150 DIFFICULT POINTS AND PASSAGES OF SHAKSPERE'S PLAYS.

weighty task; but, like others, he did but little. His great fault appears to have been a strong faith in the infallibility of critics, most especially of Pope and Theobald. Soon after, an edition was published by Warburton, who appears to me to be a sensible and clever critic, but a man far too fond of altering, where he cannot understand. Of Malone and Steevens it is scarcely worth while to speak; the notes of the latter are (almost without an exception) either far-fetched and arrogant, or ridiculous and trivial. Of more modern editors little can be said;-some have done much for the poet, others less; but all have contributed their mite, and deserve the praise due to industry and merit. Yet, as Johnson says, "after the labours of all the editors, I found many passages which appeared to me likely to obstruct the greater number of readers, and thought it my duty to facilitate their passage.'

Doubtless many who cast their eye upon the heading of this series of articles, will cast a hasty, and I trust unmerited, censure upon the presumption of one who dares to attempt an explanation of passages and points of our great bard, which the most learned, and the most abstruse have vainly attempted to unravel; while others, less interested in the subject, will pass it over as dry and uninteresting. Against these difficulties I am prepared to stand; and if I should gain the good opinion of one real lover of our poet I shall be amply rewarded. Should I fail in the attempt, I will wrap myself up in the consciousness that it is better to fall in a good cause than triumph in a bad one.

I have for a long time given Shakspere my constant and almost undivided attention, and have, I trust, not done so entirely in vain. I therefore set about my task cheerfully and confidently, hoping to be able to give satisfaction, both to the public, and also to my friends the editors.

As it is necessary to observe some order in a work of this kind, I propose to examine the plays in succession; observing, first, the grand points which present themselves on a general view of each play, then, the principal disputed and difficult passages in the order in which they occur; making brevity my chief aim, subservient only to clearness and accuracy.

I intend to commence with the first paper next month, which will contain general points observable in the play of Hamlet; and I trust that our readers will be amused with the remarks even of so poor a critic as myself.

C. H. H.

HYMNS TO NIGHT.

(Translated from the German of Novalis.)

IV.

Now do I know when the last morn will be; when the light shall no more give alarm to the night and to love; when the slumber shall be without end, and there shall be but one exhaustless dream. Heavenly weariness do I feel within me. Long and wearisome had become the pilgrimage to the holy grave, the cross a burthen. He who hath tasted of the crystal wave that gushes forth, unknown to common eye, in the dark bosom of that hill, against whose foot the flood of earthly waves is dashed and broken; he who hath stood upon the summit of the world's mountain bounds, and hath looked beyond them down into that new land, into the abode of Night; he, well I ween, turns not back into the turmoil of the world,—into the land where the light, amid eternal unrest, dwells.

There, above, does he erect his huts,-his huts of peace; there longs and loves, until comes the most welcome of all hours to draw him down into that fountain's source. Upon the surface floats all that is earthly; it is hurried back by storms: but that which was hallowed by the breath of love,-freely streams it forth, through hidden paths, into that realm beyond the mountain chain, and there, exhaled as incense, becomes mixed with loves that have slept. Still, cheerful light, dost thou waken the weary to his toil; still pourest thou glad life into my breast: but from the mossy monument that memory has raised, thence canst thou not allure me. Willingly will I employ my hands in industry and toil; I will look around me at thy bidding; I will celebrate the full glory of thy splendour; trace out, untired, the beauteous consistency of thy wondrous work; willingly will I mark the marvellous course of thy mighty, glowing time-piece; observe the balance of gigantic powers, and the laws of the wondrous play of countless spaces and their periods. But true to the Night remains my heart of hearts, and to creative Love, her daughter. Canst thou show me a heart for ever faithful? Hath thy sun fond eyes that know me? thy stars clasp my proffered hand? Do they return the tender pressure, the caressing word? Hast thou clothed her with fair hues and pleasing outline? Or was it she who gave thine ornament a higher, dearer meaning? What pleasure, what enjoyment,

Do

can thy life afford, that shall overweigh the ecstasies of death? Bears not every thing that inspires us the colours of the Night? Thee she cherishes with a mother's care; to her thou owest all thy majesty. Thou hadst melted in thyself, hadst been dissolved in endless space, had she not restrained and encircled thee, so that thou wert warm, and gavest life to the world. Verily, I was, before thou wert: the mother sent me with my sisters to inhabit thy world, to hallow it with love, so that it might be gazed on as a memorial for ever; to plant it with unfading flowers. As yet they have borne no fruit, these god-like thoughts; but few as yet are the traces of our revelation. The day shall come when thy timepiece pointeth to the end of time; when thou shalt be even as one of us; and, filled with longing and ardent love, be blotted out and die. Within my soul I feel the end of thy distracted power, heavenly freedom, hailed return. In wild sorrow I recognise thy distance from our home; thy hostility towards the ancient glorious heaven. In vain are thy tumult and thy rage. Indestructible remains the cross; a victorious banner of our race.

