she would have borne more than her lord's jealousy in her personal love for him; but Imogen has given us the proof that nothing could quench the pure flame of affection and devotedness in her heart; not even the charge of disloyalty and the atrocity of assassination. The triumph of self-reliance in the consciousness of holy virtue and of artless innocence was never more grandly carried out than in Imogen's steadfastness of purpose to go on and meet her husband after she has read his treacherous letter to their servant Pisanio, enjoining him to put her to death. It may be said, indeed, and for the thousandth time, that "No one ever hit the true perfection of the female character-the sense of weakness leaning on the strength of its affections for support, so well as Shakespeare: no one ever so well painted natural tenderness free from affectation and disguise: no one else ever so well showed how delicacy and timidity, when driven to extremity, grow romantic and extravagant;" and there are few who cannot identify this testimony to their character,—not, of course, to the letter, but in the full spirit of Imogen's conduct. The homily of dear old Chaucer, when dismissing his narrative of the world-noted Griselda, may well be applied to our nation's Imogen:

"This story is said, not for that wivès should
Follow Grisild' as in humility,

For it were importàble though they would;
But for that every wight in his degree
Shouldè be constant in adversity

As was Grisilda; therefore Petrarc writeth

This story, which with high style he inditeth."

Before proceeding to the inferior agents in this drama, I would say a few words upon the character of Posthumus.

That he was unworthy of the love of such a being as Imogen need only be stated. We need only be reminded that when Iachimo assays her constancy with the account of her husband's infidelities, she gives utterance to no stronger re

ply than the celebrated one, "My lord, I fear, has forgot Britain "—not "forgotten me;" not "forgotten his wife :" Imogen is too high-souled a lover and woman to utter a selfish reproach. Yet, when Posthumus receives the scandal of her disloyalty, it should be borne in mind that the proofs produced, and sworn to, by Iachimo were enough to stun even a devout lover. Real charity (or love), it is true, "endureth all things, hopeth all things," and Posthumus should still have proved for himself: but what I mainly feel to be an inconsistency in his character is that he is not reconcilable with himself a perilous charge to venture against even the humblest of Shakespeare's creations, and which I would gladly fail to substantiate: nevertheless, in the first scene of the play, a friend describes him as

"a creature such

As to seek through the regions of the earth

For one his like, there would be something failing

In him that should compare: I do not think

So fair an outward, and such stuff within,

Endows a man but he."

"You speak him far" (says the Second Gentleman).
"I do extend him, sir, within ̧ himself;

Crush him together, rather than unfold
His measure duly."

This fair report he certainly justifies in his leave-taking with Imogen; and subsequently maintains it in the wager with Iachimo for the inviolability of her honour and truth. In short, he gives every proof of being noble and magnanimous to the core. Is it then reconcilable with rational probability that a man so endowed should so damn himself as, with the same ink, and the self-same pen, to write a treacherous letter to the woman he had adored, appointing her to meet him, and another to their servant, suborning him to be her murderer? His first resolution, upon encountering Iachimo's proofs, that in the torment of his passion he would return to her father's court and "tear her limb-meal," is not

irreconcilable with a generous, although an ungovernable temper; but coolly, and deliberately, and upon reflection to turn assassin by deputy! Can such a contradiction exist in a man so described as Posthumus has been described to us? The man who could reflectively compass the life of her whom he had adored beyond all the beings on earth was not the character to dismiss her slanderer, and the author of all their misery, with so godlike a punishment as this:

"The power that I have on you is to spare you;

The malice towards you to forgive you live,

And deal with others better."

The divine spirit of this conclusion (as Mr. Charles Knight says) "is perfect Shakespeare." It is so; but I cannot feel it to be perfect Posthumus.

