his true dignity, he acts unkingly, and contrary to justice and to grace. When he contradicts his high vocation he will call in vain upon its divinity to protect him. In being called to it, he was called to do justice; and it is only by obeying its call that he can maintain his own right. While, then, the poet has thus attempted to elucidate the true relation both of man to his own historical position, and of his vocation in life to God, and while he thus places the essence of the kingly dignity in its observance of its relation to God and the world, he has successfully illustrated modern political history under one of its most essential aspects, and in one of its principal ideas. This is the ground-idea of the whole drama.

"Richard the Second" is the first part of the grand five-act historical drama which closes with "Richard the Third." It is evident that the guilt of Bolingbroke's rebellion was not lessened by the injustice of Richard, of which, however, it was the just punishment. This truth is strikingly set forth in the two following pieces, which bear the title of "Henry the Fourth." His usurped dignity reminds us in the first place of the stolen majesty of John. The circumstances of Henry the Fourth take, however, a different shape and hue. John was opposed by a pretender to the crown, supported by the church, by France, and the English nobles, and the chief interest was derived from the corruption, weakness, and abuse of the spiritual as well as of the temporal power, which, in their conflict with each other, shook in pieces the whole frame of society. Henry the Fourth, on the other hand, has only to contend with a few of his own barons, with whom are joined, it is true, some of the bishops and clergy, but rather as dignitaries of the kingdom than as representatives of the church. Consequently the whole action moves, as in "Richard the Second," within the limits of England, and in this respect the two parts of "Henry the Fourth" form, on one hand, the continuation, and, on the other, a contrast, to the former drama.

For whereas in "Richard the Second" a mere outward title is insufficient, in the absence of intrinsic right and justice, to protect the state from devastation, dissension, and rebellion, the same disturbances and civil broils appear in "Henry the Fourth," because the inward qualifications for a crown, which Bolingbroke

undoubtedly possessed in his moderation, prudence, and courage, are not associated with the outward right. The two ought never in fact to be disunited, but being blended organically together, to render to each other a mutual support. This is the unceasing requisition of moral order and of experience. Henry's inward capacity is in itself no inward justification. This he had irretrievably lost, when, instead of being content with the vindication of his own rights, he had presumed to usurp those of Richard; and when by robbing him of his crown, he became, whether intentionally or unintentionally, the cause of his sovereign's murder. This act had sapped the moral foundation of his private and public position. So far, therefore, as we miss intrinsic justice in the head and focus of the state, which is consequently convulsed in its whole organism, "Henry the Fourth" appears merely as a continuation of the old state of things. But every living continuation is at the same time an advance also; a transformation both inwardly and outwardly. The distinction between the two becomes apparent, and we see at once that "Henry the Fourth" is in its fundamental idea essentially different from "Richard the Second." It is not merely that though possessed of the inward right he is without the outward title-but the usurpation also of Henry is not contested, as the rightful throne of Richard the Second was, by violated justice; the aggressions upon it of his adversaries are equally unjustifiable. We have here wrong set against wrong, and usurpation struggling with usurpation, and the final decision rests with the superiority of mental and material power. Accordingly, Henry's high qualifications for governing gain the day; his own prudence and the bravery of his son are victorious over the weakness and incapacity of his adversaries. Henry dies in the undisturbed possession of his kingly dignity and power. But he dies without pleasure in life, and yet not rejoicing in death, distracted and disturbed by the discontent of his own conscience, and the worry of the ceaseless efforts he is called upon to make in order to defend a questionable and unrighteous acquisition. He leaves the crown to his son; but in the memory of the people, and beneath the very throne of his successors, the embers of unsatisfied wrongs are smouldering, and await only more favourable circumstances to fan them into flames.

BB

Thus, in the second act of this grand drama, does Shakspeare lay open before us the course of history. In "Richard the Second" disturbed from within, it here clears a way for itself by repelling injustice by injustice, and gaining by the preponderance of talent and power a resting place, and a starting point for further progress. But at the same time we see how, mindful of this inward disturbance, history refuses peace to the authors of it, and intrinsically sick itself, restlessly advances, and cannot repose until the true harmony of moral order is restored.

