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Cfiaracter^ 



OF 



SHiVKESPEAR'S PLAYS. 



BY WILLIAM HAZLITT. 



LONDON: 

FPR R. HUNTER, SUCCESSOR Tp MR. JOHNSON,* 

IN 8T. FAVL*8 CRI7RCli-YARD; 

AND C. AND J. OLLI£R» 

1817. 



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. . • I .■ .1 



TO 

CHARLES LAMB, Esq. 

THIS VOLUMB IS INSCRIBED, AS A MARK OF 

OLD FRIENDSHIP 
AND LASTING ESTEEM, 



BY THE AUTHOR. 



> 



*^ 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

PREFACE vil 

CYMBEUNE 1 

MACBETH .-15 

JULIUS C£SAR 33 

OTHELLO ... - 42 

TIMON OF ATHENS 61 

CORIOLANUS •.-69 

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA d3 

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA * 95 

HAMLET 103 

THE TEMPEST U5 

THE MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM - - - - 126 
ROMEO AND JULIET - : - - - - - 135 

LEAR 153 

RICHARD II. 178 

HENRY IV. Part I. and II ^ 188 

HENRY V. -.203 

HENRY VI. IN Thrbe Parts -•-••• 215 
RICHARD III. ^--226 

HENRY VIII. .-.-asr 

KING JOHN ...,^....243 

TWELFTH NIGHT ; or, WHAT YOU j WILL - y- - 265 
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA - - \ - 2«5 

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE ^ . 269 

THE WINTER'S TALE 278 

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 287 

LOVE'S LABOUR LOST -293 

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING - - - - ^ ^8 

AS YOU LIKE IT 305 

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 312 

MEASURE FOR MEASURE 320 

THE MERRY WIVES OF WINJ)SOR - - - • 327 

THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 331 

DOUBTFUL PLAYS OP SHAKESPEAR - - - - 335 
POEMS AND SONNETS 346 



ERRATA. 



Page 
21, /. 13— /or " and who" read " who. 

66, L 23— /br " manners" read " marrows. 

92, L 12— for << what was coming" read " what is coming. 

208, /. 5^/or " himself" read " him." 



** 

It 



PREFACE. 



It is observed by Mr/ Pope, that "If ever 
any author deserved the name of an original^ 
it was Sbakespear. Homer himself drew not 
his art so immediately from the fountains of 
nature ; it proceeded through ^Egyptian strain- 
ers and channels, and came to him- not with- , 
out some tincture^ of the learning, or some 
cast of the mode:ls^ of those before him. The 
poetry of Shakespear ws^s inspiration indeed: he 
is not so much an imitator, 9if an instrument of 
nature; and it is not so just to s^y that he 
speaks from her, as that she speaks through him. 
" His characters are so much nature jherself, 
that it is a sort of injury to call them by so dis- 
tant a name as copies of her. Those of other 
poets have a constant resemblance, which shews 
that they received them from one another, and 
were but multipliers of the same image : each 



vUi PREFACE. 

picture, like a mock-rainbow, is but the reflec- 
tion of a reflection. But every single charactef 
in Shakespear, is as much an individual, as those 
in life itself; it is as impossible to find any two 
alike ; and such, as from their relation or affi- 
nity in any respect appear most to be twins, 
will, upon confiparison, be found remarkably 
distinct. To this life and variety of character, 
we must add the wonderful preservation of it ; 
which is such throughout his plays, that had all 
the speeches been printed without the very 
names of the person^) I believe one might have 
applied them with certainty to every speaker/* 
The object of the volume here offered to the 
public, is to illustrate these remarks in a more 
particular manner by a reference to each play. 
A gentleman of the name of Mason, the au^^ 
thor of a Treatise on Ornamental Gardening, ' 
(not Mason the poet) began a work of a similar 
kind about forty years ago,- but he only lived to 
finish a parallel between the characters of Mac- 
beth and Richard III. which is an exceedingly 
ingenious piece of analytical criticism. Rich- 
ardson's Essays include but a few x>f Shake- 
spear's principal characters. The only work 
which seemed to supersede the necessity of an 
attempt like the present was SchlegePs very • 
admirable Lectures on the Drama, which give 
by far the best account of the plays of Shake- 
spear that has hitherto appeared. The only 



PRSFACB. a 

Oircumstances in which it was thoi^t not im- 
p>os8ible to improve on the manner in which the 
German critic has executed this part of his de- 
sign, were in avoiding an appearance of mysti* 
oism in his style, not very attractive to the 
English reader, and in bringing illustrations from 
particular passages . of the plays themselves, of 
which SchlegeFs work, from the extensiveness 
of his plan, did not admit. We will at the same 
time confess, that some little jealousy of the 
character of the national understanding was not 
without its share in producing the following 
undertaking, for '^ we were piqued'^ that it 
should be reserved for a foreign critic to give 
^^ reasons for the faith which we English have 
in Shakespear/' Certainly, no writer among 
ourselves has shewn either the same enthusias-^ 
tic admiration of his genius, or the same philo- 
sophical acuteness in pointing out his charac- 
teristic excellences. As we have pretty well 
exhausted allwe had to say upon this subject 
in the body of the work, we shall here transcribe 
SchlegePs general account of Shakespear, which 
16 in the following words: — • 

*^ Never, perhaps, was there so comprehensive 
a talent for the delineation of character as Shake- 
spear's. It not only grasps the diversities of 
rank, sex, and age, down to the dawnings of 
infancy; not only do the king and the beggar, 



X PREFACE. 

the hero and the pickpocket, the sage and the 
idiot speak and act with equal truth ; not only^ 
does he transport himself to distant ages and 
foreign nations, and pourtray in the most accu- 
rate manner, with only a few apparent violations 
of costume, the spirit of the ancient Romans, of 
the French in their wars with the £nglish, of 
the English themselves during a great part of 
their history, of the Southern Europeans (in 
the serious part of many comedies) the culti- 
vated society of that time, and the former rude 
and barbarous state of the North ; his human 
charactiers have not only such depth and pre- 
cision that they cannot be arranged under classes, 
and are inexhaustible, even in conception: — no 
— this Prometheus hot merely forms men, he 
opens the gates of the magical world of spirits ; 
calls up the midnight ghost ; exhibits before us 
his witches amidst their unhallowed mysteries; 
peoples the air with sportive fairies and sylphs : 
-^and these beings, existing only in imagination, 
possess such truth and consistency, th^t even 
when deformed monsters like Caliban, he extorts 
the conviction, that if there should be such be- 
ings, they would so conduct themselves. In a 
word, as he carries with him the most fruitful 
and daring fancy into the kingdom of nature,**— 
on the other hand, he carries nature into the re- 
gions of fency, lying beyond the confines of real- 



PREFACE. xi 

ity. We are lost in astonishment at seeing the 
extraordinary, the wonderful, and the unheard 
of, in such intimate nearness. 

" If Shakespear deserves our admiration for 
his characters, he is equally deserving of it for 
his exhibition of passion, taking this word in its 
widest signification, as including every mental 
condition, every tone from indiflFerence or fami- 
liar mirth to the wildest rage and despair. He 
gives us the history of minds ; he lays open to 
us, in a_ single word, a whole series of preceding 
conditions. His passions do not at first stand 
displayed to us in all their height, as is the case 
with so many tragic poets, who, in the language 
of Lessing, are thorough masters of- the legal 
style of love. He paints in a most inimitable 
manner, the gradual progress from the first ori- 
gin. " He gives,^^ as Lessing says, " a living 
picture of all the most minute and secret arti- 
fices by which a feeling steals into our souls; of 
all the imperceptible advantages which it there 
gains ; of all the stratagems by which every other 
passion is made subservient to it, till it becomes 
the sole tyrant of our desires and our aversions.** 
Of all poets, perhaps, he alone has pourtrayed 
the mental diseases, melancholy, delirium, lu- 
nacy, with such inexpressible, and, in every re- 
spect, definite truth, that the physician may 
enrich bis observations fi'om them in the same 
manner as from real cases. 



xii PREFACE. 

'* A nd yet Johnson has objected to Shake* 
spear, that his pathos is not always natural and 
free from affectation. There are, it is true, pas- 
sages, though, comparatively speaking, very few, 
where his poetry exceeds the bounds of true 
dialogue, where a too soaring imagination, a too 
loxuriant wit, rendered the complete dramatic 
forgetfulness of himself impossible. With this 
exception, the censure originates only in a fan* 
ciless way of thinking, to which every thing ap- 
pears unnatural that does not suit its own tarae 
insipidity. Hence, an idea has been fcHrmed of 
simple and natural pathos, which consists in ex- 
clamations destitute of imagery, and nowise 
elevated above every-day life. But energetical 
passions electrify the whole of the mental 
powers, and will, consequently, in highly fa-* 
Toured natures, express themselves in an inge- 
nious and figurative manner. It has been often 
remarked, that indignation gives wit; and, as 
despair occasionally breaks out into laughter, it 
may sometimes also give vent to itself in anti- 
thetical comparisons. 

^' Besides, the rights of the poetical form havQ 
not been duly weighed. Shakespear, who wa$ 
always sure of his object, to move in a sufi}- 
ciently powerful manner when he wished to dQ 
so, has occasionally, by indulgipg in a freer play^ 
purposely moderated the impressions when:too 
painful, and immediately introduced a musical 



PRSFACE; xiU 

alleviation of our sympathy. He had not those 
rude ideas of his art which many moderns seem 
to have, as if the poet, like the clown in the pro- 
verb, must strike twice on the same place. An 
ancient rhetorician delivered a caution against 
dwelling too long on the excitation of pity ; for 
nothing, he said, dries so soon as tears; and 
Shakespear acted conformably to this ingenious 
maxim, without knowing it. 

" The objection, that Shakespear wounds our 
feelings by the open display of the most disgust- 
ing moral odiousness, harrows up the mind un- 
mercifully, and tortures even our senses by the 
exhibition of the most insupportable and hateful 
spectacles, is one of much greater importance. 
He has never, in fact, varnished over wild and 
blood-tjiirsty passions with a pleasing exterior,— 
never clothed crime and want of principle with 
a false show of greatness of soul ; and in that 
respect he is every way deserving of praise. 
Twice he has pourtrayed downright villains; and 
the masterly way in which he has contrived to 
elude impressions of too painful a nature, may 
be seen in lago and Richard the Third. The 
constant reference to a petty and puny race must 
cripple the boldness of the poet. Fortunately 
for his art, Shakespear lived in an age extremely 
ausceptible of noble and tender impressions, but 
•which had still enough of the firmness inherited 
from a vigorous olden time, not to shrink back 



xir PREFACB. 

with dismay from every strong and violent pibr 
ture. We have lived to see tragedies of which 
the catastrophe consists in the swoon of an ena- 
moured princess. If Shakespear falls occasion- 
ally into the opposite extreme, it is a noble er- 
ror, originating in the fulness of a gigantic 
strength : and yet this tragical Titan, who storms 
the heavens, and threatens to tear the world 
fro)[n off its hinges; who, more terrible than 
iEschylus, makes our hair stand on end, and 
congeals our blood with horror, possessed, at the 
«ame time, the insinuating loveliness of the 
sweetest poetry. He plays with love like a 
child ; and his songs are breathed out like melt- 
ing sighs. He unites in his genius the utmost 
elevation and the utmost depth ; and the most 
foreign, and even apparently irreconcileable pro- 
perties subsist in him peaceably together. The 
world of spirits and nature have laid all their 
treasures at his feet. In strength a demi-god, 
in profundity of view a prophet, in all-seeing 
wisdom a protecting spirit of a higher order, he 
lowers himself to mortals, as if unconscious of 
his superiority : and is as open and unassuming 
as a child. 

