AX:{ J.::>».?g.|MK/ii/rii/fi/. UNiYEi/- :'ALIF0RNIS . SA:% .... \ RA PEEFACE. VV iTHOLT undervaluing in the least degree the laborious researches of those English critics, who by careful collation of manuscripts, archaeological research, and historical investigation , have restored and illustrated the text of Shakespeare, it may be safely attested, that it is to Germany that we owe, if not the founders , yet the most able and systematic among the disciples of that school of Shakespearian critics, who have illustrated rather his thought than his language , his matter than his manner ; who have studied his writings rather as those of a moralist, a thinker, a master of human nature, and a poet of all places and of all time , than as those of an English writer of a certain epoch. I'he labours of what may be not unfairly called the English school of Shakespearian critics are invaluable , for without them , the language in which tlie moralist and the poet has spoken , would have been often VI PKKFACE. little understood, and to their efforts for the ekici- dation of many otherwise obscure passages, we owe much of our intelligent appreciation of the works of the great dramatist. A higher place, however, must be perliaps assigned to those who. with minds well quahfied for the task, have devoted their attention to the ilhistration of those eternal truths enshrined in that language . — truths which lie hidden to the common eye, and which, if they are to be comprehended in their full meaning, demand patient study and investigating perseverance. Among the disciples of this latter school \\ill be found the names of some English writers, such as Coleridge, Lamb, Hazlitt. and others. Johnson too treated the poet in an ethical point of view, and if this publication added little to his fame, it shewed, as Macaulay remarks, how attentively he had during man}' years observed human life and human nature. But it is not my intention in these few prefatory words to enter into any detailed notice of the works upon Shakespeare which have appeared in England. America. France, and Germany. Each of these countries may reckon among its scholars those who have conscientiously studied the genius, the ethics, and the art of the great })oet ; and the labours of Hudson , Guizot , Schlegel . Goethe. Ulrici and others , have from time to time brought PREFACE. VII forth much valuable material ami ha^c met with due appreciation. The relation in which this work of Gervinus stands to these previous commentaries, he has himself so fully pointed out in his Introduction , that it is needless for me to enlarge upon it liere. He has in- deed so far followed in the steps of his predecessors, in regarding his author not only as a poet and a dramatist, but as a moralist, and a master of human nature. He has. however, done more than this. Taking up the idea which Goethe only suggested, as it were, in his criticism on Hamlet, he has pursued the course which the German poet indicated. He has perceived one ruling idea pervading every play, linking every part , every character , every episode, to one single aim. He has pointed out the binding thread in all that before seemed disconnected , and has found a justification for much that before^ seemed needlessly offensive and })erha])s immoral. And in doing this . in thus weaving together material apparently scattered , and in giving us a guiding thread through the intricacies of the ])lot. he has o])ened out to us a new source of interesi , and has afforded a yet firmer basis to our former appreciation of the works of Shakes[)eare. It is for this reason that he holds a distingnislied place among the commentators on Shakespeare in VIII rKEFAci:. liis own country, and standing thus alone in the path he has taken, his work will he a welcome ad- dition to English Literature. His History of German Poetry and his History of the Nineteenth (.'entury have already given his name a world-wide reputation,, and have placed him in the highest rank as a critic of art, and as a philosophical historian. It only remains for me to add that I have un- dertaken this work with the author's sanction and under his supervision. It has led me more and more deeply to appreciate the views it unfolds, and the personal advantage and enjoyment I have derived from their consideration , will I trust he shared by many readers. October 1862. F. E. Bunnett. PREFACE OF THE GERMAN AUTHOR. L HE delineation of the great British poet, which 1 now publish, sprung from a series of happy hours in which for many years I made Shakespeare's works a subject of continual reflection, and drew the purest enjoyment from their elucidation. After the completion of my History of German Poetry, I was desirous to return to the long forsaken field of political history , my original purpose . My inten- tion was, and it is so still, to follow up the conclusion of that historical record of our literature , by ven- turing to undertake the history of our time, to exhibit to the German people as in a mirror the picture of the present , to hold l)efore tliem their dishonour, their vocation, and their hopes, to point out to them "the very age and body" of this time, a period which more and more promised to become a great and important one and to reward the trouble of the historical observer. Since then, events have corresponded to tliis expectation; they liokl out to the historian a still more alluring tusk , and at the same time open to him a more instructive school. X I'KKl'ACE They have drawn iiic also fur a while from my post of observation into the whirljiool of active life, a labyrinth from which, A^hatever appearances may say to the contrary, there is for the present no prospect of a satisfactory and definitive issue. Amid these agitations of political life , in the midst of investigations into the base motives of the historical world, I wanted a jdace of self-collectedness and composure, and felt the necessity for raising the sold above the low ground of reality, a necessity which could not be disregarded. The last period of our civilization and history explains sufficiently, why we are all so habituated in Germany to feel the fine arts and their gifts as a ne- cessity. But the present calls us as it were from these dear and cherished habits to the field of active life, which can be won by no half efforts and which claims our united powers. Divided between these striving necessities and demands, how may we satisfy both, without injuring either? The demands of the country, the duties of the day , the active vocations of life are uncomi)ro- mising ; these must first be satisfied : enjoyment, intellectual ease must accommodate themselves to tliem. But the enjoyments of the mind may them- selves be of such a kind, as to become a spur to our working activity and efficiency . if they are so chosen, that they keep our ideas healthy and do not over-refine our perceptions, tliat with mind and imagi- nation they engage also the practical understanding, and influence the force of the will. The works of the OF lUH GKRMAX AUTUOK, XI Muses which 2)ossess this property in a higher degree are altogetlier few ; but tliese few rank among the first and greatest. In the intellectual history of England and Ger- many, there are two men, the one born in this, the other in that land , who maintained in these later centuries the old ger manic kindred and fellowship, tlie ])ossession of whom the two nations share . and for the higher appreciation of whom they mutually strive. The equal part which they took in the most practical and the most eminently intellectual people, places these mediators between two nations promi- nently in that middle position, where they reconcile and unite contradictory qualities, and in this union lies a sure pledge of human greatness. A like inter- esting picture the whole mental history of humanity perhaps never again presents ! Tliese men and their relation to the two nations have ever therefore given me much to think of and admire ; they are drawn closer to me at the i)resent time , when their works are especially suitable to our peculiar condition. England has naturalized our Handel and reckoned him as her own ; in lasting tradition amid all cor- ruptions of prevailing tastes, she has cherished his })urc melody , and gratefully preserved his memory ; she has gathered material for his life and collected his works in an edition worthy of them. To him, a Luther in overflowing fulness, in strong and violent character, in protestant-religious depth, in wide sway over the inner world of feeling and in wonderful power of utterance , to him must we repair, if we XII PREFACE would ficc away from the errors oi" the musical path in a dull and distracted age ; for in him alone among those of later date can we understand, what the ancients have said of the vigorous Doric art as a moral means of culture and of its ennobling and strengthening influence upon the character and will of man. Upon him have the English bestowed the more just estimation ; he has remained their national favourite among musicians, although in natural and musical character no truer German could be found, although his art is intrinsically interwoven with the history of our poetry and its liighest qualities. But of tliis perhaps another time . To the Shakespeare of England we gladly boast of having done the greater justice; certain it is that through industry and love, as England did with our Handel, we have won the great poet for ourselves, though England has not sufl"ered herself to be robbed of him in the same manner as we had been of Handel. If we look for intellectual enjoyment, which on that cross- way between active and contemplative life can in itself aiford us the highest satisfaction . without enervating us for the duties of outw-ard action, there is no richer source than this poet, who with the magic of imagination fascinates enthusiastic youth and its ideals, while with the thoughtfulness and ripeness of his judgment he offers inexhaustible food to the mature mind ; who hardens and sharpens the feeling for actual and active life in its widest extent, but at the same time rises far above its barriers to the contemplation of eternal bles.sings ;. who teaches OK TlIK GKRMAN AUTHOR. XIII at once to love and to disregard the world, to com- mand it and to renounce it. With these quahties Shakespeare has robbed us of delight in much other poetry, because for all that we relinquish he indem- nifies us a hundred -fold. Even in our own great poets, our Goethe and Schiller, he has made us doubt ; and it is well known that in a new school in Germany there prevails a belief in a future second German Shakespeare, who will .found a greater dramatic arc. than the two poets we have named. Until he comes, until this belief has become active enough to dis- place Shakespeare, it can be of no damage but rather, profit in our present ]K)sition , on the threshold of a new political life, in want of a practical mental culture , af all events , if this direction of tast-e con- tinue and extend,) if we attempt anew, to natural- ize the old Shakespeare among us more and more, even at the risk of placing our own poets still further in the shade. Of the same benefit would it be to our intellectu^al life , if iiis famed contemporary Bacon were revived in a suitable manner, in order to counterbalance the idealistic philosopliy of Germany. For botli, ])oet and philosopher, who have looked deeply into the liistory and politics of their people, stand upon the level ground of reahty , notwith- standing, tlie high art of the one and tlie speculative notions of the other. JJy the liealthfulness of tlieir own mind tliey infiuence the healthfulness of others, while in tlieir most ideal and most abstract represen- tations they aim at a preparation for life, as it is, for thMtWie, in whicji exclusively the works of policy XIV I'KKFACK are concerned. Our poetry, now romantic and fantastic , now homely and domestic . and our s])iritual philosophy failed in this ; and we should well weigh, whether that is the school qualified, to prepare us for the vocation, towards which we strive so eagerly. In England, in the land of ])olitical supremacy, it would not thus be acknowledged. For no one will be full enough of delusion and folly, to think, that the poet and philosopher thus qualified, have been cast by chance among tliis people thus conditioned' One national S})irit, the same' practical hearty sense of life, which has created this state and this popular freedom , lias also fashioned that poetry so full of life , and that philosophy so rich in expe- rience. And the more decidedly we acquire and cultivate feeling and delight in such productions of the mind, the more decidedly shall we ripen towards a capacity for fashioning our active life into conformity with that wliich those departed forefathers have ex- hibited to all the world for imitation. This book will lead to the study of the poet of which it treats. Let it then be read, not cursorily nor in parts, but connectedly and as a whole, and always with the poet at hand. Much w^ould otherwise remain obscure , much appear fanciful , much would seem imputed to the poet, whilst my simple endeavour has been to allow him as much as possible to explain himself. The results of my reflections, however un- sought, will on some points offer nothing new , on others, will surprise many. Thus we need no longer prove to most readers the poetical beauty, the intel- OF THE GERMAN AUTHOR. XV lectual superiority of Shakespeare's works ; on the other hand, the splendid moral grandeur of the poet remained in many ])arts concealed to us hy the exter- nals of form and style. When first the veil that shrouds him is removed, we perceive, in this moral respect also, a greatness in this man , which rivals every other point in him , but which will strike many as singular in this age , in which one is accustomed to consider mental greatness inseparable from free- tliinking and immorality. The criticising severity of my literary judgments and my discouraging reception of the poetical attempts of our day have often met with reproof. It pleases me to have here an opportunity of showing that I can also praise and love. And if praise and love are more suitable than blame to strengthen and animate our struggling literature, then certainly must the picture , which I sketch here , apply the goad of emulation to every gifted soul. For the w'ork is performed with persevering love, the subject is chosen with exclusive love . every learned api)aratus has been expressly kept aloof, in order to rivet the eye of the beholder upon this one object of admiration. This estimation of the British poet is on the whole a necessary completion to my History of German Poetry. For Shakespeare, from his diftusion and influence , has become a German poet, almost more than any of our native ones. But apart from this importance of Shakespeare upon our own |)oetic culture, that work upon German poetry was designed by me, whilst I kept my eye steadily fixed ui)on XYI rKKFA( K OF THE (iEKMA>^ ALTilOR. the liighest aims of all poetic art; and amongst them upon Shakespeare's writings. This made my verdicts sevei*^, because having before me this highest example, partial dissatisfaction even at the greatest works of our first native poets could not be wholly con- cealed. Perhaps niany may now be more reconciled with those verdicts, wlien the standard of mea- surement has been here made more apparent.' Perhaps too from the radical difference of the two works,. we may learn better to recognize the difference between the historical and aesthetic criticism of poet- ical productions. The gain, which I myself have drawn from these considerations upon Shakespeare , ap})ears to me im- measurable. It may seem, as if little that is original is accomplished, by pladng oneself merely as judge and interpreter of another. But when this judgment is exercised upon a great man.wliose art in its power and extent fathoms all things . . whose own wisdom besides lies not before us as direct tradition : but requires a particular operation of the mind to purify it from the elements of poetic characterization, then this occupation possesses all the benefits which a practical knowledge and study of man, attempted by the greatest concentration upon the wortliiest subjects, can offer ; its advantage as well as its enjoyment can scarcely be placed in comparison with that of any other work, and it arouses all the energy of the inner self-active life. Heidelberg. 1849—50. G. INDEX. PAGE Translator's Preface V Preface of the German Author IX Introduction 1 Shakespeare at Stratford 32 Shakespeare's Descriptive Poems 51 Shakespeare in London and on the Stage 63 Dramatic poetry before Shakespeare 6-1 Mysteries 66 Moralities 68 Interludes 72 Revival of Ancient Art 81 Romantic Dramas 83 Revival of the English Drama 96 Histories K'2 The Stage H" Shakespeare's first dramatic attempts 112 Titus Andronicus and Pericles M-* Henry VI 15^ The Comedy of Errors and the Taming of the Shrew ... I S."j Second Period of Shakespeare's Dramatic poetry -"' 1. Erotic Pieces -""•' The Two Gentlemen of Verona -1' Love's Labour's Lost and All's Well that Ends Well . . 227 Midsummer- Night's Dream -•'•' Romeo and Juliet '^^'* The Merchant of Venice , • •*''' XVII INDEX. PAGE II. Historical Pieces 344 Kichardlll 359 Richard 11 3S7 Henry IV. Parti 414 Henry IV. Part 11 460 Henry V 472 King John 492 III. Comedies 519 The Merry "Wives of "Windsor 526 As you Like it 5.39 Much Ado about Nothing 567 Twelfth Night or AVhat you "Will 591 IV. Shakespeare's Sonnets 617 Errata. Page 21, line 12, for •philosophical', read ■philological'. INTRODUCTION. J- HERE are in the present day a nnmber of writings npon literatnre and men of letters, Avhich, nndcrtaken in conseqnence of some clianee impidse, are treated with pas- sing interest, are received as snperficial novelties, and read with transient curiosity. Not so Avonld I wish myself or others to estimate these reflections on Shakespeare. I cannot desire to offer them as a trifling recreation , for they treat of one of the richest and most important subjects, which could be chosen. For these reflections concern a man wlio by nature was so lavishly endowed, that even there Avhere the standard by which to estimate him was most wanting (as among the critics of the Romanic nations) , an innate genius within him was ever anticipated, and they admired in him a s])iril imconscious of itself; wliile those avIio understood liow to penetrate into his works witli an unprejudiced mind agreed more and more in the slowly acquired conviction, that, in whatever branch of knowledge it might l)e , no age or na- tion could easily exhibit a second , in wIkmii tlic ricbes of genius, natural endowments, original talent, and vcisatiHty of poAver, Avere so great as in liim. I. 1 INTROnrt'TlOX. And Avliat is still more , these reflections concern a man who made the freest use of these liberal gifts of nature. Shakespeare was filled with the conviction and uttered it in various exjjressions , that nature has gice^i nothing- to man, hut has only lent, that she only gives him, that he should give again. He had the experience, that it is not enough in the life of a striving man , to have once entered the path of honour, but that it is important ever luideviatingly to persevere in its track. And he followed out this conviction with the most untiring eff'ort, whilst from the beginning to tlie end of his public career he displayed an activity which to us Germans especially, who have seen a Goethe and a Schiller (no insignificant men, indeed), struggling in toil- some work, appears wholly unintelligible. These reflections concern a man, whose poetical supe- riority is felt by all , even by those incapable of accoiuiting for it; whilst the intelligent judge who is most thoroughly conversant with \\m\ and can view liim in his relations to the history of poetry in its full extent , sees him stand in the centre of modern dramatic literatiu'C in the place which Homer occupies in the history of epic poetry, as the reveal- ing genius of this branch of art , as one whose course and example can never Avith impunity be forsaken. These reflections finally concern a man ^vhose entire merit cannot be measured by his poetic greatness alone. His works have been often called a secular liible; Johnson has said that from his representations a hermit might learn to estimate the afl'airs of the world : liow often too has it been repeated, that in his poems the world and human nature can be seen as in a mirror ! These are no exaggerated expressions , but reasonable, well-foimded opinions. Human nature is not INTRODUCTION. 3 merely presented as in the ancient drama, in its typical characters, in his poetical creations it is portrayed in dis- tinct individualized forms ; in all circumstan(;es -we look within upon the inner life of ilic man, in the dealings of all classes and conditions, in all kinds of family and private life, in all phases of pul)lic history. We are introdnced into the life of the Koman aristocracy, re2)idilic and monarchy, into the mythic heroic age of the first inhabitants of Gavd and Britain , into the adventiu-ous world of the romantic period of chivalry and the middle ages, upon the soil of English history of niediipval and modern date. Upon all these epochs , upon all these nuinifold circumstances, the poet looks from a superior point of view, so exalted above prejudice and party, above people and age, with such a soundness and certainty of judgment in matters of art, custom, politics, and religion, that he appears to belong to a later and riper generation ; lie displays in all common or pecidiar conditions of the inner and outer life, a wisdom and a knowledge of human nature , whicli constitutes him a teacher of mupu'stionable authority; he has so derived his views of morality from a rich observation of the outer world, and so refined them by a rich inner life, that he de- serves more than perhaps any other, to be trustfully chosen as a guide through our worldly course. To be engaged earnestly and eagerly with such a man, rewards every trouble and denuuids every effort. If we speak of poetry, the general reader thinks only of the highly- wrougiit productions of the day, and of the worthless no- vels which fill up tedious hours, and satisfy the necessity created and made habitual by our over-abundant literature. No thoughtful man can take pleasure in this mental craving ; 1* 4 IN ri;()])r( riox. there is on the contrary an old and excellent rule, that for self-culture little of the good should be read, but that again and again. Tn no case will the application of this rule be so richly rcAvarded, as in the study of Shakespeare. For he is ever new, and he cannot satiate. Not only he maxj , but he must be often read, and read with the accuracy, \\\X\\. which we are accustomed at school to read the old classics ; otherwise one seizes not even the outer shell, much less the inner kernel. Every younger reader of Shakespeare Avill have made the experience , that the mere subject of his plays, the plot, the action, even during the reading, is only with effort fully apprehended, that soon, after one or even many readings, it is again wholly forgotten. As long as it stands thus with Shakespeare's plays , they have not been under- stood ; to approach him closer , demands honest industry and earnest endeavour. Such is not only the experience of every single man, but of the whole world. For two hmidred and fifty years have men toiled over this poet ; they have not grown weary, digging in his works as iu a mine, to bring to light all the noble metal, they contain ; and those who were most active, were humble enough at last to declare, that scarcely a single passage of this rich mine Avas yet exhausted. And almost two centuries of this time had passed away, before the men appeared, who first recognized Shakespeare's en- tire merit and capacity, and divested his pure noble form of the confusion of prejudices, which had veiled and dis- figured it. How was it, that this poet should so long remain an enigma to the whole literary world and history? that so extraordinary a man should be so tardily appreciated , and I^^TRODucTIO]s^ 5 even yet by many be so imperfectly understood,— a poet who was in no wise indistinct concerning himself, and whom indeed many of his contemporaries seem to have fully valued? To these questions there lies one answer in the charac- ter of his works themselves, and this answer Avill be ob- vious to us of itself at the conclusion of these reflections : the cause of the tardy appreciation of our Poet lies before all in this, that he is an extraordinary man; the ordinary alone is comprehended quickly, the common -place only is free from misconception. Jkit another answer to the question lies in history. And out of her records Avill I mention in these introductory re- marks the not unknown circumstances which caused a great spirit like this, Avhose mental energy had been so justly esteemed, to be so completely forgotten ; I will then point out in what manner and through whose merits he was by degrees rescued from this oblivion ; and in conclusion I will state in what relation this present work stands to simihu past ones, Avhich undertook the task of an explanation of >Shakespeare's writings. Hefore the time, in which Shakespeare wrote (from 1590 — KJ15), there existed in England no literature, which Avas pecidiarly the possession of the people There were English poets, but no national English ])oetry ; the most famous were learned men, who studied Latin and Italian poetry, and wrote in imitation of their model. Tlieir son- nets, their allegories, their talcs, couhl do little for a national poetry. In the circle of these men, Shakespeare entered with his narrative poems and sonnets. Even in these snudler works, amid the purest modesty and humility, the self- b INTRODUCTION. roliaiicc nf the Poet , Avas dec idedly expressed. In his son- nets lie promises the youn<^ friend, to whom they are ad- (h-essed, an immortality through his verses which shall en- dure as "long as men can breathe or eyes can see"; he challenges Time to do his utmost ; in spite of his destroying power, his beloved shall, through his poetry, live in eternal youth. He will raise to him by his verses a monument, ''which eyes, not yet created, shall o'erread", and tongues to be his being shall rehearse, when all "the breathers of this world are dead." Such virtue had his pen, that he shall still live, "where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men". This self-reliance in the poet must have extraordinarily increased with time, when he looked back on the Avork of his life. In Henry the Sth's time, the stage was only in its rough beginning; under Elizabeth it became the place, where first a national English literature found a home. The chivalric epopee, the Italian novel and lyric, Avere borrowed from the stranger ; but M'ith the foundation of the drama the Saxon genius of the people Avas aAvakened, and the stage became a national property. The people streamed from the churches to the play-houses, the court and the noble encouraged the Avorks of dramatic art ; protection from the upper classes, favour among the loAver, the im- portance of its productions, raised the stage in a quarter of a century from the humblest to the highest position. Its intrinsic value, Shakespeare might Avell say, he had alone given it ; celebrated protectors of the stage among the no- l)ility Avere his especial patrons, tAvo Aery different rulers in turn favoured his Avorks particularly, and the people de- lighted in the representation of his characters. INTRODUCTION. 7 This estimation of the poet was anticipated and partlv fatlionied by his contemporaries , even when they couhl not justly appreciate it. Among- them no one has more beauti- fully expressed the admiration of the age than Ben Jonson, who has been indeed too often cried down as an envier and an enemy of our poet. But in truth he Avas joined with Shake- speare, who first introduced him to the world and to the stage, in a lasting friendship, which, redounded as much to the high honour of both as did that union of esteem between our own German poetic Dioscuri; and although his narrower intellectual horizon prevented him from estimating- entirely the extent of Shakespeare's genius, he was yet ever suffi- ciently forgetful of self, to acknowledge Avith Avarm enthu- siasm the honourable heart and the free open nature in the human character of his friend, as Avell as the high soaring- of his richly imaginative and poetic mind. In his Poetaster (1601) he uttered a eulogy upon Virgil's art and Avorldly Avisdom, Avhich, it is believed, Avas pointed at Shakespeare's great present fame, and predicted his greater future glory That which he has writ Is with such judgment labour'd and distill'd Through all the needful uses of our lives, That, could a man remember but his lines, He should not touch at any serious point, But he might breathe his spirit out of him. His learning savours not the school -like gloss. That most consists in echoing -words and terms, And soonest wins a man an empty name ; Nor any long or far-fetch'd circumstance AVrapp'd in the curious generaltics of arts : But a direct and analytic sum Of all the worth and first effects of arts. And for his poesy, 'tis so ramm'd with life, That it shall gather strength of life with Ix-ing, And live hereafter more admir'd than now. 8 INTRODUCTION. In his v(nscs to tlie memory of his friend, published with the first edition of his Avorks in 1623, he raises Shake- speare over the English dramatists, whom it was certainly not diificult to excel ; he wishes moreover to call thunder- ing Aeschylus , Euripides , Sophocles, and the Roman dra- matists to life " to heare his Buskin tread, and shake a stage", or Avhen "his Sockes w-ere on", no one "of all that insolent Greece or haughtie Rome sent forth , or since did from their ashes come", could compare to him. "Triumph, my Hritaine" he continues : thou ha.st one to showe, To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. He was not of an age, but for all time! And all the Muses still were in their prime, AVhen like Apollo he came forth to warme Our eares, or like a Mercury to charme ! Nature herselfe was proud of his designes, And ioy'd to weare the dressing of his lines! AVhich were so richly spun and Avouen so fit, As since, she will vouchsafe no other wit. The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes, Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please ; But antiquated, and deserted lye As they were not of Nature's family. Yet must 1 not giue Nature all : Thy Art, My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part. For though the Poet's matter Nature be. His Art doth giue the fashion For a good Poet's made, as well as borne. And such wert thou. Looke, how the father's face I.iues in his issue, euen so, the race Of Shakespeare's minde and manners brightly shines In his well-torned and true-filed lines ; In each of which he seemes to shake a Lance, As brandish't at the eyes of Ignorance. Sweet Swan of Auon : what a sight it were. To see thee in our waters yet appeare, INTRODUCTION. 9 And make those flights upon the bankes of Thames, That so did take Eliza and our James ! But stay, I see thee in the Hemisphere Aduanc'd, and made a Constellation there ! Shine forth, thou Starre of Poets, and with rage, Or intluence, chide or cheere the drooping Stage ; Which, since thj^ flight fro' hence, hath mourn'd like night, y And despaires day, but for thy Volumes light. How came it then, I repeat the question, that this Poet, whoso worth was not unknown to himself, to the penetra- tion of the discerning, and to the instinct of the masses in his own time, shouhl have been ahnost forgotten a few years after his death, and for more than a century shouhl have been wholly misunderstood. ■ — The folloAving is the solu- tion of this enigma. The favour, which the Poet enjoyed, could in his life have been in no wise universal , because his art itself was a con- temned profession. The spirit of the austerely moral reli- gious age was in large circles of society hostilely opposed to the luxurious worldly works of the stage. Serious na- tures also in the literary world ridiculed compassionately the activity of the frivolous stage -poets who h()])ed for ini- iiujrtality from their iambics, the jealous anu)ng them at- tacked the art as a public scandal aiul corruption. Like the chivalric epic poets of the 1 1th century, many of the dra- matic poets (like Greene and Gosson) repented in later years their former profane writings, implored their friends to leave the sinful art, and ended by dealing with religious subjects as an atonement for the past. The warmest defenders of the Drama must have themselves confessed tliat it was a matter needhig support. Tlie clergy, the magistrates, the corporation, steadily opposed all theatrical matters. Thus 10 IMKODLCTION. tlie (liainatic avl in Eiiglaiid liad at the period of its highest excellence to protect itself against the threatenings and ])ersecntions of active, important, and dreaded adversaries. The dramatic art was not rarely advantay^eous in a high degree to the poet and actor, but as in almost all times, and at that time to a much greater extent than now , it was infected Avith a moral stain. A^Tiere the alluring attraction of the art was direct and immediate, there, on the spot for the moment, the ensnaring charm elevated the poet ; out- side the doors, where the marvel had not been seen, he was disregarded and unknown. But this was not the only thing which caused at this time the name and calling of a poet to be held in disre- ])ute. It was not so Avell with writers of that day as Avith om- OAvn German poets of the former century, who appeared in times w^hen political life lay fallow, when no opposing or rival activity disturbed and diverted, when the literary movement absorbed the entire life of the people and out- weighed every other interest. ^A'ith Shakespeare's time we may date the true beginning of English greatness : the reli- gious energy of the people, the art and knowledge peculiar to the genius of the nation , and the commencement of the future political and maritime power of England, lie like a bud of rich promise in the period of Elizabeth's rule. With sur- prising rapidity arose the spirit of enterprise, the commerce, and industry of the Island kingdom : foreign policy received a great and national basis by the protestant movement against Spanish and Romisli principles : the destruction of the invincible armada flSSSj, destined by Spain for the con- quest of England, the bold contests by sea, which formed at the time a race of great sea-heroes, decided the political INTRODUCTION. 1 1 superiority of the little Eno-laud over the world-wide mon- archy of Spain ; after Elizabeth's death, Scotland was united to England, and then hcgan the first prosperous colonial undertakings (I606j, by which the outward power of the kingdom was extended and the inner obstacles to commerce removed. In this young political activity, in this fresh ani- mated national feeling , literature could only form a part, and that small and obscure, in the great march of excited popular life, and only a small share of that divided interest was directed to the literature of the Drama. Thus it was, that two men of the first literary rank, such a philosopher as Francis Bacon, such a poet as Shakespeare, if not absolutely overlooked in that much excited period, Avere by no means universally known, and that they themselves gave probably little attention to their mutual works. The fame of poets, such as Ariosto and Tasso, Racine and Moliere, Goethe and Schiller", passed quickly over the whole European world ; of Shakespeare, no one abroad had heard in the 1 7th cen- tin-y, and even the evidence of his fame at home is sought out in later times with difficulty and toil. Thus had the mere notoriety of the poet to struggle at the very first wdth the whole w^eight of unfavourable circumstances; an under- standing of his Avorks was still less possible. His inlays were only written for representation ; those who did not see them , knew them not ; it Avas Avith the dramatist as Avith the actor, Avhose sad lot it is, that his art cannot be made per- manent, it passes awayAvith the moment. The plays Avere not designed for reading; their appearance in print, for fhe most part fraudulently obtained, Avas regarded as an injury to the stage Avhich Avas the proprietor of the manuscript, perliaps also as prejudicial to the renoAvn of the poet, who not rarely hi- 1 2 INTRODUCTION. vented his sceneis (as Marston says) "only to be spoken and not to be read." Thus then of Shakespeare's dramas also, only the half were printed during his life , and not a single one under his superintendence and revision. Not till seven years after his death did his Avorks, collected by his fel- low-actors, appear in a folio -edition (1623), of uncertain and unwarranted value ; the older qvuirto - editions of single pieces (inveighed against it is true) appeared in this Avith all their senseless faults by the side of the ncAvly-added, equally carelessly revised pieces, only really re -printed. This edition was re -published in 1632. At that time the plays of the poet were still held in popular honour; but already a Fletcher had surpassed the master in the favour of the over-excited stage-public ; and with the characteris- tic lack of all criticism in that period of English litera- ture, the revieAvers Avere iioav utterly AAanting, aaIio might have discerned the pre - eminence of Shakespeare's works, and might have demonstrated the grounds of their supe- riority. Not long afterAvards the Avhole stage Avas sAvept aAvay by the altered ciuTent of the national life. In 1642 began the civil religious Avars in England, and in the same year all theatres in England Avere closed ; the austerely religious, puritan zeal conquered at length in its long struggle Avith the profane stage, and tolerated no more its unhalloAved Avorks. The same befell English hterature after Shakespeare's time, that had befallen it in the 1 5th cen- tury after Chaucer's : the civil Avars had so convulsed the nation and its civilisation, that no refuge remained. TAventy years of bloodshed and a complete overturning of public and private life almost effaced the remembrance of Shake- speare's literary epoch. When at the Restoration under TNTROnUCTION. 1.3 Cliarles II. and James 11. , with the court-diversions and a gayer life, the stage was also revived , the characters of the Shakespearian pieces became , it is true , again the test of theatrical skill , and the taste of the Saxon people returned even now with a predilection for their favourite, Avhich seemed to the learned of the day as hlamcAvorthy as it was inexpli- cable; but the strong, riotous interest in the stage as in Shakespeare's tune seized the multitude no more ; the thea- tre was formed after the frivolous and light taste of the court, and Avas no longer susceptible to great and earnest works. Speedily French literature began to rule the world, the taste for the antique and stiff rules of art was in direct opposition t(^ the popular character, and to the free spirit of the works of Shakespeare. This taste reached its highest point of con- trast in the poetical productions of an Addison and Pope, and in the criticism of Thomas Rymer, who ascribed to an ape more taste and knowledge of nature than Shakespeare possessed, and pretended to find often more meaning, ex- pression and humanity in the neighing of a horse and iu the groAvling of a mastiff, than in Shakespeare's tragical flights. When in 1709 Nicholas Rowe undertook an edition of Shakespeare's works and attempted to sketch his life from tradition , he found that of such a wonderful man scarcely any thing was known, hardly even the originals of his writings, and of his life only a couple of unvoiuhed for anecdotes, which even at the present day the most diligent inquiry has only been able to replace by a few authentic facts. From the Restoration until Garrick's time in flu; se- cond half of the 1 0th century, many indeed of Shakespeare's plays were performed, but these in general most unworthily disfigured. At this time he was read and valued by Milton, 14 INTRODl ("HON. the greatest poet whom Eiiiilaiul since Shakespeare has possessed, a man, whose single appreciation might have been of more importance to our dramatist, than that of ''the million". He found , that in tlie "deep impression ' of his ''Delphic lines" he liad sepulchred himself in such pomp, "that kings, for such a tomb, would wish to die" ; and yet even he regarded him only as the child of an unbridled fancy, as a sweet singer of "native wood-notes wild." When in the ISth century literature stepped in advance of politics and religion, England also began Avith the revival of the older literature, to resuscitate Shakespeare's also. The re-awakening interest in his works and the slowly increas- ing estimation of his value is first perceived by a great continuous series of editions. From Rowe's first attempt in 1709 to produce a corrected reprint, there appeared every ten years at least one new edition of Shakespeare's w orks, Pope's 1725, Theobald's 173:^, Hanmer 1744, Warburton 1747, Capell I 7 OS, since Johnson 176"), with the addition of various readings and explanations, Avhicli under the united efforts of Steevens in 1760, Malone 1790, Reed 1793, Chalmers' IS II, and Boswell's IS2I, more and more opened the way for the understanding of the poet. For the inward estimation indeed of his intellectual merit and artis- tic value, these w^orks offered little that is usefid, all the older among them up to Steevens and Malone were written inider the tyranny of the French taste and the most haughty disregard and depreciation of the poet. The oracle of this taste Avas Voltaire. In his youth, after his residence in England, he had indeed himself proudly introduced Shake- speare into France, impelled by him he had written his Ihutus in 1730, he had praised the English stage on account INTRODUCTION. 15 of its abundance of action, and had timidly imitated some of its freedoms, lint when, from the first French translation, analyses and elaborations of Shakespeare's plays by Dela- place and Ducis beg-aii to spread abroad the fame of the British poet, when the criticism of Arnaud and Mercier ven- tured indeed to attack the classical routine, when Letourneur, in his translation of Shakespeare in 17 76, exalted the bar- barous poet even beyond ('orneille and Racine, then Vol- taire's early favf)ur was turned into the l)itterest enmity. In the dissertation upon tragedy before Semiramis, he i^ave his opinion that Nature had blended in Shakespeare all that is most great and elevating, with all the basest qualities that belong' to rudeness Avithout genius ; he called Hamlet a rude play, which would not be endured even by the lowest mob in France and Italy ; he could say, it was the fruit of the imagination of an intoxicated savage ! Thus aesthetic nar- row-mindedness judged the greatest phenomenon of mo- dern poetry; but it was an oracle. IIow should the com- mentators advance further, who had in themselves nuich less poetry than even Voltaire, amongst whom the acute AVar- burton declared, that he had only looked through this kind of vriters, such as Shakespeare, in his younger days to refresh himself after more grave employments. Thus it was easy, if one regarded the general judgments of these interpreters, to ridicide their pedantic siftings, their aesthetic ftincies, their paltry corrections, and their assumed superi- ority over the poet; our Romanticists in Germany have scorn- fully despised them. This was neither due nor honourable. These editors had received the poet's works as sonu'tliiiig quite foreign to them in language, habits, and circum- stances; the later among them since .Johnson, have with 16 IXTROntJCTIOX. unwoaviod investigation of iiiinicrous and worthless soui"ces made the poet readable and enjoyable in language and matter ; by suitable explanations they have transformed ob- sciure passages into beauties, and by ingenious conjectures they have converted single deformities of language into true, even here and there elevated poetry. These laborious works first discovered to the nation the hidden treasures of the poet; the givers and receivers were earnest in seeking to miderstand the subject matter of the poet so indispensable to the spiritual perception of his writings , and without which those German critics and translators would have been debarred even from acquaintance with their favourite. For the inner understanding of the Poet, these editions of his works, I have said, offered little that was useful; that little was limited to isolated, psychological, and a?sthetic remarks. In Warburton, in Johnson, and in Steevens, the most intelli- gent of all, there are excellent explanations of certain pas- sages, traits, and characters, which burst forth amid preju- dices and false judgment, as proofs, how the greatness of the poet prevailed more and more even over the narrow minds of these criticisers. But Hke Voltaire and most of the French critics, they held fast their prejudices, without feeling how absurd it was to believe that in one man the extreme of coarseness could be united in giarins: contrast with the greatest sublimity; even to a Villemain (in his essay on Shakespeare in lS39j it could happen, that in one breath he spoke of the rude and barbarous genius, and of his unattain- able tenderness in the treatment of female cliaracter. In accordance with this kind of partial investigation, witli these passing flashes of perception, followed alternately by greater darkness, was the treatment of Shakespeare on the INTRODUCTION. 17 Stage, both in Germany and England. The jubilee tAvo liundred years after Shakespeare's birth, celelnated in Strat- ford in 17G4, denotes about the time, when through Gar- rick the poet's works were revived upon the English stage. Then-, women urged for liis monument in AV^estminster, clubs were formed for the performance of his plays, and Garrick promoted the study of his characters. He banished the stiff pomposity of the French drama, all straining for' effect, and all preposterous representation, and reinstated in their rights, nature, simplicity, and genuine humour. Annually he produced about eighteen of Shakespeare's plays, and endeavoured to piu-ify them from past disfigiu-e- ment. l>ut all that we kuoAv of the histrionic concerns of this period, sufficiently shoAvs that only single actors con- ceived the idea of single parts ; of a play as a whole , as Shakespeare must have conceived it, there was no idea So even Schroeder in (lermany attained to a wonderfvd height of success in the representation of Shakespeare's characters, but he too stood alone. It is said, that an actress, who played the part of Goneril witli liim in King Lear, was so agi- tated by Lear's curse, that she would never again set foot upon the stage ; the anecdote docs all honour to Schroeder's playing, but it may be conjectured, that the actress was far from sharing his art. Thus slowly and step by step through commentators, an anderstanding of isolated passages and poetic beauties was obtained, — through actors and tlirough a series of writings upon the leading figures of tlie Shake- speare dramas, an understanding of single characters and psychological truths was arrived at, but the Aviiole of the poet and of each of his single works remained an ciiigiii;!. The alterations of Shakespeare's inlays even by (Warrick and L . -^ 1 8 INTKODUCTION. Schroeder, fiiniishes evidence in itself only too plainly, tliaf these judges were themselves far from a just percep- tion of them. Nevertheless, this was the especial period of the revival of Shakespeare in England ; it was, at the same time, the period of his first introduction into Germany. For the clear perception and estimation of Shakespeare as Avell as for the ripening of our own germinating dramatic art, this was of equally decided importance. The man, Avho first valued Shakespeare accortling to his full desert, Avas indisputably Lessing. One single pas- sage, where, in his Dramaturgic, he speaks of Romeo and Juliet, shows plainly, that he apprehended his plays in their innermost nature, and this with the same unbiassed mind, with Avhich the poet wrote them. With all the force of a true taste, he pointed to Wieland's translation of the English dramatist, when scarcely any one in Germany knew him. Not long before, Shakespeare had been in plain earnest compared amongst us Avith Gryphius, now Lessing appeared and discovered in the great tragic poet an accordance with the highest pretensions of Aristotle. The English editors and expositors of his works were yet under the Gallic yoke, Avhen Lessing cast aside the French taste and the opinion of ^"oltaire, and Avith one stroke so transformed the age, that tee noAv ridiculed the false sublimity of the French Drama, as they had formerly laughed at English rudeness. Lessing's recommendation of the English poet was closely followed by Eschenbm-g's translation, and a completely changed taste among our young dramatists. To form the even balance of judgment, a rude counterpoise to the exaggera- tions of French propriety appeared for the moment a neces- sity. In Goethe's youthful circle in Strasburg, they spoke INTRODUCTION. 19 in Shakespeare's puns, jokes, and pleasantries, tliey wrote in his tone and style, they exliihited all the coarseness and nakedness of nature in contrast to French gloss and tarnish, and felt themselves from identity of character as much at liome with the Germanic nature of Shakespeare as with Hans Saclis. In the camp of these free spirits, the cry was for power and nature, and the result was the exaggeration of both in caricature; both in the pictures from Shake- speare's works by the painter Fiissli, and in the poetical imi- tations of Klinger and Lenz. Ihit this enthusiastic appro- priation and devotion, this poetic imitation of the English master, even in the youthful works of Schiller and Goethe, led nevertheless here to a totally different, a more spiritual kind of understanding. The distortion and extravagance of their early opinions passed in time from the minds of these men , who as poets and critics were equally prepared to take a wholly different vicAv of the study of Shakespeare to that of the English commentators of old ; the image of the poet is set forth for the first time in the unassuming truth of nature. In Wilhelm jNIeister, Goethe produced that charac- teristic of Hamlet, which is like a key to all works of the poet ; here all divided and separated beauty is rejected, and the whole explained by the w^liole, the soul of the outer framework and its animating breath is exhibited, whicli created and organized the inunortal work. Unfortunately Goethe went no further hi explanation of t lie poet; he thoTight later, that all was inadequate that could be said about him, although he knew that he had found the entrance fo his innermost shrine. He Avas, like Voltaire, out of luimoui l)e- sides, that Shakespeare should have surpassed him in im- 2* 20 INTROJ)ucTIO^^ poitauco ; he liiid once Avislied to emulate him, later he felt that the ^reat poet would sink him to the bottom. Shakespeare rocked the cradle of oiir iiewly-born dramatic ])oetry in the former century, and had nursed its youthful efforts. This immense gain from the revived poet Germany dared Hot acknowledge with slight recompense. With us noAv ensued the reverse of that which had happened in Eng- land in the IStli century. • We wrote no critical notes upon the poet; wanting the materials, we wanted also the voca- tion for them. We translated him ; and while the English possess a series of editions, wc have from Wieland and Eschenburg to Schlegel and "S'oss and even down to the disciples of Tieck and many subsequent stragglers, a Avhole number of translations, ever newly issued and ever newly read. If there the annotations almost concealed the text, they gave us for the most part the text without any notes. This accustomed us to quite another manner of reading the poet. Wheji the Englishman passed perhaps with difficulty over isolated passages, Ave, on the contrary, destitute of all explanations, read rapidly on ; we were careless about parts, and compared to the English reader we lost many separate beauties and ideas, but we enjoyed the whole more fully. For this enjoyment we Avere chiefly indebted to. the trans- lation of A. W. Schlegel, Avhich even Englishmen read Avitli admiration. The archaisms are here erased, the roug'li words of the period gently modified, yet the whole charac- ter faithfully maintained. The sensibility of the German nature, the flexibility of our language, the taste and mind of the translator, procure for this Avork equally great and lasting- honour. More than any other effort on behalf of the English poet, tliis translation has made liini our OAvn. Ad- INTRODUCTION, 21 uiivatioii ipaclicd a fresh point. And this rathor with us than in England. For it is to me beyond a doubt, that the criticism of the old English editors, as for example not long ago again appeared by Courtenay, Avould have been quite impossible Avitli us in Germany, even in one such exception. Old prophecies concerning the poet's future seemed to be accomplished. For truly with us has luippened that which Leonard Digges, a contemporary of Shakespeare, wrote of his works: — they would keep him young for all time, and the day Avould come Avhen every thing modern would be de- spised, every thing that was not Shakespeare's woidd be esteemed an abortion; theuNevery verse in his Avorks woidd rise anew, and the poet be redeemed from the grave ! How'eyer great were the merits of our Romanticists i^ having aiTanged Shakespeare's works for our enjoyment, even they have only little contributed to the inner percep- tions after which Ave seek, to the unfolding of the human nature of the poet and the general value of his Avorks. In A. W. Schlegel's dramatic Lectures (1812) the pieces are singly discussed. All testifies here to poetic delicacy and sensi- bility, all is f>iir, alluring, inspiring, a panegyric of a totally different kind, to the criticising characteristics of the Eng- lish expositors. But more tlian tliis, more than tlie contrast of admiration compared witli the former blame, nu)r(' flian the application of a natural taste to the works of ihc jxx-l in opposition to the French prejudices of tlie fornu'r period, — more than this, this delineation offers not, full of sugges- tion as it is , it fell far short of satisfying even Schlegel's nearest friends. The plan whicli (iocflic had (h'signed in Wilhchii Mei- ster, AA-as not continued. In IS23, Fran/ Morn in live vol- 22 INTRODUCTION. mnes on Sliakespcare diluted tlie Schlegel characteristics still more, tickled by that insipid humour, which was in- tended to exhibit the comic poAver of our romanticists, he took especial delight in the cloAvns, and sees the poet even in his most earnest moods, tlirough a medium of sarcastic ridicule : his untpialified praise , coupled witli so much ab- surdity, is almost an insult. Subsequently Tieck for many years excited our expectation of a comprehensive work on Shakespeare ; he gave much evidence of a deep study of the poet and his time, and still further tokens of a secret Avis- dom and initiation, but the promised whole apppeared not, and the fragments Avhich did appear promised nothing. The great zeal for Shakespeare manifested in German literature reacted in the beginning of this century upon England. When Nathan Drake in 1 S 1 7 published his ample work upon Shakespeare and his times , the idolatry of the poet had passed already to his native land. The aesthetic view is little cared for by Drake ; greater industry is be- stowed upon the pictm*e of the times ; the "poetic antiqua- rian" was to be contented; but the Avork has the merit of having brought together the tedious and scattered material of the editions and of the many other valuable labours of TyrAA'hitt, Heath, Ritson, Monck ^lason, Seymour, Douce &c. for the first time into a aaIioIc. Quite a different treatment of the poet had been attempted by Coleridge even before Drake. He had from IS 11 to 1S12 held lectures upon Shakespeare , so much in Schlegel's mind and man- ner, that a dispute arose as to the priority of merit of the tAvo aesthetic philosophers. Coleridge's genuine lectures Avere never printed; only a fcAv fragments are remaining, just to prove to us, that he of all Englishmen first measm'ed IINTRODUCTION. 23 the poet by a true standard. He declaimed against the French notion , that in Shakespeare all was the emanation of a genius unconscious of himself, "that he grew immortal as it were in his own despite"; he justly contended , that his judgment was commensurate with his genius , that he was no wild lusus naturce , that his so called "irregular- ity", was only the dream of a few pedants. He advanced the assertion, then a bold one in England, that not merely the splendour of parts constituted the great- ness of Shakespeare, by compensating for the barbarous shapelessness of the whole , but that he found the aesthetic form of the whole equally admirable with the matter, and the judgment of the great poet not less deserving our wonder than liis innate genius. He (and since him Camp- bell and so many other enthusiastic admirers) placed him quite out of comparison with other poets ; he declared it an absurdity , to prefer him earnestly to Racine and Corneille, or to compare him witli Spenser and Milton ; he saw him stand so exalted above all, that he Avovdd have him only compared Avith himself. A wide spread interest for Shakespeare and the litera- ture of his time has been again excited in England of late years. Yet highly characteristic now as in the former cen- tury, this interest clings to the matter alone. It would al- most seem, as if England had especially resigned to her Avomcn (Jameson, Griffith, Montagu and others) the task of handling Shakespeare's intellectual side, although this can- not surely be a woman's work. The I'ercy, (yamdeii , and Shakespeare societies emulate each other in the publication of rare sources; the works of the poetical contemporaries of Shakespeare have appeared in excellent editions, espe- 24 rNTRODUCTION. liallv ill tlic liaiuls of Al. Dyce ; and since Collier's first tlrliatc as lo the ground of a new edition of Shakespeare, we ]iia\ drite in England a new period of Shakespeare cri- ticisms, in which no longer cavilling fault-finders, but en- liglitened admirers purified and explained the Avorks of the ])oet. For a time Collier and Charles Knight maintained the field alone; recently Dyce, Howard Staunton, Singer in a new revision of his careful edition of 1S26, Halliwell Avith his splendid edition , formed a more complete cluster ; and urged by this animating spirit of emulation-, even in Germany, Delius, Tycho Mommsen, F. A. Leo and others, were carried aAvay by these philosophical efforts in a matter hardly to be expected from foreigners. Unfortunately with this eagerness of the English at the present day, is entwined the hist(n-y of a long-prepared and long-continued literary fraud , which a Avitty Avriter has called a new ajfaire dii Collier : an extensive Aveb of deceptions , in Avhich first of all the life of Shakespeare has been falsified AAitli pleasing inventions, and then the text of his Avorks has been threat- ened Avith ail invasion of alterations, the dangerous novelty of Avhicli aAvakened the attention of the critic, and rendered his eye so acute that the deception, hardly suspected, Avas at once discovered and proved, * Painful as it is, to see the history of Shakespeare's after-life disfigured by. this high- treason against the croAvned head of the English language and literature, perpetrated on this very poet, to Avhoni no * I content myself Avith referring to the Avorks of tAvo paleograpli.s Avho liave decided this matter : Hamilton, an enquiry into the genuine- ness of the Ms. corrections in Mr. >S. P. Collier's annotated Shake- spere folio IKH'i. London isHii. Ingleby, a complete vieA\- of theShake- spere controversy. London isui. INTRODUCTION. 25 human vice Avas so detestable as falsehood and forgery , it cannot but be gratifying to me to pass over this interlude with this slight mention , since the famous various readhigs- of the Bridgewater and Perkins folios, even if they .were best authenticated, would hardly have affected my special task, Avhich is only concerned with the general psycholo- gical and sesthetic examination of the poet. On this point nothing of importance has occurred in England during all the years of these new movements and endeavours Avith re- gard to Shakespeare. Thus we ever return , when we seek a model-explana- tion of Shakespeare's works, to Goethe and his interpre- tation of Hamlet. Upon this remarkable play, the most glaringly opposed opinions were to centre ; the turning- point of the true appreciation of the poet was to issue from these conflicting views. Voltaire, Avho had read this piece, in order to criticise and make use of it, saw in it only a heap of disconnected, confused scenes. His verdict deserves never to be forgotten. "Hamlet", thus he characterizes the drama, "is mad in the second act, and his mistress is so in the third ; the prince kills the father of his mistress, feigning to kill a rat, and the heroine throws herself into the river. They bury her on the stage; the gravediggers utter (juod- libets, worthy of them, holding sculls in their hands; prince Hamlet replies to their disgusting follies with coarse- ness not less disgusting. During this time, one of the actors makes the conquest of Poland. Hamlet, his mother and his stepfather drink together on the stage; tliey sing at table, they quarrel, they strike, and they kill." Noav arose Goethe, and this same alleged chaos suddenly a])peared as an harmonious world full of admiral)le (nder. He pointed 2b INTRODUCTION. out one single bond -which linked together the apparently discoiniected scenes and characters, one single thought, to wliich every action and every figure may be traced. Every inconsistency of character finds its explanation, every offend- ing passage its justification, every apparently incidental part or action its necessity, every heterogeneous episode its connection with the whole. The explanation justified that declaration of Coleridge's , that the form and structure of Shakespeare's plays are indeed as worthy of admiration, as they had before been decried as barbarous. This result of Goethe's examination was so new and striking, that he thought himself obliged to bring forward the objection of the traditional opinion ; so accustomed w^as the Avorld to see in Shakespeare only the Muses' untutored child of nature, that it was confounded to be obliged suddenly to seek in his Avorks a systematic, well-digested, artistic design, which constituted him just as calm and superior a thinker, as he had previously been estimated a Avild natural genius. And yet in the interpretation of this play, we can go even further than Goethe went, and the work becomes clearer at every step and increases in attraction and depth. And more than this; in almost each of Shakespeare's works, the same structure upon one undeviating plan is to be shown, as in Hamlet. Not in all in like manner; not in the apprentice-Avorks of his early youth, and not in the same degree in the firstfruits of his independent creation as in the riper productions of the poet ; but throughout gra- dually from the first it may be traced, hoAv Shakespeare in- stinctively out of one single idea laboured for that moral unity in his plays, Avith Avhich he has satisfied the most severe demands of art of the oldest a?sthetics. lNTRODUCTIO>". 27 It Avas to be expected, that the example of Goethe's ex- planation of Hamlet would Jiot he lost. What he did for the single piece, it would soon be wished to see carried out for the whole. To venture this attempt, is even my task; now that the way has been once indicated, it will be yet oftener done ; the effort has been already made ; although only in Germany, and even there, hardly in Goethe's exact meaning-. At the prime of the new romantic school, when the British writer forced his way to Italy, when in 1S21 and 1S22 they strove even again in France after better translations of Shakespeare*, Avhen the Globe maintained the Germanic tendencies of art, Avhen an English theatre in Paris (1827) introduced the poet in his perfect form, and young dramatists undertook to follow his flight, Guizot suflered himself to be impelled to a spirited study of Shakespeare (1821. 1858), not however by Goethe, but by Schlegcl. Yet he too stopped at the controversy of the time, Avithout Avish- ing to decide it, AA'hether the dramatic system of tlie Eng- lishman Avere not better than Voltaire's, the question Les- sing had long age settled. He saAv that it Avas obstinate to deny the art and rule in Shakespeare's plays; striving to discover it for himself and i'ov others, he Avas on tin; track of the rule of their moral unity; he perceived Avith admiration their structure upon one ruling idea, Avhich referred every part to one and the same aim, and at every step revealed the profundity of the plan as Avell as the greatness of the execution ; but he found this unity of idea in tragedy alone and not in comedy, Avliere, the more concealed it lies, only * Only quite lately a com])lete and completely true and unvar- nished prose translation has been undertaken in France by Francois Victor Hugo. (1850.) 2S IXTRODUCTIOX. \\'\[]\ \hv ^leater nicety is it observed; moreover he con- tented liiniself with having pointed it out only generally, ■without proving it in detail in his analyses, on.Avhich all however hinged. In H. N. Hudson's lectures on Shake- speare (1S48) this great aesthetic question has been hardly glanced at. Every critic of Shakespeare -will highly rejoice at this American's tine appreciation and estimate of the poet on the whole ; in the development of single characters on the other hand he is throughout impeded by tlie inter- mixture of individual points of vieAV, and the want of an extensive knoAvledge of human nature ; with respect to the internal structure of the pieces , the reader will above all see with surprise, that this critic was not even aware of moral unity in them, that he overlooked the poetic justice, and saAv a kind of moral confusion "prevail throughout. If this were just, the attempt to give a more profound expla- nation of Shakespeare's works would be hardly worth while. The best part of his art would fall to the ground ; for if poetry does not exhibit the rvde of moral justice , it degrades itself to a loAver position than that of genuine history. Among the German interpreters, Llrici has at- tempted to tread the path pointed out by Goethe, which I also have purposed to pursue. It must ever be the case, that interpreters, occupied with the same predilection upon the same subject, should meet upon many points. Yet it seems to me tliat our pliilosoplii- cal method of examination is not applicable to tlie poetry of a time, whose peculiar philosophy sought knowledge in a totally different manner to our own ; it is not applicable to the Avorks of a poet of honest healthy mind, whose eye and ear were his pilot and steersman through life and the world. INTRODUCTION. 29 who, ricli as lie was in philosophic profoundness , was still further removed than Goethe from philosophy itself. And just so far should we place philosophy from his poetry ; for the effect Avill ever he discordant , when the barren field of speculation approaches too closely this fresh green of reality. Shakespeare's Avorks should properly only be explained by representation. For that and for that alone were they written; the separation of dramatic poetry from histrionic art, through which both arts have suffered, was unknown in Shakespeare's time. The main difficidty to the under- standing- of -liis plays lies tluis alone in this, that we read them and do not see them. For full as they are of poetic beauties , of psychological cliaracteristics , of moral worldly wisdom, of references and allusions to the circumstances and persons of the time, tliey divert the attention to the most different points, and place a difficulty in the way of the comprehension and enjoyment of the whole. But when they are performed by actors ,' Avho are equal to the poet, a division of labour takes place , which, by the interposition of a second art, assists us to the easier enjoyment of the first. Actors, who have understood their parts, relieve us of the trouble we have in reading, of separating- perhaps twenty different characters , and understanding them and their mutual relations; the appearance, the words, the be- haviour of each actor, explain to us, without effort, as in a ])icture , the figures and the mainspring of the action ; by the finest threads they guide us through the intricacies of the plot, and lead us by an easy way into the most inner and secret part of the artistic structure. lie, therefore, who thus explains Shakespeare's works, that lie prepares the actor for the ])erce])tion of llie whole and of his pait, and 30 INTROm^CTIOX. initiates him, as it were, for such an intelligent and perfect representation , that , if carried into execution , would give the true artistic inteqiretat Ion, he Avould best explain the poet, and would liave seized the only method which places no constraint upon his works. But if the works of Shakespeare Avere singly explained in this manner, there yet remains another and more difficult task : so to arrange these evidences of the poet's activity, that they, brought before as not in systematic combination, but in their living succession, should in their inner connec- tion lead us again from the scattered variety to one higher common point, to the creative spirit of the poet. Let this geni- us of the poet be watched in its development, be discerned and traced out in its imperfect embiyo , in its growth , and in its finished form , from the compared abundant contents of his Avorks and the scanty sources concerning his life , let even a pale image be sketched of the mental condition, the personal peculiarity and circumstances of the great man, — between both, between his inner life and his poetry, with a few speaking touches, let a bridge be thrown, a connection pointed out, Avhich may shoAv that Avith Shakespeare as Avith every rich poetic nature , no outer routine and poetic pro- priet}', but inner experiences and emotions of the mind Avere the deep springs of his poetry , — then first Avould that be truly acquired, Avhich Avould bring us near to our favourite : Ave should draAv out the sum of his personal existence , and obtain a full pictme , a living vieAv of his mental stature. And such as Ave are in our weakness : Ave believe that we possess our gods, only AA'^hen Ave have brought them into hu- man form , and so Ave have also the natural desire to knoAv the minds Avhom Ave honour in their Avorks, in their person- INTRODUCTION. 31 al and Ininian nature, l^ut in this matter almost every thing- from which we draw is only hypothetic and fragment- ary, and it is to be feared that the recital which springs from such sources , will be rather a poem of the historian's, than a history of the poet, liut a similar hazard attends every historical recital ; every historical work of art reflects the mind of the narrator no less than the subject presented ; and this only acquires a living reality for the human mind, when it has been received and newly fashioned by tlie cre- ative power of human genius. Thus this attempt also may be ventured on, even in the danger of finding in the following narration more fiction than truth. SHAKESPEARE, AT STRATFORD. In a note to Shakespeare's sonnets Steevens wrote for our information, concerning the poet's circumstances, the follow- ing- sentence: "all that we know with any certainty of Shake- speare is, that he was born in Stratford on Avon, married and had children ; that he went to London , where he appeared as an actor, and wrote poems and plays; that he returned to Stratford, made his Avill , died, and was buried." If good fortune have not preserved for us somewhere the Lives of all poets, over which Thomas Heywood, a prolific poet, contem- porary and acquaintance of Shakespeare, worked more than twenty years, our curiosity on this point will most probably be left unsatisfied. For this inadequacy of our knowledge of Shakespeare's outer life, we are sometimes consoled with the idea, that the history of his mind on the other hand is all the more complete. This is true; but we must at the same time acknoAvledge, that notwitlistanding we nuist seek the necessary. starting point for the history of this mind in the scanty information . concerning Shakespeare's life. AVith this intention we select from the few touches of his outer history only that Avliich could have influenced the inner character and the formation of the poet's mind. SHAKESPEARE AT STRATFORD. 33 Til this matter we shall not too pedantically disdain to take into consideration even that Avhich in the uncertain myths and traditions is only possible and probable ; for even a mere supposition, though it only casts a doubtful twilioht upon the history of Shakespeare's development , is for our aims far more important, than the most certain statements as to his goods and chattels, upon which in England so much industry has been bestoAved. The Shakespeare family ever since the 14th centurv had spread and multiplied in Warwickshire. It was not origin- ally established in Stratford on Avon, the birth-place of William Shakespeare ; the poet's father, John Shakespeare, probably first settled here about 1551. This man in the city records Avas once termed a glover; but tlien we find him also designated as a yeoman and occupied with agricultural objects; and again other doul)tful although old traditions make him a wool-stapler or a l)utclier; all of which can be easily combined if we tliink of liim as a small proprietor, who endeavoured to turn bis produce in corn, cattle, wool, and leather to account as a local merchant. .John's fatlier, Ivicliard Shakespeare of Snitterfield near Stratford, tlie grandfather of our poet, seems to have been a tenant of Ro- bert Arden's of Wilmecote. A union between the tAVo families was formed by .lolm Shakespeare, avIio in 1557 married Maria, the youngcsl of RobertArden's seven daughters, a year after her fatlier's death. The Ardens were one of tlie most considerable and most opulent AVarAvick families ; we know that they rivalled the Dudleys, at the period tliat Leicester stood at the lieight of his poAver; the marriage Avas thus an evidence of .I(»hii Sliakespeare's position, and intimates that he luust liave l)een I. -i 34 hiHAKESPKAllE AT STRATFORD. in good circuinstuiiecs, prosperous, if not rich. This is con- firmed hy otlicr evidence. In the year 1564, we have the op])ortunity of comparing his charitable contributions with tliose of otlier inhabitants of Stratford, and tliese place him in the second rank in the corporation. He was the owner of several houses, and in the city records he appears gradually rising in rank and importance, as juryman, constable, cham- berlain, alderman, and at last, from Michaelmas 156S to Mi- chaelmas 1569, as bailiff of Stratford, the highest place in the corporation. •John Shakespeare lived till 1601, his Avife till 160S; both lived to see the success and prosperity of their much- famed son. William Shakespeare was baptized on the 26tli April 1561; many biographers are pleased to give cre- dence to an utterly uncertain tradition, that he was born on the 23rd April, the day on which he also died. Of the eighf children of John Shakespeare, four sons and four daugh- ters , he Avas the eldest son. He survived the plague which burst out soon after his birth; providence preserved him; several of the other children died early ; one brother, Edmund, was subsequently an actor with him at the same theatre. There was in Stratford a free grammar-school, where the sons of all members of the corporation Avere educated gratuitously. Here must Williiim Shakespeare have learned the rudiments of the classical languages, which at that time Avere far more cultivated than noAv. We shall seize this first opportunity to touch briefly in this place on the much - dis- puted point of Shakespeare's education and acquirements. According to an unproved tradition in RoAve's life of Shake- speare, the father of our poet, being in needy circumstances, Avas under the necessity of AvithdraAving his son premature- SHAKESPEARE AT STRATFORD. 