to further his cause. At Doncaster he met the earl of Northumberland and his son Henry Percy, to whom he swore that he would but claim the lands inherited from his father, and in right of his wife; promising, withal, that he would bring the king to good government, and remove from him the creatures who sustained him in his evil courses. Leaving Doncaster with a great army, he came with all speed by Evesham to Berkley; and within three days all the royal castles in those parts were surrendered to him. At Berkley he found the duke of York, who, all his plans of defence having failed, had gone thither to meet the king at his coming from Ireland. The next day he passed onward, still gathering power at every step, towards Bristol, where Wiltshire, Green, and Bushy prepared to make resistance; but in this they were soon defeated, taken prisoners, found guilty of treason, and forthwith beheaded.

All this while the king was detained in Ireland, the seas being so tempestuous and the winds so contrary that he could not even hear any news of what was doing in England; and when, after the lapse of six weeks, he understood how Hereford was carrying all before him, instead of setting forth at once, he still lingered till all his ships should be ready for the passage; but sent over the earl of Salisbury to gather a power in Wales and Cheshire with all possible speed, that they might be ready against his arrival. The earl, landing at Conway, sent forth letters to the king's friends, to levy their people, and come quickly to assist the king; which they did most willingly, insomuch that within four days an army of forty thousand men were ready to march with the king, if himself had been there in person. But, he not appearing, a report began to prevail that he was dead; which so wrought with the Welchmen and others that Salisbury could barely induce them to wait fourteen days, to see if he would come; and at the end of that time, he not coming, they dispersed and went home. A few days after, the king, with the bishop of Carlisle, the dukes of Aumerle, Surrey, Exeter, and others, landed near Barkloughly castle in Wales; and, learning how matters stood in England, he hastened on towards Conway, where Salisbury had been waiting for him. At first he went forward with good courage; but when he heard how all the castles were already in Hereford's hands, how the nobles and commons on all sides were fully bent to side with the duke against him, and how his trusty friends had lost their heads at Bristol, he became very sorrowful, and, utterly despairing of his own safety, he called his army together, and gave every man leave to go home. The soldiers besought him to be of good cheer, swearing to stand by him unto death; but this did not encourage him at all; and the following night he stole from the army, with Carlisle, Surrey, Exeter, Sir Stephen Scroop, and a few others, and went to Conway castle, where he found Salisbury, who was resolved to hold himself there, till he should see better times.

When the duke of Lancaster heard of the king's return, he hastened into Wales, and sent Northumberland to the king with four hundred lances and a thousand archers. The earl, having placed his men in ambush, pushed on with a small company to Conway, and by fair promises drew forth the king with a few attendants, and, before he suspected any danger, they were at the place where the ambush was laid; so that Richard was now entirely in his power, and there was no way but for him to go with them to Flint castle, which was already at Lancaster's disposal. The duke, being constantly informed of the earl's doings, came thither the next day, and mustered his army in sight of the king, who viewed them from the walls of the castle. Here again the earl was employed to manage affairs with the king. Finally the duke himself came to the castle, all armed, but stayed at the first gate, and sent for the king to come to an interview with him there; whereupon he came forth, with a few attendants, into the lower court of the castle, and sat down in a place prepared for him. As soon as the duke saw him, he showed a reverent duty, bowing his knee, and coming forward, till the king took him by the hand, and lifted him up, saying,-" Dear cousin, ye are welcome ;" and he, humbly thanking him, said,- 'My sovereign lord and king, the cause of my coming is to have restitution of my person, lands, and heritage, through your favourable license." To which the king answered, - -"Dear cousin, I am ready to accomplish your will, so that you may enjoy all that is yours." Then, having drunk wine together, they mounted on horseback, and set out for London; whither they came after riding several days, the king not being even allowed all this while to change his apparel.

