SHAKSPEARE.

"I speak this truth, thou art of poets, king."-Thurlow. This dramatic poet is justly esteemed by those who speak the English language, as the most interesting writer in the world. There are few so highly endowed as to be able to comprehend the wealth and magnitude of of Shakspeare's genius, in all its variety and comprehension, but there are none perhaps within even the remotest influences of English literature, that have not felt the power of this mighty master in some of those numerous passages of his works which have passed into the popular mind. The best furnished and most profound intellects meet with congenial thoughts in Shakspeare; and all human experience, from the monarch's to the labourer's lot, is recorded and expressed by his immortal muse, so that every mind may find its own feelings and circumstances somewhere illustrated by his inspiration.

From the accounts which are preserved of Shakspeare's early life it appears that he had few advantages of direct instruction, though the knowledge contained in books popular at that time in England, lent him its little light; and the talent "that Nature did him give," supplied in him every defect of human learning, and enabled him to leave an inheritance of thought to future ages, which nothing but the dissolution of "the great globe itself" can annihilate. Dryden says of him, "He was a man who, of all modern and, perhaps, ancient poets, had the largest and most comprehensive soul. All the images of nature were still present to him, and he drew them not laboriously, but luckily. When he describes any thing, you more than see it, you feel it too. He needed not the spectacles of books to read nature; he looked inwards and found her there." But,

'Tis wonderful,

That an invisible instinct should frame him
To poetry unlearned; honour untaught
Civility not seen in other; knowledge

That wildly grew in him, yet yielded crops
As though it had been sown.

Shakspeare was born at Stratford upon Avon in Warwickshire, 1564. The documents of his life are very imperfect Rowe, the poet, published a memoir of him a century after his death. From this it appears that Shakspeare removed himself to London, and that he was an actor as well as a writer of plays. Shakspeare however returned to Stratford, purchased a house there, and died in that town. In the church of Stratford a monument to his memory still remains. The following inscription on this monument is engraved beneath a bust of Shakspeare:

66

Stay, passenger, why goest thou so fast?

Read, if thou can'st, whom envious death has plac'd
Within this monument-Shakspeare: with whom
Quick nature died; whose name doth deck this tomb
Far more than cost; since all that he hath writ
Leaves living art, but art to serve his wit.

Obit A. D. 1616-Ætatis 53. die 23 April." Shakspeare's thirty-five plays were first collected and published in 1623, in folio. The title page of this folio was embellished by an engraving, which was said to be a likeness of the author, and attached to it were these lines by Ben Jonson, addressed to the reader :

"This figure that thou seest here put,
It was for gentle Shakspeare cut,
Wherein the graver had a strife
With nature to outdo the life :
O, could he but have drawn his wit
As well in brass, as he hath hit

His face; the print would then surpass
All that was ever writ in brass.
But since he cannot-reader, look
Not on his picture, but his book."

From 1709, when Rowe published Shakspeare's plays, to the present time, (1827,) they have been often

published, and are disseminated throughout the reading world of our language; and the more they are studied, the more are they admired and enjoyed. The fine arts have derived importan taid from Shakspeare. The stage has been exalted, literature has been illustrated and adorned by him, his scenes have been delineated an infinite number of times by the pencil, and they embellish almost every house and every library.

Every fine poet since Shakspeare's time has paid homage to the commanding genius of this great man.

Milton's Sonnet to Shakspeare is among the most interesting tributes to his memory:

"What needs my Shakspeare for his honour'd bones The labour of an age in piled stones,

Or that his hallow'd reliques should be hid

Under a satr-ypointing pyramid ?

Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,

What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment

Hast built thyself a live-long monument.

For whilst to the shame of slow endeavouring art
Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took ;
Then thou our fancy of itself bereaving,

Dost make us marble with too much conceiving ;
And so sepulcher'd, in such pomp dost lie,
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die."

English, Roman, and Grecian History, furnish part of the subjects of Shakspeare's plays; and some of his plots are taken from Italian romances that had been translated into English; but upon what foundation soever he built, the superstructure is perfectly original and eminently beautiful.

"Though Shakspeare's poetry is the delight and pride of all who speak our language, it is in general too abstruse and difficult for foreigners and young persons.

It exhibits the most lively pictures of external nature,

and the most perfect representations of human passions. But his language is frequently obscure, from its containing many words and phrases which are now out of common use; besides, his writings relate so much to the passions of men, and the concerns of princes and politicians, that a person must have what is called a knowledge of the world, and must have had some experience of the effects of human passions, before he can perceive the beauties, or have a relish for the excellencies of Shakspeare.” Parts of King John, and of Henry IV. are in some measure free from these difficulties; and are selected for the purpose of introducing the style and manner of Shakspeare to young readers.

Shakspeare wrote dramatic pieces upon the history of England; they are now called plays, though formerly they were called histories; each of them takes in several years; and they carry the imagination of the spectator from England to France, and back again, many times in the space of one night. King John is one of these dramas."

KING JOHN.

John, surnamed Sans Terre, or Lackland, was the fourth son of Henry II. King of England. John succeeded to the throne upon the death of his brother, Richard I. Arthur, Duke of Brittany, was the son of Geoffrey, John's elder brother; and, according to the laws of England, was the legal successor of his uncle Richard. The unfortunate Arthur, it is supposed, was murdered by the command of John, but the manner of his death is unknown. Philip, King of France, was Arthur's maternal uncle, and publicly accused John of murdering his nephew; but John declared that Arthur fell from the walls of a castle where he was confined, into a river which flowed below, and thus lost his life. Shakspeare has made a most affecting scene of John's cruelty to the poor youth. That, and the subsequent passages, from Shakspeare's play of King John, which complete Arthur's history, follow in this place.

KING JOHN, ACT IV. SCENE I.

HUBERT, the assassin, employed to put out the young prince's eyes. ARTHUR, and attendants. Scene, a room in the Castle.

Hubert. Heat me these irons hot; and look thou stand
Within the arras: when I strike my foot
Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth:

And bind the boy, which you shall find with me,
Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch.

1 Attend. I hope, your warrant will bear out the deed. Hub. Uncleanly scruples! Fear not you : look to❜t.— [Exeunt Attendants. Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you.

Enter ARTHUR.

Arth. Good morrow, Hubert.

Hub. Good morrow, little prince.

Arth. As little prince (having so great a title To be more prince,) as may be.-You are sad. Hub. Indeed, I have been merrier.

Arth. Mercy on me!

Methinks, no body should be sad but I :
Yet, I remember, when I was in France,
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,
Only for wantonness. By my christendom,
So I were out of prison, and kept sheep,
I should be as merry as the day is long;
And so I would be here, but that I doubt
My uncle practises more harm to me :
He is afraid of me, and I of him:

Is it my fault that I was Geoffrey's son?
No, indeed, is't not: And I would to heaven,
I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.
Hub. IfI talk to him, with his innocent prate
He will awake my mercy, which lies dead:
Therefore I will be sudden, and despatch.

[Aside.

Arth. Are you sick, Hubert? you look pale to-day:

In sooth, I would you were a little sick :