Iago seizes on every circumstance which may aid him-" in Venice wives do so and so"-playing on the simple foreigner, who forgets that women are alike all over the world-good and bad. He recals also to Othello's mind the observation of Brabantio under his disappointment, introducing it in testimony of the justice of present doubts. The very symptoms of true love, which, till now, had been subjects of pride to the beloved one, are contracted to the injury of Desdemona. How little did she guess the cause of that aching forehead which vainly she endeavoured to relieve; and how beautifully unsuspicious of evil she is! A guilty conscience is not always the only accuser— the most guiltless, if of anxious temperament, will forebode ill, even perhaps when it does not impend: but we frequently hasten blindfold to misfortune, and fear only when there is no occasion for affright. How moving are the doubts which perplex Othello, that his ardently loved wife may be innocent: and that may, while he gives utterance to it, is almost a must. How thrilling is that ecstasy which prompts him madly to long for evidence of good or ill-ay, though it were the worst his natural freedom from jealousy rendering him the more furious under its domination when it was once produced; and, as without overwhelming proof, or at least overwhelming influence, he could not have been taught to foster it, so when it once had birth, its growth was the quicker, its matured stature the more gigantic! How our blood tingles as we hearken to the solemn vow of the husband and his bane, while they kneel beneath the cope of heaven and proclaim to the marble vault their fiendish resolutions, summoning the everburning lights to witness and assist in their accomplishment! Who, particularly in the grandioso style, succeeds like Shakspeare, where it is most difficult to avoid failure? He convinces us of the individuality of his characters. Do we not feel, while we read, if we do not believe or reason upon it, that so surely as the battle of Actium was fought, Othello lived, thought, spoke, endured, and acted, as the author represents-Desdemona loved, wed, honoured, obeyed, suffered, and forgave? Do we not feel that to deny it would be akin to scepticism? Iago, the master-spirit, presides everywhere; Desdemona's ingenuousness and frankness, real proofs of innocence in a wife, are converted into matter of accusation- -a girl, to elude suspicion, may talk with endeavoured candour and unguarded openness of her lover; but, though there is maidenly shame, in her case there is no guilt in loving. A wife who desires to preserve her good fame will be silent as night on the topic of her cher ami. Iago was too intimate with character to be ignorant of this; but when blinded by passion, we may be reasoned into the credence of falsehood; therefore he practised what gross deception he pleased on the offuscated intellect of Othello. While a fond wife is treated with love she will ever be submissive; but use her harshly, address her unbecomingly, and directly the dignity of the meekest and most timid is put on the alert. And thus, to the Moor's ungentlemanly mandate, "Fetch't-let me see it," Des demona replies, with determined pride, Why so I can, sir, but I will not now." Yet afterwards she tries to, and does, attribute his unseemly behaviour to state cares and public annoyances—excusing and palliating woman! What a contrast she offers to the impetuousness and unreasonableness of the fiery Juliet, who blames almost before she accuses! It is some comfort to women, wronged and slighted by Iago, to read his extorted confession that there are many worthy and chaste dames. Othello's murder is, after all, instigated in part by principle-he believes his condemnation just-there is no malice, spite, cruelty, or petty revenge in the deed-nay, there is mercy; for once her end is resolved on, once her death is in progress, he hastens its completion, and desires to lessen and abbreviate her sufferings. "I would not have thee linger in thy pain." Reason is often misguided—the heart is rarely deceived. His reason believes in her guilt-his affection cannot, and does not. It feeds, even while reason plots her destruction, upon her many excellencies. "A fine woman! a fair woman! a sweet woman !"-The first for admiration, the second for love, the third for domestic happiness! The thought of harming her has turned his heart to stone. And such is the power of the author, that we literally credit his assertion, "I strike it, and it hurts my hand." The world, indeed, hath not—hath never had a sweeter creature. "She might lie by an emperor's side and command him tasks." How happy and honoured was Othello in his lot! He knew it once, and felt it even now. It is the gentletempered whom we willingly obey-obedience to whom we relishour submission to whom we readily acknowledge. We may, with abounding pleasure, obey the wilful and capricious-we delight not equally, however, in publishing her sway; and we shrink from the rule of a virago. The first asks as a favour, the second demands as a right, the third dooms to as a punishment. "An admirable musician !" How much power is comprised in this single phrase! We fancy Desdemona to have been a singer, rather than an instrumental performer-a singer of touching ballads rather than of inspiring bravura. Her melody was as soul-subduing as the Robin Gray of Miss Stevens. "So delicate with her needle!" We can imagine a group of dainty flowers growing beneath her slender fingers. We likened Juliet to a double purple violet; we will compare Desdemona to a pale primrose: if the latter has not the rich fulness of blossom, it has the more graceful outline of the chalice. The violet's head is drooped, but that is coquetry, for she betrays herself by her odour; the primrose, thoughtless of self, looks pleasantly abroad on the glistening face of nature." Of so high and plenteous wit and invention." And, regarding Mrs. Hemans through the medium of her sweet stanzas, we may consider her no unmeet type of Desdemona. These display purity of sentiment-lofty and abundant talent-flowing fecundity of composition. If Desdemona designed exquisitely in embroidery, Mrs. Hemans' pen has traced with elegance some touching female forms. If Desdemona's ballads were affecting, so are the melodious strains of the poetess. Her selection of language and illustration may be compared to a bouquet of exotics freshly culled from a conservatorythere is no intermixture of garden or sylvan plants. The character of Desdemona and the verses of Mrs. Hemans combine the same gentleness, with fitting dignity-the same tender lovingness--the same soothing winningness. That of the former is a treasure which shall ever survive in our hearts and recollections; and some of Mrs. Hemans' pieces are perfect, polished, and most dearly-loved gems which shall ever be hoarded and prized. Desdemona once more appears in public; and she does so with her wonted sweetness, composure, and universal good-will. Goodness is ever loving; and she, with native kindness, always makes herself agreeable to her associates, rendering them while in her presence happier and better. Her ease of deportment and ingenuous conversation tantalise Othello; and there is more of acquired hatred in his muttered soliloquy, "Are you sure of that?" than he had as yet exhibited. Desdemona was not speaking with himself, and could not, therefore, exert her usual influence. He is teased by his recal— enraged at being superseded by his rival-outraged by his wife's barefaced confession of love for Cassio; and more, by her desertion of his interests in favour of her lover's. Passion mastered him, or he must have beheld innocence depicted in her surprised countenance as she twice exclaimed, on catching words whose import she would not trust her senses to credit, "My lord !" Why did he not perceive that her tenderly-anxious face, while she sympathetically besought him, "How, sweet Othello?"—was that of a fond and faithful woman? He rejoices that she bears witness against herself, (as by her admissions he fancies she does,) that he may have the less compunction. Why does he not apprehend the rebuff of sinlessness-" I have not deserved this?" Self-respect and lady-like submission are expressed in her words, " I will not stay to offend you." It is the passion of an habitually eventempered and good-humoured man, which, when really stirred, boils over most fiercely and ungovernably. How femininely terrified Desdemona is by the accost of her husband at their next interview !-none of the queenly romancing with which, in similar situation, we should be treated by the heroine of an inferior novel. Yet the heart-felt wretchedness of Othello renders him almost as interesting, and indubitably more to be pitied. Such a bountiful outpouring of love could only have been lavished by a first-rate man -for in competition with this moral worth what qualifications may be regarded! Desdemona can better comprehend the language of sorrow than his former wild attacks, and now addresses him more in grief than fear. Again, when a direct assault is made on her, she is terrorstricken-" Alas! what ignorant sin have I committed?" Afterwards, in the assertion of her harmlessness, she forgets affright; but when her declarations are met by a cold, incredulous, scornful" Is it possible?" she is once more distracted, and attempting no further defence, calls on Heaven to forgive us. The guileless Desdemona couples herself with her false accuser-the best are always distrustful of their merits-the humble-minded believe that misfortune which overtakes them to be deserved-the pious in every distress appeal to the God over all. How beautiful the representation of that stupefaction which petrifies her when deemed worthless by the lord whom she has filially served. If the world or an enemy accused, she would defend herself, and place her restored fame as a precious deposit at the feet of the husband who loved; but, robbed of that husband's affection and esteem, what object on earth has she? For what purpose shall she care to re-establish her name? All for which she existed is irrecoverably lost! The light of life, the desire of life, is fled! How natural the anger which escapes her! A common heroine must, with superiority, have died, perfection-like, unrepining. — A stricken deer flies to the nearest covert, though its roof may be slung with unseen missiles for her sure destruction; and Desdemona resorts to her arch-destroyer, Iago. Her abhorrence to, her positive inability for the utterance of, that epithet which the Moor had applied to her, has been remarked. In Desdemona it is nothing more than a repugnance which every good woman must and does testify. Though the coarse, masculine Queen Elizabeth commonly used such phrases, and though the manners of those times were grosser and less refined than the present, still this reluctance is no extraordinary proof of delicacy in our heroine. In ordinary discourse the liberty of the day might more than tolerate such language; but when a pure matron, a young bride, is herself accused of meriting its application, she shrinks from giving voice to it. What an appreciation Shakspeare must have had of the modesty of an amiable woman! We might conceive that a blushing girl had been looking over his shoulder while he penned these choice lines;-" Am I that name, Iago ?"