ESSAYS 
 
 SHAKESPEARE'S 
 DRAMATIC AND NATIONAL 
 
 CHARACTERS.
 
 ESSAYS 
 
 ox 
 
 SHAKESPEARE'S 
 DRAMATIC CHARACTERS; 
 
 WITH 
 
 &n Ellustrattott 
 
 OF 
 
 SHAKESPEARE'S REPRESENTATION 
 
 OF 
 
 NATIONAL CHARACTERS, 
 
 IN THAT OF FLUELLEN. 
 
 THE SIXTH EDITION. 
 
 By WILLIAM RICHARDSON, M.A. F.R.S.E. 
 
 PROFESSOR OF HUMANITY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF GLASGOW. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED FOR SAMUEL BAGSTER, 
 NO. 15, PATERNOSTER-ROW. 
 
 1818.
 
 -Ull, 
 JohaaoD'a-couit, Kir.
 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Introduction 1 
 
 Essay I. Character of Macbeth 35 
 
 - II. Character of Hamlet 69 
 
 HI. Additional Observations on the Cha- 
 racter of Hamlet 121 
 
 IV. The Character of Jaques .... 142 
 
 V. The Character of Imogen .... 170 
 
 VI. The Character of Richard the Third 197 
 
 VII. The Character of Sir JohnFalstaflt-^^ 
 
 VIII. The Character of King Lear . . .289 
 
 IX. The Character of Timon of Athens 313 
 
 X. On Shakespeare's Imitation of Fe- 
 male Characters .... 338 
 
 XL The Character of Fluellen . . . 364 - 
 
 XII. On the Faults of Shakespeare . 401 
 
 XIII. Conclusion, containing Observations 
 
 on the chief Objects of Criticism 
 in the Works of Shakespeare . 430 
 Appendix 439 
 
 r
 
 ADDITIONAL ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 FOR THE 
 
 present <&moin 
 
 In addition to the above it will be 
 observed, that this Edition contains 
 an Essay never before published, on 
 Shakespeare's Representation of Na- 
 tional Characters, illustrated in that 
 of Fluellen : together with two ori- 
 ginal Letters to the author, from Mr. 
 Burke, consisting of Observations on 
 Shakespeare, and other literary subjects, 
 
 Glasgow College, Jan. 13, 1812,
 
 attorrttscmcnt 
 
 TO THE 
 
 FIFTH EDITION, PUBLISHED fN 1797. 
 
 IN the year 17 74 was published, " A 
 philosophical Analysis and Illustration 
 of some of Shakespeare's Dramatic 
 Characters.'' In the year 1784 were 
 published, " Essays on Shakespeare's 
 Dramatic Characters of Richard the 
 Third, King Lear, and Timon of 
 Athens : to which were added, An 
 Essay on the Faults of Shakespeare ; 
 and Additional Observations on the 
 Character of Hamlet." Soon after
 
 Vlll ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 were published, " Essays on Shake- 
 speare's Dramatic Character of Sir John 
 Falstaff ; and on his Imitation of Fe- 
 male Characters :" to which were 
 added, some General " Observations 
 on the chief Objects of Criticism in 
 the Works of Shakespeare." 
 
 These different performances are now 
 collected into one volume, with one 
 uniform title. They are more commo- 
 diously arranged ; and have received 
 such collection and improvement, as 
 must necessarily have occurred to the 
 author, and been suggested by his 
 fiiuids, in the couisc of several pre- 
 ceding Editions. He hopes therefore 
 that, on these accounts, they are ren- 
 dered still less unworthy of public 
 notice.
 
 INSCRIBED, 
 
 IN TESTIMONY OF 
 
 THE GRATITUDE AND ESTEEM 
 
 OF THE AUTHOR, 
 
 TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. 
 
 OF GARTMORE- 
 
 LATELY LORD RECTOR 
 
 OF THE UNIVERSITY OF GLASGOW, 
 
 AND MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT 
 
 FOR THE COUNTY 
 
 OF STIRLING.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 .Moralists of all ages have recommended 
 Poetry as an art no less instructive than 
 amusing; tending at once to improve the 
 heart, and entertain the fancy. The ge- 
 nuine and original Poet, peculiarly favoured 
 by nature, and intimately acquainted with 
 the constitution of the human mind, not by 
 a long train of metaphysical deductions, but, 
 as it were, by immediate intuition, displays 
 the workings of every affection, detects the 
 origin of every passion, traces its progress, 
 and delineates its character. Thus, he teaches 
 us to know ourselves, inspires us with mag- 
 nanimous sentiments, animates our love 
 of virtue, and confirms our hatred of vice. 
 Moved by his striking pictures of the insta- 
 bility of human enjoyments, we moderate 
 the vehemence of our desires, fortify our 
 minds, and are enabled to sustain adversity. 
 I
 
 2 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Among the ancient Greeks, the study 
 of the Poets constituted an essential part in 
 their celebrated systems of education. Plu- 
 tarch observes, in his treatise on this curious 
 and interesting subject, that, as mandrakes 
 planted among vines, imparting their virtue 
 to the grape, correct its acidity, and improve 
 its flavour ; so the poetic art, adorning the 
 precepts of philosophy, renders them easy 
 and agreeable. Socrates, according to Xe- 
 nophon, was assiduous in applying the works 
 of Homer and Hesiod to the valuable pur- 
 poses of moral instruction. Discoursing on 
 the character of Thersitcs, he displayed the 
 meanness of calumny, and the folly of pre- 
 sumption; he argued, that modesty was the 
 companion of merit, and that effrontery 
 was the proper object of ridicule and re- 
 proach. Discoursing on the story of Circe, 
 he illustrated the fatal effects of intempe- 
 rance; and rehearsing the fable of the Sy- 
 rens, he wai ned his disciples against the al- 
 lurements of false delight. This great teach- 
 er of virtue was so fully convinced of the ad- 
 vantages resulting from the connection of 
 poetry with philosophy, that he assisted Eu-
 
 INTRODUCTION. 3 
 
 ripides in composing his tragedies, and fur- 
 nished him with many excellent sentiments 
 and observations. The propriety of bestow- 
 ing attention on the study of human nature, 
 and of borrowing assistance from the poets, 
 and especially from Shakespeare, will be 
 more particularly illustrated in the following 
 remarks. 
 
 The study of human nature has been 
 often and variously recommended. " Know 
 thyself," was a precept so highly esteemed 
 by the venerable sages of antiquity, that 
 they ascribed it to the Delphian oracle*. 
 By reducing it to practice, we learn the 
 dio-nitv of human nature. Our emulation is 
 excited by contemplating our divine origi- 
 nal : and, by discovering the capacity and 
 extent of our faculties, we become desirous 
 of higher improvement. Nor would the 
 practice of this apophthegm enable us mere- 
 ly to elevate and enlarge our desires, but 
 also, to purify and refine them; to withstand 
 the solicitations of groveling appetites, and 
 subdue their violence : for improvement in 
 virtue consists in duly regulating our inferior 
 * Cic. c!e legibus.
 
 4 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 appetites, no less than in cultivating the 
 principles of benevolence and magnanimity. 
 Numerous, however, are the desires, and 
 various are the passions that agitate the hu- 
 man heart. Every individual is actuated by 
 feelings peculiar to himself, insensible even 
 of their existence ; of their precise force 
 and tendency often ignorant. But to pre- 
 vent the inroads of vice, and preserve our 
 minds free from the tyranny of lawless pas 
 sion, vigilance must be exerted where we are 
 weakest and most exposed. We must there- 
 fore be attentive to the state and constitution 
 of our own minds ; we must discover to 
 what habits we are most addicted, and of 
 what propensities we ought chielly to be- 
 ware: we must deliberate with ourselves 
 on what resources we can most assuredly de 
 pend, and what motives are best calculated 
 to repel the invader. Now, the study of 
 human nature, accustoming us to turn 
 our attention inwards, and reflect on the va- 
 rious propensities and inclinations of the 
 t, facilitates self-examination, and ren- 
 it habitual. 
 Independent of utility, the study of the
 
 INTRODUCTION. 5 
 
 human mind is recommended in a peculiar 
 manner to the curious and inquisitive ; and 
 is capable of yielding delight by the novelty, 
 beauty, and magnificence, of the object. 
 Many find amusement in searching into the 
 constitution of the material world ; and, 
 with unwearied diligence, pursue the pro- 
 gress of nature in the growth of a plant, or 
 the formation of an insect. They spare 
 neither labour nor expence, to fill their cabi- 
 nets with every curious production : they 
 travel from climate to climate: they sub- 
 mit with cheerfulness to fatigue, and incle- 
 ment seasons ; and think their industry suf- 
 ficiently compensated, by the discovery of 
 some unusual phenomenon. Not a pebble 
 that lies on the shore, not a leaf that waves 
 in the forest, but attracts their notice, and 
 stimulates their inquiry. Events, or inci- 
 dents, which the vulgar regard with terror 
 or indifference, afford them supreme de- 
 light : they rejoice at the return of a comet, 
 and celebrate the blooming of an aloe, more 
 than the birth of an emperor. Nothing is 
 left unexplored : air, ocean, the minutest 
 objects of sense, as well as the greatest and
 
 (j INTRODUCTION. 
 
 most remote, are accurately and attentively 
 scrutinized, licit, though these researches 
 are laudable, and are suited to the dignity of 
 the human mind, we ought to remember, 
 that Mind itself deserves our attention. En- 
 dowed with the superior powers of feeling 
 and understanding, capable of thought and 
 reflection, active, conscious, susceptible of 
 delight, and provident of futurity, it claims 
 to itself a duration, when the most splendid 
 objects around us shall be destroyed. Ob- 
 \ e the vigilance of the senses in collecting 
 images from every part of the creation : 
 memory preseives them as the materials ol 
 thought, and the principles of knowledge: 
 our reasoning faculty separates, combines, 
 or compares them, in order to discover their 
 itlations and consequences : and imagina- 
 tion, sedulous to amuse, arranges them into 
 various gfonptMld assemblages. If we con- 
 sider the passions and feelings of the heart; 
 if v. c reflect on their diversity, and contem- 
 plate the various aspects they assume, the 
 \ inlencc of sonic will terrify and astonish, 
 the fantastic extravagance of many will ex- 
 cite amazement ; and others, soft and com-
 
 INTRODUCTION. 7 
 
 placent, will sooth us, and yield delight. 
 Shall we assert, therefore, that the study of 
 human nature is barren and unpleasant ? Or 
 that Mind, thus actuated and informed, is," 1 
 less worthy of our notice than the insect 
 produced at noon-tide, to finish its existence 
 with the setting-sun? "Shall a man," says 
 Socrates, " be skilled in the geography of 
 foreign countries, and continue ignorant of 
 the soil and limits of his own ? Shall he in- 
 quire into the qualities of external objects, 
 and pay no attention to the mind ?" 
 
 But, though the utility or pleasure re- 
 sulting from the study of human nature is 
 manifest, the progress men have hitherto 
 made in it, neither corresponds with the 
 dignity of the subject, nor with our ad- 
 vances in other regions of science. Neither 
 is our knowledge of the passions and facul- 
 ties of the mind proportioned to the nume- 
 rous theories men have fabricated concern- 
 ing them. On the contrary, the numerous 
 theories of human nature that have appear- 
 ed in various ages and languages, have been 
 so different from one another, and withal so 
 plausible and imposing, that, instead of in-
 
 8 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 forming, they perplex. From the uncer- 
 tainty and diversity of opinion, some have 
 asserted that the mind of man, on account 
 u of its transcendent excellence, and the in- 
 iunceivable delicacy of its structure, can 
 never be the object of precise inquiry. 
 Others, again, from very different premises, 
 deduce the same conclusion, forming their 
 opinions on the numerous, and apparently 
 discordant, powers and affections of the 
 mind, and affirming, that its operations are 
 governed by no regular principles. 
 
 That a perfect knowledge of the nature 
 and faculties of the mind is not to be ac- 
 quired in OUT present condition, cannot pos- 
 sibly he denied. Neither can the contiary 
 be affirmed of any subject of philosophical 
 inquiry. Vet our internal feelings, our ob- 
 rvatioD and experience, ripply us with 
 rich materials, sufficient to animate our love 
 of knowledge; and, by enabling us to pro- 
 rcJh . to extend the limits of 
 human understanding. Neither can we af- 
 firm, that our thoughts, feelings, and affec- 
 tioi in a state of anarchy and confusion. 
 
 Nothing, you say, seems wilder and more
 
 INTRODUCTION. 9 
 
 incoherent, than the thoughts and images 
 continually fluctuating in the mind : like 
 the " gay motes that people the sunbeams."' 
 they know no order, and are guided by no 
 connection. We are conscious of no power 
 that directs their motions, restrains their im- 
 petuosity, or regulates their disorder. No 
 less irregular and discordant are the feelings 
 and emotions of the heart. We are alike 
 accessible to love or hatred, confidence or 
 suspicion, exultation or despondency. These 
 passions and dispositions are often blended 
 together, or succeed each other, with a ve- 
 locity which we can neither measure nor 
 conceive. The soul that now melts with 
 tenderness, is instantly frantic with rage. 
 The countenance now adorned with com- 
 placency, and beauteous with the smile of 
 content, is in a moment clouded with anxiety, 
 or distorted with envy. He must therefore 
 be more than mortal, who can reduce this 
 tumultuous and disorderly chaos to regu- 
 larity. " Lift up thine eyes to the firma- 
 ment," said a countryman to a philosopher, 
 " number the stars, compute their distances, 
 and explain their motions. Observe the
 
 10 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 diversity of seasons, and the confusion oc- 
 casioned by the changeableness of the wea- 
 ther: the sun and refreshing showers cherish 
 the fruits of the eartli ; but our fields are 
 often blighted with mildews, the sky is sud- 
 denly overcast, the storms descend, and the 
 hopes of the year are blasted. Prescribe 
 laws to the winds, and govern the rage of 
 the tempests ; then will I believe, that the 
 course of nature is regular and determined." 
 Thus, even external phenomena, to an un- 
 imtructed person, will seem as wild and in- 
 congruous as the motions and affections of 
 the mind. On a more accurate inspection, 
 he finds that harmony and design pervade 
 the universe; that the motions of the stars 
 are regular; and that laws are prescribed to 
 the tempest Nature extends her attention 
 to the most insignificant productions: the 
 principles of vegetation are established im- 
 mutable in the texture of the meanest blos- 
 som ; the laws of its existence are accurately 
 
 defined ; and the period of its duration in- 
 v.uiablv determined. If these observations 
 are just, and if we still maintain that the 
 mind is in a state of anarchv and disorder.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 11 
 
 we are reduced to the necessity of affirming, 
 that nature hath exhausted her powers in 
 the formation of inferior objects, and neg- 
 lected the most important ; that she hath 
 established laws and government in the in- 
 animate creation, and abandoned the mind 
 to misrule ; and that she hath given us a 
 body suited to our condition, fashioned ac- 
 cording to the most accurate proportions, 
 and adjusted to the nicest rules of mechanics; 
 and left the animating principle, the mover 
 and director of this wonderful machine, to 
 be actuated by random impulses, mishapen, 
 and imperfect. Shall we acquiesce in this 
 opinion, and ascribe negligence or inability 
 to the Creator ? The laws that regulate 
 
 o 
 
 the intellectual system are too fine for su- 
 perficial attention, and elude the perception 
 of the vulgar. But every accurate and sedate 
 observer is sensible of their existence. 
 
 Difficulty in making just experiments is 
 the principal reason why the knowledge of 
 human nature has been retarded. The ma- 
 terials of this study are commonly gathered 
 from reflection on our own feelings, or from 
 observations on the conduct of others. Each.
 
 12 -INTRODH 1 ION. 
 
 of these methods is exposed to difficulty, 
 and consequently to error. 
 
 Natural philosophers possess great ad- 
 vantages over moralists and metaphysicians, 
 in so far as the suhjects of their inquiries 
 belong to the senses, are external, material, 
 and often permanent. Hence they can retain 
 them in their presence till they have ex- 
 amined their motion, parts, or composition : 
 they can have recourse to them for a renewal 
 of their impressions when they grow languid 
 or obscure, or when they feel their minds 
 vigorous, and disposed to philosophize. 
 But passions are excited independent of our 
 volition, and arise or subside without our 
 dctire or concurrence. Compassion is never 
 awakened but by the view of pain or of sor- 
 row. Resentment is never kindled but by 
 actual suffering, or by the view of injustice. 
 
 ^^ i 1 1 anger, jealousy, and revenge, attend 
 like summons of the dispassionate sage, that 
 lie uiav examine their conduct, and dismiss 
 them? Will pride and ambition obey the 
 of the humble hermit, and assist him 
 i the principle! of human nature? 
 Oi by what powerful spell can the abstracted
 
 INTRODUCTION. 13 
 
 philosopher, whose passions are all chastened 
 and subdued, whose heart never throbs with 
 desire, prevail with the tender affections to 
 appear at this unkindly command, and sub- 
 mit the delicacy of their features to the rigor 
 of strict inquiry? The philosopher, ac- 
 customed to moderate his passions, rather 
 than indulge them, is of all men least able 
 to provoke their violence ; and, in order 
 to succeed in his researches, he must recall 
 emotions felt by him at some former period ; 
 or he must seize their impression, and mark 
 their operations at the very moment they 
 are accidentally excited. Thus, with other 
 obvious disadvantages, he will often lose 
 the opportunity of a happy mood, unable 
 to avail himself of those animating: returns 
 of vivacity and attention essential to genius, 
 but independent of the will. 
 
 Observations made, while the mind is in- 
 flamed, are difficult in the execution, in- 
 complete, and erroneous. Eager passions 
 admit no partners, and endure no rivals in 
 their authority. The moment reflection, 
 or any foreign or opposing principle, begins 
 to operate, they are either exceedingly ex-
 
 14 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 asperated, agitating the mind, and leaving it 
 no leisure lor speculation; or, it' they are 
 Malic to maintain their ascendent, they be- 
 come cool and indistinct ; their aspect grows 
 dim; and observations made during their 
 decline are imperfect. The passions are 
 swill and evanescent: we cannot arrest their 
 celerity, nor suspend them in the mind 
 during pleasure. You are moved by strong 
 affection : seize the opportunity, let none of 
 its motions escape you, and observe every 
 sentiment it excites. You cannot. While 
 the passion prevails, you have no leisure for 
 speculation; and be assured it has suffered 
 abatement, if you have time to philosophize, 
 Kut you proceed by recollection. Still, 
 however, your observations are limited, and 
 vour theory partial. To be acquainted with 
 the nature of any passion, we must know by 
 what combination of feelings it is excited; 
 to what temperament it is allied ; in what 
 proportion it gathers force and swil'tin 
 what propensities, and what associations of 
 thought either retard or accelerate its im- 
 and how it may be opposed, 
 we or suppressed. But, if these
 
 INTRODUCTION. 15 
 
 circumstances escape the most vigilant and 
 abstracted attention, when the mind is ac- 
 tually agitated, how can they be recollected 
 when the passion is entirely quieted ? More- 
 over, every passion is compounded of in- 
 ferior and subordinate feelings, essential to 
 its existence, in their own nature nicely and 
 minutely varied, but whose different shades 
 and gradations are difficult to be discerned. 
 To these we must be acutely attentive; to 
 mark how they are combined, blended, or 
 opposed ; how they are suddenly extin- 
 guished, in a moment renewed, and again 
 extinguished. But these fleet volatile feel- 
 ings, perceived only when the mind is af- 
 fected, elude the most dexterous and active 
 memory. Add to this, that an object sug- 
 gested by memory is ever fainter and less 
 distinct than an actual perception, especially 
 if the object to be renewed is of a spiritual 
 nature, a thought, sentiment, or internal 
 sensation. 
 
 Even allowing the possibility of accurate 
 observation, our theories will continue par- 
 tial and inadequate*. We have only one 
 * Dr. Reid's Inquiry, chap. i. sect. 2-
 
 16 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 view of the subject, and know not what as- 
 pects it may assume, or what powers it may 
 possess in the constitution of another. No 
 principle has been more variously treated, 
 nor has given rise to a greater number of 
 systems, than that by which we are deno- 
 minated moral agents, and determine the 
 merit or demerit of human actions. But 
 this can scarcely proceed from any other 
 came than the diversity of our feelings, and 
 the necessity we are under of measuring the 
 dispositions of others by our own. Even 
 this moral principle, though a competent 
 judge of the virtue and propriety of human 
 actions, is apt to mislead us in our inquiries 
 concerning the structure and dispositions of 
 the mind. Desirous of avoiding the rebuke 
 of this severe and vigilant censor, avc are 
 ready to extenuate every blameablc quality, 
 and magnify what we approve. 
 
 In order, therefore, to rectify our opi- 
 
 ul enlarge our conceptions of the 
 
 human mind, we must study its operations 
 
 lucl and deportment of others 
 we must mingle in society, and observe the 
 and characters of mankind, ac-
 
 INTRODUCTION. 17 
 
 cording as casual or unexpected incidents 
 may furnish an opportunity. But the mind, 
 not being an object of the external senses, 
 the temper and inclinations of others can 
 only be known to us by signs either natural 
 "or artificial, referring us to our own internal 
 sensations. Thus, we are exposed nearly 
 to the same difficulties as before. We can- 
 not at pleasure call forth the objects of our 
 researches, nor retain them till we have ex- 
 amined their nature. We can know no 
 more of the internal feelings of another 
 than he expresses by outward signs or lan- 
 guage ; and consequently he may feel many 
 emotions which we are unable easily to con- 
 ceive. Neither can we consider human 
 characters and affections as altoo-ether in- 
 different to us. They are not mere objects 
 of curiosity ; they excite love or hatred, ap- 
 probation or dislike. But, when the mind 
 is influenced by these affections, and by 
 others that often attend them, the judgment 
 is apt to be biassed, and the force of the 
 principle we contemplate is increased or 
 diminished accordingly. The inquirer must 
 not onlv beware of external difficulties, but
 
 IS INTRODUCTION. 
 
 must preserve liis heart, both from angry, 
 and from kind affection. The maxim, that 
 all men who deliberate about doubtful mat- 
 ters, should divest themselves of hatred, 
 friendship, anger, and compassion, is as 
 applicable in philosophy as in politics. 
 
 Since experiments, made by reflecting on 
 our own minds, or by attending to the con- 
 duct of others, are liable to difficulty, and 
 consequently to error; we should embrace 
 every assistance that may facilitate and im- 
 prove them. Were it possible, during the 
 continuance of a violent passion, to seize a 
 faithful impression of its features, and an 
 i \aet delineation of the images it creates in 
 us, such a valuable copy would guide the 
 philosopher in tracing the perplexed and in- 
 triiah mazes of metaphysical inquiry. By 
 frequently Examining it, every partial con- 
 sideration, and every feeling tending to mis- 
 lead his opinions, would be corrected: his 
 COOO ptioil would be enlarged by discovering 
 passions more or leu vehement than his own, 
 or by diseovering tempers of a diflerent 
 colour. We judge of mankind by referring 
 their actions to the passions and principles
 
 INTRODUCTION. 19 
 
 that influence our own behaviour. We 
 have no other guide, since the nature of the 
 passions and faculties of the mind are not 
 discernible by the senses. It may, however, 
 be objected, that, according to this hypo- 
 thesis, those who deduce the conduct of 
 others from malignant passions, and those 
 who are capable of imitating them, must 
 themselves be malignant. The observation 
 is inaccurate. Every man, unless his con- 
 stitution be defective, inherits the principles 
 of every passion: but no man is the prey 
 of all the passions. Some of them are so 
 feeble in themselves, or rather, so entirely 
 suppressed by the ascendant of others, that 
 they never become principles of action, nor 
 constitute any part of the character. Hence 
 it is the business of culture and education, 
 by giving exercise to virtuous principles, and 
 by rendering them habitual, to bear down 
 their opponents, and so gradually to weaken 
 and wear them out. If we measure the 
 minds of others precisely by our own, as we 
 have formed and fashioned them by habit 
 and education, and make no account of 
 feeble and decaying principles, our theories 
 c 2
 
 20 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 must necessarily be inadequate. But, by 
 considering the copy and portrait of minds 
 different from our own, and by reflecting 
 on these latent and unexerted principles, 
 augmented and promoted by imagination, 
 >ve may discover many new tints, and un- 
 common features. Now, that class of po- 
 etical writers that excel by imitating the 
 passions, might contribute in this respect 
 to rectify and enlarge the sentiments of the 
 philosopher: and, if so, they would have 
 the additional merit of conducting us to the 
 temple of truth, by an easier and more agree- 
 able path than that of mere metaphysics. 
 
 We often confound the writer who imitates 
 the passions, with him who only describe* 
 them. Shakespeare imitates, Corneille de- 
 scribes. Poets of the second class, no less 
 than those of the first, may invent the most 
 it fictions, may paint the most beautiful 
 imagery, may exhibit situations exceedingly 
 interesting, and conduct their incidents with 
 propriety: their versification may be harmo- 
 nious, and, above all, their characters may 
 be judiciously composed, partaking of no 
 incongruous qualities, and free from the
 
 INTRODUCTION. 21 
 
 discord of jarring principles. But the end 
 of dramatic poetry not only requires that 
 the characters be judiciously moulded and 
 aptly circumstanced, but that every passion 
 be naturally expressed. There is certainly 
 a wide difference between the description 
 of the sallies, the repulses, and impatience 
 of a violent affection, whether they are de- 
 scribed by the agent or the spectator, and 
 their actual imitation and expression. But 
 perfect imitation can never be effectuated, 
 unless the poet in some measure become the 
 person he represents, clothe himself with his 
 character, assume his manners, and transfer 
 himself into his situation. The texture of 
 his mind must be exquisitely fine and deli- 
 cate ; susceptible of every feeling, and easily 
 moved by every impression. Together with 
 this delicacy of affection, he must possess a 
 peculiar warmth and facility of imagination, 
 by which he may retire from himself, become 
 insensible of his actual condition, and, re- 
 gardless of external circumstances, feel the 
 very incidents he invents: like the votaries 
 of a pagan' religion, he must worship idols, 
 the works of his own hands, and tremble
 
 22 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 before the demons of his own creation. 
 Nothing affords a stronger evidence of the 
 active, versatile nature of the soul, and of 
 the amazing rapidity of its motions, than 
 these seemingly inconceivable and inconsis- 
 tent exertions. 
 
 Shakespeare, inventing the characters of 
 Hamlet, Macbeth, or Othello, actually felt 
 the passions, and contending emotions as- 
 cribed to them. Compare a soliloquy of 
 Hamlet, with one of the descriptions of 
 Rodrigue in the Cid. Nothing can be more 
 natural in the circumstances and with the 
 tempo 1 of Hamlet, than the following re- 
 flections : 
 
 O, that this too too solid flesh would melt, 
 Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew ! 
 Or that the Kvtrlasiing had not fix'd 
 His canon 'gainst self-slaughter ! O God ! O God ! 
 How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable 
 Seem to me all the uses of this world ! 
 Fie on't ! O he! 'Tis an un weeded garden, 
 Tlut grows to seed ; things rank, and gross in nature, 
 Possess it merely. 1 hat it should come to this 1 
 Rut two months Head ! nay, not so much ; not two: 
 
 KCcllcnt a king, that was, to this, 
 Hyperion to a satyr: so loving to my mother, 
 That he might not betccm the winds of heaven
 
 INTRODUCTION. 23 
 
 Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth! 
 
 Must I remember? Why, she would hang on him, 
 
 As if increase of appetite had grown 
 
 By what it fed on : and yet, within a month 
 
 Let me not think on'i Frailty, thy name is woman ! 
 
 A little month; or ere those shoes were old, 
 
 With which she follow'd my poor father's body, 
 
 Like Niobe, all tears. Why she, even she 
 
 O heaven ! a beast, that wants discourse of reason, 
 
 Would have mourn'd longer married with my uncle, 
 
 My father's brother ; but no more like my father 
 
 Than I to Hercules. Within a month 
 
 Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears 
 
 Had left the flushing in her galled eyes, 
 
 She married. Oh, most wicked speed, to post 
 
 With such dexterity to incestuous sheets ! 
 
 It is not, nor it cannot come to good. 
 
 In the Gid, Rodrigue, who is the hero of 
 the tragedy, and deeply enamoured of Chi- 
 mene, is called upon to revenge a heinous 
 insult done to his father by the father of his 
 mistress ; and he delineates the distress of 
 his situation, in the following manner; cer- 
 tainly with great beauty of expression and 
 versification, and with peculiar elegance of 
 description, but not as a real sufferer: 
 
 Perce jusqn' au fond du coeur 
 
 D'une atteime imprcvue aussi bien qne morteUe:
 
 ^4 iNLKe -N. 
 
 Miserable vcngeur dune trop juste querelJe, 
 Et malheuieux objet d'unc injusie rigueur, 
 Je demeuit immobile, et mon aine abattue 
 Cede au coup qui me tue. 
 
 This harangue would better suit a descrip- 
 tive novelist or narrator of the story, than 
 the person actually concerned. Let us make 
 the experiment. Let us change the verbs 
 and pronouns from the first person into the 
 third ; and, instead of supposing that Rod- 
 rigue speaks, let us imagine that the state 
 of his mind is described by a spectator: 
 " Pierced, even to the heart, by an unfore- 
 " s well as mortal stroke, the mi- 
 
 " serable avenger of a just quarrel, and the 
 t; unhappy object of unjust severity, he re- 
 " mains motionless, and his broken spirit 
 " yields to the blow that destroys him." 
 
 // (Icnicurc immobile, ct son ame abattue 
 Cede au coup qui Ir uw. 
 
 Tl v the soliloquy of Hamlet by the same 
 
 test ; and, without inserting the words " lie 
 
 i. which render it dramatic, the change 
 
 will be impossible. Try also the following 
 
 line Virgil: they are taken from that
 
 INTRODUCTION. 25 
 
 celebrated and well-known passage, where 
 Dido expresses to Anna the passion she had 
 conceived for ^Eneas. 
 
 Quis novus hie nostris successit sedibus hospes ? 
 Quem sese ore ferens ! quam forti pectore et arm is ! 
 Cre^do equidem, nee vana fides, genus esse deorum, &c. 
 
 It may be observed in general, that, when- 
 ever a speech seems proper and intelligible 
 with the change of persons above-mentioned, 
 and without inserting some such words as, 
 " he said," or, " he replied," it is narration, 
 it is description; but can scarcely be called 
 the language of passion. I am aware, that 
 some passages, even in Shakespeare, may be 
 opposed to this observation. When Macbeth 
 returns from the assassination of Duncan, 
 Lady Macbeth tells him to carry back the 
 daggers, and smear with blood the faces 
 of the king's attendants, meaning to fasten 
 upon them the suspicion of the murder. 
 Macbeth replies, 
 
 I'll go no more; 
 I am afraid to think what I have done ; 
 Look on't again, I dare not. 
 
 Is this the direct and natural expression of
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 led? If so, it bears hard against the fore- 
 going remark. But let ns reflect attentively. 
 Fear is not the present passion in the mind 
 of Macbeth : a transient desire of another 
 kind for a moment engages him, namely, 
 the desire of giving Lady Macbeth a reason 
 for not returning into the king's apartment. 
 The man who tells you, " I am exceedingly 
 angry, or exceedingly in love, and therefore 
 I act in such or such a manner," does not 
 in these words speak the language either of 
 love or of anger, but of his desire of giving 
 you a reason, or of his making an apology 
 for his behaviour. You believe him because 
 you trust in his veracity, and because you 
 see corresponding evidence in his deport- 
 ment ; not that the words, ** I am angry, 
 or I am in love," independent of tones of 
 voice, looks, or gestures, express either love 
 
 or airier. 
 
 It may also be objected, that " the ex- 
 cellence of dramatic writing consists in its 
 imitating with truth and propriety the man- 
 ners and passions of mankind. If, there- 
 fore, a dramatic writer, capable of describing 
 and of narrating with elegance and propriety.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 27 
 
 is nevertheless incapable of expressing; the 
 language and sentiments of passion, he fails 
 in the sole end and purpose of his art, 
 and of consequence can afford no pleasure. 
 Contrary to this, many tragedies arc seen and 
 read with uncommon applause, and excite 
 even the liveliest feelings, which, if tried 
 by the above-mentioned standard, would 
 be reckoned defective." To remove this 
 objection, it may be observed, that those 
 sympathetic emotions that interest us in the 
 happiness and misery of others, and yield 
 us the highest pleasure at theatrical enter- 
 tainments, are, by the wise and beneficial 
 institutions of nature, exceedingly apt to 
 be excited ; so apt, that if any concomitant 
 circumstances, though of a different kind, 
 whether melancholy or joyful, draw the 
 mind from its usual state of indifference, 
 and dispose it to a state of extreme sensibi- 
 lity, the slightest incident or expression will 
 call forth our sympathy. Now, in drama- 
 tic performances, many things concur to 
 throw the mind into a susceptible and tender 
 mood, and chiefly, elegance of expression, 
 harmony of composition, and delightful
 
 ft IMRODUCTION. 
 
 These working upon the mind, 
 and bung all united to impress us with the 
 notion of certain events or circumstances 
 verv interesting to persons of ce, tain quali- 
 ties and dispositions, our imaginations arc 
 immediately stimulated and in action; we 
 figure to ourselves the characters which the 
 poet intends to exhibit; we take pait in 
 their interests, and enter into their passions 
 as warmly as it' they were naturally expressed. 
 Thus it appears, that it is often with beings 
 of our own formation that we lament or re- 
 joice, imagining them to be the workman- 
 ship of another. And indeed this delusion 
 will ever prevail with people of warm imagi- 
 nations, if what the poet invents be tolerable, 
 or not worse than insipid. We may also 
 observe, thut wc are much more subject to 
 
 ions of this kind, when dramatic per- 
 formances are exhibited on the itage, and 
 
 their eii t Supported bv the scenery, 
 In the d of the players, and by their 
 
 :ution. 
 
 If this remark, tli.it our own imaginations 
 contribute highly to the pleasure wc receive 
 
 works of invention, be well founded.
 
 IxNTRODUCTION. 59 
 
 it will explain the reason why men of ac- 
 curate discernment, and of understandings 
 sufficiently polished, often difier widely from 
 one another, and, at times, widely from 
 themselves, in their opinions concerning 
 works of taste. The imagination is a faculty 
 of a nature so versatile and so variable, that 
 at one time it is animated and fruitful of 
 images ; at other times, it is cold, barren, 
 and languishing. At a fruitful moment, it 
 will embellish the dullest performance with 
 the most brilliant ornaments ; it will impose 
 them on you as genuine, and so entice you 
 to bestow applause. At other times, it will 
 be niggardly, even of the assistance that is 
 necessary. Hence, too, the reason why 
 critics of active imaginations are generally 
 disposed to favour. Read a performance, 
 even of slight and superficial merit, to a 
 person of lively fancy, and he will probably 
 applaud. Some circumstances strike him: 
 they assemble a group of images in his own 
 mind ; they please him, and he perceives 
 not, in the ardour of the operation, that 
 the picture is his own, and not that of the 
 writer. He examines it coolly: the phantom
 
 30 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 that pleased him vanishes : he is ashamed of 
 the delight it yielded him, and of the praises 
 he so freely bestowed. It follows also, on 
 the same principle, that men of lively ima- 
 ginations receive more exquisite pleasure 
 from works of fancy, than those whose in- 
 ventive faculties are not so vigorous. Upon 
 the whole, it is manifest, that a great portion 
 of the delight we receive from poetry and 
 fine writing, depends no less on the state of 
 our own minds, than on the intrinsic excel- 
 lence of the performance. It is also obviou- 
 that, though the description of a passion or 
 affection may give us pleasure, whether it 
 be described by the agent or the spectator, 
 yet, to those who would apply the inventions 
 of the poet to the uses of philosophical in- 
 vestigation, it is far from being of equal 
 utility with a passion exactly imitated. The 
 talent of imitation is very different from that 
 of description, and far superior *. 
 
 No writer has hitherto appeared who 
 
 * The author of the Elements of Criticism is, if I 
 mistake not, the first writer who has taken any notice of 
 this important distinction between the imitation and descrip- 
 tion of passion.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 31 
 
 possesses in a more eminent degree than 
 Shakespeare, the power of imitating the pas- 
 sions. All of them seem familiar to him ; 
 the boisterous no less than the gentle ; the 
 benign no less than the malignant. There 
 are several writers, as there are many players, 
 who are successful in imitating some parti- 
 cular passions, but who appear stiff, aukward, 
 and unnatural, in the expression of others. 
 Some are capable of exhibiting very striking 
 representations of resolute and intrepid na- 
 tures, but cannot so easily bend themselves 
 to those that are softer and more complacent. 
 Others, again, seem full of amiable affection 
 and tenderness, but cannot exalt themselves 
 to the boldness of the hero, or magnanimity 
 of the patriot. The genius of Shakespeare 
 is unlimited. Possessing extreme sensibility, 
 and uncommonly susceptible, he is the Pro- 
 teus of the drama ; he changes himself into 
 every character, and enters easily into every 
 condition of human nature. 
 
 O youths and virgins ! O declining eld *. 
 O pale misfortune's slaves ! O ye who dwelt 
 Unknown with humble quiet ! Ye who wait 
 In courts, and fill the golden seat of kings:
 
 32 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 sons of sport and pleasure! O thou wretch 
 That weep'st for jealous love, and the sore wound 
 Of conscious guilt, or death's rapacious hand, 
 That left the void of hope! Q ye who mourn 
 
 la exile ! Ye who thro' th' emhattled field 
 Seek bright renown ; or who for nobler palms 
 (iontend, the leaders of a public cause! 
 
 1 lath not his faithful tongue 
 
 Told you the fashion of your own estate, 
 The secrets of your bosom * ? 
 
 Many dramatic writers of different ages 
 are capable, occasionally, of breaking out 
 A\ith great fervour of genius in the natural 
 language of strong emotion. No writer of 
 antiquity is more distinguished for abilities 
 of this kind than Euripides. I lis whole 
 heart and soul seem torn and agitated by 
 force of the passion he imitates. lie 
 i to be Euripides; he is Medea; lie 
 is O: Stiikrspeare, however, is most 
 
 eminently distinguished, not only by these 
 ional sallies, but by imitating the passion 
 in all its aspects, by pursuing it through all 
 its windings and labyrinths, by moderating 
 or accelerating its impetuosity according to 
 the influence of other principles and of ex- 
 
 Akenside.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 33 
 
 ternal events, and finally by combining it in 
 a judicious manner witb other passions and 
 propensities, or by setting it aptly in oppo- 
 sition. He thus unites the two essential 
 powers of dramatic invention, that of forming 
 characters ; and that of imitating, in their 
 natural expressions, the passions and affec- 
 tions of which they are composed. It is, 
 therefore, my intention to examine some of 
 his remarkable characters, and to analyze 
 their component parts. An exercise no less 
 adapted to improve the heart, than to in- 
 form the understanding. My intention is 
 to make poetry subservient to philosophy, 
 and to employ it in tracing the principles 
 of human conduct. The design surely is 
 laudable : of the execution, I have no right 
 to determine.
 
 ESSAY I. 
 
 On the character of macbeth. 
 
 1 HE human mind, in different situations 
 and circumstances, undergoes many extra- 
 ordinary changes, and assumes a variety of 
 different aspects. Men of gaiety and cheer- 
 fulness become reserved and unsocial : the 
 beneficent temper, losing its kindness and 
 complacency, becomes morose and uncom- 
 plying : the indolent man leaves his retire- 
 ment : the man of business becomes inactive: 
 and men of gentle and kind affections acquire 
 habits of cruelty and revenge. As these 
 changes affect the temper, and not the fa- 
 culties of the mind, they are produced by 
 irregular and outrageous passions. In order, 
 therefore, to explain any unusual alteration 
 of temper or character, we must consider 
 d 2
 
 ;<> rm liiakacikk 
 
 the nature of the ruling passion, and ob- 
 serve its tendency. 
 
 In the character of Maeheth, we have an 
 instance of a very extraordinary change. In 
 the following passages we discover the com- 
 plexion and bias of his mind in its natural 
 and unperverted state. 
 
 Brave Macbeth, (well he deserves that name,) 
 Disdaining fortune, with liis brandish'd steel, 
 Which smok'd with bloody execution, 
 Like Valour's minion, carved out his passage. 
 
 The particular features of his character 
 are more accurately delineated by Lady 
 Macbeth. 
 
 Clamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shah he 
 What thou art promis'd Yet do I fear thy nature; 
 It i- too lull o'the milk of human kindness, 
 I o catch the nearest way. Thou would'st be great; 
 Alt not without ambition ; but without 
 The illness should attend it. 
 
 lie is exhibited to us valiant, dutiful to 
 
 sovereign, mild, gentle, and ambitious; 
 
 hut ambitious without guilt. Soon after, we 
 
 find him false, perfidious, barbarous, and 
 
 vindictive. All the principles in his con-
 
 OF MACBETH. $7 
 
 stitution seem to have undergone a violent 
 and total change. Some appear to he al- 
 together reduced or extirpated ; others mon- 
 strously overgrown. Ferocitv is substituted 
 instead of mildness, treasonable intention 
 instead of* a sense of duty. His ambition, 
 however, has suffered no diminution: on 
 the contrary, by having become exceedingly 
 powerful, and by rising to undue pretensions, 
 it seems to have vanquished and suppressed 
 every amiable and virtuous principle. But, 
 in a conflict so important, and where the 
 opposing powers were naturally vigorous, 
 and invested with high authority, violent 
 must have been the struggle, and obstinate 
 the resistance. Nor could the prevailing 
 passion have been enabled to contend with 
 virtue, without having gained, at some 
 former period, an unlawful ascendency. 
 Therefore, in treating the history of this 
 revolution, we shall consider how the usur- 
 ping principle became so powerful ; how its 
 powers were exerted in its conflict with op- 
 posing principles ; and what were the con- 
 sequences of its victory.
 
 38 THE CHARACTER 
 
 I. The growth of Macbeth's ambition 
 was so imperceptible, and his treason so un- 
 expected, that the historians of an ignorant 
 age, little accustomed to explain uncommon 
 events by simple causes, and strongly ad- 
 dicted to a superstitious belief in sorcery, 
 ascribed them to preternatural agency. 
 Shakespeare, capable of exalting this fiction, 
 and of rendering it interesting, by his power 
 over the " terrible graces," has adopted it 
 in its full extent. In tin's part, therefore, 
 having little assistance from the poet, we 
 shall hazard a conjecture, supported by some 
 facts and observations, concerning the power 
 of fancy, aided by partial gratification, to 
 invigorate and inflame our passions. 
 
 All men, who possess the seeds of violent 
 passions, will often be conscious of their 
 influence, before they have opportunities of 
 indulging them. By nature provident, and 
 prone to reflection, we look forward with 
 eagerness into futurity, and anticipate our 
 enjoyments. Never completely satisfied with 
 our present condition, we embrace in ima- 
 gination the happiness that is to come. But
 
 OF MACBETH. 39 
 
 happiness is relative to constitution ; it de- 
 pends on the gratification of our desires ; 
 and the happiness of mankind is various, 
 because the desires of the heart are various. 
 The nature, therefore, of anticipated en- 
 joyment is agreeable to the nature of our de- 
 sires. Men of indolent dispositions, and 
 addicted to pleasure, indulge themselves in 
 dreams of festivity. Those, again, who have 
 in their constitution the latent principles of 
 avarice, administer to the gratification of 
 their fatal propensity, by reveries of ideal 
 opulence. Dignity, parade, and magni- 
 ficence, are ever present to the ambitious 
 man: laurels, if he pursue literary fame: 
 battles and conquest, if his genius be war- 
 like. Whoever will cultivate an acquaint- 
 ance with himself, and would know to what 
 passions he is most exposed, should attend 
 to the operations of fancy, and by remarking 
 the objects she with greatest pleasure ex- 
 hibits, he may discern, with tolerable ac- 
 curacy, the nature of his own mind, and 
 the principles most likely to rule him. Ex- 
 cursions of the imagination, except in minds 
 idly extravagant, are commonly governed
 
 40 THE CHARACTER 
 
 by the probability of success. They arc 
 also regulated by moral considerations*; for 
 no man indulging, visions of ideal fel city, 
 embrues his hands in the hlood of the guilt- 
 less, or suffers himself in imagination to be 
 unjust or perfidious. Yet, by this imaginary 
 indulgence, harmless as it may appear, our 
 passions become immoderate. This is ma- 
 nifest from the following observations. 
 
 When the mind is agitated by violent 
 passions, the thoughts presented to us are of 
 a corresponding character. The angry man 
 thinks of injury, perfidy, or insult. Under 
 the influences of fear, we figure to ourselves 
 dangers that have no reality, and tremble 
 -without a cause +. Minds, differently fash- 
 
 * See Hntchcson on the origin of our ideas of biaut) 
 and haiuioiiy. 
 
 + Vitas hinnnlco me similis, Chloc. 
 Qnaerenii pavidun niontibus aviis 
 Mairem, non sine vano 
 Aurariim, et silvae nittu. 
 Nam sen mobitibua viiis inhorroh 
 Al vcnnim lolii-., sru virides rtibum 
 DiiiKivere Incert.ie, 
 Fl corde et genibus trcuiit. lion.
 
 OF MACBETH. 41 
 
 ioned, and under the influence of different 
 pulsions, receive from the same objects dis- 
 similar impressions. Exhibit the same beau- 
 tiful valley. to the miser and to the poet. 
 Elegant and lovely images arise in the poet's 
 miid: Dryads preside in the groves, and 
 Naiads in the fountains. Notions of wealth 
 
 the heart of the miser: he computes 
 the profits of the meadows and cornfields, 
 
 i . i.s Lie possessor. The mind, dwelling 
 win) pleasure on these images thai coincide 
 with us present huinour, or agree with the 
 present passion, embdli>hes and improves 
 them. 1 he poet, by figuring additional 
 lawns and mountains, renders tie landscape 
 more beautiful, or more sublime: but the 
 rmser, moved by no compassion for Wood- 
 nymphs or Naiads, lays waste the forest, 
 changes the windings of the river into a 
 dead can al, and solicits wealth at the expence 
 of beauty. Now, as the influences of passion 
 govern and give a train to our thoughts, 
 these, in return, nourish and promote the 
 passion. l[ any cb.ect appears to us more 
 striking and exvdlent than usual, it com- 
 municates a stronger impulse, and excites a
 
 42 THE CHARACTER 
 
 keener and more vehement desire. When 
 the lover discovers, or fancies he discovers, 
 new charms in the character of his mistress, 
 if her complexion glow with a softer blush, 
 if her manner and attitude seem more en- 
 jng, his love, waxes ardent, and his 
 ardour ungovernable. Thus imaginary re- 
 presentations, more even than real objects, 
 stimulate our desires ; and our passions, ad- 
 ministering fewel to themselves, are im- 
 moderately inliamed. Joy is in this manner 
 cnlivencd ; anger more keenly exasperated ; 
 envy burns with additional malice; and me- 
 lancholy, brooding over images of misery 
 and disappointment, is tortured with anguish, 
 and plunges into despair. 
 
 Thus far ambition may be invigorated, 
 tsted merely by a lively temperament and 
 t glowing imagination. Prompted bv its in- 
 citements, we engage with eagerness in the 
 of glory? and with persevering cou- 
 ddergo fatigue and encounter danger. 
 I'mt though imagination may dazzle and in- 
 flamc, the prudent man. in the pursuit of 
 honours, limit-, his desires to objects Within 
 his reach. The most active spirit, confined
 
 OF MACBETH. 43 
 
 to a narrow sphere, is never desirous of un- 
 attainable glory, but is anibi i.u of being 
 distinguished in his condition. If, however, 
 by succeeding in inferior euterprizes, higher 
 objects are exhibited to us, our ambition, by 
 partial gratification, becomes more violent 
 than before. In producing this effect, the 
 following causes co-op rate. 
 
 The temporary and accidental emotion of 
 joy, occasioned by success, enlivens and 
 animates the passion upon which it depends. 
 You love your friend ; he returns unexpect- 
 edly from a long journey ; your joy on hit 
 arrival heightens your affection, and you re- 
 ceive him with transport. 
 
 Non ego sanius 
 Bacchabor Edonis : recepto 
 Duke mihi furere est amico. Hor. 
 
 The new object appearing more excellent 
 than the former, excites a livelier appetite. 
 To the churchman who was meek and mo- 
 derate in pursuit of inferior dignity, exhibit 
 a mitre, and you spoil his peace. 
 
 The proximity of the object, because 
 nothing intermediate diverts our attention,
 
 44 THE CHARACTER 
 
 quickens and promotes the passion. The 
 profligate heir, who longs for the death of 
 an avaricious father, is more eagerly impa- 
 tient during his last moments than during 
 the course of a tedious life. And the nearer 
 the hour of assignation approaches, the heart 
 of the lover throbs with a keener and more 
 intense desire. To these illustrations the 
 following passage, from a celebrated* his- 
 torian, is extremely apposite: " James, har- 
 ' ; rassed with his turbulent and factious sub- 
 H jcets, east a wishful eye to the succession 
 " of England ; and, in proportion as the 
 " queen advanced in years, his desire in- 
 " creased of mounting that throne. 
 
 Snecess, as it produces vanity, invigorates 
 our ambition. Eminently or unexpected I v 
 distinguished, we fancy ourselves endowed 
 with superior merit, and entitled to higher 
 honour. Alexander, after the conquest of 
 Persia, grew more vain and more extrava- 
 gantly ambitious than before. 
 
 In this manner, by joy, by the prospect, 
 
 and proximity of a more splendid object, 
 
 and by vanity, all depending on partial 
 
 gratification, the passion is swelled and be- 
 
 Hume.
 
 OF MACBETH. 45 
 
 comes excessive. Macbeth having repelled 
 the inroads of the islanders, and having van- 
 quished a numerous host of Norwegians, is 
 rewarded by his king, and revered by his 
 countrymen. He rises to unexpected ho- 
 nours: his ambition, fostered by imagination, 
 and confirmed by success, becomes immode- 
 rate ; and his soul, elevated above measure, 
 aspires to sovereignty. 
 
 II. Every variation of character and pas- 
 sion is accompanied with corresponding 
 changes in the sentiments of the spectator. 
 *^Macbeth engaged in the defence of his 
 country, and pursuing the objects of a laud- 
 able ambition, is justly honoured and esteem- 
 ed. But the distraction which ensues from 
 the conflict between vicious and virtuous 
 principles, renders him the object of com- 
 passion mixed with disapprobation. 
 
 The chief obstacle in the way of our 
 selfish desires proceeds from the opposition 
 of our moral faculties. Invested by nature 
 with supreme authority to judge concerning 
 the passions of mankind, they exert them- 
 selves in restraining their impetuosity, and
 
 46 THE CHARACTER 
 
 in preserving the harmony of the internal 
 system. Accordingly, when the notion of 
 seizing the crown is suggested to Macbeth, 
 he appears shocked and astonished. Justice 
 and humanity shudder at the design : he re- 
 gards his own heart with amazement i and 
 recoils with horror from the guilty thought. 
 
 This supernatural soliciting 
 Cannot be ill ; cannot be good. If ill, 
 Why hath it given me earnest of success, 
 Commencing in a truth ? I am Thane of Cawdor. 
 If good, why do I yield to that suggestion, 
 Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair, 
 And make my stated heart knock at my ribs, 
 Against the use of nature ? 
 
 '"'"Though virtuous principles appear in 
 this instance to predominate, his ambition 
 is not repulsed. The means of gratifying 
 it seem shocking and impracticable ; and he 
 abandons the enterprise without renouncing 
 the passion. The passion continues vehe- 
 ment : it perseveres with obstinacy: it har- 
 rasses and impoi tunes him. He still de- 
 : but, deterred by his moral feelings, 
 he is unable to proceed directly, "and in- 
 dulges romantic wishes.
 
 OF MACBETH. 47 
 
 If chance will have me King, why, chance may crown mc, 
 Wi Lout my stir. 
 
 It appears from this and some following 
 passages, that, in agony, and distracted with 
 contending principles, hesitating and ir- 
 resolute, anxious for the event, but afraid 
 of promoting it, he had abandoned the de- 
 sign of murdering Duncan, and had formed 
 some extravagant expectation of inheriting 
 the crown by right of succession. Thus he 
 recovers some portion of his tranquillity. 
 
 Come what, come may, 
 Time and the hour runs thro' the roughest day. 
 
 He enjoys an interval of composure till an 
 unexpected obstacle rouzes and alarms him. 
 
 King. My plenteous joys, 
 Wanton in fulness, seek to hide themselves 
 In drops of sorrow. Sons, kinsmen, Thanes, 
 And you whose places are the nearest, know, 
 We will establish our estate upon 
 Our eldest, Malcolm; whom we name hereafter 
 The prince of Cumberland. 
 
 The surprize, and the uneasy sensation ex- 
 cited by the perception of difficulty, agitate
 
 4$ THE CHARACTER 
 
 the mind of Macbeth, and their emotion* 
 coinciding with his ambition,, renew and in- 
 crease its violence. 
 
 The prince of Cumberland ! That is a step, 
 On which I must lull down, or else o'crleap, 
 For in my way it lies. 
 
 ^But conscience and his humanitv are as;ain 
 alarmed, again interfere, and shew him the 
 horror of his designs. 
 
 Stars, hide your fires, 
 Let not light see my black and deep desires. 
 
 Habituated passion* possess superior advan- 
 tages over those opposite principles which 
 operate by a violent and sudden impulse. 
 For, so delicate is the constitution of the 
 human mind, that lively feelings, unless 
 they form the temper by being confirmed 
 by action, are enfeebled by repetition and 
 frequent exercise. The horror and aversion 
 excited by enormous wickedness, unless we 
 act in conformity to them, " *are mere passive 
 11 impressions, which, by being repeated, 
 
 * Butler's Analogy-, Part I. chap. v.
 
 OF MACBETH. 49 
 
 14 grow weaker ;" and though their resistance 
 against an habituated passion be animated, it 
 is of short duration. They subside : they 
 are overwhelmed; but not extinguished. 
 Macbeth, in the following conference, ap- 
 pears reconciled to designs of treason : he v^ 
 can think of them calmly, and without ab- 
 horrence : and all the opposition he has 
 henceforth to encounter, will arise, not 
 from feeling, but from reflection. 
 
 Macb. My dearest love ! 
 Duncan conies here to-night. 
 
 La. Macb. And when goes hence? 
 
 Macb. To-morrow, as he purposes. 
 
 La. Macb. Oh! never 
 Shall sun that morrow see. 
 
 Macb. We shall speak further. 
 
 Inward contention of mind naturally pro- 
 vokes soliloquy. The reason of this ap- 
 pearance is obvious. In the beginning of 
 life, feeble and unable to assist ourselves, 
 we depend entirely upon others ; we are 
 constantly in society; and, of course, if we 
 are affected by any violent emotions, we are 
 accustomed to utter them. Consequently,
 
 50 THE CHARACTER 
 
 by force of association and habit, when they 
 return excessive on any future occasion, im- 
 patient of restraint, they will not be arrested 
 by reflection, but vent themselves as they 
 were wont. We may observe, in confirma- 
 tion of this remark, that children are often 
 prone to soliloquy: and so are men of lively 
 passions. In children, the association is 
 vigorous and entire: in men of lively pas- 
 sions, habits are more tenacious than with 
 men of a cooler temperament. When the 
 contending principles are of equal energy, 
 our emotions arc uttered in broken and in- 
 coherent sentences, and the disordered state 
 of our mind is expressed by interrupted ges- 
 tures, absence of attention, and an agitated 
 demeanour. 
 
 Banquo. Look how our partner's rapt. 
 
 La. Macb. Your face, my Thane, is as a book, where 
 men 
 
 May rca<l strange matters. To beguile the time, 
 
 Look like the time. 
 
 But, when the inward disorder proceeds 
 from the violence of passion, unopposed 
 by internal feelings, and thwarted only by
 
 OF JHflETH. 51 
 
 external circumstances, desirous of success, 
 doubtful concerning the means, delivered 
 from opposing principles, and capable of 
 reflecting, without abhorrence, on intended 
 injury, our soliloquies, if we are disposed 
 to them, are more coherent. Macbeth, 
 reasoning anxiously concerning the conse- 
 quences of his design, reflecting on the opi- 
 nions of mankind, on the hatred and infamy 
 he must incur, and on the resentment he 
 must encounter, overcome by fear, relin- 
 quishes his undertaking. 
 
 If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well 
 It were done quickly: if the assassination 
 Could tramel up the consequence, and catch 
 With his surcease, success ; that but this blow 
 Might be the Be-all, and the End-all here, 
 But here , upon this bank and shoal of time : 
 We'd jump the life to come. But, in these cases, 
 We still have judgment here ; that we but teach 
 Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return 
 To plague the inventor: this even-handed justice 
 Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice 
 To our own lips. He's here in double trust : 
 First, as I am his kinsman and his subject, 
 Strong both against the deed ; then, as his host, 
 Who should against his murth'rer shut the door, 
 Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan 
 E 2
 
 52 THE CHARACTER 
 
 Hath borne his faculties so meek, hatli been 
 
 So clear in his great office, that his virtues 
 
 Will plead, like angels, trumpet-tongu'd, against 
 
 The deep damnation of iiis taking off: 
 
 And pity, like a naked new-born babe, 
 
 Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubin, hors'd 
 
 Upon the sightless couriers of the air, 
 
 Shall blow the horrid deed in ev'ry eye, 
 
 That tears shall drown the wind. 
 
 We will proceed no further in this business: 
 
 He hath honour'd me of late; and I have bought 
 
 Golden opinions from all sorts of people, 
 
 Which should be worn now in their newest gloss, 
 
 Not cast aside so soon. 
 
 Thus, the irregular passion is again re- 
 pulsed: yet symptoms of the decay of virtue 
 are manifest. Immediate instinctive aver- 
 sion, in cases of censure, aecompanies the 
 decisions of our moral faculty: and those 
 who arc deterred from crimes, merely by 
 the dread of punishment, and a regard to 
 the opinions of mankind, betray a vitiated 
 and depraved constitution*. The lively 
 feelings, opposed to ambition, unable, by 
 the vivacity of their first impression, to ex- 
 
 Tu nihil admittes in le formidine poenae ; 
 
 Sit .^>es fallendi ; rnisccbis sacra profanis. Huk.
 
 OF MACBETH. 53 
 
 tirpate the habit, languish, and are enfeebled. 
 The irregular passion, like the persevering 
 Fabius, gathers strength by delay: the vir- 
 tuous principle, like the gallant, but unsup- 
 ported Hannibal, suffers diminution, even 
 by success. Thus, it is manifest, that the 
 contest between the obstinacy of an habi- 
 tuated passion, and the vehemence of an 
 animated feeling, is unequal; and that there 
 is infinite danger even in the apparently in- 
 nocent and imaginary indulgence of a selfish 
 passion. The harmony of the internal sys- 
 tem is nicely adjusted; and the excessive 
 tension or relaxation of any of the parts 
 produces irregular and discordant tones. 
 
 The opinions of mankind are variable: 
 for nations and communities, no less than 
 individuals, are liable to prejudice. Parti- 
 cular emergencies and prepossessions mislead 
 the judgment ; and we applaud, at one time, 
 what we blame at another. A system of 
 conduct, founded on the opinion of others, 
 is, therefore, unstable, inconsistent, and 
 often vicious. Macbeth, considering the as- 
 sassination of Duncan as a deed deserving 
 punishment, is deterred from his enterprize;
 
 54 THE CHARACTER 
 
 but, reflecting upon it as an event which 
 he desired, but durst not accomplish, his 
 courage is questioned, and his honour im- 
 peached. When the sense of honour is cor- 
 rupted, virtue expires. Influenced by fatal 
 prejudices, and flattering himself with the 
 hope of impunity, he finally determines 
 himself, and engages to execute the black 
 design. 
 
 La. Macb. Art thou afeard 
 To be the same in thine own act and valour, 
 As thou art in desire? Would'st thou have that, 
 Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life, 
 And live a coward in thine own esteem ? 
 Letting I dare not wait upon 1 would? 
 
 Macb. Pr'ythee, peace: 
 I dare do all that may become a man 
 If we should fail! 
 
 La. Macb. We fail ! 
 But screw your courage to the sticking place, 
 And we'll not fail. When Duncan is asleep, &x. 
 
 Macb. I'm settled, and bend up 
 Each corporal agent to this terrible feat. 
 
