is a rich marrowy vein of internal sentiment, with fine occasional insight into human nature, and cool cutting irony of expression. He is lamentably deficient in the plot and denouement of the story. It is like the rough draught of a tragedy, with a number of fine things thrown in, and the best made use of first; but it tends to no fixed goal, and the interest decreases, instead of increasing, as we read on, for want of previous arrangement and an eye to the whole. We have fine studies of heads, a piece of richly-coloured drapery, " a foot, an hand, an eye from Nature drawn, that's worth a history;" but the groups are ill disposed, nor are the figures proportioned to each other or the size of the canvas. The author's power is in the subject, not over it; or he is in possession of excellent materials, which he husbands very ill. This character, though it applies more particularly to Middleton, might be applied generally to the age. Shakespear alone seemed to stand over his work, and to do what he pleased with it. He saw to the end of what he was about, and with the same faculty of lending himself to the impulses of Nature and the impression of the moment, never forgot that he himself had a task to perform, nor the place which each figure ought to occupy in his general design. The characters of Livia, of Bianca, of Leantio and his Mother, in the play of which I am speaking, are all admirably drawn. The art and malice of Livia shew equal want of principle and acquaintance with the world; and the scene in which she holds the mother in suspense, while she betrays the daughter into the power of the profligate Duke, is a master-piece of dramatic skill. The proneness of Bianca to tread the primrose path of pleasure, after she has made the first false step, and her sudden transition from unblemished virtue to the most abandoned vice, in which she is notably seconded by her motherin-law's ready submission to the temptations of wealth and power, form a true and striking picture. The first intimation of the intrigue that follows, is given in a way that is not a little remarkable for simplicity and acuteness. Bianca says, "Did not the Duke look up? Methought he saw us." To which the more experienced mother answers, That's every one's conceit that sees a Duke. If he look stedfastly, he looks straight at them, When he perhaps, good careful gentleman, Never minds any, but the look he casts Is at his own intentions, and his object It turns out however, that he had been looking at them, and not "at the public good." The moral of this tragedy is rendered more impressive from the manly, independent character of Leantio in the first instance, and the manner in which he dwells, in a sort of doting abstraction, on his own comforts, in being possessed of a beautiful and faithful wife. As he approaches his own house, and already treads on the brink of perdition, he exclaims with an exuberance of satisfaction not to be restrained "How near am I to a happiness That earth exceeds not! Not another like it: G And full as long; after a five days fast She'll be so greedy now and cling about me: I take care how I shall be rid of her; And here 't begins." This dream is dissipated by the entrance of Bianca and his Mother. "Bian. Oh, sir, you're welcome home. Why this is dreadful now as sudden death Bian. Nay, I have been worse too, Lean. I'm glad thou mendst yet, I feel my heart mend too. How came it to thee? Bian. No, certain, I have had the best content That Florence can afford. Lean. Thou makest the best on't: Speak, mother, what's the cause? you must needs know. Bian. Methinks this house stands nothing to my mind ; To stand in a bay-window, and see gallants. Lean. Now I have another temper, a mere stranger To that of yours, it seems; I should delight To see none but yourself. Bian. I praise not that; Too fond is as unseemly as too churlish: I would not have a husband of that proneness, Be it the best that ever heart affected; Nay, were't yourself, whose love had power you know As look on one thing still: what's the eye's treasure, And know I speak not ill; 'tis full as virtuous As for her heart, sir, to be fixed on one. Lean. Now thou com'st home to me; a kiss for that word. Bian. No matter for a kiss, sir; let it pass; 'Tis but a toy, we'll not so much as mind it; Let's talk of other business, and forget it. Moth. (Aside.) I am glad he's here yet Lean. Speak, what's the humour, sweet, You make your lips so strange? This was not wont. Bian. Is there no kindness betwixt man and wife, It's grown a fashion for poor gentlewomen; |