would last for ever.  He walked sharply off, and few cared to keep his pace,—­for they are lusty men mostly; and spiteful bad women had breathed {89a} in the faces of some among them, or the gowns had got between their legs.  For my part, I was not to be balked; so, tripping on aside him, I looked in his face askance.  Whether he misgave or how, he turned his eyes downward.  No matter—­have him I would.  I licked my lips and smacked them loud and smart, and scarcely venturing to nod, I gave my head such a sort of motion as dace and roach give an angler’s quill when they begin to bite.  And this fairly hooked him.”

“‘Young gentleman!’ said he, ‘where is your gown?’

“‘Reverend sir!’ said I, ‘I am unworthy to wear one.’

“‘A proper youth, nevertheless, and mightily well-spoken!’ he was pleased to say.

“‘Your reverence hath given me heart, which failed me,’ was my reply.  ’Ah! your reverence! those words about the devil were spicy words; but, under favour, I do know the brook-side they sprang and flowered by.  ’T is just where it runs into Avon; ’t is called Hogbrook.’

“‘Right!’ quoth he, putting his hand gently on my shoulder; ’but if I had thought it needful to say so in my sermon, I should have affronted the seniors of the University, since many claim them, and some peradventure would fain transpose them into higher places, and giving up all right and title to them, would accept in lieu thereof the poor recompense of a mitre.’

“I wished (unworthy wish for a Sunday!) I had Matthew Atterend in the midst of them.  He would have given them skulls mitre-fashioned, if mitres are cloven now as we see them on ancient monuments.  Matt is your milliner for gentles, who think no more harm of purloining rich saws in a mitre than lane-born boys do of embezzling hazel-nuts in a woollen cap.  I did not venture to expound or suggest my thoughts, but feeling my choler rise higher and higher, I craved permission to make my obeisance and depart.

“‘Where dost thou lodge, young man?’ said the preacher.

“‘At the public,’ said I, ’where my father customarily lodgeth.  There, too, is a mitre of the old fashion, swinging on the sign-post in the middle of the street.’

“‘Respectable tavern enough!’ quoth the reverend doctor; ’and worthy men do turn in there, even quality,—­Master Davenant, Master Powel, Master Whorwood, aged and grave men.  But taverns are Satan’s chapels, and are always well attended on the Lord’s day, to twit him.  Hast thou no friend in such a city as Oxford?’

“‘Only the landlady of the Mitre,’ said I.

“‘A comely woman,’ quoth he, ’but too young for business by half.

“’Stay thou with me to-day, and fare frugally, but safely.

“‘What may thy name be, and where is thy abode?’

“‘William Shakspeare, of Stratford-upon-Avon, at your service, sir.’