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WITH EXPLANATORY TEXT SELECTED AND ARRANGED BV PROFESSOR E. DOWDEN, LL.D. AUTHOR OF " SHAKSPERE, A STUDY OF HIS MIND AND ART." MACMILLAN AND CO. 1876. \Thc Right rf Translation and Reproduction is Resen>ed.] LONDON : R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS, BREAD STREET HILL. 932 1)1 HS- ■bKet PREFACE. /^ERMANY, which has so largely contributed to the scholarly study ot Shakespeare, has also made some remarkable contributions to the pictorial illustration of his plays. The designs of Retzsch became widely known, and were distinguished by a certain intensity or at least eagerness of spirit, by effective scenic qualities, and some- times by a keen intellectuality at work upon particular points. But all in Shakespeare that is massive, sane, and calm was for Retzsch as though it had no existence. Kaul- bach found in three or four plays subjects for several of his ambitious and learned compositions, in which human passion is built into the structure of the work, as one element of a large and elaborate design. The artist is never carried away by his visionary power j rather he subdues the subject by virtue of energy of will and learn- ing, and a masterly, if academical, constructive power. The present volume contains the designs of not one but several distinguished living artists of Germany, and may be considered in a measure to represent the contemporary art-movement of that country. Munich must be regarded as the centre around which the artists whose work appears in this volume are grouped, but each has his own distinctive traits, and they have been brought under the influence, — one in Rome, another in Paris, a third in the Dresden Galleries,— of various art-methods, ideas, and traditions. A few words, derived from a German source, on each of the artists whose work appears in the following pages may be of interest to the reader. Max Adamo belongs to Munich both by his birth and art-training. At first under the influence of Schwind and Kaulbach, and treating historical subjects, he acquired distinction by his frescoes vi PREFACE. in the National Museum. With a growing sense of the need of a more positive realization of fact by means of art he passed over to the naturalistic school of Piloty. His Alva condemning Netherlanders to death attracted much attention by its dramatic power and admirable feeling for colour. The Seizure of Robespierre and his Com- panions exhibited a further advance, and he has been recently engaged upon a work in the same manner representing The Expulsion by Cromwell of the Long Parliament. Heinrich Hofmann, who holds a Professorship in the Academy at Dresden, was born in Darmstadt, and after receiving in that city his early education as an artist, transferred himself to the Antwerp Academy. The somewhat timid naturalism of the Belgian school was little in harmony with his genius, and accordingly he left Antwerp, and came to Dresden with a view of studying the Venetian paintings in the Dresden Gallery. Several admirable portraits testify to the gain derived from this study. In Italy, and still finding his masters in the great Venetian painters, Hofmann devoted him- self to sacred art, and has since combined with the work of a portrait painter the treatment of ideal subjects. His pictures, in which the figures are life-size, from the Merchant of Venice, Othello, The Tempest, and Romeo and Juliet are the originals from which with certain alterations he has furnished designs for the present volume. Hans Makart is recognised as the greatest natural force which has appeared in the modern German school of painting, and the most remarkable colourist of the Continent since Delacroix. Son of the keeper of the plate (Silberbeschliesserin) at the Court of the widowed Empress, at Salzburg, the boy had early opportunity of filling his fancy with those images of splendour and luxury, in the representation of which he was subsequently to surpass all his contemporaries. While still in early youth, in 1864, he entered the school of Piloty at Munich, and there manifested an original gift so remarkable, and at the same time so great technical mastery of his art, that he rather transformed the school than was transformed by it, and exercised even over his master a very decided influence. His first large picture, A Siesta of Venetian Nobles, exhibited so peculiar a glow of feeling, of fancy and of colour, that his great future seemed already secure. This was shortly afterwards followed by the humorous picture from the Merry Wives of Windsor, the chief group of which he has rehandled for our Shakespeare Scenes. Modern Amoretti, a frieze-like composition of playing children, life-size, added PREFACE. vii to his fame. The celebrated Seven Deadly Sins, or the Plague in Florence, excited an uproar through all Germany, and, after its exclusion from the Salon at Paris, passed in triumphal procession through the chief cities of Europe. The Austrian Emperor now assigned to Makart a studio, house, and garden in Vienna, which became a rendezvous of the aristocracy of birth and wealth in the city. At the International Exhibition at Vienna, Makart's colossal painting Catharina Comaro, reminding the spectator now of Paul Veronese, and now of Rubens, attracted more attention than any other work exhibited. Deficient as he is in emotional depth and in spirituality, Makart remains incontestably one of the most remarkable phenQmena in modern European art. F. Pecht is known alike as an artist and a man of letters. From his birth-place, Constance, he passed successively to Munich, to Dresden, to Leipzig, being engaged in the practice of lithography and in portrait painting. At Paris he came under the influence of Paul Delaroche. From 1848 onwards he spent three years in England, and finally settled in Munich. A series of paintings from subjects suggested by the lives of Goethe and Schiller was succeeded by the illustration of their works and of those of Lessing in the Schiller, Goethe, and Lessing Galleries issued under either Pecht's sole superintendence or in joint editorship with A. von Ramberg. The present Shakespeare Scenes may be looked upon as a continuation of these works. As a critic he has on various occasions been of service in calling attention to the works of rising artists of the Munich school. In the Munich " Maximilianeum " may be seen twelve figures of warriors and statesmen, more than life-size, which serve as examples of Pecht's work in fresco. At present he is engaged together with Schwoerer in adorning the Council-Hall at Constance with frescoes representing the history of the old imperial town, and especially the period of the famous Council of 1414-18. F. Schwoerer, a scholar of Foltz in the Munich Academy, passed thence first to Antwerp and from Antwerp to Paris, where he worked in the atelier of Yvon. Having returned to Munich he painted in the National Museum in fresco some scenes from Bavarian history. His work is characterized by its refined and yet brilliant colouring, and by great beauty of composition, — qualities which manifest themselves in a remark- able degree in the artist's frescoes for the Council-Hall at Constance. viii PREFACE. A. Spiess of Munich, formerly a pupil of Schwind, is remarkable as uniting a devotion to strict and noble form with a refined naturalism in art, and thus he may be viewed as a mediator between the tendencies of the older school of Cornelius and the present realistic tendency of Munich art. His works are choice rather than numerous. In the entrance-hall of the Munich "-Maximilianeum" will be found a train of floating female figures painted by A. Spiess and his lately deceased brother Heinrich. He has recently been engaged upon paintings for the new Dresden theatre. The illustrations contributed to the present volume faithfully represent the peculiar gifts of the artist. So much— from a German source— with reference to the artists. The German letter- press of the Shakespeare-Gallerie was furnished by Herr Pecht, and consists of a pleasant and cultured little causerie on each of the plays illustrated by the designers. These essays, though bright and genial, seemed more suitable to the German than to the English reader, and it was thought that their place could with some advantage be supplied by a select body of extracts from the best writers, English, American, French and German, who have contributed to the criticism of Shakespeare. How large and illustrious a circle of writers has been here brought • together will appear from a glance at the Index. No such body of Shakespearian illustration has heretofore been made (for Drake's Memorials of Shakespeare, published in 1828, is ot com- paratively narrow range), and it is hoped that the reader will accept as something better than "padding" some of the most admirable passages from the Shakespeare criticism of Bucknill, C. C. Clarke, Coleridge (S. T, and Hartley), De Quincey, Fletcher, Furnivall, Hazlitt, Hudson, Mrs. Jameson, Charles Knight, Lamb, W. W. Lloyd, Maginn, Ruskin, Mrs. Siddons, Spedding, Spalding, Swinburne, Archbishop Trench, Grant White, and others, representing England and America ; Chasles, Guizot, Hugo, Lamartine, Mezieres, Taine, representing France ; Elze, Goethe, Gervinus, Heine, Kreyssig, Rotscher, Schlegel, Ulrici, representing Germany. In selecting the extracts the editor has been guided by the desire, first to illustrate the engraving, with special reference to the principal persons of the play there re- presented; secondly, to offer some general views of importance suggested by the play ; and thirdly, to give examples of the different schools of Shakespearian criticism. T »Vith this last-mentioned object some few passages have been admitted which would PREFACE. j x otherwise not have found a place in the collection. The illustrations have been arranged, as far as was found convenient, in accordance with the chronological order in which the plays to which they belong were produced. This fact will explain the motive for the selection of certain extracts. Thus, under the heads ot Cymbeline, The Tempest, and The Winter's Tale will be found notices of the characteristics of the last period of Shakespeare's dramatic career, and of the closing years of his life. The thanks of the publishers are due to the authors who have granted permission to make use of their writings for the purposes of this volume. -^o CONTENTS. PAGB "A Midsummer Night's Dream." By R. Grant White ......... i Shakespeare's Fairy World. By G. G. Gervinus 2 Bottom the Weaver and Titania. By W. Maginn 5 Life a Dream— the "ground-idea" of the play. By H. Ulrici . 6 Authorship of the First Part of " Henry VI." By T. Kenny . 9 Joan of Arc as represented by the Chroniclers and by Shakespeare. By H. Reed . . . n Joan of Arc and her Times. By T. De Quincey 14 "King Henry VI." By H. Ulrici 15 Who wrote "Henry VI. ?" By F. G. Fleay . 17 The History of the Crown in Shakespeare's Plays. By R. Simpson . . . . . .21 Peculiar Atmosphere of ' ' Romeo and Juliet. " By Philarete Chasles . . . . . . 3&_ Moral Spirit of the Play. By F. Kreyssig 27 ^Shakespeare's Testimony to the Position and Character of Women. By J. Ruskin . . . 29 • Rhyme and Verse in " Romeo and Juliet." By A. C. Swinburne 31 Vehemence of Passion and Precipitancy of Action in "Romeo and Juliet." By W. W. Lloyd . 33 Irony of the Closing Scene of "Romeo and Juliet." By F. Horn 36 The Denouement and Close of the Tragedy. By L. Tieck 37 Garrick's Version . . . . . . . . . . . . . -38 Connection existing between the English Historical Plays. By A. W. Schlegel .... 41 "King Richard II." By F. Kreyssig 44 f The King. By H. N. Hudson ..;.;;;..;.:: ~Tl2 The Crown Scene. By T. P. Courtenay . . . . . ; 113 V* King Henry V." By H. N. Hudson ........; .*; . .116 Shakespeare's Patriotism. By G. Massey . . . ; . 121 /" The Merry Wives of Windsor." By J. A. Heraud 123 The Characters. By Hartley Coleridge \2$ Piace of this Play among Shakespeare's Comedies. By W. W. Lloyd ...... 125 English Character of the Tlay. By C. C. Clarke . . . . : . j . : .127 Shakespeare's Prose. By E. R. Sill ....;....... 130 Character of Beatrice. By C. C. Clarke . . .. . ; . . . . 131 Errors made in studying " Much Ado About Nothing ." By G. Fletcher ..... 134 The Tragedy and Comedy of Shakespeare. By T. Kenny ...;.... 135 •The Scene of Action of "As You Like It." By' Hartley Coleridge 138 ^Rosalind and Orlando. By G. Fletcher . . . 139 Shakespeare's Choice of Subjects. By W. Spalding ......... 144 " ¥ Viola. ByW. W.Lloyd 147 Sir Toby Belch contrasted with Sir John Falstaff. By W. Maginn , . . . . 151 ^Character of Malvolio. By C. Lamb . . . . . . . . . . . 151 The Comic Spirit of the Play. By H. Ulrici 153 The Romantic Comedy of Shakespeare contrasted with the Genteel Comedy of the Restoration. ByW. Hazlitt 154 The Theme of "All's Well that Ends Well." By Karl EIze 156 The Character of Helena. By C. C. Clarke . . . . . . . . . .158 Changes of Type in Shakespeare's Female Characters. By E. Dowden ...... 162 Shakespeare's Treatment of the Character of Julius Caesar. By H. N. Hudson .... 164 Brutus and Cassius. By Charles Knight . . . . . . . . . . .166 Shakespeare's Use of Plutarch. By R. C. Trench . . . . . . . . .170 Shakespeare's Roman Dramas. By C. Knight . ... ... ... 174 The Death of Julius Caesar. By W. W. Lloyd . . . . - 177 The Character of Brutus. By Guizot . . . . . . . . . . . .178 The Character of Antony. By E. Dowden .180 Character of Hamlet. By S. T. Coleridge , , . 182 V^ Q CONTENTS. PAGE Character of Hamlet. By Goethe . . . . . . . , . . . . . 184 *-'" Character of Hamlet. By A. W. Schlegel ........... 185 -^ The Churchyard Scene. By A. de Lamartine . . . . . . . . . . 187 */ Hamlet's Humour connected with his Melancholy. By J. C. Bucknill . . . . . 188 ^ Hamlet and Shakespeare. By H. Maudsley . 189 ^ " Measure for Measure." By W. Pater . . . . . . . . . . . 191 Angelo and Isabella. By H. N. Hudson ........... 194 Othello and Desdemona. By the Duke de Broglie . . . . . . . . . .198 "Othello." By G. G. Gervinus ' . . 199 The Tragedy of " Othello," from Blackwood 's Edinburgh Magazine ...... 204 Iago. By A. Mezieres ............... 206 Moral significance of the Tragedy of "Othello." By E. Dowden ....... 207 Homer's and Shakespeare's Reading of Human Life and Fate. By J. Ruskin . . .' . 209 JThe Tragedy of " Macbeth. " By W. Hazlitt ' . . .211 The Ghost of Banquo, a Hallucination. By G. Fletcher . . . . . . . -213 Mrs. Siddons' Theory — the Ghost visible to Lady Macbeth. By Mrs. Siddons .... 215 Shakespeare's Treatment of the Supernatural. By T. De Quincey . . . . ."' . 216 Lady Macbeth. By Mrs. Siddons 219 How to act Lady Macbeth. By H. T. Rotscher . .... ..... 223 The Tragedy of " King Lear." By Victor Hugo .......... 226 The Last Scene of "King Lear." By J. C. Bucknill •. 227 Lear Impossible to Represent on the Stage: By C. Lamb 229 Why must Cordelia die ? By J. Hales ...... ...... 230 "Antony and Cleopatra." By S. T.Coleridge . . 233 The Character of Cleopatra. By Mrs. Jameson . . . . . . . . ; . 234 Shakespeare's use of Plutarch in " Antony and Cleopatra. " By R. C. Trench .... 237 "Coriolanus." By H. N. Hudson ............ 239 Shakespeare's Political Views. By W. Bagehot 244 Singularity of the Play of " Henry VIII." explained by the fact of double authorship. By J. Spedding 247 Character of Wolsey. By H. N. Hudson ........... 250 Character of Henry VIII. From The Spectator 251 Character of Imogen. By G. G. Gervinus 253 Shakespeare's period of Gloom followed by Serenity and Repose. By J. K. Ingram . . .257 "The Tempest." By A. Mezieres ............ 260 Hermione. By Mrs. Jameson 268 The Jealousy of Leontes. By S. T. Coleridge 269 Spirit of Forgiveness and Reconciliation in Shakespeare's last Plays. By E. Dowden . . . 270 " Stratford will help you to understand Shakespeare." By F. J. Furnivall . . v . . . 273 Worth of Shakespeare to the English Nation. By T. Carlyle 275 INDEX OF ENGRAVINGS. A Midsummer Night's Dream F. King Henry VI. Part I. F. King Henry VI. Part III. M Romeo and Juliet (j) H. Romeo and Juliet (2) A. King Richard II. F. King Richard III. . . , , F. King John (1) M. King John (2) M The Merchant of Venice (1) , . . . . . . H. The Merchant of Venice (2) M The Taming of the Shrew . , F. King Henry IV. Part I. (1) M. King Henry IV. Part I. (2) M, King Henry IV. Part II. F. King Henry V. . F. The Merry Wives of Windsor H. Much Ado About Nothing M. As You Like It F. Twelfth Night H. A IPs Well that Ends Well F. Julius CcEsar (1) M. Julius C&sar (2) A. Hamlet F. Measure for Measure A. Designed by SCHWOERER Engraved by G. Goldberg. Pecht T. Bauer. Adamo ..... T. Bauer. Hofmann . , , . G. Goldberg. Spiess G. Goldberg. Pecht A. Krausse. Pecht ..... T. Bauer. Adamo T. Bauer. Adamo J. Bankel. Hofmann . . . . G. Goldberg. Adamo G. Goldberg. Schwoerer . . . G. Goldberg. Adamo G. Goldberg. Adamo ..... A. Krausse. Pecht J. Bankel. Pecht G. Goldberg. Makart . . . . G. Goldberg. Adamo ..... T. Bauer. Schwoerer ... J. Bankel. Hofmann .... J. Bankel. Pecht ..... T. Bauer. Adamo . . . . J. Deinninger. Spiess .... A. Krausse. Pecht G. Goldberg. Spiess W. Schmidt. INDEX OF ENGRAVINGS. Designed by Engraved by Othello (i) H. Hofmann . . . . G. Goldberg. Othello (2) H. Hofmann . . . . T. Bauer. Macbeth (1) M. Adamo T. Bauer. Macbeth (2) M. Adamo J. Lindner. King Lear F. Pecht J. Deinninger. Antony and Cleopatra A. SPIESS W. SCHMIDT. Coriolanus M. Adamo T. Bauer. King Henry VIII. F. Pecht J. L. Raab. Cymbeline F. Schwoerer ... J. Bankel. The Tempest H. Hofmann .... J. Deinninger. The Winters Tale M. Adamo G. Goldberg. i , ^^Bs3^ r ^ ic, • ? .» i \C o* K X SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. Act II. Scene II. Another Part of the Wood. Enter Titan i a, with her train. Tita. Come, now a roundel and a fairy song ; Then, for the third part of a minute, hence ; Some to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds, Some war with rere-mice for their leathern wings, To make my small elves coats, and some keep back The clamorous owl that nightly hoots and won- ders At our quaint spirits. Sing me now asleep ; Then to your offices and let me rest. The Fairies sing. You spotted snakes with double tongue, Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen ; Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong, Come not near our fairy queen. Philomel, with melody Sing in our sweet lullaby ; . Lulla, lulla, lullaby, lulla, lulla, lullaby : Never harm, Nor spell nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh ; So, good night, with lullaby. Weaving spiders, come not here ; Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence ! Beetles black, approach not near ; Worm nor snail, do no offence. Philomel, with melody, &c. A Fairy, Hence, away ! now all is well : One aloof stand sentinel. \Exeunt Fairies. Titania sleeps. Enter OBERON, and squeezes the flower oti Titania 's eyelids. Obe, What thou seest when thou dost wake, Do it for thy true-love take, Love and languish for his sake : Be it ounce, or cat, or bear, Pard, or boar with bristled hair, In thy eye that shall appear When thou wakest, it is thy dear : Wake when some vile thing is near. [Exit. A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. TT seems that A Midsummer-Night's Dream was produced, in part at least, at an earlier period of Shakespeare's life than his twenty-ninth year. Although as a whole it is the most exquisite, the daintiest and most fanciful creation that exists in poetry, and abounds in passages worthy even of Shakespeare in his full maturity, it also contains whole scenes which are hardly worthy of his apprentice hand, that wrought Love's Labours Lost, The Two B SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. Gentlemen of Verona, and The Comedy of Errors, and which yet seem to bear the unmis- takable marks of his unmistakable pen. These scenes are the various interviews between Demetrius and Lysander, Hermia and Helena in Acts II. and III. It is difficult to believe that such lines as, " Do not say so, Lysander ; say not so. What though he love your Hermia ! Lord what though ? " " When at your hands did I deserve this scorn ? Is't not enough, is't not enough, young man, That I did never, no, nor ever can," &c. — Act II. Scene i. — it is difficult to believe that these, and many others of a like character which accompany them, were written by Shakespeare after he had produced even Venus and Adonis and the plays mentioned above, and when he could write the poetry of other parts of this very comedy. There seems, therefore, warrant for the opinion that this Dream was one of the very first conceptions of the young poet ; that living in a rural district where tales of household fairies were rife among his neighbours, memories of these were blended in his youthful reveries with images of the classic heroes that he found in the books which we know he read so eagerly ; that perhaps on some midsummer's night he, in very deed, did dream a dream and see a vision of this comedy, and went from Stratford up to London with it partly written ; that, when there, he found it necessary at first to forego the com- pletion of it for labour that would find readier acceptance at the theatre ; and that after- ward, when he had more freedom of choice, he reverted to his early production and in 1594 worked it up into the form in which it was produced. It seems to me that in spite of the silence of the quarto title-pages on the subject, this might have been done, or at least that some additions might have been made to the play for a performance at Court. The famous allusion to Queen Elizabeth as a " fair vestal throned by the west," tends to confirm me in that opinion. Shakespeare never worked for nothing ; and besides, could he, could any man, have the heart to waste so exquisite a compliment as that is, and to such a woman as Queen Elizabeth, by uttering it behind her back ? Richard Grant White. — Works of Shakespeare, Vol. IV. pp. 16, 17. SHAKESPEARE'S FAIRY WORLD. That which Shakespeare 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 Homer ; as the Greek A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. poet has created the great abode of the gods and its Olympic inhabitants, so Shakespeare has given form and place to the fairy kingdom, and with the natural creative power of genius, he has breathed a soul into his merry little citizens, which imparts a living centre to their nature and their office, their behaviour and their doings. He has given embodied form to the invisible, and life to the dead, and has thus striven for the poet's greatest glory ; . ; . . he has clothed in bodily form those intangible phantoms, the bringers of dreams of provoking 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. Scene 2) in which they appeared in Scandinavian and Scottish fable, if it were his desire to portray them as kindly beings in a merry, harmless relation to mortals, if he wished, in their essential office as bringers of dreams, to fashion them in 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 without 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 recall to mind the description of the fairies' midwife, Queen Mab, in Romeo and Juliet, a piece nearly of the same date with the Midsummer-Night's Dream, to discover that this is the charge essentially assigned to them, and the very means by which they influence mortals. Full of deep thought it is then, how Shakespeare has fashioned their inner character in harmony with this outer function. He depicts them as beings without delicate feeling and without morality, just as in dreams we meet with no check to our tender sensations, and are without moral impulse and responsibility. Careless and unscrupulous, 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 deep affliction of the lovers, but only delight and marvel over their mistakes and their foolish demeanour. The poet farther depicts his fairies as being of no high intellectual development. Whoever attentively reads their parts, will find that nowhere is reflection imparted 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 immediately feel that it is out of harmony. 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 b 2 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. 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 : " Methought I was enamoured of an ass," she says \ " Oh 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 resentment consists in separation, her reconciliation in a dance ; there is no trace of reflection, no indication of feeling. Thus, to remind Puck of a past event, no abstract date sufficed, but an accompanying indication perceptible to the senses was required. They are repre- sented, these little gods, as natural souls, without the higher human capacities of mind, lords of a kingdom not of reason and morality, but of imagination and ideas conveyed by the senses ; and thus they are uniformly the vehicle of the fancy, which produces the delusions of love and dreams. Their will, 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, with the wings of painted butterflies to fan the moonbeams from their eyes, this is their pleasure ; the gorgeous apparel of flowers and dewdrops are their joy ; when Titania wishes 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 wage war with all ugly creatures, with hedgehogs, spiders, and bats ; dancing, play, and song are their greatest pleasures ; they steal lovely children, and substitute changelings ; they torment decrepit old age, toothless gossips, aunts, and the awkward company of the players of Py ramus and Thisbe, but they love and recompense all that is pure and pretty. Thus was it of old in the popular traditions ; the characteristic trait that they favour honesty among mortals and persecute crime, Shakespeare certainly borrowed from these traditions in the Merry Wives of Windsor, but not in this piece. The sense of the beautiful is the one thing that elevates the fairies not only above the beasts, but also above the low mortal, when he is devoid of all fancy and uninfluenced by beauty. Thus in the spirit of the fairies, in which this sense of the beautiful is so refined, it is intensely ludicrous that the elegant Titania should fall in love with an ass's head. The only pain which agitates these beings is jealousy, the desire of possessing the beautiful sooner than others ; they shun the distorting quarrel ; their steadfast aim and longing is for undisturbed 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 full also of wanton tricks and railleries, playing upon themselves and mortals pranks which never hurt but which often torment. This is especially the pro- perty of Puck, who jests to Oberon, who is the " lob " at this court, a coarser goblin, represented with broom or threshing flail, in a leathern dress and with a dark coun- A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. tenance, a roguish but awkward fellow, skilful at all transformations, practised in wilful tricks, but also clumsy enough to make mistakes and blunders contrary to his intention. G. G. Gf.rvinus. — Shakespeare Commentaries. Translated by F. E. Bunnett, (ed. 1863), Vol. I. pp. 270-274. 1 BOTTOM THE WEAVER, AND TITANIA. The mermaid chaunting on the back of her dolphin j the fair vestal throned in the west ; the bank blowing with wild thyme and decked with oxlip and nodding violet ; the roundelay of the fairies singing their queen to sleep ; and a hundred images beside of aerial grace and mythic beauty are showered upon us ; and in the midst of these splendours is tumbled in Bottom the weaver, blockhead by original formation, and rendered doubly ridiculous by his partial change into a literal jackass. He, the most unfitted for the scene of all conceivable personages, makes his appearance, not as one to be expelled with loathing and derision, but to be instantly accepted as the chosen lover of the Queen of the Fairies. The gallant train of Theseus traverse the forest, but they are not the objects of such fortune. The lady, under the oppression of the glamour cast upon her eyes by the juice of love-in-idleness, reserves her raptures for an absurd clown. Such are the tricks of Fortune. Oberon, himself, angry as he is with the caprices of his queen, does not anticipate any such object for her charmed affections. He is determined that she is to be captivated by " some vile thing," but he thinks only of "Ounce, or cat, or bear, Pard, or boar with bristled hair," animals suggesting ideas of spite or terror; but he does not dream that, under the superintendence of Puck, spirit of mischief, she is to be enamoured of the head of an ass surmounting the body of a weaver. It is so nevertheless ; and the love of the lady is as desperate as the deformity of her choice. He is an angel that wakes her from her flowery bed ; a gentle mortal, whose enchanting note wins her ear, while his beauteous shape enthralls her eye ; one who is as wise as he is beautiful ; one for whom all the magic treasures of the fairy kingdom are to be with surpassing profusion dis- pensed. For him she gathers whatever wealth and delicacies the Land of Faery can boast. Her most airy spirits are ordered to be kind and courteous to this gentleman, — for 1 In this and subsequent extracts from Ger- been compared, and all needful corrections vinus's Commentaries, the edition of 1875 has | embodied. SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. into that impossible character has the blindness of her love transmuted the clumsy and conceited clown. Apricocks and dewberries, purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries, are to feed his coarse palate ; the thighs of bees kindled at the eyes of fiery glow-worms are to light him to his flower-decked bed ; wings from painted butterflies are to fan the moonbeams from him as he sleeps ; and in the very desperation of her intoxicating passion she feels that there is nothing which should not be yielded to the strange idol of her soul. She mourns over the restraints which separate her from the object of her burning affection, and thinks that the moon and the flowers participate in her sorrow. " The moon, methinks, looks with a watery eye, And when she weeps, weeps every little flower, Lamenting some enforced chastity." Abstracting the poetry, we see the same thing every day in the plain prose of the world. Many is the Titania driven by some unintelligible magic so to waste her love. Some juice, potent as that of Puck — the true Cupid of such errant passions — often converts in the eyes of woman the grossest defects into resistless charms. William Maginn. — Shakespeare Papers, pp. 133 — 135. LIFE A DREAM— THE "GROUND-IDEA" OF THE PLAY. 1 The marriage festival of Theseus and Hippolyta surrounds the whole picture as with a splendid frame of gold. Within it the sports and gambols of the elves and fairies, crossing and recrossing the story of the lovers, and the labours of the theatrical artizans, connect together these two different groups, while the blessings which at the end of the piece they bestow by their presence at the nuptial festival upon the house and lineage of Theseus, give reason and dignity to the part which they have been playing throughout. The particular modification of the general comic view which results from this ironical parodying of all the domains of life at once determines and gives expression to the special ground-idea which first reduces the whole into organic unity. Life is throughout regarded in the light of a Midsummer- Night 's Dream. With the rapidity of wit the merry piece passes like a dream over our minds ; the most rare and motley elements, and the most fantastic shapes, are blended together as in a vision of the night, and form a whole highly wonderful both in form and composition. . . . 1 Ulrici, in his laborious and scholarly work, attempts to discover a central idea in each of Shakespeare's plays — a method of criticism more acceptable to German than to English Shakespeare students. A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. To look upon life as a dream is no new idea in poetry. In the ideal and poetical philosophy of Plato it is represented in this light, where he supposes the soul of man to possess an obscure memory of an earlier and truer sphere of existence, out of which it spins in this life a motley web of truth and falsehood. Calderon, too, has treated the same idea in a serious, but not properly tragic drama. To treat it seriously, however, is obviously a mistake in art. For, in sober truth, human life is no dream, nor was it in truth regarded as such by Plato. . . . Because, then, Shakespeare has regarded human life in this play as a dream, he is right in denying to it both reason and order. In conformity with such a view the mind seems to have lost its self- consciousness, while all the other faculties, such as feeling and fancy, wit and humour, are allowed the fullest scope and license. With the withdrawal of mental order and reason, the intrinsic connection of the outer world, and consequently its truth and reality also, are overthrown. Life appears in travesty ; the most ill-assorted elements, the oddest shapes and events which mock reality, dance and whirl about in the strangest confusion. The whole appears a cheat and delusion, which flits before us without form or substance. At last, however, the dialectic of irony which reigns within the comic view assorts the heterogeneous elements ; the strange and wonderful creations vanish and dissolve into the ordinary forms of reality ; order is finally restored, and out of the entangled web, right and reason result. Dr. Hermann Ulrici. — Shakespeare's Dramatic Art, 1839. Translated by A. J. W. M. London, 1846. pp. 272 — 274. SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VI. Act I. Scene II. France. Before Orleans. Charles the Dauphin, Reignier, and Alencon. Enter the Bastard of Orleans. Bast. Where's the Prince Dauphin ? I have news for him. Char. Bastard of Orleans, thrice welcome to us. Bast. Methinks your looks are sad, your cheer appall'd : Hath the late overthrow wrought this offence ? Be not dismay'd, for succour is at hand : A holy maid hither with me I bring, Which by a vision sent to her from heaven Ordained is to raise this tedious siege And drive the English forth the bounds of France. The spirit of deep prophecy she hath, Exceeding the nine sibyls of old Rome : What's past and what's to come she can descry. Speak, shall I call her in ? Believe my words, For they are certain and unfallible. Char. Go, call her in. [Exit Bastard] But first, to try her skill, Reignier, stand thou as Dauphin in my place : Question her proudly ; let thy looks be stern : By this means shall we sound what skill she hath. Re-enter the Bastard of Orleans, with Joan La Pucelle. Reig. Fair maid, is't thou wilt do these won- drous feats? Puc. Reignier, is't thou that thinkest to beguile me ? Where is the Dauphin ? Come, come from behind ; I know thee well, though never seen before. Be not amazed, there's nothing hid from me : In private will I talk with thee apart. Stand back, you lords, and give us leave awhile. Reig. She takes upon her bravely at first dash. Puc. Dauphin, I am by birth a shepherd's daugher, My wit untrain'd in any kind of art. Heaven and our Lady gracious hath it pleased To shine on my contemptible estate : Lo, whilst I waited on my tender lambs, And to sun's parching heat display'd my cheeks, God's mother deigned to appear to me And in a vision full of majesty Will'd me to leave my base vocation And free my country from calamity : Her aid she promised and assured success : In complete glory she reveal'd herself; And, whereas I was black and swart before, With those clear rays which she infused on me That beauty am I bless'd with which you see. Ask me what question thou canst possible, And I will answer unpremeditated : My courage try by combat, if thou darest, And thou shalt find that I exceed my sex. Resolve on this, thou shalt be fortunate, If thou receive me for thy warlike mate. ofi. c^/eeAif- d*/ l= x4?2V <^va&&& /J?z dslf ///sY> //. ?lt/ C ^ua^ z^u?m^^a?z^ c \ ROMEO AND JULIET. 