and when we read the Zaïre and Alzire of Voltaire, we almost forget the monotonous jingle of the verse, in the gracefulness and beauty of the composition.

Of M. Jouy's tragedy of Sylla, ample notice has been taken in a former Number. We trust it is the dawn of a new era in French tragedy. It displays an eloquence and a vigour in the language beyond what we had believed the French Alexandrine capable of receiving; and we have only to regret that with powers so eminently calculated to burst the fetters of prejudice, this distinguished writer should still adhere so strongly to the artificial and constrained style of the French stage.

We have already had occasion to observe, that the character of the drama is in a great measure influenced by national taste and peculiarities. We believe the Greek tragedy to have been admirably calculated for the taste of an Athenian audience, and we think the drama of our own country, as established since the age of Elizabeth, the very best that ever prevailed in any nation wherein theatrical exhibitions have been sanctioned,— inasmuch as it adheres more closely to nature, and rejects more than any other the trammels of art. Nevertheless, an English play would have been ill adapted to an Athenian audience;-and the variety of incident to which we have been accustomed, renders us utterly incapable of bearing their simplicity of plot, and uniformity of scene, on our own stage. Therefore is it, that we never could bring ourselves to admire Cato; a play which, in our opinion, has owed much of its celebrity to the name of its author, and still more to the political temper of the time in which it was written; but very little to its poetical, and nothing to its dramatic, merit. Cato is, in fact, if we except the soliloquy, and one or two passages less tame than the rest, a cold, vapid, and

monotonous composition.

Moreover, although the author has, with a view to simplicity, modelled his drama on the French plan, he has grossly violated the unity of action, by the introduction of a subordinate and insignificant plot. The strict observance of the unity of place has been fatal to every thing like stage-effect, and although specially intended to preserve the illusion of the drama, has, in fact, destroyed it, by prohibiting even the change of scene necessary for the different business of the play*. But, say the advocates of Cato, it is a play written for the closet, and not for the stage. Be it so; we merely contend that its claim to a dramatic character should be abandoned; though, even as a poem, we are inclined to think that its merit is extremely questionable.

We have touched briefly on the character of Addison as a dramatic poet, because we conceive him to form a single exception among all our distinguished tragic writers of strict adherence to the Greek and French stage. He was followed, indeed, by many others; but their plays, interesting no political or literary party in their success, are now scarcely known even by name. The elder Colman, in his prologue to the revival of Philaster, in 1763, thus aptly characterizes the whole race:Next, prim, and trim, and delicate, and chaste,

A hash from Greece and France, came modern Taste;
Cold are her sons, and so afraid of dealing

In rant and fustian, they ne'er rise to feeling.

With Addison, then, we dismiss the subject of simplicity of construction in the drama, and turn to the leading

* We do not mean, by these observations, to lay any stress upon "the unities," the observance of which, beyond a certain point, in spite of the perverse opinion of that noble poet, whose genius, above all others, spurns the fetters of art, has been of late abandoned by general consent. But it is curious to observe how the author of Cato, by his own want of judgment, could mar those very rules which he professes to support.

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 Iago 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