Had made his course to illume that part of heaven
Where now it burns, Marcellus and myself,
The bell then beating one.-Hamlet, i. 1.

But, look, the morn, in russet mantle clad,

Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill.—Ibid., i. 1.
Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout

Till you have drench'd our steeples, drown'd the cocks!
You sulphurous and thought-executing fires,
Vaunt-couriers of oak-cleaving thunderbolts,

Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,
Strike flat the thick rotundity o' the world!
Crack nature's moulds, all germins spill at once,
That make ingrateful man!

Rumble thy bellyful! spit, fire ! spout, rain!
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters:
I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness;
I never gave you kingdom, call'd you children,
You owe me no subscription: then, let fall
Your horrible pleasure; here I stand, your slave,
A poor, infirm, weak, and despis'd old man:
But yet I call you servile ministers,

That will with two pernicious daughters join

Your high-engender'd battles 'gainst a head

So old and white as this. O! O! 'tis foul !—Lear, iii. 2.

Now, by yond' marble heaven,

In the due reverence of a sacred vow,

I here engage my words.

Do not rise yet.
Witness, you ever-burning lights above,
You elements that clip us round about,
Witness, that here Iago doth give up
The execution of his wit, hands, heart,
To wrong'd Othello's service!—Oth., iii. 3.

A goodly day not to keep house, with such

Whose roof's as low as ours! Stoop, boys: this gate
Instructs you how to adore the heavens, and bows you
To morning's holy office: the gates of monarchs
Are arch'd so high, that giants may jet through
And keep their impious turbands on, without
Good morrow to the sun. Hail, thou fair heaven!
We house i' the rock, yet use thee not so hardly
As proud livers do.-

Hail, heaven!—

Hail, heaven !—

Now for our mountain sport: up to yon hill:

Your legs are young; I'll tread these flats.-Cym., iii. 3.

But what is this?

Here is a path to it; 'tis some savage hold.-Ibid., iii. 6.

Thou God of this great vast, rebuke these surges
Which wash both heaven and hell; and thou, that hast
Upon the winds command, bind them in brass,
Having call'd them from the deep! O still
Thy deafening, dreadful thunders; gently quench
Thy nimble, sulphurous flashes! O how, Lychorida,
How does my queen? Thou storm, venomously
Wilt thou spit all thyself? The seaman's whistle
Is as a whisper in the ears of death,
Unheard.-Per., iii. 1.

In his plots, Shakespeare has a unity of purpose, and a harmony of moral principle, that make his style a special study in this particular alone, besides the countless other perfections marking his dramatic

art.

To take the sublime tragedy of "Lear"-as perhaps the most signal example of unity in dramatic plot and ethical purpose-see how he has made the primary story of the filial wickedness of Goneril and Regan with the filial truth of Cordelia towards the old king, reflected by the secondary story of Edmund's treachery and Edgar's fidelity towards their father, Gloster.

Again, in "Timon of Athens" see how the dramatist has contrived to unite the almost episodical events of Alcibiades' career with those of Timon's; and to blend the minor points of the one with the more striking points of the other. In doing this, he has made the originating cause of the military leader's wrath against the Athenian rulers, and the munificent nobleman's hatred towards them, to spring from a similar source-ingratitude.

See how, even in his less grave plays, he has made the subordinate incidents and inculcated lesson a kind of reinforcement of the main events and precept contained therein; as we find this exemplified in his drama of "The Merchant of Venice"; where Portia's fate dependent on the caskets, involving the question of chance and right judgment, is but a harmonious carrying on of the chief points-the mixture of chance and judgment in the legal quirk which saves Antonio's life-the questions of prejudice between castes and faiths, the justice and injustice between Christian and Jew, the malice and pertinacious revenge of Shylock paralleled by the hatred and oppression of Antonio and his Venetian protectors towards the persecuted tribe. And-to adduce but a single instance in evidence of Shakespeare's passages containing coincident dramatic monition-we cite the following speech made by the Second Murderer in "Richard III."; and then the speech made by the usurper himself, upon the same subject-conscience.

Observe how finely the dramatist contrives to make the hireling murderer's temporary qualms-bluntly, nay, coarsely and almost humorously expressed a kind of rough sketch (at the same time limned with marvellously distinctive characterisation) of that subsequent terrible revealment of the night horrors and agonies that haunt the couch of the royal murderer:

First Murd. Where's thy conscience now?
Sec. Murd. In the Duke of Gloster's purse.

