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Such is my will-for I have learned to hate
The vile betrayer of another's fate;

No crime so dark, nor other is there one
That with such loathing I do look upon.
HERMES. Well! but remember that you're warned,
Although my friendly words be scorned;

I warn you that it is too late

If ill o'ertake you, blame not fate;
Say not that Jove in ire had cast
Woes in an unexpected blast.

No, truly! chide yourselves, the same
Who did the deed should bear the blame;
For, wittingly, with rash intent,
And on your purpose firmly bent,
Neither unwarned, nor unawares,

But as a man who vengeance dares,
Senseless yourselves ye implicate

Within the tangled net of fate.

PROMETH. His words are true! the earth below Unsteadily rocks to and fro;

The bellowing thunder loudly roars,

Startling the echoes of these shores;
And the fire-twisted bolts of heaven
Across the sky are wildly driven.
The sands in eddying whirlwinds rise-
A mighty cone the whirlwind flies;
The winds from every quarter pour,

And in a ceaseless contest roar;

Wind sounds on wind with hostile shock;

Shakes to its base the solid rock.

Earth with the skies, skies with the sea

Confounded, meet in enmity:

Behold-from Jove this furious storm,
Which beats on my defenceless form!
Thou ether-pure, eternal, bright,
And thou, dread mother, dost thou see-
Who pour'st on all thy flood of light !—
How thy son suffers wrongfully?

[Prometheus sinks into the earth.

End of Prometheus bound.

LITERARY NOTICES.

A Scamper through Italy and the Tyrol; showing the Minimum of Expense and Time necessary for a Visit to the Italian Cities. By a Gentleman. Smith.

In these days

POSITIVELY the world is at last enlightened by a modest man! of little trips and lengthy books, when all the world travels about by steam over itself, and describes itself in volumes that all the world finds it heavy to hold, arises one scamperer that compileth not a book, yet publisheth. A Scamper through Italy, the very title gives us respect for the writer-an open, honest, candid English gentleman. In 120 pages the reader scampers with the writer at a rattling pace through Paris, Lyons, Avignon, Marseilles; Genoa, Leghorn, Pisa, Naples, Rome, Florence; Bologna, Venice, Trent, and Tyrol, Rheineck, Zurich, Basle, Strasburg, Cologne, Mannheim, Aix-la-Chapelle, and Antwerp, to London, ―a pleasant rattle, in good sooth. Minimum of time allowed for the above scamper, fifty-two days. Fares for diligences, boats, tables d'hôtes, &c., are laid down; it is a practically useful book to a large class of people,-those who would spend a holiday of a month or two in travel, and are desirous of seeing as much as possible for their time and money. For the benefit of those of our readers of this class who do not buy the book, that is to say, we hope, for the benefit of nobody, we transcribe the author's concluding excellent advice :

"If you would know the blessings of liberty, the irksomeness of restraint, the necessity of forbearance,—if you would ascertain your temper, and be rid of prejudice,—in short, if you would become wiser, happier, better,—TRAVEL. With more time, and at greater expense, you may see all that I have seen with ease; but if you would enjoy what I have enjoyed,-would fully appreciate health and strength, economy and independence,―rough it; I say emphatically, ROUGH IT!"

A Tale of a Tiger. By J. S. Cotton, 7th M. L. C. Tilt and Bogue.

We scarcely think it necessary to praise this book; every one has seen that most comical of all series of plates entitled the New Tale of a Tub; and many have wished they were not quite so expensive. The author of the plates now disclaims the polished edition of Aubry, Colnaghi, & Co., and publishes his own originals in self-defence. They are not a whit less witty than the halfguinea version.

Blue Beard. By F. W. N. Bayley. With Illustrations humorous and Orr & Co.

numerous.

Did we call the Tale of a Tiger the most comical of all series? here is Blue Beard, the old, truly, and well-beloved friend of our youth,—what shall we say for him? We candidly confess we have not read this account of Blue Beard,— it is written in the style of inimitable Ingoldsby,—but we have seen it. The cuts, humorous and numerous, attracted our attention; they tell the tale, and a comical one. We tried every now and then to look at the print, but one of the cuts, numerous and humorous, would then draw off our eye, and away we went in a new burst of laughter, till the cuts engrossed the whole of our attention. If people wish their books to be read, they must not make the pictures so attractive. No one cares for a description of that which is fully and perfectly presented to his eye. Mr. Bayley's artists might make together a comic Retzsch, and illustrate immortal works of the nursery; but he need not quarrel with the text.

