it on his head; and now the fear of it being rudely plucked off the brows of his children, embitters his last hours. His worldly cares do not end with his life; they extend to the time when he shall be sleeping. He finds the glittering diadem for which he had stained his hands with royal blood a crown of thorns. He finds that sleep, the kind nurse of nature, will no more weigh his eyelids down, nor steep his senses in forgetfulness. He finds that it is upon weary pallets in smoky cottages, and not under golden canopies in the perfumed chambers of the great, with the poor in loathsome beds and not on the golden couch of kings, that rest and peace lie down.* He finds that partial sleep, though the winds roar and the waves roll, will close the eye of the wet seaboy on the high and giddy mast, and yet in the calmest and stillest night will not come to the king in his splendid palace. The last scene, too, between the king and the Prince of Wales is most beautiful. The exquisite skill of the dramatist who could lay bare all the moral anatomy of the human heart, and thus, by showing us how little happiness there is really connected with the greatest worldly advantages, give us reasons for being contented with our lot, is nowhere seen in greater perfection. It carries with it a deep moral. At such a spectacle we might be content. As surely as the sun gilds with its farewell rays the peasant's cottage, as much as the majestic towers of Windsor castle, so surely is happiness impartially distributed to all ranks and degrees of men. But we are never satisfied. The poor desire to be rich; the rich desire to be noble; the noble desire to be rulers; the rulers desire to be kings. Though the moralist may preach, the philosopher laugh, and the * λάμπει μέν ἐν δυσκάπνοις δώμασιν τὸν δ' ἐναίσιμον τίει βίον. τά χρυσόπαστα δ ̓ ἐσθλὰ σὺν πίνῳ χερῶν Esch. Agam., 749-755. philanthropist mourn, we all are ardent in the pursuit of imaginary happiness. We seek for a fertile oasis and find the barren sand. We look for grapes and gather thistles. We sow the wind and reap the whirlwind. Such is Life. As the mirage appears before the eyes of the weary traveller in the Arabian desert, giving him a glimpse of clear streams, green meadows and waving trees, and allures him from the path that would conduct him peacefully to his journey's end, so does the vision of happiness allure us poor wanderers in the world. The traveller in the desert eagerly follows the lovely prospect. He leaves the sure track and pursues the distant vision all day over burning sands. But it ever recedes as he advances. And as the sun is sinking beneath the horizon, and the sable clouds of night are gathering around, it leaves him to perish in the wilderness. We, too, pursue an object as fleeting and as delusive. We leave the sure path of content for the attractions of the deceitful mirage; it changes its appearance to suit the different dispositions of men; to some it is a voluptuous Mahommedan paradise; to others it is a gilded coronet; to others it is a laurel wreath; but however different it may appear, all are eager in the pursuit, and never pause until the dark night comes. The critics have had many contentions about Falstaff. Some writers have maintained that Shakspeare's Falstaff was first called Oldcastle, and that, fearing to give offence for representing in such a manner, the chief of the Lollards, he afterwards altered the name to Falstaff. Another set asserts that there was an old play with Sir John Oldcastle in it as one of Prince Henry's boon companions, and that Shakspeare thence got the first idea of his inimitable character. That Sir John Oldcastle, Lord Cobham, who was burnt during the reign of Henry the Fifth, was ridiculed on the stage, probably by some Catholic, is proved from the testimony of Fuller. In an old play entitled "the famous * 66 Stage poets have themselves been very bold with, and others very merry at, the memory of Sir John Oldcastle, whom they fancied a boon companion, a jovial royster, and a coward to boot. The best is, Sir victories of Henry the Fifth, containing the honourable battle of Agincourt," Sir John Oldcastle is mentioned as one of Henry's boon companions during his merry days. It appears then quite evident that Sir John Oldcastle was ridiculed on the stage. As Shakspeare's Falstaff was like Oldcastle, a fat man, it is very possible that he might be thought the same character, though Shakspeare never uses his name, and even at the end of the play declares positively that Falstaff is another personage. But, however, this may be, Sir John Falstaff is all Shakspeare's own character. In the whole range of ancient and modern literature, there is no comic character, that can even be considered second to Falstaff. It seems scarcely possible to believe that such a man never existed. He is an old acquaintance that we have all known from childhood. There he stands looking with his patronising air on the prince of whose acquaintance he is so proud, his immense paunch protruding so far beyond any tolerable limit, his hand unconsciously wandering to the cup of sack, his eyes sparkling with mirth, his whole appearance giving the most perfect