IN perusing a late Review, containing a dissertation upon the works of the celebrated German writer, GOETHE, I find quoted from them the following strictures upon Shakspeare's Hamlet. As all Americans, who are readers, and have some literary pretensions, are interested in the right interpretation of our favorite poet and dramatist, I am assured it will not be deemed a work of mere supererrogation, that I should undertake to show the error into which Goethe has fallen, in his attempt to sketch the character of Hamlet. In his 'Wilhelm Meister' may be found the subjoined criticism of Shakspeare's tragedy. Speaking of Hamlet, he says: Imagine to your self this youth, this king's son; figure to yourself accurately his position; and then observe him when he learns that the ghost of his father has appeared. Place yourself by his side, in that terrible night, when the venerable spirit itself appears to him. A prodigious horror seizes him; he addresses the wonderful apparition, sees it beckon to him, follows and hears. The terrible accusation against his uncle sounds in his ears the demand of vengeance, and the pressing and repeated supplication, Remember me!' And when the ghost has vanished, whom do we see standing before us? A young hero panting for revenge? A born prince, who rejoices that he is challenged against the usurper of his crown? No. Astonishment and despondency overcome the solitary youth. He is bitter against smiling villains, swears not to forget the departed, and concludes with the significant sigh:

'The times are out of joint; O cursed spite,
That ever I was born to set them right!'

In these words, methinks, lies the key to Hamlet's whole behaviour; and it is evident to me, that Shakspeare intended to depict a great deed imposed upon a soul which is not equal to the deed. And in this sense, I find the piece complete throughout. Here is an oak planted in a delicate vase, which was intended to hold flowers; the roots develope themselves, and the vase is shattered and destroyed.'

Such is GOETHE's conception of the character of Hamlet, in which, as is evident to me, he is entirely mistaken, and in which he shows

that he never ascended to the dignity and even majesty of that hero's whole character. It was not because Hamlet was below the task assigned him by his father, that he discovered so much regret, chagrin, and even despondency, upon perceiving that the execution of it had fallen to his lot, but because he was above it. As modelled by the hands of Shakspeare, he is one of those fine, mercurial, and elevated spirits, who are capable of any enterprise which becomes a great and good man, who has the fear of God before his eyes, and the love of his fellow creatures in his heart; but it was with the deepest repugnance and inward horror, that by the revelations made to him from the ghost, he felt himself constrained to imbrue his hands in the blood of a fellow creature, and that fellow creature his uncle, and now his king, and the husband of his mother. Were these the sensations of a man incompetent to the task of avenging a father's wrongs? Did they not rather characterize him as the very person to whom a noble spirited father would choose to intrust the redress of his injuries, and the punishment of an atrocious offender? Was it ever yet thought a disqualification for his office in a judge, that in pronouncing sentence of death upor a criminal, his heart melted with compassion, and his mouth reluctantly uttered the dreadful penalties of the law? How much more strong emotions of repugnance to the part he was performing, might he be indulged in feeling, when he was to become not only the judge, but the executioner? Hamlet is represented by Shakspeare, not only as a youth of the finest capacity, and of a proud, bold, and magnanimous spirit, but also of elevated moral worth, and of a delicate and scrupulous conscience, and acutely alive to the hopes and fears of his religion. These were the feelings that caused him to look upon the part he was compelled to perform in life, by the wickedness of an uncle, with such extreme disquietude and agitation of mind. A remorseless villain would have assumed the office, and then have executed it with satisfaction, and more especially, when by so doing, he would not only punish a relative for supplanting him in the empire, but prepare the way for his own more speedy ascent to it. This is the kind of personage which Goethe more than intimates he would have regarded as equal to the task which the elder Hamlet imposed upon his son. Such a young hero, panting for revenge, or born prince, rejoicing that he is challenged against the usurper of his crown,' might, indeed, at once, and without pain or compunction of conscience, have plunged a dagger into the bosom of the king, and brought the conflict to a speedy close. But such a hero would not have been a Hamlet, nor have suited the pencil of such a painter as Shakspeare, who delighted not in the portraiture of such monsters as Meister, Faust, and Mephistophiles, but in blending the mixed lights and shades that enter into real and natural characters, with whom human beings can cordially sympathize, and in whose features they can trace, under diversified modifications, their own likeness. After quoting these lines,

