the most violent prejudices against the agent, to be carried into New-Place in the arms of the minstrel, who had, indeed, half accomplished his purpose ere the astonishment of Montchensey would allow him time to reflect.

Fortunately, however, for all parties, Helen had sufficiently recovered her mental powers during the bustle and agitation of her conveyance, to be sensible not only of the delicacy of her own situation, but of the extreme peril which awaited the health of her father, if she suffered any farther interview to take place between him and the minstrel Hubert; and she, therefore, secretly implored the latter, whilst she yet lay in his arms, if he had any value for her happiness or peace of mind, or the well-being of her parent, to fly from New-Place, and even from Stratford, the moment after he had set her down beneath the roof of her friend.

In vain, therefore, after the hurry which accompanied this strange occurrence had subsided, did Shakspeare and Montchensey look around for him who had given origin to it. He had, in fact, now certain of the safety of his late lovely charge, and whilst all were still in some measure

engaged about the person of Helen, stolen unperceived out of the room, nor could any subsequent search or enquiry made during that evening, though prosecuted with great eagerness by many who had witnessed the transaction, ascertain whence he had come, or whither he had gone.

The effect, in the meantime, of this rencontre, both on the mind and personal appearance of Montchensey, was remarkable. The same wild and melancholy abstraction which so peculiarly distinguished his looks and manner, when first seen by Shakspeare, and which had been in a great degree dissipated by his enthusiastic attachment to the character and company of the poet, now recurred with, if possible, augmented power. Nor were the sorrows and distress of Helen, conscious of being at least indirectly accessary to the sufferings of her father, less entitled, perhaps, to commiseration; for she had, of late, uniformly endeavoured, and with a solicitude prompted by filial affection of no ordinary intensity, to prevent the possibility of what had now happened.

To Shakspeare, who, beyond all the sons of

every shade

men, was intimately conversant with of human feeling and emotion, the character of Montchensey had been already so far developed, as to excite within his breast no inconsiderable degree of interest; and the events of this evening, which seemed to throw additional mystery around both father and daughter, had still further stimulated his curiosity; more especially when, in the features of the youthful minstrel, which, during the late tumult, had been for a few minutes fully exposed to his view, he beheld a striking resemblance to a dear, and distant, and, perhaps, deceased friend.

It was, therefore, with no unwilling ear that he now heard Montchensey, as soon as he had recovered sufficient composure for the purpose, repeat his request of an early visit from the poet at Wyeburne Hall; announcing, at the same time, his intention of leaving Stratford, partly perhaps in consequence of what had just occurred, early the ensuing morning. With this invitation indeed, seconded, as it was, by the earnest entreaties of the unhappy Helen, who, with tears in her eyes, petitioned for compliance, Shakspeare found it impossible not to acquiesce;

whilst the ladies, Dr. Hall, and Ben Jonson, who had all been included in the proposed visit, declined that honour for the present; the latter, however, declaring, with a hearty shake of the hand, and a bumper to their next meeting, that he would not fail to see how the cellars at Wyeburne Hall were stored in the course of the autumn, adding at the same time, that, as he was likewise on the wing, he would, with their leave, escort Master Montchensey and his daughter, on a part of their road the next morning.

With this arrangement, and with a promise on the part of Shakspeare, that the mission of honest Ben should not be altogether fruitless, but that he certainly would, if health were allowed him, rejoin his old friends at the Mermaid for a few days during the winter, the party separated for the night.

(To be continued.)

No. VII.

I range in fancy's consecrated round,
And meet the poet on a poet's ground,

Nor seek "mere rigid" truth of time and place,
But truth of manners, character, and grace.

MATHIAS.

Nor more than a fortnight had elapsed from the departure of Montchensey and his daughter from Stratford, when Shakspeare, having received another urgent invitation from his new friends, determined on carrying his promised visit into effect.

It was on the afternoon of the third day of his journey, at a time when he entertained hopes of reaching the place of his destination in the course of a very few hours, that, having crossed one of those long and dreary wastes so frequent in Derbyshire, he began to descend into a deep and narrow valley. So precipitous, indeed, was the declivity, that it was with difficulty either he or his servant, though they dismounted from