sented, at the nuptial altar, with his injured and beloved Fe nicia."

How Shakespeare could have come to the knowledge of Bandello's novel, unless through the original, is not easy to explain; no translation of so early a date having been preserved. Which

is probably the cause why the critics have been so unwilling to trace him to this source; as it did not suit their theory to allow that he had learning enough to read a simple tale in what was then the most generally-studied language of Europe.

This account of the matter, if it do no more, may serve to show, what is so often shown elsewhere, that in his borrowing of stories Shakespeare seems to have preferred such as were most received into the common circulation of thought, and most familiar to his audience, that he might have some tie of association to draw and hold their minds to the deep lessons of beauty and wisdom which he was ever pouring forth from himself. And surely much less of insight than he possessed might have taught him, that men are apt to study for novelty in proportion as they lack originality; and that where the latter abounds the former may be rather a hindrance than a help.

This placing of the main interest in something higher and better than any mere plot or story can be, is well stated by Coleridge: "The interest in the plot is on account of the characters, not vice versa, as in almost all other writers; the plot is a mere canvas, and no more. Take away from Much Ado about Nothing all that is not indispensable to the plot, either as having little to do with it, or, like Dogberry and his comrades, forced into the service, when any other less ingeniously-absurd watchmen and night-constables would have answered the mere necessities of the action; take away Benedick, Beatrice, Dogberry, and the reaction of the former on the character of Hero, -and what will remain? In other writers the main agent of the plot is always the prominent character: John is the mainspring of the plot in this play; but he is merely shown, and then withdrawn."

We have already seen from the external evidence that Much Ado about Nothing was probably written in or near the author's thirty-fifth year. And it requires no great perspicacity to see from the play itself that it naturally falls somewhere in the middle period of his productive years. The style, like that of Twelfth Night, is sustained and equal; easy, natural, and modest in dress and bearing; every where alive indeed with the exhilaration of wit, of numour, or poetry, but without the labored smoothness of his earlier plays, or the penetrating energy and quick, sinewy movement of his later ones. Compared with some of its predecessors, the play shows a decided growth in what may be termed virility of mind: a wider scope, a higher reach, a firmer grasp, have been attained: the Poet's faculties have manifestly been feeding upon tonics, and inhaling invigoration : he has come to read

nature less through "the spectacles of books," and does not hesi tate to meet her face to face, and trust and try himself alone with her. The result of all which appears in a greater freshness and reality of characterization: there being less of a certain dim, equivocal hearsay air about the persons; as if his mind, having outgrown its recollected terms and bookish generalities, had plunged into living intercourse with surrounding life, where his personal observation and experience are blossoming up into poetry and going to seed in philosophy.

Much Ado about Nothing has great variety of interest, now run. ning into the most grotesque drollery, now rising into an almost tragic dignity, now revelling in the most sparkling brilliancy. Its excellences, however, both of plot and of character are rather of the striking sort, involving little of the hidden beauty which shows just enough on the surface to invite a diligent search, and then overpays all the labour it costs. The play, accordingly, has always been very effective on the stage. The characters of Hero and Claudio, though rather beautiful than otherwise in their simplicity and uprightness, offer no very salient points, and are indeed nowise extraordinary: they derive their interest mainly from the events that befall them; the reverse of which is generally true of Shakespeare's plays. One can scarce help thinking, that had the course of love run smooth with them, its voice, even if audible, had been hardly worth the hearing. Hero, indeed, is altogether gentle and womanly in her ways, and she offers a rather sweet, inviting nestling-place for the fireside affections; and there is something very pathetic and touching in her situation when she is stricken down in mute agony by the tongue of slander. That Claudio should lend his ear to the poisonous breathings of one whose spirits are known to "toil in frame of villanies," is no little impeachment of his temper, or his understanding; and the preparing us for this, by representing him as falling into a fit of jealousy towards the Prince, is a fine instance of the Poet's skill and care in small matters. A piece of conduct, which the circumstances do not explain, is explained at once by thus disclosing a slight predisposition to jealousy in the subject. In keeping with this part of his behaviour, Claudio's action every where smacks of the sol dier he shows all along both the faults and the virtues of his calling; is sensitive, rash, “quick in quarrel," and as quick in reconciliation; and has a sort of unreflective spontaneousness about him, that is only not so good as a chastened discretion and a firm, steady self-control. This accounts very well for his sudden running into a match, which in itself looks more like a freak of fancy than a resolution of love; while the same suddenness on the side of the more calm, discreet, and patient Hero, is accounted for by the intervention of the Prince, and the sway he might justly have over her thoughts. - Critics have unnecessarily found fault with the Poet for the character of John, as if it lay without the circum