" Shakespear^s comic talent is equally wonr 
tlerful with that which he has shown in th^ 
pathetic and tragic : it stands on an equal eleva^ 
tion, and possesses equal extent and profundity. 
All that I before wished was, not to admit that 



PREFACE. XT 

the former preponderated* He is highly ia- 
▼entiye in comro situations and motives. It will 
be hardly possible to show whence he has taken 
any of them ; whereas, in the serious part of his 
drama, he has generally laid bold of s<Hnething 
-already known. His comic characters are 
equally true, various, and profound, with his se- 
rious. So little is he disposed to caricature, that 
we may rather say many of his traits are almost 
too nice and delicate for the stage, that they can 
only be properly seized by a great actor, and 
fully understood by a very acute audience. Not 
. only has he delineated many kinds of foliy; he 
has also contrived to exhibit mere stupidity 
in a most diverting and entertaining manner/' 
Vol. ii. p. 145. 

We have the rather availed ourselves of this 
testimony of a foreign critic in behalf of Shake- 
spear, because our own countryman. Dr. John- 
. son, has hot been so favourable to. him. It may 
be said of ShakespRear, that '^ those who are not 
fof him are against him :'\ for indifference is here 
the height of injustice. We may sometimes, in 
order " t® do a great right, do a little wrong.^' 
An overstrained enthusiasm is more pardonable 
with respect to Shakespear than the want of it; 
for our. admiration cannot easily surpass his 
genius. We have a high respect for Dr. John- 
son's character and .understanding, mixed with 
something like personalattachment: but he was 






xTi PRBFACIi. 

neither a poet nor a judge of p6etry. He might 
in one sense be a judge of poetry as it falls with- 
in the limits and rules of prose, but not as it is 
poetry. Least of all was he qualified to be a 
judge of Shakespear, who ^' alone is high fan- 
tastical.^' Let those who have a prejudice 
against Johnson read BoswelPs Life of him: as 
those whom he has prejudiced against Shake- 
spear should read his Irene. We do not say 
that a man to be a critic musti necessarily be a 
poet: but to be a good critic, he ought not to 
be a bad poet. Such poetry as a man delibe- 
rately writes, such, and such only will he like. 
Dr. Johnson's Preface to his edition of Shake- 
spear looks like a laborious attempt to bury the 
(Characteristic merits of his author under a load 
of cumbrous phraseology, and to weigh his excel- 
lences and defects in equal scales, stuffed full 
of '' swelling figures and sonorous epithets.*" 
Nor could it well be otherwise ; Dn John- 
son's general powers of reasoning overlaid his 
critical susceptibility. All his ideas were cast 
in a given mould, in a set form : they were 
made out by rule and system, by climax, in- 
ference, and antithesis :— Shakespear's were the 
reverse. Johnson's understanding dealt on- 
ly in round numbers: the fractions were lost 
upon him. He reduced every thing to the 
common standard of conventional propriety ; and 
the most exquisite refinement or sublimity pro- 



PREFACE. xvii 

duced an effect .on his mind, only as they could 
be translated into the language of measured prose. 
To him an excess of beauty was a fault ; for it 
appeared, to him like an excrescence; and his 
imagination . was dazzled by the blaze of light. 
His. writings neither shone with the beams of 
native genius,, nor reflected them. The shift- 
ing shapes of fancy, tha rainbow hues of things, 
made, no impression on him : he. seized only on 
thie permanei)t and tangible. He bad no idea 
of natural objects but '^ such as be could mea- 
sure with a two-foot rule, or tell upon ten fin- 
gers:^', he judged of human nature in the same 
^^y? by .mood, and figure: he saw only the defi- 
nite, the. positive, and the practical, the average 
forols of things, not their . striking differences, 
their classes, , Dot. their , degre^s^ He was. a 
man of strong common sense and practical wis^ 
(}om,^ rather than , of. genius or feeling. He 
retained the regular, habitual impressions .of 
actual objects, but he could not follow the rapid 
flights of fancy, or the strong movements of pas- 
sion.. That is,^he was. to the poet what the 
painter of. still life is to the painter of history. 
Common sepse sympathizes with the impres- 
sion^ of things., on ordinary minds in ordinary 
circumstanc,es : genius catchies the glancing com- 
binations presented to the eye of fancy, under 
the influence of passion. It is the province of 
the didactic reasoner to take cognizancet of those 

b 



xviii PREFACE. 

results of human nature which are constantly 
repeated and always the same, which follow 
one another in regular succession, which are 
acted upon by large classes of men, and embodi- 
ed in received customs, laws, language, and in^ 
stitutions ; and it was in arranging, comparing, 
and arguing on these kind of general results, that 
Johnson's excellence lay. But he could not 
quit his bold of the common-place and mechan- 
ical, and apply the general rule to the particular 
exception, or shew how the nature of man was 
modified by the workings of palsion, or the 
infinite fluctuations of thought and accident. 
Hence he could judge neither of the heights nor 
depths of poetry. Nor is this all; for being 
conscious of great powers in himself, and those 
powers of an adverse tendency to those of bis 
author, he would be for setting up a foreign ju- 
risdiction over poetry, and making criticism a 
kind of Procrustes' bed of genius, where he 
might cut down imagination to matter-of-fact, 
regulate the passions according to reason, and 
translate the whole into logical diagrams and 
rhetorical declamation. Thus he says of Shake- 
spear's characters, in contradiction to what Pope 
had observed, and to what every one else feels, 
that each character is a species, instead of being 
an individual. He in fact found the general 
species or didactic form in Shakespe^r's charac-** 
ters, which was all he sought or cared for ; he 



PRBFACIBL xhc 

did not find the individual traits, or the dramatic 
distinctions wlrich Shakespear has engrafted 
on this general nature, because he felt no in* 
terest in them. Shakespear's bold and happy 
flights of imagination were equally thrown away 
upon our author. He w^s not only without 
any particular fineness of organic sensibility, 
alive to all the " mighty world of ear and eye,'* 
which is necessary to the painter or musician, 
but without that intepseoess of passion which, 
seekingto e&aggerate whatever excites the feeU 
ings of pleasure or power in the mind, and 
moulding the impressions' of naturd objects ac* 
tM>rding to the impulses of imagination^ produces 
a genius and a taste for poetry; According to Dn 
Johnson^ a mountain is sublime, or a rose is 
beautiful ; for that their name and definition im- 
ply.. Bfut he would no more be able to give the 
description of Dover cliff in Lear^ or the de* 
scriplion of flowers in The Winter's Tale^ than 
to describe the -objects of a sixth sense; nor 
do we think he would have any very profound 
feeling of the beauty of the passaged h^e re* 
ferred to. A stately common-place, such as 
Congreve's description of a ruin in the Mourns 
ing JBrkhy would have answteed Johnson's pur- 
pose' just as weJl, or better than the first ; and 
aa indiscriminate profusion of scents and hues 
would have interfered less with the ordinary 



XX PREFACE. 

routine of his imagination than JPerdita's lines, 
which seem enamoured of their own sweet- 
ness^ — 

'' Drffodils ' 

That come before the swallow dares^ and take 
The winds of March with beautj ^ violets diin> 
But sweeter than the lids of Juno*8 eyes. 
Or Cytherea's breath.'* — 

No one who does not feel the passioii which 
these objects inspire can go along with the ima- 
gination which seeks to express that passion and 
the uneasy sense of delight by something still 
more beautiful, and no one can feel this pas- 
sionate love of nature without quick natural 
sensibility. To a mere literal and formal* ap- 
prehension, the inimitably characteristic epithet, 
" violets rfim,^^ must seem to 'imply a defect, 
rather than a beauty ; and to any one, not feel- 
ing the full force of that epithet,' which suggests 
an image like " the sleepy eye of love,'^ the al- 
lusion to " the lids of Juno's eyes'* must appear 
extravagant and unmeaning. Shakespear's fency 
lent words and images^ to- the most ^refined 
sensibility to nature, struggling for expression : 
his descriptions are identical with the things 
themselves, seen through the fine medium of 
passion : strip them of that connection, and try 
them by ordinary conceptions and ordinary rules, 
and they are as grotesque .and barbarous as 



PREFACE. xxi 

you please. — ^By thus lowering Shakespear^s 
genius to the standard of common-place inven- 
tion, it was' easy to shew that his faults were 
as great as his beauties: for the excellence^ 
which. consists merely in a conformity to rules, 
is ^counterbalanced by the technical violation of 
them. Another circumstance which^ led to Dr. 
Johnson's indiscriminate praise or censure - of 
Shakespear, is the very structure ' of his style. 
Johnson wrote ajcind of rhyming proscy in which 
he was compelled as much to finish the different 
clauses of hjs sentences, and to. balance one pe* 
riod against another, as the writer of heroic verse 
is to keep to lines of ten syllables with similar 
terminations. He no sooner acknowlec^esthe 
merits of his author in one line than the periodical 
revolution of his style carries the weight of his 
opinion completely over to the side of objection; 
thus keeping up a perpetual alternation of per* 
fections and absurdities. We do not . otherwise 
know how to account for siich assertions as the 
following :— '^ In his tragic scenes, . there is al- 
ways something wanting, but his comedy often 
surpasses expectation or desire. . His comedy 
pleases by the thoughts and the language, and 
his tragedy, for the greater part, by incident and 
action. His tragedy seems to be skill, his co- 
inedy to be instinct."' Yet after saying that 
^^ his tragedy was skill,'' he affirms in the next 



ttU FREFACB. 

page, ^VHis declamatioDs or set speeches are 
commonly cold and weak, for hu power was the 
fower of nature:: when he endeavoured, like 
i^her tragic writers, to cateb opportunities of 
amplification, and instead of inquiring what the 
occasion demanded, to sbew how much bis 
stores of kboVkrIedge could supply, be seldom 
escapes without the pity or resentment of bis 
reader.^^ . .Poor Sbakespear! Between the 
charges here brought agaii^t bim^ of watit of 
nature in the first instance, and of want jof skill 
in the second, he could hardly escape being con* 
demned. And again, '^ But the admirers of this 
great poet have most reason to complain when 
he approaches nearest to his highest excellence, 
and seenis fully resolved to sink them in dejec*- 
lion, or mollify them with tender emotions by 
the fall of greatness, the danger of innocence, or 
the crosses of love. . What he does best, he soon 
ceases to do* He no sooner begins to move 
than he countefaets himself ; and teitor and pity^ 
as tbey are rising in the mind, are checked and 
blasted by . sudden . frigidity/^ ^ in all this, our 
critic seems more bent on maintaining the equi* 
Hbriufft of his style than the consistency or truth 
of his opioions.-^If Dr* Johnson^ opinion was 
right, the following observations oli Shakespear^a 
Plays^must be.gr^rtly exaggeirated, if »pt ridi* 
cnlous* If he was wrong, what has be^i said 



PREFACE. um 

may perhaps account for his being so, without 
detracting from his ability and judgment in other 
things. 

It is proper to add, that the account of the 
Midsummer Nighfs Dream has appeared in 
another work. 

Apnl 15, 1817. 



