A Tempest.

There arose even with the sun a veil of dark clouds before his face, which shortly, like ink poured into water, had blacked over all the face of heaven, preparing, as it were, a mournful stage for a tragedy to be played on. For, forthwith the winds began to speak louder, and, as in a tumultuous kingdom, to think themselves fittest instruments of commandment; and blowing whole storms of hail and rain upon them, they were sooner in danger than they could almost bethink themselves of change. For then the traitorous sea began to swell in pride against the afflicted navy, under which, while the heaven favoured them, it had lain so calmly; making mountains of itself, over which the tossed and tottering ship should climb, to be straight carried down again to a pit of hellish darkness, with such cruel blows against the sides of the ship, that, which way soever it went, was still in his malice, that there was left neither power to stay nor way to escape. And shortly had it so dissevered the loving company, which the day before had tarried together, that most of them never met again, but were swallowed up in his never-satisfied mouth.

Description of Arcadia.

There were hills which garnished their proud heights with stately trees; humble valleys, whose base estate seemed comforted with the refreshing of silver rivers; meadows, enamelled with all sorts of eye-pleasing flowers; thickets, which being lined with most pleasant shade, were witnessed so too, by the cheerful disposition of many well-tuned birds; each pasture stored with sheep, feeding with sober security; while the pretty lambs, with bleating oratory, craved the dam's comfort; here a shepherd's boy piping, as though he should never be old; there a young shepherdess knitting, and withal singing; and it seemed that her voice comforted her hands to work, and her hands kept time to her voicemusic.

A Stag-hunt.

Then went they together abroad, the good Kalander entertaining them with pleasant discoursing-how well he loved the sport of hunting when he was a young man, how much in the comparison thereof he disdained all chamber delights, that the sun (how great a journey soever he had to make) could never prevent him with earliness, nor the moon, with her sober countenance, dissuade him from watching till midnight for the deer's feeding. O, said he, you will never live to my age, without you keep yourselves in breath with exercise, and in heart with joyfulness; too much thinking doth consume the spirits; and oft it falls out, that, while one thinks too much of his doing, he leaves to do the effect of his thinking. Then spared he not to remember, how much Arcadia was changed since his youth; activity and good fellowship being nothing in the price it was then held in; but, according to the nature of the oldgrowing world, still worse and worse. Then would he tell them stories of such gallants as he had known; and so, with pleasant company, beguiled the time's haste, and shortened the way's length, till they came to the side of the wood, where the hounds were in couples, staying their coming, but with a whining accent craving liberty; many of them in colour and marks so resembling, that it shewed they were of one kind. The huntsmen handsomely attired in their green liveries, as though they were children of summer, with staves in their hands to beat the guiltless earth, when the hounds were at a fault; and with horns about their necks, to sound an alarum upon a silly fugitive: the hounds were straight uncoupled, and ere long the stag thought it better to trust to the nimbleness of his feet than to

the slender fortification of his lodging; but even his feet betrayed him; for, howsoever they went, they themselves uttered themselves to the scent of their enemies, who, one taking it of another, and sometimes believing the wind's advertisement, sometimes the view of their faithful counsellors the huntsmen, with open mouths, then denounced war, when the war was already begun. Their cry being composed of so well-sorted mouths, that any man would perceive therein some kind of proportion, but the skilful woodmen did find a music. Then delight and variety of opinion drew the horsemen sundry ways, yet cheering their hounds with voice and horn, kept still as it were together. The wood seemed to conspire with them against his own citizens, dispersing their noise through all his quarters; and even the nymph Echo left to bewail the loss of Narcissus, and became a hunter. But the stag was in the end so hotly pursued, that, leaving his flight, he was driven to make courage of despair; and so turning his head, made the hounds, with change of speech, to testify that he was at a bay: as if from hot pursuit of their enemy, they were suddenly come to a parley.

Praise of Poetry.

