most honest pastime in peace." The butts are erected in the open fields after we cross the Ichnield way on the Stratford road. It is an elevated spot, which looks down upon the long pastures which skirt the Avon. These are not the ancient butts of the town, made and kept up according to the statute of Henry VIII.; nor do the young men compel their fathers, according to the same statute, to provide each of them with "a bow and two shafts," until they are of the age of seventeen; but each is willing to obey the statute, having bow and four arrows continually for himself." Their butts are mounds of turf, on which is fixed a small piece of circular paper with a pin in the centre. The young poet probably thought of Robin Hood's more picturesque mark :

"On every syde a rose garlonde,

They shot under the lyne.

Whoso fayleth of the rose garlonde,' sayd Robin, 'His takyll he shall tyne.'

At the crab-tree are the young archers to meet at the hour of eight

:

a

The costume of Chaucer's squire's yeoman would be emulated by some of the assembly:

""

"He was cladde in cote and hode of grene;
A shefe of peacock arwes bright and kene
Under his belt he bare ful thriftily.
Wel coude he dresse his takel yemanly:
His arwes drouped not with fetheres lowe.
And in his hond he bare a mighty bowe.

Upon his arme he bare a gaie bracer."

The lots are cast; three archers on either side. The marker takes his place, to "cry aim." Away flies the first arrow-" gone "-it is over the butt; a second --" short; a third-" wide;" a fourth "hits the white,"-" Let him be clapped on the shoulder and called Adam;"† a fifth "handles his bow like a crowkeeper." Lastly comes a youth from Stratford, and he is within an inch of "cleaving the pin." There is a maiden gazing on the sport; she whispers a word in his ear, and "then the very pin of his heart" is "cleft with the blind bow-boy's butt-shaft."§ He recovers his self-possession, whilst he receives his arrow from the marker, humming the while

After repeated contests the match is decided.

But there is now to be a tria of greater skill, requiring the strong arm and the accurate eye-the old English practice which won the day at Agincourt. The archers go up into the hills: he who has drawn the first lot suddenly stops; there is a bush upon the rising ground before him, from which hangs some rag, or weasel-skin, or dead crow; away flies the arrow, and the fellows of the archer each shoot from the same spot. This was the roving of the more ancient archery, where the mark was sometimes on high, and sometimes on the ground, and always at variable distances. Over hill and dale go the young men onward in the excitement of their exercise, so lauded by Richard Mulcaster, first Master of Merchant Tailors' School :-"And whereas hunting on foot is much praised, what moving of the body hath the foot-hunter in hills and dales which the roving archer hath not in variety of grounds? Is his natural heat more stirred than the archer's is? Is his appetite better than the archer's?"* This natural premonition sends the party homeward to their noon-tide dinner at the Grange. But as they pass along the low meadows they send up many a "flight," with shout and laughter. An arrow is sometimes lost. But there is one who in after-years recollected his boyish practice under such mishaps :

:

"In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft.

I shot his fellow of the self-same flight

The self-same way, with more advised watch

To find the other forth; and, by adventuring both,

I oft found both: I urge this childhood proof,

Because what follows is pure innocence.

* Positions: 1581.

I owe you much; and, like a wilful youth,
That which I owe is lost: but, if you please
To shoot another arrow that self way
Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt,
As I will watch the aim, or to find both,

Or bring your latter hazard back again,
And thankfully rest debtor for the first." •

There are other sports to be played, and other triumphs to be achieved, before the day closes. In the meadow, at some little distance from the butts, is fixed a machine of singular construction. It is the Quintain. Horsemen are beginning to assemble around it, and are waiting the arrival of the guests from the Grange, who are merry in "an arbour" of mine host's" orchard." But the youths are for more stirring matters; and their horses are ready. To the inexperienced eye the machine which has been erected in the field