First Murd. So, when he opens his purse to give us our reward, thy conscience flies out.

Sec. Murd. 'Tis no matter; let it go; there's few or none will entertain it.
First Murd. What if it come to thee again?

Sec. Murd. I'll not meddle with it-it is a dangerous thing, it makes a man a coward: a man cannot steal, but it accuseth him; a man cannot swear, but it checks him; a man cannot lie with his neighbour's wife, but it detects him: 'tis a blushing shame-faced spirit, that mutinies in a man's bosom; it fills one full of obstacles; it made me once restore a purse of gold, that by chance I found; it beggars any man that keeps it: it is turned out of all towns and cities for a dangerous thing; and every man, that means to live well, endeavours to trust to himself, and live without it. R. III., i.

4.

K. Rich. Give me another horse-bind up my wounds-
Have mercy, Jesu! Soft! I did but dream.

O, coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me!
The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight.
Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh.
What! do I fear myself? there's none else by:
Richard loves Richard; that is, I am I.

Is there a murderer here? No-yes, I am:
Then fly. What! from myself? Great reason why;
Lest I revenge. What! myself upon myself!
Alack, I love myself. Wherefore? for any good
That I myself have done unto myself?

O, no! alas, I rather hate myself

For hateful deeds committed by myself!

I am a villain: yet I lie, I am not.

Fool, of thyself speak well: fool, do not flatter.
My conscience hath a thousand several tongues,
And every tongue brings in a several tale,
And every tale condemns me for a villain.
Perjury, perjury, in the high'st degree;
Murder, stern murder, in the dir'st degree;
All several sins, all us'd in each degree,
Throng to the bar, crying all, Guilty! guilty!
I shall despair. There is no creature loves me;
And if I die, no soul shall pity me:

Nay, wherefore should they-since that I myself
Find in myself no pity to myself?

Methought the souls of all that I had murder'd
Came to my tent; and every one did threat

To-morrow's vengeance on the head of Richard.-R. III., v. 3.

Shakespeare has numerous dramatic expedients for introducing certain needful points with easy and natural effect:—

Rosalind. Do you not know I am a woman? when I think, I must speak. Sweet,

say on.
Celia. You bring me out. Soft! comes he not here?
Rosalind. 'Tis he, slink by, and note him.

Enter ORLANDO and JAQUES.

[ROSALIND and CELIA retire.

As You L., iii. 2.

By the above device of making Rosalind and Celia break off their conversation and withdraw while Orlando and Jaques talk together, the dramatist gives an opportunity for a characteristic dialogue between the two latter, and for making the lover avow his passion for his mistress (though unconsciously) in her very presence :—

Orlando. Is't possible, that on so little acquaintance you should like her? that, but seeing, you should love her? and, loving, woo? and, wooing, she should grant? and will you persèver to enjoy her ?—Ibid., v. 2.

This question of Orlando's serves to evoke an explanation of the sudden mutual liking between his brother Oliver and Celia; which else might strike the audience, or readers of the play, as being unnaturally abrupt.

And once again, a pot o' the smallest ale.-Tam. of S., Induc. 2. Most humorously and appropriately has Shakespeare, by the earnestness and repetition of this call for the weakest of liquors, indicated the thirst that besets the drunkard after his heavy sleep.

Countess. Had you not lately an intent-speak truly-
To go to Paris?

Helena. Madam, I had.—All's W., i. 3.

Our author causes the Countess to make this inquiry, because it was necessary that Helena's "intent to go to Paris" should be discussed between them in the present scene for the fartherance of the dramatic action, although there has been no absolute mention previously of the "intent" having come to the Countess's knowledge. [See PASSAGES OF INCOMPLETE EXPLANATION.]

Countess. Alas! and would you take the letter of her?

Might you not know she would do as she has done,

By sending me a letter? Read it again.

Steward (Reads). “I am Saint Jaques' pilgrim," &c.—Ibid., iii. 4.

By the lady's desire to hear the letter re-read, the dramatist provides that it shall be heard by the spectators of the play.

Captain.

Viola. Orsino! I have heard my father name him :
He was a bachelor then.-Tw. N., i. 2.

