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A VISION OF SHAKSPEARE.

BY NICHOLAS MICHELL.

APRIL, with sun and shower,

Chequered the meadows, and the lanes were gay
With purple bells, and many a honied flower,
And mated birds piped out a jocund lay:
Nature had dashed off Winter's chilly tear,
And put on laughter for a look severe;

She decked her brow with wreaths of freshest bloom,
And from her flower-edged garments shook perfume;
'Twas at this season, though no dreaming sage.
Foretold his coming in Heaven's starry page,
When warmer suns kissed earth, and winds reposed,
That Genius smiled, and Shakspeare's eyes unclosed.*
The infant in its cradle lay,

With lily brow and peachy cheek,
Like other infants, frail as they,

And if we should resemblance seek,
"Twas like a half-blown rose, the bee
Loves more for its sweet privacy;
A new-found pearl untouched by art,

The eyes that told of thoughts unborn,
Diamonds that seemed small rays to dart,
As light first breaks from lids of Morn
Thin, silky locks of curly grace,

The cheeks all dimples and all laughter,
Tear-drops one moment on that face-

A cloud, and instant sunshine after.
In him you saw but Nature's child,
Evincing slow our human feeling,
A thing of beauty, helpless, mild,

And opening sense, and thought revealing;
And as the infant grew and smiled,

More soul seemed, sun-like, o'er it stealing;
And days evolved its little powers,

As Spring calls forth earth's hidden flowers.

Q favoured Mother of the embryo great!

The Titan to o'ertop Mind's lesser throng, On whom, one day, all honours, slaves, would wait, The Drama's lord, the lofty king of songLittle she dreamt, while wont her watch to keep, Singing to soothe her cradled babe to sleep, The tiny object of her love and care, So sweetly frail, and innocently fair, Would from oblivion snatch her lowly name, And on his father's cast an envied fame, Weave round his own a halo brighter far Than circles kingly heads, or chiefs of war, Live in the hearts of millions yet unborn, Bringing to Drama's night refulgent morn,

* Born the 23rd of April, 1564.

Charm where'er Mind its standard hath unfurled,
Pride of his country, honoured of the world.

Mists rest on Shakspeare's boyhood, yet we know
That many a spring laughed flowers on Avon's side,
And still he roamed where those bright waters flow,
Hiving men's lore, yet Nature for his guide.
He wandered cowslipp'd meads and woods of green,
Drinking, through soul, rich nectar from the scene,
Gazed on the skies, and nursed wild dreams,

That turned to deathless song in after day,
And saw the Elfin people of the streams,
Now glowing in his gorgeous Fairy Lay.*
Here, too, he felt Love's might,

And thought Anne Hathaway's enthralling eyes
More beauteous than the violet's dainty dyes,
Her brow than Avon's lily all more white.
He owned the spell which saints and sages
Have bowed to, through revolving ages,
Nor lost, like Romeo, his dear love,
But wooed and caught the white-wing'd dove,
And Hathaway, within his breast,

With dreams of glory, made her gentle nest.
But not 'mid Nature's haunts, however sweet,
Nor at Love's myrtle-shaded shrine,
Nor in domestic pleasure's quiet seat,
Was Shakspeare doomed to sit supine.
He left calm Avon for the city's strife,
To join a battle there-the fight of life,
Feeling a strength of soul that mocked at fear,
Like some great hero of old time,
Assurance of a coming high career

Strength drawn from source sublime;

An inward power to scale Fame's skyey height,
And crown his name with glory's crown of light.

He toiled 'mid crowds, caught life's most varied hues;
Men's deeds and countless aims he looked behind;
No flower unto the bee did sweets refuse,

His own, his own, the mighty world of Mind! There every land he trod, untrod before

Each passion-wilderness, thought's shadowy dell,
Each nook of character, each ruin hoar

Of sadness, and each isle where pleasures dwell;
And beauty was to him the boundless deep,
O'er whose bright bosom still he loved to sweep;

All passions, feelings, unto mortals known,

He grasped, portrayed, expounding life's great dream;

Yes, the wide world of Mind was Shakspeare's own,
And there he reigned supreme.

