breath of ease: and his face had just been freezing into the petrifaction of despondency, when it is touched with a new life, and animated with a new feel. ing. It seems as if his heart, bewildered and forlorn under this sudden and cruellest stroke of fate, had found a cure to its despair, and rushed back again into its bliss. All this is spoken in the returning smile with which he embraces Desdemona. Let him come when he will: His mind is just settling into composure when, again, her equivocal language rouses from his lair the fiend of jealousy within him, and he almost drives her from him, that he may be left to his own thoughts. I will deny thee nothing: Whereon I do beseech thee grant me this, To leave me but a litttle to myself. When relieved from the feverish oppression of her presence, it is not hate, it is not cool consideration, (and here we know not whether more to admire the felicity of the poet's conception, or that prompt sympathy, which can so well embody it in living representation,) it is a flood of long repressed love that rushes upon his solitude: Solitude, at least, to him, for though the serpent, Iago, is present with his poison, in that moment of deep absorption, he is unperceived. Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul, But I do love thee! And when I love thee not. Chaos is come again. Iago steps in to dissipate, with his diabolical suggestions, this gleam of happiness. Awaked once more to suspicion, nothing can now become a sedative to his anxiety; and eagerly pursuing those surmises, which retire from his grasp only that they may allure him more surely into ruin, he unguardedly swallows that poison which is finally to unhinge his rea son. Oth. Think, my Lord! By Heaven, he echoes me, As if there were some monster in his thought, Too hideous to be shown. Thou do'st mean something: I heard thee say but now, Thou lik❜dst not that, When Cassio left my wife: What do'st not like? And when I told thee-he was of my counsel In my whole course of wooing, thou cry'dst "indeed!" And did'st contract and purse thy brow to. gether, As if thou then had'st shut up in thy brain Some horrible conceit. If thou dost love me, Show me thy thought: Then recovering himself, as if ashamed of the violence of his own imaginings, and of the impotent vehemence of his inquiries, he attempts to reason himself out of this unworthy state of suspicion. And, at the same time, he very characteristically displays a mind, resolute in the midst of calamity, and prepared with a decision, whatever may befall. Why? why is this, Think'st thou, I'd make a life of jealousy, To follow still the changes of the moon With fresh suspicions? No; to be once in doubt Is once to be resolved. "Tis not to make me jealous, To say my wife is fair-loves company, Is free of speech, sings, plays, and dances well: Where virtue is, these are more virtuous : Nor from mine own weak merits will I draw The smallest fear, or doubt of her revolt : For she had eyes, and chose me: No, Iago; I'll see before I doubt: When I doubt, prove: And on the proof, there is no more but this Away at once with love, or jealousy. He has recovered his serenity and firmness. But the ever-meddling Jago supplies another hint, which, aimed too well, shoots like a barbed arrow into his soul. His wife may have imposed upon his confidence, for she is practised in the art of deceit. Iago. She did deceive her father, mar rying you, And when she seemed to shake and fear your looks She loved them most. He cannot gainsay this. The suggestion is plausible, probable. He stands petrified with surprise, indignation, and perplexity. Oth. And so she did. We have the perfect image of despair before us. His last hope is wrenched from his grasp, and there is something agonizingly painful in beholding his fruitless efforts against the sure and overwhelming encroachments of that "sea of troubles" which at length besets him. A noble mind is overthrown by its own passions. And even his wonted fortitude refuses to come, in this exigency, to his aid. Iag. I see this hath a little dashed your spirits. Oth. Not a jot-not a jot. But the struggle to conceal his emotion is all in vain. The agitation of his features betrays his secret agony. The dream of happiness has fled from him for ever, and winters of desolation are sweeping over his heart. But the confession of this must not pass his lips. Oth. No, not much moved. This fruitless struggle is infinitely affecting. To realize his boast, he snatches at one lingering trace of hope. I do not think but Desdemona's honest. But its flash instantaneously departs, and leaves him in a still deeper gloom., Dark and moody, his mind is a prey to the most dismal agonies, and the thoughts which his eye or his lip reveals come forth upon us like gleams of lightning from amid the storm. There is something of stern and fearful energy, quite characteristic of the Moor, in the summoning up of his final resolution to hate and abandon his Desdemona; something of high dignity and most natural tenderness in the strain in which he speaks of his own wrongs. We respect his resolute temper; we sympathize with his indignation. If I do prove her haggard, Though that her jesses were my dear heart-strings, I'd whistle her off, and let her down the wind, To prey at fortune. black, Haply, for I am And have not those soft parts of conversation That chamberers have ;-or for I am de This is a trying interview. He is so beset with a convulsion of conflicting passions, that he can scarcely utter a word. Desd. Why is your speech so faint? Oth. I have a pain upon my forehead- His purpose is forgot. The intended scrutiny is set aside for the present. The stern rigidity of his features suddenly relaxes into gentleness and joy. Come, I'll go in with you. The same traits of character are finely brought out in that scene, where, after Iago has equipped himself with that fatal instrument of his revenge, the handkerchief, the distracted Moor comes in upon us, and harrows up our sympathies with the sad complaint he utters of his grievances, so unworthy both of his own and of Desdemona's character. Ha! false to me? To me? His grief dries up into a fever of frenzy at sight of the man who had possessed his soul with those thoughts of fire. Avaunt; begone! thou'st set me on the rack. I swear 'tis better to be much abused His mind thus altogether unhinged, he precipitates himself on despair, and with the love that enlightened his existence, he gives up all his earthly joy. His very habit of body seems totally changed, as if he had undergone a long course of affliction. His nerves have lost their tone, like the moistened strings of a harp that reluctantly perform their sullen vibrations, and all