35 ly from school, and he is said to have then become a scliool- master in the conntry. Two other reports at the end of the 1 7 th centmy, one of which comes from the lips of a parish- clerk at Stratford, SO years age, relate that William learned tlie hntchcr trade of his father. All three connmmications intimate an interrnption and deficiency in the poet's edu- cation, in which we readily hclieve, however mnch we may admire the self - instruction , with Avhich he sub- sequently must have compensated for it. In the days of his first successes, Shakespeare in depicting a Avide gap, employs in his sonnets the image of the distance between learning and his "rude ignorance"; a true scholar like IJen Jcmson might say of him in the consciousness of his oAvn learning, that he had possessed "small Latin and hss Greek". Farmer has thus unnecessarily taken the trouble to prove that Shakespeare read Plutarch not in Greek, but in llie Ejiglish translation. Alexander Dyce, however, makes a re- mark upon this , which in fact decides the whole strife con- cerning the poet's education and knowledge. "If he could not read Plutarch in the original", says the reverend critic, " I will only observe, that not a few worthy gentlemen of ouY day, who have taken their degrees in Oxford or Cam- bridge, are in the same case." To us Germans the nature and condition of Sliakespeare's education may be made perfectly clear by one word of comparion. Our Goethe and Schiller appear, compared 1o Voss, just as Shakespeare does compared to Px-n .Fonson. They read, they understood their Homer only iu a Ciirmau translation. lUit that the one learned to scan from A'oss, and the other later consulted Humboldt at an advanced age of life, whether he still ought lo study Greek, affords no con- :i * 30 SHAKKSlMCAUK AT sTKATFORl). elusion as to tlu-ir wliole iiitellocliial training. Just as little ean Sluikespeaie's small amount of Greek witness against the cultivation of his mind , aye , not even against the ex- tent of his information. Hather, Ave may venture to say, that Shakespeare had in his time few equals in the range of liis manifold knowledge. How too, in this respect, have the opinions of the present day changed from those of an ear- lier date ! The puhlishers of the former century on account of some historical, geographical, chronological errors, looked down upon the ignorant poet with an air of superiority. NoAv, however, whole volumes arc written, to prove his knoAv- ledge of true and fahidous natural history, to evidence his familiarity with the Bible, to establish his agreement A\ith Aristotle, to make him one and the same person as tlie phi- losopher Bacon ! Noav a legal authority like Lord Campbell (Shakespeare's legal acquirements considered, lS.")9j has se- riously examined a former conjecture, which even contem- poraries seem to have shared : that Shakespeare before his transition to the stage had been employed in the office of an attorney ; and although tlie severe judge, for the want of sa- tisfying proofs, considers the inference drawn from such a partial representation of the poet's knoAvledge of law to be as venturesome as if Ave Avould conjecture a na\^al or sport- ing school on account of his knoAvledge of hunting and ship- ping, still even he finds, that it demanded the most riclily endoAved of all men, by mere presence at judicial proceed- ings or by intercourse Avith attonn ys, to contract the fluency and technical accuracy of expression , and allusions to hiAV matters and forms , Avhich are so striking in Shakespeare's works. Thus Armitage BroAvn concluded from tlie poet's Italian knoAvlcdge , that lie must have travelled in Italy! •SHAKESPEAKK AT STRATFOKU. 37 And if we will not assume, which is most decidedly contrary to the principles of the moral character of our poet, that he took great pains to affect a knowledge of the Latin, French, Italian and even Spanish languages, we must confess, that he has sIioavu greater ac(piaintance with these languages, than is acquired in mere })astime. AVith respect to his clas- sical learning, it has lieen rightly alleged, in behalf of his more fundamental knowledge of Latin, that he used single words of this language in the genuine original signification which they have lost with their adoption into English. Whoever would gather togetlier proofs oi' his extensive read- ing, would find a wide and vast field of literature, with which the poet was familiar ; and when Ave discover matter for criticism in his knowledge of liistory and geography, we nuist not forget, that at that time chronicles were the only liistories of which he kncAv, and that geography was rarely a subject for study. Yet if we were to believe that Shakespeare's Avanton anachronisms in Midsummernight's dream or in Winter's Tale arose from pure ignorance , we should be committing the same absurdity, as that English critic, who reproached Goethe seriously with the superstition, with Avhich in the beginning of his autobiography he has discussed the constellations at his birth. We return to the liistory of the poet's youth. Jnttle to be relied on has reached our knoAvledge, but sufficient to allow us to guess, that his earliest experiences must have [)lanted an abundance of deep impressions in his soul, Avhich may have subsequently become rich sources for Ids ])octif creatictns. A course of misfortunes befell him and liis house al tlic ])eriod Avhen passion, sensibility, and imagination are strongest in men : he had to eat the bitter bread of tribulation and to 38 SHAKKSPKARK AT STRATFORD. pass through inner and outer sorrow, that school of great minds and powerful characters. From his fourteenth year the former prosperity of his father's house was broken up; a stroke of misfortune befell his mother's family, the Ar- dens ; his own indiscretion and self- created distress f(jl- lowed; so that we see, he had not only to experience a season of adversity, but also one of indignity, which developed side by side his good and bad qualities. We will smgly pass in review the main facts. From 1 5 7 S, when "William was fourteen years old, the affairs of the father, John Shakesj^eare , de- clined. He w;as obliged in this and the year following to mort- gage an estate (Ashbies) in Wihnecote, and shortly after to sell his wife's share in other possessions in Snitterfield ; moreover Ave find, that in the years 157S — 79 he was ex- empteil from all poor rates and other public contributions. From the last year, being "warned", he ceased to attend the halls, and on this account in 15S6 he was superseded by another in his position as alderman, it would seem with- out his own wish or consent in the matter. -Just about this time the return to a distringas was, that there was nothing- found to seize ; and soon afterwards avc find him degraded even to imprisonment for debt. In the year 1592, his name appears in the report of a commission, which had to take note of those who did not come monthly to church, accord- ing to royal command ; and the memorandum is subjoined, that J(din Shakespeare ''coome not to church e for feare of processe for debte". In the documents which relate to these domestic circumstances, he is now always designated as a "yeoman". Perhaps he had given up his retail -trade for agricultural pursuits, and had thus fallen into difficulties. From all this it may be inferred, and we find it subsequently SHAKESPEAKE AT STKATFORD. 39 confirmed, that the chihhoii were early thrown iqjon them- selves and then- own resources. A misfortune of another kind befell his mother's family, the Ardens, when our poet was in liis IDth year. The head of this family was Edward Arden of Park Hall. The jealousy of the two Warwick houses of Arden and Dudley has been slightly referred to before. It was deadly between this Edward Arden and the notorious Earl of Leicester, a character so familiar to all readers of Schiller's ]\Iaria Stuart and Walter Scott's Kenilworth. When Leicester in the year 1575, in those famous festivities at Kenilworth, entertained and wooed Queen Elizabeth, he was carrying on at the time a criminal intercourse with the countess of Essex, whom he married after the death of her husband in 157G. Even before she was his wife, Edward Arden had uttered harsh expressions to Leicester about this intercourse concealed by his power and insolence from the court and (picen ; pos- sibly this may have happened diu-ing those festivities at Kenilworth, and that I^eicester's connection was thus made known to the queen, who ended her sojourn at the castle of Kenihvorth by sudden departure. For these reproaches Leicester bore an irreconcilable hatred towards Arden. He entangled him in a charge of liigli-treason and pjdward was executed in the year 158:'). However removed now the heading branches of the Ar- den family would have stood from the impoverished Sliake- speares, it is easy to understand that this fall wnuhl he deeply felt l)y tliem. 'J'he incidents exhibit l)olh laiuilies in decUne and misfortune; the hard lines of life's discipline may have been stamped ])y it- on the mind of the young ])oct. These circumstances may have been healthful for the SUAKKSl'EAKli Al' .STKATFORU. fornuitioii of his character, for at the same time we discover traits of a youthful levity to which these grave family events were well fitted to act as a counter-balance. It was to Nicholas Rowe, the first in 17U0 who wrote a life of our poet , that the actor Hetterton related the oft- told anecdote of Shakespeare's deer-stealing, Avhich he had heard at Stratford. He had fallen, so the story goes, into bad company and had taken part in some dear-stealing at Charlcote , the property of Sir Thomas Lucy ; he had been prosecuted by Sir Thomas, and had revenged himself with a satirical ballad, of which elsewhere a stanza is preserved ; this had redoubled the persecution against him to that degree, that he was ol)liged to leave Stratford and go to London. What warrant there is for this story, what ge- nuineness l)elongs to the preserved stanza of the ballad upon Sir Thomas Lucy, we cannot indeed say. Country- people near Stratford to this day have indeed pointed out to strangers a statue of Diana with the hind, which they exhibit as the poacher Shakespeare; if ]>etterton's authority were of this kind, the anecdote would certainly be very suspicious. Still an external confirmation of it lies indeed strongly marked out in the introductory scene of "the merry wives of Windsor". Here the poet is thought to have immortalized that story of his youth , transfening his deer-stealing to Falstaff, and ridiculing in the person of the proud Robert Shaal, to whom he assigned a shield with 12 luces. Sir Thomas Lucy himself, whose arms bore actually three; and just so, as the welsh priest pronounces the English word luces as lowsie, the wit of the stanza of the ballad*. A parliament member, a justice of peace, At home a poor scarecrowe, at London an asse SHAKESPEAKE AT STRATFORD. 41 which is extant, turns entirely upon this dialectic perver- sion of the name Lucy. But apart from these circumstantial proofs, the anecdote carries with it the decided marks of a most characteristic trait. It seems as little possible in the domain of literature and art as in that of politics , that rapid and great changes in these branches of the cultivation of a people can take place, without an anarchical transition- state Avhich is Avont to reflect itself most glaringly in the irregular strong-minded characters of the first vehicle of tliose changes. The men who Avere instrumental in a complete revolution in our German dramatic poetry, Wagner and Lenz, those greater ones also, Avho sooner mastered themselves in moral dignity and honour, Klinger, Goethe and .Schiller, appear in their youth as the prey of the same strong passion, the same titan-like nature, the same disregard of conventional habits and re- straints, as they depicted in their early poems. We find ourselves in a similar association Avilh the Dranuitists, Avho revived the English stage in Shakespeare's time ; only that tlic fcAv traits Avhich Ave possess of them, arc, according to the character of the age, far more coarsely draAvn. The names of MarloAve and Greene in connection Avitli Sliake- speare ('orrespond in the English drama to the ])la(e wliich tliose youthful friends of Goethe occupy in Germany; in tlie manner of their poetry, in their envious literary jealousy, in their AA^hole moral bearing. MarloAve both by Avord and If lowsie is Lucy as some volko miscall it, Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall il. He thinks himself great, Yet an asse in his state We allow by his ears but with asses to mate. 42 SlIAKESPKAKF. AT STHATFORB. AViiting is said to have depreciated and scorned at relij^ioii : satiiical poems call hiui a swearer and blasphemer, an associate of all who reject the law of God; his poetical con- temporaries deplored, that his wit, bestowed by heaven, consorted with vices, born of hell. Eobert Greene was a decayed clergyman and died, it is said, of immoderate wine - drinking ; his violent opponent, the doctor Gabriel Harvey, laid to his charge the most scandalous life, and appealed for coniirmation of it to the general cognisance of the city of London; even Greene himself spoke at last of his Avorks as follies in a tone of repentance, which does not testify a happy conscience. It was also known of Peele, Thomas Nash, and Lodge, that they led an unruly, un- steady life , persisting in no regular industry ; all except the last, died early, and MarloAve by violence. In the fashion of these wildlings, Shakespeare's youthful habits may likewise have begun ; it may certainly be, that in that bad company of which Rowe relates, he may have led the life which he subsequently depicts so strikingly in Henry IV. His deer - stealing may easily have been the most inno- cent part of this life. The age regarded this careless exist- ence, such as the tavern-life, the robbing of gardens and the dancing round the ]May-pole, the oft-blamed, never discontinued customs of the young, rather as wantonness, than as crime , as we designate the peculations of the school -boy, with a forbearing expression ( schiessen , to shoot), Avhich almost reminds one of poaching. There are, however, other and as it seems indisputable testimonies existing, which show the young Shakespeare addicted to dissolute habits in other directions also. Wc miuht indeed alreadv infer these habits from a se- SHAKESPEARE AT STKATFORI). 43 lies of Shakespeare's poems, ut the close of his collection of sonnets, poems, which, with jiist as much unvarnished morality as candour, declare the poet's connection with a married woman, who shared a faithless love betAveen him and one of his friends. The English endeavoured in every possible manner to dispute the prosaic tratli of the subject of these poems, and thus, their moral conclusions. Th(> aesthetic infallibility of the poet was of less moment to them, than that as a man their favourite should be a faultless saint. It is a trait, which does just as much honour to the moral feeling of the nation , as it is prejudicial to their in- vestigating sense of truth, and perhaps even to their esti- mate of human nature. "For Avhy", says lioaden in his Avritings on Shakespeare's sonnets , "why should we be so jealous of making the poet such a spotless creature as the world never saw ! a being who so immeasurably sm'passes us in mental gifts and who may not betray his race by the slightest moral fault ;' True , when repented error seduces not to imitation, it is better to stifle our presumption, whilst we show the greatest amongst us by no means stainless." At any rate we cannot do justice to the mind of the poet himself, to whom unfeigned truth was above all, luiless in gathering together the characteristics of his life , we make him no better, than he has represented himself. Shakespeare married in his nineteenth year Anna Ha- thaway, a young wonuin s(!vcn or eight years older than hhnself, the daughter of a wealthy freeholder in Shottery near Stratford. Whether it were in consichuation of the necessitous circumstances of the family, or the rasliness of a violent passion , which urged to this early marriage , we know not. The young couple, married in the end of No- 44 SIlAKKSl'KAKl-; M S IKA TFORD. viMiibrr l.")S2, liacl a daiiglitor Susanna bapti/cd as early as i1k' "2(itli May ir)b3. From this circunistuncc Collier infers the latter eause, and ])er(eives in it the main reason for th(> smalldenreeof happiness, -which according to these aeeounts, accompanied Shakespeare's married life. Others of Shake- speare's biographers have contradicted this consequence with the argument, that instances of such early births after mar- riage were at tliat time abundant, because the betrothment Avas regarded as tlie consuunuation of the marriage; but this custom itself would Avitness rather to the moral hcence of the age, than to tlie moral restraint of the couple, who — always exceptionally — delighted in its freedoms ; the sorry conclusions, which we draAv from these evil auspices upon Shakespeare's domestic condition, would not be weakenedby this plea. For Shakespeare's married life Avas undoubtedly no happy one. His Avife brought him tAvins after tAvo years, and they had no more children. When he soon after settled in London, he continued at least at first his free life, not rner el A' judging from the sonnets; no regard to a dear Avifeand a happy family-circle appeared to restrain him. As Robert Greene kept his Avife in Lincolnshire, Shakespeare also left his behind him in Stratford; he liked her better as the Avatcher over his economical circumstances at home, than as Avitness of his fame in the capital. He saAV her again in his regular annual visits to Stratford, Avhithcr he returned, Avhile yet full of Aigour ; l)ut this Avas rather the proof of his sincere disinclination to the "public life" of the theatre, than a heartfelt inclination for his domestic life Avith his Avife. In his aaIII he only sparingly and meanly bequeathed to her his second best bed. In an economical and business point of vicAV, Ave might indeed clear this strange disposition SHAKESPEARE AT STRATFORD. 45 from the reproach of ne<^k'ct — since tlie widow of a free- hokler was entitled by tlie hiw of the Umd to the dowry ; hnt as regards the social relations of the couple, one sad token will ever remain, that the testator in his last will, in which he devotes a little remembrance to so many even non -relatives , mentioned none of the Hathaways, and leaves not a word of love for his wife. It is, therefore, indeed conceivable, if we give credit to bitter experiences in Shake- speare's married life ; it is pardonable, if searching through his works we think to meet with direct out-bursts of feeling upon this portion of his history. Were the circumstances, which accompanied his marriage, the "fore-bemoaned moan" upon which the poet looked back repentantly in his son- nets ? Was it accident , that just in his earlier Dramas the pictures of bad imperious Avomen, such as he never sub- sequently depicted, filled his fancy ? that in Henry VI. the traits of character with which the poet had endowed the terrible wives of the King and Gloster, Avhen he worked at them later, he heightened with so many additions, as if to unburden his own heavy heart? With hoAV much true con- viction, as out of self-drawn experience, he utters the warn- ing in "W'luit ytni will". (II. 4. J Let the woman take An elder than herself; so wears she to him, So sways she level in lier luisband's lieart. and witli wliat sorrowful confession does lie add the reason which reflects little honour on the man, why this proportion is the more natural one : — For, however we <1() praise ourselves, Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, More lonf>inur- badge and Shakespeare Avould lead us to presume. It is an unrestrained life, that Shakespeare led in his youthful years; to his poaching, to his love-adventures , is added his resolve, to separate himself from liis family and 48 SHAKESPKAKK AT STRATFORD. to become an actor; a step, Avliich at that time no one rea- dily took, who did not set universal opinion at defiance. He himself recognizes in his sonnets the "disgrace" and "blots" that ching to liim ; he confesses that he was continually re- newing his "old offences of affections ! " Had he not drunk so deeply of the cup of passion , scarcely Avould he Avith those master -touches have depicted the power of the sensuous courses, scarcely with that fervour and depth would he have pictured the charm of their allurement at the same time with the curse that lies in their excess. Had he not once crossed the threshold of crime, who can conceive, that he could so accurately and profoundly have penetrated into its inner recesses? Man issiies from the hand of nature, en- dowed for good or for bad, and unfortunately predominant propensities have ever the hardest struggle. If the man comes out of this conflict victorious, he bears away with him a spoil, which without the conflict had been unattainable; the moderation to Avhich he retui'ns , is found by none who have not stumbled against extremes. The period in Avhich Shakespeare lived was one in which natural and sensual poAver Avere strongly developed , but these Avere counterba- lanced by religious habit, tenderness of conscience, and much intellectual A'igour. As the time, so Avas the poet himself. He exulted AA'hen young in liis physical energies, and spoke of himself in his early years as old, Avhen he began to obey the dictates of his reason, and to folloAv out his intellectual impulses. Thus as Goethe and Schiller, early refined, AvithdrcAV from the dissolute habits of their youth and youth- ful associates ; so did Shakespeare also : lie consorted Avith his contemporaries ]MarloAve and Green at first as his equals, but he kncAV them, as his Prince Henry kneAV the wild com- SHAKESPEARE AT STRATFORD. 49 pany which pleased his youthful inclination and he dis- carded these habits like the prince, when he was called to better things. We shall later endeavour to learn from his personal poems, when this inner reformation in him took place. But if we may venture to gather the condition of his mind from his poems , written at different times in the par- oxysm of passion, we should say, that he witli Goethe, al- thong'h in different combination, possessed tliat happy na- ture, which is endowed with moderation and self-command even in moments of passion, with a degree of composure even in the midst of tumult. Thus we shall see in the next chapter that in the twoclescriptive poems wliich we possess from his pen, the firstlings of his Muse, he exiiibifs tliis peculiar double -nature by an early proof. l>oth j)oems in form and matter correspond to this period of early passion, in which we have seen the poet, and originated in it. IJut the one, full of stoic severity, contrasts the power of the vir- tuous mind with the base rule of the senses , Avhich is de- picted in the other, full of tender charm.. Still more distinctly drawn is the picture of the struggle between mind and sen- suality, between reason and desire, as it must have shat- tered the poet himself, in the sonnets Avhich are addressed to that unbeauteous charmer; in all of them he chides his easily befooled senses , and the concpiered spirit scorns tlie conqueror Lust, without being able to raise itself from its defeat. The 12!Jth of his sonnets expresses this frame of mind in the most striking manner : Th' expense of spirit in a waste of shame Is lust in action; and till action, lust Is perjured, mui'derous, bloody, full of l)liime, (Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust ; Enjoyed no. sooner, bul (U's])is('d straight; ■ I. \ 50 SlIAKKSPEAUE AT STliATFDKI). Past reason hunted, and no sooner had, Past reason liated, as a swallow'd bait, On purpose laid to make the laker mad: Mad in pursuit, and in i)ossession so ; Mad luivinii^, and in quest to have, extreme; A bliss in proof, — and prov'd, a very woe; Before, a joy jiroposod , behind, a dream. All this the world well knows, yet none knows well, To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell. SHAKESPEARE'S DESCRIPTIVE POEMS. Of the two narrative or rather descriptive poems which we possess of Shakespeare, tlie one, Venus and Adonis, was first printed in tlie year 1593, the other, liUcrece, in lalM. l^»oth are dedicated to the Earl of Soutliampton. The poet himself in his dedication calls Venus and Adonis his first work, but Lucrece belongs indisputably to the same period, l^otli poems Avere certainly revised at publication ; their first conception may place them at a period previous to Shake- speare's settlement in London. Everything betrays that they were written in the first passion of youth. How in matter and treatment they are interwoven with the youthful circumstances and moods of the poet, which we liave hastily glanced at, strikes us at once. Tlu^ subject of Venus and Adonis is the goddess of love wooing the cold, yet insensible boy, and her laments upon his sudden death. In the first part the poet has endowed the wooer with all the charms of persuasion, beauty, and passionate vehemence, with all the arts of flattery, entreaty, reproach, tears, and vio- lence; and he appears in doing so as a CnBsus in poetic ideas, thoughts, and images , a master and victor in the matter of love, a giant in passion and sensual power. From this point i)2 SlIAKKSl'KAKK S DHSCini'TIVK TOEMS. of view, the whole piece is one hiilliaut error, such as young poets so readily eonimit : immoderate senslial fervour mis- taken for ])oetry. Yet in tlie opinion of tlie time this poem alone placed Sliakespeare in the rank of admired poets. The very point, we mention, gave the poem at once its win- ning j)ower. AVhat at that time had been read in similar mythological poems hy English and Italian writers of the nature and effects of love, was an elaborate ideal work in a })olis]icd form, more brilliant in words, than ])rofound in truth of feeling. But liere indeed Love is a "spirit, all com- pact of fire", a real paroxysm and passion, which surpasses the artificial bombastic manner- of representation. Thus by its truth to nature, the poem had a o-ealistic effect be- yond any similar mvtliological and allegorical pictures; it was, like Goethe's Werther, proverbially upheld as the model of a love-poem, it ^vas often reprinted and called forth a series of imitations; and poets praised it as "the quintessence of I^ove", as a talisman t)r a pattern for lovers, from which might be learned the art of successfid wooing. With whatever glowing colours Shakespeare has painted the image of this passion, his delight in the subject of his picture has never betrayed him into exclusive sensuality. He knows, that he sketched, not the image of human love in which mind and soul have their ennobling share, but the image of a piu'ely sensual desire, which merely animal, like "an empty eagle", feeds on its prey. In the pas- sage , where he depicts the wooing of Adonis' horse which had broken loose from its rein, his intention is evident to compare the animal passion in the episode with that of the goddess, not in opposition but in juxtaposition. Rebukingly Adonis' tells the loving goddess , that she should not call SIJAKESI'KAKh's DlvSCUirTIVE rUKMS. • 53 that love J wliich even lie, thei)oet, names careless lust, "beating reason back, forgetting- shame's pure blush, and honour's Avrack." This purer thought, Avhicli more than once occurs in the poem, is yet, it nuist be admitted, half concealed by the grace of the style , and by the poet's lingering on sensual descriptions. In Lucrece on the contrary, tliis purer thought lies in the subject itself, which seems intentionally to be selected as a counterpart io the first poem; — the poet places in op- position to the blindly idolized passioii, the chastity of the matron, in whom strength of will and morality triumph in a tragic form over the conquest of lust. The representation of the insidious scene in Lucrece is not more modest or mord cold; it might even appear that in the colouring of the chaste beauty there lay still more alluring warmth, than in any passage of Venus and Adonis. Yet the repentance and atonement of the heroine, the vengeance of her unstained soul, her death, these are treated in a totally different, in a more elevated tone and with corresponding emphasis. In- deed the poet in a more significant manner leaves the nar- rower limits of the description of a single scene in giving the situation of the heroine a great historical background. The solitary Lucrece, whilst she contemplates suicide, stands in meditation before a picture (jf the destruction of Troy, and' the reader is led to observe the similar fate, which the fall of Lucrf-ce brought upon the Tar(piinians and tlu^ rai)e of Jlelen upou tlie family of Priam. If the poet iu Venus and Adonis, led on by the tender art of ()\i(l, was oceupicMl in ])resenting a merely voluptuous picluic, which would have been a fitter subject for the painter, here we see him assuming a higlier standard of morality, and eviiU'utly in- 54 siiAKi;sri:.\Ki;'s disi uiriu k I'oems. cited h\ \ ii-!4il, castiiiy a glance into that tirld of great and important actions, in wliieli he afterwards hecame so emi- nent. To exliihit such contrasts, was a necessity of Shake- speare's versatile mind ; they are a characteristic of his na- ture and his poetry ; they appear here in the first beginnings of his art, and recur incessantly throughout all his dramatic works. Our own Goetlie delighted in the repetition of one favourite form of character, which he reproduced onlv sliglitly changed in AVeisslingen and Werther, in Cla\igo, Ferdinand, and Egmont ; this Avould have been impossible with Shakespeare. It lay in his nature t(j Avork out a given subject to that degree of perfection and completeness, Avhich makes a recurrence to it diificult, and rather invites to a path with a directly opposite aim. To him who only knows Shakespeare through his dramas, these two poems present in their structure something quite strange. Whilst tliere in the form of speech everything tends to actions, here in the form of narrative every thing tends to speeches. Even where an opportunity occurs, all action is avoided ; in Venus and Adonis not even the boar's hunt is recounted; in Lucrece the eventful cause and con- sequence of the one described scene is scarcely mentioned ; in the description of this situation itself, all is lost in rhe- toric. Before his deed, Tarquin in a lengthy reflection holds "disputation 'tween frozen conscience and hot burning will"; afier if , Lucrece in endless soliloquy inveighs against Tarquin , night, opportunity, and time,- and loses herself in vague reflections as to her suicide. Measured ac- cording to the standard of nature observed in the other Avorks of the poet, this Avould be the height of unnaturalncss in a Avoman of modest retirement and cold Avill. That Avhich shakes]'e.\ue'.s desl'IUPtiye pokms. 55 in Shakespeare's dramas so wonderfuly distinguishes his so- hloquies , the art of compressing infinite sentiments within a few grand outHnes, is here exhibited in perfect contrast. Only two small touches do we meet Avith in Lncrece, the places where she questions the maid upon Tartpiin's de- parture^ and asks for "paper, ink, and pen", although they are near her; and where she sends away the groom, who blushes from bashfulness , — but as she believes — " to see her shame", — in these passages the psychological poet, such as Ave knoAV him, glances forth. Everywhere besides, in this more important of the tAvo poems, his representation of Lncrece suffers from an inner lack of truth, and the faulty structure of the Italian pastoral poetry. Its distinctive cha- racteristic are those so-called conceits, strange and startling ideas and images, profound thoughts lavished on shalloAv subjects, sophistry and artificial Avit in the place of poetry, imagination directed to logical contrasts, acute distinctions, and epigrammatic points. The poet here Avorks after a pattern Avhich he smpasses in redundancy, he takes a false track Avith his accustomed superiority , he tries an artistic mannerism, and carries it beyond its originators. lie carries it to a height, Avherehe himself, as it Avere, becomes conscious of the extravagant excess, the strange alternation of sublim- ity and flatness, Avhich is peculiar to this style. Tliis im- pression is made by the passage, Avhere Lncrece Avrites tlie letter to her husband and passes her criticisms upon it: This is loo curious-good, this l)lunt and ill : Much like a press of j)eople at a door Throng her inventions, which shall go Ijcforc. In one of his earliest comedies, "Ivove's Labour Lost", Shakespeare repudiates tins kind of sInIc 'riicic in tlie 5t) Sll AKKsrHAIijfs J)i;scilIl'TIVK I'DEMS. ]HMs()ii (if ]>in)u^ Avliile lie (U'si hnmau nature, the subject and theme of poetry , be- comes falsified. INlatter and form, the poetical expression as -well as the contemplation of human nature, are then fashioned according' to an arbitrary law ; conventionality and not nature dictates the poet's path. The extremest point of this psychologic and aesthetic unnaturalness was reached by the allegorical and pastoral poetry of the Span- ish and Italian poets of the 1 Gth century, which occupied in its full extent the vacant place of the fast vanishing chi- valric epos. The pastoral romances of Ribcyro, of Saa de ^Miranda , Sannazar and jNIonteniayor ruled the world ; the Diana of the last writer was admired, circulated, and en- larged as much Ariosto's Orlando Furioso. No Avonder, that this taste, now penetrated also into England, Avhere Italian literature had already once in Chaucer's time exercised in- liuence, Avhere the Italian Ivric not long before Shake- speare's had been introduced by Sir Thomas Wyat and his friend, the noble earl of Surrey. As ('hauccr adopted ]5oc- caccio, and Surrey Petrarca, so Sir Philip Sidney, who died in the year that Shakespeare came to London, introduced pastoral poetry into England; his Arcadia is an equal imi- tation of Sannazar and Montemayor. Men such as these, Surrey and Sidney , Avere (piite calculated to prepare a new era for poetry in England. It Avas just the period Avhen the Reformation created a favourable atmosphere for all cul- tivation, Avhen scholastic ])hilos()phy Avas losing grovuid in the schools, AAhen antiquity and its literature Avas revived, and through the art of printing a general sympathy had been diffused for all literature. Aheadv at the coiu't of Shakespeare's descriptive poems. 59 Henry VIII. had witty amusements, plays and masks, been made a vehicle for the lively drawn allegory and pastoral poem; but under Elizabeth bloomed indeed the golden age of revived art and knowledge, under the fostering hand of a queen , Avho was herself a lover of the line arts , was learned in language and music, read greek and latin authors, and herself made dilettante attempts in lyric poems. Now streamed towards England the admired art of the South, Avithout meeting with any resistance in a national literature, prcnnoted by a ne^v, cultivated, and art-loving nobility, who since Henry VIII., like those small Italian princes, and tliose Spanish grandees of the KJth century, took art and literature under their own protection and peculiar care. To this class of men, with Avhom art ennobled life , and life dignitied art, belonged that unfortunate Surrey, who in the bloom of years fell a sacrifice to the snares of Lord Hertford and the tyranny of Henry VIII. To the same class also belonged the short-lived Wyat , whom report and even his OAvn poems jilaced in suspicion of having had a connection Avith the royal Anna Boleyn ; and Philip Sidney, over whose equally early grave the laments of admiring scholars Avere poured forth in all tongues. To it also be- longed that Raleigh, the famous naval hero, Avho like Sur- rey died guiltless on the scaffold; liord Vaux, Thcmuis Sackville, Earl of Dorset, Oxford, Pembroke and South- amjjton , the two latter contemporaries of Sluikes])care's. A ray of poetry fell, as we see, upon tlio life of several of these nobles. Their influence Avas extraordinary, and their taste ruled the English literature. The sublimity of the Petrarchian lyric, the ])urity of versification , tlie courtly refinement of taste after the Ilaliaii lundcl , ciuauated from 60 SHAKKSPEAKk's J)KS(lUl'Tn K FOKMS. them, but in its train also was brou^lit in that unnatuial- ness and distortion, Avhith belonged to tlieir pattern. Sid- ney's and Raleigh's favonrite avhs Edmund Spenser, whose l-'aerie Queene delighted those of his own and of a later day , by the harmony of its verse arid the bright colouring of its poetic pictures. With Surrey arose a multitude of sonnet-writers and Petrarchists, extending to Shakespeare's youth. Among tlieir number was Daniel, a protege of the Earl of Pembroke, whose mother was a sister of Sidney, antl herself a poet; Drayton a favourite of the Earl of Dor- set. Their lyric poems bear the character of the Italian style; in the English sonnets of that day, even in Shake- speare's, Avc are offended everywhere by subtleties, quibbles, ingenuities, peculiar to that pastoral style of pOetry. INIany (jf these poets drew directly from the source of Italian art : Daniel Avrote his sonnets in Italy, Rich, the translator of Italian tales , the dramatists Lilly and Green , the actor Kcnipe belonging to Shakespeare's company, had been themselves in Italy. Thus it Avas that England in the 1 6th century was inundated with Italian lyrics, pastorals, allegories, dramas, and talcs, that in opposition to the rising drama was the declining epic, a foreign to a native art , a learned and aristocratic style to a national taste. It was a cosmopolitan, a wide-spread literature, which had for support the weight of half Europe, the taste and the prejudice of courts, of the refined world, of the learned and the cultivated. In the midst of these circumstances Shakespeare ap- peared; how was it possible that he should not have re- vei-cnced this taste and this school of art? His non-dra- matical works, his sonnets, and t\\v two poems we are con- ■ Shakespeare's descriptive poems. 61 sidering- , place hiin among tiio number of those clients of the nobles , those scholars trained in a foreign school, those lyric and epic poets, at whose head stands Edinund Spenser. If we possessed nothing- from Shakespeare but these poems, we should read him among- the ])raytons, Spensers, and Daniels, and not a doubt would have- arisen over the no- bility and dignity of his school and education, lioth men- tioned poems betray in matter and title the learned Latin scliool; in their treatment of the old myths and stories, in the evident traces of the influence of Virgil, they seem to bespeak a poet who was" not superficially acquainted with the poetic art of the ancients ; a learned and competent con- temporary (Meres) said of them in rapturous praise, that in "the honey-tongued poet lived the sweet witty soul of •Ovid". But in his sonnets he indisputably attained to the poetic gloss and depth of thought of the best Italian sonnet- Avriters more than any of his mimerous rivals in England. Towards many of those men, towards several of their noble patrons he stood in some literary or personal connection- To the Earl of Southampton he dedicated the two poems we have discussed ; he must have known Sii Walter Raleigh, for he visited in Lond(m the club founded by him hi Friday street. E(hnund Spenser, probablj a Warwickshire man, was among the first to reverence Shakespeare's genius, whom as early as 1594, after his first tragic attempts-, he extfds under the pastoral name Action, with an allusion to his warlike name, because his "Muse, full of liigli (lioughts' invention, dotli, like liimselfe, lieroically sound". To Da- niel's sonnets those of Skakespearc exliibit the greatest inner aflhiity, and even, outwardly the form is imitated of the three stanzas and the concluding cou[)h'l ; from Daniel's 02 siiakespeahe's desotiiptive poems. Rosamond, Shakespeare borrowed the seven-lined stanza of his T.ncrece. Cunnin*>hani has discovered in the 21st of Shakespeare's sonnets, evident alhisions to those of Drayton, and comparing the sonnets SO to S3, it is indispntahle that Sliakespeare intended by him tlie "better spirit" who threatened to deprive him of the favour of the friend and patron, to Avhom his sonnets are addressed. With this Warwickshire man also may Shakespeare have felt the bond of fellow-citizenship. Everywhere we see him in the closest contact with this school of poetry, in personal association with the nobles who fostered and protected it, in greater or loss accordance with its poetic tendency. It is later that we first meet with proofs in liis dramas, that he reformed the taste for the southern lyric, and exchanged for it the deliglit in the homely sincerity of national Saxon song. But at that time, he stood forth in full maturity, the people's poet, who had forsaken the learned and courtly art, the national poet, who had cast the foreisn school into shadow, the dramatic poet, who made epics forgotten, — Shakespeare, who had eclipsed Spenser and all his contemporaries. SHAKESPEARE IE LONDON AND ON THE STAGE. Shakespeare left his native town Stratford in the year 15S6, or at the hitest, in 1 587, 22 — 23 years okl. Whether he did so to ohtain a better lot for his needy family by the exercise of his talents, or, as one tradition tells us, to escape the prosecution of Sir Thomas Lucy, or as another asserts, out of love for poetry and dramatic art, is not to be deter- mined. Nothing seems more natural than that all three motives co-operated , in callino- forth the determination so decisive for his future life. That in a man of this rapid maturity of mind, the gift as well as the love of poetry and the drama Avas early awakened, is a matter of course. Food and muturefor it he found without difRculty in his native town and county. Since ISfiO, thus from the time of his earliest youth, companies of "Players" belon- ging to the earls of Leicester, WarAvick, Worcester, and others, performed almost yearly at Stratford in the course of tlicir travels through the kingdom. l>ut what might have still more prompted Shakespeare's resolve to become an actor, was, that several f)f the players with whom he was after- wards acquainted, came originally from Warwickshire. One 04 SlIAKKSPKAKK IN I,()M)()X AM) ON TIIK STACK. Tlionias Greene^, of the Eail of Leiccslov's company, was from Stratford itself ; IleminLjo, tlie friend of Shakespeare and the I'",iHlor of his works, Slye, Toolcy, prohably als,) Tlionias Pope, were from the same cnnnty. James l>ur1)a nothing' was to be abridged ; not a cruuib of this ])ro(ious food was to be h)st ; ratlier tlie brief gospel narrative (h'manded amplification. All these sources re([uired in their nature aiul condition, tlu' extent of form and tlu' fulness of material , "whicli lias become the pro})city of the modt'rn drama. Tliis residt Avas already long determined, when Shakespeare began to Avrite. And he certainly Avould not have wished to oppose this laAv, Avhich the age and the nation had created, which tradition and custom had sanc- tioned, Avhen even a Lope de Vega, Avlien even, in a miuh more advanced age , our own Schiller had the discernment to perceive, that Avitli an enforced imitation of tlie classic Drama the ground of efficiency itself Avoidd be destroyed, that every national cliaracter has its particulai" devtdopment, every age its peculiarity, every tradition its riglit, and that a poet, who will make himself Avorthy of transmission, should haA'e a careful regard for this right and for that course of development. This kind of sacred drama Avith Avhich tlie history of the Eng'lisli stage begins, had as far as the loth century, Avhen it reached its greatest extent, no important competitor. About this period a second group of allegorical dramas, Avhich had their origin in the schools, competed with the former and finally took its place. The so-called Moralities, in their original form of an essentially religious nature, bear on the Mysteries, just as much as the mystical allegories of the middle ages did on the allegorical interpretations of the poetical harmony of the gospel, Avhich preceded them; they treat of the sidistance of the CMiristian story, Avhich the miracle-play represents in acting imitation of the events, in abstract pre- cepts, in metaphorical, allegorical, and scenic performances. DKAMATIC POETRY BEFORE SHAKESPEARE. 69 Already in the Miracles, single allegorieal figures had taken part in the play, Death, Truth, Justiee, and others; in the Moralities, these and other coneeptions appear, human feel- ings, passions, crimes, and virtues are personified, and form exclusively the acting or rather speaking personages of this lifeless drama. The central point of the Mysteries , the sa- crifice of Christ, the redemption from the Fall, is in moral abstraction the struggle between good and evil, and this is, in general, the subject Avhich these abstract pieces, the Mo- ralities, touch upon. The strife of the virtuous and sinful powers for infiuence over the human nature is the uniform theme of the oldest Moralities, Avliich have been discovered in England. By degrees the matter of these pieces left the religious sphere and approached nearer real life. The strug- gle betAveen good and evil principle is now rather viewed from the point of universal morals, the dextrine now turns against all worldliness, against every dependence on outward blessings, which in opposition to intellectual and moral possessions, a])pear as emanations from the ])rinciple of evil. If the Mysteries were only barren action, and Avitli little in- fusion of reflection , so on the other hand the moral lesson is the beginning, middle, and end of these pieces, which without action and motion are drawn out in solemn stift" Dialogues of lifeless phantoms. It is, as if they seek to open the imier eye, to unfold the thought, that in the ap- parent design of the drama a deep spiritual pur[)ort nuiy be deposited. W^itli this aim they confine themselves to the most spiritual treatment of their sj)iritual subject; they avoid the graces of diverting actions; of Horace's union of the beauti- ful and tlu! useful, they grant poetry the useful alone. ni sii \KKsri;.vi, be- longed to that period; numerous popular jesters, the children of a native mother-^vit , conveyed this property to the lower classes; there is a whole world of truth in the occasional observation of Shakespeare , that at this period the toe of the peasant came so near the heel of the courtier, he galls his kibe. Ijut in no land did this popular wit ap- pear in such concentrated power and such extensive dif- fusion, as among; the Saxon race in England. This character must of necessity be reflected in the dramatic art; and thus the droll figures of unconscious humour, the clowns, which were called in Germany natural fools (natiirliche Narren), which Shakespeare also by the name nalnral distinguished from the fine court-fools, who with conscious wit lashed at folly , these droll figures were the favourites of the public theatre at that period, and even in our own day tlie chonl is still touched, when in liondon the Dogbcrrys and (Uowns of this sort appear u))on the stage. In no branch is Shake^ speare more indeltted to the past, in none less original than .in this, altho.ugh to us (Jermans it is.just the properties of 76 SHAKESPKAKK IN J,()NJ)()> ANJ) ().\ I 1 1 K STAGP;. the comic tiyiues ami tlioir jests, ^vhich appear as his most (listiniruisliing- i)eeiiliaiity. Ill tlie divisions in Avhieh we have represented the mysteries, the moralities, and the comic interhules, and in the piu'c exchisive character of their original nature and form, these pieces did not long remain. In many ways they mingled or joined together; new elements, ingredients, lower degrees of the drama, were added to the two first styles, or were developed out of them. The Mysteries espe- cially, if we consider them in the perfect form, which they readied in the 15th century, have within them not alone the nature of the historical drama, not alone the elements of tlie ^Moralities, but the comic interlude and the carnival merrymaking originated in theii" very substance and pur- port. The secular scenes, which are joined to the history of the Passion, the announcement to the Shepherds, the denial of Peter and others, gave rise to humorous and burlesque treatment , and the Mysteries like the Easter-feast itself, in the extravagance of Lent and tlie severe festival of the Easter-week, soon contained in themselves the elements of the comic and the sublime side by side. Just so, the serious allegoric interlude, either spoken or merely acted, grew out of the original matter of the Miracle. At all times prophetic applications to gospel history were sought for in the stories of the old testament; thus the Mysteries inserted, at op- portune passages in the representation of the history of the Passion, an interhulc , which treated of the corresponding matter in the old testament: thus after tlie scene ofClmst's betrayal through Iscariot, the tyjiical story of the selling of Joseph followed in an Intermezzo , expressed in few words like the interlude in Hamlet; or it was represented in a DRAMATIC POKTHY BEFORE SHAKESPEARE. 77 pantoniiine, a dumb play, a tableau, as appears in Pericles and in a number of secular Dramas in Shakespeare's time. And like tlie Mysteries, the Moralities soon stept out of iheir severe original form. As soon as they had emei-ged from the religious sphere into the moral, it was probable, that they would venture a step further into citizen life. The classes of society now appeared personified; tlie ])ur[)()rt became rather practical morality and criticism of daily life; satirical allusions to passing- events, persons, circumstances, were added ; church and state affairs were dramatized. In the reign of Henry VIII. the ISIoralities, the noAV prevailing- kind of Drama, became, as it were, the receptacle for dra- matic composition of every kind. The allegorical figures, the symbolic treatment, the moral tendency, still held its ground, when the Drama of the cluncli and the scluxds, the Mysteries and Moralities, ever more gave way to the in- dependent, artistic, secidar Drama; the different kinds blended; there are romantic plays and historical dramas in England, which are full (tf elements of the Moralities, lint where the blending of the different kinds appears most glar- ing and at the same time most frequent, is in the combination of the vulgar and the burlesque with tlie sublime and llie pathetic. In the midst of the serious matter of those re- ligious pieces and in the solemn dogmatic tone of ihe moral ones, comic elements had early penetrated. In llie Frencdi and German Mysteries they were limited to tlie interludes; in the English , the national element in tlie coarsest comic scenes, pervaded, wherever it was allowable, the evangelic, b\it more frequently the old-testament matter, and gave in(ieed to these sacred pieces the natural realistic character, which remained tlie distiuguisliiug feature of thi> English 78 sii vKKsi'Kvin'; ix i.oxdon am) on imik siaok. stao-e. The usual cduiic cluivaclev in the miracle-plays acted ihe devil iu ridiculous aud terrific fonu. lu the uioralities he a])pears usually associated witli Vice, a figure upon which, iu uot a few passages of" Shakespeare's plays, allusious occur, which are for the uiost })art lost iu the Gerniau translatiou. Vice a})pears here expressly as a fos and hnffoonery to the serious devehti)nient of an exciting historical and political action. Nevertheless he inserted for the peo])le the usual comic scenes even against his o-wn inclination : his publisher afterwards omitted them in the printing of "Tamhurlaiue", because they detracted from so 'lionourable and distin- guished a history". Xot so did Shakespeare proceed. Unre- lentingly lie banished from the stage the extreme buffoonery of the fools and their unseasonable freedoms. When he mixed the king and the fool, jest and earnestness, tragic and comic parts, he did so on the condition, on which even Sidney, the lover of the antique, seemed to approve of it, that the matter itself demanded it. He accommodated him- self to the popular taste only in the conviction , that even to this peculiarity of the rude stage he could give a more refined turn. He developed the character of the fool for comedv in the cleverest manner, and knew how to use it also for the most tragic effects. He has not disdained the broadest caricature, not however only to excite laughter, but as a means of conveying the profoundest reflexions upon human life. He has sketched the most grotesque scenes, but he kncAV Iioav to link with them the most sublime matter. AVliile his droll conceits appear for the most part jests indulged in for their own sake, a touch of contrast or of the necessary characterization, combines them ever with the main action of the piece. In the play where fool and king are thrown into the closest intercourse (Henry and Falstaffj, this situation itself forms the plot of the piece. Till the reign of Henry VIII. and even as far as the early part oi' that of Elizabeth, the English stage had no DRAMATIC POETRY BEFORE SHAKESPEARE. 81 special theatre, and no votaries by profession , or if it had, tliey had no reguhir duties ; there Avere neither poets nor actors, wlio were exckisively devoted to tliis one work. But under Heiny VIII. the dramatic elements began to collect and to form. The first traces of players by profession , who tra- velled about the kingdom, is seen in the reign of Henry VI., the first of the English kings who patronised literature, after the Avarlike race of the Edwards and Henrys had passed away. Under Edward IV. Henry Bourchier, afterwards Earl of Essex, maintained a company of players , and the cruel Richard III. had, wdien Duke of Gloucester, a set of actors, of whom it appears doubtful, whether they were singers or actors, or both united. But as soon as the national peace was established under Henry VII., there were to be found at court two different organized companies of royal actors, and several nobles, the dukes of Buckingham, Northumber- land, Oxford, Norfolk, Gloucester, and others, had players in their service, avIio at times performed at court, and tra- velled under the name and protection of their patrons. Thus they diffused their art through the country, so that soon even in the larger towns, established companies of actors were to be found. But at the court of Henry VIII. , the organization of these artistic entertainments considerably advanced. An ostentatious Avell-read prince, he loved festi- vities of an intellectual character, and under his ride the germs of the English stage lay in embryo, ready for their full development, Avhich took place Avilli Eli/abclh. lu the circle of his court there was a distinguished jester (William Sommers), a personage, who in England evidently passed direct from the court to the stage; there was a laurelled poet, Skelton, whose works Dyce lias edited; there were I. « 82 sii.\ki:sim:ai;i. in London and on ihk siagk. luen and cliorister.s belonging; to the royal chapel, who ])layc{l before him, and from among tliem came that John lIcAwood, wlio since the year 1590, had been writing his humorous interludes already mentioned. At the same time the com})anies of the nobles continued playing; masters and scholars from St. Paul's and other schools performed pieces; at Eton, it was usual, at the feast of St. Andrew, to act a Latin or English play; even the students at the courts of law began to produce Dramas. Nevertheless all this gave the histrionic art no fixed station as yet, and thus there were still no dramatic poets , who had devoted them- selves entirely to this branch of art. Under Henry VIII., there were few learned })atrons of the fine arts, church disputes distracted the clergy, the nobles had yet scarcely begun to care for the poetic art, and the taste of a Surrey and a Wyat inclined to the lyric style of Italy. How should the drama in the hands of a Heywood or a Skelton , or the stage and acting of awkward artisans, have attracted them ! From their Peti-arch they had derived the highest per- ceptions of art ; but the Drama in England was hitherto a rough child of nature without grace, and, as it would seem, w ithout capability of improvement. What should these men who held revived antiquity and ancient mythology as in- dispensable to poetry, Avhat should they find in the insipid Mystei-ies, what should they care for the old-fashioned Mo- ralities, when they read Boccaccio's and liandello's tales, and Poggio's Facetiae ? But the revival of ancient art soon had its influence over English poetry. We have already mentioned how the lyric, allegori(;, and pastoral poetry of Italy was here largely diffused ; ui)on the drama also this state of things could not DRAMATIC POKTHY BEFORE SHAKESPEARE. 83 fail to have its effect. The (h-ainatic examples of ohl, and the French and Italian imitations, were known in England, and this fact Avas indisputahly highly important, pointing out as it did to the dramatic art - movement of the age, which was roused by its own power and instinct, the direct path to the end. As early as 1 520, under Henry VIII., a piece of l^lautus was represented. Under Elizabeth's rule, pieces by Terence and Euripides appeared among the dramas per- formed ; the "Phenician women" of the latter was translated by Gascoigne in 1566 under the title of Jocasta, the same person, who was then conducting the representations of the "Supposes" from Ariosto at Gray's Inn; about ten years later the "History of error" Avas performed before Elizabeth, probably an elaboration of the Menoechmi of Plautus. Be- fore the Jocasta, there had appeared translations and partly elaborations of Seneca's collected tragedies. The first pieces (Troades , Thyestes and the furious Hercules) were revised and here and there amplified from 1559 to 1561 by .Jasper Heywood , the son of John ; so likewise the pieces which the learned Studley undertook, — Medea, Agamemnon, Hippolyt and Hercules.; the rest were translated by Alex. Nevyle,Nuce, and Newton ; the Avhole collection, completed as early as 1566, Avas printed in 15S1 , sliortly before the poetic school, previous to and contemporary with Shake- speare, began. to emulate its tragic attempts, and has in- disputably exercised an influence too lightly esteemed. Among the tragedies which Averc played before lUizabelh after the appearance of these of Seneca from 1568 to 1 580, tlrere are: eighteen upon classical and mythological subjects; proofs sufficient of the manner in Avliicli tlio knowledge and delight in these matters rajjidly gained ground. I>ul far 84 SllAKKSl'i; AKK I.N hOXDON A>"I) OX IIIK STAGE. luoro importiint tluin ])y this reception of classical matters, nmst the introduction of the ancient drama have been l)y its influence upon the improvement of the dramatic form, and the artistic feeling of the poet. The history of the mo- dern drama proves universally, that the poetic nature of nations, however productive may have been its creative power, had no longer that ripening power of gaining from the drama an enjoyable fruit, without the graft of the ancient art. As soon as these highly praised works of Plautus and Seneca were natmalized in England, it fol- lowed as a first result , that more highly intellectual minds, and persons of a more elevated condition, became interested in dramatic poetry : this alone must draw the drama from its rough elements into regular treatment and form. This effect was shown almost immediately in tragedy and comedy. At the time when the translations of Seneca were completed, the English possessed already three farces : Ralph Roister Doister (certainly as early as between 1530 — 40) whose sub- ject is the wooing of a gallant for the love of a betrothed lady and his unceremonious rejection ; Jack Juggler (156.3), in which the personage of this name endeavours to persuade the hero of the piece, that he is not himself, but some one else ; and Gammer Gurton's needle (1566), where the story turns upon a lost needle, whose disappearance gives the rogue Diccon an occasion for a course of mischief. All three pieces have throAvn off the influence of the earlier styles, the absence of all action and grouping as in the interludes of HeyAvood, and tlie unnaturalness of the Moralities, the last of them even all moralizing tendency ; all three refer to Terence and Plautus, and are suggested by the Latin comedies. Viewed in comparison Avith Hey wood's interludes. DRAMATIf POETllY BEFORE SHAKESPEARE. 85 the most extraordinary progress is to be perceived, which the contemplation of those ancient models alone made pos- sible ; the gap between them and Heywood's pieces is the same , as that in Germany between Frischlin's Latin plays in the spirit of Terence and Hans Sachs, natnral dramas. The authors of the first and third of the pieces mentioned are known; Nicholas Udall , the writer of the first, was a learned antiquarian , a master at Eton and author of other pieces ; John Still , the author of the last, was a Master of Arts, Archdeacon of Sudbury and subsequently Bishop of Bath. By their side , also a few years after Elizabeth as- cended tlie throne, arose the first English tragedy, which was suggested by Seneca. The famous Ferrex and Porrex (or Gorboduc) was first represented in 1561. The piece was composed by one of those patrons of knowledge, one of those Sonnetteers among the nobility, Thomas Sackville (Lord liuckhurst and Earl of Dorset), in conjunction with his poetic friend Thomas Norton. It formed an epoch in the history of the English stage, scarcely so much from its regularity of style and structure , nor from the introduction of iambic verse, as that a man belonging to the upper classes of society should engage in this kind of poetry. From this time forth, the attention of those Sidneys aiul of all those Mseccnas' among tlie nobility, whom we have be- fore known as the fosterers of the courtly and learned Ita- lian style , Avas also fixed upon this branch of art ; regular pieces were produced in greater numbers and })erformed be- fore the art-loving queen. During the thirty years which ehn)se between her ascension to the throne and Shake- speare's appearance in London, avc ])ossess the names of a series of 51 pieces, now for the most i)art lost, which were S6 suAKi:sri;AKK in London and on the stage. ixnioriiu'd belore lier. From the mere titles of these we may i>-uess, lluit the rei;iilar drama gained more and more ground, and by degrees attained to that point, upon Avhich Ave shall tind it at the time that Shakespeare undertook its further imj)rovenient. However decidedly the ancient drama had, from the middle of the IGth century, begun to form and fashion the formless drama of England , its influence could not extend so far, as to annul the habits of four centiuies, to erect a learned com'tly stage in the place of the po2)ular theatre, to set aside the national subjects and figiu'es, to introduce the antique with chorus and chorus-singers instead of the free unshackled form, and to impose the constraint of the so-called imities of time and place. In the above-named farces, which were meant as imitations of the Latin come- dies, there is nothing of the urbanity of Terence; they are thoroughly kei)t up in the unconstrained tone of the happy humour of the Saxon people. The tragedy of Porrex and Ferrex places indeed, as in the ancient tragedy, the action behind the scene , and concludes every act with a chorus ; still from the allegorical pantomimes, which precede the acts, and from an excessively sententious mannerism, it is too visibly allied to the Moralities ; there is no idea of an attention to the Unities. We mentioned before, that imtil about 15S0, eighteen represented pieces are recorded, whose matter is borrowed from old myths or histories; but what is preserved to us of this kind, allows us to perceive, how little here the ancient spirit had a place in the conception of the subject, or the ancient form in the dramatic treat- ment. AYe will not refer to a composition so crude as Preston's Cambyses , in whose 'Vein" the noble Falstaff DRAMATIC POETRY BEFORE SHAKESPEARE. 87 enacts king- Henry ; but even the most educated gentlemen and scholars wlio Avere most conversant with dramatic ])()etry and belonged to the royal stage, though studying the ancients, exhibited little of the ancient style. Of Richard Edwards, who was esteemed by his con- temporaries as a phoenix of the age, we have a "tragic co- medy" of Uamon and Pythias, which was intended to have been written according to the rules of Horace. In the re- lation, in which the poet has placed the philosophers Aristipp and Carisophus to the court of Dionysius, we are reminded somewhat of the parasites of the Latin comedies ; but the really serious parts are so stiff, that ihey remind not of the classic school; in the burlesque scenes inserted, the figure of a favourite of the popiJar English stage is intro- duced. Grim, the collier of Croydon , and they turn upon amusements of the lowest taste, upon cudgelings and wine- drinkings, shaving and pick-])Ocke(ing, From 15S0, before the group of tragic poets aroiuul the young Sliakespeare, cast him into the shade, John Lily (born about 155;^J ruled the court -stage, where in a series of dramas of luiequal value (Dramatic works, ed. Fairholt. 1S5S), he laid llie foundation of a more refined comedy, which was performed by the children of the Chapel Royal. In his ])ieces, the antifpu^ lies nu>st characteristically side by side with English . manners and matters in an utterly disunited combination. Among them. Mother IJonibie is, according to matter, a piur ])()|)ular farce, but at the same time it is designed in the jHirest style of Terence. The pastoral ])lay Galatea is a greek legend transported to Ijincolnsliire , and acted ])v classically named shepherds, by the side of \\h()m stand caricatures of the most modern style, alcliyniists and astro- 88 sii \Ki;si'i; \i;k in London anii on tiik stage. lo<;crs. In Kinlyniiou an accurate imitation of Flantus' bully apjx'ais in a niytli(iloi;ical material^ Avliich in the fashion- able Italian manner of conceits is maiuifactured into a flat- terinj^- glorification of the queen. In ]Midas, the fables of this Phrygian king are dramatized, in it however the English spectators at once saw a satire upon Philip 11. , the lord of the American Ekiorados. In Alexander and Carapaspe, all the Avitty anecdotes and sallies which antiquity heaped upon Alexander and Diogenes, are put together as in a mo- saic, but with a perfectly modern ease, lightness, and per- spicuity of language, from Avhich Shakespeare learned most directly the prose of his comic scenes. In all these pieces there remains scarcely a touch of antique nature, of the aesthetic sense of form, of the arranging and sifting spirit of the ancient dramatists. Thus George Whetstone also, the author of Promos and Cassandra (1578), (the foundation of Shakespeare's Measure for Measure), announces himself as a scholar of the antique, complains of the improbabilities, upon Avhich the English dramas are founded, and of the rough manner in which they are executed; but his 2>roceeding in the stiff ten-act piece places him also among the many, who at that time saw and commended the better course, and followed the bad. Even the art of much more genuine scholars of antiquity coidd not break the nature of a people, nor restrain and divert the jjoetical remembrances and tra- ditions of the romantic middle ages ! After those noble poets, and their adherents, had remodelled lyric and epic poetry in the spirit of the classic restoration in Italy, it was in the highest degree probable that they would make the attempt to refine also the rough popular drama according to the higher conceptions of the ancients. Philip Sidney had. DRAMATIC POETRY BEFORE SHAKESPEARE. 89 in his "Apolofiy of Poetry"(l5S7), energetically appealed to the precepts and e.\ani])lc8 of ancient art ; with Euripides as his mf)del he insisted upon the representation of catas- trophes, and ridiculed the ronuxntic pieces, which begin an action ah ovo. Samuel Daniel, Avliom we have already men- tioned as a sonnettist, rested on this honoured authority, and, disgusted by the vain contrivances and coarse follies of the stage, he wrote his Cleopatra in 1594, and subsequently his Philotas, completely in imitation of the Greek tragedy, and in strict observation of the unities ; Brandon folloAved him in Octavia in 1598; Lady Pembroke had preceded him in 1590 with a translation of Antonius by Garnier; and in 1594 the Cornelia of this Frenchman, translated by Kyd, appeared in print. J Jut all these works of a courtly or aristo- cratic art fell like lost drops in the stream of the popular plays, and perished more decidedly, than Avith us the similar attempts of Stolberg and Schlegel. Who that has seen this pompous declamatory piece of Garnier's, and has compared it with the fresh life of an Englisli original even of the roughest kind, who that would at all weigh the develop- ment of the French stage in comparison with the English, would have Avished tluit these poems should have had a greater influence? poems Avhich might have diverted tlie taste of the age from the past, Avith its thousand years of poetical traditions, froiu the present Avith its mighty capa- bilities, introducing foruial, perhaps faultless Avorks of art, but Avhich Avould have remained a dead exercise of style. Thus as revived art in Italy Avas not satisfied Avith imi- tatinsr old forms , but incited also Petrarch and Ariosto to train in higher artistic fashion llic spirit and subjects of the 90 SHAKESPEARE IN LONDON AND ON HIE STAGE. traditions of tho middle aj^eSj so it ha])])oiR'(l also with the drama in Ku^laud. The epos of the Italian poets, the ro- mances of ehivahy, the newly circulated Greek romances, the national ballads, the countless tales full of exquisite fables and legends from the middle ages, formed a matter too important, to be set aside by the restoration of the an- cient drama. The abundance of tliis matter, the delight in its purport, the romantic spirit Avliich had conjured forth in it a thousand beauties and still more exquisite designs, over- came the forms of the classical models, and allowed but little room for the antique material. In the series of dramas, which were represented before Elizabeth between 1558 and 15S(I, Ave find Avith the eighteen pieces of old historical or mythological matter , a similar nvmiber Avhose subjects are draAvn from the chivalric romances and novels. The lio- mantic dramas of this kind Avere in the most natm'al and the most scA'cre contrast to the antique. Some among them ma- nifest in the most simple manner a connection AA'ith the epic, and the transition from this form to the dramatic. As in Pe- ricles, John GoAver, out of whose epic story the matter is borrowed, is the explainer and regulator of the piece , so in Middleton's Mayor of Quinborough also, Raynulph Higdon performs the part of the chorus and the introducer of the play, the subject of Avliich (Hengist and Ilorsa) is taken from his chronicles ; and such an exhibiter appears in other pieces of this kind, Avhere the action is carried on by pan- tomimes introduced, Avhich require the explanation of these "presenters." Pieces of this kind pandered to the inclina- tions of the loAver orders, avIio craved more profuse matter, and Avould see something for their shilling; most boldly they disregarded time and scene , they made the fantastic the amec DRAMATIC POETKY 15EFORE SHAKESPEARE. 91 rule, in spite of tlic outrage it caused to tlie realistic friends of the antique, such as Ken Jonson, and uo less so to tliosi' idealistic, who wished to restore the form of the old dranui in its entire purity, Ahout the close of the 16th century, after Daniel and ]?randon had brought forward their entirely classical models , this style still prevailed : Shakespeare's Pericles most nearly represents it to the German reader. Just as this piece, hurrying from action to action, from place to place, disregards probability, or expressly derides it, so in Thomas Hey wood's "Fair Maid of the West", a romance full of adventures is made into twO dramas; aiul of a similar character are his "Four Prentices of London", Pecle's 'Old wives' Tale", Rowley's "birth of JNlerlin", "the Thracian w'on- der", alleged to be by Webster and Rowley, and the like. The copious change of facts and scene, the simple treatment and plot, the romantic subject and fiibulous spirit of these pieces, made them dear to the people, and Thomas Heywood, when his "Prentices" was printed in 1G15, says expressly, that at the time of its origin, this style was customary, which the more cultivated taste of later years had abandoned. This accords perfectly Avith what Gosson asserts in his work, "plays confuted in fife acts" (printed about 158(1) of the sour- ces and nature of such plays, taken from tales of knights- errant. He has seen, he tells us, that " the Palace of Plea- sure, the Golden Ass , the Ethiopian History, Amadis of France, and tlu' Hound Table", have been ransacked, to fur- nish the play-houses of London. The pieces giounded on these romances, he thus characterizes : ".Sometimes you shall see nothing but the adventures of an amorous knight, passing from country to country for the love of his lady, encoun- tering many a terril)le monster, made of brown paper, and 92 SHAKESPEARE IN LONDON AND ON THE STAGE. at his return is so woiulcrtully ehaiincd , that ho cannot be known hut l)y some posy in his tabk^t, or by a broken ring', or a handkerchief, or a piece of cockh'shclh" Very similarly Sidney in his "Apology of Poetry " depicts the bold treatment of time in these romantic plays: "Ordinary it is that two young- princes fall in love: after many traverses, she is got Avitli child, delivered of a fair boy; he is lost, groweth a man, falleth in love, and is ready to get another child , and all this in two hours' space." These absurdities, he adds, the most common-place players in Italy had laid aside. But for that very reason, the Italians have acquired no drama of importance and still less a Shakespeare. For upon the narrow field of the interest that few cultivated and dis- tinguished people in Italy and France felt in the antique pieces, no dramatic art could take root, as in England, where it was built upon the broad foundation of the sym- pathy of all classes and conditions of the people, because it rested on the ground of popular education, because it made use of all elements and materials which were accessible to the people, and because it, in that expression of Shakespeare's, made the theatre a mirror, not to reflect the life of a past Avorld, but the life of the present. The efforts for the revival of ancient art, for the recognition of the old rules of art , in opposition to the confused extravagances of the romantic drama, could not possibly have been unknown to Shake- speare. He coidd not indeed blind himself to the multitude of dramas around him, in which the form of the Latin com- edy, the romantic extravagant element of the old Sicilian comedy, as well as' the simple domestic element of the attic, had penetrated ! He was certainly acquainted with the single pieces of Lily and [Nlarston, which were directly suggested DRAMATIC POKTKY BEFORE SHAKESPEARE. 93 by Terence ; he certainly lived in intercourse Avitli lien Jon- son and Beaumont, Chapman and Hey wood , who followed occasionally the track of Plautus ! And in his own pieces, how often are Ave not carried back direct to Plautus, now by the outward details and scenery, now by the play and banter of words among his Avits , now by a single trait in the de- lineation of sharp outlines of character, such as among misers, l)oasters and others. He had thus read as much as another the translated pieces of Seneca and the Latin comic writers; in the poetic sea of the old myths and legends he had bathed like a man, avIio is best acquainted Avith the element. In Titus Andronicus, if it proceeds from Shakespeare, Ave shall see, hoAV entirely he is at home in this region. In the Comedy of Errors he has Avorked at a piece of Plautus. In the Taming of the ShrcAV, the "Supposes" of Ariosto lies as a foundation, a piece written in the spirit of the Latin comedies. The Avorks of Seneca, Shakespeare Avas entirely master of; in his Cymbeline, after the manner of this poet, he makes the presiding divinity a])pcar, and s})eak in the same antique metre, in Avhich HeyAvood andStudley had imitated the Latin tragedist, a passage Avhich, for us Germans, should have been translated in Greek trimeter. It Avas but natural that Shake- speare should feel himself induced, to name at sometime his Ideal, to denote the highest examples of dramatic art Avhich stood before him: he had none to name but Plautus and Seneca ! Put Avere these perhaps mere ouhvard sup- ports? AVas this admiration uierely a repetition of the much talked -of fame of these poets? Was his comprehension of antiquity not darkened by looking at it through the spirit of the age? Put Avhicli of his contemporaries could have ap- prehended a piece of llic old world willi sucli a clear eye, 94 SlIAKKSl'KAKK IN LONDON AND ON TIIK STAGE. as he did tlie roiuuii uatiue in tlie tlivec liistories of (Joriola- niis, Ca:'sar, and Antony!' We justlj- distini>nish the excellent Cliapman, who in the middle of Shakespeare's career trans- lated Homer, and hy a bold form of lanj.;uage and faithful adherence to the original, might be named a wonder of the age, and whom Pope should have learned from rather than blamed ; but let us read Shakespeare's Troilus and Cressida, and ask ourselves, Avhether this wonderful counterfeit imi- tation of the Homeric heroes were possible to another man, than to one who had seized most intensely the substance and spirit of the old epic poets? w^hether this parody did not demand quite another intelligence in the poet, than that trans- lation? whether that caricature did not betray far more the eye of an artist than this copy ? lint just the independent position towards the father of poetry, Avhich Shakespeare assmnes in this play, intimates to us, how little this man was formed to bend to any authority, exajnple, or rule, or to reverence exclusively any style. His art was a vessel, which afforded a receptacle for all materials in all ages. To reject the ful- ness of the material, or to contract for the sake of an ob- solete theatrical law, could never occur to him. He appro- priated to himself Pericles, he wrote subsequently the Win- ter's Tale, a piece upon Avliich the ridicule of a Sidney Avould seem to have been written, had it not been much earlier. But, while he touched these pieces, he did not forsake the old rule from ignorance, he did not once in silence pass it over. He knew well that in the dramatic treatment of an historical subject, the great theme is mutilated merely by the repre- sentation in successive scenes, but this could not induce him, on account of this impropriety, to yield the essential also of which art was capable. In his Henry V. in five highly poet- DKAMATIC roKTUY MKFOKE SHAKESPEARE. 