O great procession, dazzling fancy's eye,

Born of the Poet's teeming brain!

Hamlet, the grave, deep thinker, wanders by,

Mourning a father slain.

Othello, jealous madness in his breast,

Comes like a blast of terror, while he hears

Sweet Desdemona praying midst her tears,

*The "Midsummer Night's Dream."

Ere his wrath sends her to eternal rest.
See hunchback Richard full of guile,
Wooing "the lady" with his crafty smile,
And black-soul'd Shylock with his lovely daughter,
A star bright-mirrored in night's sable water:
Macbeth, pale, conscience-stricken, mute and still,
As rushes by that tempter fair,

Hers the ambition, daring, and stern will

Rushes with blood-stained hand, and streaming hair.
Hark to Ophelia's sigh of fruitless love!
And Juliet, tender as a new-fledged dove,
Wailing o'er perished Romeo, ere she dies
To reach his soul, and love him in the skies.

Thus Shakspeare, painting as with living beams,
Gave strong reality to gorgeous dreams,
Merged his own self in beings fancy drew,
Till nought seems fancy, but each picture true.
His humour, wit, like sunrise, render bright
The saddest life-clouds, with their mellow light;
His wisdom, noontide beams, shows all things round,
E'en as they lie, on Truth's unshadowed ground;
While sage Reflection casts a guiding ray,
Moon of the soul, on Error's midnight way.

Thou Greece, where Sophocles could melt to tears!
Thou Rome, where Mirth and Plautus ravished men!
Match me with England's bard!-O'er tombing years,
Swift let us pass, till genius rise again;

Mark fiery Calderon, and sweet Racine,
And laughter-waking Molière,

And stern Corneille with pathos deep and keen,
And earnest Schiller laying passion bare-
Gaze on these lights, true stars in letters' sky,
Then view the rising of the mightier sphere!

As the great sun of genius draweth nigh,

How pale, how dim, their lessening orbs appear!
He blazes on the world,

His glory-flag unfurled;

He charms, o'erpowers the intellectual sight,
But sweet and genial, too, his wide-spread light.

For subtile thought, for knowledge of mankind,
Shakspeare in glory stands alone;
England, the world, his brow with chaplets bind,
And place him, sceptred, on the Drama's throne.
Raise him a monument that long shall last!
Yet time in dust Art's grandest works will cast;
There is a prouder monument, which soul
Builds of enduring, lofty thought;

Vainly around its base time's torrents roll,
'Tis of an adamant eternal wrought:
His wondrous works, whose marvels all may see,
Applaud, admire, this nobler pile shall be;

His wondrous works, that ne'er shall know decay,
But gather strength as ages surge away,
Live till our language dies, and taste be o'er,
His mighty monument for evermore.

THE WOMEN OF THE BASTILLE.

Ar the present day, the walls of a prison produce a soothing effect for they are erected between us and crime, and watchful justice stands sentinel at their gates. But the annals of the Bastille show us that intrigue and a generally unscrupulous wielding of arbitrary authority was the key which locked the hopeless cells upon the victims, whose names and fate have been partially preserved and handed down to us in a three volumed work which we accidentally came across the other day.*

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The unknown editor of the Memoirs introduces them with a bold preface, in which he describes the tortures of the prisoners in their narrow, dark, unhealthy cells, and expresses his delight" that the noblest nation on earth has annihilated these walls of tyranny, treachery, and despotism, which have demanded their victims for three centuries.' For all that, though, he expresses himself with extreme caution about the "prétendue religion reformée," whose noblest adherents pined in the Bastille. In the index of the work, which also gives the reason for imprisonment, thirty-six are indicated as pour religion," but in many other cases the Protestants were also charged with political intrigues.

