thing can be more explanatory of the effects of stimulating the production of food to the exclusion of all other commodities.

Considering the suggestion of spade cultivation therefore as pernicious, or at least unprofitable, and nowise adapted to ameliorate the condition of the working classes, some other means of averting the desolating evils of vice and misery, or, which is the same thing, placing the bulk of the people in a better condition, must be sought. To this end it should be distinctly understood, that wherever a large proportion of the lower or labouring classes suffer from extreme poverty, it is because there exists a greater quantity of persons dependant for subsistence on labour than the capital of the country is capable of employing. That in order to procure to the labouring classes a tolerable share of the produce of the country, the competition for employment must be diminished, for it is impracticable to attempt forcing the accumulation of capital so as to keep pace with population.

This adjustment of labour to the capital which is to set it in motion, constitutes then the chief remedy by which the baneful effects of a redundant, and consequently impoverished, population can be averted. The mode in which this remedy shall be brought to bear with most efficacy, forms the subject of consideration in the sixth chapter of Mr. Place's book, section 2d.

In the foregoing remarks we have endeavoured to state the main points on which Mr. Place meets Mr. Godwin, and in our opinion refutes him. On the means for preventing superabundant population, which our author has suggested, we decline entering for the present.

THE SPECTRE BOAT, A BALLAD.

BY T. CAMPBELL.

Light rued false Ferdinand, to leave a lovely maid forlorn,

Who broke her heart and died to hide her blushing cheek from scorn.
One night he dreamt he woo'd her in their wonted bower of love,

Where the flowers sprang thick around them, and the birds sang sweet above.
But the scene was swiftly changed into a church-yard's dismal view,
And her lips grew black beneath his kiss from love's delicious hue.
What more he dreamt, he told to none; but shuddering, pale, and dumb,
Look'd out upon the waves, like one that knew his hour was come.
'Twas now the dead watch of the night-the helm was lash'd a-lee,
And the ship rode where Mount Etna lights the deep Levantine sea;
When beneath its glare a boat came, row'd by a woman in her shroud,
Who, with eyes that made our blood run cold, stood up and spoke aloud.
Come, Traitor, down, for whom my ghost still wanders unforgiven!
Come down, false Ferdinand, for whom I broke my peace with Heaven!—
It was vain to hold the victim, for he plung'd to meet her call
Like the bird that shrieks and flutters in the gazing serpent's thrall.

You may guess, the boldest mariner shrunk daunted from the sight,
For the spectre and her winding-sheet shone blue with hideous light;
Like a fiery wheel the boat spun with the waving of her hand,

And round they went, and down they went, as the cock crew from the land.

To the Editor of the New Monthly Magazine.

ON GARRICK'S DELIVERY OF A PASSAGE IN SHAKSPEARE. SIR,-As any thing which tends to throw a striking light on the spirit of one of Shakspeare's most celebrated passages can scarcely be uninteresting to the majority of your readers, you may, perhaps, not object to afford me a page or two, for a few remarks on a suggestion thrown out by a writer in your last number. In the paper on Mr. Matthews's new entertainment, it was stated, that that exquisite artist had given an imitation of an imitation (—" the shadow of a shade"-) of Garrick's manner, when he spoke the celebrated soliloquy in Richard the Third, "Now is the winter of our discontent," &c. This excited my curiosity towards the subject, and induced me to pay particular attention to the imitation in question; and as the witnessing of it has had the immediate effect of totally changing my previous feelings on the point, I am tempted to offer a few words in justification of the opinion which, in common with your contributor, I now firmly adhere to.

It is not less remarkable than true that a whole generation shall frequently remain for years together in the possession of one undisputed, and as they seem to think, indisputable opinion, on a given point; when suddenly a single touch of the Ithurial spear of inquiry shall discover to them that they have been all along cherishing a decided and palpable error. I anticipate that nothing less than this will soon be the case with regard to the spirit of that celebrated passage to which I am now directing your readers' attention. I will place the passsge before them, and then briefly state why I think so.

