tidings of Juliet's burial, are all matters out of his control. But the mode of his death is chosen by himself; and in that he is as unlucky as in everything else. Utterly loathing life, the manner of his leaving it must be instantaneous. He stipulates that the poison by which he is to die shall not be slow of effect. He calls for "such soon-speeding gear As will disperse itself through all the veins, He leaves himself no chance of escape. Instant death is in his hand; and, thanking the true apothecary for the quickness of his drugs, he scarcely leaves himself a moment with a kiss to die. If he had been less in a hurry,-if he had not felt it impossible to delay posting off to Verona for a single night,-if his riding had been less rapid, or his medicine less sudden in its effect, he might have lived. The friar was at hand to release Juliet from her tomb the very instant after the fatal phial had been emptied. That instant was enough; the unlucky man had effected his purpose just when there was still a chance that things might be amended. Those who wrote the scene between Romeo and Juliet which is intended to be pathetic, after her awakening and before his death, quite mistake the character of the hero of the play. I do not blame them for their poetry, which is as good as that of second-rate writers of tragedy in general; and think them, on the whole, deserving of our commendation for giving us an additional proof how unable clever men upon town are to follow the conceptions of genius. Shakspeare, if he thought it consistent with the character which he had with so much deliberation framed, could have written a parting scene at least as good as that with which and yet we find the time of her awakening fixed in profound darkness, and not long before the dawn. We should allow at least ten hours more, and read, "Thou shalt remain full two and fifty hours," which would fix her awakening at three o'clock in the morning, a time which has been marked in a former scene as the approach of day. "Cap. Come, stir, stir, stir! The second cock has crow'd,— Immediately after he says, "Good faith, 'tis day." This observation may appear superfluously minute; but those who take the pains of reading the play critically will find that it is dated throughout with a most exact attention to hours. We can tine almost every event. Ex. gr. Juliet dismisses the nurse on her errand to Romeo when the clock struck nine, and complains that she has not returned at twelve. At twelve she does return, and Juliet immediately proceeds to Friar Lawrence's cell, where she is married without delay. Romeo parts with his bride at once, and meets his friends while "the day is hot." Juliet at the same hour addresses her prayer to the fiery-footed steeds of Phœbus, too slowly for her feelings progressing towards the west. The same exactness is observed in every part of the play. I may remark, as another instance of Romeo's ill luck, the change of the original wedding-day. When pressed by Paris, old Capulet says that "Wednesday is too soon,-on Thursday let it be;" but afterwards, when he imagines that his daughter is inclined to consult his wishes, he fixes it for Wednesday, even though his wife observes that Thursday is time enough. Had this day not been lost, the letter of Friar Lawrence might still have been forwarded to Mantua to explain what had occurred. his tragedy has been supplied; but he saw the inconsistency, though his unasked assistants did not. They tell us they did it to consult popular taste. I do not believe them. I am sure that popular taste would approve of a recurrence to the old play in all its parts; but a harlotry play-actor might think it hard upon him to be deprived of a "point," pointless as that point may be. Haste is made a remarkable characteristic of Romeo,-because it is at once the parent and the child of uniform misfortune. As from the acorn springs the oak, and from the oak the acorn, so does the temperament that inclines to haste predispose to misadventure, and a continuance of misadventure confirms the habit of haste. A man whom his rashness has made continually unlucky, is strengthened in the determination to persevere in his rapid movements by the very feeling that the "run" is against him, and that it is of no use to think. In the case of Romeo, he leaves it all to the steerage of Heaven, i. e. to the heady current of his own passions; and he succeeds accordingly. All through the play care is taken to show his impatience. The very first word he speaks indicates that he is anxious for the quick passage of time. "Ben. Good morrow, cousin. Ben. But new struck nine. Rom. Is the day so young? Ay me, sad hours seem long." The same impatience marks his speech in the moment of death: From his first words to his last the feeling is the same. The lady of his love, even in the full swell of her awakened affections, cannot avoid remarking that his contract is "Too rash, too unadvised, too sudden, Too like the lightning, which does cease to be Ere one can say, It lightens." When he urges his marriage on the friar, "Rom. O let us home: I stand on sudden haste. Friar. Wisely and slow. They stumble that run fast." The metaphors put into his mouth are remarkable for their allusions to abrupt and violent haste. He wishes that he may die "As violently as hasty powder fired When he thinks that Juliet mentions his name in anger, it is When Lawrence remonstrates with him on his violence, he compares the use to which he puts his wit to Lightning, flame, shot, explosion, are the favourite parallels to the conduct and career of Romeo. Swift are his loves; as