The nature of the following work is sufficiently indicated by the title. In it the most interesting portions of the career of Shakespeare, taken from the best accredited sources, are brought forward in a pleasing narrative, the dialogue being in the style of the Elizabethan period.

Throughout the work the writer has endeavoured, amidst a great deal of stirring incident, and a subordinate tale of much interest, to place the Poet constantly before the reader, whether on or off the scene. The story commences when he was about seventeen years of age, and carries him through some of the eventful "chances" of that glorious epoch which called forth his own "muse of fire," and caused him to ascend "the brightest heaven of invention;" and, after showing him the sharp "uses of adversity," leaves him at the moment of success, whilst Elizabeth and the entire Court-circle are turned to him whose matchless genius has just enchanted them.

CONTENTS.

A FOREST SCENE.

It was one morning, during the reign of Elizabeth, that a youth, clad in a grey cloth doublet and hose (the usual costume of the respectable country tradesman or apprentice in England), took his early morning stroll in the vicinity of a small town in Warwickshire.

Lovely as is the scenery in almost every part of this beautiful county, which exhibits, perhaps, the most park-like and truly English picture in our island, it was (at the period of our story) far more beautiful than in its present state or cultivated improvement.

The thick and massive foliage of its woods, in Elizabeth's day, were to be seen in all the luxuriance of their native wildness, unpruned, unthinned, untouched by the hand of man, representing in their bowery beauty the wild uncontrolled woodlands of Britain, when waste, and wold, and swamp, and thicket constituted all.

The fern-clad undulations and forest glades around, too, at this period, were peopled by the wild and herded deer—those "poor, dappled fools—the native burghers of the desert city"—which, couched in their own confines, their antlered heads alone seen in some sequestered spot amongst the long grass, gave an additional charm to the locality they haunted, in all the freedom of unmolested range, from park to forest, and from glade to thicket.

In these bosky bournes and sylvan retreats, unmolested then by the axe of an encroaching population; nay, almost untrodden, save by the occasional forester or the fierce outlaw; the gnarled oaks threw their broad arms over the mossy carpet, giving so deep a shade in many parts, that the rays of the mid-day sun were almost intercepted, and the silent forest seemed dark, shadowy, and massive, as when the stately tramp of the soldiery of Rome sounded beneath its boughs.

As the youth cleared the enclosures in the immediate vicinity of the town, and brushed the dew from the bladed grass on nearing the more sylvan scene, the deep tones of the clock, from the old dark tower of the church, struck the third hour. The sound arrested him; he paused, and turning, gazed for some moments upon the buildings now seen emerging from the mint of early morning. At this hour no sign of life—no stir was to be observed in the town.

Although the youth looked upon a scene familiar to his eye (for it was the place of his birth, and from whence as yet his truant steps had scarcely measured a score of miles), his capable eye dwelt upon every point of interest and beauty in the surrounding picture.

He had reached the age when the poetry of life begins to be felt; when an incipient longing for society of the softer sex, and an anxiety to look well in the eyes of the fair; to deserve well of woman, and to be thought a sort of soldier-servant and defender of beauty, is mixed up with the sterner ambitions of manhood.

Perhaps few forms would have been more likely to captivate the fancy of the other sex than the figure and face of this youth, as he stood at gaze in the clear morning air, and contemplated the landscape around. In shape, he was slightly but elegantly formed, and his well-knit limbs were seen to advantage in the close-fitting but homely suit he wore. Added to this figure of a youthful Apollo, was a countenance of genius, intelligence, and beauty, peculiarly indicative of the mind of the owner. His costume, we have already said, was homely; it was, indeed, but one remove from the dress of the common man of the period. A gray doublet of coarse cloth, edged or guarded with black, and tight-fitting trunks and hose of the same material; to those were added a common felt hat with steeple crown, and shoes without rosettes. In his hand he carried a stout quarter-staff, shod with iron at either end. No costume, however, could disguise or alter the nobility of look and gallant bearing of that youth. After regarding the view presented to him in the clear morning air for some moments, he turned, leaped the last enclosure which pertained to the suburbs of the town, and pursued his way through a wild chase or park, avoiding the more thick woods on his right.

How slight and trivial are sometimes the accidents which control the fate of man!