 In the natural and healthful state of the 
 mind, all its operations are regular and cor- 
 rect. The external organs of the senses, 
 corresponding with memory, present objects
 
 OF MACBETH. 55 
 
 to the understanding ; and we reguhte our 
 actions according to the notices they commu- 
 nicate. But, when the mind is seized and 
 occupied by violent passions, its operations 
 are disturbed, and the notices we receive 
 from the senses are disregarded. The sol- 
 dier, in the field of battle, eager to signalize 
 his valour, perceives not that he is wounded, 
 till he falls. The priests of Cybele, ac- 
 tuated by wild enthusiasm, inflicted wounds 
 on their own bodies, and seemed insensible 
 of the pain. In like manner, the notices 
 communicated to the soul of Macbeth, agi- 
 tated and shaken by tumultuous passions, are 
 wild, broken, and incoherent: and reason, 
 beaming at intervals, heightens the horror 
 of his disorder. 
 
 Is this a dagger which I see before me, 
 The handle toward my hand? Come let me clutch 
 
 thee : 
 I have thee not; and yet I see thee still. 
 Art thou not, fatal vision ! sensible 
 To feeling as to sight ? or art thou but 
 A dagger of the mind ; a false creation 
 Proceeding from the heat -oppressed brain? 
 I see thee yet, in form as palpable 
 As this which now I draw.
 
 56 THL CHARACTER 
 
 Thou marshal'st me the way that I was going ; 
 And such an instrument I was to use. 
 Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, 
 Or else worth all the rest : I see thee still ; 
 And on thy blade, and dudgeon, gouts of blood, 
 Which was not so before. There's no such thing. 
 
 Let us review the conflict. Ambition, grown 
 habitual and inveterate in thesoulof Macbeth, 
 suggests the idea of assassination. The sense 
 of virtue, compassion, and other kindred 
 principles, are alarmed, and oppose. His 
 ruling passion is repulsed, but not enfeebled. 
 Resigning himself to the hope of profiting 
 by some future emergency, he renounces the 
 idea of violence. A difficulty appears: it 
 renews, rouzes. and inflames his ambition. 
 The principles of virtue again oppose ; but, 
 by exercise and repetition, they are, for a 
 time enfeebled: they excite no abhorrence: 
 and he reflects, with composure, on his de- 
 sign. But, in reflecting, the apprehension 
 of danger, and the fear of retribution alarm 
 him. He abandons his purpose ; is deemed 
 irresolute: not less innocent for not daring 
 to execute what he dares to desire, he is 
 charged with cowardice: impatient of the
 
 OF MACBETH. 57 
 
 charge, and indignant; harrassed by fear, 
 by the consciousness of guilt, and by huma- 
 nity struggling to resume her influence, he 
 rushes headlong upon his bane. 
 
 III. We come now to consider the effects 
 produced in the mind of Macbeth by the 
 indulgence of the vicious passion. Invested 
 with royalty, he has attained the summit of 
 his desires. His ambition is completely gra- 
 tified. Will he, therefore, enjoy repose ? 
 Unmolested by anxiety and fruitless wishes, 
 will he enjoy the happiness of his condition, 
 and the dignity he has so dearly purchased? 
 Or will the principles of virtue that opposed 
 his preferment, baffled and put to shame, 
 submit, without murmuring, to the yoke ; 
 and, unable to recal the past, acquiesce, and 
 be silent ? 
 
 All cases of internal conflict and commo- 
 tion suppose vigorous and opposing princi- 
 ples. But principles inherent in our con- 
 stitutions are seldom extirpated. Suppose 
 them vanquished. The contending passion 
 is gratified. A passion, when gratified, 
 ceases to operate : it no longer exists ; and
 
 $X THE CHARACTER 
 
 the mind is left vacant. But passions or 
 propensities that have been suppressed by 
 incompatible and more powerful principles, 
 still remain in the mind; and when opposi- 
 tion is removed, they arise and resume their 
 station. The profligate, hurried away by 
 unruly appetites, plunges into every species 
 of excess: and when his desires are sated, 
 conscience, formerly active, but disregarded, 
 overwhelms him with deep contrition. This 
 state of mind continues, till the irregular ap- 
 petites recover strength, solicit indulgence, 
 and are obeved. Regret follows: and his 
 lift i-> thus divided between the extravagance 
 of illicit desire, and the despondency ol re- 
 pentance. In Macbeth, the amiable and 
 itiments of humanity and com- 
 o{ duty, and a regard to 
 I he opinions of mankind, contended with 
 ambition. Their efforts were ineffectual, 
 but their principles were not extinguished. 
 Formerly^ they warned and intrcatcd ; but, 
 when the deed is perpetrated, and no adver- 
 to them, they return with 
 violence, they accuse and condemn. Mac- 
 beth, alarmed by his feelings, now operating
 
 OF MACBETH. 59 
 
 without controul, reflects with astonishment 
 on his conduct ; and his soul, darkened 
 with horror, shudders and is confounded at 
 the atrocity of his guilt. He feels himself 
 the object of universal hatred and indigna- 
 tion. Religious sentiments, formerly weak 
 and disregarded, are now animated by his 
 confusion ; and, borrowing their complexion 
 from his present temper, they terrify and 
 overwhelm him. Amazed at the atrocity of 
 his own proceedings, conscious of perfidy 
 .and injustice, and of the resentment they 
 will excite ; apprehensive, that both heaven 
 and earth are stirred up against him, his 
 fancy is haunted with tremendous images, 
 and his soul distracted with remorse and 
 terror. 
 
 I have done the deed: Did'st thou not hear a noise? 
 There's one did laugh in his sleep, and one cried, Murder.' 
 That they did wake each other : I stood and heard them. 
 One cried, God bless us 1 and, Amen t the other ; 
 As they had seen me with these hangman's hands 
 Listening their fear. I could not say, Amen, 
 
 When they did say, God bless us. 
 
 But wherefore could not I pronounce, Amen ? 
 I had most need of blessing, and Amen 
 Stuck in my throat.
 
 60 THE CHARACTER 
 
 Methought I heard a voice cry, Sleep no more .' 
 
 Macbeth doth murder sleep. 
 
 Still it cry' 1, SUep no more! to all the house; 
 Glamis hath murder' d sleep ; and therefore Cawdor 
 Shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall sleep no more. 
 
 Macbeth, elevated with high and aspiring 
 wishes, dazzled with the glare of royalty, 
 and instigated by keen ambition, entertains 
 opinions bordering on impiety; and, thoughts 
 of retribution in a future state of existence 
 seeming to affect him slightly, he would 
 "jump the life to come." But, having per- 
 petrated the bloody deed, every noise appals 
 him; and. when others prefer their orisons 
 to heaven, he cannot say Amen. 
 
 If impelled by irregular and headstrong 
 passions, we not only transgress the limits 
 of rectitude, but are guilty of heinous acts 
 of oppression and violence, reflecting on 
 the sentiments of mankind, and measuring 
 them by our own, we imagine ourselves no 
 les>. abhorred by the spectator, than by the 
 sufferer. Conscious of our crimes, and ap- 
 prehensive of the resentment and indignation 
 they have necessarily excited, we dread the 
 punishment they deserve, and endeavour
 
 OF MACBETH. 61 
 
 to avoid it. By suspicion and distrust, the 
 necessary offspring of treachery, the soul is 
 for ever tormented. Perfidious ourselves, 
 we repose no confidence in mankind, and 
 are incapable of friendship. We are parti- 
 cularly fearful of all those to whom eminent 
 virtue and integrity have given a strong 
 sense of injustice, and to whom wisdom 
 and intrepidity have given power to punish. 
 Prompted by our fears, we hate every ami- 
 able and exalted character, we wage Avar with 
 the virtuous, and endeavour, by their de- 
 struction, to prevent our own. So tyrannical 
 is the dominion of vice, that it compels us 
 to hate what nature, having ordained for 
 our benefit, has rendered lovely, and recom- 
 mended to our esteem. 
 
 To be thus, is nothing, 
 But to be safely thus : Our fears in Banquo 
 Stick deep ; and in his royalty of nature 
 Reigns that, which would be feared. 'Tis much he dares, 
 And, to that dauntless temper of his mind, 
 He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valour 
 To act in safety. There is none but he, 
 Whose being I do fear : and under him 
 My genius is rebuk'd.
 
 i)2 THE CHARACTER 
 
 Whoever regards with suitable veneration 
 the rights of mankind, the sanctity of friend- 
 ship, and the duty wc owe to legal authority; 
 whoever with these, possesses a heart sus- 
 ceptible of tenderness and of compassion, 
 will have a higher sense of injury and in- 
 justice than men of colder complexions, and 
 less strongly impressed with the importance 
 of social duties. Therefore, if a man of 
 uncommon sensibility, adorned with amiable 
 and beneficient dispositions, misled by some 
 pernicious appetite, commits acts of cruelty 
 and oppression, he will be more apt, by 
 reflecting on his own conduct, to conceive 
 the resentment and indignation it excites, 
 than men of a different temper. Reflecting 
 on the compassion and resentment that would 
 have arisen in his own mind, on the view 
 of crimes similar to those he has himself 
 perpetrated, he becomes afraid of the punish- 
 ment he would himself have inflicted. Thus, 
 instigated by his fears, and, imagining him- 
 self universally hated, he conceives a senti- 
 ment of universal hatred ; and, as his fears 
 are exactly proportioned to his feelings and 
 sensibility, so are his hatred and malevolence.
 
 OF MACBETH. G3 
 
 In like manner, a man of no sensibility, of 
 little beneficence, and little affected by so- 
 cial obligation, carried by avarice or ambition 
 to commit acts of injustice, and having no 
 lively conceptions, from his own feelings, 
 of the resentment he has excited, will, con- 
 sequently, be less afraid of mankind, and 
 of course, less violent in his hatred. It 
 follows, that, in the circumstances of having 
 procured undue possessions by inhuman 
 means, and of desiring to preserve them, 
 men of innate sensibility will be more cruel 
 and sanguinary, than men naturally severe, 
 rugged, and insensible. May not these ob- 
 servations unravel a seeming; difficult v in the 
 histories of Sylla, and Augustus, of Nero, 
 and of Herod ? Sylla and Augustus, na- 
 turally severe, having attained the summit 
 of their desires, had no imaginary appre- 
 hensions of punishment, and ended their 
 days in peace. Nero and Herod, naturally 
 of soft and amiable dispositions, betrayed 
 by unruly passions, committed acts of cru- 
 elty, were conscious of their crimes, dreaded 
 the resentment they deserved, and. in order 
 to avoid it, became infamous and inhuman.
 
 64 THE CHARACTER 
 
 By considering Sylla and Augustus in this 
 light, some extraordinary circumstances in 
 their conduct, much celebrated by some 
 modern writers, namely the resignation of 
 the dictatorship by the one, and the appa- 
 rent clemency of the other, alter he rose 
 to the imperial dignity, seem divested of 
 their merit; and, without having recourse to 
 moderate or magnanimous sentiments, may 
 easily be explained, as being perfectly conso- 
 nant to the general tone of their characters. 
 Sylla resigned the dictatorship, without any 
 dread of suffering punishment for his ante- 
 cedent cruelties, not because he had extirpated 
 all those he had injured, but because his sen- 
 sibility and his power of discerning moral 
 excellence being originally languid, he felt 
 no abhorrence of his own ferocity; and 
 therefore, incapable of conceiving how any 
 but real sufTerers should feel or resent his 
 barbarity, he was incapable of apprehension. 
 Augustus, naturally of an unfeeling temper, 
 committed inhuman actions in pursuing the 
 honours he aspired to, and having estab- 
 lished his authority as absolutely and as 
 independently as he wished for, he had no
 
 OF MACBETH. 05 
 
 sense of his former inhumanity, had no re- 
 gret for the past, and no fear of the future. 
 Reasoning on the same principles, we may 
 easily reconcile some appearances of benig- 
 nity and tender affection in the conduct of 
 Nero and of Herod, to their natural and 
 original dispositions. That, in the early 
 part of their lives, they discovered gentle 
 and benign affections is unquestioned. But 
 their subsequent cruelties, and particularly 
 those related by ecclesiastical writers, have 
 led men, indignant of their crimes, to pro- 
 nounce them, in the very structure and 
 constitution of their minds, monstrous and 
 inhuman. Thus, from excessive resentment 
 and indignation, we lessen the enormity of 
 their guilt, charging that ferocity upon na- 
 ture, which was the effect of their own 
 impetuous and ungoverned passions. Sen- 
 sibility is in itself amiable, and disposes us 
 to benevolence : but, in corrupted minds, 
 by infusing terror, it produces hatred and 
 inhumanity. So dangerous is the dominion 
 of vice, that being established in the mind, 
 it bends to its baneful purposes even the 
 principles of virtue. Lady Macbeth, of 
 
 F
 
 66 THE CHARACTER 
 
 a character invariably savage, perhaps too 
 savage to be a genuine representation of 
 nature*, proceeds easily, and without reluc- 
 tance, to the contrivance of the blackest 
 crimes. Macbeth, of a softer temper, and 
 full of the M milk of human kindness," 
 struggles, and is reluctant. Lady Macbeth 
 encourages and incites him. He commits 
 the deed, trembles, and is filled with horror. 
 Lady Macbeth enjoys perfect composure, is 
 neither shocked nor terrified, and reproves 
 him for his fears. 
 
 Why, worthy Thane, 
 Do you unbend y< ur noble strength to think 
 
 So btaiu--itkljr of things? 
 
 My brads are of your colour, but I scorn 
 To wear a heart so white. 
 
 Macbeth, instigated by his apprehensions, 
 meditates another act of barbarity. Lady 
 Macbeth, so far from beinjj afraid of conse- 
 quences, or from having contrived another 
 >sination, is even ignorant of his inten- 
 I ; but on being informed of them, she- 
 
 very easily acquiesces. 
 
 * Elements of Criticism. 
 
 Jt+ lW 1 /, 

 
 OF MACBETH. 67 
 
 La. Macb. Come on ; gentle my lord, 
 Sleek o'er your rugged loots ; be bright and jovial 
 Among your guests to-night. 
 
 Macb. Oh ! full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife! 
 Thou lenow'st, that Banquo, and his Fleance lives. 
 
 La. Macb. What's to be done ? 
 
 Macb. Be innocent of the knowledge, 
 Till thou applaud the deed. Come, feeling night,, 
 Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day, 
 And with thy bloody and invisible hand 
 Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond, 
 Which keeps me pale. 
 
 Macbeth, urged by his terrors, adds one 
 act of cruelty to another ; and thus, instead 
 of vanquishing his fears, he augments them. 
 His agony increases, and renders him still 
 more barbarous and distrustful. 
 
 There's not a thane of them, but in his house 
 I keep a servant fee'd 
 The castle of Macduff 1 will surprize, he. 
 
 He, at length, meets with the punishment 
 due to his enormous cruelty. 
 
 Macduff. Hail, king! for so thou art. Behold where 
 stands 
 Th' usurper's cursed head;
 
 68 THE CHARACTER, ScC. 
 
 Thus, by considering the rise and pro- 
 gress of a ruling passion, and the fatal con- 
 sequences of its indulgence, we have shown, 
 how a beneficent mind may become inhu- 
 man: and how those who are naturally of 
 an amiable temper, if they suffer themselves 
 to be corrupted, will become more ferocious 
 and more unhappy than men of a consti- 
 tution originally hard and unfeeling. The 
 formation of our characters depends con- 
 siderably upon ourselves ; for we may im- 
 prove, or vitiate, every principle we receive 
 from nature.
 
 ESSAY II. 
 
 ON THE CHARACTER OF HAMLET. 
 
 IN analyzing the mind of Hamlet, I shall 
 accompany him in his different situations. I 
 shall observe the various principles of action 
 that govern him in various circumstances; 
 and sum up the whole with a general view 
 of his character. 
 
 In his first appearance, he discovers grief, 
 aversion, and indignation. These emotions 
 are in themselves indifferent : they are nei- 
 ther objects of censure nor of applause: 
 they are of a secondary nature, and arise 
 from some antecedent passion or affection. 
 To judge, therefore, of their propriety, we 
 must examine their motives, and the temper 
 or state of mind that produces them. For
 
 70 THE CHARACTER 
 
 we may grieve for the loss of a vicious gra- 
 tification, no less than for those that are 
 virtuous : and we may conceive aversion at 
 worthy characters, no less than at their op- 
 posites. But the grief of Hamlet is for the 
 death of a father : he entertains aversion 
 against an incestuous uncle, and indignation 
 at the ingratitude and guilt of a mother. 
 Grief is passive : if its object be irretrievably 
 lost, it is attended with no desires, and rouses 
 no active principle. After the first emotions, 
 it disposes us to silence, solitude, and in- 
 action. If it is blended with other passions, 
 its operations will pass unnoticed, lost in the 
 violence of other emotions, though even 
 these it may have originally excited, and 
 may secretly stimulate. Accordingly, though 
 sorrow be manifest in the features and de- 
 meanour of Hamlet, aversion and indig- 
 nation are the feelings he expresses. Aversion 
 not only implies dislike and disapprobation 
 of certain qualities, but also an apprehen- 
 sion of suffering by their communion ; and, 
 consequently, a desire of avoiding them. 
 As it arises on the view of groveling and 
 sordid qualities, we treat the charaeter they
 
 OF HAMLET. 71 
 
 belong to with contempt, rather than with 
 indignation. They influence the imagina- 
 tion; we turn from them with diso-iut and 
 loathing, as if they were capable of tainting 
 us by their contagion ; and, if those that 
 possess them discover any expectation of our 
 regarding them, we are offended at their 
 pretensions. Claudius, endeavouring to caress 
 and flatter Hamlet, of whose virtues and 
 abilities he is afraid, thinks of honouring 
 him by a claim of consanguinity, and is re- 
 plied to with symptoms of contempt and 
 aversion. Yet Hamlet delivers himself am- 
 biguously, inclined to vent his displeasure, 
 but unwilling to incur suspicion. 
 
 King. But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son 
 Ham. A little more than kin, and less than kind. 
 King. How is it, that the clouds still hang on you? 
 Ham. Not so, my lord, I am too much i' the sun. 
 
 Aversion has no reference to any thing 
 amiable or respectable. Indignation is dif- 
 ferent. It arises, as the etymology of the 
 words indicates, from the sense of something 
 unworthy. But the unworthy in human 
 conduct affects us by contrast: and this
 
 72 THE CHARACTER 
 
 contrast is either between the antecedent 
 behaviour or imagined good character of 
 the agent, and the particular actions that 
 expose him to our present censure ; or it is 
 between the merits of a sufferer, and the in- 
 juries he sustains. We say, your deed is 
 unworthy, if you act inconsistently with 
 your usual good conduct ; and that you suffer 
 unworthily, if behaving honourably you are 
 defamed. The indignation of Hamlet arises 
 from both of these sources, both from the 
 merit of his father, and from the behaviour 
 of Gertrude. It is, therefore, vehement. 
 But, as the circumstances of the times ren- 
 der it dangerous for him to discover his sen- 
 timents, and the real state of his mind, he 
 governs them, as far as the ardour of his 
 emotions allows him, and disguises their ex- 
 ternal symptoms. His indignation labours 
 for utterance ; and his reason strives to re- 
 strain it. He inveighs with keenness, but 
 obliquely, against the insincerity of Ger- 
 trude's sorrow ; and, in an indirect, but 
 stinging manner, opposes her duty to her 
 actual conduct.
 
 OF HAMLET. 75 
 
 Seems, Madam ? nay, it is ; I know not seems. 
 'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, 
 Nor customary suits of solemn black, 
 Nor windy suspiration of forc'd breath, 
 No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, 
 Nor the dejected 'haviour of the visage, 
 Together with all forms, modes, shews of grief, 
 That can denote me truly. These, indeed, seem, 
 For they are actions that a man might play : 
 But I have that within, which passeth shew ; 
 These, but the trappings, and the suits of woe. 
 
 The human mind, possessed of distinguish- 
 ed faculties, and actuated by various prin- 
 ciples, is, nevertheless, extremely limited. 
 As the understanding is capable of attending 
 but to a certain number of objects at a time ; 
 so the heart is never at the same time in- 
 fluenced by a number of violent passions. 
 Perhaps there is a greater difference in the 
 minds of men, in regard to the capacity of 
 the understanding, than in regard to that of 
 the heart. One man, perhaps, may con- 
 template at the same moment a "wider range 
 of objects than another, but cannot, at the 
 same moment, be agitated by a greater num- 
 ber of passions. It may, indeed, be a ques- 
 tion, how far the capacity of the under-
 
 74 . THE CHARACTER 
 
 standing may not influence the passions. In 
 governing them, it may have some effect, as 
 it may enable us to consider the cause or sub- 
 ject of our emotions under different aspects. 
 For, does it not often happen, that a partial 
 view of an object lenders the passion it ex- 
 cites more violent? Yet, if the soul is ex- 
 ceedingly moved, our thoughts will not arise 
 in their natural and common order, but will 
 be entirely regulated by the present passion 
 or state of mind. It is a certain fact, con- 
 firmed by universal experience, and it may 
 be laid down as an important axiom in the 
 study of human nature, that our notions and 
 opinions are ever influenced by our present 
 temper. Happy is the man who is often calm 
 and dispassionate, who, impelled by no eager 
 appetite, nor urged by any restless affection, 
 sees every object by the unerring light of 
 reason, and is not imposed upon by the fal- 
 lacious medium of his desires. Men of a 
 susceptible nature, the prey of successive 
 emotions, for ever happy or miserable in 
 extremes, often capricious and inconsistent, 
 ought to cherish their lucid intervals, and 
 dwell upon, and treasure up in their mind*
 
 OF HAMLET. 75 
 
 those maxims of wisdom and virtue, that, 
 in times of internal tumult, may assuage 
 their disorder, and administer peace to their 
 souls. In consequence of the limited nature 
 of the human heart, ever apt to he engrossed 
 and occupied by present emotions, and of 
 the power of passion to enslave the under- 
 standing, and possess it with notions suited 
 to its own complexion; the mind of Hamlet,- 
 violently agitated, and filled with displeasing 
 and painful images, loses all sense of felicity. 
 He even wishes for a change of being. The 
 appearance is wonderful, and leads us to 
 inquire into the affections and opinions that 
 could render him so despondent. The death 
 of his father was a natural evil, and as such 
 he endures it. That he is excluded from 
 succeeding immediately to the royalty that 
 belongs to him, seems to affect him slightly: 
 
 for to vehement and vain ambition he ap- 
 pears superior. He is moved by finer prin- 
 ciples, by an exquisite sense of virtue, of 
 moral beauty and turpitude. ^kThe impro- 
 priety ofGej^tnide2s_J>eJ^aviour, her ingra- 
 v titude to the memory of her former husband, 
 and the depravity she discovers in the rho!ce 
 
 li
 
 76 THE CHARACTER 
 
 of a successor, afflict his soul, and cast him 
 into utter agony. Here then is. the, principle 
 and spring of all his actions : let us observe 
 it closely as it excites other feelings and 
 affections, unites or contends with them, is 
 inflamed as they are inflamed, and governed 
 as they are governed. 
 
 It is acknowledged, even by men of cor- 
 rupted manners, that there is in human nature 
 a supreme, and, in many cases, a powerful 
 principle, that pronounces sentence on the 
 conduct of mankind, and, in well-regulated 
 tempers, is a source of anguish or of delight. 
 In minds uncommonly excellent, it is more 
 frequently a fountain of bitter suffering, 
 than of immediate pleasure. This may teem 
 a paradox; but, by reflecting on the following 
 brief observations, the difficulty will dis- 
 appear. If our sense of virtue is exceedingly 
 refined, or, in other words, if our standard 
 of moral excellence is exceedingly elevated, 
 comparing our own conduct with this ex- 
 alted measure, and perceiving the difference, 
 our joy on acting agreeably to the dictates 
 of reason will suffer abatement. Add to 
 this, that ingenuous minds, happy in the
 
 OF HAMLET. 77 
 
 consciousness of their integrity, yet afraid of 
 arrogating too much honour to themselves, 
 will diminish the value of their good actions 
 rather than augment it. The same delicacy 
 of moral sentiment, the same elevated idea 
 of perfection, will heighten the misery of a 
 good man, if he accuses himself of any tres- 
 pass. It is not the dread of punishment, for 
 punishment is not always inflicted : it is not 
 the pain of infamy, for wicked deeds may 
 be done in secret ; but it is the rebuke of 
 an internal censor, who will neither be flat- 
 tered nor deceived*. 
 
 The man whose sense of moral excellence 
 is uncommonly exquisite, will find it a source 
 of pleasure and of pain in his commerce with 
 mankind. Susceptible of every moral im- 
 pression, the display of virtuous actions will 
 yield him delight, and the contrary excite 
 
 * Oime son io son io. 
 Che giova ch' io non oda e non paventi 
 I ditti 'el mormorar pell folle volgo, 
 O 1' accuse de saggi, o i fieri morsi 
 Di troppo acuto o veltnoso deute ? 
 Se la mia propria conscienza iramonda 
 Altamente nel cor rhnbomba e mugge. 
 
 II Torrisroondo dell Tasse.
 
 7$ THE CHARACTER 
 
 uneasiness. He will not receive that genuine 
 and supreme felicity in associating with the 
 wealthy and the magnificent, the gay and 
 the loquacious, if they have nothing in their 
 hearts to recommend them, that he will en- 
 joy in the society of gentle, benevolent, and 
 enlightened spirits, though they are not the 
 favourites of fortune, and have not that glit- 
 ter and false brilliancy of intellectual en- 
 dowments, that dazzle without being useful, 
 yet often recommend men of slender abili- 
 ties and less virtue, to the attention of man- 
 kind. As moral qualities are those, princi- 
 pally, that produce and cement his attach- 
 ments, the esteem he entertains for his as- 
 sociates will be exactly proportioned to their 
 degree of merit. To eraze an established 
 affection, and substitute aversion, or even in- 
 difference, in its stead, does violence to our 
 nature ; and to see those, for whom we have 
 contraeted habits of attachment and regard, 
 act inconsistently with their former conduct, 
 and show dispositions of an immoral kind, 
 and so lay the ax to the root of our fairest 
 friendships, overwhelms us with anguish: 
 our affliction will bear an exact proportion
 
 OF HAMLJET. 79 
 
 to our former tenderness, and consequently, 
 to our belief of former merit. Add to this, 
 that even a slight transgression in those we 
 esteem, if it is evidently a transgression will 
 affect us more sensibly than a gross enormi- 
 ty committed by a person indifferent to us. 
 So delicate is your affection, and so refined 
 your sense of moral excellence, when the 
 moral faculty is softened into a tender 
 attachment, that the sanctity and purity 
 of the heart you love must appear to 
 you without a stain. The triumph and 
 inward joy of a son, on account of the 
 fame and the high desert of a parent, is of 
 a nature very sublime and tender. His sor- 
 row is no less acute and overwhelming, if 
 the son or the parent, united to him by a 
 connection so intimate, have acted unbe^- 
 comingly, and have incurred disgrace. Such 
 is the condition of Hamlet. Exquisitely 
 sensible of moral beauty and deformity, he 
 discerns turpitude in a parent. Surprize, 
 On a discovery so painful and unexpected, 
 adds bitterness to his sorrow ; and led, by 
 the same moral principle, to admire and 
 glory in the high desert of his father, even
 
 tO THE CHARACTER 
 
 this admiration contributes to his uneasiness. 
 Aversion to his un cle, arising^Jronxthe same 
 origin, has a similar tendency, and augments 
 his anguish. All these feelings and emo- 
 tions uniting together, are rendered still 
 more violent, being exasperated by his recent 
 interview with the Queen. Agitated and 
 overwhelmed with afflicting images, no 
 soothing, no exhilarating affection can have 
 admission into his heart. His imagination 
 is visited by no vision of happiness ; and he 
 wishes for deliverance from his afflictions, 
 by being delivered from a painful existence. 
 
 Oh ! that this too too solid flesh would melt, 
 Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew ! 
 Or that the everlasting had not fix'd 
 His cannon 'gainst self-slaughter. O Cod, O God 1 
 How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable 
 Seem to me all the uses of this world ! 
 Fie on't ! O lie ! 'Tis an unweeded garden, 
 That grows to seed ; things rank, and gross in nature, 
 Possess it merely. 
 
 I>\ giving vent to any passion, its violence 
 
 at the time increases. Those, for instance, 
 
 who express their sorrow by shedding tears, 
 
 themselves at the instant of weeping
 
 OF HAMLET. 31 
 
 nore excessively affected than persons of a 
 more reserved and inflexible constitution. 
 Yet, by thus giving vent to their inquietude, 
 they find relief, while those of a taciturn 
 humour are the victims of unabating pain : 
 and the reason is, that the emotion, raised 
 to its highest extreme, can no longer con- 
 tinue equally violent, and so subsides. In 
 cases of this nature, that is, when emotions, 
 by being expressed, become excessive, the 
 mind passes from general reflections to mi- 
 nute and particular circumstances: and ima- 
 gination, the pliant flatterer \ of the passion 
 in power, renders these circumstances still 
 more particular, and better adapted to pro- 
 mote its vehemence. In the foregoing lines 
 the reflections are general ; but, in these that 
 follow, they become particular ; and the / 
 emotion waxing stronger, the imagination, 
 by exhibiting suitable images, and by fitting 
 to its purpose even the time between the 
 death and the marriage, renders it excessive. 
 
 That it should come to t'us ! 
 But two months dead ! nay, not so much ; not two : 
 So excellent a king, that was, to this, 
 Hyperian to a satyr 1 So loving to my mother, 
 G
 
 $2 THE CHARACTER 
 
 That he might not beteem the winds of heaven 
 Visit her face too roughly. 
 
 The emotion grows still more vehement, 
 and overflows the mind with a tide of cor- 
 responding images. 
 
 Heaven and earth ! 
 Must I remember ? Why, she would hang on him, 
 As if increase of appetite hjd grown 
 By what it fed on : and yet, within a month 
 
 Observe too, that Hamlet's indignation is 
 augmented gradually, by admiration of his 
 father, ' So excellent a king ;' by abhorrence 
 of Claudius, ' That was, to this, Hyperion 
 to a Satyr ;' and, finally, by a stinging reflec- 
 tion on the Queen's inconstancy : 
 
 Why, she would hang on him, 
 As if increase of appetite had grown 
 By what it fed on : and yet, within a month 
 
 This affects him so severely, that he strives 
 to obliterate the idea. 
 
 Let me not think on't 
 By this effort he loses sight, for a moment,
 
 OF HAMLET. 8$ 
 
 of the particular circumstances that gave 
 him pain. The impression, however, is not 
 entirely effaced ; and he expresses it by a 
 general reflection. 
 
 Frailty, thy name is woman ! 
 
 This expression is too refined and artificial 
 for a mind strongly agitated : yet, it agrees 
 entirely with such a degree of emotion and 
 pensiveness as disposes us to moralize. Con- 
 sidered as the language of a man violently af- 
 fected, it is improper: considered in relation 
 to what goes before and follows after, it ap- 
 pears perfectly natural. Hamlet's laboured 
 composure is imperfect; it is exceedingly 
 tr ansient; a nd he relapses into deeper an- 
 guish. Though he turned aside from a pain- 
 ful idea, he was unable to remove the im- 
 pression, or vary in any considerable degree 
 his state of mind : the impression remained, 
 and restored the idea in its fullest vigour. 
 
 A little month ; or ere those shoes were old, 
 With which she followed my poor father's body, 
 Like Niobe, all tears Why, she, even she 
 O heaven ! a beast, that wants discourse of reason, 
 6 2
 
 84 THE CHARACTER 
 
 \ Would have mourn'd longer married with my uncle, 
 My father's brother ; but no more like ray father 
 ^Than I to Hercules. 
 
 It is also observable, that, in consequence 
 of the increasing violence of his emotion, the 
 time so dexterously diminished from two 
 months, to a little month, and to even less 
 than a little month, is rendered as it were 
 visible by allusions and circumstances so 
 striking, as to have in themselves a powerful 
 tendency to stimulate and augment his an- 
 guish. 
 
 Or ere those shoes were old, 
 With which she follow'd my poor father's body, Sec. 
 
 And again : 
 
 Within a month 
 Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears 
 Had left the flushing on her galled eyes- 
 She married ! 
 
 I lie disis of his agitation, heightened to 
 Ktremity, is strongly marked in the fol- 
 lowing exclamation : 
 
 \ Oh, most wicked speed, to post 
 With such dexterity to incestuous sheets ! 

 
 OF HAMLET. 8~> 
 
 The observation following immediately- 
 after, is that of a mind reflecting, with some 
 composure, on effects and consequences. 
 
 It is not, nor it cannot come to good. 
 
 Hamlet, in his retirement, expresses his 
 agony without reserve, and by giving it ut- 
 terance he receives relief. In public he 
 restrains it, and welcomes his friends with 
 that ease and affability which are the result 
 of polished manners, good sense, and huma- 
 nity. Influenced by an exquisite sense of 
 propriety, he would do nothing unbecom- 
 ing": he therefore suppresses every emotion 
 which others cannot easily enter into: he 
 strives, as much as possible, to bring the tone 
 ojjhis own_ mind into unison with theirs ; 
 he not only conceals his internal affliction, 
 but would appear unconcerned : he would 
 seem sprightly, or at least cheerful : he even 
 jests with his friends ; and would have his 
 conversation, though graceful, appear easy 
 and familiar. Yet in his demeanour we dis- 
 cover a certain air of pensiveness and so- 
 
 * Smith's Theory of Moral Sentiments.
 
 86 THE CHARACTER 
 
 lemnity, arising naturally from his inward 
 uneasiness. 
 
 Hor. Hail to your Lordship ! 
 
 Ham, I am glad to see you well ; 
 Horatio, or I do forget myself? 
 
 Hor. The same, my Lord, and your poor servant 
 ever. 
 
 Ham. Sir, my good friend ; I'll change that name 
 with you. 
 And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio? 
 Marcellus ! 
 
 Mar. My good Lord 
 
 Ham. I am very glad to see you ? good even, Sir. 
 But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg ? 
 
 Hor. A truant disposition, good my Lord. 
 Ham. I would not hear your enemy say so; 
 Nor shall you do mine ear that violence, 
 To make it truster of your own report 
 Against yourself. I know, you are no truant. 
 But what is your affair in Elsenour? 
 We'll teach you to drink deep, ere you depart. 
 
 Hor. My Lord, I came to see your father's funeral. 
 
 On a subject so interesting as his father's 
 funeral, he cannot easily command himself; 
 and, reposing confidence in the loyalty of 
 his friend, he does not entirely disguise his 
 emotion. He corrects it, however ; and, 
 avoiding any appearance of violence or of
 
 OF HAMLET. 87 
 
 extravagance, he expresses himself with hu- 
 mour. 
 
 I pray thee, do not mock me, fellow student ; 
 I think, it was to see my mother's wedding. 
 
 Hor. Indeed, my Lord, it follow'd hard upon. 
 
 Ham. Thrift, thrift, Horatio! the funeral bak'd meats 
 Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables. 
 
 Yet he is too violently agitated to pre- 
 serve, uniformly, the character of a cheerful 
 satirist. He becomes serious. 
 
 Would I had met ray dearest foe in heaven, 
 Or ever I had seen that day, Horatio. 
 
 Having expressed himself strongly, and 
 possessing a delicate sense of propriety, he 
 thinks it necessary to explain the cause. 
 About to preface it with an account of 
 his father, he mentions him : 
 
 My father 
 
 The thought strikes his mind with a sud- 
 den and powerful impulse : he pauses : for- 
 gets his intention of explaining himself to
 
 88 THE CHARACTER 
 
 Horatio: the image of his father possesses 
 him ; and, by the most solemn and striking 
 apostrophe that ever poet invented, he im- 
 presses it on his audience. 
 
 Methinks, I see my father' 
 Hor. Where, my Lord ? 
 Hum. In my mind's eye, Horatio. 
 
 Returning: from his reverie, he mentions 
 his character to Horatio, not by a particular 
 detail, but in a summary manner, as if it 
 were the result of a preceding enumeration. 
 Horatio, astonished at his abstracted aspect 
 and demeanour, and having imagined that 
 he saw the apparition which he had him- 
 
 li beheld, by a natural and easy transition, 
 makes mention of the ghost. 
 
 Hor. I saw him once, he was a goodly king. 
 Hum. He was a man, take liim for all in nil, 
 I shall not look upon his like again. 
 
 Hor. My Lord, I think, I saw him yesternight, Sec. 
 
 The whole of this scene between Hamlet 
 and his friends is masterly and affecting. 
 1 Iamlet, exceedingly moved, expresses amaze- 
 ment: yet he utters nothing verbose and
 
 OF HAMLET. 89 
 
 extravagant, nor any violent exclamation of 
 wonder. The narration is simple, and the 
 dialogue easy. Though the prince can en- 
 tertain no doubt of the veracity of his friends, 
 he is not credulous ; and he questions them 
 very minutely concerning the circumstances 
 of the prodigy. His inquiries indicate ex- 
 treme uneasiness, and even suspicion, con- 
 cerning his father's death: yet he moderates 
 his apprehensions, and will not indulge his 
 suspicion, till, by the testimony of his senses, 
 he is assured of the fact. 
 
 I'll watch to-night ; perchance, 'twill walk again. - 
 
 I cannot quit this admirable scene, with- 
 out remarking the superiority of a natural, 
 simple, and unaffected dialogue, to the vanity 
 of figurative and elaborate diction. It has 
 been of late insinuated, that poetical genius 
 is on the decline, and that, if modern dra- 
 matic writers abound in declamation and arti- 
 ficial ornament, instead of the lang-uaij-e of 
 nature, it is owing to the languor and steri- 
 lity of their invention. May not the cause 
 be different? Are we confident if a genuine
 
 90 THE CHARACTER 
 
 representation of human passions and man- 
 ners, conveyed in artless unaffected language, 
 were exhibited to us, that we would comply 
 with the admonitions of nature, and applaud 
 as our feelings dictate? Are we confident 
 that the pride of learning and the vanity of 
 possessing critical discernment, do not im- 
 pose on our better judgment, and that we 
 are not more attentive to the harmony of a 
 period, than to the happy utterance of 
 passion ? 
 
 Hamlet, in some of the foregoing passages, 
 betrays suspicion. But suspicion is not na- 
 tural to a humane and ingenuous temper. 
 Is it, therefore, a blemish, or the result of 
 an amiable disposition influenced by a sense 
 of virtue ? 
 
 %T It is a property of the imagination, when 
 governed by any passion or opinion, to fol- 
 low the impulse it has received, and to dimi- 
 nish or aggrandize any object not perfectly 
 known to us, according to the judgment we 
 may have formed of it. Under the influ- 
 ence of fear, men, tainted with superstition, 
 people darkness and the night with spectres, 
 and terrify and torment themselves with
 
 OF HAMLET. 91 
 
 imaginary danger. If we are threatened 
 with any unusual calamity, the nature and 
 extent of which is unknown to us, governed 
 by our terrors, we render its stature gigan- 
 tic : but, if actuated by an intrepid spirit, 
 we brave and undervalue it : approaching 
 to temerity and overweening confidence, we 
 are apt to lessen it beyond its real size. If 
 a man of plausible manners, dexterous in 
 displaying his genius and understanding, 
 secures your esteem, and an opinion of his 
 beino; endowed with uncommon abilities, 
 you set no limits to his capacity, and ima- 
 gining him wiser and more ingenious than 
 he really is, you are almost led to revere 
 him. To explain the cause of these appear- 
 ances is difficult : yet a conjecture may be 
 hazarded. If we think attentively on any 
 subject, many qualities and properties that 
 may belong to it, or views of the relation it 
 may have to other objects, are often sug- 
 gested : though of their actual existence we 
 are not assured. Yet, if we cannot nega- 
 tively affirm that they do not belong to it ; 
 on the contrary, if they are agreeable to its 
 nature and circumstances, their spontaneous
 
 92 THE CHARACTER 
 
 appearance in our minds, as connected with 
 it, affords a presumption that they really 
 exist. Our belief, though not absolutely 
 confirmed, is yet swayed by a plausible pro- 
 bability ; and what strengthens it still the 
 more, is a reflection on the narrowness of 
 our powers, and the imperfection of our 
 senses. We reason from analogy, and think 
 it impossible that an object should be so 
 completely known to us, as that we can pro- 
 nounce with certainty that we are intimately 
 acquainted with the whole of its structure ; 
 and that qualities agreeing perfectly with its 
 nature do not reside in it, merely because 
 we do not discern them. As wc are natu- 
 rally inclined to action, a state of doubt and 
 suspense is ever accompanied with uneasi- 
 ness ; we bear uncertainty with reluctance ; 
 we must be resolved ; and if we cannot 
 prove a negative, even a slight probability 
 as ill influence our belief. Therefore, since 
 corresponding qualities and relations are 
 presented and engage the attention of our 
 ing faculty, we seldom hesitate, but 
 ascribe them immediately to the cause or 
 object of pur emotion. If they aie urged
 
 OF HAMLET. 93 
 
 upon us in a lively manner, the impression 
 they make will have a corresponding energy; 
 and according to the energy of the impres- 
 sion, will be our eagerness to decide. But 
 the manner in which objects excite attention 
 depends on the strength of the exciting pas- 
 sion ; therefore proportioned to the vehe- 
 mence of the passion will be our proneness 
 to be convinced. It is also manifest, that, if 
 any object is naturally difficult to be appre- 
 hended, and is so complex or delicate, as to 
 elude the acutencss of our discernment, or 
 the intenseness of our inquiry, we are more 
 liable to error in cases of this nature, than 
 in those things that we perceive distinctly. 
 Admiring the man of abilities, we cannot 
 define with accuracy the precise boundaries 
 of his genius ; our imagination gives him 
 energies additional to those he exhibits ; and 
 it is agreeable to our opinion of his endow- 
 ments, and consonant to our present temper, 
 to believe him more eminent than he really 
 is. We are apt to judge in the same man- 
 ner of the qualities of the heart. To the 
 man who amazes us by some feat of personal 
 bravery, we ascribe every heroic virtue,
 
 94 THE CHARACTER 
 
 though he may have never displayed them : 
 and we pronounce liberal, generous, and 
 disinterested, the man who surprizes us by 
 some unexpected beneficence. On the same 
 principles, those who excite our indignation 
 by their ungrateful or inhuman conduct, are 
 supposed to have trampled on every moral 
 obligation ; and we load them not only with 
 the infamy of the crime they have commit- 
 ted, but with that of the crimes of which 
 we believe them capable. The size and 
 colour, so to express myself, of the ima- 
 ginary qualities in this manner attributed to 
 any object, will correspond exactly to the 
 violence of the present emotion, or the ob- 
 stinacy of our opinion. If our sense of 
 virtue is exceedingly delicate, our indigna- 
 tion and abhorrence of vice will be of pro- 
 portioned vehemence ; and, according to 
 their vehemence, will be the atrocity of the 
 indefinite imaginary qualities ascribed to the 
 object of our abhorrence. If those whose 
 conduct we censure or lament were former- 
 ly esteemed by us, surprize and sorrow for 
 our disappointment, and indignation at a 
 change so unexpected, will augment the
 
 OF HAMLET. 95 
 
 violence of our emotion, and thus magnify 
 their offences. Hence friendship, changed 
 by neglect or ingratitude into indifference, 
 grows into a hatred, of all others the most 
 virulent and full of rancour. It is not won- 
 derful, therefore, nor inconsistent with ami- 
 able and kind affections, that Hamlet, mov- 
 ed by an exquisite sense of virtue and pro- 
 priety, sho cked and astonished at the ingra- 
 titude and guilt of Gertrude, whom he had 
 revered andJbelieved incapable of any ble- 
 mish, -shouicL. become apprehensive of the 
 total degeneracy of her nature, and harbour 
 suspici ons concernin ghis, father' sdeath. To 
 these suspicions, the suddenness of the event, 
 the extraordinary and mysterious circum- 
 stances attending it, together with the cha- 
 racter of the present king, give abundant 
 colour. Hence, with a heart full of agony, 
 prepared for the evidence, and willing to 
 receive it, he exclaims, 
 
 All is not well 
 I doubt some foul play. 
 
 Had Hamlet been more indifferent in his 
 regard to propriety and moral obligation, he 
 
 /
 
 96 THE CHARACTER 
 
 p> would have entertained ljess-esttem for his 
 father, le^-s a version at Claudiu&^-and less 
 displeasure at t!ie hasty nuptials of Ger- 
 trude: he would have entertained no suspi- 
 cion, nor have given way to resentment: 
 wholly void of anxiety and vexed by no 
 uneasy reflection, he would have enjoyed the 
 happiness of his exalted station. The obser- 
 vation is painful : it infers, that the union 
 between virtue and happiness, so highly 
 vaunted of by many moralists, is not so in- 
 dependent of external incidents as their 
 theories would represent. 
 
 Shakcspear was abundantly capable of ex- 
 hibiting the progress of suspicion in the mind 
 of Hamlet till it was ripened into belief. Yet 
 he proceeds in a different manner, and con- 
 firms his apprehensions by a testimony, that, 
 according to the prejudices of the times 
 could not easily be refuted. In this he acted 
 judiciously: the difficulty was worthy of the 
 interposition. Iksides it was an interposition 
 perfectly agreeable to the religious opinions 
 of an unenlightened people, and afforded an 
 opportunity of enriching the drama with < 
 verv awful and pathetic incident. The
 
 OF HAMLET. 97 
 
 ghost of Hamlet, even in nations where phi- 
 losophy flourishes, and in periods the least 
 addicted to superstition, will for ever terrify 
 and appal. 
 
 I am thy father's spit it ; 
 Donm'd for a certain time to walk the night, 
 And, for the day, confin'd to fast in fires, 
 Till the foul crimes, done in my days of nature, 
 Are burnt and purg'd away. But that I am forbid 
 To tell the secrets ol my pristfn- house, 
 I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word 
 Would harrow up thy soul; freeze thy young blood ; 
 M:-i.e thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres ; 
 Thy knotted and combined locks to part, 
 And each particular hair to stand on end, 
 Like quills upon the fretful porcupine: 
 But this eternal blazon must not be 
 To ears of flesh and blood. List, list, oh list ! 
 If thou didst ever thy dear father love, 8cc. 
 
 The awful horror excited by the forego- 
 ing passage, is accomplished by simplicity 
 of expression, and by the * uncertainty of 
 the thing described. The desciiption is in- 
 direct; and, by exhibiting a picture of the 
 effects which an actual view of the real ob- 
 ject would necessarily produce in the spec- 
 
 * Burke on the Sublime and Beautiful. 
 

 
 98 THE CHARACTER 
 
 tator, it affects us more strongly than by u 
 positive enumeration of the most dreadful 
 circumstances. The imagination left to our 
 own inventions, overwhelmed with obscu- 
 rity, travels far into the regions of terror, 
 into the abysses of fiery and unfathomable 
 darkness. 
 
 The condition of Hamlet's mind becomes 
 still more curious and interesting. His sus- 
 picions are confirmed, and beget resentment. 
 Conceiving designs of punishment, and sen- 
 sible that he is already suspected by the 
 king, he is thrown into violent perturbation. 
 Afraid at the same time lest his aspect or 
 demeanor should betray him, and aware that 
 his project must be conducted with secrecy, 
 his agitation is such as threatens the over- 
 throw of his reason. He trembles as it were 
 on the brink of madness; and is at times not 
 altogether certain that he acts or speaks ac- 
 cording to the dictates of a sound under- 
 standing. He partakes of such insanity as 
 may arise in a mind of great sensibility, 
 from excessive agitation of spirit, and much 
 labour of thought ; but which naturally sub- 
 sides when the perturbation ceases. Yet he
 
 OF HAMLET. 99 
 
 must act ; and not only so, he must act with 
 prudence. He must even conceal his in- 
 tentions ; and his actual condition suggests 
 a mode of concealment. Knowing that he 
 must appear incoherent and .inconsistent, 
 he is not unwilling to have it believed, that 
 his reason is somewhat disarranged ; and 
 that the strangeness of his conduct admits 
 of no other explanation. 
 
 Swear, as before, never, so help you mercy! 
 How strange or odd soe'er I bear myself, 
 As I, perchance, hereafter shall think meet 
 To put an antic disposition on, 
 That you, at such times seeing me, never shall 
 (With arms encumber'd thus, or this head-shake, 
 Or by pronouncing of some doubtful phrase, 
 As, welt, well we know ; or, we could, an if we would ; 
 Or, if we list to speak: or, there be, an if their might ; 
 Or such ambiguous giving out) denote 
 That you know aught of me. 
 
 As it is of signal consequence to him to have 
 the rumour of his madness believed and pro- 
 pagated, he endeavours to render the coun- 
 terfeit specious. There is nothing that re- 
 conciles men more readily to believe in any 
 extraordinary appearance than to have it ac- 
 counted for. A reason of this kind is often 
 h 2
 
 100 THE CHARACTER 
 
 more plausible and imposing than many for- 
 cible arguments, particularly, if the theory 
 or hypothesis be of our own invention. Ac- 
 cordingly, Hamlet, the more easily to deceive 
 the king and his creatures, and to furnish 
 them with an explication of his uncommon 
 deportment, practices his artifice on Ophelia. 
 
 Oph. O, my Ix>rd, ray Lord, I have been so affrighted ! 
 
 Pol. With what, in the name of heaven ? 
 
 Oph. My Lord, as I was sewing in my closet, 
 Lord Hamlet with his doublet all unbrae'd, 
 No hat upon his head, his stockings foul'd, 
 Ungarter'd, &c. 
 
 And with a look so piteous in pur|)ort, 
 As if he had been loosed out of hell, 
 To speak of horrors; he comes before me. 
 
 Pol. Mad for thy love? 
 
 Oph. My Lord, I do not know; 
 But, truly, I do fear it. 
 
 Pol. What said he ? 
 
 Oph. He took me by the wrist, and held me hard< 
 Then goes he to the length of all his arm ; 
 And, with his other hand, thus o'er his brow, 
 He falls to such |>erusal of my face, 
 As he would draw it, 8cc. 
 
 Pol. This is the very ecstasy of love, 
 Whose violent property forcdoes itself, 
 And leads the will to desperate undertakings, &c. 
 
 There is no change in his attachment,.
 
 OF HAMLET.. 101 
 
 unless in so far as other passions of a violent 
 and unpleasing character have assumed a 
 temporary influence. His affection is per- 
 manent. Nor ought the pretended rudeness, 
 and seeming inconsistency of his behaviour, 
 to be at all attributed to inconstancy or an / 
 intention to insult. Engaged in a dangerr 
 bus enterprize, agitated by impetuous emo- 
 tions, desirous of concealing them, and, for 
 that reason, feigning his understanding dis- 
 ordered; to confirm and publish this report, 
 seemingly so hurtful to his reputation, he 
 would act in direct opposition to his former 
 conduct, and inconsistently with the genu- i 
 ine sentiments and affections of his soul. He 
 would seem frivolous when the occasion re- 
 quired him to be sedate: and, celebrated for 
 the wisdom and propriety of his conduct, he 
 would assume appearances of impropriety. 
 Full of honour and affection, he would seem 
 inconsistent : of elegant and agreeable man- 
 ners, and possessing a complacent temper, 
 he would put on the semblance of rudeness. 
 To Ophelia he would shew dislike and in- 
 difference ; because a change of this nature 
 would be, of all others, the most remarkable,
 
 102 THE CHARACTER 
 
 and because his affection for her was pas- 
 sionate and sincere. Of the sincerity and 
 ardour of his regard he gives undoubted 
 evidence. 
 
 1 lov'd Ophelia ; forty thousand brothers 
 Could not, with all their quantity of love, 
 Make up my sum. 
 
 At any rate, Hamlet's treatment of Ophe- 
 lia, who however had " repelled his letters, 
 and denied his access to her;" and who was 
 employed as a spy on his conduct ; has been 
 greatly exaggerated. The spirit of that re- 
 markable scene in particular, where he tells 
 her, " get thee to a nunnery," is frequently 
 misunderstood, and especially by the play- 
 ers. At least it docs not appear to me, that 
 the Poet's intention was, that the air and 
 manner of Hamlet in this scene should be 
 perfectly grave and serious. Nor is there 
 any thing in the dialogue to justify the tra2.i1 
 tone with which it is frequently spoken. 
 Let Hamlet be represented as delivering 
 himself in a light, airy, unconcerned, and 
 thoughtless manner, and the rudeness, so 
 much complained of, will disappear.
 
 OF HAMLET. 103 
 
 The tendency of indignation, and of fu- 
 rious and inflamed resentment, is to inflict 
 punishment on the offender. But, if re- 
 sentment is ino-rafted on the moral faculty, 
 and grows from it, its tenor and conduct 
 will be different. In its first emotion it may 
 breathe excessive and immediate vengeance : 
 but sentiments of justice and propriety inter- 
 posing, will arrest and suspend its violence. 
 An ingenuous mind, thus agitated by power- 
 ful and contending principles, exceedingly 
 tortured and perplexed, will appear hesita- 
 ting and undetermined. Thus, the vehe- 
 mence of the vindictive passion will, by de- 
 lay, suffer abatement ; by its own ardour it 
 will be exhausted ; and our natural and ha- 
 bituated propensities will resume their influ- 
 ence. These continue in possession of the 
 heart till the mind reposes and recovers vi- 
 gour : then, if the conviction of injury still 
 remains, and if our resentment seems justi- 
 fied by every amiable principle, by reason 
 and the sentiments of mankind, it will re- 
 turn with power and authority. Should 
 any unintended incident awaken our sensi- 
 bility, and dispose us to a state of mind fa-
 
 104 THE CHARACTER 
 
 vourable to the influence and operation of 
 ardent and impetuous passions, our resent- 
 ment will revisit us at that precise period, 
 and turn in its favour, and avail itself of 
 every other sentiment and affection. The 
 mind of Hamlet, weary and exhausted by 
 violent agitation, continues doubtful and un- 
 decided, till his sensibility, excited by a thea- 
 trical exhibition, restores to their authority 
 his indignation and desire of vengeance. 
 Still, however, his moral principles, the su- 
 preme and governing powers of his consti- 
 tution, conducting those passions which they 
 seetp to justify and exeite, determine him 
 again to examine his evidence, or endea- 
 vour, by additional eireumstances, to have 
 it strengthened. 
 
 9 
 
 Oh, what a rogue and peasant slave am I ! 
 Is it not monstrous that this player here, 
 But in a fiction, in a dream of passion, 
 Could force 'us iouI to to hi> own conceit, 
 TIjjI, Ihuii liei worki ig, all Ins visage vtaim'd : 
 , distraction in's aspect, 
 in voice, and Ins while (unction suiting, 
 With Foro , iu ins conceit ? and all for nothing? 
 For Hecuha ! 
 Wiut'a Hecuba to hi.u, or he to Hecuba,
 
 OF HAMLET. 105 
 
 That he should weep for her ? What would he do, 
 
 Had he the motive and the cue for passion 
 
 That I have ? He would drown the stage with tears, 
 
 And cleave the geueral ear with horrid speech; 
 
 Make mad the guilty, and appal the free, 
 
 Confound the ignorant, and amaze, indeed, 
 
 The very faculties of ears and eyes. 
 
 Yet I 
 
 can say nothing : no, not for a king, 
 
 Upon whose property, and most dear life, 
 
 A damn'd defeat was made. 
 
 I have heard, 
 
 That guilty creatures sitting at a play, 
 
 Have by the very cunning of the scene 
 
 Been struck so to the soul, that presently 
 
 They have proclaim'd their malefactions. 
 
 I'll have these players 
 
 Play something like the murder of my father 
 
 Before mine uncle. I'll observe his looks ; 
 
 I'll tent him to the quick ; if he do blench, 
 
 I know my course. The spirit that I have seen, 
 
 May be the devil ; and the devil hath power 
 
 To assume a pleasing shape ; yea, and, perhaps, 
 
 Out of my weakness, and my melancholy, 
 
 (As he is very potent with such spirits) 
 
 Abuses me to damn me. I'll have grounds 
 
 More relative than this. 
 
 Resolving to carry his project into execu- 
 tion, he conducts himself with his usual 
 candour and understanding. In an affair
 
 106 THE CHARACTER 
 
 so difficult and so important, he does not 
 confide in his own observations; but in 
 order to have his judgment rectified, in case 
 of error, and to have his resentment tem- 
 pered, in case of violence, he imparts his in- 
 tention to Horatio. Hamlet, 
 
 The expectancy and rose of the fair state, 
 The glass of fashion, and the mould of form, 
 
 knew the sanctity of friendship, its uses, and 
 its importance. Hi* friend was not merely 
 the partner of his amusements, to be his as- 
 sociate in his pleasures, and to cherish his 
 vanity by adulation : he was a fi iend to coun- 
 sel and assist him in doubtful emergencies, to 
 improve ln's hcai t. and correct hffl judgment. 
 The qualities that distinguish Horatio, and 
 render him worthy of the esteem of Hamlet, 
 are not affluence, nor pageantry, nor gay ac- 
 complishments, nor vivacity, nor even wit, 
 and uncommon genius, too often allied to an 
 impetuous temper: he is distinguished by 
 that equanimity and independence of soul 
 which arise from governed and corrected pas- 
 sions, from a sound and discerning judgment. 
 
 Horatio, thou art e'en as just a man, 
 As e'er my conversation cop'd withal.
 
 OF HAMLET. 107 
 
 lior. Oh, my dear Lord 
 
 Ham, Nay, do not think I (latter: 
 For what advancement may I hope from thee, 
 That no revenue hast, but thy good spirits, 
 To feed and cloath thee ? 
 Dost thou hear? 
 
 Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice, 
 And could of men distinguish her election, 
 She hath seal'd thee for herself : for thou hast been 
 As one in snfTeiing all, that suffers nothing; 
 A man, that fortune's buffets and rewards 
 Hast ta'en with equal thanks"-. 
 Give me that man, 
 
 That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him 
 In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart, 
 As I do thee. 
 
 Hamlet, by means of a dramatic exhibi- 
 tion, into which he had introduced the repre- 
 sentation of his father's murder, having as- 
 sured himself of the guilt of Claudius by his 
 emotions, has no longer any doubt concern- 
 ing the propriety of his resentment. If we 
 are eagerly interested in any pursuit, whether 
 of an end, or of a mean by which some end 
 may be accomplished, our success is ever at- 
 tended with joy, even when the end we are 
 pursuing is in itself a foundation of sorrow. 
 
 * In quem manca ruit semper fortuna. Hor.
 
 10S THE CHARACTER 
 
 It frequently happens too, if anger or resent 
 merit have taken possession of the soul, and 
 have excited a desire of vengeance; and if 
 there is yet some uncertainty concerning the 
 reality or grossness of the injury we have re- 
 ceived, that, till reflection operates, we are 
 better pleased to have our suspicions con- 
 firmed and our resentment gratified, than to 
 be convicted of an error, and so be delivered 
 from a painful passion. Hamlet, pleased 
 with the success of his project, though its 
 issue justified his resentment, discovers gaiety, 
 the natural expression and sign of joy. 
 
 Why, let the strucken deer go weep, 
 
 The hart ungalled play ; 
 For some must watch, while some must sleep ; 
 
 So runs the world away. 
 
 N<> scene was ever better imagined than 
 that where Rosituiantz and Guildenstern ac- 
 
 I the .prince. The creatures juf Claudius, 
 and instigated by the queen, they are em- 
 ployed as spies upon 1 lamlet. He perceives 
 it, and treats them with deserved contempt: 
 in such a manner, however, as to conceal, as 
 much as possible, the real state of his mind. 
 Yet he. is teased with their importunity: the
 
 OP HAMLET. 109 
 
 transient gaiety of his humour, as it pro- 
 ceeded from a transient cause, is soon dissi- 
 pated, and is succeeded by reflections on his 
 condition. His anger and resentment are 
 inflamed ; and indignant that the unworthy 
 engines of a vile usurper should be thought 
 capable of insnaring him, he confounds them, 
 by shewing them he had discovered their in- 
 tentions, and overwhelms them with the su- 
 percilious dignity of his displeasure. 
 
 Ham. Will you play upon this pipe? 
 
 Guil. My Lorrl, I cannot. 
 
 Ham. I pray you. 
 
 Guil. Believe me, I cannot. 
 
 Ham. I do beseech you. 
 
 Guil. I know no touch of it, my Lord. 
 
 Ham. 'Tis as easy as lying. Govern these ventages 
 with your fingers and thumb, give it breath with your 
 mouth, and it will discourse roost eloquent music. Look 
 you, these are the stops. 
 
 Guil. But these cannot I command to any utterance of 
 harmony ; I have not the skill. 
 
 Ham. Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing 
 you make of me? you would play upon me; you would 
 seem to know my stops ; you would pluck out the heart of 
 my mystery ; you would sound me from my lowest note to 
 the top of my compass; and there is much music, excel- 
 lent voice, in this little organ, yet cannot you make it 
 speak. 'Sblood, do you think that 1 am easier to be play'd 
 n than a pipe ?
 
