and he is the best judge; perhaps he believes all the more in Harry's future amendment because he says so little about it, and seems to have dropped his old notions that physical courage can make up for everything. After all the stormy emotion through which King Henry has passed comes a reaction to quiet when the exciting cause is removed. Now that his confidence in Harry is restored, and firmer than ever before, he can calmly confess to him the sins and sorrows of his past life, and give him his shrewd counsel for the future. The old wrong done to Richard has embittered his reign, and he would fain believe that Harry may escape from the results of it, and live happier than his father; but Harry declines to enter into that question at all. To his mind the past is past, and there is no use troubling over it, and the future is all plain enough. You won it, wore it, kept it, gave it me. Then plain and right must my possession be.' And he will hold this gift against the world. This spirit is what the King really wants to see, and now he is content to be carried back into the Jerusalem Chamber, and die there instead of in that other Jerusalem to which his mind has turned so long.

6

To pass from these scenes, so full of power and pathos, to Falstaff in Gloucestershire, is indeed a violent change, but we want a relief from the strain of feeling, and we get it in Justice Shallow's house (Act 5 sc. i.). If there was a touch of spitefulness in Shakspere's first representations of the country magnate, it has all evaporated now into pure fun over his fussiness and foolishness, and great delight in getting Sir John for his guest. The short scene forcibly reminds one of those homely interiors which the great Dutch artists loved to paint, filled with figures neither beautiful nor refined, but painted to the life. On the one hand there is Falstaff booted and spurred, with his big and little satellites Bardolph and the Page, and on the other the thin and restless Justice with stolid Davy behind him, who will not go away till he has got full answers from his master, who make up an excellent group. Davy lives in one's memory with special distinctness by reason of his delightful argument for countenancing a knave. An honest man, sir, is able to speak for himself when a rogue is not,' and therefore a knave should be countenanced at his friend's request,' as good a specimen of inverted sense as any bull that ever came from Ireland. Scene iii. of the 5th Act is only a continuation of this one with an interval of a few hours during which the party dine and sup and are joined by Silence. Now they come out to have their wine and fruit in the orchard, a much fresher and prettier place than the usual scene of Falstaff's revels, Mrs. Quickly's 'fat rooms,' as Prince Hal calls them, with their dingy tapestry hangings. But the company is not more intellectual, people being no wiser in the country than in town when they will drink too much sack at supper. It loosens Silence's tongue wonderfully, till his uproarious songs quite belie his name. This jolly party is not destined to last long, for presently Pistol swaggers in, full-blown in conceit, so elated with his news

of the King's death that he can hardly bring himself to express it intelligibly. By the way, surely ancient Pistol must have had a good effect on the conversational style of the fine gentlemen who first heard him, and have cut short many a flourish; if Shakspere's contemporaries were affected it was not for want of being made ridiculous. Any way, Shallow's formalities and Pistol's extravagances are in delicious contrast; and then comes a fine fuss and bustle when at last the news is told, and Falstaff starts for London a good deal faster than he started for Shrewsbury or Yorkshire. What does he not expect to be and do? and how plainly he shows how he means to abuse his supposed power with the young King. 'Let us take any man's horses, the laws of England are at my commandment, and woe to my Lord Chief Justice!' It is thoroughly characteristic of Falstaff that he promptly gets a profit out of the event by borrowing a thousand pounds from the simpleton Shallow. All this excited anticipation works up for the climax of the final scene and justifies it, but what passes in London meanwhile? Some scenes in Shakspere strike one like beautiful pictures, others are too real for that; one feels to be in among the characters, watching their doings with as much eager interest as if one was personally concerned with them. The latter scenes of this play certainly belong to the latter class. We might be at the elbow of the Chief Justice (Act 5, sc. ii.) as he hears from Warwick of the King's death, so apparent to us is the whole state of affairs, the manly firmness with which the Chief Justice prepares for the worst, and the gloomy suspense of the princes and courtiers not knowing what to do or say, nor what to expect. Here again expectation prepares for a climax bringing in the element of dramatic surprise which it needs to be truly effective. Enter King Henry V., attended.' No doubt this stage direction is all right, but it brings home the fact that our dear, informal, irregular Hal has gone from us, and that we shall see no more of him. This is a splendid and heroical personage, from whom we feel bound to keep at a respectful distance. His brothers naturally are not sure what to make of him; they listen to his gracious, kindly words, without being altogether reassured or quitting their formal tone of respect, so the King's quick eye glances over the embarrassed faces till it comes to the Chief Justice, and he lets the Princes be, till he has settled matters with the one man he might be expected really to dislike. Also he has evidently a desire to try the worthy man's mettle by vividly recalling the time when they two had come into such sharp collision, and the experiment results in the Chief Justice's calm defence, so manly and dignified in its perfect honesty, its clear impartiality, and its bold appeal to the young King's sense of justice, that we easily fancy how the assumed look of severity vanishes from his face as he recognises the rare worth of the man before him. So the pretence of anger is flung aside, and with it goes all that mask of folly which has concealed King Harry's real self for so long. It has been a harder thing to conquer than he

