Tommy showed a great contempt for Frank’s wonder-talk.
“I’ve found something now,” he said, “that outdoes all the rest. It is a letter written—”
“By Shakspeare?” asked Frank, in an animated way.
“No: to Shakspeare.”
“By whom?”
“Mr. Richard Quyney. You have often heard of him, I suppose?”
“He was probably a literary man,” said Frank.
“Probably. He asked for a loan of thirty pounds.”
The next day’s trip was to Kenilworth Castle, an ivy-hung ruin associated with the whole of England’s history, and traditionally with the romances of King Arthur. The walls are broken, the great banqueting hall has just fallen into decay, and where the coronals flashed and astrals blazed at night, now shine only the dim light of the moon and stars. Here Queen Elizabeth was entertained by her favorite, the Earl of Leicester. The splendor of that reception has rarely been equalled. The fête, which was one long banquet, broken by a most wonderful series of dramatic representations, lasted seventeen days. There were tilts and tournaments; the park was peopled with gods and goddesses to surprise the Queen wherever she went; nymphs and mermaids rose from the pools, and there was minstrelsy on every hand. Thirty-one barons were present. Ten oxen were slaughtered every morning, sixteen hogsheads of wine and forty hogsheads of beer were consumed daily. There were lodged in the castle four hundred servants, all of whom appeared in new liveries of velvet, and shared the unrestrained hospitality.
“All the clocks in the castle were stopped during that long festival,” said Master Lewis, “and the hands were all left pointing at the banquet hour.”