Now this is an instance of the same unconscious power of mind which is as true to nature as itself.  The leaves of the willow are, in fact, white underneath, and it is this part of them which would appear “hoary” in the reflection in the brook.  The same sort of intuitive power, the same faculty of bringing every object in nature, whether present or absent, before the mind’s eye, is observable in the speech of Cleopatra, when conjecturing what were the employments of Antony in his absence:—­ “He’s speaking now, or murmuring, where’s my serpent of old Nile?” How fine to make Cleopatra have this consciousness of her own character, and to make her feel that it is this for which Antony is in love with her!  She says, after the battle of Actium, when Antony has resolved to risk another fight, “It is my birth-day; I had thought to have held it poor:  but since my lord is Antony again, I will be Cleopatra.”  What other poet would have thought of such a casual resource of the imagination, or would have dared to avail himself of it?  The thing happens in the play as it might have happened in fact.—­That which, perhaps, more than any thing else distinguishes the dramatic productions of Shakspeare from all others, is this wonderful truth and individuality of conception.  Each of his characters is as much itself, and as absolutely independent of the rest, as well as of the author, as if they were living persons, not fictions of the mind.  The poet may be said, for the time, to identify himself with the character he wishes to represent, and to pass from one to another, like the same soul successively animating different bodies.  By an art like that of the ventriloquist, he throws his imagination out of himself, and makes every word appear to proceed from the mouth of the person in whose name it is given.  His plays alone are properly expressions of the passions, not descriptions of them.  His characters are real beings of flesh and blood; they speak like men, not like authors.  One might suppose that he had stood by at the time, and overheard what passed.  As in our dreams we hold conversations with ourselves, make remarks, or communicate intelligence, and have no idea of the answer which we shall receive, and which we ourselves make, till we hear it:  so the dialogues in Shakspeare are carried on without any consciousness of what is to follow, without any appearance of preparation or premeditation.  The gusts of passion come and go like sounds of music borne on the wind.  Nothing is made out by formal inference and analogy, by climax and antithesis:  all comes, or seems to come, immediately from nature.  Each object and circumstance exists in his mind, as it would have existed in reality:  each several train of thought and feeling goes on of itself, without confusion or effort.  In the world of his imagination, every thing has a life, a place, and being of its own!