ward, scarcely less interesting than the music he had so happily called forth. He seemed, indeed, as he paused, and bowed with great deference to our bard and his little group of friends, to possess a figure of peculiar symmetry and manly beauty; but his features were partially, and, as it appeared, purposely shaded. In his dress it was easy to perceive that he had copied for the occasion a considerable part of the costume which half a century before had so remarkably distinguished the minstrel tribe; being clothed in a mantle of Kendal green, gathered at the neck by a gorget and clasp, from which depended a silver chain and medal, and girt round the waist with a belt of scarlet velvet. To these were added a turban of black cloth, with a laced fringe which hung half over his face, and surmounted by a plume of the same colour as the girdle, a ruff after the Elizabethan fashion, a doublet and hose of tawny camlet, worked at the wrists and seams with raised green silk, and buskins of dark brown leather fringed with scarlet.

The striking character of this garb, the grace and spirit, both of form and manner, which ac

companied him who wore it, and the skill with which he struck his harp, had drawn after the youthful minstrel a concourse of all ranks and ages, who now stood opposite New-Place in eager and almost silent expectation of once more hearing the sounds which had so lately and so singularly delighted them.

It was not long before they were again gratified; but scarcely had he closed the prelude, and commenced, in a rich and mellow tone of voice, a little madrigal, whose words were those of wild and plaintive tenderness, than a considerable degree of agitation was perceptible in the features and manner of Helen Montchensey. She leant trembling, and with nearly her whole weight, on the arm of Mrs. Hall, and seemed to listen with an almost breathless intenseness of curiosity, mingled with alarm, to the song of the harper. It became evident, indeed, to Mrs. Hall, whose scrutiny had been powerfully awakened by the distress of her friend, that, notwithstanding the semi-veil which shaded the brow and eyes of the minstrel, both Helen and herself had been for some time the objects of his close and unwearied attention; and he had

even contrived during the execution of his interesting little ditty, gradually, and almost imperceptibly, to approach the spot where they stood, so that when Helen, whose eyes had been cast on the ground, as she anxiously listened to the recognition of tones which had never been heard by her without emotion, raised them as the voice seemed to vibrate on her ear, she beheld the minstrel at her side. It was at this moment, and whilst she involuntarily started at the close and hitherto unnoticed approximation of the seeming stranger, that carelessly, as it were, and as if by accident, and whilst his face was turned towards her own, he struck aside the veiling fringe, and instantly as her eye met his, the name of Hubert convulsively and unconsciously escaped her lips, and she sank powerless and fainting to the ground.

The confusion and alarm which this incident occasioned were such, that though the exclamation of Helen had reached the ears of her father, and had brought with it the most painful emotions, yet such were his apprehensions for the immediate safety of his daughter, that he suffered her, notwithstanding he entertained

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