benevolent, and pious, the last images which arise are those of innocent and slaughtered flocks and imprisoned birds, and all his feelings are directed to the future sufferings of his subjects,

"To many an old man's sigh, and many a widow's,

And many an orphan's water standing eye."

To Wolsey, noble and generous in soul, but misled by ambition and pride, death so brings back his virtues, and makes us forget his crimes, that it has left him greater glory than he would have ever gained, had he still possessed the power he long struggled for. Such is the manner in which Shakspeare drew moral and useful lessons, from the superstitions, the infirmities, and the fatal termination of human life-such was the power by which he introduced them into his dramas, to add, as they have done, their powerful effect upon his audience; an effect which could never have been produced by the force of his genius alone, independent of delineations so artfully calculated to excite and enlist the feelings.

These delineations, too, are scarcely more striking from their own nature, than from the art with which they are introduced. Shakspeare, above all men, understood the effect of situation and contrast. The heart is never so open to sorrow, as when it sees unconscious gaiety and revelry around-like the dream of poor Amie, in which the gay sounds of the Queen's reveillé become the death notes wound by her miserable and deserted father. Innumerable scenes of Shakspeare might be cited, which are familiar to all who have studied his dramas. Few have ever witnessed the tragedy of Hamlet, without feeling, however used to it, a sudden surprise at the appearance of the ghost, lulled as we are into forgetfulness of what we are expecting, by the careless conversation of the prince and his companions. The drowsy tune and easy slumbers of the page, make but more striking the restless inquietude of Brutus, as he awaits the dawn that is to light him to Philippi. Music and gaiety, and all the lively bustle of the marriage ceremonies, fill the mansion where Juliet lies in wretchedness and seeming death. The song of the nightingale, the fragrance of the rose, and the gentle brilliancy of moonlit gardens, are blended with the sighs of sorrow, the loathsome dampness of the sepulchre, the dreary darkness of the church-yard, and the stillness of death. So in the persons as well as in the scenes; the ethereal lightness, good humour, and beauty of Prospero's little sprite, become more dear from his contrast with the disgusting drudge, who is also the slave of the same powerful master. Orlando and Adam present in one picture the generosity of youth, with the faithful gratitude of age. Capulet is the gouty old beau, who no longer whispers his tale in a fair lady's ear, while Mercutio flourishes at his side in all the exuberance of youthful vivacity and wit. Prince Henry is gallant

and brave, but he waits till fortune seeks him; Hotspur is gallant and brave, but he pursues fortune as if he loved the chase rather than the prize. Shallow passes for a wag beside the imperturbable gravity of his cousin Silence; and Silence becomes a wise man, because he does not talk as much nonsense as Shallow. Such, too, is the effect produced by the contrast of different feelings in the same individual, according to the incidents of the moment and the scene. The ill-divining soul of Juliet sees sorrow where every thing promises success and eventual happiness -Romeo feels an unaccustomed joy when misery and death are close at hand. Falstaff, in the presence of the prince, is with all his freedom a flatterer, and seems now and then a little of a fool; but alone, he is shrewd, calculating, and observant. Polonius is the wiser in his own house, because he is silly at the palace.

It is not improbable that Shakspeare was induced as much from observing the effect this contrast produced, as from a desire of copying nature, to blend in the same drama scenes and characters highly comic and tragical; and although some critics have censured him for doing so, if he has attained by it these two ends, his success is the best answer to their speculations. Whatever may be the case with persons who have acquired their theatrical taste from the exhibition of the classical drama; it is not to be denied that to an American, English, and German audience, sensations of delight eminently arise from the intermixture. No one ever failed to enjoy more strongly the lively wit and noble spirit of Beatrice, from the one being chastened and the other excited by the suffering of her cousin. Is the inimitable humour of Twelfth Night injured by the affecting story of Viola? or the melancholy of Hamlet rendered less touching by the careless jests of the clown, which spring so naturally from his character and situation? It is easy enough to lay down rules and then to judge of and settle the effusions of genius by them; but the critic who does so, is like the theorist in natural science, who is more ready to bend facts to his notions, than to change his views from observation of the truth. It is the same in tragedy and comedy-the same in all literature;-and that author will be most successful in exciting emotions of sadness and of joy, who observes the manner in which they are, rather than that in which it has been settled they ought to be aroused.

