SHAKESPEARE'S 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL POEMS, 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 BEING 
 
 HIS SONNETS CLEARLY DEVELOPED 
 
 WITH 
 
 HIS CHARACTER 
 
 DRAWN CHIEFLY FROM HIS WORKS. 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES ARMITAGE BROWN. 
 
 " With thisltey, simple as it may appear, every difficulty is unlocked, and 
 we have nothing but pare uir'ni-eivuptea biography."- Page^Q. 
 
 LONDON : 
 JAMES BOHN, 12, KING WILLIAM STREET, 
 
 WEST STRAND. 
 
 OF THE 
 
 '1VERSITY 
 
 OF 
 
LONDON: PRINTED BY c. RICHARDS, ST. MARTIN'S LANE. 
 
TO 
 
 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR, ESQ. 
 
 MY DEAR SIR, 
 
 To you I first communicated 
 at Florence my explanation of Shakespeare's 
 SONNETS. The interest you felt, and your 
 desire that I should publish the discovery, 
 have induced me, though after a lapse of 
 ten years, to enter on the serious, and, 
 perhaps, unpardonable task, of solving a 
 literary difficulty. 
 
 When a silent man once begins to speak, 
 he is sometimes apt to make up for lost 
 time. You will see that I talk of many 
 matters besides the SONNETS ; for which 
 the late discoveries of Mr. Collier are 
 partly accountable ; but chiefly I have been 
 
 178289 
 
VI 
 
 incited by an earnest wish to raise the 
 ungracious veil that has so long obscured 
 the fame of our grand poet and philosopher. 
 
 The ablest critic must be the kindliest ; 
 otherwise I should fear to lay this volume 
 before you, lest you should feel compelled 
 to express an equally public dissent from 
 some parts of my observations. 
 
 While writers of seeming novelties gain 
 popularity in spite of a slovenly and vitiated 
 style, let me congratulate you on having 
 enforced the attention of our countrymen 
 by original thought, clothed in pure and 
 expressive English. 
 
 May you long continue to delight and 
 instruct us, nursing our best impulses into 
 active virtues ! 
 
 I remain, ever, 
 
 Your sincere friend, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 INTRODUCTION - 1 
 
 His YOUTH IN WARWICKSHIRE - 7 
 
 His LIFE FROM 1585 TO 1600 - 26 
 
 His SONNETS - 38 
 
 FIRST POEM, to his friend, persuading him to marry 50 
 
 SECOND POEM, to his friend, who had robbed the poet 
 
 of his mistress, forgiving him - 62 
 
 THIRD POEM, to his friend, complaining of his cold- 
 ness, and warning him of life's decay - 72 
 
 FOURTH POEM, to his friend, complaining that he 
 prefers another poet's praises, and reproving him 
 
 for faults that may injure his character - 79 
 
 FIFTH POEM, to his friend, excusing himself for 
 having been some time silent, and disclaiming the 
 
 charge of inconstancy - 85 
 
 SIXTH POEM, to his mistress, on her infidelity - 96 
 
 DID HE VISIT ITALY ? - 100 
 
 His LIFE FROM 1600 TO 1616 - 119 
 
 His LEARNING - 122 
 
 His KNOWLEDGE - - 145 
 
 His DRAMATIC KNOWLEDGE AND ART - - 156 
 
 HE NEVER WAS A FLATTERER - 183 
 
 His LOVE OF FAME . - - - - 195 
 
 His MORAL CHARACTER - 200 
 
 His DRAMAS - - 225 
 
 Two GENTLEMEN OF VERONA - 230 
 
 HENRY THE SIXTH, first part - 240 
 
 PERICLES ------ 241 
 
HENRY THE SIXTH, second and third parts - - 244 
 
 ROMEO AND JULIET - . 246 
 
 LOVE'S LABOUR LOST - - 249 
 
 HAMLET - - 254 
 
 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL - - - 258 
 
 WINTER'S TALE - - - 266 
 
 MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM - - 268 
 
 RICHARD THE SECOND - - 270 
 
 RICHARD THE THIRD - 270 
 
 JOHN - - 272 
 
 COMEDY OF ERRORS - - 272 
 
 HENRY THE FOURTH, first and second parts - 273 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE - 275 
 
 HENRY THE FIFTH - 283 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING - 283 
 
 As You LIKE IT - - - - 283 
 
 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR - 284 
 
 TROILUS AND CRESSIDA - - 284 
 
 MEASURE FOR MEASURE - - 290 
 
 CYMBELINE - 291 
 
 LEAR - 291 
 
 TAMING OF THE SHREW - . 296 
 
 MACBETH - - 297 
 
 TIMON OF ATHENS - - 299 
 
 JULIUS C^SAR - 300 
 
 ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA -^ - 300 
 
 CORIOLANUS - 300 
 
 THE TEMPEST - 300 
 
 OTHELLO - - 301 
 
 HENRY THE EIGHTH - 302 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT - - 303 
 
 CONCLUSION ------ 304 
 
M1VER5 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 WHATEVER we can glean respecting Shakespeare, 
 such are the common assertions, is scanty and 
 apocryphal. A plausible speculation on his character 
 may, therefore, gain attention, while a well-founded 
 one must be interesting. My title-page, as far as his 
 Sonnets are concerned, promises more. Each suc- 
 ceeding biographer has expressed his astonishment 
 that little or no information has been bequeathed to 
 us by his contemporaries and immediate followers ; 
 but not one has remarked that the domestic lives of 
 the greatest men of that time, and for a long time 
 after, were alike neglected. Doubtless, or they would 
 have been recorded, the unromantic events of a great 
 man's life were regarded as uninteresting. Memoirs 
 were not then in fashion. An author was permitted 
 to remain concealed as much as he chose : that is, 
 no one spoke of him to the public apart from his 
 works ; and if his works explained nothing of his 
 personal character, nothing was said of it. This 
 fashion has long since changed ; but we should not 
 reprove our forefathers for neglecting the biography 
 
2 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 of any individual, however illustrious; nor should we 
 imagine, from their silence, that such an individual 
 was not held in great fame among them. They could 
 not be aware of our modern taste ; and, if they had 
 been, they, as authors, were hardly to be expected to 
 write for readers a century or two in advance. They 
 seem to have considered it enough for the public to 
 form to themselves a general opinion of an author, 
 as a man, from the tenour of his works. 
 
 Shakespeare's readers, it is true, distinct from the 
 magic of his genius, see nothing, throughout his 
 works, but love and charity towards all mankind, the 
 vicious alone excepted ; and even these last excite our 
 compassion, either in their want of knowledge or of 
 natural capacity, or in the consequences of some over- 
 whelming passion. He never afflicts us by too high, 
 or by too low an estimate of human nature ; for 
 either is afflicting. Acting up to his own text, he sees 
 "good in every thing," without shutting his eyes to 
 the evil. " The web of our life," he tells us, " is of a 
 mingled yarn, good and ill together : our virtues would 
 be proud, if our faults whipped them not; and our 
 crimes would despair, if they were not cherished by 
 our virtues." This constant, undeviating, kind philo- 
 sophy towards his fellow-creatures, and towards every 
 thing belonging to the great Creator, is so impressed 
 on our minds, that, relying on the honesty of his lan- 
 guage, we have indeed more than an opinion, an 
 assurance, that he wrote not from factitious feelings, 
 but from the impulse of goodness. In this view we 
 have his character made out fully and satisfactorily, 
 superadding, as we needs must, those valuable 
 
INTRODUCTION. 3 
 
 qualities, the inseparable attendants on so pure a philo- 
 sophy, qualities which, happily, are confirmed by 
 the little his contemporaries have accidentally, as it 
 were, said of him. 
 
 Yet, with all this, his true lovers cannot, and ought 
 not to be content. In their love they would know 
 all about him ; they would see him face to face, hear 
 him speak, be in his companionship, live with him 
 altogether. Wishes are boundless, but, when absurd, 
 they quickly vanish ; while, in an humbler and more 
 reasonable strain, we sigh for the discovery of some 
 well-authenticated, genuine anecdotes; a diary, kept 
 by some Boswell companion, for instance, would be 
 worth a million times its weight in gold. In the 
 absence of so vast a treasure, let us, aided by the pre- 
 vious researches of others, strictly examine into his 
 own writings, and endeavour to elicit something that 
 may throw a light on the circumstances of his life, or 
 his opinions, or his disposition. 
 
 At first sight, this task may be condemned as hope- 
 less. Poets, though not essentially dramatic, are 
 rarely to be relied on even when they seemingly pro- 
 fess to describe their own sentiments. They may 
 choose rather to tell the world what they ought to be, 
 than what they are ; like Thomson, in his Seasons, 
 expatiating on the happiness, the delight, the necessity 
 of rural exercise, swimming, and early rising, calling 
 out, 
 
 " Falsely luxurious I will not man awake ?" 
 
 while he himself was a sluggard in bed, and worse up, 
 a willing captive in his own Castle of Indolence. 
 
 B2 
 
4 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Who could believe, from the Night Thoughts, that 
 Young was a flattering, slavish courtier ? yet, were 
 his biographers silent, the dedications for above these 
 hundred years kindly suppressed give melancholy 
 proof of it. On the other hand, Cowper and Burns, 
 contrasts in all but sincerity, may be brought forward 
 as evidences that it is possible for poets, and poets of 
 a high order, to write nothing in discordance, as far 
 as we are enabled to judge, with their lives. But 
 dramatic writers, however honest they may be, are 
 necessarily less transparent; since they profess to 
 clothe, in language foreign to their own nature, the 
 varied characters brought upon the scene ; and the 
 more truly the characters are drawn, unless the poet 
 should, in a single instance, paint from himself, the 
 more dissimilar they must be from himself. This is 
 particularly the case with our great poet, of whom 
 Pope, scarcely with exaggeration, says, " Throughout 
 his plays, had all the speeches been printed without 
 the very names of the persons, I believe one might 
 have applied them with certainty to every speaker." 
 
 Still, let it be borne in mind, the dramatic writers 
 of Elizabeth's age were not like our tragic writers of 
 the last century. The latter, imitators of the French 
 school, were so utterly of the same stamp, so starched 
 up in the same buckram, and so imbued with the 
 same parts of speech, that one mind, if mind it may 
 be called, might have produced the entire progeny ; 
 while the former, free and vigorous, original in 
 thought, and without cold models of expression to 
 mislead them, bore each in himself his own identity ; 
 so that an intimate reader may generally distinguish 
 
INTRODUCTION. 5 
 
 from each other the works of Shakespeare, Marlow, 
 Ben Jonson, Webster, Decker, Massinger, and Beau- 
 mont and Fletcher, without the aid of the title-page. 
 
 Distinct as these authors stand, a portion of their 
 several characters may undoubtedly be discovered in 
 their works. I have already mentioned the general 
 opinion we form of Shakespeare's character, on which 
 it is my purpose to dwell ; and other points of parti- 
 cular import may be revealed by directing our remarks 
 to the selection or invention of his fables, or of the 
 persons of his dramas, the bias of his mind in the 
 management of them, his recurrence to certain 
 opinions, or to his apparent likings or dislikings; 
 always keeping in view the manners of the age, so as 
 to deduce, if less than conviction, more than a vague 
 idea, and more than we have hitherto entertained 
 respecting him. For myself, in addition to some 
 general deductions, I intend to bring forward internal 
 evidence from his later plays, in proof of his having 
 visited Italy, so as possibly to make the disbelief of his 
 having been there far more difficult than the belief. 
 
 But he was not solely a dramatist. He has left us 
 a volume of poems, among which are numerous 
 Sonnets, wholly descriptive of events which had oc- 
 curred to him, and of his feelings attendant on them. 
 Schlegel, about twenty years ago, directed our parti- 
 cular attention to them, surprised at our neglect, 
 and assured that, by competent diligence, something 
 of Shakespeare's life might be revealed, or, at any rate, 
 be illustrated by them. Since that time few have 
 attempted to unfold their meaning ; none with success. 
 
 Previously to entering on any part of this subject, 
 
6 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 it is necessary to examine the accounts we have 
 received of the early life of our poet. In order to 
 form an estimate of his character, we ought to be ac- 
 quainted with the situation in which he was placed ; 
 if not satisfactorily, still let us be acquainted with it as 
 nearly as possible. 
 
HIS YOUTH IN WARWICKSHIRE. 
 
 HE was born at Stratford-upon-Avon, in April, 
 1564. His father was John Shakespeare. His 
 mother's maiden name was Mary Arden. She pos- 
 sessed a small property in land. William was the 
 eldest son of six children. Howe, his first biographer, 
 states, " His family, as appears by the register and 
 public writings relating to the town, were of good 
 figure and fashion there, and are mentioned as gen- 
 tlemen." This idle assertion has given rise to much 
 idle research and disquisition. It is certain, John 
 Shakespeare, his father, had been Bailiff of the Town 
 Corporation ; and he was a dealer in wool, or a glover, 
 or both by turns. " Up to the period of 1574," we 
 are informed by Dr. Drake, " Shakespeare's father 
 might be considered as a man of property, being pos- 
 sessed of two houses and some land, beside personal 
 property ; but he shortly afterwards fell into a state of 
 poverty." In 1578 the mother's landed property was 
 mortgaged for forty pounds ; and the father, in that 
 same year, was exempted, on account of his necessities, 
 from paying his share of the poor-rate. 
 
8 HIS YOUTH 
 
 Here we have dates and facts whereon to rest ; by 
 which it appears, that, at the age of fourteen, our 
 William Shakespeare was the eldest son of a large and 
 an extremely impoverished family. 
 
 It is agreed on all hands, that he was educated at 
 the grammar-school of his native town; and it is 
 reasonable to believe that he was benefited there 
 with a foundation for classical study. We are told, 
 indeed, by Aubrey, (no good authority, I acknow- 
 ledge, besides his being born ten years after the poet's 
 death) that "he understood Latin pretty well ; for he 
 had been, in his younger years, a schoolmaster in the 
 country." Dr. Farmer treats Aubrey's tradition with 
 contempt, arguing, that Shakespeare, having married 
 before he was eighteen, and quitted the country, for 
 London, three years afterwards, had not time to act 
 as schoolmaster. Why not? there was plenty of 
 time, married or unmarried, before he was one-and- 
 twenty, for the purpose, even if he did quit the 
 country so early. Why should we not imagine he 
 was, at the age of fifteen or sixteen, an assistant in 
 that very grammar-school ? Such an employment of 
 the eldest boy in a grammar-school, of one who has 
 evinced ability, together with a desire of still improv- 
 ing his education, is not, and never could have been, 
 uncommon. A more solid objection to Aubrey's 
 story may be discovered in the improbability of any 
 pecuniary recompense being given to so young an 
 assistant at the school, while the family must have 
 stood in need of his exertions. We certainly know 
 nothing of the employment of his time while he was 
 a lad nothing on which we can rely ; yet we cannot 
 
IN WARWICKSHIRE. 9 
 
 doubt, under the circumstances, but that his time was 
 spent profitably. 
 
 Taking into consideration the urgent want of bread 
 at home, it is not credible that the eldest son of a 
 numerous family should not employ himself, or be 
 employed, soon after he was fourteen, in earning 
 something towards the maintenance of his brothers 
 and sisters, or, at least, for himself. It is not credible, 
 even if the lad had been unfeeling and worthless ; 
 because, in that case, the father would have justly 
 handed him over to some forced employment, so that 
 he might not continue a burthen on the rest. But 
 tradition has not brought to us a single anecdote of 
 his youth in the country, except that of his having 
 been a deer-stealer ; and that has been amply refuted 
 by Mai one, as far as Sir Thomas Lucy's deer were 
 concerned. 
 
 An important question, both on its own account, 
 and as it involves others, inevitably suggests itself, 
 of what nature was his occupation ? It appears to 
 me, that, without straining facts, without injuring 
 probability in the slightest degree, a satisfactory 
 answer can be given ; one, indeed, which has already 
 obtained credence, and which it shall be my endea- 
 vour to support. 
 
 In the first place, we may reasonably suppose that 
 his occupation was of a more lucrative nature than it 
 could have been in his father's ruined trade, or in 
 any common drudgery. An education at a grammar- 
 school placed him above many of his fellow boys in 
 the town ; for perhaps it is not too much to imagine 
 that not one in ten of the entire population could 
 
 B3 
 
10 HIS YOUTH 
 
 read and write ; his father, who had served as bailiff, 
 was not able to write his own name. There is also 
 tolerable proof that the boy had obtained a prosperous 
 situation, in the fact of his having married Anne 
 Hathaway, a fanner's daughter in the neighbourhood, 
 when he was only eighteen. That she had property 
 of her own, at the time of her marriage, is probable ; 
 but it is highly improbable that she possessed enough 
 for herself, her husband, and the children they must 
 naturally have expected. Imprudent youthful mar- 
 riages are frequent ; but we never find that a youth, 
 who takes a wife without fair hopes of maintaining 
 her and hers, will be remarkable for prudence after- 
 wards ; while Shakespeare was, in all good husbandry, 
 not only superior to his brother poets, but to most 
 men. Unless, therefore, we presume he was different, 
 in all respects, from other human beings, we must 
 come to the conclusion that he was in some way em- 
 ployed, so as to be able to earn a decent livelihood. 
 
 Malone first furnished us with a passage from 
 Nashe, though he put no faith in it himself, showing 
 that he had been a lawyer's clerk, a noverint ; so 
 called, from the first word of a Latin deed of those 
 times, equivalent to our modern commencement of 
 Know all men, &c. From the internal evidence of 
 his works alone, Chalmers formed an opinion that he 
 had been a lawyer's clerk ; and the first of our critics, 
 in Imaginary Conversations, has, in a delightful 
 fiction, treated it as a certainty. 
 
 The early life of any one, if his character is to be 
 particularly canvassed, is more important than a series 
 of facts drawn from the history of his manhood. A 
 
IN WARWICKSHIRE. 11 
 
 youth's employment, voluntary or compelled, is cer- 
 tain of leaving an indelible hue on his nature, how- 
 ever distinct his after pursuits may become. Strongly 
 impressed with this fact, I proceed to explain and 
 corroborate the information afforded us by Malone. 
 
 Malone has given us, without believing in its 
 application to Shakespeare, the following passage from 
 An Epistle to the Gentlemen Students of the two 
 Universities, by Thomas Nashe, prefixed to Robert 
 Greene's Arcadia, the first edition of which is dated 
 1589 : " I will turn back to my first text of studies 
 of delight, and talk a little in friendship with a few of 
 our trivial translators. It is a common practice now- 
 a-days, among a sort of shifting companions, that 
 runne through every art, and thrive by none, to leave 
 the trade of noverint, whereto they were born, and 
 busie themselves with the endeavours of art, that 
 could scarcely Latinize their neck-verse, if they 
 should have need ; yet English Seneca, read by 
 candle-light, yeelds many good sentences, as blood is 
 a beggar,* and so forth : and if you intreat him fair, 
 in a frosty morning, he will affoord you whole 
 
 * Might not these very words, or something similar, have been 
 in the original sketch of Hamlet P Or might not Nashe have 
 quoted a phrase from the translation of Seneca, in allusion to 
 such passages as the following, in the fourth act ? 
 
 " Your fat king, and your lean beggar, is but variable service." 
 " To show you how a king may go a progress through the guts of a beggar." 
 
 I regret that it has been out of my power to obtain a sight of 
 Seneca, his Tenne Tragedies, London, 1581 ; in order to discover 
 if it contains " blood is a beggar," or any proof of its having 
 been read by Shakespeare. 
 
12 HIS YOUTH 
 
 hamlets ; I should say, handfuls of tragical speeches. 
 But, O grief! Tempos edax rerum, what is that 
 will last always ? The sea, exhaled by drops, will, in 
 continuance, be drie ; and Seneca, let bloud line by 
 line, and page by page, at length must needs die to 
 our stage." 
 
 The word Hamlets, according to Dr. Farmer, was 
 thus distinguished by italics in the original edition ; of 
 this Malone was not aware. Such punning allusions 
 were frequent. The passage is in the same taste, and in 
 the same spirit of jealousy, as that by Greene himself, 
 to whose Arcadia, that of Nashe was prefixed, 
 wherein he called Shakespeare " an upstart crow ;" 
 " one who supposes he is as well able to bombast out 
 a blank verse as the best of you !" " in his own 
 conceit the only shake-scene in the country." Surely 
 the evidence is as strong in one case as in the other. 
 No one doubts of Greene's allusion, with or without 
 italics ; nor can I agree with Malone, that " the 
 phrase Hamlets is certainly intelligible without sup- 
 posing an allusion to the play." There is but one 
 objection of seeming weight, which is, that Hamlet 
 must have been played as early as 1589. It has 
 always struck me that the chronologers of his plays 
 have fixed too late a period for the appearance of the 
 first in 1591, for which there is no authority. Malone, 
 Chalmers, and Dr. Drake, place the first performance 
 of Hamlet in 1596 or 7, on very uncertain grounds. 
 That it was, in its present state, an early work, can 
 hardly be conceived; but it was first brought forward 
 as a mere sketch, compared with its after appearance, 
 Is it at all unlikely that the first sketch was popular, 
 
IN WARWICKSHIRE. 13 
 
 and written when Shakespeare was four-and-twenty ? 
 " The piece, however," says Malone, speaking of 
 Hamlet^ " which was then (first) exhibited, was 
 probably but a rude sketch of that which we now 
 possess ; for, from the title-page of the first edition, 
 in 1604, we learn, that (like Romeo and Juliet, and 
 The Merry Wives of Windsor) it had been enlarged 
 to almost twice its original size." 
 
 That which at once establishes the passage as 
 being aimed at Shakespeare, and proves he had 
 been a lawyer's clerk, is to be found in his works. 
 Law phrases are strangely numerous there, as no- 
 ticed by Malone and Chalmers. Of course they 
 are more observable, according to the subject, in 
 some plays than in others. But what is most to the 
 purpose, lest it should be said they were acquired in 
 London, is to show that in his earliest works, his 
 poems, his mind was astonishingly haunted by pro- 
 fessional terms ; the verses continually offering meta- 
 phors and illustrations, picked up from the desk of 
 a lawyer. I shall quote the most remarkable lines 
 out of many that I have marked, nor did I seek for 
 them attentively when I marked them. Besides 
 which, I took no notice of his constant references to 
 " debts," " loans," " quittance," and similar phrases 
 of an accountant, though they might be ranked 
 among a country lawyer's terms. Altogether, they 
 swarm in his poems, even to deformity. To begin 
 with some from Venus and Adonis, the subject 
 was surely no temptation to them. 
 
 " Being judge in love, she cannot right her cause." 
 
14 HIS YOUTH 
 
 " But when the heart's attorney once is mute, 
 The client breaks, as desperate in his suit." 
 
 " Her eyes petitioners to his eyes suing." 
 
 '' But when he saw his love, his youth's fair fee." 
 
 " Which purchase if thou make, for fear of slips, 
 Set thy seal-manual on my wax-red lips." 
 
 " Say for non-payment that the debt should double." 
 
 " The honey-fee of parting tender'd is." 
 
 " Her pleading hath deserv'd a greater fee." 
 
 " Thou art the next of blood, and 'tis thy right." 
 
 Let us now turn to the Rape of Lucrece. 
 
 " An expired date cancell'd ere well begun." 
 " All orators are dumb when beauty pleadeth." 
 " Pleads in a wilderness, where are no laws." 
 " End thy ill aim before thy suit be ended." 
 " I sue for exiled majesty's repeal." 
 " Dim register ! and notary of shame ! " 
 
 " When wilt thou be the humble suppliant's friend, 
 And bring him where thy suit may be obtained?" 
 
 " For me I force not argument a straw, 
 Since that my case is past the help of law." 
 
 " This brief abridgement of my will I make." 
 " No rightful plea might plead for justice there." 
 " Hath served a dumb arrest upon his tongue." 
 
 The subjects of these two poems are most adverse 
 to such phraseology ; but in the Sonnets, where the 
 
IN WARWICKSHIRE. 15 
 
 poet speaks in his own person, describing his own 
 feelings, the following instances might perhaps be 
 trebled. 
 
 " But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes." 
 " Proving his beauty by succession thine." 
 u What acceptable audit canst thou leave ?" 
 
 " That use is not forbidden usury, 
 Which happies those that make the willing loan." 
 
 " Ah ! if thou issueless shalt hap to die." 
 
 " So should that beauty which you hold in lease." 
 
 " And summer's lease hath all too short a date." 
 
 " When to the sessions of sweet silent thought, 
 I summon up remembrance of things past." 
 
 " Thy adverse party is thy advocate." 
 
 " And 'gainst thyself a lawful plea commence." 
 
 " Call'd to that audit by advised respects." 
 
 " To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws, 
 Since, why to love, I can allege no cause." 
 
 " But be contented ; when that fell arrest, 
 Without all bail, shall carry me away." 
 
 " The barren tender of a poet's debt." 
 
 " The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing." 
 
 " So thy great gift, upon misprision growing." 
 
 "Of faults conceal'd wherein I am attainted." 
 
 " Which works on leases of short-number'd hours." 
 
 " And I myself am mortgaged in thy will." 
 
 " He learnt, but surety-like, to write for me." 
 
16 HIS YOUTH 
 
 " Why so large cost, having so short a lease ?" 
 
 " My heart doth plead, that thou in him dost lie, 
 (A closet never pierced with crystal eyes,) 
 But the defendant doth that plea deny, 
 And says in him thy fair appearance lies. 
 To 'cide this title is impannelled 
 A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart ; 
 And by their verdict is determined 
 The clear eye's moiety." 
 
 After reading such lines in the poems of a young 
 man, if critics should hesitate at coming to the con- 
 clusion that he had been employed in the office of a 
 lawyer, unless the lines bore the sfemblance of being 
 imitatively and not spontaneously written, my faith in 
 all internal evidence will be shaken. But, believing 
 that none will differ from me in this point, I as- 
 sume that Shakespeare, while in the country, was in 
 such an office. Thus the above quotations, the one 
 from Nashe, as aimed at Shakespeare, and the deduc- 
 tion from the lines extracted, prove each the other. 
 Now, relying on the settlement of the question res- 
 pecting the purpose of Nashe, and that he, which is 
 highly probable, wrote on good information, since 
 his design was to identify his object by known facts, 
 we arrive at two circumstances in the life of our poet, 
 which are valuable : 
 
 First, Hamlet, in its original state, however crude, 
 was brought on the stage with applause sufficient to 
 excite envy against the author, when he was about 
 four-and-twenty. This will be found important in 
 the second period of his life. 
 
 Second, Shakespeare, while in a lawyer's office, 
 
IN WARWICKSHIRE. 17 
 
 " busied himself in the endeavours of art," " by can- 
 dle light," in giving being to his dramatic powers, 
 assisted by an " English Seneca." A translation of 
 Seneca was published in 1581; that is, when he 
 was seventeen. Such an account, describing his 
 young efforts at fame, his industry at a period of life 
 not often voluntarily industrious, and the means he 
 pursued for the developement of his mind, is most 
 interesting, and congenial to my view of his character. 
 The ordinary knowledge, possessed by every one, 
 of human nature, has always appeared to me baffled 
 and contradicted by the early life, as it has been 
 given to us, of Shakespeare. It is in vain to say his 
 extraordinary powers must be at variance with all 
 ordinary knowledge. Though gifted far beyond us, 
 he was a human being formed like ourselves, subject 
 to the same feelings and passions, for good and for 
 evil, or he could not have described ours so accurately 
 and intensely ; and he was excited to exertion by the 
 love of fame, or by necessity, like others, with facul- 
 ties, which, similiar to his own corporeal being, must 
 have been infantine before they grew into a giant's 
 strength. Those faculties also must have been aptly 
 exercised while he was young, or they could not have 
 become so wonderfully strong. As soon could I be- 
 lieve that his body grew in one day from puling 
 childhood to healthy manhood, or without the benefit 
 of exercise, as that his mind lay dormant, (so we are 
 told, with the exception of a paltry ballad, which I 
 consider spurious, on Sir Thomas Lucy) till he had 
 been some years in London, when his genius burst 
 forth in a sudden blaze. The nearer we judge of 
 
18 HIS YOUTH 
 
 him as a fellow being, the more likely are we to form 
 a correct judgment of him, and the greater honour 
 will be paid to his memory. Instead of regarding 
 him as a young idle vagabond, for such has ever been 
 the implication, one who heeded not self-improve- 
 ment, one who did nothing to benefit himself, but 
 on whom nature, unnaturally bounteous, bestowed 
 unsought the choicest gifts that ever mortal owned ; 
 instead of these unphilosophical, inconceivable notions, 
 let us feel disposed to believe, and we may readily 
 believe, he was industrious, prudent, earnest, grasping 
 from his boyhood at all knowledge within his reach, 
 and feeding his mind into vigour by exertion, while 
 he strove to imitate his " English Seneca," or while 
 he wrote his Venus and Adonis. 
 
 This poem, dedicated to the Earl of Southampton 
 in 1593, and specially designated by him, " the first 
 heir of my invention," I suppose to have been written, 
 together with the Rape of Lucrece^ at Stratford. The 
 expressions in the dedication, " if your honour seem 
 but pleased, I can account myself highly praised, and 
 vow to take advantage of all idle hours, till I have 
 honoured you with some graver labour ;" and " if the 
 first heir of my invention prove deformed, I shall be 
 sorry it had so noble a godfather, and never after ear so 
 barren a land for fear it yield me still so bad a harvest ;" 
 these are not necessarily to be understood as relating 
 to works for the stage, but rather to poems, of higher 
 estimation in those days, for private reading. There 
 is no direct authority, whereon I can ground the sup- 
 position that these two poems were written before 
 his arrival in London ; it rests solely on likelihood, 
 
IN WARWICKSHIRE. 19 
 
 which may not influence another, nor is it absolutely 
 requisite that it should. Still one who, however 
 much he has read, has studied nothing but Shakespeare 
 for thirty years, has reason to think his mere opinion 
 may be acceptable to many, while it can offend none, 
 unless he dogmatically founds a theory upon it. 
 Were it my wish to act in this manner, I should 
 refrain, well aware of the futility of such a course. 
 
 My opinion is formed respecting the early compo- 
 sition of these poems; first, on the fact bequeathed to 
 us by the jealousy of Nashe; secondly, on the com- 
 plexion of the works themselves ; and lastly, on the 
 improbability of our poet having had " the advantage 
 of idle hours," after he became an actor and a drama- 
 tic writer. 
 
 First, a lad enamoured of literature, so as to devote 
 his leisure hours, away from his profession, to the 
 study of Seneca, would, as all other such lads have 
 done, and ever will do, attempt something himself in 
 literature. Why his attempt was not dramatic is 
 obvious, if we consider that the younger we are the 
 more ambitious are our pursuits ; and plays were then, 
 and till he made them otherwise, in low regard, ex- 
 cept for public amusement, compared to other kinds 
 of poetry. The lurking genius within him, therefore, 
 might have prompted him to Seneca, while his ambi- 
 tion perforce directed him to narrative, and that in 
 its most approved form at the time, Xvhich was classic 
 or mythological. With this literary ambition, partly 
 proved and partly presumed, I think he wrote Venus 
 and Adonis and the Rape of Lucrece before he was 
 one-and-twenty. Secondly, both bear the appearance 
 
20 HIS YOUTH 
 
 of having been written by a very young man. Were 
 two similar poems now brought to me, in spite of 
 their numerous passages of beauty and their descrip- 
 tive power, I should certainly conclude they were the 
 works of a youth ; and by no means of so great pro- 
 mise of future excellence as the Endymion of Keats, 
 which was the work of a youth of about twenty. 
 The picture drawn of the horse of Adonis, of " the 
 timorous flying hare," of the wounded hounds, as 
 they are met by Venus, and of the various objects of 
 fresh rural beauty, if not of the highest order, is 
 delightful. How many passages might be brought 
 forward to prove that the writer was a genuine poet ! 
 But among so many delicate touches, the want of 
 breadth, of bold expression ; the constant recurrence 
 to outward description, leaving the inward feeling no 
 more than hinted at, or couched in general terms 
 an inevitable fault attending inexperience in the work- 
 ings of the human heart; the prevailing imitation of 
 the great poet of the time, Spenser, for we begin by 
 imitation of what we most enjoy ; all these together, 
 to my mind, stamp the poem of Venus and Adonis 
 with the character of youth. The same observations, 
 allowing for the difference of subject, may be applied 
 to the Rape of Lucrece. Tarquin's desire struggling 
 with remorse, as uttered by himself, like the love- 
 pleading of Venus, is more in the manner of an 
 observer of outward symptoms, than of one who in- 
 wardly descries the heavings and the throes of pas- 
 sions in violent contention. The after agony of 
 Lucrece is declamatory or argumentative, not pathetic ; 
 while her death, and the grief of her husband and 
 
IN WARWICKSHIRE. 
 
 \ 
 
 friends are related more as facts to be re 
 as a tale of pity. In vain I look for * 
 indication of his dramatic power, which a ^dt 
 
 his mind was in no way interested in the arama at 
 that period ; " heavy" Seneca, the epithet he after- 
 wards bestowed on him in Hamlet, could not inspire 
 his genius. Venus and Adonis is far superior to the 
 Rape of Lucrece ; the difference of scene between 
 a woodland and the walls of a palace sufficiently 
 explains this, since a young poet is best recognized 
 in his vivid painting of natural objects. Both poems 
 are equally imbued with the spirit of Spenser, lacking 
 his experience. My third and last reason is, that 
 Shakespeare, when in London, if he followed his 
 newly adopted profession eagerly, which, besides his 
 studies as an actor, he assuredly did, by his having 
 produced the first sketch of Hamlet at the end of 
 three or four years, implying much previous applica- 
 tion to dramatic composition, would neither have had 
 time nor inclination to compose either of these narra- 
 tive poems. 
 
 He must now be examined touching deer-stealing. 
 Tradition tells us he was prosecuted with so much 
 rigour by Sir Thomas Lucy, for stealing his deer, 
 that the delinquent was obliged to fly the country. 
 Never was there a stronger instance of the worthless 
 gossip of tradition. Malone has proved that Sir T. 
 Lucy never possessed deer ; and the statutes of the 
 time prove that the penalty for stealing deer was 
 of too mild a character to compel flight. With these 
 facts before him, Dr. Lardner, " assisted by eminent 
 literary and scientific men," acknowledges that the 
 
22 HIS YOUTH 
 
 tradition is refuted; but, nevertheless, he insists it 
 must have had " some kind of foundation in fact/' 
 because we find in the Merry Wives of Windsor, 
 that Sir T. Lucy is held up to ridicule in the person 
 of Justice Shallow. Dr. Lardner, therefore, supposes 
 that young Shakespeare was brought before Sir T. 
 Lucy, as a magistrate, " for stealing deer in some 
 other park." There is, I cannot forbear saying it, 
 more malice than charity in this supposition ; more 
 of the qualities of a Mrs. Candour than ought to be 
 found in a reverend doctor. If indeed the tradition 
 must have been founded in fact, why might not the 
 prosecution have been against one of young Shake- 
 speare's friends ? or why may not Shakespeare him- 
 self have been wrongfully accused ? Why invent and 
 raise a supposititious tale, on an assumed foundation, 
 against the greatest human being the world has pro- 
 duced, or even against the meanest wretch that ever 
 existed ? The Reverend Doctor indeed confesses 
 that in those days deer-stealing was not a crime, but 
 rather a frolic; that a Right Reverend Father-in-God, 
 a Bishop of Winchester, had committed it, and that 
 another bishop had partaken of the spoil ; yet he still 
 contrives, in Mrs. Candour's peculiar way, to attach 
 some undefined stigma on the memory of our poet. 
 When the Merry Wives of Windsor was first per- 
 formed, Dr. Lardner informs us, Sir T. Lucy was 
 dead ; this fact, to my imagination, makes it impos- 
 sible that Shakespeare would have held his failings, 
 when alive, to ridicule; and I am, consequently, 
 induced to believe it was his son who was ridiculed. 
 An allusion, not positive, to the family coat of arms 
 
IN WARWICKSHIRE. 23 
 
 seems to show that one or the other was meant ; and 
 Justice Shallow thus accuses Falstaff: " Knight, you 
 have beaten my men, killed my deer, and broke open 
 my lodge." The old knight of Charlecote, it is 
 known, was a rigid preserver of game, and so might 
 have been the son. In answer to a calumnious sup- 
 position, I beg leave to suggest, and I think it a likely 
 solution of the riddle, that Shakespeare attacked, on 
 the stage, the younger knight of Charlecote for his 
 vexatiously jealous preservation of game, and that he 
 was prosecuted for that attack. Such a prosecution 
 would necessarily have created much gossip in War- 
 wickshire, coupled with the words of part of the libel 
 "killed my deer," and thus might tradition have 
 converted the whole story into a prosecution against 
 Shakespeare himself for deer-stealing. Had the tra- 
 dition never been treated otherwise than in the plea- 
 sant, good-humoured, honest vein of the author of 
 the Citation and Examination of William Shake- 
 speare, and others, touching Deer-stealing, I should 
 not have attempted a refutation. 
 
 It may be observed that I have bestowed the word 
 c< prudent" on the youth of Shakespeare. This was 
 done advisedly ; but perhaps it ought to be men- 
 tioned that* I mean it in the best sense, not in its 
 unsocial, formal, and selfish signification. When I 
 come to speak of his entire character through life, 
 among other good qualities, a wise prudence, on all 
 essential points, will be found conspicuous ; and since 
 I have never met with a prudent middle-aged or old 
 man who had passed his youth imprudently, it is not 
 y for me to conceive the opposite. At the same 
 
24 HIS YOUTH 
 
 time, let it be understood, that it is out of my power 
 to imagine the lad Shakespeare to have been any- 
 thing else than a hearty lover of good fellowship, as 
 he afterwards showed himself at the " Mermaid," a 
 right merry companion, the delight of his mates at 
 Stratford, and in the neighbourhood. 
 
 Little is known of Anne Hathaway, his wife. Ste- 
 vens, in a note, tells us, " As Shakespeare the poet 
 married his wife from Shottery, a village near Strat- 
 ford, possibly he might became possessor of a remark- 
 able house there, as part of her portion ; and jointly 
 with his wife convey it as part of their daughter 
 Judith's portion to Thomas Queeny. It is certain 
 that one Queeny, an elderly gentleman, sold it to 
 Harvey, Esq. of Stockton, near Southam, War- 
 wickshire, father of John Harvey Thursby, Esq. of 
 Abington, near Northampton ; and that the aforesaid 
 Harvey sold it again to Samuel Tyler, Esq. whose 
 sisters, as his heirs, now enjoy it." It is reasonably 
 conjectured that she brought him some property. . 
 
 The marriage is not registered at Stratford. Ac- 
 cording to the Stratford register of the first birth, of 
 his daughter Susannah, he was married, in all proba- 
 bility, soon after entering his nineteenth year. His 
 two other children, twins, were baptised at Stratford, 
 in the following year, 2nd of February, 1584-5. 
 
 From the last mentioned date he must have been 
 above twenty when he quitted his native town for 
 London. Nothing has yet been discovered to fix the 
 precise period ; but probably he was about that age 
 at the time. We are also ignorant whether he took 
 his wife and children with him, or if, from the first, 
 
IN WARWICKSHIRE. 25 
 
 he paid occasional visits to Stratford, as tradition, 
 backed by some circumstances, informs us he did 
 through a long course of years, till he finally retired 
 thither. 
 
 At length, it is generally agreed that his love of 
 the stage impelled him to London. He may have 
 had, in addition, some friendly offers of encourage- 
 ment to this change of profession. " He could not," 
 says Malone, " have wanted an easy introduction to 
 the theatre ; for Thomas Greene, a celebrated come- 
 dian, was his townsman, perhaps his relation, and 
 Michael Dray ton was likewise born in Warwickshire; 
 the latter was nearly of his own age, and both were 
 in some degree of reputation soon after the year 1590." 
 If there is such a thing as an innate propensity, we 
 can readily accord it to Shakespeare for the theatre; 
 and, if so, it was fostered and brought into action by 
 the visits, from time to time, of companies of players 
 at Stratford. Indeed his natural inclination for the 
 profession might have met with excitement enough to 
 raise it to a passion ; since, without looking back to 
 former years, when he was at the age of twelve, again 
 when he was fifteen, and every following year, the 
 players were in his town. At one of these visits, 
 doubtless, his townsman or relative, Thomas Greene, 
 when he was of the company, took him by the hand, 
 and led him delighted among his fellows. 
 
HIS LIFE, FROM 1585 TO 1600. 
 
 OUR first care must be to brush aside any little rub- 
 bish thrown in our way by unsupported tradition or 
 sheer invention. That story, repeated by Dr. Johnson, 
 of Shakespeare's having, on his first coming to Lon- 
 don, been employed in holding gentlemen's horses at 
 the play-house door, has been so amply and utterly 
 disproved by Stevens, that it remains an impossible 
 anecdote. Then Rowe states, " he was received into 
 the company then in being, at first in a very mean 
 rank ;" and Malone mentions that there was a stage 
 tradition of his first office having been that of 
 prompter's attendant. It is more likely that he was 
 received into the company as a shareholder, though 
 that is scarcely probable ; for, thanks to the perse- 
 vering researches, during the last few years, of Mr. 
 Collier, we are certain he was a shareholder at least 
 as early as November 1589. I say at least as early, 
 because he was then not at the bottom of the list, 
 but the twelfth from the top, among sixteen. I refer 
 the reader to Mr. J. Payne Collier's New Facts 
 regarding the Life of Shakespeare, for which I feel 
 
FROM 1585 TO 1600. 27 
 
 the utmost gratitude ; without \\isfacts I should have 
 been driven into many lengthened explanations of 
 many a conjecture, which he has placed on irrefra- 
 gable documents. The position of Shakespeare's name 
 on the list is worthy of particular remark, as the 
 names appear to have stood according to seniority, or 
 the number of shares possessed by each ; witness the 
 gradual rise of his name in after documents, till it 
 became the second on the list. The shares consisted 
 of twenty, some partners holding more than one. 
 Instead of listening to idle gossip, gravely reported, 
 about the meanness of his first employments in Lon- 
 don, Mr. Collier has given us cause for astonishment 
 at the rapidity of his success. Within four years, or 
 at most five, he was joint proprietor of the Blackfriars 
 Theatre, with one- fourth of the list below him ; thus 
 leaving little time, or rather no time at all, for pre- 
 vious mean employments or idleness. 
 
 Two things are specially to be avoided in forming 
 our judgment on the character of Shakespeare : a pre- 
 ternatural estimation of his genius, and a notion that 
 he must have had more faults than ourselves. The 
 latter is a consequence of the former ; because when 
 we have exalted a fellow-creature far above our own 
 level, our offended pride, at the sight of his unattain- 
 able superiority, is apt to fly to detraction, if no other 
 means are within our reach, in order to pull him 
 down again. This observation is not intended to 
 apply to any 5 individual, but to the million. Shake- 
 speare is represented as overcoming, in his own 
 despite, unconquerable difficulties, all at once, by dint 
 of an unimaginable and uncontrollable genius; while 
 
28 HIS LIFE, 
 
 others, that our pride may not be too much humbled, 
 assert or insinuate he was an idle improvident youth; 
 one who, as a poet, " knew his trade," according to 
 Dr. Johnson , of a flatterer, and a sad libertine accord- 
 ing to many. No one has chosen to point out how 
 untenable are these accusations how they may be 
 withstood. That " flattering unction" to mediocrity, 
 inculcating a persuasion that a man with the strongest 
 mind must inevitably have also the weakest mind, has 
 long been a restorative administered by quacks. 
 
 If he had not money of his own to buy a share in 
 the theatre and who can presume he had ? he 
 obtained it by his exertions as an actor and an author, 
 but principally as an author. This is by no means 
 incredible ; it only proves that his mental powers 
 were great, that he was industrious, and that some of 
 his plays were produced very soon after his arrival in 
 London. A contrary supposition, that he led for 
 some years a dissipated town life, insisted on by Dr. 
 Lardner, and that he did nothing but act, and write 
 two poems, as some of his editors have assumed 
 poems irrelevant to his profession, not for gain, but 
 for his own amusement, with a wife and three chil- 
 dren at home, or in order to compliment a young 
 nobleman with his dedications is too marvellous to 
 be mentioned out of romance, where human nature 
 is, by common consent, permitted to play an inferior 
 part. 
 
 Thus, since he certainly possessed a share in the 
 theatre in 1589, we may well credit the account of the 
 performance, in that very year, of his Hamlet ; that 
 is, as it was first played, wanting its present grander 
 
FROM 1585 TO 1600. 29 
 
 poetry and passion. We have no vestige of Hamlet 
 in its first state; but if it was not superior to his 
 Romeo and Juliet, before that tragedy was re-written, 
 there is not the slightest difficulty in supposing it was 
 one of his first dramatic attempts. 
 
 Judging from the plays we possess, I have always 
 set down, in rny mind, The Two Gentlemen of 
 Verona as his first. In that comedy, sweet and fresh 
 as the language is, there is a timidity of expression^ 
 nothing of deep-rooted and powerful passion, inex- 
 perience in the scene, and its mood is altogether rather 
 pleasing than exciting ; yet, with these objections, 
 character is admirably conceived and preserved, and 
 the very soul of Shakespeare shines, however faintly, 
 throughout. The whole play, in its serious parts, 
 runs sweetly, but languidly, much in this strain : 
 
 " O, how this spring of love resembleth 
 
 The uncertain glory of an April day; 
 Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, 
 And by and by a cloud takes all away !" 
 
 A notion has prevailed that his first literary occupa- 
 tion in the theatre was confined to the adaptation or 
 improvement of plays by other authors. As far as the 
 three parts of Henry the Sixth and Pericles are con- 
 cerned, this may well have been ; but I can neither 
 trace his mind nor his manner, both so peculiarly his 
 own, in any of his apocryphal plays, or in any other 
 plays of the period not ascribed to him. Titus An- 
 dronicus, strangely printed in every edition, against 
 the opinion of every succeeding editor, has not a line 
 of the remotest resemblance to him. This tragedy of 
 
30 HIS LIFE, 
 
 physical horrors ought to be included in the works of 
 Marlowe. It is very likely that the horrors in Lusfs 
 Dominion had proved acceptable to the audience, 
 before Shakespeare had raised his higher claims, and 
 that, therefore, Marlowe was induced to rewrite the 
 subject, varying the form, as in Titus Andronicus ; 
 since there is not a shade of difference between the 
 two Moors Eleazar and Aaron, or between the two 
 queens and their love for the Moors. Besides which, 
 the physical horrors are all repeated with additions, 
 and it is easy to point out in Titus Andronicus 
 the occasional " mighty line," for which Marlowe is 
 famed. Compared to the worst work that so superior 
 a being as Shakespeare could have produced, this 
 tragedy, in feeling more than in execution, is dis- 
 graceful, and ought never more to appear under his 
 name. The original fault lay with Meres and the 
 editors of the first folio; but since the fault is ac- 
 knowledged by all their successors, is it proper to 
 perpetuate it? 
 
 Pericles may well stand in its stead, not in addition 
 to it, as it does in some modern editions. In this 
 lengthened legend of a tragedy, if my pencil-marks, 
 joined to those of a friend, a true lover of Shakespeare, 
 and which we made apart from each other, have any 
 weight, just two-fifths of the lines are from Shake- 
 speare's pen. A most rambling and improbable fable, 
 with weak or no attempts at character, is here embel- 
 lished, amidst bald lines, with poetry and dramatic 
 effect worthy of our poet. Almost the whole of the 
 last act, however, and two whole scenes in the third 
 act, I would pronounce to be his undoubted property. 
 
FROM 1585 TO 1600. 31 
 
 Pericles delighted our ancestors ; and it was thought 
 worth while to improve it. I even suspect it had 
 been once improved before Shakespeare took it in 
 hand. 
 
 As for the six plays, added to his, after the first 
 folio, Locrine, Sir John Oldcastle, Yorkshire Tragedy, 
 Lord Cromwell, The Puritan, and The London Pro- 
 digal, I have read them attentively, and cannot per- 
 ceive a hint of Shakespeare's power or philosophy in 
 any one of them, though I regard them as intended 
 imitations, published at the time with a purpose of 
 deceiving the public. 
 
 The three chronologers of his plays, except in four 
 instances, differ but little from each other. An 
 attempt, for Malone calls it no more, to fix on the 
 precise year for the production of each play, might 
 have been no easy task for the Blackfriars' company 
 themselves, after a lapse of a few years. Indeed, 
 such precision would not be of use, unless as a guide 
 to other matters; and, in that case, certainty is 
 necessary. Had Mr. Collier made his discoveries in 
 the time of Malone, the latter would have seen good 
 reason for fixing the first play at a much earlier 
 period than 1591. As it was, he felt compelled to 
 crowd seventeen plays, together with the poems, 
 within the space of eight years. He comments on 
 the fact, that Webbe, in his Discourse of English 
 Poetry, published 1586, that Puttenham, in his Art 
 of English Poesy, published 1589, and that Sir John 
 Harrington, in his Apologie for Poetry, published 
 1591, all of whom made some mention of play- writers, 
 " passed by unnoticed the new prodigy in the dramatic 
 
32 HIS LIFE, 
 
 world." But it appears, by Malone's account, the 
 first noticed only Whetstone and Munday ; the second 
 only Lord Buckhurst, Ferrys, the Earl of Oxford, 
 and Edwardes ; and the third, only two comedies of 
 the day. If their omission is any thing, such writers 
 for the stage as Heywood, Peele, Greene, Marlowe, 
 and others, had produced nothing at the above dates; 
 or, if they were unworthy of notice in the estimation 
 of those critics, we need not wonder at their silence 
 in regard to the adaptations of Henry the Sixth, and 
 the first dramatic efforts of Shakespeare. 
 
 There is no direct contemporary notice of his 
 works earlier than that by Francis Meres, in his 
 Wits Treasury ) printed at the close of 1598. Speak- 
 ing of Shakespeare as a dramatist, his words are 
 these : " As Plautus and Seneca are accounted the 
 best for comedy and tragedy, among the Latins ; so 
 Shakespeare, among the English, is the most excellent 
 in both kinds for the stage : for comedy, witness 
 his Gentlemen of Verona, his Errors, his Love's 
 Labour Lost, his Love's Labour Wonne, his Mid- 
 summer Nighfs Dream, and his Merchant of Venice; 
 for tragedy, his Richard II, Richard III, Henry IV, 
 K. John, Titus Andronicus, and his Romeo and 
 Juliet" 
 
 Love's Labour Wonne was perhaps another title 
 for All's well that ends well. The Merchant of 
 Venice was not entered at Stationers' Hall till the 
 22nd July of that very year. Meres must have been 
 deceived (every editor agrees) in placing Titus 
 Andronicus in the list. He may have omitted the 
 three parts of Henry the Sixth, as plays not entirely 
 
FROM 1585 TO 1600. 33 
 
 written by our poet. Thus, though the list by no 
 means bears the appearance of having been carefully 
 made out, (for he knew not what painful comments 
 would be made on it) still it contains much that is 
 valuable, and on which we can rely. 
 
 Mr. Collier has furnished us with other useful facts. 
 In 1589 the company of Blackfriars were obliged to 
 send in an exculpatory petition to the Privy Council ; 
 and in 1596 the same course was pursued, because 
 " certaine persons, (some of them of honour) inhabit- 
 ants of the said precinct and libertie of the Black- 
 friers, have, as your petitioners are informed, besought 
 your honourable lordships not to permit the said 
 private house any longer to remain open, but here- 
 after to be shut up and closed, to the manifest and 
 great injurie of your petitioners," &c. From this 
 document, it is evident that the influence of men of 
 power in the state was important to the preservation 
 of the company against the active enmity of some of 
 the principal citizens. In the same petition, we find 
 the company were accustomed to " be called on to 
 perform for the recreation and solace of her majestic 
 and her honourable court;" and assuredly the nobility, 
 the younger branches in particular, were frequenters 
 of the Blackfriars' Theatre, and would, some of them, 
 seek the society of the actors or the authors. Situated 
 as the company were, we can, in this manner, readily 
 account for the circumstance of Venus and Adonis 
 being dedicated to the Earl of Southampton in 1593, 
 followed by the Rape of Lucrece in 1594. Two 
 unpublished poems, though written ten years before, 
 were thus made serviceable as a compliment to a 
 
 c3 
 
34 HIS LIFE, 
 
 nobleman, who might prove, literally, a friend at 
 court. Though Venus and Adonis is declared " the 
 first heir of his invention," it was not pretended to 
 be written expressly for him, but rather as having 
 been written some time, in contradistinction to his 
 plays, which are indirectly promised to his future 
 patronage, when published together ; for I hold, as I 
 shall attempt to prove, that Shakespeare did intend to 
 edit his own works. That the young earl had him- 
 self desired this public compliment from the poet, 
 with whom he had become acquainted, or, at least, 
 that he was gratified by it, is shown, in the dedication 
 of the Rape of Lucrece, by these words: "The 
 warrant I have of your honourable disposition, not 
 the worth of my untutored lines, makes it assured of 
 acceptance." In return, and in pure friendship, the 
 Earl no doubt exerted himself for the protection of 
 the company, who maintained their post against the 
 ill-will of some of the citizens ; and it is delightful 
 to add. that his friendship was not short-lived. This 
 last is proved by another document, with which Mr. 
 Collier has obliged us; a letter from the Earl of 
 Southampton, which Mr. Collier conjectures was 
 written about 1606, addressed to Lord Ellesmere, in 
 favour of Shakespeare. That the Earl had ever 
 presented him with a thousand pounds, is incredible, 
 and rests on no authority whatever. This is its 
 origin : after the death of Sir William D' Avenant, who 
 was not likely, ignorant as he was of every thing else in 
 Shakespeare's life, to know that extraordinary circum- 
 stance, it was related by some nameless person, who 
 
FROM 1585 TO 1600. 35 
 
 assured Kowe that the story was handed down by 
 D'Avenant, and there it should have stopped. 
 
 But had our poet no other friend among the 
 nobility ? This question brings me at last to the 
 Sonnets, now that I have endeavoured to show the 
 nature of his situation up to the period when I 
 conceive the first part of them was written. 
 
 I am not aware that an argument has been publicly 
 attempted against the genuineness of the Sonnets. 
 Many years ago, it was urged to me, in conversation, 
 and it has since been told me, (perhaps erroneously) 
 that a disproval of their authenticity is in preparation. 
 Thus, to the long-continued difficulty of compre- 
 hending their meaning, that of discovering by whom 
 they were written may be superadded. Such a task 
 must be deduced from one or more of the following 
 species of evidence. 
 
 First, we must be satisfied that Meres wrongfully 
 ascribed the Sonnets to Shakespeare, or that he 
 meant some other unknown sonnets, or the six others 
 which are known ; and that their publication, under 
 Shakespeare's name, during his life, uncontradicted 
 by himself or any other person, is of no weight. 
 Certainly other men's plays were printed in his time, 
 with his name and initials attached to them ; and 
 Meres gave him the discredit of Titus Andronicus. 
 But though Meres might have fallen into an error by 
 echoing a common report, in which he was afterwards 
 upheld by Heminge and Condell, our poet's personal 
 friends, yet, as his account bears the semblance of 
 honesty and disinterestedness, it cannot well be 
 
36 HIS LIFE, 
 
 believed that he, a literary man, was mistaken in 
 speaking of poems, which were circulated in manu- 
 script, as Shakespeare's, among his private friends. 
 
 Secondly, it will be necessary to bring forward 
 contemporaneous evidence in opposition to that of 
 Meres, which has not hitherto been discovered. 
 
 Thirdly, internal evidence, on which we solely rely 
 for the authenticity of his several works, must here 
 be kept aloof from the argument. There is not one 
 of his dramas, not even Lear, which may not be 
 doubted as belonging to him, laying aside its internal 
 evidence; the same which guides our judgment on 
 the truth, falsehood, or error, of his printers and 
 editors. Such must inevitably be the fate, when 
 coexisting witnesses are no more, of all works, unless 
 edited by the author himself, or irrefragably acknow- 
 ledged by him. In regard to the Sonnets, every 
 thing short of internal evidence is but a feather in the 
 scale. 
 
 It is true I shall have occasion to notice the in- 
 feriority of some of these sonnets, compared with the 
 poetry of Shakespeare's plays. Dramatic, and other 
 kinds of poetry, are so distinct, that they are never 
 found worthy of equal praise in the same writer ; 
 and, therefore, our judgment ought not to be influ- 
 enced by the comparative inferiority of one. But as 
 I proceed, it will be seen that many of the Sonnets, 
 chiefly those of a later date, belong to the highest 
 species of poetry in their kind ; owing, as I conjec- 
 ture, to the habit he had acquired of writing on a 
 subject perfectly undramatic, and to his own good 
 sense in no longer yielding to the fashion of the day. 
 
