“I thought she had some great matter there in hand; for she hath privately, twice or thrice a day, ever since the death of Hermione, visited that removed house.”  Such is the speech of one gentleman to another, as the royal party and all the Court are going to Paulina’s house to see the mysterious workmanship of Julio Romano.  Nothing could better suggest the history of that quiet, placid intercourse, with its long record of patient, self-rewarding service; a fellowship in which little needed to be said, for each knew what was in the other’s mind by a better language than words.  It is such an idea of friendship as it does the heart good to rest upon.  Just think of those two great manly souls, enshrined in womanly tenderness, thus communing together in secret for sixteen long years!  And what a powerful charm of love and loyalty must have been cast upon Paulina’s impulsive tongue, that she should keep so reticent of her dear cause through all that time!  To play the woman after that fashion would not hurt any of us.

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During the first three Acts the interest of this play is mainly tragic; the scene is densely crowded with incidents; the action hurried, abrupt, almost spasmodic; the style quick and sharp, flashing off point after point in brief, sinewy strokes; and all is rapidity and despatch:  what with the insane fury of the King, the noble agony of the Queen, the enthusiasm of the Court in her behalf, and the King’s violence towards both them and her, the mind is kept on the jump:  all which, if continued to the end, would generate rather a tumult and hubbub in the thoughts, than that inward music which the title of the play promises; not to say, that such a prolonged hurry of movement would at length become monotonous and wearisome.  Far otherwise the latter half of the play.  Here the anticipations proper to a long, leisurely winter evening are fully met; the general effect is soothing and composing; the tones, dipped in sweetness, fall gently on the ear, disposing the mind to be still and listen and contemplate; thus making the play, as Coleridge describes it, “exquisitely respondent to the title.”  It would seem, indeed, that in these scenes the Poet had specially endeavoured how much of silent effect he could produce, without diverging from the dramatic form.  To this end, he provides resting-places for thought; suspending or retarding the action by musical pauses and periods of lyrical movement, and breathing in the mellowest strains of poetical harmony, till the eye is “made quiet by the power of beauty,” and all tumult of mind is hushed in the very intensity of feeling.