[Translated from the German, for Gleason's Pictorial.]

THE CHILDHOOD OF SHAKSPEARE.

BY ANNE T. WILBUR.

1. THE HOUSE AT STRATFORD.

AT the commencement of the month of July, amid a stifling heat, there was a general movement in the neighborhood of Kenilworth. The great entertainments which Lord Leicester was preparing in honor of Queen Elizabeth excited the curiosity of all. Old and young, men and women, all were preparing-some on foot, others on horseback, or in carriages-to set out for that for tunate spot, where, by favor, boldness or chance, they might succeed in witnessing more or less of these magic fetes, ever more attractive seen through the prism of the imagination. A small country house alone, at Stratford, on the Avon, was quiet and tranquil. The gloomy character of the master, who spoke only in monosyllables, so intimidated the mistress of the house, that the business of the day and the conversation were always of a religious, tedious and monotonous cast.

The glance of this morose man, aged thirty-six years, absorbed in his books, became dark as he added the sums which were owed bim, and found the total less than that he owed. His wife, seated beside a lattice which she had opened in order that the fresh air might penetrate the low and little room, was now and then turn. ing her eyes from her work to salute the passers-by, who were on their way to the fete at Kenilworth, and who were performing this joyous pilgrimage with laughter, song and sport.

"This commerce in wool," exclaimed the merchant, "demands more and more care as the profits diminish. My own affairs already occupy me too much, and I am tired of meddling with those of the town. These other gentlemen have more leisure than myself. Whose voice is that I hear without?" added he.

"It is our neighbor, Thomas Hathaway," replied the mother, with an affable air. "He is a very pleasant man, who knows how to enjoy life."

"He is a fool," resumed the husband, grumbling. "He has something to say to everybody. But if one consults him on any subject, he has not a syllable to offer."

William, the eldest son, aged twelve years, entered with a timid air and sat down in a corner with a book in his hand. "What is the matter?" asked his father.

"My little sisters," replied the boy, "make so much noise up above, that I cannot retain a single idea."

"Ideas!" repeated his father, emphasizing the word. "Yes, retain them! You need them enough; you have very few at present."

Profound silence followed this conversation. The father calculated, William was absorbed in his books, and the eyes of the mother rested for a long time with an indefinable expression upon the face of this child, whose desires she dared not express. From time to time the clear brown eyes of William cast supplicating glances at his mother; but the latter made a negative sign of the head, to show him that the time had not yet come to risk mentioning the affair.

"Enter" exclaimed the father, roughly. "What horrible noise do I hear without?"

"It is I, my dear Shakspeare," replied the young man, entering. It was the same Thomas Hathaway who had passed the windows an instant before, singing at the top of his voice. "Do I disturb you?"

"No," replied our man, laying aside his books. "But I thought you already on your way."

"My sister has not yet finished her toilet, as is usually the case with women. And you, sir, I know beforehand, it is true, that you do not approve of these foolish pastimes, as you call them."

"I do not deny it, even if I were not obliged to be absent for some time. I set out to morrow, and shall not return for four days."

So much the better. You will permit us, then, to take your son with us; we will take as good care of him as if he were our own child."

"Ah!" exclaimed the father, "I perceive that this is what you have been aiming at for some days past, all of you, including his mother. Not only has the boy learnt nothing, but he has been filling his head with romances and other follies. He has not even prepared his lessons for school."

"But it is vacation this week."
"No matter, he will never be anything."

The mother rose, uttering a sigh. Meanwhile, Thomas, seizing Shakspeare's hand, said to him:

"Dear friend, centuries will pass away before such a fete, the best part of which we have already lost, will be repeated. The preparations which the great nobleman has made surpass all description. One would think it the Round Table of the court of King Arthur; it is, at least, not inferior to that in anything

At this moment, a young and pretty girl of eighteen, in the flower of beauty, put her head in at the half open door, asking, with a gracious smile:

"Does it please you that I enter ?"

"Enter, Anne Hathaway," said Thomas, "and help me to soften my severe friend, who refuses to let his son accompany us." The slender young girl sprang in, and, putting one of her white and plump hands on the shoulder of the master, whose face slightly relaxed, said to him:

"My dear sir, when shall I see you without these wrinkles on your forehead ?”

"O), the simpletons!" exclaimed Shakspeare; "you think to soften me by your caresses, but you are finely mistaken. The boy already thinks too little of the serious and useful. I find him

always learning by heart the tirades of poets, and walking about the garret repeating them aloud. Let me be left in quiet; the thought that one of my children will serve the apprenticeship of a Pan, or of a Satyr-a Mercury, or a Ganymede, inspires me with horror. It seems to me that there are already too many young people given to these excesses; but it is inconceivable that Christian parents exist who give their consent to it."

At these words, William, reddening, looked at his father with a penetrating eye, throwing aside his blonde curls.

"No, my child," pursued the father, "I know that folly will not carry you to such a point. I have brought you up too well to have you fall into such aberrations."

I

"It is for this reason," said the child, in a timid voice, "that I entreat you to allow me to be present at the fete of the court. will be more studious afterwards."

Mr. Strange, our uncle," added Anne, "will be also of the party. He will take care of us all; his wife and sister are also

going."

