pression of something unusual and strange, and yet still remains within the pale of nature. We have but advanced one step further into the poetical world whither the poet intended to lead us. Prospero then begins his story; with ever-increasing attention we listen to the exceedingly well-told narrative which, it is true, still does not exceed the bounds of real life, and yet, by reason of its extraordinary substance, already verges very closely upon the domain of the wonderful. Even Prospero's frequent questions during his narrative, as to whether Miranda is paying attention and whether she is not asleep, etc., must surely awaken her profoundest interest, and according to her own assurance, actually does; but these very questionings (about which critics have in vain puzzled their brains) are, in my opinion, but an artistic means of increasing the impression of the strangeness which the scene is intended to create, and of introducing Miranda's actual falling asleep, which is subsequently induced by Prospero's magic. We are thus already so far prepared that the appearance of Ariel and Prospero's magic arts

which, moreover, are at first introduced gently and noiselessly no longer cause astonishment. The poet has succeeded in his object: our imagination is already in his poetical world, is unconsciously pervaded by his intention, and, accordingly, follows him willingly wherever he chooses to lead us.

The first and second scenes are, at the same time, masterpieces of dramatic exposition. On the one hand, the storm represented draws us at once into the midst of the story of the piece, and excites our interest in the highest degree; we are eager to know what can be the meaning of this strange beginning which introduces to us a number of persons, apparently only to let them perish before our eyes; we are referred to the future and anxiously look for the things that are to come. On the other hand, Prospero's story gives a wide and deep insight into the past. Our imagination, borne on the wings of Shakspeare's dramatic skill in representation, carries us to the distant town of Milan. We not only receive an explanation of the first mysterious scene, but, at the same time, are told the history and get a description of the principal dramatic

personages; the whole action obtains a broad foundation upon the many important deeds and events of the past, from which the action in the following scenes then springs forth like a flower from its native soil. But we have first to become more intimately acquainted with Ariel, this airy figure of the poetical imagination; his vague form which vanishes in air and ether, must first obtain life, definiteness and individuality before our eyes. Hence we hear of his relation to the witch Sycorax, and of his thirst for freedom which leads him into waywardness and ingratitude, and we thereby become acquainted with the chief traits of his characters. The scene between Prospero and Ariel exhibits Shakspeare's marvellous skill-by means of the exposition-of at once setting forth the main features of his various characters in the most brilliant light. Towards the close of the first act we are also personally introduced to Caliban, the strange monster whom Prospero had already mentioned; and thus, when Ferdinand too is brought to Prospero's cell-by means of Ariel's magic chant-and the love between Ferdinand and Miranda is likewise introduced, we are in complete possession of all the motives of the action. All the threads are arranged in so effective a manner that the master's hand can now without difficulty weave them into a graceful plot.

The second act shows us the King of Naples-surrounded by Sebastian, Antonio, Gonzalo and the two courtiers Adrian and Francisco-in deep grief at the loss of his son whom, at the time of the shipwreck, Ariel had separated from the others, and who, as the King supposes, has met his death in the waves. Antonio and Sebastian form the plan of murdering the King in his sleep, but are thwarted in their design by Prospero's magic arts. Disturbed and dismayed, they all forsake the place, in order to make further investigations concerning the lost Ferdinand. In place of the refined and dignified intrigues of the servants of aristocratic ambition and arogance, we now have, in an effective contrast, the common coarse fellows, the slaves of plebeian drunkenness and covetousness; in a droll parody, we find that the same creeping plants of evil also grow up among the lowest rabble, only in a

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different form, and thus prince and subject are tethered to the same yoke. Trinculo, the jester (as he is called in the list of characters, but evidently the representative of the clown), and Stephano, the drunken butler, accidentally meet Caliban. This scene is dipped in the inexhaustible well of Shakspearian humour; a keen sense of irony, goaded on by its wounded and delicate feeling for what is beautiful and noble, and by its vexation with what is ugly and low, makes game of human weaknesses and perversities, exhibits them in their entire nakedness, and yet, at the same time, treats man himself with affection and sympathy. The dignity which is exhibited in Stephano and Trinculo as compared with the half-demoniacal, half brute-human hybrid Caliban, possesses something of the sublimely comical and comically sublime; the manner in which the former deport themselves gives evidence of deep moral degradation, it is true, but at the same time we perceive the glimmer of a certain good-nature, a concealed germ of humanity; their behaviour remains invariably human, without any distortion or any admixture of brutality. Even coarseness and immorality lose their depressing weight when they make themselves ridiculous and are coupled with folly and mischief, in other words, when they appear to spring less out of evil intention than from a want of judgment and of mental culture; thus, in place of exciting contempt and indignation, we rather feel a certain amount of interest in their representatives. Stephano and Trinculo are evidently the mimics of Antonio and Sebastian; for, as the latter brood upor