PROM 1585 TO 1600. 37 
 
 If we read the poems of his contemporaries, not 
 dramatists, the superiority of the best of these will be 
 instantly acknowledged, to anything which they pro- 
 duced. Let them be compared to Spenser's Sonnets; 
 and Spenser himself will be poor indeed. Should 
 their authenticity be absolutely disproved, where 
 shall we find the extraordinary other poet who had 
 written them ? The worst among them, deformed as 
 they are by forced and intricately- woven thoughts, 
 have lines most worthy of Shakespeare. 
 
 Without at present laying any stress on the frequent 
 occurrence of law phrases, already brought forward, 
 which is observable in all his works, and in no other 
 author's, I would ask, how are we to account for the 
 very great number of parallel passages found in these 
 Sonnets and his plays ? They would rather impede 
 and distract, than serve my present purpose; though, 
 on a fitter occasion than the explanation of their 
 meaning, I shall mark them severally. Now I shall 
 confine myself to two or three only in elucidation. 
 
 Again, the author was not only a great poet, but 
 also an actor, as may be seen in the 110th and follow- 
 ing sonnets. Who but Shakespeare could it have 
 been ? 
 
 In conclusion, I appeal to the good feeling ex- 
 pressed throughout, in accordance with all that 
 Shakespeare has written, all that has come down to 
 us respecting him, and all that we can desire to 
 imagine of him. This good feeling has not been 
 understood ; it will be my fault if I do not make it 
 evident in my explanation. 
 
HIS SONNETS. 
 
 THE first difficulty, and to that, strangely enough, 
 research has been chiefly confined, is the discovery of 
 who was " Mr. W. H." Thorpe, their first publisher, 
 inscribed them" To the only begetter of these en- 
 suing Sonnets, Mr. W. H." 
 
 An opinion has been broached that these initials 
 ought to be reversed, because then W. H. would be 
 H. W., and stand for Henry Wriothesly, Earl of 
 Southampton. Dr. Drake was decidedly of this 
 opinion, and backed it by observing the coincidence 
 of expression between the 26th Sonnet and the dedi- 
 cation of the Rape of Lucrece to that nobleman. This 
 is very true and very reasonable, except the reversing 
 of the initials, which may not be perfectly satisfactory 
 to a straightforward understanding. Besides, the title 
 " Mr." never could belong to an Earl. 
 
 But some of Dr. Drake's predecessors were wild in 
 the extreme. When Gildon republished the Sonnets, 
 he specified, in the title-page, that they were " all of 
 them in praise of his mistress." Dr. Sewell followed 
 with a similar assertion. Stevens gave his edition, 
 
HIS SONNETS. 39 
 
 but refrained from hazarding an observation. At last 
 Malone rightly declared that one hundred and twenty- 
 six of them were addressed to a young man. Tyrwhit 
 pointed out a line, 
 
 " A man in hue all hues in his controlling," 
 from which it was for awhile inferred that the initials 
 W. H. stood for William Hughes. Dr. Farmer sup- 
 posed them to be addressed to William Harte, the 
 poet's nephew ; but unluckily Malone proved that the 
 nephew could not have been born at the time, or 
 could only have been an infant. Then came Dr. 
 Chalmers, who contended, and pursued his contention 
 in a second volume, that every one of them was 
 addressed to no less a personage than Queen Eliza- 
 beth. He seriously tells us that we have merely to 
 change, (than which nothing can be easier) "he" for 
 she, and "him " for her, and regard every thing ap- 
 pertaining to a young man as the natural and 
 undoubted property of an old woman of sixty-five, 
 when every difficulty is removed, and every line is in- 
 telligible ! Some time since we read in the newspapers 
 of a deranged gentleman, walking about the country, 
 and professing to be, in his own person, her most 
 gracious majesty, queen Elizabeth ; the notion must 
 have been originally his, not that of Dr. Chalmers. 
 The Rev. Mr. Dyce has not understood them ; he 
 merely favours us with an ingenious supposition. 
 
 Truth is, the commentators either neglected the 
 Sonnets, defamed them, or otherwise misunderstood 
 them. My brain has been, at all times, more puzzled 
 by those gentlemen than by the subject under discus- 
 sion ; owing, possibly, to their minds being chiefly 
 
40 HIS SONNETS. 
 
 intent on dates, verbal researches, and excessive con- 
 jectures. Yet their patient studies, far as their limits 
 extended, are of undoubted and great utility. I am 
 grateful to them all, Bishop Warburton, and one or 
 two others, excepted ; because I cannot perceive they 
 have been of any benefit. As for Malone, though he 
 endeavoured to cancel every obligation by bribing the 
 sexton of Stratford church to let him whitewash or 
 white-paint the monument and coloured effigy of 
 Shakespeare, he has not entirely cancelled it with 
 me. 
 
 The name of the individual to whom the Sonnets 
 were addressed is surely a matter of minor importance, 
 compared to the unravelling of their meaning. Were 
 the individual, beyond the shadow of a doubt, made 
 known, the discovery could not alter, in the slightest 
 degree, the meaning or feeling of a single verse. 
 Nothing would be elucidated by it. Certainty on this 
 head, interested as we are in every person, and in 
 everything, connected with our poet, would be, in it- 
 self, a satisfaction, a pleasure, but no farther. Still, a 
 satisfaction or pleasure is worth seeking, and I will 
 endeavour to find it. 
 
 From the Sonnets themselves we distinctly learn, 
 by particular passages, and by their whole tenor, that 
 " W. H." must have been very young, remarkably 
 handsome, of high birth and fortune, and a friend of 
 Shakespeare. His youth and beauty, not being fac- 
 titious advantages, are constant themes for praise; and 
 his birth and fortune are proved, exclusive of other 
 evidences, expressly from the following lines in the 37th 
 Sonnet. 
 
HIS SONNETS. 41 
 
 " For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit, 
 
 Or any of these all, or all, or more, 
 Entitled in thy parts, do crowned sit, 
 
 I make my love engrafted to this store : 
 So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised, 
 
 Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give, 
 That I in thy abundance am sufficed, 
 
 And by a part of all thy glory live." 
 
 Passages might be produced in farther evidence, such 
 as, in the 80th Sonnet, 
 
 " Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat." 
 
 Besides, the whole of Sonnets 57 and 58, as well as of 
 some others, have the air, not to be mistaken, of ad- 
 dresses to some one of rank. 
 
 Granting that the qualities of youth, beauty of per- 
 son, high birth, wealth, and friendship for Shakespeare, 
 are all applicable to the Earl of Southampton, yet, 
 with deference to Dr. Drake, they may be all equally 
 applicable to another, without reversing the initials, 
 which is objectionable. The Earl of Southampton 
 was not the only ennobled friend of Shakespeare. 
 Possibly there were several of the nobility of the time 
 who conferred that honour on themselves. We cer- 
 tainly know of two others, William, Earl of Pembroke, 
 and Philip, his brother, earl of Montgomery, to both 
 of whom Heminge and Condell dedicated their folio 
 edition of Shakespeare. Their words in the dedica- 
 tion are, " But since your lordships have been 
 pleased to think these trifles something heretofore, and 
 have prosecuted both them, AND THEIR AUTHOR 
 LIVING, with so much favour; we hope, (that they 
 outliving him, and he not having the fate, common 
 
42 HIS SONNETS. 
 
 with some, to be executor to his own writings) you 
 will use the same indulgence towards them, you have 
 done unto their parent." Consequently " Mr. W. H." 
 according to my perception, and as conjecture has 
 already pointed out, may, with every probability short 
 of certainty, have been William Herbert, afterwards, 
 when the folio was published, William, Earl of Pem- 
 broke. Not only do the initials belong to the name, 
 but the title, " Mr." was not improperly applied to 
 the eldest son of an Earl, there not having been, at 
 that period, any grander title of courtesy. 
 
 But it is necessary to consider the time when the 
 Sonnets were written, together with the age of William 
 Herbert, and they will not be found contradictory. 
 That young nobleman might have been eighteen years 
 old, not more, but probably a year younger, when the 
 first part was addressed to him ; an age when he 
 might well be termed " boy," and in accordance with 
 the feeling of the poems. In proof of this, he was 
 born ^n 1580, and it was in November, 1598,* that 
 Meres, in his Wifs Treasury ', noticed the Sonnets of 
 Shakespeare as being then circulated in manuscript 
 among his friends. They were not printed till 1609. 
 Were there authority for believing that Meres, in his 
 notice, alluded to all the Sonnets as we possess them, 
 then the first part must have been written at least 
 three years before they were spoken of by him : that 
 is, when William Herbert could not have been more 
 than fifteen years old ; because Sonnet 104th, belong- 
 ing to the last part, expressly says, 
 
 * In the spring of this year, William Herbert, with his father's 
 consent, came to London, and continued to reside there. See Lodge's 
 Portraits. 
 
HIS SONNETS. 43 
 
 " Three winters cold 
 Have from the forests shook three summers' pride, 
 
 * * * * % 
 
 Since first I saw you fresh which yet are green." 
 
 and Sonnet 102 proves that Shakespeare's verse was 
 addressed to him during their early acquaintance- 
 ship ; 
 
 " Our love was new, and then but in the spring, 
 When I was wont to greet it with my lays." 
 
 But it is highly probable that Meres spoke of no more 
 than the first twenty-six sonnets, (which I shall prove 
 form one en tire poem;) though possibly of the second 
 poem also, together with that to his mistress, when the 
 young nobleman had reached the age of eighteen, if 
 Meres noticed them the year when they were written, 
 or of seventeen, if they were a year old when noticed, 
 an age agreeing with the never-ending allusions to the 
 freshness of his youth, and not altogether an improper 
 age to be addressed on the subject of this first poem, 
 which is marriage, at least by Shakespeare, who 
 himself was married at about eighteen. 
 
 William, Earl of Pembroke, the nephew of Sir 
 Philip Sidney, succeeded to his father in 1601, was 
 knight of the garter in 1604, Governor of Portsmouth 
 in 1610, and Chancellor of the University of Oxford, 
 and Lord Steward of the King's Household, in 1626 ; 
 he died 10th April, 1630. In addition to these dig- 
 nities, be it remarked, he was a poet, a learned man, 
 and an encourager of learning; witness his poems, and 
 his benefactions to the University of Oxford, and Pem- 
 broke College, named after him. It may therefore be 
 
44 HIS SONNETS. 
 
 assumed, since every circumstance is in its favour, 
 that, in the first flow of youth, when the love of 
 poesy, in such a mind, is most strong, he sought out 
 our poet, and proffered his friendship. Yet, let me 
 repeat that the right understanding of these poems 
 by no means depends on the discovery of the person 
 to whom they were addressed; though, while speaking 
 of this youthful, wealthy, and highborn friend of 
 Shakespeare, I shall take the liberty, till better 
 instructed, of designating him Master William Her- 
 bert, afterwards Earl of Pembroke. 
 
 These neglected and ill-understood Sonnets contain 
 a clear allusion to events in Shakespeare's life, or rather 
 a history of them, with his own thoughts and feelings 
 as comments on them, arid consequently they form 
 a valuable addition to our knowledge of his character. 
 For this reason I shall spare no pains in a minute in- 
 vestigation, confiding throughout in the interest of his 
 lovers on such a theme. My explanation will, I hope, 
 be satisfactory, while I allow it, for the most part, to 
 go hand in hand with the deductions I may draw. 
 For, in their explanation, I stand not in need of ex- 
 tracts from the writings of his contemporaries, or from 
 any extraneous work whatever. I rely on the Sonnets 
 before me, and on them alone, for their natural inter- 
 pretation. 
 
 In the first place, these Sonnets are not, properly 
 speaking, sonnets. A sonnet is one entire poem con- 
 tained in fourteen heroic lines, of which there are but 
 three in the collection ; the two last, and one near the 
 last, which will be explained. The two last intruders, 
 utterly foreign to every thing preceding them, contain 
 
HIS SONNETS. 45 
 
 nothing else but repetitions of the same thought, 
 the stealing of Cupid's brand by a nymph of Diana. 
 The remainder of the sonnets, so miscalled, are POEMS 
 in the sonnet-stanza. These poems are six in num- 
 ber ; the first five are addressed to his friend, and the 
 sixth to his mistress. This key, simple as it may 
 appear, unlocks every difficulty, and we have nothing 
 but pure uninterrupted biography. 
 
 Owing to their having been always called sonnets, 
 a reader, accustomed to consider a sonnet as a poem 
 complete within itself, is perplexed at finding them 
 connected with each other. If this difficulty is so far 
 overcome as to induce him to read right onward, he 
 is again baffled at the sudden contrariety of subject 
 and feeling, owing to the want of division in the 
 work. He then, it may be, returns to his first idea 
 of a legitimate sonnet, and endeavours to understand 
 them separately; till, finding that mode of reading 
 impracticable, he hurries on in confusion, lamenting 
 that a total disregard to chronological order should 
 have rendered them incomprehensible. In no other 
 way can I account for the wild notions that have 
 been published respecting them. It seems never to 
 have crossed the mind of any one, editor or critic, 
 that they are divisible poems in the sonnet-stanza ; 
 though so great a poet as Spenser had, only a few 
 years previously, written his Visions of Petrarch, 
 Visions of Bellay, Visions of the World's Vanity > and 
 The Ruines of Rome, all precisely in the same sonnet- 
 stanza. 
 
 About ten years have passed since I sat down with 
 a determination to understand these Sonnets fully. 
 
46 HIS SONNETS. 
 
 At the time I was offended, and indeed indignant, at 
 meeting with some unworthy strictures on them by 
 an anonymous writer. In common with others, he 
 spoke of them throughout as detached sonnets. As I 
 never had regarded them in any other light than as, 
 for the most part, connected sonnets, I endeavoured 
 to discover if the whole could not, without violence, 
 be divided into separate poems, so that I might arrive 
 at their sense without confusion. To my surprise, 
 while I read them with that intention, they, as it 
 were, divided themselves, and, still more extraordi- 
 nary, each poem concluding with an appropriate 
 Envoy, to mark their bounds distinctly, and beyond 
 a doubt. 
 
 The excitement at finding a long hidden treasure 
 has passed away, for a treasure it was, by which I 
 purchased a knowledge of the intention of every son- 
 net, or rather of every stanza, (I refuse to call them 
 sonnets for the future,) delighting myself the more in 
 the poetry, the more I was enabled to comprehend 
 the theme. Now that many years are gone by, I 
 cannot imagine a possible reason for disturbing the 
 divisions I then made, which were as follows : 
 
 FIRST POEM. Stanzas 1 to 26. To his friend, 
 persuading him to marry. 
 
 SECOND POEM. Stanzas 27 to 55. To his friend, 
 ^vho had robbed the poet of his mistress, forgiving 
 him. 
 
 THIRD POEM. Stanzas 56 to 77. To his friend, 
 complaining of his coldness, and warning him of 
 life's decay. 
 
 FOURTH POEM. Stanzas 78 to 101. To his 
 
HIS SONNETS. 47 
 
 friend, complaining that he prefers another poet's 
 praises, mid reproving him for faults that may 
 injure his character. 
 
 FIFTH POEM. Stanzas 102 to 126. To his friend, 
 excusing himself for having been some time silent, 
 and disclaiming the charge of inconstancy. 
 
 SIXTH POEM. Stanzas 127 to 152. To his mis- 
 tress, on her infidelity. 
 
 Such should have been (had the printers in 1609 
 received efficient directions, and had they done their 
 duty) the order and manner of these poems. The 
 attentive reader will be convinced that these divisions 
 are neither arbitrary nor fanciful, but inevitable. An 
 unsought-for recommendation is that they are thus 
 formed into poems tolerably equal in length, varying 
 from twenty- two to twenty-six stanzas each. 
 
 For upwards of two centuries these poems, owing 
 to the carelessness or folly of those who first com- 
 mitted them to the types, have been little read, or 
 misinterpreted. Yet it is doubtful if their being 
 thoroughly understood will render them popular ; 
 though they have many stanzas of wonderful beauty, 
 of excellence, and many passages superior to the best 
 in Venus and Adonis, and the Rape of Lucrece. 
 Except as connected with Shakespeare, which is much, 
 the subjects are uninteresting. The conceits and 
 forced metaphors, which in his day seem to have been 
 admired, may be forgiven by us; but the languid 
 prolixity and monotony of cadence, pervading almost 
 all the stanzas, are wearisome to modern readers. 
 Besides, we soon cease to delight in the same thoughts, 
 turned round and round, placed in different lights, 
 
48 HIS SONNETS. 
 
 and tricked out in quaint fancies. Our ancestors 
 were pleased with this style of writing, it was the 
 fashion of the day ; Shakespeare followed it in these 
 poems, arid obtained high and highly conceited com- 
 mendation. " As the soul of Euphorbus," quoth 
 Meres, the Treasurer of Wit, " was thought to live 
 in Pythagoras, so the sweet witty soul of Ovid lives 
 in the mellifluous honey-tongued Shakespeare : witness 
 his Venus and Adonis ; his Lucrece ; his sugred 
 Sonnets among his private friends." Had he, in his 
 poems, as well as in his dramas, " made a pish" at 
 fashion, and followed nature, the poems would also 
 have been " not of an age, but for all time." Even 
 Shakespeare could fail, imitating the style of others. 
 But this, in its best sense, is to his honour ; as the 
 more original is a man's genius, to the less effect can 
 it play the ape. 
 
 Before we proceed farther, it is necessary to inter- 
 pret some particular expressions he has used. In his 
 time the language of love or of friendship was the 
 same. His contemporaries spoke of a friendship 
 between those of the same sex by the term of love ; 
 and the usual address to a friend, as may be seen in 
 their letters, was lover. Ben Jonson calls himself, to 
 Dr. Donne, " thy true lover ;" he subscribed himself 
 the lover of Camden : and in his Case is altered, we 
 find, " Sirrah, there's one of my fellows mightily 
 enamoured of thee." Shakespeare himself publicly 
 dedicated his love to the Earl of Southampton ; in 
 Coriolanus we read, 
 
 " I tell thee, fellow, thy general is my lover ;" 
 
HIS SONNETS. 49 
 
 in fact the phrase was of common parlance. This, 
 has been already explained by Malone, Dr. Drake 
 and others. Not only did friendship, in poetical and 
 prosaic addresses, adopt the language of love ; but, to 
 express its utmost sincerity, it breathed of tenderness. 
 On the other hand, love, eager to free itself from the 
 imputation of transient desire, strove to be assimilated 
 to a pure friendship. Thus the language of love and 
 friendship became confounded ; till fashion, or some- 
 thing worse, endeavoured to separate their terms. 
 
 There is another phrase, used by our ancestors, sound- 
 ing strange to modern ears, which is sweet, when applied 
 to a friend. We are accustomed to it among the 
 poetical personages of Shakespeare's plays. Prince 
 Hall calls Poins "sweet Ned;" Antonio begins his 
 letter to his friend with " sweet Bassanio ;" and the 
 two gentle youths of Verona call each other " sweety" 
 and "sweet Valentine," and "sweet Proteus;" yet 
 many may wonder to find that our poet writes of 
 Master William Herbert's "sweet respect," of his 
 "sweet thoughts," his "sweet beloved name," his 
 " sweet graces," and that he even calls him " sweet 
 love ;" though this last expression was but equivalent 
 to dear, or kind friend, of the present day; and there 
 was nothing wonderful in any of them at the time it 
 was written. Language is for ever changing, and the 
 language of familiar discourse more than any other. 
 Formerly a gentleman, paying honourable addresses 
 to a lady, might bestow on her the compliment of 
 calling her a lovely wench ; and he would certainly 
 speak of her as being his mistress, which would now 
 be worse than indecorous. If, indeed, the gentleman 
 
 D 
 
50 HIS SONNETS. 
 
 of the olden time had spoken of the lady as his 
 friend, it would have been more than a suspicious 
 sound (though the appellation is now so innocent) like 
 the arnica of Terence, the arnica of modern Italians, 
 or the amie of the French. 
 
 I had nearly" forgotten another change in which 
 Shakespeare is concerned. In these days we talk of 
 the beauty of a woman, a child, a flower, or a paint- 
 ing, nay, of the beauty of a horse, or a dog, and 
 that continually ; but, though we by no means deny 
 there is such a thing as manly beauty, we talk of it 
 under a different name, choosing rather to say of a 
 man that he has a handsome face, or a handsome per- 
 son, " Sir, he is the handsomest man in all England." 
 Yet this word handsome^ in Shakespeare's time, had 
 rarely any other meaning than suitable, dexterous, 
 clever ; and therefore he, and all his contemporaries, 
 spoke of the good looks of a man under the name of 
 beauty. 
 
 With these hints of explanation I proceed. 
 
 FIRST POEM. 
 STANZAS I TO XXVI. 
 
 TO HIS FRIEND, PERSUADING HIM TO MARRY. 
 
 THE arguments used, to this effect, entirely occupy 
 the first sixteen stanzas; then, from stanza 17th to 
 2oth, with thesame arguments still introduced, the poet 
 resolves, in case his friend will not consent to perpe- 
 tuate the beauty of his youth in his offspring, to make 
 
FIRST POEM. 51 
 
 him live for ever young in verse. Stanza 26th, and 
 last, is what Spenser would have designated L? Envoy. 
 
 This poem, it will be seen, is entire and indivisible ; 
 every stanza is connected with the foregoing, and 
 every line is in the same feeling. 
 
 The chief argument made use of to induce his 
 friend to marry, is like Viola's address to Olivia : 
 
 " Lady, you are the cruel'st she alive, 
 If you would lead these graces to the grave, 
 And leave the world no copy." 
 
 In the same strain Venus argues with Adonis : 
 
 " Seeds spring from seeds, and beauty breedeth beauty ; 
 Thou wert begot, to get it is thy duty. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 And so, in spite of death, thou dost survive, 
 In that thy likeness still is left alive." 
 
 Those who from experience know how important it is 
 to attend to the breed of cattle, sheep, horses, or dogs ; 
 and who are aware in their own persons (others may 
 be excused) that the human race is superior to the 
 bestial, must highly appreciate this part of Shake- 
 speare's philosophy. 
 
 The poem gives its theme in the two first lines, 
 
 " From fairest creatures we desire increase, 
 
 That thereby beauty's rose might never die," 
 
 and it is followed up by a great variety of compliment 
 and reasoning, particularly that of the honourable 
 pride of being a father. 
 
 Some persons, reading thus far, will be apt to 
 regret that the arguments were not urged to some 
 
 D2 
 
52 HIS SONNETS. 
 
 Olivia, instead of to his friend. An answer to this is, 
 and ought to be conclusive, that the Earl of Pem- 
 broke's son happened not to be a woman. Women, 
 in their extreme beauty, might lay claim to all our 
 praise, did they not themselves acknowledge manly 
 beauty. As men, in their imagination, formed a 
 Venus, so women formed an Apollo ; and when these 
 deities were embodied by the sculptor's art, all equally 
 acknowledged that both were beautiful. It comes to 
 this : either sex has beauty ; but neither has a charm 
 except towards the other. The word charm settles 
 the question. We all, men and women, acknowledge 
 and admire the beauty of men, women, and children, 
 together with every thing that nature has given ex- 
 cellent in form and feature ; but when the charm 
 the love charm the charm of sympathy between the 
 sexes is wanting, it is merely acknowledged and 
 admired. These poems afford us a case in point. 
 Throughout the first five the tenour is, I delight in 
 you, my friend, therefore I rejoice that you have 
 beauty of person ; and I will immortalize that beauty 
 in my verse. Compare this with the sixth poem, 
 addressed to his mistress, and then we understand 
 the charm. There the whole tenour is, I delight in 
 your beauty, not in you, for you have deceived me. 
 Besides, we soon get entangled amidst lips, palms, 
 and kisses. Love is no more the steady admiring 
 gentleman that he was : no, he is called, " thou blind 
 fool, love !" the poet talks of being " slain," and 
 Ci killed outright with looks." He owns it to be "sinful 
 loving," and proves it to be so. He struggles against 
 her enchantments, laments that her beauty has en- 
 
FIRST POEM. 53 
 
 trapped his unwilling love, and calls her a " devil," 
 with many other amorous expressions. 
 
 But, it may be asked, did Shakespeare meanly stoop 
 to flatter an earl's son for personal beauty ? Did he 
 seek to make a profit out of the youth, at the expense 
 of turning him into a coxcomb ? Not so ; public 
 encomiums of this sort were not rare in his days. 
 Nevertheless, it must be owned, he has eulogized the 
 beauty of one of his own sex beyond any other poet ; 
 and, doubtless, what he did may be justified. Not 
 content with bestowing common praise, he insists upon 
 it that all the descriptions of " lovely knights," in 
 ancient chronicles, were but prophecies of Master 
 William Herbert ; that he has 
 
 " A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted;" 
 
 and that Nature first intended him for a woman ; but 
 being herself a woman, she " fell a doting on her 
 own work, and made a man of him," much to Shake- 
 speare's displeasure. In another place he tells him : 
 
 " Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit 
 
 Is poorly imitated after you ; 
 On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set, 
 
 And you in Grecian tires are painted new." 
 
 Nothing is put on a par with his beauty, unless it be 
 his truth ; while, throughout the poems, he contends 
 that he speaks nothing but what is freely acknow- 
 ledged by all the world, without a thought of flattery. 
 We are bound to believe in Shakespeare's sincerity ; 
 for, in the course of my writing, proofs will be brought 
 forward that he never, in any part of his other works, 
 
54 HIS SONNETS. 
 
 paid a compliment the truth of which could be denied. 
 Just praise is farther removed from flattery than the 
 payment of a debt is from making a gift ; for the 
 gift may be serviceable and innocent, while flattery 
 can be neither. Besides, without reference to a line 
 beyond these poems, I see no difficulty in warding 
 him from the imputation of flattery. 
 
 It cannot be imagined that, in the year 1597 or 8, 
 Shakespeare stood in need of a noble patron. At 
 that time, when we are certain that about one half of 
 his plays had been performed, he was high in fame 
 and prosperity, and his true patron was clearly the 
 public. Yet the being admitted to intimacy with a 
 nobleman of Queen Elizabeth's court was, in itself, 
 no slight matter. Without imagining that he felt 
 any paltry pride on such an occasion, it is extremely 
 likely, because it belongs to a good mind, that he felt 
 much complimented. Nothing of a selfish or merce- 
 nary description can be conceived, unless in the pos- 
 sibility that the good will and protection of the house 
 of Pembroke, though the youth of the party addressed 
 almost contradicts it, might prove important to the 
 interests of the Blackfriars' Theatre. What could he 
 offer in return for such friendship ? He was power- 
 less, except in verse, and therefore he employed that 
 in celebrating the young nobleman. Had he followed 
 the common, hollow, false style of others, he would 
 have presented him with about fifty lines including 
 every virtue under heaven, and thought he had done 
 enough. He was not of that class. It will be per- 
 ceived, that though at first, in addition to the youth's 
 beauty, he extolled his worth and his truth, because 
 
FIRST POEM. 55 
 
 he had reason to rely on them, yet afterwards he 
 takes care to draw limits to such praise. This is done 
 tenderly ; that is, like a friend, or a father but still 
 the limits are drawn, and with a boldness beyond 
 what any other author has ventured to use towards 
 the public patron of his fame, if such he may be con- 
 sidered. This conduct proves he was not prompted 
 by the demon of flattery. 
 
 Then, again, was he to trumpet forth his accom- 
 plishments, his talents, his wealth, his birth? No; 
 many others might be equal, many superior to him 
 on all these points. Except in the lines already 
 quoted, he never directly mentions his wealth and 
 birth. In order, therefore, to place him with truth 
 above his fellows, to make him deservedly eminent, 
 he celebrated him for the beauty of his person, which 
 he contended no one could gainsay. The lovers of 
 Shakespeare may safely conclude that whatever he 
 did on principle was, and ever will be, worthy of 
 imitation. According to his existing portrait, that 
 Earl of Pembroke must have been, in his youth, re- 
 markably beautiful ; and Shakespeare, swayed by 
 grateful feelings, regarded him as more beautiful than 
 any one who had been, or would hereafter be. In 
 this spirit he wrote ; and however much the ugly may 
 shake their heads, the claim of personal beauty will 
 be ever allowed : it is beyond all other gifts ; it neces- 
 sarily includes health and strength ; nobility, riches, 
 and sometimes talents, are trifles compared to its 
 influence ; it enforces respect ; it commands attention ; 
 it is the natural and therefore the best recommenda- 
 tion to the love of women ; and to be possessed of it 
 
56 HIS SONNETS. 
 
 is the earnest desire of men, whatever they may pre- 
 tend to the contrary, as well as of women. There 
 was no flattery in telling the earPs son that he sur- 
 passed all others in form and feature, while it was an 
 acknowledged truth; and there was no flattery in 
 attempting to immortalize in verse his beauty more 
 than in a Raffaelle or a Titian, when they give us the 
 youth of both sexes glowing in their best looks on 
 the canvas. There was only the error in hoping that 
 poetry could represent a face like painting. Shake- 
 speare, indeed, does no more than attempt the task ; 
 he sees how impossible it is to describe form by words, 
 and contents himself with assuring posterity that his 
 friend was, beyond all other men, excellent in beauty. 
 
 If some passages in these poems should be con- 
 sidered excessive, let it be remembered that the 
 fashion of the day has changed ; that the language of 
 gratitude or friendship is strong, and that when 
 uttered by the aid of poetry, it is unconscious of 
 excess. When these compliments were handed about 
 in manuscript among the wits of the age, as we know 
 from Meres they were, they met with no comments 
 on the score of flattery ; no reproach was cast on the 
 poet, for attempting to cajole a young nobleman by 
 commending his person. All was then praise ; 
 because both the subject and the poetry were in the 
 taste of the day ; and because, no doubt, every one 
 knew, that, on this theme, the youth could not be 
 flattered. 
 
 My first intention was to paraphrase one of these 
 poems, stanza by stanza, in order to prove its un- 
 broken continuity ; and I had fixed on the second, 
 
FIRST POEM. J7 
 
 for the purpose, on account of its superior interest. 
 I have since resolved on paraphrasing all those ad- 
 dressed to his friend, or, it may be called, translating 
 them into plain prose, giving the purport of every 
 stanza, one after the other, and omitting nothing but 
 illustration, or amplification, of the same thought ; in 
 one word, nothing that appears to me essential to the 
 sense. My reasons for this change of intention, are, 
 first : As not one tenth of the editions of Shakespeare 
 include his poems, it may readily be imagined that 
 many of my readers have it not in their power imme- 
 diately to judge for themselves of the correctness of 
 my explanation. And, secondly : Men will not 
 readily accede to an easy and simple solution of what 
 has long been considered a complicated difficulty ; 
 and therefore it is my duty to omit no means that can 
 lend to make myself completely understood. The 
 first poem may be read as follows. 
 
 Stanza 1. In order that beauty may never die, we desire 
 offspring from the fairest creatures ; but you, loving none 
 but yourself, are your own enemy. You, that are now the 
 world's fresh ornament, are burying happiness in its bud, 
 and committing waste by parsimony. If you have not 
 pity, you, together with the grave, will deprive the world 
 of its due. 
 
 2. Should you be asked, when your youth is no more, 
 where is your beauty ? where your lustihood ? it would be 
 shameful and unavailing to reply, " Within my own deep- 
 sunken eyes." How much more praise-worthy would it be 
 if you could answer, " This fair child of mine shall sum up 
 my count, and make my old excuse," proving himself your 
 
 D3 
 
58 HIS SONNETS. 
 
 successor in beauty. This were to be young again in age ; 
 to see your blood warm, when you feel it cold. 
 
 3. Look in your glass, and tell your face it is now time 
 there should be a copy formed of it. If that duty is 
 neglected, the world is cheated, and some mother unblessed. 
 For what virgin disdains to be your wife ? What man is 
 so foolish as to permit the love of self to thwart the love of 
 offspring ? Your mother sees herself in you, in the lovely 
 April of her days ; so you, hereafter, in spite of wrinkles, 
 may see yourself as you are now. But if you live and 
 die single, your resemblance is for ever lost. 
 
 4. Why is your profitless beauty confined within itself ? 
 Nature gives nothing, but frankly lends to the free ; then, 
 niggard of beauty, why do you not convert her gifts to 
 use ? A miser without usance, why can you not live by 
 the use of such large sums? You deceive yourself in 
 your own self-love. What account can you render to 
 Nature when she calls you hence? By not putting your 
 beauty to use, it will die without being your executor. 
 
 5. Those hours which nursed you on from infancy, will 
 at length tyrannically wither your fair qualities ; for sum- 
 mer must be led on to winter, and then, if there is no 
 distillation from the summer, all remembrance of it is 
 gone. But flowers distilled lose but their show ; their 
 substance lives sweet in winter. 
 
 6. Then allow not winter to come ere your substance 
 is distilled. Before your beauty is withered by time, 
 treasure it elsewhere. Usance is not forbidden, if it makes 
 all parties happy ; that is, to breed another self for your- 
 self ; or, if ten selves for one, you are ten times happier. 
 Then what could death do against you, leaving your 
 posterity ? Be not self-willed, for you are too fair to be 
 subdued by death. 
 
 7. Lo I when the gracious light rises in the east, all men 
 
FIRST POEM. 59 
 
 pay homage ; then, when it climbs, like strong youth, to 
 its height, all adore it still ; but when it declines, like feeble 
 age, it is disregarded ; so none will regard you, if you die 
 childless. 
 
 8. Since joy delights in joy, why are you sad when 
 music plays ? If the married unions of music offend your 
 ear, they but sweetly reprove your singleness. Mark ! 
 how one string is in concord with another; like father, 
 mother, and child, producing together one harmonious 
 song, which seems to tell you, " This you will lose in 
 singleness !" 
 
 9. Is it for fear of making a weeping widow, that you 
 do not marry ? Ah ! if you die childless, the world, 
 widow-like, will wail you, because it possesses not your 
 image, while every private widow has that consolation. If 
 
 ' money is wasted, it but shifts its place in the world, for 
 others to enjoy ; but if beauty is wasted, it ends in the 
 world, and is lost. In all this you show no love towards 
 others. 
 
 10. For shame ! you seem to own more hate than love, 
 even for yourself. Be changed, that I may change my 
 mind. At least be kind and gracious to yourself; and 
 for my sake, make another self of yourself. 
 
 11. As fast as you wane, your son would grow. The 
 world would be at an end in sixty years, if all were of your 
 mind. Let the ill-favoured perish; but nature intended 
 that you should leave copies of yourself. 
 
 12. When I observe the progress of time, and see every 
 thing decay, I fear lest your beauty should also be destroyed 
 by time ; since nothing but offspring can brave his power. 
 
 13. O that you were yourself! that you would prepare 
 betimes to bequeath your resemblance ! My dear friend, 
 you had a father ; let a son say the same of you. 
 
 14. I do not, from the stars, tell fortunes or make 
 
60 HIS SONNETS. 
 
 prophecies; but I derive knowledge from those constant 
 stars your eyes, signifying that truth and beauty will 
 proceed from you in your progeny, or, failing so, they will 
 both die with you. 
 
 15. When I consider how fading and short-lived is every 
 thing, and that you are most rich in youth, while time 
 threatens to change you, I am at war with time. 
 
 16. But why do you not make efficient war against 
 time ? and fortify yourself in your decay more blessedly 
 than with my barren verse? Many maidens virtuously 
 desire to bear your living image ; so should time be 
 defeated better than by my pen. 
 
 17. Who would hereafter put faith in my verse, if I 
 were to speak worthily in your praise ? The age to come 
 would call it a romance; but were some descendant of 
 yours alive, you would live both in it and in my rhyme. 
 
 18. I will not compare you to a summer's day, for that 
 is short-lived, and may be changeable ; but your summer 
 shall le eternal, because, so long as men can breathe, or 
 eyes can see, this verse shall make you live. 
 
 19. Devouring Time I do whatever thou wilt, still I 
 forbid thee one most heinous crime ; O carve not with 
 thy hours my friend's fair brow I Yet do thy worst, old 
 Time, my friend shall in my verse live ever young. 
 
 20. You, the woman-like master of my heart, have a 
 woman's face ; while you excel a woman in mind. You 
 were first created for a woman ; till Nature, falling in love 
 with her work, made a man of you ; defeating me of you, 
 and making you nothing to my purpose. But since she 
 appointed you for woman's pleasure, let it be so ; and mine 
 be your friendship. 
 
 21. My muse is not inspired by a counterfeit beauty, 
 and seeking for proud comparisons. O let me, true in 
 
FIRST POEM. 61 
 
 friendship, truly write. Not purposing to sell, I will not 
 overpraise. 
 
 22. As long as you remain young, I will believe myself 
 so too ; but when I behold time's furrows on you, I shall 
 look for my death. Since we have exchanged hearts, your 
 beauty must clothe mine in your breast; then how can I be 
 older than you ? Therefore, friend, be wary of yourself, 
 as I will be wary of myself, not for my own sake, but for 
 your heart, which I bear as charily as a tender nurse her 
 babe. Presume not to have your heart back again, when 
 mine within your breast is dead; it was your gift. 
 
 23. The strength of my friendship makes me forget the 
 perfect ceremony of its duty* O, let my books be then my^ 
 eloquent pleaders I O learn to read what friendship^ in 
 silence has written ! To hear with eyes belongs to love's 
 fine wit. 
 
 24. I have painted your form within me as in a frame, 
 and it hangs in my bosom's shop, which has its windows 
 glazed with your eyes, and the sun delights to peep through 
 them, in order to gaze on you. But eyes picture only 
 what they see ; they know not the heart. 
 
 25. Let the fortunate boast of public honours and proud 
 titles, whilst I, debarred of such triumph, joy in that which 
 I looked not for,* and which I most honoured. The glory 
 of great princes' favourites dies at a frown ; the painful 
 conqueror, once foiled, is quite razed from the book of 
 honour, and all his services are forgotten ; then happy I, 
 that can know no change in the friendship I feel, or in that 
 which is felt for me. 
 
 26. L'ENVOY. 
 
 " Lord of my love ! to whom in vassalage, 
 Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit, 
 
 * This is evidence that the noble youth had sought an acquain- 
 tanceship with Shakespeare, and proffered his friendship. 
 
62 HIS SONNETS. 
 
 To thee I send this written embassage, 
 
 To witness duty, not to show my wit. 
 Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine 
 
 May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it ; 
 But that I hope some good conceit of thine 
 
 In thy soul's thought all naked will bestow it; 
 Till whatsoever star that guides my moving, 
 
 Points on me graciously with fair aspect, 
 And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving, 
 
 To show me worthy of thy sweet respect. 
 Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee ; 
 Till then, not show my head where thou may'st prove 
 me." 
 
 This long continuous compliment certainly affords 
 us no hint of an anecdote in his life. It is, however, 
 the prologue of events to come. Meres, full of artifi- 
 cial conceits, must have rejoiced in some of these 
 stanzas, especially the twenty-fourth. Thus may a 
 great mind, even that of Shakespeare, be utterly dis- 
 guised by clothing itself in other men's approved 
 fancies. 
 
 SECOND POEM. 
 STANZAS XXVII TO LV. 
 
 TO HIS FKIEND WHO HAD ROBBED THE POET OF HIS 
 MISTRESS-FORGIVING HIM. 
 
 HERE is a curious change of subject. While these 
 high compliments were paid in verse to manly beauty, 
 the poet's mistress added a still higher one. She 
 allured the youth into an approval of her inconstancy ; 
 
SECOND POEM. 63 
 
 and, what was worse, into a forgetfulness of his own 
 ties of friendship. The wiles and cheats of love, when 
 we are not the sufferers, generally provoke our laugh- 
 ter ; possibly because we are more apt to sympathize 
 with the winners than the losers. With a spice of 
 malice it would be easy to draw a picture of this in- 
 trigue, so as to throw a large portion of ridicule on 
 Shakespeare ; but I am withheld, as I observe not 
 only the acuteness of suffering in the loser, but also in 
 one of the winners. 
 
 We can scarcely imagine Shakespeare in a fit of 
 rage ; such, however, was the fact. He was stung to 
 the quick ; and his resentment, though we are ignorant 
 of the manner in which it was shown, appears to have 
 been ungovernable. He alludes to it in this poem 
 with deep regret : 
 
 " I may not evermore acknowledge thee, 
 
 Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame." 
 
 These lines, no doubt, were intended to be vague. 
 I could merely offer a guess at their meaning, were it 
 not that the quarrel is referred to in the fifth poem, 
 where the interpretation of " bewailed guilt" is com- 
 plete. 
 
 " O benefit of ill I now I find true 
 
 That better is by evil still made better ; 
 And ruin'd love, when it is built anew, 
 
 Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater. 
 So I return rebuked to my content, 
 And gain by ill, thrice more than I have spent. 
 
 " That you were once unkind befriends me now, 
 And for that sorrow, which I then did feel, 
 
64 HIS SONNETS. 
 
 Needs must I under my transgression bow, 
 
 Unless my nerves were brass or hammer'd steel ; 
 For if you were by my unkindness shaken 
 
 As I by your's, you've passed a hell of time ; 
 And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken 
 
 To weigh how once I suffer'd in your crime. 
 O that our night of woe might have remembered 
 
 My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits I 
 And soon to you, as you to me, then tender'd 
 
 The humble salve which wounded bosom fits ! 
 But that your trespass now becomes a fee ; 
 Mine ransoms yours, and your's must ransom me." 
 
 Stanzas 119 # 120. 
 
 " And soon to you, as you to me," &c. inform us 
 also, that it was not long before a reconciliation took 
 place. Taking the words exactly in their order, they 
 imply that Shakespeare was the first to write ; but 
 this second poem seems to have been written in 
 answer to his friend, who had expressed sorrow for the 
 fault he had committed, even, as we read in stanza 34, 
 to tears. This sorrow instantly disarmed Shakespeare 
 of his anger. 
 
 Throughout his works, it may be observed, there is 
 ever a ready pardon for those who, tempted by oppor- 
 tunity, or swayed by prejudice, become criminals from 
 a want of strength of mind, provided they are sensible 
 of their faults, and lament them. Such was his 
 charity, to which Dr. Johnson could " not reconcile 
 his heart," as he himself has confessed, in his remarks 
 on the young Count of Rousillon, that sinner Bertram. 
 There is a case in point in the Two Gentlemen of 
 Verona, one of his earliest plays, if not his first : Pro- 
 
SECOND POEM. 65 
 
 teus attempts, by treachery and mean artifices, to 
 deprive Valentine of his mistress; yet when his "shame 
 and guilt confound " him, when he entreats forgive- 
 ness, and expresses his hearty sorrow, the generous 
 Valentine, without a moment's pause, exclaims, 
 
 " Then T am paid, 
 
 And once again I do receive thee honest. 
 Who by repentance is not satisfied, 
 Is nor of heaven, nor earth ; for these are pleased ; 
 By penitence the Eternal's wrath appeased." 
 
 And in the Tempest, one of his latest works, as well 
 as in some intervening ones, we meet with the same 
 sentiment : 
 
 " Though with their high wrongs I am struck to the quick, 
 Yet with my nobler reason, 'gainst my fury 
 Do I take part : the rarer action is 
 In virtue than in vengeance : they being penitent, 
 The sole drift of my purpose doth extend 
 Not a frown farther. Go, release them, Ariel.'* 
 
 It is delightful, in this " rarer action," so hard of 
 attainment, to discover that an author has practised 
 what he taught. There was, it is true, a reasonable 
 inducement to his forgiveness, if rage can hearken to 
 reason. He had discovered that his mistress was the 
 more to blame of the two ; that she had solicited the 
 youth, (see stanza 41 to him, and the poem addressed to 
 her) and therefore his guilt was less than it might have 
 been. In one respect, the poet surpasses his own 
 Valentine in generosity ; for no sooner is his heart at 
 peace with his friend, than he reproaches himself for 
 the bitter resentment he had shown. Whatever u 
 
66 HIS SONNETS. 
 
 was, he reflects on it with anguish, and almost thinks 
 it a sufficient ground for their lasting separation. 
 Judging from his expressions, we are led to conjecture 
 that his resentment had been public. 
 
 Continually has it been lamented that we know 
 almost nothing of our poet's life; yet here we have 
 an event in it, on which we can rely, described by 
 his own hand, with many attending circumstances, 
 every one of which exemplifies his character ; and 
 together they form a tale of interest, the like of 
 which, among the biographies of other great men, 
 poets or not, we may seek in vain. This is fresh 
 from the well-spring of truth in his own bosom. To 
 learn how any man, whose genius we reverence, 
 might have acted in his trying situation, would excite 
 that species of curiosity which is commendable ; a 
 desire to be more intimately acquainted with his mind 
 and his character, by a knowledge of the working of 
 his passions. Here, at the first glance, we find the 
 deeply philosophic poet giving loose to a storm of 
 anger, like one of the common herd, as if philosophy 
 were vain indeed. But this proceeded from the ani- 
 mal portion of his being, no more. Nor is this 
 conduct wanting in useful speculation. His usual 
 epithet, given by his personal friends, was the gentle ; 
 and we must believe he was rarely otherwise, never 
 except under a stinging provocation ; and it may tend 
 to prove that strong passions, however subdued, will 
 be found among the hidden attributes of genius. On 
 the other hand, let us view him, soon as his " nobler 
 reason" had overcome the animal within him, acting 
 up to the dictates, or beyond them, of his own philo- 
 
SECOND POEM. 67 
 
 sophy ; not simply and coldly forgiving a most vir- 
 tuous effort in the estimation of many, but kind, 
 affectionate, seeking excuses for the wrong he had 
 endured, and heart-struck at the recollection of his 
 resentment. This looks like something not altogether 
 man, as man is used to exhibit his nature. How he 
 joys in the return of friendship ! 
 
 As in this second poem he describes himself far 
 more than in any of the others, it is worthy of the 
 minutest examination. Its chief characteristics are 
 gentleness, tenderness, and sincerity. The poem was 
 written when he was distant from London, possibly 
 during one of his journeys to Stratford; because as 
 will be seen, it is mentioned he was travelling on 
 horseback, and that it was his intention to return. 
 
 Stanza 27. Though we are distant from each other, I 
 think of you so much, that I can find no repose after the 
 toil of the day. Unable to close my eyes, I fancy, in the 
 darkness, that you are at my bed-side. 
 
 28. Thus worn by night as well as by day, I find no rest. 
 
 29. When I lament my fate, if by chance I think on 
 you, I am happy. 
 
 30. When I grieve at past misfortunes, the thinking of 
 you restores my losses and ends my sorrows. 
 
 31. All those friends, whom I have supposed dead, lie 
 hidden in you. All that they had of me is yours ; and I 
 view their beloved images in you. 
 
 32. If you survive me, and should once more read these 
 lines, preserve them, not for their excellence, but as a 
 memorial of my friendship. 
 
 33. Alas ! I had rejoiced but one hour in the sunshine 
 of early morning, when the clouds came over me. 
 
68 HIS SONNETS. 
 
 34?. You, like the sun, promised a beauteous day, leaving 
 me unprotected against the clouds. It is not enough that 
 you break through the clouds to shine on me again. If 
 you heal my wound, you cure not my disgrace ; nor can 
 your shame be my comfort. Though you repent, my loss 
 is the same. Your sorrow for having offended me still 
 leaves me to suffer the consequences of your offence. Ah, 
 but the tears you shed enforce me to forgive you ! 
 
 35. No more reproach yourself. All things and all men 
 have faults ; and I, the offended one, excuse the sin you 
 have committed. 
 
 36. It may be that, friends as we are, we ought never to 
 meet again. Such a separation will not harm our frien^- 
 ship, but it will rob us of happiness. Perhaps I must not 
 openly acknowledge you, lest the resentment I showed, 
 which I bitterly lament, should be remembered to yOTB^^ 
 shame; nor may you, in your kindness, publicly honour 
 me, lest the honour of your name should suffer. That 
 cannot be ; as, loving you truly, I feel that your character, 
 like yourself, is mine. 
 
 37. I take all my comfort in your worth and truth. 
 Whatever you possess of beauty, birth, wealth, or wit, I, 
 by engrafting my friendship on you, partake of all, and of 
 all your glory. Wishing you every thing that is best, I 
 am ten times happy in seeing my wish fulfilled. 
 
 38. While you live, my muse can never want a worthy 
 subject. 
 
 39. But how can I, with propriety, sing of one who is 
 the better part of myself? In praising you, shall I not 
 also praise myself? It may therefore be better that we 
 should live divided, in order that, by not being confounded 
 together, I may do you justice. This will alleviate the 
 pain of absence. 
 
SECOND POEM. 60 
 
 40. Take all I love ; you had all, before you took her, 
 If you love her for my sake, I cannot blame you; if other- 
 wise, I shall. Gentle thief, I forgive your robbery ; though 
 you have stolen all my property ; and though it is harder 
 to bear a wrong from love than an injury from hate. Kill 
 me, by your blandishments towards her, with spiteful 
 thoughts ; yet we must not be foes. 
 
 41. The licence you give yourself, forgetting me the 
 while, well befits your youth and beauty, for temptation 
 follows you every where. You are gentle, therefore apt 
 to yield ; you are beauteous, therefore to be wooed ; and 
 when a woman woos, what woman's son will deny her ? 
 Ah me I but yet you should forbear, and chide your beauty 
 and your straying youth, when they lead you, in their riot , 
 to break not only your faith to me, but her's. 
 
 42. I am grieved that you have her, for I loved her 
 dearly ; but it is a worse loss, through her means, to be 
 deprived of you. I would fain excuse you both, by saying 
 that my friend loves her for rny sake, and that she loves 
 you because you are my friend. If I lose you, it is her 
 gain ; and the loss of her is my friend's gain. But my 
 friend and I are one ; . so I may sweetly flatter myself that 
 she still loves me, and no other. 
 
 43. I see you in my dreams at night ; how much more 
 happy should I be to see you by day I 
 
 44. If I could move as quick as thought, I would 
 instantly conquer this distance between us ; but I must 
 wait in sadness for time's leisure. 
 
 45. I am for ever sending my thoughts and wishes in 
 tender embassy. They, swift messengers, return with news 
 of your fair health ; yet I am not content. 
 
 46. My eye and my heart have been contending for 
 which has the greatest share in you ; and it is determined 
 
70 HIS SONNETS. 
 
 that my eye has a right to your picture,* that is, your 
 outward appearance, and my heart to your friendship. 
 
 47. Thus my eye, possessed of your form, and my heart 
 of your friendship, I still have you with me, in spite of the 
 distance between us. 
 
 48. How careful I was, when I set out, to place each 
 trifle under lock and key ; but I left you, to whom my 
 jewels are trifles, a prey to every vulgar thief, and I fear you 
 may be stolen from me. 
 
 49. If ever that should happen, and you, upon more ad- 
 vised consideration, should frown on my defects, pass by, 
 and scarcely look on me, I here, beforehand, declare that 
 you may lawfully leave me, since I can produce no reason 
 for your loving me. 
 
 50. How heavy is a journey away from a friend I My 
 horse plods dully on, as if he knew, by some instinct, that 
 his rider loved not speed when leaving you. 
 
 51. What excuse will my poor beast find on my return, 
 when the wind itself will not be swift enough ? 
 
 52. This absence will but increase my pleasure in seeing 
 you. 
 
 53. How comes it you are surrounded by so many ad- 
 mirers ? Your beauty is like that of Adonis, or of Helen, 
 
 * This and the following stanza would almost lead us to con- 
 clude that he really had his friend's picture. I believe nothing 
 more is meant than his outward form. Proteus, speaking of 
 Silvia, uses the word in the same sense, 
 
 " 'Tis but her picture I have yet beheld." 
 
 This part of the poem is full of conceits, once, no doubt, wondered 
 at for their wit and elegance. In the two preceding stanzas the 
 author is composed of the four elements : his body is earth and 
 water ; his thoughts and wishes are air and fire ; then when he 
 sends his air and fire on an embassy, his earth and water " sink 
 down to death, oppressed with melancholy !" 
 
SECOND POEM. 71 
 
 or of the spring, as your bounty is like harvest time ; but 
 your best quality is constancy of heart. 
 
 54. How much more beauteous is beauty when accom- 
 panied by truth ! When your youth and beauty shall fade, 
 your truth shall live in my verse. 
 
 55. I/ENVOY. 
 " Not marble, nor the gilded monuments 
 
 Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme ; 
 But you shall shine more bright in these contents 
 
 Than unswept stone, besmear'd with sluttish time. 
 When wasteful war shall statues overturn, 
 
 And broils root out the work of masonry, 
 Nor Mars's sword, nor war's quick fire shall burn 
 
 The living record of your memory. 
 'Gainst death, and all oblivious enmity, 
 
 Shall you pace forth : your praise shall still find room, 
 Even in the eyes of all posterity, 
 
 That wear this world out to the ending doom. 
 So till the judgment that yourself arise, 
 You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes." 
 
 This Envoy is in the extreme. There are several 
 other passages, to the same effect, in these poems ; 
 they will merit consideration, when speaking of his 
 love of fame. In this instance, it may be argued that 
 the boast of the poet is subservient to the compliment 
 he is paying. For the rest, the lines may last " to the 
 ending doom ;" but how strange it is that the immor- 
 talized personage himself should, in a few short years, 
 have been utterly unknown as their subject, and have 
 remained for about two centuries an object of un- 
 availing research ! Many may contend he is still 
 uncertain ; but, though I think my proofs are suflfi- 
 
72 HIS SONNETS. 
 
 ciently strong, I do not insist upon them, because they 
 are of minor importance. 
 
 My sole gratification in giving to Shakespeare a 
 warm friendship for Master William Herbert, rests on 
 the fact that when Earl of Pembroke, he is known to 
 have been the worthiest, the most accomplished, and 
 perhaps the most elegantly learned nobleman of his 
 day. A tradition exists in the family, that, when 
 supposed dead from apoplexy, his arm sprung up at 
 the moment the knife was employed in the preparation 
 for embalming his body, and then, an instant after, he 
 died. 
 
 THIRD POEM. 
 STANZAS LVI TO LXXVII. 
 
 TO HIS FRIEND, COMPLAINING OF HIS COLDNESS, AND WARNING 
 . HIM OF LIFE'S DECAY. 
 
 SUCH a friendship as this between the EaiTs son and 
 Shakespeare, was not, according to Bacon, uncommon 
 in his time. " There is," he tells us in his Essays, 
 " little friendship in the world, and least of all between 
 equals, which was wont to be magnified. That that 
 is, is between superior and inferior, whose fortunes 
 may comprehend the one the other." We now con- 
 sider an approach to equality in rank and fortune as 
 necessary to the union of minds ; and this poem, 
 together with the two succeeding ones, tends to con- 
 firm the modern doctrine, and, according to Bacon, 
 that of more ancient times. 
 
THIRD POEM. 73 
 
 Soon after the reconciliation, the youth evinced a 
 coldness towards his friend. It may be that he could 
 not forgive himself so frankly as he had been forgiven ; 
 and that therefore the sight of a man, whom he had 
 injured, was painful, perhaps humbling. But it seems 
 more probable, without going to history for his 
 character, he was of a good and generous nature, 
 though, at his age, of a volatile disposition; and, 
 highly situated as he was by birth, in danger of being 
 spoiled by the flattery of the world. 
 
 In the three first stanzas Shakespeare complains of 
 this coldness. Those marked 57 and 58 are what I 
 before noticed as evidence of the person addressed 
 being a man of rank. Reproach is conveyed more 
 forcibly, and, at the same time, with more kindness, 
 in their strained humility, than it would have been by 
 direct expostulation. 
 
 " Being your slave, what should I do but tend 
 
 Upon the hours and times of your desire ? 
 I have no precious time at all to spend, 
 
 Nor services to do, till you require. 
 Nor dare I chide the world- without-end hour, 
 
 Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you, 
 Nor think the bitterness of absence sour, 
 
 When you have bid your servant once adieu ; 
 Nor dare I question with my jealous thought, 
 
 Where you may be, or your affairs suppose, 
 But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought, 
 
 Save, where you are how happy you make those : 
 So true a fool is love, that in your will 
 (Though you do anything) he thinks no ill. 
 
 " That God forbid, that made me first your slave, 
 
 I should in thought controul your times of pleasure, 
 
 E 
 
74 HIS SONNETS. 
 
 Or at your hand the account of hours to crave, 
 
 Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure ! 
 Oh, let me suffer, (being at your beck,) 
 
 The imprison'd absence of your liberty, 
 And patient, tame to sufferance, bide each check, 
 
 Without accusing you of injury. 
 Be where you list, your charter is so strong, 
 
 That you yourself may privilege your time; 
 Do what you will, to you it doth belong, 
 
 Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime ; 
 I am to wait, though waiting so be hell, 
 Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well." 
 
