Lear.  No, no, no, no!  Come, let’s away to prison: 
     We two alone will sing like birds i’ the cage: 
     When thou dost ask me blessing, I’ll kneel down,
     And ask of thee forgiveness:  so we’ll live,
     And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh
     At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues
     Talk of court news; and we’ll talk with them too—­
     Who loses, and who wins; who’s in, who’s out;—­
     And take upon us the mystery of things,
     As if we were God’s spies:  and we’ll wear out,
     In a wall’d prison, packs and sects of great ones,
     That ebb and flow by the moon.

   Edmund.  Take them away.

   Lear.  Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia,
     The gods themselves throw incense.

The concluding events are sad, painfully sad; but their pathos is extreme.  The oppression of the feelings is relieved by the very interest we take in the misfortunes of others, and by the reflections to which they give birth.  Cordelia is hanged in prison by the orders of the bastard Edmund, which are known too late to be countermanded, and Lear dies broken-hearted, lamenting over her.

   Lear.  And my poor fool is hang’d!  No, no, no life: 
     Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life. 
     And thou no breath at all?  O, thou wilt come no more,
     Never, never, never, never, never!—­
     Pray you, undo this button:  thank you, sir.—–­

He dies, and indeed we feel the truth of what Kent says on the occasion—­

     Vex not his ghost:  O, let him pass! he hates him,
     That would upon the rack of the rough world
     Stretch him out longer.

Yet a happy ending has been contrived for this play, which is approved of by Dr. Johnson and condemned by Schlegel.  A better authority than either, on any subject in which poetry and feeling are concerned, has given it in favour of Shakespeare, in some remarks on the acting of Lear, with which we shall conclude this account.

The Lear of Shakespeare cannot be acted.  The contemptible machinery with which they mimic the storm which he goes out in, is not more inadequate to represent the horrors of the real elements than any actor can be to represent Lear.  The greatness of Lear is not in corporal dimension, but in intellectual; the explosions of his passions are terrible as a volcano:  they are storms turning up and disclosing to the bottom that rich sea, his mind, with all its vast riches.  It is his mind which is laid bare.  This case of flesh and blood seems too insignificant to be thought on; even as he himself neglects it.  On the stage we see nothing but corporal infirmities and weakness, the impotence of rage; while we read it, we see not Lear, but we are Lear;—­we are in his mind, we are sustained by a grandeur, which baffles the malice of daughters and storms; in the aberrations of his reason, we discover a mighty irregular power