The philosopher sheweth you the way, he informeth you of the particularities, as well of the tediousness of the way, as of the pleasant lodging you shall have when your journey is ended, as of the many by-turnings that may divert you from your way; but this is to no man, but to him that will read him, and read him with attentive studious painfulness; which constant desire whosoever hath in him, hath already passed half the hardness of the way, and therefore is beholden to the philosopher but for the other half. Nay, truly, learned men have learnedly thought, that where once reason hath so much overmastered passion, as that the mind hath a free desire to do well, the inward light each man hath in itself is as good as a philosopher's book; since in nature we know it is well to do well, and what is well and what is evil, although not in the words of art which philosophers bestow upon us; for out of natural conceit the philosophers drew it. But to be moved to do that which we know, or to be moved with desire to know, hoc opus hic labor est ['this is the grand difficulty'].

Now, therein, of all sciences—I speak still of human, and according to the human conceit-is our poet the monarch. For he doth not only shew the way, but giveth so sweet a prospect into the way, as will entice any man to enter into it. Nay, he doth, as if your journey should lie through a fair vineyard, at the very first, give you a cluster of grapes; that, full of that taste, you may long to pass further. He beginneth not with obscure definitions; which must blur the margin with interpretations, and load the memory with doubtfulness; but he cometh to you with words set in delightful proportion, either accompanied with, or prepared for, the well-enchanting skill of music; and with a tale, forsooth, he cometh unto you, with a tale which holdeth children from play, and old men from the chimneycorner; and pretending no more, doth intend the winning of the mind from wickedness to virtue; even as the child is often brought to take most wholesome things, by hiding them in such other as have a pleasant taste; which, if one should begin to tell them the nature of the aloes or rhubarbarum they should receive, would sooner take their physic at their ears than their mouth. So is it in men-most of whom are childish in the best things, till they be cradled in their graves. Glad they will be to hear the tales of Hercules, Achilles, Cyrus, Eneas; and hearing them, must needs hear the right description of wisdom, valour, and justice; which, if they had been barely-that is to say, philosophicallyset out, they would swear they be brought to school again.

LORD BURLEIGH.

Another of the favourites of Queen Elizabeth was WILLIAM CECIL, LORD BURLEIGH, who, for forty years, ably and faithfully served her in the capacity of secretary of state. He died in 1598, at the age of seventy-eight. As a minister, this celebrated individual was distinguished for wariness, application, sagacity, calmness, and a degree of closeness which sometimes degenerated into hypocrisy. Most of these qualities characterised also what is, properly speaking, his sole literary production; namely, Precepts or Directions for the Well Ordering and Carriage of a Man's Life. These precepts were addressed to his son, Robert Cecil, afterwards Earl of Salisbury.

once.

Choice of a Wife.

When it shall please God to bring thee to man's estate, use great providence and circumspection in choosing thy wife. For from thence will spring all thy future good or evil. And it is an action of life like unto a stratagem of war, wherein a man can err but If thy estate be good, match near home and at leisure; if weak, far off and quickly. Inquire diligently of her disposition, and how her parents have been inclined in their youth. Let her not be poor, how generous soever. For a man can buy nothing in the market with gentility. Nor choose a base and uncomely creature altogether for wealth; for it will cause contempt in others, and loathing in thee. Neither make choice of a dwarf, or a fool; for, by the one thou shalt beget a race of pigmies; the other will be thy continual disgrace, and it will yirke thee to hear her talk. For thou shalt find it, to thy great grief, that there is nothing more fulsome than a she-fool.

Domestic Economy.

And touching the guiding of thy house, let thy hospitality be moderate, and, according to the means of thy estate, rather plentiful than sparing, but not costly. For I never knew any man grow poor by keeping an orderly table. But some consume themselves through secret vices, and their hospitality bears the blame. But banish swinish drunkards out of thine house, which is a vice impairing health, consuming much, and makes no show. I never heard praise ascribed to the drunkard, but for the well-bearing of his drink; which is a better commendation for a brewer's horse or a drayman, than for either a gentleman or a serving-man. Beware thou spend not above three of four parts of thy revenues; nor above a third part of that in thy house. For the other two parts will do no more than defray thy extraordinaries, which always surmount the ordinary by much; otherwise thou shalt live like a rich beggar, in continual want. And the needy man can never live happily nor contentedly. For every disaster makes him ready to mortgage or sell. And that gentleman who sells an acre of land, sells an ounce of credit. For gentility is nothing else but ancient riches. So that if the foundation shall at any time sink, the building must needs follow.

