Paris probably addressed Juliet, from her parents' promise of her in marriage to him, with a slight degree of confidence, as if he had a right to express his admiration, and might expect her to listen with a willing ear, and learn to love him. Perhaps this was his first courtship -that he was not an adept in passionate expressions-that he was one of those amiable men who love their wives more than their mistresses, and long to hurry over the interregnum between acceptation and matrimony. Whereas Romeo, fresh from courting a mistress hard to be pleased, for the pleasure of whom he had studied, not phrases and attitudes alone, but love itself—Romeo, full to overflowing of the delicious theme, and in joy to find a gentle, girlish, loving being, inclined not only to hear but to admire, poured forth eloquent looks, and mastered the heart of this doomed child of the Sun. Her mother, possibly because she perceived her too interested regard of the handsome, fascinating stranger, and was jealous for Paris, summons her away— the surest method of fixing the impression. Obstacles quicken the flame which is cherished in secret. This first opposition prevents Juliet from opening her heart to her mother, and she might never have taken old nurse into her counsels, if it had not been impossible for her otherwise to succeed.

Then Romeo danced with no one, talked with no one (but men) except Juliet. She saw this. She felt herself singled out-she read his looks. Every one seems to think it necessary to excuse Juliet's haste; but, for my part, I think it would have been unnatural, unkind, ungenerous, if she had not instantly loved Romeo. Sorrow is solitary -but happy Paris, after devoting his first attentions to Juliet, and finding her not lively-not inclined to beseech of him to continue them on the contrary, in rather a weary and uninterested state, thinks it due to his father and mother-in-law elect to entertain their guests somewhat-thinks it due to his own popularity, to his real good-nature, to play the agreeable to his friends-to dance with a cousin who has no partner-to converse with a friend who congratulates him on his prospects-to satisfy an acquaintance who accuses him of forgetting old friends in his zeal for new. And Paris believes that to do his duty thus, will render him acceptable to his lady.

Rosalind we may imagine a stately beauty, (perhaps engaged by thoughts and recollections of another,) who deemed Romeo too boyish and volatile, and stooped occasionally to listen to him, without ever giving further encouragement. I fancy Paris would have suited Rosalind much better than Romeo. What a pity that he did not love her, and thus requite the gracious smiles that we may conceive her to have bestowed on his worth, ere mutual friends had proposed Juliet as a good match. There are some women who require to have love made to them in a respectful, chivalrous style-reserved, waiting for encouragement to proceed-Sir Charles Grandison's mode, in a word. And Paris was just suited to be a Sir Charles Grandison to Rosalind. You may say that he was not one with Juliet; but you are to recollect that Juliet was a child, thrown at his head by her father. But if, of himself, he had selected Rosalind, then contact with her would have converted him into a stately preux chevalier. Paris was like one of Sir Walter Scott's milk-and-water heroes, as Mr. Bulwer considers

them; an Edward Waverley, a Quentin Durward, Wilfred of Ivanhoe, or Nigel Oliphaunt. Flora Mac Ivor refused Waverley; and surely Rosalind was not more stately than Flora; but Flora was pre-engaged to Ambition. Rebecca loved Ivanhoe; she had at least as fine a disposition as Juliet, but she was a despised Jewess.

Here was another point in which Romeo had much the advantage of Paris. He chose Juliet himself-he made love himself, never by proxy; while Paris loved, after Juliet had been pointed out to him as eligible, and was introduced to her, not by himself, or his own devotion, but by her parents. Juliet selected well, as many impassioned women do. If they sometimes fail in choosing a virtuous, they at least fix on a talented man-one of capabilities. Paris was good, handsome, and had fair abilities for shining in mediocrity; but Romeo was peerless as his bride. His first energies were spent in love, and we see what luscious fruit they produced-we see his strength, fervour, and constancy; and, when love had obtained all his rights, what might we not have expected from the man, his powers being turned into other channels? He had genius to conceive designs of grandeur and beauty-daring to hazard all, and surmount obstacles-and a soul to appreciate felicity when attained. Are we to conclude that he was susceptible of fatal discouragements because he poisoned himself? It was not moping disappointment which killed him—it was a desire to depart and be with Juliet-it was the triumph of love, and it gives a notion of what, in other pursuits, his stern resolution might have accomplished. He was one to conquer worlds, and keep them; for he had ability to win hearts, and judgment to sway them. He would die a king, or sink with the wreck of empire, as a stanch captain clings to his shattered ship-unless that this second pursuit, not having undivided claims upon him, like the first, this latter commanded his self-preservation. The author of "Vivian Grey" should be my Romeo if I were likening men to Shakspeare's characters. Romeo was not inconstant when he left Rosalind. He only gave up what he had never possessed, and what it would have been sheer folly for him to pretend to maintain. Was his not gaining Rosalind a proof of deficiency of ability? Rather was his wisdom proved in discovering her unsuitability, and desisting from the pursuit of that which would have been more than worthless when gained, namely, the source of unhappiness. He was pursuing a shadow-he discovered the reality ---he would have been a fool to gaze on the picture, when the fleshand-blood original stood by his side.

