luble fabrics of other Poets, passes without injury by the adamant of Shakspeare."

"Age cannot wither him, nor custom stale

His infinite variety."

The surface of life may be altered, but the tide of human feelings and passions will continue it's unalterable course beneath it. Reputation built upon the ephemeral taste and fancies of a day, will vanish with the causes which produced it; but Shakspeare's, with it's altar in the heart of man, is extensive as the world, and imperishable as humanity. The fame of Shakspeare has naturally suggested an enquiry as to the peculiar powers of that mind, which could acquire such an influence over the minds of others. What was the talisman that worked these wonders? Wherein did he surpass that world which has paid him such extraordinary honours? The answers to these enquiries have been as various as the tastes and opinions of readers. His wit, his imagination, his sublimity, have all been suggested as the distinguished characteristics of his mind; but the arguments which have been advanced in support of these positions have proved only, that in these particulars he

excelled the rest of the world. In order to answer this enquiry satisfactorily, we must also shew wherein he excelled himself. The most extraordinary supposition, however, that we have heard started on this point, is that he painted with truth and fidelity, because he divested himself of the common passions and feelings of human nature; and stood aloof from the ordinary concerns of mankind, in order to describe with greater correctness and impartiality.

"Cold lookers-on, they say,

Can better judge than those who play;"

and the remark would apply to Shakspeare, if, indeed, he merely described; if the warm and glowing pictures which he exhibits could have been the effects of cold calculation, and unimpassioned observations. If I might hazard an opinion, I should say that the master-feeling in the mind of Shakspeare, and that which has enabled him to subjugate the hearts of all mankind, was Sympathy; for it has been well said, that "when words come from one heart, they cannot fail to reach another." Shakspeare's feelings, there can be no doubt, were of the finest and acutest order. He is styled by his contemporaries "sweet Shakspeare," and "gentle Shakspeare," as if to denote the susceptibility of

his disposition, and his amiable manners. He painted correctly, because he felt strongly: and it seems to me impossible to account, in any other way, for his excellence in both provinces of the Dramatic art. It is well known that spirits remarkable for their mirth and hilarity, are most susceptible of tender and mournful passions; and it has been observed that the English, as a nation, are equally famous for wit, and for melancholy. It is a common observation, that mirth begets mirth; and on the other hand an old English Poet, Drayton, has beautifully said, that,—

"Tears,

Elixir-like, turn all to tears they touch."

The feelings of Shakspeare's mind produced correspondent feelings in the minds of others; like a precious stone, which casts it's brilliant hues over every object that it approaches.

But whatever may have been the strongest marked feature in the mind of our Author, we are convinced that the theory which refers his astonishing fame to the possession of any one peculiar quality, is erroneous. His distinguishing characteristic is the union of many excellencies: each of which he possessed in a degree unequalled by any

other Poet. Shakspeare will be found pre-eminent, if we consider his sublimity, his pathos, his imagination, his wit, or his humour; his union in his own person of the highest Tragic and Comic excellence, and his knowledge of Nature, animate, inanimate, and human. To excel in any one of these particulars would form a great Poet; to unite two, or three of them, is a lot too lofty even for the ambition of highly favoured mortals; but to combine all, as Shakspeare has done, in one tremendous intellect, is, indeed,

"To get the start of the majestic World,
And bear the palm alone!"

The genius of Shakspeare cannot be illustrated by a reference to that of any other Poet; for, with Like his own whom is he to be compared?

Richard,

"He has no brother, is like no brother,

He is himself alone!"

Geniuses of the most colossal dimensions become dwarfed by his side. Like Titan, he is a Giant among giants. Like him too, he piles up his magnificent thoughts, Olympus high; he grasps

the

lightnings of creative Jove; and speaks the words that call Spirits, and Mortals, and Worlds, into existence. He has faults, doubtless; faults which it is not my purpose either to extenuate, or to deny, but the Critic who thinks that such faults are of much weight, when opposed to his genius, would be likely to condemn the Apollo Belvidere, for a stain upon the pedestal. The very brightness of transcendent excellence renders it's faults and imperfections but the more visible; nothing appears faultless but mediocrity. The Moon and the Stars shine with unsullied brightness; the Sun alone exhibits spots upon his disk!

It is, however, truly difficult to say anything on the subject of Shakspeare, which has not been said before. So numerous, so ardent, and so discriminative, have been his admirers, that almost every latent beauty seems to have been brought to light, and every once-obscure passage surrounded by a blaze of illustration. There is, indeed, but one class of characters which he has delineated with consummate power and excellence, which has not, I think, yet attracted that critical notice which it merits, I mean the party-coloured Fool, or Jester, whose gibes and jeers were wont to set the tables of our ancestors in a roar. This character is now no longer to be met with in the halls of the