 After this complaint of his seeming indifference, it 
 is only once more referred to, in stanza 61st. 
 
 " From me far off, with others all too near." 
 
 And the remainder of the poem is filled with compli- 
 ments, and assurances of unaltered affection, mixed 
 with warnings of the fleeting nature of youth, exem- 
 plified in the poet himself, now passed his best days, 
 and looking forward to age and death. 
 
 At the time of writing this poem, he must have been, 
 according to my calculation, about five and thirty. 
 His description of himself would, at first sight, 
 represent him much older, particularly in stanza 73rd. 
 
 " That time of year thou may'st in me behold, 
 
 When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang 
 Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, 
 
 Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. 
 In me thou seest the twilight of such day, 
 
 As after sunset fadeth in the west, 
 Which by and by black night doth take away, 
 
 Death's second self, that seals up all in rest." 
 
THIRD POEM. 75 
 
 This is true as contrasted with the fresh youth of his 
 friend ; and thus it is explained in the two lines imme- 
 diately following : 
 
 " In me thou seest the glowing of such fire 
 That on the ashes of his youth doth lie." 
 
 But we shall better understand it when we recollect 
 that most men, perhaps all, after having well mastered 
 thirty years, are extremely sensitive to internal reflec- 
 tions on their mortality. At that period we are 
 conscious of having lost the bloom of life and the blithe 
 alacrity of youth ; and we are startled at the thought 
 of crows' feet at our eyes, with other hard and woful 
 signs, which must shortly be our's. At forty, we are 
 reconciled to all this ; at fifty, we look forward to 
 sixty ; and so on, till we look back on five and thirty 
 as the prime of manhood. Old Pantaloon, in one of 
 Goldoni's comedies, exclaims, " O, I feel like a 
 young man of forty !" 
 
 In stanzas 69th and 70th, he mentions his having 
 heard his young friend's conduct blamed. This he 
 supposes a slander, yet counsels him to beware of 
 giving a likelihood to such talk. This is as unlike 
 flattery as a father's advice to his son. 
 
 L' Envoy to this poem is curious. It appears that 
 the poem was written in a book, leaving some blank 
 leaves, which Shakespeare recommends his friend to 
 occupy with his <c mind's imprint." 
 
 Stanza 56. Renew thy strength, sweet friendship; and 
 let it not be said thou art wearied. Do not, my friend, 
 kill, with cold looks, the soul of kindness ; and may this 
 
76 HIS SONNETS. 
 
 sad interim be called by some loved name, unlike estrange- 
 ment. 
 
 57. What should I do but, in all obedience, attend upon 
 you at your own hours, without regard to myself? Nor 
 can I presume to guess at your affairs, or where you 
 may be. 
 
 58. God forbid I should imagine any restraint on your 
 liberty ! My duty, as your vassal, is patience, without a 
 murmur. Whatever I may suffer while absent from you, 
 it is my part to await your pleasure. 
 
 59. If everything which exists has existed before, would 
 I could open a record, a thousand years old, and see what 
 was said of you in ancient times I 
 
 60. Time by degrees destroys what he bestows ; yet, in 
 despite of time, I will celebrate your worth to posterity. 
 
 61. When your image breaks my rest, is it yourself, in 
 spirit, that haunts me, to discover if I continue to bear 
 you in my mind ? O no ! your friendship, though much, 
 is not so great. It is my fear of losing you that keeps me 
 wakeful. 
 
 62. In spite of my glass, showing me in the wane of 
 life, I am full of self, because I regard my young friend 
 as my own self. 
 
 63. When my friend's youth and beauty shall fade, and 
 when, like me, he shall be crushed and o'erworn by time, 
 this verse shall preserve him as he is. 
 
 64. While I observe the destruction or change of every 
 thing by Time, I reflect that Time also will take away my 
 friend ; the thought of which is as death. 
 
 65. Since the power of Time, over the strongest sub- 
 stances, is irresistible, what can beauty, weaker than a 
 flower, expect ? It cannot survive, unless in verse. 
 
 66. Tired of beholding the corruptions of this world, 
 I would fain die, were it not that I must leave my friend 
 alone. 
 
THIRD POEM. 77 
 
 67. Ah I wherefore should his presence grace corrup- 
 tion ? Why should he live, now nature is disfigured, 
 unless it be that she keeps him as a sample of the wealth 
 she once possessed ? 
 
 68. She shows him, to mark the distinction between 
 beauty and its artful counterfeit. 
 
 69. Foes, as well as friends, speak of the perfection of 
 your outward form ; yet their praise is confounded when 
 they guess at the qualities of your mind. The cause is 
 this, you associate too much with many. 
 
 70. The slander of others shall not harm you. On the 
 contrary, while you remain good, it will but prove your 
 worth the more. Your having long escaped censure, is no 
 security for the future ; and your power in the world 
 might be too great, were you believed faultless. 
 
 71. Mourn not for me when I am dead ; forget the 
 hand that writes these lines ; for, in my friendship, I desire 
 you may never feel sorrow. But, should you remember 
 me, forbear to speak my name, least you be reproached 
 with my unworthiness. 
 
 72. O, rather than you should be reproached, may I, 
 dear friend, be utterly forgotten ! unless you can devise 
 some virtuous untruth in my favour. But no, nothing 
 that seems false must come from you. 
 
 73. My youth is past, and I journey on towards age and 
 death ; therefore, since I may leave you ere long, your 
 friendship, aware of this, is the stronger. 
 
 74-. But be content; these lines, the better part of me, 
 will remain when I am no more. 
 
 75. As food to life, or sweet-seasoned showers to the 
 ground, your friendship is to me. Sometimes I enjoy it to 
 the full ; at other times I am bereaved of it. 
 
 76. Why is my verse, contrary to the fashion of the 
 day, so unvaried ? Know, kind friend, I always write of 
 you, and I can only repeat my estimation of you. 
 
78 HIS SONNETS. 
 
 77. L'ENVOY. 
 
 u Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear, 
 
 Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste ; 
 The vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear, 
 
 And of this book this learning may'st thou taste. 
 The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show, 
 Of mouthed graves will give thee memory; 
 
 Thou by thy dial's shady stealth may'st know 
 
 Time's thievish progress to eternity. 
 Look, what thy memory cannot contain, 
 
 Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find 
 Those children nursed, delivered from thy brain, 
 
 To take a new acquaintance of thy mind. 
 These offices, so oft as thou wilt look, 
 Shall profit thee, and much enrich thy book." 
 
 Whether the advice contained in this Envoy was or 
 was not followed, is of no importance ; but it certainly 
 was the occasion of a counter-gift of a memorandum- 
 book, possibly too fine a one for use, since we read, 
 in stanza 122nd, that such a gift had been made, and 
 that the poet had bestowed it on another ; for which 
 he is compelled, as we read in that stanza, to make 
 a complimentary excuse : 
 
 " Thy gift, thy tables 
 
 That poor retention could not so much hold, 
 
 Nor need I tallies, thy dear love to score ; 
 Therefore to give them from me was I bold, 
 
 To trust those tables that receive thee more : 
 To keep an adjunct to remember thee, 
 Were to import forgetfulness in me." 
 
FOURTH POEM. 79 
 
 FOURTH POEM. 
 STANZAS LXXVIII TO CI. 
 
 TO HIS FRIEND, COMPLAINING THAT HE PREFERS ANOTHER 
 
 POET'S PRAISES, AND REPROVING HIM FOE FAULTS 
 
 THAT MAY INJURE HIS CHARACTER. 
 
 WHO this rival poet was is beyond my conjecture; 
 nor does it matter. We perceive many intimations 
 that he owed his preferment to flattery. Accordingly 
 Shakespeare, in this poem particularly, disclaims such 
 unworthiness ; asserting that he praises his friend for 
 nothing but what all men, friends and foes, freely 
 acknowledged. His personal beauty, which the newly 
 favoured poet was also celebrating, he had ever made 
 the chief subject of eulogy, as none could contradict 
 it. Even when it became, at the time of his mistress's 
 falling in love with it, a curse to himself, he still con- 
 tinued to do it justice, and, in his magnanimity, paid 
 it equal or greater compliments while suffering from 
 its influence. Farther, to point out how different he 
 is from a servile poet, and to prove his honesty, he 
 now blames the youth for his faults, excusing himself 
 for interference by reminding him that a stain on his 
 character affects a friend. The faults he notices are 
 those of licentious conversation, and fickleness in his 
 friendship. His sharpest reproof for the latter fault 
 is in these lines : 
 
 " Farewell ! thou art too dear for my possessing, 
 And like enough thou know'st thy estimate !" 
 
 The reproof for the other fault, is given with a pater- 
 
80 HIS SONNETS. 
 
 nal love. It is contained in stanzas 94th, 95th, and 
 96th. Only imagine them, with Dr. Chalmers, 
 addressed to old Queen Elizabeth ! I give them for 
 their excellence, and in illustration. 
 
 " The summer flower is to the summer sweet, 
 
 Though to itself it only live and die ; 
 But if that flower with base infection meet, 
 
 The basest weed outbraves his dignity ; 
 For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds 5 
 Lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds. 
 
 " How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame, 
 
 Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose, 
 Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name I 
 
 O, in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose ! 
 That tongue that tells the story of thy days, 
 
 Making lascivious comments on thy sport, 
 Cannot dispraise but in a kind of praise : 
 
 Naming thy name blesses an ill report. 
 O what a mansion have those vices got, 
 
 Which for a habitation chose out thee ! 
 Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot, 
 
 And all things turns to fair that eyes can see ! 
 Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege ; 
 The hardest knife ill-used doth lose its edge. 
 
 " Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness ; 
 
 Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport ; 
 Both grace and faults are loved of more or less ; 
 
 Thou mak'st faults graces that to thee resort. 
 As on the finger of a throned queen 
 
 The basest jewel will be well esteem'd; 
 So are those errors that in thee are seen 
 
 To truths translated, and for true things deem'd. 
 How many lambs might the stern wolf betray, 
 
 If like a lamb he could his looks translate ! 
 
FOURTH POEM. 81 
 
 How many gazers might'st thou lead away, 
 
 If thou would'st use the strength of all thy state ! 
 But do not so ; I love thee in such sort, 
 As thou being mine, mine is thy good report." 
 
 In this place I ought to refute the story of our 
 poet's being lame. It rests, I conjecture, on the 
 authority of some matter-of-fact gentlemen, who could 
 not comprehend a metaphor. In stanza 37th he says, 
 he is te made lame by fortune's dearest (direst ?) 
 spite;" therefore he is lame in his foot. But if such 
 gentlemen insist on discarding figurative language, it 
 is strange they did not observe, a few lines after, that 
 he also says, " So then I am not lame" which ought 
 to set him on his legs again without a halt. Then we 
 have here in stanza 89th : 
 
 " Say that thou dost forsake me for some fault, 
 
 And I will comment upon that offence ; 
 Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt, 
 Against thy reasons making no defence.'* 
 
 That is, call me lame> and 7, to make your words 
 good, will pretend to be so. Had he really been lame 
 this would have lost its point ; and the promise of 
 "making no defence" would have been ridiculous. 
 Besides, these four lines are immediately preceded by 
 
 " Such is my love, to thee I so belong, 
 That for thy right myself will bear all wrong." 
 
 It is therefore, strongly as words can imply it, certain 
 that to call him lame would be a wrong done to him. 
 That he excelled in performing the parts of old men 
 may well have been, without his halting. But how, 
 
 E 3 
 
82 HIS SONNETS. 
 
 with halting, could he have played the Ghost in Ham- 
 let> which we are told was his best performance? 
 As the story may be traced to these poems, so is it 
 refuted by them. Sir Walter Scott introduced Shake- 
 speare, a speechless figure, into his Kenilworth, appa- 
 rently for no other purpose than the pleasure of call- 
 ing him " a halting fellow." " He is a stout man at 
 quarter-staff, and single falchion, though, as I am told, 
 a halting fellow." 
 
 The Envoy, like that to the second poem, contains 
 a promise of immortal fame, in an address to his 
 muse. 
 
 Stanza 78. You have so often embellished my verse, 
 that many others follow my example. Ignorant writers 
 learn something, and the learned double the majesty of 
 their lines from you. Yet be most proud of my verse, 
 inspired by you alone. 
 
 79. Whilst I was your only poet, you favoured me ; but 
 now I must yield to another. I grant, kind friend, you 
 merit a worthier pen than mine ; but what your present 
 poet appears to invent in your praise, whether it be virtue 
 or beauty, is nothing more than a reflection of yourself 
 Therefore thank him not. 
 
 80. I might despair, while you listen to a better poet, 
 were it not that your worth is like the ocean, and can bear 
 a saucy bark as well as a vessel of tall building and goodly 
 pride. Should 1 be cast away, my friendship is to blame. 
 
 81. One of us must survive the other. In either case 
 you cannot be forgotten, though I may ; because your 
 monument shall be my gentle verse, to be o'erread (such 
 virtue hath my pen) by eyes not yet created. 
 
 82. I grant you were not constrained to listen to me 
 as your only poet, since I might prove inefficient. Listen 
 
FOURTH POEM. 83 
 
 therefore to others ; yet beware of their gross painting, and 
 call to mind your truth-telling friend. 
 
 83. I never perceived that embellishment was necessary 
 for you ; therefore have I been some time silent, to prove 
 how much you exceed written compliment. This should 
 be considered in my favour. One of your fair eyes is 
 worth more than the praise of both your poets. 
 
 84-. None can say more than, " You alone are you !'' 
 The poorest writer may become rich on such a theme. 
 You add a curse to your beauteous blessings by being fond 
 of praise. 
 
 85. My tongue-tied muse restrains herself; and while 
 others write good words, I think good thoughts. Still 
 agreeing with their praise, I consider you are my friend, 
 and therefore I ought to hold the first rank. 
 
 86. Was it the grandeur of his verse in your praise, or 
 his superior genius, that silenced me ? No ; neither he, 
 nor his night companions, giving him aid, nor that affable 
 familiar spy,* who every night deceives him with intelli- 
 gence, caused my silence ; but I lacked matter, when I 
 lacked your countenance. 
 
 87. Farewell I you are too dear for my possessing, and 
 like enough you know your value. You can be mine only 
 by favdur, not by my desert. You may, perceiving your 
 error, withdraw your friendship, making it but a happy 
 dream to me. 
 
 88. When you shall be disposed to hold me in disesteem, 
 I will, for your sake, and therefore for my own, second 
 every thing you may speak in my dispraise. 
 
 89. To all faults imputed by you I will plead guilty ; 
 
 * These allusions to the now forgotten rival poet are vague and 
 unavailing. Nothing can be traced from them towards his dis- 
 covery. 
 
84 HIS SONNETS. 
 
 and I will avoid your presence, ceasing to remind the 
 world of our former acquaintanceship. 
 
 90. If you must hate me, hate me now,* while fortune 
 is my enemy. Let the loss of you make other petty griefs 
 light, and not follow them. 
 
 91. Some glory in one thing, some in another ; I in you 
 alone. Having you, my happiness would surpass that of 
 all others, did it not depend on your constancy. 
 
 92. Your friendship will last through my term of life. 
 This is a happiness; but you may be false, and I not 
 know it. 
 
 93. Thus may I, like a deceived husband, live on sup- 
 posing you are true. I shall never perceive the change in 
 your face, since that is fated to express nothing but kind 
 love. 
 
 94-. They that have power to do evil by their conversa- 
 tion, yet are not inclined to it themselves, have, in their 
 right of power, a command over appearances. Yet be 
 mindful of this, lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds. 
 
 95. How spotted is the beauty of your budding name 
 by your licentious speech ! How are your vices veiled by 
 your fair qualities ! Dear friend, be heedful, or you are 
 lost. 
 
 96. Some excuse your faults ; and truly you can convert 
 faults into graces. But do not so ; for, like yourself, your 
 good report belongs to me. 
 
 97. In your absence the passed summer seemed to me 
 like winter, and the autumn poor in its abundance. 
 
 * Like other men, he must have had his disappointments and 
 vexations, even in what appears to us his splendid career towards 
 fame. Though, in the original stanza, he uses the word " sorrow," 
 he certainly could not hint at the death of his son ; because, only 
 a few lines farther on, he calls that " sorrow" "petty griefs" 
 Besides, his only son died in 1596. 
 
FOURTH POEM. 85 
 
 98. I have been absent from you during the spring, 
 when nothing could afford me delight. 
 
 99. Then I accused every flower of having stolen either 
 its sweetness or its colour from you. 
 
 100. Whither, my Muse, art thou gone, forgetful of thy 
 duty ? Return, and redeem thy ill-spent hours. Gaze on 
 my friend, and if in him appears Time's spoils, satirize his 
 power, and give my friend fame faster than he can waste life. 
 
 101. L'ENVOY. 
 " O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends 
 
 For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed ? 
 Both truth and beauty on my love depends ; 
 
 So dost thou too, and therein dignified. 
 Make answer, Muse : wilt thou not aptly say, 
 
 Truth needs no colour, with his colour fixed, 
 Beauty no pencil, beauty s truth to lay ; 
 
 But best is best if never intermixed. 
 Because he needs no praise wilt thou be dumb ? 
 
 Excuse not silence so : it lies in thee 
 To make him much outlive a gilded tomb, 
 
 And to be praised of ages yet to be. 
 Then do thy office, Muse ; I teach thee how 
 To make him seem long hence as he shows now." 
 
 FIFTH POEM. 
 
 STANZAS CII TO CXXVI. 
 
 TO HIS FRIEND, EXCUSING HIMSELF FOR HAVING BEEN SOME 
 
 TIME SILENT, AND DISCLAIMING THE CHARGE OF 
 
 INCONSTANCY. 
 
 IN the three first poems we see tenderness and inte- 
 grity expressed, for the most part, in monotonous lines; 
 
86 HIS SONNETS. 
 
 the sentiment often disguised in conceits. The fourth 
 is far less objectionable; but the fifth is full of varied, 
 rich, and energetic poetry. As we know that three 
 years had elapsed between the first and the fifth, it is 
 highly interesting to observe his improvement in 
 rhymed versification, and his gradual abandonment 
 of the fashion of the day. Few will differ from me 
 when I say it is to be regretted that he ever departed 
 from blank verse in his plays. He himself was doubt- 
 less of this opinion, for he seldom penned even a 
 couplet in his latest plays. Ease, harmony, strength, 
 and pregnancy of meaning, all so wonderfully his 
 attributes, often seemed to forsake him when he wrote 
 in rhyme, at least in the heroic measure. 
 
 He opens this poem with an elegant apology for 
 his silence. The stanza is one of the best he has 
 written. 
 
 " My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming ; 
 
 I love not less, though less the show appear ; 
 That love is merchandised, whose rich esteeming 
 
 The owner's tongue doth publish every where. 
 Our love was new, and then but in the spring, 
 
 When I was wont to greet it with my lays ; 
 As Philomel in summer's front doth sing, 
 
 And stops her pipe in growth of riper days : 
 Not that the summer is less pleasant now 
 
 Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night, 
 But that wild music burthens every bough, 
 
 And sweets, grown common, lose their dear delight. 
 Therefore, like her, I sometimes hold my tongue, 
 Because I would not dull you with my song." 
 
 As he had been accused, in addition to his silence. 
 
FIFTH POEM. 87 
 
 of giving a preference to new acquaintances, he exults 
 in these evidences of the youth's friendship, repeatedly 
 calling him " fair, kind, and true," and declaring his 
 own sincerity. He talks more than usual of himself, 
 as if he were assured of the youth's being interested 
 in him, and even calls to mind their old quarrel as a 
 matter of triumph to both parties. 
 
 For some time I was baffled in discovering the 
 meaning of stanza 121 ; the only real difficulty I have 
 encountered in these poems. He there mentions he 
 had been accused of something " vile ;" complains that 
 on his " frailties" there have been " frailer spies," and 
 strenuously rebuts the charge. The word frailties 
 naturally sent my thoughts on his mistress, but as he 
 says, speaking of his calumniators : 
 
 " Which in their wills count bad what I think good" 
 
 of course he had not her in his mind, as, in other pas- 
 sages, he condemns himself for having had any ac- 
 quaintanceship with her. It follows then it must have 
 been something else which was esteemed " vile ;" and, 
 connecting the stanza with the preceding and follow- 
 ing ones, we find he had been pronounced guilty of 
 the vileness of frailty in friendship, a phrase used 
 in the same sense also in stanza 109. His reasoning 
 on this subject is likewise obscure, and might be mis- 
 taken to his discredit : 
 
 " Tis better to be vile, than vile esteem'd : 
 
 When not to be receives reproach of being ; 
 And the just pleasure lost, which is so deem'd, 
 Not by our feeling, but by others' seeing." 
 
88 HIS SONNETS. 
 
 My interpretation will be seen. He owns he had 
 been long absent, that he had " frequent been with 
 unknown minds," and that he had " forgot upon his 
 dearest love (friend) to call," but still contends he 
 was heartily attached to him. After reminding him 
 of the cordiality of their reconciliation in times past, 
 he utterly denies that he had been so " vile" as to be 
 fickle in friendship. Immediately after this stanza, 
 he acknowledges having given his present of a memo- 
 randum book, "thy gift, thy tables," to another, 
 (which, we may suppose, was ranked among his 
 offences) and handsomely excuses himself for having 
 parted with it. Then he exclaims : 
 
 " No ! Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change !" 
 
 and continues in the same strain to the end of the 
 poem. 
 
 Nothing appears to have distressed him more than 
 evil tongues. We have seen how sensitively he 
 warned his friend, in his light conversation, to beware 
 of them. His hatred of the profession of a player is 
 grounded on the reproach cast on it by the world. 
 This is bitterly and powerfully expressed in these 
 lines : 
 
 " Alas ! 'tis true I have gone here and there, 
 And made myself a motley to the view, 
 Gored mine own thoughts." * * * * 
 
 " O for my sake, do thou with fortune chide, 
 The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds, 
 That did not better for my life provide, 
 
 Than public means, which public manners breeds. 
 
FIFTH POEM. 89 
 
 Thence comes it that my name receives a brand, 
 And almost thence my nature is subdued 
 
 To what it works in, like the dyer's hand. 
 Pity me then." * * * * 
 
 " Your love and pity do the impression fill 
 
 Which vulgar scandal stamp* d upon my brow ; 
 
 For what care I who calls me well or ill, 
 So you o'ergreen my bad, my good allow ? 
 
 You are my all-the-world, and I must strive 
 
 To know my shames and praises from your tongue." 
 
 Had he been the best actor of his day, he might 
 have found a sufficient consolation in making himself 
 a " motley to the view;" and we may readily imagine 
 that his regret was mingled with some indignation at 
 players not being worthily esteemed ; which at the 
 present day they are, by inheritance from him, as 
 well as on their own account. We are told that, on 
 the stage, he was " excellent in the qualitie he 
 professed," and " an actor of good account in the 
 companie ;" by which we may understand he was an 
 excellent actor of second-rate parts. His name stands 
 in the list of the principal tragedians to Ben Jonson's 
 Sejanus, performed in 1603 ; but it appears in no 
 list of a later date. This was thirteen years before 
 his death. It is probable that he gradually withdrew 
 his person from the stage, as the fame and profits of 
 his works increased. 
 
 As he had given in this poem a reason for not 
 addressing more verses to his young friend, the 
 Envoy, without actually bidding him farewell, seems 
 to take a poetical leave of him ; and, to mark it the 
 more, it is written, not in the sonnet-stanza, but in 
 half-a-dozen couplets. 
 
90 HIS SONNETS. 
 
 Stanza 102. My friendship is far from being disproved 
 by silence. When we first knew each other, I wrote in 
 your praise ; and if I sometimes now refrain, it is because 
 your praise is become common, and I would not make you 
 weary of my verse. 
 
 103. O blame me not if I should write no more, since 
 your merits exceed the power of my muse. 
 
 lOi. To me, fair friend, you will always appear the 
 same as when first I saw you fresh in youth, you that are 
 yet young. Beauty fades unperceived ; therefore I would 
 celebrate it betimes. 
 
 105. Let not my friendship be called idolatry, since my 
 beloved friend is fair, kind, and true to me. 
 
 106. Old chroniclers, in their descriptions of human 
 beauty, did but prefigure you. 
 
 107. No consideration can controul my true friendship. 
 In spite of death itself, I shall live in this verse, and it 
 shall be your enduring monument. 
 
 108. What can I say more than I have already said in 
 your praise ? Nothing, dear boy ; but still it must, like 
 prayers divine, be repeated daily, so that our friendship 
 may seem always young. 
 
 109. O never say that absence made me fickle. I 
 return unchanged. Never believe anything against me so 
 preposterous. 
 
 110. Alas! it is true I have gone here and there, a 
 public player, goring my own thoughts ; and it is most 
 true that I have formed new acquaintances, but not to 
 your injury ; nor shall my conduct again try the patience 
 of an older friend. 
 
 111. O for my sake chide guilty fortune for not having 
 provided me with better means that those which depend 
 on the public. Thence is my name disgraced, my and 
 nature is well nigh humiliated to my situation. But if you 
 pity me, dear friend, I shall find comfort 
 
FIFTH POEM. 91 
 
 112. Your friendship and pity make amends for what 
 vulgar scandal has stamped upon me. I am deaf to critic 
 or flatterer, so you palliate my bad, and allow my good. 
 
 113. Since I left you, everything, in my mind's eye, has 
 appeared in your shape. 
 
 114. Has my eye been flattered, or has it seen truly ? 
 O, it was flattery I Yet, in this instance, I have a kingly 
 love for it. 
 
 115. Was I wrong in saying from the first Now I 
 love you best ! thus subduing the tyranny of Time, by 
 proclaiming a certainty over uncertainty ? 
 
 116. Let me not admit impediments to the union of 
 true minds. Friendship is insincere, if capable of change 
 when it meets with change. O no ! it is fixed, never 
 shaken, a guiding star, and not the fool of Time. 
 
 117. Accuse me of having been remiss in my duty by 
 not calling on you, say I have frequented others' company 
 instead of yours, record my wilfulness and errors, and add 
 surmise to proof ; but hate me not for putting your 
 constancy and the virtue of your friendship to trial. 
 
 118. As we stimulate our appetites by compounds, or as 
 we make ourselves sick with physic to avoid a worse 
 sickness, such was the policy of my friendship. I find, 
 however, that the drugs I took for your sake are considered 
 poison. 
 
 119. What wretchedness was once mine when I thought 
 we were separated for ever ! O benefit of ill ! now I find 
 that which was more than good may be bettered by evil, 
 and renewed friendship is stronger and greater than it was 
 at first. 
 
 120. Your former unkindness befriends me now, and I 
 must bow under my transgression, occasioned by the 
 sorrow I then felt. For if you were shaken by my un- 
 kindness, as I by your's, you have passed a hell of time. 
 I have never sough); to canvass the crime you committed. 
 
92 HIS SONNETS. 
 
 that I had then thought otherwise than I did ! But we 
 soon mutually exchanged forgiveness, and we are the 
 richer for it. 
 
 121. A man that is slandered, is in a worse state than if 
 his enemies spoke the truth; inasmuch as he does not 
 enjoy those advantages, which, according to them, his bad 
 conduct has acquired. Why should slanderers count bad 
 what I think good ? No ; / am that I am ! and they who 
 point out my defects, betray their own. 
 
 1 22. Your gift of tablets I bestowed on another, because 
 
 1 stood not in need of anything to keep you in my 
 memory. 
 
 123. Time, with his pyramids, which are but deceptions 
 on us, because our lives are short, shall not boast of my 
 change. 
 
 124. If my dear friendship were but the child of state, 
 it might be called fortune's bastard, subject to circum- 
 stances, and built on accident ; but it is neither affected by 
 smiling pomp, nor by misfortune. It fears not policy ; it 
 stands alone, unbiassed, and is itself, in the grand sense, 
 politic. 
 
 125. How should I have profited by obsequiousness, 
 laying a wrong foundation for fame ? Have I not seen 
 courtiers lose all, and more, by paying too much ? No ! 
 let my unmixed and artless homage be to your heart, and 
 let your heart be mine in exchange. Hence, thou suborned 
 calumniator of my sincerity! A true soul, when most 
 impeached, stands least in thy power. 
 
 126. L'ENVOY. 
 
 " O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power 
 Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour ; 
 Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st 
 Thy lovers withering as thy sweet self grow'st : 
 
FIFTH POEM. 93 
 
 If nature, sovereign mistress, over wrack, 
 As thou gost onwards, still will pluck thee back, 
 She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill 
 May time disgrace, and wretched minutes kill. 
 Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure ! 
 She may detain, but not still keep her treasure : 
 Her audit, though delayed, answered must be ; 
 And her quietus is to render thee/' 
 
 The task of interpreting the sense of all these 
 stanzas, has been effected carefully and honestly. 
 Indeed, this is no self-praise, as they contain nothing 
 adverse to my explanation, no temptation to strain 
 the meaning of a single sentence. My purpose is 
 not to set forth and uphold an ingenious theory 
 a mere opinion, but to bring forward undeniable 
 proofs, enforcing conviction. 
 
 At the same time, I am far from believing that 
 every person will precisely coincide in all the inter- 
 pretations I have given. Better readings, though 
 unimportant to the whole, may be made of some of 
 the passages. It would be strange if no one disagreed 
 with me on so many minor disputable points. But 
 allowing every objection of that nature, I contend 
 that the main points must remain undisturbed, which 
 are these : 
 
 First; The Sonnets, as they have hitherto been 
 called, up to the 126th inclusive, evidently ought to 
 form five distinct poems in the sonnet-stanza. 
 
 Secondly ; Each poem terminates at the place I 
 have indicated, with its proper Envoy. 
 
 Thirdly ; Each stanza is connected with the pre- 
 ceding and the following ones, so as to produce con- 
 
94 HIS SONNETS. 
 
 secutive sense and feeling throughout, as much, or 
 more, as will be usually found in any poetical, or 
 even any prose epistle. 
 
 Fourthly ; They are all addressed to one person ; 
 and that person must have been very young, and of 
 high rank ; if not Master William Herbert, some 
 other of his age in 1597 or 8, and of his condition. 
 
 Fifthly ; Each poem is entitled to the description 
 or argument prefixed to it. 
 
 Our poet's lovers, once convinced on these several 
 points, which is my aim, will readily understand and 
 enjoy this neglected portion of his works. While pro- 
 ceeding in the explanation, my endeavour has been, 
 far as the nature of the poems permitted, to make 
 them a comment on the author's character. In doing 
 this, however, I have omitted to notice numerous 
 touches, because they must be observable to every 
 attentive reader. 
 
 Taking a general view of the poems, the predomi- 
 nant peculiarity is in the variety, ingenuity, and almost 
 ideal painting displayed in their lengthened strain of 
 elegant compliment ; and this question inevitably 
 intrudes itself, is it probable that he wrote all, as he 
 asserts, in the spirit of honest truth ? Granting that 
 this high-born youth was eminently beautiful, as well 
 as kind-hearted and true, at least in Shakespeare's 
 belief, with one exception, which was forgiven, at the 
 commencement of their friendship, we shall find that, 
 amidst all this continued praise, he is not endowed by 
 the poet with any quality beyond beauty, kindness, 
 and truth, " fair, kind, and true," being the burthen 
 of the song throughout. No prophecy of the future 
 
ilTY 
 
 FIFTH POEM. 95 
 
 excellence of his mind is admitted ; his birth and 
 wealth are scarcely mentioned, never celebrated ; the 
 hopes of the nation are faintly and indirectly hinted 
 at, not assured ; all these have ever been the common 
 themes for flattery of the great, and were very com- 
 mon in those days : Shakespeare avoids them all. It 
 may be argued that so much praise of personal beauty, 
 whether merited or not, amounts to flattery ; and 
 the answer may be, if merited, there was no flattery, 
 as I have already endeavoured to prove. But the 
 question ought to resolve itself into this consideration ; 
 either the youth is to be regarded simply as a friend, 
 or as a patron. If as a friend, we cannot find fault 
 with him for celebrating the most worthy qualities he 
 perceived; first, truth, and, next to that, personal 
 beauty. If as a patron, the poet was assuredly a 
 wretched courtier, openly reproving the noble youth 
 for having committed the " crime," such is the plain 
 term, of treachery to his friend ; for having been 
 addicted to licentious conversation ; and for having 
 delighted in the " gross painting" of another poet, in 
 preference to honest praise : 
 
 " Thou, truly fair, wert truly sympathized 
 
 In true plain words, by thy true- telling friend." 
 
 It must follow that, if Shakespeare, with all his 
 knowledge of the human heart, intended to flatter a 
 patron, he betrayed more ignorance of the means to 
 accomplish his end than the dullest slave. Such a 
 conclusion is an absurdity. 
 
96 HIS SONNETS. 
 
 SIXTH POEM. 
 STANZAS CXXVII TO CLII. 
 
 TO HIS MISTRESS, ON HER INFIDELITY. 
 
 ALL the stanzas in the preceding poems are retained in 
 their original order; the printers, without disturbing 
 the links, having done no worse than the joining 
 together of five chains into one. But I suspect the 
 same attention has not been paid to this address to 
 his mistress. Indeed I farther suspect that some 
 stanzas, irrelevant to the subject, have been introduced 
 into the body of it. For instance, stanzas 135th and 
 136th, containing a string of puns upon his own 
 name, Will, may very well have been addressed to 
 his mistress prior to her infidelity, but they are con- 
 tradictory to his resolution to leave her for ever. If 
 it be urged that he is constantly, as in these stanzas, 
 confessing his love for her in spite of her infidelity, 
 I answer that it is no more than the confession, by no 
 means in a playful mood, of an acknowledged weak- 
 ness, which he is resolute to overcome ; the whole 
 tenor of his confession being, 
 
 " Love is my sin, and my dear virtue hate, 
 Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving." 
 
 However he may waver, and, for the moment, seem 
 to return to his former thraldom, indignation at her 
 faithlessness, and at her having been, through trea- 
 chery, the cause of his estrangement from a friend, at 
 the last completely conquers his " sinful loving." In 
 the concluding stanza he leaves her in the bitterest 
 
SIXTH POEM. 97 
 
 language that could be framed for the occasion. On 
 this account, the stanzas containing the puns on his 
 name, appear to me out of keeping with the rest, 
 being altogether of too playful a character. 
 
 Stanza 145th strangely comes upon us in the octo- 
 syllabic measure ; and stanza 146th is an address to 
 his own soul, the solemn nature of which cannot be 
 regarded as congruous with the rest. These two 
 stanzas should be expunged from the poem. It is 
 remarkable that they are placed exactly where there 
 seems to have been a pause or division ; the first part 
 being written in doubt and jealousy, and the after 
 part in certainty of the woman's infidelity. Another 
 division of the same kind may indeed be pointed out ; 
 and both, or the three parts, taken together, may be 
 well likened to the struggles and love, each over- 
 coming the other by turns, till finally such love is 
 utterly destroyed as worthless. But the octosyllabic 
 stanza, and the address to his soul which follows, can, 
 neither of them, for different reasons, belong to the 
 poem. 
 
 Allowing these exceptions, the poem may be read 
 with a tolerable continuity of feeling, possibly as much 
 as the subject will admit. It is a stormy feeling, 
 buffetted to and fro, and presents an admirable picture 
 of pain and distraction, caused by an almost overwhelm- 
 ing passion for a worthless object. 
 
 The stanza, containing the anatomy of an evil pas- 
 sion, is perfectly in its place. I give it as a master- 
 piece, and as a specimen of grand moral writing. It 
 speaks fearfully home to the worst part of our 
 nature : 
 
98 HIS SONNETS. 
 
 " The expense of spirit in a waste of shame 
 
 Is lust in action ; and till action, lust 
 Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame, 
 
 Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust ; 
 Enjoy'd no sooner, but despised straight ; 
 
 Past reason hunted ; and no sooner had, 
 Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait, 
 
 On purpose laid to make the taker mad ; 
 Mad in pursuit, and in possession so ; 
 
 Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme ; 
 A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe ; 
 
 Before a joy proposed ; behind a dream : 
 All this the world well knows ; yet none knows well 
 To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell." 
 
 I repeat that the two sonnets, printed at the end, 
 
 about Cupid and a nymph of Diana, belong to 
 
 nothing but themselves. This poem must have been 
 
 written just before the second one to his friend ; or soon 
 
 *after 5 in dramatic retrospection. 
 
 I fear some readers may be surprised that I have 
 not yet noticed a certain fault in Shakespeare, a 
 glaring one, his having a mistress, while he had a 
 wife of his own, perhaps, at Stratford. May no per- 
 sons be inclined, on this account, to condemn him 
 with a bitterness equal to their own virtue ! For 
 myself, I confess I have not the heart to blame him 
 at all, purely because he so keenly reproaches him- 
 self for his own sin and folly. Fascinated as he was, 
 he did not, like other poets similarly guilty, directly 
 or by implication, obtrude his own passions on 
 the world as reasonable laws. Had such been the 
 case, he might have merited our censure, possibly 
 our contempt. On the contrary, he condemned 
 and subdued his fault, and may therefore be cited 
 
SIXTH POEM. 99 
 
 as a good rather than as a bad example. Should it 
 be contended that he seems to have quitted his 
 mistress more on account of her unworthiness than 
 from conscientious feelings, I have nothing to answer 
 beyond this : I will not join in seeking after question- 
 able motives for good actions, well knowing, by ex- 
 perience, that when intruded on me, they have been 
 nothing but a nuisance to my better thoughts. 
 
DID HE VISIT ITALY f 
 
 ABOUT the period of his writing the first, or the two 
 first poems to his friend, (for both might have been 
 written without much intervening time) or a few years 
 previous to his production of the Merchant of Venice, 
 did he visit Italy ? 
 
 In order that my examination of this question may 
 be appreciated according to its bare merits, and no 
 more, in fairness I commence by stating that nothing 
 can uproot my belief of his having been there ; a 
 belief grounded on a variety of internal evidence, 
 which I shall point out in the works he produced 
 after 1597. Consequently the reader may regard 
 every thing urged as matter brought forward to 
 establish a favourite theory; though, in justice to 
 myself, let me declare that I am unconscious of a 
 wish to omit or weaken any circumstance tending 
 to invalidate the evidence. 
 
 If in the judgment of others, capable of judging, \ 
 this belief should be pronounced reasonable, it would 
 add an interesting portion to his biography, explain 
 some allusions in his writings hitherto not understood, 
 
DID HE VISIT ITALY? 101 
 
 and account for his Italian phrases, as well as for his 
 increased knowledge of Italian geography. 
 
 A few years since, it might have been contended, 
 agreeably to the general opinion, that he had not 
 sufficient means for travelling, unless towards the 
 close of his life. Here, again, we have to express our 
 obligation to Mr. Collier for the following facts r sup- 
 ported by irrefragable documents, brought to light by 
 him. When Shakespeare was only in his twenty- 
 sixth year, in November 1589, he was one of the 
 sixteen shareholders, the twelfth on the list, in the 
 Blackfriars Theatre. Seven years after this, wheri 
 that theatre was to be repaired, his name had risen 
 to the fifth on the list ; and he was also, together 
 with his partners at Blackfriars, one of the share- 
 holders in the Globe Theatre, at Bankside, In seven 
 years more his name stood the second on the list, 
 in a patent granted by James the First. In 1608, 
 when he was forty-four years old, the Blackfriars 
 Theatre was valued, owing to the City of London's 
 having proposed to purchase it ; and he then possessed 
 no less than four shares, each rated at 233. 6s. 3d. 
 together with the whole (as is stated) of " the ward- 
 robe and properties," for which he asked 500. All 
 this amounts to l,48S. 6s. Irf. ptssiWy a larger sum 
 than could have been obtained had he sought to sell 
 the property, though he values the yearly profit of 
 each share at no more than seven years' purchase. 
 But if we calculate it at only one half of his estimate, 
 and reckon the value of money as five times increased 
 since that period, his theatrical property alone was 
 worth, in our present money, 3,588. 6s. 8d. Besides 
 
102 DID HE VISIT ITALY? 
 
 this, however, which we learn from other documents, 
 be had previously paid off a mortgage of forty pounds 
 on his mother's property ; he had made a purchase of 
 a small messuage, with barn, garden, and orchard, at 
 Stratford, for sixty pounds ; he had bought 107 acres 
 of land in or near that borough for 320 (equal to 
 1,600 at present) ; he had given 440 (equal to 
 2, 200 at present) fora lease of a moiety of the tithes 
 at Stratford ; and it is also conjectured he had lent 
 money on mortgage. From this statement it will be 
 seen he was possessed of nearly eight thousand 
 pounds of our present value, a proof at once of his 
 prosperity and prudence from the time he first arrived 
 in London ; especially if we consider he had a wife 
 and children to support, and probably parents and 
 their children to assist ; for we may well believe 
 the clearing a debt of forty pounds on his mother's 
 property was not a solitary proof of his affection 
 towards them. I am delighted to bring forward 
 these proofs of the reward bestowed on his genius ;* 
 
 * Three papers, pails of this volume, were read at the Plymouth 
 Institution. I was stopped in the middle of this sentence, and 
 startled from the deep silence, so strictly observed in the hall 
 during the reading of a paper, by a sudden and unanimous burst 
 of joy, every hand at once echoing my delight with applause. 
 Those gentlemen, many of whom are scientific rather than literary, 
 who carefully weigh their words and regulate their conduct when 
 they meet for the purpose of mutual instruction, here gave way, 
 much to their honour, to an uncontrollable, generous impulse. 
 The biographers of Shakespeare had it not in their power, till 
 lately, of affording this grateful information to so great an extent. 
 I trust that those of my readers, who were ignorant of it, will 
 receive it as joyfully as my fellow members at the Institution. 
 
DID HE VISIT ITALY? 103 
 
 there is enough in them to prove that he might 
 have well and wisely afforded the expense of a visit 
 to Italy as early as 1597, the year before the Merchant 
 of Venice was entered at Stationers' Hall. Lest a 
 doubt should be entertained on this essential point, I 
 need only mention that in a letter extant from one of 
 his townsmen, Mr. Richard Quiney, we find Shake- 
 speare, so early as 1597-8 was enabled to purchase 
 land in his own county, and was talked of as an 
 influential person in Stratford. 
 
 In the second place, no one can imagine that he 
 was not desirous to see the most interesting country, 
 certainly of his time, in Europe, indeed the only 
 interesting one for literature and the arts. Add to 
 which that country was the scene of some of his plays ; 
 and possibly he might have been criticized for a want 
 of local knowledge in them, which he desired to avoid 
 for the future. 
 
 And in the third place, it was not an uncommon 
 thing, among his contemporaries, to take a trip to 
 Italy, particularly to Venice. It was rather a matter 
 of complaint that so many gallants visited Venice, to 
 the peril of their home-bred manners and morals. 
 Many instances to this effect might be produced. 
 Among the rest, Ben Jonson satirizes the English 
 travellers to Venice in his Volpone, and our poet him- 
 self, in As you like it, makes Rosalind say, " Look you 
 lisp, and wear strange suits ; disable all the benefits of 
 your own country ; be out of love with your nativity, 
 and almost chide God for making you that countenance 
 you wear ; or I will scarce think you have swum in a 
 gondola." 
 
104 DID HE VISIT ITALY ? 
 
 Thus, having shown there was no hindrance of any 
 nature to such a journey, but, in all likelihood, a 
 strong inducement, I proceed to show he was in Italy 
 from the internal evidence of his works ; and I begin 
 with his Taming of the Shrew> where the evidence is 
 the strongest. 
 
 This comedy was entirely rewritten from an older 
 one by an unknown hand, with some, but not many, 
 additions to the fable. It should first be observed 
 that in the older comedy, which we possess, the scene 
 is laid in and near Athens, and that Shakespeare 
 removed it to Padua and its neighbourhood; an 
 unnecessary change, if he knew no more of one 
 country than of the other. 
 
 The Dramatis Personas next attract our attention. 
 Baptista is no longer erroneously the name of a 
 woman, as in Hamlet, but of a man. All the other 
 names, except one, are pure Italian, though most of 
 them are adapted to the English ear. Biondello, the 
 name of a boy, seems chosen with a knowledge of the 
 language, as it signifies a little fair-haired fellow. 
 Even the shrew has the Italian termination to her 
 name, Katharina. The exception is Curtis, Petru- 
 chio's servant, seemingly the housekeeper at his villa ; 
 which, as it is an insignificant part, may have been the 
 name of the player; but, more probably, it is a 
 corruption of Cortese. 
 
 Act I, Scene 1. A public place. For an open 
 place or a square in a city, this is not a home-bred 
 expression. It may be accidental ; yet it is a literal 
 translation of una piazza publica^ exactly what was 
 meant for the scene. 
 
DID HE VISIT ITALY ? 105 
 
 The opening of the comedy, which speaks of Lom- 
 bardy and the university of Padua, might have been 
 written by a native Italian. 
 
 " Tranio, since for the great desire I had 
 To see fair Padua, nursery of arts, 
 I am arrived for fruitful Lombardy, 
 The pleasant garden of great Italy. 
 
 ***** 
 Here let us breathe, and happily institute 
 A course of learning, and ingenious studies." 
 
 The very next line 1 found myself involuntarily 
 repeating, at the sight of the grave countenances 
 within the walls of Pisa ; 
 
 " Pisa, renowned for grave citizens." 
 
 They are altogether a grave people, in their demea- 
 nour, their history, and their literature, such as it is. 
 I never met with the anomaly of a merry Pisan. 
 Curiously enough, this line is repeated, word for word, 
 in the fourth act. 
 
 Lucentio says, his father came " of the Bentivolii ;" 
 this is an old Italian plural ; a mere Englishman 
 would write " of the Bentivolios." Besides, there 
 was, and is, a branch of the Bentivolii in Florence, 
 where Lucentio says he was brought up. 
 
 But these indications, just at the commencement of 
 the play, are not of great force. We now come to 
 something more important ; a remarkable proof of his 
 having been aware of the law of the country in respect 
 to the betrothment of Katharina and Petruchio, of 
 which there is not a vestige in the older play. The 
 father gives her hand to him, both parties consenting, 
 
 F3 
 
106 DID HE VISIT ITALY ? 
 
 before two witnesses, who declare themselves such to 
 the act. Such a ceremony is as indissoluble as that 
 of marriage, unless both parties should consent to 
 annul it. The betrothment takes place in due form, 
 exactly as in many of Goldoni's comedies : 
 
 " Baptista. * * Give me your hands ; 
 
 God send you joy, Petruchio ! 'tis a match. 
 Gremio Sf Tranio. Amen! say we ; we will be witnesses." 
 
 Instantly Petruchio addresses them as " father and 
 wife ;" because, from that moment, he possesses the 
 legal power of a husband over her, saving that of 
 taking her to his own house. Unless the betroth- 
 ment is understood in this light, we cannot account 
 for the father's so tamely yielding afterwards to 
 Petruchio' s whim of going in his " mad attire" with 
 her to the church. Authority is no longer with the 
 father ; in vain he hopes and requests the bridegroom 
 will change his clothes; Petruchio is peremptory in 
 his lordly will and pleasure, which he could not 
 possibly be, without the previous Italian betrothment. 
 Padua lies between Verona and Venice, at a 
 suitable distance from both, for the conduct of the 
 comedy. Petruchio, after being securely betrothed, 
 sets off for Venice, the very place for finery, to buy 
 " rings and things, and fine array" for the wedding ; 
 and, when married, he takes her to his country 
 house in the direction of Verona, of which city he is 
 a native. All this is complete ; and in marked 
 opposition to the worse than mistakes in the Two 
 Gentlemen of Verona, which was written when he 
 knew nothing whatever of the country. 
 
DID HE VISIT ITALY ? 107 
 
 The rich old Gremio, when questioned respecting 
 the dower he can assure to Bianca, boasts, as a 
 primary consideration, of his richly furnished house : 
 
 " First, as you know, my house within the city 
 Is richly furnished with plate and gold ; 
 Basins and ewers, to lave her dainty hands ; 
 My hangings all of Tyrian tapestry : 
 In ivory coffers I have stufF'd my crowns, 
 In cypress chests my arras, counterpoints, 
 Costly apparel, tents, and canopies ; 
 Fine linen, Turkey cushions 'boss'd with pearl, 
 Valance of Venice gold in needlework ; 
 Pewter and brass, and all things that belong 
 To house, or housekeeping." 
 
 Lady Morgan, in her Italy, says, (and my own 
 observation corroborates her account) " there is not 
 an article here described, that I have not found in 
 some one or other of the palaces of Florence, Venice, 
 and Genoa the mercantile republics of Italy even 
 to the < Turkey cushions 'boss'd with pearl.'" She 
 then adds: " This is the knowledge of genius, ac- 
 quired by the rapid perception and intuitive appre- 
 ciation," &c. never once suspecting that Shakespeare 
 had been an eye-witness of such furniture. For my 
 part, unable to comprehend the intuitive knowledge 
 of genius, in opposition to her ladyship's opinion, I 
 beg leave to quote Dr. Johnson : " Shakespeare, 
 however favoured by nature, could impart only what 
 he had learned." With this text as our guide, it 
 behoves us to point out how he could obtain such an 
 intimate knowledge of facts, without having been, 
 like Lady Morgan, an eye-witness to them. 
 
108 DID HE VISIT ITALY ? 
 
 In addition to these instances, the whole comedy 
 bears an Italian character, and seems written as if the 
 author had said to his friends, " Now I will give 
 you a comedy, built on Italian manners, neat as I 
 myself have imported." Indeed, did I not know its 
 archetype, with the scene in Athens, I might suspect 
 it to be an adaptation of some unknown Italian play, 
 retaining rather too many local allusions for the 
 English stage. 
 
 Some may argue that it was possible for him to 
 learn all this from books of travels now lost, or in 
 conversation with travellers ; but my faith recoils 
 from so bare a possibility, when the belief that he 
 saw what he described, is, in every point of view, 
 without difficulty, and probable. Books and conver- 
 sation may do much for an author; but should he 
 descend to particular descriptions, or venture to speak 
 of manners and customs intimately, is it possible he 
 should not once fall into error with no better instruc- 
 tion ? An objection has been made, imputing an 
 error, in Grumio's question, are the "rushes strewed?" 
 But the custom of strewing rushes in England, be- 
 longed also to Italy ; this may be seen in old authors, 
 and their very word giuncare, now out of use, is a 
 proof of it. English Christian names, incidentally 
 introduced, are but translations of the same Italian 
 names, as Catarina is called Katharina and Kate; 
 and, if they were not, comedy may well be allowed to 
 take a liberty of that nature. 
 
 Let us now turn to the Merchant of Venice, who 
 is a merchant of no other place in the world. Every 
 thing he says or does, or that is said and done about 
 
DID HE VISIT ITALY? 109 
 
 him, except when the scene changes to Belmont, is 
 throughout the play, Venetian. Ben Jonson, in his 
 Volpone, gives no more than can be gathered from 
 any one book of travels that has ever been published ; 
 nothing but the popular notion of the city. Shake- 
 speare, in addition to the general national spirit of the 
 play, describes the Exchange held on the Rialto ; the 
 riches of the merchants ; their argosies 
 
 " From Tripolis, from Mexico, and England ; 
 From Lisbon, Barbary, and India :" 
 
 some with " silks" and " spices," " richly fraught ;'" 
 he represents " the trade and profit of the city" as 
 consisting " of all nations ;" he talks familiarly of the 
 " masquing mates," with their " torch bearers" in the 
 streets ; of " the common ferry which trades to 
 Venice," where Portia is to meet Balthazar, after he 
 has delivered the letter to Doctor Bellario, at Padua, 
 the seat of law ; and 
 
 " In a gondola were seen together 
 Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica." 
 
 All this is written with perfect knowledge of the 
 place. So magical is the painting, that a lover of 
 Shakespeare, as he enters Venice, looks about him 
 with the air of a man at home, and almost expects to 
 see some merchants talking with a Shylock on the 
 Rialto, till he spies the poverty of the people, and 
 sighs to himself, " Alas ! how changed since the 
 days of the Republic !" Shakespeare might have 
 read of the " strict court of Venice," on commercial 
 questions, and of the reasons for such strictness ; he 
 
110 DID HE VISIT ITALY ? 
 
 might also have found authority in books for " You 
 have among you many a purchased slave :" but where 
 did he obtain his numerous graphic touches of national 
 manners ? where did he learn of an old villager's 
 coming into the city with " a dish of doves" as a 
 present to his son's master ? A present thus given, 
 and in our days too, and of doves, is not uncommon 
 in Italy. I myself have partaken there, with due 
 relish, in memory of poor old Gobbo, of a dish of 
 doves, presented by the father of a servant. 
 
 Should it be conjectured that the Italian tale in the 
 Pecorone, from which this play was taken, may con- 
 tain sufficient information for this circumstantial 
 writing, I answer that it is barren of any hint of Vene- 
 tian manners ; so barren, that, while the scene is at 
 Venice, it might be any where else, for it was written 
 by a Florentine, who seems to have known nothing 
 of the city beyond its name. 
 
 In Othello is the same preservation of manners and 
 customs, but nothing in addition to what is already 
 noticed. The first act alone is in Venice. Not one 
 of the annotators has attempted to give a reason why 
 Cassio, the Florentine, is called in derision by lago 
 " a great arithmetician," and " a counter-caster," with 
 his " debtor and creditor;" but there is a good reason. 
 A soldier from Florence, famous for its bankers 
 throughout Europe, and for its invention of bills of 
 exchange, book-keeping, and everything connected 
 with a counting-house, might well be ridiculed for his 
 promotion, by an lago, in this manner. But it may 
 be said, Shakespeare needed not to go farther than 
 Lombard-street for this information. True ; and every 
 
DID HE VISIT ITALY? Ill 
 
 fact, taken singly, may possibly be accounted for ; but 
 the many facts, all correctly given, form the marvel. 
 
 The scene of Much ado about Nothing is at Mes- 
 sina. If Dogberry and Verges should be pronounced 
 nothing else than the constables of the night in Lon- 
 don, before the new police was established, I can assert 
 that I have seen those very officers in Italy, France 
 and Russia ; and doubtless they are to be found at 
 Constantinople, unless among the Turks there are 
 no petty dogs in office, at once self-sufficient, pompous, 
 and ignorant. Nothing in this Sicilian comedy is 
 of a contradictory nature. 
 
 There is no other Italian play, by our poet, which 
 I consider to have been written after 1597, except the 
 Tempest, and the characters in it are sufficiently na- 
 tional. As this is one of his last plays, if it could be 
 proved there is a topographical error in it, (as is in- 
 sinuated by Henley, in a note to a passage, misunder- 
 stood by him, in Othello) I grant that my arguments 
 are much weakened. The note says, Shakespeare's 
 acquaintance with the topography of Italy, (as appears 
 from the Tempest) was very imperfect." In vain have 
 I looked for the imperfection ; nor can I guess in what 
 passage it was imagined, unless in Prospero's account 
 of his having been forced from Milan to the sea, the 
 annotator assuming that the poet believed Milan was 
 a sea-port. He neither wrote so, nor ought any one 
 to be impressed with such a notion. The passage re- 
 ferred to may be this : 
 
 " Prospero Whereon, 
 
 A treacherous army levied, one midnight 
 Fated to the purpose, did Antonio open 
 
112 DID HE VISIT ITALY ? 
 
 The gates of Milan ; and, i' the dead of darkness, 
 The ministers for the purpose hurried thence 
 Me, and thy crying self. * * 
 
 * # * * 
 
 In few, they hurried us aboard a bark ; 
 
 Bore us some leagues to sea ; where they prepared 
 
 A rotten carcase of a boat," &c. 
 
 Prospero was hurried from Milan, and also hurried 
 aboard a bark ; but no distance is specified, nor is it 
 necessary. A man may be hurried from Portsmouth 
 to the sea, or from Paris to the sea at Marseilles. 
 State-prisoners, in close carriages, are hurried to this 
 day, for hundreds of miles, across Italy, as I myself 
 have witnessed. But this is not all ; a common mode 
 of reaching the sea from Milan, is to travel by land 
 merely to Piacenza, and thence in a bark, down the 
 wide, deep, and rapid Po. So plain is either of these 
 methods, that I am still in doubt if I rightly interpret 
 Henley's critical note ; but I can find no other peg 
 whereon to hang it. 
 
 Thus much on the Italian plays written after 1597. 
 I believe that the three remaining were written before 
 that date. 
 
