SCENE II.

Miranda, speaking of the shipwreck, thus ex­presses her sympathetic feelings for the wretched.

[Page 5]There is something in the fond expression of good ship, in the last line but one, which strikes me with an idea of a peculiar tenderness in her compassion for the unhappy sufferers.

Prospero, confessing the mad folly of trusting his reins of administration into other hands, says,

And again, speaking of the same person,

In continuation,

In this account of the Duke's weakness, with the natural consequences attending it, the Poet has af­forded a proper lesson to princes, never to render themselves cyphers in their government, by too dan­gerous a confidence in their favourites; but ever to consider those persons, to whom they depute the se­veral offices of State, as ministers, in the literal sense of the word, only, not in the political one.

[Page 6]When Prospero describes the hazards and difficul­ties of his forlorn voyage, Miranda tenderly ex­claims,

To which he, in a kind of extasy of fondness, re­plies,

Here the Poet finely points to that virtue of true manhood, which serves to strengthen our fortitude and double our activity, when objects, whom the ties of Nature, or the sympathy of affections, have en­deared to us, require our solace or assistance in distress or danger. While our cares center-solely in our­selves, we are but one; but become two, where the heart is shared.

Here the too general dissipations of life are hinted at, and those parents censured, who transfer the pious duty of their children's education to merce­nary preceptors; except in the meaner articles of it, the arts, exercises, and sciences. Too few attend to the higher and more interesting charge, of forming the mind and directing the heart to their proper objects; and fewer still, in deputing it to others, seem to regard the chief requisites, of character, or capacity, in those they intrust with this office, look­ing upon competent scholarship to be alone suffi­cient.

But a liberal education, as far as it extends in Col­leges and Schools, does not always give a liberal [Page 7] mind; and as example is allowed to exceed precept, so do those sentiments and principles which we imbibe in youth from the living manners of our tutors, ‘Grow with our growth, and strengthen with our strength.’ Those only are capable of sinking into the heart, and imbuing the mind, while mere didactic maxims remain a load upon the memory alone. The first only inspire us how to act, the latter but instruct us how to speak.

This passage furnishes a prudent and necessary reflection to the mind of the reader, that man's suc­cess in life often depends upon some lucky and critical occasion, which, suffered to slip by, may ne'er return again. Shakespeare expresses himself more fully on this subject, in another place ^*. Some other poet too presents us with a poetical image to the same purpose, where he says that ‘opportunity is bald behind ^†.’

SCENE III.

Doctor Johnson, in a note upon this passage, has given us the traditionary system of the Hebrews re­lative to the Fallen Angels; which has afforded me a hint, that tempts me to consider the tenor of this scene in a more interesting light, by observing upon the impatience of Ariel, a condemned spirit, claiming, under his servitude, the promised redemption, before he had fulfilled the commands of his master. This allusion, whether Shakespeare intended it or no, is so obvious, that there would not require the [Page 8] alteration of a syllable, to have it inserted among the Mysteries ^*. Men would be Christians upon their own terms, only, and are too apt to think that faith and fear, without love or works, are sufficient for the pur­pose.

SCENE I.

Gonzalo, comforting and cheering up the spirits of his companions in the wreck, speaks with a be­coming resignation and proper gratitude towards Providence:

An uncouth or severe manner of giving reproof, or offering advice, is very justly, and with equal good sense and tenderness, reflected upon by Gon­zalo, in the following passage:

SCENE II.

Trinculo most humourously ridicules the passion of the English for strange sights, in the following re­flection, on seeing Caliban lying asleep on the ground, whom he takes for a dead sea-monster, just cast ashore by the working of the waves. ‘Were I in England, now, as once I was, and had but this fish painted, not a holy-day fool there but would give a piece of silver. There would this monster make a man; any strange beast there makes a man. When they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead Indian.’ [Page 9] Not, however, that this foible can fairly be in­duced against us, as a national reflection, by any means; for it is not peculiar to this, or any other particular people, but will be found to be the com­mon disposition and idle curiosity of mankind, in general. There is another piece of sarcasm, also, thrown out, in the same speech, as unjust as the former: When they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar. No nation on the globe is more distin­guished for charity, humanity, and benevolence, than the English are, at present. And this must have been always their characteristic; for manners may refine, but cannot create, virtues. Polishing may give taste, but feelings come from nature.

After Trinculo has recovered from his fright, and finds Caliban to be but an harmless savage, so very simple as to believe Stephano to be the Man in the Moon; he says, ‘By this good light, this is a very shallow monster— I afraid of him? a very shallow monster. The man i' th' Moon? a most poor credulous monster.’

'Tis to be observed, here, that he was not charged with having been afraid, nor did any one know of it, but himself; and it was this very consciousness that forced such a bravado from him. This is Doctor Warburton's remark. 'Tis a just one, and may be rendered general, by observing, that, upon all occasions, too prompt a defence of ourselves, is a sort of self-accusation.

SCENE I.

Ferdinand's first speech, here, prettily expresses that kind of chearfulness with which a person un­dertakes labour, or executes the meanest or most irksome offices, for their second-self, for those they love.

The above speech has something of the same turn and spirit in it, with that of Prospero, in the second Scene of the First Act, already observed upon.

SCENE IV.

The horrors and upbraidings of a wounded con­science, are finely painted in the latter part of this scene:

SCENE I.

A chaste conduct between betrothed lovers, is strongly urged, and sanctified, by severe maledic­tions, and very natural predictions, in the follow­ing passages:

Ferdinand's reply.

A little after, old Prospero, being better acquainted with the fallibilities of human nature than the young lovers were, repeats the same caution to Ferdinand, again:

To which Ferdinand answers, as before,

SCENE IV.

There is a beautiful, but humiliating reflection on the inconsiderableness of life and grandeur, made by Prospero, in this scene, which is worthy of being added to the golden verses of Pythagoras, and ought to be placed in gilt characters, as an inscription, on all the palaces, monuments, or triumphal arches of the earth.

SCENE I.

The feelings and sentiments of humanity, with the nobleness of remission upon repentance, are here finely and most affectingly touched.

This last passage closes the moral scene of the piece most beautifully; in rising, by degrees, to the summit of all Ethic and Christian virtue, humanity and forgiveness. I shall, therefore, also conclude my remarks upon this performance, with an allusion to a passage in Horace, where he draws a contrast be­tween Maevius and Homer, which is perfectly appli­cable to our author, when compared with almost any other Dramatic writer who has ever attempted the marvellous:

SCENE I.

In this speech, the pious notion of the Antients, with regard to this relation, while genuine Nature was their sole Preceptor, is fully expressed. Here the duty of children to their parents, is indeed car­ried to the height; and yet, methinks, not at all too far. They are the objects of our earliest affections, of our first deference, of our primary obligations. Even superstition, in this case, as far at least as im­plicit obedience extends, exceeds not true devotion.

The Decalogue was originally written on two ta­bles; five in each. The first refers solely to Reli­gion; the second, to Morality, only. To honour our parents, therefore, as falling within the former line of obligations, is, by this distinction, made one [Page 16] of our pious duties; as through them we honour the Creator, who ordained this relation between us. This precept, then, should seem to have a double tie upon us, as partaking both of piety and morals; and there­fore, however the latter bond may chance to be cancelled, the first ought never to be dispensed with.

In fine, there is something so fond and endearing in the idea and exercise of a child's obedience and deference towards a parent, that how rotten must the root be, or how blighted the branches, if such a tree should fail of producing its natural fruit!

Thus far, by way of general reflection, only; for I must, notwithstanding, admit, that the particular instance of the daughter's compliance, exacted by the father, in this piece, of resigning an husband of her own choice, upon equal terms, and accepting another, chosen arbitrarily for her, by caprice merely, was too severe a trial of obedience. Egeus here, like Abraham, would sacrifice his child at the altar, not only without the command of God, but contrary to his express purpose, proclaimed aloud by the voice of Nature, and further confirmed from the deduc­tions of virtuous affection, free will, and rational election.

When I said that the duty of a child was natural, I did not mean to invest the parent with an authority which was not so; and I cannot blame Hermia, therefore, upon the severe laws of Athens being de­clared to her, for the chaste and spirited resolution she frames to herself on that occasion.

SCENE II.

Lysander, the suitor elect of Hermia, here makes an observation upon the state of love, which is too often verified in life: That a sympathy of affections, [Page 17] with other fitness of circumstances, are seldom found to meet together, so as to compleat an happy union.

SCENE III.

In this scene we are charmed with that mildness, modesty, and generous eulogium, with which the fond and unhappy Helena accosts a rival beauty, and woo'd by the man she loves.

[Page 18]Hermia had used no arts, no coquetry, to allure her lover from her; for, as she expresses it, just after, in the same dialogue, ‘His folly, Helena, is no fault of mine.’ She had, indeed, happened to have done her an injury, but no wrong; and therefore the forsaken maid shews her justice in plaining her own ill fortune, only, without expressing the least manner of resent­ment against her unoffending rival.

Hermia, in the same scene, alludes to the magic power of love, which concenters all our ideas in one, making us prefer a cottage to a palace, and a desert to a grove, according to the situation or circum­stances of the object of our affections. After having declared the purpose of flying her country with her lover, she adds,

And Helena, afterwards, carries on the same idea, in the following lines:

Theseus too, in a passage of his speech, in the first Scene of the Fifth Act of this Play, accords with the above sentiment:

And Shakespeare has hinted a moral, on this latter subject, with regard to irregular or ill-placed affec­tion, as Dr. Warburton has justly observed, ‘by as fine a metamorphosis as any in Ovid,’ in the last line of the following speech, in the second Scene [Page 19] of Act the Second; the whole of which I shall transcribe here, in order to shew how justly and poetically he has pointed to the different effects of passion upon busy and contemplative minds, as well as on idle and dissipated ones.

SCENE IV.

In the first speech here, Valentine makes a reflec­tion, which cannot be too often marked to us, upon the powerful effect of use or habit over the mind [Page 31] of man. Second nature is more than a match even for the first. In this philosophy lie the manifest and manifold advantages of a good education, which alone forms the different manners allotted to the sexes, rendering men brave, and preserving women chaste. Exchange but the point of honour between them, and you fill the world with amazons and dastards.

