indelible impression of truth, and the vivid colouring of nature.

Where meet we with the burst of woe and the wail of sadness? Where, with the low voice of feeling, and the tremulous tone of despondency? Where shall we look for the flowing melody that ravishes the ear, and the dulcet songs that thrill on the soul? Where for the language that reaches the heart, and hurries it away with the deep impulse of wonder and ravishment? In Shakespeare in all-creative Shakespeare! unrivalled and alone he stands single and pre-eminent as the only master who has struck the chords of the harp of nature-others are but learners-scholars. He the proud and high spirit that has played on its tones with the might and the melody of an omnipotence !

Where shall we look for his rival? I in vain look around me to try and place some mighty spirit by his side, but I see him not. There is a peculiar and a flowing sweetness in the rhyme of Shakespeare, that never yet has been attained. It runs from his harp, as if he were so conscious of its pleasing, that he heeded not the tones which swept beneath his fingers. Carefulness is laid by. Unheeded by him, harmony, softness, plaintiveness,

and beauty, and eloquence, and melody, and brightness flow and flash from the strings that are dashed over with the hurried and yet beautiful minstrelsy of creative diversity. Extremes here meet. Terror and touchingness-simplicity and sublimity melt and mingle into such eloquent discordia concors, that the soul is hurried away by the divineness of the tones, and gives itself up to his guidance as if overpowered and entranced. What other mortal had this power but Shakespeare? Why should he not have had it, when he was Nature's own child-her favourite son-her beloved offspring. Step-sons are her other children. They have been received into her family; but they have not been nursed by her. Shakespeare was under her own eye-her guidance-her protection. She gave him power unlimited, and sway uncontrolled-told him to range the earth and sweep the sea-bid him look into her most hidden recesses and open her secret springs empowered him to go over the wide globe and to trace the pathless plains of the scenes of other worlds then soar to her heaven and stay throned there, high and immortal!

If we look carefully into other writers, we shall find that they paint their characters, actuated by peculiar modes and customs, accidental fashions

and local, personal, and professional opinions and prejudices, unknown to mankind in general, and practised perhaps not by a nation or sect, but by a single individual. Such character therefore can only interest that inconsiderable portion, with whom they are connected by a similarity in customs, manners, and sentiments. But Shakespeare with a powerful eye looked abroad on the whole race of man. The grand outlines of human nature are ever the same, and however the light, shades, colouring, and costume may be influenced by those contingent changes, which affect time and place; yet the principal figures still retain their original form, force, and size. The piercing optics of our mighty poet saw this, and with a well skilled hand he drew those universal habits, feelings, passions, and desires, which are born with all men, and interwoven with their existence. His characters are no creatures of a day-no ephemeral abortions that only live to die—no spurious progeny raised by the false sunshine of a transient fashion, and fading into the darkness of oblivion when that fashion yields to another as fleeting as itself:—and thus it is that those of all nations and all ages, however distinguished by particular modes and prejudices, and whatever else forms a difference in the human character

will find in his works pleasure and instruction— will feel interested in his scenes and characters, for the hearts of all will be touched, where each owns a relation and connection.

I shall now glance at three or four characters, which have indeed been sketched by a true master's hand; and there are few portraits by this first of painters which have been embodied in such glowing, vivid, and just colouring, as those to which I allude.

Two of them have been imitated a thousand and a thousand times, but never have succeeded; the second (for it seems unapproachable) has never been imitated. I now speak of the first.

The character of Romeo is that of the most perfectly drawn lover I ever read. All succeeding impressions seem to have been taken from this, but have never come up to it in pathos, feeling, and overwhelming depth of passion. In this last attribute, the character of " The Giaour," from the creative and powerful hand of Byron, comes nearest to it of any I have read; but his stormy passions want the other two redeeming qualities to give it that interest and suavity, which wins and twines round the female heart so impercepti

bly-so powerfully. The language which Shakespeare uses when he makes these interesting lovers converse, is some of the very sweetest that ever flowed from his pen. I know nothing (in that line) so exquisitely sweet-so passingly tender, as the garden scene in Romeo and Juliet. Passion, tenderness, feeling, omnipotent love breathe in every line, and run rich and riotous through every expression. Mark his discrimination. His scene is a garden of blushing roses and balmy flowers. It is night-the night that is in Italy— soft, silent, calm, and lonely. The moon is up, and his interesting and most lovely heroine is flung on a couch watching her course among her attending stars, but her thoughts far away on "the God of her Idolatry." How natural is her sigh, and the short but expressive

"Ah me!"

The reader must look into this, or it will appear common-place to him. Had Shakespeare put a long and elaborate speech into her mouth for her first expressions there is no ear of taste that would not have deprecated the incorrectness of it. But that word speaks her heart, and wherever the heart speaks, either on the stage or in real life, it never