It is this mode of judging, which, in our opinion, has led the celebrated reviewer of Moliere, the writer who of our own days is most usually correct as a critic, as he is far superior to his cotemporaries in the variety and brilliancy of his genius, to err in his comparison of the two great comic writers of modern times, and to form an unjust estimate of the powers of his own countryIn adopting the definition of Dr. Johnson, that "comedy

man.

incident, and humour-the fertility of invention—the pictures of youth, beauty, and affection-the scenes of deep interest, which, without ever touching upon tragedy, have yet nothing in them of the ludicrous or ridiculous-in fine, for that which we are disposed to consider not as "higher and better than comedy," but as the highest and best species of it. Shakspeare's comedy is that of nature-Congreve's and Farquhar's that of art, or rather of manners, and though Moliere's does not reach quite the artificial character of the later English school, it may be classed with it rather than the earlier. To this characteristic is Shakspeare indebted for his enduring fame :-So wonderfully true to nature are his comedies, that they are still the most popular, even among those classes of society to whom the occasional and necessary delineation of local manners which they exhibit, must be entirely obsolete; indeed, in his comedy he seems to have yielded himself up with entire freedom to his genius and turn for observation, seldom fettering himself with the regular stories and delineations of individuals which he selected in his tragedies, but roaming at large over the wide field that was open before him—now jesting at stupidity, cowardice, and folly-now bringing on the stage the shrewd buffoonery of the clowns, which was common in his own times or those just preceding them-now indulging in the quick lively repartee, and sparkling dialogue of wit and fashion -now tinging his humour with scenes of constant affection, of gentle love, of rural pleasure, of wild enchantment, and of dazzling romance-now portraying with evident delight the whimsical scenes of vulgar ignorance and low life, heaping his characters together with a profusion as wonderful as their diversity

always dashing on as if the flow of imagination and invention could never be exhausted, and imparting to the whole that pervading character of sweetness, of good nature, of amusement free from spleen, of fancy and of ease, which, if his comedy be superior to his tragedy, as Dr. Johnson has thought, may be justly assigned as the cause of it.

ART. III.-Sir Thomas More: or, Colloquies on the Progress and Prospects of Society. By ROBERT SOUTHEY, LL. D. Poet Laureate, &c. In 2 vols. 8vo. London: 1829.

We have copied only two of Mr. Southey's titles. The names of the various learned societies of which he is a member, are arranged in a picturesque way on the title page of the new book. Our readers will take it for granted that a writer so voluminous

and notorious, could not fail to gain admission into most of the Royal academies and philosophical institutes. Of the British productive literati, with the exception of Sir Walter Scott, he is perhaps the best known, or most familiar to the American people. The greater part of his poetry, and two at least of his prose-works, have been reprinted in the United States. There are, we believe, American editions of the Curse of Kehama, Thalaba the Destroyer, and Roderick, and of Espriella's Letters, and the Life of Nelson. His large Histories, and his Book of the Church, are in some of our public libraries-to be consulted, rather than perused, and, we hope, to be remembered longer than several of the poems. For our own parts, we deem more favourably of these, than do the majority of the critics, and could go through Roderick a second time with the interest arising from a romantic story well digested, rich descriptions, valuable sentiments, and happy versification.

We should hesitate, however, before we ventured to call Mr. Southey a poet in the higher and broader sense. Immortality is not his lot. He ranks only with the most respectable of the class, appertaining to almost every age, who supply the cravings of their contemporaries for novelty in verse; whose compositions are bound up in new collections, mentioned, or perhaps dipped into by the next generation, and then buried under the mass of what is provided in like manner for the second and each succeeding race of bibliomaniacks. Simultaneously with his Colloquies, the Laureate has issued a duodecimo filled with two poems and appended notes-All for Love, and the Pilgrim of Compostella, which also lie on our table. These pieces are, nearly throughout, symptomatic of a woful degeneracy in his muse. He has been unlucky in his choice of topics, and has fallen into the most puerile singsong. Trash of this description, if it did not appear with the sanction of name that commands some deference, or excites some curiosity, would be treated, in England, with silent contempt, or noticed only to be ridiculed with merciless asperity. The author has not announced it as designed for the Infant Schools, or for the silliest or most infatuated of the admirers of the Lake manufacture. There is nothing worse among those effusions of Sir Walter Scott, Byron and Wordsworth, by which a complete contrast is furnished from the same minds with unquestionable specimens of genius and taste.

It is understood or believed, that Mr. Southey from time to time condescended to wield his hackney pen against the institutions and character of the American people; and for this he was properly requited by one of our own authors conspicuous for energy of patriotism and pungency of wit. The Laureate has certainly turned his attention oftener and more directly to our republic, than is common with his literary brethren ;-he has col