On setting out from his own home, the stripling had intended to traverse the woodlands which lay between his native town and Warwick, in order to keep an appointment he had made with some youthful associates of the latter place—some wild and reckless young men with whom he had lately become acquainted. The church clock, however, whilst it informed him he had anticipated the hour, determined him to change his intention of going straight to the trysting-place, and he turned his steps in a different direction. He therefore left the deep woodlands on his right, and sought the enclosures of Clopton Hall.

This change of purpose, in all probability, saved the life of the handsome lad. As he turned from the woodlands on his right, and sought the fern-clad chase and plantations in which Clopton Hall is embosomed, a tall, fierce-looking man, clad in the well-worn suit of a ranger or forester, stepped from the thick cover. As he did so, the forester lowered a cross-bow, with which he had been taking a steady aim at the stripling, from his shoulder, and stood and watched him till he disappeared.

"Now the red pestilence strike him," said the man. "He has again escaped me. But an I give him not the death of a fat buck ere many days are over his head, may my bow-string be the halter that hangs me."

"Nay, comrade," said a second forester, at that moment coming forward, "believe me, 'tis better as it is; thou must e'en drop this business, and satisfy thy revenge by a less matter than murder. I half suspected thy intent, and, therefore, have I followed thee. Come," he continued, "thou must, I say, forgive the affront this lad has put upon thee."

"May the fiend take me then!" returned the ruffian.

"Nay, thou art most likely the property of St. Nicholas methinks. Whatsoever thou dost," said the other, "certainly he will catch thee by the back if thou should harm this youngster."

"Why, look ye," said his fellow. "Have I not reason for what I do? The varlet (who I shrewdly suspect hath an eye upon the deer) constantly haunts our woods. Not a nook, not a secluded corner, not a thicket but he knows of, and explores. At all hours of the day, and even at night, have I caught sight of him wandering alone. Sometimes I have seen him, lying along, book in hand, under a huge oak, in Fullbrook wood; at other times I have watched him as he stood in the twilight beside the brook, which flows through Charlecote Park. As often as I have tried to gain speech with and warn him from our haunts, he has been ware of me; plunging into the covert (nimble as a stag), so escaped.

"Once, however, I came warily behind him while he stood watching the deer as they swept along a glade in Fullbrook; and heard him repeating words which rivetted me to the spot, nay almost took from me the power of accosting him. Not, however, to be outworded by a boy, I pounced upon him."

"Go to!" said the other laughing, "then you collared him, I suppose, and took him off to the head-ranger to give an account of his trespass. Was't not so! Eh?"

"You shall hear," returned the ranger. "At first I felt too much respect to rebuke him. There was something in his look I could not away with. He seemed somewhat angered too at being molested and caught by surprise; and there was that in his eye which could look down a lion, methought. After awhile, however, I gave him some of my mind, threatened to report his trespass to the knight our master, and to give him a taste of the stocks, or the cage."

"Good," said his fellow, laughing. "You said well!"

"Nay, 'twas not so good either, as it turned out," said the ranger.

"How so?" inquired his comrade.

"Why, he took my rebuke mildly at first, merely saying he sought not to molest the game, but only to enjoy the liberty, freedom, and leisure of the wild woods."

"Well," interrupted the other, "between ourselves, that seems natural enough. But, an all the lads in the country were to do the same, they would soon drive the deer from their haunts, and render our trade a poor one."

"So I told him; and that I should not be so easy the next time I caught him straying in our woods. Nay, that I would then, indeed, cudgel him like a dog."

"Ha! ha! and how took he that threat?"

"Mass! I would you could have seen how he took it," said the irate ranger, "for I shall never forget the change it wrought. He looked at me with an eye of fire, reared himself up like a startled steed, and railed on me in such terms as I think never man either heard or spoke before. Nay, an I had not known he was the son of a trader here in Stratford, I had taken him for the heir of some grandee, for never heard I before such a tongue, or such words of fire."

"Go to!" said the other; "and how answered ye that?"

"At first I felt awed; but, when he dared me but to raise a finger in the way of assault, and stirred my wrath so, that I laid hands on him, he struck me to the earth; when I rose, and again attacked him, despite my skill at quarter-staff, he cudgelled me to his heart's content."

"What, yonder lad?"

"Ay, yonder boy! His strength and skill were so great that, had I not cried peccavi, I had died under his blows."

"And for this you are resolved to shoot him!"

"I am! I cannot forget the disgrace of his quarter-staff. My very bones ache now at the bare remembrance."

