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SHAKESPEARE

SCENES AND CHARACTERS

A SERIES OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

^.esixjireb bg
ADAMO, HOFMANN, MAKART, PECHT, SCHWOERER, AND SPIESS;

dzngrafair on %in\ hg
BANKEL, BAUER, GOLDBERG, RAAB, AND SCHMIDT.

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 <fi-

Richard III.'s Historical Significance and Personal Character. By H. T. Rbtscher ... 50

Influence of Marlowe on Shakespeare's " Richard III." By A. C. Swinburne . . . -53
Shakespeare's Play compared with Holinshed's History. By A. Skottowe . . . ' . -54

Colley Cibber's "Richard III." By A. H. Paget 54

Edmund Kean's "Richard III." By W. Hazlitt . . 56

The Play of "King John." By H. Reed 59

The Women of the Historical Plays. By A Mezieres 61

Shakespeare's " King John " not true to the facts of History. By Guizot 65

Children in the Plays of Shakespeare. By E. Dowden . . . .67

The Historical Plays not written with a systematic design. By R. Grant White .... 69

Shylock, Jessica, and Portia. By H. Heine 71

How German Critics attempt to find a Central Idea in a Play. By Karl Elze .... 76

b 2

PAGK

The Character of Portia. By Mrs. Jameson 78

Shakespeare's Comedies are Arabesques of the Fancy. By H. A. Taine . . . . .81

-""" The Taming of the Shrew." By F. Pecht ; . 85

"The Taming of the Shrew." By W. Hazlitt ; . 90

^ The Character of Falstaff. By W. Maginn : 93""

s*^ The Character of Falstaff. By M. Morgann ; . : 94V

Falstaff, Panurge, Sancho. By Philarete Chasles 98 •

The Subject of the Play of "King Henry IV.," Part L By W. W. Lloyd . . . . .101

\~ The Character of Hotspur. By C. C. Clarke 103

^\ — 'The Courage of Hotspur and of Prince Henry. By H. Ulrici 105

Hotspur and Lady Percy. By G. G. Gervinus ; . . . 106

.^ " King Henry IV." By H. Reed . . . . . . \&j>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^

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.

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.

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.

^^Bs3^ r ^ ic, • ?

.»

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

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.

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FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VI.

AUTHORSHIP OF THE FIRST PART OF HENRY VI. 1

'""PHE precise nature of Shakespeare's connection with the three parts of King
Henry VI. forms the most perplexing problem in the history of his dramas. It is
a subject which has already undergone considerable discussion, and yet may be said
to be still wholly undecided ; and it is, at the same time, one which possesses a larger
amount of interest than is usual in the questions on which the commentators have been
divided, from the special relation which it bears to the early development of the poet's
genius, and the history of our dramatic literature at the critical period of the commence-
ment of the last decade of the sixteenth century

The immediate object of the whole controversy is to ascertain how far Shakespeare
was the author of any one, or of the whole, of these dramas, and the main element in
the consideration of that question is the publication of two old plays, which look like
early versions of the Second and Third Parts of King Henry VI., as they have reached
us in the Shakespeare Folio of 1623. The First Part of this dramatic series, however,
appeared for the first time in that volume. ....

No student of our great dramatist will be surprised to learn that at first he formed his
style, in a great measure, on that of the writers whom he found in possession of the
stage; and it may, we think, be doubted whether he ever sufficiently escaped from their
influence. That imitative spirit, however, was of necessity most powerful at the com-
mencement of his career. He was by temperament specially averse to all eccentric self-
display ; and the whole history of his genius shows us that it unfolded itself gradually,
and in wonderful harmony with all the immediate conditions of the every-day world
around him. We have no hesitation in stating that, if we had had transmitted to us
those works only in which his peculiar manner is generally and distinctly traceable, we
should take it for granted that the fruits of his earliest labours had perished ; while if, on
the other hand, we should find that in a number of early productions, to which any
credible tradition had attached his name, the manifestations, however imperfect, of his
special dramatic power seemed to be mingled with the feebleness and the extravagance
which characterised all the dramas of his age, we should at once conclude that they
fulfilled all the conditions which would most naturally justify us in ascribing them to his
hand

There are passages in it [First Part of Henry V/.] which we must all feel unwilling to
associate with the name of our great poet ; and this natural feeling exercises, perhaps, a
much greater influence over the minds of most readers in the consideration of this

1 The generally received opinion is that the play 1 receiving at the same time certain added scenes.
was written by some predecessor or early contem- I It will be seen that the writer of the extract quoted
porary of Shakespeare, and was revised by him, I is of a different opinion.

SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

question, than the minute reasoning of more formal and elaborate criticism. The feeble
and tumid extravagance of many of the addresses greatly contributes to create this
impression. That quality is peculiarly distinguishable in the general representation of
the character of Talbot. The author of the play, whoever he was, in his anxiety to give
prominence to his conception of this "terror of the French," has made him a sort of
ogre, and has drawn the whole figure with a constant disregard of the restraints of nature
and of common sense. This was, however, an error which was almost inevitable in an
early production, and into which Shakespeare was at least as likely to be betrayed as any
other imaginative writer that ever existed.

But the most offensive portion of this play, and the one in which we feel it most
difficult to recognise the hand of Shakespeare is that which relates to the ultimate fate
of Joan of Arc. There are reasons, however, why we think he may have been its author.
It is manifest that if he wrote this play at all, he wrote it with a constant reference to the
tastes and usages of his time, and hardly in any way in the spirit of original and creative
genius. But this wonderful enthusiast could hardly as yet have been known in England,
except as a sorceress and an agent of Satan ; and we doubt whether it would have been
possible to present her upon our stage in any other character .... The scenes
between Talbot and his son (Act. iv., Scenes 5, 6, 7) have been often selected
by critics as characteristic indications of the presence of Shakespeare's hand in this
production. We confess, however, that although we can see in them glimpses of true
pathos, we do not think they are at all executed in his finer and more unmistakable
manner. They are throughout written in rhyme ; and the truth, the force, and freedom
of his dramatic imagination never find in that jingling form of versification a perfect
expression. The scene in the Temple Garden, which furnished the emblem of the fatal
quarrel of the Houses of York and Lancaster, seems to us much more decisively
Shakespearian. It is distinguished by no small amount of that lightness and rapidity,
and yet firmness of touch, which give, perhaps, the most inimitable of all its forms to the
creations of imaginative genius. The interview between Margaret and Suffolk points, we
think, to the same origin. Suffolk displays, in his first approach to the brilliant young
beauty, much of the grace of Shakespeare's fancy ; and in the subsequent perplexity of
his sudden and guilty passion, we seem partially to catch that deep whisper of nature
which so seldom strikes on our ears or our memories in any other pages than the dramas
of Shakespeare. 1

Thomas Kenny.— The Life and Genius of Shakespeare,
pp. 245—246, 252, 273—274.

1 "In I Henry VI. every reader will, I appre- I to those hands. Reading it independently, though
hend, see, like Gervinus, three hands, though all hasti'y, before I knew other folks' notions about

may not agree in the parts of the play they assign j it, I could not recognise Shakespeare's hand till

FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VI.

JOAN OF ARC AS REPRESENTED BY THE CHRONICLERS
AND BY SHAKESPEARE.

The representation which is given of the character of Joan of Arc, in the First Part of
Henry VI., has been ingeniously defined and commented on by one of the latest and
best editors of Shakespeare, and one of his most genial critics. He says : " We find
her described in the chronicles under every form of vituperation — ' a monstrous woman,'
' a monster,' ' a romp,' ' a devilish witch and satanical enchantress,' ' an organ of the
devil.' She was the main instrument through which England had lost France ; and thus
the people hated her memory. She claimed to be invested with supernatural powers,
and thus her name was not only execrated but feared. Neither the patriotism nor the
superstition of Shakespeare's age would have endured that the Pucelle should have been
dismissed from the scene without vengeance taken on imagined crimes, or that confession
should not be made by her, which should exculpate the authors of her death. Shake-
speare has conducted her history up to the point when she is handed over to the stake.
Other writers would have burned her upon the scene, and the audience would have
shouted with the same delight that they felt when the Barrabas of Marlow was thrown
into the cauldron. Shakespeare, following the historians, has made her utter a contra-
dictory confession of one of the charges against her honour; but he has taken care to
show that the brutality of her English persecutors forced from her an inconsistent avowal
if it did not a false one, for the purpose of averting a cruel and instant death. In the
treatment which she received from York and Warwick, the poet has not exhibited one
single circumstance that might excite sympathy for them. They are cold, and cruel, and
insolent, because a defenceless creature whom they had dreaded is in their power. Her
parting malediction has, as it appears to us, a special reference to the calamities which
await the authors of her death —

' May never glorious sun reflex his beams
Upon the country where you make abode !
But darkness and the gloomy shade of death
Environ you. '

But in all the previous scenes, Shakespeare has drawn the character of the Maid with
an undisguised sympathy for her courage, her patriotism, her high intellect, and her

II. iv., the Temple-Garden scene (as Hallam
notes). Whether Shakespeare wrote more than
II. iv., IV. ii. ; perhaps IV. i. ; iv. 12-46 ; pos-
sibly IV. v. , I have not had time to work out ;
but a new ryming-man seems to me to begin in

IV. vi. vii.; and the first hand seems to write

V. ii. iv., if not all V." — F. y. Furnivallin In-
troduction to Gervinus's Shakespeare Commentaries
(ed. 1875).

C 2

SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

enthusiasm. If she had been the defender of England and not of France, the poet could
not have invested her with higher attributes. It is in her mouth that he puts his
choicest thoughts, and his most musical verse. It is she who says —

• Glory is like a circle in the water,
Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself,
Till by broad spreading it disperse to nought.'

It is she who solicits the alliance of Burgundy in a strain of impassioned eloquence
which belongs to one fighting in a high cause with unconquerable trust, and winning over
enemies by the firm resolves of a vigorous understanding and an unshaken will. The
lines beginning —

' Look on thy country — look on bleeding France, '

might have given the tone to everything that has been subsequently written in honour of
the Maid. It was his accurate knowledge of the springs of character which, in so young
a man, appears almost intuitive, that made Shakespeare adopt this delineation of Joan of
Arc. He knew that, with all the influence of her supernatural pretension, this extra-
ordinary woman could not have swayed the destinies of the kingdoms, and moulded
princes and warriors to her will, unless she had been a person of very rare natural endow-
ments. She was represented by the Chroniclers as a mere virago, a bold and shameless
trull, a monster, a witch, because they adopted the vulgar view of her character — the
view, in truth, of those to whom she was opposed. They were rough soldiers, with all
the virtues and all the vices of their age ; the creatures ot brute force ; the champions,
indeed, of chivalry, but with the brand upon them of all the selfish passions with which
the highest deeds of chivalry were too invariably associated."

This is all that can be said of the character of Joan of Arc as it appears in the drama ;
and I have quoted Mr. Knight's comment at length, because I must confess that I have
not been able to raise my admiration of the dramatic treatment of her character so high.
It has relative merit when compared to the treatment of the same subject by the chroni-
clers, but it falls, I think, very far short of what is justly due to beauty and purity and
heroism of female character. I believe that the matured genius of the poet would have
rendered such tribute in spite of national prejudice and universal injustice ; and one cannot
help lamenting that the subject fell into his hands only in the early and immature period
of his imagination, to which the composition of the play, if it really was his, is ascribed.

The dispassionate and unprejudiced estimate of the character of the Maid of Orleans
belongs, however, to a later age than that of Shakespeare ; and the national animosity
which hindered it has, in this case, died away, so that she is now a heroine to Englishmen,
no less than to Frenchmen, and indeed a Christian heroine to all Christendom. The

FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VI. 13

poets of Britain and of Germany have drawn genuine inspiration from the memory of her
life. But let me notice that, while there is a better spirit of justice in dealing with her
history, the modern judgment differs from that which was contemporary with her in this
respect, that now the supernatural element is excluded ; and the question is whether she
was a sincere and self-deluded enthusiast, or a wilful impostor. Formerly, the super-
natural character of her mission was not doubted, and the question then was, whether
the mission was from above or below. By those who were hostile, her influence was
not regarded as a cheat and an imposture, but it was witchcraft — it was sorcery and
Satanic inspiration — some strange dealing with the powers of darkness. The Duke of
Gloucester issued a proclamation to reassure his soldiers against the incantations of the
girl, and the Duke of Bedford spoke of her as a " disciple and limb of the fiend, that
used false enchantments and sorceries." Nobody seems to have had a doubt that she
possessed supernatural powers j and the only question was, whether she brought with
her " airs from heaven or blasts from hell." The severe rationalism of modern times has,
however, wholly changed this interpretation of her character and career, which may be
admired and applauded, but must not be traced to any higher cause than such as serve

to explain the ordinary affairs of daily life And yet I do not see that there

is any great difference between saying that she was supernaturally commissioned to
redeem her country from foreign dominion — a proposition which most minds would
probably shrink from — and saying that in the providential government of the world it
came into her heart to save France from English conquest — a proposition which, perhaps,
none would have any difficulty in admitting.

This, at least, is clear : that what she said respecting her motives, and the influences
upon her mind, she did sincerely and steadfastly believe. No authority could shake, no
sophistry could beguile, her deep convictions of what she held to be the truth, though
the whole world should discredit it. She said she was commissioned by Heaven to raise
the siege of Orleans, and to crown Charles VII. at Rheims — two acts very remotely
possible, nay, to human foresight, almost impracticable. And who was she that gave
such wondrous promise? An humble shepherd girl, a mere child (for she was but
nineteen years old), ignorant of the world — of everything but the mighty workings of
her own soul — unfriended, and, indeed, with no earthly support of any kind, with no
mortal countenance to cheer and encourage ; and yet, what this poor girl said she was
commissioned to do, that exactly she did do. Her mission was fulfilled ; and while,
perhaps, no one can confidently assert, or confidently deny, that her mission was, as she
believed, divine, certainly in the world's history there is not to be found such an achieve-
ment of unassisted human enthusiasm.

Henry Reed; — Lectures on English History and Tragic Poetry as
illustrated by Shakespeare (1856), pp. 146 — 149.

14 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

JOAN OF ARC AND HER TIMES.

The situation, locally, of Joanna was full of profound suggestions to a heart that listened
for the stealthy steps of change and fear that too surely were in motion. • But if the
place were grand, the time, the burden of the time, was far more so. The air over-
head in its upper chambers was hurtling with the obscure sound ; was dark with sullen
fermenting of storms that had been gathering for a hundred and thirty years. The battle
of Agincourt in Joanna's childhood had reopened the wounds of France. Crecy and
Poictiers, those withering overthrows for the chivalry of France, had, before Agincourt
occurred, been tranquillized by more than half a century ; but this resurrection of their
trumpet wails made the whole series of battles and endless skirmishes take their stations
as parts in one drama. The graves that had closed sixty years ago seemed to fly open in
sympathy with a sorrow that echoed their own. The monarchy of France laboured in
extremity, rocked and reeled like a ship fighting with the darkness of monsoons. The
madness of the poor king (Charles VI.) falling in at such a crisis, like the case of women
labouring in child-birth during the storming of a city, trebled the awfulness of the time.
Even the wild story of the incident which had immediately occasioned the explosion of
this madness — the case of a man unknown, gloomy, and perhaps maniacal himself,
coming out of a forest at noonday, laying his hand upon the bridle of the king's horse,
checking him for a moment to say, " Ah, king, thou art betrayed," and then vanishing, no
man knew whither, as he had appeared for no man knew what — fell in with the universal
prostration of mind that laid France on her knees, as before the slow unweaving of some
ancient prophetic doom. The famines, the extraordinary diseases, the insurrections of
the peasantry up and down Europe — these were chords struck from the same mysterious
harp ; but these were transitory chords. There had been others of deeper and more
ominous sound. The termination of the Crusades, the destruction of the Templars, the
Papal interdicts, the tragedies caused or suffered by the House of Anjou and by the
emperor — these were full of a more permanent significance. But, since then, the colossal
figure of Feudalism was seen standing, as it were, on tiptoe, at Crecy, for flight from
earth : that was a revolution unparalleled ; yet that was a trifle, by comparison with the
more fearful revolutions that were mining below the Church. By her own internal
schisms, by the abominable spectacle of a double pope — so that no man, except through
political bias, could even guess which was Heaven's vicegerent, and which was the
creature of hell — the Church was rehearsing, as in still earlier forms she had already
rehearsed, those vast rents in her foundations which no man should ever heal.

These were the loftiest peaks of the cloudland in the skies, that to the scientific gazer
first caught the colours of the new morning in advance. But the whole vast range alike

FIRST PART OF KING HENRY VI.

»S

of sweeping glooms overhead, dwelt upon all meditative minds, even upon those that
could not distinguish the tendencies nor decipher the forms. It was, therefore, not
her own age alone, as affected by its immediate calamities, that lay with such weight upon
Joanna's mind ; but her own age, as one section in a vast mysterious drama, unweaving
through a century back, and drawing nearer continually to some dreadful crisis. Cataracts
and rapids were heard roaring ahead ; and signs were seen far back, by help of old men's
memories, which answered secretly to signs now coming forward on the eye, even as locks
answer to keys. It was not wonderful that in such a haunted solitude, with such a haunted
heart, Joanna should see angelic visions, and hear angelic voices. These voices whispered
to her for ever the duty, self-imposed, of delivering France. Five years she listened to these
monitory voices with internal struggles. At length she could resist no longer. Doubt gave
way ; and she left her home for ever in order to present herself at the Dauphin's court.
Thomas De Quincey. — Miscellanies, chiefly Narrative (1858) :
"Joan of Arc" pp. 215 — 217.

THE AGE OF KING HENRY VI.

The First Part of Henry VI. forms the proper conclusion of Henry the Fifth, since the
national war which is there exhibited now first attains to a real end. It concludes to the
advantage of France, even because the intrinsic moral right has gone over to her side. For
although the nobles and commonalty of France are not much better as yet, and are at
best but more prudent and sharpened by experience, they have, nevertheless, abandoned
their haughty self-confidence and groundless vanity, and a growing esteem for their
adversary has laid the first step to victory. And, what is more important still, England,
on the other hand, has lost her moral superiority. We are conscious at once of this loss
in the introductory scenes, amid the selfish intrigues and quarrels of the nobles, in whose
wake the people blindly follow, and that the people and army are no longer animated by
the same spirit which gave the victory to Henry the Fifth, is proved, among other inci-
dents of the campaign, by the disgraceful and cowardly flight of Fastolfe. Accordingly,
the piece opens well with the funeral of Henry, as with the entombment of the victories
and conquests of England. It was a grand, though great error, to suppose that at that
time England could maintain a lasting rule over France. Whenever the political and
national energy of a people are not completely broken, it is impossible for them to sink
into a mere province of another kingdom. Nothing but the intrinsic weakness of France
and the moral and heroic energy of Henry the Fifth could have lent to such a mis-
conception the brief and transient sanction of success. When the French nation had
once roused itself, a monarch as vigorous as the Sixth Henry was weak would have

16 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

found it impossible to retain the conquest, which in its encroachment was no less unjust
and immoral than the attempt to enslave the man who is morally capable of freedom.
In the final issue of the war, the judgment of God accordingly reveals itself; the same
justice sinks the scale of England which before had raised it.

But the Divine interposition has its outward manifestation in the Maid of Orleans.
Though Shakespeare, from the very first, makes her to be in league with the Evil One, he
is nevertheless far from wishing to have it thought that her appearance on the scene is
without the Divine permission, and does not exercise an important influence on the
fortunes of the campaign. For in a certain sense the interference of supernatural agency
in human affairs must be immediately Divine, inasmuch as the Evil One cannot operate
on them without the permission of God. The more sentimental critics, indeed, are
disposed to recognise in Shakespeare's Joan of Arc a pure and spotless maiden, at first
acting under the immediate inspiration of Heaven, but subsequently losing her moral
purity under the corrupting influence of success. The error of this view is, however,
obvious and at once refuted by the boldness with which this modest damsel mixes with
the French warriors, and receives their adoration. In the conception of the character of
Joan of Arc, Shakespeare followed the national opinion of his countrymen, which was
indeed the general belief of her contemporaries. No doubt it was untrue in all essential
points ; yet the truth could not and ought not to have been established in the present piece :
for the historical drama ought to exhibit its subject-matter as it existed, and to paint
with the utmost truth the feelings and characters of its age. It was, however, a feature in
the character of the age in which the Maid of Orleans lived and flourished, that it was
incapable of apprehending the great, the pure, and the noble in their intrinsic purity, and
indeed that the great and noble could not preserve themselves entirely and wholly pure.
For the result of long and searching investigations is unable to place Joan in such a light,
and even Schiller's ideal, but most unhistorical representation of her, is not sufficient to
wash away all the stains which adhere to her reputation. That in her own lonely
musings, and before her appearance on the field of history, she was animated by great
and beautiful thoughts, Shakespeare himself leaves us to suppose, by the rumour which
he allows to precede her. But in order to realize these thoughts in such a time — at the
very moment in which she entered actively into the complicated machinery of their reali-
zation, she gave up herself to the Evil One ; but whether voluntaiily or involuntarily —
this, as indifferent for the poetical end he had in view, the poet has justly left un-
decided. It was thus ihat she did fall, in truth ; and thus does she appear also to
fall in the present drama, as the victim of the fundamental idea which animates the
whole trilogy.

Dr. Hermann Ulrici. — Shakespeare's Dramatic Art. Trans-
lated by A. J. W. M. (ed. 1846), pp. 388—390.

■

/,■/■ . n,. w/ ,-i .,,

THIRD PART OF

KING HENRY VI.

Act IV.

Scene III. Edward's Camp near Warwick.

EnterW arwick, Clarence, Oxford, Somer-
set, and French soldiers, silent all.

War. This is his tent ; and see where stand
his guard.
Courage, my masters ' honour now or never !
But follow me, and Edward shall be ours.
First Watch. Who goes there ?
Second Watch. Stay, or thou diest !

(Warwick and the rest cry all, ' War-
wick ! Warwick ! ' and set upon the
Guard, who fly, crying, ' Arm ! Arm !'
Warwick and the rest following them.

The drum playing and trumpet sounding, re-
enter Warwick, Somerset, and the rest,
bringing the King out in his gown, sitting in
a chair. Richard and Hastings fly over
the stage.

Som. What are they that fly there ?
War. Richard and Hastings : let them go ;
here is
The duke.

K. Edw. The duke ! Why, Warwick, when
we parted,
Thou call'dst me king.

War. Ay, but the case is alter'd :

When you disgraced me in my embassade,

Then I degraded you from being king,
And come now to create you Duke of York.
Alas ! how should you govern any kingdom,
That know not how to use ambassadors,
Nor how to be contented with one wife,
Nor how to use your brothers brotherly,
Nor how to study for the people's welfare,
Nor how to shroud yourself from enemies ?
K. Edw. Yea, brother of Clarence, art thou
here too ?
Nay, then I see that Edward needs must

down.
Yet, Warwick, in despite of all mischance,
Of thee thyself and all thy complices,
Edward will always bear himself as king :
Though fortune's malice overthrow my state,
My mind exceeds the compass of her wheel.
War. Then, for his mind, be Edward Eng-
land's king : [Takes off his crown.
But Henry now shall wear the English crown,
And be true king indeed, thou but the shadow.
My Lord of Somerset, at my request,
See that forthwith Duke Edward be convey'd
Unto my brother, Archbishop of York.
When I have fought with Pembroke and his

fellows
I'll follow you, and tell what answer
Lewis and the Lady Bona send to him.
Now, for a while farewell, good Duke of York.
{They lead him out forcibly.
K. Edw. What fates impose, that men must
needs abide ;
It boots not to resist both wind and tide.

[Exit, guarded.

WHO WROTE HENRY VI.?

'"THERE always has been — there always will be — the greatest interest in determining
accurately what are Shakespeare's writings, and what are not. Under cover of that
mighty name much rubbish has for generations been palmed off on uncritical readers as
valuable ; and some intrinsically beautiful writing has been assigned to him, to the injury
of the reputation of its real author. The latter wrong has been remedied in two exceed-
ingly ingenious and altogether able papers by Messrs. Hickson and Spedding, and Fletcher's
claim to his share of The Two Noble Kinsmen and Henry VIII. has been completely

vindicated and accurately assigned. The former wrong has also been in part set right
by the present writer, and the portions due to Shakespeare's creation in The Taming
of Hie Shrew, Timon of Athens, and Pericles, ascertained with exactness. Fortunately, in
these instances, the metal can be separated from the dross, and its beauty enjoyed
without diminution from alloy. Of the problems of a similar nature that remain unsolved,
there is none equal in interest and importance to that on which the present paper is
written. . . . Up to the present time three distinct theories have been propounded.
Firstly, Malone's, to the effect that the imperfect copies of the second and third of the
three plays, which we call collectively Henry VI., published under the names of The
Contention of the Houses of York and Lancaster, and The True Tragedy of the Duke of
York, were written by Marlow, Greene, and Peele, and that Shakespeare, on this founda-
tion, built the present plays. Secondly, Knight's, that Shakespeare wrote both the
imperfect and the completed plays. Thirdly, Mr. Grant White's, that Shakespeare,
Greene, Marlow, and perhaps Peele, wrote the imperfect plays in conjunction; and that-
Shakespeare, in the perfect plays, reclaimed and added to his own work, rejecting that of
his coadjutors. I shall not here attempt any refutation of these remarkable and ima-
ginative theories, as I hope to give convincing evidence of the truth of my own. I shall
merely premise that there is no evidence whatever for Shakespeare's having any share in
either the early or late editions, except the solitary fact that the editors of the First Folio
included Henry VI in their collection ; and the value of their evidence is shown by their
rejecting Pericles and The Two Noble Kinsmen, which unquestionably were in the greater
part written by Shakespeare. . . . The First Part of Henry VI, which we know only
from the Folio editions, has been rejected by nearly every editor of authority.

[Mr. Fleay proceeds first to examine the external evidences. He finds that The True
Tragedy was in the possession of Lord Pembroke's players, in 1595, who had possession
of Marlow's Edward II in 1593. But Shakespeare was never in connection with any
company except the Chamberlain's (afterwards the King's, 1603), and, perhaps, Lord
Strange' s. It was not until after Shakespeare's death that his company appear to have
got possession of The Whole Contention, i.e. the two old plays. Mr. Fleay notes that the
publishers of The Whole Contention were merely pirates and falsifiers, who had forged
Shakespeare's name on the title-pages of The Yorkshire Tragedy and Sir John Oldcastle ;
and who, save surreptitious editions of Pericles and Henry V., never published an edition
of a play of Shakespeare. So far the evidence points to Marlow as an author of the
Whole Contention. An allusion in Greene's Groatsworth of Wit seems to point to Peele
as a second author. Mr. Fleay then goes on to examine the aesthetic evidence.]

I mean by this (aesthetic evidence) the result of careful reading by a cultivated mind ;
the general flavour left on the palate after a copious, but not hasty libation. Now, I
suppose no one will deny that the parts of 2 Henry VI which clearly detach themselves

from the rest are Act III. Scenes 3, 4. The first of them with its death-speech of

Beaufort :

" Bring me unto my trial when you will.
Died he not in his bed ? Where should he die ?
Can I make men live whether they will or no ?
O torture me no more : I will confess.
Alive again ? Then show me where he is,
I'll give a thousand pounds to look upon him.
He hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded them.
Comb down his hair ; look, look, it stands upright,
Like lime-twigs set to catch my winged soul.
Give me some drink, and bid th' apothecary
Bring the strong poison that I bought of him."

with the king's terrible afterword :

" He dies and makes no sigh."

should be compared with Faustus's death :

' ' O lente, lente cur rite noctis equi !

The stars move still, time runs, the clocks will strike,

The devil will come, and Faustus must be damned.

Oh I'll leap up to heaven ! Who pulls me down ?

See where Christ's blood streams in the firmament.

One drop of blood will save me. Oh my Christ !

Rend not my heart for naming of my Christ !

Yet will I call on him. O spare me, Lucifer !

Where is it now ? 'Tis gone,

And see a threatening arm, an angry brow !
- Mountains and hills — come,- come and fall on me !

And hide me from the heavy wrath of heaven ! "

with the chorus comment :

' ' Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight
And burned is Apollo's laurel bough.".

Not even in Shakespeare is there a death-scene of despair like either of these two.
But the whole scenes should be read to judge them fairly.

And in the next scene none but the same hand could have written :

" The gaudy, blabbing and remorseful day,
Is crept into the bosom of the sea ;
And now loud howling wolves arouse the jades,
That drag the tragic melancholy night."

In 3 Henry VI. the second and fifth acts are conspicuously different from the other
three. [These acts were written, in Mr. Fleay's opinion, by Marlow.] ... On the

d 2

SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

other hand, Marlow could not have written the Cade part of 2 Henry VI, nor the quick
thrust and parry of the wooing scene between Edward and the Widow. He had no
humour whatever in his composition, nor had Greene, but Peele had, and his works
abound with similar passages. Compare, for instance, Edward I, Scene 6, with the latter
of these scenes, and Scene 8 with the Cade part of 2 Henry VI . . .

In 3 Henry VI, although the same hand is visible in Acts i., iii., iv., as in the greater
part of 2 Henry VI, it is evidently more cramped and laboured ; the writer is out of
his element. He does not care for battles and combats, and in Acts iii. iv. gets away
from them whenever he can. He is clearly writing under orders, and does it not badly,
but not at his best. Marlow is therefore probably the principal arranger, or plotter, and
Peele his subordinate.

In 1 Henry VI Marlow's hand is visible at the outset : —

" Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to night,
Comets importing change of times and states
Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky,
And with them scourge the bad revolting stars,
That have consented unto Henry's death ! "

But it is the Marlow of Tamberlane, not of Faustus and Edward II The same hand
runs through i. 1 ; i. 3 ; iii. 1 ; iv. 1 ; v. 1. An inferior hand, exactly in Greene's style, has
had the French plot entrusted to him. . . . There are also three scenes — iv. 4 ; v.
1 ; v. 5 — which are quite different in tone from the rest of the play, and are by some one
who is neither Greene, Peele, nor Marlow ; and one scene, ii. 4, which in the opinion of
Sidney Walker, and, I think, of every one who reads it attentively, is certainly by
Shakespeare — date between Richard II and John.

Power of Delineating Character. — Here, again, there is a manifest difference between
the parts I have assigned to Peele in The Whole Contention and those. I have given to
Marlow. Of all the personages handled by the latter, Richard, and Richard only, stands
out fairly from the background. But Richard was done to his hand by the chroniclers.
In all his grand passages, such as the deaths of Winchester and Suffolk, it is the circum-
stance and not the man that impresses. We think of the despairing agOny of the
cardinal and the magician, not of Beaufort or Faustus, as people whom we know. He
is the tragedian of situations, not of men. Hence his great difference from Shakespeare ;
hence also his inferiority. Peele, on the other hand, is in this respect the greater master
of the two. Who recognises Northumberland, Exeter, and the rest of the nobles of
Henry's court as individuals ? But Henry, Margaret, Iden, Cade, and the rest in Peek's
part of the play have a distinct personality ; they are creations of a lower order than
Shakespeare's, but still creations.

[Mr. Fleay's conclusion is that 1 Henry VI is the production of Marlow and Greene,

THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI.

with a few additions ; 2 Henry VI and 3 Henry VI of Marlow and Peele ; that Marlow was
the original plotter or constructor of all three plays. The metrical evidence is investigated,
and found to support this theory. Shakespeare, Mr. Fleay maintains, had no hand in
any part of Henry VI, except in the scene in the Temple Garden ; no hand, that
is, as a writer. He may have corrected Henry VI ; certainly not have originally written
any one scene of 2 Henry VI or 3 Henry VI Ike Whole Contention he believes to be
an imperfect, surreptitious copy of what we know by the name of 2 and 3 Henry VI
Mr. Fleay then proceeds to put forth the startling hypothesis that Richard III. is sub-
stantially a play of Peele's, left unfinished at his death, when Shakespeare added Act V.
Scenes 2, 3, 4, and the alterations found in the folio.]

Rev. F. G. Fleay. — Who Wrote Henry VI 1 Macmillan V
Magazine, November, 1875.

THE HISTORY OF THE ^ROWN IN SHAKESPEARE'S PLAYS.

Nothing shows the unity of this series of Chronicle plays better than tracing through
them one single thread of history, such as the position of the nobles. We have Chronicle
plays by different authors, one {Edward III) to which Shakespeare himself probably
contributed an Act. But neither this, nor Heywood's Edward IV. or Elizabeth, nor any
other — except, perhaps, Marlow's Edward II, where we may suspect the counsel and
assistance of Shakespeare — could be inserted in the Shakespearian series ; that series
stands alone, not so much in the merit of its individual pieces, as in absolute philo-
sophical unity. Other plays deal with other classes of facts — the love affairs and victories
of kings, and the failures of traitors. These all deal with their various subject-matter
in such a way that we may extract out of them a Shakespearian philosophy of history.

After the nobles, let us trace the history of the Crown. King John is owned, even by
his mother, to have possession, but no right ; and Falconbridge, after Arthur's death,
whose title he always opposed, says :

' * The life, the right, the truth of all this realm,
Is fled to heaven ; and England now is left
To tug and scramble, and to part by the teeth
The unowed title."

The rebellion of the nobles, justified morally, is only condemned politically as un-
patriotic ; a treason, not against the King, but against the country ; which they not only

ravaged by war, but delivered over to the foreigner.

None of the Kings shown by Shakespeare makes any protestation of

SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

independence comparable in vigour to John's. He rejects the Pope's claim to interrogate
him as " slight, unworthy, and ridiculous." Yet he immediately pleads before the Legate,
resigns his crown, and receives it again as the Pope's vassal.

And none of the Kings insists so strongly as Richard II. on his divine right, and on
the prerogatives of the Crown. He trusts more to the divinity that hedges a king than
to armies or policy, and protests that no hand but God's can deprive him of his rights.
His very friends mock his " senseless conjuration." Yet he is the only King in these
plays who makes a formal abdication, and unseats himself from the throne, all the time
protesting that the Pilates which make him do so commit an unpardonable sin, and
prophesying to Northumberland the penalty which must overtake him. But only a few
think with him. The Bishop of Carlisle declares that no subject can give sentence on
his sovereign ; and to satisfy these scruples, the King is made to pronounce his own
deposition.

In the eyes of the most reasonable personages of the play, the Crown is as subject to
the law as any other dignity. The hereditary right of the King is only one of many such
rights. York urges, that if the king prevents Hereford's succession, he invalidates his
own (II. i. 191). And Bolingbroke (II. iii.) :

" If that my cousin King be King of England,
It must be granted I am Duke of Lancaster."

The poet seems to regard the deposition of a bad king, not as a right for courts to
enforce, but a fatal and natural consequence of his follies. The process develops itself
almost to completion in King John, and to its final conclusion in Richard II, Henry VI,
and Richard III The nobles and people are alienated by misgovernment and by crime.
And the crowning delinquency is often the murder of the heir to the Crown. Shake-
speare unhistorically represents this to be the cause of John's unpopularity ; and rightly,
that of Richard III. He also makes Henry VI. 's disinheriting his own son to be the
central knot of his unhappy career. The murder of Richard II. is shown as a stain on
the conscience, not of Henry VI. only, but of Henry V. also. It is a pity we have not
Shakespeare's own direct judgment upon the affair of Mary Queen of Scots.

After the murder or disinheriting of the right heir, the prince's abuses of his ordinary
power are causes of his fall. If he tampers with the tenure of land (as I suppose is the
meaning of " farming his realm," and making himself " landlord, not King of England,"
and "binding the whole land with rotten parchment bonds") ; if he is unjust to the nobles,
gives ear to flatterers, cherishes informers, pills the Commons with taxes, fines the nobles
for old quarrels, devises new exactions — such as blanks and benevolences ; fails to
account for the money, but becomes bankrupt ; unable to borrow, and obliged to rob ;
suffers his garden to be overrun with caterpillars ; permits great and growing men to do

o -

THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI. 23

wrong without correction, and wastes his idle hours instead of attending to his work — then
he must fall. The nation commits all these works to his hands without constitutional
safeguards for his proper performance of them, except this — that if he notably fails, he
must have notice to quit ; for the Crown is responsible to the nation.

As in Richard II a good title is marred by folly, so in Henry IV. a. bad title is
patched up with policy. The ** vile politician, Bolingbroke," is incomparably a better
ruler than Richard was, or Hotspur would have been, who would have divided England
into three, and taken a step backwards towards the Heptarchy. Bolingbroke's instruc-
tions to his son how to secure the Crown savour of the personal politics of the day,
which seems not to have discovered the movements of political forces, but attributed
everything to the personal deportment of the prince. In these instructions the King looks
on the Crown, not as a birthright, but as the prize of the ablest and most popular com-
petitor. His purpose of a crusade, announced at the end of Richard II, "to wash the
blood from off his guilty head," is continued in 1 Henry IV., with a utilitarian purpose of
knitting together the unravelled threads of faction, and making them " in mutual ranks
march all one way."

In 2 Henry IV. the King's conscience is still more uneasy; but his repentance takes the
very vulgar form of securing to himself and his family still more certainly the gain of his
crime. He comforts his son by telling him he need not keep the Crown by such means
as he, the father, used to gain and to keep it. He had been obliged gradually to weed
away those who had helped him to get it. The son will come peaceably to the inherit-
ance, and will not be forced to cut off his friends ; but only to keep them engaged in
foreign quarrels till the memory of the original fault of the title is worn away.

But though the King thus confesses to himself and his son, he will not hear the
reproach from anyone else. He knows he is a sham, yet he poses himself as God's
substitute, and distributes death to the man who publicly asks the question which the
King nightly puts privately to himself.

The drama of Henry V. shows how all questions of right are overwhelmed by a great
and striking success. The only unquestioned king is the one man who shows himself
the natural head and leader of his people. Even plots that really turned on the question
of title (like that of Scrope and the Earl of Cambridge) the dramatist puts aside as
purposeless treasons, a sottish yielding to a diabolical suggestion. It is as if the nobles —
whose function it is to watch over the king's administration, and in the last resort to
remove the incapable sovereign — have no right whatever to question the title of a man
whom the country approves. The plea of title is merely a convenient method of getting
rid of a bad sovereign, and of no moment at all in the case of a good one.

In Henry V. the noble watch round the throne becomes useless through the king's
superiority. In Henry VI it breaks up through the personal ambition of the nobles.

24 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

Gloucester is the best of them. But his retainers are as troublesome to peaceable
citizens as those of Beaufort. The man who is foremost at Court for the moment
assumes all the authority of the king; "our authority is his consent," says Suffolk
(2 Henry VI., III. i. 316). "Now we three have spoke it, it skills not greatly who
impugns his doom" (lb. 280). The imbecility of the king affords no check to his barons,
and the country is ravaged by their lawlessness. ... In this break-up of the old
constitutional balance between the two powers, the Crown and the Baronage, with the
Church as arbitrator — for the Church in the person of Beaufort becomes altogether
immersed in the strife for its own interests — a new force naturally crops up — the force of
the people and the citizens. The country people under Cade are entirely deficient in all
political qualities. But the citizens of London and Bury show themselves to be highly
intelligent, and their intervention is decisive.

The reign of Edward IV. is too slightly sketched to show very clearly the change
which really took place in the royal position. The Crown then became absolute, with the
constitutional check, no longer of the Barons, but of the imperfectly organized Commons.
But enough is shown to prove that Shakespeare knew of the change. The Duke of
York's first test of his chances is through Cade's rising : —

" By this I shall perceive the Commons' mind,
How they affect the House and claim of York."

Suffolk, on the contrary, like the old nobles, loses no chance of showing his contempt
for the Commons, even when he is about to be sacrificed to their vengeance. Henry
knows that "the city favours" the family of York (3 Henry VI. i. 67). When Edward
returns after his deposition he is said to have come with " hasty Germans and blunt
Hollanders," but the populace also were with him, and " many giddy people flock to
him ; " but Warwick trusts to his country tenantry : —

" In Warwickshire I have true-hearted friends,
Not mutinous in peace, yet bold in war.'*

True to his position, the last of the great barons confided in the old feudal relations of
lord and vassal, and was blind to the rise of a new popular force in the great cities.
Richard III. states clearly a chief feature of the new r'egime of Edward IV. : —

" The world is grown so bad,

That wrens may prey where eagles dare not perch.
Since every jack became a gentleman,
There's many a noble person made a jack."

THIRD PART OF KING HENRY VI. 25

Richard himself so far recognises the new base of his power, that he founds his first
claim to the crown on the acclamations of the citizens. The poet is careful, in a previous
scene, to show how wisely the citizens can speak of political affairs ; and he is careful
also to show the means which Richard took to bolster up their pretended vote in his
avour ; so that his election may not be an argument against this new basis of power.
After his election, the poet shows how the king got rid of all his noble surrounding,
and was determined to be bound by no council. . . . When the nobles lost their
heads, plebeian administrators, " the cat, the rat, and Lovel the dog," came to the top :
nay, even boys appeared the most convenient tools of the royal policy. This was in
reality the scheme of the Tudor government. The accession of Henry VII. changed
nothing except the character of the monarch, whose ministers drained the purses instead
of the veins of 'his subjects, and whose successor had to sacrifice the gold-suckers of his
father to the popular clamours, as Henry VII. had sacrificed the blood-suckers of
Richard.

In Henry VIII. Shakespeare adds little to the conception of the royal autocracy,
except the substitution of the law courts for the " unrespective boys " of Richard, and the
throwing on ministerial shoulders the responsibility of the injustices for which the autocrat
ought evidently to be responsible. Thus Wolsey is made answerable for the grievous
taxation, which the king and queen repudiate.

Richard Simpson. — The Politics of Shakspere's Historical Plays ; in Transactions
of the New Shakspere Society, 1874. Part II. pp. 426 — 438.

ROMEO AND JULIET.

Act III.

Scene V. Capulet's Orchara.

Enter Romeo and Juliet above, at the window.

Jul. Wilt thou be gone ? it is not yet near day :
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear ;
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree ;
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

Rom. It was the lark, the herald of the morn.
No nightingale : look, love, what envious streaks
Do laee the severing clouds in yonder east :
Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.
I must be gone and live, or stay and die.

Jul. Yon light is not daylight, I know it, I :
It is some meteor that the sun exhales,
, To be to thee this night a torch-bearer,
And light thee on thy way to Mantua :
Therefore stay yet ; thou need'st not to begone.

Rom. Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death ;
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
I'll say yon grey is not the morning's eye,
'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow ;
Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads :
I have more care to stay than will to go :
Come, death, and welcome ; Juliet wills it so.
How is't, my soul ? let's talk ; it is not day.

Jul. It is, it is : hie hence, be gone, away !
It is the lark that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.
Some say the lark makes sweet division ;
This doth not so, for she divideth us :
Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes ;
Oh, now I would they had changed voices too !
Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,
Hunting thee hence with hunt's-up to the day.
Oh, now be gone ; more light and light it grows.

Rom. More light and light ; more dark and
dark our woes !

PECULIAR ATMOSPHERE OF " ROMEO AND JULIET."

A I J HO cannot recall lovely summer nights when the forces of nature seem ripe for
development and yet sunk in drowsy languor, — intense heat mingled with exuberant
vigour, fervid force, and silent freshness ?

The nightingale's song comes from the depth of the grove. The flower-cups are half-
closed. A pale lustre illumines the foliage of the forests, and the brow of the hills.
This profound repose conceals, we feel, a procreant force ; the melancholy bashfulness of
nature is the veil which hides a burning emotion. Beneath the pallor and coolness of
night and its orb, we are aware of restrained impetuosity, and of flowers brooding in the
silence and eager to burst into blossom.

Such is the peculiar atmosphere in which Shakespeare has enveloped one of his most
marvellous creations — Romeo and Juliet.

Here not alone the substance of the drama, but the very form of the language comes from
the South. Italy was the inventor, of the tale ; it breathes the very spirit of her national
records, her old family feuds, her annals filled with amorous and bloody intrigues. No
one can fail to recognize Italy in its lyric movement, in the blindness of its passion, in its

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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.

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,

/,/ ////' <J,'r,-//s/

KING RICHARD II.

Act V.

SCENE VI. Windsor Castle.

Enter EXTON, with persons bearing a coffin.

Exton. Great king, within this coffin I pre-
sent
Thy buried fear : herein all breathless lies
The mightiest of thy greatest enemies,
Richard of Bordeaux, by me hither brought.
Bolingbroke. Exton, I thank thee not ; for
thou hast wrought
A deed of slander with thy fatal hand
Upon my head and all this famous land.

Exton. From your own mouth, my lord, did
I this deed.

Boling. They love not poison that do poison
need,
Nor do I thee : though I did wish him dead,
I hate the murderer, love him murdered.
The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour
But neither my good word nor princely favour :
With Cain go wander through the shades of night,
And never show thy head by day nor light.
Lords, I protest, my soul is full of woe,
That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow :
Come, mourn with me for that I do lament,
And put on sullen black incontinent :
I'll make a voyage to the Holy Land,
To wash this blood off from my guilty hand :
March sadly after ; grace my mournings here ;
In weeping after this untimely bier. {Exeunt.

CONNECTION EXISTING BETWEEN THE ENGLISH HISTORICAL

PLAYS. 1

TTHE dramas derived from the English history, ten in number, form one of the most valuable of
Shakespeare's works, and partly the fruit of his maturest age. I say advisedly one of his
works, for the poet evidently intended them to form one great whole. It is, as it were, an
historical, heroic poem in the dramatic form, of which the separate plays constitute the
rhapsodies. The principal features of the events are exhibited with such fidelity, their causes,
and even their secret springs, are placed in such a clear light, that we may attain from them a
knowledge of history in all its truth, while the living picture makes an impression on the
imagination which can never be effaced. But this series of dramas is intended as the vehicle
of a much higher and much more general instruction; it furnishes examples of the political
course of the world applicable to all times. This mirror of kings should be the manual of
young princes ; from it they may learn the intrinsic dignity of their hereditary vocation, but they
will also learn from it the difficulties of their situation, the dangers of usurpation, the

1 The interesting view given in this extract from
Schlegel of the connection existing between Shake-
speare's English historical plays, must be taken as
modified by the truth stated by Mr. R. Grant White,
in an extract given to illustrate the play of King John.
It is not to be supposed that Shakespeare set out with
a design of teaching English history, or offering a

philosophical study of its causes and effects ; but as
he progressed the connection between the several
plays must have become more and more clear to him ;
and he evidently at all times had a remarkable
mental grasp of the forces — personal and impersonal
— which brought about the series of great historical
events.

