must battle with storms, like the mountain oak, of which naturalists tell us that while the branches are striving with the winds, the roots are striking deeper into the earth.

The world is sure to do justice at last to every man. If the mass of mankind are forgotten, it is because they have no claim to be remembered; and if the ambitious, the selfish, the cruel, are feared and courted by the men of their own times, posterity will reverse the decision.

It might not have been safe to call Nero a bloody monster while he was Emperor of Rome; but it has been safe to do so for 1700 years. Men spoke charily of the Virgin Queen while she wore the crown; but since her death, the world has not been afraid to say that "she was a vain, selfish, jealous, proud tyrant." Nor does it follow that a man has forfeited all claim to our regard because he has been gibbeted. How gloriously have the names of Sidney, Vane, Raleigh, Mary Stuart, and a thousand others, come forth from the eclipse

which the dishonour of execution for a long time cast over their memories. Of Mary and her oppressor, Washington Irving says, "The walls of Elizabeth's sepulchre continually echo with the sighs of sympathy heaved at the grave of her rival."

Shakspeare was honoured by his own age, but not as he has been honoured since. It seems to be the opinion of mankind in this generation, that Shakspeare was endowed with the greatest intellect that ever appeared in the world; and the man who questions this fifty years hence, will probably excite the pity of his race. There was one who knew the Swan of Avon well; who often heard him rehearse his own plays upon the stage; listened to his full musical laugh; saw him buried in Stratford, and wept at his grave—“ Rare Ben Jonson." He knew what Shakspeare was; appreciated his power; revered his name; and spoke of him as Johnson, Goethe, Carlyle, and others have spoken of him since. Ben Jonson never wrote words for which his genius and his heart deserve more praise than when he wrote his well-known lines:

"TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MR. WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE, AND WHAT HE HATH LEFT US.

"To draw no envy, Shakspeare, on thy name,
Am I thus ample to thy book and fame;
While I confess thy writings to be such
As neither man nor muse can praise too much.

Thou art a monument, without a tomb ;
And art alive still, while thy book doth live,
And we have wits to read and praise to give.

Triumph, my Britain; thou hast one to show,
To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe,
He was not of an age, but for all time.

Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were
To see thee in our waters yet appear--

But stay! I see thee in the hemisphere
Advanced, and made a constellation there :
Shine forth, thou star of Poets."

It has been said that Jonson was envious of the fame of Shakspeare while living; but after death had thrown its sacredness over his memory, he wrote these touching lines; which he could scarcely have written had he not loved Ben Jonson's mother married a

the man.

bricklayer, who took Ben from Westminster

school to assist him in his labours; and the story is told, that at the building of Lincoln's Inn, he worked with his trowel in one hand and Horace in the other. The generous Sir Walter Raleigh, thinking Jonson would do quite as much service to the world in some other occupation, took him from brick and mortar, and sent him to the Continent with his son.

And there is the monument of the great Milton, who died poor, leaving three daughters unprovided for, to the charities of Englishmen to whom he bequeathed a legacy worth more to them than all their foreign possessions. But rest thee peacefully, Milton! Thou art above the need of mortal pity now; for although the Paternoster-Row publishers have grown rich from thy "Paradise Lost," they cannot rob thee of thy "Paradise Regained;" nor can they buy it of thee for £5, paid in three instalments.

Under Milton's memorial is an elegant monument, lately erected to the memory of Gray, who has made every scholar weep as much for what he did not write, as over what he did.

The Lyric Muse, in alt-relief, is holding a medallion of the poet, and, at the same time pointing the finger to the bust of Milton, which is directly over it, with this inscription:

"No more the Grecian Muse unrivall'd reigns,
To Britain let the nations homage pay;

She felt a Homer's fire in Milton's strains,
A Pindar's rapture in the lyre of Gray."

Here is Dryden's plain, majestic monument. Sheffield showed much taste in the inscription: "J. Dryden, born 1632, died May 1st, 1700. John Sheffield, duke of Buckingham, erected this monument, 1720." Nothing more was necessary. Here, too, are Cowley's monument and grave. "The chaplet of laurel observes an English writer, which begirts his urn, and the fire issuing from its mouth, are expressive emblems of the glory he has acquired by the spirit of his writings."

There sleeps Chaucer, the "Father of English poetry," who died 440 years ago. His was once a beautiful Gothic monument, but