I cannot, nor need I, stay to illustrate the point in hand, at any length, by detailed reference to the Poet’s dramas.  This belongs to the office of particular criticism, and therefore would be something out of keeping here.  The Fool’s part in King Lear will readily occur to any one familiar with that tragedy.  And perhaps there is no one part of Hamlet that does more to heighten the tragic effect than the droll scene of the Gravediggers.  But, besides this, there is a vein of humour running through the part of Hamlet himself, underlying his darkest moods, and giving depth and mellowness to his strains of impassioned thought.  And every reflecting reader must have observed how much is added to the impression of terror in the trial-scene of The Merchant of Venice, by the fierce jets of mirth with which Gratiano assails old Shylock; and also how, at the close of the scene, our very joy at Antonio’s deliverance quickens and deepens our pity for the broken-hearted Jew who lately stood before us dressed in such fulness of terror.  But indeed the Poet’s skill at heightening any feeling by awakening its opposite; how he manages to give strength to our most earnest sentiments by touching some spring of playfulness; and to further our liveliest moods by springing upon us some delicate surprises of seriousness;—­all this is matter of common observation.

But the Poet’s humour has yet other ways of manifesting itself.  And among these not the least remarkable is the subtile and delicate irony which often pervades his scenes, and sometimes gives character to whole plays, as in the case of Troilus and Cressida, and Antony and Cleopatra.  By methods that can hardly be described, he contrives to establish a sort of secret understanding with the reader, so as to arrest the impression just as it is on the point of becoming tragic.  While dealing most seriously with his characters, he uses a certain guile:  through them we catch, as it were, a roguish twinkle of his eye, which makes us aware that his mind is secretly sporting itself with their earnestness; so that we have a double sympathy,—­a sympathy with their passion and with his play.  Thus his humour often acts in such a way as to possess us with mixed emotions:  the persons, while moving us with their thoughts, at the same time start us upon other thoughts which have no place in them; and we share in all that they feel, but still are withheld from committing ourselves to them, or so taking part with them as to foreclose a due regard to other claims.

STYLE.