 110 THE CHARACTER 
 
 The king, alarmed by the consciousness 
 of his guilt, and rendered wary by the sus- 
 picions naturally accompanying the dread 
 of punishment, becomes exceedingly appre- 
 hensive of the designs of Hamlet Accord- 
 ingly, he engages his mother to question him, 
 to sift his soul, and detect him. Rosincrantz 
 and Guildenstern invite him to the confer- 
 ence. They are followed by another engine, 
 who, with all the fawning and self-sufficiency 
 of a courtier, grown grey in adulation and 
 paltry cunning, endeavours, by assentation, 
 to secure his confidence, and so elicit his se- 
 cret purpose. Hamlet, fretted and exaspe- 
 rated with a treatment so ill-suited to his 
 sentiments and understanding, receives him 
 with contempt; he endeavours to impose on 
 him the belief of his madness, but can hardly 
 bridle his indignation. 
 
 Pol. My Lord, the Queen would speak with you, and 
 
 presently. 
 Ham. Do you sec yonder cloud, that's almost in shape 
 
 of a cainel ? 
 Pol. By the mass, and it's like a camel, indeed, &c. 
 
 The perfidy and guilt of Claudius are now 
 unquestioned. All the circumstances of the
 
 OF HAMLET,' 111 
 
 murder are stamped indelibly on the imagi- 
 nation of Hamlet. Yet, though vehemently 
 incensed, the gentle and affectionate prin- 
 ciples of his nature preserve their influence, 
 and to the unhappy Gertrude he will not be 
 inhuman. His character, in this particular, 
 is finely distinguished from the Orestes either 
 of Sophocles or of Euripides. His gentle- 
 ness is far more natural, and renders him 
 more amiable and more estimable*. Hi* 
 violent resentment against his uncle is con- 
 trasted in a very striking manner with the 
 warnings of his moral faculty, and the ten- 
 derness of his affection. 
 
 'Tis now the very witching time of night, 
 When church-yards yawn, and hell itself breathes out 
 Contagion to this world. Now could I drink hot blood, 
 And do such bitter business as the day 
 Would quake to look on. Soft ; now to my mother 
 O heart, lose not thy nature ; let not ever 
 
 * In favour of Orestes, it may, however, be argued, that 
 he was compelled to put Clytemnestra to death by religi- 
 ous motives and the voice of an oracle: Hamlet, on the 
 contrary, was deterred by a similar authority from con- 
 ceiving vengeance against the Queen, and was warned by 
 
 the ghost, 
 
 Nut to contrive against his mother aught.
 
 112 THE CHARACTER 
 
 The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom : 
 
 Let me be cruel, not unnatural : 
 
 I will speak daggers to her, but use none. 
 
 The scene between the Queen and Ham- 
 let has been highly celebrated, and cannot 
 fail, even though less advantageously repre- 
 sented than by a Garrick and a Pritchard, 
 /^ to agitate every audience. The time, ' the 
 * very witching time of night,' and the state 
 of Hamlet's mind, when ' he could drink 
 4 hot blood, and do such bitter business as 
 ' the day would quake to look on,' prepare 
 us for this important conference. The si- 
 tuation, that of a son endeavouring to re- 
 ^j^ claim a parent, is exceedingly interesting. 
 All the sentiments and emotions are ani- 
 mated, and expressive of character. In the 
 Queen we discern the confidence of a guilty 
 mind, that, by the artifices of self-deceit, 
 has put to silence the upbraidings of con- 
 science. We discern in her the. dexterity 
 with which persons perverted by evil habits 
 abuse their own understandings, and conceal 
 from themselves their blemishes. We also 
 perceive in her the anguish and horror of a 
 mind, appalled and confounded by the con- 
 
 &*%_
 
 OF HAMLET. 113 
 
 sciousness of its depravity, and its eager soli- 
 citude to be rescued, by any means, from the 
 persecuting and painful feeling. Hamlet, 
 full of affection, studies to secure her tran- 
 quillity; and, guided by moral principles, 
 he endeavours to establish it on the foun- 
 dation of virtue. Animated by every gene- 
 /fbus and tender sentiment, and convinced 
 of the superior excellence and dignity of an 
 unblemished conduct, he cannot bear that 
 those who are dear to him should be de- 
 praved. It is to gratify this amiable temper 
 that he labours to renew, in the misguided 
 Gertrude, a sense of honour and of merit, to 
 turn her attention, without subterfuge or dis- 
 guise, on her own behaviour ; and to restore 
 her to her former fame. He administers his 
 medicine with reluctance : it is harsh ; but 
 the disease is desperate. It is not suitable 
 to the agitated state of his mind to enter se- 
 dately into a formal and argumentative dis- 
 cussion of the impiety and immorality of 
 her conduct : he mentions these in a sum- 
 mary manner ; and following the impulse 
 of his own mind, he speaks the language of 
 i
 
 114 THE CHARACTER 
 
 strong emotion, addresses her feelings, and 
 endeavours lo convey into her heart some 
 portion of the indignation with which he is 
 himself inflamed. 
 
 Look here upon this picture, and on this ; 
 The counterfeit presentment of two brothers. 
 See, what a grace was seated on his brow : 
 Hyperion's curls: the front of Jove himself; 
 An eye, like Mars, to threaten or command ; 
 A station, like the Herald Mercury, 
 New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill; 
 A combination, and a form, indeed, 
 Where every God did seem to set his seal, 
 To give the world assurance of a man : 
 This was your husband. Look you now, what follows ; 
 Here is your husband ; like a mildew'd ear, 
 Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes ? 
 Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed, 
 And batten on this moor ? Ha ! have you eyes ? 
 
 The contrast in these lines, co-operating 
 with other causes, has a very striking effect. 
 The transition from admiration to abhor- 
 rence, in a remarkable degree, heightens the 
 latter. Hamlet dwells minutely on every 
 circumstance of his father's character : but 
 passing from that to the picture of Claudius, 
 his perturbation is visibly augmented ; hi*
 
 OF HAMLET. 115 
 
 indignation and abhorrence are almost too 
 excessive for utterance : and the difference 
 between the two characters appearing to 
 him so manifest as to render a particular illus-_ 
 tration needless, he reflects with severity on 
 that woful perversion of mind which has blunt- 
 ed the feelings and perceptions of Gertrude. 
 
 You cannot call it love ; for, at your age, 
 The hey day in the blood is tame, it's humble, 
 And waits upon the judgment ; and what judgment 
 Would step from this to this? 
 
 He convinces her of her guilt ; but so 
 fallacious and so imposing are evil habits, 
 that, in spite of her recent conviction, she 
 would yield herself to their suggestions : by 
 supposing her son disordered, she would les- 
 sen the authority of his argument, and so 
 relapse. Hamlet, perceiving the workings 
 of her invention, and anxious for her reco- 
 very, touches the distempered part of her 
 soul with a delicate and skilful hand : he in- 
 fuses such golden instruction, and discovers 
 such penetration and knowledge of human 
 nature, as would have dignified a philoso- 
 pher. He tempers the severity of his admo- 
 I 2
 
 116 THE CHARACTER 
 
 nition with mildness: and assures her, in a 
 pathetic manner, that affection, and zeal i'or 
 her welfare, are his only motives. 
 
 Mother, for love of grace, 
 Lay not that flattering unction to your soul, 
 That not your trespass, but my madness, sj>eaJcs : 
 It will but skin and film the ulcerous place ; 
 Whilst rank corruption, mining all within, 
 Infects unseen. Confess yourself to heaven ; 
 RejK.nt what's past ; avoid what is to come : 
 And do not spread the compost on the weeds 
 To make them ranker. Forgive me this my virtue : 
 For, in the fatness of these pursy times, 
 Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg, 
 Yea, curb and wooe, for leave to do him good. 
 
 Q. Oh Hamlet ! thou hast cleft my heart in twain. 
 
 Ham O, throw away the worser part of it, 
 And live the purer with the other half. 
 Good-night; but go not to mine uncle's bed ; 
 Assume a virtue, if you have it not. 
 That monster custom, who all sense doth eat 
 Of habits evil, is angel yet in this ; 
 That to the use of actions fair and good 
 He likewise gives a frock, or livery, 
 That aptly is put on. Refrain to-night ; 
 And that shall lend a kind of easiness 
 To the next abstinence : the next, more easy ; 
 For use can almost change the stamp of nature, 
 And either curb the devil, or throw him out 
 With wondrous potency.
 
 OF HAMLET. 117 
 
 As the contrition of Gertrude, and her 
 consequent good intentions, were the effect 
 of a sudden emotion, its violence no sooner 
 abates, than her former habits resume their 
 influence. She appears irresolute ; and Ham- 
 let, full of astonishment and indignation, 
 expresses himself with keenness. He in- 
 veighs with acrimony against his uncle: and 
 the Queen, vanquished by his invectives, 
 assures him of her repentance. 
 
 On reviewing the analysis now given, a 
 sense of virtue, if I may use the language of 
 an eminent philosopher, without professing 
 myself of his sect, seems to be the ruling 
 principle in the character of Hamlet. In 
 other men, it may appear with the ensigns 
 of high authority : in Hamlet, it possesses 
 absolute power. United with amiable af- 
 fections, with every graceful accomplish- 
 ment, and every agreeable quality, it em- 
 bellishes and exalts them. It rivets his at- 
 tachments to his friends, when he finds them 
 deserving ; it is a source of sorrow, if they 
 appear corrupted. It even sharpens his pe- 
 netration ; and, if unexpectedly he discerns 
 turpitude or impropriety in any character, it
 
 1 i S THE CHARACTER 
 
 inclines him lo think more deeply of their 
 transgression, than if his sentiments were 
 less refined. It thus induces him to scruti- 
 nize their conduct, and may lead him to the 
 dicovery of more enormous guilt. As it 
 excites uncommon pain and abhorrence on 
 the appearance of perfidious and inhuman 
 actions, it provokes and stimulates his re- 
 sentment : yet. attentive to justice, and con- 
 cerned in the interests of human nature, it 
 governs the impetuosity of that unruly pas- 
 sion. It disposes him to be cautious in ad- 
 mitting evidence to the prejudice of ano- 
 ther: it renders him distrustful of his own 
 judgment, during the ardour and the reign 
 of passion ; and directs him in the choice of 
 associates, on whose fidelity and judgment 
 he may depend. If, softened by a beneficent 
 and gentle temper, he hesitates in the exe- 
 cution of any lawful enterprize, it reproves 
 him : and if there is any hope of restoring 
 those that are fallen, and of renewing in 
 them 'iabits of virtue and of self-command, 
 it renders him assiduous in his endeavours 
 to serve them. Men of other dispositions 
 would think of gratifying their friends by con-
 
 OF HAMLET. 119 
 
 tributing to their affluence, to their amuse- 
 ment, or external honour : but, the acquisi- 
 tions that Hamlet values, and the happiness 
 he would confer, are a conscience void of 
 offence, the peace and the honour of virtue. 
 Yet, with all this purity of moral sentiment, 
 with eminent abilities, exceedingly cultivated 
 and improved, with manners the most ele- 
 gant and becoming, with the utmost recti- 
 tude of intention, and the most active zeal in 
 the exercise of every duty, he is hated, per- 
 secuted, and destroyed. Nor is this so in- 
 consistent with poetical justice as may at first 
 sight be apprehended. The particular tem- 
 per and state of Hamlet's mind is connected 
 with weaknesses that embarrass, or may be 
 somewhat incompatible with bold and per- 
 severing projects. His amiable hesitations 
 and reluctant scruples lead him at one time 
 to indecision ; and then betray him, by the 
 self-condemning consciousness of such ap- 
 parent imbecility, into acts of rash and in- 
 considerate violence. Meantime his adver- 
 saries, suffering no such internal conflict, 
 persist with uniform, determined vigour, in 
 the prosecution of unlawful schemes. Thus
 
 120 THE CHARACTER, XCC. 
 
 Hamlet, and persons of his constitution, 
 contending with less virtuous opponents, 
 can have little hope of success ; and so the 
 poet has not in the catastrophe been guilty 
 of any departure from nature, or any in- 
 fringement of poetical justice. ^e__iov v 
 ( we almosi_c vere th echara cter of H amlet ; 
 and gr ieve for his sufferings. But we must 
 at the same time con fess, t ,h a t his weaknes ses, 
 amiable weaknesses ! are _ the ca use of his 
 disappointments and early death. The in- 
 struction to be gatherecTTrom this delinea- 
 tion is, that persons formed like Hamlet, 
 should retire, or keep aloof, from situations 
 of difficulty and contention : or endeavour, 
 if they are forced to contend, to brace their 
 minds, and acquire such vigour and deter- 
 mination of spirit as shall arm them against 
 malignity.
 
 ESSAY III. 
 
 ADDITIONAL OBSERVATIONS 
 
 ON SHAKESPEARE'S DRAMATIC CHARACTER OF HAMLET, 
 
 IN A LETTER TO A FRIEND. 
 
 DEAR SIR, 
 
 I thank you for your remarks on 
 my account of Hamlet. Yet I frankly con- 
 fess that, notwithstanding their ingenuity, I 
 still adhere to my opinion ; and, as I am 
 solicitous that you should agree with me, I 
 shall, as briefly as possible, lay my reasons
 
 122 ADDITIONAL OBSERVATIONS 
 
 before you. Nor have I any doubt, but that 
 the same candour which dictated the objec- 
 tions, will procure attention to the reply. 
 Allow me, then, to plead in behalf of Ham- 
 let ; and of Shakespeare * , if he need such 
 aid ; and of the Public, who, by always in- 
 teresting themselves in the fate of Hamlet, 
 have, in this most unequivocal manner, as 
 on many other occasions, expressed their ap- 
 probation of Shakespeare. 
 
 ****** 
 
 The strongest feature in the mind of 
 Hamlet, as exhibited hi the tragedy, is an 
 jiiisitc sense of moral conduct. He dis- 
 plays, at the same time, great sensibility of 
 temper ; and is, therefore, most " tremblingly 
 :<live" to every incident or event that befalls 
 him. His affections are ardent, and his at- 
 tachments lasting. He also displays a strong 
 slhsc of character; and therefore, a high re- 
 <1 fur the opinions of others. His good 
 vuise, and excellent dispositions, in the early 
 part of 1 1 is life, and in the prosperous state 
 >f his fortune, rendered him amiable and 
 
 * Si tali auxilio.
 
 ON HAMLET. 123 
 
 beloved. No misfortune had hitherto be- 
 fallen him ; and, though he is represented 
 as susceptible of lively feelings, we have no 
 evidence of his having ever shewn any symp- 
 toms of a morose or melancholy disposition. 
 On the contrary, the melancholy which 
 throws so much gloom upon him in the 
 course of the play, appears to his former 
 friends and acquaintance altogether unusual 
 and unaccountable. 
 
 Something have you heard 
 
 Of Hamlet's transformation : so I call it; 
 Since nor th' exterior, nor the inward man, 
 Resembles that it was. 
 
 In the conduct, however, which he dis- 
 plays, in the progress of the tragedy, he ap- 
 pears irresolute and indecisive ; he accord- 
 ingly engages in enterprizes in which he 
 fails ; he discovers reluctance to perform ac- 
 tions which, we think, needed no hesitation; 
 he proceeds to violent outrage, where the 
 occasion does not seem to justify violence; 
 he appears jocular where his situation is 
 most serious and alarming ; he uses sub- 
 terfuges not consistent with an ingenuous
 
 124 ADDITIONAL OBSERVATIONS 
 
 mind ; and expresses sentiments not only 
 immoral, but inhuman. 
 
 This charge is heavy ; yet every reader, 
 and every audience, have hitherto taken part 
 with Hamlet. They have not only pitied, 
 but esteemed him ; and the voice of the 
 people, in poetry as well as politics, deserves 
 some attention. Let us enquire, therefore, 
 whether those particulars which have given 
 such offence, may not be considered as the 
 infirmities of a mind constituted like that of 
 Hamlet, and placed in such trying circum- 
 stances, rather than indications of folly, or 
 proofs of inherent guilt. If so, he will still 
 continue the proper object of our compas- 
 sion, of our regret, and esteem. The award 
 of the public will receive confirmation. 
 
 Consider, then, how a young person of 
 good sense, of strong moral feelings, possess- 
 ing an exquisite sense of character, great 
 sensibility, together with much ardour and 
 constancy of affection, would be apt to con- 
 duct himself, in a situation so peculiar at 
 that of Hamlet. He loses a respectable 
 father ; nay, he has some reason to suspect, 
 that his father had been treacherously mur-
 
 ON HAMLET. 125 
 
 dered ; that his uncle was the perpetrator of 
 the cruel deed ; and that his mother, whom 
 he tenderly loved, was an accomplice in the 
 guilt : he sees her suddenly married to the 
 suspected murderer ; he is himself excluded 
 from his birth-right ; he is placed in a con- 
 spicuous station ; the world expects of him 
 that he will resent or avenge his wrongs : 
 while in the mean time he is justly appre- 
 hensive of his being surrounded with spies 
 and informers. In these circumstances, and 
 of such a character, if the poet had repre- 
 tented him as acting with steady vigour and 
 unexceptionable propriety, he would have 
 represented not Hamlet, but a creature so 
 fanciful, as to have no prototype in human 
 
 / nature. We are not therefore to expect that 
 his conduct is to proceed according to 
 the most infallible rules of discretion or 
 of propriety. We must look for frailties 
 and imperfections ; but for the frailties and 
 
 v imperfections of Hamlet. 
 
 t 
 
 I. The injuries he has sustained, the guilt 
 f Claudius, and the perversion of Gertrude, 
 excite his resentment and indignation. Re-
 
 126 ADDITIONAL OBSERVATIONS 
 
 gard for the opinions of others, who expect 
 such resentment in the Prince of Denmark, 
 promotes the passion. He therefore medi- 
 tates, and resolves on vengeance. But the 
 moment he forms his resolution, the same 
 virtuous sensibility, and the same regard to 
 character, that roused his indignation, sug- 
 gest objections. He entertains a doubt con- 
 cerning the ground of his suspicions, and 
 the evidence upon which he proceeds. 
 
 The spirit that I've seen 
 
 May be a devil; and the devil hath power 
 T' assume a pleasing shape ; yea, and, perhaps, 
 Out of my weakness and my melancholy, 
 (As he is very potent with such spirits,) 
 Abuses me to damn me. I'll have grounds 
 More relative than this. 
 
 In this manner he becomes irresolute and 
 indecisive. Additionally, therefore, to the 
 sorrow and melancholy which he necessa- 
 rily feels for the situation of his family, and 
 which his peculiar frame of mind renders 
 unusually poignant, the harassment of such 
 an inward struggle aggravates his affliction. 
 His sense of duty, a regard to character, and 
 feelings of just resentment, prompt him to
 
 ON HAMLET. 127 
 
 revenge : the uncertainty of his suspicions, 
 tlie fallacious nature of the evidence on which 
 he proceeds, and the dread of perpetrating 
 injustice, embarrass and arrest his purpose. 
 
 The time is out of joint O cursed spight, 
 That ever I was bom to set it right. 
 
 This irresolution, which indeed blasts his 
 designs, but does not lessen our regard for 
 his character, nor our compassion for his 
 misfortunes, and the misery with which it 
 afflicts him, are pathetically described and 
 expressed, in the famous soliloquy conse- 
 quent to the representation of the Players. 
 
 What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, 
 That he should weep for her? What would he So, 
 Had he the motive and the cue for passion 
 That I have? &c Yet I, &c. 
 
 II. In that particular mood, when he sees 
 his own wrongs and the guilt of CJaudius in 
 a striking light, his resentment is inflamed, 
 the evidence seems convincing, and he acts 
 with a violence and precipitation very dissi- 
 milar to, though not inconsistent with, his
 
 128 ADDITIONAL OBSERVATIONS 
 
 native temper. In these circumstances, or 
 at a time when he tells us he 
 
 Could drink hot blood ! 
 
 And do such bitter business as the day 
 Would quake to look on ! 
 
 in such a situation and state of mind he slew 
 Polonius: he mistook him for the king; and 
 so acted with a violence and precipitation of 
 which he afterwards expresses his repent- 
 ance. In a similar situation, when he had 
 no leisure nor inclination to weigh and ex- 
 amine appearances, he wrote the death-war- 
 rant of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. 
 
 Being thus benettcd round with villanies, 
 Or I could make a prologue to ruy brains, 
 They had begun the play : I sat me down, 
 Devis'd a new commission, &x. 
 An earnest conjuration from the Ling, 
 
 As England was his faithful tributary, 
 
 That on the view and knowing of these contents. 
 He should the bearers put to sudden death. 
 
 Rosencrantz and Guildenstern had been 
 employed as spies upon Hamlet: under the 
 disguise of friendship for him, they had 
 accepted of this infamous office ; they were 
 in sonic measure accessary to his intended
 
 ON HAMLET. 129 
 
 assassination : " they made love to this em- 
 " ployment ;" and therefore, as " the defeat 
 " grew from their own insinuation," there was 
 no occasion why it "should sit near to Ham- 
 " let's conscience." If leisure had been given 
 him to reflect, perhaps he would not have 
 sacrificed them ; but having done the deed, 
 he does not charge himself with deliberate 
 wuilt. He does not contend that his conduct 
 was entirely blameless ; he only tells us, 
 
 They are not near my conscience. 
 
 III. Thus agitated by external circum- 
 stances, torn by contending emotions, liable 
 to the weaknesses nearly allied to extreme 
 sensibility, and exhausted by the contests of 
 violent passions, is it wonderful that he 
 should exhibit dejection of mind, and ex- 
 press disrelish for every human enjoyment ? 
 This extreme is no less consistent w r ith his 
 character than his temporary violence. " I 
 " have of late," he tells Rosencrantz and 
 Guildenstern, " lost all my mirth ; forgone 
 " all custom of exercises; and, indeed, it goes 
 " so heavily with my disposition, that this 
 " goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a ste- 
 
 it 
 
 **
 
 130 ADDITIONAL OBSERVATIONS 
 
 " rile promontory; this most excellent cano- 
 " py, tlie air, look you, this brave o'er-hang- 
 " ing firmament ; this majestical roof fretted 
 " with golden fire ; why, it appears no other 
 " thing to me than a foul and pestilent con- 
 " gregation of vapours," Sec. In like man- 
 ner, the same state of internal contest leads 
 him to a conduct directly opposite to that 
 of violence or precipitancy ; and when we 
 expect that he will give full vent to his re- 
 sentment, he hesitates and recedes. This 
 is particularly illustrated in the very diffi- 
 cult scene where Hamlet, seeing Claudius 
 kneeling and employed in devotion, utters 
 the following soliloquy: 
 
 Now might I do it pat, now lie is praying; 
 
 I And now I'll do it : and so he goes to heaven; 
 And so am I reveng'd ? That would be scann'd : 
 A villain kills my father, and for that, 
 I, his sole son, do this same villain send 
 To heaven. 
 
 Why, this is hire and salary, not revenge. 
 , He took my father grossly, full of bread, 
 With all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May ; 
 And, how his audit stands, who knows, save heaven ? 
 But, in our circumstance and course of thought, 
 Tis heavy with him : and am I thai reveng'd,
 
 h 
 
 ON HAMLET. 131 
 
 To take him in the purging of his soul, 
 /When he is fit and season'd for his passage? 
 
 You ask me, why he did not kill the Usur- 
 per? And I answer, because he was at that 
 instant irresolute. This irresolution arose 
 from the inherent principles of his constitu- 
 tion^ and is to be accounted natural : it arose 
 from virtuous, or at least from amiable sensi- 
 bility, and therefore cannot be blamed. His 
 sense of justice, or his feelings of tenderness, 
 in a moment when his violent emotions were 
 not excited, overcame his resentment. But 
 you will urge the inconsistency of this account 
 with the inhuman sentiments he expresses : 
 
 Up, sword, and know thou a more horrid hent : 
 When he is drunk, asleep, or in his rage, &c. 
 Then trip him, &c. 
 
 In reply to this difficulty, and it is not 
 inconsiderable, I will venture to affirm, that 
 these are not his real sentiments. There is 
 nothing in the whole character of Hamlet 
 that justifies such savage enormity. We are 
 therefore bound, in justice and candour, to 
 look for some hypothesis that shall reconcile 
 k 2
 
 152 ADDITIONAL OBSERVATIONS 
 
 what he now delivers, with his usual maxims 
 and general deportment. I would ask, then, 
 whether, on many occasions, we do not al- 
 led>;e those considerations as the motives of 
 our conduct, which really are not our mo- 
 tives? Nay, is not this sometimes done al- 
 most without our knowledge ? Is it not done 
 when we have no intention to deceive others; 
 but when, by the influences of some present 
 passion, we deceive ourselves ? The fact is 
 confirmed by experience, if we commune with 
 our own hearts ; and by observation, if we 
 look around. When the profligate is ac- 
 cused of enormities, he will have them pass 
 for manly spirit, or love of society ; and im- 
 poses this opinion not upon others, but on 
 himself. When the miser indulges his love 
 of wealth, he says, and believes, that he fol- 
 lows the maxims of a laudable ceconomy. 
 So also, while the censorious and invidious 
 slanderer gratifies his malignity, he boasts, 
 and believes, that he obeys the dictates of 
 justice. Consult Bishop Butler, your fa- 
 vourite, and the favourite of every real in- 
 quirer into the principles of human conduct, 
 and you will be satisfied concerning the truth
 
 ON HAMLET. 133 
 
 of the doctrine. Apply it, then, to the 
 /case of Hamlet: sense of supposed duty, 
 and a regard to character, prompt him to 
 slay his uncle ; and he is with-held at that 
 particular moment, by the ascendant of a 
 gentle disposition ; by the scruples, and per- 
 haps weakness of extreme sensibility. But 
 how can he answer to the world, and to his 
 sense of duty, for missing this opportunity? 
 
 f The real motive cannot be urged. Instead 
 of excusing, it would expose him, he thinks, 
 to censure ; perhaps to contempt. He looks 
 about for a motive ; and one better suited to 
 the opinions of the multitude, and better 
 calculated to lull resentment, is immediately; 
 suggested. He indulges, and shelters him- 1 
 self under the subterfuge. He alledges, as 
 direct causes of his delay, motives that could 
 never influence his conduct ; and thus exhi- 
 bits a most exquisite picture of amiable self- 
 deceit. The lines and colours are, indeed, 
 very fine ; and not very obvious to cursory ob- 
 
 y servation. The beauties of Shakespeare, like 
 genuine beauty of every kind, are often veil- 
 
 _ed ; they are not forward nor obtrusive. They 
 
 \ do not demand, though they claim attention.
 
 134 ADDITIONAL OBSERVATIONS 
 
 IV. I would now offer some observations 
 concerning Hamlet's counterfeited or real 
 madness ; and as they are also intended to 
 justify his moral conduct, let me beg of you 
 to keep still in view, the particular circum- 
 stances of his situation, and the peculiar 
 frame of his mind. 
 
 jS* Harassed from without, and distracted 
 from within, is it wonderful, if, during his 
 endeavour to conceal his thoughts, he should 
 betray inattention to those around him ; in- 
 coherence of speech and manner ; or break 
 out inadvertently, into expressions of displea- 
 sure ? Is it wonderful that he should " forego 
 all mirth," become pensive, melancholy, or 
 even morose? Surely, such disorder of mind,, 
 in characters like that of Hamlet, though 
 not amounting to actual madness, yet ex- 
 hibiting reason in extreme perplexity, and 
 even trembling on the brink of mildness, is 
 
 . not unusual. Meantime, Hamlet was fully 
 sensible bow strange those involuntary im- 
 proprieties must appear to o ther s: lie was 
 conscious he could not suppress them ; he 
 knew he was surrounded with spies; and 
 was justly apprehensive, lest his suspicions
 
 ON HAMLET. 135 
 
 or purposes should be discovered. But how 
 are these consequences to be prevented? By 
 counterfeiting an insanity which in part 
 exists. Accordingly, to Ophelia, to Polo- 
 nius, and others, he displays more extrava- 
 gance than hi* real disorder would have 
 occasioned. This particular aspect of the 
 human mind is not unnatural ; but is so pe- 
 culiar and so exquisitely marked, that he 
 alone who delineated the commencing mad- 
 ness, the blended reason and distraction of 
 Lear, has ventured to pourtray its lineaments. 
 That Hamlet really felt some disorder, that 
 he studied concealment, and strove to hide 
 his distraction under appearances of madness, 
 is manifest in the following passage, among 
 others of the same kind, where he discovers 
 much earnestness and emotion, and at the 
 same time, an affectation of sprightliness and 
 unconcern : 
 
 Swear by my sword 
 
 Never to speak of this that you have heard. 
 
 Ghost. Swear by his sword. 
 
 Ham. Well said, old mole \ can'st work i' the earth 
 so fist? 
 A worthy pioneer ! Once more remove, good friends. 
 
 Hor. O day and night, but this is wond'rous strange !
 
 136 ADDITIONAL OBSERVATIONS 
 
 Ham. And therefore, as a stranger, give it welcome. 
 There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, 
 Than are dreamt of in your philosophy. 
 
 But come ; 
 
 Here, as before, never, so help you mercy ! 
 
 Ghost. Swear, &c. 
 
 Ham. Rest, rest, perturbed spirit! 
 
 If we allow that the poet actually intended 
 to represent Hamlet as feeling some distrac- 
 tion of mind, and was thus led to extrava- 
 gancies which he affected to render still more 
 extravagant, why, in his apology to Laertes, 
 need we charge him with deviation from 
 truth ? 
 
 This presence knows, and you must needs have heard, 
 
 How 1 am punish'd with a sore distraction. 
 
 What I have done, 
 
 That might yuur nature, honour, and exception, 
 
 Roughly awake, I here proclaim was madness. 
 
 Was'l Hamlet wrong'd Laertes? Never, Hamlet; 
 
 If Hamlet from himself be ta'en away, 
 
 And, when he's not himself, does wrong Laertes, 
 
 Then Hamlet does it not ; Hamlet denies it. 
 
 Hamlet, DO doubt, put to death Polonius; 
 hut without intention, and in the frenzy of 
 tumultuous emotion. He might therefore
 
 UN HAMLt'I. 137 
 
 say, both of that action and of the conse- 
 quent madness of Ophelia, 
 
 Let my disclaiming from a purpos'd evil, 
 Free me so far in your most generous thoughts. 
 That I have shot my arrow o'er the house, 
 And hurt ray brother. 
 
 Neither is his conduct at the funeral of 
 Ophelia to be construed into any design of 
 insulting Laertes. His behaviour was the 
 effect of violent perturbation ; and he says 
 so afterwards, not only to Laertes, but to 
 Horatio : 
 
 I am very sorry, good Horatio, 
 
 That to Laertes I forgot myself, kc. 
 
 But sure, the bravery of his grief did put me 
 
 Into a tow' ring passion. 
 
 To this he alludes in his apology: 
 
 If Hamlet from himself be ta'en away, 
 
 And, when he's not himself, does wrong Laertes, 
 
 Then Hamlet does it not; Hamlet denies it. 
 
 The whole of his behaviour at the funeral, 
 shews a mind exceedingly disordered, and 
 thrown into very violent agitation. But
 
 138 ADDITIONAL OBSERVATIONS 
 
 his affection for Ophelia appears sincere ; and 
 his regard for Laertes genuine. On reco- 
 very from his transport, to which, however, 
 Laertes provoked him, how pathetic is the 
 following expostulation : 
 
 Hear you, Sir, 
 
 What is the reason that you us'd rae thus? 
 I lov'd you ever. 
 
 I have been the more minute in consi- 
 dering those particulars, that not only you, 
 but Commentators of great reputation, have 
 charged Hamlet, in this part of his conduct, 
 with falsehood and inhumanity*. 
 
 V. It remains that I should offer a few 
 observations concerning Hamlet's jocularity. 
 You seem to think it strange, that he should 
 affect merriment when his situation is miser- 
 able, and when he feels his misery. Alas ! 
 
 * With high respect and sincere esteem for one of the 
 most enlightened critics, and most useful moral philoso- 
 phers that ever appeared in England, this and some other 
 remarks in the Essay on the character of Hamlet, are in- 
 tended, as the attentive reader will perceive, to remove 
 some strong objections urged by Dr. Johnson against both 
 the play and the character.
 
 ON HAMLET. 139 
 
 it is a symptom, too unambiguous, of his 
 affliction. He is so miserable, that he has 
 no relish for any enjoyment; and is even 
 weary of his existence. 
 
 O that this too, too solid flesh would melt, 
 Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew ! &c. 
 
 Thinking himself incapable of happiness, 
 lie thinks he should be quite unconcerned in 
 any human event. This is another aspect 
 of self-deceit : for in truth he is not uncon- 
 cerned. Yet acting as if it were so, he af- 
 fects to regard serious, and even important 
 matters, with a careless indifference. He 
 would laugh; but his laughter is not that of 
 mirth. Add to this, that in those moments 
 when he fancies himself indifferent or un- 
 concerned, he endeavours to treat those ac- 
 tions which would naturally excite indigna- 
 tion, with scorn or contempt. This, on se- 
 veral occasions, leads him to assume the ap- 
 pearance of an ironical, but melancholy 
 gaiety. This state of mind is exquisitely deli- 
 neated in the following passage, where his 
 affected melancholy betrays itself; and his 
 gaiety and indifference, notwithstanding his
 
 140 ADDITIONAL OBSERVATIONS 
 
 endeavours to preserve them, relapse into 
 his usual mood. 
 
 Hor. My Lord, I came to sec your father's funeral. 
 
 Ham. I pray thee do not mock me, fellow student : 
 I think it was to see my mother's wedding. 
 
 Her. Indeed, ray lord, it follow'd hard upon. 
 
 Ham. Thrift, thrift, Horatio ! the funeral bak'd meats 
 Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables. 
 Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven, 
 Or ever I had seen that day, Horatio. 
 
 If, however, this account of the matter 
 should not seem to you satisfactory, I must 
 refer you to the preceding essay on the 
 character of Hamlet ; for I confess that I 
 think the explanation given in that place is 
 altogether sufficient. Hamlet assumes an air 
 of ease, familiarity, and cheerful unconcern; 
 and therefore jests with his friends, not only 
 to conceal his designs, but that he rnay_suit 
 the complexion of his own mind to that of 
 the unconcerned spectator ; nor exhibit in 
 his behaviour, any thing strange, improper, 
 or unbecoming. 
 
 From these remarks, I hope you will now 
 agree with me, that Hamlet deserves com-
 
 ON HAMLET. 141 
 
 passion ; and that Horatio may say of him, 
 with propriety, 
 
 Good night, sweet Prince ; 
 
 And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest. 
 
 The character is consistent. Hamlet is 
 exhibited with good dispositions, and strug- 
 gling- with untoward circumstances. The 
 contest is interesting. As he endeavours to 
 act right, we approve and esteem him. But 
 his original constitution renders him un- 
 equal to the contest: he displays the weak- 
 nesses and imperfections to which his pecu- 
 liar character is liable ; he is unfortunate ; 
 his misfortunes are in some measure occa- 
 sioned by his weakness ; he thus becomes 
 an object not of blame, but of genuine and 
 tender regret.
 
 ESSAY IV. 
 
 ON THE CHARACTER OF THE MELANCHOLY JAQUES. 
 
 JAQUES, in As you like it, is exhibit- 
 ed to us in extraordinary circumstances, and 
 in a situation very romantic. 
 
 Lord. To-day my Lord of Amiens, and myself, 
 Did steal behind him, as he lay along 
 Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out 
 Upon the brook that brawls along this wood: 
 To the which place a poor sequester'd stag, 
 That from the hunters' aim had ta'n a hurt, 
 Did come to languish ; and, indeed, my Lord, 
 The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans 
 That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat 
 Almost to bursting ; and the big round tears 
 Cours'd one another down his innocent nose 
 In piteous chace : and thus the hairy fool, 
 Much marked of the miLncholy Jaques, 
 Stood on the extremes! verge of the swift brook, 
 Augmenting it with tears.
 
 THE CHARACTER OF JAQJJES. 14S 
 
 Duke. But what said Jaques ? 
 Did he not moralize this spectacle ? 
 
 Lord. O yes, into a thousand siniilies. 
 First, for his weeping in the needless stream ; 
 Poor deer, quoth he, thou male' si a testament 
 As wordlings do, giving thy sum oj more. 
 To that which had too much. Then, being there alone, 
 Left and abandoned of his velvet friends ; 
 'Tis right, quoth he ; thus misery doth part 
 The flux of company. Anon, a careless herd, 
 Full of the pasture, jumps along by him, 
 And never stays to greet him. Ay, quoth Jaquec, 
 Sweep on, ybufai and greasy citizens ; 
 'Tis just Ih fashion: wherefore do you look 
 Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there? 
 
 The most striking character in the mind 
 of Jaques, according to this description, is 
 extreme sensibility. He discovers a heart 
 strongly disposed to compassion, and sus- 
 ceptible of the most tender impressions of 
 friendship: for he who can so feelingly de- 
 plore the absence of kindness and humanity, 
 must be capable of relishing the delight an- 
 nexed to their exercise. But sensibility is 
 the soil where nature has planted social 
 and sweet affections : by sensibility they are 
 cherished, and matured. Social dispositions 
 produce all those amiable and endearing con-
 
 144 THE CHARACTER 
 
 nections that alleviate the sorrows of human 
 life, adorn our nature, and render us happy. 
 Now Jaques, avoiding society, and burying; 
 himself in the lonely forest, seems to act in- 
 consistently with his constitution. 1 He pos- 
 sesses sensibility; sensibility begets affection; 
 and affection begets the love of society. I But 
 Jaques is unsocial. Can these inconsistent 
 qualities be reconciled ? or has Shakespeare 
 exhibited a character of which the parts are 
 incongruous and discordant? In other words, 
 how happens it that a temper disposed to 
 beneficence, and addicted to social enjoy- 
 ment, becomes solitary and morose ? Changes 
 of this kind are not unfrequent : and, if re- 
 searches into the origin or cause of a distem- 
 per can direct us in the discovery of an anti- 
 dote, or of a remedy, our present inquiry is 
 of importance. [Perhaps, the excess and 
 luxuriancy of benevolent dispositions, blight- 
 ed by unkindncss or ingratitude, is the 
 cause that, instead of yielding us fruits of 
 complacency and friendship, they shed bitter 
 drops of misanthropy: 
 
 Aversion from society proceeds from dis- 
 like to mankind, and from an opinion of the
 
 OF JA$UES. 145 
 
 inefficacy and uncertainty of external plea- 
 sure. Let us consider each of these apart : 
 let us trace the progress by which they esta- 
 blished themselves in the mind of Jaques, 
 and gave his temper an unnatural colour. 
 
 I. The gratification of our social affections 
 supposes friendship and esteem for others ; 
 and these dispositions suppose in their ob- 
 ject virtues of a corresponding character: for 
 every one values his own opinion, and fan- 
 cies the person to whom he testifies esteem 
 actually deserves it. If beneficent affections, 
 ardent and undisciplined, predominate in 
 our constitution, and govern our opinions, 
 we enter into life strongly prepossessed in fa- 
 vour of mankind, and endeavour, by a ge- 
 nerous and disinterested conduct, to render 
 ourselves worthy of their regard. That 
 spirit of diffusive goodness, which eloquent 
 and benign philosophy recommends, but 
 without success, to men en^asred in the com- 
 merce of the world, operates uncontrouled. 
 The heart throbs with astonishment and in- 
 dignation at every act of injustice, and our 
 bowels yearn to relieve the afflicted. Our 
 
 L
 
 146 THE CHARACTER 
 
 beneficence is unlimited: we are free from 
 suspicion : our friendships are eagerly adopt- 
 ed : they are ardent and sincere. This con- 
 duct may, for a time, be flattered : our fond 
 imaginations may heighten every trivial act 
 of complacency into a testimony of unfeign- 
 ed esteem : and thus, deceived by delusive 
 appearances, we become still more credulous 
 and profuse. But the fairy vision will soon 
 vanish: and the novice who vainly trusted 
 to the benevolence of mankind, will sud- 
 denly find himself alone and desolate, in the 
 midst of a selfish and deceitful world : like 
 an enchanted traveller, who imagines he is 
 journeying through a region of delight, till 
 he drinkfl of sonic bitter fountain, and in- 
 stantly, instead of flowery fields and mea- 
 dows, he finds himself destitute and forlorn, 
 amid the horrors of a dreary desart. 
 
 It seems an invariable law in the conduct 
 of our passions, that, independent of the 
 object they pursue, thev should yield us 
 pleasure, merely by their exercise and ope- 
 ration. It is known by experience, that the 
 pain of disappointed passion is not solely oc- 
 casioned by our being deprived of some de-
 
 OF JAQUES. 147 
 
 sirable object, but by having the current of 
 the mind opposed ; so that the excited pas- 
 sion recoils exasperated upon the heart. The 
 anguish of this situation is strongly expres- 
 sed by Seneca, " In angusto inclusae cupidi- 
 " tates fine exitu seipsas strangulant." There 
 can be no doubt, than anger, malice, and all 
 the malevolent and irregular passions, inde- 
 pendent of their fatal consequences, leave 
 the mind in a state of anxiety and disorder. 
 One should therefore imagine, that satisfac- 
 tion would arise from their being repulsed, 
 and that men would felicitate themselves for 
 a recovery so essential to their repose. Rea- 
 son and self-love may consider it in this 
 view, and our sense of propriety may hin- 
 der us from complaining ; but the heart is 
 secretly dejected, and the unbidden sigh be- 
 trays us. The gloom, however, is soon dis- 
 persed. Yet it proves that the mind suffers 
 more when its operations are suddenly sus- 
 pended, than when it languishes in a state 
 of listless inactivity. Thus, our benevolent 
 affections, considered merely as principles 
 of action, partaking of the same common 
 1. 2
 
 14* THE CHARACTER 
 
 nature with other passions and affections, 
 if their tenor be interrupted, occasion 
 pain. 
 
 But the peculiar character of these dis- 
 positions renders the anguish occasioned by 
 their suspension more exquisitely painful. 
 They are of a soft exhilarating nature ; they 
 elevate and enlarge our conceptions, they 
 refine our feelings, they quicken our sensi- 
 bility, and stimulate our love of pleasure: 
 they diffuse joy and serenity through the 
 soul, and, by a delightful illusion, give 
 every thing around us a smiling aspect. To 
 a mild and benevolent temper, even inani- 
 mate objects, the beauties of nature, the 
 *kies, the groves, and the fountains, commu- 
 nicate unusual pleasure, and of a quality too 
 refined to be relished by malignant spirits. 
 But, proportioned to the delight annexed to 
 the exercise of social affections, is the pain 
 arising from their suspension. 
 
 Social aflet lions confer happiness, not only 
 by the feelings they excite in us, but by 
 procuring us the friendship and esteem of 
 others. Adequate returns of tenderness are 

 
 OF JAQUES. 149 
 
 essential to their existence. By disdain and 
 indifference they languish ; they render us 
 anxious, and desponding. 
 
 Other advantages less immediate, and 
 which concern our fortune and external 
 circumstances, often depend on the benevo- 
 lence and sincerity of our friends. For, 
 though it be contrary to the rules of pru- 
 dence, and the maxims of the world, to re- 
 pose such entire confidence in the virtue of 
 mankind as to render it possible for them 
 to injure or ruin us; yet there are cases of 
 strong necessity that mock reserve ; and 
 there are instances of men so unsuspecting, 
 or so improvident, as to allow themselves, 
 by excessive facility, to be over-reached and 
 undone. 
 
 The disappointments of social affection 
 may give us uneasiness of another kind : 
 they may offend against the good opinion 
 we are apt to entertain of ourselves ; a 
 principle rivetted in our constitution, useful 
 and necessary in itself, but, by disposing us to 
 overweening conceit, liable to be perverted. 
 
 Pain and uneasiness give rise to sorrow ; 
 and sorrow varies according to the sources
 
 150 THE CHARACTER 
 
 from which it flows : it is either gentle and 
 languishing, or imbittered with rancour and 
 animosity. 
 
 When the uneasiness arises from the sud- 
 den and untoward suspension of our emo- 
 tions, or from the disappointment of some 
 ardent affection, it is of a mild and dejected 
 nature. It may dispose us to remonstrate, 
 but not to inveigh. It is modest and unas- 
 suming. It even induces us to think in- 
 differently of ourselves, and, by laying the 
 blame on our own unworthiness, to excuse 
 the inattention or disdain of others. 
 
 Perhaps I was void of all thought; 
 
 Perhaps it was plain to foresee, 
 That a nymph so complete would be sought 
 
 By a swain more engaging than me. 
 
 Sorrow of this tender complexion, lead- 
 ing us to complain, but not to accuse, and 
 finding remonstrances and complaint inef- 
 fectual, retires from society, and ponders its 
 woe in secret. 
 
 Ye woods, spread your branches apace, 
 
 To your deepest recesses I fly ; 
 I would hide with the beasts of the chace, 
 
 I would vanish from every eye.
 
 OF JAQUES. 151 
 
 The state of mind produced by these emo- 
 tions, is exhibited to us with uncommon 
 tenderness and simplicity by Orlando. 
 
 " If I'm foiled, there is but one shamed that was never 
 " gracious : if killed, but one dtad that is willing to be so : 
 u I shall do my friends no wrong, for I have none to la- 
 "ment; the world no injury, for in it I have nothing: 
 " only in the world I fill up a place, which may be better 
 " supplied when I have made it empty." 
 
 But, when ambition, avarice, or vanity 
 are concerned, our sorrow is acrimonious, 
 and mixed with anger. If, by trusting to 
 the integrity and beneficence of others, our 
 fortune be diminished, or not augmented as 
 we expected ; or if we be not advanced and 
 honoured agreeably to our desires, and the 
 idea we had formed of our own desert, we 
 conceive ourselves injured. Injury provokes 
 resentment, and resentment moves us to re- 
 taliate. Accordingly, we retaliate: we in- 
 veigh against mankind : we accuse them of 
 envy, perfidy, and injustice. We fancy our- 
 selves the apostles or champions of virtue, 
 and go forth to combat and confound her 
 opponents. The celebrated Swift, possess-
 
 152 THE CHARACTER 
 
 ing uncommon abilities, and actuated by 
 ambition, flattered his imagination with 
 hopes of preferment and distinguished ho- 
 nour, was disappointed, and wrote satires on 
 human nature. Many who declaim with 
 solemn sorrow and prolixity against the de- 
 pravity and degeneracy of mankind, and 
 overcharge the picture of human frailty 
 with shades of the gloomiest tincture, ima- 
 gine themselves the elected heroes of true 
 religion, while they are merely indulging a 
 splenetic humour. 
 
 On comparing the sorrow excited by re- 
 pulsed and languishing affection, with that 
 arising from the disappointment of selfish 
 appetites, melancholy appears to be the 
 temper produced by the one, misanthropy 
 by the other. Both render us unsocial ; 
 but melancholy disposes us to complain, 
 misanthropy to inveigh. The one remon- 
 strates and retires : the other abuses, retires, 
 and still abuses. The one is softened with 
 regret: the other virulent and fierce with 
 rancour. Melancholy is amiable and bene- 
 volent, and wishes mankind would reform: 
 misanthropy is malignant, and breathes re-
 
 OF JAQUES. 153 
 
 venge. The one is an object of compas- 
 sion ; the other of pity. 
 
 Though melancholy rules the mind of 
 Jaques, he partakes of the leaven of human 
 nature, and, moved by a sense of injury and 
 disappointment, 
 
 Most invectively he pierceth through 
 The body of the country, city, court. 
 
 Instigated by sentiments of self-respect, if 
 not of pride, he treats the condition of hu- 
 manity, and the pursuits of mankind, as in- 
 significant and uncertain. His invectives, 
 therefore, are mingled with contempt, and 
 expressed with humour. At the same time, 
 he shows evident symptoms of a benevolent 
 nature : he is interested in the improvement 
 of mankind, and inveighs, not entirely to 
 indulge resentment, but with a desire to 
 correct their depravity. 
 
 Duke. What ! you look merrily ! 
 
 Jaq. A fool, a fool ! I met a fool i' the forest, 
 A motley fool ! A miserable world ! 
 As I do live by food, I met a fool, 
 Who laid him down and bask'd him in the sun, 
 And rail'd on lady Fortune in good terms, 
 In good set terms, and yet a motley fool.
 
 154 THE CHARACTER 
 
 Good morrow fool, quoth I : Ko sir, quoth he, 
 
 Call me not fool, I ill Heaven hulk sent me fortune: 
 
 And then he drew a dial from his poke; 
 
 And looking on it with lack-lustre eye, 
 
 Says, very wisely, // is ten o'clock ; 
 
 Thus may we see, quoth he, how the world wags. 
 
 'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine ; 
 
 And after one hour more, 'twill he eleven ; 
 
 And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, 
 
 And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot, 
 
 And thereby hangs a tale. 
 
 noble fool ! 
 
 A worthy fool ! Motley's the only wear. 
 
 Duke. What fool is this ? 
 
 Jaq. O worthy fool ! One that hath been a courtier; 
 And says, if ladies be but young, and fair, 
 They have the gift to know it : and in his brain, 
 Which is as dry as the remainder bisket 
 After a voyage, he hath strange places cramm'd 
 With observation, the which he vents 
 In mangled forms : O that I were a fool ! 
 
 1 am ambitious for a motley coat. 
 
 Duke. Thou shalt have one. 
 
 Jaq. It is my only suit ; 
 Provided, that you weed your better judgments 
 Of all opinion, that grows rank in them, 
 That I am wise. I must have liberty 
 Withal ; as large a charter as the wind, 
 To blow on whom I please ; for so fools have : 
 And they that arc most gauled with my folly, 
 They most must laugh : and why, sir, must they so? 
 The why is plain as way to parish-church, kc.
 
 OF JAQUES. 155 
 
 Invest me in my motley ; give me leave 
 
 To speak my mind, and I will through and through 
 
 Cleanse the Foul body of the infected world, 
 
 If they will patiently receive my medicine. 
 
 iThis mixture of melancholy and misan- 
 thropy in the character of Jaques, 1 is more 
 agreeable to human nature than the repre- 
 sentation of either of the extremes ; for a 
 complete, misanthrope is as uncommon an 
 object as a man who suffers injury without 
 resentment. Mankind hold a sort of mid- 
 dle rank, and are in general too good for 
 the one, and too bad for the other. As 
 benevolence and sensibility are manifest in 
 the temper of Jaques, we are not offended 
 with his severity. By the oddity of his 
 manner, by the keenness of his remarks, 
 and shrewdness of his observations, while 
 we are instructed, we are also amused. He 
 is precisely what he himself tells us, often 
 fWrapped " in a most humorous sadness." 
 His sadness, of a mild and gentle nature, 
 recommends him to our regard ; his humour 
 amuses, 
 
 A picture of this kind shows us the ferti- 
 lity of Shakespeare's genius, his knowledge
 
 156 THE CHARACTER 
 
 of human nature, and the accuracy of his 
 pencil, much more than if he had repre- 
 sented in striking colours either of the 
 component parts. By running them into 
 one another, and by delineating their shades 
 where they are gradually and almost imper- 
 ceptiby blended together, the extent and 
 delicacy of his conceptions, and his amaz- 
 ing powers of execution are fully evident. 
 Violent and impetuous passions are obvi- 
 ous ; their colours are vivid ; their features 
 strongly marked; they may easily be dis- 
 cerned and easily copied. But the sensibi- 
 lity of the soul flows out in a variety of emo- 
 tions and feelings, whose impulses are less 
 apparent, and whose progress and operation 
 may escape the notice of superficial obser- 
 vers; but whose influence in governing the 
 (onduct, and fashioning the tempers of man- 
 kind, is more extensive that we are apt to 
 imagine. Many passions and affections of 
 an insinuating, rather than urgent nature, 
 gain an ascendant in the soul by silent and 
 unobserved approaches. Not to be discern- 
 ed in the gestures or countenance till they 
 have established a peculiar habit or temper,
 
 OF JAQ,UES. 157 
 
 they are represented to us by those only 
 whom nature has distinguished; and whom, 
 by rendering them exquisitely susceptible of 
 every feeling, she has rendered supremely 
 happy, or miserable beyond the common 
 lot of humanity. To men of this character, 
 endowed with lively imaginations, and a 
 talent of easy expression, the most delicate 
 emotions and affections of the soul submit 
 themselves, suffering them to copy their 
 true appearance, and exhibit them for the 
 profit and pleasure of mankind : like those 
 aerial agents, the sylphs, fairies, and other 
 divinities of the poets, that preside over the 
 seasons, and regulate the progress of vegeta- 
 tion, but which can only be rendered visible 
 by the spells and authority of a skilful ma- 
 gician. 
 
 II. That Jaques, on account of disap- 
 pointments in friendship, should become re- 
 served and censorious, is agreeable to hu- 
 man nature : but is it natural that he should 
 abjure pleasure, and consider the world and 
 every enjoyment of sense as frivolous and 
 inexpedient ? Ought he not rather to have
 
 158 THE CHARACTER 
 
 recurred to them for consolation ? : fOn the 
 contrary, he expatiates with satisfaction on 
 the insufficiency of human happiness, and 
 on the insignificance of our pursuits. 
 
 All the world's a stage, 
 And all the men and women merely players : 
 They have their exists and their entrances ; 
 And one man in his time plays many parts, 
 His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, 
 Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms: 
 And then the whining school-boy with his satchel, 
 And shining morning face, creeping like snail 
 Unwillingly to school : And then, the lover; 
 Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad 
 Made to his mistress's eye-brow : Then, a soldier ; 
 lull of strange oaths, and bearded like the paid, 
 Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel : 
 Seeking the bubble reputation 
 Even in the cannon's mouth : And then, tiV 
 In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd, 
 With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, 
 Full of wise saws and modern instances, 
 And so he plays his part : The sixth age shifts 
 Into the lean and slippcr'd pantaloon ; 
 With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side : 
 His youthful hose well sav'd, ;i world too wide 
 lor his shrunk shank ; and his big manly voice, 
 Turning again towaid childish treble, pi; 
 And whistles in his sound: Last scene of all,
 
 OF JAQUES. 159 
 
 That ends this strange eventful history, 
 
 Is second childishness, and mere oblivion ; 
 
 Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing. 
 
 That the heart, sorrowful and dejected by 
 the repulse of an ardent passion, is averse 
 from pleasure of every kind, has been often 
 observed. The mind, in a gay and health- 
 ful state, receives hope and enjoyment from 
 every object around us. The same objects, 
 if we languish and despond, are regarded 
 with disgust or indifference. " What path 
 " of life would you pursue ?" said Poscidip- 
 pus, morose and out of humour with his 
 condition : " in public you are perplexed 
 " with business and contention : at home, 
 " you are tired with cares : in the country, 
 " you are fatigued with labour : at sea, you 
 11 are exposed to danger : in a foreign land, 
 " if rich, you are fearful ; if poor, neglect- 
 "ed: have you a wife? expect sorrow: 
 " unmarried ? your life is irksome : children 
 " will make you anxious : childless, your 
 i: life is lonely: youth is foolish, and grey- 
 " hairs feeble. Upon the whole, the wise 
 " man would chuse either not to have exist- 
 " ed, or to have died the moment of his
 
 160 THt CHARACTER 
 
 t: birth." " Chuse any path of life," re- 
 plies the cheerful Metrodorus : " in the fo- 
 " rum are profits and wise debates : at home, 
 "relaxation: in the country, the bounty of 
 " nature: the sea-faring life is gainful: in a 
 44 foreign land, if wealthy, you are respect- 
 " ed ; if poor, nobody knows it : are you 
 " married ? your house is cheerful : unmar- 
 " ried ? you live without care : children af- 
 44 ford delight : childless, you have no sor- 
 ' row: youth is vigorous, and old-age ve- 
 14 nerable. The wise man, therefore, would 
 41 not chuse but to have existed." Morose 
 and splenetic moments are transient ; the 
 soul recovers from them as from a lethargy, 
 exerts her activity, and pursues enjoyment: 
 but, in the temper of Jaques, moroseness is 
 become habitual : he abandons the world, 
 he contemns its pleasures, and buries him- 
 self in a cloister. The cause of this excessive 
 severity requires a particular explanation. 
 
 Among the various desires and propensi- 
 ties implanted by nature in the constitution 
 of every individual, some one passion, cither 
 by original and superior vigour, or by reite- 
 Tated indulgence, gains an ascendant in the
 
 OF JAqUES. 161 
 
 soul, and subdues every opposing principle ; 
 it unites with desires and appetites that 
 are not of an opposite tendency, it bends 
 them to its pleasure, and in their gratifica- 
 tions pursues its own. The man Avhose go- 
 verning passion is pride, may also be social 
 and beneficent ; he may love his friends, and 
 rejoice in their good fortune ; but, even 
 in their company, the desire of impressing 
 them with an idea of his own importance, 
 for ever obtruding itself, produces disgust 
 and aversion. The ruling passion, blended 
 with others, augments their vehemence, and 
 consequently enhances their pleasure : for 
 the pleasure arising from the gratification 
 of any passion, is proportioned to its force. 
 Moreover, the sensations arising from the 
 indulgence of the governing principle will 
 necessarily be combined with those arising 
 Horn the gratification of other appetites and 
 desires ; so intimately combined, that their 
 union is not easily discerned, but by those 
 who are accustomed to reflect on their feel- 
 ings : yet, by their union, they affect the 
 mind with a stronger impulse than if they 
 were separately excited. Suppose the ruling 
 
 M
 
 162 THE CHARACTER 
 
 passion thwarted, it ceases to operate with 
 success : the force it communicated to other 
 passions is withdrawn ; consequently, their 
 vehemence suffers abatement ; and, conse- 
 quently, the pleasure they yield is lessened. 
 By the discomfiture and disappointment of 
 the governing principle, the pleasure aris- 
 ing from its gratification is no longer united 
 with tliat arising from other active but sub- 
 ordinate principles ; and thus, the pleasure 
 resulting from subordinate principles, by 
 the failure and absence of the adventitious 
 pleasure with which it was formerly accom- 
 panied, is sensibly diminished. It is, there~ 
 fore, manifest, that if social and beneficent 
 affections, by gaining a superiority in the 
 constitution, liave heightened every other 
 enjoyment, aud if their exercise is suspend- 
 ed by disappointment, all the pleasures of 
 sense or of ambition that formerly contri- 
 buted to our felicity, though in themselves 
 they are still the same; yet, being reft of 
 their better part, of the spirit that enlivened 
 them, they strike the mind so feebly, as 
 only to awaken its attention to the loss it 
 hath sustained ; and, instead of affording
 
 OF JAQUES. 163 
 
 comfort, aggravate our misfortune. We es- 
 timate their importance, not as they really 
 are, but as they affect us in our present 
 state ; we undervalue and despise them. 
 
 Qu'en ses plus beaux habits 1'Aurore au teint vermeil, 
 Annonce a l'univers le retour du soleil, 
 Et, que devant son char, ses legeres suivantes 
 Ouvrent de ('orient les portes eclatantes; 
 Depuis que ma bergere a quitte ces beaux lieux, 
 Le del n'a plus ni jour, ni clarte pour mes yeux. 
 
 Secrais. 
 
 We may also observe, that social and be- 
 neficent affections are in their own nature 
 gay and exhilarating; and that, by extend- 
 ing their influence to other active principles 
 which are not opposed to them, they accele- 
 rate their motions and augment their viva- 
 city. They animate, and even inflame the 
 inferior appetites ; and where reason, and 
 other serious principles are not invested 
 with supreme authority, they expose us to 
 the anarchy of unlawful passions. There 
 are many instances of men betrayed into 
 habits of profligacy and dissipation, by the 
 influence of their social affections. These 
 men, disappointed and chagrined with the 
 m 2
 
 164 THE CHARACTER 
 
 world, and, consequently, with every plea- 
 sure, to whose energy the love of society 
 contributed, consider the enjoyments arising 
 from inferior appetites, not as they really 
 are, when governed and guided by reason, 
 but immoderate and pernicious, agreeably 
 to their own experience. Reformed profli- 
 gates are often very eloquent teachers of 
 abstinence and self-denial. Polemo, con- 
 verted by Xenocrates from a course of wild 
 extravagance, became eminent in the school 
 of Plato. The wisdom of Solomon was, in 
 like manner, the child of folly. And the 
 melancholy Jaques would not have moral- 
 ized so profoundly, had he not been, as we 
 are told in the play, a dissipated and sen- 
 sual libertine. 
 
 To the foregoing observations, and to the 
 consistency of Jaquess character, one thing 
 may be objected ; he is fond of music. But 
 surely music is an enjoyment of sense ; it 
 affords pleasure; it is admitted to every joy- 
 ous scene, and augments their gaiety. How 
 can this be explained ? 
 