- "What name, fair lady?" Her refinement influencing even the gross lago, who does not venture to pretend he understands such an insult to her virgin purity-" Such as she says my lord did say I was." Her vexation soon merges into dolour-the guilty are petulant when accused, the good grieved. Even Iago, whose victim she is, compassionates her; he has the nobility of genius; and, from his talent is able almost as well to feel as to affect every emotion. An innocent being sinks beneath atrocious calumny—a criminal one, like the Donna Julia, is only excited by accusation to a vigorous defence, parrying the attack on herself by an assault on others. "It is my wretched fortune," says Desdemona; accusing fate, but not the Moor. "If any such there be, Heaven pardon him." We do not fancy her so immaculate as to offer this petition from actual forgiveness of her calumniator; nor yet that she is so revengeful as to imply, "Heaven pardon him, but I cannot :" rather does her prayer infer," Heaven pardon him, and enable me to do so too, for it was a most unprovoked and wicked action." Othello now looked gentler than he had done-the internal contest was over -the determination taken; and he was therefore calm. How patient is his wife-how desirous to shun affording matter of offence-to do all that he ordered or fancied-everything which was likely to please him. Wives who have offended might take pattern by this inoffensive one, who was led like a lamb to the slaughter. Desdemona's discourse is naturally saddened; but she does not, like the heroines of poetasters, actually foresee her doom, nor does she even guess at it; else, she had too much womanly fear and christian piety to have talked so comparatively unconcernedly, and to have died without casting one glance towards eternity. Yet how pathetic are her words!-what a masterly introduction-what an appropriate preface are they to the scene of the catastrophe!" If I do die before thee, pr'ythee shroud me in one of those same sheets"--such a lover, like and womanlike request! And the little sprinkling of gossip suitably introduces us to the lady's room, whose interior is thus disclosed to us. A female writer sometimes makes her heroine too gossiping, so rendering her natural, perhaps, but certainly uninteresting. Shakspeare, by one touch, renders his characters natural, heightening, instead of marring, their interest, and always maintaining their fitness as subjects for a poet's pen. The little song of "Willow" is composed of some of the divine William's sweet, wild wood-notes; and we credit the applicability of Desdemona's quotation to her own case, "Let nobody blame him, his scorn I approve." Yet afterwards, by her interjection of "These men ! these men !" she seems jestingly to imply," they are the bane of our lives." How her exclamation of " Hark! who is it that knocks ?" solemnises the hour; and when we have caught Emilia's answer, "It is the wind," we fancy we hear its low moans sweep along ocean's heaving billows, a fitting dirge over the hapless daughter of Venice, mistress of the seas! How expressive of her infantine simplicity is her query— "Dost thou in conscience think-tell me, Emilia That there be women do abuse their husbands A fond and true wife, especially if she respect her consort, cannot conceive of such infidelity: an unmarried girl may feel the possibility of such things, perhaps, but let her be once wedded, and she will look on them as little better than incredible. Still, Shakspeare runs into no extremes: all his females are not, like Desdemona, paragons of chastity in thought, word, and deed. Emilia thinks, talks, and acts, like a clever, matter-of-fact, every-day woman. Her sentimental and virtuous mistress does not relish her axioms, but she seasons them profitably by her prayer, "Heaven me such usage send, Not to pick bad from bad, but, by bad, mend!" How admirably does Shakspeare, in scenes of excitement and in soliloquies of overpowering import, familiarly and most poetically, by present objects, illustrate abstract reasonings, deep thoughts, and profound emotions! Lamentably did Othello deceive himself" This sorrow's heavenly; it strikes where it doth love;"-however, to wish to act from right motives, and to believe that one does so, though the results of misconception, may be grievous, is nearly as praiseworthy, in a moral sense, as more rational conduct. How exquisitely natural is the opening of Desdemona's and the Moor's last dialogue; yet our author's naturalness is never homely, though inferior writers, when they attempt nature, are too often vulgar. Woman's wit, and woman's fear, she exhibits; but, alas, ineffectually! "But yet I feel I fear :" we cannot term this little sentence invention; it is inspiration which enabled him to write so. How interesting and lovable is her pleading for life! Her murder is rid of some of its horrors by our satisfaction in her power of uttering her two last sentences-" A guiltless death I die," which manifests her innocence; (it is only the har |