REMARKS:

Twelfth Night.

WE have now come to the last production of the Divine Shakspeare. Having followed his genius through its bright path of glory, we arrive at the point where it sets, with a splendour worthy of its highest meridian. Like the traveller journeying afar, who has been alter. nately delighted and amazed with the various prospects that have opened to his view-who has contemptated the smooth river and the mountain torrent-whose eye has rested on one unbounded extent of earth, ocean, and sky,-we, in studying the writings of Shakspeare, have been presented with every object in nature's landscape, with the added charms of philosophic and metaphysical lore. We have seen the springs of passion unlocked, the inmost recesses of the heart explored, and every thought, however deeply seated there, revealed and analysed. The veil that separates the material from the immaterial world has been drawn aside, and we have beheld the wonders of that unknown region. We have been subdued by sorrow that we would not have exchanged for mirth, and exhilirated by merriment that might have unbent the dull brow of melancholy and softened it into a smile. We have seen morality and science in the many-coloured vesture of poetry; and philosophy, erect, not elated-cheerful, benevolent, and sublime. It is, therefore, not without emotion that we approach this last work of Shakspeare's mighty genius, in which we meet many of his various excellences:-character, original and diversified; wit and humour, sparkling and quaint; felicity of thought and expression; and an exquisite tone of tender melancholy. If there be any quality that particularly distinguishes this beautiful drama, it is, that the humour is more bland; and an unusually delicate and pensive turn is given to the language and sentiments. That Shakspeare parted with the world on terms of friendship, this legacy of his love sufficiently demonstrates; though, in the Epilogue Song (the last lines that he ever wrote,) we think that we can discover something that savours of transient bitterness.

Twelfth Night closes the dramatic career of Shakspeare. The serious portion is supposed, by Mr. Stevens, to have been taken from the seventh History in the fourth volume of Belleforest's Histoires Tragiques. Mr. Chalmers assigns its production, and we think correctly, to the year 1613. The mistakes arising out of Viola's change of habit and resemblance to her brother Sebastian, are borrowed from the Menæchini of Plautus, and remind us of the Comedy of Errois. The fable is ingeniously constructed, and the incidents are arranged with a perfect knowledge of dramatic effect. They involve some few improbabilities. There may be a want of decorum in Olivia's sudden passion for the disguised page, and in the Duke's easy transfer of his affection from Olivia to Viola. But we cannot agree with Dr. Johnson, that the instruction this drama should afford is destroyed by these improbabilities. We may even use is own argument, and say, that if the spectator can fancy the stage a city on the coast of Illyria, he may, in like manner, view the incidents as no unfaithful picture of real life.

But, if the serious part of this play be borrowed, the comic is original; and where, in the writings of Shakspeare himself, shall we find a more brilliant concentration of wit and humour? Sir Toby Belch, in certain points, may run parallel with Sir John Falstaff. Sir John is marvellously addicted to sack and sugar, qualified with "bread one halfpenny"-Sir Toby roars lustily for a stoup of wine, and makes merry over the ancient country beverage of cakes and ale. Both keep bad hours, and company-villanous company-that hath been spoil of 'em. Sir John is a barefaced freebooter, and would rob you the king's exchequer ; Sir Toby is a petty-larceny rogue, that is content to fleece the clod-pole Sir Andrew out of two thousand pounds, under promise of marrying him to his niece Olivia. Falstaff, though a gross fat man, upholds the decency of sobriety, even in his cups; Sir Toby is ever in the third degree of drink, yet in that state he is guilty of so much wit and sound philosophy, that we never wish him sober. Like Falstaff, he looks big, and wears a sword, and we verily believe is as great a coward (remembering how he roars at his bloody coxcomb), and as prone to carry away his guts as nimbly from a fray, as ever Falstaff did, even at the affair of the eleven men in buckram. In Sir Andrew Aguecheek, we may draw the line be tween folly and fatuity; between the fool by education and the fool by nature. The man who could boast but one idea, was an oracle of wisdoin compared to this great eater of beef! The only glimpse of thought that ever reached his brain was when he fancied he had no more wit than a Christian, or an ordinary man. He is a perfect picture of mental imbecility; and, but that Shakspeare has seasoned his character with some very ludicrous qualities, would be a painful rather than a diverting exhibition. He is painted inordinately vain, choleric, and cowardly-amorous, as naturals are represented to be, and, withal, an egregious gull. These are the eccentricities that shade his mental defects, and make us smile when we might have been inclined to pity. Malvolio is an admirable picture of folly in another degree, though, to do him justice, he is more knave than fool. He is a true puritan-sour, lascivious, and hypocritical; a prosing shallow-pated would-be philosopher, whose inane and pompous phrases are deli vered in a tone of monotony that fools are apt to mistake for wisdom. Having no conception of humour himself, he cannot endure it in others. And, when his owl-like gravity relaxes into a grin ghastly horrible, in the selfish hope of gaining his mistress's hand and fortune, his face, albeit unused to the laughing mood, runs into more lines than are in a map. How perfectly does the clown express Malvolio's lack of wit, in this tart reply :

"God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the better increasing your folly! Sir Toby will be sworn that I am no fox; but he will not pass his word for twopence that you are no fool."