"Aye, but thou must forget it, comrade," said the other; "for to shoot him, look ye, might get the rangers all into trouble. He hath, you see, gone out of our bounds this morning; but let us follow, and if we find him we will both beat him. As far as that goes, I am your man. 'Tis allowable, and in the way of business. But for shooting the lad—fie on't! 'tis cowardly and dangerous. Ever while you live, forbear your bullet on a defenceless person."

"Well, be it so!" said his fellow. "I agree. He hath had the best of me, for once in his life. But, at least, will I be revenged:—blow for blow."

"Hath he good friends, said ye?"

"None of note."

"What then is his father?"

"The wool-comber who dwells in Henley Street."

"Enough! Now let us but catch him, and by 'r lady, we'll beat him so that he shall scarce disport his curiosity amongst our woods again."

"Nay, but if we kill him?" said the other, with a sneer.

"Then must our master bear us out; we are hired to keep off all lurking knaves. By fair means or foul, it must be done. An we kill him, we'll e'en knock over a buck, and lay it to's charge. Swear we caught him red-handed in the fact, and there an end."

THE YOUTHFUL SHAKESPEARE.

About a couple of hours after the above conversation between the two rangers, the subject of it might have been seen lying along, "like a dropt acorn," book in hand, under cover of the thick belt of plantation skirting the grounds of Clopton Hall. Occasionally, his gaze would turn upon the huge twisted chimneys and casements of the building, just now beginning to show symptoms of life. The thin blue smoke mounted into the clear air, and the diamond panes of the windows glittered in the morning sun. At this period the sports of the field formed the almost daily avocation of the country gentlemen in England. Men rose with the sun, and with hawk and hound and steed commenced the day at once. Scarce was the substantial breakfast thought of till it had been earned in the free air, amidst the woods and glades. Accordingly, as our student lay perdue in the covert, he beheld the falconer of the household of Clopton with the ready hawk, the grooms with the caparisoned steeds, the coupled hounds, and all the paraphernalia of the field.

The family of the Cloptons were not altogether unknown to the youth, and the hall being only a mile from the town, Sir Hugh was a sort of patron of Stratford, and in constant intercourse with the inhabitants.

As his party had oft-times ridden through the streets, our hero had scarce failed to remark amongst the cavalcade a beautiful female of some seventeen years of age. This fair vision, who with hawk on hand, looked some nymph or goddess of the chase, was, indeed, the only daughter of Sir Hugh Clopton.

To one of the ardent and poetic soul of our young friend, the mere passing glance of so exquisite a creature as Charlotte Clopton had suggested more than one sonnet descriptive of her beauty. Yes, the glance of the lowly poet from beneath the pent-house which constituted the shop of his father, had called forth verses which, even at this early period of his life, surpassed all that ever had been penned; and Charlotte Clopton first caused him to write a stanza in praise of beauty. At this early period of his life, too, his fine mind teemed with the germs of those thoughts which, in afterdays, brought forth so many lovely flowers. The impression of his own passionate feelings in youth furnished him with the ideas from which to pourtray the exquisitely tender scenes of his after-life.

To a youth of spirit, the sight of preparation for the sports of the field was full of excitement. Most men love the chase, but mostly those of a bold determined courage.

Participation in the sports of people of condition was, however, denied to the lad, as his condition in life barred him from aught beside the sight of others so engaged. His capacious mind conceived, however, at a glance, all the mysteries of wood-craft, and his truant disposition leading him to become a frequent trespasser, the haunts and habits of the wild denizens of the woods were familiar to him.

If, therefore, he was debarred from following the chase himself, he loved to see the hunt sweep by—

In addition to this, there was an insatiable craving after information of every kind. He had been educated at the Free School of his native town, and had far outstripped all competitors in such lore as the academy afforded, and he now perused every book he could procure, making himself master of the subjects they treated of with wonderful facility. He was drinking in knowledge (if we may so term it) wherever it could be reached; whilst, in his truant hours, no shrub, no herb, no plant in nature escaped his piercing ken.

His exquisite imagination, unfettered and free as the air he breathed in the lovely scenery of his native country, created worlds of fancy, and peopled them with beings which only himself could have conceived. In the solitude of the deep woods he loved to dream away the hours.

it was his wont to imagine the elfin crew, as they "danced their ringlets to the whistling wind."

