6

REMARKS.

KING LEAR is, beyond all comparison, the most affecting tragedy that is to be found in any language. A father, in blind confidence, giving up all to his children-those children requiting his parental kindness with scorn and ingratitude, rebelling against him, turning him out to the wild tempest, to desolation and madness,-present a picture so superhuman and appalling, that nature shrinks from the contemplation of it. Yet Shakspeare, in the conduct of this drama, has displayed such wonderful art, that nothing seems overstrained: the effects, however shocking to humanity, result as naturally from their causes, as in the ordinary affairs of life. The madness of Lear is inevitable, since, after such bitter provocation, it was impossible that reason could any longer hold her seat in a mind so formed of passion and sensibility.

If it be true, with regard to human calamity, that

"He best can paint it who has felt it most,"

What shall we say to the madness of Lear, depicted as it is with the utmost grandeur of thought and expression, but that, as every passion of the soul was familiar to Shakspeare, the most mysterious and terrible of them all had engaged his deepest contemplation? And, whether we consider the ungovernable violence of the unhappy king, in the banishment of Cordelia, and of the faithful Kent; his eredulous fondness in giving up all to his daughters, and relying upon their duty and affection for the support and comfort of his old age; his rage and disappointment at finding himself deceived; his bitter imprecations on their ingratitude; his remorse for the ill treatment of her, whose only fault was her sincerity; his madness and death, with all their accompanying horrorg-a more overwhelming picture of human misery never harrowed up the feelings or crushed the heart.

The prominent feature in the disposition of Lear-a feature characteristic of the rude age in which he is supposed to reign-is impetuosity. If he is quick in his affections, he is no less so in his resentments. He is alive to the slightest show of neglect. In the scene where Oswald enters singing, and the physician reminds him that he is entertained with slender ceremony, he replies

"Say'st thou so?

Thou but remember'st me of mine own conception."
And, when the ingratitude of Goneril first discovers itself in abat-
ing him of half of his train, the dreadful truth bursts full upon his
miud, and he exclaims, in an agony of rage and disappointment,-
"Darkness and devils!

Saddle my horses, call my train together.
Degenerate viper! I'll not stay with thee."

In the subsequent scene before the Earl of Gloster's castle, fresh indignities wait the unhappy king. He discovers his man in the stocks, a sight which swells the spleen upward to his heart. He is then reminded of the fiery quality of the duke, at which he loses all patience, and retorts

"My breath and blood!

Fiery? the fiery duke? Tell the hot duke"

The goodness of his nature, however, instantly returns, and he adds-
"No, but not yet; may be, he is not well;
I beg his pardon, and I'll chide my rashness

That took the indispos'd and sickly fit

For the sound man."

Affronts now follow each other in such rapid succession, he is alternately reproved and browbeaten by his disobedient children. He is asked by Goneril

"What need you five-and-twenty, ten, or five,

To follow in a house?"

When Regan consummates all, by rejoining

"What need one?"

From this moment he loses all power of self-possession, and abandons himself to despair; yet, even in this pitiable state of helplessness and old age, does he threaten his unnatural offspring with future vengeance:

"I will do such things,

What they are, yet I know not; but they shall be
The terrors of the earth.

Till, borne down with unutterable anguish, he rushes out with an exclamation prophetic of the heart-rending scene that immediately foliows:

"O, gods, I shall go mad!"

The scene where Lear is turned out in the storm, defies all powers of description. We can feel the force of the poet's genius, even to agony but we must inherit a portion of that genius, ere we can describe what we feel. Here are no supernatural agents called forth to deepen the horror of the scene-no furies weaving the web of fate. No

"Iron sleet of arrowy shower

Hurtling through the darken'd air." But a dethroned monarch, an unhappy father, in the simple grandeur of unparalleled misery, invoking those "servile ministers," the elements, to pour down their extremest vengeance upon his head :"You sulph'rous and thought-executing fires,

Vaunt couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,
Singe my white head."

