In 1698 an unsuccessful attempt was made by the puritanical vestry of Saint Saviour's to put down the Globe Theatre, on the plea of the “enormities” practised there. But James the First, when he came to the throne, knocked their petitions on the head by granting his patent to Shakspere and others to perform plays, “as well within their usuall house called the Globe, in Surry,” as elsewhere. It was what Stowe calls “a frame of timber,” with, according to John Taylor, the water-poet, “a thatched hide.” Its sign was an Atlas bearing a globe. It was accidentally burnt down on St. Peter's day, June 29, 1613. “And a marvaile and fair grace of God it was,” says Sir Ralph Win wood in his Memorials, “that the people had so little harm, having but two little doors to get out.” Sir Henry Wootton's relation of this fire is exceedingly interesting. “Now, to let matters of state sleep, I will entertain you at the present with what hath happened this week at the Banks side. The King's players had a new play, called All is true, representing some principal pieces of the raign of Henry 8 which was set forth with many extraordinary circumstances of pomp and majesty, even to the matting of the stage, the knights of the order, with their Georges and garters, the guards with their embroidered coats, and the like: sufficient, in truth, within a mile to make greatness very familiar, if not ridiculous. Now King Henry making a masque at the Cardinal Woolsey's house, and certain canons being shot off at his entry, some of the paper, or other stuff wherewith one of them were stopped, did light on the thatch, where, being thought at first but an idle smoak, and their eyes more attentive to the show, it kindled inwardly, and ran round like a train, consuming within less than an hour the whole house to the very ground. “This was the fatal period of that vertuous fabrique, wherein nothing did perish but wood and straw, and a few forsaken cloaks; only one man had his breeches set on fire, that would perhaps have broyled him if he had not, by the benefit of a provident wit, put it out with bottle-ale. The rest when we meet.”--Reliquio Woottonio. Suddenly the strings of a harp were struck. “Listen!” said Uncle Timothy, “that is no everyday hand.” The chords were repeated; and, after a symphony that spoke in exquisite tones a variety of passions, a voice melodious and plaintive sang-- THE OLD HARPER'S SONG. Sound the harp! strike the lyre!--Ah! the Minstrel is old; The days of his harping are very nigh told; Yet Shakspere, * sweet Shakspere! thy name shall expire On his cold quiv'ring lips--Sound the harp! strike the lyre! Its music was thine when his harp he first strung,