42 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

inevitable fall of tyranny, which buries itself under its attempts to obtain a firmer founda-
tion ; lastly, the ruinous consequences of the weaknesses, errors, and crimes of kings, for
whole nations, and many subsequent generations. Eight of these plays, from Richard II.
to Richard III. are linked together in an uninterrupted succession, and embrace a most
eventful period of nearly a century of English history. The events portrayed in them
not only follow one another, but they are linked in the closest and most exact connection ;
and the cycle of revolts, parties, civil and foreign wars, which began with the deposition
of Richard II., first ends with the accession of Henry VII. to the throne. The careless
rule of the first of these monarchs, and his injudicious treatment of his own relations
drew upon him the rebellion of Bolingbroke ; his dethronement, however, was, in point of
form, altogether unjust, and in no case could Bolingbroke be considered the rightful heir
to the crown. This shrewd founder of the House of Lancaster never as Henry IV.
enjoyed the fruits of his usurpation : his turbulent barons, the same who aided him in
ascending the throne, allowed him not a moment's repose upon it. On the other
hand, he was jealous of the brilliant qualities of his son, and this distrust, more
than any really low inclination, induced the prince, that he might avoid every appear-
ance of ambition, to give himself up to dissolute society. These two circumstances'
form the subject-matter of the two parts of Henry IV.; the enterprises of the dis-
contented make up the serious, and the wild youthful frolics of the heir-apparent supply
the comic scenes. When this warlike prince ascended the throne under the name of
Henry V., he was determined to assert his ambiguous title ; he considered foreign
conquests as the best means of guarding against internal disturbances, and this gave rise
to the glorious, but more ruinous than profitable, war with France, which Shakespeare has
celebrated in the drama of Henry V. The early death of this king, the long legal
minority of Henry VI., and his perpetual minority in the art of government, brought the
greatest troubles on England. The dissensions of the Regents, and the consequently
wretched adminstration, occasioned the loss of the French conquests ; and there arose a
bold candidate for the crown, whose title was indisputable, if the prescription of three
governments may not be assumed to confer legitimacy on usurpation. Such was the
origin of the wars between the Houses of York and Lancaster, which desolated the
kingdom for a number of years, and ended with the victory of the House of York. All
this Shakespeare has represented in the three parts of Henry VI. Edward IV. shortened
his life by excesses, and did not long enjoy the throne purchased at the expense of so
many cruel deeds. His brother Richard, who had a great share in the elevation of the
House of York, was not contented with the regency, and his ambition paved himself a
way to the throne through treachery and violence ; but his gloomy tyranny made him the
object of the people's hatred, and at length drew on him the destruction which he merited.
He was conquered by a descendant of the royal house unstained by the guilt of the civil

KING RICHARD II. 43

wars, and what might seem defective in his title was made good by the merit of freeing
his country from a monster. With the accession of Henry VII. to the throne, a new
epoch of English history begins : the curse seemed at length to be expiated, and the
long series of usurpations, revolts, and civil wars, occasioned by the levity with which
the second Richard sported away his crown, was now brought to a termination.

Such is the evident connection of these eight plays with each other, but they were not,
however, composed in chronological order. According to all appearance, the four last
were first written ; this is certain, indeed, with respect to the three parts of Henry VI. ;
and Richard III. is not only from its subject a continuation of these, but is also composed
in the same style. Shakespeare then went back to Richard II, and with the most
careful art connected the second series with the first. The trilogies of the ancients have
already given us an example of the possibility of forming a perfect dramatic whole, which
shall yet contain allusions to something which goes before, and follows it. In like
manner the most of these plays end with a very definite division in the history ; Richard
II with the murder of that king j the Second Part of Henry IV. with the accession of
his son to the throne ; Henry V. with the conclusion of peace with France ; the First
Part of Henry VI. also with a treaty of peace j the third with the murder of Henry, and
Edward's elevation to the throne ; Richard III. with his overthrow and death. The
First Part of Henry IV. and the Second of Henry VI are rounded off in a less satis-
factory manner. The revolt of the nobles was only half quelled by the overthrow of
Percy, and it is therefore continued through the following part of the piece. The victory
of York at St. Alban's could as little be considered a decisive event, in the war of the
two Houses. Shakespeare has fallen into this dramatic imperfection, if we may so call it,
for the sake of advantages of much importance. The picture of the civil war was too
great and too rich in dreadful events for a single drama, and yet the uninterrupted series of
events offered no more convenient resting-place. The government of Henry IV. might
certainly have been comprehended in one piece, but it possesses too little tragical interest,
and too little historical splendour, to be attractive, if handled in a serious manner
throughout. Hence, Shakespeare has given to the comic characters belonging to the
retinue of Prince Henry the freest development, and the half of the space is occupied by
this constant interlude between the political events.

The two other historical plays taken from English history are chronologically separate
from this series. King John reigned nearly two centuries before Richard II., and between
Richard III. and Henry VIII. comes the long reign of Henry VII., which Shakespeare
justly passed over as unsusceptible of dramatic interest. However, these two plays may
in some measure be considered as the prologue and epilogue to the other eight. In King
John all the political and national motives which play so great a part in the following pieces
are already indicated — wars and treaties with France, a usurpation, and the tyrannical

g 2

44 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

actions which it draws after it, the influence of the clergy, the factions of the nobles.
Henry VIII. again shows us the transition to another age ; the policy of modern Europe,
a refined court life under a voluptuous monarch, the dangerous situation of favourites,
who, after having assisted in effecting the fall of others, are themselves precipitated from
power; in a word, despotism under a milder form, but not less unjust and cruel. By the
prophecies on the birth of Elizabeth, Shakespeare has in some degree brought his great
poem on English history down to his own time, as far, at least, as such recent events
could be yet handled with security. He composed probably the two plays of King John
and Henry VIII. at a later period as an addition to the others.

A. W. Schlegel. — Lectures on Dramatic Art. Translated
by John Black (1846) pp. 419 — 423.

KING" RICHARD II.

It is a most fortunate circumstance for Shakespeare's readers that the historical plays
were not written in a chronological order corresponding with that of the events repre-
sented. We know that the fourfold tragedy of the House of York — comprising the
three parts of Henry VI. and Richard III. — was written first, in that earliest period of
Shakespeare's poetic career when he was still contending for a mastery over form, and was
trying his strength in the rehandling of works which were not his own. Not until he had
attained his complete development, in the full ripeness of his adult powers, did he pro-
duce, in the course of a few years, with one continuous flow, and entirely from his own
resources, the dramatic history of the Lancastrian period, — during the years 1596- 1599.
Thus the reader enjoys the inestimable advantage of a masterly introduction to the varied
and confused relations of men and events in the period represented ; our sympathy is
engaged at the outset by works of art of the utmost beauty and perfection ; the less
inviting study of Henry VI. becomes, through what has preceded it, of true and lively
interest ; we are in a position to follow the deeper course of historical development,
where the accumulation of materials, not wrought in certain parts to a uniform perfection,
might conceal it; and the terrible untwisting of the entangled web in Richard III.
affects us as with the power of a majestic revealing of that moral necessity upon which, in
Shakespeare's view of the world, all human development, alike in public life and in the
destiny of the individual, reposes. ....

Richard II. lies closer to the facts of history than perhaps any other of the historical
plays. With the exception of one remarkable scene .... Shakespeare has- in no
way altered the main outline of events. He has almost wholly refrained from inventing
subordinate characters, like those on whom he relies for an essential part of the interest

KING RICHARD II. 45

of Henry IV. Evidently he regarded the natural course of events as sufficiently
dramatic and significant to secure the spectator's sympathy without the adornments
of art

The characters of the play fall naturally into two chief groups. In the one stands pre-
eminent the unhappy king, surrounded by the rotten props of his tottering legitimacy, —
Aumerle, like himsel f, thoughtless and hot-headed, and the well-meaning, power less
York ; in the other is gathered a company of bold, determined nobles around the deep
and crafty politician, Bolingbroke : Carlisle, the gallant bishop, stands in the midst, like
a pillar which cannot stay the wreck of things, but which points amidst the fragments of
a destroyed order in warning to heaven ; while in old Gaunt the poet has known how to
mingle with extraordinary skill and delicacy the sentiments and habits of a better time
with his son's political genius and designs. x

The most detailed study of character is that of Richard. To the gifts bestowed upon
him by fortune, Nature has added her inestimable letter of commendation — an exterior
not merely imposing, but truly beautiful and royal. Old York compares him pathetically
with his father, the Black Prince, the flower of knighthood, fiercer in war than the lion, ~s
and in peace milder than the lamb : —

" His face thou hast, for even so look'd he,
Accomplished with the number of thy hours."

. . . . The most graceful bearing, the most infallible tact of manner, when he
thinks it worth his trouble, come to the aid of this brilliant appearance. Not without
reason does Percy (in Henry IV.) remember him as his " lovely rose." The e ntire part
of the queen, — depar ting as it does fro m historical fac t, — is apparenllyi designed to
exhitohi_a__cgnspicuous manner the triumph of this charm of manhood in the deep and
passionate attachment of a young and tender wife. . . . It is hardly without signi-
ficance that the poor groom should steal, at the risk of his life, into Pomfret Castle,
merely to look once more upon the face of his dear master, after Bolingbroke has
banished the unhappy man not alone from the throne of England, but from the back of
beautiful " roan Barbary " . . . . Richard's behaviour, especially in adversity,
exhibits everywhere a most sensitive, impressionable heart, a fiery energy of fancy, united
with an extraordinary gift of utterance. In capacities and culture he is far from being
an evil or what we ordinarily call an insignificant man. And y et he becomes the ruin o f
himself and of all, who stand near him. The good qualities of his nature become with
him useless, nay, even dangerous ; he affords the app allin g spectacle of an absolute
ba^ikl-uptTnOt only in externals, but in spirit and in moral nature, and this in consequence
of one circumstance — that nature has summoned him who possessed a dilettante character
to a position which more than any other required the character of an artist.

46 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

Let us explain our meaning : If by the name " dilettante," in a bad sense, we may^
describe a character which takes nothing seriously except the striving after pleasure, and
which possesses no deep-founded and unchangeable conviction, except the faith in one's
own right and one's own excellence ; strengthened in this by a susceptibility to im-
pressions, and a quickness of perception, which flattery so readily misnames intellect and
genius, — then J&ehard XT. appears as if -speciall y . created -by_the_poet to-stand .once for
al Las the perfect and accepted type of this most mod ern pf all forms nf character.
Should the spite of Fortune give a dilettante of this kind a part in business or public
affairs, a share of influence and power, the sympathising spectator will probably pity
the artist nature oppressed by circumstances. He will imagine that he beholds Pegasus
in harness, whereas it is only a weak and untrained colt, with no liking for work, wavering
to and fro between heedless insolence and fantastic, self-tormenting fear; hard and
revengeful towards inferiors and weak opponents, cowardly towards the great and power-
ful, — and all this because the alternately gleaming and glooming phenomenon is wanting
in true substance and the quickening soul, — wanting in that manly will, which freely and
completely subordinates the moods and inclinations of the mere individual life to the
ends of the whole, which unconditionally devotes itself to the service of the moral order
of the universe, and so creates from this order, as from the ultimate source of all life, that
strength which subdues the world.

When the action begins we see the brilliantly-endowed, royal dilettante, the flower of
knighthood, surrounded by flatterers and parasites of the lowest kind, at variance with
the chief of his lords, blind as to his own position with a blindness which proceeds
much less from weakness of understanding than from an indisposition to go through
the disagreeable task of thoroughly inspecting things. The plans of Bolingbroke are
at no time concealed from him, — he has observed the bearing of his ambitious cousin
well, and describes it not without spirit and humour. But not for a moment does this
restrain him from following the bent of his inclination, from undertaking an adventure
in Ireland — having first gratified to the utmost the most daring wishes of his enemies
by his breaches of the law of the land. His paroxysm of thoughtless insolence reaches
its climax in his conduct towards the noble father of the banished man, whom, before
all others, he should have treated with respect. On receiving tidings of the illness of his
uncle, he breaks forth in presence of his creatures, in cavalier style and worse, with
the words, —

" Now put it, God, in the physician's mind
To help him to his grave immediately !
The lining of his coffers shall make coats
To deck our soldiers for these Irish wars.
Come, gentlemen, let's go and visit him :
Pray God we may make haste and come too late."

KING RICHARD II. 47

With the nonchalance of a laughing heir, he then inquires after the dying man's state,
•knocks him for his playing on words (which was not meant for sport), and when the
anticipation of death has loosed the tongue of the gallant, loyal old man, and he utters
himself in bitter warning and predictions, Richard relieves his evil conscience with coarse
invective. The genial nephew calls the dying uncle " a lunatic, lean-witted fool,"
perhaps in order that it may not be noticed how Gaunt's " frosty admonition " has made
pale his cheek. And when the old man has died with a curse upon his lips, he seizes in
an illegal manner upon the rich inheritance, with the haste of a player, who cannot wait
for the new stake ; and all this in order that he may intrust the threatened realm to
York, exasperated and incapable as he is, and himself proceed on a military promenade
to Ireland ! This rooted confidence in the most extravagant views of his own legitimacy,
and the most careless contempt of the rights and the strength of others, inspirits the
king on his return from Ireland to his now invaded realm. The only talent which he
possesses in extraordinary measure, that of pathetic and ingenious but never thoughtful
and judicious speech, is now roused to its most ambitious flights by his irritative vanity.
Declaiming in admirable manner, he calls heaven and earth to witness that " not all the
waters in the rough rude sea can wash the balm from an anointed king."

" For every man that Bolingbroke hath press'd ,

To lift shrewd steel against our golden crown,
God for his Richard hath in heavenly pay
A glorious angel : then, if angels fight,
Weak men must fall, for heaven still guards the right."

No one could speak in more royal fashion .... But the angels do not make
their appearance, and moreover the levy of Welshmen is broken and dispersed. The ill-
omened word, " Too late — a day too late ! " interrupts with shrill dissonance the high-
sounding description of his God-established legitimate authority. Then the bubble
breaks. He himself orders his friends to fly, — the unbridled fancy runs clean away with
his nature, rich with various gifts, but unstable, because never tempered by self-restraint.
Now the quickness of his intellect and the liveliness of his feelings become a curse to
the man of pleasure. Very characteristic is it when he denounces his cousin
who has led him " forth of that sweet way I was in to despair." But his eloquence
achieves new triumphs as his deeds become more and more lamentable. Again, " God
omnipotent " — at the first meeting with Bolingbroke — will muster in the clouds armies,
not this time of angels, but of pestilence to save the legitimate monarch from the
consequences of his own deeds. The personal importance of the royal phantom and
the hollow notion of legitimacy once more rise in all their shadowy splendour to oppose
the veritable power that rests upon the actual state of the nation and the popular consent.

48 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

But precisely here the poet shows with masterly clearness the inner necessity of Richard's
fall. It is absolutely impossible that the calculating Bolingbroke could reconcile himself
with this untrustworthy, proud visionary, who alternates between insolence and de-
spondency, but is at all times filled with vain glory, this ingenious man who mocks with
fantastic wit his own misery, instead of soberly considering how he may find a remedy,
who only too justly compares himself to

" Glistering Phaethon
Wanting the manage of unruly jades."

Let no one say, "A rich artistic nature here perishes." This same unbridled—fancy,
this same immoderate but superficial sensitiveness, whic h wrecks the King , would also
have ruined the poet. The same incoherence of nature accompanies the unhappy man
of pleasure through all the remaining stages of his precipitous descent. He has neither
courage to oppose ill fortune, nor the self-mastering prudence at least to enter into some
assured relation with his victorious rival First he offers of his own accord to lay down
the crown, then he wilfully exhibits his unappeasable resentment. How characteristic is
his reply to Bolingbroke's cold demand, " Are you contented to resign the crown ? " —
" Ay, no ; no, ay ; " — the true motto of such a character. / So too in prison, in the depth
of his misery, the man sorely stricken by fate remains the same old visionary. Not a
thought of repentance, — as little as in danger there had been a moment of true resolu-
tion. Nothing but a voluptuous handling of his own wounds, an extravagant and
exhausting chase of the fancy, in which the moral nature, intellect, and will are lost.
And y et he remains full o f-W' 1 - a "d r l p v^ npgs -^ p r " ^ ^ 1;i f ;r mnm p n t- " Thanks, noble
peer ! " he replies to the groom who has addressed him with the words, " Hail, royal
prince!" It is a true satisfaction for him and us when a sudden leap-up of wrath,
purposeless and inconsiderate indeed, but ennobled by a faint gleam of manly energy,
obtains an end of life not without an appeasing, aesthetic propriety, for this incoherent
and divided being, this sacrifice to the pursuit of pleasure devoid of energy and manly
will, who had for a while been fondled by fortune to his own destruction.

F. Kreyssig. — Vorlesungen iiber Shakespeare (187 4), Vol. II. pp. 177 — 192.

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KING RICHARD III.

Act V.

Scene III. Bosworth Field. King Richard
in his tent asleep.

Enter the Ghosts of the two young Princes.

Ghosts. [To Richard] Dream on thy cousins
smother 'd in the Tower :
Let us be lead within thy bosom, Richard,
And weigh thee down to ruin, shame, and death !
Thy nephews' souls bid thee despair and die !
[To Richmond] Sleep, Richmond, sleep in

peace, and wake in joy ;
Good angels guard thee from the boar's annoy !
Live, and beget a happy race of kings !
Edward's unhappy sons do bid thee flourish.

Enter the Ghost of Lady Anne.

Ghost. [To Richard] Richard, thy wife, that

wretched Anne thy wife,
That never slept a quiet hour with thee,
Now fills thy sleep with perturbations :
To-morrow in the battle think on me,
And fall thy edgeless sword : despair, and die ! '
[ To Richmond] Thou quiet soul, sleep thou a

quiet sleep ;
Dream of success and happy victory !
Thy adversary's wife doth pray for thee.

Enter the Ghost of Buckingham.

Ghost. [To Richard] The first was I that
helped thee to the crown ;
The last was I that felt thy tyranny :
Oh, in the battle think on Buckingham,
And die in terror of thy guiltiness !
Dream on, dream on, of bloody deeds and death :
Fainting, despair ; despairing, yield thy breath !

[To Richmond] I died for hope ere I could

lend thee aid :
But cheer thy heart, and be thou not dismay'd :
God and good angels fight on Richmond's side ;
And Richard falls in height of all his pride.

[The Ghosts vanish. King Richard starts
out of his dream.
K. Rich. Give me another horse : bind up
my wounds.
Have mercy, Jesu ! — Soft ! I did but dream.

coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me !
The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight.
Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh.
What do I fear ? myself ? there's none else by :
Richard loves Richard ; that is, I am I.

Is there a murderer here ? No. Yes, I am :
Then fly. What, from myself? Great reason

why :
Lest I revenge. What, myself upon myself ?
Alack, I love myself. Wherefore ? for any good
That I myself have done unto myself?
Oh, no ! alas, I rather hate myself.
For hateful deeds committed by myself !

1 am a villain : yet I lie, I am not.

Fool, of thyself speak well : fool, do not flatter.
My conscience hath a thousand several tongues,
And every tongue brings in a several tale,
And every tale condemns me for a villain.
Perjury, perjury, in the high'st degree ;
Murder, stern murder, in the direst degree ;
All several sins, all used in each degree,
Throng to the bar, crying all, Guilty ! guilty !
I shall despair. There is no creature loves me ;
And if I die, no soul shall pity me :
Nay, wherefore should they, since that I myself
Find in myself no pity to myself?
Methought the souls of all that I had murder'd
Came to my tent ; and every one did threat
To-morrow's vengeance on the head of Richard.

5 o SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

RICHARD'S HISTORICAL SIGNIFICANCE, AND PERSONAL

CHARACTER. 1

T F it be true, in a general way, of all characters devoid of moral qualities, which poetry
may create and the dramatic art represent, that they must act with a " daemonic " power,
and thereby raise us above the sphere of ordinary reality, this holds good in a pre-eminent
degree of Richard III., the most complete and most grandiose villain ever brought into
being by poetry, who yet at no moment passes into a colourless abstraction, but impresses
us, on the contrary, at all times as an actual living person. In order to understand
Richard it is of the utmost importance that we should hold clearly in view the arena on
which he is placed. It is not the confined family circle, nor in a narrow sense the
bourgeois world upon which he lets loose his destructive rage ; not that he despises either
family relations or civic rights, but what elevate the action of Richard into a higher
sphere are rather his criminal assaults upon the life of the State, in the great world of
political movement. His field of action is the commonwealth itself, his crimes are
immediate invasions of the State, not as with ordinary criminals, secondary and remote
attacks. But as history is essentially a series of political developments, Richard, by
virtue of the range of his crimes, his designs, and his fall, properly belongs to history.
In it the explanation of his appearance must primarily be found, and by the aid of it
alone can he be judged. Richard the Third is the product of a conflict between two
great Houses, York and Lancaster, which resulted in the constant sacrifice of the State to
the self-interest of particular members of these families. But in this conflict gradually
every member of the two Houses is so engaged that each one somehow or another incurs
a burden of guilt. The entire ground in course of time is hollowed and undermined by
crimes — a soil upon which the sense of justice and morality can no longer support itself.
The Houses continually transfer to one another the guilt, until the formal right to the
crown becomes between them both unrecognizable and a matter of indifference, so
entirely obscured has it been through the dark deeds accomplished by either party.
Out of this dark bosom of action burdened with crime has Richard sprung, having
received as the foundation of his life the previous total corruption of his House. The
several features which heretofore have appeared isolated and divided between various
individuals now unite themselves in him, to form one collective impression. Thus
Richard becomes the terrible image and representative of egoism and despotism. With
him disappears the last illusion of a formal right to the throne, under disguise of which

1 The reader will accept the substantial excel-
lence of this piece of criticism as more than compen-
sation for the difficulties of a somewhat cumbrous

style which it was impossible to escape from in
the translation.

KING RICHARD III. 51

all preceding rulers of both houses had concealed their self-interest. Boundless ambition
alone confirms the throne to Richard, and the scorn of all the restrictions of morality-
alone permits him to obtain without trouble the means needful for attaining his
object. . . .

As to his right to the throne, Richard deceives himself by no illusion from first to
last, for it essentially belongs to his character to practise upon his own soul no kind
of self-deception. Having cast aside all sense of awe and shame, he appears as the
natural force and instrument employed for reaching and bringing to destruction those
who in the universal tumult of the civil war have laid upon themselves a burden of crime,
whether it has taken the form of positive misdoing, the savage slaughtering of their
opponents, or that of lax and supine moral energy, and a faint and inactive sense of right
and wrong. Thus Richard appears primarily as the Nemesis of the World-spirit, to
strike at the heads of those who have a share in the guilt of the time, and yet have
hitherto escaped the arm of justice.

Viewed thus, Richard stands, as it were, upon a lofty pedestal. His arena is the
distracted State, his object is the Crown, his absolute significance is that of the bearer of
the historical Spirit, by whose instrumentality the heads of all those who have disturbed
the commonwealth, disorganized the State, and covered themselves with crimes, may be
shorn away. In this aspect Richard appears as the destroying genius of the mediaeval
polity in its period of decline and degeneracy, bringing to an end through his evil deeds
the unrighteous conflict, and thereby preparing the ground for that unity of political life
which was to rise out of and above the division of society into private interests. But in
the process Richard, as the product of this disintegrating society, himself perishes, since
crime must be atoned for, and the tool must be flung away as soon as its bloody work
is done.

But to overcome the obstacles which oppose his seizure of the crown, Richard
must be furnished with all those qualities which may make him a ruler of men, and
confirm his superiority in a degenerate age. . . . Anyone who follows the action of
Richard must become aware that he is the person of greatest spiritual force in his whole
company, and that all those powers are at his disposal which, if they were directed to the
accomplishing of a moral purpose, would qualify him for the highest achievements. It
is this precisely which in the figure of Richard produces the daemonic impression, viz.,
that those endowments, which are the necessary conditions of all great actions conducive
to the development of humanity, are in him servants of the most fearful, most
uncompromising egoism. A penetrative understanding, which sees through men and
circumstances, an iron nerve which conflict only tempers to sterner power of endurance,
a gift of utterance which can delude men and convert them into tools for his own
purposes, finally, a death- defying courage — all these several qualities are amassed in

H 2

52 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

Richard to produce a unity which is appalling, inasmuch as they are perverted to a
diabolic purpose. But it is precisely by virtue of these great endowments that Richard's
personality is fitted to become that of the hero of a drama. The first aspect we have
presented, whereby Richard appears as the instrument of the World-spirit, which has
itself produced the wild conflict, and must bleed to death at last, — this gives us the
historical point of view. The second point of view exhibits Richard's personal daemonic
greatness. If we conceive and realize the first aspect of his life and character, we see
before us a historical personage, who can be judged only through study of a series of
historical events. This elevates him at once above the level of ordinary reality. If we
observe Richard from the second point of view, we obtain an individual portrait, which
affects us in an appalling manner, because we perceive, appearing through moral dis-
tortion, the majestic features of humanity. But the psychological characteristics of
Richard require to be explained no less than his historical significance. This leads us
back to the causes which determined his awful course. Richard is deformed by nature,
neglected, "cheated of feature," "scarce half made up." An outcast of nature, he
believes that he may despise and dispense with the laws of nature. He is therefore from
his birth at war with the laws of the moral order of the world, since these have binding
power only upon those persons who have somewhat in common with them, and can be
loved only by their equal. Thus wrath against Nature's injustice towards him makes
Richard an enemy of every law, and every right, which has its roots in moral relations
that repose on love as their principle. Richard's fiery, passionate nature feels that it is
shut out from the realm of love, and excluded by unconquerable limits resulting from his
misshapen person from this realm, he throws himself into the opposite passion of ambi-
tion, which allows him to consider all circumstances in relation to himself alone, and to
appraise their value only as they afford sustenance to his private passion. Here he is
" himself alone," needing no one to render his being complete, and using the universe
only as a means to satisfy his vast egoism. This passion fills his whole soul, because it
urges him to incessant energizing of all the forces of his nature, and so can lighten and
relieve his fury against the laws of nature held sacred by other men. Richard, organized
as he is, with the powerful urge which is upon him towards some great field for displaying
his activity, towards a complete manifestation of the tremendous might of his mind, can
only attain satisfaction through destruction; and as this can afford only an illusory satis-
faction, he can never really attain for a moment to true and enduring content. The sense
of desolation and solitude is therefore always the feeling which, even when not expressed
in direct words, rises up in Richard's soul, as the miserable result of all his destructive
activity, and even from the attainment of his ultimate object, the crown. . . . Richard,
abiding in his own self, with his rage against the injustice of nature, can devote the
energy of his intellect and will only to the realization of the abstract lordship of his own

KING RICHARD III. 53

Ego. Despotism is therefore the lonely summit on which after all the storms he alights,
there, with the consciousness of his own terrible solitariness, to end his being.

H. Th. Rotscher. — Shakespeare in Seinenhochsten Charactergebilden,
&c. (1864), pp. 32—35.

INFLUENCE OF MARLOWE ON SHAKESPEARE'S " RICHARD III."

In the second historical play which can be wholly ascribed to Shakespeare we still find
the poetic or rhetorical quality for the next part in excess of the dramatic ; but in
Richard III. the bonds of rhyme at last are fairly broken. This only of all Shakespeare's
plays belongs absolutely to the school of Marlowe. The influence of the elder master,
and that influence alone, is perceptible from end to end. Here at last we can see that
Shakespeare has decidedly chosen his side. It is as fiery in passion, as single in purpose,
as rhetorical often, though never so inflated in expression, as Tamburlaine itself/ It is
doubtless a better piece of work than Marlowe ever did ; I dare not say, than Marlowe
ever could have done. It is not for any man to measure, above all it is not for any
workman in the field of tragic poety lightly to take on himself the responsibility or the
authority to pronounce what it is that Christopher Marlowe could not have done ; but
dying as he did and when he did, it is certain that he has not left us a work so generally
and so variously admirable as Richard III. As certain it is that but for him this play
could never have been written. At a later date the subject would have been handled
otherwise, had the poet chosen to handle it at all, and in his youth he could not have
treated it as he has without the guidance and example of Marlowe. Not only are its
highest qualities of energy, of exuberance, of pure and lofty style, of sonorous and
successive harmonies, the very qualities that never fail to distinguish those first dramatic
models which were fashioned by his ardent hand ; the strenuous and single-handed grasp
of character, the motion and action of combining and contending powers, which here for
the first time we find sustained with equal and unfaltering vigour, throughout the length
of a whole play, we perceive, though imperfectly, in the work of Marlowe before we can
trace them as latent or infant forces in the work of Shakespeare.

A. C. Swinburne. — " The Three Stages of Shakespeare,"
The Fortnightly Review, May 1, 1875, p. 631.

54 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

SHAKESPEARE'S PLAY COMPARED WITH HOLINSHED'S

HISTORY.

The night previous to the battle was, according to the historian, terrible to Richard.
" The fame went that he had a dreadful and terrible dream ; for it seemed to him, being
asleep, that he did see divers images like terrible devils, which pulled and haled him, not
suffering him to take any quiet or rest. The which strange vision not so suddenly strake
his heart with a sudden fear, but it stuffed his head and troubled his mind with many
busy and dreadful imaginations. . . . And lest that it might be suspected that he
was abashed for fear of his enemies, and for that cause looked so piteously^ he recited
and declared to his familiar friends in the morning his wonderful vision and fearful
dream." Such is the conduct of the dramatic tyrant.

" By the apostle Paul ! shadows to-night
Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard
Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers,
Armed in proof, and led by shallow Richmond."

Shakespeare modified the " terrible devils " into "the souls of all that he had murdered."
The starting of the affrighted tyrant from his couch was suggested by the narration of Sir
Thomas More : after the murder of his nephews " he never had quiet in his mind, he
never thought himself sure. ... He took ill rest a' nights, lay long waking and
musing, sore wearied with care and watch, rather slumbered than slept, troubled with
fearful dreams, suddenly sometimes start up, leap out of his bed and run about the
chamber."

Augustine Skottowe. — The Life of Shakespeare, Vol. I. pp. 201—202 (1824).

COLLEY CIBBER'S "RICHARD III."

Colley Cibber . . . , was an important man in his day ; he was actor, play-writer,
manager, adapter of Shakespeare, and afterwards poet-laureate. Cibber's version of
Richard III. is still the Richard of the stage ; and from the mere fact of its vitality,
apart from its obvious merits, his play demands notice almost above any similar pro-
duction. The purport of this adaptation is to concentrate attention on Richard, by still
further blackening his portrait, and by withdrawing lateral interests ; by striking off the
wings of the story. Cibber produced a work excellently fitted for the stage, but at the
loss of much that is grand in the original. Cibber's is an effective, but a coarse, play.

KING RICHARD III.

As Shakespeare wrote it, this is one of a series of historical dramas : closely connected
with it are the three plays bearing the name of King Henry VI., in the last of which the
future King Richard bears an important part. Now as these were not then acting plays,
Gibber took from them some fine speeches, in which Richard's character is carefully
drawn, and the scene in which he murders the King in the Tower. That is utilization
of waste material and pardonable where the principle of wide deviation from an acknow-
ledged work of art is once allowed. So, also, the total omission of the Duke of Clarence,
with his famous dream, is well judged. For stage effect his part is not only over-
weighted, considering the small figure he makes in this portion of the story, but, by its
elaboration, is actually detrimental to a more important scene in the drama.

But the inherent vulgarity of the play, as revised, is shown by an interpolated passage
in which Richard deliberately sets himself to kill his wife by neglect and cruelty.
Equally commonplace and morbid is a scene in which we are brought to the very thres-
hold of the chamber where the children are smothered, and there see Richard prowling
about and moralizing on his wickedness. The language of the .piece is a compound of
Shakespeare and Gibber, curiously interlaced ; for, besides the omissions and interpo-
lations, he habitually debases the poetry to his own standard of dulness. Impassioned
ejaculations of grief and horror seemed profane when the stage had become a mere
amusement, and were set aside. The glorious blank verse of the Elizabethan writers
was then out of date ; its rhythm was not understood. The accented ed, for instance
in the verb and participle jarred on Cibber's sensitive ear, and he would always, change
a line to avoid it. . . . Again, recurring words in a line were inartistic. After that
awful night on Bosworth Field, with the shades of his victims (and here Cibber has
been at the pains to rewrite the vision, and has cut out the agony of remorse and
the frenzied self-accusation at its close), when aroused to arms Richard exclaims —

" O Ratcliff ! I have dreamed a fearful dream,"
Cibber has it : —

" O Catesby, I have had such horrid dreams."

Notice, too, that the crack rants in the part of Richard are Cibber's own invention.
Such are —

" Off with his head ! So much for Buckingham."
A tremendous hit on the stage. So again —

11 Richmond, I say, come forth and singly face me,
Richard is hearse with daring thee to arms."

SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

And, lastly —

" Hence babbling dreams, you threaten here in vain ;
Conscience avaunt ! Richard's himself again."

Perhaps these time-honoured points tell as much in favour of Cibber's version as its
general practicability.

A. H. Paget. — Shakespeare's Plays, A Chapter of Stage History (1875), pp. 25 — 28.

EDMUND KEAN'S RICHARD III. 1

The Richard of Shakespeare is towering and lofty ; equally impetuous and command-
ing ; haughty, violent, and subtle ; bold and treacherous j confident in his strength as
well as in his cunning; raised high by his birth, and higher by his talents and his
crimes ; a royal usurper, a princely hypocrite, a tyrant, and a murderer of the house of
Plantagenet.

" But I was born so high :
Our aery buildeth in the cedar's top,
And dallies with the wind, and scorns the sun."

The idea conveyed in these lines (which are indeed omitted in the miserable medley
acted for Richard III) is never lost sight of by Shakespeare, and should not be out of
the actor's mind for a moment. The restless and sanguinary Richard is not a man striv-
ing to be great, but to be greater than he is ; conscious of his strength of will, his power of
intellect, his daring courage, his elevated station ; and making use of these advantages to
commit unheard-of crimes, and to shield himself from remorse and infamy.

If Mr. Kean does not entirely succeed in concentrating all the lines of the character as
drawn by Shakespeare, he gives an animation, vigour, and relief to the part which we
have not seen equalled. He is. more refined than Cooke; more bold, more varied
and original than Kemble in the same character. In some parts he is deficient in
dignity, and, particularly in the scenes of state business, he has by no means an air
of artificial authority. There is at times an aspiring elevation, an enthusiastic rapture
in His expectations of attaining the crown, and at others a gloating expression of sullen
delight, as if he already clenched the bauble, and held it in his grasp. The courtship
scene with Lady Anne is an admirable exhibition of smooth and smiling villainy. The

1 The part of Shakespeare's Richaid 111. is
perhaps more associated than any other of his
characters with the memory of great actors, so

much so that it has been asserted by a recent
German anti- Shakespearian critic — Benedix — that
the actors alone have made the play popular.

KING RICHARD III.

progress of wily adulation, of encroaching humility, is finely marked by his action, voice,
and eye. He seems, like the first Tempter, to approach his prey, secure of the event,
and as if success had smoothed his way before him. The late Mr. Cooke's manner of
representing this scene was more vehement, hurried, and full of anxious uncertainty.
This, though more natural in general, was less in character in this particular instance.
Richard should woo less as a lover than as an actor — to show his mental superiority, and
power of making others the playthings of his purposes. Mr. Kean's attitude in leaning
against the side of the stage before he comes forward to address Lady Anne, is one of
the most graceful and striking ever witnessed on the stage. It would do for Titian to
paint. The frequent and rapid transition of his voice from the expression of the fiercest
passion to the most familiar tones of conversation was that which gave a peculiar grace
of novelty to his acting on his first appearance. This has been since imitated and
caricatured by others, and he himself uses the artifice more sparingly than he did. His
bye-play is excellent. His manner of bidding his friends " Good-night," after pausing
with the point of his sword, drawn slowly backward and forward on the ground, as it
considering the plan of the battle next day, is a particularly happy and natural thought.
He gives to the two last acts the greatest animation and effect. He fills every part ot
the stage, and makes up for the deficiency of his person by what has been sometimes
objected to as an excess of action. The concluding scene in which he is killed by
Richmond is the most brilliant of the whole. He fights at last like one drunk with
wounds ; and the attitude in which he stands with his hands stretched out, after his
sword has been wrested from him, has a preternatural and terrific grandeur, as if his
will could not be disarmed, and the very phantoms of his despair had power to kill.

W. Hazlitt.- -Characters of Shakespeare's Plays (1818). pp. 228 — 230.

.S3

SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

KING JOHN.

Act III.
Scene I. The French King's pavilion.
Enter Constance,. Arthur, and Salisbury.

Const. Gone to be married ! gone to swear a

peace !
False blood to false blood join'd ! gone to be

friends !
Shall Lewis have Blanch, and Blanch those pro-
vinces ?
It is not so ; thou hast misspoke, misheard.

* * * *

Lewis marry Blanch ! O boy, then where art

thou?
France friend with England, what becomes of

me ?
Fellow, begone : I cannot brook thy sight :
This news hath made thee a most'ugly man.
Sal. What other harm have I, good lady,

done,
But spoke the harm that is by others done ?

Const. Which harm within itself so heinous is
As it makes harmful all that speak of it.
Arth. I do beseech you, madam, be content.
Const. If thou that bid'st me be content

wert grim,
Ugly and slanderous to thy mother's womb,
Full of unpleasing blots and sightless stains,
Lame, foolish, crooked, swart, prodigious,
Patch'd with foul moles and eye-offending marks,
I would not care, I then would be content,
For then I should not love thee, no, nor thou
Become thy great birth nor deserve a crown.
But thou art fair, and at thy birth, dear boy,

Nature and Fortune join'd to make thee great :
Of Nature's gifts thou mayst with lilies boast,
And with the half-blown rose. But Fortune, O,
She is corrupted, changed and won from thee ;

She adulterates hourly with thine uncle John.
* * * *

Tell me, thou fellow, is not France forsworn ?
Envenom him with words, or get thee gone
And leave those woes alone which I alone
Am bound to under-bear.

Sal. Pardon me, madam,

I may not go without you to the kings.

Const. Thou mayst, thou shalt ; I will not go
with thee :
I will instruct my sorrows to be proud ;
For grief is proud and makes his owner stoop.
To me and to the state of my great grief
Let kings assemble ; for my grief's so great
That no supporter but the huge firm earth
Can hold it up : here I and sorrows sit ;
Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.

[Seats herself on the ground.

Enter King John, King Philip, Lewis,
Blanch, Elinor, the Bastard, Austria,
and Attendants.

K. Phi. 'Tis true, fair daughter ; and this
blessed day
Ever in France shall be kept festival :
To solemnize this day the glorious sun
Stays in his course and plays the alchemist,
Turning with splendour of his precious eye
The meagre cloddy earth to glittering gold :
The yearly course that brings this day about
Shall never see it but a holiday.

Const. A wicked day, and not a holy day !

[Rising.

s>??^

'2>niK- -*

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

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

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.

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

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::

_ _ 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.

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

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.

1 *

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 !

•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

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

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.

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.

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 fh<a HpUhprahnn nnr foft jiirtff wr»»r^r>f

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."

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

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<i — bearing, ho wever.
I the same names ; one is an inborn natural dari ng-, the f-nnfirlpnce of t he physica l man
. in his own personal prowess, w hich leads him to contend fig 31 '"-" 1 ' a11 diffirn1h>^.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.

•

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

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.

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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

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

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.

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

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AS YOU LIKE IT.

139

to do with it. Luxurious description characterises the second childhood of poetry. In
its last stage it begins, like Falstaff, to babble of green fields.

Hartley Coleridge. — Essays and Marginalia (1851), Vol. II. pp. 141 — 142.

ROSALIND AND ORLANDO.

The business of As You Like It is chiefly to

" Dally with the innocence of loye,
Like the old age."

It is especially the play of youthful courtship between two beings of ideal beauty and
excellence, in whom the sympathetic part of love predominates over the selfish — affection
over passion. No wonder, then, that Shakespeare, so alive to the superior generosity
and delicacy of affection in the feminine breast, should have made the heroine of this
piece its most conspicuous personage, — to the full and various development of whose
moral qualities as well as her peculiar personal and intellectual attractions, all else in the
drama is subservient or subordinate Of all the sweet feminine names com-
pounded from Rosa, that of Rosa-linda seems to be the most elegant, and therefore most
befitting that particular character of ideal beauty which the dramatist here assigns to
his imaginary princess. . . . The analogy will at once be seen, which the image of
the graceful rose bears to the exquisite spirit of Rosalind, no less than to her buoyant
figure in all its blooming charms. Orlando's verses on the subject are not a lover's
idealization of some real-life charmer — they but describe the dramatist's own ideal con-
ception "Cleopatra's majesty" recalls to us the tallness of figure which

the dramatist has made an essential characteristic of this personage — with a view, amongst
other things, to that peculiar male disguise which he designed her to assume, and under
which he seems to have intended that she should exhibit to us a complete impersonation
of the inmost soul, the most ethereal and exquisite spirit of the piece — that blended
deal of the forest and pastoral life, which lends to this drama so original and peculiar
a charm. To her cousin's proposal that, for security in their wanderings, they shall
put themselves in mean attire, and discolour their faces, Rosalind replies : —

" Were it not better,
Because that I am more than common tall,
That I did suit me all points like a man ?
A gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh,
A boar-spear in my hand : and (in my heart
Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will)

T 2

i 4 o SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

We'll have a swashing and a martial outside ;
As many other mannish cowards have,
That do outface it with their semblances."

The manner in which more than one of her modern representatives on the stage have
demeaned themselves under this habit would justify Shakespeare's Rosalind in saying to
them, as she does on one occasion to her friend Celia, " Dost thou think, though I am
caparisoped like a man, that I have a doublet and hose in my disposition ? " No indeed ;
it is a precisely opposite cause, her peculiarly feminine apprehensiveness, that stimulates
the ready invention which is her predominant intellectual characteristic, to propose the
expedient in question. It is not her affectionate and clear-headed cousin, but herself
that starts the timid objection to the going in quest of her banished father —

" Alas, what danger will it be to us,
Maids as we are, to travel forth so far !
Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold. "

Hereupon her friend simply suggests —

" I'll put myself in poor and mean attire,
And with a kind of umber smirch my face ;
The like do you ; so shall we pass along,
And never stir assailants."

This, however, is merely the negative defence, of rendering themselves unattractive.
But the ready wit of Rosalind supplies her with the thought of adding to this means of
safety a positive determent, by arraying her tall figure in " a swashing and a martial out-
side," which would have sat ill upon the low stature of Celia ; besides Rosalind must at
once have perceived that the appearance of a female companion by her side would make

her own disguise less liable to suspicion So much for the spirit in which

the heroine herself assumes this garb — a spirit as devoid of mere feminine vanity, as it is
of unfeminine boldness ; although the dramatist now permits her, in justly conscious
beauty, to name herself after the cupbearer of the gods, in that same strain of fond
idealization which makes him combine, in her proper feminine aspect, the exquisite feature
of a Helen, the noble grace of a Cleopatra, and the buoyant step of an Atalanta : —

" I'll have no worse a name than Jove's own page,
And therefore look you call me Ganymede. "

Until her first meeting with Orlando in the forest she no more seeks than Imogen does
to make any display of her masculine part — she simply "endures it. In love as she is, even

AS YOU LIKE IT. 141

before assuming it, she may well find it uncongenial. And when first assured that
Orlando is in their neighbourhood, all the woman rushes back upon her heart and mind :
" Alas the day ! What shall I do with my doublet and hose ? " So soon, however, as
Orlando comes actually into her presence, her quick apprehension fails not to discover
that these same doublet and hose afford her the best facility for ascertaining the
point which now engrosses all her solicitude — whether the noble youth on whom she has

fixed her affections, loves her as truly in return Among the higher male

personages of the piece, Orlando bears the most poetical name ; while his character, we
see, has been studiously compounded, so as to adapt it peculiarly for conceiving a passion
highly imaginative, but no less affectionate. We find it summed up in two remarkable
passages, on the joint testimony of the two persons of the drama who have known him the
most — the man who most hates him, and the man who most loved him — his elder brother
Oliver, and his father's old servant Adam. The evidence of the former, in his soliloquy
at the end of the opening scene, is rendered peculiarly emphatic by those preceding
words, " I hope I shall see an end of him ; for my soul, yet I know not why, hates
nothing more than he;" — "Yet," continues Oliver, "he's gentle; never schooled, and
yet learned ; full of noble device ; of all sorts enchantingly beloved ; and indeed, so
much in the heart of the world, and especially of my own people, who best know him,
that I am altogether misprised." After this, we may well accept as unexaggerated those
expressions of the affectionate old man, which bear witness to the like effect —

" O my gentle master,
O my sweet master, O you memory
Of old Sir Rowland ! why what make you here ?
Why are you virtuous ? Why do people love you ?
And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant ?

Know you not, master, to some kind of men

Their graces serve them but as enemies ?

No more do yours ; your virtues, gentle master,

Are sanctified and holy traitors to you,

Oh, what a world is this, when what is comely

Envenoms him that bears it ! "

Observe, that in all this, it is the beauty of soul rather than of person that is dwelt
upon as attracting every heart — though, " gentle, strong, and valiant," we cannot conceive
of the person itself as otherwise than comely and graceful.

Consistently with this idea, we find that it is not mere vulgar admiration of a handsome
youth performing a feat of bodily prowess, but an instant sympathy of soul, that thrills
the heart of Rosalind on their first meeting. It is remarkable that, in the first instance,
while Celia proposes to her cousin that they shall stay and see the wrestling, Rosalind,

i 4 2 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

pained by Le Beau's account of the three young men whom the wrestler has already-
disabled, shows her superior sensitiveness by her indisposition to remain : " Is there
yet another dotes upon rib-breaking ? Shall we see this wrestling, cousin ? " But her
first glance at the young stranger — " Is yonder the man ? '.' — banishes her reluctance ;
and to her uncle's inquiry, whether her cousin and she are " crept hither to see the
wrestling," she promptly answers for them both, " Ay, my liege ; so please you give us
leave j" and in like manner, she is the first to ask, "Young man, have you challenged
Charles the wrestler?" The terms in which he declines the proffered intervention of
the ladies to prevent his proceeding to the perilous encounter, are conceived by the
dramatist with admirable fitness to deepen and fix the impression which the speaker
has already made upon the sensitive and generous heart of Rosalind, by unconsciously
touching that strong though tender chord of sympathy, the similarity of their adverse
fortunes —

" I beseech you punish me not with your hard thoughts ; wherein I confess me much guilty, to deny
so fair and excellent ladies anything. But let your fair eyes, and gentle wishes, go with me to my
trial ; wherein if I be foiled, there is but one shamed that was never gracious ; if killed, but one dead
that is willing to be so. I shall do my friends no wrong, for I have none to lament me ; the world
no injury, for in it I have nothing ; only in the world I fill up a place which may be better supplied when
I have made it empty."

This modestly plaintive apology, when delivered in the pathetic melody of tone
appropriate to the character, fully prepares us for the heroine's expressions of tremulous
interest in his success, and for that silently fluttering exultation for his victory which
it is left for the genius of the actress to supply. Then, to complete the conquest of
this new passion over the heart of Rosalind, by a yet more intimate bond of com-
passionate sympathy, there come at once Orlando's disclosure of his parentage as the
son of her father's bosom friend, and her usurping uncle's ungenerous treatment of
him on that very account. She naturally exclaims —

" My father lov'd 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."

It is not, however, until her cousin has first addressed him — " Sir, you have well deserved,"
&c. — that Rosalind gives him the chain from her neck, saying — .

" Gentleman,
Wear this for me, one out of suits with fortune,
That could give more, but that her hand lacks means.
Shall we go, coz ? "

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."

On the other hand, the look and accents of the lovely wearer in giving the chain, seem
at once to have taken full possession of Orlando's heart —

" Can I not say, I thank you," &c.

And when the two princesses have left him alone —

' ' What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue ?
I cannot speak to her, yet she urged conference.
O poor Orlando ! thou art overthrown !
Or Charles, or something weaker masters thee ! "

And immediately, to fix the hold of this new passion on his sympathetic nature, and
complete, in the auditor's contemplation, the bond of reciprocal affection between the
generous-hearted lovers, comes in Le Beau, to tell Orlando, at once, of the usurping
duke's malevolence against him, — of his daughter Celia's more than sisterly affection for
her cousin Rosalind, and finally —

' ' That of late this duke,
Hath ta'en displeasure 'gainst his gentle niece ;
Grounded upon no other argument,
But that the people praise her for her virtues,
And pity her for her good father's sake ;
And, on my life, his malice 'gainst the lady
• Will suddenly break forth."

This announcement, we say, strikes a deeper chord of sympathy in Orlando's breast,
which vibrates in those concluding words of the scene —

** Thus must I from the smoke into the smother ;
From tyrant duke, unto a tyrant brother. —
But heavenly Rosalind ! "

George Fletcher. — Studies of Shakespeare (1847) PP- T 99 — 2 °8.