CYMBELINK 



CYMBELtNE is one o^ the tnost delightfbil of 
Shakespear^s historical plays. It may be con- 
sidered as a dramatic romaDce^ ii!i which the 
most stHkiDg parts of the story are thrown into 
the form of a dialogue^ and the intermediate 
circumstances are explained by the different 
speakers, as occasion renders it necessary. The 
action is less concentrated in consequence ; but 
the interest becomes more aerial and refined 
from the principle of perspective introduced into 
jkhe subject by the imaginary changes of scenQ 
as well as by the length of time it occupies. The 
reading of this play is like going !^ journey with 
some uncertain object at the end of it^ and in 
which the suspense is kept up and heightened by 
the long intervals between each Action. Though 
the events are scattered oyer such an e^Ktent of 

B 



3 CYMBELINE. 

surface, and relate to such a variety of charac- 
ters, yet the links which bind the different in- 
terests of the story together are never entirely 
broken. The most straggling and seemingly 
casual incidents are contrived in such a man- 
ner as to lead at last to the most complete de- 
velopetnent of the catastrophe. The ease and 
conscious unconcern with which this is effected 
only makes the skill more wonderful. The bu- 
siness of the plot evidently thickens in the last 
act: the story moves forward with increasing 
rapidity at every step ; its various ramifications 
are drawn from the most distant points to iht 
same centre ; the principal characters are brought 
together, and placed in very critical situations ; 
and the fate of almost every person in the drama 
is made to depend on the solution of a single 
circumstance — the answer of lachimo to the 
question of Imogen respecting the obtaining ci 
the ring from Posthumus* Dr. Johnson is of 
opinion that Shakespear was generally inatten^ 
tive to the winding up of his plots. We think 
the contrary is true ; and we might cite in proof 
of this remark not only the present play, but 
the conclusion of Lear, of Romeo nnd Juliet^ 
of Macbeth^ of Othello^ even of Hamhty and c^ 
other plays of less moment, in which the last act 
is crowded with decisive events brought about 
by natural and striking means. 



CYMBSLINB. 3 

The pathos in Cymb£lin£ is not violent or 
tragical, but of the most pleasing and amiable 
kind. A certain tender gloom overspreads the 
whole* Posthumus is the ostensible hero of 
the piece, but its greatest charm is the cha^- 
racter of Imogen. Posthumus is only interest* 
ing from the interest she takes in him, and she 
is only interesting herself from her tenderness 
and constancy to her husband. It is the pecu^^ 
liar characteristic of Shakespear's heroines, that 
they seem to exist only in their attachment to 
others. They are pure abstractions of the affec- 
tions. We think as little of their persons as 
they do themselves, because we are let into the 
secrets of their hearts,'Which are more important. 
We are too much interested in their affairs to 
stop to look at their faces, except by stealth and 
at intervals. No one ever hit the true perfec- 
tion of the female character, the sense of weak- 
ness leaning on the. strength of its affections for 
suppoirt, so well as Shakespear — no one ever so 
well painted natural tenderness free from affec- 
tation and disguise—* no one else ever so well 
shewed how delicacy and timidity, when driven 
to extremity, grow romantic and extravagant; 
for the romance of bis heroines (in which they 
abound) is only an excess of the habitual pre* 
judiees of their sex, scrupulous of being false 
to ihhiT vows, truant to their affections, and 
taught by the force of feeling when to forego 



4 CYMBELINE. 

the forms of propriety for the essence of it; His 
women were in this respect exquisite logicians ; 
for there is nothing so logical as passioii. They 
knew their own minds exactly ; and only fol- 
lowed lip a favourite idea^ tvhich they had 
sworn to with their tongues, and which was 
engraven on their hearts, into its untoward con- 
sequences; They were the prettiest little set of 
martyrs and confessors on record. — Gibber, in 
speaking of the early English stage, accounts for 
the want of prominence and theatrical display 
in Shakespear's female characters from the cir- 
cumstance, that women in those days were not 
allowed to play the parts of women, which made 
it necessary to keep them a good deal in the 
back-ground* Does not this state of manners 
itself, which prevented their ekhibiting them* 
selves in public, and confined them to the rela- 
tions and charities of domestic life, afford a truer 
explanation of the matter? His women are 
certainly very unlike stage-heroines; the reverse 
of tragedy-queens. 

We have almost as great an affectiota for Imo- 
gen as she bad for Posthumus ; and she deserves 
it better. Of all Shakespear's women she is 
perhaps the most tender and the most artless. 
Her incredulity in the opening scene with lachi- 
mo, as to her husband's infidelity, is much the 
same as Desdemona's backwardness to believe 
Othello^s jealousy. Her answer to the most 



CYMBELINE. 6 

distressing part of the picture is only, ** My 
lord, I fear, has forgot Britain/^ Her readiness 
to pardon lachimo's false imputations and his 
designs against herself, is a good lesson to 
prudes ; and may shew that where there is a 
real attachment to virtue, it has no need to 
bolster itself up with an outrageous or affected 
antipathy to vice. The scene in which Pisanio 
gives Imogen his master's letter, accusing her of 
incontinency on the treacherous suggestions of 
lachimo, is as touching as it is possible for any 
thing to be :— ^ 

*^ Pisanio, What cheery Madam ? 

Imogen, False to his bed ! What is it 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*s bed^ is it ? 

Pisanio. Alas^ good lady ! 

Imogen. I false ? thy conscience witness^ IaQhimo> 
Thou didst accuse bi^n pf incontinency^ 
Thou then look*dst like a villain : now methinks^ 
Thy favour 8 good enough. Some Jay of Italy, 
Whose mother was her painting, hath betrayed him : 
Poor I am stale^ a garment out of fashion. 
And for I am richer than to hang by th* walls, 
I must be ript f to pieces with me. Oh, 
Men*s vows are women*s traitors, All good seeming 
By thy revolt, oh husband, shall be thought . 
Put on for villainy : , not bom where*t grows. 
But worn a bait for lad^. 

Pisanio, Good Madam> hear me^^* 



6 CYMBELINS. 

Imogen, Talk thy tongqie weaiy^ «pMk : 
I have heard I am a stnimpet^ and mine ear^ 
Therein false struck^ can take no greater wound. 
Nor tent to bottom that." . * 

When Pisanio, who had been charged to kill 
bis mistress, puts her in a way to live, she says, 

*' WTiy, good fellow. 
What shall I do the while? Where bide? How live? 
Or in my life what comfort, when I am 
Dead to my husband ?" 

Yet when he advises her to disguise herself 
in boy's clothes, and suggests " a course pretty 
and full in view,^^ by which she may " happily 
be near the residence of Posthumus,^* she ex- 
claims, 

'^ Oh> for such means. 
Though peril to my modesty, not death on*tj 
I would adventure." 

And when Pisanio, enlarging on the conse-^ 

« 

quences, tells her she must change 



>'' Fear and nicenesSj 



The handmaids of aU women, or wore tnily^ 
Woman its pretty self, into a waggi^ courage. 
Heady in gibes, quick answered, saucy, and 
As quarrellou3 as the weazd'* ■ ■ 

she interrupts him hastily : — 

*' Nay, be briefs 
I see into thy end, and am almost 
A man already.** 



CYMBBLINB. 



Id her journey thus disguised to Milford- 
Haven, she loses h^t guid^ ^nd her way ; and 
unbosoming her complaints, says beautifully, — 



.'^ My dear Lord, 



Thou art one of the Mae ones ; now I think on thee> 
My hunger's gone -, but even be£bre> I was 
At point to sink for fodd.'* 

She afterwsurds finds, as she thinks, the dead 
body of Posthumus, and engages herself as a 
footboy to serve a Roman officer, when she has 
done all due obsequies to him whom she calls 
her former master-— ~ 



>'^ And when 



With wild wood-leaves and weeds I ha* strew*dhis grave> 

And on it said a ooatury of prey'rs> 

Such as I can, t^iee o'er^ I*U weep and sigh^ 

And leaving bo his service^ follow you> 

So please you entertain me/' 

Now this is the very religion of love. She all 
along relies little on her personal charms, which 
she fears may have been eclipsed by some painted 
Jay of Italy ; she relies on her merit, ajnd her 
merit is in the depth of her love, her truth and 
constancy. Our admiration of her beauty is 
excited with as little consciousness as possible 
on her part. There are two delicious descrip- 
tions given of her, one when she is asleep, and 
one when she is supposed dead. Arviragus 
thus addresses her — 



8 CYMBELINB. 

- ■ ' H ■ ■ ' — *' With fiairest flowers^ 
'VVhile summer lasts^ and I live here^ Fidele^ 
I'll sweeten thy sad grave ; thpu shalt not laek 
The flow'r that's like thy ia^ce, pale primrose^ nor 
The azur'd hare-bell^ like thy veins^ nOj, iior 
Th^ )e^ of eglantine^ which not to slander^ 
Out-sweeten*d not thy breath.'* 

The yellow lachimo gives another thus, when 
he steals ipto her bed-chamber ;--^ 



T'' 



^€€ 



Cytherea, 



How bravely thou becom'st thy bed ! Fresh lily. 
And whiter than the sheets ! That I might touch--^ 
But kiss, one kiss — 'Tis her breathing that 
Perfumes the chamber thus : the flame o' th' taper 
Bows toward her, and would under-peep her lids 
To see th* enclosed lights now canopied 
Under the windows, white and azure, laeed 
With blue of Heav'ns own tinfet— on her left breast 
A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops 
Y the bottom of a cowslip!** - 

There is a moral sense in the proiid beauty of 
this last image, e^ rich surfeit of the fancy ,r-^a8 
that well-known passage beginning, *^ Me of my 
lawful pleasure she restrained, and prayed pie 
oft forbearance,^^ sets a keener edge upon it by 
the inimitable picture of modesty and self^de- 
niaL 

The character of (3lQten, the conceited, booby 
lord, and rejected lOvef of Imogen, though not 
very agreeable in itself, and ^t present obsolete, 
is drawn with great humoqr and knowledge of 



CYMBELINS. 9 

character. The description which Imogen gives 
of bis unwelcome addresses to her — ^' Whose 
love-suit hath been to me as fearful as a siege^^— ^ 
is enough to cure the most ridiculous lover of 
his folly. It is remarkable that though Cloten 
makes so poor a figure in love, he is described 
^ assuming an air of consequence as the Queen^s 
son in a council of state, and with all the absur- 
dity of his person and manners, is not without 
shrewdness in his observations. So true is it 
that foliy is as often owing to a want of proper 
sentiments as to a want of understanding ! The 
exclamation of the ancient critic. Oh Menander 
and Nature, which of you copied from the 
other ! would not' be misapplied to Shakespear. 
The other characters in this play are repre* 
sented with great truth and accuracy, and as it 
happens in most of the author's works, there is 
not only the utmost keeping in each separate 
character; but in the casting of the different 
parts, and their relation to one another, there 
is an affinity and harmony, like what we may 
observe in the gradations of colour in a picture. 
The striking and powerful contrasts in which 
Shakespear abounds could not escape observa-* 
tion ; but the use he makes of the principle of 
analogy to reconcile the greatest diversities of 
character and to maintain a continuity of feeling 
throughout, hdsnot been sufficiently attended 
to. la Cyaibelixe, for instance, the principal 



10 CTMBELINE. 

interest arises out of the unalterable fidelity of 
Imogen to her husband under the most trying 
circumstances. Now the other parts of the pic^- 
ture are filled up with subordinate examples of 
the same feeling, variously modified by dif- 
ferent situations, and applied to the purposes of 
Virtue or vice* The plot is aided by the amor«' 
ous importunities of Cloten, by the tragical 
determination of lachimo to conceal th^ defeat 
of his project by a daring impodture : the faith- 
ful attachment of Pisanio to his mistress is an 
afiecting accompaniment to the whole ; the 
obstinate adherence to his purpose in Bellarius^ 
who keeps the fate of the young princes so long 
a secret in resentment for the ungrateful return 
to his former services, the incon^igible wicked- 
mess of the Queen, and even the blind uxorious 
confidence of Cymbeline, are all so many lines 
of the same story, tending to the same point. 
The efiect of this coincidence is rather felt than 
observed ; and as the impression exists uncon- 
sciously in the mind of the reader, so it probably 
arose in the same manner in the mind of the 
author, not from design, but from the force of 
natural association, a particular train of feeling 
suggesting difierent inflections (tf the same pre- 
dominant principle, melting into, and strength- 
ening one another, like chords in music. 

