from her, and Tyrrel's description of their death. We will finish our quotations with them.

"Queen. Stay yet; look back, with me, unto the Tower.Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes, Whom envy hath immur'd within your walls! Rough cradle for such little pretty ones, Rude, rugged nurse! old sullen play-fellow For tender princes, use my babies well!"

The other passage is the account of their death by Tyrrel:

"Dighton and Forrest, whom I did suborn
To do this piece of ruthless butchery,
Albeit they were flesh'd villains, bloody dogs,
Melting with tenderness and mild compassion,
Wept like two children, in their death's sad story.
O thus! quoth Dighton, lay the gentle babes;
Thus, thus, quoth Forrest, girdling one another
Within their innocent alabaster arms;
Their lips were four red roses on a stalk,
Which in their summer beauty kiss'd each other.

A book of prayers on their pillow lay;

Which once, quoth Forrest, almost changed my mind,
But O, the devil!-there the villain stopped;

When Dighton thus told on-we smothered

The most replenished sweet work of nature,

That from the prime creation e'er she framed."

These are some of those wonderful bursts of feeling, done to the life, to the very height of fancy and nature, which our Shakspeare alone could give. We do not insist on the repetition of these last passages as proper for the stage: we should indeed be loth

to trust them in the mouth of almost any actor: but we should wish them to be retained in preference at least to the fantoccini exhibition of the young princes, Edward and York, bandying childish wit with their uncle.

HENRY VIII.

THIS play contains little action or violence of passion, yet it has considerable interest of a more mild and thoughtful cast, and some of the most striking passages in the author's works. The character of Queen Katherine is the most perfect delineation of matronly dignity, sweetness, and resignation, that can be conceived. Her appeals to the protection of the king, her remonstrances to the cardinals, her conversations with her women, show a noble and generous spirit accompanied with the utmost gentleness of nature. What can be more affecting than her answer to Campeius and Wolsey, who come to visit her as pretended friends?

"Nay, forsooth, my friends,

They that must weigh out my afflictions,

They that my trust must grow to, live not here;
They are, as all my comforts are, far hence,

In mine own country, lords."

Dr Johnson observes of this play, that "the

meek sorrows and virtuous distress of Katherine

have furnished some scenes, which may be justly numbered among the greatest efforts of tragedy. But the genius of Shakspeare comes in and goes out with Katherine. Every other part may be easily conceived and easily written." This is easily said; but with all due deference to so great a reputed authority as that of Johnson, it is not true. For instance, the scene of Buckingham led to execution is one of the most affecting and natural in Shakspeare, and one to which there is hardly an approach in any other author. Again, the character of Wolsey, the description of his pride and of his fall, are inimitable, and have, besides their gorgeousness of effect, a pathos, which only the genius of Shakspeare could lend to the distresses of a proud, bad man, like Wolsey. There is a sort of child-like simplicity in the very helplessness of his situation, arising from the recollection of his past overbearing ambition. After the cutting sarcasms of his enemies, on his disgrace, against which he bears up with a spirit conscious of his own superiority, he breaks out into that fine apostrophe

"Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness!
This is the state of man; to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,

And,-when he thinks, good easy man,
full surely
His greatness is a ripening,-nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
These many summers in a sea of glory;

But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary, and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.
Vain
pomp and glory of the world, I hate ye!
I feel my heart new open'd: O, how wretched
Is that poor man, that hangs on princes' favours!
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and our ruin,

More pangs and fears than wars or women have;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again!"

There is in this passage, as well as in the well-known dialogue with Cromwell which follows, something that stretches beyond common-place; nor is the account which Griffiths gives of Wolsey's death less Shakspearian; and the candour with which Queen Katherine listens to the praise of "him whom of all men while living she hated most," adds the last graceful finishing to her cha

racter.

Among other images of great individual beauty might be mentioned the description of the effect of Ann Boleyn's presenting herself to the crowd at her coronation.

"While her grace sat down
To rest awhile, some half an hour, or so,