Richmonds in the field," &c. We are of course speaking of Shakspeare's play, in which Gloster is not seen after this speech.

Surely there needs no more arguments to prove that the soliloquy which has occasioned these remarks calls for a manner of delivery directly opposite to that which we have seen assigned to it in the present day; that, in fact, it requires exactly the manner which Garrick is said to have adopted in giving it, and which adoption is, perhaps, of itself an argument almost conclusive in its favour. Whether Mr. Matthews's manner of giving the speech in question resemble Tate Wilkinson's imitation of Garrick, I know not; but of this I am certain, that it is an admirable morceau of acting; that the highly animated and cheerful look; the restless and almost redundant action, and the exulting bubbling up of the voice (as if it came fresh and sparkling from the overflowing well-springs of the heart) are all in perfect keeping with the character and situation of the speaker; and I hope (more than I expect) that they will at once supersede those gloomy and querulous tones and gestures which would induce one to believe that "the clouds" which are spoken of were all " buried in the dark bosom" of the speaker, instead of "the ocean.'

It must be understood that I would apply the foregoing remarks exclusively to the first part of the soliloquy; to that part of it which I have quoted above, and which alone Mr. Matthews gives as having been spoken by Garrick in a cheerful and exulting spirit. From this we are, no doubt, to conclude, that the moment Gloster begins to "descant on his own deformity," Garrick made him assume a different tone and manner; probably a similar one to that adopted in the present day throughout the whole speech. If so, this furnished a striking and highly dramatic contrast, worthy the reputed genius of that actor. But to enter into this part of the subject would require more space than you are likely to allow me: I, therefore, conclude by expressing my sincere admiration for the talents of an actor who would deserve the thanks of all lovers of the English acted drama, even if he had done nothing else than thus preserve a traditional likeness of the mind and manner of its most distinguished ornament

SONG.

When Napoleon was flying

From the field of Waterloo,

A British soldier dying,

To his brother bade adieu!

And take, he said, this token

To the maid that owns my faith,
With the words that I have spoken
In affection's latest breath.

Sore mourn'd the brother's heart,
When the youth beside him fell;

But the trumpet warn'd to part,
And they took a sad farewell.

There was many a friend to lose him,
For that gallant soldier sigh'd;

But the maiden of his bosom

Wept when all their tears were dried.

Z.

T. C.

BROOK GREEN FAIR.

A LONG residence in town has partially estranged me from any participation in the amusements and delights of the country. Yet amidst all the bustle and agitation of London, my thoughts are ever winging themselves away to the green retreats and hearty enjoyments of my native Devonshire. What a restless inconsistent being is man! What changes do a few years bring about, in his powers, his habits, and his wishes! The days of my youth were gliding away serene and happy among the scenes of rural life, till I sighed for the unknown and mysterious pleasures of London. That desire has been gratified; and after eight years of satiety in its allurements and dissipations, its systematic follies and its refined pursuits, I yearn again for the tranquil days of childhood-the verdant fields, the blue heavens, and the rustic sports of C, with an intense anxiety. In spite of all my efforts to keep these longings under restraints, and to accommodate myself to the necessity of my situation, I have been utterly unable to "subdue my mind to what it works in." When I gaze upon the setting sun, or catch" an impulse from the vernal wood," my laborious sophistications disperse like mists before the sun, and I long to breathe in the freshness and fragrance to sink gently into the repose-of earlier and better years.

It was the first day of May:-and I strolled into Kensington Gardens, a favourite refuge from the "fitful fever" of the town. Here I meditate over the memory of hopes once so eager, but now blighted for ever-over prospects once so alluring that have faded away; or sometimes beguile a wearied spirit in framing airy castles-that deepest of mental luxuries, and withdraw from the sad realities of life into a visionary world, where the scenes of youth float before me, mellowed by time, and still redolent of peace and joy. My day-dreams are very rarely disturbed by the intrusions of company; for how it is I know not, but these delicious retirements are under the ban of the self-erected, but all-prevailing, arbiters of taste, and have long been deserted for the bare, exposed, and dusty drives of Rotten-row. Kensington Gardens, forsooth, are cockney. Every thing is cockney now-a-days-poetry, criticism, the town and the country. Hampstead has long been branded with the stigma. Richmond is approximating to London every hour: a year or two passed, and the sound of Bow bells will be heard on the hill," swinging slow with sleepy roar." Geography was long the "eye of history"-it has lately become that of taste. He who dares to avow a liking for the environs of London, incurs the heaviest penalty of ridicule. Yet one may lounge in the park at Berlin-the Bruhl-gardens at Dresden-the Prater at Vienna-the Cascine at Florence, or the Chiaja at Naples, without being identified with vulgarity and affectation. But, with the exception of Florence and Naples, the immediate environs of London are scarcely inferior in beauty to any of these, and to some are far superior. It is offensive to see our pleasures thus "put into circumscription and confine." For myself, I can bear these "quips and quirks and paper bullets" without shrinking-partly shielded