27 blossoming and abundant vitality, in its brilliant images, in its bold and free design. Romeo's words flow like one of Petrarch's sonnets ; with a like delicate choice, a like antithesis, a like grace, and a like delight in clothing his passion in rhythmical allegory. Juliet also is wholly Italian ; endowed with small foresight, but possessing a perfect in- genuousness in her abandon, she is at once passionate and pure With Friar Laurence we foresee that the lovers will be conquered by fate ; Shakespeare will not close the tomb upon them until he has intoxicated them with all the happiness which human existence can sustain. The balcony scene is the last gleam of this fleeting bliss. Heavenly accents float upon the air, the fragrance of pomegranate blossoms is wafted aloft to Juliet's chamber, the sighing plaint of the nightingale pierces the leafy shadows of the grove ; nature, dumb and impassioned, owns her perfume and her sounds only to add her utterance to that hymn, sublime and melancholy, which tells of the frailty of human happiness. Philarete Chasles. — Etudes sur W. Shakspeare, pp. 141 — 42 and p. 159. MORAL SPIRIT OF THE PLAY. We have here one of those inexhaustible subjects which, losing themselves in the night of time, wandering from nation to nation, preserve their potency in the most various tongues, and forms of art ; enduring, sacred symbols of the simplest and therefore the mightiest combinations of human will, emotion and endeavour. But in passing from the joyous domain of the South, and the life of pleasure proper to the Romance nations, into the rude, earnest and grander Teutonic world, this stream of intoxicating poetry broadens into a mighty and roaring torrent, with dangerous whirlpools and mysterious depths, but also with a richer body of the quickening and refreshing element. The Romanticists, and a majority of the non-critical public praise Romeo and Juliet especially for the peculiar southern air which breathes through the piece ; it is the glow of feeling and the lovely splendour of the poetic diction that with them chiefly determine the worth of the poem. . . . . But [this view] is far from doing justice to the dignity of Shakespeare's tragedy ; it does not penetrate through the glittering costume to the heart of the work of art. Shakespeare does not here content himself with painting Love in its raptures, and in its wildest griefs ; he draws aside the veil from its mysterious connection with the pre- siding moral forces of life 3 he lays bare the most hidden fibres by which it pierces to the very marrow of character ; he is not merely the painter of the great passion — he is at the same time and equally its physiologist. Let us try to justify this judgment. We are struck at once with the care with which Shakespeare in this piece treats almost e 2 28 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. all the subordinate characters, as well as with the unusually large space given to the humorous scenes, occurring close by the pathetic. He evidently takes pains to keep always present before us the place where the fate of the lovers is unfolded and consum- mated, we are constantly urged in the moon-illumined magic-night of feeling not to forget the clear light of day and of fact. Romeo and Juliet are presented to us not as the abstract lovers of the troubadours' songs, or of the love-tales, but as distinct persons involved in concrete relations of all kinds. We shall do well, therefore, to consider these relations accurately before we entrust our judgment to the stormy sea of poetic raptures and tragic passions. Thus much is clear at a first glance, that these relations are far from corresponding to the conditions of a well-ordered state of society. We have before us a piece of true mediaeval, Italian life, as Shakespeare and the cultured of his time knew it through the Italian novelists ; as Goethe has made it known to the general reading public of Germany thiough his translation of Benvenuto Cellini. Much life and little order, high intellectual attainment side by side with moral savagery, and uncontrolled passion, all the blossoms of a refined culture side by side with a high degree of moral rudeness. Bloody street-fights alternate in the lives of the cavaliers with brilliant festivals ; in the boudoirs of ladies coarse jests of the nurse play their part side by side with Petrarch's sonnets ; the phial of poison has its place among the mysteries of the toilet, and in the brilliant array of the highest taste and art, passion almost loses the conscious- ness of its unwarrantable antagonism to the natural and necessary order of life. [Contrasting Juliet's heroic strength with Romeo's weakness, Herr Kreyssig goes on : — ] Whence this victorious, heroic strength in the weak and tender woman, while the man, like a reed in the storm, is borne hither and thither in the delirium of fear and hope ? Whence these Goethe-like figures of the feminine man and the woman as bold and deter- mined as she is sensitive, in the world of Shakespeare ? The answer is simple. In this tragedy Shakespeare makes his solitary excursion into the province wherein the poet of Werther and Charlotte, of Tasso and Leonora, of Edward and Ottilia reigns as born lord and master — I mean the narrow, but all the more blooming and fragrant domain of purely human and individual feelings, and especially the mysteries of the most powerful of all purely subjective passions,— that which is essen- tially passion, Love. In this domain woman finds the natural calling of her life, while the healthily developed man enters it, so to speak, only as a guest, to wipe away the sweat of the place of strife, and in that true and precious home of his heart to renew his strength for the stern but salutary conflicts of manhood. Woe to him if the place of rest unfits him for the combat ! The woman who gives up her whole being to love rises above the weakness of her sex to the dignity and heroic strength of a purely human ideality ; the man, to whom love becomes the one aim of life, swallowing up all other aims, abandons himself with riven sails and rudderless to the storm. Fallen away from the fundamental ROMEO AND JULIET. 29 law of his being, he presents the unbecoming appearance of all that is discordant and con- tradictory, and the more richly he is endowed, the greater his original strength, only the more surely does he succumb not to fate, but to the Nemesis of the natural law which he has violated. Shakespeare soaring on his eagle wing above all heights and depths of man's being and emotion, has by no means overlooked these romantic abysses of the great passion. He has fathomed them, he has revealed their loveliest and their most fearful mysteries, as few after him have done. But it is a weighty testimony to the massive healthiness of his character that among the heroes of his serious plays, Romeo alone falls a victim to love, while all the other cavaliers of love grace the variegated festal-array of his Comedies. The vision, which the closing scene opens to us, beyond the horrors of death, through the gloomy peace of the morning as it breaks over the graves of the lovers, of the wholesome yet dearly purchased fruit of so many lives (I mean the reconciliation of the two contending houses) — that vision dissipates with a solemn and masculine harmony all the discord of passionate lament. With a clear view of the serious, saving, and harmoniz- ing event, not with inconsolable grief for a happiness irrecoverably lost, closes this celebrated love-tragedy of the most glowing and most tender, but also the soundest and most manly of poets. F. Kreyssig. — Vorlesungen tiber Shakespeare. Zweiter Band. pp. 23 — 41 (ed. 1874). SHAKESPEARE'S TESTIMONY TO THE POSITION AND CHARACTER OF WOMEN. Let us try, then, whether we cannot get at some clear and harmonious idea (it must be harmonious if it is true) of what womanly mind and virtue are in power and office, with respect to man's ; and how their relations, rightly accepted, aid and increase the vigour and honour and authority of both. ...... Let us see whether the greatest, the wisest, the purest-hearted of all ages are agreed in any wise on this point ; let us hear the testimony they have left respecting what they held to be the true dignity of woman, and her mode of help to man. And first let us take Shakespeare. Note broadly at the outset, Shakespeare has no heroes ; — he has only heroines. There is not one entirely heroic figure in all his plays, except the slight sketch of Henry the Fifth, exaggerated for the purposes of the stage; and the still slighter Valentine in The Two Gentlemen of Verona. In his laboured and perfect plays you have no hero. Othello would have been one, if his simplicity had not been so great as to leave him the prey of 3 o - SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. every base practice round him ; but he is the only example even approximating to the heroic type. Coriolanus, Csesar, Antony stand in flawed strength and fall by their vanities; — Hamlet is indolent and drowsily speculative; Romeo an impatient boy; the Merchant of Venice languidly submissive to adverse fortune ; Kent, in King Lear, is entirely noble at heart, but too rough and unpolished to be of true use at the critical time, and he sinks into the office of a servant only. Orlando, no less noble, is yet the despair- ing toy of chance, followed, comforted, saved, by Rosalind. Whereas there is hardly a play that has not a perfect woman in it, steadfast in grave hope and errorless purpose : Cordelia, Desdemona, Isabella, Hermione, Imogen, Queen Katharine, Perdita, Sylvia, Viola, Rosalind, Helena, and last and perhaps loveliest, Virgilia, are all faultless ; con- ceived in the highest heroic type of humanity. Then observe, secondly— The catastrophe of every play is caused always by the folly cr fault of a man ; the redemption, if there be any, by the wisdom and virtue of a woman, and failing that, there is none. The catastrophe of King Lear is owing to his own want of judgment, his im- patient vanity, his misunderstanding of his children ; the virtue of his one true daughter would have saved him from all the injuries of the others, unless he had cast her away from him ; as it is, she all but saves him. Of Othello I need not trace the tale ; nor the one weakness of his so mighty love ; nor the inferiority of his perceptive intellect to that even of the second woman character in the play, the Emilia who dies in wild testimony against his error : " Oh, murderous cox- comb ! What should such a fool do with so good a wife ? " In Romeo and Juliet, the wise and entirely brave stratagem of the wife is brought to ruinous issue by the reckless im- patience of her husband. In Winter's Tale and in Cymbeline, the happiness and existence of two princely households, lost through long years, and imperilled to the death by the folly and obstinacy of the husbands, are redeemed at last by the queenly patience and wisdom of the wives. In Measure for Measure, the injustice of the judges, and the corrupt cowardice of the brother, are opposed to the victorious truth and adamantine purity of a woman. In Coriolanus, the mother's counsel, acted upon in time, would have saved her son from all evil ; his momentary forgetfulness of it is his ruin ; her prayer, at last granted, saves him — not indeed from death, but from the curse of living as the destroyer of his country. And what shall I say of Julia, constant against the fickleness of a lover who is a mere wicked child ? — of Helena, against the petulance and insult of a careless youth ? — of the patience of Hero, the passion of Beatrice, and the calmly devoted wisdom of the " unlessoned girl," who appears among the helplessness, the blindness, and the vindictive passions of men, as a gentle angel, to save merely by her presence, and defeat the worst intensities of crime by her smile ? ROMEO AND JULIET. 31 Observe, farther, among all the principal figures in Shakespeare's plays there is only one weak woman — Ophelia ; and it is because she fails Hamlet at the critical moment, and is not, and cannot in her nature be, a guide to him when he needs her most, that all the bitter catastrophe follows. Finally, though there are three wicked women among the principal figures— Lady Macbeth, Regan, and Goneril — they are felt at once to be frightful exceptions to the ordinary laws of life ; fatal in their influence also in proportion to the power for good which they have abandoned. Such in broad light is Shakespeare's testimony to the position and character of women in human life. He represents them as infallibly faithful and wise counsellors — incorrupt- ibly just and pure examples — strong always to sanctify, even when they cannot save. John Ruskin. — Sesame and Lilies, pp. 125 — 131 (ed. 1865). RHYME AND BLANK VERSE IN « ROMEO AND JULIET." The briefest glance over the plays of the first epoch in the work of Shakespeare will suffice to show how protracted was the struggle, and how gradual the defeat of rhyme. Setting aside the retouched plays, we find on the list one tragedy, two histories, and four, if not five, comedies, which the least critical reader would attribute to this first epoch of work. In three of these comedies rhyme can hardly be said to be beaten ; that is, the rhyming scenes are, on the whole, equal to the unrhymed in power and beauty. In the single tragedy, and in one of the two histories, we may say that rhyme fights hard for life, but is undeniably worsted ; that is, they contain as to quantity a large proportion of rhymed verse, but as to quality the rhymed part bears no proportion whatever to the unrhymed. In two scenes we may say that the whole heart or spirit of Romeo and 'Juliet is summed up and distilled into perfect and pure expression ; and these two are written in blank verse of equable and blameless melody. Outside the garden scene in the second act, and the balcony scene in the third, there is much that is fanciful and graceful, much of elegiac pathos and fervid, if fantastic passion ; much also of superfluous rhetoric, and (as it were) of wordy melody, which flows and foams hither and thither with something of extravagance and excess ; but in these two there is no flow, no outbreak, no superflux, and no failure. Throughout certain scenes of the third and fourth acts I think it may be reasonably and reverently allowed that the river of verse has broken its banks, not as yet through the force and weight of its gathering stream, but merely through the weakness of the barriers or boundaries found insufficient to confine it. And here we may with deference venture on a guess why Shakespeare was so long loth to forego the restraint of rhyme. When he wrote, and even when he re-wrote, or at least retouched his youngest tragedy he had not yet the 32 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. strength to walk straight in the steps of the mighty master, but two months older than himself by birth, whose foot never from the first faltered in the arduous path of severer tragic verse. The loveliest of love-plays is after all a child of " his salad days when he was green in judgment," though assuredly not " cold in blood " — a physical condition as difficult to conceive of Shakespeare at any age as of Cleopatra. It is in the scenes of vehement passion, of ardour and of agony, that we feel the comparative weakness of a yet ungrown hand, the tentative uncertain grasp of a stripling giant. The two utterly beau- tiful scenes are not of this kind ; they deal with simple joy and with simple sorrow, with the gladness of meeting and the sadness of parting love ; but between and behind them come scenes of more fierce emotion, full of surprise, of violence, of unrest ; and with these the poet is not yet (if I dare say so) quite strong enough to deal. Apollo has not yet put on the sinews of Hercules. At a later date we may fancy or may find that when the Herculean muscle is full grown, the voice in him which was as the voice of Apollo is for a passing moment impaired. In Measure for Measure, where the adult and gigantic god has grappled with the greatest and most terrible of energies and of passions, we miss the music of a younger note that rang through Romeo and Juliet ; but before the end this too revives, as pure, as sweet, as fresh, but richer now and deeper than its first clear notes of the morning, in the heavenly harmony of Cymbeline and the Tempest. A. C. Swinburne. — The Three Stages of Shakespeare, The Fortnightly Review, May 1875, pp. 627 — 28. \ ( ,^ ROMEO AND JULIET. 33 ROMEO AND JULIET. Act V. SCENE III. A churchyard; in it a tomb be- longing to the Capulets. Friar Laurence without; Romeo dead, and Juliet in the tomb. Fri. L. Romeo ! {Advances. Alack, alack, what blood is this, which stains The stony entrance of this sepulchre ? What mean these masterless and gory swords To lie discolour'd by this place of peace ? {Enters the tomb. Romeo ! O, pale ! Who else ? what, Paris too ? And steep'd in blood ? Ah, what an unkind hour Is guilty of this lamentable chance ! The lady stirs. [Juliet wakes. Jul. O comfortable friar ! where is my lord ? I do remember well where I should be, And there I am. Where is my Romeo? [Noise within. Fri. L. I hear some noise. Lady, come from that nest Of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep : A greater power than we can contradkt Hath thwarted our intents. Come, come away. Thy husband in thy bosom there lies dead ; And Paris too. Come, I'll dispose of thee Among a sisterhood of holy nuns : Stay not to question, for the watch is coming ; Come, go, good Juliet [Noise again], I dare no longer stay. Jul. Go, get thee hence, for I will not away. {Exit Fri. L. What's here? a cup, closed in my true love's hand ? Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end : O churl ! drunk all, and left no friendly drop To help me after? I will kiss thy lips ; Haply some poison yet doth hang on them, To make me die with a restorative. [Kisses him. Thy lips are warm. First Watch. [Within] Lead, boy : which way ? Jul. Yea, noise ? then I'll be brief. O happy dagger ! [Snatching Romeo's dagger. This is thy sheath [Stabs herself] ; there rust, and let me die. [Falls on Romeo's body, and dies. VEHEMENCE OF PASSION AND PRECIPITANCY OF ACTION IN "ROMEO AND JULIET." *T*HIS breathless rapidity of incidents, this hasty interchange — nay, this closest interweaving and association of rapture and misery in the distribution of the plot, is in sympathy with the characteristic passion that gives the central impulse, on which all depends. The hasty precipitancy of the passion of Romeo and Juliet is the ruling motive with which all the accompaniments harmonize, as it seems the highest expression of a prevailing tendency of the age and the clime. Indifferent accidents dispose themselves to aid, like the appearance of Juliet at the balcony ; and love does not follow on first sight more surely than mutual avowal and full confidence at the earliest interview, and contract and completion at hastening and undeferred opportunity. The union of delicacy and frank affection and glowing passion in Juliet is something too sacred for criticism, which can but turn such divinity to pro- fanation .... 34 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. The love of Romeo, again, with all its vehement intensity and seeming extravagance, is preserved to our respect by the proof that it tends rather to regulate than extinguish the more peculiarly manly sentiment. When elate from marriage he lights upon his friends skirmishing with his new kinsfolk in anger, sudden and violent as his own love, he opposes calmness and expostulation to insult, though not without self-reproach when his friend is hurt beside him, and indeed through his interference ; and when he hears that he is dead and Tybalt returns in triumph, reason how we may, it is with advantage to our feeling for his character that he thrusts his love aside and vindicates in mortal attack his own honour and his friend. Thus the very checks to the violence of passion are sudden and violent as itself, and resolution passes from one extreme to the other, from despair to desperate remedy, by natural recoil. When feelings either of love or of hate are so excitable, the best inter- vention is foiled and disappointed, or only ministers occasion for new embarrassment or outrage. It is the calm Benvolio who induces Romeo to seek a cure for his love of Rosaline at the ball of the Capulets, where a more fatal love awaited him ; Capulet checks Tybalt at the mask, where his interference might at least have prevented the accosting of Juliet by Romeo ; Mercutio, in his eagerness to forestall Tybalt's challenge of Romeo, destroys his friend and himself also ; Romeo himself, when he rushes between combatants, gives occasion for one to receive mortal hurt under his arm ; the foolish and tyrannical parents, who would comfort their grieving daughter, do it in a harsh, unfeeling wise that brings her to her grave ; and the hasty message of Balthasar, who does not wait to communicate with Friar Laurence, is fatal to his master. Friar Laurence himself has the calmness and right meaning of Benvolio, with knowledge ot human nature that teaches him how far it is to be hoped to eradicate passion, and at what point the utmost hope is to control it and direct it to good end. But even his aid participates in the destiny that attends all who would guide precipitateness that is practically uncontrollable The lovers are punished it may be said for their haste and rashness, their dis- obedience of parents, their unsanctioned contract, their excessive engrossment by a passion that is at last not heavenly love but earthly, and many more are the hard words that would as readily as justly apply. They are punished by the agonies of their chequered union, by deprivation after brief enjoyment of the happiness they ran such risks to seize, and the misdeeds of their earlier course bring them at last to the irre- trievable misery and crime of self-destruction. It is most certain, however, that these are not the sentiments with which the conclusion of the drama leaves us imbued ; our hearts are melted at the unhappy fate of the lovers, and pure commiseration, undisturbed by any thought of anger, bedews their hapless tomb. How then ? Did Shakespeare suborn our feelings against our better judgment ? Has he by false colour withdrawn our ROMEO AND JULIET. 35 attention from the really blameworthy, and cast a false halo around wickedness and selfishness and wrong, and made a scapegoat for our maledictions of the allies and parents who in truth should engross our sympathy and pity ? Neither is this so ; so long as English poetry remains, the story of Romeo and Juliet will be felt as the blameless vindication of the rights and privileges of devoted love ; the picture which no associated suffering can render less attractive of the purest and the highest happiness the human heart can feel ; the bright imagination, if no more, of that last true and sympathetic touch which, so long as unknown — let us less severely and more hopefully say so long as unbelieved as a possibility — leaves the heart, however else expanded, the victim of the sense that after all it is alone ; that it is at best but a foreigner in a strange land, among strange tongues, strange faces, at best entertained and occupied by curiosity, but ever prepared to find seeming sincerity and sympathy reveal themselves as the hypocrisy of indifference or design. Never then was or will a heart be deterred from love, however dangerous, by the story of Romeo and Juliet ; though many may be those which shrink with sympathetic suffering and regret as Romeo, untaught by warnings of previous wilfulness, sinks by his own rash wrong act into senselessness the very moment before it is known his waking wife would have risen from her seeming shroud to reward a stronger self- control. But still the misery of the end has a double source, and that which is the chief lies without the nature and the conduct of the lover?, in the fierce animosities of civil rivalry on the one hand, and on the other quite as fatally in the inconsiderate heartlessness that controls the unwilling — or as bad, the inexperienced — into heartless marriage. It is by exciting awe and pity at the consequences of such misdeeds, or at least in promoting the sensibility to such feelings at more real incidents when they arise, that the poet becomes the ultimate lawgiver, and reaches actions- which neither law nor institution can influence or approach. Romeo and Juliet, then, displays the encounter of two natures prone or prepared to love, and with that native suitability to each other that renders instantaneous passion at first sight the apparently natural consequence of meeting — a predetermined destiny of the order of the world. Their ages are those at which love first opens and seeks its object when it awakens, as the new-born eye expects the light; they live under the Southern sun that warms into beauty all the objects of the finer senses and seems to refine the senses with them, where it seems most natural that speech should be harmonious, that language should mould itself without effort or constraint into melody and poetry, that colours and forms should spontaneously distinguish themselves in their various combinations as readily by their fitness of harmony and contrast as by their mere obvious diversity, where the odorous air seems fragrant from the immediate heart of health-breathing nature, and the features and form of man become the nearest f 2 36 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. approach to the perfect expression of every charm that can attend the grace of life. Fortune and friends are close and warm and zealous around each of them ; equality in honours, and proximity in place, preclude the obstacles and accidents that violently separate so many hearts, and every influence but one conspires as happily to give birth to the passion as to crown its success. The single obstacle is the bitter enmity of their rival houses, set in opposition by an antipathy that seems as characteristic of the clime as the sympathetic passion of the lovers ; it is kindled by a word, exasperated by a look, and rushes to its gratification and its ruin with the like single, unconsidering, and headstrong impetuosity. Such was Verona then, and such still is Italy ; the land where the vehemence of love has most to excite and most to excuse it, but where the germ of dissension is ever rife beside it ; and when Friar Laurence finds a moral for his osier cage of simples — depositories side by side within the same flower of poison and medicine — it is rather a national reminiscence than a principle of human nature, .... that brings up the two opposed kings, Grace and rude Will, encamping in man as well as herbs. The drama represents — as all dramas, more or less — the clash and conflict of these rival powers ; the powers of Love and Hatred join in civil close ; Love, it is true, is crushed and mangled in the fray, but its holier spirit and better purpose is not unrewarded or effectless ; true the lovers perish, the victims no less of their own precipitation than of their hasty enemies ; but something of their passion still lives in power, and it is across the bodies of the breathless pair, as over an atoning sacrifice, that hands that were so lately clenched in reckless and unreasoning animosity, are joined in relenting tender- ness and the cordiality that grows by common tears. W. W. Lloyd. — Essays on the Life and Plays of Shakespeare (1858): u Romeo and Juliet" IRONY OF THE CLOSING SCENE OF "ROMEO AND JULIET." The dead lovers stand nobly transfigured before our eyes, and no effeminate emotion, no bitter pain, mingles with the exalted feeling by which we are possessed. But there is no want of the grand irony of life, and there ought to be none. Having resigned ourselves to the thought just suggested, and to the elevated feeling which the reconciliation above the lovers' grave must awaken, a keener emotion arises, and we ask the now united heads of the rival houses, " Why did you not end your foolish strife earlier ? If you were longing for blood, why could not the blood of Tybalt and Mercutio content you ? It inflamed you the more, and only now, when you are robbed of your houses' dearest ROMEO AND JULIET. 37 treasures, when the blooming lives of Juliet, Romeo, and Paris lie crushed at your feet, only now are you weary and wretched enough to be reasonable. Now, desolate old men, when you have scarcely anything left to love, you are ready to see to it that no further loss shall be borne. It needs only a few words from the Prince, and over those corpses you join hands no longer able to wield the sword, and you hardly know what you have been quarrelling about. The best result of your reconciliation your servants will enjoy ; for Sampson, Gregory, Abraham, and Balthasar will be no longer under the necessity of brawling on your account in the streets of Verona, and the disturbances caused by you will cease." As I have said, these thoughts are not to be avoided, and although the poet has not clothed them in words, he yet presents them to us. He sought not merely to dramatize a touching love-story, but to portray deeper human life. If we look carefully at this in Shakespeare's mirror, emotion, exultation, and irony fill us in harmonious accord. Even the irony so sharply pronounced at the close is not overpowering, for the thought prevails, " Better late than never," and the peace of a city is precious enough not to be purchased too dearly at the cost of five lives. Franz Horn. — Shakespeare's Schauspiele erlautert (1823), vol. i. pp. 252 — 253. (Translated by H. H. Furness. Variorum Shakespeare : Romeo and Juliet, PP- 447—448.) THE DENOUEMENT AND CLOSE OF THE TRAGEDY. The tragedy has been sometimes criticised in that its denouement is brought about by a trifling accident. It is only a seeming accident; the tragic fate lies in the character of Juliet, and especially of Romeo. Had he been calmer, more cautious, less familiar with the idea of suicide, he would not have been Romeo ; he ought to have investigated the matter, taken pains 10 inform himself, visited the Friar, and there would have been no tragedy. He must, Juliet must, perish ; the necessity lay in their very natures. And that the blossom of their loves so quickly withered, and that the whole happiness of their lives was compressed to the short span of a summer night, this is the elegiac wail of our mortality that accompanies all joy and all beauty. Never before in any poem have longing, love, passion, tenderness, and the grave, death, despair with all the horrors of corruption, been so intimately intermingled ; never before have these sentiments and emotions been brought into such intimate contact without counteracting and neutralizing each other, as in this single most wondrous creation. I need not say how great is the mistake that any rearrangement of this tragedy makes 38 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. which permits Juliet to awake before the death of Romeo ; and yet Garrick fell into this error, and many a spectator has applauded this barbarous mutilation. Such a horrible situation scatters all our previous sympathy ; nay, thrusts our feelings to the very verge of the ridiculous and of insipidity. If this situation cannot be tragically interpreted, still less can it be interpreted musically ; and yet in the opera by Zingarelli, in this scene is one of the best and most pathetic arias. Shakespeare was eminently right in not closing the tragedy with the death of Juliet, however much our modern patience may demand it. Not only do the affecting recon- ciliation of the two old foes and the vindication of Friar Laurence make the continuation necessary, but so it must be chiefly in order that, after misfortune has done its worst, the true idea of the tragedy, its glorified essence, may rise before our souls that up to this point have been too sorely tried and too violently affected to perceive the inmost meaning of the poem, or to take a painful yet clear survey of it. Schiller, in his preface to the Bride of Messina, expresses the opinion, singular to say the least, that Shakespeare's dramas stand peculiarly in need of a Chorus, after the manner of a Greek tragedy, in order fully to express their meaning. Here and in all Shakespeare's tragedies, without any such aid, there is just as much, if not more, done for us ; and it is inconceivable how a genius like Schiller's could fail to see this, or so to permit his prejudices to blind him. Ludwig Tieck. — Dramaturgische Blatter, vol. i. p. 256. Translated by H. H. Furness. Variorum Shakespeare : Romeo and Juliet, pp. 459 — 450. GARRICK'S VERSION. The reader will be interested in comparing Garrick's version of the death-scene, con- demned by Tieck in the preceding extract, with Shakespeare's treatment of the same subject. It may be mentioned that while Brooke, in his Romens and Juliet, and Paynter conclude the story as Shakespeare does — (Shakespeare generally having followed the nar- rative of Brooke) — in Luigi da Porto's narative, and in Bandello's novel founded upon it, Juliet "recovers her senses in time to hear Romeo speak, and to see him expire ; instead of stabbing herself with his dagger, she expires, as it were, of a broken heart on the body of her lover." Garrick's version is the following : — Romeo. Soft ! — she breathes and stirs ! Juliet. Where am I ? — Defend me, powers ! Rom. She speaks, she lives, and we shall still be bless'd ! My kind propitious stars o'erpay me now For all my sorrows past. Rise, rise, my Juliet, ROMEO AND JULIET. 