vulsions which his agonies occasion, and commonly it happens, that a porter, or labourer, is the only one who thinks of carrying him away, and administering to him the succour which common humanity, to say nothing of Christian charity, require.

Death itself, in its most awful and appalling shape, traverses the streets of Paris without exciting the least. sensation. In the country, if you had passed your life on bad terms with three-fourths of your neighbours, your death would seem to quit all scores. As soon as

the breath is once out of your body, they treat you with respect; they pull off their hats as your funeral passes by, and even the more generous of them may some times murmur a few verses of the De Profundis, for your good.

At Paris, do not flatter yourself that any such advantages may befall you. Your hearse, notwithstand ing all its array of mourners and horses and feathers, is turned out of its course by market carts, or even viler vehicles. After being well turned and rattled and knocked about, you arrive at Pére la Chaise, and your friends are convinced there can be no danger in bury ing you, since so much shaking has not awakened you. You are carried to the grave, where a few hasty prayers are bestowed upon you.

Et maint regard semble vous dire :

Monsieur le mort j'aurai de vous
Tant en argent, et tant en cire,

Et tant en autres menus gouts.

At length you are buried, you, and all recollection of you; and your executors and legatees return home, calculating the expense of the funeral, the amount of what you have left behind you, and of their several shares. Your best friend, your dog, will remain the last at your grave, and will bid you farewell for ever, with a sincere howl; and yet, it is very likely, that you have many a time bestowed stripes upon him undeserved, and chained him up when he would have more gladly roamed at freedom.

RETZSCH'S SHAKSPEARE.

THE extraordinary artist whose admirable designs for Goethe's Faust have made him as well known in this country as any of our native painters, has published a series of seventeen plates, illustrative of the tragedy of Hamlet. It is his intention, as we understand, to follow this up by similar illustrations of the other plays of our great dramatist; and, if that intention he fulfilled, we shall be sure to have illustrations worthy of the subject; for Mr. Retzsch, putting his graphic skill for a moment out of the question, possesses that purely poetical power of invention which enables him to understand and appreciate Shakspeare's beauties. He never makes the mistake so common to English artists who undertake dramatic subjects; he does not copy stage dresses, and faces, and action, and fancy at the same time that he is embodying the creations of the poet. In a series like this, some of the plates must of necessity be superior to the others. We have selected one of those in which the artist seems to have caught the spirit of the scene best. It is that in which the ghost beckons Hamlet to follow him, and where the prince, driven by his fate, obeys VOL. 1. May, 1828.

Y

his bidding, in spite of the kind violence of his friends. The passage will best explain the plate.

Mar.

Look, with what courteous action.
It waves you to a more removed ground:
But do not go with it.

Hor.

No, by no means.

Ham. It will not speak; then I will follow it.
Hor. Do not, my lord.

Ham.

Why, what should be the fear?

I do not set my life at a pin's fee;
And, for my soul, what can it do to that,
Being a thing immortal as itself?

It waves me forth again;-I'll follow it.

Hor. What, if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord,

Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff,

That beetles o'er his base into the sea?

And there assume some other horrible form,
Which might deprive your sovereignty of reason,
And draw you into madness? think of it:
The very place puts toys of desperation,
Without more motive, into every brain,
That looks so many fathoms to the sea,
And hears it roar beneath.

Ham.

Go on, I'll follow thee.

It waves me still :

Mar. You shall not go, my lord.
Ham.

Hold off your hands.

Hor. Be rul'd, you shall not go.

My fate cries out,

Ham.
And makes each petty artery in this body
As hardy as the Némean lion's nerve.-

[Ghost beckons. Still am I call'd;-unhand me, gentlemen ;

[Breaking from them. By heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me :I say, away :-Go on,-I'll follow thee.

The whole collection is equally good. The scene of Hamlet's soliloquy, that in which he is about to kill his uncle as he is praying, the grave scene, and that of

the catastrophe, are exquisitely done. The spirit and vigour of the action, the variety of force and expression in the countenances, and the extraordinary beauty which he has managed to infuse into the scenes, are each in their way proofs of decided genius; but we think that his invention is hardly any where more decidedly shown than in the first scene, that in which the king is murdered by his brother; and where, although there are only two figures, the story is told by means of accessories and allusions in a most emphatic manner. The plates are accompanied by a triple version, in English, German, and French, of the scenes illustrated, and there is a very clever, critical, and explanatory introduction by Boettiger.

It is extremely well got up; and, considering the number and excellence of the plates, is one of the cheapest as well as one of the most delightful works of art that has lately appeared.

WRITTEN UNDER A WITHERED TREE.
WHOSE youth has not, on pleasure's wing,
Flown much too quickly by?

Whose manhood has not felt the sting
Which broken joys and hopes will bring?
Whose heart ne'er heav'd a sigh?

None for life's like an earth-bound root,
Which changes with the year;
Sweet blossoms first begin to shoot,
Which quickly ripen into fruit,
But many a blight is near;
They seize upon the springing tree,
Then soon its branches fade,
Yet the worn trunk still lingeringly
Remains to show what misery
Dwells under beauty's shade.

H. S.

HISTORICAL SKETCHES.-NO. VI.

A NIGHT AT NOTTINGHAM.

Of the ancient castle of Nottingham not a stone remains visible. A structure of modern erection and in the worst possible taste crowns the lofty eminence where the former tower stood; and, although it bears the name of castle, has nothing else to recall to the mind of the observer the proud baronial edifice of other days, which was once a place of impregnable defence against attack, and of irresistible force in keeping the surrounding country in awe. The position is one which for such purposes cannot be surpassed throughout the whole of our island. Commanding a view for many miles round, to approach it unperceived was impossible; and the difficulties of access were so many and so great, that a very moderate force would have sufficed for its perfect security.

These were the qualities which probably recommended it to the profligate queen of the ill-fated Edward the Second, who, after her husband's most foul and barbarous murder, took up here her residence with her paramour Mortimer, Earl of March. The old Saxon fortress had been carefully enlarged and strengthened. It was garrisoned by a formidable body of troops, the tried adherents of Mortimer, who had seen much service in the cruel civil strife, now known by the name of the Baron's Wars,' and whose practice in shedding the blood of their countrymen had seasoned them to more than the ordinary barbarities of warfare. Some of the chieftains, whose

principal recommendations were, that they would stop at no evil deed, when urged by the bidding of Mortimer and the hope of gain, had also taken up their abode in the castle, and they, with some few churchmen, of whom Burwash, the bishop of Lincoln, was the head, formed the court of the guilty pair.

The opposite faction, crushed and beaten as they were, saw with most dismal apprehensions the proeeedings of Mortimer. They knew that he had good