In the same Scene he expresses himself most af­fectingly, upon discovering the faithlessness of his friend, and displays a noble and a generous nature, in his ready forgiveness, on the other's as prompt penitence.

SCENE V. and lost.

In this passage Valentine is justly commended f [...] his proper and becoming manhood, in vindicatin the right both of his love and honour, at the hazar [...] of his, comparatively, meaner life. He has, therefore a right to the appellation and character here given o him, in the following line: ‘Thou art a gentleman, and well derived.’

But what strikes me more particularly in this speech, is the gallant Duke's asseveration, in that truly noble expression, ‘Now, by the honour of my ancestry.’ It was this generous spirited idea that continued down the race of heroes, among us, while they did exist; and were the profession of heraldry never to be considered in any other light, than as a record of men's worth, not titles, it would then become both a political and a liberal science. Honours, as Selden says, should be native only, and not dative derived from Merits, not from Gifts.

SCENE II.

That our talents, our faculties, or powers, are not our own, properly; but that we are to consider ourselves as endowed with such advantages, by Pro­vidence, for the more enlarged benefit of mankind, is finely set forth in the following speech:

The dangers to be apprehended to society, from those who affect too much popularity, are very justly remarked upon, in the same Scene; which judgment may be fully supported by innumerable instances of Demagogues to be met with in history, both ancient and modern.

SCENE VI.

That a spirit of liberty, where the reins of go­vernment are suffered to relax, is too apt to exceed into a licentiousness which counteracts its own ends, is well noted here.

Again, in the next Scene:

And just after, condemning his own neglect, in suffering the people to take such scope, he carries his censure against himself so far, as even to say that he had encouraged them to do so:

The same reflection is carried on, in the fifth Scene of the Second Act; where some one says, ‘Lord Angelo is severe.’ To which Escalus, his colleague in administration, replies,

But to recur back again to the first Act, which I quitted in pursuit of the above argument started there; in the sixth Scene, where Claudio desires his friend to employ his sister to solicit his pardon, he very judiciously urges that peculiar kind of per­suasiveness, which naturally dwells in youth and innocence:

And again, in the last Scene of this first Act, Lucio says to Isabella,

[Page 38]In the same Scene the nature and danger of irre­solution is well described.

SCENE I.

The political arguments for justice, with the humane motives for mercy, are finely contrasted here, between the two Deputies of the State:

SCENE VII.

We find the same subjects continued here, with additional spirit and beauty.

I have transcribed, perhaps, more of this dialogue, than may be thought strictly relative to the argu­ments of it; but I found it impossible to break off before, and I believe the reader would be sorry to have had me interrupt it sooner.

SCENE VIII.

The powerful attractions of virtue and modesty, are finely shewn, in Angelo's conflict and reflections, here. Isabella, having, in the last Scene, received some hope of pardon for her brother, takes leave of the Deputy, with this expression:

SCENE IX.

The Duke here, under the character of a friar, in confessing Juliet, gives an admirable lesson on the nature of contrition, distinguishing it very properly from attrition merely; and, at the same time, ex­presses a just but severe sentence against a woman's failure in the point of chastity; their education, their manners, and the moral consequences of their frailty, throwing so many more bars in their way, than the modes of the world have opposed to the other sex.

SCENE X.

The frailty of human nature is well described in the wanderings of the mind in prayer, and the struggle between virtue and passion, in the first speech here; which concludes with observing, how apt the pageantry or false seemings of power are to impose on the world, even the great vulgar, as well as the small.

SCENE XI.

There is a proper sentiment of Christian humility, expressed by Isabella, in this place:

[Page 44]And just after, there is a virtuous argument finely supported by her, against the insidious pleadings of the Deputy; who, after refusing her a pardon for her brother, thus proceeds:

SCENE I.

The Duke, remaining still under the disguise of a friar, comes to the prison to prepare Claudio for death; upon which subject he makes a number of moral and philosophic reflections; but these last mostly of the Stoic kind, by observing on the precarious­ness and insignificancy of human life; the whole of which I shall give here at full length.

And in the next scene, Isabella, after hinting to her brother at certain base conditions, on which his sentence might be remitted, endeavours to strengthen his resolution to prefer death before dishonour, by somewhat of the same manner of reasoning, as above; but more conclusive and concise:

To this suspicion of his weakness he replies, with the spirit becoming a man of honour and vir­tue:

But after having paid this compliment to heroism, Human Nature comes in for its share, in turn; and he then pleads for life, even on the most abject terms:

What an ignoble sentiment is here expressed, in the four last lines of this speech! and yet the great Maecenas had the same, and declared it very nearly in the same words! What a disgrace to letters! But history describes him to have been a person of fop­pish and effeminate manners; and 'tis but rarely that the outward character belies the inward one.

[Page 47]Isabella's indignation against her brother on this occasion, though it has no relation to the subjects we are upon, yet as it may have an effect in raising the same resentment against vice and meanness, in the minds of my readers, I think it worthy to be in­serted here:

SCENE VI.

In the last speech of this scene, our Author gives us a shocking, but too just description of Slander:

SCENE III.

In the last passage of this Scene, the Duke repeats the same reflection, in still stronger terms:

Such has been the complaint of all ages, even when the scandal was merely oral; but how much more intolerable has the offence become, of late years, when obloquy is not only privately spoken, but pub­licly printed, and openly circulated throughout these kingdoms? The Freedom of the Press should be ever [Page 48] held sacred among us. 'Tis our Palladium. But surely, to restrain its Licentiousness, can no more hurt the Liberty of it, than the chastisement of felony can be said to injure the liberty of the subject.

SCENE X.

When Isabella, upon a supposition of her brother's death, curses Angelo for his perfidy, the Duke re­proves her in the following words:

Shakespeare seems to have wound up the several morals of his characters and dialogue, in this place, with an excellent Christian document, against the rage of malediction, and the passion of revenge; for we find little more in the remainder of it, sufficiently worthy of continuing any further remarks on the Piece.

SCENE I.

The forebodings or presentiments of evil, natural to the human mind, are strongly pointed at here. It were in vain to attempt the investigation of this mat­ter from philosophy, any more than that of prophetic dreams; so that all we have to do, is simply to ac­quiesce in the fact itself, which repeated experience has sufficiently vouched in too many remarkable in­stances, to be imputed to common casualty.

Upon which his two friends attempt to account for this impression on his mind, in a very natural manner—as, ‘Where a man's treasure is, there will his heart be also.’

But when he denies that any reflection upon the state of his fortune, or that even the passion of love, has wrought this grave effect upon his spirits, they then remain quite at a loss to account farther for it, referring it merely to the peculiarity of his charac­ter, or particular complexion of mind; which is described and contrasted with one of an opposite cast, with admirable humour:

Gratiano then coming in, and taking notice of the seriousness of Anthonio's aspect, alike imputes it to the same cause his other friends had done:

To which he replies:

Upon this, Gratiano enters into the same hu­morous description of the different characters of men, as Solarino had done.

Another very common character in life is also described in the same scene; though I think not fairly applicable to the person who was capable of making the speech above cited:

[Page 54]In the following passage of the same Scene, there is a warmth of affection and generous friendship, fondly and beautifully expressed.

Again, in the third Scene of Act the Third, the same noble spirit is carried on.

And from the Fifth Scene of the same Act, an­other passage may be quoted, which breathes the same strain.

There is a becoming reserve and modesty in this last sentence, which gives an additional beauty to the character of Portia. But I must now return again to the First Act, that I may recover the order of the reflections which are made in this Piece.

SCENE II.

Here the golden mean is well recommended, by shewing the excess on either side, to be equally bad:

From thence Portia takes occasion to hint at the inefficacy of good counsel towards governing or restraining our passions:

SCENE I.

The next passage that occurs, is a reflection on the casualties of fortune, which no merit, no industry, no prudence can controul.

SCENE II.

In this Scene, the soliloquy of Launcelot is a strong picture of the mind of man, whenever it de­bates within itself upon the right or wrong of a question, in which it is any way interested; for in such cases, our passions, even without our conniv­ance, are apt to plead their own cause; and we but sophisticate, while we think we reason. In all doubt­ful matters, where the arguments seem to be equally suspended, 'tis prudent ever to suspect that side of the balance to be the lightest, which we find our affec­tions the most inclined to.

SCENE IX.

The description here given of the parting of two friends, would make a beautiful and affecting sub­ject for the pencil:

SCENE X.

The false or mistaken supputations of happiness, which men are too often apt to frame to themselves, are well remarked upon, in this place:

And immediately after, in the same speech, he makes a just and noble reflection, distinguishing merit from dignities; or titles to, from titles of, ho­nour.

SCENE I.

The enchanting powers and effects of music are here most poetically set forth. There can never be said too much on this charming theme. Men's minds may be sometimes too stern or obstinate to yield to argument, but in melody there is a sort of sentiment, that sinks into the heart, and by awaking the softer passions of the soul, often persuades, where reason else would fail.

There is also a beautiful allusion made to the light of a candle, in this place, which, with the moral deduced from it, is, I think, worthy to be noted here.

So says the Scripture, "Let your light so shine." And in the continuation of the same dialogue, the effects of time, circumstance, comparison, and oc­casion, are beautifully and justly pointed out:

The next quotation, and the last I shall transcribe from this Play, is in the same Scene; where Portia accosts her husband's friend, Anthonio, on his first visit to her, after the catastrophe of the piece has been wound up:

In this speech she very justly expresses the true sentiment of affection, which renders professions needless, where intentions are sincere.

SCENE I.

THIS Play begins with a reflection on the first, and I may add the principal, concern in life, the education of children. Men are often more sedulous in training the brutes of their kennels, their mews and their stables, than they seem to be about the heirs of their blood, their fortunes, or their honours. In sad truth may it be said, that we seldom meet with a jockey, an huntsman, or a sportsman, who is half so well-bred as his horses, his hawks, or his hounds.