144 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

SHAKESPEARE'S CHOICE OF SUBJECTS. 1

In the choice cf subjects particularly, as well as in other features, Shakespeare belongs
to a school older than that of Fletcher, and radically different from it. The principle of
the' contrariety in the choice of subjects between the older and newer schools, is this : —
The older poets usually prefer stories with which their audience must have been previously
familiar; the newer poets avoid such known subjects, and attempt to create an adventitious
interest for their pieces, by appealing to the passion of curiosity, and feeding it with
novelty of incident. The early writers may have adopted their rule of choice from a
distrust in their own skill ; but they are more likely to have been influenced by reflecting
on the inexperience of their audience in theatrical exhibitions. By insisting on this
quality in their plots, they hampered themselves much in the choice of them ; and the
subjects which offered themselves to the older among them, were mainly confined to two
classes, history and the chivalrous tales being the only two cycles of story with which,
about the time of Shakespeare's birth, any general familiarity could be presumed. That
such were the favourite themes of the infant English drama is abundantly clear even from
the lists of old lost dramas which have been preserved to us. By the time when
Shakespeare stepped into the arena, the zeal for translation had increased the stock of
popular knowledge by the addition of the classical fables and the foreign modern novels ;
and his immediate precursors, some of whom were men of much learning, had especially
availed themselves of the former class of plots. If, passing over Shakespeare, we glance
at the plots of Fletcher, Johnson, or others of the same period, we find, among a great
diversity of means, a search for novelty universally on foot. Johnson is fond of inventing
his plots ; Beaumont and Fletcher usually borrow theirs ; but neither by the former nor
the latter were stories chosen Which were familiar to the people, nor in any instance,
perhaps, do they condescend to use plots which had been previously written on. Where
Beaumont and Fletcher do avail themselves of common tales, they artfully combine
them with others, and receive assistance from complexity of adventure in keeping their
uniform purpose in view. The historical drama was regarded by the new school as a
rude and obsolete form ; and there are scarcely half a dozen instances in which any
writer of that age, but Shakespeare, adopted it later than 1600. Historical subjects
indeed wanted the coveted charm, as did also the Romantic and the Classical Tales, both
of which shared in the neglect with which the Chronicles were treated. The Foreign
Novels, and stories partly borrowed from them, or wholly invented, were almost the
sole subjects of the newer drama, which has always the air of addressing itself to hearers

■ As You Like It is founded upon Lodge's novel story had been told in the Tale of Gamelyn, erro-

Rosalynd ; Euphues' Golden Legacie ; and the neously ascribed to Chaucer.

AS YOU LIKE IT. . i 45

possessing greater dramatic experience and more extended information than those who
were in the view of the older writers.

Shakespeare, in point of time, stood between these two classes : does he decidedly
belong to either, or show a leaning, and to which? He unequivocally belongs to the older
class ; or rather, the opposition to the newer writers assumes in him a far more decided shape
than in any of his immediate forerunners ; for in them are found numerous exceptions to
the rule, in him scarcely one. He returns, in fact, to more than one of the principles of
the old school, which had begun in his time to fall into disuse. The external form of
some of his plays, particularly his histories, is quite in the old taste. The narrative
chorus is the most observable remnant of antiquity ; and the long rhymed passages,
frequent in his earlier works, are abundant in the older writers : Peele uses them through
whole scenes, and Marlowe likewise to excess. His continual introduction of those
conventional characters, his favourite jesters, is another point of resemblance to the
ruder stage. And his choice of subjects, when combined with the peculiarities of economy
just noticed, as well as others, clearly approximates to the school of Lodge, Greene,
and those elder writers who have left few works and fewer names. His Historical Plays
are the perfection of the old school, the only valuable specimens of that class which it
has produced, and the latest instance in which its example was followed ; and he has
had recourse to the classical story for such subjects as approached most nearly to the
nature of his English Chronicles. And you must take especial note, that, even in the
class of subjects in which he seems to coincide with the new school — I mean his plots
borrowed from foreign novels — he assumes no more of conformity than its appearance,
while the principle of contrariety is still retained. The new writers preferred untranslated
novels, and, where they chose translated ones, disguised them till the features of the
original were lost ; Shakespeare not only uses translated tales — (this indeed from
necessity) — and closely adheres to their minutest circumstances, but in almost every
instance he has made choice of those among them which can be proved to have been
most widely known and esteemed at the time. Most of his plots founded on fanciful
subjects, whether derived from novels or other sources, can be shown to have been
previously familiar to the people. The story of Measure for Measure had been previously
told ; that of As You Like It he might have had from either of two popular collections of
tales ; the fable of Much Ado About Nothing seems to have been widely spread, and
those of AlPs Well that Ends Well, and the Winter's Tale; Romeo and Juliet appears
in at least one collection of English novels, and in a poem which enjoyed much
popularity. These are sufficient as examples ; but a still more remarkable circumstance
is this. In repeated instances, about twelve in all, Shakespeare has chosen subjects on
which plays had been previously written ; nay, more, on the subjects which he has so
rewritten, he has produced some of his best dramas, and one his very masterpiece.

i 4 6 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

Julius Ccesar belongs to this list; Lear does so likewise; and Hamlet. Is not that a
singular fact ? . . . . But Shakespeare has often, oftener than once, applied to the
chivalrous class of subjects, which was exclusively peculiar to the older school. Its
tales indeed bore a strong likeness to his own most esteemed subjects of study; for,
amidst all their extravagances and inconsistencies, the Gothic romances and poems, the
older of them at all events, professed in form to be chronicles of fact, and in principle to
assume historical truth as their groundwork. Pericles is founded on one of the most
popular romances of the middle ages, which had been .also versified by Gower, the second
father of the English poetical school. The characters in the Midsummer Night's Dream
are classical, but the costume is strictly Gothic, and shows that it was through the medium
of romance that he drew the knowledge of them ; and the Troilus and Cressida presents
another classical and chivalrous subject which Chaucer had handled at great length, also
invested with the richness of the romantic garb and decoration.

W. Spalding. — A Letter on Shakespeare's Authorship of " The Two Noble
Kinsmen" (1833), pp. 64 — 67.

TWELFTH NIGHT.

147

TWELFTH NIGHT.

Act III.

Scene IV. Olivia's Garden.

Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew Ague-
cheek.

Sir To. Why, man, he's a very devil ; I have
not seen such a firago. I had a pass with him,
rapier, scabbard and all, and he gives me the
stuck in with such a mortal motion, that it is
inevitable ; and on the answer, he pays you as
surely as your feet hit the ground they step on.
They say he has been fencer to the Sophy.

Sir And. Pox on't, I'll not meddle with him.

Sir To. Ay, but he will not now be pacified :
Fabian can scarce hold him yonder.

Sir And. Plague on't, an I thought he had
been valiant and so cunning in fence, Fid have
seen him damned ere Fid have challenged him.
Let him let the matter slip, and I'll give him my
horse, grey Capilet.

Sir To. I'll make the motion : stand here ;
make a good show on't : this shall end without
the perdition of souls. [Aside] Marry, I'll ride
your horse as well as I ride you.

Re-enter Fabian and Viola.

[ To Fab.] I have his horse to take up the quar-
rel : I have persuaded him the youth's a devil.

Fab. He is as horribly conceited of him ; and
pants and looks pale, as if a bear were at his
heels.

Sir To. [ To Vio.~\ There's no remedy, sir ;
he will fight with you for's oath sake : marry, he
hath better bethought him of his quarrel, and he
finds that now scarce to be worth talking of :
therefore draw, for the supportance of his vow ;
he protests he will not hurt you.

Vio. [Aside] Pray God defend me ! A little
thing would make me tell them how much I lack
of a man.

Fab. Give ground, if you see him furious.

Sir To. Come, Sir Andrew, there's no re-
medy ; the gentleman will, for his honour's sake,
have one bout with you ; he cannot by the duello
avoid it : but he has promised me, as he is a
gentleman and a soldier, he will not hurt you.
Come on ; to't.

Sir And. Pray God, he keep his oath !

Vio. I do assure you, 'tis against my will.

[They draw

VIOLA.

"\ 7IOLA, fair and youthful, separated, as she fears for ever, from her twin-brother Sebastian
in a shipwreck, is cast on the coast of Illyria, and assuming the costume of a page, takes
service with the Duke Orsino. It is just intimated that the reputation of the Duke may
already have so far touched her fancy, as to have made it one motive of her disguise to approach
nearer to him. She is speedily in high favour, and as speedily enamoured of her master ; but
his discourses of love have the Lady Olivia for their theme, and to her he despatches Viola as
an envoy. Loyally she performs her embassy, not without a reflection on the complication of
her position, but never hinting at, never dreaming of, a thought to play false with the com-
mission by retarding the suit, or by raising a prejudice where she is sent to conciliate love.
In the same still spirit of candour and rectitude she feels pity for Olivia when entangled in a
passion for herself, not unfeeling amusement, and not selfish malice at an additional obstacle
to the passion of the Duke. For her own fate, her winning manners, reflective sentiment, \/
and serene imagination, find their way, a way of their own, to his heart, and she seems y/'

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SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

v/ content to trust to the bias of nature for the remainder ; and at the most indulges in
expressions which, should discovery arrive, must, whether she anticipates the result or not,
expose to view the condition of her own affections. But her disguise has other conse-
quences besides her day-dream of languishing enthusiasm, and though her light pinnace
is buoyant on the billows, it is grievously tossed and shaken when she has to abide
collision with the boisterous characters of the comic portion of the play.

While Viola is trusting to, or hoping in, time and impression and the force of genuine
sympathy to find a place in the heart of her lord, when all accidents consent, and while
Olivia in passionate self-abandonment is wooing she knows not what, roguish conspirators
are taking advantage of the self-conceit of a churlish steward, to possess him with a
dream of greatness, and lure him into a monstrous self-exhibition, under the notion that
he is beloved by his mistress. Not, however, entirely unavenged ; Sir Andrew Ague-
cheek, one of his betrayers, is made a cat's-paw of a wooer by Sir Toby, and trips up over
the heels of his own fatuous vanity as grossly as Malvolio ; while Maria, patient and
hopeful as Viola, but more active in her strategy according to her nature and circum-
stances, lays siege to Sir Toby, who is fairly taken off his legs at last, after laughing his
fill at Viola, Malvolio, and Sir Andrew, and captured, in all openness of heart, by mere
congeniality of jest, by his niece's chambermaid.

Viola and Sir Andrew, cowards both, by right of sex or privilege of carpet knight-
hood, yet each believing the other a very devil by backing up and suggestion of mis-
chievous comrades, form a group which comprises the very essence and substance of the
laughable ; and it is a companion picture to Olivia looking with eyes of wonder on
Malvolio, who misapprehends her as much as he does himself.

It is in the last scene that all the embarrassments cross and culminate ; here the circuit
is completed, and the shock and discharge of general explanation restores all to happy
equilibrium. Time and favourable chance bring all round happily and easily, for all we
are interested in, and only allow difficulties to become painful at the moment of indicating
the way of escape. In this last scene, then, Viola is first exposed to the bitter charge of
her brother's friend Antonio challenging recognition, then to that of the Duke for sup-
planting him with Olivia, then to the complaints of Olivia for beguiling her, followed by
the exclamation of all when the priest confirms the statement ; and, lastly, by the
incredible accusation of Sir Andrew and Sir Toby of breaking their heads ; and all these
complicated knots thus brought into one space are cleared and divided at once by the
simple entrance of Sebastian, to claim the faith which Olivia had pledged to him in happy
mistake for his sister. The vagaries of Malvolio are as easily explained, and the spring
of the dramatic action has then fairly run down. . . . . Good fortune does not
alight on Sebastian himself more unsolicited and unmanaged than on Viola. After her
first exertion of will in assuming male dress, and this is readily ascribed to the exigence

TWELFTH NIGHT. 149

of unprotected position, she simply allows herself to be carried along by the stream of
time and events, which answer to her confidence by floating her at last to happiness.
Enamoured of the Duke, she can no more than Rosalind, though in a more pensive
spirit, deny herself the luxury of uttering her passion when secure that her expressions
cannot be applied ; but otherwise the loss of a brother rests on her heart as on Olivia's,
and she has not yet recovered courage to attempt to steer her fate. She is simply
face to face with grief, and conquers it by being able tranquilly to smile at it. She does
her embassage to Olivia with candid directness, and is content to take the consequence of
her loyalty. She sees quickly a probability that she is mistaken for her brother, yet she
leaves this too for the course of events to bring to light ; and even when the hasty speech
of the Duke seems to threaten her destruction, she turns to meet her fate " jocund, apt,
and willingly." Her conduct throughout is consistent with the character for which the
type and key-note was given by the conditions of the embassy. Had her nature been
more active, less contemplative, and less conscientious, she could not have undertaken to
intercede with her rival, without making some use of her position to influence her own
fortunes, and yet in . what direction could she urge them, consistently with delicacy and
honour? A stronger character would have been far more embarrassed; and thus the
position creates the necessity for the only combination of feminine qualities that could
be placed in it without disagreeable difficulty and without degradation. It is with like
uncritical, though not unwondering, acquiescence that Sebastian receives his good fortune;
and it is the naturalness of this, as a point of twin likeness, that reconciles us to it, and
thus saves him from any appearance of dulness on the one hand, or duplicity on the
other.

With the confiding tenderness of Viola's character, there is combined a tranquil reflec-
tiveness that rescues it from weakness, and is very engaging. Thus, in her first scene —

" There is a fair behaviour in thee, Captain,
And though that nature, with a beauteous wall,
Doth oft close in pollution, — yet of thee " . . . .

Again, when she perceives the direction of Olivia's infatuation —

" Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness
Wherein the pregnant enemy doth much."

This touching self-accusation, the very key of the character, has been, I am sorry to say,
left out when I have seen the play profaned upon the stage, to give the actress a false and
foolish point in a strut of exultation and a tapping of the cap, at the words " I am the
man."

i 5 o SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

The same fine spirit breathes through the lines—

" I hate ingratitude more in a man
Than lying, vainness, babbling, drunkenness,
Or any taint of vice whose strong corruption
Inhabits our frail blood."

Viola loves tenderly while yet unwooed, but this sobriety of thought relieves her from any
tinge of levity. Olivia is like her in both regards ; and though more wilful, as her own
mistress, we see enough of her, in the scene before the entrance of Viola, to be assured
of her steadfast and valuable disposition.

Nothing less than the refinement and beauty with which this pair are depicted, could
so far rivet our interest and attention to the sentimental portions of the play, as to
enable them to make head against and countervail an overwhelming influence in the
riotous fun and exuberant animal spirits of the secondary plot ; nothing less would have
kept this down in secondary place, both from the richness of its subject-matter, and
the diffuseness that is permitted to it.

The manner in which the delicate little figure of Viola, the false boy-page, gets involved
and entangled among the mischievous pranks of this subordinate group is highly diverting,
and the exhibition was due to the world from Shakespeare. He who had already depicted
with such geniality the disguises of Julia, Rosalind, Portia, and Imogen, owed the world
yet this play. Without it the full amusement and interest derivable from the situation he
so much delighted in, and had portrayed at once with such vivacity and such modesty,
remained imperfectly expressed. The masquerading damsel in all her changes had yet
escaped the most perplexing, the most ludicrously embarrassing situations, but the time
came at last, and in the play of Twelfth Night. The disguise of Rosalind leads, it is
true, to the same false positions as that of Viola, but in the latter case the difficulties are
more exaggerated, to harmonize with the uproarious spirit of fun introduced into the piece.
If Rosalind is wooed by Phebe, so is Viola, but still more importunately by Olivia ; and
the more markedly, that Olivia is no country girl, but a countess. If Rosalind finds her
doublet and hose in the way of the promotion of her own love interest, still more so
Viola, who has to thank them for making her an envoy to her rival to her own prejudice ;
and if Rosalind is unable to bear herself manly when the bloodstained napkin is ex-
hibited, Viola is indeed in a difficulty when hedged in before and behind, — an antelope
in toils that would hamper a bear, she is called upon to strip her sword stark naked and
defend herself.

W. W. Lloyd. — Essays on the Life and Plays of Shakespeare
(1858) : " Twelfth Night."

TWELFTH NIGHT. 151

SIR TOBY BELCH CONTRASTED WITH SIR JOHN FALSTAFF.

Falstaff is never represented as drunk, or even affected by wine. The copious potations
of sack do not cloud his intellect, or embarrass his tongue. He is always self-possessed
and ready to pour forth his floods of acute wit. In this he forms a contrast to Sir Toby
Belch. The discrimination between these two characters is very masterly. Both are
knights, both convivial, both fond of loose or jocular society, both somewhat in advance
of their youth — there are many outward points of similitude, and yet they are as distinct as
Prospero and Polonius. The Illyrian knight is of a lower class of mind. His jests are
mischievous ; Falstaff never commits a practical joke. Sir Toby delights in brawling and
tumult ; Sir John prefers the ease of his own inn. Sir Toby sings songs, joins in catches*
and rejoices in making a noise ; Sir John knows too well his powers of wit and conver-
sation to think it necessary to make any display, and he hates disturbance. Sir Toby is
easily affected by liquor and roystering ; Sir John rises from the board as cool as when
he sat down. The knight of Illyria had nothing to cloud his mind ; he never aspired to
higher things than he has attained ; he lives a jolly life in the household of his niece,
feasting, drinking, singing, rioting, playing tricks from one end of the year to the other ;
his wishes are gratified, his hopes unblighted. I have endeavoured to show that Falstaff
was the contrary of all this. And we must remark that the tumultuous Toby has some
dash of romance in him, of which no trace can be found in the English knight. The
wit and grace, the good humour and good looks of Maria, conquer Toby's heart, and he
is in love with her — love expressed in rough fashion, but love sincere. Could we see him
some dozen years after his marriage, we should find him sobered down into a respectable,
hospitable, and domestic country gentleman, surrounded by a happy family of curly-
headed Illyrians, and much fonder of his wife than of his bottle. We can never so consider
of Falstaff; he must always be a dweller in clubs and taverns, a perpetual diner-out at
gentlemen's parties, or a frequenter of haunts where he will not be disturbed by the
presence of ladies of condition or character.

William Maginn. — Shakespeare Papers (1859), pp. 53 — 55.

CHARACTER OF MALVOLIO.

Malvolio is not essentially ludicrous. He becomes comic, but by accident. He is
cold, austere, repelling j but dignified, consistent, and, for what appears, rather of an
over-stretched morality. Maria describes him as a sort of Puritan ; and he might have
worn his gold chain with honour in one of our Roundhead families, in the service of a

152 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

Lambert or a Lady Fairfax. But his morality and his manners are misplaced in Illyria.
He is opposed to the proper levities of the piece, and falls in the unequal contest. Still
his pride, or his gravity (call it which you will), is inherent and native to the man, not
mock or affected, which latter only are the fit objects to excite laughter. His quality is
at the best unlovely, but neither buffoon nor contemptible. His bearing is lofty, a little
above his station, but probably not much above his deserts. We see no reason why he
should not have been brave, honourable, accomplished. His careless committal of the
ring to the ground (which he was commissioned to restore to Cesario), bespeaks a
generosity of birth and feeling. His dialect on all occasions is that of a gentleman, and
a man of education. We must not confound him with the eternal old, low steward of
comedy. He is master of the household of a great princess ; a dignity probably conferred
upon him for other respects than age or length of service. Olivia, at the first indication
of his supposed madness, declares that she " would not have him miscarry for half of her
dowry." Does this look as if the character were meant to appear little or insignificant ?
Once, indeed, she accuses him to his face — of what? — of being "sick of self-love," — but
with a gentleness and considerateness which could not have been, if she had not thought
that this particular infirmity shaded some virtues. His rebuke to the knight and his
sottish revellers is sensible and spirited ; and when we take into consideration the
unprotected condition of his mistress, and the strict regard with which her state of real or
dissembled mourning would draw the eyes of the world upon her house-affairs, Malvolio
might feel the honour of the family in some sort in his keeping ; as it appears not that
Olivia had any more brothers, or kinsmen, to look to it — for Sir Toby had dropped all
such nice respects at the buttery-hatch. That Malvolio was meant to be represented as
possessing estimable qualities, the expression of the Duke, in his anxiety to have him
reconciled, almost infers : " Pursue him, and entreat him to a peace." Even in his
abused state of chains and darkness, a sort of greatness seems never to desert him. He
argues highly and well with the supposed Sir Topas, and philosophises gallantly upon
his straw. There must have been some shadow of worth about the man ; he must have
been something more than a mere vapour — a thing of straw, Jack in office — before Fabian
and Maria could have ventured sending him upon a courting-errand to Olivia. There
was some consonancy (as he would say) in the undertaking, or the jest would have been
too bold even forth at house of misrule.

Charles Lamb. — Essays of Elia. " On Some of the Old Actors."

TWELFTH NIGHT. 153

THE COMIC SPIRIT OF THE PLAY.

The more pregnantly .... the general comic view of things is expressed in the
Twelfth Night, the more difficult it is to ascertain the special modifications which form the
ground-work of this particular comedy. In vain does the attentive reader search amid
the combined mass of all the separate elements of the comic view of things for the
slightest indication to guide him to discover where the preponderance lies. At the first
glance it might almost be thought the end in view was a comic exhibition of love, which «^"
indeed may well be the subject of the Comedy, in so far as it forms an essential principle v
of human existence, and as life, when considered from it, assumes a peculiar aspect. But .
it is not the real, and in this sense so influential passion of love, that we have to do with in
this piece. Love here is rather a niere humour of fancy — a chameleon-like play of the \^s
feelings, a motley garb which the soul puts on and off with the changing fashion of the
hour. The Duke's passion for Olivia burst out into flame for Viola as suddenly as love "
for him was kindled in her heart ; Olivia's liking for Viola is easily satisfied with the \/
substitution of her brother, who, on his part, has no scruple to be put in his sister's
place, and Malvolio's and Sir Andrew's tenderness for Olivia is, after all, but a bubble.
And even Antonio's friendship for Sebastian possesses the same characters of caprice
and groundlessness. Thus does the motley capriciousness of love appear the chief
impulse in the merry game of life, which is here laid open to our sight, and we
cannot for a moment recognise any more serious view of it in the groundwork of

this piece

The dreamy, rapturous and music-loving Duke, the charming Olivia, girl-like, capricious, r
hard to please, but easily won, the tender, sensitive, but playful and witty Viola, Antonio 1/
with his fanciful friendship for Sebastian, and Sebastian with the natural rashness and
impetuosity of youth, the trick ish and roguish Maria, with her clever helper's helper —
Fabian, all these characters are thrown off in such easy, flowing outline, and in such
transparent colours, and harmonize so well together, that the slightest alteration would
tear the varied, light and airy, but ingenious web that is spun around them. The clever
contrast between the fool by profession and the involuntary simpletons, Malvolio, Sir
Andrew, and Sir Toby, is perhaps the most carefully worked out of the whole piece.
While their own folly and absurdity, notwithstanding all their struggles, does not force the
cap-and-bells over their ears, the clown in the adopted gown of motley moves with

inimitable ease, and pins the pied lappets of his wit to the backs of all the rest

What he wishes is nothing more nor less than to be a fool in the great fool's house, the
world ; hence he has an unconquerable aversion for all starched wisdom and reserve, and

154 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

for all hollow, unmeaning gravity, which can neither understand nor bear a joke, and on
this account is he on such ill terms with Malvolio. He alone feels respect for his
cap-and-bells ; for he knows that fun and laughter, joke and jest, belong in short to life,
and that there is more depth and meaning in witty folly like his own than in the sour
looks of so-called wise folk.

Dr. Hermann Ulrici. — Shakespeare 's Dramatic Art, translated
by A. J. W. M. y pp. 247 — 250.

THE ROMANTIC COMEDY OF SHAKESPEARE CONTRASTED
WITH THE GENTEEL COMEDY OF THE RESTORATION.

With respect to that part of comedy which relates to gallantry and intrigue, the
difference between Shakespeare's comic heroines and those of a later period may be
referred to the same distinction between natural and artificial life, between the world of
fancy and the world of fashion. The refinements of romantic passion arise out of the
imagination brooding over "airy nothing," or over a favourite object, where "love's-'
golden shaft hath killed the flock of all affections else :" whereas the refinements of this
passion in genteel comedy, or in every-day life, may be said to arise out of repeated
observation and experience, diverting and frittering away the first impressions of things
by a multiplicity of objects, and producing, not enthusiasm, but fastidiousness or giddy
dissipation. For the one a comparatively rude age and strong feelings are best fitted ; for
"there the mind must minister to itself:" to the other, the progress of society and a
knowledge of the world are essential ; for here the effect does not depend on leaving the
mind concentred in itself, but on the wear and tear of the heart, amidst the complex and
rapid movements of the artificial machinery of society, and on the arbitrary subjection of
the natural course of the affections to every slightest fluctuation of fashion, caprice, or
opinion. Thus Olivia, in Twelfth Night, has but one admirer of equal rank with herself, v
and but one love, to whom she innocently plights her hand and heart ; or if she had a "
thousand lovers, she would be the sole object of their adoration and burning vows,
without a rival. The heroine of romance and poetry sits secluded in her bowers of fancy,
sole queen and arbitress of all hearts ; and as the character is one of imagination, " of
solitude and melancholy musing born," so it may be best drawn from the imagination.
Millamont in the Way of the World, has so many lovers, that she surfeits on admiration,
till it becomes indifferent to her ; so many rivals, that she is forced to put on a thousand
airs of languid affectation to mortify and vex them more ; so many offers, that she at
last gives her hand to the man of her heart, rather to escape the persecution of their
addresses, and out of levity and disdain, than from any serious choice of her own. This

TWELFTH NIGHT. 155

is a comic character, its essence consists of making light of things from familiarity
and use, and it is formed by habit and outward circumstances, so it requires actual
observation, and an acquaintance with the modes of artificial life, to describe it with
the utmost possible grace and precision. Congreve, who had every other opportu-
nity, was but a young man when he wrote this character ; and that makes the miracle
the greater.

I do not, in short, consider comedy as exactly an affair of the heart or the imagination ;
and it is for this reason only that I think Shakespeare's comedies deficient. I do not,
however, wish to give a preference to any comedies over his ; but I do perceive a differ-
ence between his comedies and some others that are, notwithstanding, excellent in their
way ; and I have endeavoured to point out in what this difference consists, as well as I
could. Finally, I will not say that he had not as great a natural genius for comedy as
any one ; but I may venture to say, that he had not the same artificial models and
regulated mass of fashionable absurdity or elegance to work upon.

W. Hazlitt. — Lecttires on the English Comic Writers (1869), pp. 47 — 48.

x 2

O —

156

SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS
WELL.

Act I.

Scene I. Rousilloti. The Count's Palace.

Bertram, the Countess of Rousillon,
Helena, and La feu.

Count. Heaven bless him ! Farewell, Ber-
tram.

[Exit.

Ber. [To Helena] The best wishes that can

be forged in your thoughts be servants to you !

Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress,

and make much of her.

Laf Farewell, pretty lady : you must hold
the credit of your father.

[Exeunt Bertram and Lafeti.
Hel. O, were that all ! I think not on my
father ;
And these great tears grace his remembrance

more
Than those I shed for him. What was he like ?
I have forgot him : my imagination
Carries no favour in 't, but Bertram's.
I am undone : there is no living, none,

If Bertram be away. 'Tvvere all one
That I should love a bright particular star
And think to wed it, he is so above me :
In his bright radiance and collateral light
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.
The ambition in my love thus plagues itself :
The hind that would be mated by the lion
Must die for love. 'Twas pretty, though a plague,
To see him every hour ; to sit and draw
His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,
In our heart's table ; heart too capable
Of every line and trick of his sweet favour :
But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must sanctify his reliques. Who comes here ?

Enter Parolles.

[Aside] One that goes with him : I love him for

his sake ;
And yet I know him a notorious liar,
Think him a great way fool, solely a coward ;
Yet these fix'd evils sit so fit in him,
That they take place, when virtue's steely bones
Look bleak i' the cold wind : withal, full oft we

see
Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.

Par. Save you, fair queen !

Hel. And you, monarch !

THE THEME OF "ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL."

W THAT, then, did Shakespeare find in Boccaccio's novel, which he read in Paynter's
translation ? What was it that tempted him to dramatise it ? It was evidently only
the character of Giletta, w r ho being filled with a burning love for Beltramo, undertakes to
win him herself, and actually succeeds in marrying him, although she succeeds in winning
his love only after overcoming various obstacles by stratagem, which is as fair in love as in
war. The story of this courtship, which is not tempered either by the motives or by the
characters, makes upon us — to use Gervinus's severe words — the impression of "boundless
importunity," and according to him is tolerable only in the novelist, with whom the " credu-
lous ear is a far more indulgent judge than the sharp eye of the spectator in front of the
stage." We should, however, not forget that the play must have given far less offence at a
time when the subject of a girl following the man she loves was a favourite dramatic theme; we
need only recall to mind the 'Spanish Theatre, Pastor Fido, the Two Gentlemen of Verona, &c.

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ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

157

However this may be, Shakespeare was charmed by the story and the character of
Giletta ; such glowing and such faithful love could not but deeply affect him, and stir up
within him many questions and considerations. Might not a woman's love in its fulness
and sincerity claim the same right to gratification as a man's? Should her heart be
condemned by nature to unbroken silence, and in the end sink in painful resignation ?
Helena herself expresses similar thoughts in the following words, in which she however
in the first place' thinks but of the difference of rank separating her from the man she
loves : —

" Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie,
Which we ascribe to Heaven ; the fated sky
Gives us free scope, only doth backward pull
Our stow designs when we ourselves are dull ...
Impossible be strange attempts to those
That weigh their pains with sense ; and do suppose
That what hath been cannot be. Who ever strove
1 To show her merit that did miss her love ? "

Starting from reflections like these, Helena undertakes the " strange attempt " to win the
beloved man, and this shows why All's Well that Ends Well could not be formed into a
perfect comedy, whereas the Taming of the Shrew is a comedy out and out. In the
Taming of the Shrew we have only a comic or burlesque exaggeration of the natural
relation between man and woman, whereas here the reverse of this natural relation is
attempted and poetically justified. The courting done by the woman goes, so to speak,
against the grain ; it is either simply repulsive, or else it inclines to tragedy. After the
poet had once chosen the subject, the main thing to be done certainly was to endeavour
that the woman should as imperceptibly as possible pass the bounds assigned to her
by nature and custom, for the man-woman, a modern emancipation heroine, would never
have been a character for whom Shakespeare could have become enthusiastic, he who
everywhere places genuine womanliness so high-, who has created immortal ideals of
feminine feeling and life, and to whom the idea of female emancipation was utterly
foreign. An attempt was to be made, — here was a problem which the great searcher of
hearts could not resist ; he had described courtship so often, and from such different
points of view, why not once from this point also?

Karl Elze. — Essays on Shakespeare (translated by L. Dora Schmitz),
(1874) pp. 122 — 124.

i 5 8 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

THE CHARACTER OF HELENA.

The character of the heroine, Helena, is one of rare sweetness, blended with high
romantic fervour. She is placed in the singularly critical position of courting her
husband, both as a maiden and a wife ; and the glorious testimony to the transparent
beauty of virtue is fully borne out, and a triumph achieved, by her not committing one
single violation of the laws of the most scrupulous modesty.

I must take leave to say a few words in behalf, and I hope in justification, of Helena,
whose principle of action appears to have been wonderfully mistaken, and whose mental
structure to have been — I will not say, unappreciated, but not even recognised by the
general reader. Of all Shakespeare's heroines, it strikes me that Helena is the one most
philosophical, both in temperament and in speech and conduct. When I say " philo-
sophical in temperament," I do not mean that she is either stoical or resigned. She is
the very reverse of either. But she is reflective, she is observant, and she is essentially
remedial. An apparently hopeless passion has taught her reflection, introspection, and
humility of spirit. It has taught her to think conscientiously, to reason justly, to weigh
her own and others' claims carefully. She has discernment and she has warmth of heart :
the first teaching her to perceive accurately, the latter impelling her to decide generously.
She, therefore, estimates herself and her own value at modest rate, while to Bertram she
awards all the superiority that loving worship takes delight in imputing to its chosen idol.
But at the same time that Helena's affection prompts her to overrate the man she loves,
and to underrate herself, her disposition will not let her sink beneath the sense of dis-
parity. Her own character will not let her do this ; for besides its diffidence of self, it
possesses uncommon self-reliance and moral courage, — a combination less rare than is
generally believed. Womanly gentleness and modesty, together with womanly firmness
and fortitude, are far from incompatible ; and in Helena of Narbonne they co-exist to a
remarkable degree. The kind of gentleness which consists of mere prone and passive
yieldingness, oftener degenerates into weakness, ending in obstinacy and slyness, than
Helena's kind of gentleness, which is self-modesty without self-distrust. She is conscious,
to an acutely-sensitive degree, of her own inadequate pretensions ; but she is also con-
scious — involuntarily conscious, as it were — of her own powers to win through patient
trial, earnest attempt, and devoted endeavour. It is this that makes Helena's philosophy
so " remedial " a one. Ever ready to acknowledge her lack of personal merit, she is
inwardly aware of a moral merit, that requires but time and opportunity to obtain for her
that which her own simple attractions are unable to command. She does not feel herself
formed to inspire regard, but she knows herself worthy to gain regard ; and this she
diligently and faithfully dedicates her whole thoughts and energies to achieve. Observe

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 159

here with what mingled fervour and humility her loving thoughts clothe themselves in

thoughtful words —

" Tis pity .
That wishing well had not a body in 't,
Which might be felt ; — that we, the poorer born,
Whose baser stars do shut us up in wishes,
Might with effects of them follow our friends,
And show what we alone must think, which never
Returns us thanks."

Helena, with the true courage born of a practical and remedial philosophy, is eager to
find resources in her own sense of resolve. She says —

" Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie
Which we ascribe to Heaven : the fated sky
Gives us free scope ; only doth backward pull
Our slow designs, when we ourselves are dull."

She gathers confidence from inborn consciousness of steadfastness and ardour of perse-
verance, exclaiming —

" Impossible be strange attempts to those
That weigh their pains in sense ; and do suppose
What hath been cannot be. Who ever strove
To show her merit that did miss her love ? "

The same characteristic earnestness, with faith in the philosophy of endeavour, marks the
whole of her arguments with the king during the interview where she seeks to persuade
him of the efficacy of her father's medicine. She thus modestly, yet ardently, urges him
to essay its effect —

" What I can do, can do no hurt to try,
Since you set up your rest 'gainst remedy.
He that of greatest works is finisher,
Oft does them by the weakest minister.
So Holy Writ in babes hath judgment shown,
When judges have been babes. Great floods have flown
From simple sources ; and great seas have dried,
When miracles have by the greatest been denied.
Oft expectation fails ; and most oft there
Where most it promises; and of t it hits
Where hope is coldest, and despair most fits."

This is perfectly the language of one accustomed to reason hopefully in the midst of
discouragement, and to reap fruit for trust out of the most unpromising occurrences.
Helena has a spirit of fervent reliance, the offspring of her very meekness and innocent

i6o SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

humility. When the king waives her proffered help, she thus gently, yet warmly, meets
his refusal. Her speech is at once femininely diffident and devoutly earnest : —

" Inspired merit so by breath is barrel.

It is not so with Him that all things knows,

As 'tis with us that square our guess by shows :

But most it is presumption in us, when

The help of Heaven we count the act of men.

Dear sir, to my endeavour give consent :

Of Heaven, not me, make an experiment.

I am not an impostor that proclaim

Myself against the level of mine aim ;

But now I think, and think I know most sure,

My art is not past power, nor you past cure."

No wonder such eloquent persuasion succeeds in its desired effect upon her royal
listener. He replies, " Art thou so confident? Within what space hop'st thou my cure?"
And then Helena answers his words full of her characteristically humble, yet trustful
spirit — rising into poetic beauty with her own mounting hope : —

" The greatest grace lending grace,
Ere twice the horses of the sun shall bring
Their fiery torcher his diurnal ring ;
Ere twice in murk and occidental damp
Moist Hesperus hath quench'd his sleepy lamp,
Or four-and-twenty times the pilot's glass
Hath told the thievish minutes how they pass ;
What is infirm from your sound parts shall fly ;
Health shall live free, and sickness freely die."

The essence of Helena's philosophy, in its practical energy, which prefers deeds to
speech, and its hopeful nature, ever looking to the possibility of good, as well as facing
the existence of evil, is contained in those few words of hers where she interrupts some-
thing she was going to say, thus : —

" But with the word the time will bring on summer ;
When briars shall have leaves as well as thorns,
And be as sweet as sharp. We must away.
Our waggon is prepar'd, and time revives us ;
All's well that ends well. Still the fine's the crown ;
Whate'er the course, the end is the renown."

Helena's remedial philosophy supplies her with one invaluable resource — unflinching
courage against disappointment. When on her journey homewards, hoping to meet the
king at Marseilles, and, arriving there, finds him just gone, with what promptitude and

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 161

cheerfulness she prepares to follow him. No time wasted in weak lamentation and
regret, but active resolve and steady perseverance. This is precisely the kind of courage
— moral courage — which women of Helena's nature and philosophy possess. It is the
noblest, the sublimest courage; and it is essentially feminine courage. Fortitude of
spirit against discouragement — bravery of heart and mind against disappointment, disaster,
and defeat — constitute womanly valour ; and we see that the gentlest, at the same time
the firmest, among women, are those most distinguished by this heroic attribute. So
much for Helena's philosophy.

But Helena has been tacitly impeached, if not openly arraigned, of an unseemly
forwardness in the proffer of herself and her affections. She has had high justice done
her, it is true, at the hands of several critics : Coleridge calling her upon one occasion
" Shakespeare's loveliest character ;" Hazlitt saying, " She is placed in circumstances of the
most critical kind .... yet the most scrupulous nicety of female modesty is not
once violated;" Charles Lamb ascribing to her "the full lustre of the female character;"
and lastly, one of her own sex, Mrs. Jameson, in her Characteristics of Women, having
written a noble vindication of her character and conduct. Yet, still there has been a
prevailing feeling — an impression — that Helena is guilty of unfeminine want of delicacy
and reserve in the manifestation of her passion for Bertram ; and the very zeal of her
defenders in pleading her cause evinces the consciousness that such an impression exists.
How this impression has arisen, I think, I can show. In the first place, Helena, as has
been already said, is a remarkable union of moral force and courage with gentleness and
tenderness of heart ; and there are many men who cannot believe in — nay, who cannot
see — gentleness and softness in a woman's nature, if it be accompanied with strength of
character. There is a favourite cant phrase in Noodledom (as Sidney Smith calls the
region of numskulls) about " strong-minded women," which seems to preclude the
possibility of strength in co-existence with gentleness of feeling and softness of
manner. As " strong-minded women " are frequently spoken of, one would think a
" strong-minded " woman must necessarily have the figure of a horse-guard, the swag of a
drayman, and the sensibility of a carcase-butcher. Helena, in her energy of purpose, in
her quickness of intelligence to discern a means of fulfilling her object, and in her spirited
pursuit of those means, may give the idea of unfeminine will and decision to those who
confound passiveness with gentleness, helplessness with retiring delicacy, and incapacity
with modesty ; a confounding of qualities which characterises the opinion of one class of
men, about women, of the present day. But those who know how entirely consistent
with unaffected diffidence of self, is the utmost heroism of self-devotion and self- exertion,
in women, distinguished by all their sex's grace of person, sentiment, and behaviour, will
perceive nothing but truest feminine beauty in all that Helena does. She has that absence
of self-conceit, with reliance upon her sense of right, which abases no jot of modest

i62 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

feeling and demeanour, while it leads to the most courageous endeavour. No difficulty
daunts her, because she has confidence in the motive which impels her, rather than in her
own power to accomplish its ends, — a characteristic distinction deserving of notice.

C. Cowden Clarke. — Shakespeare Characters (1863), pp. 246 — 251.

CHANGES OF TYPE IN SHAKESPEARE'S FEMALE
CHARACTERS.

The changes of type which took place in the prominent female characters of Shake-
speare's plays as the poet passed from youth to manhood, and from early manhood to
riper maturity, would form an interesting subject for detailed study. The emotional
women of the early plays, if not turbulent and aggressive, are still deficient in delicacy of
heart, in refinement of instinct, impulse, and habit. The intellectual women, who stand
by the side of these, are bright and clever, but over-confident, forward, or defiant. In the
early historical plays appear terrible female forms, — women whose ambitions have been
foiled, whose hearts have been torn and crushed, who are filled with fierce sorrow,
passionate indignation, a thirst for revenge. Such are the Duchess of Gloster, Margaret
of Anjou, Queen Elinor, Constance. As comedy succeeds comedy the female characters
become more complex, more subtile, more exquisite. Rosaline's flouting of Berowne
becomes Rosalind's arch mockery of Orlando, or the sportive contests of Beatrice with
Benedick. In Portia of the Merchant of Venice intellect and emotions play into one
another with exquisite swiftness, brightness, and vital warmth.

Just at the close of the period which gave birth to Shakespeare's most joyous comedies,
and at the entrance to the tragic period, appear types of female character which are dis-
tinguished by some single element of peculiar strength, Helena, Isabella, Portia of Julius
Casar (type of perfect womanly heroism, yet environed by the weakness of her sex) ;
and over against these are studies of feminine incapacity or ignobleness — Ophelia,
Gertrude, Cressida. It is as if Shakespeare at this time needed some one strong,
outstanding excellence to grasp and steady himself by, and had lost his delight in the
even harmony of character which suits us, and brings us joy when we make no single,
urgent, and peculiar demand for help. Next follow the tragic figures — Desdemona,
the invincible loyalty of wifehood ; Cordelia, the invincible filial loyalty ; sacrificial lives,
which are offered up, and which sanctify the earth, lives which fall in the strife with evil,
and which falling achieve their victories of love. And as these make the world beautiful
and sacred, even while they leave it strange and sorrowful, so over against them appear
the destroyers of life — Lady Macbeth, and the monsters Goneril, Regan.

Finally, in Shakespeare's latest plays appear upon the one hand the figures of the

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 163

great sufferers — calm, self-possessed, much enduring, free from self-partiality, unjust
resentment, and the passion of revenge — Queen Katharine, Hermione; and on the other
hand are exquisite girlish figures, children who have known no sorrow, over whom is
shed a magical beauty, an ideal light, while above them Shakespeare is seen, as it were,
bowing tenderly — Miranda, Perdita. How great a distance has been traversed ! Instead
of the terrible Margaret of Anjou we have here Queen Katharine. Shakespeare in his
early period would have found cold, and without suitability for the purposes of art,
Katharine's patience, reserve, and equilibrium of soul. Instead of Rosaline here is Perdita.
A death-bed glorious with a vision of angels, and the exquisite dawn of a young girl's
life, these are the two last themes on which the imagination of the poet cared to dwell
affectionately and long.

Edward Dowden, — Shakspere, his Mind and Art (1875), pp. 91 — 93.

y 2

164

SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

JULIUS CAESAR.

Act I.
Scene II. Rome. A Public Place. . ■
Brutus and Cassius.

Bru. The games are done and Caesar is re-
turning.
Ca r. As they pass by, pluck Casca by the
sleeve ;
And he will, after his sour fashion, tell you
What hath proceeded worthy note to-day.

Re-enter CjESAR and his Train.

Bru. I will do so. But, look you, Cassius,
The angry spot doth glow on Caesar's brow,
And all the rest look like a chidden train :
Calpurnia's cheek is pale ; and Cicero
Looks with such ferret and such fiery eyes
As we have seen him in the Capitol,
Being cross'd in conference by some senators.

Cos. Casca will tell us what the matter is.

Cats. Antonius !

Ant. Caesar ?

Cats. Let me have men about me that are
fat:

Sleek-headed men and such as sleep o'night s
Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look ;
He thinks too much : such men are dangerous.

Ant. Fear him not, Caesar ; he's not dan-
• gerous ; .
He is a noble Roman and well given.

Cats. Would he were fatter ! But I fear him
not :
Yet if my name were liable to fear,
I do not know the man I should avoid
So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much ;
He is a great observer, and he looks
Quite through the deeds of men ; he loves no

plays,
As thou dost, Antony ; he hears no music ;
Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort
As if he mock'd himself and scorn'd his spirit
That could be moved to smile at anything.
Such men as he be never at heart's ease
Whiles they behold a greater than themselves,
And therefore are they very dangerous.
I rather tell thee what is to be fear'd
Than what I fear ; for always I am Caesar.
Come on my right hand, for this ear is deaf,
And tell me truly what thou think'st of him.

[Sennet. Exeunt Casar and all his
Train, but Casca.

SHAKESPEARE'S TREATMENT OF THE CHARACTER OF JULIUS

C^SAR.

OEVERAL critics of high judgment have found fault with the naming of this play, on the
ground that Brutus and not Caesar is the hero of it. It is indeed true that Brutus is the
hero ; nevertheless, the play is, I think, rightly named, inasmuch as Csesar is not only the
subject but also the governing power throughout. He is the centre and spring-head of the
entire action, giving law and shape to all that is said and done. This is manifestly true in
what occurs befoPe his death ; and it is true in a still deeper sense afterwards, since his
genius then becomes the Nemesis or retributive Providence, presiding over the whole course
of the drama. Accordingly the key-note of the play is rightly given by Brutus near the close— •

O, Julius Csesar, thou art mighty yet !

Thy spirit walks abroad, and turns our swords

In our own proper entrails."

,«

^
s

JULIUS CAESAR. 165

The characterization is, I confess, in some parts not* a little perplexing to me. I do not
feel quite sure as to the temper of mind in which the poet conceived some of the persons,
or why he should have given them the aspect they wear in the play. For instance, Caesar
is far from being himself in these scenes ; hardly one of the speeches put into his mouth
can be regarded as historically characteristic ; taking all of them together, they are little
short of a downright caricature. As here represented, he is indeed little better than a
grand, strutting piece of puff-paste ; and when he speaks, it is very much in the style of
a glorious vapourer and braggart, full of lofty airs and mock thunder ; than which nothing
could be further from the truth of the man, whose character, even in his faults, was as com-
pact and solid as adamant, and at the same time as limber and ductile as the finest gold.
Yet we have ample proof that the Poet understood " the mightiest Julius " thoroughly.
He has many allusions to him scattered through his plays, all going to show that he
regarded him as, what Merivale pronounces him, " the greatest name in history." And
indeed it is clear from this play itself, that the Poet's course did not proceed at all from
ignorance or misconception of the man. For it is remarkable that though Caesar delivers
himself so much out of character, yet others, both foes and friends, deliver him much
nearer the truth ; so that, while we see almost nothing of him directly, we nevertheless
get, upon the whole, a pretty just reflection'of him. Especially in the marvellous speeches
of Antony, and in the later events of the drama, both his inward greatness and his right
of mastership over the Roman world are fully vindicated. For in the play, as in history,
Caesar's blood just cements the empire which the conspirators thought to prevent. He
proves indeed far mightier in death than in life ; as if his spirit were become at once the
guardian angel of his cause, and an avenging angel to his foes. And so it was in fact.
For nothing did so much to set the people in love with royalty, both name and thing, as
the reflection that their beloved Caesar, the greatest of their national heroes, the crown
and consummation of Roman genius and manhood, had been murdered for aspiring to it.
Now I have no doubt that Shakespeare perfectly understood the whole height and
compass of Caesar's vast and varied capacity. And I sometimes regret that he did not
render him as he evidently saw him, inasmuch as he alone, perhaps, of all the men who
ever wrote, could have given an adequate expression of that colossal man. And this
seeming contradiction between Caesar as known and Caesar as rendered by him, is what,
more than anything else in the drama, perplexes me. But there is, I think, a very refined,
subtle, and peculiar irony pervading this, more than any other of the Poet's plays ; not
intended, as such, indeed, by the speakers ; but a sort of historic irony, — the irony of
Providence, so to speak, or, if you please, of fate ; much the same as is implied in the
proverb, " A haughty spirit goes before a fall." This irony crops out in many places.
Thus we have Caesar most blown with self-importance, and godding it in the loftiest style,
when the daggers of the assassins are on the very point of leaping at him. So, too, all

1 66 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

along, we find Brutus most confident in those very things where he is most at fault, or
acting like a man " most ignorant of what he's most assur'd ; " as when he says that
Antony " can do no more than Caesar's arm when Caesar's head is off." This, to be
sure, is not meant ironically by him j but it is turned into irony by the fact that Antony
soon tears the cause of the conspirators all to pieces with his tongue.

