bedfellow, finds not a moment's admittance into her belief:

Beat. Why, how now, cousin? wherefore sink you down? Don John. Come, let us go; these things come thus to light, smother her spirits up.

[Exeunt Don Pedro, Don John, and Claudio. Ben. How doth the lady?

Beat. Dead, I think.-Help, uncle !-Hero!-why, Hero!— Uncle!-Signior Benedick!-Friar !

Leon. O fate, take not away thy heavy hand!

Death is the fairest cover for her shame

That may be wish'd for!

Beat.

How now, cousin Hero!

Friar. Have comfort, lady.
Leon. Dost thou look up?

Friar.

Yea, wherefore should she not?
Leon. Wherefore !—why, doth not every earthly thing
Cry shame upon her? Could she here deny

The story that is printed in her blood? &c.

Since Benedick is not at all in the confidence of his friend the count, and his princely patron, as to their alleged observations respecting the conduct of Hero, we see him, when her accusers have retired from the scene, remaining with perfect propriety, except the officiating ecclesiastic, the only impartial adviser and consoler of the afflicted family. We sometimes find it argued, to the dramatist's prejudice, that the father, in this case, lends too ready credence to the gross charges against his daughter: but it should be carefully observed, that it is no less trustworthy a personage than his own beloved and respected sovereign, this same Pedro of Arragon, who tells Leonato by his own lips—

Upon mine honour,

Myself, my brother, and this grieved count,
Did see her, hear her, at that hour last night,
Talk with a ruffian at her chamber window, &c.

All this solemn asseveration, followed by the drooping silence of the lady, may well excuse that momentary conviction in her father's mind, under which he gives that first passionate expression to his grief

Do not live, Hero-do not ope thine eyes, &c.—

at the end of which Benedick, though equally confounded, says, to pacify him,—

Sir, sir, be patient:

For my part, I am so attir'd in wonder,

I know not what to say.

Beatrice alone, having better reasons than any of them, falters not in her opinion of her friend

Oh, on my soul, my cousin is belied!

Hereupon, the sagacity of Benedick suggests to him a question, the answer to which both exemplifies the noble candour of Beatrice herself, and shews us how exclusively her unshaken faith in her cousin's innocence rests upon her intimate knowledge of her character, independently of all external testimony or suspicious circumstance whatsoever. When asked

Lady, were you her bedfellow last night ?—

she unhesitatingly admits—

No, truly, not-although, until last night,
I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow;

and so, enforces the temporary conviction in the mind
of Leonato:-
:-

Confirm'd confirm'd! Oh, that is stronger made,
Which was before barr'd up with ribs of iron!
Would the two princes lie? and Claudio lie?
Who lov'd her so, that, speaking of her foulness,
Wash'd it with tears?-

-Hence from her-let her die!

But now comes the observing judgment of the sagacious and eloquent friar, in support of Beatrice's positive deduction from her thorough acquaintance with the heart and the spirit of her friend:

Hear me a little;

For I have only silent been so long,

And given way unto this course of fortune,
By noting of the lady: I have mark'd
A thousand blushing apparitions start
Into her face,-a thousand innocent shames

In angel whiteness bear away those blushes,

And in her eye there hath appear'd a fire,
To burn the errors that these princes hold
Against her maiden truth. Call me a fool,-
Trust not my reading, nor my observation,
Which with experimental seal doth warrant
The tenour of my book,-trust not my age,
My reverence, calling, nor divinity,-

If this sweet lady lie not guiltless here,
Under some biting error.

And when, in reply to her father's objection that "she not denies it," and to the friar's question,

Lady, what man is he you are accus'd of?

she has made that more explicit denial of the charge which her first confusion had incapacitated her from doing, the worthy ecclesiastic declares, more confidently than ever,

There is some strange misprision in the princes.

The first ray of light as to the source of such mistake, is immediately thrown by Benedick himself:

Two of them have the very bent of honour;
And if their wisdoms be misled in this,
The practice of it lives in John the bastard,
Whose spirits toil in frame of villanies.