once fancied, but it is done now, and his frank and full reconciliation with the Chief Justice gives ample proof to the rest that there is nothing to fear, but everything to hope, from the new sovereign. With all his new dignity and propriety, one wonders if he ever now ' remembers that poor creature, small beer?' and one would like to know what becomes of Poins, whether he turns over a new leaf too, and uses his inventive brains for honest purposes }

We have seen the different anticipations aroused by the King's accession, the not unworthy fears and the entirely unworthy hopes, and having seen the fears dissipated, we look to see the hopes crushed; and this brings us to the last scene (Act 5 sc. v.) which is really the climax of the two plays, as it shows the full development of the hero's character, and the destruction of those evil influences which have injured him so long. The action of the scene is not more striking than the accessories are picturesque, if we imagine Westminster Abbey forming the background, the old houses round bright with flags and garlands, and green rushes covering the path from the Abbey. If we fill up every nook and corner with enthusiastic townsfolk we shall not be far wrong, though Shakspere does not mention them. Falstaff and his party shoulder their way to the front, conspicuous enough from their oddities, and more so than usual, being all dusty and travelstained among the holiday people; but they think nothing of that. Falstaff is so inexpressibly exalted in spirits that he hardly knows what he is doing, and is in a perfect fool's paradise of triumphant expectation. No more shiftings and contrivings for him, no coaxings of hostesses and evadings of justices; he sees visions of golden joys, and a definite end to the consumption of the purse; but perhaps what pleases him most is the notion of showing off to Justice Shallow his influence and familiarity with the new King. So the trumpets sound, and King Henry the Fifth passes out of the Abbey with all his coronation train to find the companion of so many follies once more forcing himself in his way. If Falstaff were not blinded by confidence, he is quite sharp enough to know that the King could not acknowledge him publicly on such an occasion, if he wished to do it, but he will not be repulsed by the Chief Justice, and so forces the King to crush him by his own act. And it is absolutely crushing that in answer to Falstaff's flattering, fawning appeal, only comes 'I know thee not, old man; fall to thy prayers!' and then all this disgust which has grown by degrees finds its way out in strong, decisive words, admitting no reply. At last Falstaff finds himself confronted with something too strong for him to jest away, the weak creature he has taught to bend to any base purpose stands transformed before him, terrible, immovable, seeing through and through him, and knowing him for what he is, a worthless, contemptible old man. King Henry looks back at the old self who delighted in such society as a thing of the past, contemptible too, but now absolutely put away. He will be scrupulously just to those who helped to mislead that old self; they

