It has been before mentioned that the historical plays, generally, afford us the notions of English history that were prevalent during the reign of Queen Elizabeth. And surely it is very remarkable that, in a play which gives us such a good general idea of King John's reign, there should never be even the most distant allusion to the Great Charter. If a great dramatist were now to delineate the times of King John, the memorable day at Runnemede would certainly occupy a most prominent place in his work. And is it not strange that a man like Shakspeare, a man who penetrates generally so far below the surface of events, and never forgets to give us, even amidst all his great poetical creations, the philosophy of history, should omit all mention of the source whence the noble stream of English freedom flows? This may be accounted for, if we consider that it was not until after his death that the real importance of the deed which King John signed was known. It was not until the difference between the parliament and Charles I. had involved England in the flames of a civil war, that Englishmen began to search into the old registers of the past ages for the title-deeds of their liberties. It was not until after the reign of Queen Elizabeth that the nations of Europe gradually became enslaved, and that Englishmen became sensible of the necessity of maintaining a check against the prerogatives of the crown. This shows how difficult it is to understand our own times or even those that are gone, until many generations have passed away, and the consequences have been seen. It not seldom happens that those things which men in their own times consider the most interesting, are those which posterity treats with neglect, and that the things which men in their own times consider the most trifling, carry within them the germs from which inestimable blessing or curses spring. It not seldom happens that the wisdom of this world is put to shame; and are we sure that the occurrences which most occupy the attention of the present generation will most occupy the attention of posterity? May not some of our noisy individuals resem

ble Shakspeare's great editors, who have written more than a thousand notes on the play of King John, full of their contemptible disputes, and have never noticed the omission of Magna Charta?

Man is not by any means the far-seeing being that he often imagines himself to be. He believes that he governs the world; but the world generally governs itself. When Galileo first declared that the earth revolved round the sun, the pope published a decree declaring that such a heretical doctrine was false. But, notwithstanding this official bulletin, it was true; our planet did really revolve round the sun; and, as Pascal says, in one of the most masterly of his letters to the Jesuits, the poor pope could not prevent himself from also revolving with it round the great luminary. And we may daily publish our decrees declaring that things shall go in the course we wish them to go; but after all, things will take their own course, and we also, like the pope, will have to go with them.

Of the thousands of barons who assembled at Runnemede on that beautiful June morning when the Charter was signed, how many of them were aware of the importance of the proceeding in which they took part? It was on the 19th of June, in the year 1216. The sun had risen far above the horizon. The blue

sky was above their heads. The green sward. was beneath their feet. The birds were singing their sweet carols. Nature was dressed in her fairest robes. The white tents, as of two hostile armies, were pitched. The rays of the sun danced on the helms of the mailed barons. The mitre of the prelate, the cross of the crusader, the scalloped hat of the pilgrim might be seen. scattered throughout the host. And the king sullenly and reluctantly set his name to the document. shout of approbation arose from the steel-clad warriors. They were pleased to have their properties and liberties secured, and were happy to have made provision for the days that were passing. But if they had known what we know now, what a shout would that have been! How it would have been echoed and re-echoed

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over England and over the whole world! Around the hosts there was the English soil poorly cultivated, wild beasts prowling in the thickets, and numerous forests in which the axe of the woodman had never been heard. The villein with his brass collar round his neck was labouring for his lord; the poor Jew was wandering from village to village, every moment in danger of being roasted on a slow fire; that morning the matin hymn was heard from a hundred monasteries. The bones of thousands of brave warriors were bleaching on the plains of Palestine, and still thousands upon thousands were hurrying into Asia animated at once with the love of glory and zeal for religion. Nor were the swords of the Christians turned against the Saracens alone. The warriors of northern France were engaged in exterminating the Albigensian heresy. The beautiful country at the foot of the Pyrenees was being devastated; the flames were ascending to heaven from a hundred burning villages; the waters of the Rhone, and Garonne were stained with blood of Christians who were massacred by their brethren of the same creed. The Church of Rome was omnipotent. The pope trod upon the neck of kings. As the camp of the barons broke up, and each knight was travelling to his home, and the sun was sinking beneath the horizon, and the curfew bell was tolling, was there the least intimation to even the wisest men of that generation that this day would be held in eternal remembrance? The wise men never dreamed of such a thing. That day, like many other days, was nearly forgotten; and, indeed, historians differ as to whether it was the 15th or the 19th of June. And the great instrument itself, we are told, was long afterwards neglected, and nearly cut into measures by a tailor.