39 And from this cave of death, this house of horror, Quick let me snatch thee in thy Romeo's arms, There breathes a vital spirit in thy lips, And call thee back my soul to life and love. [Raises her. Jul. Bless me ! how cold it is — Who's there ? Rom. Thy husband ; 'Tis thy Romeo, Juliet ; rais'd from despair To joys unutterable ! Quit, quit the place, And let us fly together. [Brings her from the tomb. Jul. Why do you force me so ? I'll ne'er consent— My strength may fail me but my will's unmoved — I'll not wed Paris — Romeo is my husband. Rom. Romeo is thy husband ; I am that Romeo, Nor all the opposing powers of earth or man Shall break our bonds or tear thee from my heart. Jul. I know that voice, its magic sweetness wakes My tranced soul — I now remember well Each circumstance — O my lord, my husband ! — Dost thou avoid me, Romeo ? Let me touch Thy hand, and taste the cordial of thy lips — You fright me— speak — O, let me hear some voice Besides my own, in this drear vault of death, Or I shall faint. — Support me — Rom. O, I cannot ; I have no strength ; but want thy feeble aid. — Cruel poison ! Jul. Poison ! What means my lord ? Thy trembling voice, Pale lips and swimming eyes, death's in thy face. Rom. It is indeed — I struggle with him now ; The transports that I felt To hear thee speak, and see thy opening eyes, Stopped, for a moment, his impetuous course, And all my mind was happiness and thee ; — And now the poison rushes through my veins ;— . • I have not time to tell, — Fate brought me to this place to take a last, Last farewell of my love, and with thee die. Jul. Die ? Was the friar false ? Rom . I know not that. — I thought thee dead, distracted at the sight,— O fatal speed ! drank poison, kiss'd thy lips, And found within thy arms a precious grave :— But, in that moment— O ! — "Jul. And did I wake for this ? Rom. My powers are blasted ; 'Twixt love and death I'm torn, I am distracted ; But death's strongest — And must I leave thee, Juliet ? O cruel, cursed fate ! in sight of Heaven, — Jul. Thou rav'st ; lean on my breast. 4 o SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. Rom. Fathers have flinty hearts, no tears can melt 'em ; — Nature pleads in vain ; children must be wretched. Jul. O my breaking heart ! Rom. She is my wife — our hearts are twin'd together, — Capulet, forbear ; Paris, loose your hold ; — Pull not our heart-strings thus ; they crack, — they break, — O Juliet, Juliet !— [Dies. Juliet faints on Romeo's body. George Fletcher, commenting upon this version of Garrick, remarks : — " The greater part of this improve?nent demands no comment, but it may be well to point out the especial absurdity of the concluding sentences, in which Romeo is made to exclaim against ' fathers ' and against ' Paris.' Romeo himself, we have seen, has a peculiarly tender father ; and Shakespeare has studiously kept him ignorant, both of Capulet's brutality to Juliet, and of Pafis's impertinence, — in order that, in Romeo's final scene, no harsher feeling might interfere to disturb those harmonizing sentiments of love and pity in the hero's breast which so exquisitely soften the tragic interest of his parting moments. In like manner compare Shakespeare's representation of Juliet's deportment on reviving, — : so remote from resentment against the Friar, whom she knows to deserve it so little, — or even against that Fortune of whom she is really the victim, — with Garrick's improved version of it, after he has actually made the Friar arrive behind his appointed time And then, as if to remove the last chance of bringing back our apprehensions in any degree towards the dignity of Shakespeare's own con- ception, the religiously solemn closing scene of explanation, admonition, repentance, and reconcilement is utterly suppressed !'' — Studies of Shakespeare, pp. 374 — 375. ■;/// ,/,-/' -/ 4^/^/.i.i,' .1, /,/ ////' ??^ '2>niK- -* 2? KING JOHN. 59 THE PLAY OF "KING JOHN." O HAKESPEARE'S play of King John is the first in order of time of those " Chronicle Plays " which he gave to his country and the world with the title orginally of " Histories." It gives a dramatic and imaginative view of an important reign in the annals of England ; and the personages, events, and dates are subjected to the transmuting processes of a great poet's imagination, so as not only not to darken or distort historic truth, but to array it in a living light. We gain a deeper and more abiding sense of the truth by the help of that fine function of the poetic genius, by which the imagination, gives unity and moral connection to events that stand apart and unrelated. "The history of our ancient kings," — says Coleridge — "the events of their reigns I mean — are like stars in the sky : whatever the real interspaces may be, and how- ever great they seem close to each other. The stars— the events — strike us, and remain in our eye, little modified by the difference of dates. A historic drama is, therefore, a collection of events borrowed from history, but connected together, in respect of cause and time, poetically, and by dramatic fiction." .... The first scene of the tragedy of King J^ohn has that significancy which distinguishes the openings of Shakespeare's plays — an intimation of the whole plot, the full meaning of which is regularly developed in the progress of the drama. In almost the first words King John's royalty is spoken of as " borrowed majesty," and he is summoned by the embassy of his great contemporary, Philip Augustus of France, to yield his kingdom up to the rightful heir, Arthur Plantagenet, the son of his dead brother Geoffrey. The succession of John was usurpation, beginning in fraud and violence, and continued in crime ; but of the previous Norman reigns four out of six of the Kings had possessed themselves of the sceptre by the law of the strong hand. The tragedy begins with the voice of state, of diplomacy, of policy, and of the rivalry of England and France ; and we shall see how, in the various characters, all the elements of mediaeval life are present — the papacy and the priesthood — the monarchy and the nobility — the commonalty and the soldiery — all are there. It has, however, been ingeniously said by a German critic that " The hero of this piece stand not in the list of personages, and could not stand with them, for the idea should be clear without personification. The hero is England." This means, as I understand it, that Shake- speare has made England the great and ever-present idea of the play; that without any artifice of national vanity he has so written the history of the reign of King John as to inspire a deep and fervid spirit of nationality. It is comparatively an easy thing to animate the hearts of a people with such a spirit by presenting the glorious parts of their country's annals ; the mere touch of the memory of victories won by their ancestors will kindle enthusiasm and pride in the breasts of posterity. We can understand how I 2 6o SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. the recollection, for example, of the splendid career of Edward III. should prompt the boast of the Britons of later times : — " We are all the sons of the men Who conquer'd on Cressy's plain ; And what our fathers did, Their sons can do again." But it was Shakespeare's arduous achievement to fire the sentiment of patriotism with the story of a reign that was tyrannical, oppressive, cowardly, — a period of usurpation and national degradation. He has accomplished this chiefly by means of one character, which is almost altogether a creation of his mind from very slight historical materials. The fertile imagination of the poet, and his genial exuberance of happy and gentle feelings, seem to have craved something more than the poverty of the history supplies ; he wanted somebody better than a king, better than a worldly ecclesiastic, and better than the bold but fickle barons. It is in the highest order of the dramatic art, and especially in the historic drama, that Shakespeare, on no other historical basis than the mere existence of a natural son of Richard, has created the splendid and most attractive character of Philip Falconbridge. Beside playing an important part himself, he fulfils something like the function of the chorus of the ancient drama ; for he seems to illustrate the purposes of the history and to make the real personages more intelligible. He is the embodiment, too, of the most genuine national feeling, and is truer to his country than king or noble. With an abounding and overflowing humour, a dauntless courage, and a gentleness of spirit that characterizes true heroism, Falconbridge carries a generous strength and a rude morality of his own, amid the craft and the cruelties and the feeble- ness of those who surround him. The character, imaginary as it is, has a historical value also in this, that it represents the bright side of feudal loyalty. Honoured by the King, Falconbridge never deserts him in his hour of need and peril, when the nobles are flying off from their allegiance and a foreign enemy is at hand. It is not servile flattery, but such genuine and generous loyalty that we look upon it as faithfulness to his country rather than adherence to the fortunes of the King. He is, as it were, the man of the people of the play, and we hear him prompting brave actions and a generous policy — encouraging the feeble King to a truer kingly career ; we see him withstanding the haughty barons, and still more indignant at papal aggression. He dwells in an atmosphere of heartlessness and villainy, but it pollutes him not ; rather does his presence partially purify it It is remarkable that we do not, and cannot, I think, associate him injuriously with the character of King John, with whose fortunes he is identified, but from whose vices he is wholly aloof. Henry Reed. — Lectures on English History and Tragic Poetry as illustrated by Shakespeare (1856), pp. 66 — 70. KING JOHN. THE WOMEN OF THE HISTORICAL PLAYS. Let us first look at the women of the Historical Plays. They of all persons are the least concerned with politics, and consequently they are those who approach nearest to the conditions of private life such as Shakespeare has represented in his comedies. They serve as a natural link between the poet's comic creations and his historical studies, and even in the midst of the great events which surround them they retain somewhat of the homeliness of bourgeois manners. In the events treated by the poet hardly any part is played by love. Therefore he wholly abandons the favourite theme of his comic pieces, which delineate with special fulness the emotions of tender hearts. The women whom he depicts are not lovers, happy or sad, but women whose destiny is already determined, who are bound by the engagements of their high rank, and the obliga- tions of their birth, as much as by the ties of the domestic affections. They are nearly all queens and princesses who, in addition to the duties imposed upon them by royalty, have to fulfil those of wife and mother. In the absence of the passions of simple and untrammelled youth, there remain with them the tragic passions of maternal or of conjugal love. To depict happiness is not the function of historical tragedy. The greater number of Shakespeare's heroines are unhappy, and it is their misfortune which brings out their beauty of character. One, like the Duchess ot Gloucester in Richard II, mourns for a murdered husband, and vainly seeks vengeance for his death ; another, like Elizabeth in Richard III, sees her husband die in the strength of his manhood, and survives her slaughtered sons. The Duchess of York throws herself at the feet of Henry IV. to implore pardon for her son, Aumerle, who has plotted against the King, and while she pours forth all the anguish of a mother's heart, she has the misery of hearing the father of the offender demand that he shall be condemned without remorse. Shakespeare excelled in painting these powerful situations, in which all the forces of the soul are strained to the utmost, in which the over-excited sensibility betrays itself in sobs or broken speech. Young and old, the women of the historical dramas undergo all extremities of hardship. Doomed to live after having lost that which they love, they can neither comfort them- selves, nor forget. They do not, like men, experience the joys of ambition and of military activity. Their elevated rank only exposes them to a more grievous fall, and whatever may be the issue of the civil strife, they must remain its most sorrowful victims. Richard II. is hurled from his throne. With him falls the young wife, whom, in his days of prosperity, he had neglected, and who, notwithstanding, faithful to duty, has not ceased to love him. It is with despair that she hears of the King's abdication ; she stations herself on his way as he is led to the Tower, vainly begs that she may share his prison ; and after an embrace, cut short by the presence of Henry's officers, confesses that she is unable to endure this everlasting separation. C2 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. There are also women's eyes weeping for the death of the gallant Hotspur, slain in battle by the hand of Henry V. The northern champion leaves a widow who while he lived was gay and happy, but who hides herself, after this calamity, in a long obscurity of sorrow. And yet her grief is less cruel than that of Richard II.'s wife, for the memory of Percy's glory sheds over her life a bright illumination. It is not a husband disgraced and humiliated, fallen from his rank, and dishonoured by his own weakness, whom she has lost. He, whom she loved, died as he had lived in soldier fashion, his weapon in his hand. Over his dead body -his enemies have shed tears, and the reverberation of his great deeds lasts for ever, as if to inspire Lady Percy with resignation worthy of such a memory. When misfortune strikes the family, mothers suffer even more than wives ; and Shake- speare comprehended ail the agonies of maternal love. Of these he gave a faithful rendering in the part of Constance, Arthur's mother, and one of the chief dramatis persona of King John. Constance is a widow, with one son, the legitimate heir to the English crown ; but John, Arthur's uncle, has taken advantage of his youth to seize upon the throne, and the mother places her child under the protection of the French King, who has undertaken to maintain his rights. Philip Augustus declares war against the usurper, and the two hostile armies meet before the walls of Angiers. Until now, Constance has been sustained by the hope of regaining the position which she has lost. Unhappily political motives interfere with her designs. From the moment when they come to blows Philip and John perceive that it is for the interest of both parties to be at peace, that hardly any misfortunes are greater than those of war, and accordingly they are reconciled, and cement their new alliance by the marriage of Blanche of Castile, niece of the King of England, with the Dauphin, Lewis. Upon tidings of this reaching her, Constance loses all self-restraint. Her soul is a passionate one ; she neither loves nor hates by halves, and she has devoted her life to the idea of regaining her son's throne. As happens with ardent natures, attached to some one hope which becomes the sole object of their thoughts, she cannot at first credit the treason of the French King. " It is not so," she exclaims to Salisbury, who is the first to announce the reconciliation of the kings — " It is not so ; thou hast misspoke, misheard ; Be well advised — tell o'er thy tale again ; It cannot be." When she gazes upon Arthur she passes from incredulity to passionate tenderness, and to rage when she stands in the presence of Philip Augustus. She pours forth reproaches upon him, charging him with breach of faith, and with having deserted the cause of the oppressed. KING JOHN. 63 For a moment she has reason to expect a return of happier fortune, and she grasps the hope with her habitual impetuosity of temper. A rupture takes place between the King of France and the King of England, consequent upon the intervention of the papal legate and his excommunication of John. Constance incites them to war, and has the satisfaction of seeing them armed one against the other. But this tran- sient happiness is only the prelude to a new and more bitter trial. In the conflict which ensues between the two armies, the French are defeated, Arthur is taken prisoner, and carried off to England by his uncle. The wretched mother sees in a moment the horrible fate which awaits him, and, with the mournful prevision of maternal love, she divines that her son will never come forth alive from his prison. Then her wits begin to wander, and her over-excited sensibility causes her to speak now with an appearance of insanity, now, on the contrary, with the appalling logic of despair. When charged with being mad, she answers : — " I am not mad : I would to heaven I were ! For then 'tis like I should forget myself : O, if I could, what grief should I forget." Then with a"sudden access of emotion, which on the stage must be rendered by tears and sobs, she exclaims — " And, father cardinal, I have heard you say That we shall see and know our friends in heaven : If that be true, I shall see my boy again ; For since the birth of Cain, the first male child, To him that did but yesterday suspire, There was not such a gracious creature born."' . . . . But the most tragic female figure drawn by Shakespeare is that of Margaret of Anjou, widow of Henry VI., in the play of Richard III. This queen, formerly beautiful and powerful, has lost in succession all that bound her to life — her son the Prince of Wales, slain by the Yorkist leaders, her lover Suffolk, her husband, and her Crown. She has misspent her season of prosperity, neglected her duty, insulted her vanquished enemies, stabbed the boy Rutland, and presented to the great Duke of York a napkin dyed with the blood of his son. A milder nature would accept misfortune as a punishment for past crimes, and would become resigned to it. Mar- garet knows nothing of such Christian sentiments, she regrets nothing that she has done ; she looks upon herself as a victim unjustly smitten ; she pursues with vengeance those who have been hostile to her, and lives only to be a witness of the ruin of her conquerors, and to rejoice in it. Although exiled under pain of death, she returns to England, to be a spectator of the intestine struggles of the House of York. Shakespeare personifies in her the classical Nemesis ; he gives her more than human proportions, o ■ — ■ — — 64 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. representing her as a kind of supernatural apparition. She penetrates without meeting opposition into the palace of Edward IV. ; she there exhales her hatred in presence of the members of the House of York and the courtiers. No one dreams of laying hands upon her, although she has been decreed to banishment ; and she passes forth, as she had entered, without encountering an obstacle. The same magic ring which on this first occasion threw open for her the doors of the royal dwelling, throws them open again when Edward IV. is dead, and his sons, by order of Richard III., have been murdered in the Tower. She came first to curse her enemies ; now she comes to gather up the fruits of her malediction. Like an avenging Fury, or the Fate of the ancients, she announces to each the doom which lies in store for him Shakespeare has thus made Margaret the personification of an idea rather than a human personality ; he has made it her part to represent the desire for vengeance, as it may seize upon a passionate nature, in a period of pitiless violence and strife. He animates her with the sanguinary spirit which too often inspired men in the Middle Ages, and which nowhere breaks forth with greater fury than in the Wars of the Roses. If we had no knowledge of the date of the play of Richard III., the conception of this modern Nemesis would be sufficient to incline us to believe that the piece was written in the poet's youth. In fact, it was written in 1593, immediately succeeding the last part of Henry VI, and preceding the tetralogy of the House of Lancaster. When Shake- speare conceived it he was still under the influence of that group of plays which his pre- decessors (Kyd and Marlowe especially) devoted to the delineation of the passions of hatred and vengeance. If Titus Andronicus resembles the Spanish Tragedy and thejeiv of Matta, it may also be asserted that reminiscences of these two pieces appear in Richard III. The parts played by violent women are exceptional in the dramas of Shakespeare. He created them more and more rarely as he left behind him the conceptions of his youth. He preferred to depict, on the contrary, virtuous, noble, and pathetic natures. The most interesting of his heroines belongs to the latest of his historical plays — Henry VIII. Less known than certain romantic characters, than Ophelia, than Desdemona or Imogen, Catharine of Arragon perhaps does not possess that poetical grace which has made them popular ; but if the poet has not thrown over her person the veil of the ideal, if, finding her in actual history, he has left her as she actually was, he has fulfilled the obligation, under which he lay, of representing her with peculiar distinctness and vividness, dis- covering in her, as he does, a nobleness and dignity superior to any purely imaginary conceptions. We feel that she has truly lived, she speaks and acts like a woman who has undergone the trials and discipline of life, and what she loses on the poetical side, she gains by her likeness to the fairest types of actual, living humanity. A. Mezieres. — Shakespeare, ses CEuvres et ses Critiques (1865), pp. 133 — 142. -2f una KING JOHN. Act IV. Scene I. A Room in the Castle. Hubert and Arthur. Hub. Come, boy, prepare yourself. Arth. Is there no remedy? Hub. None, but to lose your eyes. Arth. O heaven, that there were but a mote in yours, A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair, Any annoyance in that precious sense ! Then feeling what small things are boisterous there, Your vile intent must needs seem horrible. Hub. Is this your promise ? go to, hold your tongue. Arth. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes : Let me not hold my tongue, let me not, Hubert]: Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue, So I may keep mine eyes : O, spare mine eyes, Though to no use but still to look on you ! Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold And would not harm me. Hub. I can heat it, boy. Arth. No, in good sooth ; the fire is dead with grief, Reing create for comfort, to be used In undeserved extremes : see else yourself; There is no malice in this burning coal ; 1 The breath of heaven has blown his spirit out And strew'd repentant ashes on his head. Hub. But with my breath I can revive it, boy. Arth. An if you do, you will but make it blush And glow with shame at your proceedings, Hubert : Nay, it perchance will sparkle in your eyes ; And like a dog that is compell'd to fight, Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on. All things that you should use to do me wrong Deny their office : only you do lack That mercy which fierce fire and iron extends, Creatures of note for meicy-lacking uses. Hub. Well, see to live ; I will not touch thine eye For all the treasure that thine uncle owes : Yet am I sworn and I did purpose, boy, With this same very iron to burn them out. Arth. O, now you look like Hubert ! all this while You were disguised. Hub. Peace : no more. Adieu. Your uncle must not know but you are dead ; I'll fill these dogged spies with false reports : And, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secure, That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world, Will not offend thee. Arth. O heaven ! I thank you, Hubert. Hub. Silence ; no more : go closely in with me : Much danger do I undergo for thee. SHAKESPEARE'S "KING JOHN" NOT TRUE TO THE FACTS OF HISTORY. T N choosing the reign of John Lackland as the subject of a tragedy, Shakespeare was unable to follow with scrupulous fidelity the facts of history. A reign in which, as Hume has said, England was baffled and humiliated in all her enterprizes, could not be represented with entire truth before an English public and an English court ; and the sole memorial of John which the nation should have prized, the great Charter, was not a matter which would naturally interest in a high degree such a queen as Elizabeth. Accordingly Shakespeare's play presents no more than a summary of the last years of that shameful reign ; and the poet's skill is employed in K 66 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. veiling the character of his chief personage, without disfiguring it, and in disguising the colour of events without denaturalizing them. The only particular with respect to which Shakespeare definitely decided to substitute an invention for the facts is the relation of King John to France ; and assuredly all the illusions of national vanity were needed to enable Shakespeare to present, and English spectators to accept the spectacle of Philip Augustus succumbing under the superior might of John Lackland. It is in this way that the facts might have been put for the gratification of John himself, when shut up in Rouen. While Philip was seizing upon his French possessions, he said, " Let the French go on ; I will recover in a day what they spend years in winning." Everything in Shakespeare's play which has reference to the war with France, might seem as if it were invented to justify this extravagant boast of the cowardliest and most insolent of kings. In the other parts of the drama, the action itself, and what is indicated by facts which it was not possible to conceal, suffice to give an imperfect view of John's character, into which the poet did not dare to penetrate, and into which he could not penetrate without disgust; but neither was such a personage, nor this manner of portraying him with reservations, capable of producing a great dramatic effect ; therefore Shakespeare has made the interest of the piece turn upon the fate of young Arthur ; therefore he has entrusted to Falconbridge that original and brilliant part, in which he evidently took a personal pleasure, and which he hardly ever fails to introduce where it is possible. Shakespeare represents the young Duke of Brittany as having reached that age at which for the first time his rights could be asserted after Richard's death, that is, about twelve years. It is known that Arthur was twenty-five or twenty-six years of age, that he was already married, and attractive through his brilliant and generous endowments, when he became prisoner of his uncle ; but the poet felt how much more interesting in the case of a child was this spectacle of weakness in the grasp of cruelty j besides, if Arthur had not been a child, his mother could not have been put forward in so prominent a position j in suppressing the part of Constance, Shakespeare would perhaps have deprived us of the most pathetic painting of a mother's love ever conceived ; and few emotions were more profoundly entered into by Shakespeare than the maternal passion. At the same time that he has rendered the fact more touching, he has. rendered it less horrible by diminishing the atrocity of the crime. The most generally received opinion is that Hubert de Burgh, who undertook to destroy Arthur only with a view of saving him, having balked his uncle's cruelty by means of false reports and by a mock burial, John, who received information of the true state of the case, first removed Arthur from the Castle of Falaise, where he was in the custody of Hubert, and then himself repaired at night and by water to Rouen, where he had caused Arthur to be immured, brought the young Duke on board his vessel, stabbed him with his own hand, tied a stone to his body, and flung it into the river. We can understand how a true poet would avoid such o KING JOHN. 67 a picture. Apart from the necessity of absolving his leading character from so odious a crime, Shakespeare understood how much more dramatic and in accordance with the common nature of man was the cowardly remorse of John when he perceived the danger which the report of his nephew's death had drawn upon him, than this excess of brutal ferocity ; and certainly the fine scene in which John converses with Hubert after the withdrawal of his nobles, is sufficient to justify such a choice. Moreover, the picture which Shakespeare presents so intensely possessed his imagination, and acquired in his eyes so vivid a reality that he could not but feel how, after the incomparable scene in which Arthur wins over Hubert, it would be impossible to endure the idea that any human being should lay hands on the poor child, and subject him anew to the torturing anguish from which he had escaped. The poet knew further that the spectacle of Arthur's death, although less cruel, would yet be intolerable if in the minds of the spectators it were accompanied by the agony which the thought of the suffering of Constance would add to it ; he therefore is careful to apprize us of the mother's death before we are made witnesses of the death of the child ; as though, when his imagination had up to a certain point entered into the pangs of a passionate heart, his too tender soul took alarm, and endeavoured for its own sake to soften and assuage them. Whatever misery Shakespeare represents, he almost always hints to us some yet greater misery from which he draws back, and which he spares us. Guizot. — Shakespeare et son Temps (ed. 1852), pp. 347 — 352. CHILDREN IN THE PLAYS OF SHAKESPEARE. ' A reader who has not consciously brought them together from sundry places is hardly aware of the existence of this population of little people, who move to and fro, or gleam past for a moment and then disappear, leaving a regret for gladness lost, in the world of Shakespeare's imagination. The poet can hardly be said to have studied the nature of children for its own sake, with loving care such as we recognise in the writings of George Eliot. We get from Shakespeare no Eppie, no Tottie Poyser, no Maggie or Tom Tul- liver ; more often the childish voices are heard — and Fightly heard— as parts in complex harmonies, involved amid the larger forces of the dramas. Yet while it is true that these children of Shakespeare are brought into being less for their own sakes than to minister in some way to the more important personages or to the total impression of the work, the sleepless dramatic instinct of the poet will not allow him even here to disregard diversities of character ; and of the sixteen boys and girls who form this little population, almost everyone is a complete human being. The gentle and passive Arthur of King John, superior by virtue of his freedom from greeds and frauds to the adult persons of K 2 68 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. the play, resembles as little as possible the gallant Edward of Henry VI, dealing out quick, vindictive speeches, unterrified by a circle of cruel York faces, until he falls under the daggers : — " O brave young prince ! thy famous grandfather Doth live again in thee." In Richard III. the orphaned children of Clarence are introduced chiefly to add their parts to the terzet of lamentation in the lyrical scene of the afflicted women — tears and cries of three generations mingling together. But the murdered princes of the Tower are sharply-cut and contrasted figures — Edward, the dignified, earnest, clear-seeing boy, and his quick-tongued, malapert brother, the pretty rogue, Richard. Young Marcius is a Roman child, and child of Coriolanus — "o' my word the father's son " — mammocking, in a Coriolanus mood, the gilded butterfly, and afterwards for a brief period appearing, led by the majestic Volumnia, to overwhelmn and break his father's heart with the sudden swell of paternal pride and hope. Then, in the group made up of pages, there is Lucius, struggling dutifully against a boy's tyrannous need of sleep, that he may soothe with music his master, the conspirator who has struck Caesar but cannot wake a sleeping child ; there is the gamin of over civilised and over-sensualised Athens in Timon ; there is the tiny humorist Moth, who mocks so airily his master's absurdity ; and yet again there is Sir John's page Robin, the mannikin whom, for the fun of the contrast, Prince Hal has set to walk behind the fat knight, and whom, after loving him through three plays, Shakespeare does to death in Henry V, when the dastard French at Agincourt " kill the poys and the luggage." May we not suppose that, amid fiercer purposes, a remem- brance of his pet boy mingled with Henry's passion when the rage of battle flamed, and he ordered the throats of the prisoners to be cut ? William Page, who in the presence of blameless matrons stumbles on the unlucky genitive case (" vengeance of Jenny's case ! "), is a correct little British Philistine ; while in Mamilius of The Winter's Tale, whose own solemnly-begun winter's tale, " There was a man " is never concluded, we discover the women's favourite, spoilt darling of court ladies, the " Muttersohnchen." Last, in the preternaturally wise son of Macduff we witness the premature and sad effort to find place among a boy's thoughts for the conceptions of traitor, of tyrant, and of murderer, which will hardly be thought, yet which are in fact but too near and real. Edward Dowden. — The Academy, July 24, 1875 (founded upon Shakespeare's Kindergestalten, by Julius Thiimmel, mjahrbuch der Deutschen Shakespeare- Gese'lschqft, vol. x., 1875). KING JOHN. 69 THE HISTORICAL PLAYS NOT WRITTEN WITH A SYSTEMATIC DESIGN. Shakespeare's historical plays are often discoursed about as if they were a projected series of interdependent works, written in pursuance of a plan, the purpose of which was to illustrate English History. That they illustrate history, and in a certain sense were meant to do so, is manifest upon their very face ; but that they do this in con- formity with a systematic design, there is neither external nor internal evidence to show. The origin of a contrary opinion must be traced to. a tradition first mentioned by Gildon, according to which Shakespeare told Ben Jonson that "finding the nation generally very ignorant of history, he wrote plays in order to instruct the people in that particular." But of all the unfounded stories told of Shakespeare, this is the most difficult of belief. Such