delicious? It satisfies yourself of your devotedness; it affords topics of pleasing discourse when you meet your lover, which, if possible, augment his attachment; it supplies that variety, which, like music, is the food of love!

But it is not until the sail of her husband is announced that Desdemona's conversation becomes general; and, notwithstanding, she deems it necessary to apologise for her unpreoccupation ;

"I am not merry; but I do beguile

The thing I am, by seeming otherwise :"

and we credit her; for her part of the dialogue is scarcely more than a putting of queries, the responses to which divert her solicitude, that permits her no certainty of the ship in sight being that of Othello, nor if it is, that he has escaped unhurt from the commotion of the floods.

Your wits are often, like Iago, selfish, greedy, taxing, and jealous; with a fund of hatred at their disposal, which is not unnatural; because, to dwell on the follies and frailties of mankind, as subject matter for sarcasm, is part of their profession. Iago does not relish Desdemona's looking aside from him to notice Cassio, or to constitute the lieutenant judge of his effusions; but his vexation only whets his shrewdness in turning occasions to account: it would be well if we were as sharp to descry and embrace opportunities of profit as of mental and moral detriment. Many of us, as well as Iago, are apt to be envious of those in superior station, it matters little whether with or without cause; our own fancies serve our purpose equally with the stubbornest facts: and we are so fond of self, that we care not to disappoint our passions of a single method of wreaking themselves which we have ever for a moment contemplated. lago chose to believe the Moor had made love to his wife, apparently without the slightest foundation for such suspicion, excepting his own foul thoughts, which often outdo themselves, creating more discomfort in the fancier than to the doubted object. Conversational stars frequently base their celebrity on the worst possible opinion of their fellow-creatures, granting no pure motives to well-seeming actions, and aided, most probably, in the formation of their judgment, by a tolerable acquaintance with their own wicked selves: but those who are too suspicious, err as widely from the mark as they who take for granted that all that glitters is gold.

There is consolation in dwelling on the few cordial interviews between this most attached couple, ere the serpent has succeeded in sowing distrust in the bosom of the hitherto confiding Othello. It is, as usual, the male, whose fickleness is soonest to be made evident who overflows with loving language; how comparatively temperate is the speech of her who, when everything militates against her lord, still loves! He can imagine no greater joy than the present; nay, none so great; for men demand grand excitements: but she can anticipate still growing joys-intimacy augmenting their sources of happiness-pleasures and pains, enjoyments and sorrows, together shared, binding them more closely to each other-so many sweet associations accumulating, to be sadly remembered in futurity!

Men are by nature tyrants; they conceive themselves invested with every power; and when matter, to all appearance evil, is laid before their finite comprehension, they assume incontinently the high privilege and rank satisfaction of finding verdicts, and awarding punishments, stepping even, unabashedly, into the office of executioner. Whereas, such is the angelic constitution of woman's mind, doubting of ill, trustful of good, that though the crime of her lover were proved, not by proof circumstantial, such as Othello had, but by proof positive, which could not be gainsaid, still she would believe in his innocence of heart against belief, and hope in his justification against hope. To the very last, though he slew her, Desdemona distrusted not Othello's love, nor did she cease to dote on him-she supposed him to be deceived, ill, mad, possessed by an evil spirit; and she loved him the more for his misfortune. Neither was she altogether unhappy in her death; she died by the hand of him whom she worshipped; and, in dying, she was enabled to give the strongest testimony of her unalterable affection and unblemished faithfulness. She was conscious of her innocence-she felt that it must sooner or later be manifested; for, as we enter upon eternity, we acquire confidence, and leave the hesitations of time; our vision is, as it were, cleared, and our intellect brightened. Even while she expired she heard Emilia asseverating her chastity; and by her uncomplaining martyrdom she yielded a vaster evidence of devotion, than by a long and loving life she could have afforded.

Such a soft, gentle, pliable, obedient wife as Desdemona is! No sprightly denials of truths from her, as from Juliet-no womanish frolics-no wife-like orders, to which husbands must submit—no suspicions kindled by a hasty temper. No-she is calm, equable, serene, duteous, loving; perfection, in a word; or, as near perfection as a woman may be; for though a more determined character, that would have struggled hard against unjust fate when it assailed, might have inspired more admiration, it would not have been so imploringly attractive. And though a more shrewd, observing woman, in detecting the baseness of her husband's adviser, might have been gifted to be that husband's and her own preserver, yet, of necessity, her success must have deprived her of that bright cloud of interest which encompasses our heroine.