 Though action seems essential to our hap- 
 piness, the mind never exerts itself unless
 
 OF JAQUES. 165 
 
 it be actuated by some passion or desire. 
 Thinking appears to be necessary to its ex- 
 istence ; for surely that quality is necessary, 
 without which the object cannot be con- 
 ceived. But the existence of thinking de- 
 pends upon thoughts or ideas ; and, conse- 
 quently, whether the mind is active or not, 
 ideas are present to the thinking faculty. 
 The motions and laws observed by our 
 thoughts in the impressions they make on 
 us, vary according, as the soul may be in- 
 fluenced by various passions. At one time, 
 they move with incredible celerity ; they 
 seem to rush upon us in the wildest disor- 
 der, and those of the most opposite charac- 
 ter and complexion unite in the same as- 
 semblage. At other times, they are slow, 
 regular, and uniform. Now, it is obvious, 
 that their rapidity must be occasioned by 
 the eagerness of an impelling passion, and 
 that their wild extravagance proceeds from 
 the energies of various passions operating at 
 once or alternately. Passions, appetites, 
 and desires, are the principles of action, 
 and govern the motions of our thoughts : 
 yet they are themselves dependent : they
 
 166 THE CHARACTER 
 
 depend on our present humour, or state of 
 mind, and on our temporary capacity of re- 
 ceiving pleasure or pain. It is always to 
 obtain some enjoyment, or to avoid some 
 pain or uneasiness, that we indulge the vio- 
 lence of desire, and enter eagerly into the 
 hurry of thoughts and of action. But if we 
 are languid and desponding, if melancholy 
 diffuses itself through the soul, we no longer 
 cherish the gay illusions of hope ; no plea- 
 sure seems worthy of our attention ; we re- 
 ject consolation, and brood over the images 
 of our distress. In this state of mind, we 
 are animated by no vigorous or lively pas- 
 sion ; our thoughts are quickened by no 
 violent impulse: they resemble one another: 
 we frequently return to the same images: our 
 tone of mind continues the same, unless a 
 desire or wish intervenes, that our condition 
 were somehow different ; and as this sug- 
 gests to us a state of circumstances and 
 events very different from what we suffer, 
 our affliction is aggravated by the contrast, 
 and we sink into deeper sorrow. Precise- 
 ly agreeable to this description, is the cha- 
 racter of melancholy music. The sounds,
 
 OF JAQUTS. 167 
 
 that is, the objects it conveys to the mind, 
 move slowly ; they partake of little variety, 
 or, if they are considerably varied, it is by 
 a contrast that heightens the expression. 
 Slow sounds, gentle zephyrs and murmur- 
 ing streams, are agreeable to the afflicted 
 lover. And the dreary whistling of the 
 midnight wind through the crevices of a 
 darksome cloister, cherishes the melancholy 
 of the trembling nun, and disposes her to a 
 gloomy and austere devotion. Thus, the 
 desire of Jaques seems perfectly suited to 
 his character ; for the music he requires is 
 agreeable to his present temper. 
 
 Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 
 Thou art not so unkind 
 
 As man's ingratitude ; 
 Thy tooth is not so keen, 
 Because thou art not seen, 
 
 Although thy breath be rude. 
 Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, 
 Thou dost not bite so nigh 
 
 As benefits forgot ; 
 Though thou the waters warp, 
 Thy sting is not so sharp 
 
 As friend remember'd not. 
 
 Thus we have endeavoured to illustrate,
 
 168 THE CHARACTER 
 
 how social dispositions, by being excessive, 
 and by suffering painful repulse, may ren- 
 der us unsocial and morose ; how 
 
 Goodness wounds itself, 
 And sweet affection proves the spring of woe. 
 
 If these reasonings have any foundation 
 in nature, they lead us to some conclusions 
 that deserve attention. To judge concern- 
 ing the conduct of others, and to indulge 
 observations on the instability of human en- 
 joyments, may assist us in the discipline of 
 our own minds, and in correcting our pride 
 and excessive appetites. But to allow re- 
 flections of this kind to become habitual, 
 and to preside in our souls, is to counteract 
 the good intentions of nature. In order, 
 therefore, to anticipate a disposition so very 
 painful to ourselves, and so disagreeable to 
 others, we ought to learn, before we engage 
 in the commerce of the world, what we 
 may expect from society in general, and 
 from every individual*. But if, previous 
 to experience, we are unable to form just 
 judgments of ourselves and others, we must 
 * Bruyere.
 
 OF JAQUES. 169 
 
 beware of despondency, and of opinions in- 
 jurious to human nature. Let us ever re- 
 member, that all men have peculiar in- 
 terests to pursue; that every man ought to 
 exert himself vigorously in his own em- 
 ployment ; and that, if we are useful and 
 blameless, we shall have the favoui of our 
 fellow-citizens. Let us love mankind ; but 
 let our affections be duly chastened. Be 
 independent, if possible ; but not insensible.
 
 ESSAY V. 
 
 ON THE CHARACTER OF IMOGEN. 
 
 CROWDED theatres have applauded Imo- 
 gen. There is a pleasing softness and deli- 
 cacy in this agreeable character, that render 
 it peculiarly interesting. Love is the ruling 
 passion ; but it is love ratified by wedlock, 
 gentle, constant, and refined. 
 
 The strength and peculiar features of a 
 ruling passion, and the power of other prin- 
 ciples to influence its motions and moderate 
 its impetuosity, are principally manifest, 
 when it is rendered violent by fear, hope, 
 grief, and other emotions of a like nature, 
 excited by the concurrence of external cir- 
 cumstances. When love is the governing
 
 THE CHARACTER OF IMOGEN. 171 
 
 passion, these concomitant and secondary 
 emotions are called forth by separation, the 
 apprehension of inconstancy, and the abso- 
 lute belief of disaffection. On separation, 
 they dispose us to sorrow and regret ; on 
 the apprehension of inconstancy, they ex- 
 cite jealousy or solicitude ; and the cer- 
 tainty of disaffection begets despondency. 
 These three situations shall direct the or- 
 der and arrangement of the fol lowing; dis- 
 course. 
 
 I. Cymbeline, instigated against his daugh- 
 ter, by the insinuations of her malicious 
 step-dame, and incensed against Posthumus 
 Leonatus, who was secretly married to Imo- 
 gen, banishes him from his court and king- 
 dom. The lovers are overwhelmed with 
 sorrow ; and the princess, informed by Pi- 
 sanio of the particular circumstances of her 
 husband's departure, expresses herself in the 
 following manner : 
 
 I would have broke mine eye-strings; crack'd 'em, but 
 To look upon bim, till the diminution 
 Of space had pointed him sharp as my needle : 
 Nay, follow'd him, till he had melted from
 
 172 THE CHARACTER 
 
 The smallness of a gnat to air; and then 
 Have tum'd mine eye, and wept . 
 
 These lines express the reluctance of the 
 heart to part with the object of its affec- 
 tions, and the efforts of passion struggling 
 with disappointment That the sentiments 
 they convey are natural, and agreeable to 
 the conduct of the passions, may very easily 
 be illustrated. 
 
 The secret wishes and desires of Imogens 
 heart recalled Leonatus to her remembrance. 
 But though objects suggested by memory 
 may be exceedingly lively, though they en- 
 tertain the mind with various and unusual 
 
 There is a passage very similar to this in Ovid's story 
 1 of Ceyx and Halcyonc. 
 
 Sustulit ilia 
 Ihimentes oculos, stantemque in puppe reenrva, 
 Concnsiaque manu dantem sibi signi, maritum 
 Prima vidct; rcdditqne notas: Ubi terra rccessit 
 Longius, atque oculi nequeunt cognoscere vultus, 
 Dum licet, iotequitur fugienlem lumine pinum. 
 Haec quoque, ut haud poterat, spatio submota, videri ; 
 Vela tamen spectat summo fluitantia nialo : 
 Ut nee vela videt, vacuum petit anxia lectum ; 
 Seque toro pouit. Renovat lectusque locusque 
 Halcyones lacrymas.
 
 OF IMOGEN. 173 
 
 images, and are capable of cherishing and 
 inflaming the most vehement passions, yield 
 little enjoyment, compared with actual sen- 
 sation. The conviction of present exist- 
 ence distinguishes, in an eminent manner, 
 those things that strike immediately on our 
 senses, from the operations of memory, and 
 the illusions of fancy. Fancy may dazzle 
 and amuse: but reflection, and the consci- 
 ousness of our present situation, are for ever 
 intruding ; and the vision vanishes at their 
 approach. In the present instance, how- 
 ever, the figure of Leonatus can hardly be 
 distinguished ; and the sensation received 
 by Imogen is imperfect, and consequently 
 painful. This leads us to a second obser- 
 vation. A thought never fluctuates in the 
 mind solitary and independent, but is connec- 
 ted with an assemblage, formed of thoughts 
 depending upon one another. In every 
 group or assemblage, some objects are pre- 
 eminent, and some subordinate. The prin- 
 cipal figure makes the strongest impression ; 
 and the rest are only attended to, on ac- 
 count of their relation to the leading image. 
 The mention of sun-rising, not only sug-
 
 174 THE CHARACTER 
 
 gests a luminous body ascending the eastern 
 sky, but the view also of party-coloured 
 clouds, meadows spangled with dew, and 
 mists hovering on the mountains. Writers, 
 whose works are addressed to the imagina- 
 tion, studying to imitate the various appear- 
 ances of nature, and, at the same time, sen- 
 sible that a complete enumeration of every 
 circumstance and quality of an object would 
 be no less tiresome than impossible, are dili- 
 gent to select those leading circumstances to 
 which the greatest number of inferior par- 
 ticulars may be said to adhere. The choice 
 of circumstances, and skill in their arrange- 
 ment, are, according to Longinus, the prin- 
 ciples of true description. Now, we ob- 
 served above, that the reality of an object 
 enhances the pleasure of the perception ; 
 and therefore that the perceptions we re- 
 ceive by the senses are preferred to repre- 
 sentations merely fancied. But suppose we 
 receive a single perception from an object 
 exceedingly interesting ; this single, and 
 even imperfect perception, makes a lively 
 impression, and becomes the leading cir- 
 cumstance of an assemblage. Though all
 
 OF IMOGEN. 175 
 
 the subordinate and adventitious images are 
 the mere coinage of fancy ; yet, on account 
 of their intimate union with the primary ob- 
 ject, they operate on the mind as if their 
 archetype really existed. They receive the 
 stamp of reality from the primary perception 
 upon which they depend ; they are deemed 
 legitimate, and are preferred to the mere il- 
 lusions of fancy. In this manner, the dis- 
 tant, and even imperfect view of Leonatus 
 suggests a train of objects more agreeable 
 than a mere imaginary picture : and it is not 
 till this transient consolation is removed, 
 that Imogen would have " turned her eye 
 and wept." 
 
 The propriety of the following senti- 
 ments depends on the same principles with 
 the former ; for the belief that Leonatus, 
 at certain fixed periods, was employed in 
 discharging the tender offices of affection, 
 would give the ideal the authority of actual 
 perception, and its concomitant images 
 would be cherished with romantic fondness. 
 
 I did not take my leave of him, but had 
 Most pretty things to say : ere I could tell him, 
 How I would think of him at certain hours,
 
 176 THE CHARACTER 
 
 Such thoughts, and such; or have charg'd him, 
 At the sixth hour of morn, at noon, at midnight, 
 To encounter me with orisons, for then 
 I am in heaven for him. 
 
 But why, says the critic, consume time and 
 attention on actions so frivolous and unim- 
 portant? Can they disclose to us any of the 
 arcana of nature? Can they reveal any of her 
 hidden mysteries ? Can they explain the 
 wonderful mechanism of the understanding? 
 Or discover the labyrinths of the heart ? 
 
 To attend to familiar and common objects 
 W not unworthy even of a philosopher. By 
 observing the accidental fall of an apple. 
 Newton explained the motions of the celes- 
 tial bodies: and a principle illustrated by 
 the easy experiment of bringing two drops 
 of water within their sphere of attraction. 
 has been employed in accounting for the 
 progress of vegetation. The association, we 
 have now endeavoured to explain, accounts 
 for many strange appearances in the history 
 and manners of mankind. It explains that 
 amazing attachment to reliques, which forms 
 an essential part of many modern religions, 
 which fills the convents of Europe with
 
 OF IMOGEN. 177 
 
 more fragments of the cross than would 
 cover mount Lebanon, and with more tears 
 of the blessed virgin than would water the 
 Holy Land. These objects confirm parti- 
 cular facts to the zealous votaries, and rea- 
 lize a train of thought suited to enthusiastic 
 ardour. It is not merely the handkerchief 
 stained with the blood of the canonized mar- 
 tyr that moves, shakes, and convulses the 
 pale and pensive nun, who flt her midnight 
 orisons, bathes it with her tears : her emo- 
 tions are occasioned by the belief of particular 
 sufferings enforced on her imagination, by 
 the view of that melancholy object. From 
 the same association we may deduce the 
 passion for pilgrimage, the rage of crusades, 
 and all the consequences of that fatal dis- 
 temper. Moved by a propensity depending 
 on the same principles, men of ingenuity, 
 enamoured of the Muses, traverse the re- 
 gions they frequented, explore every hill, 
 and seek their footsteps in every valley. 
 The groves of Mantua, and the cascades of 
 Anio, are not lovelier than other groves and 
 cascades ; yet we view them with peculiar rap- 
 ture. We tread as on consecrated ground ; 
 
 N
 
 178 THE CHARACTER 
 
 we regard those objects with veneration 
 which excited invention in the minds of Vir- 
 gil and Horace ; and we seem to enjoy a cer- 
 tain ineffable intercourse with those elegant 
 and enlightened spirits. 
 
 Trivial, therefore, as the sentiments and 
 expressions of Imogen may appear, by at- 
 tending to the principles upon which they 
 depend, the/ open the mind to the contem- 
 plation of extensive objects. Considering 
 them in regard to character, they exhibit 
 to us uncommon affection, sensibility, and 
 mildness of disposition. They are not em- 
 bittered with invective ; she complains of 
 the severity of Cymbcline, but does not 
 accuse: she expresses sorrow, but not re- 
 sentment: and she reflects on the injustice 
 of the Queen as the cause of her sufferings, 
 rather than the object of her anger. Ex- 
 ceedingly injured, and exceedingly afflicted, 
 she neglects the injury, and dwells on the 
 
 distress. 
 
 Ere I could 
 
 Give him that parting kiss, which I had set 
 
 Betwixt two charming words, comes in my father; 
 
 And, like the tyrannous breathing of the North, 
 
 Shakes all our buds from growing.
 
 OF IMOGEN. 179 
 
 A father cruel, and a step-dame false ; 
 
 A foolish suiter to a wedded lady, 
 
 That hath her husband banish'd ; O that husband ! 
 
 My supreme crown of grief! and those repeated 
 
 Vexations of it. 
 
 Most miserable 
 
 Is the desire that's glorious. 
 
 II. We proceed^ in the second place, to 
 consider the state of Imogen's mind, labour- 
 ing with doubts, and pained with the ap- 
 prehension of a change in the affections of 
 Posthumus. 
 
 Nothing, in the structure of the human 
 mind, appears more inexplicable than the 
 seeming inconsistency of passion. Averse 
 from believing the person we love or esteem 
 capable of ingratitude, we are often prone 
 to suspicion, and are alarmed with the 
 slightest symptoms of disaffection. Whoever 
 warns you of the treachery of a professing 
 friend, or of the inconstancy of a smiling 
 mistress, is treated with scorn or resentment: 
 yet, with a scrupulous and critical accuracy, 
 you investigate the meaning of an accidental 
 expression ; you employ more sagacity and 
 discernment than might govern a nation, 
 n 2
 
 ISO THE CHARACTER 
 
 to weigh the importance of a nod ; and a 
 trivial oversight or inattention will cast you 
 into despair. The heart of Imogen, attached 
 to Leonatus by tender and sincere affection, 
 is yet capable of apprehension, and liable to 
 solicitude. 
 
 Iachimo, with an intention of betraying 
 her, sensible, at the same time, that infide- 
 lity and neglect are the only crimes unpar- 
 donable in the sight of a lover, and well 
 aware of the address necessary to infuse 
 suspicion into an ingenuous mind, disguises 
 his inhuman intention with the affectation of 
 a violent and sudden emotion. He seems 
 rapt in admiration of Imogen, and expresses 
 sentiments of deep astonishment: 
 
 la. What ! are men mad? hath nature given them eyes 
 To see this vaulted arch, and the rich crop 
 Of sea and land? which can distinguish 'twixt 
 The fiery orbs above, and thetwinn'd stones 
 Upon the number'd beech ? and can we not 
 Partition make with spectacles so precious 
 'Twixt fair and foul? 
 
 lmo. What makes your admiration ? 
 
 la. It cannot be i' th' eye; for apes and monkeys, 
 'Twixt two such she's, would chatter this way, and 
 Contemn with mowes the other: nor i' the judgment ;
 
 OF IMOGEN. 181 
 
 For idiots, in this case of favour, would 
 Be wisely definite. 
 
 Into. What, dear sir, 
 Thus raps you? are you wcl 
 
 We never feel a y passion or violent 
 emotion without a cause, either real or 
 imagined. We are never conscious of an- 
 ger, but when we apprehend ourselves in- 
 jured ; and never feel esteem -without the 
 conviction of excellence in the object. Sen- 
 sible, as it were by intuition, of this in- 
 variable law in the conduct of our passions, 
 we never see others very violently agitated 
 without a conviction of their having suffi- 
 cient cause, or that they are themselves con- 
 vinced of it. If we see a man deeply afflic- 
 ted, we are persuaded that he has suffered 
 some dreadful calamity, or that he believes 
 it to be so. Upon this principle, which 
 operates instinctively, and almost without 
 being observed, is founded that capital rule 
 in oratorial composition, " That he who 
 " would affect and convince his audience, 
 " ouo;ht to have his own mind convinced 
 " and affected." Accordingly, the crafty 
 Italian, availing himself of this propensity,
 
 182 THE CHARACTER 
 
 counterfeits admiration and astonishment : 
 and, Imogen, deceived by the specious arti- 
 fice, is inclined to believe him. Moved 
 with fearful curiosity, she inquires about 
 Leonatus; receives an answer well calcu- 
 lated to alarm her ; and, of consequence, 
 betrays uneasiness. 
 
 Into. Continues well my Lord his health, 'beseech you? 
 
 la. Well, Madam. 
 
 Imo. Is he dispos'd to mirth? I hope he is. 
 
 la. Exceeding pleasant: none a stranger there 
 So merry, and so gamesome ; he is called 
 The Britain reveller. 
 
 Imo. When he was here, 
 He did incline to sadness, and oft-times 
 Not knowing why. 
 
 By representing the sentiments of Leona- 
 tus as unfavourable to marriage and the fair 
 sex, he endeavours to stimulate her disquie- 
 tude. 
 
 la. The jolly Briton cries, O ! 
 Can my sides hold, to think, that man, who knows 
 By history, report, or his own proof, 
 What woman is, yea, what she cannot chuse 
 But must be, will his free hours languish 
 For assur'd bondage? 
 
 Imo. Will my Lord say so?
 
 OF IMOCEN. 183 
 
 la. Ay, madam, with his eyes in flood with laughter. 
 But heavens know, 
 Some men are much to blame. 
 
 lino. Not he, I hope. 
 
 This expression of hope is an evident symp- 
 tom of her anxiety. If we are certain of 
 any future good, we are confident and ex- 
 pect : we only hope when the event is 
 doubtful. 
 
 Iachimo practises every art ; and, by ex- 
 pressing pity for her condition, he makes 
 farther progress in her good opinion. Pity 
 supposes calamity ; and the imagination of 
 Imogen, thus irritated and alarmed, con- 
 ceives no other cause of compassion than the 
 infidelity of Leonatus. The mysterious 
 conduct of Iachimo heightens her uneasiness; 
 for the nature and extent of her misfortune 
 not being precisely ascertained, her appre- 
 hensions render it excessive. The reluctance 
 he discovers, and his seeming unwillingness 
 to accuse her husband, are evidences of his 
 being attached to him, and give his surmises 
 credit. Imogen, thus agitated and afflicted, 
 is in no condition to deliberate coolly: and, 
 as her anxiety grows vehement, she be-
 
 184 THE CHARACTER 
 
 comes credulous and unwary. Her sense 
 of propriety however, and the delicacy of 
 her affections, preserve their influence, and 
 she conceals her impatience by indirect in- 
 quiries. 
 
 la. Whilst I am bound to wonder, I am bound 
 To pity too. 
 
 Imo. What do you pity, sir? 
 
 la. Two creatures, heartily. 
 
 Imo. Am I one, sir? 
 You look on me ; what wreck discern you in me 
 Deserves your pity ? 
 
 la. Lamentable ! what ! 
 To hide me from the radient sun, and solace 
 I' the dungeon by a snuff! 
 
 Imo. I pray you, sir, 
 Deliver with more openness your answers 
 To my demands. Why do you pity me? 
 
 Iachimo's abrupt and impassioned de- 
 meanour, his seemingly undoubted friend- 
 ship for Leonatus, the apparent interest he 
 takes in the concerns of Imogen, and his 
 pretended reluctance to unfold the nature 
 of her misfortune, adding impatience to her 
 anxiety, and thus augmenting the violence 
 of her emotions, destroy every doubt of his 
 sincerity, ana dispose her implicitly to be-
 
 OF IMOGEN. 185 
 
 lieye him. He, accordingly, proceeds with 
 greater boldness, and, under the appearance 
 of sorrow and indignation, hazards a more 
 direct impeachment. To have bewailed her 
 unhappy fate, and to have accused Leonatus 
 in terms of bitterness and reproach, would 
 have suited the injuries she had received, and 
 the violence of disappointed passion. But 
 Shakespeare, superior to all mankind in the 
 invention of characters, hath fashioned the 
 temper of Imogen with lineaments no less 
 peculiar than lovely. Sentiments amiably 
 refined, and a sense of propriety uncom- 
 monly exquisite, suppress the utterance of 
 her sorrow, and restrain her resentment. 
 Knowing that suspicion is allied to weakness, 
 and unwilling to asperse the fame of her 
 husband, she replies with a spirit of meek- 
 ness and resignation, 
 
 My Lord, I fear, 
 Has forgot Britain. 
 
 Formerly she expressed hope, when the 
 emotion she felt was fear : here she expresses 
 fear, though fully satisfied of her misfortune. 
 
 There is a certain state of mind full of
 
 I 6 THE CHARACTER 
 
 sorrow, when the approach of evil is ma- 
 nifest and unavoidable. Our reason is then 
 darkened, and the soul, sinking under the 
 apprehension of misery, suffers direful 
 eclipse, and trembles, as at the dissolution 
 of nature. Unable to endure the painful 
 impression, we almost wish for annihilation; 
 and, incapable of averting the threatened 
 danger, we endeavour, though absurdly, to 
 be ignorant of its approach. " Let me hear 
 no more," cries the Princess, convinced of 
 her misfortune, and overwhelmed with 
 anguish. 
 
 Iachimo, confident of success, and per- 
 suaded that the wrongs of Imogen would 
 naturally excite resentment, urges her to 
 revenge. Skilful to infuse suspicion, he 
 knew not the purity of refined affection. 
 Imogen, shocked and astonished at his in- 
 famous offer, is immediately prejudiced 
 anainst his evidence: her mind recovers 
 vigour by the renovated hope of her hus- 
 band's constancy, and by indignation against 
 the insidious informer. She therefore vents 
 her displeasure with sudden and unexpected 
 vehemence:
 
 OF IMOGEN. 1S7 
 
 Imo. What ho, Pisanio! 
 la. Let me my service tender on yonr lips. 
 Imo. Away ! I do condemn mine ears, that have 
 So long attended thee. 
 
 This immediate transition from a dejected 
 and desponding tone of mind, to a vigorous 
 and animated exertion, effectuated by the 
 infusion of hope and just indignation, is 
 very natural and striking. 
 
 The inquietude of Imogen, softened by 
 affection, and governed by a sense of pro- 
 priety, exhibits a pattern of the most amiable 
 and exemplary meekness. The emotions 
 she discovers belong to solicitude rather 
 than to jealousy. The features of solicitude 
 are sorrowful and tender: jealousy is fierce, 
 wrathful, and vindictive. Solicitude is the 
 object of compassion mixed with affection ; 
 jealousy excites compassion, combined with 
 terror. 
 
 III. The same meekness and tender de- 
 jection that engage our sympathy in the 
 interests of Imogen, and render even her 
 suspicions amiable, preserve their character
 
 IX* 1 II K CHARACTER 
 
 and influence, when she suffers actual cala- 
 mity. Leonatus, deceived by the calumnies 
 of Iachimo, suffers the pangs of a jealous 
 emotion, and, in the heat of his resentment, 
 commissions Pisanio to take away her life. 
 But the sagacious attendant, convinced of 
 the malignity of the accusation, disobeys his 
 master; and, actuated by compassion, reveals 
 his inhuman purpose. The stroke that in- 
 flicts the deepest wound on a virtuous and 
 ingenuous nature, is the accusation of guilt. 
 Those who are incapable of criminal acts 
 and intentions, instigated by a stronger ab- 
 horrence of a guilty conduct than others less 
 virtuous than themselves, imagine, if, by 
 any unhappy mischance, they are falsely and 
 maliciously accused, that they are the objects 
 of strong abhorrence. Such minds, very 
 easily affected, and susceptible of every feel- 
 ing, persecuted by malice, or overwhelmed 
 with infamy and the reproach of mankind, 
 (which they feel more severely than those 
 who have less integrity, and, consequently, 
 a worse opinion of others than they have.) are 
 exposed, for a time, to all the torment of 
 conscious turpitude. The blush of guilty
 
 OF IMOCEN. 189 
 
 confusion often inflames the complexion of 
 innocence, and disorders her lovely features. 
 To be rescued from, undeserved affliction, 
 Imogen flies for relief to the review of her 
 former conduct; and, surprized at the ac- 
 cusation, and indignant of the charge, she 
 triumphs in conscious virtue. 
 
 False to his bed ! what is to be false? 
 To lie in watch there, and to think on him ? 
 To weep 'twixt clock and clock? if sleep charge nature. 
 To break it with a fearful dream of him, 
 And cry myself awake ? That's false to his bed ! 
 
 Yet resentment is so natural in cases of 
 heinous injury, that it arises even in minds 
 of the mildest temper. It arises, however, 
 without any excessive or unseemly agitation: 
 its duration is exceedingly transient. It is 
 governed in its utterance by the memory of 
 former friendship : and, if the blame can be 
 transferred to any insidious or sly seducer, 
 who may have prompted the evil we com- 
 plain of, we wreak upon them the violence 
 of our displeasure. 
 
 I false! thy conscience witness Iachimo 
 Thou didst accuse him of iucontinency :
 
 4 
 
 J 
 
 190 Tin: CHARACTER 
 
 Thou then look 'fist like a villain: Now, methinks, 
 Thy favour's good enough. Some jay of Italy*, 
 WhaM mother was her painting, hath betrayed him. 
 
 The resentment of Imogen is of short 
 continuance: it is a sudden solitary flash, 
 extinguished instantly in her sorrow. 
 
 Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion. 
 
 * Commentators have been of different opinions con- 
 cerning the meaning of this passage. The difficulty how- 
 ever, as it appears to me, may easily be removed, if we 
 attend to some particulars connected with the state of mind 
 of the speaker. Imogen is moved by indignation, and even 
 resentment. These feelings incline her to aggravate ob- 
 noxious qualities in the object of her displeasure. The 
 jay of Italy is not only very unworthy in herself, but is 
 so by transmitted, hereditary, and therefore by inherent 
 wickedness. She derived it from her parents : matri turpi 
 Jilia turpior : her mother was such as she is; her picture, 
 her portrait; for the word painting, in old English, w.is 
 used for portrait. Shakespeare himself so uses it : 
 
 Laerte*, was your father dear to you? 
 
 Or, are you like the painting of a sorrow, 
 
 A face without a heart? 
 Perhaps, too, the poet uses that sort of figure which, ac- 
 cording to rhetoricians, presents as expressing some strong 
 emotion, the consequent in place of the antecedent ; or die 
 effect for the cause. So that, instead of saying the jay of 
 Italy was the picture of her mother, Imogen says, more 
 indignantly and more resentfully, that her mother was such
 
 OF IMOGEN. 191 
 
 It is not the malice of a crafty step-dame 
 that moves the heart of Imogen to com- 
 plain; nor the wrath of her incensed and 
 deluded parent ; nor that she, bred up in 
 softness, and little accustomed to suffer 
 hardships and sorrow, should wander amid 
 solitary rocks and desarts, exposed to perils, 
 famine, and death : it is, that she is forsaken, 
 betrayed, and persecuted by him, on whose 
 constancy she relied for protection, and to 
 whose tenderness she entrusted her repose. 
 Of other evils she is not insensible ; but 
 this is the " supreme crown of her grief." 
 Cruelty and ingratitude are abhorred by the 
 spectator, and resented by the sufferer. But, 
 when the temper of the person injured is 
 peculiarly gentle, and the author of the 
 injury the. object of confirmed affection, the 
 mind, after the first emotion, is more apt 
 to languish in despondency than continue 
 inflamed with resentment. The sense of 
 misfortune, rather than the sense of injury, 
 rules the disposition of Imogen, and, in- 
 
 another, was her very picture. So that she was inherently 
 and hereditarily worthless, and capable the arts of seduction.
 
 19-1 THE CHARACTER 
 
 stead of venturing invective, she laments 
 the misery of her condition. 
 
 Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion ; 
 And, for I am richer than to hang by the walls, 
 I must be ript. To pieces with me ! 
 
 If a crime is committed by a person with 
 whom we are unconnected, or who has no 
 pretensions to pre-eminent virtue, we feel 
 indignation against the individual ; but 
 form no conclusions against the species. 
 The case is different, if we are connected 
 with him by any tender affection, and re- 
 gard him as of superior merit. Love and 
 friendship, according to the immutable con- 
 duct of every passion, lead us to magnify, 
 in our imaginations, the distinguished qua- 
 lities of those we love. The rest of mankind 
 are ranked in a lower order, and arc valued 
 no otherwise than as they resemble this 
 illustrious model. But, perceiving depravity 
 where we expected perfection, mortified and 
 disappointed that appearances of rectitude, 
 believed by us most sincere and unchange- 
 able, were merely specious and exterior, we 
 become suspicious of every pretension to
 
 OF IMOGEN. 193 
 
 merit, and regard the rest of mankind, of 
 whose integrity we have had less positive evi~ 
 dence, with cautious and unkind reserve. 
 
 True honest men being heard, like false iEneas, 
 Were, in his time, thought false : and Sinon's weeping 
 Did scandal many a holy tear; took pity 
 From most true wretchedness. So thou, Posthumus, 
 Wilt lay the leaven on all proper men : 
 Goodly, and gallant, shall be false and perjur'd, 
 From thy great fail. 
 
 Imogen, conscious of her innocence, con- 
 vinced of Leonatus's perfidy, and over- 
 whelmed with sorrow, becomes careless of 
 life, and offers herself a willing sacrifice to 
 her husband's cruelty. 
 
 Be thou honest : 
 Do thou thy master's bidding: when thou seest him, 
 A little witness my obedience. Look ! 
 1 draw the sword myself: take it, and hit 
 The innocent mansion of my love, my heart : 
 Pr'ythee dispatch:. 
 
 The lamb intreats the butcher. Where's thy knife? 
 Thou art too slow to do thy master's bidding, 
 When I desire it too. 
 
 I shall conclude these observations, by 
 explaining more particularly, how the re- 
 o
 
 194 THE CHARACTER 
 
 pulse of" a ruling and habituated passion 
 could dispose Imogen to despondency, and 
 render her careless of life: in other words, 
 what is the origin of despair; or, by what 
 lamentable perversion those, who are sus- 
 ceptible of the pleasure of life, and in 
 situations capable of enjoying them, be- 
 come dissatisfied, and rise from the feast 
 prematurely. 
 
 Happiness depends upon the gratification 
 of our desires and passions. The happiness 
 of Titus arose from the indulgence of a be- 
 neficent temper: Epaminondas reaped en- 
 joyment from the love of his country : the 
 love of fame was the source of Caesar's feli- 
 city: and the gratification of grovelling ap 
 petites gave delight to Vitellius. It has 
 also been observed, that some one passion 
 generally assumes a pre-eminence in the 
 mind, and not only predominates over other 
 appetites and desires, but contends with 
 reason, and is often victorious. In propor- 
 tion as one passion gains strength, the rest 
 languish and are enfeebled. They arc sel- 
 dom exercised; their gratifications yield 
 transient pleasure; they become of slight
 
 OF IMOGEN. 195 
 
 importance, are dispirited, and decay. Thus 
 our happiness is attached to one ruling and 
 ardent passion. But our reasonings, con- 
 cerning future events, are weak and short- 
 sighted. We form schemes of felicity that 
 can never be realized, and cherish affections 
 that can never be gratified. If, therefore, 
 the disappointed passion has been long en- 
 couraged, if the gay visions of hope and 
 imagination have long administered to its 
 violence, if it is confirmed by habit in the 
 temper and constitution, if it has superseded 
 the operations of other active , principles, 
 and so enervated their strength, its disap- 
 pointment will be embittered ; and sorrow, 
 prevented by no other passion, will prey, 
 for ever, on the desolate abandoned spirit. 
 We may also observe, that none are more 
 liable to afflictions of this sort, than those 
 to whom nature has given extreme sensibi- 
 lity. Alive to every impression, their feel- 
 ings are exquisite : they are eager in every 
 pursuit: their imaginations are vigorous, 
 and well adapted to lire them. They 
 live, for a time, in a state of anarchy, ex- 
 posed to the inroads of every passion ; and 
 Q 2
 
 196 THE CHARACTER OP IMOGEN. 
 
 though possessed of singular abilities, their 
 conduct will be capricious. Glowing with 
 the warmest affections, open, generous, and 
 candid ; yet, prone to inconstancy, they are 
 incapable of lasting friendship. At length, 
 by force of repeated indulgence, some one 
 passion becomes habitual, occupies the heart, 
 seizes the understanding, and, impatient of 
 resistance orcontroul, weakens or extirpates 
 every opposing principle: disappointment 
 ensues : no passion remains to administer 
 comfort: and the original sensibility which 
 promoted this disposition, will render the 
 mind more susceptible of anguish, and 
 yield it a prey to despondency. We ought, 
 therefore, to beware of .limiting our felicity 
 to the gratification of any particular passion. 
 Nature, ever wise and provident, has en- 
 dowed us with capacities for various plea- 
 sures, and has opened to us many fountains 
 of happiness: let no tyrannous passion, let 
 ' no rigid doctrine deter thee ; drink of the 
 * streams, be moderate, and grateful.'
 
 ESSAY VI. 
 
 ON THE 
 
 DRAMATIC CHARACTER OF KING RICHARD III. 
 
 THE " Life and Death of King Richard 
 " the Third" is a popular tragedy : yet the 
 poet, in his principal character, has con- 
 nected deformity of hody with every vice 
 that can pollute human nature. Nor are 
 those vices disguised or softened. The hues 
 and lineaments are as dark and as deeply 
 impressed as we are capable of conceiving. 
 Neither do they receive any considerable 
 mitigation from the virtues of any other 
 persons represented in the poem. The 
 vices of Richard are not to serve as a foil
 
 19$ DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 or a test to their virtues ; for the virtues and 
 innocence of others serve no other purpose 
 than to aggravate his hideous guilt. In 
 reality, we are not much attached by affec- 
 tion, admiration, or esteem, to any charac- 
 ter in the tragedy. The merit of Edward, 
 Clarence, and some others, is so undecided, 
 and has such a mixture of weakness, as hin- 
 ders us from entering deeply into their in- 
 terest. Richmond is so little seen, his 
 goodness is so general or unfeatured, and 
 the difficulties he has to encounter are so 
 remote from view, are thrown, if I may 
 use the expression, so far into the back 
 ground, and are so much lessened by con- 
 curring events, that he cannot, with any 
 propriety, be deemed the hero of the per- 
 formance. Neither does the pleasure we 
 receive proceed entirely from the gratifica- 
 tion of our resentment, or the due display 
 of poetical justice. To be pleased with such 
 a display, it is necessary that we enter deeply 
 into the interest of those that suffer. But 
 s( strange is the structure of this tragedy, 
 that we are less interested in the miseries 
 of those that are oppressed, than we are
 
 OF RICHARD THE THIRD. 199 
 
 moved with indignation against the oppres- 
 sor. The sufferers, no doubt, excite some 
 degree of compassion ; but, as we have now 
 observed, they have so little claim to esteem, 
 are so numerous and disunited, that no 
 particular interest of this sort takes hold of 
 us during the whole exhibition. Thus were 
 the pleasure we receive to depend solely on 
 the fulfilment of poetical justice, that half 
 of it would be lost which arises from great 
 regard for the sufferers, and esteem for the 
 hero who performed the exploit. We may 
 also add, that if the punishment of Richard 
 were to constitute our chief enjoyment, that 
 event is put off for too long a period. The 
 poet might have exhibited his cruelties in 
 shorter space, sufficient, however, to excite 
 our resentment ; and so might have brought 
 us sooner to the catastrophe, if that alone 
 was to have yielded us pleasure. In truth, 
 the catastrophe of a good tragedy is only 
 the completion of our pleasure, and not the 
 chief cause of it. The fable, and the view 
 which the poet exhibits of human nature, 
 conducted through the whole performance, 
 must produce our enjoyment. But in the
 
 200 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 work now before us there is scarcely any 
 fable ; and there is no character of eminent 
 importance, but that of Richard. He is the 
 principal agent : and the whole tragedy is 
 an exhibition of guilt, where abhorrence for 
 the criminal is much stronger than our in- 
 terest in the sufferers, or esteem for those, 
 who, by accident rather than great exertion, 
 promote his downfal. We are pleased, no 
 doubt, with his punishment; but the display 
 of his enormities, and their progress to this 
 completion, are the chief objects of our at- 
 tention. Thus Shakespeare, in order to ren- 
 der the shocking vices of Richard an amus- 
 ing spectacle, must have recourse to other 
 expedients than those usually practised in 
 similar situations. Here, then, we are led 
 to enquire into the nature of these resources 
 and expedients: for why do we not turn 
 from the Richard of Shakespeare, as we turn 
 from his Titus Andronicus ? Has he invested 
 him with any charm, or secured him by 
 some sacred talisman from disgust and aver- 
 sion ? The subject is curious, and deserves 
 our attention. 
 
 We may observe in general, that the
 
 OF RICHARD THE THIRD. 201 
 
 interest is produced, not by veiling or 
 contrasting offensive features and colours, 
 but by so connecting them with agree- 
 able qualities residing in the character itself, 
 that the disagreeable effect is either en- 
 tirely suppressed, or by its union with coa- 
 lescing qualities, is converted into a plea- 
 surable feeling*. In particular, though 
 Richard has no sense of justice, nor indeed 
 oFany moral obligation, he has an abundant 
 share of those qualities which are termed 
 intellectual. Destitute of virtue, he possesses vi- 
 ability. He shews discernment of charac- 
 ter ; artful contrivance in forming projects ; 
 great address in the management of man- 
 kind ; fertility of resource ; a prudent com- 
 mand of temper; much versatility of deport- 
 ment ; and singular dexterity in concealing 
 his intentions. He possesses along with 
 these, such perfect consciousness of the su- 
 perior powers of his own understanding 
 above those of other men, as leads him not 
 ostentatiously to treat them with contempt, 
 but to employ them, while he really con- 
 temns their weakness, as engines of his 
 * See Hume's Essav on Tragedy.
 
 202 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 ambition. Now, though these properties 
 are not the objects of moral approbation, and 
 may be employed as the instruments of 
 fraud no less than of justice, yet the native 
 and unmingled effect which most of them 
 produce on the spectator, independent of 
 the principle that employs them, is an emo- 
 tion of pleasure. The person possessing 
 them is regarded with deference, with re- 
 spect, and with admiration. Thus, then, 
 the satisfaction we receive in contemplating 
 the character of Richard, in the various si- 
 tuations in which the poet has shewn him, 
 arises from a mixed feeling: a feeling, com- 
 pounded of horror, on account of his guilt ; 
 and of admiration, on account of his talents. 
 \W the concurrence of these two emotions 
 the mind is thrown into a state of unusual 
 agitation ; neither painful nor pleasant, in 
 the extremes of pain or of pleasure, but 
 strangely* delightful. Surprize and amaze- 
 ment, excited by the striking conjunctures 
 which he himself very often occasions, and 
 which gjve exercise to his talents, together 
 witli astonishment at the determined bold- 
 * Laetatur turbidum. Hon.
 
 OF RICHARD THE THIRD. 203 
 
 ness and success of his guilt, give uncommon 
 force to the general impression. 
 
 It may be apprehended, that the mixed 
 feelings' now mentioned may be termed in- 
 dignation ; nor have I any objection to the 
 use of the term. Indignation seems to 
 arise from a comparative view of two ob- 
 jects : the one worthy, and the other un- 
 worthy ; which are, nevertheless, united ; 
 but which, on account of the wrono; or 
 impropriety occasioned by this incongruous 
 union, we conceive should be disunited 
 and independent. The man of merit suf- 
 fering neglect or contempt, and the unwor- 
 thy man raised to distinction, provoke in- 
 dignation. In like manner, indignation 
 may be provoked, by seeing illustrious ta- 
 lents perverted to inhuman and perfidious 
 purposes. Nor is the feeling, for it arises 
 from elevation of soul and consciousness of 
 virtue, by any means disagreeable. Indeed, 
 the pleasure it yields us is different from 
 that arising from other emotions of a more 
 placid and soft character ; different, for 
 example, in a very remarkable manner, . 
 from our sympathy with successful merit.
 
 504 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 We may also observe, that suspence, wonder, 
 and surprise, occasioned by the actual exer- 
 tion of great abilities, under the guidance 
 of uncontrouled inhumanity, by their aw- 
 ful effects, and the postures they assume, 
 together with solicitude to see an union so 
 unworthy dissolved, give poignancy to our 
 indignation, and annex to it, if I may use 
 the expression, a certain wild and alarming 
 delight. 
 
 But, by what term soever we recognise 
 the feeling, I proceed to illustrate, by a par- 
 ticular analysis of some striking scenes in 
 the tragedy, " that the pleasure we receive 
 " from -the Character of Richard, is pro- 
 11 duced by those emotions which arise in 
 " the mind, on beholding great intellectual 
 " ability employed for inhuman and perfi- 
 " dious purposes." 
 
 I. In the first scene of the tragedy, we 
 have the loathsome deformity of Richard 
 displayed with such indications of mind as 
 altogether suppress our aversion. Indeed 
 the poet, in the beginning of Richard's 
 soliloquy, keeps that deformity to which he
 
 OF RICHARD THE THIRD. 20.5 
 
 would reconcile us, out of view ; nor men- 
 tions it till he throws discredit upon its op- 
 posite: this he does indirectly. He possesses 
 the imagination with dislike at those em- 
 ployments which are the usual concomitants 
 of grace and beauty. The means used for 
 this purpose are suited to the artifice of the 
 design. Richard does not inveigh with 
 grave an^with solemn declamation against 
 the sports and pastime of a peaceful Court: 
 they are unworthy of such serious assault. 
 He treats them with irony: he scoffs at 
 them ; does not blame, but despise them. 
 
 Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths.; 
 Our bruised arms hung up for monuments ; 
 Our stern alarums chang'd to merry meetings; 
 Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. 
 Grim-visaged war hath smoothM his wrinkled front: 
 And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds, 
 To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, 
 He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber, 
 To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. *> 
 
 By thus throwing discredit on the usual 
 attendants of grace and beauty, he lessens 
 our esteem for those qualities ; and proceeds 
 with less reluctance to mention his own 
 hideous appearance. - Here, too, with great 
 judgment on the part of the poet, the speech
 
 206 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 ^ is ironical. To have justified or apologized 
 \ for deformity with serious argument, would 
 have been no less ineffectual than a serious 
 charge against beauty. The intention of 
 Shakespeare is not to make us admire the 
 monstrous deformity of Richard, but to 
 make us endure it. 
 
 But I, that am not shap'd for sportive tricks, 
 Nor made to court an am'rous looking-glass ; 
 I that am rudely stampt, and want Love's majesty 
 To strut before a wanton ambling nymph ; 
 / I that am curtail'd of this fair proportion, 
 \ Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, 
 
 IDeform'd, unfinish'd, sent before my time 
 Into this breathing world, scarce half made up, 
 And that so lamely and un fashionably, 
 That dogs bark at me as I halt by them : 
 Why I (in this weak piping time of peace) 
 Have no delight to pass away the time, 
 Unless to spy my shadow in the sun, 
 And descant on mine own deformity: 
 And, therefore, since I cannot prove a lover, 
 To entertain these fair well-spoken days, 
 I am determined to prove a villain, 
 And hate the idle pleasures of these days. 
 
 J His contempt of external appearance, 
 
 and the easy manner in which he considers 
 
 ^IfC. i his own defects, impress us strongly with 
 
 the apprehension of his superior understand-
 
 OF RICHARD THE THIRD. 20 
 
 ing. His resolution, too, of not acquiescing 
 tamely in the misfortune of his form, but 
 of making it a motive for him to exert his 
 other abilities, gives us an idea of his possess- 
 ing great vigour and strength of mind. Not 
 dispirited with his deformity, it moves hin 
 to high exertion. Add to this, that our 
 wonder and astonishment are excited at the 
 declaration he makes of an atrocious cha- 
 racter; of his total insensibility; and resolu- 
 tion to perpetuate the blackest crimes. 
 
 Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous, 
 By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams, 
 To set my brother Clarence and the king 
 In deadly hate, the one against the other: 
 And if King Edward be as true and just, 
 As I am subtle, false, and treacherous, 
 This day should Clarence closely be tuevv'd up. aJ*v' 
 
 may be said, perhaps, that the colouf^ 
 ing here is by far too strong, and that we 
 cannot suppose characters to exist so full of 
 deliberate guilt, as thus to contemplate a 
 criminal conduct without subterfuge, and 
 without imposing upon themselves. It may 
 be thought that even the Neros and the 
 Domitians, who disgraced human nature, 

 
 208 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 did not consider themselves so atrociously 
 wicked as they really were : but, transported 
 by lawless passions, deceived themselves, and 
 were barbarous without perceiving their 
 guilt. It is difficult to ascertain what the 
 real state of such perverted characters may 
 be ; nor is it a pleasing task to analyze their 
 conceptions". Yet the view which Shake- 
 speare has given us of Richard's sedate and 
 deliberate guilt, knowing that his conduct 
 was really guilty, is not inconsistent. He 
 only gives a deeper shade to the darkness of 
 his character. With his other enormities 
 and defects, he represents him incapable of 
 feeling, though he may perceive the dif- 
 ference between virtue and vice. Moved 
 by unbounded ambition; vain of his intel- 
 lectual and political talents; conceiving 
 himself, by reason of his deformity, as of a 
 different species from the rest of mankind ; 
 and inured from his infancy to the barbari- 
 tit s perpetrated during a desperate civil war ; 
 surely it is not incompatible with his cha- 
 racter, to represent him incapable of feeling 
 those pleasant or unpleasant sensations that 
 Butler.
 
 OF RICHARD THE THIRD. 209 
 
 usually, in other men, accompany the dis- 
 cernment of right and of wrong. I will in- 
 deed allow, that the effect would have been 
 as powerful, and the representation would / 
 have been better suited to our ideas of human 
 nature, had Richard, both here and in other / 
 scenes, given indication of his guilt rather 
 by obscure hints and surmises, than by an j 
 open declaration. ", 
 
 II. In the scene between Richard and J 
 Lady Anne, the attempt seems as bold, and i 
 the situation as difficult, as any in the tra- : 
 
 ed > r - ^ 
 
 It seems, indeed, altogether wild and < 
 
 unnatural, that Richard, deformed and 
 
 hideous as the poet represents him, should 
 
 offer himself a suitor to the widow of an 
 
 / 
 
 excellent young prince whom he had slain, 
 at the very time she is attending the funeral 
 of her husband's father, and while she is 
 expressing the most bitter hatred against the 
 author of her misfortune. But, in attending 
 to the progress of the dialogue, we shall 
 find ourselves more interested in the event, 
 and more astonished at the boldness and 
 p
 
 210 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 ability of Richard, than moved with ab- 
 horrence at his shamelevss effrontery, or of- 
 fended with the improbability of the si- 
 tuation. 
 '} In considering this scene, it is necessary 
 that we keep in view the character of Lady 
 Anne. The outlines of this character are 
 given us in her own conversation ; but we 
 see it more completely finished and filled 
 up, indirectly indeed, but not less distinctly, 
 in the conduct of Richard. She is repre- 
 sented by the poet, of a mind altogether 
 frivolous ; incapable of deep affection ; guid- 
 ed by no steady principles of virtue, pro- 
 duced or strengthened by reason and reflec- 
 tion; the prey of vanity, which is her 
 ruling passion; susceptible of every feeling 
 and emotion ; sincere in their expression 
 while they last; but hardly capable of dis- 
 tinguishing the propriety of one more than 
 another; and so exposed alike to the in- 
 fluence of good and of bad impressions. 
 There are such characters : persons of great 
 sensibility, of great sincerity, of no rational 
 or steady virtue, and consequently of no 
 consistency of conduct. They now amaze
 
 OF RICHARD THE THIRD. 21^ 
 
 us with their amiable virtues ; and now con- 
 found us with apparent vices. 
 
 Richard, in his management of Lady 
 Anne, having in view the accomplishment 
 of his ambitious designs, addresses her 
 witfi the most perfect knowledge of her 
 character. He knows that her feelings are 
 violent ; that they have no foundation in 
 steady determined principles of conduct ; 
 that violent feelings are soon exhausted : and 
 that the undecided mind, without choice 
 or sense of propriety, is equally accessible 
 to the next that occur. All that he has to 
 do, then, is to suffer the violence of one 
 emotion to pass away, and then, as skilfully 
 as possible, to bring another, more suited 
 to his designs, into its place. Thus he 
 not only discovers much discernment of 
 human nature, but also great command of 
 temper, and great dexterity of conduct. 
 
 In order, as soon as possible, to exhaust 
 her temporary grief and resentment, it is 
 necessary that they be swollen and ex- 
 asperated to their utmost measure. In truth, 
 it is resentment, rather than grief, which she 
 expresses in her lamentation for Henry. 
 p 2
 
 
 212 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 Accordingly Richard, inflaming her disorder 
 to its fiercest extreme, breaks in abruptly 
 upon the funeral procession. This stimu- 
 lates her resentment ; it becomes more vio- 
 lent, by his appearing altogether cool and 
 unconcerned at her abuse ; and thus she 
 vents her emotion in fierce invectives and 
 imprecations : 
 
 O God, which this blood mad'st, revenge his death ! 
 O earth, which this blood drink'st, revenge his death ! 
 Or heav'ri, with lightning strike the murderer dead ! 
 Or earth, gape open wide, and eat him quick ! 
 
 This invective is general. But before 
 the vehemence of this angry mood can be 
 entirely abated, she must bring home to 
 her fancy every aggravating circumstance, 
 and must ascertain every particular wrong 
 she has suflercd. When she has done this. 
 and expressed the consequent feelings, she 
 has no longer any topics or food for anger, 
 and the passion frill of course subside. 
 Richard, for this purpose, pretends to justiiy 
 or to extenuate his seeming offences ; and 
 thus, instead of concealing his crimes, he 
 overcomes the resentment of Lady Anne.
 
 OF RICHARD THE THIRD. 213 
 
 by bringing his cruelties into view. This 
 has also the effect of impressing her with the 
 belief of his candour. 
 
 Vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman, 
 Of these supposed crimes, to give me leave, 
 By circumstance but to acquit myself, &c 
 
 Anne. Didst thou not till this king ? 
 
 Glo. I grant ye. 
 
 Anne. Dost grant me, hedge-hog? then God grant 
 me too, 
 Thou may'st be damned for that wicked deed. 
 
 Here also we may observe the application 
 of those flatteries and apparent obsequious- 
 ness, which, if they cannot take effect at 
 present, otherwise than to give higher pro- 
 vocation ; yet, when her wrath subsides, 
 will operate in a different direction, and 
 tend to excite that vanity which is the pre- 
 dominant disposition of her mind, and by 
 means of which he will accomplish his pur- 
 pose. 
 
 It was not alone sufficient to provoke her 
 an<er and her resentment to the utmost, in 
 order that they might immediately subside ; 
 but by alledging apparent reasons for change 
 of sentiment, to assist them in their decline.
 
 214 DRAMATIC CHARAU1KK 
 
 Though Lady Anne possesses no decided, 
 determined virtue, yet her moral nature, 
 uncultivated as it appears, would discern 
 impropriety in her conduct ; would suggest 
 scruples, and so produce hesitation. Now, 
 in order to prevent the effect of these, it 
 was necessary to aid the mind in finding 
 subterfuge or excuse, and thus assist her in 
 the pleasing business of imposing upon her- 
 self. Her seducer accordingly endeavours 
 to gloss his conduct, and represents himself 
 as less criminal than she at first apprehended. 
 
 To leave this keen encounter of our wits, 
 And fall somewhat into a slower method : 
 Is not the causer of the timeless deaths 
 Of these Plantagenets, Henry and Edward, 
 As blameful as the executioner? 
 
 Anne. Thou wast the cause, and most accurst effect. 
 
 Glo. Your beauty was the cause of that effect: 
 V'our beauty, which did haunt me in my sleep, &:c. 
 
 In these lines, besides a confirmation of 
 the foregoing remark, and an illustration of 
 Richard's persevering flattery, there are two 
 circumstances that mark great delicacy and 
 fineness of pencil in Shakespeare's execution 
 of this striking scene. The invective and
 
 OF RICHARD THE THIRD. 21$- 
 
 resentment are now so mitigated and brought 
 down, that the conversation, assuming the 
 more patient form of dialogue, is not so 
 much the expression of violent passion, as 
 a contest for victory in a smart dispute, 
 and becomes a " keen encounter of wits." 
 The other circumstance to be observed is, 
 that Richard, instead of speaking of her 
 husband and father-in-law, in the relation 
 in which they stood to her, falls in with 
 the subsiding state of her affection towards 
 them, and using terms of great indifference, 
 speaks of " these Plantagenets, Henry and 
 Edward." 
 
 Lady Anne having listened to the con- ( 
 versation of Richard, after the first transport 
 of her wrath on the subject of Edward's 
 death, shewed that the real force of the 
 passion was abating ; and it seems to be 
 perfectly subdued, by her having listened 
 to his exculpation. In all this the art of 
 the poet is wonderful ; and the skill he as- 
 cribes to Richard, profound. Though the 
 crafty seducer attempts to justify his conduct 
 to Lady Anne, he does not seek to convince 
 her reason ; for she had no reason worth the. 
 
 \
 
 ^IG DRAMATIC CHARAC1KR 
 
 pains of convincing, hut to afford her some 
 means and opportunity to vent her emotion. 
 When tliis effect is produced, he proceeds 
 to substitute some regard for himself in its 
 place. As we have already ohserved, he 
 has been taking measures for this purpose 
 in every thing he has said ; and by soothing 
 expressions of adulation during the course 
 of her anger, he Was gradually preparing 
 her mind for the more pleasing, but not less 
 powerful, dominion of vanity. In the fore- 
 going lines, and in what follows, he ventures 
 a declaration of the passion he entertains for 
 her. Yet he does this indirectly, as sug- 
 gested by the tendency of their argument, 
 and as a reason for those parts of his con- 
 duct that seem so heinous. 
 
 Your beauty was the cause, &c. 
 
 Kit hard was well aware, that a declara- 
 tion of love from him would of course re- 
 new her indignation. He accordingly ma- 
 Mjgei her mind in such a manner as to soften 
 its violence, by mentioning his passion, in 
 the part of the dialogue containing, in his 
 language, the t; keen encounter of their
 
 I 
 
 OF RICHARD THE THIRD. 217 
 
 "wits," as a matter not altogether serious; 
 and afterwards, when he announces it more 
 seriously, by mentioning it as it were by 
 chance, and indirectly. Yet, notwithstand- 
 ing all these precautions to introduce the 
 thought with an easy and familiar appear- 
 ance, it must excite violent indignation. 
 Here, therefore, as in the former part of 
 the scene, he must have recourse to the 
 same command of temper, and to the same 
 means of artfully irritating her emotion, till 
 it entirely subsides. Accordingly, he ad- 
 heres without deviation to his plan ; he per- 
 sists in his adulation ; provokes her anger to 
 its utmost excess ; and finally, by varying 
 the attitudes of his flatteries, by assuming 
 an humble and suppliant address, he sub- 
 dues and restores her soul to the ruling pas- \ 
 sion. In the close of the dialogue, the de- 
 cline of her emotion appears distinctly traced. 
 It follows the same course as the passion she 
 expresses in the beginning of the scene. She 
 is at first violent ; becomes more violent; 
 her passion subsides: yet, some notions of 
 propriety wandering across her mind, she 
 makes an effort to recal her resentment.
 
 218 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 The effort is feeble ; it only enables her to 
 express contempt in her aspect ; and at last 
 she becomes the prey of her vanity. In the 
 concluding part of the dialogue, she does 
 not, indeed, directly comply with the suit 
 
 (of Richard, but indicates plainly that total 
 change in her disposition which it was his 
 purpose to produce*. 
 
 - 
 
 III. We shall now consider the manner 
 in which Richard manages his accomplices, 
 and those from whom he derives his assist- 
 ance in the fulfilment of his designs. 
 
 We discern in his conduct towards them, 
 as much at least as in their own deportment, 
 the true colour of their characters : we dis- 
 cover the full extent of their faculties, and 
 the real value of their virtues. According 
 as they are variously constituted, his treat- 
 ment of them varies. lie uses them all as 
 the tools of his ambition ; but assumes an 
 appearance of greater friendship :uid confi- 
 dence towards some than towards others. 
 
 * These preceding remarks on the character of Lady 
 Anne were first published in the Mirror, No. 6(7.
 
 OP RICHARD THE THIRD. 219 
 
 He is well acquainted with the engines lie 
 would employ : he knows the compass of 
 their powers, and discovers great dexterity 
 in his manner of moving and applying them. 
 To the Mayor and his followers he affects 
 an appearance of uncommon devotion and 
 piety; great zeal for the public welfare ; a 
 scrupulous regard for the forms of law and 
 of justice; retirement from the world ; aver- 
 sion to the toils of state; much trust in 
 the good intentions of a magistrate so con- 
 spicuous ; , still more in his understanding ; 
 and by means of both, perfect confidence 
 in his power with the people. Now, in 
 this manner of conducting himself, who is 
 not more struck with the address and ability 
 displayed by Richard, and more moved with 
 curiosity to know their effects, than shocked 
 at his hypocrisy and base deceit ? Who does 
 not distinctly, though indirectly, indeed, 
 discern the character of the Mayor ? The / 
 deportment of Richard is a glass that re-/ 
 fleets every limb, every lineament, and/ i 
 every colour, with the most perfect trutrj j 
 and propriety. 
 
 What, think you \ve are Turks or Infidels,
 
 220 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 Or that we would, against the form of law, 
 Proceed thus rashly in the villain's death ? Sec. 
 
 Alas ! why would you heap those cares on me? 
 I am unfit for state or Majesty, &c. 
 
 i lie behaviour of Richard towards Buck- 
 ingham is still more striking and peculiar. 
 The situation was more difficult, and his 
 conduct appears more masterly. Yet, as in 
 iormer instances, the outlines and sketch of 
 Buckingham's character are filled up in the 
 deportment of his seducer. 
 