"They will walk slow," interrupted the mother, who had jɔined the supplicating group. "Besides, he is stronger and more vigorous than he appears to be. It is a pleasure to see him run and jump in the strects; the opportunity presents itself but too rarely." Meanwhile, Anne embraced the pretty boy.

"Father Shakspeare," said she, smilingly, "you know very well that William is my little husband, my treasure. He belongs to me as much as to you. We have been betrothed for a long time; and if I go to Kenilworth, he must accompany me to watch over my fidelity to him."

William, confused, sought to free himself from her embrace. "Let me alone," said he, a little piqued, "you know that I do not like these jokes. I am too young for you; and when I shall be of an age to marry, you will have children as old as myself." "Wicked fellow that you are," replied she, feigning to be angry, and patting him on the shoulder. "I shall wait till you are grown up, you and your mind. I will never marry anybody else." As she said this, she embraced him again, though he struggled still.

"Yes, my dear child," pursued she, in a gentle and serious tone, "you will see that you are to be my husband; but I will try not to be old when you lead me to the altar. The dignified, profound and noble Shakspeare will then be my father-in law, and will give us his good counsels. Apropos, have you heard the marvellous dream that our William had this spring? He confided it only to his mother and myself."

"In his dream," resumed Anne, "William bought for us that charming, house known by the name of the Great House,' situated opposite the chapel. He furnished it with much elegance; you came to live with us, your nobility was renewed, and William caused your coat of arms to be engraved on his door. This house became so great and celebrated, that the queen, coming to Stratford to see you, and wishing to pass several days here, could find no better lodgings."

"Indeed," replied the father, smiling. "Does this boy dream such fine things? Well, be it so! I consent; let him accompany you, since he has been good yesterday and to-day."

All the company manifested unequivocal joy. William alone turned away sobbing, and retired to a corner to conceal his tears. "You are too good to me, my dear father," said he.

No, my son, you deserve it;" and addressing the others, 'there," said he, "is his book, in which he has been studying ever since yesterday."

There was a pause, during which the father cast a glance into the volume, when suddenly trembling with rage, he threw it on the floor, and trampled it under his feet.

"No!" exclaimed he, in an altered voice; "no! he is a consummate idler! his masters complain of him! While his comrades go to school, he remains standing on the bridge admiring himself in the water. He invents foolish stories, and his mother,

or his wife, as she calls herself, comes to tell them to me. I thought this was a Latin Grammar; but no, they are the poems of that rascally madman-that soldier of Gascoigne. I have already taken the book away from him once, and find it again in his hands. William, go to your little room above; there you will remain until my return from Bristol. You will carry your Latin books; your mother will take your food to you, for you shall see no one-neither your brothers, sisters, nor pretended friends. Let all your Latin exercises be done. I shall expect it, if you do not wish to be severely punished."

All interference in behalf of the boy was vain. The father himself took him by the arm, and shut him up in the little chamber.

II. THE DESERTION.

In the evening, Shakspeare left the town with a merchant of his acquaintance. Meanwhile, the neighbors had not yet quitted Stratford, and Anne had herself entreated old Strange to wait, so important did the affair appear to her brother and herself. They went to hold a consultation with the mother, whose signs and half uttered words on parting they had understood. In fact, this incident had made the tender mother tremble for the health, and even life of this beloved child. Joy, followed by a terror so sudden, threatened to affect the health of this delicate and sensitive boy, who, in his life, of restraint and retirement, had never yet known great griefs. She listened at the door of his prison, and heard him weeping and sobbing-now uttering angry words, and now lamentations. Shakspeare would not have left home, had he not supposed the foolish travellers had started long before. Great was the joy when Mrs. Shakspeare saw Thomas and his sister

enter.

Thomas was of opinion that the orders of the angry father should not be religiously fulfilled, seeing that permission had at first been given. Anne added that it would be best to make the father believe that the child had remained shut up, which it would be very possible, she said, as they expected to return a day sooner than himself. Mrs. Shakspeare, while she thanked them for their love to her son, could not help representing that such a falsehood would not be easy, as it would readily be recognized and exposed by the citizens of Stratford.

Bah!" replied Thomas, "give yourself no uneasiness! You have but to conceal it from him the first evening, that he may not vent his anger on you. The next day we will take him to Sir Thomas Lucy, whose influence over him you know. This good man can tell him, and at the same time appease his anger. Your poor son will have enjoyed a pleasure, will be able to reckon one holiday in his gloomy and sad life, and to endure so much the better his father's anger"

They ascended to the little chamber. William, pale and with red eyes, was occupied with his books,

"How do you do, my son?" asked his mother.

I have been wrong," replied he, "but my father was not in the right. I should have been more obedient, and he should not have been angry. These books are often my consolation, for I love poetry. But I must only learn arithmetic and grammar, and study the laws, that I may be one day a scribe, or a wool merchant! I am forbidden to stop on the bridge to look at the landscape and the water; I dare not, like my comrades, run in the vil lages. I have not yet been once into the park. And yet I am now a large boy, and am not the dullest one in school; but I am not allowed to become learned after my own fashion."