swift to enter his thought, the mischief which ends them for ever. Rapid have been all the pulsations of his life; as rapid, the determination which decides that they shall beat no more. A gentleman he was in heart and soul. All his habitual companions love him: Benvolio and Mercutio, who represent the young gentlemen of his house, are ready to peril their lives, and to strain all their energies, serious or gay, in his service. His father is filled with an anxiety on his account so delicate, that he will not venture to interfere with his son's private sorrows, while he desires to discover their source, and if possible to relieve them. The heart of his mother bursts in his calamity; the head of the rival house bestows upon him the warmest panegyrics; the tutor of his youth sacrifices everything to gratify his wishes; his servant, though no man is a hero to his ralet de chambre, dares not remonstrate with him on his intentions, even when they are avowed to be savage-wild, "More fierce, and more inexorable far, Than empty tigers or the roaring sea,” but with an eager solicitude he breaks his commands by remaining as close as he can venture, to watch over his safety. Kind is he to all. He wins the heart of the romantic Juliet by his tender gallantry: the worldly-minded nurse praises him for being as gentle as a lamb. When it is necessary or natural that the Prince or Lady Montague should speak harshly of him, it is done in his absence. No words of anger or reproach are addressed to his ears save by Tybalt; and from him they are in some sort a compliment, as signifying that the selfchosen prize-fighter of the opposing party deems Romeo the worthiest antagonist of his blade. We find that he fights two blood-stained duels, but both are forced upon him; the first under circumstances impossible of avoidance, the last after the humblest supplications to be excused. "O begone! By Heaven, I love thee better than myself, With all the qualities and emotions which can inspire affection and esteem, with all the advantages that birth, heaven, and earth could at once confer,-with the most honourable feelings and the kindliest intentions,—he is eminently an unlucky man. The record of his actions in the play before us does not extend to the period of a week; but we feel that there is no dramatic straining to shorten their course. Everything occurs naturally and probably. It was his concluding week; but it tells us all his life. Fortune was against him; and would have been against him, no matter what might have been his pursuit. He was born to win battles, but to lose campaigns. If we desired to moralize with the harsh-minded satirist, who never can be suspected of romance, we should join with him in extracting as a moral from the play “Nullum habes numen, si sit prudentia; sed te Nos facimus, Fortuna, deam, coloque locamus;" and attribute the mishaps of Romeo, not to want of fortune, but of prudence. Philosophy and poetry differ not in essentials, and the stern censure of Juvenal is just. But still, when looking on the timeless tomb of Romeo, and contemplating the short and sad career through which he ran, we cannot help recollecting his mourning words over his dying friend, and suggest as an inscription over the monument of the luckless gentleman, · When I was a boy In my father's mud edifice, Tender and bare As a pig in a sty; Looked with a steady phiz, For I never did try." So he told me that he had a charm Och hone! How he handled the drone! And then the sweet music he blew Would have melted the heart of a stone! 2. "Your pipe," says I, “Thady, So neatly comes over me, Naked I'll wander Wherever it blows; By describing my clothes. The world by the nose." So I follow'd his bagpipe so sweet, "Adieu to my family seat, So pleasantly placed in a bog!" Och hone! How we handled the drone! And then the sweet music we blew 3. Full five years I follow'd him, Had taken a sup, In a river just under us, Just like a blind pup. Don't you mean to come up?". Poor Thady was laid on the shelf. So I took up his pipes on the shore, And now I've set up for myself. Fa-ra-la la-ra-la loo! Och hone! Don't I handle the drone, And play such sweet music? I too, Can't I soften the heart of a stone? DARBY THE SWIFT; OR, THE LONGEST WAY ROUND IS THE SHORTEST WAY HOME. CHAPTER II. "Aspettar' e non venire!" THE Sunday after Darby lingeringly started, I began to think it would be just as well to make "assurance doubly sure;" so I despatched a letter by post to my friend at Bally- conveying similar instructions and advice to those contained in that entrusted to “the running footman" of my establishment. In three days I received a satisfactory answer, so I was at rest upon that point; but, as to Darby, I was quite at a loss. I turned over and over in my mind the various mishaps that might have befallen him by the way; but all to no purpose. I called up Eileen, and asked her what she thought about it. Her replies, mixed up, as they were, with her wild immoderate laughter, afforded me nothing beyond a sympathy with her mirth, which certainly was most infective. Reader, I am not a portrait-painter; but, nevertheless, I will attempt to give you an outline of Eileen. In the first place, she was a poor girl, (else she would not have been my servant,) born of honest parents; but, if fate had placed her in a higher sphere, she had natural accomplishments enough to have graced it,— namely, youth, beauty, and health, and, beyond these, an intellectual, though uneducated, refinement of thought, when, by chance, she was serious; for gaiety seemed to be an indispensable element of her |