ference of truth and nature. They would apparently prefer the more commonplace character of a disappointed rival in love, whose guilt might be explained away into a pressure of violent motives. But Shakespeare saw deeper into human character; and perhaps his wisest departure from the original story is in making John a moody, sullen, envious rascal, who joys at others' pain, is pained at others' joy, and gloats over his power in working mischief; thus exemplifying in a smaller figure the same innate, spontaneous malice which towers into such a stupendous height of wickedness in lago. We may well reluct to believe in the fact of such char. acters; but history is unhappily too full of deeds and plots that cannot be otherwise accounted for; nor need we go far to learn that men may "spin motives out of their own bowels ;" and that the man often has more to do in shaping the motive than the motive in determining the man.

Ulrici, regarding the play as setting forth the contrast between life, as it is in itself, and as it seems to those engaged in its struggle, looks upon Dogberry as embodying the whole idea of the piece. And, sure enough, the impressive insignificance of his ac tion to the lookers-on equalled only by its stuffed importance to himself: when he is really most absurd and ridiculous, precisely then it is that he feels most confident and grave; the irony that is rarified into wit and poetry in the other characters being thus condensed into the broadest humour and drollery in him. The German critic, however, is not quite right in thinking that his blundering garrulity brings to light the infernal plot; as it rather keeps it in the dark he is too fond of hearing himself talk to make known what he has to say, in time to do any good; and amidst his huge struttings and tumblings of mind the truth leaks out at last in spite of him. The part was imitated by other dramatists of the time; which shows it to have been a decided hit on the stage; and perhaps the Poet has evinced something of an author's weakness in attempting a repetition of Dogberry under the name of Elbow in Measure for Measure. But even Shakespeare himself could not make an imitation come up to his own original.

The good repute of Benedick and Beatrice has been greatly perilled by their wit. But it is the ordinary lot of persons sc wise as they, to suffer under the misconstructions of prejudice or partia. acquaintance; their wisdom augmenting the difficulty of coming to a true knowledge of them. How dangerous it is to be so gifted that way, may be seen by the impression these persons have had the ill luck to make on one whose good opinion is so desirable as Campbell's. He says,. -" During one half of the play, we have a disagreeable female character in that of Beatrice. Her portrait, I may be told, is deeply drawn, and minutely finished. It is; and so is that of Benedick, who is entirely her counterpart, except that he is less disagreeable." A little after, he pronounces Beatrice "an odious woman." We are sorry so tasteful and

charming a critic should think so, but suppose there is no help for it. In support of his opinion he quotes Hero's speech,-"Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes," &c. ; but he seems to forget that these words are spoken with the intent that Beatrice shall hear them, and at the same time think she overhears them; that is, not as being true, but as being suited to a certain end, and as having just enough of truth to be effective for that end. So that, viewed in reference to the speaker's purpose, perhaps nothing could be better; viewed as describing the character of Beatrice, scarce any thing were worse; and the effect the speech has on her proves it is not true. To the same end, the Prince, Leonato, and Claudio speak as much the other way, where they know Benedick is overhearing them; and what is there said in her favor is just a fair offset of what was before said against her. But in deed it is clear enough that a speech thus made really for the ear of the subject, yet seemingly in confidence to another person, cannot be received in evidence against her.