95 ical prologues, he invites the auditors to transport them- selves by the powers of" the imagination over these mis- treatments of time and scene ; and this is the hold manifesto against that rule, which behoved a poet like Shakespeare. So also has Marston in a preface to his "Wonder of Women", (1606) with hearty good-will given a blow to the defender of the antique rule, whilst he declares his will not to be constrained within the narrow limits of an historian, but to enlarge like a poet. If the Winter's Tale, through the cornrection of the history of two generations , is a tale , as its title intimates , why should not a tale be brought upon the stage? In the prologue to the second part (4th Actj Shakespeare makes Time speak in dark generalities, that which he himself, in the name of his creative art, signi- ficantly enough would say respecting the peculiarity of the stage-law of unity of time, wdiich he purposely rejects : Impute it not a crime, To me, or my swift passage, that I slide O'er sixteen years, and leave the growth untried Of that wide pass ; since it is in my jiower To o'erthrow law and in one self-born hour To plant and o'erwhelm custom. Let me pass The same I am, ei-e ancient' st order was, Or what is now received : I witness to The times that brought them in ; so shall! do To the freshest things now reigning : and make stale The glistering of the present, as my tale Now seems to it. More significantly the form of an unmeaning law, which is linked to the humour of tlie taste of the age, could not be rejected. The task was now, that in the stead of this rejected outward law, an inner lasting one should be placed. How Shakespeare did this, our discussions in the course of this work will educe. And at its conclusion, we shall find the remark 96 shakespp:aiik in londox and ox the stage. ■vvliicli Scliiller made, completely justified, tlnit Shakespeare's new art is perfectly consistent with the true old law of Ari- stotle; and more : that out of it a yet more spiritual law can he deduceil tlian that of Aristotle; and a law that was created for the moulding of a far richer material than helonged to the ancient tragedy, which thus necessarily arose out of the very natin-e of the modern drama. To retain the epic character of the popular drama, but to take from it its deformity, and to allow the ancient models to effect a refinement of the form, this was the instinctive tendency and Avork of the more accomplished poets, who from 1560 till Shakespeare's time began to dedicate art to the English drama. In this Avork of union the superiority of nature over art, Avhich is throughout the characteristic of the northern poetic character, became at once apparent. This new -birth of the English art -drama manifests itself in a homogeneous group of tragedies , Avhicli through a more concise action and a more distinct form are in direct oppo- sition to those vague epic-romantic plays. The plays Avhicli we mean are all severe tragedies mostly of a bloody character; they are almost all grouped round ]Marlowe's " Tamburlaine" but they are called forth by the remote influence of that first English art-tragedy, the Eerrex and Porrex of Lord Sack- ville, just as much as that was by Seneca. Those of this group which lie before "Tambuilaiue" and are more inde- pendent of its influence , approach nearer the classic fonn ; thus the tragedy Tancred and Gismunda, which Robert Wilmot composed with four other pvipils of the Temple and represented in 15GS; thus the ]\IisfoTtimes of Arthur, by Thomas Hughes, which was performed in Greenwich in 15S7, at Avhich the famous Bacon took a part. These pieces. DRAMATIC POKTRV IJKl'ORK SHAKESPEARE 97 like Ferrex and Porrox, sliift the action behind the scene and are essentially dialogue and relation, tangibly and avowedly ruled by the influence of Seneca. In this is Mar- lowe's "Tambinlaine" more independent, Avhich appeared in 1 586, just as Shakespeare came to l^ondon, who thus freshly encountered the immense effects which this piece made upon the stage, and the revolution which it occasioned in dramatic poetry. This piece transplanted to the national stage, if not for the first time, yet Avith the greatest energy, the iambic blank verse, which grants the act(n- the pathos to which he was accustomed from the declamation of the older fourteen- syllabled rhymes, but admitted of more nature and motion. The heroic purport of this great double tragedy was an- nounced Avith solemnity; the high style of this stately action Avas equalled by the majestic style of the delivery ; the people Avere to be satiated with a series of battle-pieces; the rhe- torical sublimity was to content the more refined guests. The piece fell upon a favourable soil. Just in the same year 1586, London saAV the great tragedy of the cruel execution of liabington and his felloAV-conspirators , in the folloAving year fell the head of Mary Stuart, in the next happened the destruction of the Spanish Armada; such tragedies in actual life have ever accompanied the tragedy of the stage, Avhere it has received a greater and more enduring nurture. During these years therefore, tragedies in Marlowe's style arose in numbers. The Spanish tragedy of Kyd (1588) and Jeronimo, Avhich was added to it by another poet as a first part, shared the fame and the popidarity of "Taniburlaine", nay surpassed it; Peele's liattleof Alcazar, Greene's Alphonso and Orlando Furioso, liodge's Marius and Sylla, Nash's Dido, at Avhich MarloAve himself Avorked, Locrinc, AAdiich is often regarded 1. 7 98 SIlAKi:sl>KAKi; in I.OXDOX AM) ox TIIK STAGE. as a work of Shakespeare, and Titus Andronicus, which stands among- Shakespeare's writings , arc all pieces , which appeared within a few years after "Taniburlaine", and collec- tively betray a decided affinity of spirit, both as to form and sul)ject. In every respect these pieces stand on the same level with our Silesian dramas by Gryphius and Lohenstein. They are similarly written in that exaggerated pathos and in that grandilo(pient rhetorically pompous style, which is characteristic of the beginner who aspires after mere effect. I'nlimited passions are set in motion, and their expression is everywhere carried to exaggeration. Noisy actions and bloody atrocities shake the strong nerves of the spectator ; forcible characters are distorted in caricature ; in Tambiu'- laine the struggling- tyrants act and treat each other like wild beasts, and even that w'hich in jNIarlowe's intention was to ennoble the principal hero, (and by contrast forms the main effect of the drama,) thatAvhen satiated with blood he is gentle and peaceable, tluit the conqueror of the world reve- rences beauty and is conquered by love, even this issues from the animal nature of men. The matter of all these pieces is upon nearer consideration much more homogeneous than one would think. It turns upon that which also in the antique Drama was ever the ready theme, the first and most simple idea of tragedy, the experience namely that blood demands blood, according to the saying of vEschylus : "for murder, murder, — and for deeds, retaliation". The thought of revenge and retaliation is therefore the absorbing one of almost all these pieces. It is so even in Ferrex and Porrex, where brother kills brother, and in revenge tlie mother stabs the murderous son, in consequence of which the nobles of the land exter- minate the whole bloody house. In Hughes' Arthur, the DRAMATIC POETKY UEFOKl-; SH AKESl'KAKE. 99 house of this king, for the ^;in of incest, meets with the pun- ishment of fate in the mutual death of father and son. In " Tamburlaine " this trait appears less, only that the piece concludes with the dark stroke of destiny, which fatally meets Tamburlaine, when he would bm-n the temple of Ma- homed. The catastrophe in Locrine turns upon the ven- geance of the repudiated Guendeline towards Locrine and the Scythian queen Estrilde. The Spanish tragedy and Je- roiiimo are intrinsically revenge-pieces; in the former, tlie spirit of the murdered Andrea appears with vengeance as the chorus in the beginning of the piece ; the murderer of this Andi'ea is Balthasar, who has drawn upon himself the vengeance of the surviving betrothed of Andrea, and through the murder of her second lover Horatio excites besides the vengeance of his father Jeronimo; the spirit of Horatio stimulates the father to the dangerous work of revenge, more surely to accomplish which, Jeronimo feigns himself mad, until he at last in a play which he performs with Ual- thasar and his accomplice, attains his end. From these hasty glimpses we see, that this piece had an influence upon the plan of Hamlet , and still more closely upon Titus An- dronicus and the feigned madness of the avenger Titus. This piece also is fidly imbued with the idea of vengeance. And this theme especially, the concealment of vengeance or of crime behind dissembled madness or depression, appears to have much occupied the dramatic taste of the day ; it is brought into play even in a less tragic piece by Webster and Marston, the Malcontent (1004), inF ord's "Jiroken heart", and in Webster's Vittoria Corombona (1G12J. The horrors of vengeance, however, which those Spanish tragedies and Titus Andronicus multiply, are by no means the worst. loo fiUAKKSl'KAKK IN LONDON AND ON TllK STAGE. Cliettlo's "Hoffmann or Yongeanco for a father" (1598) ex- coeds these by far, and in Marlowe's MaUese Jew (1589 — 90j there is in tlie hero liarahas, as it Avere, the whole hereditary liatred of the -lews (■oni})ress('d into one individual, and tln^ poet invents all imaginable deeds of vengeance, with which the abominably mal-treated Jcav vents his smothered rage upon the christian race. We cite alone this one group of bloody tragedies, to characterize the state of things at the time of Shakespeare's arrival in London. A wild, rival activity of rough talents and of rough characters surged around him. The inharmonious, the unformed natiu'e of these works reflected the natiue of the age and the authors in a faithful dagueiTCotype. They are the products of a chaotic world of mind, which the whole circumstances of the public life in town and court made yet more confused, where in an unadjusted struggle, splendour and vulgarity, true love of art and coarse feeling, actual desire after a higher intellectual existence and the utmost licentiousness of habit, strive together. The excess of passion in the chai'acters of . those pieces is only a copy of that which the life of these poets themselves partly ex- hibited ; the overstraining in the sentiments and modes of action of their heroes is only an imitation of the overstraining of the imagination and of the talent of the poets them- selves; the morbid and spasmodic tendencies, the con- strained violence and force of the actions, speeches, and men, which they produce, is only the copy of the storm and im- pulse in the life of these titan natures, who jolted against tlie proprieties of life and its limits, with something of tlie same lack of nature and the same coai'seness, as the youth- ful associates and poetic friends who gathered round the DRAMATIC POETRY BEFORE SHAKESPEARE. 101 young- Goethe ami Schiller. It is a strange occurrence that Marlowe in his dramas attempted the subject of Faust, which many of Goethe's friends thought of, and into which Goethe himself compressed the whole substance of the titanic period of his youth. If Shakespeare really wrote Titus Andronicus, he devoted himself at fivst entirely to the ruling school ; his Pericles may represent the style of the epic -romantic dramas, his Henry VI. that of the histories, and his Titus that of the tragedies just alluded to. But whatever great or small share he may have liad in these pieces, he concludes with them this period and commences a new one, which must and can alone bear his name, be- cause no other work even of a later age belongs to it, save his own. Such a cleft se})arates this ]ioet from his succes- sors and predecessors both with regard to a'sthetics and ethics. The wald nature and the untutored feelings of those Marlowe friends and pupils, touched no chord within, even if in the early exuberance of youth, the life and actions of his companions had infected him. If he Avrote his Adonis and Lucrece while yet in Stratford, how mildly and ten- derly, how utterly removed from the bloody delight of those tragedies, has he treated the mournfid circumstances in these poems! In his first independent tragedy, in llichard III., that thoTight of avenging retribution is indeed predominant, liut in what a different, magnificent conce})tion and execu- tion ! In ilomeo and .Juliet, how the tragic idea is at once introduced in its greatest de])t}i, so tluit it would a])pear in- conceivable, had not an excellent previous work pointed out the path. In Hamlet above all, that thought of revenge, which so much occupied the poets of Shakespeare's time, is made I the very theme of the tragedy, but in Avhat a 102 SlIAKKSPKAKK 1>" 1,()M)().\ AND ON THE STAGE. iiiiUl lii;lit of human morality docs the solving of this theme place the i)oc't compared to those rude and abandoned minds ! lie Avho knows the relation inAvhich Goethe's Tasso stands to the similar inventions of his unbridled youthful friends, ^vill at once recognize the similar relation of Hamlet to the Spanish tragedy and the like ; he will feel that in Shakespeare a softer spirit dwelt, even if in a discordant mood he had written that Titus Andronicus ; he will per- ceive that this poet, like Goethe, separated himself early and resolutely from the tendency of art and morals of his early poetic associates. Early, therefore, he began in his works to deride this mode of poetry, to ridicule the Spanish trage- dy in parodizing quotations, and to place in the lips of the swaggering Pistol where this style ridicules itself, the bombast of " Tamburlaine" and the battle of Alcazar. Jiut more than by these parodies of single passages, the early withdraAval of Shakespeare from those works of subordi- nate minds and talents is exliibited by the nature of the first acknowledged dramas from his own hand. These were comedies and not blood)' tragedies ; they Avere comedies of a more refined style, comedies of Avhich England previouslv had scarcely found a trace. Among the many pieces of Shakespeare's early efforts, there is no work, which shows a similar refinement, as the first of these indei^endent crea- tions. Love's Labour's Lost and the Two Gentlemen of Verona. Not quite so great as in tragedy and comedy, is the cleft which separates Shakespeare from his predecessors in history ; here the transition is more gentle, because the same comparatively rich sources of Ilolinshed and other chro- nicles were equally at the command of the poets, because DRAMATIC POETRY BEFORE SHAKESPEARE. 103 the prepared material, borrowed from history and hekl in patriotic reverence, did not admit of the extravagances, to which the dramatists abandoned tliomselves in their freer snbjects, and because the sober reality here confined them to one element, Avhich healthfully counteracted their un- restrained nature. The group of historical dramas from English history, which arose sliortly before and at the same time as Shakespeare's Histories, consists for that reason of indeed less attractive and imaginative works, but still of the most creditable, which the English stage at that time produced, and which also indisputably must have exercised the most beneficial effect upon the public mind. That these pieces stand nearer to Shakespeare than all others, proceeds doubtless from the relation, in which these pieces have often stood to Shakespeare's own poetry, or on account of which they were composed. His Henry VI. is only an appropriation of the works of foreign poets ; to the first part Shakespeare has added but little , the two last parts are merely remo- dellings of two preserved plays, which indeed by many critics (especially German) are regarded as first sketches by Shakespeare himself, but which proceed undoubtedly from the pen of one of his most qualified predecessors , Ro- bert Greene, as Collier is inclined to assume , or Marlowe, to whom Dyce awards them. Shakespeare's plays upon Henry IV. and V. sprang from an older but very coarse historical drama, which was represented before 1588. There is also a Latin Rich .ird III. (before 158:^) and an English "true tragedy of Richard III." (about 15SS), also hisigni- ficant works, the latter of which Shakespeare iind()id)tedly knew , though scarcely in one line has he used it. King .lohn , on the contrary, rests upon a bitter piece , printed 104 SHAIvESPEARE IN LONDON AND ON THE STAGE. lus early as 1 5'J I , which uffcrcd much available matter for r('tiiiniii;4- and therefore has been often regarded as an earlier work of Shakespeare's. Thus Tieck and Schlegel have erroneously declared some historical plays of the burgher class, CroniAvell and John Oldcastle, Tieck even the "London Prodigal" and an Edward III., (about 1595) to be Shakespeare's works. This latter piece makes use of single touches from the Shakespeare dramas, and is em- bellished with many a skilful ornament of choice construc- tion and rare images ; yet it has nothing of Shakespeare's deeper power of invention and delineation of character; whoever remembers his treatment of the popular favorite Percy, and those few verses in which he makes Edward III. look down smiling upon his lionhearted son from the height in the heat of battle , will not believe that the same poet should have depicted such a faintly drawn Black Prince as that in Edward III. Notwithstanding the piece is the Avork of a finer hand. And indeed the highest talents emulated each other in this style of writing , which in the last ten years of the iGth centmy appeared to be the predominant. Of George Peele, we have indeed in the period prior to 1590, Edward I., apiece, wliich begins promisingly, but ends Avithout form and in extravagant redundancy of mat- ter. By Marlowe there is an Edward II. (1593), which freer from bombast and more arranged in matter and language than the rest of his Avorks might have furnished Shake- speare Avith a direct model; Avith regard, indeed, to the exact composition, there are, it is true, in the history of the weak EdAvard II. , surrounded Avith favourites and rebels, the characters and situations of Richard II. and Henry IV., but nothing is made of it but a chronicle in scenes , Avhich DKAMATIC POETRY BEFORE SHAKESPEARE. 105 possesses not even the sharply drawn characters and the passionate agitation of Henry VI. Nay even there is nothing in this piece of the natural freshness, of the popular scenes among the welsh rebels in Peele's Edward I. And scenes like these are by far the most refreshing part of history, because they present the freest scope and usually the most attractive characters. They stand in tlic same proportion to the serious parts of history, as the ballad to the chro- nicle. The heroes too of these episodical passages, less fet- tered by historical material , llobin Hood and such like, have not seldom been the heroes of ballads ; and personages like the magician Faust, Peter Fabel, Hrother Pausch, and Bacon, the Collier Grim, and others, had been already po- pular favorites in living tradition , long before they came upon the stage, llobin Hood was brought upon the stage l)y Munday in two pieces (the Earl of Huntingdon) at the close of tlie IGth century, also the "magic contest of .John a Kent and John a Cumber", in imitation of llobert Greene's "Bacon and Jiungay". By the latter is perhaps also the 'Thinner of Wakefield" (about 1590), in which the robber-hero George Greene is brought into collision with a second herculean fighter of this sort : in such pieces the ballad with its bold touches treads up(jn the stage, merely put into dialogue, just as the chronicle does in the simple historical plays. The hardy popular nature bursts forth here through all bombastic pathos and Italian conceits ; it is so faithfully and directly transcribed, as with us in the rustic poetry and merry tales of the time of the Reformation ; the scenes in the woods and country of these pieces breathe freshness and natural life. More refined and more polished than this 'Thinner" is the "merry devil" of Edmonton (first j)riii(ed in 106 SHAKESrEARE IN LONDON' AND ON THE STAGE. 160S), wliifli by sonic is imputed to Drayton ^ Ly othors to Shakespeare ; but in tliis piece, in the poaching scenes and comic personages contained in it , "vve may rather trace Shakespeare's influence. Thus is it also in Thomas Hey- ■vvood's EdAvard IV. (about 1600)^ in the first part of which the old ballad of the Tanner of Taniworth has received ex- cellent treatment full of freshness and natural liumour. In all these ballad-pieces there is a touch of the free movement and the poAverfully described characters of the Shakespeare poetry ; there is none of the monotonous diction of the com- mon histories and tragedies ; all moralizing and rhetoric is abolished; the poets throw themselves entirely into the condition of the matter; the scholar and the writer is over- come , the poet has forgotten himself, he has vanished in the actors^ and the action ; here began Shakespeare's art to prove itself wholly independent and new. And as we inti- mated before, it is in these histories and ballad-pieces alone, that his poetry appears entwined in a closer manner Avith that of his contemporaries ; in all others it presents itself rather as a transplanted nursling, upon Avhich a far nobler fruit has been grafted. We will add only a few Avords upon the externals of the style, and the history of the diction and versification of the English drama. The old Mysteries were for the greater part written in rhyming couplets , Avhich consist of short verses in alternating rhymes ; the Moralities Avere mostly composed in short verses with coupled rliymes. In the more finished plays of Skelton longer rhymes of 10 to 15 syllables ap- pear ; these lengthened verses prevail also Avith EdAvards, Ldall, and Still; they are employed by the translators of Seneca. They have been called Alexandrmes, though they DRAMATIC POETRY BEFORE SHAKESPEARE. 107 Avere meant to imitate the ancient trimeter. The learned authors of Ferrex and Porrex first introduced the rhymeless iambics of five feet , which subsequently became the stand- ing metre of the modern drama. Still at that time the fashion did not prevail ; they found this short blank verse more agreeable to the ear, but they liked not yet to miss the rhyme. This is notoriously often to be met with here and there in Shakespeare's works also, and especially throughout his earlier pieces. The histories, with their bald and insipid material, helped especially to banish the jingle of rhyme from the stage, before the group of the tragedians around Marlowe since 15S6 appeared, Gascoigne, in the translation of the "Supposes" of Ariosto, had given the example of tlie use of prose, and John Lily introduced it in his comedies and pastorals. lie had written a work in 1579 entitled "Euphues, anatomy of Avit", in Avhich English taste, as it appears, was offended by the application of the extra- vagant Italian conceits to a non-poetical subject, which it submitted to in the Italian style of poetry. This style , an accumulation of constrained witticisms and similes, became for a time the fasliionable strain of conversation ; we find it employed in petitions to the (piecn and magistrates as in poetry ; all ladies , it Avas said, had become Lily's scholars in this mode of speech, and at the court no one Avas esteemed , avIio could not converse in the fashion of Lily's "Euphuism". Drayton characterizes this style as if its main attribute had been the images Avhich it derives from stars, stones, plants, that is, from a fabulous natural ])hilos(>phy ; a similar passage from tlie "Euphues" lias Shakespeare ridi- culed in the comparison of the camomile , Avliich he places in the lips of l^'alstaff in his royal si)e('(li. Still the general lOS SHAKESPEARE IN LONDON AND ON THE STAGE. ih;ir;utcr of I lily's piosc in his draiuas , consists only in a supevahuiulaucc of poclic ami w itty lauj^uago, in far-fetched similes and curious images on every occasion however un- suitable ; at the same time , his prose acquires , like that of all other conceit- writers , by the continual opposition and epiyrannnatic turn of thoui>lit, somewhat of a sharpness, pi(|uancy , and logical perspicuity , the worth of which as regards the development of the language, was acknowledged with praise by contemporaries such as Webster. From no other of his predecessors has Shakespeare, therefore, espe- cially for the dexterons play of words in the merry parts of his comedies and dramas, learned and obtained so much, as from Lily. The witty conversation, the comic demon- strations , the abundance of siiniles and startling repartee are here prefigured; from his quids, which Lily himself defines as the short expressions of a sharp Avit, with a bitter sense in a sweet Avord , Shakespeare could form a school. lUit he acted here, as with ^larlowe's pathos ; he moderated the practice, and used the pattern in its perfect resemblance only for characteristic aims, or for ridicule. In Falstaff 's and Henry's intercourse, in the comic affrays of these "most comparative" Avits, Shakespeare has given free course to this vein, as Lily did without distinction on every occasion Thus Shakespeare kneAv how to obtain everywhere a noble metal for his work; the dross he left behind. Similar is his connection with the outward form of the tragedies of the Marlowe school. iNIarlowe had introduced blank iambics upon tlie stage with great ptjuip and energy in his "Tam- burlaine", so that at first a general uproar of envy and ridicule was raised against these "drumming decasyllabons", and the importance attached to their introduction. Notwithstand- DRAMATIC I'OKTRY HEFOKE SHAKESPEARli. 109 in<>- this metre triumphed so immediately and decidedly, that not alone for the stai^e in England, but for that in Germany , it remained a law. At first it was formed with the most pedantic severity and rigour, the verse concluded with the sense, and the sentence with the verse which had always an iambic close. Thus is Titus Andronicus Avritten. Hut Shakespeare soon stept forth from this constraint in a manner, hardly indicated by Marlowe ; he intertwined the sense more freely through the verses according to the degree of passion expressed ; and yielding to this inward impulse, he removed the monotonousness of the older blank verse by manifold interruption of its regular course, by abbreviation into verses of one — two — three feet , by repeated cesures and pauses, by the conclusion of these cesures with am- phibrachs, by exc-hanging the iambic metre with the trochaic, by the alternate contraction or extension of many-syllabled words, and by combinations of words and syllables, capable of different scanning. Especially sciiooled by Spenser's me- lodious versification, he thus blended its manner with Mar- lowe's power, and with exquisite tact of hearing and feeling, he broke up the stiff severity of the old verse into a freedom which was foreign to his predecessors , and then in this freedom he retained a moderation , which again is ])artly lost by his successors.* Tlis poetic diction moved Avith re- spect to the metrical in the same medium between constraint * We refer any one who wislies to inform Iiimself more accurately respectin* this technical side of .Shakes])eare's poetry, to the unfinished work of Sidney Walker, "Shakespeare's versification". liOnd. ls.>4. and to the acute treatise of Tycho Momnisen in his edition of Ilonieo and Juliet. Oldenb. 1S5'J. p. 109 et seq. 1 Ml SIlAKEsrEARE IN I.ONDON AM) OX TlIK STAG?:. and scope , as witli respect to expression, metaphor, and poetical languaj^e it held a niedinm between the overloading- ot'thi' Italian conceits, and the unimaginative style of the German dramas, mIucIi is often even -with Goethe and Schiller only versified prose. It is singular, that the most important of the young poets around Shakespeare all died early, and soon after Shakespeare began his dramatic career, fPeele before 1599, Marlowe 1593, Greene 1592,) as if to leave for him a broad and open path. But had they even lived, he would never- theless be as unique as he is now. Collier thinks, ]Marlowe would in this case have become a formidable rival to Shake- speare's genius. We are thoroughly convinced just as little as Klinger with respect to our OAvn Goethe. Indeed I am even of opinion , that if Greene is the original composer of the two last parts of Henry VI., certainly if he is the author of "the Pinner of Wakefield", Marlow e's austere mind and constrained talent would have not even reached to the more versatile, unambiguous, manysided nature of this man. Shakespeare had not the advantage of Goethe in having a Lessing before him, who with critical mind and well studied models had broken up a path for dramatic poetry. Unless some lost pieces of greater value, if even only one, had kindled a light for him, (as we have indeed one hint at least, that he had such an excellent dramatic model for Romeo and Juliet,) all the rest that w^e meet with of dra- matic art in England before Shakespeare, is only like a mute way-mark to an unknown end, through a path fidl of luxuriant underwood and romantic wildness , which gives a presentiment of the beauty of nature, but never its en- joyment. He who laid open the way and led to a final aim of DRAMATIC POETRY HEFORp: SHAKESPEARE. Ill perfect satisfaction, was Shakespeare alone. Every single genius around him lie has surpassed beyond all comparison; the single qualities which this one or that fostered witli par- tiality, he united in moderation and harmony ; in the chaotic mass of dramatic productions, he first struck the electric spark, which was capable of combining the elements. From all the poetic contemporaries around him he could learn, not what to do, but what not to do. And tliis, after his first attempts in Avhich he followed his models of that school, must he quickly have felt and conceived, as in his first in- dependent works he early adopted an untrodden path, and forthwith gained a height hitherto unattained; the best piece of his poetic rivals is not to be compared with the least of his early attempts. A man like Chapman, who amid all Shakespeare's poetic contemporaries indisputably in single instances approaches nearest to Shakespeare, has somewhere expressed, that fortune seemed to govern the stage, and that nobody knew the hidden causes of the strange effects, that rise from this hell, or descend from this heaven. Nothing is perhaps more expressive than this sentence, to characterize the dramatic poetry of the day , and to distinguisli Shake- speare's from it ; the poets all convey the impression that they grope in search of an unknown aim, by which they may secure popularity. IJut Shakespeare began by despis- ing the million, and Avhilst he strove after the applause of the few experienced, he raised himself to a height, which discovered to him at once a nobler law of art and a higher moral aim. Thus it had been a general custom among those poets, that two, three, or even five, worked togetlier at one piece; it is the most speaking testimony that all perception of capacity for true works of art Avas wanting. Shake- I 12 SlIAKKSPKAKK IN l.OXDON AND ON THE STAGE. s])eare worked upon ideas , wliioh arose from a thovi»htful mind and a deep ex])erienec of Hfe, and he eould not, tliere- fovc, use tlie hand of a mechanical assistant. In this also he appears unique and perfectly distinct. lUit if demur and doubt should he raised at the opinion Avhicli separates Shake- speare so widely from his predecessors, and w:hich exhibits him as towering so mightily above them like a giant tree above the brush -wood of the soil, it is only necessary as evidence that we have dealt fairly with the matter, to glance at his successors. That his predecessors Avere left behind liim, where all had first to level the untrodden path, would be in no degree remarkable ; but that later contemporaries and successors, who had before them the noble example of his works, and at the time of the highest prosperity of the stage, sustained by every encouragement, that they produced among hundreds of productions not a single one , that in a higher sense even augured the existence of a model like Shake- speare ; this is a fact which proves indisputably , how far this man had surpassed the range of sight of those around him. !Menander's Comedy is not so far removed from the genius of Aristophanes , as the English Drama after Shake- speare from his works. The ethical and aesthetic dejith of both is in each case lost, almost Avithout leaving a trace be- hind. We may read through the works of Munday, of Mar- ston and Webster, of Ford and Field, of Massinger and Hey wood, of Jonson and Middleton, of Beaumont and Flet- cher, an uncommon richness of power and matter is pro- minenf in. their plays, which often, overladen with three- fold actions, present an inexhaustible mine for dramatists well acquainted with psychological and theatrical matters ; but throughout, the work of the artisan must be refined into DRAMATIC POETRY BEFORE SHAKESPEARE. 113 the Avork of the artist. We look upon a mighty industry, rapidly organized upon a great demand, full of clumsy, care- less, hasty manufactures paid by the piece, formed according to the wishes of the multitude, an industry occasionally guided by a publisher such as Munday, who has himself in- deed made a dozen plays in company with two or three poets. Here everything in the minds engaged, testifies of saj) and vigour, of life and motion, of luxuriant creative genius, of ready ability to satisfy a glaring taste with glaring effects ; but the forming hand of that master is nowhere to be per- ceived, who created his works according to the demands of the highest ideal of art. Misused freedom and power , dis- figiu-rd form, distorted truth, stunted greatness, these are everywhere the characteristics of the works of these poets. In the strictest contrast to the French theatre, ridiculing all rules, void of all criticism, without any arranging mind they confound commonly a wild heap of ill - connected events of the most opposite character in an exciting con- fusion of buffoonery and horror, and they allow indeed an action full of abominable depravity to issue in a comedy, and a plot of a conciliating development in a tragedy ; they seek sublimity in extravagance, power in excess, the tragic in the awful; they strain the horrible to in- sipidity, they give events the loose character of adven- tures, they pervert motives to whims, they turn charac- ters into caricatures. With Ben Jonson, Shakespeare's witty and cheerful view of life has become bitter satire, his idealism, realism, his florid poetry, prose soberness, his world, charming with its manifold forms of fancy, a lumber- room full of strange requisites, his delineations of the eternal nature and habits of men, a representation of ephemeral ex- 1. 8 114 SllAIvESPEAKE IN LONDON AND ON THE STAGE. travaganees , his typical characters, Avhimsical humourists. On tlie other sitle , there are countless pieces of the less original of the poets of that day, full of direct reminiscences of Shakespeare in the manner of speech and jest, in out- ward colouring, in designs, situations, and forms of charac- ter ; but whoever will attempt only a few comparisons, how ^lassinger exaggerated the character of Jago in his "Duke of Milan", or how he christianized Shylock in his work "A new way to pay old debts", or hoAv Ford ('Tis a pity she's a whore) transfers the glowing colouring of the love in Romeo and Juliet to an incestuous passion between a bro- ther and sister, wdioever willcomjjare these with Shakespeare, will (juickly measure the extent of the aesthetic gap between these disciples and their master. And still "wider is the distance between them in an ethical respect. In amass of dramas which originated contemporaneously with or after Shakespeare, Ave are transported into an infected sphere, among the middle and lower London classes, where morals were more heathenish, says Massinger, than among the heathen, and crime, as Ben Jonson represents, more reiined than in hell. The society in which we here move, thus it is said in a serious morality of this time ("Lingua" 1G07) are passionate lovers, miserable fathers, extravagant sons , insatiable courtesans, shameless bawds, stupid fools, impudent parasites, lying servants, and bold sycophants. These figures and subjects Avere not yet hideous enough for the poets: they had recourse at the same time especially to Italian society, as it is drawn in the history and romance of the age , a Avorld of corruption , Avhich in more bare-faced shamelessness and obduracy delights in an impudent ostentation of more violent and stronger crimes. Not satisfied Avith this characteristic choice of the most re- DRAMATIC POETHY IJEFORE SHAKESPEARE. 115 l)iilsive matter, they could not even pourtray it faithfully eu()ui>li in the coarsest realistic truth without an ideal per- spective. Nay, not even satisfied with this photographic iniage, they chose rather to hold the concave mirror before the age, that the deformity might be yet more deformed. Lingering Avith darkened vision upon these shadow-sides in their pieces, which can often only awake the interest of criminal pro- cedures , concealing- by silence the light - side of that luxuriant English race, their political and religious power, the greater part of these poets adhere notwithstanding- firmly to the ethical vocation of their art, but like lien Jon- sou they fall into a harsh and severe theory of intimidation, which misses its aim in the poet's task still more than in that of the judge. Wherever they more positively tend to a moral idea, as Hey wood and Massinger do, they fall into another devious path : losing- that sense of moderation, which in Shakespeare measures human actions according- to the pure eternal moral law , these llomauticists of the P^nglish literature point in idealistic extravagance to conventionally extolled virtues, and bring forward examples of exaggerated ideas of honour and fidelity, in the style of the Spanish drauui. IJut still most frequent is it, that the poets in the midst of the consciousness of their vocation, to elevate morals with ennobling- power out of the wilderness of art and taste, drawn down by the gravitating force of the corrupt conditions of life, suffer their hand to sink in convulsive efforts , aye , that in- considerately they resign themselves to the current of de- pravity, and sketch with seductive pencil the vices of the age, dead to the sensibility of moral feeling. This internal ruin sufficiently explains why the dramatic poetry of Eng- land, rapidly as it started forth , and luxuriantly as it grew 8* 116 SHAKKSPKAllE IN LONDON AND ON THE STAGE. up, just as quickly withered; why its constant adversary, puritanic religious zeal, forced it so soon to relinquish the task tor wliich it had proved itself too weak, the task of pu- rifying- society by a moral revolution. To us it would be conceivable, that tliis degeneration of the stage might have been alone the sufficient ground for Shakespeare's prema- ture withdrawal from the stage, from London, and from his poetic vocation ; he could no longer recognize his own work in the Avild practices of those, avIio believed themselves his most devoted disciples. For tlie intellectual extent of his historical survey of the world, the profound character of his poetic creations, his moral refinement of feeling, were to the Avhole race a sealed letter. All this, however, makes Shake- speare's appearance in no wise a marvel. The passionate sympathy of the people for the art of the stage, the merry life of the court, the activity of a great city, tlie prosperity of a youthful state , the mvdtitude of distinguished men , of famous persons by sea and land , in the cabinet and in the field, Avho were concentrated in London, the ecclesiastical, the political advance on all sides , the scientific discoveries, the progress of the arts in other branches , all this worked together in raising the artist, whose fascinated eye rested upon this Avhole movement. So too in the history of European civilization, Shakespeare's great contcmpor&.ry Francis Bacon is no exception, although at that time in England he stood as solitary as Shakespeare. For the great poet, all that belonged to theatrical instrument, means, and preparation, lay ready for his dramatic art. No great dramatist of any other nation has met with a foundation for his art of such enviable extent and strength, with such a completeness of well-prepared materials for its construction, as ancient tradition and present practice THE STAGE. 1 17 proffered them to Shakespeare: from the Mysteries^ the Jieces- sity for epic fuhiess of matter, from the Moralities, the ideal etliical thought, from tlie comic interludes the characteristic of realistic truth to nature, from the middle ages, the romantic matter of the epic -poetic and historical literature, from the present, the strong passions of a politically excited people, and of a private society deeply stirred by the religious, scientific, and industrious movements of the age. The higher ideal of art, the more refined conception of form, whicli in this branch of poetry was not yet existing in England , lie could gather, as far as he drew not from his own mind, from antiquity, and from the more cultivated branches of poetry, in which Sidney and Spenser had laboured, l^ut tliat which beyond all this worked most closely and immediately upon Shakepeare's dramatic poetry,and possessed an influence which unhappily we cannot sufficiently estimate, Avas the flourishing state of the histrionic art. It is certain that Shake- speare learned more from the oneRicliard liurbadge, than he could have done from ten Mario wes. And lie who is searching for a direct support for our poet, upon which his young and yet wavering art should iviise itself, needs seek no other. We must, therefore, give a short consideration to the dramatic affairs in Shakespeare's time. THE STAGE. The history of the stage in London kept ])acc with the progress of dramatic poetry. Patronized by an amus(!ment- loving queen and even after her death proniotcul in every way by the learned James , supported by an ostentatious nobility, sought after in increasing degree by a sight-loving people, the stage rose extraordinarily both in the capital 118 SHAKESPEARE IN LOXDOX AND ON THE STAGE. and country durinii' the last thirty years of the IGtli centnry. What had before been for the most part the rouiili moffonsive amusement of artisans for their o-wn pleas\u-e, -\vliat the serv- ants of tlie nobles had only acted before their masters, what the members of the coiu-ts in Gray's Inn and the Temple had only played before the queen or before their fellows in a small circle, what the children of tlie royal chapel or the choristers of St. Pauls had attempted in histrionic art be- fore the court, this noAV found its way among- the mass of the people and throughout the whole extent of the land. The sacred and moral tendency of the Mysteries and Mo- ralities gave way to an exuberance of jests and burlesques ; the self-satisfied dilettante attempts at poetry were changed for a serious piu'suit of art prosecuted with all the zeal of novelty; acting, before a humble talent, kept under a bushel, stept forward into public life, and became a profes- sion, capable of supporting its votary. A great excitement in favour of the new art, to an extent which has never again been manifested but in Spain at the time of Lope de Vega, seized the people even to the lowest orders, and at the very outset the young stage Avas not lacking in overweening ex- travagance^ while it felt itself doubly secure in the favour of the court and of the whole nation. The Lord ^layor and Aldermen of London endeavoured Avitli remarkable per- severance to put an end to, not only the mischief, but even the existence and duration of this art; the royal Privy Council on the other hand was the refuge of the players, especially of the regular companies, who gave tlieir represen- tations in town or country under the jirotcction of the crown or under the name of some great noble. These noble com- panies often rightlv or wrongly announced themselves as THE STAGE. 119 royal players, and under the pretext of being obliged to pre- pare themselves for their play before the queen, they set up their stage in taverns (for at the time , of which Ave speak, there were no established theatres) , into which the lowest dregs of the people streamed. Besides these, there were va- gabonds and adventurers , who played without any official licence, and therefore became the object of repeated prohi- bitions. In Puritan England there Avas difficidty in keeping the Sunday, even the time of divine service, free from these profane representations ; the play-houses Avere overcroAvded, the churches empty; at the court the plays on Sunday Avere maintained for a long time, and it A'as a malicious joy to the Catholics to refer to this disorder of the ncAA'ly established Protestantism, Avhich the city-authorities named in oppo- sition to divine service , a devil's service. At the eveninor assemblies of the lowest London company in the tavern- theatres, there Avas quarrelling and noise, pick-pocketing and immoral scenes of all sorts; upon the stage, a danger of fire; during the time of the plague, an increase of infectioii. Be- sides these gross public evils, the city - authorities Avere ap- prehensive of the publication of unchaste speeches and actions, of the corruption of youtli, and of the extravagance of the poor who brought their pennies for the play. When upon the repeated decrees of the municipalities against the ex- cesses of the stage, the royal Players complained to the Privy Council and alleged in their defence the exercise of their art for the court and their need of support, the authorities re- plied , that it Avas not necessary, that they should practise before the loAvest company ; that they ought to play in pri- vate houses; and Avith respect to their maintenance, it had never been custonuiry to make the drama a trade ! These 120 SlIAKESPEAKE IN LONDON AND ON THE STAGE. attacks only served to establish the infent stage more firmly. The Avord trade was accepted, as it were, as a challenge ; a regular art was now cultivated, which souglit its own temple. "Art was tongue-tied by authority" as Shakespeare says in his sonnets, but the race to the goal only proceeded with greater effort. In the year 1572 an act appeared "for the pu- nishment of vagabonds ", of those players who did not be- long to one of the nobles of the kingdom. In the following year the INIayor and Aldermen of London gave a refusal to a request of the Earl of Sussex, in favour of a Dr. Holmes, for the establishment of playhouses. When in the year 1574 the servants of the Lord Chamberlain, the Earl of Leicester, at whose head stood James Burbadge, gained a patent which licensed them to play in town and kingdom f(jr the solace and pleasure of the queen as well as for '' the recrea- tion of her loving subjects", the city bru'dened the licence granted to the company by an obligation to contribute half their income to the benefit of the poor. However, soon after and perhaps in consequence of this opposition, James J^ur- badge received, through the powerful influence of his master, permission for the erection of a theatre outside the jm'is- diction of the town , but close by the city- wall , in the dis- solved monastery of the Blackfriars, near the bridge of the same name ; at the same time arose the " Theatre" and the "Curtain" at Shoreditch, not far distant. About 1578 there Avere already eight different theatres in and near the city of London, to the great sorroAv of the Puritans. About the year 1 GOO, the number of theatrical buildings, exclusively devoted to this object, had risen to eleven; under James I., they reckoned seventeen existing or restored play-houses, a number, Avhich London at the present day, so immensely THE STAGE. 121 increased as it is, falls far short of possessing. Tims the better actors passed from wandering to stationary companies, whicli, as Ilanilet says, "hoth in reputation and profit, was better both ways". The art was by this means confirmed in its development and intrinsic value. Its importance and significance, the esteem of the actors, their position and in- fluence, rose unhindered, ^yho should advance in opposition to the omnipotent Lord Chamberlain, the chief patron of theatrical matters? Who should thrive in opposition to the, pleasure of the queen, who in 1583 for the first time took twelve royal players into her service, among them those two rare men Robert Wilson and Richard Tarlton, comic actors of the most versatile extemporizing wit, the last.'of Avhom was for the age a prodigy of comic skill. The Aldermen of Lon- don were obliged to submit, that this "lord of mirth" to whom all was permitted, who at the royal table attacked even Ra- leighs and Lcicesters, should ridicule in a jig their "long earde familie", who would see no fools, but among their "brethren of assize". Not even ruling princes, not the state, politics, nor religion, w^ere sjjared by the actors on their stage. Since the ruin of the Armada they ridiculed the king of Spain and the Catholic religion, and on the other side, the Puritans , the sworn enemies of the drama , had to fear the scourge of satire. Not alone the theatre in Shoreditch but the choristers of St. Pauls ventured to deride the Puritans in their plays, and about 1589 two companies were on that account forbidden to act. Subsequently under James 1., un- der whom theatrical affairs rose into still greater favour, ob- jectionable pieces were produced in the Jilackfriars' theatre, of which the members of the council, the Aldermen, and at last the foreign ambassadors complained. This custom of 122 SHAKESPEARE IX LOXllON AXl) OX THE STAGE. attacking- upon the stage, public cliaracters, the state, hnv, rule, and living private individuals, originated according to Thomas HevAvood's assertion with those children ; the poets placed their sallies in their lips, using their youth as a shield and privilege for their invectives. Soon the insolence of these boys turned against the stage itself. About the time in which Hamlet was written, these children, favoured by the public and the Avriters, had risen over "Hercules and his Joad", that is to say over the Globe theatre, the most famous of all, and they ridiculed the adult performers, the "common stages" ; it is for this that Shakespeare casts a reprehensive glance in Hamlet, upon these unfledged nestlings and their pertness, Avho certainly wouldt hemselves grow up into "com- mon players". But just this bold interference in the life of the great capital, pleased the people ; the other theatres imitated it, and carried it further than has ever happened in a mo- dern state since Aristophanes. All these features collectively render it plain that the vigorous fruitful inclination towards this new art, sustained and nourished in all classes by the people itself, Avas suf- ficiently j>owerful to defy in daring- ruirestraint the opposi- tion of the strongest prejudice, of the most powerful classes, of the clergy and the magistrates, of the church and police. All advanced in the most floiirishing condition : the mana- gers of the dramas made increasing . profits ; the most dis- tinguished artists, Edward Alleyn, Richard Burbadge, even our Shakespeare, died as large landholders and wealthy people. It was in vain tliat the religious denounced the stage in the most forcible writings, in vain that dramatic poets themselves repented of their profane toils, and recalled back their companions from this school of abuse. From TllK STAGE. 123 1577 — 1570, Avlien NortliLrooke's treatise against "Vain Plays or Interludes" and Gosson's "School of Abuse" bei^an the strife against the sta^e ^vith all authorities of the C!hurch Fathers and heathen writers , upon christian and stoical principles , from this time a continual controversy for and against, in poetry and prose, entwined itself through the whole period of the highest prosperity of the theatre, until ihe year 1633, when Prynne's Histriomastix, the labovu- of seven years, appeared, at a time when tlie Puritans and their anti-theatrical opinions had acquired greater force and assurance. 13efore this time all opposition was fruitless. TJie dramatic poets multiplied like, their works. The diary is preserved of a certain l^hilip Ilenslowe a pawnbroker, who advanced money to many companies ; from his notices we gather, that betAveen 1591-1597, one hundred and ten different pieces Avere performed, by those players alone with whom he transacted business. Between 1597 and 1003 he has recorded 1()0 pieces, and after 1597 not less than thirty dramatic authors Avere in his pay; among them Thomas Heywood, Avho alone Avrote 220 pieces or had a share in them. Of all this abund- ance much has been lost, as no value Avas placed upon the publication of the plays. The ardour of the spectator Avas the greater, the less he read. Put even Avlien from the printing of the Avorks of ]>en Jonson and Shakespeare the reading gained ground, and the value of the stage declined, the ardent desire and taste for the art still long- remained in vigour. They noAV saAV and read the Avorks ; in 1(133 I'rynne mentions in his before -named book, that in tAvo years above 40,000 copies of dranias had been (lis])osed of, as they Avere more in favour than sermons. The period at the close of the 16th century, Avhen Shakespeare produced 124 SIIAKKSI'KAKK IN I,()XI)()N AN]) OX THE STAGK. liisKomoo, his Merchiuit of \'enice, and his Henry IV., was tlic signal for the greater extension of dramatic poetry; now ])rofessional poets appeared in numbers -who dedicated the labour of their life to tlie art. From this time forth, the nation became aware of that inner worth of the stage, and its fame extended far beyond the kingdom. With what self- satisfaction does Thomas HeyAvood in his Apology for Actors (1612) glory that the English tongue, the most harsli, uneven, broken, and mixed language of the world, now fashioned by the dramatic art, had grown to a most perfect language, possessing excellent Avorks and poems, so that noAA^ many nations groAA^ enamoured of this formerly despised tongue. Strangers from all countries carried abroad the praise of the English actors, and soon aa'C hear of English companies Avho performed in Amsterdam, and even traversed the Avhole of Germany, Avhere Ave possess in German translations pieces from the English stage, noAv again re-translated into English from the miserable rhymes of Ayrer. The company Avhich Shakespeare entered, Avhen he came to London, Avas at that time and afterAvards, the most dis- tinguished. They Avere the servants of the Lord (chamber- lain, the Earl Leicester, aa'Iio about the year 1 5S9 Avere called the Queen's Players; in their number Avere the felloAV- citizens of Shakespeare, AA^ho probably enticed him to join them. AVe haA^e said before that James Burbadge, at the head of this company, founded the theatre in the monastery of the Blackfriars, Avhich had formerly served as a depot for the machinery and Avardrobe of the pageants and masks of the court, and therefore naturally had attracted Bur- badge's attention. The position of this stage, in the centre of London, and the enticing attraction of its performances, Aded THE STAGP:. 125 witli eacli other in securiiig to this theatre the first rank, in giving it the highest importance as well as the greatest success. The rapid good fortune of this company may be traced in the fact that about 1594 they built a second and more spacious theatre, the Globe, not far from the South- wark foot of London Bridge ; it was an open space, where plays were performed in the fine time of the year. During the building of the Globe, the Lord Chamberlain's players acted, it seems, for a time, in connection with the Lord Admiral's company at Newington, so that they appear everywhere to have been sought after and engaged. The com- pany of the Admiral's was the most powerful rival of the lilackfriars'. Both companies escaped in every occasion that the authorities raged against the theatres, because their stages were not regarded as common playhouses, but as establishments for the practice of the plays which the Queen desired. About 1597 the theatres had given another offence ; the privy council itself this time commanded that the "Theatre" and "Curtain" in Shoreditch should be "plucked down", and "any other common play-houses" in Middlesex and Surrey. But all these decrees appear to have been issued by the Privy Council only for the sake of ap- pearance, in order, as Collier says, " to satisfy the importun- ity of particular individuals, but there was no disposition on the part of persons in authority to carry them into ex- ecution". The Players of the Lord Admiral, Avho acted in the Cvu'tain in Avinter, in the Hose in Summer, had giNcn the offence in 1597, but notwithstanding they subsequently continued to perform in the Cvu-tain, which according to decree was to have been demolished, and in the Hose, which Ilenslowe had conveitcd iiito a tlieutrc in 1 5S4, 126 SHAKESPEARE IN LONDON AND ON THE STAGE. they roiuaiued just as undisturbed as the company of the Lord ("haniberhiin in the Gh)he. In 159S both these com- panies were newly licensed ; and about IGOU, Ilenslowe and AUeyn, the leaders of the Admiral's Players, removed from the dilapidated Rose, to the Fortune in Golden Lane, pro- bably to be further from the Globe; and here Edward AUeyn, the rival of llichard J^urbadge, soon after purchased land , to an amount Avhich evidences that he was an un- usually Avealthy man. The stage in Blackfriars on which the two gifted friends, Shakespeare and Richard Burbadge, performed, proudly boasted of being the most refined and cultivated in London. With this superiority we must not imagine, that any out- ward splendour and luxury was combined. A happj' sim- plicity prevailed throughout the exterior of the represen- tation. The buildings Avere bad, and built of wood; those provided with a roof were called private theatres ; the public ones Avere uncovered ; gallery and boxes were divided as at present; for the best box only a shilling was paid. The proper periods for plays, before they became public spectacles, were in tlie winter, at Christmas, New Year'sday, Twelfth- day, and Lent. But after the drama had become a pro- fession, the public theatres were open throughout the year; under Elizabeth daily. Trumpets and a flag displayed, an- nounced the approaching commencement, wliich took place in the afternoon at three o'clock. JNIusic from an upper bal- cony, above the now so-called stage -boxes, opened the piece ; the spectators amused themselves before it began with smoking and games , eating fruit and drinking beer ; rude young men thundered and fought for bitten apples : so it is said in Henry VIII. The distinguished patrons and THE STAGE. 127 judges thronged the stage, or placed themselves behind the side-scenes. The speaker of the prologue who appeared after the third flourish of trumpets was generally attired in black velvet. ]>etAveen the acts, buffoonery and singing Avas kept up, and at the end of the piece a fool's jig, witli trumpets and pipes, Avas introduced. At the conclusion of the Avhole a prayer Avas offered up by the kneeling actors for the reigning prince. Upon costume and dress the most Avas expended; they appear occasionally to have been mag- nificent. From "the Alleyn Papers" Ave knoAv that on some occasion more than JG 20. Avas given for a veh^et cloak, and the adherents of good old customs considered it most flagrant that tAvo hundred actors should be seen splendid in silk garments, Avhile eight hundred poorhungred in the streets. On the other hand the scenery was extremely scanty. Trap- doors Avere of an early date. Moveable decorations appeared later; for tragedies the theatre Avas hung round Avith black tapestry. A raised board bore the name of the place, at Avhich the spectator should imagine himself; it Avas thus easy to represent ships, easy to change the scene , and na- tural to disregard the unity of place. An elevation , a pro- jection in the middle of the stage served for AvindoAV, ram- part, toAver, balcony , for a smaller stage in the theatre , as for example, for the interlude in Hamlet. In the court re- presentations, however, this poor makeshift Avas early cast aside. In 1568, there Avcre painted scenes, houses, tOAvns, and mountains, even storms Avith thunder and lightning. Moveable decorations appeared first in 1605 at Oxford, at a representation before King James, and in the following- years they spread so far , that scene-shifting soon became common A feAv years before Shakespeare came to London, 128 SHAKESPEARE IN LONDON AND ON THE STAGE. Sir I'hilip Sidney described in his ''Apology of Poetry" (1 583) the rough and simple condition of the popular stage, according- to his noble and learned conceptions of the dra- matic art, in a deriding but expressive manner. "In most pieces," he says, "you shall have Asia of the one side , and Afric of the other, and so many other under- kingdoms, that tlie player, when he comes in, must ever begin with telling where he is, or else the tale will not be conceived. Now you shall have three ladies walk to gather flowers, and then we must believe the stage to be a garden ; by and by we hear news of a shipwreck in the same place ; then , we are to blame if Ave accept it not for a rock. Upon the back of that comes out a hideous monster with fire and smoke, and then the miserable beholders are bound to take it for a cave; while, in the meantime, two armies fly in, repre- sented Avith four swords and bucklers, and then what hard heart will not receive it for a pitched field?" Just in a similar tone Shakespeare himself, in the prologue to Henry V. , ridicules the "unworthy scafl'old" upon which the poet dares "to bring forth so great an object", the cock-pit, which is to represent "the vasty fields of France", the little number of mute figures and expedients when "AA'ith four or five most vile and ragged foils, right ill disposed, they woidd disgrace, in brawl ridiculous, — the name of Agincourt." We should draw a conclusion contrary to nature and experience, if Ave argued from this poA'erty of the outA\'orks a rough dramatic art. In Germany we have seen in one and the same place the theatre rise from the barn to the poor play-house and then to the magnificent structure, Avhilst the intellectual enjoyment, interest, and taste was perhaps jast in inverse proportion ever in the decline. In a THE STAGE. 129 jToneratiou accustomed to art and soon coiTuptcd by art, llic fancy soon demands all tlie stimulants offered by mag- nificent decorations and accessories; the sim])le, still fresli, feeling of a society, to whom the least enjoyments are new and overwhelming, requires none of these enhancements and incentives. The imagination is here excited by the slightest toucli. Therefore can Shakespeare in that same prologue to Henry V., confidently rely upon (he "imaginary puissance" of his auditors; he can demand of tliem to "piece out" the imperfections of the stage with their thoughts, to divide one man into a thousand parts, and to create in imagination tlie forces, wliich the stage cannot provide. The less (h'straction offered to tlie senses , the more the whole attention of the spectators was fixed upon the intel- lectual performances of the actors, and the more were these directed to the essence of their art. We must not forget, hoAv much temptation from tlie false gratification of the senses the jdayers and spectators were spared , how much the fixing of the mind upon the nature of the matter was facilitated by the one circumstance, that no women acted. The custom of the time was strong upon this point; when in l()20, French actors appeared in I.ondon, among whom women played, they were hissed off the stage. Dramatic poetry was in later times seduced by this custom to become still more bold and impudent, l)ut for the histrionic art, it offered the most tangible advantages. How many intrigues behind the scenes, hoAv mucli that was dangerous to the moral character of tlie actor, was removed by this one habit, whicli at (lie same time promoted, in fur more deep- lying results, the most refined development of the histrionic art. The female characters were to be played by boys ; this 1. y I))(» Sll Mvlvsl'KAlJK IN LOXDOX AXl) OX THE SiTAGE. uvAdv tlie l)»)y!s' thoutvcs a necessity; and these hecaiuc a scliool for actors, sucli as Ave possess not at all in later times. And what actors! From these schools proceeded Field and I iKknAvood, who were even famous as hoys; and how nuist these hoys have heen trained who could have played toler- ahly even for rougher n a tines , a (Cordelia and an Imogen!' And were they rough natures who at tliat time took an in- terest in the stage ( a Francis Bacon , who himself once in liis ycmth in Gray's Inn took part in a representation { and that llaleigh, that Pemhroke, that Southampton, Avho wdien they were in tOAvn, regularly visited the stage l* AVe will not attach too nuich importance to the fact, that the coia-t distinguished hefore all others the players of the lUackfriars company, that king James" as well as Elizabeth, according to Jonson's testimony, particularly delighted in Shake- speare's pieces ; though tlie court was certainly the choicest auditory, hefore which a poet like Shakespeare could wish to exhibit his works! Wliat nniy we not suppose of the (pieen's intellectual perception and versatility , if accustomed to the gross and open flatteries of Lily and Peelo, she could admire the refined compliments of the Midsummer Night's Dream , full of enchanting poetry and allusions!' Ihit even outside the court, Shakespeare's stage had attracted the noblest company. Even of the public spectators, Avho sat in the boxes of Blackfriars, the Prologue to Henry VIII. could say, that they were known to be ''the first and happiest hearers of the town." The poet, who had worked for this theatre, had formed tliis public; how had he otherwise so steadily, so perseveringly created his pro- found works, to lavish them upon coarseness.' But lie fashioned also his actors. Histrionic art and dramatic poetry were here in the rarest reciprocity; never coukl lUirl)a(lge have heconie witli the pieces of Marlowe and IJen Jonson, what he became with 81iakes])ear(''s ; and never couhl tlie poet liave preserved the profound cliaracter of liis dramas, nor so often veih'd witli art tlie thoughts of liis works , nor fashioned his most wonderful characters, often as if de- sig-nedly , into mysterious prohlcins , if he had not liad at his side men, who followed him into the depth to which he descended, who imderstood how to lift liis veil and to solve his enigmas. To form an idea of the plays of the older actors, when they suffered from puritanical declamation , Avhen they practised their tragic arl in Marlowe's f()rcil)le homhast , and souglit comic effect in low huffooiu'ry, Me need only lememher ihe descriptions in Shakespeare's own ])ieces. From ihe old Mi- racle-plays, he mentions in TLuuh t tlie j)arts of tlie Saracen God Termagant and the tvrani Ilerod, wiiicli tlie actors overdid in tragic fury. And his allusions to the characlcr of \'ice in the Moralities, affirm that this part was played with the most connnon-place buffoonery. With respcc( 1(» (ragic plays, he depicts in Troilus and Cressida ])ictur( s((u<'ly and expressively the pitiful extravagance of tlu- proud hero, whose "wit lies in his sinews"; who "])otli think it ricli To hear the wooden dialogue and sound 'Twixt his stretch'd footing and the scaffoldago"; who, "When he s])eaks, "lis lik(! a cliime a mending; wilh loins uiis(|iiai('(l, AVliicli, from the (ongne of roaring 'i'v|)lHm dinpit'd. Would seem hyperboles". These were those "robiislioiis and jicriw ig-])alfd fcl- 132 SIIAKKSPKAKK IN LONDON AND ON TTIE STAGE. loAvs", of wlioiii Ilamlct speaks, "-svlio outdid Termagant and out-licroded Ileiod, Avlio delighted in tearing" a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings (those Avlio stood on tlie grotoul in old theatres); players, ^vho "so strutted and bellowed", that they had neither "the accent of Christians , nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man". This pleased ; it was "praised, and that highly", hy hearers, accustomed to Titus Andronicus , and the horrible tragedies of Marlowe, Kyd, and Chettle : but our poet and his sensitive Hamlet were grieved to the soul, and he would gladly have ''whipped" these disqualified noise-makers Avho "imitated humanity so abominably". With regard to the comic plays, the one character of Tarlton, and what we know of himself and liis plays , is sufficient to denote the previous state of things. Shakespeare could still have seen him; he died I.jSS. I>orn in the lowest station, according to one, originally a swine-herd, to another, a water-carrier, from his wonderful luuuour lie appeared at the court and on tlie stage at the same time. The tricks and jests, which are related of him, are a counterpart to our own Eulen- spiegel, and Claus the fool. There was scarcely a more popular man in England at his time ; they associated him with the mythical representative of the popular humour, Robin Goodfellow, of whom English legends recount the same tricks as our popular books of Eulenspiegel ; they called him his fellow, and wrote after his death a dialogue between llobin and Tarlton's ghost. He was at once the people's fool, the court fool, and the stage fool. In life, on the circuits of his troops, amongst the lowest company , he practised knavish tricks and wit from the impidse of his nature; at the court, as a servant of Elizabeth, he spoke THE STAGE. \X^ more tnitlis to the queen than most of her chaphiins , and cm'cd lier melancholy better than all her physicians. Upon the stage he was no otherwise than in life. Small , ugly, rather squinting, flat-nosed, he enlivened his hearers, even if he spoke not a Avord, if he only showed his head on the stage ; Avith the same Avords , AA^-hich in the lips of another Avould haA'e been indiflerent, he made the most melancholy laugh. l>ut Avith this applause he committed an abuse, Avhich AA'as inconsistent Avith true art. He and the fools of his time regarded the play in Avliich they acted, not otlier- Avise than the court and the streets , AAdiere they continued their part, AAdiieh AA'as ahvays the same. They remained on the stage not merely in certain scenes, but during the Avhole piece; they improA^sed their jests as occasion ofl'ered, they conversed, disputed, bantered Avith their hearers and their hearers Avith them, and in these contests Tarlton Avas pre- eminent. After his deatli , William Kempe, Avho Avas his pupil, became the inheritor of his fame and tricks; he played in Shakespeare's company, but tAvice separated from it, once just about the time, in Avhich Hamlet Avas Avritten. Very possibly Shakespeare alluded to him in the famous passage, Avhicli is plainly condeuniatory of this kind of acting. 'Xet those, that ])lay your cloAvns," he says, "speak no more than is set doAvn for them : for tliere be of them, that Avill themselves laugh , to set on some (piantity of bar- ren spectators to laugh too : though in the mean time sonic necessary question of the play be tlien to be considered: that's villainous, and shoAvs a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it." It is certain, that from the time of Shake- speare's appearance , this ingenious Avaste of art Avas re- nounced. In a comedy of 1040, Bromc looks back upon the 1)1 SIIAKESPKAUK L\ LONDO.N \M) ON TUK STAGE. liiiu' i)f T;iiltoii and 1\.(,mii[)o , avIumi llie fools lavislu'il llii'ii uit, \\liilsr the poets spaic'l (lieir own for better use, as upon a renu)te ])erio(l, in ^vlli(•ll the stan(> was not fr(H' from barbarisms. From these exag-^erations of jest and earnestness, Shakespeare recalled the players to truth and simplicity. The actor wlio througli ditiideuce failed in his part, the other, who through arrogance overdid his character, were to him both alike unqualified. To raise the actor above reality, as far as the art denumds this elevation, must al- Avays be left to the poet ; if the latter possesses the ideal vein, by which in his poetry he overcomes the baseness of common truth and reality, then the actor has to devote all his powers , to give to his elevated and art-ennobled lan- guage the whole simple truth and fidelity of nature. This is the meaning of those immortal words which Hamlet offered as a positive rule in oppositi(»n to the method he had rty'ected, Avords which should be written in gold on the in- side of every stage-curtain. In our oAvn days, the actors are scarcely to be found, avIio even understand how to deliver these Avords according to their sense; and yet only he, avIio knoAvs hoAV to folloAv them throughout his art, is on the sure path to become a great actor. ".S})eak the speech," so the passage reads, "trippingly on the tongue; but if you mouth it , as many of your players do , I had as lief the town-crier spoke; my lines. Nor do not saAv the air too much Avith your hand, thus; but use all gently: for in the very torrent, tempest, and as I may say, Avhirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance, that may give it smoothness. ]>e not too tame neither, but let your oavu discretion be your tutor: suit the action to the Avord, the TUK STACiE. ],yo word to the aclion, Avitli this special observance, that yon o'erstep not tlie modesty of" nature; for anything so over- done is from the purpose of phi ving-, Avhose end, both at the first, and noAv, Avas, and is, to hohl, as 'twere, tlie mir- ror up to nature ; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time, his form and pressure. Now this overdone, or come tardy off, though it make tlie unskilful laugh, cannot l)ut make the judici(»us grieve ; the censure of Avhicli one must , in yonr allowance, o'crweigh a whole theatre of others." Certainly, nothing could be more condemnatory, than if we should apply these w ords as a test to that which Ave noAV call histrionic art ; but on the other hand nothing Avould be grander, than if they could, in any case, be a])])liod to this art, Avithout con- demning it. These golden rules remained in Shakespeare's time and company no mere precepts. Kichard JJurbadge in the his- trionic art Avas the tAvin-gcnius to Avhicli Shakespeare's poetry could offer nothing too hard nor too difficult. IJorn pro- bably three years later than (nir ])oet, IJurbadge died three years after him. This took place, at the same time as the death of James' queen , Anne ; his loss was more dee])ly de])lored than hers, to the great displeasure of the courtly Avorld. "He's gone", is the lament of an elegy upon his dealli, "And with him Avhat a Avorhl are dead! Take him for all in all, lie was a man, Not to be matched, and no a<;e ever can. AVhat a Avide world was in that little space! Himself a world — tlie (Jl()l)e his fittest place"! His acting must have been the ])ract ice of Hamlet's tlu'ory, tlie representation of Shakespeun-'s poetry; and on the other hand the poetry of Shakespeare rose higher by the hifluence i;>0 SIIAKKSPKAKK IX LOXDOX AM) OX THP: STAG?:. (if his hisuionic art. lie made a pocf, is the proud huigiuigc of the elegy before-quoti'd ; for liaviiin JJiirbadge to give fortli eaeli line, it filled iheir hraiii Avith fury more divine. In prose and poetry his contemporaries speak with entliu- siasm of his graceful appearance on the stage ^ Avliich although he was small of stature , Avas "beauty to the eAc and music to the ear". He never Avent off the stage but Avith applause; lie alone gave life unto a plav , Avhich was "dead, as 'tAvas by the authors Avrit"; so long as he Avas pre- sent, he enchained eye and ear Avith such magic force, that no one had poAver to speak or look another Avay. In Aoice and gesture he possessed all that is enchanting; so did his speech, says the elegy, become him, and his pace suited Avitli his speech ; and every action graced both alike, Avliilst not a AA'ord fell AA'ithout just Aveight to balance it. A delightful Proteus, he transformed his Avhole acting anil appearance Avith facility from the old Lear to the yoiithfid Pericles; every thought and every feeling coidd be read plainly marked upon his countenance. In his pantomime, he Avas aided by the art of pourtraying-, Avliich, if Ave may credit the eulogies upim him, he practised Avith equal skill as his" histrionic art. This one trait, Avhich avc knoAv of his intellectual history, intimates that Avith him, ikj less than Avith Shakespeare, success Avas achieved by labour, that each added to his unusual natural talents unusual industry and study, that Avith the ability he possessed, he might not remain behind the gifts he had received. In Shakespeare's plays he acted cAcry most difficult part; in really comic cliaracters alone, he never appeared. From positive testimony Ave knoAv, that he played Hamlet, Kichard III. , Sliylock, the prince and kmg Henry V, , Romeo , Brutus , Othello, THE STAGE. 