a declaration could not have been made by one of those men to the other, with a grave face, actors though they were. For Historical Plays, or Histories, as they were called, were in vogue with our ancestors before Shakespeare began to write for the stage ; and so far was he from seeking to impart historical truth to the audiences at Blackfriars, that he did not even attempt to correct the grossest violations of historical truth in the older play upon which he founded one of his histories — this very King John ; and in other instances, in which he went for his story directly to the Chronicles, he did no't hesitate to bring together events really separated by years (though connected as cause and effect, or means to a common end), when, by so grouping them, he could produce a vivid and impressive dramatic picture of the period which he undertook to represent. In writing the Histories he had the same purpose as in writing the Comedies and Tragedies ; that purpose being always to make a good play : and with him a good play was one which would fill the theatre whenever it was performed, and at the same time give utterance to his teeming brain, and satisfy his dramatic intuition. He wrote Histories because they suited the taste of the day ; and in their composition, — no less and no more than in that of Comedies and Tragedies — he used, as the basis of his work, the materials nearest at hand and best suited to his purpose The Wars of the Roses and the events which led to them offered him a succession of stirring scenes filled with famous actors which could be worked into dramatico-historical pictures of the reigns of the monarchs under whom they took place, and which would appeal directly to the love of knowledge, the chivalric sympathies, and the patriotism that animated the audiences for which he wrote. The bloody struggle that began with the deposition of one Richard at Westminster, and ended with the death of another at Bosworth Field, its long succession of internecine horrors relieved only by the glorious episode of Agincourt, had for our ancestors in Shakespeare's time the charm of fable 7 o SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. united to the sober interest of history. The nearest events were so remote that their harsh features were mellowing by distance, and their sharp outlines crumbling into the picturesqueness of antiquity while those of earliest occurrence were yet sufficiently near to be familiar objects of contemplation, preserved from oblivion as they were in the traditions of men removed only by a few generations from the actors who took part in them. To this interest in the subject — an interest to the audience intrinsic, to the dramatist extrinsic — and not to historical plan or instructive purpose of any kind, we owe the series of plays beginning with Richard II. and ending with Richard III. The epic of our race became a drama : our Homer sang upon the stage ; and Virgil recited to the people. Richard Grant White. — The Works of Shakespeare, vol. vi. pp. 7 — 8 (ed. 1872). THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 7' THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. Act II. Scene V. Before Shylock's house. Enter Shylock and Launcelot. Shy. Well, thou shalt see, thy eyes shall be thy judge, The difference of old Shylock and Bassanio : — What, Jessica ! — thou shalt not gormandise, As thou hast done with me : — What, Jessica ! — And sleep and snore, and rend apparel out : — Why, Jessica, I say ! Laun. Why, Jessica ! Shy. Who bids thee call ? I do not bid thee call. Laun. Your worship was wont to tell me that I could do nothing without bidding. Enter JESSICA. Jes. Call you ? what is your will ? Shy. I am bid forth to supper, Jessica. There are my keys. But wherefore should I go ? I am not bid for love : they flatter me : But yet I'll go in hate, to feed upon The prodigal Christian. Jessica, my girl, Look to my house. I am right loth to go : There is some ill a-brewing towards my rest, For I did dream of money-bags to-night. Laun. I beseech you, sir, go : my young master doth expect your reproach. Shy. So do I his. Laun. An they have conspired together ; I will not say you shall see a masque ; but if you do, then it was not for nothing that my nose fell a-bleeding on Black-Monday last at six o'clock i' the morning, falling out that year on Ash- Wed- nesday was four year, in the afternoon. Shy. What, are there masques ? Hear you me, Jessica : Lock up my doors ; and when you hear the drum And the vile squealing of the wry-neck'd fife, Clamber not you up to the casements then, Nor thrust your head into the public street To gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces, But stop my house's ears, I mean my casements : Let not the sound of shallow foppery enter My sober house. By Jacob's staff, I swear, I have no mind of feasting forth to-night : But I will go. Go you before me, sirrah ; Say I will come. Laun. I will go before, sir. Mistress, look out at window, for all this ; There will come a Christian by, Will be worth a Jewess' eye. [Exit. SHYLOCK, JESSICA, AND PORTIA. A "X /"HEN I saw this piece represented at Drury Lane there stood behind me in the box a beautiful, pale-faced Englishwoman, who, at the end of the Fourth Act wept passionately and exclaimed repeatedly, The poor man is wronged! Her face was one of the noblest Greek type, and her eyes were large and black. I have never been able to forget them— those great black eyes that wept for Shylock! When I think of those tears I must needs count the Merchant of Venice among the tragedies, although the framework of the piece is adorned with the mirthfullest masks, figures of satyrs, and little loves, and although the poet expressly designed to produce a comedy. Shakespeare, it may be, fondly purposed for the gratification of the common crowd to exhibit a baited Werwolf, a hateful and fabulous monster, who pants for blood, 72 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. thereby forfeiting his daughter and his ducats, and earning derision and mockery to boot. But the Genius of the poet, the world-spirit, which rules within him, is ever more powerful than his private and personal will, and thus it came to pass that in Shylock, in spite of the glaring caricature-mask, Shakespeare put forth the justification of an unhappy sect, which for secret causes, and in the purpose of Providence has borne the burden of the hatred of high and low, and which has not been disposed always to return this hatred with love Truly, with the exception of Portia, Shylock is the most respectable person in the entire piece. He loves gold, he does not dissemble this love, he cries it aloud in the market- place. But there is a thing on which he sets a higher value than on gold, — namely, satis- faction for his outraged heart, the just recompense for unutterable despite and contumely; although he is offered ten times the amount of the borrowed money, he rejects it, and the three thousand, or ten times three thousand ducats do not cause him a regret if the sum will purchase a pound of the flesh of his enemy's heart No ! Shylock indeed loves his gold, but there are things which he loves much more, and among other things, his daughter, " Jessica, my girl." Although in the extremity of his rage he curses her, and would fain see her lying dead at his feet with the jewels in her ears, and the ducats in the coffin, he loves her all the while more than all ducats and jewels. Driven back from public life, and from the Christian society into the narrow inclosure of domestic happiness, there remain for the poor Jew only the feelings of the family, and these emerge in his case with the most tender fervency. The turquoise, the ring which his wife, his Leah, had once given him, he would not have parted with " for a wilderness of monkeys." When in the trial scene Bassanio speaks : " Antonio, I am married to a wife Which is as dear to me as life itself ; But life itself, my wife, and all the world Are not with me esteemed above thy life : I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all Here to this devil, to deliver you." And when Gratiano adds, " I have a wife whom I protest, I love : I would she were in heaven, so she could Entreat some power to change this currish Jew " — then anguish rises in Shylock's breast for the fate of his daughter, who has married among men who could offer up their wives for their friends, and not aloud, but " aside," he mutters to himself, " These be the Christian husbands ; I have a daughter, Would any of the stock of Barrabas Had been her husband rather than a Christian." THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 73 This utterance, this passing word is the ground for a judgment of condemnation, which we are obliged to pass upon the fair Jessica. It was no loveless father whom she abandoned, whom she robbed, whom she betrayed. Shameful treachery ! Nay, she makes common cause with Shylock's enemies, and when these at Belmont utter all manner of evil speeches against him, Jessica does not cast down her eyes, Jessica's lips do not grow white, but Jessica utters the foulest reproach against her father. Horrible outrage ! She possesses no character save a wandering desire. She grew weary in the strong, straitly-closecl, "sober" house of the bitter-spirited Jew,, until at length it seemed to her a hell. The frivolous heart was all too readily enticed by the gay tones of the drum and the "wry- necked fife." Did Shakespeare mean in all this to picture a Jewess? Assuredly, no ; he paints only a daughter of Eve, one of those beautiful birds, who when fledged, flutter forth from the paternal nest to the favourite male songster. In like manner Desdemona followed the Moor, in like manner Imogen followed Posthumus. Such is the feminine usage. With Jessica a certain timid modesty is especially observable, which she cannot over- master, when she must assume her boyish attire. Perhaps in this trait one may recognize that peculiar bashfulness which is proper to her tribe, and which lends to its daughters such an inexpressible charm. This Jewish modesty, it may be, is the result of an opposition which the Jews maintained from ancient times against that oriental service of the senses and of sensuality, which formerly appeared in the most exuberant blossoming among their neighbours, the Egyptians, Phoenicians, Assyrians, and Babylonians, and which in perpetual transformation has continued to exist until the present day. If we look on Shylock as the representative, studied from an unfavourable point of view, of the rigid, earnest, art-hating Judea, then Portia will stand before us as the represen- tative of that second blossoming of the Greek spirit, which from Italy in the sixteenth century shed over the world its delicious odour, and which at the present day we love and treasure under the name of the " Renaissance." Portia is likewise the representative of a happier fate in opposition to the destiny of gloom, which is represented by Shylock. How bloomful, how roseate, how clearly harmonious are all her thoughts and utterances ; how warm with a spirit of joy her words are, how beautiful is all her imagery, most of which is borrowed from mythology. How sad, on the other hand, how narrowing and constraining, how repulsive are the thoughts and speeches of Shylock, who on the contrary uses only comparisons from the Old Testament. His wit is sardonic and corrosive, he seeks his metaphors from among the most offensive objects, and accordingly his words become crowded discords, shrill, hissing, and grating. As are the persons, so are their places of abode. We see how the servant of Jehovah will not suffer in his " sober house " any graven image, or likeness of God or of man who is made in the image of God ; how L 74 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. he stops the ears of his dwelling-place, its windows, lest the tones of heathenish mum- mery might penetrate into this " sober house ; " and over against this we see the magnificent and tasteful Villeggiatura life in the noble palace at Belmont, where are clear light and music, and where, among paintings, marble statues, and tall laurel trees, the wooers in fes- tive attire promenade to and fro, musing upon the riddles of love, and in the midst of all this splendour, Signora Portia, like a goddess, gleams forth, " her sunny hair around her forehead flowing." Through such a contrast the two chief persons of the drama become so individualized, that one might take his oath that they are not figures of a poet's fancy, but actual mortals born of woman. Nay, they seem to us more truly alive than the ordinary creations of nature, for neither time nor death can lay hold upon them, and in their veins pulses that ever-living blood, immortal poetry. If you come to Venice, and wander through the Ducal Palace, you know well that neither in the Hall of Senators nor on the Giants' Stairs will you meet with Marino Faliero; old Dandolo you may recall to mind in the Arsenal, but in none of the Golden Gallies will you look for the blind hero ; you will see at a corner of the Via Santa a serpent carven in stone, and at the other angle the winged lion, holding in his paws the serpent's head, and there is haply present to your thought, and yet only for a minute, the proud Carmagnola. But far more than of such historical persons, you will think at Venice of Shakespeare's Shylock, who lives now and for ever, while these have long mouldered in their graves — and when you move up the Rialto, your eye will seek him in every direction, you will surmise that he must be discoverable there behind a pillar with his Jewish gaberdine, and his suspicious calculating countenance, and believe many a time that you hear his strident voice — " Three thousand ducats — well ! " I at least, a wandering chaser of dreams as I am, looked everywhere along the Rialto if perchance I might there find Shylock. I should have had something to tell him which would have given him pleasure, that, for example, his cousin, Mr. Von Shylock of Paris had become the mightiest Baron of Christendom, and had received from her Catholic Majesty that Order of Isabella, which was instituted long ago to celebrate the expulsion of the Jews and the Moors from Spain. But nowhere upon the Rialto did I observe him, and then I resolved to seek my old acquaintance in the Synagogue. The Jews cele- brate here their holy day of reconciliation, and stand wrapped in their white robes, with uncanny swayings of the head, almost looking like a company of spectres. There stand the poor Jews, fasting and praying from earliest morning, having taken neither meat nor drink since the evening before, and having previously asked pardon of all their acquaintances for whatsoever injuries they may have caused them in the course of the year, that in like manner God may pardon them their sins — a noble custom which strangely exists among this people, to whom notwithstanding the teaching of Christ has remained wholly alien. 5 , . , THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 75 Peering round to find old Shylock, while I carefully reviewed all the white, suffering Jewish faces, I made a discovery, about which unhappily I cannot remain silent. I had visited on the same day the madhouse of San Carlo, and now in the synagogue, it struck and startled me, that in the gaze of the Jews, the same fatal half staring, half unsteady, half cunning, half shy gleam was flickering, which a short time previously I had noticed in the eyes of the insane at San Carlo. This indescribable, mysterious gaze was produced not specially by an absence of intelligence, but far more by the dominant power of a fixed idea. Has the faith in that God of thunder, out of and above the world, who spoke to Moses, become the fixed idea of an entire people ?— then, although for two thou- sand years men have confined that people in the strait-waistcoat and played upon it with the cold douche, it will not abandon its idea, — like that insane advocate whom I saw in San Carlo, who would not let himself be talked out of his belief that the sun is an English cheese, that its rays consist of bright red worms, and that such a descending worm-ray was feeding upon his brain. I desire here in no degree to contest the value of that fixed idea, but shall only say that those who bear it are too weak to master it, and therefore are borne down by it and become hopelessly incurable. What a martyrdom for the sake of this fixed idea have they not already been willing to endure ! what greater martyrdom stands yet before them ! I shudder at this thought, and a ceaseless pity trickles through my heart. During the entire Middle Ages, and onward to the present day, has not the dominant conception of life been in direct opposition to that idea which Moses laid as a burden upon the Jews, which he buckled on their shoulders with sacred straps, which he cut in their very flesh ? for in truth they do not differ from Christians and Mohammedans in their essential nature, nor through some contradictory synthesis, but only through an interpretation and a shib- boleth. But if once Satan conquers, that sinful Pantheism, from which may all saints of the Old and the New Testament and of the Koran preserve us ! there will follow a tempest of persecution on the heads of the poor Jews, which will far surpass all their former afflictions. Though I peered about in the synagogue at Venice, nowhere could I behold the coun- tenance of Shylock. And yet it seemed to me, as though he kept himself concealed there behind one of the white robes, praying fervently like his other companions in the faith, with stormy fierceness, with frenzy praying upwards to the throne of Jehovah, the austere God and King. I saw him not. But towards evening when according to the belief of the Jews the doors of heaven are shut, and no additional prayer may find entrance, I heard a voice, through which tears dropped as they have never been wept by the eyes of men. It was a sobbing that might move a stone to pity. It was a sound of distress which could only come from a bosom that held shut up within itself all the martyrdom borne by a whole afflicted people through eighteen centuries. It was the l 2 76 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. death-rattle of a soul which drops down weary to death before the gates of heaven. And this voice seemed to me well known, and it seemed to me that I had heard it in past time, when full of despair it moaned forth " Jessica,* my girl." Heinrich Heine. — Shakspeare 's Mddchen und Frauen ; Jessica : Portia. HOW GERMAN CRITICS ATTEMPT TO FIND A CENTRAL IDEA IN A PLAY. It might be supposed that critics would long since have come to a unanimous and gener- ally recognized aesthetic estimate of such a much-read play as the MercJiant of Venice, standing as it does on the repertoire of almost every stage ; however, the conceptions of the fundamental idea, the opinions concerning the composition, and the criticisms of the characters differ here more widely than in the case of most of the other works of our poet. Each reader enjoys and admires the splendid poetry, but each one understands and interprets it in his own way. This unquestionably shows how right Gervinus is, in finding a proof of the wealth and the many-sidedness of Shakespeare's works to lie in the variety of the points of view from which they may be regarded, as it is not without a certain degree and appearance of correctness that several opinions on one and the same play may be formed. According to Horn, The Merchant of Venice, is based upon a " truly grand, profound, extremely delightful, nay an almost blessed idea, upon a purely Christian, conciliatory love, and upon mediating mercy as opposed to the law, and to what is called right." Ulrici's finds the ideal unity in the saying, Siimmum jus summa injuria, and Rotscher modifies this view in so far that he considers the innermost spirit of the play evidently to be the dialectics of abstract right. He goes on to say : " By the expression, dialectics of abstract right, we mean, that development by which abstract right by itself, that is, by its own nature, discovers its own worthlessness, consequently destroys itself where it seeks to govern human life and to assert itself as an absolute power. Abstract right is the right of the letter, the rigid expression of the law which endeavours to assert itself as the sole power, to the exclusion of all other elements of life, and thereby becomes the greatest wrong to the moral mind." In opposition to these three closely allied conceptions, according to which the centre of gravity of the play lies in Portia's address to Mercy, Gervinus maintains that in the Merchant of Venice the poet wished to delineate man's relation to property. He says, " to prove man's relation to property, to money, is to weigh his inner value by a most subtle balance, and to sepa- rate that which clings to unessential and external things from that which in its inner nature places itself in relation to a higher destiny." He thinks that according to Shake- THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 77 speare, money, the god of the world, is the symbol of appearance and of everything external. To this Hebler, while also believing the fundamental idea of the piece to lie in the struggle against appearance, adds, that it is, however, by no means only represented symbolically, but in a very plastic and classical manner. The caskets, according to him, are symbols of appearance in general, and especially of that appearance which envelops human worth and worthlessness. The true nature which lies hidden beneath appearances is in the end everywhere victorious. According to this conception, Bassanio's speech, when selecting the casket, contains the key to the poem, and it cannot be denied that it possesses as great a claim to this distinction as Portia's apotheosis of Mercy. Kreys- sig, lastly, admits the impossibility of comprising the numerous diverse and to some extent opposite elements of the play under one fundamental idea. He shows that in Shakespeare's lighter dramas the most heterogeneous elements contribute towards the effect of unity, and that it is important to recognize the common law in the various contrasting phenomena, but not to construct this law out of a single symptom. According to him, we should have to choose a higher and freer stand-point than that of a moral simply to be exemplified by the play. If there be any one essential, ever-recurring and definite point in the life unfolded in our play, he thinks it is this, that lasting prosperity, sure and practical success, can only be attained by moderation in all things, by the skilful em- ployment and the cheerful endurance of given circumstances, equally removed from defiant opposition and cowardly submission. This, would, however, again amount to a moral, though of a somewhat looser form. " Strong feeling, together with clear and sure reasoning," says Kreyssig at the end of his lecture, " balance each other in the character pervading the whole. Fortune favours the righteous provided they boldly and cleverly seek to win her favour ; but rigid idealism, even although infinitely more amiable and worthy of respect, shows itself scarcely less dangerous than hardened selfishness." Karl Elze. — Essays on Shakespeare (1874) pp. 67 — 70. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. Act II. Scene 1 1. Belmont. A room in Portia's house. Enter Bassanio, Portia, Gratiano, Nerissa, and Attendants. Bassanio. But let me to my fortune and the caskets. Portia. Away, then ! I am lock'd in one of them : If you do love me, you will find me out. Nerissa and the rest, stand all aloof. Let music sound while he doth make his choice; Then, if he lose, he makes a swan-like end, Fading in music : that the comparison May stand more proper, my eye shall be the stream And watery death-bed for him. He may win ; And what is music then ? Then music is Even as the flourish when true subjects bow To a new-crowned monarch : such it is As are those dulcet sounds in break of day That creep into the dreaming bridegroom's ear And summon him to marriage. Now he goes, With no less presence, but with much more love, Than young Alcides, when he did redeem The virgin tribute paid by howling Troy To the sea-monster : I stand for sacrifice ; The rest aloof are the Dardanian wives, With bleared visages, come forth to view The issue of the exploit. Go, Hercules ! Live thou, I live : with much much more dismay I view the fight than thou that makest the fray. Music, whilst BASSANIO comments on the caskets to himself. Song. Tell me where is fancy bred, Or in the heart or in the head ? How begot, how nourished ? Reply, reply. It is engender'd in the eyes, With gazing fed ; and fancy dies In the cradle where it lies. Let us all ring fancy's knell : I'll begin it, — Ding, dong, bell. All. Ding, dong, bell. THE CHARACTER OF PORTIA. TDORTIA is endued with her own share of those delightful qualities which Shakespeare has lavished on many of his female characters ; but besides the dignity, the sweetness and tenderness which should distinguish her sex generally, she is individualized by qualities peculiar to herself; by her high mental powers, her enthusiasm of temperament, her decision of purpose, and her buoyancy of spirit. These are innate ; she has other distinguishing qualities more external, and which are the result of the circumstances in which she is placed. Thus she is the heiress of a princely name and countless wealth ; a train of obedient pleasures have ever waited round her ; and from infancy she has breathed an atmosphere redolent of perfume and blandishment. Accordingly there is a command- ing grace, a high-bred, airy elegance, a spirit of magnificence in all that she does and says, as one to whom splendour has been familiar from her very birth. She treads as though •n:: f4 _ _ o THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 79 her footsteps had been among marble palaces, beneath roofs of fretted gold, o'er cedar floors and pavements of jasper and porphyry — amid gardens full of statues, and flowers, and fountains, and haunting music. She is full of penetrative wisdom, and genuine tenderness, and lively wit ; but as she has never known want, or grief, or fear, or dis- appointment, her wisdom is without a touch of the sombre or the sad ; her affections are all mixed up with faith, hope, and joy; and her wit has not a particle of malevolence or causticity. . . . . I come now to that capacity for warm and generous affection, that tenderness of heart, which render Portia not less lovable as a woman, than admirable for her mental endow- ments. The affections are to the intellect what the forge is to the metal ; it is they which temper and shape it to all good purposes, and soften, strengthen, and purify it. What an exquisite stroke of judgment in the poet, to make the mutual passion of Portia and Bassanio, though unacknowledged to each other, anterior to the opening of the play ! Bassanio's confession very properly comes first and prepares us for Portia's half-betrayed unconscious election of this most graceful and chivalrous admirer. Our interest is thus awakened for the lovers from the very first ; and what shall be said of the casket scene with Bassanio, where every line which Portia speaks is so worthy of herself, so full of sentiment and beauty and poetry and passion? Too naturally frank for disguise, too modest to confess her depth of love while the issue of the trial remains in suspense, the conflict between love and fear, and maidenly dignity, cause the most delicious con- fusion that ever tinged a woman's cheek, or dropped in broken utterance from her lips. A prominent feature in Portia's character is that confiding buoyant spirit, which mingles with all her thoughts and affections. And here let me observe, that I never yet met in real life, nor ever read in tale or history, of any woman, distinguished for intellect of the highest order, who was not also remarkable for this trusting spirit, this hopefulness and cheerfulness of temper, which is compatible with the most serious habits of thought, and the most profound sensibility. Lady Wortley Montagu was one in- stance ; and Madame de Stael furnishes another much more memorable.- In her Corinne whom she drew from herself, this natural brightness of temper is a prominent part of the character. A disposition to doubt, to suspect, and to despond in the young, argues, in general, some inherent weakness, moral or physical, or some miserable and radical error of education ; in the old, it is one of the first symptoms of age ; it speaks of the influence of sorrow and experience, and foreshows the decay of the stronger and more generous powers of the soul. Portia's strength of intellect takes a natural tinge from the flush and bloom of her young and prosperous existence, and" from her fervent imagination. In the casket scene, she fears indeed the issue of the trial, on which more than her life is hazarded; but while she trembles, her hope is stronger than her fear. While Bassanio go SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. is contemplating the casket, she suffers herself to dwell for one moment on the possibility of disappointment and misery : — " Let music sound while he doth make his choice ; Then, if he lose, he makes a swan-like end, Fading in music ; that the comparison May stand more proper, my eye shall be the stream And watery death-bed for him." Then immediately follows that revulsion of feeling, so beautifully characteristic of the hopeful, trusting, mounting spirit of this noble creature : — " He may win ; And what is music then ? Then music is Even as the flourish when true subjects bow To a new-crowned monarch : such it is As are those dulcet sounds in break of day That creep into the dreaming bridegroom's ear, And summon him to marriage. Now he goes With no less presence, but with much more love Than young Alcides, when he did redeem The virgin tribute paid by howling Troy To the sea monster. I stand for sacrifice." Here, not only the feeling itself, born of the elastic and sanguine spirit which had never been touched by grief, but the images in which it comes arrayed to her fancy — the bride- groom waked by music on his wedding morn, — the new-crowned monarch, — the com- parison of Bassanio to the young Alcides, and of herself to the daughter of Laomedon, — are all precisely what would have suggested themselves to the fine poetical imagination of Portia in such a moment. Her passionate exclamations of delight, when Bassanio has fixed on the right casket, are as strong as though she had despaired before. Fear and doubt she could repel ; the native elasticity of her mind bore up against them ; yet she makes us feel that, as the sudden joy overpowers her almost to fainting, the disappointment would certainly have killed her. Her subsequent surrender of herself in heart and soul, of her maiden freedom, and her vast possessions, can never be read without deep emotions ; for not only all the tenderness and delicacy of a devoted woman are here blended with all the dignity which becomes the princely heiress of Belmont, but the serious, measured self-possession of her address to her lover, when all suspense is over, and all concealment superfluous, is most beautifully consistent with the character. It is, in truth, an awful moment, that in which a gifted woman first discovers that, besides talents and powers, she has also passions and affections ; when she first begins to suspect their vast importance in the sum of her existence ; when she first confesses that her happiness is no longer in her own keeping, but is surrendered for ever and for ever into the dominion of another ! The THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 81 possession of uncommon powers of mind are so far from affording relief or resource in the first intoxicating surprise — I had almost said horror — of such a revelation, that they render it more intense. The sources of thought multiply beyond calculation the sources of feeling ; and mingled they rush together, a torrent deep as strong. Because Portia is endued with that enlarged comprehension which looks before and after, she does not feel the less, but the more : because from the height of her commanding intellect she can contemplate the force, the tendency, the consequences of her own sentiments — because she is fully sensible of her own situation, and the value of all she concedes — the concession is not made with less entireness and devotion of heart, less confidence in the truth and worth of her lover, than when Juliet, in a similar moment, but without any such intrusive reflections — any check but the instinctive delicacy of her sex, flings herself and her fortunes at the feet of her lover — fi And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay, And follow thee, my lord, through all the world." In Portia's confession, which is not breathed from a moon-lit balcony, but spoken openly in the presence of her attendants and vassals, there is nothing of the passionate self- abandonment of Juliet ; nor of the artless simplicity of Miranda, but a consciousness and a tender seriousness approaching to solemnity, which are not less touching. Mrs. Jameson. — Characteristics of Women, Vol. I. pp. 73 — 91. SHAKESPEARE'S COMEDIES ARE ARABESQUES OF THE FANCY. 