when in his youthful days he had struck him in his very seat of judgment.' Pretending that such an ndignity to his royalty can never be forgotten, he ives the Chief Justice the opportunity of justifying imself, which he does in noble language (v. 2. 73-101). To this, Henry, never having seriously borne any malice. owards the Chief Justice, replies in the fine speech which concludes the Second Scene of the Fifth Act v. 2. 102-145). The sincerity of his professions of amendment is shown by his treatment of Falstaff, who supposes that he is now o be made a great man (v. 4. 42-75). This winds up he play of Henry IV., and we next meet the newlyrowned King in the opening of Henry V., where the Archbishop pronounces upon him an eulogy which, hough somewhat extravagant, is in a large measure ustified by his subsequent behaviour. We now find him thoughtful, sober, merciful; on fire with martial rdour, but ardour tempered by prudence; anxious to do what is right; ready to listen to good advice; and n every respect fully upholding his kingly dignity. The virtues which he now displays were of course always inherent in his character, though hidden for a time by the wild exuberant spirits of his youth. The difference in his behaviour is due to the difference of his position. How deeply he is sobered by events is shown in everything he does; in the care with which he makes preparations for invading France while providing at the same time for the safety of his own kingdom; in the dignity with which he receives the French ambassador; in his treatment of the conspirators; in his behaviour before Harfleur; in his deep consideration for The Earl of land. the well-being of his soldiers; and no less in the reflec tions we find him making upon his own position afte conversing in disguise with the common soldiers Bate and Williams on the eve of the battle. From first to last, he is a man of sterling virtues bold, honest, simple-hearted, loving towards his friends just towards his enemies, and though inclined in hi earlier days to let his talents run to waste, yet ready when the right hour has struck, to lay aside frivolity and show himself equal to the demands made upon him In Northumberland there is nothing admirable. A traitor to Richard, he is soon to show himself equally faithless to Henry. His first defection might appea to have reasonable grounds in special indignation a Richard's treatment of Bolingbroke, and in genera abhorrence of that king's cruelty towards his subjects were it not that his later conduct betrays nothing nobler than selfish motives accompanied by vacillation and a readiness to devolve upon others that hazard which he should have been the first to encounter From sharing in the fight at Shrewsbury he is kep by a convenient sickness, though he is willing that hi son and brother should tempt their fate and " see how fortune is disposed to" them. them. Their defeat and hi son's death fall upon him with a heavy blow, and in the first bitterness of his grief he talks loudly of wha he will do, but ends by hiding himself in Scotland From this safe retreat he encourages the Archbishop Mowbray, and Hastings to another trial of arms, bu his letters are cold in "intent, honour, and substance, and he excuses his holding aloof on the plea that he has been unable to levy "such powers As might hold sort nce with his quality." Later on he does indeed issue orth from his retreat "With a great power of English nd of Scots," but is defeated by the Sheriff of York ven before the king's army can come up, and perishes n the field. No greater contrast to his father could easily be found Hotspur. han in Hotspur. For coldness and calculating prudnce in the one, we have a boiling heat, a reckless courage in the other. For smooth-tongued courtesy, a daring disregard of persons; for "half-faced fellowship," thorough-going scorn for all but the most earnest,. nost strenuous, co-operation in act as in policy. Compare the oily moderation of the father seeking to soothe Henry's wrath with the son's explosion into almost nsolent reproach as he chivalrously defends Mortimer against the imputation of revolt. To Northumberland such an explosion seems madness, and his rebukes are coldly contemptuous. Hotspur's fury is indeed out of all bounds, and he throws himself into the plot against Henry with a ferocity of eagerness that augurs ill for his conduct of affairs should he get the upper hand in the counsels of his party. Yet his cautious father and ncle know well how needful to their purpose is such unshrinking audacity, know the value of his intemperate animation in kindling into fervour the spirits of those who must share in their hazardous enterprise, and be goaded with a like contempt for the odds they have to face. For the more subtle-witted elders it may be to scheme and organize, his it must be to execute. They and their confederate, Glendower, know also that his acknowledged prowess in arms is a large factor in their success, and Morton exaggerates nothing when he says that "from his metal was his party steel'd." I was, indeed, this recognition of his splendid courag that won for him a deference such as was shown him b his colleagues. The fiery Glendower, seeing in him spirit like his own, submits to being thwarted, contra dicted, laughed at for his claims to supernatural powers for, says Mortimer, "He holds your temper in a high respect And curbs himself even of his natural scope When you come 'cross his humour; faith, he does : Might so have tempted him as you have done, So, again, when the spirit of the conspirators begins t droop at the news that Northumberland cannot, or wil not, join them in the first shock of arms, it is Hotspur' impetuous hopefulness that, far from being depressed finds a good omen in his absence; in his eyes tha absence "lends a lustre and more great opinion, A larger dare to our great enterprise, Than if the earl were here; for men must think, If we without his help can make a head To push against a kingdom, with his help We shall o'erturn it topsy-turvy down." He rejoices to find that the king is speeding to meet them, that the time is at hand when "fields and blow and groans" shall "applaud" their "sport"; he looks with eager delight to the moment when he shall meet "the madcap Prince of Wales" in even shock of war and is no whit daunted though he learns that the encounter must be hazarded without the help of Glen dower who "comes not in, o'er-ruled by prophecies." Worcester would delay, but Hotspur is supported by the hot-blooded Douglas, and the counsels of prudence are set aside. Blunt, Henry's envoy of peaceful terms, is met by angry reproaches of the king's perfidy towards those to whom he owed everything; and though Hotspur so far restrains himself as to agree to consider the proposals made to him, yet when Worcester, sent to state the grievances which Henry has promised to listen to, returns with the intelligence—the false intelligence— that nothing but chastisement is to be looked for, Hotspur welcomes the rebuff as leaving nothing now but an appeal to arms. In the battle he meets the Prince by whose hand he falls, his last regret being not for the loss of life, but for the loss of reputation. Hotspur makes no pretensions to statesmanship. He indeed scorns anything like statecraft. But he is the soul of honour, full of generous impulse and lofty thought, full too of unconscious poetry which bursts forth on every occasion, though he ridicules "mincing poetry" in others and compares it to "the forced gait of a shuffling nag." We can see also in his interview with his wife that, despite his seeming roughness, he has an affectionate nature, and that his widow's tribute to her "heart's dear Harry" is not all paid to his heroism. In that passionate outburst of grief Shakespeare skilfully contrives to keep up the impression he has given us from the first of Hotspur's youthfulness; for though he was in reality nearly twenty years older than Henry, he is represented as the Prince's co-eval, partly that in this way the rivalry between the two may appear the closer, partly that we may the more thoroughly enjoy his C |