"Re-assure yourself, my love," replied Anne; "you shall go with us this very evening. Your mother permits it, and Thomas and myself will assume the responsibility."

The child, surprised, looked at her, growing red and pale by turns. Tears of joy fell from his eyes, and wiping them as quickly as possible, he sprang into the arms of Anne.

"You never seemed so beautiful to me," exclaimed he, "as at this moment. So I permit you to call me your little husband during the whole journey, without my being angry. Come, my dear wife, embrace me. I will not defend myself as usual."

He pronounced these words with all possible seriousness. Anne, passing her hand over his blonde and silken curls, embraced him, laughingly.

Mrs. Shakspeare had some more exhortations to make. Then, finishing their preparations, furnishing themselves with money and provisions, our travellers set out to join, at a village not far distant, Strange and his family, who were awaiting them with impatience.

III. THE JOURNEY.

Behold, ther, our joyous company on the way. They travelled by short stages, and reached, in the evening, a village situated between Stra ford and Warwick. Young Shakspeare seemed at the summit of happiness.

In proportion as they approached Kenilworth, the crowd became more and more dense. Nobility, citizens and people were elbowing each other; some urged on by interest, others by curiosity. Many passed the night in the open air, for want of a lodging; for every room, even in the lowest hovels, was occupied. Our company would have been without shelter had not old Strange hired two months before some rooms of a forester, whose house was a little way out of town. This tumult, this incessant noise, so confused them that even the most intrepid were glad of an hour of respite to recover their senses; for if the mania of seeing extraordinary sights sometimes increases to a violent passion, enjoyment soon fatigues the crowd, which separates in every direction.

Meanwhile, the family of the forester, as well as the persons who lodged with him, did not fail to recount the marvels of past days, the pompous procession of the queen and her cortege, the elegance of the toilet of the ladies, and the magnificent costumes of the men. Great allegorical representations had been given, composed of all that imagination, united with art, could invent. Goddesses had appeared with presents for the queen; the Lady of the Lake, celebrated in old romances, had presented herself before her. Everybody had made and sung verses, and the queen had received them with especial favor, and had words, now gay, now serious, but always gracious for all.

The next day all the company were early on the march. It had been excessively warm during the night, and although the sky was cloudy, the weather was not yet cooler.

It was learned that the queen would pass this day in the apartments of the castle to avoid the heat, and that the nobleman had caused all the entertainments and processions to be suspended. The bear hunt, the rope-dancing and rural diversions had been reserved for the last days of the fete.

Our company, therefore, roved about this pretty and charming neighborhood, which was not an easy thing, as the roads were thronged with carriages laden with provisions and machines of all sorts. Suddenly, on arriving at a cross road, William disappeared. The tumult and confusion did not allow of researches, or minute interrogatories. Thomas was troubled, and Anne was beside her self. They were unwilling to go on, and thought of nothing but how to recover William. Meanwhile, Strange exclaimed:

"I have been for a long time tired of the vagaries of this child. The little rogue has already escaped from us once. Come, wife and sister, let us go where we please. We shall all meet again this evening at the house of the forester."

IV. THE ECHO.

William had not wandered away by chance. The severe guer dianship exercised over him during the journey had been a re

straint. This first sight of the world-the forests, the mountains, the castles with their monuments, and now the magnificence of the fete, the luminous rays of the sun setting off the beauty of the elegant cavaliers and ladies, who were singularly contrasted with the grotesque and sometimes ridiculous figures of the country people-all this had intoxicated his youthful heart. His pleasure was to traverse among all these groups, sole master of his actions, to lose himself in the crowd, to find himself again in solitude, and not to be obliged to exchange idle words with his companions. Believing with the rest, that he could find his way back to the house of the forester without a guide, he thought it no harm to leave the company on the first opportunity, that he might for a few hours lead an independent life. He knew well, also, that if he asked their permission, they would redouble their watchfulness to prevent his doing so.

He had, besides, discovered something in the corner of the forest which had attracted him involuntarily, and as if by enchantment. He thought he saw distinctly a savage form, crowned with flowers, ivy, moss and oak leaves, holding in one hand a heavy club, like a faun, the picture of which he had already seen. He therefore profited by a new accession to the crowd to remain a little behind; and while his friends were looking attentively at some cavaliers accoutred in an extraordinary manner, he ran with all his might in an opposite direction, looking back to see whether he was pursued. After having run some distance, he darted towards this marvellous corner of the forest. There was no crowd in that direction; the multitude were advancing towards the castle and the town. He therefore entered the forest; he soon found himself in a pretty and green retreat, aud although he could not help trembling when he thought of the savage, his curiosity urged him further and further into the wood. He had at last advanced so far that he no longer heard the sound of horses or carriages. He listened, and thought he heard a voice which, in a sonorous and vibrating tone, was now reciting, now scolding, and now murmuring; he followed it. Very soon he found himself in the presence of the savage, who was seated before a cabin composed of the branches of trees, planks and tapestry. Beside him was a boy, who appeared to be sick and out of humor. William and the savage opened their eyes wide as they looked at each other. The latter, a robust, vigorous man, of tall stature, rose. His crowns, his bushy eyebrows, the fire which sparkled in his eyes, the moss in his black and thick curls, the ivy around his waist and shoulders, all these gave him an air as singular as grotesque.

