rigid and motionless; a thick film spread itself over his glaring eye-balls; and his enormous jaws fell apart, disclosing the fearful array of pointed fangs and immense wedge-like grinders. So, now they have raised Zadie from the ground, and for the first time she becomes aware of her lover's danger; breaking from her father's supporting arms, she runs, or rather staggers, over the few paces of ground which intervene, and, casting herself down on his motionless form, kisses his pale cheeks, lips, and brow, and bathes them with her fast-falling tears, heedless of the many eyes that observe her distracted motions, and the many ears that listen to the endearing epithets and words of fondness which betray her depth of love for him whom she believes to have died a sacrifice for her. But, oh! joy of joys! he lives. Never were the balmy breathings of spring so welcome to the frost-nipped early-coming flowers, as the warm breath of her lover, which faintly played upon the pale cheek of the delighted maiden. He lives, he breathes, he speaks, and hush! for his words are but faltering whispers, scarcely to be heard or understood by any other than the acute ear of affection. Half unclosing his eyes, he murmurs, 'Where am I, if not in Paradise? It must be so; for such a form, and such a face, as that now bending over me, does not exist upon earth. There was but one, and she has fled from hence, to dwell with houries, slain by a fierce animal that knew not pity or remorse. But no; my senses wander art thou not Zadie, my own love, she whom I fancied lost to me for ever? Yes; oh, transporting reality! Oh, bliss beyond compare!' During this affecting scene the Emir-albeit but little given to the melting moodhad looked on with tearful eyes; and now, as if ashamed of having displayed so much womanly emotion before the attendants, he started, and suddenly exclaimed, Why stand you thus idly gazing, loitering slaves; prepare a litter quick, and bear the youth to my pavilion, that the proper attention may be paid to his hurts; pray Alla they be not fatal!' Then, after a pause, during which the slaves had hastily twisted a rude litter from the branches of the neighbouring trees, and, aided by Zadie, had covered it with such loose garments as they could divest themselves of for the occasion, so as to form a tolerably soft couch, he continued, in a lower tone, 'Brave youth! Brave youth! There; raise him gently; so; he is well worthy of our utmost care. Zadie, my child! come to thy father's arms, and let me embrace and bless thee, thus, thus rescued from the jaws of death. Nay, tremble not, nor blush to

VOL. II. NO. III.

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find thy secret hath escaped.' For the maiden now, for the first time since her swoon, conscious of the presence of all but Hassan, stood like a guilty thing, with glowing cheeks and downcast eyes, vainly endeavouring to hide her confusion. She needed not a second invitation, but, flying to her father's outstretched arms, buried her face in his bosom, and gave vent to her feelings in a hysterical gush of tears,―tears, not of bitterness, but speechless rapture; for, in the Emir's kind looks, and encouraging smile, she read approval of the choice her heart had made, and the doubts and the fears that had hovered, like threatening clouds, over the bright pictures drawn by fancy in the veil of the future all vanished. Oh, what a relief to the overburthened heart is this unsealing of the crystal fountain!—that loosening of the springs of deepest emotion, whether it be of joy or of sorrow!"

“The grief that cannot vent itself in tears,
Will work sad havoc in the brooding mind;
As smouldering fire 'neath ancient floor confined,
It eats, till all support be undermined,

And the fair structure into ruin wears.

"Our common joys may beaming smiles display;
But rapturous delight-the thrill intense-
That cometh o'er one like a deeper sense
Of life and love, the speechless eloquence
Of gushing tear-drops only can betray."

SONG.

THE winds of the south love the rose,
They kiss it, and pass away;

The flower loves the stream as it throws

On its bosom the glittering spray.

But the wind passed by, and the flower gave
To the stranger wind the kiss of the wave.
The wind to the rose, the flower to the stream,
Faithful and true hath their love not been.

But the rose loves the wild winds yet,

And its perfume gives to the gale;
And the streamlet doth never forget

The flower that heeds not its tale ;-
It murmureth still at the feet of its flower;
And gems on its heedless breast it doth shower;
And the flower's sweet chalice is never so fair,
When true love's gift is not resting there.

PUCK.

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.

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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 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