H. N. Hudson. — School Shakespeare, Vol. I. pp. 427 — 428.

BRUTUS AND CASSIUS.

Of all Shakespeare's characters none require to be studied with more patient attention than
those of Brutus and Cassius, that we may understand the resemblances and the differences
of each. The leading distinctions between these two* remarkable men, as drawn by
Shakespeare, appear to us to be these : Brutus acts wholly upon principle ; Cassius, partly
upon impulse. Brutus acts only when he has reconciled the contemplation of action
with his speculative opinions ; Cassius allows the necessity of some action to run before
and govern his opinions. Brutus is a philosopher ; Cassius is a partisan. Brutus there-
fore deliberates and spares ; Cassius precipitates and denounces. Brutus is the nobler
instructor ; Cassius the better politician. Shakespeare, in the first great scene between
them, brings out these distinctions of character upon which future events so mainly
depend. Cassius does not, like a merely crafty man, use only the arguments to con-
spiracy which will most touch Brutus ; but he mixes with them, in his zeal and vehemence,
those which have presented themselves most strongly to his own mind. He had a per-
sonal dislike of Caesar, as Caesar had of him. Cassius begins artfully ; he would first
move Brutus through his affection, and next through his self-love. He is opening a set
discourse on his own sincerity, when the shouting of the people makes Brutus express
his fear that they " choose Caesar for their king." Cassius at once leaves his prepared
speeches, and assumes that because Brutus fears it, he would not have it so : —

" I would not, Cassius ; yet I love him well."

Cassius sees that the love which Brutus bears to Caesar will be an obstacle ; and he goes
on to disparage Caesar. He could not buffet the waves with Cassius ; when he had a
fever in Spain —

" Alas ! it cried, ' Give me some drink, Titinius.' "

Brutus answers not, but marks "another general shout." Cassius then strikes a different

note : —

" Brutus and Csesar : what should be in that Caesar?
Why should that name be sounded more than yours ? "

JULIUS CAESAR. 167

At last Cassius hits upon a. principle;-

" Oh ! you and I have heard our fathers say,
There was a Brutus once that would have brook 'd
The eternal devil to keep his state in Rome,
As easily as a king."

The Stoic is at last moved : —

" Brutus had rather be a villager
Than to repute himself a son of Rome
Under these hard conditions as this time
Is like to lay upon us."

In the next scene, when Caesar is returning from the games, the dictator describes Cassius,
— the Cassius with "a lean and hungry look," the "great observer " — as one whom he
could fear if he could fear anything. In the subsequent dialogue with Casca, where the
narrative of what passed at the games is conducted with a truth that puts the very scene
before us, Cassius again strikes in with the thought that is uppermost in his mind. Brutus
says that Caesar " hath the falling sickness ; " the reply of Cassius is most characteristic : —

" No, Caesar hath it not ; but you, and I,
And honest Casca, we have the falling sickness."

Brutus goes home to meditate. The energy of Cassius is never weary. In the storm he

is still the conspirator. The " impatience of the heavens " furnishes him an argument

against the man —

" Prodigious grown
And fearful, as these strange eruptions are."

The plot is maturing. Brutus especially is to be won.

Coleridge, who, when he doubts of a meaning in Shakespeare — or, what is rarer, suggests
that there is some inconsistency in the conduct of the scene, or the development of character
— has the highest claim upon our deferential regard, gives the soliloquy of Brutus in the
beginning of the second act with the following observations : — " This speech is singular;
at least I do not at present see into Shakespeare's motive, his rationale, or in what point
of view he meant Brutus's character to appear. For surely — (this I mean is what I say
to myself with my present quantum of insight, only modified by my experience in how
many instances I had ripened into a perception of beauties, where I had before descried
faults) — surely, nothing can seem more discordant with our historical preconceptions of
Brutus, or more lowering the intellect of the Stoico-Platonic tyrannicide, than the tenets
here attributed to him, — to him, — the stern Roman republican ; namely, that he would
have no objection to a king, or to Caesar, a monarch in Rome, would Caesar but be as

168 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

good a monarch as he now seems disposed to be ! How, too, could Brutus say that he
found no personal cause — none — in Caesar's past conduct as a man ? Had he not passed
the Rubicon? Had he not entered Rome as a conqueror? Had he not placed his
Gauls in the Senate ? Shakespeare, it may be said, has not brought these things forward.
True ; and this is just the ground of my perplexity. What character did Shakespeare
mean his Brutus to be?" To this question we venture to reply, according to our imperfect
conception of the character of Brutus. Shakespeare meant him not for a conspirator.
He has a terror of conspiracy : —

" Where wilt thou find a cavern deep enough
To mask thy monstrous visage !"

He has been " with himself at war," speculating, we doubt not, upon the strides of
Caesar towards absolute power, but unprepared to resist them. Of Caesar he has said
" I love him well j" he now says : —

" I know no personal cause to spurn at him."

We are by no means sure of the correct punctuation of this passage as it is usually given.
Brutus has come to a conclusion in the watches of the night : —

" It must be by his death."
He disavows, however, any personal hatred to Caesar : —

" And for my part
I know no personal cause to spurn at him."

He then adds : —

"But for the general — he would be crown'd ;
How that might change his nature, there's the question."

He goes from the personal cause to the general cause : " He would be crowned." As a
triumvir, a dictator, Brutus had no personal cause against Caesar ; but the name of king,
which Cassius poured into his ear, rouses all his speculative republicanism. His experience
of Caesar calls from him the acknowledgment that Caesar's affections sway not more than
his reason ; but crown him, and his nature might be changed. We must bear in mind
that Brutus is not yet committed to the conspiracy. The character that Shakespeare
meant his Brutus to be is not yet fully developed. He is yet irresolute ; and his'reasonings
are therefore, to a certain extent, inconsequential : —

JULIUS C/ESAR. 169

" Since Cassius first did whet me against Caesar
I have not slept.

Between the acting of a dreadful thing
And the first motion, all the interim is
Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream."

He is instigated from without ; the principles associated with the name of Brutus'stir him
from within : —

11 My ancestors did from the streets of Rome
The Tarquin drive, when he was call'd a king. "

The " faction " come. Cassius and Brutus speak together apart. " Let us turn aside for
a moment to see how Shakespeare fills up this terrible pause. Other poets would have
made the inferior men exchange oaths, and cross swords, and whisper, and ejaculate.
He makes everything depend upon the determination of Brutus and Cassius ; and the
others, knowing it so depends, speak thus : —

" Dec. Here lies the east : Doth not the day break here ?

Casca. No.

Cin. Oh, pardon, sir, it doth ; and yon gray lines
That fret the clouds are messengers of day.

Casca. You shall confess that you are both deceived-
Here, as I point my sword, the sun arises ;
Which is a great way growing on the south,
Weighing the youthful season of the year.
Some two months hence up higher toward the north ;

He first presents his fire ; and the high east
Stands, as the Capitol, directly here."

Is this nature ? The truest and most profound nature. The minds of all men thus
disencumber themselves, in the moments of the most anxious suspense, from the pressure
of an overwhelming thought. There is a real relief, if some accidental circumstance, like
" yon grey lines that fret the clouds " can produce this disposition of mind to go out of
itself for an instant or two of forgetfulness.

But Brutus is changed. We have no doubt now of his character. He is the leader,
Cassius the subordinate. He is decided in his course : he will not " break with " Cicero :
he will not destroy Antony. We recognise the gentleness of his nature, even while he is
preparing for assassination : —

" Oh, that we then could come by Caesar's spirit,
And not dismember Caesar."

170 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

In the exquisite scene with Portia which follows, our love for the man is completed ;
we learn that he has suffered before he has taken his resolution. There is something
more than commonly touching in these words : —

" You are my dear and honourable wife ;
As dear to me as are the ruddy drops
That visit my sad heart. "

The pathos in some degree depends upon our knowledge of the situation of the speaker,
which Portia does not know.

Charles Knight. — Studies of Shakspere (185 1), pp. 411 — 414.

SHAKESPEARE'S USE OF PLUTARCH.

The book [Plutarch's Lives'] was fortunate in its first introduction to the knowledge
of the English reader. It is true that Sir Thomas North, whose translation made
its first appearance as early as the year 1579, did not draw from the original
Greek, that his book is the translation, being derived, and announcing itself as
derived, from Amyot's French version ; and as such reproducing Amyot's blunders and
mistakes, while it adds some more of its own. But for all this, as a document marking
a particular stage of the English language, and some of the best aspects of the language
at that time, I hold it to be of very high value, and give no heed to Dryden's disparaging
judgment about it. It may not have the same amount of interest for a student of English
as Amyot's translation has for the student of French, nor mark an epoch in our language
as distinctly as that other does in the French. But for all this, the book contains
treasures of idiomatic English, of word and phrase which have now escaped us, and

whereof no small part might with signal advantage be recalled But the

highest title of honour which this book possesses has not hitherto been mentioned,
namely, the use which Shakespeare was content to make of it. Whatever Latin Shake-
speare may have had he certainly knew no Greek, and thus it was only through Sir
Thomas North's translation that the rich treasure-house of Plutarch's Lives was accessible
to him. Nor do I think it too much to affirm that his three great Roman plays, repro-
ducing the ancient Roman world as no other modern poetry has ever done — I refer to
Coriolanus, Julius Ccesar, and Antony and Cleopatra — would never have existed, or had
Shakespeare lighted by chance on these arguments, would have existed in forms altogether
different from those in which they now appear, if Plutarch had not written, and Sir
Thomas North, or some other in his place, had not translated. We have in Plutarch
not the framework or skeleton only of the story, no, nor yet merely the ligaments and

JULIUS CAESAR. 171

sinews, but very much also of the flesh and blood wherewith these are covered and
clothed.

How noticeable in this respect is the difference between Shakespeare's treatment of
Plutarch and his treatment of others, upon whose hints, more or less distinct, he elsewhere
has spoken ! How little is it in most cases which he condescends to use of the materials
offered to his hand ! Take, for instance, his employment of some novel, Bandello's or
Cinthio's. He derives from it the barest outline — a suggestion perhaps is all, with a
name or two here and there, but neither dialogue nor character. On the first occasion
that offers he abandons his original altogether, that so he may expatiate freely in the
higher and nobler world of his own thoughts and fancies. But his relations with Plutarch
are different — different enough to justify, or almost to justify, the words of Jean
Paul, when in his Titan he calls Plutarch ' der biographische Shakespeare der Weltge-
schichte.' What a testimony we have to the true artistic sense and skill, which with all
his occasional childlike simplicity the old biographer possesses, in the fact that the
mightiest and completest artist of all times should be content to resign himself into his
hands, and simply to follow where the other leads !

His Julius Ccesar will abundantly bear out what I have just affirmed — a play dramatically
and poetically standing so high that it only just falls short of that supreme rank which
Zmrand Othello, Hamlet and Macbeth claim for themselves without rival or competitor
even from among the creatures of the same poet's brain. It is scarcely an exaggeration
to say that the whole play, — and the same stands good of Coriolanus no less, — is to be
found in Plutarch. Shakespeare indeed has thrown a rich mantle of poetry over all, which
is often wholly his own ; but of the incident there is almost nothing which he does not owe
to Plutarch, even as continually he owes the very wording to Sir Thomas North.

It may be worth while a little more closely to follow this out. The play opens with the
jealousy on the part of the tribunes at the marks of favour shown by the populace to
Caesar : this, down to the smallest details, is from Plutarch ; so too in that which follows,
the repeated offering by Antony of a crown to Caesar at the Lupercalia, with his reluctant
refusal of it ; this blended indeed into one with an earlier tendering to him of special
honours on the part of the senate; Caesar's early suspicions in regard of 'the lean and
wrinkled Cassius,' with his desire to have about him men fat and well-liking ; the goading
on of Brutus by Cassius, and the gradual drawing of him into the conspiracy, with the devices
to this end ; the deliberation whether Antony shall share in Caesar's doom, and the false
estimate of him which Brutus makes ; so, too, whether Cicero shall be admitted to the
plot, with the reasons for excluding him; the remonstrance of Portia that she is shut out
from her husband's counsels, and the proof of courage which she gives ; then, too, all the
prodigies which precede the murder, — as the beast without a heart ; fires in the element ;
men walking about clothed as in flame and unscorched by it ; the ill-omened birds

z 2

172 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

sitting at noon-day in the market-place ; Calphurnia's warning dream, and Caesar's
consequent resolution not to go to the senate-house ; the talking of him over by Decius
Brutus ; the vain attempt of Artemidorus to warn him of his danger ; the ides of March ;
the apprehension at the last moment that all had been discovered, with the hasty purpose
of Cassius, only hindered by Brutus, to kill himself thereupon ; the luring away of Antony
from the senate-house by Trebonius ; the importunate pleading of Metellus Cimber for
his brother, taken up by the other conspirators ; the striking of the first blow from
behind by Casca; Caesar's ceasing to defend himself when he recognises Brutus among
his murderers ; his falling down at the base of Pompey's statue, which ran blood ; the
deceitful reconciliation of Antony with the conspirators ; nothing of this is absent. All
too, which follows is from Plutarch : the funeral oration of Brutus over Caesar's body, and
then that which Antony has obtained leave to deliver; the displaying of the rent and
bloody mantle ; the reading of the will ; the rousing of the mry of the populace ; the
tearing to pieces of Cinna the poet, mistaken for the conspirator of the same name ; the
precipitate flight of the conspirators from the city ; their reappearance in arms in the
East ; the meeting of Brutus and Cassius ; their quarrel, and Lucius Pella the cause of
it ; the reconciliation ; the division of opinion as to military operations ; the giving way
of Cassius, with his subsequent protest to Messala that he had only unwillingly done this ;
the apparition of Caesar's ghost to Brutus, with the announcement that he should see
him again at Philippi ; the leave-taking of Brutus and Cassius, with the conversation on
the Stoic doctrine of suicide between them ; the double issue of the battle; the disastrous
mistakes; the death of Cassius by the sword which had slain Caesar; the ineffectual
appeal of Brutus to three of his followers to kill him, a fourth at last consenting ; all
this, with minor details innumerable, has been borrowed by Shakespeare from the Lives
of Caesar, of Brutus, and of Mark Antony ; which all have evidently been most carefully
studied by him.

Yet for all this, Shakespeare does not abdicate his royal pre-eminence ; but resumes it
at any moment that he pleases. Thus Plutarch tells us of that funeral oration by Mark
Antony, how

" To conclude his oration he unfolded before the whole assembly the bloody garments of the dead,
thrust through in many places with their swords, and called the malefactors cruel and cursed murtherers."

It is well said — a graphic touch; but mark how Shakespeare has taken possession
of it :—

" You all do know this mantle ; I remember
The first time ever Caesar put it on ;
'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent ;
That day he overcame the Nervii.

D ■ — '

JULIUS C/€SAR. 173

Look ! in this place ran Cassius' dagger through :
See what a rent the envious Casca made :
Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabbed ;
And, as he plucked his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Caesar followed it ;
As rushing out of doors, to be resolved
If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no ;
For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel. "
Richard Chenevix Trench, Archbishop of Dublin. — Plutarch: his Life, his

Lives and his Morals, pp. 49 — 55. 1

1 See the extract from this work given in connection with Antony and Cleopatra.

»74

SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

JULIUS C^SAR.

Act III.

Scene II. The Forum.

Antony and a throng of Citizens.

First Cit. Stand from the hearse ; stand from
the body.

Sec. Cit. Room for Antony, most noble Antony.

Ant. Nay, press not so upon me ; stand far
off.

Several Cit. Stand back ; room ; bear back.

Ant. If you have tears, prepare to shed them
now.
You all do know this mantle : I remember
The first time ever Cassar put it on ;
'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent,
That day he overcame the Nervii :
Look, in this place ran Cassius' dagger through >
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' <rlfe/^/& ST&f.

4 J?*7fS/h-

JULIUS C^SAR. 175

" The honour'd gods
Keep Rome in safety, and the chairs of justice
Supplied with worthy men ! plant love among us !
Throng our large temples with the shows of peace,
And not our streets with war ! "

Iii the matured Rome of Julius Caesar we see her riches and her glories about to be
swallowed up in a domestic conflict of principles: —

" Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods !
When went there by an age, since the great flood,
But it was famed with more than with one man ?
When could they say, till now, that talk'd of Rome,
That her wide waljts encompass'd but one man ? "

In the slightly older Rome of Antony, her power, her magnificence, are ready to perish
in the selfishness of individuals : —

' ' Let Rome in Tiber melt ! and the wide arch
Of the ranged empire fall ! "

Rome was saved from anarchy by the supremacy of one. Shakespeare did not live to
make the Caesars immortal.

Schlegel has observed that "these plays are the very thing itself; and, under the
apparent^ artlessness of adhering closely to history as he [Shakespeare] found it, an un-
common degree of art is concealed." The poet almost invariably follows Plutarch, as
translated by North, sometimes even to the literal adoption of the biographer's words.
This is the " apparent artlessness." But Schlegel has also shown us the principles of the
" uncommon art : " — " Of every historical transaction, Shakespeare knows how to seize the
true poetical point of view, and to give unity and rounding to a series of events detached
from the unmeasurable extent of history, without in any degree changing them." But
he adopts the literal only when it enters into " the true poetical point of view," and is
therefore in harmony with the general poetical truth, which in many subordinate par-
ticulars necessarily discards all pretension of "adhering closely to history." Jonson has
left us two Roman plays produced essentially upon a different principle. In his Sejanus
there is scarcely a speech or an incident that is not derived from the ancient authorities ;
and Jonson's own edition of the play is crowded with references as minute as would have
been required from any modern annalist. In his Address to the Readers, he says : —

Lest in some nice nostril the quotations might savour affected, I do let you know that

1 abhor nothing more ; and I have only done it to show my integrity in the story." The
character of the dramatist's mind, as well as the abundance of his learning, determined
this mode of proceeding : but it is evident that he worked upon a false principle of art.

176 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

His characters are, therefore, puppets carved and stuffed according to the descriptions,
and made to speak according to the very words of Tacitus and Suetonius ; but they are
not living men. It is the same in his Catiline. Cicero is the great actor in that play ;
and he moves as Sallust, corrected by other authorities, made him move ; and speaks as
he spoke himself in his own orations. Jonson gives the whole of Cicero's first oration
against Catiline, in a translation amounting to some three hundred lines. It may be
asked, What can we have that may better present Cicero to us than the descriptions of the
Roman historians, and Cicero's own words ? We answer, six lines of Shakspeare, no
found in the books : —

" The angry spot doth glow on Csesar's brow,
And all the rest look like a chidden train :
Calphurnia's cheek is pale ; and Cicero
Looks with such ferret and such fiery eyes,
As we have seen him in the Capitol,
Being cross'd in conference with some senators. *'

Gifford, speaking of Jonson's two Roman tragedies, says : " He has apparently succeeded
in his principal object, which was to exhibit the characters of the drama to the spectators
of his days precisely as they appeared to those of their own. The plan was scholastic,
but it was not judicious. The difference between the dramatis persona and the spectators
was too wide ; and the very accuracy to which he aspired would seem to take away much
of the power of pleasing. Had he drawn men instead of Romans his success might
have been more assured." We presume to think that there is here a slight confusion of
terms. If Jonson had succeeded in his principal object, and had exhibited his cha-
racters precisely as they appeared in their own days, his representation would have been
the truth. But he has drawn, according to this intelligent critic, Romans instead of
men, and therefore his success was not perfectly assured. Not drawing men, he did not
draw his characters as they appeared in their own days : but as he pieced out their
supposed appearance from incidental descriptions or formal characterisations — from party
historians or prejudiced rhetoricians. If he had drawn Romans as they were, he would
have drawn mtn as they were. They were not the less men because they were Romans.
He failed to draw the men, principally on account of the limited range of his imaginative
power ; he copied instead of created. He repeated, says Gifford, " the ideas, the lan-
guage, the allusions " which " could only be readily caught by the contemporaries of
Augustus and Tiberius." He gave us, partly on this account also, shadows of life, instead
of the " living features of an age so distant from our own," as his biographer yet thinks
he gave. Shakespeare worked upon different principles, and certainly with a different
success.

Charles Knight. — Studies of Shakspere (1851), pp. 404 — 406.

JULIUS CAESAR. 177

THE DEATH OF JULIUS CESAR.

The death of Julius Caesar is perhaps the most central incident in the political history
of the world ; it is placed in time at the conclusion of one great series of events and at
the commencement of another, most strikingly contrasted and dividing between them
the general course of events, which, as the body of ancient history, stands in the closest

connection with modern, its proper offspring and inheritor The dictatorship

of Caesar is the confluence of all the great dominations that had swayed in scattered
succession around the shores of the Mediterranean. Vast as are the differences between
Phoenician, Egyptian, Jewish, Assyrian, Persian, Greek, Lydian, Etruscan, and Roman
powers and civilisations, the development of each has so much affinity with every one
of the others, whether from common origin, primeval or later intercourse and collision,
and direct or intermediate influence, that their monuments, literature and history evince
a certain transcendental community that unites them as members of a central group

among the nations of the world The empire, of which the general limits

were fixed or indicated by the achievements of Caesar, and the form of autocratical
government, which he distinctly aimed at and assumed, continued for long centuries, and
form a second division of the history of ancient Europe and adjacent regions, in their
most active and intimately connected portions. The great change in religious opinions
and associations, which gave a common creed to the whole empire, was, no doubt, to a
great extent, the concluding phase of a sympathetic tendency, as much as the political
catastrophe ; but it was also, to some extent, a consequence of it and necessary com-
plement.

It is difficult, therefore, not to regard Julius Caesar as the instalment of most efficiently
hastening onward and completing a destined conclusion ; and to deny his consciousness
of his great office in the course of Fate, would but give occasion for ascription to him"
of the higher dignity of elected inspiration. From this point of view, the banded aris-
tocracy, who surround and strike him down with sudden daggers at the very crisis of
his career, are traitors every way to Caesar and to the world ; and futile in their
treachery, hoping to stay the wheel of destiny by a surprise, to divert it by a chicane.
But on the other hand are arrayed all the respects and considerations that, from the
hour of their deed down to the present, have given them place and glory in the esteem
of so many of the noblest, as the grandest of all examples of patriotic daring and devo-
tion. Whatever there is of magnanimity in Caesar may be paralleled among his slayers,
even in the conduct of their bloody deed ; and what are their political misdeeds that
are not counterbalanced by those of their victim in the sustained course of intrigue,
systematic corruption, and regardless violence, with which he pursued an end of arrogant

A A

178 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

selfishness, and did all in his power to aggravate the confusion and disorder of social
right, on the recovery of which he founds his claim for not only impunity but honour. . . .

Caesar, however, by his mere qualifications and position, apart from his passions, was
in immediate sympathy with the demand of the preceding movement of the world. Since
the era of Coriolanus the people of Rome have become degraded into a base populace,
incapable of the dignity of a people, and the ready prey of the first ambitious man, who
has the genius to cajole and corrupt them, for the acquirement of a power which he will
retain by merciless coercion. In Coriolanus, the last excesses of internal dissension are
prevented by a certain forbearance on the part of the mob and the tribunes in the midst
of their success, no less than on the part of the patricians. But with the progress of
corruption this moral restraint is lost on either side, and the ranks ot the aristocracy
furnish the leaders, who stimulate the mob to the destruction of the nobles, or who
purchase their aid to seize upon the absolute sway of the state by liberal donation from
the spoil, and at last induce the confusion which nothing but perpetual dictatorship can
regulate. Still it is ignorance that is the main cause of the errors of the easily misled
populace ; they are still, as of yore, susceptible of authoritative rebuke, or even com-
passionate appeal ; but they are utterly incapable of steady election or moral judgment,
and therefore as readily excitable to any caprice of weakness, cruelty, or rage. Hence
the course of events, like a favourable set of current, carries Caesar onward to absolute
power, but at the same time opens the inevitable temptation to unscrupulous aid by every
ambitious act and artifice, till the end is reached by triumph over civil blood ; triumph
through the streets of Rome over him, who had triumphed there before so frequently more
purely and patriotically; by the support of robbers, by flagrant piracy on the high seas
of political adventure.

On the other hand, while the conspiring nobles, taken at their best, and there is worse
along with them, endeavour to roll back the universe with sore impeachment of their
judgment, and resort to means which the most promising hopes could neither dignify nor
sanction, yet, withal, in virtue of their purer and better motives and their cause, they
achieve a commendation and a glory that almost excuses their faults, and entirely com-
pensates defeat.

W. W. Lloyd. — Essays on the Life and Plays of Shakespeare (1858) : "Julius Cccsar."

THE CHARACTER OF BRUTUS.

Shakespeare's tragedy centres wholly in the character of Brutus ; it has even been
represented as an error that the play is not named Marcus Brutus instead of Julius
Cozsar. But if Brutus be the hero of the piece, its subject is Caesar, his power and his

JULIUS C/ESAR. 179

death. Caesar alone occupies the dramatic foreground j the horror caused by his power,
the need of finding deliverance from it, fill the first half of the drama ; the second half
is devoted to his memory, and to the consequences of his death. It is, as Antony has
said "Caesar's spirit ranging for revenge ;" and that his predominance should not be lost
sight of or misconceived, it is Caesar's spirit which, on the plains of Sardis and of Philippi,
appears as his evil genius to Brutus.

With the death of Brutus, however, the delineation of this great catastrophe must end.
Shakespeare cared to interest us in the chief event of the play only so far as the
character of Brutus was related to it ; and in like manner, he exhibits Brutus only in
relation to the event. The deed which supplied a theme for the tragedy and the
character which effected that deed, the death of Caesar and the character of Brutus — it is
the union of these which constitutes the dramatic work of Shakespeare, as the union ot
soul and body constitutes life, elements alike and equally necessary to the existence of
the individual man. Previous to the conspiracy for Caesar's death the piece does not
begin ; after Brutus's death it ends.

It is then in the character of Brutus, the soul of the play, that the peculiar impress of
Shakespeare's genius may be discerned. The picture is the more admirable inasmuch
as the poet, while remaining faithful to history has yet brought into being an original
creation j the Brutus of Plutarch appears as truly, and as completely in the scenes
invented by the dramatist, as in those furnished to his hand by the historian. This
meditative spirit, for ever absorbed in self-questoining, the trouble of a strict conscience
upon the first suggestion of a yet doubtful duty, the calm and unwavering firmness as
soon as that duty is ascertained, the profound and almost painful sensitiveness, constantly
restrained by the rigour of the austerest principles, a gentleness of nature which does
not for a moment disappear in the midst of the most cruel tasks imposed by a masculine
virtue, — in a word, the character of Brutus, as we all conceive it, moves with perfect and
living coherency through the various scenes of his life, and precisely as we must believe
it actually appeared.

Perhaps it is this historical fidelity which has been the cause of the coldness of Shake-
spearian critics towards the play of Julius Ccesar. They do not perceive in it the workings
of that almost wild originality which rivet our attention in the dramas of Shakespeare that
deal with modern themes, and which are as remote from the actual conduct of our life
as from the classical ideas in accordance with which the processess of our imagination
have been formed. Hotspur's manners are certainly much more original, in our eyes,
than the manners of Brutus ; they are so in themselves ; the greatness of human character
in the middle ages is notable for its individuality ; that of the ancients rises, in regular
manner, upon the basis of certain general principles, which in various individuals hardly
differ in any particular except in the height to which they may attain. Such was Shake-

a a 2

i8o SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

speare's feeling, and such was the fact ; accordingly he has thought, not of rendering the
character of Brutus singular, but only of giving it elevation. Placed on a lower level, the
other personages in some degree possess the freedom of individual character, dispensing,
as they do, with that rule of perfection which duty has laid upon Brutus. The poet
seems to play around them with less of reverence, and to allow himself to attribute to
them some characteristics which properly belong less to them than to himself. Cassius
scornfully comparing Caesar's physical strength with his own, and traversing by night the
streets of Rome, while the tempest is at its height, to allay that fever which consumes
him, resembles far more a countryman of Canute or Harold than a Roman of the time
of Caesar; but this barbaric complexion lends an interest to the irregularities of
Cassius's conduct, which could not perhaps be obtained as fully by historical verisimilitude.
Schlegel, whose judgments on Shakespeare always deserve respectful consideration, seems
to me to fall into an error — though not an error of grave importance — when he observes
that the poet has "with fine skill indicated the advantage conferred on Cassius by a
stronger will and a juster perception of events." On the contrary, I believe that
Shakespeare's admirable art consists, in this play, in preserving for the principal personage
his full superiority, even when he errs, and in making it apparent by the very fact that
he is in error, and yet that the others defer to him, that their reason yields to Brutus's
mistaken judgment and yields without distrust. Brutus is even for once morally in the
wrong ; in the quarrel scene with Cassius, overcome for one moment by a terrible, secret
grief, he forgets his habitual and becoming moderation ; Brutus is in the wrong ; yet it is
Cassius who humbles himself, for Brutus has indeed been nobler than he.

Guizot. — Shakespeare et son Temps (1852), pp. 243 — 246.

THE CHARACTER OF ANTONY.

L Antony is a man of genius without moral fibre ; a nature of a rich, sensitive, pleasure-
loving kind ; the prey of good impulses and of bad ; looking on life as a game in which
he has a distinguished part to play, and playing that part with magnificent grace and
skill. He is capable of personal devotion (though not of devotion to an idea), and has '
indeed a gift for subordination, — subordination to a Julius Caesar, to a Cleopatra. And
as he has enthusiasm about great personalities, so he has a contempt for inefficiency and
ineptitude. Lepidus is to him " a slight unmeritable man meet to be sent on errands," one
that is to be talked of not as a person, but as a property. Antony possesses no constancy of
self-esteem ; he can drop quickly out of favour with himself; and being without reverence
for his own type of character, and being endowed with a fine versatility of perception

JULIUS C^SAR. 181

and feeling, he can admire qualities the most remote from his own. It is Antony who
utters the 'doge over the body of Brutus at Philippi. Antony is not without an aesthetic
sense and imagination, though of a somewhat unspiritual kind : he does not judge men
by a severe moral code, but he feels, in an aesthetic way, the grace, the splendour, the
piteous interest of the actors in the exciting drama of life, or their impertinence, inep-
titude, and comicality ; and he feels that the play is poorer by the loss of so noble a
figure as that of a Brutus. But Brutus, over whom his ideals dominate, and who is
blind to facts which are not in harmony with his theory of the universe, is quite unable
to perceive the power for good or for evil that is lodged in Antony, and there is in the
great figure of Antony nothing which can engage or interest his imagination ; for Brutus's
view of life is not imaginative, or pictorial, or dramatic ; but wholly ethical. The fact
that Antony abandons himself to pleasure, " is gamesome," reduces him in the eyes of
Brutus to a very ordinary person, — one who is silly or stupid enough not to recognise the
first principle of human conduct, the need of self-mastery ; one against whom the laws
of the world must fight, and who is therefore of no importance. And Brutus was right
with respect to the ultimate issues for Antony. Sooner or later Antony must fall to ruin.
But before the moral defect in Antony's nature destroyed his fortune much was to happen.
Before Actium might come Philippi".

Edward Dowden. — Shaksfiere, his Mind and Art (1875), pp. 289 — 290.

1 82

SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

HAMLET.

Act V.
SCENE I. A Churchyard.

First Clown. Here's a skull, now ; this skull
has lain in the earth three and twenty years.

Hamlet. Whose was it ?

First Clo. A whoreson mad fellow's it was :
whose do you think it was ?

Ham. Nay, I know not.

First Clo. A pestilence on him for a mad
rogue ! a' poured a flagon of Rhenish on my
head once. This same skull, sir, was Yorick's
skull, the king's jester.

Ham. This ?

First Clo. E'en that.

Ham. Let me see. [Takes the skull.] Alas,
poor Yorick ! I knew him, Horatio : a fellow
of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy : he hath
borne me on his back a thousand times ; and
now, how abhorred in my imagination it is ! my
gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I
have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your
gibes now ? your gambols ? your songs ? your
flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the
table on a roar? Not one now to mock your
own grinning ? quite chap-fallen? Now get you

to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint
an inch thick, to this favour she must come ;
make her laugh at that. Prithee, Horatio, tell
me one thing.

Horatio. What's that, my lord ?

Ham. Dost thou think Alexander looked o'
this fashion i' the earth ?

Hor. E'en so.

Ham. And smelt so ? pah !

[Puts down the skull.

Hor. E'en so, my lord.

Ham. To what base uses we may return,
Horatio ! Why may not imagination trace the
noble dust of Alexander, till it find it stopping
a bung-hole ?

Hor. 'Twere to consider too curiously, to
consider so.

Ham. No, faith, not a jot ; but to follow him
thither with modesty enough, and likelihood to
lead it : as thus : Alexander died, Alexander was
buried, Alexander returneth into dust ; the dust
is earth ; of earth we make loam ; and why ot
that loam, whereto he was converted, might they
not stop a beer-barrel ?

Imperious Qesar, dead and turn'd to clay,

Might stop a hole to keep the wind away :

O, that that earth, which kept the world in awe,

Should patch a wall to expel the winter's flaw J-

CHARACTER OF HAMLET. 1

a TJ AMLET," was the play, or rather Hamlet himself was the character, in the intuition and
exposition of which I first made my turn for philosophical criticism, and especially for

insight into the genius of Shakespeare, noticed The seeming inconsistencies in the

conduct and character of Hamlet have long exercised the conjectural ingenuity of critics j and

1 It has seemed better to present the celebrated
passages on Hamlet's character from Coleridge,
Goethe, and Schlegel — the sources of much subse-
quent criticism — rather than the more recent views of
writers who ingeniously but without success attempt

to delineate Hamlet as a sane and vigorous man of
action. The views given here are keenly contested
by the latest German critic— Karl Werder — in his
Vorlesungen iiber Shakespeare's Hamlet (Berlin,
i875)-

s/ ////''/

HAMLET. 183

as we are always loth to suppose that the cause of defective apprehension is in ourselves,
the mystery has been too commonly explained by the very easy process of setting it
down as in fact inexplicable, and by resolving the phenomenon into a misgrowth or lusus
of the capricious and irregular genius of Shakespeare. The shallow and stupid arrogance
of these vulgar and indolent decisions I would fain do my best to expose. I believe the
character of Hamlet may be traced to Shakespeare's deep and accurate science in mental
philosophy. Indeed, that this character must have some connection with the common
fundamental laws of our nature may be assumed from the fact that Hamlet has been the
darling of every country in which the literature of England has been fostered. In order
to understand him, it is essential that we should reflect on the constitution of our own
minds, ftlan is distinguished from the bru te animals in proportion as thought prevails
over sense : but in the healthy processes of the mind, a balance is constantly maintained
between the impressions from outward objects and the inward operations of the intellect ;
— for if there be an overbalance in the contemplative faculty, man thereby becomes the
creature of mere meditation, and loses his natural power of action. Now one of Shake-
speare's modes of creating characters is, to conceive any one intellectual or moral faculty
in morbid excess, and then to place himself — Shakespeare — thus mutilated or diseased,
under given circumstances. In Hamlet he seems to have wished to exemplify the moral
necessity of a due balance between our attention to the objects of our senses and our medi-
tation on the workings of our minds — an equilibrium between the real and the imagin-
ary worlds. In Hamlet this balance is disturbed : his thoughts and the images of his fancy
are far more vivid than his actual perceptions, and his very perceptions, instantly passing
through the medium of his contemplations, acquire as they pass a form and a colour not
natnrally their own. Hence we see a great, an almost enormous, intellectual activity,
and a proportionate aversion to real action, consequent upon it, with all its symptoms and
accompanying qualities. This character Shakspeare places in circumstances under which
it is obliged to act on the spur of the moment : — Hamlet is brave and careless of death ;
but he vacillates from sensibility, and procrastinates from thought, and loses the power
of action in the energy of resolve. Thus it is that this tragedy presents a direct contrast
to that of Macbeth ; the one proceeds with the utmost slowness, the. other with a crowded
and breathless rapidity.

The_ jeffect of this overbalance ot the imaginative power is beautifully illustrated in
the everlasting broodings and superfluous activities of Hamlet's mind, which, unseated
from its healthy relation, is constantly occupied with the world within, and abstracted
from the world without, — giving substance to shadows, and throwing a mist over all
commonplace actualities. It is the nature of thought to be indefinite ; — definiteness
belongs to external imagery alone. Hence it is, that the sense of sublimity arises, not
from the sight of an outward object, but from the beholder's reflection upon it ; — not

184 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

from the sensuous impression, but from the imaginative reflex. Few men have seen
a celebrated waterfall without feeling something akin to disappointment : it is only
subsequently that the image comes back full into the mind, and brings with it a train
of grand or beautiful associations. Hamlet feels this ; his senses are in a state of
trance, and he looks upon external things as hieroglyphics. His soliloquy —

" O ! that this too, too solid flesh would melt," &c. —

springs from that craving after the indefinite — for that which is not — which most easily
besets men of genius ; and the self-delusion common to this temper of mind is finely
exemplified in the character which Hamlet gives of himself : —

" It cannot be
But I am pigeon-liver'd, and lack gall
To make oppression bitter."

He mistakes the seeing his chains for the breaking them, delays action till action is of no
use, and dies the victim of mere circumstance and accident.

S. T. Coleridge. — Shakspeare Notes and Lectures (ed. 1874), pp. 201 — 4.

II. 1

I set about investigating every trace of Hamlet's character, as it had shown itself before
his father's death : I endeavoured to distinguish what in it was independent of this
mournful event ; independent of the terrible events that followed ; and what, most prob-
ably, the young man would have been had no such thing occurred.

Soft, and from a noble stem, this royal flower had sprung up under the immediate
influences of majesty: the idea of moral rectitude with that of princely elevation, the
feeling of the good and dignified with the consciousness of high birth, had in him been
unfolded simultaneously. He was a prince, by birth a prince ; and he wished to reign
only that good men might be good without obstruction. Pleasing in form, polished by
nature, courteous from the heart, he was meant to be the pattern of youth and the joy of

the world Conceive a prince such as I have painted him, and that his father

suddenly dies. Ambition and the love of rule are not the passions that inspire him. As
a king's son he would have been contented ; but now he is first constrained to consider
the difference which separates a sovereign from a subject. The crown was not hereditary,
yet a longer possession of it by his father would have strengthened the pretensions of an
only son, and secured his hopes of the succession. In place of this, he now beholds

1 The following extract is from the study of Hamlet put into the mouth of Goethe's Wilhelm Meister.

HAMLET. 185

himself excluded by his uncle, in spite of specious promises, most probably for ever. He
is now poor in goods and favour, and a stranger in the scene which from youth he had
looked on as his inheritance. His temper here assumes its first mournful tinge. He
feels that now he is not more, that he is less than a private nobleman ; he offers himself /
as the servant of every one ; he is not courteous and condescending, he is needy and
degraded. His past condition he remembers as a vanished dream. It is in vain that
his uncle strives to cheer him, to present his situation in another point of view. The
feeling of his nothingness will not leave him. ^

The second stroke that came upon him wounded deeper, bowed still more. It was the
marriage of his mother. The faithful tender son had yet a mother, when his father passed
away. He hoped, in the company of his surviving noble-minded parent, to reverence
the heroic form of the departed ; but his mother too he loses, and it is something worse
than death that robs him of her. The trustful image, which a good child loves to form
of its parents, is gone. With the dead there is no help ; on the living no hold. She
also is a woman, and her name is Frailty, like that of all her sex.

Now first does he feel himself completely bent and orphaned ; and no happiness of
life can repay what he has lost. Not reflective or sorrowful by nature, reflection and
sorrow have become for him a heavy obligation. It is thus that we see him first enter on

the scene The hero in this case is endowed more properly with sentiments

than with a character; it is events alone that push him on; and accordingly the piece
has in some measure the expansion of a novel. But as it is Fate that draws the plan,
as the story issues from a deed of terror, and the hero is continually driven forward to a
deed of terror, the work is tragic in the highest sense, and admits of no other than a
tragic end.

Goethe. — Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship (Carlyle's Translation),
Vol. I. pp. 178; 199 — 200; 249.

III.

Hamlet is singular in its kind : a tragedy of thought inspired by continual and never-
satisfied meditation on human destiny and the dark perplexity of the events of this
world, and calculated to call forth the very same meditation in the minds of the spectators.
This enigmatical work resembles those irrational equations in which a fraction of unknown
magnitude always remains that will in no way admit of solution. Much has been said,
much written on this piece, and yet no thinking head who anew expresses himself on it,
will (in his view of the connection and signification of all the parts) entirely coincide
with his predecessors. What naturally most astonishes us, is the fact that with such

B B

1 86 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

hidden purposes, with a foundation laid in such unfathomable depth, the whole should, at
a first view, exhibit an extremely popular appearance. The dread appearance of the
ghost takes possession of the mind and the imagination almost at the very commence-
ment ; then the play within the play, in which, as in a glass, we see reflected the crime,
whose fruitlessly attempted punishment constitutes the subject-matter of the piece ; the
alarm with which it fills the king; Hamlet's pretended and Ophelia's real madness ; her
death and burial ; the meeting of Hamlet and Laertes at her grave ; their combat, and
the grand determination; lastly, the appearance of the young hero Fortinbras, who, with
warlike pomp, pays the last honours to an extinct family of kings ; the interspersion of
comic characteristic scenes with Polonius, the courtiers, and the grave-diggers, which have
all of them their signification — all this fills the stage with an animated and varied move-
ment. The only circumstance from which this piece might be judged to be less
theatrical than other tragedies of Shakspeare is, that in the last scenes the main action
either stands still or appears to retrograde. This, however, was inevitable, and lay in the
nature of the subject. The whole is intended to show. that a calculating consideration,
which exhausts all the relations and possible consequences of a deed, must cripple the
power of acting ; as Hamlet himself expresses it : —

" And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought ;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action."

With respect to Hamlet's character: I cannot, as I understand the poet's views, pronounce
altogether so favourable a sentence upon it as Goethe does. \ He is, it is true, of a highly
cultivated mind, a prince of royal manners, endowed with the finest sense of propriety,
susceptible of noble ambition, and open in the highest degree to an enthusiastic admira-
tion of that excellence in others of which he himself is deficient. He acts the part of
madness with unrivalled power, convincing the persons who are sent to examine into his
supposed loss of reason, merely telling them unwelcome truths, and rallying them with
the most caustic wit.i But in the resolutions which he so often embraces and always
leares unexecuted, -his weakness is too apparent : he does himself only justice when he
implies that there is no greater dissimilarity than between himself and Hercules. He is
not solely impelled by necessity to artifice and dissimulation, he has a natural inclination
for crooked ways ; he is a hypocrite towards himself ; his far-fetched scruples are often
mere pretexts to cover his want of determination ; thoughts, as he says on a different

occasion, which have

" But one part wisdom
And ever three parts coward."

HAMLET. 187

He has been chiefly condemned both for his harshness in repulsing the love of Ophelia,
which he himself had cherished, and for his insensibility at her death. But he is too
much overwhelmed with his own sorrow to have any compassion to spare for others; besides,
his outward indifference gives us by no means the measure of his inward perturbation.
On the other hand, we evidently perceive in him a malicious joy, when he has succeeded
in getting rid of his enemies, more through necessity and accident, which alone are able
to impel him to quick and decisive measures, than by the merit of his own courage, as
he himself confesses after the murder of Polonius, and with respect to Rosencrantz and
Guildenstern. C Hamlet has no firm belief either in himself or in anything else : from
expressions of religious confidence he passes over to sceptical doubts ; he believes in the
Ghost of his father as long as he sees it, but as soon as it has disappeared, it appears to
him almost in the light of a deception. 1 j^He has even gone so far as to say, '.'There is
nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so ; " with him the poet loses himself
here in labyrinths of thought, in which neither end nor beginning are discoverable. The
stars themselves, from the course of events, afford no answer to the question so urgently
proposed to them. fA voice from another world commissioned, it would appear, by
heaven, demands vengeance for a monstrous enormity, and the demand remains without
effect ; the criminals are at last punished, but, as it were, by an accidental blow, and not
in the solemn way requisite to convey to the world a warning example of justice ;
irresolute foresight, cunning treachery, and impetuous rage, hurry on to a common
destruction ; the less guilty and the innocent are equally involved in the general ruin. The
destiny of humanity is there exhibited as a gigantic sphinx, which threatens to precipitate
into the abyss of scepticism all who are unable to solve her dreadful enigmas.

A. W. Schlegel. — Lectures on Dramatic Art and Literature, translated by
John Black (1846), pp. 404 — 406.

THE CHURCHYARD SCENE.

As to the scene in which the clowns are digging Ophelia's grave, with that indifference of
custom which sports with the setting when the pearl is broken and gone, we may say
that this scene sinks its shafts too far into the depths for the drama of Greece, of Rome,
of Spain, of Italy, of France ; but in the English drama it appears marvellously fitted to
the meditative and philosophical genius of that nation. It is Bossuet in action with his
supreme contempt for the vanity of human life ; it is Pascal uttering the supreme cry

1 It has been censured as a contradiction, that

Hamlet in the soliloquy on self-murder should say,

" The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn

For was not the Ghost a returned traveller?
Shakspeare, however, purposely wished to show,
that Hamlet could not fix himself in any convic-

No traveller returns." ' tion of any kind whatever.

. B B 2

over the wretchedness of man ; the mockery of death and of despair, the self-ridicule
occasioned by the presence of man who to-day triumphs and to-morrow will be a relic
of his own nothingness ! It is impossible to advance farther into the barren gloom. To
search into the earth of the churchyard in order to claim from it the foulness of the corpse
which was a great man yesterday ; to utter the word, cruel but just, concerning thai
which is nameless henceforth in any speech or language of man ; to enounce this word, not
by the tongue of a priest or a philosopher, but by the lips, frankly coarse and vulgar,
of a hard-handed clown ; to discover philosophy and seize upon it, when embodied in the
instinctive cry of nature, and in the broad laughter of the careless and indifferent ; this,
— and especially at twenty years of age, — is the sovereign token of genuis. 1

A. de Lamartine. — Shakespeare ei son CEuvre (1865), pp. 217 — 18.

HAMLET'S HUMOUR CONNECTED WITH HIS MELANCHOLY.

There is an apparent inconsistency between the sombre melancholy of Hamlet's solitary
thoughts and the jesting levity of his conversation, even when he seeks least to put on
the guise of antic behaviour ; an inconsistency apparent only, for in truth this gloomy
reverie, which in solitude "runs darkling down the stream of fate," is thoroughly coherent
in nature with the careless mocking spirit playing in derisive contempt with the foibles
of others. The weeping and the mocking philosopher are not usually divided as of old,
but are united in one, whose laugh is bestowed on the vanity of human wishes as
observed in the world around, while the earnest tear is reserved for the more deeply felt
miseries of his own destiny. The historian of melancholy himself was a philosopher of
this complexion. Deeply imbued with melancholy when his mental gaze was introverted,
when employed upon others it was more mocking than serious, more minute than pro-
found. Thence came the charming and learned gossip of the Anatomy ; thence also the
curious habit recorded of him, that for days together he would sit on a post by the river-
side, listening and laughing at the oaths and jeers of the boatmen, and thus finding a
strange solace for his own profound melancholy. Here is his own evidence : — " Humorous
they (melancholiacs) are beyond measure ; sometimes profusely laughing, extraordinary
merry, and then again weeping without a cause ; groaning, sighing, pensive, sad, almost
distracted, restless in their thoughts and actions, continually meditaiing.

" ' Velut segri somnia, vanae
Finguntur species ; '

1 Lamartine fell into the strange error of sup- in 1584, and that by 1586 it had established his

posing that Shakspere wrote the play of Himlet reputation.

HAMLET. 189

More like dreamers than men awake, they feign a company ot antick fantastical
conceits."

