days were obliged to give an account of themselves, and lodgers for the night were nowhere admitted without permission of the authorities, particularly of the constable.' In the present case appearances were suspicious: a jaded lad arrived at nightfall in a secluded village on his way to London, and to persons dreaming of runaway apprentices and "vagrom men," must have looked very like a whale. Dogberry naturally charged him in the prince's name, Stand! It does not follow that he took him to the gaol to "examination" him, as he did Borachio and Conrade. Shakespeare was a muscular fellow, having the air of one who could stand a battle with constables, as he had stood one with gamekeepers, and not come off the worst. Dogberry, on the other hand, was merciful :-" You have always been called a merciful man, partner," and, by his own account, he was prudent :"How if a' will not stand?" 66 Why, then take no note of him, but let him go."2 He would appear to have acted on this principle with Shakespeare, though not before he was writ down ass.

Harrison computes the distance from Oxford to London at forty-eight miles, which is rather less than the present measurement; and, from entries in the accounts of the Stratford chamberlains, the journey from Stratford would seem to have occupied six days when performed on foot. One Thomas Vigers receives twelve shillings for "six days' journey to London, to make oath against Mr. Underhill and his man." This hard swearer, who was considered a match for both Mr. Underhill and his Friday, was quite as vigorous a pedestrian, for he must have covered his fifteen miles a day. We must believe that an active young fellow

1 An order of the town council of Stratford decreed that "no inhabitant dwelling within this liberty from henceforth receive nor have any inmate, but only such persons as shall be appointed by the High Bailiff, CONSTABLE, and other officers, &c."

2 Much Ado about Nothing,' act iii. 3.

like Shakespeare, with good reasons for haste, would not proceed less rapidly; in which case the sixth morning after his departure from his native town found him on Hillingdon Heath,' looking forward to the end of his journey.

Here the poet may have thrown himself down on a patch of soft turf, and, as he stretched his tired limbs, cast his eye round on a prospect not wanting in interest. In the distance he saw the stately castle of Windsor, which was to receive a new halo from his muse, and which even now called up in his mind a host of associations. The level surface was everywhere relieved by wood; and around him spread a sea of furze, its green expanse crested with gold. On his flank rose the verdant hill of Harrow, with its royal school and taper spire, thus confronting the birthplace of Henry of Windsor, whose sad story this poor wandering lad was to tell to all ages, with his noblest monument. We are pleased that Shakespeare's glance lingered on a spot which has been consecrated by Byron. In social and poetic rank, as in order of time, they were indeed widely sundered, but intellect makes them fellows; and as we think of the plebeian youth of old toiling along the road in search of bread, and the modern lordly idler gazing musingly down from the haunted tomb in the churchyard, the gulf that divides them seems bridged, and all distinctions merge in the kindred nobility of genius.

But Hillingdon Heath, though unexceptionable in its associations, bore, as is sometimes the case amongst noblyconnected men, a very indifferent character, and Shakespeare may have heard sufficient of its ill fame to look up with curiosity if he suddenly caught the sound of horse's hoofs. followed by the appearance of a gallant-looking rider. Of course the "horseman" would sport a plumed steeple-hat

1 The old road from Oxford, according to Harrison, came round through Uxbridge.

and a high ruff, and his sturdy legs would show the fashionable frilled boots, heeled with gilt spurs. There would be altogether a finish about him that might alarm a lad with a purse in his pocket, but not being burdened with that commodity Shakespeare could behold him unmoved, perhaps with an instinctive perception that he belonged to the respectable class which Gadshill designates as Trojans :

"No foot land-rakers, no long-staff sixpenny strikers, none of these mad, moustachio purple-hued malt-worms;" but unmistakably one of "St. Nicholas's clerks." It was on such a spot that, only a few years later, the bold Ratsey overtook some strolling players, and relieved them of two pounds he had given as largess an hour or two before, when they amused him with their performance at an alehouse. But he consoled the chief of the strollers with a compliment which made ample amends, for he compared him with Shakespeare's friend Burbage, the Roscius of the age. "Get thee to London," he is reported to have said, "for if one man were dead, they will have much need of such as thou art. There would be none, in my opinion, fitter than thyself to play his parts. My conceit is such of thee, that I durst all the money in my purse to play Hamlet with him for a wager." 2

Ere the day closed Shakespeare reached the spot where poor Ratsey was to come to grief, a spot where many a crime was expiated, but where, in the name of justice, many more terrible were perpetrated. No one would have looked for such an Aceldama in a scene so peaceful. Trim hedges and green fields here stretched away to Primrose Hill and Highgate, and smiling lanes turned off from the high road, winding along by copse and wood, or disappearing in their shades. Just before him flowed a pleasant brook, which,

1 'King Henry IV., Part II.,' act ii. 1.

2 Ratsey's Ghost; or, The Second Part of his Mad Pranks and Robberies,' quoted by Mr. Collier, in his English Dramatic Poetry.'

rising at Hampstead, poured its unrippled tide through the fields into St. James's Park, and thence into the Thames at Chelsea. This was the too famous Tyburn, or Tie Bourne, and near it stood the gallows or Tyburn-tree, called the Deadly Never-Green, rising from three legs, in the form of a triangle. Gentle Shakespeare must have looked with a shudder on the hideous object, for his mention of it does not more vividly figure its construction than the impression on himself.

"Thou makest the triumviry the corner cap of society,

The shape of Love's Tyburn that hangs up simplicity.""

Tyburn-tree was indeed in those days the corner cap of society, as often hanging up simplicity as villany, and well points a rebuke from the greatest of Reformers.

'Love's Labour's Lost,' act iv. 3.

168

XVI.

HIS FIRST VIEW OF LONDON.

IMAGINATION loves to colour a poet's life with hues akin to his art, but the reality is often common place. Its poetic aspect is in himself-in his feelings, aspirations, and sympathies, and these strike no eye but his own. The crushed affection, the poignant sorrow, the hope deferred or blighted, those workings of the human breast, have an outward and visible sign, which partakes of their nature-is often touching or majestic; but the impulse which gives them existence, comes in the shape of an ordinary event. Calamity is not foreshadowed by portents, nor do omens prefigure success; and we may remember that William of Normandy stumbled into a kingdom, while the sun of Austerlitz looked not more brightly on victory than on defeat. There is no royal groove for the lives of eminent men. Everything happens to them as to others, the former rain and the latter in their season, and we no longer expect that a comet will flash in the sky when they appear on the stage of their future greatness, or that an eagle will light on their shoulder. All that they have special is innate: the Genius of Socrates walked by his side, but was visible only to himself.

Yet no one will conceive that Shakespeare entered London under an inauspicious sky. We associate such an event with a summer evening, when the sun was sinking in glory behind our old abbey, and roseate clouds gave promise