this convulsion and the extreme enormity of sin must be exhibited both internally and externally. Its external and objective manifestation is in the disruption of all human relations, and in the fruitless struggle of good against evil; inwardly and subjectively it attains its climax in the disorganization of the King's mind, whose personality formed the subjective centre of the whole piece. Madness is, as it were, the mind's revolt against itself— the loosening of the bonds between its subjectivity and objectivity, so that the two pass into each other, the merely subjective presentation (imagination) passing into objectivity, and the latter being transformed into merely subjective presentations. Every sin consequently must involve the germ of madness, for it is nothing less than the revolt of the mind from itself, and from its truth and objectivity in God. Nevertheless, as long as the sinner is able to maintain his Ego-which in imagination he has set up as the master both of himself and the world-in this untruth, so long does the delusion of sin appear outwardly as consistency, understanding, or truth; the madness remains as yet enclosed in the germ, and in its view of the world and of itself the mind still preserves its adherence. When, however, through the might of circumstance, or the weakness of the body, which must supply the mind with food and vigour for its activity, the sinner's mental energy is broken, and he can no longer maintain his Ego in this fancied supremacy, while, at the same time, he is unable to cast off the strong fetters of his sin, and to throw himself upon the mercies of God, then does madness burst from the bud, and becomes total both inwardly and outwardly. It appears no longer a revolt from God alone, but from itself and the world. The mind loses at once its organic centre of gravity, and is chaotically dissolved. This is why madness seizes the King, and not Gloster. For Lear, "in every inch a king," had accustomed him- · self to the thought of, and set his heart on being the unlimited master of the world; although in boundless love he gives his kingdom away, it is still his sovereign pleasure to measure even affection by his own arbitrary will, and he would lord even over it. Even when he has overthrown this visionary empire by his own folly, he must still command; he fights against the very elements, he is determined to be at least the master of his own suf

ferings and his own destiny. But for this the necessary powers fail him; and consequently the general disorder of all the moral relations of life terminates in madness. It was only by such an affliction that a character like his could be brought to repentance; and by such means alone could the propitiatory element of tragedy be manifested in his case. It was not until his kingly spirit, his haughty virtue, his energy and sovereignty of will, had been utterly overthrown, that he could be brought to the humility which is the parent of true love, and that love in him could be purified.

Lastly, with what consummate skill has Shakspeare contrived in this drama to place the special in the closest communion with the universal, and to blend the private and domestic fortunes of his dramatic personages with a general historical interest! In "Romeo and Juliet," the part which the people and prince take in the incidents of the story, and in "Othello," the sympathy shewn by the army and senate in the personal fortunes of the hero, afforded Shakspeare the occasion for portraying the general condition and sentiments of the people as well as the character of the age. So, in the present piece, the same is gained by exhibiting the nation plunged into discord by the measures of Lear, and siding partly with him and partly with his unnatural enemies. Lear is depicted as the head not only of a family, but also of the state-as the ruler of a great nation. The more seriously, therefore, and the more directly his domestic circumstances influence the destinies of a whole people, the more clearly does the importance of the family bond appear. The tragedy sets before us the public fortunes of a great nation in the first instance, and ultimately the history of the whole world, as affected by the morality or immorality of private life, and it becomes consequently, not merely in its ideal subjectmatter, but also by the course taken by the represented fable, a mirror of history in general. At the same time, the poet's reasons for placing this one alone of his five great tragedies upon the soil of heathenism, and for exhibiting it under a heathenish view of things, becomes apparent. Such a wide-spread corruption of morals, making the highest and noblest families its victims, such an unnatural revolt against the first and most stringent laws and requisitions of nature, could never occur, except in a state of human nature still exposed to the old sin in all its power; among Christians it could only be possible as an exception--as an isolated

case. Beautifully does the poet describe the longing for redemption of such a cankered and sin-eaten world in the words of Gloster:

