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stition. But, on the contrary, there is a wonderful unanimity of thought in regard to all questions connected with religion. Pagan and Jew, Christian and Moor, all pitch their notes to the same key of immortality and a future exist

ence.

This apparent ignoring of any system differing in any material degree from the commonly accepted theology of his time has led Shakspeare into some marked incongruities. Thus, in the tragedy of Hamlet, the action of which is placed at a time so "remote and undefined" as to date it long anterior to the introduction even of Christianity into Denmark, and in which he had an excellent opportunity to advance his infidel notions, if he had any, without offense, he makes every distinctive character, king and queen, the "melancholy prince" and the "fair Ophelia," the practical Horatio and the midnight spectre—who like an "honest ghost" comes straight from the flames of purgatory to make his soul-harrowing revelations -all testify directly or indirectly to the doctrine of the immortality of the soul.

Angels also not mythological spirits, elves, and fairies, such as are conjured up in the Tempest and other kindred plays, but angels according with the Scriptural idea-are occasionally referred to in a manner that displays no particle of doubt as to the reality of their existence. Hence we hear of evil deeds that make "the angels weep," of virtues that "plead like angels," and that "angels love good men." We are told also, in perfect harmony with the Biblical account, that through the "sin of ambition the angels fell."

Pursuing this vein a little farther, it will be noticed that the word hell in Shakspeare is generally used to designate some place of torment, following upon the death of the body, and is often, though not always, when used in that sense, coupled with and placed in

opposition to the word heaven. But, happily, the word heaven is of more frequent appearance on the page of Shakspeare, and he seems to delight in depicting the joy connected with a pious faith in contemplation of the raptures of the heavenly home. And it is to be noted that the heaven of Shakspeare is undoubtedly the heaven of the Bible. So, he makes his characters speak of the "gates of heaven," of "souls going to heaven;" and, in times of death or of great calamity, they bid each other "farewell, to meet again in heaven."

Shakspeare has given so many deathscenes in which this "soaring faith" is emphasized, that it is difficult to attempt an illustration from his pages because of the danger of prolixity on this theme. But there is one so characterized by the exhibition of numerous Christian virtues, united with a faith that grasps at immortality even before the sands of life have run out from the earthly vessel, that to pass it without a word on this occasion would be ungrateful and unjust.

The dying moments of Queen Katharine, in Henry VIII., as depicted by Shakspeare, could never have been written by one who was not at heart a religious man. In it the Christian graces of forgiveness, humility, charity, and true faith are strongly set forth.

More familiar to the general ear is the prelude to the prayer of Claudius in Hamlet. It will be remembered that in this soliloquy the king, after drawing a parallel between his own offense and the "first recorded murder," declares that he feels the curse of heaven resting upon him, and that he can not hope for mercy so long as his repentance is insufficient to induce the surrender of fruits and advantages gained by this "rank offense." He then proceeds to draw this strong contrast between the way of God and the ways of man:

"In the corrupted currents of this world
Offense's gilded hand may shove by justice,
And oft 'tis seen the wicked prize itself
Buys out the law; but 'tis not so above;
There is no shuffling, there the action lies
In his true nature; and we ourselves compelled,
Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults,
To give in evidence."

Examples of this kind might be given to almost any extent, wherein the idea of a future life for man, connected with its kindred thought of punishment and reward, is fully recognized and emphatically set forth. Shakspeare has delineated many a so-called "fool," but nowhere on his magic page will be found that fool who hath "said in his heart, There is no God."

The sanctity of the marriage relation, the brotherly duty of man to man, filial love and respect for parents-every claim that true religion makes upon humanity, is duly set forth, magnified, and enforced by this prince of poets.

Turning for a moment from the evidences to be gathered from his works, it is difficult to believe that the man who, four short weeks before his death, executed a will in which he says, "I commend my soul into the hands of God my Creator, hoping and assuredly be lieving, through the only merits of Jesus Christ, my Saviour, to be made partaker of life everlasting," had really no belief in or concern for the doctrine of immortality and the future existence of man. Is it possible-probable, even -that he, whom his friends called the "sweet" and "gentle," and of whom his most intimate companion, Jonson, said, "he was indeed honest, and of an open and free nature," could be guilty of so flagrant and heinous a deceit?

As to whether Shakspeare died in the profession of Roman Catholicism or Protestantism, though it may afford speculation for the curious, it can never

be a matter of much interest for the liberal mind. The presumption, however, is that he was of too large and catholic a nature to be a partisan of either, and that, as "no church can claim him,” so also there is "no simple Christian soul but can claim his fellowship." One thing, however, is morally certain that his writings recognize what are termed the vital truths of Christianity. Among these the partial examination now concluded in these pages establishes:

1. A belief in the existence of a Divine Being, whom we call God; 2. A belief in the immortality of the soul;

3. In the existence of supernatural beings, both good and evil, termed angels;

4. In a place of punishment for wicked men after death, called hell;

5. In an abode of bliss for the righteous, denominated heaven; and,

6. Though less positive and decided than the foregoing, a belief in the general Christian theory of the resurrection of the body.

