gallows, too, was always at hand to make an end of the wanderers when, hunted from tithing to tithing, they inevitably became thieves. Nothing but a compulsory provision for the maintenance of the poor could then have saved England from a fearful Jacquerie. It cannot reasonably be doubted that the vast destruction of capital by the dissolution of the monasteries threw for many years a quantity of superfluous labour upon the yet unsettled capital of the ordinary industry of the country. That Shakspere had witnessed much of this misery is evident from his constant disposition to descry "a soul of goodness in things evil," and from his indignant hatred of the heartlessness of petty authority :

"Thou rascal beadle, hold thy bloody hand." *

And yet, with many social evils about him, the age of Shakspere's youth was one in which the people were making a great intellectual progress. The poor were ill provided for. The Church was in an unsettled state, attacked by the natural restlessness of those who looked upon the Reformation with regret and hatred, and by the rigid enemies of its traditionary ceremonies and ancient observances, who had sprung up in its bosom. The promises which had been inade that education should be fostered by the State had utterly failed; for even the preservation of the universities, and the protection and establishment of a few grammar-schools, had been unwillingly conceded by the avarice of those daring statesmen who had swallowed up the riches of the ancient establishment. The genial spirit of the English yeomanry had received a check from the intolerance of the powerful sect who frowned upon all sports and recreations-who despised the arts-who held poets and pipers to be "caterpillars of a commonwealth." But yet the wonderful stirring up of the intellect of the nation had made it an age favourable for the cultivation of the highest literature; and most favourable to those who looked upon society, as the young Shakspere must have looked, in the spirit of cordial enjoyment and practical wisdom.

DECAY, followed by reproduction, is the order of nature; and so, if the vital power of society be not extinct, the men of one generation attempt to repair what the folly or the wickedness of their predecessors has destroyed. Sumptuous abbeys were pulled down in the reign of Henry VIII.; but humble parishchurches rose up in the reign of Elizabeth. Within four miles of Stratford, on the opposite bank of the Avon, is the pretty village of Welford; and here is a church which bears the date of 1568 carved upon its wall. Although the church was new, the people would cling, and perhaps more pertinaciously than ever, to the old usages connected with their church. They certainly would

not forego their Wake,-"an ancient custom among the Christians of this island to keep a feast every year upon a certain week or day in remembrance of the finishing of the building of their parish-church, and of the first solemn dedicating of it to the service of God."* For fifty years after the period of which we are writing, the wakes prevailed, more or less, throughout England. The Puritans had striven to put them down; but the opposite party in the Church. as zealously encouraged them. Charles I. spoke the voice of this party in one of his celebrated declarations for sports, which gave such deep, and in some respects just, offence. In 1633 the King's declaration in favour of wakes was as follows:-" In some counties of this kingdom, his Majesty finds that, under pretence of taking away abuses, there hath been a general forbidding, not only of ordinary meetings, but of the feasts of the dedication of the churches, commonly called Wakes. Now, his Majesty's express will and pleasure is, that these feasts, with others, shall be observed; and that his justices of the peace, in their several divisions, shall look to it, both that all disorders there may be prevented or punished, and that all neighbourhood and freedom, with manlike and lawful exercises, be used."† Neighbourhood and freedom, and manlike exercises, were the old English characteristics of the wakes. At the period when William Shakspere was just entering upon life, with the natural disposition of youth, strongest perhaps in the more imaginative, to mingle in the recreations and sports of his neighbours with the most cordial spirit of enjoyment, the Puritans were beginning to denounce every assembly of the people that strove to keep up the character of merry England. Stubbes, writing at this exact epoch, says, describing "The manner of keeping of Wakesses," that “every town, parish, and village, some at one time of the year, some at another, but so that every one keep his proper day assigned and appropriate to itself (which they call their wake-day), useth to make great preparation and provision for good cheer; to the which all their friends and kinsfolks, far and near, are invited." Such were the friendly meetings in all mirth and freedom which the proclamation of Charles calls "neighbourhood." neighbourhood." The Puritans denounced them as occasions of gluttony and drunkenness. Excess, no doubt, was occasionally there. The old hospitality could scarcely exist without excess. But it must not be forgotten that, whatever might be the distinction of ranks. amongst our ancestors in all matters in which "coat-armour" was concerned, there was a hearty spirit of social intercourse, constituting a practical equality between man and man, which enabled all ranks to mingle without offence and without suspicion in these public ceremonials; and thus the civilization of the educated classes told upon the manners of the uneducated. There is no writer who furnishes us a more complete picture of this ancient freedom of intercourse than Chaucer. The company who meet at the Tabard, and eat the victual of the best, and drink the strong wine, and submit themselves to the merry host, and tell their tales upon the pilgrimage without the slightest restraint, are not only the very high and the very humble, but the men of professions and the

Brand's 'Popular Antiquities,' by Ellis, 1841, vol. ii., p. 1.
Rushworth's 'Collections,' quoted in Harris's 'Life of Charles I.'

men of trade, who in these later days too often jostle and look big upon the de-. bateable land of gentility. And so, no doubt, this freedom existed to a considerable extent even in the days of Shakspere. In the next generation Herrick a parish priest, writes,—

"Come, Anthea, let us two

Go to feast, as others do.

