the country seats of our nobility, in which foreign elements are often blended with English,—and not disadvantageously,-for these possess a character, as they also probably possess a history, peculiar to themselves. I am now speaking of the ordinary English garden. Its roses and its jasmines may indeed suggest the idea of love; but it is not the intoxicating love which is breathed by the orange and myrtle; it is a calm love, true but gentle, and deep, rather than passionate. Its carefully tended walks, and its beds luxuriant with annuals—the church spire peeping through the trees, and the clear chime of sabbath bells, or the hum of noontide bees-all speak of domestic life, of the cares of a household, and the cheerful prattle of children.

Let there be the prerogativeness of Britain, and let us not scruple to concede to Italy the beautiful but undesirable empire of romance, especially that kind of romance which belongs to such a drama as that of "Romeo and Juliet." Wisely, therefore, has Shakespeare selected that country for the scene of this his only love tragedy. Equally happy is he in respect of the manner in which the plot is conducted, its incidents all tending, (as I before remarked), to bring about the tragic catastrophe, and everything giving way to the great master-passion. Indeed what Coleridge says of human nature in general, may be safely affirmed of this play

"All thoughts, all passions, all delights,

Whatever stirs the human frame,

Are but the ministers of love

And feed its sacred flame."

In most of Shakespeare's other tragedies, and to a great extent even in this one, there is a singular mixture of the grave and gay—of the facetious and the melancholy, the lively and the terrible; indeed, I believe there is scarcely any other tragedian (with the exception of Euripides) who has ventured to blend together these incongruous elements to the same extent. But however such a combination may offend those minds which are tied up with the red tape of official routine, and who would tell us that tragedy is tragedy, and comedy comedy, it cannot be denied that Shakespeare is more true to nature when he mixes the two together, than he would be, if he kept them separate. Real life is chequered; and even the most melancholy and tragic years in our existence, would, if all their incidents were to be faithfully recorded, be found to contain much which was lively and facetious.

It must, however, be confessed that the frequent admixture of lively or comic elements, together with the introduction of intersecting interests, (both of which are common in Shakespeare,) must (at all events in the case of a less powerful writer) not only diminish the solemnity, but lessen the depth and weaken the pathos of the tragedy. Perhaps, therefore, it may be said (without any disparagement to Shakespeare's other tragedies) that Romeo and Juliet owes some of its power over our feelings, to the fact, that the author has (in the latter portion of this play) adopted a different course to that which he frequently pursues. There are no

intersecting interests, except in the earlier scenes; and though in those scenes, we certainly do meet with a great deal which is lively and facetious, these lighter scenes gradually cease as the passion deepens; and therefore their tendency is not so much to weaken the subsequent pathos, as to prepare our minds to bear it, just as the high spirits and thoughtless gaiety of early youth tend to fortify us against the trials of after life, and enable us better to attend to its business and to bear its crosses. What the King of Brentford said to his fellowking, in the tragedy rehearsed, though facetiously expressed, seems to embody a principle in which there is some sense :

"Come now to serious counsel let 's advance,
I do agree, but first let 's have a dance."

Thus we regard the lively loquacity of Mercutio as a sort of relief to the passionate earnestness of Romeo, and as a preparation for the melancholy events that are to follow. But it would never have answered, for us to have had his company throughout the whole play. It has been truly remarked, that if Tybalt had not killed Mercutio, Mercutio would have killed Romeo-he would have overpowered him. The nurse presents somewhat of the same kind of contrast to Juliet that Mercutio does to Romeo. But Juliet's character does not require so powerful a foil as that of Romeo. Though her passion is (relatively to her nature) nearly equal in strength to his, the earnestness of it is somewhat

relieved by the childishness of her disposition; and in accordance with this difference, the mirthfulness of the nurse is less continuous, and therefore we can endure her company for a longer period. From her we have occasional glimpses of cheerfulness even amid the darker scenes of the play. But these livelier touches appear (as I before remarked) gradually to cease as the plot thickens. The great master-passion gradually bears down every extraneous interest and every foreign element, and rushes on, after the manner of a mighty torrent, until at last, like the sacred river in Kublah Khan,

"It sinks in tumult to a lifeless ocean."

Such, then, are the general elements of interest which, under the skilful hand of Shakespeare, have given to this play its absorbing interest and its powerful hold upon our feelings.

We must now proceed to consider separately the respective characters of the two lovers. We will commence with that of Juliet. She belongs to a certain class of women, of which we have, besides herself, four specimens in Shakespeare; i. e. Miranda, Imogine, Desdemona, and Ophelia. In all these personages the characteristic feature, and the feature which they possess in common with each other, is, an exuberance of womanhood. They are all (in their different ways) beau ideals· not merely of women, but of womanhood. Now, it is worthy of remark, that this kind of encomium (for such it certainly is) could not be bestowed with equal propriety

on male characters. When we contemplate the character of a man, however much that character displays of manliness, the prominent idea which presents itself to our minds is not so much his manhood, (considered as a mere abstract quality,) as the subjectmatter upon which that manhood works. Thus, the patriot, the statesman, the martyr, or the philosopher, though they may all be (in their different ways) specimens of manhood, do not seem to form one class, at least not to the same extent that women do, whose characteristic is womanhood; and this difference arises from the fact that man's sphere lies more in the outer and visible world-woman's in the inner and hidden world. And hence it arises that those female characters of Shakespeare which I have just enumerated, possess a sisterly resemblance, arising from an exuberance of womanhood, which external differences, resulting from their circumstances, i.e. their respective ages, their temperament, &c., cannot obliterate. “Facies non omnibus una nec diversa tamen qualem Decet esse sororum." Without pretending to define accurately all the slight modifications of character which distinguish them, we should say that Ophelia represents tenderness; Miranda, maiden innocence and purity; Imogene, fidelity; Desdemona, devotion. Now all these are only so many different phases of the same spirit of womanhood, subjected to different influences. Imogene and Desdemona are married women, and are placed in circumstances where the fidelity of the one and the devotion of the other is especially