views, and therefore there is less danger of deviating from propriety in the execution on the one side than on the other. Angelo would find it more difficult to do justice to his own designs than an inferior painter; or perhaps it may be said more properly, that the execution of the latter might exceed his expectation, while no felicity of execution would enable the former to reach that grandeur and terrific sublimity which he had sketched in his own mind. Hence, in a contest between two eminent painters while they were yet in their apprenticeship, their master justly awarded the prize to him who committed most faults, because he displayed, at the same time, a power of mind and a vastness of conception of which the other was incapable. Shakspeare then has frequently deviated from propriety of manner: his faults are as numerous as his beauties; but to defend them is certainly not to defend Shakspeare, but to defend error, and to bring the established rules of criticism into contempt. The pre-eminence of his genius is easily defended without defending it's aberrations, while to prove him free from faults and blemishes, would be in fact to prove him altogether destitute of genius. Even now, when the rules and precepts of fine writing are so multiplied, as to render it impossible for any writer well acquainted with them to mistake his way, or the line which he should pursue in the conduct of his work, it is still impossible to avoid faults. He, then, who could avoid them before these rules and precepts were known, would prove himself to be a writer of such few thoughts and conceptions as required neither plan nor arrangement, and consequently neither guide nor director. He who would attribute genius to such a writer would demonstrate that he possessed none of it himself. It is certain, however, that a great portion of Shakspeare's faults must be ascribed to the necessity under which he was placed of accommodating himself to the temper and manners of the age in which he wrote, and not to his want" of greater skill," or more refined judgment. He often knew when he was transgressing against the laws of propriety, and the feelings of a more refined age than that in which he lived. There is no fault that brings more ridicule upon him, and which is more dwelt upon by those who deny his qualifications for dramatic excellence, than his play upon words. His admirers have been sadly distressed in labouring to justify him in this puerile amusement; but his justification can only be found in that affectation of wit which characterizes the manners of all ages emerging from barbarism. Nor is it, indeed, necessary to go back to ancient times to seek for proofs of this propensity in human nature, antecedent to civilization and refinement. We have only to look to the common herd of mankind in our own days, and to mingle in, their societies, and we shall find the same flippancy of mind, and the same ambition of excelling in low humour, and verbal witticism. I can say from my own experience, and every man may make the trial if his pride will permit him, that the lower orders of English are particularly devoted to this species of witticism; that the lower order of Irish are still more so; and that the lower order of the Scotch, if I can depend on the testimony of Scotsmen themselves, are by no means behind hand with the English and Irish. The philosopher can easily account, in my opinion, for this propensity in human nature. The lower orders of mankind have but. few ideas; and as the ambition of intellectual endowments and penetration is common to all men, they seek to turn the small stock they possess to the best advantage. As they are, therefore, confined to few ideas, they have more frequent opportunities of returning to these ideas than those who travel over a vast circumference of science, and consequently they can examine those ideas in which they are perpetually hacknicd, in more different points of view. But as ideas are expressed in words, the more frequently they ponder on the ideas, the more frequently have they an opportunity of perceiving the diffeient imports which the same word conveys, and consequently the dif ferent modes which they possess of meaning one thing and expressing another. It is in this, properly, a play upon words consists; and these are the reasons, if I mistake not, why a play upon words is so common among the vulgar. We are deceived, however, if we imagine, that Shak speare did not perceive it's absurdity, though he had recourse to it merely to accommodate himself to the humour of the times; and those critics are equally deceived who labour to justify in Shakspeare a fault which in him was by no means the effect of ignorance or want of better sense, and which he knew to be faulty at the very time that he affected to consider them beauties. Of this, if we have any doubt, the following passage from his own works will serve to convince us. "O dear discretion, how his words are The fool hath planted in his memory I shall, therefore, conclude my observations on this immortal poet by observing, that all his faults originate from circumstances in no wise connected with the character of intellectual endowments; that those critics who enumerate his faults in order to depreciate his fame, can only serve to "Amuse the unlearn'd and make the learned smile;" and that those who defend his faults, through their over eagerness to secure the immortality of his fame and the pre-eminence of his genius, ought to recollect, that "Errors like straws upon the surface He who would seek for pearls must dive THE BOAT OF THE STARS. WHY ask the stars for their boat of light, We have each a boat of hue as bright, "Twill compass the world in one summer night, All the treasures that Thought can bring It's helm is lit with a meteor's gleam, From the downy pillow of Life's first dream, Then the boat will pass over this world's bars In the glowing heaven of immortal Mars, But best through the world of light it steers For her pure and bright clime sheds no tears,* As memory feeds life's roses. Oh! when the pilot-soul is true, Let the boat of Hope go free! Sweet Ida!-'twill sail to regions new, And search the worlds of Fancy through, The moon's atmosphere is said to yield no rain. V. THE KING'S VISION. What was your dream, my Lord? I pray you, tell me. SHAKSPEARE' A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; AS on a bright, but wintry day, By Queen ULRICA'S side reclining, While joy was through his palace shining; And cast her choicest gems and flowers Thus spake the King:-"I scarce know why I do not commonly give way To thoughts like these, by night or day; But surely Kings should be at rest Brought on by thoughts which will not die, To shew, when Time returns the scene, Have I maintain'd my stand; Yet once, my Queen, upon this day, And palsied was my hand! Now, though above my head have past Days, months, and years, those terrors last; And every annual visit seems But to renew those fearful dreams: Oh! would that when this sun hath set, For ever that I could forget That once mine eyes beheld such sight, As on December's sixteenth night I witness'd here, in form as true Woman will oftentimes put on, We fain would think that all are gone; SCOTT "Charles, from the hint your words have given, "Twas not a sight for mortal eye?" "No, they were messengers from heaven, And spake of future destiny!" "Then, if my dearest Prince will tell, Q Said Charles," I do not oft talk o'er It makes but little for my glory. And thou shalt own my heart was great. Myself and followers did behold!" "DECEMBER'S moon o'er Stockholm cast Save mine, which tired yet open lay: Though wearied, sad, and heart opprest, "Tis strange, that Kings, whose royal power With honours, fame, and wealth can bless Cannot command one little hour To fall into forgetfulness!- Within their hearts, and o'er their heads, His reign of everlasting care Most firmly hath establish'd there: While I, the Lord of Sweden's shore, Whom envious thousands bow before, Lay gazing on the moon's pale beam, I started, for in nights like those My Audience-Hall one sheet of flame, It could not be the paly hue With which the crescent greets the view. What lights in yonder buildings shine?- 'Saint Mark be lauded! Sire, the moon Fear not, your waking hours have prest It might be so ;-I could not tell The form of anything so well, When my strain'd sense from slumber snatch'd; The weary noon of night had watch'd: No matter what that light might be, I turn'd it's rays no more to see. Still the recesses of my heart Most strangely felt, as if a fever Had seiz'd upon her vital part, And would not for one moment leave her, Till I into the Hall had gone To witness that phenomenon ; And search into it's wondrous cause, I could not for an instant pause; 'Friends, for God's mercy turn your eyes, But, never yet hath moonbeam shone Like that on yonder Hall of stone! GRUMSTEN,-look thou;-and do not deem, But say, if what I see so well Be moonlight, flame, or fiendish spell.' 'Perchance it is the darken'd room, The contrast of the light and gloom, Which makes the moonbeams, Sire, to thee Seem more than fair reality: Believe the rays on yonder Hall, From the pale lamp of midnight fall.' They could not all in error speak, And I composed myself once more; But though mine eyes were strain'd and weak, And gazing,-for a spell had got |