In conclusion, it is gratifying to feel that such doubts in regard to Shakspeare's religious belief as have so far been reviewed, will never get a permanent hold upon the popular mind. For two hundred years his volume, side by side with the family Bible, has lain upon the stand, and in the estimation of men is held second only to that first of all books. Thus they have stood, and so they will continue to stand until "the last syllable of recorded time" - one as the most complete picture of humanity in all its varying phases; the other an authoritative monitor and guide for this life, with a revelation of man's ultimate destiny and an assurance of the life to

come.

IN A CALIFORNIAN EDEN.

CHAPTER VI.A FLAG OF TRUCE.

H

OW beautiful was all this profound veneration for woman in this wild Eden! How high and holy the influence of this one woman over these half-grizzlies, these hairy - faced men who had drank water from the same spring with the wild beasts of the Sierra. Now they would not drink, would hardly shout or speak sharp, while she lay ill. Whatever was the matter, or the misfortune, they had too much respect for her, for themselves, to carouse until she should again show her face, or at least while her life was uncertain.

The fourth day came down into the cañon, and sat down there as a sort of pioneer summer. Birds flew over the camp from one mountain-side to the other, and sung as they flew. Men whistled old tunes in a dreamy sort of a way as they came up from their work that day, and recalled other days, and were boys once more in imagination, away in the world that lay beyond the Rocky Mountains.

"There is something in this glorious climate of Californy, say what you will," mused the Judge, as he lit his pipe and sat down on a stump in the street.

pipes in their mouths, and their ragged coats thrown over one shoulder, like the bravos of Italy. Certainly there was something in the glorious climate of California.

There had been no news from the Widow all this time.

A keen-eyed man just now lifted his eyes in the direction of the cabin. In fact, it was a custom-an instinct-to lift the face in that direction many times a day. If any of these men ever prayed in that camp, and the truth could be told, you would find that man, or men, first turned the face and kneeled looking in that direction. Her house was a sort of Mecca.

The camp, however, after being a long time patient and silent, had got a little cross. Yet it had not lost a bit of its blunt and honest manhood. It had simply made up its mind that the Widow and Sandy were both of age, and able to take care of themselves. If they were willing to get the toothache, or something of the kind, and then retreat into their cabin, and pull the latch-string inside after them, they could do so, and the camp would not interfere.

The man who had been looking up the hill now turned to his partner, drew his pipe from his mouth, wrinkled up his brows, and then slowly reached out his arm and with his pipe-stem pointed inquiringly up the hill.

Limber Tim and the cinnamon-haired man had settled down into the collapse which always follows a protracted spree or a heavy carouse, and they, too, sat on their respective stumps out in the open air, while the saloon was left all to the A man and a woman were coming little brown mice up-stairs. slowly and cautiously down the way from the Widow's cabin. They were coming straight for the great centre of the Forks, the Howling Wilderness.

Men were lounging up and down the street on old knotty logs that no axe could reduce to fire - wood, or leaning against the cabins on the sides that were still warm with the sunshine gone away, or loafing up and down with their

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The woman had something in her arms. She walked as carefully as if she had been bearing a waiter of wine.

Could this be the Widow? It could hardly be Bunker Hill, thought the Forks, as it rose from its seat on the stumps and lifted its face up the trail, for she is almost as tall and comely and steps as nimbly as any woman in camp.

Could this be Sandy? He looked larger than ever before-a sort of Gog or Magog.

The man stuck his pipe between his teeth again and puffed furiously for a minute, and then sat down over the log again, let his feet dangle in the air, and, leaning forward, rocked to and fro as if nursing his stomach, and seemed wrapped in thought.

"Sandy, by the great Cæsar!" "Mither o' Moses! an' it's Miss Bunker Hill, too!"

"Bunker Hill, by the holy poker!" “An' what's that she's a-carryin'?” "Be the Moses, it's a plate o' holy wafers!"

"It's a table-cloth a-hangin' out for dinner!"

"It's a flag of truce!" cried the Judge, standing on tiptoe on his stump and straightening his fat little body up toward the Sierra.

They entered the edge of the town, these three, and the town stood there as silent as if it had risen up on its way to church on a Sunday morning. These three, do you mind, stood there still, right in the track of the town, and the town looking at them as if they had come from another world. And so at least they had, a part of them.

