duced on the lady, she added::-"Don Felix came last night, and enquired about the Marquesa. I told him she had gone, and I began to think he had gone too, for I have not seen him since."

Francisca did not wait to hear more. She guessed the rest; and having dropped her purse into the hand of the Gitana, she hastened back to the castle. "Get ready the carriage," said she to her servants, "and harness the swiftest horses. I must depart instantly for Madrid."

At the entrance of a narrow street in Madrid, near the Gate of Guadalajara, a lamp suspended in front of an image of St. Ferdinand diffused a pale and glimmering light. A cavalier of small and slender figure, elegantly attired, his plumed hat placed jauntily on one side of his head, and his features partially concealed by a demi-mask, was stealthily pacing up and down, and every minute looking round as if expecting some one, though afraid of being seen. It was the evening of the Media quaresma, and that transient revival of the carnival caused as much tranquillity in the little Calle de San Fernando, as it created bustle and tumult in the more frequented quarters of the city. After a short lapse of time, the masked cavalier began to evince symptoms of impatience mingled with something like apprehension; for he repeatedly looked around timidly and furtively, as if alarmed at finding himself alone in darkness and in silence. Presently another cavalier, also masked, entered the street, and perceiving that some one was loitering about, he placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, and hurriedly exclaimed"What is your business here, Señor?"

The person thus addressed answered firmly and haughtily: "I do not intend to tell you my business, nor do I know by what right you seek to know it."

"No matter for that. I desire to be informed why you are waiting here?" resumed his interlocutor, in a peremptory tone.

The first cavalier was evidently startled by this authoritative address; but after an effort to summon his presence of mind, he coolly requested that his interlocutor would pass on without interrupting him.

"That is precisely what I must request you to do," said the other; "nay, I insist that you forthwith retire. I expect to meet some one here, and I can dispense with your presence."

"I am also waiting for some one," rejoined the other, “and I know no reason why we cannot both wait."

"Your pardon, Señor, that cannot be. I once more desire that you begone. If you do not go willingly, force must compel you." These words, which were uttered in a very resolute tone, fired the proud Spanish blood of him to whom they were addressed, and without pausing to consider whether he was able to measure swords with his adversary, he instantly unsheathed his weapon. The other followed his example, and both stood for a moment face to face, and sword in hand, each hesitating to commence the conflict, though both were burning with rage and eager for vengeance. It was evident that beneath a great show of courage, they mutually sought to conceal a certain degree of fear, and that neither the one nor the other was an adept in the use of the sword. At length a bitter taunt uttered by the second cavalier, put an end to all indecision:each raised his arm, and their blades crossed.

The combat lasted but a minute, for at the expiration of that interval, the first cavalier fell to the ground, uttering a piercing cry. His adversary, greatly alarmed, stooped down to examine the wound, and with no small satisfaction discovered that it was merely a cut on the hand. Then whispering in the ear of the prostrate combatant, he said:

"Marquesa Pabla de los Montes, we have both played our parts bravely. Know that the wound you have received has been inflicted by the hand of the woman whose heart you have mercilessly stabbed!"

The disguised Doña Francisca, having summoned the attendance of two valets whom she had left at the further end of the Calle San Fernando, she directed them to raise the fainting Marquesa, and to convey her carefully to her home.

Meanwhile, another person was seen to approach. Francisca immediately recognized Don Felix, and hastily advanced to meet him. "Behold, sir," said she, pointing to Doña Pebla, "the consequence of your indiscretion. An hour later, and I should have killed her. But all may yet be well; for, in spite of the misery I have suffered, I can forgive, if you be willing to retrieve your error by repentance."

Overwhelmed with surprise and confusion, Don Felix accompanied his wife to her place of abode, and his deep and sincere regret for the past obtained for him full and complete forgiveness. Francisca related to him how she had heard of his departure from La Vega in pursuit of the Marquesa, how she discovered and kept watch on them in Madrid, how she had intercepted their assignation in the Calle San Fernando, and how she had taken vengeance on her rival, and averted the danger which threatened her own happiness.

Next morning Don Felix and Doña Francisca left Madrid to return to their residence in the Asturias, and the year which followed their reconciliation gave birth to Don Lope de Vega Carpio, the first dramatic poet of his age-he whom the great Cervantes, in his Viage del Parnasso, thus describes :

"Poeta insigne, a cuyo verso o prosa
Ninguno lo aventaja, in aun le llega.'