There is an intimate relationship between melancholy and humour. The fact is finely
touched in the Yorick of Lawrence Sterne, and, what is more to the purpose, in
the real history of many of the most celebrated humorists ; and the truth even
descends to those humorists of action, theatrical clowns. Who has not heard the
story of one of the most celebrated of these applying incognito to a physician for
the relief of melancholy, and being referred for a remedy to his own laughter-moving
antics ? Not that humour is always attended by any tinge or tendency to melancholy,
as the plenitude of this faculty exhibited by jolly Sir John fully proves. Stii! there is
this in common to the roystering humour of Falstaff, the melancholy humour of Jaques,
and the sarcastic humour of Hamlet, that they have each a perverse ingenuity in con-
templating the weakness and selfishness of human motive. Wit deals with ideas and
their verbal representations ; humour with motives and emotions ; and that melancholy
cast of thought, which tends to exhibit our own motives in an unfavourable light, is apt
to probe the motives of others with searching insight, and to represent them in those
unexpected contrasts, and those true but unusual colours which tickle the intelligence
with their novelty and strangeness.

Dr. J. C. Bucknill. — The Mad Folk of Shakespeare (1867), pp. 127—129.

, HAMLET AND SHAKESPEARE.

From the evidence of his Sonnets and of different plays — indeed, from the character of
Hamlet himself — there can be no doubt that Shakspeare was at one time much tried,
disheartened and oppressed by the harsh experiences of life ; he began, doubtless, as
many others have done, by thinking life " a Paradise," and found it, as others have done,
" only a Vauxhall." But as Goethe advanced from the storminess of Werther to the
calmness of Faust, so did Shakspeare rise in a glorious development from the subjective
character of Timon to that lofty and pure region of clear vision from which he contem-
plated the actions of men with infinite calmness. His practical life was correspondent ;
by bending his actions to the yoke of his intellectual life — by living, in fact, his
philpsophy — he was able to work steadily in the painful sphere of his vocation to the end
which he had proposed to himself. If Hamlet is a reflex of Shakspeare's character, it
reflects a period ere it had attained to its full development — a stage in which the struggle
between the feeling of the painful experiences of life and the intellectual appreciation of
them as events was actively going on — in which his nature was not yet in harmony with
itself; but the crowning development of his philosophy seems to have been to look on

190 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

all events with a serene and passionless gaze as inevitable effects of antecedent causes —
to be nowise moved by the vices of men, and to see in their virtues the evolution of their
nature. It is a probable conjecture which has been made, therefore, that Hamlet was
sketched out at an earlier period of his life than that at which it was published, and that
it was kept by him for some time and much modified, the soliloquies and large generali-
zations being some of them perhaps thus introduced, and the action of the play thereby
delayed. The Hamlet of his youth may thus have been alloyed with a more advanced
philosophy, and a character progressively elaborated which seems almost overweighted
with intellectual preponderance. If this be so, it may account for the strange circum-
stance, that at the beginning of the play Hamlet is represented as wishing to go back to
school at Wittenburg, when, as the graveyard scene proves, he must have been about
thirty years of age.

Dr. Henry Maudsley. — Hamlet, an Essay printed in Body and Mind, &r.

(i*73)> PP- I92—I94-

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

191

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

Act. II.
Scene IV. A Room in Angelo's House,

Angelo. But mark me ;

To be received plain, I'll speak more gross :
Your brother is to die.

Isabel. So.

Ang. And his offence is so, as it appears,
Accountant to the law upon that pain.

Isab. True.

Ang. Admit no other way to save his life, —
As I subscribe not that, nor any other,
But in the loss of question, — that you, his sister,
Finding yourself desired of such a person,
Whose credit with the judge, or own great place,
Could fetch your brother from the manacles
Of the all-building law ; and that there were
No earthly mean to save him, but that either
You must lay down the treasures of your body
To this supposed, or else to let him suffer ;
What would you do ?

Isab. As much for my poor brother as myself :
That is, were I under the terms of death,
The impression of keen whips Fid bear as rubies,
And strip myself to death, as to a bed
That longing have been sick for, ere Fid yield
My body up to shame.
Ang. Then must your brother die.

Isab. And 'twere the cheaper way :
Better it were a brother died at once,
Than that a sister, by redeeming him,

Should die for ever.

* * * *

Ang. Plainly conceive, I love you.

Isab. My brother did love Juliet,
And you tell me that he shall die for it.

Ang. He shall not, Isabel, if you give me

love.
Isab. I know your virtue hath a licence in't,
Which seems a little fouler than it is,
To pluck on others.

Ang. Believe me, on mine honour,

My words express my purpose.

Isab. Ha ! little honour to be much believed'
And most pernicious purpose ! Seeming, seem-
ing !
I will proclaim thee, Angelo ; look for't :
Sign me a present pardon for my brother,
Or with an outstretch'd throat I'll tell the world

aloud
What man thou art.

Ang, Who will believe thee, Isabel ?

My unsoil'd name, the austereness of my life,
My vouch against you, and my place i' the state,
Will so your accusation overweigh,
That you shall stifle in your own report
And smell of calumny. I have begun,
And now I give my sensual race the rein :
Fit thy consent to my sharp appetite ;
Lay by all nicety and prolixious blushes,
That banish what they sue for ; redeem thy

brother
By yielding up thy body to my will ;
Or else he must not only die the death,
But thy unkindness shall his death draw out
To lingering sufferance. Answer me to-morrow,
Or, by the affection that now guides me most,
I'll prove a tyrant to him. As for you,
Say what you can, my false o'erweighs your true.

[Exit.

MEASURE FOR MEASURE."

T N Measure for Measure, as in some .other of his plays, Shakespeare has remodelled an
earlier and somewhat rough composition to " finer issues," suffering much to remain as
the less skilful hand had left it, and not raising the whole of his work to an equal degree of
intensity. Hence perhaps some of that depth and weightiness which make this play so
impressive, as with the true seal of experience, like a fragment of life itself, rough and

192 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

disjointed indeed, but made to yield out in places its profounder meaning. In Measure for
Measure, in contrast with the flawless execution of Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare has spent
his art in just enough modification of the scheme of the earlier play as to make it exponent
of this purpose, adapting its terrible essential incidents, so that Coleridge found it the only
painful work among Shakespeare's dramas, and leaving for the reader of to-day more than
the usual number of difficult expressions ; but infusing a lavish colour and a profound
significance into it, so that under his touch certain select portions of it rise far above the
level of all but his own best poetry, and working out of it a morality so characteristic
that the play might well pass for the central expression of his moral judgments. . . .

It was from Whetstone, a contemporary English writer, that Shakespeare derived the
outline of Cinthio's "rare history" of Promos and Cassandra, one of that numerous class
of Italian stories, like Boccaccio's Tancred of Salerno, in which the mere energy of
southern passion has everything its own way, and which, though they may repel many a
northern reader by a certain cruelty in their colouring, seem to have been full of fascina-
tion for the Elizabethan age Out of these insignificant sources Shakespeare's

play rises, full of solemn expression, and with a profoundly designed beauty, the new
body of a higher, though' sometimes remote and difficult poetry escaping from the
imperfect relics of the old story, yet not wholly transformed, and even as it stands, but
the preparation only, we might think, of a still more imposing design. For once, we
have in it a real example of that sort of writing which is sometimes described as sug-
gestive, and which by the help of certain subtly calculated hints only, brings into distinct
shape the reader's own half-realized imaginings

Measure for Measure, therefore, by the quality of these higher designs, woven by his

strange magic on a texture of poorer quality, is hardly less indicative than Hamlet even

of Shakespeare's reason, of his power of moral interpretation. It deals not, like Hamlet,

with the problems which beset one of exceptional temperament, but with mere human

»
nature. It brings before us a group of persons, attractive, full of desire, vessels of the

genial seed-bearing powers of nature, a gaudy life flowering out over the old court and
city of Vienna, a spectacle of the fulness and pride of life which to some may seem to
touch the verge of wantonness. Behind this group of people, behind their various action,
Shakespeare inspires in us the sense of a strong tyranny of nature and circumstances.
Then what shall there be on this side of it — on our side, the spectators' side, of this
painted screen, with its puppets who are really glad or sorry all the time ? what philo-
sophy of life, what sort of equity ? . . . .

The Duke disguised as a friar, with his curious moralising on life and death, and
Isabella in her first mood of renunciation, a thing " ensky'd and sainted," come with the
quiet of the cloister as a relief to this lust and pride of life : like some grey monastic
picture hung on the wall of a gaudy room, their presence cools the heated air of the

o : . ,.

MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 193

piece. For a moment we are within the placid, conventual walls, to which they fancy
at first that the Duke has come as a man crossed in love, with Friar Thomas and Friar
Peter, calling each other by their homely English names, or at the nunnery among the
novices, with their little limited privileges, where

"If you speak you must not show your face.
Or if you show your face you must not speak."

. . . . At first Isabella comes upon the scene as a tranquillising influence in it. But
Shakespeare, in the development of the action, brings quite different and unexpected
qualities out of her. It is his characteristic poetry to expose this cold, chastened person-
ality, respected even by the worldly Lucio as " something ensky'd and sainted, and almost
an immortal spirit," to two sharp, shameful trials, and wring out of her a fiery, revealing
eloquence. Thrown into the terrible dilemma of the piece, called upon to sacrifice that
cloistral whiteness to sisterly affection, become in a moment the ground of strong con-
tending passions, she develops a new character, and shows herself suddenly a kinswoman
of those strangely conceived women, like Webster's Vittoria, who unite to a seductive
sweetness, something of a dangerous and tigerlike changefulness of feeling. The swift,
vindictive anger leaps, like a white flame, into this white spirit, and, stripped naked in a
moment of all convention, she stands before us clear, detached, columnar, among the
tender frailties of the piece. ....

As Shakespeare in Measure for Measure has refashioned, after a nobler pattern
materials already at hand, so that the relics of other men's poetry are incorporated into
his perfect work, so traces of the old " morality," that early form of dramatic composition
which had for its function the inculcating of some moral theme, survive in it also, and
give it a peculiar ethical interest. This ethical interest, though it can escape no attentive
reader, yet, in accordance with that artistic law which demands the predominance of
form everywhere over the mere matter or subject handled, is not to be wholly separated
from the special circumstances, necessities, embarrassments, of these particular dramatic
persons. The old " moralities " exemplified most often some rough and ready lesson.
Here the very intricacy and subtlety of the moral world itself, the difficulty of seizing
the true relations of so complex a material, the difficulty of just judgment, of judgment

which shall not be unjust, are the lessons conveyed It is no longer Promos

and Cassandra, but Measure for Measure, its new name expressly suggesting the subject
of poetical justice. The action of the play, like the action of life itself for the keener
observer, develops in us the conception and the yearning to realise this poetical justice,
the true justice of which Angelo knows nothing, because it lies for the most part beyond
the limits of any acknowledged law. The idea of justice involves the idea of rights.

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But, at bottom, rights are equivalent to that which really is ; and the recognition of its
rights therefore, the justice it requires of our hands, or our thoughts, is the recognition of
that which the person, or the thing, in its inmost nature, really is ; and as sympathy alone
can discover that which really is in matters of feeling and thought, true justice is in its
essence a finer knowledge through love. . . . It is for this finer justice, a justice
based on a more delicate appreciation of the true conditions of men and things, a true
respect of persons in our estimate of actions, that the people in Measure for Measure
cry out as they pass before us ; and as the poetry of this play is full of the peculiari-
ties of Shakespeare's poetry, so in its ethics it is an epitome of Shakespeare's moral
judgments.

Walter H. Pater. — A Fragment on " Measure for Measure." Fortnightly
Review, November, 1874, pp. 652 — 658.

ANGELO AND ISABELLA.

This is Shakespeare's only instance of comedy where the wit seems to foam and sparkle
up from a fountain of bitterness ; where even the humour is made pungent with sarcasm ;
and where the poetry is marked with tragic austerity. In none of his plays does he
discover less of leaning upon pre-existing models, or a more manly negligence,
perhaps sometimes carried to excess, of those lighter graces of manner which none
but the greatest minds may safely despise. His genius is here out in all its colossal
individuality, and he seems to have meant it should be so ; as if he felt quite sure
of having now reached his mastership ; so that henceforth, instead of leaning on
those who had gone before, he was to be himself a leaning place for those who should
follow.

Accordingly the play abounds in fearless grapplings and strugglings of mind with
matters too hard to consist with much facility and gracefulness of tongue. The thought
is strong, and in its strength careless of appearances, and seems rather wishing than
fearing to have its roughnesses seen ; the style is rugged, irregular, abrupt, sometimes run-
ning into an almost forbidding sternness, but everywhere throbbing with life ; often a
whole page of meaning is condensed and rammed into a clause or an image, so that the
force thereof beats and reverberates through the entire scene : with little of elaborate
grace or finish, we have bold, deep strokes, where the want of finer softenings and
shadings is more than made up by increased energy and expressiveness ; the words going
right to the spot, and leaving none of their work undone. Thus the workmanship is in
a very uncommon degree what I designate as steep, meaning thereby hard to get to the top
of Hence it is perhaps, in part, that so many axioms and " brief sententious precepts "

MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 195

of moral and practical wisdom from this play have wrought themselves into the currency
and familiarity of household words. . . . ,

Angelo is at first not so properly a hypocrite as a self-deceiver. For it is very con-
ceivable that he wishes to be, and sincerely thinks he is, what he affects and appears to
be ; as is plain from his consternation at the wickedness which opportunity awakens into
conscious action within him. He thus typifies that sort of men of whom Bishop Butler
says, " They try appearances upon themselves as well as upon the world, and with at least
as much success ; and choose to manage so as to make their own minds easy with their
faults, which can scarce be done without management, rather than to mend them." Even
so Angelo for self-ends imitates sanctity, and then gets taken in by his own imitation.
This " mystery of iniquity " locks him from all true knowledge of himself. He must be
worse before he will be better. The refined hypocrisies which so elude his eye, and thus
nurse his self-righteous pride, must put on a grosser form till he cannot choose but see
himself as he is. The secret devil within must blaze out in a shape too palpable
to be ignored. And so, as often happens where the subtleties of self-deceit are thus
cherished, he at length proceeds a downright conscious hypocrite, this too of the
deepest dye.

Angelo's original fault lay in forgetting or ignoring his own frailty. As a natural con-
sequence, his " darling sin is pride that apes humility." And his conceit of virtue, —
" my gravity, wherein (let no man hear me) I take pride " — while it keeps him from
certain vices, is itself a far greater vice than any it keeps him from y insomuch that his
interviews with Isabella may almost be said to elevate him into lust. They at least bring
him to a just vision of his inward self. The serpent-charms of self-deceit which he has
so hugged are now broken. For even so — and how awful is the fact ! — men often wound
themselves so deeply with medicines, that Providence has no way for them, apparently,
but to make wounds medicinal, or, as Hooker says, " to cure by vice where virtue hath
stricken." So indeed it must be where men turn their virtues into food of spiritual
pride ; which is the hardest of all sores to be cured, " inasmuch as that which rooteth
out other vices causeth this." And perhaps the array of low and loathsome vices which
the Poet has clustered about Angelo in the persons of Lucio, Pompey and Mrs. Over-
done, was necessary, to make us feel how unspeakably worse than any or all of these is
Angelo's pride of virtue. It can hardly be needful to add, that in Angelo these fearful
traits of character are depicted with a truth and sternness of pencil, such as could scarce
have been achieved but in an age fruitful in living examples of them.

The placing of Isabella, "a thing ensky'd and sainted," and who truly is all that
Angelo seems, side by side with such a breathing shining mass of pitch, is one of those
dramatic audacities wherein none perhaps but a Shakespeare could safely indulge. Of
her character the most prolific hint that is given is what she says to the disguised Duke,

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196 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

when he is urging her to fasten her ear on his advisings touching the part of Mariana :
" I have spirit to do anything that appears not foul in the truth of my spirit." That is,
she cares not what face her action may wear to the world, nor how much reproach it may
bring on her from others, if it will only leave her the society, which she has never parted
from, of a clean breast and a pure conscience. v

Called from the cloister, where she is on the point of taking the veil of earthly renounce-
ment, to plead for her brother's life, she comes forth a saintly anchoress, clad in the
austerest sweetness of womanhood, to throw the light of her virgin soul upon the dark,
loathsome scenes and characters around her. With great strength of intellect and depth
of feeling she unites an equal power of imagination, the whole being pervaded, quickened,
and guided by a still, intense, religious enthusiasm. And because her virtue is securely
rooted and grounded in religion, therefore she never thinks of it as her own, but only as
a gift from the Being whom she adores, and who is her only hope for the keeping of
what she has. Which suggests the fundamental point of contrast between her and
Angelo, whose virtue, if such it may be called, is nothing, nay, worse than nothing,
because it is a virtue of his own making, is without any inspiration from the one Source
of all true good, and so has no basis but pride, which is itself a bubble. Accordingly
her character appears to me among the finest, in some respects the very finest, in Shake-
speare's matchless cabinet of female excellence

The dialogues between her and Angelo are extremely subtile and suggestive on both
sides, fraught with meanings to reward the most searching ethical study. . . . . At
the opening of their interview she is in a struggle between wishing and not wishing, and
therefore not in a mood to " play with reason and discourse." With her settled awe of
purity, she cannot but admit the law to be right, yet she sees not how, in the circum-
stances, mercy can be wrong. At this thought her heart presently kindles, her eloquence
springs to work, and its tones grow deeper, clearer, more penetrating as point after point
catches her mental eye. Thenceforth it is a keen encounter of mind with mind ; but on
his side it is the conscious logic of an adroit and practised lawyer, who has full mastery
of his case, and is prompt in all the turns of legal ingenuity ; while on her side it is the
logic of nature's finest moral instincts spontaneously using the forces of a quick, powerful,

and well-balanced intellect as their organ of expression With a tact that

seems like inspiration, she feels out his assailable points, and keeps surprising and en-
gaging him with new and startling appeals to his innermost feelings. At length, when, his
wicked purpose being formed, he goes to talking to her in riddles, she quickly under-
stands him, but thinks he is only testing her ; her replies leave him in doubt whether
craft or innocence speaks in her : so she draws him on to speaking plainer and plainer,
till at last he makes a full and explicit avowal of his inhuman baseness. He is especially
caught, be it observed, " in the strong toil " of her moral grace ; at least he is pleased to

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

197

think so : and as he has been wont to pride himself on being a saint, so he now takes
refuge in the thought, " O cunning enemy, that to catch a saint, with saints dost bait thy
hook." "

H. N. Hudson. — Shakespeare, his Life, Art, and Characters,
Vol. I. pp. 406 — 416.

1 A singular piece of criticism on this play will
be found in " Shakspeare" by F. Rio, whose main
object in the volume, as is well known, was that
of proving Shakespeare a Catholic. He notices
the unpopularity of the play with Protestant
critics, who cannot appreciate the "vertus dif-
ficiles " of the cloister. Shakespeare, according

to M. Rio, wrote the play as a kind of petition in
favour of his persecuted fellow Catholics. "In
the eyes of every impartial reader its principal
purpose is the glorification of the ascetic ideal in
general, and in particular of cloistral virginity "
(P. 298).

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SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

OTHELLO.

Act I. Scene III.

Othello. Her father loved me ; oft invited

me ;
Still question'd me the story of my life,
From year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes,
That I have pass'd.

I ran it through, even from my boyish days,
To the very moment that he bade me tell it ;
Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents by flood and field,
Of hairbreadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly

breach,
Of being taken by the insolent foe
And sold to slavery, of my redemption thence
And portance in my travels' history :
Wherein of antres vast and deserts idle,
Rough quarries, rocks and hills whose heads

touch heaven,
It was my hint to speak, — such was the process ;
And of the Cannibals that each other eat,
The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads
Do grow beneath their shoulders. This to hear
Would Desdemona seriously incline :

But still the house-affairs would draw her thence :
Which ever as she could with haste despatch,
She'ld come again, and with a greedy ear
Devour up my discourse : which I observing,
Took once a pliant hour, and found good means
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,
Whereof by parcels she had something heard,
But not intentively : I did consent,
And often did beguile her of her tears,
When I did speak of some distressful stroke
That my youth suffered. My story being done,
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs :
She swore, in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing

strange,
'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful :
She wish'd she had not heard it, yet she wish'd
That heaven had made her such a man : she

thank'd me,
And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her,
I should but teach him how to tell my story,
And that would woo her. Upon this hint I

spake :
She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd,
And I loved her that she did pity them.
This only is the witchcraft I have used.

OTHELLO AND DESDEMONA.

T N Othello there are two men j there is, first, the savage, who has long been such, who has long
lived a wild life, abandoning himself without the shadow of an inward struggle to every
outburst of passion that rises in his soul, yet possessed of that substratum of goodness and
natural generosity which our poetic fictions are pleased to ascribe to the desert-king, the lion ;
secondly, the civilized man — grown civilized by the influence of war, but of war alone, by the
nobility of his courage, and that self-possession which the habitual presence of danger develops.
In the quiet of a life of peace, the civilized man naturally predominates ; Othello is calm
confides in the superiority of his own character, in the lofty station of his own soul, and in
the importance of his services rendered to the state ; but he obeys the first signal, he marches
at the first word, disciplined as a soldier, rendered tame as an animal might be. He has
conquered Desdemona's young heart by a marvellous and happy chance, the probability, nay,
the very possibility of which is a flight of poetry, a happy chance inconceivable by ordinary minds.
" What delight," asks Iago, " shall she have to look on the devil ?" But this grace of favouring

OTHELLO.

199

fortune seems to him merely natural and simple, a thing not to excite thought or anxiety ;
it has cost him not a step on his part, not a moment of uneasiness, not a thought about his
age, his face, the rudeness of his manners ; he possesses Desdemona as his property, as
he holds his good sword, not imagining that this possession of her can be disputed
otherwise than by open force ; and therefore he is at ease ; for the rest, if he yields him-
self to love, love is at most an accident in his life ; his life itself is war, this is the
air he breathes, the earth on which he treads : and yet love may indeed determine
his destiny. ....

Desdemona, — set over against the Moor, — is the most perfect ideal, the purest type
of womanhood ; a being inferior, and yet divine ; subordinated by her vocation ; free
before her choice is made, but the slave of her own choice. Modesty, tenderness,
submission, — these constitute Desdemona. Her modesty is spotless, her tenderness
immeasurable, her submission limitless and undivided. What distinguishes her from
all other women is that she does not possess these qualities ; these qualities possess and
absorb her. There is in her soul no place for other things, — things indifferent, bad, or
even good, — for other likings, other feelings, other duties. She has given away herself,
it matters not to whom, and it matters not for what reason : it is enough that she has
given herself away wholly, body and soul, thoughts and desires, hopes and memories.
There is no longer aught remaining of her which she can reserve for any person. She
deserts her father, deceives him, braves him, as far as Desdemona can brave anyone,
with full heart, and the blush upon her forehead, but without hesitation and without
repenting of her choice. Merely to look upon the object of that choice is to see how
pure are all her thoughts. There is not the slightest illusion, either as to the kind ot
life she may expect, nor, it may be, even as to the price which some day so deep
affection may be forced to pay ; she is resigned beforehand, resigned to everything that
may befall, assured that such is her worldly lot ; assured, whatever may happen, that she
will never cast backwards one glance of regret, never hesitate between this side and that.

And to produce this complete impression upon us what does Shakespeare require ?

Four pencil strokes ; no more.

The Duke de Broglie. — Sur Othello, printed in Guizot's Shakspeare et

son Temps (1852), pp. 317—319.

OTHELLO.

Othello is by race, complexion, habits and natural disposition, a stranger in the state
which we see him serving, although he has become a Christian and a Venetian. The
stain of his birth is ever kept in fresh remembrance by his dark skin, and neither his
deeds nor his royal origin can free him from the prejudices of men. The peculiar

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disposition of his Mauritanian race, the violent temperament, the power of passion, the
force of a tropical fancy, could not be effaced, however much the self-command of the
much-tried man, steeled by deeds and sufferings, had attempted it. That which most
surely destroys in us the original and luxuriant strength of passions, he had missed in
early life ; the quiet, early, uninterrupted, all-powerful influence of education and con-
ventional habits, which softens the wild natural power of our impulses by this means,
that from the very outset it modifies and relaxes it. What, in this respect, birth and
origin had begun in Othello, his fate, education, calling, and life had continued. From
his seventh year he grew up in the " tented field," and remained estranged and alienated
from the peaceful world, the citizen-life, the state of market or home, the arts, cultivation,
enjoyment, and repose. He was a " full soldier," to whom the flinty and steel couch of
war was as a thrice-driven bed of down. In his speeches all his images and comparisons
are taken from the wars, the sea, or the chase. When landing in Cyprus, he has just
escaped the tumult of the elements, his heart is opened and his tongue loosened, and,
contrary to his habit, he is then talkative^ kindly, and tender ; in deeds and dangers he finds
the source of cheerful vigour. There is, his spirit, his range of sight, his power of mind,
his cool determination ; the noblest gifts and acquirements of his nature are at their
highest point, when dangers surround him : it is a picture full of greatness, which Iago
draws of his immovable calmness, which never left him even when the cannon scattered
his battle-array, and tore his own brother from his side. To this inclination for deeds
and adventures, this delight in bold and threatening enterprises, he has yielded under the
impulse of an heroic nature, journeying by land and sea to the ends of the earth, to
behold its terrors and its wonders. He had been in " antres vast and deserts idle ;* he had
had " hairbreadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach ; " he had been taken prisoner,
and sold to slavery and again redeemed ; he had seen

" Cannibals that each other eat,
The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads
Do grow beneath their shoulders."

So he told Desdemona, when he was least inclined for fable ; he informed the Senate ot
Venice of this narration, when the most accurate truth was his duty and his interest ;
the strongest sincerity lay besides in his nature and principles. He, therefore, must
have believed he had actually seen those marvels of distant regions ; his southern fancy
had mingled with his power of observation ; or he related only from hearsay ; l credulity

1 Thus, as Sir'Walter Raleigh in the description
of his journey to Guiana in 1595, tells of the can-
nibals, amazons, and the headless people of Ewai-
panoma, on which Shakespeare, according to

commentators, must have thought in this passage
of the wonders of Othello's journey ; although he
may just as well have had Mandeville before him.

OTHELLO. 201

and superstition betray at any rate his origin and the power of his imagination ; and these
are traits which it behoves us to hold in lively remembrance, in order subsequently to
comprehend the incredible and fatal exercise of these very qualities. Deeply is the
belief in mysterious powers rooted in that redundant imagination which is so natural in
the hunter, the sailor, and the adventurer. The magic with which he invests the hand-
kerchief, his wedding-gift to Desdemona, is not merely feigned, to increase its value and
significance in her estimation ; she receives it so trustfully, that she questions not his
belief in such wonderful powers ; and other places there are where he speaks credulously
of the omen of a " raven o'er the infected house," and the influence of the moon upon
the spirits of men. With this previous history, Othello had entered the service of the
Venetian State. He had become so naturalized there, that like a patriot he held the
honour of the State as his own honour ; this he showed at Aleppo, when in the midst of
the enemy's land, he stabbed the Turk who insulted Venice by striking a Venetian. By
his warlike deeds he had made himself indispensable to the State ; he was " all in all " to
the Senate ; the people and public opinion, " the sovereign mistress of effects," were on
his side. Only among the noble and the higher classes has he open enemies and enviers :
those who have the privileges, have ever the prejudices too. We hear, indeed, in what
tone Iago and Roderigo speak of the " black devil " and " the thick lips ;" we hear how
poisonously Iago, under the mask of good intention, tells him to his face what prejudices
as to his colour and birth are circulated in Venice ; we see plainly at what a distance he
was regarded by Brabantio, at whose house he was even a favoured guest. In the eyes
of these people he was not the deserving warrior of their country, but a vagrant,
vagabond, foreign barbarian ; the finger of scorn pointed at him, and he felt it. That
he should meet his enemies with disregard and contempt, lay in his proud nature ; we
hear that he rejected important requests for Iago; we see him opposing the pride of the
senator's cap (Brabantio) by the assertion of his own royal birth ; if he treats as he does
the powerful and influential father-in-law in the moment of closest union, how might he
have acted in the case of provocation ! There rested upon him, as upon the descendants
of the Jewish people, the stain of unequal birth and the fate of expulsion ; the more his
services emancipated him, the more sensitive, one may believe, would he be to the preju-
dices which yet remained. But before he attained to this position, throughout his whole
life, resentment and bitterness must have been planted in his spirit through this pariah con-
dition. The feeling of disregard oppressed him ; disunion with the world ; discord with
men raged concealed within ; this gave him the grave expression, the silent reserved
nature, that brooded deeply over thoughts and conceptions ; it gave him the inclination,
so common with rugged characters, to yield himself up to soft compliant dispositions, to
the apparent honesty of the hypocritical Iago, to the pliable Cassio, and entirely to the
gentle Desdemona. There was a time when this feeling of rejection called forth in him

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a disturbance within, which, with one of his strongly expressive comparisons, he called
" chaos," and which he shudders to look back upon. He had cooled his hot Moorish
blood, but he could not change it. He had learned to repress his raging temperament
in the school of circumstances, but these struggles, one thinks, had become hard to
him and had often been fruitless. If from some just and heavy cause the floodgates of
restrained passion gave way, then his condition became " perplexed in the extreme,"
stubborn obstinacy seized him, and the outburst of frightful emotions betrayed the
inherent power of his nature, threatened his mind with distraction, and overcame even
his body with spasms and faintness.

But the degree in which Othello exercised self-command, the measure of sell-posses-
sion and power over his passions which he acquired, this it is which attracts us to him
still more than his deeds and warlike talent. The profession of arms had invested him
with calmness, firmness, severe discipline, and strength of will and purpose ; these
qualities related to his innermost nature and influenced his intercourse with men. He
could no longer refine his habits after a long camp-life according to the gentle fashion of
courtly society, but he disciplined them like a soldier. He had cooled down his anger
and zeal on principle. As we become acquainted with him, he leaves upon everyone
around him the impression of a mastery over self, firmly to be relied upon ; he appears
to all a man of large heart, one not easily irritated j whom no passion decides, and whose
firm virtue no chance or fate can shake. On the ground of this inward repose, the
beautiful qualities of his mind appear more clearly. A warrior, knowing " little of this
great world," he had no great versatility of mind ; he was " little blessed with the set
phrase of speech ; " ignorant Of the arts of cunning and craftiness, he was pliable,
credulous, and easily deceived by the hypocrisy which he perceived not. With these his
mental deficiencies, the excellent natural qualities of his heart stand in the closest union.
His confidence was without limits, when once established ; to dissemble was difficult to
him, ay, impossible ; all ostentation and conceit were foreign to him ; the candour, the
lack of suspicion, the constancy of this true soul, his perfect kindness, his thoroughly
noble nature, were acknowledged even by his enemies. With that strong self-discipline,
with that calm demeanour, with this noblemindedness was united the most manly sense of
honour. He had won for himself the honour which others inherit ; and he defended it
with the jealousy and care with which the possessor watches over a property whose
acquisition had been difficult. With toil had Othello thus risen to that even balance of
conduct which rests in the genuine honest self-reliance to which his merits had advanced
him. But even at this highest point of his self-contentment, we never quite lose the
impression, that this self-reliance does not stand unalterably firm, that this evenness ot
conduct fluctuates, in one scale of which the acknowledgment he meets with alternates
with the other scale of his secret discontent springing from the feeling of his birth. The

OTHELLO. 203

slightest jar on the one side or the other, one fears, would disturb the equilibrium, if not
wholly destroy it. But just at the point of time, in which we are introduced to the play,
an unexpected happiness befalls the Moor, which seems as if it must for ever ensure this
equilibrium : the most perfect woman in Venice falls to his lot. In the delineation of
this woman, the poet has sketched a character of extraordinary truth and naturalness,
the comprehension of which must next occupy our attention. Shakespeare has invested
Desdemona with all that can render her precious and invaluable to the Moor. He has
endowed her with a beauty " that paragons description and wild fame " Othello became
acquainted with her as a busy housewife, " delicate with her needle, an admirable
musician," whose voice could " sing the savageness out of a bear," and even had charms
for the Moor, though he cared not for music Conspicuous mental endow-
ments would perhaps have repelled rather than attracted the Moor ; his own plain nature
would not have felt easy by the side of a woman of this nature. This genuine manli-
ness is only attracted by the most genuine womanliness, and this, again, Othello would
have found belonging rather to the feeling than to the witty nature of woman. He
would exchange the splendour of all mental endowments for the one characteristic,
which belongs to Desdemona, the highest charm of the womanly nature, which Iago
names not, because he knows it not, or believes not in it : her humility, her harmless
ingenuousness, her modesty, and innocence. Not the breath of an impure thought has
ever darkened the mirror of this soul ; the mere word of sin it abhors her to speak ;
her name is clear and "fresh as Dian's visage." The genuineness of her soul and
mind culminates (and this is the highest point of her nature) in a perfect unsuspicious-
ness, which has taken too deep a root in her for this suspicious world. This unsus-
piciousness is the source of all her noble qualities, but it is also the cause of her calum-
niation and aspersion j in it she raises faults to noble virtues, but she sustains also
her virtue in less circumspect demeanour; the very excess of the most innocent con-
sciousness makes her idle and careless of appearance ; she never needed the law, and
knew of no sin ; she might err against many rules of conventional custom, but her
heart would be pure from stain, because any infraction of the eternal moral law would
be impossible to her; she has no suspicion of other men, and dreams not that they
could think evil of her ; thus by this ingenuousness she obtains her happiness, and
through it causes her unhappiness.

G. G. Gf.rvinus. — Shakespeare Commentaries, translated by F. E.
Bunnett (1863), Vol. II. pp. 52—61.

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OTHELLO.

Act V.

Scene II. A Bedchamber in the Castle: Des-
demona in bed asleep j a light burning.

Enter Othello.

Oth. It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul, —
Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars ! —
It is the cause. Yet I'll not shed her blood ;
Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,
And smooth as monumental alabaster.
Yet she must die, else she'll betray more men.
Put out the light, and then put out the light :
If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,
I can again thy former light restore,

Should I repent me : but once put out thy light,
Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature,
I know not where is that Promethean heat
That can thy light relume. When I have pluck'd

the rose,
I cannot give it vital growth again,
It must needs wither : I'll smell it on the tree.

[Kissing her.
Ah, balmy breath, that dost almost persuade
Justice- to break her sword ! One more, one

more.
Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee,
And love thee after. One more, and this the

last :
So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep,
But they are cruel tears : this sorrow's heavenly;
It strikes where it doth love. She wakes !

THE TRAGEDY OF "OTHELLO."

T F Macbeth is the most perfect [of Shakespeare's dramas] in the tragic action of the story, the
most perfect in tragic passion is Othello. There is nothing to determine unhappiness to the
lives of the two principal persons. Their love begins auspiciously ; and the renown, high
favour, and high character of Othello seem to promise a stability of happiness to himself and
the wife of his affections. But the blood which has been scorched in the veins of his race,
under the suns of Africa, bears a poison that swells up to confound the peace of the Christian
marriage-bed. He is jealous ; and the dreadful overmastering passion which disturbs the
steadfastness of his own mind, overflows upon his life and hers, and consumes them from the
earth. The external action of the play is nothing — the causes of events are none ; the whole
interest of the story, the whole course of the action, the causes of all that happens, live all in
the breast of Othello. The whole destiny of those who are to perish lies in his passion. Hence
the high tragic character of the play — showing one false illusory passion ruling and confounding
all life. All that is below tragedy in the passion of love is taken away at once by the awful
character of Othello, for such he seems to us to be designed to be. He appears never as a
lover — but at once as a husband ; and the relation of his love made dignified, as it is a
husband's justification of his marriage, is also dignified, as it is a soldier's relation of his stern
and perilous life. It is a courted, not a wooing, at least unconsciously-wooing love; and
though full of tenderness, yet it is but slightly expressed, as being solely the gentle affection of
a strong mind, and in no wise a passion. " And I loved her, that she did pity them." Indeed

OTHELLO. 205

he is not represented as a man of passion, but of stern, sedate, immovable mood."
" I have seen the cannon, that, like the devil, from his very arm puffed his own brother "
— and can he be angry? Montalto speaks with the same astonishment, calling him
respected for wisdom and gravity. Therefore, it is no love-story. His love itself, as long
as it is happy, is perfectly calm and serene, the protecting tenderness of a husband. It
is not till it is disordered that it appears as a passion. Then is shown a power in con-
tention with itself — a mighty being struck with death, and bringing up from all the depths
of life convulsions and agonies. It is no exhibition of the power of the passion of love,
but of the passion of life vitally wounded, and self-overmastering. What was his love ?
He had placed all his faith in good — all his imagination of purity, all his tenderness of
nature upon one heart ; and at once that heart seems to him an ulcer. It is that
recoiling agony that shakes his whole body, — that having confided with the whole power
of his soul, he is utterly betrayed, — that having departed from the pride and might of his
life, which he held in his conquest and sovereignty over men, to rest himself upon a new
and gracious affection, to build himself and his life upon one beloved heart, — having
found a blessed affection, which he had passed through life without knowing, — and
having chosen, in the just and pure goodness of his will, to take that affection instead of
all other hopes, desires, and passions to live by, — that at once he sees it sent out of
existence, and a damned thing standing in its place. It is then that he feels a forfeiture
of all power, and a blasting of all good. If Desdemona had been really guilty, the
greatness would have been destroyed, because his love would have been unworthy, —
false. But she is good, and his love is most perfect, just, and good. That a man should
place his perfect love on a wretched thing is miserably debasing and shocking to thought ;
but that, loving perfectly and well, he should, by hellish human circumvention, be brought
to distrust, and dread and abjure his own perfect love, is most mournful indeed, — it is
the infirmity of our good nature, wrestling in vain with the strong powers of evil. More-
over, he would, had Desdemona been false, have been the mere victim of fate ; whereas
he is now in a manner his own victim. His happy love was heroic tenderness ; his
injured love is terrible passion ; and disordered power, engendered within itself to its
own destruction, is the height of all tragedy. The character of Othello is perhaps the
most greatly drawn, the most heroic of any of Shakespeare's actors ; but it is, perhaps,
that one also of which his reader last acquires the intelligence. The intellectual and
warlike energy of his mind — his tenderness of affection — his loftiness of spirit — his frank,
generous magnanimity — impetuosity like a thunderbolt — and that dark fierce flood of
boiling passion, polluting even his imagination — compose a character entirely original ;
most difficult to delineate, but perfectly delineated.

Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. V. Quoted in Nathan Drake's
Memorials of Shakespeare (1828), pp. 96 — 100.

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IAGO.

Why does Iago amass so great a heap of crimes ? Shall we believe, as he himself
declares, that he is impelled solely by resentment, by the mortification of not having
gained the post of lieutenant, and by the suspicion that his wife, Emilia, at some former
time loved Othello ? These are trivial causes to produce so terrible effects. If Iago had
been named lieutenant instead of Cassio, he would not have been the less a criminal ;
for he loves evil for evil's sake. He has pity for no one ; he slays his wife as he has
slain his friend Roderigo. He is the most pernicious and dangerous of men. There is
even in his part a wantonness of atrocity and a refinement of malice which can be
explained only by a passion for crime itself; he is not satisfied with ordinary offences ;
he aspires to renown through such achievements. He is like the genius of evil ; in the long
soliloquies which Shakespeare puts into his mouth, he sometimes stimulates himself with
the example of the devices of Satan. Othello, when he sees him once more after he has
obtained assurance of Iago's treason, believes that he stands in the presence of the Evil
One, and looks down to ascertain whether his ancient has not the cloven foot. And in
truth Shakespeare bestows upon the traitor power no less than supernatural, which
impairs the verisimilitude of the action, and, as so doing, may be looked upon as a fault.
If Iago be no more than human, he makes too many dupes at one and the same time ;
it may be asked how he could at once deceive so many different persons, — Roderigo,
Cassio, Othello, Desdemona, and, in particular, his wife Emilia, — clearsighted and
penetrating as she is. Not one of his projects proves abortive. Although on some
occasions he uses rude stratagems, and this in the midst of so many persons interested
in learning the truth, who risk upon his advice their future and their lives, yet there is no
one of them able to unmask him. His criminal suggestions are too readily followed ;
the complicity of those about him implies a certain over-credulity. He bids Roderigo
disguise himself and set out for Cyprus ; Roderigo disguises himself, and sets out. He
puts into his hand a sword to strike at Cassio ; Roderigo strikes like a blind instrument.
He counsels Cassio to implore for Desdemona's pitying intervention ; Cassio obeys. He
incites Othello to smother his wife in her bed ; Othello does the deed.

Iago holds in his hands all the springs of the action. To his manoeuvres Shakespeare
ascribes all the events, which the Italian novelists, in their narrative, represent as the result
of chance. This is caused by the poet's perpetual desire to explain facts by the develop-
ment of characters, and to leave as little room as may be for the blind sport of fortune.
Besides, the evil nature of Iago, although exceptional, is not impossible, nor without
parallels. Shakespeare had found it in history before introducing it in fiction. The
ancient commits no crime of which Richard III. was not capable — Richard, the murderer

OTHELLO. 207

of his own brother and his nephews But it must be added that Shakespeare

is careful to represent Iago as born in Italy, at Florence, in the country of Machiavel. A
man who has read The Prince, and who puts its maxims into practice, necessarily
professes complete indifference as to the choice of his means. He is not conceited on
the score of his virtue, but of his skill. He knows no scruples of conscience ; he has no
other rule save self-interest. The Italians of the fifteenth century would assuredly have
given a vote in favour of the ancient and against Othello. The latter, who inspires us
with sympathy, and almost with esteem, in spite of his violences, would have appeared
to them contemptible on account of the credulousness with which he falls into all the
snares spread for his feet. Caesar Borgia's contemporaries would have preferred to the
barbarian, whose passions are so violent and absorbing, who is incapable of distinguishing
an enemy from a friend, and who kills his beloved wife to gratify the vengeance of a
hated inferior, the astute politician, who dissembles all his plans, who, — one against
many, — gains the confidence of every person whom he wishes to destroy, and, with no
other resources than his keen mother wit, triumphs over a woman's beauty and a soldier's
valour. In that corrupt period, subtlety was valued more than heroism. The prize of
victory would have been awarded to Iago as the subtler of the two.

A. Mezieres. — Shakespeare, ses (Euvres et ses Critiques, pp. 278 — 281.

MORAL SIGNIFICANCE OF THE TRAGEDY OF "OTHELLO."

Since Coleridge made the remark, all critics of Othello are constrained to repeat after
him that the passion of the Moor is not altogether jealousy — it is rather the agony of
being compelled to hate that which he supremely loved : —

" Excellent wretch ! Perdition catch my soul,
But 1 do love thee, and when I love thee not,
Chaos is come again."

Othello does not feel himself placed in rivalry with Cassio for the affection of his
wife. Iago has contrived that the Moor shall overhear him conversing with Cassio about
Bianca. Cassio, at the thought of the extravagant pursuit of him by the Venetian
courtesan, laughs aloud. It is then that Othello breaks out with the enraged cry, " How
shall I murder him, Iago?" But Othello supposed that Cassio had been speaking of
Uesdemona, and that his laugh was a profane mockery of her fall. It was Cassio's
supposed ignoble thought respecting Desdemona, even more than jealousy, which made
him seem to Othello to merit mortal vengeance. Ordinarily Othello thinks little about
Cassio. His agony is concentrated in the thought that the fairest thing on earth should

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be foul, that the fountain from which the current of his life had seemed to run so pure
and free should be

" A cistern for foul toads
To knot and gender in ! "

It is with an agonized sense of justice that he destroys the creature who is dearest to
him in the world, knowing certainly that with hers his own true life must cease. Nay,
it is not with the cessation of Desdemona's breath that the life of Othello ends ; he is
unable to survive the loss of faith in her perfect purity. All that had been glorious
becomes remote and impossible for him if Desdemona be false. We hear the great
childlike sob of Othello's soul : —

" O, now, for ever
Farewell the tranquil mind ! farewell content !
Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars
That make ambition virtue."

From the first suggestion of suspicion by his ensnarer, Othello is impatient for assur-
ance, and finds suspense intolerable. Why ? Not surely because he is eager to convict
his wife of infidelity ; but rather because he will not allow his passionate desire to believe
her pure to abuse him, and retain him in a fool's paradise, while a great agony may
possibly remain before him.

Of the tragic story what is the final issue ? The central point of its spiritual import
lies in the contrast between the two men, Iago and his victim. Iago, with keen intel-
lectual faculties and manifold culture in Italian vice, lives and thrives after his fashion
in a world from which all virtue and all beauty are absent. Othello with his barbaric
innocence and regal magnificence of soul must cease to live the moment he ceases to
retain faith in the purity and goodness which were to him the highest and most real things
upon earth. Or if he live, life must become to him a cruel agony. Shakespeare com-
pels us to acknowledge that self-slaughter is a rapturous energy — that such prolonged
agony is joy in comparison with the earthy life-in-death of such a soul as that of Iago.
The noble nature is taken in the toils because it is noble. Iago suspects his wife of
every baseness, but the suspicion has no other effect than to intensify his malignity.
Iago could not be captured and constrained to heroic suffering and rage. The shame
of every being who bears the name of woman is credible to Iago, and yet he can grate
from his throat the jarring music : —

" And let me the canakin clink, clink ;
And let me the canakin clink. "

There is therefore, Shakespeare would have us understand, something more inimical to
humanity than suffering — namely, an incapacity for noble pain. To die as Othello dies

OTHELLO. 209

is indeed grievous. But to live as Iago lives, devouring the dust and stinging — this is
more appalling.

Such is the spiritual motive that controls the tragedy. And the validity of this truth
is demonstrable to every sound conscience. No supernatural authority needs to be
summoned to bear witness to this reality of human life. No pallid flame of hell, no
splendour of dawning heaven, needs show itself beyond the verge of earth to illumine
this truth. It is a portion of the ascertained fact of human nature, and of this our
mortal existence. We look upon " the tragic loading of the bed," and we see Iago in
presence of the ruin he has wrought. We are not compelled to seek for any resolution
of these apparent discords in any alleged life to come. That may also be ; we shall
accept it, if it be. But looking sternly and strictly at what is now actual and present to
our sight, we yet rise above despair. Desdemona's adhesion to her husband and to love
survived the ultimate trial. Othello dies " upon a kiss." He perceives his own calamitous
error, and he recognises Desdemona pure and loyal as she was. Goodness is justified
of her child. It is evil which suffers defeat. It is Iago whose whole existence has
been most blind, purposeless, and miserable — a struggle against the virtuous powers of
the world, by which at last he stands convicted and condemned.

Edward Dowden. — Shakspeare, his Mind and Art, pp. 241 — 244.

HOMER'S AND SHAKESPEARE'S READING OF HUMAN LIFE

AND FATE.

But greater men than these have been — men innocent-hearted — too great for contest.
Men like Homer and Shakespeare, of so unrecognised personality, that it disappears in
future ages, and becomes ghostly, like the tradition of a lost heathen god. Men, there-
fore, to whose unoffended, uncondemning sight, the whole of human nature reveals itself
in a pathetic weakness, with which they will not strive, or in mournful and transitory
strength, which they dare not praise. And all Pagan and Christian civilisation thus
becomes subject to them. It does not matter how little, or how much, any of us have
read, either of Homer or Shakespeare : everything around us, in substance or in thought,
has been moulded by them. All Greek gentlemen were educated under Homer. All
Roman gentlemen by Greek literature. All Italian, and French, and English gentlemen
by Roman literature, and by its principles. Of the scope of Shakespeare, I will say only,
that the intellectual measure of every man since born, in the domains of creative thought,
may be assigned to him, according to the degree in which he has been taught by
Shakespeare. Well, what do these two men, centres of mortal intelligence, deliver to us
of conviction, respecting what it most behoves that intelligence to grasp? What is their
hope ; their crown of rejoicing ? What manner of exhortation have they for us or of

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rebuke ? What lies next their own hearts, and dictates their undying words ? Have they
any peace to promise to our unrest — any redemption to our misery ? Take Homer first,
and think if there is any sadder image of human fate than the great Homeric story.
The main features in the character of Achilles are its intense desire of justice, and its
tenderness of affection. And in that bitter song of the Iliad, this man, though aided con-
tinually by the wisest of the gods, and burning with the desire of justice in his heart,
becomes yet, through ill-governed passion, the most unjust of men; and full of the deepest
tenderness in his heart, becomes yet, through ill-governed passion, the most cruel of
men ; intense alike in love and in friendship, he loses, first, his mistress, and then his
friend ; for the sake of the one he surrenders to death the armies of his own land ; for
the sake of the other, he surrenders all. Will a man lay down his life for his friend ?
Yea, even for his dead friend, this Achilles, though goddess-born, and goddess-taught,
gives up his kingdom, his country and his life — casts alike the innocent and guilty with
himself into one gulf of slaughter, and dies at last by the hand of the basest of his
adversaries. Is not this a mystery of life ?

