the representation of large classes of men, or a species; but in Shakspea re, it is an individual. His creation (for so his drama must be called) is the result of that facility and prolific energy, with which he was en dowed by the prodigal hand of Nature. His deep and perfect knowledge of the human heart enabled him to strike and astonish. This, his peculiar characteristic, which has never been rivalled, and scarcely comprehended, almost claims the epithet preternatural. But though it be not within the scope of ordinary understandings, its effects are irresistibly felt, both by the instructed and by the ignorant. Indeed, no person ever witnessed the situations in which he places his characters, who could not readily adopt the language he heard, and feel that the chords it struck were in perfect unison with the secret motions of his own heart.

The great bard's early life does not appear to have given any extraordinary indication of his superior judgment and capacity:

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Shakspeare's marriage," says Mr. Skittowe, "was no proof of his worldly prudence; nor was the next great event in his life of a wiser character.

"His associates, it is recorded, were dissolute, and some of them made a frequent practice of leer-stealing. Shakspeare was, on more than one occasion, induced to join them in their incursions, on the property of Sir Thomas Lucy, of Charlecote, in the neighbourhood of Stratford.

Shakspeare, imagining himself harshly treated by Sir Thomas, in return for his stealing his deer, in revenge, affixed a scurrilous ballad on the owner's gate, a stanza of which has descended to us with the anecdote. This aggravation of injury, by insult, was productive of the very natural consequence of increased severity on the part of Sir Thomas Lucy, and proceedings were urged so far against the youthful offender, as to induce him to fly from the place of his nativity, the seat of his business, and the bosom of his family. The date of his departure is uncertain. It might have been previous to 1585, though his twin children were baptized at Stratford, in the February of that year; and it might, with perhaps greater probability, be assigned to a subsequent period."

Shakspeare met with more good fortune in the remuneration of his literary labours, than generally falls to the lot of genius:

"It is reported of Lord Southampton, that he at one time gave to Shakspeare a thousand pounds, to enable him to complete a purchase; and the assertion is strongly corroborated by the opulence in which the poet is found, a very few years after his arrival in London,-an opulence far too considerable to have accrued from his emoluments of actor and writer for the stage. Some of his plays could only have entitled him to the smaller recompence paid. His original pieces were sold absolutely to the theatre : the gain upon them, therefore, is ascertainable with tolerable precision, as he neither derived advantage from their publication, nor from their dedication to the opulent. Fourteen plays of Shakspeare were printed during his lifetime, but without advantage to him, as they were surreptitious publications, alike fraudulent on him, on the managers of the Globe, and on the public."

"In 1597, Shakspeare bought New Place, one of the best houses in his native town, which he repaired and adorned. In the following year, apparently as a man of known property, he was applied to by a brother townsman for the loan of thirty pounds; and, about the same time, he expressed himself as not unwilling to advance, on adequate security, money for the use of the town of Stratford."

The poet's still increasing wealth is marked by a continuation of his purchases. In 1602, he gave 3201. for 107 acres of land, which he connected with his former property in New Place. In 1605, he bought for 4401. the lease of a moiety of the great and small tithes of Stratford; and, in 1613, a house in Blackfriars for 1401. A singularity attendant upon this purchase is, that only 801. of the money was paid down, the remainder being left as a mortgage upon the premises."

The extent to which Shakspeare was indebted to his predecessors and contemporaries, which is ably demonstrated in the two volumes before us, will, doubtless, excite surprise; and, perhaps, his cha

racter and creative genius will suffer by this demonstration. In all his plays, the plots, so often the stumbling-block of genius, were supplied to him; in many, the characters, the incidents, and the language; all of which, on many occasions, he copied with the most disadvantageous servility of imitation.

Our great dramatist almost invariably selected, for the plot of his drama, an event of history, a romantic tale, or some previous dramatic composition, and imposed upon himself an almost implicit adherence to his authorities, even in cases where great improvement might have been effected with little pains. For the alterations which he chose to make, he is not often to be praised: his additions to his originals are, however, almost always excellent; and so beautifully has he blended the separate actions, that they appear always to have formed one consistent whole."