Orlando, speaking of the unkindness of his elder brother and guardian, says, ‘For my part, he keeps me rustically at home; or, to speak more properly, flies me here at home, unkept; for call you that keep­ing, for a gentleman of my birth, that differs not from the stalling of an ox? His horses are bred better; for besides that they are fair with their feeding, they are taught their manage; and to that end riders dearly hired; but I, his brother, gain nothing under him but growth; for the which the animals on his dunghills are as much bound to him as I. Besides this Nothing that he so plen­tifully gives me, the Something that Nature gave me his coun­tenance seems to take from me. He lets me feed with his hinds, bars me the place of a brother, and, as much as in him lies, mines ^* my gentility with my education.’

SCENE III.

The last speech, here, though it presents us with no moral, I cannot pass by without remarking, that it seems to be a perfect description of our author's own character.

Oliver, speaking of Orlando, his younger bro­ther, says, ‘Yet he's gentle; never schooled, and yet learned; full of noble device; and of all sorts enchantingly beloved—’

SCENE IV.

There are some passages very tender, gene­rous, and affecting, in the first part of the dialogue between Rosalind and Celia, who had been bred up from their infancy in friendship together; the first, daughter to the exiled Duke; and the other, child to his brother, the Usurper.

The same fondness between them is repeated in the tenth Scene of the same Act, upon Rosalind's being commanded to quit the dominions of the Usurper.

As there are many vices in morals that are injuri­ous to society, and which the laws have not stigma­tized, or possibly cannot sufficiently provide against, the reprehensions of Satire, under proper restrictions, may perhaps be deemed a necessary supplement to legislation. The most worthless person would chuse to sin in secret, as not being able to endure the being rendered an object of public detestation or ridicule; the fear of being pointed at has often laid a restraint on vice; in which sense the finger may be said to be stronger than the arm. Othello patheti­cally describes such a situation:

The passage which gave rise to these reflections, is in this fourth Scene, where Celia interrupts Touch­stone, in his abuse of an absent person:

SCENE VIII.

There is a very proper hint given here to women, not to deviate from the prescribed rules and deco­rums of their sex. Whenever they venture to step [Page 72] the least out of their walk, in life, they are too ge­nerally apt to wander astray.

SCENE X.

Rosalind, speaking of disguising herself in man's apparel, gives a good description of a swaggering bully:

SCENE I.

The first speech in this Scene is rich in reflection upon the new-moulding faculty of use or habit, the preference of a sincere country life to a false city one, the advantages of adversity, and the benefits of retired contemplation.

In the continuation of the same dialogue, some humane sentiments are thrown out on the sub­ject of hunting, with an affecting description given of a wounded deer; and also some moral allu­sions from human life to the different circumstances and situations of the poor victim, which must equally engage the thought and feeling of the reader.

Whoever could read the above description, and eat venison, on the same day, must have a better stomach, or a stouter heart, than they would do well to boast of—Such melancholy, such sullen fits, as these of Jaques, have something more charming in them, than all ‘"The broadest mirth unfeeling Folly wears."’

SCENE III.

The dangers of pre-eminence and virtue in a wicked and envious world, are finely noted here.

Adam meeting Orlando, after he had conquered the Usurper's champion:

When Adam counsels him to fly from the perse­cution of his cruel brother, his answer expresses a noble and virtuous acquiescence in any state of misery or danger, rather than submit to support himself by base or dishonest means:

There is a charming glow of affection, gratitude, and spirit, in the reply made by Adam; with a pleas­ing description of the virtue and sobriety of the an­tient Peasantry of England; and the difference of manners and morals between those times and the more modern ones, is well remarked upon.

SCENE. IV.

The nature and follies of love are here extremely well described, between the several speakers.

There is a very pretty poem on the same subject, and which seems to have taken its hint from this passage in Shakespeare, though the instances are dif­ferent and more in number, written by Miss Aikin, among a collection of her's lately published, which I would insert here, but that I suppose every reader of taste must be in possession of a work which so well deserves a place in the most select libraries; as doing equal honour to literature, and her sex. (See page 66, of her Poems.)

SCENE V.

The common or modern modes of civility are well enough ridiculed, here; which, however, does not by any means reprove the fond expressions of affection, or the warm returns of gratitude.

[Page 78]In the same place, the melancholy Jaques, as he is characterized, though he be of a gloomy and un­sociable complexion himself, describes a character in one word, that, in my opinion, is still more unqua­lified for the converse of the world than his own.

When he is told that the Duke has been all the day to look for him, he replies, ‘And I have been all this day to avoid him. He is too disputable ^* for my company. I think of as many matters as he; but I give heaven thanks, and make no boast of them ^‡.’

SCENE VI.

There is something extremely pathetic and affecting in this short scene between Orlando and Adam, on their pilgrimage.

SCENE VII.

Trite observations and common-place morals are well exposed here:

In the same scene there is a good defence made for general satire.

Jaques, being accused of slander, says,

See the last remark on Scene IV. Act I. of this Play.

SCENE VIII.

The following passage requires no comment to point out its beauties, or to mark its impression.

Orlando, travelling through the forest, with his poor old friend, leaves him, for a while, to go in quest of food, as shewn before, in the last Scene but one; and coming where the Duke and his train are at dinner, draws his sword, to force some of the viands from them. The former Scene, already quoted, prepares us finely for Orlando's violence here, which must otherwise have created disgust, and seem to have been inconsistent with his expression, in the third Scene above, where he says to Adam,

Upon this challenge, the Duke says,

SCENE IX.

On Orlando's going out, the Duke says,

Upon which allusion, Jaques gives a fine pictu­resque and dramatic description of life and character, in the following speech:

SCENE X.

Some melancholy reflections on the base vice and most heinous sin of ingratitude, are sweetly com­prized in the following Air:

SCENE III.

No situation of life is satisfactory to us; there is something we like, in all, but none that we would chuse to take up with for better for worse. This im­patience, this dissatisfaction, in the mind of man, proclaims aloud that this world was never designed as our place of rest; and to refer us for it to the grave, is but infidel mockery, surely.

[Page 83]I am well aware, that after so serious a reflection, the following passage may be deemed too slight an illustration of the remark; but as it gave rise to it, I think in justice that I ought to quote it here; for even a straw is an argument of Providence, to the contemplative mind.

SCENE IV.

The common sing-song of poetry is well observed upon, here; such verses, as Horace says, a person may compose two hundred of, standing on one leg ^*, "without one thought to interrupt the song."

Rosalind, reading a paper written in her praise:

Upon which Touchstone says, ‘I'll rhime you so, eight years together; dinners, and suppers, and sleeping hours, excepted. It is the right butter-woman's rate to market. This is the very false gallop of verses. Why do you in­fect yourself with them?’

SCENE VIII.

The different computations of time which are made by persons variously interested in its progres­sion, [Page 84] are well and humorously described in this place.

SCENE X.

The abrupt commencement of this dialogue leads us to suppose, that it is but the continuation of one they had engaged in before their appearance in this scene, in which Celia had been endeavouring to quiet Rosalind's fears, upon her lover's having broke his promise of meeting her; and whether from being tired with her obstinacy, or resolving to try her sincerity, she here seems to join in her resentment, by agreeing with her in every thing; which has an effect very natural in all such cases, that the plaintiff immediately becomes defendant, whenever the person beloved happens to be censured by any one else but them­selves.

Hermione says,

And the danger of interfering between man and wife, I should hope arises from this principle. Resentments may interrupt affection; but they must rise to some­thing more, to cancel one that ever has been tho­roughly conceived.

SCENE XI.

This is a just thought; and it would be well if it were more attended to. No persons have a right to censure others, who are not free from blame them­selves. This maxim, if extended to the strictness of it, would silence all scandal, detraction, and re­proach; [Page 86] and indeed it has been often observed, that the most faultless persons are generally the least se­vere. Heaven has more mercy, than man.

SCENE I.

As I have already given the reader some extracts of the character and sentiments of the melancholy Jaques, in this Play, which must give a favourable impression of him; I think he will be well pleased to see him introduced once more, particularly in a part where he gives a description of himself, as he does in this scene, and where the lively Rosalind also equally and justly condemns the extremes, both of a merry and a grave complexion of mind and man­ners.

Rosalind then, taking advantage of the word travel, gives a description of the alamode pilgrims of Shake­speare's times, which may answer full as well for the fashionable emigrants of our own days.

There is something, upon the whole of this sombre character of Jaques, that is interesting, and makes me recollect a French line of some uncommon, because ingenious and indulgent, Critic, who says, ‘Un esprit né chagrin, plait par son chagrin même.’

SCENE V.

There is no passion which Shakespeare more fre­quently, or so poetically describes, as that of love; and as it is the one which, by its despotism in our youthful years, often forms the destiny of our future life, and holds so immediate a relation to morals, we should suffer no occasion to pass unnoticed, however humorously or ludicrously expressed, which either de­fines its nature, or remarks upon its effects.

SCENE V.

The uncertainty of opinion in things where the mind is anxious, is hinted at here:

SCENE VI.

Men who pretend to know the world, are apt to jo [...]n in the above satire upon mankind, by saying, what I am sorry to repeat, that if we were to seek for honesty, we must look for it, as the Clown hints, among the middle ranks of life.

The punctilios of honour, with regard to the false bravery, or Gothic chivalry of duelling, is admirably jested on in the same scene.

Doctor Warburton, in a note on this passage, has quoted a similar one from Fletcher, in his Queen of Corinth:

As the humorous satire of Don Quixote came abroad into the world in Shakespeare's time, perhaps he might have taken a hint for this piece of ridicule from that writing; and Fletcher may have copied his raillery from him again. Malta is the only place now where the old Gothic chivalry is still preserved, and that duelling is established by law.

SCENE VII.

I shall now conclude my remarks on this Play, with a song in this Scene, which comprehends my fa­vourite moral.

SCENE I.

The false glory of antient heroism is justly cen­sured in the latter part of the following speech.

The Princess, taking the bow to go a stag-shoot­ing, thus argues with herself, on a supposition either of her hitting or missing the quarry:

SCENE IV.

