criticism, was because he was felt to be a prize, no common soldier or townsman, but a princeling born in the purple.

There are few things more exasperating than the tendency which abides in the gossipy human tongue to spoil a pretty story, which is true, by embroidering upon it a scandalous story, which is not true. The legend which makes Shakespeare the actual father of William Davenant', obscures the really charming relations which existed between that hero's parents and the greatest of poets. This legend recurs so frequently, and is so often rather attacked from its unpleasantness than confuted as history, that we may spare a few minutes for its examination. In France it is so much delighted in, that no account of English literature is complete without it, and a living playwright has made it the subject of a drama, which the French company brought to London in its repertory, and acted in compliment to our nation. The real truth about Davenant's childhood, then, as far as we can make it out, is this.

1 I see no reason for retaining the spelling "D'Avenant," or "D'avenant," which the poet occasionally affected. The ancient family from which he claimed to spring, the Davenants of Sible Hedingham, knew no such refinement, nor did the illustrious Bishop of Salisbury. His father, the vintner, signs his will "John Davenentt."

In coming up to London from Stratford, Shakespeare was accustomed to call at the Crown Tavern, in Oxford, which was kept by Mr John Davenant, vintner, a respectable and wealthy citizen, who afterwards rose to be Mayor of Oxford, and who possessed an unusual taste for plays, playwrights, and everything connected with acting. He was a grave and melancholy man, but his gravity was tempered by the vivacity of his wife, who was noticeably handsome1. This couple, of whose mutual affection and loyalty we have contemporary evidence, had a family of seven children during the last years of Shakespeare's life. The eldest of these, the Rev. Robert Davenant, grew up to be a commonplace clergyman, of whom only one interesting thing is recorded. When he was an old man, somewhere in the third quarter of the century, he was asked if he had known Shakespeare. "Ay," he answered, "and he hath kissed me a hundred times"." Curious to think of this old clerical gentleman whose only interest to us or

1 Anthony à Wood says: Davenant's "mother was a very beautiful woman, of a good wit and conversation, in which she was imitated by none of her children but by this William." Ath. Oxon. ii. col. 411.

2 Aubrey. This Robert Davenant was a Fellow of St John's College, Oxford, and became chaplain to John Davenant, the Bishop of Salisbury.

to anyone is that, when he was a child, Shakespeare had kissed him.

On such intimate terms was the great man with this family; and what could be more natural than that he should stand godfather, as he did, to the next son, William, our poet? On the 3rd of March, 1606, this interesting ceremonial took place, in the church of St Martin's at Oxford. It seems that Shakespeare remained on a familiar footing with the family until his death in 1616, and there can be no doubt that he had instilled a love of poetry into the mind of his godchild, for the very first verses which Davenant wrote, at the age of eleven, were those composing the "Ode in Remembrance of Master William Shakespeare," which we find appended to his Madagascar. This ode is of no_ use to us; it is crammed with effete and monstrous conceits, but contains no single crumb of autobiographical evidence. Presently, in 1622, the mother, Mrs Davenant, died, and her husband only survived her a few days, pined away, and was buried in the same grave.

This pleasant story about Shakespeare and his Oxford friends would probably have come down to us unspoiled if it had not been for the tattling monkey-tongue of Pope. Oldys, the antiquary, sitting beside Pope at the dinner-table of the Earl

of Oxford, was regaled by him with the story, that one day little William Davenant, being met madly flying from school down the street at Oxford, was caught and stopped by an elderly townsman, who wished to know whither he was posting in that heat and hurry. "To see my godfather, Master Shakespeare." "That's a good boy," said the old man, "but have a care of taking God's name in vain." Naturally all the company at Lord Oxford's asked Pope where he found this story, and he immediately quoted Betterton as his authority. Mr Betterton, the player, he said, who had known Davenant intimately, had told him the story, and himself believed it. It was then noticed that the gossipy and delightful Aubrey, who had been a still greater ally of Davenant's, had recorded that when that poet was among his familiar friends he was in the habit of appealing to them to know whether he did. not write as befitted Shakespeare's son. This was thereupon taken as proving that Davenant himself believed and delighted in the story, for the eighteenth century had forgotten the seventeenthcentury custom of calling the pupils or enthusiastic imitators of a poet his sons. When Davenant made this boast to Butler and other friends, he evidently meant no more than to claim such kinship with Shakespeare as Randolph,

Herrick, and Cartwright claimed with Ben Jon

son.

We may therefore dismiss the legend; but we must remember that it was no legend that young William Davenant was the godson and pet of Shakespeare, the only child, indeed, with whose first buddings of talent the patronage of that great name can be identified. This was his first romantic distinction; his second was only just a little less distinguished, namely, his association with Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke. He left Lincoln College, Oxford, where he was an undergraduate, and went up to town soon after the death of his parents in 1622. His father had wished him to be apprenticed to a City merchant, but the boy successfully avoided this, and secured an easier appointment. He was made page to the Duchess of Richmond, and traces of his stay with this fashionable and superstitious great lady have been discovered in his plays.

From her service he passed, probably about 1624, into that of one of the most interesting minor personages of the day, Lord Brooke. This was a stately old relic from the beautiful days of Elizabeth, the last of all the clan that had sung her praises. He had been the bosom-friend of Sir Philip Sidney; and he and Sir Edward Dyer, who had himself now been dead for nearly twenty years, had held

G.

ΙΟ