from my design: for an attempt at the former would but tend to sink me; an attempt at the latter would but tend to sink him; or rather, he is equally above them both; no eulogy can possibly elevate, no criticism can possibly depress him: alone and unapproachable, on the summit of fame, he may justly scorn the former and defy the latter. The only bar to his universal and indisputable supremacy, is ignorance of his works, or insensibility to their manifold mighty attractions; for against stupidity, as hath often been said, the gods themselves are powerless. It is to encourage the study, and aid the understanding of his works, that these lectures are undertaken. That such, however, will be the result of their influence, if, indeed, they should have any influence, I have certainly much more reason to hope than to expect. Nevertheless, I know of no better service which I can render my noble countrymen and fair countrywomen, than by trying to interest them in the works of one who, I think, has given me more pleasure and more profit than all my other studies put together.

But before I enter upon the subject, it seems necessary that I should say something of the man himself; of the life he led, the work he did, the feelings he had, and the character he bore as a friend, a citizen, and a man. WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE, as is generally known, was born at Stratford-upon-Avon, in 1564; under what particular star is not known; probably, however, under all of them. His parents properly belonged to the English gentry ; were of respectable name and competent fortune. Of his personal history, as was to have been expected, but little is known. His work, indeed, was of too high an order to make much noise in the world, and therefore

his life afforded but little of the stuff out of which histories and biographies are usually made. The empire, too, of which he was sovereign, of course has no historian but himself, and of his exploits and conquests, his works are at once the substance and the chronicle. That the boy, William, however, went through the usual process of crying, and fretting, and pouting, of being fondled, and flattered, and flogged, there can be little doubt. That the sun, and stars, and silent sky shed in their soft, sweet influences upon his childhood, is quite probable; for similar things, we know, happen to most of us, though not, indeed, with similar results. But how, under the watchful eye of a mother's love, the Genius of Poesy, unseen and unsuspected, should have rocked his cradle and mingled in his childish sports; how nature, unperceived and unthought of, should have played so much with the heart of her child, and peopled his mind with the rudiments of so many graces and glories-this, truly, seems wonderful enough; nevertheless, it must be believed. Moreover, it is well enough known, that at the proper age he was sent to the Stratford free school, where he probably continued seven or eight years, when, his father's fortune giving way, he was taken home to aid in supporting the family.

Of what Shakspeare studied during this period, we know little; of what he thought and felt, still less. No wonders are related of the boy which were found, long afterwards, to foreshadow the greatness of the man. We read neither of his climbing trees, like Schiller, to see where the lightning came from, nor of his running away from school, like Barrow, to escape from study. He probably found time for all the sports and exercises

of his schoolmates, and for a thousand other things of which they never dreamed. How

"The whining school-boy, with his satchel, And shining morning face, crept, like a snail, Unwillingly to school;"

how the little urchin bore himself among his fellowurchins, whether as their laughing brother or their democratic chief; how, the merriest of the merry and the gayest of the gay, he was wont to set the mischievous group in a roar, now by his mock gravity, now by his side-shaking fun; how he aroused the anger of his teacher by a trick, and then allayed it by another trick, and anon forced him to hide a real laugh under an affected frown; how spontaneous mirth and instinctive grace, heaven-eyed genius and human-eyed gentleness, meeting and kissing each other in his sunny face, stole him the hearts of his comrades, when his young blood was leaping, his young heart bounding, and his young soul bursting with light, and life, and joy;-of all or any of these things history doth not inform us. Meanwhile, however, the boy grew both inwardly and outwardly; how much he grew outwardly was apparent to those about him; how much he must have grown inwardly is, or at least ought to be, apparent to us.

If was during this period, no doubt, that Shakspeare acquired the "small Latin and less Greek," which Ben Jonson long afterwards accorded to him, and which, though small at that time, and in the eye of so profound and voluminous a scholar as Jonson, would probably cause such a lad in our time to be esteemed a prodigy. For the present, then, as fortune, out of her bounty, to

us, perhaps, if not to him, would have it, the youth was to be kept at home, working with his hands, seeing with his eyes, and thinking with his mind. Meanwhile, what messages came to him from worlds not lighted by the sun; how nature kept working at his heart, informing and unfolding the seeds which she had planted there, and how meaning after meaning burst upon him as he scanned, one after another, the pages of that infinite mysterious volume whose author and writer is God,—of all this, also, history gives us no information whatever.

What sources of instruction lay open to Shakspeare during his stay at home, has been a subject of various conjecture. Of classical literature he could read but little; of English literature there was then but little to read. But, that at least one source of instruction lay open to him, is quite certain; whether he had, or whether he needed any other, may be a matter of doubt. The language which it most concerned him to know, had then, as always, but few teachers, and not many learners; and of this language he wanted no interpreter; for, as hath been said, "he needed not the spectacles of books to read nature with; he looked inwards, and found her there." He had, therefore, the same teacher that genius always has; the power of learning from which, is, indeed, the very thing that constitutes genius. So far as mankind were concerned, his mission was to teach, not to be taught. As an evidence and earnest of his mission, he had a seeing eye; and this, without let or hindrance, admitted him at once into the grand high school, of which all other good schools, even the best, are but feeble and imperfect imitations. Himself the high-priest of nature, he needed no master of arts to

officiate for him, or to take the things that belonged to truth and show them unto him.

What branch of labor employed Shakspeare's hands while staying at home, has not been fully settled. What began, however, about this time, to employ his heart, is well enough known. Within the world of which he had already been a resident for about eighteen years, a new world was suddenly opened upon him. Hitherto the objects around him had probably had little or no interest for him unborrowed from the eye; they now began to have an interest borrowed from the heart. In a word, his soul was touched to nature's finest issue; and the springs of love, unsealed within him, were shedding an undreamed-of loveliness on every thing about him. One Anne Hathaway, dancing across his path, had unwittingly wrought all this mischief upon him. To the wild buoyancy of youthful imagination, were now added the wild transports of youthful passion; and he, against whose presence the strongest of female hearts are said to have been powerless, became the captive of a lady eight years older than himself. To this lady, the daughter of a substantial Warwickshire yeoman, Shakspeare was married at the age of eighteen.

How the prospect of wedded bliss must have appeared to a spirit like his,—a spirit framed of so much light, and love, and happiness, few, indeed, can guess. Hitherto his life, though not unvisited by misfortune, had doubtless been a joyous one. The social and fireside influences, by which he was surrounded, we have reason to believe were altogether healthful and pure. From the vicious habits and vicious courses, into which young men are so apt to fall, he seems to have been remarkably