Part of a speech here, is very worthy of a quo­tation; first, as it is one of the many fond descrip­tions of love given us by our Author; and next, as it shews the effects of this passion, in higher in­stances than any of his former ones, by urging its advantages to the minds and manners, as well as its operations upon the affections, of men; and in this light, it may be considered as a good comment on the fable of Cymon and Iphigenia.

Biron, speaking to the King, Dumain, and Longa­ville, after they had all fallen in love, against the phlegmatic and fruitless study of monastic life, in a seclusion from all female converse, says,

SCENE III.

That persons of the best understandings are ge­nerally remarked to be the greatest fools in love, the superiority of their talents adding strength to their passion, is well noted in the following obser­vations; which, as Doctor Johnson says upon this passage, ‘are worthy of a man who has surveyed human nature with the closest attention.’

These ladies seem to speak very philosophically upon this subject; but might yet have improved [Page 101] their lecture, by observing on as certain a fact, still more extraordinary; which is, that to render a man of sense the compleatest slave in love, he must be captivated by a fool; provided she has, what is ge­nerally met with in persons of that character, a proper proportion of art or cunning.

Sense is always a match for sense, and can be over­reached by folly only; as here no danger is appre­hended to put a man on his guard, the fair one's wiles seeming to be all nature, naïveté, and charm­ing simplicity; and 'tis natural to humour those fondlings, whom 'tis thought vain to reason with.

SCENE X.

I shall finish my remarks on this Play, with a passage in this Scene, which continues the subject above last mentioned, and is a further description of the nature and effects of that passion:

Biron, to the ladies.

SCENE I.

THE rational, sociable, and friendly manner in which crowned heads used formerly to live plea­santly with one another, is described here—Why is it no longer so? Does modern polity oppose itself to hu­manity? Kings may have mistresses, indeed; but friend or favourite they must have none. What amends can the whole regalia of their solitary pomp afford them, for being denied one of the sweetest, the dearest, and the most virtuous enjoyments of life; a manly sympathy of affections, and a chaste intercourse of souls! Modern kings may say, as Richard the Third did, I am myself alone; Incedo solus; but not in the happy sense that Horace meant it—the quacunque libido est is wanting.

The passion in mankind for life, and the pre­tences they make to themselves for still wishing to defer their departure from time to time, is well enough pointed out in the following passage:

[Page 106]Camillo, speaking of the young Prince of Sicilia, says,

He makes old hearts fresh; they that went on crutches, ere he was born, desire yet their life to see him a man.

SCENE II.

The happy state of youth, and consequently of innocence, is here well described:

SCENE III.

When Leontes, having conceived a jealousy of Polixenes, commands Camillo, whom he had ap­pointed cup-bearer to his guest, to poison him; this good man makes an admirable reflection on dis­loyalty and rebellion, in the following soliloquy:

SCENE II.

The unhappy Queen of Sicilia, when she is called upon her public trial for a supposed adultery, speaks with a noble spirit of parental sentiment on the occasion.

The beautiful sentiment expressed in the last lines, which must draw tears of pity from virtuous mothers, and should those of another kind from vicious ones, puts me in mind of a parallel passage in Scripture— ‘A mother in dishonour is a reproach to her children ^†’.

SCENES III. and IV.

The sudden ebbs of warm and violent tempers, with the revealing nature of a guilty conscience; which is apt to confess its crime even before 'tis charged with it, as Leontes does here, with regard to the intended murder of Polixenes, which remained yet a secret in his own breast; are strongly depicted in this Scene.

Leontes, on hearing that his son had died of grief, and seeing his wife fall into a swoon on that [Page 108] event, is suddenly struck with compassion and re­morse.

SCENE V.

Paulina too, being likewise a person of strong passions and an ungovernable temper, shews as quick a revulsion in the midst of her rage against Leontes, upon finding him repentant, though she had even told him, the moment before, that neither penance nor penitence itself could aught avail him.

Though I cannot help observing here, that her vindictive spirit appears plainly not to have yet sub­sided, but only taken a different course, by the latter part of her speech; for she continues still to accu­mulate her charges against him, as if only by way of enumerating the articles of her forgiveness.

Our Author, who almost every where manifests a perfect knowledge in the anatomy of the human mind, proves his science more particularly in a passage of this Scene, by shewing a property in our natures which might have escaped any common dissecter of morals; and this is, our suffering, upon true penitence and contrition, not only all reproach thrown out against us with meekness and submission, but even encouraging and augmenting the abuse, by joining in our own condemnation. This may possibly arise from a strong wish, or sanguine hope, that such a voluntary penance may in part be ac­cepted, both by heaven and the world, as some sort of atonement for our crimes.

Leontes, while Paulina is arraigning him with the utmost virulence and severity, instead of having her cast out from his presence, cries,

[Page 110]Again, when she seems to relent of her severity towards him,

In the First Scene of the Fifth Act, the same subject is renewed, where Leontes manifests the same humi­liation and contrition for his crime, that he did be­fore: but as an interval of sixteen years, spent in sorrow and repentance, had passed between these two aeras, he, as would be natural then, shews an un­easiness at the reproach, and intreats to be relieved from it for the future; but this in a manner so gentle and submissive, as none but Shakespeare him­self could have conceived. The whole passage is worthy of being quoted.

SCENE IV.

There is a poetical history of love given here, which closes with a beautiful description of a chaste and pure passion in a lover.

SCENE V.

Here is a passage that I am particularly fond of, because it vindicates the rights of Nature, even over those arts which seem to vie and co-operate with her; for her general laws can never be controlled but by bye ones of her own making.

I have continued the above dialogue beyond the philosophy of its subject, in order to treat my reader with one of the most refined sentiments of a chaste and delicate mind, that can possibly be conceived. Perdita shews a charming genuineness of nature in her latter speech; for though she confesses the truth of Polixenes' position, yet is she so jealous of the honour of our great parent, that even the appearance of a violation against her rights offends her. And the parallel she makes upon the occasion, is beautiful. Readers see not half the greatness of Shakespeare, who overlook his minutiae.

In the same scene, the praise that Florizel bestows on Perdita is equally fond and beautiful.

[Page 113]To which she replies, with very good sense and prudence,

In answer to this, he says,

This is the true character of youth in the different sexes: Sincerity on one side, and confidence on the other. Deceit and diffidence are the fruits of riper, or more rotten, years.

SCENE IX.

There is a reflection made here, which, if true, would be one of the heaviest articles of affliction.

But I shall rather hope and believe, with the charming Perdita, in the faith and fidelity she ex­presses in her reply:

SCENE XI.

There is a good ridicule, here, on the affectations of persons of rank, in the description of the man­ners by which the vulgar often distinguish their bet­ters—perhaps their superiors only.

The old shepherd and his son, upon seeing Auto­licus, the sharper, dressed up in a suit of the prince's cloaths, debate thus about him:

SCENE I.

There is a good remark made here, on the wrong timing of reproof, in the speech of Cleo­mines to Paulina, upon her rough treatment of Leontes, on the subject of his misfortunes, when she is dissuading him from marrying.

SCENE V.

This Comedy is full of well-described character, and beautiful description; but these not happening to fall within the scope I had prescribed to myself in this work, I have reluctantly passed them by, without noting. However, there is one passage among them, which luckily affords me a proper subject of remark, in the account given of Leontes and Ca­millo, on their being certified of the preservation of Perdita.

This description not only contains the beautiful and the sublime, but rises to a still higher sublimity, or, to speak in the stile of the Psalmist, to the most [Page 115] highest, in the allusion to sacred writ, relating to the two principal articles in the Old and New Testa­ment, the fall of man, and his redemption. Shake­speare makes frequent references to the sacred text, and writes often, not only as a moralist, but as a divine.

Autolicus having by accident had some hand in bringing about the discovery of Perdita, which was a circumstance that might have been suffi­cient to make another man's fortune, makes only this sad soliloquy upon the occasion: ‘ Now, had I not the dash of my former life in me, would preferment drop on my head. I brought the old man and his son aboard the Prince; told him I heard them talk of a fardel, and I know not what; but he at that time over-fond of the shepherd's daughter, so he then took her to be, who began to be much sea-sick, and himself little better, extremity of weather continuing, this mystery remained undiscovered. But 'tis all one to me; for had I been the finder out of this secret, it would not have relished, among my other discredits.’

That honesty is the best policy, is a homely proverb; but this only the more vouches the truth of it, by its having stood the test of all experience. Character is the immediate jewel of the soul, not only in its own worth, but even in the temporal advantages which frequently accrue from it. Lost health may be re­paired, lost fortune be regained, even lost senses may be recovered; but a forfeited character is rarely ever to be retrieved.

This is a theme which cannot be too largely or too frequently expatiated upon; which I hope will serve as my apology for having taken the hint from so mean and trifling an instance as the foregoing.

SCENE VI.

The old shepherd and his son having by the me­dium of the princess Perdita obtained into favour at Court, Autolicus asks forgiveness of the Clown for the tricks he had played him. ‘I humbly beseech you, Sir, to pardon me all the faults I have committed to your worship, and to give me your good report to the prince my master.’ [Page 116] This request is seconded by the old man, in words which describe the proper character of that rank of life to which he had been just elevated.

But 'tis pity that the conduct and behaviour of too many, in so respectable a class, should afford cause for the severe sarcasm couched in the following words of the son:

SCENE VII.

Paulina says to Leontes, on perceiving him to be strongly affected on seeing Hermione represented so much to the life, as a supposed statue:

To which he replies:

This is spoken with a true sense of a propitia­tory and a contrite grief. A sincere repentance is, indeed, an healing balm to the wounded conscience; a cordial comfort to the soul.

SCENE I.

THIS Play opens with a sweet passage, in which the charms of music, and the nature of love, are beautifully described.

As I have hitherto observed upon Shakespeare's critical knowledge in human nature, I hope it will not appear invidious now, if I should here remark upon his deficiency in a passage above—lines second and third. The duke is there made to wish his pas­sion were extinct; which, I believe, the most unhappy lover never yet did. We wish to remove every un­easy sensation it afflicts us with, by any means what­ever; sometimes even by death itself; but never by the extinction of the affection.