his elastic muscular ener gy having ceased, he is broken down into the listlessness of utter despondence. Oh! now for ever farewell, &c. It is a farewell not to be forgot by those who have heard it. Nor is the flame of rage that bursts out of his black despair less natural. Villain, be sure you prove my love a whore. If thou dost slander her and torture me, Never pray more-abandon all remorse. Nor is there the least extravagance, when he summons up all the energy of his passions to back the sternness of his resolve, and, like an articulate tiger, exclaims, I'll tear her all to pieces. And when the mention of the unlucky handkerchief has fully confirmed his suspicions, we are more than prepared, by his wild gesticulation, and fiendish glances, for the fire-stream of wrath which bursts forth at last. Oh! that the slave had forty thousand lives: The insidious representations of Iago add fuel to a flame already too intense; while the behaviour of Cassio, and the fate of the handkerchief, completely confirm his suspicions; and then to his desperate passion, the suggestion of poison seems but tame, and he eagerly grasps at some more horrible means of death. Oth. Get me some poison-this night, Iago. Iago. Do it not with poison-strangle her in her bed, even the bed she has contaminated. Oth. Good, good; the justice of it pleases very good. There is a fine vacillation between In this state of dreadful agitation, and love and vengeance, when he meets with this diabolical intent in his mind, the innocent, beauteous creature he has been taught to suspect. the appearance of Desdemona is too The inuch for him. His passion is pantcontrast is dreadful between the pu- ing to burst forth even in the midst rity and open gentleness of Desdemona, and the hell of anguish and susof strangers, and, though he takes to the papers of the senate as a pretext picion that we know is raging in his breast. He plays with her hand, but of indifference, his absorbed mind cannot admit a thought, but that bitter one of his loss and his injury. the touch corrodes his heart. This hand is moist, my lady, Hot, hot, and moist; 'tis a good hand, a frank one: But our new heraldry is-hands, not hearts. The unsuspecting creature speaks at That is a fault: That handkerchief Des. Cousin, there's fallen between him and my lord An unkind breach; but you shall make up all. Oth. Are you sure of that? [Reads. The purpose of deadly vengeance is flaming in his eye, and longs for its execution. Des. A most unhappy one;-I would do much To atone them, for the love I bear to Cas sio. Oth. Fire and brimstone! Des. How, sweet Othello? The keenness of his inquiry, the Qut of my sight! He meets that look-but all his stern determination cannot stand it. Oth. O Desdemona! away! away! away! Des. Why do you weep? delight is gone. He bids her confess Well do it, and be brief; I will walk by: His rage has almost relented, and he Des. Alas, he is betrayed, and I undone! Oth. Out, strumpet; weep'st thou for him to my face? [Smothers her. Not dead, not yet quite dead! I that am cruel am yet merciful; His mien and gesticulation are so Am I the occasion of those tears, my lord? frenzied and dreadful, we are pre Oth. Had it pleased Heaven To try me with affliction. There is love, deep love, to the last, mingling with his revenge, like a fragrant lily among deadly nightshade. It comes over the features of his despair like the soft moonlight gilding The the midnight thunder-cloud. resolution of revenge has wound up his soul to its sternest tension; but the sight of the dear object of all his affection, even the thought of her, melts him into tears. It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul, stars! It is the cause.-Yet I'll not shed her blood, pared for any thing; nor does it seem No acting but what rivalled the fer- Not Cassio killed? Then murder's out of time, Nor scar that whiter skin of her's than And sweet revenge grows harsh. But when that gust of rage is over, the consciousness of what he has done comes back upon him. His mind becomes bewildered. He knows not what he says. At length, when he seems at the lowest depth, a new chaos of torture opens upon him-the suspicion that he has done this deed rashly, unadvisedly. Oh! I were damn'd beyond all depth in But that I did proceed upon just grounds All this is aggravated by the mocking If Heaven would make me such another Of one entire and perfect chrysolite, When the whole truth is revealed to Are there no stones in heaven At the awful moment of the catastrophe, his soul returns to him. He But what serve for the thunder? Precious is himself again,-the fierce, the ar villain! The wild flash that escapes from his livid eye-balls seems not the look of a man but the glare of a fiend. We shall never forget it. He is disarmed, however, the proud chief, whose arm and eye made hosts retire, is overpowered by a stripling. He breaks out into almost womanish wailing. I am not valiant neither, But every puny whipster gets my sword. When called upon, he is not moved stands their brunt. dent soldier, though his mind is broken into shivers. And when he gives himself the soldier's death, the heart sinks with him, borne down by the flood of misfortune and agony which has overwhelmed the scene. C. HISTORICAL NOTICES OF THE SCOT- THE origin of the Scottish herring fishery, "like many other things relating to Scotland," is lost in antiquity. It is recorded, however, by Dutch historians, that the Scots imported herrings into Holland and the Netherlands as early as the ninth century; Oth. That's he that was Othello-here and this, probably, gave the Dutch I am. He is hardly prevailed on to speak at all. He feels it to be useless. kerchief. He did not know till now O fool! fool! fool! the first idea of fishing upon our coasts, from which they have acquired so much wealth. Whatever may be in this, it is certain, that, during the reign of James the Third, the Dutch had begun a regular herring fishery have continued with little interrupon the coast of Scotland, which they tion ever since. in the reigns of James the Third, The good laws which were enacted the herring fishery, show us that our Fourth, and Fifth, for encouraging kings considered it of the greatest value and importance to the nation. James the Fourth made great exertions towards establishing a regular fishery. The numerous towns along the Forth, which have now fallen into decay, were then flourishing and populous, chiefly supported by their commerce with France and Flanders. James obliged these towns to build busses from 20 to 70 tons burden for the fishery; and each town was to send out a number proportioned to its To him now all humanity is annihi- wealth and population. So zealous |