 All's well that ends well. This comedy is ascribed 
 to the year 1598 or 9, by the Chroriologers, on no 
 authority whatever. To me it appears, from its 
 general character, an earlier work by some years. 
 Here the third and fourth acts are chiefly at Florence. 
 The expression " beside the port " of course means 
 " beside the gate ;" otherwise it is a sad error ; but 
 Helena, as a pilgrim, going to the shrine of the " great 
 Saint Jacques," is strange enough ; and such names 
 
DID HE VISIT ITALY? 113 
 
 as Escalus and Corambus are very unlike his after 
 Italian names. 
 
 Romeo and Juliet, an early play, contains nothing 
 more of Italian manners than can be found in the 
 English poem, from which it is taken, of Romeus and 
 Juliet. Here we have another Escalus; an odd 
 corruption, I conjecture, of Delia Scala, the real 
 prince, according to Bandello and Da Porto. 
 
 As for the Two Gentlemen of Verona, it tends to 
 show more strongly than the two last mentioned, that 
 Shakespeare, before 1597, knew not Italy as it appears 
 he did afterwards ; and that the intuitive knowledge 
 of genius by no means belonged to him. 
 
 His knowledge of the language has been denied. 
 A question on this subject properly appertains to a 
 consideration of the extent of his learning, of which I 
 am about to treat; but it will be of more service in 
 this place. 
 
 Dr. Farmer thus speaks of the Italian words intro- 
 duced into his plays : f6 Their orthography might lead 
 us to suspect them to be not of the writer's importa- 
 tion." Whose then, with bad orthography? I cannot 
 understand this suspicion ; but perhaps it implies that 
 the words, being incorrectly printed, were not origi- 
 nally correct. The art of printing was formerly far 
 from being so exact as at present; but even now, I 
 beg leave to say, I rarely meet with an Italian quota- 
 tion in an English book that is correct; yet I can 
 perceive plainly enough, from the context, the printer 
 is alone to blame. In the same way I see that the 
 following passage in the Taming of the Shrew, bears 
 evident marks of having been correct, before it was 
 
114 DID HE VISIT ITALY ? 
 
 corrupted in the printing of the first folios, and that 
 it originally stood thus : 
 
 " Petruchio. Con tutto il core ben' trovato, may I say. 
 Hortensio. Alia nostra casa ben* venuto, molto onorato 
 signor mio Petruchio." 
 
 These words show an intimate acquaintance with 
 the mode of salutation on the meeting of two Italian 
 gentlemen; and they are precisely such colloquial 
 expressions as a man might well pick up in his travels 
 through the country. My own opinion is that Shake- 
 speare, beyond the power of reading it, which is easily 
 acquired, had not much knowledge of Italian ; though 
 I believe it infinitely surpassed that of Stevens, or of 
 Dr. Farmer, or of Dr. Johnson ; that is, I believe that, 
 while they pretended to pass an unerring judgment on 
 his Italian, they themselves must have been astonish- 
 ingly ignorant of the language. Let me make good 
 my accusation against all three. It is necessary to 
 destroy their authority jn this instance. 
 
 Stevens gives this note in the Taming of the Shrew : 
 " Me pardonato. We should read, Mi pardonate" 
 Indeed we should read no such thing as two silly 
 errors in two common words. Shakespeare may have 
 written Mi perdoni, or Perdonatemi ; but why dis- 
 turb the text farther than by changing the syllable 
 par into per ? It then expresses, instead of pardon 
 me, me being pardoned, and is suitable both to the 
 sense and the metre, 
 
 " Me perdonato, gentle master mine." 
 
 Dr. Farmer says, " When Pistol < cheers up him- 
 self with ends of verse,' he is only a copy of Hanniball 
 
DID HE VISIT ITALY ? 115 
 
 Gonsaga, who ranted on yielding himself a prisoner 
 to an English captain in the Low Countries, as you 
 may read in an old collection of tales, called Wits, 
 Fits, and Fancies, 
 
 6 Si fortuna me tormenta, 
 II speranza me contenta.' " 
 
 This is given as Italian, not that of the ignorant 
 Pistol, nor of Shakespeare, but of Hanniball Gonsaga ; 
 but how comes it that Dr. Farmer did not look into 
 the first few pages of a grammar, to teach him that 
 the lines must have been these ? 
 
 Se fortuna mi tormenta, 
 La speranza mi contenta. 
 
 And how could he corrupt orthography (a crying sin 
 with him) in the name of Annibale Gonzaga ? 
 
 Upon this very passage Dr. Johnson has a note, 
 and, following the steps of Sir Thomas Hanmer, puts 
 his foot, with uncommon profundity, in the mud. 
 He says; " Sir Thomas Hanmer reads : Si fortivna 
 me tormenta, il sperare me contenta, which is un- 
 doubtedly the true reading, but perhaps it was in- 
 tended that Pistol should corrupt it." Perhaps it 
 was; but " undoubtedly" the Doctor in his " true 
 reading," containing five blunders in eight words, has 
 carried corruption too far. 
 
 There is not much Italian in Shakespeare's works, 
 and possibly, as I have said, he did not know much 
 more, though his century was very favourable to its 
 study. When he wrote Hamlet, we may presume he 
 knew nothing of the language, simply on account of 
 his making Baptista the name of a woman, an error 
 
116 DID HE VISIT ITALY ? 
 
 he could otherwise have scarcely committed, and 
 which he corrected in a later play. 
 
 The commentators having settled, to their own 
 satisfaction, that he was quite ignorant of Italian, con- 
 tended that his fables could not be derived from any 
 of the Novellieri, unless they had proof of a transla- 
 tion of the same existing in his time. Thus they have 
 sought every where for hints in English whereby he 
 might have formed the fable of The Merchant of 
 Venice, because that tale in the Pecorone was not 
 then translated ; though, for very many reasons, it is 
 well nigh impossible he could have taken it from any 
 thing but that tale. If, as they confess, no published 
 translation existed of it in his time, then one must 
 have been made expressly for him, or, what is more 
 probable, he read it in the original. 
 
 To my mind there is farther reason for believing 
 that he read Italian. The fable of the Tempest may 
 be ascribed to his own invention, since no similar 
 tale is known. This I believe ; yet, in my fancy, 
 there is a shadowing forth of it in the Milanese his- 
 tory ; and I am not aware of any part of that history 
 having been translated in his time. It is true no 
 historical event is engrafted on the romance ; but 
 Lodovico Sforza, ambitious to reign, resolved on the 
 destruction of his inert nephew, the lawful duke Gio- 
 vanni Galeazzo. Compare this with the usurpation 
 of Antonio over the reigning duke Prospero, absorbed 
 from public affairs in his books. But Lodovico, not 
 daring in the city to " set a mark so bloody on the 
 business," Prospero's words, gave his nephew a 
 lingering poison, arid then led him away to Pavia to 
 
DID HE VISIT ITALY? 117 
 
 die. Again, there is much in these annals of the 
 political alliances between the courts of Milan and 
 Naples. Add to this, at the period of the usurpation 
 of the Milanese duke Lodovico Sforza, there was a 
 Ferdinand, King of Naples, son of Alfonzo, (Shake- 
 speare calls him Alonso) ; and Ferdinand's son, though 
 not himself, as in the Tempest, married a princess of 
 Milan. This is what I mean by the shadowing forth 
 of a romance from history. 
 
 Assured that he visited Italy, I give him, in my 
 imagination, with some reasons on which to rest, a 
 direct line. of travel from Venice, through* Padua, 
 Bologna, and Florence, to Pisa. I do not say he 
 forbore to go a little out of his way to visit Verona, 
 the scene of his own Romeo and Juliet, nor that he 
 did not even see Rome ; but I have no grounds for 
 such a supposition. 
 
 Should my arguments be unavailing with my 
 readers, I have, at any rate, made known his won- 
 derful graphic skill in representing to the life Italian 
 characters, and Italian manners and customs, solely 
 from books and hearsay. 
 
 Before I take leave of this period of his life, I must 
 notice, in addition to the fact of his having paid off 
 the debt on his mother's property, and the probability 
 of his having assisted his impoverished father, the 
 coat of arms obtained by him or through his means, 
 from the herald's office. I look upon it as an act of 
 filial affection, a gratifying distinction to the old man 
 among his townsmen after his misfortunes a trophy 
 of his son's fame and prosperity. We may be assured 
 
118 DID HE VISIT ITALY ? 
 
 he was not permitted to stand in need, in any way, of 
 more solid advantages ; and indeed we know he ceased 
 to be poor as his son became rich. Yet have I read 
 of this coat of arms as an evidence of Shakespeare's 
 vanity and presumption, nay, of worse ! Dr. Lard- 
 ner unfeelingly strains every nerve to make us believe 
 it was obtained by "falsehood, a falsehood too 
 glaring to be supported ;" and concludes with these 
 irreverent words, " Altogether the affair is discre- 
 ditable to the father, to the poet himself, and to 
 the two kings at arms." Dr. Lardner should have 
 stated a clearer case, and not one built on assumptions, 
 and supported by a confusion of documents, before he 
 ventured on such language ungrateful in every sense. 
 It is possible that Shakespeare himself, as a land- 
 proprietor in his native county, desired to hold 
 this distinction of a gentleman, for such a heraldic 
 instrument was of incomparably more importance to 
 him than it is to any one in these days ; but I always 
 regard it as a testimony of love towards his father, in 
 whose name it was made. 
 
HIS LIFE. FROM 1600 TO 1616. 
 
 DURING this period, from the age of six-and-thirty 
 till his death, all we read tends to prove that his days 
 were passed in uninterrupted happiness. Not that I 
 can imagine he was, at any time after his arrival in 
 London, painfully struggling against misfortune of 
 any kind. On the contrary, every thing we know of 
 him is of a nature to contradict the vulgar notions 
 that a poet must necessarily pass the prime of his life 
 in poverty that he is not duly acknowledged while he 
 lives or he is a profligate, or strangely deficient in 
 worldly wisdom, or ever suffering under a feverish 
 excitement from envious criticism. Yet, by an un- 
 accountable perversion, unless it be that writers pre- 
 sume on the absence of direct information, or that 
 there is a secret satisfaction, in some minds, to decry 
 the apparent happiness of our superiors, it is certain 
 that Shakespeare has been represented as a most un- 
 enviable being. 
 
 From his various biographers we gather, by con- 
 sulting them together, that he was prosperous only 
 when about to leave the world, that his fame was 
 
120 HIS LIFE, 
 
 nothing while he lived, that a powerful host, headed 
 by Ben Jonson, incessantly assailed, and with effect, 
 his popularity, and that his moral character will not 
 endure examination. The facts of his having pur- 
 chased land at the early age of thirty-three, and that 
 in ten years more, he had amassed what may be called 
 a fortune, establish his co-existing popularity beyond 
 a doubt. Nor was he merely popular with the multi- 
 tude, but admired by the most brilliant wits, and 
 favoured at both the royal courts of his time, so that 
 he must also have been, what is termed, a fashionable 
 poet; for Ben Jonson, once erroneously styled his 
 detractor, speaks of his " flights," 
 
 " That so did take Eliza and our James !" 
 
 The unruffled progress of his days, his exemption 
 from misfortune, his tranquillity, in some measure may 
 account for the little public notice that was taken of a 
 man so high in fame. It appears to have been foreign 
 to his nature to enter into literary turmoils, and thrust 
 himself into notoriety. He was unwilling to disturb 
 and endanger his happiness ; such was his wisdom. 
 A man, once in the temple of fame, should beware of 
 descending among the crowd in its precincts. 
 
 While speaking on the several subjects belonging to 
 the purpose of this volume, it is useless to promise im- 
 partiality ; perhaps such a promise was never yet kept. 
 All I can engage to avoid, is unfounded panegyric, 
 and the willing concealment of any thing which might 
 injure the groundwork of my arguments. Should I 
 assume more than my authorities allow, or attempt to 
 deduce inconsequences, my error will be apparent. 
 
FROM 1600 TO 1616. 121 
 
 My enjoyment has been ever to regard him with 
 affectionate homage, and, if possible with unalloyed 
 admiration. If any of my chance readers, instead of 
 his lovers, should prefer the view that has been for- 
 merly taken of him and his works, especially during 
 the last century, let him proceed no farther with me. 
 For the rest, opinions are of every possible shade on 
 every possible question; and I cannot particularly 
 recommend my own, except that they are to pleasant 
 minds the pleasantest.* 
 
 * When I had proceeded thus far, a friend informed me that, 
 to the best of his recollection, an article had appeared in the Lon- 
 don and Westminster Review, giving in a general manner my 
 explanation of the Sonnets. I by no means seek to disguise the 
 regret I felt ; nor did I receive consolation from knowing that, 
 before the date (October, 1836) of that number, I had read a 
 paper on the Sonnets in public, with my full explanation. All my 
 labour seemed useless. However, on reading the article, I find 
 my friend was mistaken ; but I perceive it contains much in my 
 own vein, so much that I cannot speak as I wish in its praise. 
 Give me ten such able and true lovers of our poet, and I care not 
 for his calumniators. 
 
HIS LEARNING. 
 
 AN old proverb must here be reversed, " Who shall 
 disagree when doctors decide ?" Dr. Johnson has 
 informed us that Dr. Farmer's Essay on the Learning 
 of Shakespeare has for ever settled the question. 
 This is appalling: yet, with the assistance of the 
 learned Upton, and Colman, the translator of Terence 
 who both dared to differ with the doctors together 
 with a moderate share of common sense, a man may 
 venture on the perilous encounter. 
 
 To avoid confusion between learning and know- 
 ledge, I beg leave to confine, for my present purpose, 
 the former to the acquirement of the dead and living 
 languages, together with that of geography, whether 
 at school, or in after life. 
 
 Were it possible to determine the extent of Shake- 
 speare's learning, it would be interesting on several 
 accounts : it would enrich his biography ; it would be 
 an additional guide to criticism on his works ; it would 
 involve a question, supposing he knew little of the 
 learned languages, why he did not study them tho- 
 roughly ; and lastly, supposing he freely chose rather 
 
HIS LEARNING. 123 
 
 to study other subjects than the learned languages, 
 another question would be started, was his choice 
 wise or unwise ? 
 
 Upton and others were at some pains to prove that 
 Shakespeare must have read both Greek and Latin 
 authors in their original languages ; and Dr. Farmer 
 was at more pains to prove his conclusion, that Shake- 
 speare " remembered perhaps enough of his schoolboy 
 learning to put the Hig, hag, hog, into the mouth of 
 Sir Hugh Evans ; and might pick up in the writers 
 of the time, or in the course of conversation, a fami- 
 liar phrase or two of French or Italian : but his studies 
 were most* demonstratively confined to nature and 
 his own language" 
 
 We may concede the victory to Dr. Farmer on- 
 every excessive claim brought forward by his oppo- 
 nents, yet utterly disregard his conclusion, so far as it 
 respects the limit of Hig, hag, hog ; the more so, 
 because he either turns away from the evidence of 
 Ben Jonson, in that well known line, 
 
 " For though thou hadst small Latin, and less Greek :" 
 
 or he attempts, against positive authority, and, except 
 for his own purpose, most unreasonably, to read the 
 passage, " small Latin and no Greek." Ben Jon- 
 son edited his own works : we may safely rely on his 
 written and printed words being neither more nor 
 less than we have them ; nor can we suspect that he 
 misstated his knowledge of his friend. 
 
 * Did the learned Doctor ever meet with a demonstration in the 
 superlative degree ? 
 
124 HIS LEARNING. 
 
 Having read every thing in my power connected 
 with this controversy, and reflected on it many times 
 during several years, I cannot but adopt Colman's 
 opinion, midway between the two extremes. His words 
 are, " Dr. Farmer himself will allow that Shake- 
 speare began to learn Latin : I will allow that his 
 studies lay in English : but why insist that he neither 
 made any progress at school, nor improved his acqui- 
 sitions there ? The general encomiums of Suckling, 
 Denham, Milton, &c. on his native genius, prove 
 nothing; and Ben Jonson's celebrated charge of 
 Shakespeare's small Latin and less Greek seems abso- 
 lutely to decide that he had some knowledge of both; 
 and, if we may judge by our time, a man who has 
 any Greek is seldom without a very competent share 
 of Latin ; and yet such a man is very likely to study 
 Plutarch in English, and to read translations of Ovid." 
 That Shakespeare had " a very competent share of 
 Latin;" that is, short of reading it with facility, is evident 
 to me from the vast number of Anglo-Latin words 
 throughout his writings. This fact has never been 
 brought properly forward in favour of his scholarship, 
 possibly because it did not prove enough merely a 
 competence in the language. On the contrary, we are 
 told by Theobald, in his Preface, that, "from a 
 greater use of Latin words than ever any other 
 English author used, we must not infer his intimate 
 acquaintance with that language." This, as he can- 
 didly owns, " very much wears the appearance of a 
 paradox;" but he explains himself in this manner. 
 " It is certain, there is a surprising effusion of Latin 
 words made English, far more than in any one English 
 
HIS LEARNING. 125 
 
 author I have seen ; but we must be cautious to ima- 
 gine this was of his own doing. For the English 
 tongue, in his age, began extremely to suffer by an 
 inundation of Latin ; and this, to be sure, was occa- 
 sioned by the pedantry of those two monarchs, Eliza- 
 beth and James, both great Latinists. For it is not 
 to be wondered at, if both the court and schools, 
 equal flatterers of power, should adapt themselves to 
 the royal taste." 
 
 This passage scarcely makes up in elegance what it 
 wants in clearness. The meaning of it must be, it 
 is likely Shakespeare had authority in the literature 
 of his time for all his words derived from Latin. 
 Now it is barely possible such was the case, since 
 many may be produced which cannot be at present 
 traced to older authority ; and no author of his time, 
 known to us, not even the learned Ben, has used so 
 great a variety of Latin words as Shakespeare. They 
 are not indeed so staringly apparent as in Ben Jonson, 
 because Shakespeare's good taste taught him never to 
 display his art, but to conceal it a secret which he 
 seems to have kept to himself, and which few have 
 suspected. For instance, he never would have 
 written, " Favour your tongues," as the English of 
 " Favete linguis," however anxious he might have 
 been to give the sacrificial mandate to the Roman 
 people in its truest form. Had such been his purpose, 
 he would have done it, and done it completely like an 
 Englishman. Whereas Ben Jonson, proud of his 
 Latin, and prouder still to show it, wrote this unin- 
 telligible translation in his tragedy of Sejanu^ with a 
 note to explain it, followed by others to exhibit his 
 
126 HIS LEARNING. 
 
 wonderful erudition respecting the ancient form of 
 sacrifice to the goddess of Fortune. 
 
 But should it be contended, or even proved, that 
 Shakespeare never made use of any words derived 
 from Latin, but such as he found ready made to his 
 hands, which is to me incredible, still I would ask - 
 by what knowledge did he adopt and appropriate 
 these words ? how came it they were never thrust 
 into improper places ? Be it remembered there was 
 no dictionary, like our Dr. Johnson's, to assist him. 
 If he himself was not sufficiently skilled in Latin, 
 there could be nothing for his guide beyond the 
 author's text, wherein the learned words appeared, 
 and could that text always explain their meaning? 
 nay, could he always understand the text? Would 
 he not, like the ignorant clowns in his own comedies, 
 while straining to use an elevated style, talk stark 
 nonsense, and, acting Dogberry's part, " write himself 
 down an ass ?" He delighted in exposing the ridicu- 
 lous pretences of ignorance ; yet the laugh was never 
 raised against his own pretences.* Though free from 
 pedantry, so free that it is argued he had no classical 
 learning whatever, there never was a greater satirist 
 on the improprieties of language. It is the fashion 
 to say that he followed the fashion of his time ; but 
 
 * Would Holofernes, the schoolmaster, so ready to exclaim 
 " O, I smell false Latin !" have called a boy born on board a 
 lighter, " levins puer P" Yet such is the wit put in the mouth of 
 a schoolmaster, and more than once repeated in a modern novel. 
 Modern critics, in their innocence, have seen no harm in it ; but 
 was it right, for the sake of a pun, to neutralize the poor boy's 
 gender ? 
 
HIS LEARNING. 127, 
 
 the truth is, he was constantly endeavouring to correct 
 what was wrong in writing or in speaking. Look at 
 the repeated attempts he made in his plays ; but look 
 in particular at Love's Labour Lost. With what 
 severity he there lashes the affected euphony and the 
 obtrusive pedantry of his contemporaries ! It is 
 worthy of remark that, in this comedy, the " child of 
 fancy, that Armado hight," among his many fancies 
 to distinguish himself from " the rude multitude," to 
 " be singled from the barbarous," is excessively vain 
 of his Latinized phrases, which are formed in the 
 worst taste ; the author thus satirizing, through him, 
 the strange discrepancy of the Latin and the English, 
 unless the words are skilfully chosen, and as skilfully 
 adapted. To this effect Armado calls the page a 
 "tender Juvenal," speaks in his "condign praise,'' 
 bids him bring Costard " festinately hither," calls a 
 pageant " an ostentation," and angrily exclaims, 
 " dost thou infamonise me ?" with fifty other phrases 
 of Latin origin, formed in the same bad taste, and 
 ludicrously applied. 
 
 Could the formation of words from the Latin, or 
 the correct adoption of them in countless instances, 
 could those pedantic fops, who confounded while they 
 sought to blend the two languages, be exposed, 
 could all this be done, and with a masterly hand, by 
 one who had not a very competent share of Latin for 
 (I may say) so learned a purpose? Still, it is far 
 from improbable that such a man might be unable to 
 read a Latin author with facility, and therefore prefer 
 to read him in translation ; though, after all, we have 
 no proof that he could not read Latin fluently ; and 
 
128 HIS LEARNING. 
 
 Upton scarcely hesitates to contend that he must 
 have studied even the Latin metre. 
 
 From what has been asserted of the great variety 
 of Anglo-Latin words in his writings, let it not be 
 imagined that they predominate; for a still greater 
 variety will be found of words purely Saxon, or 
 derived from the original well-springs of our lan- 
 guage. His immense vocabulary, his command of 
 words, and his taste in applying them to his various 
 purposes of meaning and sound, place him above 
 every other author in composition. Should a student 
 of poetry examine his lines carefully, he may discover 
 much whereby to guide him. The quality of the 
 character speaking must of course be well considered ; 
 after which, it strikes me, the choice of words will be 
 generally found congenial with the expression. Where 
 a stateliness or artificial grandeur is intended, Latin 
 and other foreign words are aptly introduced, as 
 
 " And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, 
 The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, 
 The solemn temples the great globe itself 
 Yea, all which it inherits, shall dissolve." 
 
 " The nature of our people, 
 Our city's institutions, and the terms 
 For common justice, you are as pregnant in, 
 As art and practice hath enriched any 
 That we remember." 
 
 " The multitudinous seas incarnadine*" 
 
 " Incarnadine" is Italian, or French derived from 
 Italian. From which did he take it, since Dr. 
 
HIS LEARNING. 129 
 
 Johnson, who doubts his knowledge of either lan- 
 guage, says he can find no other instance of its use ? 
 But when Shakespeare seeks to " make the sound 
 an echo to the sense," his words are pure old English, 
 at least as old as Chaucer : 
 
 " Under the shade of melancholy boughs." 
 " Split'st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak." 
 
 " And when they talk of him, they shake their heads, 
 And whisper one another in the ear ; 
 And he that speaks, doth gripe the hearer's wrist." 
 
 Or when he would impress us with a simple home- 
 bred feeling, he uses the simplest and the homeliest 
 English words : 
 
 " I dare do all that doth become a man ; 
 Who dares do more, is none." 
 
 " He was a man ; take him for all in all, 
 I shall not look upon his like again." 
 
 Pages might be filled with such instances, but they 
 are not to my present purpose. 
 
 His frequent appropriate use of the heathen my- 
 thology, and of the classical heroes, has been brought 
 forward as evidence of his learning ; but, as Dr. 
 Farmer has shown, that knowledge might have been 
 gained, as well as now, without Greek or Latin. 
 Yet, had he displayed ignorance on these subjects, he 
 might be proved somewhat unlearned. Accordingly, 
 the annotators have brought forward no less than 
 three examples of this ignorance, which happily, at 
 least two of them, prove nothing but the ignorance 
 
 G3 
 
130 HIS LEARNING. 
 
 of his critics. The first is in Henry IV 9 Part 2nd, 
 where Hecuba's dream of a fire-brand is called 
 Althea's, a mistake certainly, but one which rather 
 proves he was acquainted \\ith both stories. Besides, 
 Dr. Johnson, who notices it, ought to have remem- 
 bered, as an editor, a line in Henry the Sixth, Part 
 2nd, which Shakespeare, if he did not write it, 
 must have well known, and which proves he was 
 aware of the nature of Althea's brand : 
 
 " As did the fatal brand Althea burn'd." 
 
 Henley brings forward the second example from 
 Macbeth^ thus annotating on the words " Bellona's 
 bridegroom :" " This passage may be added to the 
 many others, which show how little he knew of 
 ancient mythology." The many others ! where are 
 they ? In the mean time, why is Henley's classic 
 lore offended ? Is it because he had never heard, 
 among the ancients, of Bellona's bridegroom ? Alas ! 
 it was Macbeth himself the poet meant ! Had he 
 been termed, in his capacity of a soldier, a son of 
 Mars, the liberty would have been as great, but, 
 owing to the triteness of the appellation, not to be 
 cavilled at as a proof of ignorance, though it would 
 have made the doughty Thane of Glamis the brother 
 of Cupid. What Shakespeare said, poetically said, 
 was, that the warlike hero was worthy of being the 
 bridegroom of the goddess of war. This is the 
 passage : 
 
 " Norway himself, with terrible numbers, 
 Assisted by that most disloyal traitor 
 The Thane of Cawdor, 'gan a dismal conflict j 
 
HIS LEARNING. 131 
 
 Till that Bellona's bridegroom, lapp'd in proof, 
 Confronted him \vith self comparisons, 
 Point against point rebellious, arm 'gainst arm, 
 Curbing his lavish spirit." 
 
 Stevens gives us the third proof of ignorance in 
 these lines from the Merchant of Venice : 
 
 " In such a night 
 
 Stood Dido, with a willow in her hand, 
 Upon the wild sea-banks, and waved her love 
 To come again to Carthage." 
 
 " This passage," quoth Stevens, in a matter-of-fact 
 note, "contains a small instance, out of many that 
 might be brought, to prove that Shakespeare was no 
 reader of the classics." Out of many that might be 
 brought ! why not bring them ? And why was this 
 brought ? Purely because Virgil did not describe 
 Dido with a willow in her hand ? Stevens ought to 
 have known, according to Virgil, that Dido was for- 
 saken by her lover, and that the giving her the 
 allegorical willow, was nothing more nor less than a 
 poetical description of her love-lorn state. As for 
 the other instances, I have not found them, the 
 " many others," and the " many that might be 
 brought." These critics remind me of the drunken 
 magistrate, who, seeing himself in a looking-glass at 
 the moment he expected a criminal to be brought 
 before him, cried out, " Ah ! thou caitiff ! many a 
 time and oft hast thou been brought before me !" 
 
 I do not desire to urge the argument in favour of 
 Shakespeare's learning, beyond that competent share 
 of Latin, which was, in his time, necessary for his 
 
132 HIS LEARNING. 
 
 writings, and which his writings themselves bear 
 testimony he must have possessed. In other words, 
 not beyond the account given of him by Ben Jonson, 
 bearing in mind that he, a reputed great scholar, was 
 unlikely to call any man's learning, such as I suppose 
 Shakespeare's to have been, otherwise than by the 
 epithet small. Besides, the account given, "small 
 Latin, and less Greek," while it proves that his 
 Greek was worthy of notice, informs us that his 
 Latin was comparatively great. 
 
 Having thus shown my reasons for arriving at the 
 same conclusion with Colman, in opposition to Dr. 
 Farmer, I may now ask, why Shakespeare did not 
 study the learned languages thoroughly. 
 
 The usual answer to this would have been, that 
 his education was unhappily circumscribed by the 
 poverty of his father, at least, when the boy was in 
 his fourteenth year ; but that I cannot receive. Are 
 there no instances of lads being taught gratuitously, 
 not out of charity, but from kindness towards them, 
 because they show a disposition to learn ? Was not 
 his grammar-school sufficient as a groundwork ? Is 
 it incredible that a lad, or a young man, should, of 
 his own will, teach himself, and improve his previous 
 education? Dr. Farmer and others, in their argu- 
 ments, assume for granted two untenable positions. 
 The first is, that the acquirement of a language, to 
 the extent of being able to read it with tolerable 
 skill, is a great difficulty ; and the second is, that it 
 cannot be acquired by a boy at a grammar-school, so 
 as to furnish the means of after improvement. As- 
 
HIS LEARNING. 133 
 
 sumptions may be often refuted by argument; but 
 the shorter method is by facts. 
 
 In respect to the difficulty, let me not be thought 
 invidious towards our Universities, while I state no 
 more than I can easily prove from various publica- 
 tions, it is easier to obtain a degree than to write 
 good English. Two other facts I can bring forward 
 against both positions. 
 
 A young man, not having been taught a word of 
 Latin in his education, at the age of twenty began to 
 learn it without a master, because he believed it might 
 be useful to him in the profession he had adopted. I 
 knew him intimately, and can assert he became far 
 better acquainted with that language than many who 
 have received a regular College education. Assuredly 
 he might have proceeded to excellence ; but he had 
 acquired enough for his purpose. Afterwards he 
 studied Italian by himself, spoke it accurately, and 
 published the best grammar we have of that language. 
 Should it be objected, that possibly his mind was 
 peculiarly adapted to such studies, not distracted by 
 poetical imagery, or by anxious yearnings for fame, 
 and that such an example must stand alone, I knew 
 another, the poet Keats, to whom the same objection 
 cannot be made. From an unpublished memoir 
 which I have written of his life, I take the following : 
 " Owing to his early removal from school, he felt a 
 deficiency in the Latin language, and therefore, 
 during his apprenticeship, made and carefully wrote 
 out a literal translation of the whole of Virgil's JRneid. 
 This I had from his own mouth : and he was so far 
 
134 HIS LEARNING. 
 
 a good scholar, by his own application, as to enjoy the 
 study of Cicero's style." Afterwards, when it might 
 be presumed his mind was wholly occupied in Lamia 
 or Hyperion, I have seen him deeply absorbed in the 
 study of Greek and Italian, both which languages he 
 then commenced, and to which he allotted a portion 
 of each day. With these examples, (and similar ones, 
 I conceive, must be known to many) is it not certain 
 that such a man as Shakespeare, might have become 
 an excellent Latin scholar, had he chosen to employ 
 his time to that purpose ? As he did not excel in 
 Latin, it follows that he did not choose to occupy his 
 time in it, away from, what he considered, more 
 useful studies. 
 
 To remove any possible doubt on this subject, let 
 us turn to the biography of Ben Jon son, a reputed 
 classical scholar, and see if he did not labour under 
 equal disadvantages. He was the posthumous son of 
 a poor and persecuted clergyman ; and, soon after his 
 birth, his mother, from necessity, married a brick- 
 layer. He was sent to a private school in the church 
 of St. Martin in the Fields ; and afterwards some 
 friend, it is supposed, placed him in Westminster 
 School, whence his mother removed him, as soon as 
 he was old enough to assist his father-in-law in brick- 
 laying. One account mentions that he was then ma- 
 triculated at Cambridge, but quickly returned home, 
 unable to maintain himself there. But his own ac- 
 count is that, disliking the occupation of his father- 
 in-law, he went into the Low Countries as a soldier. 
 After his return to England, he became a member of 
 the University of Cambridge; but, says Whalley, 
 
HIS LEARNING. 135 
 
 " the time he continued at Cambridge was undoubt- 
 edly short." From the University he went to London, 
 and failed as an actor in an obscure theatre in the 
 neighbourhood of Clerkenwell. Poverty and misfor- 
 tune pursued him. He was thrown into prison for 
 killing a brother player in a duel. The next we hear 
 of him is, that at about the age of twenty, poor as he 
 was, he married, and is supposed to have been writing 
 for the stage, either by himself, or conjointly with 
 others. All we know is that, at the end of two years 
 more, he had two children, and had written Every 
 Man in his Humour. 
 
 Few early lives have been so unpromising for clas- 
 sical honours ; yet, in spite of his dissipation, styled 
 convivial ty, more destructive than poverty f of study, 
 he was created Master of Arts at Oxford, when he 
 was at the age of forty-five. His early history and 
 that of Shakespeare agree on many points. Both 
 were bred in poverty, were educated at grammar 
 schools, were married when young, became players, 
 and were dramatic poets. Should it be urged that 
 Westminster School, with Camden as a teacher, must 
 have been superior to that at Stratford, and that 
 there might be something also acquired at Cambridge ; 
 let it be remembered, on the other hand, in Ben 
 Jonson's disfavour, that all this happened before he 
 was sixteen, that he was not long at Westminster, a 
 still less time at Cambridge, and that his being some 
 time, while yet a youth, in the army, was an indispu- 
 table injury to his education. With these facts fairly 
 laid before us, can we deny that Shakespeare had it 
 in his power to make himself as learned as Ben Jonson V 
 
136 HIS LEARNING. 
 
 If none can deny it, then it was his lack of ambition 
 for academic honours, his choice that led him to pursue 
 other studies than the dead languages, which caused 
 him to yield, as Schlegel says of him, to " the general 
 direction of his inclination not towards the collection 
 of words but of facts." 
 
 Thus we come to the other question, was his choice 
 wise or unwise ? To answer this, I know of no better 
 process than that of again confronting him with Ben 
 Jonson. It is true they stand at an immeasurable 
 distance from each other ; but it is not requisite here 
 to place their merits in competition. It will, I am 
 aware, be impossible to prove that Shakespeare would 
 have been better or worse, if qualified for Master of 
 Arts ; but the bare notion of such a consummation is 
 awful. If the necessary consequence would have been, 
 with him, to give translations from the ancients ; to 
 treat us in a tragedy with an oration of three hundred 
 and thirty-seven lines, as we find in Cataline^ purely 
 because it was the identical oration of Cicero ; or, in 
 a comedy, with a tedious paraphrase of one of Horace's 
 satires; if it would have filled him with so much pe- 
 dantry as to make him insist on applause exactly in 
 proportion to his imitation of the classics ; and to 
 bring on the stage a Grex, in order to explain his 
 meaning and profound erudition to the untutored 
 multitude ; if, in short, he would have been induced 
 to sacrifice his own thoughts, his own poetry, and his 
 own wisdom, to the thoughts, poetry, and wisdom of 
 Athens and Rome ; then I unhesitatingly declare my 
 thankfulness that he was not so learned as Ben Jonson, 
 or rather as he is considered to have been. More 
 
HIS LEARNING. 137 
 
 learning might possibly have distorted his genius, but 
 could it have improved it ? Could it have added one 
 jot to his knowledge of human nature ; or of all that 
 is in the natural world, or refined his art as a poet, or 
 as a dramatist ? And what is especially to the purpose, 
 can we point out a passage in his works, wherein he 
 has betrayed a deficiency in classic lore ? Had there 
 been any, how triumphantly would it have been laid 
 before our eyes ! I know of none ; that is, none 
 beyond the customary liberties of his age. 
 
 It is a curious circumstance that passages in Ben 
 Jonson have been exposed by his commentators as 
 erroneous in translation, or faulty in classical know- 
 ledge ; but, such is the value of a good character, they 
 are of course ascribed to haste, oversight, or heedless- 
 ness, any thing rather than to ignorance in a Master 
 of Arts. A saint may freely commit a sin, for which 
 a sinner would be whipped. 
 
 Every thing has its cause ; and the unreasonable 
 conduct of mankind is usually deducible from an un- 
 reasonable one, if our reason will stoop to trace it. 
 Exactly in proportion to the admiration which Shake- 
 speare's works enforced from contemporary classic 
 students, was the humiliating distress that he had 
 neither taken a degree nor studied at either of our 
 Universities. It mattered not how great his studies 
 had been elsewhere ; they had not the legitimate 
 stamp. Thence arose the absurd desire to place Ben 
 Jonson above him, if not in poetry, then in the classi- 
 cal conduct of his dramas, or in something which 
 ought to please by authority, beyond mere nature, 
 displayed with home-bred English art. No one, 
 
138 HIS LEARNING. 
 
 before Shakespeare, had dared to claim obser- 
 vance from the public as a poet, without his brow 
 being bound with academic laurels. Excellence, 
 without that distinction, was the more confounding as 
 it was acknowledged by scholars themselves. His 
 democratic genius rose superior to the aristocracy of 
 learning. Those who had obtained a degree at 
 Oxford or at Cambridge lost much of their importance^ 
 they were no longer in the only high road to fame. 
 A death-blow was aimed at their exclusive admiration 
 of the ancients. It was proved that the efforts of the 
 human mind had not formerly found their limits; 
 and mediocrity knew not whither to fly for an idol, 
 pre-eminent in power, except where it was a heresy in 
 classic faith to lift the eye. In this way I attempt to 
 account for the existence of a pedantic party in his 
 time, who seized on Ben Jonson as their chief ; though 
 neither they, nor far less the academic poet, could 
 forbear yielding to the democratic power. Half- 
 blinded by envy, they spoke of him at first as an 
 " upstart crow ;" but, spreading his wings, he proved 
 himself an eagle. 
 
 The same party, under different names, reappeared 
 in the last century, all acknowledging his superiority, 
 but seeking to deprive him of those honours, which 
 they could not allow him to possess without pain to 
 themselves ; because the poet still remained a mighty 
 evidence against their own factitious pretensions. 
 They went a step farther than in his time, declaring 
 he was utterly unlearned. As Dryden wrote, " those 
 who accuse him to have wanted learning, give him 
 the greatest commendation." That they not only 
 
HIS LEARNING. 139 
 
 granted, but were willing to represent him like a 
 being out of nature, an inconceivable prodigy, rather 
 than confess that a man could learn any thing valuable, 
 unless he had bowed for instruction before another 
 man in a wig. Why did not these gentlemen speak 
 in the same strain of Homer and the Greek tragedians? 
 Had they authority for imagining those great poets 
 were students of any but their native language? Did 
 they flatter their self-love in believing that Homer 
 must have taken out a diploma either in Attica or 
 in Boeotia ? The critics of the last century, like those 
 at the close of the sixteenth, were interested parties 
 in the discussion. Add to this, the levelling principle 
 is strong within us. It may be observed that, with 
 the exception of Upton and a few others, his greatest 
 admirers, as a poet and philosopher, have been the 
 first to attack, or the most remiss in defending, his 
 learning. On the ground that learning is estimable, 
 he must be deprived of it by the invidious; or a 
 critic may be tempted to the task, because he will 
 thereby have an excellent opportunity of displaying 
 his own learning while he is straining to disprove that 
 of Shakespeare. Thus he may, in one particular, 
 fancy himself ranked above the greatest writer in the 
 world ; but so might an ass, because he can boast of 
 four legs against the poet's two. But the chief cause, 
 I am convinced, may be traced to Shakespeare's 
 offensive disregard of a University degree. 
 
 The controversy respecting the merits of Shake- 
 speare and Ben Jon son was not, in their day, so 
 much a question of which was the better scholar, but 
 whose plays ought to be considered superior in plan 
 
140 HIS LEARNING. 
 
 and management; those founded on classic rules, 
 embellished with translations or imitations ; or those 
 on pure English models, with sentiments of native 
 growth. The public, including the best judges, 
 plainly decided in favour of the latter. 
 
 There is an anecdote, little known perhaps, though 
 given in the annotations, taken from the Harleian 
 MS. which I value, because I verily believe it genuine, 
 for it bears the mark of Shakespeare's good-humoured 
 punning raillery ; and also because it proves that these 
 two great rivals in the public favour, (though Ben 
 was certainly sometimes angry) lived on the whole in 
 a friendly manner together. It is necessary to under- 
 stand that the custom was to present a god-child with 
 a set of Apostle-spoons ; and that latten, a word now 
 out of use, is a sort of base metal. " Shakespeare 
 was god-father to one of Ben Jonson's children, and 
 after the christening, being in deep study, Jonson 
 came to cheer him up, and asked him why he was so 
 melancholy ? < No 'faith, Ben,' says he, 4 not I ! 
 But I have been considering a great while what 
 should be the fittest gift for me to bestow upon my 
 god-child, and I have resolved at last.' ' 1 pr'ythee, 
 what?' says he. c I'faith, Ben, I'll give him a dozen 
 good latten spoons, and thou shalt translate them.' " 
 
 Some may mercifully imagine it was sufficiently 
 severe to deprive Shakespeare of the modicum of Latin 
 and Greek, which his rival had bestowed on him ; 
 but no, Dr. Farmer's severity could not stop there ; 
 he must needs strip him of French and Italian. His 
 attempts with the Italian, and those of his coadjutors, 
 have been already noticed. As there is much French 
 
HIS LEARNING. 141 
 
 in several scenes, one would conceive it was a hard 
 task to deprive him of it. By no means ; Dr. Farmer 
 pretty nearly settles that point by quoting Dr. John- 
 son ; "it may be suspected that some other man wrote 
 the French scenes." This is an unwarrantable sus- 
 picion, unworthy of two learned doctors, and looks 
 like an humble imitation of 
 
 " Garth did not write his own Dispensary I" 
 
 The evil of controversy is that men are apt to argue 
 unfairly on every thing but what makes for their 
 side of the question. Dr. Farmer gives desperate hits 
 at his opponents wherever he perceives they are vul- 
 nerable, pretending to prove, by his success, that they 
 are vulnerable every where. He will look no farther 
 into the text than will serve for his argument. Thus, 
 after expatiating on the mispronunciation of bras into 
 brass, and holding it up as a proof of Shakespeare's 
 ignorance of the language, he is contented that all 
 the good French which follows in the same scene, 
 contrasted with the clever comic English-French of 
 the boy, should fall under the suspicion of having 
 been written by " some other man ;" blind, or per- 
 versely shutting his eyes to the fact that the " other 
 man," if such a one had been employed, was account- 
 able, not Shakespeare, for the mispronunciation of 
 bras. That " other man " must have been frequently 
 employed, since there is a great deal of French in the 
 historical plays, and some touches of it elsewhere ; 
 besides, he must have had, within himself, some 
 touches of the genius of Shakespeare. 
 
 Whatever were his acquirements in the languages, 
 
142 HIS LEARNING. 
 
 he has been guilty of errors in geography, which 
 plainly prove he might have had a better education 
 with advantage. That of giving a sea-coast to 
 Bohemia, appears at first sight inexcusable. It is 
 true the error exists in the novel of Dorastus and 
 Fawnia, by Robert Greene, from which the Winter's 
 Tale was taken. Robert Greene, who thus set the 
 example of bringing the sea to Bohemia, studied at 
 Cambridge, where he took his bachelor's degree in 
 1578, signed himself " Master of Arts in both Univer- 
 sities," and is supposed to have been one of the 
 Queen's Chaplains. A better education, therefore, 
 as far as geography is concerned, might not have been 
 at either of our Universities. But the best apology 
 that can be offered for Shakespeare is, that geography 
 was, in his time, little known and less taught. It was 
 a science studied by few, even among the gentry. 
 The maps in Queen Elizabeth's reign were scarce, 
 strangely puzzling, and very incorrect. Dr. Farmer, 
 (here he is of use) after noticing the ridicule thrown 
 on authors for their geographical blunders by Cer- 
 vantes, the contemporary of our poet, mentions this, 
 on the authority of Lord Herbert : " De Luines, the 
 prime-minister of France, when he was ambassador 
 in Bohemia, demanded whether it was an inland 
 country, or lay upon the sea ?" A prime-minister's 
 ignorance, or the ignorance of a Master of Arts, is 
 certainly but a poor excuse for a poet's ; yet it does 
 much as showing the ungeographical character of the 
 age. The Winter s Tale, on other grounds, besides 
 the one stated by Malone, I believe must have been 
 one of the earlier plays ; and the Two Gentlemen of 
 
HIS LEARNING. 143 
 
 Verona, where the other blunder appears, of sending 
 Valentine by ship from Verona to Milan, is, to my 
 mind, the first. It may be that these faults arose from 
 sheer ignorance, without any stain on his education, 
 considering the period. Granting so much, it must 
 be conceded, on the other hand, that he afterwards 
 made himself a master of geography sufficient to pre- 
 vent similar mistakes ; because in no other play can 
 he be convicted of one ; and in the Taming of the 
 Shrew he shows a perfect knowledge of the North of 
 Italy, the very place where he committed his mistake 
 in the Two Gentlemen of Verona. 
 
 Among the many ingenious attempts to convict 
 Shakespeare of a want of scholarship, it is wonderful 
 we have none to prove that he could not spell his own 
 name. Here is a plausible ground for argument. 
 From the feeble and tremulous signatures to his will, 
 contradictory evidence might be deduced ; and we 
 have his autograph in only one or two more docu- 
 ments, from which another opinion may be upheld. 
 These together might serve to moot a learned discus- 
 sion on his ignorance. Having taken the pains of 
 drawing out a list of fourteen methods of spelling his 
 name, every one of which rested on some sort of au- 
 thority, I was surprised to find that Dr. Drake had 
 discovered seventeen more, all different, among the 
 entries in the books of the Stratford Corporation. 
 With these thirty-one methods, on which ought we 
 to fix ? I see no good reason for the modern method ; 
 on the contrary, it is bad, inasmuch as Shak cannot 
 be pronouned Shake. What is our best authority ? 
 surely that of the best informed of his contem- 
 
144 HIS LEARNING. 
 
 poraries, Meres and others, but more particularly that 
 of his personal friends and co-partners, Heminge and 
 Condell, who edited the first folio. Though not 
 essential, it is yet of some importance to be able to 
 write the name of our country's grandest poet. He 
 himself, like others of his period, might have spelt his 
 name differently at different times. 
 
HIS KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 WHATEVER opinion, in regard to his learning, may 
 be withstood or controverted, no one has pretended 
 to doubt the greatness of his knowledge ; by which 
 I mean, the numerous facts and speculations stored 
 within his mind, not only through the medium of 
 books, but by his own observation and experience. 
 The sole point unsettled, is the boundary of his 
 intellectual attainments. Many are induced to extend 
 it to too large a sphere ; some in the belief of an 
 incomprehensible and mysterious power attending 
 genius ; some in the opinion that a poet's imagination 
 is of itself enabled to rise to its utmost strength, 
 involving all knowledge ; and that Shakespeare's ima- 
 gination was grand and universal, purely because it 
 was unassisted und unfettered by the thoughts of 
 others. Such a belief, or such an opinion, has no 
 reasonable foundation ; and, like all false notions, it 
 is injurious; since it teaches the tempting doctrine, 
 that the most favoured by nature have the least 
 necessity for study. 
 
 H 
 
.146 HIS KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 There is nothing mysterious in genius, any more 
 than that one man should have a stronger arm than 
 another. Genius is a superior power in certain 
 faculties of the mind ; and the man who has the 
 greatest power bestowed on the greatest number of 
 his mental faculties, must be the greatest natural 
 genius. Still, so gifted a being possesses the means 
 only, which, like hoards of riches, may be misdirected, 
 or altogether unemployed. Those means are not 
 knowledge, as a piece of money is not bread but 
 the power of acquiring knowledge, not one atom of 
 which is given by nature. To shine forth a bright 
 intellectual star, and not a faintly-glimmering, a be- 
 clouded, or a fallen one, genius must add the world's 
 experience to its own ; ponder and deeply meditate 
 over the records of humanity, while it scans its own 
 instincts, feelings, and passions : it must grasp at every 
 species of knowledge, carefully sifting the bran from the 
 nourishing wheat; and, above all, apply its utmost 
 energies to one sole object, with a constant and un- 
 wearied purpose of benefiting mankind. In this 
 view, and this view alone, can we be truly grateful to 
 Shakespeare; riot for his natural genius, but for his 
 noble cultivation of it. 
 
 Then, in respect to that peculiar faculty of a poet 
 a superior imagination it must be founded on reality, 
 and produced from a series of inferences, or it is 
 nothing but the dream of a madman. If it has the 
 power, which I am disposed to deny, of describing 
 anything uncongenial to the world of nature, which 
 neither touches our sympathies nor antipathies, neither 
 appeals to our feelings nor our reason, it would be as 
 
HIS KNOWLEDGE. 147 
 
 uninteresting as a painting by Raphael to a flock of 
 sheep or a shoal of fishes. The more imaginative the 
 work, the more necessary is knowledge, in all its 
 varied forms. 
 
 Less study, less experience in human nature, less 
 mental acquirements of every kind, I conceive were 
 employed on Macbeth, wonderfully as the whole 
 character is displayed before us, than on those imagi- 
 nary creations, the three weird sisters, who haunt his 
 steps, and prey upon his very being. Holinshed gave 
 the groundwork equally for both : from him the poet 
 created a merciful man, goaded on by his wife's and 
 his own ambition, and solicited by supernatural 
 agency, to deeds of startling cruelty, a mighty 
 subject ! and, at the same moment, arose the witches, 
 a mightier subject still ! Not only are their forms, 
 but their passions are human ; both, indeed, hideous, 
 yet not too revolting, at the distance where they are 
 placed, to be seen or listened to with pleasure. In 
 their relationship to ourselves, in their absolute iden- 
 tity with our malignant passions, we cannot withhold 
 a fearful fellow interest. The art of investing them 
 at once with all the evil that is within us, and with 
 superhuman power, renders them appalling, awful. 
 Their words, uttered by other lips, would raise our 
 laughter, but from them they excite horror. Even 
 the joy they express is serious, momentous, and un- 
 lawful. They are not the miserable wretches dragged 
 to the bar of one of our ancient criminal courts, for 
 they came we know not whence, and vanish at their 
 will into thin air, and they serve a mistress of the 
 night, who is wafted on a "foggy cloud" up to " the 
 
 H2 
 
148 HIS KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 corner of the moon ;" one who worships other un- 
 named spirits, whose powers are undefined. To 
 represent these earthly, yet unearthly, agents, just 
 within the verge of disgustful abhorrence, never to 
 offend, but, on the contrary, to afford mental delight, 
 is a task requiring more general knowledge, nicer 
 metaphysical distinctions, a deeper insight into the 
 feelings both of readers and spectators, than, I believe, 
 were requisite for a Macbeth. Such beings are called 
 the creations of a poet ; perhaps they ought rather to 
 be called his combinations, unless the former term is 
 given on a principle like that of the Hindoos, who 
 have but one word to signify carpenter and creator ; 
 but neither the poet nor the carpenter could create any 
 thing without solid materials wherewith to work. 
 
 If the commentators were correct in tracing so 
 many of his allusions, phrases, and expressions, from 
 ancient English authors, and the current literature of 
 his day, they have proved the wide extent and diver- 
 sity of his reading. Indeed, it is hardly to be 
 imagined that, as a literary man, he would be unac- 
 quainted with any author worthy his attention. His 
 inquiring mind, as is evident from the tenour and 
 complexion of his works, could not have been content 
 with less. All his editors have agreed in this opinion. 
 Yet, with the exception of historical facts, or fables, 
 whereon to frame his plays, a passing anecdote, a 
 local custom, a witticism, seized on for the sake of 
 illustration, or the adoption of mere words, it does 
 not appear that he copied anything ; that is, he was 
 not indebted to others for any part of the imagery or 
 the philosophy of his poetry. He had his old English 
 
HIS KNOWLEDGE. 149 
 
 authors, as well as ourselves, and his modern ones, a 
 large arid valuable collection; but they did no more 
 than give to his writings their " form and pressure." 
 This fact has been unnoticed by those who point out 
 his freedom from imitation of the classics, as an 
 argument against his learning. Truth is, he imitated 
 nobody. Had he chosen to adopt the thoughts of 
 the Greeks and Romans, it was not more difficult to 
 arrive at them, than to read Chaucer and Spenser, 
 even if he was entirely ignorant of the learned lan- 
 guages ; as may be seen by Stevens' list of transla- 
 tions from the classics during the reign of Elizabeth ; 
 a list, which can scarcely be surpassed in number at 
 the present day. His mind was too rich to need the 
 grafting from a foreign stock. Reading, to him, was 
 information, an exercise and sharpening of the intel- 
 lect; themes to be controverted, or extended, or 
 imbued with originality ; models, good or bad, to be 
 improved or avoided, according to his own judgment, 
 in the composition of prose or verse. For the rhythm 
 of the latter, I believe, he must have deeply studied 
 his country's poets, before his varied and peculiar 
 intonation of verse could have arrived at perfection ; 
 for surely there was much study, as well as practice, 
 necessary to improve his lines, from his earliest to his 
 latest works ; nay, from the first poem, addressed to 
 Wiiliam Herbert, to the fifth, including a period of 
 only three years. 
 
 With all their wealth of information and instruction, 
 books can afford no more than the reflected minds of 
 other men. Some of these are glorious indeed ; but 
 if we are heedless or incapable of a right judgment, 
 
150 HIS KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 we may often read and be deceived. We attain from 
 books, when aided by our best discernment, nothing 
 but a second-hand knowledge. In Shakespeare's 
 works themselves, we cannot arrive at the ore ; we 
 must be content with what he has fashioned from it. 
 All such knowledge is, in its nature, scattered and 
 incomplete ; but so, indeed, must also be our more 
 valuable observation and experience, more valuable, 
 if we can profit by them to the full. The utmost of 
 human knowledge can only rest on these three ; and 
 he who possesses the most of them, with a purpose of 
 doing good, is the wisest man. In this sense, I call 
 Shakespeare the wisest man, as well as the greatest 
 poet. Fortunately for the world, his wisdom was not 
 unproductive, as it might have been, if not invested 
 with an imagination capable of immortalizing it, and 
 with the power of bestowing enchanting eloquence on 
 his acute and healthy distinction of all things pertain- 
 ing to our nature and our moral duties ; so that the 
 same wise mind effectually communicated itself to its 
 fellow-beings, to those then living, and to ages yet 
 unborn : 
 
 " He was not of an age, but for all time." 
 
 This line from Ben Jonson, in his praise, together with 
 the honest declaration in his Discoveries, " For I 
 love the man, and do honour his memory, on this 
 side idolatry, as much as any," is ample satisfaction 
 for any petulance he might, in his disappointed love 
 of fame, have uttered against his friend and rival. 
 Some there may be, who would not allow Shakespeare 
 so much as a rival's praise. For them, but chiefly, I 
 
HIS KNOWLEDGE. 151 
 
 must confess, for my own pleasure, I would prove 
 him to have been the wisest man, as well as the 
 greatest poet; otherwise I should stop short, and 
 repeat those two lines from Milton's epitaph on him 
 
 " Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, 
 What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name ?" 
 
 In addition to what I have said of the great study 
 requisite to the formation of Shakespeare's works, 
 the probability that, when a lad, he attempted to 
 adapt Seneca's tragedies, or that he imitated them in 
 some way ; the certainty we have, that, among his 
 first dramatic efforts, he altered the plays of his 
 fellow poets ; together with what I have endeavoured 
 to make evident the continual cultivation of his 
 mind afterwards ; I bring forward a remarkable 
 passage from Ben Jonson's poem on his memory. 
 Assuredly he spoke from an intimate acquaintance 
 with his "beloved" friend's persevering energies in 
 arriving at excellence in art : 
 
 " Yet must I not give nature all: thy art, 
 My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part. 
 For though the poet's matter nature be, 
 His art doth give the fashion. And, that he 
 Who casts to write a living line, must sweat, 
 (Such as thine are) and strike the second heat 
 Upon the Muse's anvil ; turn the same, 
 And himself with it, that he thinks to frame ; 
 Or for the laurel, he may gain a scorn ; 
 For a good poet 's made, as well as born ; 
 And such wert thou. Look how the father's face 
 Lives in his issue ; even so the race 
 
152 HIS KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly shines 
 
 In his well-turned and true-filed lines ; 
 
 In each of which he seems to shake a lance, 
 
 As brandished at the eyes of ignorance." 
 
 This is real praise, from one who well knew him 
 personally. Nothing has been more injurious to the 
 character of our poet than the repeated assertions, in 
 spite of common sense, that he owed every thing to 
 nature. Mediocrity and idleness may be consoled by 
 such a doctrine, but at the wasting expense of the 
 object of their affected admiration. By slow grada- 
 tions, by practice, and by laborious study, he arrived 
 at perfection. Let no human being imagine there is 
 a shorter road to excellence, however astonishing may 
 be his natural powers. Genius may be combined 
 with idleness, and indeed with folly. 
 