It would take us far beyond our limits to notice all the single beauties and excellencies which are so lavishly accumulated in this, as, indeed, in all Shakspeare's dramas. With what ease and perspicuity is the intricate web of its many crossing intrigues unravelled;-how rich and varied its incidents, and how naturally its scenes run into and follow from each other;-with what profound psychological skill, and how touchingly and strikingly, is the madness of the King carried through its several stages, until at last it dissolves, with all its troubles and anguish, in the one deep heart-rending, but emancipating sigh for Cordelia's death;-with what openness and naturalness does every character move before us, and lay open his inmost feelings, without hindering, by tedious soliloquies and reflections, the rapid and truly drastic progress of the action which is all the while growing and deepening in interest;—with what correctness and verisimilitude the several personages are made to work upon and to modify each other, so as to throw out and illustrate their several characters, and at the same time bring about this particular course of tragic development :-to recognise and to estimate aright all these poetical excellencies is an easy task for a generally well educated man of these days. But to understand the organic coherence of the whole-to discover the intrinsic necessity of the tragic development in all its moments-to find the fundamental

idea-the living centre, as it were, around which the several parts revolve, and thereby adjust themselves into a whole-all this requires profundity of view and a firm æsthetical basis of criticism. It is for this end alone that these pages were designed. In the present piece the ground idea of the whole is reflected in all the subordinate parts, more clearly than in any other of Shakspeare's dramas for the tie between parent and child, which in a high historical sense forms here the basis of the tragic sentiment, has for its foundation wedlock, and the religious sanction of the intercourse of the sexes. Accordingly, strong rays of light are thrown off from this central idea upon both these civilizing influences of human life, and on this account the delineation of Goneril's and Regan's feelings for, and behaviour to their wedded lords, and their adulterous fondness for Edmund, as well as the pure and disinterested affection of the French king for Cordelia, and the selfish conduct of Burgundy, were indispensable. But genuine friendship is a part of domestic life-its sheet-anchor and stay. With as much truth, therefore, as artistic skill, has the poet placed the firm and devoted attachment of Kent and the Fool for Lear, in such prominent contrast with Gloster's tardy and hesitating friendship.

In conclusion, I shall briefly call attention to the thoughtful and appropriate correspondence between the general subject of the drama, and its no less touching than sublime conclusion. Gloster has repented and atoned for his faults. After the failure of his cowardly attempt at self-destruction, by which he weakly sought to rid himself of the burthen of life, he submits and suffers in patience; for man must learn to be patient, or, in other words, to conquer himself. His soul is thus emancipated from its suffering body; in the arms, in the embraces of his long lost son, who repays a father's injustice with child-like love and affection, his heart breaks; the tumult of this his last earthly happiness shakes off the earthly dust from his soul, and it mounts pure and clear to heaven. The weary Kent, too, has fallen asleep; with his sterling, earnest, but rugged virtue, he has lived, struggled, and endured enough; his softened heart now longs only for the peace of heaven. Edmund, in his last moments, acknowledges his guilt, and seeks to make all the amends within his power. "Yet

Edmund was beloved," loved in spite of all his selfishness. These words of comfort convulse him to the soul, and throw upon it the semblance at least of divine love, and we may indulge a hope that he closed his eyes with a sigh of penitence. Goneril and Regan-the unnatural daughters, whose crimes have no ignominy of origin to excuse them, whom their own lust and not circumstances plunged headlong into sin, falling by each other's hands, and are hurried into everlasting misery without hope or pity. How sweet and soothing the contrast, in the filial affection, and the lovely and blissful death, of Cordelia! Lear's madness, too, terminates with his mortal sigh for Cordelia's loss. In this moment of anguish all the rich intensity of love, which sat enthroned in the heart of Lear, has found its worthy object. While the faint sparks of life are extinguishing, his love puts off its last earthly weakness, and ascends purified and refined to heaven. The tragic impression loses its crushing and oppressive horror, and is transmuted into the calm consolatory feeling of a gentle death and a blissful peace.

MACBETH.

In "Romeo and Juliet," "Othello," and "Lear," where the different forms of the divine faculty of love are severally exhibited, the poet lays open to us pre-eminently the whole world of feeling and sensation, impulse and passion. The position from which (subordinately to the grand tragic view of Providence) the poet in these tragedies contemplates the life and history of man, is, therefore, in a certain degree familiar, simple, and natural; it is as it were the patriarchal state of society-the first youthful age of humanity, in which man's fate and fortunes appear to be immediately dependent on his innate disposition, and on the strength of his most natural wants and propensities, such as they are revealed in the earliest and most original of the fundamental relations of human society-courtship, wedlock, and the family. The immediate objects of dramatic action and of tragic retribution in these pieces, are not the will with its premeditations, nor the reflex intellect with its conscious activity, but the natural instincts, and the momentary