feeling, its pauses and feverish starts, its impatience of opposition, its accumulating force when it has time to recollect itself, the manner in which it avails itself of every passing word or gesture, its haste to repel insinuation, the alternate contraction and dilatation of the soul, and all "the dazzling fence of controversy" in this mortal combat with poisoned weapons, aimed at the heart, where each wound is fatal. We have seen in Othello, how the unsuspecting frankness and impetuous passions of the Moor are played upon and exasperated by the artful dexterity of lago. In the present play, that which aggravates the sense of sympathy in the reader, and of uncontrollable anguish in the swollen heart of Lear, is the petrifying indifference, the cold, calculating, obdurate selfishness of his daughters. His keen passions seem whetted on their stony hearts. The contrast would be too painful, the shock too great, but for the intervention of the Fool, whose well-timed levity comes in to break the continuity of feeling when it can no longer be borne, and to bring into play again the fibres of the heart just as they are growing rigid from over-strained excitement. The imagination is glad to take refuge in the halfcomic, half-serious comments of the Fool, just as the mind under the extreme anguish of a surgical operation vents itself in sallies of wit. The character was also a grotesque ornament of the barbarous times, in which alone the tragic ground-work of the story could be laid. In another point of view it is indispensable, inasmuch as while it is a diversion to the too great intensity of our disgust, it carries the pathos to the highest pitch of which it is capable, by shewing the pitiable weakness of the old king's conduct and its irretrievable consequences in the most familiar point of view. Lear may well "beat at the gate which let his folly in," after, as the Fool says, "he has made his daughters his mothers." The character is dropped in the third act to make room for the entrance of Edgar as Mad Tom, which well accords with the increasing bustle and wildness of the incidents; and

nothing can be more complete than the distinction between Lear's real and Edgar's assumed madness, while the resemblance in the cause of their distresses, from the severing of the nearest ties of natural affection, keeps up a unity of interest. Shakespear's mastery over his subject, if it was not art, was owing to a knowledge of the connecting links of the passions, and their effect upon the mind, still more wonderful than any systematic adherence to rules, and that anticipated and outdid all the efforts of the most refined art, not inspired and rendered instinctive by genius.

One of the most perfect displays of dramatic power is the first interview between Lear and his daughter, after the designed affronts upon him, which till one of his knights reminds him of them, his sanguine temperament had led him to overlook. He returns with his train from hunting, and his usual impatience breaks out in his first words, "Let me not stay a jot for dinner; go, get it ready." He then encounters the faithful Kent in disguise, and retains him in his service; and the first trial of his honest duty is to trip up the heels of the officious Steward who makes so prominent and despicable a figure through the piece. On the entrance of Goneril the following dialogue takes place :-

"Lear. How now, daughter? what makes that frontlet on?

Methinks, you are too much of late i' the frown.

Fool. Thou wast a pretty fellow, when thou had'st no need to care for her frowning; now thou art an O without a figure I am better than thou art now; I am a fool, thou art nothing. Yes, forsooth, I will hold my tongue; [To Goneril] so your face bids me, though you say nothing. Mum, mum.

He that keeps nor crust nor crum,
Weary of all, shall want some.-

That's a sheal'd peascod!

[Pointing to Lear.

Goneril. Not only, sir, this your all-licens'd fool,

But other of your insolent retinue

Do hourly carp and quarrel; breaking forth

In rank and not-to-be-endured riots.

I had thought, by making this well known unto you,
To have found a safe redress; but now grow fearful,
By what yourself too late have spoke and done,
That you protect this course, and put it on

By your allowance; which if you should, the fault
Would not 'scape censure, nor the redresses sleep,
Which in the tender of a wholesome weal,
Might in their working do you that offence,
(Which else were shame) that then necessity
Would call discreet proceeding.

Fool. For you trow, nuncle,

The hedge sparrow fed the cuckoo so long,
That it had its head bit off by its young.

So out went the candle, and we were left darkling.
Lear. Are you our daughter?

Goneril. Come, sir,

I would, you would make use of that good wisdom
Whereof I know you are fraught; and put away
These dispositions, which of late transform you
From what you rightly are.

Fool. May not an ass know when the cart draws the horse?Whoop, Jug, I love thee.