1 The poetry of Shakespeare naturally finds an outlet in the fantastical. This is the highest grade of unreasoning and creative imagination. Despising ordinary logic, it creates therefrom another ; it unites facts and ideas in a new order, apparently absurd, at bottom legitimate; it lays open the land of dreams, and its dreams deceive us' like the truth. When we enter upon Shakespeare's comedies, . . . it is as though we met him on the threshold, like an actor to whom the prologue is committed, to prevent misunderstanding on the part of the public, and to tell them, " Do not take too seriously what you are about to hear ; I am joking. My brain, being full of fancies, desired to make plays of them, and here they are. Palaces, distant landscapes, trans- 1 In contrast with the German method of look- ing for a central idea in each of Shakespeare's plays (see with special reference to the Merchant of Venice, pp. 76-77), this passage from a distin- guished French critic is of interest. The truth, as English readers are instinctively aware, lies between these two extreme views — the comedies are neither caprices nor philosophies, but joyous presentations of human character and human life. M 82 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. parent mists which blot the morning sky with their grey clouds, the red and glorious flames into which the evening sun descends, white cloisters in endless vista through the ambient air, grottos, cottages, the fantastic pageant of all human passions, the mad sport of unlooked-for chances, — this is the medley of forms, colours, sentiments which I shuffle and mingle before me, a many-tinted skein of glistening silks, a slender ara- besque, whose sinuous curves, crossing and confused, bewilder the mind by the whimsical variety of their infinite complications. Don't regard it as a picture. Don't look for a precise composition, harmonious and increasing interest, the skilful management of a well-ordered and congruous plot. I have novels and romances in my mind which I am cutting up into scenes. Never mind the finis, I am amusing myself on the road. It is not the end of the journey which pleases me, but the journey itself. Is there any good in going so straight and quick ? Do you only care to know whether the poor merchant of Venice will escape Shylock's knife ? Here are two happy lovers, seated under the palace walls on a calm night; wouldn't you like to listen to the peaceful reverie, which rises like a perfume from the bottom of their hearts ? " 'How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank !" Have I not the right, when I see the big, laughing face of a clownish servant, to stop near him, see him mouth, frolic, gossip, go through his hundred pranks and his hundred grimaces, and treat myself to the comedy of his spirit and gaiety? Two fine gentlemen pass by. I hear the rolling fire of their metaphors, and I follow their skirmish of wit. Here in a corner is the artless arch face of a young wench. Do you forbid me to linger by her, to watch her smiles, her sudden blushes, the childish pout of her rosy lips, the coquetry of her pretty motions ? You are in a great hurry if the prattle of this fresh and musical voice can't stop you. Is it no pleasure to view this succession of sentiments and figures ? Is your fancy so dull, that you must have the mighty mechanism of a geo- metrical plot to shake it ? My sixteenth-century playgoers were easier to move. A sun- beam that had lost its way on an old wall, a foolish song thrown into the middle of a drama, occupied their mind as well as the blackest of catastrophes. After the horrible scene in which Shylock brandished his butcher's knife before Antonio's bare breast, they saw just as willingly the petty household wrangle, and the amusing bit of raillery which ends the piece. Like soft moving water their soul rose and sank in an instant to the level of the poet's emotion, and their sentiments readily flowed in the bed he had prepared for them. They let him go about on his journey, and did not forbid him to make two voyages at once. They allowed several plots in one. If but the slightest thread united them, it was sufficient. Lorenzo eloped with Jessica, Shylock was frustrated in his revenge, Portia's suitors failed in the test imposed upon them ; Portia, disguised THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 83 as a doctor of laws, took from her husband the ring which he had promised never to part with ; these three or four comedies, disunited, mingled, were shuffled and unfolded together, like an unknotted skein, in which threads of a hundred colours are entwined. Together with diversity my spectators allowed improbability. Comedy is a slight winged creature, which flutters from dream to dream, whose wings you would break if you held it captive in the narrow prison of common sense. Do not press its fictions too hard ; do not probe their contents. Let them float before your eyes like a charming swift dream. Let the fleeting apparition plunge back into the bright misty land from whence it came. For an instant it deceived you ; let it suffice. It is sweet to leave the world of realities behind you; the mind can rest amidst impossibilities. We are happy when delivered from the rough chains of logic, when we wander amongst strange adventures, when we live in sheer romance, an d know we are living there. I do not try to deceive you, and make you believe in the world where I take you. One must disbelieve in order to enjoy it. We must give ourselves up to illusion, and feel that we are giving ourselves up to it. We must smile as we listen. We smile in the Winter's Tale, when Hermione descends from her pedestal, and when Leontes discovers his wife in the statue, having believed her to be dead. We smile in Cymbeline, when we see the lone cavern in which the young princes have lived like savage hunters. Improbability deprives emotions of their sting. The events interest or touch us without making us suffer. At the very moment when sympathy is too lively, we remind ourselves that it is all a fancy. They become like distant objects, whose distance softens their outline, and wraps them in a luminous veil of blue air. Your true comedy is an opera. We listen to sentiments without thinking too much of plot. We follow the tender or gay melodies without reflecting that they interrupt the action. We dream elsewhere on hearing music ; here I bid you dream on hearing verse." Henri A. Taine. — History of English Literature. Translated by H. Van Laun (ed. 187 1), Vol. I. pp. 340 — 343. m 2 84 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. Act IV. Scene I. Petruchio's country house. Petruchio, Katharina, and Servants. Pet. Go, rascals, go, and fetch my supper in. [Exeunt Servants. [Singing] Where is the life that late I led — Where are those — Sit down, Kate, and wel- come. — Soud, soud, soud, soud ! Re-enter Servants with supper. Why, when, I say ? Nay, good sweet Kate, be merry. Off with my boots, you rogues ! you villains, when? [Sings] It was the friar of orders grey, As he forth walked on his way : — Out, you rogue ! you pluck my foot awry : Take that, and mend the plucking off the other. [Strikes him. Be merry, Kate. Some water, here ; what, ho ! Where's my spaniel, Troilus? Sirrah, get you hence, And bid my cousin Ferdinand come hither : One, Kate, that you must kiss, and be acquainted with. Where are my slippers? Shall I have some water ? Enter one with water. Come, Kate, and wash, and welcome heartily. You whoreson villain ! will you let it fall ? [Strikes him. Kath. Patience, I pray you ; 'twas a fault unwilling. Pet. A whoreson, beetle-headed, flap-eared knave ! Come, Kate, sit down ; I know you have a sto- mach. Will you give thanks, sweet Kate ; or else shall I ? What's this ? mutton ? First Serv. Ay. Pet. Who brought it ? Peter. I. Pet. 'Tis burnt ; and so is all the meat. Wbat dogs are these ! Where is the rascal cook ? How durst you, villains, bring it from the dresser, And serve it thus to me that love it not ? There, take it to you, trenchers, cups, and all : [Throws the meat, &c. about the stage. ' You heedless joltheads and unmanner'd slaves ! What, do you grumble ? I'll be with you straight. Kath. I pray you, husband, be not so dis- quiet : The meat was well, if you were so contented. Pet. I tell thee, Kate, 'twas burnt and dried away ; And I expressly am forbid to touch it, For it engenders choler, planteth anger ; And better 'twere that both of us did fast, Since, of ourselves, ourselves are choleric, Than feed it with such over-roasted flesh. Be patient ; to-morrow 't shall be mended, And, for this night, we'll fast for company : Come, I will bring thee to thy bridal chamber. [Exeunt. o 1 * 1 i K $ ^ J THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 85 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. ] T is almost inconceivable that the composition of this rude farce should ever have been ascribed to Shakespeare. In its stiff, formal construction it exhibits all the cha- racteristics of the older English Comedy, and possesses nothing of that which characterizes Shakespeare even in his earliest plays— the bold and energetic individuality of his dramatic personages. For this deficiency it tries to make up, only by a number of lay-figures, or rather well-known, conventional masks, in which little of individual character can be dis- cerned. But while this is unconditionally true of the entire design and structure, there may be found numerous traces of a rehandling of the piece — unquestionably the work of Shakespeare — which first breathed into it the breath of life, and on account of which it obtained admittance into the earliest collected edition of Shakespeare's plays, edited by his friends Heminge and Condell. The closing scene, full of brightness and spirit, as it is, appears especially Shakespearian. The play in its earlier form was probably printed in the year 1594, and may have been the work of one of Shakespeare's predecessors, Marlowe or Greene. We cannot suppose that so rude a play was a production even of the earliest period of Shakespeare's dramatic career. Probably the Tightness of its main idea induced him to undertake its remodelling, in which he evidently left to the players the individualizing of the greater number of the characters, and occupied himself almost exclusively with Petruchio and Katharina. However this may be, the production is beyond doubt the offspring of many parents, materials derived from at least three quarters being welded together in its construction ; first, the somewhat rude and clumsy induction, with its old-world story of the lord and the tinker; next, the episode borrowed from Ariosto, of Lucentio and Bianca; finally, the story of the Shrew, which, if not wholly of English origin, certainly in the creation of Katharina corresponds most closely with the English character. We are not prepared indeed to hazard the bold assertion that out of the fulness of the riches of our female world very creditable competitors of this eminently national figure — charming variations running through all the keys with equal grace— might not be placed over against Katharina. Other nations seem never to have been quite lacking in such treasures of humanity, as the classical figure of Madame Xantippe may help us to believe. In truth, the love of contradiction is evidently one of the first developed and strongest tendencies of human nature, and men are distinguished from women with respect to it chiefly perhaps by this — that in their case it seems to us nothing noteworthy or unusual. Nor because with men it arises from essentially different causes, does it therefore admit more readily of a cure. The possibility of this last, indeed, even after Shakespeare's attempt to represent such a cure, we must always look on as a little doubtful, although it 86 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. was precisely this which attracted the poet to undertake the interesting theme. And assuredly the central idea of the play, which is clearly kept before us throughout, is one not unfavourable to the nature of woman — namely, that through love the gravest faults of female character may be amended, while one would hardly dare to say that the same service could be rendered by love in many cases to the natures of men. This holds good, we say, of women, and of women alone, if even, as the wicked world will declare, the cure is not unattended by occasional relapses. If the central idea of the transformation of the fair Katharina be not unassailable, so too the remedial treatment is, to please our taste, in most of its details, somewhat too harsh and searching. Fear plays almost a greater part in it than love. Still, in the main, the process is the right one — Petruchio makes Katharina see clearly her own helplessness — he convinces her that she is the weaker of the two, and therefore must submit. Such was not the case in the home of her childhood ; compared with her father and her sisters, Katharina was the stronger, and therefore took her own way as she pleased. But there is no need in the nature of woman so strong and deep, as that of a superior and a protector. . . — . . That Petruchio should enter upon the struggle with the Shrew with so light a heart, that he should plunge into it so mirthfully, implies as a necessary condition his assured consciousness of his own masculine force, and his physical superiority. Only possessed of such consciousness can he say — " I know she is an irksome brawling scold : If that be all, masters, I hear no harm. . . . Think you a little din can daunt mine ears ? Have I not in my time heard lions roar ? Have I not heard the sea puff'd up with winds Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat ? Have I not heard great ordnance in the field, And heaven's artillery thunder in the skies ? Have I not in a pitched battle heard Loud 'larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets clang? And do you tell me of a woman's breath That gives not half so great a blow to hear As will a chestnut in a farmer's fire ? Tush, tush ! fear boys with bugs." He knows well the chief conditions which are essential to a happy marriage, and acts resolutely so that none shall be lacking. Next to the masculine superiority of the husband, there is nothing so important as the matter of ways and means; therefore, with most prosaic but most prudent decision, Petruchio questions the paterfamilias about the marriage-portion, and sets him at ease on the score of his own solvency : — THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 87 " Signior Baptista, my business asketh haste, And every day I cannot come to woo. You knew my father well, and in him me, Left solely heir to all his lands and goods, Which I have better'd rather than decreased : Then tell me if I get your daughter's love, What dowry shall I have with her to wife ? " When Baptista, after having given the needful information, faintly interposes — " Ay, when the special thing is well obtain'd, That is, her love ; for that is all in all," Petruchio calmly replies — " Why that is nothing; for I tell you, father, I am as peremptory as she proud-minded ; And where two raging fires meet together They do consume the thing that feeds their fury ; Though little fire grows great with little wind, Yet extreme gusts will blow out fire and all ; So I to her, and so she yields to me ; But I am rough and woo not like a babe." The experience of ten thousand years proves that notwithstanding all the romantic outcries, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred Petruchio is right, that is, if a man is to fulfil the first and chief conditions of wedded union, and be the sovereign ruler, but also the nourisher and cherisher of his wife. How little other advantages count for, and especially mental qualities, Shakespeare shows us — evidently writing from his own experience with Anne Hathaway, 1 — by the instance of Hortensio, on whose head the lute has been broken, perhaps just after he has played upon it the most immortal melody : — " Bap. Why, then thou canst not break her to the lute ? Hor. Why, no ; for she hath broke the lute to me. I did but tell her she mistook her frets, And bow'd her hand to teach her fingering ; When with a most impatient, devilish spirit, ' Frets call you these ? ' quoth she ; ' I'll fume with them : ' And with that word she struck me on the head, And through the instrument my pate made way." The " Softly, softly woman woo," as gentle poets and artist-natures may, wins women no doubt, as long as fame, and the recognition and admiration of others can take the 1 The reader must hope that Herr Pecht meant a piece of Shakesperian biography, and would be this for a joke, as it is convenient to smile at such a waste of power to grow indignant. 88 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. place of external advantages ; but it is only for a time, and can never last long ; the end is always that of Hortensio, unless there be on the one side a truly masculine character, or on the woman's side an extraordinary sensitiveness of nature, which, to confess the truth, belongs only to rare exceptions among women. And well that it is so ! we may add ; for it is the chief distinction of women that they stand nearer to nature in all things than do men. If Venus prefers the fierce Mars to the inventive Vulcan, this preference at least ensures the vigour of the race ; one who limps and is ailing should not seek a wife. That the wife is bodily and spiritually the " weaker vessel/' who needs protection, and whose part it is to obey and not command, is proved by Petruchio to his Katharina not only by his treatment of her as though she were an ill-mannered child, but also explained to her in somewhat boisterous terms and without Petruchio's concerning himself much about her opinion of the matter: — " And therefore, setting all this chat aside, Thus in plain terms : your father hath consented That you shall be my wife : your dowry 'greed on ; And, will you, nill you, I will marry you. Now, Kate, I am a husband for your turn ; For, by this light, whereby I see thy beauty, Thy beauty that doth make me like thee well, Thou must be married to no man but me ; For I am he am born to tame you, Kate, And bring you from a wild Kate to a Kate Conformable as other household Kates." As he possesses that which with ladies, old and young, is the first requirement — a good figure and a determined bearing — our Katharina submits patiently to this treatment, and now contents herself with sustaining the part of a lamb led to the sacrifice : — " I must, forsooth, be forced To give my hand opposed against my heart Unto a mad-brain rudesby full of spleen ; Who woo'd in haste, and means to wed at leisure. " She now takes it ill that he does not immediately make his appearance : — " I told you, I, he was a frantic fool, Hiding his bitter jests in blunt behaviour : And, to be noted for a merry man, He'll woo a thousand, 'point the day of marriage, Make feasts, invite friends, and prepare the banns ; Yet never means to wed where he hath woo'd. Now must the world point at poor Katharine, And say, ' Lo, there is mad Petruchio's wife If it would please him come and marry her.' " THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. Arrived at this point, Petruchio is before all else careful to demonstrate to the fair bride that he will allow himself to be trifled with by no one — not by her, and still less by others. Already from Gremio's narrative we infer that she will find herself widely astray, if she supposes that she can play the devil's dam with him. When she is unceremoniously called a devil, Gremio replies : — " Tut, she's a lamb, a dove, a fool to him ! I'll tell you, Sir Lucencio ; when the priest Should ask, if Katharine should be his wife, ' Ay, by gogs-wouns,' quoth he ; and swjre so loud, That, all amazed, the priest let fall the book ; And as he stoop'd again to take it up, The mad-brain'd bridegroom took him such a cuff That down fell priest and book, and book and priest, 'Now take them up,' quoth he, ' if any list.' " He sets to work in this manner, making it his business at the same time on all occasions to honour and pay court to his wife in the presence of others, and manifest his love to her: — " Tranio. What said the wench when he rose again ? Gremia. Trembled and shook ; for why, he stamp'd and swore As if the vicar meant to cozen him . This done, he took the bride about the neck And kiss'd her lips with such a clamorous smack That at the parting all the church did echo .... Such a mad marriage never was before." If appearance be often more precious to woman in her inmost heart than reality, this is not least the case in the matter of love ; else how could men approach them with the help of gallantry, which is only the appearance and not the reality of respect, of love, and of deference? But the best and most time-honoured means of making a wife sensible of her depend- ence, and need of aid, is to take her on a wedding-tour, and accordingly forthwith this means is adopted by Petruchio ; he casts her loose from her moorings, where she knew that she rode safely, and as an object of importance. With a painful sense that her feet will no longer tread the sure and familiar ground, she makes her last attempt at opposition : — '* Nay, then, Do what thou canst, I will not go to-day ; No nor to-morrow, not till I please myself. The door is open, sir ; there lies your way ; You may be jogging whiles your boots are green ; For me I'll not be gone till I please myself : 'Tis like you'll prove a jolly surly groom, That take it on you at the first so roundly. " And Petruchio, in the style which suits an overgrown child, makes clear to her the true state of affairs : — " They shall go forward, Kate, at thy command. Obey the bride, you that attend on her ; Go to the feast, revel, and domineer, Carouse full measure to her maidenhead, Be mad and merry, or go hang yourselves ; But for rr;y bonny Kate, she must with me. Nay look not big, nor stamp, nor stare, nor fret ; I will be master of what is mine own : She is my goods, my chattels ; she is my house, My household stuff, my field, my barn, My horse, my ox, my ass, my anything." Every woman, after all, depends upon authority, example, custom, and obeys him whom she sees everyone else obey, and who shows her wherever he goes that he will be master. Thus Katharina begins to grow submissive when she observes how her husband deals with the household servants, in that scene of feigned passion which our artist represents. If the entire procedure seems too rude for our present views, and might not now be very effective, we must not, at the same time, forget that other times needed other forms, and that if it did not prejudice their love that the hero Siegfried should soundly flog the noble Chriemhild on account of her hasty tongue, this in Shakespeare's time, at least as far as the servants are concerned, might pass unchallenged. F. Pecht. — Shakespeare-Galerie, Zahmung einer Widerspenstigen. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. The Taming of the Shrew is almost the only one of Shakespeare's comedies that has a regular plot, and downright moral. It is full of bustle, animation, and rapidity of action. It shows admirably how self-will is only to be got the better of by stronger will, and how one degree of ridiculous perversity is only to be driven out by another still greater. Petruchio is a madman in his senses ; a very honest fellow, who hardly speaks a word of truth, and succeeds in all his tricks and impostures. He acts his assumed character to the life, with the most fantastical extravagance, with complete presence of mind, with untired animal spirits, and without a particle of ill-humour from beginning to end The most striking and at the same time laughable feature in the character of Petruchio throughout, is the studied approximation to the intractable character of real madness, his apparent insensibility to all external considerations, and utter indifference to everything but the wild and extravagant freaks of his own self-will. There is no contending with a person on whom nothing makes any impression but his own purposes, and who is bent THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 91 on his own whims just in proportion as they seem to want common sense. With him a thing's being plain and reasonable is a reason against it. 'The airs he gives himself are infinite, and his caprices as sudden as they are groundless. The whole of his treatment of his wife at home is in the same spirit of ironical attention and inverted gallantry. Everything flies before his will, and he only metamorphoses his wife's temper by meta- morphosing her senses and all the objects she sees, at a word's speaking. . . . The whole is carried off with equal spirit. It is as if the poet's comic Muse had wings of fire The Taming of the Shrew is a play within a play. It is supposed to be a play acted for the benefit of Sly the tinker, who is made to believe himself a lord, when he wakes after a drunken brawl. The character of Sly and the remarks with which he accompanies the play are as good as the play itself. His answer when he is asked how he likes it, " Indifferent well ; 'tis a good piece of work — would 'twere done," is in good keeping, as if he were thinking of his Saturday night's job. Sly does not change his tastes with his new situation, but in the midst of splendour and luxury still calls out lustily and repeatedly for " a pot o' the smallest ale." He is very slow in giving up his personal identity in his sudden advancement, " I am Christophero Sly ; call me not honour nor lordship. I ne'er drank sack in my life : and if you give me any conserves, give me conserves of beef; ne'er ask me what raiment I'll wear, for I have no more doublets than backs, no more stockings than legs, nor no more shoes than feet, nay, sometimes more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the over^leather. — What, would you make me mad ? Am not I Christophero Sly, old Sly's son of Burton Heath, by birth a pedlar, by education a cardmaker, by transmutation a bear-herd, and now by present profession a tinker ? Ask Marian Hacket, the fat alewife of Wincot, if she know me not ; if she say I am not fourteen-pence on the score for sheer ale, score me up for the lying'st knave in Christendom." This is honest. " The Slies are no rogues," as he says of himself. We have a great predilection for this representative of the family ; and what makes us like him the better is, that we take him to be of kin (not many degrees removed) to Sancho Panza. W. Hazlitt. — Characters of Shakespeare's Plays (181 8), pp. 312 — 319. N 2 9?. SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV. Act II. Scene IV. The Boar's-Head Tavern, Eastcheap. Enter Falstaff, Gadshill, Bardolph, and Peto. Falstaff. A plague of all cowards still say I. Prince. What's the matter ? Fal. What's the matter ! there be four of us here have ta'en a thousand pound this day morn- ing. Prince. Where is it, Jack ? where is it ? Fal. Where is it ! taken from us it is : a hundred upon poor four of us. Prince. What, a hundred, man ? Fal. I am a rogue, if I were not at half-sword with a dozen of them two hours together. I have 'scaped by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the doublet, four through the hose ; my buckler cut through and through ; my sword hacked like a hand-saw — ecce signum ! I never dealt better since I was a man : all would not do. A plague of all cowards ! Let them speak : if they speak more or less than truth, they are villains and the sons of darkness. Prince. Speak, sirs ; how was it ? Gads. We four set upon some dozen — Fal. Sixteen at least, my lord. Gads. And bound them. Peto. No, no, they were not bound. Fal. You rogue, they were bound, every man of them ; or I am a Jew else, an Ebrew Jew. Gads. As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh men set upon us — Fal. And unbound the rest, and then came in the other. Prince. What, fought you with them all ? Fal. All ! I know not what you call all ; but if I fought not with fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish : if there were not two or three and fifty upon poor old Jack, then am I no 'two-legged creature. Prince. Pray God you have not murdered some of them. Fal. Nay, that's past praying for : I have peppered two of them ; two I am sure I have paid, two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee what, Hal, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse. Thou knowest my old ward ; here I lay, and thus I bore my point. Four rogues in buckram let drive at me — Prince. What, four ? thou saidst but two even now. Fal. Four, Hal ; I told thee four. Poins. Ay, ay, he said four. Fal. These four came all a-front, and mainly thrust at me. I made me no more ado but took all their seven points in my target, thus. Prince. Seven ? why, there were but four even now. Fal. In buckram? Poins. Ay, four, in buckram suits. Fal. Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else. Prince. Prithee, let him alone ; we shall have more anon. Fal. Uost thou hear me, Hal ? Prince. Ay, and mark thee too, Jack. Fal. Do so, for it is worth the listening to. These nine in buckram that I told thee of— Prince. So, two more already. Fal. Their points being broken, — Pouts. Down fell their hose. Fal. Began to give me ground : but I followed me close, came in foot and hand ; and with a thought seven of the eleven I paid. Prince. O monstrous ! eleven buckram men crrown out of two ! y \\ •5 a J > THE CHARACTER OF FALSTAFF. 1 << TACK FALSTAFF to my familiars!" — By that name, therefore, must he be known by all persons, for all are now the familiars of Falstaff. The title of "Sir John Falstaff to all Europe " is but secondary and parochial. He has long since far exceeded the limit by which he bounded the knowledge of his knighthood ; and in wide-spreading territories, which in the day of his creation were untrodden by human foot, and in teeming realms where the very name of England was then unheard of, Jack Falstaff is known as familiarly as he was in the wonderful court of princes, beggars, judges, swindlers, heroes, bullies, gentlemen, scoundrels, justices, thieves, knights, tapsters, and the rest whom he drew about him. It is indeed his court. He is lord paramount, the suzerain to whom all pay homage . . . . Henry ... is subject and vassal of Falstaff. He is bound by the necromancy of genius to the " white-bearded Satan," who, he feels, is leading him to per- dition. It is in vain that he thinks it utterly unfitting that he should engage in such an enterprise as the robbery at Gadshill ; for in spite of all protestations to the contrary, he joins the expedition merely to see how his master will get through his difficulty. He struggles hard, but to no purpose. Go he must, and he goes accordingly. ... At their next meeting, after detecting and exposing the stories related by the knight, how different is the result from what had been predicted by Poins when laying the plot. . . Does Poins reprove him, interpret the word as we will? Poins indeed! That were lese- majeste. Does the prince ? Why, he tries a jest, but it breaks down ; and Falstaff victoriously orders sack and merriment with an accent of command not to be disputed. In a moment after he is selected to meet Sir John Bracy, sent special with the villainous news of the insurrection of the Percys ; and in another moment, he is seated on his joint- stool, the mimic King of England, lecturing with a mixture of jest and earnest the real Prince of Wales. ..... The temptation to represent the gross fat man upon the stage as a mere buffoon, and 1 Falstaff has been a bewilderment, through his Falstaff, Victor Hugo writes : — " Falstaff, glutton, manifold qualities, to the critics of Shakespeare. It is, therefore, interesting to present two or three different views of his character. The longest ex- tract is from one of the few pieces of criticism of the last century which exhibits reverence and en- thusiasm for the genius of Shakespeare. It was poltroon, ferocious, filthy, the face and paunch of a man, with the lower members those of a brute, walks upon the four feet of baseness ; Falstaff is the centaur formed from a swine." In the clever paradox of Dr. Maginn there is a larger portion of truth than in this conception of the great French written professedly with the object of proving that idealist, who is incapable of conceiving a character Falstaff was no coward. The author, Maurice so complex as that of Shakespeare's Falstaff. Morgann, was once Under-Secretary of Stite. Of 94 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. to turn the attention of the spectators to the corporal qualities and the practical jests of which he is the object, could hardly be resisted by the players ; and the popular notion is, that he is no better than an upper-class Scapin. A proper consideration, not merely of the character of his mind as displayed in the lavish abundance of ever-ready wit, and the sound good sense of his searching observation, but of the position which he always held in society, should have freed the Falstaff of the cabinet from such an imputation. . . . . In fact be is a dissipated man of rankj^^a_thousand times more wit than ever fell to the lot of alLthe men of rank in the world. But he has ill played his cards in the world The tragic Macbeth) in the agony of his last struggle acknow- ledges with a deep despair that the things which should accompany old age — " as honour, love, obedience, troops of friends " — he must not look to have. The comic Falstaff says nothing on the subject ; but by the choice of such associates as Bardolph, Pistol, and the rest of that following, he tacit ly declares that he too has lost the advantages which should^ be attendant on years. - No curses loud-or^deep have accompanied his-jestive career ; its conclusion is not the less sad on that account ; neglect, forgotten friendship, services overlooked, shared pleasures unremembered, and fair occasions gone for ever by, haunt him, no doubt, as sharply as the consciousness of deserving universal hatred galls the soul of Macbeth. . . . We must observe that he never laughs. Others laugh with him or at him, bju^c^aughi£r_fxcan-Jiim_jwhg oi^^^ionsL_or pexniits it._ He jests with a sad br ow. The wit which _he_profyise1 y scatters aho utis-ftom the head, not from the heart. . . . He rises before me as an elderly and very corpulent gentleman, dressed like other military men of the time (of Elizabeth, observe, not Henry), yellow-cheeked, white- bearded, double-chinned, with a good-humoured but grave expression of countenance, sensuality in the lower features of his face and high intellect in the upper. William Maginn, LL.D. — Shakespeare Papers, pp. 25 — 58. CHARACTER OF FALSTAFF. To me then it appears that the leading quali ty in Falstaff's char acter, and that from which all the rest take their colour, is a high degre e of wit and humour, accompanied with greatjiatur al vigour and alacrity of mind. This qualit y, so accompanied, led him probably very early into life, and made himjiighly arreptahle to sjnrigtyj so acceptable as to make it seem u nnecessary for him ta arqniVejmy_nj:hj»T_yirhip Hence, perhaps, his continued debaucheries and dissipations of every kind. He seems by nature to have had a mind freejrom mali ce or an y ev il principle ; but h e never took the trouble of acquiring FIRST PART OF HENRY IV. 95 any good one. He found himself esteemed and loved with all his faults ; nay, for h[s faults, which were all co nnected with hum our, and for the most part grew out of it. As he had, possibly, no vices but such as he thought might be openly professed, so he ap- peared more dissolute through ostentation. To the character of wit and humour, to which all his other qualities seem to have confined themselves, he appears to have added a very necessary support, that of the profession of a soldier. He h ad from na ture, as I presume to say, a spirit of boldness and_ enterprisj ^which, in a military age, though employment was only occasional, kept him always above contempt, secured him