This is not peculiar to love alone; 'tis the same in all the tender feelings. We wish the object of our grief brought back again to life, but desire not to forget our sorrow. We wish to relieve the subjects of our pity, but would not be deprived of our com­passion. [Page 120] Heaven hath so framed us, and Heaven be praised for having endowed and adorned us with such sweet compunctious visitings of Nature! 'tis in these fea­tures only that we can resemble our Maker. In the more heroic qualities of bravery and fortitude, can be traced no likeness of the Deity, because super­fluous in a perfect state. The subject of love is touched upon again, twice, in the same Scene:

And when Valentine acquaints the Duke with Oli­via's vow of sequestering herself from the world, for seven years, to mourn the death of her brother, he cries out in an extasy,

I am happy that this latter passage happens to oc­cur so immediately after my remark above, as it affords me an opportunity of doing justice to Shake­speare, by observing that his inference, from Olivia's grief, to the nature of her heart in love, shews a perfect knowledge in this species of philosophy. The passions are divided into but two classes, the tender and the violent; and any one of either affords an earnest of all others of the same kind.

His distinction, too, of the three thrones, the liver, brain, and heart, is admirable. These are truly the seats of the three chief affections of love; the heart for passion, the mind for esteem, and the liver for jealousy; if Horace's anatomy is to be credited ^‡.

SCENE XI.

In the last speech of this Act, Olivia speaks in the usual manner of all infatuated persons, who are apt to make the Fates answerable for those follies or vices which they have not sense or virtue enough to extricate themselves from, by their own exertions. For, upon a consciousness of having too weakly be­trayed her passion for Viola, appearing under the cha­racter of a cavalier, she acquiesces in her indiscre­tion, by saying,

She repeats the same idle apology for herself, again, in the second Scene of the next Act:

SCENE I.

There is a slight stroke thrown out here, against an affected refinement on common speech; which however I shall lay hold of, as one should animad­vert upon every species of pedantry, which is an incumbrance to literature, and casts a damp upon all free and liberal conversation.

SCENE XIV.

There is a most delicate sensibility expressed by a person here, in his reproach to one whom, by a simi­larity of appearances, he had mistaken for a friend on whom he had formerly conferred obligations, which he seemed then to have forgotten.

To which the innocent and mistaken Viola replies, with a becoming spirit of conscious virtue,

There is an antient adage, which says, that the sin of ingratitude includes every vice ^*. It renders us un­worthy [Page 123] of all the goods and enjoyments of life, even of our very existence; for we owe them all to favour and benevolence. Religion and virtue are, therefore, but barely the acknowledging a debt, which must ever remain undischarged.

All the moral I have been able to extract from this Piece, concludes in this Scene, with a position which it were devoutly to be wished had as much truth in physics, as it has in philosophy: That the outward form is but the visible sign of the internal mind.

I shall here give a quotation from a modern dra­matic poem of distinguished merit, as the passage relates so immediately to the subject above last mentioned.

SCENE I.

Upon Mrs. Page's reading Falstaff's Love-letter to her, she makes the following reflection: ‘What unweighed behaviour hath this Flemish drunkard pickt, i' th' Devil's name, out of my conversation, that he dares in this manner essay me? Why, he hath not been thrice in my company— What should I say to him? I was then frugal of my mirth."’

And in the next Scene, on communicating this adventure to Mrs. Ford, she recurs to the same thought again.

This is a very natural sentiment for a delicate mind to conceive, upon meeting with an affront of this sort; and 'tis extremely proper, upon all such occa­sions, to enter into such a self-examination, by way of inquiring what part of our own conduct, or unweighed behaviour, as she expresses it, might have encouraged the offence; and upon an impartial scrutiny we shall generally find, that 'tis more our indiscretion than our charms which prompts the attack.

SCENE IX.

To preserve a charity in censure, from a consci­ousness of our own frailties, is very properly re­commended [Page 128] here, though spoken in a feigned cha­racter.

The vice and folly of unlawful love are well ex­posed by an excellent allusion, in the same Scene:

SCENE XII.

Where Fenton tells Anne Page her father's objec­tions to him for his son-in-law, he gives a just de­scription and character of those spendthrift men of quality, who go into the City to look for wives to repair their broken fortunes.

SCENE XIII.

Anne Page lamenting her father's tyranny, in condemning her to marry a man she detested on ac­count of his fortune, says,

SCENE IV.

There was something very pleasing and advan­tageous to morals in the antient superstition which [Page 129] supposed the actions of men to have been under the immediate cognizance of certain superior Beings, who used to distribute rewards and punishments on the instant.

Evans, personating the King of the Fairies:

The metaphorical exposition of this fable, is, I believe, and kindly hope too, most fully experienced by the difference of slumbers between an approving and an upbraiding mind. An evil conscience is a shrew, and gives most shocking curtain lectures.

SCENE V.

There is a very good reflection made here, upon the nature of fear or guilt being apt to confound our reason and senses, so as to lead us to mistake appearances for realities.

Falstaff, upon the mockery of the Fairies being discovered to him, says, ‘ And these are not Fairies? I was three or four times in the thought they were not Fairies; and yet the guiltiness of my mind, with the sudden surprise of my powers, drove the grossness of the foppery into a received belief, in despite of the teeth of all rhime and reason, that they were Fairies. See now, how wit may be made a Jack-a- [...]t, when 'tis upon ill employment!’

SCENE I.

The proper use and choice of travel and study, of such sort of travel and study as rendered so many men eminent among the Antients, are well treated of here.

The following reply adds a more liberal scope to the uses of study and travel:

SCENE III.

A truth is here spoken, which is too frequently evinced by the general practice of the self-interested, or, more properly speaking, avaricious world; where Gremio and Hortensio are conferring together about providing a husband for Catharine, as the younger sister is not to be married till the elder is disposed of.

SCENE IV.

Love conceived at first sight, is the subject of most Romances; and the philosophy of these Northern climes looks for it only there; but if we consult the volume of Nature more at large, we shall find that such extempore passions are not infrequent in the more Southern regions of the world: and the clear and warm air of Italy communicates a brisker motion to the heart and spirits, than our natural phlegm can possibly be sensible of.

Tranio, upon perceiving the emotion of Lucentio, on his first view of Bianca, says to him,

Tranio replies, very judiciously,

SCENE I.

Physiognomists say, that the features of the mind usually mark their impressions on the countenance. A mirthful or melancholy aspect, a wanton or mali­cious one; in fine, every characteristic trait of vi­sage throughout, denote their correspondent passions or affections in the soul. Socrates acknowledged the certainty of this science, by confessing a description of himself to be true, as to his nature, though false, regarding his character.

According to this piece of philosophy, a person of a severe and saturnine complexion is humorously de­scribed in this place.

From hence this lively girl proceeds to draw a contrast between him and another person, of a con­trary disposition, very justly censuring both of the extremes: ‘He were an excellent man that were made just in the mid-way between him and Benedick; the one is too like an image, and says nothing; and the other, too much like my lady's eldest son, ever­more tattling.’

SCENE III.

The absolute dominion which love is found to usurp, not only over our passions, but our very principles, is too justly described in a passage here; which may lead one to pronounce, that neither man or woman can truly boast a friend, whom they have not had an occasion of first trying as a rival.

SCENE V.

The effect of strong passion in the prevention of utterance, is well expressed here:

SCENE VIII.

The total metamorphosis of character, manners, and disposition, wrought in us by love, is well de­scribed in a speech in this Scene:

From these reflections, Benedick goes on holding a debate with himself upon this subject; and, like most people, before their hearts have become a party in the matter, draws a vain portrait of the peerless para­gon who only can be capable of triumphing over his affections; leaving nothing, in the choice of his mistress, to Heaven itself, except the colour of her hair.

SCENE IX.

Modesty is as sure an attendant on Merit, as its companion, as Envy is, as its shade ^*.

In the same Scene, Don Pedro, speaking of Be­nedick, says, ‘The man doth fear God, howsoever it seems not in him, by some large jests he will make.’

This is too common a character in life; of persons who scoff at religion with as much fear and trem­bling, as would be sufficient to work out their salvation. The whole of infidelity is owing to a fool-hardy dis­position [Page 152] of this sort. The strongest Deists are but Sceptics; and the Atheist, no more than a Deist in reality; nay often, as Pope humorously expresses it on another occasion, ‘"May be a sad good Christian in his heart."’

SCENE X.

The scheme for inducing Benedick and Beatrice to fall in love with each other, which is commenced with him in the preceding Scene, and concluded with her in the first one of the Third Act, is most admirably laid. The surest method that artifice can contrive to inspire a passion in any one, is by giving them a notion of the other party's predilection for them; for, as Hero says to Ursula, in the plot on Beatrice,

And again,

When every other circumstance of years, of rank, and fortune happens to be on a par, such arts may, perhaps, be allowed to pass under the title of pious frauds, at least; for gratitude is a good cement of af­fections, as it serves to confirm passion by principle.

The readiness with which we are apt to run into the snare ourselves, with the kind of logic we use in order to make a sudden resolve appear a deliberate pur­pose, may be seen displayed in the soliloquy of Bene­dick, just after Don Pedro, Claudio, and Leonato, had played off their part against him, as supposing him not to be within hearing.

[Page 153]Benedick, advancing from the arbour, ‘This can be no trick, the conference was sadly ^* borne. They have the truth of this, from Hero; they seem to pity the lady; it seems her affections have the full bent. Love me! Why, it must be requited—I hear how I am censured; they say, I will bear myself proudly, if I perceive the love to come from her; they say too, that she will rather die than give any sign of affection.—I did never think to marry—I must not seem proud—happy are they that hear their detractions, and can put them to mending. They say the lady is fair; 'tis a truth, I can bear them witness—And virtuous—'Tis so, I cannot reprove it—And wise—but for loving me—By my troth, it is no addition to her wit—nor no great argument of her folly, neither; for I will be horribly in love with her—I may chance to have some odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me, be­cause I have railed so long against marriage; but doth not the ap­petite alter? A man loves the meat in his youth, that he cannot endure in his age. Shall quips and sentences, these paper bullets of the brain, awe a man from the career of his humour? No— the world must be peopled—When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live 'till I were married. Here comes Beatrice! By this day, she's a fair lady—I do spy some marks of love in her.’