In the original story of Boccaccio, from whence the play was taken, the punishment of the slanderer better accords with the revengeful nature of Posthumus; and, indeed, with the frightful spirit of retribution that crowns the otherwise perfect the divine-tales of the great Florentine. "He was fastened naked to a stake, smeared with honey, and left to be devoured by flies and locusts:" a revenge in character; for the Italians have a proverb, actually inculcating the vice of revenge as a virtue: it is, “He who cannot revenge himself is weak; he who will not is despicable." Imogen (thank Heaven!) was one of our own women. And yet, with all the objection here suggested against his character-structure, I am in candour bound (and I rejoice in my duty) to testify that Posthumus, in the clearing of his wife's innocence, does prostrate his soul in the very mire of self-reproach and despair. His rejoinder to the confession of Iachimo's treachery is enormous in its remorse; and,—I must acknowledge,— atoning and complete; as, in its spirit, it harmonizes with the impulsiveness of his nature. But,-good Heaven !-how perfectly divine is the scene of their reunion! She, with her char

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acteristic strength of passion and gentleness, says—almost playfully:

66

Why did you throw your wedded lady from you?
Think that you are upon a rock; and now
Throw me again." [Embracing him.]

His heart is too full: he can make no more reply than :

"Hang there like fruit, my soul,

Till the tree die."

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The noted soliloquy of Posthumus, after he has received from Iachimo the proofs of Imogen's infidelity,—a speech that has been objected to, on account of its unrestricted tone of expression and want of harmony with the quality of that conjugal love which had existed between them,—appears to me, on the contrary, to be accurately consistent with his impetuous and engrossing nature. It is the strongest foil the poet could have placed against the exquisite delicacy and forbearance of Imogen, whose sharpest speeches are: "Some painted jay of Italy has betray'd him;" and her heaviest reproach in her affliction:

"My dear lord!

Thou art one of the false ones: now I think on thee,
My hunger's gone; but even before, I was

At point to sink for food."

And but once is she betrayed into an expression of anger: "That drug-damn'd Italy hath out-crafted him.” She, the most injured party, is the most forbearing-the common result in society-and, in short, never was case more triumphantly carried out between what has been wittily styled the "fair, and the un-fair sex."

The prevailing feature in the play of Cymbeline is that, under different phases, it exhibits an enchanting portraiture of the "Affections" in their several varieties. In the two prime agents of the drama (Imogen and Posthumus), we are presented with the passion in its grandest feature; in the broth

ers, Guiderius and Arviragus, we have the mysterious instinct of the fraternal affection; in the stupid addresses of the booby prince, Cloten, a contrast of the animal affection, unelevated by a spark of the celestial fire, is set forth; and lastly, the affection of menial attachment, in its most disinterested form, is exhibited in the beautiful character of Pisanio, the servant to Posthumus, who is one of Shakespeare's favorite class of attendant gentlemen-like Horatio and Benvolio; of level understanding, unostentatiously faithful and actively devoted. The character of Pisanio is a charming one. And here, while upon the subject of "Affection,”—rather, perhaps, say of "Friendship," which is only a modified emotion of the same subject (Friendship is Love without his wings), we may observe the different sentiment of Shakespeare as regards menial attachment, and that of Sir Walter Scott, who has so often been compared with him. Shakespeare, who in his love for his species seems to have been a cosmophilanthropist, took an evident pleasure in uniting the several grades of society in the bonds of mutual respect and unselfish attachment. Instances of this might be quoted from his plays to a considerable extent. As he has finely said, "One touch of Nature makes the whole world kin." He has therefore constantly identified both master and man in one common interest; and in but one instance that I can recall has he personated the mere dogged, uncompromising, mechanically obedient serf, or slave, namely, in the steward to Queen Goneril; and an admirable conjunction of dominion and servitude that was. The very appointment of such a menial to such a mistress was, in itself, a touch of art. If we retrace the stories of Sir Walter Scott, we, I think, uniformly perceive that his idea of the connection between master and servant is strictly feudal. Throughout his writings we scarcely meet with any other idea of their reciprocal duties than that of irresponsible sway and command on the one hand, with mechanical and implicit obedi