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.

The play entitled "The Broken Heart," is in our author's best manner; and would supply more 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 unhappy 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 At distance, like two strangers! I could wish That the first pillow, whereon I was cradled, Had proved to me a grave! Pen. You had been happy! Then had you never known that sin of life Which blots all following glories with a vengeance, For forfeiting the last will of the dead, From whom you had your being. Ith. Sad Penthea! Thou canst not be too cruel; my rash spleen Hath with a violent hand pluck'd from thy bosom A love-blest heart, to grind it into dustFor which mine's now a-breaking.

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!

Rid me from living with a jealous husband,
Then we will join in friendship, be again
Brother and sister.-Kill me, pray! nay, will ye?
1th. Thou shalt stand

A deity, my sister, and be worshipp'd
For thy resolved martyrdom: wrong'd maids
And married wives shall to thy hallow'd shrine
Pure turtles, crown'd with myrtle, if thy pity
Unto a yielding brother's pressure, tend
One finger but, to ease it.

Offer their orisons, and sacrifice

Pen. Who is the saint you serve? [daughter! 1th. Calantha 'tis!-the princess! the king's Do I now love thee? For my injuries Sole heir of Sparta.-Me, most miserable!Revenge thyself with bravery, and gossip My treasons to the king's ears! Do!-Calantha Knows it not yet; nor Prophilus, my nearest.

Pen. We are reconcil'd!

Alas, sir, being children, but two branches
Of one stock, 'tis not fit we should divide:
Have comfort; you may find it.

1th.

Only in thee, Penthea mine!

Pen.

Yes, in thee;

If sorrows Have not too much dull'd my infected brain, I'll cheer invention for an active strain. Ith. Mad man! why have I wrong'd a maid so excellent?" Vol. i. pp. 273-277.

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 Which I shall owe your goodness even in death for: My glass of life, sweet princess, hath few minutes Remaining to run down; the sands are spent ; For by an inward messenger I feel The summons of departure short and certain. Cal. You feed too much your melancholy. Pen. Of human greatness are but pleasing d'cams And shadows soon decaying. On the trage Of my mortality, my youth hath acted Some scenes of vanity, drawn out at length By varied pleasures, sweetened in the mixtɩse. But tragical in issue. Beauty, pomp,

Glories

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, indeed, in a state of happy intoxication-and has borrowed from his great original, not indeed the force or brilliancy of his fancy, but 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 of 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.

In the exposition of these, there is room 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 Shakespeare has peo pled the fancies of all English readers-but principally, we think, in the delicate sensi bility with which he has traced, and the natural eloquence with which he has pointed out that fond familiarity with beautiful forms 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 of Shakespeare's most busy and atrocious scenes, falls like gleams of sunshine on rocks and ruins-contrasting with all that is rugged and repulsive, and reminding us of the existence of purer and brighter elements!-which HE ALONE has poured out from the richness 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 abund ance, 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 waft 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, are present along with them, and share, in their places, the equal care of their Creator.

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?—

44 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 enchantments of Prospero's island; where all the effects of sweet sounds are expressed in miraculous numbers, and traced in their tion 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

opera

"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

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 inno cence of this exterior, and the guilt and hor rors 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 reality-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 Mac

beth

says,

"Look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under it."

And in that proud boast of the bloody Richard

"But I was born so high: Our aery buildeth in the cedar's top, And dallies with the wind, and scorns the sun!' The same splendour of natural imagery, brought simply and directly to bear upon stern and repulsive passions, is to be found in the cynic rebukes of Apemantus to Timon.

"Will these moist trees That have out-liv'd the engle, page thy heels, And skip when thou point'st out? will the cold Candied with ice, caudle thy morning taste To cure thine o'er-night's surfeit ?"

brook,