Shortly after, the duke sent out writs in the king's name for a Parliament which met September 13, 1399, at Westminster; whereupon many heinous acts of injustice and misgovernment, drawn up and digested into thirty-three articles, were charged upon the king. Then a committee of nobles, prelates, knights, and lawyers, being sent to Richard, got his hand to an instrument acknowledging his unfitness for the kingly office, resigning the crown and all belonging to it, and releasing all his subjects from their allegiance. The signature being given, Lancaster was then brought in presence, and the king, in token of what he had done, took the signet ring from his finger and put it on the duke's, and requested the bishops standing by to inform the Parliament of his voluntary resignation, and of the good will he bare towards his cousin of Lancaster, to have him for his successor in the throne. The instrument of resignation was afterwards accepted and ratified by both houses of Parliament; and finally a sentence was passed whereby Richard was solemnly deposed, and all men forbidden to pay him any kind of obedience. All which being done, the duke of Lancaster stood forth, and, after making the sign of the cross on his forehead and also on his breast, laid claim to the crown

"in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost."

Afterwards a conspiracy against King Henry's life was devised mainly by the abbot of Westminster, he being moved thereto, as was reported, chiefly because he had heard the king say many years before, that princes had too little, and priests too much The abbot, having felt the minds of divers lords, and found them apt for his purpose, among whom were Exeter, Surrey, Aumerle, Salisbury, and the bishop of Carlisle, had them to a feast at his house, where they arranged to hold a tournament at Oxford, to engage the king to be present, and then to slay him suddenly while he was busy with the pastime. An indenture to that effect was signed and sealed by them, whereby they stood bound to each other, and they swore upon the Evangelists to be true and secret even to the point of death. When all things were ready, Exeter went to the king, earnestly desiring him to grace the occasion with his presence; which he readily promised to do, as Exeter was his brother-in-law. Their purpose was to restore the crown to Richard, who was yet alive; but their plot was disclosed to King Henry through the folly or the treachery of Aumerle; and most of the conspirators soon lost their heads for their pains. The knowledge how great danger he had thus escaped doubtless rendered the king more anxious than ever to have Richard put out of the way. How he was relieved from this anxiety soon after, will be found discussed in a note.

This dry skeleton will show that the Poet followed the chronicler very closely in the events of the drama. Holinshed had not the art, (as indeed what modern historian has?) nor did it fall within his purpose, to give a special lifelike portraiture of the persons yet in respect of these Shakespeare is, to say the least, equally true to history as in the events; still informing the bald diagrams of humanity with vital spirit and efficacy, and thus enabling us not so much to hear or read about the men of a former age, as to see them passing before us. Hints to that purpose there are indeed in the narrative; but these for the most part are o slight, and withal so overlaid with other matter, that perhaps no eye but Shakespeare's could have detected them and drawn forth their secret meaning. So that, looking through his eyes, we can now see things in the chronicler that we could by no means have discerned with our own. Thus, by a sort of poetical comparative anatomy, from a few fragments, such as would have escaped any perception less apprehensive and quick than his, he could reconstruct the whole order and complexion of characteristic traits and lineaments. And, which is very remarkable, the laws of fact appear to sit as easy upon him as those of imagination with the prescribed scope of an unchangeable past he has all the freedom of reason within the hard stiff lines of historical truth his creative faculties are as unstraitened and uncramped, they move with as

much grace, facility, and spirit, as when owning no restraints but such as are self-imposed. Than which perhaps nothing could more forcibly approve the strength and rectitude of his genius. But then, in fact, his freedom here is much the same as in the world of pure fiction, because in either case it is the truth that makes him free.