"Who are you? What do you want of me?" exclaimed he, addressing our astonished youth.

"And who are you, savage ?” asked the latter in his turn, summoning courage. At these words, the faun burst into a loud laugh.

"You take me, then," said he, "for a real savage. But, my dear child, this is only a masquerade in honor of our adored queen. You would perhaps have addressed me with a little more politeness had you known that I am the famous Gascoigne. All who know me here as a poet, call me thus."

"How!" exclaimed William, quickly recovering himself, "are you that celebrated and excellent author?"

"Yes, my child," replied the faun, flattered at this question. "You know me, then, my little fellow. My poems are then familiar to you?"

"But too much so," returned the child. "They have already brought upon me blows from my father, who insists that I waste my time in reading your fine verses."

"You have a sonorous and clear but feeble voice. Let me hear you cry out, as loud as you can, but in an intelligent manner." William obeyed. As the savage listened, he uttered exclamations of joy, and brandished his club over his head.

"Found!" cried he, "he is found! Fortune has had pity on the poor poet, and has sent you to save me from despair and mortification. Let me embrace you, only take care that you do not disarrange my curls." Then addressing the sick child, he said:

"Go into the cabin, eat, drink, and wrap yourself in the blankets that you may grow warm, and be able to return this evening to your parents."

The poor boy obeyed.

"You see, my dear child," pursued Gascoigne, "last evening, our Robert Dudley, the great Leicester, told me suddenly-as these gentlemen are accustomed to do-to compose immediately some verses in praise of the queen, which he would like to hear recited from the lips of a faun, and that there would be a chase this evening in the wood. I hastily made a hundred verses, a pretty idea, in which echo constantly replies. In this poem, I make mention of the superb entertainments, and other things which I think will plase the queen. I went in search of the boy, who has already aided me on like occasions, but found him sick, and so hoarse that he could not utter a syllable. I was in the greatest embarrassment, but Jupiter and P'an have sent you to save me."

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But, my dear Gascoigne," replied William, "I have never played any part, and the time appears too short for me to be able to study these verses in such a manner as to speak them before her majesty."

"Silence! your hesitation is unnecessary. You have a clear voice, you are intelligent, for you have already received blows for having read my poems, and your father has by those blows made you a knight; then, be my squire. Besides, you will not play, you will not appear before the queen; and at the exordium and end, which I recite myself, you have only to repeat a word twentyfive times, after every two verses, representing an echo; but this must be in a clear and expressive manner. I invoke Jupiter and the other divinities to explain to me the cause of this tumult and these fetes. No reply. Then I address myself to Echo; and E ho replies by the last syllable, and so twenty-five times in suc

cession. But, my son, can you remain with me? Will not your parents search for you?"

"Mr. Gascoigne," replied the child, "I am enchanted at having met you so unexpectedly. I would give my life for you. My friends, who brought me hither, can do without me until evening. Where could I be better than in the company of this celebrated poet ?"

"Well, let us repeat our poem; but take care, I pray you, of the leaf I confide to you. It is the only copy I possess. If you lose it, I cannot have it printed; guard it therefore as the apple of your eye."

"Do not trouble yourself," replied William, "I am no longer a child."

They began the rehearsal. The faun recited the verses, and the child, after a pause, repeated the last word very intelligibly, with confidence, and letting the sound die gradually away. The poet was delighted, and declared that there never was a more nat ural echo. After having passed the afternoon in repeating and correcting it, they entered the cabin to refresh themselves.

"But be temperate, little poet," said Gascoigne; "follow my example, that our voices may sound better this evening, and that we may render ourselves more worthy of the favors of the Muses than this sick boy, who is lying there, like an eel caught in the rushes, from having eaten too many cherries. Especially, do not be embarrassed at finding yourself near the queen, and try to keep the measure and the cadence, that we may gain some credit."

After dinner, they renewed the rehearsal; but soon discontinued it that they might not fatigue themselves too much. About four o'clock, they saw arrive different persons, provided with torches, and masks to disguise themselves in this solitary retreat, some as savages and others as peasants, in order to light up during the twilight the forest scene. Our two poets then repaired to the edge of the woods, near the great road, where a vast plain had been chosen as the spot where the queen and her retinue were to rest after the chase There, the child, standing behind a tall statue, repeated his echo once more, and the effect was still more beautiful and natural. At last the soldiers, servants and guards took their position here and there to prevent the crowd from encroaching on the place reserved for the queen. The evening was cool, and everybody inhaled the gentle zephyr, which, with flattering breath, flew through the woods to conceal itself in the foliage. Soon after, the sound of the chase was heard; the crowd came from all directions, and were dispersed over the plain. The queen and the hunters were pursuing the stag with ardor. Lords, nobles and ladies on richly caparisoned steeds, followed her. The stag killed, the cries of the hunters redoubled in every direction. The grand huntsman had, to the satisfaction of the nobleman, fulfilled his desires. Besides the greyhounds, he had dispersed on the hills and in the woods dogs of various voices, whose bark was modulated according to signs given by the horns of the hunters. The shouts, the distant exclamations, followed by the notes of the trumpets and horns, awakened an echo as variable as extraordinary-an echo which the hunters pleased themselves with redoubling by repetition. At last night approached; William shed tears. "What is the matter?" asked Gascoigne.

