How happy was the introduction of such men as Dogberry – dear, delightful Dogberry! – and his band, "the shallow fools who brought to light" the flimsy villainy by which Don Pedro and Claudio had allowed themselves to be egregiously befooled! How true to the irony of life was the accident, due also to Shakespeare's invention, of Leonato's being too much bored by their tedious prate, and too busy with the thought of his daughter's approaching marriage, to listen to them, and thus not hearing what would have prevented the all but tragic scene in which that marriage is broken off! And how much happier than all is the way in which the wrong done to Hero is the means of bringing into view the fine and generous elements of Beatrice's nature, – of showing Benedick how much more there was in her than he had thought, and at the same time proving to her, what she was previously quite prepared to "believe better than reportingly," that he was of a truly "noble strain," and that she might safely intrust her happiness to his hands! Viewed in this light, the play seems to me to be a masterpiece of construction, developed with consummate skill, and held together by the unflagging interest which we feel in Beatrice and Benedick, and in the progress of the amusing plot by which they arrive at a knowledge of their own hearts.
I was called upon very early in my career to impersonate Beatrice, but I must frankly admit that, while, as I have said, I could not but admire her, she had not taken hold of my heart as my other heroines had done. Indeed there is nothing of the heroine about her, nothing of romance or of poetic suggestion in the circumstances of her life – nothing, in short, to captivate the imagination of a very young girl, such as I then was. It was no small surprise to me when Mr Charles Kemble, who was playing a series of farewell performances at Covent Garden, where I had made my début on the stage but a few months before, singled me out to play Beatrice to his Benedick, on the night when he bade adieu to his profession. That I, who had hitherto acted only the young tragic heroines, was to be thus transported out of my natural sphere into the strange world of high comedy, was a surprise indeed. To consent seemed to me nothing short of presumption. I urged upon Mr Kemble how utterly unqualified I was for such a venture. His answer was, "I have watched you in the second act of Julia in 'The Hunchback,' and I know that you will by-and-by be able to act Shakespeare's comedy. I do not mean 'now,' because more years, greater practice, greater confidence in yourself, must come before you will have sufficient ease. But do not be afraid. I am too much your friend to ask you to do anything that would be likely to prove a failure." This he followed up by offering to teach me "the business" of the scene. What could I do? He had, from my earliest rehearsals, been uniformly kind, helpful, and encouraging – how could I say him "Nay"? My friends too, who of course acted for me, as I was under age, considered that I must consent. I was amazed at some of the odd things I had to say, – not at all from knowing their meaning, but simply because I did not even surmise it. My dear home instructor, of whom I have often spoken in these letters, said, "My child, you will do this very well. Only give way to natural joyousness. Have no fear. Let yourself
