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ment in that of Bassanio and the gaoler. The latter leans on his sword, and seems to take an active interest in what is said. Looking closer, and for the purpose of seeing who it was that so nobly has given to the poet's idea " a local habitation and a name," is found "painted by R. Westall, R. A.," engraved in the corner.

The eye wandering from this, fixes upon two female figures, one a stout, pursy, old gentlewoman, arrayed in all the pomp of silk and mechlin, jewellery and feathers; the other, a beautiful young damosel, clad as plain as plain can be; who seems endeavouring to persuade the old lady to tell something which she, on her part, seems in no hurry to relate. The old lady seems to say,

"How my bones ache! what a jaunt I've had!"

and the young lady's impatience,

"I would thou hadst my bones, and I thy news;

Nay, come I pray thee speak; good, good nurse, speak."

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Need I say any more? Need I tell that this is Juliet and her Nurse? Sweet Juliet! she is not yet married, and she wants to know of the Nurse how, and when she is to be. She is “all ear for what is to come. How her heart leaps for joy, when the Nurse, after many exclamations and ejaculations foreign to the purpose, says,—

"Then hie you hence to Friar Lawrence' cell,
There stays a husband to make you a wife," &c.

Let her own joy speak

An old fellow,

"Hie to High fortune! honest Nurse farewell.” R. Smirke, R. A., did this, and ably is it done. Hanging above this, is a scene of a different character. with a white night-cap on, and his features pinched up, is sneering at another surly fellow, with a moustache on his lip that would do honour to a Frenchman; his hands on his hips and his sturdy attitude, seem to imply he has a great contempt for his antagonist. While a seemingly more important personage, at the back, is looking at the latter-wondering what will come next. This is that scene in "Measure for Measure," where the hangman and mistress are contending for the respectability of their different callings. Neither can claim much superiority; and where such is the case, a slight matter puts an end to the altercation, which is done by the appearance of the provost, the figure at the back. This picture is also by Smirke.

By the side of these are two views; one, of part of Windsor Castle; the other, of Cornhill while the old Exchange existed. The last I value, as that Exchange is no more, and that a few short months will entirely destroy the likeness of the scene, and show another, and I think I may say, as worthy a successor.

To the right of these again, over a door, is another picture. I had often admired it, for the beauty of the woman, and the apparent devotion of the man. Ere I had read the story, I had set them down for lovers.

The man was so well made-so young—so handsome: the woman every inch a queen-so majestic, yet so devoted; one arm rests upon his shoulder, while the other is lifting his hand to her lips. This is the parting of the banished Suffolk with Queen Margaret. The moment when she says,—

"Oh, could this kiss be printed on thy hand,

That thou might'st think of these by the seal
Thro' whom a thousand sighs are breathed for thee !"

We forget the unfaithful queen in the constant woman. Suffolk was her lord, though King Henry was her husband. Suffolk it was that wooed her for the king, in whom she was miserably disappointed; how much so, let her own words tell :—

"I tell thee, Poole, when in the city Tours
Thou ran'st a tilt in honour of my love,
And stol'st away the ladies' hearts of France,
I thought King Henry had resembled thee
In courage, courtship, and proportion:
But all his mind is bent to holiness,

To number Ave Maries on his beads:
His champions are, the prophets and apostles:
His weapons, holy saws of sacred writ;
His study is his tiltyard; and his loves

Are brazen images of canonised saints."

Suffolk was ever by her side-the only one she ever cared to confide in; and Suffolk only had her heart: he was her first and only love. We cannot, therefore, blame, but must, perforce, compassionate with her. The artist helps us to do this. The picture indeed is a perpetual remembrancer of them; and, do all I can, instead of siding with those who condemn them, I cannot help regretting they were not made for each other. My next, and most prominent, and I might say, my best beloved, picture, is that of Imogen, dressed in boy's clothes, with her sword drawn, about to enter the cave of Bellarius. Poor, heart-broken lady, she has o'erstepp'd all bounds of modesty for love. She has donned man's attire i' the hope of getting service with Lucius, the Roman ambassadorin the greater and higher hope of being near her Posthumus

"At least,

That tho' his actions are not visible, yet

Report should render him hourly to her ear,
As truly as he moves.'

Her lover's servant was to have killed her, for her supposed unfaithfulness; but he cannot he does not think her unfaithful: and glory be to every servant who thinks. He advises her to apparel herself as a man, and directs her how to act; he furnishes her with attire, and goes back to Court, so that he may not be missed-previously directing her her way to Milford Haven, where it is supposed the Roman ambassador is; she loses her way; and the picture represents her, with her sword drawn, valiantly braving the darkness of the cave. Armed with all the courage

love inspires her with, she is withal cautious-she challenges the darkness

"Ho! who's here?

If anything that's ciyil, speak; if savage,

Take, or lend. Ho! no answer? Then I'll enter."

And enter she does. Every reader of Shakspeare knows the sequel, and its sequel. My picture induces me to read the story again. In nearly the middle of the nineteenth century-I come home from my daily work, from the noise and confusion of London-from the busiest part of the busiest city in the world—with my mind filled with coaches, cabs, omnibuses, wood pavements, railroads, accidents, offences, seditions, cabals, elections, riches, poverty, palaces, and hovels; I come home-I read the story, and the delightfulest draught of the fabled Hippocrene is but as sorry wine to the delicious feeling which it inspires; it is as if I were transported from the gloom and chill of December to the smiling, gladsome, and perfumed month of May. If anything can make one better, it is such a story as this; it is a perfect Lethean draught; it makes us forget all recollections of the past and all aspirations of the future; we live in the story-that is our present. So equally is the moral justice dealt, that we live in our young days-we are the trusting, believing, and innocent boy again; we see no ulterior motives-suspicion has not entered our soul; we love the beautiful, we admire the constant, and we sympathise with the distressed; and even when we wake from this trance, we agree with the poet, that "all discord" is

"Harmony not understood;

All partial evil, universal good."

