character of that Prince; for, unless in early life he exhibited greater virtues and magnanimity than in matured age, his overthrow of Richard III would almost have been a subject to be deplored.

Not content however with these encomiums pronounced upon royalty, there will be found in Midsummer Night's Dream, a sixth play written in the year 1593, when Elizabeth was in all her glory; a passage exhibiting the most winning and fascinating compliment—nothing can surpass its beauty. It is no doubt familiar to most of you, as it has been introduced most admirably by Scott, in his novel of Kenilworth. But familiar as it may be, it is impossible to withhold it upon this occasion. The scene is between Oberon and Puck.

"That very time I saw, but thou could'st not,
Flying between the cold moon and the earth
Cupid all armed; a certain aim he took

At a fair vestal, throned by the west,

And loosed his love shafts smartly from his bow,
As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts.
But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft
Quenched in the chaste beams of the watery moon,
And the imperial votaress passed on,

In maiden meditation fancy free.

Yet marked I where the bolt of Cupid fell—

It fell upon a little western flower,

Before milk white, now purple with love's wound,

And maidens call it love in idleness."

Nor was the praise so bestowed upon King James a solitary instance; for in Macbeth, act

scene

Banquo, who, according to the history from which that play was taken, and according to the truth, was no doubt a moral participant in the murder of Duncan, is represented as influenced by the most generous and magnanimous principles; and the cause of this appears to be a determination, on the part of Shakspeare, to give no offence to royalty—King James himself being a descendant of this very Banquo. This deduction is perfectly clear. Fleance, after the murder of Banquo, escaped into Wales, where he married. His son subsequently visited Scotland, and there became Lord High Steward. He married, and from that stock the royalty of Scotland sprung.

And in Macbeth's soliloquy before the murder of Banquo, act 3d, scene 1st,

"Our fears on Banquo

Stick deep, and in his royalty of nature

Reigns that which would be feared: 'tis much he dares;

And to that dauntless temper of his mind

He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valor,

To act in safety. There is none but he
Whose being I do fear; and under him
My genius stands rebuked—as, it is said,
Mark Anthony's was by Cæsar."

Even after referring to those passages, it must strike every one that there was nothing in Shakspeare of that fulsome adulation, which disgraced the age. That he was grateful for favors conferred upon him in his necessities, and that his gratitude was eloquent, is no matter of reproach; but he neither courted flattery, nor wasted his rich opinions upon those around. And it is truly remarked, perfectly free from envy as he must have been, that he has not written a single line, either in praise or censure, of any of his cotemporaries.—Nothing mean, nothing contemptible, is to be found in any portion of his works. And although, as has been said, his great qualities were not fully appreciated by others during his life—that he felt fully convinced of his own superiority, though apparently the humblest

among the humble, is not to be doubted. The mind capable of such productions, must have been capable of knowing their full value. And yet it has been said, that he entertained no impression, that these offsprings of his genius would survive their author; and that, in all his dramas, there is not a solitary reference from which the inference of such an idea could be drawn. Upon examining his plays, this notion will be found to be sustained; and, for a very obvious reason, they neither required nor admitted of any reference to himself. But, if you will look to his sonnets, which afforded some scope for the manifestation of individual motive and feeling, it will be rendered perfectly clear, that he entertained, even in early life, the brightest imaginings of future glory.-How else are these passages to be construed.

Not marble, nor the gilded monuments

Of Princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme.

But
you shall shine more bright in these contents,
Than unwept stone, besmeared with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,

And broils root out the work of masonry,

Nor Mars's sword, nor war's quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory;

'Gainst death and all oblivious enmity,

Shall you pace

forth. Your praise shall still find room,

Even in the eyes of all posterity

That wear this world out to the ending doom.

So, till the judgment that yourself arise,
You live in this and dwell in lovers eyes.

Like as the waves make towards the pebble shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;

Each clanging pace, with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,

Crawls to maturity, wherewith, being crowned,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,

And time, that gave, doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow;
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth;
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow.
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
Though I once gone, to all the world must die,
The earth can yield me but a common grave,
When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie.
Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
Which eyes not yet created, shall o'er read;
And tongues to be your being shall rehearse.
When all the breathers of this world are dead,
You still shall live; such virtue hath my pen

Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.
Now with the drops of this most balmy time,
My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes,
Since, spite of him, I live in this poor rhyme.
While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes,
And thou in this, shall find thy monument,

When tyrants' crests, tombs of brass, are spent.

In the age in which he lived, no one dealt so little in the splended traffic of praise for praise, or