 The same argument applies to his knowledge of 
 the human heart. This knowledge, at once general 
 and particular, is such, that, if we examine into any 
 one of his characters, and attend not only to the 
 broad effect of colour, but to the minutest touches, 
 we shall be surprised to discover that we become, in 
 our investigation, more and more intimately acquainted 
 with the individual. Whether we turn to Lear or his 
 court-fool, to Juliet or her nurse, to Othello or Fal- 
 staff, to Lady Macbeth or Beatrice, men or women, 
 old or young, of whatever degree, influenced by what- 
 ever situation, mood, or purpose, each is discrimina- 
 tingly and accurately delineated, each gives utterance 
 to thoughts, feelings, and passions, precisely in the 
 manner he or she must do under the circumstances of 
 the scene, yet all speaking in the poet's own golden 
 
HIS KNOWLEDGE. 153 
 
 language, and giving us, as it were, unconsciously to 
 themselves, the highest delight and instruction. Many 
 authors have described characters in an admirable 
 manner; butwho, Shakespeare excepted, has made them 
 describe themselves, without apparent effort, and to 
 perfection ? How he could identify himself with 
 hundreds of human beings, each distinct from the 
 rest ; how he could utterly possess their hearts and 
 minds, and be entire master of the hidden springs of 
 their actions, and of their varied mode of expression, 
 is unimaginable to us his inferiors. This power is 
 the Gordian knot which some would fain cut asunder 
 by saying, that his knowledge of human nature was 
 intuitive, and that his genius was essentially dramatic, 
 beyond his own control. But many, with me, having 
 no faith in intuition beyond our mere instincts, no 
 faith in continual, fortuitous, self-impelled excellence, 
 are forced to ascribe that power to a far simpler 
 cause, an immense acquired knowledge of mankind, 
 together with a profound study of his art, assisted 
 and strengthened by his capacious, retentive, and 
 clear-reasoning mind, or, if you will, his genius. 
 
 We are told by Dr. Johnson, " He that will un- 
 derstand Shakespeare, must not be content to study 
 him in the closet; he must look for his meaning 
 sometimes among the sports of the field, and sometimes 
 among the manufactures of the shop." True, he 
 was unwilling to omit any thing interesting to hu- 
 manity ; and had science existed in his days as in 
 our's, instead of the very word being scarcely known 
 in its modern sense, he might have still more puzzled 
 the Doctor by his scientific allusions. We find that, 
 
 H 3 
 
154 HIS KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 far as his observation reached, he was a good natu- 
 ralist ; from " the shard-borne beetle, with his drowsy 
 hums," and the " guest of summer, the temple-haunt- 
 ing martlett," down to 
 
 " The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun, 
 And with him rises weeping ; * * 
 
 * * * * daffodils, 
 
 That come before the swallow dares, and take 
 The winds of March with beauty ; violets, dim, 
 But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes, 
 Or Cytherea's breath ; pale primroses, 
 That die unmarried, ere they can behold 
 Bright Phcebus in his strength." 
 
 A hunting squire would by no means despise the 
 conversation about hounds in the Induction to the 
 Taming of the Shrew, nor the description which 
 Theseus gives of his pack in Midsummer Night's 
 Dream ; a Newmarket jockey of his day, for since 
 then the breeding of horses has been changed, would 
 have listened with applause to the exact portraiture 
 of a fine-bred horse in the poem of Venus and Adonis ; 
 and a sailor, whatever Dr. Johnson's informant might 
 have said to the contrary, can find no fault with the 
 Boatswain's orders throughout the opening scene of 
 the Tempest. To lay to, in a main-sail, under a 
 heavy gale, if that was the objection, has been often 
 practised, though not of late years, in the British 
 navy. Nay, men of science might discover more 
 hints than I can in his works relating to their pursuits. 
 A professor of anatomy has noticed to his students 
 that Shakespeare must inevitably have been acquainted 
 with the peculiar mechanism, the ginglimoid structure, 
 
HIS KNOWLEDGE. 155 
 
 of the human knee, or he could not have written this 
 line, 
 
 " And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee." 
 
 But, however that assertion may be received, I per- 
 ceive he was certainly indebted to a scientific discovery 
 of his time, not known to have then existed, or to his 
 own practical researches into the laws of nature, in 
 Perdita's account of " streaked gilliflowers ;" plainly 
 implying that he was fully aware of the art, said to 
 be discovered only within these few years, which is 
 called manipulation or caprification by botanists. 
 From this art we may obtain countless varieties of 
 flowers and fruits. Stevens has a blind, sneering 
 note on the passage ; but had it been earlier under- 
 stood, the vegetable world might have been, by this 
 time, wonderfully enriched 
 
HIS DRAMATIC KNOWLEDGE 
 AND ART. 
 
 SOME have contended, and many have Indirectly 
 assumed, that he was ignorant of the laws necessary to 
 the construction of the classic drama ; that is, of the 
 three unities ; but this must be held to be impossible. 
 His intimacy with Ben Jonson, who strongly incul- 
 cated the propriety of a strict adherence to classical 
 rules, forbad it. Four of his plays, the Comedy of 
 Errors, (which he took from a translation of Plautus) 
 Love's Labour Lost, Midsummer Nights Dream, and 
 the Tempest, are written with as much regard to the 
 three unities as Ben Jonson himself paid to them in 
 his earliest work, perhaps on the whole his master- 
 piece, Every Man in Ms Humour. Indeed the unity 
 of action in this comedy is less pure than in any 
 comedy by Shakespeare ; old Knowell's parental soli- 
 citude, and Kiteley's jealousy of his wife, stand so 
 nearly on the same eminence, that it is difficult to say 
 which is the episode to the other, except that the 
 latter is the more interesting. Putting aside the 
 probability of our poet's having studied, while in a 
 lawyer's office, the tragedies of Seneca, we know that 
 
HIS DRAMATIC KNOWLEDGE AND ART. 157 
 
 a translation existed of them for his perusal, as well 
 as of the comedies of Terence. We also know he 
 read the Supposes, a regular comedy, translated from 
 Ariosto, by the use he made of it in the Taming of 
 the Shrew. Before his time, the Supposes had been 
 acted; so had Jocasta, from Euripides ; and Gorbu- 
 duc, a classically formed tragedy. He could not be 
 ignorant of what the literary world in London was 
 then arguing as the vital question of our drama. At 
 its birth in Elizabeth's reign, it appeared in a classic 
 form, seemingly without much success. Authors 
 very soon discovered that an alliance with the old 
 favourites of the people, the irregular Mysteries and 
 Moralities, was more acceptable to their audiences, 
 and thus arose the mixed nature of our national 
 drama. Mrs. Montague, in her Essay, has well 
 observed, " Our stage arose from hymns to the Virgin, 
 and encomiums to the patriarchs and the saints ; as 
 the Grecian tragedies from the hymns to Bacchus." 
 
 Much as I am averse to at least nine- tenths of what 
 Dr. Johnson has written on Shakespeare, and pained at 
 the fact of his having led, by his authority, so many 
 into error, he has my gratitude for that part of his 
 Preface, wherein he argues against the necessity of 
 our subservience to the three unities. The unity of 
 action he considers indispensable, and to have been 
 sufficiently regarded by Shakespeare ; but the unities 
 of time and place he shows, in his most powerfully 
 convincing manner, to be not only unnecessary, but 
 rather to be rejected. The passage alluded to com- 
 mences with, " His histories being neither tragedies 
 nor comedies," and ends with, " dignity or force 
 
158 HIS DRAMATIC 
 
 to the soliloquy of Cato." My first idea was to 
 transcribe it; but it would occupy pages, and is either 
 well known or easily referred to by any one interested 
 in the argument. 
 
 I wish it were possible to write as forcibly in favour 
 of those sins against chronology, or violations of cos- 
 tume, so frequent with our old dramatists. Schlegel 
 and others have urged much in their excuse, if not in 
 their defence. On this subject Shakespeare, because 
 he is more read than his contemporaries, is made the 
 scape-goat of the whole flock ; whereas he is innocent 
 compared with others. Together with our mixed 
 drama, this fault had sprung from the old Mysteries* 
 and had therefore been rendered familiar to men's 
 minds. The people were accustomed to incongruities. 
 In the olden time it was by no means an uncommon 
 thing to see one of the holy patriarchs on the scene, 
 and to hear some attendant buffoon, if not the pa- 
 triarch himself, (for their sacred representations would 
 be profane to us) talk of taking a cup of canaries in 
 Cheapside, at the sign of the Rose and Crown; or 
 some such monstrous anachronism. We may smile at 
 this, but the classic Virgil has committed the most 
 flagrant anachronism, throughout the regions of poe- 
 try, in the meeting of Dido and -ZEneas ; because it is 
 neither a passing observation, nor a trifling incident, 
 but a grand and leading event of his poem. Yet 
 Virgil is excused, and even applauded for it ; perhaps 
 for no better reason than that he is denominated 
 classic. 
 
 But let us examine into the conduct of the peers 
 and contemporaries of our poet, according to the pre- 
 
KNOWLEDGE AND ART. 159 
 
 cept of the author of Hudibras, in his well argued 
 poem. On Critics who judge of modern plays precisely 
 by the rules of the Ancients: 
 
 " An English poet should be tried b' his peers, 
 And not by pedants and philosophers, 
 Incompetent to judge poetic fury, 
 As butchers are forbid to b' of a jury." 
 
 Omitting the writers before his time, including 
 Marlowe, among whom the examples more frequently 
 occur, none will be found guiltless of gross incongrui- 
 ties. Beaumont and Fletcher saw no impropriety 
 in giving a pistol to the Humorous Lieutenant, imme- 
 diately after the death of Alexander the Great ; but 
 these " twin stars of wit," it must be confessed, never 
 seemed to heed when or where their scene was laid. 
 Webster and Rowley, in their Thracian Wonder, 
 where the Delphic Oracle is mentioned, and where 
 Pythia herself is introduced, have no hesitation in 
 talking of the " Turks," and sending a king of Africa 
 abroad with an army to punish " Christendom." 
 Webster in his Appius and Virginia, talks, as a 
 matter of course, of " Dutchmen" and " French- 
 women." Massinger, who I once thought was tole- 
 rably correct, in the days of the emperor Dioclesian, 
 styles Bacchus, " Head-warden of Vintner's Hall, 
 ale-conner, and mayor of all victualling houses ;" and 
 makes one of the old Romans speak " French." He 
 notices, in his Bondman, the " College of Physicians," 
 at Syracuse, prior to the fall of Carthage. His em- 
 peror Domitian pulls out his watch, wishing to move 
 the " dial's tongue to six ;" and his emperor Theodo- 
 sius is acquainted with the fame of " Paracelsus," his 
 
160 HIS DRAMATIC 
 
 junior by a thousand years. I have here pointed out 
 only some of the instances which first attracted my 
 notice, on hastily turning over their works ; and they 
 are enough for my purpose. Nor is the scrupulous 
 Ben Jonson, though his scenes are rarely laid out of 
 England, or away from his own age, less faulty ; since 
 in his Poetaster, where Virgil, Ovid, and Horace, are 
 on the stage, he writes about a " coat of arms," and 
 about " Owleglass," a certain Dutch mock hero. Be- 
 sides which, in Volpone, the catastrophe is founded on 
 laws, declared to be strictly Venetian, which never 
 existed in Venice; and, in Every Man out of his 
 Humour, where the scene is not explicitly stated, 
 though, by the allusions and facts mentioned in the 
 dialogue, it must necessarily be in London, the 
 greater part of the native characters have Italian 
 names, and call each other, in surprising incongruity, 
 " Signor," and " Signora." 
 
 It has been remarked to me that our old poets were 
 like men who rush into any armoury, ancient or 
 modern, for sword or buckler, heedless of their 
 fashion, provided they best serve their purposes. 
 Good ; but why did they so ? Was it purely because 
 they well knew that, by so doing, they would not 
 shock the antiquarian knowledge of their audiences ? 
 Had they no ambition to appear faultless in the eyes 
 of better judges, when their works might be printed? 
 Was it sheer wilfulness on their part knowingly and 
 premeditatedly ? For myself, perceiving this occa- 
 sional disregard of what is esteemed by modern critics, 
 essential at all times, among authors, who, nearly 
 every one, were educated at our universities, I cannot 
 
KNOWLEDGE AND ART. 161 
 
 but imagine they had some saving clause in their 
 defence. Let us suppose, for instance, that they were 
 accused by some scholar and antiquary, as possibly they 
 were, of committing unpardonable incongruities; might 
 not one among them have answered him thus, without 
 discrepancy in reasoning, poetically considered ? 
 
 Perhaps you will grant it is inconceivable how a 
 people could be civilized, unless they had received 
 instructions in ethics from some philosopher, imperfect 
 as he may have been in comparison with others, whom 
 they probably regarded with some such reverence as 
 Alexander the Great paid to Aristotle. Now the 
 Trojans are represented as a civilized people; and the 
 dramatic poet, not possibly knowing who their own 
 peculiar Aristotle was, is at liberty to make Hector 
 speak of him under that philosopher's actual name, in 
 order to render his meaning intelligible to his audience. 
 Again, should a poet, in his admiration of the works 
 of an artist, desire to grace his name with the utmost 
 honours of his muse, he has a right to name him, 
 either as a painter, or, in the sister art, as a sculptor, 
 at his will, even two thousand years before he was 
 born, as appropriately as feign a name for the occasion. 
 Besides who can prove that a famous sculptor of the 
 name of Julio Romano, did not exist at the time of the 
 Delphic Oracle? Thus two chief objections against 
 Shakespeare's anachronisms may be defended; and 
 others may be also defended by a parity of reasoning. 
 
 An accomplished judge like yourself in these learned 
 matters, cannot allow of the slightest incongruity being 
 called a minor offence. All must be equally offensive 
 
162 HIS DRAMATIC 
 
 to you. On the other hand a man of confined know- 
 ledge may not be offended at any, however gross, 
 because he does not perceive it. But between you 
 and that man there is a numerous class, readers as 
 well as auditors, ready to detect a glaring error, but 
 blind to that which requires your particular course of 
 study. Thus, as to Shakespeare's mention of turkeys 
 in the reign of Henry the Fourth, when you are well 
 aware that such birds were not introduced into 
 England till the reign of Henry the Eighth, and as to 
 other such slight and casual contradictions to facts, 
 they can offend none but antiquaries like yourself; 
 and it remains to be proved that a theatre ought to 
 be a museum, with every article brought into it duly 
 labelled and described according to catalogue. 
 
 You may here observe that the numerous class, the 
 million, may hereafter become, which is possible, as 
 critical as yourself. Then farewell to poetry ! Every 
 Jack will hiss like a goose at that which most delights 
 him, his own erudite discovery of a fault, though in the 
 most questionable shape. Macbeth will not then 
 dare to say, speaking of the absence of the sun from 
 our hemisphere, " Now o'er the one half world,"* 
 because a thane of Glamis cannot be supposed to have 
 known that our planet is spherical. Where will the 
 objectors stop ? Where will they draw the line 
 beyond which the poets dare not pass ? We had bet- 
 
 * The scrupulous scholastic Acldison proceeds no farther than 
 the seventh line of his Cato without an error of precisely the same 
 description : 
 
 " Already Ca3sar 
 Has ravaged more than half the globe." 
 
KNOWLEDGE AND ART. 163 
 
 ter throw down our pens at once, if we find that our 
 protest is made in vain against too strict a boundary. 
 You would strip our language of many a striking meta- 
 phor, and of many a happy illustration, because they 
 may be founded on discoveries too recent by half a 
 century. Our vocabulary itself would be reduced to 
 a puny size, by its being forbidden, in severe pro- 
 priety, when dramatizing a story in Grecian history, 
 to use any word except such as may be a literal trans- 
 lation of some ancient Greek word. Nay, will it 
 not be pronounced the height of ignorance to represent 
 a Grecian or a Roman speaking English ? 
 
 Thus far in defence. I will now speak in approval 
 of what you are pleased to condemn. Do not believe 
 that our occasional subversions of chronology, as you 
 term them, are made either from ignorance or heed- 
 lessness. They have frequently been a subject of dis- 
 cussion at the Mermaid ; where Ben Jonson himself, 
 who began by taking your side of the argument, has 
 yielded so far as to allow their introduction, now and 
 then, in comedy, or among comic characters in the 
 mixed drama. You may remark that of late years 
 they are rarely found in tragic or serious scenes ; 
 never, perhaps, without intention. The opinion of 
 the Mermaid is to this effect. 
 
 Dramatic representation, like painting, appeals in 
 an eminent degree to the imagination. In propor- 
 tion as we draw the chain closer between distant 
 times and the present day, we attract the sympathy 
 of an audience. Human nature, though never vary- 
 ing in its essential properties and distinctions, is, how- 
 ever, capable of so many modifications, caused by 
 
164 HIS DRAMATIC 
 
 remote and national manners, that it may not always 
 be instantly recognized. Now, in a theatre, instant 
 recognition is necessary ; for, if once the audience 
 attempts to argue itself into sympathy, the poet's 
 claim to rigid truth will be unavailing. That very 
 fact of making foreigners, or our British ancestors in 
 Lear's time, speak in our own language, is an approxi- 
 mation to our sympathy, while it is absurd to our 
 understanding. If, moreover, it is possible to drop a 
 modern allusion or fact, well nigh unperceived in the 
 dialogue, it will have the magical effect of linking the 
 past with the present through the imagination, even 
 with the veriest bookworm, for the moment, and we 
 care not for his after cool reflection. Great art is 
 requisite for the management of these linkings toge- 
 ther ; and many are of opinion that they are best left 
 to the comic characters, because with them a laugh, 
 should it chance to be raised, passes for nothing 
 against the poet, while it assists his purpose. Every 
 thing in the drama, saving the grand principles of 
 human nature, is fiction wrought by art into verisimi- 
 litude, not into absolute identity. While the lan- 
 guage must breathe of the very time and place wherein 
 it is supposed to be spoken, it must be poetical and 
 picturesque ; and, to agree with it, an air of poetry 
 should be thrown over the scenery. At some future 
 period, should the stage have appropriate scenery as 
 well as dresses, the aid of the antiquary will be wel- 
 come. There will then be no fear of the minutest 
 attention to propriety ; the more accurate the more 
 instructive ; the link between reality and fiction will 
 never be broken, as long as the stage lamps are not 
 
KNOWLEDGE AND ART. 165 
 
 mistaken for daylight. But the same accuracy must 
 not always attend the dresses ; our sense of delicacy 
 would sometimes be offended; sometimes too close an 
 adherence to costume would be misunderstood. For 
 instance, you have told me that a Venetian lady must 
 not leave her house unless attired in black, yet Des- 
 demona in mourning, for so would her dress be 
 interpreted, would contradict the text. In the same 
 way a departure from the exactness of chronology in 
 language is necessary, as well as for an appeal to the 
 imagination. If ever the time should arrive when 
 critics insist on the laws of the drama being the same 
 as those of history, the poet who has no opportunity of 
 inserting a paragraph or a note, by way of explana- 
 tion as he goes on, may meet with the applause of a 
 few, but never of the many. The effect of the drama 
 constructed on such rules would be too cold, too 
 distant, too abstract. Man's everyday feelings could 
 not be raised, could not be approached. Imagination 
 would resent its being left in so inert a state ; and 
 though the understanding might have nothing to 
 argue against those laws, passion would be faintly 
 excited, and the drama would rather become a poem, 
 possibly an interesting one, not a scene of active, busy 
 life, in which, with one accord, we heartily sympathize. 
 Dramatists, I have said, may be likened in their 
 office to painters ; and to the latter we really owe the 
 example of appealing, through inconsistencies, to the 
 imagination. Those who have had the happiness of 
 beholding the works of Raphael, Titian, (and others, 
 not yet a hundred years old,) know how much they 
 have contrived to connect past events with things of 
 
166 HIS DRAMATIC 
 
 interest in their time, and even with actual portraits 
 of living men. This may have first arisen from a 
 sense of religion ; the nativity having been as much 
 to an Italian modern family, as to any other family at 
 the actual time ; and therefore we see portraits of in- 
 dividuals, in their Venetian or other costume, kneeling 
 before the Virgin and Child. Having thus discovered 
 a truth in what you would call a false chronology, 
 they carried it to other subjects as a means of uniting 
 our present feelings with the past ; and taught us that 
 there is an imaginative chronology, superior, in its 
 moral effects, to a cold, calculating, and barren doc- 
 trine. * ?> 
 
 This argument, put into the mouth of one of our 
 old poets, which has run to a greater length than I 
 intended, would of course be utterly unavailing with a 
 mere antiquary. It may not be convincing to any 
 but a poet ; but every one will perhaps acknowledge 
 a shadow of reason in it, which is enough for a poet ; 
 when his aim is instruction of a higher nature than 
 that of dates and facts. On this principle, the 
 meeting of Dido and ^Eneas has been commended, 
 and rightly so ; but the same critics ought not to blow 
 hot and cold with Virgil and our old dramatists. 
 
 I have avoided alluding to the confusion of times, 
 places, and manners, in the romance writers of Eliza- 
 beth's reign ; a confusion not to he excused. Even 
 our latest and great romance writer, Sir Walter Scott, 
 who constantly dins his antiquarian knowledge into 
 our ears, has ten to one more faults of this nature than 
 can be pointed out in Shakespeare ; only it is not the 
 
KNOWLEDGE AND ART. 167 
 
 fashion to say so ; or his pretension to accuracy has 
 prevented his readers' suspicions. I will not assert, 
 as an antiquary has informed me, " Sir Walter Scott 
 is never entirely correct in costume;" but I have 
 noticed in him a multiplicity of errors. 
 
 Modern critics are equally fastidious in pronuncia- 
 tion. To this I give my hearty approval, provided 
 they tax not their forefathers with ignorance for fol- 
 lowing rules different from their own. It has nothing 
 to do with Shakespeare's learning, nor with that of 
 his fellows ; it can only affect their taste. The old 
 poets, when they introduced a foreign name into their 
 writings, accented it according to what they conceived 
 the euphony of the language. This cannot be 
 doubted ; because the old translators, certainly good 
 scholars themselves, in turning the classic poets into 
 English verse, have chosen to alter many names in 
 their syllabic quantity ; of which several examples 
 have been brought forward by Stevens. Thus if Mar- 
 lowe, a translator of Ovid, was the author of Titus 
 Andronicm, he did not choose to call it Andronlcus. 
 I speak of pronunciation chiefly on account of Dr. 
 Farmer's having accused Shakespeare of scholastic 
 ignorance in saying Stephano in The Merchant of 
 Venice, and pretending, without any authority, that 
 Ben Jonson had afterwards taught him better when 
 the Tempest was written, as there the name is pro- 
 nounced Stephano. This is incredible; because, to 
 be consistent, Ben Jonson himself, in his Volpone, 
 should not have pronounced Voltore, Voltore. This 
 name, he lets us know, is the Italian for " Vulture;" 
 no, in that case, it ought to be Avoltore. But, 
 
168 HIS DRAMATIC 
 
 whether as an Italian word or name, an Italian ear is 
 gratingly offended by such lines as the following : 
 
 " Sir, Signer Voltore is come this morning." 
 " What then did Voltore, the lawyer, here r" 
 " Thou, Voltore, to take away the scandal." 
 
 Ben Jonson, therefore, the pretended corrector of 
 pronunciation, was equally at fault with his neigh- 
 bours ; but, as he boldly declared himself a scholar, 
 no one has dared to arraign him for ignorance. Most 
 probably Shakespeare disapproved of his first pronun- 
 ciation of the name Stephano, or he yielded to the 
 true one, because it might have become the usual one. 
 By the same rule, we should say Venice, Florence, 
 Milan, Alexandria, and mispronounce, to our ears, a 
 hundred other names. Worse than all, Romeo and 
 Desdemona would be converted into Romeo and 
 Desdemona. But enough of these trifles. 
 
 We are sometimes told, in a tone of censure, if not 
 in direct terms, that few of the fables of Shakespeare's 
 dramas were of his own invention, and that those he 
 has selected, if not historical, are improbable. The 
 same may be said of all dramatic authors, ancient or 
 modern ; those whose works have been successful, from 
 -ZEschylus down to our own time, as far as tragedy 
 and the serious drama are concerned ; and so it will 
 continue to be said of them ; because originality, in 
 its strictest sense, and probability, both equally tend 
 to weaken our interest in dramatic works. As this 
 assertion, at first sight, may appear paradoxical, I will 
 say a few words on both heads in explanation. 
 
KNOWLEDGE AND ART. 169 
 
 First, in respect to originality of fable for tragedy 
 and the serious drama. We laugh freely at a comic 
 story, regardless of its authenticity ; but we are more 
 chary of our tears, and can hardly be persuaded to 
 shed them at events which we know to be wholly ficti- 
 tious. Children are strenuous on this subject. Tell 
 them an affecting tale, and at the moment you think 
 they are " beguiled of their tears," they are apt to 
 advance the question of "But is it true?" when if 
 you assure them it is so, the tears spring from their 
 eyes. But if the answer should be, "No, no; it is 
 only a story !" they instantly clear up their coun- 
 tenances, and you are at liberty to kill all the person- 
 ages of your tale, in the most pathetic manner, 
 without once exciting their compassion. In this 
 respect, as in many others, " men are but children of 
 a larger growth." 
 
 Another peculiarity in our nature is, that we 
 willingly consent to weep at a tragedy, provided we 
 are told it is founded, no matter how slightly, on a 
 fact; nor are we anxious to inquire into the incongru- 
 ousness of the superstructure with the foundation. 
 We reconcile our minds to the whole of it, on the 
 principle that there may well be more than one way of 
 telling the same story. Not that we are really 
 deceived; but we find just enough to satisfy our self- 
 love that we are not entirely imposed on, and that the 
 sorrow we are tempted to express may, in some degree, 
 be justified. In all works of imagination, especially 
 in those represented bodily before us on the stage, we 
 possess a strange mixture of the love of facts, and of 
 a willingness, indeed an eagerness, to be deceived. 
 
 i 
 
170 HIS DRAMATIC 
 
 All we claim is some little resting-place for our faith; 
 if more can be obtained, so much the better ; but a 
 little whereon to lean our elbow is sufficient. We 
 want merely an excuse to be interested, and to have 
 our passions moved. 
 
 For this purpose it is enough for a poet, after having 
 invented a fable, to connect it with some known name 
 in history ; or, if he has not invented it, he appeals 
 to the original tale, printed long ago, which, of course, 
 must have been grounded on fact. " I love a ballad 
 in print," says Mopsa, " for then we are sure they 
 are true." More or less, men of education, as 
 well as the common run of audiences, are like the 
 simple-hearted Mopsa. The tragic poets of Greece 
 were right, in order to fix the attention of the people, 
 and to interest them highly, instead of creating new 
 heroes and new events, to go back to their heroic age 
 for fables, in which there was a traditional faith ; and 
 Shakespeare and the rest were right, for the same 
 reason, in dramatizing history or tradition, ballads or 
 tales, English or foreign. It was by no means neces- 
 sary that the audience should be previously acquainted 
 with the story ; it was sufficient if something existed, 
 which might be talked of as its groundwork. A 
 ballad was the origin of the tragedy of Douglas ; no 
 one can doubt but that the knowledge of that fact, 
 even among those who have neither read the ballad 
 nor seek to read it, affords additional pathos to the 
 tragedy; while few indeed have inquired into the 
 truth of that same ballad. 
 
 When Shakespeare dramatized portions of the 
 Roman or English history, it may be almost said he 
 
KNOWLEDGE AND ART. 171 
 
 was writing upon oath, so correctly does he follow 
 the course of events, according to his authorities. 
 But when he adopted a tale, he would, as his taste 
 and judgment directed, strike out a part, invent other 
 incidents, bring forward other persons on the scene, 
 alter or entirely subvert the catastrophe, and all this 
 for merely the serious part of his play; while the 
 comic part, most artfully connected and apparently 
 inseparable from the other, was generally his own 
 invention. If we consider this properly, together 
 with his amazing invention of characters, for which 
 he seldom received more than a hint, and oftener 
 nothing, he may be styled nearly as original in his 
 fables as in his poetry. We look into the Italian 
 tales in vain for any of his characters. Othello and 
 Shylock, for instance, are there no more than a Moor 
 of a noble nature, and a Jew who hated Christians. 
 Cinthio Geraldi and Ser Giovanni, who told the 
 stories of the Moor of Venice and the Jew of Venice, 
 did no more than furnish the barest skeletons. Our 
 English bard clothed them with flesh and blood. 
 
 Respecting improbability, so fastidiously exclaimed 
 against, I have little else to say except that it is the 
 very life and soul of fiction. When we turn to works 
 of imagination, we are not satisfied with occurrences 
 which belong to any body and to every day in the 
 week. A common story at the theatre, or in a poem, 
 or in a novel, is not to our purpose ; we want excite- 
 ment, and we insist on meeting with something un- 
 common ; and the uncommon is sure to approach, if 
 not trespass on the regions of improbability. The 
 legends of the family of CEdipus, and of the bloody 
 
 i 2 
 
172 HIS DRAMATIC 
 
 house of Atreus, are fully as improbable as the legend 
 of King Lear and his three daughters. An impro- 
 bability can only be an event which, though possible, 
 is not likely to happen ; yet with this definition, we 
 cannot object to any possible story whatever. It has 
 been truly remarked that events in common life have 
 surpassed the wildest possible fictions; yet still we unrea- 
 sonably object to a poet's fictions. What can be more 
 improbable than the strangest, and therefore the most 
 striking and interesting parts of history ? How un- 
 likely, we may say, is it, that a woman, in man's attire, 
 should pass, during a lengthened period, for a man ! 
 but we know that women, thus disguised, have passed 
 their whole lives. The most improbable thing in 
 Shakespeare is the continually mistaking of twin 
 brothers for each other ; yet there has been performed 
 in Plymouth Market, for the last fifty years, a Comedy 
 of Errors., never ending, still beginning, arising from 
 the resemblance of twin brothers, both in the same 
 costume as butchers; their very wives are frequently 
 puzzled ; and they maintain, as old men, their original 
 counterpart resemblance. A similar comedy has 
 been performed for many years in the dock-yard at 
 Leghorn; where the twins, to avoid their roguery, 
 are not paid their wages unless they appear together. 
 And I have been credibly informed that a mother was 
 obliged to put a ribbon round one daughter's neck, in 
 order to distinguish her from her twin sister, even 
 when they were ten years old. All this is beyond the 
 errors created by the two Antipholises, and the two 
 Dromios, because with them no one is aware of the 
 existence of twin likenesses. 
 
KNOWLEDGE AND ART. 173 
 
 Possibility stands in need of strong evidence in a 
 court of justice, not in a theatre. The latter contains 
 an assembly of persons ready and eager to yield up 
 their imaginations, and to regard every event credible 
 that is possible, for the purpose of receiving delight 
 and instruction. Nor is this strange, when the same 
 double purpose is gained in .ZEsop's fables, where we 
 have to encounter the absolute impossibility of conver- 
 sation between brutes or vegetables. In representa- 
 tion, however, we cannot admit of what cannot be con- 
 ceived, unless in a Christmas pantomime. Yet, while 
 we listen willingly and gladly to uncommon and startling 
 histories of our fellow men, the dramatist dares not, 
 with impunity, once shock our faith in human nature. 
 We consent to view ourselves reflected in other attire, a 
 king's or abeggar's, on the eve of happiness or of being 
 murdered, but we cannot bear to see ourselves dis- 
 torted. If the offence of the dramatist is openly 
 visible, we turn away with contempt; and even if 
 there is an underground factitious feeling, to which 
 our hearts cannot respond, in vain is the beauty or 
 the splendour of the verse, in vain the moral or 
 the spirit-stirring business of the scene. Such works 
 like every thing else factitious, may last during the 
 fashion of the day ; the fashion gone, the works die 
 with it. On this rock of false feeling, Dryden, 
 as a dramatist, was wrecked. In a less degree, 
 compared to Dryden's tragedies, the Cato of 
 Addison offends ; and that noblest effort of the 
 English muse, as it was once called by Voltaire (though 
 his countrymen are not now of his opinion) has sunk 
 nearly into oblivion, weighed down by its hyperbolical 
 
174 HIS DRAMATIC 
 
 characters, and unnatural, because continued, pomp 
 of diction. By such means, during the last century, 
 many historical facts have become incredible on the 
 stage. Truth has been disguised in tinsel till she 
 could not be recognized. It is of no use to appeal 
 to authority for our subject, unless we treat it with 
 verisimilitude. Thus, bereaved of the true dramatic 
 art, the most probable circumstances may become 
 prodigies ; while, with that art, the supernatural itself 
 is natural. 
 
 Dr. Johnson's Preface again supplies me with a 
 passage entirely to my purpose. " Shakespeare has 
 no heroes ; his scenes are occupied only by men, who 
 act and speak as the reader thinks he should himself 
 have spoken or acted on the same occasion ; even 
 where the agency is supernatural, the dialogue is level 
 with life. Other writers disguise the most natural 
 passions and the most frequent incidents ; so that he 
 who contemplates them in the book will not know 
 them in the world: Shakespeare approximates the 
 remote and familiarizes the wonderful; the event 
 which he represents will not happen ; but, if it were 
 possible, its effects would probably be such as he has 
 assigned; and it may be said, that he has not only shown 
 human nature as it acts in real exigencies, but as it 
 would be found in trials to which it cannot be exposed." 
 
 There are other parts of the Preface which seem 
 to have been written with regret that our great poet 
 did not compose tragedies similar to the Doctor's own 
 Irene. The above passage must have been written when 
 warm from the perusal of some scenes which had 
 prompted it. When he spoke from the impression of 
 
KNOWLEDGE AND ART. 
 
 the moment, or from impulse, he gave us energetic 
 truth; but he had no cool judgment it was cold 
 prejudice. For this reason, the best, almost the only 
 valuable part of his works is, thanks to Bos well, 
 his conversation. Readers cannot always distinguish 
 between his unadulterated feelings and his cold pre- 
 judices. His twofold character, a positive and vacil- 
 lating criticism, a love of nature and of artificial 
 authority, a kindliness in practice, and a stern, un- 
 bending, theoretical rigour, formed a being unfit to 
 pronounce judgment on poets. All have been injured 
 by him, but, most of all, the greatest. In a paper, 
 No. 168 of the Rambler, on " Poetry debased by 
 mean expressions," he points out that, as a fault in 
 Shakespeare, without which the high praise bestowed 
 on his dramatic art, in the passage I have just quoted, 
 could not have been deserved. While bringing for- 
 ward my reasons for differing from his criticism, I 
 shall be explaining what I desire in reference to the 
 commendation contained in his Preface. 
 
 " Shakespeare has no heroes." If his characters 
 were always to speak and act in an elevated manner, 
 heroes they would be, and not men. Addison's 
 characters, and those of Racine, and of other French 
 poets, move before us aloof from the common desires 
 and the common feelings of mankind. However we 
 may admire, we cannot sympathize with them. It 
 was part of Shakespeare's cunning to represent cha- 
 racters like ourselves, with the same wants as well as 
 passions, the same petty griefs, as well as deep-rooted 
 sorrows, and surrounded with everything pertaining 
 to man. He tells us himself, " One touch of nature 
 
176 HIS DRAMATIC 
 
 makes the whole world kin ;" and he was constantly 
 fulfilling his own precept. Thus his greatest men 
 talk of eating and drinking, as if they had verily 
 mouths to eat and drink : Othello complains of a 
 head-ache, as if his head was humanly subject to pain; 
 Prince Henry, the future conqueror of France, asks, 
 when reproached for feeling fatigued in his dignified 
 situation, " Doth it not show vilely in me to desire 
 small beer ?" and we meet with the instruments of 
 domestic life, in plain household words, absolutely or 
 metaphorically, as if they were needful or interesting 
 to us. None of all which, to the boast of our neigh- 
 bours in the last century, can be found throughout 
 the whole range of the French classic theatre, exclu- 
 sively composed of heroes and heroines, not men and 
 women. The lines objected to, as " poetry debased," 
 are 
 
 " Come, thick night, 
 
 And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell I 
 
 That my keen knife see not the wound it makes ; 
 
 Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark, 
 
 To cry, Hold, hold /" 
 
 The learned lexicographer first finds fault with the 
 word dun, because it is a " low" expression, " seldom 
 heard but in the stable," and is to be treated with 
 " contempt." I should be sorry if so good a word 
 were confined to the stable ; it cannot well be spared 
 from the works of our best authors. Milton uses it 
 in the sense of his own " darkness visible," " In the 
 dun air sublime." 
 
 His next " low" word is knife. He terms it " an 
 instrument used by butchers and cooks in the meanest 
 
KNOWLEDGE AND ART. 177 
 
 employments ;" and asks, " who does not, at last, 
 from the long habit of connecting a knife with sordid 
 offices, feel aversion rather than terror ?" Of course 
 he would have chosen dagger, as a grander word ; but 
 it would not be so appropriate in this situation, in the 
 soliloquy of a woman, who does not appear to wear a 
 dagger. Besides, the connexion of the homely word 
 knife with so awful a murder as that of an old man 
 in his sleep, brings the image in a more familiar, and, 
 therefore, in a more horrible manner, to our minds. 
 
 But can it be credited, without turning to the 
 Rambler, that Dr. Johnson presumed to criticize these 
 lines, not knowing by whom they are spoken ? Ac- 
 cording to him Macbeth utters them, not his wife ; 
 and their value is certainly degraded, on more than 
 one consideration, by giving them to him. 
 
 Lastly, the critic demands : " Who, without some 
 relaxation of his gravity, can hear of the avengers of 
 guilt peeping through a blanket ?" My answer is, 
 that I can ; because I do not attach a more ludicrous 
 meaning to the word peep, than in this line of Pope : 
 
 " Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise." 
 
 But, agreeably to his dictionary, the word peep, in its 
 second sense, is thus defined : " To look slily, closely, 
 or curiously ; to look through any crevice ;" and he 
 then gives Shakespeare's line as an illustration of this 
 second sense of the word ! Who but himself could 
 have supposed there was a hole in the blanket ? Any 
 one who chooses, while reading the line, to think of 
 playing bo-peep with that emblem of gravity, Dr. 
 Johnson, will doubtless experience some " relaxation" 
 
 i 3 
 
178 HIS DRAMATIC 
 
 of his own gravity," and he may wish, with him, 
 perhaps, it were " gaze through the curtain of the 
 dark," or, in mightier Johnsonian phrase, " direct a 
 glance of perquisition through the fleecy- woven tegu- 
 ment of the tenebrosity." As for the word blanket, 
 let it be noticed that Lady Macbeth, not her husband, 
 had, at that moment, on being informed, " The 
 King comes here to night," determined on murdering 
 him in his bed. " Top-full of ^direct, cruelty," in the 
 anticipation of this deed, her thoughts occupied in 
 the very act of stabbing her guest in his bed, she 
 naturally, and consequently with propriety, takes a 
 metaphor from it in the word blanket. Dr. Johnson 
 strongly felt the power of these lines, but quarrelled 
 with the means employed to produce it, and altogether 
 misunderstood the meaning and value of the words. 
 He boasted of this criticism when he was editor ; for, 
 in a note, he says, " On this passage there is a long 
 criticism in the Rambler" In this, and many other 
 cases, his authority is like that of a cook, with her 
 finger and thumb at the neck of a pullet ; only, 
 instead of catering for us, he would destroy, or con- 
 taminate, our food. 
 
 By the occasional skilful application of a common 
 every-day expression, the application of a household 
 word, the mingling of the conveniences or wants of 
 life with deeds of death, our imagination, while read- 
 ing Shakespeare, is so forcibly enthralled. Had the 
 old King been described as reposing on a stately 
 couch, after the fatigue of his journey, we could not 
 have sympathized with his fate so much as when we 
 find him, like ourselves, sleeping in a bed, with sheets 
 
KNOWLEDGE AND ART. 179 
 
 and blankets. Such is at least a portion of Shakes- 
 peare's magic. To find fault with it, is to wish to be 
 disenchanted. 
 
 Let it not be said, that, like a man with his mis- 
 tress, I cannot see a defect in our national poet. I am 
 now occupied in his defence ; but at the proper season 
 I should not hesitate in pointing out whatever is 
 faulty to demonstration : and here, while speaking of 
 his dramatic art, I blame his forgetfulness of time. 
 Othello, for example, talks as if he had passed the 
 honeymoon, or nearly so ; yet it is plain, from the 
 context, that he kills his wife the night after his nup- 
 tials. This was, originally, a criticism by Ryrner ; 
 and no ingenuity can controvert it. Still, the passion 
 of the scenes is so mighty, that neither audience nor 
 reader would be aware of it, unless there were a 
 Rymer to notice it. That very passion had doubtless 
 blinded the poet himself to the fact; because, had he 
 perceived it, two or three slight alterations, not affect- 
 ing the business of the scenes, would have annulled 
 the objection. That this may no more be adduced as 
 an argument of his carelessness, which I will not allow, 
 I will instance similar failings of memory in other great 
 men, which are more frequent than many may suppose. 
 Cervantes commits numerous blunders, but his au- 
 thority may not be considered to the purpose ; De 
 Foe, however, the most matter-of-fact of all novelists, 
 does the same. It was not until I had several times 
 read the works of Fielding, who affected undeniable 
 precision, that I perceived he had wonderfully failed 
 in his progress of time. Omitting minor errors in 
 his other novels, I will mention an almost incredible 
 
180 HIS DRAMATIC 
 
 one in his Tom Jones, where he takes upon himself to 
 divide his books into certain periods of time, with 
 more, as he says, than historical exactness. Thus 
 the incidents at the close of Book V occur, we are 
 distinctly told, " in the latter end of June ;" Book 
 VI contains "about three weeks;" Book VII "three 
 days ;" Book VIII " about two days ;" yet in this 
 very Book VIII, when the month of July could not 
 be passed, we are gravely told, in a parenthesis, (" as 
 it was now mid- winter,") and the story proceeds regu- 
 larly onward through frost and snow ! No one can 
 believe this was carelessness in the greatest novellist, 
 since he was continually priding himself on exactness ; 
 nor can I think the greatest dramatist was careless, 
 seeing he was more exact, on most matters, than the 
 hypercritics will generally allow. A fiction, inter- 
 woven with many stirring incidents, is apt to mislead 
 the soundest recollection, whether we write it for in- 
 struction, or depose to it in a witness-box. 
 
 A foreigner, Schlegel, following Morgann's critical 
 Essay ) told us, " To me Shakespeare appears a pro- 
 found artist, and not a blind and wildly-luxuriant 
 genius." Upton spoke rather of his poetic art, while 
 there he found great fault in his crowded metaphors. 
 But, with deference to Upton, who has written so 
 well on Shakespeare, it is in the nature of passion to 
 hurry metaphor on metaphor; therefore, what would 
 be a fault in a didactic or descriptive poem, may be 
 beautiful in a drama ; a distinction that is seldom made. 
 Morgann had spoken in vain, and we listened to 
 Schlegel with surprise; for we had been accustomed 
 to consider our national poet as almost more than akin 
 
KNOWLEDGE AND ART. 181 
 
 to nature, and independent on art. Probably we 
 have by this time learned that the closest imitations 
 of nature must be the highest efforts of art. To 
 argue otherwise is to forsake the philosophical and 
 easy, for the preternatural and the perplexing. Again, 
 rather than attribute his excellence to its right cause, 
 the editors have chosen to ascribe its larger portion to 
 a variety of accidents. No doubt accidents improved 
 his mind, as every man's mind may be improved ; but 
 there is no reason for our ascribing a greater number 
 of fortunate accidents to him than to another. His 
 intellectual superiority may itself have been a conse- 
 quence of some unnoticed thing in the chain of events ; 
 nay, he might not have been born, according to God- 
 win, if Alexander the Great, about two thousand years 
 before, had not happened to bathe in the Cydnus. 
 
 I willingly leave the chain of events, and all that is 
 termed accident in this world, because they are beyond 
 my comprehension. When I open the pages of 
 Shakespeare, my reason sees nothing but the product 
 of a superior mind, aided and strengthened by the 
 keenest observation and the deepest study. Yes, one 
 thing more, which may, however, be said to belong 
 essentially to a superior mind, and without which, I 
 verily believe, his name could scarcely have descended 
 to us, a spirit of goodness within him. Had he not 
 happily possessed a kindliness of nature, an inexhaust- 
 ible charity, an ardent love of all created things ; 
 but, in their stead, a discontented or a malevolent 
 view of his fellow-creatures, how basely would he have 
 fallen from his present height ! Such a distraction of 
 the mind, would either have cramped his genius, or 
 
182 HIS DRAMATIC KNOWLEDGE AND ART. 
 
 utterly destroyed it. In vain then would have been 
 his dramatic art, and knowledge of stage effect, which 
 none has equalled, in vain his experience with man- 
 kind, his books, his poetry. As it is, while he surveys 
 nature neither with an evil eye nor with austerity, he 
 teaches us to read " sermons in stones, and good in 
 every thing ;" to respect all opinions which are built 
 on reflection and sincerity ; to know our passions 
 truly, lest they should mislead us ; to look with charity 
 on the failings or mistakes of others ; to find, if pos- 
 sible, some excuse even for the vicious, while we most 
 condemn vice; to feel certain that we cannot be 
 happy while we do a wrong to another ; and, when 
 ourselves are wronged, to forgive an enemy, if he 
 is penitent, not coldly, but with a brother's warmth. 
 The grand "magic in the web" of his writings is his 
 doctrine. The first requisite for the art of poetry is 
 universal kindliness. Humanly speaking, he is our 
 greatest teacher as well as our greatest delight. With 
 other poets something is wanting, or something uncon- 
 genial is presented ; whatever chord he strikes, and 
 by turns, he strikes on all it is sure to harmonize with 
 our best affections. The more he is read, the more 
 he is, not only admired, but loved. Every English- 
 man knows something of his works, but, if I may be 
 allowed to judge of others by myself, or by those with 
 whom I have conversed, no one knows enough. 
 
HE NEVER WAS A FLATTERER. 
 
 REGARDING, as Shakespeare has contended, that the 
 conferring of merited praise is an honest action, and 
 that praise is flattery only when addressed to the 
 undeserving, I have argued that the five Poems to his 
 friend, are free from flattery. It, now remains to be 
 proved that he has never, throughout his works, been 
 guilty of personal adulation. This is necessary, as 
 the contrary has been either boldly stated, or recklessly 
 implied by many. 
 
 The principal charge against him has been made by 
 the most prejudiced and heedless of his editors, Dr. 
 Johnson, in his note on Cranmer's speech at the end 
 of Henry the Eighth. Here is the note. 
 
 " These lines, to the interruption by the king, seem 
 to have been inserted at some revisal of the play, after 
 the accession of King James. If the passage, included 
 in crotchets, be left out, the speech of Cranmer pro- 
 ceeds in a regular tenour of prediction and continuity 
 of sentiments ; but, by the interposition of the new 
 lines, he first celebrates Elizabeth's successor, and 
 
184 HE NEVER WAS A FLATTERER. 
 
 then wishes he did not know that she was to die; first 
 rejoices at the consequence, and then laments the 
 cause. Our author was at once politic and idle ; he 
 resolved to flatter James, but neglected to reduce the 
 whole speech to propriety ; or perhaps intended that 
 the lines inserted should be spoken in the action, and 
 omitted in the publication, if any publication ever was 
 in his thoughts. Mr. Theobald has made the same 
 observation." 
 
 This accusation wholly rests on the belief that 
 Shakespeare was the author of the lines within the 
 crotchets; against which there are several objections. 
 
 The lines being so placed shows them separable 
 from the legitimate text. Shakespeare, though he has 
 written obscurely, never committed a like incontinuity 
 of purpose, never was so awkward, and therefore he 
 ought not to be supposed the author of a passage, 
 allowed to be, as it is marked, an interpolation. 
 There is no congeniality with the character of his 
 verse, nothing with the character of Cranmer's 
 speech, which is an outpouring of prophecies, in short 
 simple sentences, as if each was uttered in a single 
 breath; whereas these lines are harsh, long-winded, 
 and involved. 
 
 It is also taken for granted that the play was first 
 produced in the reign of Elizabeth, for which there is 
 not a shadow of authority, except that her reign is 
 eulogized in it; while our sole authority is direct in 
 favour of its having been first produced in 1613, ten 
 years after her death. 
 
 Malone is extremely puzzled upon this subject, dis- 
 cussing it at great length, in his Chronology. He 
 
HE NEVER WAS A FLATTERER. 185 
 
 cannot comprehend how the play could have been 
 written during Elizabeth's life ; yet he is willing to 
 suppose that such was the case, on account of its high 
 compliment on her reign. He has, however, the 
 evidence of Sir Henry Wotton, who saw it represented 
 in 1613, and who described it as a "new play." In 
 this dilemma, he chooses to think it possible it was 
 palmed, in that year, on the public as a " new play," 
 while it was merely a revival with a new name, All is 
 true ; but he brings forward nothing in support of this 
 notion. Without conjecturing improbabilities, why 
 should we not believe, according to the account we 
 have received, that it was first acted in 1613, and that 
 the flattery to king James was not in the original 
 manuscript, but inserted by another hand ? 
 
 Thus every difficulty will be removed; and my 
 evidence is strong for such a belief. The passage, not 
 within the crotchets, 
 
 " She shall be, to the happiness of England, 
 An aged princess ; * * * but she must die ; 
 She must : the saints must have her I" 
 
 this passage, without taking into account the out- 
 rage of calling the vain Elizabeth aged to her face, 
 supposing the play was performed in her reign, (which 
 Malone, in strange simplicity, thinks would not have 
 offended her at the age of seventy !) imagined the 
 queen's death during her life, and was little short of high 
 treason probably nothing short, in her ears. Malone 
 slurs over this fact, which is everything to the argu- 
 ment. The play, therefore, could not have been 
 brought forward during the life of that queen ; and 
 
186 HE NEVER WAS A FLATTERER. 
 
 thus the charge against Shakespeare for flattery 
 towards her, is annihilated. The dead cannot be 
 flattered ; but her memory was, we well know, dearly 
 cherished; and nothing could be a more grateful 
 subject to the audience than a eulogy on her reign. 
 Besides which, we may reasonably suppose it was a 
 grateful subject to the poet himself. 
 
 It now remains to clear him from the charge of 
 flattery towards her successor James. When this 
 play w^as produced in 1613, Shakespeare had, it is con- 
 jectured, retired to Stratford, and probably he for- 
 warded it to London for performance. This is certain, 
 Ben Jonson was in London at that time; since he 
 witnessed the conflagration of the Globe Theatre, 
 after one of the performances of this very play, in 
 1613. To this certainty a supposition, a well-grounded 
 one, by Malone, has been added, that the play was got 
 up under his direction, especially the pageants and 
 processions, for which his knowledge of costume and 
 heraldry, acquired with Inigo Jones in the decorations 
 of the Masques at Court, rendered him the fittest per- 
 son in the theatre. We are told by Sir Henry Wotton, 
 that the decorations and dresses were splendid ; and 
 the king himself, and the prince palatine, were no 
 doubt present at one of the performances, because we 
 know they frequented the Globe Theatre during that 
 year, chiefly, it appears, for the sake of witnessing our 
 great poet's dramas. Looking forward to this visit of 
 majesty, when the new play of Henry the Eighth, or, 
 as its title then was, All is true, was to be performed, 
 we may easily imagine that Ben Jonson, the most 
 barefaced and fulsome court-flatterer among all our 
 
HE NEVER WAS A FLATTERER. 187 
 
 poets, was in no small degree troubled at discovering 
 there was a long eulogy on the memory of Elizabeth, 
 without a word in favour of the reigning monarch, the 
 jealous James. If Shakespeare was absent, it was an 
 omission to be supplied by some one on the spot ; and 
 if he was in London, it is more likely that he reason- 
 ably and honestly refused to praise a king before his 
 reign was concluded, than that he should so awkwardly 
 have foisted in these lines of unblushing adulation. 
 Unblushing I term it, as James is placed on an 
 equality with his predecessor, here so magnificently 
 extolled ; though Ben was capable, in his Masques, of 
 placing his glory above her's. 
 
 I am arriving, it will be seen, at the conclusion 
 that this disputed passage in crotchets was written by 
 Ben Jonson, nor am I the first who has expressed the 
 same opinion. There can be no doubt but that the 
 prologue and epilogue to this play were written by 
 him; of this I felt assured, from internal evidence, 
 from the matter, the feeling, and the very intonation 
 of the lines, before I was aware that Dr. Johnson and 
 Dr. Farmer had, on similar grounds, long since 
 arrived at the same conclusion. Judging in the same 
 manner, from the peculiarity of thought, style, and 
 composition, I feel certain that all within the crotchets 
 was written by none but Ben Jonson : and those con- 
 versant with his poetry will, by an attentive perusal, 
 trace him in every line. For those who know little of 
 his works, I will place, immediately following the 
 crotcheted flattery, passages from his Entertainments, 
 and Masques, wherein his theme is the royal James ; 
 when a resemblance, almost amounting to identity, 
 
188 HE NEVER WAS A FLATTERER. 
 
 will be perceived. It is a pity I could not find the 
 " phoenix" nothing else is wanting. The passages in 
 italics will be found counterparts, besides the similarity 
 in expression throughout, I cannot call it feeling. 
 
 [" Nor shall this peace sleep with her : but as when 
 The bird of wonder dies, the maiden phoenix, 
 Her ashes new create another heir, 
 As great in admiration as herself; 
 So shall she leave her blessedness to one, 
 (When heaven shall call her from this cloud of darkness) 
 Who, from the sacred ashes of her honour, 
 Shall star-like rise, as great in fame as she was, 
 Jlnd so stand fixd : peace, plenty, love, truth, terror, 
 That were the servants to this chosen infant, 
 Shall then be his, and like a vine grow to him ; 
 Wherever the bright sun of heaven shall shine, 
 His honour and the greatness of his name 
 Shall be, and make new nations : he shall flourish, 
 And, like a mountain cedar, reach his branches 
 To all the plains about him : our children's children 
 Shall see this, and bless heaven. 
 King. Thou speakest wonders."] 
 
 " But all these spurs* to virtue, seeds of praise, 
 Must yield to this that comes. Here's one will raise 
 Your glory more." 
 
 " A splendid sun, shall never set, 
 But here shine fix' d" 
 
 " As bright and fixed as the arctick star." 
 
 " Within his proper virtue hath he placed 
 His guards 'gainst fortune, and there fix 'd fast 
 The wheel of chance." 
 
 * The actions of Elizabeth. 
 
HE NEVER WAS A FLATTERER. 189 
 
 " Here are kingdoms mix'd 
 And nations joind, a strength of empire fix'd." 
 
 " His name 
 Strike upon heaven, and there stick his fame." 
 
 " His country's wonder,* hope, love, joy, and pride 
 How well doth he become the royal side 
 Of this erected and broad- spreading tree, 
 Under whose shade may Britain ever be ! 
 And from this branch may thousand branches more 
 Shoot o'er the main, and knit with every shore !" 
 
 Having exculpated our poet from the commission 
 of such Ben Jonsonian language, I hope every one 
 will draw his pen through it, and that future editors 
 will not continue the interpolation. 
 
 In vain I look for a second passage in his works 
 which can be construed into a like charge. Elegant 
 compliments he has certainly paid to both these 
 sovereigns during their lives ; but they are few, honest- 
 minded, and gentlemanly, as far removed as truth 
 from flattery, being on points that could not admit of 
 contradiction at the period they were written. 
 
 The first of these is paid 10 Elizabeth, simply on 
 her fair complexion and virgin state, and is the most 
 delicate and poetical compliment that, on any occasion, 
 ever entered the mind of man. I mean that beau- 
 tiful passage in Midsummer Nighfs Dream : 
 
 " That very time I saw (but thou could'st not) 
 Flying between the cold moon and the earth, 
 Cupid all arm'd : a certain aim he took 
 
 * The heir-apparent. 
 
190 HE NEVER WAS A FLATTERER. 
 
 At a fair Vestal, throned by the west, 
 
 And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow, 
 
 As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts : 
 
 But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft 
 
 Quench'd in the chaste beams of the wat'ry moon ; 
 
 And the imperial vot'ress passed on, 
 
 In maiden-meditation, fancy-free." 
 