1 37* Lear, Maclx'tli, Pericles, and Coriolauus. Tliouyli as it is insinuated in Hamlet there were in that day as in the pre- sent, certain distinct parts, sucli as ihe king-, the hero, the lover, the villain, we see that.tliese were not for Jlurhadge. His actin<^ in the most diverse parts mnst have been ever equally great : he seemed to seek the rarest difficulties, and his Shakespeare to offer tliem to him. Very possibly, Shake- speare only produced Pericles to give liis friend an oppor- tunity of exhibiting- to the spectator in a few hours a shat- tered life in every degree of age. If so nuich may be in- ferred from the allusions in the elegy on Ihu'badge's death, in wliich his principal parts arc designated Jiere and there with some characteristic token, he ventured in Ilamlct, Avhat no actor has ventured since nor will venture : accord- ing to the direction of the poet he represented the hero in that weak, fat corpulency, so readily produced by want of movement and activity, and in nunnents of the greatest passion, with that "scant of brcatli'" })eculiar to such organi- zation. "One of his chief parts wherein, beyond the rest, he mov'd the heart, was", according- to the eleg-y, "the grieved Moor". That one epitlicl seems to say, that lie penetrated into llie depth of Shakespeare's cliaracter, and in his acting placed the main iiii])ortance upon the sorrow of disappointment, Avhich precedes (hat return of chaos, the unrestrained rage of jealousy, upon that point, where the character of Othello must certainly be developed, if he is not to appear a ^veak unrestrained l)arl)arian, and tlie piece itself a cruel outrage. The deptli of inlellect and of feeling in this conception, if we do not im])ute too much to that one word, were equally to be admired. Hut the climax of his acting must have been Richard III. Tlie poet has •138 siiAKi;si'i;.M{K ix L()N])o.\ ani) on thk stage. licrc unilcd I'viTvtliiiii;- , Avliicli can frcatc iiuconqiR'iablL' (litliciillics tor an actor. An insinniHcant ni^ly Lciug-, who at the same tiiiio acts like a lu'm in valitur. and fascinates us a seducer of beauty: the key-note in tlu'se diseonhint touclies beinf? a masterly hypocrisy, Avhich imposes u])on tlie actor, to represent the actor in life lipon the stage, — such a task surpasses everything, which the art couhl at any time liave ottered as a difficulty. The anecdote of the citizen's wife enchanted by Jiurbadge's acting in Kicliard. which we mentioned l)efore, Avhether true or invented, shows that he must have excellently represented the amiable side of the smooth hypocrite : tlie emphasis which he placed on the powerful side of the character, is attested by another more autlu-nticated anecdote, which proves the inextin- guishable impression he made by it upon the grosser child- ren of nature. There is extant by a bishop Corbet the poetical description of a journey, which the author made in England. He records here, years after IJurbadge's death, how he came to Bosworth. His host relates to him the battle of f^osworth, where Richard III. fell, as if he had been there , or had examined all the historians ; the bishop discovers , that he had merely seen Shakespeare's play in London; and this is coniirmcd, when at the most animated part he forgot himself, aiul mingled art and history: "A kingdom for a horse, cries Ricliard," thus lu' meant to say, but he said Jiurbadge instead of Richard. . Burbadge's rival was Edward Alleyn ; altliough he did not belong to Shakespeare's companv, it is just to mention him. Collier has given his Memoirs in the publications of the Shakespeare society. He played probably as early as 1580, and was already iu 1592 in great repute. He pleased most TllK STAGE. 139 ill the more elevated cliaraeters, but lie niusl also have appeared in (ouiie parts, Leeause it was boasted ot'iiiin, that he had surpassed Tarltoii and Keiiipe. lie acted llie heroes in Greene's and Marlowe's pieees, Orlando, l^>arabas, Faust, and Tanibnrlaine , and the public seein to have disputed over the superiority of his play and JJurbadne's. AVHiether he ever acted in the Sliakespeare pieces, isdoubtful; he played Lear, Henry VIII., Pericles, Eomeo, and Othello ; but it is conjectured, that the pieces were adopted upon the other stage with emendation. As the companies of ]iurbadge - Shakespeare and AUeyn, played together at Newington- Jiutts, 1 .")!)! — !Jt>, during the building of the Globe, it is still possible, that a compromise was made, which granted to AUeyn the use of the Shakespeare pieces. That AUeyn really equalled JJurbadge w^e may doubt. His inclination, like Shakespeare's, did not long remain faithful to his profession and art ; he left the stage occa- sionally as early as ir)!)7, and for ever in l(i(i(i. AVe may remark that from that time, except. in money -transactions, he had nothing more to do with stage and actors. He had acquired great possessions, certainly not merely^ through his dramatic profits: he ultimately owned the manors of Uuhvich and Lewisham, was the single pro})rietor of the Fortune, and tlie principal sharer in the lUackfriars theatre ; besides this he possessed lands in Yorkshire , and property in Bishopsgate and in the parish of Lambeth. Simple, frugal, charitable, he was ever a kind and nobh' man; as he had no family , he determined to employ his riches in the establishment of J)ulwich College, a hospital for the aged poor and a school for the young. The Ibundation of this great institution was celebrated in 1011), seven years 1 10 siiakespi-:ake ix London and on thk stage. beturc Alleyn's deatli ; the actor put to slmiuc the evil slanderers of the profession , and it is a singular incident, that the same clergyman Stephen Gosson, who long before had so violently denounced ])lays and players, was a near spectator of this benevolent establishment. Such was the state of things when Shakespeare settled in London, and entered that company of Burbadgc's, Avhere he found his fellow-citizens. lie liimself trod the stage as an actor. At that period, Avhen dramas were not written for the sake of readers , Avhen the separation between histrionic art and dramatic poetry had not yet taken place, it was not unusual, that dramatic poets should be actors also ; Greene , Marlowe , Peele , IJen Jonson , Heywood, Webster, Field, and others, united both arts. Witli regard to Shakespeare's perfection in the art, the expressions of liis contemporaries, and the traditions of his biographers appear to be at variance. Chettle calls him excellent in his art ; Aubrey says "he did act exceedingly well", Rowe , on the contrary, that he Avas a mediocre performer. Perhaps these accounts are less contradictory than they appear. Collier's supposition that Shakespeare only played short parts, in order to be less disturbed in writing, appears natural and probable. We know that he acted the Ghost of Hamlet's father, and this part, it is said, was "tlie top of his performance"; and (juc of his brothers, probably Gilbert, at an advanced age, remembered having seen him in the character of Adam in "As you like it". These are subordinate but important parts ; with justice did Thomas Campbell say, that the Ghost in Hamlet demanded a good, if not a great actor. It was at that time a usual custom, which also denotes the greater perfection of the scenic art. THE STAGE. 141 tluit players of rank acted several parts, some very insioiii- ticaiit ones as avcII as the chief characters : this gave a har- mony to tlic whole, preserved uniformity of the enjoyment and of the artistic impression , and enabled the poet to give distinction and life even to tliese subordinate figures. If Shakespeare, therefore, in order to piu'sue his poetic calling, played only shorter parts , this is no argument against his histrionic qualifications ; if he played many })arts of the kind mentioned, it is rather in favour of them. Yet this circvunstance itself prevented his ever arriving at ex- traordinary perfection or preeminence in this branch of art. l>esides the comparisons not only with Ihubadge, but of the actor Shakespeare with the poet Shakespeare were at hand, in both of which the actor Shakespeare stood at a dis- advantage, liut that which prevented him most intrinsically from becoming so great an actor as a poet, was his moral anti[)athy to this profession. This would have ever restrained him from the attainment of the highest degree of this art, even if it had not induced him early to quit the stage. lUit to these events we shall return more at length. SHAKESPEARE'S FIRST DRAMATIC ATTEMPTS. We have endeavoured to point out the condition of the stage upon whicli Shakespeare entered on his settlinn in London, and the state of dramatic poetrj-, in the nurture and proo'ress of whicli he now stood hy the side of Marlowe and Greene, Lodge iuul ('licltle. In the first short period of his dramatic writings, we see him more or less hiassed by the peculiarities of this poetry, hut we observe at the same time, how rapidly he sought to disengage himself from the want of design, from the harslniess and rudeness of their productions; in the hi'giuiiiug a subject scholar, he appears soon as a rising nuister. This comparative relation of Shakespeare to his contemporaries is illustrated by the fact, that his early pieces Avcre only elaborations of older existing dramas, which we partly possess for comparison; that the elaborator soon raised himself above his prototypes, and after a few years towered like a giant over them. Pericles and Titus , the one from internal evidence , the other from received notice, are amongst these pieces by another hand, only worked up by Shakespeare. '1 he first part of Henry VI. betrays at least the touches of three hands. The original of the two last parts, which Shakespeare followed step by TITUS ANDIiONlCUS AND PERIf'LES. 143 Step with his tile, is slill preserved. In the ('oinedy of Errors, an Enolisli phiy, founded on the Menfeclnni of Phuitus , prohiibly hiy before the ])oet ; the taming- of the Shrew is worked after a rou^lier pieee. These seven phiys we hokl, in aeeorihuue Avith most Enf>lish critics, to be the first dramatic attempts of our poet, and we shall now in succession gdance over them. We A\ill watch the creative mind of the young poet in the workshop in which indeed he was still to be formed himself. TITUS ANDRONICUS AND PERICLES. It is undisputed that Titus Amlronicns , if a W(trk of Shakespeare's at all, is one of his earliest Avritings. Hen ' Jonson (in the Induction to IJartholomcAV Fair) said in the year Uill, that the Andronicus, by which he could hardly allude to any other piece, had been acted 25 or liU years; it would, therefore, in any c-ase have 1)een produced in the first years of Shakespeare's life in London. There may be few, however, among the readers who cherish Shakesj)eare, who would not wish to have it proved, that this piece did not proceed from the poet's pen. This wish is met 1)\- a icmark of one Ravenscroft, who, in I(iS7, remodelled tliis tragedy, and who had heard from an old judge of stage - matters, that the piece came from another author, and that vShake- speare had only added ''some master-touches to one or two « of the principal characters". Among the masters of Iviglish criticism, the best opinions are divided. Collier and Knight assign it unhesitatingly to Sliakespeare , and the former even thinks in accorchince with his o])iiiion upon Marlowe, that as a poetical production the piece has not had justice Ill siiAKi'.srF.AKi: s Fnisr dkamatic atteisipts. (lone to it. Nathan Drake, Oolerid^e (some pa8.saii;cs ex- cepted), In<.';leby, absolutely reject it, and Alex. Dyee believes tliat the Yorkshire tra<.>;e(ly had more claims than Titus to be numbered anions- the Shakespi'are writings. That which we wish, we willingly believe. Ikit in this case great and important reasons in evidence of Shake- speare's authorship, stand opposed to the wish and the ready belief. The express testimony of a learned contem])orary, ]Meres, Avho in the year 15!»S mentions a list of Shakespeare's plays, places Titus positively among them. The friends of Shakespeare received it in the edition of his works. Neither of these facts certainly contradicts the tradition of Raven- scroft, but at all events they prevent the piece being ex- punged Avithout examination as supposititious. In accordance with these contradictory external testimo- nies, it seems that internal evidence also, and the arguments deduced from it, lead rather to doubt than to certainty. It is true that Titus Androni(us belongs in matter as in style entirely to the older school which Avas set aside by Shake- speare. Reading it in the midst of his works, we do not feel at home in it ; but if the piece is perused in turn with those of Kyd and iNIarlowe , the reader finds himself upon the same ground. He who, agitated by Shakespeare's most aAvful tragedies, enters into the accumulated horrors of this drama, perceives without effort the difference that exists be- tween that liberal art, which sympathizes in the terribleness of the evil it depicts and quickly passes over it, and for that reason suffers no evil to overtake men, which cannot be laid to their own guilt and nature, and the rudeness here, Avhich unfeelingly takes pleas\n-e in suffering innocence in pa- raded sorrow, in tongues cut out , and hands hewn off, set TITUS ANDRONICUS AND PERICLES. 145 forth ill the comphicent diffuseness of tlcscription. He who compares the inostAvickcd of all the characters -which Shake- speare depicted, with this Aaron who cursed "the day in which he did not some notorious ill", will feel that in the one some remnant of humanity is ever preserved , while in the other a "ravenous tiger" commits unnatural deeds and speaks unnatural language. Ikit if the whole impression, which we receive from this barbarous subject and it.s treat- ment, speaks with almost overwhelming conviction against the Shakespeare origin of the piece, it is well also to re- member all the circumstances of the poet and his time, which can counterbalance this conviction. The refinement of feeling, which the poet acquired in his maturity, was not of necessity equally the attribute of his youth. If the piece, such as it is , were the work of his youthful pen, we must conclude that a mighty, indeed almost violent revolu- tion early transformed his moral and aesthetic nature, and as it were with one bloAv. Such a change, however, took place even in the far less powerful poeticjiaturesof our own Goethe and Schiller ; it has in some more or less conspicuous degree at any rate taken place in Shakespeare. The question might be asked, whether in the first impetuosity of youth , which so readily is driven to misanthropical moods, this violent expression of hatred, of revenge, of bloodtliirsti- ness, conspicuous throughout the piece, denotes more, in such a man, at such a time, than Schiller's Robbers, than Gerstenberg's Ugolino did, written in (Tcrmany in the I Slli century, for a far more civilized generation. When a poet of such self-reliance as Shakespeare, ventured liis first essay, he might have been tem])te(l to compete with the most vic- torious of his contemporaries; this was ^larlowe. To .strike I. 10 146 shakespeake's first dhamatic attempts. liim with lu!;: own weapons, would be the surest path to ready conquest. And how should an embryo poet disdain this ])atli ' At that period seenes of blood and horror were not so rare on the great stage of real life as with us ; upon the stage of art they commended a piece to the hearers to whom the stronger stimulant was the more agreeable. It is clear from Ben Jonson's before -mentioned testimony, tluit Titus was a wekcmie piece, which continued in favour on the stage, just as much as Schiller's "Robbers". With this approval of the people, the author of Titus could claim yet higher ap- probation. Whoever he might be, he was imbued just as much as the poet of A'enus and Lucrece, with the fresh re- membrances of the classical school ; latiu quotations , a pre- dilection for Ovid and Yirgil, for the tales of Troy and the Trojan party, constant references to the old mythology and history, prevail throughout the piece. An allusion to So- phocles' Ajax, and similarity to passages of Seneca have been discovered in it. Certainly all the tragic legends of Rome and Greece were present to the poet, and we know that they are full of tenible matters. The learned poet gathered them together, in order to compose his drama and its action from the most approved poetical material of the ancients. AVhen Titus disguises his revenge before Taniora, he plays the part of lirutus; when he stabs his daughter, that ofVirginius; the di'eadful ftite of Lavinia is the fable of Tereus and Progne ; the revenge of Titus on the sons of Tamora that of Atreus and Thyestes; other traits remind of ^neas and Dido, of Lucretia and Coriolanus. Forming his one fable from these shreds of many fables , and uniting the materials of many old tragedies mto one, the poet might believe himself nnjst surely to have surpassed Seneca TITUS ANDRONICUS AND PERICLES. 147 The inference drinvn from the subject and contents of the play, concerns its form also. With Coleridge the metie and style alone decided against its authenticity. Shake- speare had nowhere else written in this regular blank verse. The diction, for the most part imageless, without the thoughtful tendency to rare expressions , to unusual cata- strophes, to reflective sayings and sentences, is not like Shakespeare. This grand typhon-like bombast in the mouth of the ]Moor, and this exaggerated mimic play of rage, is in truth that out-heroding Herod, which we see the poet so abhor in Hamlet. Yet even here the objection may be raised, that it was natural for a beginner like Shakespeare to allow himself to be carried away by the false taste of the age, that it was easy for a talent like his to imitate this hetero- geneous style. If we had no testimony to the genuineness of Shakespeare's narrative poems, scarcely would any one have considered even them as his writing. Just as well as with a master's hand he could imitate the conceits of the pastorals, the lyric of the Italians, and the tone of the popular Saxon song, just as well, indeed Avith far more ease, could he af- fect the noisy style of a Kyd and a Marlowe. At the same time we must confess that at least here and there the diction is not quite alien to Shakespeare. The second act possesses much of that Ovid luxuriance, of that descriptive power, and of those conceits, which we find also in Veniis and Lu- crece, of which indeed single passages and expressions re- mind us. It was in these passages that even Coleridge per- ceived the hand of Shakespeare, and he had in these mat- ters the keenest perception. Amid these conflicting doubts, these opposing considera- tions, we more readily acquiesce in Ilavenscroft's tradition, 10* 14S suakespkark's vinsr duamatic attempts. tliat Sluikcspcare only Avovkcd \ip in Titus an older piece. The whole indeed somids less like the early work of a great genius, than tlie production of a mediocre mind, which in a certain self-satisfied security felt itself already at its apex. I Jut that which, in our opinion, decides against the Shake- speare authorship, is the coarseness of the characteristics, the lack of the most ordinary probability in the actions, and the ininatural motives assigned to them. The sfi/Ie of a young Avriter may be perverted, his tasie almost necessarily at first goes astray ; but what lies deeper than all this exterior and ornament of art, the estimate of men, the deduction of mo- tives of action, the general contemplation of human nature, this is the power of an innate talent, which under the guid- ance of a soimd instinct, is usually developed at an early stage of life. "Whatever piece of Shakespeare's we hold to be his first, everywhere, even in his narratives, the charac- ters are delineated with a firm hand; the lines may be Aveak and faint , but nowhere are they drawn as here Avith a harsh and distorted touch. And besides, for the most fan- tastical matters in the traditions which Shakespeare under- took to dramatize, he knew Iioav to find the most natural motives, and this even in his earliest pieces , but noAvhere has he grounded as here the story of his play upon the most apparent improbability. We need only remember the lead- ing features of the piece and its hero. Titus, by military glory placed in a position to dispose of the Imperial throne of Rome , in generous loyalty creates Saturninus emperor, against the will of his sons he gives him his daughter Lavinia already betrothed to Bassianus , and in his faithful zeal he even kills one of his refractory children. At the same time lie gives to the ncAV emperor the captive Gothic queen Tamora, TITUS ANDROKICUS AND PERICLES. 149 whose son lie had just shiuglitered as a sacrifice for his faUen children. The emperor sees her, leaves Lavinia, and marries Tamora ; and Titus, who thus experienced tli(^ hase ingrati- tude of him whose benefactor he had been, expects noAv thanks from Tamora for her elevation, when he had just be- fore murdered her son ! The revengeful woman on the con- trary commands her own sons to slay Bassianus and to dis- honour and mutilate Lavinia. The father, Titus, does not guess the author of the revengeful act ; the daughter hears the authors of the deed guessed and talked over, she hears her brothers accused of having murdered her husband Bas- sianus ; her tongue cut out, she cannot speak , but it seems also as if she could not hear; they ask her not, she cannot even shake her head at all their false conj(*ctures. At length by accident the way is found to put a staff in her mouth, by which she writes in the sand the names of the guilty per- petrators. The dull blusterer who hitherto has been l^rutus indeed and in the literal sense of the word, now acts the part of Brutus , and now the crafty Tamora suffers herself to be allured into the snares of revenge, by the same clumsy dissimulation as that by which Titus himself had been deceiv- ed. Whoever compares this rough psychological art with the fine touches, with which in the poet's first production, Venus and Adonis, even amid the perversion of an over-refined de- scriptive style, those two figures are so agreeably and truly delineated, that the ])ainter might Avithout troid)le copy tliem from the hand oftliepoet, Avill consider it scarcely possible, that the same poet, even in his greatest errors, could have arrived at such a deadening of that finer nature, Avhich he nowhere else discards. If it be asked , how were it possible that Shakespeare 150 Shakespeare's first dka.matk; attempts. Avitli tliis finor nature could ever liave clioson such a piece even for tlie sake alone of appropriating- it to his stage, we must not forget, that the young poet must always in his taste do homage to the multitude, and that in the beginning of his career, speculation upon their applause would stimulate liim, rather than the commands and laws of an ideal of art. This must explain likewise the clutice of Pen'rles ; even if it should be proved that Shakespeare did not undertake the elaboration of this jiiece until a riper ])eriod. How readily the great genius delights for a time in trifling with the puny subject, of which he sees his assembled hearers susceptible ! Thus our oAvn Goethe also did not disdain occasionally to vary the text of the "magic flute", and to imitate the comic cha- racters of very subordinate comedies ! Such pieces as Titus and Pericles lay within the horizon of the common hearers ; that Pericles by good fortune had f>btained great applause, we know from express testimony; upon the titles of different editions it is called a "miu'h admired play", in prologues of other dramas it is spoken of as a fortunate piece ; the pro- logue of Pericles itself says that this song "had been smig at festivals", and that "lords and ladies in their lives have read it for restoratives". This popularity proceeded from the subject, taken originally from a Greek romance, of the .5th or 6th century. The story, whose hero only on the Eng- lish stage is called Pericles , and everywhere else Apollo- nius of Tyre , passed from the Pantheon of Godfred of ^ i- terbo into all languages and countries, in romances, popular nan-atives, and poems. In England tlie incidents had been alreadv translated into Anglo-Saxon; and the poet of our play may have had two English versions of them for use, in Lawrence Twine's prose translation from the Gesta Roma- TITUS ANDRONICUS AND PERICLES. 151 iioruin (the Patteine of Painfull Adventures, 1570), and in the poetic narrative of the C'onfessio Aniantis (before 1393) hy John GoAver, tlie contemporary of Chaucer ; both sources are published in Collier's "Shakespeare's Library". The story of Apollonius was among- the number of those favouiite romances, whose fictions in the time previous to Shake- speare so often used to be manufactured into dramas. The nmltiplicity of adventures and facts attracted the sight-loving people, as with us the romantic plays of Kotzebue for a time enjoyed great applause by the side of the works of Goethe and Schiller. The fondness for the subject of Pericles was transferred from the epic form to the dramatic , however rudely it was here treated. In Pericles the art of trans- forming a narrative into a lively dramatic action , the very art of which Shakespeare was from an early period entirely master, is quite in its infancy. The epos is only partly transposed into scenes ; what coidd not be represented , as the prologue itself says, was made 'plain with speech" or pantomimic action ; the prologues are very significantly placed in the lips of the old narrator Gower; he introduces the piece, as it were, and carries it on with narrative when the scene ceases ; like a balladsinger with his puppets, he explains the mute scene in iambics of four feet, and in the antique language of the old soiurces , which sounded in Shakespeare's time as the droll verses of Hans Sachs do to us. With good humour the prologue himself smiles at the quickly changing scene, in which the spectator hastily passes over the life of the hero from his youth to extreme age; he carries "winged time post on the lame feet of his rhyme", and calls to aid the imagination of his hearers that he may "longest leagues make short, and sail seas in cockles". There is here no unity ir)2 Shakespeare's first dramatic attempts. of action, but only unity of jjcrson ; there is liere no inner necessity for the occurrences , but an outer force , a blind chance shapes the adventures of the hero. Nor does a unity of thought , such as Shakespeare ever has as the soul of his pieces, unite the parts of the play ; at the most a moral ten- dency connects the beginning and the end of it. At the close of the piece itself, the dramatic poet places in the lips of Gower, in -whose narrative he had already met with this same moral, a demonstration of the glaring moral contrast betvs-een the daughter of Antiochus , who in the midst of prosperity, without temptation and allurement, lived in "monstrous lust", and the daughter of Pericles, Avho "as- sailed with fortune fierce and keen", amid the snares of power and seduction , preserves her virtue , and makes saints out of sinners. As in Titus Andronicus, the idea of representing the passion of revenge in its pure and impure motives and varieties, is adhered to in its repeated gratification, so here the contrast of chastity and imchastity is the moral lesson, which, after the manner of the ]Moralities, glances forth plainly and glaringly at the beginning and end of the piece ; far from that artistic refinement , with Avhich Shakespeare usually conceals his moral lessons by the veil of facts and actions. Yet, however energetically in Pericles the moral is brought forward, the middle scenes of the piece have no connection with this thought, unless it be by explaining how the heroine of the second part of the play w^as born , or by conducting the hero from his youth in a series of poor and barren scenes to his old age. All English critics are agreed in refusing Shakespeare the outline of this fantastic , rude, and badly versified play ; we know that there was an older drama of this name ; to this then Shakesijeare added some TITUS ANDRONICUS AND PERICLES. 153 passages, which could be more ju.stly termed "inaster-touches" than those which he may have placed to Titus. Whoever reads Pericles with attention, readily finds that all those scenes, in which there is a natural design in the subject, in which great passions are developed, especially the scenes in which Pericles and Marina act, stand forth in evident fulness from the barrenness of tlie Avliole. Shake- speare's hand is here unmistakable; so in the fine treat- ment of Antiochus' crime at the commencement of the piece; in the scene of the storm at sea (III. 1,); most especially in the last act, where the meeting of Pericles and his daughter, — a scene which already in Twine's narration possesses peculiar attraction, — forms a description, which can rank with the best performances of the poet. The profound character of the speeches, the metaphors, the significant brevity, and natural dignity, all the peculiar characteristics of Shakespeare's diction are here exhibited. Even these perfect and richer scenes are only sketches ; the treatment even of the two principal characters is also a sketch; but they are masterly sketches, which stand in a strange contrast of tenderness Avith the broad details of the barbarous characters in Titus. It is an unusual part, which Marina has to play in the house of crime ; the poet found these scenes in the old narrations ; it was for him to verify them in the character. But such as this Marina appears, arming envy with her charms and gifts, and disarming per- secution ; as she comes forward on the stage strewing flowers for the grave of her nurs(> ; sweet tender creature, who "never kill'd a mouse , nor hurt a fly", Avho trod upon a worm against her will and wept for it ; as her fatlier describes her as "a palace for the crown'd truth to dwell in; i.»i Ml \ki;si'i;aki: s fiksi' dkamatic ATrKMi-rs. as Paticiicc, siniHn<>- (wtromity out of act"; sucli as wo soc licr ill all this, she is indeed a nature, 'whieh appears capable of HMuaining unsullied amid the inipurest, and as her persecutor says , of making- "a puritan of the devil". This character is sufficiently apparent; that of Pericles lies deeper. Nathan Drake found him buoyant with hope, ardent in entreprise, a model of knig-hthood, the devoted servant of glory and of love. So much may praise be misplaced. This romantic suf- ferer exhibits rather features of character entirely opposed to chivalrous feeling. His depth of soul and intellect, a touch of melancholy, produces in him that painful sensitiveness, w^hich indeed as long as he is unsuspicious, leaves him iiulifFerent to danger, but after he has once perceived the evil of men, renders him more fainthearted than bold, more agitated and uneasy than enterprising. The motives, which induce him to venture the dangerous wooing of Antiochus' daughter, the poet has not beforehand depicted, but subsequently inti- mated. The man, who when he perceives the dishonour of the house into which he has fallen, recognizes so quickly and acutely the danger that threatens him, who penetrates in a moment the wicked nature of the sinning father, when he remarks, that he blushes no more for his own shame, and upon its discovery "seem'd not to strike, but smooth", who, as modest as he is prudent, ventures not to name openly, scarcely to himself, the perceived connection , and considers in deep thought his position; the man, who speaks riddles, proves that he is able also to solve them. And he, whose imagination, after fear has been once excited in him, is filled with ideas of a thousand dangers , Avhose mind is seized with the darkest melancholy, he appears in these traits also to be a nature of such prominent mental qualities. TITUS ANDRONICUS AND PEllICLES. 155 that trusting- ratlier to these tlian to chance , he ven- tured to undertake to guess the dangerous riddle of the daughter of Antiochus. Agitation, fear, and mistrust, now drive him out into the wide world, aiul excite him in his happiness at Pentapolis , as in his danger in Antiochia ; bending himself to adversity, more nohle and tender than daring-, he carefully conceals himself, and in a perfectly dif- ferent position fears the same snares as with Antiochus ; these are without doubt intentional additions by the last worker, for in the story and in the English narrations of it, Pericles declares at first his name and origin. The feeling nature of his character, which makes him careful in mo- ments of quiet action, renders him excited in misfortune, and robs him of the power of resistance in suffering. The same violent emotion, the same sinking into melancholy, the same change of his innermost feelings, which he re- marks in himself in the first act after his adventure in An- tiochia, we see again rising in him after the supposed death of his wife and child; as at that lime, he again casts him- self upon the wide world and yields to immoderate grief, forgetful of men and of his duties, laitil the unknown daughter restores him to himself, and he at tlie same time recovers wife and child. The ecstatic transition from sorrow to joy is here intimated in the same masterly manner, as before the sudden decline from liope and happiness into melancholy and mourning. We said above, that this is only sketched in outline; but there is a large scope left to a great actor, to slia])e this outline into a complete form by the finishing strokes of his representation. ^Ve therefore con- jectured before, that Shakespeare might have chosen this piece, in all other i)ar(s higlil}' insigniHcant and trifling, IT)!) SIIAKKSPKAKe's FIKSI' dramatic ATTKMl'TS. (•Illy to propavo a diffifult tlicine for liis friend IJurbadge, wild acted tliis character. We should consider this almost a decided matter, if the piece had been first worked at by Shakespeare in the vear 1609, Avlien it appeared for tlie first time in print Avith the words "lately presented" (ni the title-page. In this case we should have here discussed the piece in the wrong- jjlace. Dry den, however, in a Prologue, whicli he wrote in 1675" to the Circe of Charles Davenant, calls it expressly Shake- speare's first piece, and excuses on that account its dis- crepancies. AVe must confess, it is difficult to believe, that even with such a purpose as that which we have stated, Shakespeare should, at the period of his greatest maturitv, have adopted such a piece as Pericles for the first time. If we compare the revolting scenes of the fourth act with similar ones in Measure for Measure, a piece which was written before 1609, Ave reluctantly believe tliat Shakespeare could have prepared this overseasoned food for the million, or even should have suffered it to remain from the hand of another. We should therefore prefer (Avith Staunton, J to assume that Shakespeare appropriated the piece, soon after its origin, from the hand of the first poet (about 1590). At the time, Avhen the play Avas printed Avith Shakespeare's name, in 1609, it may then perhaps have been prepared again for Jiurbadge's acting, and through this have acquired its new fame. That it at that time excited fresh sensation, is per- ceived by the fact that from the performance of the piece and from TAvine's version of the story, a novel Avas com- posed in 160S by George Wilkens*: "the true history of Reprinted from a copy in the Zurich Library, by Tycho Momm- sen. Oldenb. Ib57. HENRY VI. 157 the play of Pericles, as it was lately presented by the worthy and ancient Poet John Gower." In this publication, we may read the iambic verses and passages of the piece trans- posed into prose, but in a manner that allows us to infer that the play at that time was reprinted in a more perfect form than that in which we now read it. Shakespeare's pen (so easily is it to be distinguished) is recognized in this prose version in expressions which are not to be found in the drama, but which must have been used upon the stage. When Pericles (Act III. sc. 1.) receives the child born in the tempest , he says to it : "Thou'rt the ruddiest welcome to this world that e'er was prince's child." To this, the novel (p. 44. ed. Mommsen) adds the epithet : "Poor inch of nature!" merely three Avords, in which every one must recognize our poet. Thus we probably read this drama in a form which it neither bore Avhcn Shakespeare put his hand to it for the first nor for the last time. HENRY VI. Our remarks upon the two pieces , which we have dis- cussed, were essentially of a critical nature, for indeed it was of less importance to determine their trifling value, than tlieir origin, and the share Avhicli Shakespeare had in thom. In tlie three parts also of the "History of Henry VI.", the dis- cussion for the most part will be of a critical nature , l)uf especially that upon the first part, the consideration of which must be perfectly separate from that of the two last. The two last parts of Henry VI. arc worked up by Shake- speare from an existing original, which may havt; early 158 shakespeahk's first dramatic attempts. suggested to our poet the idea, not alone by additions to appropriate tlieni to his stage, but also to append to them the whole series of his histories, and this not only with regard to the facts, but even to the leading idea. For the first part, on the contrary, we possess no sources; in its tenor it is but very slightly united with the two last parts, and this union was not originallv contained in the piece. The latter parts afford the counterpart to Shakespeare's Kichard II. and Henry IV. ; as these plays treat of the elevation of the house of Lan- caster, those refer to the retribution of the house of York; the first part, on the other hand, treated in its original form only of the French wars under Henry YI. , and the civil discord, which occasioned the losses in France. The satirist Thomas Nash, in his "Fierce Penniless' supplication to the Devil", 1592, alludes to apiece, in which the "brave Talbot", the dread of the French, is raised from the tomb "to triumph aaain on the stasre". Whetlicr this allusion refer to our drama or to another Henry VI., which, as Ave know, was acted in 1592 by Henslowe's company, it is evident that this is indeed the essential subject of our piece; M'hat relates to the rising York and his political plans, w^as without doubt added by Shakespeare, to unite the play with the two others. That Shakespeare had further share in the piece than this, is almost with certainty to be denied. From Malone's ample dissertation upon the three partsof Henry VI. until Dyce , all authorshij) of this first part is in England generally refused to our poet. The extraordinary ostentation of manifold learning in the play is not like Shakespeare ; nor is the style of composition. Coleridge enjoins the com- parison of Bedford's speech at the begmning of the piece with the blank-verse in Shakespeare's first genuine plays. HENRY vr. 159 and "if you do not then feel the impossibility of its having been written by Shakesi)eare," he says, "you may have ears, — for so has another animal, — but an ear you cannot have". If the subject induced the poet to appropriate the piece as a supplement to the completion of the two fol- lowing- parts, without question his share in it is a very small one. That he himself, after the custom of the time, originally composed the piece in company with other poets, is not credible, because a man of Shakespeare's self-reliance must have early felt the unnaturalness of this habit. It is on the other hand probable that the piece, Avhich he elabo- rated, had occupied different hands at the same time, be- cause the marks of them are plainly to be discerned. No piece is more adapted to the explanation of the manner in which Shakespeare as soon as he was himself, did not write his dramatic works. His historical plays follow for the most part the historical facts of the well-known chronicle of Holinshed, and adhere rigorously to succession and order, rejecting all fable. The first part of Henry VI., on the contrary, follows another historical narrative (Hall) and adds single events from Holinshed and other partly unknoAvn sources; great historical errors, a medley of persons, a remarkable confusion in the computation of time, a series of non- historical additions, characterize the treatment of this history, treatment of which Shakespeare has never been guilty. The history of the Countess of Auvergne, the threefold cowardice of Fastolfe , the recapture of Orleans by Talbot, the surprise of Rouen, the apprehension of Margaret by Suffolk, are mere inventions, partly ])rocec(ling from patriotic zeal. Such did not appear to be Shake- speare's general idea of a draiualic liistory which he through- ]{")() siiakespeauk's first dramatic attempts. out as far as possible linked to the gouuinc matters of tra- dition. Ft is not our intention to set forth tliese historical errors, as Ave do not consider Shakespeare's historical plavs from this point of view; we venture simply to refer to Courtenav's Commentaries upon the historical dramas of the poet, in which this method of consideration is exclu- sively aimed at. If we take the piece purely in a dramatic point of view, and consider it as a Avork for the stage, it offers, as we before said, in contrast to Shakespeare's general mode of proceeding, an excellent instiTiction. There is here no unity of action, indeed not even, as in Pericles, a miity of person. If we look strictly into the single scenes, they are so loosely united, that Avhole series may be expunged, without injuring the piece, nay indeed perhaps not without improving it : an attempt which even in Pericles could not be carried far. We need only supei-ficially perceive this, in order to feel, how far removed the dramatic works of art previous to Shakespeare were from that strong and systematic inner structure, which admits of no dismemberment without distortion. In this first part of Henry VI. the scene between Talbot and the Countess of Auvergne may be omitted, and the piece only loses an unessential addition , in a dramatic as well as in an historical aspect. Suffolk's wooing of the captive Margaret may be ex- pimged , and we find that then the third and fourth scenes of the fifth act more naturally blend into one scene ; the execution of the Maid of Orleans, which is noAv uselessly postponed, is then joined to the former scene, without the necessity of changing a single line. If this scene be sup- HENRY VI. 161 plcnientary, the last scene in connection with it, in which the king chooses Margaret for his (jueen , must likewise be an addition. We expunge that also, and we find that Win- chester's treaty (Act V. sc. 4.) affords a perfect conclusion to the play, and one in far better accordance with its main substance. Tlie scenes of the death of Talbot and his son (Act. IV. sc. 6. 7.) stood without doubt in the original i)iece, as they relate to the principal hero , but it is impossible to impute them to the same author who wrote the principal parts of the drama. They are of a lyric elegiac colouring, in itself not without poetic beauty, but wholly undramatic. In direct opposition to Coleridge and Collier we should least of all conjecture the pen of Shakespeare in this sentimental vein. The scene of Mortimer's death and his })olitical '"admo- nishments" to York may be taken away, without being- missed. The following first scene of the third act is then more closely united Avith the previous dissensions. Yet more: we may withdraw the scene in the Temple Garden, wliere the strife between the white and the red rose begins, with all that which, as a sequel to this scene, refers to York, his pretensions to the throne and his dispute Avith T^ancaster, and there remains behind a piece of greater luiity , which treats of the Frencli wars, and of the (hjmestic factions, which disheartened the champions in France and occasioned the great fall of the English cause. Even these effects of the spirit of faction in the coursi' of the Frencli contests do not appear to have been all in the original piece. The effect of the strife between Somerset and York in the course of the war and its influence upon I. II 1G2 shakesfkakk's first dkamatic attempts. Talbot's (Icatli, appruis tVniu tlie l)earin<^ of tlic respective scenes to be an addition by the last elaborator. Talbot is in straits; the tAvo dukes of Somerset and York are entreated for help by Lncy in tAvo successive scenes (Act IV. Sc. .3. 4), which , in a perfectly different style, are inserted between the elegiac Talbot scenes; from natural enmity they refuse; on this account Lucy anticipates that Talbot will ])erish and laments his fall as if it had already happened. Now follows the scene of Talbot's deatli ; scarcely in order to establish a superficial union with those two scenes , is York's name here mentioned ; nothino- of his quarrel with Somerset ; then Lucy appears over Talbot's body, and mourns his death in a tone, as if he had known nothing of it, nor had even fore- boded it ! If we separate all these scenes between York and Somerset , Mortimer and York , Margaret and Suffolk , and read them by themselves, we are looking, it seems, upon a series of scenes which discover Shakespeare's diction in his historical plays just in the manner in which we should have expected him to have written at the commencement of his career. Here is the skilful Avitty turn of speech and the o-erm of his figurative language , here already are the fine clever repartees, the more choice form of expression ; here in Mortimer's death-scene and in the lessons of his deeply dissembled silent policy, Avhich Avhile dying he transmits to York , is , as Hallam also decides , all the genuine feeling and knowledge of human nature, which belongs to Shake- speare in similar pathetic or political scenes in his other dramas ; all , not in that abimdance and masterly power of later date, but certainly in the germ , Avhich prefigin-es sub- sequent perfection. Those scenes then contrast decidedly HENRY VI 16;> Avitli those trivial tedious -war -scenes, aiul the alternate bombastic and dull disputes between Gloster and Winchester; these parts adhere to the common hii>lnvay of historical poetry, thouoli they have, even snch as they are, sufficient of the fresh matter of youthful art, to furnish Schiller in his Maid of Orleans with many beautiful traits, indeed Avith the principal idea of his drama. If we consider it as settled that Shakespeare first inserted all these scenes, Ave can fully explain for Avhat reason he did so. They unite tliis first part, most closely Avith the second and third, AA-ith Avhich these had before been AA'itliout connection. York, tlie principal hero of the tAAO last parts, here appears Avitli his claims at the commencement of his career; Margaret, Avho next to him forms the most prominent figure , is here rising into note ; the last scene of the first part is intentionally placed in the closest connection with the first scene of tlie second part. The later. Avork of Richard II., standing as it does in historical contrast to tliese parts of Henry VI., is treated accordingly by Shakespeare in evident dramatic relation to this same added scene. As in Kichard II., the dangerous rise of the house of Lancaster issues from the single combat of Norfolk and Henry, so in Henry VI., tlie strife of the tAvo roses from the challenge betAveen Vernon and IJasset ; as in the one, tlie Aveak Kichard at first disregards and threatens Henry liolingbroko, then s])ares and ])r(>iu(itos liim tln-ougli forbearance, so in tlie oilier, tlif Aveak young- Henry VI. emancipates the injured and dishonoured York to his own destruction. Thus indeed Sliakcs])eare by the addition of these scenes has made the first part of Henry VI., regarded as a separate piece , still more disconnected than it originally Avas , but he has on the other hand so united 1 1 * 1 () 1 Sil VKKSPKARk's first DRAMAITC APTHMPTS. {li(> three parts, riuit tiicy atiord a perfect i)i(tuve of the rule of Henry VI., and at the same time, in the rise of York, a (•(implete counterpart to that of the house of Lancaster, the description of Avhich lie probably planned already iii(les of theiv national history, on the other liand , the dramatists t'nund in those civil wars a i^reat powerful material, a nature congenial, to their own, a nation in action •\vhoni they knew, jjroniinent characters which were com- prehensible to them, they found psychological truth stored- u}) and ready , for Avhich they had vainly groped in tlioir romantic attempts. At the very time that Shakespeare began to Avrite , this national historical Drama , as we have seen above, threAv out its first shoots. Among these early Histories we named the tAvo pieces by Greene upon Henry \T. ; thev are superior to almost the whole series of pre-Shake- speare plavs of this kind, the chronicle itself is often only transferred to them, and dryly arranged in scenes, but precisely this exhibits all the more clearly the value which rests, in the abstract, in an important subject, borrowed from simple nature. The general reader is not acquainted with these two plays and cannot, therefore, compare them with Shake- speare's elaboration of them ; but it is necessary to speak of them as thcv are in their original form, in order to show what they ottered to Shakespeare, what was suggestive in them for his historical Dramas, and Avhat he added in his own Henry Vl. When Tieck says that in plan, nothing of Shakespeare's, not even his noblest and best , can be compared with the historical tiagcdy of Henry VL, and that the mind of the poet increases in it with the subject, when LTrici declares the composition to be truly Shakespeare-like , they betray that they do not distinguish between matter and form, and that they have not compared the chronicles , which these dramas HENRY VI. 167 follow, with the poetical version. There cannot be much question of plan and composition in a piece which simply follows with few exceptions and errors the course of the chronicle, which like the chronicle unfolds in succession the various layers of the matter, and brings forward a series of scenes , which , as the anecdote of the armourer aiul the lame Simpcox, stand in but very slight connection with the great course of the whole. Whoever reads the narrations of Hall and Ilolinshed by the side of Henry VI., whether that of Greene or of Shakespeare, will perceive the most accurate transcript of the text of the narrative even in passages, where he would have least supposed it. The whole insur- rection of Cade in the second part, so full of popular humoui", rests so entirely in the historical sources, that even the speeches of the rough rebels , which more than anything appeared to be the property of the poet, are found partly verbatim in the chronicle of St. Albans, from which Stowe qut)tes them in his account of tlie insurrection of Wat Tyler and Jack Straw. Single highly -poetical passages, the prophecy of Henry VI. concerning Richmond, the bold answer of the captive prince of Wales, the assassination of the young Rutland, and others, are not only borrowed from the chronicle, but the last scene makes in Holinshed also an affecting and poetical impression. When, according to Tieck's expression, the poetical power in these plays increases with the subject, it is because this is the case with the matter of the chronicle also; we need only, in reading the second part, follow the corresponding passages in Ilolinshed, where after Gloster's assassination the history becomes richer and more attractive, just as the Drama itself. It is tlie subject that forms the grandeur and attraction of these i)ie(es, and 108 SHAKESrEARE's FIRST DRAMATIC ATTEMPTS. tliis even in tlie ])liiinest historical structvnc. The (hania of this ii'ieat avahinche of ruin wliich overwhehus all the ])OAvers in the native state, this dissolution of all bonds, this chaos in which misdeed succeeds misdeed, crime rises above crime, and an inexorable Nemesis follows close at the heels of the offending man , all this bears in itself a powerful in- terest Avliich rather carries aAvay tlie poet, than that he himself had created it. The picture of the gradual decay of all the powers of the state is an image of pure historical truth and great experience in natural consequences, far more than a delineation of poetic beauties, which influence through har- monious arrangement; but that Avhich invests it Avith the deep impression upon the mind such as art produces, is the moral or poetic justice, which is not wanting in the drama, and which is nowhere lacking- in the grand original Avork of history of the highest Master, Avhere, as in all periods of revolution, the motives, actions, and fates of men lie exposed to our vicAv. We sec foremost in the second part the pro- tector of the kingdom perishing through his oavii Aveakness, and his queen through her criminal pride. They fall by the cabals of the nobility, contending among themselves but leagued to the bad purpose , that nobilitv , Avho had produced all the evil to the country ever since the days of Richard II. Again, the fall of Suffolk and the rebellion of Cade is quite represented as a retributive judgment upon the aristocracy, as a rising of the suffering loAver classes against the oppression , unscrupulmisness, and scAcrity of the rule of the nobles. This democrary avc see in its turn quickly perish in its oaati fiury and folly : on the ruins again of the aristocracy and the incited people, the tools of his crafty ambition, York raises himself to the dignity of a ncAv HKNRY VI. 169 protector, relying upon popular favour and upon his warlike deeds and merits. At the attainment of his efforts ho alhiAvs himself to be tempted to perjury, and vengeance follows his footsteps ; Avith one of his sons, Rutland, he has a ter- rible fall. The king himself, who stands in inactive Aveak- ness and contemplative devotion, scarcely accountable amidst the ruin of all things, is now tempted bv tlie queen on his side to become a perjurer, and falls into the power and under the sword of his enemies. From the blood of Rut- land and of the Prince of Wales springs a new harvest of avenging destinies. Clifford, the murderer of tlie former, falls ; Edward , who was })resent at the assassination of the prince, totters on his throne ; the valiant WarAvick , Avho at last from personal indignation Avas unfaithful to his old party, perishes. Through all these disasters and retributions, queen Margaret passes unscatlied, an embodied apparition of fkte, to experience the most refined vengeance of the Nemesis : as a captive raised to the English throne , as "a beggar mounted", she had, according to the adage, ''run the horse to death", and smviving to lier oavu torment, she sees all her glory buried ; the source of all these sufferings , she is to drink them even to the dregs. Yet this Avhole catastrophe, Ave see plainly, is only history, and no ])oetic plan and com- position ; this administration of justice itself, AAhich appears so systematic and poetic, is simply taken fvoiu the chrunicle. In the passage where the prince of W ales (Act X. sc. a. J is stabbed by Clarence, Gloster, Grey, Dorset, and Hastings, the chronicles of Hall and Holinshed simihirly make the emp\iatic and explicit remark: "for the Avickcd dt'cd most of the perpetrators in their hitter days drank the same cup, in consequence of the deserved justice and the (hie ])unisli- 170 shakkspkakk's first dramatic atthmpts. iin'iit of (Jod". Ill this spirit histdiy was and is ■written in that, as in every, ininiitive age. This thought has been carried out afterwards by JShakespeare in Richard III. in the fate of those same perpetrators in every single in- stance, and witli an equal emphasis. We might be tempted to suppose, that Shakespeare liad learned from this piece and from this history of Henry VI., to satisfv in his art the law of })oetic justice; in the contimuition of Henry VI., in Richard III., it is almost too glaringly exercised to be called poetically beautiful ; in all the later works of Shakespeare this law is obeyed Avith the greatest scrupuhjusness, and in many plays Avitli admirable retinement. In any case, this practice in the poet's dramatic art arose from no system of eestlietics, nor from the models of old masters, but purely fi'om the same observation of human nature and human destiny, be- tAveen Avhich even the simple historiography of old recognizes the close connection , that exhibits man everywhere as the forger of his own fate. This important historical subject lias been sensibly ap- l^rehended by Robert Greene, in his two plays (if they are rightly hisj, though it has been dramatized in a very different treatment, which accommodates itself entirely to the importance of the material and tlie details in the hi- storical sources : proof sufficient , how little artistic form interfered. And here lies the g-reat difference between this and the Shakespeare histories, that in the latter, when they even follow the clironicle with equal fidelity as Greene's Henry VI., the poet generally appears greatest, just where the chronicle leaves him. In tlie second part of Greene's Henry VI., there is in the third act a strong and powerful plot ; the popular scenes of Cade's insurrection are HENRY VI. 171 full of happy humorous life. In the first act of the third part, the fall of York , a high pathos is preserved, without the usual exaggerations of the older dramatic school ; in the -words of York and Margaret, Sliakespeare coidd learn the genuine language of great passion, and he found here no inducement to add mucli of his own. In the second act, where York's sons are aroused, an excellent warlike spirit prevails throughout, and here also has Shakespeare with the most correct feeling restrained liis improving hand. But from the third act , and especially in tlie fourth and fifth, where the history of Henry VI. is almost reflected in miniature in the weak voluptuous Edward and his beggar queen, there begins a series of political scenes with little pathetic emotion; quickly and mechanically these scenes follow each other, without exciting any attractive interest ; they are scanty even with Shakespeare, who nevertheless took pains to make something out of the still more scanty, skeleton-like scenes of Greene, to lengthen their contents, and to subdue the strange hurry, witli which the first poet pressed on to the end. Still in Shakespeare's elaboration, the reader may observe this scholastic nicety. In the eighth scene of the fourtli act, Warwick goes toC.'oventry, and at the same moment Edward is aware of it, as if they had just met on the stairs; Act V. scene .">., tlie prince of Wah's is uuu- dered, in the succeeding scene the father already kintws it. The hurry to the end is so great, that it ])lainh ix-trays itself in repeated phrases. The questions; "What now re- mains.'" "And now Avhat rests?" "What then ?" are re])cated several times in the two last acts. Tlie inequaHty obscrval)le in tlio dramati/ution of the liistorical matter is alike evident in the delineation of rlie characters. \Vhatever in the liistory 1/2 SIIAKKSPEAKK S FIKSl' DHAMATIC ATTEMPTS. struck the ptict's mind witli its stroiii;- uller-down of kings", the 'Voal-black haired", the stnttering and noisy fa- vourite and strengthener of the Yorkists, was one of these characters, which was Avritten and acted con amore ; a most grateful part to those ''rolnistious periwig-pated fellows" Avhom Hamlet ridiculed. That Cardinal of Winchester, full of am- bition and priestly arts, Avith his ''red sparkling eyes" blab- ing the malice of his heart, which breaks at last in the pangs of conscience ; that defying insolent aristocrat Suf- folk, luiAvorthy in prosperity, in danger proudly defiant, and meeting death Avith the dignity and remembrance of the oreat men of old, Avho in similar manner fell by vile hands, — these were the forms of character , in Avhich poets like Greene or Marlowe were a match. York also and the fe- male characters , to wjiich we shall revert , are excellently maintained. The more deeply devised nature of a Humphrey on the contrary, is only sketched for the most part, and the tender saintly figure of Henry YI. was left entirely in the silent l)ack- ground, and first acquired life and soul from Shakespeare. Unequal thus are the characters , imequal is the organization of single parts, unequal is the poetic diction. While single passages are not Avithout great and natural feeling, the pieces on the whole are poor and dry ; nowhere so clumsy that Shakespeare could have found much necessary to be rejected , but in very i'ew passages sufficientlv full and elaborated for him to have added nothing. As in the personal characteristics, so there occurs in the diction many a strong and successful stroke, but without blending and Avorking up the colours ; the poet is not barren in assonance. HENRY VI. 173 and plays skilfully u})Oii words and rhymes; many a pro- verbial passage of universal truth, many an excellent poetic image , glances forth from versified prose ; and it is a pe- culiarity of these images and similes, that they are taken from the chase, from animals and their properties, that they abound , as it were , in physiological conceits , in which (in the coarse taste of Titus Andronicus) the human organs, lips, mouth, and eyes, are vivified, and frequently exhibited in most revolting functions. Such were the dramas to which Shakespeare now turned to appropriate them l)y liis own manufacture to his stage. He did so with the reverence of a scholar, this is betrayed in his reluctance to erase ; he did so w ith the skill of future mastery, this is betrayed in the ardent desire for improve- ment, allowing scarcely a single line to remain intact. Much of the coarseness of the taste of the age, was still left even in his improved work, nay his own additions were sometimes of a similar character. Delight in deeds of horror and blood is not only seen in that lament of Margaret's over Suffolk's head, and in Warwick's description of the corpse of the murdered Humphrey, which Shakespeare found in Greene's text, but in those words also, which ])roceed from Shakespeare, whicli Edward directs to Warwick (Act V. sc. {.): "This hand, fast wound about thy coal-bhick hair, Shall, whiles thy head is warm, and new cut-oti", "Write in the dust this sentence with thy blood," &c. Much of that hyperbolic poetry of the Italian style, towhidi Shakespeare does homage in his narratives, is also to be found here ; the greater part of Avhicli consists in description, in the accunuilation of artificial epithets, and in false affectation of 1 / 1 SUAKKSrKAKK S FIKST DRAMATIC ATTKMl'TS. tlio aiRiciits ill niytliological iiuancs and Icai-ncd quotations. Tlie bombast in those passages wlicrc be speaks of tearful eyes adding Avater to the sea, and of the lion's "devouring ])aAvs", has been often censured; the far-fetched exaggerated expres- sions of the passion of queen jNIargaret (Act II. sc. 1.) re- minhtly sketehinii, the actions, to which it spurs and incites the energy and will. From what we have said , it is evident, that it is espe- ciallv in the development of character, that Shakespeare's talent strikes us in this comparison of the two works. Se- veral of the characters of the play afforded him little in- terest ; it is worthy of (diservation , and points out Shake- speare's natural inclination to shun all trivialities, that fore- most among these personages, indifferent to him, stands that grateful heroic part of War^xdck. This character, the same popular hero and tlarling , the same warrior stammer- in"- with impetuosity, vainglorious in his self-reliance, was afterwards depicted by Shakespeare in Percy, and this il- lustrious counterpart the panegyrists of the plays of Henry VI. must compare with him, if they would accurately determine their relation to the works of the matured poet. The Cardinal of Whichester and the Duke of Suffolk were finished by Shakespeare according to the outline designed, Avithout great svmpathy with these characters, but not without cer- tain masterly touches, which would have betrayed his hand if Ave did not knoAv him as the elaborator : in the passage where m the old piece Suffolk asks the murderers of Humphrey, whether they have despatched him, Shakespeare charac- terizes the man by the cutting heartless question : "Now, sirs, have you despatch' d this thing?'''' The excellent con- trast of the two masculine women, Eleanor and ^Margaret, Shakespeare found before him ; Greene had worked at both these characters with the greatest success and industry ; HENRY VI. 177 the jealousy and hatred hetween the rich, proud, auibitious, duchess of unconquerable mind, and the upstart portionless -woman of fierce malicious nature, is excellently traced. The vindictive, furious, unrestrained character of the queen, whose face, "visor-like, unchanging" expresses the numb- ness of her nature, is depicted, in glaring but striking- touches, in the scene of York's death, Avhere , in cruel wantonness she trifles as the cat with the mouse ; to atone in some degree for this flinty heart, Greene has imputed to her a true, perhaps too tender, feeling for Suffblk, the origin of her doubtful good fortune. Shakespeare has here added but little, still that little is perfectly in the spirit of tlu* plot. Let us only compare attentively in the scene of the farewell between Eleanor and her husband that interwoven trait : hoAv after her fall , the most fearful thing to the ambitious woman is that "the giddy multitude do point" at her, and how her unbridled worldly ambition is suddenly changed into a longing for death. C'haracters of finer mould, which demanded Shakespeare's finer nature , are Gloster and the king. Duke Humphrey of Gloster, who ajjpears in the second part quite different to the Gloster of the first , is in- vested with the great qualities of consummate mildness and benevolence, with a Solomon-like wisdom, with freedom from all ambition, severe Hrutus-like justice towards every one, even towards his wife, whose last dishonour he notwithsraiid- ing shares in as a private character. The greatness of his self- command, which is contrasted with the unbridled [)assion of his wife, Shakespeare has rendered prominent by erne of his happy touches. In the passionate scene (II. Act I. sc. 3.), preparatory to his oAvn fall and that of his Duchess, he goes out and returns without reason; Shakespeare explains this I. \'i 178 Shakespeare's first dramatic attkmits. as an intentional niovenicnt , with whicli the h)yal man en- deavoured to suppress his excitement and choler. There is too nuuli noble and quiet grandeur in Humphrey, for us not to be woinided by his fall , which appears merely as a realization of the fable of the lamb , that had troubled the Avolf's water. It is Shakespeare's addition, that he inter- tAvined the garland of his virtues with that foolish reliance upon his innocence, which leads him to destruction, which leaves him careless amid the persecutions of his enemies, although he knew, that York's "overweening arm was reaching at the moon" ; at the moment of his fall , he too late becomes acute, and predicts his own ruin and that of his king. That weakness is a crime, is indicated by Shake- speare in this character and more closely Avorked out in Henry VI. This figure indeed was entirely formed by him; Greene placed the king as a cypher silently into the back- ground, but Shakespeare drew him forth, and delineated his nothingness. A saint, "whose bookish rule liad pulled fair England down", formed rather for a pope than a king, more fit for heaven than earth, a king, as Shakespeare adds, who longed and wished to be a subject more than any subject longed to be a king , he is in his inaction the source of all the misdeeds , which disorder tlie kingdom. Weakness makes robbers bold; in these Avords the Aveak- ness of the king is condemned, and Shakesj)eare exhibits this distinctly in his relations to the individuals or to the AA'hole state of the coiuitry. He defends (all this is Shake- sj)eare's addition) the persecuted Protector fll. Act HI. sc. 1 .), with eloquence , and afterAvards suffers him to fall : this distinctly places his impotence in relief. AVhen Humphrey is arrested , the older piece places in the king's mouth two HENRY VI. 179 barren lines, while Shakespeare in fnller language displays in a masterly manner the picture of weakness , the power- less man comparing himself" to the dam who can do nought hut low after her calf, which the butcher bears to the slaughter-house. When afterwards (Act III. so. 2.) they go to look after the murdered duke, the older piece has again only two bald lines for Henry , while Shakespeare puts into his mouth an agitated prayer, and in this prepares that state of mind, in which the king, supported by the valiant ^V"ar- Avick, is afterwards induced to an act of severity against Suffolk. As here the pious king leaves unperformed, with respect to his beloved protector, the commonest acts of gratitude and attachment, so the saint forgets, with respect to his kingdom, the most sacred duties : from weakness he becomes a perjuror, from weakness he disinherits his son, performing in that act what even "unreasonable creatures" do not Avith their young; after lie has persuaded himself that he is to expiate the sins of the House of Lancaster, he exposes himself with fatalistic equanimity to blind destiny, and whilst the civil war rages (in a soliloqiiy entirely in- serted by Shakespeare, HI. Act H. sc. 5.), he washes him- self a "homely swain" in the repose of contemplation and in the simple discharge of duty. Those abstract pictures of the civil war, where the son has slain the father, the father the son, the scenes which so powerfully touched our own Schil- ler, the older piece possesses in scanty outline, but Shake- speare by his touch first gave expression to thorn, and by uniting them witli that idyllic solilocpiy of the king, first gave them their depth ; because in that place they remind the king of the higher duties of his position, which he had forgotten in his selfish desire for repose. 12* ISO SlIAKKsrKARp:'s FIRST DKAM ATK ATTKMPTS. It' we may cull this king- Jleuiy VI., .Siuikcspcaie's own creation . lie found , on the contrary , Richard of Gloster wholly prei)ared in the tliird ])arf. 'J'he aspirini^ spirit in- herited from his father, the glance of the eagle at the sun, the complete ambition , the indifference to the means for an object, the valour, the superstition, which represent in him the voice of conscience, the subtle art of dissimu- lation, the histrionic talent of a ''Roscius", the faithless policy of a Cataline, these had been already assigned to him by Greene in this piece. But how excellent even here have been Shakespeare's after-touches, we see in the soliloquy (III. Act III. sc. 2.), where the ambitious projects of the duke hold counsel as to his means of realizing them; it is the coun- terpart to the similar soliloquy of his father York fll. Act III. sc. 1 .), and permits us to anticipate how far the son will surpass the father. The principal figure of the two pieces, Richard of York, is almost throughout so delineated, as if the nature of his more fearful son Avas prefigured in hhn. Far-fetched policy, the cunning and dissimulation of a prudent, deter- mined man, blend in him, not in degree, but in kind, in the same apparent contradiction as in Richard, With fii-mness, with unfitness for flattery, with inability to cringe, with bitter and genuine discontent. With the same assurance and superior- ity as Richard the son, he is at one time ready to decide at the point of the sword, and at another, to shuffle the cards silently and wait "till time do serve"; by the same aspi- rations and ambitions both alike are animated. Endowed Avith the same favours of nature as his father, Richard Avould have developed the same good qualities , which the father possessed in addition to his dangerous gifts. I^gly^ misshapen, and despised, AAithout a right to the throne and HENRV VI. 181 without a near prospect of tlie satisfaction of his royal pro- jects, his devouring- ambition was poisoned; in his father, called the flower of the chivalry of Europe , convinced of his rights, and proud of his merits, the aspiring disposition is moderated into a more legitimate form. At the death of his son Rutland, his better nature bursts forth forcibly to light. He is honest enough , upon the pretended disgrace of his enemy Somerset , to dismiss his powers , and to give his sons as pledges; he is moderate enough, and appears ready, had he not been led away by his sons, to suspend his claims to the throne until Henry's death, whom, in the course of nature, he was not likely to survive ; he laboured for his House, and not as his son , for himself. His claims and those of his House, which he asserts in opposition to the helpless and inactive Henry, he grounds not upon the malicious consciousness of personal superiority, as his son Richard does subsequently , but upon a good right , upon his favour Avith the people, upon his services in France and Ireland. Contrasted with Henry, he feels himself more kingly in birth, nature, and disposition. When he exercises his retaliation on the Lancasters, he utters those words ac- cordhig to Avhich liolingbrokc had before more cunningly acted towards Richard II. : he who cannot rule should obey. This contrast of York to Henry VI. is the soul (if both pieces. The thought, how tlie claims of the Ijcrcditary right of an incapable king, who is ruining the country, stand in relation to the claims of the personal nu'rit , which saves the country from destruction, tliis thought i)roceods invo- luntarily from the history of the rule of Henry \'l.; tlie poet of the older jjief-es luis uncertainly seized it ; Shake- 1S2 SIIAKKSPKAUk's I'IKST dram a lie ATTEMPTS. s])c;iro has uii(l(Mst(K)(l it better and carried it out. In the ehihoratioii of these t>vo ])i(Mes this is not strikingly ap- parent. .Shakespeare has here too mechanically and timidly followed tlie arrangement of the avIioIc; even here we must say, the dranui followin<^- tlie liistory creates this thought, far more than that the thought, penetrating the drama, shoidd have animated and, as it Avere, created it. But this is the case in the counterpart to Henry VI. , which Shake- speare subsequently produced in the most masterly manner : in the elevation of the house of Lancaster, in Richard II., Henry IV. and V. We shall there find, hoAv Shakespeare made the matter svdxservient to the idea ; here the material is entirely predominant and controlling; and in this con- trast, the value of Henry VI., compared to the later Avorks of our poet, is fully denoted. Every one has perceived that Shakespeare is more him- self in Henry IV. tlian in Henry VI. ; in the comparison of his elaboration of the two last parts of this history Ave must, hoAvever, just as decidedly confess, that here is something more than INIarloAve and Greene. In Shakespeare's first at- tempts to appropriate foreign Avorks to his stage, this Avas at once perceived by his contemporaries, Avho cast jealous glances upon the ncAv rival. Tavo interesting notices upon this, the one uncertain, the other all the more certain, have been handed doAA^n to iis from the early years of his activity in London. Li a letter from Thomas Nash to the students of both universities (prefixed to Greene's Menaphon 1589) there is the folloAving passage : "It is a common practice noAv a dales amongst a Sf)rt of shifting conqjanions , that runne through every arte and thrive by none, to leave the HENRY VI. 183 trade of Noverint * whereto they were borne , and busie themselves witli the indevours of art , that could searcelie latinize their necke-verse if they should have neede ; yet Engiisli Seneca read by candle-light yeeldes mania good sentences, as Bloiild is a begger, and so foorth : and if you intreate liim faire in a frostie morning, he will afFoord you whole Hamlets, I should say Handfulls of tragical speaches." If it could be proved, that an early elaboration of Hamlet by Shakespeare existed at that time , there would be no doubt, that these sarcasms were intended specially to hit him , and that Nash knew or believed him to have run through the attorney's office. Probable it always remains, since Nash was one of those intimate friends of Robert Greene, who was equally irritated against Shakespeare's improving and masterly hand, to which the second more certain notice relates. Greene, whom from the following communications we consider to be the first author of the two last parts of Henry VI. , died in the year 1592 , before which time not only his work on these pieces, but Sliake- speare's revision of it, must have appeared. The poet left a letter behind him , Avhich his friend Chettle publishes in 1592 according to Greene's own wish, under the title: "A Groats-worth of Wit, bought with a million of Kepentance", and which was addi*essed to their mutual dramatic friends, Marlowe, Lodge, and Peele. The dying friend repentingly admonishes them to break off all connection with the stage, and this in the following words : "13ase-minded men all three of you, if by my misery ye be not warned ; for unto * The commencement of all contracts and legal documents : A'*;- verint universi See. 184 Shakespeare's first dkamatic attempts. noneofvou, like me, sought those burs to ck'ave ; those puppets, 1 mean, that speak from our moutlis, those anticks garnished in our colours. Is it not strange that I, to whom they have all been beholding; is it not like that you, to whom they have all been beholding, shall Twere ye in that case that I am now) be both of them at once forsaken ? Yes, trust them not! for there is an upstart crow, beauti- fied with our feathers, that with his "Tiger s heart v:rapped in a player s hide'\ supposes he is as Avell able to bombast out a blank-verse, as the best of you: and, being an abso- lute Johannes Factotiini , is , in his oavii conceit , the only Shake-scene in a country. ! that I might entreat your rare wits to be employed in more profitable courses, and let these apes imitate your past excellence, and never more acquaint them with yom admired inventions." The passage alludes, with a significant play upon the name, to our Shakespeare; it speaks of him as an upstart, as a .Johannes Factotum, which he might have been to the Blackfriars company, being their only poet. The passage says of him, that he was beautified with "our feathers", a proof that these pieces are composed by all, or l)v some or one of these poets; for that an appropriation and revision of these pieces are meant, appears from the parodied line, ''O tiger's heart Avrapp'd in a woman's hide", taken from the third part of Henry VI. Shakespeare, it appears, complained of this attack. Chettle, the editor of Greene's tract, made an apo- logy, it seems as far as Shakespeare was concerned, in a tract, entitled "Kind-heart's Dream". It says there among other things , that one or two play - makers had taken Greene's letter "offensively". AVith none of them was he acquainted ; with one of them lie cared not if he ever was : THE COMEDY OF ERRORS AND THE TAMING Ol THE SHREW. 