The characters of Bellarius, Guiderius, and 
Arviragus, and the romantic scenes in which 



CTMBELINS. 11 

they appear, are a fine relief to the intrigues and 
artificial refinements of the court firbm which 
they are banished. Nothing can surpass the 
wildness and simplicity of the descriptions of 
the mountain life they lead. They follow the 
business of huntsmen, not of shepherds ; and 
this is in keeping with the spirit of adventure 
and uncertainty in the rest of the story, and with 
the scenes in which they are afterwards called 
on to act. How admirably the youthful fire and 
impatience to emerge from their obscurity in 
the young princes is opposed to the cooler caU 
culations and prudent resignation of their more 
experienced counsellor ! How well the dis«> 
advantages of knowledge and of ignorance, of so- 
litude and society, are placed against each other! 



€€ 



Qmderim» Out of your proof you speak : we poor 
unfledg'd 
Have never winged from view o* th* nest ; nor know not 
What air*s from home. Haply this life is best> 
If quiet life is best -, sweeter to you 
That have a sharper known j well corresponding 
With your stiflF age : but \mto us it is 
A ceU of ignorance ; travelling a-bed^ 
A prison fw a debtor, that not dares 
To stride a limit. 

Arvvragus. What should we speak of 
When we are old as you ? When we shall hear 
The rain and wind beat dark December ! How, 
In this our pinching cave> shall we discourse 
The freezing hours away ? We have seen nothing. 



M CYMBELINE. 

We are beastly ; subtle as the fox for prey^ 
Like warlike as the wolf for what we eat : 
Our valour is to chase what flies ; our cage 
We make a quire^ as doth the prison*d bird. 
And sing our bondage freely.'* 

The answer of Bellarius to this eitpostulation 
i9 hardly satisfactory ; for nothing can be an an- 
swer to hope, or the passion of the mind for 
unknown good, but experience. — The forest of 
Arden in As you like it can alone compare with 
the mountain scenes in Cymbeline : yet how 
xlifferent the contemplative quiet of the one from 
the enterprising boldness and precarious mode of 
subsistence in the other ! Shakespear not only 
Jets us into the minds of his characters, but 
gives a tone and colour to the scenes he der 
scribes from the feelings of their imaginary in- 
habitants. He at the same time preserves the 
utmost propriety of action and passion, and gives 
all their local accompaniments. If he was equal 
to the greatest things, he was not above an 
attention to the smallest. Thus the gallant 
sportsmen in Cymbeline have to encounter 
the abrupt declivities of hill and valley : Touch- 
stone and Audrey jog along a level path. The 
deer in Cymbeline are only regarded as objects 
of prey, " The game's a-foot,'' &c. — with Jaques 
they are fine subjects to moralize upon at lei- 
sure, ** under the shade of melancholy boughs.'* 

We cannot take leave of this play, which is 



CYMBELINB. IS 

a favourite with us, without noticing some oc- 
casional touches of natural piety and morality* 
We may allude here to the opening of the scene 
in which Bellarius instructs the young pri|ice$ 
to pay their orisons to heaven : 



'*^ See, Boys ! this gate 



Instructs you how t* adore the Heav ns ; and bows you 
To morning's holy office. 

Guidenus, Hail, Heav*n! 

Arviragm. Hail, Heav*n! 

Bellarius. Now for our mountain-sport, up to yon hill.*' 

What a grace and unaffected spirit of piety 
breathes in this passage ! In like manner, one 
of the brothers says to the other, when about to 
perform the funeral rites to Fidele, 

*' Nay, Cadwall, we must lay his head to the east ; 
My Father hath a reason for*t.*' 

Shakespear's morality is introduced in the 
same simple, unobtrusive manner. Imogen will 
not let her companions stay away from the 
chase to attend her when sick, and gives her 
reason for it — 

'' Stick to your journal course ; the breach of cmtom 
Is breach of all /** 

When the Queen attempts to disguise her mo- 
tives for procuring the poison from Cornelius, by 



14 CYMBELINB. 

saying she means to try its effects on ^^ creatures 
npt worth the hanging/^ his answer conveys at 
once a tacit reproof of her hypocrisy, and a use- 
ful lesson of humanity-i- 



s< 



Your Highness 



Shall from this practice but make hard your heart.' 



MACBETH. 



'^ The poet's eye in a fine frenzy rollii^ 

Doth glance from heaven to earthy from earth to heaven; 

And as imagination bodies forth 

The forms of things miknown> the poet*8 pen 

Turns them to shape^ and gives to airy nothing 

A local habitation and a name/* 

jVl ACBETH and Leavj Othello and Hamlet, are 
usually reckoned ShakespearV four principal 
tragedies. Lear stands first for the profound 
intensity of the passion ; Macbeth fqr the 
wildness of the imagination and the rapidity 
of the action ; Othello for the progressive in- 
terest and powerful alternations of feeling; 
Hamlet for the refined developement of thought 
and sentiment. If the force of genius shewn 
in each of these works is astonishing, their 
variety is not less so. They are like dif* 
ferent creations of the same mind^ not one of 
which has the slightest reference to the rest. 



16 MACBETH. 

This distinctness and originality is indeed the 
necessary consequence of truth and nature^ 
Shakespear^s genius alone appeared to possess 
the resources of nature. He is " your only tra^ 
gedy-^makerJ*^ His plays have the force of things 
upon the mind. What he represents is brought 
home to the bosom as a part of our experience, 
implanted in the memory as if we had known 
the places, persons, and things of which he 
treats. Macbeth is like a record of a preter- 
natural and tragical event. It has the rug-* 
ged severity of an old chronicle with all that 
the imagination of the poet can engraft upon 
traditional belief. The castle of Macbeth, 
round which " the air smells wooingly,*^ and 
where " the temple-haunting martlet builds,^^ 
has a real subsistence in the mind ; the Weird 
Sisters meet us in person on ** the blasted heath ;^^ 
the " air-drawn dagger** moves slowly before 
our eyes ; the " gracious Duncan,** the " blood* 
boultered Banquo** stand before us ; all that 
passed through the mind of Macbeth passes, 
without the loss of a tittle, through our*s. All 
that could actually take place, and all that is 
only possible to be conceived, what was said 
and whiat was done, the workings of passion, 
the spells of magic, are brought before xis with 
the same absolute truth and vividness. — Shaker 
spear excelled in the* openings of his plays: 
jdiat of Macbeth is the most striking of any. 



MACBETH^ ir 

The wrldness of the scenery, the sudden shifting 
of the situatiofis and characters, the bustle, the 
expectations excited, are equally e^ttraordinary. 
Frdm the first entrance of the Witches and the 
deKfiption of tb^m when they ntieet Macbeth, < 

'' What are these 

So witha*'d and so w&d im tbcst atttee^ 

That look not like the inhabitai^tA of.th' earth 

And yet areon*t?" > . . , 

the mind is prepared for all that follot¥s. 

This tragedy is alike distinguished for the lofty 
icnagination.it displays, and for the tumnltuoud 
vehefn^nceof the action ; and the one.ismad^ 
the moving principle of the other. The ov«r-i 
whelming pressure of pret^natural sq^cy urgps 
on the tid^ of human passk^ witb redeuHed- 
force. Macbeth himself appears dtiven al6ng 
by the violence of his fate like a Tessel drift- 
ing before a stonb ; he reels to and fto like 
a dhru nken man ; he staggers under - the weight 
of hi3 own purposes aod the suggestions of 
otbem ; . be 9tands at bay with his situation ; 
and frqixi^ tlfte sup^rstitiottd aw^ and breathless 
suspense into, which :tb6 comibunications of the 
Weird Sisters . throw km, is hujrjied ou with 
daBic^. imptiti^c^ to terify their predi€ti<>cis^ 
and with impious abd bloody band to tear aside 
the veil whiiuh bkles* the uDceitainty of the fu- 
ture» He is not equal to the struggle with fate 
and consQicmce.! He : now ^^ bends up each 

c 



18 MACBETH. 

corporal instrument to the terrible feat ;'' at 
other times his heart misgives him, and he is 
cowed and abashed by his success. ^* The deed, 
no less than the attempt, confounds him/^ His 
mind is assailed by the stings of remorse, and full 
of '^ preternatural solicitings/' His speeches 
and soliloquies are dark riddles on human life, 
baffling solution, and entangling him in their la- 
byrinths. In thought he is absent and perplexed, 
sudden and desperate in act, from a distrust of 
his own resolution. His energy springs from 
the anxiety and agitation of his mind. His 
blindly rushing forward on the objects of bis am- 
bition and revenge, or his recoiling from them, 
equally betrays the harassed state of his feelings. 
---This part of his character is admirably set off 
by being brought in connection with that of Lady 
Macbeth, whose obdurate strength of will and 
masculine firmness give her the ascendancy over 
her husband's faukering virtue. She at once 
seizes on the opportunity that offers for the ac* 
cumplishment of' all their wished*for greatness, 
and never flinches from her object till all is 
over. The magnitude of her resolution almost 
covers the magnitude of her guilt. She is a great 
bad woinan« whom we hate, but whom we fear 
more than we bate. She does not excite our 
loathing and abhorreiftce hke Regan and Gone- 
rill. She is only wicked to gain a great end ; 
and is.perhaps more distinguished by her com- 



MACBETH. 19 

manding presence of mind and inexorable self- 
will, which do not suffer her to be diverted firom 
a bad purpose, when once formed, by weak and 
womanly regrets, than by the hardness of her 
heart or want of natural affections. The im- 
pression which her lofty determination of cha- 
racter makes on the mind of Macbeth is well 
described where he exclaims, 



— — " Bring forth men children only 5 
For thy undaunted mettle should compose 
Nothing but males !*' 

Nor do the pains she is at to^^ screw his courage 
to the sticking-place'\ the reproach to him, 
not to be ^^ lost so poorly in himself,^' the assu- 
rance that ^' a little water clears them of this 
deed,^^ shew any thing but her greater consis- 
tency in depravity. Her strong-nerved ambi- 
tion furnishes ribs of steel to ^^ the sides of his 
intent;^' and she is herself wound up to the exe- 
cution of her baneful project with the same un- 
shrinking fortitude in crime, that in other cir- 
cumstances she would probably have shewn 
patience in suffering. The deliberate sacrifice 
of all other considerations to the gaining ^' for 
their future days and nights sole sovereign sway 
and masterdom,^' by the murder of Duncan, is 
gorgeously expressed in her invocation on hear- 
ing of ^^ his fatal entrance under her battle- 
ments :''— * 



90 MACBETH. 



J< Gome all you spirits 



That tend cm mortal thoughts^ unsex me here: 
And fill me^ from the crown to th* toe^ top-fuQ 
Of direst cruelty 5 make thick my blood. 
Stop up the access and passage to remorse. 
That no compimctious visitings of nature 
Shake my fdl purpose, nor keep peace between 
The effect and it. Ck)me to my woman's breasts. 
And take my milk for gall, you murthering ministers. 
Wherever in your sightless substances 
You wait <Hi nature*s mischief. Come, thick night ! 
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell. 
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes. 
Nor heav n peep through the blanket of the dark, 
Tocry, hold, hold!"— 

When she first hears that *^ Duncan comes there 
to sleep*^ she is so overcome by the news, which 
is beyond her utmost expectations, that she 
answers the messenger, " Thou^rt mad to say 
it :*^ and on receiving her husband's account of 
the predictions of the Witches, conscious of his 
instability of purpose, and that her presence is 
necessary to goad him on to the consummation 
of his promised greatness, she exclaims-^ 

" Hie thee hither, 

Tliat I may pour my spirits in thine ear. 
And chastise with the valour of my tongue 
All that impedes thee fi»m the golden rounds 
Which fate and metaphpical aid doth seem 
Tq have thee crowned withal." 

