and when the grave closes over him, it is the grave of oblivion and annihilation. When the old, blind dipus has reached the solemn termination in the dread regularity of his ordered destiny, a sense of distress weighs upon our hearts, notwithstanding the sublime, statue-like calmness with which he sinks to rest; we would have some assurance that his divine resignation will be crowned with the bliss of an eternity: but we feel that the hope is a vain one, for the system of the poet forbids the idea of recompense, where there is no account and no accountableness, no struggle and no merit, and where all is but the manifestation of a blind fatality. But take away this idea of destiny-in other words, turn to poetry that does not acknowledge it—and no deep and consistent tragedy can exist, without involving the immortality of the soul. Such is the nature of the human soul, that those great displays of its energies, its passions and sufferings, its inward harmony with the great moral law, and the instant discord created by the violation of that law, cannot be made, without impressing us with the intrinsic proofs of its imperishable attributes, and its eternal destiny. The vast disproportion of many passions to their earthly objects — the heroism which some of them inspire the wreck of mind and peace which others cause -the suffering of the innocent, such as no temporal reward can recompense- the impunity of the guilty, which not even their death can wholly atone for all these things point to but one solution of tragedy, without which it can be only a mystery, to which there is no key, and which nothing can unravel.

It may be urged, that there is in Shakspeare no direct recognition of the doctrine of the soul's immortality, and no direct inculcation of it. But they are none the less forcible, though indirect. We cannot stand at the tomb of Romeo and Juliet, without triumphing with them, in the might of their quenchless affections, over all fear, and danger and death itself; we cannot, if we would, believe that such heroic en-' ergy of passion can be subdued into annihilation, by the simple loosening of the bands that hold together these mortal frames. We cannot listen to the soul of Desdemona, as it quits its matchless tenement of clay, and hear how its last words- as she gasps under the mad violence of the ruffian husband-are but testimonies of "the love she bears Othello," and feel how her purity has been made certain, even to him, at last, by all the holy sanctions of death, without a confidence in the final happiness of innocence and virtue. We cannot be, in imagination, at the bedside of Falstaff, when every jest has died from the lip, and every leer has faded from the eye, and conscience arrays before him a wasted and disreputable life, without a shudder, which nothing can suppress, at the fate of the irreverent, licentious old man. And who can study the character of Hamlet, and read his great reflection upon death; who can witness the whole course of that mournful drama,

in which are recorded imperfect hopes and undeserved misfortunes; without looking beyond the mere action itself, to the rest, and peace, and retribution of a perfect world? When Timon sets up his everlasting rest on the shore of the beached ocean,

Which once a day with his embossed froth
The turbulent surge shall cover-

seeking in that vast expanse the image of eternity; the grandest unchanging object in nature, brings home to our hearts the infinite expansion of hopes and aspirations in the human soul. Lear and his Cordelia lie in profound peace, side by side; and the raging power of his uncontrollable heart, which now beats no more, and the unyielding devotion of his pious child, sound for ever in our ears, with a strange, deep harmony, that bears our thoughts on into the region of repose whither they are gone. Place the human soul in its worst scenes of suffering and wo-sink it under the weight of crushing passions — break up its finely balanced intelligence into the impotence and rage of madness-sweep its delicate chords until they send forth none but the discordant notes of anguish and a broken heart—make love itself but the instrument of misery, and when all is done, and poor human nature seems torn into ruined fragments of itself, its endless vitality will unite them again at last, and each violence of fate only brings out brighter and brighter the heaven-born energies that lay wrapped up within.

Thus it is, that the drama, in its master-pieces, rises to the dignity of a moral teacher. Thus it is, that it comes in aid of natural religion. It does not give precepts, nor directly profess to show examples under precepts already given; but it lays open the mechanism, the power, the great laws and principles of the human heart, and thus teaches us what would escape our individual knowledge, without the light and aid of poetic inspiration. It goes farther: and, by necessary implication, teaches us the destiny and capacities of our nature, and confirms an inborn hope for although, as has been beautifully said, "it shows us human nature, like a rock in a vast ocean of storms, beaten and overwhelmed at times by the mighty waters of anguish and peril," yet it carries our thoughts below the surface of the angry and lashing waters, down to the eternal foundations by which it is rooted to the great sphere.

