In Coriolanus also are two of the soundest corrections in the volume. Menenius says of himself, act ii. scene 2, "I am known to be a humorous patrician, and one that loves a cup of hot wine, with not a drop of allaying Tyber in't said to be something imperfect in favouring the first complaint." "First complaint," in connexion with Menenius's love for a cup of hot wine, is unintelligible. The copyist heard indistinctly, and wrote first for thirst. So says the old corrector, who gives the passage as follows: "One that loves a cup of hot wine, without a drop of allaying Tyber in't: said to be something imperfect in allaying the thirst complaint." The sense and humour are thus restored, both of which were lost in the word "first." In act ii. scene 3, Coriolanus, when soliciting votes for the consulship in the forum, and dressed in the garb of humility, says, in the first folio, 1623:— "Why in this woolvish tongue should I stand here ?" In the second folio, 1632, 66 tongue" was altered to "gown." Much commentary has been exhausted in trying to explain this, but all in vain. How acceptable is the meaning supplied in the newly discovered copy:— "Why in this woolless toge should I stand here, To beg of Hob and Dick ?" In King John, Constance has always said, in reference to the sudden friendship between France and England, that it "Is cold in amity and painted peace." For this we are told to read"Is cold in amity and faint in peace." In Richard the Third, act i. scene 3, Queen Margaret denounces Gloster as "The slave of nature, and the son of hell." How much more striking and satisfactory are the epithets in the corrected folio 64 'The stain of nature, and the scorn of hell." And, again, when Buckingham remarks of little York "With what a sharp, provided wit he reasons," The true reading appears to be "With what a sharply pointed wit he reasons." And, further on, Richmond, speaking of Richard, calls him, as the words have hitherto stood "The wretched, bloody, and usurping boar."* "Wretched" is a poor epithet applied to Richard, compared to reckless, which is now substituted. In Henry the Eighth, Anna Bullen says of her advancement "Would I had no being, If this salute my blood a jot." "Salute my blood "is scarcely intelligible; but the correction "If this elate my blood a jot," explains away an obscurity in the easiest manner. In the speech of Queen Catherine, she has been accustomed to say "Give me up To the sharpest kind of justice." The old corrector substitutes knife for "kind;" and reads "To the sharp'st knife of justice." When, afterwards, Wolsey says— "It shall be, therefore, bootless That longer you desire the court. He also changes "desire" to defer, which, manifestly, is more suited to the place "That longer you defer the court." In Romeo and Juliet, the line of Juliet, "That runaways' eyes may wink," &c., is altered to, That enemies' eyes may wink. Further on, "The pale reflex of Cynthia's brow," is much improved by the omission of one letter, and becomes "Cynthia's bow." In Julius Cæsar, act i. scene i., the following lines have hitherto been printed thus "When could they say till now, that talk'd of Rome, That her wide walks encompass'd but one man." In the last line we are told to read walls for walks. We could name more than one actor of repute who, in the part of Cassius, has substituted walls, under a دو conviction that it was the better word. In the quarrel-scene, when Brutus says, "I shall be glad to learn of noble men,' noble is struck out, and abler inserted in the place. The improvement will scarcely be disputed. There are twenty-seven very important corrections in Macbeth. The fol lowing undoubtedly prove themselves When Lady Macbeth says— "Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark, To cry Hold, hold !" We find this alteration "Nor heaven peep through the blankness of the dark," &c. And, afterwards, for "What beast was't there, That made you break this enterprise to me ?" We find the mere change of the letter o for e elicits the true meaning of the poet, which has hitherto been obscure, Will chair me ever, or disseat me now. confirming, in the first instance, the suggestion of Bishop Percy, and in the latter that of Dr. Johnson, which carries out the metaphor with elegance and analogy. "Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff," is altered to "Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous grief." In Hamlet, a line in the King's soliloquy, "And oft 'tis seen the wicked prize itself becomes, "And oft 'tis seen the wicked purse itself "And what judgment would step from this to this?" is feeble, compared with the newly-discovered correction, "And what judgment would stoop from this to this." The four lines, beginning "Imperial Cæsar dead and turned to clay," are marked as a quotation, but from what author it is impossible to guess. In King Lear, act ii. sc. 4, where the old King says, "To be a comrade with the wolf and owl, The corrector reads, "To be a comrade with the wolf, and howl In Edgar's speech, act iv. sc. 1, the common reading has been, "Yet better thus, and known to be contemn'd, Than still contemn'd and flatter'd." It now appears that it should be, "Yes, better thus unknown to be contemn'd, Than still contemn'd and flatter'd." In Othello, act i. sc. 1, where Iago wishes Roderigo to awake and alarm Brabantio, "The present pleasure, By repetition souring, does become We could go on multiplying extracts, but enough are given to direct attention. We neither wish to infringe copyright, nor weary our readers. On emendations of a secondary class, which are not so self-evident, it is needless to dwell. We are by no means convinced that "Pick'd from the lazy finger of a milk-maid," in Mercutio's "Queen Mab" speech, is either necessary or an improvement on the line, as it has hitherto stood "Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid." Neither are we disposed to give up Dogberry's "losses," and substitute leases, as we are now required to do. "A rich fellow enough, go to; and a fellow that hath had leases." To have been the owner of leases, as Mr. Collier observes might very well prove that Dogberry was a rich fellow enough." Granted; but he meant that his "losses" increased his importance, not that they testified to his riches, beyond this, that he had wealth enough to sustain losses without injury to his credit or station. The phrase has been quoted repeatedly, and is become almost familiar. Dr. Johnson says the reason why men are given to talk complacently of their mishaps is, that they find something in the reminiscence not utterly disagreeable. Mr. Collier takes great care to point out wherever a proposed emendation in his old folio has been previously suggested, by the erudite researches of Pope, Theobald, Warburton, Hanmer, Tyrwhitt, Steevens, Monk Mason, or Malone. This is just and graceful; while it verifies many elaborate and deeply studied conjectures. We are sorry that he has passed over Zachariah Jackson, a worthy old commentator, who deserved notice for some ingenious discoveries, which are now confirmed, although his volume, entitled "Shakspeare's Genius Justified," is well sprinkled with the average quantum of absurdities. We cannot suppose the omission to be intentional, as Mr. Collier says, in a note to his preface, that if he has so erred, it has arisen from his ignorance of the fact, or from pure inadvertence. Here are five instances. In the Merry Wives of Windsor, Falstaff says of Mrs. Ford" She discourses, she carves, she gives the leer of invitation." Carves, in the old folio, is corrected to craves. In Twelfth Night, Olivia says to Malvolio "It was she First told me that thou wast mad; then cam'st in smiling," &c. "Then" is altered to thou. In Measure for Measure, act i. sc. 4, in the speech of Claudio relative to his marrying Juliet "Only for propagation of a dower," is corrected to "Only for procuration of a dower." In All's Well that Ends Well, act ii. sc. 1, the line "That happiness and prime can happy call," has a slight alteration, which much improves the sense "That happiness in prime can happy call." Happiness in prime, meaning youthful happiness; as prime is explained by Dr. Johnson. In the Winter's Tale, act iv. sc. 3, Perdita remarks to Florizel— "But that our feasts In every mess have folly, and the feeders "Sworn" here is unintelligible. The old corrector alters the word to so worn "I should blush To see you so attired; so worn, I think, The words have nearly the same sound, which readily accounts for the error, if the copyist wrote by ear. These emendations are all proposed in Zachariah Jackson's volume, published in 1819. We cannot find them anywhere else, except in Mr. Collier's old folio, by which they are confirmed. As far as Jackson is concerned, they are as original as they are judicious. Let fair dealing therefore be rendered where it is due. Jackson was one of the first who maintained that many obscurities in Shakspeare arose from misprints or typographical carelessness. He sought not to find recondite meanings where there were none, but to supply simple words, which contained a meaning. He had hit the right trail, but he wandered again, and lost it in tangled mazes. The high-sounding, not to say arrogant, title of his book, gave umbrage to the learned critics of acknowledged place, as savouring too much of the fumum ex fulgore." They had scarcely recovered from Becket's "Shakspeare's himself again!" and hesitated to admit into their ranks an unknown candidate, not duly qualified. Men swelling with collegiate honours are jealous of intruders on what they consider their own sacred preserves. They view them as unlicensed poachers, and regard them with the same contemptuous feelings which regular soliers extend to marauding Croats, Pandours, Cossacks, or Guerillas. Jackson had no scholastic pretensions. He neither wrote himself down an LL.D. nor an A.S.S. He was as insignificant as Piron-nothing, not even an academician. But he happened to be a printer, had been a compositor, and was deeply skilled in the mysteries of upper and lower letter-cases. During a captivity of eleven years in a French prison at Verdun, some good Samari tan lent him a Shakspeare to beguile the heavy hours. He conned over the pages again and again, his mind continually reverting to his trade, until he cried Evenza, and thought he had found out the one essential key to all the disputed passages. He ran into extremes, as all enthusiasts do, when they get astride on a theory; but he was treated ill, laughed at, and neglected, because he made mistakes. Mr. Collier's publication has been warmly welcomed, and cannot fail to be considered a great Shakspearean movement in the true direction. It will form henceforth an inseparable pendant to the received editions, and must undoubtedly take the lead over every other compilation of " Notes and Emendations." It is not going too far to pronounce, that in intrinsic value, it is fairly "worth all the rest." Shakspeare stands now, in the middle of the nineteenth century, two hundred and forty-seven years after his death, on a higher pinnacle than ever. He went down for a time, under the influence of exotic importations and corrupted taste; but he has sprung up again with the elastic rebound of undying genius. Power, patronage, rank, wealth, and fashion, may confer on slender merit temporary fame, but they cannot waft it into the haven of immortality. The poems of Nero, though lord of " the majestic world," perished with him. Those of Homer, an indigent itinerant bard, are transplanted into every polished language, and will live as long as ideas are by language communicated. The copious works of the British Solomon, who "trowed himself to be the oldest and the wisest king in Christendom," lie worm-eaten and neglected on the shelves of a few unvisited libraries. Many a time have the profane vulgar, ignorantly-flagitious, kindled their tobacco pipes with the very pages in which he fulminated against the use of the noxious weed, both as a man and a Christian. The heavy lucubrations of Frederick the Great are seldom opened. But Shakspeare, without birth, or station, or temporal grandeur, is in every hand, in every mouth, and impressed on every heart which feels and owns the kindred sympathy of nature. The fame acquired by literary talent, and above all, by sublime poetry, is not only excellent in itself, but the only means of preserving every other species of excellence. The Pyramids of Memphis, and some almost equally stupendous edifices in India, exist after a vast succession of years. Nothing but an internal convulsion of the globe appears likely to overthrow such immense piles. Yet they have not transmitted to posterity the names of those monarchs, through whose vanity, superstition, or munificence, they were erected. The finest designs of ancient art are almost totally lost. The exquisite performances of the statuary and the painter are mouldered into dust; but Praxiteles and Zeuxis will always live to fame, for the pencil of literature paints to distant ages, and its colours fade not amidst the revolutions of time. Without the bard or the historian, the monarch builds, and the artist designs in vain. "Dark," says Ossian, are the deeds of other times before the light of the song arose.' And Horace to the same purport, remarks "Vixêre fortes ante Agamemnona, Nocte: carent quiá vate sacro." " Heroes existed before the Trojan war, but no divine bard recorded their fame, and their deeds are concealed in night. We close our paper with a short extract from the Edinburgh Review of July, 1808, in which the remarks on general emendation are worthy of remembrance :— "The real admirers of Shakspeare, we believe, care very little about his commentators; yet if we wish to understand every word of an author who wrote more than two hundred years ago, we must accept of the services of the antiquary and the verbal critic; but these helps become hindrances, and nuisances indeed of the first magnitude, when they