The speech of Beatrice, also, in the first Scene of the Third Act, has a right to take place here, though somewhat before its time, as a companion to the preceding.

Beatrice, advancing, after Hero and Ursula had quitted the Scene:

SCENE II.

Hero, being falsely accused of an act of disho­nour, is examined before her father, her lover, and a Friar, with other friends, who had all met together in a convent to attend her nuptials; and the bitter­ness of a parent's anguish and resentment on so trying an occasion, is most feelingly expressed in the fol­lowing speech:

[Page 156]Upon this occasion, the good Friar, with that charity and humanity which so well become the sacred office of Priesthood, and from that observa­tion which his long experience in the business of auricular confession had enabled him to form, stands forth an advocate for Hero's innocence, in the fol­lowing poetical and philosophical oration:

But, a little after, this good casuist asks her sud­denly this trying question: ‘Lady, what man is he you are accused of?’ Upon which passage Doctor Warburton makes the following judicious remark:

‘The Friar had just before boasted his great skill in sifting out the truth; and indeed, he ap­pears, in this instance, to have been no fool. He was by, all the while at the accusation, and heard no names mentioned. Why, then, should he ask her what man she was accused of? But in this lay the subtilty of his examination. For, had Hero been guilty, it was very probable that, in the hurry and confusion of spirits into which the terrible insult of her lover had thrown her, she [Page 159] would never have observed that the man's name was not mentioned; and so, on this question, might have betrayed herself, by naming the per­son she was conscious of an affair with. The Friar observed this, and so concluded, that, were she guilty, she would probably have fallen into the trap he had laid for her. I only take notice of this, to shew how admirably well Shakespeare knew how to sustain his characters.’

But this noble defence for the unhappy Hero, not being sufficient to obviate the strong impressions of her guilt, which the father had conceived against her, the honest Priest then goes on to propose a scheme of conduct to him, which might peradven­ture bring about some crisis or event, that would clear her innocence; at least silence the infamy, and remove her from being any longer an object of ob­loquy. In this proposal there is shewn a just knowledge of the world, and an intimate acquaintance with the secret movements of the human heart.

To this innocent deception the father at length consents, expressing himself, at the same time, in a manner that every person's experience, who has ever had the misfortune to have been in such situations, must have felt the justness of.

Doctor Johnson's note upon this passage, is worthy of being quoted here:

‘This is one of our Author's observations upon life. Men overpowered with distress, eagerly listen to the first offers of relief, close with every scheme, and believe every promise. He that has no longer any confidence in himself, is glad to repose his trust in any other that will undertake to guide him.’

SCENE III.

Beatrice, in spiriting up Benedick to avenge her cousin Hero's quarrel, thus expresses her resentment against the offender: ‘Is he not approved in the height a villain, that hath slander'd, scorn'd, dishonour'd my kinswoman! O, that I were a man! What! bear her in hand until they come to take hands, and then with public accusation, uncover'd slander, unmitigated rancour— O God, that I were a man! I would eat his heart in the market-place. O that I were a man for his sake! or, that I had any friend would be a man for my sake! But manhood is melted into courtesies, valour into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones too—He is now as valiant as Hercules, that only tells a lie, and swears to it—I cannot be a man with wishing, there­fore I will die a woman with grieving.’

There is a generous warmth of indignation in this speech, which must certainly impress a female reader with the same sentiments upon such an occasion. I am not so disingenuous to take advantage of this passage as an historical fact, but am willing to rest it upon the sole authority of the Poet's assumption, as this will sufficiently answer the design of my intro­ducing it; which is, to vindicate my sex from the general, but unjust charge of being prone to slander; for were this the case, were not the resentment of Beatrice, in this instance, natural, how could it move our sympathy? which it actually does here, even though we acknowledge the circumstance to have been merely imaginary.

I believe, that there is nothing which a woman of virtue feels herself more offended at, than defama­tion or scandal; first against her own character, and proportionably when others are made the victims. There are women, indeed, who may be fond of flander, as having an interest in depreciating an idea of chastity; but this is owing to their frailty, not their sex—Vice is neither masculine, nor feminine; 'tis the common of two.

SCENE I.

While the above-mentioned experiment was de­pending, and before the honour of Hero had been cleared, Antonio, her uncle, endeavours to com­fort his brother under this misfortune; who replies to him in a manner very natural for a person la­bouring under the immediate pressure of affliction, to speak to all advisers who do not suffer the same portion of grief themselves.

SCENE II.

Upon the two brothers meeting Claudio soon after, the father challenges him to single combat, for the scandal he had thrown upon his daughter's fame; which being passed off in a sort of contemp­tuous manner, the resentment of the younger bro­ther is roused, and he immediately steps between and takes the quarrel upon himself, retorting the affront by a just description of the bragging profligates of those, or, indeed, of any times. Horatio's taunt to Lothario ^* seems to have been borrowed from this passage.

As I commenced my remarks on this Play with a note of Doctor Warburton's, I shall conclude them, also, with another very judicious observation of the same critic upon this last passage:

‘This brother Anthony is the truest picture ima­ginable of human nature. He had assumed the character of a Sage, to comfort his brother o'er­whelmed with grief for his only daughter's affront and dishonour; and had severely reproved him for not commanding his passion better, on so try­ing an occasion. Yet, immediately after this, no sooner does he begin to suspect that his age and valour are slighted, but he falls into the most in­temperate fit of rage himself; and all his brother can say, or do, is not of power to pacify him. This is copying Nature with a penetration and exactness of judgment peculiar to Shakespeare. As to the expression, too, of his passion, nothing can be more highly painted.’

SCENE I.

THE Countess of Rousillon speaking of Helena, her Ward, says, ‘I have those hopes of her good, that her education promises her; disposition she inherits, which makes fair gifts fairer; for where an unclean mind carries virtuous qualities, there commendations go with pity; they are virtues and traitors too; in her they are the better for her simpleness; she derives her honesty, and achieves her goodness.’

The Commentators are not agreed in opinion upon the verbal sense of this passage—but no matter; I shall leave their criticism undecided, and proceed to the moral interpretation of it; which is, that a derived virtue, which implies a natural good dispo­sition, affords considerable assistance to a good edu­cation; that accomplishments, without such a foun­dation, are a disadvantage to the possessors, as but tending to their condemnation and reproach; that the innocence and simplicity of Helena's mind and heart made use of no arts, but left her talents to the natural effect of their own operations; and that though a good disposition may be inherited, virtues must be purchased.

In the same Scene, when Bertram comes to take leave of his mother, in order to attend the king, she gives him her blessing in a most pathetic manner, and the most effectual too, where the seeds of virtue are, by setting his noble father before him as a pat­tern. To this she likewise adds some precepts for the conduct of his life, which would have done honour to the first Sages of Aegypt, Greece, or Rome.

SCENE II.

Frequent descriptions of love recur in almost every one of Shakespeare's Plays. The enamoured Helena speaks very affectingly on this subject here; first, by reproving the vain ambition of her passion for Bertram, a young nobleman so far above her hopes, and then proceeding, notwithstanding, though very naturally, to give an account of the fond in­dulgencies with which she still nourishes her flame.

The preferences which worthless people, flatterers and parasites, too often gain by address and com­pliances, before persons of unsupple merit and virtue, are well set forth in this place.

Helena, speaking of Parolles, says,

SCENE IV.

There are some excellent well-spirited reflections here thrown out, to encourage men in the exertion of all their active faculties towards the advancement of their fortunes; and to earn their independance by the manly means of industry, instead of poorly crouching at the gates of Providence, whining for an alms.

Helena, upon her resolving to undertake the cure of the king's disorder, in hopes through that means to raise her rank and fortune to a respect not un­worthy of Bertram, says,

SCENE V.

There is a most beautiful character given here, of a gallant soldier and virtuous courtier, in the de­scription of Bertram's deceased father; with some just strictures on the deficiency of these qualities, in the succeeding generation; which being the prin­cipal parts of the speech, I have first noted in it; but as there is also a charming mixture of the old [Page 168] man and the old friend, in the rest of it, I shall here give the whole together.

[Page 169]The self-interruptions in the above speech, how ad­mirably are they in the usual stile of a narrative old man! What age, what sex, what character, station, or office of life, escapes the touches of Shakespeare's plastic hand!

SCENE VI.

The diffidence which every one should manifest, respecting their own merits, is well recommended in the following passage.

The steward, speaking to the Countess: ‘Madam, the care I have had to even ^* your content, I wish might be rather found in the calendar of my past endeavours; for then we wound our modesty, and make foul the cleanness of our deserv­ings, when of ourselves we publish them.’

SCENE VI.

There are a number of moral and philosophic thoughts on worth and virtue, and on the severe laws which the pride and vanity of mankind have esta­blished against their own happiness and enjoyments ^†, delivered here, on the occasion of Bertram's declining a marriage with Helena, who had confessed her love for him to the king, because the happened to have neither birth or means to intitle her to the honour of his alliance.

SCENE VII.

When Lafeu has quitted the scene, after having bullied and abused Parolles, the latter being left alone, makes this soliloquy:

Upon this passage Doctor Warburton takes oc­casion to pay the following just compliment to our Author:

‘This the Poet makes Parolles to speak alone; and this is nature. A coward would endeavour to hide his poltroonery even from himself. An or­dinary writer would have been glad of such an op­portunity to bring him to a confession.’

SCENE VI.

THE following speech, though delivered with an air of levity, and expressed in humorous words and images, supplies occasion for three very just reflections. The first, That self interest, in the mere worldly sense of the term, is the ruling prin­ciple of mankind. Secondly, That men are too apt to inveigh against corruption, more from the being void of temptation themselves, than their being free from this vice; and, lastly, That bad examples in the superior ranks of life, have a dangerous tendency to injure the morals of the inferior classes of a people.