"Alas!" replied the child, "do you hear it? That is an echo to which ours will be but a new born infant!"

"Hush, little poet! It is an echo without reason, while ours is poetic and full of sense. We shall soon see which of the two, the dogs or poets, will best please the queen. Silence! there she isbe ready!"

V.-QUEEN ELIZABETH.

In fact, the queen appeared. She wore a long habit of green velvet, garnished with pearls, whose sleeves were of lace embroidered with gold, through which her arms and shoulders were revealed in all their snowy whiteness. Red and white plumes waved majestically over her green hat, and a coronet of diamonds encircled her brow, and was lost in her blonde hair, according to the portrait of Cynthia, by whose name she delighted to be called. Her horse, caparisoned with velvet of the same color, seemed to be proud of his burden. Beside her rode Leicester, in the bril liancy of manly beauty, in the costume of prince of the chase. At the same moment, the torch-bearers stationed themselves under different masks before the forest. The diamonds and jewels of the queen and the ladies of her suite sparkled and assumed a thousand hues in the light of the flaming torches. A solemn silence succeeded the sounds of the chase. Suddenly, at a signal clandestinely given, the faun appeared, brandishing his club. He invoked the gods, demanding of them an explanation of the fete; no voice replied. He at last addressed his Echo, and the latter said, that it was for the adored queen, to whom nobles and citizens presented their homage. The poetic dialogue continued some time, and the queen and Leicester appeared well satisfied with the praises of the poet. Only towards the end, an unexpected incident excited the hilarity of the audience. A noise, caused by the horses and the arms, prevented William from hearing his faun, and he pronounced the word queen before him, in such a manner that the poet was made to echo his echo. Leicester laughed loudly at the precocious echo, and the queen herself could not help smiling. Meanwhile, the seriousness of the poem soon prevailed, and Gascoigne, after having finished it, prostrated himself before the queen, breaking, in the intoxication of his joy, his club. In his enthusiasm he threw the pieces behind him, when one of them struck the queen's horse. It started, and the last words expired on the lips of the trembling savage. Leicester was about to have rushed on him, when the queen, stopping him, said mildly:

"It is nothing; there is no harm done.”

The handle of the club, losing itselt in the crowd, was picked

up by a young man, in memory of this day. Gascoigne was still on his knees before the queen, who was addressing to him some words full of grace and sweetness, when a new spectacle attracted the eyes of the crowd. William, after having finished, could not weary of gazing on the brilliant throng, and especially the queen; but the sportive zephyr profited by his absent-mindedness to take away the leaf on which the poem was written. He did not perceive his loss until it was floating above him like a bird in the air; so he followed it, dancing and leaping, until he saw it out of the wood. It was asked whether this was a part of the spectacle; but the person among the crowd most surprised was, unquestionably, the young possessor of the club, Thomas, who recognized his dear William in the dancer.

Anne, who was beside him, uttered a cry of joy; but William, heeding neither the cries nor the murmurs of the throng, still pursued his leaf, and thought he had it, when it suddenly fell on a torch. The danger was imminent; so he darted with one bound on the flame, and, seizing the leaf, involuntarily pushed it in the face of a servant, whose false hair, flax and moss caught fire in a twinkling. The latter uttered horrible exclamations, and ran, a living flame, towards the wood. Leicester, furious, was about to spring upon William; but the queen stopped him, saying:

"Be not so hasty, my dear Dudley! He is a charming child; and as for the man, they will put him out."

William was about to carry the leaf to the poet, who had risen with a heart oppressed with anguish. But at a sign made by the queen, the child approached her.

"Who art thou, my child 2" asked she.

Gascoigne, seeing that his Echo hesitated to reply, spoke

Your majesty," said he, "will pardon me; it is my Echo, which, by a fortunate chance, I found in the wood, and who, with only one mistake, has very well performed his part."

William, after the example of his master, had prostrated himself before the queen, when the latter demanded his Lame, stooping towards him.

"I am William," replied the child, "the eldest son of John Shakspeare, living at Stratford on the Avon. My father, the most faithful subject of your majesty, is alderman there."

Elizabeth made a sign to the cavalier, who gave the child a medal adored with a portrait of the queen.

"Take this, my dear Echo," said she, "and remember this day. Have you any favor to ask?"

Could it be permitted," returned William, "that I and my wife, who is present, should witness the spectacles which the great lord will give to morrow?"

Thy wife!" exclaimed Elizabeth. "Are you already married?" "Pardon me, great queen! It is a joke to which I am accustomed. It is Anne Hathaway who always calls herself my wife." The slender young girl approached, covered with blushes. Leicester, who was diverted at this scene, gave orders to admit the boy and his family to all the spectacles. The poet once more embraced his courageous Echo, and neither Anne nor Thomas dared to reproach him for his escape, and the anxiety it had caused them; for they locked at him with a sort of veneration, since he had spoken to the queen, and she had given him a gold medal.

