however, very properly adds: "But he redeemed his vices with his virtues; there was ever more in him to be praised than to be pardoned." It curiously disturbs our exalted notions of Shakspeare, to think that he was lame. Yet such is stated to have been the fact; and proof is adduced from his Sonnets; as for instance, the 37th, where he writes, "So I, made lame by Fortune's dearest spite;" and the 89th, “Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt.” Commenting on this last passage, one of his biographers* suggests that his lameness may have been of a character similar to Byron's or Walter Scott's, which could be in some degree disguised; and adds, that this was possibly the reason for his not attempting active parts on the stage, but rather those of elderly persons, or such as his chef d'œuvre, the "Ghost" in Hamlet, in which only slow movement was required. It should be added, however, that many of Shakspeare's biographers regard his language about "lameness" as merely figurative. That Shakspeare had his troubles and discontents, too, like other men, is also evinced by the testimony of his Sonnets. "Courted, praised, and rewarded, as he was," says the biographer just referred to, “the stage, as a profession, was little fitted to the disposition of our poet. In his Sonnets, which afford us the only means of attaining a knowledge of his sentiments on the subject, we * Rev. William Harness. find him lamenting the nature of his life, with that dissatisfaction which every noble spirit would suffer, in a state of unimportant labor and undignified publicity. In the 110th, he exclaims, "Alas! 'tis true, I have gone here and there, And made myself a motley* to the view." And again in the 111th, with evident allusion to his being obliged to appear on the stage, and write for the theatre, he repeats, "O for my sake, do you with fortune chide, Than public means, which public manners breeds." We thus find, that Shakspeare's lot,-though, to our fancy charmed by distance, it sometimes appears so fortunate and happy a one,-was in reality no exception to that of common humanity. He had his cares, his labors, his struggles, his temptations, as all other men have. We now behold only the glorious result: God alone, and the author himself, knew the painful processes by which that result was attained. His facility in writing, was, like that of all good writers, the result of practice. His first dramatic composition, the "Titus Andronicus," is a heavy and labored composition. "The author had not yet acquired," remarks the biographer before quoted, "that facility of composition for which he was afterwards distinguished. He wrote with labor, and left in every line the trace of the labor with * i.e., fool, a buffoon. which he wrote. He had not yet discovered (and it was he who made the discovery) that the true language of nature and of passion is that which passes most directly to the heart." Unquestionably, Shakspeare was by nature a freehearted, open-minded person; and this, moreover, was one secret of his success. Self-conceit and extreme anxiety for applause both tend to close the mind against that stream of light and warmth from above, which is the real source of literary power. Shakspeare's free-heartedness, by permitting him to turn his attention away from himself to the work before him, left open the avenues of his mind to the full influx of that Divine illumination, which is the true inspiration. He had an object to accomplish, a use to effect: he wished to prepare a good and effective play for his theatre,-one that would entertain and delight his audience. Forgetting himself, and thinking only of his work, he plunged into the composition; and, throwing open his mind to the full influx, dashed off scene after scene, often making blunders, but careless of these so long as the general effect was good. This free turn of mind was the source, in a degree, both of his excellences and defects. It was not the exact medium: a little more caution would have given more perfect works, would have avoided the numerous faults which now mar his writings, without the loss, perhaps, of any solid excellences or true beauties. Shakspeare was not an artist in the full sense of the term. He never, like Demosthenes, for instance, attained that perfection in writing, which presents a perfect soul in a perfect body; which 190 SHAKSPEARE'S BIRTH-PLACE AND TOMB. sets forth the full glow and blaze of thought and feeling, without any obscurities of style to mar the effect; which, using language as a transparent medium, clothes the sense as with a veil of gauze, gracefully draping it, without hiding the least of its beauty or its strength. Shakspeare, nevertheless, has left works, which, founded as they are on the rock of nature, and inspired with wisdom and virtue, will doubtless continue to instruct and delight mankind for ages to come; and will cease to be popular, only when, in their upward progress, men shall reach that elevated state of thought and feeling, in which none but pictures of goodness and innocence will be able to please, and tragedy itself will have passed away from the dramatic stage, as the evil passions on which tragedy is founded shall have passed away from the hearts of mankind. THE THUNDERER." Let me play the lion, too: I will roar, that I will do any man's heart good to hear me; I will roar, that I will make the Duke say, Let him roar again, Let him roar again. MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. THE ruling powers of England might be ranged under three heads, namely, the Ministry, the Parliament, and the "Times" newspaper,—the last, perhaps, the most potent of the three. That the English are fond of monarchy, is shown in the fact that they must have a monarch even in their journalism. This king among journals is the "Times ;" and the English bow down to his dominion, almost with the reverence of the orientals to their despots. Nay, they exalt this monarch above ordinary sovereigus, and make a Jupiter of him; for they call him the "Thunderer,"-and ministry, parliament, and people all "tremble at his nod." Even the aristocracy, who fear nobody else, are afraid of him. Yet, though trembling, they cling to him. They cannot eat their breakfast without his presence; breakfast and the "Times" are in their minds naturally associated. They dare not stir out to a 66 morning concert" at two o'clock, or creep sluggishly into the parliament-house at four or five, without having first paid their respects to the despot, listened to his remarks, and bowed to his |