by my humility, and somewhat by obstinacy, but chiefly sustained by the boundless pleasure which springs from the unfettered indulgences of my own wayward ramblings "in the great world of eye and ear." The truth is, if people would follow the guidance of their own sensibilities of natural beauty, all this mawkish and ridiculous affectation about vulgarity and cockneyism would wear out of the mode, and be suffered no longer to cheat us of our enjoyments. But in this, as in every thing else, fashion bears sovereign sway; and those who are paramount in settling a collar, or regulating a boot, or devising a quadrille, are equally despotic in prescribing what shall or shall not be beautiful in Nature. Caprice, fancy, and the spirit of imitation, are more endurable in art, which is partly their province; but thus to sit in judgment on the ever varied and ever glorious creations of Nature, is an arrogance as contemptible as it is fantastic.

"I care not, Fortune, what you me deny :
You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace;
You cannot shut the windows of the sky
Through which Aurora shews her brightening face.
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace
The woods and lawns, by living stream at eve."

Thomson.

To me Kensington Gardens are delicions. They have not, indeed, all the grandeur and magnificence and boundless variety of English park-scenery, but they are still beautiful, and, in my mind, not the less so for being so near town. The walks, though in some parts a little too formal for the prevailing style, have a look of the antique, but are in general sufficiently diversified by the inequalities and undulations of ground. Through clumps of " old patrician oaks" we catch the silver gleam of the Serpentine, harmonizing sweetly with the little patches of sunshine which flutter on the green sward. The varieties and gradations of tint produced by the different degrees of light and shadow are infinite and beautiful, as are the variously reflected rays which one leaf casts upon another, according to the different degrees of opacity or exposure. Sometimes, while stretched out on the grass, shaping idle visions, or watching the light dry leaf dallying with the wind, I catch a glance of some "blithe company," whose light and graceful forms and sparkling dresses, moving along the glades, remind me of one of the gay landscapes of Watteau. Then it is that resigning ourselves passively to the scenery, the feeling of an invisible and indescribable influence, "6 a burthen and a mystery," comes over us, at once delightful and pure. In these lone communions with the beautiful and permanent forms of Nature, the pleasure is not sensual merely the imagination is charmed, the passions are incorporated with the scene, and the soul itself exalted.

It was the first of May, the holiday of chimney-sweepers; and to me there has always been something inexpressively melancholy and repulsive in their merriment. The incongruous mixture of tinsel and flowers; the rose-painted face; the tawdry pranking out with fluttering ribbons and frizzled and powdered heads; the squalid dresses and noisy discordant importunities for money, all unite in forming a most disgusting exhibition. Nor have we the poor satisfaction of supposing that our extorted liberality is charity; for they are paraded about by a master, who retains, for his own use, their miserable collections. And is it come to this! Has old May-day then, shorn of all

its festive pomp and sacred observances, shrunk into noisy Saturnalia for the most forlorn and pitiable portion of God's creatures-a class so wretched and so degraded, that it exists in no other part of the world!*

