ndeed to the death of Desdemona; and, taking it as a detached scene, we think it rather the more beautiful of the two. The sweetness of the diction-the natural tone of tenderness and passion-the strange perversion of kind and magnanimous natures, and the horrid catastrophe by which their guilt is at once consummated and avenged, have not often been rivalled, in the pages either of the modern or the ancient drama. more The play entitled "The Broken Heart," is in our author's best manner; and would supply beautiful quotations than we have left room for inserting. The story is a little complicated; but the following slight sketch of it will make our extracts sufficiently intelligible. Penthea, a noble lady of Sparta, was betrothed, with her father's approbation and her own full consent, to Orgilus; but being solicited, at the same time, by Bassanes, a person of more splendid fortune, was, after her father's death, in a manner compelled by her brother Ithocles to violate her first engagement, and yield him her hand. In this ill-sorted alliance, though living a life of unimpeachable purity, she was harassed and degraded by the perpetual jealousies of her unworthy husband; and pined away, like her deserted lover, in sad and bitter recollections of the happy promise of their youth. Ithocles, in the meantime, had pursued the course of ambition with a bold and commanding spirit, and had obtained the highest honours of his country; but too much occupied in the pursuit to think of the misery to which he had condemned the sister who was left to his protection: At last, however, in the midst of his proud career, he is seized with a sudden passion for Calantha, the heiress of the sovereign; and, after many struggles, is reduced to ask the intercession and advice of his un happy sister, who was much in favour with the princess. The following is the scene in which he makes this request; and to those who have learned, from the preceding passages, the lofty and unbending temper of the suppliant, and the rooted and bitter anguish of her whom he addresses, it cannot fail to appear one of the most striking in the whole compass of dramatic composition.* "Ith. Sit nearer, sister, to me!-nearer yet! We had one father; in one womb took life; Were brought up twins together; -Yet have liv'd Had proved to me a grave! You had been happy! From whom you had your being. Ith. Sad Penthea! Thou canst not be too cruel; my rash spleen I have often fancied what a splendid effect Mrs. Siddons and John Kemble would have given to the opening of this scene, in actual representation!with the deep throb of their low voices, their pathetic pauses, and majestic attitudes and move ments! I consume In languishing affections of that trespass; The handmaid to the wages, The untroubled but of country toil, drinks streams With leaping kids and with the bleating lambs, And so allays her thirst secure; whilst I Quench my hot sighs with fleetings of my tears. Ith. The labourer doth eat his coarsest bread, Pen. Pray kill me! Rid me from living with a jealous husband, Then we will join in friendship, be again Ith. Thou shalt stand A deity, my sister, and be worshipp'd Pure turtles, crown'd with myrtle, if thy pity Pen. Who is the saint you serve? [daughter! Ith. Calantha 'tis! the princess! the king's Sole heir of Sparta. Me, most miserable! Do I now love thee? For my injuries Pen. We are reconcil'd! Have not too much dull'd my infected brain, I'll cheer invention for an active strain. We cannot resist the temptation of adding a part of the scene in which this sad ambassadress acquits herself of the task she had undertaken. There is a tone of heart-struck sorrow and female gentleness and purity about it that is singularly engaging, and contrasts strangely with the atrocious indecen cies with which the author has polluted his paper in other parts of the same play. The princess says, "Cal. Being alone, Penthea, you now have The opportunity you sought; and might [granted At all times have commanded. Pen. 'Tis a benefit To place before ye A perfect mirror, wherein you may see Who count the best a misery. Cal. Indeed You have no little cause; yet none so great As to distrust a remedy. Pen. That remedy Must be a winding sheet! a fold of lead, Not to detain your expectation, princess, him. After taking this unjustifiable step, he is naturally troubled with certain inward compunctions, which manifest themselves ir his exterior, and excite the apprehensions o his innocent bride. It is her dialogue with him that we are now to extract; and we think the picture that it affords of unassuming inno cence and singleness of heart, is drawn with great truth, and even elegance. She begins with asking him why he changes countenance so suddenly. He answers "Who, I? For nothing. Sus. Dear, say not so: a spirit of your constancy Cannot endure this change for nothing. I've ob. serv'd Strange variations in you. Speak; and enjoy it. Pen. Vouchsafe, then, to be my executrix, And take that trouble on you to dispose Such legacies as I bequeath, impartially; After leaving her fame, her youth, &c. in some very pretty but fantastical verses, she proceeds "Pen. 