 This is the only tribute of his muse to the virgin- 
 queen. His exaltation of the Tudors above the house 
 of York, in some respects contrary to our view of 
 history/ is nothing to the purpose. Englishmen, in 
 his day, while looking back on the wars of the red 
 and white roses, must have felt thankful to the Tudors, 
 in spite of the now acknowledged unworthiness of 
 their two Henrys. Then, not only did Shakespeare 
 follow Holinshed, but also the original dramatist of 
 the three parts of Henry the Sixth. In those plays 
 the characters of Richard the Third and Henry the 
 Seventh were ready made to his hands. Dr. Johnson 
 might have spared his note, with its graceless expres- 
 sion of " Shakespeare knew his trade" on Henry 
 the Sixth's prophetic speech at the sight of the youth 
 Richmond, because, as Stevens has observed, the poet 
 implicitly followed Holinshed in this particular. 
 Besides, the representation of the first Tudor as a 
 young faultless prince was dramatically necessary, in 
 order to contrast him with the " hump-back'd tyrant." 
 Had Henry the Seventh been drawn in his true cha- 
 racter, the battle of Bosworth Field would have 
 depressed the audience with unrelieved sorrow, wit- 
 nessing nothing better than the dethronement of a 
 daring tyrant for the accession of a subtle one. The 
 
HE NEVER WAS A FLATTERER. 191 
 
 same necessity of contrast with Macbeth existed in 
 the character of Ban quo, the ancestor of James. 
 Imagine Banquo as guilty as Macbeth, and the drama 
 would be destroyed in its unity its one-absorbing 
 interest. Among Upton's remarks on Macbeth, he 
 says, " The variety of characters, with their different 
 manners, ought not to be passed over in silence. 
 Banquo w r as as deep in the murder of the king, as 
 some of the Scottish writers inform us, as Macbeth. 
 But Shakespeare, with great art and address, deviates 
 from the history. By these means his characters have 
 the greater variety ; and he at the same time pays a 
 conipliment to King James, who was lineally descended 
 from Banquo." In this case, a doubt of Banquo's 
 guilt was sufficient for a poet to acquit him, and 
 thereby pay a compliment to his descendant, who w r as 
 " so taken," like Elizabeth with his dramas. 
 
 There are two more compliments to James, con- 
 tained in Macbeth. That the witches should promise 
 an interminable line of kings to the issue of Banquo, 
 however pleasing to the ear of the reigning monarch, 
 by no means trespassed beyond the bounds of fair 
 compliment, since nothing at that period could well 
 appear more secure. Had, indeed, the witches fore- 
 told the power, and wisdom, and what not, of one 
 particular descendant, the first among those, 
 
 " That two-fold balls and treble sceptres carry;" 
 
 then the promise would have swerved from compli- 
 ment to flattery. 
 
 The other compliment is again not particular, but 
 general to all English royalty. It is in a speech by 
 
192 HE NEVER WAS A FLATTERER. 
 
 Malcolm at the court of Edward the Confessor, where 
 he speaks of the King's miraculous cures of the evil. 
 
 " A most miraculous work in this good king ; 
 Which often since my here-remain in England, 
 I have seen him do. How he solicits heaven, 
 Himself best knows : but strangely visited people, 
 All swoln and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye, 
 The mere despair of surgery, he cures ; 
 Hanging a golden stamp about their necks, 
 Put on with holy prayers : and 'tis spoken, 
 To the succeeding royalty he leaves 
 The healing benediction." 
 
 But this was a superstition, which lasted till the 
 accession of George the First; and, be it noticed, 
 though firmly believed in at the time Shakespeare 
 wrote, he somewhat qualifies it with the words " 'tis 
 spoken*" and, thus qualified, he leaves it to the " suc- 
 ceeding royalty." Shakespeare was not, like Ben 
 Jonson, rewarded with a pension from royalty. 
 
 With the exception of the Poems to his friend, 
 where Master William Herbert's worth and truth are 
 celebrated, though with much after modification, there 
 is no instance of Shakespeare's having ascribed to a 
 living being any virtue, quality of the mind, or talent. 
 His sonnet in the Passionate Pilgrim, where he men- 
 tions Spenser, 
 
 " whose deep conceit is such, 
 As passing all conceit, needs no defence," 
 
 was not published till after that poet's death. Such 
 conduct is so far removed from flattery, that Mr. 
 Leigh Hunt, in his Indicator) though with the best 
 
HE NEVER WAS A FLATTERER. 193 
 
 feeling, seems to think it requires a defence. Intimate 
 as we know he was with the great poets coeval with 
 him, he has not bequeathed to us a line in commen- 
 dation of one of them : nor did any one write a line 
 in his commendation, except Spenser at the commence- 
 ment of his career, during his life.* Considering the 
 times in which he wrote, his compliments to royalty 
 may have appeared strangely deficient in policy ; and, 
 as if on principle, he avoided public praise towards 
 his compeers. Undoubtedly he knew, that occupying, 
 as he did, the highest rank as a poet, a word of ap- 
 proval from his pen would have been loudly echoed, 
 not only from the quarter to which it was directed, 
 but from every one who desired to be noticed by him. 
 Now we well know, from their works, that the poets 
 intimate with him, especially Ben Jonson, were pro- 
 fuse in encomiums on each other, on some indeed 
 whose names are solely kept alive by the fact of verses 
 being addressed to them. 
 
 Upon this forbearance, so extraordinary among 
 literary men in all ages, I have many times reflected, 
 and can arrive at no other conclusion than that Shake- 
 speare acted on principle. The prostitution of praise 
 offended him ; possibly the jealous expectation he 
 observed around him of being lauded in return, pre- 
 cisely in proportion to the incense offered, offended 
 him still more. If so, we must admire and love his 
 honesty, his singleness of spirit, his wisdom ; though, 
 
 * An unknown person, Thomas Freeman, published a poor 
 sonnet in his praise in 1614: and two nameless rhymesters had 
 previously alluded to his Venus and Lucrece. 
 
 K 
 
194 HE NEVER WAS A FLATTERER. 
 
 by his want of that exciting praise towards others, we 
 have lost a thousand contemporary addresses and 
 notices of all kinds, which, taken together, might have 
 supplied the place of a regular biographer. 
 
 Meres frequently introduced his name in what we 
 may regard a favourable criticism on English litera- 
 ture in 1598 ; but what poet, among those surround- 
 ing him, has given him so much as a passing notice ? 
 That he had their good will we are assured ; but it 
 was of that species which works in silence. Dray ton, 
 a Warwickshire man, might have felt proud of him ; 
 but, whatever he felt, he did not express it. How 
 happened it that 4W one, desirous himself of receiving 
 a public honour from him, did not attempt to act on 
 his generosity by penning a copy of verses in homage 
 to his Muse? Was it because it was known he would 
 neither be gratified, nor be induced to repay it in 
 kind? This may well have been ; and judging from 
 the absence of verses addressed to him, I am inclined 
 to believe that he disapproved of a fashion, sometimes 
 disgraceful, seldom worthy; that his sentiments on 
 this subject were not concealed ; and that, among his 
 circle, he was estimated as a man who disliked the 
 publication of private opinion, and who was 
 
 " Averse alike to flatter or offend." 
 
HIS LOVE OF FAME. 
 
 FROM boyhood to nearly the age of thirty, I had 
 studied Shakespeare without note or comment ; with 
 nothing but Howe's Life. Wherr I began to read 
 what so many have chosen to write of him and his 
 works, it was like entering among a company whose 
 sole conversation was directed to the merits of a dear 
 friend. Such was the pleasure experienced by me at 
 first ; and I was thankful for every illustration. But, 
 to my surprise, it soon became evident that I had un- 
 consciously been entertaining an opinion upon the 
 character of the man extremely different from that of 
 his public friends ; and in nothing did I so entirely 
 disagree with them, as in their almost unanimous as- 
 sertion of his disregard to fame ; an assertion grounded 
 chiefly on the circumstance of his not having collected 
 and printed his works, after his retirement from London. 
 The bare fact of his having left the care of editor- 
 ship to others is far from being a proof that he was 
 careless of fame. Without ascribing to him the com- 
 mon evils of procrastination, he might have purposed 
 to write other, and, in his anticipation, better dramas, 
 before the whole should be published ; he might have 
 
 K 2 
 
196 HIS LOVE OF FAME. 
 
 been under an engagement, with his partners in the 
 theatre, not to print them for a certain term of years, 
 in order to increase their value as acting plays ; and, 
 lastly, the strongest reason of all, and one which can 
 be tolerably substantiated, an unexpected death might 
 have put an end to his intention. 
 
 How comes it that no one has referred to the sud- 
 denness of his death ? His will is signed by an en- 
 feebled hand, though it states he was " in perfect 
 health and memory ;" which may mean an apparent 
 recovery from disease, believed in as a return to 
 health, or, legally speaking, perfect health of mind. 
 In less than a month after making his will, he was no 
 more. It is useless to guess at the length of time he 
 might have been ill ; but assuredly he was dead, to 
 all literary intents, from the day he was struck by a 
 mortal sickness, of whatever nature it might have 
 been. Should it be argued that the declaration of 
 " perfect health" must be taken according to the 
 letter, in spite of the appearance of his hand-writing, 
 the suddenness of his death is certain. Perhaps the 
 most likely solution is that, though no more than 
 fifty-two years of age, he had been gradually sinking 
 in strength before he made his will, and that he never 
 recovered. Still the sinking in strength is equivalent 
 to death, from the day he was sensible of it, as far as 
 the labour of preparing his works for the press was 
 concerned. But to put this question beyond reason- 
 able dispute, his death was spoken of in London as 
 sudden ; at least, which comes to the same thing, the 
 sad news from Stratford was unexpected. 
 
 In proof of this, we have some verses to his memory 
 
HIS LOVE OF FAME. 197 
 
 by his contemporaries. We find, in a sonnet signed 
 " Hugh Holland," that the last line but one is, 
 
 " For though his line of life went soon about." 
 
 J. M., supposed to have been John Marston, wrote a 
 few lines on his works. They begin with 
 
 " We wonder'd, Shakespeare, that thou went'st so soon 
 From the world's stage to the grave's tyring-room." 
 
 But there are a few words, in the Dedication to the 
 first folio, by Heminge and Condell, his personal 
 friends and copartners, of strong implication that not 
 only was his death unexpected, but that it was his 
 intention to publish his dramas himself. His works, 
 they say, "outliving him, and he not having the fate, 
 common with some, to be exequtor to his owne writ- 
 ings" &c. How can these expressions be interpreted 
 otherwise than thus ? " It was his intention to be 
 the executor of his own writings, but he was prevented 
 by an untimely fate." And in still stronger words, 
 they say in their Preface, " It had beene a thing, 
 we confesse, worth ie to have been wished, that the 
 author himself had lived to have set forth and over- 
 seen his owne writings; but since it hath been or- 
 dained otherwise, and he by death departed from that 
 right, we pray you, &c." 
 
 As for the patience with which, we are told, he 
 endured the piracies of booksellers, and the use they 
 made of his name to works not written by him, this 
 by no means proves that he was reckless of his pro- 
 ductions. It may with equal force be said, that, 
 resolved to publish his works himself, their piracies 
 and abuse of his name would, in the end, do him no 
 
198 HIS LOVE OF FAME. 
 
 injury. But it is not clear that he was patient; all 
 we know, is, that he and his partners were called the 
 "grand possessors;" and that to steal from them any 
 one of his plays, was so far difficult, as to be a matter 
 of public boasting, as may be seen in the preface to 
 the first edition, 1609, of Troilus and Cressida. 
 
 We have, therefore, good circumstantial evidence, 
 that, had life been spared him a few years longer, he 
 would have given us a complete edition of his works, 
 possibly much corrected ; and there is not a shadow 
 of evidence to the contrary. 
 
 Let us turn to his works for farther information. 
 It would be an easy task to bring forward a long list 
 of quotations from his plays, proving the high value 
 he set on a spotless reputation during life, and his 
 love of an enduring fame ; but every one of them 
 might meet with the objection of its dramatic pro- 
 priety, and consequent inapplicability to his own feel- 
 ings. Were it necessary, r such an objection might be 
 withstood on general, if not on particular, grounds ; 
 but we need not go farther than his five Poems to his 
 friend. Here his love of fame is amply shown, by 
 the delight he expresses in his absolute security of it ; 
 witness the Envoy to the second poem : 
 
 " Not marble, nor the gilded monuments 
 
 Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme/' &c. 
 
 This reminds us of Horace's boast, " Exegi monu- 
 mentum aere perennius :" but it is not a solitary 
 expression of the kind ; a vast many of the stanzas 
 are in the same prophetic spirit. His assurance of a 
 never-dying fame is as much his theme, as the perish- 
 
HIS LOVE OF FAME. 199 
 
 able bloom of youth and personal beauty of his 
 friend. In fact, these Poems almost prove too much ; 
 that he was in such certain possession of fame, as not 
 to take any farther pains about it : but, as I observed, 
 while speaking of these Poems, the boast is subservient 
 to the compliment he is paying. 
 
 Here two curious questions offer themselves. Did 
 he rely on the merits of these Poems alone, for im- 
 mortal fame ? or, on the excellence of his dramas 
 those written before 1598 for making any poem he 
 was pleased to write immortal ? Strange as it may 
 appear, I would agree with the latter question, if one 
 only were proposed ; otherwise I would agree with 
 the two together ; and wish also to include his earnest, 
 well-founded hope, at the time, of writing such trage- 
 dies as Lear, Othello, and Macbeth. However slight 
 may be the general estimation of these five Poems, 
 they bear strong indications of having been written 
 carefully; and I have no doubt they were estimated 
 by the author next in value to his dramatic works ; 
 and so indeed they are. 
 
HIS MORAL CHARACTER. 
 
 " And 'tis a kind of good deed, to say well." 
 
 Henry the Eighth. 
 
 NEVER having seen more than the outside of Mr. 
 Bowdler's purified edition of Shakespeare, it is impos- 
 sible for me to applaud him for having omitted the 
 above line ; but doubtless he has not permitted it to 
 pollute the text. Nothing can be compared to it, in 
 immorality, throughout his works. It has corrupted, 
 and continues to corrupt, the whole country ; for to 
 what else can we impute the general observance of 
 scrupulous words as substitutes for morality ? to what 
 else the perpetual " saying well," as a proof of " a 
 kind of good deed ?" We go on the principle that 
 no critical fault can be found in man, or woman 
 either, which is undeniable in its wording. That line 
 has done infinite mischief. We see it is put in the 
 mouth of that father of the glorious Reformation, our 
 eighth Harry, and we bow to his authority; never 
 daring to mingle with the character of that pious 
 king his peculiar private failings, because they cannot 
 be spoken of without an injury to our sense of 
 decorum. To be sure, we dearly love drinking ; but 
 
HIS MORAL CHARACTER. 201 
 
 then it is candidly acknowledged ; and a few holdings 
 forth against that filthy vice at a Temperance Society, 
 are, considering the value of " saying well," ample 
 atonement, As for other vices " which flesh is heir 
 to," it is unanimously asserted, in our own country, 
 that we are not so bad as our neighbours, which is 
 much ; and we make astonishing amends for our 
 peccadilloes by the purity of our conversation, 
 unless over our wine, when freedom of speech is an 
 allowable zest to its flavour. What can be more 
 edifying, in the way of " saying well," than our 
 " denouncements against the evil communication con- 
 - stantly kept up between us and the Continent ? 
 Nothing ; though it would not be amiss to persuade 
 the natives of those cities where we most congregate, 
 that we are not worse than themselves, a point in 
 which we have hitherto failed. Besides, it would be 
 as well if we could teach our foreign visitors, who 
 cannot be supposed to understand all the valuable 
 niceties of the language, that we are not, as they 
 unhappily imagine, the most immoral people in 
 Europe. All this is manifestly to be laid to the 
 account of that pernicious line from Shakespeare. 
 If, by a culpable oversight, Mr. Bowdler has not 
 erased it from his purified edition, fie ! fie upon 
 him ! It will be in vain for him to tell us that the 
 very next sentiment, " And yet words are no deeds," 
 annuls the previous pollution. By no means : we 
 take the text without addition or diminution. Since 
 it is so admirably adapted to our purposes, why 
 destroy the integrity of the line ? Heaven forbid ! 
 destroy integrity when it exists in words ! 
 
 K3 
 
202 HIS MORAL CHARACTER. 
 
 In this realm of cant, what can be said of Shake- 
 speare's moral character ? How arduous the attempt, 
 particularly in one who has just spread forth his 
 documents, proving that Shakespeare, a married man, 
 had a mistress ; and what, in the eyes of many hus- 
 bands, must be still more inexcusable, he set the 
 shocking example of acknowledging it ! 
 
 How to write on this subject, so as to please all 
 parties, I am ignorant. My present vein, I feel, is 
 not suitable to myself; nor am I aware that any good 
 effect can be produced by sneering. I shall there- 
 fore proceed in seriousness. 
 
 Shakespeare's self-condemnation, in bitter terms, 
 together with the fact of his having quitted his mis- 
 tress for ever, renders it not only unnecessary, but 
 culpable, to comment on his infidelity. Another 
 subject connected with it indeed requires considera- 
 tion ; that of the publication of all the six Poems, to 
 the probable injury of his wife's feelings. She might, 
 however, have been a woman not to be hurt at the 
 avowal of her husband's inconstancy, coupled, as it 
 was, with remorse. Truly in our own time we have 
 witnessed confessions from poets, similarly situated, and 
 of a worse nature, because told unblushingly, while 
 the public seemed to think nothing of it. But Shake- 
 speare is not to be judged by a corrupt rule ; and no 
 one can pretend that he had any thing to do with the 
 publication. The confused manner in which they 
 were printed, rendering them wholly enigmatical for 
 so long a period, exculpates the author from any share 
 in the transaction. That the Poems were eventually 
 intended for publication is certain, since they were to 
 
HIS MORAL CHARACTER. 203 
 
 immortalize the " only begetter of them ;" but still, 
 by the very context, their purpose was to tell the 
 world, only when the Earl had become old, what 
 wondrous beauty he possessed in his youth. Probably, 
 had Shakespeare lived to publish his works, they 
 would have been dedicated either to the Earl of 
 Southampton or the Earl of Pembroke ; if to the 
 latter, these poems would have certainly been included, 
 when the poet and his wife had become too old to 
 give or take offence on so by-gone a subject. 
 
 Who then caused them to be printed ? We are 
 told by Meres that they existed, among his private 
 friends, about eleven years before they were printed. 
 With this intelligence, it is not difficult to account for 
 their appearance at a time, in 1609, when any thing 
 from the hand of the popular poet was valuable and 
 eagerly sought. The Earl of Pembroke can hardly 
 be conceived as the person who allowed them to be 
 printed; no inducement except that of personal 
 vanity could have led to such an action ; and surely 
 there was more than an equipoise to his vanity, in the 
 relation of his unworthy conduct as a lad towards his 
 professed friend, though some may be of opinion such 
 a consideration is merely a subject for laughter. The 
 mysterious indication of him under the designation of 
 " Mr. W. H." looks indeed as if the Poems were sur- 
 reptitiously obtained, and timidly dedicated to him. 
 On the other hand, would Thorpe, the printer, when 
 he might, in those superlative aristocratic days, have 
 been crushed for his temerity, have dared the hazard 
 of offending the most powerful nobleman at court ? 
 
 Here I am led to canvass the supposition of Shake- 
 
204 HIS MORAL CHARACTER. 
 
 speare's having lived unhappily with his wife. Hints 
 to this effect had been thrown out, as is often the case 
 when men have no foundation for what they fain would 
 utter boldly ; until at last Mr. Moore, who has had 
 the dishonour of being echoed by Dr. Lardner, put 
 them into a regular form in his Life of Lord Byron, 
 and in the following words : 
 
 " By whatever austerity of temper, or habits, the 
 poets Dante and Milton may have drawn upon them- 
 selves such a fate (a bad nuptial bed) it might be 
 expected that, at least, the " gentle Shakespeare" 
 would have stood exempt from the common calamity 
 of his brethren. But, among the very few facts of his 
 life that have been transmitted us, there is none more 
 clearly proved than the unhappiness of his marriage. 
 The dates of the birth of his children, compared with 
 that of his removal from Stratford, the total omission 
 of his wife's name in the first draft of his Will, and 
 the bitter sarcasm of the bequest by which he 
 remembers her afterwards, all prove beyond a doubt 
 both his separation from the lady early in life, and his 
 unfriendly feeling towards her at the close of it. 
 
 " In endeavouring to argue against the conclusion 
 naturally to be deduced from this Will, Boswell, with 
 a strange ignorance of human nature, remarks : 
 * If he had taken offence at any part of his wife's con- 
 duct, I cannot believe he would have taken this 
 petty mode of expressing it.' ' 
 
 Mr. Moore's purpose was to uphold Lord Byron's 
 character in the separation from his wife ; and, in 
 doing so, he has shown himself, far as my judgment 
 reaches, less learned in human nature than BoswelL 
 
HIS MORAL CHARACTER. 205 
 
 Not every one is to be subject to Lord Byron's rule. 
 Boswell judged truly from the best parts of our 
 nature ; while Mr. Moore, misled by his purpose, 
 judged from our worst impulses those which tempt 
 men, like his lordship, to adopt a depressing or false 
 sentimentality, or a scoffing and degrading merriment 
 at the sight of their fellow-creatures. An attempt to 
 draw a parallel between one of universal kindliness, 
 attaching to him an imagined " bitter sarcasm" at the 
 close of his life, and another whose whole life was 
 passed in bitter sarcasm, interrupted only by his 
 pleasures, is utterly unavailing, even when one fashion- 
 able poet is arguing in extenuation of another fashion- 
 able poet's faults. From Shakespeare's works, and 
 from every thing related of him by those who knew 
 him, nothing can be gathered indicative of a paltry 
 mind, nothing to induce us to believe that the calm 
 tenour of his life could be ruffled by a petty mode of 
 expressing his displeasure, least of all in the final act 
 of it. To compare him, in the remotest degree, with 
 Lord Byron but, lest I should suffer the imputa- 
 tion of being like a special pleader, slurring over facts, 
 I gladly examine into the circumstances which Mr. 
 Moore has detailed, and which, by his statement, 
 " clearly prove," and " beyond a doubt," his argu- 
 ment. 
 
 His removal from Stratford was compulsory from 
 the moment he chose the stage for his profession. If 
 he left his family at home, it is most probable that his 
 limited means for their support at that time did not 
 allow him to take them with him. Such a separation 
 can no more be regarded as unkind than the absence 
 
206 HIS MORAL CHARACTER. 
 
 from home of any professional man, an officer in the 
 army or the navy. At all events, tradition informs 
 us that he frequently visited Stratford, which is ex- 
 tremely unlike the conduct of a husband utterly 
 alienated from his wife; and we know, from his pur- 
 chases of land, that his thoughts were centered in his 
 native town. Tradition always needs some fact in 
 confirmation, and here we have one of strong corro- 
 boration. 
 
 But we have nothing to substantiate the supposition 
 that he was not attended by his wife and children. 
 In the early part of this volume I ventured to doubt 
 it ; and I have since found that the writer in the Lon- 
 don and Westminster Review thinks it probable his 
 family lived with him in his house in Southwark, and 
 his occasional visits to Stratford were for his purchases 
 of land, and other matters ; his love, for instance, of 
 his parents, brothers, and sisters. There is nothing, 
 to my observation, against this probability except 
 that, in 1596, his only son, a boy about twelve years 
 old. was buried at Stratford. For this, however, 
 many causes may be assigned, and one in particular ; 
 the boy's ill health might have been, naturally enough, 
 a reason for his being conveyed into the country, and 
 placed under the charge of his grandfather. Com- 
 batting against groundless surmises, it is but common 
 justice to state conjectures drawn from e very-day 
 occurrences in families. 
 
 In respect to the fact of no more children having 
 been born after a certain date, " clearly proving" that 
 a separation of man and wife must have taken place 
 at that date, I have nothing to say. It is unworthy 
 
HIS MORAL CHARACTER. 207 
 
 of comment, though not of a smile at Mr. Moore's 
 experienced reasoning. 
 
 Never for a moment did I entertain a suspicion of 
 an " unfriendly feeling " towards his wife in Shake- 
 speare's Will. As such a suspicion has latterly been 
 too much promulgated, my fear is that any interpre- 
 tation of so inartificial a nature as mine, so free from 
 eloquent appeals, may not satisfy every one ; though 
 it has always appeared plain and without difficulty to 
 myself. With this fear I proceed, carefully as I can, 
 first stating the facts that have given rise to the sus- 
 picion. 
 
 His wife was in no way alluded to when the Will 
 was first drawn out. All his lands and personal 
 effects, with few exceptions, appear to have been 
 bequeathed between his two married daughters. 
 Afterwards, interlineations were made, leaving trifling 
 sums to his friends, or, as he calls them, his "fellows," 
 Heminge, Burbage, and Condell, " to buy them 
 rings;" and this Item was also interlineated, " I 
 give unto my wife my second best bed with the furni- 
 ture." 
 
 Well ! there was already a sufficient provision made 
 for the wife, which may properly be presumed, and 
 for which tolerable evidence can be adduced, quite 
 strong enough for the occasion. Every bequest and 
 every condition in the Will, we may imagine, were 
 made with the wife's knowledge and consent. She, 
 being provided for, could not but be pleased at the 
 division of the bulk of his property between her 
 daughters. Had the property been left out of the 
 family, we might have imagined otherwise. But, 
 
208 HIS MORAL CHARACTER. 
 
 after reading over the Will, preparatory to signing, 
 the testator thought, or it was suggested to him, that 
 some mention of his wife ought to be made, with some 
 memorial for her. When appealed to for her choice 
 of a memorial, she fixed on a particular bed, which 
 happened to be known in the house, and, consequently, 
 must be so designated, as the "second best bed." 
 Upon which the bequest, her own choice, was inter- 
 lined. Such is my interpretation ; which, of course, 
 rests much on the probable evidence I can produce of 
 a sufficient provision having been made for her. 
 
 In the first place, it was likely she possessed 
 property in her own right, as the daughter of a sub- 
 stantial yeoman ; but on that it is not necessary wholly 
 to insist. In his Will every thing he possessed seems 
 specified, with the exceptions of the copyright of his 
 works, or his share of it, and his shares in the 
 theatre. For whose benefit were they ? We cannot 
 believe that he had disposed of his interest in the 
 theatre when he retired to Stratford, because we have 
 proofs to the contrary in his having written plays there, 
 and sent them to be performed at his own theatre ; 
 and, to the last, he calls his partners his "fellows," not 
 his former fellows, which he must legally have done, 
 had they ceased to be partners. Farther, the conjunc- 
 tion of memorials, in interlineations, to his three 
 principal partners and to his wife, looks like a share- 
 holding connexion in his mind between them, which 
 was to commence immediately after his death. Is it 
 not then probable that, by a special agreement, he, 
 and afterwards his wife, provided she outlived him, 
 had certain shares in the theatre? The copyright 
 
HIS MORAL CHARACTER. 209 
 
 also might have been prohibited, by agreement, from 
 publication, as long as either he might choose to with- 
 hold his works from the press, or his wife might live, 
 in order to make the performance of his dramas more 
 profitable ; or until he chose, as an individual share- 
 holder, if not as the author, to give his consent. 
 Whether we suppose that the copyright was the pro- 
 perty of all the shareholders, so that the publication 
 required the consent of each individual, or that it was 
 his own sole property during life, and afterwards his 
 widow's for her life, we still find that her consent as 
 shareholder, or by previous agreement, was necessary 
 for its publication. For her own interest, as a life- 
 receiver of the yearly profits, it is not unreasonable to 
 suppose she would not consent to the printing of the 
 manuscripts, knowing they remained secure. But 
 what grounds have we for believing all this, besides 
 those already stated? A fact, I answer, to which, 
 for such a purpose, no allusion has been made, the 
 publication of all the plays immediately on the death 
 of the widow in 1623 ! She was buried on 6th August, 
 and the folio was entered at Stationers' Hall on 8th 
 November following. Heminge and Condell were then 
 no longer restrained, and they edited the works for their 
 own profit. We read nothing in their Dedication or 
 Preface ; we have heard nothing of any part of the 
 profits being for the daughters. 
 
 Probable evidence cannot amount to conviction. 
 But those inclined to doubt it, should consider there is 
 not a shadow of proof, nor of reasonable conjecture, 
 for the suspicion of an inimical feeling towards his 
 wife in the last act of his life ; a suspicion that 
 
210 HIS MORAL CHARACTER. 
 
 would overthrow at once his character for universal 
 kindliness. 
 
 Two intriguing anecdotes are told, chiefly on ac- 
 count of the witticisms they contain, which I can 
 neither believe nor refute. They are worthy of a jest 
 book, for which they seem to have been intended. 
 
 Some have given their opinion that Shakespeare's 
 works are, after reading others of his age, comparatively 
 free from verbal impurities; and a few have called 
 him worse in this respect than his contemporaries. 
 Many years ago I profited by a distinction made by 
 Coleridge, in one of his lectures on Shakespeare, 
 showing the innocence of his free expressions com- 
 pared with those of other poets. Coleridge then 
 observed something to this effect ; " Whatever we 
 meet with in Shakespeare which may offend the ears 
 of modern society, we must acknowledge there is 
 nothing to corrupt, nothing to intoxicate the passions. 
 His language, however free, is never intoxicating." 
 This is a grand distinction between him and others. 
 Several of his fables might have admitted of descrip- 
 tions and continued allusions of a nature like those 
 which we find in his fellow dramatic poets ; but he 
 treated them remotely as he could, and his allusions 
 are transient, if not necessary. He is not accountable 
 to the prudery of modern manners, which is a ques- 
 tionable advance in civilization and morality. 
 
 The few who censure him as worse than others 
 should consider this; not a vague opinion, but a fact 
 in dramatic history. Only fifty years after his death, 
 when the stage was restored after the reign of the 
 Puritans, the plays of Beaumont and Fletcher, one of 
 
HIS MORAL CHARACTER. 211 
 
 whom died before, and the other but nine years after 
 him, were preferred by the town to his, chiefly, as we 
 gather from Dryden, on account of the " gaiety" of 
 the dialogue of those " twin stars of wit," and because 
 no poet could equal them in describing the "wild 
 debaucheries of gentlemen." Dryden's comedies, not 
 to mince the term, are infamous. In those days 
 Shakespeare's muse, as we know, was not a favourite; 
 he was not licentious enough. Now the manners are 
 so changed, that Beaumont and Fletcher, Dryden, and 
 a crowd of others, would have their comedies hooted 
 from the stage by the most profligate among us. With 
 all their interest and dramatic effect, with whatever 
 care, omissions, and changes have been made, they are 
 still found too much grounded on obscenities and repul- 
 sive subjects, to become approved acting plays; while 
 Shakespeare continues to step forth in his glory, with 
 no omissions but trivial ones, such as were pure in his 
 day, or such as many have suspected never came from 
 his pen. Had he lived to edit his own works, doubt- 
 less the greater and the worse part of his objectionable 
 passages would have been unknown, particularly in 
 his comic scenes. Buffoon actors, like Tarlton, his 
 fellow in the theatre, prided themselves in adding to 
 the text, and were greatly applauded according to 
 their extemporaneous witticisms. These crept into the 
 text, and became a cause of complaint on the part of 
 Shakespeare, as we read in Hamlet's advice to the 
 players. 
 
 I know not what omissions Mr. Bowdler has thought 
 fit to make; but there are certain omissions which 
 ought to be made in every edition. When I have met 
 
212 HIS xMORAL CHARACTER. 
 
 with language, unlike the nakedness of a child, for to 
 such nakedness I do not affect the smallest repugnance, 
 but with language partaking rather of the nakedness 
 of a satyr, or offensive from its creating disgust, I 
 generally perceived, at the time I first read with the 
 aid of annotations, that such passages were not printed 
 either in one of the old quartos, or in the first folio. 
 Now when passages of that peculiar bad character 
 are wanting in either one of the old copies, I hold it 
 authority sufficient for an editor not to introduce 
 them ; nay, it is incumbent on him not to pollute the 
 text by one authority alone. I will go farther, and 
 say that a discriminating editor might satisfactorily 
 fix on what is and what is not Shakespeare's, when he 
 has no authority in one of the old copies, solely by at- 
 tending to the distinction between the nakedness of a 
 child and that of a satyr, and between that which is 
 inoffensive in nature and that which creates disgust.* 
 After all, such passages are far from being numerous, 
 
 * Let me not be misunderstood. I would not have his text de- 
 prived of the plain unvarnished name for vice ; such a name befits 
 it ; if minced, it is a sort of pander. Our own honesty, as well as 
 that of our language, is in jeopardy, by attending to the qualms of 
 affectation, or the affected blush of hypocrisy. Adultery and such 
 matters now stalk abroad under refined titles ; which was not per- 
 mitted by our ancestors, unless from the mouths of the guilty, 
 privileged to use palliative or cant phrases. If it is an evidence 
 of our civilization to veil the ugliness of vice in our discourse, why 
 is not murder expressed by a milder word ? why not rendered 
 less revolting to our ears ? And what might be the consequence ? 
 If certain actions are criminal, is not the taking away their dis- 
 tinctive badge dangerous to society? Our verbal truckling with 
 vice would have shocked the morality of the honester olden time. 
 
HIS MORAL CHARACTER. 213 
 
 and may be spared without the slightest injury to the 
 text ; another proof of their having been interpolated. 
 Shakespeare himself has let us know, in his poems to 
 Master William Herbert, how disreputable, in his esti- 
 mation, is licentious conversation ; and he forcibly 
 contends that a libertine's authority over his company, 
 or his grace in uttering it, renders it the more dan- 
 gerous : 
 
 " Lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds." 
 
 For his character on this subject, let the reproof to his 
 young friend in the Fourth Poem be read ; and then 
 we shall feel assured we possess unworthy additions to 
 his works. 
 
 An accusation of a bad nature has lately been made 
 against him by Dr. Lardner, which ought to be 
 crushed in the bud, since it pretends to be founded on 
 tradition ; a fragile authority certainly, but still apt to 
 mislead many. It bears an air of candour, being 
 linked with the highest praise in the same sen- 
 tence; "On his honesty or his justice, no censure 
 has been passed even by tradition ; but tradition does 
 say that he was not averse to the bottle." If this 
 means that he was addicted to wine drinking, Dr. Lard- 
 ner has met with a tradition that has totally escaped 
 me. We know of his good companionship, and some 
 particulars of it, but where is the traditionary autho- 
 rity for his not having been " averse to the bottle," or 
 for a hint to that effect ? Neither Dr. Lardner, nor 
 any one else, I hope, is entitled to such authority. 
 No one accustomed to be inflamed by wine, from 
 Anacreon down to Ben Jonson and his Bacchanalian 
 
214 HIS MORAL CHARACTER. 
 
 successors, appears otherwise in his writings than sen- 
 sual, blinking, or extravagant ; three qualities not 
 discernible in Shakspeare, unless aptly when he 
 introduces drunkards. He will never be advisedly 
 quoted as an example by topers. They cannot meet 
 with encouragement in Hamlet's atrocious uncle, the 
 sack-sponge selfish Falstaff, the revolting Sir Toby 
 Belch, the murderer and insensible Barnardine, or the 
 brutish Caliban; Cassio's occasional drop too much 
 meets with woful consequences, and is followed by an 
 edifying remorse; and Lady Macbeth, with her cordial 
 to invigorate her towards murder, is by no means a 
 pattern for her sex to follow. Never was keener or 
 more temperate satire, for anger on such an occasion 
 is suspicious, against intemperance, than in the several 
 characters above-mentioned, each influenced or wedded 
 to evil by it, though in different degrees, as it acts on 
 different characters. No apology is offered for the 
 vice, except by an lago, from interested and infamous 
 motives, which crowns the satire of the whole. In his 
 poems, (an extraordinary omission for an English poet) 
 Shakespeare never once alludes to wine. But judging 
 solely from the unruffled tendency of his philosophy 
 throughout his writings, his brain never could have 
 been inflamed ; and it remains for Dr. Lardner to in- 
 form us from what source he has derived so impure 
 a traditionary stream. 
 
 But Dr. Lardner has done infinitely worse. When 
 I have pointed it out, I shall take leave of him for 
 ever. It is almost impossible, almost absurd to ima- 
 gine malignancy towards the memory of Shakespeare, 
 yet to what else can we ascribe it ? I do not now 
 
HIS MORAL CHARACTER. 215 
 
 speak of a matter of opinion, but of a falsification of 
 our poet's text, in order to blacken his character. In 
 the second volume of Dr. Lardner's Lives of the most 
 eminent Literary and Scientific Men of Great Bri- 
 tain, in his life of Shakespeare, page 101st, line 9th 
 from the top, word 6th, ME is placed instead of HER. 
 This falsification cannot well be his printer's error ; 
 because, though not in direct terms, he makes the 
 utmost use of it in an avowed attack on the mo- 
 rality of Shakespeare. Did he possibly copy the 
 falsification from any edition? if so, his prudence 
 will prompt him instantly to point out precisely what 
 edition had misled him. It is true, this volume may 
 not have been written by Dr. Lardner; but no other 
 name is attached to it, no other in a late advertisement 
 by the booksellers. If he was not the author, he 
 should give the name of the calumniator, so that he 
 may be known and avoided. At present Dr. Lard- 
 ner's is the only name implicated.* 
 
 * It would have given me pleasure to alter this paragraph, 
 or to explain in a note that Dr. Lardner was blameless. For 
 this purpose I forwarded a copy of it to him ; at the same time 
 expressing my regret at having been compelled to write it, and 
 offering to do anything in my power. The following, dated 12th 
 of April, is the only answer I have received. His name remains 
 responsible. " SIR, I have to acknowledge the receipt of your 
 letter of the 7th inst., and in answer beg to inform you that I am 
 not the author of any part of the volume containing the Life of 
 Shakespeare ; and that I am responsible merely for selecting fit per- 
 sons to write the different articles. I have, however, sent a copy of 
 your letter to the author of the article, and I will forward to you his 
 answer when I shall receive it. I am, Sir, your obedient Servant, 
 
 DION. LARDNER." 
 
216 HIS MORAL CHARACTER. 
 
 There is no fact more gratifying to the lovers of 
 Shakespeare, than, putting aside the refuted story of 
 deer-stealing, that nothing has come down to us, written 
 or traditionary, to subvert our faith in his honesty, his 
 modest bearing, his harmless mirth, and his brilliant 
 wit in conversation, together with his character of 
 " gentle," bestowed as his distinguishing mark. That 
 epithet " gentle" had, in his day, a grander meaning 
 than merely mild or meek; it signified nobility of 
 mind, in the same way as its compound sense is or 
 ought to be understood at present in the word gentle- 
 man. Milton's nephew calls him, with the same 
 feeling, but less comprehensively, " unvulgar." 
 
 Greene urged nothing against him when he envi- 
 ously called him " Shake-scene" and " upstart crow." 
 Such appellations might have offended Shakespeare ; 
 but with us they signify no more than his success as 
 a dramatist. Greene is supposed to have died in 
 1592, and Henry Chettle edited the Groats worth of 
 Wit') containing the offensive words. Chettle after- 
 wards apologized in these words; to which it must be 
 premised that the first, alluded to separately, was 
 Marlowe, whose private character was not good, and 
 " the other" was Shakespeare. 
 
 " About three months since died Mr. Robert 
 Greene, leaving many papers in sundry booksellers' 
 hands; among others his Groat 9 s worth of Wit, in 
 which a letter, written to divers play-makers, is offen- 
 sively by one or two of them taken. And because on 
 the dead they cannot be revenged, they wilfully forge 
 in their conceits a living writer; and, after tossing it 
 to and fro, no remedy but it must light upon me. 
 
HIS MORAL CHARACTER. lj 
 
 With neither of them that take offence was I acquainted, 
 and with one of them I care not if I never be. The 
 other, whom at that time I did not so much spare, as 
 since I wish I had ; for that as I have moderated the 
 hate of living writers, and might have used my own 
 discretion (especially in such a case, the author being 
 dead,) that I did not, I am as sorry as if the original 
 fault had been my fault ; because myself have seen 
 his demeanour, no less civil than he excellent in the 
 qualities he professes. Besides, divers of worship 
 have repeated his uprightness of dealing, which argues 
 his honesty, and his facetious grace in writing, that 
 approves his art." 
 
 Thus a faint attack on him, at the commencement 
 of his career, was the occasion of our being possessed 
 of such evidence, " his demeanour no less civil than 
 he excellent in the qualities he professes !" Then 
 his farther character, given by persons of repute, 
 stood in these strong terms, " uprightness of dealing, 
 which argues his honesty !" Every thing proves his 
 right to the title " gentle." 
 
 Frugality, and consequent accumulation of property, 
 have been indeed mentioned in his disparagement by 
 one, judging from his style, of that numerous class 
 who desire to live by others ; and the complaint 
 against him is appropriately put in the mouth of one 
 Ratsey, a noted highwayman. Shakespeare's hus- 
 bandry was good and wise ; but we may be certain 
 he was not deficient in generosity. We hear neither of 
 his parsimony nor extravagance. Moderate in his 
 own wants, and possibly deaf to the applications of 
 spendthrifts, he was industrious, but not greedy, 
 
218 HIS MORAL CHARACTER. 
 
 because he was upright in his dealings. He had 
 great claims on his filial as well as paternal affection, 
 in the poverty-stricken state of his father with a large 
 family, and in the support of his own children. 
 Spendthrifts ought to have begged in vain from him. 
 Without injury to others, he was careful first to pro- 
 vide for those he best loved, and to acquire and main- 
 tain his independence ; afterwards he made a provi- 
 sion for his daughters in marriage. The elder became 
 the wife of Dr. Hall, a physician ; and the younger 
 of one Quiney of Stratford, shortly before his death. 
 We may gather from his Will there were just fears of 
 Quiney's prosperity, or of his prudence in money 
 affairs ; while equal reliance seems to have been 
 placed on Dr. Hall as on his daughter Susannah. 
 Thence has arisen the notion that Susannah was his 
 favourite. 
 
 His friends appear to have been hearty and steady, 
 but, for the reason I have given, not eulogizing. It 
 is almost to be regretted that he possessed the perfect 
 virtue of not making enemies. Had he been attacked, 
 during the zenith of his fame, a score of friends might 
 then have rushed forward in his defence, bequeathing 
 to us, in their warmth, many valuable facts, anecdotes, 
 and allusions. As it is, we must be happy in a belief, 
 which nothing contradicts, that he was beloved by his 
 partners in the theatre, his fellow-poets, and every 
 one with whom his interest or his society was con- 
 cerned. Rowe affords us the following information 
 in his Life, and Rowe lived near enough to his time 
 to attain this sort of general knowledge, though too 
 distant for particulars : " What particular habitude 
 
HIS MORAL CHARACTER. 219 
 
 or friendships he contracted with private men, I have 
 not been able to learn, more than that every one, who 
 had a true taste of merit, and could distinguish men, 
 had generally a just value and esteem for him. His 
 exceeding candour and good-nature must certainly 
 have inclined all the gentler part of the world to love 
 him, as the power of his wit obliged the men of the 
 most delicate knowledge and polite learning to admire 
 him." 
 
 How much have we to grieve there was no Boswell 
 among the poets and literary men who frequented 
 the club, established by Sir Walter Raleigh, at 
 the " Mermaid," in Friday-street ! Fuller tells us, 
 " Many were the wit-combates betwixt Shakespeare 
 and Ben Jonson, which two I behold like a Spanish 
 great galleon and an English man-of-war : Master 
 Jonson, like the former, was built far higher in learn- 
 ing; solid, but slow in his performances. Shake- 
 speare, with the English man-of-war, lesser in bulk, 
 but lighter in sailing, could turn with all tides, tack 
 about, and take advantage of all winds, by the quick- 
 ness of his wit and invention." Mr. Leigh Hunt, 
 after quoting this passage in the Indicator, adds, 
 66 This is a happy simile, with the exception of what 
 is insinuated about Jonson's greater solidity." But 
 the two poets appeared to Fuller as they have ap- 
 peared to many others, not good judges. Take an 
 act from Julius Cdssar or Coriolanus, and place it by 
 the side of an act from Catiline or Sejanus, and then 
 the question of the greater solidity will be settled. 
 The simile also is more appropriate than Fuller 
 imagined; for should we ask a competent judge of 
 
 L2 
 
220 HIE MORAL CHARACTER. 
 
 ship-building, if a Spanish great galleon was built 
 with higher learning and greater solidity than an 
 English man-of-war, the competent judge could not 
 forbear to smile at our ignorance. 
 
 Speaking of these great men, Mr. Leigh Hunt 
 truly observes, " Their intimacy, dashed a little, 
 perhaps, with jealousy on the part of Jonson, but 
 maintained to the last by dint of the nobler part of 
 him and of Shakespeare's irresistible fineness of nature, 
 is a thing as notorious as their fame." This should 
 be always borne in mind. If they were rivals, they 
 were not, with all Ben's faults, unworthy of each 
 other. 
 
 We have more news of the " wit-combates at the 
 Mermaid," but without any mention of individuals. 
 It is in the poetical Letter from Beaumont to Ben 
 Jonson i 
 
 " What things have we seen 
 
 Done at the Mermaid ! heard words that have been 
 So nimble, and so full of subtile flame, 
 As if that every one from whence they came 
 Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, 
 And had resolved to live a fool the rest 
 Of his dull life." 
 
 There w r as wine, but we are not told every one was 
 inspired by it. Beaumont, in this letter from the 
 country to his friend, rather sickishly complains of 
 " your full Mermaid wine." Ben Jonson afterwards 
 formed a club in a room called the Apollo, at the Old 
 Devil Tavern, Temple Bar. For this club he wrote 
 " Leges Convivales," and penned a welcome over the 
 door of the room to all those who approved of " the 
 
HIS MORAL CHARACTER. 221 
 
 true Phcebian liquor." Alas ! to a love of wine, 
 soiling his better nature, we may trace his occasional 
 overbearing and irascibility. 
 
 Before I close these observations on Shakespeare's 
 moral character, it may be expected I should offer 
 some opinion respecting his religious tenets. For 
 this purpose I have a list, prepared long ago by my- 
 self and others, of quotations from his works, with 
 doubtful hints of many kinds ; but I have changed 
 the intention I once had of applying them, and, in 
 fact, we can gather nothing satisfactory from him, as a 
 dramatist, in confirmation of his creed. His father, 
 we believe, was a Roman Catholic. It is a subject 
 on which I would rather not pretend to decide ; nor, 
 perhaps, is it praiseworthy in any one to inquire par- 
 ticularly into those opinions which he has not thought 
 fit directly to avow. Whether he was Roman Ca- 
 tholic, Protestant, or Deist, as some contend, cannot 
 be determined ; but, whatever his faith, his reverence 
 for the Creator, putting aside certain expressions not 
 considered profane till the reign of James the First, 
 his goodwill towards man, his love for every created 
 thing, his charity, his natural piety, all these are as 
 observable in his works as they are remarkable in the 
 poems of Cowper, but entirely without gloom. 
 
 Still, if in his dramas it was essential to identify 
 his feelings with those of others, have we nothing in 
 his volume of Poems where he willingly expresses his 
 own religious feelings ? Yes, one entire sonnet, and 
 no more, proving his strong faith in the immortality 
 of the soul, and possibly, as a friend has observed, 
 imbued with arguments from Saint Paul. It stands 
 
222 HIS MORAL CHARACTER. 
 
 in his Poems, sonnet 146th; the same which I re- 
 marked, while speaking of the SIXTH POEM, To his 
 Mistress, as certainly out of its place, and probably 
 introduced, together with the foregoing octosyllabic 
 stanza, precisely where the SIXTH POEM was ori- 
 ginally divided into two parts. 
 
 TO HIS SOUL. 
 
 " Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, 
 
 Fool'd by those rebel pow'rs that thee array. 
 Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth, 
 
 Painting the outward walls so costly gay ? 
 Why so large cost, having so short a lease, 
 
 Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend ? 
 Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, 
 
 Eat up thy charge ? Is this thy body's end ? 
 Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss, 
 
 And let that pine to aggravate thy store : 
 Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross ; 
 
 Within be fed, without be rich no more : 
 So shalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men, 
 And, Death once dead, there's no more dying then." 
 
 In my Introduction I offered an opinion that much 
 might be gleaned of Shakespeare's character from his 
 works. The numerous passages I had marked with 
 this intention have been well nigh appropriated in the 
 general observations already made under various 
 heads ; while every one of his principal Dramatis 
 Personse, by a careful analysis, might be brought 
 forward in evidence of his peculiar character as a 
 philosopher, though never of his character as an 
 individual. 
 
HIS MORAL CHARACTER. 223 
 
 Conscious of enthusiasm, and well aware how 
 closely it is allied to error, I have written under the 
 influence of self-repression. Carefully as I could, I 
 have sifted the authorities and conjectures before me ; 
 not cast to the winds an objection because I did not 
 feel its weight; and sometimes I have pointed to a 
 circumstance, hitherto passed by, though against my 
 own argument. 
 
 Our common complaint is that we know scarcely 
 anything of our greatest poet; but the truth is, we 
 know much if we properly avail ourselves of all we 
 have, and if we do not admit the prejudices of others 
 to intervene ; if we bestow a reasonable reliance on 
 the documents in our hands, and turn a suspicious, if 
 not a deaf ear, to the baseless suppositions of those who 
 cannot endure the thought that so mighty a genius 
 should not own more than our common share of 
 frailty, while they cannot prove, or justly suppose, he 
 had one tenth part. " On this hint I spake," endea- 
 vouring to untwist the cords that have long bound 
 down his name as a man. 
 
 Some happy accident, or patient researches like 
 those of Mr. Collier, may bring to light more facts. 
 For myself, recollecting how swiftly the discovery 
 rushed through my mind, the explanation of his mis- 
 called Sonnets must be ascribed to accident rather 
 than research. Many may think me deficient in 
 observations on these newly brought to light FIVE 
 POEMS TO HIS FRIEND, on their merits generally, 
 their beautiful stanzas, and on the thousand subjects 
 to which they give rise ; but in that direction I most 
 
224 HIS MORAL CHARACTER. 
 
 suspected my enthusiasm, and I feared lest it should 
 be said 1 was striving to magnify a molehill into a 
 mountain. This could hardly have been true ; yet I 
 did not like the anticipation of such a reproof, ground- 
 less or not. With the key given, I leave others to 
 explore and more fully expatiate at their will. 
 
HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 No more Prefaces should be offered to Shakespeare 
 until we have culled the best parts from those we 
 already possess, adding the many admirable views of 
 his genius and writings which have been presented, 
 from time to time, incidental or otherwise, by a diver- 
 sity of authors. One of my cherished hopes is, that 
 such a collection may be skilfully united into one 
 Preface^ free from error or prejudice of any sort, 
 taking from each writer that only in which he has 
 shown himself a master. A Preface from one mind 
 cannot suffice for the myriad-minded Shakespeare, as 
 Coleridge called him. For a becoming and due 
 admiration of him, strange as it may sound in our 
 ears, the crowd still stands in need of a combined and 
 strong authority. He is our greatest boast, but 
 somehow he is not fashionable ; too many drawbacks 
 are alleged or insinuated. In England his excellence 
 is not so acknowledged, the reverence paid to his 
 memory is not so absorbing, as in Germany. We 
 are not yet cleansed from the thick scurf which over- 
 ran our proper national taste in poetry during the 
 
 L3 
 
226 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 last century ; much has been done, but not enough. 
 Germany has remained tolerably free from foreign or 
 scholastic canons of criticism ; the bane of every 
 country 9 if a distinction exists in its language and 
 character from others. Our public could, and can, sit 
 and applaud patchwork degrading representations, 
 profanely called Shakespeare's plays, when, had they a 
 genuine understanding for his works, they would 
 resent an addition, though of half a line, with hisses 
 and tumult. To Mr. Macready we are indebted for 
 a return to the text of several plays. He is the first 
 manager of a theatre, for these hundred and fifty 
 years, from the days of Dryden, Tate, and Cibber, 
 with their factitious notions of the stage, who has 
 comprehended the apparently easy doctrine, that 
 alterations, unless confined to judicious curtailments, 
 must be for the worse, if applied to a dramatist, whom 
 none has approached as an artist any nearer than as 
 a poet. Mr. Macready's success, according to the 
 newspapers, and to what I hear at the distance where 
 I reside, has been in proportion to his superior know- 
 ledge and courage ; this fills me with good hopes. 
 
 About twenty years since, in the midst of our 
 qualified admiration, Morgann's Essay having been 
 unheeded, we beheld a translation of a German criti- 
 cism on our own boasted but unjustly used poet. While 
 it was eagerly read, a sense of national humiliation 
 pressed forcibly upon us. Schlegel has given us the 
 noblest, and altogether the best work on his genius. 
 Compile as diligently as we can to form a Preface, 
 still extracts from Schlegel and Morgann would stand 
 above others. 
 
HIS DRAMAS. 227 
 
 SchlegePs eloquence has cast suspicion on his 
 criticism. So grand a strain of unremitting praise 
 must be, we were then willing to think resenting a 
 foreigner's reproachful interference with our remiss- 
 ness and neglect of Morgann excessive and enthu- 
 siastic. Yet, on examination, at least in the present 
 day, I hope, we should still farther resent any abate- 
 ment, any attempt to lessen it on a single separate 
 point, Hazlitt himself, who studied the feeling of 
 the public, so as not violently to offend, wrote his 
 volume in partial restraint. Knowing his unqualified 
 praise of Shakespeare in conversation, I once ventured 
 to express surprise at some parts of his volume, when 
 the answer he gave me amounted to this : " The 
 public would not bear it; they would not read a book 
 of unalloyed praise. Unpopular books may some- 
 times be the best ; but it is not my business to write 
 them." Accordingly he met Schlegel no more than 
 half way in his assertion of the dramatist's art being 
 consummate, and the effect of deep study; and he 
 felt satisfied with bestowing transcendent admiration 
 on the popular characters, allowing others to sink 
 into comparative obscurity. Perhaps he was in the 
 right ; the public was to be humoured by degrees to 
 their benefit. 
 
 For the same reason that I desire a Preface of 
 collections, I would gladly possess the characters of 
 the plays from a variety of authors classed together, 
 so as to form an assembly of critical observations on 
 each play, and, if possible, on every one of the dra- 
 matis personae, by different critics, taking from them 
 those passages wherein they have excelled. Thus, 
 
228 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 Mrs. Montague's Essay, and Morgann's Essay on 
 Falstqff, (the two best of the last century, still fre- 
 quently studied) and Richardson, who, though too 
 much of a professor, would be found useful, might 
 be made to contribute their best. Then we should 
 enjoy some choice passages from Lamb, and other 
 late writers, together with Mrs. Jameson's delightful 
 and well-defined illustrations of the female characters, 
 and the brilliant works of Schlegel and Hazlitt. The 
 worst that can be said of all these, is, that attention 
 is generally confined to the principal acting characters, 
 leaving almost unnoticed the less popular, but not less 
 admirable ones, for disquisition, far as their truth in 
 individuality and profound metaphysical distinctions 
 consist. Aware of this want, many years ago I 
 endeavoured to draw attention to what are termed 
 the inferior plays, and I should be proud to continue 
 in that humbler office as an assistant. 
 
 In the observations I am about to offer, I shall 
 rather take for granted that the above-mentioned 
 works are well known to my reader, than presume, 
 without consent, to avail myself of what is not my 
 property. Something, little or much, in the way of 
 remark, if not of criticism, I shall write on most of 
 the plays, more, according to my plan, in the spirit of 
 doing that which others have left undone, than in 
 controverting or adding to their opinions. Yet I 
 shall not forbear, when I feel myself entirely opposed, 
 to state a reason for my objection. Should any reader 
 chance to recognize an old acquaintance, drawn from 
 some bygone periodical publication, I claim it as my 
 own. Anxious to offer something on certain neglected 
 
HIS DRAMAS. 229 
 
 plays and characters, I could not do better than 
 retain, nearly in the same form, my former writing ; 
 another, but not myself, may do better. 
 
 From his dramas we attain our only knowledge of 
 his character as a metaphysician. By studying his 
 dramatic creations in detail, as recommended by 
 Morgan n, we arrive at his philosophy of the human 
 mind, independently of his excellence either as a 
 dramatist or as a poet. Whatever notice I may 
 bestow on stage-alterations, committed in ignorance, 
 or without reflection, is for the purpose of displaying 
 his character, and shielding it from misrepresentation 
 before the public. 
 
 The plays will be considered in a sort of chrono- 
 logical order of my own, without a wish of inflicting 
 my opinion on others. We may all judge for our- 
 selves on subjects where no judgment can be pro- 
 nounced definite. I shall not attach a positive date 
 to any, unless on tolerably established authority, 
 ascribing its first appearance to within a year of it. 
 Mr. Collier's discoveries render it necessary to invent 
 a new chronology. 
 