In after years, Lope de Vega was sometimes heard to allude to the events above narrated. On those occasions he would jestingly remark that he had well nigh missed being his mother's son, adding, that the son of the Gipsy of the Val de Correido, who had been brought up and educated by the bounty of his family, was no other than the celebrated actor, Felix Pablo Valdez, to whose able performance he modestly assigned the popularity of some of his most favourite plays.

The Marquesa Pabla de los Montes, profiting by the lesson she had received, retired to the Ursuline convent in Madrid, of which she ultimately became Lady Abbess. Her portrait, which formerly hung in one of the chambers of the convent, represented a lady of exquisite beauty; and, to render the resemblance perfect, the painter had been careful not to omit a scar, which was plainly discernible on the right hand of the original.

• Distinguished bard, whom none of modern time
Can pass, or even reach, in verse or rhyme.

OLD JEST-BOOKS.

BY J. O. HALLIWELL.

WHO can read of the Globe Theatre, the Curtain, or Paris Garden, without wishing for one peep at Shakspeare as an actor, Burbage playing Richard, or an actual insight into what a "bear-garden" really was in the "good old days of Bonny Queen Bess?" Alas, for the days of merry old England! The occupier of one of our comfortable modern boxes, or even the denizen of the most wretched seat in a sixpenny gallery, can have but little idea of what was patiently endured by their stage-loving ancestors, some two centuries and a half ago; and we should be sorry to have to describe all their discomforts, commencing with standing in an arena unprotected from the weather, and not always terminating with the performance of the play. Our business leads us to a personage, now nearly forgotten on the regular boards, or retained only in the quickly vanishing pantomine, but who was then the actor par excellence for the multitude.

With what indignation does Shakspeare allude to the class we are about to mention,-if possible, to describe, the ancient clowns. "Let those," he says, "that play your clowns, speak no more than is set down for them; for there be of them that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too, though in the mean time some necessary question of the play be then to be considered." This requires some explanation.

Few plays were anciently considered complete without a clown, and he was a much more important and privileged person in his day than our own. He not only entered on the stage at the proper times, but continually mixed with the company, and attempted to excite merriment by any species of buffoonery that occurred to him. Richard Tarlton, who played between 1560 and 1588, was one of the most popular and notorious of these extemporising clowns. Always on the look-out for a joke, he was not contented with confining his attentions to the company on the stage, but constantly sparred with the audience. Nor were the latter backward in inciting him to rhyme on themes which were generally concocted beforehand, in order to puzzle Tarlton when he appeared before them. Thus is related " Tarlton's Jest of a Gridiron," which we give in its original quaint style, for to translate it into modern language would destroy the best part, and injure the rest :

"While the queen's players lay in Worcester city to get money, was his custom for to sing extempore of themes given him; amongst which they were appointed to play the next day. Now one fellow of the city amongst the rest, that seemed quaint of conceit to lead other youths with his fine wit, gave out that the next day he would give him a theme to put him to a nonplus. Divers of his friends acquainted with the same, expected some rare conceit. Well, the next day came, and my gallant gave him his invention in two lines, which was this:

Methinks it is a thing unfit
To see a gridiron turn the spit.

The people laughed at this, thinking his wit knew no answer thereunto, which angered Tarlton exceedingly, and presently with a smile looking about, when they expected wonders, he put it off thus:

Methinks it is a thing unfit

To see an ass have any wit!

The people hooted for joy to see the theme-giver dashed, who, like a dog with his tail between his legs, left the place. But such commendations Tarlton got, that he supped with the bailiff that night, where my themer durst not come, although he were sent for, so much was he vexed at that unlooked-for answer."

Many other anecdotes are told of Tarlton. "There was a nobleman that asked Tarlton what he thought of soldiers in time of peace. 'Marry,' quoth he, they are like chimneys in summer.'"

"An unthrifty gallant belonging to the Court had borrowed five pounds of Tarlton; but having lost it at dice, he sent his man to Tarlton to borrow five pounds more, by the same token he owed him already five pounds. Pray tell your master,' quoth Tarlton, that if he will send me the token, I will send him the money.'"

"Tarlton being in a merry vein as he walked in the great hall in Greenwich, met my old Lord Chamberlain going between two fantastic gallants, and cried aloud to him, My lord, my lord, you go in great danger!' Whereat amazed, he asked whereof? Of drowning,' quoth Tarlton, 'were it not for those two bladders under each of your arms.'