Here we make a stand, and call upon the genius of every age and nation to produce a parallel to this scene. The most affecting image in all antiquity is Priam supplicating Achilles for the dead body of Hector. But Lear, wandering over the barren heath, amidst storm and tempest, with a broken heart, and a bewildered brain, is so transcendantly sublime and awful, that antiquity must acknowledge the supremacy of Shakspeare, and bow to the immortal. One of the most painful of morbid sensations is the pressure of one idea upon the mind it absorbs every other feeling, and finds in objects the most opposite and dissimilar some sad resemblance. Hence, amidst the wild uproar of the elements, Lear remembers but the unkindness of his children. The tempest above, is lost in that which rages within his bosom. Every scene calls forth some fresh image of perfidy and ingratitude. In his distraction, he fancies himself standing on the threshold of his palace, and his domestic favourites opposing his entrance by their clamour :

"The little dogs and all, Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart,-see, they

bark at me."

To this, remorse for his unjust treatment of Cordelia adds an additional pang. His anguish is divided between he remembrance of his daughters' inhumanity and his own.

The scenes where Lear and Edgar encounter each other, are full of power and imagination. The ravings of assumed madness are rich in wildness of thonght and luxuriance of fancy: the pathetic aberrations of a disordered mind, ever recurring to its own misery, are depicted with a truth that renders the contrast wonderfully impressive. Edgar wanders from subject to subject, from image to image; every object in the material and immaterial world-things most foul, strange, and unnatural, are called forth with a facility that is any thing but akin to madness. Lear never for one moment wanders from his misfortunes. Thus, when he first beholds Edgar, he exclaims,

"What, have his daughters brought him to this pass !" And when Kent replies

"He has no daughter, sir,"

He passionately retorts—

"Death! Traitor, nothing could have subdu'd nature
To such lowness, but his unkind daughters."

Every exclamation bears some affinity to filial ingratitude, At one moment he anticipates vengeance

"Right, ha! ha! Was it not pleasant to have a thousand with red

hot

Spits come hissing in upon them."

At another, he fancies that vengeance completed, and exclaims with a ferocity that makes the blood run cold:

"You say right; let 'em anatomize Regan, see what breeds about her heart."

The death of Lear realizes all that can be imagined of human woe. Any future poet who shall carry distress beyond this, may claim even a prouder laurel than Shakspeare.

The singularly wild and grotesque character assumed by Edgar, is that of a Turlupin, or Turlygood, or Bedlam Beggar, one of a fraternity of itinerant rogues who obtained alms by practising the gesticulations of madmen, in the dark ages of superstition. Mr. Douce remarks, that the Turlupins were a fanatical sect, that overrun France, Italy, and Germany, in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries; and that their subsequent appellation of the fraternity of poor men may be the reason why these Bedlam Beggars (one of which Edgar personates) have obtained the name of Turlupins. We have a very curious description of them in Decker's Bellman of London, 1616; where they are denominated, Tom of Bedlam's Band of Madcaps, or Poor Tom's Flock of Wild Geese; the latter are also called Abraham Men. The character is supported by Shakspeare with much picturesque effect, and draws from Lear those fine reflections on the instability and worthlessness of human grandeur.

Cordelia is a pattern of all that is amiable in woman: she has truth, gentleness, and courage. It might have been more satisfactory to the lovers of poetical justice, if she had survived triumphantly to replace her father on his throne. It had saved succeeding ages many convulsive sobs, many heart-breaking throes. life, feeling that the balance of good is against us, we regard this af With our estimate of fecting drama as one of those wholesome contemplations that softens and corrects the human heart. The story of Lear belongs to a very early period of British history, the particulars of which are related by Hollingshead. It is to be found in the French Romance, entitled Perceforest; and in the unpublished Latin Gesta Romanorum

in the Harleian Collection. It also occurs in Caxton's Chronicle, of 1480. Shakspeare produced his tragedy in 1604 or 1605. The first edition of it was printed by Nathaniel Butter, in the year 1608.*

It is not on record who was the original representative of Lear. Nor do we know what succeeding actor rendered himself celebrated in the character, until Garrick drew the tears of the town. Henderson played it contemporary with Garrick, and almost divided the critics. By the death of Henderson, this tragedy remained lost to the stage, until an actor arose who carried the glory of Shakspeare be yond any preceding effort.

Kemble's Lear was a study for Michael Angelo-the Lady Macbeth of Siddons was not a more awful impersonation. His figure, countenance, and manner, all conspired to give truth to the resemblance. His angry impatience,-" The fiery duke," his incredulity,"Does Lear walk thus? Speak thus?" His bitter irony,-" Dear daughter, I confess that I am old." Who but remembers Kemble's look and voice when he uttered these heart-breaking words—

"I gave you all!"