It is probably on some such ground as this that Coleridge, speaking of Richard II., says he "feels no hesitation in placing it as the first and most admirable of Shakespeare's historical plays." For in all the qualities of a work of art, as an exhibition of intense dramatic power working on predetermined materials, it is inferior to several others, and is nowise comparable to the two parts of Henry IV. So that it excels the others only in that the Poet's creative powers are here strictly confined to the work of reproduction; whereas in the others, and especially in Henry IV., a part of their task lies in the producing of characters purely imaginary, though at the same time making them the vehicle of a larger moral history than would otherwise consist with the laws of dramatic reason and truth. And, indeed, it is in this sense that Coleridge himself assigns the first place to Richard II. And he rightly suggests that a drama is rendered historical, not merely by being made up of historical matter, but by the peculiar relation which that matter bears to the plot. For Macbeth, as was remarked in our Introduction to that play, has much of historical matter, yet is in no proper sense an historical drama, because the history neither forms nor directs, but only subserves the plot. Nor, on the other hand, does the having of much besides historical matter anywise hinder a drama from being properly historical: ideal events and characters do not at all change the nature of the work, provided they be made to serve the truth of history, instead of overruling it. Which brings us to the distinction between Richard II. and Henry IV. Both are in the strictest sense historical plays, the difference between them being that in the former the history makes the plot, but in the latter rather guides and controls it: in the one, history furnishes the whole matter and order of the work; in the other, it furnishes a part, and at the same time moulds and governs whatsoever is added by the creative imagination.

Of course Bolingbroke is the moving and controlling spirit of this play, the centre and spring-head of the entire action. Every thing waits upon his firm-set, but noiseless potency of will, and is made alive with his most silent, all-pervading, inly-working efficacy of thought and purpose. For, though Richard be much the more prominent character, this is nowise as the mover of things, but only as the receiver of movements caused by another; the effects lighting upon him, while the worker of them is comparatively unseen and unheard. For the main peculiarity of Bolingbroke is that he looks solely to results, and, like a true artist and a skilful, as he is, the better to secure these, he keeps his designs

and processes most carefully hidden: a thorough-paced politician, his policy, however, is emphatically an art, and he is far too deep and subtle therein to make use of any artifice; his agency thus being so stealthy and invisible, his power flowing forth so secretly, that in whatsoever he does, the thing seems to have done itself to his hand, and himself to have had no part in bringing it to pass. How intense his enthusiasm, yet how perfect, and how imperturbable his coolness and composure! so that we might almost ask, "Was ever breast contained so much, and made so little noise?" And then how pregnant and forcible, always, yet how calm and gentle, and at times how terrible his speech! how easily and unconcernedly the words drop from him, and, therewithal, how pat and home they are to the persons for whom and the circumstances wherein they are spoken! as if his eye burned itself a passage right straight to the heart of whomsoever be looked upon, and at the same time gave out the light whereby to read whatsoever was written there. To all which add a flaming thirst of power, a most aspiring and mounting ambition, and the result explains much of his character and fortune as developed in the subsequent plays wherein he figures. For the Poet keeps him the same man throughout. So that in this play we have, done to the life, though somewhat in miniature, what is afterwards drawn out and unfolded at full length,- the quick, keen sagacity, the firm, steady, but easy self-control, moulding his whole action, and making every thing about him bend and converge to a set purpose; a character hard and cold indeed to the feelings, but written all over with success; which has no impulsive gushes or starts, but all is study, forecast, design, and calm suiting of means to preappointed ends, every cord and muscle being subdued to the quality of his aim, and pliant to the working of his thought. And this perfect self-command is in great part the true secret of his strange power over others, making them almost as docile and pliant to his purpose as are the cords and muscles of his own body: so that, as the event proves, he grows great by their feeding, till he can compass food enough without their help, and, if they go to hinder him, can eat them up. The main points of his character are admirably put by Hazlitt, thus: "Patient for occasion, and then steadily availing himself of it; seeing his advantage afar off, but only seizing on it when he has it within his reach; humble, crafty, bold, and aspiring, encroaching by regular but slow degrees, building power on opinion, and cementing opinion by power."

With such an antagonist to ply him, it is no wonder that Richard's ricketty, unknit, jaunty nature soon goes to pieces. He is a man of large powers and good dispositions, but there is no concert, or composition, or reciprocity among them; for which cause he acts in each of them by turns, but never in all of them together: will, understanding, imagination, and conscience are all strong and vigorous in him, yet somehow they never grow to cohesion