I cannot agree with the solemn abuse which the critics have poured out upon Bertram in "All's Well that ends Well." He was a young nobleman in feudal times, just bursting into manhood, with all the feelings of pride of birth and appetite for pleasure and liberty natural to such a character so circumstanced. Of course he had never regarded Helena otherwise than as a dependant in the family; and of all that which she possessed of goodness and fidelity and courage, which might atone for her inferiority in other respects, Bertram was necessarily in a great measure ignorant. And after all, her primâ facie merit was the having inherited a prescription from her old father the Doctor, by which she cures the King, a merit, which supposes an extravagance of personal loyalty in Bertram to make conclusive to him in such a matter as that of taking a wife. Bertram had surely good reason to look upon the king's forcing him to marry Helena as a very tyrannical act. Indeed, it must be confessed that her character is not very

delicate, and it required all Shakspeare's consummate skill to interest us for her; and he does this chiefly by the operation of the other characters, the Countess, Lafeu, &c. We get to like Helena from their praising and commending her so much.

In Beaumont and Fletcher's tragedies the comic scenes are rarely so interfused amidst the tragic as to produce a unity of the tragic on the whole, without which the intermixture is a fault. In Shakspeare, this is always managed with transcendant skill. The Fool in Lear contributes in a very sensible manner to the tragic wildness of the whole drama. Beaumont and Fletcher's serious plays or tragedies are complete hybrids, - neither fish nor flesh, upon any rules, Greek, Roman, or Gothic; and yet they are very delightful notwithstanding. No doubt, they imitate the ease of gentlemanly conversation better than Shakspeare, who was unable not to be too much associated to succeed perfectly in this.

When I was a boy, I was fondest of Æschylus; in youth and middle age I preferred Euripides; now in my declining years I admire Sophocles. I can now at length see that Sophocles is the most perfect. Yet he never rises to the sublime simplicity of Æschylus simplicity of design, I mean - nor diffuses himself in the passionate outpourings of Euripides. I understand why the ancients called Euripides the most tragic of their dramatists: he evidently embraces within the scope of the tragic poet many passions, - love, conjugal affection, jealousy, and so on, which Sophocles seems to have considered as incongruous with the ideal statuesqueness of the tragic drama. Certainly Euripides was a greater poet in the abstract than Sophocles. His chorusses may be faulty as chorusses, but how beautiful and affecting they are as odes and songs! I think the famous Εὐίππου, ξένε, in the Edipus Coloneus*, cold in comparison with many

Εὐίππου, ξένε, τᾶσδε χώρας
ἵκου τὰ κράτιστα γᾶς ἔπαυλα,
τὸν ἀργῆτα Κολωνόν — κ. τ. λ.

v. 668.

of the odes of Euripides, as that song of the chorus in the Hippolytus — Ἔρως, Ἔρως*, and so on; and I remember a choric ode in the Hecuba, which always struck me as exquisitely rich and finished ; — I mean, where the Chorus speaks of Troy and the night of the capture. †

Ερως, Ερως, ὁ κατ ̓ ὀμμάτων
στάζεις πόθον, εἰσάγων γλυκεῖαν
ψυχᾷ χάριν, οὓς ἐπιστρατεύσει,
μή μοι ποτὲ σὺν κακῷ φανείης,

μήδ' ἄῤῥυθμος ἔλθοις· κ. τ. λ. ν. 527.

I take it for granted that Mr. Coleridge alluded to

the chorus,—

Σὺ μὲν, ὦ πατρὶς Ιλιὰς,

τῶν ἀπορθήτων πόλις
οὐκέτι λέξει· τοῖον Ελ-

λάνων νέφος ἀμφί σε κρύπτει,
δορὶ δὴ, δορὶ πέρσαν κ.τ.λ.

Thou, then, oh, natal Troy! no more
The city of the unsack'd shalt be,
So thick from dark Achaia's shore
The cloud of war hath covered thee.
Ah! not again

I tread thy plain ·

ν. 899.

The spear the hath rent thy pride;

spear

The flame hath scarr'd thee deep and wide;

There is nothing very surprising in Milton's preference of Euripides, though so

Thy coronal of towers is shorn,

And thou most piteous art

lorn!

most naked and for

I perish'd at the noon of night!
When sleep had seal'd each weary eye;
When the dance was o'er,

And harps no more

Rang out in choral minstrelsy.
In the dear bower of delight
My husband slept in joy;
His shield and spear
Suspended near,

Secure he slept: that sailor band

Full sure he deem'd no more should stand
Beneath the walls of Troy.

And I too, by the taper's light,

Which in the golden mirror's haze
Flash'd its interminable rays,

Bound

up the tresses of my hair,

That I Love's peaceful sleep might share.

I slept; but, hark! that war-shout dread,
Which rolling through the city spread;

And this the cry,

"When, Sons of Greece,

When shall the lingering leaguer cease;

When will ye spoil Troy's watch-tower high,
And home return?" I heard the cry,

VOL. II.

P