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unresisting imbecility, upon faults too evident for detection, and too grofs for aggravation.
The tragedy of Lear is deservedly celebrated among the dramas of Shakespeare. There is perhaps no play which keeps the attention so strongly fixed; which so much agitates our passions, and interests our curiosity. The artful involutions of distinct interests, the striking opposition of contrary characters, the sudden changes of fortune, and the quick succession of events, fill the mind with a perpetual tumult of indignation, pity, and hope. There is no scene which does not contribute to the aggravation of the distress or conduct of the action, and scarce a line which does not conduce to the progress of the scene. So powersul is the current of the poet's imagination, that the mind, which once ventures within it, is hurried irresistibly along.
On the seeming improbability of Lear's conduct, it may be observed, that he is represented according to histories at that time vulgarly received as true. And, perhaps, is we turn our thoughts upon the barbarity and ignorance of the age to which this, story is reserred, it will appear not so unlikely as while we estimate Lear's manners by our own. Such preserence of one daughter to another, or resignation of dominion on such conditions, would be yet credible, is told of a petty prince of Guinea or Madagascar. Shake/pcare, indeed, by the mention of his parls and dukes, has given us the idea of times more civilized, and of lise regulated by softer manners;
ncrs; and the truth is, that though he so nicely discriminates, and so minutely describes the characters of men, he commonly neglects and consounds the characters of ages, by mingling customs ancient and modern, Englijjb and foreign.
My learned friend Mr. IVarton, who has in the Adventurer very minutely criticised this play, remarks, that the instances of cruelty arc too favage and shocking, and that the intervention of Edmund destroys the simplicity of the story. These objections may, I think, be answered, by repeating, that the cruelty of the daughters is an historical fact, to which the poet has added little, having only drawn it into a series by dialogue and action. But I am not able to apologize with equal plausibility for the extrusion of Glojter'% eyes, which seems an act too horrid to be endured in dramatic exhibition, and such as must always compel the mind to relieve its distress by incredulity. Yet let it be remembered that our author well knew what would please the audience for which he wrote.
The injury done by Edmund to the simplicity os the action is abundantly recompensed by the addition of variety, by the art with which he is made to co-operate with the chief design, and the opportunity which he gives the poet of combining perfidy with perfidy, and connecting the wicked son with the wicked daughters, to impress this important moral, that villany is never at a stop, that crimes, lead to crimes, and at last terminate in ruin.
But though this moral be incidentally ensorced, S'cikess-.jrc has suffered the virtue of Cordtlis to ptiilh in a just cause, contrary to the natural idea*
of justice, to the hope of the reader, and, what is yet more strange, to the faith of chronicles. Yet this conduct is justified by The Spectator, who blames Vast for giving Cordelia success and happiness in his alteration, and declares, that, in his opinion, the tragedy has loft half its beauty. Dennis has remarked, whether justly or not, that, to secure the favourable reception of Cato, the town was poisoned Svitb much false and abominable criticism, and that endeavours had been used to discredit and decry poetical justice. A play in which the wicked profper, and the virtuous miscarry, may doubtless be good, because it is a just representation of the common events of human lise: but since all reasonable beings naturally love justice, I cannot easily be persuaded, that the observation of justice makes a play worse; or, that is other excellencies are equal, the audience will not always rise better pleased from the final triumph of persecuted virtue.
In the present case the publick has decided. Cordelia, from the time of Tate, has always retired with victory and selicity. And, is my senfations could add any thing to the general suffrage, I might relate, I was many years ago so shocked by Cordelia's death, that I know not whether 1 ever endured to read again the last scenes of the play till I undertook to revise them as an editor.
There is another controversy among the criticks concerning this play. It is disputed whether the predominant image in Lear's disordered mind be the lofs of his kingdom or the cruelty of his daughters. tylr. Murphy, a very judicious critick, has evinced by induction of particular passages, that the cruelty of
his his daughters is the primary source of his distress, and that the lofs of royalty afsects him only as a secondary and subordinate evil. He observe* writs great justness, that Lear would move our compassion but little', did we not rather consider the mjured father than the degraded king.
The story of this play, except the episode of EJtnund, which is derived, I think, from Sidney, n taken originally from Geofiry of Monmoutb, whom Holingjhed generally copied; but perhaps immediately from an old historical ballad. My reason for believing that the play was posterior to the ballad, rather than the ballad to the play, is, that the ballad has nothing of Shakespeare's nocturnal tempest, which is too striking to have been omitted, and that it follows the chronicle; it has the rudiments of the play, but none of its amplifications: it first hinted Lear's madness, but did not array it in circumstances. The writer of the ballad added something to the history, which is a proof that he would have added more, is more had occurred to his mind, and more must have occurred is he had seen Shakespeare.
ROMEO AND JULIET.
This play is one of the most pleasing of our author's persormances. The scenes are busy and various, the incidents numerous and important, the catastrophe irresistibly afsecting, and the process of the action carried on with such probability, at least with such congruity to popular opinions, as tragedy requires.
Here is one of the sew attempts of Shakespeare to exhibit the converfation of gentlemen, to represeat the airy sprightliness of juvenile elegance. Mr. Dryden mentions a tradition, which might easily reach his time, of a declaration made by Shakespeare, that be was obliged to kill Mercutio in the third aft, lest he Jhould have been.killed by him. Yet he thinks him no such formidable person, but that he might have lived through the play, and died in his bed, without danger to a poet. Dryden well knew, had he been in quest of truth, that, in a pointed sentence, more regard is commonly had to the words than the thought, and that it is very seldom to be rigorously understood. Mercutio's wit, gaiety, and courage, will always procure him friends that wish him a longer lise; but his death is not precipitated, he has lived out the time allotted him in the construction of the play; nor do I doubt the ability of Shakespeare to have continued his existence, though some of his fallies are perhaps out of the reach of Diyden; whofe genius was not very sertile of merriment, nor ductile to humour, but acute, argumentative, comprehensive, and sublime.
The Nurse is one of the characters in which the author delighted: he has, with great subdlty of distinction, drawn her at once loquacious and secret, obsequious and insolent, trusty and dishonest.
His comick scenes are happily wrought, but his pathetick strains are always polluted with some unexpected depravations. His persons, however distressed, have a conceit left them in their misery, a miserable conceit.
If the dramas of Shakespeare were to be characterised, each by the particular excellence which dUlin6 guishes