 This accomplice possesses some talents^ 
 and considerable discernment of human 
 nature: his passions are ardent; he has little 
 zeal for the public welfare, or the interests 
 of virtue Off religion : yet, to a certain degree, 
 be podOPfPfll humanity and a sense of duty. 
 He is moved with the love of power and of 
 wealth. He is susceptible, perhaps, of envy 
 a^tinst those who ari<e to such pre-eminence 
 as he thinks might have suited his own ta- 
 lents and condition. Possessing some poli- 
 iu :d abilities, or, at least, possessing thatcun- 
 that power of subtile contrivance, and 
 that habit of activity, which sometimes pass
 
 OF RICHARD THE THIRD. 5221 
 
 for political abilities, and which, imposing 
 upon those who possess them, make them 
 fancy themselves endowed with the powers 
 of distinguished statesmen, he values him- 
 self for his talents, and is desirous of dis/ 
 playing them. Indeed, this seems to 
 the most striking feature in his character; 
 and the desire of exhibiting his skill and 
 dexterity, appears to be the foremost of his 
 active principles. Such a person is Buck- 
 ingham ; and the conduct of Richard is 
 perfectly consonant. Having too much pe- 
 netration, or too little regard to the public 
 weal, to be blindfolded or imposed upon 
 like the Mayor, Richard treats him with 
 apparent confidence. \ Moved, perhaps, 
 with envy against the kindred of the Queen, 
 or the hope of pre-eminence in consequence 
 of their ruin, he concurs in the accomplish- 
 ment of their destruction, and in assisting 
 the Usurper to attain his unlawful prefer- 
 ments But above all, excessively vain of 
 his talents, Richard borrows aid from his 
 counsels, and not only uses him as the tool 
 of his designs, but seems to share with him \ 
 in the glory of their success. Knowing,
 
 222 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 I too, that his sense of virtue is faint, or of 
 little power, and that the secret exultation and 
 triumph for over-reaching their adversaries, 
 will afford him pleasure sufficient to coun- 
 terbalance the pain that may arise in his 
 breast from the perpetration of guilt, he 
 makes him, in a certain degree, the confi- 
 dent of his crimes. Qt is also to be remarked, 
 that Buckingham, stimulated with the hope 
 of reward, and elated still more with va- 
 n'ty in the display of his talents, appears 
 ore active than the Usurper himself; more 
 inventive in the contrivance of expedients, 
 and more alert in their execution. There 
 are many such persons, the instruments of 
 designing; men : persons of some ability, of 
 lless virtue, who derive consequence to them- 
 I selves, by fancying they are privy to the 
 vices or designs of men whom they re- 
 spect, and who triumph in the fulfilment 
 of crafty projects. Richard, however, sees 
 the feebleness of Buckingham's mind, and 
 It no more of his projects and vices 
 than he reckons expedient for the accom- 
 plishment of his purpose: for, as some 
 men, when at variance, so restrain their re-
 
 OF RICHARD THE THIRD. 5223 
 
 sentments as to leave room for future recon- 
 ciliation and friendship, Richard so manages 
 his seeming friendships, as to leave room, 
 without the hazard of material injury to 
 himself, for future hatred and animosity. 
 A rupture of course ensues, and in a manner 
 perfectly compatible with both of their cha- 
 racters. I Richard wishes for the death of 
 lis brother Edward's children ; and that his 
 friend should on this, as on former occasions, 
 partake of the shame or the glory. But 
 ihere the ambition or envy of Buckingham 
 had no particular concern ; nor was there 
 [any great ability requisite for the assassi- 
 nation of two helpless infants. Thus his 
 humanity and sense of duty, feeble as they 
 were, when exposed to stronger principles, 
 not altogether extinguished, were left to 
 work uncontrouled ; and consequently would 
 surest hesitation. They mieht be aided 
 in their operation by the insatiate desire of 
 reward for former services, not gratified 
 according to promise or expectation ; and, 
 by the same invidious disposition, transferred 
 from the ruined kindred of the Queen to 
 the successful Usurper. Richard, somewhat
 
 224 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 aware that this project was more likely to 
 encounter scruples than any of the former, 
 hints his design with caution: he insinuates 
 it with acknowledgment of obligation ; and 
 endeavours to anticipate the alarms of con- 
 science, by suggesting to him, along with this 
 acknowledgement, the recollection of former 
 guilt Not aware, however, of the force con- 
 tained in the resisting principles, and appre- 
 hending that the mind of his assistant was 
 now as depraved as he desired, he hazards 
 too abruptly the mention of his design. 
 The consequence, in perfect consistency 
 with both their natures, is coldness and ir- 
 rcconcileable hatred. 
 
 Rich. Stand all apart. Cousin of Buckingham 
 
 Buck. My ci.icions Sovereign ! 
 
 \. (.ive inc thy hand. Thus high, hy thy advice 
 An.l thy assistance, is King Richard seated: 
 But sh;:ll we wear these glories fur a day } 
 Or shall they last, and we rejoice in them? 
 
 Muck. Still live they, and for ever let them last. 
 
 Rick. Ah, Buckingham ! ndw do I play the touch, 
 To try if thou be current gold indeed : 
 Young Edward lives ! think now what I would speak. 
 9 iy on, my loving Lord. 
 
 Rich. Why, Buckingham, 1 say I would be King. 
 
 Muck. Why, so you are, my thi ice renowned Liege. 
 
 Rich. Ha! am I a King? 'Tis so but Edward lives
 
 OF RICHARD THE THIRD. "2^5 
 
 Buck. True, noble Prince. 
 
 Rich. O bitter consequence ! 
 That Edward still should live True, noble Prince 
 Cousin, thou wast not wont to be so dull. 
 Shall I be plain? I wish the bastards dead, 
 And I would have it suddenly perform'd. 
 What say'st thou now ? Speak suddenly be brier. 
 
 Buck. Your Grace may do your pleasure. 
 
 Rich. Tut, tut, thou art all ice; thy kindness freezes: 
 Say, have I thy consent that they shall die? 
 
 Buck. Give me some breath, some little pause, dear Lord, 
 Before I positively speak in this : 
 will resolve your Grace immediately. 
 
 Cates. The King is angry ; see, he gnaws his lip. 
 
 The conduct of Richard to Catesby is 
 different from his deportment towards the' 
 Mayor or Buckingham. Regarding him as 
 totally unprincipled, servile, and inhuman, 
 he treats him like the meanest instrument 
 of his guilt He treats him without respect 
 for his character, without management of 
 his temper, and without the least appre- 
 hension that he has any feelings that will 
 shudder at his commands. 
 
 IV. We shall now consider the decline 
 of Richard's prosperity, and the effect of 
 his conduct on the fall of his fortunes, 
 o
 
 *\ 
 
 
 I 
 
 526 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 By dissimulation, perfidy, and bloodshed, 
 he paves his way to the throne : by the same 
 base and inhuman means he endeavours to 
 secure his preeminence ; and has added to 
 the list of his crimes, the assassination of 
 his wife and his nephews. Meanwhile he 
 is laying a snare for himself. Not Rich- 
 mond, but his own enormous vices, proved 
 the cause of his ruin. The cruelties he 
 perpetrates, excite in the minds of men 
 hatred, indignation, and the desire of re- 
 venge. But such is the deluding nature of 
 vice, that of this consequence he is little 
 aware. Men who lose the sense of virtue, 
 transfer their own depravity to the rest of 
 mankind, and believe that others are as little 
 shocked with their crimes as they are them- 
 selves. Richard having trampled upon 
 every sentiment of justice, had no concep- 
 tion of the general abhorrence that had 
 arisen against him. He thought resentment 
 might belong to the sufferers, and their 
 immediate adherents; but, having no faith 
 in the existence of a disinterested sense of 
 virtue, he appears to have felt no apprehen- 
 sion lest other persons should be offended with
 
 OF RICHARD THE THIRD. 227 
 
 his injustice, or inclined to punish his in- 
 human guilt. Add to this, that success ad- 
 ministers to his boldness ; and that he is 
 daily more and more inured to the practice 
 of violent outrage. Before he obtained the 
 diadem, he proceeded with caution ; he en- 
 deavoured to impose upon mankind the be- 
 lief of his sanctified manners ; he treated 
 his associates with suitable deference ; and 
 seemed as dexterous in his conduct, as he 
 was barbarous in disposition. But caution 
 and dissimulation required an effort ; the 
 exertion was laborious ; and naturally ceased 
 when imagined to be no longer needful. 
 Thus rendered familiar with perfidious cru- 
 elty : flushed with success.; more elate with 
 confidence in his own ability, than attentive 
 to the suggestions of his suspicion ; and from 
 his incapacity of feeling moral obligation, 
 more ignorant of the general abhorrence he 
 had incurred, than averse to revenge ; as he 
 becomes, if possible, more inhuman, he cer- 
 tainly becomes more incautious. This ap- 
 pears in the wanton display of his real cha- 
 racter, and of those vices which drew upon 
 him even the curses of a parent. 
 0.2
 
 528 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 Dutch. Either thou'It die by God's just ordinance, 
 Ere from this war thou turn a conqueror ; 
 Or I with grief and extreme age shall perish, 
 And never look upon thy face again : 
 Therefore, take with thee my most heavy curse, 
 Which in the day of battle tire thee more 
 Than all the complete armour that thou wcar'st. 
 
 His incautious behaviour after he has 
 arisen to supreme authority, appears very 
 striking in his conduct to his accomplices. 
 Those whom he formerly seduced, or de- 
 ceived, or flattered, he treats with indif- 
 ference or disrespect. He conceives him- 
 self no longer in need of their aid : he has 
 no occasion, as he apprehends, to assume 
 disguise. Men of high rank, who shall 
 seem to give him advice or assistance, and 
 so by their influence with the multitude, 
 reconcile them to his crimes, or bear a part 
 of his infamy, cease to be reckoned m 
 sary ; and lie has employment for none, but 
 the desperate assassin, or implicit menial. 
 All this is illustrated in his treatment of 
 Buckingham. Blinded by his own barba- 
 rity, he requires his assistance in the death 
 of his nephews. Buckingham, having less
 
 
 OF RICHARD THE THIRD. 229 
 
 incitement than formerly to participate^ 
 in his guilt, hesitates, and seems to refuse. 
 Richard is offended ; does not govern his 
 temper as on former occasions ; expresses 
 his displeasure ; refuses to ratify the pro- 
 mises he had given him ; behaves to him, in 
 the refusal, with supercilious insult, and so 
 provokes his resentment. 
 
 Buck. My Lord, I claim the gift, my due by promise, 
 For which your honour and your faith are pawn'd ; 
 Th' Earldom of Hereford, and the moveables, 
 Which you have promised I shall possess, &c. 
 
 Rich. Thou troublest me : I am not in the vein. 
 
 [Exit 
 
 Buck. Is it even so? Repays he my deep service 
 With such contempt? Made I him Icing for this? 
 O, let me think on Hastings, and be gone 
 To Brecknock, while my fearful head is on. 
 
 Thus the conduct of Richard involve* 
 him in dano-er. The minds of men are 
 alienated from his interests. Those of his 
 former associates, who were in public esteem, 
 are dismissed with indignity, and incensed 
 to resentment. Even such of his adherents 
 as are interested in his fortunes, on their 
 own account, regard him with utter aver- 
 sion. A stroke aimed at him in his perilous 
 
 v
 
 230 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 situation, must prove effectual. lie ar- 
 rives at the brink of ruin, and the slightest 
 impulse will push him down. He resem- 
 bles the mishapen rock described in a fairy 
 tale. " This astonishing rock," says the 
 whimsical novelist, " was endowed, by in- 
 k< fcrnal sorcery, with the power of im- 
 " petuous motion. It rolled through a 
 " flourishing kingdom: it crushed down its 
 " opponents ; it laid the land desolate ; and 
 " waa followed by a stream of blood. It 
 1 arrived unwittingly at an awful precipice ; 
 " it had no power of returning ; for the 
 t; bloody stream that pursued it was so strong, 
 " that it never rolled back. It was pushed 
 " from the precipice ; was shivered into frag- 
 M mcnts ; and the roar of its downfal arose 
 ; ' unto heaven." 
 
 The pleasure we receive from the ruin 
 of Richard, though intimately connected 
 with that arising from the various displays 
 of his eharaeter, is, nevertheless, different. 
 We are not amazed, as formerly, w T ith his 
 talents and his address, but shocked at his 
 cruelty ; our abhorrence is softened, or con- 
 verted into an agreeable feeling, by the
 
 OF RICHARD THE THIRD. 231 
 
 satisfaction we receive from his punishment. 
 Besides, it is a punishment inflicted, not by 
 the agency of an external cause, but in- 
 curred by the natural progress of his vices. 
 We are more gratified in seeing him racked 
 with suspicion before the battle of Bosworth; 
 listening from tent to tent, lest his soldiers 
 should meditate treason ; overwhelmed on 
 the eve of the battle with presages of cala- 
 mity, arising from inauspicious remem- 
 brance ; and driven, by the dread of danger, 
 to contemplate and be shocked at his own 
 heinous transgressions. We are more afFec- 
 ted. and more gratified with these, than with 
 the death he so deservedly suffers. Richard 
 and his conscience had long been strangers. 
 That importunate monitor had been dis- 
 missed at a very early period from his ser- 
 vice ; nor had given him the least interrup- 
 tion in the career of his vices. Yet they 
 were not entirely parted. Conscience was to 
 visit him before he died, and chose for the 
 hour of visitation the eve of his death. 
 She comes introduced by Danger ; spreads 
 before him, in hues of infernal im- 
 pression, the picture of his enormities;
 
 2'32 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 shakes him with deep dismay ! pierces his 
 soul with a poisoned arrow ; unnerves and 
 forsakes him. 
 
 O coward Conscience, how dost thou afflict me ! 
 The light burns blue is it not deaJ midnight ? 
 Cold, fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh. 
 What do I fear? myself? There's none else by. 
 Is there a murth'rer here ? No: Yes I am. 
 My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, 
 And ev'ry tongue brings in a several talc, 
 And ev'ry tale condemns me for a villain. 
 
 Upon the whole, certain objects, whether 
 they actually operate upon our senses, or 
 be presented to the mind by imitation, are 
 disagreeable. Yet many disagreeable ob- 
 jects may be so imitated, by having their 
 deformities veiled, or by having any agree- 
 able qualities they may possess improved or 
 judiciously brought forward, that so far 
 from continuing offensive, they afford 
 us pleasure. Many actions of mankind 
 are in their own nature horrible and dis- 
 gusting. Mere deceit, mere grovelling 
 appetite, cruelty and meanness, both in the 
 imitation and the original, occasion pain and 
 aversion. Yet these vices may be so repre-
 
 OF RICHARD THE THIRD. 233 
 
 sented by the skill of an ingenious artist, as 
 to afford us pleasure. The most usual me- 
 thod of rendering their representation agree- 
 able is, by setting the characters in whom 
 they predominate in opposition to such 
 characters as are eminent for their opposite 
 virtues. The dissimulation, ingratitude, 
 and inhumanity of Goneril, set in opposi- 
 tion to the native simplicity, the filial affec- 
 tion, and sensibility of Cordelia, though in 
 themselves hateful, become an interesting 
 spectacle. The pleasure we receive is, by 
 having the agreeable feelings and sentiments 
 that virtue excites, improved and rendered 
 exquisite by contrast, by alternate hopes and 
 fears, and even by our subdued and coincid- 
 ing abhorrence of vice. For the painful feel- 
 ing, overcome by delightful emotions, loses 
 its direction and peculiar character ; but re- 
 taining its force, communicates additional 
 energy to the prevailing sensation, and so 
 augments its efficacy. Another more dif 
 ficult, though no less interesting method of 
 producing the same effect is, when with scarce 
 any attention to opposite virtues in other 
 persons,very aggravated and heinous vices are
 
 234 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 blended and united in the same person, with 
 agreeable intellectual qualities. Boldness, 
 command oF temper, a spirit of enterprise, 
 united with the intellectual endowments 
 of discernment, penetration, dexterity, and 
 address, give us pleasure. Yet these may 
 be employed as instruments of cruelty and 
 oppression, no less than of justice and hu- 
 manity. When the representation is such, 
 that the pleasure arising from these qualities 
 is stronger than the painful aversion and 
 abhorrence excited by concomitant vices, the 
 general effect is agreeable. Even the painful 
 emotion, as in the former case, losing its cha- 
 racter, but retaining its vigor, imparts addi- 
 tional force to our agreeable feelings. Thus 
 though there is no approbation of the 
 vicious character, we are, nevertheless, 
 pleased with the representation. The soul 
 is overshadowed with an agreeable gloom, 
 and her powers are suspended with delight- 
 ful horror. The pleasure is varied and in- 
 v d, when the criminal propensities, 
 gaining strength by indulgence, occasion 
 the neglect of intellectual endowments, 
 and disregard ol" their assistance ; so that by 

 
 OF RICHARD THE THIRD. 235 
 
 natural consequence, and without the inter- 
 position of uncommon agency from with- 
 out, the vicious person becoming as incau- 
 tious as he is wicked, is rendered the prey 
 of his own corruptions : fosters those snakes 
 in his bosom that shall devour his vitals ; 
 and suffers the most condign of all punish- 
 ment, the miseries intailed by guilt. 
 
 Shakespeare, in his Richard the Third, 
 has chosen that his principal character should 
 be constructed according to the last of these 
 methods ; and this I have endeavoured to 
 illustrate, by considering the manner in 
 which Richard is affected by th e consciou s- 
 ness of his own deformity ; by considering 
 the dexterity of his conduct in seducing the 
 Lady Anne ; by observing his various de- 
 portment towards his seeming friends or ac- 
 complices ; and finally by tracing the pro- 
 gress of his vices to his downfal and utter 
 ruin. 
 
 The other excellencies of this tragedy, be- 
 sides the character of Richard, are, indeed, 
 of an inferior nature, but not unworthy of 
 Shakespeare. The characters of Bucking- 
 V / ham. Anne, Hastings, and Queen Margaret.
 
 23G DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 are executed with lively colouring and strik- 
 ing features ; but, excepting Margaret, they 
 are exhibited indirectly ; and are more fully 
 known by the conduct of Richard towards 
 them, than by their own demeanour. They 
 give the sketch and outlines of their own 
 actions ; but the picture appears finished in 
 the deportment of Richard. This, how- 
 ever, of itself, is a proof of very singular 
 skill. The conduct of the story is not infe- 
 rior to that in Shakespeare's other historical 
 tragedies. It exhibits a natural progress of 
 events, terminated by one interesting and 
 complete catastrophe. Many of the epi- 
 sodes have uncommon excellence. Of 
 this kind are, in general, all the speeches 
 of Margaret. Their effect is awful : they 
 coincide with the style of the tragedy ; and 
 by wearing the same gloomy complexion, 
 her prophecies and imprecations suit and in- 
 crease its horror. There was never in any 
 poem a dream superior to that of Clarence. 
 It pleases, like the prophecies of Margaret, 
 by a solemn anticipation of future events, and 
 by its consonance with the general tone of 
 the tragedy. It pleases, by being so simple, 

 
 OF RICHARD THE THIRD. 237 
 
 so natural, and so pathetic, that every 
 reader seems to have felt the same or similar 
 horrors ; and is inclined to say with Braken- 
 bury, 
 
 No marvel, Lord, that it affrighted you ; 
 I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it. 
 
 This tragedy, however, like every work 
 of Shakespeare, has many faults; and, in 
 particular, it seems to have been too hastily 
 written. Some incidents are introduced with- 
 out any apparent reason, or without appa- 
 rent necessity. We are not, for instance, suf- 
 ficiently informed of the motive that prompt- 
 ed Richard to marry the widow of Prince 
 Edward. In other respects, as was observ- 
 ed, this scene possesses very singular merit. 
 The scene towards the close of the tragedy, 
 between the Queen and Richard, when he 
 solicits her consent to marry her daughter 
 Elizabeth, seems no other than a copy of 
 that now mentioned. As such, it is faulty ; 
 and still more so, by being executed with 
 less ability. Yet this incident is not liable 
 to the objection made to the former. We 
 see a good, prudential reason, for the mar-
 
 *3S DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 riage of Richard with Elizabeth; but none 
 for his marriage with Lady Anne. We 
 almost wish that the first courtship had 
 been omitted, and that the dialogue between 
 Richard and Anne had been suited and ap- 
 propriated to Richard and the Queen. Nei- 
 ther are we sufficiently informed of the 
 motives that, on some occasions, influenced 
 the conduct of Buckingham. We are not 
 enough prepared for his animosity against 
 the Queen and her kindred; nor can we 
 pronounce, without hazarding conjecture, 
 that it proceeded from envy of their sudden 
 greatness, or from having his vanity flat- 
 tered by the seeming deference of Richard. 
 Yet these motives seem highly probable. 
 The young Princes bear too great a share 
 in the drama. It would Mem the poet 
 intended to interest us very much in their 
 misfortunes. The representation, however, 
 i-, not agreeable. The Princes have more 
 sinaitness than simplicity; and we are more 
 affected with Tyrrel'i description of their 
 death, than pleased with any thing in their 
 own conversation. Nor docs the scene of 
 the ghosts, in the last act, seem equal in exe-
 
 OF RICHARD THE THIRD. 239 
 
 cution to the design of Shakespeare. There 
 is more delightful horror in the speech of 
 Richard awakening from his dream, than 
 in any of the predictions denounced against 
 him. There seems, indeed, some impro- 
 priety in representing those spectres as ac- 
 tually appearing, which were only seen in 
 a vision. Besides, Richard might have de- 
 scribed them in the succeeding scene, to 
 RatclifTe, so as to have produced, at least in 
 the perusal of the work, a much stronger 
 effect. The representation of ghosts in this 
 passage, is by no means so affecting, nor so W K 
 awful, as the dream related by Clarence. 
 Lastly, there is in this performance too 
 much deviation in the dialogue from the 
 dignity of the buskin ; and deviations still 
 more blameable, from the language of de- 
 cent manners. Yet, with these imperfec- 
 tions, this tragedy is a striking monument 
 of human genius; and the success of the 
 poet, in delineating the character of Richard, 
 has been as great as the singular boldness of 
 the design.
 
 ESSAY VII. 
 
 DRAMATIC CHARACTER OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF. 
 
 MY intention in the following Essay, is to 
 explain and account for the pleasure we 
 receive from the representation of Shake- 
 speare's dramatic character of Sir John Fal- 
 staff. In treating this subject, I shall with 
 as much brevity as possible mention the 
 cause in which our pleasure depends ; and 
 then by a particular analysis of the character, 
 endeavour to establish my theory. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 No external object affects us in a more 
 disagreeable manner, than the view of suf- 
 fering occasioned by cruelty; our uneasiness
 
 OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF. 241 
 
 arises not only from the display of cala- 
 mity, but from the display of an inhuman 
 mind. For how much soever human na- 
 ture may exhibit interesting appearances, 
 there are dispositions in mankind, which 
 cannot otherwise be regarded than with 
 abhorrence. Of this sort are cruelty, ma- 
 lice, and revenge. They affect us in the re- 
 presentation in the same manner as in real 
 life. Neither the poet nor historian, if they 
 represent them unmixed and unconnected 
 with other ingredients, can ever render them 
 agreeable. Who can without pain peruse 
 the tragedy of Titus Andronicus, or the ac- 
 count given by Suetonius, of the butcheries 
 and enormities perpetrated by some of the 
 Caesars ? 
 
 Yet with cruelty, malice, and revenge, 
 many useful and even excellent qualities 
 may be blended ; of this kind are courage, 
 independence of spirit, discernment of cha- 
 racter, sagacity in the contrivance, and dex- 
 terity in the execution, of arduous enter- 
 prises. These considered apart, and uncon- 
 nected with moral or immoral affections, 
 ft
 
 242 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 are viewed with considerable pleasure, and 
 regarded with some respect. United with 
 good dispositions, they produce the highest 
 merit, and form the most exalted character. 
 United with evil affections, though they do 
 not lessen, yet perhaps they counteract, at 
 least they alter the nature and tendency of 
 our abhorrence. We do not indeed, on 
 their account, regard the inhuman character 
 with less disapprobation ; on the contrary, 
 our disapprobation is, if possible, more de- 
 termined. Yet, by the mixture of different 
 ingredients, our sensations are changed, 
 they are not very painful ; nay, if the pro- 
 portion of respectable qualities be consider- 
 able, they become agreeable. The charac- 
 ter, though highly blameable, attracts our 
 notice, excites curiosity, and yields delight. 
 The character of Satan in Paradise Lost, 
 one of the most finished in the whole range 
 of epic poetry, fully illustrates our observa- 
 tion : it displays inhumanity, malice, and 
 revenge, united with sagacity, intrepidity, 
 dexterity, and perseverance. Of a similar 
 kind, though with some different lineaments,
 
 OF SIR JOHN FA.LSTAFF. 24$ 
 
 is Shakespeare's King Richard the Third ; 
 it excites indignation : indignation, however, 
 is not a painful, but rather an agreeable 
 feeling ; a feeling too, which, if duly go- 
 verned, we do not blame ourselves for in- 
 dulging. 
 
 We are led imperceptibly, almost by 
 every bond, even by opposite bonds of associ- 
 ation, by those of contrast and resemblance, 
 to extend these remarks. There are quali- 
 ties in human nature that excite abhorrence ; 
 and qualities also that excite disgust. We 
 ee some dispositions that are enormously, 
 and some that are meanly shocking. Some 
 give us pain by their atrocity, and some by 
 their baseness. As virtuous actions may be 
 divided into those that are respectable, and 
 those that are amiable ; so of vicious actions, 
 gome are hateful, and affect us with horror ; 
 others are vile, and produce aversion. By 
 one class, we have an imaginary, sympathe- 
 tic, and transient apprehension of being 
 hurt; by the other, we have a similar ap- 
 prehension of being polluted. We would 
 chastise the one with painful, and the other 
 with shameful punishment. Of the latter 
 R 2
 
 *4-4 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 sort arc the gross excesses anil perversion of 
 inferior appetites. They hardly bear to be 
 named ; and scarcely, by any representation, 
 without judicious circumlocution, and hap- 
 py adjuncts, can be rendered agreeable. 
 Who can mention, without reluctance, the 
 iik re glutton, the mere epicure, and the 
 sot ? And to these may be added the coward, 
 the liar, the selfish and assenting parasite. 
 
 Yet the constituent parts of such characters 
 may be so blended with other qualities of 
 an agreeable, but neutral kind, as not only 
 to lose their disgustful, but to gain an en- 
 gaging aspect. They may be united with 
 a complaisance that has no asperity, but that 
 falls in readily, or without apparent con- 
 straint, with every opinion or inclination. 
 They may be united with good humour, as 
 opposed to moroseness, and harshness of 
 opposition: with ingenuity and versatility, 
 in the arts of deceit: and with faculties for 
 genuine or even spurious wit ; for the spu- 
 rious rtqiliree some ability, and may, to some 
 minds, fcfford amusement. Add to this, 
 t lint in fully explaining the appearance, 
 in elucidating how the mixture of different 

 
 OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF. 245 
 
 mental qualities, in the same character, 
 affords delight ; we must recollect, as on 
 similar occasions, that when different and 
 even opposite feelings encounter one ano- 
 ther, and affect us at the same time ; 
 those that prevail under the guidance of 
 some vigorous passion, carry the rest along 
 with them ; direct them so as to receive 
 the same tendency with themselves, and 
 impelling the mind in the same manner, 
 receive from their coincidence additional 
 power*. They resemble the swell and 
 progress of a Tartar army. One horde 
 meets with another ; they fight ; the van- 
 quished unite with the victors: incorpo- 
 rated with them, under the direction of a 
 Timour or a Zingis, they augment their 
 force, and enable them to conquer others. 
 
 Characters of the kind above-mentioned, 
 consisting of mean and at the same time of 
 agreeable qualities, though they meet with 
 disapprobation, are yet regarded with some 
 attention : they procure to themselves some 
 attachment; they excite neither fear, envy, 
 nor suspicion: as they are not reckoned 
 * Hume's Essay on Tragedy.
 
 2 + 6 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 noxious, the disapprobation they produce 
 is slight ; and they yield, or promote amuse- 
 ment. What else are the race of parasites 
 both of ancient and modern times? the 
 gnalhonici* of different sorts, the direct and 
 indirect, the smooth and the blunt? those 
 who by assentation, buffoonery, and even 
 wit or some appearance of wit, varied agree- 
 ably to the shifting manners of mankind, 
 relieve the fatigue of sloth; fill up the 
 vacuity of minds that must, but cannot 
 think ; and are a suitable substitute, 
 when the gorged appetite loathes the 
 banquet, and the downy couch can allure 
 no slumbers ? 
 
 As persons who display cruel disposition, 
 united with force of mind and superior in- 
 tellectual abilities, are regarded with indig- 
 nation ; so those whose ruling desires aim 
 at the gratification of gross appetite, united 
 with g-ood humour, and such intellectual 
 endowments as may be fitted to gain favour, 
 are regarded with scorn. " Scorn +, like 
 ,; indignation, seems to arise from a com- 
 ;t parative view of two objects; the one 
 Terence. + Essay on Richard the Third.
 
 OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF. 247 
 
 " worthy, and the other unworthy, which 
 " are nevertheless united ; but which, on 
 " account of the wrong or impropriety oc- 
 M casioned by this incongruous union, we 
 " conceive should be disunited and uncon- 
 " nected." The difference between them 
 seems to be, that the objects of indignation 
 are great and important, those of scorn little 
 and unimportant. Indignation, of conse- 
 quence, leads us to expressions of anger ; 
 but scorn, as it denotes the feeling or dis- 
 cernment of inferiority, with such mixture 
 of pretensions as to produce contrast and 
 incongruity, is often expressed by laughter ; 
 and is, in a serious mood, connected with 
 pity. Disdain is akin to indignation, and 
 implies consciousness of inherent worth. 
 You disdain to act an unworthy part : 
 
 Disdain, which sprung from conscious merit, flush'4 
 The cheek of Dithyrambus. Glover. 
 
 Contempt does not so much arise from 
 such consciousness, as from the perception 
 of baseness in the object. To despise, de- 
 notes a sentiment between disdain and con-
 
 248 DRAMATIC CHAIIACTKR 
 
 tempt, which implies some opinion of our 
 own superiority, and some opinion of in- 
 feriority in the object ; but neither in their 
 extremes*. Disdain, like indignation, is 
 allied to anger : contempt, like scorn, or 
 more so, is connected with pity ; but we 
 often despise, without either pitying or be- 
 ing angry. When the meanness, which 
 is the object of contempt, aspires by preten- 
 sions to a connection with merit, and the 
 design appearing productive of no great 
 harm, we arc inclined to laugh : we are 
 moved with scorn. 
 
 But in what manner soever we under- 
 stand the terms, for they are often con- 
 founded, and may not perhaps in their 
 usual acceptation be thought to convey the 
 complete meaning here annexed to them ; 
 the distinctions themselves have a real foun- 
 dation : and that which we have chiefly in 
 view at present, is fully illustrated in the 
 diameter of Sir John Falstaff. In him the 
 
 * Perhaps it denotes a kind of which disdain and con- 
 tempt are species ; we contemn a threat, we disdain an 
 ifFer : we despise them both.
 
 OF SIR JOHiN FALSTAFF. 249 
 
 effects arising from the ;i mixture of mean, 
 " grovelling, andbase dispositions with those 
 w qualities and dispositions of a neutral kind 
 " which afford pleasure ; and though not in 
 " themselves objects of approbation, yet lead 
 " to attachment; are distinctly felt and 
 ;t perceived." In what follows of this Es- 
 say, therefore, I shall first exemplify some 
 of the baser, and then some of those agree- 
 able parts of the character that reconcile our 
 feelings, but not our reason, to its defor- 
 mity. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 1. "The desire of gratifying the grosse r / 
 M a nd lower appetites, is the r uling an d'f 
 ' ; strongest principle in the mind of F al- 
 " stajL" Such indulgence is the aim of his 1 
 projects : upon this his conduct very uni- fi { 
 formly hinges : and to this his other passions 
 are not only subordinate, but subservient. 
 His gluttony and love of dainty fare are ad- 
 mirably delineated in many passages : but 
 with peculiar felicity in the following ; 
 where the poet, displaying Falstaff's sensu-
 
 J50 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 ality, in a method that is humourous and 
 indirect, and placing him iu a ludicrous 
 situation, reconciles us by his exquisite plea- 
 santry to a mean object. 
 
 Poins. FalstafT! fast asleep behind the arras: and 
 snorting like a horse. 
 
 P. H. Hark, how hard he fetches breath ! Search his 
 pocket. What hast thou found? 
 
 Poins. Nothing but papers, my Lord. 
 
 P. //. Let's see what they be. Read them. 
 
 Poins. Item, a Capon, 2^ 2d. Item, Sauce, 4rf. 
 Item, Sack, two gallons, 5s. 8c/. Item, Anchovies and 
 Sack after supper, 2s. 6d. Item, Bread, a halfpenny. 
 
 P. II. O monstrous ! but one halfpenny worth of bread 
 to this intolerable deal of sack ! 
 
 Who but Shakespeare could have made a 
 tavern-bill the subject of so much mirth; 
 and so happily instrumental in the display 
 of character ? 
 
 The sensuality of the character is also 
 held forth in the humourous and ludicrous 
 views that arc given of his person. 
 
 Falslaff". The rascal hath removed my horse, and tied 
 him, I know not where. If I travel but four feet by the 
 square further a-foot, I shall break my wind. Eight 
 yards of uneven ground, is threescore and ten miles
 
 OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF. 2ji 
 
 a- foot with me : and the stony-hearted villains know it 
 well enough. 
 
 P. II. Peace, ye fat-guts! lie down, lay thine ear #* 
 close to the ground, and list if thou canst hear the tread of 
 travellers. 
 
 Falsi aff. Have you any levers to lift me up again, be- 
 ing down? S'blood, I'll not bear mine own flesh so far 
 a-foot again for all the coin in thy father's exchequer. 
 
 2. Pursuing no other object than the 
 gratification of bodily pleasure, it is not 
 wonderful that in situations of danger, the 
 care of the body should be his chief concern. /\. 
 He avoids situations of danger : he does not 
 wish to be valiant ; and without struggle or 
 reluctance, adheres to his resolution. Thus 
 his cowardice seems to be the result of deli- 
 beration, rather than the effect of constitu- 
 tion ; and is a determined purpose of not 
 exposing to injury or destruction that cor- 
 poreal structure, foul and unwieldy tho' it 
 be, on which his supreme enjoyment so com- 
 pletely depends. His well known soliloquy 
 on honor displays a mind, that having 
 neither enthusiasm for fame, nor'sense of re- 
 putation, is influenced in the hour of danger 
 by no principle but the fear of bodily pain
 
 252 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 and if man were a mere sentient and mortal 
 animal, governed by no higher principle 
 than sensual appetite, we might accede to 
 his reasonin<j;: 
 
 Can honour set a leg? No: or an arm? No: or tale 
 away the grief of a wound? No: honour hath no skill in 
 surgery then? No. 
 
 Thus while the speaker, in expressing his 
 real sentiments, affects a playful manner, 
 he affords a curious example of self-imposi- 
 tion, of an attempt to disguise conscious de- 
 merit, and escape from conscious disappro- 
 bation. 
 
 whose strongest principle 
 is the lore of fame, are nevertheless moved 
 by appetites, and seek occasionally 
 
 flu location ; so the sensualist, con- 
 
 structed originally like the rest of mankind, 
 may be sometimes moved by the desire of 
 praise or distinction. Or, connecting this 
 desire, a. id the circumstance we have to 
 mention, more intimately with the ruling 
 
 '.vcr, we may suppose that he finds the 
 ill. and consequently the good opi- 
 nion, of his associates, requisite or favourable
 
 OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF. 255 
 
 to his enjoyments, and may wish therefore 
 to gain their regard. The distinction, how- 
 ever, or esteem, to which he aspires, is not 
 for the reality, but the appearance, of merit : 
 about the reality, provided he appear mere- 
 torious, he is quite unconcerned. 
 
 4- Now this disposition leads to presump- 
 tion, to boastful affectation and vain-glory. 
 Falstaff is boastful and vain-ojorious. He 
 
 wishes, on many occasions, and manifestly If? 
 for selfish purposes, to be reckoned a person 
 of consummate and undaunted courage. He 
 speaks of cowardice with contempt, and 
 affects the firmness of conscious valour : 
 
 A plague of all cowards, I say, and a vengeance too, 
 marry and amen. 
 
 He would also pass for a man whose assist- 
 ance is of consequence, or whose favor de- 
 serves to be courted ; and in both these at- 
 tempts he is sometimes, though not always 
 successful. His hostess and Shallow may be 
 imposed upon ; but he is better known to / 
 Prince Henry. Consistently with, or in 
 consequence of this vain-glorious disposition, 
 whenever he finds himself respected, and
 
 
 \ 
 
 254 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 that he is reckoned a person of some im- 
 portance, he affects pride, becomes insolent, 
 arrogant, and overbearing. It is in this 
 manner he treats his hostess, Bardolph, and 
 other inferior associates. 
 
 P. II. They take it already upon their salvation, that 
 though I be but Prince of Wales, yet I am king of courtesy ; 
 and tell me flatly, I am no proud Jack, like Falstatf. 
 
 5. Falstaff is also decekful :_for the con- 
 nection between vain-glorious affectation, 
 and unembarrassed, unreiuctant deceit, is 
 natural and intimate. He is deceitful in 
 every form of falsehood. He is a flatterer : 
 he is even hvpocritieal ; and tells the chief 
 justice, that he has " lost his voice singing 
 anthems." 
 
 G. Shakespeare intending to display the 
 magic of his skill by rendering a mean cha- 
 racter highly interesting, has added to it as 
 many bad qualities as, consistently with one 
 another and with his main design, can be 
 united in one assemblage. He accordingly 
 represents him, not only as a voluptuary, 
 cowardly, vain-glorious, with all the arro- 
 gance connected with vain-glory, and de-
 
 OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF. 255 
 
 ceitful in every shape of deceit; but injuri- 
 ous, incapable of gratitude or of friendship, 
 and vindictive. The chief object of his life 
 being the indulgence of low appetite, he 
 has no regard for right or Avrong ; and in 
 order to compass his unworthy designs, he 
 practises fraud and injustice. His attach- 
 ments are mercenary : he speaks disrespect- 
 fully of Prince Henry, to whose friendship 
 he is indebted ; and values his friendship for 
 convenience rather than from regard. He 
 is also vindictive : but as he expresses his re- 
 vengeful intention, without any opportunity 
 of displaying it in action, his resentment 
 becomes ridiculous. His menace against 
 the chief Justice, though illiberal and mali- 
 cious, is not regarded with indignation. One 
 mode of his vengeance is to defame those 
 that offend him by unwarrantable publica- 
 tions. " He will print them," says Page, 
 speaking about some of his ill-intentioned 
 letters, " for he cares not what he puts into 
 " the press." 
 
 From the foregoing enumeration, it ap- 
 pears abundantly manifest, that our poet 
 intended to represent Falstaflf as verv mean
 
 25(i DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 and worthless ; but agreeably to an ingeni- 
 ous and peculiar method of unfolding the 
 real character, and which he practices on 
 some other occasions when he would ob- 
 viate misapprehension, he embraces a good 
 opportunity of making one of the most dis- 
 cerning personages connected with him, 
 give the real delineation. Prince Henry has 
 all along a clear and decided view of F:d 
 stafF; and in the admirable scene where 
 the king is personated as reproving his son. 
 he thus describes him : 
 
 Tliou art violently carried away from grace : there is a 
 devil haunts thee in the likeness of an old fat man : a tun 
 of man is thy companion. Why dost thou converse with 
 that trunk of humours, Sec. that stuff'd cloak-bag of guts, 
 that roasted Manningtree ox with the pudding in his belly, 
 that reverend vice, that grey iuquity, that vanity in years? 
 Wherein is he good, but to taste sack and drink it? 
 Wherein neat and cleanly, but to carve a capon and eat it? 
 Wherein cunning but in craft? Wherein crafty but in 
 villany ? Wherein villanous, but in all things ? Wherein 
 worthy, but in nothing? 
 
 We have here the real moral character; 
 we have an enumeration of disgustful and 
 base qualities, without a single circumstance 
 to palliate or relieve. The speaker enlarges
 
 OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF. 257 
 
 on his sensuality as the leading feature in 
 the character, and the principle on which 
 every thing else in his enumeration de- 
 pends. How then comes Fatstaff to be a 
 favorite? a favorite with Prince Henry? 
 and a favorite on the English stage ? For 
 he not only makes us laugh, but, it must 
 be acknowledged, is regarded with some 
 affection. The answer to these enquiries 
 leads us to our last and chief division: it 
 leads to illustrate the associated and blended 
 qualities which not only reconcile us to the 
 representation, but, by their mixture, give 
 us singular pleasure. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 Those qualities in the character of Sir 
 John Falstaff which may be accounted esti- 
 mable are of two different kinds, the social, 
 and intellectual. 
 
 I. His social qualities are joviality and 
 good-humour. These dispositions, though 
 they are generally agreeable, and may in
 
 2.58 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 one sense of the word be termed moral, as 
 influencing the manners and deportment of 
 mankind, are not on all occasions, as we 
 shall see exemplified in the present instance, 
 to be accounted virtuous. They may be 
 agreeable without being objects of approba- 
 tion. Persons who have never given much 
 exercise to their minds, whose powers of 
 intellect and imagination languish through 
 inexertion, can seldom have much enjoy- 
 ment in being alone. He who cannot 
 think, must Hy from himself; and, without 
 having much regard for others, will seek 
 relief in society. But as the bulk of man- 
 kind are not very inquisitive about the mo- 
 tives or causes of those actions that do not 
 interest them very much, they are pleased 
 with such appearances of a relish for social 
 intercourse; they are prepossessed in favor 
 of those who court their fellowship, or who 
 in their company discover cheerfulness and 
 complacency. 
 
 FalstafPi love of society needs no illus- 
 tration : and that it is unconnected with 
 friendship or affection is no less apparent. 
 Yet the quality renders him acceptable.
 
 OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF. 259 
 
 It receives great additional recommendation 
 iiom his good-humour. As, amongst those 
 whom he wishes to please, he is not sullen 
 nor reserved ; neither is he morose, nor apt 
 to contradict or be offended. Persons of ac- 
 tive minds are most liable to such excesses. 
 Whether they engage in the pursuits of 
 fame, fortune, or even of amusement, they 
 form schemes, indulge expectation, are dis- 
 quieted with solicitude, elated with joy, or 
 vexed with disappointment. The activity 
 of their spirits exposes them to more occa- 
 sions of discomposure ; and their sensibility, 
 natural or acquired, renders them more sus- 
 ceptible of impressions than other men. 
 Hence, without careful discipline or steady 
 resolution, they are apt to become uncom- 
 plying, violent, or impetuous. But the 
 mere voluptuary is exposed to no such per- 
 version. He who never engages in serious 
 argument, who maintains no opinion, who 
 contrives no intricate or extensive projects, 
 who is connected with no party, or con- 
 cerned in no speculation, who has no interest 
 in any thing or any person beyond the gra- 
 s 2
 
 260 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 tification of mere appetite, has no object to 
 contend for, nothing that can make him 
 so eager, so tenacious, so obstinate, or un- 
 yielding, as persons of a different character. 
 In such men, so slight a desire as that of 
 being acceptable to some particular persons, 
 will, in their company, counterbalance every 
 tendency to fretfulness, insolence, or ill- 
 humour. Such seems to be the good-hu- 
 mour of Fal staff; for our poet discriminates 
 with exquisite judgment, and delineates his 
 conception with power. He does not attri- 
 bute to Falstafl' the good temper flowing 
 from inherent goodness and genuine mild- 
 ness of disposition ; for in company with 
 those about whose good opinion he has little 
 concern, though his vacuity of mind obliges 
 him to have recourse to tlicir company, he 
 is often insolent and overbearing. It is 
 chiefly with Prince Henry, and those whom 
 he wishes, from vanitv, or some selfish pur- 
 pose, to think well of him, that he is most 
 facetious. The degree or real force of any 
 quality is never so distinctly marked, as 
 when it is put to the test by such trying cir-
 
 OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF. 261 
 
 cumstances as tend to destroy its existence. 
 Shakespeare seems aware of this ; and, in 
 the first scene between the Prince and Fal- 
 staff, this part of the character is fully tried 
 and displayed. The Prince attacks Falstaff 
 in a contest of banter and raillery. The 
 Knight for some time defends himself with 
 dexterity and success. But the Prince's 
 jests are more severe than witty ; they sug- 
 gest some harsh truths, and some well 
 founded terrors. 
 
 P. II. The fortune of us that are the moon's men, 
 doth ebb and flow like the sea, being governed as the sea 
 
 is by the moon: now, in as low an ebb as the foot of 
 
 the ladder ; and, by and by, in as high a flow as the ridge 
 of the gallows. 
 
 Such retorts are too serious. The Knight 
 endeavours to reply; but he is overcome; 
 he feels himself vanquished. 
 
 Fahlaff. S'blood, I am as melancholy as a gib cat, or 
 a lugg'd bear. 
 
 But he is not sullen, nor morose. His 
 melancholy, as he terms it, does not appear
 
 26S DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 in ill-humour, but in a laboured and not 
 very successful attempt to be witty. He is 
 desirous of seeming in good spirits, and 
 embraces the first opportunity given him by 
 the Prince, of recovering them. 
 
 Fahtaff. S'blood, I am as melancholy as a gib cat, or 
 a lugg'd bear. 
 
 P. //. Or an old lion, or a lover's lute. 
 
 Falstaff. Yea, or the drone of a Lincolnshire bagpipe. 
 
 P. //. What sayest thou to a hare, or the melancholy 
 of Moor-ditch? 
 
 Falstaff. Thou hast the most unsavory similies, kc. 
 But, Hal, I pray thee, trouble me no more with vanity. 
 I would to God, thou and I knew where a commodity of 
 good names were to be bought, &c. Thou hast done 
 much harm upon me, Hal; God forgive thee for it ! Be- 
 fore I knew thee, Ha], I knew nothing: and now am I, 
 if a man should speak truly, little better than one of the 
 wicked, &;c. 
 
 P. II. Where shall we take a purse to-morrow, Jack ; 
 Falstaff. Where thou wilt, lad, I'll make one; ;m' I 
 do not, call me villain, and baffle me. 
 
 II. Having shewn that Falstaff possesses 
 as much love of society, and as much good- 
 temper as are consistent with the despi- 
 cable passions of the sensualist; and which.
 
 OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF. 8fi$ 
 
 though agreeable, are not in him to be ac- 
 counted virtuous ; I proceed to exemplify 
 his intellectual endowments : and of these 
 his talents for wit and humour are the most 
 peculiar. 
 
 1. His wit is of various kinds. It is 
 sometimes a play upon words. 
 
 Falstaff. I call thee coward ! I'll see thee damn'd, ere 
 I call thee coward. But I would give a thousand pounds 
 I could run as fast as thou canst. You are straight enough 
 in the shoulders. You care not who sees your back. Call 
 you that backing of your friends? A plague upon such 
 backing! Give me them that will face me. JT ?J / ,*-/&/ 
 
 It sometimes depends on felicity of allusion. 
 
 Falstaff. [To Bardolph.] Thou art our admiral, thou 
 bearestthe lanthorn in the poop; but 'tis in the nose of . ,., 
 thee. T hou art the knigh t of the burning l amp, &c. I -*^ 
 
 never see thy face, but I think on hell- fire, and Dives that 
 liv'd in purple, &c. O thou art a perpetual triumph, an 
 everlasting bonfire light. When thou ran'st up Gad's- 
 hill, in the night, to catch my horse, if I did not think 
 thou hadst been an ignis fatuus, or a ball of wild-fire, 
 there is no purchase in money. ^'aT'" *H 
 
 One of the most agreeable species of wit,
 
 264 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 and which Falstaff uses with great success, 
 is the ridiculous comparison. It consists in 
 classing or uniting together, by similitude, 
 objects that excite feelings so opposite as 
 that some may be accounted great, and 
 others little, some noble, and others mean : 
 and this is done, when in their structure, 
 appearance, or effects, they have circum- 
 stances of resemblance abundantly obvious 
 when pointed out, though on account of 
 the great difference in their general impres- 
 sion, not usually attended to; but which 
 being selected by the man of witty inven- 
 tion, as bonds of intimate union, enable 
 him, by an unexpected connection, to pro- 
 duce surprise. Of this some of the pre- 
 ceding allusions, which arc united with, or 
 involve in them comparisons, are instances: 
 but the following passage aflbrds a more di- 
 rect illustration. 
 
 Falstaff. (speaking of Shallozc.) I do remember 
 
 l.im at Clcmini's-inn, like a man made after supjter with 
 
 a cheese-paring. When lie was naked, he was for all 
 
 iliiwoild like a forked radish, with a head fantastically 
 
 J carved upon it with a knife. i> ^3 - 33 ?
 
 OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF. 26$ 
 
 Another very exquisite species of wit/ 
 consists in explaining great, serious, or im-| 
 portant appearances, by inadequate and tri- 
 fling causes*. This, if one may say so, i^ 
 a grave and solemn species ; and produces 
 its effect by the affectation of formal and 
 deep research. Falstaff gives the following 
 example: ;,$* 1*2-- H' 
 
 A good sherris sack hath a two-fold operation : it as- 
 cends me into the brain: drives me there all the foolish, 
 and dull, and crudy vapours, which environ it: makes it 
 apprehensive, quick, fotgetive: full of nimble, fiery, and 
 delectable shapes: which delivered over to the voice (the 
 tongue) which is the birth, becomes excellent wit. 
 
 But Falstaff is not more distinguished 
 for wit than humour : and affords some 
 good illustrations of the difference between 
 them. Wit consists in t he thou grht ; and 
 produces it s effect, namHy Taimhter, nr a 
 t endency Jo laughter, in whatsoever wa y, 
 a nd by wh omsoever it may be spoken. Hu- 
 rnm ir again depends on action? it e xhibits 
 something done ; or something said in a 
 peculiar manner. 1 he action or the thing 
 
 * Elements of Criticism.
 
 *66 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 said may be in themselves indifferent ; but 
 derive their power of exciting laughter from 
 the intention and mode of doing or of say- 
 ing them. y&L is permanent: it remains 
 in the witty saying, by whomsoever Jt__ is 
 said, and independent not only of persons, 
 but of circumstances or situation. But in 
 humour the action or saying is ineffectual, 
 unless connected with the character, the 
 intention, manner, or situation, of some 
 speaker or agent. The one seems to depend 
 on connection, invented or displayed unex- 
 pectedly, between incongruous and disso- 
 nant objects, or parts of objects : the other 
 in the invention or display of such connec- 
 tion between actions and manners incon- 
 gruous to an occasion. The one presents 
 combinations that may be termed ridiculous; 
 the other such as are ludicrous. The in- 
 congruity and dissonance in both cases seem 
 chieHy to respect, not so much the grcat- 
 <>r littleness, as the dignity and mean- 
 ness, of the connected objects. The amuse- 
 ment ik most complete, when the witty 
 thought is expressed with humour. When 
 this is not the case, though we discern
 
 OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF. 20? 
 
 the witty combination, we do not feel its 
 entire effect. Among many others, the 
 first scene between Falstaff and the Chief 
 Justice is highly humorous. It contains 
 no wit in the beginning, which is indeed 
 the most amusing part of the dialogue : and 
 the witticisms introduced in the conclusion, 
 excepting the first or second puns, are nei- 
 ther of a superior kind, nor executed with 
 great success. The Justice comes to reprove 
 Falstaff: and the amusement consists in 
 Falstaff s pretending, first of all, not to see 
 him ; and then in pretending deafness, so 
 as neither to understand his message, nor 
 the purport of his conversation. 
 
 Ch. Jus. Sir John Falstaff, a word with you. 
 
 Falstaff. My good lord ! God give your lordship good 
 time of day. I am glad to see your lordship abroad : I 
 heard say your lordship was sick : I hope your lordship 
 goes abroad by advice. 
 
 Ch, Jus. Sir John I sent for you, before your expedi- 
 tion to Shrewsbury. 
 
 Falstaff. If it please your lordship, I hear his majesty 
 is returned with some discomfort from Wales. 
 
 Ch. Jus. I talk not of his majesty. You would not 
 come when I sent for you. 
 
 K 
 
 AnA^tf
 
 68 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 Fal. And I hear, moreover, his highness is falkn into 
 this same whoreson apoplexy. 
 
 Ch. Jw. Well, heaven mend him. I pray, let me 
 speak with you. 
 
 Fal. This apoplexy is, as I lake it, a kind of lethargy, 
 a'nt please your lordship ; a kind of sleeping in the blood; 
 a whoreson tingling. 
 
 Ch. Jus. What tell you me of it ! he it as it is. 
 
 Fal. It hath its original in much grief; from study, and 
 perturbation of the brain, &c. 
 
 Tlie Chief Justice becomes at length im- 
 patient, and compels Falstaff to hear and 
 rive him a direct .answer. But the Knight 
 is not without his resources. Driven out of 
 the strong hold of humour, he betakes him- 
 self to the weapons of wit. 
 
 Ch. Jut. The truth is, Sir John, you live in great 
 infamy. 
 
 Fal. He that buckles him in my belt cannot live in less. 
 
 Ch. Jus. Your means are very slender, and your waste 
 {real. 
 
 Fal. I would it were otherwise. I would my means 
 were greater, and my waste slenderer. 
 
 FalstaflT i> nut unacquainted with the 
 nature and value of his talents. He em-
 
 OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF. 2G9 
 
 ploys them not merely for the sake of mer- 
 riment, but to promote some design. He 
 wishes, by his drollery in this scene, to ca- 
 jole the Chief Justice. In one of the fol- 
 lowing acts, he practises the same artifice 
 with the Prince of Lancaster. He fails, 
 however, in his attempt : and that it was a 
 studied attempt appears from his subse- 
 quent reflections. 
 
 Good faith, this same young sober-blooded boy doth not 
 love me ; nor a man cannot make him laugh. 
 
 That his pleasantry, whether witty or hu- 
 morous, is often studied and premeditated, 
 appears also from other passages. 
 
 I will devise matter enough out of this Shallow to keep 
 Prince Henry in continual laughter. O you shall see him 
 laugh, till his face be like a wet cloak ill laid up. 
 
 It may also be remarked, that the guise 
 r raiment with which Falstaff invests those 
 di fferent species of wit and hu mour, is 
 universall y the same. I t is grave, and e f y pn 
 s olemn. H e would always appear in earnest. 
 He does not laugh himself, unless com-
 
 J]0 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 pelled by a sympathetic emotion with the 
 laughter of others. He may sometimes in- 
 deed indulge a smile of seeming contempt 
 or indignation : but it is perhaps on no oc- 
 casion when he would be witty or humor- 
 ous. Shakespeare seems to have thought 
 this particular of importance, and has there- 
 fore put it out of all doubt by making Fal- 
 itaff himself inform us : 
 
 O it is much that a lie with a slight oath, and a jest with 
 a sad brors, will do with a fellow that never had the ache 
 in his shoulders. 
 
 i As the wit of Falstaff is various, and 
 finely blended with humour, it is also easy 
 and genuine. It displays no quaint con- 
 ceits, studied antitheses, or elaborate con- 
 trasts. Excepting in two or three instances, 
 wc have no far-fetched or unsuccessful puns. 
 Neither has the poet recourse, for ludicrous 
 situation, to frequent and disgusting displays 
 of drunkenness. We have little or no swear- 
 ing, and less obscenity than from the rude- 
 ness of the times, and the condition of some 
 of the other speakers, we might have ex- 
 pected. Much ridicule is excited by some
 
 OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF. 271 
 
 of the other characters ; but their wit, when 
 they attempt to be witty, is different from 
 that of Falstaff. Prince Henry's wit consis ts 
 chiefly in banter and raillery. In his satiri- 
 cal allusions he is often more severe than 
 pleasant. The wit of Pistol, if it be intend - 
 ed jor wiL-is altogether affected, and is of a 
 kind which Faktaff neyer displays. It is 
 an affectation of pompous language : an at- 
 tempt at the mock-heroic ; and consists in 
 employing inflated diction on common occa- 
 slons. The speaker does not possess, but 
 aim at wit ; and, for want of other resources, 
 endeavours to procure a laugh by odd ex- 
 pressions, and an absurd application of learn- 
 ed and lofty phrases. 
 
 Dost thou thirst, base Trojan, 
 To have me fold up Parca's fatal web ? 
 
 Falstaff' s page being only a novice, attempts 
 to be witty after the inflated manner of Pis- 
 tol : but being supposed to have profited by 
 his master's example, he is more success- 
 ful, and his pompous phrases have a witty 
 meaning.
 
 272 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 Page (to Burdolph). Aw3y, thou rascally Althca's 
 dream ! away ! 
 
 P. //. Instruct us, boy ; what dream, boy? 
 
 Page. Marry, my lord, Ahhca dreamed she was de- 
 livered of a firebrand ; and therefore I call him her dream. 
 
 The laughter excited by the rest of Fal- 
 stalf s associates is not by the wit or humour 
 of the speaker, but by ludicrous situation, 
 ridiculous views of peculiar manners, and 
 the absurd misapplication of language. 
 Thus in the admirable and instructive ac- 
 count given by the hostess of Falstaff's 
 death : 
 
 Nay, sure, he's not in hell : he's in Arthur's bosom, if 
 em man went to Arthur's bosom. A' made a finer end, 
 and went away an' it had been any christom child ; a' parted 
 even just between twelve and one, e'en at turning o' the 
 tide : for after I saw him fumble with the sheets, and 
 play with flowers, and smile upon his finger's ends, I knew 
 there was but one way ! for his nose was as sharp as a 
 pen, and a' babbled of green fields. How now, Sir John ? 
 quoth I : what, man ! be of good cheer : so a' cried out, 
 Cod, God, God, three or four times. Now I, to comfort 
 him, bid him a' should not think of God ; I hoped there 
 was no need to troub'e himself with any such thoughts 
 yet: so a' bade mc lay more cloaths on his feet. I 
 put my hand into the bed, and felt them; and they
 
 OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF. 273 
 
 were as cold as any stone : then I felt to his inees, 
 and so upward, and upward; and all was as cold as 
 any stone. 
 
 2. The other intellectual talents attri- 
 buted by our poet to Sir John FalstafF, are 
 discernment of character, versatility, and 
 dexterity in the management of mankind; 
 a discernment, however, and a dexterity of 
 a peculiar and limited species ; limited to 
 the power of discerning whether or not men 
 may be rendered fit for his purposes ; and 
 to the power of managing them as the in- 
 struments of his enjoyment. 
 
 We may remark his discernment of man- 
 kind, and his dexterity in employing them, 
 in his conduct towards the Prince, to Shal- 
 low, and his inferior associates. He flatters 
 the Prince, but he uses such flattery as is 
 intended to impose on a person of under- 
 standing. He flatters him indirectly. He 
 seems to treat him with familiarity: he af- 
 fects to be displeased with him : he rallies 
 him ; and contends with him in the field of 
 wit. When he gives praise, it is insinuated ; 
 or it seems reluctant, accidental, and ex-
 
 ^74 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 tortcd by the power of truth. In like man- 
 ner, when he would impress him with a be- 
 lief of his affectionate and firm attachment, 
 he proceeds by insinuation ; he would have 
 it appear involuntary, the effect of strong 
 irresistible impulse ; so strong as to appear 
 preternatural. 
 
 If the rascal hath not given me medicines to make me 
 love hiin, I'll be hang'd. 
 
 Yet his aim is not merely to please the 
 Piince: it is to corrupt and govern him; 
 .md to make him bend to his purposes, 
 iiul become the instrument of his plea- 
 miks. He makes the attempt: he seizes, 
 what he thinks a good opportunity, by 
 charging him with cowardice at the en- 
 counter of Gads-hill: he is desirous of find- 
 ing him a coward : pushes his attack as far 
 is possible; suffers a sudden repulse: but 
 with gr< wrsatility and address retires to 
 his former fnstness. 
 
 Valstajf. Arc you not a coward ? answer me that : and 
 Poins there } 
 
 P. //. Yc fat paunch, an' ye call me coward, I'll stab 
 thee.
 
 OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF. 275 
 
 Falstaff. I call thee coward ! I'll see thee damned ere 
 I call thee coward. But I would give a thousand pounds 
 I could run as fast as thou canst, &c. 
 
 His behaviour to Shallow and Slender 
 is different, because their characters are 
 different. He fathoms them, and steers 
 a corresponding course. He treats them 
 at first with such deference, as he would 
 render to men of sense and condition. 
 He tries whether or no it be possible to 
 allure them by his usual artifice: he is 
 good-humoured, social, and witty. But 
 the wit he tries upon them is of his 
 jnvvestlnjnd ; and he has no occasion for 
 any other. They are delighted, and ex- 
 press admiration. 
 
 Falstaff. Is thy name Mouldy? 
 
 Mouldy. Yea, an't please you. 
 
 Falstaff^ It is the more time thou wert used. 
 
 Shalloic. Ha! ha! ha! most excellent, I'faith : things 
 that are mouldy lack use. Well said, Sir John, very 
 well said. 
 
 He thus penetrates into their character, 
 and conducts himself in a suitable manner. 
 He no longer gives himself the trouble of 
 
 T 2
 
 276 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 amusing them. He is no longer wittv: he 
 affects the dignity of a great man, and is 
 sparing of his conversation. " I do see the 
 " bottom," says he, " of Justice Shallow." 
 Meanwhile Shallow and Slender become in 
 their turns solicitous of pleasing him: they 
 believe him a man of great consequence: 
 they think even of making him their dupe, 
 and of employing him as the engine of 
 their petty ambition. He indulges their 
 folly, lets them entangle themselves in 
 the snare ; endures their conversation, and 
 does them the signal honour of borrow- 
 ing a thousand pounds. His treatment 
 of his hostess and BardoLph is no less 
 dexterous ; but from the ascendant he has 
 obtained, it is not so difficult, and is ma* 
 Itagcd by the poet in the most inoffensive 
 manner. 
 