This little sentence of Viola's contains one of our dramatist's apparently slight but really subtle touches of artistic contrivance. It lets us into the secret of the original source of this charming heroine's interest in Orsino-her father's mention; while by the single word bachelor," we are allowed to perceive the peculiar nature of the interest she feels. By this delicate indication of a pre-existing inclination on her part for the count, we are prepared for the circumstance of Viola's at once falling so deeply in love with him, when she comes to know him personally.

Sir Toby. Come hither, knight; come hither, Fabian: we'll whisper o'er a couplet or two of most sage saws.-Ibid., iii. 4.

Sir Toby's withdrawal apart with the two others affords opportunity for Viola's soliloquy, and gives in a natural manner the effect of their inclination to let the quarrel drop.

Florizel. Hark, Perdita.

[Taking her aside.

(To CAMILLO) I'll hear you by and by.-W. T., iv. 3. The above device serves a double dramatic purpose. It allows us to perceive how the young prince, seeing that Perdita stands silently-as it were, irresponsively and unassentingly-by while he speaks to Camillo, leads her apart that he may convince her of his own unswerving faith and persuade her to his views; and it also affords opportunity for Camillo's soliloquy which tells the audience his plan.

Camillo.

My lord,

Fear none of this. . . . For instance, sir,
That you may know you shall not want-one word.

Re-enter AUTOLYCUS.-Ibid., iv. 3.

[They talk aside.

Very naturally is the lively rogue's soliloquy here introduced, while

Camillo is explaining to the lovers what will be their resources in their wanderings.

Florizel. O Perdita, what have we twain forgot!

Pray you, a word. [They converse apart.]-W. T., iv. 3.

This gives opportunity for Camillo's mention of his intending to inform the king of his son's departure.

Poins. Come, shelter, shelter: I have removed Falstaff's horse, and he frets like gummed velvet.

Falstaff. Where's Poins, Hal?

P. Henry. He is walked up to the top of the hill: I'll go seek him.

[Pretends to seek POINS. Falstaff. I am accursed to rob in that thief's company: the rascal hath removed my horse, and tied him I know not where. . . . Give me my horse, you rogues; give me my horse, and be hanged!

Gadshill. Case ye, case ye; on with your visors: there's money of the king's coming down the hill.

P. Henry. Sirs, you four shall front them in the narrow lane; Ned Poins and I will walk lower: if they 'scape from your encounter, then they light on us.

Poins. Sirrah Jack, thy horse stands behind the hedge: when thou needest him, there thou shalt find him.

First Traveller. Come, neighbour: the boy shall lead our horses down the hill; we 'll walk afoot awhile, and ease our legs.

Falstaff. Come, my masters, let us share, and then to horse before day. . .

P. Henry. Got with much ease. Now merrily to horse.—1 H. IV., ii. 2.

How admirably do the above-cited touches set the absolute scene of the Gadshill robbery before our eyes; and how the dramatist has borne in mind the necessity of providing for the fat knight's return to town, by making Poins, after he has had his jest out, tell Sir John where he may find his purloined horse. Shakespeare forgets nothing that may aid dramatic verisimilitude.

Falstaff. Come hither, hostess.

Enter GOWER.

[Taking her aside.

Chief Justice. Now, Master Gower, what news?

Gower. The king, my lord, and Henry, Prince of Wales,

Are near at hand, the rest the paper tells.

Falstaff. As I am a gentleman,—

Hostess. Faith, you said so before.

Falstaff. As I am a gentleman: come, no more words of it...

Chief Justice. I have heard better news.

Falstaff. What's the news, my good lord?

Chief Justice (to GOWER). Where lay the king last night?

Gower. At Basingstoke, my lord.

Falstaff. I hope, my lord, all's well: what is the news, my lord?

Chief Justice (to GOWER). Come all his forces back?

Gower. No; fifteen hundred foot, five hundred horse,

Are march'd up to my lord of Lancaster,

Against Northumberland and the archbishop.

Falstaff. Comes the king back from Wales, my noble lord?

[Gives a letter.

Chief Justice (to GOWER). You shall have letters of me presently: come, go along with me, good Master Gower.

Falstaff. My lord !*

Chief Justice. What's the matter?

We seem to actually hear the stentorian roar with which this exclamation is shouted, compelling the Lord Chief Justice to attend.