And what a fine reproof does Olivia offer to his vanity and selflove :

"O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a distempered appetite to be generous, guiltless, and of free disposition, is to take those things for bird-bolts that you deem cannon-bullets. There is no slander in an allowed fool, though he do nothing but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet man, though he do nothing but reprove."

Never was poetical justice more satisfactorily bestowed than upon Malvolio. All his Iudicrous perplexities arise out of his vanity and selfishness. We excuse them only as they contribute to our mirth; and two more exquisitely comic scenes than the one where he soli loquises on his future greatness, and picks up the letter, and the

other, where he struts in cross-gartered, and ogles his mistress, were never conceived by any dramatist.

That Shakspeare delighted to exbibit the ludicrous effects of cowardice, will appear from the mock duels between Sir Hugh Evans and Doctor Caius, and Sir Andrew Aguecheek and Viola. The tremplings of the Welsh parson may keep company with the tremors of the silly knight. The former has only his own misgivings and dismal chaunts to alarm him; but the latter is rendered doubly fearful by the terrible accounts that Sir Toby gives of his antagonist. The Clown, in wit and gaiety, in pun and quibble, is scarcely inferior to Touchstone: and Fabio and Maria are excellent adjuncts to bring up the rear of this truly comic assemblage.

romance.

The serious portion of this drama is chaste and beautiful; breathing a spirit of tenderness and humanity, of poetry and Here we contemplate Shakspeare in his happiest mood-sweet, enthusiastic, melancholy. Here we behold the fairy visions of his youth returning with all their wonted loveliness; and the earliest emotions that fluttered in his bosom kindling with fresh ardour to crown his last farewell to the Muse. We are in no humour to pluck from this bed of flowers of all hues any one of transcendant beauty, but the following:

"She never told her love;

But let concealment, like a worm i' th' bud,

Feed on her damask cheek; she pin'd in thought;
And, with a green aud yellow melancholy,
She sat, like patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief."

Lay it to thy heart-and farewell!

What admirer of the drama knows not Fawcett's excellence in the clowns and fools of Shakspeare? 'Nothing could be finer than his performance of this " Corrupter of Words." He sang the Epilogue Song with true comic spirit; and with a harmony and feeling as if conscious that the last words of Shakspeare were trembling on his lips. Farren's countenance is not remarkable for expression; it requires much making-up to produce an effect-his eye wants colour; but even these drawbacks were turned to good account in his representation of Sir Andrew; and with his long lean figure (Sir Andrew is as tall a man as any's in Illyria) produced a perfect vraisemblance of this monster of fatuity. Emery gave us the hearty jo!!ity of Sir Toby Belch. His picture was indeed highly coloured, but without any touch of coarseness. He revelled in the drunken eccentricities of the jovial knight, but inellowed them with such admirable skill, that, though sufficiently prorainent, they were not offensive. It was a glorious thing to hear these three " merry men" vociferating their old catches, and beating time to them. Of al! the chroniclers of ancient merry-making, commend us to Shakspeare! Liston's Malvolio was not "i' th' vein." We almost suspect that he copied Bensley's manner of playing it, from his imperturbable gravity. He tried his own way once or twice, but found it would not do; he then flew to the opposite extreme, and became insufferably dismal and austere. Modern play-wrights have done much towards spoiling Liston for the legitimate drama. In return for the comicality that nature has put into his face, they have put so much trash into his mouth, that when he encounters wit, in a character like Malvolio, he is puzzled to know what to make of it. The lovely pensive Viola found an intelligent representative in Miss M. Tree.

D.-G.

DUKE ORSINO.-White shirt, covered with spangles and goldembroidered border; over it a green velvet tunic, with short open sleeves, showered with white spangles, and gold-embroidered border ; white silk hose, white shoes, crimson satin sash, hat and feathers. VALENTINE.-Green velvet tunic, with gold embroidery; white pantaloons, russet boots, hat and feathers.

CURIO.-White doublet and pantaloons, trimmed with silver, lined and puffed with scarlet; russet boots.

SIR TOBY BELCH.-Slate-coloured cloth doublet, trunks and cloak, trimmed and puffed with black; brown stockings, black shoes.

SIR ANDREW AGUECHEEK.-Orange-coloured doublet and trunks, trimmed with yellow; yellow cloak, trimmed with orange; hat and stockings to match.

SEBASTIAN.-Deep amber tunic, with short sleeves; white body and pantaloons, trimmed with sky blue and black galloon; short russet boots, black cap, with blue and black feathers.

ANTONIO.-Yellow body and pantaloons, and blue fly, trimmed with scarlet and buttons.

FRIAR.-Gray gown.

MALVOLIO.-White doublet, full trunks and cloak, black puffs and trimming, black hose, white cloak, black cap, and yellow stockings, black gaiters.

CLOWN.-Scarlet, white, blue and yellow; motley dress.

FABIO-Gray tunic, and pantaloons trimmed with black, russet

boots.

SOLANIO.-Light blue tunic, trimmed with brown, gray pantaloons, russet boots.

BENVOLIO.-Green doublet and trunks, trimmed with spangles, russet boots.

PAGE.-Blue velvet tunic, spangled.
OFFICERS.-Black gowns.

VIOLA.-White satin gown, and a dress exactly like Sebastian's.
OLIVIA.-White satin dress, trimmed with black.

MARIA.-White muslin dress, trimmed with black; point black velvet body.

Cast of the characters at the Theatre-Royal,
Covent Garden, 1825.