'Tis long agone, since first I lost my heart; Mine only brother, Ithocles. Cal. What say'st thou ? Pen. Frank. Sus. In me ? In you, sir. Frank. You half amaze me; pr'ythee Sus. With what? Come, you shall not, You are not; if you keep The least grief from me: but I know the cause; It grows from me. Sus. In me or my behaviour: you're not kind I must leave the world In the concealment. To revel in Elysium; and 'tis just To wish my brother some advantage here; Yet by my best hopes, Ithocles is ignorant Of this pursuit. Cal. You have forgot, Penthea, How still I have a father. But remember I am a sister, though to me this brother Hath been, you know, unkind! Oh, most unkind!" There are passages of equal power and beauty in the plays called "Love's Sacrifice," "The Lover's Melancholy," and in "Fancies Chaste and Noble." In Perkin Warbeck, there is a more uniform and sustained elevation of style. But we pass all those over, to give our readers a word or two from "The Witch of Edmonton," a drama founded upon the recent execution of a miserable old woman for that fashionable offence; and in which the devil, in the shape of a black dog, is a principal performer! The greater part of the play, in which Ford was assisted by Dekkar and Rowley, is of course utterly absurd and contemptiblethough not without its value as a memorial of the strange superstition of the age; but it contains some scenes of great interest and beauty, though written in a lower and more familiar tone than most of those we have already exhibited. As a specimen of the range of the author's talents, we shall present our readers with one of these. Frank Thorney had privately married a woman of inferior rank; and is afterwards strongly urged by his father, and his own inclination, to take a second wife, in the person of a rich yeoman's daughter whose affections were fixed upon Silly and plain; more 'Las, sir, I am young, strange to those contents Say but in what I fail, Come; in nothing. Sus. I know I do: knew I as well in what, Frank. Dost weep now? Sus. Wherefore You, sweet, have the power To make me passionate as an April day. Frank. Change thy conceit, I pr ythee: Thou'rt all perfection: Diana herself eye amorous Feathering love-shafts, whose golden heads he dips Sus. Come, come: these golden strings of flattery Frank. Of discontent grows rank. Heaven shield it! Where Frank. In mine own bosom! here the cause has root; The poisoned leeches twist about my heart, You speak riddles.' The unfortunate bigamist afterwards re solves to desert this innocent creature; but, in the act of their parting, is moved by the devil, who rubs against him in the shape of dog! to murder her. We are tempted to "Why would you delay? we have no other Now, but to part. [time? Sus. And will not that, sweet-heart, ask a long Frank. I'll make it plain and easy to you. Farewell. Sus. Ah, 'las! I'm not half perfect in it yet. All questions of my journey, my stay, employment, And revisitation, fully I have answered all. Frank. What is't? But this request- Sus. That I may bring you thro' one pasture They say, slow things have best perfection; What? so churlishly! You'll make me stay for ever, Frank. Why, you almost anger me.-'Pray you Sus. Tush! I fear none: To leave you is the greatest I can suffer. Thou art my husband, Death! I embrace thee Frank. Not yet mortal? I would not linger you, Sus. Now heaven reward you ne'er the worse fot We cannot afford any more space for Mr. Here the dog rubs against him; and, after than any other species of poetry. We shall some more talk, he stabs her! "Sur. Why then I thank you; readily be excused for our tediousness by those who are of this opinion; and should not have been forgiven, even if we had not been tedious, by those who look upon it as a heresy. (August, 1817.) Characters of Shakespeare's Plays. By WILLIAM HAZLITT. 8vo. pp. 352. London: 1817.* THIS is not a book of black-letter learning, | truth, rather an encomium on Shakespeare, or historical elucidation;-neither is it a me- than a commentary or critique on him-and taphysical dissertation, full of wise perplexi- is written, more to show extraordinary love, ties and elaborate reconcilements. It is, in It may be thought that enough had been said of our early dramatists, in the immediately preceding article; and it probably is so. But I could not resist the temptation of thus renewing, in my own name, that vow of allegiance, which I had so often laken anonymously, to the only true and lawful King of our English Poetry! and now venture, therefore, fondly to replace this slight and perishable wreath on his august and undecaying shrine: with no farther apology than that it presumes to direct attention but to one, and that, as I think, a comparatively neglected aspect of his universal genius. than extraordinary knowledge of his producbook-and, we do not hesitate to say, a book tions. Nevertheless, it is a very pleasing of very considerable originality and genius. The author is not merely an admirer of our great dramatist, but an Idolater of him; and openly professes his idolatry. We have our selves too great a leaning to the same super stition, to blame him very much for his error: and though we think, of course, that our own ing and judicious, there are not many points admiration is, on the whole, more discriminaton which, especially after reading his eloquent exposition of them, we should be much inclined to disagree with him. The book, as we have already intimated, is written less to tell the reader what Mr. H. knows about Shakespeare or his writings, than to explain to them what he feels about themand why he feels so and thinks that all who profess to love poetry should feel so likewise. What we chiefly look for in such a