VI. THE RETURN.

Meanwhile, the elder Shakspeare, contrary to his expectations, had returned the second day after his departure, he had not found the merchant at the place appointed. His wife, alarmed at his prompt return, knew not what to think, when, after having embraced his little children and arranged some business, he said, sighing:

"Since the whole world has gone mad after these follies at Kenilworth, no wonder my boy has done so. Go, mother, find the fellow, I wish to speak reason to him. I was in the wrong yesterday."

The mother trembled in all her limbs. She dared only raise her eyes to her husband, since he had spoken in a manner so affable. Shakspeare, seeing the paleness and hesitation of his wife, and believing his child sick, or even dead, turned pale himself,

"Indeed!' replied the old man, "you have then dared to transgress my orders!"

And, without deigning to cast a look on his wife, he went out, and did not return even at night. It was learned afterwards that he had gone to a village in the neighborhood to attend to some business. But our travellers also left Kenilworth a day sooner than they had expected.

A moment after their arrival, Shakspeare returned from his little journey. The mother, balancing between joy and fear, was anxiously awaiting the issue of the event, when the father, extending his hand, said pleasantly:

"For once I pardon you, since the old and wrinkled Benson, of Bristol, has played me the same trick."

The mother then embraced her child convulsively, and Anne related how William had been noticed by the queen-taking care to omit the story of the part he had played, fearing it would displease his father-and how the queen had given him a medal. The mother wept with joy and tenderness, and the eyes of the father shone with a pure and serene light. William, approaching his father, said to him:

"My dear father, I know how you love our dear queen; accept this medal which I have received from her. I do not need it, having had the happiness to speak to her and see her smile."

The father accepted it, and went to the door to conceal his emotions. Suddenly, they heard a loud laugh-very unusual for him. He re-entered, holding in his hand the fragment of the club which Thomas had brought from Kenilworth.

"So," said he, "this is the club which the madman, Gascoigne, brandished over the head of my William to awaken poetic ideas in is brain. Sir Thomas Lucy has just told me all about it. My dear William, you have become a great actor, an artist, an echo. My son has been an echo. Do you know that it is a bad omen ? When you attempt to write poetry, you will be only an imitator of others. You will make some noise in the world, doubtless, since you have already been an echo."

He pronounced these last words somewhat ironically; but Thomas, seeing the child was grieved, replied:

"If you know all, you know that it was this pleasantry which brought him before the queen. Thus trifles often lead to great results. And is pocsy anything but the echo of reality?" Shakspeare pressed his hard, and approaching his secretary, took from it a book elegantly bound.

"My dear William," said he to the child, "I must give you something in exchange for this medal. This Chaucer was destined for your birthday, take it, though you cannot now compre hend it. It is thus we sensible men lesd our countenance to folly, however great may be our pretensions!"

CONTENTS OF OUR NEXT NUMBER. "Margaret's Test: or, Charity its own Reward," by HORATIO ALGER, JR. "Those Mean Milkinses," sketch by FRANCIS A. DURIVAGE. "The Prince's Flight," by HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT. "Letters from Egypt," No. 5. by Rev. F. W. HOLLAND. "Retrospection." lines by Miss M. H. Lucy.

"Death in the Country," verses by GEO. R. WELDING. "My Home," lines by C G. DUNN.

"Rivus Montis, poem by H. P. KIMBALL.

THE FLAG OF OUR UNION.
NEW VOLUME.

FOR THE NEW YEAR.

It is now eight years since we first made the acquaintance of the public, through the columns of the Flag, during which time our paper has gone on year after year, prospering, until there has been nothing left for us to desire. Thousands of subscribers who commenced with the first number of the paper, are still on our regular subscription list. This speaks volumes for its popularity, and the worthy character of the paper. We have been successful beyond precedent, as our immense circulation proves.

On the first day of January next, we shall surprise our patrons and the public, by commencing the ninth volume of the Flag of our Union in an entire new shape, with a new head, of a beautiful character, with new type, and, in short, new and bright, from top to toe. The font of type, which has been expressly manufactured for the new paper, by the well known house of Phelps and Dalton, is of the most beautiful texture, clear and plain, and will enable us to give a third more reading matter than we have heretofore done in the Flag, which will also contain eight pages instead of four, as at present. The paper on which it will be printed will also be far superior to anything we have ever yet used on the Flag, and, in short, as we have intimated above, every department of the paper will be vastly beautified and improved.

All of our old and favorite contributors will be retained, and several new ones have already been engaged as regular assistants upon the columns of the paper. With all these improvements, we have still another agreeable item to add here; that old and long tried favorite, Lieutenant Murray, will commence, with the new volume, a deeply interesting novelette, most decidedly, and without exception, the best story he has ever written, entitled

THE MAGICIAN OF NAPLES:

OR,

LOVE AND NECROMANCY;

which will be splendidly illustrated by a number of engravings. This story will alone form a rare attraction for the new year. Its scenes are laid in the fairest of Italian cities, and in the most stirring period of history; its characters are novel, and most attractive in delineation, and the plot is one of most unequalled originality. In short, this tale we look upon as the best one we have ever yet issued in the columns of the Flag, a conclusion in which all of our readers will join when they have read the story. TERMS.-TWO DOLLARS per annum.

....

