Like the base Judean, threw a pearl away, Richer than all his tribe; of one whose subdued eyes,

Albeit unused to the melting mood,
Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees,
Their medicinal gum. Set you down this,
And say besides,- that, in Aleppo once,
Where a malignant and a turban'd Turk
Beat a Venetian, and traduced the State,
I took by the throat the circumcised dog,
And smote him-thus [Stabs himself."'

Hear this well delivered by a sufficient actor, and you come under the wand of the enchanter. Amazing power of the poet! Had this one personality been all that he had produced, he would have been immortal. Νο shame to you if you drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees, their medicinal gum.'

And now, what more shall be said of the character of Othello's victim, the gentle, loving, constant, enduring, unresisting, forgiving Desdemona ? To go back again to the beginning, we could find no more capital comparison than between the marriages of Desdemona and Dorothea Brooke. There is the same infatuation; the same disparity in years; the same want of personal attraction in the lover: the same jealousy; the same wretched result; all with a difference. But can any one fancy Dorothea eloping? Nay, let us suppose her to have been Mr. Casaubon's daughter, could any one fancy her eloping with Will Ladislaw? Would it not have indelibly soiled Dorothea's fine character? Then, why shall Desdemona's be without stain ? There is a point, indeed, in which Desdemona excels Dorothea, the complete forgiveness of Othello, to the very ultimate last. Dorothea feels a natural resentment at the odious codicil to Mr. Casaubon's will. Desdemona's forgiveness is, perhaps, superhuman.

with that we have nothing to do. We must allow her all that Shakespeare gives her. Lady Martin says--and we are happy most cordially to agree with her, if it be but for once-that neither history nor fiction has anything finer of its kind. With all reverence be it spoken, we can only refer

6

it to the same Christian spirit which inspired the words Father, forgive them; they know not what they do.' Nor must we by any means lose sight of Desdemona's earnest and generous pleading for Cassio. In Desdemona, then, we have a character, in many respects similar to that of Ophelia; but more faulty, and, at the same time, finer. Like Ophelia, Desdemona exhausts our pity, but Desdemona's sufferings are greater than Ophelia's. To what more horrible mental torture, to what viler indignities, could such a creature be exposed? I must be pardoned if I am compelled to make Shakespeare speak for himself. How fine and truly Shakesperean is the earlier part of it!

Отн. Had it pleased heaven

To try me with affliction; had he rained
All kinds of sores and shames on my bare
head;

Steeped me in poverty to the very lips;
Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes;
I should have found in some part of my soul
A drop of patience; but, alas! to make me
A fixed figure for the time of scorn
To point his slow unmoving finger at-
O! O!

Yet could I bear that too; well, very well:
But there, where I have garner'd up my heart;
Where either I must live, or bear no life;
The fountain from the which my current

runs,

Or else dries up to be discarded thence!
Or keep it as a cistern, for foul toads

To knot and gender in! turn thy complexion there!

Patience, thou young and rose-lipped cherubim;

Ay, there, look grim as hell !'

DES. I hope my noble lord esteems me honest.'

Отн. О, ay; as summer flies are in the shambles,

That quicken even with blowing. O, thou weed,

Who art so lovely fair, and smell'st so sweet, That the sense aches at thee. Would thou had'st ne'er been born!'

DES. 'Alas! What ignorant sin have I committed?'

OTH. 'Was this fair paper, this most goodly book,

Made to write whore upon? What committed ?

Committed? O, thou public commoner !
I should make very forges of my cheeks,
That would to cinders burn up modesty,
Did I but speak thy deeds. What commit-
ted ?

Heaven stops the nose at it, and the moon winks;

The bawdy wind, that kisses all it meets,

Is hushed within the hollow mine of earth,
And will not hear it; what committed ?
Impudent strumpet!'

DES. By heaven, you do me wrong.'
OTH. Are you not a strumpet?'
DES. 'No, as I am a Christian;
If to preserve this vessel for my lord,
From any other foul, unlawful touch,
Be-not to be a strumpet, I am none.'
ОTH. What, not a whore?'
DES. 'No, as I shall be saved.'
OTH. Is it possible?'

DES. O, heaven forgive us !'
Oтн. I cry you mercy, then;

I took you for that cunning whore of Venice,
That married with Othello.- You, mistress,

[Re-enter Emilia.