185 the Other, he had not spared at the time, as since he Avished lie had. For he had himself seen , that his demeanour was no less civil, than he was excellent in the quality he pro- fessed. Besides , he adds , "divers of worship have reported his uprightness of dealing-, which argues his honesty, and his fiicetious grace in writing, tliat approves his art." Thus have Ave here the first testimony, which concedes to Shake- speare equal honour in his new career, as a poet, an actor, and a man. THE COMEDY OF ERRORS AND THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. If we may venture to number the Comedy of Errors and tlie Taming of the ShrcAV among the Avorks of Shak('s])eare's early period, in Avliicli he appears depeiuh'ut u])on foreign originals , avc see Iioav the young poet , Avithout one - sided preference, equally tried his skill in happy variety, upon all styles and subjects. He had Avorked at an heroic tragedy in Titus, at a romantic drama in ]*ericlcs , at a history in Henry VI.; in the Comedy (^f Errors he adopted a comedy of intrigiu'; and in the Taming of the Shrew, a comedy in Avhich plot and character equally engaged his attention. That the Taming of the ShreAv really belongs to this earliest period, internal evidence alone has hitherto declared; but the Comedy of Errors, from an allusion in the piece , was Avritten at the time of the French civil Avars against Henry IV. , (15S9— 93) probably soon after 1591, Avhen Essex Avas sent to the assistance of Henry lY., and it thus inllAKKSrKAKK's FIKST DlvAMAlK A I'lKMl'TS. tu the proof" in Jlulliwoir^^ splendid edition, beciinie sub- soqiuMitlv proverbial,) Avas, as is known, taken from the Me- na'elnni ofPlautus, -which Shakespeare could have read in an English translation, probably by Warner, a book which however appears to liave been written later than Shake- speare's piece, and was printed in 1595, and beyond the ground-work of the subject, had in language and execution no sort of similarity Avith Shakespeare's play. We know that a "historie of Errors" had been acted at the English Court about the year 1577 and later; possibly, tliis Avas a remodelling- of the Menaechnii of Plautus, Avliich Shakespeare appropriated to himself and his stage. Hoav far the Avay for our poet may haA^e been prepared by this precursor, Ave cannot of course say. But compared to Plautus, his piece is superior both in form and matter ; Avitli him it is little more than a farce. Coleridge has even so called Shake- speare's play ; but it appears to us , Avith by no means the same justice. We shall guard ourselves from imputing too profound a pliilosophy to a comedy, the subject of Avhicli rests on a series of laughable accidents , that Ave may not build too massiA'e a structure of explanation upon too light a basis of poetry. Nevertheless in the Comedy of Errors, that feature of Shakespearian profoundness , Avitli Avhich he kncAv liOAv to obtain a great inner significance from the most superficial material of traditions, seems to lie before us in one early example, in Avhich the fine spiritual application Avhich the poet has extracted from the material, strikes us as all the more remarkable, the more coarse and bold the out- AAork of the plot has been handled. The eiTors and mistakes, Avhich arise from the resemblance of the tAvo pairs of tAvins, are carried still farther and are more improbably the AA^ork THE COMKDl' OF ERRORS AND THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 1 87 of accident, in Shakespeare than in Phuitns. With the lat- ter, there is only one pair of brothers, one of which does not even knoAV that they bear the same name, and neither knows that they are similar ; thus the errors are more simple and possible. Accordini^ to Shakespeare's design on the contrary, the father must have told one child of the similar- ity which he bore to his brother at his birth. From this it need not certainly follow, that this same similarity should have been preserved in mature years ; but the sameness of name must ever have been prominentlv before the searching Syracusan ; that the people at E])hesus know him and call him by name , must have startled and struck him all the more, as his recognition in Ephesus is combined with peril of life. To avoid the improbabilities loinid in the sources from which he drew , is everywhere else an effort , which characterizes most strictly Shakespc^ire's knowledge of human nature ; here, in the plot of the play, there is hardly a trace of this effort to be found. Tliere is oidy the scene of action , Ephesus , represented at the very beginning as the corrupted seat of all jugglers and conjurors , mounte- banks and cheaters, and the good Syracusan Antipholus appears driven by the course of the intricacies , wdiich in- crease in masterly manner vnitil the catastrophe, to such straits that he rather considers himself bewitched, than tliat he arrives at the simple conjecture, to which the v(>ry object of his journey must again and again have led him. But what is missing of skilful management in respect to this plot, scarcely weighs in the balance, when we see, how the poet has given to the whole extravagant matter of these mistakes and intricacies, an inner relation to the character of tlie family in which he has placed them. These comic 18S Shakespeare's fiksi dkamatic attempts. parts a])|)oar u\Mni a tliorou^lily tra<'ic back-ground, which imU'i'd iutort'cres not at all with the extravagant scenes in the forc-iiround , perhaps only makes them tlie more con- spicuous , but yet every moment appears with sufficient im- portance to keep under tlie superficial and weak impression of a mere farce , of which the kernel as well as the shell consisted in the mistakes of those similar twins. The hos- tilities between Syracvise and Ephesus form the farthest chiaroscuro back-ground, upon which the whole pictm-e is draAvn, the comic parts of which can scarcely be considered more fascinating and exciting, than the tragic. The fate of the imprisoned father who seeks his lost sons, who, engaged on a Avork of love , is condemned to death , whose inner sufferings at last increase to the degree , that he sees him- self unknown bv his recovered son and believes himself disoAvned by him, this raises the piece far above the character of a mere fiirce. This tragic part is united Avith the comic by the tenderest relations , — relations AA^hich the poet has interAvoven into the received story , according to his later habit, Avith that totality of his spiritual nature, that one ab- solutely remains in doubt, Avhether he acted rather from blind instinct or Avith perfect consciousness. We look upon a double family, and its earlier and present destuiies, in Avhich the most peculiar errors take place, not merely of an external, but of an internal character. In this family lie to- gether the strange contrasts of domestic love and a roving- spirit; these produce alternate happiness and misfortune, and occasion troubles and quarrels, in spite of inner congeniality of soul and family attachment, and estrangement and perplexity in spite of outAvard similarity. The old ^Egeon relates, in the excellent exposition of the piece, the history of the double THE COIMEDY OF ERRORS AND THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 1 89 birtli of the two twins. Before their birth he had left his wife on a visit to Epidaninxini ; his wife, expecting- to become a mother, hastened from Syracuse to join him. Tlie induce- ment to this journey, the poet has left as a matter of con- jecture; only so far has he indicated, tliat if a loving, it was also a wilfvd step, and besides it is evident in itself, that the step combined at once those contrasting qualities of family affection and love of Avandering. Was it the result of sus- picion and jealousy, of that quality, which in itself of so contrary a nature, disturbs love, and yet has its source in love alone ( AVe should think so ; for this ^Emilia can sub- sequently preach to her daughter-in-law with such forcible warning against this passion. Her twins are born at Epi- damnum, and ''not meanly proud of two such boys", she made , against the will of her husband "daily motions for the home return"; during the joiuney that shipwreck befalls them, which se])arates husband and wife, mother and father, and with each a pair of the twins, their own sons and their foster-brothers and future attendants. The Syracusan family, the father and one son, feel again after the lapse of numy years the workings of the same family character; the son travels for seven years, in quest of his lost mother and bro- ther, although he perceives the folly of seeking a drop in the ocean; tlie same love, sacrifice, and folly draws the father again after the son; a lively impulse works in them, as in the mother before, to unite tln^ family, and this very im- pulse separates them ever more, and threatens at leugtji to separate them forcibly and for ever, fn tlu' family at Ephc- sus, between the lost Antipholus witli his motiier and his wife Adriana, there is another error, tlie trace of which is to be found already in Plautus' Menaechmi. 'Die wife is a 100 SIIAKKSI'KAKk's FIKST DHAMATIC: ATIKIMPTS. slivow fVoiii joiilousy ; slu' torments lier innocent husband, and robs herself wantonly of liis love; her passion leads her to self-forgetfulness and a sacrifice of all that is feminine. And this moral error justly occasions physical errors between the tAvo brothers, until at last at the same time by means of the retired and experienced mother ^Emilia, the internal dissension is healed and the errors are cleared np, both Avith equal satisfaction. The reader feels indeed, how beanti- fully through these finely veiled, deeper relations themselves, the eventful comic parts of the play are invested with too high a value, for the piece ever to bear the impression of a mere farce. It is not impossible , tliat upon the point of the iliscord in this family from jealousy and the quarrelsome nature of the Avomcn, not only an aesthetic but in consequence of personal sympathy, a pathological stress Avas laid by the poet. AVe say this merely as a conjecture, upon Avhich Ave Avoidd not place much value ; it is also very possible , that Avhat strikes us from its unusual concurrence , is mere acci- dent. We have before intimated that just in Shakespeare's early youthful Avritings the impressions gathered from his OAvn domestic circumstances, Avhicli he brought AAdtli him to London, seem to glance forth. In Henry VI. he has drawn the characters of the tAvo masculine Avomen , Margaret and Eleanor, more acutely and A\ith more expressive touches, than his predecessor; and hoAv eloquently he makes Suffolk at the close of the first part, in a scene Avhicli Ave conjectured to be liis Avriting, declaim against unloving marriages : "For Avhat is wedlock forced but a hell, An age of discord and continual strife ? AVhereas the contrary bringeth forth bliss And is a pattern of celestial peace". THE COMEDY OF ERRORS AXD THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 191 Here in the Comedy of Errors, he aAvakeiis the conscience of the jealous shrew Adriana, when Emilia lays upon her the blame of the helieved madness of her husband, by her "venom clamours" and railing-, Avith Avhich she hindered his sleeps and sauced his meat, and gave him over to "moody and dull melancholy." In contrast to her he has placed her mild sister, who "ere she learns love, will practise to obey", who draws a lesson from examples in the kingdom of nature, that the woman is justly subject to the man, wlio amid care and trouble procures the mahitenance of life. In the Taming of the Shrew, a piece that stands in complete affinity, both of outline and idea, Avith the Comedy of Errors, Sliakespeare describes hoAv the shrcAV is to be educated on the threshold of marriage, and Iioav she is brought by just discipline to the temper of mind, Avhich is natinal to tlic mild Luciana. Her speech at the close of the piece expresses in sliar}) touches the relation of a Avife to her husband , as Shake- speare regarded it. This is quite conformable to the sen- timents of that day; to our perverted feelings, it is an exaggerated picture; to tlic affected homage of the ])resent day to the female sex, it Avill ajjpear barbarity or irony. What might seem in this spcecli of Katharine too energetic and strong, is to be explained by her spirit of contradiction, and the poet in Avriting it, may have been si)urred l)y his OAAai bitter experience. It is certainly striking- that Shake- speare has never again dei)icle(l this sort *>i' unfcminine character in its conjugal relations; it is, as if lie A\t)uld dis- burden himself of his hupr('ssi(»ns in these pieces, as hv next exhausted his vein of love in a scries of erotic plays. Thus it Avere certainly possible, that these early productions grcAv out of these passages in the poet's ]>ersoiKil existence, 192 SlIAKKSPKATiE's FIRSr DHAM ATIC ATTEMPTS. that they, just as Goethe's ''Mitschuhlige" with its impulsive contents, rested on the inner experiences of liis own life. The Taming- of the Slirew hears a striking resemblance to the Comedy of Errors , especially in the parts , which do not concern the circumstances of Petruchio and Katharine. The latin school , the manner in which the Italians of the 1 0th century, Ariosto and ^Macliiavelli, revived the comedies of Plautus, was justly perceived hy Schlegel in this part of the piece. This is simply explained by the fact , that Shake- speare in this very part borrowed essential touches from the ^'Suppositi" of Ariosto, which in 1566 were translated into English by Gascoigne. Like the figure of Pinch in the Errors, those of the Pedant and the Pantalon Gremio, are pure characters of the Italian comedy , and the whole plot of the piece is perfectly carried out in the taste of this school. As in the Comedy of Errors, the long- doggrel verse and the language of the old pre-Shakespeare comedy are pre-eminent here, as is the case only a few times besides in his earliest origi- nal comedies, the Two Gentlemen of Verona, Love's Labour's Lost , and others, and never happens again in the pieces of Shakespeare's riper period. As in the Comedy of Errors, the diction is unequal, the dialogue often clumsy; there are single passages on the other hand equal in good taste, and in cleverness of verse and language, to the matured style of the poet. As in that comedy, there is little regard paid to the probability of the story and its circumstances. As in the one, the Ephesian Droniio , so in the other, the little Gruniio is the coarser form of a cIoato, such as Shakespeare in his early comedies alone loves to introduce and to work out. As in the Errors, so here in the part which tvu-ns upon Lucentio's wooing of Bianca, the art of depicting character THE COMEDY OF EKRORS AND THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 1 93 is imperfectly exhibited : the rich old Mooer Gremio , the "narrow prying father" jVIinola, are the superficial characters belonging to comedies of mere plot ; and so too in the Errors there is only a common distinction of character draAvn between the violent Ephesian Antipholus, who usually beats his stupid servant, and the milder Syracusan, with whom his Avitty attendant stands more on the footing of a jester. In both pieces, it is striking how the poet lingers among his school reminiscences ; no other undisputed play of Shakespeare's furnishes so much evidence of liis learning and study as the Taming of the Shrew. In the address of the Syracusan Antipholus to Luciana (Act III. sc. 2.), in Avhich he calls her a mermaid, and asks her, "are you a god", there is a purely Homeric tone ; the same passage, bearing the same stamp, is met with again in the Taming of the Shrew, (Act IV. sc. 5.)whereKatharine, Avhen she addresses Vincentio, uses a similar passage from Ovid, borrowed by him from Homer, and in which the antique sound lingers even under the touch of a fourth hand. This pervading mannerism of his youthful Avritings ought long ago to have determined tlie position of this piece among those of the earliest period of the poet. All critics have felt this: Malone, Delius, and even Collier, who thought that several hands had been engaged on the piece. It is indubitable, that the poet's own hand was more than once employed upon it. In the form in which we now read tlic piece, it must have been later embellished, as we assume with certainty of other plays. Very significant allusions point to later ])ieces of contem- porary poets, the introduction refers to Fletcher's "Women Pleased", a piece not written before H)04. 'J'hat the nanu* Baptista in the Taming of the Shrew is rightly used as that I. 13 J94 S^MAKKSPKAKE's FIKST ])KAMATIC' aiikmits. of a man, and in ILunlet on tlie contrary as that of a ^voman, is a proof to (^'oilier, that the comedy was written hiter than Hamlet in lUUl. But whoever considers the refinement with whicli Shakespeare at this very time, in Mucli Ado about Nothing repeated, as it were, in a higher sphere the two characters of Petruchio and Katharine, Avill never believe, that the same poet at the same time could have originally written this piece. The principal figure of our comedy (the shrew) belonged to the favoiu-ite subjects of a joyous and laughter -loving age ; poems and jests related of shreAvish women ; in one farce, Tom Tiler and his wife, the sufferings of an oppressed husband were performed by chihh-en, as early as 1569; iii Chettle's Griseldis, the episode of the welsh ^night and the shrew whom he marries, forms the counterpart to the patient and mild heroine of the piece. There exists '^tlie Taming of a Shrew", Avritten by an unknown hand, the piece u2)on which Shakespeare grounded his oAvn play. The older piece was printed in 1594, when it had already been several times performed ; this does not prevent its being older by some time. It was published in a well-known collection by Steeveus (Six Old Plays). The plot of the piece is much coarser than with Shakespeare; even where the scene is preserved, it is far more clumsy in the original. The scenes of a humorous kind, like those between Katharine and Gnimio, and Avith the haberdasher and tailor, were for the most part arranged, as they have since remained. The contrast between the bombastic i)athos of the scenes between the lovers, and the general disgusting nature of the burlesque jjarts is so great, that we may here again perceive, how the ])oet even in his coarser productions has refined every- THE ( OMEDYOF ERRORS AXD TJIE TAMIXG OF THE SHREW, i 95 thing ; there are here single expressions, for which Shake- speare's pen , however indelicate it may appear to our generation, was at all times too chaste. The comparison of the two pieces does not exhibit the relation between them like that of Sliakespeare's Henry VI. to Greene's, but the poet, by the pervading improvement of material and form, has made the work his own. We have intimated already, that the Taming of theShrcAv consists of two contrary parts. The story of the accomplished Lncentio, who, full of students' tricks, comes to Padua at least perhaps for the sake of learning, accompanied by a clever servant, who is able to change parts Avith his master, his shy and skilful wooing of the well-bred liianca, wlio is versed in all fine arts, forms a plot of refined design after the Italian taste. The counterpart to this, the Avooing of the coarse Petruchio and the quarrelsome Katharine is a piece of genuine popular character. "With this latter part, the central point of the jday, we shall alone occupv ourselves, in order to see, how the poet passes fixmi the shallow delineation of persons, to which we are accustomed in plavs of intrigue, to the more profound development of character, witli which at a later jjcriod he has indulged us throughout his works. The scenes between Petruchio and Katharine might be converted into a mere joke, and that of the commonest order. It is sad to think that a man like Garrick has done this. He has contracted the piece under tlie title of Katharine and Petruchio into a play <»f three acts, lie has expunged the more refined ])art, the plot for the wooing of Eianca , and he has debased the coarse remainder into a clumsy caricature. The acting of the pair Avas coarsely l9'J MIAKK:jPEAHe's FIKST DKAMATir ATTEMPTS. extravagant , accoriling to the custom , wliich lias subse- quently maintained its ^i-ound ; "Woodward acted at that time retiuchio with sucli fury, that he ran the fV)rk into the finger of his fellow actress (]\Irs. Clivej, and when he carried her off the stage, thi'ew her doAvn. Thus is the piece still perfonned in London as a concluding farce , with all dis- gusting overloadings of vulgar buffoonery, even after that in 1844, the genuine play was again acted at the Haymarket, and was received with applause. If all England Avere to support Garrick, we should confidently maintain, that our comedy Avas not so intended bv the poet. The piece is, it is true, treated in a Avood-cut style : tlie subject, if it were not to fall into pedantic moral- izing, could bear no other handling. Even in common intercourse the questions ujjon the subordination and rule of the Avife are even brought forward in exaggerated jest ; coarse humour must give the subject its colouring. The delicate texture of a higher nature belongs not to the tAvo leading characters: it must be so, for had they been differently constituted, the circumstance could not have taken place. The Avooer, Petnichio, is fashioned out of coarse clay ; he comes not to Padua as Lucentio does for the sake of study, but to marry for gold. The rich shrcAV is offered to him, in jest, and he enters upon his courtship in a spirit of good humoured braA-ado; this even his Grumio pene- trates. He has never been of refined nature and habits ; he goes badly dressed ; to strike his serA-ants and wring them by the ears on the smallest cause, is common with him : but at the same time he has traAclled and is experienced, he has learned to knoAv men and hoAv to handle them. To tame the shrcAv cannot frighten him who is conscious of understanding Avith THE COMEDY OF EKROKS AND THE TAMING OF THE SIJKEAV. J 97 manly power, the play of jest and flattering gallantry, and in extremest cases knows that the "Little fire grows great -with little wind, Yet extreme gusts will blow out fire and all". He is a soldier, huntsman, and sailor, sufficient of each to develop a rugged cliaracter, lie is a rigid disciplinarian, unapproachable and imposing. He is compared by Katharine to a crab-apple, and I know not what could be more expres- sively likened to the hard-skinned muscular faces of soldiers long in service. Katharine, whom he undertakes to woo, is like a wasp, like a foal that kicks from its halter, ])ert, quick, and deter- mined, but full of good heart, m whose nature Pctruchio already takes pleasure, because in the right place, as in the last act with the widow, lier honest lieart overfloAvs. She is si)oilt by the father, an ill-ljehaved child, who cannot crave nor thank, Avho mistreats lier gentler sister, binds her, and beats her. She is excited to the highest pitch of violence by her father's preference for her sister, but ])rinci- pally from envy of tlie numerous suitors, wlio ])ress round liianca , whilst she has the pros])ect of reiuaiuiiig unmar- ried. To those beautiful feminine souls, Avho remain unem- bittcred with this prospect and in this lot, and who do not lose the especial harmony of llie feiuale nature, slic does not belong. The key rather to lu'r cliaracter and to lier conduct to the ill-iuanneved suitor, is that she is embittered against her threatening lot, to "lead apes in hell"; a ])ro- verbial liumorous e\])ression for the fate of the uuuiarried, Avliich I>eatrice also uses of liersclf in .Much Ado about No- thing. She wishes for a liu^haiid, he wishes for ^old, thus 19S Ml AKKSl'KAKl.'s FlKSl DltAMATIC ATIK.MPT.S. tin- wiiy is siuodtluMl to each ot" them. The ohl pic'C(>, tliat f^haki'spcarc had bctori' liim, says phiinly, slie wislicd for a hvisl)aiul. and that is the source ot" her contention; and Potruchit) knows it also, expresses it, and founds upon it liis hohlncss. Hut to express such trivialities, Avas not Shakespeare's method ; he did not make it so easy for his actors; he connnitted to their ability to bring- into their acting that which was understood of itself. In the wooing scene, all Katharine's words are repulsive and contemp- tuous ; she does not assent, and yet they are afterwards be- trothed. This passage has perplexed all actors; it has always been esteemed strange and imperfect; its performance in Garrick's version is quite detestable. But for two clever actors all is given in this scene , which the characters de- mand. He inundates her Avith Avords , flatteries , Avhich she has never before heard; Avhen he compares her with Diana , she returns her first calm and quiet ansAver. The hal)itual spirit of contradiction makes her coarse and re- pelling even toAvards him and his roughness, but as soon as she sees that he is serious, the storm must subside Avith her. The actress, avIio conceives this character in a naive manner, will at once have gained her point; it musl be con- ceived in a naive manner, not as a shreAv by profession, but as a passionate child, Avho has never laid aside the AvayAvardness of her early years. She must not once for all storm over her ])art; before the new phenomenon of a suitor, she should rather stand in droll confusion ; she ought not to make grimaces at the Avooer, but to exhibit to him an open countenance, agitated by curiosity and surprise, to look at him Avith a clear eye , that is not confiding , and yet Avould Avillingly confide, that scorns and, in the midst of scorn, relaxes. To THE COMEDY OF ERRORS AND THE TAMIIS'G OF THE SHREW. 199 this naivete there is full scope given by the poet. Whilst Petiuchio overwhelms Katharine Avith his flatteries , he in- terweaves all that the bad world says of her ; he exaggerates it and affects that she limps; involuntarily she will now step firmly forward, in order to convince him of the con- trary ; upon this he is sarcastic, and immediately she pauses in the spirit of contradiction and confusion. x\s soon as Avit- nesses come, he affects that she hung- about his neck and gave "kiss on kiss" — ; when the actress of Katharine, as is usually the case, resents this, and shoAvs herself unmannerly about it, it is indeed not to be understood, hoAv then the betrothal can pass for settled. Whilst he says tlie decisive Avords : — "kiss me, Kate, avc Avill be married o' Stindatf\ he probably uses the refrain of an old familiar song, Avhich humorously softens the assurance Ipiig in this authoritative Avooing. Her anSAver is that she Avill see liim hanged first, and this can only be said in perfect calmness after the subsided storm, can only be spoken half inquiringly, halfsidkily, at once conquered and resisting. She then goes off the stage at the same time with him, without having- assented ; but she has silently, although contradictorily agreed. This is tlie poet's design. She could not indeed ansAver Avith a Yes , for she had practised so long only the No of contradiction. Beatrice^ in Mucli Ado about Nothing , a much more delicately de- signed character, can do so just as little ; this lies naturally in these characters, avIio are most deeply averse e\'cn to the appearance of sentimentalityi The suitor facilitates the path in a delicate manner, Avitnessing to his psycliological supe- riority ; he interAveaves adroitly tluit "'tis bargained 'tAvixt them tAvain", that she for a time miglit continue to ])laN her shrcAvisli part. He seizes licr then on anotlier Aveak side ; 200 smakesi'eakk's first dramatic attempts. he goes to ^"enict' "to buy appcirel 'guiiist the weddiny day"; .^lie shall he tine at the iuama<^e; she shows indeed on other occasions, that she is woman enougli to care for this. And what the short time of his absence effects and chanoes in lier, slie betrays afterwards at his delay with that one sigh : "^youId Katharine had never seen him !" — which is uttered only with lingering passion, tenderly, and amid tears, when the father himself expects an outburst of her "im})atient humour". All this , it seems , is very skilful and will be acted skilfully. The matter, and the actor must certainly distinguish between them, the matter is coarse, but the structure is full of delicacy ; the task of representing coarse- ness, is to be discharged in a delicate manner. For the actress of Katharine, the wooing scene is the difficult point ; for the actor of Petruchio, the course (jf the Taming. The latter might appear Avholly as an exaggerated caricature : but he who is capable of giving it the right humour, will give this extravagance something of the mo- desty of nature. In Garrick's farce, when Petruchio c(jmcs in extravagant pomp, celebrates an extravagant wedding, departs in extravagant haste, all fellow - actors are amazed and frightened. But this is not Shakespeare's design ; Gru- mio finds the whole so droll that he could "die Avith laughing". The manner in Avhich he tames her, however coarse it may appear, is characterized by the same good method as his wooing. By his departure for Venice, his long absence, his strange appearance, he begins with her a moral discipline, w hich works by expectation, suspense, and disappointment. Then follows the physical discipline, in order to svibdue her rebellious temper. As he obtained her by stratagem, silenced her by vehemence , so he tames her first by overstraining. THE COMEDY OF ERROKS AND THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 201 and then by restraining her mental and physical nature. The latter part of the cure is the very method, by which falcons are trained through hunger and watching. But all the pri- vations which he demands from her , he shares with her ; he deprives her of sleep and eating under the ])retext of love and care for her. If this is performed , as is often the case, in a thoroughly brutal manner, the poet's intention is de- feated , for he designed to leave Katharine no cause for re- senting the behaviour she met with. That passage might be opposed to us, in which Petruchio requires his betrothed, to declare the sun to be the moon , but in this })assage we may recognize only a skilful test; here the severe discipline evidently passes off in a humorous jest, and a good actor tlms perceives the passage. In England it is perhaps an old tradition, that immediately after this passage, where she lias yielded, when she is now fully cured, and when she has sub- sequently to mention the sun in an indifferent speech , the actress turns to Petruchio and proffers the word in a roguish tone, as if to ask, whether he agrees that the sun is shining. One trait of this kind , interwoven by an intellectual actor, better illuminates whole scenes and characters of Shake- speare's plays, than long commentaries. This fine touch smoothes the way to the subsequent pliability of the changed Avoman , when she at length preaches that lesson of subjection, still a little in the manner of the old defiance, but now directed against the defying. These then are tlie seven ])icccs, wliicli He at tlie outset of our poet's career; let us once more glance over them, that in the survey we may discern tlic lieneralcliaractcr. 202 sii akkspkakh's tiKsr dkamatk' ATri;.MPj-.s. \vhi(h (listinnuislics thoui from the later Avorks of Sliake- speiirc. More or less, all the seven pieces betray the un- cultured popular taste of the pre-Shakespeare age , both in matter and form. The barbarities in Titus, the coarseness of Pericles, the occasional severity in Ilenry VI., the rude character of the two comedies, the treatment of the iambic verse in Titus and the doggrel verse in the comedies , all this places these pieces in the history of English Literature at the time when jNIarlowe and Greene had not been eclipsed by Shakespeare. Previous to these pieces , we had known Shakespeare only as the author of descriptive poems. Pass- ing over from these to dramas so diversified, misled by the dramatic form and the different material, we might believe that we had to do with quite another poet. But it is not so on closer inspection. There are not lacking, in all these pieces, remembrances of the Italian, the more classical school of poetry, which he followed in his descriptive Avritings. Pericles is derived from those romantic , half antique nar- rations, which the poets of the Italian school folloAved ; from the Arcadia of Sidney, the main representative of this school, many expressions are faithfully copied. In Titus, the Ovid- like voluptuousness of the narrative poems is perceptible in the contents of the second act; at the only opportunity for it in Henry VI., Margaret's farewell to Suffolk, the same tone is for a moment apparent. In the short dialogue be- tween Luciana and Antipholus in the Comedy of Errors, the thoughtful, antithetical, epigrammatic diction forcibly re- calls to mind the conceits in Lucrece. Last of all, in the Taming of the Shrew, Shakespeare has made use of the comedy of a famed Italian master, as in the Comedy of Er- rors he has only revived a later comedy in imitation of the THE COMEDY OF ERRORS AND THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 203 Italian poets. All these pieces exhibit the poet as not far removed from school and its pnrsuits ; in none of his later dramas does he plunge so deeply into the remembrances of antiquity, his head overflowing with the images, legends, and characters of ancient History. In Titus, we found the whole story composed from mere pieces of ancient legends and histories. As in Kyd's Spanish Tragedy there are long- passages from Latin poets , so liere a stanza from an ode of Horace has been admitted. In l^ericles , as in a piece by Seneca, we have tlie apparition of Diana, and tliose scenes, which remind so strikingly of Ulysses' visit to the Fhceacians. In the Comedy of Errors and the Taming of the ShrcAv, we designated above those words of address in Homer's style. Like Lucrece and ^^enus, these })ieces arc redundant Avitli allusions to greek mythology and ancient history. In these allusions, the Trojan legend stands pre-eminent, and indeed significantly from Airgil's view of it, as we find it in Lu- crece. In the passage, where in Henry VI., he alludes to Diomede and Ulysses, when they "stole to Rhesus' tents, and brought from (hence the Thracian fatal steeds", we perceive at once, how freshly the yomig poet was imbued with tr(»jan history. The endeavour to display his learning, is not foreign to these pieces, and is not uncliaracteristic of a be- ginner. We will not adduce the first part of Henry VI. in evidence, because the greater ])art of it is attributed to another writer; otherwise we perceive in it great ostentation of study of the Old Testament, of Iloman history, of the Ro- mances of thel'aladin, and even of ]''roissart's( -hronicle. Hut in the second and third part also, in Shakespeare's a(hliti(»ns, the quotations from old myths and histories, arc multiplied, and in the manner, in which he at one time inserts Ma- •2(M shakksi'kark's fikm duamatic attempts. chiavclli in the place of Catiline, anil at another time 13argulus instead of the pirate Abradas, opportunity i)uri)oscly is sought to disi)lay his own learning-. But especially may the Taming of the Shrew be compared with the first part of Henry VI. in the manifold ostentation of book-learning. The intention of betraying a knowledge of language is found , with the exception of Love's Labour's Lost, in no subsequent play of Shakespeare's, in the manner in Avhich it is in these seven ; the scraps of foreign languages Avhich he here uses in thorough earnestness, are later only employed as characteris- tics or in jest. Li Titus, there are not only isolated latin pas- sages, as is the case with almost all the pre -Shakespeare poets, but also french expressions are introduced in tragic pathos ; in Pericles the devices of the knights are proclaimed in all languages^ and among them there is aS])anish one with the error piu for ?nas. In Henry VI. also, Ave meet with these scraps again in passages which are Shakespeare's property ; the old Clifford expires with a french sentence , the young Rutland with a latin. Thus moreover in both comedies, latin, french, Spanish, italian words and sentences are ac- cunndated. We see then that uncertain and immature forms, coarser taste in the choice of subject and in the manner of Avorking it, the presence of the school, the leaning to an- tiquity and to the learned circle of the Italian Romanticists of England, the eagerness to appear well read and full of knoAvledge, these Avere the familiar traits Avhich distinguish these earlv productions of Shakespeare. Even their differ- ence in matter, tone, and diction, proceeds from the further familiar characteristic, that they are all imitations of older Avorks. The progress of the poet is clear and evident. In the three first pieces it is repressed by the Aveight of foreign THE COMEDY OF ERRORS AND TflE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 205 influence, and appears therefore in very different fashion; in the second and third part of Henry VI., he wrestles for the palm with a contemporary , in the Comedy of Errors with Plautus ; in the Taming of the Shrew he casts away- the form of his previous -work, and stands upon his own ground. The importance, wliieh tliis training upon other masters and writings exercised on Shakespeare's cultivation , is never sufficiently taken into account : the happiest instinct led the proud genius upon this modest path. No talent is more to be mistrusted, than that Avhich, in early youth, aims at originality ; self-conceit giudes it upon this mistaken way, and want of nature will be the end at wliich it arrives. Every great artist has had sucli a period of training, in which he has trusted in an earlier master, in which he has chained himself to a foreign model, in order to learn from him. The scholar, who in tliis devotedness loses his independence, and surrenders himself to imitation , would certainly never have found out a way of his own. Hut true talent during the apprenticeship of y^outh only penetrates into the foreign mind, that it may, from the deepest knowledge of it, learn more acvitely the difference of its own , and separate itself with greater independence. Thus have Raphael and Titian, thus have Goethe and vSchiller practised on foreign masters in their art; the latter even on our Shakespeare himself. And thus did he also. He looked up to Plautus and Se- neca, early and late, and free from every pretension; per- haps at first evqji to Marlowe and Greene. AVith these he certainly must soon have felt, that he could oidy learn, what he should not do ; he improved the plays of Greene , while he elaborated them ; he Avas reproached by Greene Avith having beautified himself witli foreign feathers, but lie was 20G >n akkstkakk's i-iksi' dkamatk' attkmi'Ts. liimst'lf conscious tliat in liis turn lie had invested tlieni ■with ornament. 'I'lie custom of that (Uiy that the poets of the different theatres borrowed tlieir materials from cacli other, and worked them up afresh , Avas extraordinarily advan- tageous to the drama. From the gains and losses of other stages, the favourite subjects of the public were known, and in this manner they Avere rarely mistaken in tlie matter. jNIany hands were tlien engaged upon the same Avork; their elaborations Avere subject to tlic Acrdict of the public ; the subject and its signification, the characters and their treat- ment, Avere thus refined. This Avas the case also Avith the ancient drama. In that youtli of the Avorld, there Avere fcAv dramatic subjects, mythical or historical, existing at all; on each of these fcAv CA-ery famous poet tried his skill; these continued attempts ripened at last into the pure form, AA'liich Ave admire in the Greek tragedies. Something of a similar but superficial character happened on the English stage; though here in the richer, more extensive Avorks of modern taste, it Avould haA-e been all tlie more necessary that the same should haA'e taken place, and that even more fundament- ally. But Avith Shakespeare , Ave can remark plainly in a progressive maimer, Iioav in the earlier dramas Avhich he undertook to elaborate, he ever learned, in a masterly man- ner, to reject more of the shell, and to penetrate into the kernel of the subject and its inmost soul. This art he after- Avards transferred even to his epic narrative sources, and he learned to give to the most superficial aij^l frivolous story a psychological and moral depth. SEOOro PERIOD OF SHAKESPEARE'S DRAMATIC POETRY. We pass from the first period of the dranuitic career of qui: poet in which he appears only as the elaborator of foreign works , to a second , which we confine to the years between 1592 and 1600, In this short time, the poet rises with ahnost inconceivable activity from the scholar to the master, and passes through a mental history certainly of the rnost remarkable kind, although Ave i)ossess only hints and conjectures, in determining its nature more closely. We cannot read the works of these years , without receiving- an impression, for the most part, that the })()et Avas ])assing through a happy, exultant period, Avhen he wrote them. The untroubled gladness, the playful Avantonness, Avhich meets us in all the comedies of this period, tlie exuberance of mind, Avhich bursts forth in Henry IV. , allow us easily to argue as nuich iinvai'd self-reliance, as oulAvard comfort on the ])art of tlie poet. We sluill also subsequently find, Avhen Ave return from the consideration of the Avorks of this epoch, to the history of Shakespeare's Ufe, that his ra])id success as actor and poet, his im])ortance in higher society, his honourable connections and friendships, a '20S SECOND rKKioi) OK shakkspkaue's dramatic poetry. prosperous (•utwurd condition, which enabled him to relieve his parents effectually in their necessity, that all this, I say, sho-ws a series of favourable circmnstances, ada})ted to place the young poet in the happy mood, in which his talent could so quickly, so immeasurably, advance. At the end of this period a shadow seems cast over this liappiness , which gave Shakespeare an ini])etus towards more serious contem- plation and a still deeper penetration into human life. It is striking, that when between 1590 and IGOO, comedy in the series of his writings had decidedly prevailed over tragedy, after that period, on the contrary, tragedy and tlie serious drama appear just as decidedly in the ascendant, and this verv contrast obliges us , to date from it a third period of Shakesperian poetry. The works of this period are in themselves singly signi- ficant and great ; the group considered as a whole presents an especially remarkable appearance through the thorough many-sidedness, which appears in the subjects treated of. They are divided into three parts, distinguished by their innermost nature. In the commencement of this period we meet with a series of pieces of essentially erotic purport, whose central point is formed by the passions and the deeds of love: the Two Gentlemen of Verona, Love's Labour's Lost, All's Well that Ends Well, ^Nlidsummer-Xight's Dream, Romeo and Juliet. By the side of these lie all the histories, but one, Avhich Shakespeare produced after Henry VI., dramas of dr)-, real matter, the world of outer life and action placed as if in intentional contrast to that of feeling ; opposed to it in equal extent, with equal emphasis: Richard II. and III., King John, Henry IV. and V. At the close of this period lies a third group of comedies closely clustered together. I. EROTIC PIECES.- 209 comedies in which Shakespeare, in the merriest freedom and joyfuhiess of mind, it seems, has raised this branch of art to the highest degree of perfection, and has maintained its cheerful character most pure and untroubled , thus mak- ing the sudden transition to the tragedies, in the third pe- riod of his poetry, all the more interesting. It is not possible with perfect certainty to assign to each of these works the year of its origin : but according to the concurring jiulgment of all critical authorities, they fall collectively within the period mentioned, or very little beyond it. Historical pieces and love-pieces were alternately worked up by the poet ; the historical in no chronological series, but as the liking for the subject suggested them. We shall, therefore, in the discussion of these works, not bind ourselves too scrupu- lously to the order of time , but at once carry on the three series in their great divisions , and then examine and con- sider each single work separately, with all possible adher- ence to the probable chronology , if any thread may be perceived, which indicates to us , besides the chronology, another order of thoughts and feelings. I. EROTIC PIECES. We will speak first of the series of erotic pieces, in which Shakespeare has more or less exclusively represented the essence and nature of love. Of this kind are all tlu' above-named pieces, whilst in Shakespeare's later dramas, it is only in true comedies that love-adventures form the central point, and this indeed only of the plot, and no longer as here, at the same time, the essence of the piece ; whilst in his tra- gedies, they appear always only so far, as they represent, in 1. 14 "il'l >i:((iM» I'KKIOI) OF SH VKKSTKAKK's J)1!AMA'II( IMIETKY. tilt' i;iecit varieties of lite itself", but one side of our existeuee. With (»ur own (.ieriUcUi poets, even tlie greatest, this side of our being occupies far too wide a space , and must de- tract much from the wealtli of their poetry , as compared witli Shakespeare's works. They felt nothing of that natural impulse of the English poet, to establish themselves in the great sphere of active life, in history, in order to counter- balance the life of sentiment. Where they have interwoven a love-affair as an episode in a Jiistorical piece, the pre- ference for the sentimental part prevailed , and the poetic brilliancy and energy centred in if. AVith this our sen- timental poetry, it was almost universally, what Shake- speare says in Love's Ivabour's Lost : "Xever durst poet touch a pen to write, Until his ink were tempered with love's sij^hs". But it was not so with our poet himself". We may conclude from the circumstances of Shakespeare's life, that in his youth he may have been for a while , that which in Love's Labour's Lost, and the Two Gentlemen of Verona, he calls the 'Votary to love", and this was indeed the very period, in which he created these love-pieces , wJiich we shall next consider. But it was at all events »mly a period, a passing time , in which he was personally swayed by this passion, and poetically engaged Avith it; and in this poetic occu- pation he in no wise surrendered himself entirely, but took care , as we have said , in the happiest instinct of a many- sided natm-e, to maintain the just balance in his descriptions of the powerful life of feeling, by the contemplation of the great historical world of action. If we lose siffht of this grand double-sidedness, if we en- I. KKOTIC PIECES. 211 tirely nnd solely become absorbed in tlie love-pieces of tliis period, we find, that he treated his theme, even in this exclu- sive direction, quite otherwise to our (ierman poets. The ideal loveheroes of our own Schiller, the weak sensual characters of our Goethe , are, by that sentimental element wliich is infused throughout the love-poetry of a modern date, of one uniform coloimng ; therefore on our stage there is one iixed character of a lover, wliich the player to whom it is com- mitted acts nearly always in the same manner. It was not thus in Shakespeare's time, and it is not so designed in his works. The vast theme, the passion of love, Shakespeare treated in a far grander manner. He depicted if not alone in reference to itself, but in the most manifold combination witli other passions, and in the most wide spread relations to other human circumstances ; it is to him a necessity , to represent it in the greatest fulness and variety possible, in its entire existence, in all its operations, in its good and its bad qualities, in those first five pieces, which Ave find devoted to this theme. He shows us in the Tavo Gentlemen of Verona, hoAv it is with a man avIio abandons himself Avholly to this passion, and also its effc('t upon tlie energetic cha- racter, still a stranger to it. He shoAvs in l^ove's Labour's Jjost, hoAv a set of youthful coni])anions unnatmally endea- vour to crush it by ascetic voavs, and Iioav the effort avenges itself. He shoAvs in All's Well that Ends Well, Iiow love is despised by manly haughtiness and j)ri(le of rank, and Iioav it overcomes this by fidelity and devotion. He shows in the. Midsummer -Night's Dream, in a marvellous allegory, the errors of blind unreasonable love, wliicli carries man for- Avard in a dream of life, devoid of reflection. lie shoAvs lastly, in that great song of love, in Roineo and .luliel. hoAV II * :212 sK(()M) I'KKioi) ov Shakespeare's dramatic poetry. this most poAveifui of all passions seizes two luanau beings in its most toaiful po-\vor, and, cnlianced by natures favour- able to its reception and by circumstances inimical to it, it is carried to the extent , in -which it overstrains and anni- hilates itself. And Avhen the poet, advanced to this extreme point, has measured this side of human nature in its breadth and (le})th. he returns, as it Avere, personally less concerned, back to himself, and in his later works does not readily again permit it such a wide and exclusive space. This many-sidedness of love , its manifold bearings and effects upon human nature, Shakespeare alone of all poets, of all ages, has depicted in its mighty extent. Whoever hastily pei-uses the Avholeepic and dramatic poetry of France, Italy, and Spain , will find all the relations of love treated to tediousness after the same model and idea. This man- nerism was a transmission from the middle ages , when knightly customs and gallantry first elevated sensual desires, and an extravagant adoration of women, unknown to the ancients, penetrated life and poetry. In this period love was regarded as a source of civilization, as a source even of power and action, and the poetic generations of succeeding times conceived it only from this its ennobling side , with a preference and exclusiveness , which such a judge of life, as Shakespeare, could not share. He had experienced also its shadow-side : how it is just as capable of paralyzing the power of action, of endangering morals, of plunging a man in destniction and crime, as of tending to purity of life, and of ennobling mind and spirit. This double natiu'e and two-fold worth of love and its effects , Shakespeare had pe- netrated in his early youth In Venus and Adonis, his first poem , the goddess after the death of her favourite utters a I. EROTIC PIECES. 213 curse upon love, which contains in the germ, as it Avere, the whole development of the subject, as Shakespeare has un- folded it in the series of his dramas. It is worth while to hear the passage in its Avhole extent. "Since thou art dead, lo ! here I prophesy, Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend : It shall be waited on with jealousy, Find sweet beginning, but unsavoury end ; Xe'er settled equally, but high or low, - That all love's pleasure shall not match his woe. It shall be fickle, false, and full of fraud ; Bud. and be blasted in a breathing-while ; The bottom poison, and the top o'erstrawed AVith sweets, that shall the truest sight beguile : The strongest body shall it make most vreak, Strike the wise dumb, and teach the fool to speak. It shall be sparing, and too full of riot. Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures ; The staring ruffian shall it keep in quiet. Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treasures : It shall be raging mad, and silly mild, Make the young old, the old become a child. It shall suspect, where is no cause of fear ; It shall not fear, where it should most distrust ; It shall be merciful, and too severe, And most deceiving, when it seems most just ; Perverse it shall be, where it shows most toward ; Put fear to valour, courage to the coward. It shall be cause of war, and dire events. And set dissension 'twixt the son and sire ; Subject and servile to all discontents, As dry combustious matter is to fire"". We must remember that this is written at an age, which in the first strength of feeling sees love generally only in the brightest light, and tluil it is ])hi(ed in a ])()em, wliich appeared to deify the sensual desire in tlic customary man- ■214 SECOND J'KUIOI) OF SHAK1;:>1'KAUE's DRAMA llC I'Ol/l'RV. ner of voiaii; poets, we must, I say, remoniber the period and the position of this ])assa<>-e, in order rig-htly to appreciate its value and importance. In the love-pieces of the period, Avhicli Ave shall consider, these thoughts are variously repeated on more forcible occasions, and appear in choice sentences and passages ; and far more than this , they are also exhibited and embodied throughout Shakespeare's Avorks, in characters, circumstances, and living images, in a fulness and depth, such as never has been the case with any other poet. And not alone, in opposition to all usual poetry, is the curse of love carried out in these jiictures, but its richest blessing is unfolded in just as many coiuiter- pieces , Avith just as much ardour , and witli the same life. That in this passion the rich covetous man is "plucked down" and deceived, the poor man elevated and enriched, we read in the Merchant of Venice. That it makes a simpleton of the spendthrift, a ruffian of the weak, is repre- sented in Rodrigo. That it affects the wise, and that it is hardlv united with reason and reflection, Measure for Pleasure brings before us. That it teaches fools to speak and makes the old young, in how many excellent caricatures has this been displayed by the burlesque parts of Shake- speare's comedies ! That it selects the "finest wits", and often makes them its prey, is expressed in that graceful, oft-repeated image, "in the sweetest bud the eating canker dwells"; and again in other pictiu'es, as in the Tempest, the most charming innocence appears seized by this spirit, without being even slightly injured in its stainless purity. That it is "fickle, false, and full of fraud", that it forswears itself, that the strongest of love's "oaths are straAv to the fire of the blood", is exhibited in the Two Gentlemen of 1. EKOTK' PIECES. 215 Veroiui, at the siinie time that true love, full of inner beauty, .shames the ttckleness of tlie unfaithful, by deeds of sacrifice. The basest and most exalted phases of this tierce passion are to be found inTroilus andCressida, in the highly ironical pictiu"e of the trojau contest, in the parody of the immortal song on that love, -which was the cause of so long a war and of such frightful deeds. And then, in contrast to this excited di'ama stands a thoroughly spiritual picture : how love works up the senses and the spirits, how it is the creator and the created of fancy, the perpetual subject and the source of poetry, in what charming touches and symbols is this interwoven Avith the magic pictures of the INlidsum- mer Night's Dream ! How love surprises the man in idle- ness , when the character is relaxed in inactivity , how it then fills his whole being, and digresses from the valour of a man, is represented in Romeo, in Proteus, and in An- tony, but in Othello the heroic nature permits not love to enchain him by idle pleasures, and ''with wanton dulness" to foil "his speculative and active instruments'". That jealousy is the attendaiit of love, and excites suspicion where there is no cause for it, and fears not, Avhere there is groinul for mistrust, is the subject of this same tragedy of Othello, andof the Winter's Tale; how on the other hand, tliis "green- eyed nu>nster" may be overcome l)y a harmonious luiture and confiding trust, is developed in strong contrast in the story of Fosthumus and Imogen. That love is sliared l)y high and low, that it luay l)egin with bitterness and end with sweetness, is well depicted in All's Well that Ends Well; but the nuiin theme of the ciu'se of the goddess of love, that "all love's pleasure sliall not match his woe'\ that it "finds sweet l)eginning, but unsavoury eiul", that it luis 216 SEtOM> PKRIOI) OF SllAKESPEARE'f; DRAMATIC POETRY. "tlie bottom poison, and the top o'erstraAved Avith sweets", tliat it "buds, and is blasted in a breathing- while", that violent in kind it leads to desperate resolutions, and spends itself like a li^litninjj flash, this is immortally sketched in the poem of Romeo and Juliet. It compinses the whole theme, which other poems and poets have broken into such manifold parts , into one exuberant production. That love in its full power is in constant fatal struggle with class- prejudice and propriety, this has been the central point of all tragic pourtrayals of love, in life and poetry, at all times. "Love's not love when 'tis mingled with respects" : this is the mark by which Nature and tlie poet denote the passion in its greatest power ; in this its strength , the conflict of nature against custom, of all-poAverfid , boundless feeling against the necessary restraints of social life, is unavoidable, and in this collision the tragical nature of this passion is groimded, which no poet has ever depicted like Shake- speare in Konieo and Juliet, with the same surpassing repose and yet lively emotion, the same excitement and yet moral ingenuousness, the same fervour of personal experience and yet mental impartiality. "It is the only piece", the cold Lessing said, "which love itself has, as it were, helped to write." THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF YERONA. In the series of the erotic pieces of this period, in accordance with most English critics , we place the Two Gentlemen of Verona first. It is generally assigned to 1591, a date previous to the Comedy of Errors. The single long doggrel verses in the burlesque parts, the repeated alliteration, many lyric passages in the sonnet-style of ten- der but undramatic poetry, place the piece in the poet's earliest period. Plot and character are not here equally considered as in the Taming of the Slirew, but they are blended. The action calls to mind in its main part the history of Felix andFelismena (in thelJiana of ■Nlontemayor) which may have been known to Shakespeare from an earlier dramatic handling of the subject (the history of Felix and Philomena 1584) or from the MS. of the translation of the IJiana by Bartholomew Yonge, not ])rinted before 15f)S; tlie plot is somewhat poor and slight: but the traits of delicate characterization on the other luind, begin here, almost for .the first time, to stand forth in that fulness, which in the characters of the seven merely elaborated pieces , with the exception perhaps of Petruchio and Katliarine, does not appear. 21S SK( ()M) ri;KIt»l) OF SHAKKSI'KAKk's J)K\MAT1(' I'UKTKV. The piece treats of the essence and tlie power of love, and es])eeially of its influence upon judgment and habit i;enerally, and it is not mcU to impute to it a more detined idea. The twofold nature of love is here at the outset exhibited Avith that equal emphasis upon both sides and that perfect impartiality, by which Goethe was so struck in Shakespeare's writings. The solving of this opposite problem , the poet facilitated by an srsthetic artifice which is quite ])ecidiar to him, Avhich we find especially evident in this youthful work, and which Ave see re])eated in al- most all his dramas. The structure and design of the piece are carried out in strict parallel; the characters and events are so exactly brought into relation and opposition, that not only those of a similar nature , but even those of a contrary, serve mutually to explain each other. We shall place the emphasis of our discussions upon this point. Tavo friends are separating in the first scene , Valentine and Proteus. The names have already a significance, AA'hich hints at their opposite characters. Valentine, a good honest nature, is a man of action ; urged by honour to cast him- self into the Avorld abroad, into military and courtly serA'ice, he is just travelling to INIilan ; he is of the simplest, plainest kind of country-gentleman, Avith no finely sifted speech ; AA'ith him heart and lips are one ; his generosity knoAA's no doubt ; himself good , he deems the bad , good also; his nature is not soon affected by any emotion, his acts are not disturbed by reflections. A golden friend, ready fin* every great sacrifice, he is yet AAithout affection for the other sex; his derision is rather provoked by the absorbing passion of his more excitable friend. Proteus, on the contrary, is a man r)f reflection, full of enticing A^rtues THE TWO Gentlemen of ^'EKONA. 219 and faults, and of great mental capability. It is said of him that of many i>ood he is the best; this goodness is exhibited throughout the piece (and this is a decided error) not in deeds , but only in the superiority of his talents. Entirely given up to love , completely filled with its desires and aspirations , lie accuses himself of spending his days in "shapeless idleness"; in danger through selfishness and love of enjoyment, of renouucing his manly character, he appears as a youth of tliat young and tender wit, AVliich like "the most forwaril bud is eaten by the canker ore it blow". The one- sidedness of each character is now t(» find its complement, as it were, as a corrective. Proteus in the midst of his suc- cessful suit, is, to his despair, sent by his father to A'alentine in ]Milan, in order like him to be "tutored in the world"; on the other hand Valentine's original bent for "active deeds" meets with penance, as he himself calls it in Act II., sc. 4, in that in jMilau , Silvia, the daughter of the JJuke, falls in love with him. For ^'alentine, this new condition brings an increase of experience and refinement, which he appropriates after his 0"\vn fashion ; for Proteus , the change causes a restraint, against Avhich his self- loving nature struggles. The way in which both behave in this change of situation is developed in the finest manner from the original dis- position of their characters. The honest, unsuspecting Valentine, occui)ied with manly dealings , nuist l)c sought after by love, if love would touch him; the daughter of the Duke before all others fascinates him as an object , which at the same time excites his aspiring ambition. J5ut , as we should expect from him, he acts like a novice in the work of love; he betrays his increasing inclinalion by open "gazing" noticeable by all, and by imp(n-ious offensive 220 siuoxD rKKioi) OK shakesi'eake's dramatic poetry. treatment of his rival Tliurio. Wlien she meets liis modesty and wooes him in her letter^ he nuderstands her not, and his servant Speed is obliged to explain her intention. His wont, Avhen he laughed, to crow like a cock, when he walked, to walk like one of the lions, is now passed away; his friend l*ri»teus might now find matter for ridicule in the meta- morphosis, Avliicli love has effected. Since difference of position places obstacles to a union, with his peculiar want of consideration and readiness for action, he enters upon a plan for eloping with Silvia; instead of guarding himself from the snares of the Duke, unsuspecting and confident he pro- ceeds to entangle himself still further. When his plan of elopement has been punished Avitli banishment , he sur- renders himself passively and unhesitatingly to a band of outlaws ; desperation urges him , the active life suits him, tlie man who invites his company, touches his heart by the similar fate, which he too has suffered. To this extremity has the treachery of his friend driven him. For ProteiLS, as soon as he had arrived at !Milan, had at once forgotten his Julia. His love is first and foremost, self-love. Completely absorbed in the one affection, arrived at INIilan, separated from Julia, his weak, love-seeking uatiu-e endures not for a moment the unusual void and desolation. As Romeo, rejected by his beloved, all the more violently falls in love with a new object, so does Proteus, when separated from Julia ; he casts his eve upon the beloved of his friend , and giving way to this one error, he falls from sin to sin, and rmis the gauntlet of crime. Once befooled by the intoxication of the senses, with the finest sophistry he knows how to justify and to excuse his misdeeds. False and wavering, he forgets his oath to Julia, he ensnares the duke, he betrays his friend, he goes THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 221 SO far in baseness , that he proposes slander as a means foi making Silvia forget Valentine, and he himself undertakes the oiRce of slanderer. His behaviour towards his rival Thurio shows what a judge he is of love, with what power he practises the arts of love , how secure and victorious he knows himself compared to such an adversary. He teaches him the secrets of love, well knowing that he understands them not ; he, a poet himself, enjoins him to woo Silvia by " wailful sonnets ", when he knows, that he can only fashion miserable rhymes. In the amorous style of the three lovers, the poet has given us an excellent insight into their capacity for love. In the verses of Thurio, Ave see some paltry in- sipid rhymes, which German translators have too confidently received as a specimen of the genuine Shakespearian lyric. The poet possesses true poetry enough not to fear putting silly verses in the lips of the silly wooer , and tluis , whilst he intentionally inserts a poem of no merit, he acquires the further merit of a characteristic touch. The poem, which Valentine addresses to Silvia (Act III. sc. 1.), is of tlie same characteristic kind, composed in the usual conceit-style of love, it testifies of tolerable awkwardness of rhyming talent, and is rather the work of the brain, than the outi)()uriiig of excited feeling. Of Proteus, we have only fragments and scattered words , which Julia imparts to us from his torn letter: "kind JuHa, — love -wounded Proteus, — poor, forlorn Proteus, passionate Proteus, to the sweet Julia", — words sufficient to tell us, that among tlie three this is the man who understands the true rhetoric of love. ^^ ith this letter he had taken by storm the free heart of the unguarded, unsuspecting Julia; but so well does lie understand the Strategy of love, that towards Silvia, whose heart was given 'I'l'l v|;((t.M> I'KKIOI) I'KKIOI) OF SIIAKKSPKAKk's DHAMA'llC I'OK'JJIV. accdunt of liis farewell may be regarded as a paroily of Ju- lia's silent parting from Proteus; the scene, in which Speed "thrusts himself" into Launce's love-affairs and "will he swinged for it", caricatures the false intrusion of Proteus into Valentine's love ; but a deeper sense still have the sto- ries of the rough Launce and his dog Crab, the very scenes which undoubtedly occur to the gentler reader as most offen- sive. To the silly semi- brute fellow, Avho sympathizes with his beast almost more than Avith men , his dog is his best friend. He has suffered stripes for him , he has taken his faults upon himself, and has been willing to sacrifice every- thing to him. At last, self-sacrificing like Valentine and Julia, even this friend he will himself resign , his best pos- session he will abandon to do a service to his master. With this capacity for sacrifice, this simple child of natiue is placed by the side of that splendid model of manly endow- ments, Proteus, who, self-seeking, betrayed friend and lover. And then this fine relation of the lower to the higher parts of the piece is so skilfully concealed by the removal of all moralizing from the action, that the cultivated examiner of the piece finds the objective effect of the action in no wise disturbed, while the groundling of the pit tastes im- impeded his pure delight in common nature. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST AND ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. The comedy of Love's Labour's J^ost belongs indisput- ably to the earliest dramas of the poet, and will be almost of the same date as the Two Gentlemen of Verona. The peculiarities of Shakespeare's youthful pieces are here per- haps most accumulated. The reiterated mention of mytho- logical and historical personages, the air of learning-, the Italian and Latin expressions, which here, it must be ad- mitted, serve a comic end, the older English versification, the numerous doggrel verses, and the rhymes more frequent than anywhere else ami exteiuling over almost the lialf of the play, — all this places this work among tlie earlier efforts of tlie poet. Alliteration, a silent legacy from anglo- saxon literature, and much nu)re in use in the popular and more refined poems of England than in any other language, Ave meet with here still more than in the narrative poems, the sonnets, and the Two Gentlemen of Verona; it is ex- pressly employed in his poetry by the pedant Iloloferncs, who calls the art "to affect the letter". The style is fre(|uently like that of the Shakespearian sonnets, indeed tlie 1 27th and 137th of Shakespeare's sonnets bear express similarities to those inserted here as well as to other passages of the 22S sKcoM) rKKioi) OF sH akkspeahe's dramatic poeirv. piece (Aft 1\'. sc. 3. j. 