"That which here stands up,

Is but a quintain, a mere lifeless block." ↑

It is the wooden figure of a Saracen, sword in hand, grinning hideously upon the assailants who confront him. The horsemen form a lane on either side, whilst one, the boldest of challengers, couches his spear and rides violently at the enemy, who appears to stand firm upon his wooden post. The spear strikes the Saracen just on the left shoulder; but the wooden man receives not his wound with patience, for by the action of the blow he swings round upon his pivot, and hits the horseman a formidable thump with his extended sword before the horse has cleared the range of the misbeliever's weapon. Then one chorus of laughter greets the unfortunate rider as he comes dolefully back to the rear. Another and another fail. At last the quintain is struck right in the centre, and the victory is won. The Saracen conquered, a flat board is set up upon the pivot, with a sand-bag at one end, such as Stow has described :"I have seen a quintain set upon Cornhill, by Leadenhall, where the attendants of the lords of merry disports have run and made great pastime; for he that hit not the board end of the quintain was laughed to scorn; and he that hit it full, if he rode not the faster, had a sound blow upon his neck with a bag full of sand hanged on the other end." The merry guests of the Grange enjoy the sport as heartily as Master Laneham, who saw the quintain at Kenilworth :-"The speciality of the sport was to see how some of his slackness had a good bob with the bag; and some for his haste to topple downright, and come tumbling to the post; some striving so much at the first setting out, that it seemed a question between the man and the beast, whether the course should be made a horseback or a foot and, put forth with the spurs, then would run his race by us among the thickest of the throng, that down came they together hand over head. * By my troth, Master Martin, 't was a goodly pastime." And now they go to supper,

:

"What time the labour'd ox

In his loose traces from the furrow came." §

* *

• The Merchant of Venice, Act I., Scene 1.
Survey of London.

+ As You Like It, Act I., Scene m

§ Milton: Comus.'

The moon shines brightly upon the terraced garden of the Grange. The mill-wheel is at rest. The ripple of the stream over the dam pleasantly breaks the silence which is around. There is merriment within the house, whose open casements welcome the gentle night-breeze. The chorus of a jovial song has just ceased. Suddenly a lute is struck upon the terrace of the garden, and three voices beneath the window command a mute attention. They are singing one of those lovely compositions which were just then becoming popular in England-the Madrigal, which the Flemings invented, the Italians cultivated, and which a few years after reached its perfection in our own country. The beautiful interlacings of the harmony, its "fine bindings and strange closes,' its points, each emulating the other, but each in its due place and proportion, required scientific skill as well as voice and ear. But the young men who sang the madrigal were equal to their task. There was one who listened till his heart throbbed and his eyes were wet with tears; for he was lifted above the earth by thoughts which he afterwards expressed in lines of wondrous loveli

ness:

"How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears; soft stillness, and the night,
Become the touches of sweet harmony.

Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven

Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold.

There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st,

But in his motion like an angel sings,

Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins:

Such harmony is in immortal souls;

But whilst this muddy vesture of decay

Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it." +

The madrigal ceased; but the spirit of harmony which had been thus evoked was not allowed to be overlaid by ruder merriment. 'Watkin's Ale,' and 'The Carman's Whistle,' Peg-a-Ramsay,' Three merry men we be,' and Heartease,' were reserved for another occasion, when a fresh "stoup of wine" might be loudly called for, and the jolly company might roar out their "coziers' catches without any mitigation or remorse of voice." But there was many an 'old and antique song." full of elegance and tenderness, to be heard that night. We were a musical people in the age of Elizabeth; but our music was no fashion of the brisk and giddy-paced times." There was abundant music with which the people were familiar, whether sad or lively, quaint or simple. There was many an air not to be despised by the nicest taste, of which it might be said,

"

"It is old and plain :

The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,

And the free maids that weave their thread with bones,

Do use to chant it; it is silly sooth,

And dallies with the innocence of love,

Like the old age." §

Morley's Treatise: 1597.

Twelfth Night, Act II., Scene IIL

+ Merchant of Venice, Act v., Scene 1.
§ Ibid, Act II. Scene IV.

new

Such was the plaintive air of Robin Hood is to the Greenwood gone, a line of which has been snatched from oblivion by Ophelia :

"For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy."

Such was the Light o' Love,'-the favourite of poets, if we may judge from its repeated mention in the old dramas. Such was the graceful tune which the young Shakspere heard that night with words which he ha! himself written for a friend :

:

"O, mistress mine, where are you roaming?
C, stay and hear; your true love's coming,
That can sing both high and low:
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers' meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.

What is love! 'tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;

What's to come is still unsure:

In delay there lies no plenty;

Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty;
Youth's a stuff will not endure."

And the challenge was received in all kindness; and the happy lover might say, with Sir Thomas

Wyatt,

"She me caught in her arms long and small.

Therewithal sweetly she did me kiss,

And softly said, 'Dear heart, how like you this?'".

for he was her accepted "servant,"-such a " servant as Surrey sued to Geraldine to be, the recognised lover, not yet betrothed, but devoted to his mis tress with all the ardour of the old chivalry. In a few days they would be handfasted; they would make their public troth-plight.