LOVE you not rosy children? Traveller upon earth, wert thou ever weary with gazing upon the infant's smile,-listening to the right cheerful laugh of the harmless prattler,—while thou hast felt that there, at least, hollow deceit not yet hath taught her language -that there, at least, dwells not an anxious heart concealed beneath the repulsive thing, the tinselled shroud, that men call merriment? The laugh of the exultant scorner-of the poor trifler, and the simper of the flatterer-these are all sounding in our ears, when, as celestial harmony, through the discord of despair, ring the clear echoes of an infant's mirth, that tell alone of joy and happiness. Truly, clear and smooth may be the tongues of men; but is there one so free as the little prattler's voice, that utters not a thought the warm heart hath not coined-tells not a love save those which it possesses? The infant's love-who so cold that he glories not therein? How many a right hand hath each day clasped mine! It is a sombre thought! Palm to palm the man of wealth; but he had the left hand in his pocket, grasping, with a yet more loving touch, his sleek round-bellied purse. The pedant; but his left hand at his brow; there, with one finger pressed with tender love against the hallowed spot where rests his giant brain. The flatterer, with that hand, strokes his chin, the downy chin, that dances such fair time to hollow tinkling words. The flirt adjusts her scarf, and mocks a loving pressure. But the honest child, that clambers on my knee, and fondly puts a little hand in mine, and looks with smiles of love into my face, and nestles at my heart, -to that alone the beating heart responds. Thus blest, how gladly would I then forget how erring is the childish judgment, that we deceive the infant's ignorance of ill, although in innocence it thinks

not of deceiving us; then would I feel that the cold chains of worldly intercourse bind me not wholly from a higher sphere, and would believe that, full of sin, the love of one of these without all guile comes as an earnest that, though bruised and fallen, we may one day hold communion with the sinless blest!

:

I have a creed concerning children.-We know well, that each of us, as he wanders through the world, is watched over by his guardian angel; so much we most of us believe. Our good angels look down from heaven upon us; in the hour of peril, invisible, they stand beside us upon earth; our sinful bodies are no temples for them but in our sinless childhood,—then, when we are fresh from Heaven's hand, and when we are free from every stain and taint of earth, then may these blessed angels even in our spotless bodies-worthy temples !-take up their abode, until sin drive them thence. Far purer is not then their dwelling than if they wandered near us on the spotted earth? Ay, it is even so! and therefore, then, because an angel dwells within,-therefore shines there forth a beam so mysterious, so full of heaven, from the infant's eye! What, if this creed be superstitious?—it is a pleasant one to hold; and I will not repay the kind logician with one thank who shall undertake to convince me that it wanteth reason.

The proud and worldly man avoids the child; the child, too, avoids him well do I know by which avoidance I should feel myself most deeply humbled.

Sweet, happy children! Are they not like to the first leaves in April, when, as yet, the hedges are but tinged with green? Pure and joyous they shoot forth, springing from a barren stock, born among thorns and briars that life's winter hath robbed of their verdure. Alas that the bright creation cannot last for ever! that even this must change! Over them, also, as they expand, shall sweep the storms and the blights-the cruel blights of earth: a season must come when even their glory too shall fade, and leave again but barrenness behind!

HAL.

A BUTTERFLY IN A CHURCH.

(From the German of Jean Paul F. Richter.)

LET it fly, whether in the little church, or in the universal temple; it is a preacher still.

DIFFICULT POINTS AND PASSAGES OF
SHAKSPERE'S PLAYS.

"After the labours of all the editors, I found many passages which appeared to me likely to obstruct the greater number of readers, and thought it my duty to facilitate their perusal."Dr. Johnson's Preface to Shakspere, 1765.

PREFACE.

AN author, however great, who writes in a remote age, stands but a very indifferent chance when placed before a tribunal of critics in a modern one; so that it unfortunately happens, that he who lasts the longest is the most likely to be misunderstood,-not only because the years that have passed since the date of his authorship must have tended to render his expressions obsolete and his meanings obscure,-but also, because he has to contend against the foolish alterations of those who are unable to appreciate him, and the "darkness visible" of those mistaken friends who, construing their desire to elucidate him into their abilities to do so, only succeed in deteriorating that which they endeavour to improve.