Upon a peace being made between the kings of England and France, in which the right of Arthur to the British throne is betrayed on the one hand, and but poorly compensated on the other, Faulcon­bridge makes this soliloquy:

The astonishment of Constance, on hearing that her son's interests are sacrificed to the league, with the doubts which we are naturally inclined to con­ceive of the truth of sudden ill news, and the weak state of mind and spirits to which persons in misfor­tune, especially helpless women, are generally re­duced, are all finely painted and described in the fol­lowing speech.

A little further, upon Salisbury's confirming the bad news, she conceives a very natural though un­reasonable idea, with which, however, we are apt to be impressed toward all messengers of bad tidings, however innocent of the evil:

That partiality in favour of beauty, which it is natural for all persons to be sensible of, even where their duty and interests in different objects are equal, is strongly marked by Constance, when her son begs her to sustain his wrongs with patience. The whole speech is affecting.

In the same Scene, when Salisbury tells her that the two kings had sent for her, and that be must not return without her, the answer she makes is full of that dignity, which grief, mixed with resentment, is capable of conferring on illustrious unfortunates; and her whole demeanour upon that occasion is ex­pressive of a great soul, rendered still braver by mis­fortunes.

Doctor Johnson has given us a very judicious note on this passage; and as it relates to the passions, which, as well as morals, are a subject of this work, I shall present the reader with a transcript of it here.

‘In Much Ado About Nothing, the father of Hero, depressed by her disgrace, declares himself so sub­dued by grief, that a thread may lead him ^*. How is it that grief, in Leonato and Lady Constance, produces effects directly opposite, and yet both agreeable to Nature? Sorrow softens the mind, while it is yet warmed by hope; but hardens it, when 'tis congealed by despair. Distress, while there remains any prospect of relief, is weak and flexible; but when no succour appears, is fearless [Page 179] and stubborn; angry alike at those who injure, and at those who do not help; careless to please, where nothing can be gained; and fearless to offend, when there is nothing further to be dreaded. Such was this Author's knowledge of the Passions.’

SCENE II.

What expressions can be stronger in themselves, or more shocking to the ears of her oppressors, than the following short exclamation!

Here the speech should have ended; the four re­maining lines but weaken and disgrace it.

SCENE III.

When Philip is urged by the Pope's Legate to break the league he had just entered into with John, he offers to compound the treachery by ceasing to be his friend, but without becoming his enemy.

To which Pandulpho makes him this reply:

The old Jesuit argues here as ingeniously for the dispensing power of the Papacy, as Satan does in Milton for his rebellion. The object of both is the same; namely, the absolute and exclusive dominion of Heaven.

SCENE VI.

The wild and enthusiastic manner with which the fondness and despair of Constance for her son, impels her to speak of him, has something extremely mov­ing in it:

There is something very tender and affecting in her making use of the epithet pretty, in the last line. It has a better effect there than dearest, angel, or even lovely, (though this last has a more compre­hensive sense) would have had in that place. I must beg leave to refer to the Reader's own taste for [Page 181] the justness of this observation; for I own, I cannot explain why it strikes me in this manner myself.

The reason why we are apt to cherish grief in our breasts; that species of it, I only mean, which may be distinguished by the name of tender sorrow; from a peculiar sort of indulgence it is capable of affording us, is admirably well expressed in the fol­lowing passage:

These last three lines are almost suffocating. I be­lieve no woman with a mother's feeling, could ever be able to pronounce them articulately, even in re­presentation.

Doctor Johnson gives a good note on one of the passages of the above speech:

‘This is a sentiment which great sorrow always dictates. Whoever cannot help himself, casts his eyes on others for assistance; and often mistakes their inability for coldness.’

[Page 182]I remember a couple of French lines on this sub­ject of grief, which contain the same thought that Constance expresses above:

SCENE VIII.

This may be a just image of life, to those who have exhausted its variety, and palled their senses with its pleasures. The speech might not have ill become his father, old Philip, then labouring under baffled hopes and disappointed wishes; who had just then suffered the mortification of having lost a battle, in the heart of his own dominions, and whose mis­taken faith in heaven had obliged him to break faith on earth, without effect too; but it was certainly rather too premature a sentence to have proceeded from the lips of a young prince, who had been but just married to a woman he loved. Such an impro­priety in the character of a speaker, hurts the effect of a thought or sentiment.

In the same Scene, there is a strong description given of the situation of a sovereign, with regard to the people, after he has forfeited their love, confi­dence, or esteem.

Pandulpho, speaking of John's keeping Arthur in prison:

SCENE IV.

The several useful reflections and morals to be col­lected from the following speeches, are so many, and so mixed, that it is difficult to separate or distinguish them. I shall therefore lay the whole passage toge­ther before the Reader, to draw his own inferences from; and shall also begin the Scene a little earlier than may at first appear to be necessary, not only on account of the admirable painting presented to us in the beginning of it, but in order to shew the situa­tion of circumstances in which the principal speaker stands at the time.

Doctor Johnson has made a comment on the latter part of this Scene, which the Reader has a right to claim in this place.

[Page 185] ‘There are many touches of Nature in this conference of John with Hubert. A man engaged in wickedness would keep the profit to himself, and transfer the guilt to his accomplice. These re­proaches vented against Hubert, are not the words of art or policy, but the eruptions of a mind swell­ing with the consciousness of a crime, and desi­rous of discharging its misery on another.’

‘This account of the timidity of guilt, hadst thou but shook thy head, &c. is drawn ab ipsis recessibus mentis, from an intimate knowledge of mankind; particularly that line in which he says, that to have bid him tell his tale in express words would have struck him dumb. Nothing is more certain, than that bad men use all the arts of fallacy upon them­selves, palliate their actions to their own minds by gentle terms, and hide themselves from their own detection in ambiguities and subterfuges.’

SCENE VII.

When Hubert has been suspected and charged with the murder of prince Arthur, the speech of Faulcon­bridge to him is finely expressive of the strength of despair arising from a guilty conscience:

SCENE I.

The manner and spirit with which great personages should act, on extraordinary occasions of difficulty or danger, are bravely pointed out by the gallant Faulconbridge, in the following speech to king John, when the French had invaded his kingdom.

SCENE II.

The struggles and compunctions of a good mind, upon the being necessitated to take that part in a public cause which in polity is stiled Rebellion, and also the horrid nature of a Civil War, are finely and justly drawn here.

The answer to this speech is fine; it pays due honour to the generous conflict in the speaker's breast, and makes a distinction between the effects of male and female tears, paying the usual, but too partial, compliment to the former. Be it so—The first are stronger on account of their being more rare, owing solely to the superior harshness of men's na­tures; but as the passions and feelings, which the spectator is sensible of, from each, are so very dif­ferent in their nature too, I cannot see how any sort of comparison can be fairly made between them.

SCENE X.

Salisbury, speaking to King John, perceives him dead.

This would make a good epitaph for a royal Sepulchre!

This Play closes with one truth in fact, and another in prophecy, which I hope all time will vouch the inspiration of.

SCENE I.

THIS Play opens with a proper caution to all judges and jurors, in criminal causes, to attend most carefully to the principle, or motive, by which the accuser appears to be actuated, that the credit of his testimony may be rated accordingly.

When the King calls the suit of Bolinbroke against Norfolk upon trial, he speaks thus to the father of the former:

SCENE II.

When the King forbids the combat, and com­mands the Duke of Norfolk to throw down Bolin­broke's gage ^*, he answers with the true spirit of a gallant nobleman:

Afterwards, when Bolinbroke is called upon to the same purpose, he also replies as bravely; but as he expresses himself in so much an inferior man­ner to the former, I think it could afford the reader no great entertainment to have the passage quoted.

SCENE IV.

When the King sentences these two champions to exile, he exacts an oath from them both, not to be reconciled to one another abroad, so far as to con­federate against the state of England; in the ad­ministering of which bond, he desires them to

Upon which latter line Doctor Warburton gives the following note:

‘It is a question much debated among the writers on the Law of Nations, whether a banished man be still tied in allegiance to the state which sent him into exile. Tully and Clarendon declare for the affirmative: Hobbes and Puffendorf hold [Page 193] the negative. Our Author, by this line, seems to be of the latter opinion.’

But I agree intirely with Cicero and Clarendon. The undergoing any penalty of law cannot dissolve either the moral or the political duty we owe our country. Socrates, by refusing to escape out of prison, shewed, that he thought his obedience and submission to the state continued still to be obliga­tory on him, even though the decree was unjust, and the sentence death. And under the Ostracism, which imposed banishment upon men for their very eminence and virtue, we do not hear of the illustri­ous exiles either speaking, or acting, as if they deemed their allegiance to have been cancelled.

Nay, Aristides carried the submission of a good subject so far, as to think himself obliged in duty to write his own name on a shell, at the request of an illiterate citizen of Athens, who voted against him on that very law. And Themistocles, though banished through the spirit of faction, not that of the laws, and kindly entertained and preferred in the armies of Persia, chose to swallow poison, rather than march against his country.

'Tis not the community that banishes a man, but the laws which govern it.

These surely are no object of resentment; and to rise in arms against a nation, because one of its statutes had fallen heavy upon us, would be just as rational, as to set a forest on fire, because we had received the bastinado by a cudgel that was taken out of it.

SCENE V.

Upon which passage there is the following reflec­tion, in the note by Doctor Johnson:

‘It is matter of very melancholy consideration, that all human advantages confer more power of do­ing evil, than good.’ A very melancholy reflection, indeed, were we to suppose it true!

In the instance before us, the hand of power, strength, or treachery, may certainly deprive us of a life, which it cannot restore; but Shakespeare does not mean to make the reflection universal. A good Prince may render his whole people happy; a bad one can only affect a part. When tyranny becomes general, it defeats itself, at the cost of the oppressor.

If my objection to the above uncomfortable maxim be valid, in the highest example, it would be trifling to adduce any lesser ones to prove it.

SCENE VI.

Lancaster, by way of comforting his son upon the sentence of banishment, paraphrases and poeti­cises the old English sentence, of every place is an honest men's home, in these words:

which lines are followed by a long and equivocal de­clamation in the stile of the Stoic philosophy; to which Bolinbroke impatiently replies, in a manner perfectly natural to the unhappy; for it requires lei­sure to grow wise; nor is this ever effected by our becoming better able to bear misfortune, but by our feeling it less, from use and habit.