As for poor Cassio, the juvenile, handsome, and accomplished, he is on a footing with all butts in story-books, who can never be supremely fascinating: those who serve as ladders to build up the schemes of clever villains may be pitied, and that pity is akin to contempt, but they do not excite admiration. Byron's heroes, insignificant as are in general their acting parts, are all interesting; they are self-impelling, so to speak; their thoughts are original, and do not depend on, or arise solely from, circumstances; and their deeds are fierce and heroic in crime and generosity. But Sir Walter Scott's principal personages are, like Cassio, the slaves of circumstance and master-spirits; Waverley of Mac Ivor, Brown of Glossin, Osbaldistone of Rashleigh. There is usually something so common-place in his goodness, that virtue is noble only in his females, such as Rebecca and Minna Troil; and his malefactors are his true heroes, Fergus,

Gilbert, Rob, &c. Those authors who have the art, like Byron and Rousseau, of embodying themselves in their works, may claim precedency of every writer, excepting such a one as Shakspeare, the greatest of all geniuses, who, instead of penning his own sensations. and emotions, and thus erecting a monument to one man, at will conveys himself spiritually within the breasts of other men, breathing life and immortality into hundreds.

How different from the Edward Waverleys of the Scotch novels is Othello!-a butt and still a hero-moved, it is true, at the onset, by the scheming of a demon, yet the seed sown was only as a grain of mustard; while, in its growth, it was as the greatest among herbs, becoming a tree, so that birds might lodge in the branches thereof. If Iago supplied the text, Othello originated the commentary and discourse; Iago was the spokesman rather than the head-piece of the Moor, who reflected deeply, yea, ruminated till his brain was overwrought, (though unhappily his reasoning was merely one-sided,) and, in the end, the force of his passions carried along the coldblooded seducer, who, for the time being, was not the leader, but the led. Like a lion of the forest, inflamed to ferocity by the snares which entangle him, does Othello, by an effort of his might, tear asunder every trammel, and rush madly forwards to spread fury and destruction around.

Not so Cassio, whose part is only secondary, and whose passions are not excited; he is deluded, and his folly aids in his undoing: we may generally doubt those who are overkind, and conclude that such a one as Iago is too much of a meddler for trust. Most men have something of the fool in them; and if Iago had not been surrounded by such, he must have found himself busy to his cost. To be led is no disgrace to a woman, as it is to a man: yet Desdemona is not influenced by Iago, who proceeds merely on the knowledge of her worth, and the conduct to which that goodness will incite. She is as a goddess, ever, of her own accord, acting truth and mercy; and the beauty of her holiness is delicately exhibited by the tempter's forbearance-darkness retires at the approach of light-those of lesser purity he might sway, but vice holds no communion with untainted innocence; had he essayed on her his hellish counsels, one gentle look of amaze must have wrought as did the light touch of Ithuriel's spear on Satan-up in his own shape, should the fiend have started, discovered and surprised.

What bewitching naïveté and irresistible persuasion are displayed in her intercession for the lieutenant!

"What! Michael Cassio,

That came a wooing with you; and many a time,

When I have spoke of you dispraisingly,

Hath ta'en your part."

This little piece of arch simplicity, so lovable and feminine, is admirably calculated to win her point, and please her husband, summoning recollections which still more endear her to him-recollections of that most hallowed, most exhilarating, most of heaven-upon-earth period of a man's life-his happy courtship. O the pity, that an evil spirit

should have been empowered to sunder these congenial souls, who loved like Adam and Eve, their common parents; with like reverential devotion on her part, protecting dignity on his confiding loveliness, and admiring tenderness-unblemished fidelity, and unbroken trustfulness-virgin modesty, and becoming pride-matronly, meek, yet dignified obedience, and rightful authority, yet coupled with a joyous willingness in yielding to the wishes of the object of affection! O the pity that discord should have untuned their harmonious sentiments! Still, we cannot hate Othello; there is no self-complacency in his revenge -misery overwhelms him-the sorrows of Romeo are pictorial in comparison of his-a sense of his own inferiority, his unworthiness of Desdemona, misleads him: here was the overthrow of a stately edifice, the utter wreck of a majestic vessel !

