Henry IV. Shakspeare may not have been so good a classical scholar as Ben; he may never have understood the learned languages critically; but he seems to have far surpassed Jonson in general information; there seems convincing evidence to prove that, though he may not have been a critical scholar, he had a good general acquaintance with ancient history; and all his works show, that of all English literature which was then open to him, he had a most extensive knowledge.

But it is not by the rules of every day life that this great genius ought to be measured. If we were certain that he knew nothing of ancient literature, it would not detract a single charm from his works. There are hardy plants that thrive the better for the storms to which they are exposed. There are healthy vigorous minds which bid defiance to the common fortunes of life, and flourish the better for adversity. To a mind like Shakspeare's, everything was knowledge. It

"Found tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.'

Amid the lovely scenes in which his boyhood and youth were passed, by the side of the winding Avon, in one of the most beautiful parts of England, he nursed that poetical and deeply meditative spirit which is the delight of all reflecting minds. Many of his most glorious creations, many of his most profound philosophical views were probably originated during his solitary rambles among his native woods. His works show how attentively he had watched the breaking of the day, and the rising of the sun, the noble luminary to which he is never tired of alluding. Those who have meditated on every line of his works with that reverence which the writings of so great a genius deserve, can easily imagine what his reflections must have been in the early morning, as he watched the first streaks of day, the golden cloud appearing in the east, and at length the sun breaking forth in all its splendour, heaven's messenger of life, and beauty, and joy. He doubtless thought how different that sun, the sight of which was ever to him

so great a pleasure, would appear as it was surveyed by the eyes of different individuals. It would appear very different to the galley slave, as its rays stole through his iron grating. It would appear very different to the broken-hearted man, as it beamed through the garret window down upon the bed on which his children lay destitute of food. It would appear very different to the sated man of pleasure, as it penetrated through his silken curtains, and the light rested on the pillow where he had but lately laid his aching head. It would appear very different to the care-worn statesman as it awoke him from his dream about the last night's debate. It would appear very different to the murderer, as it slowly dispelled the darkness of his condemned cell, and told him that his last day had dawned. And the young poet doubtless thought, that, however different that sun might appear to all these different observers, it was still to all another day. And as it sank to rest behind the hills, and the shades of evening gathered around, he doubtless thought how swiftly his life was passing away, one day speedily following another, and how soon to him would come that day to which in this world there could be no morrow.

No man seems ever to have experienced more deeply the hopes and fears which the strongest, as well as the weakest, of mankind, feel when they reflect on the approach of death, and in the probability of their soon exchanging their "sensible warm being" for the neglect and darkness of the grave. He had well pondered on all the miseries of life, the troubles to which the best of men are exposed, the heart aches which all must bear; and which are most suffered by men who like him, are at once blessed and cursed with deep sensibility: the rod of the oppressor, the pangs of unrequited affection, the insolence of power. It was on such subjects as these that in all his writings he loves to dwell; and the truth of his moral philosophy is attested by all men in all parts of the world. Man is everywhere the same. The men of whom we read in the historical plays are the same as are now living upon

the earth; and what is natural at one time continues natural, though centuries after centuries roll on, and generations after generations pass away.

In studying the historical dramas, it must not be forgotten for whom they were written. They were intended to be recited before our ancestors in the reign of Elizabeth; we may be assured that nothing that they disliked would be brought forward; for a drama must be popular; and we may thus consider them as the interpreters of the thoughts of the English people in that memorable age. The best history of the reign of Elizabeth is in the English historical plays. We learn from them what a high and noble spirit was that of the old English people; what pride they took in their ancient kings, warriors, and statesmen; how they exulted at the name of Agincourt; how truly they seemed to know what a high place their country was to occupy in the history of the world; that they were destined to rule Indian empires, to sow the seeds of mighty empires in the new world, to be the first of nations in politics, philosophy, literature, and commerce, and to be in every age the leaders in the vanguard of human civilization.

No writings display so much of the true English spirit as the historical plays. In reading them, it often seems as though they explain the cause of England's greatness. A bold and fearless spirit in speculation, with a calm and conservative spirit in practice; a just disdain for mere external fopperies in politics, literature, and religion, with a firm determination to preserve all that is of sterling excellence; a sound morality which pervades our great literary works without the affected pruriency of a certain class of writers; a spirit of humanity which extends over all nature without the sickly sentimentalism of a celebrated German school of thinkers, are characteristics of the English nation. This is everywhere seen in the historical plays. As Shakspeare was the greatest Englishman that ever lived, so he seems to have been endowed, in the highest perfection, with all the best qualities of the Englishman.

He appears in the historical plays, not only as a great

poet who can strike at will the highest chords of the Îyre; not only as a great philosopher who can survey as through a glass all the various dispositions of men, and to whom the deepest recesses of the human heart were as open as a book; but also as a true patriot earnestly endeavouring to instruct his fellow-countrymen in the noblest passages of their history, to fill their minds with great ideas and lofty aspirations, so that they might regard their island as the birth-place of a race destined to do great things in the world, a race born for victory and dominion, and on whose prosperity the dearest interest of mankind were staked. The noble panegyric which Shakspeare makes old John of Gaunt pronounce on England, ought to be engraved on the hearts of all her sons:

"This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise;

This fortress built by nature for herself,
Against infection and the hand of war;
This happy breed of men, this little world;
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves in it the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands;

This blessed spot, this earth, this realm, this England,
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
Fear'd by their breed, and famous by their birth,
Renowned for their deeds as far from home,
(For Christian service and true chivalry,)
As is the sepulchre, in stubborn Jewry,
Of the world's ransom, blessed Mary's son:
This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land,
Dear for her reputation through the world."

Shakspeare endeavoured in these noble plays to make good husbands, good citizens, good Christians. This is true patriotism. This is true philanthropy. It is a very different philanthropy from that of the French sciolists of the last century. The philanthropy of the French philosophers consisted in loudly proclaiming sentiments of universal benevolence, and at the same time disregarding all the dearest family ties, extinguishing all the noblest sympathies that beautify humanity,

destroying all content and order in this world, and blasting all hopes of a future life beyond the grave. There is surely a nobler philanthropy than that of Voltaire. There is surely a philanthropy founded on the love of our country, and compatible with the tenderest sympathies at our own firesides. It is this that Shakspeare teaches us in the historical plays. He seems to have thought that philanthropy, like charity, begins at home; that the man who performs best all the duties of private life, is likely to feel the most deeply for the interests of the human race; that the best son, the best husband, the best father, the best citizen, the best Christian, is likely to be the best philanthropist. As Socrates loved the city of the violet crown, with her porticoes, groves, and market place; as Cicero loved the city of the seven hills with her Forum, Campus Martius, and Capitol; Shakspeare loved England with her white cliffs, parliament, and Westminster Abbey.

No nation ever yet rose to greatness with the spurious philanthropy which the French philosophers preached. It is in direct opposition to their doctrines that all the great nations of the world have invariably acted. It is by following the guidance of a Shakspeare, and not of a Voltaire, that England herself has become so pre-eminent among the nations of the earth. It is by following the guidance of such a man, by spurning the shallow sophistries of the present times, by reverencing her old institutions, her old monarchy, her old parliament, and her old altars, that her flag has been raised to that eminence whence, if she be true to herself, all her enemies combined will not pull it down.

There are times in the history of mankind when the mind of man seems dormant, when no improvements in arts, letters, or philosophy are made, when abuses are acquiesced in without murmuring, when the great human family seems to stand still, and cold, bleak, wintry barrenness spreads its chilling influence over the earth. There are times when spring returns in all its beauty, when men are roused from their long