idea of self-complacency and good fellowship, his mouth just uttering "a plague of fighting and grief, Hal, it blows a man up like a bladder, Hal.” Falstaff has many of the worst vices of mankind. He is a boaster, a drunkard, a coward, a libertine, a liar, a flatterer, a backbiter; many of the most hateful qualities of men are concentrated in his person; and yet we do not hate Falstaff. Though always eating, drinking, and sleeping, his mind appears always active. Though he is continually drinking wine, it seems to produce a different effect on him than on other men; it clears his brain, and fills it full of ideas. Though he is ever railing at his absent friends, and making them the subject of his jokes, there is no gall in his heart. Though John Falstaff hath relieved the memory of Sir John Oldcastle, and of late is substituted buffoon in his place."-Fuller's Church History, book iv., p. 168. And again: "Sir John Oldcastle was first made a thrasonical puff, an emblem of mock valour, a make sport in all plays, for a coward."-Fuller's Worthies, p. 253. he is a coward, his cowardice is not the cowardice of ordinary men; as, he says himself, he is a coward on instinct. Though all men laugh at him, he is not angry; he is too happy that he can not only be witty himself but the cause of wit in other men. He is the personification of Epicureanism. He is in love with himself and all the world. He has no desire to seek reputation in the cannon's mouth; and his soliloquy on honour, and his behaviour on the field of battle, are a most inimitable satire on military glory. He never appears but to convulse us with laughter. We cannot hate him; he does not hate mankind; and therefore does not appear hateful. The comic scenes in which he plays so conspicuous a part; the robbery at Gadshill where he runs away and roars; the scene at the tavern, where eleven men in buckram spring out of two; and his trick of hacking his sword to make believe that it was done in fight; his combat with the Douglas; the scenes at Justice Shallow's house; are the finest pieces of comedy in English literature, the finest pieces of comedy in all literature. In the next play, when Falstaff disappears entirely from the scene, and his death is so affectingly related, we feel with the prince, that we could have better spared a better man. The Prince of Wales was evidently one of Shakspeare's favourite heroes. He takes more pains to develope Henry's character than that of any other actor in the historical plays. He appears to have been enamoured of his hero. The hero of Agincourt had undoubtedly many great qualities; generosity, bravery, prudence, magnanimity. There is every reason to believe that, had he lived to a full period of life, this prince would have been one of the greatest of the many great rulers that adorn the annals of England. And yet it is difficult to say whether his death or his life might have been more calamitous to his country. We are accustomed to forget, amid the dazzling glories that surround the head of the hero of Agincourt, the oppressor of the Lollards, the devotee of the church of Rome, the wanton devastator of a noble country, the conquest of which, however glorious it might be to the monarch, could really be of little service to England. It was not the interest of England to conquer France. That fertile country was ravaged with fire and sword for an object which was unattainable, and which, if it could have been attained, could not have been productive of any permanent benefit. After the eulogies which the king has received during the last four hundred years, some writers of great note have now begun to blame him with equal earnestness. But these are the cool reflections of men who survey these events after many centuries have passed. They comfort themselves with the belief that they are above all narrow prejudices, that they have done with national animosities, and that they are calm, philosophical, and enlightened individuals of the nineteenth century. They think that such reflections show a very magnanimous spirit, and they pride themselves in being so much wiser than the stupid people of former times. But, perhaps, if we consider a little, these deep thinkers may not appear so generous, enlightened, and magnanimous, as they imagine themselves to be. It is always unjust to blame men for not being wiser than the times in which they live. We have no right to apply our standard of perfection to men who have existed many generations ago, who could not possibly see how circumstances would end, and who could not by any means have the knowledge of things which we would be blockheads for not knowing. We have no reason to believe that even now men have arrived at that happy period in which every thing is learnt, and that the last stone is now placed on the temple of wisdom. Although it is not a very fashionable doctrine, and would be heard by many people with indignation, yet there are some few obtuse individuals, of whom the author of the present essay is one, who do not believe that we have learnt everything; or, that at least, if we have learnt everything, it is very little. Some men have a disposition to praise the past times |