EARL OF ESSEX.

ROBERT DEVEREUX, the gallant and unfortunate Earl of Essex (1567-1601), acquired his fame chiefly as a military commander; but he was a patron of men of letters, and an occasional writer, both in prose and verse. According to Ben Jonson, Essex sent twenty pieces to Spenser on his arrival in London, after his disastrous retreat from Ireland, which the poet refused, saying, 'he was

There is no treasure so much enriches the mind of man as learning; there is no learning so proper for the direction of the life of man as history; there is no history (I speak only of profane) so well worth the reading as Tacitus. For learning, Nature acknowledgeth a reason, by leaving industry to finish her unperfect work, for without learning, the conceit is like a fruitful soil without tilling, the memory like a store-house without wares, the will like a ship without a rudder. For history, since we are earlier taught by example than by precept, what study can profit us so much, as that which gives patterns either to follow or to fly, of the best and worst men of all estates, countries, and times that ever were? For Tacitus, I may say, without partiality, that he hath written the most matter with best conceit in fewest words of any historiographer, ancient or modern. But he is hard. Difficilia que pulchra: the second reading over will please thee more than the first, and the third than the second. And if thy stomach be so tender as thou canst not digest Tacitus in his own style, thou art beholding to Savile, who gives thee the same food, but with a pleasant and easy taste. In these four books of the story, thou shalt see all the miseries of a torn and declining state; the empire usurped; the princes murdered; the people wavering; the soldiers tumultuous; nothing unlawful to him that hath power, and nothing so unsafe as to be securely innocent. In Galba thou mayest learn, that a good prince, governed by evil ministers, is as dangerous as if he were evil himself. By Otho, that the fortune of a rash man is torrenti similis, which rises at an instant and falls in a moment. By Vitellius, that he that hath no virtue can never be happy; for by his own baseness he will lose all, which either fortune or other men's labours have cast upon him. By Vespasian, that in civil tumults an advised patience, and opportunity well taken, are the only weapons of advantage. In them all, and in the state of Rome under them, thou mayest see the calamities that follow civil wars, where laws lie asleep, and all things are judged by the sword. If thou mislike their wars, be thankful for thine own peace; if thou dost abhor their tyrannies, love and reverence thine own wise, just, and excellent prince. If thou dost detest their anarchy, acknowledge our own happy government, and thank God for her, under whom England enjoys as many benefits as ever Rome did suffer miseries under the greatest tyrant.

A Passion of my Lord of Essex.

Said to have been inclosed in a letter to the queen from Ireland in 1599.

Happy were he could finish forth his fate

In some unhaunted desert, most obscure From all societies, from love and hate

Of worldly folk; then might he sleep secure ; Then wake again, and ever give God praise, Content with hips and haws and bramble-berry; In contemplation spending all his days,

And change of holy thoughts to make him merry; Where, when he dies, his tomb may be a bush, Where harmless Robin dwells with gentle thrush.

QUEEN ELIZABETH.

A specimen of the actual composition, style, and orthography of QUEEN ELIZABETH (15331603) may be here given from the Letters of Queen Elizabeth and King James VI. of Scotland, printed

for the Camden Society, 1849. The following was written in August 1588, after the defeat of the Armada. 'This noble letter,' says Mr John Bruce, editor of the volume referred to, 'written by Elizabeth in the very culminating moment of her "greatest glory," is full of that energy which more or less pervades everything that fell from her pen. The persons whom she pretends to believe James cannot have left at liberty were, of course, Huntly and the other Catholic earls, who were continually intriguing with Spain, through the Jesuits. Her ambassador, whom she so highly praises, was Sir Robert Sidney.'

