Sisters, there is one part of this man's life and character that may shock your religious feelings. _He wrote plays_; _he acted plays too_; and that female queen encouraged him in it. Now, ever since I went to see the "Black Crook," I scorn myself for ever having one mite of charity for such things, and I haven't the conscience to say one word in their favor to you, as a Society. Still, this Mr. Shakespeare did write some things that might have sounded tolerably well in a lecture or a sermon that wasn't too strictly doctrinal. Last night I was talking with a lawyer from away "Out West," who spoke real kindly about Mr. Shakespeare's writings, and seemed to think if he had put off being born until now, and settled "Out West," where he could have given him a hint now and then, he might have made a first-rate literary man. "Even as it is," says he, "I do my best to make him popular, for he wrote some very readable things--very readable, indeed. For instance, not long since, in an exciting slander case, I quoted these lines, with a burning eloquence that lifted the judge right off from his bench: "'He,' says I, 'that steals my purse, steals stuff; 'Twas something, t'aint nothing, t'was mine, 'Tis hisen, and has been slave to thousands; But he that hooketh from me my good name, Grabs that which don't do him no good, But makes me feel very bad indeed.'" "Is that the genuine old English that Mr. Shakespeare wrote in?" says I. "Oh, that is the beauty of it," says he. "Shakspeare was no doubt a very respectable writer, but perfection is the watch-word of modern progress. Of course one doesn't introduce a quotation of his without all the modern improvements. Shakespeare--" "_Mr_. Shakspeare," says I, determined to keep up the dignity of authorship with my last breath. "Well, Mr. Shakspeare would have made a very superior writer if he had lived in this country and been fostered by an American Congress." "An American Congress," says I. "What on earth did that ever do for writers?" "Why, don't it publish books for the members to give away. Isn't that encouraging literature?" I said nothing, never having read one of the books in my life, and never having seen any one that had. "Then," says he, "hasn't every man that can write the life of a President of these United States before his election, been made an ambassador, or counsel, or something? Didn't Pierce send Hawthorne to Liverpool, not because of his transcendant genius, but for the reason that he had written a paltry life of himself?" "_Mr._ Hawthorne," says I, with expressive emphasis. "And didn't General Grant send Colonel Badeau to London, after his life was taken by that young man?"