 3. Another k-ind of ability displayed by 
 our hero, is the address with which he de- 
 fies detection, and extricates himself out of 
 difficulty. He is never at a loss. His pre- 
 sence of mind never forsakes him. Having 
 sense of character, he is never troubled
 
 OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF. 2/7 
 
 with shame. Though frequently detected, 
 or in danger of detection, his inventive fa- 
 culty never sleeps ; it is never totally over- 
 whelmed: or, if it be surprised into a mo- 
 mentary intermission of its power, it forth- 
 with recovers, and supplies him with fresh 
 resources. He is furnished w ith palliatives 
 and excus es for every emergency. Besides 
 other effects produced by this display of abi- 
 lity, it tends to amuse, and to excite laugh- 
 ter : for we are amused by the application of 
 inadequate and ridiculous causes. Of the 
 talent now mentioned we have many in- 
 stances. Thus, when detected by Prince 
 Henry in his boastful pretensions to courage, 
 he tells him that he knew him. " Was it 
 for me," says he, " to kill the heir-apparent?" 
 So also in another scene, when he is detected 
 in his abuse of the Prince, and overheard 
 even by the Prince himself. 
 
 No abuse, Ned, in the world ; honest Ned, none. I 
 dispraised him before the wicked, that the wicked might 
 not fall in love with him. 
 
 In the admirable scene, where he is de- 
 tected in falsely and injuriously charging his
 
 278 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 hostess with having picked his pocket of 
 some very valuable articles, whereas the 
 theft was chiefly of the ludicrous tavern-bill 
 formerly mentioned, his escape is singularly 
 remarkable. He does not justify himself 
 by any plea of innocence. He does not 
 colour nor palliate his offence. He cares 
 not what baseness may be imputed to him- 
 self: all that he desires is, that others may 
 not be spotless. If he can make them ap- 
 pear base, so much the better. For how 
 can they blame him, if they themselves are 
 blameable ? On the present occasion he has 
 some opportunity : he sees and employs it. 
 The Prince, in rifling his pocket, had (k 
 scended to an undignified action. The ti 
 
 d was slight, and Falstaff could 
 not reckon it otherwise. But Prince Henry, 
 possessing the delicacies of honour, hi! il 
 with peculiar acuteness. Falstaff, aware of 
 this, employs the Prince's feelings as a 
 counterpart to his own baseness, and is suc- 
 cessful. It is on this particular point, tho' 
 not usually attended to, because managed 
 with much address, that his present resource 
 depends.
 
 OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF. 279 
 
 P. H. Thou sayest true. Hostess, and he slanders thee 
 most grossly. 
 
 Host. So doth he you, my lord; and said this other 
 day you ought him a thousand pound. 
 
 P. II. Sirrah, do I owe you a thousand pound ? 
 Falstaff. A thousand pound, Hal? a million": thy love 
 is worth a million : thou owest me thy Jove. 
 
 Host. Nay, my lord, he called you Jack, and said he 
 would cudgel you. 
 Falstaff. Did I, Bardolph? 
 Bardolph. Indeed, Sir John, you said so. 
 Falstuff. Yea, if he said my ring was copper. 
 P. II. I say 'tis copper. Dar'st thou be as good as thy 
 word now. 
 
 Falstaff. Why, Hal, thou knowest, as thou art but 
 man, I dare ; but as thou art Prince, I fear thee, as I 
 fear the roaring of the lion's whelp. 
 P. II. And why not as the lion ? 
 Falstaff. The King himself is to be fear'd as the lion ;. 
 dost thou think I'll fear thee as I fear thy father? Nay an' 
 I do, let my girdle break ! 
 
 P. H. O, if it should, how would thy guts fall about 
 thy knees ! But, Sirrah, there's no room for faith, truth, 
 nor honesty, in this bosom of thine : it is all filled up with 
 guts and midriff. Charge an honest woman with picking 
 thy pocket ! why, thou whoreson, impudent, imbossed 
 rascal, if there were any thing in thy pocket but tavern 
 reckonings, memorandums of bawdy-houses, and one 
 poor pennyworth of sugarcandy to make thee long- 
 winded ; if thy pocket were enriched with any other 
 injuries but these, 1 am a villain ; and yet you will stand
 
 280 
 
 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 to it, you will not pocket up wrongs. Art thou not 
 ashamed ? 
 
 Fals(cJ)\ Dost thou hsar, Hai ? thou knowest in 
 the st;ue of innocency Adam fell; and what should poor 
 Jack KalstalF Jo in the days of vill.my ? Thou seest I 
 have more flesh than another man, and therefore more 
 frailty. 
 
 Then lie adds, after an emphatic pause, 
 and no doubt with a pointed application in 
 the manner : 
 
 You confess then that you picked my pocket? 
 
 Prince Henry's reply is very remarkable. 
 It is not direct: it contains no longer any 
 raillery or reproach ; it is almost a shuf- 
 llin^ answer, and may be supposed to 
 have been spoken after, or with some con- 
 scious confusion: "It appears so,'' says 
 he, "from the story." Falstafl' pushes Him 
 no further; but expresses his triumph, 
 under the shew of moderation and indif- 
 icc, in his address to the hostess. 
 
 H4AMI, I Ibrgitrc ther: go, make ready breakfast: 
 lovt thy husband -. look to t!jy servants; and cherish thy 
 : thou shall find nic tractable to any honest reason : 
 thou scest I am pacified.
 
 OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF. 28l 
 
 I shall illustrate this particular circum- 
 stance in one other instance, not only be- 
 cause it is in itself curious ; but as it tends 
 to elucidate what may, without impropriety, 
 be termed the catastrophe. Falstaff hav- 
 ing imposed upon Shallow, borrows from 
 him a thousand pounds. He has imposed 
 upon him, by making him believe that 
 his influence with the Prince, now King 
 Henry, was all-powerful. Here the poet's 
 good sense, his sense of propriety, his judg- 
 ment, and invention, are indeed remark- 
 able. It was not for a person so sensual, 
 so cowardly, so arrogant, and so selfish, as 
 Falstaff, to triumph in his deceitful arts. 
 But his punishment must be suitable. He 
 is not a criminal like Richard ; and his re- 
 compence must be different. Detection, 
 disappointment in his fraudulent purposes, 
 and the downfal of assumed importance, 
 will satisfy poetical justice : and for such 
 retribution, even from his earliest appear- 
 ance, we see due preparation. The punish- 
 ment is to be the result of his conduct, and 
 to be accomplished by a regular progress*. 
 Butler's Analogy.
 
 fS-2 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 Falstaff!, who was studious of imposing on 
 others, imposes upon himself. He becomes 
 the dupe of his own artifice. Confident in 
 his versatility, command of temper, presence 
 of mind, and unabashed invention ; encou- 
 raged too by the notice of the Prince, and 
 thus flattering himself that he shall have 
 some sway in his counsels, he lays the foun- 
 dation of his own disappointment. Though 
 the flatterer and parasite of Prince Henry, 
 he does not deceive him. The Prince is 
 thoroughly acquainted with his character, 
 and is -mare of his views. Yet in his wit, 
 humour, and invention, he finds amusement. 
 Parasites, in the works of other poets, are 
 the flatterers of weak men, and impress 
 them with a belief of their merit or attach- 
 ment. But Falstaff is the parasite of a per- 
 son distinguished for ability or understand- 
 ing. The Prince sees him in his real co- 
 lours; yet, for the sake of present pastime. 
 he suffers himself to seem deeeived ; and al- 
 the parasite to flatter himself that his 
 arts are not unsuccessful. The real state of 
 his sentiments and feelings is finely described, 
 when, at the battle f Shrewsbury, seeing
 
 OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF. 28<J 
 
 Falstafl lying among some dead bodies, lie 
 supposes him dead. 
 
 What ! old acquaintance ! could not all this flesh keep 
 in a little life ? Poor Jack, farewell. I could have better 
 spared a better man : O I should have a heavy miss of 
 thee, if I were much in love with vanity. 
 
 But Prince Henry is not much in love 
 with vanity. By his accession to the throne 
 he .feels himself under new obligations ; 
 and under the necessity of relinquishing 
 improper pursuits. As he forms his re- 
 solution considerately, he adheres to it 
 strictly. He does not hesitate, nor tamper 
 with inclination. He does not gradually 
 loosen, but bursts his fetters. " He casts 
 " no longing lingering look behind." He 
 forsakes every mean pursuit, and discards 
 every worthless dependent. But he dis- 
 cards them with humanity: it is to avoid 
 their influence ; for all wise men avoid 
 temptation: it is not to punish, but to cor- 
 rect their vices. 
 
 I banish thee, on pain of death 
 Not to come near our person by ten miles 
 For competence of life I will allow you,
 
 SS4 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 That lack of means enforce you not to evil: 
 And as we hear you do reform yourselves, 
 We will, according to your strength and qualities, 
 Give you advancement. 
 
 Thus in the self-deceit of Falstaff, and 
 in the discernment of Henry, held out to 
 us on all occasions, we have a natural foun- 
 dation for the catastrophe. The incidents 
 too, by which it is accomplished, are judi- 
 ciously managed. None of them are foreign 
 or external; but grow, as it were, out of the 
 characters. 
 
 Falstaff brings Shallow to London, to see 
 and profit by his influence at court. lie 
 places himself in King Henry's way, as he 
 returns from the coronation. Me addresses 
 him with familiarity ; is neglected ; persists. 
 and is repulsed with sternness. His hopes 
 are unexpectedly baffled : his vanity blasted : 
 he sees his importance with those whom 
 he had deceived completely ruined : he is 
 for a moment unmasked: he views himself 
 as he believes he appears to them : he sees 
 himself in the mirror of their conception: 
 he runs over the consequences of his humi- 
 liation : he translates their thoughts and
 
 OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF. 28j 
 
 their opinions concerning him : he speaks 
 to them in the tone of the sentiments which 
 he attributes to them ; and in the language 
 which he thinks they would hold. " Master 
 " Shallow, I owe you a thousand pounds." 
 It is not that in his abasement he feels a 
 transient return of virtue: it is rather that 
 he sees himself for a moment helpless: he 
 sees his assumed importance destroyed ; and, 
 among other consequences, that restitution 
 of the sum he had borrowed will be required. 
 This alarms him ; and Shallow's answer 
 gives him small consolation. He is roused 
 from his sudden amazement : looks about 
 for resources ; and immediately finds them. 
 His ingenuity comes instantly to his aid ; 
 and he tells Shallow, with great readiness 
 and plausibility of invention, 
 
 Do not you grieve at this. I shall be sent for in private 
 to him : look you, he must seem thus to the world. 
 Fear not your advancement. I will be the man yet that 
 shall make you great, &c. This that you heard was but a 
 colour, &c. Go with me to dinner. Come, lieutenant 
 Pistol ; come, Bardolph ; I shall be sent for soon at night. 
 
 Thus Shakespeare, whose morality is no 
 less sublime than his skill in the displav of
 
 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 character is masterly and unrivalled, repre- 
 sents Falstafl, not only as a voluptuous and 
 l).(->e sycophant, but totally incorrigible. He 
 displays no quality or disposition which can 
 serve as a basis lor reformation. Even his 
 abilities and agreeable qualities contribute to 
 his depiavity. Had he been less facetious, 
 witty, less dexterous, and less inventive, 
 he might have been urged to self-condemna- 
 tion, and so inclined to amendment. But 
 mortification leads him to no conviction of 
 lolly, nor determines him to any change of 
 life. He turns, as soon as possible, from 
 the view given him of his baseness ; and 
 rattles, as it were in triumph, the fetters of 
 
 habituated and willing bondage. Lear, 
 
 violent and impetuous, but yet affectionate, 
 from his misfortunes derives improvement. 
 Macbeth, originally a man of feeling, is ca- 
 pable of remorse. And the understanding of 
 Richard, rugged and insensible though he 
 be, betrays his heart to the assault of con- 
 science. But the mean sensualist, incapa- 
 ble of honourable and worthy thoughts, is 
 irretrievably lost; totally, and for ever de- 
 praved. An important and awful lesson !
 
 OF SIR JOHN FALSTAFF. 287 
 
 I may be thought perhaps to have treated 
 Falstafl' with too much severity. I am 
 aware of his being a favourite. Persons of 
 eminent worth feel for him some attach- 
 ment, and think him hardly used by the 
 King. But if they will allow themselves 
 to examine the character in all its parts, they 
 will perhaps agree with me, that such feel- 
 ing is delusive, and arises from partial views. 
 They will not take it amiss, if I say that 
 they are deluded in the same manner with 
 Prince Henry. They are amused, and con- 
 ceive an improper attachment to the means 
 of their pleasure and amusement. I appeal 
 to every candid reader, whether the senti- 
 ment expressed by Prince Henry be not that 
 which every judicious spectator and reader 
 is inclined to feel. 
 
 I could have better spar'd a better man. 
 
 Upon the whole, the character of Sir 
 JolmTarstafi, consisting of various parts, 
 produces various feelings. Some of these 
 are agreeable, and some disagreeable: but, 
 being blended together, the general and 
 united effect is much stronger than if their
 
 288 DRAMATIC CHARACTER, 8cC. 
 
 impulse had been disunited: not only so, 
 but as the agreeable qualities are brought 
 more into view, for in this sense alone they 
 can be said to prevail in the character, and 
 as the deformity of other qualities is often 
 veiled by the pleasantry employed by the 
 poet in their display, the general effect is 
 in the highest degree delightful. 

 
 ESSAY VIII. 
 
 ON THE DRAMATIC CHARACTER OF KING LEAR. 
 
 DISINTERESTED principles are of diffe- 
 rent kinds : of consequence, the actions that 
 flow from them are more or less beneficial, 
 and more or less entitled to praise. We are 
 moved by inconsiderate impulse to the per- 
 formance of beneficent actions ; as we are 
 moved by inconsiderate impulse to the per- 
 petration of guilt. You see an unhappy 
 person ; you discern the visitation of grief 
 in his features ; you hear it in the plaintive 
 tones of voice ; you are warmed with sud- 
 den and resistless emotion ; you never en- 
 quire concerning the propriety of your feel- 
 ings, or the merits of the sufferer ; and you 
 hasten to relieve him. Your conduct pro- 
 ceeds from inconsiderate impulse. It en- 
 u
 
 290 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 titles you to the praise of sensibility, but not 
 of reflection. You are again in the same 
 situation ; but the symptoms of distress do 
 not produce in you the same ardent effects: 
 you are moved with no violent agitation, and 
 you feel little sympathy; but you perceive 
 distress ; you are convinced that the sufferer 
 suffers unjustly ; you know you are bound 
 to relieve him; and in consequence of these 
 convictions, you offer him relief. Your 
 conduct proceeds from sense of duty ; and 
 though it entitles you to the credit of ra- 
 tional humanity, it does not entitle you. in 
 this instance, to the praise of fine sensibility. 
 Those who perform beneficent actions, 
 from immediate feeling or impetuous im- 
 pulse, have a great deal of pleasure. Their 
 conduct, too, by the influence of sympathe- 
 tic affection, imparls pleasure to the beholder. 
 The joy felt both by the agent and the be- 
 holder is ardent, and approaches to rapture. 
 There is also an energy in the principle, 
 whit h produces great and uncommon exer- 
 tions; yet both the principle of action, and 
 the pleasure it produces, are shifting. 
 : * Beauteous as the morning cloud or the
 
 OF KING LEAR. 291 
 
 c; early dew f like them, too, they pass 
 away. The pleasure arising from know- 
 ledge of duty is less impetuous : it has no 
 approaches to rapture ; it seldom makes the 
 heart throb, or the tear descend ; and as it 
 produces no transporting enjoyment, it sel- 
 dom leads to uncommon exertion ; but the 
 joy it affords is uniform, steady, and lasting. 
 As the conduct is most perfect, so our hap- 
 piness is most complete, when both princi- 
 ples are united : when our convictions of 
 duty are animated with sensibility ; and sen- 
 sibility guided by convictions of duty. 
 
 It is, indeed, to be regretted, that feeling 
 and the knowledge of duty are not always 
 united. It is deeply to be regretted, that 
 unless sensibility be regulated by that know- 
 ledge of duty which arises from reflection 
 on our own condition, and acquaintance 
 with human nature, it may produce un- 
 happiness both to ourselves and others ; but 
 chiefly to ourselves. To illustrate these 
 consequences may be of service. It is 
 often no less important to point out the 
 nature and evil effects of seeming excellence, 
 than of acknowledged depravity ; besides, 
 u 2
 
 2Q2 DRAMA I 1L. CHARACTER 
 
 it will exhibit the human mind in a strik- 
 ing situation. 
 
 The subject, perhaps, is unpopular. It is 
 the fashion of the times to celebrate feeling; 
 and the conduct flowing from sedater prin- 
 ciples is pronounced cold and ungenial. It is 
 the conduct, we are told of those dispassion- 
 ate minds who never deviate to the right 
 hand or the left; who travel through life 
 unnoticed : and as they are never visited by 
 the ecstacies of sensibility, they enjoy unen- 
 vied immunity from its delicate sorrows. 
 What pretensions have they to the distinc- 
 tion of weak nerves or exquisite feeling? 
 They know so little of the melancholy and 
 of the refined impatience, so often the por- 
 tion of sentimental spirits, that they ;uc 
 absurd enough to term them chagrin and 
 ill humour. In truth, sentiment and sen- 
 sibility have been the subject of so many 
 and sermons, that the writer who 
 would propose the union of feeling with re- 
 flection, may perhaps incur much fastidi- 
 ous disdain: we shall, therefore, go forth 
 upon this adventure under the banner of a 
 powerful snd respectable leader. Shake-
 
 OF KING LEAR. 293 
 
 speare was no less intimately acquainted 
 with the principles of human conduct, than 
 excellent in delineation ; and has exhibited 
 in his Dramatic Character of Kino; Lear 
 the man of mere sensibility. 
 
 I. Those who are guided in their con- 
 duct by impetuous impulse, arising from 
 sensibility, and undirected by reflection, are 
 liable to extravagant or outrageous excess. 
 Transported by their own emotions, they 
 misapprehend the condition of others; they 
 are prone to exaggeration ; and even the 
 good actions they perform, excite amaze 
 ment rather than approbation. Lear, an 
 utter stranger to adverse fortune, and under 
 the power of excessive affection, believed that 
 his children were in every respect deserving. 
 During this ardent and inconsiderate mood, 
 he ascribed to them such corresponding 
 sentiments as justified his extravagant fond- 
 ness. He saw his children as the gentlest 
 and most affectionate of the human race. 
 What condescension, on his part, could 
 be a suitable reward for their filial piety ? 
 He divides his kingdom among them ; they
 
 294 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 will relieve him from the cares of royalty ; 
 and to his old a;e will afford consolation. 
 
 o 
 -'tis our fust intent 
 
 To shake all cares and business from our age, 
 Conferring them on younger strengths. 
 
 But he is not only extravagant in his 
 love ; he is no less outrageous in his displea- 
 sure. Kent, moved with zeal for his in- 
 terest, remonstrates, with the freedom of 
 conscious integrity, against his conduct 
 to Cordelia ; and Lear, impatient of good 
 counsel, not only rebukes him with un- 
 becoming asperity, but inflicts unmerited 
 
 punishment. 
 
 . 
 Five days we do allot thee for provision, 
 To shield thee from diseases of the world ; 
 And on the sixth to turn thy hated back 
 Upon our kingdom : if on the tenth day following 
 Thy banish'd trunk be found in our dominions, 
 The moment is thy death. 
 
 II. The conduct proceeding from un- 
 
 guided feeling will be capricious. In minds 
 
 wIhic principles of regular and permanent 
 
 influence have no authority, every feeling 
 
 i light to command; and every im-
 
 OF KING LEAR. 295 
 
 pulse, how sudden soever, is regarded, 
 during the season of its power, with entire 
 approbation. 
 
 All such feelings and impulses are not 
 only admitted, but obeyed ; and lead us, 
 without hesitation or reflection, to a cor- 
 responding deportment. But the objects 
 with which we are conversant, often vary 
 their aspects, and are seen by us in different 
 attitudes. This may be owing to accidental 
 connection or comparison with other things, 
 of a similar, or of a different nature ; or it 
 may be owing, and this is most frequently 
 the case, to some accidental mood or humour 
 of our own. A fine landscape, viewed in 
 different lights, may appear more or less 
 beautiful ; yet the landscape in itself may 
 remain unaltered ; nor will the person who 
 views it pronounce it in reality less beautiful 
 than it was, though he sees it with a set- 
 ting rather than with a rising sun. The ca- 
 pricious inconstancy of persons governed by 
 no regular and permanent principles is apt to 
 display itself, when unfortunately they form 
 expectations, and sustain disappointment. 
 Moved by an ardent mood, they regard the
 
 J 
 
 296 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 objects of their affection with extravagant 
 transport ; they transfer to them their own 
 dispositions ; they make no allowance for 
 differences of condition or state of mind ; 
 and expect returns suitable to their own 
 unreasonable ardours. They are disappoint- 
 ed ; they feel pain ; in proportion to the 
 violence of the disappointed passion, is the 
 pang of repulse. This rouses a sense of 
 wrong, and excites their resentment. The 
 new feelings operate with as much force as 
 the former. No enquiry is made concern- 
 ing the reasonableness of the Gonduct they 
 would produce. Resentment and indigna- 
 tion are felt ; and merely because they are 
 felt, they are deemed just and becoming. 
 
 Cordelia was the favourite daughter of 
 Lear. Her sisters had replied to him, with 
 an extravagance suited to the extravagance 
 of his affection. He expected much more 
 from Cordelia. Yet her reply was better 
 suited to the relation that subsisted between 
 them, than to the fondness of his present 
 humour. He is disappointed, pained, ;ind 
 provoked. No gentle advocate resides in 
 
 his bosom to mitigate the rigour of his dis- 
 cs o
 
 OF KIiNG LEAR. 297 
 
 pleasure. He follows the blind impulse of 
 his resentment ; reproaches and abandons 
 Cordel ia. 
 
 Let it be so ; thy truth then be thy dower: 
 
 For, by the sacred radiance of the sun 
 
 Here I disclaim all my paternal care, 
 Propinquity and property of blood ; 
 And, as a stranger to my heart and me, 
 Hold thee from this for ever. 
 
 Unhappy are they who have established 
 no system concerning the character of their 
 friends ; and who have ascertained, by the 
 aid of reason or observation, no measure of 
 their virtues or infirmities. No affectionate 
 inmate possesses their bosoms, the vicegerent 
 of indulgent affection, to plead in your be- 
 half, if from inadvertency, or the influence 
 of a wayward, but transient mood, affecting 
 either you or themselves, you act differently 
 from your w T onted conduct, or differently 
 from their expectations. Thus their appear- 
 ances are as variable as that of the came- 
 lion: they now shine with the fairest co- 
 louis; and in an instant they are changed 
 into sable. In vain would you ask for a 
 reason. You may enquire of the winds ; or
 
 298 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 question their morning dreams. Yet they 
 are ardent in protestations ; they give assur- 
 ances of lasting attachment ; but they arc 
 not to be trusted. Not that they intend to 
 deceive you. They have no such intention. 
 They are vessels without rudder or anchor, 
 driven by every blast that blows. Their 
 assurances are the colours impressed by a 
 sunbeam on the breast of a watery cloud : 
 they are formed into a beautiful figure : they 
 shine for a moment with every exquisite 
 tint ; in a moment they vanish, and leave 
 nothing but a drizzly shower in their stead. 
 
 III. Those who are guided by inconsi- 
 derate feeling, will often appear variable in 
 their conduct, and of course irresolute. 
 There is no variety of feeling to which per- 
 sons of great sensibility are more liable, than 
 that of great elevation or depression of spirits. 
 The sudden and unaccountable transitions 
 from the one to the other, are not less strik- 
 ing, than the vast diflercnce of which we 
 are conscious in the one mood or in the 
 other. In an elevated state of spirits, we 
 form projects, entertain hopes, conceive our-
 
 Oi KING LEAH. 299 
 
 selves capable of great exertion, think high- 
 ly of ourselves, and in this hour of trans- 
 port, undervalue obstacles or opposition. 
 In a moment of depression, the scene is 
 altered : the sky lowers ; nature ceases to 
 smile ; or if she smile, it is not to us ; we 
 feel ourselves feeble, forsaken, and hopeless ; 
 all things, human and divine, have conspired 
 against us. Having no adequate opinion of 
 ourselves, or no just apprehension of the 
 state of opinions concerning us, we think 
 that no great exertion or display of merit is 
 expected from us, and of course we grow 
 indifferent about our conduct. Thus the 
 mind, at one instant, aspires to heaven, is 
 bold, enterprising, disdainful, and superci- 
 lious: the wind changes we are baffled or 
 fatigued; and the spirit formerly so full of 
 ardour, becomes humble and passive. 
 
 Lear had suffered insult and ingratitude 
 from his eldest daughter. He boils with 
 resentment ; he expresses it with impreca- 
 tions, and leaves her: but his mind, harassed 
 and teased, suffers sore agitation, and is en- 
 feebled. He looks of course for relief; in- 
 dulges confidence in his second daughter ;
 
 300 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 from her he expects consolation ; anticipates 
 a kindly reception ; yields to that depression 
 of mind, which is connected with the wish 
 and expectation of pity ; he longs to com- 
 plain ; and to mingle his tears with the 
 sympathetic sorrows of Regan. Thus en- 
 tirely reduced, he discerns, even in Regan, 
 symptoms of disaffection. Yet, in his pre- 
 sent state, he will not believe them. They 
 are forced upon his observation ; and Kent, 
 who was exiled for wishing to moderate his 
 wrath against Cordelia, is obliged to stimu- 
 late his displeasure at Regan. Yet, in the 
 weakness of his present depression, and 
 longings for affectionate pity, he would re- 
 pose on her tenderness, and addresses her 
 with full confidence in her love: 
 
 No, Regan, thou shall never have my curse. 
 'Tis not in thee 
 
 To bandy hasty words, to scant my sizes, &c. 
 
 Thou better know'st 
 
 The offices of nature. 
 
 In the whole intercourse between Lear 
 and Regan, we see a contest between Lear's 
 indignant and resentful emotions, excited
 
 OF KING LEAR. 301 
 
 by the indications of Regan's disaffection, 
 and those fond expectations and desires of 
 sympathetic tenderness, which proceed from, 
 and in their turn contribute to depression 
 of spirit. Thus he condescends to entreat 
 and remonstrate : 
 
 I gave you all ! 
 
 At length, repulsed and insulted by Re- 
 gan, totally cast down and enfeebled, he 
 forgets his determined hatred of Goneril; 
 and in the misery of his depression, irreso- 
 lute and inconsistent, headdresses her as his 
 last resource: 
 
 Not being the worst, 
 
 Stands in some need of praise ; I'll go with thee ; 
 Thy fifty yet doth double five and twenty, 
 And thou art twice her love. 
 
 Here he is again disappointed. He has 
 no other resource. His mind, originally of 
 a keen and impetuous nature, is now un- 
 occupied with any tender sentiment. Ac- 
 cordingly, at the close of this interesting 
 scene, we see him forcing himself as it were
 
 302 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 from his <h pression, and expressing liis un- 
 diminished resentment. 
 
 Yuu Heavens, give me that patience which I need ; 
 
 You sec me here, you Gods, a poor old man, 
 
 As full of grief as age ; wretched in both ! 
 
 If it be you that stir these daughters' hearts 
 
 Against their father, fool me not so much 
 
 To bear it tamely ; touch me with noble anger: 
 
 let not women's weapons, water drops, 
 Stain my man's cheeks : no you unnatural hags, 
 
 1 will have such revenges on you both, 
 
 That all the world shall I will do such things 
 What they are, yet I know not; but they shall be, 
 The terrors of the earth. You think I'll weep 
 No, I'll not weep. 
 
 I have full cause of weeping ; but this heart 
 Shall break into an hundred thousand flaws, 
 Or e'er I'll weep O Fool, I shall go mad. 
 
 Inconsistency of conduct, and of conse- 
 quence, irresolution, occasioned by irregular 
 and undirected feelings, proceed from other 
 states of mind than depression of spirits. Of 
 this some examples different from the pre- 
 sent now occur to me. They illustrate the 
 general position, and mav therefore be men- 
 honed.
 
 OF KING LEAR. 303 
 
 Lorenzino de Medicis* had a lively fancy: 
 he was a courtier, ambitious, and had his 
 imagination filled with ideas of pageantry. 
 He wished to enjoy pre-eminence ; but 
 Alexander, the reigning Prince, was an 
 obstacle to be removed ; and this could 
 only be done by despoiling him of life. The 
 difficulty no doubt was great ; yet it figured 
 less to his heated imagination, than the din- 
 nity and enjoyment he had in view. Elegant 
 in his manners, accomplished with every 
 pleasing endowment ; of soft and insinuating 
 address ; he had, nevertheless, no secret 
 counsellor in his breast, to plead in behalf of 
 justice. Thus prompted, and thus unguard- 
 ed, he perpetrates the death of his sovereign. 
 He sees his blood streaming ; hears him 
 groaning in the agonies of death ; beholds 
 him convulsed in the pangs of departing 
 life : a new set of feelings arise ; the delicate 
 accomplished courtier, who could meditate 
 atrocious injury, cannot, without being 
 astonished, witness the bloody object ; he 
 remains motionless, irresolute, appalled at 
 the deed : and in this state of amazement, 
 
 * See Robertson's History of the Reign of Charles V.
 
 304 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 instead of prosecuting his design, he be- 
 takes himself to sudden flight. After some 
 time he is seized, and punished as he de- 
 serves. 
 
 Voltaire gives a similar account of his 
 hero, Lewis. After describing in lively co- 
 lours the desolation perpetrated by his au- 
 thority in the Palatinate ; the conflagration 
 of cities, and the utter ruin of the inhabitants; 
 he subjoins, that these orders were issued 
 from Versailles, from the midst of pleasures: 
 and that, on a nearer view, the calamities 
 he thus occasioned would have filled him 
 with horror. That is, Lewis, like all men 
 of irregular sensibility, was governed by the 
 influences of objects operating immediately 
 on his senses; and so according to such 
 accidental mood as depended on present 
 images, he was humane or inhuman. Lewis 
 and Lorenzino, in those instances, were 
 men of feeling, but not of virtue. 
 
 IV. The man of ungovcrned sensibility, 
 is in danger of becoming morose or inhuman. 
 He entertains sanguine hopes; he allows 
 every feeling to reign in his breast uncon-
 
 OP KING LEAR. 305 
 
 trouled ; his judgment is dazzled ; and his 
 imagination riots in rapturous dreams of 
 enjoyment. Every object of his wishes is 
 arrayed in seducing colours, and brought 
 immediately within his reach. He engages 
 in the pursuit; encounters difficulties of 
 which he was not aware ; his ravishing ex- 
 pectations subside ; he had made no provi- 
 sion for arduous adventure ; his imagination 
 becomes a traitor ; the dangers and diffi- 
 culties appear more formidable than they 
 really are ; and he abandons his undertak- 
 ing. His temper is of consequence altered. 
 No longer elated with hope, he becomes 
 the prey of chagrin, of envy, or of resent- 
 ment. Even suppose him successful, his 
 enjoyments are not equal to his hopes. His 
 desires were excessive, and no gratification 
 whatever can allay the vehemence of their 
 ardour. He is discontented, restless, and 
 unhappy. In a word, irregular feelings, 
 and great sensibility, produce extravagant 
 desires ; these lead to disappointment ; and 
 in minds that are undisciplined, disappoint- 
 ment begets moroseness, and anger. These 
 dispositions again, will display themselves, 
 x
 
 306 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 according to the condition or character of 
 him who feels them. Men of feeble consti- 
 tutions, and without power over the for- 
 tunes of other men, under such malign in- 
 fluences, become fretful, invidious, and mi- 
 santhropical. Persons of firmer structure, 
 and unfortunately possessed of power, under 
 such direction, become inhuman. Herod 
 was a man of feeling. Witness his conduct 
 to Mariamne. At one time elegant, cour- 
 teous, and full of tenderness ; his fondness 
 was as unbounded, as the virtues and graces 
 of Mariamne were unrivalled. At other 
 times, offended because her expressions of 
 mutual affection were not as excessive as the 
 extravagance of his own emotions, he be- 
 came suspicious without cause. Thus af- 
 fectionate, fond, suspicions) resentful, and 
 powerful, in the phrenzy of irregular feel- 
 ing, he put to death his beloved Mariamne. 
 Lear, in the representation of Shake- 
 speare, possessing great sensibility, and full 
 of affection, seeks a kind of enjoyment 
 suited to his temper. Ascribing the same 
 sensibility and affection to his daughters, for 
 they must have it, no doubt, by hereditary
 
 OF KING LEAR. 307 
 
 right, he forms a pleasing dream of repos- 
 ing his old age under the wings of their 
 kindly protection. He is disappointed ; he 
 feels extreme pain and resentment ; he vents 
 his resentment ; but he has no power. Will 
 he then become morose and retired ? His 
 habits and temper will not give him leave. 
 Impetuous, and accustomed to authority, i 
 consequently of an unyielding nature, he 
 would wreak his wrath, if he were able, 
 in deeds of excessive violence. He would 
 do, he knows not what. He who could 
 pronounce such imprecations against Go- 
 neril, as, notwithstanding her guilt, appear 
 shocking and horrid, would, in the moment 
 of his resentment, have put her to death. 
 If, without any ground of offence, he could 
 abandon Cordelia, and cast off his favourite 
 child, what would he not have done to the 
 unnatural and pitiless Regan ? 
 
 Here, then, we have a curious spectacle : 
 a man accustomed to bear rule, suffering 
 sore disappointment, and grievous wrongs ; 
 high minded, impetuous, susceptible of ex- 
 treme resentment, and incapable of yield- 
 ing to splenetic silence, or malignant retire- 
 x 2
 
 308 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 ment. What change can befall his spirit? 
 For his condition is so altered, that his spi- 
 rit also must suffer change. What! but to 
 have his understanding torn up by the hur- 
 ricane of passion, to scorn consolation, to 
 lose his reason ! Shakespeare could not 
 avoid making Lear distracted. Other poets 
 exhibit madness, because they chuse it, or 
 for the sake of variety, or to deepen the dis- 
 tress; but Shakespeare has exhibited the 
 madness of Lear, as the natural effect of 
 such suffering on such a character. It was 
 an event in the progress of Lear's mind, 
 driven by such feelings, desires, and pas- 
 sions, as the poet ascribes to him, as could 
 not be avoided. No circumstance in Lear's 
 madness is more affecting than his dreadful 
 anticipation and awful consciousness of its 
 approach. 
 
 You think I'll weep; 
 No I'll not weep; I have full cause of weeping; 
 But this heart shall break into a thousand flaws, 
 Oi e'er I'll weep: O fool, I shall go mad. 
 
 V. Lear, thus extravagant, inconsistent, 
 inconstant, capricious, variable, irresolute,
 
 OF KING LEAR. 309 
 
 and impetuously vindictive, is almost an ob- 
 ject of disapprobation. But our poet, with 
 his usual skill, blends the disagreeable qua- 
 lities with such circumstances as correct this 
 effect, and form one delightful assemblage. 
 Lear, in his good intentions, was without 
 deceit ; his violence is not the effect of pre- 
 meditated malignity; his weaknesses are not 
 crimes, but often the effects of misruled af- 
 fections. This is not all : he is an old man ; 
 an old king; an aged father; and the in- 
 struments of his suffering are undutiful 
 children. He is justly entitled to our 
 compassion ; and the incidents last men- 
 tioned, though they imply no merit, yet 
 procure some respect. Add to all this, that 
 he becomes more and more interesting to- 
 wards the close of the drama; not merely 
 because he is more and more unhappy, but 
 because he becomes really more deserving 
 of our esteem. His misfortunes correct his 
 misconduct ; they rouse reflection, and lead 
 him to that reformation which we approve. 
 We see the commencement of this refor- 
 mation, after he has been dismissed by Go- 
 neril. and meets with symptoms of disaffec-
 
 310 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 tion in Regan. He who abandoned Corde- 
 lia with impetuous outrage, and banished 
 Kent for offering an apology in her behalf; 
 seeing his servant grossly maltreated, and 
 his own arrival unwelcomed, has already- 
 sustained some chastisement: he does not 
 express that ungoverned violence which his 
 preceding conduct might lead us to expect. 
 He restrains his emotion in its first ebulli- 
 tion, and reasons concerning the probable 
 causes of what seemed so inauspicious. 
 
 Lear. The King would speak with Cornwall ; die dear 
 father 
 Would with his daughter speak, commands her service: 
 Are they inforra'd of this? My breath and blood ! 
 Fiery the fiery Duke? Tell the hot Duke that 
 No but not yet may be he is not well 
 Infirmity doth still neglect all office, 
 Whereto our health is bound: we're not ourselves 
 When nature, being oppress'd, commands the mind 
 To suffer with the body I'll forbear; 
 And am fallen out with my more heady will, 
 To take the indisjws'd and sickly fit, 
 For the sound man. 
 
 As his misfortunes increase, we find him 
 still more inclined to reflect on his situation. 
 He does not, indeed, express blame of him-
 
 OF KING LEAR. gll 
 
 self; yet he expresses no sentiment whatever 
 of overweening conceit. He seems rational 
 and modest ; and the application to himself 
 is extremely pathetic : 
 
 Close pent up guilts, 
 
 Rive your concealing continents, and cry 
 These dreadful sumiuoners grace. I am a man 
 More sinn'd against than sinning. 
 
 Soon after, we find him actually pro- 
 nouncing censure upon himself. Hitherto 
 he had been the mere creature of sensibility: 
 he now begins to reflect ; and grieves that 
 he had not done so before. 
 
 Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, 
 That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm ! 
 How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides, 
 Your loop'd and window'd raggedness defend you 
 From seasons such as these ? O, I have ta'en 
 Too little care of this ! Take physic, pomp; 
 Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, 
 That thou may'st shake the superflux to them, 
 And shew the heavens more just. 
 
 At last, he is in a state of perfect con- 
 trition, and expresses less resentment against 
 Goneril and Regan, than self-condemnation
 
 $12 DRAMATIC CHARACTER, Lc. 
 
 for his treatment of Cordelia, and a perfect, 
 but not extravagant sense of her affection, 
 
 Kent. The poor distress 'd Lear is i' the town, 
 Who sometime, in his belter tune, remembers 
 What we are come about, and by no means 
 Will yield to see his daughter. 
 
 Gent. Why, good Sir? 
 
 Kent. A sovereign shame so elbows him, his unkindness. 
 That stript her from his benediction, turn'd her 
 To foreign casualties, gave her dear rights 
 To his dog-hearted daughters: these things sting 
 His mind so venomously, that burning shame 
 Detains him from Cordelia. 
 
 I have thus endeavoured to shew, that 
 mere sensibility, undirected by reflection, 
 leads men to an extravagant expression both 
 of social or unsocial feelings ; renders them 
 capriciously inconstant in their affections ; 
 variable, and of course irresolute, in their 
 conduct. These things, together with the 
 miseries entailed by such deportment, seem 
 to me well illustrated by Shakespeare, in 
 his Dramatic Character of King Lear.
 
 ESSAY IX. 
 
 DRAMATIC CHARACTER OF TIMON OF ATHENS. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE, in his Timon of Athens, 
 illustrates the consequences of that inconsi- 
 derate profusion which has the appearance 
 of liberality, and is supposed even by the 
 inconsiderate person himself to proceed from 
 a generous principle; but which, in reality, 
 has its chief origin in the love of distinction. 
 Though this is not the view usually enter- 
 tained of this singular dramatic character, I 
 persuade myself, if we attend to the design 
 of the poet in all its parts, we shall find, 
 that the opinion now advanced is not with- 
 out foundation.
 
 314 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 The love of distinction is asserted to be 
 the ruling principle in the conduct of 
 Timon ; yet it is not affirmed, nor is it ne- 
 cessary to affirm, that Timon has no good- 
 ness of heart. He has much goodness, 
 gentleness, and love of society. These are 
 not inconsistent with the love of distinction; 
 they often reside together ; and in particular, 
 that love of distinction which reigned in the 
 conduct of Timon, may easily be shewn to 
 have received its particular bias and direction 
 from original goodness. For without this, 
 what could have determined him to choose 
 one method of making himself conspicuous 
 rather than another ? Why did he not seek 
 the distinction conferred by the display of a 
 military or of a political character ? Or why 
 did he not aspire after pageantry and parade, 
 the pomp of public buildings, and the osten- 
 tation of wealth, unconnected with any kind 
 of beneficence ? 
 
 In general, our love of fame or distinction 
 is directed and influenced by some previous 
 cast of temper, or early tendency of dispo- 
 sition. Moved by powers and dispositions 
 leading us to one kind of exertion rather
 
 OF TIMON OF ATHENS. 315 
 
 than another, we attribute superior excel- 
 lence to such exertion. We transfer the 
 same sentiment to the rest of mankind. 
 We fancy, that no pre-eminence can be at- 
 tained but by such talents as we possess; 
 and it requires an effort of cool reflection, 
 before we can allow that there may be ex- 
 cellence in those things which we cannot 
 relish, or merit in that conduct to which 
 we are not inclined. Guided by early or 
 inherent predilection, men actuated by the 
 love of distinction seek the idol of their de- 
 sires, in various situations ; in the bustle of 
 active life, or in the shade of retirement. 
 Take the following examples. The son of 
 Olorus was present, while yet a boy, at the 
 Olympic games. All Greece was assembled; 
 many feats of dexterity no doubt were ex- 
 hibited ; and every honor that assembled 
 Greece could bestow, was conferred on the 
 victors. Moved by a spectacle so interesting 
 and so inspiriting, the Spartan, Theban, or 
 Athenian youth, who were not yet of vigor 
 sufficient to strive for the wreath, longed, 
 we may readily suppose, for maturer years ; 
 and became, in their ardent imaginations,
 
 3 lG DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 skilful wrestlers and charioteers. The son 
 of Olorus, if we may judge by the conse- 
 quence, felt little emotion ; no sympathetic 
 longings ; and no impatience, to drive a 
 chariot. But hearing Herodotus, on that 
 occasion, reciting his history, he felt other 
 sensations : his heart throbbed, and the tears 
 descended. The venerable historian observed 
 him weeping, and comprehending his cha- 
 racter, " I give thee joy," said he to his fa- 
 ther, " for the happy genius of thy son."' 
 Now, the son of Olorus became an historian 
 no less renowned than Herodotus: for Hero- 
 dotus and Thucydides are usually named 
 together. The celebrated Turenne, in his 
 early days, was an admirer, no less passion- 
 ate, of Quintus Curtius, than the son of 
 Olorus was of Herodotus ; and we are told 
 by Ramsay, from D'Ablancourt, that when 
 not vet twelve years of age, he challenged 
 an oflicer who called his favorite history a 
 romance. But this admiration was not so 
 much for the graces of flowery composition 
 which abound in the Roman historian, as 
 for the splendid actions of Alexander. These 
 drew his attention, and soon after, his imi-
 
 OF TIMON OF ATHENS. 317 
 
 tation. Though his breast heaved, and his 
 eyes sparkled in the perusal of favorite 
 passages, he was not led to write fine de- 
 scriptions like Curtius ; but to break horses 
 like the son of Philip. 
 
 Now, since those who are actuated by the 
 love of distinction, are led, by early or 
 inherent predilection, to one kind of action 
 rather than another, we have no difficulty 
 in allowing principles of goodness and hu- 
 manity to have reigned, early or originally, 
 in the breast of Timon. Nay, after losing 
 their authority, they continued for some 
 time to attend liim ; and resided in that 
 breast where they formerly reigned. They 
 became like those eastern princes, or those 
 early sovereigns of a neighbouring country, 
 who grew so indolent and passive, that they 
 lay immured in their apartments, and left 
 the management of the state to some active 
 minister, an ambitious vizier, or mayor of 
 the palace. Some of these ministers acted 
 for a while under the banner of the sove- 
 reign's authority: but afterwards, having 
 left him but the shadow of power, they
 
 31S DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 promoted themselves ; became supreme and 
 despotic. 
 
 Here, however, we are led to enquire, 
 how happens it that a principle inherent in 
 the soul, and once an active principle, be- 
 comes passive, suffers others to operate in 
 its stead ; not only so, but to perform simi- 
 lar functions, assume corresponding appear- 
 ances, and, in general, to be guided appa- 
 rently to the same tenor of conduct ? Did 
 the energy of the inherent affection suffer 
 abatement by frequent exercise ? Or were 
 there no kindred principles in the soul to 
 support and confirm its authority ? Could 
 not reason, or the sense of duty support, and 
 the power of active habit confirm? How 
 came the sultan to submit to the vizier ? 
 
 In general, original principles and feel- * 
 ings become passive, if they are not, in their 
 first operation, confirmed by reason and con- 
 viction of duty ; and if the passion which 
 springs up in their place assumes their 
 appearance, and acts apparently as they 
 would have done. Nothing is more im- 
 posing than this species of usurpation.
 
 OF TIMON OF ATHENS. 319 
 
 It is not the open assault of a foe, but the 
 guile of pretended friendship. Nothing 
 contributes more to dangerous self-decep- 
 tion. Applying this remark to our present 
 subject, and following the lights of obser- 
 vation, we shall briefly illustrate, how early 
 or inherent goodness may be subverted by 
 the love of distinction. A person of good 
 dispositions, inclined by his temper and 
 constitution to perform acts of beneficence, 
 receives pleasure in the performance. He 
 also receives applause. He has done good, 
 and is told of it. Thus he receives plea- 
 sure, not only from having gratified a native 
 impulse, but from the praise of mankind, 
 and the gratitude of those whom he may 
 have served. The applauses he receives 
 are -more liberally bestowed by designing 
 and undeserving persons, than by the de- 
 serving and undesigning. The deserving 
 depend too much on the permanency of the 
 original principle, independent of encou- 
 ragement ; and may therefore be too sparing 
 in their approbation. Gustavus Adolphus 
 used to say, that valour needed encourage- 
 ment ; and was therefore unreserved in hrs
 
 320 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 praises. The same may be said of every 
 virtue. But designing, or undeserving per- 
 sons, transferring their own dispositions to 
 other men, and of course apprehensive 
 lest the wheels and springs of benevolence 
 should contract rust, are oiling them for 
 ever with profuse adulation. Meantime, 
 our man of liberality begins to be moved by 
 other principles than fine feelings and con- 
 stitutional impulse. The pleasure arising 
 from such actions as these produce, is too 
 fine and too delicate, compared with the 
 joys conferred by loud and continued ap- 
 plauses. Thus his taste becomes vitiated ; 
 he not only acquires an undue relish for 
 adulation, but is uneasy without it ; he con- 
 tracts a false appetite ; and solicits distinc- 
 tion, not so much for the pleasure it yields 
 him, as to remove a disagreeable craving. 
 Thus, such benevolent actions as formerly 
 proceeded from constitutional goodness, have 
 now their origin in the love of praise and 
 distinction. Goodness may remain in his 
 breast a passive guest ; and having no other 
 power than to give countenance to the pre- 
 vailing principle. It may thus reign in his
 
 OF TIMON OF ATHENS. . 321 
 
 language and reveries ; but the love of dis- 
 tinction directs his conduct. The super- 
 seded monarch enjoys the parade of state, 
 and annexes his signature and sanction to the 
 deeds of his active minister. 
 
 Perhaps it may now seem probable, that 
 a man of constitutional goodness may per- 
 form beneficent actions, not from principles 
 of humanity, though these may actually 
 reside in his breast ; but from the desire of 
 being distinguished as a generous person ; 
 and that in the mean while, not discerning 
 his real motives, he shall imagine himself 
 actuated by pure generosity. That such 
 characters may exist, is all that is hitherto 
 asserted. That Shakespeare has exhibited 
 an illustration, accurately defined and ex- 
 quisitely featured, in his Timon of Athens, 
 we shall now endeavour to shew. We shall 
 endeavour to ascertain and trace, in the 
 conduct of Timon, the marks of that bene- 
 ficence which proceeds from the love of 
 distinction. We shall, at the same time, 
 endeavour to trace the causes of the strange 
 alteration that took place in his temper : 
 and delineate the operations of those cir- 
 v
 
 32i DRAMATIC CHAR ACT Kit 
 
 cumstances that changed him {'rum being 
 apparently social, and full of affection, into 
 an absolute misanthrope. 
 
 I. Real goodness is not ostentatious. Not 
 so is the goodness of Timon. Observe him 
 in the first scene of the tragedy: trumpets 
 sound ; Timon enters ; he is surrounded 
 with senators, poets, painters, and attend- 
 ants: chooses that moment to display his 
 beneficence ; and accompanies his benefits 
 with a comment on his own noble nature. 
 
 I am not of that feather, to shake off 
 My friend when he must need me. 
 
 II. He is impatient of admonition. Know- 
 ing that he was formerly influenced by sen- 
 timents of humanity, he supposes that their 
 power remains unchanged ; and that, as 
 be continues to do good, his principles of 
 action are still the same. He is exposed to 
 this self-imposition, not only by the tenden- 
 cy which all men have to deceive themselves, 
 but by the flatteries and praises he is fond 
 of receiving. Of consequence, he would 
 mi Her pain by being undeceived; he would 

 
 OF TIMON OF ATHENS. 523 
 
 lose the pleasure of that distinction which 
 he so earnestly pursues ; the prevailing pas- 
 sion would be counteracted : thus, there is 
 a disposition in his soul, which leads him 
 to be displeased with the truth ; and who 
 that is offended with the truth, can en- 
 dure admonition ? 
 
 Ap. Thou giv'st so long, Timon, I fear me thou 
 Wilt give away thyself in paper shortly : 
 What need these feasts, pomps, and vain glories ? 
 
 Tim. Nay, 
 An' you begin to rail on society once, 
 I am sworn not to give regard to you. 
 Farewell, and come with better music. 
 
 Ap. So 
 
 Thou wilt not hear me now. 
 
 Oh, that men's ears should be 
 
 To counsel deaf, but not to flattery. 
 
 III. The same self-deceit which renders 
 him deaf to counsel, renders him solicitous 
 and patient of excessive applause. He en- 
 dures even the grossest adulation. Notwith- 
 standing the covering which hides him 
 from himself, he cannot be quite confident 
 that his principles are just what he wishes 
 and imagines them to be. The applauses 
 he receives tend to obviate his uncertainty, 
 v 2
 
 324 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 and reconcile him to himself. Yet, it is 
 not affirmed, that the man of conscious 
 merit is either insensible of fame, or careless 
 of reputation. He feels and enjoys them 
 both ; but, having less need of external evi- 
 dence to strengthen him in the belief of his 
 own integrity, he is less voracious of praise, 
 and more acute in the discernment of flat- 
 tery. 
 
 IV. The favours bestowed by Timon, are 
 not often of such a kind as to do real service 
 to the persons who receive them. Wishing 
 to be celebrated for his bounty, he is liberal 
 in such a manner as shall be most likely to 
 draw attention, and particularly to provoke 
 the ostentation of those, on account of his 
 munificence, whom he is inclined to benefit. 
 fie is therefore more liberal in gratifying 
 their passions, and particularly their vanity, 
 than in relieving their wants; and more de- 
 sirous of contributing to flatter their ima- 
 ginations, than to promote their improve- 
 ment. Though he performs some actions 
 of real humanity, and even these he performs 
 in a public manner, yet his munificence
 
 OF TIMON OF ATHENE. 325 
 
 appears chiefly in his banquets and shewy 
 presents. 
 
 V. He acts in the same manner, in the 
 choice he makes of those whom he serves, 
 and on whom he confers his favours. He 
 is not so solicitous of alleviating the distress 
 of obscure affliction, as of gratifying those 
 who enjoy some degree of distinction, or 
 have it in their power to proclaim his praises. 
 He is not represented as visiting the cottage 
 of the fatherless and widow ; but is won- 
 derfully generous to men of high rank and 
 character. He is desirous of encouraging 
 merit ; but the merit must be already known 
 and acknowledged. Instead of drawing 
 bashful worth from obscurity, he bestows 
 costly baubles on those eminent or reputable 
 persons who will be attended to, if they 
 publish his praises. These are such displays 
 of beneficence, as a man of genuine good- 
 ness would be apt to avoid. Yet, the per- 
 sons whom Timon honours and obliges, are 
 loquacious poets, flattering painters, great 
 generals, and mighty elders.
 
 326 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 Tim. I take all, and your several visitations, 
 So kind to heart, 'tis not enough t give; 
 Methinks I could deal kingdoms to my friends, 
 And ne'er be weary. Alcihiades, 
 Thou art a soldier, therefore seldom rich ; 
 It comes in charity to thee ; for all thy living 
 Is 'mongst the dead ; and all the lands thou hast 
 Lie in a pitched field. 
 
 Yet, this seeming want of discernment 
 in Timon, is not to be considered as a proof 
 of weak understanding. Our poet, who 
 has omitted nothing to render the features 
 of this character, though perhaps not obvi- 
 ous, yet so distinct, consistent, and perfectly 
 united, that there is scarcely a lineament 
 too little or too much, has guarded him 
 from this objection, and represents him ;is 
 a man of ability. When the state and rulers 
 of Athens, in the hour of extreme urgency 
 and distress, are threatened with an assault 
 by Alcihiades, whom they had treated with 
 disrespect, they have recourse for advice ami 
 assistance to no other than Timon. The) 
 tell him in terms of humble entreaty: 
 
 I litrefore, to please thee to return with us, 
 And of our Athens (thine and ours) to take
 
 OF TIMON OF ATHENS. 32/ 
 
 The captainship, thou shah be met with thanks, 
 Allow'cl with absolute power, and thy good name 
 Live with authority ; so soon shall we drive back 
 Of Alcibiades the approaches wild, 
 Who, like a boar, too savage, cloth root up 
 His country's peace. 
 
 VI. Timon is not more ostentatious, im- 
 patient of admonition, desirous of applause, 
 injudicious in his gifts, and undistinguishing 
 in the choice of his friends, than he is pro- 
 fuse. Desirous of superlative praises, he 
 endeavours, by lavish beneficence, to have 
 unbounded returns. 
 
 He outgoes 
 
 The very heart of kindness 
 
 Plutus, the god of wealth, 
 
 Is but his steward. 
 
 The poet, with judicious invention, de- 
 duces the chief incident in the play, namely, 
 the reverse of Timon's fortune, from this 
 circumstance in his conduct. The vanity of 
 Timon renders him profuse ; and profusion 
 renders him indigent. 
 
 VII. The character we are describing,
 
 32S DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 sets a greater value on the favours he con- 
 fers than they really deserve. Of a mind 
 undisciplined by reason, and actuated solely 
 by passion, he conceives the state of things 
 to be exactly such as his present mood and 
 desire represent them. Wishing to excite 
 a hio;h sense of favour, he believes he has 
 done so, and that the gratifications he be- 
 stows are much greater than what they are. 
 He is the more liable to this self-imposition, 
 that many of those he is inclined to gratify, 
 are no less lavish of their adulation than he 
 is of his fortune. He does not perceive 
 that the raptures they express are not for 
 the benefit they have received, but for what 
 they expect ; and imagines, while his cham- 
 bers 
 
 Blaze with lights, and bray with minstrelsy, 
 
 while his cellars weep M with drunken spilth 
 " of wine," while he is giving away horses, 
 and precious stones, entertaining the rulus 
 and chief men of Athens, that he is kind- 
 ling in their breasts a sense of friendship 
 and obligation. He fondly fancies that,
 
 OF TIMON OF ATHENS. 329 
 
 in his utmost need, he will receive from 
 them every sort of assistance; and without 
 reserve or reluctance, lays immediate claim 
 to their bounty. 
 
 You to Lord Lucius ; 
 
 To Lord Lucullus, you You to Sempronius : 
 
 Commend me to their loves and I am proud, say, 
 
 That my occasions have found time to use them 
 
 Toward a suppiy of money : let the request 
 
 Be fifty talents. 
 
 Go you, Sir, to the senators, 
 
 (Of whom, even to the state's best health, I have 
 
 Deserved this hearing,) bid them send o' the instant, 
 
 A thousand talents to me. 
 
 VIII. Need we be surprised that Thnon, 
 and men of his character, should meet with 
 disappointment ? Howsoever they may im- 
 pose upon themselves, though they may be- 
 lieve that they are moved by real friendship, 
 and are conferring; real benefits, the rest of 
 mankind discern, and disapprove of their 
 conduct. Even those very persons, who, 
 by adulation, and a mean acceptance of fa- 
 vours, have contributed to their delusion, 
 feel, or conceive themselves, under no obli- 
 gation. The benefits they received were
 
 330 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 unsolicited, or unimportant; and the friend- 
 ship of their benefactor was not so genuine 
 as he believed. Thus, then, Timon de- 
 mands a requital of his good deeds ; lie 
 meets with refusal: when he solicits the af- 
 fections of his professing friends, he is an- 
 swered with eoldness. 
 
 S/r. Why, this is the worlJ's soul; 
 And just of the same piece is every flatt'rer's spirit, 
 Tiinon lus been this LorJ's lather 
 He ne'er di inks, 
 
 Rut Timon's silver treads upon his lip; 
 And yet, (O see the moustiousness of man, 
 When he looks out in an ungrateful shape.) 
 He does deny him, in respect of his, 
 What charitable imn afford to beggars. 
 
 There is no one passage in the whole tra- 
 gedy more happily conceived and expres- 
 sed than the conduct of Timon's flatterers. 
 Their various contrivances to avoid giving 
 him assistance, shew diversity of character; 
 and their behaviour is well contrasted, by 
 the sincere sorrow and indignation of Ti- 
 inon s servints. They are held out to de- 
 served BCOm, !>v their easy belief that the 
 riei IV of their benefactors fortunes was only
 
 OF TIMON OF ATHENS. 331 
 
 pretended, and by their consequent renewal 
 of mean assiduities. 
 
 IX. It remains to be mentioned, that such 
 disappointment, in tempers like that of 
 Timon, begets not only resentment at indi- 
 viduals, but aversion at all mankind. 
 
 Timon imposes on himself; and while 
 he is really actuated by a selfish passion, 
 fancies himself entirely disinterested. Yet 
 he has no select friends ; and no particular 
 attachments. He receives equally the de- 
 serving and undeserving ; the stranger and 
 the familiar acquaintance. Of consequence, 
 those persons with whom he seems intimate, 
 have no concern in his welfare ; yet, vainly 
 believing that he merits their affections, he 
 solicits their assistance, and sustains disap- 
 pointment. His resentment is roused ; and 
 he suffers as much pain, though perhaps of 
 a different kind, as, in a similar situation, a 
 person of true affection would suffer. But 
 its object is materially different. For against 
 whom is his anger excited? Not against 
 one individual, for he had no individual at- 
 tachment; but against all those who occa-
 
 332 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 sioned his disappointment: that is, against 
 all those who were, or whom he desired 
 should be. the objects of his beneficence ; in 
 other words, against all mankind. In such 
 circumstances, the violence of resentment 
 will be proportioned to original sensibility; 
 and Shakespeare, accordingly, has repre- 
 sented the wrath of Tinion as indulging 
 itself in furious invective, till it grows into 
 lasting aversion. 
 
 Tim. Who dares, who dares, 
 In purity of manhood stand upright, 
 And say, this man's a flatterer? If one be, 
 So are they all ; for every greeze of fortune 
 Is smoothed by that below : the learned pate 
 Ducks to the golden fool : all is oblique 
 
 Therefore be abhorr'd, 
 
 All feasts, societies, and throngs of men ! 
 His semblable, yea himself, Timon disdains; 
 Destruction phang mankind ! Earth, yield me roots ! 
 
 [ Digging. 
 Who seeks for better of thee, sauce his palate 
 With tby most operant poison. 
 
 Timon, not merely from affection, but 
 from vault v, and confidence in his own dis- 
 cernment, believed that those persons whom
 
 OF TIMON OF ATHENS. 333 
 
 he distinguished were endowed with supe- 
 rior merit. He finds he has been mistaken : 
 but the influences of vanity still continue ; 
 and he concludes, that since those whom 
 he reckoned deserving are really worthless, 
 much more so are all those who never me- 
 rited his attention. If his own selected 
 friends are unworthy, the rest of mankind 
 are worse; and are regarded by him as fit 
 objects of hatred or of contempt. 
 
 Therefore be abhorr'd 
 All feasts, societies, and throngs of men ! 
 