After wandering about for some time in the gardens, I recollected it was the annual Fair at Brook-Green, and bent my steps thither. Crowds of people of all ages and of all ranks, from the middle classes downwards -men, women, and children-horse, foot, waggon, cart, gig, and coach, were sweeping along in a vast tide, decked out in their gayest apparel, their faces brightening with expected pleasures; and making the day look like itself-a popular holiday. To escape from the throng, I chose the solitary lane, which, passing behind Holland House, leads to Shepherd's Bush, through hedges and noble oaks and elms that sometimes, in spite of the vicinity of London, recall the romantic lanes of Devon. But fancy, and the thoughts of gone-by times, are fruitful in delusion. On my way, I could not avoid reflecting how our great festivals and fairs, our old ceremonies and holiday sports, are gradually becoming more and more obsolete. It would be an interesting inquiry to examine the causes and speculate on the consequences. Within the last half century our national character has experienced a manifest and violent change. The displacement of population; the revulsions of property; the rise of mushrooms from the dunghill of trade, with all the selfishness and ignorance of their origin; the influence of East and West India adventurers, whose feelings are unlinked from the customs they have so long ceased to observe; the breaking down of the old salutary distinctions of rank, and the sweeping away of the beautiful gradations of society, by that universal money-getting spirit, which has divided the nation into two classes, the rich and poor, and is rotting it, like an ulcer, to the very bone-these have gradually weakened the power of old national associations, and diminished the frequency of those public festivities, which in more natural and healthy times were sources, both in anticipation and reality, of a wide-spread and genuine pleasure. A general spirit of selfishness has diffused itself among those lilies of society, that neither toil nor spin; and with a pharisaic morality, which is the offspring equally of blindness of understanding and hardness of heart, they have lopped away, one by one, nearly all those holiday relics which the hailed with eagerness and enjoyed with delight. Whatever was imaginative and poetical in the life of the lower classes, has faded away. It has retired from the "smoke and stir" of large towns; and we shall have soon become so exceedingly improved under the unnatural and absurd systems which our wealthy and enterprising betters have devised for us, that all who are anxious to study the joyous, simple hearted, and manly amusements and customs of "merry England,” (what a satire is that epithet now!) will be obliged to resort to some unpolished and secluded district-some remote Goshen, not yet flooded by the tide of improvement. A few slight efforts, indeed, have been made to preserve these heritages of our fathers in remembrance, and to retard the rapidity of their decline. Some of our poets and wiser writers have done what they could in their behalf. They were once a part of

poor

Some one, on seeing the chimney-sweepers in their May-day trappings, observed, that he had often heard of the majesty of the people-and these were, doubtless, some of the young princes.

the splendid ritual of the Romish church, and many of them are vestiges of Paganism. Philosophers and princes did not disdain to be amused by sports and holidays that are now deemed too vulgar for all but the meanest rabble, and too licentious even for these. At the Reformation, a great many were swept away as the exuvia of an abrogated faith. Any thing like festivity was offensive to the Reformers, who thought that to be the relentless foes of popish celebration, was sure to draw down the favour of Heaven. For such, however, as were part of the authorized ritual of the Romish church, and, therefore, still remain in vigour wherever her authority exists, I feel the less concern: my apprehensions are for those devotional and festive accompaniments of solemn days and times, which custom alone, and not ecclesiastical discipline, had annexed to them; and which have, more or less, continued to our day, and have become a prescriptive right of merriment to the old and the young. They are an important chapter in the moral and physical history of our ancestors,-the links which join the mythology of the past age to the romance of the present. Without submitting to that" resolved prostration to antiquity," which Sir Thomas Brown so harshly censures, we may grieve to see these guides to the domestic knowledge of our fathers disappear from our view,―to see dry up before our eyes, these abundant sources of hearty and honest enjoyment. Alas! in a few years-and we shall have to lament their utter extinction

"Star after star goes out, and all is night!" "Festivals," says a poet, who deserves to be better known than he is, "holidays, customary sports, and every institution which adds an hour of importance or harmless enjoyment to the poor man's heart, ought to be religiously preserved." I pity the man who cannot comprehend how these things act upon the human heart. Wherever holidays are frequent, there, it is an indisputable fact, the lower classes are farthest removed from brutality. Wherever they rarely occur, they will be uniformly abused. In Catholic countries the manners of the populace are more generally mild; they are more capable, likewise, of withstanding the temptations to ebriety and riot, than in Protestant countries. In England, and especially in the metropolis, we see the rabble become gradually more embruted; and I am disposed to consider as one cause of it, the closing up those frequent channels by which the fieriness and ardour of their tempers were accustomed to be drained. In Spain, the peasantry of the villages dance in the evening with their castanets, and the sound of the viola is heard from the cottagedoors. The universal disposition of the French and Italians for these peaceful and social amusements is well known, and beautifully described in the Traveller of Goldsmith; and seldom, if ever, in these countries, are their festivals and holidays abused. In England the reverse of the picture is too frightfully true.

Happy the age and harmlesse were the dayes,

For then true love and amity were found,

When every village did a may-pole raise,

And Whitsun ales and May-games did abound;
And all the lusty yonkers in a rout,
With merry lasses, daunced the rod about;

Graliame's British Georgics. pref.