I wander over,

And every tear
To gem our pleasure
Will then appear.
A few more hours,

And I find my rest

In maddening bliss,

On the loved one's breast.
Life, never ending,

Swells mighty in me;

I look from above down—

Look back upon thee.

By yonder hillock

Expires thy beam;

And comes with a shadow,

The cooling gleam.
Oh, call me, thou loved one,

With strength from above;
That I may slumber,

And wake to love.
I welcome death's

Reviving flood;

To balm and to ether

It changes my blood.

I live through each day,

Filled with faith and desire;
And die when the Night comes

In heaven-born fire.

FROM HORACE.

FREE from the cares of state and pelf,

And only master of himself,

Blest is he who can daily say,

"Thank Heaven-I've lived another day."

THE MAGIC TREE.

In a garden, decked with lovely flowers, shaded by widely spreading trees, and watered by gently rippling streams, there grew one tree that far surpassed all its companions in beauty. Its roots were deep; its stem sturdy; and its luxuriant branches were covered with the most beautiful and delicate blossoms, that filled the whole garden with their rich and exquisite perfume. And not only in the spring-time and summer, when all the other trees were blooming, but even in the cold bleak winter, this tree blossomed in all its beauty; and it remained uninjured in the wildest storms, when the mighty wind bent down and broke all the trees around, and scattered their leaves and flowers away.

But there came a cold chilling breeze from the east, and its lovely blossoms withered and fell.

The name of this tree was Love; whose roots will remain unmoved, and stem unbroken, under the wildest storms of affliction; but whose flowers will all fade before the breath of unkindness.

PUCK.

SONG.

FILL the bowl; drown care with drinking:

Hence, away with moody thinking!
None but fools would, mad with folly,
While there's wine, be melancholy.
Fill,-but know that grief and sorrow
May be thine, 'tis like, to-morrow.

Wreathe around the goblet's brim
Rosy chaplets, dewy dim.

Laugh and jest; and, while there's mirth,

Lose all thought of baser earth.

Laugh, but know thy flowers will die,

And thy laughter breed a sigh.

Sing, in music's liveliest strain,
Pleasure's songs,—then drink again :
Dance around a joyous measure;
Bask awhile in short-lived pleasure:
Dance and song will yield to-morrow
Hours of deep unceasing sorrow.

C. H. H.

FAITH AND FALSEHOOD.

How the moments flew by as I gazed on thy face,

And noted each lineament there,

And thought the bright myriads of heaven could place

None beside me more lovely or fair;

Those, those were the hours whose remembrance can stil
Shed a glow o'er the desolate soul,

Which not even age nor desertion's sad chill
Can wholly or always control.

As enraptured I looked in thine answering eyes,
Not then so averted from mine,

I envied not angels their beautiful skies,

For methought they were far less divine; And thy voice's sweet music-it fell on my ear

As the tones of a rapturous dream,

Which entice the fond soul from its mansion to hear
What scarcely of earth it can deem.

But why should I strive to recall to my mind
The thoughts and the joys of the past?
Time soon leaves our happiness distanced behind,
And hope, too, will leave us at last.

Till taught to believe it by lasting despair

I never could think thee untrue;

But thy heart was as false as thy features were fair,
Which too late for my comfort I knew.

My youth's fairy vision has vanished away ;-
Joy ever too soon would depart;

Now only the faint beams of memory play
Round my ruined and desolate heart:
From delusion awakened I fain would return
To that scene of delusion again,

Were it only to flee from suspicions that burn,

And the thoughts that would madden my brain

As the wretch whom the world and its troubles have torn

With misery's cankerous tooth,

In his sleep from the present is happily borne

To the scenes of his home and his youth;

When he wakes from his slumber to find it a dream,

He turns in his feverish bed,

And could weep to recall that too transient gleam

Of the moments of joy that have fled.

I. S. H.