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They stood around

The throne of Shakspeare, sturdy, but unclean."* Their productions were numerous: one of them, Heywood, speaks of having had a share in the authorship of two hundred and twenty plays, of which only twenty-five have been preserved. They often worked, too, in fellowship, such as linked the names of Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher forever together-a beautiful literary companionship, the secret of which seems to be lost in the more calculating selfishness of later times.

It is scarce possible, it seems to me, to mistake that this abundant development of dramatic poetry was characteristic of times distinguished by the admirable union of action and contemplation in many of the illustrious men who flourished then; for instance, Sir Philip Sydney devoting himself to the effort of raising English poetry to its true estate, kindling his heart with the old ballads, or drawing the gentle Spenser forth from the hermitage of his modesty; at the same time sharing in affairs of state, in knights' deeds of arms, and on the field of battle meeting an early death, memorable with its last deed of charity, when, putting away the cup of water from his own lips burning with the thirst of a bleeding death, he gave it to a wounded soldier with the words, “Thy necessity is yet greater than mine :" or Raleigh preserving his love of letters throughout his whole varied career, at court, in camp, or tempest-tost in his adventures on the ocean. seems to me that an age thus characterized by the combination of thought and deed in its representative men, had its most congenial literature in the drama—that form of


* Walter Savage Landor.


poetry which Lord Bacon has described as“history made visible."

I have said little of the greatest name that adorns the literature of the age of Elizabeth and the few succeeding years, and have now left myself no space to speak of what demands such ample room as comment on Shakspeare. It is a field that has been of late very much travelled

Its interest, if truly sought, can never be exhausted. There is a mere chance that I may be pointing your attention to what has not attracted it before, when I ask whether you have ever noticed the power of Shakspeare peculiarly as a writer of English prose. Of its kind, it is as admirable as his poetic language. It is interspersed through his plays, never introduced probably without some exquisite art in the transition from verse to prose, from metrical to unmetrical diction. Let us for a few minutes look at this subject, and I will place side by side two passages, counterpart in some measure in subject; first, of verse, that familiar passage on the music of the spheres, which Hallam's calm judgment pronounced "perhaps the most sublime in Shakspeare:”'


* Hallam's Literature of Europe, chap. iii. & 11, vol. iii. p. 147. It is difficult to refrain from quoting, hackneyed as they are, the lines which immediately precede those in the text, the playful dialogue of the Venetian lovers, ending with the solemn, reverential outburst of Lorenzo, as, turning from the bright, mortal eyes of his mistress, he looks up to the stars of heaven. There are some lines of Shelly, on Night, which do not suffer in comparison with any thing since the Merchant of Venice :

“How beautiful this Night! the balmiest sigh

Which vernal zephyr's breathe in morning's ear,
Were discord to the speaking quietude

“Look, how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold !
There is not the smallest orb which thou behold'st
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubim.
Such harmony is in immortal souls :
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay

Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it." Whose prose but Shakspeare's could stand by the side of such verse? I turn to an equally familiar passage

in Hamlet: “I have of late (but wherefore, I know not) lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercise : and, indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition, that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory: this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof, fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! How infinite

That wraps this moveless scene. Heaven's ebon arch,
Studded with stars unutterably bright,
Through which the moon's unclouded splendour rolls,
Seems like a canopy which love has spread
To curtain her sleeping world. Yon gentle bills,
Robed in a garment of untrodden snow:
Yon darksome rocks, whence icicles depend,
So stainless that their white and glittering spires
Tinge not the moon's pale beam; yon castled steep,
Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn tower
So idly, that wrapt fancy deemeth it
A metaphor of Peace,-all forni a scene
Where musing solitude might love to lift
Her soul above this sphere of earthliness :
Where silence undisturbed might walk alone,
So cold, so bright, so still.” W. B. R.

in faculties ! in form and moving, how express and admirable! in action, how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a god ! the beauty of the world ! the paragon

of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust ? Man delights not me, nor woman neither, though, by your smiling, you seem to say so."

Now let me exemplify a quick transition from prose to verse: when Coriolanus is soliciting the plebeian votes, citizens tell him he has not loved the common people: the irony of his answer is prose :-“You should account me the more virtuous, that I have not been common in my love. I will, sir, flatter my sworn brother, the people, to earn a dearer estimation of them ; 'tis a condition they account gentle; and since the wisdom of their choice is rather to have my hat than my heart, I will practise the insinuating nod, and be off to them most counterfeitly; that is, sir, I will counterfeit the bewitchment of some popular man, and give it bountifully to the desirers. Therefore, beseech



be consul.” The bitterness of the soliloquy that follows is verse :

“Better it is to die, better to starve,
Than crave the hire which first we do deserve.
Why in this wolvish gown should I stand here,
To beg of Hob and Dick, that do appear,
Their needless vouches ? Custom calls me to't:
What custom wills, in all things should we do't,
The dust on antique time would lie unswep't,
And mountainous error be too highly heap'd
For truth to overpeer. Rather than fool it so,
Let the high office and the honour go

To one that would do thus." The poet's power over language as an instrument is curiously apparent in this, that when he so purposes, he takes all heart out of the words, and makes them sound

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as if they came merely from the lips. Observe how this
occurs in the speeches of Goneril and Regan as contrasted
with Cordelia's words: or the contrast between the utter
hollowness of the king's request to Hamlet, and the reality
that there is in his mother's language. The king's is
thus :

“For your intent
In going back to school in Wittenberg:
It is most retrograde to our desire;
And we beseech you, bend you to remain
Here, in the cheer and comfort of our age,

Our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son.”
The queen speaks to her son:

“Let not thy mother lose her prayers, Hamlet,

I pray thee, stay with us, go not to Wittenberg.".
I propose in my next lecture to pass to the literature
of the seventeenth century, and to connect with it some
thoughts on the subject of Sunday reading.

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