In the spring of 1588, and through the summer also, we may well believe that Shakspere abided in London, whether or not he had his wife and children about him. The course of public events was such that he would scarcely have left the capital, even for a few weeks. For the hearts of all men in the vast city were mightily stirred; and whilst in that "shop of war" might be heard on every side the din of "anvils and hammers waking to fashion out the plates and instruments of armed justice,"* the poet had his own work to do, in urging forward the noble impulse through which the people, of whatever sect, or whatever party, willed that they would be free. It was the year of the Armada. When Shakspere first exchanged the quiet intercourse of his native

town for the fierce contests of opinion amongst the partisans of London-he must have had fears for his country. A conspiracy, the most daring and extensive, had burst out against the life of the Queen; and it was the more dangerous that the leaders of the plot were high-minded enthusiasts, who mingled with their traitorous designs the most chivalrous devotion to another Queen, a long-suffering prisoner. The horrible cruelties that attended the execution of Babington and his accomplices aggravated the pity which men felt that so much enthusiasm should have been lost to their country. More astounding events were to follow. In a year of dearth the citizens had banqueted, amidst bells and bonfires, in honour of the detection of Babington and his followers; and now, within three weeks of the feast of Christmas, the Lord Mayor and Aldermen, assisted with divers earls, barons, and gentlemen of account, and worshipful citizens "in coats of velvet and chains of gold, all on horseback, in most solemn and stately manner, by sound of four trumpets, about ten of the clock in the forenoon, made open and public proclamation and declaration of the sentence lately given by the nobility against the Queen of Scots under the great seal of England."* At the Cross in Cheap, or at the end of Chancery Lane, or at St. Magnus Corner near London Bridge, would the young sojourner in this seat of policy hear the proclamation: and he would hear also the great and wonderful rejoicing of the people of all sorts, as manifestly appeared by ringing of bells, making of bonfires, and singing of psalms in every of the streets and lanes of the City."t But amidst this show of somewhat ferocious joy would he encounter gloomy and fear-stricken faces. Men would not dare even to whisper their opinions, but it would be manifest that the public heart was not wholly at ease. On the eighth of February the Queen of Scots is executed. Within a week after London pours forth its multitudes to witness a magnificent and a mournful pageant. The Queen has taken upon herself the cost of the public funeral of Sir Philip Sidney. She has done wisely in this. In honouring the memory of the most gallant and accomplished of her subjects, she diverts the popular mind from unquiet reflections to feelings in which all can sympathise. Even the humblest of the people, who know little of the poetical genius, the taste, the courtesy, the chivalrous bearing of this star of the Court of Elizabeth, know that a young and brave man has fallen in the service of his country. Some of his companions in arms have perhaps told the story of his giving the cup of water, about to be lifted to his own parched lips, to the dying soldier whose necessities were greater than his. And that story indeed would move their tears, far more than all the gallant recollections of the tilt-yard. From the Minorites at the eastern extremity of the City, to St. Paul's, there is a vast procession of authorities in solemn purple; but more impressive is the long column of "certain young men of the City marching by three and three in black cassokins, with their short pikes, halberds, and ensign trailing on the ground." There are in that procession many of the "officers of his foot in the Low Countries" his "gentlemen and yeoman-servants," and twelve "knights of his kindred and friends." One

there is amongst them upon whom all eyes are gazing-Drake, the Doid seaman who has carried the terror of the English flag through every sea, and in afew months will be "singeing the King of Spain's beard." The corpse of Sidney is borne by fourteen of his yeomen; and amongst the pall-bearers is one weeping manly tears, Fulke Greville, upon whose own tomb was written as the climax of his honour that he was "friend to Sir Philip Sidney." The uncle, of the dead hero is there also, the proud, ambitious, weak, and incapable Leicester, who has been kinging it as Governor-General of the Low Countries

without the courage to fight a battle, except that in which Sidney was sacrificed. He has been recalled; and is in some disfavour in the courtly circle, although he tried to redeem his disgraces in the Netherlands by boldly counselling the poisoning of the Queen of Scots. Shakspere looks upon the haughty peer, and shudders when he thinks of the murder of Edward Arden.*

Within a year of the burial of Sidney the popular temper had greatly changed. It had gone forth to all lands that England was to be invaded. Philip of Spain was preparing the greatest armament that the combined navies of Spain and Portugal, of Naples and Sicily, of Genoa and Venice, could bear across the seas, to crush the arch-heretic of England. Rome had blessed the enterprise. Prophecies had been heard in divers languages, that the year 1588 "should be most fatal and ominous unto all estates," and it was "now plainly discovered that England was the main subject of that time's operation.' "* Yet England did not quail. "The whole commonalty," says the annalist," became of one heart and mind." The Council of War demanded five thousand men and fifteen ships of the City of London. Two days were craved for answer; and the City replied that ten thousand men and thirty ships were at the service of their country. In every field around the capital were the citizens who had taken arms practising the usual points of war. The

Stow's Annals.

It has been said, in contradiction to the good old historian of London, that the City only gave what the Council demanded; 10,000 men were certainly levied in the twenty-five wards.

Camp at Tilbury was formed. "It was a pleasant sight to behold the soldiers, as they marched towards Tilbury, their cheerful countenances, courageous words and gestures. dancing and leaping wheresoever they came; and in the camp their most felicity was hope of fight with the enemy: where ofttimes divers rumours ran of their foe's approach, and that present battle would be given them; then were they joyful at such news, as if lusty giants were to run a race." There is another description of an eager and confident army that may parallel this: