OPHELIA.
"Che per amor venne in furore e matto."
Ophelia, so simple, so beautiful, so pitiful! The exquisite creation is so perfect, yet so delicate, that we fear to approach it with the rough touch of critical remark. Child of nature in simplicity and innocence—without guile, without suspicion—and therefore, without reserve, or that deceit which often simulates a modesty more dainty than the modesty of innocence. And yet, not ignorant though innocent; but with quick native intellect, which appreciated the selfishness, and rebuked the fears, of her brother's caution; which still more fully appreciated, and was able most eloquently to describe, the noble qualities of her princely lover, "the glass of fashion and the mould of form;" simple, yet not obtuse; but possessing quick sentiment, and lively fancy, to a degree which made her most impressible to all generous emotion; sensitive, but yet reticent; thrilling through every fibre of the soul to the touch of love, and the anguish of despair; yet allowing no confession to be extorted, and no cry to escape, until she sees her lover "quite, quite down;" when, with unselfish grief lamenting his fall, she allies her fate with his, and cries aloud in the agony of woe, "and I of ladies most deject and wretched." It is strange how thoroughly we seem to know Ophelia, notwithstanding her taciturnity and reserve. She says nothing of herself, and yet we seem to look into the very recesses of her clear soul; thus presenting one form of
