Imatges de pÓgina

ger of a rebellion fanctified by the Church, than by the following words of Morton ;


The gentle Archbishop of York is up
With well appointed powers. He is a man,
Who with a double furety binds his followers.
My lord, your fon had only but the corps,
But fhadows, and the fhews of men to fight;
For that fame word, rebellion, did divide
The action of their bodies from their fouls,
And they did fight with queafinefs, constrain'd,
As men drink potions, that their weapons only
Seem'd on our fide, but for their spirits and fouls,
This word, rebellion, it had froze them up.
But now, the bishop

Turns infurrection to religion:

Suppos'd fincere and holy in his thoughts,

He's follow'd both with body and with mind,

And doth enlarge his rifing with the blood
Of fair King Richard, fcrap'd from Pomfret ftones;
Derives from heaven his quarrel and his caufe;
Tells them he doth beftride a bleeding land
Gafping for life under great Bolingbroke :
And more, and lefs, do flock to follow him.


Nor can the indecency of a prelate's appearing in arms, and the abuse of an authority derived from the facred function, be more strongly arraigned, than in the speeches of Westmorland, and John of Lancaster.


Then, my lord,

Unto your grace do I in chief addrefs

The fubftance of my speech. If that rebellion
Came like itself, in bafe and abject routs,
Led on by bloody youth, goaded with rage,
And countenanc'd by boys and beggary;
I fay, if damn'd commotion fo appear'd
In his true, native, and moft proper fhape,
You, reverend father, and these noble lords,

Had not been here to drefs the ugly form

Of base and bloody infurrection,

With your fair honours. You, my lord archbishop,

Whose fee is by a civil peace maintain'd,

Whose beard the filver hand of peace hath touch'd,
Whose learning and good letters peace hath tutor❜d,
Whose white investments figure innocence,
The dove and very bleffed fpirit of peace;
H 4


Wherefore do you fo ill tranflate yourself,
Out of the speech of peace, that bears fuch grace,
Into the harsh and boift'rous tongue of war?

My lord of York, it better fhew'd with you,
When that your flock, affembled by the bell,
Encircled to hear with reverence,
Your expofition on the holy text;
Than now to fee you here an iron man,
Cheering arout of rebels with your drum,
Turning the word to fword, and life to death,
That man that fits within a monarch's heart,
And ripens in the fun-fhine of his favour,
Would he abufe the count'nance of the king,
Alack, what mischiefs might be fet abroach,
In fhadow of fuch greatnefs! With you, lord bishop,

It is ev'n fo. Who hath not heard it spoken,
How deep you were within the books of heav'n?

To us, the speaker in his parliament,

To us th’imagin'd voice of heav'n itself,
The very opener and intelligencer
Between the grace, the fanctities of heav'n,
And our dull workings: O, who fhall believe
But you mifufe the rev'rence of your place,


Employ the countenance and grace of heav'n,
As a falfe favourite doth his prince's name,
In deeds difhonourable? You've taken up,
Under the counterfeited zeal of God,
The subjects of his substitute, my father;
And both against the peace of heav'n and him,
Have here up-fwarm'd them,

The archbishop of York, even when he appears an iron man, keeps up the gravity and seeming sanctity of his character, and wears the mitre over his helmet. He is not, like Hotspur, a valiant rebel, full of noble anger and fierce defiance, he speaks like a cool politician to his friends, and like a deep defigning hypocrite to his enemies, and pretends he is only acting as physician to the ftate,

I have before obferved, that Shakespear had the talents of an Orator, as much as of a Poet; and I believe it will be allowed, that the speeches of Westmorland and Lancaster are as proper on this occafion, and the particular circumstances as happily touch'd, as they




could have been, by the moft judicious orator. I know not that any poet, ancient or modern, has shewn fo perfect a judgment in rhetoric as our countryman. I wish he had employed his eloquence likewife, in arraigning the baseness and treachery of John of Lancaster's conduct, in breaking his covenant with the rebels.

Pistol is an odd kind of perfonage, intended probably to ridicule fome fashionable affectation of bombaft language. When fuch characters exift no longer but in the writings, where they have been ridiculed, they feem to have been monsters of the poet's brain. The originals loft and the mode forgotten, one can neither praise the imitation, nor laugh at the ridicule. Comic writers should therefore always exhibit some characteristic diftinctions, as well as temporary modes. Juftice Shallow will for ever rank with a certain fpecies of men; he is like a well painted portrait in the dress of his age. Piftol appears a mere antiquated habit, fo uncouthly fashioned, we can hardly



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