But the climax of all acting was the curse upon Goneril. On his knees, bare-headed, his white locks streaming like a meteor to the troubled air; with heaven-ward eye, quivering lip, and hands clasped together in convulsive agony, he pronounced that terrible curse. In this instance, the actor almost divided the crown with the poet. The daring presumption that marred this glorious drama, deprived us of Mr. Kembie's exertions in the scene where Lear enters bearing in the dead body of Cordelia. What this would have been in the hands of such an actor, we can only anticipate. But we deeply regret that Mr. Kemble's correct taste did not brush away this vile interpolation, and restore the original text of Shakspeare.

Cooke gave the more unamiable parts of Lear's character with great effect; but he lost much of the tenderness, and all the dignity. Young plays it with his voice completely in falsetto. He wants the plaintive tremulous tones of Kemble. Kean is, in truth

But he is not

"A very foolish fond old man ;"

"Ev'ry inch a king."

With what grandeur and pathos did Kemble pronounce these lines,— "The king would speak with Cornwall; the dear father

Would with his daughter speak, commands her service." Mr. Kean's dying scene (for, to his credit be it spoken, he plays the character nearly as Shakspeare wrote it), though somewhat deficient in power, is deeply affecting. We felt, when the curtain fell, as if we were relieved from some dreadful calamity, so strongly did his dying looks and agonising tones impress us when he faintly exclaimed,— "Pray you undo this button. Thank you, sir.

Do you see this? Look on her-look-her lips

Look there-look there!"

Mr. Charles Kemble was perfect in Edgar. The assumed maniac, like Caliban, is an imaginary being-wholly out of nature, and therefore not subject to dramatic rules. As Shakspeare trusted to his imagination to conceive, so must the actor to represent, this singularly wild and romantic creature of poetic fancy. Mr. Charles Kemble's appearance was highly picturesque: he was a figure that Salvator Rosa would have delighted to contemplate.

In the possession of the Editor.

D-G.

KING LEAR.-First dress.--Richly embroidered Saxon tunic of rich crimson velvet, ditto cap; fleshcoloured arms, legs, and sandals.-Second dress.-Black. DUKE OF BURGUNDY.-Yellow Saxon tunic, crimson robe and cap, flesh-coloured arms, legs, and sandals.

DUKE OF CORNWALL.-Green tunic, scarlet robe and cap, flesh-coloured arms, legs, and red sandals.

DUKE OF ALBANY.-Crimson tunic, brown robe and cap, flesh-coloured arms, legs, and sandals.

DUKE OF GLOSTER.-Brown tunic, blue robe and cap, flesh-coloured arms, legs, and sandals.

DUKE OF KENT.-Crimson tunic, brown robe and cap, flesh-coloured arms, legs, and sandals.-Second dress. Drab-coloured tunic and cap.

EDGAR.-First dress.-White tunic, scarlet robe and cap. Second dress.-Green tunic, and robe of coarse white baize.-Third dress.-Grey tunic and cap.Fourth dress.-Coat of mail, armour and helmet.

EDMUND.-Scarlet tunic, blue robe and cap.-Second dress.-Steel chain armour, helmet, and red plume. PHYSICIAN.-Tunic and robe (all brown), trimmed

with black.

OLD MAN. Drab-coloured tunic and cap, flesh-coloured arms and legs.

OSWALD.-White tunic, blue robe and cap, fleshcoloured arms and legs.

CAPTAIN of the GUARD.-Scarlet tunic and cap, flesh-coloured arms and legs.

PAGE to GONERIL.-White tunic, scarlet robe, and white cap.

PAGE to REGAN.-Blue tunic, scarlet robe, and blue cap.

GONERIL.-White muslin dress, trimmed with gold, scarlet cloth robe, trimmed with gold, tiara for the head, flesh-coloured stockings and red sandals.

REGAN.-White muslin dress, trimmed with silver, and clasped together with metal clasps in front, fawn cloth robe, tiara for the head, flesh-coloured stockings, and russet sandals.

CORDELIA.-White kerseymere dress and drapery, trimmed with scarlet velvet and gold lace, fastened in front with metal clasps, tiara for the head, flesh-coloured stockings and sandals.-Second dress.--White music