'J'he tone of the Italiitii school prevails more than in any other play. The redinidance of wit is only to he compared Avith the similar redundance of conceit in Shakespeare's narrative poems , and -with the Italian style in general, which he at first adopted. From this over-abundance of droll and laughter-loving personages , of wits and caricatures , the comedy gives the idea of an excessively jocular play ; nevertheless every one on reading it feels a certain want of ease , and on account of this very excess, cannot enjoy the comic effect. In struc- ture and management of subject, it is indisputably one of the weakest of the poet's pieces ; yet one divines a deeper merit than is readily perceived, and which is Avith difficulty unfolded. Xo source is known for the purport of the piece, which, however, (as Hunter has proved from Monstrelet's chronicles,) in the one point of the payment of France to Navarre (Act II. sc.2.i , rests on a historical fact, an exchange of territory between the two crowns ; the poet, who scarcely ever aspired after the equivocal merit of inventing his stories himself, seems according to this to have himself dcAised the matter, which suffers from a striking lack of action and characterization. The whole turns upon a clever interchange of wit and asceticism, jest and earnest ; the shallow charac- ters are forms of mind , rather proceeding from the culti- vation of the head than the will; throughout there are affected jests, high-sounding and often empty words, but no action, and notwithstanding- one feels, that this deficiency is no unintentional error, but that there is an object in view. There is a motley mixture of fantastic and strange charac- ters, which for the most part betray no healthy groundwork of nature , and yet the poet himself is so sensible of this. love's labour's lost and all's well that ends well. 229 that we might trust him to have had his reason for phicing them together, a reason worth our Avhile to seek. And in- deed Ave find on closer inspection, that this piece has a more profound character, in which Shakespeare's capable mind already unfolds its power ; we perceive in this, the first of his i)lays, in Avhich he, as subsequently is ever the case, has had one single moral aim in view, an aim that here lies even far less concealed than in others of his works. We will start Avith the observation , Avith which Ave con- cluded the Tavo Gentlemen of Verona : — namely, that Shakespeare did not disdain to retain the favourite subjects, characters, and jests of the older Ioav comedy, but that he kneAv hoAv to dignify these by the profound signification, AA'hich he gave them. This is attested in this piece by a much more brilliant example than in the Tavo Gentlemen of Verona. In the burlesque parts of Loa'c's Labovu''s Lost, Ave meet Avith tAvo favovu-ite characters or caricatures of the Italian comedy, the Pedant, the schoolmaster and gram- marian, and the military Braggart, the Thraso of the Latin, the "capitan Spavento" of the Italian stage. These stationary characters Shakespeare has depicted Avith such life , that it has been supposed and has been endeavoured to be proved, that the poet pourtrayed in them persons living at the time, in Armado, "a vain fantastical man", Monarcho, (thus he once calls him,) in Holofernes, the Italian teacher Florio in London. The cliaracteristics of botli are exaggerated , as they could only be in the rudest popular comedy. Armado, the military braggart in the state of peace, as Parolles is in Avar, appears in the ridiculous exaggeration and affectation of a child of hot Spanish fancy, assuming a contempt to- Avards everything common , boastful but poor, a coiner of 230 sECHOXo rKKioi) of miakkspkake's dramatic pokthv. ■words hilt most ignoiaut , .solemnly grave and laughably awkwavd, a hector and a coward, of gait majestical and of the lowest propensities. The schoolmaster Holofernes stands among the nuiny enamoured characters of tlie comedy as a ■dry inanimate pedant, an imaginary word -sifter, a poor poet of the school of the Carmelite Mantuan, fantastically vain of his empty knowledge. Both caricatures become still more distorted, when they are seen by the light of the con- trast , which the poet has placed beside them : to the stiff, Aveak, melancholy Armadf) is opposed the little ]Moth, who, light as his name, is all jest and playfulness, versatility and cunning; to the pedant Holofernes, there stands in opposition the child of nature C'ostard, whose common sense ridicules the scholar, who lives "on the alms-basket of words". The two characters, we see, are caricatures, taken from simple nature, exhibited in their effort to attract attention, in their ostentation, vanity, and empty thirst for fame, based upon an ap})earance of knoAvledge and a show of valoiu'. But these two originals and their gross desire for glory, have been associated by Shakespeare Avith a society of finer mould, which suffers from tlie same infirmity, only that from theii mind and culture, the poison lies deeper concealed in them. The court of Navarre had for three years devoted itself to study and retirement ; the young king , seized with an ascetic turn , in the spirit of the coiu'ts of love and the vow-loving chivalry of those regions, desires that his young courtiers should with him change the court and its revels into an academy of contemplation, should mortify their pas- sions and worldly desires , and renounce for the time inter- course with women. He is on the same track, erring from a vain desire for glory; he wishes to make Navarre a won- love's labouk's lost and all's well that ends well. 231 der of the world. The piece begins somewhat in Annado's style with the king's majestic words : ''Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives, Live registered upon our brazen tombs, And then grace us in the disgrace of death". In his company is Dumain, "'a well-accomplished youth, of all that virtue love, for virtue loved", endowed with the power, but not with the will to "do harm", stoical enough to choose "subsequently the disfigured Katharine among the French ladies ; this Dumain is placed near the king , as most ready and able to enter into his abstemious resolve. Hut Biron and the tall versatile Longaville , of kindred mind , and equal wit, seriously oppose the romantic plan. Hiron, who had ever been "love's whip", believes that on this point he is able to obey the proposed laws as well as any ; so much the more he feels himself justified in warning against playing with oaths that may be broken, as "young blood will not obey an old decree". An Epicurean, accustomed to good food and sleep, he turns indignantly from the desolate task of mortification; he calls all delight vain, "But that must vain, Which, Avith ])ain ])urcliased, doth inherit ])ain"; his more frivolous nature disdains most of all the dull vanity of study, which overshoots itself; he compares this thirst for fame expressly Avith the vain desires for honour exhibited by the scholar, and the word-monger. The king has chosen Armado to amuse them during their hermit-life by his minstrelsy ; and similar to the con- tempt with which the king regards his boasting vein, is the scorn with which liiron views the learned and ascetic vanity of the kingr; but he lias himself fulleu into a still liuhter 'I'.Vl sKcoM) I'KKioi) OF Shakespeare's dramatic toetry. vanity, for -which Rosaline's censure touches liim. Endowed ■\vitli a keen eye and an acute mind, of captivating and touching eloquence, he has habituated himself to see every object in a ridiculous light, and to consider nothing sacred. The ardent black-eyed Rosaline, who is in no wise insen- sible to such mental gifts, but holds her part victorious in the war of words, considers him at first within the limits of becoming wit ; she Avould not otherwise have loved him, l^ut at last she agrees with the verdict of the world , which condemns him as a man replete with woundmg and un- sparing satire. And she sees the origin of this evil habit entirely in the vanity which delights in "that loose grace, which shallow laughing hearers give to fools". She sees him abandoned to the same empty desire for unsubstantial applause, as he does those who are placed at his side. In passages, which are unessential to the course of the real action, the poet has still more plainly exhibited the object, Avhich he had in view, however evidently it had been developed in the combination of characters At the beginning of the 4th Act, the French princess in the course of a conversation with the forester makes this remark : "Glory grows guilty of detested crimes ; When for fame's sake, for praise, an outward part, "We bend to that the working of the heart". Thus is it with these men of ascetic vows , at least in the sight of the French princess. Rightly had Biron warned them, that ''Study evermore is overshot ; • While it doth study to have what it would, It doth forget to do the thing it should". They had forgotten at the very moment of their oath, that love's labour's lost and all's wkll that ends well. 233 their vows in respect to intercourse with women could not be kept , as the daughter of the sick king- of France had arrivetl on urgent business. Intercourse witli her is not to be avoided; she is lodged with her suite in the Park. These French ladies and their attendant Boyet are now placed in contrast with the romantic band of men ; they appear happy, graceful, practical, fully bent upon the serious object of their journey, Avhich is no less a one than to obtain from Navarre the province of Aqiutain. Besides in the cheerful- ness of a good conscience, in jest and Avit, they are superior to the lords of Navarre ; Biron at first looks down jealously and maliciously upon the accomplished courtier, tlie "old mocker" Boyet, and his Avit , as upon a "wit's pedler", but he finds subsequently , when his anger has cooled , that he "must needs be friends" with him. The truth of Biron's predictions is now proved by the ascetics. The Frencli la- dies delight in their folly, sure of obtaining their object tlie more easily, and the young lords to boot : the votaries of abstinence, Biron as much as Armado and Costard, all fall in love, and all, even Biron, the ridiculer of poetry, woo in heart-breaking sonnets, and when they mutually discover their weakness, use all their sophistry to set aside their oath as inadmissible "treason 'gahist tlu' kingly state of youth". But the French ladies take it not so lightly. When the nobles first appear in their Russian habits, the ladies mislead them in a spirit of piquant raillery, and each, deceived by their dis- guise, woos contrary to his intention; thus they now become perjured through ignorance, as before in perfect conscious- ness. The ladies cut them with their uuxkiug tongues as keenly as with "the razor's edge"; and when the king de- clares the breach of liis vow, and invites them to his court, TM sKioM) ri;iaoi) of siiakkspkakk's dramatic poktkv. the princess .slianies him by retusing to he "a hieiikiiii> -cause of heavenly oaths". Hut that the French hidies may not be (U'emed as over-severe moralists, whose verdict wouhl perhaps too widely differ from that of the poet himself, is a point carefidly j>uar(led by Shakespeare, since he gives us an insight into their tone of conversation among them- selves and with Boyet, a conversation which strikes even the peasant Costard by its sweet vulgarity and smooth obscenity. Possibly a thrust at French manners , an opportunity that no English poet at that time would readily miss, was in- tended by the scene, but certain it is also that the design of the poet was at the same time at work, that the meaning of his piece might as little as possible be left in the dark. But if in all that we have adduced, the poet's intention in Love's Labour's Lost, be not yet clearly evidenced, he has given the catastrophe, which concludes the merry co- medy, a striking turn, in order to make it most glaringly clear. The nobles order a play to be represented before the ladies by their musicians and attendants, and by this means, they revenge themselves on the director Holofernes for their own spoilt masquerade, by spoiling his pageant also, which was one of those simple popular plays such as Shakespeare ridicules in the Midsummer Night's-Dream, but ridicules in a kindly spirit, honouring the good will, one of those inno- cent sports, which best please, because "they least know hoAA-". But in the midst of extravagant jest and folly, a discord rings through the piece : the king of France is dead, and sorrf)w and parting interrupt the mirth. The embarrassed king attempts an miintelligible wooing, the embarrassed Biron endeavours to explain it, and becomes confused and perplexed himself; but the princess banishes the perjured love's labouk's lost and all's well that exds well. 235 guilt-burdened king for a year to a hermitage, if he wishes to have his request granted ; Rosaline sends the mocker Biron to a hospital, where for a twelvemonth he is to jest with the sick, and if possible to be cured of his fault. Love's labour is lost ; 'Mack hath not Jill", contrary to the custom of comedy; it is a comedy that ends in tears. Certainly this conclusion is in opposition to all a:'sthetic antecedence , ])ut the catastrophe is genuinely Shakespearian ; for moral rec- titude was ever the poet's aim rather tlian a strict adherence to the rules of art. We have made it ])erhaps almost too prominent , that Shakespeare in this piece attacks a vain desire of fame in all its forms ; but we cannot in Germany be too clear, if we Avould repudiate certain perversities of criticism, which have repeatedly placed Shakespeare in an entirely false light. To our Romanticists, tlie conclusion of the piece was too grave, too severe for their lax nunality; unequal to the poet's austerity, they perceived everywhere irony, where he wrote in the most sober earnestness. Biron, thus Tieck interprets the conclusion of the piece in reference to which men of simple understanding have nothing to explain, Biron, whilst he promises to "jest a twelvemonth in an hospital", casts a side-glance upon his companions : "These for a year would dispute Avith learning and wit, write verses on their love, carry on their jests, and even Armado is not wanting to them, even Costard will not Avithdraw, and the new acquaintance with Holofernes will not even be given up. This company is the Hospital! !'" I>uf we feel indeed, that a kind of moral stupidity is re(piisite to believe that after this agitating conclusion, sophistry, playfulness, and jesting can begin afresh, and comedy resume its place. 230 .SKCOXD rKKIOI) OV SIIAKKSI'KARE S DRAMATK POETRY. This Strange notion accords with the predilection, which our Konianticists feel for the humorous characters of the noet. Tlie Birons, the Benedicks, the Mercutios were above all other characters tlieir declared favourites. And indeed they are all of them, such as the poet designed them , cha- racters excellently designed by nature : straightforward and free from all sentimentality, despisers of and adversaries to love - trifling , sound realists, clever fellows with a witty tongue and a ready sword behind, at once wits and bullies. That Shakespeare personally partook of this kind of nature, may be proved ; that this nature Avas only one side of him, is of necessity confirmed by the Avhole fashion of his ver- satile mind. That he conceived not those characters witli the exclusive preference of our Romanticists, and would not idealize, is thus a natural consequence, and may be proved in the most indisputable manner to the unbiassed mind. Whoever reads the comic scenes, "the civil war of wits" be- tween Boyet and liis ladies , betAveen Biron and Rosaline, between Mercutio and Romeo, Benedick and Beatrice, and others, scenes, which in Love's Labour's Lost for the first time occur in more decided form and in far greater abundance than elsewhere , Avhoever attentively reads and compares them, will readily see that they rest upon a com- mon human basis and at the same time upon a conventional one as to time and place. They hinge especially on the play and perversion of words ; and this is the foundation for wit common in every age. Even in the present day we have but to analyze the Avit amongst jovial men , to find that it ahvays proceeds from punning and quibbling. That Avhicli in Shakespeare then is the conventional pecidiarity, is the determined form in which this Avord-wit appears. This form love's labour's lost and all's well that ends well. 237 was cultivated ain(»i)g- the English people according to an established custom, which invested jocose conversation with the character of a regular battle. They snatch a word, a sentence, from the mouth of the adversary whom they wish to provoke, and turn and pervert it into a weapon against him ; he parries the thrust and strikes back, espying a similar weakness in his enemy's ward; tlie longer the battle is sustained, the better; he who can do no more is vanquished. In this piece of Shakespeare's, Armado names this war of words an argument ; it is clearly designated as like a game at tennis, where the words are hurled, caught, and thrown back again, where he loses, who allows the word, like the ball, to fall ; this war of wit is compared to a battle, that between Boyet and Biron for example to a sea- fight. The manner in which wit and satire here thus wage M^ar , is by no means Shakespeare's property ; it is univer- sally found on the English stage, and is transferred to it directly from life. What we know of Shakespeare's social life, reveals to us this same kind of jesting in his personal intercourse. Tradition speaks of Shakespeare as "a hand- some, well-shaped man, very good company, and of a very ready and pleasant and smooth wit." At the Mermaid in Friday-street, he associated with Beaumont, Fletcher, Sel- den, Ben Jonson, and otlicr intellectual contemporaries, and there according to Beaumont in his address to lien Jonson, were "heard words that have been So nimble, and so full of subtle flame, As if that every one from whom they came, Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest". Especially famous were the meetings between Sliakc- speare and Ben .Jonson; according to Fuller, they were T,\^ SK( (>M) I'KKIOD OF SIIAKKSPKAKE'^ DKAMATIC I'OKTKY. iifcustoiueil to inet'l, ulikc a Spanish great j^alleoii , and an English man of war: Master Jonson , like the former, was buih far higlier in learning ; solid but slow in his perform- ances ; Shakespeare , like the English man of war , lesser in bulk, but lighter in sailing, could turn with all tides, tack about, and take advantage of all winds by the quick- ness of his wit and invention". So that thus these "wit- combats" in Shakespeare's life are compared to the same image as those between Boyet and liiron in Love's Labour's Lcjst. If beyond these intimations we look for more distinct proof of the diffusion among the people of this kind of "wit- combats", Ave must turn our eyes upon Tarlton's jests. There we shall find that the merry man would engage in a witty conflict sometimes with a roguish boy, sometimes with a house- keeper, sometimes with a constable, when, just as in a comedy, the task, the pride , and the victory is to drive the adversary to a non-plus, that is, to exhaust his wit and bring him to silence. From all this we see that these humorous combats and combatants Avere a custom of the age , Avhich Shakespeare could not avoid , but which he had as little cause to spare as any other custom which had grown into an abuse. We can easily understand how a practice so widely spread among men of versatile mind and manners, would become a fashion, anil in such case would have been as wearisome as any other habit to Shakespeare's active mind. We understand further, how with these pro- fessional wits, the habit c(ndd be easily carried so far as to make the cheerful humour degenerate into scorn, and to per- vert the "pleasant smooth Avit" into motiveless and insipid jeering, to lead to quarrels, to turn the Avit into a bully. Such natures has Shakespeare depicted in Biron and Mer- love's lahour's lost anj> all's well thatexds well. 239 cutioj and this with that perfect impartiality witJi which he does justice to every quality. An equal sense for jest and earnest, ever according to the demands of life and oppor- tunity, Avas tlie idea] of human intercourse to which Shake- speare would have rendered homaj^e. F(jr, however pene- trated he was Avith this idea, that moderate cheerfxil jest confirmed and promertram serves not, prejudices him systematically against these emotions ; he had once also regarded a daughter of Lafeu's only through the "scornful perspective" of contempt. Before the king, he alleges his ancestry and the difference of rank as the ground of his disdain. Here lies the moral centre of the piece and the main difference between the two characters. As the heroes in Love's Labour's Lost suffer from the conceit of seeming virtue , so does this one from the vanity of seeming merit. This difference of blood and rank has no importance for Helena; her strong nature is never master over custom, but is everywhere struggling against mere custom and conventionality. If she could only have seen how she could deserve Bertram ; that she ca?i deserve him, she doubts not. Her noble mind suggests that, "The mightiest spacs in fortune, nature brings To join like likes, and kiss like native things". love's labour's lost and all's well that ends well. 251 Full of this self-reliance, she gives free course to her love, and fears not the difficulties of the path. In this, the Countess, Bertram's mother, meets her. She has perfect congeniality of soul with Helena, she looks back upon similar experiences in her own youth, when she too "did wish chastely and love dearly", and, as Helena says, "Dian was both herself and love". With the interest of personal sympathy, she regards this strong passion, Avhich seems to her to bear "the show and seal of nature's truth" and she gives her maternal favour to the poor foster-child against the haughty son, whose name she washes out of her blood. Hut Avhat this affection signifies, we first feel when we have seen the thoroughly aristocratic bearing of the lady in that scene (Act III. sc. 2), in which she receives the intelligence that her son has rejected Helena. Amid all the disquietude whicli the wretched intelligence causes her, amid the grief of the parent, the sympathy of tlie foster-mother and of the woman, she yet preserves the dignity of the housewife and hostess, in the proud restraining of her emotion; she has "felt so many quirks of joy, and grief, that the first face of neither, on the start, can woman her unto't". Thus as the heroine of the piece in consequence of her position, the Countess in consequence of her experience and principles, the valiant old lord liafcu is also raised above the prejudice of distinction of rank, and places virtue and merit before nobility and blood; once indeed he himself raised a claim for liertram in behalf of liis daughter. Nay even the highest repi'esentative of all dignity of rank, the king himself, takes the same exalted view, and this may be traced with him to the threatening nearness of the grave, upon the brink of which he had stood. "Strange is it", he says, 252 SKCONT) TEHIOl) OF SHAKESPEARE's DRAMATIC POETRY. "that our bloods, Of colour, Avcif^ht, and heat, pour'd all together, Would quite confound distinction, yet stand off In differences so mighty : From lowest place when virtuous things proceed, The place is dignified by the doer's deed : Where great additions swell, and virtue none, It is a dropsicd honour : good alone Is good, without a name ; vileness is so. . Honours best thrive, AVhen rather from our acts we them derive, Than our foregoers". Thus then, all the characters of the piece are, on this point, opposed to Bertram: even the comic character, the clown Lavatch, is in the way of caricature presented imder the same aspect, since he is at first encumbered with a foolish passion which must end in beggary. That, therefore, appears untrue, which Uliici states, that some characters had no reference to the main idea of the piece. For even to this ruling princijile may be traced the character of Diana, who sets aside the sensitive pride of a poor family, of a womanly nature, for the only thing w^hich she possesses, her stainless honour, whilst for a virtuous object she engages in an ever painful project. The idea , that merit goes before rank , has , as w^e shall presently see, expressly occupied Shakespeare's mind in the period before us. It is the soid of this piece and of the relation between Bertram and Helena. If then haughtiness of spirit and youthftil pride in his liberty, added to arrogance of rank, were the grounds for Helena's rejection by Bertram, it Avould be asked, how the poet removed these inner hin- drances to the union, after circimistances have set aside the outer and have joined the pair in the outward form of marriage. The masterly manner, in which this is done. love's labour's lost and all's well that ends well. 253 rivals that, with which he has solved the other half of this moral knot. The nobility of a fine nature is innate in Bertram , his degeneracy into pride is only youthful error. His mother calls him "an unseasoned courtier", "a well-derived nature", corrupted by seducement. The good qualities of his nature even facilitate this temptation. His outward appearance, a youth with curled hair, arched broAvs, and hawking eye, who , as the clown depicts him , "will look upon his boot, and sing-; mend the ruff, and sing"; pick his teeth, and sing", proclaims a smart nature , which at the same time is much occupied with itself, and has little feeling left for others. No inner mental life has yet penetrated his years of churlishness. He is far from all the wit of a Biron, far from the culture of that king of Navarre, far from the sensibility of a Duniain ; entirely a man of Biron's honest kersey yeas and noes, but without Biron's refinement and wit ; laconic, as Shakespeare never again maintained any principal cha- racter ; in his letters just as characteristically short and com- pact. This rough, abrupt, uncourtly vein bursts forth into ebullitions of defiance, when he is excited. Full of youthful zeal, his whole soul is given to action and fame ; at the court of the king he is angry, because he is detained from the Florentine war; twice he cannot ask, he will steal away. Now follows Helena's choice, and crosses the one thought that filled his soul. He had in his youthful moods never yet dreamt of love ; at this moment he feels love for no one in the world ; that he is commanded to take this wife , this above all provokes his resentment. In this passion, we must observe, and not in cold sophistry, he not only pre- scribes to Helena those conditions , which stipulate , as it 254 SECOND PKUion of shakespeakk's dramatic poetry. were, for his freest clioicc after the compulsory mai-riage just couchulcd , but lie c\on })urposes to defy the kmg by letter. If auy thiug is wautiug to retaiu iu him this liardeued feeliug- of reseutment , the base flatterer Parolles is there, Avlio holds him eusnared, who wishes to keep him free and open to his oavu parasitical arts, Avho hates Helena and is a( tivo in placing her in a hateful aspect. The curse of the king who threatens to "throw" his refractory subject "into the careless lapse of youth and ignorance", is fullilled ; the con- nection of the unw ai-y Bertram with this same Parolles, this Armado in arms, exhibits liis entire destitution of counsel and advice. As a braggart, a liar, a fop, a wretched man, "who hath outvillained villainy so far, that the rarity redeems him", as a seducer of youth, a meagre FalstaiF, w^ho also entangles Bertram in Florence into tlie immoral intercourse with Diana, this braggart is known to all, except to Bertram ; "a w-indow of lattice", easily to be seen through, he is called by Lafeu, who warns Bertram plainly and decidedly of him, but in vain ; the clo^^^l calls him "a very little of nothing", but to Bertram he was everything ; Helena appears to him too low for a wife, but this man seems equal for a friend; the straightforw^ard open youth "could endure anything before but a cat", and just under the yoke of this parasite he lies ensnared, and his unsuspicious soul divines not what he is. At Florence he appears most glaringly in his cloven nature, good and bad, brave and glorious, but at the same time dissolute and corrupt, smik into the habits of a debauchee. At the turning point of the piece w^e see him in a whirlpool of activity, and seized with thorough confusion of mind and manner. In the act of leaving Florence, he despatches "six- teen businesses , by an abstract of success" ; in his familiar love's labour's lost and all's well that ends well. 255 fashion, he takes leave of the duke in the street; he pre- pares for the journey; he writes to his mother; he lias agreed upon a meeting with Diana ; he has given to her, a frivolous woman, (as he must deem her) the ring, the same ring, to obtain which he had imposed upon Helena an im- possible task , the family-ring upon which, as it were, the honour of his house rested. Overwhelmed with passion he has, in doing so, lost the right to urge his family and rank further against Helena. He noAv receives the tidings of He- lena's death. Wlien he reads the letter, he is "changed al- most into another man"; he begins to love her when he learns her death ; how shovdd that heart, which had broken for his sake, leave his unmoved ? He buries her not only in his thoughts, but deplores her. And to make his sudden change the more emphatic : he had sworn to Diana to marry her, when his wife was dead; it must torment him to think, how much more free his conscience would be, if the rejection of Helena had never brought him into this position Nevertheless he does not relinquish the meeting with Diana ; and even more, not only from sorrow does he plunge into the intoxication of his senses, but from this he passes to the ludicrous scene , which is to unmask to him his friend Parolles. In a state of inward confusion, he thus seeks to drown the voice of conscience; for the discovery concern- ing Parolles must have opened to him before everytliing his own helpless immaturity, and have made him look repent- antly within. This humiliation of soul is to follow his out- ward abasement stroke by stroke ; he is to learn thoroughly to mortify his arrogance and to suspect his pride. The death of Helena, the peace at Florence, the duke's letter to the king, explain his return to court. There he is convicted of 25G .sK((»M) PKKUH) OK siiaki:s]>i:akk's dramatic I'oh rijv. having- given his ring- to a worthless woman, liis guilt is exposed, and he is scorned by Lafeu , whose daughter he should have nuirried ; he incurs the disregard of all, and is even suspected of having murdered Helena, llis riddles, his ring, the torments which he had created by it, recoil avengingly upon himself. Thus humbled and depressed, he is freed not only from a burdensome marriage, but ^hat is still more, from a fearful burden of conscience ; must he not regard the woman, who brought him this sacrifice, as the beneficent guardian spirit who should best counsel him through life ? He stands before her, the proud man of rank, whose noble birth has gained him no virtue, who had wan- tonly hazarded at once nobility and virtue, he stands before her who was ennobled by vii-tue, and had saved him the symbol of his nobility. Like a man out of the class of aspir- ing innovators, of whom Bacon say^s, that in comparison to their activity "nobles appear like statues", she, w^ooing by actions, has conquered the man of her love ; yet is she sted- fast, even after conditions executed and rights w-on, in her womanly nature, in her old humble ways, in her calm resignation. This wholly softens in him all that in his inflexible nature Avas yet mimelted. When still in fear and suspense she utters the painful words , " 'Tis but the name and not the thing", — not his wife, — he, in his laconic w^ay, compresses all rei)entance, all contrition, all gratitvule and love, into the words: "Both, both; O pardon!" and it requires only the actor who knows how to prepare for these words, to utter and to accompany them with suitable action, to leave the spectator no room for anxiety as to the future of the pair. In few pieces do we feel so much as in All's Well that love's labour's lost and all's well that ends well. 257 Ends Well, what excessive scope the poet leaves open to the actor's art. Few readers, and still fewer female readers, Avill believe in Helena's womanly nature , even after they have read our explanations and have found them indisput- able. The subject has at once repelled them; and so far would we gladly make allowance for this feeling, that we grant, that Shakespeare might better have bestowed his psychological art upon more agreeable matter, and that he has often done so. But even be who, by the aid of our remarks, will have overcome his repugnance to the matter, will seldom find in liimself the standard by whicli to judge it possible that such bold and masculine steps CQuld be taken in a thoroughly feminine manner. Only by seeing it and by trusting the eye, can we be sensible of the full and harmo- nious effect of this work of art. Ihit that even the eye may be convinced, a great actress is required. Bertram also de- mands a great performer, if the spectator is to perceive that this is a man capable of rewarding efforts so great on the part of a woman, whose painful wooing promises a grateful posses- sion. That this unsentimental youth has a lieart, this cor- rupted libertine a good heart, that this scorner can ever love the scorned, this is indeed rcarZ in his scanty words, but few readers of the present day are free enough from sentimentality to believe such things on the credit of so fcAV words. Entirely otlicrwise would it be, when they see in the acted Bertram , the noble nature , the ruin of his cha- racter at Florence, the contrition which his sins and his simplicity call forth , when , from the whole bearing of the brusque man, they perceive what the one word "pardon" signified in his mouth, when tliey see his breast heave at the last appearance of Helena bringing ciise to his con- I. 17 258 SECOND rERi()]> OF Shakespeare's dramatic poetry. science ; then would they ^ive credence to his last words ; ftir the great change in his nature, of which they now only read a forlorn word and overlook it, they would then have Avitnessed. Seldom has the art of the actor had a task so absolute, as in the character of Bertram, but still more sel- dom is tlie actor to be found, who knows how to execute it. For Richard Bm-badge this part must have been a dainty feast. About the time when it received this last form (1605 — 8), Shakespeare had prepared for him also Pericles and Petruchio, as equally attractive tasks. Arrived at the height of their productions , both appear at that time to de- light in craving and affording these faint sketches of cha- racter, as if for the sake of practising their mutual work, of drawing outlines and finishing them, or sup])lying riddles and solving them. MIDSUMMER -NICtHT'S DREAM. If All's Well that Ends Well be read immediately be- tween Love's Labour's Lost and Midsummer-Night's Dream, we feel how in the one the matured hand of the poet was at work, while between the two other pieces there exists a closer connection. The mere performance of the comic plays by the clowns affords a resemblance between the two pieces, but still more so the mode of diction. Apart from the fairy songs, in which Shakespeare, in a masterly manner, preserves the popular tone of the style which existed before him, the piece bears prominently the stamp of the Italian school. The language, picturesque, descriptive, and florid -with con- ceits , the too apparent alliterations , the doggrel passages which extend over the passionate and impressive scenes, the old mythology well suited to the subject, all this places the piece in a close, or at least not remste, relation to Love's Labour's I^ost. As in this play, the story, the original combination of the figures of ancient , religious, and histo- rical legends with beings of the popular Saxon myths , is the property and invention of tlie poet. As in Ijove's Labour's Lost, utterly unlike what we have just seen of characteristic touches in All's Well that Ends AVell, the 260 SECOND ri'-Kioii OP' smakkspkare's dramatic poetry. ii(tiiii>- thavucters are separated from each other only by a very «;encral outline ; there is a stronger distinction between tlie little, pert Hermia, shrewish and irritable even at .scliool, and the slender, yielding Helena, distrustful and reproachful of herself; and a fainter one between the up- riglit, open Lysander and the somewhat malicious and inconstant Demetrius. The period of the origin of the piece, which like Henry VIII. and the Tempest may have been written in honour of the nuptials of some noble couple , is placed at about 1594 or 1596. The marriage of Theseus is the turning point of the action of the piece, which unites the clowns, the fairies, and the common race of men. The piece is a masque, one of those dramas for special occasions, appointed for private representation, Avhich Ben Jonson especially brought to perfection. In England, this species of drama has as little a laAv of its own as the historical drama; compared to the ordinary drama, it exhibits, ac- cording to Halpin, an insensible transition, imdistinguish- able by definition. As in the historical drama, almost every mark of distinction from the fi'ee drama arises from the nature and the mass of the matter, in the masque, it proceeds from the occasion of its origin, from its prescribed reference to it, and from the allegorical elements Avhich are here introduced. These latter, it must be admitted, have given quite a peculiar stamp to the Midsummer - Night's Dream among the rest of Shakespeare's works. Upon the most superficial reading, we perceive that the actions in the Midsummer-Night's Dream , still more than the characters themselves , are treated quite differently to those in other plays of Shakespeare. The great art of an underlying motive, his true magic wand, the poet has here MIDSUMMER -night's DREAM. 261 quite laid aside. Instead of reasonable inducements, instead of natural impulses flowing from character and circum- stance, caprice is master here. We meet with a double pair, who are entangled in strange mistakes, the motives to which we, however, seek for in vain in the nature of the actors themselves. Demetrius, like Proteus in the Two Gentleman of Verona, has left a bride and woos , like Pro- teus, the bride of his friend. This Lysander has fled with Hermia to seek a spot, Avhere the law of Athens cannot pursue them. Secretly, the piece tells us, they both steal away into the wood, Demetrius in fury follows them, and for love Helena fastens herself like a burr upon the heels of the latter. In common lack of conscience , Hermia sins at first through want of due obedience to her father , and Demetrius through faithlessness to his betrothed Helena, Helena through treachery to her friend Hermia, and Ly- sander through mockery of his father-in-law. The strife in the first act, in which we cannot trace any clear moral mo- tives, is in the third act changed into a perfect confusion by influences of an entirely external character. In the fairy world a similar disorder reigns between Oberon and Titania. The play of the respectable citizens of Pyramus and Thisbe forms to the tragic-comic point of the plot a comic-tragic counterpart, of two lovers, who behind their parents' backs "think no scorn to avoo by moonlight", and through a mere accident come to a tragic end. It is, Ave see, a play of amorous caprices, Avhich im])el the human beings in the main plot of the piece ; Deme- trius is betrothed, then Helena pleases him no longer, he trifles with Hermia, and at tlie close he remembers this breach of faith only as youthful playfulness. Outward 262 sKroxi) rKKion of shakkspkark's dramatic poetry. powers and not inward impulses and nature appear to have put this humour in motion. At first it is the warm season, the first night in May, the ghost-hour of the mystic powers, which lieats the brain, for ieven elsewhere Shakespeare occasionally calls a piece of folly, the madness of a midsum- mer-day, a dog -day's fever, and in the 9Sth sonnet he speaks of April as the time which puts "tlie spirit of youth in everything", making even the "heavy Saturn laugh and leap with him". Then it is the power of Cupid who appears in the back-gronnd of the piece as a real character, who mis- leads the judgment and blinds the eyes , delighting in fri- volous broach of faith. And last of all we see the lovers com- pletely in the hand of the fairies, who ensnare their senses, and bring them into that tumult of confusion , the unravel- ling of which, like the entanglement itself, is to come from without. These delusions of blind passion, this jugglery of the senses during the sleep of reason , these changes of mind and errors of "seetliing brains", these actions without the higher centre of a mental and moral bearing , these are comj^ared, as it were, to a dream, which unrolls before us Avith its fearful complications, from which there is no deliverance but in awaking and in the recovery of con- sciousness. The piece is called a Midsummer-Night's Dream; the Epilogue expresses satisfacti(m, if the spectator will regard the piece as a dream; as in a dream, time and locality are obliterated ; a certain twilight and dusk is spread over the whole ; Oberon desires that all shall regard the matter as a dream, and so it is. Titania speaks of her adventiu-e as a vision. Bottom of his metamorphosis as a dream, all the rest awake at last out of a sleep of Aveariness, and the events leave MIDSUMMER -NIGHTS DREAM. 263 upon them the impression of a dream. The sober Theseus esteems their stories as nothing else than dreams and fan- tasies. Indeed these alkisions in the piece must have sug- gested to Coleridge and others the idea that the poet had intentionally aimed at letting the piece glide by as a dream. We only wonder that with this opinion, they have not reached the inner kernel in which this purpose of the poet really lies enshrined, a piu'pose, which has not only given a name to the piece, but has called forth as by magic a free poetic creation of the greatest value. For it is indeed to be expected from our poet, that such an intention on his side were not to be sought for in the mere shell. If this intention were only realized in those poetical externals, in that fragrant charm of rhythm and verse, that harassing suspense , that dusky twi- light, then this were but the shallow work of an outward dexterity with which a poet like Shakespeare would have never dreamt of accomplishing anything worth the while. Let us revert to our first examination of the piece and its contents, and taking a higher, more commanding view , let us seek actually to reach that aim, which Coleridge in truth only divined. We mentioned then, that the play of amorous humour proceeded from no inner impulse of the soul, but from outer powers , from the influence of gods and fairies, among whom Cupid, the demon of the old mythology, only appears behind the scenes , while , on the other hand , the spirits of later superstition , the fairies , occupy the main place upon the stage. If we look at the functions which the poet has committed to both, to the god of love and to the fairies, we find to our surprise, that they are perfectly simi- lar. The workings of eacli u])oii llic ])assions of men are the same. The infidelity of Th(!seus towards his many for- 264 sEfoM) I'l-.inon oi sii xkksveark's dkamatic poetry. Silken ones, Ariadne, JEigle, Antiopa, and Porigcnia, Avhich ^\e, according- to the ancient myth, Avonkl ascribe to Cupid, to the intoxication of sensuous love, are imputed in the Midsummer-Night's Dream to the elfin king. Even before the fairies appear in the piece, Demetrius is prompted by the infatuation of blind Love, and Puck expressly says that not he but Cupid originated this madness of mortals ; as may be inferred also with Titania and the boy. The fairies then pursue these errors still further, in the same manner as Cupid had begun them ; they increase and heal them ; one means , the juice of a flower, Dian's bud, is to cure the perplexities of love in both Lysander and Titania; the juice of another flower (Cupid's) had caused them. This latter flower had received the wondrous power from a wound by Cupid's shaft. The power conveyed by the shaft, was perceived by the elfin-king, who kncAv liow to use it; Oberon is closely initiated into the deepest secrets of the Love -God, but not so his servant Puck. The famous passage, in Avliich Oberon orders Puck to fetch him this herb with its ensnaring charm, is as follows : "My gentle Puck, come hither : Thou remember'st Since once I sat upon a promontorj^ And heard a mermaid, on a dolphin's back, Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath, That the rude sea grew civil at her song; And certain stars shot madly from their spheres, To hear the sea-maid's musick. That very time I saw {btit thou coHliVst not) Flying between the cold moon and the earth, Cupid all arm'd: a certain aim he took At a fair vestal, throned by the west ; And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow, As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts : But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft MIDSUMMER -night's DREAM. 265 Quenched in the chaste beams of the wat'ry moon ; And the imperial vot'ress passed on, In maiden meditation, fancy-free. Yet marked I where the bolt of Cupid fell : It fell upon a little western flower, — Before milk-white ; now purple with Love's wound, — And maidens call it love-in-idleness. Fetch me that flower". This passage has recently in the writings of the Shake- speare-society received an interpretation full of spirit by Halpin (Oberon's vision), which evidences to us that in this poet scarcely too much can be sought for, that even in the highest flight of his imagination, he never leaves the ground of reality, and that in every touch, however episodical it may appear, he ever inserts the profoundest allusions to his main subject. We know well, that in the eyes of the dry critic, this explanation, Avhich has, however, one firm support of fact, has found little favour ; to us this is not very conceivable : since every new and old investigation has long ago proved, how readily this realistic poet sought, in the smallest allu- sions as well as in the greatest designs, lively relations to the times and places round liim, how in his freest tragic creations he loved to refer tf) historical circumstances, aye, founded even the most foolish speeches and actions of his clowns , of his grave - diggers in Hamlet , or his patrols in Much Ado about Nothing, upon actual circumstances, and just by this gave them tluit value of indisputable trufli to nature , which distinguishes them so palpably beyond all other caricatures. How should he not nalurally have been impelled , to give to just such a sweet allegory as this , the firmest possible basis of fact!" To us, therefore, Halpin's interpretation of this passage is all I lie uiorc uiii|uestionable, as it ffives the most definite relation to the innermost sense 266 SECOXD TERTOD OF SH AKESPEARe's DRAMATlf POETRY. of the A\ liolc piece. We must, therefore, before we proceed further, first consider more narrowly this episodical narrative, and its hearing- upon the fiuidamental idea of the Midsum- mer-Night's Dream. It has always been agreed that by the Vestal, throned by tlie west, from whom Cupid's shaft glided off. Queen Elizabeth Avas intended, and the whole passage was in con- sequence esteemed as a delicate flattery of the maiden queen. But we see at once by this instance, that Shakespeare, ex- traordinary in this respect as in every other, knew how to make his courtly flatteries, of which he was on all occasions most sparing, subservient, by deeper poetic or moral bearings, to the aesthetic or moral aims of his poetry. It was thus with this passage, wliicli has noAv received a much extended interpretation. Cupid "all armed" is referred to the Earl of Leicester's wooing of Elizabeth and to his great prepara- tions at Kenilworth for this end (1575). From descriptions of these festivities, (Gascoyne's Princely Pleasures. 1576, and Laneham's Letter, 1575) we know, that at the spectacles and fireworks which enlivened those rejoicings, a singing mermaid played a part, who sAvam upon a dolphin's back upon a smooth water, amid sliooting stars ; thus then the charac- teristics agree with those, which Oberon specifies to Puck. The arrow, aimed at the priestess of Diana, whose bud pos- sesses the power of quenching love, and which has such force over Cupid's flower, rebounded. By the flower, upon wliicli it fell wounding, the Comitess Lettice of Essex is understood by Halpin, with Avhom Leicester carried on a clandestine intercourse, while her husband was absent in Ireland, who, apprized of the matter, returned in 1576, and Avas poisoned on the journey. The floAver Avas milk-white. MIDSUMMER -night's DREAM. 267 innocent, but purple with love's Avound, which denoted her fall, or the deeper blush of her husband's murder. The name is "love in idleness", which Halpin refers to the listlessness of her heart during the absence of her husband ; for on other occasions also, Shakespeare uses this popular denomination of the pansy, to denote a love which surprises and affects men in indolence, unarmed, and devoid of all other feeling and aspiration. While Oberon declares to Puck that he marked the adventure, which the servant could not, the poet appears to denote the strict mystery Avhich concealed this affair, and which might bo known to him , because , as we remember, the execution of his maternal relative Edward Arden (1583) was closely connected with it, and because the famous Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex , the favourite of Elizabeth and subsequently the victim of her displeasure, a son of that Lettice, was early a patron and protector of Shakespeare. How significant then does this little allegorical episode become, which, regarded only as a poetic ornament, is full of grace and beauty ! Whilst Spenser at that very time had extolled Elizabeth as the "fairy queen", Shakespeare, on the contrary, places her as a being , unapproachable rather by this world of fancy. His courtesy to the queen is trans- formed into a very serious meaning : for contrasting with this insanity of love , emphasis is placed upon the other ex- treme, the victory of Diana over Cupid , of the mind over the body, of maiden contemplativeness over the jugglery of love ; and even in other passages of the piece , those are extolled as "thrice blessed, that master so their blood, to vmdergo such maiden pilgrimage". T^ut with regard to the bearing of the passage upon the actual purport of the Mid- 268 SECOND VEKIOP OK SH AKKSPEARe's J)RAMATIC POETRY. summer-Night's Dioam , the poet carries back the mind to a circumstance in real life, wliicli, like an integral part, lies in close ])arallel with the story of the piece. More criminal, more dissolute acts prompted by the blind passion of love, were at that time committed in reality, than were ever represented in the drama. The ensnaring charm, embodied in a flower, has an effect upon the entanglements of the lov- ers in the play. And what this representation might lack in probability and psychological completeness, (for the sweet allegory of the poet was not to be overburdened with too much of the prose of characterization) the spectator with poetic faith may explain by the magic sap of the flower, or with pragmatic soberness may interpret by analogy with the actual circumstance which the poet has converted into this exquisite allegory. Jiut it is time that we should return from this digression. We have said before, that the piece appears designed to be treated as a dream ; not merely iii outer form and colour, but also ill inner signification. The errors of that blind intoxication of the senses, which form the main point of the piece, appear to us to be an allegorical picture of the errors of a life of dreams. Reason and consciousness are cast aside in that intoxicating passion as in a dream; Cupid's delight in breach of faith, Jove's merriment at the perjiny of the lovers, causes the actions of those, who are in the power of the god of love, to appear almost as unaccountable as the sins which we commit in a dream. We have fiuther discovered that the actions and occupations of Cupid and of the fairies throughout the piece are interwoven or alternate. And this appears to us to confirm most forcibly the design of the poet to compare allegorically the sensuous life of love with a MIDSUMMER -night's DREAM. 269 dream-life ; the exchange of functions between Cupid and the fairies is therefore the true poetic embodiment of this comparison. For to Shakespeare's fairies is the reabn of dreams assigned ; they are essentially nothing else than personified dream-gods, children of the fancy, which not alone, as Mercutio says, is the vain producer of dreams, but also of the caprices of superficial love. Vaguely as in a dream, this significance of the fairies rests in the ancient popular belief itself of the Germanic races, and Shakespeare has for a moment, with the instinctive touch of genius, fashioned this idea into exquisite form. In German "Alp'' and "Elfe" is the same word; by "Alp", the people in Germany every^vhere imderstand a dream -goblin (night- mare). The name of the fairy king Oberon is only frenchified from Alberon or Alberich , a dwarfish elf, who early appears in old German poems. The character of Puck, or as he is properly called Robin Goodfellow, is literally no other, than our own "guier Knecht Rtiprechf; and it is curious , that from this name in German the word "Riipel" is derived, the only one by which we can give the idea of the English cloivn, the very part which, in Shakespeare, Puck plays in the kingdom of the fairies. This belief in fairies was far more diffused through Scandinavia than through England, and again in Scotland and England far more actively developed, than in Germany. Robin Goodfellow espe- cially, mentioned in England as early as the 13th century, was a favourite among the popular traditions, to whose name all the c;unning tricks were imputed, which we relate of Eulenspiegel and other nations of others. His "Mad Pranks and Merry Jests" were printed in 1G28 in a popular book, which Thoms has recently prepared for his little blue 270 SECOND PERIOD OF SH AKESPEARe's DRAMATIC POETRY library ; Collier places the origin of tlie hook at least forty years earlier, so that Shakespeare might have been acquainted ■with it. irnquestionably this is the main source of his fairy kingdom ; the lyric parts of the ^Midsummer-Night's Dream are in tone and colom* a perfect imitation of the songs con- tained in it. In this popular book, Robin appears, although only in a passing manner, as the sender of the dreams; Oberon, who is here his father, and the fairies , speak to him by dreams before he is received into their community. But that which Shakespeare thus received in the rough form of fragmentary popular belief, he developed in his playful creation into a beautiful and regulated world. He here in a measure deserves the merit which Herodotus ascribes to Ho- mer; as the greek poet has created the great abode of the gods and its Olympic inhabitants, so Shakespeare has given fonn and place to the fairy kingdom, and Avith the natural crea- tive power of genius , he has breathed soul into his merry little citizens , which imparts a Hving centre to their nature and their office, their behaviour and their domgs. He has given embodied form to the invisible and life to the dead, and has thus striven for the poet's greatest glory; and it seems that not without consciousness of this his work, he wrote in the high strain of self-reliance that passage, in this very piece : — ''The poet's ej'e, in a fine frenzy rolling, Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven; And as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen Tunis them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name. Such tricks hath strong imagination ; That, if it -would but apprehend some joy. It comprehends some bringer of that joy". MIDSUMMER -night's DREAM. 271 This he has here effected ; lie has clothed in bodily form those intangible phantoms, the bringers of dreams of provok- ing- jugglery, of sweet soothing, and of tormenting raillery ; and the task he has thus accomplished we shall only rightly estimate, when we have taken into account the severe design and inner congruity of this little world. If it were Shakespeare's object, expressly to remove from the fairies that dark ghost-like character (Act III. sc. 2.), in which they appeared in Scandinavian and Scottish fable, if it were his desire to pourtray them as kindly beings in a merry, harmless relation to mortals, if he wished, in their essential office as bringers of dreams , to fashion the min their nature as personified dreams, he carried out this object in wonderful harmony both as regards their actions and their condition. The kingdom of the fairy beings is placed in the aromatic flower -scented Indies, in the land where mortals live in a half- dreamy state. From hence they come, "following darkness", as Puck says, "like a dream". Airy and swift, like the moon, they circle the earth, they avoid the sunlight Avithout fearing it and seek the darkness, they love the moon and dance in her beams, and above all they delight in the dusk and twilight, the very season for dreams, whether waking or asleep. They send and bring dreams to mortals; and we need only remember the description of the fairies' midwife. Queen Mab, in Ilomeo and .Juliet, a piece nearly of the same date with the Midsummer - Night's Uream, to dis- cover, that this is the charge essentially assigned to them, and the very means by which they influence mortals. Full of deep thought is it then, how Shakespeare has fashioned their inner character in harmony with this outer function. He depicts them as beings without delicate feeling and 272 SKCOM) I'KKIOn OV SHAKKSPKAKk's nRAAIATir POETRY. ^vitll(»u( morality, just as in droams avo meet not witli tlie clu'ck of tender 'sensations and are without moral impulse and responsibility. Careless and uns(rui)ulous, they tempt mortals to infidelity ; the effects of the mistakes, which they have contrived , make no impression on their minds ; they feel no sympathy for the deej) affliction of the lovers, but onlv delight and marvel over tlieir mistakes and their foolish demeanour. The poet further depicts his fairies as beings of no high intellectual development. Whoever attentively reads tlieir parts , will find that nowhere is reflection im- parted to them. Only in one exception does Puck make a sententious remark upon the infidelity of man, and whoever has penetrated into the nature of these beings, will imme- diatelv feel that it is out of hannony. Directly, they can make no inward impression upon mortals ; their influence over the mind is not spiritual, but throughout material, effected by means of vision , metamorphosis, and imitation. Titania has no spiritual association with her friend, but mere delight in her beauty, her "swimming gait", and her powers of imitation. When she awakes from her vision, there is no reflection : "IMethought I Avas enamoured of an ass", she says ; "O how mine eyes do hate this visage now !" she is only affected by the idea of the actual and the visible. There is no scene of reconciliation with her husband; her resent- ment consists in separation , her reconciliation in a dance ; there is no trace of a reflection , no indication of feeling. Thus to remind Puck of a past event, no abstract date suf- ficed , but an accompanying indication, perceptible to the senses, was required. They are represented, these little gods, as natural souls, without the higher human capacities of mind, lords of a kingdom not of reason and morality. MIDSUMMER -night's DREAM. 273 but of imagination and ideas conveyed by the senses; and thus they are uniformly the vehicle of the fancy, which pro- duces the delusions of love and dreams. Their Avill, therefore, only extends to the corporeal. They lead a luxurious, merry life, given up to the pleasure of the senses ; the secrets of nature , the powers of flowers and herbs are confided to them. To sleep in flowers, lulled with dances and songs, Avith the wings of painted butterflies to fan the moonbeams from their eyes, this is their jjleasure ; the gorgeous apparel of flowers and dewdrops are their joy ; when Titania Avishes to allure her beloved, she offers him honey, apricocks, purple grapes, and dancing. This life of sense and nature, they season, by the power of fancy, with delight in, and desires after all that is most choice, most beautiful , and agreeable. They harmonize with nightingales and butterflies; they Avage Avar Avith all ugly creatures, Avith hedge -hogs, spiders, and bats; dancing, play, and song are their greatest plea- sures ; they steal lovely children, and substitute changelings ; they torment decrepit old age, toothless gossips, aunts, and the aAvlvAvard company of the players of Pyramus andThisbe, but they love and recompense all that is clean and pretty. Thus Avas it of old in the 2)opular traditions ; the characteris- tic trait that they favour honesty among mortals and per- secute crime, Shakespeare certainly borroAved from them in the Men-y Wives of Windsor , but not in this piece. The sense of the beautiful is the one thing Avhich elevates the fairies not only above the beasts , but also above the Ioav mortal, Avhen he is devoid of all fancy and munfluenced by beauty. Thus in the spirit of the fairies , in Avhich this sense of the beautiful is so refined, it is intensely ludicrous, that the elegant Titania should fall in love Avith an ass's head I. 18 274 si'.coM) n;Ki(in ok sii akkspkare's dramatic toktry. 'I'll!' (iiilv [tain wlucli agitulos these beings, is jealousy, tlie desire of possessing- tlie beautiful sooner than others ; they slum tlie distorting- quarrel ; their steadfast aim and longing- is for inulisturbed enjoyment, But in this sweet jugglery they neither appear constant to mortals , nor do they carry on intercourse among themselves in monotonous harmony. They are fidl also of Avauton tricks and railleries, playing upon themselves and upon mortals, pranks which never hurt but Avhich often torment. This is especially the property of Puck, who "jests to Oberon", who is the "lob" at this court, a coarser goblin , represented mth broom or threshing flail, in a leathern dress and with a dark counten- ance, a roguish but awkward fellow, skilful at all transfor- mations, practised iu wilfiil tricks , but also climisy enough to make mistakes and blunders contrary to his intention. We mortals are unable to form anything out of the richest treasui'e of the imagination, which we have not learned from actual human circumstances and qualities. So even in this case, it is not difficult to discover in society the types of human nature which Shakespeare deemed especially suitable as the original of his fairies. There are, particularly among women of the middle and upper ranks, such natures, which are not accessible to higher spiritual necessities, who take their way through life with no serious and profound reference to the principles of morality or to intellectual ob- jects, but who have a decided inclination and qualification for all that is beautiful, agreeable, and graceful, without even in tliis province being able to reach the higher at- tainments of art. They grasp this tangible world, as occasion ofiers , with ingenious designs ; they are ready , dexterous, disposed for tricks and raillery, ever skilful at acting parts. MIDSUMMER -night's DREAM. 275 at assuming appeai-ances , at disguises and deceptions , be- cause tliey seek to season life only with festivities^ pleasures, sport, and jest. These light, agreeable, rallying and sylph- like natures , which live from day to day , and have no spiritual consciousness of a common object in life, whose existence may be a playful dream full of single charms, full of grace and embellishment, but never a life of higher aim, these has Shakespeare chosen with singular tact as the originals, from whose fixed characteristics he gave form and life to his airy fairies. We can now readily perceive, Avhy, in this work, the " rude mechanicals" and clowns, the company of actors with their burlesque piece, are placed in such rough contrast to the tender and delicate play of the fiiirics. The contrast of the material and the clumsy to the aerial, of the aAvkward to the beautiful, of the utterly unimaginative to that which, itself fancy, is entirely woven out of fancy, this contrast gives prominence to both. The play acted by the clowns is, as it Avere, the reverse of the poet's own work, which de- mands all the spectator's reflective and imitative fancy to open to him this aerial world, whilst in the other nothiug at all is left to the imagination of the spectator. The homely mechanics, who compose and act merely for gain , for the sake of so many pence a-day, the ignorant players with hard hands and thick heads, whose unskilful art consists in learning their parts by heart, these men believe themselves obliged to represent Moon and Moonshine bywords, that all may be evident, they exhibit the side-scenes by persons, and that whicii should take place behind the scenes, they explain by digressions. These rude doings, the fairy chiefs disturb with their utmost raillery, and the fantastical IS* 276 SEtOM) I'KKU)]) OF SH AKKSPEARE's dramatic rOHTRY. company of lovers luock at the perforinunce. Theseus, however, is placed between these contrasts in quiet and thoughtfid contemplation, lie draws back incredulous from the too-strange fables of love and its witchcraft; he enjoins that imagination should amend the play of the clowns, de- void, as it is, of all fancy. The real, that in this work of art has become "nothing", and the ideal nothing, which in the poet's hand has assumed this graceful form , are contrasted in the two extremes; in the centre is the intellectual man, who participates in both, Avho regards the one, the stories of the lovers, the poets by nature, as art and poetry, and who receives the other, presented as art, only as a thanksworthy readiness to serve and as a simple offering. It is the combination of these skilfully obtained contrasts into a whole, which we especially admire in this Avork ; the age subsequent to Shakespeare could not tolerate it, and divided it in twain. Thus sundered, this aesthetic fairy poetry and the burlesque caricature of the poet have made their own way. Yet in 1631, the jNIidsummer-Night's Dream appears to have been represented in its perfect form ; we know^ that in this year it was acted at the Bishop of Lincoln's house on a Sunday, and that on this account a puritan tribunal sentenced Bottom to sit for 12 hours in the porter's room belonging to the bishop's palace, w^earing his ass's head. But even still in the 17th century, "the merry con- ceited humours of Bottom the weaver" were acted as a separate burlesque. The work Avas attributed to the actor Robert Cox, who in the times of the civil wars, when the theatres were suppressed, Avandered over the country, and under cover of rope-dancing, provided the people thus de- pressed by religious hypocrisy, Avith the enjoyment of small MIDSUMMER -night's DREAM. 277 exhibitions, which he himself composed under the significant name of "drolls", in which the stage returned, as it were, to the merry interludes of old. In the form, in which Cox at this time produced the farce of Bottom, it was subsequently transplanted to Germany by our own Andreas Gryphius, the schoolmaster and pedant Squenz being the chief cha- racter. How expressive these burlesque parts of the piece must have been to the public in Shakespeare's time, who were acquamted with original drolleries of this kind, tve now can scarcely imagine. Nor do we any longer understand how to perform them ; the public at that time, on the contrary, had the types of the caricatured pageants in this play and in Love's Labour's Lost, still existing among them. On the other hand, Shakespeare's fairy world became the source of a complete fairy literature. The kingdom of the fairies had indeed appeared, in the chivalric epics, many centuries before Shakespeare. The oldest welsh tales and romances relate of the contact of mortals with this invisible world. The English of Shakespeare's time could read a romance of this style, of Launfall, in a translation from the French. The romance of "Huon of Piordeaiix" had been earlier (in 1570) translated by Lord Berners into English. From it or from the popular book of Robin Goodfellow, Shakespeare coidd have borrowed the name of Oberon. From the reading of Ovid he has probal)]y given to the fairy queen tlie name of Titania, while among his contem- poraries and even by Shakespeare, in the Midsummer-Night's Dream, she is called "Queen Mab". In those old chivalric romances, in Chaucer, in Spenser's allegorical Fairy Queen, th(^ fairies are utterly ' different beings, without distinct character or office; they concur with tlie wlvolo world of 27S SECOND rKKion of siiakespeare's dramatic poetry. chivalry in the same monotonous description and want of diaracter. But for Shakespeare, the Saxon faiiy legends afforded a hold for renouncing the romantic art of the pas- toral poets and for passing over to the mde popular taste of his fellow-coimtrymen. He could learn melodious language, descriptive art, the brilliancy of romantic pictures, and the sweetness of visionary images, from Spenser's Fairy Queen ; but he rejected his proud, assuming, romantic devices from this fairy world, and grasped at the little pranks of Robin Goodfellow, where the simple faith of the people rested in pure and unassuming form. Just the same in Germany at the restoration of popular life at the time of the Refoiination, the chivalric and romantic notions of the world of spirits were cast aside, they went back to popular belief, and we read nothing which reminds us so much of Shakespeare's fairy world, as the theory of elementary spirits by our own Paracelsus. From this time , when Shakespeare adopted the mysterious ideas of this mythology and the homely ex- pression of them in prose and verse, we might say, that the popular Saxon taste became ever more predominant in him. In Romeo and .JuHet and in the Merchant of Venice, there is an evident leaning towards both sides, and necessarily so, as the poet is here still occupied upon subjects com- pletely Italian. But the Avorking at the same time upon histori- cal pieces, settled the poet, as it were, fully in his native soil, and- the delineation of the h)wer orders of the people in Henry IV. and V. shews that he felt at home there. From the origin of these pieces, the conceit-style, the love of rhyme, the insertion of sonnets, and similar forms of the artificial lyric, cease with him, and the characteristic delight in the simple popular songs, which begins even here in the fairy choi-uses. MIDSUMMER- night's DREAM. 279 takes the place of the discarded taste. The example given in Shakespeare's formation of the fairy world had, however, little effect. Lily, Drayton, Ben Jonson, and other con- temporaries and successors, took full possession of the fairy world for their poems, in part evidently influenced by Shakespeare, but none of them has understood hoAv to follow him even upon the path already cleared. Among the many productions of this kind, Drayton's Nymphidia has been most distinguished, a poem wliich turns upon Obcron's jealousy of the fairy knight Pigwiggen, Avhich paints the fury of the king with quixotic colouring, handling tlie combat between the two in the style of tlie chivalric ro- mances, and which, as lierc, seeks its main charm in the descriptions of the little dwellings, implements, and weapons of the fairies. Let us compare tliis with Shakespeare's magic creation , which derives its charm entirely from the reverent thoughtfulness, with which the poet clings with his natural earnestness to the popular legends, leaving intact this childlike belief and preserving its object luidesecratcd ; let us compare the two together , and we shall perceive, by the clearest example, the immense distance of our poet even from the best of his contemporaries. We refer so frequently to the- necessity of seeing Shake- speare's plays i)erformed, in order to be able to estimate (hem fully, based as tliey are upon the joint action of poetic and dramatic art. It will, therefore, be just to mention the re- presentation, which tliis most difficult of all theatrical tasks of a modern age met with in all the great stages of Germany. And tliat we may not be misunderstood , we premise , that however strongly we insist ujxm tliis ])riii(ij)le , Ave yet, in the })resent state of things, Avarn most (Iccidcdly aguiust all •2'sO sit (>M) I'l Klim OF sil AKKSTKAKk's PK am ATIC rOETRY. ovtM-l)oltl attciniits a( Shakcspoarian icpresentatioii. If wo would ])(M appear in the strict costume ofCircck aiiti([ui VKKion OF sii akkspf.ake's dramatic poetry. S\vi>;s liall)or{li(Ms. Wc can only comparo with this mistake onr equally great , the adding of a disturbing- musical ac- companiment, inopportunely impeding the rapid course of the action, which roughly disturbs this work of fancy, this delicate and refined action, this etlicreal dream, with a march of kettledrums and trumpets, even there where Theseus utters his thoughts upon the imsubstantial nature of these visions .' And amid all these modem requisites the simple balcony of the Shakesi)earian stage was retained , as if in respect to apparatus, we were to return to those days! Hut yet tliis simplicity Avas surrounded with all the mag- nificence customary at the present day. Elements thus con- tradictor)-, thus injudiciously united, tasks thus beautiful, thus imperfectly discharged, must always make the friend of Shakespearian performances desire, that under existing cir- cumstances, they would rather utterly renounce them. ROMEO AND JULIET. We have thou<^lit to discover, that Shakespeare had de- signed the two comedies of Love's Labour's Lost and Won, in an intentional contrast to each other; avc shall subse- quently perceive, that his thoughtful Muse delighted, still more repeatedly, in placing even other dramas in such an inner relation to each other; it is possible that even the Midsummer-Night's ])ream he has designed as a true coun- terpart to Romeo and Juliet, in which tlic same theme is treated in the strongest and most glaring contrast })ossil)le. The comedy seemed to us to have originated about tlie same year (1595), in which the poet may have put the finishing touch to this tragedy, on Avhich almost all editors consider him to have been occupied for a series of years since 15!)1. We possess a first unauthcnticated print of the play dated 15!)7, which some regard as a mutilated pirated edition of the tragedy as we read it, (essentially according to the im- proved and enlarged qiuirto-edition of 1599,) but the latest editors consider it to be the text (spoiled indeed) (»f an older work of the poet while yet young.* In comi)aring it, we * Both copies are to be found in Mommsen's critical edition of" Romeo and Juliet. Oldenb. JS5!t. •2S1 sT:r(^M> n-Kiop ov sii akkspk aki'.'s dkamatic poktry. (iltstMVf the iiu|)i(i\ iiii; hand of tlic poet in just as many in- stniciivc touilii's (if tMiRMulation as in Henry VI.; from a se- rii's of niastj-rly strokes we perceive the growing mind in all important additions, -wliicli almost always affect the finest points of tlie ])oeti(al and ])sych(dogical finish and comph^tion : wlicn lie intends to give a fuller body of rhe- toric to the reproving speeches of prince Escalus, to delineate more intelligibly the de])th of affection in the lovers, the fatally concealed fervour of Romeo's passionate mind, to impress more sharply the explanatory lessons of the monk, to work out connectedly and completely tlie natural succes- sion of the emotions of the soul in the violent catastrophe of the lovers. Even in the older defective plot, the art of characterization is, however, of such power and certainty, that if excellent existing sources and perhaps still more ex- cellent conjectured ones, had not been before the poet, all the more w^ould it border on the wonderful, the more un- ripe was his age at his first undertaking the work. For the outward form of the work bears in every way the marks of a youthful hand. The many rhymes , often alternate, the sonnet-form, the thoughts, the expressions even from Shake- speare's sonnet-poetry and from that of his contemporaries, indicate distinctly the period of its origin. It is striking, that in this admired piece, there are more highly pathetic, pompously profound expressions and unnatural images than in any other of Shakespeare's works; the diction too in many and in the most beautiful passages surpasses the dramatic style. Both peculiarities are sufficiently accounted for by the mere youth of the poet ; the one is derived partly from the immediate source, which Shakespeare had before him, an English ]K)em by T3ro(»ke, abounding Avith conceits and ROMEO AND JULIET. 285 antitheses; the other, the undramatic, rather lyric diction of single passages, is deeply connected with the subject itself, and bears evidence to that genius, which we admire beyond everything in Sliakespeare's psychological art, even in his employment and treatment of the mere outward form of poetry. In our interpretations of Shakespeare's works , we shall rarely tarry upon their merely formal beauties ; to analyze them is to destroy them; and he who undirected is not touched by them, will never feel them through explanation. Nevertheless this poet is in all his ways so extraordinary and uncommon, that in the piece lying before us, it is pos- sible in the testhetic analysis to establish in certain passages even this poetic charm, and to sound such a depth of poetry, in comparison with which every other work must a])pear shallow. We will briefly premise these considerations, that we may subsequently advance unimpeded in our explanation of the dramatic action. Every reader must feel, that in Romeo and Juliet, in spite of the severe dramatic bearing of the whole, an es- sentially lyric character prevails in some parts. This lies in the nature of the subject. When the poet exhibits to us the love of Romeo and Juliet in collision with outward circum- stances, he is throughout on (hamatic ground ; when lie (h - picts the lovers in happiness, in the idyllic peace of blissful union, he necessarily then passes over to lyric ground, where thoughts and feelings speak alone , and not actions, such as the drama demands. There are in our present piece three such passages of an essentially lyric nature : Romeo's declaration of love at the ball , Juliet's soliloquy at the be- ginning of the bridal night, and the parting of llu' two on 2S0 SKtOM) I'l'.lMOD OK SIIAKKSn;AI!i;'s 1)1{ A M \I'I(> POK'I'KV. tin' iiKiniiiii; fiillow iii<4 this iii^lit. It" tlic pitct would licre, whtMc his maiid art I'or displaying character and motive had not tali play, as in the dramatic and animated parts of the piece, if he woidd here hold an etpially high position, he must endeavour to give the greatest possible charm and value to his lyric expressions. This he did; every reader w ill always revert most readily to just these exquisite pas- sages. Hut while Shakespeare sought in these very passages after the truest and fullest expression , after the purest and most genuinely poetic form, an artifice {Kunstgriff) may be pointed out, we might better say, a trick of nature {Naiur- griff), M'hich he employedj, in order to give these passages the deepest and most comprehensive back-ground. In all three passages he has followed fixed lyric forms of poetry, con*esponding to the existing circumstances, and well filled with the usual images and ideas of the respective styles. The three species we allude to, are : the sonnet, the epitha- lamium or nuptial poem, and the dawn-song {Tagelied). Romeo's declaration of love to Juliet at the ball is cer- tainly not confined within the usual limits of a sonnet, yet in structure, tone, and treatment, it agrees with this form or is derived from it. This species is devoted to love by Pe- trarca, whom this play on love does not fail to call to mind. Following his example, spiritual love alone in all its bright- ness and sacredness has been almost always celebrated in this species; never, except in some faint exceptions, has the sensual side of love been sung in it. Now every genuine heart-affection which rests not on a mere intoxication of the senses, but takes hold of the spiritual and moral nature of the man, is in its beginning and origin ever of an en- tirely inward nature; a beautiful form mav for the moment ROMEO ANT) -JULIET. 