 Beyond all that has hitherto been observed on the 
 morality of Shakespeare's works, this passage from 
 Hazlitt is most to the purpose. It is in his criticism 
 on Measure for Measure : " Shakespeare was, in 
 one sense, the least moral of all writers ; for morality 
 (commonly so called) is made up of antipathies ; and 
 his talent consisted in sympathy with human nature, 
 in all its shapes, degrees, depressions, and elevations. 
 The object of the pedantic moralist is to find out the 
 bad in everything : his was to show that there is some 
 
 OF THE 
 
 / \ 
 
 I UNIVERSITY i 
 
230 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 " soul of goodness in things evil !" In one sense, 
 Shakespeare was no moralist at all ; in another, he 
 was the greatest of all moralists. He was a moralist 
 in the same sense in which Nature is one. He taught 
 what he had learnt from her. He showed the greatest 
 knowledge of humanity, with the greatest fellow- 
 feeling for it." 
 
 I. Two GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. Mr. Skottowe 
 informs us, " The plot of the Two Gentlemen of 
 Verona is taken from the story of Felismena, in the 
 second book of the Diana, a Spanish pastoral ro- 
 mance, by George of Montemayor, translated into 
 English by one Thomas Wilson." It should rather 
 be said, many incidents comprised in the plot ; for 
 Mr. Skottowe allows that the entire character of 
 Valentine, the principal one, is superadded in the 
 play. 
 
 Every one agrees in placing this as the earliest, or 
 among the earliest, of his plays ; but it is impossible 
 to fix on the year in which it was written. My 
 belief is, as I have stated, that the chronologists have 
 fixed the commencement of his career as a dramatist 
 at too late a date. I not only rank this as his first 
 known dramatic production, but I imagine it might 
 have been written at Stratford, probably played there; 
 and was his chief recommendation to the Blackfriars 
 company with whom, I conjecture, he left his native 
 town for London. We are certain he was a share- 
 holder, with four names below him on the list, in 
 1589, about four years after his arrival in London. 
 To attain this post in so short a space of time, he 
 
TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 231 
 
 must either have been a wonderful actor, which is 
 contrary to all accounts, or he was a successful play- 
 wright. So rapid a rise can only be conceived as a 
 consequence of his profits from writing. At Stratford 
 he had tried his hand at Seneca, a useful occupation, 
 inasmuch as teaching him what style to avoid ; and 
 he was ever and anon, year after year, a spectator of 
 plays in the town, if not also picking up knowledge 
 of the profession among the players there. Can it be 
 thought, that, with his mind, aided by these advan- 
 tages, Shakespeare was incapable of producing this 
 comedy at the age of one-and-twenty ? Sheridan 
 was little older when he wrote his best comedies. 
 
 This play appears to me enriched with all the fresh- 
 ness of youth ; with strong indications of his future 
 matured poetical power and dramatic effect. It is the 
 day-spring of genius, full of promise, beauty, and 
 quietude, before the sun has arisen to its splendour. 
 I can likewise discern in it his peculiar gradual de- 
 velopement of character, his minute touches, each 
 tending to complete a portrait : and if these are not 
 executed by the master-hand as shown in his later 
 plays, they are by the same apprentice -hand, each 
 touch of strength sufficient to harmonize with the 
 whole. We dwell with pleasure on Valentine, the two 
 ladies, and the two servants, especially Launce ; whose 
 whimsical drollery is acknowledged by every one to 
 be the most irresistible of all his clowns ; but Proteus 
 has been declared unworthy of the poet, a compound 
 of contradictions ; a being, either infamous or honour- 
 able, either criminal or penitent, according to the 
 exigences of the scene. Proteus has been neglected 
 
234 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 thing he says and does, and his raillery is as elegant 
 as it is inoffensive. He never opens his lips but he 
 speaks the language of his soul, and wins at once our 
 admiration and esteem. By the strength of his natu- 
 ral talents he has overleapt mere scholarship ; and, 
 unconscious of superiority, bestows unmerited applause 
 on Proteus, who knows no more than what is told him 
 by his tutor. In short, Valentine is a man from whom 
 a woman derives a higher dignity, and is ennobled 
 among her sex, the instant he declares his passion. 
 
 Perhaps it is difficult entirely to excuse Julia for 
 having made choice of Proteus. He was handsome, 
 and had not betrayed a single fault ; which are much 
 to an unsuspicious girl. Julia, though exquisitely 
 portrayed, is inferior to most of Shakespeare's women* 
 she has beauty, constancy, and tenderness, but no other 
 brilliant attributes. Compare her with Viola, in a 
 similar situation with herself, and she will appear to 
 great disadvantage. To define the love in the breast 
 of Proteus, I should say it was not in the slightest 
 degree mental, but corporeal ; it neither had its source 
 from the intellect, nor was it fed from it ; but it pro- 
 ceeded from mere changeable nature. Like an ido- 
 later in religion, he must have his deity continually 
 before him, or his adoration ceases. It was not pos- 
 sible for him, like Valentine, to fall into ecstacy at the 
 sight of his mistress's glove ; it would have been 
 valueless to him, unless it contained her hand. 
 
 The comedy opens with the separation of the two 
 friends, when Proteus displays no ardour of attach- 
 ment, although his conduct is wholly blameless. He 
 expresses, in the approved style, a desire to accom- 
 
TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 235 
 
 pany him to the sea-side; but this being answered 
 with " Sweet Proteus, no," he readily forgoes the 
 pleasure of being the last person to bid him farewell, 
 and does not conceive it needful to repeat his request. 
 He had done everything that the established forms of 
 friendship demanded, and doubtless to his own satis- 
 faction as a friend : he had entreated Valentine to 
 remain in Verona, and afterwards wished him all hap- 
 piness in his travels, and even offered to be his bead's- 
 man, an offer much in character with so sober and 
 sedate a youth. 
 
 " In thy danger, 
 If ever danger do environ thee, 
 Convey thy grievance to my holy prayer, 
 And I will be thy bead's-man, Valentine." 
 
 The wording how excellent ! how unconsciously cold ! 
 When left alone, not a word falls from him expressive 
 of regret. Instantly he talks of self, of his passion for 
 Julia, and laments her cruelty in a strain ridiculous 
 in any but a young pedant. 
 
 " Thou, Julia, thou hast metamorphosed me, 
 Made me neglect my studies, lose my time." 
 
 At length Julia promises to be his ! Never having 
 dwelt with enthusiasm on the perfections of his mis- 
 tress, feeling no more than a partiality and the warmth 
 of youth, it ought not to be expected that the news 
 should madden him into rapture ; it is quite enough 
 that he is highly pleased. 
 
 " Sweet love ! sweet lines ! sweet life ! 
 Here is her hand, the agent of her heart ; 
 Here is her oath for love, her honour's pawn : 
 Oh ! that our fathers would applaud our loves, 
 
236 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 To seal our happiness with their consents ! 
 Oh, heavenly Julia !" 
 
 After being commanded to follow Valentine to 
 Milan, he briefly laments his banishment, or rather 
 reasons on the means that once lay in his power to 
 prevent it, and concludes with a moral reflection on 
 the instability of happiness. 
 
 " Oh, how this spring of love resembleth 
 The uncertain glory of an April day ; 
 Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, 
 And by and by a cloud takes all away !" 
 
 Beautiful as the lines are, which is another matter, 
 let us compare his words with the heart-rending ten- 
 derness of Valentine, when he is forced to quit his 
 Silvia. 
 
 " Except T be by Silvia in the night, 
 There is no music in the nightingale ; 
 Unless I look on Silvia in the day, 
 There is no day for me to look upon ; 
 She is my essence ; and I leave to be, 
 If I be not, by her fair influence, 
 Foster'd, illumined, cherish'd, kept alive !" 
 
 Proteus bids adieu to Julia, coolly advises patience, 
 declares he will return as soon as possible, and promises 
 constancy in a set speech. 
 
 One of the maxims of Rochefoucault is, " absence 
 diminishes the weak passions, and augments the 
 strong, as the wind blows out a candle, and increases 
 a fire." This is proved by Proteus, who no sooner 
 arrives at Milan than " his candle is blown out," and 
 
 " The remembrance of his former love 
 Is by a newer object quite forgotten." 
 
TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 237 
 
 In his passion for Silvia he is conscious of his " false 
 transgression," and seems startled at the self-know- 
 ledge he has just obtained. How naturally he con- 
 fesses the immediate effects of his perfidy ! 
 
 " Methinks, my zeal to Valentine is cold ; 
 And that I love him not, as I was wont." 
 
 He strives to summon up the powers of his mind, 
 and hopes to " check his erring love ;" but, in the 
 same sentence, perplexed in irresolution, and fearfully 
 looking forward to the doubtful contest, determines, 
 should he chance to fail in his endeavours, to employ 
 his abilities in the attainment of his desire. For a 
 while we behold him wavering and confused ; on the 
 utmost boundary of innocence, but shuddering to 
 make the fatal step beyond it. Hitherto the absence 
 of temptation had withheld him from the commission 
 of an unworthy action, and the first deviation from 
 virtue alarms him. His conscience is wounded to the 
 quick, and he can do nothing till the pain has ceased. 
 He stands in need of a "flattering unction," seeks for 
 it in the sophistries of his perverted brain, and at last, 
 by their assistance, becomes a mean disgraceful villain, 
 boasting that he has brought over reason to his side. 
 His arguments are selfishly ingenious. Like Hudi- 
 bras, he discovers not only a palliative, but an excuse 
 for his perjury. 
 
 " To leave my Julia shall I be forsworn ; 
 To love fair Silvia shall I be forsworn ; 
 To wrong my friend, I shall be much forsworn. 
 
 * # * # * 
 
 Unheedful vows may needfully be broken ; 
 And he wants wit, that wants resolved will 
 To learn his wit to exchange the bad for better." 
 
238 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 Then, for his own interest, what he says is incon- 
 trovertible: 
 
 " Julia I lose, and Valentine I lose : 
 If I keep them, I needs must lose myself ; 
 If I lose them, this find I by my loss, 
 For Valentine, myself ; for Julia, Silvia : 
 I to myself am dearer than a friend." 
 
 Having proceeded thus far, the inevitable conclu- 
 sion is, 
 
 " I cannot now prove constant to myself, 
 Without some treachery used to Valentine." 
 
 From this moment his crimes increase in number 
 and magnitude. No sooner has he placed his foot on 
 the empire of guilt, than, according to the ancient 
 custom of the country, he receives a passport to travel 
 into any part of it without interruption. We need 
 not follow his steps. 
 
 At length, wearied out by his fruitless villainies, 
 and exasperated at Sylvia's reproaches, he attempts to 
 violate her person ; and it is here, at the very height 
 of his depravity, and at the overthrow of all his 
 schemes, that he becomes a penitent. All this is con- 
 sonant to nature, and particularly so with Proteus. 
 Had he been stopped in the midst of his career, his 
 sudden conversion would be less probable ; a man is 
 more sincere in his detestation of crime, when, after 
 having tried it in every possible way, he is convinced of 
 its inefficacy. The disgrace endured by Proteus was so 
 overwhelming, so insupportable, that he was ready to 
 adopt any means to deliver himself from the dreadful 
 punishment ; and as nothing but absolute contrition 
 
TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 239 
 
 could be of service, he flew to it with more ardour 
 than he ever displayed in any action of his life. If I 
 may venture to give an opinion on the sincerity of his 
 repentance, I would say it was so far honest, that, from 
 that time forward, he neither thought of obtaining 
 possession of Sylvia, nor endeavoured to revenge him- 
 self for the shame he had suffered ; and very possibly 
 he was so far a good husband to Julia, that she never 
 could complain of a repetition of his former injuries. 
 In fact I look upon him, at the end, as on a child, who 
 had committed a heinous fault, and was effectually re- 
 formed by timely chastisement. 
 
 Let those blame Shakespeare for the immoral ten- 
 dency of this comedy, who have not charity, like 
 Valentine, to forgive; and who imagine that a few 
 lines of solemn admonishment, just as the curtain 
 drops, are of service to mankind. Shakespeare's mo- 
 rality is less in his fables, than in his characters ; 
 where the good are incitements to virtue, and the 
 erring are dissuasives from vice. There are very few 
 among us who are not compelled tacitly to acknow- 
 ledge their similarity to Proteus, and to blush at the 
 resemblance, who are not aware of their having, at 
 times, and in a degree, clothed their j ustification in the 
 same wretched subtleties, when prompted by self- 
 interest or passion. Proteus is our brother. 
 
 The disputed difficulty towards the end of the play 
 I would solve by abolishing it, as an interpolation by 
 some one capable only of counting a line on his ten 
 fingers, in order to give Julia's fainting another direct 
 cause, but at the expense of Valentine's character, who 
 is compelled preposterously to say, 
 
240 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 " And, that my love may appear plain and free,* 
 All that was mine in Silvia, I give thee." 
 
 Julia faints at the sight of Proteus, overcome by re- 
 morse and shame ; then, as she recovers, seeing that 
 moment the most propitious for the discovery of her- 
 self, she has recourse to the artifice of the two rings. 
 
 Against the opinion of others, mine is that this play 
 does not conclude too abruptly. 
 
 II. HENRY THE SIXTH. First Part. The author 
 of the original of this historical drama is unknown, 
 and nothing of it, except in its present amended form, 
 has come down to us. So scattered are the amend- 
 ments, that some have thought that Shakespeare had 
 no hand in it at all. His hand is to me apparent, in 
 many places, throughout; but rather timidly em- 
 ployed, as if he feared to exercise decision, and was 
 not yet aware of his superiority on all occasions. 
 Certainly the account Talbot gives of his entertain- 
 ment as a prisoner, breathes of Shakespeare uncontrol- 
 led ; but the passage, for length and undoubtful 
 continuity, may stand alone. Even the scene of the 
 dying Mortimer, and that in the castle of the countess, 
 are seemingly mixed. In most of the other scenes it 
 is not always easy to trace him. Altogether he was 
 not perhaps author of more than one-fourth of the 
 whole. 
 
 My conjecture is that it was his first attempt at 
 altering another's work, and imagine, since all agree 
 
 * Reminding us of Dr. Johnson's example of an earless versifier: 
 " Lay your knife and your forkacross yourplate." SeeBoswell. 
 
PERICLES. 241 
 
 that for awhile he was chiefly occupied in adapting 
 inferior plays for representation, that he commenced 
 with this soon after his arrival. 
 
 III. PERICLES. 
 
 " It hath been sung at festivals, 
 On ember-eves and holy ales ; 
 And lords and ladies of their lives 
 Have read it for restoratives." Prologue. 
 
 Transferred from the halls of lords and ladies to the 
 theatre, it was a favourite with the people ; but, owing 
 to the improvement of dramatic poetry and art, it at 
 length required higher claims than it possessed to 
 support its popularity. To entirely remodel this wild 
 and strangely improbable romance might have be- 
 numbed its attraction ; for it is rare to find that the 
 multitude is pleased with direct changes in a tradi- 
 tionary tale. Shakespeare therefore employed himself 
 in restoring the romance to its former importance on 
 the stage, by numerous retouchings in the dialogue, 
 and by writing whole scenes of great dramatic power. 
 
 Unless we suppose it had been ineffectually re- 
 touched previously to his adaptation, we cannot well 
 account for the appearance of three distinct styles : 
 one bald and utterly unpoetical, though bearing an 
 antique air, urging on the commencement with a 
 dogged will ; the second only passable, and too fre- 
 quent throughout the four first acts ; and the third, 
 truly worthy of Shakespeare. It may be that the 
 lines which I term only passable had been all partially 
 changed by him. Yet, wanting the effect of his 
 shadow merely passing over them, I must conjecture 
 
 M 
 
242 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 that some one had been before him in the task, and 
 that he had retained many of the former alterations 
 entire. However that may have been, the question 
 now is as to his unmixed property. 
 
 In the first place, we have to overcome that great 
 drawback, a want of varied colour in the characters, 
 the essential stamp of his genius. Far from having 
 colour, they are unshaded outlines, filled up with 
 black and white, to represent the bad or the good, and 
 thus shoved on and off the stage. Nothing can be 
 discovered of his profound knowledge of human 
 nature, or of his philosophy, nothing beyond the work 
 of a poet and an artist, and they appear but faintly in 
 the two first acts. The language of Pericles himself 
 rises from poverty gradually into strength and dignity,, 
 until it attains its utmost height ; as if Shakespeare 
 had learned, during his task, to throw more and more 
 aside of the original ; to feel, as he proceeded, a high 
 confidence in his own powers; and at last to have dis- 
 covered there was a soul in the romance, in spite of 
 its deformities, which inspired him to attempt his 
 hitherto untried excellence, to spread his wings, and 
 to set, as it were, an example to himself for the future. 
 
 The fishermen in the second act glance at us, in 
 their comic dialogue, with the very trick of his eye ; 
 but we meet with no scene of his invention, or 
 complete reconstruction, till we enter Cerimon's 
 house at Ephesus in the third act. Every line there 
 is his undoubted property. Trivial as the sketch may 
 be called of this good physician, it is a portrait; we 
 see him, and we know him, though observed only 
 under one phase. Here, in the recovery of the queen 
 
PERICLES. 243 
 
 from her trance, we have a most natural description of 
 the physician's skill being suddenly called into action, 
 his swift orders mingled with his reasoning on cases, 
 his haste to apply the remedies, the broken sentences, 
 his reproof to a loitering servant, the keeping the gentle 
 men back to " give her air;" the whole, as if by magic, 
 making the reader an absolute spectator of the scene. 
 
 " Cerimon. This chanced to-night. 
 
 2nd Gentleman. Most likely, sir. 
 
 Cerimon. Nay, certainly to-night ; 
 
 For look, how fresh she looks ! They were too rough, 
 That threw her in the sea. Make fire within : 
 Fetch hither all the boxes in my closet. 
 Death may usurp on nature many hours, 
 And yet the fire of life kindle again 
 The overpressed spirits. I have heard 
 Of an Egyptian, had nine hours lien dead, 
 By good appliance was recovered. 
 
 (Enter a Servant with boxes, napkins, and fire.) 
 
 Well said, well said ; the fire and the cloths. 
 
 The rough and woful music that we have, 
 
 Cause it to sound, 'beseech you. 
 
 The vial once more. How thou stirrest, thou block I 
 
 The music there. I pray you, give her air. 
 
 Gentlemen, 
 
 This queen will live : nature awakes ; a warmth 
 
 Breathes out of her ; she hath not been entranced 
 
 Above five hours. See ! how she 'gins to blow 
 
 Into life's flower again I" 
 
 A single epithet in the next scene marks the passage 
 for his own : 
 
 " We'll bring your grace even to the edge o' the shore ; 
 Then give you up to the mask'd Neptune, and 
 The gentlest winds of heaven." M 2 
 
244 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 From the moment Marina appears, Shakespeare 
 himself takes her by the hand, and leads her gently 
 onward ; but 1 cannot perceive he had any connexion 
 with the vile crew who surround her. 
 
 Compared to all that precedes it, or to any thing 
 else, the first scene of the fifth act is wonderfully 
 grand, beautiful, and refined in art. Every one 
 ought to know it ; but it is too long for me to quote. 
 The recall from a state of stupefaction caused by 
 grief, and the prolonged yet natural recognition of 
 Marina, interwoven with a thousand delicate hues of 
 poetry, lead us on in admiration till we think nothing 
 can be added to the effect. Still the crown of all is 
 to come, in the poetical conclusion, true to nature 
 while it rests on our imagination. Pericles, instantly 
 after his sudden rush of j oy, his overwrought excite- 
 ment, fancies he listens to the " music of the spheres !" 
 he wonders that others do not hear these " rarest 
 sounds;" then he sinks on his couch to rest, and still 
 insisting that there is " most heavenly music," falls 
 into a sleep, while Marina, like an angel, watches at 
 his side ! 
 
 IV. V. HENRY THE SIXTH. Second and Third 
 Parts. Malone has carefully compared these with 
 the two original plays, whence they were taken, and 
 the result is as follows, in respect to the number of 
 lines to be wholly or in part assignable to Shakespeare : 
 1899 are entirely his own. 2373 are partly his 
 own, having been formed by him from original lines. 
 1771 are retained, without alteration, from the 
 originals. 
 
HENRY THE SIXTH. 245 
 
 From this statement we perceive that the plays are 
 more than two-thirds rewritten by him, and that the 
 remaining third is his adoption. Though the construc- 
 tion and characteristic features remain generally the 
 same, the difference is most striking, owing to the 
 energy and art displayed by Shakespeare in their 
 adaptation. 
 
 Considering the multiplicity of stirring events, 
 and the length of time supposed to elapse during 
 each play, it is surprizing that so many characters are 
 well denned, and actually made prominent. 
 
 So vivid an epitome of the wars between the red 
 and white roses affords an instructive contrast to the 
 proverbial saying " The good old times." Here 
 swords are despicable unless continually dropping 
 blood, and warrior's heads are tumbled on the scene 
 as if for sport, while the uproar of drums and trum- 
 pets is drowned in clamorous scolding. We naturally 
 look for the cause of all this ; when the fury is found 
 to have arisen from Henry's mildness; the inhumanity 
 from his abhorence of it. Severe satire on the " good 
 old times !" 
 
 We are called an ungallant nation ; yet, amidst 
 these murderous excesses, when even the boy Rutland 
 could not escape, the women passed on unscathed ; so 
 entirely so, that Margaret, the " Amazonian trull," 
 cannot persuade any of the butchers, in her despair, 
 to kill her. The same may be said of our Common- 
 wealth wars, the women were unharmed; which is 
 some satisfaction to an Englishman, when he fails in 
 picking up a lady's fan gracefully. 
 
246 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 VI. ROMEO AND JULIET.- This tragedy was taken 
 from Brooke's poem of Romeus and Juliet, and from 
 a translation of Bandello's tale, in Paynter's Palace 
 of Pleasure ; not from the poem alone, which has 
 been remarked by others, and farther explained by 
 Mr. Skottowe. After its first appearance, it received 
 many amendments from the author's hand. 
 
 No deviation from the originals is extraordinary, 
 except that which represents Juliet " not yet four- 
 teen." It cannot be understood. I have indeed a 
 guess at the cause, which will seem ridiculous, but it 
 is possible ; the extreme youth was, at the time, an 
 apology to the audience for the boy who played so 
 arduous a part. An alteration in the text may here 
 be admissible, but in no other word, however it may 
 be curtailed for the better in representation. 
 
 Nothing on the stage has offended me more, where 
 our poet has been concerned, than the daring innova- 
 tion at the deaths of the two lovers. Garrick, I 
 believe, was the contriver; and he has been praised 
 for the unworthy task. Mr. Skottowe, not confining 
 himself to inquiries into the originality of Shake- 
 speare 9 s dramatic plots and characters, where he has 
 proved himself an adept, ventures to say, " The 
 concluding circumstances of the Italian novel are 
 infinitely more affecting, and better calculated for 
 dramatic effect, than those of Shakespeare, who was 
 misled in this important particular by the English 
 versions of the story." Now, with all due respect for 
 the opinion of Mr. Skottowe, and of others, I beg 
 leave to affirm that our poet was, as usual, in the 
 right. 
 
ROMEO AND JULIET. 247 
 
 He had the Italian and the English version of the 
 concluding scene before him, and he chose to follow 
 the latter, which makes Romeo die before the waking 
 of Juliet. To do otherwise would, I contend, have 
 been against his own good feeling, and most likely 
 against that of his audience. It is true, our ancestors 
 were accustomed to scenes of physical horror on the 
 stage, and mental horror also, when the consequence 
 of evil ; but I question if their good feeling would 
 have endured the sight of two young guiltless creatures 
 suffering the most excruciating mental torments. 
 No, though death was dealt out with an unsparing 
 hand in their tragedies, agony of mind, during a 
 human being's last moments, was reserved to O the] Jo 
 in his remorse, or to the atrocious Cardinal Beaufort 
 on his death-bed. Even Lear, in his bitter pang 
 before he dies, justly suffers for the injury he had 
 committed towards Cordelia. An actor and actress 
 may rejoice in the opportunity given to them of 
 struggling, screaming, and groaning, and in the fran- 
 tic, though ill-written speeches assigned to them ; but 
 their rejoicing ought not to be our pain. Had Shake- 
 speare chosen to write such a scene, the effect, from 
 its truth to nature, would have been too intense to be 
 witnessed. As it is, the rodomontade is offensive in 
 two ways : one as being an ignorant caricature ; the 
 other, as intruding on our better thoughts the possi- 
 bility of so unalloyed arid so unmerited a horror. 
 
 If any particular moral is to be drawn, it must be 
 from the punishment of the two rancorous fathers, 
 with their only son and daughter dead at their feet. 
 Shakespeare has throughout described Romeo and 
 
248 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 Juliet as objects of envy, rather than of compassion. 
 The charm of their love extends to our own breasts. 
 In spite of the conscious drawbacks that may exist 
 within us, we listen to them, hoping that we may 
 feel, or wishing that we had felt, so pure a passion. 
 As with most of Shakespeare's characters, we are the 
 creatures he represents, we are Romeo or Juliet while 
 we read. Though quickly followed by misfortune 
 and death, we partake of their transport, think it 
 purchased cheaply, and would undergo ten times as 
 much to be enabled to love and be beloved with so 
 much purity. Their joy, short as it is in counted 
 time, surpasses that of the most lengthened lives of 
 common mortals. 
 
 Happiness in this excess cannot endure ; it must 
 be extinguished, or, I should say, made immortal by 
 death ; not sullied, or possibly destroyed, by indiffe- 
 rence, or worldly experience. Our imaginations are 
 insulted at the supposition of a Romeo and Juliet 
 being married, and living happy ever after, at least 
 in this world. But in the necessity for their death, 
 as Shakespeare had sublimated their nature, he shrunk 
 from the Italian authority for putting them to the 
 torture ; he would not for a moment bereave them of 
 their happiness, but he made them die for each other 
 gladly. Misfortune to them was nothing in compa- 
 rison with their true passion ; whatever they had 
 suffered, it was a suffering for each other, therefore a 
 delight. They kill themselves with scarcely less joy 
 than when they met in the friar's cell to be joined 
 together. Romeo calmly drinks the poison with, 
 " Here's to my love !" welcomes the touch of death, 
 
LOVE'S LABOUR LOST. 249 
 
 and " Thus with a kiss I die !" Juliet, awakening, 
 finds him dead, kisses his lips, and calls the dagger 
 " happy," with which she kills herself to follow him. 
 Poison and the dagger are nothing ; the end is peace. 
 
 VII. LOVE'S LABOUR LOST. Whether this co- 
 medy was ever popular, or merely admired by the 
 few, may be doubted; but it was formed to be accept- 
 able to the gentry of the time; and it was played 
 before the Queen, with additions to its first appear- 
 ance. This fact may account for the unequal division 
 of the acts. It is a comedy of conversation, and 
 exhibits every mode of speech, from ignorance, 
 pedantry, and affected euphony, up to elegant dis- 
 course, and the grandest eloquence. 
 
 Hazlitt did not study all Shakespeare's works, or 
 he did not discern all his qualities. He says : " Still 
 we have some objections to the style, which we think 
 savours more of the pedantic spirit of Shakespeare's 
 time, than of his own genius ; more of controversial 
 divinity, and the logic of Peter Lombard, than of the 
 inspiration of the muse. It transports us quite as 
 much to the manners of the court, and the quirks of 
 courts of law, as to the scenes of nature, or the fairy- 
 land of his own imagination. Shakespeare has set 
 himself to imitate the tone of polite conversation then 
 prevailing among the fair, the witty, and the learned ; 
 and he has imitated it but too faithfully. It is as if 
 the hand of Titian had been employed to give grace 
 to the curls of a full-bottomed periwig, or Raphael 
 had attempted to give expression to the tapestry 
 figures in the House of Lords. Shakespeare has put 
 
 M 3 
 
250 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 an excellent description of this fashionable jargon 
 into the mouth of the critical Holofernes, c as too 
 picked, too spruce, too affected too odd, as it were, 
 too peregrinate, as I may call it; and nothing can 
 be more marked than the difference when he breaks 
 loose from the trammels he had imposed on himself, 
 6 as light as bird from brake,' and speaks in his own 
 person." 
 
 Now this seems to have been written without a 
 suspicion that our poet's purpose, in his imitations, 
 was satire. As such it must have been understood in 
 his day, and keenly so ; and it is our business to 
 understand it in the same way, or confine ourselves to 
 those passages of elegant language and eloquence, 
 which he has brought forward as contrasts to the 
 rest. 
 
 So completely is this a comedy of conversation, that 
 majesty itself is a companionable gentleman ; and we 
 mix among the groups of lords and ladies, or with 
 Costard and Holofernes, finding ourselves equally at 
 home. We are carried back to the days of Elizabeth, 
 when knights thought more of poetry than a tourna- 
 ment when they had not long fallen in love with the 
 alphabet; and, in compliment to their modern Dul- 
 cinea, were careful not to speak without proving that 
 they had " fed of the dainties that are bred in a 
 book." 
 
 Objections are made to the poverty of the fable, 
 and to the want of invention in its management. 
 But the author would have defeated his own purpose, 
 had he admitted an intricacy of plot, or placed his 
 characters in situations to call forth the stronger 
 
LOVE'S LABOUR LOST. 251 
 
 passions. Satirical as it is, the entire feeling is good- 
 humour. A reader who can enter into the spirit of 
 it, will find sufficient interest to keep his attention on 
 the alert. As to the charge of a want of dramatic 
 invention, where the four lovers follow each other to 
 the same spot, where three of them read their love- 
 sonnets, and hide themselves, by turns, among the 
 trees, possibly that may be considered of little weight. 
 Three of the lovers are so artificial, that each must 
 needs peri a sonnet to his lady, not only because it 
 was out of his power to speak to her, but it was the 
 fashion to pen sonnets ; and each must sigh her name 
 in a grove, because such had been, time out of mind, 
 the lover's humour. At any rate, the amusing dis- 
 covery at the last, and Biron's eloquent poetry, make 
 ample amends. 
 
 If Shakespeare had not assured us this young 
 Ferdinand was King of Navarre, I could riot have 
 believed it ; he is so unlike a king. He never pleads 
 his sacred anointment, nor threatens with his royal 
 displeasure, nor receives flattery from great men of 
 his own making ; nor can he despise Costard the 
 clown. His wit allows him to sport a jest, his good- 
 temper to take one from others ; and at all times he 
 is superior to playing the monarch over his associates. 
 Longaville, " well fitted in the arts, glorious in arms," 
 and the " well-accomplished youth," Dumain, are as 
 much kings of the conversation as himself. A weari- 
 ness of courtly pleasure, the fashion, the idleness of 
 their days, give these youths a butterfly-notion of 
 being book-worms. Scholars they will be, and learned 
 ones, and that at the end of three years ; so they are 
 
252 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 to study hard, and "not to see a woman in that term ;" 
 with many other strict observances touching fasting 
 and watching, easy to record in a schedule. Their 
 oaths are taken ; and Biron, from pure good-fellow- 
 ship, joins this holy alliance. Biron, whose ascendant 
 mind cannot but convince their common-sense, has no 
 controul over their folly. He argues, he rallies ; but 
 all in vain. Rousseau was not the first " to reason 
 against reading ;" Biron was before him, and he 
 speaks some things which hard spellers in a closet 
 should con over betimes. 
 
 The " admired princess," " a maid of grace and 
 complete majesty," and her three lovely companions, 
 soon bring the gentlemen to their senses. 
 
 Then, for broad comic, what a list of unconscious 
 drolls ! First we have a " refined traveller of Spain," 
 a " tough signor," a " child of fancy," hight Armado, 
 
 " One, whom the music of his own vain tongue 
 Doth ravish, like enchanting harmony ;" 
 
 and he " is in love, yea, he loveth ;" and asks favour 
 of the " sweet welkin to sigh in his face." Holofernes 
 stalks about with the ghost of a head ; vanity was his 
 Judith. This portentous schoolmaster was a particular 
 satire on Florio, who gave the world a folio of hard 
 words, miscalled a dictionary ; he provoked Shake- 
 speare by some ugly daubing, and, in return, he is 
 here painted at full length. He " smells false Latin," 
 and can " humour the ignorant' 7 in bad verses ; " this 
 is a gift," quoth he, " that I have, simple, simple ; a 
 foolish, extravagant spirit," &c. and he is " thankful 
 or it !" Moreover, he will play three of the worthies 
 
LOVE'S LABOUR LOST. 253 
 
 himself, " thrice worthy gentleman ;" and " will not 
 be put out of countenance." Sir Nathaniel, " the 
 hedge-priest," is his toad-eater, and piously says, 
 " Sir, I praise the Lord for you, and so may my 
 parishioners ;" takes out his table-book, to note " a 
 most singular and choice epithet ; calls deer-shooting 
 by great folks " very reverend sport, truly ; and done 
 in the testimony of a good conscience ;" and gets a 
 dinner gratis, " for society (saith the text) is the 
 happiness of life." I beg pardon of the courtly old 
 Boyet, for placing him in such company, for " he is 
 Cupid's grandfather, and learns news of him;" one 
 " that kissed away his hand in courtesy," and 
 
 " Picks up wit, as pigeons peas ; 
 And utters it again when God doth please." 
 
 Costard, in his rustic ignorance, looks on him as " a 
 swain, a most simple clown !" And Costard is cunning : 
 he " had rather pray a month with mutton and por- 
 ridge, than fast a week with bran and water;" and 
 has the wit to hope he shall fast on a full stomach. 
 All these gentry, down to Costard, speak, or ape to 
 speak, in 
 
 " Taffata phrases, silken terms precise, 
 Three-piled hyperboles, spruce affectation, 
 Figures pedantical." 
 
 " They have been at a great feast of languages, and 
 stolen the scraps," as the little boy Moth tells us ; that 
 " handful of wit," who " purchases his experience by 
 his penny of observation ;*' not too young to relish a 
 joke, and join with the best effect in their full-blown 
 talk, though old enough to laugh at it ; a character 
 
HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 the poet has introduced to prove the absurdity of 
 men's priding themselves in their deformities of lan- 
 guage. Oh ! I have forgotten the constable Dull ! 
 " A man of good repute, carriage, bearing, and esti- 
 mation." 
 
 " Via, goodman Dull ! thou hast spoken no word all this 
 
 while. 
 Dull. Nor understood none neither, sir." 
 
 On his other characters, those of well educated society, 
 Shakespeare bestows his own easy-flowing, expressive 
 language, steeped in the imagination, not begrimed 
 in affectation. Thus was the satire directed towards 
 the ladies and gentlemen of his time ; holding forth to 
 them a choice, either to be ranked among the silly 
 pedants, and laughed at by children like Moth, or 
 among their superiors. 
 
 The principal character is Biron, whose properties, 
 by turns, are eloquence and mocking gibes ; the latter 
 are keenly reprobated, and, in promise, corrected by 
 Rosaline. When free from that fault, which, on the 
 stage among fictitious persons, is harmlessly delight- 
 ful, but, away from it, meets with none but " shallow 
 laughing hearers," and is at the painful expense of 
 the party ridiculed, he is beyond common praise ; nor 
 is there throughout Shakespeare a strain of eloquence 
 equal to Biron's, near the end of the fourth act, be- 
 ginning with, 
 
 " Have at you then, affection's men at arms P 
 
 VIII. HAMLET. 1589. My reason for assigning 
 the above date, is founded solely on the passage from 
 Nashe, already given. It is to be understood as re- 
 
HAMLET. 255 
 
 garding its original state, before the alterations and 
 enlargements had taken place. 
 
 Mr. Skottowe tells us, but on what authority I am 
 ignorant, " the history of Hamlet also formed the 
 subject of a play which was acted previous to 1589." 
 He then conjectures that Shakespeare was assisted 
 by that elder play now lost. 
 
 If there exists a description of that elder play, I do 
 not hesitate in saying it is Shakespeare's, and no 
 other's, provided the ghost appears in it. According 
 to the old black-letter quarto, whence the tragedy is 
 derived, the killing of the prince's father was public ; 
 consequently no ghost was employed to reveal it to 
 the son. Now the change from an open slaying, with 
 some show of cause to a secret murder, involving the 
 necessity of the ghost's appearance to seek revenge, 
 is so important, so wonderful an invention for the 
 dramatic effect of the story, that I cannot imagine it 
 belonged to any but Shakespeare. 
 
 Should I be mistaken in this opinion, still I ap- 
 peal to Nashe's authority, published in 1589, that 
 Shakespeare's Hamlet had been then played : the 
 word in italics, Hamlets, proving that Hamlet was 
 then on the stage, and that it had been written by a 
 " Noverint," or lawyer's clerk : while the examples 
 which I have given of Shakespeare's law-phrases, and 
 which might be multiplied tenfold at least if sought 
 in all his works, prove that such must have been the 
 employment of his early days. 
 
 Nothing in the character of Hamlet has given rise 
 to more animadversion or critical disquisition than his 
 apparent unfeeling behaviour to> Ophelia; and actors 
 
256 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 have, without distinction, represented him as guilty 
 of unprovoked rudeness, or influenced by a touch of 
 real madness, in this scene. This I have frequently 
 talked of as a mistake ; and I once urged my reasons 
 to an actor in London, when about to play it, but in 
 vain. We are obliged to Mr. Skottowe for a valuable 
 elucidation of the text on this subject. He points out 
 that, in the original story, the usurping uncle, in order 
 to discover if Hamlet's madness is feigned or real, 
 causes him, attended by spies, to be met by a young- 
 lady, who had been already tutored to discover what 
 was passing in his mind. Hamlet has long enter- 
 tained a sincere affection for her, and was ready to 
 fall into the snare, were he not timely advised of it by 
 a friend ; upon which he is careful to behave towards 
 her as if distracted in his mind. Here, Mr. Skottowe 
 justly observes, recurring to the scene between Hamlet 
 and Ophelia, " A satisfactory solution of the diffi- 
 culty is derived from the history ; whence it is learnt, 
 what is not to be learnt from the play, that Hamlet 
 was aware that Ophelia was purposely thrown in his 
 way; that spies were about them; and that it was 
 necessary, for the preservation of his life, to assume a 
 conduct which he thought could be attributed to mad- 
 ness only." Those accustomed to examine the pro- 
 totypes of Shakespeare's fables, may be satisfied with 
 this solution, for they well know how artfully he could 
 appropriate incidents or shades in character, while he 
 partially or almost wholly differed from the story. 
 But I cannot agree in the assertion, that such a solu- 
 tion is " not to be learnt from the play," because it 
 has always been evident to me there. As it is now in 
 
HAMLET. 257 
 
 my power, with Mr. Skottowe's assistance, to remove 
 a difficulty which has hitherto been beyond my skill, 
 I will recall to the reader's mind the precise circum- 
 stances related in the text, and thence draw, what 
 seems to me, the only conclusion that can be made. 
 
 In order to discover the real cause of Hamlet's 
 seeming madness, Ophelia is placed in his way, while 
 her father and the king conceal themselves within ear- 
 shot as " lawful espials." Hamlet enters without ob- 
 serving her, absorbed in deep reflexion, and gives 
 breath to the famed soliloquy of " To be, or not to 
 be." At length, seeing her, he gently approaches, 
 and salutes her in a tone suitable to her occupation, 
 and to his serious state of mind : 
 
 " Nymph, in thy orisons 
 Be all my sins remembered I" 
 
 Unaccustomed to deceit, she doubtless acts according 
 to her father's instructions, and rather suddenly offers 
 back his remembrances of love. He, having just 
 before been made aware that his two school-fellows, 
 Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, were employed as 
 spies upon him, is naturally full of suspicion, looks 
 furtively around if any one is near, and perceives the 
 king and Polonius spying from their covert, and 
 eagerly listening. The moment he has caught a 
 glance at them, he exclaims to himself " Ha ! ha !" 
 and half doubting the conduct of Ophelia, asks this 
 searching question, " Are you honest ?" She is 
 surprised ; and in self-defence he instantly assumes 
 his former mask of madness, though, as usual with him, 
 " there is method in it." As the dialogue proceeds, 
 
258 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 a thought crosses his mind respecting her participation 
 in their treachery, and he puts another question to 
 her, completely suited to his purpose, " Where's your 
 father ?'' In compelled untruth, poor girl ! for she 
 well knows he is listening close at hand, she faintly 
 (I suppose) replies, "At home, my lord." His ex- 
 clamation at this is intended, if not to reproach her, 
 to be loud in his ears ; " Let the doors be shut upon 
 him ; that he may play the fool no where but in's own 
 house. Farewell." Scarcely has he left her, pro- 
 bably in anger at her duplicity, when he returns for the 
 purpose of adding to the deception of the king, and 
 talks in a higher strain of madness than before. 
 
 Thus it has ever appeared to me that our poet 
 gives sufficient hints of his intention in this scene. 
 
 IX. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. " I cannot 
 reconcile my heart to Bertram ;" says Dr. Johnson, 
 " a man noble without generosity, and young without 
 truth ; who marries Helen as a coward, and leaves 
 her as a profligate ; when she is dead by his unkind- 
 ness, sneaks home to a second marriage, is accused by 
 a woman whom he has wronged, defends himself by 
 falsehood, and is dismissed to happiness." 
 
 Jf we cannot " reconcile our hearts to Bertram," 
 the play is altogether intolerable. If at any time his 
 conduct is such as to provoke our contempt, or if we 
 did not perceive among his errors, the germs of a good 
 and honourable mind, the interest of the story would 
 be at an end. The hopes and fears of the other 
 characters, their efforts to reclaim him, and the happi- 
 ness of Helen, would be all despair the moment he 
 became unworthy of our sympathy. 
 
ALL J S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 259 
 
 Shakespeare appears to have adopted this tale from 
 Boccaccio, who lays no stress on the argument, for 
 the purpose of portraying those moral evils, frequently 
 interwoven with the privileges of the nobility, preju- 
 dice, arrogance, and wilfulness ; and to point out how 
 they may be corrected in the discipline of the world. 
 A nobleman of the court of Queen Elizabeth, differed 
 widely from one of our present House of Lords ; and, 
 in this instance, the scene being laid in France, we 
 may suppose him invested with the rights of a feudal- 
 lord to their fullest extent. Bertram is, by nature, 
 generous and affectionate. His vices are factitious as 
 the heraldic records of his ancestry, and, like his inhe- 
 ritance, belong to him by legitimate descent. His 
 father, I suspect, was not a jot better in his youth. 
 Among his many virtues there is one mentioned, which 
 lets us a little into his patrician character, and it comes 
 most appropriately from the mouth of majesty : 
 " Who were below him, 
 
 He used as creatures of another place ; 
 
 And bow'd his eminent top to their low ranks, 
 
 Making them proud of his humility." 
 
 Praise from a king sounds bravely within the walls of 
 a palace, but loses elsewhere. It is not enough that 
 we should be told the old count was excellent as a 
 soldier and a courtier, in order to make us esteem him. 
 We understand his value better when his widow prays 
 that her son " may succeed his father in manners as 
 in shape," and willingly join in her love of his memory; 
 for the word of such a lady is worth a thousand kings ; 
 and, in all probability, it was her strength of mind, 
 aided by his own experience, that made him a man to 
 be lamented. 
 
260 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 The young count comes before us possessed of a 
 good heart, and of no mean capacity, but with a haugh- 
 tiness of rank, which threatens to dull the edge of the 
 kinder passions, and to cloud the intellect. This is 
 the inevitable consequence of an illustrious education. 
 The glare of his birthright has dazzled his young 
 faculties. Perhaps the first words he could distinguish 
 were from an important nurse, giving elaborate direc- 
 tions about his lordship's pap. As soon as he could 
 walk, a crowd of submissive vassals doffed their caps, 
 and hailed his first appearance on his legs. His 
 spelling-book had the arms of the family emblazoned 
 on the cover. He had been accustomed to hear him- 
 self called the great, the mighty son of Roussillon, 
 ever since he was a helpless child. A succession of 
 complacent tutors would by no means destroy the 
 illusion, and it is from their hands that Shakespeare 
 receives him, while yet in his minority. 
 
 It is too much to say that Bertram " marries Helen 
 as a coward." He is ward to the king who commands 
 the marriage 
 
 " Which both thy duty owes, and our power claims ;" 
 and he backs his authority with threats of 
 
 " both my revenge and hate, 
 Loosing upon thee in the name of justice, 
 Without all terms of pity. Speak, thine answer !" 
 
 His Majesty may be a moody old gentleman, but 
 not the less fearful on that account. The most 
 bigoted bachelor would prefer a wife to irretrievable 
 ruin. If ever there was little shame in yielding 
 to compulsion, here is a case in point. Helvetius 
 
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 261 
 
 indeed tells us that "he who fears nothing will do 
 nothing contrary to his inclination ; it is in quality of 
 cowards that troops are brave." But this is a refine- 
 ment upon a word beyond its general acceptation. It 
 suits the mouth of a metaphysician, but a man of the 
 world would hardly understand it, and a great mo- 
 ralist has nothing to do with it. We rather admire 
 the boldness of young Bertram's sneering and ironical 
 speech, wherein he consents to " take her hand," 
 which could not be uttered without hazard while the 
 brow of royalty was scowling upon him. Nor does 
 he " leave her as a profligate." A profligate would 
 have taken her to his arms before he abandoned her ; 
 but he flies from her with indignation immediately 
 after the marriage-ceremony. As I profess to enter- 
 tain a brotherly affection for Helen, I am bound to 
 inquire if there is any apology for such ungallant 
 behaviour on the part of the bridegroom ; and in this 
 my duty I must, as is usual, previously insist on the 
 fault being all on his side. Well, even in this one- 
 eyed view of the question, I must needs acquit him 
 on the score of mere accident, the coronet having 
 slipped over his forehead and blinded his eyes to 
 Helen's perfections. He knew not she was " a maid 
 too virtuous for the contempt of empire ;" and it was 
 utterly out of his comprehension " that twenty such 
 rude boys (as himself) might tend upon, and call her 
 hourly, mistress." All his knowledge was comprised 
 in her being " a poor physician's daughter, who had 
 her breeding at his father's charge;" and his farewell to 
 her at the castle shows he regarded her somewhat in 
 the light of a menial, when he concludes his speech 
 
262 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 with " Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress, 
 and make much of her." To regard the poor girl 
 with so little consideration is certainly very wrong; 
 but at the same time it is very lordly, and Bertram is 
 a lord. Besides, is the compulsion nothing ? Sup- 
 pose, reader (if thou art a parlour gentleman) that 
 an act of parliament were to pass, compelling thee to 
 take Dolly from the kitchen as thy wife. Truly, 
 whatever deserving qualities Dolly might possess, or 
 however good her education might be, I fear thou 
 wouldest not perceive them, partly owing to her in- 
 ferior station, and partly to thine own indignation at 
 so tyrannical a law. 
 
 The Count likewise had a bad adviser at his elbow, 
 one Monsieur Parolles. Nor does the fostering of so 
 adroit a parasite cast any reproach on the understand- 
 ing of an inexperienced youth. Parolles is not a 
 bully like Captain Bobadil, or ancient Pistol, whose 
 swaggering could only deceive a Master Matthew or a 
 Dame Quickly. He talks like a soldier of " very valiant 
 approof," and wears not his sword clumsily, but with a 
 grace; such a counterfeit may pass for one of the current 
 coin of Mars. He goes through the ordeal of the French 
 Court without suspicion, save from one man. " He 
 was first smoked by the old Lord Lafeu ;" and he, 
 with all his cunning, did not immediately discover 
 him to be " a snipt taffata fellow," whose " soul was 
 in his clothes." Should this play be acted, let it be 
 borne in mind that Parolles, so far from being a 
 buffoon, is serious, stately, and pompous. He has 
 nothing of the droll or the fop. It is not for the love 
 of distinction that he assumes the character of a man 
 
ALL S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 263 
 
 of courage, but for the sake of a livelihood; and 
 therefore there is no touch of vanity in his composi- 
 tion. He acts his part well, as a labourer works well 
 when he knows he shall be well paid. It is remark- 
 able that Helen is the only one at the castle who saw 
 through his disguise ; she says : 
 
 " And yet I know him a notorious liar, 
 Think him a great way fool, solely a coward ; 
 Yet these fixt evils sit to Jit in him, fyc." 
 
 This delineation does credit to Helen's discernment, 
 and may be brought forward as an evidence of the 
 truth of the Vicar of Wakefield's observation, that 
 " the two sexes seem placed as spies on each other, 
 and are furnished with different abilities, adapted for 
 mutual inspection." 
 
 An overweening pride of birth was Bertram's great 
 foible. To cure him of this, Shakespeare sends him 
 to the wars, that he may earn fame for himself, and 
 thus exchange a shadow for a reality. There " the 
 great dignity that his valour acquired for him" places 
 him on an equality with any of his ancestors, and he 
 is no longer beholden to them alone for the world's 
 observance. Thus, in his own person, he discovers 
 there is something better than mere hereditary honour ; 
 and his heart is prepared to acknowledge that the 
 entire devotion of Helen's love is of more worth 
 than the court-bred stately smiles of a princess. He 
 will not again turn a deaf ear, nor give a peevish 
 reply, to those arguments which had been made use 
 of in behalf of the " poor physician's daughter ;" 
 and which, by the by, might be sculptured (without 
 offence, I hope) over the door of the Herald's College : 
 
264 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 " Strange is it that our bloods, 
 Of colour, weight, and heat, pour'd all together, 
 Would quite confound distinction, yet stand off 
 In differences so mighty. - 
 
 That is honour's scorn, 
 Which challenges itself as honour's born, 
 And is not like the sire. Honours best thrive 
 When rather from ourselves we them derive 
 Than our foregoers : the mere word's a slave, 
 Debauch'd on every tomb ; on every grave 
 A lying trophy ; and as oft is dumb, 
 Where dust, and damn'd oblivion is the tomb 
 Of honour'd bones indeed." 
 
 I know not how to palliate the conduct of our 
 young soldier in his love for that pretty Florentine 
 lass, Diana. He was yet in his minority, to be sure ; 
 and that Parolles, " a very tainted fellow, and full of 
 wickedness," did his utmost to further the affair; yet 
 still I find it difficult to excuse him. After my utmost 
 moral consideration, I feel it impossible to do any 
 thing better than yield him up to the judgment of 
 the pure and spotless; and they perhaps may be 
 merciful, though those, the most conversant in his 
 crime, should, as by usage established, plead in aggra- 
 vation. But, let it be observed, while Shakespeare 
 chronicles this fault, he allows it to be canvassed and 
 severely censured by others ; not by greybeards, who 
 may have forgotten their similar delinquencies, or 
 grown envious of what they but faintly remember, 
 but by the gay, the youthful gallants of the camp ; 
 who, while they exclaim against it in bitter reproof, 
 mingle his shame with a fearful consciousness of their 
 own frailty. What extreme justice and what charity 
 here meet together ! 
 
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 265 
 
 The learned Doctor goes on to tell us that Ber- 
 tram " sneaks home to a second marriage ;" which is 
 as contrary to the text as that he travelled in a balloon. 
 The war being ended he returns to France, and agrees 
 to marry the Lord Lafeu's daughter, rather as an 
 expiation than by choice. He will do any thing 
 prescribed for him, otherwise his case is hopeless. At 
 the last Diana enters, accusing him of a breach of 
 promise of marriage, with as much archness as 
 modesty can possibly assume, backed by a string of 
 riddling impossibilities, very amusing to the reader, 
 but wondrously perplexing to the parties concerned. 
 Throughout this trying scene Bertram never " de- 
 fends himself by falsehood." He neither confesses 
 nor denies the promise. If we look back to the 
 interview between him and Diana, where she laughs 
 at his promise, and begs his diamond ring, we cannot 
 be surprised at the low estimation in which he holds 
 her virtue. There is a plot against him, and the part 
 Diana takes in it necessarily involves her in his worst 
 thoughts. He is guilty of no " falsehood," except as 
 touching a certain ring on his finger ; and, challenged 
 as he is, before the king and the whole court, how 
 could he reveal its history ? In all intrigues, whether 
 amatory or political, it is held infamous for the parties 
 not to be true to each other, at the expense of truth 
 towards the rest of the world. Why then should 
 Bertram be seriously blamed? It was rather his 
 care for Diana's good name, than his own, that in- 
 duced him to forge that foolish tale of the ring being 
 thrown to him from a casement. But he is at last 
 " dismissed to happiness ;" and why not ? his faults 
 
 N 
 
266 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 are as venial as any Doctor's in Christendom ; per- 
 haps more so, for he makes no pretence to morality. 
 We find him acutely sensible of all his follies ; and 
 he weeps for Helen, who is " supposed dead ;" why 
 then, in the name of the most straight- laced virtue, 
 should he not be happy ? 
 
 This play is seldom noticed, and perhaps little un- 
 derstood, unless there are many like Mrs. Jameson, 
 who has ably analysed the character of Helen. It is 
 called one of the poet's minor plays ; and as far as it 
 has no communion with the sublimer passions, the 
 appellation is correct; in other respects it may rank 
 with the best. That Dr. Johnson should have passed 
 sentence on Bertram, according to his scholastic and 
 abstract notions of perfection, instead of charitably 
 considering the positive imperfections of our nature, 
 is, at least, short-sighted. How he could have read 
 the following beautiful passage in favour of our frail 
 fellow-beings, and yet remained inexorable, I cannot 
 imagine ; unless, as previously hinted by me, his doc- 
 trine and his practical morality took two opposite 
 roads. It is spoken by one of the young lords, while 
 they are canvassing the conduct of Bertram : " The 
 web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill to- 
 gether: our virtues would be proud, if our faults 
 whipt them not ; and our crimes would despair, if they 
 were not cherished by our virtues." 
 
 X. WINTER'S TALE. In this play Shakespeare has 
 followed the liberties taken by his elder dramatists, 
 much in the same degree as they are seen in Pericles. 
 
WINTER'S TALE. 267 
 
 No reference ought to be made to the Winter's Tale, 
 as his sanction of unchartered rules for the drama ; 
 since, in its excess, it is an exception to his general 
 rule. The very title, a Tale, shows that he meant it 
 rather as an amusing romance than as a regular play. 
 Besides, in these undefined regions, and among these 
 strange incidents, he might have found himself more 
 at his ease in the covert compliment he was paying to 
 the Queen. Walpole was the first to point this out ; 
 and certainly the exculpation of Anne Bullen was in- 
 tended in the innocence of the wronged Hermione. 
 He observes, " The most striking passage, and which 
 had nothing to do in the tragedy, but as it pictured 
 Elizabeth, is, where Paulina, describing the new-born 
 princess, and her likeness to her father, says, " She has 
 the very trick of his frown" 
 
 But, allowing that Perdita was intended for Queen 
 Elizabeth, I am surprised that Walpole did not per- 
 ceive there was another, perhaps the chief, cause for 
 the compliment being particularly agreeable to her 
 that of her proved legitimacy ; a circumstance most 
 questionable in her case, since she was born before 
 the death of Queen Catherine, who was not, to all 
 men's minds, regularly divorced, and which had been 
 openly disputed. If the audience at that day under- 
 stood the allusion, the compliment would have been 
 as grateful as it was delicately contrived. Of course 
 her legitimacy was a subject to be hinted at enigmati- 
 cally, and entirely away from the real objection ; yet 
 Perdita's legitimacy, from the moment of her birth, 
 becomes the conquering theme of the tale. 
 
 N2 
 
268 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 XL A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. How must 
 Spenser have been enchanted with this poetry ! But 
 can we believe that the multitude were enchanted ? 
 or, if they were, could the poetry compensate, in their 
 eyes, for its inapplicability for the stage ? Before the 
 invention of scenery, an audience must indeed have 
 carried to the theatre more imagination than is requi- 
 site at the present day ; yet, still I cannot but think 
 that these ideal beings, in representation, claimed too 
 much of so rare a quality, and that it failed at the 
 first, as when it was last attempted in London. 
 Hazlitt has dwelt on the unmanageable nature of this 
 te dream" for the stage ; and was it not equally un- 
 manageable at all times ? 
 
 There is no document to assist me, nothing of ar- 
 gument to back my opinion ; yet I cannot forbear 
 supposing that the failure of A Midsummer Nighfs 
 Dream at the Blackfriars' Theatre, was the cause of 
 Shakespeare having said he would write no more 
 comedies. Then Spenser's regret, deep as his love of 
 Shakespeare's genius, might have induced him to 
 commemorate the event in his Tears of the Muses* 
 where Thalia thus speaks : 
 
 " And he, the man whom Nature self had made 
 To mock herself, and truth to imitate, 
 
 With kindly counter, under mimic shade, 
 Our pleasant Willy, ah! is dead of late ; 
 
 With whom all joy and jolly merriment 
 
 Is also deaded, and in dolour drent. 
 
 " In stead thereof, scoffin scurrility, 
 
 And scorning folly with contempt is crept, 
 Rolling in rimes of shameless ribaudry, 
 Without regard, or due decorum kept ; 
 
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT* S DREAM. 269 
 
 Each idle wit at will presumes to make, 
 And doth the learned's task upon him take. 
 