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Scarcely one of Shakspeare's tragic characters was conceived by himself; a singular fact, considering that his comic characters, with the exception of about half a dozen, were entirely his own. The conclusion is inevitable, that the bent of his mind was decidedly comic. Why, with such a disposition, so large a majority of the subjects selected by him were serious, it is in vain to inquire; but, it appears that he eagerly sought every opportunity, which such a selection left him, to indulge his fancy's course. His predilection for the ludicrous required a wider field for his display than was afforded him in his few comedies; and, with the mask and sock, he gaily rushed upon the consecrated ground of the tragic Muse, engrafting incidents purely comic, on subjects the most serious."

Referring to the tragedy of Othello, Mr. Skittoe says,

"All the passion, all the mind of the play, are Shakspeare's. He was indebted to Cinthio for the circumstances of his plot, and some individual traits of Othello's and Iago's characters, particularly of that of the latter. Desdemona he chastened into beauty; and the Captain, whose character in the novel is scarcely distinguishable, he invested with qualities exactly correspondent to the purpose he was intended to fulfil. The wife of the lieutenant, perhaps, the poet had better have left as he found her; for, in raising Emilia above insignificance, he unfortunately rendered her inexplicable. Roderigo is, as we have hinted, his own absolute creation."

Our author has endeavoured to arrange the plays of Shakspeare in the chronological order in which they were written; and, as far as all the light which research could obtain is to be depended upon, we trust he has succeeded. The progress of a poet's style, we apprehend, will be found to be tolerably similar to that of human life. În youth, the fancy is more warm; but it cools and flags as the understanding ripens. So language and style advance from enthusiastic irregula rity to correctness; from vivacity to accuracy; from fire and vehemence to polish and precision.

Memoirs of the Life and Character of the Right Hon. Edmund Burke. By James Prior, Esq.-Thick 8vo. pp. 584. Baldwin and Co.

MR. Burke was the founder of the modern school of parliamentary eloquence. Before the energy of his oratorical talent electrified the House of Commons, the general display of senatorial eloquerce was scarcely of a higher character than that now exhibited in the Court of Common Council. It is, however, questionable, whether as much evil as good has not resulted from rhetorical innovation. The length, not the soundness, of a speech, has since become the test of a spe iker's talents; and public interest has often, in consequence, been sacri ficed to interminable prosing, theatrical parade, and worthless show. We are inclined, too, to think, that the independent majority of the 1 English people are getting tired of the quackery of long speeches. Business is wanted with fewer words, more wisdom, and less oratory. ' 'The

homely nature of the usual discussions, in which a house, whose chief object is the control of the public purse, is engaged, is independent of the contributions of the fancy, and the radiant flights of glowing declamation.

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Mr. Burke appears to have undergone much calumny, both on account of the poverty of his early life, and the literary exertion he made to counteract it. On this head, we agree with his vindicator. Why there should be any slight attached to the idea of profiting, in a pecuniary. way, by literary labour, is difficult to conceive. He who writes otherwise than for money,' said Dr. Johnson, is a fool.' So thought Mr. Burke; so said Darwin; so say, and so think, most other swhose writings are in request, or who know the solitary toil by which alone a good work can be produced. No man, in any station of life; no statesman, no lawyer, no physician, no clergyman, no soldier, gives his labours, mental or bodily, to society, without any view to reward. Why, then, should not the author also have his recompence, without slight or reproach Some few years ago, when a member of the House of Commons, of the party of Mr. Fox, under the influence of erroneous information, had been throwing some slight upon the memory of Mr. Burke, as having been obliged to write in the periodical publications for subsistence, previously to his coming into parliament, Mrs. Burke, who saw the statement in the newspapers, ran her pen through it in the presence of some friends, observing, Mr. Burke himself would not take the trouble to contradict this, nor, indeed, any thing else they say of him; but really I have no patience with such reports; I declare them, from my own knowledge, to be gross and unfounded falsehoods: that he received money for his publications, is true; but the amount was very small-not worth mentioning, as a means of support."

