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--
“But,
Before we go, yet hold a little space,
Till we pick up our sister’s handkerchief.”
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:--
“To the worshipful and most famous knight, Sir Walter Raleigh,
Captain of her Highness’s Guard, these.--
“Right worthy Sir Walter.--Hereby thou wilt be advertised of my
coming unto London, and of the sudden removal of my father, Sir
Edgar de Neville, to the gaol of Newgate, by warrant of Secretary
Walsingham. On thy promise of service, I make bold to solicit
thy counsel, and, if need be, thine aid, towards effecting his
release. The bearer hereof may be trusted.
“Worthy knight, thou hast my hearty prayers for thy welfare.
“Given under my hand and seal, this thirteenth day of August, in
the year of our Lord God 1579, at the Three Compasses, near the
Temple, London.
“EVALINE DE NEVILLE.”
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.