So

Fortunately, however for Beatrice, the critic's unfavorable opin ion is accounted for by what himself has unfortunately witnessed. He says, "I once knew such a pair; the lady was a perfect Beatrice; she railed hypocritically at wedlock before her marriage, and with bitter sincerity after it. She and her Benedick now live apart, but with entire reciprocity of sentiments; each devoutly wishing that the other may soon pass into a better world." that the writer's strong dislike of Beatrice is one of the finest testimonies we have seen to the Poet's wonderful truth of delineation; inasmuch as it shows how our views of his characters, as of those in real life, depend less perhaps on what they are in themselves, than on our own peculiar associations. Nature's and Shakespeare's men and women seem very differently to different persons, and even to the same persons at different times. Need it be said that this is because the characters are individuals, not abstractions? — Viewed therefore in this light, the tribute is so exquisite that we half suspect the author meant it as such. In itself, however, we much prefer the ground taken by other critics: That in the unamiable part of their deportment Benedick and Beatrice are but playing; that their playing is with a view to conceal, not express, their real feelings; that it is the very strength of their feelings that puts and keeps them upon this mode of concealment; and that the exclusive pointing of their raillery against each other is itself proof of a deep and growing attachment: though it must be confessed, that the ability to play so well is a great temptation to carry it to excess, or where it will be apt to cause something else than mirth. This it is that justifies the repetition of the stratagem, the same process being necessary in both cases" to get rid of their reciprocal disguises, and make them straightforward and in earnest." And the effect of the stratagem is to begin the unmasking which is so thoroughly completed by the wrongs and sufferings of

Hero. they are thus disciplined, for a time at least, out of their playing, and made to show themselves as they are: before we saw but their art, now we see their virtue; and this, though not a little clouded with faults, strikes us as something rather noble.

The wit of these persons, though seeming at first view much the same, is very nicely discriminated, discovering in her more sprightliness, in him more strength, of mind. Beatrice, intelligent but thoughtless, has little of reflection in her wit; but throws it off in rapid flashes whenever any object ministers a spark to her fancy. Though of the most piercing keenness and the most exquisite aptness, there is no ill-nature about it; it stings indeed, but does not poison. The offspring merely of the moment and the occasion, it strikes the fancy, but leaves no trace on the memory; but we feel that she forgets it as soon as we do. Its agility is infinite: wherever it may be, the instant one goes to put his hand upon it, he is sure to find or feel it somewhere else. The wit of Benedick, on the other hand, springs more from reflection, and grows with the growth of thought. With all the pungency and nearly all the pleasantry, it lacks the free, spontaneous volubility, of hers. Hence in their skirmishes she always gets the better of him. But he makes ample amends when out of her presence, trundling of jests in whole paragraphs. In short, if his wit be slower, it is also stronger than hers: not so agile in manner, more weighty in matter, it shines less, but burns more; and as it springs much less out of the occasion, so it will bear repeating much better. The effect of the serious events in bringing these persons into an armistice of wit is indeed a rare stroke of art; and perhaps some such thing was necessary, to prevent the impression of their being jesters by trade. It proves at least that Beatrice is a witty woman, and not a mere female wit:

The general view of life, as opened out in this play, is pretty clearly indicated by the title. The characters do indeed make or have much ado; but all the while to us who are in the secret, and ultimately to the persons themselves, all this much ado proves to be about noining. Which is but a common difference in the aspect of things, as they appear to the spectators and to the partakers; it needs but an average experience to discover that real life is full of just such passages: what troubled and worried us yesterday, made others laugh then, and makes us laugh to-day: what we fret or grieve at in the progress, we still smile and make merry over in the result. This, we believe, is the simple upshot of what Ulrici, writing in a style that few know or care to understand, has discoursed upon with much ado, though we cannot quite add about nothing.