287 affect our senses , but only the whole being of a man can enchain us lastingly, and the first perception of such a one is ever purely spiritual. It is thus as judicious as it is true, that the poet has adhered to this canonical style , in which the lyric expresses the first and purest emotions of love, in this first meeting, when the suitor approaches his beloved like a holy shrine with all the reverence of innocence , and in the avowal of his love, moves entirely in spiritual spheres. Juliet's soliloquy before the bridal-night (Act III. sc. 2.), f and this Halpin has pointed out in the writings of the Shake- speare-society in his usual intellectual manner,) calls to mind the epithalamium, the nuptial poems of the age. The reader may read this wonderful passage , the actress may act it, with that exquisite feeling, which moderates the audible words, into silent thoughts. In the allegorical myth of the hymeneal, nuptial poems, Halpin points out, that Hymen played the principal part, and Cupid remained con- cealed, until at the door of the bridal-chamber, the elder brother surrendered his office to the younger. We must suppose that Juliet knew these songs and these ideas, and in her soliloquy uses images familiar to her. Juliet supposes the presence of love, according to the ideas of those poems, as understood; she designates him with the nickname of "the run -away"* (the dQa/ifrldag of Moschus) Avhich devolved upon him originally , because he was in the habit of running away from his mother. She longs for the night, when Romeo may leap to her arms unseen ; even "the run- * This interpretation Staunton rifj^htly declares as indisputable, and Halpin's explanation seems to us wholly unshaken by Grant White's attack (in Shakespeare's Scholar, 1S5G). 2SS SKCOM) I'KKKH) OK Sll A K KSPKAHk's DHAMA'IIC I'OKTKY. ;i\\;i\'s i-\i's may wink", she says; lie may not, slic means, (III his otlice of illumiualing- the bridal -ehamLer, wherein this ease secreey and darkness arc enjoined. ITalpin thinks that the blind Cupid may have been an emblem of just such a mysterious marriage - union , for also in the bed-chamber of Imogen , Avho had contracted such a secret marriage, are two blind Cupids. The absence of the wedding feast under happier auspices leads Juliet naturally to these thoughts. No other sang to her the bridal-song, she sings it, as it were, herself; and this casts a further melancholy charm over this })assage, for the absence of the hymeneal feast was considered in olden times as an evil omen, and thus it proves here. In the scene of Romeo's interview by night with Juhet, the Itahan novelists sought, after their rhetorical fashion, opportunity for long speeches ; Shakespeare draAvs over it the veil of chastity which never wdth him is wanting when required, and he permits us only to hear the echo of the happiness and the danger of the lovers. Here in this fare- well-scene there is no play of mind and acuteness as in the sonnet , but feelings and forebodings are at Avork ; the sad gleams of the predicting heart shine through the gloom of a happy Past , which the painful presence of farewell ter- minates. The Poet's model in this scene (Act III. sc. 2.) is a kind of dialogue poem, which took its rise at the time of the Minnesingers, — the dawn-song. In England there were also these dawn-songs ; the song to Avliich, in Romeo and Jidiet itself, allusion is made, and Avhich is printed in the first volume of the paj)ers of the Shakespeare society, is expres- sive of such a condition. The unifonn purport of these songs is that two lovers, Avho visit each other by night for ROMEO AND JULIET. 289 secret conference, appoint a watcher, wlio wakes them at dawn of day, when, nnwilling to separate, they dispute be- tween themselves or A\dth the watchman , Avhether the light proceeds from the sun or moon, the Avaking song from the nightingale or the lark ; in harmony with this is the pur- port also of this dialogue, which indeed far surpasses every other dawn-song in poetic charm and merit. Thus then this tragedy, Avhich in the sustaining of its action has always been considered as the representative of all love -poetry, has in these passages formally admitted three principal styles, which may represent the erotic lyric. As it has profoundly appropriated to itself all that is most true and deep in the innermost nature of love, so the poet has embued himself Avith those external forms also, Avhich the human mind had created long before in this domain of poetry. He preferred rather not to be original, than to mistake the form; he preferred to borroAv the expression and the styles , Avhich centuries long had fashioned and de- veloped, in which the very test of their genuineness and durability lay ; so that noAv the lyric love-poetry of all ages is, as it were, recognized again in the forms, images, and expressions employed in this tragedy of love. The story of our drama has been traced back as far as Xenophon's Ephesiaca. The essential elements of it lie in tlie thirty - second novel of Massuccio (1170), from which they were borroAved by Luigi da Porto , Avho is generally spoken of as the original narrator of the history of llomeo and Juliet (La Giulietta 1535). But Shakespeare's piece comes not even indirectly from these sources , but from a novel of Bandello's, in Avhicli to a dramatist, who would take possession of the subject, quite another material Avas I. I'J 290 sK(-<>M> ri.iMon ok siiakkstk ark's dramatic poetry. oH'iird tliaii 1>\ iMiccaccin in his (iiletla ofNarboniie. From this iiariiitivo, "la sfortuiuila luorto di due iiifelicissinii Aiuaiiti"( liandelloTI. 9.), Artliuvlirooke, a well-kuo-\vn poet bt'loii^ing" to the pre-Shakespeare time, derived material for a narrative poem, Romeus and Juliet, which first appeared in 15G2, and was reprinted in 1587. A poetic Italian nar- rative of the subject in octavo (L'infelice amore dei due fedelissimi amanti Giulia e Romeo, scritto in ottava rima daC'litia, nobileVerone.se. ^'enezia. 1553.) had appeared even before J^andello's ; whether Brooke employed it be- sides Bandello, we cannot decide, as we have not .seen it. On the other hand, in his preface of 1562, Brooke praises a dramatic piece , which had set forth the same argument on the stage, with more commendation than he could look for in his work. This piece, if lirooke had used it, and if we might judge of it from his own work , must have been the most important drama previous to Shakespeare. Whether Shakespeare knew it and made use of it, we know not. We know that he had Brooke's poem before him, in which the colouring , the story , the characters of the nurse , of Mer- cutio, and of the tAvo principal figures, are so prepared, that the poet had in this disproportionably difficult material far lighter work than in All's Well that Ends AVell. The story itself, which is moreover conspicuous among the Italian novels for that true art of an underlying motive througliout, exchanges in Brooke's poem, the supei-ficial oratory of the south for the profound feeling of the north , and the cha- racter of Romanic elegance for the Germanic soul full of exciting passion. In power and exuberance the Italian no- vels are left far behind , indeed a certain overloading testi- fies to the poet's richness of feeling. Many fine touches in ROMEO AND JULIET. 291 the Shakespearian piece first stand out clearly when we have read this narrative , and we shall then perceive by a palpable example , as we shall find in other instances also, how much Shakespeare has often hidden under few words and intimations. If we then pass from Brooke's poem to Shakespeare's tragedy, we find the subject again in this drama infinitely raised, and once more the many appendages of Romanic propriety and rhetorical tinsel are thrust out in the sieve of a genuine Germanic nature. With Brooke, a sensual gratification alternates with the counter-balance of a cold morality, voluptuousness Avith wisdom, and Ovid- like luxuriance with a pedantic dogmatical tone ; contrasts above which Shakespeare rose with the pure ingenuousness of a poet, Avho identifies himself with his subject. With Brooke, all is play of fortune, chance, destiny , a touching- story of two lovers, whom an alternation of prosperity and misfortune has led here and there; but with Shake- speare, the piece is the necessary history of all strong love, which is vigorously guided and influenced from within, but never truly and deeply by aught without, Avhich far rather rises superior to every other passion and emotion, which beats proudly against the barriers of conventionality, occupied to excess alone with itself and its satisfaction, de- riding the representations of cold discretion, aye, over-bold, defying fate itself, and quarrelling with its warnings to its own ruin. If we would now advance at once to the central point of this work, the poet, it appears to us, has opened a two- fold way to this, with greater distinctness than is his wont. If we simply conceive the two principal figures in their dis- position and circumstances, the idea of the whole steps 19* •292 SI ( OM> n;KIt)|) OK SIIAKKSl'KAKK S DUAMATIC POKTRY of itvflf to liuht tVoiii tliis (lispassioiuite coiisidcvaliou of the siiiipk' tacts; tlic action alone and its motives suffer it iiiit to he mistaken. Hut Ix-yond this the poet has given alst) hv direct teaching the tlircad, which the reader or s])cctator might not liave perhaps discovered from the mo- tives and issne of the action. In these two directions, there- fore , we mnst also divide ovir considerations ; and avc will first take the latter, which hy a shorter path, hut certainly under a more limited aspect, leads to the goal. The oldest hihlical story exhibits work and toil as a cm"se which is laid on the human race; if it be so, God has mixed with the bitter lot that which can sweeten it ; true activity is just that which most ennobles the vocation of man, and which transforms the curse into the richest blessing. On the other hand, there are affections and pas- sions given to us for the heightening of our enjoyments of life ; but pursued in an unfair degree , they transform their pleasure and blessing into ciu'se and ruin. Of no truth is the world of actual experience so full, and to none does the poetry of Shakespeare more frequently and more expressively point. Shakespeare's immediate source for his drama, Arthur Brooke, interspersed his narrative with the reflection that the most noble in man is produced by great passions , but that within these the danger lies, of canying the man beyond liimself and liis natural limits, and thus of ruining him. In our drama the passion of love is depicted in this highest degree of attraction and might, giving at once the fullest testimony to its ennobling and to its destroying j)Ower. The l)oet lias placed himself between the good and bad attributes of this demon, in that surpassing manner, with which we are ROMEO AND JULIET. 203 already acquainted in him , and with that noble ingenuous- ness and impartiality, that it is quite impossible to say whether he may have thought more of the exalting , or less of the debasing power of love. He has depicted its pure and its dangerous effects, its natural nobleness , and its inherent wiles, with that evenness of mind, that Ave stand struck with admiration at this mighty power, as with wonder at the weakness into which it degenerates. Only few men are capable of receiving this view of the poet, and of allowing his representation to influence them on both sides with equal power and witli equal impartiality. Most men incline predominantly to one side alone, and readers of more sen- sual ardour regard the might of love in this couple, as an ideal power , as a lawful and desirable authority ; others of more moral severity take it as an excessive tyranny, wliicli has violently stifled all other inclinations and attractions. Shakespeare has exhibited in this piece tlic opposite ends of all human passion , love and liatred , in tlieir extremest power; and as in the Midsummer-Night's Dream, by the side of the intoxication of fickle sensual love, he has approvingly laid stress on the contrast of maidenly discretion, so here in tlie midst of tlie world agitated by love and hatred, he has placed friar Laurence, whom experience, retirement, and age , have deprived of inclination to either, l^y him , who, as it were, represents the part of the chorus in this tragedy, the leading idea of the piece is expressed in all fulness , an idea that runs througliout the whole, that excess in any en- joyment however pure in itself, transforms its sweet into bitterness, that devotion to any single fceliug however noble, bespeaks its ascendancy ; that tliis ascendancy moves the man and Avoman out of tlieir natural s])lieres ; that love can only 291 sKcoNO riKion ok siiaki;si'k auk's dkam vtic poetry. hv ,\ ( oinpaiiiiMi to life, and caiindl fully fill out the life and Imsincss of ilio uiau especially; that m the full power of its tiist rising, it is a paroxysm of happiness, whicli according to its nature cannot continue in equal strength ; that, as the poet says in an image, it is a flower that "IJeing smelt, ■with that part cheers each part ; Bcinjf tasted, shxys all senses with the heart". These ideas are placed by the poet in the lips of the wise Laurence in almost a moralizing manner, with gradually increasing emphasis , as if he Avould provide most circinn- spectly that no doubt should remain of his meaning. lie utters them in his first soliloquy, under the simile of the vegetable world, with which he is occupied, in a manner merely ijistructive and as if without application; he expresses them warninglij , when he unites the lovers, at the moment when he assists them, and finally he repeats thevfxreprovmgly to Romeo in his cell , when he sees the latter undoing him- self and his own w ork, and he predicts what the end will be. "Nought", says the holy man in the first of these pas- sages (Act II. sc. 3.), "Nought so vile that on the earth doth live, But to the earth some special good doth give ; Nor aught so good, but, strain'd from that fair use, Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse : Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied ; And vice sometime's by action dignified. A\"ithin the infant rind of this small flower Prison hath residence, and med'cine power : For this being smelt, with that part cheers each i)art , Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart. Two such opposed foes encamp them still In man as well as herbs, grace and rude will; And, when the worser is predominant. Full sof)n the canker death eats -up that plant". KOMEO AND JULIET. 295 We see plainly^ that these are the two qualities which make Romeo a hero and a slave of love ; in happiness with his Julietj lie displays his "grace", in so rich a measure, that he quickly triumphs over a being so gifted; in misfortune he destroys all the charm of these gifts through the "rude will", with which Laurence reproaches him. In the second of the passages pointed out, Romeo, on the threshold of his happiness, challenges love - devouring death to do what he dare , so that he may only call Juliet his ; and in warning reproof, friar Laurence tells him, in a passage which the poet has first inserted in his revision of the play, applying the idea of that straining of the good from its fair use : — "These violent delights have violent ends, And in their triumph die ; like fire and powder, Which as they kiss, consume. The sweetest honey Is loathsome in his own deliciousness, And in the taste confounds the appetite : Therefore, love moderately ; long love doth so". Just so the reproving words of Laiu-ence, when he sees in his cell the "fond man" in womanly tears, degenerated from his manly nature, despairingly cast down, these words refer again to those first instructive sayings upon the abuse of all noble gifts. "Thou sham'st", he says to him, and this too has been first added in the revised edition : "Thou sham'st thy shape, thy love, thy wit ; Which like an usurer, abound'st in all, And usest none in that true use indeed Which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit. Thy noble shape is but a form of wax, Digressing from the valour of a man, Thy dear love, sworn, but hollow perjury. Killing that love, which thou hast vowed to cherish : Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love, Misshapen in the conduct of them botli, 296 sKroM> n-Kion of sii akkspeark's dkamatic poktry. liikc powder in a skill-less soldier's flask, Is set on fire by thine own ignorance, And tliou dismember'd with thine own defence". With this significant image, we see Romeo subsequently rushing to death, when he procures from the apothecary the poison by which the tnmk is "discharged of breath As violently, as hasty powder fir'd Doth hurry from the fatal canon's womb". Thrice has the poet with this same simile designated the inflaming heat of this love, which too quickly causes the paroxysm of happiness to consume itself and to vanish, and he could choose no moral aphorism, which Avith such simple expressiveness could have demonstrated the aim of his representation, but just this image alone. But as Tieck criticised the conclusion of Love's Labour's Lost, Schlegel and many others liave opposed the moral, Avhich friar Laurence draws from the story. Romeo's words of rebuff to the holy aged man, who with cold blood preaches morals and pliilosophy to the lover, those words: "thou canst not speak of what thou dost not feel", have been the guide of the Romanticists in their estimate of Laurence and his wisdom. That the words are spoken in the deepest dis- traction of a despairing man, whom defiance renders in- susceptible of consolation, and passion incapable of every reflection, this was never taken into consideration by them. And yet his Laurence is in this very scene neither delineated as a mechanical and pedantic nioralizer, nor as a dry stoic. He has only too much sympathizing regard for the lovers, he enters upon a dangerous plan in order to secure to the c()U])le Ills union of tlicm, and the plan almost ruins him- self. I[f' attrm])ts, indeed, to comfort tliis desponding man <1 ROMEO AND JULIET. 297 of love with the cordial of philosophy , but he yields also to such real means of consolation that the lover himself could not have devised better, aye, still more, such as he in his desparing defiance did not find for liimself , which not only comfort him , but for the moment cure him. And not even does it demand a Laurence, to reproach the foolish man, but even the nurse can do so, even his Juliet might do so. We err, this has Schlegel himself said , in taking this pair as an ideal of virtue, but we err perhaps still more from the poet's aim, in passionately siding with their passion. We have no choice othei-wise but to blame the tragedist for un- fair and unjust cruelty. Thus as their death follows their life , we mean not to say that Shakespeare used a narrow morality, that he made divinity and destiny punish these mortals for the sake of this fault , because an arbitrary law of custom or religion has condemned it. Shakespeare's wise morality, judging from tliose very sayings which he placed in the lips of friar Laurence in that first solilocpiy, knew of no such virtue and no such crime, warranting once for all this reward and punishment. We have heard him say above, that from circumstances "virtue itself turns vice", and "vice some- time's by action dignified", and as he here depicts a love, which sprang from the purest and most innocent grounds, in its ascendancy, in its over-sensibility, and in its self-avenging degeneracy , he has elsewhere elevated that which we take simply for sin, into pardonable, aye, into great actions, for who would hesitate to break like Jessica licr filial piety, who would not wish to lie as Desdemona lies? Shakespeare knoAvs only Innnan gifts and dispositions, and a iiunian freedom, reason, and volition, to us(> tlicm well or ill, madly or with moderation. TTc knows only a fate whicli the man 298 SF.roNM) ri.Kioj) of sii akkspeare's dramatic poetry. f(try;t>s fur hiiuj^cU' fVoiii this r>(»()(l or bad use, although he accuses the powers without him as its author, as Romeo does the "iuauspicious stars". With him, as thi'oughout actual Hfe, outward circumstances aiul inward character work one into the other with alternating effect ; in this tragedy of love they mutually fashion each other, the one furthers the other, until at last the wheels of destiny and passion are driven into more violent collision, and the end is an overthrow. Tarrying thus on the moral idea of the piece, and on the tragic conclusion to which this idea urges , it must appear as if the poet clung with greater stress to the severe judg- ment of the reflective mind, than to the sympathy of the heart, in this rare love, and that he w^as himself too much that way inclined, than that we could invest him with that strict impartiality , w Inch we have before extolled in him. Hut if we carry our eye from the abstract contemplation to the action , from the bare isolated idea to the Avhole repre- sentation, to the living warmth and richness of the circum- stances, the intricacies, the motives, and the characters, this reproach vanishes of itself. The idea which we have gathered from the didactic passages of the piece, is then more fully enlightened and enlivened in this consideration of the facts; not only does the moral of the action call forth the abstract idea, but the complete view of all co-operating circumstances both within and without, challenges the heart and soul ; the whole being of the spectator is called into judgment, not alone his head and mind. It is for this reason that the view of the action in all its completeness, is ever the only accurate way of arriving at an understanding of one of our poet's plays. We will n(Av, following out om design, survey our drama ROMEO AND JULIET. 299 also in this second direction, upon the broader and more varied path of its facts and acting characters. At the con- chision we shall again arrive at our former aim, but with our views much more enlarged and informed. We see two youthful beings of the highest nobility of character and position, endowed with tender hearts, with all the sensual fire of a southern race , standing isolated in two families, who are excited to hatred and murder against each other, and repeatedly fill the town of Verona with blood and uproar. Upon the dark ground of the family hatred, the tAvo figures come out the more clearly. In poetry and history these cases are not rare, that just in the gloom of immoral ages and circumstances, the brightest visions emerge like lilies from the marsh, and Iphigenias and Cordelias in the midst of a race of titanic passions , have illustrated this in ancient and modern poetry. Romeo and Juliet share not the deadly hatred which divides their fami- lies; the harmlessness of their nature is alien to their wild spirit ; much rather upon this same desolate soil, a thirsting for love has grown in them to excess, more evident in Romeo, but less conscious in Juliet, in the one rather in opposition to the contention raging in the streets , in the other rather in a secret repulse of those nearest to her in her home. Tlie head of his enemies , the old Capulet himself, bears testi- mony of Romeo, that "Verona brags of him, to be a virtuous and well-governed youth". However mucli , amid the increasing hindrances to the course of their love, a dispro- portion and excess of the powers of feeling and affection was developed rapidly and prematurely in both, the two characters were yet originally formed for a harmony of the life of mind and feeling, more for fervent and deep, than 300 sFrdM) vKiJion of siiakkspkare',s dramatic poetrv. fur i'\( itcd ami cxtiavagaiit affection. It is no impulse of the senses, it is even not merely that self-willed ob- stinacy, •vvliich liurries them at last to ruin upon a hazard- ous and falal ])ath , but it is at once the impulse of a touching- tidelity and constancy stretching beyond the limits of the grave. The quality of stubborn wilfulness which tlic friar blames in Romeo, a quality also active in womanly moderation in Juliet, when she appears contrary to lier parents' ])lan for her marriage, is certainly in both an heirloom of the hostile family-spirit, but still deeply con- cealed by the peaceful influence of innate tenderness of feeling. It is excited in them only in unhappiness and under tlie pressure of insufferable circumstances, but even then ill the harmless beings it is not outwardly liurtful , but its ruinous effects turn only against themselves. That which the friar calls "grace" in the human being, by which outward and iuAvard nobility in appearance and habits is intended, forms the essential nature of both, and if Romeo, according to the words of the friar, in misfortune and despair, under the influence of a defiant spirit, shames his shape, his love, and his wit, that is, all his endowments of person, mind, and heart, these endowments, these even usuriously measured gifts, are still his original nature, which appears in all its lustre in him as in Juliet, when no outer circumstances cross and destroy the peace of their souls. We may compare the emotions of this love Avitli tliat of another kind in the Midsummer-Night's Dream, Avhich "formed by the eye, is there fore like the eye full of strange shapes", of habits and of varied objects, that we may in a fresh aspect measure the full contrast of this passion and of these characters to those represented in the other play. In the scenes , in Avhich the ROMEO AND JULIET. 301 love between Romeo and Juliet is developed, and the family- foes become in a moment a betrothed and married couple, we see in all its intensity the elevation of these natures above the universal discord around them, and above the personal prejudices, which generally belonged to this dis- sension. The disregard of danger , the readiness for every sacrifice of life, of propriety, of piety, proves the purity and strength of their love beyond every shadow of a doubt. In the more idyllic scenes, th'bse in which the lovers appear in all the happiness of contentment, the poet has poetically heightened the expression of love in such a manner, and has invested it with such a power of feeling, that the truth and the charm of the poetry convinces us more and more deeply of the truth and nobility of these natures. And in such a measure has he succeeded in this, that the poetic spirit and charm, which he spreads over the lovers, causes most readers even wholly to overlook and to miss the moral severity of the poet, a fact which certainly fully obviates the before-mentioned matter of reproof, that of an excessive tarrying upon the shadow-side of the jjassion , the circum- stances, and the characters. When, setting aside the later unravellings of the plot, Romeo ajjpears before us j^revious to his meeting with Juliet, the mixture of these beautiful and noble qualities of his nature with elements of evil, is indeed early decided. This Romeo might be that servant of love, our poem might be the volume, spoken of in "the Two Gentlemen of Verona": — which says that "love inhabits in the finest wits of all", but to this is added, that "by love the young and tender wit is turned to folly", and as the worm in the bud, it is blasted, that it loses "his verdure even in the prime, and all the fair ;U)2 si-.coM) riKioii OK sii \iii(ltliii rcjcc tioii. To tliis society is added a conventional wooiiiy of Count Talis, Avhich for the first time oblioes the inno( ent child to read her heart. Hitherto she liad, at the most, experienced a sisterly inclination for her cousin 'r\l)alt . as the least intolerable of the many nnamiahle beings who formed her society, i'.ut how little filial feeling- united the daughter to the family, is glaringly exhibited in that passage, in Avhich, even before she has experienced the worst treatment from her parents, the striking expression escapes her upon the death of this same Tybalt, that if it had been her parents' death, she would have mourned them only with "modern lamentation". Such is the iuAvard condition of both, when for the lii-st time they meet at the ball : she , urged by the suit of the count, and by her mother's instigations, to regard the guests for the fii'st time with enquiring heart, in all the fieshness of youth ; lie. Out of himiour in his hopeless love for Rosaline, not W'ithout reason full of misgiving upon the threshold of an enemy's house, where indeed Tybalt on his entrance imbibes his fatal hatred against Romeo, but regardless of life, and goaded on by daring friends to weigh his dis- dainful beauty against others. Outward beauty is presup- posed in both ; at her first appearance, he exclaims : "Beauty too rich for vise, for earth too dear"! To these outward endowments, inward charms are then added. On their first greeting they find occasion to test their versatile intelligence ; so that this rare union of physical and mental gifts works in the first moment with enchaining and attractive charm. His first address to .Juliet at the ball is a fine web of witty thought ; a play of conceits veils the declaration and the ROMEO AND JULIET. 307 acceptance, whicli by mutual satisfaction, begun in riddles, is ingeniously understood and is cleverly carried on. For it is just this which constitutes the cliarm of this scene, that as Romeo seems to listen to the sweet devices of Juliet in this strife of thought, so Juliet in quiet happy aj^preciation of his images, listens equally pleased with his mind and wit as with his feelings ; that she delights not only in his kiss, but also that he kisses "by the book", that is, Avith witty allusion and form, according to the rule of cleverly carrying on a given course of thought, observed in the Innnorous play of wit of that age. If the reader feels here, that to that physical beauty, to that mental superiority, is yet added that full and perfect iuipression of soundness and purity, — that moral impression , which we usually on first meeting with men receive with true instinct most surely and fully,— he will afterwards feel no shock, when with full sail, the two, in the next hour of meeting, steer towards the same goal. How the garden-scene, which follo^\s this first meeting, is to be regarded, the poet has pointed out to us in a few words in the chorus at the conclusion of the first act. Romeo can hope for an enterview only at the peril of his life , and Juliet not at all; nature and inclination luge the two enemies to mutual love," and the circumstances concur in making this new bond indissoluble. Tliey tnust endeavour to seize the first opportunity, and fate ccmies (o the assi- stance of Juliet and her modesty: slu^ betrays her feelings in a soliloquy by night to the listening Ronxeo, and lias, tlierefore, nothing more to keep back. The one repelled by the suitor Paris, the other by the disdainful Rosaline, they rush the more readily into each ollier's extended arms. 20* ■.U)S >l.((tMt riKIOD ! till' liiiniiiii; contests of tluMr families, in tin- suhvcrsion of all social Itairiors around tlieui, liow should tlicN think of propriety, auil as Juliet says, "dwell on form".'' Ill ilu- hiinv of the recall, in the terrible choice between iicMT iuc(>tinn ai^ain, and for ever belonging to eaf his innocent heroine, not even in the moment, Avhen she is at the highest point of her ardent passion. And noAv, after Ave have learned to knoAV these cha- * In Cavendish's Life of Wolsey there is an anecdote which illus- trates this difference of custom. In Henry V. also Xatharine urges the French custom to her wooer. :>|(l Sl.rO.M) ri'KHH) OF Ml \KI >rK \KF S Dl{ AM Al'If POKTRY. lailcis thus ( (tiistitutcd, wr shall tiiid in affecting succession, [\w fates of the lovers and of their houses intelligibly de- veloj)ed out of their own nature, and not out of the chance ilecrees of the goddess Fortune. Romeo certainly has nothing in his nature, w]ii( h in an active nuuuua- would have kept up the strifi' of the families, but certainly also with his close temper he did nothing to relax it. This reserved nature now Morks in him afresh. Animated by his youthful hap- piness , he turns indeed suddenly as to a new life, and the melancholy friend astonishes Mercutio with liis ready Avit ; yet his cheerful humour extends not so far as to dispose him to free comnumication. He hides his successful affection from his friends more carefully than his sorrow for Rosa- line ; this reserved enjoyment of a prosperous affection is in general rarely belonging to man's nature and temper. The friends were unquestionably more worthy of his con- fidence, than the nurse of that of Juliet ; had he commimi- cated his feehngs to them, Mercutio had avoided the wan- tonly sought combat with Tybalt, Romeo had not killed Tybalt , the first seed of the rapidly rising mischief had not been scattered. Witli considerate moderation, Romeo has the prudence to avoid Tybalt, but not to Avhisper a Avord in the ear. of his friend ; much less aac may belicAe to restrain the flaming fire of vengeance , Avhen the triumphant mur- derer of liis friend returns. When he has killed him, in his stubborn taciturn manner, he compresses his complete expectation of a dreaded fate into the Avords "I am fortune's fool!" as subsequently, after .Juliet's death, he throAAS into one sentence his despair and defiance; a more open nature would have at botli times avoided the extremity by com- municatifin. In liim ;t liidden tire burns Avith a danuerous ROMEO AND JULIET. 311 flame ; his slight forebodings are fulfilled , not because a blind chance causes them to be realized, but because his fatal projjensity urges him to rash deeds ; he calls that fortune, which is the work of his peculiar nature. He is banished by the Duke ; and now the poet shows us in a re- markable parallel the difference between the two characters in the same condition of misery ; the nature of the sexes is in these opposite scenes delineated in a wonderful manner. The tenderer being, in despair at the first moment, is soon comforted by her own reflection, soon even capable of com- forting, soon bent upon means of remedy ; the stronger man, on the contrary, is quite crushed, quite incapable of self- command, qiute inaccessible to consolation. The nature of tlie woman is not so much changed by this omnipotence of love, but the man's power and self-possession are destroyed by the excess of this one feeling. Juliet has lost her cousin, she had at first feared the death of llomeo, she has next to deplore his banishment, in her helpless condition she has more cause for lamentation and grief than he, her agitation is increased for a moment by violent discontent, if not hatred against llomeo : all lier hope rested on the restoration of family unity, and this has Romeo again placed at a dis- tance by Tybalt's death. She declaims against him with unjust vehemence, but she soon repents tliis, and ro])roa(hes herself when slie thinks on his own danger. Seized with this thouglit, slie speedily finds courage and consolation, j)()wer to endure and to act, with thai happy harmonj^, which Ix'longs to tlie femal(i nature. Tybalt migl)t indeed have kilh'd liim; she bids Iicr tears return to iheir native spring; she /'6'r6e//' enumerates the grounds of consohition, grounds wliicli tlie unlra])])y Romeo will nut even listen M'l si,» oM) ri.Kioii OK siiAKi;sn:AKi;'s nixAMvrir pokthy. In, wlicii friar l.aiimuo ominicrates them to him. For a ini.nuMii the idea of banishment a<>itates her into complete hopek'ssness , but sli(> (jnickly seizes the natm*al means of hiUini^ lier sovvoax wliicli the nurse suj^gests to her, of liealiui; si<]»ara(i(tn by the cluince of reunion, and the sorrow of h)ve by its joys. Unite otherwise is it with the violent impetuous man in friar Laurence's cell, in whom at the word banishment, the long repressed inward emotion breaks forth in fearful lamentation, and makes him iii('aj)able of reflection and of action,- Avhen he stood most in need of both. lie had himself passed in excitement through that scene, the cause of his banishment, he had reason to feel himself entirely free from reproach in the fatal duel, he hears his mild verdict from the forbearing- lips of a friend All comes to him in infinitely milder form than to Juliet, whom her distracted imrse tormented Avilh mistaken apprehensions. Yet in himself he finds nothing of the power of consolation and cure, as his Juliet does in a similar, aye, even in a position (Hitwardly worse , but in a condition inwardly better. He rejects the burden of the blessing which descends upon him; like an obstinate cliild desponding with uncontrolled grief, he refuses the comfort and the encouragement of his wise friend. The aged recluse must admonish him that "such die miserable"; nay, what is more in llomeo's condition, he must remind liim to think of his friend, to live for her who lives for him, who thinks for him and acts for him. Not the sage alone, even tlie nurse must scold l)im and his stub- bornness, which is deaf eveu to the threatening danger. \N lit'H lie draws liis sword, Avhen he throws himself down senseless , we see him certainly "taking the measure of an unmade grave", solicitous about the man, whom no image ROMEO AND JULIET. 313 of manly duty and dignity, Avhom the prospect alone of the acme of his loving delight, the meeting ^vith Juliet, can cause to be himself again. The poet has twice made the two in agitating alternation taste the joy and sorrow of love ; twice by turns does the delight of love tinge their cheeks Avith red, and the sorrow of love, drinking uj) their blood, make them pale ; this old song of love, laboured after by a thousand poets, has never been sung in such fvill strains. The first catastrophe of Ty- balt's death followed upon the meeting in the garden , and touched and tried Romeo the more severely ; the second, the betrothal to Paris, followed close upon the bridal-night, and touched and tried Juliet with more cruel force. If in the one, Romeo came off less to our liking, at this second stroke this is now the case Avith Juliet ; if the man then lost his manly nature , Juliet is now for the moment carried out of her womanly sphere. Just elevated by the happiness of Romeo's society, she has lost the delicate line of propriety within Avhich her being moved. Even when her mother speaks of her design of causing Romeo to be poisoned, she plays with too great wantonness with her words, when she should rather have been full of care ; and when her mother then announces to her the un-asked-for husband, she has lost her former craftiness , Avith a mild reijuest or with a clever pretext to delay the marriage ; she is scornful towards her mother, straight-forward and o])en to her father, whose caprice and passion she provokes, and subsecpiently she trifles with confession and sacred things in a manner not al- together Avomanly. I>ii( tluit we sliould not even here lose our sympathy Avitli this being, .she rises at the same time in tliis very catastro])!!!' wifli iill the moral elevation (»f lier ■'I I vi ( oM) VKKIOTI OK SII AKKST'KARK S DH VMATIC POETRY. iiat\iri\ \\ lien slic is abaiidoiu'd by father and mother, and is at UMiuMh heartlessly advised by her nurse to separate fViMu Komeo, she throws off even this last support ; she rises ijraiidiv ahoNo the "ancient damnation", faithlessness, and luMJurv , and will rather strike a death-bh)w to hand and heart, than turn with perfidious desertion to another. When obstacles cross love, it rises to its utmost height, when com- pulsi<»n and force would annihilate it, faithfulness and con- stancy become the sole duty. And this it is, which in the midst of the tragic defeat of this love, glorifies its victory. If the lovers previously in sensual ardour had innocently aspired after happiness and enjoyment, they now, without hesitation, with moral steadfastness, hastened towards death, which woidd inseparably unite them. Over-excited by the exertion and depression of joy and sorrow, agitated by sleepless nights, made undutiful on the threshold of a forced marriage, as soon as she is alone those sluices of .Juliet's hopelessness are opened wide, wdiich previously womanly dissimulation had closed : she is ready to die. But still not even now d'oes she lose her womanly self-command. Her first course is to ask counsel of friar Laurence; her last de- sign is suicide; this firm will calls the friar into its desperate counseLs. It is a fearful adventure, upon which .Juliet unscrupulously resolves , although shortly before its execu- tion, womanly natme and timidity, after so much excitement, demand a natural tribute, lint at the same time it is an ingeniously hazardous game, practicable to the cu-cumspect •Juliet, but not so to a man of >s.s (if their love was, as it says in the Midsuiniuer- Nii^hl's Drcaiu, '' momentary as a sound, Swift as a shadow, short as any dream ; lirief as the lightnhig in the colHed night, That in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth. And ere a man hath power to say, — Behold ! The jaws of darkness do devour it up"; but in this lightning-, the slovni-laden air hanging over the state of Verona dis])urdene(l itself, and the first enduring brightness follows upon the last passing darkness. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. We have placed together in an unbroken series the erotic plays of Shakespeare^, the end of which is formed according to purport and significance by Komeo and Juliet. The Mer- chant of Venice, Avhich in intention and matter does not belong to this series, the lovc-affiiirs it contains having only a subordinate signification, dates the time of its origin in- deed before that of Romeo and Juliet, and the Midsummer- Night's Dream. According to Henslowe's Journal, a Vene- tian comedy was produced in 1594, and it were possible for this to have been our piece, because at that time the company of the Blackfriars acted in union with the company Mdiich Henslowe led at Newington Butts. In the form, the versifica- tion, the few doggrel verses, and tlie alternate rhymes, which are found in the piece, Ave shall less seek the evidence of its age, than in certain inner tokens Avhich place it rather among the earlier pieces. The allusions to the ancient mytlis are much more frequent here than in llomeo and Juliet ; the greater want of delicacy in the conversation of noble ladies, whicli Shakespeare subsecpi' ntly ever more laid aside, maybe compared with that which we find in Love's Labour's Lost and in the Tavo Gentlemen of Verona. Lanncolot appears :V2H >i.t ()M> n i;itti> iti ,sii \Ki:-^i'i; \i;i; s i)i{AM\ri(' roiriuv. almost (>\tMi in iianu> to 1)»' only an off- shoot of the Launcc in I lie Two (li-ntltMuen of N'crona ; tiio couutevpavt of Jcsisi- . a's n'lalion with her I'alhcr, in the scene of Launcelot's with his. is t|uite kr|)t np in the manner of the similar scene in tlu" I'wo (ientlemen of ^'eroua ; when he shows the old man the way, we are entirely reminded of tlie jests in the Latin coniedy. All these possess a kindred likeness with the older pieces, which lionieo and Juliet had rather out- <:^rown. The story of the Merchant of Venice is a hlendhig to- gether of the two (mginally separate narratives of the action f )r the pound of flesh and of the three caskets, lioth are in the well known collection of the Gesta Romanorum; the anecdote of the three caskets very short and simple, hut al- most with the same substance in the inscriptions, as we read in our own piece. The narrative most allied to the principal story is to be found in a very rough and fantastic form in the Pecorone of Giovanni Fiorentino, a work of the 14th century', printed in 1554. The circumstance, which accord- ing to Shakespeare took place between the two friends, Bassanio and Antonio, is there imputed to a foster-father and son. The latter woos a lady of Belmont, who, with Circeian cunning, ensnares her suitors, this one among the rest, and twice takes his vessel from him. The third time lie ('((uips his ship with foreign gold, pledging the pound of tlcsh from his foster-father; this time, wisely warned, he obtains the lady , who also subsequently becomes the judge in the lawsuit. Even the play with the ring, wdiich forms the mahi substance of the 5th Act of our drama, is not lacking here: so that only instead of the magic arts of the ludy of Belmont, the anecdote of the three caskets is intro- THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 321 diiced and tlio thrice repeated undertaking- 'is resolved into one. It has jnstlj' been remarked, hoAv skilful was this blending- tog-ether of two equally strange adventures, for the production of that harmony which is indispensable to artistic illusion. The touch of improbability on both parts transports more eifectively into the world of romance, than a single adventure of this kind could have done ; the figu- rative character of the will suits that of the laM'suit; the skilful combination produces that probability which we draw from the repetition of similar circumstances, even when in the abstract they are utterly strange to us. As far as we know , there were no English translations , in Shakespeare's time, of the narrative sources of the story. But perhaps the subject of the piece, with the same blend- ing of two originally se})arate narratives, had been pre- pared in an older play previous to Shakespeare. Gosson, in liis School of Abuse (I579j speaks of a piece, "The Jew", the subject of which exhibited "the greedhiesse of worldly chusers, and bloody mindes of usurers". We see indeed that this so strikingly agrees Avith the tMo united parts of our piece, the suitors of Portia and Shylock, that it is hardly to be doubted that this piece had already handled the same material ; so that Siiakespeare in tlie Merchant of Venice had before him for his use an older play. What assistance that supposed forerunner of the Merchant of Venice may have afforded, we naturally cannot knoM' ; in those old tales scarcely the frame-work was available to Siiakespeare. From those idle stories full of the most improbable occurrences, he has formed a piece fvUl of the (leei)esl worldly wisdom, Avhich if we strip off the garb of ronumce and the enhance- n\ont of passion , may be regarded more than any other of I. 21 'A'l'l sKcoM) ri.iJioD oi sii \Ki;si>i; \Ki; s dkamvi'Ic pokthy. his works ;is a minur \\lii(li rxccllciitly vcHccts tlu' very i(';ilit \ nf t(iiimi(iii lilr. \'\)v the umlcvstaudiii^- of Sliakcs])oare iiotliiiig- is per li;i|)s so instnicfivc as at tiiiK's , whvM strikiiii* occasions oH'cr . to place 1)\ the side of our own veliectioiis iqxni his works, the exphniatioii of other interpreters , in order that by comparing' a series of double expositions , we may pene- trate closer and closer to the substance of the Shakes])eariun poetry. AVe shall by this means ])erceive, lunv very diiferent are tlie points of view, from Avhich these poems may be apprehended, and how, not without a certain degree and appearance of justice, various opinions ui)on the same piece uuiy be advanced: which is only a proof of the richness and many-sidedness of these works. At the same time, this will give us occasion to examine ourselves, whether we do not lose that pure susceptibility and inibiassed mind in com})re- hending the writings of our master, in order that we may a])])roach as far as possible to the one idea which moved the ])oet himself in each of his creations, and that we may find out this one idea from the many which each of the more im- portant of those creations is capable of suggesting to the versatile miuds of our own day. We shall besides in this comparison of interpretation have occasion repeatedly to show, Avhere the key to Shakespeare's Avorks is really to be found, and of what kind arc the leading ideas according to which he has formed his plays. Ulrici has before justly remarked, that the connecting threads in this piece lie very much hidden in the disparate circumstances that fonn it. The poet has here not given himself the trouble as in Romeo and .luliet to insinuate his design by express explanation, llrici fand llotscher alsoj THE MEROTIANT OF VENICE. 323 perceived the fundamentul idea of tlie Mereliant of Venice in the sentence : sunimuni jus snninia injuria. With ahih'ty and ingenuity he has referred tlie separate parts to this one central point. The hiw-suit in which Shylock enforces the letter of justice, and is himself avengingly struck hy the letter of justice, is thus placed in the true centre of the piece. The arbitrariness of the Avill, in which Portia's father a])- pears to assert the whole severity of his paternal riglit, and as Portia herself laments, Avitliholds his riglit from the pos- sessor, unites in one idea the second element of the piece witli its principal part. Jessica's escape from her father, forms the contrast to this; in the one right is wrong-, in the other, wrong is right. The intricacy of right and wrong ap- pears at length at its greatest pitch in the quarrel of the lovers in the last act. Even Launcelot's reflections on the riglit and Avrong of his running away, his blame of Jessica in the 4th Act, concur with this point of vicAv. We finally understand the stress which Portia, in her speech to Shylock, lays upon mercy: not severe right, but tempered equity alone can hold society together. Hut when we look only upon the external structure of the piece, the essentially acting characters do not all stand in relation to this idea, a requirement fulfilled in all the matui'er works of our poet. IJassanio, avIio is really the link uniting the principal actors in the two separate adventures, Antonio and Portia, has nothing to do witli this idea. .Tust as little have the friends and ])arasites of Antonio, the suitors of Portia. Moreover I'ortia's father is called a virtuous holy man, who has left behind liim the order concerning the caskets out of kindness, in a sort of inspiration, but in no wise in a severe employment of paternal power, liut Avere 21* \V1\ si;(OM) n;i;ioi> ok siiAKi;sri;M;K's dkam atk roiriKV. ur not at all to tak«' into accnuiil these m-oinuls , wliicli we draw iunn I lie inteiweaviuj; i»t" the acting eharacter.s with the tuiidaiuontal idea of" the i)ioce, Ave should helieve ihat a reHeelioii like the above Avill not be read Avithont e(.)ii]nd>ion in almost any of the Sluikespearian pieces. Sm h pidimsitions , sucli explanations, we only arrive at, wlien we consider the story, the action, in this or other pieces, as the central point in (piestion. llrici does this: he calls this piece a comedy of intrigue, as, even infinitely more vmsuitably, he has also designated Cymbeline, wliic li must l)e classed Avith those most magnificent Avorks of the poet, AA'hich like Lear confine Avithin the narroAv scope of a drama, almost the richness of an epos. To Llrici the story of the piece is a given sulyect; to us, — Avho do not so sc[)arate the dramatic forms, since even Shakespeare has not so separated them, for to him farra ther out of every ma- terial a particular form arose naturally, fashioned according to inner laAvs, — to us, the story groAvs out of the peculiar natiu-e of the characters. This Shylock first connects the plot of the action Avith this Aiitonio, through this Eassanio; these men, their characters, and motives exist for our ^loet before the plot, Avhich results from their co-operation. Granted, that the subject Avas transmitted to the 2>oet, and that here as in All's Well that Ends Well, he held himself conscientiously bound to the strangest of all materials: that which most distinguishes him and his poetry, that in Avliich he maintains his freest motion, that from Avliich he designs the stmcture of his pieces, and e\'en creates the giA^en subject ancAv, is eA^er the characters themselves and the motiACs of their actions. Here the poet is ever himself, ever great, ever ingenious and original ; the story (jf his i)lays is for the THK :\IF,Kf'HANT OF VENICE, 325 most part hoiroAvod , often strange, without prohubility, and in itself of no value. Unconcerned he allows them to remain as a poetic symbol for every thing analogous which might be possible in reality ; he investigates human nature, the qualities and passions which probably would be capable of committing such an action, and he now presents to view the sjuings of these passions, of these dispositions of mind and character, in a simple jncture, from which Ave are indeed never led to an abstract sentence, like Ulrici's. What we may call the leading idea, the acting soul, in Shakespeare's plays, ever expresses plainly and simply a single relation, a single passion or form of character. The nature and i)ro- perty of love and jealousy, the soap-l)ubbl('s thrown forth by the thirst for glory, irresolution avoiding its task, these are the images, the vicAvs, Avliich lionieo and Othello, Love's Labour's Lost and Hamlet present to us, and from Avhich, Avithout aphorism and reflection, rarely fix)m tlie action and story considered by itself, but ever from a closer investiga- tion of the motives of the actors theanselves, avo perceive the poet's purpose. It is just this Avhich Shakespeare him- self in Hamlet demanded from tlie art: that it sliould hold the mirror up to nature, that it should giv(> a representation of life, of men, and their operating poAvers, by Avhich means it Avorks indeed morally, but in the j)urest poetic wav, by image, by lively representation, and by imaginative skill. To perceive and to knoAV the virtues and crimes of men, to reflect them as in a mirror and to exliibit them in llicir sources, their nature, their Avorkings, and their results, and in sucli a Avay, as to exclude ( liancc; and (o Itaiiisli ar])i(rarv fate, Avln'ch can liaAc no [»lacc in a \\ell-f)r(h'vcd woi'ld, this ;">26 SFiOND ri.KIOl) Ol' Sll \Ki;sPKAKK S I)i;\M\riC rOETliY. is tlir liixk, wliicli 8hakfs[)('aic lias iiuposcd upon the poot aiitl iij»(»ii liiiMsclt. \\c will now say, wliat refit'ctions the Merchant of" \'cni(r has excited in our own mind, ^^'e liavi' heard ahove, how (losson desij^nated the moral of a piece, whose purport we have siijjposcd the same as that of the Merchant of \'e- nice : it represented "the greedmesse of Avorldly chusers and the hloody mindes of usurers". In Shakespeare's time, tlie idea and aim of a sta<>e-i)iece was always conceived in such a simple , })ractically moral manner. In a similar wav , in order to keep with the spirit of the time , we ought always to note the kernel of the pieces of that age , and in doing this, we ought even not to avoid the risk of appearing trivial. We could after our own fashion say in a more abstract and ])retentious form, that the intention of the poet in the Mer- chant of Venice was to depict the relation of man to pro- })erty. The more commonplace this might appear, the more worthy of admiration is that which Shakespeare, in his embodiment of this subject, has accomplished Avith extra- ordinary, profound, and poetic poAver. If we look back to the pieces Avhich we have previously perused, but still more wdien we shall have gone through the rest of the works belonging to this period , and at its close shall revert to Shakespeare's life, we shall see our poet throughout the whcde s])h('iii i)ircc (lifii. this idea so (loniinaiit in tlic |MK I's iiiiiul has been giasiu'd in its very centre. The ycnl ot'thi' worhl, tlie iniajj^e of show, the symbol of all external tilings, is money, and it is so called by Shakespeare and in ;ill j)r(>verl)s. To examine the relation of man to ])roperty, to money, is to place their intrinsic value on the finest scale, and to separate that Avhicli belongs to the unessential, to outward things, from that which in its inward nature relates to a higher destiny. As attributes of show, gold and silver, misleading and testing, are taken as tlu' material of Por- tia's caskets, and liassanio's comments on the caskets mark the true meaning of the piece : "So may the outward shows be least themselves ; . The Avorld is still deceived with ornament. In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt, But, being season'd with a gracious voice, Obscui'es the show of evil? In religion, ^Vhat damned error, but some sober brow \M11 bless it, and approve it Avith a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament ? There is no vice so simple, but assumes Some mark of virtue on its outward parts. How many cowards assume but valour's excrement, To render them redoubted. Look on beauty, And you shall see 'tis purchased by the weight ; So are those crisped snaky golden locks, \\'^hicli make such wanton gambols with the wind, Upon supposed fairness, often known To be the dowry of a second head, The scull that bred them, in the sepulchre. Thus ornament is ])ut the guiled shore To a most dangerous sea ; the beautious scarf Veiling an Indian beauty ; in a word, The seeming truth which cunning times put on To entrap the wisest". The chooser therefore turns away from the gold and THE MERCHAN'I' OF \ EXICE. 329 silver, as from the current and received image of tliat }»rcca- rious shoAv, and turns to the lead, "which rather threatenest, than doth promise aught". And so, not his relation alone, but the relation of a number of beings to this perishable false good, gold, is depicted in our piece. An abundance of characters and circumstances displays liow the possession produces in men barbarity and cruelty, hatred and obdiuacy, anxiety and indifterence, spleen and fickleness , ami again how it calls forth the highest virtues and qualities , and by testing, confirms them. Ijut essentially the relation of the outward possession to an inclination entirely inward, to friendship, is placed prominently forward.' And this is indeed inserted by the poet in the original story, yet not arbitrarily interwoven Avith it, but developed according to its inmost nature from the materials given. For the question of man's relation to property is ever at the same time a question of his relation to man , as it cannot be imagined apart from man. The miser, who seeks to deprive others of possession and to seize upon it liiinself, Avill hate and will be hated. The spend -thrift, who gives and bestows, loves and will be loved. The relation of both to possession, their riches or their poverty, Avill, as it changes, also change their relation to their fellow men. Fen- this reason the old story of Timon, handled ])y our poet in its profoundest sense, is at once a history of prodigality, and a liistory of false friend- ship. And thus has Shakespeare , in the poem before us, represented a genuine Inotlierliood between the pictures he sets forth of avarice and prodigalily, of hard usury and inconsiderate extravagance, so that the piece may jiisl as Avell be.called a song of (rue friendship. 'J'lie mos( unselfisli spiritual affection is placed in contrast to the most selfish WM) sKcoNH ri:Kioi) ok sii \ki;sim; akk's di; \^I \iic vokthy. worldh (IMC. till' most essential truth to unessential show. For »'vcn sexual love in its purest and deepest form, througli the addition of sensual enjoyment^ is not in the same mea- sure free from selfishness, as friendship , an inclination of the soul, which is wholly based upon tlic absence of all egotism and self-love, and wliose purity and elevation is tested by nothing so truly, as by the exact opposite, the point of possession, which excites most powerfully the self- ishness and self-interest of men. And now we shall see, how the apparently disparate circumstances of our piece work wonderfully one into the other, and with what wisdom the principal characters are arranged with respect to each other. In the centre of the actors in the play, in a rather passive position, stands Antonio, the princely merchant, of enviable immense possessions, a Timon, a Shylock, in riches, but Avith a noble nature elevated far above the effects, which wealth produced in these men. Placed between the gener- ous and the miser, between the spend-thrift and the usurer, between Bassanio and Shylock, between friend and foe, he is not even remotely tempted by the vices , into which these have fallen ; there is not the slightest trace to be discovered in him of that care for his wealth, which Salanio and Salarino impute to him, who in its possession wmild be its slaves. Jiut his great riches have inflicted another evil upon him, the malady of the rich, who have been agitated and tried by nothing, and have never experienced the pressure of the world. He has the spleen, he is melancholy ; a sadness has seized In'iu, the source of which no one knows; he has a presentiment of some danger, such as Shakespeare always imparts to all sensitive, susceptible natures. In this THE :MERCHANT of VENICE. 331 spleen, like all hypochondriacs, he takes delight in cheerful society ; he is surrounded by a number of parasites and flatterers, among- whom is one more noble character, Has- sanio, with whom alone a deeper impulse of friendship con- nects him. He is affiible , mild , generous to all , without knowing their tricks , without sharing their mirth ; the loquacious versatility, the humour of a Gratiano is nothing to him; his pleasure in thoir intercourse is passive, according to his universal apathy. His nature is quiet and is with difficulty affected ; when his ])roperty and its management leaves him Avithout anxiety, he utters a "fie, fie" over the supposition, that he is in love; touched by no fault, but moved also by no virtue , he appears passionless , almost an automaton. It is a doubly happy position, which the poet has given him in the midst of the more active characters of the piece : for were he of less negative greatness , he would throw all others into deep shadow ; we should feel too pain- ful and exciting a sympathy in liis subsequent danger. Jiut he is not, therefore, to appear quite feelingless. For in one point he shows that he shared gall, flesh, and blood with others. When brought into contact with the usurer, the Jew Shylock^ Ave see him in an agitation, which partly flows from moral and business princ-iples, partly from intolerance, and from national religious aversion. Tliis point of honour in the merchant against the money-changer and usurer, urges him to those glaring outbursts of hatred, when he rates Shylock in the Rialto about his usances, calls liim a dog, foots him, and sjuts upon his beard. For tliis he receives a lesson for life in his lawsuit with the .Jew, wliich witli liis apathetic negligence he allows to run ahead of liim. The danger of life seizes liini , ;iih1 the ap])areii(ly insensible '.V.V2 N|((iM) i'i:i;i()i) nv sii \ki-.si'i;ai;i. ^ i»i;\\i\ii( imuviky. in;m i> sutldrnly ihawii closiM- fi> us; he is sufteiing, so tliat hinli and low iiitorccdc fur liiin ; he himself petitions Shyloik ; his situation weakens liini ; the experience is not h)st for him; it is a i-risis , it is the creation of a new Hfc for liim : fiiialK . wlien lie is h)r(l and master over Shyh)ck, he rakes up no more his oUl hatred against him, and in liassanio's ha})piness and tried friendship there lies henceforth for the man roused from his apathy, the source of renovated and ennobled existence. Unacquainted witli this friend of IJassanio's, there lives at lielniont his beloved Portia, the contrast to Antonio, upon ■whom Shakespeare has not hesitated to heap all the active (pialities, of which he has deprived Antonio; for in the womanly being kept modestly in the backgrcjund , tliese (pialities will not apjiear so overwhelmingly prominent, as we felt that, united in the man, they Avould have raised him too far above the other characters of the piece. Nevertheless Portia is the most important figure in om- drama, and slie forms even its true central point, as for her sake, without her fault or knowledge, the knot is entangled, and thnmgh her and in her conscious effort it is also loosened. She is just as royally rich as Antonio, and as he is encom- passed with parasites , so is she by suitors from all lands. She too, like Antonio, and more than he, is wholly free from every disturbing influence of her possessions upon her inner being. She carries out her father's will, in order to secure herself from a husband , who miglit pmxhase her beauty by the w^eight. "Without this will, she was of herself of the same mind; Avoocd by princely suitors, she loves Jiassanio, whom slie knew to be utterly poor. She too, like Antonio, is melancholy, but not from spleen, not from THE MERCHANT OF VEKICE. 333 apathy, not without cause, not from that ennui of riches, hut just from passion, from her love for Bassanio, from care for the doubtful issue of that choice, which threatens to betray her love to chance. A completely superior nature, she stands above Antonio and Bassanio , as Helena above Jiertrani, more than llosaline above Biron and Juliet above Romeo : it seems that Shakespeare at that time created and endowed his female characters in the conviction, that the woman was fashioned out of better material than the man. On account of the purity of her nature , she is compared to the image of a saint, on account of the strength of her will to Brutus' Portia ; Jessica speaks of her as without her fellow in the world , giving to her husband the joys of heaven upon earth. The most beautiful and the most contradictory qualities, manly determination and Avomanly tenderness, are blended together in her. She is musical and energetic, playful and serious ; she is at once clieerful and devout, not devout before , but after action ; and even her society is so chosen; her friend Nerissa is of the same nature, full of raillery and playfulness, but of such vigorous power, and so much attached to Portia, that she only promises her hand to Gratiano in case Bassanio's choice has a successful issue. To this man of her heart Portia represents herself as a rough jewel, although she is fixr superior to him ; she gives herself to liim with the most womanly modesty, although she is capable rather of guiding him. She is superior to all circumstances , that is her highest praise ; she would have accommodated herself to any husband , for this reason her father miglit have felt himself justified in [)rescribing the lottery ; he could do so wdth the most implicit confidence ; she knows the contents of tlie caskets, but she betrays it I^!VI SF.roM) I'KKIOl) OK Sll \KKS1'1:\KK's 1)1{AM\II( I'OKl'HY. H(»i. Oiicf slic has sent t'loui licv eyes spoecliless mes- siiiTcs to Hassiinio, and now she would ,<>ladlv entertain liini some niontlis before lie chooses , that she may at least secure a short possession ; Init no liint from her facilitates his election. And yet she has to strng'gle with the warm feelinn', wliicli loni>s to transgress tlic will: it is a tem])ta- tion to her, bnt she resists it with honour and resolution. Only, quick in judgment, skilled in the knoAvledge of men, and firm in her treatment, she knows how to frighten away tlic \ittcrly ^\(»rthless lovers* by her behaviour; so superior is she in all this, that her subsequent appearance as judge is perfectly conceivable. Famous actresses, such as Mrs. Clive in Gamck's time, have used this judgment -scene as a burlesque to laugh at, a part in Avhich the highest pathos is at work, and an exalted character pursues the most pure and sacred object. lietween both, Portia and Antonio, stands Bassanio, the fiiend of the one, the lover of the other, utterly poor between the two boundlessly rich, ruined in his circum- stances, inconsiderate, extravagant at the expense of his friend. He seems quite to belong to the parasitical class of Antonio's friends. In disposition he is more inclined to the merry Gratiano than to Antonio's severe gravity; he appears on the stage wdth the question — " When shall avc laugli .'"' and he joins with his frivolous companions in all cheerful and careless folly. This time he borroAvs once more three thousand ducats , to make a strange Argonautic * Portia's humorous review of them must have rested on an inclination common at the time to ridicule in this manner the charac- ters of foreign nations, since Sully puts quite a similar review in the mouth of his Henrv IV THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 335 expedition to the Golden Fleece, staking- them on a blind adventure, the doubtful wooing of a rich heiress. His friend breaks his habit of never borrowing on credit, he enters into an agreement with the Jew upon the bloody condition, and the adventurer accepts the loan Avith the sacrifice. And before he sets forth, even on the same day and evening, lie pmchases fine livery for his servants with this money, and gives a merry feast as a farewell , during which the daughter of the invited .Jew is to be carried oif by one of the free-thinking fellows. Is not the whcde, as if he were only the seeming friend of this rich man , that he might borrow his money, and only the seeming lover of this rich lady, that he might pay his debts with her money ( But this quiet Antonio seemed to know the man of bad appearance to be of better nature. He knew him indeed as somewhat too extravagant but not incurably so, as one who was ready and able even to restrict himself. He knew him as one Avho stood "within the eye of honour", and he lent to him, Avithout a doubt of his integrity. His confidence was unlimited , and he blames him rather that he slioidd "make question of his uttermost", than if he had made waste of all he has. In his melancholy, it is this man alone wlio chains him to the world ; their friendship needs no brilliant words, it is unfeignedly genuine. His eyes, full of tears at parting, tell liassanio, what he is worth to Antonio ; it is just the acceptance of the loan which satisfies Antonio's confidence. The down -right and regardless Gratiano, whose jests, favdtless to his friend, arc an offence to the Avorld, he enjoins seriously as to behaviour and habits in his courting expedition to the noble Portia, and that parting supper helped to a virtuous sin, in AvithdraAving the loveliest '.\'M\ NiioM) n.iiioD or sii AKKsri; akk's dknmvik i'okikv. iliiUi;lil«T iVuiii the iiiiisi uimatuial I'atlu'r. ^^'lll'll lie cniiics til I'ditia, ]iv ai( I'tk's not to her tender woiiuuily ijioposal that he shouhl safely t'l'joy two nioiitlis' intercourse with her; he will not live upon the rack, and he insists with iiiaiilv resolution upon the decision. Jlis choice, the very motives of his choice, exhibit hiui us the man not of show, but of genuine nature; his significant speech upon this fundamental theme of the piece stands here in the true centre of the play. The scene of his choice, accompanied b\ uuisic and followed by Portia's anxious glances and torturing agony, must be seen to be enjoyed: the amiability and sincerity of both is here in its greatest glory. When he perceives the portrait, he devines indeed his happiness, but he ventures not yet to hope it, and in spite of his agitation he seems absorbed only with the work of art ; when the scroll announces to him his triumph , (a flourish of instruments will set forth his words in their true light) he will nevertheless first obtain confirmation from the original, and she who had before followed tremblingly every move- ment, recovers her composure at the happy decision, and in language full of womanly devotion recalls the man to himself, dazzled as he is by his good fortune. liassanio's choice is crowned by success, or more justly: his wise consideration of the father's object and of the mys- terious problem, meets with its deserved reward. l>ut his beautiful doctrine of show is to be tested immediately, whether it be really deed and truth. Ilis adventm-ous expedi- tion has succeeded through his friend's assistance and loan. I»ut at the same moment, in which he is at the climax of his happiness, his friend is at the climax of misfortune and in the utmost danger of his life, and this from the verv THE MEKCHANT OF VENICE. 337 assistance and loan, which have helped Bassanio to his success. In the very prime of his wedding happiness the horror of the intelligence concerning Antonio occurs. Now the genuineness of the friend shows itself. The intelligence disturbs his whole nature. He goes on his wedding-day — Portia herself permits not, that they should be married first, — to save his friend, to pay thrice the money borrowed, in the hope of being able to turn aside the law in this case of necessity. Jiut Portia proves even here her superior nature. She sees more keenly, what an inevitable snare the inhuman Jew has dug for Antonio; she adopts the surest idea, of saving him by right and law itself; she had at the same time a plan for testing the man of her love. Even with this, the idea of the design of the Avhole piece concurs most closely. Her own choice had been denied her by her father's arrangement; her delight in liassanio rested not on a long acquaintance; the alliance made by chance appears to her to acquire its true consecration and security by one solemn trial ; she will test him and liis friend , she Avill test him by his friendship. She conceives the friendship of her husband, as brides so readily do , in the most ideal manner; Lorenzo praises her noble conception of friendship, even before he knows what she has done ; she wishes to convince herself of the nature of this friendship, in order that she may conclude from it the nature of Hassanio's love. She saves her friend ihnn despair, and his friend from death, at the same moment that amid tluMr lorments she is observing their value. Antonio has in this catastrophe to atone for all that he had sinned against Shylock through sternness, Bassaniofbr alllhat of A\liich he was guilty through frivolity, extravagance, and participation in tlie offences I. 22 3:^S si:(()Nn iMuioi) ni- sii aki'si'kxuk's dkam atk roiriuv. ;iL;;iiiisl the .Irw : the Ix-'st |);nt of" both is cxliihilcd tluoiij^li their MiU'eriiii^s in tlieir love for cacli other, and Antonio's words, (ho seal of this friendslii]) , miisl liave penetrated (U'oply into Portia's heart. Hnt with equally great agitation she hears the words of Rassanio, that he would sacrifiee his wife, his hitest lui})piness, to avert the misfortune wliicli lie liad laused. This disregard of her nnist enehant her : tins was standing- the fiery test. AVhilst she turns the words into a jest, she has the deepest emotion to overcome : with those Avords, the sin is forgiven of Avhich Bassanio Avas guilty. By his readiness for this sacriiice he first deserves the friend, whom he had brought near to death through the wooing- of this wife and the means of pressing his suit, wliich Antonio had given him ; and hy this also he first deserves his wife, Avho could not be called happily won by a fortunate chance, which Avas at once the evil destiny of his friend. This trial of Bassanio is carried on by Portia in the last act of the piece. It has always been said of this act , that it Avas added for the satisfaction of an aesthetic necessity, to efface the painful impression of the judgment- scene, but it serves at once also to satisfy the moral interest, by a last proof of the genuineness of this friendship. The helpful judge demands from Bassanio, as a reAvard, the ring, which his Avife had forbidden him to give aAvay. Antonio himself begs him to give the ring , and places his friendship in the scale against his Avife's commandment ; love and friendship come into a final collision , amusing- to the spectator, but most serious to those tested by it : friend- ship nnist carry the day, if loA^e is to be genuine. He puts liis wife after his friend, because he obtained his Avife only by means of his friend. And he proves thus in an emergency THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 339 which placed a painful choice before liim , tliat he was in earnest in those w^ords , that lie would sacrifice his Avife to his friend, that his friend might not fall a sacrilice to his wife. He piTAes in this severe Erntus-like sentence against that which was his dearest treasure, that he is worthy of this Portia. These are tlie several characteristics of the noblest cij'cunistances, relations, and intricacies between man and man, between wortli and possession. Shylock is the con- trast, which we hardly need explain, although indeed in this age of degeneration of art and morals, lowness and madness could go so far as to make a martyr on the stage of this outcast of humanity. The poet has certainly given to this character, in order that he may not sink quite below our interest, a perception of his paria-condition, and has imputed liis outbursts of hatred against Christians and aristocrats, partly to genuine grounds of annoyance. More- over he has not delineated the usurer from the hatred of the Christians of that time against all that was Jewish, else he would not have imparted to Jessica her lovely character. Hut of the emancipation of the Jew he knew indeed nothing, and least of all of the emancipation of this Jew, whom Hur- badge in Shakespeare's time acted in a character fright fid also in exterior, w^ith long nose and red hair, and whose inward deformity, whose hardcncMl nature, is far less deter- mined by religious bigotry, than by the most terrible of all fanaticism, that of avarice and usury. Jle hates indeed the Christians as Christians, and therefore Antonio who has mis- treated him; but he hates him far more, because by disin- terestedness, by what he calls "low sim])li(ity", he destroys his business, because lie lends out money gratis, brings 22* :M0 si.