ould be. A
pair of rush candles were shedding their dim light through the long low
oak-panelled apartment; they were the only lights that were burning, and
even these flickered ominously at times, as if threatening to go out and
leave the place in total darkness. A full moon, however, was casting her
silvery beams through the great lattice casement, and in one of the
upper panes of this window were richly emblazoned the arms of which the
squire was so proud.

It was a glorious evening. Opening the window, William Shakespeare
looked out upon the peaceful garden. The moon was shedding a pale light
upon the woods and the stream, "decking with liquid pearl the bladed
grass." A hundred yards away the silent Coln was gliding slowly onwards
towards the sea. Owls were breathing heavily in the hanging wood, and a
pair of otters were hunting in the pool.

As the two sat by the open window, the poet's own life and its prospects
formed the principal topic of conversation. After years of toil in
London his fortunes were beginning at length to improve. He was manager
of a theatre, and was at length earning a moderate competency. He had
already saved a little money, and hoped soon to buy a house at
Stratford. He looked forward some day to returning to his native place
and living a country life. At present he was enjoying a short holiday,
the first for over a year.

As they sat and talked over these matters, a minstrel began to play in
one of the cottages of the village; the sound of the harp added another
charm to the peaceful surroundings, and filled the poet's mind with a
strange delight.

"I am never merry when I hear sweet music," said Jessica.

Whereupon her companion replied:

"' ... soft stillness and the night
Become the touches of sweet harmony.
Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold:
There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins;
Such harmony is in immortal souls;
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.'" [31]

[Footnote 31: _Merchant of Venice_, V. i.]

Sweet is the sound of soft melodious music on a moonlight night; sweet
the faint sigh of the breeze among the elms, and the light upon the
silent stream; but sweeter far is music on a moonlight night, sweeter
the faint sigh of the breeze,