an honourable recep- tion among the great, and suited best both with his particular mode of humour and of vice. Thus liying_ continually in society, nay, even i n taverns ^nd indul ging himself, and being inrhiWri hy nthprs jn_ every debauchery ^dri nking, w horing, gl uttony, and ease ; assuming a liberty o f fiction, necessary perhaps to his wit, and often falling into falsity and lies ; he seems Jo h ave set, by de grees, all sober r eputation at defiance ; and finding eternal re source in hi> «">, h<* h™-r p W s, shifts, defrauds, and even robs, without dishonour. Laughter and approbation attend his greatest excesses, and, being governed visibly by no settled bad principle or ill design, fun and humour account for and cover all. By degrees, however, and through indulgence, he acquires bad habits, becomes a humourist, grows enormously corpulent, and falls into the infirmities of age ; yet never quits, all the time, one single levity or vice of youth, or loses any of that cheerfulness of mind which had enabled him to pass through this course with ease to himself and delight to others ; and thus, at last, mixing youth and age, en terprise and corpulency, wit and folly, poverty and expense, title and buffoonery, in nocence as to purpose, and wickedness as to practice ; neither incurring hatred by bad principle, nor co nte mpt by cowardice, yet involved in circumstances product ive of imputation in both ; a butt and a wit, a humourist and a man of humour, a touchstone and a laughing-stock, a jester and a jest; has Sir John Falstaff, — taken at that period of his life in which we see him, — become the most perfect comic character that perhaps ever was exhibited. .... As to the arts by which Shakespeare has contrived to obscure the vices of Falstaff, they are such, as being subservient only to the mirth of the play, I do not feel myself obliged to detail. But it may be well worth our curiosity to inquire into the composition of Falstaff's character. Every man'we may observe has two characters ; that is, every man may be seen externally, and from without ; — or a section may be made of him, and he may be illuminated from within. Of the external character of Falstaff, we can scarcely be said to have any steady view. fack Falstaff we are familiar with, but Sir John was better known, it seems, to the rest of Europe, than to his intimate companions ; yet we have so many glimpses of him, and he is opened to us occasionally in such various points of view, that we cannot be mistaken 96 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. in describing him as a man of birth and fashion, bred up in all the learning and accom- plishments of the times ; of ability and courage equal to any situation, and capable by nature of the highest affairs ; trained to arms, and possessing the tone, the deportment, and the manners of a gentleman ; — but yet these accomplishments and advantages seem to hang loose upon him, and to be worn . with a slovenly carelessness and inattention : a too great indulgence of the qualities of humour and wit seems to draw him too much one way, and to destroy the grace and orderly arrangement of his other accomplishments ; — and hence he becomes strongly marked for one advantage, to the injury and almost for- getfulness, in the beholder, of all the rest. Some of his vices likewise strike through, and stain his exterior ; his mode s of speech b etra y a certain licentiousness of mind ; and that high aristocratic tone which belonged to his situation, was pushed on and aggravated into unfeeling insolence and oppression Such a character as I have here described, strengthened with that vigour, force, and alacrity of mind, of which he is possessed, nvngt have spre? ^terror an d dismay through the ignorant, the timid, the m odest, and th g—ffi eak ; yet is he^Jiowe yery wh en_occasion_ requires, capable of lmir.h accommod ation and flat tery ; and in order to obtain the protection and patronage of the great, so convenient to his vices and his poverty, he was put under the daily necessity of practising and improving these arts ; a baseness which he compensates to himself by an increase of insolence towards his inferiors. — There is, also, a natural activity about Falstaff, which, for want of proper employment, shows itself in a tynd of swell or bustle, which seems to correspond with his bulk, as if his mind had inflated his body, and demanded a habitation of no less circumference : thus conditioned, he rolls (in the language of Ossian) like a whale of ocean, scattering the smaller fry ; but affording in his turn, noble contention to Hal and Poins ; who, to keep up the allusion, I may be allowed on this occasion to compare to the thresher and the sword-fish. To this part of Falstaffs character, many things which he says and does, and which appear unaccountably natural, are to be referred. We are next to see him from within : and here we shall behold him most villainously unprincipled and debauched ; possessing, indeed, the same courage and ability, yet stained with numerous vices, unsuited not only to his primary qualities, but to his age, corpulency, rank, and profession ; reduced by these vices to a state of dependence, yet resolutely bent to indulge them at any price. These vices have been already enumerated ; they are many, and become yet more intolerable by an excess of unfeeling insolence on the one hand, ana of base accommodation on the other. But what then, after all, is become of old Jack ? Is this the jovial delightful com- panion — Falstaff, the favourite and the boast of the stage? — by no means. But it is, I think, however, the Falstaff of nature ; the very stuff out of which the stage Falstaff is composed ; nor was it possible, I believe, out_ of any other materials he could have been o FIRST PART OF HENRY IV. 97 formed. From this disagreeable draught we shall be able, 1 trust, by a proper disposition of light and shade, and from the influence and compression of external things, to produce filnw &Jack, the life of humour, the spir it of pleasantry, and the soul of m irth. To this end, Falstaff must no longer be considered as a single independent character, but grouped, as we find him shown to us in the play ; his ability must be disgraced by buffoonery, and his courage by circumstances of imputation; and those qualities be there- fore reduced into subjects of mirth and laughter : his vices must be concealed at each end from vicious design and evil effect, and must thereupon be turned into incongruities, and assume the name of humour only ; his insolence must be repressed by the superior tone of Hal and Poins, and take the softer name of spirit only, or alacrity of mind ; his state of dependence, his temper of accommodation, and his activity, must fall in precisely with the indulgence of his humours ; that is, he must thrive best, and flatter most, by being extravagantly incongruous ; and his own tendency, impelled by so much activity, will carry him with perfect ease and freedom to all the necessary excesses. But why, it may be asked, should incongruities recommend Falstaff to the favour of the Prince ? Because the Prince is supposed to possess a high relish*of humour, and to have a temper and a force about him, which, whatever was his pursuit, delighted in excess. This, Falstaff is supposed perfectly to comprehend ; and thereupon not only to indulge himself in all kinds of incongruity, but to lend out his own superior wit and humour against himself, and to heighten the ridicule by all the tricks and arts of buffoonery for which his cor- pulence, his age, and situation furnish such excellent materials. This completes the dramatic character of(Falstaff, and gives him that appearance of perfect good-nature, pleasantry, mellowness, and hilarity of mind, for which we admire ajid almost love him,, though we feel certain reserves which forbid our going that length ±Jthe true reason of which is, that there will be always fo.11n.H_3- different between mere appearances- -and reality j nor are we, nor can we, be insensible, that whenever the action of external influence upon him is in whole or in part relaxed, the character restores itself proportionably to its more unpleasing condition Such, I think, is the true character of this extraordinary buffoon ; and hence we may discern for what special purposes Shakespeare has given him talents and qualities, which were to be afterwards obscured, and perverted to ends opposite to their nature ; it was clearly to furnish out a stage buffoon of a peculiar sort ; a kind of game-bull which would stand the baiting through a hundred plays, Wid produce equal sport, whether he is pinned down by Hal or Poins, or tosses such mongrels as Bardolph, or the justices, sprawling in the air. -'There is in truth no such thing as totally demolishing Falstaff ;^ he has so much of the invulnerable in his frame, that no "H ^ m 1 ? r? > n > H gc *™y him ; hf i g safe e ven in de feat, and seems to rise, like another Antaeus, with recruited vigour frorn^ e very fall ; in this, as in every other respect, unlike Parolles or Bobadil ; they fall by the o 98 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. first shaft of ridicule, but Falstaff is a butt on whi ch we may empt y the whole quive r^, \vfrilgt tVi p subst a nce of his character remains unimpaired , ifcs ill hab it g, and the a cciden ts nf a g p £nd _ corpulence, are no part of his essential constitution ; they come forw ard indee d , on our eye and solicit onr notice, but thev are second natures, not first; mere s hadows, w? pursn Q them in__yaj n _j Falstaff himself has a distinct and separate sub- sistence ; he laughs at the chase, and when the sport is over, gathers them with unruffled feather under his wing ; and hence it is that he is made to undergo not one detection only, but a series of detections ; that he is not formed for one play only, but was intended originally at least for two ; and the author, we are told, was doubtful if he should not extend him yet farther, and engage him in the wars with France. This he might well have done, for there is nothing perishable in the nature of Falstaff: he might have involved himself, by the vicious part of his character, in new difficulties and unlucky situations, and have enabled him, by the better part, to have scrambled through, abiding and retorting the jests and laughter of every beholder. Maurice Morgann. — An Essay on the Dramatic Character of Sir John Falstaff, pp. 18-21, and pp. 170-181. FALSTAFF, PANURGE, SANCHO. >^ Finally, three great men, Rabelais, Cervantes, Shakespeare, realise and personify the prince's jester, each according to his own views ; giving him a body, a soul, a countenance, fashioning him at their pleasure, uniting in this creation all that is deepest in their intellect ; mingling, to complete this work, philosophy with satire, poetry with practical observation ; taking advantage of what their national traditions offered to them j adorning this child of their love with all the comic ideas which their imagination could devise, bringing into the world Panurge, Falstaff, Sancho; a grotesque trinity; living beings whom we all know, whom we have seen, whom we have loved, whom every art has reproduced in a thousand various attitudes, and whose immortal and humorous existence will be a sport for men as long as Europe preserves a memory of the past. They are alike in one point. Born in the sixteenth century, when the middle ages were expiring, these are the types of material sensuality and voluptuous egoism opposed to all serious affairs and ideal faiths. All three regard their bodies with a tender and constant solicitude ; good living and bien-Ure, that is their philosophy. They form a chorus of jesters ; they furnish a complete criticism on all which attracts man beyond the FIRST PART OF HENRY IV. 99 limits of the material life — platonic love, the passion for conquest, ambition, melancholy, mysticism. It is the pleasure of the senses which mocks the demands of the spirit ; the body that mocks the soul. 1 Philarete Chasles. — Etudes sur W. Shakspea*-e, pp. 296 — 97. 1 An interesting comparison between Panurge, Falstaff, and Sancho, follows in M. Chasles's study of the Types Buffons du XVI* StMe. O 2 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV. Act II. Scene III. Warkworth Castle. Hotspur and Lady Percy. Hot. What, ho ! Enter Servant. Is Gilliams with the packet gone ? Serv. He is, my lord, an hour ago. Hot. Hath Butler brought those horses from the sheriff? Serv. One horse, my lord, he brought even now. Hot. What horse? a roan, a crop-ear, is it not? Serv. It is, my lord. Hot. That roan shall be my throne. Well, I will back him straight : O esperance ! Bid Butler lead him forth into the park. {Exit Servant. Lady. But hear you, my lord. Hot. What say'st thou, my lady ? Lady. What is it carries you away? Hot. Why, my horse, my love, my horse. Lady. Out, you mad-headed ape ! A weasel hath not such a deal of spleen As you are toss'd with. In faith, I'll know your business, Harry, that I will. I fear my brother Mortimer doth stir About his title, and hath sent for you To line his enterprize : but if you go, — Hot. So far afoot, I shall be weary, love. Lady. Come, come, you paraquito, answer me Directly unto this question that I ask : In faith, I'll break thy little finger, Harry, An if thou wilt not tell me all things true. Hot. Away, Away, you trifler ! Love ! I love thee not, I care not for thee, Kate : this is no world To play with mammets and to tilt with lips : We must have bloody noses and crack'd crowns, And pass them current too. God's me, my horse ! What say'st thou, Kate ? what wouldst thou have with me ? Lady. Do you not love me? do you not, indeed? Well, do not then ; for since you love me not, I will not love myself. Do you not love me ? Nay, tell me if you speak in jest or no. Hot. Come, wilt thou see me ride ? And when I am o' horseback, I will swear I love thee infinitely. But hark you, Kate ; I must not have you henceforth question me Whither I go, nor reason whereabout : Whither I must, I must ; and, to conclude, This evening must I leave you, gentle Kate. 1 know you wise, but yet no farther wise Than Harry Percy's wife : constant you are, But yet a woman : and for secrecy, No lady closer ; for I well believe Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know ; And so far will I trust thee, gentle Kate. Lady. How ! so far? Hot. Not an inch further. But hark you, Kate : Whither I go, thither shall you go too ; To-day will I set forth, to-morrow you. Will this content you, Kate ? Lady. It must of force. {Exeunt. v?zte64, Z^, (^/^ ^#/ — - i yh//^ (^^Zent^/fT, ^Ja*J I. FIRST PART OF HENRY IV. THE SUBJECT OF THE PLAY OF "KING HENRY IV."— PART I. >, r FHE subject-matter of this play is the fulfilment of the prophecy of the deposed Richard in the preceding history. In the theological language of antiquity, the gods punished the crimes of Richard by the hands of Bolingbroke, and now exact from Bolingbroke the penalty for the crimes by which he wreaked their wrath and vengeance ; this judgment again is inflicted through the crimes of others, from whom punishment is qgain requirable : and this is fate, and thus is continued the endless chain of wrong and wrong in vicious self-reproduction, and the theory has no more prospect of solution forwards, than in its vain retrospect through a vista of successive iniquities, branching out from antipathies among the gods themselves, and discord even in heaven. /Hatred of tyranny scarcely reaches its height, when pity for the deposed tyrant directs our aversion upon his sub- verter, and sympathy with the liberator is forfeited by the crimes of the insurgent. Such may, in fact, be very much the appearance of the world's history, if we glance at the conflicts of dynasties and. nations, their crimes, and contests, and exterminations — • such, if we take even an extended section of mischief and political retribution ; but if we look wider and further, it may not be so, and in this case, a poet who, in a work — a composition — has to concentrate a moral, and is allowed and is even bound to give intimations of wider scope and deeper penetration than mere unelaborated detail of events can furnish — who must give his picture completeness, and roundness, and satis- fying conclusiveness, by bringing all actions more completely to a close and independent determination than belongs to any set of incidents in nature, with their numberless annexments, — the poet working under this bond is constrained to comprise in his abstract of a period some hint of the general tendency — some glimpse of the ultimate direction and settlement of the whole, if such indeed there be. In Richard II. the ruin of the country was averted by the only available means at hand, the substitution of the energetic Henry IV. ; but the new system has disadvantages that promise to rival those that have been given up. The title is weakened by con- sciousness of deceit and murder, making it, in fact, a usurpation; and then by the discontents of the aiding instruments, who are all the more importunate from the very baseness and wickedness of the acts they assisted at, or were art and part in. It is difficult to bring home to confederated rogues the moral of self-denial, or any other rule, in dividing the plunder, than the simple rule of share and share alike or in proportions rateable according to villainy ; and it is well if each does not consider that his own claim is preponderant above all — and the principal may overclaim as grossly as his meanest confederate. The destinies of the country are tied to the accidents of an io2 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. individual's disposition, and it escapes from those of a frivolous character only to hang in dependence upon others, scarcely less dangerous, of a strong character. Hence the difficulties of irregular succession ; the liberator struggles te? be a usurper and a tyrant, or he must subdue his own supporters whom he cannot satisfy, whether these are a few almost independent barons or a numerous soldiery. The form the contest takes depends not only on the circumstances of the usurpation or conquest, but also on the personal disposition and talents of the monarch. The moral aspect of the case depends upon how far he identifies his own interests with those of the nation, and aspires to more power or gives up more than national interests require. History furnishes abundant varieties, and perhaps even an example of the best. Usually kingdoms are gained by pretexts that render the subsequent administration of them a counter- sense. Power grasped by vicious plans refuses to yield itself to virtuous purposes, or power gained by virtuous efforts and co-operation is turned to vicious aims. False or even impossible expectations have been wilfully excited, and the sown wind is harvested in whirlwind ; thus turmoil arises, and sometimes the difficulties are surmounted, and sometimes not. The conqueror gratifies his aids to the ruin of his conquests, or it may be to the sacrifice of his own power ; or he succeeds in rendering himself independent of them by means more or less violent, more or less fair, or a compromise is arranged ; and, according to these circumstances, the country falls under an energetic tyrant instead of an unstable one, relapses into civil discord, or really acquires some step in the direction of stability and freedom. |_In the present instance we see the able, energetic, and crafty king vexed by the pride of the powerful nobles, who had helped him to ftie crown, and are reminiscent of the time when he himself, a powerful noble, stood in hardy opposition to his king/} There is jealousy, and distrust, and provocation on either side, but Henry stands as the repre- sentative of the'kingdom, of the injuries or discontents of which we hear nothing; and the Percys take thus the unfavoured part of disturbers of the public peace, whose private wrongs, even as they state them, do not claim much sympathy, as they are at least as guilty as the king. The description of the civil war at the beginning assists the imagina- tion, and also helps the reason to true judgment of the disorder and its origin. In Richard II the crown is borne down by the resistance of an injured and high- spirited nobleman to general tyranny; the same contest is now to be renewed, but on more equal terms ; and vigour, precaution, and kingly spirit are now matched in opposi- tion against nobles, high-spirited, and it may be injured, but representing no national injuries — no public cause. - W. W. Lloyd. — Essays on the Life and Plays of Shakespeare (ed. 1858). On the First Part of Henry IV. FIRST PART OF HENRY IV. 103 THE CHARACTER OF HOTSPUR. X Harry Percy, most commonly surnamed " Hotspur." is of the same order and genus with the illustrious "representative" character in King John, the brave, the steadily-loyal, and the grateful Falconbridge. And yet, withal, there is a palpable distinction to be drawn between the two characters ; of the same genus, but of distinct individuality. Both are fiery and impetuou s men ; both perilou sly brav e ; both of n oble and generou s natures ; and here, it would seem, the class-likeness ceases. In the midst of his greatest excita- tions, Falconbridge always displays presence of mind and deliberation. Hotspur evinces ^rwjo fij^ppy \n ^.g nn p f r ailty,, but he haS neith er fhf Faicaal«d8£ef~ Indeed, Hotspur has little judgment , and_ less deliberation . The solilo- quies of Falconbridge are pregnant with sound sense and a flaunting sortyof mess-room humour. Tjnfopm - has_noreflect iveness ; fte , acts, he do es not soliloquise. (The only time that he discourses in soliloquy he is commenting upon the letter he has received from the party whom he had endeavoured to enlist in the rebellion ; and most characteristic of the man are his ejaculations as he comes upon the writer's phlegmatic doubts ^f the success of their enterprise. It commences in the third scene of the second Act. )The manner as well as the language of Percy are sustained with wonderful consistency 01 individuality. V One of the most prominent features of jvis pe rsonal character, is that of perpetual restl ess- J ness, to which maybe added abundant determin ation, always combined with r ashnes s and indiscretion/ There is one peculiarity in the personal individuality of Hotspur which is quite as carefully detailed as that of any character that Shakespeare has drawn. In the identity of Falconbridge we have no other distinction, no other personal associa- tion with him than the general one of his athletic frame. He is a man of thews and sinews. Speaking of his mother's husband, he says, " Sir Robert never holp to make this leg." In Hotspur, on the other hand, we have constant allusion to some, peculiarity or other which makes us feel as though we had, known him. \ Firstt here is the _to fa1 1^1 of repose, alread y alluded to : he is like a wild beast newly confined. Then, his irnp fitu — \ 4udng consultations; \ fifT " f tV>< * fi rct Ar *31 ** * s t ^ ie one * n which theking orders him to send in his prisoners unransomed. The remainder of the scene (when the king has quitted it) is passed in a series of explosions and inter- ruptions, till the patience of his uncle Worcester begins to fail, and he expostulates with him — " Good cousin, give me audience for a while. 1 ' Hotspur apologises — " I cry you mercy ! " and again bursts in upon Worcester's first words. At length the uncle con- cludes — " Farewell, kinsman ! I will talk to you when you are better tempered to attend." b k osity of themost celebrated o itjon naturally shows i tself j n pprpptnal int-pmiptirv which occurs in the thin io 4 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. Then his father Northumberland, irritated by his unreasonable interruptions, takes him to task — ■ " Why, what a wasp-tongue and impatient fool Art thou to break into this woman's mood, Tying thine ear to no tongue but thine own." They try again, and again Worcester concludes — " We'll stay your leisure." It is interesting to trace throughout the career of Percy the total absence of all repose in the character, f^o t only is he never quiet himself, but he resents inaction in others. He resentsjiis_jather being in i ll-healt h. " Zounds, how has he leisure to be sick in such a^JuSTlihg time ?^l Again, in a subsequent scene, a messenger enters — " My lord, here are letters for you. • Hot. I cannot read them now." Prince Henry bears testimony to his hurry-scurry life where he says : — " I am not yet of Percy's mind, the Hotspur of the north ; he that kills me some six or seven dozen Scots at a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife — 'Fie upon this quiet life ! I want work.' ' O my sweet Harry,' says she, 'how many hast thou killed to-day?' 'Give my roan horse a drench, ' says he; and answers, 'Some fourteen,' an hour after — 'a trifle, a trifle.'" It is worth observing here that the poet has made a marked point of this " roan horse " of Percy's. He has used it as a means of drawing attention to a point of individuality in Hotspur, who manifests a true soldierly interest and judgment concerning his horse. He asks his servant whether " those horses have been brought from the sheriff." The man answers, " One horse, my lord, he brought even now." And Hotspur instantly shows that he has noted its points — ' ' What horse ? a roan, a crop-ear, is it not ? Serv. It is, my lord. Hot. That ro|n shall be my throne." In this same scene (the third of the second Act) there is ample proof of his restlessnes s. When the Lady Percy makes him a remonstrance, and with it a vivid picture of his altered manner and perturbed sleep, gently demanding the cause, he does not rest to answer her, but shouts to his servant, asking some questions about the despatch of a packet. And when his wife persists in affectionate expostulation, he breaks from her, bidding her " come and see him ride," knowing that when once on horseback he shall be beyond reach of her catechising. Charles Cowden Clarke. — Shakespeare Characters (1863), pp. 416 — 419. FIRST PART OF HENRY IV. io5 THE COURAGE OF HOTSPUR AND OF PRINCE HENRY .V Whereas the object of King John pre-eminently was to set forth the true relation of the ecclesiastical power to the civil, and of Richard II to elucidate the real import of the Sovereignty, the First Part of Henry IV. places in a conspicuous light the power of the nobles, and the essence of chivalry, with its historical foundation of personal prowess. . . . . The character of the Prince, who plays so prominent a part in both pieces, was absolutely indispensable. In the first place, it was requisite to illustrate the true nature of that personal valour which was the foundation of chivalry, and of its great influence. Of_courage_ there are„two_JuBd* — t " tpTT ~^* fi£er ^nt Q 11! l!iti p^.jvnr1 unreflectingly and ignorantly exposes itself to all dangers; in short, seeks them out. and ^~ ^ mm TSrt 4L<2*' finds a pleasure in them, either as indispensable for its nun .dfAT^pm^nt, nr far jfc eman- cipation from the restraints which unsubdued difficulties impose upon it. > But the other species of bravery is altogether of an intellectual nature, and consists jn the mind's con- scious superiority over any danger that may threaten, by which it either overcomes it, or, in spite of outward discomfiture, is nevertheless the conqueror. This is the courage of all the great heroes of history — of Alexander, of Hannibal, and of Caesar, &c. Both species are exhibited in this drama ; the latter in the person of Prince He.nrv, the former in that of the Earl of Douglas, but still more so in that of the young Percv. ^discrimination, therefore, has Shakespeare delineated with such detail and a With great at such length j the character of Hotspur, not merely in reference to his father and other leaders of the I revolt, but also to his wife, and servants. He d isplays towards every one the same re strained bluntness and forced vehemence, and the same defiance and haughtiness. On the other hand, it was no less necessary to bring out clearly and pregnantly the superior character of the Prince. Evidently it was not possible for his open and buoyant disposi- tion to develop itself freely in the narrow circle of the court, and under the restraints which the King's humours and formality of nature would have placed upon it; in so sultry an atmosphere it could not live and flourish ; it longed for a freer and more stirring air, and this it found in the society of Falstaff and his crew. The more he differed from these both inwardly and outwardly, the more necessary was it that his superior energies should shine forth brilliantly — as, for instance, in the fight with Percy —and eventually more fully realize themselves in the greatest achievements. Hermann Ulrici. — Shakspeare's Dramatic Art (1846) (translated by A. J. W. M.), pp. 370 — 371. io6 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. HOTSPUR AND LADY PERCY * I Perfectly true and of a golden heart, far removed from all malice, inaccessible to cun- ning and deceit, Hotspur's nature is utterly at variance with the vile and corrupt policy and diplomacy of the King. He is nettled and scourged with rods if he only hears of it; and {when the King imputes to Mortimer the crime of having intentionally given himself up a prisoner to Glendower, his indignation bursts forth in his presence : " Never did base and rotten policy colour her working with such deadly wounds."] His utter aversion to all untruth renders him heartily angry at Glendower's whimsical bragging. , He cannot list en to praise and flattery, and bkinejie^cannot-suppress, even. JL he should offend newand insecure triends by it. tmsuch occasions he suffers his vehemence and roughness to^be reproved, and scuirrtuTTy blesses manners more refined and commended. An enemy to all affectation, to all show and vanity, he is an enemy also to all false, jaMBaa JyT re finement. He would rather hear " a dry wheel grate on an axle-tree " than mincing poetry ; he would rather be " a kitten and cry — Mew " than be a ballad-monger ; and music and singing he thinks " the next way to turn tailor, or be red-breast teacher." Averse to these tender arts, he is so also to all false sentimentality. The charming scene between him and his wife shows that he loves because he banters; no other expression for its love could this unaffected nature find. How could Ulrici imitate the absurd Horn in declaring that Percy's wife was only his chief servant ? How can he reconcile it with Henry Percy's character to swear on horseback to his wife that he loves her infinitely, if these were only empty words to a servant ? Such love rests closely and firmly on the certain superiority of the husband and on the golden confidence of the wife, who pos- sesses the rare quality of understanding the fervour of her husband's love in his jests and banterings, and from whose remembrance this " miracle of men " can never pass away. G. G. Gervinus. — Shakespeare Commentaries (ed. 1875), p. 310. N X r> • .i <\ SECOND PART OF HENRY IV. 107 SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV. Act IV. Scene V. A Chamber. The King lying on a bed, Prince Henry. K. Hen. Come hither, Harry ; sit thou by my bed, And hear, I think, the very latest counsel That ever I shall breathe. God knows, my son, By what by-paths and indirect crook'd ways I met this crown ; and I myself know well How troublesome it sat upon my head. To thee it shall descend with better quiet, Better opinion, better confirmation ; For all the soil of the achievement goes With me into the earth. It seem'd in me But as an honour snatch'd with boisterous hand ; And I had many living to upbraid My gain of it by their assistances ; Which daily grew to quarrel and to bloodshed, Wounding supposed peace : all these bold fears Thou see'st with peril I have answered ; For all my reign hath been but as a scene Acting that argument : and now my death Changes the mode ; for what in me was pur- chased, Falls upon thee in a more fairer sort ; So thou the garland weai^st successively. Yet, though thou stand'st more sure than I could do, Thou art not firm enough, since griefs are green; And all my friends, which thou must make thy friends, Have but their stings and teeth newly ta'en out ; By whose fell working I was first advanced And by whose power I well might lodge a fear To be again displaced : which to avoid, I cut them off ; and had a purpose now To lead out many to the Holy Land, Lest rest and standing still might make them . look Too near unto my state. Therefore, my Harry, Be it thy course to busy giddy minds With foreign quarrels ; that action, hence borne out, May waste the memory of the former days. More would I, but my lungs are wasted so That strength of. speech is utterly denied me. How I came by the crown, O God forgive ; And grant it may with thee in true peace live ! Prhice. My gracious liege, You won it, wore it, kept it, gave it me ; Then plain and right must my possession be : Which I with more than with a common pain 'Gainst all the world will rightfully maintain. THE PLAY OF "KING HENRY IV." T N passing from the historical illustrations which the tragedy of Richard II. supplied us with . . . . to the illustration we may find in the two parts of Henry IV., one cannot help being struck with the boundless variety of Shakespeare's historic drama, and the versatility of his genius in dealing with these successive periods. While the " Chronicle-Plays " vary in structure and character (no two of them closely corresponding), they are all, for the most part, tragedies, for the simple reason that the history of human life is chiefly tragic, especially in the great historic descriptions of men, their deeds and their fortunes. But the two parts of Henry IV. contain a large proportion of the comic element of life. Tragedy and comedy are here combined to produce the mixed drama. As the scene changes, we behold, as we read, the interior of the palace, with all the business and the stately anxieties and perplexities of the p 2 io8 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. realm, or the castles of the nobles, where the dark game of conspiracy, or the bolder work of rebellion, is preparing; and then we turn to see the frolic and revelry of a London tavern, with the matchless wit of one of Shakespeare's most remarkable creations sparkling through the sensuality and profligacy of the place. We are now at Windsor with the king, or at Bangor with the insurgent nobles; and then we are at the Boar's Head Tavern with Falstaff and his gay companions. We see Henry IV. in his palace growing wan and careworn with the troubles of his government, becoming an old man in mid life ; and then we