This has been the case in a strikingly peculiar manner with our author for very many reasons,-not the least of which is, his extreme carelessness and negligence with regard to his own works. Pope, in his celebrated Preface to Shakspere, says, "It is not certain that any one of his plays was published by himself." So that we have to contend against the foolish and ill-judged interpolations of the players, (for the plays were printed from the MSS. which belonged to the theatre, scarcely two of which agree exactly,) the errors of illiterate printers, and the ignorance of presuming editors. It appears that the first edition of Shakspere's collected works was undertaken by Rowe, the poet and dramatic author. After Rowe came Pope, from whose well-known taste and judgment much was anticipated; but, alas! his edition at length appeared, and disappointed not only the public but himself also. After this came Theobald, whom Johnson describes as a man zealous for minute accuracy, and not negligent in pursuing it, yet vain of the little which he did, and a contemner of all other critics. Sir Thomas Hanmer, known generally as "The Oxford Editor," next undertook the great and

150 DIFFICULT POINTS AND PASSAGES OF SHAKSPERE'S PLAYS.

weighty task; but, like others, he did but little. His great fault appears to have been a strong faith in the infallibility of critics, most especially of Pope and Theobald. Soon after, an edition was published by Warburton, who appears to me to be a sensible and clever critic, but a man far too fond of altering, where he cannot understand. Of Malone and Steevens it is scarcely worth while to speak; the notes of the latter are (almost without an exception) either far-fetched and arrogant, or ridiculous and trivial. Of more modern editors little can be said;-some have done much for the poet, others less; but all have contributed their mite, and deserve the praise due to industry and merit. Yet, as Johnson says, "after the labours of all the editors, I found many passages which appeared to me likely to obstruct the greater number of readers, and thought it my duty to facilitate their passage."

Doubtless many who cast their eye upon the heading of this series of articles, will cast a hasty, and I trust unmerited, censure upon the presumption of one who dares to attempt an explanation of passages and points of our great bard, which the most learned, and the most abstruse have vainly attempted to unravel; while others, less interested in the subject, will pass it over as dry and uninteresting. Against these difficulties I am prepared to stand; and if I should gain the good opinion of one real lover of our poet I shall be amply rewarded. Should I fail in the attempt, I will wrap myself up in the consciousness that it is better to fall in a good cause than triumph in a bad one.

I have for a long time given Shakspere my constant and almost undivided attention, and have, I trust, not done so entirely in vain. I therefore set about my task cheerfully and confidently, hoping to be able to give satisfaction, both to the public, and also to my friends the editors.

As it is necessary to observe some order in a work of this kind, I propose to examine the plays in succession; observing, first, the grand points which present themselves on a general view of each play, then, the principal disputed and difficult passages in the order in which they occur; making brevity my chief aim, subservient only to clearness and accuracy.

I intend to commence with the first paper next month, which will contain general points observable in the play of Hamlet; and I trust that our readers will be amused with the remarks even of so poor a critic as myself.

C. H. H.

HYMNS TO NIGHT.

(Translated from the German of Novalis.)

IV.

Now do I know when the last morn will be; when the light shall no more give alarm to the night and to love; when the slumber shall be without end, and there shall be but one exhaustless dream. Heavenly weariness do I feel within me. Long and wearisome had become the pilgrimage to the holy grave,―the cross a burthen. He who hath tasted of the crystal wave that gushes forth, unknown to common eye, in the dark bosom of that hill, against whose foot the flood of earthly waves is dashed and broken; he who hath stood upon the summit of the world's mountain bounds, and hath looked beyond them down into that new land, into the abode of Night; he, well I ween, turns not back into the turmoil of the world,-into the land where the light, amid eternal unrest, dwells.

There, above, does he erect his huts,-his huts of peace; there longs and loves, until comes the most welcome of all hours to draw him down into that fountain's source. Upon the surface floats all that is earthly; it is hurried back by storms: but that which was hallowed by the breath of love,-freely streams it forth, through hidden paths, into that realm beyond the mountain chain, and there, exhaled as incense, becomes mixed with loves that have slept. Still, cheerful light, dost thou waken the weary to his toil; still pourest thou glad life into my breast: but from the mossy monument that memory has raised, thence canst thou not allure me. Willingly will I employ my hands in industry and toil; I will look around me at thy bidding; I will celebrate the full glory of thy splendour; trace out, untired, the beauteous consistency of thy wondrous work; willingly will I mark the marvellous course of thy mighty, glowing time-piece; observe the balance of gigantic powers, and the laws of the wondrous play of countless spaces and their periods. But true to the Night remains my heart of hearts, and to creative Love, her daughter. Canst thou show me a heart for ever faithful? Hath thy sun fond eyes that know me? thy stars clasp my proffered hand? Do they return the tender pressure, the caressing word? Hast thou clothed her with fair hues and pleasing outline? Or was it she who gave thine ornament a higher, dearer meaning? What pleasure, what enjoyment,

Do