or the desert on the caravan? Each certainly heightens and adds to the interest of the other, but the desert would still be sublime, though man never crossed its surface, whilst the bales, and slaves, and camels of the merchants would lose all poetry, were they unconnected with the wildness and grandeur of the desert.

But there is one whole class, and that the highest class, of poetry, in which Nature is all-Art nothing.-I mean that of feeling and of passion. I think it will be conceded, that the highest of all poetry is that which portrays the workings of the human mind-the conflicts of the human heart.-And is not this all Nature? Is not the jealousy of Othello, Nature? Is not the love of Romeo, Nature? Are not the irresolute guilt and vacillating ambition of Macbeth-the relentness cruelty of Richard-the broken-hearted madness of Lear, Nature? Truly may we say with him-" Nature's above Art in that respect." I would willingly rest my quarrel upon this ground. Strike out from poetry all that relates to Man, and what have you left? "Twere endless to prove by citation that all poetry which does relate to man, is wholly derived from, and dependent upon, Nature-and has no connection with Art. To do this I might quote the better half of the poetry of the better half of poets-to do this I might quote nearly the whole of Shakspeare. You have only to take down from your shelf the first volume of Shakspeare that falls under your hand, to see how truly Nature was the wellspring from which the streams of his genius flowed. Hence is it that he still lives within the soul of all those to whom his language is known.-His contemporaries reared their structures on the shifting sands of Art, and the advancing tide of society has undermined them, and made them fall;-the rock of Nature was the

foundation on which Shakspeare built-it is immutable, and the glorious edifice stands unshaken, unshakeable,

by ages.

In conclusion, I must guard against being supposed to deny the poetical susceptibility of many objects of Art. I fully admit that it exists, and that to a high degree, but not to the very highest. The master-pieces of Art are the highest manifestations of the human mind, but the master-pieces of Nature are manifestations of the Deity himself. I regard, in fine, Art to yield to Nature, insomuch as the noblest of the works of God are superior to the noblest of the works of man.

THE STRATFORD JUBILEE.

THERE are few things in which I regret what are commonly called "the good old times;" for I am intimately convinced, that what has been equally erroneously termed "the ignorant present time," is far better. It is strange, indeed, to look back and observe how every period furnishes jeremiades on the decay of talent, and the deterioration of "affairs in general"and this even at eras to which we now revert (as our ancestors did to their predecessors) with applause, strangely contrasted with the vituperation of every thing existing. Maugre this, we have been going on improving more and more rapidly in every generation, as I believe would very speedily be admitted by any one who was put to live a twelvemonth in the days which he lauds so lavishly.

There is one thing, however, to which I do look back

with regret-namely, to the time (not above forty years ago) when there were said to be four estates in the realm-King, Lords, Commons, and Theatre. In my love of the drama, I am completely of the old school; and lament, therefore, bitterly, the decadence into which it has fallen. I have heard this attributed to many things; to the late hour of dining-to the inexplicable changes of fashion-and to divers other causes, which console me not at all, inasmuch as the effect is all I care for, and that is undeniable. Among the rest, many of the worthy assertors of progressive degeneracy have not failed to allege, that it arises from there being no actors now such as we used to have formerly—but to this I oppose at once as decided a negative as it is possible to make with regard to any thing so impalpable and traditionary as acting. With all due modesty, I beg to assert that I am peculiarly well qualified to speak on this point for I believe there are few better read in dramatic history than I am. From the time of Booth, Wilks, and Cibber, down to the production of the last new pantomime, there is scarcely a tragedy, comedy, opera, or farce, dead or living, saved or damned, with the merits and fate of which I am not acquainted;-there is scarcely an actor, actress, or singer, whom I do not know as well as their perishable art will suffer them to be known to posterity. Now, with all this learning, and having given to the subject all due consideration, I am of opinion, that (always with one exception) we have as effective a corps dramatique at this moment as ever existed at any one time. In talking of Betterton, Nokes, Booth, Quin, Garrick, Woodward, King,-Mrs. Bracegirdle, Mrs. Oldfield, Mrs. Pritchard, Mrs. Cibber, Mrs. Clive, we forget that we heap together what in truth

was but a succession of talent; for though the dawn of King was contemporary with the setting of Garrick, and his again with Quin, who, in turn, succeeded Booth, who succeeded Betterton,-yet the first name and the last flourished, in fact, at the distance of nearly a century from each other.

The one exception to which I have above alluded, is Garrick. I do believe that there was never any thing near him on the stage. It is not to his wonderful versatility that I especially allude-to his tragedy, comedy, and low comedy-his Lear, his Benedick, and his Drugger-but his powers of pantomime were such as I believe were never possessed, or at least displayed, by any other individual. The gift of being able to mould the countenance into the most real and living expression of an assumed passion, does appear to have been his to a degree far beyond any thing else on record. The wellknown story of his personating the mad father before a French company at Mlle. Clairon's, is strong proof of this. He used to say, that it was from witnessing the madness of that man that he learned to play Lear. This person was an acquaintance of Garrick's, and lived near Goodman's Fields. In playing with his infant child at an open window, he let it fall, and it was dashed to pieces. The shock was so great to the father, that from that moment he became mad-and his insanity used to display itself by his going to the window, fancying that he was playing with the child-then, after some time, dropping it—and again acting, because again suffering, the pangs which he felt at the real catastrophe. This Garrick often witnessed-and from these sources, he declared that he drew that representation of insanity in Lear, which was, it is said, more forcible, terrible, and true, than any similar delineation ever given on the

stage*. It was this narrative (I may call it) which he gave one night at Mlle. Clairon's, which drew from both professional and national envy the highest expressions of astonishment, and the fullest admission of unapproached superiority.

Garrick's versatility is also another point on which he stands alone. No one, in these days, attempts to join low comedy to tragedy-and I do not regret it. This may be attributed as much to the audiences as the actors. I do not think that at this time of day we should bear the same man in Othello or Hamlet, whom we had seen the night before in Marplot or Abel Drugger. There is nothing incongruous in the same person being Romeo and Charles Surface-Jaffier and Don Juanbut I cannot help thinking, that if any actor now were to play a part, the point of which depended on his being low, mean, or contemptible, we should feel reminiscences fatal to his effect in dignity, tenderness, or passion. That there is considerable truth in this feeling, is apparent from the well-known story of the lady who had fallen so desperately in love with Garrick in Romeo, as to be on the point of making to him a tender of her hand and fortune, being cured at once by seeing him in Abel Drugger.

But either the audience was not so sensitive and critical as it is now, or Garrick had power to

* I doubt, however, whether it could be finer than Ambrogetti's acting in the Father, in Agnese. I am sure no one could see that most masterly and terrific portraiture without shuddering. The laugh which he utters when he attempts to snap the fingers of his friend in his snuffbox, has a more thrilling and appalling effect than almost any thing I ever saw on the stage. Bigottini's Nina is another effort of a similar kind, and of fully equal merit. It is, possibly, less effective from its being necessarily wholly pantomime-but that very circumstance, perhaps, renders the skill of the performer greater.