see Falstaff fat, and doubtless growing fatter as he takes his ease at his inn — an old man of more than threescore years, but with a boyish flow of frolic and spirits — indulging his inexhaustible wit by making merriment for himself and the heir-apparent. We see in this mixed drama the tragic side of war — civil war with the perplexity of the councils of the realm and the fierce deeds of battle ; and we see the comic side — Falstaff misusing the king's press — the conscription code of the times — not gathering volunteers for the war, but picking out of the community comfortable, well-conditioned, non-combatant folk, who, as he calculates, will be sure to buy a release, so that he boasts to himself of having got in exchange for one hundred and fifty soldiers three hundred and odd pounds to pay his tavern-bill, or rather to leave his tavern-bill unpaid The link of association between the serious and the comic parts of these plays is to be found in the character of him who is the Prince Henry of the palace, and the Prince Hal of his boon companions in the tavern — for we meet with him in both places, more at home, however, in the places of his amusement than in the place of his rank. It is such mixed dramas as the two parts of Henry IV. that especially illustrate the remark of Mr. Hallam, that Shakespeare's historical plays " borrow surprising liveliness and probability from the national character and form of government. A prince, a courtier, and a slave are the stuff on which the historic dramatist would have to work in some countries ; but every class of freemen, in the just subordination without which neither human society nor the stage, which should be its mirror,- can be more than a chaos of huddled units, lay open to the inspection of Shakespeare. What he invented is as truly English, as truly historical in the large sense of moral history, as what he read." .... I am inclined to think that Shakespeare felt, that in treating dramatically the reign of Henry IV. he must needs expand the sphere of the drama, so as to comprehend these varied elements, in order to supply the meagre historical interest of the subject. The exuberance of his genius and of his feelings required something more than the cold, uneventful misery of the palace of the politic Henry ; and accordingly, going down to the lower stratum of society, he must have delighted in creating Falstaff and his associates to make amends for the dull company of the king and the courtiers and nobles. The reign of Henry IV. is an uninteresting period of English history ; especially does it want national interest. After all his long-sustained and successful ambition, he came to his years of royalty, and they proved years of unceasing solicitude and uncertainty. The old chronicler utters simple truth when he speaks of " the unquiet times of King Henry's reign ; " and one of the elder English hisstorian accurately describes it when he says, " King Henry's reign was like a craggy mountain, from which there was no descent but by a thousand crooked ways full of rocky stones and jetting cliffs — the first difficulties escaped, others are met with of more danger and anxiety. In such paths he walked all the time of his reign, that one danger was a step to another, and the event always doubt- ful j for his subjects' former desire being almost extinguished, his friends failing, and his enemies increasing, he had no other support in so painful a descent but his own vigilance and conduct — helps which, though they might cause him to keep on his way, yet they were not sufficient to preserve him from great weariness." And Shakespeare, with that remarkable significancy which he gives to the openings of his plays, indicates in the very first line the character of the reign when the king is introduced, saying — " So shaken as we are, so worn with care, Find we a time for frighted peace to pant." It is historically true, also, when he is represented, at the beginning of the play and of his reign, meditating a crusade, planning an expedition from England — " To chase the pagans in those holy fields Over whose acres walked those blessed feet Which fourteen hundred years ago were nailed, For our advantage, to the bitter cross. "... The intended crusade was frustrated by impending danger at home. Scarcely was Henry IV. seated on his throne when the flame of war was kindled upon both the western and northern frontiers of England Henry's reign was, in truth, no more than a succession of conspiracies. The battle of Shrewsbury secured but a brief space of repose, which was soon disturbed by the conspiracy of the Earl of North- umberland and Mowbray and the Archbishop of York. The revolt was quelled, not by another battle, but by policy ; and the strong king again proved too strong for his adversaries. But, while his possession of the throne was triumphantly maintained, the crown was glittering on the brow of a melancholy man. The genius of a great poet gives us the vision of the royal sadness ; and it is poetry and history combined that present the affecting spectacle of a careworn king, in the scene where Henry, in the noiseless hour of the night, in the lonely splendour of his palace, with slumber estranged from his eyelids, beholding from the palace-window the silent dwellings in a sleeping city, gives utterance to that beautiful apostrophe to sleep — SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. " How many thousands of my poorest subjects Are at this hour asleep ! O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness ? " . . . That aching brow was soon to find repose ; those sleepless eyelids were at length to be closed, — but only in the grave. " Henry Bolingbroke," it has been said, " had reigned thirteen years ' in great perplexity and little pleasure.' He had reaped, as he had sown — care, insecurity, suspicion, enmity, and treason ; and 'curses not loud but deep.' Having quelled the rebellious nobles, he revived the project of a voyage to the Holy Land, to recover Jerusalem from the infidels. Preparations were made for the expedition, and the king went to the shrine of St. Edward the Confessor, at Westminster, there to take his leave and to speed him on his voyage." The hand of death fell on his careworn body there ; and he was carried, to breathe his last, in the adjoining house of the abbot, and not in the palace of the Plantagenets Respecting the career of the Prince of Wales, there appear to be two opposite and con- flicting opinions. On the one hand, he is represented as low, profligate, reckless, heartless, and dissolute, the perpetual inmate of taverns, and a licentious brawler. On the other side, the effort is made, and with considerable historical research, to prove that the traditional accounts of the prince's early life are altogether unfounded ; that Shakespeare's repre- sentation of him, as a historical portrait, is misleading and unjust, and that the prince's life was blameless and irreproachable. Indeed it might well be said, that a career of excessive profligacy, continued through the years of youth and into the years of manhood, could not in nature be the prelude to a kingly course so sagacious and so heroic. I do not believe that Henry of Monmouth, when Prince of Wales, lived such a life of disso- luteness and profligacy ; and more confident am I that Shakespeare has not so represented it. At the same time, the tradition respecting the prince was too general and too well fortified to be wholly discredited. It cannot reasonably be cast aside as a fiction by which men for a long while — and nobody can tell why — deluded themselves and others. Shakespeare is faithful to the tradition, which he has so informed with the life-giving power of the imagination as to corroborate the truth of it ; and at the same time he has so portrayed Henry's princely days as to reconcile them with his royal days, and thus to represent them in moral harmony. He does not resort to the marvel of a sudden con- version and an instantaneous growth of virtue — a monstrous and unnatural change — which would effectually hinder us from feeling the identity of the Prince Henry of one drama with the King Henry of another. With Shakespeare's guidance, therefore, we can, I am inclined to think, learn what the one, but varied, life of Henry really was ; for the SECOND PART OF HENRY IV. m poet drew the history of that life from tradition, and also from the deep philosophy of human nature in his own soul. When Prince Henry is first introduced into the drama, it is in the palace, but in the company of two of his gay companions, who visit him there. Whatever contaminating influences there were in such companionship, it was, at least, free from the vice of destroying his moral health by the poison of flattery. So far from anything like this adulation, the conventional restraints of rank are relaxed, — and there is an equality of intercourse, and almost unbounded freedom in it. But all this is on the surface, and does not reach down to the real nature of the prince ; for the moment he is left alone, the first words he utters disclose his knowledge of himself and of his companions, and his consciousness of what is due from himself to himself. We see that he has a moral self-possession — whether it will be impaired by such companionship and self-indulgence remains to be considered ; but the first soliloquy shows us that, at least, he was not reck- less, but that he was thoughtful ; and that whatever might be the outward show, silently and secretly he was cherishing lofty and pure aspirations — " I know you all, and will a while uphold The unyoked humour of your idleness ; Yet herein will I imitate the sun, Who doth permit the base contagious clouds To smother up his beauty from the world, That when he please again to be himself, Being wanted, he may be more wondered at, By breaking through the foul and ugly mists Of vapours that did seem" to strangle him. " This soliloquy, at his first introduction, sets before us the thoughtful element in the prince's character ; and we are thus forewarned of the reserved power by which he will be able to raise himself above the loose behaviour and companionship he for a while in- dulges in Neither in the history of the chronicler, nor in the history of the poet, r does there appear any such enmity between the king and the Prince of Wales as would throw an impediment in the way of our admiration and enjoyment of the son's character. We feel that it is a difference easily adjusted ; and the prince is entitled so to speak, when he gaily tells his companions, " I am good friends with my father, and may do anything." Now, while the filial relation is duly preserved, it is, on the other hand, desirable that Prince Henry should not be too intimately identified with his father's reign."^ It is well that he, whose glorious career is to be the theme of a poet's richest praise, should not be associated in our thoughts with an administration of the realm which was so different from his own— a reign of terror and not of loyal love — a reign of divided and not SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. unanimous allegiance. The dominion of Henry IV. was that of stern, hard, suspicious power. There were conspiracies ; and craft and policy were needed to countermine them ; but we are glad to believe that, as Shakespeare, following the traditions, has represented it, Prince Hal took little, if any, part in such affairs of the realm. Henry Reed. — Lectures on English History and Tragic Poetry as illustrated by Shakespeare (1856), pp. rop — 128. THE KING. One reason of Prince Henry's early irregularities seems to have grown from the character of his father. \ All accounts agree in representing Bolingbroke as a man of great reach and sagacity ; a politician of inscrutable craft, full of insinuation, brave in the field, skilful alike at penetrating others' designs and at concealing his own ; unscrupulous alike in smiling men into his service and in crunching them up after he had used them.) All which is fully borne out in that, though his reign was little else than a series of rebellions and commotions proceeding in part from the injustice whereby he reached the crown and the bad title whereby he held it, yet he always got the better of them, and even turned them to his advantage. (Where he could not win the heart, cutting off the head, and ever plucking fresh security out of the dangers that beset himj^lis last years, however, were much embittered, and his death probably hastened, by the anxieties growing out of his position, and the remorses consequent upon his crimes. But, while such is the character generally ascribed to him, no historian has come near Shakespeare in the painting of it. Much of his best transpiration is given in the pre- ceding play of Richard II. , where he is the controlling spirit. For, though Richard is the more prominent character in that play, this is not as the mover of things, but as the receiver of movements caused by another ; the effects lighting on him, while the worker of them is comparatively unseen. For one of Bolingbroke's main peculiarities is, that he looks solely to results ; and, like a true artist, the better to secure these he keeps his designs and processes in the dark ; his power thus operating so secretly, that in what- ever he does the thing seems to have done itself to his hand. How intense his enthusiasm, yet how perfect his coolness and composure ! Then too, how pregnant and forcible always, yet how calm and gentle, and at times how terrible, his speech ! how easily and unconcernedly the words drop from him, yet how pat and home they are to the persons for whom and the occasions whereon they are spoken ! To all which add a flaming thirst of power, a most aspiring and mounting ambition, with an equal mixture of humility, boldness, and craft, and the result explains much of the fortune that attends him through all the plays in which he figures. For the Poet keeps him the same man throughout. SECOND PART OF HENRY IV. 113 So that, taking the whole delineation together, we have at full length and done to the life, the portrait of a man in act prompt, bold, decisive, in thought sly, subtle, far-reaching — a character hard and cold indeed to the feelings, but written all over with success ; which has no impulsive gushes or starts, but all is study, forecast, and calm suiting of means to pre-appointed ends. And this perfect self-command is in great part the secret of his strange power over others, making them almost as pliant to his purposes as are the cords and muscles of his own body ; so that, as the event proves, he grows great by their feeding till he can compass food enough without their help, and, if they go to hindering him, can eat them up. For so it turned out with the Percys ; strong sinews indeed with him for a head ; while, against him, their very strength served but to work their own overthrow But, though policy was the leading trait in this able man, nevertheless it was not so prominent but that other and better traits were strongly visible. And even in his policy there was much of the breadth and largeness which distinguish the statesman from the politician. Besides he was a man of prodigious spirit and courage, had a real eye to the interests of his country as well as of his family, and in his wars he was humane much beyond the custom of his time. And in the last scene of the Poet's delineation of him, where he says to the prince — " Come hither, Harry ; sit thou by my bed, And hear, I think, the very latest counsel That ever I shall breathe ; " though we have indeed his subtle policy working out like a ruling passion strong in death, still its workings are suffused with gushes of right feeling enough to show that he was not all politician ; that beneath his close-knit prudence there was a soul of moral sense, a kernel of religion. H. N. Hudson. — Shakespeare, his Life, Art, ana Characters (1872), Vol. II. pp. 69 — 71. THE CROWN SCENE. I must now call in question the incident in which originated the Crown Scene. This story is in Holinshed, who avowedly took it from Hall. It is also in the old play, which it is evident, to my judgment, suggested to Shakespeare some part of the speeches. " During his last sickness the king caused his crown (as some write) to be set on a pillow at his bed's head, and suddenly his pangs so sore troubled him that he lay as Q U4 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. though all his vital spirits had been from him departed. Such as were about him, thinking verily that he had departed, covered his face with a linen cloth. The Prince his son, being hereof advertised, entered into the chamber, took away the crown, and departed. The father being suddenly revived out of that trance, quickly perceived the lack of his crown ; and having knowledge that the prince his son had taken it away, caused him to come before his presence, requiring of him what he meant to so misuse himself. The prince, with a good audacity, answered : ' Sir, to mine and all men's judgments you seemed dead in this world, wherefore, I, as your next heir-apparent, took that as mine own, and not as yours.' ' Well, fair son,' said the king, with a great sigh, 1 what right I had to it, God knoweth.' ' Well,' said the prince, ' if you die king, I will have the garland, and trust to keep it with the sword against all my enemies, as you have done.' ' Then,' said the king, ' I commit all to God, and remember you to do well.'" .... No one of the contemporary historians has this story of the crown. Elmham describes the death-bed of Henry with incidents entirely different. The prince took the sacrament with his father, who blessed him after the manner of the patriarchs. The oldest version of it is in the old French chronicle of Monstrelet, who wrote within a few years of the event, though, if alive at the time, he was very young. Monstrelet prefaces his account with a remark which his English chroniclers neglect, and of which Tyler has not availed himself : " It was the custom in that country, whenever the king was ill, to place the royal crown on a cushion beside his bed, and for his successor to take it on his death" The prince being informed by the attendants that the king was dead, took the crown as a matter of course ; and his reviving father did not so much reprove him for his precipitancy as remind him that he had no right to the crown because the father himself had none. The story is told not as against the son, but as exhibiting the father's consciousness of his usurpation. The cause of Richard, whose infant wife was a daughter of France, was always popular in that country. I am not aware that any such custom is mentioned by an English antiquary. The Frenchman may have drawn upon his imagination for the rest of the story as well as for this. But I admit the case to be one of those in which the story itself, and the invention of it without foundation, are both so improbable that there is only a choice of difficulties. The Right Hon. T. P. Courtenay. — Commentaries on the Historical F /ays of Shakespeare, Vol. I. pp. 144 — 160. - ( '\ v3v l^ N V* o v "3 v I & J v * \ t 1 >M m ■» .¥ m '.■■:,//,//■ a%A 'A ' ///. i&a&n. . ^n^{7iy — — V/,' /// et / // ^v / v ; / 7/ //// THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. Act III. Scene III. A Room in Ford's House. Mrs. Page. O Mistress Ford, what have you done ? You're shamed, you're overthrown, you're undone for ever ! Mrs. Ford. What's the matter, good Mistress Page ? Mrs. Page. O well-a-day, Mistress Ford ! hav- ing an honest man to your husband, to give him such cause of suspicion ! Mrs. Ford. What cause of suspicion ? Mrs. Page. What cause of suspicion ! Out upon you ! how am I mistook in you ! Mrs. Ford. Why, alas, what's the matter ? Mrs. Page. Your husband's coming hither, woman, with all the officers in Windsor, to search for a gentleman that he says is here now in the house by your consent, to take an ill advantage of his absence : you are undone. Mrs. Ford. 'Tis not so, I hope. Mrs. Page. Pray heaven it be not so, that you have such a man here ! but 'tis most certain your husband's coming, with half Windsor at his heels, to search for such a one. I come before to tell you. If you know yourself clear, why, I am glad of it ; but if you have a friend here, convey, convey him out. Be not amazed ; call all your senses to you ; defend your reputation, or bid farewell to your good life for ever. Mrs. Ford. What shall I do ? There is a gentleman my dear friend ; and I fear not mine own shame so much as his peril : I had rather than a thousand pound he were out of the house. Mrs. Page. For shame ! never stand ' you had rather' and 'you had rather :' your husband's here at hand ; bethink you of some conveyance ; in the house you cannot hide him. O, how have you deceived me ! Look, here is a basket : if he be of any reasonable stature, he may creep in here ; and throw foul linen upon him, as if it were going to bucking : or— it is whiting-time — send him by your two men to Datchet-mead. Mrs. Ford. He's too big to go in there. What shall I do ? Fal. {Coming forward} Let me see't, let me see't, O, let me see't ! I'll in, I'll in. Follow your friend's counsel. I'll in. Mrs. Page. What, Sir John Falstaff ! Are these your letters, knight ! Fal. I love thee. Help me away. Let me creep in here. I'll never — [Gets into the basket ; they cover him withfotil linen. Mis. Page. Help to cover your master, boy. Call your men, Mistress Ford. You dissembling knight ! Mrs. Ford. What, John ! Robert ! John ! [Exit Robin. Re-enter Servants. Go take up these clothes here quickly. Where's the cowl-staff? look, how you drumble ! Carry them to the laundress in Datchet-mead ; quickly, THE "MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR." '"THE Merry Wives of Windsor appears from the quarto of* 1602 to have been at first hastily written, but was afterwards revised into the more perfect shape in which we now have it. The story goes that the subject was suggested by Queen Elizabeth, and the drama composed at her request. Shakespeare, they say, completed his task in fourteen days. The task itself was rather a vague one ; the notion given by her Majesty being simply, "Falstaff in love." Shakespeare himself had formally dismissed the character from his mind ; but the increasing R 2 popularity of the delineation had reached royalty, and the poet was evidently not un- willing to work again upon the idea. But the poet had now to invent new circumstances, unconnected with either the two parts of He?iry IV. ox Henry V., and the critic has a difficulty in assigning a date to the action of the comedy. The more prudent course seems to be to read it between the first and second parts of the former work, in which case we suppose the events to have hap- pened previously to the knight's disgrace. The poet, however, apparently never troubled himself about the matter, content with having to work out the idea with new conditions, and assured that it would find its natural place in the series. We have, indeed, old names to new characters ; such as the page and Mrs. Quickly, the latter being now Dr. Caius's servant. As to Falstaff himself, we have him independent of a court life, and in his purely natural character, under temptations strictly private, and in this new view showing still that "the more flesh, the more frailty." . . . Matrimonial fidelity is assailed, but the holy estate is not dishonoured. There is sufficient reverence in it to stand fast of itself, without the interference of Church or State; and sufficient strength to maintain its ground against any amount of license. The honest wives make a fool of the fat knight, and get the laugh against him. Nor will the poet concede the husband's right to jealousy, but manfully defends the honour of womanhood against Ford's caprices. ... Falstaff 's love is not a sentiment, nor even an appetite. He has outgrown both ; but he makes use of a sportive opportunity that flatters his vanity for the hope of an ultimate gain. He would make the two wives his East and West Indies, and profit by any trans- action he may have with them. He pleases himself with the notion that he is an object of love to two respectable women, wives of substantial citizens, but inferior in rank to himself. Of this weakness he lives to repent. However, when convinced that, with all his wit, he has been made a fool of, he takes it in good part, and appreciates the jest, though himself its victim. " Well, I am your theme ; you have the start of me ; I am dejected ; I am not able to answer the Welsh flannel. Ignorance itself is a plummet o'er me ; use me as you will." There is something noble in the fat old sinner, after all ; and Page sees it, and promises that yet Falstaff shall laugh at his wife, who now laughs at Falstaff. And what says Mrs. Page ? " Good husband, let us every one go home, And laugh this sport o'er by a country fire, Sir John and all." John A. Heraud. — Shakespeare, his Inner Life, pp. 242 — 24^. THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 125 THE CHARACTERS. This play was a task, and not quite so happy a one as Cowper's. That Queen Bess should have desired to see Falstaff making love proves her to have been, as she was, a gross- minded old baggage. Shakespeare has evaded the difficulty with great skill. He knew that Falstaff could not be in love ; and has mixed but a little, a very little pruritus with his fortune-hunting courtship. But the Falstaff of the Merry Wives is not the Falstaff of Henry the Fourth. It is a big-bellied impostor, assuming his name and style, or at best it is Falstaff in dotage. The Mrs. Quickly of Windsor is not mine hostess of the Boar's Head ; but she is a very pleasant, busy, good-natured, unprincipled old woman, whom it is impossible to be angry with. Shallow should not have left his seat in Gloucestershire and his magisterial duties. Ford's jealousy is of too serious a complexion for the rest of the play. The merry wives are a delightful pair. Methinks I see them, with their comely middle-aged visages, their dainty white ruffs and toys, their half witchlike conic hats, their full farthingales, their neat though not over-slim waists, their housewifely keys, their girdles, their sly laughing looks, their apple-red cheeks, their brows, the lines whereon look more like the work of mirth than years. And sweet Anne Page — she is a pretty little creature whom one would like to take on one's knee. And poor Slender, how pathetically he fancies himself into love ; how tearfully laughable he is in his disappointment, and how painfully ludicrous in his punctilio, how delightful in his valour ! How finely he sets forth his achievement to pretty Anne ! — " I have seen Sackerson loose." Othello could not brag more amorously. Parson Hugh is a noble Cambro-Briton, but Doctor Caius is rather so-so. Mine Host of the Garter is evidently a portrait. The plot is rather farcical ; but no matter, it is exceedingly diverting. There is one passage which shows Shakespeare to have been a Christian, player though he was : — " Since therein she doth evitate and shun A thousand irreligious cursed hours, Which forced marriage would have brought upon her." Hartley Coleridge. — Essays and Marginalia, Vol. II. pp. 133 — 34. PLACE OF THIS PLAY AMONG SHAKESPEARE'S COMEDIES. This Comedy belongs to that class of Shakespeare's plays that is marked by cor- rectness of proportion both in characters and distribution. . . . The characters, which are very numerous — they amount to twenty — are all wrought to an equal degree of finish, and are brought forward or subordinated with the exact relief that corresponds 126 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. with their several functions and importance. The scenes follow in succession with admirably regulated length and variety of movement, and with such exact compensa- tion of tone and humour as to move forward the busy action without delay or confusion, without a hint of tediousness or a moment of dissatisfaction, from the beginning to the end. These are qualities that best evidence the height and maturity of poetic powers. Still it is apparent that for such powers the scope and subject of the play did not afford the fullest opportunities of exercise. It is not for an instant to be placed beside the more perfect poetical comedies, beside As You Like It, or Twelfth Night, or even beside the Two Gentlemen of Verona, or perhaps Love's Labour's Lost ; works for which lavish expenditure of poetic gold vindicates rank in a higher class notwithstanding defects in correctness and proportion. That Shakespeare left unattempted a poetic English Comedy, seems to imply that to his apprehension the scene that harmonized so well with humour and tragic and even heroic action, was not so favourable for romance. Certain it is that the limits within which he restricted himself in the Merry Wives of Windsor seem fully accounted for by the nature and truth of the social aspect he was invited to depict. We are introduced to the domestic incidents of English households of the easy middle class. We are among the substantial and thrift-considering gentry, on the margin of the town and the country, with means and leisure, following the minor field sports and open air amusements, not without passions and not without prejudices, but with good solid groundwork of character in right-meaning and deliberate- ness, and with hearts that sooner or later prove to be in their right places. For the rest the husk of provincial quaintness holds stiffly about them even in their heartiest hospitalities, and they are not apt to be disturbed or distinguished by either variety or vivacity of ideas .... The substantive wit of the piece does not exceed the capabilities of the old English form of the practical joke — the hoax ; but these resources are wrought out to the fullest extent, and the humour swells and undulates on the full tide of flowing animal spirits. The hoax is the instrument of the punishments of Falstaff, but these instances do not stand alone ; it dissipates the foolish quarrel of Caius and Sir Hugh Evans on the one nana, and on the other it is the means of foiling the ill-considered plans of the parents of Anne Page. The false appointments of the pedagogue and doctor, and the excursion of the latter lured over the country, to his confusion, in the hope of finding Anne Page at a farm-house feasting, are exercises of country mirth of the same class as the false assignations that carry Falstaff into the ditch at Datchet-mead, or conduct him in disguise, under the cudgel of Ford. The mishap of Ford, in his attempts to follow the appointments of Falstaff, and to compete in cleverness with the mirthful matrons, gives the hoax potential ; and in the flight of Falstaff through Windsor, as Mother Pratt, eluding, by his " admirably counterfeiting the action of an old woman," the penal intentions of the rogue constable, THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 127 and deceiving the eyes, as he afterwards imposes on the wits of Simple, we have a fore- shadowing of the successful hoaxes of the last scene, when Slender exclaims, " If I did not think it had been Anne Page, I might never stir, and 'tis a postmaster's boy ; " and Dr. Caius, " Vere is Mistress Page ? By gar, I am cozened ; I ha' married un garfon, a boy." Merriment of this character is not unapt to degenerate into the unfeeling, and all tempers do not bear it equally well. Mine host is made a victim out of retaliation for his jest, and for once is in low spirits ; all rancour however explodes at the last harm- lessly ; Caius will be satisfied by " raising all Windsor," and Slender by communicating how he has been befooled to " the best in Gloucestershire." Ford does not triumph without a little drawback; Mrs. and Mr. Page are foiled at their own weapons, and Falstaff has a laugh at their expense spared to him in his turn. Compensation is complete throughout ; the circle of ridicule returns into itself, and the play ends as a comedy should, with liberal amnesty and cordial reconciliation. W. W. Lloyd. — Essays on the Life and Plays of Shakespeare (1858) : The Merry Wives of Windsor. ENGLISH CHARACTER OF THE PLAY. The Merry Wives of Windsor is one of those delightfully happy plays of Shakespeare, beaming with sunshine and good humour, that makes one feel the better, the lighter, and the happier for having seen or read it. It has a superadded charm, too, from the scene being purely English • and we all know how rare and how precious English sunshine is, both literally and metaphorically. The Merry Wives may be designated the " sunshine" of domestic life, as the As You Like Lt is the sunshine of romantic life. The out-door character that pervades both plays gives to them their tone of buoyancy and enjoyment, and true holiday feeling. We have the meeting of Shallow and Slender and Page in the streets of Windsor, who saunter on, chatting of the " fallow greyhound, and of his being out-run on Cotsal ; " and, still strolling on, they propose the match between Slender and " sweet Anne Page." Then Anne brings wine out of doors to them ; though her father, with the genuine feeling of old English hospitality, presses them to come into his house, and enjoy it with a "hot venison pasty to dinner." And she afterwards comes out into the garden to bid Master Slender to table, where, we may imagine, he has been lounging about, in the hope of the fresh air relieving his sheepish embarrassment. When Doctor Caius bids his servant bring him his rapier, he answers: "'Tis ready, sir, here in the porch " — conveying the idea of a room leading at once into the open air — such a room as used to be called "a summer parlour." Then we hear of Anne Page being at a " farmhouse — o 128 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. a-feasting;" and we have Mrs. Page leading her little boy William to school ; and Sir Hugh Evans sees people coming " from Frogmore over the stile this way ; " and we find that Master Ford "is this morning gone a-birding." Even the very headings to the scenes breathe of dear lovely English scenery — " Windsor Park " — " A field near Frogmore." They talk, too, of Datchet Lane ; and Sir John Falstaff is " slighted into the river." And, with this, come thronging visions of the " silver Thames," and some of those exquisite leafy nooks on its banks, with the cawing of rooks ; and its little islands, crowned with the dark and glossy-leaved alder ; and barges lapsing on its tranquil tide. To crown all, the story winds up with a plot to meet in Windsor Park at midnight, to trick the fat knight beneath " Heme's Oak." The whole play, indeed, is, as it were, a village, or even a homestead pastoral. The dramatis persona, too, perfectly harmonise, and are in strict keeping