This swelling exultation and keen spirit of tri- 
umph, this uncontroulable eagerness of anticipar 



BCACBBTH. «1 

"/ 

tion, which seems to dilate her form aod take 
possession of all her £aicultieS) this solid, sub- 
stantial flesh and blood display of passion, ex- 
hibit a striking contrast to the cold, abstracted^ 
gratuitous, servile malignity of the Witches, who 
are equally instrumental in urging Macbeth to 
his fate for the mere love of mischief, and from 
a disinterested delight in deformity and cruel- 
ty. They are hags of mischief, obscene panders 
to iniquity, malicious from their impotence of 
enjoyment, enamoured of destruction, because 
they are themselves unreal, abortive, half-exis- 
tences^ and who become sublime from their 
exemption from all human sympathies and con- 
tempt for all human affairs, as Lady Macbeth 
does by the force of passion ! Her fault seems 
to have been an excess of that strong principle 
of self*interest and family aggrandisement, not 
amenable to the common feelings of compas- 
sion and justice, which is so marked a feature in 
barbarous nations and times. A passing reflec- 
tion of this kind, on' the resengtblance of the 
sleeping king to her father, alone prevents her 
from slaying Duncan with her own hand. 

In speaking of the character of Lady Mac- 
beth, we ought not to pass over Mrs. Siddons's 
manner of acting that part. We can conceive 
of nothing grander; It was something above 
nature. It seemed almost as if a being of a su- 
perior order had dropped from a higher spheres to 



\ 
{ 
I 



33 MACBETH: 

awe the world with the majesty of her appear* 
ance. Power was seated on her brow, passion 
emanated from her breast as from a shrine; she 
was tragedy personified. In coming on in the 
sleeping-scene, her eyes were open, but their 
sense was shut. She was like a person bewil- 
dered and unconscious of what she did. Her 
lips moved involuntariIy-**«ll her gestures were 
involuntary and mechanical. She glided on and 
off the stage like an apparition. To have seen 
her in that character was an event in every one's 
life, iiot to be forgotten. 

The dramatic beauty of the character of Dun- 
can, which excites the respect and pity even 
of his murderers, has been often pointed out. 
It forms a picture of itself. An instance of the 
author's power of giving a striking effect to a 
common reflection, by themanner of introducing 
it, occurs in a speech of Duncan, complaining 
of his having been deceived in his opinion of 
the Thane of Cawdor, at the very moment that 
he is expressing the most unbounded confidence 
in the loyalty and services of Macbeth. 

" There is no art 
To find the mind's construction in the £aoe : 
He yms a gentleman^ on whom I built 
An absolute trust. 

O worthiest cousin^ (addressif^ himself to Macbeth) 
The sin of my ingratitude e*en now 
Was great upon me/' &c. 



MACBETH. 23 

Aaother passage to shew that Sbakespear lost 
sight of nothing that conld in any way give 
relief or heightening to his subject, is the con* 
versation which takes pUce between Banquo 
and Fleance immediately before the mnrder- 
scene of Duncan. 

** Banquo. How goes the nighty boy } 

Fleance. The moon is down : I have not heard the clock. 

Banquo. And she goes down at twelve. 

Fleance. I take*t, 'tis later> Sir. 

Banquo. Hold^ take my sword. There's husbandry in 
heav'n. 
Their candles are aU out. — 
A heavy summons lies like lead upon me^ 
And yet I would not sleep : litodful Powers^ 
Restrain in me the euned thoughts that nature 
Gives way to in repose.'* 

In like manner, a fine idea is given of the 
gloomy coming on of evening, just as Banquo 
is going to be assassinated. 

'* I^ht thickens and the crow 
Makes wing to the rqoky wood." 

'' Now spurs the lated traveller apaqe 
To gain the timely inn.*' 

Macbeth (generally speaking) is done upon 
a stronger and more systematic principle of con- 
trast than any other of Shakespear^s plays. It 



94 MACBETH. 

moves upon ttie verge of an abyss, ^nd is a con- 
stant strugg'te between life and death, Tlie 
action is desperate and the reaction is dread^L 
It is a huddling together of fierce extremes, a war 
of opposite natures which of them shall cfestroy 
the other. There is nothing but what has a 
violent end or violent beginnings. The lights 
and shades are laid on with a determined hand; 
the transitions from triumph to despair, from 
the height of terror to the repose of death, are 
sudden and startling; every passion brings in 
its fellow - contrary, and the thoughts pitch 
and jostle against each other as in the dark. 
The whole play is an unruly chaos of straiige 
and forbidden things, where the ground rocks 
under our feet. Shakesp^ur^s genius here took 
its full swing, and trod upon the farthest bounds 
of nature and passion. This circumstance will 
account for the abruptness and violent antitheses 
of the style, the throes and labour which run 
through the expression, and from defects will 
turn them into beauties^ ^' So fair and foul a day 
I have not seen,*^ &e. •* Such welcome and un^ 
welcome news together/' " Men's lives are like 
the flowers in their caps, dying or ere they sick- 
en/' " Look like the innocent flower, but be the 
serpent under it/' The scene before the. castle- 
gate follows the appearance of the Witches o^ 
the heath, and is followed by a midnight rourdei:. 



MACBETK 85 

Duncan is cut off betimes by treason leagued 
with witchcraft, and Macduff is ri[^d untimely 
ftom bis mother's womb to avenge his death* 
Macbeth, afber the death of Banquo^ wishes for 
bis presence in extravagant terms, ^^ To him and 
all we thirst/' and when his ghost appears, cries 
out, '^ Avaunt and quit my sight,'' and being 
gone, he is ^^ himself again." Macbeth resolves 
to get rid of Macduff, that '^ he may sleep in 
«pite of thunder;" and cheers his wife on the 
doubtful intelligence of JBanquo's taking-off with 
the encouragement—^^ Then be thou jocund : ere 
the bat has flown his cloistered flight ; ere to 
black Hecate's summons the shard«bom beetle 
has rung night's yawning peal, there shall be 
dcmo'^a deed of dreadful note." In Lady Mac^ 
beth'S'Speech '^ Had he not resembled my father 
as he slept, I had done 't," there is murder and 
filial piety together, and in urging him to fulfil 
his vengeance against the defenceless king, her 
thoughts spare the blood neither of infants nor 
old age. The description of the Witches is full 
of the same contradictory principle ; they ^^ re- 
joice when good kings bleed," they are neither 
of the earth nor the air, but both; " they 
should be women, but their beards forbid it ;" 
they take all the pains possible to lead MaCf 
beth on to the hdght of his ambition^ only 
to betray him in deeper consequence, and after 



M MACBETH. 

shewing him all the pomp of their art, dis- 
cover their malignant delight in his disappointed 
hopes, by that bitter taunt, ^^ Why stands Mac- 
i)eth thus amazedly V^ We might multiply such 
instances every where. 

The leading features in the character of 
Macbeth are striking enough, and they form 
what may be thought at first only a bold, rude^ 
Gothic outline. By comparing it with other 
characters of the same author we shall per- 
ceive the absolute truth and identity which is 
observed in the midst of the giddy whirl and 
rapid career of events. Macbeth in Shakespear 
no more loses his identity of character in the 
fluctuations of fortune or the storm of passion, 
than Macbeth in himself would have lost the 
identity of his person. Thus he is as distinct a 
being from Richard III. as it is possible to ima- 
gine, though these two characters in common • 
hands, and indeed in the hands of any other 
poet, would have been a repetiftion of the same 
general idea, more or less exaggerated. Fqr 
both are tyrants, usurpers, murderers, both as- 
piring and ambitious, both courageous, cruel, 
treacherous. But Richard is cruel irom nature 
and constitution. Macbeth becomes so from 
accidental circumstances. Richard is from his 
birth deformed in body and mind, and natu- 
rally incapable of good. Macbeth is full of '^ the 



MACBETH. ^ 

milk of human kiDdness/' is frank, sociable, 
generous. He is tempted to the commission of 
guilt by golden opportunities, by the instiga-* 
tions of his wife, and by prophetic warnings. 
Fate and metaphysical aid conspire against his 
virtue and his loyalty. Richard on the con- 
trary needs no prompter, but wades through a se- 
ries of crimes to the height of his ambition from 
the ungovernable violence of his temper and a 
reckless love of mischief. He is never gay but 
in the prospect or in the success of his villainies :> 
Macbeth is full of horror at the thoughts of the 
murder of Duncan, which he is with difficulty 
prevailed on to commit, and of remorse after its 
perpetration. Richard has no mixture of com- 
mon humanity in his composition, no regard to 
kindred or posterity, he owns no fellowship with 
others, he is ^* himself alone.^^ Macbeth is 
not destitute of feelings of sympathy, is accessi- 
ble to pity, is even made in some measure the 
dupe of his uxoriousness, ranks the loss of 
friends, of the cordial love of his followers, and 
of his good name, among the causes which have 
made him weary of life, and regrets that he has 
ever seized the crown by unjust means, since he 
cannot transmit it to his posterity — 

^' Eor Banquo's issue have I 'fil'd my mind — 
For them the gracious Duncan have I murther'd> 
To make them kings^ the seed of Banquo kings.** 



W MACBETH. 

I 

la the agitation of his thoughts, he enviea those 
whom he has sent to peace. ^^ Duncan is in his^ 
grave ; after lifers fitful fever he sleeps well/^ — 
It is true, he beccmaes more callous as he plunges 
deeper in guilt, ^^ direness is thus rendered fa- 
miliar to his slaughterous thoughts/^ and he in 
the end anticipates his wife in the boldness and 
bloodiness of his enterprises, while she for want 
of the same stimulus of action, is ^^ troubled, 
with thick-coming fancies that rob her of her 
rest,^^ goes mad and dies. Macbeth endeavours 
to escape from reflection on his crimes by repel* 
ling their consequences, and banishes remorse 
for the past by the meditation of future mischief. 
This is not the principle of Richard's cruelty, 
which resembles the wanton malice of a fiend 
as much as the frailty of human passion. Mac- 
beth is goaded on to acts of violence and retalia* 
tion by necessity; to Richard, blood is a pastime.. 
—There are other decisive difierences inherent 
in the two characters. Richard may be regarded 
as a man of the world, a plotting, hardened knave, 
wholly regardless of every thing but his own 
ends, and the means to secure them— Not so* 
Macbeth. The superstitions of the age, the 
rude state of society, the local scenery and cus^ 
toms, all give a wildness and imaginary grandeur 
to his character. From the strangeness of the 
events that surround him, be is full of amaze- 



MACBETH. 2» 

ment and fear; and stands in doubt between 
the world of reality and the world of fatx^. He 
sees sights not shewn to mortal eye, and hears 
unearthly music. All is tumult and' disorder 
within and without his mind ; bis purposes re* 
coil upon himself, ate broken^ and disjointed ; 
he* is the double thrall of his passions and his 
evil destiny. Richard is not a character either 
of imagination or pathos, but of pure self-will. 
There is no conflict of opposite feelings in his 
breadt. The apparitions which lie sees only 
haimt him in bis sleep; nor does he live like 
Macbeth vii a waking dream. Macbeth has 
comsideraible energy and manliness of character ; 
but then he is ^' subject to all the skyey influ- 
efnc^.^^^ He is sure of nothing but the present 
moment. Richard in the busy turbulence of 
his prbjecta never loses his self-possession, and 
makes use of every circumstance that happens 
as an 'instrument of -his long-reaching designs; 
In his last extremity we can only regard him as 
a wild beast taken in the toils: we nerver. en- 
tirely lose our concern for Macbeth; and h^ 
calls back all our sympathy by that fine close of 
thoughtful melancholy — 

/ ^' My way of life is fkllen into the sear> 
The yellow leaf 3 and that which should accompany old age> 
As honour^ troops of friends^ I must not look to have} 
But in their steady curses not loud but doep^ T 



so macb:bth. 