It was observed, too, amongst his youthful associates, that he seemed to know things by intuition. Those who were brought up to the different mechanical trades in the town or neighbourhood found in him a master of the craft at which they had worked. "Whence comes this knowledge," they inquired of each other, "and where hath he found time to pick it up?" "Body o' me," his father would oft-times say, "but where hath our William learnt all this lore? Thus worded too! Master Cramboy, of the Free School, albeit he comes here continually to supper, and uses monstrous learned words in his discourse, never tells us of such things as this lad discourses to us." Neither was all this superfluous knowledge, "ill inhabited like Jove in a thatched house." He was already a poet, turned things to shape, and gave to airy nothing

CHARLOTTE CLOPTON.

Clopton Hall was situated in a sort of wild chase, or park, in which hundreds of broad, short-stemmed oaks grew at distant intervals; and through this chase a deep trench had been cut in former days by the legions of Rome, the thick plantation which formed the belt immediately around the house being just in rear of the Roman ditch.

The hawking party, on this morning, as they gradually assembled and mounted their steeds in the court of the mansion, rode through the gate-house, along the avenue and into the chase. Here they breathed their coursers and careered about till Sir Hugh had mustered the different servitors and attendants appertaining to a matter of so much moment as his morning diversion, and was ready to go forth.

As they did so, the youth noticed the lady he had before seen, and whose exquisite form had made some slight impression upon his imagination. Nothing could be more skilful than the way in which she managed her horse, he thought—nothing more lovely and graceful than she altogether appeared. The steed she rode was a magnificent animal, and one which none but a most perfect horsewoman could have backed; and as he plunged, and "yerked out his heels," he shewed his delight at being in the free air, and proved "the metal of his pasture."

It was a fair sight to behold one so delicately formed as that lady restrain the ferocity, and, by her noble horsemanship, reduce to subjection the wild spirit of that courser; and so thought the studious boy in the gray jerkin.

Well, however, as she had hitherto managed the animal, now that it was growing even more excited by the number of horses around, it seemed every instant becoming more and more unruly. It was in vain that a tall handsome cavalier, who had kept an anxious eye for some time upon the movements of her horse, now spurred his own steed beside the lady, and kept near her bridle-rein. The brute reared, and stood for a few moments, striking wildly with his fore feet. After a while, however, and whilst all sat in helpless alarm, the lady still keeping her seat, the steed recovered himself, plunged forwards, and bolted from the party.

Few situations could be more perilous than that which Charlotte Clopton now found herself in; few more distressing to the spectators to witness; since to attempt aid is oft-times to hasten the catastrophe.

To follow a runaway steed, in the hope of overtaking it is, perhaps, one of the worst plans that can be adopted, as the very companionship of the pursuing horse is sure to urge on and accelerate the pace of the flyer.

Yet this course the tall dark cavalier (who seemed Charlotte Clopton's principal esquire) unhappily adopted.

As he beheld the maddened horse tearing across the park, swerving amongst the oak trees, and threatening every instant to dash out the brains of the rider amongst the branches, he set spurs to his own courser, and galloped after her. It was in vain that Sir Hugh shouted to him to return. In vain he roared and railed, and called to him that he would murder his child by such folly.

The lady, however, kept her seat. She managed even to guide her steed into the more open part of the chase. For (like the mariner in the storm) she well knew that whilst the tempest roars loudest, the open sea gives the vessel the better chance.

The sound of the horse following, however, totally ruined her plan, and rendered her own steed more determined. He flung aside, turned from the direction his rider had coaxed him into, and galloped towards the spot where our hero was standing amidst the trees. It was by no means difficult to conjecture that destruction to the beautiful creature, thus borne along as if on one of the "couriers of the air," was almost inevitable.

The next minute, as the youth of the grey doublet, in a state of breathless anxiety, stood and watched this race, himself concealed in the thick foliage, the horse (like some wild deer seeking cover) plunged headlong into the Roman ditch.

The entrenchment was of considerable depth, so that both steed and rider, for the moment, disappeared below the grassy ridge. It was, however, but for a moment: the next, the maddened steed sprung up the opposite bank.

The rider was, however, no longer on his back: she had been cast headlong from the saddle, and our hero saw, with terror, that her riding-gear was entangled on the saddle, and that she was being dragged along the ground by its side.

But few minutes of exposure to such a situation, and that sweet face had been spurned out of the form of humanity, and her delicate limbs broken, torn, and lacerated. But the youth (although he saw at once that it would be vain to attempt to arrest the powerful brute by seizing the bridle) in a moment resolved upon a bolder measure. As the horse neared him, he rushed from his concealment and (ere it could swerve from his reach), with the full swing of his heavy quarter-staff, struck the animal full upon its forehead, and with the iron at the extremity of his weapon, fractured its skull.