"Tarlton meeting a rich Londoner, fell into talk about the Bishop of Peterborough, highly praising his bounty to his servants, his liberality to strangers, his great hospitality and charity to the poor. He doth well,' says the rich man, for what he hath, he hath during his life. Why,' quoth Tarlton, for how many lives have you your goods?""

6

"Tarlton upon a time being in the country, and lodging in a homely inn, during which time there was a gentleman dwelling in the same town, somewhat frantic and mad, which madman on a sudden rushed into Tarlton's bed-chamber with his sword drawn, and finding him there in bed, would have slain him, saying, 'Villain, were it not valiantly done, to strike off thy knave's head at one blow?' Tarlton answered, 'Tut, sir, that's nothing for your worship to do: you can as easily strike off two heads at one blow as one; wherefore, if you please, I'll go down and call up another, and so you may strike off both our heads at once.' The madman believed him, and so let him slip away."

"As a gentleman and Tarlton passed through a field together, a crow in a tree cried 'kaw, kaw.' See yonder, Tarlton,' quoth the gentleman, yonder crow calleth thee knave.'No, sir,' he answered, 'he beckons to your worship as the better man.'

Years before Tarlton appeared on the stage, Scogan bore the bell among buffoons, though of a different kind, in Edward the Fourth's time; and, like Tarlton, a collection of Jests was fathered upon him. Falstaff, according to Shakspeare, "broke Scogan's head at the court-gate." Our dramatist probably took the name and idea from the collection we have alluded to, for the historical evidence of his

biography is but small. Few of Scogan's jests will amuse the modern reader, but there is considerable humour in the following relation, "How Jack made his master pay a penny for the herring-bones."

"On a time, Scogan did send Jack to Oxford to market, to buy a pennyworth of fresh herrings. Scogan said, Bring four herrings for a penny, or else bring none.' Jack could not get four herrings, but three for his penny, and when he came home, Scogan said, How many herrings hast thou brought?' and Jack said, Three herrings, for I could not get four for a penny.' Scogan said, 'he would have none of them. Sir,' said Jack, then will I, and there is your penny again.' When dinner-time was come, then Jack did set bread and butter before his master, and roasted his herrings, and sat down at the lower end of the table, and did eat his herrings. Scogan said, 'Let me have one of thy herrings, and thou shalt have another of me another time.' Jack said, ‘And if you will have one herring, it shall cost you a penny.' 'What!' said Scogan, thou wilt not take it on thy conscience.' Jack said, 'My conscience is such that you get not a morsel here, except I have my penny again.' Thus contending together, Jack had made an end of his herrings. A Master of Arts of Oxford, one of Scogan's fellows, did come to see Scogan; and when Scogan had espied him, he said to Jack, Set up the bones of the herrings before me.' 'Sir,' said Jack, they shall cost you a penny. Then said Scogan, What, wilt thou shame me?' 'No, sir,' said Jack, give me my penny again, and you shall have up the bones, or else I will tell all. Scogan then cast down a penny to Jack, and Jack brought up to Scogan the herring-bones; and by this time the Master of Arts did come in to Scogan; and Scogan bad him welcome, saying, 'If you had come sooner, you should have had fresh herrings for dinner. In this case the master was outdone by the man, and Scogan well punished for his parsimony. But the picture of the times is singular. The so-called "jests" of this early period are generally nothing better than very bad practical jokes, and it is difficult to select many that are readable. Following Scogan, we have a collection fathered upon the eminent poet Skelton, printed in the reign of Henry VIII. which commences with the following anecdote:—

"Skelton was an Englishman born, as Scogan was, and he was educated and brought up at Oxford, and there he was made a poet laureat. And on a time he had been at Abingdon to make merry, where he had eaten salt meats, and he did come late home to Oxford. and did lie in an inn named the Tabour, which is now the Angel, and he did drink, and went to bed. About midnight he was so thirsty that he was constrained to call to the tapster for drink, and the tapster heard him not. Then he cried to his host and his hostess, and to the ostler, for drink, and no man would hear him. Alack " said Skelton, I shall perish for lack of drink; what remedy?' At the last he did cry out, Fire! Fire! Fire!' When Skelton heard every man bustling himself upward, some of them naked, and some half asleep and amazed, Skelton did still cry, Fire! fire! that every man knew not whither to resort. Skelton then did go to bed, and the host and hostess, and the tapster with the ostler, did run to Skelton's chamber, with lighted candles in their hands, saying, 'Where, where, where is the fire? Here, here, here,' said Skelton, pointing