doats on, and yet (out of womanish pride) hates! Let me follow this again. Benedict comes in. He does not immediately address Beatrice. Now the young scamp (what else am I to call her) is dying to talk to him, and with the infinite cunning of woman she pretends to abuse him, merely to give herself an opportunity of speaking to the very man, that I feel perfectly confident she would have liked to have kissed!-aye kissed, reader, and if you are a female who are perusing these critiques, my knowledge of you deceives me, if I do not say so correctly. Here is the notable address: I wonder that you will still be talking Signor Though she was "marking" every word he uttered. I call these two instances in this character, excelling nature. How completely, too, is the thoughtful lover recognized instantly in the two or three words— Ah me! sad hours seem long. Mark also the first words of Hamlet-the sententious and keen first words of Hamlet. They tell what was brooding in his mind. They are in a manner the "prologue" to the "play" which he was forming and planning in his lonely and melancholy hours. But the opening words of Iago to Othello are pre-eminently striking. Mark the depth-the fawning solicitude-the suasive but serpent-like query of, 66 My noble Lord, did Michael Cassio, when you The reader will please remark it is not my lord," but "my noble lord." The words, "so is Lysander," appear nothing; but if the reader will look over the first act of the play, he will instantly see why Hermia spoke them. The two last lines (in the sentences) which I have quoted are from the play of Anthony and Cleopatra. How expressive are they of the mild and unrestrained love of each. In this play I have read scenes and passages on which I am confident Byron in a great measure formed himself—at least took instruction from. The following line recalls something of his lawless and lustful magnificence to me, but goes infinitely beyond him. Eternity was in our lips and eyes! There is but one line in the English language which rivals this. It is from the divine Milton : Imparadised within each other's arms! I perceive I am digressing. But Shakespeare is inexhaustible. You can scarcely wander from him; for wherever you turn-whatever book you open, (if the scenes and characters are drawn from nature,) there is THE MASTER before you. All authors-all eminent poets draw from him. He is the overflowing and unsullied fountain, whose eternal freshness and inexhaustible springs fertilize and make glad whatever they run through. All read Shakespeare. All make extracts from him. All understand him. And why? Nature was his goddess. Nature was his preceptress. Nature was his hallowed divinity; and with the vivid touch of her inspiration-with the glowing fervour of her enchantment-with that boundless and unlimited command which she delegated to her darling, he wrote, he sketched, he delighted, he ASTONISHED! Bard of divinity! master of the heart! thou excelling poet of passion and feeling, what was not at thy command? Fear, hope, joy, sorrow, anger, hate, were all at thy sovereign disposal! and even in the soft and subduing passion of love—Oh, who doth go beyond thee! Is not thy pencil watered with the very tears of the maid, when sorrow would speak her heart? and is not it dipped in the bright colours of thy vivid fancy when it would depict "beauty in smiles?" Hast thou not a magic music in that harp which heaven gave thee, and dost thou not run over, and thrill on its chords with a richness and a ravishment that the heart-the heart bows to and delighted owns! Where is the master that has come after thee-where he that has gone before thee? who has dared to touch those chords, over which an immortality doth hover!-No! There, at the foot of that throne on which thou sittest in unapproachable divinity, there doth that harp lie unswept-untouched-unawakened! mortal hath struck it but once; mortal cannot strike it again! . But hark! the forlorn Ophelia is singing. He is dead and gone; At his head a grass green turf, At his heels a stone. There is exquisite beauty in this verse. There are two things which strike me in it. First, the sorrow which is expressed by the mournful iteration of the first line. Second, the inattention which is paid to the metre. A musical ear will instantly perceive the disparity of the numbers in the songs of Ophelia, and in this verse it is only the second and fourth lines which rhyme. Correctly. If Shakespeare had studied these songs, it would E have evinced no acquaintance with human nature. The master knew this, and with true discrimination, he writes as if he almost forgot metre, for, when did madness study? Listen to the wild but touching mournfulness-the irregular but overwhelming sorrow that his fingers strike from this harp of beauty, in the following heart-broken lines: ... They bore him barefaced on the bier, And on the grave rain'd many a tear; Fare well, you my dove! It is the false steward that stole his master's daughter. There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; Pray you, love, remember; and there is pansies, that's for thoughts. There's fennel for you, (to the king.) There's rue for you, (to the queen,) and here's some for me; there's a daisy; I would give you some violets, but they wither'd all when my father died. They say he made a good end. (Sings.) For my bonny sweet Robin is all my joy. And will he not come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead, Go to thy death bed, He never will come again! I challenge the best dramatic writers of either Italy, Germany, or England, to produce lines |