Now may appeare, my deare brother, how malice conioined with might, strivest to make a shameful end to a vilanous beginning; for, by Godz singular fauor, having ther flete wel beaten in our narow seas, and pressing, with all violence, to atcheue some wateringplace, to continue ther pretended invation, the windz have carried them to your costes, wher I dout not the shal receaue smal succor and les welcome, vnles thos lordz that, so traitors like, wold belie ther own prince, and promis another king reliefe in your name, be suffred to live at libertye, to dishonor you, peril you, and aduance some other (wiche God forbid you suffer them live to do). Therfor, I send you this gentilman-a rare younge man, and a wise-to declare unto yov my ful opinion in this greate cause, as one that neuer wyl abuse you to serve my own turn; nor wyl you do aught that myselfe wold not perfourme, if I wer in your place. You may assure yourselfe that, for my part, I dout no whit but that all this tirannical, prowd, and brainsick attempt wil be the beginning, thogh not the end, of the ruine of that king that most unkingly, euen in midz of treating peace, begins this wrongful war. He hath procured my greatest glory that ment my sorest wrack, and hath so dimmed the light of his sonshine, that who hathe a wyl to obtaine shame let them kipe his forses companye. But for al this, for yourselfe sake, let not the frendz of Spain be suffred to yeld them forse; for thogh I feare not in the end the sequele, yet if, by leaving them unhelped, you may increase the English hartz unto you, you shal not do the worst dede for your behalfe; for if aught should be done, your excuse wyl play the boiteux, if you make not sure worke with the likely men to do hit. Looke wel unto hit, I besiche

you.

The necessity of this mattir makes my skribling the more spidye, hoping that you wyl mesure my good affection with the right balance of my actions, wiche to you shalbe euer such as I haue professed, not douting of the reciproque of your behalfe, according as my last messenger unto you hathe at large signefied, for the wiche I rendar you a milion of grateful thankes togither, for the last general prohibition to your subiectz not to fostar nor ayde our general foe, of wiche I dout not the obseruation, if the ringeleaders be safe in your handz; as knoweth God, who euer haue you in his blessed kiping, with many happy yeres of raigne. Your most assured louing sistar and cousin, ELIZABETH R. To my verey good brother, the king of Scottz.

In a subsequent letter (September 11, 1592), Elizabeth urges James to punish those who disturb him with their reiterated traitorous attempts. The bold, imperious, masculine spirit of the queen is seen in the following passage (spelling modernised):

Must a king be prescribed what councillors he shall take, as if you were their ward? Shall you be obliged to tie or undo what they list make or revoke? O Lord, what strange dreams hear I, that would God they were so, for then at my waking I should find them fables. If you mean, therefore, to reign, I exhort you

to shew you worthy the place, which never can be surely settled without a steady course held to make you loved and feared. I assure myself many have escaped your hands more for dread of your remissness than for love of the escaped, so oft they see you cherishing their revenge than your assurance. My affection for some men for open crimes; and so they mistrust more you best lies on this, my plainness, whose patience is too much moved with these like everlasting faults.

And since it so likes you to demand my counsel, I find so many ways your state so unjointed, that it needs a skilfuller bone-setter than I to join each part in his right place. But, to fulfil your will, take in short, these few words: For all whoso you know assailers of your court, the shameful attempters of your sacred decree, if ever you pardon, I will never be the suitor. Who to peril a king were inventors or actors, they should crack a halter, if I were king. Such is my charity. Who, under pretence of bettering your estate, endangers the king, or needs will be his schoolmasters, if I might appoint their university, they should be assigned to learn first to obey; so should they better teach you next. I am not so unskilful of a kingly rule that I would wink at no fault, yet would be open-eyed at public indignity. Neither should all have the whip, though some were scourged. But if, like a toy, of a king's life so oft endangered nought shall follow but a scorn, what sequel I may doubt of such contempt I dread to think, and dare not name. The rest I bequeath to the trust of your faithful servant, and pray the Almighty God to inspire you in time, afore too late, to cut their combs whose crest may danger you. I am void of malice; God is judge; I know them not.

JOHN LYLY-STEPHEN GOSSON.