'The times are out of joint; O cursed spite,
That ever I was born to set them right i'

Goëthe remarks: In these words, methinks, lies the whole key to
Hamlet's behaviour; and it is evident to me, that Shakspeare intended

to depict a great deed, imposed upon a soul which was not equal to the deed.' A strange conception, indeed, that so consummate a master of his art as Shakspeare, would have selected as the hero of his drama a personage incompetent to the task allotted him in the action! This interpretation is of a piece with that of another late commentator upon this author, who broached the opinion that Hamlet is not acting under the influence of a feigned but real insanity. Such critics would make sad work with this noble monument of human genius. To suppose Hamlet insane, or incompetent to the commission assigned him by his father, would disfigure the whole propriety, and blur the majesty of the performance. The misconception of the German writer would be fatal to that grandeur and magnanimity which are indispensable properties in a heroic character. The repug nance to the task allotted him, which is evinced by Hamlet, and a vexatious chagrin that it had fallen to his share to execute it, instead of furnishing any proof of timidity and weakness, are decided indications of moral superiority, and that delicate structure of heart and mind, that cannot brook the indignity of being constrained to perpetrate a deed which is odious and disgusting. But let it be remarked, in complete exoneration of Hamlet from this unjust imputation, that this inward reluctance to avenge a father by the condign punishment of an uncle and a mother, formed but a single ingredient in that complex feeling which at this time filled and disquieted his mind, and upon some turns of fortune, well nigh tossed reason and conscience from their throne. With this inward regret was connected all that virtuous indignation which was naturally awakened by atro-, cious guilt, together with a firm and steadfast determination to obey his father's solemn injunction, and bring the offender to a just retribution, Goëthe should have looked in other places to find the true key to Hamlet's conduct, and the great spring by which he was propelled. We would refer to the following passages of the drama, as more fully disclosing his state of mind to the reader. After the ghost has revealed to him the horrible circumstances of the murder, and solemnly enjoined upon him the punishment of the culprit, he exclaims:

'Remember thee?

Ay, thou poor Ghost, while memory holds a seat

In this distracted globe! Remember thee?

Yea, from the tablet of my memory

I'll wipe away all trivial fond records,

And thy commandment all alone shall live,
Within the book and volume of my brain,
Unmixed with baser matter.'

This passage is the one which furnishes the true key to all the subsequent deportment of Hamlet; and to the purpose he here promulges he most inflexibly adheres, whatever may be the vacillations of mind to which he becomes subject afterward, on account of his doubts, difficulties, and scruples of conscience. It is this mixed character in Hamlet, and the lights and shadows that are alternately falling upon the scene, and perplexing his vision of the several objects presented, which give rise to all those interesting events and conversations, that render this production such a noble delineation of those divers affections and passions that actuate the human heart, and an unrivalled monument of human genius. WARBURTON.

FOWLING.

BY ALFRED B. STREET, ESQ., AUTHOR OF THE FOREST WALK,'SPEARING.' ETC.

'YET this great solitude is quick with life;

And birds, that scarce have learned the fear of man,
Are here.'

A MORN in September, the East is yet gray;

Come, Carlo! come, Jupe! we'll try fowling to-day:
The fresh sky is bright as the bright face of one,

A sweeter than whom the sun shines not upon;

BRYANT.

And those wreath'd clouds that melt to the breath of the south,
Are white as the pearls of her beautiful mouth :

My hunting piece glitters, and quick is my task

In slinging around me my pouch and my flask;

Cease, dogs, your loud yelpings, you'll deafen my brain!
Desist from your rambles, and follow my train.

Here, leave the geese, Carlo! to nibble their grass,

Though they do stretch their long necks, and hiss as we pass ;
And the fierce little bantam, that flies your attack,

Then struts, flaps, and crows, with such airs, at your back;
And the turkey, too, smoothing his pluies in your face,
Then ruffling so proud, as you bound from the place;
Ha! ha! that old hen, bristling up mid her brood,
Has taught you a lesson, I hope, for you good,
By the wink of your eye, and the droop of your crest,
I see your maraudings are now put at rest.

