spectre-like, than the usual sleek and well-fed citizen, from the thrilling and awful preparation of HoratioLook, my lord, it comes!

The subsequent interrogation of Hamlet, when addressed to this well-conditioned Ghost,

Art thou a Spirit of Health

has always appeared to us most provokingly ludicrous. Why, again, we would ask, has the denouement of Lear been changed? The dictates of reason, no less than the rules of art, demand a fatal end in tragedy. We do not expect happiness in the event of a tragic story-we do not wish it; the whole complexion of the plot has the opposite tendency, and the mind, when worked up to the highest pitch of agonizing expectation in the progress of the drama, is disappointed and dissatisfied by an inconsistent termination*.

It is not our purpose to give a detailed analysis of our theatre-such a task is far beyond our intention and the space to which we are confined. We shall only touch upon those tragedies, which seem to us in particular characteristic of the English manner-concluding with a few observations on the existing state of our tragic Drama.

In this view, our old dramatists are the first to occur to the mind; and we think (as we took occasion to say in a former Number) that the admiration of Shakspeare has occasioned much injustice towards his contemporaries. It is true, that a strong taste for these writers has of late arisen, but it has not extended to the revival of their productions on the stage; and, moreover, we cannot help suspecting that this taste is far less ex

* Since these remarks were written, King Lear has been acted at one of the metropolitan theatres with the fifth act as originally written by Shakspeare. The success of so judicious an alteration was, as might have been expected, complete.

tended than one would at first imagine, from the frequency and strength of the eulogies which we see concerning them. Many, we think, give them lipworship only;-they know that it is considered good taste to admire "the old writers," and they talk of them continually-but we have shrewd doubts whether they read them as much. They certainly are rarely, if ever, acted, which we equally wonder at and regret. We are not of opinion that the comedies of Massinger, Ben Jonson, and Beaumont and Fletcher, (which makea very large proportion of their works,) would be effective now. They are chiefly devoted to the observation and satire of conventional and temporary manners; and their point, therefore, has become obsolete with the events and circumstances that gave it rise. But the tragedies of Fletcher, and (with revision) some of those of Marlow and Ford, surely deserve revival. They are founded on the eternal principles of human passion, and will, therefore, have power as long as human passion exists. There is Philaster, teeming with the deepest beauties of tragic poetry-the Maid's Tragedy, powerful almost to terrorthe Broken Heart, worthy of its all-expressing namewhy not give us these, and such as these, if the writing a tragedy be, in truth, as it would almost seem to be, among the arts which are lost? Such plays would, with the great majority, have equal novelty with those really new-and would give variety and relief to the few stock tragedies which engross possession of the stage.

A great deal has been said, of late, concerning the imitation of the old dramatists-that they are again becoming the models of tragic writing, in contra-distinction to the French school, founded by Dryden and his fellows at the Restoration, and followed through the

whole of the last century, But the greatest and most distinguishing merit of the best of the old writers has been almost entirely overlooked-we mean, the simplicity and directness of their language. The damning error of tragic writers is the idea that it is necessary to make their characters speak in an inflated and stilted style, such as no human being ever used on any possible occasion. The nearer the approach to nature, the more powerful is the representation, and nature is wholly incompatible with the ornaments of what is usually called "poetic diction." It is said, that the language of common life would seem coarse and homely on the stage-and so it would ;-but we wish the distinction to be noted between common life and real life. It is not the conversation of two friends after dinner, that we would have introduced upon the scene,-but, as nearly as possible, what a man would say in the situation of passion in which he is represented to be. We think it will scarcely be denied that there are situations in real life, as deeply tragic as it is possible for the mind of a poet to conceive,-and we are very confident, that if the words actually uttered in such situations could be taken down, and were delivered on the stage without any over-straining or exceeding of nature, we are very confident, we say, that this would have a stronger effect upon the audience than any other representation ever embodied in the drama.

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But this does not rest upon our opinion and belief—it is so in fact. Are not those plays the most effective which are the most direct and simple in the exposition of passion and distress ?-We think it cannot be denied. Let us turn to Shakspeare ;-he knew nature—what was his practice? We will first cite Romeo and Juliet. In the beginning of this play, Shakspeare has indulged

in what is usually understood by poetic writing, to a degree beyond what exists any where else in his workshe has sometimes even run it into affectation and conceit. But into what situations has he introduced this poetry? Into the wooings and fondnesses of youthful loversinto the expression of those sentiments which are so strongly allied to this lighter branch of poetry, and which, consequently, may be supposed nearly to speak its language. But when the distress advances-when the throes of despair and the struggles of conflicting passion are to be represented, all these prettinesses of language vanish at once. The diction is no more than the natural expression of the inward feeling-it has no extrinsic ornament whatever ;-and is there any pathos deeper or of more power than that of the two last acts of this play? We have already noticed the language of Lear in his madness-a situation the most likely to tempt an inferior genius into this very fault. But in Othello, our hypothesis is the most strongly proved. Throughout the whole of Othello's jealousy, there is not one line, one word, of the diction of which we are speaking. Let any one call to mind those passages of the celebrated scene in the third act, which have most effect-what are they but the commonest words?—

IAGO. She did deceive her father, marrying you;
And, when she seemed to shake, and fear your looks,
She loved them most.

ОTн. And so she did.

Is not this phrase, "And so she did," mere "household words;"-and yet, who of our readers have not been thrilled to the marrow by their delivery on the stage?-But if we were to continue citations in proof of this, we might transcribe nearly the rest of the play.

Again.-Venice Preserved has more power over the

feelings than almost any play upon the stage, and do you find "poetic diction" there? Can there be more force of passion than in the scenes between Jaffier and Belvidera, especially the last?-and how is that passion expressed? With elaborate trope, and high-flown simile ?-No-but as any of us might and would speak, were we parting for ever with the woman we adored.

But the effect of those plays which are written confessedly on the principle of simple language, is still more striking and decisive. The Gamester is in prose-very familiar prose, too, for the most part—and yet by the strength of Nature, an audience is more deeply affected by it than almost any other scenic representation whatever. We have heard it said that it requires the aid of the very finest actors to give such plays effect-but we should rather say, that the finest actors can produce equal effect in plays of no other description. We are more touched by what may-by what does-happen to ourselves, than by the most dignified representation of lofty feelings with which we have no concern. Did Kemble and Mrs. Siddons affect the audience most in Coriolanus and Volumnia, or in Mr. and Mrs. Beverley? -We think there can be but one answer. Othello is a general and a governor, it is true, but it is not as such, but as a man, that his jealousy shakes us to the soul.

Lillo's plays are on the same model as the Gamester. It is the fashion to sneer at the distress caused by the seduction of an apprentice by a woman of the town;but such was the feeling on the first night of its being played-and what was the result? The critical dandies of that day went with the old ballad of "The True History of George Barnwell" in their hands, to turn the play into ridicule,-but, to use the words of an old writer on the subject, as the play advanced they