Though highly prized as a dramatist, Lyly was even more celebrated in his own day for his romance-Euphues, the Anatomy of Wit, 1579; and Euphues and his England, 1580. In the first part, the author places his hero, a young Athenian, in Naples; and in the second part, brings him to England, 'his voyage and adventures being mixed with sundry pretty discourses of honest love, the description of the country, the court, and the manners of that isle.' The romance went through five editions in six years, and became a sort of text-book for court ladies and people of fashion, who were fascinated by its curious ornate style, comparisons, and conceits, and, it is said, got many of its peculiar phrases by heart. Ben Jonson ridiculed this Euphuism; and Sir Walter Scott not only condemned it in his Life of Dryden, but in his novel of the Monastery depicted what he conceived to be a follower of the new style, in his character of Sir Percie Shafton, whose conversation is a tissue of forced conceits, antitheses, and affectation. Scott exaggerated Lyly's defects. There is a vein of good moral feeling and fancy in Euphues. The style is neat, and happy in expression; but often, from excess of ornament and antithesis, it becomes tedious. Greene and Lodge wrote tales in the style of Lyly, intended as continuations of Euphues, but both are much inferior to the original.

certainly the tree of virtue must needs wither; for nature without discipline is of small force, and discipline without nature more feeble. If exercise or study be void of any of these, it availeth nothing. For as in tilling of the ground in husbandry there is first chosen a fertile soil, then a cunning sower, then good seed, even so must we compare nature to the fat earth, the expert husbandman to the schoolmaster, the faculties and sciences to the pure seeds. If this order had not been in our predecessors-Pythagoras, Socrates, Plato, and whosoever was renowned in Greece for the glory of wisdom-they had never been eternised for wise men, neither canonised, as it were, for saints, among those that study sciences. It is therefore a most evident sign of God's singular favour towards him, that he is endued with all these qualities, without the which man is most miserable. But if there be any one that thinketh wit not necessary to the obtaining of wisdom, after he hath gotten the way to virtue, and industry, and exercise, he is a heretic, in my opinion, touching the true faith in learning. For if nature play not her part, in vain is labour; and, as it is said before, if study be not employed, in vain is nature. Sloth turneth the edge of wit, study sharpeneth the mind: a thing, be it never so easy, is hard to the idle; a thing, be it never so hard, is easy to wit well employed. And most plainly we may see in many things the efficacy of industry and labour. The little drops of rain pierce the hard marble; iron, with often handling, is worn to nothing. Besides this, industry sheweth herself in other things: the fertile soil, if it be never tilled, doth wax barren; and that which is most noble by nature is made most vile by negligence. What tree, if it be not topped, beareth any fruit? What vine, if it be not pruned, bringeth forth grapes? Is not the strength of the body turned to weakness with too much delicacy? Were not Milo his arms brawnfallen for want of wrestling? Moreover, by labour the fierce unicorn is tamed, the wildest falcon is reclaimed, the greatest bulwark is sacked. It was well answered of that man of Thessaly who, being demanded who among the Thessalians were reputed most vile: "Those,' he said, 'that live at quiet and ease, never giving themselves to martial affairs.' But why should one use many words in a thing already proved? It is custom, use, and exercise that brings a young man to virtue, and virtue to his perfection. Lycurgus, the lawgiver of the Spartans, did nourish two whelps, both of one sire and one dam, but after a sundry manner; for the one he framed to hunt, and the other to lie always in the chimney's end, at the porridge-pot. Afterward calling the Lacedemonians, he said: To the attaining of virtue, ye Lacedemonians, education, industry, and exercise is the most noblest means, the truth of which I will make manifest unto you by trial. Then, bringing forth the whelps, and setting down there

a pot and a hare, the one ran at the hare, the other to the porridge-pot. The Lacedemonians scarce understanding this mystery, he said: 'Both of these be of one sire and one dam, but you see how education altereth

nature.'

A Father's Grief for the Death of his Daughter. Thou weepest for the death of thy daughter, and I laugh at the folly of the father; for greater vanity is there in the mind of the mourner than bitterness in the death of the deceased. 'But she was amiable'-but yet sinful: 'but she was young, and might have lived '-but she was mortal, and must have died. Ay, but her youth made thee often merry'-ay, but thine age should once make thee wise. Ay, but her green years were unfit for death'-ay, but thy hoary hairs should despise life. Knowest thou not, Eubulus, that life is the gift of God, death is the due of nature; as we receive the one as a benefit, so must we abide the other of necessity. Wise men have found that by learning, which old men should know by experience, that in life there is nothing sweet,