The rail-fence is leaped, and the wood-boughs are round,
And a moss-couch is spread for my foot on the ground:
A shadow has dimm'd the leaves' amethyst glow,
The first glance of Autumn, his presence to show':
The beech-nut is ripening above in its sheath,

Which will burst with the black frost, and drop it beneath.
The hickory hardens, snow-white, in its burr,

And the cones are full grown on the hemlock, and fir;
The hopple's red berries are tinging with brown,
And the tips of the sumach have darken'd their down;
The white brittle Indian-pipe lifts up its bowl,
And the wild-turnip's leaf curls out broad like a scroll;
The cohosh displays its white balls and red stems,
And the braid of the mullen is yellow with gems;
While its rich spangled plumage the golden-rod shows,
And the thistle yields stars to each air-breath that blows.

A quick startling whirr now burst's loud on my ear,
The partridge! the partridge! swift pinion'd by fear;
Low onward he whizzes, Jupe yelps as he sees,

And we dash through the brush-wood, to note where he trees;
I see him his brown speckled breast is displayed

On the branch of yon maple, that edges the glade;
My fowling-piece rings, Jupe darts forward so fleet,
While loading, he drops the dead bird at my feet:
I pass by the scaurberries' drops of deep red,

In their green creeping leaves, where he daintily fed,
And his couch near the root, in the warm forest mould,
Where he wallow'd, till sounds his close danger foretold.

On yon spray, the bright oriole dances and sings,
With his rich crimson bosom, and glossy black wings;

And the robin comes warbling, then flutters away,
For I harm not God's creature's so tiny as they;
But the quail, whose quick whistle has lur'd me along,
No more will recall his stray'd mate with his song,
And the hawk that is circling so proud in the blue,
Let him keep a look-out, or he'll tumble down too!
He stoops-the gun echoes - he flutters beneath,
His yellow claws curl'd, and fierce eyes glaz'd in death:
Lie there, cruel Arab! the mocking-bird now
Can rear her young brood, without fear of thy blow;
And the brown wren can warble his sweet little lay,
Nor dread more thy talons to rend and to slay;
And with luck, an example I'll make of that crow,
For my green sprouting wheat knew no hungrier foe;
But the rascal seems down from his summit to scoff,
And as I creep near him, he croaks, and is off.

The woods shrink away, and wide spreads the morass,
With junipers clustered, and matted with grass;
Trees, standing like ghosts, their arms jagged and bare,
And hung with gray lichens, like age-whiten'd hair.
The tamarack here and there rising between,
Its boughs cloth'd with rich, star-like fringes of green,
And clumps of dense laurels, and brown-headed flags,
And thick slimy basins, black dotted with snags :
Tread softly now, Carlo! the wood-cock is here,
He rises his long bill thrust out like a spear;
The gun ranges on him his journey is sped;
Quick scamper my spaniel! and bring in the dead!

--

From this scene of exploits, now made birdless, I pass;
Pleasant Pond gleams before me, a mirror of glass:
The boat's by the marge, with green branches supplied,
From the keen-sighted duck my approaches to hide :
A flock spots the lake; now crouch, Carlo, below!
And I move with light paddle, on softly and slow,
By that wide lily-island, its meshes that weaves
Of rich yellow globules, and green oval leaves.

1 watch them; how bright and superb is the sheen

Of their plumage, gold blended with purple and green;
How graceful their dipping - how gliding their way,
Are they not all too lovely to mark as a prey!

One flutters, enchained, in those brown speckled stems,
His yellow foot striking up bubbles, like gems,
While another, with stretch'd neck, darts swiftly across
To the grass, whose green points dot the mirror-like gloss.
But I pause in my toil; their wise leader, the drake,
Eyes keen the queer thicket afloat on the lake;
Now they group close together-both bands-oh, dear!
What a diving, and screaming, and splashing are here!
The smoke-curls melt off, as the echoes rebound,
Hurrah! five dead victims are floating around!

But 'cloud-land' is tinged now with sunset, and bright
On the water's smooth polish stretch long lines of light;
The headlands their masses of shade, too, have lain,
And I pull with my spoil to the margin again.

Albany, February, 1840.