibited her greatest skill. Here one could see, at a mere glance, that he had been cast in Heaven’s most select mould, and was marked out for a wonder. Thought sat on every feature, and his brow, which was lofty and expansive, and chiselled with a singular accuracy, was almost luminous with expression. Corresponding with this appearance, his eyes, when their gaze was once fixed, almost spoke; and, withal, revealed in their beams such a kind and gentle spirit, that they won the heart of every beholder.

Such was the master-genius whose works are to endure through all time, and open to posterity, through every successive age, the loftiest flights of speculation and philosophy. The “poor player,” who looked “every inch a king,” was the immortal, the incomparable Shakspear.

When the cheering called forth by his appearance had subsided, the play proceeded, and, in its progress, was watched by every spectator with the liveliest interest. Occasionally, as some passage of more striking excellence was delivered, even the Queen would relax her dignity to applaud, and the waving of the royal handkerchief would invariably be attended by the plaudits of the whole house.

During the interval between each act, the Earl of Southampton, with a discrimination which did as much honour to his intellect, as his attachment to the poet reflected credit on his heart, pointed out to the Queen more distinctly the various merits and beauties of the play, and, at the same time, commended the bearing of the several actors. The Queen and her courtiers (for the latter had no opinion of their own) generally concurred in his observations; but during the interval between the fourth and fifth acts, he expressed one sentiment which Elizabeth disputed.

“Hath your Highness marked,” he inquired, “how marvellously well Master Shakspear doth enact the king? I dare make a good wager, an’ he were so placed by circumstances, he would play to the same purpose with real sovereigns.”

“There we be at difference,” answered Elizabeth. “Though he have an excellent good judgment, I will venture to maintain, on my part, that ’twould scarce match such a task. What say’st thou, Sir Walter Raleigh?”

“I’faith, my liege,” replied Sir Walter, “an’ anything could make me doubt Master Shakspear’s judgment, ’twould be the judgment of your Highness. Howbeit, in this instance, I must even hold against thee, and take part with my Lord Southampton.”

“Fie on thee, traitor!” said the Queen, smiling. “But I will put the matter out of question. I will even test Master Shakspear’s self-possession.”

“How? how, your Highness?” asked several voices.

“Ye shall see!” answered the Queen, with the same quiet smile.

The courtiers, either from curiosity, or a desire to make the Queen believe that they took a great interest in the matter, would probably have pressed her further; but, at this moment, the curtain drew up, and the performance was resumed.

The play proceeded without seeming to dispose the Queen to pursue her design; and, as the last scene opened, Lord Southampton began to think, from the delay, that, in the interest excited by the performance, it had escaped her memory. Just as the play was about to close, however, the Queen leaned over on the front of the box, and it became evident that she was preparing to carry her intention into effect.

As she rested her arms on the barrier of the box, which divided it from the stage, her eye, seeming intent on the performance, fixed itself on that of Shakspear. The poet at once discerned that she had in view some object, and when, as if by accident, she dropped her costly handkerchief on the stage, he caught her purpose and motive directly. He did not allow them, however, to interrupt his speech, which was that that Cymbeline delivers at the close of the play; and for some moments, the part he would take in the matter was left open to conjecture. At length he set it at rest, in the opinion of the Queen, by giving utterance to that decisive sentence—

“Set we forward!”

Proud of her triumph, Elizabeth was about to turn to Lord Southampton, and claim his submission, when the poet, after only a moment’s pause, resumed—

Thus speaking, he advanced, with a stately step, towards the royal box, and, bending on one knee, presented the Queen with her handkerchief. Amidst loud and earnest plaudits, which were again and again renewed, he then turned to his former place, and concluded his speech. Thus was the play closed, and another bay, of unfading verdure, strung on the poet’s brow.

The Queen, though never willing to allow that her judgment was at fault, was very well pleased with this adventure, and spoke of the poet’s gallantry in terms of admiration. Before leaving the theatre, she directed Lord Southampton to bring him to court, and, at the same time, remarked, with considerable emphasis, that he might there teach manners to some of her courtiers. Still dwelling on the subject, she quitted the theatre, and repaired, under the escort of the court, to the water-side. There she took barge, and, with the turn of the tide, passed down the river to Greenwich.

Among those who accompanied the Queen to Greenwich palace was our friend Sir Walter Raleigh. As captain of her household guard, he was the most nearly associated with her; and his fine person, and agreeable and polished manners, in which he was excelled by few, with his many admirable endowments, were thus ever under her eye. A princess of such eminent discernment, and so observant of merit, naturally regarded the possessor of these advantages with great favour; but being ever open to the approaches of the talebearer, and the attacks of the secret slanderer, it was variable and precarious. Moreover, there was hardly one person of the court, with the exception of the Earls of Sussex and Southampton, and, perhaps, the Earl of Essex, but saw in Raleigh a stumbling-block to himself, and was desirous and anxious to promote his downfall. He was, therefore, after all, in no enviable position; and the least dereliction of duty, or deviation from propriety, would be sure to involve him in disgrace and ruin.

These particulars being borne in mind, it will not excite surprise, on reflection, that he had allowed so much time to pass without making an effort to liberate Sir Edgar de Neville. Though he had originally thought it would be easy to effect this object, his conversation with Essex and Cecil, related heretofore, had led him to another conclusion; and he now began to think that it would be attended with difficulty. He was, however, not the less determined to pursue it; and, during his progress to Greenwich, he meditated how he could best interfere.

He landed at Greenwich without coming to any decision. Nevertheless, the subject still engaged his consideration, and, though the court passed straight to the palace, he remained at the water-side, meditating how he should act. While he was thus deliberating, an individual who was standing by, and whose vicinity he had not observed, advanced to his side, and brought his meditation to a close.

“Art thou Sir Walter Raleigh?” he inquired, respectfully raising his hat.

“No other,” answered Sir Walter.

“Then, have I a billet for thee, Sir,” said the other, presenting Sir Walter with a letter.

Sir Walter, whom the appearance of the stranger had somewhat interested, eagerly accepted the letter, and tore it open. It was written in a fair and legible hand, and ran as follows:—

Sir Walter paused a moment after he had perused the letter. Then, thrusting it into his vest, he turned to the messenger, and proceeded to break his silence.

“This letter tells me thou art trustworthy,” he said. “What is thy name?”

“Bernard Gray, your worship,” answered the person addressed.

“I have heard the name afore somewhere,” observed Sir Walter, musing. “Ay, I remember; but it could not be thee.”

“It might be,” replied Bernard. “What doth your worship refer to?”

“The discoverer of the Popish plot in the North,” returned Sir Walter. “God’s mercy, ’twas a wondrous escape of the Queen and state!”

“It was so, blessed be God!” exclaimed Bernard. “Ah, I see thou doubtest me! Well, we will no more of this.”

“I’faith, I did not mind me thou wast a Papist,” said Sir Walter, “or I would have mentioned no such matter. But God be with thee! Tell thy mistress, in answer to her right welcome letter, that I will meet her in Greenwich Park, under the third tree from the Blackheath-gate, at seven of the clock this even. I would even wait upon her at her lodgings, but in my present case I dare not. Dost understand?”

“Right well, Sir,” answered Bernard.

“Be wary, then,” rejoined Sir Walter; “and keep thy lips close locked. With this caution, I give thee a good day.”

“Good day to your worship,” returned Bernard.

They parted with this valediction. Bernard, turning on one side, pursued his way to the road, and Sir Walter passed straight to the palace.