work, accordingly, is a fine sense of the beauties of the author, and an eloquent exposition of them; and all this, and more, we think, may be found in the volume before us. There is nothing niggardly in Mr. H.'s praises, and nothing affected in his raptures. He seems animated throughout with a full and hearty sympathy with the delight which his author should inspire, and pours himself gladly out in explanation of it, with a fluency and ardour, obviously much more akin to enthusiasm than affectation. He seems pretty generally, in In the exposition of these, there is root enough for originality, and more room than Mr. H. has yet filled. In many points, however, he has acquitted himself excellently ;partly in the development of the principa. characters with which Sha Shakespeare has peo pled the fancies of all English readers-but principally, we think, in the delicate sensibility with which he has traced, and the natural eloquence with which he has pointed out that fond familiarity with beautiful forma and images-that eternal recurrence to what is sweet or majestic in the simple aspects of nature-that indestructible love of flowers and odours, and dews and clear waters, and soft airs and sounds, and bright skies, and woodland solitudes, and moonlight bowers, which are the Material elements of Poetryand that fine sense of their undefinable relation to mental emotion, which is its essence and vivifying Soul-and which, in the midst deed, in a state of happy intoxication-and of Shakespeare's most busy and atrocious has borrowed from his great original, not in-scenes, falls like gleams of sunshine on rocks deed the force or brilliancy of his fancy, but and ruins-contrasting with all that is rugged something of its playfulness, and a large share of his apparent joyousness and self-indulgence in its exercise. It is evidently a great pleasure to him to be fully possessed with the beauties of his author, and to follow the impulse cr his unrestrained eagerness to impress them upon his readers. When we have said that his observations are generally right, we have said, in substance, that they are not generally original; for the beauties of Shakespeare are not of so dim or equivocal a nature as to be visible only to learned eyes and undoubtedly his finest passages are those which please all classes of readers, and are admired for the same qualities by judges from every school of criticism. Even with regard to those passages, however, a skilful commentator will find something worth hearing to tell. Many persons are very sensible of the effect of fine poetry on their feelings, who do not well know how to refer these feelings to their causes; and it is always a delightful thing to be made to see clearly the sources from which our delight has proceeded-and to trace back the mingled stream that has flowed upon our hearts, to the remoter fountains from which it has been gathered. And when this is done with warmth as well as precision, and embodied in an eloquent description of the beauty which is explained, it forms one of the most attractive, and not the least instructive, of literary exercises. In all works of merit, however, and especially in all works of original genius, there are a thousand retiring and less obtrusive graces, which escape hasty and superficial observers, and only give out their beauties to fond and patient contemplation; a thousand slight and harmonising touches, the merit and the effect of which are equally imperceptible to vulgar eyes; and a thousand indications of the continual presence of that poetical spirit, which can only be recognised by those who are in some measure under its influence, or have prepared themselves to receive it, by worshipping meekly at the shrines which it inhabits. and repulsive, and reminding us of the existence of purer and brighter elements!-which HE ALONE has poured out from the richmess of his own mind, without effort or restraint; and contrived to intermingle with the play of all the passions, and the vulgar course of this world's affairs, without deserting for an instant the proper business of the scene, or appearing to pause or digress, from the love of ornament or need of repose! -HE ALONE, who, when the object requires it, is always keen and worldly and practical and who yet, without changing his hand, or stopping his course, scatters around him, as he goes, all sounds and shapes of sweetness-and conjures up landscapes of immortal fragrance and freshness, and peoples them with Spirits of glorious aspect and attractive grace-and is a thousand times more full of fancy and imagery, and splendour, than those who, in pursuit of such enchantments, have shrunk back from the delineation of character or passion, and declined the discussion of human duties and cares. More full of wisdom and ridicule and sagacity, than all the moralists and satirists that ever existed-he is more wild, airy, and inventive, and more pathetic and fantastic, than all the poets of all regions and ages of the world:-and has all those elements so happily mixed up in him, and bears his high faculties so temperately, that the most severe reader cannot complain of him for want of strength or of reason-nor the most sensitive for defect of ornament or ingenuity, Every thing in him is in unmeasured abundance, and unequalled perfection-but every thing so balanced and kept in subordination, as not to jostle or disturb or take the place of another. The most exquisite poetical