The line _Here feel we not the penalty of Adam?_ has given rise to much perplexity. The expounders of Shakspere do not believe he can mean that the uses of adversity are really sweet. But the duke sees that _the penalty_ of Adam is what makes the _woods more free from peril than the envious court;_ that this penalty is in fact the best blessing, for it _feelingly persuades_ man _what_ he is; and to know what we are, to have no false judgments of ourselves, he considers so sweet, that to be thus taught, the _churlish chiding of the winter’s wind_ is well endured. Now let us turn to _Lear_. We find in him an old man with a large heart, hungry for love, and yet not knowing what love is; an old man as ignorant as a child in all matters of high import; with a temper so unsubdued, and therefore so unkingly, that he storms because his dinner is not ready by the clock of his hunger; a child, in short, in everything but his grey hairs and wrinkled face, but his failing, instead of growing, strength. If a life end so, let the success of that life be otherwise what it may, it is a wretched and unworthy end. But let _Lear_ be blown by the winds and beaten by the rains of heaven, till he pities “poor naked wretches;” till he feels that he has “ta’en too little care of” such; till pomp no longer conceals from him what “a poor, bare, forked animal” he is; and the old king has risen higher in the real social scale--the scale of that country to which he is bound--far higher than he stood while he still held his kingdom undivided to his thankless daughters. Then let him learn at last that “love is the only good in the world;” let him find his _Cordelia_, and plot with her how they will in their dungeon _singing like birds i’ the cage_, and, dwelling in the secret place of peace, look abroad on the world like _God’s spies_; and then let the generous great old heart swell till it breaks at last--not with rage and hate and vengeance, but with love; and all is well: it is time the man should go to overtake his daughter; henceforth to dwell with her in the home of the true, the eternal, the unchangeable. All his suffering came from his own fault; but from the suffering has sprung another crop, not of evil but of good; the seeds of which had lain unfruitful in the soil, but were brought within the blessed influences of the air of heaven by the sharp tortures of the ploughshare of ill. THE ELDER HAMLET. [Footnote: 1875] ‘Tis bitter cold, And I am sick at heart.