under the bitter sense of his trespass; the more guilty in the impotent fury of self-abandonment. Ariel holds them prisoners; and under his master's charms they are distracted, stricken with madness. Then speaks out the nobility of Prospero. He comes forth from his cell in his magic robes. Ariel is by his side. It is the sixth hour of the day, when the enchanter had promised that the spirit's work should cease. In the progress of that work the spirit has caught something of human sympathies. If you now beheld, says Ariel, those upon whom your charm so strongly works, your affections would become tender. Hast thou, says Prospero, which art but air, a touch, a feeling of their afflictions, and shall not myself, one of their kind, be kindlier moved than thou art? Go release them. Solemn is the invocation which precedes Prospero's renunciation of his rough magic; and solemn is the scene in which those who have been distraught are gradually disenchanted. As the charm dissolves apace they hear the story of Prospero's wrongs; and at length the rightful duke of Milan stands before them, in the garb of a former time. The king of Naples entreats pardon. Prospero forgives even that most wicked sir, whom he will not call brother. Then comes the last surprise. The interior of Prospero's cell is disclosed, and there are Ferdinand and Miranda playing at chess in the security and ease of a life-long affection, after an acquaintance of three hours. The benevolent enchanter has worked out his most Christian victory over evil, and has secured the happiness of his dear-beloved; and now to Milan, where every third thought shall be a thought of his grave.

We have a parting word to say of that noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo the good old lord-holy Gonzalo, honourable man. He is a mere passive instrument in Prospero's island. His character is not very marked; and yet we love to look again and again at him, in refreshing contrast with his associates. Of the men who have brought the habits of civilization to a pure region, where the crafty man might lay aside his mask, and the violent man his weapon, Gonzalo is the only honest. But he proses, amidst empty laughs at meaningless jests. The courtiers bandy his words and would make a butt of him. We think he has the best of it. When the

strange shapes bring in a banquet, he has his stories of "mountaineers dewlapp'd like bulls," and "men whose heads stand on their breasts"-and he believes them now-though he was incredulous in his youth. Unquestionably he is a bore, according to the shallow interpretation of those who, in all time, have hated and still hate earnestness of any kind. But the old man has tears that run down his beard like winter's drops, even for those who he knows have done evil, and have small sympathy with sense and virtu Prospero may forgive his enemies, but this one good man has the reward of his love.

We close the book—and the mighty Prospero, the brilliant Ariel, the dove-like Miranda, the impassioned Ferdinand, the earth-rooted Caliban, float before us-shadows whose scope and import are hardly to be apprehended by any process of reasoning, but who are fixed for ever in the imagination, in their absolute and real vitality. We say with Ferdinand, "This is a most majestic vision, and

Harmonious charmingly. May I be bold
To think these spirits?"

Shakspere answers :—

"Spirits, which by mine art

I have, from their confines, called to enact
My present fancies.”