"The patronage of the public is a high-sounding expression, which, in truth, means nothing. The public never, or almost never, patronized any one, without first having, in the language of commerce, value received; its countenance is never gratuitous; it must be purchased by previous service, by excelling, by exhibiting superior capacity and power, either in matters of utility, instruction, or delight, before it will grant the expected remuneration. As to the literary independence so much spoken of, it is more difficult to be defined, except it be the liberty to labour much, and to enjoy little; to be talked of, but not rewarded; to glare in the world by the brilliancy of your writings, and to die, possibly, in personal obscurity and poverty. Even Johnson might have written his fingers off, without being the nearer to independence, had it not been for the kindness of Lord Bute, whose name for this alone, if for nothing else, ought to be respected by every lover of worth and talents."

Mr. Prior occupies a large space, with a memorial of the part which Mr. Burke took respecting the French Revolution. The main ground of his opinion was, doubtless, well-founded, but his pupils have surely distorted that opinion; and particularly on the head of interference with independent states, against which he pointedly protests. An Anglomania was the diagnostic of the disorder which Mr. Burke had to treat; and his view of it was logical and correct. There are not, in Europe at large, materials for placing her institutions in harmony with those of England. A more dangerous generalization never was admitted into theory than that a constitution of slow development, like that of this country, can be fitted, at any given time, to any given nation. The following passage respecting Paine is worth extracting:

Paine, whom he did not distinctly know to be an Englishman, professed to have wholly relinquished politics. But soon, afterwards, visiting France, in order to inspect the plans and models in the public office of bridges and highways, introduced by a letter from Dr. Franklin to the Duke de la Rochefoucauld, the incipient disorders of that country revived in his mind the dormant spirit of turbulence and dissatisfaction towards existing institutions; he returned to England, to all appearance well-informed of the designs of the popular leaders, of which many intelligent observations were dropped to Mr. Burke, with a recommendation to him, that he should endeavour to introduce a more

enlarged system of liberty into England, using reform in parliament as the most obvious

means.

This hint, thrown out probably to sound him, was, as may be believed, coldly received. Do you really imagine, Mr. Paine, that the constitution of this kingdom requires such innovations, or could exist with them, or that any reflecting man would seriously engage in them? You are aware that I have all my life opposed such schemes of reform; of course, because I knew them not to be reform. Not discouraged by this rebuff, Paine continued his correspondence from Paris, in the summer of 1789, and, there is no doubt whatever, first communicated to his distinguished acquaintance certain information, that the destruction of the monarchy was resolved upon; that the leaders had determined to set fire to the four corners of France, sooner than not carry their principles into practice; and that no danger was to be apprehended from the army, for it was gained. This remarkable note is said, by a friend of Mr. Burke's, to be dated only three days before the destruction of the Bastile."

The prophetic character of Mr. Burke's compositions has often been referred to; but the liberal result of his prophecies, as exemplified in the following passage, will not be anticipated by his disciples:

"Nothing is more remarkable in these letters than the prophetic truths which they contain. He wrote under an impression that his death was not far distant: Whatever I write,' he observes, 'is in its nature testamentary; whether for thought or for action; I am at the end of my career.' He leaves them as a species of political will, for the use of those whom he was so soon to quit for ever; and the literal fulfilment of his predictions form one of their remarkable features. He declares positively, at a moment when a general belief prevailed to the contrary, that no peace would, or could, take place; that it would not happen during his life-I shall not live to behold the unravelling of the intricate plot which saddens and perplexes the awful drama of Providence, now acting on the moral theatre.of the world; that our trials were only commencing, we are not at an end of our struggle, nor near it; let us not deceive ourselves; we are at the beginning of great troubles ; that it was not merely unavoidable to continue the war for the present, but it would be a long war; and alluding to former contests, even hints at its continuance for a period of twenty years-with what surprising prescience on all these points it is unnecessary to repeat. Of the partition of Poland, which he had never ceased to reprobate, he says, Hereafter the world will have cause to rue this iniquitous measure; and they most who were most concerned in it.' Who on reading this, will not be reminded of the calamities and degradations so long sustained by Austria, Prussia, and Russia? Is it quite clear, notwithstanding the present calm, that the measure of retribution is full?"

power.