With her night reverie, after the ball, commences Juliet's first real, substantial sorrow, which commands sympathy from all the world: childish sorrows are tolerated, not participated. How like an unselfish creature, (as she was,) and thoughtful for others, are her first words at this second interview with Montague. They do not express shame at his having overheard her-nor pleasure in his unexpected presence-nor fright, lest she should be caught and punished. They speak her fears for his safety-her dread lest any harm should overtake him. When she finds it useless to urge him from her, and that he had rather stay and suffer than go and be safe, she then alludes to self. With what sincerity she speaks! We should have more love

on the earth, if there were more truth. How heartily we believe her,

"Fain, fain deny

What I have spoke;"

modesty, half the reason; and fear, lest she should sink in Romeo's estimation, the other half. How natural her desire that her lover should give utterance to his feelings and he, as men whose love is hot are always in extremes, must swear, instead of simply saying, which was all she wanted-a counterpart of her own sweet, confiding declaration. Romeo must swear-she joys, for a second, in the oath; but then, recollecting by what he pledges himself, namely, the inconstant moon, she calls on him to pause, and not to swear at all, unless by his gracious self. Even that oath she allows him not to complete -fearing everything, dreading to weary happiness-believing that she had had sufficient for one night. Just so, when you long, internally, for anything, you say, aloud, that you do not expect it—as if to deprecate destiny; and by not appearing to tax it too far, having hopes of being able to trust more to its generosity. Romeo, too, if bound by an oath, might be satiated of her; as a husband of a wife, when tied to her for ever.

Interruptions are the zest of business: women who have children, and are often interrupted by them in their scientific pursuits, work with the more zeal when they are at liberty; as, I dare to say, Mrs. Somerville has experienced. So Juliet grows more familiarly fond when the nurse calls from within to her.

"Sweet Montague, be true.

Stay but a little, I will come again."

Interruptions, also, force you to the point at once; like the business utility style of the present day, which forbids you to wind about the bush, or to write long sentences, on pain of receiving no encouragement whatsoever. And Juliet, when she returns to Romeo, point-blank inquires, as was necessary, before she further licensed him, if he will marry her. He departs; but this has been too business-like a separation. She must rain more love upon him. She longs for another glimpse of him-for another tone of his voice; and she recals him. Who can write like Shakspeare? Who ever imagined another Juliet? Who ever will? There may be some pretty sketches of women extant, but where is the masterly hand for filling in?

In the few words, spoken by each, when they meet in order to be married, the character of the man and woman are again individualised with the freedom and truth of nature. Romeo, ardent, is eager to boast of the force of his love, and the immeasurable joy which present circumstances excite.

"Ah, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy

Be heap'd like mine, and that thy skill be more
To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath
This neighbour air, and let rich music's tongue
Unfold the imagin'd happiness that both
Receive in either by this dear encounter."

Romeo was like the land of Canaan, overflowing with milk and honey. Juliet had placed a rose-leaf over her brimful cup of happiness, (like a candidate for admission into the silent academy,)-she would not disturb it—she would not that it ran over, lest more than the overplus should be sacrificed. Romeo was the babbling brook-Juliet the hidden well. She would not brag, lest her presumption should be punished. No mortal can be certain of the continuance of felicity. It is wise not to tempt fate by blind security. A superstition, by instinct, forbids us to speak of happiness-forbids us, as it were, to show it the light, lest it evaporate-admonishes us to enjoy it silently, in trembling. Like an only child is happiness; if we boast of its beauty, it will, perchance, be nipped in the bud. A good woman's conscience is tender-could Juliet be joyous, while acting with duplicity? Besides, she could not, with delicacy, enlarge upon her satisfaction in public; though Romeo might-a man will kiss his wife before an intimate-a modest wife will not kiss her husband.

Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,
Towards Phoebus' mansion."

What but these words-ardent, bounding, leaping-could express the palpitations of Juliet, as, in her chamber, she tarried the coming of the first visit of her husband? She is no longer the timid girl, unconscious of her wishes, at least lending them no tongue, no sound -but it is with propriety that her desires now so freely find words, for she is already a Montague. Still, there is no unfeminine forwardness about her, and she thus beseeches "civil night."

"Hood my unmann'd blood, bating in my cheeks,

With thy black mantle; till strange love, grown bold,
Think true love acted, simple modesty.'

"

When did passion, before or since, borrow so rich a voice, (yet free from grossness, coarseness, or anything objectionable,) so full of genius, so poetic?

"Come night! come Romeo! come thou day in night!
For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night

Whiter than new snow on a raven's back."

What bride, though learned, beautiful, and loving, ever summoned, or ever will summon, with such harmony, her new-found husband? How true to nature, then, that Juliet, on hearing of the death of Tybalt, should jump to a conclusion that he, with whom she was so short a time intimate, had deceived her unsuspecting heart, had proved vindictive, unkind, ungenerous? Persons of quick apprehensions are often thus unjust to their friends-they imagine a cause, which they talk themselves into believing true, and they condemn on the supposition of its truth. The surest method of bringing such unfair judges to their senses, is to coincide with their fault-findingor rather to condemn more vigorously than they have already done. Thus their anger shall be turned upon you-they will question any one's right but their own to convict their friend-and, on the instant, even while still uncertain of the matter at issue, they will drown the

recollection of present misdemeanors in praises of virtues formerly made known, or guessed at. And remorse will speedily take possession of the blamer's breast for condemning thus unheard, unreasonably, when he should have been foremost to comfort, consoleor, if that were impossible, to make allowances for-to hope all things.

"Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband?

Ah! poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name
When I, thy three-hours' wife, have mangled it?”

So womanish as Juliet is, at their last interview-insisting that what is, is not-until Romeo, petting her, as if she were a spoiled child, gives in to her; when, having got all her own way, she acknowledges the truth. It was then her own discovery-not Romeo's. There is a sweet, loving playfulness in the scene-nature, only more beautiful than nature. All is over now-no more billing and cooingno more callings back-no rhapsodies-the sober certainty has taken possession of wrapt imaginings of bliss. Their frames are both wearied from excess of happiness.

"Poor my Romeo !" his is by far the hardest part to bear he is far more to be pitied than Juliet-always unfortunate-first, a victim of unrequited love-then loving one, to love whom puts his life in perpetual hazard: (however, that is all the more stimulating; though, for a constancy, it might be a trifle wearying:) second, obliged to support the death of his friend; and, worse, forced to quarrel with the cousin of his bride, in order to revenge the death of Mercutio: third, just as he had purchased the rights of a husband, prevented their exercise-banished from his home and country-brought into disrepute tarnished in character-deserted by all the world-even his three-hours' bride rebelling-even Romeo untrue to self-his misfortunes are greater than he can bear. The sky is black: gradually, however, one or two dark clouds move aside-the aspect of his circumstances becomes a little less gloomy-his wife returns to her allegiance is more devoted, if possible, than ever-cheers him— beckons him to her-the good-natured friar urges him forward-a sample of the bliss which, he trusts, is in store for him, is laid before him-and, accompanied by woman's love and woman's prayers, he hastens to a hateful exile. Here, when he looks for joyful news, he is greeted by tidings of death-the death of his lady-bird; the account of the real state of the case which should have reached him (unhappy in all) does not-he hurries to destruction; and no helping hand is extended to save him. He dies unaided, untended. Alas for Romeo! Juliet, the queen of happiness, was espoused to the monarch of sorrow. "Haughty Montague!" grief had taught thee pride.

N. R. Q.