The generosity of woman in pleading for the unfortunate, and her tendency to be stimulated rather than discouraged by a show of opposition, are manifested in the first doubtful interview between Othello and his spouse. Her guileless confidingness, whenever it is brought into play, goes near to mar the black plotting of Iago, except that it is more difficult to eradicate than to plant suspicion :

No, sure, I cannot think it,

That he would steal away so guilty-like
Seeing you coming:"

and Desdemona's frank avowal, that challenges inquiry, "Why, your lieutenant Cassio," does not banish, save momentarily, his dark visions from the bosom of the ill-omened Othello, his excessive fondness, his thorough appreciation of the immense value of that pearl of great price which he possessed, rendering him the more apt to suspect that other claimants would dispute the benefits of his estate-the nervousness incident to all affectionate hearts, respecting the permanence of so dear a blessing, leading him, when food for jealousy was cunningly presented, to credit that the eye of his wife had glanced aside to note allurements in the countenance of a stranger.

Desdemona has judgment to discern the honesty of Cassio's face; but none to detect the double meaning of Iago's-the good she could understand, the vicious she could not comprehend-vice was too uncongenial-she was inexperienced in the ways of wickedness-she had not contemplated, much less practised them. So amiable is that sympathy which is warped to her injury!

Oth. Went he hence now?

Des. Ay, sooth; so humbled

That he hath left part of his grief with me;

I suffer with him. Good love, call him back:

and that "not now" of the still doting husband speaks, O how plainly! that the poison of distrust had taken effect-that poison which too soon was to be fatally diffused along all his throbbing veins ! But her eloquence, poor, simple fool! will not be withstood, and reasserts almost its wonted influence ;

"Let him come when he will; I will deny thee nothing:

yet an "almost" must be inserted, for the granting of her innocent petition is preceded by a weary "Pr'ythee, no more:" and Desdemona, excited by the unusual exertions she has been making, for her lord's sake much more than for her own, that he may not lose a faithful friend and skilful officer, the mediator of his love, connected with so many pleasing passages of their bygone days-excited from her ordinary equanimity, observes not the strangeness of Othello's request,

"I do beseech thee, grant me this, To leave me but a little to myself."

If he had been habitually studious, or had had business to plead, the case would have been otherwise; still, the unsuspicious dove dreams not of evil; and, flurried by her late zeal, gratified by her success, she playfully asks, "Shall I deny you? no:" then, in full confidence that no ill betides, that her husband's love is unchanged and immutable, she utters, "Farewell, my lord."-" Farewell, my Desdemona;" when, his affection being yet the same, he adds, "I will come to thee straight;"-grudging every moment passed in absence from her. She, unselfish, and free from the exacting temper of an overbearing wife, generously replies, "Be it as your fancies teach you:" -that which suits him best, will be most agreeable to her. "Whate'er you be, I am obedient;"—she does not make a virtue of necessity, contenting herself with neglect when she cannot avoid it; but she requests the Moor to amuse himself, secure that she will never find fault with his arrangements, and that in a conviction of his enjoyment her own will be most complete: unmindful of self, she deems not of negligence being concerned. Here was that moderation which Doctor Gregory recommends, in advice to his female disciples; that moderation which regulates the demeanour of perfect woman! Juliet would not have spoken so quiescently, resignedly, and unimpassionedly.

"Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul, But I do love thee, and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again."

Ah, Othello, you are too fond-hot love is soon cold-you are too much enthralled by your wife's external charms, and you do not sufficiently study her mental endowments: were you more intimate with, more profoundly versed in her spirit's unassailable purity, you would never have doubted, never feared, suspected, believed. Though if it were possible your own eyes had vouched her untruth, you would have discredited the testimony of your senses, and still had faith in her virtue. Beauty is too often baleful; and even that most amiable weakness of self-disesteem is injurious. Had you stood firm in the strength of your own worth, you would have still been happy, Othello. How could you have imagined a milk-faced boy preferred to the veteran covered with glory? Without reason did you credit Iago's unfounded assertion that possession had cloyed Desdemona; such things may be, and are, when man is in question; but never is it so with woman; only baseness in the husband of her choice can