is the subject of the poem, by showing us the distinction
between the fancied and the real sentiment. It adds a deeper effect to
the beauty of Juliet; it interests us in the commencement for the tender
and romantic Romeo; and gives an individual reality to his character, by
stamping him like an historical, as well as a dramatic portrait, with
the very spirit of the age in which he lived.[25]

It may be remarked of Juliet as of Portia, that we not only trace the
component qualities in each as they expand before us in the course of
the action, but we seem to have known them previously, and mingle a
consciousness of their past, with the interest of their present and
their future. Thus, in the dialogue between Juliet and her parents, and
in the scenes with the Nurse, we seem to have before us the whole of her
previous education and habits: we see her, on the one hand, kept in
severe subjection by her austere parents; and on the other, fondled and
spoiled by a foolish old nurse--a situation perfectly accordant with the
manners of the time. Then Lady Capulet comes sweeping by with her train
of velvet, her black hood, her fan, and her rosary--the very
_beau-ideal_ of a proud Italian matron of the fifteenth century, whose
offer to poison Romeo in revenge for the death of Tybalt, stamps her
with one very characteristic trait of the age and country. Yet she loves
her daughter; and there is a touch of remorseful tenderness in her
lamentation over her, which adds to our impression of the timid softness
of Juliet, and the harsh subjection in which she has been kept:--

But one, poor one!--one poor and loving child,
But one thing to rejoice and solace in,
And cruel death hath catched it from my sight!

Capulet, as the jovial, testy old man, the self willed, violent,
tyrannical father,--to whom his daughter is but a property, the appanage
of his house, and the object of his pride,--is equal as a portrait: but
both must yield to the Nurse, who is drawn with the most wonderful power
and discrimination. In the prosaic homeliness of the outline, and the
magical illusion of the coloring, she reminds us of some of the
marvellous Dutch paintings, from which, with all their coarseness, we
start back as from a reality. Her low humor, her shallow garrulity,
mixed with the dotage and petulance of age--her subserviency, her
secrecy, and her total want of elevated principle, or even common
honesty--are brought before us like a livin