Six hundred and thirty-four years since then have succeeded each other. Mighty events have come to pass. Empires have risen and fallen. A new world has been discovered, and has been peopled by Englishmen. The forests of England have long since been felled, and great towns inhabited by millions of human

beings, whom the factory bell daily rouses to their labours, now stand on ground over which the wild boar was once the undisputed lord. The monasteries have been abolished. The clang of machinery has replaced the matin hymn; and every evening the factory bell rings where the curfew was once heard. The swords of the barons are covered with rust; their coats of mail hang on our walls as curiosities. Their descendents have pushed their conquests over the whole world; the great population of Hindostan acknowledge them as their lords; they have invented engines that propel their ships against the wind, and iron horses that pull their carriages sixty miles an hour. The glory of the papacy has departed; monarchs no longer tremble at the thunders of the Vatican; the pope has been driven from Rome. Every thing in England and in Europe seems to be changed except the great features of nature. The same blue sky; the same green sward; the same summer glories still fascinate us; and the eyes of many generations with thankfulness are turned to the mailed barons of the 19th of June, in the year 1216.

"The life and death of King Richard II.," was written very soon after King John. It is one of the very few plays which Shakspeare is said to have revised, and the latter part of the fourth act about the deposition of Richard was added after the first edition of the play. There was an old play on the murder of Richard, and the elevation of the Duke of Lancaster. It is mentioned by Lord Bacon as having been acted before the followers of the Earl of Essex the very day preceding his insurrection,* and this was one of the circumstances mentioned in evidence during the trial of that brave, generous, but imprudent nobleman.

Shakspeare's play, though called the "life and death" of the king, does not embrace more than the three last years of his reign. It commences with the quarrel between the Duke of Norfolk and Bolingbroke, who give vent to their hatred of each other in no

* Camden also says, "Exoletam tragediam de tragicâ abdicatione regis Ricardi Secundi."

measured terms in Richard's presence. The king appoints a day for them to meet in arms; on that morning they meet at Coventry; the king interrupts the passage of arms, and banishes Norfolk for life, and Bolingbroke for six years. In the second act, John of Gaunt, the father of Bolingbroke, dies, and the king, after farming his own revenue, seizes on Bolingbroke's inheritance. Richard sets forth on his Irish expedition, leaving the Duke of York to govern England during his absence. Monmouth lands, and is joined by the Duke of Northumberland, his son, and the Lords of Ross, Beaumont, and Willoughby. The whole nation is sick of Richard's misgovernment, and Bolingbroke is eagerly welcomed. The Duke of York, so far from being able to stem the torrent, is obliged to go along with it, and he joins Bolingbroke. When the king lands in England he finds himself nearly friendless, and is forced to submit to the popular favourite, He is deposed, carried to Pomfret, and murdered.

In this outline, Shakspeare follows the current of events as they are related in all histories. But it is wonderful to see how magnificently this rude outline is filled up. This is one of the greatest of the historical plays; all the characters are drawn with consummate skill. Richard himself is one of those creations on which Shakspeare's reputation, both as a dramatist and a historian, might confidently be staked. Thoughtless and giddy in prosperity, Richard becomes purified by the waters of affliction; he then displays a truly noble nature, and is only a king when he ceases to be a king. In his misfortunes he loves to compare himself to the sun; and though the clouds of fortune and flattery obscure his early splendour, the innate goodness of his nature at length shines through all obstacles; and, as in a stormy evening, the western sky reddens with greater glory, as the horizon is blackening around, so, as misfortune upon misfortune accumulates on the head of the unhappy monarch, as his friends desert him and his end is approaching, more and more glorious his character appears. After his fall he bears meekly all