So truly and well was the blow delivered, that the steed fell as if struck by a butcher's pole-axe, and the next instant was a quivering carcase upon the grass.

In another moment the achiever of this deed had unsheathed the sharp dagger he wore at his waist-belt, cut away the entangled garment of the lady from the saddle, and was kneeling beside her insensible form. As he did so, he felt that he could have spent hours in gazing upon those lovely features.

Meanwhile, the cavalier who had followed (but who reined up his horse when he observed the steed of the lady dash down the slope, and then remained gazing on all that followed in a state of utter helplessness), as soon as he beheld the extraordinary manner in which she had been succoured, again set spurs to his horse.

Dashing recklessly across the Roman trench, he galloped to the spot, and throwing himself from the saddle, snatched the lady from the supporting arms of her rescuer.

There was a retiring diffidence, an innate modesty about the youth who had aided the lady, which kept him from intrusion. Nevertheless, he felt hurt at the manner in which the handsome cavalier had snatched her from his arms. His indomitable spirit prompted him almost to thrust back that officious friend, and like Valentine, exclaim—

The next moment, however, remembrance of his own condition, and the station in life of her he had saved, flashed across his brain. He drew a pace or two back, and recollected how far removed he was from her he had so promptly succoured. As for the attendant cavalier, he seemed to see nothing but the still insensible form he hung over. "Oh! thank heaven. Oh! thank heaven, she breathes," he said wildly, "she is not dead—speak to me, Charlotte—speak but one word to your poor cousin, if but to assure him of your safety."

"I think she is recovering, fair sir," said the youth, again approaching. "See, she opens her eyes."

"She does—she does!" said the cavalier, as he raised her in his arms. "I would we had a few drops of water to sprinkle in her face; 'twould do much towards hastening her recovery."

"That shall she soon have," said the youth; and darting off, he hastened towards a rivulet, which, brawling along on the other side of the plantation, ran through the marsh land beyond, and emptied itself into the Avon.

Taking off his high-crowned hat, he dipped it in the stream, and returned as speedily. As he did so he observed that Sir Hugh Clopton, and such of his party as were mounted, had now reached the spot; whilst the fair Charlotte, having regained her senses, was clasped in her fond father's arms.

Handing the water to one of the attendants, he again drew back, and leaning upon his quarter-staff, stood regarding the party unnoticed.

"Now praise be to heaven for this mercy," said Sir Hugh. "In my pride and joy of thee, my Charlotte, I bred yonder steed for thy especial use. I thought to see thee mounted as no other damsel in Warwickshire, and see the result. Ha, by my halidame, I swear to thee, that had not the brute perished in his own wilfulness I had killed him with this hand."

"Nay, blame not my poor Fairy," said the lady; "he did but follow the bent of his joyous spirit, when he found himself in the fresh pasture. 'Twas thy timely succour, coz," she said, turning to the tall cavalier beside her, "which I suspect saved me when I fell."

"By my troth then, nephew," said the old knight, grasping the youth's hand, "'twas well done of thee, and thou hast redeemed thy first fault in following the runaway horse."

"Alas, uncle," said the cavalier, "I fear me I have redeemed no fault, neither deserve I any praise. I saw my fair cousin cast headlong to the earth, and then dragged beneath the heels of yonder horse. No mortal help, it appeared, could avail her. I felt the blood rush to my brain; I was about to fall from my saddle, when lo, a lad stepped from beside the trunk of yonder oak, I heard a heavy crashing blow, I saw Fairy fall as if pierced by a bullet in the brain, and I found thee, Charlotte, saved. And that reminds me," continued the cavalier, looking round, "he who did this gallant deed was this moment by my side."

"Ha, say'st thou, Walter," said the burly knight, "where, then, be this lad whom we have not even thanked for his service? Stand back, my masters."

As Sir Hugh spoke the attendants fell back, and discovered the graceful figure of the youth in the grey doublet, as he leant beside the tree. The old knight immediately stepped up, and grasping the youth by the hand, led him into the circle, whilst the young cavalier was more fully describing to the lady the bold and instantaneous manner in which she had been rescued.

The youth sank on one knee, and taking the lady's hand, pressed it to his lips. "Believe me, lady," he said, "the delight I experience in serving one so fair and exquisite, a thousand times o'erpays the duty."

