All critical study of Hamlet must be psychological, and as there are few subjects which have been more closely studied, and more copiously written upon, than this magnificent drama, criticism upon it may seem to be exhausted. But human nature itself is still more trite; yet, study it profoundly as we can, criticise and speculise upon it as we may, much will ever be left outside the largest grasp of those minds who undertake to elucidate so much of it as they can comprehend. Hamlet is human nature, or at least a wide range of it, and no amount of criticism can exhaust the wealth of this magnificent store-house. It invites and evades criticism. Its mysterious profundity fascinates the attention; its infinite variety and its hidden meanings deny exhaustive analysis. Some leavings of treasure will always be discoverable to those who seek for it in an earnest and reverent spirit. Probably no two minds can ever contemplate Hamlet from exactly the same point of view, as no two men can ever regard human life under exactly the same aspect. Hence all truthful criticism of this great drama is not only various as mind itself, but is apt to become reflective of the critic. The strong sense of Johnson, the subtle insight of Coleridge, the fervid eloquence of Hazlitt, the discriminating tact of Schlegel, are nowhere more evident than in their treatment of this mighty monument of human intellect. Every man who has learned to think, and has dared to question the inward monitor, has seen some part of the character of Hamlet reflected in his own bosom.

Aye, every inch a King, in all his pompous vanity, his reckless passion, his unstable judgment, a thorough king, whom even madness could not dethrone from the royal habits of authority, of strenuous will, and of proud predominance. As the highest mountain summit becomes the fearful beacon of volcanic flame, testifying in lurid characters to the world's deep heart-throes, so this kingliest of minds—he who in his little world has been the summit and the cope of things—becomes, in the creative hand of the poet, the visible outlet of those forces which devastate the soul. We stand by in reverential awe, despairing, with our small gauge of criticism, to estimate the forces of this human Etna. Oppressed by the power and magnitude of the passions, as depicted in this most sublime and awful of poetic creations, it is only after the senses have become accustomed to the roar and turmoil that we throw off the stupor, and dare to look down upon the throes of the Titan, and begin to recognize the distinctive features of the fierce commotion. Even then we must stand afar off; for not in Lear, as in others of the poet's great characters, can one for a single moment perform the act of mental transmutation. In Hamlet, for instance, the most complex of all, many a man may see reflected the depths of his own soul. But Lear is more and less than human in its isolated grandeur, in the force and depths of its passions, in its abstraction from accidental qualities. In the breadth of his strength and weakness he is painted like one of those old gods, older and greater than the heathen representatives of small virtues and vices—the usurping vulgarities of polytheism. The true divinities of Lear were old, like himself very old and kingly—Saturn and Rhea, the autochthones of the heavens; even as his qualities are laid upon the dark and far off, yet solid and deep foundations of moral personality. Well might this King of sorrows exclaim, in the words of the World-spirit, to those who attempt to tear his passions to tatters before the footlights; yea, even to the more reverent efforts of critics—

The last Public Lunatic Asylum Act, 16 and 17, Vict., c. 97, passed in 1853, “For the regulation of those institutions, and for the admission &c. of pauper lunatics, wandering lunatics, whether paupers or not; or lunatics, not paupers, not wandering, and who are not under proper care and control; and also lunatics who are cruelly treated or neglected by any person having charge of them, further provides for the medical visitation in every quarter ending with March, June, September, and December, of pauper lunatics and idiots who are not in any asylum or house licensed for the reception of lunatics.” In the New Lunatic Asylums Bill, introduced this Session, by the Right Hon. Mr. Walpole, there is but one amendment affecting the public portion, which has relation to the medical certificate. The medical practitioner who is called by order of a justice to examine a supposed lunatic, is to certify not only that the person is of unsound mind or an idiot, but that he is also a proper subject to be taken charge of in the asylum, and he must also give his reasons for coming to such conclusion; firstly, from facts which he has observed himself; and, secondly, from facts communicated to him by others. These are usually the causes which have led to the inquiry of insanity, and it is of the greatest importance that he should make no confusion between those two classes of facts; he should give an account of every thing that is material in the certificate.

There is certainly no physician now engaged in the treatment of mental disease, who is not perfectly acquainted with that peculiar form of malady designated as general paralysis. In the wards of the public hospitals for the insane, in our consulting rooms, and in our private asylums, the disease in all its stages is perpetually passing under our observation. Its claim to rank as a special form of disorder is perfectly understood; its diagnosis has become speedy and certain; and yet in general medicine it is almost unknown, its most prominent features are overlooked; its indices are disregarded, and its very existence, except as either a modification of paralysis or a complication of lunacy, has been and is denied by able and experienced practitioners.

The title of this article will probably on the first impression provoke a smile; and that so simple and seemingly inert a substance as bran should exert so much influence, does appear extraordinary. But it is necessary to reflect before arriving at any conclusion, that it is by these simple means—working gradually, but continuously—that nature effects in time such unlocked for ends. Watch the continued effects of water, drop by drop, on hard stone, or the growth of stalactites and stalacmites in caverns, both of which operations are imperceptible, but still the effect most marked, if visited at distant periods.