That have the office opposite to Saint Peter, And keep the gate of hell; you! you ay, you!

We have done our course, there's money for your pains,

I pray you turn the key and keep our [Exit.

counsel.

Her

Emilia is a well-drawn character, with a rough, outspoken honesty, on some occasions, but a bit of a virago, and rankly dishonest on others. appropriating, not to say stealing, the handkerchief, and giving it to her husband, with all its attendant circumstances, well knowing the value which Desdemona set upon it, is atrocious. Lady Martin's sense of this seems to be not nearly keen enough. And, curiously, she makes a mistake with Emilia similiar to that which she made with Nerissa, only in the opposite direction. While she elevates the wait. ing maid, Nerissa, into a lady, she degrades the lady, Emilia, into a waiting maid. She speaks of her class,' evidently meaning the class of waiting maids. It is true that Desdemona is spoken of as Emilia's mistress,' but so, in the same sense, is the Queen mistress of the great ladies about her household. We must take Emilia's rank from that of her husband, and

Iago, though we cannot define exactly what he was, was certainly far above the rank of a menial. He was the chosen friend of Othello, and the companion of gentlemen.

The play is disfigured with excessively gross expressions. I do not know where you would find any more utterly gross in Shakespeare, or even in any other dramatist, which, if true, is saying all that could be said. But its transcendent power throws all this into the background. It is a Titanic work. Upon Othello and Iago the whole burden of the piece falls. Both parts require consummate actors, and that of Othello immerse physical power; he runs through the whole gamut of emotions, and often strikes sudden and wide intervals: It is a most exhausting performance, taxing every resource, and it is well deemed a touchstone of a tragic actor's ability. It has been not uncommon for two actors to alternate the parts, but they must both be of the first rank. Desdemona, to do the part justice, must be personated by a sufficiently capable actress, but one can hardly repress a smile at Lady Martin's saying, 'Macready was my Othello.' Macready was an excellent actor; he had some strong mannerisms, and a voice difficult, I suspect, to manage; but he had a dignity which he always sustained, and in Othello there is great demand upon it. He was a gentleman off the stage and on it. He will be remembered as one of Charles Dickens' two 'Macs,' the other being Maclise, the admirable painter and R. A., who was fond of dramatic (some said theatrical) subjects.

THE INFLUENCE OF SUPERIOR MEN.

UGUSTE COMTE has a curious

Asulation to the effect that the

vast intellectual superiority of the human race has had a depressing effect upon the lower animals, and has possibly prevented some species of them from framing for their own use much more perfect means of communication than any of them are actually found to possess. He seems to think that, but for man, some of them might almost have risen to rational language. However this may be, it is certainly the case that higher races of men do exert a depressing influence upon lower races, and seem to push them below their normal level. Without taking an unduly romantic view of the former condition of the Indian population of this continent, we may be allowed to believe that the Indian of three centuries ago was, in general, a vastly more dignified and respectable being than the Indian of to-day. In the accounts of the Indian tribes given by Champlain and the early Jesuit and Recollet missionaries, there is nothing to provoke contempt; but, on the contray, much to conciliate liking and respect. The Indian of to-day has lost the savage virtues of his forefathers, and has borrowed little from civilized men save their vices, of which, it must be confessed, he has had much more ample experience than of their good qualities. Here a superior civilization coming into contact with an inferior has widened the gap between itself and the inferior, instead of closing it up, or at least diminishing it, by the elevation of the lower