But this discussion is lengthening beyond the intention and purposes of the writer. He has no theory to announce, or to uphold, concerning the meanings of Shakspeare. He would only suggest what must vindicate itself to the mind of every reader who studies feelingly, and who follows out in its natural direction, the train in which the poet has led the way. Much has been written on the true interpretation of

characters and passages, and whole controversies have arisen even upon lines. The writer does not profess to enter the lists in these controversies, or to claim a place among the supporters of any particular theory or commentary. He is indifferent, whether this or that reading be the true one, by a word more or less, or a letter changed or erased; he ranges himself under no opinion as to the characters. He professes to write of Shakspeare, only as he has read him-in simplicity, and with care.

Writers often imagine the temper of public criticism to be such-and perhaps it is, as to require for their efforts the apology of some supposed demand in the world of letters, for something new in the department in which they write. In the present instance, too, much has been written by fine critics, on some of the characters here discussed. To each of these suggestions, if criticism should be prompted to make them, the writer would say, that he does not claim to fill any imaginary vacancy in literature, however small; and that, as the subject of Shakspeare is as inexhaustible as truth and nature, he is not aware that the brilliant essays of others ought to deter any, whose taste leads them to the task, from accomplishing what lies in the compass of their ability.

And feed her soul with music. Then I loved
The mysteries of Nature. The smallest flower
Had equal splendor with the noonday sun;
For by its slight and cunning workmanship
I felt that it was God's, and thus I trod,
E'en in the very morning of my life,
Amid the brightness of His universe.

I thirsted for the Beautiful and True;
And when I cherished Beauty, I found that
Which opened all the fountains of my heart,
Gave me a thirst for Virtue and for Love,
And quickened my perceptions of the Good.

And thus by Nature was my infant mind
Illumined and made pure; and, even now
I fain would listen to her holy voice,
And teach my spirit by her influence:
I still would love to wander by the side
Of happy inland waters, when they gleam
With the bright lustre of the evening stars;
Or dimple into smiles, and faintly blush
At the first glance of morning. I would still
Love hill and valley, and each wild wood-flower-
I still would wander by the running stream,
And watch the sinking sun, and the soft clouds
Tinted with pearl and amber. I would gaze
Amid the stars, and let my mingled thoughts
Go forth, piercing like light the universe.

Thus I would look upon each visible thing,
And ravel out its meaning. I would see

The symbols of a high and holy faith

Held up throughout the world. The sun and stars,
And all that is material, should seem

A wondrous revelation of the truth

A manifestation of the Infinite

The clear outshaping of the thoughts of God.

VOL, VIL

18

R. C. W.

OLD TICONDEROGA.

A PICTURE OF THE PAST.

IN returning once to New England, from a visit to Niagara, I found myself, one summer's day, before noon, at Orwell, about forty miles from the southern extremity of Lake Champlain, which has here the aspect of a river or a creek. We were on the Vermont shore, with a ferry, of less than a mile wide, between us and the town of Ti, in NewYork.

On the bank of the lake, within ten yards of the water, stood a pretty white tavern, with a piazza along its front. A wharf and one or two stores were close at hand, and appeared to have a good run of trade, foreign as well as domestic; the latter with Vermont farmers, the former with vessels plying between Whitehall and the British dominions. Altogether, this was a pleasant and lively spot. I delighted in it, among other reasons, on account of the continual succession of travellers, who spent an idle quarter of an hour in waiting for the ferryboat; affording me just time enough to make their acquaintance, penetrate their mysteries, and be rid of them without the risk of tediousness on either part.

The greatest attraction, in this vicinity, is the famous old fortress of Ticonderoga; the remains of which are visible from the piazza of the tavern, on a swell of land that shuts in the prospect of the lake. Those celebrated heights, Mount Defiance and Mount Independence, familiar to all Americans in history, stand too prominent not to be recognised, though neither of them precisely correspond to the images excited by their names. In truth, the whole scene, except the interior of the fortress, disappointed me. Mount Defiance, which one pictures as a steep, lofty, and rugged hill, of most formidable aspect, frowning down with the grim visage of a precipice on old Ticonderoga, is merely a long and wooded ridge; and bore, at some former period, the gentle name of Sugar Hill. The brow is certainly difficult to climb, and high enough to look into every corner of the fortress. St. Clair's most probable reason, however, for neglecting to occupy it, was the deficiency of troops to man the works already constructed, rather than the supposed inaccessibility of Mount Defiance. It is singular that the French never fortified this height, standing, as it does, in the quarter whence they must have looked for the advance of a British army.