Mouth«>hQ]iour^ breath, which the poor heart 
Would £adn d^y aad dare not." 

We can conceive a common actor to play 
Richard tolerably well ; we can conceive no 
one to play Macbeth properly, or to look like a 
man that had encountered the Weird Sisters. 
All the actors that we have ever seen, appear as 
if they had encountered them on the boards oJT 
Coven t'garden or Drury-lane, but not on th^ 
heath at Fores, and as if they did not believe what 
they had seen., The Witches of Macbeth in- 
deed are ridiculous on the modern stage, and we 
doubt if the furies of iEschylus would be noKire 
respected. The progress of manners and know- 
ledge has an influence on the stage, and will in 
time perhaps destroy both tragedy and comedy» 
Filches picking pockets, in the Beggars^ Opera^ 
is not so good a jest as it used to be : by the 
forpe of the police and of philosophy, LiUo's 
murders and the ghosts in Shakespear will be- 
come obsolete. At last there will be nothing 
left, good nor bad, to be desired or dreaded, on 
the theatre or in real life. A question has been 
started with respect to the originality of Shake- 
spear's Witches, which has been well answered 
by Mr. Lamb in his notes to the " Specimens 
of Early Dramatic Poetry."— 

^' Though some resemblance may be traced 



MACBETH. SI 

between the charms in Macbeth, and the in« 
cantations in this play, (the Witch of Middle- 
ton) which is supposed to have preceded it, 
this coincidence will not detract much from the 
originality of Shakespear. His Witches are dis- > 
tinguished from the Witches of Middleton by 
essential differences. These are creatures to 
whom man or woman plotting some dire mis- 
chief might resort for occasipnal consultation. 
Those originate deeds of blood, and begin bad 
impulses to men. From the moment that their 
eyes first meet with Macbeth^s, he is spell- 
bound. That meeting sways his destiny. He 
can never break the fascination. These Witches 
can hurt the body ; those have power over the 
soul. — Hecate in Middleton has a son, a low 
buffoon : the hags of Shakespear have neither 
child of their own, nor seem to be descended 
from any parent. They are foul anomalies, of 
whom we know not whence they are sprung, 
nor whether they have beginning or ending. As 
they are without human passions, so they seem 
to be without human relations. They come 
with thunder and lightning, and vanish to airy 
music. This is all we know of them.—- Except 
Hecate, they have no names, which heightens 
their mysteriousness. The names, and some of 
the properties which Middleton has given to 
his hags, excite smiles The Weird Sisters are 



33 



MACBETH. 



s^ious thi'Qgs« Their presence cannot co^exist 
with mirth* But, in a lesser degree, the Witches 
of Middleton are fine creations. Their power 
too iS) in some measure, over the mind. They 
raise jars, jealousies, strifes, like a thick scurf 
o'er life.'' 



JULIUS C^SAR. 



Julius Cjesxr was one ot three principal plays 
by different authors, pitched upon by the cele- 
brated Earl of HafllFftEK to be brought out in a 
splendid tiiatin^r by siibseription, in the year 
1707. 'fhe other ' two were the King and Nd 
King of Fletcher, and Dryden^s Maiden Queen. 
There perhaps might be.political ^reasons for this 
selection, as far as regards our author* Other-* 
wise, Shakespear's JutitrsC^sAR idiiot equalas 
a whole, to eithet of his other plays takeil from 
the Roman history. It is inferior in interest to 
Cwiolcmus^ and both in interest and power to 
Antiomf and Cleopatra*, It however abounds 
in admirable and affecting passages, and is re- 
markable for the profound knowledge of cha- 
racter, in which Shakespear could scarcely fail. 
If there is any exception to this remark, it is in 

p 



84 JULIUS C^SAR. 

the hero of the piece himself. We do not much 
admire the representation here given of Julius 
Caesar, nor do we think it answers to the portrait 
given of him in his Commentaries. He makes 
several vapouring and rather pedantic speeches, * 
and does nothing. Indeed, he has nothing to 
do. So far, the fault of the character might be 
the fault of the plot. 

The spirit with which the poet has entered at 
once into the manqers of the common peopkt 
and the jealousies and heart-burnings of the dif- 
ferent factions, is shewn in the first scene, when 
Flavins and MaruUus, tribunes of the people, and 
some citizens of Roiniei, appesir upon the stage« 

'' FUmas. Thou iu% a liobler^ airt tbnu? 

Cobler, Tnily> Sir> all that I live by^ is the awl : I med- 
dle ivith no tradesman's matters^ nor woman's matters^ but 
mth'cU, I am mdeed> Sir> a surgeon to old shoes > When 
they are in great dang6r> I remoter them. 

FiaviuB, But wherefore art not in thy shop to day } 
Why do*st thou lead these men about the streets ? 
. Cobler. Truly, Sir^ to wear out their shoes> to get myself 
into more work. But indeed. Sir, we msike holiday to see 
Caesar, and rejoice in his triiunph." 

To this specimen of quaint low humour im* 
mediately follows that unexpected and animated 
burst of indignant eloquence, put into the 
mouth of one of the angry tribunes. 

Mdrullus. '* Wherefore rejoice !— What conquest brings 
he home 'i 



JULIUS C^SAR. 36 

What tributaries foQow him to Rome> 
To grace in captive-bonds his chariot-wheels ) 
Oh you hard hearts^ you cruel men of Rome ! 
Knew you not Pompey ? Many a time and oft 
Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements^. 
To towers and windows^ yea> to chimney-tops> 
Yom* infimts in your arms> and there have sat 
The live-long day with patient expectation> 
To see great Pompey pass the stre^ of Rome : 
And when you saw his chariot but appear^ 
Have you not made an universal shout> 
That Tyber trembled underneath his banks 
To hear the replication of your sounds^ 
Made in his concave shores } 
And do you now put on your best attire } 
And do you now cull out an holiday } 
And do you now strew flowers in his way 
That comes in triumph over Fompey*s blood ? 
Begone-—— 

Run to your houses> fell upon your knees> 
Pray to the Gods to intermit the plague^ 
That needs must light on this ingratit^dft•'* 

The well-known dialogue betWeeti Brutus and 
Cassias, in which the latter breaks the design 
of the conspiracy to the former, and partly gains 
hioi over to it, is a noble piece of high-minded 
declamation. Cassius's insisting on the pre- 
tended effeminacy of Caesar's character, and his 
description of their swimming across the Tiber 
together, " once upon a raw and gusty day," 
are among the finest strokes in it. But per- 
haps the whole is not equal to the short scene 



S6 jnilUS CJBSAR. 

which follows when Caesa? enters with his 
train. 

4 

*' Bruins: The games are done, and Cssar is returning. 
Ckimus. As they pass hy, pluck Casca by the sleeve^ 
And he wiil^ after his sour fashion^ tell you 
What has pi'oceeded worthy note to day. 

Brutus, I will do so ^ but look you> Cassius— 
The angry spot doth glow on €«8ar*s brow^ 
* And all the rest look l^e a chidden train. 
Calphurnia*s cheek is pale ; and Cicero 
Looks with such ferret and such fiery eyes^ 
As we have seen him in the Capitol> 
Being crost in conference by Bome senators. 
Cassius, Casca will tell us what the matter is. 
Casar, Antonius ■ 
Antony. Caesar? 

Casctr. Let me have men about me that are ht. 
Sleek-headed men^ and such as sleep a-nights : 
Yond Cassius has a lean and; hungry lock. 
He thinks too much 3 such men are dangerous^ . 

Antony. Fear him not^ Ceesar^ he's not dangerous : 
He is a noble Roman> and well given. 

Casar. Would he were fatter', but I fear him not .- 
Yet if my name were liable to fear, 
I do not know the man I should avoid 
So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much 3 
He is a great observer 5 and he looks 
Quite through the deedsc of men. Hie loves no plays^ 
As thou dost, Antony 5 he hears nomusiq : 
Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort. 
As if he mock*d himself, and scom'd his spirit. 
That could be mov*d to smile at any thing. 
Such men as he be never at heart's ease. 
Whilst they behold a greater than themsdves ; 



JULIUS CMBAU. 37 

Aad therefore are tbejr very ioAg^tovik. 
I rather tell thee what is to be fear'd 
Than what I fear ; for always I am Cssar. 
Come on my; right hand> for this ear is deaf. 
And tell me truly what thou thmk*st of him.** 

We know hardly any passage more expressive 
of the genius of Shakespear than this. It is as 
if he had been actually present, had known, the 
different ebaraeters and what they thought of 
one another^ and bad taken down what he heard 
and saw, their looks, words, wd gestufed^ jQst 
as they happened^ 

The character of Mark Antony is farther spe- 
culated upon where the conspirators deliberate 
whether be shali fall, with Ceesar. Brutus is 
against it— 

^^ And for Mark Antony^ think not of him : 
Fot he can do iio more thdn Ceei^'s arm> 
When C8esaj''8 he^ i« off. 

' Ctissius. Yet dd I fenr hidi : 
For in th* Ingralfced love he hta,H td Caesar — 

BfUfos. AMt, godd CIMilis, do not thitkk of him : 
If he love Ciesary aft titvthe caa do 
la to himself^ take thought, and die for C^sar : 
And that were much^ h^ should i for he is giv*n 
To sports^ to wildnessj and much company. 

Trebmitis, There is no fear in him } let him not die : 
For he win live, and laugh at this hereafter.'* 

They were iii thei #ron[g ; and €ai§sius wad right. 
The b6iWst manllniiss df Brutu^ is ho\v^^er 



38 JULIUS CMSAK. 

sufficient to find out the unfitniBss of Cicero to be 
included in theif enterprize, from his affected 
egotism and literary vanity, 

'^ 0;t name him not : let us not break with him s 
J'or he MTiU never follow any thing> 
That other men begin." 

His scepticism as to prodigies and his mch 
ralising on the weather — ^^ This disturbed sky 
is not to walk in*^— are in the same spirit of 
refined imbecility. 

Shakespear has in this play and elsewhere 
shewn the same penetration into political c4ia- 
racter and the springs of public events as into 
those of every-day life. For instance, the 
whole design to liberate their country fails 
from the generous teQ[iper and overweening 
confidence of Brutqs in the gQodnesis of their 
cause and the assistance of others. Thus it 
hasi Mways been. Those who .mean well them-^ 
pelves think well of others, and fall a prey to 
their security, That humanity and sincerity 
which dispose men to resist injustice and tyran-p 
py render them unfit to cope with the cunning 
and power of those who are opposed to them. 
The friends of liberty trust to the professions of 
others, because they are themselves sincere, and 
endeavour to secure the public good with the 
least possible hurt to its enemies, who h^ye no 
regaf'd to $my t^iipg but their own unprincipled 



JULIU3 C^SAR. 39 

ends, and stick at notbing to accomplish them* 
Cassius was better cut out for a conspirator. 
His heart prompted his head. His habitual jea- 
lousy made him fe^r the worst that ipight hap- 
pen, and his irritability of temper added to his 
inveteracy of purpose, and sharpened his patri- 

■ * • • • ■ 

otism. The mixed nature'of his motives made 
him fitter to contend with bad men. The vices 
are never so well employed as in combating one 
another. Tyranny and servility are to be dealt 
with after their own fashion: otherwise, they 
will triumph over those who spare them, and 
finally pronounce their funeral panegyric, as An- 
tony did that of Brutus. 