with the scene. They are redolent of health and good humour — that moral and physical " sunshine." There are the two "Merry Wives " themselves. What a picture we have of buxom, laughing, ripe beauty ! ready for any frolic " that may not sully the chariness of their honesty." That jealous-pate, Ford, ought to have been sure of his wife's integrity and goodness, from her being so transparent-tempered and cheerful. . . . Then, there is Page, the very personification of hearty English hospitality. You feel the tight grasp of his hand, and see the honest sparkle of his eye, as he leads in the wranglers with, " Come, gentlemen, I hope we shall drink down all unkindness." If I were required to point to the portrait of a genuine, indigenous Englishman throughout the whole of the works of Shakespeare, Page would be the man. Every thought of his heart, every motion of his body, appears to be the result of pure instinct ; he has nothing exotic or artificial about him. He possesses strong yeoman sense, an unmistakable speech, a trusting nature, and a fearless deportment ; and these are the characteristics of a true Englishman. He is to be gulled — no man more so ; and he is gulled every day in the year — no proof, you will say, of his " true yeoman sense;" but an Englishman is quite as frequently gulled with his eyes open as when they are hookwinked. He has a conceit of being indifferent to chicanery. He confides in his own strength when it behoves him to exert it ; and then he abates the nuisance " Mine Host of the Garter " is one of the most original characters in the play. He is imbued with an eccentric fancy, and has the richest humour for a joke or a hoax. More- over, mine host is the prince of good fellows. He feels perfectly easy whether Falstaff pays him "ten pounds a week" or two; and he good-naturedly takes his "withered serving-man" (Bardolph) "for a fresh tapster." His self-conceit in his own skill and management is delicious : — " Am I politic ? am I subtle ? am I Machiavel ? " And again "The Germans shall have my horses; but I'll make them pay — I'll sauce them." But he loses his horses, and then his " mind is heavy " — the last thing we should expect from THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 129 him. We do not, therefore, regret that his loss is made up in the "hundred pounds in gold " promised him by Fenton. There is no malice in mine host's " waggery ; " and he manages the quarrel between Sir Hugh Evans, the parson, and Dr. Caius in the best spirit imaginable. . . . All who have intercourse with the world can testify that the character of Master Slender is by no means an anomaly. The love-scene between him and Mistress Anne is a notable display of broad humour ; and what a thought it was to make him ask his man Simple for his book of sonnets and love-songs to woo with ! for he has not a word of his own to throw to a dog ; and a pretty girl frightens him out of his little senses. When he first sees her, he says in a faint fluster, " O heaven ! this is Mistress Anne Page ! " And when dragged to the wooing-stake, like a lugged bear, by his cousin Shallow, we hear him yearning, " I had rather than forty shillings. I had my book of songs and sonnets here." In default of this, his book of riddles might serve. Riddles to make love with ! But the book of riddles he had lent to Alice Shortcake a week before " Hallowmas." So the poor soul stands gasping, like a stranded grampus. And when left alone in wretchedness with her, her very first question flabbergasts him. If she had not led off, he would have stood there till now. . . . Pretty little Anne Page, who contributes no small portion of the " sunshine " in this delightful comedy, is not so deeply and anxiously enamoured of Master Fenton, but that she can afford to trifle and amuse herself with the single-speech courtship of Slender ; and her very protestation against the suit of the Frenchman has in it such a spice of humour -as makes one fall head-and-ears in love with her. " Good mother, do not marry me to yond' fool ! (Slender). " Mrs. Page. I mean it not ; I seek you a better husband. " Mrs. Quick. That's my master, Master Doctor. " Anne. Alas ! I had rather be set quick in the earth, and bowled to death with turnips." But although a " subordinate character," how very important a person in this play is Mistress Quickly, the housekeeper to Dr. Caius ; or, as Sir Hugh designates her, "his nurse, or his dry-nurse, or his cook, or his laundry, his washer, or his wringer." What a perfect specimen she is of a fussy, busy-bodying old woman ! " That foolish carrion, Mrs. Quickly," as Mrs. Page calls her ; making her necessary to all, by reason of her fussiness ; and conspicuous, by reason of her folly. A large family, — the race of the Quicklies ! Our Mrs. Quickly, the type of the whole breed, meddles and " trepots " in every one's affairs : with the seriousness and sincere dealing of a diplomatist, she acts the go-between for Falstaff with the two merry wives ; she courts Anne Page for her master, undertaking the same office for Slender. She favours the suit of Fenton ; and if the Welsh parson had turned an eye of favour upon the yeoman's pretty daughter, she would have played the s 130 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. hymeneal Hebe to him too. Her whole character for mere busy-bodying, and not from any active kindness of heart, — for they who are sweet to all alike have no principle worth a button ; — her whole character is comprised in that one little speech in the 4th scene of the 3rd Act, when Fenton gives her the ring for his " sweet Nan." Charles Cowden Clarke. — Shakespeare Characters, pp. 141 — 160. SHAKESPEARE'S PROSE. 1 Verse differs from prose in being, in the broadest sense of the word, musical or harmo- nious. It is, therefore, the natural form of expression for emotion. Wherever a scene is occupied with mere ideas, it is in prose ; changing to verse, if at all, where the ideas merge into feelings. On the other hand, any entire play or any detached scene which is full of intense feeling is in verse ; changing to prose only where emotions give way to ideas, whether logical, practical, or jocular. Again, verse, and especially the so-called blank-verse, is essentially orderly and coherent. It is, therefore, fitted to express only emotion which is under control of the reason. Whenever it passes beyond, into frenzy or madness, it must cease to express itself in regular verse, just as music has no voice for passion that has broken its banks and become a destroying deluge. That can only find (or fail in seeking to find) utterance in unmusical wailing or screams. Rhythmic harmony of any high sort, whether that of Beethoven or that of Shakspeare, is majestic and noble, like the orderly sweep of planets in their spheres, " still quiring to the young- eyed cherubim." It can only well express, therefore, feeling that is noble, or that at least through its power has some element of nobility, or thought that is deep and strong enough to carry feeling with it. Clowns, and jesters, and drunken men, and the trivial business of every-day life, get expressed in prose. So does wit, however refined. So does pleasure, unless it be the deep joy of love or death, that lies so close to pain. Doubtless prose scenes are often thrown into the drama for the sake of relieving the strain on the feelings which the tragical action or passion has caused. The capacity for deep feeling must be renewed at intervals by breathing-spaces of a lighter tone. But the nature of the scene is what is chosen for this purpose, not the prose or verse form of its expression ; this is always self-determined, and never open to choice. Professor E. R. Sill {California). — Overland Monthly, June, 1875. " Shakespeare s Prose." 1 The Merry Wives of Windsor is written al- of verse, including both rhymed lines and blank most wholly in prose. It contains only 296 lines I verse. v// ///,■// ///// ( >/r, /'//,■// ad& >//'/"/// //,'//////,/ MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 131 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. Act II. Scene III. Leonato's Orchard. Benedick left alone. Benedick. [Coming forward.] This can be no trick : the conference was sadly borne. They have the truth of this from Hero. They seem to pity the lady : it seems her affections have their full bent. Love me ! why, it must be requited. I hear how I am censured : they say I will bear myself proudly, if I perceive the love come from her ; they say too that she will rather die than give any sign of affection. I did never think to marry : I must not seem proud : happy are they that hear their detractions and can put them to mending. They say the lady is fair ; 'tis a truth, I can bear them witness ; and virtuous ; 'tis so, I cannot reprove it ; and wise, but for loving me ; by my troth, it is no addition to her wit, nor no great argument of her folly, for I will be horribly in love with her. I may chance have some odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me, be- cause I have railed so long against marriage : but doth not the appetite alter ? a man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot endure in his age. Shall quips and sentences and these paper bullets of the brain awe a man from the career of his humour? No, the world must be peopled. When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I were married. Here comes Beatrice. By this day ! she's a fair lady : I do spy some marks of love in her. Enter BEATRICE. Beat. Against my wiil I am sent to bid you come in to dinner* Bene. Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains. Beat. I took no more pains for those thanks than you take pains to thank me : if it had been painful, I would not have come. Bene. You take pleasure then in the message ? Beat. Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knife's point and choke a daw withal. You have no stomach, signior : fare you well. [Exit. Bene. Ha ! ' Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner ; ' there's a double mean- ing in that. ' I took no more pains for those thanks than you took pains to thank me ; ' that's as much as to say, Any pains that I take for you is as easy as thanks. If I do not take pity of her, I am a villain ; if I do not love her, I am a Jew, I will go get her picture. \Eiit. CHARACTER OF BEATRICE. NEVER knew anyone object to the nature and conduct of Beatrice in Much Ado About Nothing, who was not either dull in faculty, ill-tempered, or an overweening assertor of the exclusive privileges of the male sex She is warm-hearted, generous ; has a noble contempt of baseness of every kind 5 is wholly untinctured by jealousy ; is the first to break out into invective when her cousin Hero is treated in that scoundrel manner by her affianced husband at the very altar, and even makes it a sine qua non with Benedick to prove his love for herself by challenging the traducer of her cousin . . . . Beatrice is not without consciousness of her power of wit ; but it is rather the delight that she takes in something that is an effluence of her own glad nature, than for any pride of display. She enjoys its exercise, too, as a means of playful despotism over one whom she secretly admires, while openly tormenting. Her first inquiries after Benedick show the sort s 2 of interest she takes in him ; and it is none the less for its being veiled in a scoffing style ; while what she says of their mutual wit-encounters proves the glory she has in out- taunting him. When her uncle observes to the messenger, in reply to one of her sar- casms, " There is a kind of merry war betwixt Signior Benedick and her ; they never meet, but there is a skirmish of wit between them ; " she replies — " Alas ! he gets nothing by that. In our last conflict four of his five wits went halting off, and now the whole man is governed by one ; so that if he have wit enough to keep himself warm, let him bear it for a difference between himself and his horse ; for it is all the wealth he hath left to be known for a reasonable creature." She is suspiciously anxious to point her disdain of him ; for when the Messenger remarks, " I see, lady, the gentleman is not in your books," she retorts, " No ; an he were, I would burn my study." Her native hilarity of heart is evidenced constantly, and in the most attractive manner; for it serves to make the blaze of her intellect show itself as originating in a secret blitheness of temperament. The prince, Don Pedro, says, " In faith, lady, you have a merry heart ; " to which she replies, " Yea, my lord, I thank it, poor fool, it keeps on the windy side of care." And when following this up by some smart banter, she gracefully checks herself, " But I beseech your grace, pardon me ; I was born to speak all mirth and no matter ; " he rejoins, " Your silence most offends me ; and to be merry most becomes you ; for out of question you were born in a merry hour." Whereto she answers, " No, sure, my lord, my mother cried ; but then there was a star danced, and under that I was born." Well may the prince remark after she has gone out, " By my troth, a pleasant-spirited lady ! " To which her uncle, Leonato, replies : — " There's little of the melancholy element in her, my lord ; she is never sad but when she sleeps ; and not ever sad then ; for I have heard my daughter say she hath often dreamed of unhappiness, and waked herself with laughing." The fact is, like many high-spirited women, Beatrice possesses a fund of hidden tenderness beneath her exterior gaiety and sarcasm, — none the less profound from being withheld from casual view, and very seldom allowed to bewray itself. As proofs of this, witness her affection for her uncle, Leonato, and his strong esteem and love for her, — her passionate attachment to her cousin Hero, and the occasional, but extremely significant, betrayals of her partiality for Benedick; her very seeking out opportunities to torment him being one proof (especially in a woman of her disposition and breeding) of her preference ; for women do not banter a man they dislike, — they mentally send him to Coventry, and do not lift him into importance by offering an objection, still less a repartee or- a sarcasm. The only time we see Beatrice alone, and giving utterance to the thoughts of her heart — that is, in soliloquy, which is the dramatic medium of representing MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 133 self-communion — her words are full of warm and feminine tenderness ; words that pro- bably would not seem so pregnant of love- import, coming from another woman, more prone to express such feeling ; but from Beatrice, meaning much. It is the very tran- script of an honest and candid heart. Then the poet has given her so potent an antagonist in her wit-fencing, that her skill is saved from being thought unbefitting. Benedick's wit is so polished, so manly, so competent, that her womanhood is spared the disgrace of bearing away the palm in their keen encounters. He always remains victor; for we feel that he voluntarily refrains from claiming the conquest he achieves ; and he is ever master of the field, though his chivalrous gallantry chooses to leave her in possession of the ground — that " ground " so dear to female heart, " the last word." Benedick is a perfect gentleman, and his wit partakes of his nature ; it is forbearing in proportion to its excellence. One of the causes which render Benedick's wit more delightful than that of Beatrice is, that it knows when to cease. Like a true woman (don't " condemn me to everlasting redemption," ladies !), Beatrice is apt to pursue her advantage, when she feels she has one, to the very utmost. She does not give her antagonist a chance ; and if she could upset him, she would pink him when he was down : now, Benedick, with the generosity of superior strength, gives way first .... Benedick, being a man of acknowledged wit, as well as of a blithe temperament, has no fancy to be considered a jester — a professed "jester." His brilliant faculties render him a favourite associate of the prince ; but his various higher qualities, as a gentleman and a scholar, give him better claims to liking than those of a gay companion only. It is this that makes Beatrice's calling him the " prince's jester " so intolerable a gibe. She knew it, the hussy! with her woman's shrewdness in finding out precisely what will most gall the man she prefers ; and he shows that it touches him to the quick by reverting to it in soliloquy, and repeating it again to his friends when they come in. A man of lively humour who is excited by his native gaiety of heart to entertain his friends by his pleasantry, at the same time feeling within himself that he possesses yet stronger and worthier grounds for their partiality, has a peculiarly sensitive dread of being taken for a mere jester or buffoon. X Benedick's buoyancy of spirit is no effect of levity or frivolity. His humour has depth of feeling as well as mirth in it. His wit has force and geniality, no less than intellectual vivacity. That little sentence, with all its sportive ease, is instinct with moral sound sense — " Happy are they that hear their detractions and can put them to mending." Benedick's wit has penetration and discernment in it. With all his mer- curial temperament, too, yet in a grave question this fine character can deliver himself with gravity and a noble sedateness ; as where he says, " In a false quarrel there is no true valour." And throughout the challenge scene he expresses himself with gentlemanly dignity and manly feeling ; while we find, from the remarks of the prince upon his change of colour, that he is as deeply hurt as he has temperately spoken. He characterizes 134 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. his own wit, in its gentleness and gallantry towards women, when he says to Beatrice's attendant, " A most manly wit, Margaret ; it will not hurt a woman." There is heart in Benedick's playfulness. His love-making, when he is love-taken, is as earnest as it is animated. That is a fine and fervent bit of his wooing-scene with Beatrice, where she asks him if he will go with her to her uncle Leonato's to hear the news, he answers, " I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thine eyes, and moreover, I will go with thee to thine uncle's." Shakespeare has, with lustrous perfection, vindicated the sound sense and sweet heart that may accompany wit, in the character of Benedick. Charles Cowden Clarke. — Shakespeare Characters, pp. 295 — 304. ERRORS MADE IN STUDYING THE PLAY. Amongst all the dramatic characters of Shakespeare, there are no two of which the development is more closely intertwined than that of the personages most prominent in the drama now before us. This development, let us also observe, is, in fact, the main subject of the piece. We find it the more necessary to indicate this emphatically at the outset, because Hazlitt, Campbell, and others, in their critical notices of this play, have mistakenly represented the dramatic use here made of Beatrice and Benedick as merely subordinate to the interest which attaches to the nuptial fortunes of Hero. Coleridge, on the contrary, seeing ever more truly and deeply into the inmost spirit of Shakespeare's dramatic art, instances this very piece as illustrating that " independence of the-dramatic interest on the plot," which he enumerates among those characteristics by which, he says, it seems to him that Shakespeare's plays are " distinguished from those of all other dramatic poets." " The interest of the plot," he continues, " is always, in fact, on account of the characters, not vttt Versa as in almost all other writers ; the plot is a mere canvas and no more. Hence arises the true justification of the same stratagem being used in regard to Benedick and Beatrice, the vanity in each being alike. Take away from the Much Ado About Nothing all that which is not indispensable to the plot, either as having little to do with it, or, at best, like Dogberry and his comrades, forced into the service, when any other less ingeniously absurd watchmen and night-constables would have answered the mere necessities of the action ; take away Benedick, Beatrice, Dogberry, and the reaction of the former on the character of Hero — and what will remain ? In other writers the main agent of the plot is always the prominent character j in Shakespeare it is so, or is not so, as the character is in itself calculated to form the plot Don John is the mainspring of this plot of the play, but he is merely shown and then withdrawn." A little more attention to this view of the matter might have saved more than one p_ MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 135 critic from pronouncing some notable misjudgments upon this piece, and especially as regards the character of Beatrice. Campbell, for instance, might have deliberated longer before he declared her, in one emphatic word, to be " an odious woman." Hazlitt might have hesitated even to tell us that she " turns all things into ridicule, and is proof against everything serious." And Mrs. Jameson, while admitting, as she does, the strong intellect and generous feeling that characterize this heroine, might have been led to see that they are something more than the merely secondary constituents in her dramatic being. Indeed, when we are told respecting any leading female character of Shakespeare, that, upon the whole, wit and wilfulness predominate in it over intellect and feeling, we may fairly suspect that such critic's view of that character is distorted or imperfect. Yet more, when we are told that, in a Shakespearian drama of which prosperous love is the principal subject, the heroine is nothing less than an odious personage, we may pretty safely reject the allegation altogether. The first critical oversight, then, which has commonly been committed in examining this play, has been the not perceiving that the complete unfolding of the characters of Beatrice and her lover forms the capital business of the piece. The second error, involving such strange misconceptions respecting the heroine in particular, has been the overlooking or disregarding that close affinity which the dramatist has established between the two characters, rendering them, as far as the difference of sex will permit, so nearly each other's counterpart, that any argument that shall prove odiousness in the one, must of inevitable necessity demonstrate it in the other. Consequent on these is the third and most important error of all in estimating the predominant spirit of this drama. Its critics have overlooked entirely the art with which the dramatist has contrived and used the incidents of the piece in such manner as to bring out, by distinct and natural gradations, the profound seriousness which lies beneath all the superficial levity seen at first in the true hero and heroine, — until the very pair who have given the most decidedly comic character to the outset of the play, are found on the point of giving it the most tragic turn towards its close. George Fletcher.— Studies of Shakespeare, (1847) pp. 241—243. THE TRAGEDY AND COMEDY OF SHAKESPEARE, The drama, like every other form of art, seeks to reproduce the finest or the most expressive forms of Nature. It finds overwhelming suffering and anguish at one extremity of human life, and at another light mirth or whimsical extravagance ; and it embodies in Tragedy and in Comedy these two most striking conditions of our changeful existence. Tragedy appeals to that intense sympathy which is the widest element in the life of 136 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY. humanity. In developing the larger passions of our nature it insensibly softens and subdues our lower and more selfish instincts. The awe which it inspires is solemn and refining ; it is no mere helpless terror, but a profound sense of the invisible affinities which bind together the whole sentient universe. " We have one human heart, all mortal thoughts confess a common home." Comedy is of a more remote and a more complex origin. Its essential spirit is well expressed in our English word "humour ;" and humour is the unreasoning and capricious expression of our sense of the inexplicable contradictions of our own nature. Its source seems to lie in the deep conviction which we entertain of the littleness and the falsehood of all continuous and absorbing abstraction. The comic helps to restore us to the truth and freedom of nature; it redresses the folly and the extravagance which all sustained earnestness sooner or later engenders. We are complex beings, and we cannot in any single mood express that complexity. Humour, however, is singularly limited in the range of its influence. In its largest form it is essentially unfeminine. It is a defiant sense of our own isolation and our own impotence ; and there is no strongly defiant element in the nature of woman. She has not the vices which would require this corrective. There is in humour a whim, an audacity, a recklessness, which are incompatible with her tranquil truthfulness, her guarded refinement, her resigned humility. In many men, and even in many great poets, it is almost equally unknown ; but these are men of specially fastidious tastes, cr men of confined natures growing in one particular direction. We do not, however, it must be admitted, associate humour with our conceptions of higher and purer intelligences. We find no trace of it on the face of external Nature itself. It is never reflected from the mountain, or the plain, or the ocean, from the star or the flower. It is man's special expression of his own special incongruity in the universe ; but being essentially human, we naturally conclude that those are the largest and the most complete men who, without any consequent limitation of other faculties, possess it in the readiest and the most unmeasured abundance. The genius of Shakespeare was displayed with equal force and equal freedom in the highest tragedy and the highest comedy. He was the only man that ever attempted, in any large measure, to reproduce these two extreme manifestations of human passion, and in eacli of them he possesses the same unconfined power over all their changeful phenomena. His comedy, however, seems to have been usually with him the result of a more personal mood, and it is often, on that very account, the result of a weaker mood. . . . . We think it very probable, however, that there were also many occasions in which he was disposed to exercise even his freer and larger fancy in comedy rather than in tragedy. There is in all strong emotion a self-display which men of bright, unaffected temperament instinctively avoid, except under the pressure of some very exceptional MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 137 influences. In communing with the world at large, our first impulse is to meet life with an air of light, cheerful carelessness ; we seek to exhibit under this playful disguise our personal unobtrusiveness ; and we shrink from appearing in that deepest and most serious mood which is also of necessity our most personal and most solitary mood. But whatever may have been Shakespeare's personal taste for comedy in his less impassioned moments, there seems to be no reason to doubt that he found in tragedy the most complete expression of his highest genius. The comedy was principally the work of the earlier period of his dramatic career, while all his greatest tragedies were produced in the maturity and the very plenitude of his powers. In tragedy he had to trust more exclusively to the force of his own imaginative insight ; he was less tempted to appeal to the accidental tastes of his contemporaries ; and his work was naturally more sustained and more harmonious. There are no long series of scenes in his comedy in which his genius shines with the same unchanging lustre as in all the concluding portions of King Lear and Othello. Tragedy, too, is, after all, the loftiest manifestation of passion, and it necessarily furnishes the grandest subject for the exercise of poetical inspiration. We have not only a higher life, but we think we have also a larger and more varied life in the tragedy than in the comedy of Shakespeare ; and the tragedy thus becomes a grander creation. Tragedy, too, has essentially a deeper and a more abiding reality than comedy. It seems to be less an accident and an exception in the universe. Our final conception of all life is profoundly and steadfastly earnest. The extremity even of joy " is serious ; and the sweet gravity of the highest kind of poetry is ever on the face of Nature itself." The tragedy of Shakespeare embraces nearly all his greatest works. It is the general form which the passion assumes in Hamlet, and King Lear, and Othello, and Macbeth, and Romeo and Juliet, and Julius Caisar, and Antony and Cleopatra, and throughout the whole series of his historical dramas. All those great productions are perpetually representing life under its more agitated aspects ; and their tragic interest is the poet's most direct revelation of the enduring and inevitable conditions of existence. It is the image of Destiny bending, through the presence of external influences, the heart of humanity. His comedy is necessarily a lighter and, in some sense, a more personal creation. In it he could more readily indulge the caprices of his own fancy ; he was more master of the moods and the incidents which it reproduced ; and it thus serves to establish something more like a direct relation between him and his readers. But he never, in his larger and more imaginative moments, obtrudes upon us his own individuality; and it is in his finest comic, as in his finest tragic compositions, that he most escapes from the narrow restraints of accidental tastes or predilections into the free region of universal life. Thomas Kenny. — The Life and Genius of Shakespeare .(1864), pp. 142 — 145. T AS YOU LIKE IT. Act I. SCENE II. Lawn before the Duke's palace. Orlando, Celia, and Rosalind. Rosalind. My father loved Sir Rowland as his soul, And all the world was of my father's mind : Had I before known this young man his son, I should have given him tears unto entreaties, Ere he should thus have ventur'd. Celia. Gentle cousin, Let us go thank him and encourage him : My father's rough and envious disposition Sticks me at heart. Sir, you have well deserved : If you do keep your promises in love But justly, as you have exceeded all promise, Your mistress shall be happy. Ros. Gentleman, [Giving him a chain from her neck. Wear this for me, one out of suits with fortune, That could give more, but that her hand lacks means. Shall we go, coz ? Cel. Ay. Fare you well, fair gentleman. Orlando. Can I not say, I thank you ? My better parts Are all thrown down, and that which here stands up Is but a quintain, a mere lifeless block. Ros. He calls us back : my pride fell with my fortunes ; I'll ask him what he would. Did you call, sir ? Sir, you have wrestled well and overthrown More than your enemies. Cel. Will you go, coz ? Ros. Have with you. Fare you well. [Exeunt Rosalind and Celia. Orl. What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue ? I cannot speak to ner, yet she urged conference. O poor Orlando, thou art overthrown ! Or Charles or something weaker masters thee. THE FOREST OF ARDEN. "jVT OTHING can exceed the mastery with which Shakespeare, without any obtrusive or un- dramatic description, transports the imagination to the sunny glades and massy shadows of umbrageous Arden. The leaves rustle and glisten, the brooks murmur unseen in the copses, the flowers enamel the savannahs, the sheep wander on the distant hills, the deer glance by and hide themselves in the thickets, and the sheepcotes sprinkle the far landscape all spon- taneously, without being shown off or talked about. You hear the song of the birds, the belling of the stags, the bleating of the flocks, and a thousand sylvan, pastoral sounds beside, blent with the soft plaints and pleasant ambiguities- of the lovers, the sententious satire of Jacques, and the courtly fooling of Touchstone, without being told to listen to them. Shakespeare does all that the most pictorial dramatist could do, without ever sinking the dramatist in the land- scape painter. The exuberant descriptions of some recent authors are little more dramatic than the voluminous stage directions in translated German melodramas. I know not what share the absence of painted scenes might have in preserving our old dramatists from this excess, but I believe that the low state of estimation of landscape painting had a good deal /Ate &J ^u&fbs stz&fczt €Hl' /U/S See what a rent the envious Casca made : Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb'd ; And as he pluck'd his cursed steel away, Mark how the blood of Cassar follow'd it, As rushing out of doors, to be resolved If Brutus so unkindly knock'd, or no ; For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel : Judge, O you gods, how dearly Cassar loved him ! This was the most unkindest cut of all ; For when the noble Cassar saw him stab, Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms, Quite vanquish'd him : then burst his mighty heart ; And, in his mantle muffling up his face, Even at the base of Pompey's statue, Which all the while ran blood, great Cassar fell. O, what a fall was there, my countrymen ! Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, Whilst bloody treason flourish'd over us. O, now you weep ; and, I perceive, you feel The dint of pity : these are gracious drops. Kind souls, what, weep you when you but behold Our Caesar's vesture wounded ? Look you here, Here is himself, marr'd, as you see, with traitors. First Cit. O piteous spectacle ! Sec Cit. O noble Caesar ! Third Cit. O woful day ! Fourth Cit. O traitors, villains ! First Cit. O most bloody sight ! Sec. Cit. We will be revenged. All. Revenge ! About ! Seek ! Burn ! Fire ! Kill ! Slay ! Let not a traitor live ! SHAKESPEARE'S ROMAN DRAMAS. T N the three great Roman dramas, the idea, not personified, but full of a life that ani- mates and informs every scene, is Rome. Some one said that Chantrey's bust of a great living poet was more like than the poet himself. Shakespeare's Rome, we venture to think, is more like than the Rome of the Romans. It is the idealised Rome, true indeed to her every-day features, but embodying that expression of character which belongs to the universal rather than the accidental. And yet how varied is the idea of Rome which the poet presents to us in these three great mirrors of her history ! In the young Rome of Coriolanus we see the terrible energy of her rising ambition checked and overpowered by the factious violence of her contending classes. We know that the prayer of Coriolanus is a vain prayer: — /5%&'?2Ug4'