M. de la Rosa, formerly Mexican Minister to the United States, and Gen. Robies, have been shot by order of Santa Anta. There are 389,664 males in the United States over 20 years of age, who can neither read nor write, and 573,234 females. M. L. Sullivan, of Columbus, Ohio, has lately purchased 60,000 acres of land in Lawrence county, Illinois, as a stock farm. Two sisters in Hancock, Ind., obtained verdicts, one for $3000 and the other for $1700, against a fellow for slander.

The corner-stone of the new Masonic Temple on Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, was laid lately with imposing ceremonies. Judge Petit, of Indiana, has decided the liquor law of last winter unconstitutional, and discharged those arrested.

.... The consolidation of the British North American Provinces into a Federative Union is talked of by the provincial press.

PARTICULAR NOTICE.

It will be seen by the article below, which we copy from the last number of the New York "Illustrated News," that we have purchased all the right, title, and interest of the publishers of that journal, which is now merged in this paper. "Gleason's Pictorial" will, therefore, from and inclusive of this number, be sent to the subscribers of the "News," who have paid in advance for that journal, until the expiration of their subscription. In this connection we may say that we heartily coincide in the spirit of the article given below, and that we cordially extend our right hand in greeting to the former readers and patrons of the "News," and hope that we may at once become true and lasting friends. To this end it will be our constant endeavor to please one and all, and to send forth a weekly visitor, in the form of our " Pictorial," which shall radiate pleasure and good feeling at every fireside :

TO THE READERS OF THE ILLUSTRATED NEWS." With the present number of the "Illustrated News," the undersigned, jointly and severally, close their connection with the paper, and hereby convey all their right, title, interest, and good will of the same, to F. Gleason, publisher of "Gleason's Pictorial," Boston, in which paper the "News" will henceforth be merged; and those of our subscribers who have paid in advance for this paper, will be supplied, for the period of their subscription, with "Gleason's Pictorial,”-an arrangement which we cordially trust and believe will meet with their entire approval and satisfaction. In this connection we also beg leave to say that our kind and numerous patrons can hardly fail to appreciate the "Pictorial," conducted as it is with skill, good taste, and with every advantage of long experience and good management.

It should be fully understood that this arrangement, entered into in good faith between all parties, is for the mutual benefit of the same, and that the undersigned believe the patrons of both papers will also reap manifest advantages from the combination of these illustrated journals. The "News" has won much credit and fame since its commencement, and of the "Pictorial" the same may justly be said in a superlative degree. In short, the public will, by this combination, be a gainer in the concentrated worth and general excellence which will thus be brought to bear upon one paper, a consideration which has largely influenced the undersigned in disposing of the "News,” and merging it and all its interests and resources in "Gleason's Pictorial

The undersigned, in taking leave of their patrons and the public, are not unmindful of the consideration and kindness which they have realized in this connection, and do most cordially urge upon their favor the "Pictorial," with which the "News "is thus united; and with this kindly leave taking, offer a hearty wish for the God speed of each and all.

H. D. BEACH, General Partner.
P. T. BARNUM, Special Partner.

New York, November 10, 1853.

GLEASON'S PICTORIAL-During our recent visit to Boston we called at the establishment of this now celebrated Pictorial, and had the pleasure of a personal interview with its talented publisher. We had not leisure to inspect the internal arrangements of the press and offices whence issue to the world the splendid monuments of art and enterprise which find a cherished niche in every drawing-room where taste owns a home, but were highly gratified in learning from Mr Gleason himself that his success is now a matter beyond speculation. The current of public favor and popular appreciation has set clearly in, and in return for the rich argcsies of labor and art which weekly embellish the pages of the Pictorial, the publisher has the proud gratification of numbering his patrons by thousands in every State The arduous efforts. the persevering energy which have been exerted to attain a summit of such pre-eminence, cannot be over-estimated, and establish for Mr Gleason a name and reputation in the walks of art, which will exceed in real worth and brilliancy many a more pretentious aspirant to fame. We have in former numbers alluded to the reading contents of the Pictorial. This alone is worth the subscription price. varied, choice and instructive. The illustrations of the last volume exhibit a marked advancement in style and execution, and we feel assured that the future progress of the work will be as rapid as that of any past era, until the Pictorial shall take that foremost rank, primus inter pares, which is certainly the desert and, to use the current phrase, the "manifest destiny of its enterprising projector.- Weekly News, St. Johns (C. E.)

ENGRAVINGS.-James Munroe & Co., of this city, have a collection of fine large engravings, which they offer in sets at a remarkably low price. Persons desirous of ornamenting their apartments with cheerful companions, representing historical and other scenes, should call and improve the present opportunity. A set of ten engravings is sold for $10-such as are retailed singly at from $4 to $6.

1854.

GLEASON'S PICTORIAL.

FOR THE NEW YEAR.