Tarts and custards, creams and cakes,

Are the junkets still at wakes:

Unto which the tribes resort,

Where the business is the sport."

With the tribes were mingled the stately squire, the reverend parson, and the well-fed yeoman; and, what was of more importance, their wives and daughters there exchanged smiles and courtesies. The more these meetings

Let

were frowned upon by the severe, the more would they be cherished by those who thought not that the proper destiny of man was unceasing labour and mortification. Some even of the most pure would exclaim, as Burton exclaimed after there had been a contest for fifty years upon the matter, them freely feast, sing, and dance, have their puppet-plays, hobby-horses, tabors, crowds, bagpipes, &c., play at ball and barley-breaks, and what sports and recreations they like best!"*

From sunrise, then, upon a bright summer morning, are the country people in their holiday dresses hastening to Welford. It is the Baptist's day. There were some amongst them who had lighted the accustomed bonfires upon the hills on the vigil of the saint; and perhaps a maiden or two, clinging to the ancient superstitions, had tremblingly sat in the church-porch in the solemn twilight, or more daringly had attempted at midnight to gather the fern-seed which should make mortals "walk invisible." Over the bridges at Binton come the hill people from Temple Grafton and Billesley. Arden pours out its scanty population from the woodland hamlets. Bidford and Barton send in their tribes through the flat pastures on either bank of the river. From Stratford there is a pleasant and not circuitous walk by the Avon's side, now leading through low meadows, now ascending some gentle knoll, where a long reach of the stream may be traced, and now close upon the sedges and alders, with a glimpse of the river sparkling through the green. It is a merry company who follow along this narrow road; and there is a clear voice carolling

"Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way,

And merrily hent the stile-a:
A merry heart goes all the day,
Your sad tires in a mile-a." +

They soon cross the ferry at Ludington, and, passing through the village of Weston, they hear the church-bells of Welford sending forth a merry peal. At

*Anatomy of Melancholy, Part II., Sec. 2.

Winter's Tale, Act Iv., Scene II. The music of this song is given in the Pictorial Shakspere, and in Mr. Chappell's admirable collection of English National Airs.' We are indebted to Mr. Chappell for many of the facts connected with our ancient music noticed in the present chapter.

length they reach the village. There is cordial welcome in every house. The tables of the Manor Hall are set out with a substantial English breakfast; and the farmer's kitchen emulates the same bounteous hospitality. In a little while the church-tower sends forth another note. A single bell tolls for matins. The church soon fills with a zealous congregation; not a seat is empty. The service for this particular feast is attended to with pious reverence; and when the people are invited to assist in its choral parts, they still show that, however the national taste for music may have been injured by the suppression of the chauntries, they are familiar with the fine old chaunts of their fathers, and can perform them with spirit and exactness, each according to his ability, but the most with some knowledge of musical science. The homily is ended. The sun shines glaringly through the white glass of this new church; and some of the Stratford people may think it fortunate that their old painted windows are not yet all removed.* The dew is off the green that skirts the churchyard; the pipers and crowders are ready; the first dance is to be chosen. Thomas Heywood, one of Shakspere's pleasant contemporaries, has left us a dialogue which shows how embarrassing was such a choice :

"Jack. Come, what shall it be? 'Rogero?'

Jenkin. 'Rogero?' no; we will dance The beginning of the world.'
Sisly. I love no dance so well as 'John, come kiss me now.'

Nicholas. I have ere now deserv'd a cushion; call for the Cushion-dance.'
Roger. For my part, I like nothing so well as 'Tom Tyler.'

Jenkin. No; we'll have 'The hunting of the fox.'

Jack. The hay, The hay;' there's nothing like 'The hay.'

Jenkin. Let me speak for all, and we'll have 'Sellenger's round.'"+

Jenkin, who rejects Rogero,' is strenuous for The Beginning of the World,' and he carries his proposal by giving it the more modern name of 'Sellenger's Round.' The tune was as old as Henry VIII.; for it is mentioned in The History of Jack of Newbury,' by Thomas Deloney, whom Kemp called the great ballad-maker : —' "In comes a noise of musicians in tawny coats, who, taking off their caps, asked if they would have any music? The widow answered, No; they were merry enough.' Tut!' said the old man; 'let us hear, good fellows, what you can do; and play me The Beginning of the World.'" A quaint tune is this, by whatever name it be known—an air not boisterous in its character, but calm and graceful;-a round dance "for as many as will;" who "take hands and go round twice, and back again,” with a succession of figures varying the circular movement, and allowing the display of individual grace and nimbleness :—

"All images, shrines, tabernacles, roodlofts, and monuments of idolatry are removed, taken down, and defaced; only the stories in glass windows excepted, which, for want of sufficient store of new stuff, and by reason of extreme charge that should grow by the alteration of the same into white panes throughout the realm, are not altogether abolished in most places at once, but by little and little suffered to decay, that white glass may be provided and set up in their rooms."-Harrison's Description of England:' 1586.

+ A Woman Killed with Kindness. 1600.