Lear. Does any here know me?—Why, this is not Lear : Does Lear walk thus? speak thus?-Where are his eyes? Either his notion weakens, or his discernings

Are lethargy'd-Ha! waking?-'Tis not so.

Who is it that can tell me who I am?-Lear's shadow?

I would learn that: for by the marks

Of sov'reignty, of knowledge, and of reason,

I should be false persuaded-I had daughters.-
Your name, fair gentlewoman?

Goneril. Come, sir :

This admiration is much o' the savour

Of other your new pranks. I do beseech you
To understand my purposes aright:

As you are old and reverend, you should be wise :
Here do you keep a hundred knights and squires;
Men so disorder'd, so debauch'd, and bold,

That this our court, infected with their manners,
Shews like a riotous inn: epicurism and lust
Make it more like a tavern, or a brothel,

Than a grac'd palace. The shame itself doth speak

For instant remedy: be then desir'd

By her, that else will take the thing she begs,
A little to disquantity your train;

And the remainder, that shall still depend,
To be such men as may besort your age,
And know themselves and you.

Lear. Darkness and devils !

Saddle my horses; call my train together.-
Degenerate bastard! I'll not trouble thee;
Yet have I left a daughter.

Goneril. You strike my people; and your disorder'd rabble

Make servants of their betters.

Enter ALBANY.

Lear. Woe, that too late repents-O, sir, are you come? Is it your will? speak, sir.-Prepare my horses.

Ingratitude! thou marble-hearted fiend,

More hideous, when thou shew'st thee in a child,
Than the sea-monster !

Albany. Pray, sir, be patient.

Lear. Detested kite! thou liest.

My train are men of choice and rarest parts,
That all particulars of duty know;

And in the most exact regard support

The worships of their name.

[To Albany.

[To Goneril.

-O most small fault,

How ugly didst thou in Cordelia shew!

Which, like an engine, wrench'd my frame of nature
From the fixt place; drew from my heart all love,

And added to the gall. O Lear, Lear, Lear!

Beat at the gate, that let thy folly in,

[Striking his head. And thy dear judgment out!- -Go, go, my people! Albany. My lord, I am guiltless, as I am ignorant

Of what hath mov'd you.

Lear. It may be so, my lord

Hear, nature, hear! dear goddess, hear!
Suspend thy purpose, if thou didst intend
To make this creature fruitful !
Into her womb convey sterility;
Dry up in her the organs of increase;
And from her derogate body never spring
A babe to honour her! If she must teem,
Create her child of spleen: that it may live,
To be a thwart disnatur'd torment to her!

Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth;
With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks;
Turn all her mother's pains, and benefits,
To laughter and contempt; that she may feel
How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is

To have a thankless child !-Away, away !

[Exit.

Albany. Now, gods, that we adore, whereof comes this? Goneril. Never afflict yourself to know the cause; But let his disposition have that scope

That dotage gives.

Re-enter LEAR.

Lear. What, fifty of my followers at a clap! Within a fortnight!

Albany. What's the matter, sir?

Lear. I'll tell thee; life and death! I am asham'd That thou hast power to shake my manhood thus:

[To Goneril. That these hot tears, which break from me perforce, Should make thee worth them.- -Blasts and fogs upon

thee!

The untented woundings of a father's curse
Pierce every sense about thee!-
-Old fond eyes
Beweep this cause again, I'll pluck you out;
And cast you, with the waters that you lose,
To temper clay.--Ha! is it come to this?
Let it be so :- -Yet have I left a daughter,
Who, I am sure, is kind and comfortable;
When she shall hear this of thee, with her nails
She'll flay thy wolfish visage. Thou shalt find,
That I'll resume the shape, which thou dost think
I have cast off for ever.

[Exeunt Lear, Kent, and Attendants."

This is certainly fine: no wonder that Lear says after it, "O let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heavens," feeling its effects by anticipation; but fine as is this burst of rage and indignation at the first blow aimed at his hopes and expectations, it is nothing near so fine as what follows from his double disappointment, and his lingering efforts to see which of them he shall lean upon for support and find comfort in, when both his daughters turn against his age and weakness. It is with some difficulty that Lear gets to speak with