A Catechism of Botany. By Ann Pratt. Suttaby.

This is a very neat and elegant little introduction to botany, in a concise and easy form, including the Linnæan system, with organography and physiology, together with practical information on forming herbaria, consulting a florist, &c.; and it is exceedingly well adapted for those who wish to gain a correct general idea of this elegant and interesting study.

The Year-Book of Natural History, for Young Persons. By Mrs. Loudon. Murray.

All Mrs. Loudon's compilations are useful and entertaining; and every age is in turn favoured by the results of her powers of research. The present is a book of that character which children cannot too frequently be induced to study. With every month of the year is given an account of those subjects of natural history which, during its course, are most likely to attract the child's attention. Thus, in the present month, July, the chapter is on water-beetles, the rose-chafer, the cock-chafer, the dragon-fly, may-flies, &c. In December, frost and snow, the holly, the misletoe, and the robin-redbreast. Such books as these are valuable by adding experience of simple facts to the observation of the child, and teaching it to think of a snail otherwise than as a devourer of cabbages, and to find in a bee something even more than its sting and its honey.

THE

KING'S COLLEGE MAGAZINE.

AUGUST, 1842.

DIFFICULT POINTS AND PASSAGES OF
SHAKSPERE'S PLAYS.

No. II.

HAVING examined the two most important points in the tragedy of Hamlet, I now proceed, according to my design, to take into consideration the principal disputed and difficult passages in this play. The first of these which we have to encounter is one which has set critics by the ears to an extent scarcely credible, and the result of all the controversy which has been thrown away upon it, is, that when we have done we find ourselves much about where we were when we began. The passage to which I allude is that in Act I. Scene 2.

"KING. But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son,"

"HAMLET. A little more than kin, and less than kind."

To explain this passage, Dr. Johnson has stated, that kind is the Teutonic word for child; and he further says, that the meaning of Hamlet's speech is, "I am somewhat more than cousin to you, and less than son." I confess I do not feel at all satisfied with this explanation. The passage interpreted thus, would be, to say the least, a very tame one-and by no means the observation with which Shakspere would be likely to introduce to us the philosophic and metaphysical prince of Denmark. Malone also supplies us with a note upon the passage which means exactly nothing; but if the passage be well considered, a very obvious, and very satisfactory meaning can be extracted from this sentence. In some editions the line is printed thus :—

"HAMLET (aside,) A little more than kin, and less than kind!"

which I take to be correct. Standing thus, the line may, I think,

with a little consideration, be made plain. We must remember that Hamlet is standing in the midst of the court-the only one among them all who still retains the "inky coat," which the decease of his father causes him to wear. From the commencement of the scene, during the time in which Claudius has been discussing with such ill-timed levity the death of the late king, and his own incestuous marriage, Hamlet has remained perfectly silent. More than this, Shakspere (admirable painter that he was!) has given us a clue to discover how he looked.-" How is it that the clouds hang on you still?" is amply sufficient to furnish us with a picture of that terrible silence which, on the king's calling him cousin and son, is at length broken by the exclamation which we are now about to explain. After so long and so expressive a silence, we are anxious to know how Hamlet's thoughts were employed. This sentence tells us all. It is as if he should say— "Is it really so?-am I indeed more than your cousin? Strange! that with so strong a bond of relationship should exist so little kindly feeling or natural affection. Strange! that the disgust and hatred which I feel for this man should exist in the mind of a son." This I think is the strongest and most reasonable meaning which can be given to this remarkable passage, and it is one which I think most of our poet's admirers will be glad to admit, simply because it is the only forcible one which has yet been assigned.

A point for observation, although a very trifling one, yet one which has strongly fastened on my attention, and given me some little pleasure, occurs at the very commencement of the fourth Scene of the first Act.-The scene opens at midnight upon the platform of the castle at Elsinore, in that cold moonlight season, which tells us that winter is at hand. Hamlet is putting into execution his determination to watch for his father's spirit, and is accompanied by his friend and fellow-collegian Horatio, and Marcellus, a petty officer, who is on guard at this part of the platform. After a silence which, we may safely infer from the conversation which follows it,-for the style of the latter appears like the commencement rather than the continuation of a conference, has lasted a considerable time, Hamlet abruptly, as if conscious how absorbed he has been, remarks, as most men do who feel the necessity of saying something, although little inclined to converse, on the weather—and then proceeds to ask the hour. Horatio, who has probably been occupied, like Hamlet, in contemplating on the strangeness of the event they were waiting to

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