On the first of January next, " 'GLEASON'S PICTORIAL" will commence its sixth volume, and will appear vastly improved in all respects, with a superb new heading, new type and dress throughout, and will be printed npon the finest paper. As the proprietor of the "Pictorial" has purchased the entire good-will of Barnum's New York "Illustrated News," and has merged that journal in the "Pictorial," the public will reap the advantage of this concentration of the strength of the two papers upon one, both in the artistic and literary departments. The same brilliant host of contributors and artists will be engaged on Gleason's Pictorial " as heretofore, and a large addition is also made to the corps, both in talent and number. The most liberal arrangements have been completed, and such as will enable the proprietor "to produce by far the finest illustrated journal yet published, and much superior to the present issue of the paper. The columns of the "Pictorial" will constantly be beautified by all that can please and instruct in art and nature, and its literary department will fully sustain the high reputation it has so long enjoyed.

The pages of "Gleason's Pictorial" will contain views of every populous city in the known world, of all buildings of note in the eastern or western hemisphere, of all the principal ships and steamers of the navy and merchant service, with fine and accurate portraits of every noted character in the world, both male and female. Sketches of beautiful scenery, taken from life, will also be given, with numerous specimens from the animal kingdom, the birds of the air, and the fish of the sea, and will present in its mechanical execution an elegant specimen of art. It will contain fifteen hundred and sixty-four square inches, giving a great amount of reading matter and illustrations--and forming a mammoth weekly paper of sixteen octavo pages. TERMS:-Three dollars per annum.

MARRIAGES.

In this city, by Rev. Dr Gannett, Mr. Francis Henry Thorndike to Henrietta De Albria Chaffin.

By Rev. Mr. Stowe, Mr Samuel Ayer Avery to Miss Elizabeth Fipley By Rev. Mr. Cilley, Mr Benjamin W. Kilburn, of Littleton, N H., to Miss Caroline L. Buinuam, of Cambridge, Mass.

By Rev. Mr. Kirk, William Henry, Jr., Esq., of New York, to Miss Eudolphine M. Fay, daughter of f'emple Fay, Esq.

By Rev Mr. Streeter, Mr George T. Littlefield to Miss Mary Ann Pitman. At Medford by Rev. Mr. Marvin. Mr. Geo. Howe to Miss A. Amelia Johnson. At Salem, by Rev. Mr. Dwinell. Mr. Joseph M Magoun to Miss Caroline M. Trull by Rev. Mr. Clapp, Mr. Richard Harrington of Danvers, to Miss Ellen U. Millett.

At Haverhill, by Rev. Mr. Hosford, Mr. Joseph G. Haynes, of Exeter, N. H., to Miss Mary A. Palmer, of Miton, NH.

At New Bedford, by Rev. Mr. Eldridge. Mr. Charles Bly to Miss Lydia P. Swift; by Rev. Mr. Upham, Mr Charles Sanford to Mrs. sophronia P. Heath. At Easton, Wis., by Rev. Mr. Whitwell, Mr. Joseph Russell, of New York, to Mis Julia A., daughter of Mr. John Poole.

DEATHS.

In ths city, George Washington, youngest son of Mr. Thomas Badger 16; Mr. John H. Goff 24. Mrs. Sarah B. Cunningham, widow of the late William H. Cunningham. 50; Emily Philips Minot, wife of George Minot, Esq., of Reading Mass., 36.

At Roxbury, Mrs. Martha Hammett, wife of James Hammett, 48.
At Charlestown, Mrs. Susan L. Kendall wife of Mr. Isaac Kendall, 47.
At Dorchester, Mr. Joi n Capen, 47.

At Milton, Mrs. Mary Davenport widow of the late Isaac Davenport, 85.
At Beverly, Mr. Simeon Allen, 39.

At Wenham, Mrs. Mary Ann, wife of Mr. William Henry, 41.

At Haverhill, Mrs. Elizabeth A., wife of Mr. Joshua Morse, 31.

At Centreville, Mr. Jonas Reed, 69.

At Plymouth, Mrs. Joan, wife of Mr. Francis Ellis, 73.

At Fall River, Mr. Laban Cook, 78.

At Nantucket, Mrs Elizabeth Swift, 87: Miss Ann Maria Clark, 17.
At Brimfield, Mr. Nathan Hitchcock, 66.

At Sandisfield, Sarah Gage, wife of Dr. Erastus Beach, 72.

At Fitzwilliam, N. H., Martha Saunders, widow of E. Saunders, 90.

GLEASON'S PICTORIAL DRAWING-ROOM COMPANION.

A Record of the beautiful and useful in Art.

The object of this paper is to present, in the most elegant and available form, a weekly literary melange of notable events of the day. Its columns are devoted to original tales, sketches and poems, by the

with numerous accurate engravings, by eminent artists, of notable objects. current events in all parts of the world, and of men and manners, altogether making a paper entirely original in its design, in this country. Its pages contain views of every populous city in the known world. of all buildings of note in the eastern or western hemisphere, of all the principal ships and steamers of the navy and merchant service, with fine and accurate portraits of every noted character in the world, both male and female. Sketches of beautiful scenery, taken from life, will also be given, with numerous specimens from the animal kingdom. the birds of the air, and the fish of the sea. It is printed on fine satin-surface paper, with new and beautiful type, presenting in its mechanical execution an elegant specimen of art. It contains fifteen hundred and sixty-four square inches, giving a great amount of reading matter and illustrations-a mammoth weekly paper of sixteen octavo pages.

TERMS: INVARIABLY, IN ADVANCE.