"GLOSTER-Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that loured upon our house,
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths,
Our stern alarms are changed to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marchings to delightful measures.
Grim-visaged War has smoothed his wrinkled front;
And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds,
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,—
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber,

To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.”

Now, can any reader peruse the above passage, and reflect for a moment on the character and situation of him who utters it, and then say that it should be delivered in a low, gloomy, thoughtful, muttering tone, and with a bitterly contemptuous and ironical turn of expression? Who is the speaker? and of what is he speaking? Is it not upon 66 our house" that the "clouds" have till lately "lowered?" Is it not "our brows" that are now "bound with victorious wreaths?" And are not Ambition and Glory the gods of the speaker's idolatry-the only godsthe gods to whom he sacrifices, with a gay and reckless hand, every obstacle that stands in his way? Who is it too, that has brought about this "glorious summer?"-who, but the " sun of York;" the Plantagenet; by a relationship to whom the "high-reaching" Gloster "looks proudly on the crown;" and which crown, but for the late successes that he is contemplating, he might in vain have hoped to compass? And with all these considerations playing, shifting, and

blending themselves together in his ever-active mind, will he be likely to utter their results in any other than a tone of joyous exultation, with smiling lips, fire-darting eyes, and altogether an action and demeanour calculated to evince the presence of that new-born spirit of hope which may be supposed to have just visited him?

It must be borne in mind that Gloster is a person absolutely without shame, fear, or remorse; a gay, impudent, bold-faced villain; exulting in the consciousness of his intellectual superiority, and firmly believing that it will carry him safely and triumphantly through all difficulties. He can "smile, and smile, and murder while he smiles;" not hypocritically or affectedly, but from pure love of the sport. Nay, he can scarcely murder without smiling: there is not one of his deeds of blood that he does not cut a joke upon. Even his own deformity, the contemplation of which is the only thing that ever for an instant disturbs the self-complacency of his thoughts-he can make merry even with that; and only treats it seriously to serve a particular purpose-as in the scene where he bares his withered arm, and calls for punishment on those through whose spells (as he would insinuate) this has befallen him.

The reader will do well to recollect that those "compunctious visitings" which assail Gloster in the Tower, are confined to the acted play, that impudent falsification of Shakspeare and history which has so long kept possession of the stage, to the disgrace of our national taste and feeling. In the real scene in the Tower, Gloster is all lightheartedness and joy. Even his anxious care about the mode of burying the murdered princes is all interpolated. What cares he how or where they are buried? It is enough for him that they are dead; and when Tyrrel tells him

"The chaplain of the Tower hath buried them;

But where, to say the truth, I do not know,”

he does not say a word more on the subject; but proceeds gaily to sum up the number of his subjects of self-congratulation,

"The son of Clarence have I penned up close;

His daughter meanly have I inatched in marriage;
The sons of Edward sleep in Abraham's bosom;
And Anne my wife hath bid the world good-night."

Here are as many jokes as lines; and he finishes by determining instantly to visit his niece Elizabeth, in the character of "a jolly thriving wooer."

Gloster was, in fact, disposed to be any thing rather than out of temper, either with the world or with himself. To those who did not know him, he must have appeared one of the most delightful persons imaginable. He continues careless, confident, animated, and courageous, even to the last; not to be daunted or cast down by danger or death itself. And it is remarkable, that the very last speech he utters before he rushes out to seek and find Richmond "even in the throat of death,” is evidently intended to include a pleasantry," I think there be six

By nothing but "shadows;" and by them only for a moment. See that admirably characteristic speech" Shadows to-night have struck more terror to the soul of Richard," &c. And the history of the human intellect proves that "shadows" have often been known to exercise a more striking momentary influence over minds like his than over those of a meaner rank.

Richmonds in the field," &c.

We are of course speaking of Shak

speare'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 Z.

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.

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. Ma poi ch' insieme con l' età fiorita Mancò la speme e la baldanza audace, Piansi i riposi di quest' umil vita, E sospirai la mia perduta pace.

Tasso.

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