( om) ri:Ki(>i) oi- sii aki;si'i; akk s 1)1{amatic i'oi'.thy (low 11 till' liito <>t usaiicrj and lias lost liiiii lialla luilliini. Kit lu's Iia\i' iiia'.le liini tlie urcatcfst contrast to that which llicv have vciulcrcd Antonio, wlio tliroii<^liout appears in- (litirrcnt, incautious, carcles.s , and generous. Sliylock on the other hand is meanly careful, cautiously circumspect, svstematieally quiet, ever inwardly shufflinyly occujiied, like the genuine son of his race, disdaining not the most eontem])tihle means, nor the most contemptible object, spe- culating in the gaining of a penny , looking so far into the future and into small results, that he sends the greedy Lauucelot into Bassanio's service, and against his principle he eats at night at Bassanio's house , only for the sake of feeding upon the prodigal Christian. This trait is given to him by the poet in a truly nuistcrly manner, in order sub- sequently to explain the barbarous condition, on Avhich he lends Antonio that fatal sum. Shakespeare after his habit has done the utmost, to give probability to this most im- probable degree of cruelty, Avhich, according to Bacon's words, appears in itself to every good mind, a fabulous tragic fiction. Antonio has mistreated him ; at the moment of the loan he was like to mistreat him again ; he challenges him to lend it as to an enemy; he almost suggests to him the idea, which the .Jcav places, as if jestingly, as a condition of the loan ; and he , the man railed at for usury, wall iiow generously grant it without interest, to the man who never borrowed upon advantage. The same crafty speculation and prospect which, at all events, is attended with one advantage, miderlies this idea : m one case the show of disinterested- ness, in the other the opportunity for a fearful revenge. Had the .Jew really only partially trifled with the idea of such a revenge, the poet does everything to make the jest THE ^rI-,K(•lIA^■T of vi'.NinE. 341 fearfully earnest. Money had effaced everything human from the heart of this man , lie knows nothing of religion and moral law^ but Avhen he quotes the Bible in justification of his usury ; he knows of no mercy , but to which he can be compelled; nothing of justice and mercy dwells in him, nothing of the aff'ection of kindred. His daughter is carried away from him ; he is furious, not because he is robbed of her, but because she has robbed him in her flight; he woidd see his daughter dead at his feet, provided that the jewels and gems were in her ears; he Avould see her hearsed before • him, provided the ducats Avcre in her coffin. He regrets the money employed in her pursuit; when he hears of her extra- vagance, the irretrievable loss of his ducats occasions fresh rage. In this condition he pants for revenge against Antonio, even before there is any prospect of it, against the man, \vlio by long mortifications had stirred up rage and hatred in the bosom of the Jew, and with A\hose removal his usury would be without an adversary. Obduracy and callousness con- tinue to progress in him, luitil at the pitch of his wickedness he falls into the pit he had dug, and then, according to the notions of the age, learns from the actions of Antonio and of the Duke, how mercy in a (Hiristian spirit jn-oduces oilier actions, than the unmerciful god of the world, who imposed upon him its laws alone. This awful pictiu-e of (he effects of a thirst for possession, however strongly it is exhibited, Avill appear as no caricatme to him, who has ever stumbled upon similar evidences in the actual woild , in the histories of gamblers and misers. The sense, which we have uoav given lo the Alcrcliimt of Venice, perfectly coincides witli all, even (he subordinate characters of the piece. Thus it is with (he self-interested :i42 M.o'.M' ri;i;uM) ov siiakksi'kakk s duam aiic voktuv. suitors lit' Pitilia, ^vho, c-onuptctl by glitter and show, fluiosi' iimiss. 'I'liiis is it also Avith the parasitical conipa- uions of Antonio, who forsake him with his fortune, those loquacious half- friends, w'ho forebode his danger before he does, aiul do not even Avrite to JJassanio. Thus again, with Lorenzo and Jessica, an extravagant, giddy couple, who free from restraint, squander their pilfered gold in Genoa, and give it away for monkeys, and reach lielmont like famished people. The little Jessica is placed no higher bv the poet, than she could be witliout a mother in the society of Shylock and Launcelot, with a mind entirely (hildlike, naive, true, and spotless, and if we may trust Lorenzo's Avords and her sure perception of the greatness of Portia, with a capacity for true wisdom. Thus as she is, she is thoroughly a modest child, Avhom on the threshold of moral consciousness , unnatural circumstances have driven to feel ashamed of her father, to fly from him concealed in boy's clothes, a dress painful to her easily excited modesty. Thus delicately feminine, she has no scruples of conscience, to steal herself the ducats and the jewels of her father. A new relation to possession is brought to view in this natm-e : it is that of the inexperienced child, who is quite unacquainted with the value of money, who innocently throws it away in trifles, having learnt in lier paternal home neither domestic habits nor economy. hi this, liOrenzo is only too congenial with her, although he would have her believe , that he was as a num , what Portia is as a woman ; Antonio , who knows them better, takes both under his guardianship, and manages their inheritance for them. Launcelot also bears a relation to the common idea of the piece. Greedy and rough as he is. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 343 he also has an inclmation to want economy; thns as he knows Bassanio , he would live hetter in the house of the Jew , but out of a sense of honour , he would rather go to the generous poor man, tluui remain Avith the rich miser. Otherwise the scene with his father, as we have already pointed out, is exhibited in parodic contrast to Jessica's relation to hers. The emphasis of that scene lies in the Avords that the son of a father must ever come to liglit, that childlike feeling can never be renounced, not even by so coarse and blunt a fellow as this. How^ much more should this be with a being so ethereal as Jessica ! But that it is not so, is the strongest shadow thrown by the poet upon Shy- lock; he has intended by this to cast none upon Jessica. "She is damn'd," says Shylock. "That's certain, if the devil may be her judge," answers Salarino. TI. HISTORICAL PIECES. We luive gone througli the group of erotic plays belonging to the second period of Shakespeare's dramatic poetry, and ^\c turn now to the group of histories, Avhich is ananged according to time in the folloAving manner. Richard III., which is closely linked by its subject Avith the three parts of Henry VI., Avhich ^ye have discussed, stands also as to time the first of Shakespeare's independent histories. The composition of tlic last parts ofHenrvM. occurs not long before 1592; Collier places Richard III. in 159.3, later editors assume that it Avas Avritten somcAvhat later, not long before the first publication of the piece (1 597). To the tetralogy thus completed of the rise and fall of the house of York, Shakespeare then opposed tlie tetralogy of the rise of the House of Lancaster: Richard II., printed likcAvise in 1 59 7, must have been written betAveen Richard III. and Henry IV., certainly not long after the earlier piece; the tAvo parts of Henry IV. betAveen 1597 — 9S, Henry V. in 159!). King .John is distinct as to subject and purport from this series; as to the time of its origin, it belongs to this second period of the poet's Avritings (before 159S). II. HISTORICAL pip:ces. 345 Henry VIII. alone belongs to the third period, and from this and other grounds will be discussed in another place. The poet here moves in a clearly opposite sphere. Hitherto we have seen him in the range of private life , of personal existence, insinuating himself into the internal history of single beings, or occupied with the productions of their brains ; here, in this series of historical pieces , he is in the wide outward sphere of public life, deeply engaged with states and histories , and stirred by thoughts political and national , not merely by moral ideas and psychological truths. And in this field of action and noble ambition, the poet shows himself no less at ease than in the regions of man's internal life of thought and feeling. Fettered by historical tradition and by the sober reality of the subject, he is as a poet no less great than in the fantastic creations of the comedies, which are his own invention. The bound- less scope, that this two-fold diffusion of the mind of Shake- speare gave to his poetry , lies before us ; the superiority of human endowments , which his two - sided natiu'e expresses , Ave shall only endeavour to illustrate by a single comparison, easily understood by us Germans. It was Goethe's repeated complaint, that in his German society, the great historical and political life in Avhich Shakespeare moved, was missing, that the great market of popular intercourse, which might have accustomed him early to a comprehensive liistorical survey, was lacking; and we must indeed acknowledge that under this want, liis ])oetic genius, however great we esteem it, l)ecanu' contracted and stunted, and remained below the nu'asure of tliat whicli, under otlier circumstances, it w(»uld have accomplished and effected. That wliich Shakespeare united in himself, we ■.vlT) sKcoM) n.moi) oi- >ii \Ki:sn-,AKi: s dkxmvik roinuv. possess, but (li\i(U'il l»(M\\('(Mi our two dramatists: tlie j^rrat historic ill litV ot" oulwaril aitiou in the historical dramas of Schilh-r. to A\lioiu ilu- sensitive side of men was not ri«\tNih'1^ Ni(oM> I'Mjion iM Ml \Ki;srK \i;k s i)i;\M\ric t'oftkv. to kiiuw tlii'iusi'lvrs ill llic midst of successful events. How does the i)nliii(ul heart tluob, how repeatedly in Shake- speare is that c()U7isel of 'rhemistoclcs advanced, Avliich enjoins on England to place all lier power and confidence oil her coast and her vessels, a counsel whicli has heeu ri'-|)cated unnumbered thnes by orators in I'arliament with Shakespearian quotations. The whole age influenced the ireation and the spirit of these historical pieces, and these again had a corresponding influence upon the patriotic s}»irit of the people. It is still the chief design of these works, to remind the English peojile of the earlier period of their political greatness, and to bring again before them their Edwards, their Henrys, their Talbots, and the terrors of the French. Jiut of how much consequence this must have been in an age, when the self-forgetfulness of nations was general , when few read history, is obvious in itself. A national history, not even to be read, but to be looked at, Avhich now galled by the representation of shameful discords and defeats, now raised and animated by the description of great deeds of old, what a possession must this have been at that time, for a revived imaginative people, when still later, when even at the present day, these pieces have preserved the same signification, when statesmen like jNIarlborough and Chatham acknowledge of themselves, that Shakespeare was the first source of their knowledife of English liistorv. 'What English blood", exclaims Thomas Hey wood in his Apology for Actors ri612), "seeing the person of any bold Englishman ])resented in our national histories, and doth not huL; his fame and cherish liis valor, pursuing him in his enterprise with his best wishes, as if the personator were the man persouat''d :* What coa\ ard to see his countryman II. HISTOEICAL PIECES. 349 valiant, would not be ashamed of liLs own eowaidiee ? What English prince, should he behold Henry V., or the pour- traiture of that famous Edward III., foraging France, taking so great a king captive in his own country, would not be suddenly inflamed with so royal a spectacle!" "Where is the man", he waites in another passage, "where is the man of that weak capacity that cannot discourse of any notable thing recorded even from William the (conqueror, nay from the landing of Brutus until this day .'' For the historical plays teach history to those who cannot read it in tlie chronicles, these plays are written with this aim, to teach subjects obe- dience, to represent the untimely ends of such as have moved insurrections, and the flourishing estate of such as prove themselves faithful and keep clear of traitorous stratagems". This common political and patriotic significance of these pieces is far greater than tlieir historical value in itself. W. Schlegel Avent so far as to say, that "in Shakespeare's histories the leading features of events were so faithfully conceived, their causes and even their secret motives so clearly penetrated, that the trutli of history might be learned from them". It is in no wise so; and this indeed for one reason. The exact features of history and the true motives of actions, w^e learn throughout only from the most con- scientious comparison and examination of all possible con- temporaneous sources. ]>ut Sliakespeare was far from taking upon himself this business of the historian, and lie has only wisely acted. He has essentially followed only one single authority, Ilolinshed's (Jhrttnicle , which appeared in 1577 in two folio volumes, and in an enlarged edition in 15SG — S7. How he made use of this authority and of few other historical soiux-es , how far he adhered to it , or :5r>(> siToM) n:i;it>i> OK sii \i liist(n-i(al phxys of 81iakos])oaic (1 840), and hi' coiuos to the conclusion that -the historical value of these pieces must not be too hifjhly estimated, a con- (lusion whicli is not dero<^atory to the poet, hut uuicli latlu'v brini;s liim oiih greater lioiiouv. Shakespeare lias had but one law in the using of each and all of his sources, a law wliich he applied equally to the driest historical chronicle as to the most fantastic novel : he sought after nature and inner trutli ; and tliis he took possession of as liis property wlierevcr he found it, and the opposite he rejected whatever authority might hold it out to him. He fomid in Plutarch historical traits and motives in the simple nature of antiquity, such as were unconditionally agreeable to his human man- ner of reflection , and he transcribed them exactly with remarkable self-denial in his Roman pieces ; he found on the other hand a crude circumstance without motive in a legendary fragment of prince Hamlet, and from it with self-inventive power he formed that profound poem out of actions and motives, which must entirely be regarded as his property; in a middle degree of availability between these two sources, he found historical annals in Holinshed intermixed with uncertain legends and myths, and he observed towards this chronicle throughout the same con- (liK t , whicli ever modified, according to the nature of the sources put before him, the freedom and constraint of his use of them. He shifted together a series of facts which displayed a unity of action , he respected the law of inward truth, not that of chronology nor all that which may be called outward truth ; he included different actions under the same cause and referred them to the same author, that he might II. HISTORICAL PIECES. 351 avail himself of" the riches of history , without renouncing unity of action; he rejected other facts, which suited not this unity. The historian has to take care of trying to guess at the motives of men from sources like Holinshed's chronicle ; to invent them would be on his side a perfect mistaking of his science and its object ; but it is just here in these secret precincts of history, that Shakespeare pene- trates boldly with that pragmatic metliod peculiar to the poet Where the historian, bound by an oath to the severest truth in every single statement, may at the most permit us to divine the causes of events and the motives of actions, from the bare narration of facts, the poet, who seeks to draw from these facts only a general moral truth and not one of fact, unites by poetic fiction the actions and the actors, in a distinct living relation of cause and effect. The more freely and boldly he does this , as Shake- speare in Richard III., the more poetically interesting will his treatment of the history become, but the more will it lose its historical value; the more truly and closely he adheres to reality, as in Richard II., the more will his poetry gain in historical meaning and forfeit in poetic splendour. Shakespeare has even here prescribed no rigid rule once for ever ; he allowed himself to be influenced by the nature of the subject, sometimes to the more free, sometimes to the more fcltcred mode of treatment. Only to one law does he appear to adhere throughout tliis class: that in his design of a poetical organi/ati(»n of a historical subject, he docs not interweave, as Scliiller did, imaginary actions, which interfere with the historical connection of events , without in any way belonging to the history. In Henry IV., where he Avent furthest in this respect, it was \\7y2 SKIOM) IMIilOD OK SIIAKKSlMvVKK S |)l;\M\IIC l'( »i; I |{ V. in llio I'utlitw iiiciit of one especial individualized cliaiaetev, like llcniN \'., when the ethical aim surpassed the politieal and lii>iiiiital; but even then these additions interfere not really with the historical events. It is a common pride on the part ot" the poets of these histories, and a natural peculiarity belonging to this branch, that truth and poetry should go hand in hand. It is more than probable that Henry VIII. bore earlier the title characteristic in this respect : All is True. Hut this truth is throughout, as we discover, not to be taken in the prosaic sense of the historian, who seeks it in the historical material in the smallest par- ticulars and according to its most different sides; but it is only one higher and universal truth, which is gathered by the poet from a series of historical facts , yet which from this very circumstance, that it springs from historical, true, and actual facts, and is supported and upheld by them, acquires, it must be admitted, a double authority, that of p(jetry and of history at the same time. The historical drama, formed of these two component parts, will be there- fore most agreeable to the imaginative friend of history and to the realistic friend of poetry. Considered from this aspect, it has been a strange fancy (jf our liomanticists that they make a show of wishing to raise these histories of iShakespeare above all his other works, they, Avho however were so little inclined to realistic poetry. A series of these pieces is certainly read with as much pleasure as the more independent tragedies of Shake- speare, but perhaps only because a psychologically inte- resting character, as in Richard III. , or just because non- historical elements, as in Henry IV., form the attraction. A severe line of division and boundary between history and II. HISTORICAL PIECES. 353 iudcpendciit diaiiia, Shakespeare has not (h-awn; many of these pieces from the faAourahle natm'e of the material or the greatness of the poet, have hecome tragedies, to which every aesthetic rule may be applied, and from which therefore a pure artistic enjoyment may be claimed. But just there, where the history is the purest as in Richard III., we have to work our Avay through heavy matter, which appears to check the flight of the poet as well as our own, Avhich must be mastered almost by historical study, but when it is mastered, presents, it must be admitted, a new and increasing enjoyment, such as we seek for in vain in dramas not historical. Before Ave consider Shakespeare's histories separately, we will endeavour to premise wherein lies this double quality, which the historical matter affords to this branch of the drama, matter, which on the ouc hand adds an intellectual value to it, and on the other detracts from its aesthetic merit. With regard first to the latter point, the historical truth inspires the poet with such great awe, he feels himself so constrained by it, that he forfeits by this means at least freedom of choice, and mucli also of freedom of treatment. When he sought material among the tales and mytlis of the middle ages, his choice was incomparably more extensive and he could ever grasp the boldest poetical subject; the motives were morecner fully placed in his hand. Hut in tlu' history of his fatherhuid, a subject like Henry V. had often great weight liistorically, Avhile poetically it was very empty ; causes and motives Avere here frequently dictated Avith the fact. To give to the historical story a charm like that of the myth and legend, Avliich is poetic in its origin, and tliat elasticity, u])ou the strength of Avliich a freely invented I. 23 i{r>-l SKCOM) niMon OK sil VKIsI'KAUk's I)K\M\II( I'OiriKV. storv rises to ;iii ivxcitiiii;' catastroplic, and tlial interest, wliicli lifs ill a fasiiiiating- plot, this is only possible to tlic poet, wlu'ii, as in Mtubcth, he has before liini a liistorical myth, that is to say, no strictly historical matter; it is at best jjos- sihlc in single rare cases, when liistory sti'ikingly harmonizes with poetry. Bnt in tlie coninion conrse of history, it ])re- sents only the daily detail of actual life and is destitute of tlie poetic stimulant. For that most perfect drama in Avhich, according to Aristotle, a fascinating entanglement and its solution, a misunderstanding and its explanation, are en- twined in tlie action, where, in consequence of this entangle- ment , a sudden change from happiness to misfortune , or from misfortune to happiness, occurs, — for this most poetic tlramatic creation, history very rarely presents a favourable subject. It is not the happy exciting arrangement of facts, so artistically calculated to act upon sympathy and fear, which in Henry V., in Henry YL, and in Richard II., is the prevailing charm, partly resting in its poetic form; the course of the action is rather plain and smooth, its elevating- character lies in the greatness of the facts, in the subject more than in the form, and that which is especially attrac- tive, is the historical value of the matter. As with the story, so is it with the characters. A series of liistorical facts might present to the poet a truth worthy of handling, but it linked it not with characters, whicli carried about tlieni tlie alhn- ing splendour of poetry, ronumce, and heroism; this withheld him not from writing a poem of the history of Henry V., who is not a character of imposing pathos, nor of tragic effect, but whose life runs rather in the quiet flow of the epos, and displays an ethical nature, the unpretending greatness of which can however just as much attract tlie thoughtful reader. II. HISTORICAL PIECES. 355 as the highly excited passion of a Macbeth or an Othello. And as it is with the story and the characters, so is it with the representation. History is often only a combination of given facts and their given causes, a dramatized chronicle. The scenes which carry on the political action, are destitute of the attraction of poetic diction , often even of individual and exact characteristics on the part of the actors. If indeed we examine closer, we shall find how, even here, the psy- chological deficiencies of the chronicle have been acutely and wisely supplied, and how the apparently slight work of the versification of historical scenes is rich in inner diffi- culty. Thus the diction of these historical pieces is less poetically elevated, the sober matter of reality fetters the wings of poetic language; but even on this point we can perceive a great advantage, which the substantial nature of these pieces has conferred on English dramatic poetry ; it led away from rhyme , from the style of conceits and anti- theses, from all the false tinsel of poetry, and it is evident that Shakes})eare, only when he was passing through this school and after he had finished it, acquired his perfect manner of dramatic representation, (xathering all together, it follows from what we^ have said, and without this analysis every one feels it, that the poetical charm of these historical pieces is inferior to that of Shakespeare's inde])endent dramas, from natural causes which belong to the historical material ; l)ut that this very historical nuitcrial evidences another pe- culiar nu'rit, to which non -historical dramas can lay less claim. It now remains to exhibit this merit more distinctly. In contrast to the historical play, the free poetic drama may be regarded, on tlie point of material, as the private domes- tic play, in which one common moral idea rules, expanded 2;j* ',\^A\ SI.((»M) n KltiD III" Sll \ KI.SIM'IAKk's I)K\M\I1( I'diriKV. ill iIk" otlifr iiild ;t political, i lie pciMHis nl' the ikhi - liis- tuiical ilraina act in moral icspoiisibility , us it were, oulv towards ihiMnsolvos and the siiuill circle near tliciii , \\lioiii their deeds affect; the historical characters on the otlu-r hand hear a wider ])olitical lesponsiliilty, while their actions iuriueuce an inconq)aral)l\ wider circle. TJie condiu t ot men, to whom the management of the state is entrusted, concerns whole countries and peoples, and extends its intluence far beyond the time, which their own life com- prehends. If by happy selection or invention, the story of a non-historical drama receives in its delineation of aiaantit- passions a boundless dej)th and intrinsic value, — a happily ehosen historical story possesses, on the other liand, by nature a boundless coinprchensiceness and a xcider value, dependent on the extent of the back-ground, both as regards time and space, that is to say, upon tlie historical ground itself, which, therefore, no non-historical drama can present. It is this wide -spread responsibility, this extensive agency of the political actor, Avhich has compelled the acceptaiue of another moral law, of another moral standard for history, than that relating to private life. In public life, faults are amplified into vices, and crimes again softened into pardon- able faults, by the mere measure of greater circumstances. With less sympathy do w^e look in the historical world, upon individuals who fall as a sacrifice, when their fall profits the whole conununity ; we look on those Avho sacrifice them, with moderated blame, when they appear as the vehicle for liigher aims. On the other hand, weakness of character in private life often ai)})ears only a laughable, inoffensive, indeed even a beneficial fault : but in Henry VI. we have seen that upon the throne, it is equal in the scale to the II. rilSI'ORICAL VIKCKS. 357 fearful weight of tlie most frightful crimes, because it dis- turbs and destroys a whole state. To Brackenburg in Eg- mont, Goethe probably wished to give with the name the same disposition of character, which Brackenbury bears in Richard III.; this one comparison between the pitiable weak prey to love and the detestable passive instrumenf of Richard's bloody schemes, teaches at one glance what a far more extensive interest, the mere public and political posi- tion bestows upon the same human nature, which in domestic life may appear in a wliolly different light. This ejibirged sphere, this greater ctliical standard, the poet obtains by entering the historical world , by gathering the breadth of history within the narrow limits of the drama. Shakespeare knew besides this, no positive law Avhich suited all cases. His comprehensive eye, therefore, was naturally attrac-ted by these materials, which showed him the work and conchut of man in an entirely new view. He found ideas in these materials which were capable of a poetic mode of contem- plation, and were of quite another nature to that which the common tragedies and comedies presented; the thoughts which strike us in these pieces , are not merely generally of a moral , but at the same time of a political nature. They are as such, not capable of the most severe formal concen- tration ; their representation required and necessitated a greater succession of circumstances and cluinges, which (an alone render perce])tible to llic senses tlic results of political actions: if it wore conccavable that a poet sliould catclia political idea, without beingexcitedby the history, he would be obliged to invent a wide historical sphere, in order to render obvious the nature of political actions and (heir wide-spreading effects. Nofliing is, tbcrcfovc, more natural ^5S si.i oNM n Kitm oi mi akistkaki: s dhammk roi;iUY. lliaii lli.il SliakopiMir iouiid tlu' scope of om- dranui too Uiuittw lor his dramatic treatment of" history, iiud that liis histories twice grouped themselves into tetralogies, both (tl" which work upon the same idea, ■which in a less lengthened material had only been im])erfeetly rendered perceptil)le. i'he rejjresentation of such ideas, as step heyond the domes- tie circle, of such characters as those, Avhose moral develop- ment requires just as much breadth as the passionate nature of tragic characters demands depth , of such actions as are incapable of com])ression into one catastrophe and re(|uire more epic fulness, this lias Shakespeare furnished in his histories, and has thus enriched dramatic poetry with a new species , which olfers to the serious reader less poetic enjoy- ment, but more ample matter for reflection. We have before laid stress on the fact , wlien we dis- cussed Hemy VI., that Shakespeare, even when he elaborated these pieces after Greene's original, surveyed aheady, as a whole , the history of the strife of the red and white Roses, penetrated the poetic value of these events , and probably even at that first commencement conceived the double plan, fkst of all to bring to an end the tragic decline of the house of York , adding Richard III. to the last part of Henry VI. ; but then to place in opposition to this tetralogy , the other of the rise of the house of Lancaster. We said there also, that the idea which rules the whole cycle of these eight ]>ieces, is the question, in what relation the claims of the here- ditary right of the inca))able, liowever good, who endanger throne and fatherland, stand to the claims of the merit of the capable, however bad, if they save and maintain the state. We will give our attention to this subject, considering first of all the close of the York tragedy, Richard III. RICHARD TIL It has before been incidentally mentioned that a Latin drama npon Richard III. was performed at Cambridge by Dr. Legge before 1583, and that an English tragedy, "the true tragedy of Richard III.", appeared in print in 1594, but which indeed may have been written about the year 1588. Both are published in the writings of the Shake- speare society; the first is an exercise of style and verse extended into three parts, which reminds us here and there of tShakespeare's work, only because the author uses the same historical source; the insignificant English piece, on the contrary, must have been known to Shakespeare, although his work scarcely shows one reminiscence of it. Richard Ill- is Shakespeare's first tragedy of undoubted personal author, ship ; it is written in connection with Henry VI. as its direct continual ion. The o[)(!uing scene, in which Richard reflects upon his path, is the sequel to tlie similar soliloquy in Henry VI. (Part IIT. Act 111. sc. 2.). In m;iny touches of character, the poet refers to lhat])iec('; Kichanrs pl;in of casting suspicion upon ( 'larence is preparcMl tlici-e ; llic whoK' ])osition of the aged Margaret falls back u[)(»n I be curse, which York pronounced against her in llcmy VI. (Pari 111. iUjO M(i>.M» I I K'oD ">i" sii \Ki.sri- \i;i; s iii;\M\ric voiTin'. \( I 1. sc. I.). Vol luTc, as in Ilciiiy VI., the pure dramatic toiiii is not so nnivtnsally adlicred to, as in llicliard II. Avlii( li iinnicdiatflv follows. In the scenes, Avliere the trilog\ of the conuuon iauicntatiou of the women (Act II. sc. 2. and \( I W. sc. 1.) changes like a chorus, dramatic truth is >acrifice nivioD or sh vkkspkakk's dunmvtic i'oktky. niarkotl out the ruin of the iirnuHl aristocracy, and the coni- monceinent ota new civil order. The peace, wliich .succeeded to the <;reat bloody drama of internal strife under Edward IV. is strikingly characterized by Shakespeare in the last acts of Henry VI. , and in the first of Richard 111. Tlie civil war had ceased ; but a domestic war in the ruling family forms a fearful sequel , and at last renders the royal palace a slaughter-house. On account of a foolish prophecy, the king prosecutes his faithful helper, his brother Clarence. The poor upstart family of his wife beset the throue greedily and with offensive arrogance, and feed the hatred, which without them Avas already growing up among the brothers of the house of York. Even in Henry VI., the two young brothers disdained the low inclination of the king in his union with an inferior family; in Richard III., he continues his voluptuous life with Mistress Shore, and his Hastings shares it with him. This sincere friend of the king's, who even after his death is opposed to Gloster's scheme for the young princes, is throwai into piison by the queen's relatives, and the favour alone of that amorous enchantress, will) holds the king enchained, again releases him. A deadly hatred is thus sown against the friends of the queen, stirred up by Gloster, both in him and in Buckingham. In this state of things the king's sickness happens; on his death-bed, a pretended peace, as the chronicle says, behind which secret plots lurk, is made between Grey and Rivers, the relatives of the queen, and Hastings and Buckingham, their enemies. The public voice (Act II. sc. 3.) compares the bad state of things , when Henry VI. stood surrounded by so many grave counsellois and relatives solely on his father's side, with the present state, wlien the relatives by RICHARD III. 363 father and mother oppose each other^ full of emulation and envy : "by a divine instinct", — these words Shakespeare indeed found in the chronicle — "men's minds mistrust ensuing- danger". The position of things , says Holinshed, and the temper of men was such , that no one could say, whom he ought to trust, whom he ouglit to fear. Tliere was a universal birth of hostility and hypocrisy, of inversion and dissimulation, and Shakespeare is historically fully justified in representing the age as a bare desert in men and characters, extirpated as they had been in the immense ravages of the civil Avars , and as a field ripe with intrigues and sneaking wickedness, which had groAvn up luxuriantly in the sudden change to peace and to Circean luxury at court. Perhaps there is nothing, which can initiate the mind so instantaneously into the historical feeling of our poet, and at once so deeply in the great moral earnestness with which he laboured at his work, than when we compare liis delineation of the times of Edward IV. , with the first part of the piece of this name by Thomas Heywood, in wliicli the intercourse of the king with the tanner of Tam- Avorth and Jane Shore, is represented as harmless, as if we luid to do with a merry age and an innocent condition of society. At this period and in such company, the fearful Gloster noAV appears with the dangerous consciousness of (he superiority of liis endowments, and at the same tinu* with the acute penetration into the baseness and inability of tiie men around him. Tn this Avorld, Avhen^ eacli holds that for good Avhich brings gain, he has learned to fashion his system out of the ])rin(i])le of evil; his blind ignoble self- reliance raises him above inferior minds , the juide of his 'M\\ si.(()M) I'l KitiD oi' sii \ilc'vat('s liiiu above tlio moral law. That \\\v worUl bclonjjis to tlio wise ami strong, was the prineiple of his MachiavelH, whom the poet even in Henry VI. gave liim as example and master ; he saw, in the distance indeed, the throne lying" before him , wliich he took as the aim of his ambition ; he threw down the dull beings around him to serve as steps thither. All hinges upon the right under- standing of this character, if the whole piece is to be understood. The English stage has at all times had the liighest degree of interest in the work , tor the sake of this one character. The greatest actors of England, IJurbadge, Garrick, Kean, have treated this Richard as a favourite part, which even seemed especially suited to the small stature of the two first. Kemble has written a treatise upon the conception of this character. Even in Shakespeare's time, in 1614, a poet, perhaps Christopher Brooke, wrote a i)oem in stanzas: "the Ghost of Richard III.", which is published in the works of the Shakespeare society ; he alludes with commendation to Shakespeare's tragedy. The ghost of Richard is represented, as he depicts his character, life, and end ; the poem is interesting in showing , how at that period human nature was understood, and how even at that time they sought to penetrate intelligently and keenly into the soul of such a character. We , on our side, in a theme so magnificent for dramatic art, must not neglect carefully to gather together all the traits, which the poet has noted down for the just comprehension of this character. The chronicles of Holinshed and Hall contain the life of Richard for the most part in a translation of the Latin biography of the king by Thomas Moore , who had his infonnation probably from a contemporary. Archbishop RICHARD III. 365 Morton , the same who appears in our piece as Bishop of Ely. From this somxe Shakespeare found the following- scanty, but acute touches for the characterizing of his hero : " Richard was horn with teeth, he Avas ugly, his left shoulder higher than his right. Wickedness, anger, envy, belonged to his nature, a quick sharp wit to his mind. He was a good captain ; with large gifts he got him unstedfast friend- ship, for which he Avas fain to pill and spoil in other places, and got him stcadfiist hatred. Close and secret, a deep dissembler, lowly of countenance, he was at the same time imperious and arrogant of heart, disdainful even in death, (Outwardly companionable where he inwardly hated, not letting to kiss whom he thought to kill: despitious and cruel, not for evil will alway, but oftener for ambition and policy. If his safety or his ambition interfered, he spared neither friend nor foe". Of these traits , Avhich appear not rarely to contradict each other, Shakespeare has not suffered one to drop , and we might say , he has not added one to them ; but he has given life to the life-less touches, harmony to the contradictory, in such a manner as certainly demands the study of the most profound actor and his rarest gifts. As the reproach of bastardy which oppresses Edmund in Lear, leads him first on the path of criminal designs , so is Richard oppressed by tlie unsuitableness of his ambitious mind witli tlie deformity of his body, on account of whicli lie was deprived from the very first even of the love of his mother, on account of which he was obliged to hear the derision of his enemies, a deformity which his shadow in the sun showed him every hour, and to descant on w hich was his delight. Tlie tliought gnaws him of revenging liimself on the injustice of nature, by proving a villain, in order to mock '■>()(» SK( OM> n-lMOl) Ol' Sll AKKSVKAKK S DKAMAITC POKTHV. her work on his body by tlic tU'f'nniiity Avliicli lie tliinks to bestow on liis soul. In the clatter of arms, in the time of tlie wars , his military glory outshone these defocts of nature, and lie had no leisure for descanting on iheni; hut now, in the luxurious days of peace , when Edward and his favourites courted the Shores, military arts were no longer esteemed, and he now feels for the first time how unformed he is for the deeds of love ; his ill-humour against the age whets his ill-humour over his appearance, and this again the other. His political schemes urge him however to attempt the work of love at the end of his ill-humoured reflections, and he stands the test, wooing as an agreeable bridegroom, and winnijig, where it seems most incredible; the poet robs him forthwith of the pretence of justifying his baseness by his ugliness. But whilst he now finds cause to rejoice in his shadow^, Avhilst he loses that ground for self- contempt, upon which he wished to plant his villainous designs, he acquires indeed all the greater contempt of men, from the knowledge, that the young and beautiful widow of the brilliant , genuinely royal Edward of Wales yields herself in a moment to him , who not long before had mur- dered her lord. If a portion of the bitterness and soured rage , that lies in llichard's nature, was rooted in this self-contempt of his outward appearance, his contempt of men on the other hand is grounded on the liberal endow^ment, which nature has bestowed on his mind, and on the self-reliance, which a comparison with the men around him inspired. t)f con- summate powers of speech, of animated mind, of piercing wit , Shakespeare depicts him throughout in accordance with the chronicle; in his hypocritical wooing of Anne, in RICHARD III. 367 his sarcasm, in his equivocal language, this gift of a hiting and malicious wit is called into play. A similar adroitness lie exhihits in his dealings with men, and here his contempt of all, scarcely to be dissembled even by this master of dissimidation, is clearly manifested. He entraps the stupidly faithful Clarence with tears ; he makes the sincere Hastings believe even to the last, that he may take every liberty with him; he leads the exasperated enemies at court to hatred and murder, whilst he remains in the back-ground; he appears tractably to follow the ambitious liuckingliam, whilst he uses liim as a pioneer for all his secret ways ; he preys upon his enemies by means of friends and tools, whom he at once uses, and then rejects. All the Greys, the Buckinghams, the Stanleys, he regards, when the sails of his ambition are yet well filled, as inoffensive, good- natured simpletons, all in ecpud manner, Avhen indeed only one of them proves himself to b(> so, whilst the other is found by himself subsequently to be penetrating and cunning, and the third at last catches him in the snares of his own artifices. With cruel scorn and the killing taunt of irony he allows the true-hearted Hastings to pride himself on his favour with him, Avhile he casts him into the jaws of death ; with sarcastic contempt he calls liuckingliam his oracle, his prophet, when most acconmiodatingly he dances on his own rope ; with a clumsy farce he has the croAvn tendered to himself by the Mayor and Aldermen, in a scene, which Ave can only rei)resent, when we regard the bulk of mankind as simple spectators of the tricks, which few actors are called upon to play on ihe world's slage. To play the first part on this stage, the hero and llie king, this has become in this despised society the goal of his ambition. :i('»s >allracK liiiu all the more, llic furtlicv thai circumstanfes and a iiiiiiuTnus kindii'd with prc-le<^itiiuate ( laiins remove it tVom him. 'I'lie feeliiii^' of his mental superiority, of his political and military gifts, which makes him consciously step upon the path of crime , which renders him the ridiculei- and despiser of men, makes him also a despiser of every moral law , and stamps upon him that unshackled nature, which disregards every tie of blood, every barrier of right, and every moral scru})le. To regard morality and feeling, he calls in Elizabeth to be "jjeevish found in great designs". lie calls conscience a word for cowards, devised from the beginning to hold the strong in check, and this check he has rent asunder. It is indifferent to him , when he at last is on the way to despair, what that other side of this life may bring. With this stifled conscience he appears more heartless than the murderers whom he hired for Clarence and the Princes ; with frightful coolness he meditates upon the death of the "simple plain Clarence", and jests over his certain prey; he loves the obdurate mates, w'hom, w'ith those words of Suffolk in Henry VL, he enjoins to despatch "this thing"; he speaks Avith the expression of coarse insen- sibility of the "fellow", the corpse of the murdered king- Henry VI. Thus he spreads terrcjr around him and practises the art of tyrants, that of making themselves feared. He uses the feeling of suspense after the first executions, in proceeding with giant steps, until he Avades so deep in blood, that sin hurries him on to sin. Margaret, hungering for revenge, sees him with delight preying ra})aciously, like a greedy hound, upon "tlie issue of his mother's body". With this barbaritv, with this wild nature, with tlie TilCTIARl) III. 369 soldier spirit of the m:ui hvt^d in Avar and blood, Avitli the aristocratic pride of high birth, it seems at variance that he at the same time is endowed with the gift of consummate dissimulation, and appears now in affected humility, now in decoying amiability, noAV in the saintly character of the pious penitent. The chronicle indeed invests him in one breath Avith the qualities of a pleasing nature and of an arrogant heart ; and the poet also has represented him in rapid alternations of luigoverned outbursts of rage and scorn, and then again in the gloss of the sAvoetest language, now in the natiu'e and appearance of the easily sifted or of the impenetrable dissembler, and then again in the character of a man of coarse manners , utterly incapable of the arts of flattery and dissimulation. It has been doubted Avhether these diiferent qualities could be compatible. Could a man to Avhom hypocrisy Avas so natural, go so far in barbarousness and coarseness of morals , as to reach such a pitch of habitual bloodthirstiness ? Or, if this cruelty Avas his more true nature, could such a fiuious man be pi'ecisely master of the most consummate art of dissimulation ? Or, were it conceivable that the man Avho resolved so self- consciously and considerately, in calm calculation, to tread the path of the villain, should spread fear and terror around him only with subtle intention, and accomplish his bloody deeds, as the chronicle insinuates, Avithout any real natural propensity and alone from policy^ The poet, like his historical source, has taken Richard's proud aspiring ambition , innate to his superiority of mind , as the spring of his actions, and hyjxxrisy as the principal means and instrument of his schemes. Discovering this means in his nature, Richard first matures in tliat soliloquy in Henry VI., I. 21 ■,i7(l SKCOM) ri'.KKM) (»!•• SI I A K I'.Sl'K AHk's 1)1;\M\II( I'Ol/I'K V. (III. Ad ;{, sc. 2.) till' I'ai-vpacliiiin dcsii^us »»f his ambition. 'V\iv |»<>cl has placed this (|iialit\ as the ceiilral point of" tliis charact*'!' ; tlic ndatioii and the position into "wliicli he brou^lit it Avitli regard to llio rest of the nature of this wonderful monster, as he hunid it dictated l»y intimations in the chr(»nicle, is one of those psycliological master-touches, w ith Avhicli this man has .so often set up Cohnnbus' egg-. The form of character, which avc commonly think quahfied for hj^iocrisy, is that of sneaking and cunning weakness, such as Elizabeth appears in our piece, such as Stanley too, Avho is called a fox in the cluoniclc. Hut this form of character would never have obtained a great tragic interest. If in the exercise of this art of dissimulation, there could not be placed a power which elevated it to merit, even if equivocal, it were inipossible to gain sympathy for the hypocritical hero. (Shakespeare adhered, therefore, in this, closely to the characteristics of history and to his own historical source. His Hichard is a warrior of unequivocal valom*. He has that in his nature which seems exactly most at variance with all hypocrisy. He is innately im- petuous and has a passionate irritable disposition, he has iidierited from his mother the nervous sensitiveness of not being able to hear censure, he was' tetchy and wayward in his infancy, in his schooldays he Avas frightful, desperate, wild, and furious, in his prime of manhood , daring, bold, and venturous; it is with him a necessity to give free vent to his malicious tongiie; in the midst of the hypocrisy and flattery of love, his scorn breaks out ; and even when he is thoroughly playing the hypocrite , he likes it to bring himself into such a position, as to place no constraint upon his liumour. His unjust hatred and secret snares against the relatives of the RIf'HARD Til. 371 quoon, he hides under the mask of open and just anger at the liatred professed by tlicm. In this bruscpie nature wliieh sets a bold face against objections, difficulties, and dangers, there lies, as we see, even an aversion to cringe and to stoop, and only in his strivings after the position , in which each is to stoop before him, does he consent to the sacrifice of employing- every convenient semblance. He has thus in the course of his life f>nly in sober age matured the hypocrisy of his character, appearing at once proud and cunning-, crafty and bloody, more bland but more destructive. In consequence of a resolve and scheme he has attained to this, not only to become a villain, but to conceal his villany and its ends as much as possible. For a character thus designed, victory over self, and unusual power of mind and soul are required, to form those talents of dissimulation, however innately they may exist, to that degree that they may govern the inherent ferocity. And therefore it is that at the issue of his lot , when misfortune overtakes him, when his inner strength gives way, when the elastic power of his self-command pelds, the mantle of hypocrisy falls suddenly from his shoulder ; tlien liis old and former nature returns , the violent obstinacy of his disposition emerges anew, he loses his head , which he had so mucli under his control during the long career of his ambitious strivings, the torment of his soul betrays itself at every moment, as in thought and purpose he alternates, leaves his cause, and embarrasses himself. Ikit before , so long as he is master of himself, he carries the art of dissimulation to such a height, that by an art in wooing, which reminds us of Romeo's in its fervour, by flattery, and by the magic power of language, he gains over the beautiful widow, •21* i>7"2 siiOMi ri Kiiiit oi' Ml \I\i:si'I';ai!k's dkwmiii immikn wlutsf ri'lativcs ;iiul liusliaiid he had killi-d, lliat lie bears tin- N|titniij4s of the wcmhmI, lliat lie, already sure oi" liis sueeoss , (itfers lier liis sword to stal> liim ; lie carries iivpocrisy to .siieli a heij^lit . that he a})pear.s as the per- secuted and threatened, while he is undcrinininn and destroying- everything-; he plays the awkward hlusterer where his hatred steals most eovertlv and most maliciously. he makes his brutal manners to be feared -where his most refined intrigues are still more so ; so that the actor has carefully to discern, when his violence is an outburst of natm-e and Avhen it is a part assumed. He canies the art of dissimulation to such a height, that he, the terror of men, surroimded with religious works and exercises, can be called gentle and tender, too childishly foolish for the world, that he, in body and soul a devil, can appear like an angel of light, and that an enemy like Kivers believes in his devoti(m , an honest man like Hastings in liis perfect inability for concealment, an Anne in his repentance for his bloody pursuit of war, the falling- Clarence in his brotherly love. On the final step to the throne, he vies with P)uckinghaui in hypocrisy, acting those clumsy scenes, which Avere to appear as compelling him to accept the crown from world - despising pious considerations ; at the extreme point, in his impatience, he lets fall the mask of delicacy, with Avliich he had hitherto concealed the liy])o- critical part he was acting. As soon as he is at the goal, he approaches Buckingham with barefaced demand for murder, and enquires of the first page for a hireling's dagger, lie finds it no longer necessary to carry on secrecy, he forces himself not in the least to conceal his ill-humour and dis- pleasure from Buckingham. Only when danger threatens KICIIAKI) III. 373 him from Richmond's prepaiatioiis, when he tries to prevent his union with the daughter of the widowed queen by his own union with her, then in breaking with the crafty Elizabeth, compelled to it, he has once more recourse to those same magic arts , with (lie same masterly power as before in his Avooing of Anne , and witli the same success. But immediately after, when the cm'ses of Margaret are fulfilled upon him, and his safety, his self-confidence, his power over himself is taken away, his art perishes with his fortune. The threads are weak, which ally Richard's character to the good side of human nature ; had he not found such a being in authenticated books of history, Shakespeare would perhaps not have ventured to depict either this , or subsequently Edmund and lago. The poet has endeavoured to obtain an interest for him by making still stronger the threads which link him to the bad. The strength of his will is not alone tvu'ned against others, but against his own nature also, and this self command cliallenges human admiration at all times. Even that benumbing of the conscience rests not on innate hardening and obduracy, but on a victory over its most serious emotions. The poet lias here placed, in the most subtle passage, the one thread, whicli hoAvever links fliis monster Avith tlie bright side of liuiuaii nature. Unbelieving as he appears, this hero of wickedness is notwitlistanding not free from super- stition ; in this is betrayed the not wholly vanquished conscience, the slight trace of the germ of good in lihn. When Margaret (Act I. sc. 'A.) pours out licr curses upon him, he interru])ts her before tlie decisive word, and endea- vours to lead her curse 1)a freely denies 'M [ Mco.M> n;Ki(ti) ov sii vki.>ut thus far his vigour still extends. RICHARD HI- 375 that he yet struggles in the desperate combat with the powers within, that "a thousand hearts are great within his bosom", when with shattered energies he rouses himself to do wonders in the fight, and, as the chronicle intimates, perishes in his defiance. lie fell, says the author of the Ghost of Richard, "wheii greatness would be greater tluin itself", and this overweening power of the will fashions the fearful man into that genuinely tragic being, who compels our sympathy , in spite of the depravity which repels us from him. No greater task has ever been presented to the actor. The charm and the greatness of this task does not lie , as Steevens says, in that the actor has by turns to exhibit the hero, the lover, the statesman, the buffoon, the hypocrite, the hardened and the repentant sinner; nor in this that he has to alternate between the extrenu'st passion and the most familiar tone of conversation , between tlie expression of confidence now in the power of the warrior , now in the cunning t)f the diplomatist, now in the rhetoric of the flattering lover, and to produce in tlu* richest nniterial sharp transitions and the finest shading, every pantomimic and rhetorical art, but it lies in this, that out of all these tones he is to find the leading fundamental note , which unites them all. The poet has taken the characteristics from the (•liriinicle, but in the chief point lie has made a thoroiigli alteration. Tlie chn»nicle seems to give hypocrisy to Richard as his nature, and to exhibit cruelty in him rather as a cold work of policy ; but tlie poet luis uuule the inclination to brutality innate in him , and hypocrisy, on the contrary a chosen means lor liis ambition. The decisive soIilo(|ui<'s in Ilcnry V'l., and llial at \\\v coin- 370 si(t>M) ri'iJUM) t>i sii vki.si'ioahk's i;i;\m\iic toktry. iiicnciMiiciil of otii- play, mak(^ tliis iudubitahlo. 'Vhv \u)e\. lias ])( rliaps iiitcntioiiallv ])r()iigh( the whole chavactev into a coutiasl of rare interest to the lover of art, Avith that of Henry ^'. In his early years Trincc Henry leads a Avild dissolute lite witliout retlection , from the mere impulse of nature, in a manner invohintary, nol displacing' his nobler luiture, but eoncealing and veiling- it, folloAving his social propensity for low pleasures, resolving at the same time in clear consciousness to lay aside this character at a future period in his kingly position. Richard on flie (tther liand, whose rude luiture events have first led to tlie path, where in combat and fight, working for his family rather than for himself, he might have become an estimable , if not an amiable man, Richard deliberates, at the first inter- ruption of this life of outward action, upon a laying aside of liis military bias, and upon a wide scheme of diplomacy and intrigue, which is to bring him to the tln^one. The most remarkable and opposite parts are presented to the actor in the two characters : in Henry, wdiich will be played with all imaginable distance from anything of comedy, as a type of plain human nature, and in this Richard, wlio is a Proteus in the arts of metamorphosis, who calls himself Roscius, and with the arts of an actor, obtains the crown. Once this character is established and its central point perceived, tlie central ])()int and the idea of th(> ])iece is also apprehended; for Richard fills this centre entirely. This exclusively prominent position of Richard and his highly tragic nature, has given to this history the character rather of a pure tragedy; just as in Shakespeare's freest trage- dies, all the persons of the piece are arranged with an inner relation to the ])rincipal figure and to the principal idea of kk;tiarii ITT. 377 the piece, whilst usually the peculiarity of historical plays was, that the events and facts were distributed among more extensive groups of acting characters , who stand not throughout in that close connection, exhibited by the cha- racters of pieces designed at will and fettered by no historical material. As soon as we consider the remaining characters of the piece, in and out of relation to Richard, we shall easily perceive the chain of ideas which links them togethei. To the over-strained masculine strength of Richard we find the women first opposed in all tlieir feminine weakness. Anne, whom he woos at the beginning of the piece, can, in her frail womanliness, which is without all moral support, excite less contempt than pity. She hates and marries; she curses her who shall be the wife of the man who killed her first husband, and she subjects herself to this curse ; then as a Avife, she is leagued witli liis enemies against him. Thus, says the poet of tlie Ghost of Richard, "Women's griefs, nor loves, are dyed in grain, For either's colour, time or men can stain". Not often lias a task like that of (lie poc't's here, b(>en ven- tured upon, Avhen he produces a scene full of im])robability, in which the princijial part is played by this Anne, whose character is prepared or delineated in no other scene, where in tlie most unnatural sitnation , vanity, self- com])lacency, and weakness must be (lis])laye(l in a moment ; (lie |)art of the matron of Ephesus in a tragedy, wliicli is lioAvever neither incredible nor forced. We must at the same time bear in view, that the murder of her relatives admits of excuse as among llir iiniiMiidiiblc evils (tf war and defence. We nnist take inio ;icconn( the extriiorilinary d(>gree of dissimuhition, ii7S sicoM) I'r.iuoD (II" sii \m;si'km;i:''s dimmxik i'oetry. \\lii(li (K'coivc.s cviMi i>\i)tMic'ii(('(l men; and tor this reason the artisi who is to ])lay Kicliaid, must, woo iiidcM-d inoic as ail acloi- tliau as a lover, but must still go to the very limits of deception eviii lor the initiated spectator. We ha\(' tint her to consider how the ])art of repentance and atoiu-ment becomes a \aliaut soldier, and how pardonable is the wduianly weakness which ilelights in the idea of endeavouring to support and save sucli a penitent; we must remember that the unwonted mildness of the tyrant is three times nu)re effective than the gentleness of the weak ; ami in the historical examples of our own day, we have seen how tender feminhie characters have been united to the most brutal, in the consciousness of at least restraining the human barbarity at home. How little the poet scrupled at this scene, he seemed to desire to prove, by again repeat- ing it towards the end of the piece in Richard's suit with the mother, — his sworn enemy, — for her own daughter. Once more does Richard assert that he committed his mis- deeds alone out of love for the ^vooed one , once more he })laYs the penitent and points to better times, once more he allures the mother by the ^jrospect of the throne for her daughter, he obtains her by the false show of the good that she will procure to the coimtry by her assent; and fear, so says the chronicle, fear of the man whom no one can refuse with impunity, co-operates in part. This last indeed places Elizabeth in a more favourable light than Anne, as he wooed the latter at a period when he w'as not yet the all- powerful one that he now is. But there is another more important point, why this second scene cannot appear as a mere cojjy of the first. Elizabeth promises her daughter at the same time to the Pretender Richmond , the descendant RICHARD III. 379 of Lancaster, Avho sub.seqvu'iitly by this union reconciles and joins the red and white Roses. Elizabeth thus deceives the deceiver of all, and in the chance of the unsuccessful issue of Richmond's undertaking, she has perhaps saved the throne for her daughter. Thus far certainly the -womanly ■weakness of her personal and maternal ambition extends, but thus far also the gift of the deepest dissimidation, which so often belongs by nature to the woman, and is even cou- pled with a kind of innocence. This contrast of Elizabeth to Richard is laid hold of in the happiest manner. She is weak and too much influenced by her relatives to animosity and family-antipathy, but she is also good , and in the extreme of grief she is gentle and not capable of cursing , when she would fain learn it from Margaret. With this goodness and weakness she deceives the strong and cunning man who has destroyed her house, for she is prudent and far-sighted, she is the mother of her son York of such kindred mind, she sees through Gloster from the first, she anticipates at once in River's fall the ruin of her whole family, she conceives then the ])lan , and this is taken from history, of reconciling in Ixichmond the houses of York and Lancaster, and she is the soul of (he whole conspirac-y Avhich determines Richard's fall. The counterpart of lier weakness is (lie king; he is the contrast to her acuteness. He and his brotlier Clarence! ihnn a contrast of harmless security compared (o (he mali- cious brother, who strikes them both together and by uu-ans of each other. So are also the relatives of the cpieen trusty and harmless ; a greedy, newly created nobility, hauglity, scornful, humble alone towards (he rougli (jilos(er, in(() whose open snares (lu'y fall. Still moic sharply is the :^s(> si(()M) n i!i()i> OK sii \KKsri:.\i;i;'s duamaik roKTuv. coiitiMst with liannlossiiess iiiaikcd oul in Hastings. IIo is open-hearted, (rue, talkativ»>, sincere, unsuspicious in his lia])piness, of loose morals, but a stranp^or to all mistrust. lie trusts in Cateshy as in Kichard, lie suffers neither warnings nor dreams to distiub him, he triumphs \\ith imprudent joy over the fall of his enemies, when the same lot is threaten- ing him ; in confidence in Richard's friendship he will give his voice for him in the cimncil when Richard has already devoted him to death, because with the same unvaried can- dour ami witli a nature imapable of dissiumlation, he had declared that the crown Avould be foully misplaced on Richard's head. The whole scene (Act III. so. 4.) in which this takes place, is borrowed from the chronicle even in the characteristic peculiarities of the language used. The rela- tion in which Shakesjieare has placed l>rackenbury is, on the contrary, his own pro})erty ; liistorically he plays quite another part to that in the tragedy. In a passive manner, as Catesby and Tyrrel in an active, he furthers the plans and deeds of Richard, which Avithout these ready tools had never had the same eas)' course. These are the hired hy])o(rites avIio at every sign accept the part required, turn round at every wind, who like Brackenbury, ask not them- selves nor honourably consider, Avhat is the feeling of their heart , who will be "guiltless of the meaning", and unscru- pulously and obtusely let happen what Avill. A more cunning tof)l of Gloster's is Buckingham. He is entirely placed by his side as a faint imitation of his ambition and of his art of hypocrisy. He has smaller objects in his desire for aggran- dizement, as Richard has his larger, and for the furtherance of these he will use Richard as a tool, as Richard Avould use him. Gloster helps him to remove those who stand in RICHARD III. 381 his way, the rehitives of tlio quoeii, and Buckingham affects veconciliation witli them, inider cover of whicli he works their death. In return for this he then helps Gloster to make his Avay to tlie throne, and that with the same arts. He fancies himself a genuine actor, who has at his service ghastly looks and enforced smiles, he helps to influence the citizens, he takes part in the farces at Baynard's castle. He appears only by degrees drawn into Gloster's snares; Margaret even regards him at first as innocent ; her curses touch him not ; he believes not in curses , as Gloster also afft'cts to do, but he must learn it ; throughout, coming short of Richard , in bad as in good , he shudders at the murder which the other demands from him ; m hen he is out of humour at the withholding of the reward which Richard had promised him for his assistance, he can no longer dissemble, whilst Gloster, just in the moment of his ill- lumiour against Hastings, appears particularly pleased and cheerful. In contrast to him again stands Stanley, as the true sneaking hypocrite, who conquers Richard with his own weapons, as Elizabeth does in her feminine manner. Related to Richmond, he has, from tlie first, cause to act cautiously ; from a foe to the queen Elizabeth he has become a friend for the common object; he has liis eye everywhere; he warns Hastings, although in vain ; he carries on a lasting connection with Richmond, which in the most sim])le man- ner, he maintains through a priest. History itself considers it incomprehensible , tliat Richard, blinded as l)y (jod, did not arrest the suspicious man ; Shakespeare endeavours excellently to explain it, by giving Stanley exactly the same arts as those which Gloster possesses. As the latlci- sought to conceal his secret intrigues from the Greys by (»))rn ■^s2 siscoM) ri'iMon OK sii \Ki:si'i;Ani'.'s i>i{\m \'nc i'oktky. (livnliMsuro, so StiUll('^ tlirou^lioiit boldly (Icclavcs hiinsclt" a m<»t watchful obscrvov of Uicliniond's phui ; he first hvini.>s Kichavd the intolHgoiico of Dorset's flij^ht to Rifhmf)nd ; he brings him the intelligence of Richmond's landing; he leaves his son as a hostage, and in this case of need stakes the life dearest to him, that he may play out his ])arl of deceiving', costing- Richard his kingdom and life and bringing a crown to Richmond. This latter is the only pure cha- racter, predicting better times. To do honour to the founder of the liouse of Tudor, the grandfather of (pieen Elizabeth, tlie ])oet has thought it necessary to do but little, after that he has blackened his enemy Richard as much as possible. The pious general of God had been like the princes, the sons of Edward, early removed from this dreadful society of the court ; the blessing of Henry VI. rested on him. The princes on the contrary fall a sacrifice to the fearful age. Upon this Ave shall remark further in king John. The delineation of the two boys Is a master- piece of the poet's, which would have been impossible to such men as Greene and Marlowe. With what scanty means is a disposition ' developed in the Prince of Wales, which promises a perfect manhood ! In his words on his father's death and title, how much tender feeling and modesty ! In the censuring ques- tion to his brother ("a beggar"?) what a delicate reminder of })ropriety! In his reply to Gloster; 'T fear no uncles dead, an if they live, I hope, I need not fear", what caution, and at the same time what at-uteness of mind in the equivocal words ! And in what beautiful contrast to this, stands again the quick wit of the bold, precocious, pert, and clever York , which lie so delicately weakens by a kindlv blunting of its stiny ! In both we sliould think, the RICHARD III. 383 opposite qualities of hypocrisy and regardless candour are moderated into qualities natural and human, in Edward into delicate respect and caution, in York into impulsive expres- sion , hardly restraining a saucy thought , but yet forbear- ingly knowing hoAv to temper it , so that even these two characters were placed in a tine relation to the main idea of the piece. When we have considered all these counterparts and opposites to Richard , it may appear as if all together they were not powerful enough to form a corresponding counter- balance to the overwhelming nature of the hero. The poet has also indeed sought a still more forcible contrast, that he may point out an eye over the malicious course of the raging boar, capable of watching him, and a power, capable of crossing him ; to his advancing success, he has opposed a fallen fortune, to his deep hy})ocrisy, a regardlessness, which every moment tears asunder the veil, to his blood- thirstiness, a carelessness, which mocks at death. It is the form of that Margaret, the widoAV of king Henry VI., who once came over to England as a beggar, who planted there the seeds of evil, who turned upon her own head every calamity and the hatred of all , who is now outlawed , and Avho at the close goes back again to France as a beggar. Before she accomplishes this (and this is quite a poetic arrangement of our piece) the hated one tarries in the midst of the hated society , that she may witness hi every- thing the end of the fearful tragedy, when she herself had already Avithdrawn from the scene. Poor, insensible to ambition, she scorns the danger and death, whicli her remaining induces; she presses into the circle of her enemies, and Avholly inca])able of commanding Jiersclf, ;'.N I ^1 ( oMi n.iiidi) OF sii AKKsi'KAUi; s i)i;\\i\ric I'oi; TitN . uttcrlv iiinvillinn- to coiui'al hrrsclf or her toelin^^'s , witli iiupotriit passion, witli iiuiuitious opcnncis.s, with prophetic vuije , slu' casts forth the most unspuriug reproaches, the most regardless trutlis, and the most fearful curses, — like the loud truui])ct of God's judgnieiit, — upon the dcjiradcd liunuuiity around her. And these words have more Avei<>ht and power, than all the hloody deeds of Richard and his cunning intrigues, and her hunger for revenge is more ai)i)cased than Richard's thirst for greatness. The old York (in Henry VI.) had once cursed her, when she com- mitted the womanly outrage of giving him a napkin hathed in the blood of his son Rutland ; his curse was fulfilled on her, when she lost throne, husband, and the son, whom Richard stabbed, and at whose fall Rivers, Grey, Hastings, and Vaughan were present as accessories. lint on this day tlic power of York's curse was transferred to her, and her vengeance-loving soul panted with desire to requite it upon all her enemies. The manifold misery Avhich she lives to see befall her enemies, sw-eetens her owm misery, and she would fain slip her weary head out of the yoke of her sorrow, to leave the bm-den of it upon the hated Elizabeth. We have said, before, (in Henry VI.) that the chronicle also remarks at the death of Margaret's son, that all those ])resent drank subsequently of the same cup "in consequence of the merited justice and the due punishment of God". This judgment is embodied in the fearful ^Margaret and her curses, in which the avenging spirit utters its terrible oraqle. With striking glaringness, distinctness, and intensity, Shake- speare has pronounced, repeated, and accomplished these imprecations. Margaret has hiulcd the curse over all those accomplices in the murder of her son, and in all it r omos RlCHAKl) III. • 385 to maturity ; it is fulfilled in tlie dying Edward ; it is fulfilled ill C'lareuce, who perjured himself, when he had promised to fight for Lanoaster; it is fulfilled in Hastings, who had sworn, false reconeiliatioii in presence of the dying Edward; it is ful- filled in Elizabeth, who, only the vain .semblance of herself, ■was left without brother, without husband, and almost w ithout children ; upon Buckingham her mere warning, directed by her to one still guiltless, falls like a curse, when he becomes guilty. It is not enough , that Margaret pronounces these curses upon all ; the most of them, Buckingham, Hastings, Anne , call down the imprecation by sinful promises upon themselves, and when it is fulfilled, the poet recalls once more to mind the exact prediction. Finally upon Richard himself these revengeful curses are heaped, and they are realized most decidedly. And he too in the moment of his' unbridled scorn (Act IV. sc. 4.) calls down the curse upon himself. Nay, more than this : his own mother, the duchess of York, who, placed between Elizabeth and Margaret, by turns, according to time and cause, possesses the violent flashes of the one and the mild composure of the other, she, Richard's own mother, says to him (Act IV. sc. 4.j, thai her prayers would fight for the adverse party; and slie desires that her curse on the day of battle may tire him more than all the complete armour that he wears. Wonder- ful use is made of this curse in the scene before the battle of l>oswortli, a use worth more than all the others, in whicli tlie poet has employed these imprecations. Without looking back to that maternal sentence, without Richard himself remembering it, his "beaver" burdens him in (he battle so that he orders it to be made easier, and liis arm is weary witli the huicf, Avliich lie exchanges for liglifor. This is I. 2:) ■>S0 Sl'.COM) ri'.lilOD (M Ml \KF.sri:\KK S 1)1!\M\11( I'OKl'KV. hiMltv tliaii the mull iplird iiu])i('ssioii of llio scvcro curses, and tlii'ir literal and ever- rcptatcd fulfihuent; and ln'flor tt»() is the imprecation of the mother temporarily irritated, when the occasion demanded it, than the steady excess of the revengeful curses of Margaret. IWit the excess and the repetition alone are to be blamed, not the thing itself. We nmst be on our guard of appearing on the side of those interpreters, who consider tlu^ introduction of Margaret altogether and her reproaches at court absurd, as well as Richard's wooing in tln^ street. Hut it is a wise contrast, which necessitates the part assigned to Margaret, and even the glaring prominence given to her curses and their ful- filment has its Avise intention. The more secretly the sins of this brood of hypocrites were practised, the more visibly and notoriously should punishment overtake them; the nnmifest retribution of God should appear all the more evident against the secrecy and the deceit of men ; and the interference of eternal justice ought plainly and tangibly to appear against the evil-doers, who think to ensnare heaven itself, w ho believe not in an avenging power , nor in the curse, which rests on evil deeds themselves. On the way to death says Buckingham : "That high All-Seer which I dallied with, Hath turned my feigned prayer on my head, And given in earnest what I begg'd in jest". And just so also his OAvn curse discharges itself on Richard's head, a curse which w antonly he conjined upon himself. RICHARD 11. The date of Richard 11. has heon ah'cady pointed out ; we conjectured that it was written soon after Richard III. Passionate high-strained passages, one even (ActV. sc. 3.), whicli treats a tragic subject ahnost humorously, are written in rhyming couplets ; alternate rhymes and alliteration also occur. In its profound design and in its characters, as well as in the treatment of it in conformity with tlie historical story, the piece, compared with Richard III., shows certain progress ; setting aside stage-effect, C(deridge justly calls it the first and most admirable of Sliakespeare's i)urely histo- rical pieces, in which tlie liistory forms the story and not, as in Henry IV., merely leads it. The histcnical events, which Richard comprises, extend from September, 1398, to February, 1400. Everything essential in the events is strictly taken from Ilolinshed's chronicle; Avhere Shakespeare allows liimsclf liberty, is in those externals, wliicli lie never regarded when he could make them serve poetic objects. Shakespeare had in this piece also a previous dramatic w^ork , whicli, however, is unknown to us. We know only from the statement of a Dr. Fornian, that in Kil 1, a play of Tvichard II. was performed on Shakespeare's stage, which 25' 38S si;((»Mi iiKioh di' siiAKi;sri;Ain;'s dkamatk roi/ruv. tVdiii the indication «>t" its contents must liavc handled the earlier years (»f Kieluird's reii>ii ,