Thou'rt all perfection: Diana herself Swells in thy thoughts and moderates thy beauty. Feathering love-shafts, whose golden heads he dips Sus. Come, come: these golden strings of flattery Frank. Then look here; For here, here is the fen in which this hydra Of discontent grows rank. Sus. Heaven shield it! Where? Frank. In mine own bosom! here the cause has root; And will, I hope, confound me. Sus. You speak riddles." vol. ii. p. 437-440. The unfortunate bigamist afterwards resolves to desert this innocent creature: but, in the act of their parting, is moved by the devil, who rubs against him in the shape of a dog! to murder her. We are tempted to give the greater part of this scene, just to show how much beauty of diction and natural expression of character may be combined with the most revolting and degrading absurdities. The unhappy bridegroom saysWhy would you delay? we have no other business Now, but to part. Sus. And will not that, sweet-heart, ask a long time? Farewell. I'll make it plain and easy to you. Sus. Ah, 'las! I'm not half perfect in it yet. I must have it thus read a hundred times. Pray you take some pains, I confess my dulness. [Kisses her. Frank. Come! again and again, farewell. [Kisses her.] wilt return? All questions of my journey, my stay, employment, And revisitation, fully I have answered all. There's nothing now behind but- Sus. Frank. What is't? But this request — Sus. That I may bring you thro' one pasture more, Up to yon knot of trees: amongst those shadows I'll vanish from you; they shall teach me how. Yet FARTHER SCENES. Frank. Why, 'tis granted: come, walk then. Sus. Nay, not too fast: They say, slow things have best perfection; The gentle show'r wets to fertility, The churlish storm makes mischief with his bounty. Is out: yet will you leave me? Sus. You'll make me stay for ever, What? so churlishly? Rather than part with such a sound from you. Frank. Why, you almost anger me.—- -'Pray you begone. Some hurt may betide you homewards. Sus. To leave you is the greatest I can suffer. Tush! I fear none: 67 Here the dog rubs against him; and, after some more talk, he stabs her! 66 Sus. Frank. Not yet mortal? I would not linger you, [Stabs her again. Sus. Now heaven reward you ne'er the worse for me! I did not think that death had been so sweet, Nor I so apt to love him. I could ne'er die better, For I'm in charity with all the world. [Dies." vol. ii. p. 452-—455. We cannot afford any more space for Mr. Ford; and what we have said, and what we have shown of him, will probably be thought enough, both by those who are disposed to scoff, and those who are inclined to admire. It is but fair, however, to intimate, that a thorough perusal of his works will afford more exercise to the former disposition than to the latter. His faults are glaring and abundant; but we have not thought it necessary to produce any specimens of them, because they 68 FORD FAULTS AND MERITS. are exactly the sort of faults which every one acquainted with the drama of that age reckons upon finding. Nobody doubts of the existence of such faults: But there are many who doubt of the existence of any counterbalancing beauties; and therefore it seemed worth while to say a word or two in their explanation, There is a great treasure of poetry, we think, still to be brought to light in the neglected writers of the age to which this author belongs; and poetry of a kind which, if purified and improved, as the happier specimens show that it is capable of being, would be far more delightful to the generality of English readers than any other species of poetry. We shall readily be excused for our tediousness by those who are of this opinion; and should not have been forgiven, even if we had not been tedious, by those who look upon it as a heresy. HAZLITT'S CHARACTERS OF SHAKESPEARE. 669 (AUGUST, 1817.) Characters of Shakespeare's Plays. By WILLIAM HAZLITT. 8vo. pp. 352. London: 1817.* THIS is not a book of black-letter learning, or historical elucidation;―neither is it a metaphysical dissertation, full of wise perplexities and elaborate reconcilements. It is, in truth, rather an encomium on Shakespeare, than a commentary or critique on him-and is written, more to show extraordinary love, than extraordinary knowledge, of his productions. Nevertheless, it is a very pleasing book—and, we do not hesitate to say, a book of very considerable originality and genius. The author is not merely an admirer of our great dramatist, but an Idolater of him; and openly professes his idolatry. We have ourselves too great a leaning to the same superstition, to blame him very much for his error: and though we think, of course, that our own admiration is, on the whole, more discriminating and judicious, there are not many points on which, especially after reading his eloquent exposition of them, we should be much inclined to disagree with him. The book, as we have already intimated, is written less to tell the reader what Mr. H. knows about Shakespeare or his writings, than to explain to them what he feels about them-and why he feels so-and thinks that all who profess to love poetry should feel so likewise. So. It may be thought that enough had been said of our early dramatists, in the immediately preceding article; and it probably is But I could not resist the temptation of thus renewing, in my own name, that vow of allegiance, which I had so often taken anonymously, to the only true and lawful King of our English Poetry! and now venture, therefore, fondly to replace this slight and perishable wreath on his august and undecaying shrine: with no farther apology than that it presumes to direct attention but to one, and that, as I think, a comparatively neglected, aspect of his universal genius. 70 HAZLITTHIS ENTHUSIASM FOR SHAKESPEARE. What we chiefly look for in such a work, accordingly, is a fine sense of the beauties of the author, and an eloquent exposition of them; and all this, and more, we think, may be found in the volume before us. There is nothing niggardly in Mr. H.'s praises, and nothing affected in his raptures. He seems animated throughout with a full and hearty sympathy with the delight which his author should inspire, and pours himself gladly out in explanation of it, with a fluency and ardour, obviously much more akin to enthusiasm than affectation. He seems pretty generally, indeed, in a state of happy intoxication and has borrowed from his great original, not indeed the force or brilliancy of his fancy, but something of its playfulness, and a large share of his apparent joyousness and self-indulgence in its exercise. It is evi dently a great pleasure to him to be fully possessed with the beauties of his author, and to follow the impulse of his unrestrained eagerness to impress them upon his readers. When we have said that his observations are generally right, we have said, in substance, that they are not generally original; for the beauties of Shakespeare are not of so dim or equivocal a nature as to be visible only to learned eyes-and undoubtedly his finest passages are those which please all classes of readers, and are admired for the same qualities by judges from every school of criticism. Even with regard to those passages, however, a skilful commentator will find something worth hearing to tell. Many persons are very sensible of the effect of fine poetry on their feelings, who do not well know how to refer these feelings to their causes; and it is always a delightful thing to be made to see clearly the sources from which our delight has proceeded — and to trace back the mingled stream that has flowed upon our hearts, to the remoter fountains from which it has been gathered. And when this is done with warmth as well as precision, and embodied in an eloquent description of the beauty which is explained, it forms one of the most attractive, and not the least instructive, of literary exercises. In all works of merit, however, and |