ladye-philosophy we have ever witnessed on paper. They aim
at illustrating the characters of Intellect, Passion, and
Imagination, the Affections, and what are purely Historical
Characters, in the females of Shakspeare's Plays. Such is the
design: of its beautiful execution we can give the reader but a
faint idea by extracting from Passion and Imagination, part of the
_Character of Juliet_:--]

It is not without emotion, that I attempt to touch on the character of
Juliet. Such beautiful things have already been said of her--only
to be exceeded in beauty by the subject that inspired them!--it
is impossible to say any thing better; but it is possible to say
something more. Such in fact is the simplicity, the truth, and the
loveliness of Juliet's character, that we are not at first aware
of its complexity, its depth, and its variety. There is in it an
intensity of passion, a singleness of purpose, an entireness, a
completeness of effect, which we feel as a whole; and to attempt to
analyze the impression thus conveyed at once to soul and sense, is
as if while hanging-over a half-blown rose, and revelling in its
intoxicating perfume, we should pull it asunder, leaflet by leaflet,
the better to display its bloom and fragrance. Yet how otherwise
should we disclose the wonders of its formation, or do justice to the
skill of the divine hand that hath thus fashioned it in its beauty?

All Shakspeare's women, being essentially women, either love, or
have loved, or are capable of loving; but Juliet is love itself. The
passion is her state of being, and out of it she has no existence.
It is the soul within her soul; the pulse within her heart; the
life-blood along her veins, "blending with every atom of her frame."
The love that is so chaste and dignified in Portia--so airy-delicate,
and fearless in Miranda--so sweetly confiding in Perdita--so playfully
fond in Rosalind--so constant in Imogem--so devoted in Desdemona--so
fervent in Helen--so tender in Viola,--is each and all of these in
Juliet. All these remind us of her; but she reminds us of nothing but
her own sweet self: or if she does, it is of the Grismunda, or the
Lisetta, or the Fiamminetta of Boccaccio, to whom she is allied, not
in the character or circumstances, but in the truly Italian spirit,
the glowing, national complexion of the portrait.[6]

[6] Lord Byron has remarked of the Italian women, (and he could
speak _avec connaissance