district. In his play-hours he is soon in the
fields, picking blackberries in Hedge Lane, or
flying his kite by the Windmill in Saint Giles's.
His father-in-law is a plain, industrious, trusty
man,—not rich enough to undertake any of
the large works which the luxurious wants of
the town present; and ofttimes interfered
with, in the due course of his labour, by royal
proclamations against the increase of houses,
which are rigidly enforced when a humble
man desires to build a cottage. But young
Ben has found friends. To the parish school
sometimes comes Master Camden; and he
observes the bold boy, always at the head of
his class, and not unfrequently having his
"clear and fair skin" disfigured by combats
with his dirty companions, who litter about
the alleys of Saint Martin's Lane. The boy
has won good Master Camden's heart; and
so, in due time, he proposes to remove him to
Westminster School.

Let us look at the Shadow of his Mother, as
she debates this question with her husband, at
their frugal supper. "The boy must earn his
living," says the bricklayer. "He is strong
enough to be of help to me. He can mix the
mortar; he will soon be able to carry the hod.
Learning! stuff! he has had learning enow, for
all the good it will do him."—"Thomas Fowler,"
responds the mother, "if I wear my fingers to
the bone, my boy shall never carry the hod.
Master Camden, a good man, and a learned,
will pay for his schooling. Shall we not give
him his poor meals and his pallet-bed?
Master Camden says he will make his way.
I owe it to the memory of him who is gone,
that Benjamin shall be a scholar, and perhaps
a minister."—" Yes; and be persecuted for
his opinions, as his father was. These are
ticklish times, Margaret—the lowest are the
safest. Ben is passionate, and obstinate, and
will quarrel for a straw. Make him a scholar,
and he becomes Papist or Puritan—the quiet
way is not for the like of him. He shall be
apprenticed to me, wife, and earn his daily
bread safely and honestly."  Night after night
is the debate renewed. But the mother
triumphs. Ben does go to Westminster School.
He has hard fare at home; he has to endure
many a taunt as he sits apart in the Abbey
cloisters, intent upon his task. But Camden
is his instructor and his friend. The bricklayer's
boy fights his way to distinction.

Look again at the Shadow of that proud
Mother as, after three or four anxious years, she
hears of his advancement. He has an exhibition.
He is to remove to Cambridge. Her
Benjamin must be a bishop. Thomas Fowler is
incredulous—and he is not generous: "When
Benjamin leaves this roof he must shift for
himself, wife." The mother drops one tear
when her boy departs;—the leathern purse
which holds her painful savings is in Benjamin's
pocket.

It is a summer night of 1590, when Benjamin
Jonson walks into the poor house of
Hartshorn Lane. He is travel-stained and
weary. His jerkin is half hidden beneath a
dirty cloak. That jerkin, which looked so
smart in a mother's eyes when last they
parted, is strangely shrunk—or, rather, has not
the spare boy grown into a burly youth,
although the boy's jerkin must still do service?
The bricklayer demands his business;—the
wife falls upon his neck. And well may the
bricklayer know him not. His face is "pimpled;"
hard work and irregular living have
left their marks upon him. The exhibition
has been insufficient for his maintenance. His
spirit has been sorely wounded. The scholar
of sixteen thinks he should prefer the daily
bread which is to be won by the labour of his
hands, to the hunger for which pride has no
present solace. Benjamin Jonson becomes a
bricklayer.

And now, for two years, has the mother—
her hopes wholly gone, her love only the same
—to bear up under the burden of conflicting
duties. The young man duly works at the
most menial tasks of his business. He has
won his way to handle a trowel;—but he is
not conformable in all things. "Wife," says
Thomas Fowler, "that son of yours will
never prosper. Cannot he work,—and cannot
he eat his meals,—without a Greek book in
his vest? This very noon must he seat himself,
at dinner-hour, in the shade of the wall
in Chancery Lane, on which he had been
labouring; and then comes a reverend Bencher
and begins discourse with him; and Ben
shows him his book—and they talk as if they
were equal. Margaret, he is too grand for me;
he is above his trade."—"Shame on ye,
husband! Does he not work, honestly and
deftly? and will you grudge him his books?"
—" He haunts the playhouses; he sits in the
pit—and cracks nuts—and hisses or claps
hands, in a way quite unbeseeming a brick-layer's
apprentice. Margaret, I fear he will
come to no good." One night there is a
fearful quarrel. It is late when Benjamin returns
home. In silence and darkness, the son
and mother meet. She is resolved. " Benjamin,
my son, my dear son, we will endure
this life no longer. There is a sword;—it
was your grandfather's. A gentleman wore
it; a gentleman shall still wear it. Go to the
Low Countries. Volunteers are called for.
There is an expedition to Ostend. Take with
you these few crowns, and God prosper you."

Another year, and Benjamin's campaign is
ended. At the hearth in Hartshorn Lane sits
Margaret Fowler—in solitude. There will
be no more strife about her son. Death has
settled the controversy. Margaret is very
poor. Her trade is unprosperous; for the
widow is defrauded by her servants. " Mother,
there is my grandfather's sword—it has done
service; and, now, I will work for you."—
"How, my son?"—"I will be a bricklayer
again." We see the Shadow of the Mother, as
she strives to make her son content. He has