 The symptoms already mentioned are nu- 
 merous, and indicate to the attentive obser- 
 ver, that the state of Timon's mind is more 
 distempered with a selfish passion than he 
 believes : yet the poet, by a device suited to 
 his own masterly invention, contrives an 
 additional method of conveying a distinct 
 and explicit view of the real design. Ape- 
 mantus, a character well invented and well 
 supported, has no other business in the play, 
 than to explain the principles of Timon's 
 conduct. His cynic surliness, indeed, forms 
 a striking contrast to the smoothness of 1 i-
 
 334 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 nion's flatterers ; but he is chiefly considered 
 as unveiling the principal character. His 
 manners are fierce ; but his intentions are 
 friendly: liis invectives are bitter; but his 
 remarks are true. He tells the flattering; 
 poet who had written a panegyric on Timon, 
 that he was worthy of him ; and adds, even 
 in Timon's presence, 
 
 He that loves to be flattered, is worthy of the flatterer. 
 
 He tells Timou, inviting him to his banquet, 
 
 I scorn thy meat ; 'twould choke me, for I should ne'er 
 flatter thee. 
 
 Elsewhere he gives him admonitions to 
 the very same purpose ; and, finding his ad- 
 vice undervalued, he subjoins " I will lock 
 " thy heaven from thee ;" meaning, as a com- 
 mentator has well explained it, the pleasure 
 of being flattered. He afterwards tells him, 
 having followed him, nevertheless, into his 
 solitude, with intentions of rendering him 
 some assistance ; 
 
 What, thinkest 
 
 That the bleak air, thy boisterous chamberlain, 
 
 Will put thy shitt on warm ? Will these moss'd trees, 
 
 That liave outliv'd the eagle, page thy heels,
 
 OF TIMON OF ATHENS. 33j 
 
 And skip when thou point'st out? Wilt the cold brook, 
 
 Candied with ice, caudle thy morning taste, 
 
 To cure thy o'er-night's surfeit ? Call the creatures 
 
 Whose naked natures live in all the spite 
 
 Of wreckful heaven, whose bare unhoused trunks 
 
 To the conflicting elements exposed, 
 
 Answer mere nature bid them flatter thee 
 
 O ! thou shalt find 
 
 There are few instances of a dramatic cha- 
 racter, executed with such strict regard to 
 unity of design, as that of Timon. This is 
 not all. It is not enough to say, that ail the 
 parts of his conduct are consistent, or con- 
 nected with one general principle. They 
 have an union of a more intimate nature. 
 All the qualities in his character, and all the 
 circumstances in his conduct, lead to one 
 final event. They all co-operate, directly 
 or indirectly, in the accomplishment of one 
 general purpose. It is as if the poet had 
 proposed to demonstrate, how persons of 
 good temper, and social dispositions, may 
 become misanthropical. He assumes the so- 
 cial dispositions to be constitutional, and not 
 confirmed by reason or by reflection. He 
 then employs the love of distinction to bring 
 about the conclusion. He shews its effects,
 
 336 DRAMATIC CHARACTER 
 
 in superseding the influence of better prin- 
 ciples, in assuming their appearance, and so, 
 in establishing self-deceit. He shews its ef- 
 fects, in producing ostentation, injudicious 
 profusion, and disappointment. And lastly, 
 he shews how its effects contributed to excite 
 and exasperate those bitter feelings which 
 estranged Timon from all mankind. Timon, 
 at the beginning of the drama, seems altoge- 
 tlicr humane and affectionate; at the end, he 
 is an absolute misanthrope. Such opposition 
 indicates inconsistency of character ; unless 
 the change can be traced through its causes 
 and progress. If it can be traced, and if 
 the appearance shall seem natural, this as- 
 pect of the human mind affords a curious 
 and very interesting spectacle. Observe, in 
 an instance or two, the fine lineaments and 
 delicate shadings of this singular character. 
 The poet refuses admission even to those cir- 
 cumstances which may be suitable, and con- 
 sistent enough with the general principle; 
 but which would rather coincide with the 
 main design, than contribute to its consum- 
 mation. Timon is lavish ; but he is neither 
 dissolute nor intemperate. He is convivial;
 
 OF TIMON OF ATHENS. 337 
 
 but he enjoys the banquet not in his own, 
 but in the pleasure of his guests. Though 
 ho displays the pomp of a masquerade, 
 Phrynia and Timandria are in the train 
 not of Timon, but of Alcibiades. He tells 
 us, alluding to the correctness of his de- 
 portment, 
 
 No villainous bounty yet hath pass'd my heart; 
 Unwisely, not ignobly, have I given. 
 
 We may observe, too, that he is not so 
 desirous of being distinguished for mere ex- 
 ternal magnificence, as of being eminent 
 for courteous and beneficent actions. He 
 does some good, but it is to procure dis- 
 tinction ; he solicits distinction, but it is by 
 doing good. 
 
 Upon the whole, " Shakespeare, in his 
 " Timon of Athens, illustrates the conse- 
 " quences of that inconsiderate profusion 
 " which has the appearance of liberality, 
 " and is supposed by the inconsiderate per- 
 " son himself to proceed from a generous 
 " principle ; but which, in reality, has its 
 " chief origin in the love of distinction."
 
 ESSAY X. 
 
 on 
 
 SHAKESPEAKK'S IMITATION OI FEMALE CHARACTERS. 
 
 
 ADDRKSSEU TO A FRIEND. 
 
 V) 
 
 ^ 
 
 I CANNOT agree with you, that Shake- 
 speare lias exerted more ability in his imi- 
 tation of male, than of female characters. 
 Before you form a decided opinion on a 
 subject S(> interesting to his reputation, let 
 me request your attention to the following 
 particulars. If you consider them at all, it 
 will be with candour: and with so much 
 the more attention, that they are in favour 
 of a Poet whom you admire, and I might 
 :uld. of a sex whom you adore. If Shake-
 
 FEMALE CHARACTERS. 339 
 
 speare, with those embellishments which we 
 expect in poetry, has allotted to the females 
 on his theatre such stations as are suitable 
 to their condition in society, and delineated 
 them with sufficient discrimination, he has 
 clone all that we have any right to require. 
 According to this measure, and this measure 
 alone, we are permitted to judge of him. 
 I will not, you see, be indebted to the facile 
 apologist you mention, who admits the 
 charge ; but pleads in extenuation of the 
 offence, that Shakespeare did not bring for- 
 ward his female characters into a full and 
 striking light, " because female-players were 
 in his time unknown/' His defence must 
 rest upon critical principles : and if, " with 
 those embellishments which we expect in 
 poetry, he has allotted to the females on 
 his theatre, such stations as are suitable to 
 their situation in society ; and if he has de- 
 lineated them with sufficient discrimination, 
 he has done all that we have any right to 
 require."' I will now endeavour to shew, 
 that he has fulfilled both these conditions. 
 
 I. Diversity of character depends a good 
 z 2
 
 <?40 FEMALE CHARACTERS. 
 
 deal on diversity of situation : and situations 
 are diversified by variety of employment. 
 Wc meet, for example, with less variety in 
 the occupations of mankind in countries go- 
 verned by despots, and unacquainted with 
 trade and manulactu.es, than among nations 
 that are free and commercial. The slaves 
 of the despot display no greater diversity 
 than depends upon the difference between 
 poverty and riches: lor their modes of edu- 
 cation never affect the mind ; they extend 
 no farther than to superinduce a varnish of 
 external urbanity; and Confer some grace 
 or pliancy in the management of the body. 
 It would be a difficult enterprise, in a free 
 Country} to raise an illiterate and ignorant 
 peasant from the lowest order to a distin- 
 guished rank in the state: but under some 
 despotic governments, persons with no other 
 instruction than what regulates attitude, ges- 
 ture, and some forms of external propriety, 
 may he exalted even to gorgeous pre-emi- 
 nence. If situation influence the mind, and 
 if uniformity of conduct be frequently oc- 
 i.med by uniformity of condition ; there 
 must be greater diversity of male than of
 
 FEMALE CHARACTERS. 341 
 
 female characters. The employments of 
 women, compared with those of men, are 
 few ; their condition, and of course their 
 manners, admit of less variety. The poet, 
 therefore, whether epic or dramatic, who 
 would exhibit his heroines in occupations 
 that did not properly belong to them; or 
 who endeavoured to distinguish them by a 
 greater diversity of habits, endowments, or 
 dispositions, than their condition justified, 
 would depart from the truth of nature; and, 
 instead of meriting the praise of due decora- 
 tion, would incur the blame of extravagant 
 fiction. I say not that the abilities and dis- 
 positions in both sexes may not be equal or 
 alike. There are few attainments in know- 
 ledge in which the pride of the male sex may 
 not be alarmed, if such alarm be decent, by 
 the progress of fair competitors: and the 
 history of modern Europe will attest, that 
 even politics, a science of which men are 
 particularly jealous, is not beyond the reach 
 of adventurous females. Difference, how- 
 ever, of condition restrains the exertion of 
 female genius ; and must limit the display 
 both of talents and dispositions.
 
 342 FEMALE CHARACTERS. 
 
 Add to this, that the condition of women 
 has been more restrained in some periods 
 than in others. In times of great rudeness, 
 the wives* and daughters of the fierce bar- 
 barian are domestie slaves. Even in civi- 
 lized nations, if polygamy be permitted, 
 and no restraint imposed on the licentious- 
 ness of divorce, the fair sex may be loved, 
 if the passions of those who grant them- 
 selves sueh indulgence may be honoured 
 with the appellation of love ; but can never 
 rise to esteem-*-. They may contribute to 
 the amusement or conveniency, but can 
 never be the companions of men. Jn all 
 situations whatever, where the tendency to 
 extreme proliigacy becomes very flagrant, 
 the respeet due to female virtues, and con- 
 fidence in female afiection, decline and 
 decay. So great arc the obligations of the 
 fair sex to those institutions, which, more 
 than any other, by limiting the freedom of 
 divorce, and by other proper restrictions, 
 
 Millar's Distiiictiou of Ranks. 
 
 4 Kzi yatj yvm %<ri ypxrirt r.a.\ oh>.o$. K.a*rci yi va-at; 
 T*Ttr. to ui> ;<<. Aiisi. Pott.
 
 FEMALE CHARACTERS. 343 
 
 have asserted the dignity of the female cha- 
 racter. Polished and even refined as were 
 the manners of Athens and of Rome, the 
 rank allowed to Athenian and Roman wo- 
 men was never so dignified, nor so suitable y 
 in either of these republics, as among the 
 nations of Christendom. But as the sub- 
 jects of dramatic poetry, and particularly 
 of tragedy, are most commonly furnished 
 by rude, remote, or antient ages, the poet 
 must submit to such limitation, in his views 
 of human life, as the manners of such pe- 
 riods require. And if Shakespeare, like 
 the great poets of antiquity, has not given 
 his females so much to do, or displayed 
 them as expressing all the violence of pas- 
 sion, or rendered them of so much impor- 
 tance in the conduct of dramatic events, as 
 may have been done by his brethren of later 
 times ; he and the poets of antiquity have, 
 in this instance at least, given a more faith- 
 ful, and not a less interesting representa- 
 tion of that nature which they chose to 
 display. 
 
 II. I proceed still farther, and venture to
 
 344 FEMALE CHARACTERS. 
 
 assert, that there is not only as much vari- 
 ety in Shakespeare's female characters as wc 
 have any title to demand' ; but that they are 
 distinguished with peculiar and appropriated 
 features. Let some of them pass in r evi ew 
 before you. If you find in Miranda, Isa- 
 bella, Beatrice, Portia, and Cordelia, variety 
 and discrimination enough, they may an- 
 swer for their numerous sisterhood ; nor 
 need we, on the present occasion, evoke the 
 spirits of Queen Margaret or Dame Quickly, 
 Juliet or Desdemona. 
 
 1. In the character of Miranda, simpli- 
 city is intended to be the most striking cir- 
 cumstance. Consistent, however, with sim- 
 plicity, is gentleness of disposition, flowing 
 out in compassionate tenderness, and unre- 
 strained by suspicion. Miranda, seeing the 
 danger of shipwrecked strangers, never sup- 
 poses that they may be suffering punishment 
 for heinous guilt, but expresses the most 
 amiable commi .era! ion : 
 
 If by your art, my dearest father, you have 
 Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them: 
 
 O I have luffer'd 
 With those that I saw suffer.
 
 FEMALE CHARACTERS. 345 
 
 Conscious of no guile in herself, conscious 
 of native truth, she believes that others are 
 equally guileless, and reposes confidence in 
 their professions. Her easy belief does not 
 proceed from weakness ; but from innate 
 candour, and an ingenuous undismayed pro- 
 pensity, which had never been abused or 
 insulted. If her simplicity and inexperi- 
 ence had rendered her shy and timid, the 
 representation might have been reckoned 
 natural: but Shakespeare has exhibited a 
 more delicate picture. Miranda, under the 
 care of a wise and affectionate father, an 
 utter stranger to the rest of mankind, unac- 
 quainted with deceit either in others, or in 
 herself, is more inclined to ingenuous con- 
 fidence than to shy or reserved suspicion. 
 Moved in like manner bv tender and more- 
 nuous affection, she never practises dissimu- 
 lation, never disguises her intention, either 
 in the view of heightening; the love or of 
 trying the veracity of the person whom she 
 prefers. All these particulars are distinctly 
 illustrated in the exquisite love-scene be- 
 tween Ferdinand and Miranda.
 
 346 KfcMALfc CHARACTERS. 
 
 Fer. Admir'd Miranda, 
 Indeed the top of admiration: worth 
 What's dearest to the world ! &:c. 
 
 Mir. I do not know 
 One of my sex; no woman's face remember, !Lc. 
 
 Thus simple, apt to wonder, guileless, 
 and because guileless, of easy belief, com- 
 passionate and tender, Miranda exhibits not 
 only a consistent, but a singular, and finely 
 distinguished character. 
 
 2. Isabella is represented equally blame- 
 less, amiable, and affectionate : she is parti- 
 cularly distinguished by intellectual ability. 
 Her understanding and good sense are con- 
 spicuous : her arguments are well applied, 
 and her pleading persuasive. Yet her abi- 
 lities do not offend by appearing too mascu- 
 line: they are mitigated and finely blended 
 with female softness. If she venture to 
 argue, it is to save the life of a brother. 
 i then, it is with such reluctance, hesi- 
 tation, and diffidence, as need to be urged 
 and encouraged. 
 
 Luc. To him again, intrcat him, 
 Kneel down before him, Sec.
 
 H.MALK CHARACTERS. 413 
 
 hub. O it is excellent 
 To have a giant's strength ; but it is tyrannous 
 To use it like a giant. 
 
 Luc. That's well said. 
 
 The transitions in Isabella's pleadings are 
 natural and affecting. Her introduction is 
 timid and irresolute. 
 Lucio tells her, 
 
 If you should need a pin, 
 You could not with more tame a tongue desire it. 
 To him, I say. 
 
 Thus prompted, she makes an effort ; she 
 speaks from her immediate feelings: she has 
 not acquired boldness enough to enter the 
 lists of argument; and addresses Angels 
 merely as a suppliant: 
 
 Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword, 
 The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe, 
 Become them with one half so good a grace 
 As mercy does. 
 
 Animated by her exertion, she becomes 
 more assured, and ventures to refute objec- 
 tions. As she is a nun, and consequently 
 acquainted with religious knowledge, the
 
 34 FEMALE CHARACTERS. 
 
 argument she employs is suited to her pro- 
 fession. 
 
 /*. VVhy, all the souls that were, were forfeit once, 
 And he that might the 'vantage best have took, 
 Found out the remedy. 
 
 At length, no longer abashed and irreso- 
 lute, but fully collected, she reasons, so to 
 say, on the merits of the cause, 
 
 Good, good, my lord, bethink you : 
 Who is it that hath died for this ofTcnce? 
 There's many have committed it. 
 
 Nor is her argument unbecoming in the 
 mouth even of a nun. Her subsequent con- 
 duct vindicates her own character from as- 
 persion. Besides, she had with great deli- 
 cacy and propihty, at the beginning of her 
 pleading, expressed herself in such a man- 
 ner, as to obviate any charge. 
 
 There is a vice that I do most abhor. 
 And most desire should meet the blow of Justice; 
 T. r which I would not plead but that I must. 
 
 Fmboldened by truth, and the feeling of 
 ^ood intention, she passes, at the end oi her
 
 FEMALE CHARACTERS. 349 
 
 debate, from the merits of the cause, to a 
 spirited appeal even to the consciousness of 
 her judge. 
 
 Go to your bosom, 
 Knock there, aud ask your heart what it doth know 
 That's like my brother's fault. 
 
 Isabella is not only sensible and persua- 
 sive, but sagacious, and capable of becoming 
 address. In communicating to her brother 
 the unworthy designs of Angelo, she seems 
 aware of his weakness ; she is not rash nor 
 incautious, but gives her intimation by de- 
 grees, and with studied dexterity. 
 
 It is not inconsistent with her gentleness, 
 modesty, and reserve that, endowed as she is 
 with understanding, and strongly impressed 
 with a sense of duty, she should form reso- 
 lutions respecting her own conduct without 
 reluctance, and adhere to them without 
 wavering. Though tenderly attached to 
 her brother, she spurns, without hesitation, 
 the alternative proposed by Angelo, and 
 never balances in her choice. 
 
 Neither is it incongruous, but a fine tint 
 in the character, that she feels indignation, 
 and expresses it strongly. But it is not in-
 
 3 )) FEMALE CHARACTERS. 
 
 dignation against an adversary ; it is not on 
 account of injury : it is a disinterested emo- 
 tion : it is against a brother who does not 
 respect himself, who expn sses pusillanimous 
 sentiments ; and would have her act in an 
 unworthy manner. Such is the amiable, 
 pious, sensible, resolute, determined, and 
 eloquent Isabella. She pleads powerfully 
 for her brother; and no less powerfully for 
 her poetical father. 
 
 3. But if the gentle, unsuspecting, and 
 artless simplicity of Miranda ; if the good 
 sense and affecting eloquence of Isabella, 
 should not induce you to acquit the pott, 
 you will vicld, perhaps, to the vivacity 
 and wit of Beatrice. No less amiable and 
 affectionate than Miranda and Isabella, she 
 expresses resentment, because she feels com- 
 miseration for the sufferings of her friend. 
 
 Is he not approved in the height a villain, that hath 
 slandered, scorned, and dishonoured my kinswoman? 
 
 Like Isabella, too, she is distinguished by 
 intellectual ability; but of a different kind. 
 She does not defend herself, or make her at-
 
 FEMALE CHARACTERS. 351 
 
 tacks with grave, argumentative, and per- 
 suasive elocution : but, endowed with the 
 powers of wit, she employs them in raillery, 
 banter, and repartee. 
 
 Ben. What, my dear lady Disdain ! are you yet living? 
 
 Beat. Is it possible Disdain should die, while she hath 
 such meet food to feed upon, as siguor Benedict? The 
 count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry, nor well ; but 
 civil count, civil as an orange, and something of that jea- 
 lous complexion. 
 
 Her smartness, however, proceeds from 
 wit rather than from humour. She does not 
 attempt, or is not so successful in ludicrous 
 description, as in lively sayings. 
 
 Beat. My cousin tells him in his ear, that he is in het 
 heart. 
 
 Claud. And so she does, cousin. 
 
 Beat. Good lord for alliance t thus goes every one to 
 the world, but I, and I am sun-burned; I may sit in a 
 corner, and cry heigh-ho for a husband. 
 
 Pe. Lady Beatrice, I will get you one. 
 
 Beat. I would rather have one of your father's getting. 
 
 Another distinction, not unconnected with 
 the preceding, is, that though lively, she- 
 is nevertheless serious, and though witty^
 
 SjiJ FEMALE CHARACTER i, 
 
 grave. Possessed of talents for wit. she 
 seems to employ them for the purposes of 
 defence, or disguise. She conceals the real 
 and thoughtful seriousness of her disposi- 
 tion by a shew of vivacity. Howsoever 
 she may speak of them, she treats her own 
 concerns, and those of her friends, with 
 grave consideration. A compliment, and 
 the enticement of a playful allusion, almost 
 betrays her into an actual confession. 
 
 Pcd. In faith, lady, you have a merry heart. 
 Beat. Yea, my lord, I thank it, poor fool, it keeps on 
 the windy side of care. 
 
 She is desirous of l>eing reputed very 
 sprightly and disdainful: but it is not of 
 the qualities which w chiefly possess that 
 we are usually most ostentatious. Con- 
 greve wished to be thought a fine gentle- 
 man ; Swift would he a politician ; and 
 Milton a divine. What Beatrice, who is 
 really amiable, would have herself thought 
 to be, appears in the following passage, 
 where Hero, pretending not to know she 
 was present, describes her in her own 
 hearing:
 
 FEMALE CHARACTERS. 333 
 
 Nature never form'd a woman's heart 
 Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice. 
 Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes, 
 Misprizing what they look on, &c. 
 
 Tender, affectionate, and ingenuous ; yet 
 conscious of more weakness than Miranda, 
 or not like her, educated in a desert island, 
 she is aware of mankind, affects to be mirth- 
 ful when she is most in earnest, and employs 
 her wit when she is most afraid, ftor is 
 such dissimulation, if it may be so termed, 
 to be accounted peculiarly characteristical of 
 female manners. It may be discovered in 
 men of probity and tenderness, and who 
 are actuated by serious principles ; but who 
 are rendered timid, either from some con- 
 scious imbecility; or who become suspicious 
 by an early, too early an observation of de- 
 signing persons. If such men are endowed 
 with so much liveliness of invention, as, in 
 the society to which they belong, to be 
 reckoned witty or humourous, they often 
 employ this talent as an engine of defence. 
 Without it, they would perhaps fly from 
 society like the melancholy Jaques, who 
 wished to have, but did not possess, a very 
 A a
 
 354 FEMALE CHARACTERS. 
 
 distinguished, though some portion of such 
 ability. Thus, while they seem to annoy, 
 they only wish to prevent : their mock en- 
 counter is a real combat : while they seem 
 for ever in the field, they conceive them- 
 selves always besieged : though perfectly 
 serious, they never appear in earnest: and 
 though they affect to set all men at defiance ; 
 and though they are not without under- 
 standing, yet they tremble for the censure, 
 and are tortured with the sneer of a fool. 
 Let them come to the school of Shakespeare. 
 He will give them, as he gives many others, 
 an useful lesson. He will shew them an 
 exemplary and natural reformation or exer- 
 tion. Beatrice is not to be ridiculed out of 
 an honourable purpose ; nor to forfeit, for 
 fear of a witless joke, a connection with a 
 person who is " of a noble strain, of approved 
 ff valour, and confirmed honesty." 
 
 4. Portia is akin both to Beatrice and 
 Isabella. She resembles them both in gen- 
 tleness of disposition. Like Beatrice, she 
 is spirited, lively, and witty. Her descrip- 
 tion of some of her lovers, is an obvious
 
 FEMALE CHARACTERS. 355 
 
 illustration. " First, there is the Neapoli- 
 " tan prince," 3cc. Her vivacity, however, 
 is not so brilliant, and approaches rather to 
 sportive ingenuity than to wit. Her situa- 
 tion renders her less grave, when in a serious 
 mood, than Isabella: but, like her, she has 
 intellectual endowment. She is observant, 
 penetrating, and acute. Her address is dex- 
 terous, and her apprehension extensive. 
 Though exposed to circumstances that might 
 excite indignation, she never betrays any 
 violent emotion, or unbecoming expression of 
 an^er. But Isabella, on account of her reli- 
 gio.us seclusion, having had less intercourse 
 with the world, though of a graver, and ap- 
 parently of a more sedate disposition, expres- 
 ses her displeasure with reproach ; and in- 
 veighs with the holy wrath of a cloister. To 
 the acquaintance which both of them have of 
 theology, Portia superadds some knowledge 
 of law ; and displays a dexterity of evasion, 
 along: w T ith an ingenuity in detecting; a latent 
 or unobserved meaning, which do her no 
 discredit as a barrister. We may observe 
 too, that the principal business in the Mer- 
 chant of Venice is conducted by Portia. 
 Aa 2
 
 356 FEMALE CHARACTERS. 
 
 Nor is it foreign to remark, that as in the 
 intimacy of Rosalind and Celia, Shakespeare 
 has represented female friendship as no visi- 
 onary attainment ; so he has, by the mouth 
 of Portia, expressed some striking particu- 
 lars in the nature of that amiable connection. 
 
 In companions 
 That do converse, and waste the time together, 
 Whose souls do bear an equal yoke of love, 
 There must needs be a like proportion 
 Of lineaments, of manners^ and of spirit. 
 
 5. Our poet, in his Cordelia, has given 
 us a fine example of exquisite sensibility, 
 governed by reason, and guided by a sense 
 of propriety. This amiable character, in- 
 deed, is conceived and executed with no less 
 skill and invention than that of her father. 
 Treated with rigour and injustice by Lear, 
 she utters no violent resentment ; but ex- 
 presses becoming anxiety for reputation. 
 
 I yet beseech your majesty, 
 That you male known 
 It is no vicious blot, murder, or foulness, 
 No unchaste action or dishonor'd step, 
 That batk depriv'd me of your grace and favor.
 
 FEMALE CHARACTERS. 357 
 
 She displays the same gentleness, accom- 
 panied with much delicacy of reproof, in her 
 reply to a mercenary lover. 
 
 Peace be with Burgundy t 
 Since that respects of fortune are his love, 
 I shall not be his wife. 
 
 Even to her sisters, though she has per- 
 fect discernment of their characters, and 
 though her misfortune was owing to their 
 dissimulation, she shows nothing virulent 
 nor unbecoming. She expresses, however, 
 in a suitable manner, and with no improper 
 irony, a sense of their deceit, and apprehen- 
 sions of their disaffection to Lear. 
 
 Ye jewels of our father, with wash'd eyes 
 Cordelia leaves you ; I know what you are, 
 And like a sister am most loth to call 
 Your faults as they are nam'd. 
 
 Towards the close of the tragedy, when 
 she receives complete information concern- 
 ing the violent outrages committed against 
 her father, the sufferings he has undergone, 
 the ruin of his understanding, and has the 
 fullest evidence of the guilt and atrocity of
 
 358 FEMALE CHARACTERS. 
 
 her sisters, she preserves the same consistency 
 of* character: notwithstanding her wrongs, 
 - she feels and is affected with the deepest 
 sorrow for the misfortunes of Lear : she has 
 the most entire abhorrence of the temper 
 displayed by Goneril and Regan : yet her 
 sorrows, her resentment, and indignation are 
 guided by that sense of propriety, which does 
 not in the smallest degree impair her ten- 
 derness and sensibility ; but directs them to 
 that conduct and demeanour, which are 
 suitable, amiable, and interesting. Tender- 
 ness, affection, and sensibility, melting into 
 grief, and mingled with sentiments of re- 
 luctant disapprobation, were never delineat- 
 ed with more delicacy than in the descrip- 
 tion of Cordelia, when she receives intelli- 
 gence of her father's misfortunes. 
 
 Kent. Did your letters pierce the queen to any de- 
 monstration of grief? 
 
 dent. Ay, Sir ; she took them, read them in my 
 presence ; 
 And now and then an ample tear trill'd down 
 Her delicate check : it seem'd she was a queen 
 Over her passion, who, most rebel like, 
 Sought to be king o'er her. 
 
 Kent. O, then it moved her.
 
 FEMALE CHARACTERS. 359 
 
 Gent. Not to a rage. Patience and sorrow strove 
 Which should express her goodliest : you have seen 
 
 Sun-shine and rain at once. Those happy smiles 
 
 That played on her ripe lip seem'd not to know 
 What guests were in her eyes, which parted thence, 
 As pearls from diamonds dropt. In brief, 
 Sorrow would be a rarity most belov'd, 
 If all could so become it. 
 
 Kent. Made she no verbal question ? 
 
 Gent. Once or twice 
 She heav'd the name of father 
 Pantingly forth, as if it prest her heart, 
 Cry'd, Sisters ! Sisters 1 What? i'the storm ? i'the night? 
 Let pity ne'er believe it ! there she shook 
 
 The holy water from her heav'nly eyes 
 
 Then away she started to deal with grief alone. 
 
 Minds highly enlightened, contemplating 
 the same object, both reason, and are af- 
 fected in a similar manner. The tone of 
 thought in the following passage, in The 
 Theory of Moral Sentiments, accords per- 
 fectly with Shakespeare's account of Cor- 
 delia " What noble propriety and grace 
 do we feel in the conduct of those who, in 
 their own case, exert that recollection and 
 self-command which constitute the dignity 
 of every passion, and which bring it down 
 to what others can enter into ? We are dis*-
 
 360 1 F.MAL CHARACTERS. 
 
 gusted with that clamorous grief, which, 
 without any delicacy, calls upon our com- 
 passion with sighs and importunate lamen- 
 tations. But we reverence that reserved, 
 that silent and majestic sorrow, which dis- 
 covers itself only in the swelling of the eyes, 
 in the quivering of the lips and cheeks, 
 and in the distant but affecting coldness of 
 the whole behaviour. It imposes the like 
 silence upon us. We regard it with respect- 
 ful attention, and watch with anxious con- 
 cern over our whole behaviour, lest by any 
 impropriety we should disturb that concerted 
 tranquillity, which it requires so great an 
 effort to support." Cordelia, full of affec- 
 tion, is grieved for the distress of her father: 
 her sense of propriety imposes restraint on 
 her expressions of sorrow : the conflict is 
 painful: full of sensibility, and of a delicate 
 structure, the conflict is more than she can 
 endure; she must indulge her emotions: 
 her sense of propriety again interposes ; she 
 must vent them in secret, and not with 
 loud lamentation : she shakes " The holy 
 M water from her heavenly eyes," and then 
 retires " to deal with grief alone."
 
 FEMALE CHARACTERS, S&1 
 
 There are few instances in any poet, 
 where the influences of contending; emotions 
 are so.nicely balanced and distinguished : for 
 while in this amiable picture we discern the 
 corrected severity of that behaviour which 
 a sense of propriety dictates, mitigated and 
 brought down by fine sensibility, and the 
 softness of the female character ; we also see 
 this softness upheld, and this sensibility ren- 
 dered still more engaging, by the influence 
 of a sense of propriety. 
 
 Need I add to these illustrations, the sis- 
 terly and filial affections of Ophelia, leading 
 her to such deference for a father, as to prac- 
 tise deceit at his suggestion on a generous 
 lover, and strive to entangle him in the toils 
 of political cunning ? Need I add the pride, 
 the violence, the abilities, and the disap- 
 pointed ambition of Margaret ? Need I add 
 Dame Quickly and Lady Anne? If, not- 
 withstanding all these, you persist in saying 
 that Shakespeare has produced no eminent 
 female characters, because in the words of 
 the poet whom you quote, ' most women 
 have no character at all ;' you must mean 
 in the spirit or manner of the satirist, and
 
 S62 FEMALE CHARACTERS. 
 
 with an eye to the personage last-mentioned, 
 to pun rather than to refute. But you tell 
 me " the gentle Desdemona is like the 
 gentle Cordelia ; the tender Imogen like 
 the tender Juliet; the sensible Isabella like 
 the sensible Portia ; the violent Margaret 
 like the violent Constance ; and the cruel 
 Reuan like the cruel Goneril : in short, that 
 they are all copies of one another ; that any 
 differences appearing between them are oc- 
 casioned by difference of external circum- 
 stances ; that Portia, in Isabella's situation. 
 would have been another Isabella: and so 
 with the rest." If this be urged as an ob- 
 jection, it cannot be admitted. Desdemona, 
 in the same situation with Margaret, would 
 not have inveighed, nor vented imprecation. 
 Cordelia was situated in the same circum- 
 stances with Regan, but performed a very 
 different part. Notwithstanding the simi- 
 larity in the instances above-mentioned, 
 there is still so much diversity as to obviate 
 the objection. Still further, if you reason 
 in this manner, allow me to say, in the 
 words of the poet, you reason " too curi- 
 ously ;" and would reduce the sum of dra-
 
 FEMALE CHARACTERS. $63 
 
 malic characters, how different soever their 
 names and fortunes, to an inconsiderable 
 number. Does it not strike you too, that 
 to disregard such discrimination as proceeds 
 from external condition, is contrary to the 
 truth of nature, and the justice of impartial 
 criticism ? Many persons may have received 
 from nature similar talents and dispositions; 
 but being differently placed in society, they 
 exert the same power, or gratify the same 
 desire, with different degrees of force, and 
 different modes of indulgence. Their cha- 
 racters are therefore different, and if so in 
 reality, so also in imitation. Similarity of 
 original structure does not constitute simi- 
 larity or sameness of character, unless that 
 similarity appear in the same circumstances, 
 in the same manner, and with equal force. 
 I still therefore adhere to my former opinion ; 
 and have not ventured, I hope, in vain to 
 assert the merits of Shakespeare's females.
 
 ESSAY XI. 
 
 feijafccgpcaito limitation 
 
 OF CHARACTERISTICAL, AND PARTICULARLY OF 
 KATIONAL MANNERS, 
 
 ILLUSTRATED IN THE CHARACTER OF FLUELLEV 
 
 IT has been the fate of criticism, more per- 
 haps than of any other science, to have suf- 
 fered by the use of undefined expressions. 
 There is, indeed, a sort of general and 
 loose meaning usually annexed to the terms 
 most frequently employed by critics ; and 
 which answers the purposes of that slight 
 amusement which is obtained by cursory 
 reading: yet inattention to the explanation 
 of terms, so highly detrimental in other 
 departments of literature, has contributed a
 
 THE CHARACTER OF FLUELLEN. 365 
 
 good deal, to retard the progress of cri- 
 tical knowledge. Even antient writers have 
 not always been very precise or explicit, on 
 subjects of this nature: and Aristotle him- 
 self, with all his accuracy and discernment, 
 not sufficiently aware, that definition may 
 be of service even in obvious matters, has 
 left ample room for discussion. Among 
 other undefined expressions employed in 
 criticism, may, perhaps, be included the 
 term Manners. Eminent and enlightened 
 critics may probably have thought the mean- 
 ing so manifest, as not to have required any 
 particular explanation. Yet if the just imi- 
 tation of manners iieightens the merit of 
 fine-writing, some considerations to direct 
 the writer, or those who would judge of his 
 performance, are indispensably necessary: 
 and if so, a definition, or at least some de- 
 scription of the thing required, how obvious 
 soever it may appear, would not be useless. 
 Previous therefore to the discussion of our 
 present subject, I will endeavour to ascer- 
 tain the meaning, and offer some illustration 
 of the term.
 
 366 THE CHARACTER 
 
 I. A great number of the diversities, ap- 
 parent in human nature, are occasioned by 
 differences of external circumstance and 
 situation. These diversities, which are to 
 become the chief object of our present consi- 
 deration, may, for the sake of perspicuity 
 in our further procedure, be divided into 
 two different clashes. The distinction be- 
 tween the powers of intellect and sensibility, 
 or, as they are commonly termed, the 
 powers of the understanding, and of the 
 will, though necessary to be kept in view in 
 the following observations, need not be very 
 formally announced. The distinction chiefly 
 to be attended to, proceeds upon other 
 principles; and arises from the mode of in- 
 dulging, or the habit of exercising, our 
 powers and passions. One set of the divef- 
 we are considering, may be said to arise 
 from the dillerent mode of gratifying the 
 same desire, or employing the same faculty; 
 and another no less numerous, from the 
 i cater force acquired by one desire or fa- 
 culty, or one kind of desires and faculties 
 compared with others originally of equal 
 vigour.
 
 OF FLUELLEN. 367 
 
 1. To differences in external circum- 
 stance and situation, the first of these, name- 
 ly, the diversities arising from the different 
 mode of complying with the same inclina- 
 tion, of removing the same uneasiness, or of 
 exercising the same talent, may very easily 
 be traced, and very obviously exemplified. 
 The delicate structure of the human body 
 renders raiment necessary ; but the climate 
 in one country may render one kind of ap- 
 parel more convenient there than that which 
 is used in another. A person of any dis- 
 tinction in Europe, removing the uneasi- 
 nesses of hunger and thirst, has his bread 
 cut, his meat sometimes sliced, and his drink 
 presented to him by a servant ; but a Chief- 
 tain in the islands of Calafoy, or of Ana- 
 mocoa, has additionally to these services, an 
 attendant, or Tow-tow, to put his victuals 
 into his mouth. Musical powers, and a 
 taste for musical composition, may be met 
 with in all ages and nations : but music in 
 one place is used to celebrate nuptial festi- 
 vity ; and in another at the burial of the 
 dead. In one country the prevailing music 
 is of a cheerful character ; in another melan-
 
 S6S THE CHARACTER 
 
 choly : the tabor and the pipe, so frequent 
 in the south of England, enliven the voice 
 of joy ; but both the vocal and instrumental 
 music of an Hebridean, deepens the .tone of 
 sorrow. 
 
 2. Not only will differences of situation 
 occasion various modes of indulgence, or of 
 exertion, but varieties also, in the strength 
 or weakness, of our powers and passions. 
 We may observe still further, that oppor- 
 tunity and situation, excite feelings, awaken 
 appetites, induce habits, and even animate 
 faculties which otherwise, would have never 
 appeared. All men possess principles of 
 religion, and are led by their constitution, 
 to the worship of invisible intelligence ; but 
 they differ from one another not only in the 
 form, but in the spirit of their devotion. 
 The subjects of despotic or tyrannical go- 
 vernments, homage beings characterised like 
 t\ rants, for their worship is dictated by ser- 
 vile fear. But those who live tinder a more 
 equitable administration, are inclined, even 
 without the assistance of revelation, to con- 
 sider their invisible rulers as pleased with 
 their felicity, and are addicted to a religion
 
 OF FLUELLEN. 369 
 
 of love. Uninstructed, however, in the true 
 dignity of the divine nature, and not con- 
 ceiving their invisible rulers as exalted a 
 great deal above themselves, they take un- 
 becoming liberties in their religious wor- 
 ship. The festive devotion of the Athenians, 
 together with the familiarity of address, and 
 intimacy of intercourse, which they thought 
 not inconsistent with the rank even of their 
 highest deities, tended without any designed 
 impiety on their parts, to throw the host of 
 heaven, and even the gravest of their divini- 
 ties, into ludicrous situations. In like man- 
 ner, when the republican spirit in Scotland, 
 rose to licentious excess, the addresses of 
 many republican preachers, even to the Su- 
 preme Being, exhibited gross familiarity, and 
 unbecoming confidence. These excesses are 
 very different from the trembling terror of 
 the poor enslaved worshipper of St. Alex- 
 ander Newsky, who crosses himself when 
 he comes within sight of the lofty edifice 
 consecrated to the worship of the warlike 
 saint; enters his temple with hesitation, or 
 silent awe ; and in the servility of his pros- 
 tration before the magnificent silver shrine, 
 
 Bb
 
 3/0 THF. CHARACTER 
 
 smites his bare head on the pavement ; and 
 utters no other expression, if he venture to 
 express himself, than a prayer consisting of 
 onlv two deprecatory words. The love of 
 truth, and the desire of knowledge, are na- 
 tural to all mankind : yet the vehement 
 and particular desires impelling men to ex- 
 plore the secrets of nature, and which beget 
 science, are only to be recognized in periods 
 of improvement. It was justly considered, 
 by our late intrepid, but ill-fated navigators 
 into the pacific Ocean, as a mark of the total 
 rudeness of some southern islanders, that 
 they discovered no sort of curiosity concern- 
 ing the European strangers that came among 
 them: and with no unbecoming indignation 
 they regarded those as savages, or scarcely 
 human, who did not gaze with respectful 
 wonder at the skill and dexterity of British 
 seamen. Perhaps if the spirit even of Cook 
 had been confined in the frame of a native 
 of Del Fuego, he would never have ven- 
 tured with his canoe, farther than Patagonia: 
 the soul of Newton in the body of a Che- 
 rokee, would have been perhaps, no other- 
 wise conspicuous, than by his superior ac-
 
 OF FLUELLEN. 371 
 
 cnracy in detecting tracks in the desert: and 
 Milton, excepting for his zeal in asserting- 
 the privileges of the community, might have 
 been but the best maker of dirges. 
 
 Now, all the diversities in human conduct, 
 occasioned by external causes ; all the vari- 
 eties in the mode of indulging the same pro- 
 pensity, or of exerting the same ability; 
 and all the force that particular desires or 
 faculties may derive from situation; together 
 with all the desires and faculties, that seem 
 to be indebted, for their active existence, to 
 situation, fall under the denomination of 
 manners. In general therefore, it is by 
 their manners, fully as much as by any 
 thing else, that men differ from one another; 
 and that we have all the amusing varieties of 
 professional, or of national characters. It 
 is thus that an Indian can have little fellow- 
 ship with an European : or a demure monk 
 with a sprightly soldier : yet they may have 
 been similar in their original constitution ; 
 and the monk, notwithstanding the severity 
 of his appearance, may, in the principles 
 of his nature, have been as little inclined as 
 the soldier, to the rigours of austere retir- 
 B b 2
 
 372 THE CHARACTER 
 
 ment. Thus the meaning of the term man- 
 ners seems abundantly manifest. Manners 
 differ from passions, and faculties, and other 
 inherent constitutional powers of intellect 
 and sensibility, because these are not in- 
 debted for the ii existence, though they may 
 be indebted, for considerable degrees of vi- 
 gour, to external condition. The term de- 
 notes something more particular than habit 
 and character, because these may be the 
 result of every active principle, whether 
 influenced, or uninfluenced by outward cir- 
 cumstance. Tenor of conduct and deport- 
 ment, in like manner, being the display of 
 character, and flowing from every principle 
 of action whatsoever, convey a meaning in 
 the words denoting them, more extensive 
 thin that of manners. Customs again, are 
 more particular, and may be included in 
 the word manners, as a general term : for 
 a custom signifies the particular mode of 
 acting, in consequence of situation, so fre- 
 quently repeated, as that it comes to be re- 
 gularly expected, and that its failure may 
 occasion surprize, disapprobation, or some- 
 times blame. Cicero, in a work not profes-
 
 OF FLUELLEN. 373 
 
 sedly critical, but in one of his orations 
 against Rail us, gives the following excellent 
 description of manners ; to which the fore- 
 going observations, which happened to have 
 been written, before the passage was re- 
 marked, may serve as an illustration. " Non 
 " ingenerantur hominibus mores, tam a 
 " stirpe generis ac seminis, quam ex iis 
 " rebus, quae ab ipsa natura loci, et a vita 
 " consuetudine suppeditantur: quibus ali- 
 " mur et vivimus." 
 
 II. Having stated and illustrated tht 
 meaning of the term Manners in its critical 
 acceptation, I proceed to remark more par- 
 ticularly, that the fit delineation of man- 
 ners has contributed a great deal in all pe- 
 riods of literary improvement, to the suc- 
 cess of many writers eminently distinguished 
 for poetical or inventive ability. The man- 
 ners resulting from the effects of time, on 
 the human constitution, in the shifting pe- 
 riods of human life ; or from the effects of 
 those professional occupations and condi- 
 tions that diversify the conduct of mankind 
 in various states of society, or under dif-
 
 374 THE CHARACTER 
 
 ferent forms of government; the manners, 
 for example, of youth and of old age, of 
 freemen and of slaves, of soldiers and of 
 sailors, have, when happily represented, 
 rendered the serious delineations of human 
 nature very interesting, and those of the 
 comic writer, whether poet or novelist, very 
 humourous and entertaining. At present, 
 however, I would chiefly consider the imi- 
 tation of Safional Manners; and remark, 
 that representations of these, of Jews, for 
 example, of Negroes, and of Frenchmen ; 
 of Scotsmen, and of Irishmen; have, with 
 great success, employed the exertions of co- 
 temporary, or of modern ingenuity. 
 
 Such imitation is so much the more re- 
 markable, that when well executed, it seems 
 to be attended with no inconsiderable diffi- 
 culty. Even the direct statement and de- 
 scription of national character by historians, 
 and the writers of voyages and travels, re- 
 quire much caution and accuracy of dis- 
 tinction. The picture is not to be charged 
 with the colours and features which may be 
 common to all mankind, or to a number of 
 communities. Or, if these are to be pre-
 
 OF FLUELLEN. 375 
 
 sented, it is only as the ground on which 
 the appropriate and distinguishing proper- 
 ties are superinduced. Nor is it possible, 
 nor would it be expedient, to give a descrip- 
 tion of every individual. Those qualities 
 only which characterize and diversify the 
 subordinate species from the general class 
 and order, are to be exhibited in the fullest 
 light : and those peculiar circumstances and 
 attributes, those forms and tints that dis- 
 tinguish individuals, are to be no less care- 
 fully omitted. The writers, for example, 
 who have given the best account of the ex- 
 ternal appearance exhibited by the Goths 
 and Romans, considered as different nations 
 and races of men, have not thought it ne- 
 cessary to say, that the shape of both was 
 human, nor to describe every particular 
 Alaric or Marcus : but have told us, that 
 the Goths were tall, ruddy, with fair hair, 
 with blue, or grey eyes ; and that the Ro- 
 mans, forming as it were a contrast, were 
 not tall, exhibited black hair, and dark com- 
 plexions ; " nigris oculis nigroque capillo." 
 A similar procedure ought also to take place 
 in describing their minds, or internal struc-
 
 376 THE CHARACTER 
 
 ture. Such descriptions, however, much 
 more than that of the outward appearance, 
 require correct and even minute observa- 
 tion, powers of acute discrimination, and a 
 judgment not only sound, but unbiassed. 
 Attention must be paid even to external si- 
 tuation. The soil and climate of the coun- 
 try occupied by the people to be described, 
 must be duly considered. Their relative 
 situation with regard to other countries, or 
 different districts of the same country, must 
 be taken into the account. It is likewise ne- 
 cessary to contemplate their form of govern- 
 ment; and not only so, but the particular 
 administration of that government under 
 which they live. An estimate is then to 
 be made of the tendency which these relative 
 circumstances and situations may display, in 
 restraining or in promoting, or in any hovr 
 modifying, those general powers and dispo- 
 sitions, which the natives, in common with 
 the rest of mankind, maybe observed to pos- 
 sess. It need scarcely be added, that these 
 remarks apply peculiarly, as was hinted 
 above, to the chief part of the description ; 
 not merely to corporeal differences ; or to
 
 OF FLUELLEN. 377 
 
 differences alone in language, and the arti- 
 culation of vocal sounds, though these must 
 necessarily claim attention; but especially 
 to the powers and affections of the human 
 mind, the diversities of intellect and sensi- 
 bility. If these things be difficult to the 
 philosopher who would ascertain, or the his- 
 torian who would describe, it cannot be 
 more easy for the poet who would express, 
 delineate, and represent those peculiar ef- 
 fects and modified appearances of internal 
 principles, which characterize and distin- 
 guish from the members of other communi- 
 ties, not an individual, but the aggregate of 
 all the individuals that belong to one race 
 or community, or that inhabit one particular 
 region. Nevertheless, though attentive ob- 
 servation, together with sagacity in compa- 
 rison, and accuracy of discernment, ^seem 
 to have been previously necessary, yet when 
 the representation is well executed, it ap- 
 pears so remote from the labour of study, 
 so obvious, and so easy, as to have been the 
 result of an immediate perception. In ex- 
 pressing, for example, any of the passions 
 and affections of the human race, it is not
 
 378 THE CHABACTER 
 
 previously necessary, that the poet, with 
 analytical investigation, should have ex- 
 amined the fabric of the human heart ; yet 
 observing the external habit, the display, in 
 other words, of internal principles in their 
 external acts, or outward efflorescence ; he 
 arrests and seizes upon these, and shews 
 them in distinct resemblance. So also the 
 poet who would pourtray a picture of man- 
 ners, has no occasion, with metaphysical 
 precision, to trace their origin, or mark 
 their diversities ; but inheriting a tendency 
 to fit observation, his natural sensibility re- 
 ceives a lively impression, and his power 
 of imagination, or fancy, form a correspond- 
 ing and animated imitation. How necessary 
 soever philosophical investigation may be for 
 the critic, Who would determine the nature and 
 merit of such representation, the knowledge 
 of his subject which the poet seems to have 
 attained, appears to have been immediately 
 imparted by a rapid and penetrating intui- 
 tion. No illustration of this subject seems 
 to me more satisfactory than that afforded 
 us by Shakespeare, indeed on several occa- 
 sions, but particularly in his view of Welch
 
 OF FLUELLEN. 379 
 
 manners, in the character of Fluellen. I 
 proceed therefore to state this illustration in 
 a few of its striking circumstances. 
 
 III. Difference of language and dialect, 
 or lather, the imperfection, the mistakes 
 and inaccuracies that occur in the diction or 
 phraseology employed by the personified 
 national character, contribute very consi- 
 derably, in some humourous and comic per- 
 formances, to the ludicrous, or ridiculous 
 effect. The broken English, and native 
 idioms, intermingled in the conversation of 
 foreigners, attempting, when not fully in- 
 structed, to speak in the language of Bri- 
 tain, afford, when happily imitated, a good 
 deal of amusement. Shakespeare accord- 
 ingly, derives considerable assistance, in his 
 humourous imitations, not only from the 
 French idioms and pronunciation of Dr. 
 Caius, or the broad Scotch and fiat intona- 
 tion of Captain Jamy, but from the Welchi- 
 fied English of Captain Fluellen. This, 
 however, in the dramatic, or even comic 
 representation of national character, is not 
 the sole or chief source of our entertain-
 
 380 THE CHARACTER 
 
 ment. The poet must enter into the speak- 
 er's mind; and must identify his character 
 with the original, by expressing such senti- 
 ments, and exhibiting such behaviour, as 
 proceed from principles and dispositions, 
 which external circumstances have diversi- 
 fied ; and to the display of which, they may 
 have annexed a very striking, or singular 
 modification. This requires, on the present 
 occasion, to be particularly elucidated. 
 
 1. As Wales is a much smaller country, 
 and in all properties of civilization, less im- 
 proved than England, this certainly was not 
 less so, in the reign of King Henry the 
 Fifth. A good deal insulated even at pre- 
 sent, by seas, rivers, actuaries, and moun- 
 tains, difference of language, and of lineage, 
 when Henry reigned, and difference also in 
 the administration of government, must have 
 occasioned still greater separation, and have 
 lessened all intercourse between the Cam- 
 brians and their .Saxon and Norman neigh- 
 bours. As the employments of the Welch, 
 in consequence of all these peculiarities 
 were few, and their amusements not very 
 nunferous, their attachment to their country
 
 OF FLUELLEN. 381 
 
 was consequently very strong and tenacious. 
 Fluellen is therefore, almost vain of being a 
 Welchman ; and is particularly delighted to 
 think that King Henry had been born in 
 Monmouth. 
 
 O 'tis a gallant king ! 
 Aye, lie was born in Monmouth, Captain Gower. 
 
 2. As the Welch, when independent, 
 were not always, or rather, were very seldom 
 united under ona government, they were 
 engaged in frequent hostility, both with 
 their eastern neighbours, and among them- 
 selves. Thus very often employed in war- 
 fare, they were under the necessity of ex- 
 ercisino- and cultivating the warlike virtues ; 
 and were therefore valiant, resolute, and 
 intrepid. Fluellen, accordingly, behaves 
 with Great courage, at the sie<j:e of Barfleur: 
 and by those who know his character, is so 
 esteemed. " I have seen you," says Cap- 
 tain Gower to one on whom Fluellen had 
 bestowed some proper chastisement, " I have 
 ' ; seen you gleeking and galling at this gen- 
 " tleman twice or thrice. You thought, be- 
 " cause he could not speak English ae the
 
 382 THE CHARACTER 
 
 11 native garb, he could not therefore han- 
 11 die an English cudgel : you find it other- 
 " wise ; and henceforth, let a Welch correc- 
 " tion teach you a good English condition." 
 3. The hostility in which the Welch were 
 often engaged with their more powerful 
 neighbours, was that of defence. But the 
 defenders in such circumstances, conceiving 
 themselves injured, are more violently ex- 
 asperated against their aggressors, and are 
 therefore thrown into a state of keener ir- 
 ritation. If this irritation be frequent, it 
 becomes habitual, and forms a corresponding 
 temper; so that its subject is not only liable 
 to frequent anger, but becomes character- 
 istically irritable. This is still more the 
 case, in a state of intestine or domestic ani- 
 mosity ; for then, as among equals, the in- 
 juries and resentments are mutual. The 
 Welch also, inferior to the English, and 
 perhaps conscious of it ; yet unwilling to be 
 thought so, or to make the acknowledgment, 
 were fearful of allowing any appearance, or 
 of submitting to any treatment, that might 
 argue their inferiority. Inexperienced also, 
 and unacquainted with the world, as it is
 
 OF FLUELLEN. 383 
 
 called, they knew not exactly what things 
 were to be resented, and what disregarded ; 
 smd thus apt to construe unfavourably what 
 might have proceeded from no evil intention, 
 they became somewhat jealous, and inclined 
 to resent, not only real, but imaginary in- 
 sult. Swift says, that " a cleanly person is 
 one of nasty ideas ;" so also some irritable 
 persons are either conscious of being weak, 
 or suspicious of being thought so. Irrita- 
 bility therefore, constituted an ingredient in 
 the Welch national character, as well as in 
 that perhaps of some other Celtic nations ; 
 and Captain Fluellen, attached to Wales, 
 and very valiant, is also irascible. 
 
 For I do know Fluellen valiant, 
 And touch'd with choler, hot as gun-powder, 
 And quickly he'll return an injury. 
 
 He wears a leek on St. David's day; and 
 makes Pistol, who is represented as a blus- 
 tering and pompous coward, and who had 
 laughed at him for his leek, after beating; 
 him, swallow it. 
 
 Pistol. Base Trojan, thou shalt die. 
 
 Fluellen. You say very true, sealed knave, when
 
 384 THE CHARACTER 
 
 God's will is. I will desire you to live in the mean time, 
 andcatyour victuals. Come, there is sauce for it. (Beat- 
 ing him again.) You called me yesterday Mountain 
 Squire, but I will make you, to-day, a squire of low de- 
 gree. I pray you, fall to ; (beating him ugain) if you 
 can mock a leek, you can eat a leek. 
 
 4. Inexperienced, and not acquainted 
 with the dissimulation, which unfortunately 
 is too often the concomitant of an improved 
 state of society, persons such as we now de- 
 scribe, are not inclined to value themselves 
 for any other merit than they possess, or to 
 require any higher consideration than they 
 deserve. Truly honourable; assuming no 
 haughty, arrogant, or consequential deport- 
 ment to disguise insignificance, they trans- 
 fer their own ingenuousness to other persons; 
 they think that all men are like themselves; 
 and where they see pretensions to merit, they 
 believe them genuine; and where a claim is 
 made on their admiration, they readily ac- 
 quic Thus their honest candour be- 
 
 trays them into a faulty simplicity ; and 
 to a credulity so easily imposed upon, as to 
 render them sometimes ridiculous. PistoJ, 
 who conceals his demerits under pompous
 
 OF FLUELLEN. 385 
 
 and loud pretensions, makes a parade of 
 his valour; and Fluellen, giving him full 
 credit for his assumed importance, believes 
 him, till he learns the contrary, to be really 
 valiant. 
 
 Fluellen. There is an antient Lieutenant there: I 
 think in my conscience he is as valiant a man as Mark 
 Antony, &c. 
 
 Gozser. What is he called? 
 
 Fluellen. He is called antient Pistol. 
 
 Gower. Why this is an arrant counterfeit rascal : I re- 
 member him now : a cut-purse. 
 
 Fluellen. I'll assure you now, he uttered as prave 
 words at the pridge as you shall see in a summer's day. 
 
 5. But though not boastful or vain-glo- 
 rious, persons like Fluellen may occasionally 
 take credit, and value themselves for such 
 improvement as they have been desirous, 
 and studious of obtaining. Strongly im- 
 pressed with the difference between the lite- 
 rate and illiterate, as soon as they are sen- 
 sible of inferiority, and feel their mind open- 
 ing with the love of learning and knowledge, 
 they endeavour to remedy their defect, and 
 make proficiency in their pursuit. Delight- 
 ed with what they acquire, pleased with the 
 c c
 
 336 TH CHARACTER 
 
 novelty of their new possession, and elated 
 with early success, they conceive it greater 
 than can be warranted by their actual pro- 
 gress, and are forward in its display. In 
 perfect honesty, and without any desire of 
 imposing upon others a higher opinion of 
 their merit than they deserve, they assume 
 a degree of consequence suited to their con- 
 scious acquirement ; and shew a desire of 
 impressing those whom they eonceive infe- 
 rior to themselves, with a sense of their 
 high attainments. Fluellen displays his ac- 
 quaintance with antient history, and the mili- 
 tary discipline of the Romans, so as to be- 
 come almost pedantic: and ostentatious not 
 only of his knowledge, hut of his eloquence, 
 he urges a conversation on a literary subject 
 with a person whom he knows to be illite- 
 rate : M Captain Macmorris, I peseech you 
 " now, will you vouchsafe me, look you. 
 " a few disputations with you, as partly 
 " touching, or concerning the disciplines 
 of the war, the Roman wars, in the way 
 ' of argument, look you, and friendly com- 
 il munication," ice. 
 
 6. Were Fluellcns display of learning
 
 OF FLUELLEN. 387 
 
 with the intention of obtaining deference at 
 any rate, merited or unmerited ; and more 
 from the ambition of being distinguished 
 than from the desire of being worthy of dis- 
 tinction ; prompted by disingenuous vanity, 
 or even spleen, we should find him unwilling 
 to acknowledge the good desert of others, 
 and inclined of course to detraction. Yet 
 this is so far from being the case, that with 
 spontaneous earnestness, he recognizes in 
 another, the excellence which he esteems, 
 and extols him as an eminent proficient in 
 those endowments and that sort of know- 
 ledge for which he conceives himself entitled 
 to particular respect. 
 
 Gouer. The Duke of Glo'ster, to whom the order of 
 the siege is given, is altogether directed by an Irishman ; 
 a very valiant Gentleman i'faith. 
 
 Fluellen. It is Captain Macmorris, is it not? 
 
 Gouer. I think it be. 
 
 Fluellen. By Chesu he is an ass, as in the 'orld ; I 
 will verify as much in his peard : he has no more direc- 
 tions in the true disciplines of the wars, look you, of the 
 Roman disciplines, than is a puppy-dog. 
 
 Gower. Here a comes : and the Scots Captain, Cap- 
 lain Jamy wiih him. 
 
 Fluellen. Captain Jamy is a marvellous falorous gen- 
 c c 2
 
 388 THE CHARACTER 
 
 tletnan, that is certain ; and of great expedition, and 
 know ledge in the antient wars, upon my particular know- 
 ledge of his directions: by Chesus he will maintain his 
 argument as well as any military man in the 'orld, in the 
 disciplines of the pristine wars of the Romans. 
 
 7. Yet the learning which Fluellen wishes 
 to display, as in a country where literature 
 is imperfectly cultivated, appears defective 
 and incorrect. The good discipline of a 
 Roman army was to be sought for, not in 
 the camp of Pompey, but in that of Caesar ; 
 yet Fluellen tells us, " If you would take 
 " the pains but to examine the wars of Pom- 
 'f pey the great, you shall find, I warrant 
 44 you, that there is no tiddle taddle, nor 
 " pibble pabble in Pompey's camp. I war- 
 *' rant you, you shall find the ceremonies 
 " of the wars, and the cares of it, and the 
 44 forms of it, and the sobriety of it, and 
 44 the modesty of it, to be otherwise." Nor 
 in giving examples of distinguished heroism 
 should we chiefly select either Mark An- 
 tony or Agamemnon. In like manner, his 
 phraseology is not only incorrect in pro- 
 nunciation, but in the application of terms, 
 and accumulation, as in some of the pre-
 
 OF FLUELLEN. 38$ 
 
 ceding passages, of synonimous words. Not 
 fully assured of his own precision, he enter- 
 tains some latent apprehension, that he may 
 not appear to others, sufficiently distinct or 
 accurate. He therefore expatiates, and be- 
 comes unnecessarily verbose. This, how- 
 ever, may appear to him, no other than the 
 gift of fluency; he is surprized almost at 
 his own endowment ; he over-rates it ; so 
 that in his inexperienced judgment, multi- 
 tude of words seems to constitute eloquence; 
 and he indulges in their redundancy. Of 
 this sort is the elocution of many a prolix 
 and unwearied speaker. 
 
 8. It was remarked, that Flueilen was ir- 
 ritable. This quality intimates sensibility, 
 or that inherent state of mind which is easily 
 moved or excited ; and which was produced, 
 or very much promoted by that situation, 
 and those circumstances which affected his 
 early life. As on occasions of displeasure, 
 it rendered him habitually irascible ; so in 
 cases of good-will and complacency, it ren- 
 ders his satisfaction and kindnesses unneces- 
 sarily sudden, and excessive. He had been 
 somewhat afraid that King Henry might not
 
 390 THE CHARACTER 
 
 duly estimate his Welch nativity; and find- 
 ing his wishes on this subject completely 
 gratified, his exultation bearing no propor- 
 tion to its occasion, becomes ridiculous. 
 
