features of the English school-variety, animation and passion. If the stage be indeed the mirror of life, surely that style of composition may be pronounced the best, which shall reflect with the greatest fidelity the vast arena of nature. Such a style is that of English tragedy, wherein the correctness and precision inculcated by artificial writers, are sacrificed to reality and truth.

In taking this view of the English theatre, Shakspeare is, of course, the great name to which we cling in support of our national style of dramatic writing; and, in our observations upon him, we shall consider him solely in that character in which he surpasses all other dramatists, as the poet of nature. The pre-eminence of Shakspeare consists not so much in the mere beauties of his poetry, but in the infinite variety and masterly delineation of his characters. We might adorn our pages with endless quotations from his works; we might prove the wonderful and unmatched versatility of his powers by instancing his sublimity, his pathos, his inimitable comic humour-or, we might bring forward the mint of phrases which are received almost as a part of our daily conversation: but we will confine ourselves to those of his plays which exhibit, most strikingly, his penetrating scrutiny into human nature, in all its bearings, and under all its varieties of aspect. The tragedies of Lear and Othello are, we think, especially calculated to display this peculiar excellence. We know of nothing, in the whole range of the drama, so affecting as the character of King Lear. Fallen greatness is always the most pathetic of situations; but when that transition is from the highest state of earthly splendour, to the lowest depths of domestic helplessness,-aggravated, too, by that alienation of reason, which is perhaps even too terrible for fictitious commiseration,-then, indeed, is the repre

sentation in the highest sense of the word-Tragedy. One of the leading beauties of this heart-rending play is, the contrast between the real madness of Lear and the pretended idiotcy of Edgar. The remark of Lear upon Edgar's supposed madness

What? have his daughters brought him to this pass?

has always appeared to us the most touching conception that ever entered the mind of a poet. It is so beautifully natural, that when that one dreadful idea reigned paramount in the thoughts of the insane king, he should conceive it the only source of misery and madness in another! The madness of Lear, too, simple as it is, and sometimes even homely, in expression throughout, seems to us one of the finest instances of what real nature,.in the hand of a master, can do-when contrasted with the bombastic and raving trash, which nearly all other writers have put into the mouths of those whom they wish to represent as insane*.

The scene of Othello, in which Iago works upon the jealousy of his friend, is scarcely more celebrated than it deserves. Never was such subtlety, such wariness depicted, as in the gradual and unobserved attempt of lago to darken the mind of Othello with the horrors of jealousy. The first avowal of his design, hitherto known

Oh! beware, my lord, of jealousy

and his irresistible argument against Desdemona from her previous error

She did deceive her father-marrying you,

*We have, since writing the above, met a very extraordinary confirmation of this in the Lectures on Insanity, just published by Dr. Francis Willis. He remarks that Shakspeare's wonderful knowledge of the human mind was as intimate and accurate with regard to its aberrations as to its sane state ;—and he continually refers to, and quotes the actions and expressions of Lear, almost in the same manner as if they were recorded in a regular medical case.

are master-pieces of ingenuity. There is nothing more remarkable in the plays of Shakspeare, than the individuality of his characters. Never did any writer display human nature in so many forms, all so true, and so distinct from each other; even in his supernatural beings, he has embodied a perfect representation of those whom he wishes to delineate. It may seem absurd to speak of nature, in beings professedly distinct from the ordinary tenants of the world, but the super-human creatures of Shakspeare's imagination seem to us natural, from their partaking of that peculiar character, and speaking that peculiar language, which we should expect to meet with in beings of their order. In what striking contrast do they stand with similar attempts by inferior hands. The spirits of Shakspeare almost reconcile us to the belief of their existence-so definite and real does he make them seem to us. How different is this from the vague, crude, or vulgar personifications, which nearly all other poets, who have dared to touch upon them, have given us of unearthly beings! We, at this moment, can call to mind but two exceptions to this position-Mephistophiles in Goëthe's Faust-and the Witch of the Alps in Manfred. This latter conception, in particular, would have been truly worthy of Shakspeare's genius.

