And observe, Talboys, how this concatenation of the passionate scenes operates. Marvellously! Let the Entrances of Othello be four—A, B, C, D. You feel the close connexion of A with B, of B with C, of C with D. You feel the coherence, the nextness; and all the force of the impetuous Action and Passion resulting. But the logically-consequent near connexion of A with C, and much more with D, as again of B with D, you _do not feel_. Why? When you are at C, and feeling the pressure of B upon C, you have lost sight of the pressure of A upon B. At each entrance you go back one step—you do not go back two. The suggested intervals continually keep displacing to distances in your memory the formerly felt connexions. This could not so well happen in real life, where the relations of time are strictly bound upon your memory. Though something of it happens when passion devours memory. But in fiction, the conception being loosely held, and shadowy, the feat becomes easily practicable. Thus the Short Time tells for the support of the Passion, along with the Long Time, by means of virtuous instillations from the hand or wing of Oblivion. From one to two you feel no intermission—from two to three you feel none—from three to four you feel none; but I defy any man to say that from one to four he has felt none. I defy any man to say honestly, that “sitting at the Play” he has kept count from one to four. TALBOYS. If you come to that, nobody keeps watch over the time in listening to Shakspeare. I much doubt if anybody knows at the theatre that Iago’s first suggestion of doubt occurs the day after the landing. I never knew it till you made me look for it— NORTH. For which boon I trust you are duly grateful. TALBOYS. ’Tis folly to be wise. NORTH. Why, Heaven help us! if we did not go to bed, and did not dine, which of us could ever keep count from Monday to Saturday! As it is, we have some of us hard work to know what happened yesterday, and what the day before. On Tuesday I killed that Salmo Ferox? TALBOYS. No—but on Wednesday I did. You forget yourself, my dear sir, just like Shakspeare. NORTH.