too shall have their chance to mend, but no present intercourse with him whatever, and so, calm and strong he passes forth, and leaves Falstaff aghast and breathless. Well, of course it is all right, and the King has to do it, and the old ruffian fully deserves all he gets; but still we have a kind of feeling that it comes hard on him, for Hal did so much encourage him, and allow his impertinences, and take pleasure in his company, that the shock is a terrible one when he suddenly forces him back into his place and hands him over to the Chief Justice to be looked after. Can't one see the long faces with which the men look at each other when the royal train has passed? and hear the tone of voice in which Falstaff says, 'Master Shallow, I owe you a thousand pound'? One desperate effort the incorrigible rogue makes to keep up the old delusion of his influence, but the Chief Justice cruelly cuts it short by his reappearance and prompt commiting of Sir John and his company to the Fleet. What business he has to do so does not appear, but it effectually marks the fact that Falstaff's career as the friend of royalty is over and done with. This is the end of it all—of all his cleverness and quickness and wit, of his powers of judging others, and his opportunities of distinction, of his lies and schemes-nothing remains but miserable, ignominious failure. Falstaff is certainly Shakspere's great comic character, but looked at from another point of view no character has a truer moral significance, for none shows more distinctly the working of moral cause and effect. We see Falstaff's life low, cowardly, sensual; Shakspere spares no pains to set him before us living and moving; he understands the secret of the whole nature, and then he shows the inevitable resultthe exposure and disgrace which not even Falstaff's wit can avert. Shakspere seems to enjoy drawing his rogues, they come out so fresh and natural from his hands; but he never will let them off from the consequences of their roguery; he not only brings them down at last, but makes us feel that it must inevitably be so, and there is no back-stairs way of getting out of it.

In the remainder of the scene there are only one or two points of interest. One is the allusion to Sir John Oldcastle, which has already been mentioned as definitely separating him from Falstaff. Another is the hint of a possible war with France, which makes a link with Henry the Fifth, further strengthened by the mention of 'fair Katharine' in the epilogue. This epilogue is more formal than the one or two we have had so far, and alludes to some play which seems to have failed before this was brought out. It is a good specimen of the half-joking, half-apologising style mostly used on such occasions, and the concluding words must refer to the curious custom of the time when a performance was concluded by the actors kneeling and joining in a prayer for the sovereign, represented in our day by the National Anthem.

CONSTANCE O'BRIEN.

ODDS AND ENDS OF WORK IN A CITY PARISH.

III.

BOOKS.

BOOKS! The very word seems to open a wide and wonderful world before us—a world full of perils as it is also full of what is pleasant and beautiful and good; and no one who thinks seriously about it can help feeling that we have many and grave duties to perform towards those boys and girls to whom we open the door into this book-world, when we teach them to read in our schools.

First, there are some of them whom we have to induce to use their privilege of entering into it, for even in these days of enlightenment there are too many of the working classes who never read at all-not so much from want of time as from want of inclination. And then, unfortunately, there are even yet but too many of the educated classes who think it just as well-nay, better-that it should be so, and who still hold to the opinion that if working people do read, they should read nothing but instructive books, or, if fiction be allowed at all, only stories suitable to their station,' and that everything that goes beyond these boundaries is worse than waste of time.

Such notions are dying out, it is true, dying faster and faster every day, but they are not all gone yet; and we fear it will be some little time before those who supply wholesome light literature to the working people under their care, shall cease to hear the often repeated question, What is the use of it?'

Very much we might say in answer, but certain true and beautiful words spoken a little while ago by one of our Bishops occur to our mind as a better answer than any we could give; for what they say about pictures and statues may, without any straining of their meaning, be applied to books as well.

'I imagine,' says the Bishop of Peterborough, addressing an assemblage of artists, 'that the great aim of art is, in the first place, to please, and to make those who contemplate your works for the moment happy. I am very far from saying that it may not have higher aims, and that you may not desire to instruct and elevate. But after all, unless you please in the first instance, you will not instruct and elevate. Therefore in order to instruct, you begin with pleasing; and it is your very great privilege that you very largely increase the happiness of the age in which you live. And let me say, that all those