tment, as when she discovers
the unjust suspicions of Posthumus. Wronged she is indeed by her
husband, but in her haste she too grows unjust; yet she is dearer to
us for the sake of this injustice, proceeding as it does from the
sensitiveness of her love. It is she, to whom a word is a blow, who
actually receives a buffet from her husband's hand; but for Imogen it
is a blessed stroke, since it is the evidence of his loyalty and zeal
on her behalf. In a moment he is forgiven, and her arms are round his
neck.

Shakespeare made so many perfect women unhappy that he owed us some
_amende_. And he has made that _amende_ by letting us see one perfect
woman supremely happy. Shall our last glance at Shakespeare's plays
show us Florizel at the rustic merry-making, receiving blossoms from
the hands of Perdita? or Ferdinand and Miranda playing chess in
Prospero's cave, and winning one a king and one a queen, while the
happy fathers gaze in from the entrance of the cave? We can see a more
delightful sight than these--Imogen with her arms around the neck of
Posthumus, while she puts an edge upon her joy by the playful
challenge and mock reproach--

"Why did you throw your wedded lady from you?
Think that you are upon a rock, and now
Throw me again;"

and he responds--

"Hang there like a fruit, my soul,
Till the tree die."

We shall find in all Shakespeare no more blissful creatures than these
two.

THE INTERPRETATION OF LITERATURE

From 'Transcripts and Studies'

The happiest moment in a critic's hours of study is when, seemingly by
some divination, but really as the result of patient observation and
thought, he lights upon the central motive of a great work. Then, of a
sudden, order begins to form itself from the crowd and chaos of his
impressions and ideas. There is a moving hither and thither, a
grouping or coordinating of all his recent experiences, which goes on
of its own accord; and every instant his vision becomes clearer, and
new meanings disclose themselves in what had been lifeless and
unilluminated. It seems as if he could even stand by the artist's side
and co-operate with him in the process of creating. With such a sense
of joy upon him, the critic will think it no hard task to follow the
artist to the sources from whence he drew his material,--it may be
some dull chapter in an ancient chronicle, or some gross tale of
passion by an Italian novelist,--and he will stand by and w