may not always, there is reason to think, be a benefactor to his associates. As an administrator, he may assume too much responsibility himself, and leave too little to them. Doing things so much more readily, and seeing things so much more clearly and comprehensively than they, he may positively stand between them and that exercise of their intelligence which, in his absence, would become a matter of necessity. He thinks, perhaps, that he is mightily aiding in the development of their intelligence, forgetting that actual intellectual work, coupled with a sense of responsibility, is almost the only thing that really does develop intelligence. Then there is the other aspect of the case to consider: not only does the able man voluntarily do more than his share of work, and particularly of thinking, but others, when they have found out how much they can trust to his insight and capacity, voluntarily repose on his judgment when they ought to exercise their own. Their intellectual vis inertia readily accepts an arrangement under which it is so little disturbed. Even when there exists a disposition to exercise thought and assume responsibility, it meets with so little encouragement, or, perhaps, so much positive discouragement, that it is soon replaced by a mere spirit of routine. If rumour speaks truly, Mr. Gladstone is one of these men who do so much themselves, and leave so little to others, that they really train no very capable successors. Prince Bismarck possesses the same characteristic in a more extreme form; but a still more eminent Prussian, Frederick the Great, furnishes, perhaps, the most conspicuous example in history of the disposition to which I refer. Under him there was no room,' says Macaulay, 'not merely for a Richelieu or a Mazarin, but for a Colbert, a Louvois, or a Torcy. A love of labour for its own sake, a restless and insatiable longing to dictate, to intermeddle, to make his power felt, a profound scorn and distrust of his fellow-creatures, made him

unwilling to ask counsel, to confide important secrets, to delegate ample powers. The highest functionaries under his government were mere clerks, and were not so much trusted by him as valuable clerks are often trusted by the heads of departments. He could tolerate

no will, no reason, in the State save his own. He wished for no abler assistance than that of penmen who had just understanding enough to translate and transcribe, to make out his scrawls, and to put his concise Yes and No into an official form.'

In family relations we sometimes see the dwarfing of one intelligence by another. Here is a wife whose nature has never been fully developed, because she has lived in the shadow of her husband; and here, again, we sometimes see a husband who, overmastered by the superior intellect or energy of his wife, has never taken the place he might have taken

had he had a fuller share of respon. sibility and initiative. There are parents, in like manner, who are too clever for their children, too clever to sympathize with or understand intellectual weakness, and who, therefore, rather numb than foster a nascent intelligence. This may be the case even where the children give more than ordinary intellectual promise; and, if we do not more frequently see children perpetuating the talents of their parents, this may sometimes be the cause the children are so intellectually 'sat on,' that they lose all spring and all originality. I incline, indeed, to think this a point of considerable importance. It does every one good to have some power of initiative, to have room and opportunity, and encouragement, to expand, to se faire valoir. Children, above all, need it; and to deny it to them is to shut them up in a dungeon. And a dungeon, be it remembered, would be none the less a dungeon if its walls were made of sparkling diamonds. The mind cannot feed on the cleverness of others; it must have some chance to exercise and display its own, without being promptly headed off.' There are some people who, in conversation, always want to express your thought better than you have done it yourself, and who will hardly allow you time to see what you can do, so prompt are they to come to your assistance.

The conclusion of the whole matter seems to be this. All intellectual supe

riority ought to be dominated by a social purpose. The aim of the able man should not be to create a desert for himself where he can roam and roar in undisputed lordship; but to dwell peaceably side by side with his fellows, helping them where necessary, but looking to their good, and not to the increase of his own influence or prestige. Whatever is weak he should try to strengthen; the smoking flare of confused, inarticulate thought, he should try to blow into the flame of clear expression. And when the superior man cannot act in this spirit, society should by its attitude remind him that, with all his havings, he lacks the most important gift of all,superiority of heart. LE S.

SPELLING NOVELTIES.

I MUST admit that I take a savage pleasure in noticing and pointing out the slips and trips which piratical American publishers are always making in their reprints of English works. These tell-tale mistakes often occur from a too great, a too Chinese, fidelity in copying; such as allusions to plates or frontispieces which are not reproduced in the American edition. The instance which I last noted does not, however, fall under this head; but was caused by that insane love of petty tinkering with the accepted spelling of English words which is so much affected by the American press. Possibly they think there is something national in spelling 'centre' 'center,' and sombre' somber;' a Yankeephobist might remark that the change must be a concession to a national ignorance which could not pronounce the words unless cut up to fit their mouths, like spoon-meat prepared for little children. Among these fancies I have always felt some approval for their preferring the form 'jail' over 'gaol,' the latter word being liable by a careless reader to be mistaken for goal.' But in the reprint of the Contemporary Review for last April, the purist proofreader, in his intense desire to be plain and intelligible, has put 'jail' for 'goal,' so that the author of A Study of Carlyle' is made to utter the startling sentiment that a 6 common starting point does not mean a common jail!' Perhaps if the culprit were confined