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A lurid light is thrown on the administration of justice at that day by the noblest nation on earth by the fact, that of three hundred prisoners mentioned, there were no documents in existence about sixty-one : cause inconnue." What strange thoughts this produces! As under this section we find the most illustrious names of natives and foreigners included, it is possible that family reasons now and then caused the destruction of the documents connected with the trial; but we can only think with a shudder of the modest bourgeois men and women whom such cause inconnue" dragged from the bosoms of their families to bury them alive in the Bastille. The number of crimes such as murder, poisoning, forgery, rebellion, &c., is naturally small, because the Bastille was a state prison, but with a shudder we find attached to several hundred names the vaguest accusations. For instance : 66 Regardé comme suspect," "lettres supposées," "simples soupçons," "poisons," "magie,'

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&c., " pour avoir dit que la monarchie lui était insupportable," "pour la

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fantaisie de vouloir empoisonner le Roi," "propos furieux contre le Roi," "tenu pour espion,' ouvrages contre les Jésuites," and so on. A certain Tournier was even imprisoned "pour trop d'humanité envers les prisonniers de la Bastille." "Pour satires," " pour libelles," frequently recur. The history of the Iron Mask is also largely discussed, though without any new dates or confirmation of the old ones, which have long become traditional.

It is rather interesting to pass the female prisoners in review, for many notices throw a light upon the state of manners at that day which is really surprising. There are some thirty female names, and the majority are in the first volume, or in the olden time. Was greater indul

* Mémoires Historiques et Authentiques sur la Bastille, dans une suite de près de trois Cent Emprisonnements, détaillés et constatés par des pieces, &c., trouvés dans cette Forteresse, et rangés par epoques depuis 1475, jusqu'à nos jours. A Londres et se trouve à Paris 1789.

gence displayed afterwards? In later times, however, the cause inconnue of their arrest is found more frequently both with men and women, and their history was buried with them.

Dame la Douze Lastours, an Italian, was condemned to death on September 27, 1603, on account of a conspiracy against France. This lady was confined in the Bastille, but we possess neither the order of arrest nor the decree discharging her: there is only a letter in French, which the lady wrote after the sentence of death was passed: "My child, my death has been announced to me. I find nothing terrible (fâcheux) in it, save the apprehension lest my death might entail yours. I have no words more but to bid you farewell. I am very unhappy that my lips cannot meet yours. Kiss these last lines, and you will thus kiss the hand that writes to you, the heart which speaks to you. Farewell for ever.” "In my prison, Friday, September 27, 1609."

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Papers must have been in existence about the lady, because other persons were accused and arrested with her.

Dame Gobelin de Brinvilliers, of most notorious memory, executed on July 17, 1676, for poisoning. She was accused on January 27, 1662, and her trial was at once begun before parliament. She had first poisoned an intimate friend of hers of the name of Godin de Sainte-Croix, and was the first to teach the use of poison in France, and armed the hands of many criminals for a crime which offered so much convenience in its execution. From that date poisonings increased in Paris, and 'specially in the highest circles, to such a frightful extent, that the king appointed a special commission to investigate poisoning cases. Among others, the Duc de Luxembourg was banished from the capital for such an accusation. Several names have become celebrated through these poisonings, Le Sage, La Quibourg, La Vigoureux, La Bosse, and La Voisin. They were considered learned persons, and mixed poisons under the pretext of seeking treasures and prophesying.

The Countess de Soissons was arrested on January 23, 1680. She was accused of having procured means from La Voisin, which were intended to liberate her from Mademoiselle de la Vallière. She was sought in the Tuileries, where she resided, but was not found, as she had taken to flight. We do not see what sentence was passed on the lady.

The Countess du Roure. Her husband was Lieutenant-General of Languedoc, and she was thirty-five years of age. This lady was connected with La Voisin, and offered her considerable sums to put Mademoiselle de la Vallière out of the way. She had similar intentions against several persons, and gave the poison-mixer four pistoles. She was not arrested, only examined.

The Countess de Polignac was also accused of having allowed La Voisin "to read her hand," and of wishing to poison Mademoiselle de la Vallière. Her sentence is not known.

January 23, 1680. Marie Anne de Manichini, Duchesse de Bouillon, wife of the Duke, Peer and Grand-Chancellor of France, in her twentyninth year, born in Rome; accused of desiring to poison her husband, in order to marry the Duc de Vendôme after his death. She applied to Madame Vigoureux; La Voisin, who was also acquainted with the intentions of the duchess, is said, however, to have recommended her a man, who understood the matter better than Las Vigoureux. Madame de

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