'' All the conspirators^ save only he> 

Did that they did in envy of great Csesar : 

He only in a general honest thought 

And common good to all^ n^ade one of then^." 

The quarrel between Brutus and Cassius is ma« 
naged in a masteHy way. The draqfiatic fluctu- 
ation of passion, the calmness of Brutus, the 
heat of Cassius, are admirably described ; and 
the exclamation of Cassius on hearing of the 
death of Portia, which he does not learn till 
after their reconciliation, '^ How ^scap'd I kiU 
ling when I crost you so V^ gives double force 
to all that has gone before. The scenp between 
Brutus and Portia, whe]re she endeavofirs to ex- 
tort the secret of ttie coD^pir^cy from bim. is 



40 JULIUS CiBSAR 

ooncteived in the most heroical spirit, and the 
buist of tenderness in Bnitu»-*<- 

" Tou are my true and honourable wife ; 
Afi dear to me as are the ruddy drops; 
That Tisit my sad heart*' — 

IS justi^ed by her avhole behaviour. Portia's 
breathless impatience to learn tb^ evept of the 
conspiracy, in the dialogue with Xuciiis, is full 
of passion. The interest; wbicb Portia takes ia 
Brutus and that which C^lphurQia^ takes im the 
^te of Caesar are discriaiinfited with the nieesit 
precision. Mark Antony'^ speech <^^t tht» dead 
body of Caesar has \)een juatly adniired for th^ 
mixture of pathos and artifice in it : that of Bru- 
tus certainly is not so good. 

The entrance of the conspirators to the house 
of Brutus at midnight is rendered very Impres- 
sive. In the mididt of this scene, we meet with 
one of those careless and natural digressions 
which occur so frequently ^nd beautifoUy ia 
Shakespear. After Cassius has introduced his 
friends one by: one, Brutus says, 



€< 



They are aH welcome. 
What watchful cares do interpose themselves 
, Betwi3^ yow eye^ and night I 

Cassiua. Shall I entreat a word ^ fThey whitper.) 
Deem. Here lied: the east: doth not the day break her^? 
CoBca. No. 

Cinna. O pardon^ Sir^ it doth; and yon grey lines^ 
That ftet the clouds^ are messengers of day. 



JULIUS C^SAR. 41 

Casca, Tou shall confess^ that you are both deeeiv*d : 
Here> as I point my SMrord> the sun arises> 
Which is a great way growing on the south. 
Weighing the youthful season of the year. 
Some two months henee> up higher toward the north 
Hfi first presents his fire, and the high east 
Stands as the Capitol, directly here." 

We cannot help thinking this graceful famili- 
arity better than all the formality in the world. 
The truth of history in Julius C^sar is very 
ably worked up with dramatic effect. The coun- 
cils of generals, the doubtful turns of battles are 
represented to the life. The death of Brutus is 
worthy of him — ^it has the dignity of the Roman 
senator with the firmness of the Stoic pfailo80«- 
pher. But what is perhaps better than either, is 
the little incident of his boy^Lncius^fiiUii^asleep 
Over his instrument, as he is playing to his mas«- 
ter in' bis tent, the night before the battle. Na- 
ture had played him the same forgetfnl trick 
cfnce before on the night of the conspiracy^ The 
humanity of Brutus is the same on botb occa« 
sions. ' 



'** It is no matter : 



Bx^oj the honey4ue8»ry dew of slumber. 
Thou hast no figiifes nor no &ntasici^> 
Wl^ch btisy cace drawa in the brains of men. 
Therefore thou sleep^st so sound.** 



OTHELLO 



It has been said that tragedy purifies the affec- 
tions by terror and pity. That is, it substitutes 
imaginary sympathy for mere selfishness. It 
gives us a high and permanent interest, beyond 
ourselves, in humanity as such. It raises the 
great, the remote, and the possible to an equa- 
lity with the real, the little and the near. It 
makes man a partaker with his kind. It sub- 
dues and softens the stubbornness of his wilK 
It teaches him that there are and have been 
others like himself, by shewing him as in a glass 
what they have felt, thought, and done. It opens 
the chambers of the human heart. It leaves no- 
thing indifferent to us that can affect our com- 
mon nature. It excites our sensibility by exhi- 
biting the passions wound up to the utmost 
pitch by the power of imagination or the temp- 



OTHELLO. 43 

tation of circumstances ; and corrects their fatal 
excesses in ourselves by pointing to the greater 
extent of sufferings and of crimes to which they 
have led others. Tragedy creates a balance of 
the affections. It makes us thoughtful specta- 
tors in the lists of life. It is the refiner of the 
species; a discipline of humanity. The habi- 
tual study of poetry and works of imagination 
is one chief part of a well-grounded education. 
A taste for liberal art is necessary to complete 
the character of a gentleman. Science alone is 
hard and mechanical. It exercises the under- 
standing upon things out of ourselves, while it 
leaves the affections unemployed, or engross* 
ed with our own immediate, narrow interests. 
-r»OxH£LLO fumishcs an illustration of these 
remarks. It excites our sympathy in an ex- 
traordinary degree. The moral it conveys has 
a closer application to the concerns of human 
life than that of any other of Shakespear^s plays. 
'^ It comes directly home to the bosoms and 
business of men.^^ The pathos in Lear is in- 
deed more .dreadful and overpowering : but it is 
less natural, and less of every day^s occurrence. 
We have not the. same degree of sympathy with 
the passions described in Macbeth. The inter- 
est in Hamlet is more remote and reflex. That 
q{ Othello is at once equally profound and af- 
fecting. 
The picturesque contrasts of character in this 



44 OTHELLO. 

play are almost as remarkable as the depth of 
the passion. The Mooif Othello, the gentle 
Desdemona, the villain lago, the good*natured 
Cassio, the fool Roderigo, present a range and 
variety of character as striking and palpable ad 
that produced by the opposition of costume in 
a picture. Their distinguishing qualities stand 
out to the mind's eye, so that even When we 
are not thinking of their actions or sentiments, 
the idea of their persons is still as present to us 
as even These characters and the images they 
stamp upon the mind are the farthest asundef 
possible, the distance between them is immense : 
yet the compass of knowledge and invention 
wUch the poet has shewn in embodying these 
extreme creations of his genius is only greater 
than the truth and felicity with which he has 
identified each character with itself, or blended 
tlmir different qualities together in the Btm€ 
story. What a contrast the character of Othello 
forms to that of lago: at the same time, ihe 
force of conception wifth which these two figures 
are opposed to each other is rendered still more 
intense by the complete consielteiicy with whi<;h 
the traits of each character are brought out 
in a state of the highest finishing. The making 
ooii black and the other white, the one unprinci-* 
pled, the other unfortunate in the extreme, wotild 
have answered the common purposes of effect, 
atid satisfied the ambition of an ordinary painter 



OTHELLa 4S 

of chancer. Sh.k«p«„ h.,.lJ»««d ,he a.« 
shades of difference in both with as much care 
and skill as if he had had to depend on the exe* 
cution alone for the success of his design. On 
the other hand, I>esdeinona and jEmilia are not 
meaat to be opposed with any thing like atrang 
contrast to each other. Both are, to outward 
appearance, characters of eommoQ; life, not more 
distinguished than women usually are, by dit^ 
ference of rank and situation. The difference 
of their thoughts and sentiments is however laid 
as open, their miijids are separated from each 
other by signs as plain and as littleto.be mis* 
taken as the complexions of their husbands. 

The movement of the passion in Othello is 
exceedingly different from that of Macbeth. In 
Macbeth there is a violent .struggle between op«- 
posite feelings, between ambition and the stings 
of conscience, almostr from first to last.: iu 
Othello^ the doubtful conflict between contraf- 
ry passions, though dreadfuU continues only 
for a short time, and the chief interest is excited 
by the alternate ascendancy of different passions, 
the entire and unforeseen change from the fondest 
love and most unbounded confidence to the tai^ 
tjures of jealousy and the madness. of hatreds 
The revenge of Othe}lo, after it has once taken 
thorough possession of his mind, never quits it^ 
but grows stronger and stronger at every moment 
of its delay. The nature of the Moor is noble. 



46 OTHELLO. 

tonfiding, tender, and generous ; but bis bl6od \ 
is of the most inflammable kmd ; and being 
once roused by a sense of his wrongs, he is 
stopped by no considerations of remorse or pity 
till he has given a loose to all^thewdictates of his 
rage and his despair. It is in working bis noble 
nature up to this extremity through rapid but 
gradual transitions, in raising passion to its 
height from the smallest beginnings and in spite 
of all obstacles, in painting the expiring conflict 
between love and hatred, tenderness and resent- 
ment, jealousy and remorse, in unfolding the 
strength and the weaknesses of our nature, 
in uniting sublimity of thought with the anguish 
of the keenest woe, in putting in motion the 
various impulses that agitate this our mortal 
being, and at last blending them in that noble '^ 
tide of deep and sustained passion, impetuous 
but majestic, that " flows on to the Propontic, 
and knows no ebb,'^ that Shakespear has shewn 
the mastery of his genius and of his power over 
the human heart. The third act of Otiiello 
is his master-piece, not of knowledge or passion 
separately, but of the two combined, of the 
knowleVlge of character with the expression of 
passion, of consummate art in the keeping up 
of appearances with the profound workings of 
nature, and the convulsive movements of un- 
controulable agony, of the power of inflicting 
torture and of suffering it. Not only is the tu* 



OTHELLO. 47 

mult of passion heaved up from the very bottom 
of the soul, but every the slightest undulation 
of feeling is seen on the surface, as it arises from 
the impulses of imagination or the different pro- 
babilities maliciously suggested by lago. The 
progressive preparation for the catastrophe is 
wonderfully managed from the Moor's first gal- 
lant recital of the story of his love, of " the spells 
and witchcraft he had used/' from his unlooked- 
for and romantic success, the fond satisfaction 
with which he dotes on his own happiness, the 
unreserved tenderness of Desdemona and her in- 
nocent importunities in fevour of Cassio, irri- 
tating the suspicions instilled into her husband's 
mind by the perfidy of lago, and rankling there 
to poison, till he loses all command of himself, 
and his rage can only be appeased by blood. 
She is introduced, just before lago begins to put 
his scheme in practice, pleading for Cassio with 
all the thoughtless gaiety of friendship and win- 
ning confidence in the love of Othello. 

'^What! Michael Cassio ? 
That came a wooing with you, and so many a time. 
When I have spoke of you dispraisingly. 
Hath ta'en your part, to have so much to do 
lb bring him in } — ^Why this is not a boon : 
"lis as I should intreat you wear your gloves. 
Or feed on nourishing meats, or keep you warm -, 
Or sue to you to do a peciiliar profit 
To your person. Nay, when I have a suit. 
Wherein I mean to touch your love indeed. 
It shall be full of poise, and fearfid to be granted/' 



4a Othello. 

OtheUo'& confidence,: at first only sti^gered by 
farokeo hints and insinuations, teto^em itself at 
sight of Desdemooa ; and he exchdmis 

^^ If she be flalse, O then Heav'n mocks itself: 
rU not believe it." 