This picture, also, is the production of Westall's pencil.

No

My next is of a different stamp from any of the preceding. It represents a man sitting in a chair of state, with a female standing before him, her hands clasped, her looks bent down, and her countenance troubled. He looks like a Duke—he has the true Glo'ster stamp on his face—“a wheedling villain;" but it is not Glo'ster. It is the Duke Angelo; and the woman before him is Isabella suing for her brother's pardon. wonder she looks down; what woman of modesty could look him in the face, while he makes such infamous proposals! Her clasped hands betray her horror; he, anymore than the Jew, will have no mercy. Her brother must die—unless-but, most humbly has she pleaded; no counsel could have been more ingenious, no orator more eloquent: but all in vain. The wicked alternative he unblushingly declares, and boasts about his "honour." "Honour!" says Isabella, in maiden and scornful indignation. "Seeming! seeming !"

"I will proclaim thee, Angelo; look for't:

Sign me a present warrant for my brother,

Or, with an outstretch'd throat, I'll tell the world

Aloud, what man thou art."

He laughs at her.

Asks her, who'll believe her-quotes his "unsoil'd

name,” and “the austereness of his life," as proofs against her accusation, and leaves her with a threat that he will prove 66 a tyrant to her brother," saying

"Say what you can, my false outweighs your true.”

But, the crafty Duke is outwitted-he is caught in his own trap-and most magnanimously punished by his brother. Woman is often accused of deceitfulness-more often than man is-it has almost become proverbial; yet, I think it is not true. Woman has so often been deceived, that it calls forth from her a corresponding watchfulness, a correspondent manner of action; and I think there is little doubt but that distrust begets distrust, and its antithesis, openness, begets openness. Woman, were she always treated truthfully, would behave truthfully. I think it belongs to human nature generally; I cannot think that truth can beget lies. Even amongst the most depraved, there is shown a regard for innocence: and this is why I think Isabella's conduct is free from blame-had Angelo behaved honourably, the sequel might have been different; his honour, his truth, might have been rewarded as he most wished; but as it was, so it was.

I have had occasion to notice Juliet before, but I have another picture still more beautiful- -a picture that has more of completeness in it, inasmuch as Romeo is there-it is the whole story in one scene- -it is Romeo and Juliet-the two names suggest and swallow up the rest,and although there is a third person present in the scene, the eye only embraces that of the lovers. Romeo is about to leave his Juliet-one leg is already over the balcony, the other stays only while he is taking a last kiss-the "ruddy east" is breaking up the darkness of the night, and the Nurse is warning them that the house is already astir-Juliet would have him stay; she says he must be deceived:

"It is not yet near day :

It was the nightingale and not the lark,
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear;"

But Romeo must leave her-he is not deceived-he says,

"It was the lark, the herald of the morn,

No nightingale. Look, love! what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east:
Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops;

I must be gone and live, or stay and die."

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Still she strives to detain him-loth, most loth, that he should leave her, she throws one arm round his neck and interlaces her other in his, while she uses her words of persuasion,

"Yon light is not daylight; I know it, I:
It is some meteor which the sun exhales,
To be to thee this night a torch-bearer,
And light thee on thy way to Mantua ;

Therefore stay yet, thou need'st not to be gone."

What lover could resist this! even tho' danger did stare him in the face! --How then could Romeo leave his wife? The slightest logic proves as a bond of steel; he consents, saying,

"Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death;

I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
I'll say, yon grey is not the morning's eye :
'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow:
Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat
The vaulting heaven, so high above our heads;
I have more care to stay, than will to go;-
Come death and welcome! Juliet wills it so.

The catastrophe hinted in these words alarms her, and fear opens the
eye which love had closed-she now sees plainly it is day, saying,-
"It is, it is, hie hence, begone, away," &c.

she no longer wishes him to stay when fears for his safety break in upon her-oh no-she wishes him away. The Nurse tells them her mother is approaching, and he must be gone. Could ye see my picture, ye would not wonder it was so hard to part; Romeo's face wears an expression not to be resisted; a man even would say, "would that all men were like him—a woman would say, "it were enough to 'witch the world with faithfulness." It is not only handsome features, curly locks, and a fine form, which the painter has portrayed; but it is the expression, the fondness with which he gazes upon his Juliet; the devotedness which beams from his face, and the mournful cast thrown over the form of the young wife, Juliet, which enhances the value of the scene. No story, not even the best which the ancients have left to us, has the interest this has. There is an alloy in that of Helen and Paris, immortalised by Homer; Sappho and Phaon have but a local interest; and Leander and Hero sink into insignificance compared with this. Pope strove hard to raise Eloïse and Abelard to the highest pinnacle; Prior's "Nut Brown Maid" is yet better; Goldsmith, Parnell, and Dryden, have essayed it; but there is none-no love-story equal to it. Now and then we come across a solitary instance of approach to it, as in Burns's "To Mary in Heaven;" and in the verses which I forget the title of, but which will be easily recognised by a line,

"Had we never loved so blindly.'

Shakspeare's is The Love Story, unequalled, unsurpassed: not only in countries where his language is spoken, but wheresoever the English language is understood; it is not only a story for "all time," as Ben Jonson says, but for all nations—all humanity.

(To be continued.)

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