"Ill of a fudden !" anfwereth Tarleton. ""Tis a disease

o' th' Wars!"

And fince Philip's death, Dame Frances hath been staying in the house of her father, Sir Francis Walfingham, as she ought. So Effex goes thither, that, if it may be, he shall lighten her grief, by fhewing her how he also beareth his.

As he rides, there seems more ftir than usual in the ftreets. People are running to and fro, and speaking earnestly to each other-shaking of hands, gesticulating, laughing. Only a few look fadly.

"Run on towards Paul's, man," faid one, following the word.

"Nay," quoth another, "thoro' Smithfield."

One whom 'Zekiel spake to saying—

"Ballard's 'refted," hurries off.

"What for?" cries 'Zekiel, with an oath. A fellow

paffing answers-" Plots, what else."

"Damn plots," faith 'Zekiel bitterly, "and to the devil with their policy!"

"Silence!" cries Effex, fternly. "Let me not hear you fwear, 'Zekiel. If you have learned that coarfe habit (not

to call it profanely wicked—which it is) i' the camp, e'en leave it there."

"Treafon!" "Treafon!" "A Confpiracy!" "A Confpiracy!" fhouted the people on all fides, coming together -feparating-running to and fro-without order or purpose. "Treafon!" "A Confpiracy!" "More Treason !” "Another Confpiracy!" "Plots!" "Popish Plots!" "More on 'em!" "One!" "Two!"

"Other Plots!"

with 'em!"

"Three!" "No end of Plots, of Popish Plots!" “Down "Down with the Pope!" "Kill, burn, deftroy!" "No Mafs !" "None o' your Priefts!" "No Jefuit Plots!" "No Plot-priests!" "No Jefuit Maffes !"

Effex rode through the crowd. As he approached Walfingham gardens (by St. Andrew his church on Holborn Hill-a cheerful place as you could with) the throng pressed him inconveniently; but he cried with fome authority (as a Lord fhould), "Make way there!" and 'Zekiel, having recovered from his rebuff, fhouted, "Make way there for Her Grace's General of the Horfe!" And so there was a little filence, the crowd drawing back to regard respectfully Her Grace's General of the Horse !

"A's very young!" quoth one.

"Better young than too old!" faith another.

"Ay! fo all come ť it!"

"A may get better one way: must grow worse t'other!"

And Effex raised his hat from his head, bowing; and with a "God fave the Queen!" rode under the archway.

Difmounting at the inner gate, he meets Mafter Davifon coming out. The young Secretary feems anxious and earnest, his fair and friendly countenance being clouded with a look of unwonted diftruft. His frank and honest addrefs, which had erst commended him to Effex, is now inquiet. With head bent, and eyes caft down, he would avoid colloquy if it might be.

"Ha! Davifon! What ho, man!" cries Effex.

"Your fervant, my Lord," quoth he, going on one knee. "What's this noise about-eh? trow'ft?”

"I' faith, my Lord, 'tis no state secret now! An Efquire's taken: and a deep plot fome Jefuits made, with th' Scots Queen's privacy, happily discovered, 'tis faid. They and their complices now i' the Tower-fafe."

"God fave the Queen !” cried Essex. "Was her Grace threatened?"

"Ay! to the life, the rumour goes! Mary fhould

have been proclaimed; and they of her part (with the help of Spain) put a top; 'tis a providence, my Lord, watches our Lady, Sir Francis faith!"

"True! true! Mafter Davifon. And fhe is fhielded in the love of her subjects generally! What Squire is't?” "One Babington, my Lord, of Derbyshire."

"Oh! I know him not, thank God!"

"Nor 'tis not fit, my Lord!"

"And how disclosed-eh ?”

"Oh, that's state matter, good, my Lord! your pardon."

"Policy!" chuckled 'Zekiel between his teeth.

"Sir Francis-is he to be spoken with ?"

"His honour is retired. But he will, I doubt not, fee my good Lord of Effex."

D

VOL. II.

"No more fhall we come near,

To tell ourselves how bright each other's eyes were,
How foft our language, and how fweet our kiffes,
Whilft we made one our food, t'other our feaft;
Nor mix our fouls by fight, or by a letter
Hereafter."

BEGGAR'S BUSH, act. v. fc. II.

WN a fair fouth chamber the widow of Sir

Philip Sidney fits folitary. She is the last of

her father's houfe. And the old man is below, machinating his counterplots as ufual. Only a little girl— now of fome eighteen months-her dear husband's pledge of love, lies afleep on her lap.

The bright landscape is fpread out before her, but in vain. Her heart is fhrouded in forrow. And the glare of funshine-like the flattery of the frivolous and gay-is