om.

[Illustration: The River Avon at Stratford

"I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows."
]

That grave and handsome gentleman whose lordly bearing and princely
dress mark his high rank, is another favourite. He has written
charming poems, has fought gallantly on many fields, has voyaged
widely on many seas, has founded colonies in distant America, is a
favourite of the Queen. But in this Mermaid Club his chief glory is
that he is its founder and leader, the one whose magnetism and
personal charm has summoned and cemented in friendship all these
varied elements.

At last the all-important matter of the yearly Christmas play at court
has been settled; the Master of the Revels has chosen from the rich
stores of his manuscripts "_The Midsummer Night's Dream_", graciously
adding that "for wit and mirth it is like to please her Majesty
exceedingly." A high honor, indeed, for its author. For, not then, as
now, were plays written primarily for the recreation and approval of the
audience of the theatre. True, the public stage was fostered, and
attracted its daily audience, but rather as a dress rehearsal, its main
purpose being to train the players for the court presentations at one of
her Majesty's palaces. The secret spur to both players and playwright
was the hope of being among the chosen for the festivities at Richmond,
Whitehall, or Greenwich, as the Queen might fancy to hold her court.

[Illustration: Birthplace of Mary Arden, Mother of Shakespeare

"Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine
With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine."
]

[Illustration: Warwickshire House of the Tudor Period]

Disappointment, soreness, jealousy, not seldom followed the award of the
coveted distinction, but not so on this occasion. For now the successful
candidate is one of the youngest and best beloved of this jolly coterie,
and their pride in him is shown by the eagerness with which they await
his coming to read to them the changes in the manuscript of his play
since its former presentation. Ah! hear the burst of applause that
greets his late arrival--a high-browed, sandy-haired man of thirty-two,
lithe in figure, of middle height, with a smile of great sweetness, yet
sad withal. On his face, one may read the lines of recent sorrow, and
all know that he has returned but recently to London from the mournful
errand which took him to his Stratford home--the buria