This is a peculiarity of Shakspearian wit, to which I cannot refrain from drawing attention at this opportunity. Shakspeare is ironical, it is true, and, perhaps, also occasionally satirical, but in so objective and so moderate a manner that his comic figures never become caricatures. He treats them, so to say, with a certain kind of humanity, as if they were his brothers; the real man in his original dignity and majesty we always see peering forth from beneath the cap-and-bells. Even the clowns from the lowest classes, the representatives of the common vices of the rabble, never degenerate in barbarous coarseness and brutality. We can never actually despise them, but feel ourselves in a state of mind similar to that of the poet, and, I might almost say, feel our hearts filled with a similar kind of irony of affection and sympathy.

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murder for the sake of princely possessions that are entirely beyond their horizon, so the latter allow a Caliban pay them divine honour, and take possession of an island of which they as yet know nothing. The parodying ter.dency is unmistakable; and although the whole scene seems still to be foreign to the complicated plot of the dramatic development, still it not only puts us into the best of humours, but we do not feel ourselves at all offended by the apparent inappropriateness. It also serves to efface the serious and revolting impression-inconsistent with the nature of comedy-which Antonio's and Sebastian's treachery has left upon us, and to prepare us for the lovely sight offered by the first scene of the third act.

Ferdinand and Miranda confess their love while Prospero watches them at some distance. A short space of time has sufficed indissolubly to unite the two hearts which were destined for one another. In fact, love, in the narrower sense of the word, is always the birth of an instant; long acquaintance, mutual esteem and affection, may or may not precede it-this is a matter of indifference to love; it does not grow out of these like a bud from its calyx, acquaintance and affection are, so to say, but the fuel which the flash of love has first to strike before fire and flame are produced. Ferdinand and Miranda form the loveliest companion-piece to Romeo and Juliet, with this difference, that here, in comedy, love has exchanged the tragic cothurnus for the comic soccus. In place of the melancholy, devouring heat of immoderate passion which in Romeo and Juliet' tears everything along with it in its headlong course, overcasting the horizon as with a thunder-cloud ready to burst forth into destruction, and bearing within itself the full weight of the tragic pathos, we here also behold the fire of passion, but the passion of two tender obedient hearts, child-like in their gentleness; a passion which, like a mild and yet farreaching light, clothes all objects in the brightest colours. In the former case all is thunder and lightning, the forked light that shines and illuminates but which also destroys; in the latter, it ist he first rays of the morning sun which, in announcing a lovely spring day, looks down timidly and blushingly over the mountain top into the valley. And

nevertheless we feel that this delicate germ, which has just begun to shoot forth, possesses a force unequalled by any power on earth. Even Prospero's magic, which has made thunder, lightning, and tempest its tools, and which guides all the other personages like children in leading-strings, has no power here, it cannot even restrain or retard, much less prevent or destroy. It is indeed Prospero's wish that Miranda and Ferdinand shall be united-this wish even forms the point to which all his desires and intentions are directed-but he, at the same time, would like to see their blossoming love keeping exact pace with the maturing of his own plans. For he does not know what will be the effect of the extraordinary occurrences of his magic arts, and of the supposed loss of the king's beloved son, or whether the king will yield and consent to the marriage of Ferdinand and Miranda. This is his reason for wishing to control their love; he would like to see the spark ignite, but not to see it burst at once into flame; this is doubtless the principal reason why he at first treats Ferdinand with so much unfriendliness and condemns him to work like a common servant. However, even in the form of a servant, love finds its kindred heart and contrives to ennoble its common state of servitude and its most menial work; unceasingly does the magnet exercise its invisible power, and Prospero is ultimately obliged to consent to that which all the magic in the world could not have prevented.

When conceived from this point of view, the first scene of the third act again stands in a deeply significant contrast to the two following, where Prospero's magic arts display their full power. This power is exhibited first of all playfully and deridingly upon the fools of the piece, upon those who are the slaves to their sensual desires, that is, upon wickedness in the form of stupidity and coarseness, which is not sufficiently great to be treated seriously because it is of itself harmless. I allude to the scene in which Caliban persuades the half-drunken Stephano to rob Prospero of his books and magic instruments, and then to kill him, so that he himself, as king of the island, may obtain possession of the fair Miranda. This scene, which is made an amusing farce by the interference of Ariel, is succeeded by the more serious play of