These three: Sandy, Bunker Hill, and the first baby born in the mines of the Sierra.

Bunker Hill held the baby out in one hand, and with the other tenderly lifted back the covering, while Sandy stood by like a tower on a hill, smiling, pushing back his hat, pulling down his whiskers, looking over the little army of men with a splendid sort of sympathy and selfadulation combined. He seemed to be saying, as they turned their eyes to the little red half-opened rose-bud, "Just look there! see what I've done!" His great face was radiant with delight.

And then there was a shout-such a shout! The spotted clouds that blew about the tall pine-tops, indolent and away up on the mountain's brow, seemed to be set in motion again; the coyote rose from his sleep on the mountain

"An' hasn't Sandy growed since we side and called out to his companions seed 'im, eh!"

across the gorge as if he had been fright

"An' don't he step high! Jerusalem, ened; while Captain Tommy, who had don't he step high!"

"An' where's Captain Tommy? an' where's the Widder?" anxiously inquired the Forks, still looking up the hill to ward its little shrine.

At last they entered the town, and the town met them on the edge-at its outer gate, as it were, with all its force.

The woman, indeed, bore a flag of truce. A long white banner streamed from her arms and fell down to her feet, and almost touched the ground. A close observer would have seen that this flag was made of the very same coarse material from which the Widow had made the curtains of her little bed.

been left with the Widow, came to the door and stood there, listening and looking down into the camp to see what in the world had happened. She saw men's hats go up in the air, and then again the shouts shook the town.

"Three cheers for Sandy!" They were given with a tiger. "Three cheers for the Widder!" Then, "Three cheers for Missus Bunker Hill!" And then the poor girl leaning out of the door took up her apron and wiped tears of joy from her eyes, for "three times three" were given for Captain Tommy. Then she went back into the house, back to the bedroom with the curious little curtains and

gunny-bag carpets, and told the Widow, and the two women wept together.

Men slapped each other on the back, bantered each other, and talked loud of old Missouri and the institution of marriage. Of all things perhaps this was the last they had looked for or thought of. In a camp of thousands, where the youngest baby there had a beard on his face, the men had forgotten to think of children. It is quite likely they fancied that children would not grow in the Sierra at all.

The Judge was the first to come forward, as was his custom. He looked it in the face, began to make a speech, but only could say, "It's this glorious climate of Californy." And then he blushed to the tip of his nose, backed out, and others came in turn to see the wonderful little creature that had come, all alone, farther than any of them, farther than the farthest of the States, even from the other world, to settle in the Si

erra.

"Well, ef that aint the littlest!" "Is that all the big they is?"

der and to read the story of this new volume fresh from the press. They looked long and silently. They were as gentle as lambs. Death had no terror to them; it was not half so solemn, so mysterious, as this birth in the heart of the Sierra. Life was there, then, as well as death. People would come and go there as elsewhere. The hand of God had stretched over the mountain, down into the awful gorge, and put down a little angel at their cabin - doors. It was very, very welcome, and the old men bobbed their heads with delight.

At last all was still, and the little Judge felt that this was an occasion not to be lost. In fact, had there been a clergyman there to say a word, it had had more good effect than all the funeral sermons that the little red-faced man had pronounced in the camp. The occasion was a singular one, and the men's hearts were now as mellow as new-plowed land that had long lain fallow and waiting for the seed.

"This, my friends," began the little man, standing upon a stump, and ex

"Aint more'n a half-pint! is it, Go- tending his hands toward the baby, pher?"

"Well, that bangs me all hollow!" "Dang my cats ef it's bigger nor my thumb!"

"Devil of a little thing to make such a big row about, eh?"

Sandy was all submission and pride and tenderness, and received the congratulations and heard the good-humored speeches of the good-humored men as if they were all meant in compliment to him.

How radiant and even half-beautiful was the plain face of poor Miss Bunker Hill as she lifted it up before the camp now, conscious that she had done a good thing, and had a right to look the world in the face and receive its kindness and encouragement.

Older men and more thoughtful came

"this, my friends, shows us that the wonderful climate of Californy-" Just then some one poked the fat little fellow in the stomach with his pipe-stem. He doubled up like a jackknife, and quietly got down as if nothing had happened.

There was a lull then, and things began to look embarrassing. Sandy was now, of course, too proud, too happy, too much of a man to carouse, but he called the cinnamon - headed man to his side by a crook of his finger, and making the sign so well known in the Sierra, and so well understood by all who are thirsty, the parties divided — the camp to carouse to the little stranger in the Howling Wilderness, and Sandy to return to his "fam❜ly."

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up at last, to look upon the little won- Here's to the Little Half-pint!" The

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