rrayed his Thekla is pale, sombre,
vague, compared with the strong individual marking, the rich glow of
life and reality, which distinguish Juliet. One contrast in particular
has always struck me; the two beautiful speeches in the first interview
between Max and Thekla, that in which she describes her father's
astrological chamber, and that in which he replies with reflections on
the influence of the stars, are said to "form in themselves a fine
poem." They do so; but never would Shakspeare have placed such
extraneous description and reflection in the mouths of _his_ lovers.
Romeo and Juliet speak of themselves only; they see only themselves in
the universe, all things else are as an idle matter. Not a word they
utter, though every word is poetry--not a sentiment or description,
though dressed in the most luxuriant imagery, but has a direct relation
to themselves, or to the situation in which they are placed, and the
feelings that engross them: and besides, it may be remarked of Thekla,
and generally of all tragedy heroines in love, that, however beautifully
and distinctly characterized, we see the passion only under one or two
aspects at most, or in conflict with some one circumstance or contending
duty or feeling. In Juliet alone we find it exhibited under every
variety of aspect, and every gradation of feeling it could possibly
assume in a delicate female heart: as we see the rose, when passed
through the colors of the prism, catch and reflect every tint of the
divided ray, and still it is the same sweet rose.

I have already remarked the quiet manner in which Juliet steals upon us
in her first scene, as the serene, graceful girl, her feelings as yet
unawakened, and her energies all unknown to herself, and unsuspected by
others. Her silence and her filial deference are charming:--

I'll look to like, if looking liking move;
But no more deep will I endart mine eye,
Than your consent shall give it strength to fly

Much in the same unconscious way we are impressed with an idea of her
excelling loveliness:--

Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!

and which could make the dark vault of death "a feasting presence full
of light." Without any elaborate description, we behold Juliet, as she
is reflected in the heart of her lover, like a single bright star
mirrored in the bosom of a deep, transparent well. The rapture with
which he dwells on the "white wonder of her hand;" on her lips,

That