in death nothing sour. The philosophers accounted it the chiefest felicity never to be born; the second, soon to die. And what hath death in it so hard that we should take it so heavily? Is it strange to see that cut off which, by nature, is made to be cut off? or that melten which is fit to be melted? or that burnt which is apt to be burnt? or man to pass that is born to perish? But thou grantest that she should have died, and yet art thou grieved that she is dead. Is the death the better if life be the longer? No, truly. For as neither he that singeth most, or prayeth longest, or ruleth the stern oftenest, but he that doth it best, deserveth greatest praise; so he, not that hath most years, but many virtues, nor he that hath grayest hairs, but greatest goodness, liveth longest. The chief beauty of life consisteth not in the numbering of many days, but in the using of virtuous doings. Amongst plants, those be best esteemed that in shortest time bring forth much fruit. Be not the fairest flowers gathered when they be freshest? the youngest beasts killed for sacrifice because they be finest? The measure of life is not length, but honesty; neither do we enter into life to the end we should set down the day of our death; but therefor we do live that we may obey Him that made us, and be willing to die when He shall call us.

Continue Not in Anger.

From Euphues and his England.

The sharp north-east wind doth never last three days; tempests have but a short time; and the more violent the thunder is, the less permanent it is. In the like manner, it falleth out with the jars and crossings of friends, which, begun in a minute, are ended in a moment. Necessary it is that among friends there should be some over-thwarting; but to continue in anger, not convenient. The camel first troubleth the water before he drink; the frankincense is burned before it smell; friends are tried before they are trusted, lest, like the carbuncle, as though they had fire they be found, being touched, to be without fire. Friendship should be like the wine which Homer, much commending, calleth Maroneum, whereof one pint being mingled with five quarts of water, yet it keepeth his old strength and virtue, not to be qualified by any discourtesy. Where salt doth grow, nothing else can breed; where friendship is built, no offence can harbour.

Contemporary with Lyly was STEPHEN GOSSON (1555-1624), who, having been poet, actor, dramatist, satirist, and preacher, died rector of St Botulph, Bishopsgate. Gosson's satire, the School of Abuse, 1579, is supposed to have induced Sidney to write his apology or defence of poetry, as Gosson's short treatise is an invective against poets, pipers, players, jesters, and such-like caterpillars of a commonwealth.' Public theatres for dramatic performances had been established about three years before (1576), and were keenly attacked by the clergy. Gosson says:

And because I have been matriculated myself in the school where so many abuses flourish, I will imitate the dogs of Egypt, which, coming to the banks of Nilus to quench their thirst, sip and away, drink running, lest they be snapt short for a prey to crocodiles. I should tell tales out of the school, and be feruled for my fault, or hissed at for a blab, if I laid all the orders open before your eyes. You are no sooner entered, but liberty looseth the reins, and gives you head, placing you with poetry in the lowest form; when his skill is shewn to make his scholar as good as ever twanged. He prefers you to piping, from piping to playing, from play to pleasure, from pleasure to sloth, from sloth to sleep, from sleep to sin, from sin to death, from death to the devil,

if you take your learning apace and pass through every form without revolting.

Like most satirical writers, he inveighs against the degeneracy of the times, forgetting all the glories of the Elizabethan era. He says:

Our wrestling at arms is turned to wallowing in ladies' laps, our courage to cowardice, our running to riot, our bows into bowls, and our darts to dishes. We have robbed Greece of gluttony, Italy of wantonness, Spain of pride, France of deceit, and Dutchland of quaffing. Compare London to Rome, and England to Italy, you shall find the theatres of the one, the abuses of the other, to be rife among us. Experto crede, I have seen somewhat, and therefore I think may say

the more.

GEORGE PUTTENHAM.

In 1589 appeared anonymously The Art of English Poesie, written, as its author states, for the queen, the court, and the educated classes 'desirous to become skilful in their mother tongue, and for their private recreation to make now and then ditties of pleasure.' The author is understood to be GEORGE PUTTENHAM (circa 1530-1590), who had been a scholar at Oxford, had travelled abroad, and become one of the gentlemen pensioners to Queen Elizabeth. Puttenham's work is a treatise of some length, divided into three books -the first of poets and poesy, the second of portion, and the third of ornament. The style of the work is clear and regular.