 Fluellen. Your grand-father of famous memory, an't 
 please your Majesty, and your great uncle Edward the 
 plack Prince of Wales, as I have read in the chronicles, 
 fought a most prave battle here in France. 
 King. They did, Fluellen. 
 
 Fluellen. Your Majesty says very true : if your Majesty 
 is remembered of it, the Welchmcn did goot service in a 
 garden where leeks did grow, wearing leeks in their Mon- 
 mouth caps ; which your Majesty knows, to this hour is 
 an honourable padge of the service : and I do believe your 
 Majesty takes no scorn to wear the leek upon St. Davy's 
 day. 
 
 King. I wear it for a memorable honour: for I am 
 Welch you know, good countryman. 
 
 / i Uen. All the watci in the Wye cannot wash your 
 Majesty's Welsh plood out of your pody, I can tell you 
 that. Got pkss it, and preserve it, as long as it pleases 
 his grace, and his Majesty too ! 
 
 In his reconciliation with Williams after 
 a violent quarrel, he exhibits similar incon- 
 gruity: liis ivst iitmciil is instantly changed 
 into kindnes>: he misapprehends his own con- 
 sequence: he miscalculates the value of his
 
 OF FLUELLEN. $91 
 
 own remuneration ; and in the simplicity of 
 his affection, he renders his good-will ridi- 
 culous. He sees the king, while he giants 
 forgiveness, bestow a gratuity ; and thinks 
 that he also, while he forgives, must he 
 munificent. 
 
 Fluellen. By this day and this light, the fellow has 
 mettle enough in his pelly. Hold, there is twelve-pence 
 for you ; and I pray you to serve Got, and keep you out 
 of prawls, and prabbles, and quarrels, and dissentions, and 
 I warrant you, it is the better for you. 
 
 Williams. I will none of your money. 
 
 Fluellen. It. is with a goot will: I can tell you it will 
 serve you to mend your shoes : come, wherefore should 
 you be so pashful? your shoes is not so goot: it is a goot 
 silling I warrant you, or I will change it. 
 
 In most of the particulars by which 
 
 Shakespeare has illustrated the national cha- 
 racter of the Welch in the person of Fluel- 
 len, the representation is ludicrous or ridi- 
 culous : and in general, most of those 
 writers, who have distinguished themselves 
 in this department, have aimed at the same 
 effect. But persons appearing ridiculous, 
 or placed in ludicrous circumstances, are 
 usually reckoned of inferior merit, and are
 
 392 THE CHARACTER 
 
 treated with disregard. Here, however, we 
 have to remark in Shakespeare, a nice, and 
 almost a humane distinction. Though Fluel- 
 len amuses us so as to excite laughter at the 
 simplicity, and sometimes absurdity of his 
 inexperience, yet he is not to be despised. 
 Valiant and considerate, he is a person of 
 amiable and unequivocal virtue. The true 
 light in which he is to be viewed is sug- 
 gested by the description given of him by 
 the king: for it is to be remarked, as we 
 find exemplified in Timon of Athens, 
 though not usually observed, that Shake- 
 speare, when he thinks that any doubt may 
 arise concerning his intentions respecting 
 the character he delineates, expresses his 
 purpose clearly and unambiguously, though 
 indirectly, in words delivered by some of 
 the other speakers in the drama. Apeman- 
 tus gives the character of Timon; and King 
 Henry intimates to us, that though we may 
 be diverted with Fluellen, we are not to 
 mistake or undervalue his merits. He de- 
 scribes him as not only valiant, but as pos- 
 sessed of such good sense and intelligence, 
 as dictate suitable consideration: for so in
 
 OF FLUELLEN. 393 
 
 the passage, we are to understand the word 
 care. 
 
 Tho' it appear a little out of fashion, 
 
 There is much care, and valour in this Welchman. 
 
 The distinction now mentioned is so 
 much the more remarkable, that it is seldom 
 observed by inferior writers ; for with them, 
 and in general with ignorant persons, every 
 thing that we laughed at is to be accounted 
 despicable or even unworthy. It is only 
 with writers of superior genius, that we have 
 such judicious discrimination as we find il- 
 lustrated in the Fluellen of Shakespeare; in 
 the Jew, and Colin Macleod, of Cumber- 
 land. The representation of national man- 
 ners in this, and indeed in most instances, 
 is comic. Yet upon some occasions, it is 
 serious, or with a good intermixture of 
 seriousness. 
 
 When the view is intended to be serious, 
 and to produce those grave emotions that are 
 connected with compassion and indignation, 
 the diction corresponds ; so that we have no 
 such faulty pronunciation, foreign idiom, 
 or misapplication of terms, as would excite
 
 394 THE CHARACTER 
 
 ridicule. This is illustrated in the character 
 of Shylock ; and also in Othello, if Othello 
 be intended to represent not only the colour, 
 but the constitution and manners of an 
 African. 
 
 As no example of the dramatic or poeti- 
 cal representation of national manners is 
 more happily executed than that of Fluellen, 
 I would ask, whether any such ample illus- 
 tration occurs in any work, or in any lan- 
 guage, prior to that of Shakespeare ? Is 
 any thing of the same kind to be met with in 
 the lan^ua^es of Greece or of Rome? It 
 is bold to assert, as it is difficult to prove, a 
 negative; yet I know not that any such de- 
 lineation is exemplified by Aristophanes, 
 Luci n, Plautns, Terence, Horace, or any 
 other humouious and witty poet, or writer in 
 antient times. Vet the peculiarities of the 
 Boeotian, Spartan, Ionian, and Kgvptian 
 characters, might have afforded exercise, at 
 least to Athenian invention, and as much 
 amusement to an Athenian audience, as the 
 
 ludicrous imitation of a philosopher. 
 
 Though a Lacedemonian appears in one of 
 Aristophanes' comedies, I have not been able
 
 OF FLLKLLEN. S ( J5 
 
 to discern any thing so peculiar in his man- 
 ners, as to convince me, that his national 
 character was intended to be displayed. He 
 is exhibited indeed, as delivering himself 
 with great coarseness both of thought and ex- 
 pression ; but this is not represented as more 
 appropriate to him, than to other characters 
 in the performance. Still further, he is 
 presented, towards the end of the play, in 
 a view so different from what we conceive of 
 Spartan manners, or perhaps, with such vio- 
 lation of Spartan manners, as to satisfy us 
 fully, that no representation of national 
 character, otherwise than by a slight differ- 
 ence of dialect, was really intended. For 
 this Lacedaemonian envoy, departing so far, 
 not only from diplomatic reserve, but from 
 Laconic conciseness or cui tness of expres- 
 sion, indulges in poetical declamation, though 
 poetry was never accounted a Lacedaemonian 
 accomplishment, and panegyrizes the mili- 
 tary exploits, not only of Leonidas, but of 
 the Athenians. In due form he invokes 
 Mnemosyne to instruct his muse in the 
 deeds of those illustrious warriors who re- 
 sisted the Persians, whom he states, with
 
 396 THE CHARACTER 
 
 even Athenian exaggeration, to have been 
 " no less numerous than the sand." Then, 
 meaning to assure the rulers of Athens, that 
 the intention of Sparta to abide by the con- 
 ditions of a treaty then concluded between 
 them, was altogether sincere ; he admits in 
 his countrymen, the existence of an evil qua- 
 lity of which even their adversaries were 
 not wont to accuse them, and promises that 
 they will, henceforward* " refrain from 
 " vulpine craftiness." It may likewise be 
 remarked, that in this particular passage, 
 which seems not only to be very serious, but 
 very solemn, the difference of dialect is as 
 much preserved as in other parts of the di- 
 alogue; yet this would not probably have 
 been the case, if by assuming the Lacouian 
 mode of expression, there had been any in- 
 tention of giving a ludicrous representation 
 of Lacedaemonian manners : for if any na- 
 tional character was to be exhibited by pe- 
 culiarity of speech or of pronunciation, the 
 representation must of course have been lu- 
 dicrous. In some other instances also, no 
 less than in the Lysistrata of Aristophanes, 
 
 * navtrauiG.
 
 OF FLUELLEN. 397 
 
 it is apprehended that Boeotians and others 
 deliver themselves in the dialects that belong 
 to their particular districts. But mere dif- 
 ference of dialect or pronunciation does not 
 amount to the complete delineation of na- 
 tional character : and though a Boeotian 
 might say 0|3a* instead of Onpi ; and a na- 
 tive of Megara shorten the first syllable 
 of Ouw, which an Athenian would have 
 lengthened; it only at the utmost shews a 
 tendency in a Greek poet of great original 
 genius, especially in the departments of wit 
 and humour,towards an invention, which pro- 
 bably, without any knowledge of what had 
 been done by him, was carried to its highest 
 limit by an English poet of at least equal 
 
 pretensions in the same departments. In 
 
 one of the comedies also of Plautus, we 
 have a soliloquy, as is apprehended, in the 
 Carthagenian language ; yet this is accompa- 
 nied, in the conduct or sentiments of the 
 speaker, with no feature, so far as it can be 
 known, of national character : nor does it 
 seem to have been intended as humourous, 
 
 Aristoph. Brunk. tora iii. p. 91. Not: in Acharnenscs.
 
 398 THE CHARACTER 
 
 since it exhibits no such mixture of any other 
 language as might tend to excite laughter. 
 At any rate, the difference of language alone, 
 does not constitute difference of national 
 character : nor does the mere imitation of 
 an irregular or idiomatic dialect constitute 
 the chief or sole merit in the representation 
 of National Manners. 
 
 Coming to modern times, we find no 
 imitation of national or provincial manners 
 prior to the age of Shakespeare in any of the 
 modern languages ; for the Gascons of the 
 French theatre belong to a later period. If 
 any such attempt was ever made by an Eng- 
 lish writer before that time, it must have been 
 executed in such a manner as to have 
 claimed but a cursory notice. * Whatsoever, 
 therefore, may be the merit of such repre- 
 sentations, ami bow nuu li soever we may be 
 indebted for the amusement or interest aris- 
 ing from the dramatic exhibition of national 
 characters, we may attribute the invention to 
 the great poet of Human Nature ; and ac- 
 knowledge Shakespeare as the real and com- 
 
 * Malonc's Shakespeare, Merry Wives of Windsor.
 
 OF FLU ELLEN. 599 
 
 plete Inventor of the dramatic, and par- 
 ticularly of the humourous imitation of Na- 
 tional Manners. 
 
 P. S. It may perhaps be objected to a pre- 
 vious part of this essay, that considering the 
 manners of Fluellen as representative of 
 Weloh manners, it does not appear how 
 such love of literature, and how such imper- 
 fect attainment of it, yet such self-esteem on 
 account of it, as appear in him, could have 
 constituted at that time any part of the na- 
 tional manners of the Welch. The statement 
 of this circumstance therefore requires to be 
 explained, or to be rendered somewhat more 
 
 general. An inferior nation, in contact 
 
 with, that is to say, not only adjoining to, 
 but connected with, and almost subject to, a 
 greater nation; seeing the superior improve- 
 ments of their powerful friend or neighbour, 
 become desirous of excelling; in the same 
 pursuits, if they are not too high for them ; 
 and though they should not immediately at- 
 tain the height towards which they aspire, 
 and though their proficiency should not 
 have been so great as they apprehend, they
 
 400 THE CHARACTER, fcc. 
 
 value themselves for what they may, or fancy 
 they may have gained. If therefore the dis- 
 tinction be in literature, they will attempt to 
 become literary ; and their self-complacency 
 in the attainments they may enjoy, may be 
 somewhat ostentatious. But did literature 
 so distinguish the English in the reign of 
 Henry V. as to excite emulation among their 
 neighbours ? Perhaps not : but literature, and 
 the love of learning very much distinguish- 
 ed the age of Elizabeth ; and might have 
 produced the corresponding effect on the 
 Welch. Shakespeare therefore, by an ana- 
 cronism not inexcusable, and not unwar- 
 ranted by a similar Conduct in other poets, 
 particularly in comedy, represents, by means 
 of Fluellen, a feature in Welch manners 
 more peculiar to them in the reign of Eliza- 
 beth than in that of Henry.
 
 ESSAY XII. 
 
 ON THE FAULTS OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 THE Commentators on Shakespeare have 
 been accused of blind admiration. They 
 are charged with over-rating his merits ; 
 and of regarding his faults with excessive 
 indulgence. Only the last part of the 
 charge has a foundation in justice. His 
 merits have never been over-rated. The 
 ardours of poetical fancy, the energies of 
 strong expression, and unrivalled skill in 
 delineating human nature, belong to him 
 in a degree so conspicuous, as to justify 
 the warmest applauses, and even to excuse, 
 in some measure, the indulgence shewn 
 him for his transgressions. Yet his trans- 
 gressions are great : nor have they passed 
 altogether unnoticed. Foreign critics have 
 Dd
 
 402 ON THE FAULTS 
 
 assailed him with virulence, and have load- 
 ed his faults with the aggravations of na- 
 tional prejudice. Even in Britain, the 
 praise of Shakespeare is often mingled with 
 lamentations for his offences. His inatten- 
 tion to the laws of unity, to say nothing of 
 his deviations from geographical and histo- 
 rical truth his rude mixture of tragic and 
 comic scenes; together with the vulgarity, 
 and even indecency of language, admitted 
 too often into his dialogue, have exposed 
 him to frequent censure. To censure him 
 for his faults is proper ; it is even necessary; 
 it hinders blind admiration from tainting 
 the public taste; for offences against taste 
 arc more dangerous in men of genius, than 
 in other persons; and the undistinguishing 
 praises so profusely bestowed on Shake- 
 speare, have eontributed a good deal to retard 
 our improvement in dramatieal writings 
 
 Is it then possible, that a man of genius, 
 rmiiKiitly conspicuous in one of the highest 
 departments of elegant composition, can 
 trespass against taste; and contribute, even 
 in fine writing, to pervert the judgment? 
 Or is it likely that taste and genius should
 
 OF SHAKESPEARE. 403 
 
 depend upon different principles? They 
 are, no doubt, of the same family ; yet they 
 are not so closely related, as that they may 
 not be found apart. Many men, without 
 possessing a single ray of invention, can dis- 
 cern what is excellent in fine writing, and 
 even feel its effects. But is it probable, that 
 men of ardent fancy, of active invention, en- 
 dowed with talents for various expression, 
 and every power of poetical execution, should 
 be incapable, even in their own department, 
 of perceiving, or feeling, what is fair or sub- 
 lime? Shall the spectator be ravished with 
 unspeakable transport; and shall the breast 
 of him who communicates rapture be dark 
 or joyless ? Such assertion is certainly 
 bold; and though it seems implied in the 
 charge against Shakespeare, it must be heard 
 with restriction. 
 
 As every work that belongs to the ima- 
 gination, all the performances of the poet, 
 the painter, or statuary, consist of parts, the 
 pleasure we receive from them is the effect 
 of those parts acting in proper union. The 
 general delightful influence of such combi- 
 nations may be strongly felt, without our 
 d d 2
 
 404 ON THE FAULTS 
 
 being able to distinguish their component 
 members, whether of larger or of less di- 
 mension ; or the nature of the relation sub- 
 sisting between them. Many tears have 
 been shed for the sufferings of Jane Shore 
 and Calista ; yet the persons who have shed 
 them may not have known by what art 
 they were moved. We may also observe, 
 that the variety, the arrangement, the pro- 
 portions, and mutual relations of those parts, 
 which, united in a fine performance, afford 
 us supreme delight, may be seen and distin- 
 guished by persons, who, from insensibility 
 natural or acquired, are incapable of feeling 
 their influence, or of perceiving them with 
 exquisite pleasure. The accomplished critic 
 must both feel what is excellent, and dis- 
 cern its nature. Yet, there are critics who 
 discern, and never seem to have felt. But, 
 besides feeling and discernment, a certain 
 portion of knowledge is indispensably requi- 
 site ; for offences against historical, or ob- 
 vious philosophical truths, either in those 
 that perform a work, or in those that judge 
 of a performance, cannot fail of exciting 
 disgust. Thus, consummate taste requires
 
 OF SHAKESPEARE. 405 
 
 that we be capable of feeling what is excel- 
 lent; that we be capable, in some measure, 
 of discerning the parts, and correspondence 
 of parts, which, in works of invention, oc- 
 casion excellence ; and that we have compe- 
 tent knowledge in those things which are the 
 subjects of an artist's labour. 
 
 Now, every man of poetic invention 
 must receive exquisite pleasure in contem- 
 plating the great and the beautiful, both of 
 art and of nature. He possesses taste, so 
 far as it depends upon feeling; and so far 
 as a familiar acquaintance with beauty 
 confers improvement, his taste will improve. 
 But he may want discernment: for though 
 the powers of discernment are bestowed by 
 nature, yet their perfection depends upon 
 culture. He may not perceive proportion 
 or union of parts in those things that give 
 him pleasure; he may be totally ignorant 
 of every fact concerning them, except of 
 their direct or immediate impression ; and 
 thus, if taste depend upon intellectual im- 
 provement, his taste is imperfect. He may 
 weep for the death of Lausus, as related by 
 Virgil, without observing that the skill of
 
 406 ON THE FAULTS 
 
 the poet, in selecting and arranging those 
 images that excite kindred emotions, is the 
 magic power that affects him. He may be 
 moved with an interesting story of a Bohe- 
 mian Princess, though ignorant that no such 
 Princess existed, or that Bohemia is not, 
 according to Shakespeare's representation, 
 a maritime country. Thus, with matchless 
 pathetic abilities, with uncommon ardour 
 of fancy, and force of expression, he may 
 delineate the sufferings of kings and of 
 princes ; but by mistaking historical facts, 
 and still more, by blending incongruous emo- 
 tions, he may excite such disgust as shall di- 
 minish the pleasure he would otherwise have 
 given us; and occasion our regret, that his 
 knowledge had not been more extensive, or 
 his critical discernment more improved. 
 
 But will not his feelings preserve him 
 from error? Will not their immediate and 
 lively interposition irradiate his mind, and 
 give him a clearer view of the justness and 
 truth of things, than he can receive from 
 metaphysical reasoning or dry disquisition ? 
 Surely no feelings can communicate the 
 knowledge of facts: and though sensibilifv
 
 OF SHAKESPEARE. 407 
 
 of soul may dispose the mind to a readier 
 discernment of relation and connection, in 
 the objects of our attention, yet it is not 
 by sensibility alone that we are capable of 
 discerning. But allowing it to be so ; al- 
 lowing that there may be some spirits so 
 finely framed, that, with powers of active 
 invention, they can, independent of cool 
 disquisition, and without enquiring after 
 union and relation of parts, feel by imme- 
 diate impulse, every effect of the most ex- 
 quisite arrangement ; and be able by at- 
 tending to the degrees of pleasure they re- 
 ceive, to ascertain the precise proportion, 
 the abundance, or defect of excellence, in a 
 work : admitting the possibility of such 
 endowment, he who is thus highly distin- 
 guished, is not, by means of this constitution, 
 exempt from error ; he is not placed beyond 
 the risk of misjudging, nor rendered inca- 
 pable of feeling amiss. He cannot be sure 
 of his feelings. They are of a shifting and 
 versatile nature. They depend on the pre 
 sent humour, or state of mind ; and who 
 can say of the present humour, that it will 
 last for a moment ? Who can assure us, espe-
 
 408 ON THE FAULTS 
 
 cially if we aspire at the honour of extreme 
 sensibility and exquisite nerves, that our pre- 
 sent mood shall not be totally different from 
 that which shall follow ? If so, the colours 
 and attitudes of things will seem totalh 
 changed : we shall feel very different cmo- 
 tions, and entertain very opposite sentiments. 
 Could the man of genius depend on his 
 feelings : could he assure himself that no 
 contrary motions would oppose the natural 
 tendencies of a delicate spirit ; or, in particu- 
 lar, that the influence of fashion would never 
 efface from his heart the true impressions 
 of beauty ; or that the authority of maxims, 
 specious or ill explained, would never per- 
 vert the operations of fancy ; he might pro- 
 ceed with impetuous career ; and, guided by 
 the pleasing irradiations of feeling, he might 
 scorn the toil of that minute attention by 
 which alone he mi:ht gain discernment. 
 Were there no adverse currents, strong, but 
 of silent progress; no shifting gales to drive 
 him out of his course, or no clouds to obscure 
 the face of the sky. he might give full scope 
 to his sails, and, observing no other direction 
 than the beams of some bright constclla
 
 OF SHAKESPEARE. 409 
 
 tion, he might proceed on a prosperous 
 voyage, and land at length on some blissful 
 island. But he has to encounter opposing 
 currents, to contend with impetuous tem- 
 pests ; his guiding star may be obscured by 
 a cloud, and his burnished vessel may be 
 dashed upon rocks, or shipwrecked on dan- 
 gerous sands. 
 
 The man of true taste must not only be 
 capable of feeling, but of judging. He must 
 ascertain his feelings, he must distinguish 
 those that are just and natural, from 
 those that are spurious. He must have 
 steady principles of judgment ; and estab- 
 lish a rule of belief to which his under- 
 standing may for ever appeal, and set at 
 defiance the effects of fleetino- emotion. We 
 are not always in the same state of mind ; 
 we are more susceptible at one time than 
 another: even the same appearance shall 
 at different moments affect us differently ; 
 and we shall be capable of relishing at one 
 time, what, in a less happy mood, would 
 have given us no sort of pleasure. Nay, 
 our sensibility may be, occasionally, not only 
 dull, but sickly ; and we may be apt to find 
 pleasure in those things, which, in them-
 
 410 ON THE FAULTS 
 
 selves, are neither wholesome nor innocent. 
 Add to this, that feelings of respect for cele- 
 brated characters may be as powerful in 
 our minds as those of beauty and harmony ; 
 or the authority of a favourite critic may 
 seduce us into erroneous opinions. Thus 
 it is manifest, that, trusting to feeling alone, 
 our judgments may be capricious, unsteady, 
 and inconsistent. 
 
 It is in morals as in criticism. Our 
 judgments, and our conduct, must be 
 established upon those maxims that may 
 have been suggested by feeling, but which 
 must derive their force and stability from 
 reason and deep reflection. We must have 
 certain rules to direct our deportnu nt, in 
 those moments of languor and dereliction, 
 when the heart feels not the present influ- 
 ence of compassion, tenderness, and such 
 amiable dispositions as produce excellent con- 
 duct. Those celestial visitants do not sojourn 
 continually in the human breast. Reason. 
 therefore, and reflection, ought topti>(iv< 
 such tokens and memorials of their pleasing 
 intercourse, as shall make us, in their ab- 
 sence, act in full confidence that they are 
 congenial with our nature, and will again
 
 OF SHAtESPE/VRE. 411 
 
 return. By this due recollection, they will 
 be induced to return ; and, perhaps, to 
 dwell in our breasts for ever. But, without 
 such resolutions ; without acting as if we 
 felt compassion and humanity, in. the hope 
 that we shall really feel them ; and without 
 rendering the sense of duty an established 
 principle of action, we shall, in moments of 
 feeble coldness, be not only feeble, but 
 selfish ; and not only cold, but inhuman. 
 Our reason will be of no other service, than 
 to assist or justify the perverse inclination ; 
 and a habit of callous insensibility may thus 
 be contracted. It is needless to pursue the 
 resemblance. It might easily be shewn, 
 that in the conduct of life, no less than in 
 our judgments concerning fine composition, 
 if we have no determined principles, inde- 
 pendent of present emotion, our deport- 
 ment will be capricious, unsteady, and in- 
 consistent *. 
 
 In particular, the man of mere sensibility, 
 who has not established to himself, either 
 in morals or in criticism, any rule of im- 
 mutable conduct, and who depends on feel- 
 See the Essay on Lear.
 
 412 ON THE FAULTS 
 
 ing alone for the propriety of his judgments, 
 may be misled by the application of those ge- 
 neral rules that direct the conduct of others. 
 His bosom is not always equally susceptible 
 of fine emotion; yet, under the necessity of 
 acting or of judging, and in a moment of 
 dreary dereliction, forsaken for a time by 
 those boasted feeling-, that are the guides of 
 his life, he will be apt to follow the fashion ; 
 or, apprehending that he is conducting 
 himself according to those well-established 
 principles that influence men of worth, he 
 will be apt to fall into error. This will be 
 particularly the case, should any maxim be 
 held forth as a rule of conduct, proceeding 
 upon rational views, and coinciding in gene- 
 ral with the prepossessions of sensibility; bat 
 which required to be attentively studied, 
 well understood, and admitted with due 
 extension, may nevertheless be expressed 
 in such general terms with so much brevitv, 
 and apparently of such easy comprehen- 
 sion, as that it is often adopted without 
 due extension, without being studied or 
 understood. Moreover, the warmest ad- 
 vocate for the powers of feeling will allow,
 
 OF SHAKESPEARE. 413 
 
 that they are often attended with distrust, 
 hesitation, and something like conscious 
 weakness. Hence it is that persons of mere 
 sensibility are ready to avail themselves of 
 any thing like a general maxim, which 
 falls in with their own inclinations; and 
 having no general maxim which is really 
 their own, ascertained and established by 
 their own experience and reflection, they 
 will be apt to embrace the dictates of others. 
 Thus even an excellent rule, ill understood, 
 will consequently be ill applied, and instead 
 of guiding men aright, will lead them into 
 the mazes of error. 
 
 I am inclined to believe, and shall now 
 endeavour to illustrate, that the greatest 
 blemishes in Shakespeare have proceeded 
 from his want of consummate taste. Having 
 no perfect discernment, proceeding from 
 rational investigation, of the true cause of 
 beauty in poetical composition, he had never 
 established in his mind any system of regu- 
 lar process, or any standard of dramatic ex- 
 cellence. He felt the powerful effects of 
 beauty; he wrote under the influence of 
 feeling ; but was apt to be misled by those
 
 414 ON THE FAULTS 
 
 general maxims, which are often repeated, 
 but ill understood ; which have a founda- 
 tion in truth, but must be followed with 
 caution. 
 
 No maxim has been more frequently- 
 repeated, and more strongly enforced upon 
 poets, than that which requires them to 
 " follow nature." The greatest praise they 
 expect is, that their representations are na- 
 tural ; and the greatest censure they dread 
 is, that their conduct is opposite. It is by 
 this maxim that the errors of Shakespeare 
 have been defended ; and probably by this 
 maxim he was perverted. " Can we sup- 
 " pose," it may be said, " that the ruin of 
 " kings, and the downfal of kingdoms, have 
 " been accomplished merely by heroes and 
 " princes ? May not inferior agents, and 
 M even the meanest of mankind, have con- 
 " tributed to such a catastrophe? Or can we 
 " suppose, that during the progress of great 
 " events, none of the real agents have ever 
 " smiled, or have ever indulged themselves 
 " in trifling discourse? Must they main- 
 " tain, during the whole performance, the 
 " most uniform gravity of aspect, and solemn
 
 OF SHAKESPEARE. 415 
 
 " state of demeanour? Is it not natural, if a 
 " grave must be dug for a dead body, that 
 " the grave-diggers be persons of the lowest 
 " rank ; and if so, that their conversation be 
 " suited to their condition? Of consequence, 
 " the language of Tragedy will not always 
 " maintain the same dignity of expression. 
 " Even kings and queens, moved by some 
 " violent passion, will be inclined to speak 
 " like their subjects, and utter terms, that, 
 " to very delicate critics, may seem ill suited 
 " to their rank. Solemn statesmen may 
 " indulge in trivial garrulity ; and grave 
 " senators may act or speak like the vulgar. 
 " Now, is not the poet to follow nature ? 
 " And if he is to represent persons in the 
 " highest departments of life, must he not 
 " represent them in their real appearance ? 
 " Or must they be totally disguised, refined, 
 " and exalted, according to the enthusiasm 
 ' of a glowing fancy ?" It is in this manner 
 that the mixture of tragic with comic 
 scenes, and the gross vulgarity of language 
 to which our poet, notwithstanding his 
 amazing powers of expression, too often 
 descends, are defended; and, perhaps, as
 
 410 ON THE FAULTS 
 
 was already mentioned, some considerations 
 of this sort have heeu the cause of his errors. 
 Indeed, the lacts in this supposed defence 
 are admitted. Persons of high rank, in the 
 execution of great undertakings, may em- 
 ploy mercenary and vulgar engines ; and 
 may adapt their conversation to the meanest 
 of their associates. Mighty men may be 
 coarse and offensive ; grave senators may, 
 like some of those represented by Otway, 
 be contemptibly sensual ; and even an Eng- 
 lish Princess, agreeably to the representa- 
 tion of Shakespeare, addressed by a deformed 
 and loathsome lover, may spit in his face, 
 and call him " hedge-hog." A Roman ma- 
 tron, disputing with the tribunes of the 
 people, who were persecuting her son to 
 death, might with propriety enough have 
 called them " cats." A senator of Rome, 
 in the midst of much civil dissention, 
 might have said of himself, that " he was a 
 " humourous patrician, and one that loved 
 " a cup of hot wine without a drop of al- 
 " laying Tiber;" or in a debate with the 
 above-mentioned tribunes, he might tell 
 them, that they " racked Rome to make"
 
 OF SHAKESPEARE. 417 
 
 coals " cheap ;" or, with perfect consistency 
 of character, and truth of description, while, 
 in a deep tragedy, he is delineating the re- 
 serve of a discontented general, he might 
 say of him, that " the tartness of his face 
 " sours ripe grapes ; that his hum is like a 
 " battery; and that he sits in his state like 
 " a thing made for Alexander." All these 
 things may have happened, and as they may 
 happen again, they may be termed natural. 
 Yet', I conceive that the solemn, in drama- 
 tical composition, should be kept apart from 
 the ludicrous ; that Shakespeare, by con- 
 founding them, has incurred merited cen- 
 sure; and that he probably fell into error 
 by following the authority of inexplicit, or 
 unexamined decrees. 
 
 There is a certain consistency or unity of 
 passion, emotion, and sentiment, to be ob- 
 served in fine writing; not less important 
 than unity of action, and of much greater 
 consequence than the unities either of time 
 or of place. The mind is not only pained 
 by feelings disagreeable in themselves, but, 
 independent of their particular character 
 itnd effect, it is pained by being distracted 
 e e
 
 418 ON THE FAULT* 
 
 aud harassed. Now, this discomposure is 
 produced, if opposite feeling*, though in 
 themselves agreeable, are poured in upon 
 us at once, or in immediate succession. As 
 the tendency of these dissonant emotions is 
 to destroy one another, the mind, during 
 the contest, is in a state of distraction. Nor 
 can either of the contending feelings accom- 
 plish their lull eHect ; for the attention is 
 too equally divided between them, or trans- 
 ferred so rapidly from one object to another, 
 that the pleasure they would yield is im- 
 perfect. Add to this, that in cases of such 
 disorder, the liner feeling is generally over- 
 powered by the coarser and more tumul- 
 tuous. A ludierous cbaracter, or incident, 
 introduced into a pathetic scene, will draw 
 the chief attention to itself: and by ill timed 
 merriment, banish the softer pleasures. This 
 subject will receive more illustration, if we 
 attend to the success of those authors who 
 have understood and availed themselves of 
 the foregoing maxim. From this proceeds 
 the chief merit of Milton's L'Allegro and 
 II Pensoroso. Intending in his L'Allegro 
 to excite cheerfulness, he deals solely in
 
 OF SHAKESPEARE. 419 
 
 cheerful objects : intending in his II Penso- 
 roso to promote a melancholy mood, he has 
 recourse to those images only that are con- 
 nected with solitude and gloomy silence. If 
 you would make us weep with compassion, 
 do not strive at the same instant to convulse 
 us with laughter. Or if you mean to exalt 
 your audience with solemn and sublime de- 
 votion, you will not address them with fan- 
 tastic levity, nor amuse them with a merry 
 tune. The propriety of adhering to one 
 principal object, or in other words, of 
 moving the mind by one particular set of 
 feelings, has been attended to in other imi- 
 tative arts. We find nothing in music or 
 painting, so inconsistent as the dissonant 
 mixture of sentiments and emotions so fre- 
 quent in English tragedy. The improvers 
 in gardening are attentive to the same obser- 
 vances. They tell us, with great justice, 
 that in a solemn scene, every thing light 
 and airy should be concealed and removed ; 
 that where sublimity constitutes the chief 
 expression, every circumstance should be 
 great or terrific; and, in general, that all 
 subordinate incidents should be suited to 
 e e 2
 
 420 . ON THE FAULTS 
 
 the reigning character*. Even Shakespeare 
 himself, in many brilliant passages, where 
 he follows the guidance of genius alone, or 
 of unperverted sensibility, and, indeed, in 
 all those deUched passages that are usually 
 mentioned as possessing singular excellence, 
 acts in perfect consistency with these obser- 
 vations. Every circumstance in his descrip- 
 tion of departed spirits, in " Measure for 
 Measure," without suggesting noisome, dis- 
 gusting objects, is directly calculated to fill 
 the mind with delightful awe. 
 
 Now, if consistency of feeling and sen- 
 timent is to be observed in fine writing, it 
 will affect our imitations of nature. It will 
 lead us to bring more fully into view, than 
 in the original, those things that carry for- 
 ward, or coincide with our purpose ; and 
 to conceal those circumstances which may- 
 be of an opposite or unsuitable tendency. 
 If we would describe a cheerful landscape, 
 we must avoid mentioning the gloomy fo- 
 rests, or deep morasses, which may actually 
 exist in it. In like manner, if we would 
 dispose our audience to entertain sentiments 
 See Observations on Modern Gardening, Sec. 50
 
 OF SHAKESPEARE. 421 
 
 of veneration for some respectable personage, 
 we must throw into the shade those levities 
 which may have place in the character, but 
 which lessen its dignity. In the fictions of 
 the poet it is allowable, not only to veil 
 infirmities, or to soften and conceal harsh 
 or unbending features, but from the store- 
 houses of fancy and observation to make 
 such additions, both to the landscape and to 
 the character, as shall equally promote our 
 pleasure and our esteem. 
 
 Does this rule, then, contradict the great 
 maxim of following nature? Or is there 
 any necessity imposed upon us, of adopting 
 the one and rejecting the other? If so, to 
 which shall we yield the preference? We 
 are not, however, reduced to this difficulty. 
 We may both follow nature, not indeed 
 as servile copyists, but as free disciples ; and 
 preserve at the same time consistency of 
 feeling and expression. When a judicious 
 improver covers a bleak heath with enliven- 
 ing proves, or removes the dreariness of a 
 noisome fen, by changing it into a lovely 
 lake, interspersed with islands, can we ac- 
 cuse him of departing from nature? Indeed
 
 423 ON THE FAULTS 
 
 he varies her appearance, but at the same 
 time improves it, and renders it more agree- 
 able to our conceptions of excellence. In 
 like manner, the poet who excludes from 
 tragedy mean persons and vulgar language, 
 because they are dissonant to the general 
 tone of his work, neither violates nature, 
 nor trespasses against the great obligation he 
 is under of affording us pleasure. 
 Now, though the spirit of this important 
 rule has at all times operated on the prac- 
 tice of eminent writers, and has even, on 
 many occasions, influenced the daring, but 
 delicate fancy of Shakespeare ; yet, so far as 
 I recollect, the rule itself has seldom been 
 considered by the authors or judges of dra- 
 matic writing in Britain, as of inviolable 
 obligation. Tims, the maxim of following 
 nature, a maxim most important in itself, 
 and almost coeval with fine writing, has 
 been received without proper extension: for 
 it has commonly been conceived, that by 
 the terra Nature, as used by the critics, we 
 are to understand the real appearances of 
 tbingi as they exist originally, and unim- 
 proved by human art. According to this
 
 OF SIIALESPEARF. 423 
 
 account, a tree with luxuriant branches, 
 and that has never been pruned, is natural. 
 Nevertheless, we may collect from the lore- 
 going remarks, that this explanation is by 
 far too limited. The human mind is capa- 
 ble of discerning; and conceiving excellence, 
 superior to any thing we have ever beheld. 
 This excellence, however, does not belong 
 to new objects, but to the improved and 
 exalted state of those things with which we 
 are already acquainted. We cannot ima- 
 gine a new race of animated beings, differ- 
 ent in every respect, except that of anima- 
 tion alone, from the living creatures that we 
 already know ; but we can conceive the 
 present inhabitants of our planet exalted to 
 a degree of perfection far superior to any 
 of the human race. This conception of ex- 
 cellence, therefore, is natural to the human 
 mind: the manner in which it is formed 
 may easily be traced ; and those representa- 
 tions of external things, which differ from 
 the real appearance, but coincide with our 
 notions of improvement, are to be held na- 
 tural. This may receive still farther il- 
 lustration. If by nature we are to under-
 
 424 ON THE FAULTS 
 
 stand the original, unimproved appearance 
 of things, the wild American savage is more 
 according to nature than the civilized Eu- 
 ropean. Yet, will any one be bold enough 
 to affirm, that a mind highly improved and 
 adorned with science, is in a state that is 
 unnatural? Neither shall we say so of the 
 tree which is pruned and grafted, for the 
 purpose of bearing fruit ; and which, left 
 to its original luxuriancy, would shoot 
 away into useless foliage. By the culture 
 of mind, and by the improvement of ex- 
 ternal objects, that excellence which we 
 conceive, is in part attained, and is held to 
 be according to nature. We cannot, there- 
 fore, pronounce of that superior excellence 
 which has not yet been attained, and which 
 hitherto exists only in the high anticipa- 
 tions of the human mind*, that it is unna- 
 tural. Now, the rule of following nature 
 having probably been understood by Shake- 
 speare in a sense too limited, has betrayed 
 him into those enormities that have incurred 
 so much censure. Even his display of 
 character has sometimes been injured in its 
 
 Cic. de Orat.
 
 OF SHAKESPEARE. 425 
 
 effect, by this undeviating attachment to 
 real appearance : and though, like Polonius, 
 statesmen and courtiers may, on various oc- 
 casions, be very wise and very foolish ; yet, 
 whatsoever indulgence may be shewn to the 
 statesmen and courtiers of real life, those 
 of the drama must be of an uniform and 
 consistent conduct. Indeed, in comedy, 
 there is nothing to hinder them from ap- 
 pearing as ludicrous as in real life, or as the 
 poet pleases. 
 
 The other blemishes in Shakespeare are 
 less enormous ; and proceed chiefly from his 
 want of critical and historical knowledge; 
 or from carelessness in correcting his works. 
 Had he been well acquainted with the poets 
 and critics of antiquity, he would probably 
 have been more attentive to unity, and 
 studied greater simplicity in the form of his 
 fables. Not that he would have adopted 
 the practice of ancient poets, in its fullest 
 extent ; for this would have been too oppo- 
 site to the public taste, and too inconsistent 
 with his own luxuriant fancy. We may 
 also add, that some departure from the 
 strict rules of unity enacted by ancient cri-
 
 426 ON THE FAULTS 
 
 tics, and some deviation from the simplicity 
 of Grecian poets, is no loss to the drama. 
 Shakespeare, however, by having known 
 them, and by having adhered to them in 
 some degree, would have been less irre- 
 gular and incoherent. In like manner, by 
 having been better acquainted with ancient 
 history, he would not have represented 
 Alexander the Great as existing prior to the 
 age of Coriolanus ; nor would he have re- 
 presented the Roman matrons, in the days 
 of Menenius Agrippa, as employing them- 
 selves in sewing cambric ; nor would he 
 have mentioned the tribunes of the Roman 
 people as judges in the courts of justice, 
 or even at great pains to lower the price of 
 coals. 
 
 Yet, glaring as these faults may appear, 
 poets of no small reputation have been so 
 far seduced, by the example of Shakespeare 
 coinciding with the taste of the times, that 
 they have imitated, or at least not avoided, 
 the very grossest of his enormities. Otway 
 and Southern are remarkable instances. Jt 
 may, therefore, be of service to the im- 
 provement of fine writing, not only to il-
 
 OF SHAKESPEARE. 427 
 
 lustratc the great merits of Shakespeare, and 
 to shew in what manner his delineations of 
 human nature assist the philosopher; but 
 also with candour, and the deference due 
 to his superior genius, to point out his de- 
 fects, and endeavour to trace their causes. 
 In this investigation, the train of thought, 
 independent of digression or illustration, is 
 according to the following arrangement. 
 
 As the works of imagination consist of 
 parts, the pleasure they yield is the effect 
 of those parts united in one design. This 
 effect may be felt ; the relations of inferior 
 component parts may be discerned ; and 
 their nature may be known. Taste is perfect, 
 when sensibility, discernment, and know* 
 ledge are united. Yet, they are not indis- 
 pensably united in the man of poetic inven- 
 tion. He must possess sensibility ; but he 
 may want knowledge and discernment. He 
 will thus be liable to error. Guided solely 
 by feeling, his judgment will be unsteady ; 
 he will, at periods of languor, become the 
 slave of authority, or be seduced by unex- 
 amined maxims. Shakespeare was in this 
 situation. Endowed with genius, he pos-
 
 428 ON THE FAULTS 
 
 sessed all the taste that depended on feeling. 
 But, unimproved by the discernment of the 
 philosophical, or the knowledge of the 
 learned critic, his sensibility was exposed to 
 perversion. He was misled by the general 
 maxim that required him to " follow na- 
 ture." He observed the rule in a limited 
 sense. He copied the reality of external 
 things ; but disregarded that conception of 
 excellence which seems inherent in the hu- 
 man mind. The rule, in its extended ac- 
 ceptation, requires that objects intended to 
 please, and interest the heart, should pro- 
 duce their effect by corresponding, or con- 
 sonant feelings. Now, this cannot be at- 
 tained by representing objects as they appear. 
 In every interesting representation, features 
 and tints must be added to the reality; fea- 
 tures and tints which it actually possesses, 
 must be concealed. The greatest blemishes 
 in ShaL(sj are arose from his not attending 
 to this important rule; and not preserving 
 in his tragedies the proper tone of I he work. 
 Hence the frequent and unbecoming mix- 
 ture of meanness and dignity in his expres- 
 sion ; of the serious and ludicrous in his
 
 OF SHAKESPEARE. 429 
 
 representation. His other faults are of less 
 importance ; and are charged to his want of 
 sufficient knowledge, or care in correcting. 
 In a word, though his merits far surpass 
 those of every other dramatic writer, and 
 may even apologize for his faults ; yet, since 
 the ardour of admiration may lead ingenious 
 men to overlook, or imitate his imperfec- 
 tions, it may be of some service, " to point 
 " them out, and endeavour to trace their 
 " causes." 

 
 ESSAY XIII. 
 
 CONCLUSION : 
 
 CONTAINING OBSERVATIONS ON THE CHIEF OBJECTS 
 OF CRITICISM IN THE 
 
 WORKS OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 NO poetical writer among the moderns has 
 afforded more employment to critics and 
 commentators than Shakespeare. As he 
 wrote while the manners, no less than the 
 language of his countrymen were very dif- 
 ferent from what they are at present ; and 
 as he is reported to have been very careless 
 about the fate of his performances after they 
 were given to the public, he is become in 
 many instances obscure, and almost unin-
 
 OBJECTS OF CRITICISM, &C. 431 
 
 telligible. Hence several learned and dis- 
 cerning; editors have rendered essential ser- 
 vice to the literature of their country, by 
 explaining his obsolete phrases, by freeing 
 his text from spurious passages, and by elu- 
 cidating his frequent allusions to obscure, or 
 antiquated customs. Labours of this sort 
 are so much the more valuable, as Shake- 
 speare is justly accounted the great poet of 
 human nature. Even to moralists and phi- 
 losophers, his display and illustration of 
 passions and manners, may afford not only 
 amusement but instruction. 
 
 " The operations of the mind," as has 
 been well observed by an anonymous writer, 
 in his remarks on some of the preceding 
 essays, " are more complex than those of 
 " the body: its motions are progressive : its 
 " transitions abrupt and instantaneous : its 
 " attitudes uncertain and momentary. The 
 " passions pursue their course with celerity; 
 " their direction may be changed, or their 
 " impetuosity modified by a number of 
 " causes which are far fro,m being obvious, 
 " and which frequently escape our observa- 
 " tion. It would therefore be of great ira-
 
 432 OBJECTS OF CRITICISM 
 
 " portance to philosophical scrutiny, if the 
 " position of the mind, in any given cir- 
 " cumstances, could be fixed till it was de- 
 " liberately surveyed ; if the causes which 
 " alter its feelings and operations could be 
 " accurately shewn, and their effects ascer- 
 " tained with precision." To accomplish 
 these ends, the dramatic writers, and parti- 
 cularly Shakespeare, may be of the greatest 
 use. An attempt has accordingly been 
 made, in the preceding discourses, to em- 
 ploy the light which he affords us in illus- 
 trating some curious and interesting views 
 of human nature. 
 
 In Macbeth, misled by an overgrown and 
 gradually perverted passion, " we trace the 
 u progress of that corruption, by which 
 l; the virtues of the mind are made to contri- 
 " bute to the completion of its depravity*." 
 In Hamlet we have a striking representation 
 of the pain, of the dejection, and contention 
 of spirit, produced in a person, not only of 
 exquisite, but of moral, and correct sensibi- 
 
 * These wordi are extracted from a letter from Mr. 
 Buike to the author, on the subjects of the preceding 
 Essays See appendix.
 
 IN SHAKESPEARE. 433 
 
 lity, by the conviction of extreme enormity 
 
 of conduct in those whom he loves, or 
 
 wishes to love and esteem. We observe in 
 
 Jacques, how 
 
 Goodness wounds itself, 
 And sweet affection proves the spring of woe. 
 
 We see in Imogen, that persons of real 
 mildness and gentleness of disposition, fear- 
 ing or suffering evil, by the ingratitude or 
 inconstancy of those on whose affections 
 they had reason to depend, are more soli- 
 citous than jealous ; express regret rather 
 than resentment ; and are more apt to be 
 overwhelmed with sorrow than inflamed with 
 revenge. In contemplating the character of 
 Richard the Third, we see, and are enabled 
 to explain the effect produced upon the 
 mind by the display of great intellectual 
 ability, employed for inhuman and perfi- 
 dious purposes. We are led, on the other 
 hand, by an obvious connection, to observe, 
 in the character of Falstaff, the effect pro- 
 duced on. the mind by the display of consi- 
 derable ability, directed by sensual appetites 
 and mean desires. King Lear illustrates, 
 that mere sensibility, uninfluenced by a sense 
 
 F f
 
 434 OBJECTS OF CRITICISM 
 
 of propriety, leads men to an extravagant 
 expression both of social and unsocial feel- 
 ings; renders them capriciously inconstant 
 in their affections ; variable, and of course 
 irresolute in their conduct. In Timon of 
 Athens, we have an excellent illustration of 
 self-deceit, displayed in the consequences of 
 that inconsiderate profusion which assumes 
 the appearance of liberality ; and is sup- 
 posed, even by the inconsiderate person 
 himself, to proceed from a generous princi- 
 ple ; but which, in reality, has its chief 
 origin in the love of distinction. 
 
 But while Shakespeare furnishes excellent 
 illustrations of many passions and affections, 
 and of many singular combinations of pas- 
 sion, affection, and ability, in various charac- 
 ters, we perceive, in the justness of his imi- 
 tation, the felicity of his invention. While 
 he ' holds up a mirror,' in which we recog- 
 nize the features and complexions of many 
 powers and principles in the human mind, 
 we must admire that fine polish by which 
 they are received, and reflected. He may 
 be irregular in the structure of his fable, 
 incorrect in his geographical or historical
 
 1 14 SHAKESPEARE. 435 
 
 knowledge, and too close an imitator of na- 
 ture in his mixture of serious and ludicrous 
 incidents ; for these are his principal errors: 
 but in the faithful display of character, he 
 has not hitherto been surpassed. Nor can 
 the carelessness imputed to him in some 
 other respects, be charged upon him, with- 
 out injustice, in his portraits of human life. 
 The true method of estimating his merit 
 in this particular, is by such an examina- 
 tion as in the preceding discourses has been 
 suggested, and in some measure attempted. 
 General remarks are often vague ; and, to 
 persons of discernment, afford small satis- 
 faction. But if we consider the sentiments 
 and actions, attributed by the poet to his 
 various characters, as so many facts ; if we 
 observe their agreement or disagreement, 
 their aim, or their origin ; and if we class 
 them according to their common qualities, 
 or connect them by their original principles, 
 we shall ascertain, with some accuracy, the 
 truth of the representation. For, without 
 having our judgments founded in this man- 
 ner, they are liable to change, error, and 
 inconsistency. Thus the moralist becomes 
 F fS
 
 4 J6 OBJECTS OF CRITICISM 
 
 a critic: and the two sciences of ethics and 
 criticism app< ar to be intimately and very 
 naturally connected. In truth, no one who 
 is unacquainted with the human mind, or 
 entertains improper notions of human con- 
 duct, can discern excellence in the higher 
 species of poetical composition. 
 
 It may be said however, in a superficial 
 or careless manner, that in matters of this 
 kind, laborious disquisition is unnecessary: 
 and that we can perceive or feel at once, 
 whether delineations of character be well 
 or ill executed." Persons, indeed, of sueh 
 catholic and intuitive taste, require no eru- 
 dition. Conscious of their high illumina- 
 tion, they will scorn research, and reject 
 enquiry. Vet many of those who find 
 amusement in fine writing, cannot boast of 
 such exquisite and peculiar endowments. 
 As they need some instruction before they 
 can determine concerning the merit of those 
 delineations that imitate external objects ; 
 so they need no inconsiderable ins'. ruction 
 before they will trust to their own impres- 
 sions concerning the display of the human 
 niiad. Now, if criticism be useful in form-
 
 IN SHAKESPEARE. 437 
 
 ing, or in rectifying our taste for what is 
 excellent in language, imagery, and arrange- 
 ment of parts, it is surely no less useful in 
 regulating our judgment concerning the imi- 
 tation of human powers and propensities. 
 Or is it an easier matter to determine whe- 
 ther an affection of the mind be called forth 
 on a fit occasion, expressed with no unsuit- 
 able ardor, and combined with proper acU 
 juncts ; than to judge concerning the apt- 
 ness of a comparison, or the symmetry of 
 a sentence ? Yet, in the present state of li- 
 terary improvement, none, without being 
 conscious of having cultivated their powers 
 of taste, will decide w r ith assurance con- 
 cerning the beauties either of imagery or 
 of language : and none, whose range of ob- 
 servation has been extensive, will pronounce 
 the knowledge of human nature, of the 
 passions and feelings of the heart, a matter 
 of much easier attainment. If the display 
 of character require the highest exertion 
 of poetical talents, that species of criticism 
 which leads us to judge concerning the 
 poet's conduct in so arduous an enterprize, 
 is not inferior, or unimportant.
 
 438 objects or criticism, kc. 
 
 Add to this, that the differences of opi- 
 nion concerning some of Shakespeare's most 
 distinguished characters, which the author 
 of these imperfect essays has had occasion 
 to remark, since they were first offered to 
 an indulgent public, are sufficient to satisfy 
 him, that such disquisitions may not only 
 be amusing, but have a direct tendency to 
 establish, on a solid foundation, the prin- 
 ciples of sound criticism. Any thing fur- 
 ther on this subject would be superfluous. 
 Those who have a true relish for genuine 
 and agreeable imitations of human nature, 
 and whose judgments are not misled by pre- 
 judice, even though they should receive im- 
 mediate enjoyment from the delineations 
 they contemplate, and be instantaneously 
 inclined to pronounce them just, will re- 
 ceive additional satisfaction, if, by the dis- 
 passionate award of reason, their feelings 
 arc justified, and their prepossessions con- 
 firmed.
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 A LETTER 
 
 FROM Mr. BURKE TO THE AUTHOR. 
 
 Sir, I should be extremely concerned 
 if you were to judge of the value which I 
 set on the honour you have done me, by the 
 lateness of my acknowledgment. I may be 
 suspected of procrastination and negligence 
 by those who know me, but never I trust of 
 ingratitude. But neither the failing which 
 I acknowledge, nor the vice which I abhor, 
 was among the causes of my delay in an- 
 swering your most obliging letter, and thank- 
 ing you for your most acceptable present. 
 My little occupations, which redoubled on 
 me towards the close of the session, and 
 my little private concerns, which I neglect 
 during the time of parliamentary business, 
 have not permitted me, until within these
 
 440 APPENDIX. 
 
 few days, to go through your two volumes, 
 although their bulk and value are so very 
 different. I have now read both with much 
 pleasure and instruction. The poetry is 
 graceful and affecting, and of a very happy 
 turn. I could indeed wish that you had 
 chosen to write in rhyme, as I doubt whe- 
 ther any poetry, except the dramatical, ap- 
 pears in its best form in blank verse ; parti- 
 cularly in the lesser and lighter kinds. But 
 in this however I shall not be very positive, 
 as I know that I differ from the practice of 
 great poets, and the decision of great judges. 
 You are certainly in the right, that the 
 study of poetry is the study of human 
 nature ; and as this is the first object of phi- 
 losophy, poetry will always rank iirst among 
 hi. man compositions. In that study you 
 cannot have chosen a fitter object than 
 Shakespeare. Your tracing that progri 
 corruption, by which the virtues of the mind 
 are made to contribute to the completion of 
 its depravity, is refined and deep; and tho' 
 there are several ingenious moral criticisms 
 on Macbeth, this seems to me quite new. 
 In your examination of Hamlet, you have
 
 APPENDIX. 441 
 
 very well unravelled the mazes and perplex- 
 ities of passion and character which appear 
 in that play. You have really removed a 
 great many difficulties which I found in it. 
 Still, however, some remain ; which, I sus- 
 pect, have arisen from the poet's having a 
 little forgotten himself, or perhaps (what I 
 conceive is sometimes the case with Shake- 
 speare) from his not having persevered 
 through the play in the plan on which he 
 had originally set out, and not having cor- 
 rected the foregone part, to the new ideas 
 he had adopted in the course of his work. 
 Shakespeare having entered the most deeply 
 perhaps of all the poets into human nature, 
 is clearly the best subject for criticism. But 
 it would be worthy of you, if in the course 
 of your enquiries you would turn your at- 
 tention to his faults, which are many of 
 them, of a kind as peculiar as his excel- 
 lencies ; for I am far from sure that an indis- 
 criminate admiration of this poet has not 
 done something towards hurting our taste in 
 England. But I ought to ask pardon for 
 suggesting any thing on this subject to you, 
 who are so perfect a master of it.
 
 442 APPENDIX. 
 
 I am much flattered by the good opinion 
 which you are so indulgent as to express of 
 the trifles I have written ; and of my inten- 
 tions in my very feeble endeavours in active 
 life. However, in expressing your appro- 
 bation, you seem to ascribe to me some writ- 
 ings, the honor of which belongs to somebody 
 else, as I have not done any thing in that 
 way. Indeed very many years are elapsed 
 since I had leisure or inclination for any com- 
 positions, except a few which have an imme- 
 diate relation to the unhappy concerns in 
 which I take a part. Except two or three of 
 such, I have written nothing, though many 
 pieces to which I had no title, have been at- 
 tributed to me. One of the inconsiderable 
 papers which I have written, I now take the 
 liberty of sending to you. The principles 
 on which it goes will make you the more in- 
 dulgent to the execution. How could you 
 think 1 could be indifferent to the opinions 
 of a gentleman in your honourable and happy 
 situation, secluded though you conceive it to 
 be from the importance of political occupa- 
 tion ? So far from it, that 1 look with a de- 
 gree of admiration not wholly unmixed with
 
 APPENDIX. 443 
 
 envy, on the course of life you have chosen. 
 As long as the original light is brighter than 
 the reflected, as Ung as the instructor is 
 wiser than the instructed, so long will your 
 occupation be superior to ours. The con- 
 templative virtue is in the order of things 
 above the active ; at least I have always 
 thought it so. It has as great a degree of per- 
 fection and independence as any thing given 
 to man can have : the other, at best, is but 
 a very gross and concrete body ; constantly 
 dependent ; frequently defeated ; always ob- 
 structed ; and carries with ^t, even when 
 most successful, such manifest debility and 
 imperfection, as gives daily and hourly cause 
 of disgust to any one who has but the faint- 
 est ideas of what excellence is. You will re- 
 member the beautiful lines that express that 
 condition of life, so superior not only to 
 the vices, but to the inferior and incomplete 
 virtues : 
 
 Credibile est illos pariter vitiisque locisque 
 
 Altius humanis exeruisse caput. 
 Non Venus et vinum sublimia pectora fregit; 
 
 Officiumve fori, militiaeve labor ; 
 Nee levis arobitio, perfusaque gloria fuco, 
 Magnarurave fames solicitavit opum.
 
 444 APPENDIX. 
 
 and the rest that precede and follow them. 
 You see, that by the art of quoting I have 
 contrived to give some value to my letter. 
 You will have the goodness to excuse its 
 exorbitant length. 
 
 I have the honour to remain, 
 
 With the greatest esteem, Sir, 
 Your's, ko. 
 
 (signed) EDMUND BURKE. 
 
 Westminster y June 18, 177?.
 
 APPENDIX. 445 
 
 ANOTHER LETTER 
 
 FROM Mr. BURKE TO THE AUTHOR. 
 
 Sir, We have lately had a good deal of 
 laborious attendance in Parliament ; I should 
 suffer much more from it than I have done, 
 if it had entirely prevented me from profit- 
 ing by your very valuable present. The 
 public is much obliged to you, and they will 
 duly reward you. All that I can do, is to as- 
 sure you of my sincere gratitude for the plea- 
 sure and instruction I have received. I think 
 you put Russia in a light entirely new : at 
 least it appeared so to me in many particu- 
 lars. The things you have touched upon 
 may lead a thinking mind a great way. I 
 enter very much into the character you have 
 given of the people of that country ; parti- 
 cularly in what you make their character- 
 istic, the levity of their disposition. I can 
 readily believe the truth of your drawing ; 
 though it is putting the Russians in a point 
 of view different from that in which they 
 have been observed by any traveller. I think
 
 446 APPENDIX. 
 
 the other features in the portrait are such 
 as have also escaped observation. 
 
 The dissertations on Shakespeare came 
 into my hands before the Russian travels. 
 It appears to me to be a truly classical per- 
 formance. Your plan of moral criticism I 
 am sure is original, and carries a strong and 
 distinctive mark of genius. You have exe- 
 cuted it perfectly well throughout ; particu- 
 larly in the character of King Lear, which 
 is my favourite. I do not know whether I am 
 right or not, but I pitch upon this in prefer- 
 ence, as it is a link which connects your two 
 books : for one cannot help tracing a re- 
 lation between your Lear and your Mus- 
 covites. 
 
 You will smile at the poor return which I 
 venture to make for your valuable gifts. But 
 my apology is, that what I send to you is 
 itself apologetick. Great pains have been 
 taken not only to traduce principal movers, 
 but persons of no greater significance than 
 myself. Look upon it in the light of an apo- 
 logy to you, and not as any attempt at a re- 
 turn. I know that when farmers send the 
 best products of soil and cultivation to mar-
 
 APPENDIX. 447 
 
 ket in this great city, rather than return with 
 their waggons empty, they will be content to 
 take in a load of ashes. Take then this as 
 your back carriage. I take the liberty of 
 sending: the same to Dr. Leechman and Mr. 
 Miliar, that you may not suspect me of the 
 presumption of an exchange of commodities. 
 
 I should be happy to wait upon the Uni- 
 versity next Easter, but I really fear it will 
 not be in my power. I flattered myself with 
 the pleasure of attending my Lord Maitland, 
 but that I fear will not be within the compass 
 of either of us. However you may be assur- 
 ed I am perfectly sensible of the honour you 
 intend me, and will strain every nerve to at- 
 tain my object. 
 
 I have indeed at present little, or rather no 
 leisure. Present therefore my humble res- 
 pects to Dr. Leechman, and assure him that I 
 shall have the greatest pleasure in giving my 
 next spare moments to the obedience of the 
 very obliging commands Dr. L. has laid upon 
 me. But I am, as all members ouo;ht to be 
 just now, on Hindu. Their affairs engross 
 my whole heart, and in truth cost me some 
 sleepless nights. Perhaps I may trouble you
 
 448 APPENDIX. 
 
 with two or three of the reports ; such I mean 
 as are of a portable size, though they are 
 
 printed with every kind of fault. 1 have 
 
 the honour to be, with the highest regard, 
 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 Your most obedient and humble servant, 
 
 (signed) EDMUND BURKE. 
 
 Jan. 22, 1783. 
 
 i II l END. 
 
 ' I v Harris and Brothers, Liverpool. 
 

 
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