The ambition of Cæsar has been succeeded by the despotism of a triumvirate a new tyranny has arisen infinitely more formidable than any Jacobinical The moral couched in the fall of one military dictator, has been lost, and the lesson of the French Revolution thrown away. A more sublimely monitory drama was never acted on the stage of the world: but its warning is despised. It was, indeed, while they were immersed in the smoke and embers of an explosion that shattered the temple of despotism, and stretched its mock deity, like Dagon, mutilated, and humiliated on its own threshold, that they evoked the spirit of usurpation.

That triple-headed idol, the Fioly Alliance, like Jaggernaut-insatiably rolling on his car from victim to victim, requires the crushing both of mind and body; groans drowned with music; and a daily sacrifice of ignorance, penalty, and blood. Happy will it be for the world, while such elements of mischief are at work, if the ending of its past commotions be not the " phial of wrath;" if, under the pretence of the evils of enlightenment, that phial be not poured on the source of light itself; if the tumultuous heavings and gorgeous horrors of the French Volcano be not transferred to a new vent, under a new aspect, to be followed lay a new woe" of abortiveness, lifelessness, Crit. Gaz. Vol. 1. No. 2.

and darkness, under the name of quietude, uniformity, and peace. From north to south, and from west to east, let the nations cast their eyes. Let them survey Spain, and there see demonstrated the goal to which the ultra-monarchical principle leads, the peace which the Holy Alliance confers; a peace, that, like the darkness of the Egyptian plague, yields no healthy repose. It has the gloom of a Sirocco blast, without its stormy grandeur, and spirit-stirring impulse; its moving principle is an ambition that leaves the land of its visitation a sepulchre, a sepulchre "whited," indeed, by hypocritical cant; but within which every living lamp of genius is dashed into atoms; within which the grinning fiend of bigotry sits amidst congenial imagery, and scarcely deigns to hide with unguents and flowers of dissimulation the appalling compound-spectacle of tyranny and corruption.

Memoirs of Henry the Great, and the Court of France during his Reign. 2 vols. 8vo. pp. 1038. Harding and Co.

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IF Henry the Fourth's name had not been so familiarly banded about, as a mot de guet, by the present Bourbon dynasty, he would have been more highly rated by the sober enquirer, than he now is; but the 'gloss" of those golden opinions which belong to him has been taken off by this coarse system of offensive panegyric. That he was one of the greatest princes that ever occupied the throne of France cannot be denied; though, to a Frenchman, the proportions of his moral and intellectual merit must appear so much the greater, when contrasted with so many Pois Faineans, and so many tyrants, who, preceding or succeeding him, have successively wielded the sceptre of the Lilies. But he was also, in many respects, a weak prince; and that his weakness was nearly allied to profligacy, we need no farther proof than his manifesto on the subject of his divorce from Marguerite de Valois.

Henry's great qualities, allied on the one side to the most engaging bon hommie, and illustrated, on the other, by all the splendid martial characteristics which go to compose the character of a perfect chevalier, were profaned by a neglect of obvious private duties, and by an inordinate devotion to the gratification of one passion,-a passion that, in some instances, betrayed him not only into weakness of conduct, but carried him into acts of tyranny, oppression, and injustice. The chalice," indeed, was finally "commended to his own lips;' and more, his death may, in some degree, be imputed to one of these acts of injustice. We extract the following passages as demonstrative of the presentiment Henry felt of his sudden and violent death,— a presentiment so strong, that it could not be subdued.

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Henry seemed to have an impression that Conchini and his wife Eleanora Galgay, who were related to his Italian consort, Mary of Medicis, and who, in their affected zeal against his infidelities, which they exaggerated to the vindictive ear of their mistress, would produce mischief to him. Indeed, a few days before his assassination, he confessed to Sully, that they had the audacity to threaten him with personal violence. And, admitting that it is not improbable (although Ravaillac, his assassin, denied having any confederates,) that, if not concerned in the actual regicide, these turbulent Italians (who seem to have taken Iago for their model,) were so far implicated, and so far cul