And though Leonato still remains in suspense, the balance of probability in his mind is reasonably turned :

I know not. If they speak but truth of her,

These hands shall tear her. If they wrong her honour,
The proudest of them shall well hear of it,

Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine,

Nor age so eat up my invention,

Nor fortune made such havoc of my means,
Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends,
But they shall find, awak'd in such a kind,
Both strength of limb and policy of mind,
Ability in means, and choice of friends,
To quit me of them throughly.

And when the friar has proposed the expedient of keeping Hero secluded for a while, and representing her as dead, Benedick, still more impressed by the

reverend adviser's arguments, pledges himself to strict concurrence in the scheme :

Signior Leonato, let the friar advise you :
And, though you know my inwardness and love
Is very much unto the prince and Claudio,
Yet, by mine honour, I will deal in this

As secretly and justly as your soul
Should with your body.

On the other hand, his first words to Beatrice, when they are left alone at the end of this sceneLady Beatrice, have you wept all this while ?"-shew, in a very interesting manner, how completely we have passed from the lighter side of our heroine's character "pleasant-spirited" and "merry-hearted "-to the exhibition of its graver aspect. And how finely does the whole tone of the ensuing dialogue, where both parties are desiring an affectionate explanation, contrast with their previous colloquies, replete with the spirit of mutual irritation. We see, also, that the injury done to Hero, however distressing in itself, affords a relief to both lovers on the present occasion; since, by presenting to them an unforeseen object of common and pathetic interest, it wonderfully facilitates that reciprocal avowal at which each of them is anxious to arrive, but the approach to which, after the terms on which they have hitherto encountered one another, each may well find embarrassing:

Ben. Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?
Beat. Yea, and I will weep a while longer.

Ben. I will not desire that.

Beat. You have no reason-I do it freely.

Ben. Surely, I do believe your fair cousin is wronged. Beat. Ah, how much might the man deserve of me, that would right her!

Ben. Is there any way to shew such friendship?
Beat. A very even way, but no such friend.
Ben. May a man do it?

Beat. It is a man's office, but not yours.

That is, let us observe (since this sentence from the lady is sometimes misconstrued), "It is a man's office, but not the office of a man standing in the friendly

Bene

relation that you do to the offending parties." dick knows well the import of this answer; and therefore, to remove the objection, opens his heart at once, by telling her, "I do love nothing in the world so well as you is not that strange?" We would willingly rest the whole interpretation of our heroine's character, as regards its capability of generous and lasting affection, upon the spirit of the following piece of dialogue. Coquetry, or vanity of any sort, would have dictated to her a course diametrically opposite to the frank though modest manner in which she meets her lover's declaration :

Ben. I do love nothing in the world so well as you—is not that strange?

-But

Beat. As strange as the thing I know not. It were as possible for me to say, I love nothing so well as you.believe me not-and yet I lie not.-I confess nothing-nor I deny nothing.- -I am sorry for my cousin!

Ben. By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me.
Beat. Do not swear by it and eat it.

Ben. I will swear by it, that you love me; and I will make him eat it that says, I love not you.

Beat. Will you not eat your word?

Ben. With no sauce that can be devised to it. I protest, I

love thee.

Beat. Why, then, God forgive me !—

Ben. What offence, sweet Beatrice ?

Beat. You have stayed me in a happy hour-I was about to protest I loved you.

Ben. And do it with all thy heart.

Beat. I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest!

After this bounding forward of her heart, as it were, to meet the earnest offer of his own, Benedick may well exclaim so eagerly, "Come, bid me do anything for thee!"-little as he is prepared for the peremptory reply, "Kill Claudio." He is, in fact, now called upon to choose at once between his friendship and his love; for Beatrice's intellect, no less than her heart, dictates to her that this, under the peculiar circumstances of the case, is the proper test of his affection; and she therefore proceeds unflinchingly to apply it: