there is no doubt that he was possessed of considerable learning, and was rich in that somewhat undefinable commodity called "knowledge of the world." He was educated at St. John's College, Cambridge, in which university he took the degree of M.A. in 1583. He was also a Master of Arts of Oxford, and spent some time in travels into Italy and Spain. It is more than probable that he took orders, and was presented to the living of Tollesbury, in Essex. Supposing such to be the case, he was deprived of his preferment for irregular living. It is certain, for we have it on his own confession, that he was a dissolute fellow, ever in extremes of excess or contrition, one of those poor wretches who, without enough moral hardihood to keep out of the ways of error, have too much conscience to be able to get anything like a handsome measure of enjoyment out of sin.

The authors, by profession, of the Elizabethan age, were the veriest wretches that a love of letters ever pulled down with starvation and pricked up with contumely. Greene's intimate was Thomas Nashe, a man who was born at Lowestoft, in Suffolk, and was, like Greene, educated at St. John's College, Cambridge. Nashe evidenced his love for the district in which his youth was passed, by celebrating the excellencies of Yarmouth, in a book called "Nashe's Lenten Stuffe, containing the Description and First Procreation of Great Yarmouth, &c." His writings are now known only to antiquarians, but his "Pierce Pennilesse" deserves a wider circle of acquaintance: for it is a touching picture of sufferings literary men of genius'endured in his day, sufferings, compared with which those of Pope's Grub-street were nothing. Pierce Pennilesse says: "All my labours turned to losse, I was despised and neglected, my paines not regarded, or slightly rewarded, and I myself, in prime of my best wit, laid open to povertie. Whereupon I accused my fortune, railed on my patrons, bit my pen, rent my papers, and raged. How many base men that wanted those parts I had, enjoyed content at will, and had wealth at command! I called to mind a cobbler that was worth five hundred pounds; an hostler that had built a goodly inn; a carman in a leather pilche that had whipt a thousand pound out of his horses tail-and have I more than these? thought I to myself: am I better born? am I better brought up? yea, and better favoured! and yet am I a beggar! Now am I crost, or whence is this curse? Even from hence, the men that should employ such as I am, are enamoured of their own wits, though they be never so scurvie; that a scrivener is better paid than a scholar; and men of art must seek to live among cormorants, or be kept under by dunces; who count it policy to keep them bare to follow their books the better."

Greene's perseverance and assiduity in his vocation did not preserve him from that poverty his friend Nashe so well described, and when a few pieces of gold did find their way into his hands from a book-vendor's pocket they were speedily dissipated in feasting and debauchery. The immediate cause of his death was devouring an imprudent allowance of pickled herrings, and washing them down with Rhenish wine, at a banquet at which Tom Nashe was present. But his health had long before that been in a declining state, and he well knew that feast of herrings and wine was one of the last meals he was destined to partake of upon earth.

In a fit of remorse, as he regarded his abused life-the prostitution of his powers-the debasement of his mindhe wrote:

"Deceiving world that with alluring toys,

Hast made my life the subject of my scorn;
And scornest now to lend thy fading joys,
Toutlength my life, whom friends have left forlorn,
How well are they that die ere they be born,

And never see thy slights, which few men shun,
Till unawares they hapless are undone.

Oft have I sung of Love and of his fire,
But now I find that poet was advised,
Which made full feasts increasers of desire,
And proves weak love was with the poor despis'd ;
For when the life with food is not suffic'd,

What thoughts of love, what motion of delight,
What pleasance can proceed from such a wight?

Witness my want, the murderer of my wit,
My ravish'd sense of wonted fury reft,
Wants such conceit, as should in poems fit,
Set down the sorrow wherein I am left;
But therefore have high heavens their gifts bereft,
Because so long they lent them me to use,
And I so long their bounty did abuse.

O, that a year were granted me to live!
And for that year my former wits restor'd ;
What rules of life, what counsel would I give,
How should my sin with sorrow be deplor'd !
But I must die of every man abhor'd:

Time loosely spent will not again be won,
My time is loosely spent, and I undone."

No, no, Robert Greene! it's all very fine, but you would not have altered a jot-that you wouldn't!

It is touching, though, to hear this cry coming from a dying penitent through nigh three hundred years, for just twelve short months more of existence. Poor wretch! struggling into death without hope-with a heart yearning for that which might have been! The man, too, is no stranger to us. In all likelihood, he was a chosen companion of the young Shakespeare; had roared out the choruses of drinking songs with him; had in hours of mirth looked into the laughing eyes of the great poet! Anyhow, his days were spent in Shakespeare's London, and he drained cups of sack with the Pistols and Sir Johns of that roistering city, like a jolly good fellow.

The title-page of "Greene's Never too Late" will amuse those not acquainted with books of the period.

GREENES

NEVER TOO LATE

BOTH PARTS.

Sent to all youthfull Gentlemen, to roote out the in-
fectious follies that over--reaching conceits foster in
the spring time of their youth.

Desciphering in a true English History, those particular vanities, that with frostie vapours, nip the blossomes of every braine, from attayning to his intended perfection.

As pleasant as profitable, being a right Pumice Stone, apt to race out

idlenesse with delight, and follie with admonition.
Rob. Greene, in Artibus Magister
Omne tulit punctum:
London.

Printed for Nicholas Fing.
1607.

The novel opens thus:-*

"Being resident in Bergamo, not farre distant from Venice, sitting under a coole shade that then shrowded me from the extreme violence of the miridional heat, having never a book in my hand to beguile time, nor no pathetical impression in my head to procure any secret meditation, I had flat faln into a slumber, if I had not espied a traveller, weary and desolate, to have bended his steppes towards me. Desirous to shake off drowsinesse with some company, I attended his arrival; but as he drew neere, hee seemed so quaint in his attire, and so conceited in his countenance, as I deemed the man either some penitent pilgrime that was very religious, or some despairing lover that had been too affectionate. For take his description :

When with scrip and staffe they see
Jesus grave on Calverie;
A hat of straw like a swaine,
Shelter for the sun and raine,
With a scollop shel before :
Sandals on his feete he wore:
Legs were bare, arms unclad:
Such attire the Palmer had.
His face faire, like Tytans shine,
Gray and buxome were his eyne,
Whereout dropt pearles of sorrow,
Such sweet tears love doth borrow,
When in outward deawes she plaines,
Harts distresse that Lovers paines:
Rubie lips, cherrie cheekes,
Such rare mixture Venus seekes,
When to keep her damsels quiet,
Beautie sets them down their diet.
Adon was not thought more faire:
Curled locks of amber haire;
Locks, where Love did sit and twine
Nets, to snare the gazers eyne:
Such a Palmer nere was seene,
Lesse Love him-selfe had Palmer beene.
Yet for all he was so quaint,
Sorrow did his visage taint.
Midst the riches of his face,
Griefe desciphered high disgrace :
Every step strained a teare,
Sudden sighes shewd his feare:
And yet his feare by his sight,
Ended in a strange delight;
That his passions did approve,
Weedes and sorrow were for love.'

"Thus attired in his travelling roabes (not seeing me that lay close in the thicket), he sat him downe under a beech tree."

After a short while Mr. Robert Greene accosts this interesting Palmer, and, having had a satisfactory conversation with him, in a magnificently high strain, begs to have the pleasure of entertaining him in his own house. The Palmer accepts the invitation, accompanies Mr. Greene to his house, is introduced to Mrs. Greene, and partakes of a