To give effect to the plays of Shakspeare, the utmost power of scenery and decoration should be brought into exertion. We have lived to see great improvements in this respect; the mode of representing these matchless pieces is now as far superior to what it used to be, even in our recollection, as the present state of excellence in scenic exhibition surpasses the rude and incongruous stage-costume of the last century. We can scarcely, indeed, understand the passive simplicity of our ancestors, who could quietly contemplate a Mac

beth in full court-dress, or applaud a performance in which Brutus strutted under the weight of a bag-wig and sword. The temper of actors is no less surprising: surely they could not have been "such as mortals now are," who could utter the lofty and inspiring sentiments of Roman dignity; who could, in the cha-racter of Coriolanus, conspire with the Volsci against the Eternal City, or in that of Antony, utter the glorious oration over the body of Cæsar, when encumbered by such unclassical habiliments! It is to the great Kemble that we owe the reformation of these absurdities; to him, who, by his example, no less than by his influence, contributed so much to raise and to uphold the proper dignity of the British drama*. But there is still room

* While these pages are passing through the press, the intelligence of Mr. Kemble's death has reached England. It is not in an incidental note that we can speak all the recollections and feelings that rise upon us at this moment. An actor, more than any other artist, is known to the public; continually before them in person, they learn to feel almost personal love for him who so continually excites and gratifies so many of their highest and most intimate emotions. It has been complained, and justly, that an actor leaves no trace of his excellence behind himthat his fame perishes with those who had witnessed, and contributed to confer it. But, in return for this, he possesses a far stronger interest in the public mind-in the public heart-than those who are known only by their works-and he is lamented more as a private friend than as one, in fact, individually unknown. To those who were acquainted with Mr. Kemble in private life, it is quite unnecessary to speak-but all do not know to how great an extent worth was united to talent. To force and cultivation of mind, he joined a heart at once the most noble and benignant. He possessed, in a peculiar degree, that rarest of all virtues, indulgence and forgiveness for the faults of others. Mild, amiable, kind in its truest sense, he alone, of all around him, seemed to forget that he was great also.

The latter years of Mr. Kemble's life were passed abroad, which deprived his friends of his society-but still he was a reality to their hearts; and his death wounds more, perhaps, instead of less, on account of the previous disunion. We trust that if (as we have heard) Mr. Kemble be already buried where he died, a monument at least will be raised to him here. Where those of Shakspeare and Garrick stand,

for improvement in the representation of Shakspeare's plays: the thoughts, as well as the language of the great Dramatist should be, as far as possible, consulted; and his apparent intentions in the mode of performance sifted, and observed. Hence we would correct that solecism in stage-effect, the Ghost of Banquo: we would have no material apparition ;-it should all be, as we are convinced Shakspeare intended, "the coinage of the brain ;" it should be, like the air-drawn dagger, a vision of disturbed imagination. It is evident that the Ghost of Banquo is invisible to the guests; why, then, bring before them a portly figure, and compel them to profess ignorance of a sight sufficiently apparent, not to them only, but to the whole audience? We cannot indeed conceive a more striking effect than would be produced by the wild and vacant ravings of the guilty king, and his hurried apostrophes to the visionary intruder. Then, too, the confused apologies of Lady Macbeth, now enraged with her fearstruck partner in guilt; now eager to reconcile him with his offended guests, would be natural; whereas, under the present system, the intrusion of so appalling and gore-bedaubed a personage, seems sufficient to justify, without other excuse, the interruption of the banquet. In Hamlet, it is true, the corporeal spectre is inevitable; for here he is not only visible to the friends of the Prince, but some of the most important speeches in the play are assigned to him. But in the dress, and general aspect of the pallid and steel-clad monarch, there is much room for improvement. Surely we are led to expect something less earthly, something more ethereal and

there should his be also. If we cannot convey to our children an adequate knowledge of what he was, we should at least leave a record to shew how he was esteemed and honoured by his country, and loved and lamented by his friends.