Wooing poor craftsmen, with the craft of smiles,
And patient underbearing of his fortune,
As 'twere, to banish their effects with him.
Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench ;
A brace of draymen bid God speed him well,
And had the tribute of his supple knee,
With Thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends ; :
As were our England in reversion his,
And he our subjects' next degree in hope."[1]
Yes, the likeness is startling. The present Bolingbroke develops himself before our eyes accurately like the one of yore who, after the fall of his royal cousin, mounted the throne, and little, by little made firm his seat a clever, crafty hero, a creeping giant, a Titan of dissimulation, terribly, yes, tremendously calm, the claws in a velvet glove, and while caressing with it and cajoling public opinion, watching his prey far in the distance, and never leaping on it till it is near. May he ever conquer his blustering enemies, and keep peace in his kingdom until the hour of his death, when he may address his son in the words which Shakespeare long ago wrote for him :
" Come hither, Harry, sit thou by my bed ;
And hear, I think, the very latest counsel,
That ever I shall breathe. Heaven knows, my son,
By what by-path?, and indirect crook'd ways,
I met this crown : and I myself know well,
How troublesome it sat upon my head :
- ↑ King Richard II., act i. sc. 4.