Of Language.

pro

This part in our maker, or poet, must be heedily looked unto, that it be natural, pure, and the most usual of all his country. And for the same purpose, rather that which is spoken in the king's court or in the good towns and cities within the land, than in the marches and frontiers, or in port towns, where strangers haunt for traffic sake; or yet in universities, where scholars use much peevish affectation of words out of the primitive languages; or, finally, in any uplandish village or corner of a realm, where is no resort but of poor rustical or uncivil people; neither shall he follow the speech of a craftsman or carter, or other of the inferior sort, though he be inhabitant or bred in the best town and city in this realm; for such persons do abuse good speeches by strange accents, or ill-shapen sounds, and false orthography. But he shall follow generally the better brought-up sort, men civil and graciously behavoured and bred. Our maker, therefore, at these days, shall not follow Piers Plowman, nor Gower, nor Lydgate, nor yet Chaucer, for their language is now out of use with us. Neither shall he take the terms of northern men such as they use in daily talk, whether they be noblemen or gentlemen, or of their best clerks, all is a matter; nor in effect any speech used beyond the river of Trent, though no man can deny but theirs is the purer English Saxon at this day, yet it is not so courtly nor so current as our southern English is; no more is the far western man's speech. Ye shall therefore take the usual speech of the court, and that of London, and the shires lying about London within sixty miles, and not much above. I say not this but that in every shire of England there be gentlemen and others that speak, but specially write, as good southern as we of Middlesex or Surrey do, but not the common people of every shire, to whom the gentlemen, and also their learned clerks, do for the most part condescend; but herein we are already ruled by the English dictionaries, and other books written by learned men, and therefore it needeth none other direction in that behalf.

tions.

RICHARD HOOKER.

One of the earliest, and also one of the most distinguished prose writers of this period, was RICHARD HOOKER, a learned and gifted theologian, born of poor but respectable parents, near Exeter, about the year 1553. At school he displayed so much aptitude for learning, and gentleness of disposition, that, having been recommended to Jewel, bishop of Salisbury, he was taken under the care of that prelate, who, after a satisfactory examination into his merits, sent him to Oxford, Hooker studied with great ardour and success, and contributed to his support. At the university, and became much respected for modesty, prudence, and piety. After Jewel's death, he was patronised by Sandys, bishop of London, who sent his son to Oxford to enjoy the benefit of Hooker's instrucAnother of his pupils at this time was George Cranmer, a grand-nephew of the famous archbishop of that name; and with both these young men he formed a close and enduring friendship. In 1579, his skill in the oriental languages led to his temporary appointment as deputy-professor of Hebrew; and two years later he entered into holy orders. Not long after this, he had the misfortune to be entrapped into a marriage, which proved a constant source of annoyance to him during life. The circumstances of this union, which place in a strong light the simple and unsuspecting nature of the man, were these: Having been appointed to preach at Paul's Cross in London, he put up at a house set apart for the reception of the preachers. On his arrival there from Oxford, he was wet and weary, but received so much kindness and attention from the hostess, that, according to his biographer (Walton), in his excess of gratitude, 'he thought himself bound in conscience to believe all that she said. So the good man came to be persuaded by her that he was a man of a tender constitution; and that it was best for him to have a wife, that might prove a nurse to him-such a one as might both prolong his life, and make it more comfortable; and such a one she could and would provide for him, if he thought fit to marry.' Hooker, little apt to suspect in others that guile of which he himself was so entirely free, became the dupe of this woman, authorising her to select a wife for him, and promising to marry whomsoever she should choose. The wife she provided was her own daughter, described as 'a silly, clownish woman, and withal a mere Xantippe,' whom, however, he married according to his promise. With this helpmate he led but an uncomfortable life, though apparently in a spirit of resignation. When visited by Sandys and Cranmer at a rectory in Buckinghamshire, to which he had been presented in 1584, he was found by them reading Horace, and tending sheep in the absence of his servant. In his house they received little entertainment, except from his conversation; and even this, Mrs Hooker did not fail to disturb, by calling him away to rock the cradle, and by exhibiting such other samples of good-manners as made them glad to depart on the following morning. In taking leave, Cranmer expressed his regret at the smallness of Hooker's income, and the uncomfortable state of his domestic affairs; to which the worthy man replied: 'My dear George, if saints have usually