swell to six times the bulk of the original author, and engage us, at every tenth line, in the paltry paltry polemics of purblind annotators and grovelling transcribers of black letter. Out of twenty-one volumes, the most extended and voluminous edition, two-thirds at least are made up of long quotations, not always relevant to the subject; tedious dissertations on obsolete customs, and solemn, and sometimes very uncivil controversies on rival readings, or questions of punctuation." J. W. C. TOM CLUGGINS'S TWO ANTIPATHIES. BY ONE OF THE MYSTICS." THE most sheepish, nervous, timid little man I ever knew in my whole life was Tom Cluggins. He had very few opinions of his own, and scarcely ever attempted to contradict any one bigger than a schoolboy. He had as little gall as a pigeon, and (if the truth must be told) about as much courage as a tom-tit. He liked everybody who was at all likeable; and was, indeed, in return, very popular with the entire neighbourhood. And yet, Cluggins had two terrible antipathies, that, whenever they were called into action, changed his whole nature, and inspired his soft, good, loving little heart with fear, and hate, and horror, that for the time made quite a respectable, formidable sort of fellow of him. These two antipathies were not the natural growth of that heart, but were introduced there, and planted and nourished by circumstances which arose shortly after his birth, and over which, as it may be supposed, he had no control. To come to the point, his two antipathies were widows and attorneys. I put the widows first, chiefly in compliment to the sex, for it is hard to say which he disliked most, upon the whole -for while he hated widows more than attorneys, he certainly feared attorneys more than widows; and his horror of both was pretty equal. It was in this wise that he acquired his prejudices. Old Doctor Cluggins, Tom's father, lost his wife shortly after she had given birth to her last child, and when Tom was about ten years of age. The old man (not that he was so old either, but he was older than his son Tom; and so people began to call him, old Tom Cluggins, because they began to call his son young Tom Cluggins. Fathers, by the way, are great fools to call a son by their own name, for it is sure to make them, in this way, old before their time)-well, the old man, after a short time, married again why, I do not know, except that he was very happy in his first wife, and therefore thought that he might do as well in a second venture. stepmother he brought over his three children was a widow-five-and-forty, or thereabouts-a buxom, stirring sort The of a woman, whose defunct husband had left her the sole dominion of all his earthly possessions-that is to say, a plantation in one of the West India Islands, and a boy of about the same age as Tom, or a little younger, their joint offspring. Whether the revenues of the plantation had anything to do in inflaming old Cluggins's heart, I will not say (West India preserves are certainly very hot, and the widow had a capital stock of them), but sure I am that the widow's son did not increase the attraction, for he was a big, lubberly, ill-conditioned, cantankerous, troublesome cub, that if thrown into the scales with Venus herself would have made her a dear bargain. However, a year had scarce elapsed before the Widow Gopple was at the head of the doctor's establishment, as Mrs. Cluggins the second. Tom was old enough to feel the change sensibly. He remembered the gentle, affectionate mother, who loved him all the more tenderly that he had so much of her own nature about him; and the poor, timid, sensitive boy wept in all sorts of out-of-the-way corners, where he could escape the hawk's-eye of his stepdame, recalling to mind the blessed, happy days that were gone, and contrasting them with the life which he was now doomed to lead. A dog's life it was, for Bobby Gopple was eternally pitching into him, and bullying him, and lording it over him-in all of which he was abetted by his mother, who scolded Tom if he complained to her, and boxed his ears if he complained to his father. It was little wonder, then, that Tom hated his stepmother; and for her sake he contracted a hatred of all widows, whom he fancied to be a sort of monster, who went prowling about, with matrimonial designs against mankind in general. In a few years after the marriage came the terrible depression in West India property, which reduced so many of the most affluent merchants to utter destitution. The widow's plantation revenues sank down to zero, and, what was worse, the liabilities of the estate had to be met in the meantime. Under these circumstances, old Clug |