SCENE I.

The weight of persuasion which the admonitions of a dying person are apt to impress upon the mind, more than the most lively remonstrances of one in perfect health, is well expressed here. The circum­stances of the time impress us with an awe which imprints the advice more strongly on our memory, and gives it additional authority.

Lancaster brought in sick, attended by the Duke of York.

In the continuation of this dialogue, the fatal consequences to a Prince of ill-chosen favourites, the danger of suffering foreign fashions and manners to be introduced into a state, with an enumerative description of the peculiar advantages of England, with regard to its situation, and other happy cir­cumstances, are strongly pointed out.

The latter part of this speech seems to be as pro­phetical as the first, if we compare it to the state of our national debt—to our stocks—by which we have long since become tenants to foreigners.

SCENE V.

There are undoubtedly certain notices, or premo­nitions, in the order of Providence, which mankind have been frequently sensible of; sometimes from dreams, at other times from unaccountable impres­sions on the mind, foreboding particular misfortunes of our lives, let philosophy reason against the no­tion ever so wisely.

Indeed, there appears one argument to oppose this opinion, which, in any indifferent case, might be thought sufficiently able to overthrow it; which is, that such hints rarely, if ever, have been found to answer any other purpose, than to render us unhappy before our time.

But matter of fact is not to be controverted by syllogism. The objection only serves to resolve it into a mystery, and leaves it still uninvestigable by human science. The more of such inexplicable secrets of Providence which fall under our observa­tion, the better; as they may serve to rouze the Atheist from his lethargy, and afford the Deist oc­casion to suspect, at least, that what he calls Na­tural Religion, is not the intire scheme of the Divine oeconomy with regard to men:

Here follows the passage which gave rise to the above reflection.

Shakespeare has given a description of the same complexion of mind, before, in the person of Antho­nio, in the Merchant of Venice. See my first remark on the First Scene of the First Act of that Play.

SCENE IX.

Hope has been often termed the assuager of our grief; but Shakespeare has justly raised it to an higher character, by making it an augmentation to our joys, also.

SCENE II.

The bishop of Carlisle, endeavouring to awaken the king to a manly exertion of his spirit against the rebellion, and neither to trust to the weak defence of right against might, nor expect that Providence shall, out of respect to his divine right, fight his battles for him, while he looks idly on, says,

To which the king, after expressing a contempt for Bolinbroke and his adherents, makes a reply agreeable to the vain notion and political superstition of those times, with regard to the absurd doctrine of indefeasible right.

SCENE III.

However, he afterwards begins to speak more ra­tionally upon this subject; for though he appears a little cast down at first, yet, on hearing some further ill news, he rouzes himself again, in the following speech:

SCENE IV.

But this poor abdicating king had no true heroism in his soul; for, upon the intelligence of some more cross events arriving to him just after, he suddenly drops the character of a fighting prince, and imme­diately sinks into that of a preaching priest.

This kind of homily he continues afterwards, in the same Scene; including, however, some good re­flections on the unstable and unsatisfactory state of mortality, even in the highest spheres of life; which would have become his confessor better than they did himself, as the spirited Bishop, a true son of the church militant, tells him, in the close of the following passage.

There are several other passages of the same kind, in this and the subsequent Act, where Richard alter­nately rises to a vain confidence in his indefeasible right, and then sinks again under a despondency about his fortunes; which I shall not disgust the Reader with here, as the representation of a great [Page 202] man suffering misfortunes meanly, is rather an object of contempt than of compassion.

In the latter part of this Scene, upon his finding matters growing worse and worse, he exclaims,

Doctor Johnson has prevented my observation on this passage, by a note of his upon it.

‘This sentiment is drawn from Nature. Nothing is more offensive to a mind convinced that its di­stress is without a remedy, and preparing to submit quietly to irresistible calamity, than those petty and conjectured comforts which unskilful officious­ness thinks it virtue to administer.’

SCENE I.

There is something, however, extremely affecting, in what this unhappy man says to his queen, upon her lamenting the misery of his situation.

This short sentence lays hold of the heart, makes us forget him as a king, and feel for him as a man. The fondness of his expression too, of fair woman, increases the tenderness of our regret at the addi­tional unhappiness of their separation.

SCENE II.

This poor moralizing prince makes a very just observation here, on the nature of all alliances in vice.

A further and stronger reflection upon such vi­cious connections, occurs in the last Scene of this Play, which I shall bring forward here before its time, where Exton, who had murdered Richard, brings an account of his great service to Bolinbroke.

SCENE X.

The following soliloquy, in which the state of the mind is compared to that of the world, though the thought is rather too much laboured, deserves to be quoted, on account of the beauties it contains, the reflections it supplies, as well as for the moral com­passion, and generous resentment, with which it is capable of inspiring the virtuous Reader for the un­happy speaker.

The last reflection has been so often made and remarked upon, before, in the course of this Work, that I shall leave it unnoticed here, and so conclude my observations on this Play.

SCENE I.

IN the first speech here, Henry the Fourth, in order to encourage his subjects to attend him with the better spirit on the Crusade expedition, which he had then resolved upon, gives a horrid description of their former state of civil war, which the kingdom was happily at that time free from.

SCENE II.

The method that men take to disguise the nature of their vices, by palliating epithets, is of dangerous consequences in life. It not only serves to blunt the edge of remorse in ourselves, but often helps to in­duce a milder censure in others, upon the most fla­grant enormities.

Thus a prostigate fellow, who debauches every woman in his power, is stiled a man of galantry; a pennyless adventurer, who carries off a rich heiress, [Page 208] is called a soldier of fortune; a duellist, dubbed with the title of a man of honour; a sharper, un chevalier d'industrie; an atheist, a free-thinker; and so forth.

A good specimen of this sort of deceitful phraseo­logy is presented to us in part of this Scene.

Pistol, in some other place, says of stealing, ‘ con­vey the wise it call ^*.’

SCENE III.

I think I may venture to pronounce, for the ho­nour of human nature, that the most abandoned per­son breathing, means not to pass his whole life in a state of profligacy. He purposes, from time to time, to take up, as the phrase is; but is too apt, from time to time, to procrastinate his amendment; thus silenc­ing the clamours of his conscience, by the hopeful design of reformation, and thinking his repentance sufficiently advanced, by a self-confession of his vice or immorality.

The danger of this species of quietism, is strongly pointed out, in part of a work lately published; and as it may afford a useful warning to some of my dissipated readers, I shall quote the passage I allude to here.

The following speech affords us a beautiful in­stance of this method of amusing our too flexible and indolent tempers of mind; which I copy here with the greater pleasure, as the speaker of it did effectually reform his life and manners, and has en­riched the annals of England with a memoir of true glory.

The Prince of Wales, speaking of his loose com­panions, who had just quitted the scene, says,

SCENE IV.

When the brave Hotspur is taxed by the king with having refused to surrender the prisoners which he had taken at the gallant action of Holmedon-Moor, to his order, the speech he makes upon that occasion, in excuse for his refractoriness, presents us with a [Page 210] very natural description of the uneasy, froward, and difficult temper of mind, a person is subject to in such circumstances as he paints himself to be at the time mentioned; and also entertains us with a cha­racter, admirably and humorously drawn, of a pert, foppish, and affected Court minion. The contrast of the two figures here before us, would make an ex­cellent picture on canvas.

The king, not being satisfied with his apology, says to him, after some prior altercation between them,

Upon this menace, the impatient temper of Hotspur breaks out into the following expressions; which, though the substance of them does not fall within the purpose of this Work, I shall, however, repeat here, and also continue the dialogue a good deal further, as it leads to the character of the speaker, which I design to give a description of, in the close of my observations on the two next Plays.

And again, to the same purpose:

The precarious confidence that men can venture to place in unwarrantable services performed for an­other, is well marked in the same scene, by one of the disloyal conspirators who had assisted Henry to dethrone king Richard.

The Reader may here refer back to the quotation from the Second Scene in the Fifth Act of the former Play.

SCENE I.

In this truly comic Scene, which may be the rather stiled so, because there is no buffoonery in it, and which I therefore think preferable even to the hu­mour of Falstaff, the vanity of old Glendower, in supposing himself to have been a peculiar object of the notice of Providence, which has, however, been the foible of several great men, Caesar, &c. with the vulgar ignorance of mistaking natural events for mi­racles, is finely contrasted with the careless humour, sturdy spirit, and rational investigation of Hotspur.

It would be doing injustice to the dialogue, to parcel it out as it refers singly to the several arti­cles above specified; therefore I shall entertain my readers with the whole passage intire, leaving them to mark the application in their own minds which will occur in their proper places.

SCENE II.

Again, after Glendower goes away,

SCENE III.

Here is a beautiful description given of that most pleasing crisis of mind and body, between sleeping and waking, when the passions are just subsiding to rest, but the senses not yet deprived of their no­tices.

Lady Mortimer, daughter to Glendower, not being able to speak any language but Welch to her hus­band, which he does not understand, the father un­dertakes to interpret between them.

There is neither metre-ballad-mongers stuff nor min­cing poetry, in the above speech. If Glendower is not original in it, he has at least the merit of a good translator.

A little further on in the same scene, the usual ex­pletives of conversation, and childish phrases of as­severation, are humorously turned into ridicule.

After lady Mortimer has sung her Welch song, Hotspur, in order to amuse his mind, then pondering on momentous intents, says to his wife,

SCENE IV.

This whole Scene is so beautiful, so spirited, and so affecting, that it would be a massacre in literature to fever its members asunder; which I should lay myself under the barbarous necessity of doing, were the several sentiments, observations, and reflections, which naturally arise from it, suffered to challenge their several references separately: I shall therefore serve up the compact body of it unbroken, before the Reader, and leave the dissection of its parts to his own judgment, taste, and feeling.

Let the father who has an untoward son, here learn how best to reprove; let the youth, whose [Page 218] virtues are obscured by his errors, be instructed how to reform; let the sovereign, who would preserve his dignity, be hence taught how to maintain it; and the king, whose soibles have rendered him the object of contempt, be herein warned of the dan­gerous consequences of his becoming despised.