But what, then, is the message to us of our own poet, and searcher of hearts, after fifteen
hundred years of Christian faith have been numbered over the graves of men ? Are his
words more cheerful than the heathen's — i$ his hope more near — his trust more sure — his
reading of fate more happy ? Ah, no ! He differs from the Heathen poet chiefly in this —
that he recognises for deliverance no gods nigh at hand ; and that, by petty chance — by
momentary folly — by broken message — by fool's tyranny — or traitors snare, the strongest
and most righteous are brought to their ruin, and perish without word of hope. With
necessary truth of insight, he indeed ascribes the power and modesty of habitual devotion,
to the gentle and the just. The death-bed of Katherine is bright with vision of angels;
and the great soldier-king, standing by his few dead, acknowledges the presence of the
hand that can save alike by many or by few. But from those who, with deepest spirit,
meditate, and with deepest passion, mourn, there are no such words as these ; nor in their
hearts such consolations. Instead of the perpetual sense of the helpful presence of the
Deity, which through all heathen tradition is the source of heroic strength, in battle, in
exile, and in the valley of the shadow of death, we find only in the great Christian poet
the consciousness of a mortal law, through which "the gods are just, and of our pleasant
vices make instruments to scourge us ; " and of the resolved arbitration of the destinies,
that conclude into precision of doom what we feebly and blindly began ; and force us,
when our indiscretion serves us, and our deepest plots do pall, to the confession, that
" there's a divinity that shapes our ends, rough hew them how we will."

Is not this a mystery of life ?
John Ruskin. — The Mystery of Life and its Arts, a Lecture. Afternoon Lectures,

(1869), pp. 109 — in.

:C§

MACBETH.

Scene III.

MACBETH.

Act III.

Hall in the Palace,
prepared.

A Banquet

Lady Macbeth. My royal lord,

You do not give the cheer : the feast is sold
That is not often vouch'd, while 'tis a-making,
'Tis given with welcome : to feed were best at

home ;
From thence the sauce to meat is ceremony ;
Meeting were bare without it.

Macbeth. Sweet remembrancer !

Now, good digestion wait on appetite,
And health on both !
Lennox. May't please your highness sit

[The Ghost of Banquo enters, and sits in
Macbeth' s place.
Macb. Here had we now our country's honour
roofd,
Were the graced person of our Banquo present ;
Who may I rather challenge for unkindness
Than pity for mischance !

Ross. His absence, sir,

Lays blame upon his promise. Please 't your

highness
To grace us with your royal company.
Macb. The table's full. .
Len. Here is a place reserved, sir.

Macb. Where ?

Len. Here, my good lord. What is't that
moves your highness ?

Macb. Which of you have done this ?
Lords. What, my good lord ?

Macb. Thou canst not say I did it : never
shake
Thy gory locks at me.

Ross. Gentlemen, rise : his highness is not

well.
Lady M. Sit, worthy friends : my lord is
often thus,
And hath been from his youth : pray you, keep

seat ;
The fit is momentary ; upon a thought
He will again be well : if much you note him,
You shall offend him and extend his passion :
Feed, and regard him not. Are you a man ?
Macb. Ay, and a bold one, that dare look on
that
Which might appal the devil.

Lady M. O proper stuff !

This is the very painting of your fear :
This is the air-drawn dagger which, you said.
Led you to Duncan. O, these flaws and starts,
Impostors to true fear would well become
A woman's story at a winter's fire,
Authorized by her grandam. Shame itself !
Why do you make such faces ? When all's done,
You look but on a stool.
Macb. Prithee, see there ! behold ! look ! lo !
how say you ?
Why, what care I ? If thou canst nod, speak

too.
If charnel-houses and our graves must send
Those that we bury back, our monuments
Shall be the maws of kites. {Ghost vanishes.

THE TRAGEDY OF " MACBETH."

j^ACBETH and Lear, Othello and Hamlet, are usually reckoned Shakespeare's four
principal tragedies. Lear stands first for the profound intensity of the passion;
Macbeth for the wildness of the imagination and the rapidity of the action ; Othello for the
progressive interest and profound alternations of feeling ; Hamlet for the refined develop-
ment of thought and sentiment '. 7 ^ . Macbeth is like a record of a preternatural
and tragical event. It has the rugged severity of an old chronicle with all that the

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imagination of the poet can engraft on traditional belief. The castle of Macbeth, round
which " the air smells wooingly," and where " the temple-haunting martlet builds,"
has a real subsistence in the mind ; the Weird Sisters meet us in person upon " the
blasted heath;" the " air-drawn dagger" moves slowly before our eyes; the " gracious

Duncan," the " blood-boltered Ban quo " stands before us Shakespeare

excelled in the openings of his plays ; that of Macbeth is the most striking of any. The
wildness of the scenery, the sudden shiftings of the situations and characters, the bustle,
the expectations excited are equally extraordinary. From the first entrance* of the-
Witches and the description of them when they meet Macbeth, —

" What are these
So wither'd and so wild in their attire,
That look not like the inhabitants of th' earth,
And yet are on 't ? "

the mind is prepared for all that follows.

This tragedy is alike distinguished for the lofty imagiuation it displays, and for the
tumultuous vehemence of the action ; and the one is made the moving principle of the
other. The overwhelming pressure of preternatural agency urges on the tide of human
passion with redoubled force. Macbeth himself appears driven along by the violence of
his fate like a vessel drifting before a storm ; he reels to and fro like a drunken man ; he
staggers under the weight of his own purposes, and the suggestions of others; he stands
at bay with his situation ; and from the superstitious awe and breathless suspense into
which the communications of the Weird Sisters throw him, is hurried on with daring
impatience to verify their predictions, and with impious and bloody hand to tear aside
the veil which hides the uncertainty of the future. He is not equal to the struggle with
fate and conscience. He now " bends up each corporal instrument to the terrible feat ; "
at other times his heart misgives him, and he is cowed and abashed by his success.
" The deed, no less than the attempt, confounds him." His mind is assailed by the
stings of remorse, and full of " preternatural solicitings." His speeches and soliloquies
are dark riddles on human life, baffling solution, and entangling him in their labyrinths.
In thought he is absent and perplexed, sudden and desperate in act, from a distrust of his
own resolution. His energy springs from the anxiety and agitation of his mind. His
blindly rushing forward on the objects of his ambition and revenge, or his recoiling from

them, equally betrays the harassed state of his feelings Macbeth (generally

speaking) is done upon a stronger and more systematic principle of contrast than any
other of Shakespeare's plays. It moves upon the verge of an abyss, and is a constant
struggle between life and death. The action is desperate, and the reaction is dreadful.
It is a huddling together of fierce extremes, a war of opposite natures which of them

MACBETH. 2is

to obviate suspicion, he ventures upon one of his speeches of double-refined hypocritical
profession : —

" Here had we now our country's honour roof'd,

Were the grac'd person of our Banquo present,

Whom may I rather challenge for unkindness

Than pity for mischance ! "

Here the speaker miscalculates his powers of self-command. The very violence which
the framing of this piece of falsehood compels him to do to his imagination makes the
image of the horrid fact rush the more irresistibly upon his " heat-oppressed brain." It
could hardly be otherwise than that the effort to say, " Were the graced person of our
Banquo present," &c. &c, must force upon his very eyes the aspect of his victim's person
as he now vividly conceives it from the murderer's description, with severed throat, and
" twenty trenched gashes on his head." The complete hallucination by which Macbeth
takes his own " false creation " for a real, objective figure, apparent to all eyes, is but a
repetition, under more aggravated excitement than ever, of what, we have seen, had
taken place in him several times before, in the previous course of the drama.

George Fletcher. — Studies of Shakespeare (1847), pp. 135 — 138.

MRS. SIDDONS'S THEORY— THE GHOST VISIBLE TO LADY

MACBETH.

Surrounded by their Court, in all the apparent ease and self-complacency of which
their wretched souls are destitute, they are now seated at" the royal banquet ; and
although, through the greater part of this scene, Lady Macbeth affects to resume her
wonted domination over her husband, yet, notwithstanding all this self-control, her mind
must even then be agonized by the complicated pangs of terror and remorse. For
what imagination can conceive her tremors lest at every succeeding moment Macbeth,
in his distraction, may confirm those suspicions, but ill-concealed under the loyal looks
and cordial manners of their facile courtiers, when, with smothered terror, yet domi-
neering indignation, she exclaims, upon his agitation at the ghost of Banquo, " Are
you a man ? " [III. iv. 60 — 68]. Dying with fear, yet assuming the utmost composure,
she returns to her stately canopy, and with trembling nerves, having tottered up the
steps to her throne, that bad eminence , she entertains her wondering guests with
frightful smiles, with over-acted attention, and with fitful graciousness ; painfully, yet
incessantly, labouring to divert their attention from her husband. Whilst writhing thus
under i nternal agonie s, her restless and terrifying glances towards Macbeth, in spite
of all her efforts to suppress them, have thrown the whole table into amazement ; and

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the murderer then suddenly breaks up the assembly by the confession of his horrors :
[III. iv. no — 1 1 6].

It is now the time to inform you of an idea which I have conceived of Lady Macbeth's
character, which perhaps will appear as fanciful as that which I have adopted respecting
the style of her beauty ; and in order to justify this idea, I must carry you back to the
scene immediately preceding the banquet, in which you will recollect the following
dialogue : [III. ii. 36 — 55]. Now it is not possible that she should hear all these
ambiguous hints about Banquo without being too well aware that a sudden, lamentable
fate awaits him. Yet so far from offering any opposition to Macbeth's murderous
designs, she even hints, I think, at the facility, if not the expediency, of destroying
both Banquo and [Fleance] when she observes that " in them Nature's copy is not
eterne." Having, therefore, now filled the measure of her crimes, I have imagined
that the last appearance of Banquo's ghost became no less visible to her eyes than
it became to those of her husband. Yes, the spirit of noble Banquo has smilingly
filled up, even to overflowing, and now commends to her own lips the ingredients of
her poisoned chalice.

Mrs. Siddons. — "Remarks on the Character of Lady Macbeth, 1 ' in Campbell's Life of
Mrs. Siddons. {Macbeth, ed. H. H. Furness, pp. 418, 419.)

SHAKESPEARE'S TREATMENT OF THE SUPERNATURAL.

In the great world therefore of woman, as the interpreter of the shifting phases and the
lunar varieties of that mighty changeable planet, that lovely satellite of man, Shakespeare
stands not the first only, not the original only, but is yet the sole authentic oracle of
truth. Woman, therefore, the beauty of the female mind, this is one great field of his
power. The supernatural world, the world of apparitions, that is another : for reasons
which it would be easy to give, reasons emanating from the gross mythology of the
ancients, no Grecian, 1 no Roman, could have conceived a ghost. That shadowy con-
ception, the protesting apparition, the awful projection of the human conscience, belongs

1 It may be thought, however, by some readers,
that iEschylus, in his fine phantom of Darius, has
approached the English ghost. As a foreign ghost,
we would wish (and we are sure our excellent
readers would wish) to show every courtesy and
attention to this apparition of Darius. It has the
advantage of being royal, an advantage which it
shares with the ghost of the royal Dane. Yet

how different, how removed by a total world,
from that or any of Shakespeare's ghosts ! Take
that of Banquo, for instance : how shadowy, how
unreal, yet how real ! Darius is a mere state
ghost— a diplomatic ghost. But Banquo — he
exists only for Macbeth : the guests do not see
him, yet how solemn, how real, how heart-search-
ing he is !

MACBETH. 217

to the Christian mind : and in all Christendom, who, let us ask, who, but Shakespeare,
has found the power for effectually working this mysterious mode of being? In sum-
moning back to earth " the majesty of buried Denmark," how like an awful necromancer
does Shakespeare appear ! All the pomps and grandeurs which religion, which the grave,
which the popular superstition had gathered about the subject of apparitions, are here
converted to his purpose, and bend to one awful effect. The wormy grave brought into
antagonism with the scenting of the early dawn ; the trumpet of resurrection suggested,
and again as an antagonist idea to the crowing of the cock (a bird ennobled in the
Christian mythus by the part he is made to play at the Crucifixion) ; its starting " as a
guilty thing " placed in opposition »to its majestic expression of offended dignity when
struck at by the partisans of the sentinels ; its awful allusions to the secrets of its prison-
house ; its ubiquity, contrasted with its local presence ; its aerial substance yet clothed
in palpable armour ; the heart-shaking solemnity of its language, and the appropriate
scenery of its haunt, viz., the ramparts of a capital fortress, with no witnesses but a few
gentlemen mounting guard at the dead of night, — what a mist, what a mirage of vapour,
is here accumulated, through which the dreadful being in the centre looms upon us in
far larger proportions than could have happened had it been insulated and left naked
by this circumstantial pomp ! In the Tempest, again, what new modes of life, preter-
natural, yet far as the poles from the spiritualities of religion. Ariel is in antithesis to
Caliban ! What is most ethereal to what is most animal ! A phantom of air, an
abstraction of the dawn and of vesper sunlights, a bodiless sylph on the one hand ; on
the other a gross carnal monster, like the Miltonic Asmodai, " the fleshliest incubus "
among the fiends, and yet so far ennobled into interest by his intellectual power, and by
the grandeur of misanthropy ! In the Midsummer-Night's Dream, again, we have the old
traditional fairy, a lovely mode of preternatural life, remodified by Shakespeare's eternal
talisman. Oberon and Titania remind us at first glance of Ariel ; they approach, but
how far they recede : they are like — " like, but oh, how different ! " And in no other
exhibition of this dreamy population of the moonlight forests and forest-lawns are the
circumstantial proprieties of fairy life so exquisitely imagined, sustained, or expressed.
The dialogue between Oberon and Titania is, of itself, and taken separately from its
connection, one of the most delightful poetic scenes that literature affords. The witches
in Macbeth are another variety of supernatural life, in which Shakespeare's power to enchant
and to disenchant are alike portentous. The circumstances of the blasted heath, the
army at a distance, the withered attire of the mysterious hags, and the choral litanies of
their fiendish sabbath, are as finely imagined in their kind as those which herald and
which surround the ghost in Hamlet. There we see the positive of Shakespeare's superior
power. But now turn and look at the negative. At a time when the trials of witches,
the royal book on demonology, and popular superstition (all so far useful, as they

F F

218 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

prepared a basis of undoubting faith for the poet's serious use of such agencies), had
degraded and polluted the ideas of these mysterious beings by many mean associations,
Shakespeare does not fear to employ them in high tragedy (a tragedy moreover which,
though not the very greatest of his efforts as an intellectual whole, nor as a struggle of
passion, is among the greatest in any view, and positively the greatest for scenical
grandeur, and in that respect makes the nearest approach of all English tragedies to the
Greek model) ; he does not fear to introduce, for the same appalling effect as that for
which ^Eschylus introduced the Eumenides, a triad of old women, concerning whom
an English wit has remarked this grotesque peculiarity in the popular creed of that day,
— that although potent over winds and storms, in league with powers of darkness, they
yet stood in awe of the constable, — yet relying on his own supreme power to disenchant
as well as to enchant, to create and to uncreate, he mixes these women and their dark
machineries with the power of armies, with the agencies of kings, and the fortunes of
martial kingdoms. Such was the sovereignty of this poet, so mighty its compass !

Thomas De Quincey. — Works, Vol, XV. (ed. 1873), pp. 78 — 82.

- *

//■ f.Asm^df/?

■r_ '/,,,.

MACBETH.

219

MACBETH.

Act V.

Scene I. Dunsinane. Ante-room in the Castle*

A Doctor of Physic and a waiting gentlewoman.

* * * *

Enter Lady Macbeth, with a taper.

Gentlewoman. Lo you, here she conies ! This
is her very guise ; and, upon my life, fast asleep.
Observe her ; stand close.

Doctor. How came she by that light ?

Gent. Why, it stood by her : she has light by
her continually ; 'tis her command.

Doct. You see, her eyes are open.

Gent. Ay, but their sense is shut.

Doct, What is it she does now ? Look, how
she rubs her hands.

Gent. It is an accustomed action with her, to
seem thus washing her hands : I have known
her continue in this a quarter of an hour.

Lady M. Yet here's a spot.

Doct. Hark ! she speaks : I will set down
what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance
the more strongly.

Lady M. Out, damned spot ! out, I say ! —
One : two : why, then 'tis time to do't. — Hell is
murky ! — Fie, my lord, fie ! a soldier, and afeard?
What need we fear who knows it, when none can
call our power to account ? — Yet who would have

thought the old man to have had so much blood
in him.

Doct. Do you mark that ?

Lady M. The thane of Fife had a wife :
where is she now? — What, will these hands
ne'er be clean ? — No more o' that, my lord, no
more o' that : you mar all with this starting.

Doct. Go to, go to ; you have known what
you should not.

Gent. She has spoke what she should not, I
am sure of that : heavens knows what she has
known.

Lady M. Here's the smell of blood still : all
the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this
little hand. Oh, oh, oh !

Doct. What a sigh is there ! The heart is
sorely charged.

Gent. I would not have such a heart in my
bosom for the dignity of the whole body.

Doct. Well, well, well,—

Gent. Pray God it be, sir.

Doct. This disease is beyond my practice :
yet I have known those which have walked in
their sleep who have died holily in their beds.

Lady M. Wash your hands, put on your
nightgown ; look not so pale. — I tell you yet
again, Banquo's buried ; he cannot come out .
on 's grave.

Doct. Even so ?

Lady M. To bed, to bed ! there's knocking
at the gate : come, come, come, come, give me
your hand. What's done cannot be undone —
To bed, to bed, to bed ! [Exit.

LADY MACBETH.

T N this astonishing creature one sees a woman in whose bosom the passion of ambition has
almost obliterated all the characteristics of human nature ; in whose composition ate
associated all the subjugating powers of intellect and all the charms and graces of personal
beauty. You will probably not agree with me as to the character of that beauty; yet,
perhaps, this difference of opinion will be entirely attributable to the difficulty of your
imagination disengaging itself from that idea of the person of her representative which
you have been so long accustomed to contemplate. According to my notion, it is of

f f 2

SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

that character which I believe is generally allowed to be most captivating to the other
sex, — fair feminine, nay, perhaps, even fragile, —

" Fair as the forms that, wove in Fancy's loom,
Float in light visions round the poet's head."

Such a combination only, respectable in energy and strength of mind, and captivating
in feminine loveliness, could have composed a charm of such potency as to fascinate the
mind of a hero so dauntless, a character so amiable, so honourable as Macbeth ; — to
seduce him to brave all the dangers of the present and all the terrors of a future world ;
and we are constrained, even whilst we abhor his crimes, to pity the infatuated victim of
such a thraldom. His letters, which have informed her of the predictions of those
preternatural beings who accosted him on the heath, have lighted up into daring and
desperate determinations all those pernicious slumbering fires which the enemy of man
is ever watchful to awaken in the bosoms of his unwary victims. To his direful
suggestions she is so far from offering the least opposition, as not only to yield up
her soul to them, but moreover to invoke the sightless ministers of remorseless cruelty to
extinguish in her breast all those compunctious visitings of nature which otherwise might
have been mercifully interposed to counteract, and perhaps eventually to overcome, their
unholy instigations. But having impiously delivered herself up to the excitements of
hell, the pitifulness of heaven itself is withdrawn from her, and she is abandoned to the
guidance of the demons whom she has invoked.

Behold her now, with wasted form, with wan and haggard countenance, her starry
eyes glazed with the ever-burning fever of remorse, and on their lids the shadows of
death. Her ever-restless spirit wanders in troubled dreams about her dismal apartment ;
and whether waking or asleep, the smell of innocent blood incessantly haunts her
imagination : —

" Here's the smell of blood still : all the perfumes
Of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand ! "

How beautifully contrasted is this exclamation with the bolder image of Macbeth in
expressing the same feeling : —

" Will all great Neptune's ocean wash the blood
Clean from this hand ? "

And how appropriately either sex illustrates the same idea !

During this appalling scene, which, to my sense, is the most so of them all, the wretched
creature, in imagination, acts over again the accumulated horrors of her whole conduct.

MACBETH.

These dreadful images, accompanied with the agitations they have induced, have obviously
accelerated her untimely end ; for in a few moments tidings of her death are brought to
her unhappy husband. It is conjectured that she died by her own hand. Too certain
it is that she dies and makes no sign. I have now to account to you for the weakness
which I have ascribed to Macbeth

Please to observe, that he (I must think pusillanimously, when I compare his conduct
with her forbearance,) has been continually pouring out his miseries to his wife. His
heart has therefore been eased, from time to time, by Unloading its weight of woe ; while
she, on the contrary, has perseveringly endured in silence the utmost anguish of a

wounded spirit Her feminine nature, her delicate structure, it is too evident

are soon overwhelmed by the enormous pressure of her crimes. Yet it will be granted
that she gives proofs of a naturally higher toned mind than that of Macbeth. The
different physical powers of the two sexes are finely delineated, in the different effects
which their mutual crimes produce. Her frailer frame, and keener feelings, have now
sunk under the struggle — his robust and less sensitive constitution has not only resisted
it, but bears him on to deeper wickedness, and to experience the fatal fecundity of
crime

In one point of view at least, this guilty pair extort from us, in spite of ourselves, a
certain respect and approbation. Their grandeur of character sustains them both above
recrimination (the despicable accustomed resort of vulgar minds) in adversity : for the
wretched husband, though almost impelled into this gulf of destruction by the instiga-
tions of his wife, feels no abatement of his love for her, while she, on her part, appears to
have known no tenderness for him, till, with a heart bleeding at every pore, she beholds
in him the miserable victim of their mutual ambition. Unlike the first frail pair in
Paradise, they spent not the fruitless hours in mutual accusation.

[Mrs. Siddons, on p. 35 gives the following account of the first time that she had to
play Lady Macbeth :] —

It was my custom to study my characters at night, when all the domestic cares and
business of the day were over. On the night preceding that in which I was to appear
in this part for the first time, I shut myself up as usual, when all the family were retired
and commenced my study of Lady Macbeth. As the character is very short, I thought
I should soon accomplish it. Being then only twenty years of age, I believed, as many
others do believe, that little more is necessary than to get the words into my head ;
for the necessity of discrimination, and the development of character, at that time of my
life, had scarcely entered into my imagination. But, to proceed : I went on with tolerable
composure, in the silence of the night (a night I can never forget), till I came to the
assassination scene, when the horrors of the scene rose to a degree that made it impos-
sible for me to get farther. I snatched up my candle, and hurried out of the room, in a

SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

paroxysm of terror. My dress was of silk, and the rustling of it, as I ascended the
stairs to go to bed, seemed to my panic-struck fancy like the movement of a spectre
pursuing me. At last I reached my chamber, where 1 found my husband fast asleep. I
clapt my candlestick down upon the table, without the power of putting the candle out,
and threw myself on my bed, without daring to stay even to take off my clothes. At
peep of day I rose to resume my task ; but so little did I know of my part when I
appeared in it, at night, that my shame and confusion cured me of procrastinating my
business for the remainder of my life.

About six years afterwards I was called upon to act the same character in London.
By this time I had perceived the difficulty of assuming a personage with whom no one
feeling of common general nature was congenial or assistant. One's own heart could
prompt one to express, with some degree of truth, the sentiments of a mother, a daughter,
a wife, a lover, a sister, &c, &c, but to adopt this character must be an effort of the
judgment alone.

Therefore, it was with the utmost diffidence, nay, terror, that I undertook it, and with
the additional fear of Mrs. Prichard's reputation in it before my eyes. The dreaded
first night at length arrived, when, just as I had finished -my toilette, and was pondering
with fearfulness my first appearance in the grand, fiendish part, comes Mr. Sheridan,
knocking at my door, and insisting, in spite of all my entreaties not to be interrupted at
this to me tremendous moment) to be admitted. He would not be denied admittance,
for he protested he must speak to me on a circumstance which so deeply concerned my
own interest, that it was of the most serious nature. Well, after much squabbling, I was
compelled to admit him, that I might dismiss him the sooner, and compose myself before
the play began. But, what was my distress and astonishment when I found that he
wanted me, even at this moment of anxiety and terror, to adopt another mode of acting
the sleeping scene. He told me he had heard with the greatest surprise and concern
that I meant to act it without holding the candle in my hand ; and, when I urged the
impracticability of washing out that ' damned spot ' with the Vehemence that was certainly
implied both by her own words and by those of her gentlewoman, he insisted, that if I
did put the candle out of my hand, it would be thought a presumptuous innovation, as
Mrs. Prichard had always retained it in hers. My mind, however, was made up, and it
was then too late to make me alter it ; for I was too agitated to adopt another method.
My deference for Mr. Sheridan's taste and judgment was, however, so great, that, had
he proposed the alteration whilst it was possible for me to change my own plan, I should
have yielded to his suggestion ; though even then it would have been against my own
opinion, and my observation of the accuracy with which somnambulists perform all the
acts of waking persons. The scene, of course, was acted as I had myself conceived it, and
the innovation, as Mr. Sheridan called it, was received with approbation. Mr. Sheridan

MACBETH. 223

himself came to me, after the play, and most ingenuously congratulated me on my
obstinacy. When he was gone out of the room I began to undress ; and while standing
up before my glass and taking off my mantle, a diverting circumstance occurred to chase
away the feelings of this anxious night ; for while I was repeating, and endeavouring to
call to mind the appropriate tone and action to the following words, " Here's the smell of
blood still ! " my dresser innocently exclaimed, " Dear me, ma'am, how very hysterical
you are to-night ; I protest and vow, ma'am, it was not blood, but rose-pink and water ;
for I saw the property-man mix it up, with my own eyes."

Mrs. Siddons — "Remarks on the Character of Lady Macbeth" in CampbelPs Life of
Mrs. Siddons (quoted in H. H. Furness's Variorum Shakespeare —
Macbeth, pp. 415 — 421).

HOW TO ACT LADY MACBETH.

After all, this is the secret in acting Lady Macbeth : to permit, in the very midst of the
intoxication of ambition, in the very midst of an iron resolution, those accents of
nature z to be heard which betray a secret horror and the shattering of her nerves. Even
when she seeks to restore to her husband his lost repose, and to banish terror from his
breast, by assuming an air of gaiety, when she strives with tender care to ward off from
him the ill effects of his horror at the sight of Banquo's ghost, even then we can detect
in delicate touches the struggle of the powers of evil with her invincible human nature.
And when Lady Macbeth tells her husband that he needs the season of all natures,
sleep, her face and her voice unconsciously confess that her couch also sleep does not
visit. The phrases with which she endeavours to restore Macbeth's self-command ought
to be made to reveal, by the expression of voice and eye, that her life is approaching its
destruction.

In the fifth act we behold the distracted woman. We are made aware of the changed
aspect of Lady Macbeth's ruined life by the secret whispering of her attendants, which
conceal what they forebode. Night-vigils of agony have furrowed her face, the wonted
fire of her eyes has burnt out, a vacant stare betrays the mental desolation, her sleep-
walking shows a restless hunted soul. One thought alone is breathed from this torn
breast, but one woe swells from the desolated depths. Everything here is stamped with
the character of a completely involuntary agent ; her accents betray the working of the
spirit from the abyss that inexorably demands its victim. Over the whole scene broods
that mysterious tone which intimates infinitely more than it directly says, and in which

1 " Had he not resembled my father as he slept, I had done 't."

224 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY

there hovers the grisly memory of the inexpiable past and the deadness of soul to all
things temporal. The horrors of the past, like ever-present demons, close around the
heart, the lamp of life flickers dim, and tells of the speedy end of a ruined existence.

H. T. Rotscher. — Cydus dramatisdier Charadere, (Vol. I., pp. 140 sqq. :
Berlin, 1846,) quoted by M. H. Furness, Variorum
Shakespeare — Macbeth, pp. 466, 467.

KING LEAR.

Act V.

Scene II. A Field between the Two Camps.

Re-enter Lear, with Cordelia dead in his
arms ; EDGAR, Captain, and others following.

Lear, Howl, howl, howl, howl ! O, you are
men of stones :
Had I your tongues and eyes, Fid use them so
That heaven's vault should crack. She's gone

for ever !
I know when one is dead, and when one lives ;
She's dead as earth. Lend me a looking-glass ;
If that her breath will mist or stain the stone,
Why, then she lives.

Kent. Is this the promised end ?

Edg. Or image of that horror ?

Alb. Fall, and cease !

Lear. This feather stirs ; she lives ! if it be so,
It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows
That ever I have felt.

Kent. [Kneeling] O my good master !

Lear. Prithee, away.

Edg. 'Tis noble Kent, your friend.

Lear. A plague upon you, murderers, traitors
all!
I might have saved her ; now she's gone for

ever !
Cordelia, Cordelia ! stay a little. Ha !
What is't thou say'st? Her voice was ever

soft,
Gentle, and low, an excellent thing in woman.
I kill'd the slave that was a-hanging thee.

Capt. 'Tis true, my lords, he did.

Lear. Did I not, fellow ?

I have seen the day, with my good biting falchion
I would have made them skip : I am old now,
And these same crosses spoil me.
# * *

Enter a Captain.

Capt. Edmund is dead, my lord.

Alb. That's but a trifle here.

You lords and noble friends, know our intent.
What comfort to this great decay may come
Shall be applied : for us, we will resign,
During the life of this old majesty,
To him our absolute power : [To Edgar and

Kent] you, to your rights ;
With boot, and such addition as your honours
Have more than merited. All friends shall taste
The wages of their virtue, and all foes
The cup of their deservings. O, see, see !

Lear. And my poor fool is hang'd ! No, no,
no life !
Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life,
And thou no breath at all ? Thou'lt come no

more,
Never, never, never, never, never !
Pray you, undo this button : thank you, sir.
Do you see this ? Look on her, look, her lips,
Look there, look there ! [Dies.

Edg. He faints ! My lord, my lord !

Kent. Break, heart ; I prithee, break !

Edg. Look up, my lord.

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

Edg. He is gone indeed.

G G

226

SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

THE TRAGEDY OF « KING LEAR." "

TJ IS ground chosen, the scene which he will represent determined, his foundation dug,
Shakespeare takes of everything, and builds his work. Marvellous structure ! He
takes tyranny, which afterwards he will transform into feebleness — Lear ; he takes trea-
son — Edmund ; he takes devotion — Kent ; he takes ingratitude, beginning with a
caress, and he gives this monster two heads — Goneril, whom the legend names Gornerille,
and Regan, whom the legend names Ragaii ; he takes fatherhood ; he takes royalty ; he
takes feudalism ; he takes ambition ; he takes madness, which he divides into three parts,
and brings three madmen face to face, the King's fool, a madman by profession, Edgar, son
of Gloucester, a madman for self-defence, the King, a madman through wretchedness.
It is upon the summit of this tragic pile that he plants and supports Cordelia.

There are certain formidable Cathedral towers, as for example, the giralda of Seville,
which with their spirals, their stairs, their sculptures, their vaults, their csecums, their
aerial cells, their sounding chambers, their bells, their outcry, and their mass, and their
spire, and all their vastness, seem wholly made to bear up an angel opening upon the.
summit her golden wings. Such is the drama of King Lear.

The father is the pretext for the daughter. This admirable human creation, Lear,
serves as a support for that ineffable, divine creation, Cordelia. This huge chaos of
crimes, of vices, of madness, and of misery, exists for the sake of the apparition of this
shining virtue. Shakespeare, bearing in his soul Cordelia, created this tragedy, like a god,
who possessing a dawn of day for which he would find a place, creates a world expressly
to manifest it.

And what a figure is the father ! what a caryatid ! He is a man bowed down. All that
he does is to change his burdens, always for heavier ones. The feebler the old man
becomes, so much the more does the weight increase. He lives under an overload.
He bears first empire, then ingratitude, then isolation, then despair, then hunger and
thirst, then madness, then the whole weight of nature. The clouds gather above his head,
the forests fling down their shadow upon him, the hurricane descends upon his neck, the
tempest makes his garments heavy as lead, the rain is heavy on his shoulders, he walks
bent down and haggard, as if the two knees of the Night were on his back. Dismayed and
immense, he flings abroad to the whirlwinds and the hailstorms this epic cry, " Why do ye
hate me, tempests ? Why persecute me ? Ye are not my daughters." And then all is
ended ; the light dies down, reason droops and disappears ; Lear is in his infancy. Ah !

1 The passage given from Victor Hugo, though
it altogtheer misconceives the play in representing
Cordelia and not the King as its centre, is in some

respects finely appreciative, and is interesting as
highly characteristic of the writer.

KING LEAR. 227

this old man, he is an infant ! then his need must be a mother. His daughter appears.
His only daughter, Cordelia. For the two others, Regan and Goneril, are his daughters
only so far as to give them a right to the name of parricides.

Cordelia draws near — " Sir, do you know me ?" " You are a spirit, I know : when did
you die ?" the old man replies, with the sublime penetration of a mind that is astray.
From this moment the adorable suckling begins. Cordelia sets herself to nourish this
old despairing soul, which in hatred is dying of inanition. Cordelia nourishes Lear with
love, and courage revives ; she nourishes him with honour, and the smile returns ; she
nourishes him with hope, and confidence returns ; she nourishes him with wisdom, and
reason returns. Lear, convalescent, reascends, and step by step recovers life. The
infant becomes an old man once more ; the old man becomes a man. And now he is
happy, that wretched one. It is upon this blossoming of happiness that the catastrophe
is flung. Alas ! there are traitors, there are betrayers, there are murderers. Cordelia
dies. There is nothing more heartrending. The old man is stunned, he ceases to
understand anything, and embracing the dead body he expires. -He dies upon the
dead one. He is not obliged to undergo the supreme despair of remaining behind
her among the living, a poor shadow, feeling the empty place in his heart, and seeking
his soul which has been borne away by the gentle being who is departed. O God !
those whom Thou lovest thou dost not allow to live on. To remain after the angel's flight,
to be the father and the orphan of his child, to be the eye which no longer sees the
light, to be the darkened heart which knows joy no more, to stretch forth now and again
hands into the darkness and try to grasp again some one who was there, — and where is
she now ? — to feel forgotten in the fact of her departure, — to be henceforth a man who
comes and goes before a sepulchre, not received, not admitted, — that is a gloomy
destiny. Thou hast done well, O Poet, to slay this old man ! *

Victor Hugo. — William Shakespeare (ed. 1869), pp. 207 — 209.

THE LAST SCENE OF " KING LEAR."

The last scene, in which Lear's tough heart at length breaks over the murdered body
of his dear child, is one of those masterpieces of tragic art, before which we are
disposed to stand silent in awed admiration. The indurated sympathies of science,
however, may examine even the death scene. The first thing to remark is, that there
is no insanity in it — that Lear might have spoken and acted thus if his mind had
never wandered. He has found Edmund's mercenary murderer hanging Cordelia, so

1 A pathetic interest is added to this passage lost his daughter by drowrrng, and has recently

by recollecting that Victor Hugo many years since survived the death of his two sons.

G G 2

228 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

as " to lay the blame upon her own despair." He kills the slave, and with the last
remnant of strength carries the dear body into the midst of that heart-struck conclave
where the sisters who " desperately are dead " already lie. At first he is under the
excitement of mental agony, expressing itself in the wild wail :

" Howl, howl, howl, howl ! O, you are men of stones :
Had I your tongues and eyes, I'ld use them so
That heaven's vault should crack. She's gone for ever ! "

Then follows the intense cruel anxiety of false hope, followed by quick resolve and
reasonable action : the demand for the looking-glass : the trial of the feather, to ascertain
if any faint imperceptible breath remains. Then, the sustaining but fatal excitement
over, leaden grief settles upon the heart, and benumbs the feelings to every sense save
one. Noble Kent comes too late with the prepared surprise of his discovery. The wreck
of Kinghood sits in the midst, with no eyes, no thoughts for living friend or dead foe, for
no object save one— -the voided temple of his love, now a limp carcase in his nerveless lap.
What a group for a sculptor, Lear and Cordelia, types of manly grandeur and female grace,
with but half a life between the two ! The feather test has failed, and the sweet breath
refuses to mist or stain the clear surface of the stone ; conviction arrives that " now she's
gone for ever," and there is no fire left in the once ardent heart for one more angry word,
no thought except the passing one of satisfied revenge. She's gone for ever — doubt of
the stern fact is past, and death presses on his own heart ; feeling is mercifully blunted
and thought obscured ; imagination is the last to congeal ; desire, father to the thought,
makes the dear lips move, and the soft voice invite to follow :

" Cordelia, Cordelia 1 stay a little. Ha !
What is't thou say'st ? Her voice was ever soft,
Gentle and low, an excellent thing in women."

The loyal friends around, Albany and Kent and Edgar, strive to arouse his atten-
tion from the gathering stupor, which they do not yet recognize as that of death ; and in
banished Kent, now reinstated in the appurtenances and lendings of his rank, an object
bound to stimulate attention and curiosity, is at hand. But he has put off the revelation
of his faithful service until it is too late to be understood. The King recognizes his
person, indeed, even through the gathering mists of death, which, beginning at the heart
weakens the circulation through the brain and dims the sight. How constantly does the
dying man complain that the room is dark, or that he cannot see. " Where is your ser-
vant Caius ? " brings a mechanical thought, trifling as it seems, but in true place. The
unreflecting movement of the mind, the excito-motory action of the brain, as some would
call it, a thought of simple suggestion, which is the last kind of thought the dying brain

KING LEAR.

'2q

can entertain, just as involuntary muscular action endures after voluntary power of move-
ment is lost. The new idea, that Caius and Kent are one, cannot be entertained ; this
requires comparison and a greater power of cerebration than the feeble tide of blood

which is now percolating the brain can provide for Stupefied by dire

misfortune the bystanders are blind to the near approach of the " veiled shadow with the
keys," who is at hand to release this loved and hated one of fortune from his eminence of
care. Albany proceeds to make state arrangements, to promise the wages of virtue and
the cup of deservings to friends and foes, and to resign his own absolute power to the old
majesty, whose heart is beating slower and fainter, whose face is blanching and whose
features are pinching as the life current passes on its way in ever slower and smaller
waves, until at length the change of aspect suddenly strikes the dull Duke, and he
exclaims, " Oh ! see, see ! " and then one flicker more of reflecting thought, one gentle
request, " Pray you undo this button," expressing the physical feeling of want of air ; one
yearning look on her who'll " come no more," and the silver thread is loosed, the golden
bowl for ever broken.

John Charles Bucknill, M.D. — The Mad Folk of Shakespeare, pp. 231 — 35.

LEAR IMPOSSIBLE TO REPRESENT ON THE STAGE.

To see Lear acted, — to see an old man tottering about the stage with a walking-
stick, turned out of doors by his daughter on a rainy night, has nothing
in it but what is painful and disgusting. We want to take him into shelter
and relieve him. That is all the feeling which the acting of Lear ever produced
in me. But the Lear of Shakspeare cannot be acted. The contemptible ma-
chinery by which they mimic the storm which he goes out in, is not more inadequate
to represent the horrors of the real elements, than any actor can be to represent Lear ;
they might more easily propose to personate the Satan of Milton upon a stage, or one of
Michael Angelo's terrible figures. The greatness of Lear is not in corporal dimensions
but in intellectual : the explosions of his passion are terrible as a volcano ; they are
storms turning up and disclosing to the bottom that sea, his mind, with all its vast riches.
It is his mind which is laid bare. This case of flesh and blood seems too insignificant
to be thought on ; even as he himself neglects it. On the stage we see nothing but
corporal infirmities and weakness, the impotence of rage ; while we read it we see not
Lear, but we are Lear — we are in his mind, we are sustained by a grandeur which baffles
the malice of daughters and storms ; in the aberrations of his reason, we discover a
mighty, irregular power of reasoning, immethodised from the ordinary purposes of life,
but exerting its powers, as the wind blows where it listeth, at will upon the corruptions

230 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

and abuses of mankind. What have looks or tones to do with that sublime identification
of his age with that of the heavens themselves, when, in his reproaches to them for
conniving at the injustice of his children, he reminds them that "they themselves are
old ? " What gesture shall we appropriate to this ? What has the voice or the eye to do
with such things ? But the play is beyond all art, as the tamperings with it show : it is
too hard and stony ; it must have love-scenes and a happy ending. It is not enough
that Cordelia is a daughter — she must shine as a lover too. Tate has put his hook in the
nostrils of this Leviathan, for Garrick and his followers, the showmen of the scene, to
draw the mighty beast about more easily. A happy ending ! — as if the living martyrdom
that Lear had gone through, — the flaying of his feelings alive, did not make a fair dis-
missal from the stage of life, the only decorous thing for him. If he is to live and be
happy after, if he could sustain this world's burden after, why all this pudder and prepara-
tion — why torment us with all this unnecessary sympathy ? As if the childish pleasure of
getting his gilt robe and sceptre again could tempt him to act over again his misused
station — as if, at his years and with his experience, anything were left but to die.

Charles Lamb. — On the Tragedies of Shakspeare, considered with reference

to stage-representation.

WHY MUST CORDELIA DIE?

And now why must she die ? I have said Shakespeare was no arbitrary homicide.
Was it not possible, then, that Cordelia should live ? In the first place, it must be noted
that Cordelia lands in England at the head of a French army, and the national senti-
ment, strong always — boisterously strong in the Elizabethan age — demanded that the
enterprise should therefore fail. Albany, for instance, was on Lear's side, and would
not have opposed any means of avenging him, compatible with his patriotism. But he
could not let foreign troops overrun the dear free soil of this island.

" Where I could not be honest,
I never yet was valiant ; for this business,
It touches us as France invades the land,
Not bolds the king, with others, whom, I fear,
Most just and heavy causes make oppose.

But quite apart from this national reason, there are two others of deep ethical moment
that may explain the awful catastrophe. One is this : her own nature betrays her. Is

KING LEAR. ' 231

she not, as we have seen, the child of impulse? Was it not so in her first appearance, and
is it not so in her last? And can such natures thrive in our air? Does not the sword
ever overhang them ? And in times of violence like that pictured by Shakespeare in King
Lear, will it not fall ? She cannot take care of herself in this world. She is all for truth,
as we first see her. Home and wealth, and even her father's smile, are nothing to her
by the side of that sumless treasure. Later on in her pure life, she is all for love ; she
thinks of nothing else but relieving her father ; she gives not a thought to her own safety
and protection in an enemy's country. Now, here on this earth it goes hard with such
natures. They belong to a different sphere ; they cannot conform to our habits of self-con-
sideration and prudence. These are the martyrs of this world and in their hands are palms.

" Upon such sacrifices
The gods themselves throw incense."

Lastly, when evil powers are let loose, mischief and ruin will ensue not only on those
who have enchained them, but on the innocent who fall within their baleful reach. They
are like the winds in that bag yEolos gave Odysseus in the old story. Once let them fly
out and rave, and who shall count the shipwrecks that shall strew the shores ? The foolish
sailors, who did the deed, may cry and moan with a real repentance ; but the waves will
soon smother their wretched shrieks, and the blasts but howl a dirge for them. Can we
think that Goneril and Regan could have power placed in their hands, and no harm come
of it except to the unwise donor? Does not the rain fall on the just and the unjust?
Yes ; and so does the rain of ruin, in the hour and power of evil. The whirlwind, when
once it rages, does not pick and choose its victims. Goneril's spite will not spare Cor-
delia, when once it has a chance of venting itself upon her ; the chance comes, and it
does not spare her. Let Lear bemoan his folly as he may, yet alas ! alas ! he cannot
cancel it. By all means let the wicked man repent, let him turn away from his wicked-
ness, and let him save his soul alive, as best he may ; but do not let him flatter himself
that he can certainly undo his crime.

"Nescit vox missa reverti."

When blood is shed can it be gathered up again ? And so Cordelia dies : not only
Goneril and Regan consumed by their own guilt as by a living fire ; and Cornwall stabbed
by outraged humanity in the shape of a peasant ; and Edmund pierced by the righteous
sword of Edgar ; and Gloster crushed by the weight of his own troubles ; and the Kin
broken-hearted.

In that last scene, when the house of Lear is on the verge of extinction, as the dying

232 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

King stoops over the corpse of Saint Cordelia, well may Kent, who has himself a journey
shortly to go, ask, "Is this the promised end?" He means, "Is this the day of judg-
ment ? " " Or image of that horror ? " says Edgar. Yes ; it is an image of that horror,
if we can understand. So

"draw the curtain close,
And let us all to meditation."

J. W. Hales. — King Lear, in The Fortnightly Review, January 1875, pp. 100 — 102.

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ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.

233

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.

Act V.

SCENE II. Alexandria. A Room in the
Monument.

Re-enter Iras with a robe, crown, &*c.

Cleo. Give me my robe, put on my crown ;
I have
Immortal longings in me : now no more
The juice of Egypt's grape shall moist this lip :
Yare, yare, good Iras ; quick. Methinks 1 hear
Antony call ; I see him rouse himself
To praise my noble act ; I hear him mock
The luck of Caesar, which the gods give men
To excuse their after wrath : husband, I come :
Now to that name my courage prove my title !
I am. fire and air ; my other elements
I give to baser life. So ; have you done ?
Co.ne then, and take the last warmth of my lips.
Farewell, kind Charmian ; Iras, long farewell.

[Kisses them. Iras falls and dies.
Have I the aspic in my lips ? Dost fall ?
If thou and nature can so gently part,
The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch,
Which hurts, and is desired. Dost thou lie still ?
If thus thou vanishest, thou tell'st the world
It is not worth leave-taking.

Char. Dissolve, thick cloud, and rain ; that
I may say,
The gods themselves do weep ;

Cleo. This proves me base ;

If she first meet the curled Antony,
He'll make demand of her, and spend that kiss
Which is my heaven to have. Come, thou
mortal wretch,
[ To an asp, which she applies to her breast.
With thy sharp teeth this knot intrinsicate
Of life at once untie : poor venomous fool,
Be angry, and despatch. O, couldst thou speak,
That I might hear thee call great Caesar ass
Unpolicied ;

Char. O eastern star !

Cleo. Peace, peace !

Dost thou not see my baby at my breast,
That sucks the nurse asleep ?

Char. O, break ! O, break !

Cleo. As sweet as balm, as soft as air, as
gentle, —
O Antony ! — Nay, I will take thee too :

[Applying another asp to her arm.
What should I stay — [dies.

Char. In this vile world ? So, fare thee well.
Now boast thee, death, in thy possession lies
A lass unparallel'd. Downy windows, close ;
And golden Phcebus never be beheld
Of eyes again so royal ! Your crown's awry ;
I'll mend it, and then play.

"ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA."

O HAKESPEARE can be complimented only by comparison with himself: all other eulogies
are either heterogeneous, as when they are in reference to Spenser or Milton ; or they are
flat truisms, as when he is gravely preferred to Corneille, Racine, or even his own immediate
successors, Beaumont and Fletcher, Massinger and the rest. The highest praise, or rather
form of praise, of this play, which I can offer in my own mind, is the doubt which the
perusal always occasions in me, whether the Antony and Cleopatra is not, in all exhibitions of
a giant power in its strength and vigour of maturity, a formidable rival of Macbeth, Lear,
Hamlet, and Othello. Feliciter audax is the motto for its style, comparatively with that of
Shakespeare's other works, even as it i^ the general motto of all his works, compared with

H H

234 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

those of other poets. Be it remembered, too, that this happy valiancy of style is but
the representative and the result of all the material excellences so expressed.