conceptions, images, and descriptions, are given with such brevity, and introduced with such skill, as merely to adorn, without loading the sense they accompany. Although his saila are purple and perfumed, and his prow of beaten gold, they wast him on his voyage, not less, but more rapidly and directly than if they had been composed of baser materials. All his excellences, like those of Nature herself, are thrown out together; and, instead of interfering with, support and recommend each other. His flowers are not tied up in garlands, nor his fruits crushed into baskets-but spring living from the soil, in all the dew and fresh ness of youth; while the graceful foliage in which they lurk, and the ample branches, the rough and vigorous stem, and the wide-spreading roots on which they depend, present along with them, and share, in their places, the equal care of their Creator. are What other poet has put all the charm of a Moonlight landscape into a single line? - and that by an image so true to nature, and so simple, as to seem obvious to the most common observation? "See how the Moonlight SLEEPS on yonder bank!" Who else has expressed, in three lines, all that is picturesque and lovely in a Summer's Dawn?-first setting before our eyes, with magical precision, the visible appearances of the infant light, and then, by one graceful and glorious image, pouring on our souls all the freshness, cheerfulness, and sublimity of returning morning? "See, love! what envious streaks < Do lace the severing clouds in yonder East! Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund Day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops!! Where shall we find sweet sounds and odours so luxuriously blended and illustrated, as in these few words of sweetness and melody, where the author says of soft music "O it came o'er my ear, like the sweet South That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour!" This is still finer, we think, than the noble speech on Music in the Merchant of Venice, and only to be compared with the enchant ments of Prospero's island; where all the effects of sweet sounds are expressed in miraculous numbers, and traced in their operation on all the gradations of being, from the delicate Arial to the brutish Caliban, who, savage as he is, is still touched with those supernatural harmonies; and thus exhorts his less poetical associates "Be not afraid, the isle is full of noises, Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not. * If the advocates for the grand style object to this expression, we shall not stop to defend it: But to us, it seems equally beautiful, as it is obvious and natural, to a person coming out of a lighted chamber into the pale dawn. The word candle, we admit, is rather homely in modern language, while lamp is sufficiently dignified for poetry. The moon hangs her silver lamp on high, in every schoolboy's copy of verses; and she could not be called the candle of heaven without manifest absurdity. Such are the caprices of usage. Yet we like the passage before us much better as it is, than if the candles were changed into lamps. If we should read, "The lamps of heaven are quenched," or "wax dim," it appears to us that the whole charm of the expression would be lost: as our fancies would no longer be recalled to the privacy of that dimlighted chamber which the lovers were so reluctantly leaving Sometimes a thousand twanging instruments Will hum about mine ears, and sometimes voices That if I then had waked after a long sleep, Would make me sleep again." Observe, too, that this and the other poetical speeches of this incarnate demon, are not mere ornaments of the poet's fancy, but explain his character, and describe his situation more briefly and effectually, than any other words could have done. In this play, indeed, and in the Midsummer-Night's Dream, all Eden is unlocked before us, and the whole treasury of natural and supernatural beauty poured out profusely, to the delight of all our faculties. We dare not trust ourselves with quotations; but we refer to those plays generally to the forest scenes in As You Like It-the rustic parts of the Winter's Tale-several entire scenes in Cymbeline, and in Romeo and Juliet-and many passages in all the other plays as illustrating this love of nature and natural beauty of which we have been speaking-the power it had over the poet, and the power it imparted to him. Who else would have thought, on the very threshold of treason and midnight murder, of bringing in so sweet and rural an image as this, at the portal of that blood-stained castle of Macbeth? "This guest of summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve By his loved masonry that heaven's breath Smells wooingly here. No jutting frieze, Buttress, nor coigne of vantage, but this bird Has made his pendent bed, and procreant cradle." Nor is this brought in for the sake of a elaborate contrast between the peaceful innocence of this exterior, and the guilt and horrors that are to be enacted within. There is no hint of any such suggestion-but it is set down from the pure love of nature and re ality-because the kindled mind of the poet brought the whole scene before his eyes, and he painted all that he saw in his vision. The same taste predominates in that emphatic exhortation to evil, where Lady Macbeth says, "Look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under it." And in that proud boast of the bloody Richard |