"Why, gad a mercy," said the old knight, "thou art a high-flown champion, methinks. Nevertheless, lad, we are indebted to thee in more than we can either dilate on, or thou listen to with patience fasting. Let us return to the house, my masters all.

"Come Sir Knight of the quarter-staff," he continued, "'fore gad, we'll not part with thee till we have learnt how to do thee good service.

"Yet stay," he said, as he was preparing to mount, and whilst steadily regarding the youth, "art not of the town here? Have I not seen thy goodly visage somewhere in Stratford? Troth have I. Why man, thou art the son of my respected neighbour, the wool-comber in Henley Street—John Shakespeare."

"His eldest son, an it so please ye," said the youth, blushing.

"'Fore Heaven, and so thou art!" said Sir Hugh. "And what, good Philip?—is not thy name Philip?"

"William," said the youth.

"And what good wind, then, good William Shakespeare, hath blown thee so opportunely this morning to our neighbourhood?"

"Marry, the same wind, good Sir Hugh," said a tall, dark-looking man, dressed in the habiliments of a forester, and accompanied by a companion quite as ill-favoured as himself, and who at this moment thrust himself into the circle: "the same ill wind, Sir Hugh, that makes him haunt every wood and dell in the county."

This interruption somewhat startled the party. Sir Hugh turned and looked at him with surprise, whilst the object of the remark of the forester in an instant confronted the man. "Thou art an insolent caitiff," he said, "thus to speak of one of whom thou knowest nothing."

"An I know nothing of thee," said the forester contemptuously, "'tis more than my comrade here can testify. By the same token, thou has stolen upon his forest-walk, 'will he, nill he,' and beaten him on his own beat, as it were, and so put him to shame."

"And I am as like to do the same by thee with the like provocation," returned young Shakespeare. "Thy comrade laid hands upon me, and dishonoured me by a blow. For the which," he continued, significantly, "I beat him."

"And for which," returned the forester, "we have followed thee hither; and, time and opportunity serving, will return the beating with interest. Thou art warned, so look to thyself, and keep from our woods in future."

"Gramercy," said Sir Hugh, now interrupting the dispute, "but what saucy companions are these?"

"We are outlying keepers of Sir Thomas Lucy, of Charlecote, Sir Hugh," said the man, doffing his hat, and making a leg.

"Outlying, I think, by'r Lady," said Sir Hugh, "in every sense of the word. Thou hast railed on thyself, Sir Ranger, in accusing this youth of the offence of trespass, since thou art even now thyself trespassing here, and putting an affront upon a youth whom it is our pleasure to hold in good esteem. Begone, lest I give my people a hint to cudgel thee for thy presumption."

"Nay, then our master shall hear of it," said the keeper; "an thou encouragest those who lurch upon his grounds, the sword must settle it."

"'Tis with thy master I will settle it, thou arrant knave," said Sir Hugh; "I talk not with such caitiffs."

"And yet dost thou take up with yonder son of a trader in Stratford town," said the fellow, with a sneer. "'Want of company,' saith the proverb. Eh?"

"Hark ye, sirrah!" said young Shakespeare (like lightning seizing the keeper by the green frock, and forcing him up to the dead horse), "trader or noble, I warn thee to put no further affront upon me before this fair company; for, by the hand that brained yon steed, I can as easily teach thee as awful a lesson. Begone!" he continued. "I am alike ready to meet thee on thine own or other grounds, singly or together, with quarter-staff, or rapier and target."

The man looked cowed, he glanced towards his comrade, and both disappeared.

THE FAMILY OF THE CLOPTONS.

To Charlotte Clopton the introduction of the stranger youth, the relation her cousin gave of his opportune appearance, and the ready manner in which he had rescued her, seemed like some dream.

Indeed, under circumstances such as she now for the first time beheld the youthful poet, he was scarcely to be regarded, we opine, by a lady's eye with impunity.

Rendered insensible, as we have seen, by her severe fall, on recovery she found herself almost miraculously saved from a dreadful death. Whilst he who had rescued her, appeared to have come to her assistance "like some descended god."

"Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?" The heart of Charlotte was from that moment hopelessly, irrecoverably, lost.

The family of the Cloptons was of ancient descent. Sir Hugh was a widower, having no other offspring but the daughter we have already introduced to our readers. Of suitors doubtless the fair Charlotte might have had plenty and to spare; for, when broad lands are coupled with exceeding beauty,