This play should be perused in mental contrast with Romeo and Juliet, as the love of
passion and appetite opposed to the love of affection and instinct. But the art displayed
in the character of Cleopatra is profound ; in this, especially, that the sense of criminality
in her passion is lessened by our insight into its depth and energy, at the very moment
that we cannot but perceive that the passion itself springs out of the habitual craving of a
licentious nature, and that it is supported and reinforced by voluntary stimulus and
sought-for associations, instead of blossoming out of spontaneous emotion.

Of all Shakespeare's historical plays Antony and Cleopatra is by far the most wonderful.
There is not one in which he has followed history so minutely, and yet there are few in
which he impresses the notion of angelic strength so much ; perhaps none in which he
impresses it more strongly. This is greatly owing to the manner in which the fiery force is
sustained throughout, and to the numerous momentary flashes of nature counteracting
the historic abstraction. As a wonderful specimen of the way in which Shakespeare lives
up to the very end of this play, read the last part of the concluding scene. And if you
would feel the judgment as well as the genius of Shakespeare in your heart's core,
compare this astonishing drama with Dryden's All for Love.

S. T. Coleridge. — Notes and Lectures on Shakespeare, pp. 137-38 (ed. 1874).

THE CHARACTER OF CLEOPATRA.

Of all Shakespeare's female characters Miranda and Cleopatra appear to me the most
wonderful. The first, unequalled as a poetic conception : the latter, miraculous as a
work of art. If we could make a regular classification of his characters, these would
form the two extremes of simplicity and complexity ; and all his other characters would
be found to fill up some shade or gradation between these two.

Great crimes, springing from high passions, grafted on high qualities, are the legitimate
source of tragic poetry. But to make the extreme of littleness produce an effect like
grandeur — to make the excess of frailty produce an effect like power — to heap up together
all that is most unsubstantial, frivolous, vain," contemptible, and variable till the worth-
lessness be lost in the magnitude, and a sense of the sublime spring from the very
elements of littleness — to do this, belonged only to Shakespeare, that worker of miracles.
Cleopatra is a brilliant antithesis ; a compound of contradictions of all that we most hate
with what we most admire. The whole character is the triumph of the external over the
innate ; and yet, like one of her country's hieroglyphics, though she present at first view
a splendid and perplexing anomaly, there is deep meaning and wondrous skill in the

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 235

apparent enigma, when we come to analyze and decipher it. But how are we to arrive
at the solution of this glorious riddle, whose dazzling complexity continually mocks and
eludes us? What is most astonishing in the character of Cleopatra is its antithetical
construction — its consistent inconsistency, if I may use such an expression — which
renders it quite impossible to reduce it to any elementary principles. It will, perhaps, be
found on the whole, that vanity and the love of power predominate ; but I dare not say
it is so, for these qualities and a hundred others mingle into each other, and shift, and
change, and glance away like the colours in a peacock's train.

In some others of Shakespeare's female characters, also remarkable for their complexity
(Portia and Juliet, for instance), we are struck with the delightful sense of harmony in
the midst of contrast, so that the idea of unity and simplicity of effect is produced in
the midst of variety ; but in Cleopatra it is the absence of unity and simplicity which
strikes us ; the impression is that of perpetual and irreconcilable contrast. The continual
approximation of whatever is most opposite in character, in situation, in sentiment, would
be fatiguing were it not so perfectly natural : the woman herself would be distracting if
she were not so enchanting.

I have not the slightest doubt that Shakespeare's Cleopatra is the real historical
Cleopatra — the " rare Egyptian " — individualized and placed before us. Her mental
accomplishments, her unequalled grace, her woman's wit and woman's wiles, her irre-
sistible allurements, her starts of irregular grandeur, her bursts of ungovernable temper,
her vivacity of imagination, her petulant caprice, her fickleness and her falsehood, her
tenderness and her truth, her childish susceptibility to flattery, her magnificent spirit, her
royal pride, the gorgeous eastern colouring of the character ; all these contradictory
elements has Shakespeare seized, mingled them in their extremes, and fused them into
one brilliant impersonation of classical elegance, Oriental voluptuousness, and gipsy
sorcery

The character of Mark Antony, as delineated by Shakespeare, reminds me of the
Farnese Hercules. There is an ostentatious display of power, an exaggerated grandeur,
a colossal effect in the whole conception, sustained throughout in the pomp of the
language, which seems, as it flows along, to resound with the clang of arms and the
music of the revel. The coarseness and violence of the historic portrait are a little kept
down ; but every word which Antony utters is characteristic of the arrogant but
magnanimous Roman, who, " with half the bulk o' the world played as he pleased,"
and was himself the sport of a host of mad (and bad) passions, and the slave of a woman.

Though Cleopatra talks of dying " after the high Roman fashion," she fears what she
most desires, and cannot perform with simplicity what costs her such an effort. That
extreme physical cowardice, which was so strong a trait in her historical character, which

H H 2

236 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

led to the defeat of Actium, which made her delay the execution of a fatal resolve till she
had " tried conclusions infinite of easy ways to die," Shakespeare has rendered with the
finest possible effect, and in a manner which heightens instead of diminishing our respect
and interest. Timid by nature she is courageous by the mere force of will, and she lashes
herself up with high-sounding words into a kind of false daring. Her lively imagination
suggests every incentive which can spur her on to the deed she has resolved, yet trembles
to contemplate. She pictures to herself all the degradations which must attend her cap-
tivity : and let it be observed, that those which she anticipates are precisely such as a
vain, luxurious, and haughty woman would especially dread, and which only true virtue and
magnanimity could despise. Cleopatra could have endured the loss of freedom ; but to
be led in triumph through the streets of Rome is insufferable. She could stoop to Caesar
with dissembling courtesy, and meet duplicity with superior art ; but " to be chastised *
by the scornful or upbraiding glances of the injured Octavia — "rather a ditch in Egypt !"

She calls for her diadem, her robes of state, and attires herself as if " again for Cydnus,
to meet Mark Antony." Coquette to the last, she must make Death proud to take her,
and die " phoenix-like," as she had lived, with all the pomp of preparation — luxurious in
her despair.

The death of Lucretia, of Portia, of Arria and others who died "after the high Roman
fashion," is sublime according to the Pagan ideas of virtue, and yet none of them so
powerfully affect the imagination as the catastrophe of Cleopatra. The idea of this frail,
timid, wayward woman dying with heroism from the mere force of passion and will, takes
us by surprise. The Attic elegance of her mind, the poetical imagination, the pride of
beauty and royalty predominating to the last, and the sumptuous and picturesque accom-
paniments with which she surrounds herself in death, carry to its extreme height that
effect of contrast which prevails through her life and character. No arts, no invention,
could add to the real circumstances of Cleopatra's closing scene. Shakespeare has shown
profound judgment and feeling in adhering closely to the classical authorities ; and to say
that the language and sentiments worthily fill up the outline, is the most magnificent
praise that can be given. The magical play of fancy and the overpowering fascination of
the character are kept up to the last ; and when Cleopatra on applying the asp, silences
the lamentations of her women —

" Peace, peace !
Dost thou not see my baby at my breast,
That sucks the nurse to sleep ? "

these few words — the contrast between the tender beauty of the image and the horror of
the situation — produce an effect more intensely mournful than all the ranting in the world.
The generous devotion of her women adds the moral charm which alone was wanting :

O j ■ o

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 237

and when Octavius hurries in too late to save his victim, and exclaims, when gazing on

her —

" She looks like sleep —
As she would catch another Antony
In her strong toil of grace,"

the image of her beauty and her irresistible arts, triumphant even in death, is at once
brought before us, and one masterly and comprehensive stroke consummates this most
wonderful, most dazzling delineation.

Mrs. Jameson — Characteristics of Women (ed. 1858) pp., 121 — 158.

SHAKESPEARE'S USE OF PLUTARCH IN " ANTONY AND

CLEOPATRA."

In Antony and Cleopatra, and in the adaptation of the story, as it lay before him in the
pages of Plutarch, to the needs of his art, Shakespeare had a much harder problem to
solve than any which Julius Ccesar offered ; and his solution of this problem, when
we realize what it was, may well fill us with unbounded admiration. The Brutus of
Plutarch was a character ready made to his hands. Here and there a melancholy grace,
a touch of gentleness and of beauty, has been added by him, but hardly more than this ;
while if in Cassius the lines are deepened and the character more sharply delineated, this
is all that Shakespeare has done, even as it was all that was needed. But it was otherwise
with Antony. The Antony of history, of Plutarch himself, would have been no subject
for poetry. Splendidly endowed by nature as he was, it would yet have been impossible
to claim or create a sympathy for one so cruel, dyed so deeply in the noblest blood of
Rome ; the wholesale plunderer of peaceful cities and provinces that he might squander
their spoils on the vilest ministers of his pleasures ; himself the origin of orgies so shame-
less, sunken in such a mire of sin : in whom met the ugliest features, and what one would
have counted beforehand as the irreconcilable contradictions of an Oriental despot and
a Roman gladiator. And yet, transformed, we may say transfigured, by that marvellous
touch, the Antony of Shakespeare, if not the veritable Antony of history, has not so
broken with him as not to be recognizable still.

The play, starting from a late period of Antony's career, enables Shakespeare to leave
wholly out of sight, and this with no violation of historic truth, much in the life of the
triumvir which was wickedest and worst. For the rest what was coarse is refined, what
would take no colour of goodness is ignored, what had any fair side on which it could
be shown is shown on that side alone. He appears from the first as not himself, but as
under the spells of that potent Eastern enchantress who had once held by these spells

238 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

a Caesar himself. There are followers who cleave to him in his lowest estate, even as
there are fitful gleams and glimpses of generosity about him which explain this fidelity
of theirs ; and when at the last we behold him standing amid the wreck of fortunes and
the waste of gifts, all wrecked and wasted by himself, penetrated through and through
with the infinite shame and sadness of such a close to such a life, the whole range of
poetry offers no more tragical figure than he is, few that arouse a deeper pity ; while yet,
ideal as this Antony of Shakespeare is, he is connected by innumerable subtle bands and
finest touches with the real historical Antony, at once another and the same.

I showed, before leaving Julius Casar, how much Shakespeare could on occasion make
of a comparatively little. It may be well, before parting from these plays, to bring before
you one other passage, and this among the noblest which he has, where he counts any
such effort superfluous, where he does no more than put into verse what he finds ready
prepared to his hand ; so recognizes the finished completeness of Plutarch's narrative, that
he makes no attempt to add anything to it, or to take anything from it. All are familiar
with the death of Cleopatra, the setting of that " eastern star," as Shakespeare calls her ;
Augustus Caesar, whose suspicions of her intention to rob him of the chief trophy of his
victory have been aroused too late, seeking in vain to balk her of her purpose. These
last things of her life are thus told by Plutarch : —

"Her death was very sudden, for those whom Caesar sent unto her ran hither in all haste possible, and
found the soldiers standing at the gate, mistrusting nothing nor understanding of her death . But when they
had opened the doors, they found Cleopatra stark dead, laid upon a bed of gold, attired and arrayed in her
royal robes, and one of her two women, which was called Iras, dead at her feet ; and her other woman (called
Charmion) half dead and trembling, trimming the diadem which Cleopatra wore upon her head. One of
the soldiers seeing her, angrily said unto her: 'Is that well done, Charmion?' 'Very well,' said she
again, ' and meet for a princess descended from the race of so many noble kings :' she said no more, but
fell down dead hard by the bed."

It would not be easy to mend this, the details of which may very well have been
derived from the Memoiis of Cleopatra's physician, Olympus ; of which Plutarch speaks,
and which in all likelihood he used ; and Shakespeare is too consummate an artist to
attempt to mend it. He is satisfied with absorbing into his verse all the grandeur of this
passage — not omitting the angry expostulation of the Roman soldier,

"Charmian, is this well done?"
and the high-hearted answer of the Egyptian lady in waiting, " noble Charmian " her
mistress had called her but a little while before, and she does not belie her name —

"It is well done, and fitting for a princess
Descended of so many royal kings ; "

but he does not attempt to add anything of his own, as indeed there was no room for any
such addition.
Richard Chenevix Trenxii — Plutarch : his Life, his Lives and his Morals, pp. 55 — 59.

Sf//f '//////A /.

CORIOLANUS.

239

CORIOLANUS.

Act V.
Scene III. The 7V«* 0/ Coriolanus.

Coriolanus, Aufidius, and others.
* * * *

Enter, in mourning habits, Virgilia, Vo-
lumnia, leading young Marcius, Valeria,
and Attendants.

Coriolanus. My wife comes foremost ; then

the honour'd mould
Wherein this trunk was framed, and in her hand
The grandchild to her blood. But, out, affection !
All bond and privilege of nature, break !
Let it be virtuous to be obstinate.
What is that curt'sy worth ? or those doves'

eyes,
Which can make gods forsworn ?

am not
Of stronger earth than others.

bows :
As if Olympus to a molehill should
In supplication nod : and my young boy

I melt, and
My mother

Hath an aspect of intercession, which

Great nature cries ' Deny not.' Let the Volsces

Plough Rome, and harrow Italy : I'll never

Be such a gosling to obey instinct, but stand,

As if a man were author of himself

And knew no other kin.

Vir. My lord and husband !

Cor. These eyes are not the same I wore in
Rome

Vir. The sorrow that delivers us thus changed
Makes you think so.

Cor. Like a dull actor now,

I have forgot my part, and I am out,
Even to a full disgrace. Best of my flesh,
Forgive my tyranny ; but do not say
For that ' Forgive our Romans.' O, a kiss
Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge !
Now, by the jealous queen of heaven, that kiss
I carried from thee, dear ; and my true lip
Hath virgin'd it e'er since. You gods ! I prate,
And the most noble mother of the world
Leave unsaluted : sink, my knee, i' the earth ;

[Kneels.
Of thy deep duty more impression show
Than that of common sons.

"■ CORIOLANUS.'

IT AZLITT charges that in this play the Poet shows a strong leaning to the side of Patrician

arrogance and pride against the rights and feelings of the people. Therewithal he

expatiates at large to make out how much more of poetry there is in the high treadings of

aristocratic insolence than in the modest walking of Plebeian humility There is,

I believe, no ground for such a charge as Hazlitt's in this case. On the contrary, the play, I

think, may be justly cited as a pattern of dramatic even-handedness I will

even venture to say that the people as here represented have in them a preponderance of
the amiable and the good, while in the hero there is a clear preponderance of the reverse.
. . . . He, in his towering arrogance, would have his own will stand as an ultimate
law both for himself and for them j but they are far from claiming any such monstrous
prerogative over him ; it is his pride to act towards them as if they had no business to
exist but for the pleasure of such as he is ; while they are merely acting on the principle
that their own welfare and happiness should enter into the purpose of their living : he
would stand "as if a man were author of himself, and knew no other kin," and would

2 4 o SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

have them live entirely for his ends ; whereas they insist on living partly for themselves;
and all they claim is, that he shall own his nature to be kindred with theirs, and treat

them as having the same human heart which beats in him

. . . . The remarks already made infer pride to be the backbone of the hero's
character ; this too a pride standing partly indeed on class and family grounds, but still
more on such as are purely individual or personal. And such is the idea of the man
which Shakespeare found in Plutarch, who prefaces his narrative with the following calm
and weighty sentences touching the subject : —

" While the force and vigour of his soul, and a persevering constancy in all he undertook, led him
successfully into many noble achievements, yet, on the other side, by indulging the vehemence of his
passion, and through an obstinate reluctance to yield or accommodate his humours and sentiments to
those of people about him, he rendered himself incapable of acting and associating with others. Those
who saw with admiration how proof his nature was against all the softness of pleasure, the hardships of
service, and the allurements of gain, while allowing to that universal firmness of his the respective names
of temperance, fortitude, and justice, yet, in the life of the citizen and the statesman, could not choose
but be disgusted at the severity and ruggedness of his deportment, and with his overbearing, haughty, and
imperious temper. Education and study, and the favours of the Muses, confer no greater benefit on those
that seek them than those humanizing and civilizing lessons which teach our natural qualities to submit to
the limitations prescribed by reason, and to avoid the wildness of extremes."

In accordance with what is here said, Shakespeare not only makes pride the hero's
master principle, but also sets forth his pride as being rendered altogether inflammable
and uncontrollable by passion ; insomuch that, if a spark of provocation is struck into the
latter, the former instantly flames up beyond measure, and sweeps away all the regards of
prudence, of decorum, and even of common sense. It is therefore strictly characteristic
of the man, that an unexpected word of reproach stings him to the quick : the instant it
touches his ear, he explodes like a rocket. It is on this that the wily Tribunes work,
plying their craft, and watching the time to sting him into some fatal provocation of
popular resentment. Hence, also, the Poet, with great judgment, and without any hint
from the history, makes Aufidius, when the time is ripe for firing off the conspiracy
against his life, touch him into an ecstasy of passionate rage by spitting the term boy at
him. Now this very pride, if duly guarded by the strengths of reason and self-respect,
would have caused him, from the utter unfitness of such an epithet, to answer it with
calm and silent scorn; but he resents it in proportion as it strikes wide of him, and
makes its very absurdity the cause of its power over him

Coriolanus, however, is not altogether " himself, his world, and his own god : " his will
no doubt is to be so, and this is perhaps the most constant force in him ; but he has
other and better forces, which often rise against his egotism, and sometimes prevail over
it, and at last carry the victory clean away from it. His character indeed is not a little
mixed : and all its parts, good and bad, are fashioned on so large a scale as to yield

o—

CORIOLANUS. 241

matter enough for working out a strong case either way, according as the observer's
mind is set to a course of all blame or all praise ; while at the same time the several
lines so bold and pronounced, that it is not easy for one to keep clear of all extremes,
and so to take the impression of a given side as to fit the subject all round. Nor is
his pride, with all its anti-social harshness, destitute of amiable and engaging features.
There are some points of nobleness and magnanimity about it : the various regards
of rank, family, country, talents and courage enter into its composition, causing it to
partake of the general greatness of his character ; and as it grows partly by what he
derives from and shares with others, as well as by what is peculiar to himself, so it
involves much of the spirit that commonly issues in great virtues as well as great faults.
. . . . The man, it must be confessed, is gloriously proud of his mother : in fact,
his pride in her is only less than his pride of personal greatness and his pride of self.
This is the one point indeed where his pride relaxes its anti-social stiffness, and ceases to
be individual and exclusive. And it is very considerable that he appears noblest and
strongest just when his nature outwrestles his purpose, and when his pride breaks down
under the weight of filial reverence and duty. Shakespeare had it before him in Plutarch,
that " the only thing which caused him to love honour was the delight his mother had of
him ; " for " nothing made him so happy as that she might always see him return with a
crown upon his head, and still embrace him, with tears running down her cheeks for joy."
And so, as represented in the drama, he can outface the rest of the world, but his mother,
with his household treasures at her side, is too much for him : when he has conquered
all the armies of his country, and has the State itself at his feet, her eloquence, her
strength of soul and patriotic devotion conquer him. In his rapture of self-will, he
aspires to act the god, and thinks to stifle the heart's instincts, and to rise above the
natural emotions ; and he stands most redeemed to our judgment and our sense of man-
liness, when at last a diviner power than will masters him, and the sacred regards of
home triumph over his self-sufficiency, and his arrogance succumbs to the touch of
domestic awe and tenderness, and he frankly yields himself human. Where have we
another such an instance of pride struggling with affection, and of an iron will subdued
by the spontaneous forces of the human breast, as when he sees the embassy of women
approaching ? —

My wife comes foremost ; then the honour'd mould

Wherein this trunk was fram'd, and in her hand

The grandchild to her blood.— But, out affection !

All bond and privilege of nature, break !

Let it be virtuous to be obstinate, —

What is that curtsy worth ? or those doves' eyes,

Which can make gods forsworn ? — I melt, and am not

, O

242 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

Of stronger earth than others. — My mother bows ;

As if Olympus to a molehill should

In supplication nod ; and my young boy

Hath an aspect of intercession, which ,

Great Nature cries, Deny not."

I know not where to look for- a grander picture than we have in the same scene after-
wards, when the conqueror's haughtiness and parricidal hardness gradually limber and
soften, and at length fall clean away, at the voice of maternal intercession. Such a
mingling of austerity and tenderness is met with nowhere else in Shakespeare's poetry.
And it is to be noted that the mother's triumph does not seem to be fully consummated,
till her great woman's heart stiffens up with something of the son's pride, and she turns
away with an air of defiance : —

' ' Come, let us go :
This fellow had a Volscian to his mother ;
His wife is in Corioli, and this child
Like him by chance."

That she can be like him in pride thaws down that temper somewhat in him, and

disposes him to be like her in other points Nor is the mother's the only

influence at work to break the hero out of his unnatural purpose and recall him to better
thoughts. She indeed does nearly all the speaking ; but her speech is powerfully rein-
forced by the presence and aspect of others. Little is said of Virgilia, and still less is
said by her ; but that little is so managed as to infer a great deal. A very gentle,
retiring, undemonstrative person, she has withal much quiet firmness, and even a dash
of something very like obstinacy, in her disposition. Her power touches the centre
of her husband's heart ; and it does this the better for being the power of delicacy and
sweetness ; a power the more effective with him, that it is so utterly unlike his own. So,
when he returns from the war all covered with glory, her silent tears of joy are to him a
sweeter tribute than the loud applause of all the rest : he hails her as "my gracious
silence," and plays out his earnest tenderness in the question, "Wouldst thou have
laugh'dhad I come coffin'd home, that weep'st to see me triumph?" How deeply her
still forces have stolen into his being is charmingly evinced in what he says to her when
she comes with her speechless supplication to second the voice of maternal remon-
strance : —

" Best of my flesh,
Forgive my tyranny ; but do not say
For that, Forgive our Romans. O, a kiss
Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge !

CORIOLANUS. 243

Now, by the jealous Queen of Heaven, that kiss
I carried from thee, clear, and my true lip
Hath virgin'd it e'er since."

Here he finds his entire household in something more powerful than arms to resist him '
the mother, the wife, the child, all are shaming his parricidal revenge by standing true to
their fatherland against the son, the husband', and the father ; and the words just quoted
show that the might of the silent mourner is even more penetrating than that of the
eloquent pleader. The two women have hearts stronger in love than in pride ; and the
prime object of that love is the old Rome of their fathers : both the mother and the wife
are steadfastly resolved that, if he march any further against that object, it shall be over
their bodies ; while the boy's Roman spirit flashes up in the strange declaration, " 'A shall
not tread on me ; I'll run away till I am bigger, then I'll fight." The hideous unnatural-
ness of his course is brought fully home to him at thus seeing that the very childhood of
his own flesh and blood is instinctively bent on resisting him, and will sooner disown his
kindred and make war upon him than give way to his fury against their common nurse.
Therewithal, in the presence of " the noble sister of Publicola, the Moon of Rome,''
he sees how all that is most illustrious in the same proud Patrician stock on which he so
much prides himself, even those who were most hurt in his banishment will rather unite
with his banishers in imploring the gods against him than surrender their country to his
revenge. And I am apt to think that what most took Shakespeare in his ancient tale of
Roman patriotism was, that while, to the minds of those high-souled men and women, it
was a great thing to be Patricians, to be Romans was a much greater.

H. N. Hudson. — Shakespeare, his Life, Art, and Characters, Vol. II. pp. 469 — 482.

SHAKESPEARE'S POLITICAL VIEWS.

Can it be made out what were Shakespeare's political views ? We think it certainly can,
and that without difficulty. From the English historical plays, it distinctly appears that
he accepted, like everybody then, the Constitution of his country. His lot was not cast
in an age of political controversy, nor of reform. What was, was from of old. The
Wars of the Roses had made it very evident how much room there was for the evils
incident to an hereditary monarchy, for instance, those of a controverted succession, and
the evils incident to an aristocracy, as want of public spirit and audacious selfishness, to
arise and continue within the realm of England. Yet they had not repelled, and had
barely disconcerted our conservative ancestors. They had not become Jacobins ; they
did not concur — and history, except in Shakespeare, hardly does justice to them — in Jack
Cade's notion, that the laws should come out of his mouth, or that the commonwealth
was to be reformed by interlocutors in this scene.

1 1 2

244 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

" Geo. I tell thee, Jack Cade, the clothier means to dress the commonwealth, and turn it, and set a new-
nap on it.

John. So he had need, for 'tis very threadbare. Well, I say it was never a merry world in England
since gentlemen came up.

Geo. O miserable age ! Virtue is not regarded in handycraftsmen.

John. The nobility think scorn to go in leathern aprons.

Geo. Nay, more : the King's council are no true workmen.

John. True ; and yet it is said, Labour in thy vocation ; which is as much as to say, as let the magistrates
be labouring men, and therefore we should be magistrates.

Geo. Thou hast hit it, for there is no better sign of a brave mind than a hard hand. * .

John. I see them ! I see them ! "

The English people did see them, and know them, and therefore have rejected them.
An audience which, bond, Jide, entered into the merit of this scene, would never believe
in everybody's suffrage. They would know that there is such a thing as nonsense, and
when a man has once attained to that deep conception, you may be sure of him ever
after. And though it would be absurd to say that Shakespeare originated this idea, or that
the disbelief in simple democracy is owing to his teaching or suggestions, yet it may,
nevertheless, be truly said that he shared in the peculiar knowledge of men, — and also
possessed the peculiar constitution of mind — which engender this effect. The author of
Coriolanus never believed in a mob, and did something towards preventing anybody else
from doing so. But this political idea was not exactly the strongest in Shakespeare's
mind. We think he had two others stronger, or as strong. First, the feeling of loyalty
to the ancient polity of this country — not because it was good, but because it existed.
In his time, people no more thought of the origin of the monarchy than they did of the
origin of the Mendip Hills. The one had always been there, and so had the other. God
(such was the common notion) had made both, and one as much as the other. Every-
where, in that age, the common modes of political speech assumed the existence of
certain utterly national institutions, and would have been worthless and nonsensical
except on that assumption. This national habit appears as it ought to appear in our
national dramatist. A great divine tells us that the Thirty-nine Articles are " forms of
thought ; " inevitable conditions of the religious understanding j in politics, " kings, lords,
and commons" are, no doubt, "forms of thought" to the great majority of Englishmen ;
in these they live, and beyond these they never move. You can't reason on the removal
(such is the notion) of the English Channel, nor St. George's Channel, nor can you of
the English Constitution in like manner. It is to most of us, and to the happiest of us,
a thing immutable, and such, no doubt, it was to Shakespeare, which, if any one would
have proved, let him refer at random to any page of the historical English plays.

The second peculiar tenet which we ascribe to his political creed is a disbelief in the
middle classes. We fear he had no opinion of traders. In this age, we know, it is held

CORIOLANUS. 245

that the keeping of a shop is equivalent to a political education. Occasionally in country
villages, where the trader sells everything, he is thought to know nothing, and has no
vote ; but in a town, where he is a householder (as, indeed, he is in the country), and
sells only one thing — there we assume that he knows everything. And this assumption
is in the opinion of some observers confirmed by the fact. Sir Walter Scott used to
relate, that when, after a trip to London, he returned to Tweedside, he always found the
people in that district knew more of politics than the Cabinet. And so it is with the
mercantile community in modern times. If you are a Chancellor of the Exchequer, it is
possible that you may be acquainted with finance ; but if you sell figs it is certain that
you will. Now we nowhere find this laid down in Shakespeare. On the contrary, you
will generally find that when a " citizen " is mentioned, he generally does or says some-
thing absurd. Shakespeare had a clear perception that it is possible to bribe a class as
well as an individual, and that personal obscurity is but an insecure guarantee for political
disinterestedness : —

" Moreover, he hath left you all his walks,
His private arbours and new-planted orchards
On this side Tyber ; he hath left them you,
And to your heirs for ever : common pleasures,
To walk abroad and recreate yourselves.
Here was a Caesar ! when comes such another ? "

He everywhere speaks in praise of a tempered and ordered and qualified polity, in which
the pecuniary classes have a certain influence, but no more, and shows in every page a
keen sensibility to the large views and high-souled energies, the gentle refinements and
disinterested desires, in which those classes are likely to be especially deficient. He is
particularly the poet of personal nobility, though throughout his writings there is a sense
of freedom, just as Milton is the poet of freedom, though with an underlying reference
to personal nobility ; indeed, we might well expect our two poets to combine the appre-
ciation of a rude and generous liberty with that of a delicate and refined nobleness, since
it is the union of these two elements that characterizes our society and their experience.
Walter Bagehot. — Estimates of some Englishmen and Scotchmen
(1858), pp. 257—260.

246

SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

Scene IV.

HENRY VIII.

Act I.

T/ie Presence Chamber in
Place.

York

Hautboys. Enter the King and others, as mas-
quers, habited like shepherds, ushered by the
Lord Chamberlain. They pass directly
before the Cardinal, and gracefully salute
him.

Wolsey. A noble company ! What are their

pleasures ?
Chamberlain. Because they speak no English,

thus they pray'd
To tell your grace, that, having heard by fame
Of this so noble and so fair assembly
This night to meet here, they could do no less,
Out of the great respect they bear to beauty,
But leave their flocks ; and, under your fair

conduct,
Crave leave to view these ladies and entreat
An hour of revels with 'em.

Wol. Say, lord chamberlain,

That they have done my poor house grace ; for

which I pay 'em
A thousand thanks, and pray 'em take their

pleasures.

[They choose Ladies for the dance. The King
chooses Anne Bullen.

King. The fairest hand I ever touch'd ! O
beauty,
Till now I never knew thee .!

[Music. Dance.
Wol. My lord !
Cham. Your grace ?

Wol. Pray tell 'em thus much from me.

There should be one amongst 'em, by his person,
More worthy this place than myself; to whom,
If I but knew him, with my love and duty
I would surrender it.
Chan. I will, my lord.

[ Whispers the masquers.

Wol. What say they ?

Cham. Such a one, they all confess,

There is indeed : which they would have your

grace
Find out, and he will take it.

Wol. Let me see, then.

By all your good leaves, gentlemen, here I'll

make
My royal choice.
King. Ye have found him, cardinal :

[Unmasking.
You hold a fair assembly ; you do well, lord :
You are a churchman, or, I'll tell you cardinal,
I should judge now unhappily.

Wol. I am glad

Your grace is grown so. pleasant.

King. My lord chamberlain,

Prithee, come hither : what fair lady's that ?
Cham. An't please your grace, Sir Thomas
Bullen's daughter, —
The Viscount Rochford, — one of her highness'
women.
King. By heaven, she is a dainty one. Sweet-
heart,
I were unmannerly, to take you out,
And not to kiss you. A health, gentlemen !
Let it go round.

Wol. Sir Thomas Lovell, is the banquet ready
I' the privy chamber ?
Lov. Yes, my lord.

Wol. Your grace,

I fear, with dancing is a little heated.
King. I fear too much.
Wol. There's fresher air, my lord,
In the next chamber.

King, Lead in your ladies, every one : sweet
partner,
I must not yet forsake you : let's be merry :
Good my lord cardinal, I have half a dozen

healths
To drink to these fair ladies, and a measure
To lead 'em once again ; and then let's dream
Who's best in favour. Let the music knock it.
[Exeunt with trumpets.

§s

^sj

SINGULARITY OF THE PLAY OF "HENRY VIII." EXPLAINED
BY THE FACT OF DOUBLE AUTHORSHIP.

C EVERAL of our most distinguished critics have incidentally betrayed a consciousness
that there is something peculiar either in the execution, or the structure, or the general
design of the play. ... Dr. Johnson observes that the genius of Shakespeare comes
in and goes out with Katharine, and that the rest of the play might be easily conceived
and easily written, — a fact, if it be a fact, so remarkable as to call for explanation.
Coleridge, 'in one of his attempts to classify Shakespeare's plays (1802) distinguished
Henry VIII. as gelegenhsitsgedicht ; in another (181 9) as a " sort of historical masque or
show-play ;" thereby betraying a consciousness that there was something singular and
exceptional about it. 1 . . . And leaving the critics, I might probably appeal to the
individual consciousness of each reader, and ask him whether he has not always felt that,
in spite of some great scenes which have made actors and actresses famous, and many
beautiful speeches which adorn our books of extracts (and which, by the way, lose
little or nothing by separation from their context, a most rare thing in Shakespeare), the
effect of this play, as a whole, is weak and disappointing. The truth is that the interest
instead of rising towards the end, falls away utterly, and leaves us in the last act among
persons whom we scarcely know, and events for which we do not care. The strongest
sympathies which have been awakened in us run opposite to the course of the action.
Our sympathy is for the grief and goodness of Queen Katharine, while the course of the
action requires us to entertain as a theme of joy and compensatory satisfaction the coro-
nation of Anne Bullen and the birth of her daughter; which are in fact a part of
Katharine's injury, and amount to little less than the ultimate triumph of wrong. For
throughout the play the King's cause is not only felt by us, but represented to us, as
a bad one. We hear, indeed, of conscientious scruples as to the legality of his first
marriage ; but we are not made, nor indeed asked, to believe that they are sincere, or to
recognize in his new marriage either the hand of Providence or the consummation of
any worthy object, or the victory of any of those more common frailties of humanity
with which we can sympathize. The mere caprice of passion drives the King into
the commission of what seems a great iniquity ; our compassion for the victim of it is
elaborately excited; no attempt is made to awaken any counter-sympathy for him; yet

1 Hertzberg describes the play as " a chronicle-
history with three and a half catastrophes, varied
by a marriage and a coronation pageant, ending
abruptly with the baptism of a child, and in which
are combined the elements of a satirical drama
with a prophetic ecstasy, and all this loosely con-

nected by the nominal hero (sit venia verbd) whom
no poet in heaven or earth could ever have formed
into a tragic character." — Quoted in Karl Elze's
article on Henry VIII., Essays on Shakespeare
(1874), pp. 165-66.

248 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

his passion has its way, and is crowned with all felicity, present and to come. The effect
is much like that which would have been produced by The Winter's Tale if Hermione had
died in the fourth act in consequence of the jealous tyranny of Leontes, and the play had
ended with the coronation of a new queen, and the christening of a new heir, no period
of remorse intervening. It is as if Nathan's rebuke to David had ended not with the
doom of death to the child just born, but with a prophetic promise of the felicities of
Solomon.

This main defect is sufficient of itself to mar the effect of the play as a whole. But
there is another, which though less vital is not less unaccountable. The greater part of
the fifth act, in which the interest ought to be gathering to a head, is occupied with matters
in which we have not been prepared to take any interest by what went before, and on
which no interest is reflected by what comes after. The scenes in the gallery and council-
chamber, though full of life and vigour, and, in point of execution, not unworthy of
Shakespeare,, are utterly irrelevant to the business of the play; for what have we to do
with the quarrel between Gardiner and Cranmer? Nothing in the play is explained by it,
nothing depends upon it. . . .

I know no other play in Shakespeare which is chargeable with a fault like this, none in
which the moral sympathy of the spectator is not carried along with the main current of
action to the end. In all the historical tragedies a providence may be seen presiding over
the development of events, as just and relentless as the fate in a Greek tragedy. Even
in Henry IV, where the comic element predominates, we are never allowed to exult in
the success of the wrong-doer, or to forget the penalties which are due to guilt. And if
it be true that in the romantic comedies our moral sense does sometimes suffer a passing
shock, it is never owing to an error in the general design, but always to some incongruous
circumstance in the original story which has lain in the way, and not been entirely got rid
of, and which after all offends us rather as an incident improbable in itself than as one
for which our sympathy is unjustly demanded. The singularity of Henry VIII. is that,
while four-fifths of the play are occupied in matters which are to make us incapable
of mirth, . . . the remaining fifth is devoted to joy and triumph, and ends with
universal festivity.

[The writer's attention having been turned to the peculiarity of the versification, —
wholly unlike that of Shakespeare, — of certain portions of Henry VIII, he determined to
read the play through with an eye to the structure of the verse, and see whether any
solution of the mystery would present itself. " The result of my examination," he writes,
" was a clear conviction that at least two different hands had been employed in the com-
position of Henry VIII, if not three ; and that they had worked, not together, but alter-
nately upon distinct portions of it." A peculiarity of the verse of the non-Shakespearian
portions, — the frequency of one or more redundant syllables at the end of the line, —

HENRY VIII. 249

pointed to Fletcher as the author of these portions. With this view of the authorship of
Henry VIII. falls in the fact that at the close of Shakespeare's career as a dramatist, —
precisely the time when Henry VIII. was first produced, — another play, The Two Noble
Kinsmen, was written conjointly by the two authors, Shakespeare and Fletcher. Applying
numerically the test of the redundant syllable to distinguish Fletcher's part in Henry
VIII. from that of Shakespeare, the results brought out by this verse-test were identical
with those indicated by the literary feeling of the critic at work in its various conscious
and unconscious ways. Since Mr. Spedding wrote, a number of distinct lines of evidence
similar to that which he had pursued have concurred in leading to the same conclusion.
It will interest the reader to compare the portions ascribed almost with certainty to the
two authors. Shakespeare's portion: Act I. Scene 1. 2 ; Act II. Scene 3. 4; Act III.
Scene 2 (as far as the exit of King Henry). Act V. Scene 1 Shakespeare (altered).
Fletcher' s portioii : the remainder of the play.]

Assuming then that Henry VIII. was written partly by Shakespeare, partly by Fletcher,
with the assistance probably of some third hand, it becomes a curious question upon what
plan their joint labours were conducted. It was not unusual in those days, when a play
was wanted in a hurry, to set two or three or even four hands at work upon it ; and the
occasion of the Princess Elizabeth's marriage (February 161 2-13) may very likely have
suggested the production of a play representing the marriage of Henry VIII. and Anne
Bullen. Such an occasion would sufficiently account for the determination to treat the
subject not tragically ; the necessity for producing it immediately might lead to the em-
ployment of several hands ; and thence would follow inequality of workmanship, and
imperfect adaptation of the several parts to each other. But this would not explain the
incoherency and inconsistency of the main design. ... I should . . . conjecture
that Shakespeare had conceived the idea of a great historical drama on the subject of
Henry VIII., which would have included the divorce of Katharine, the fall of Wolsey,
the rise of Cranmer, the coronation of Anne Bullen, and the final separation of the
English from the Romish Church, which, being the one great historical event of the
reign, would naturally be chosen as the focus of poetic interest ; that he had proceeded
in the execution of this idea as far perhaps as the third Act, which might have included
the establishment of Cranmer in the seat of highest ecclesiastical authority (the
council-chamber scene in the fifth being designed as an introduction to that); when,
finding that his fellows of the Globe were in distress for a new play to honour the
marriage of the Lady Elizabeth, he thought that his half-finished work might help them,
and accordingly handed them his manuscript to make what they could of it ; that
they put it into the hands of Fletcher (already in high repute as a popular and expeditious
playwright), who finding the original design not very suitable to the occasion, and utterly
beyond his capacity, expanded the three acts into five, by interspersing scenes of show

K K

250 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

and magnificence, and passages of description, and long poetical conversations, in which
his strength lay ; dropped all allusion to the great ecclesiastical revolution, which he could
not manage and for which he had no materials supplied him ; converted what should have
been the middle into the end ; and so turned out a splendid " historical masque, or show-
play," which was no doubt very popular then, as it has been ever since.

James Spedding. — On the Several Parts of Shakespeare and Fletcher in the Play

of Henry VIII: The Gentleman's Magazine, Aug. 1850;

Reprinted in Transactions of the New Sliakspei-e Society,

1874.

CHARACTER OF WOLSEY.

Wolsey is indeed a superb delineation, strong, subtle, comprehensive and profound.
All the way from his magnificent arrogance at the start to his penetrating and persuasive
wisdom on quitting the scene, the space is rich with deep and telling lines of character. The
corrupting influences of place and power have stimulated the worser elements of his nature
into an usurped predominance : pride, ambition, duplicity, insolence, vindictiveness, a
passion for intriguing and circumventing arts, a wilful and elaborate stifling of conscience
and pity, confidence in his potency of speech making him reckless of truth and contemp-
tuous of simplicity and purity, these are the faults, all of gigantic stature, that have got
possession of him. When the reverse, so sudden and decisive, overtakes him, its first
effect is to render him more truthful. In the great scene, iii. 2, where Norfolk, Suffolk,
and Surrey so remorselessly hunt him down with charges and reproaches, his conscience
is quickly stung into resurgence ; with clear eye he begins to see in their malice and their
ill-mannered exultation at his fall, a reflection of his own moral features, and with keen
pangs of remorse he forthwith goes to searching and hating and despising in himself the
things that show so hateful and so mean in his enemies ; and their envenomed taunts
have the effect rather of composing his mind than of irritating it. To be sure, he at first
. stings back again ; but in his upworkings of anger his long dormant honesty is soon
awakened, and this presently calms him.

His repentance, withal, is hearty and genuine, and not a mere exercise in self-cozenage,
or a fit of self-commiseration : as he takes all his healthy vigour and clearness of under-
standing into the process, so he is carried through a real renovation of the heart and re-
juvenescence of the soul; his former sensibility of principle, his early faith in truth and
right, which had been drugged to sleep with the high wines of state and pomp, revive, and
with the solid sense and refreshment of having triumphed over his faults and put down

HENRY VIII. 251

his baser self, his self-respect returns ; and he now feels himself stronger with the world
against him than he had been with the world at his beck.

H. N. Hudson. — Shakespeare, his Life, Art and Characters (ed. 1872),
Vol. II. pp. 186-87.

CHARACTER OF HENRY VIII.

But, no doubt, the finest dramatic study in King Henry VIII. is the study of the great
Tudor himself, who, as Mr. Tennyson makes Lord Howard tell Queen Mary, —

"Was a man
Of such colossal kinghood, yet so courteous,
Except when wroth, you scarce could meet his eye
And hold your own ; and were he wroth indeed
You held it less or not at all. I say,
Your father had a will that beat men down ;
Your father had a brain that beat men down."

Such a will and such a brain are delineated for us with infinite vivacity and force in
King Henry VIII. It is not difficult to see that Shakespeare had no love for Henry
VIII. Indeed, many writers have maintained that the play could not have been pro-
duced till after Elizabeth's death, with such hits as it parades at Henry's perpetual " ha ! "
such a satire as it contains on his passions, — for instance, in the first scene in which he
falls in love with Anne Bullen, just after he has told Katharine "you have half our
power; " — and again, with that touch of hypocrisy, —

" But conscience, conscience,
Oh ! 'tis a tender place, and I must leave her,"

delivered at the very moment when he is burning with rage at the delays of the Cardinals
and resolving to work through Cranmer to a hastier divorce. But in spite of Shake-
speare's visible contempt for Henry's moral nature, he never for a moment forgets to let
us see the almost magic fascination of the King for his servants, both while he uses them
and after he has thrown them over. He shows us Buckingham going to the block an
innocent man betrayed by his own servants, but yet imploring blessings on the King who
had ordered his arraignment and refused him mercy. He shows us Wolsey checked by
his King in mad career, and ordered to transmit a pardon to every subject who had
refused to bend to his financial exactions. He shows us Katharine with all her dignity,
feeling the divorce more as a calamity in itself, and as a'wrong done by Henry's ministers

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252 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

than as an injury and insult inflicted by himself. Again he shows us Wolsey struck down
in a moment by the King's wrath, not so much for any misdoings of his own as for the proof
that he was unfavourable to the marriage with Anne Bullen ; and yet Wolsey, like all the
others, kisses the hand which chastises him. It is the same with Cranmer and Gardiner,
except that Cranmer averts anything like rebuke by kissing the rod in anticipation, while
Gardiner kisses it in gratitude for a blow. And finally, it shows the divorced wife grateful
for a cold crumb of comfort in the shape of a kind message from the husband who had
put her away and taken a new Queen. In a word, throughout the play the Tudor King's
personality is so completely in the ascendant, that even Wolsey's genius pales beside his
master's. And Shakespeare also shows us how skilfully Henry fitted his personal humours
to the predominant humour of the English people; how sternly he rebuked and how
abruptly he annulled the policy of exacting from the people a tribute intended to pay
for his own and his ministers' prodigalities; how he availed himself of the English
jealousy of the Pope to make his divorce' popular ; and how he used the dread of a
weak successor to himself to enlist the public mind on behalf of a new marriage, which
might bring him a son. King Henry's is, indeed, in Shakespeare's play, an overbearing
and predominant, but wholly un-moraX, personality, which has the art of linking its
caprices with the wishes of the people and the hopes of the nation. In this sense King
Henry VIII. is in the highest degree a dramatic play, but only in this. Not a word
spoken by the King is other than dramatic. But the other scenes of the play very
frequently pass into historic and very undramatic reverie, quite out of place in the
mouths of those who speak them.

The Spectator, July 3, 1875.

M ,

CYMBELINE.

253

CYMBELINE.

Act hi.

Scene VI. Wales. Before the Cave of Belarius.

Enter Imogen, in boy's clothes.

Imo. I see a man's life is a tedious one :
I have tired myself, and for two nights together
Have made the ground my bed. I should be

sick,
But that my resolution helps me. Milford,
When from the mountain-top Pisanio show'd

thee,
Thou wast within a ken : O Jove ! I think
Foundations fly the wretched ; such, I mean,
Where they should be relieved. Two beggars

told me
I could not miss my way : will poor folks lie,
That have afflictions on them, knowing 'tis
A punishment or trial ? Yes ; no wonder,
When rich ones scarce tell true. To lapse in

fulness
Is sorer than to lie for need, and falsehood
Is worse in kings than beggars. My dear lord !
Thou art one o' the false ones. Now I think on

thee,
My hunger's gone ; but even before, I was
At point to sink for food. But what is this ?
Here is a path to't : 'tis some savage hold :
I were best not call ; I dare not call : yet famine,
Ere clean it o'erthrow nature, makes it valiant.
Plenty and peace breeds cowards : hardness ever
Of hardiness is mother. Ho ! who's here?

If anything that's civil, speak ; if savage,

Take or lend. Ho ! No answer ? Then I'll

enter.
Best draw my sword ; and if mine enemy
But fear the sword like me, he'll scarcely look

on*t.
Such a foe, good heavens ! [Exit, to the cave.

Enter Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus.

Bel. You, Polydore, have proved best wood-
man and
Are master of the feast : Cadwal and I
Will play the cook and servant ; 'tis our match :
The sweat of industry would dry and die,
But for the end it works to. Come ; our stomachs
Will make what's homely savoury : weariness
Can snore upon the flint, when resty sloth
Finds the down pillow hard. Now peace be

here,
Poor house, that keep'st thyself !

Gui. I am thoroughly weary.

Arv. I am weak with toil, yet strong in

appetite.
Gui. There is cold meat i' the cave ; we'll
browse on that
Whilst what we have kill'd be cook'd.
Bel. [Looking into the cave] Stay ; come not
in.
But that it eats our victuals, I should think
Here were a fairy.
Gui. What's the matter, sir ?

Bel. By Jupiter, an angel ! or, if not,
An earthly paragon ! Behold divineness
No elder than a boy !

CHARACTER OF IMOGEN.

T MOGEN has often and rightly been considered as the most lovely and artless of the female
characters which Shakespeare has depicted. Her appearance sheds warmth, fragrance, and
brightness over the whole drama. More true and simple than Portia and Isabella, she is even
more ideal. In harmonious union she blends exterior grace with moral beauty, and both
with fresh straightforwardness of feeling and the utmost clearness of understanding. She
is the sum and aggregate of fair womanhood, such as at last the poet conceived it. We

254 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

may doubt, whether in all poetry there is a second creature so charmingly depicted with
such perfect truth to nature. At the same time the picture is as highly finished as
generally is possible only to the wider range of epic poetry. Imogen is, next to Hamlet,
the most fully drawn character in Shakespeare's poetry ; the traits of her nature are
almost inexhaustible ; the poet makes amends by this perfected portrait of a woman of
this artless kind, for the many sketches of similar natures in the dramas of this period,
which he has merely outlined. When he transports us into Imogen's bedchamber, it is
as living as if we sensibly breathed the atmosphere of it. Not alone he mentions and
describes her outward beauty, but we see (on merely reading the play) the graceful move-
ments, which so well become her, we are acquainted with all her endowments : how " angel-
like" she sings, how "neat her cookery" is, as if "Juno had been sick, and she her
dieter," how gracefully she wears her garments, so that she "made great Juno angry."
But her inward qualities far outweigh these outward ones. And to make this clear to
our minds, is our main business, because she is the chief personage of the play, the one
which leads us on the path to the understanding of the whole.