This fundamental idea divides itself in the two parts as it were into principal branches. Both together form the proper whole, although each has its organic centre. Whereas the object of the "King John" pre-eminently was to set forth the true relation of the ecclesiastical power to the civil, and of "Richard the Second" to elucidate the real import of the sovereignty, the first part of "Henry the Fourth" places in a conspicuous light the power of the nobles, and the essence of chivalry, with its historical foundation of personal prowess. The very barons, to whose assistance principally Henry owed his throne, are now at war with and in rebellion against him. But their object is not, as it was in "King John" or "Richard the Second," to maintain their violated rights; the successful defence of their just dues has raised their pretensions, and they arrogate others which do not actually belong to them; they wish to dictate to the royal authority. Against such pretensions the right is with Henry. For his defective title is with them but a pretext for their own encroachments. What they really trust to is their own power and prowess; like many others in all ages and countries, whether consciously or unconsciously, they turn the possession of a good into a claim for greater. This is the invariable process by which the aristocratic body becomes corrupt, whenever its interests are pursued irrespectively of all others. But it is in the corruption of a thing that we are often able to discern its true nature more easily than in its perfection. It cannot last long-sooner or later it must put on a more healthy and vigorous state, which, therefore, we must be able to discover in the crisis of the disease. Accordingly, the rebellious barons are quickly humbled, and reduced to their proper place in the body politic as maintained by the nobles

who had remained faithful to the king, The First Part also strikingly demonstrates Henry's fitness for command by the possession of undoubted bravery and great military experience. It is important to recognize Henry's superiority in this respect over his antagonists; we must feel that he owes his victory to himself, and not to the personal heroism of his son. And yet the character of the Prince, who plays so prominent a part in both pieces, was for other reasons absolutely indispensable. In the first place, it was requisite to illustrate the true nature of that personal valour which was the foundation of chivalry, and of its great influence. Of courage there are two kinds-two different qualities, bearing, however, the same names; one is, an inborn natural daring-the confidence of the physical man in his own personal prowess, which leads him to contend against all difficulties, and unreflectingly and ignorantly exposes itself to all dangers; in short, seeks them out, and finds a pleasure in them, either as indispensable for its own development, or for its emancipation from the restraints which unsubdued difficulties impose upon it. But the other species of bravery is altogether of an intellectual nature, and consists in the mind's conscious superiority over any danger that may threaten, by which it either overcomes it, or, in spite of outward discomfiture, is nevertheless the conqueror. This is the courage of all the great heroes of history-of Alexander, of Hannibal and of Cæsar, &c. Both species are exhibited in this drama; the latter in the person of Prince Henry, the former in that of the Earl of Douglas, but still more so in that of the young Percy. With great discrimination, therefore, has Shakspeare delineated with such detail and at such length the character of Hotspur, not merely in reference to his father and the other leaders of the revolt, but also to his wife, whom he appears to consider but as the chief of his household and servants. He displays towards every one the same restrained bluntness and forced vehemence, and the same defiance and haughtiness. On the other hand, it was no less necessary to bring out clearly and pregnantly the superior character of the Prince. Evidently it was not possible for his open and buoyant disposition to develope itself freely in the narrow circle of the court, and under the restraints which the King's humours and

formality of nature would have placed upon it; in so sultry an atmosphere it could not live and flourish; it longed for a freer and more stirring air, and this it found in the society of Falstaff and his crew. The more he differed from these both inwardly and outwardly, the more necessary was it that his superior energies should shine forth brilliantly-as, for instance, in the fight with Percy-and eventually more fully realize themselves in the greatest achievements.

The second part exhibits Henry's political capacity for the throne. The civil war was in fact decided by the fight at Shrewsbury, and if the rebellious barons still kept the field, the attempt failed by its own impotence. From this day it was Henry's object to make the best use of his victory, and of his adversaries to make the best terms they could; all depended upon the superior political skill of the two parties. Of war there could be no question now-all chance of it had gradually died away, and the statesman's prudence appears from henceforward the true and sole lever of historical deeds and events. Secondly, Shakspeare has elucidated under this aspect also, the character, not only of the king, but of his opponents likewise, and at the same time assigned to the noble orders their true place and influence in the state. By reason of their wealth and substance, which render them independent of all lower material interests, the nobles are able and ought to maintain a free, sharp, and unbiassed insight into political affairs. As the mental enlightenment of the people advances it is not by mere military prowess that a nobility can preserve its privileges; it must also strengthen the conventional foundation on which they rest by an enlarged political wisdom— without these advantages it cannot hope to continue its superiority over the other classes of the people. But where vanity, pride, and passionate selfishness, blind the mind, and disturb the general order by rebellion and revolt, something more is wanting than a mere ordinary prudence. The doting irresolute Northumberland-at one moment breaking out into declamatory threats, and at the next retracting them in fear-whose slackness bears the chief blame of the defeat at Shrewsbury;-the conceited Archbishop of York, ever preaching prudence and circumspection, and yet so easily overreached, who, in short, knows not his own