white as mine to be exposed to this terrible tempest, while this fellow pities and would protect me from its rage. I cannot bear this kindness from a perfect stranger; it breaks my heart.' All this seems to be included in that short exclamation, which another writer, less acquainted with nature, would have displayed at large: such a suppression of sentiments, plainly implied, is judicious and affecting. The reflections that follow are drawn likewise from an intimate knowledge of man: When the mind's free, The body's delicate: the tempest in my mind Save what beats there Here the remembrance of his daughters' behaviour rushes upon him, and he exclaims, full of the idea of its unparalleled cruelty, Filial ingratitude! Is it not, as this mouth should tear this hand He then changes his style, and vows with impotent menaces, as if still in possession of the power he had resigned, to revenge himself on his oppressors, and to steel his breast with fortitude: But I'll punish home. No, I will weep no more! But the sense of his sufferings returns again, and he forgets the resolution he had formed the moment before: In such a night, To shut me out!-Pour on, I will endure- At which, with a beautiful apostrophe, he suddenly addresses himself to his absent daughters, tenderly reminding them of the favours he had so lately and so liberally conferred upon them: O Regan, Gonerill, Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all!- No more of that! The turns of passion in these few lines are so quick and so various, that I thought they merited to be minutely pointed out by a kind of perpetual commentary. The mind is never so sensibly disposed to pity the misfortunes of others, as when it is itself subdued and softened by calamity. Adversity diffuses a kind of sacred calm over the breast, that is the parent of thoughtfulness and meditation. The following reflections of Lear in his next speech, when his passion has subsided for a short interval, are equally proper and striking: Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er ye are, He concludes with a sentiment finely suited to his condition, and worthy to be written in charac ters of gold in the closet of every monarch upon earth: O! I have ta'en Too little care of this. Take physic, pomp! That thou may'st shake the superflux to them, Lear being at last persuaded to take shelter in the hovel, the poet has artfully contrived to lodge there Edgar, the discarded son of Gloucester, who counterfeits the character and habit of a mad beggar, haunted by an evil demon, and whose supposed sufferings are enumerated with an inimitable wildness of fancy; Whom the foul fiend hath led through fire, and through flame, through ford and whirlpool, o'er bog and quagmire; that hath laid knives under his pillow, and halters in his pew; set ratsbane by his porridge; made him proud of heart, to ride on a bay trotting horse over four-inched bridges, to course his own shadow for a traitor.-Bless thy five wits, Tom's a cold!' The assumed madness of Edgar, and the real distraction of Lear, form a judicious contrast.* Upon perceiving the nakedness and wretchedness of this figure, the poor king asks a question that I never could read without strong emotions of pity and admiration : X Nothing can exceed the minute accuracy with which the commencement and progress of the insanity of Lear is drawn by this consummate master of the human heart-it is a study even for the pathologist ! What! have his daughters brought him to this pass? And when Kent assures him that the beggar hath no daughters, he hastily answers; Death, traitor, nothing could have subdued nature Afterwards, upon the calm contemplation of the misery of Edgar, he breaks out into the following serious and pathetic reflection: Thou wert better in thy grave, than to answer with thy uncovered body this extremity of the skies. Is man no more than this? Consider him well. Thou owest the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume. Ha! here's three of us are sophisticated. Thou art the thing itself: unaccommodated man is no more than such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art. Off, off, you lendings! Come, unbutton here.' Shakspeare has no where exhibited more inimitable strokes of his art than in this uncommon scene, where he has so well conducted even the natural jargon of the beggar, and the jestings of the fool, which in other hands must have sunk into burlesque, that they contribute to heighten the pathetic to a very high degree. The heart of Lear having been agitated and torn by a conflict of such opposite and tumultuous passions, it is not wonderful that his wits should now begin to unsettle.' The first plain indication of the loss of his reason is his calling Edgar a 'learned Theban;' and telling Kent that he will keep still with his philosopher.' When he next appears, he imagines he is punishing his daughters. The imagery is extremely strong, and chills one with horror to read it; To have a thousand with red burning spits Come hizzing in upon them! As the fancies of lunatics have an extraordinary force and liveliness, and render the objects of their frenzy as it were present to their eyes, Lear actually thinks himself suddenly restored to his kingdom, and seated in judgment to try his daughters for their cruelties: I'll see their trial first; bring in the evidence. Bench by his side. You are of the commission, Sit you too. Arraign her first, 'tis Gonerill- Here he imagines that Regan escapes out of his hands, and he eagerly exclaims, Stop her there. Arms, arms, sword, fire-Corruption in the place! A circumstance follows that is strangely moving indeed; for he fancies that his favourite domestic creatures, that used to fawn upon and caress him, and of which he was eminently fond, have now their tempers changed, and join to insult him: |