The characteristic feature of this nature, which displays itself again and again in all
the strange and most varied situations in which the poet has placed Imogen, is her
mental freshness and healthiness. In the untroubled clearness of her mind, in the
unspotted purity of her being, every outward circumstance is reflected, unruffled and
undistorted, in the mirror of Imogen's soul, and at every occasion she acts from the
purest instinct of a nature as sensible as it is practical. Rich in feeling, she is never
morbidly sentimental, rich in fancy she is never fantastic, full of true, painful, earnest
love, she is never touched by sickly passion. She is mistress of her soul under the most
violent emotions, self-command accompanies her strongest feelings, and the most discreet
actions follow her outbursts of violent passion, even when bold resolutions are required.
. . . . In this guileless nature, evil impressions are not too lasting, and she does
not torment herself with too much reflection : she is led by the most enviable instinct,
she has neither the superiority of a masculine mind like Portia, nor the timidity of
Cordelia, nor the thoughtless inconsiderateness of Desdemona, nor the cheerfulness of
Julia. Naturally cheerful, joyous, ingenuous, born to fortune, trained to endurance, she
has nothing of that agitated passionateness, which foretells a tragic lot, which brings trouble
upon itself of its own creating. We see her at the end of the play, when shaking off her
long sufferings, and cruel deceptions, she gives herself at once to the happiest sensations,
how quickly she jests and is playful with her brothers, how brightly her eyes glance
round " the counterchange severally in all ; " — and we feel that this being, fit for every
situation, improved by every trial, has been wonderfully gifted by nature to be equal
to every occasion. Temptations are not wanting. The time comes when the
slanderer (Iachimo) makes her doubt the constancy of her Posthumus, when the tempter

CYMBELINE. 255

attacks her own honour The trial of her fidelity rebounds powerlessly from

her, the ramparts of her honour are easily defended ; as she, thus far, would not have
thought such an attack possible, it must henceforth seem impossible to the tempter
himself. But the poet depicts a lasting siege of the forsaken being, and he shows us at
the same time the palladium that makes her impregnable. We see her again in the
evening after Iachimo's visit, reading till midnight, intending to rise again at four o'clock
in the morning. She reads the tale of Philomel, as far as the passage where she yields
to the seducer Tereus. This story and the day's experience rest obscurely in her mind
when she utters her short prayer, commending herself to the protection of the gods,
beseeching them to guard her " from fairies and the tempters of the night." She then
sleeps calmly ; her fancy is not excited ; her healthy blood is not easily stirred by
sensual emotions ; even from the lawful caresses of her beloved one she had often shrunk
with " rosy pudency." Pisanio esteems it as honourable in her that she undergoes

" More goddess-like than wife-like such assaults
As would take in some virtue."

But she herself never would have had a thought that it was meritorious to ward off these

assaults From the height of the glad hope of meeting Leonatus again, she

is to fall into the depth of anguish. She must hear that her husband thinks her faithless,

and has ordered her servant to kill her In this state of despair, she is ever

alike collected and courageous, ready to seize on every means for bringing about a reunion
with him, even adventuring " peril on her, modesty, though not death on it ! " On
Pisanio's advice, she is ready to seek her husband in Rome, to leave the court, her
parents, and England, and in male attire to enter the service of Lucius. The poet
makes her assume the dress of a page, like Julia, Portia, Viola, Rosalind, Jessica, a
favourite effect on the stage at that time, to which the custom of boys acting the female
parts invited. In this instance the disguise is especially charming, because Imogen is
quite incapable of laying aside her feminine nature with her feminine attire. Pisanio
tells her that she must give up " fear and niceness, the handmaids of all women, or more
truly, woman its pretty self." In these words the feminine nature of Imogen is entirely
described. And this same charming nature she must now exchange for " a waggish
courage ; " she must be " ready in gibes, quick-answered, saucy, and as quarrellous as the
weasel," as all those Rosalinds are. She undertakes this, but she cannot carry it out.
It is well for her that in her assumed manhood she only meets with her virgin-like
brothers in their cave, and the " holy " Lucius, otherwise her modesty and delicacy would
have soon betrayed her sex. Suddenly at last in the wide circle of the camp, when she
sees her Posthumus again, in the unconscious pressure of feeling, she forgets the man's
part she had undertaken and inconsiderately betrays herself.

256 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

How enchanting is she in her brother's cave, when she unexpectedly meets those
"kind creatures," who are kindred to her in nature even more than in blood ! Idylls, so
charming as those scenes are, can scarcely have been written again ; these scenes, said
Schlegel, could inspire a worn-out imagination anew with poetry. She enters the empty
cave, confused and exhausted, she eats, she prays for the provider, and intends to leave
money for her meat, when she is surprised by the hermits, who receive her with their
natural delight in all human beings, who are soon enchanted with the attraction of her
appearance, and take a still warmer interest in her, when with careful observation they
have remarked how " grief and patience are rooted " in her soul. But she, on her side
also, feels herself no less powerfully attracted. Among such good creatures her grief
would soon have been assuaged, ay, perhaps she might have forgotten her journey
to Lucius and to Posthumus ! Not that any feminine feeling had drawn her to the
amiable youths ! The poet has taken great care not to let us imagine this. The brothers
indeed soon have an instinctive feeling, that this beautiful boy has more of woman's nature
in him than man's; when from a natural impulse she relieves them of all domestic matters,
when she entreats them to go hunting, on the plea, that their daily custom shall not be
interrupted, they say that she must be their housewife, and Guiderius declares that
" were she a woman, he should woo her hand." But she, as a woman, does not respond
to this. She has all at once found here, what she had never dreamt of in the world, —
creatures, who in their untainted innocence even surpassed her Posthumus ; how natural
that on this occasion, the remembrance of Posthumus, without her expressing it, is no
longer so clear as it was, that she reflects on his falsity, that she imagines the possibility,
that the wish arises in her heart, of living a life of innocence here with these innocent
beings, among whom she had found a substitute for her uncertain, ay, lost support !
But, nevertheless, her fidelity to Posthumus would not even here be tempted ! As a
woman, as Imogen, to leave him and belong to another, this thought never even now
enters her pure faithful soul. u Pardon me," in these meaning words as ingenuous as
they are innocent, the slumbering, nascent wish is clothed : —

** Pardon me gods!
Vd change tny sex to be companion with them,
Since Leonatus' false."

This wish to stay with the dwellers in the cave, preserving intact her sacred duty towards
Posthumus, has its source in yet another feature in Imogen's character, connected with
her healthy simplicity, with her natural view of a world abounding with all that is
unnatural. She had remained true, plain, and innocent at the court, in the midst of
intrigues and baseness. She could maintain herself so, essentially by the power alone of
that womanly property of not allowing disagreeable external things to influence her. But

CYMBELINE.

257

in the secret depths of her soul another impulse was also at work, that which alienates
her from all the splendour of high life, although this had been represented to her as the
real essence of life, and all beyond the court had been designated as savage. At the
very catastrophe of the banishment of Posthumus, she wishes herself "a neatherd's
daughter," and him the " neighbour shepherd's son j " she would have thought it happi-
ness if she had been " thief-stolen as her two brothers " were ; she feels miserable with
her longings amid the splendour of rank ; those seemed to her blessed who, " how mean
soe'er, could have their honest wills." Here in her brothers' cave she now meets with
beings who prove to her that she has all along been deceived, that her inward impulse
would have guided her better ; that

'* The imperious seas breed monsters : for the dish,
Poor tributary rivers as sweet fish."

Here in the cave she remembers the sentence that expresses her own innermost opinion :
— " Man and man should be brothers ; but clay and clay differs in dignity, whose dust is
both alike." She fosters this opinion not only for a quiet life, such as is more suitable
to women, not only for the sorrowful experience which she has had in courtly life, she
fosters it also because she would far rather abandon the throne than her Posthumus. It is
for this reason that the wish escapes her here in the cave that these youths could be her
brothers ; then had " her prize been less, and so more equal ballasting to her Posthumus."
As the royal blood in these brothers longed with the might of natural desire to escape
out of lowliness and solitude into the life of the world, so her woman's blood, on the
contrary, as naturally longed to escape out of the intrigues of the world so well known to
her, into retirement and peace.

Dr. G. G. Gervinus. — Shakespeare Commentaries, translated by F. E. Bunnett

(1863), Vol. IT., pp. 261—271.

SHAKESPEARE'S PERIOD OF GLOOM FOLLOWED BY
SERENITY AND REPOSE.

Up to the middle of Shakespeare's poetic career we find every appearance of his having
possessed a joyous unembarrassed spirit. There is nothing harsh or jarring in his tone
of feeling : what melancholy there is is but the softly harmonious poetic melancholy of
Romeo and Juliet. I often think that in a class of characters which abound in the plays
of the first and part of the second period we may see some image of Shakespeare's own
temper in the earlier years of his manhood. I mean the youths of birth and breeding

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258 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

whom he has introduced in such numbers into these plays— the Birons, the Mercutios,
the Benedicks. They are marked, indeed, by different traits; but the varieties are
wrought upon a common basis. They are all represented as combining with active
intellect, lively fancy, and dexterous wit, an airy animation and elastic buoyancy of tone.
I cannot doubt that Shakespeare, perhaps unconsciously, drew them from himself— that
he had not here, as in other cases, to pass, by an effort of imagination, out of his person-
ality — but had only to communicate freely to these creations the exuberance of his own
youthful nature.

About the close of the sixteenth century there is a marked alteration in his tone. I
do not mean merely that there is more gravity of thought and seriousness of feeling ;
these would be the natural fruit of advancing years. " There seems," says Hallam, " to
have been a period of Shakespeare's life when his heart was ill at ease, and ill content
with the world or his own conscience ; the memory of hours misspent, the pang of
affection misplaced or unrequited, the experience of man's worser nature which intercourse
with unworthy associates, by choice or circumstance, peculiarly teaches ; these as they sank
down into the depths of his great mind, seem not only to have inspired into it the con-
ception of Lear and Timon, but that of one primary character — the censurer of mankind."
And the critic proceeds to show how this one character, changing its form but retaining
its essence, appears in several of the plays — how the type is seen alike in the " philo-
sophic melancholy " of Jacques — in the wayward gloom of Hamlet, broken by flashes of
" feigned gaiety and extravagance " — in the stern, harsh justice of the Duke in Measure
for Measure — in the inspirations which lend " an awful eloquence " to the frenzy of
Lear — and in the fierce " Juvenalian satire " of the Athenian misanthrope.

Mr. Knight, who deserves acknowledgment as one of the most genial and reverential
of Shakespeare's commentators, rejects this theory of Hallam's, and regards all these
persons of the poet's drama simply as creatures of his art, not in any degree as exponents
of his self-consciousness. But I think, in order to do so, it is necessary either to
neglect the Sonnets, or to give them a non-natural interpretation. It is clear from those
poems (which belong to the interval between 1599 and 1603) that about the middle of
his author-life he passed through a prolonged moral crisis. They show that the hollowness
and insincerity which experience of the world had made known to him, and the social
wrongs and abuses he had witnessed, had powerfully affected his mind. He had also,
too plainly, tasted of the Dead Sea fruits of unlawful pleasure, which sooner or later turn to
ashes on the lips. And it is intimated that in some way or other he had been exposed
to public censure and shame. Under the pressure of gloomy thoughts he breaks out in
fhe 66th Sonnet,

" Tired with all these, for restful death I cry."

CYMBELINE. 259

The tone of many of the Sonnets is what has been well called a " Hamlet-like discontent "
with others and with himself; and, in particular, the one which opens with the line I
have quoted has much in common with the celebrated soliloquy "To be, or not to be."
The state of feeling to which the " censurer of mankind " gives utterance was therefore
undoubtedly a phase through which Shakespeare's own mind was passing about the time
when he wrote the plays in which that character appears.

But Shakespeare was not to sink into such morbid misanthropy as corroded the soul
of Swift. The sins and wrongs he saw around him, the bitterness of spirit he felt
within, did not rob him of his faith in humanity. That he all along believed intensely
in human love, and friendship, and fidelity is sufficiently proved by the creation of Kent
and Cordelia. In his later works, Macbeth and the rest, the character described by
Hallam, and the tone of sentiment which it embodies, never again present themselves.
Nay, we are able to follow the poet into a serene and peaceful region, in which the old
sweetness and cheerfulness are restored, joined with all the breadth and elevation of his
maturity. Three of the works of the last period, which must be referred to its closing
years, stand in some degree apart from the other members of the group, I mean
Cymbeline, the Winter's Tale, and the Tembest. It is a notion of Mr. Spalding's, and one
to which we would gladly assent, that these works were the productions of the quiet
evening of Shakespeare's life, after he had returned to Stratford, when in tranquil
meditation he wandered through his native fields or along the banks of the Avon.
Willingly, too, would we accept the idea of Campbell, worthy of a poet, and which
neither external nor internal evidence contradicts, that the Tempest was the last of all his
plays, that in it he was inspired to represent himself under the image of the potent and
beneficent enchanter, and that our Prospero, when the dainty Ariel of his imagination
had completed this last task, forswore his magic, and buried the implements of his art
deeper than ever plummet sounded. However this may be, it is with lively satisfaction
that we see imaged in these latest writings, and particularly in the Tempest, the final calmness
and harmony of the poet's soul. Over the discords, contradictions, and perplexities of
life, he here serenely triumphs ; and, with mind disengaged, and temper in which the
sportive and the serious are exquisitely blended, throws in to. air that wonderful cloud-
picture of the Enchanted Isle. How noble the figure of Prospero ! How pure and
tender the character of Miranda — his most exquisite ideal of the maiden, as Imogen of
the wife I What delicacy, yet distinctiveness in the painting ! What lofty wisdom in the
thought ! What all-embracing humanity in the sentiment !

Professor J. K. Ingram. — Shakespeare, a Lecture in " The Afternoon Lectures

on English Literature" (1863).

L L 2

SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

THE TEMPEST.

Act I.

Scene II. The Island. Before Prospero's Cell.
Enter Prospero and Miranda.

Mir. If by your art, my dearest father, you

have
Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them.
The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking

pitch,
But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek,
Dashes the fire out. O, I have suffered
With those that I saw suffer : a brave vessel,
Who had, no doubt, some noble creature in her,
Dash'd all to pieces. O, the cry did knock
Against my very heart. Poor souls, they perish'd !
Had I been any god of power, I would
Have sunk the sea within the earth or e'er
It should the good ship so have swallow'd and
The fraughting souls within her.

Pros. Be collected :

No more amazement : tell your piteous heart
There's no harm done.

Mir. O, woe the day !

Pros. No harm.

I have done nothing but in care of thee,
Of thee, my dear one, thee, my daughter, who
Art ignorant of what thou art, nought knowing
Of whence I am, nor that I am more better
Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell,
And thy no greater father.

Mir. More to know

Did never meddle with my thoughts.

Pros. 'Tis time

I should inform thee farther. Lend thy hand,
And pluck my magic garment from me. So :

[Lays down his mantle.
Lie there, my art. Wipe thou thine eyes ; have

comfort.
The direful spectacle of the wreck, which touch'd
The very virtue of compassion in thee,
I have with such provision in mine art
So safely ordered that there is no soul —
No, not so much perdition as an hair
Betid to any creature in the vessel «

Which thou heard'st cry, which thou saw'st sink.

"THE TEMPEST."

"V T O work can more worthily crown the dramatic career of the poet than The Tempest.
We know that it is impossible to place it earlier than 1609, that its date almost certainly
is j6ii; and until it be demonstrated beyond dispute that it was followed by other
productions, I shall persist in seeing in it . . . the latest born of Shakespeare's works,
and that in which he bids the public adieu. The admirable serenity which is present
throughout the plays, corresponds, indeed, with the state of mind of one who is detaching
himself from worldly preoccupations, and who desires to possess his soul in a state of
recollection and in retreat. As with A Midsummer-Night 's Dream, the marvellous constitutes
the substance of the play, and the exquisite Ariel belongs to the same family as Oberon's
henchman, Puck. But in the present instance the marvellous, far from giving expression to

: .: %/,;,

c:vv/?/^

o —

THE TEMPEST. 261

a mere caprice of fancy, obeys the laws of a rigorous logic, and contributes to the ethical
purpose of the piece. The adventures do not follow one another as if by accident, as in a
masque, and the personages are not the playthings of blind chance. In the Tempest
everything is foreseen and ordered by a superior will. FroVn the first act we perceive
the hand of Prospero, the invincible might of which is felt even to the close. This
enchanter, under whose garb Shakespeare conceals himself, would try his enemies and
his friends, would lead the former to repentance by expiation, the latter to happiness through
sacrifice, and finally resolve all difficulties in the spirit of justice and of charity. To attain
this he traces out his plan, of which the several scenes of the play are but the parts, and
he executes it with mathematical precision. So exactly does he order things that he
imposes upon himself a limit of time which he will not pass beyond, and beyond which,
in fact, he does not pass. By the end of three hours the events which he is preparing
must have realised themselves, and he is careful to recall to mind, on two separate
occasions, that he has determined not to exceed that term.

Shakespeare, in his last two plays, evidently handles the question of the unities which
had been objected against him by the poets of the classical school and especially by Ben
Jonson. In The Winter's Tale he declares that he has a right to disregard the unities,
and to prove this he places an interval of seventeen years between the first and the second
part of his drama. Here, on the contrary, he scrupulously observes them, as if to show
that it is just as easy to him to respect them, that they do not trammel his imagination,
and that, even with a fantastic subject, he can, without sacrificing in any degree the
fulness and variety of his conceptions, adapt himself to them as well as the most timid
imitator of antiquity

The Tempest, although its ordonnance is strict, does not the less contain the richest
elements of the drama, marvellous scenes, surprising adventures, genuine passions, and
living characters. The play is composed by a skilful mingling of supernatural events and
of realities, which excite curiosity to the highest point, and which, while astonishing the
judgment, nevertheless end by satisfying it. The subject carries the mind of the reader
into an order of ideas which interested in a singular degree the countrymen of Shakespeare
in his own day. It sets us down in a foreign and unknown land, inhabited by a race
different from our own, in the midst of the enchantments of a beautiful earth, and sea, and
sky ; and there it retains us by all the attractions of novelty. What a source of interest
for a people of travellers and of sailors, who, from the sixteenth century, had sent
forth into America a race of bold explorers, and was preparing that maritime and
colonial power which has constituted the grandeur of the nation !

It was the story of a celebrated voyage that furnished Shakespeare with the first idea of
The Tempest. In 1609 George Somers set sail with thirty vessels for Virginia; was
separated from his fleet by a gale; arrived with only the admiral's vessel at the Bermudas ;

262 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

and published a narrative of his expedition, under the title ol A Discovery of the Bermudas,

othenoise called the Isle of Devils Shakespeare, who loved popular subj ects,

seized on this book, and made it the point of departure of his play. He also told of a
tempest, of sailors who struggled with the sea, of a dispersed squadron, and the chief
vessel separated from the rest, and driven by the gale upon a desert shore. He also
painted, like Somers, the delightful climate and bright landscape of the island, and in like
manner peopled it with aerial spirits, whose music the superstitious sailor had supposed
he heard under the great trees moved by the wind. Shakespeare knew what an eager
curiosity was roused in the people by these stories of extraordinary voyages, and generally
by all that came from afar. He took advantage of this for the success of his work ; but
he also jests at this curiosity, as he has done at so many other weaknesses of men, when
he puts into the mouth of Trinculo, who takes Caliban for a sea-monster, the words,
" Were I in England now, and had but this fish painted, not a holiday-fool there but would
give a piece of silver ; there would this monster make a man ; any strange beast there
makes a man ; when they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out
ten to see a dead Indian."

No dramatic poet ever knew better than did Shakespeare what suited his public, or,
while smiling at its tastes, to turn them more to his own advantage. The magical array
with which he surrounds Prospero was no less fitted to engage the imaginations of
Englishmen than the strange and distant region in which Shakespeare placed him. In
his time a belief in magic still survived ; works were written upon the search for treasures,
upon the occult sciences, and the method of evoking spirits. Magicians were divided
into two classes according to the degree of their power, and they were suspected of having
bartered their souls to the devil in exchange for the influence which they exerted over the
supernatural world. The pretensions of John Dee, whom Ben Jonson unmasked with such
bitter irony in the Alchemist, were seriously considered. Prospero wears the traditional
costume of his fellows : the astrologer's peaked hat, the robe studded over with stars, and
the magic ring. His attendant, Ariel, recalls the fairy Sibylla, whom it was in the power

of only the most powerful magicians to summon Prospero holds in his hands

all the threads of the intrigue. When we know thoroughly his character and his doings

we know the significance of the play And yet while Prospero rules without

difficulty the world of spirits, his efforts are set at defiance by the resistance of one
evil creature who is a rebel against all authority. He teaches language and the first
elements of knowledge to Caliban. The latter makes use of what he has learnt only to
curse his master and to attempt to destroy him.

Caliban's part has been the occasion for voluminous commentaries. According to
certain critics he represents not only the races of the new world, ignorant as they were and
cruel, the Cannibals, of which word his name seems to be an anagram, but also the mass

THE TEMPEST. 263

of the populace, and the evil instincts of the multitude. They go so far as to assert
that Shakespeare, a partizan of the aristocracy, and hostile to the influence of the lower
orders, personifies in this abject nature, the revolutionary spirit which he had previously
condemned when he pictured Jack Cade's insurrection, and the plebeians of the time
of Julius Caesar. " Caliban," exclaims Herr Kreyssig, " is the people. Observe his
actions and pronounce judgment upon him. Like the people he worships all that flatters
his senses, he prostrates himself before a drunken sailor who gives him wine to drink, he
admires the brute courage of Stephano, he detests the master who governs him with
justice, he would fain accept a worse master since the latter would encourage his vices,
and when he chants his drinking song, ' 'Ban, 'ban, Ca-Caliban ; freedom, freedom,' he
resumes in it all the manifestoes of the democracy — which demands no more than the
freedom to do evil. Such is the concealed sense of Shakespeare's creation, and the enigma
which it belongs only to penetrative intellects to decipher." This penetration terrifies me,
and I fear that the German critics will before long enter on a discussion en regie of the
Revolution and the ancien regime in connection with The Tempest. Gervinus has already
found occasion to treat of the events of 1848 with reference to Richard II. I confess I
am unable to discover these profound political ideas under the grotesque exterior of
Caliban. When Shakespeare desires to represent the people, -he has painted them as
they are visible to each of us, without recourse to any symbol; here in the costume of
* the traders or the working-folk of London, there with the garb and features of the citizens
of Rome. Caliban no more resembles the people than a cannibal resembles a dweller in
our cities. He simply represents the primitive man abandoned to himself; and if Shake-
speare has a philosophical purpose in introducing this persons of the drama it is simpler
and more probable than what has been attributed to him. I discern only a fine
irony directed against the dreamers of his age, such as Thomas More and Campanella,
who preceded Rousseau in opposing the innocence of the state of nature to the miseries
of civilization. "Man is born good," said the reformers and philanthropists, before the
same was said by the philosopher of Geneva; "it is society that corrupts him." Shake-
speare refutes this paradox by a portrait of the savage, as travellers in recently-discovered
countries had found him, with his sensual appetites, his ferocity, and his homicidal wiles.
" Where then is this ideal perfection which everywhere precedes civilization, and which
civilization destroys? On the contrary, the less civilized man is, the nearer he ap-
proaches the brutes. Your hero," Shakespeare seems to say to Utopian thinkers, " walks
on four feet as willingly as on two, he has a hairy skin, he does mischief openly and
forcibly when he dares, and by surprise and stratagem when he fears ; in a word, his
name is Caliban. Would you bring back humanity from the degree of intelligence
which Prospero represents to the dull brutality of the son of Sycorax ? " This was, in
a manner, a dramatic pleading on behalf of the colonies which were bearing the customs

264 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

and the religion of England to the new world Under another form

the poet takes up his thesis when assailing those reformers who would change
the state of society, destroy its inequalities, establish a community of goods, and attain
an ideal of perfection which does not accord with human nature. The famous passage
which he has translated from Montaigne is a sort of ironical sally against the
chimerical politicians, who dream of an age of gold impossible to be realized. Gonzalo
speaks :—

"I' the commonwealth, I would by contraries
Execute all things : for no kind of traffic
Would I admit ; no name of magistrate ;
Letters should not be known ; riches, poverty,
And use of service, none ; contract, succession,
Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none ;
No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil ;
No occupation ; all men idle, all ;
And women too, but innocent and pure ;
No sovereignty."

The speaker who expresses such thoughts as these sets those around him laughing at
his expense, and he in turn makes sport of the credulity with which they took for serious
a playful sally. The poet's intention is evident. By the mouths of the several personages
whom he puts upon the stage, as well the honest old counsellor Gonzalo as the hard-
minded politicians Sebastian and Antonio, he overwhelms the Utopian philosophers with
epigrams. Prospero, who expresses Shakespeare's own thought, is far from running into
their aberrations. He accepts men as they are, without falling into any illusion about
their natural qualities ; he does not believe that they are born good, he knows, on the con-
trary, that they bear within them the germ of manifold vices ; nevertheless he does not
despair of the human species, and instead of striving to lead them back to a state of
nature, that is, to barbarism, to make them better, he is at pains to correct them by
reason and with the help of experience. He pours light into and upon the guilty, he
obliges them to re-enter into themselves, he awakens in them a moral sense, and it
is through the ascendency of a superior intelligence, and not by plunging them back into
ignorance, that he regenerates them. In order to accomplish the task which he has laid
upon himself, as much of knowledge and intellectual resource is needed as of will.
Where the philosopher succeeds the uninstructed man would have failed. He combines,
indeed, with the greatest art all the various means which he employs to convert the
guilty

In his tragedies Shakespeare does not pardon the criminals ; he yields them up without
remorse to the destiny which they have made for themselves. Here he presents to us

THE TEMPEST. 267

by the conceptions of his genius, abandons the brilliant theatre of his fame. Of all
human ambitions but one remains with him — that of dying well : —

"In the morn
I'll bring you to your ship, and so to Naples,
Where I have hope to see the nuptial
Of these our dear belov'd solemnised ;
And thence retire me to my Milan, where
Every third thought shall be my grave."

Such is the poet's farewell to the public. He abdicates as a conqueror after a victory. 1
A. Mezieres. — Shakespeare, ses (Envres et ses Critiques (ed. 1865), pp. 441 — 456.

1 It may be worth while to note the error of the account of the wreck which was written by

M. Mezieres in ascribing to Sir George Somes ' Silvester Jourdan.

268

SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

THE WINTER'S TALE.

Act I.

Scene II. A Room of State in Leontes' Palace.

Leontes, Hermione, Polixenes, and others.

Leontes. Is he won yet ?

Hermione. He'll stay, my lord.

Leon. At my request he would not.

Hermione, my dearest, thou never spokest
To better purpose.

Her. Never ?

Leon. Never, but once.

Her. What ! have I twice said well ? when
was't before ?
I prithee tell me ; cram's with praise and make's
As fat as tame things : one good deed dying

tongueless
Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that.
Our praises are our wages : you may ride 's
With one soft kiss a thousand furlongs ere
With spur we heat an acre. But to the goal :
My last good deed was to entreat his stay :
What was my first ? it has an elder sister,

Or I mistake you : O, would her name were

Grace !
But once before I spoke to the purpose : when ?
Nay, let me have 't ; I long.

Leon. Why, that was when

Three crabbed months had sour'd themselves to

death,
Ere I could make thee open thy white hand
And clap thyself my love : then didst thou utter,
' I am yours for ever.'

Her. 'Tis grace indeed.

Why, lo you now, I have spoke to the purpose

twice :
The one for ever earn'd a royal husband ;
The other for some while a friend.

Leon. [Aside] Too hot, too hot !

To mingle friendship far is mingling bloods.
I have tremor cordis on me : my heart dances ;
But not for joy ; not joy. This entertainment
May a free face put on, derive a liberty
From heartiness, from bounty, fertile bosom,
And well become the agent ; 't may, I grant ;
But to be paddling palms and pinching fingers,
As now they are, and making practised smiles,
As in a looking-glass, and then to sigh, as 'twere
The mort o' the deer.

HERMIONE.

'"PHE character of Hermione exhibits what is never found in the other sex, but rarely in
our own — yet sometimes : — dignity without pride, love without passion, and tenderness
without weakness. To conceive a character in which there enters so much of the negative
required perhaps no rare and astonishing effort of genius, such as created a Juliet, a Miranda,
or a Lady Macbeth ; but to delineate such a character in the poetical form, to develop it
through the medium of action and dialogue, without the aid of description : to preserve its
tranquil, mild, and serious beauty, its unimpassioned dignity,, and at the same time keep the
strongest hold upon our sympathy and our imagination ; and out of this exterior calm produce
the most profound pathos, the most vivid impression of life and internal power : — it is this
which renders the character of Hermione one of Shakespeare's masterpieces.

Hermione is a queen, a matron, and a mother ; she is good and beautiful, and royally
descended. A majestic sweetness, a grand and gracious simplicity, an easy, unforced, yet

RSS

THE WINTER'S TALE. 269

dignified self-possession, are in all her deportment, and in every word she utters. She
is one of those characters of whom it has been said proverbially, that " still waters run
deep." Her passions are not vehement, but in her settled mind the sources of pain or
pleasure, love or resentment, are like the springs that feed the mountain lakes, impene-
trable, unfathomable, and inexhaustible There are several among Shake-
speare's characters which exercise a far stronger power over our feelings, our fancy, our
understanding than that of Hermione; but not one — unless, perhaps, Cordelia — con-
structed upon so high and pure a principle. It is the union of gentleness with power
which constitutes the perfection of mental grace. Thus among the ancients, with whom
the graces were also the charities (to show, perhaps, that while form alone may constitute
beauty, sentiment is necessary to grace), one and the same word signified equally strength
and virtue. This feeling, carried into the fine arts, was the secret of the antique grace
— the grace of repose. The same eternal nature — the same sense of immutable truth
and beauty, which revealed this sublime principle of art to the ancient Greeks, revealed
it to the genius of Shakespeare ; and the character of Hermione, in which we have the
same largeness of conception and delicacy of execution, — the same effect of suffering
without passion, and grandeur without effort, is an instance, I think, that he felt within
himself, and by intuition, what we study all our lives in the remains of ancient art. The
calm, regular, classical beauty of Hermione's character is the more impressive from the
wild and Gothic accompaniments of her story, and the beautiful relief afforded by the
pastoral and romantic grace which is thrown around her daughter Perdita.

Mrs. Jameson. — Characteristics of Women, Vol. II. pp. 6 — 7, and
pp. 23—24 (ed. 1858).

THE JEALOUSY OF LEONTES.

The idea of this delightful drama is a genuine jealousy ot disposition, and it should be
immediately followed by the perusal of Othello, which is the direct contrast of it in every
particular. For jealousy is a vice of the mind, a culpable tendency of the temper,
having certain well-known and well-defined effects and concomitants, all of which are
visible in Leontes, and, I boldly say, not one of which marks its presence in Othello ; —
such as, first, an excitability by the most inadequate causes, and an eagerness to snatch
at proofs ; secondly, a grossness of conception, and a disposition to degrade the object
of the passion by sensual fancies and images ; thirdly, a sense of shame of his own
feelings exhibited in a solitary moodiness of humour, and yet from the violence of the
passion forced to utter itself, and therefore catching occasions to ease the mind by
ambiguities, equivoques, by talking to those who cannot, and who are known not to be

270 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

able to understand what is said to them, — in short, by soliloquy in the form of dialogue,
and hence a confused, broken, and fragmentary manner ; fourthly, a dread of vulgar
ridicule, as distinct from a high sense of honour, or a mistaken sense of duty ; and lastly,
and immediately, consequent on this, a spirit of selfish vindictiveness.

S. T. Coleridge. — Shakespeare Notes and Lectures (1874), pp. 243 — 244.

SPIRIT OF FORGIVENESS AND RECONCILIATION IN
SHAKESPEARE'S LAST PLAYS.

It is not to be wondered at that Shakespeare now should feel delivered from the strong
urge of imagination and feeling, and should write in a more pleasurable, more leisurely,
and not so great a manner. The period of the tragedies was ended. In the tragedies
Shakespeare had made his inquisition into the mystery of evil. He had studied those
injuries of man to man which are irreparable. He had seen the innocent suffering with
the guilty. Death came and removed the criminal and his victim from human sight, and
we were left, with solemn awe upon our hearts, in presence of the insoluble problems of
life. There lay Duncan, who had " borne his faculties so meek," who had been " so
clear in his great office," foully done to death ; there lay Cordelia lifeless in the arms of
Lear ; there, Desdemona, murmuring no word, upon the bed ; there, Antony, the ruin of
Cleopatra's magic ; and last, Timon, most desperate fugitive from life, finding his sole
refuge under the oblivious and barren wave. At the same time that Shakespeare had shown
the tragic mystery of human life, he had fortified the heart by showing that to suffer is
not the supreme evil with man, and that loyalty and innocence, and self-sacrifice, and
pure redeeming ardour, exist, and cannot be defeated. Now, in his last period of author-
ship, Shakespeare remained grave—how could it be otherwise? — but his severity was
tempered and purified. He had less need of the crude doctrine of Stoicism, because the
tonic of such wisdom as exists in Stoicism had been taken up and absorbed into his
blood.

Shakespeare still thought of the graver trials and tests which life applies to human cha-
racter, of the wrongs which man inflicts on man ; but his present temper demanded not a
tragic issue, — it rather demanded an issue into joy or peace. The dissonance must be
resolved into a harmony, clear and rapturous, or solemn and profound. And, accordingly,
in each of these plays, The Winter's Tale, Cymbeline, The Tempest, while grievous errors
of the heart are shown to us, and wrongs of man to man as cruel as those of the great
tragedies, at the end there is a resolution of the dissonance, — a reconciliation. This is
the word which interprets Shakespeare's latest plays— reconciliation, " word over all, beauti-
ful as the sky." It is not, as in the earlier comedies — The Two Gentlemen of Verona,

THE WINTER'S TALE. . 271

Much Ado About Nothing, As You Like It, and others — a mere denouement. The resolu-
tion of the discords in these latest plays is not a mere stage necessity, or a necessity of
composition, resorted to by the dramatist to effect an ending of his play, and little
interesting his imagination or his heart. Its significance here is ethical and spiritual; it
is a moral necessity.

In The Winter's Tale, the jealousy of Leontes is not less, but more fierce and unjust
than that of Othello. No Iago whispers poison ous suspicion in Leontes' ear. His
wife is not untried, not did she yield to him her heart with the sweet proneness of
Desdemona : —

" Three crabbed months had soured themselves to death
Ere I could make thee open thy white hand,
And clap thyself my love ; then didst thou utter,
1 1 am yours for ever.' "

Hermione is suspected of sudden and shameless dishonour, she who is a matron, the
mother of Leontes' children, a woman of serious and sweet dignity of character, inured
to a noble self-command, and frank only through the consciousness of invulnerable
loyalty. 1 The passion of Leontes is not like that of Othello, a terrible chaos of soul ;
confusion and despair at the loss of what had been to him the fairest thing on earth ;
there is a gross personal resentment in the heart of Leontes ; not sorrowful, judicial
indignation ; his passion is hideously grotesque, while that of Othello is pathetic.

The consequences of this jealous madness of Leontes are less calamitous than the
ruin wrought by Othello's jealousy, because Hermione is courageous and collected, and
possessed of a fortitude of heart which years are unable to subdue :—

" There's some ill planet reigns.
I must be patient till the heavens look
With an aspect more favourable. Good my lords,
I am not prone to weeping, as our sex
/ Commonly are ; the want of which vain dew,

Perchance, shall dry your pities ; but I have
That honourable grief lodg'd here which burns
Worse than tears drown. 'Beseech you all, my lords,
With thoughts so qualified as your charities
Shall best instruct you, measure me ; and so
The king's will be perform'd ! " 2

1 The contrast between Othello and The Winter's
Tale has been noticed by Coleridge, and is ad-
mirably drawn out in detail by Gervinus and
Kreyssig, to whose treatment of the subject the
above paragraph is indebted.

1 Mrs. Jameson applies to the passion of Her-
mione the fine saying of Madame de Stael, " II
pouvait y avoir des vagues majestueuses, et non
de l'orage dans son cceur."

272 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

But although the wave of calamity is broken by the firm resistance offered by the fortitude

of Hermione, it commits ravage enough to make it remembered. Upon the Queen comes

a lifetime of solitude and pain. The hopeful son of Leontes and Hermione is done to

death, and the infant Perdita is estranged from her kindred and her friends. But at

length the heart of Leontes is instructed and purified by anguish and remorse. He has

" performed a saint-like sorrow," redeemed his faults, paid down more penitence than

done trespass : —

" Whilst I remember

Her and her virtues, I cannot forget
My blemishes in them, and so still think of
The wrong I did myself ; which was so much
That heirless it hath made my kingdom, and
Destroy'd the sweet'st companion that e'er man
Bred his hopes out of. "

And Leontes is received back without reproach into the arms of his wife ; she embraces
him in silence, allowing the good pain of his repentance to effect its utmost work.

Hermione, Imogen, Prospero, — these are, as it were, names for gracious powers which
extend forgiveness to men. From the first Hermione, whose clear-sightedness is equal to
her courage, had perceived that her husband laboured under a delusion which was cruel
and calamitous to himself. From the first she transcends all blind resentment, and has
true pity for the man who wrongs her. But if she has fortitude for her own uses, she also
is able to accept for her husband the inevitable pain which is needful to restore him to
his better mind. She will not shorten the term of his suffering, because that suffering is
beneficent. And at the last her silent embrace carries with it — and justly — a portion of
that truth she had uttered long before : —

" How will this grieve you
When you shall come to clearer knowledge that
You thus have published me ? Gentle my lord,
You scarce can right me throughly then to say
You did mistake me."

The calm and complete comprehension of the fact is a possession painful yet precious
to Hermione, and it lifts her above all vulgar confusion of heart or temper, and above
all unjust resentment.

Imogen, who is the reverse ot grave and massive in character, but who has an exquisite
vivacity of feeling and of fancy, and a heart pure, quick, and ardent, passes from the
swoon of her sudden anguish to a mood of bright and keen resentment, which is free
from every trace of vindictive passion, and is indeed only pain disguised. And in like
manner she forgives, not with self-possession, and a broad, tranquil joy in the accom-
plished fact, but through a pure ardour, an exquisite eagerness of love and of delight.

THE WINTER'S TALE.

273

Prospero's forgiveness is solemn, judicial, and has in it something abstract and impersonal
He cannot wrong his own higher nature, he cannot wrong the nobler reason, by cherish-
ing so unworthy a passion as the desire of vengeance. Sebastian and Antonio, from
whose conscience no remorse has been elicited, are met by no comfortable pardon. They
have received their lesson of failure and of pain, and may possibly be convinced of the
good sense and prudence of honourable dealing, even if they cannot perceive its moral
obligation. Alonzo, who is repentant, is solemnly pardoned. The forgiveness of
Prospero is an embodiment of impartial wisdom and loving justice.

Edward Dowden. — Shakspere, his Mind and Art (1S7 5), pp. 405 — 413.

"STRATFORD WILL HELP YOU TO UNDERSTAND
SHAKESPEARE."

Go to Stratford-upon-Avon, and see the town where Shakespeare was born, and bred, and
died ; the country over which he wandered and played when a boy, whose beauties and
whose lore, as a man, he put into his plays. Go either in spring, in April, "when the
greatest poet was born in Nature's sweetest time," and let Mr. "Wise (Shakspere : his
Birthplace and its Neighbourhood, pp. 44, 58, &c. &c.) tell you -how " everything is full of
beauty " that you'll see ; or go in full summer, as I did one afternoon in July this year.
See first the little low room where tradition says Shakespeare was born, though his father
did not buy the house till eleven years after his birth ; 1 look at the foundations of " New
Place," walk on the site of Shakespeare's house, in the garden whose soil he must often
have trod, thinking of his boyhood and hasty marriage, of London, with its trials and
triumphs, and the wonders he has created for its delight ; follow his body, past the
school where he had learnt, to its grave in the Avon-side church ringed with elms ; see
the worn slab that covers his bones, with wife's and daughter's beside ; look up at the
bust which figures the case of the brain and heart that have so enricht the world, which
shows you more truly than anything else what Shakespeare was like in the flesh ; try to see
in those hazel eyes, those death-drawn lips, 2 those ruddy cheeks, the light, the merriment,

1 He may have rented it before, but I expect
that the former house, in Henley Street, in which
John Shakespeare dwelt, would have a better claim
to be the " birthplace," if it were now known.

2 We may mention— on the authority of Mr.
Butcher, the very courteous clerk of Stratford
Church, who saw the examination made — that
two years ago Mr. Story, the great American
sculptor, when at Stratford, made a very careful
examination of Shakespeare's bust from a raised
scaffolding, and came to the conclusion that the

face of the bust was modelled from a death-mask.
The lower part of the face was very death-like ;
the upper lip elongated and drawn up from the
lower one by the shrinking of the nostrils — the
first part of the face to "go" after death ; the
eyebrows were neither of the same length nor on
the same level ; the depth from the eye to the
ear was extraordinary ; the cheeks were of dif-
ferent shapes, the left one being the more promi-
nent at top. On the whole, Mr. Story felt certain
of the bust being made from a death-mask.

N N

274 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

the tenderness, the wisdom, and love that once was theirs ; walk by the full and quiet
Avon's side, where the swan sails gently, by .which the cattle feed; ask yourself what word
sums up your feelings on these scenes : and answer, with me, " Peace ! "

Next morning, walk up the Welcombe road, across the old common lands whose
inclosing Shakespeare said " he was not able to bear : " when up Rowley Bank, turn
round ; see the town nestle under its circling hills, shut in on the left by its green wall
of trees. The corn is golden beside you. Meon Hill meets the sky in your front ; its
shoulder slants sharply to the spire of the church where Shakespeare's dust lies : away on
the right is Broadway, lit with the sun ; below it the ridge of Roomer Hill, yellow for
harvest on the right, passing leftwards into a dark belt of trees to the church, their
hollows filled with blue haze. In this nest is Shakespeare's town. After gazing your fill
on the fair scene before you, walk to the boat-place, paddle out for the best view of the
elm-framed church, then by its river-bordered side to the stream below ; get a beautiful
view of the tower through a vista of trees beyond the low waterfall ; then pass by cattle
half-knee deep in the shallows, sluggishly whisking their tails, happily chewing the cud ;
go under Wire-Brake bank, whose trees droop down to the river, whose wood-pigeons
greet you with coos ; past many groups of grey willows., with showers of wild roses
between ; feathery reeds rise beside you, birds twitter about, the sky is blue overhead,
your boat glides smoothly down stream : you feel the sweet content with which Shake-
speare must have lookt on the scene. Later you wander to Shottery, to Ann Hathaway's
cottage, where perchance in hot youth the poet made love. Then you ride through
Charlecote's tall-elm'd park, and see the deer, whose ancestors he may have stolen ; on
to Warwick with its castle rising grandly from Avon bank ; back to Stratford, with a
glorious view from the hill on the left in your homeward ride. Evening comes : you
stroll again by the riverside, through groups of townsfolk pleasant to see, in well-to-do
Sunday dress. From Cross-6'-th'-Hill you look at the fine view of church and town,
backt by the Welcombe Hills ; through Wire Brake, and ripe corn, you walk to the
bridge that brings you to the opposite level bank of the stream. Then you lie down,
chatting of Shakespeare to your friend, while lovers in pairs pass lingeringly by, and the
twilight comes. Then again you say that the peace of the place was fit for Shakespeare's
end, and that the memory of its quiet beauty will never away from your mind.

Yes, Stratford will help you to understand Shakespeare.

F. J. Furnivall. — The Succession of Shakespeare's Works {Introduction to
Gervinus's Commentaries, ed. 1875), pp. xlvii. — xlviii.

THE WINTER'S TALE. 275

WORTH OF SHAKESPEARE TO THE ENGLISH NATION.

Well, this is our poor Warwickshire Peasant who rose to be Manager of a Playhouse,
so that he could live without begging ; whom the Earl of Southampton cast some kind
glances on ; whom Sir Thomas Lucy, many thanks to him, was for sending to the
treadmill ! We did not account him a god like Odin, while he dwelt with us ; — on
which point there were much to be said. But I will say rather, or repeat : In spite
of the sad state Hero-worship now lies in, consider what this Shakespeare has actually
become among us. Which Englishman we ever made, in this land of ours, which
million of Englishmen, would we not give up rather than the Stratford Peasant ? There
is no regiment of highest dignitaries that we would sell him for. He is the grandest
thing we have yet done. For our honour among- foreign nations, as an ornament to
our English household, what item is there that we would not surrender rather than
him ? Consider now, if they asked us : Will you give up your Indian Empire or your
Shakespeare, you English ; never have had any Indian Empire, or never have had any
Shakespeare ? Really it were a grave question. Official persons would answer doubt-
less in official language; but we,*for our part too, should not we be forced to answer:
Indian Empire or no Indian Empire ; we cannot do without our Shakespeare : Indian
Empire will go, at any rate, some day ; but this Shakespeare does not go, he lasts for ever
with us ; we cannot give up our Shakespeare.

Nay, apart from spiritualities ; and considering him merely as a real marketable,
tangibly-useful possession. England, before long, this Island of ours, will hold but a
small fraction of the English ; in America, in New Holland, east and west to the very
Antipodes, there will be a Saxondom covering great spaces of the globe. And now,
what is it that can keep all these together into virtually one Nation, so that they do not
fall out and fight, but live at peace, in brotherlike intercourse, helping one another ?
This is justly regarded as the greatest practical problem, the thing all manner of
sovereignties and governments are here to accomplish : what is it that will accomplish
this? Act of Parliament, administrative prime ministers cannot. America is parted
from us, so far as Parliament could part it. Call it not fantastic, for there is much reality
in it : Here, I say, is an English king, whom no time or chance, Parliament or combina-
tion of Parliaments, can dethrone ! This king, Shakespeare, does not he shine, in crowned
sovereignty over us all, as the noblest, gentlest, yet strongest of rallying signs ; inde-
structible ; really more valuable in that point of view than any other means or appliance
whatsoever ? We can fancy him as radiant aloft over all the nations of Englishmen, a
thousand years hence. From Paramatta, from New York, wheresoever, under what sort
of Parish-Constable soever, English men and women are, they will say to one another :

276 SHAKESPEARIAN GALLERY.

" Yes, this Shakespeare is ours ; we produced him, we speak and think by him ; we are of
one blood and kind with him." The most common-sense politician, too, if he pleases
may think of that.

Yes, truly, it is a great thing for a nation that it get an articulate voice ; that it produce
a man who will speak forth melodiously what the heart of it means. Italy, for example,
poor Italy lies dismembered, scattered asunder, not appearing in any protocol or treaty as
a unity at all ; yet the noble Italy is actually one : Italy produced its Dante ; Italy can
speak ! The Czar of all the Russias, he is strong, with so many bayonets, Cossacks, and
cannons ; and does a great feat in keeping such a tract of earth politically together; but
he cannot yet speak. Something great in him, but it is a dumb greatn ess. He has had
no voice of genius to be heard of all men and times. He must learn to speak. He is
a great dumb monster hitherto. His cannons and Cossacks will all have rusted into non-
entity, while that Dante's voice is still audible. The Nation that has a Dante is bound
together as no dumb Russia can be. — We must here end what we had to say of the
Hero-Poet.

Thomas Carlyle. — Lectures on Heroes. Lecture III. : The Hero as Poet.

R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS, BREAD STREET HILL.

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