 " But that same gentle spirit, from whose pen 
 
 Large streams of honey and sweet nectar flow, 
 
 Scorning the boldness of such base-born men, 
 Which dare their follies forth so rashly throw, 
 
 Doth rather choose to sit in idle cell, 
 
 Than so himself to mockery to sell." 
 
 Spenser died about thirteen years after Shake- 
 speare's arrival in London. It has been contended 
 that these verses did not point to Shakespeare, but to 
 some other " pleasant Willy." I know of no other at 
 that time, who, in any man's estimation, far less in 
 Spenser's, could have merited a tithe of such praise. 
 Our former chronologists, not having had the advan- 
 tage of Mr. Collier's discoveries, might indeed have 
 observed a difficulty in the application. Never having 
 seen the subject discussed, I am ignorant if there is a 
 better argument than one which I once heard gravely 
 adduced, viz. as Spenser died before Shakespeare, it 
 was impossible he could lament Shakespeare's death ! 
 thus mistaking his being dead to Thalia, by 
 choosing " to sit in idle cell," for his being actually 
 dead. 
 
 Regarding it as certain that Shakespeare was, at 
 one period, unsuccessful as a dramatic poet, we have 
 the more reason to love his nature, which never led 
 him, throughout his works, especially in the Poems to 
 his Friend, where he speaks much of himself, into 
 querulousness at the bad taste of the town, and angry 
 invectives against actors and audiences, so common 
 to the disappointed playwrights of his time. 
 
270 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 XII. RICHARD THE SECOND. 
 
 XIII. RICHARD THE THIRD. Since the appear- 
 ance of Historic Doubts, by Horace Walpole, it has 
 been the fashion to talk of the dramatic injustice com- 
 mitted against the character of Richard the Third, 
 and to lament that Shakespeare should have heaped 
 infamy on an English king, who was by no means 
 worse than his immediate predecessor and successor. 
 These critics forget that public opinion is a higher 
 kind of history, in relation to kings, than that derived 
 from documents, containing palliatives of their con- 
 duct as individuals. Our best historians acknowledge 
 Richard's murder of his nephews, which was beyond 
 a private crime ; it extended its outrage to the feelings 
 of the whole nation ; and this one crime is forcibly 
 shown by Mr. Sharon Turner as the sole cause of 
 Richard's utter disgrace with his subjects, involving 
 his loss of crown and life. Under this revolting 
 breach of trust as a Protector, this cold-blooded 
 cruelty on boys, this infamy on his back, (whether 
 crooked or not,) he became deservedly detested, and 
 his private virtues, if he had any, were as deservedly 
 forgotten. Mr. Sharon Turner conjectures that the 
 pathetic ballad of The Children in the Wood was 
 written during his reign ; if so, the writer of it pro- 
 bably dethroned him. Another cause for his reign 
 and memory being hated arose from his having, by 
 that atrocity, renewed the civil wars in England. 
 Certainly the policy of the house of Tudor directed 
 history to blacken his character; but the attempt 
 would have been vain, had not the nation been willing 
 
RICHARD THE THIRD. 271 
 
 to listen to accusations of every kind against him. 
 After the suffering from the long contests between the 
 Red and White Roses, the English were grateful to 
 the Tudors for peace. The private vices or crimes of 
 Henry the Seventh or Henry the Eighth scarcely 
 reached farther than the nobility or the powerful, and 
 the people generally seemed to acquiesce in oppression 
 or violence towards them* The only unpopular 
 sovereign of the family was Mary, because she offended 
 the nation in a variety of ways; yet, possibly, she had 
 more sincerity than the rest ; but the people care 
 nothing for the private virtues of a tyrant, however 
 they may regard with a jealous eye the moral conduct 
 of a monarch whose power is limited. This last asser- 
 tion seems a paradox; but it might be easily ex- 
 plained. 
 
 As far as Shakespeare is concerned, Richard was 
 already drawn for him in the second and third parts 
 of Henry the Sixth, as well as in the Chronicles 
 of Holinshed; besides which, both as a dramatist and 
 a public historian, he was bound to follow the general 
 feeling of his countrymen, who, not in the fury of 
 change, but after a hundred years, still pronounced 
 their detestation of the murderer of his nephews, and 
 the renewer of their civil wars. No doubt the poet 
 saw, in the histories of his day, ample authorities for 
 exhibiting on the stage a highly effective tyrant, and 
 therefore he dramatized the authorities as they were. 
 Something might be urged against him, had he exag- 
 gerated the picture by inventing new crimes. 
 
 Never having witnessed Richard the Third on the 
 stage, I cannot say if it is really affective there. I am 
 
272 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 told that Mr. Macready played in it a few times some 
 years ago, and that the whole performance as a tragic 
 history, was electrifying ; but so many in the audience 
 had been accustomed to see Gibber's Richard the 
 Third, that it did not meet with general success. 
 The many were disappointed at not having the reckless 
 tyrant's soliloquies on conscience, his puling moans 
 over the thoughts of what posterity might say of him, 
 and fifty other anomalies. According to Mrs. Inch- 
 bald's British Theatre, Gibber's gallimaufry contains 
 no more than three hundred and thirty-one entire 
 lines belonging to Shakespeare's Richard the Third ; 
 that is, not quite enough to form one act out of the 
 five, the rest being eked out with broken lines, and 
 lines from other plays by Shakespeare, or with 
 diseased inoculations by Gibber. Yet in this patch- 
 work state, instead of being hooted from the stage, it 
 has been extremely popular for a century. May we 
 not say that, a real love, a wise love for our grand poet, 
 is yet but partially felt in England ? 
 
 XIV. JOHN. 
 
 XV. COMEDY or ERRORS. Perhaps Shakespeare, 
 no longer able to restrain his comic humour, gave 
 vent to it in this farce, in a sort of joyous desperation. 
 Regarding it merely as a farce, from the moment the 
 Errors commence, nothing has equalled it. Until I 
 saw it on the stage, (not mangled into an opera,) I 
 had not imagined the extent of the mistakes, the drol- 
 lery of them, their unabated continuance, till, at the 
 end of the fourth act, they reached their climax with 
 
COMEDY OF ERRORS. 273 
 
 the assistance of Dr. Pinch, when the audience in 
 their laughter rolled about like waves. It was the 
 triumph of farce, of Shakespeare's art in all that be- 
 longs to dramatic action. 
 
 Here, it might be thought, that puns could be pro- 
 perly and plentifully introduced, where the twin 
 brothers set the example of being personal puns on 
 one another ; yet there are few puns to be found. 
 Truth is, the mistakes alone are ludicrous, and the 
 action is serious. To the strange contrast of grave 
 astonishment among the actors with their laughable 
 situations in the eyes of the spectators, who are let 
 into the secret, is to be ascribed the irresistible effect. 
 The two Dromios, (Shakespeare's addition among 
 other matters to Plautus) form a requisite link between 
 the audience and the dramatis persona? ; they invite 
 us to mirth, otherwise we might half subdue it out of 
 sheer principle. 
 
 The dresses in the representation were of no coun- 
 try, and bad for the purpose. Had they been more 
 plain, and such as every Grecian, in a certain station, 
 was likely to wear, one part of the improbability 
 would have been overcome. But to see two pair of 
 brothers elaborately tricked out in the same peculiar 
 taste, with twin spangles and twin buttons, was in- 
 creasing the improbability. 
 
 XVI. XVII. HENRY IV. First and Second 
 Parts. The deeply wrought Falstaff employs us at 
 drawing conclusions with him, as soon as he is out of 
 our company. He has puzzled those most whom he 
 has most delighted, and may boast of having made 
 
 N 3 
 
274 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 our rigid moralist. Dr. Johnson, regret, while he con- 
 demned the reformed Bertram, that Falstaff's career 
 should end in disgrace. Hazlitt joins in this regret; 
 and of both him and the moralist, we may say with 
 Richardson, " But if they will allow themselves to 
 examine the character in all its parts, they will per- 
 haps agree with me, that such feeling is delusive, and 
 arises from partial views. They will not take it amiss, 
 if I say they are deluded in the same manner with 
 Prince Henry. They are amused, and conceive an 
 improper attachment to the means of their pleasure 
 and amusement." Richardson, though, professor-like, 
 somewhat heavy with aphorisms, has afforded us good 
 materials for thinking and arguing on this delightful 
 compound of various and harmonized qualities; but 
 we are chiefly indebted to Morgann's " Essay on the 
 dramatic character of Sir John Falstaff" We have 
 no single disquisition so good and complete as this ; 
 and as many may not possess it, who regard Falstaff's 
 disgrace as unmerited, I will transcribe a passage near 
 the end. " But whatever we may be told concerning 
 the intention of Shakespeare to extend this character 
 farther, there is a manifest preparation near the end 
 of the second part of Henry the Fourth for his dis- 
 grace : the disguise is taken off, and he begins openly 
 to pander to the excesses of the Prince, entitling him- 
 self to the character afterwards given him, of being 
 the tutor and the feeder of his riots. c / will fetch off,' 
 says he, ' these justices. 1 will devise matter enough 
 out of this Shallow to keep the Prince in continual 
 laughter the wearing out of six fashions. If the 
 young dace be a bait for the old pike,' speaking with 
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 275 
 
 reference to his own designs upon Shallow, 'I see 
 no reason in the law of nature but I may snap at 
 him.'' This is showing himself abominably dissolute : 
 the laborious arts of fraud, which he practises on 
 Shallow to induce the loan of a thousand pounds, 
 create disgust ; and the more, as we are sensible this 
 money was never likely to be paid back, as we are 
 told that was, of which the travellers had been rob- 
 bed. It is true, we feel no pain for Shallow, he being 
 a very bad character, as would fully appear, if he were 
 unfolded; but FalstafFs deliberation in fraud is not, 
 on that account, more excusable. The event of the 
 old king's death draws him out almost into detesta- 
 tion : 'Master Robert Shallow, choose what office 
 thoit wilt in the land, 'tis thine. I am Fortune's 
 steward ; let us take any mans horses. The laivs of 
 England are at my commandment. Happy are they 
 who have been my friends ; and woe to my Lord 
 Chief Justice.' After this, we ought not to complain 
 if we see poetic justice duly executed upon him, and 
 that he is finally given up to shame and dishonour." 
 
 XVIII. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 1598. As 
 this play was entered at Stationers' Hall so late as 
 22nd July, I see no reason for ascribing it to the pre- 
 ceding year ; and Meres mentions it, the last of the 
 comedies, in November 1598. No chronologer of the 
 plays has taken the account given by Meres, without 
 due allowance, chiefly for omissions ; yet he is our 
 only guide. It has proved more difficult than I ex- 
 pected to class the plays up to this date in order, on 
 account of the three entries made in 1597 ; but entries 
 
276 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 were not, as we know, always made immediately after 
 the performance of a play ; sometimes years elapsed 
 before an entry was made. Thus I allot to the first 
 fourteen years, after Shakespeare's arrival in London, 
 eighteen plays, including his adaptations. This some 
 may think incredible, as too extraordinary a fertility ; 
 yet Malone, Drake, and Chalmers, ascribe about the 
 same number to a space of only eight years, beginning 
 in 1591. We may never arrive at any thing near 
 exactness ; and my attempt to mark the order of the 
 plays is, for the most part, formed on my own view of 
 the internal evidence belonging to each. Should I 
 offer to explain this evidence, the task would be tedi- 
 ous, and, after all, it could not but be considered 
 otherwise than as merely my self-persuasion, open on 
 all sides to objections. Accordingly I leave my opi- 
 nion without a plea in its favour, unwilling to expa- 
 tiate on anything, unless it appears to me supported 
 by a fact. 
 
 More forbearance is required than I had imagined 
 in passing by, without a word, whole plays and nu- 
 merous characters; and this forbearance will be in- 
 creased as I proceed. But conscious that the obser- 
 vations and analyses of my predecessors ought to render 
 me nearly always mute on the same topics, I shall 
 continue to be silent where I do not differ from them. 
 When their omissions give me an opportunity to speak, 
 I may lawfully be indulged. On this play, I beg leave 
 to make several remarks. 
 
 Toleration is an intolerable word, never used by 
 our poet, unless, possibly, in a disapproving manner, 
 under cover of Dogberry's ignorance, " most tole- 
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 277 
 
 rable, and not to be endured." To call it therefore, 
 in kindlier words respect for another's sincere 
 opinions has hitherto made but slow progress in the 
 world; though, bereaved of The Merchant of Venice^ 
 it might have been slower. No argument in its 
 favour could be more complete, or put in a stronger 
 light, than that which we find here. Shylock, a 
 usurer, a suspicious father, and altogether a bad man, 
 compels us to grant him a portion of our involuntary 
 good-will, solely on account of his being persecuted 
 for constancy in his creed ; and, thwarted in his hopes 
 of a hateful revenge, we look at his ominous scales, 
 balance his injuries against his rancour, and cannot 
 forbear granting him our pity when he is defeated. 
 How careful the author has been to maintain our 
 fellow-feeling, and to make Shylock's religion meet 
 persecution at every step ! Not only Antonio is his 
 reviler he runs the gauntlet of abuse through 
 Venice ; his daughter forsakes and robs him because 
 of his religion ; wherever he turns, his misfortunes 
 are a subject of exultation ; and his fall is hailed with 
 insulting open triumph. His claim to be enrolled 
 among his fellow beings, in that powerful language, 
 u Hath not a Jew eyes ?" &c. has nothing urged 
 against it, nor could a word be said in denial, yet his 
 claim is allowed by none; and he is never treated 
 with a show of respect until he is feared. We ac- 
 knowledge his right, and are glad to see him at last, 
 by any resource, treated with respect ; we only recoil 
 at his appalling vengeance. On the other hand, 
 Antonio is a man justly honoured for every virtue, 
 with one exception, a want of charity, a good feel- 
 
278 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 ing, a decent behaviour towards a fellow-creature, 
 purely because he is an unbeliever. The religious 
 animosity of Shylock was no more than retaliation. 
 Antonio, indeed, may have had reason to accuse 
 Shylock of extortion ; but his calling him " mis- 
 believer," and " dog," spitting on him, and spurning 
 him, force us instantly to side with the usurer against 
 the Christian of unblemished fame. When reminded 
 of these injuries, the virtuous merchant is ready to 
 repeat them, so unconscious is he of acting with 
 injustice. Representing the persecutor, on all other 
 points truly estimable, and the persecuted in no 
 degree estimable, yet entirely unanswerable in his 
 defence, puts personal merit out of the question, and 
 places the argument on the broadest principle, includ- 
 ing the worst as well as the best among believers and 
 infidels. Shakespeare strove to alleviate the bitter 
 persecutions, not only towards the Jews, but towards 
 all others. Catholics and Protestants, though the 
 burnings in Smithfield existed no more in his day, 
 were fearfully hateful to each other ; when good men 
 were contaminated by evil, and worse men by revenge, 
 rendering the persecutor blind to his want of charity, 
 and giving all the truth of reasoning to the persecuted, 
 however unreasonable might be the creed to the more 
 powerful party. For the benefit of those who could 
 apply, or might hereafter apply Antonio and Shylock 
 to themselves, Shakespeare portrayed them. Should 
 any one think the application was un thought of, and 
 accidental, let him contend that wheat grows into 
 nourishment by chance ; or try what philosophic 
 works he can write by chance. 
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 279 
 
 That there was an older play, by twenty years, on 
 the same subject, hardly admits of supposition. The 
 punishment of an avaricious Jew had previously 
 afforded delight to the town, witness Marlowe's Jew 
 of Malta; and it may be that other despised Jews 
 had been brought on the stage, though not the Jew 
 of Venice. 
 
 Instead of the exceptionable and extra-romantic 
 commencement to the tale in the Pecorone, Shake- 
 speare selected the story of the caskets. There was 
 great skill in annexing an equal improbability to the 
 Jew's bond. Both are difficult of belief; but the one 
 tempts us to give credit to the other. The poet thus 
 places us in the realm of strange events, and our 
 pleasurable wonder is unalloyed by a sight of common 
 life. Had an every-day occurrence been exhibited 
 side by side with the Jew's bond, the latter might 
 have appeared verging on the impossible. 
 
 Portia is a greater favourite with me than with 
 Hazlitt; but I do not think her quite so amiable as 
 she is described by Mrs. Jameson. Laying down the 
 law, in which Portia seems to rejoice, cannot be per- 
 fectly amiable, though it were in a male counsel ; for 
 then we could feel no more than admiration at his 
 professional talents. It is true, circumstances forced 
 her into that situation ; and, feudal lady as she was, 
 she executes her task thoroughly. All she does is 
 consistent ; yet I much question if she does not 
 experience a triumphant delight while she detains the 
 court in suspense. Shakespeare has done much in 
 softening the objection ; but, somehow, it could not 
 be entirely overcome. 
 
280 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 It is my fate in this play, but in no other, to differ 
 from Mrs. Jameson in her female characters. I can- 
 not see that Jessica is intellectual or kind-hearted. 
 Her eulogy on Portia, appropriately dashed with her 
 new fledged piety, is elegantly cold, like a dedication ; 
 and her classical moonlight talk with Lorenzo, though 
 very elegant, has nothing to do with the affections, 
 and is more a proof of ready-wit and a good educa- 
 tion, than of intellect. 
 
 Jessica, the pretty Jewess, I beg pardon, " Mis- 
 tress Lorenzo," the Christian, has her character, 
 such as it is, hit off by a few masterly strokes. 
 Beauty is her best recommendation. I imagine she 
 is small of stature ; a little plump, with a delicate 
 hand and foot, and remarkable for a well-turned 
 ancle. Her eye is full and lustrous ; there is great 
 richness in her lips, especially when she smiles ; she 
 has a profusion of glossy black ringlets ; and there is 
 a touch of slyness in addition to her native expression 
 of countenance. To these charms, she possesses, we 
 know, an arch and pleasant style of chatting, well 
 suited to the hours of dalliance. Here she is at 
 home ; even more than when she talks with her 
 " merry devil" Launcelot. But when she has to 
 speak as a lady, which she seldom attempts, we per- 
 ceive a constraint, arising from her former recluse 
 life, and perhaps from a poorness in her ideas, where 
 her inclinations are not her prompters. In order to 
 be married to Lorenzo, Jessica is made a Christian ; 
 and her love for him, and her new faith, may be 
 poised against her hatred of the " tediousness" of the 
 " hell," her father's house. Had she been gifted with 
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 281 
 
 a stronger mind, she would riot have forsaken a father, 
 though she could not esteem him ; nor robbed him ; 
 nor betrayed his confidential conversation with Tubal 
 and with Chus to his enemies. Weakness, even in 
 her love, may be observed ; though her love was 
 sufficiently strong to overcome every atom of gratitude 
 to her father. When at Belmont, she speaks of him 
 as of a person in whose company she once happened 
 to be ; the first words, " When I was with him," are 
 painfully unfeeling towards those inclined to sym- 
 pathize for a father whom she has robbed ; but there 
 were none such in the company, because the man was 
 a Jew r , and she knew that opinion was in her favour. 
 With one of firmer intellect, even in those days, 
 fashion would not have confounded wrong with right ; 
 but Jessica was born to be cajoled by fashion. She 
 could lose " fourscore ducats at a sitting,'' and ex- 
 change a " turquoise ring" for a monkey, as uncon- 
 cernedly as she stole them from a Jew, because she 
 could reconcile them all to the fashion of the day. 
 
 My notion of Launcelot, as I have seen him, has 
 not been reflected from the stage. " The patch is 
 kind enough ;" yet he is amazingly wrapped up in 
 self, and his soliloquies are intense on that darling 
 subject. An obtrusive feature in his character, is the 
 conceit in his skull that he is better than he should be. 
 Having been called by one who did not see him 
 " master" and " young gentleman," he insists, over 
 and over again, on his being " young master Launce- 
 lot," and at last styles himself " the young gentleman." 
 All this, like every thing he says, is a mixture of 
 vanity and drollery, on the latter he stakes his fame 
 
282 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 as a wit. Nature never formed a more egregious 
 coxcomb, he is Lord Foppington in low life, as far 
 as his imbecility can reach. In the same strain he 
 talks of his " manly spirit," and of the Jew's having 
 " done him wrong;" as if he and his master were on 
 an equality. No doubt his solace as a servant was, 
 that he must, sooner or later, owing to his intrinsic 
 merit, come to excellent fortune. He spells his fate 
 on his palm ; where, though neither coronet nor mas- 
 tership offers itself to his imagination, there is some- 
 thing of equal value to the young animal, " eleven 
 widows, and nine maids, is a simple coming-in for one 
 man." His jokes are generally failures, but, coming 
 from him, they are laughable. When suddenly re- 
 proached with his conduct towards the Moorish woman, 
 his answer is, " It is much that the Moor should be 
 more than reason ; but if she be less than an honest 
 woman, she is, indeed, more than I took her for." 
 This elaborate nonsense, this grasp at a pun without 
 catching it, uttered in confusion, and in eagerness to 
 shuffle out of the accusation, is as natural as it is ridi- 
 culous. It gives occasion to Lorenzo's observing, 
 " How every fool can play upon a word !" which, 
 together with what follows, may be mistaken for a 
 self-condemnation, made at hazard, on the part of 
 Shakespeare. By no means : the difficulty is to play 
 well upon a word ; besides, as Launcelot then and 
 afterwards proves, the poverty of a jest may be en- 
 riched in a fool's mouth, owing to the complacency 
 with which he deals it out ; and because there are few 
 things which provoke laughter more than feebleness 
 in a great attempt at a small matter. 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT. 283 
 
 XIX. HENRY THE FIFTH. 1599. 
 
 XX. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 1600. 
 
 XXI. As YOU LIKE IT. 1600. For pure comedy, 
 rich in variety, interest, poetry, and a happy view of 
 human life. As You Like It is the world's masterpiece. 
 It has been termed a pastoral comedy, but that implies 
 an unreal description of shepherds and shepherdesses ; 
 here we have persons of every degree, true to nature 
 as the trees under which they walk and talk. There 
 is a frankness and freedom in the dialogue, belonging 
 equally to the various characters, that seem to partake 
 of the open air in which they breathe. Never is the 
 scene within-doors, except when something discordant 
 is introduced to heighten, as it were, the harmony, 
 when the usurper banishes Rosalind, and twice more, 
 for a short while, just to give him time to threaten. 
 These changes serve, without disturbing our calmer 
 feelings, to increase our happiness among the pleasant 
 exiles in the forest. 
 
 At one time I thought a lioness was out of her 
 sphere in the forest of Arden, notwithstanding the 
 authority of the original novel for her appearance 
 there. But the forest of Arden is a privileged place, 
 once famous for Merlin's magic fountains, Angelica, 
 and the knights of Charlemagne, surrounded by en- 
 chantments, according to Boiardo and Ariosto. Shake- 
 speare avoids following the novel in specifying a cer- 
 tain king of France ; he mentions no country ; and 
 therefore he has a right to bring a lioness into this 
 poetical forest, placed we know not where. 
 
284 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 XXII. MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 1601. 
 Here we have Sir John Falstaff again, not exactly 
 himself; Justice Shallow " holds his own" tolerably 
 well ; Nym, Bardolph, and Pistol, are not what they 
 were ; and Mrs. Quickly, the servant of Dr. Caius, is 
 a new character, and intended for one, not bearing 
 the remotest resemblance to mine hostess in Eastcheap, 
 except that she is an old woman. Something like 
 these transmutations, arising from another cause, is 
 found in Goldoni's comedies, where Pantalone and 
 the rest of the Carnival personages continue to appear 
 from one comedy to another, always in the same 
 outward form, arid under the same names, but distinct 
 in situation and character. These are not defects in 
 the admirable and sprightly Merry Wives of Windsor, 
 taken by itself; but the names are disappointments, 
 and afford a lesson against writing " by royal com- 
 mand," as it is said Shakespeare endured. 
 
 This is one of the plays which was, after its first 
 appearance, retouched and enlarged by the author. 
 
 XXIII. TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. 1602. Shake- 
 speare seems to have made choice of this story for the 
 purpose of displaying the military character. He 
 shows us the several species of a soldier ; the frivolous 
 and the revolting, the admirable and the amiable. 
 The love scenes, the women, and the comic characters, 
 are sometimes a relief but generally a furtherance 
 to the main design. In his other plays his fighters 
 are not mere soldiers : they have some cause dear to 
 their bosoms which urges them on ; they " have their 
 quarrel just," or they think they have, or it is a 
 
TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. 285 
 
 struggle for power. Here they have no excitement 
 beyond their profession. The affair originated in an 
 oath of gallantry, and is continued as a point of 
 honour. It becomes a by -gone dispute. It is after a 
 seven years 1 siege. No man appeals to it as he draws 
 his sword. It served well enough for the ground- 
 work of a declaration of war, but it grows weaker as 
 Helen grows older. They fight because they know 
 not how to leave off. No one can be personally 
 interested except Menelaus and Paris, who are like 
 two rival monarchs, with their assembled forces, while 
 the lady is the kingdom, whose gain or loss cannot 
 possibly affect the crowd on either side. They corn- 
 bat in their calling, no matter for the cause, provided 
 they are regularly paid. So then, these ancient heroes, 
 these Greeks and Trojans, are exactly similar to the 
 camp gentlemen of Shakespeare's day ! Aye, and 
 of this day too, and of a thousand years hence ; for 
 nature and he know not the change of manners. She 
 and he walk hand in hand through all the modifica- 
 tions of fashion, the same that was, and is, and ever 
 shall be, while human pulses beat. In this play he 
 introduces the reader, a silent and invisible spectator, 
 to an officer's mess, where he touches them by turns 
 with his magic wand, his Ithuriel's spear, and every 
 faculty is laid open to its source, whether good or ill. 
 They talk, arid he furnishes the argument of the dis- 
 course, giving them golden breath. Thersytes and 
 Pandarus stand behind their chairs, significantly 
 pointing at whatever is ridiculous or contemptible : 
 while Shakespeare himself, in his own sweet words, 
 whispers in our ear the loves of the boy Troilus and 
 the false Cressid. 
 
286 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 Let us begin with Achilles. We see him here 
 divested of supernatural machinery ; he has no com- 
 munion with "Olympus' hierarchy " as in the Iliad 
 a very mortal and indeed the least estimable one in 
 the p]ay. However, being " great Thetis' son/' he 
 shall have priority. The Greeks call him " the sinew 
 and the forehand of their host," and no one is more 
 sensible of his importance than himself. They cannot 
 proceed without him, while, for his part, he chooses to 
 be the " sleeping lion ;" to be sulky and keep his tent. 
 This mood falls in with his haughtiness and indolence, 
 especially as it is against the wishes of his party. In- 
 deed he has one reason for "this his privacy," having 
 sworn not to fight against Troy, for the sake of one of 
 Priam's daughters. This oath, however, with such a 
 man, is liable to be forgotten ; so much so, that it 
 requires a letter from Hecuba, and a token from 
 Polyxena, to remind him of it. Nor is his passion for 
 the lady much in his thoughts. He is no Romeo. 
 Patroclus, who knows better than to give him outra- 
 geous counsel, says to him, 
 
 " Sweet, rouse yourself, and the weak wanton Cupid 
 Shall from your neck unloose his amorous fold, 
 And, like a dew-drop from the lion's mane, 
 Be shook to air." 
 
 The weak wanton Cupid, for such was his love, can be 
 shaken oif at his will ; and in fact he does so at the 
 last, when a stronger passion, " like Aaron's serpent, 
 swallows up the rest." His love of fame surpasses his 
 love of woman ; but his pride overcomes both ; and 
 his revenge, when thoroughly roused, tops them all. 
 Achilles' pride is in the mouth of every character, 
 
TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. 287 
 
 while he and his humble servant Patroclus agree to 
 call it by the name of preatness, till they talk them- 
 selves into a belief of it. Let Agamemnon and the 
 chiefs approach his tent, and humbly beg him to come 
 forth, to " arm and out :" this is his delight : it is food 
 for his pride ; it is another opportunity for an evasive 
 insolent message. In the mean time, he can listen, 
 with greater complacency, to the " scurril jests," and 
 admire the slanderous mimicry of Patroclus, while at 
 this sport, 
 
 "The large Achilles, on his press'd bed lolling, 
 From his deep chest laughs out a loud applause." 
 
 One of the finest touches is where, his pride being 
 hurt, he begins to moralize. Then comes Ulysses, 
 and makes this mighty man a mighty puppet, with his 
 " derision med'cinable, " playing upon him, and 
 sounding him " from the lowest note to the top of his 
 compass." He is made the jeer of the army, when he 
 fancies himself at his wisest point. Ajax is envious of 
 his illustrious name ; Achilles cannot envy any body, 
 since he is confessedly above all ; but he hates Hector 
 for being next in fame to himself. That Hector is a 
 dangerous neighbour. He cannot look upon him 
 without fearing that the world may compare them to- 
 gether. He therefore eagerly desires to kill him, and 
 in his " greatness " tells him so to his face. This is 
 never off his mind ; and he is angry if any one else 
 presumes to fight with Hector. Even when about to 
 feast him in his tent, he says, 
 
 " I'll heat his blood with Greekish wine to-night, 
 Which with my scimitar I'll cool tomorrow." 
 
288 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 At length the dead body of Patroclus is borne to 
 him : 
 
 " Kingdom'd Achilles in commotion rages, 
 And batters down himself." 
 
 He is described as " arming, weeping, cursing, vow- 
 ing vengeance," and hurries forth in pursuit of Hector, 
 finds him, and is unwilling to run a hazard in his 
 revenge; and certainly Achilles never impresses us 
 with an opinion of his courage. Then, attended by 
 his myrmidons, he finds him alone and unarmed, and 
 cannot " forego this vantage." No comment is needed 
 here; and if " great Thetis' son" dragged Hector's 
 body three times round the walls of Troy, he was pre- 
 cisely the man here delineated. 
 
 Compare him with Hector, and the first thing that 
 strikes us is that he would have forgone " this vantage." 
 True courage, ever allied to generosity, as was Hec- 
 tor's, would have forbidden him to fight, with malice 
 prepense, against the weaker man, and to conquer by 
 the aid of superior strength, numbers, or weapons ; far 
 less to slay an unarmed enemy. 
 
 It would be too much, minutely to examine into the 
 various qualities of soldiership here displayed, from the 
 ardent unreflecting Troilus, to the cautious but ro- 
 mantic courage of old Nestor : besides they bear their 
 distinctive badges for all who choose to look. 
 
 Added to them, since the sons of Mars are sure to 
 be accompanied by the daughters of Venus, we have 
 approved specimens in Helen and Cressida, and we 
 want no more. Cressida's picture painted by Ulysses, 
 is well known ; and she herself never speaks, not so 
 
TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. 289 
 
 much as a line, taken with the context, without 
 betraying her likeness to it. To select one instance, 
 though all are as transparent ; her exaggerated com- 
 plaints at being compelled to leave Troy and Troilus 
 arrive at their genial height when she pathetically 
 mingles a dread of injuring her perfections with her 
 excessive grief, and screams out compliments on her- 
 self. " I'll go in and weep," she says, for her tears 
 cannot flow before her uncle, 
 
 " Tear my bright hair, and scratch my praised cheeks ; 
 Crack my clear voice with sobs, and break my heart 
 With sounding Troilus. I will not go from Troy." 
 
 According to such authorities as we possess, this 
 play has never appeared in a theatre. Malone con- 
 jectures it had been played at Court. It was entered 
 at Stationers' Hall in 1602, and first printed in 1609, 
 without the author's consent. From the preface to 
 that edition we gather that the manuscript had been 
 surreptitiously obtained ; and we are told, " it never 
 had been staled on the stage, never clapper-clawed 
 with the palms of the vulgar." Possibly it was not 
 considered suitable for the stage, even by the author 
 himself, after he had completed it. This accounts for 
 its not having been at first included in the folio, edited 
 by Heminge and Condell ; it had long before been 
 filched from them, and, not being an acting play, they 
 had forgotten it; at length, when reminded almost too 
 late, they reprinted it for their folio, placing it, as the 
 commentators have observed, awkwardly among the 
 rest of the plays. 
 
 The love of Troilus (Cressida has none) is not 
 
290 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 enough to interest us on the stage. We there want a 
 deeper pervading passion, a higher excitement. So 
 powerful are the other characters, though without a 
 leading interest, that the love-disappointment of 
 Troilus is but an episode. 
 
 Troilus and Cressida, however, is a harvest of ripe 
 fruits, gathered from the wisest observation and expe- 
 rience ; a work to be studied for our instruction ; 
 containing a thousand themes for profitable meditation, 
 a thousand passages of wonderful poetry. 
 
 XXIV. MEASURE FOR MEASURE. Unless we 
 believe that Shakespeare could write a long dramatic 
 treatise on a subject without intending it ; unless, in 
 fact, he knew not what he was about ; we ought to 
 regard the fable of Measure for Measure as adopted 
 by him for the purpose of canvassing the argument 
 on chastity and incontinence. Possibly others may 
 have viewed it in the same light, though I have been 
 surprised never to meet with the observation. Haz- 
 litt, with all his admiration of the play, thinks the 
 characters are at " cross purposes ;" the truth is, they 
 are at cross arguments. Opinion is at variance ; one 
 rule cannot suit all; each party speaks for him or 
 herself, from the peerless Isabella down to the habitu- 
 ally vicious ; including the austere self-confidence of 
 Angelo, the frailty of Claudio, and the sheer instinct 
 of a Master Froth. Our instruction is derived from 
 the quality of the several speakers. Unsullied chas- 
 tity, on the threshold of a cloister, is here persuasive in 
 its own cause; and a warmth towards humanity exists 
 iu the Duke, together with a governable temperament. 
 
MEASURE FOR MEASURE. ^91 
 
 If, however, we pass the line much beyond the Duke 
 and Isabella, we come to the unfeeling executioner, 
 Abhorson, whose morality is shocked at a communion 
 with Pompey; or to Barnadine, who staggers before 
 us in a state of brutish insensibility to his kind, and 
 to himself. Hazlitt calls Barnadine " a fine anti- 
 thesis ;" he is so, but not exactly in Hazlitt's meaning ; 
 he is brought before us in violent opposition to an 
 argument, that might be carried to a speculative ex- 
 treme. Looking around farther, we see how every 
 one's plea, or sentence of justice, is swayed by a 
 peculiar disposition ; and if we want a striking moral 
 to set forth the consequences of heartless libertinism, 
 it is given by the knave Pompey, who has been forced 
 to leave his infamous service, and become an assistant 
 in the prison. " I am as well acquainted here," he 
 knowingly says, " as I was in our house of profession : 
 one would think it were Mistress Overdone's own 
 house, for here be many of her old customers. First, 
 here's young Master Rash," and then he enumerates 
 them. 
 
 A summing up of the evidence from the whole 
 work belongs to the lawgiver or the casuist ; the wit- 
 nesses on both sides have been heard. 
 
 XXV. CYMBELINE. 
 
 XXVI. LEAR. 1605. Tate's profanation induced 
 me, fifteen years ago, to write a paper in the Liberal^ on 
 " Shakespeare's Fools ;" as I was aware that the same 
 manager's hand which might replace Lear's Fool, 
 must also sweep aside the deformities attached to the 
 
292 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 tragedy as it was then represented. Though at pre- 
 sent inapplicable, thanks to Mr. Macready, yet I 
 repeat a part of the paper, lest another Tate should 
 arise ; and because the character, having long been 
 misunderstood, is consequently liable to fall again into 
 disrepute. 
 
 " Now, our joy, though last, not least," my dearest 
 of all Fools, Lear's Fool ! Ah, what a noble heart, 
 a gentle and a loving one, lies beneath that party- 
 coloured jerkin ! Thou hast been cruelly treated. 
 Regan and Goneril could but hang thee, while the 
 unfeeling players did worse; for they tainted thy 
 character, and at last thrust thee from the stage, 
 as one unfit to appear in their worshipful company. 
 Regardless of that warning voice, forbidding them 
 to "speak more than is set down for them," they 
 have put into thy mouth words so foreign to thy 
 nature,* that they might, with as much propriety, be 
 given to Cardinal Wolsey. But let me take thee, 
 without addition or diminution, from the hands of 
 
 * There are three passages, foisted in by the players, and adopted 
 by the printers, which ought to be for ever expunged from the 
 text. They are the following : The couplet at the end of the 
 first act; the whole of Merlin's prophecy during the storm, 
 beginning with " This is a brave night," as the Fool should go 
 out with Lear ; and those brutal words, " And I'll go to bed at 
 noon," when the old King sinks into sleep. Such contradictions 
 puzzled me for a long time, till looking among the Annotations, 
 a profitable task once in a hundred times, I discovered that none 
 of these three passages are in the quarto editions, printed eight 
 years before Shakespeare's death, but are introduced into the folio 
 one, printed seven years after it. This, together with their absur- 
 dity, makes it plain they are not Shakespeare's. 
 
I,EAR. 293 
 
 Shakespeare, and then thou art one of his perfect 
 creations. Look at him ! It may be your eyes see 
 him not as mine do, but he appears to me of a light 
 delicate frame, every feature expressive of sensibility 
 even to pain, with eyes lustrously intelligent, a mouth 
 blandly beautiful, and withal a hectic flush upon his 
 cheek. O that I were a painter ! O that I could 
 describe him as I knew him in my boyhood, when the 
 Fool made me shed tears, while Lear did but terrify 
 me ! 
 
 " But where 's my Fool ! I have not seen him these 
 two days. 
 
 " Knight. Since my young lady's going into France, the 
 Fool hath much pined away. 
 
 " Lear. No more of that ; I have noted it well." 
 
 I have sometimes speculated on filling an octavo 
 sheet on Shakespeare's admirable introduction of 
 characters ; but a little reflection showed me that I 
 must write a volume, and that's a fearful thing. This 
 would rank among his best. We are prepared to see 
 him with his mind full of the fatal "division of the 
 kingdom" and oppressed with " thick-coming fancies ;" 
 and when he appears before us we are convinced of 
 both, though not in an ordinary way. Those who 
 have never read any thing but the French theatre, or 
 the English plays of the last century, would expect 
 to see him upon the scene wiping his eyes with his 
 cloak ; as if the worst sorrows did not frequently vent 
 themselves in jests, and that there are not beings who 
 dare not trust their nature with a serious face when 
 the soul is deeply struck. Besides, his profession 
 
294 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 compels him to raillery and seeming jollity. The 
 very excess of merriment is here an evidence of grief; 
 and when he enters throwing his coxcomb at Kent, 
 and instantly follows it up with allusions to the miser- 
 able rashness of Lear, we ought to understand him 
 from that moment to the last. Throughout this 
 scene his wit, however varied, still aims at the same 
 point; and in spite of threats, and regardless how 
 his words may be construed by GoneriPs creatures, 
 with the eagerness of a filial love he prompts the old 
 King to " resume the shape which he had cast off." 
 " This is not altogether fool, my lord." But, alas ! 
 it is too late ; and when driven from the scene by 
 Goneril, he turns upon her with an indignation that 
 knows no fear of the "halter" for himself: 
 
 " A fox when one has caught her, 
 And such a daughter, 
 Should sure to the slaughter, 
 If my cap would buy a halter." 
 
 That such a character should be distorted by 
 players, printers, and commentators ! Observe every 
 word he speaks : his meaning, one would imagine, 
 could not be misinterpreted; and when at length, 
 finding his covert reproaches can avail nothing, he 
 changes his discourse to simple mirth, in order to 
 distract the sorrows of his master. When Lear is in 
 the storm, who is with him ? None not even Kent 
 
 " None but the Fool ; who labours to outjest 
 His heart-struck injuries." 
 
 The tremendous agony of Lear's mind would be 
 
LEAR. 295 
 
 too painful, and even deficient in pathos, without this 
 poor faithful servant at his side. It is he that touches 
 our hearts with pity, while Lear fills the imagination 
 to aching. " The explosions of his passion," as Lamb 
 has written in an excellent criticism, " are terrible as 
 a volcano ; they are storms turning up and disclosing 
 to the bottom that sea, his mind, with all its vast 
 riches," Such a scene wanted relief, and Shake- 
 speare, we may rely upon it, gives us the best. But it 
 is acted otherwise, no, it is Tate that is acted. Let 
 them, if they choose, bring this tragedy on the stage ; 
 but, by all means, let us not be without the Fool. I can 
 imagine an actor in this part, with despair in his face, 
 and a tongue for ever struggling with a jest, that 
 should thrill every bosom. What ! banish him from 
 the tragedy, when Lear says, " I have one part in my 
 heart that's sorry yet for thee ;" and when he so 
 feelingly addresses him with, " Come on, my boy : 
 how dost, rny boy ? Art cold ? I am cold myself." 
 At that pitch of rage, "Off ! off, you landings ! Come, 
 unbutton here !" could we but see the Fool throw 
 himself into his master's arms, to stay their fury, 
 looking up in his countenance with eyes that would 
 fain appear as if they wept not, and hear his pathetic 
 entreaty, " Pr'ythee, nuncle, be contented ;" pshaw ! 
 these players know nothing of their trade. While 
 Gloster and Kent are planning to procure shelter for 
 the king, whose wits at that time " begin to unsettle," 
 he remains silent in grief; but afterwards, in the 
 farm-house, we find him endeavouring to divert the 
 progress of Lear's madness, as it becomes haunted by 
 the visions of his daughters, and that in the most art- 
 
296 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 ful manner, by humouring the wanderings of his 
 reason, and then striving to dazzle him with cheerful- 
 ness. At the last, we behold him, when all his efforts 
 are proved unavailing, utterly dumb. " And my poor 
 fool is hanged !" 
 
 XXVII. TAMING OF THE SHREW. At the end of 
 a note in Morgann's Essay, he says, " The reader will 
 be pleased to think that I do not reckon into the 
 works of Shakespeare certain absurd productions, 
 which his editors have been so good as to compliment 
 him with. I object, and strenuously too, even to 
 The Taming of the Shrew ; not that it wants merit, 
 but that it does not bear the peculiar features and 
 stamp of Shakespeare." He does not seem to have 
 been aware, or to have recollected, that this comedy 
 was rewritten, generally line for line, with few addi- 
 tions, from an older play ; nor does he regard it in the 
 same light with me, as a comedy bearing the " peculiar 
 features and stamp" of Italy. Shakespeare's mind and 
 language, however, is distinguishable throughout. 
 
 Garrick cut down this comedy to an afterpiece. 
 Others have considered the entire plot as too intricate 
 to be entertaining, and approve of the curtailment. 
 The afterpiece, to me, is like the head cut out of a 
 full-length portrait ; and my opinion, offered with 
 hesitation, is that it would succeed admirably in its 
 original state. The Induction might or might not be 
 retained ; perhaps not, as it is now our custom for a 
 farce to follow, not to precede a play. On the other 
 hand, I can venture to assert, without the slightest 
 hesitation, that it cannot succeed until our actors 
 
MACBETH. 297 
 
 have learnt that familiar dialogue is not to be spoken 
 with the lengthened and measured cadence of a sermon. 
 This has been greatly to my annoyance in our come- 
 dies, and in many portions of our tragedies. English 
 actors seek too labouredly to create an impression, and 
 cannot allow the words to come " trippingly on the 
 tongue." I have heard a gentleman, since the days of 
 Lewis, utter the most rapid thoughts in tedious se- 
 quence ; a lady has scolded her husband like Medea 
 invoking the awful spirits of another world; and com- 
 mon messages have been delivered as if they were the 
 mandates of fate. Often, for no other reason, scenes 
 have been unmercifully shortened, which, with easy- 
 spoken actors, would not meet with a Polonius exclaim- 
 ing, " This is too long." This faulty practice is not 
 witnessed on the French, German, or Italian stage ; 
 not even on the Russian. 
 
 XXVIII. MACBETH. 1606. There is some- 
 thing more to be observed on the witches than 
 suited my purpose while speaking of them purely 
 as dramatic creations. Metaphysically, not in a per- 
 verse cold allegorical sense, they are evil sugges- 
 tions. I do not believe that Shakespeare intended 
 we should regard them otherwise than as superna- 
 tural agents ; but, in his truth to nature, in his view 
 of an ambitious man, necessarily influenced by su- 
 perstitious yearnings for the future, he has treated 
 them as allegorical beings, if we choose to regard 
 them as such. Should any one infer that he was thus 
 evincing his superiority to the credulity of the age, I 
 should be apt to deny it, though I cannot conceive it 
 
298 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 possible that he had faith in witchcraft. They admit 
 of this interpretation. 
 
 Macbeth and Banquo, somewhat in advance of 
 their victorious army, are walking together across the 
 heath, when their conversation is interrupted by evil 
 suggestions. Macbeth is Thane of Glamis ; he may 
 soon wear the title of the conquered Thane of Cawdor : 
 and hereafter he may be king ; and Banquo may 
 possibly be the progenitor of a line of kings. Such 
 are their suggestions communicated to each other; 
 arid immediately a messenger meets them greeting 
 Macbeth as Thane of Cawdor. The chiefs, sur- 
 prised at this sudden fulfilment of a part of their con*- 
 versation, are inclined to imagine it was inspired ; that 
 they had undergone a " supernatural soliciting." Such 
 evil suggestions strike harmlessly on Banquo ; but 
 Macbeth is half disposed to yield to them. In this 
 mood he acquaints his wife with them ; and, at her 
 instigation, he " screws his courage to the sticking 
 place." As king he is surrounded by enemies, and 
 becomes a cruel tyrant ; when fearful of losing his 
 throne and life, he again has recourse to his evil sug- 
 gestions for the means of insuring safety. These, aided 
 by fancied conclusions drawn from actual events, or 
 by deluding prophecies of interested and servile flat- 
 terers, or by dreams, offer ample protection from 
 danger, though in terms, as usual in such cases, of rid- 
 dling import, which happen or not to be riddlingly 
 fulfilled. 
 
 It is probable that the witches found their place in 
 the pages of historians, from Banquo's having related 
 the strange coincidence attending their conversation 
 
MACBETH. 299 
 
 on the heath; an origin sufficiently strong for the 
 vulgar's having pronounced that they were met and 
 hailed with predictions by three witches. 
 
 Now, having treated them dramatically and allegori- 
 cally, I have a few words to say of them theatrically. 
 No one can be more delighted with Dr. Lock's music 
 than myself; yet I think it monstrous to enjoy it at the 
 expense of the scene's solemnity. To see the stage 
 crowded with singing witches is an affront to the under- 
 standing as well as the imagination. The tragedy com- 
 mands that only the three witches shall appear, except 
 where Hecate comes in, to conclude the enchantment, 
 attended by three others, who are to join in singing, 
 " Black spirits and white," &c. In a previous scene 
 Shakespeare borrows a song from Middleton, " Come 
 away, come away," &c., which is sung in the air ; but 
 who wrote for the theatre that offensive scene at the 
 close of the second act ? There we listen to shoals of 
 witches, who draw moral deductions, and boast of their 
 malignity and skill in dancing ! Were the scenes of 
 Shakespeare's witches played precisely as they were 
 written, and no more, I have no doubt their effect 
 would not permit us to regret the loss of Dr. Lock's 
 music. 
 
 Mrs. Inchbald calls Macbeth, in its contaminated 
 state, a " grand tragic opera." True ; and it reminds 
 us of the old epigram : 
 
 " An opera, like a pillory, may be said 
 To nail the ears down, and expose the head." 
 
 XXIX. TIMON OF ATHENS. 
 
 XXX. JULIUS 
 
300 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 XXXI. ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 
 
 XXXII. CORIOLANUS. To a criticism on this tra- 
 gedy Hazlitt has attached a political argument to prove 
 that our Shakespeare " had a leaning to the arbitrary 
 side of the question." I am not inclined, at the close 
 of my volume, to enter into a lengthened difference in 
 opinion with him, mixing together politics and poetry; 
 though I see no difficulty in proving, from direct por* 
 tions, and from the general hue of Shakespeare's 
 works, that his contempt for a mob, in which we must 
 all join, is a trifle compared to his earnest inculcation 
 of the doctrine that knowledge is power; and cer- 
 tainly he was the first poet who unceremoniously 
 placed royalty on a level with humanity, and openly 
 exclaimed against every species of corruption. His 
 works are indeed fruitful, especially the later ones, in 
 speculative discussions on government and political 
 economy ; but a consideration of them would be better 
 suited to a separate paper, and probably better in 
 other hands than mine. Hazlitt's opinion would have 
 been applicable to Ben Jonson, and Beaumont and 
 Fletcher. 
 
 XXXIII. THE TEMPEST. We can well imagine 
 that Shakespeare wrote this play after having long 
 endured the accusation of inability to create an ori- 
 ginal fable, and to obey the law of the three unities. 
 Free of all consideration for the stage, which, as res- 
 pects every one of his works, is of very inferior import- 
 ance, The Tempest ranks among the noblest of his 
 
OTHELLO. 301 
 
 productions. Could efficient performers be procured, 
 I entertain no doubt of ito dramatic interest for re- 
 presentation ; wanting them, pageantry and Dryden's 
 irrelevant scenes have been thoughtlessly entailed 
 on it. 
 
 On this play it was long since my intention to 
 offer a separate pamphlet, wherein an attempt would 
 be made to include the variety of subjects which here 
 solicit attention, the numerous characters, their con- 
 duct towards each other, and the conduct of the 
 whole. This essay, conceived and begun, would 
 prove of too disproportionate a length in this place ; 
 nor could it be satisfactory to others, or just towards 
 myself, to give a portion of that which, from its nature, 
 ought to be intimately connected together. 
 
 XXXIV. OTHELLO. Roderigo is a young Vene- 
 tian nobleman, well educated, perfect in his manners as 
 a gentleman, and regarded with respect by all except 
 lago; yet, beneath these outward advantages, there 
 rages a passion too strong to be ruled by his reason, 
 which is, though not observable in his demeanour, 
 below the common standard. lago alone has descried 
 his weakness, calls him a " fool," a " snipe," and 
 boasts of making him his purse ; while, at the same 
 time, he sees the necessity of labouring with as much 
 art in the swaying and management of him, as with 
 any other character in the play, Othello himself ex- 
 cepted. I have never seen Roderigo on the stage; 
 but, in his stead, an empty buffoon, on whom lago 
 would not have wasted an argument. He may be 
 differently represented now ; for I used to see him in 
 
302 HIS DRAMAS. 
 
 those days when Othello was a Blackamoor, and 
 attired, in defiance of " his baptism," which is men- 
 tioned, like his country's enemy, "a turbann'd Turk." 
 Our historical painters, in their love of colour, followed 
 the authority of the theatre. 
 
 XXXV. HENRY THE EIGHTH. 1613. If any thing 
 could tempt my approval of an addition to the text, 
 it would be Handel's Angels ever bright and fair in 
 the chamber of the dying queen. Still T must object 
 to even this disobedience of Shakespeare's orders for 
 sad and solemn Music ; which should be played on 
 the stage, or behind the scenes. The actual dream 
 may be better left to the imagination ; but the illusion 
 is injured by the orchestral operations, though not 
 so much as by a young lady standing up to sing 
 before the audience with a music-book in her hand. 
 This last is not to be endured ; yet of what use is it 
 to speak of propriety, when our old respectable Grif- 
 fith is banished from the scene, and Cromwell appears 
 to play his part? Is it decorous to permit young 
 Cromwell to show himself at home in the queen's 
 chamber, and among her maidens ? Is it in his 
 character, dramatically or historically, to attend on 
 disgraced royalty ? There is a shameless reason for 
 this, in the difficulty of finding two good actors, who 
 would consent to play only one, or only the other. 
 Could I embody Hamlet in excellence equal to the 
 text, I would gladly be either Griffith or Cromwell; 
 nay, my pride would be gratified in making a short 
 part effective; and policy should teach me the value 
 of such conduct towards the public. First-rate actors 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT. 3 A 3 
 
 lose much by their unwillingness to be seen in Shake- 
 speare's second and third-rate characters; they are 
 persons little aware of their own interest. Vanity 
 never looks at what mischief may be lurking behind 
 its own mirror. 
 
 XXXVI. TWELFTH NIGHT. Some of these last 
 plays baffle my means of conjecture for placing them 
 in order. All the chronologists agree in making 
 Twelfth Night the last, though on no efficient 
 ground. 
 
 It seems Shakespeare was indebted to two other 
 tales, besides that of Bandello, for some hints in por- 
 tions of this fable. No reading, connected with 
 Shakespeare, has been so unprofitable to me as the 
 examination into authorities, which might have biassed 
 or actually influenced his mind in the creation of 
 fables, characters, or sentiments. After having again 
 read Bandello's tale attentively, I find nothing like 
 the story ; but there are a twin brother and sister, the 
 latter being disguised as a lad, and serving her lover 
 in the quality of page, though under entirely different 
 circumstances. The real situation of Sebastian and 
 Viola we must endeavour to trace in other tales. 
 Something of Viola may be seen in Bandello's Nicu- 
 ola; that is, her devotion to her lover; in other 
 respects they are widely distinct. As to a sentence 
 that might have given rise, however remotely, to a 
 sentiment in the play, I find not one ; but there is 
 half a one, which, literally translated, is this, spoken 
 by the disguised Nicuola to her master : " because 
 I have often heard say, that girls in their first loves, 
 
304 CONCLUSION. 
 
 Jove much more tenderly, and with greater warmth, 
 than do the men." 
 
 In looking into any other of the Italian "novellieri" 
 or English novellists, who have had the honour of 
 furnishing him with fables, I meet with nothing 
 beyond the materials, for the most part shapeless, 
 and of no more importance, than the materials of a 
 temple are in our estimation of an architect's skill. 
 Milton was less original in his Paradise Lost than 
 was Shakespeare in his works ; and assuredly Milton's 
 Comus stands more indebted to Fletcher's Faithful 
 Shepherdess, than any of Shakespeare's plays to a 
 previous one, or to any novel, with the exception of 
 those which he rewrote, adding little to them. 
 
 No one has remarked that Shakespeare invariably 
 placed his scene away from his own times. The 
 nearest approach to English manners of his day, is in 
 Henry the Eighth. Was he aware, that the more 
 general his view of humanity, unrestricted by time or 
 place, the more indelible must be his fame ? A sup- 
 position has crossed my mind, that, had he lived to 
 prepare his works for publication, he would have 
 annulled every allusion to the fleeting manners and 
 customs of his day. Having served his purpose for a 
 while on the stage, I think it probable they would 
 have afterwards been erased. As they now stand, 
 they are unconnected with a single incident, or with 
 the spirit or the feeling of the dialogue. 
 
CONCLUSION. 305 
 
 Judging from the greater number of his critics, we 
 must believe that he wrote nothing studiously and 
 reflectively. On the contrary, turn to what drama I 
 may, there seems to me as much premeditated art 
 and intention in the contrivance, as there are poetry, 
 knowledge, and wisdom, in the execution. In spite 
 of the common, reckless view of him, the three last 
 qualities are readily acknowledged; why not the two 
 first ? Possibly our unwillingness to give him credit 
 for them, has its source in our not yet being convinced 
 that his dramatic school is so difficult as what is termed 
 the classical. Yet in that which is esteemed more 
 difficult, there have been several masters equally good; 
 while those who have attempted to follow his appa- 
 rently free and easy rules, whether among his con- 
 temporaries, or in later times, have signally failed. 
 Beaumont arid Fletcher are, perhaps, the next to 
 him. Without bringing their dramatic characters 
 and poetry in competition with his, the developement 
 of their fables, the construction of their scenes, and 
 the final management of the whole, are bald, dis- 
 jointed, and disappointing. The English school, for 
 it was not Shakespeare's, seems to offer less encourage- 
 ment to imitators than any other; may it not be 
 because its art bears a greater resemblance to nature ? 
 A master- work of art, representing nature in any 
 form, is achieved with a difficulty proportionate to 
 the freedom and facility which it displays. 
 
 This volume, among other deficiencies, stands in 
 need of a chapter on Shakespeare's faults as a dra- 
 matic poet. To play the critic on so great an author 
 
306 CONCLUSION. 
 
 is a dangerous office ; and the bad success of others 
 before me is alarming. In attempting to call attention 
 to a fancied defect in him, we might expose our own 
 want of knowledge. My safeguard, which affords 
 me unalloyed pleasure, is admiration. 
 
 VI 
 
 VERSITY 
 
 FINIS. 
 
Preparing for the Press, 
 
 SHAKESPEARE'S POEMS, 
 
 EDITED BY 
 THE AUTHOR OF THIS VOLUME. 
 
 EKRATA, 
 
 Page 97, line 16, for " struggles and love," read struggles of jealousy and love. 
 
 178, line 9, for " direct cruelty," read direst cruelty. 
 
 194, line 13, for "no one," read some one. 
 
LONDON : C. RICHARDS, PRINTER, 100, ST. MARTIN'S LANE, CHARING CROSS. 
 
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