But presently after, on brooding over his suspi- 
cions by himself, and yielding to his appreheni^ 
sions of the wor3t, his smothered jealousy breaks 
oi^t into open fury, and he returns to demand 
satisfaction of lago like a wild beast stung with 
the envenomed shaft of the hunters. ** Look 
where he comes/^ &c« In this state of exaspe* 
ration and violence, after the first paroxysms of 
his grief and tenderness have had their vent in 
that passionate apostrophe, ^^ I felt not Cassio's 
kisises on her lips,^^ lago by false aspersions, 
and b^ presenting the most revolting images to 
his mind,* easily turns the storm of passion from 
himsejf against Desdemona, and works him up 
into a trembling agony of doubt and fe^, in 
which he abandons all his love and hopes in a 
breath. 

*^ Now do I see. 'tis tine. Look he»s £Bgo» 

All my fond love thus do 1 btomto Hear'ik *Tls gone. 

Arise black veiBigeaiioe hom^ the hdUow heU ;> 

Yield up^.G lovei-thy csowniandheBrteditimine 

To tyrannous hate \ Swell bosom with. thy fraught; 

For 'tis of aspicks* tongues.'* 

* See the passage beginbing, ^ It 16 impossible you 
should see thiB> were they as prime as goats,** ftc. 



OTHELLO* 49 

From this time^ his n^idg thoughts " never 
look back, ne'er ebb to humble love'' till his 
revenge is sure of its object, the painful re- 
grets and involuntary recollections of past 
circumstances which cross his mind amidst 
the dim trances of passion^ aggravating the 
sense of his wrongs, but not shaking his pur- 
pose. Once indeed, where lago shews him 
Cassio with the handkerchief in his hand, and 
making sport (as he thinks) of his misfortunes, 
the intolerable bitterness of his feelings, the 
extreme sense of shame, makes him fall to prais- 
ing her accomplishments and relapse into a 
momentary fit of weakness^ " Yet, Oh the pity 
of lago, the pity of it !" This returning fond- 
ness however only serves, as it is managed by 
lago, to whet his revenge, and set bis heart 
more against her. In his conversations with 
Desdemona, the persuaision of her guilt and 
the immediate proofs of her duplicity seem 
to irritate his resentment and aversion to her ; 
but in the scene immediately preceding her 
death, the recollection of his love returns upon 
him in all its tenderness and force ; and after 
her death, he all at once forgets his wrongs in 
the sudden and irreparable sense of his loss. 

'' My wife ! My wife ! What wife ? I have no wife. 
Oh insupportable ! Oh heavy hour !" 

This happens before he is assured of her inno- 

£ 



50 OTHELLO. 

cence ; but afterwards his remorse is as dreadful as 
his revenge has been, and yields only to fixed and 
death-like despair. His farewel speech, before 
he kills himself, in which he conveys his reasons 
to the senate for the murder of his wife, is equal 
to the first speech in which he gave them an 
account of his courtship of her, and " his whole 
course of lovc»^^ Such an ending was alone 
worthy of such a commencement. 

If any thing could add to the force of our 
sympathy with Othello, or compassion for his 
fate, it would be the frankness and generosity 
of his nature, which so little deserve it. When 
lago first begins to practise upon his unsuspect^ 
ing friendship^ he answers— 



.€€ 



*T]s not to make me jealous^ 



To say my wife is feir, feeds well, loves company. 
Is free of speech, sings, plays, and dances well ; 
Where virtue is, these are most virtuous. 
Nor from my own weak merits will I draw 
The smallest fear or doubt of her revolt^ ' 
For she had eyes and chose me.*' 

This character is beautifully (and with aflfect- 
ing simplicity) confirmed by what Desdemona 
herself says of him to ^Emilia after she has lost 
the handkerchief, the first pledge of his love to 
her. 

'' Believe me, I had rather have lost my purse 
JPull of cruzadoes. And but my noble Moor 



OTHBLLO. 81 

Id tnle of mod, and intde of oo audi biaeness. 
As jealous creatures arcj it were enough 
To put him to ill thinking. 

Emilia, Is he not jealous ? 

Dfssdemona. Who be ? I think the sun where he was 
bom 
Drew all such htimours ftom him." 

In a short speech of iEmilia^s, there occurs one 
of those side'^intimations of the fluctuations of 
passion which we seldom meet with but in 
Shakespear. After Othello has resolved upon 
the death of his wife, and bids her dismiss her 
attendant for the night, she answers, 

" I will, my Lord. 

• • . * • • • 

JEmilia. How goes it now ? He looks gentler than he 

didr 

Shakespear has here put into half a Hn$ what 
somQ authors would have spun out into ten seft 
speeches. 

The character of Desdemona herself is ioimi- 
table both in itself, and as it contrasts with 
Othello's groundless jealousy, and with the foul 
CQnspiracy of which sb.e is the innocent victin)f. 
Her beauty and exteirnal graces are only indi- 
r^tly glanced at ; we See '^ her visage in her 
mind-/' her character every where predominates 
over her person. 

'^' A maiden never hold : 

Of spirit 90 still and qutet> that her motion 

Blushed at itself.*' ^ 



52 OTHELLO; 

There is one fine compliment paid to her by 
Cassio, who exclaims triumphantly when she 
comes ashore at Cyprus after the storm> 

'^ Tempests themselves^ high sea8> and howling wmds> 
As havmg sense of beauty, do omit 
Their mortal natures, letting safe go by 
The divine Desdemona.*' 

In general, as is the case with idost of Shake* 
spear's females, we lose sight of her personal 
charms in her attachment and devotedness to her 
husband. '' She is subdued even to the very qu;i- 
lity of her lord ;*' and to Othello's " honours and 
his valiant parts her soul and fortunes conse- 
crates/* The lady protests so much herself, and 
she is as good as her word. The truth of con- 
ceptioU) with which timidity and boldness are 
united in the same character, is marvellous. 
The extravagance of her resolutions, the perti- 
nacity of her affections, may be said to arise out 
of the gentleness of her nature. They imply 
ah unreserved reliance on the purity of her owil 
Interltions, an entire surrender of her fears to 
het love, a knitting of herself (heart and soul) 
to the fate of another. Bating the commence- 
ment of her passion, which is b little fantastical 
and headstrong (though even that may perhaps 
be consistently accounted for from her inability 
to resist a rising inclination*) her whole charac- 

* '' logo. Ay, too gentle. 
Othello. Nay, that s certain. 



1 



OTHELLO. 53 

ter consists in having no will of her own, no 
prompter but her obedience. Her romantic 
turn is only a consequence of the domestic and 
practical part of her disposition ; and instead. of 
following Othello to the wars, she would gladly 
have " remained at home a moth of peace,^^ if 
her husband could have staid with her. Her 
resignation and angelic sweetness of temper do 
not desert her at the last. The scenes in which 
she laments and tries to account for Othello's 
estrangement from her are exquisitely beautiful. 
After he has struck her, and called her names, 
she says. 



t€ 



Alas^ Iago> 



What 3hall I do to win my lotd again ? 

Good fHeDd> go to him ; for by this light of heaven> 

I ka6w not hove I lost him. Here I kneel ; 

If e'er my. wUl did tresims 'gainst hi3 love> 

Eitfaei^ in djacourse, or thpii^t, or actual deed^ 

Or that mine eyes^ mii^e e^> or any seps^ 

Ddighted them on any other form j 

Or that I do not, "^d ever did, 

> 

And ever will, though he do diake me off 
To b^garly divdrcement, love him dearly, 
CJomftsrt forswear tne. Unkindness may dQ mucb, 
4Ad his .unkindness may defeat ipy life^ 
But never taint my lovj^. 

lof^o. I pray you be contei^t : 'tis but hi? humour. 
The business of the state does him oflfence, 

JDcfdcmoiia. If 'twere no ottiep!"— 

The scene which follows with iEmilia and the 



54 OTHELLO 

6ong of the Willow, are equally beautiful^ and 
shew the author's extreme power of varying' th^ 
expression of passion, in all its naoods and in all 
circumstaqces. 

/Emilia. Would you had never se^n bim* 
Desdemona, So would not I : ipy love doth so approve 
him^ 

That even his stubbornness^ his diecks, his frowns^ 

Have grace and fevour in theiB/* &c. 

9 ^ 

t ' 

Not the unjust suspicions of Othdlo, not lago^ 
treachery, place Desdemona in a more amiable 
or interesting light than the casual conversatiOB 
(half earnest, half jest) between her and iEmi-r 
lia on the common behaviour of womien tp tb^ir 
husbaj)ds* Tbi9 dialogue t^^ place ju9t bejfore 
the last fatal acen^. If Othello bad overheard 
it, it would havb prevented the whole catas- 
trophe ; but then it would have spoilt the pl^y. 
The character of lago is one of the super- 
erogations of Shakespear's genius. Spme per<^ 
sons, more nice tb^^ wisi$, b^vt^ thpi^gbt this 
whole character utinatoral, because his villainy 
is withaui a su^idmi motive. Sbakeapear, who 
was as good a philosopher as he was a poet, 
thought otherwise. He linew that the love of 
power, which is ^pother name for the love of 
mischief, is natural to imP* H^ would know 
this as well or better than if it bad been demons 

Ktmted to him by a k^Kldifligrflii99 merely fron^ 



OTHEIiLO. • 55 

seeiDg ohiidren paddle in the dirt or kill flies for 
sport. lago ip fact belongs to a class of cha* 
raeters, common to Shakespear and at the same 
time peenlinr to him ; whose beads are as acute 
and active ^ their hearts are hard and callous, 
lago is to be sure an extreme instance of the 
kind ; that is to SfQr, of diseased intellectual 
a;ctirity, with an almost perfect indidei:ence to 
moral good or evil, or rather with a decided pre- 
ference of the latter, because it falls more readily 
in with his favourite propensity, gives greater 
zest to his thoughts and scope to his actions. 
He is quite or nearly as indifferent to his own 
fate as to that of others ; he runs all risks for a 
trifling and doubtful advantage ; and is himself 
the dupe and victim of hia rqliag passiQn-*-*-an 
insatiable craving after acHon of the most dilflcult 
and dangerous kind. '^ Our ancient^ is a philo- 
sopher, who fancies that a lie that kills has 
more point in it than an alliteration or an axiti- 
thesis; who thinks a fatal experiment on the 
peace of a family a better thing th^n watching 
the palpitations in the heart of ^ flea in a mi- 
croscope ; who plots the ruin of his friends as 
an exercise for his ingenuity, and stabs men in 
the dark to prevent ermuip His gaiety, such as 
it is, arises from the sqccess of his treachery ; 
his ease from the tortgxe he has inflicted on 
Others. He is an amateur of tragedy in real 
life ; and instes^d of employing hi^ invention on 



56 OTHELLO 



imaginary characters, or long* forgotten inci- 
dents, he takes the bolder and more desperate 
course of getting up his plot at home, casts the 
principal parts among his nearest friends and 
connections, and rehearses it in downright earn^ 
est, with steady nerves and unabated resolution. 
We will just give an illustration or two. 

One of his most characteristic speeches is thai 
immediately after the marriage of Othello. 

f^ Boderigo. What a full fortune do^i the tMck lips owe;» 
Jf he can cany her thus ! 

la^o. Call up her &tlier : 
Rouse him (Othello) ma|ce after him^ poison his delight^ 
Proclaim him in the streets^ incense her kinsmen^ 
And tho' he in a fertile climate dwells 
Plague him vnth flies : Tho* that his joy be joy^, 
Yet throw such changes of vexation on it^ 
As it may lose some colour." 

Ip the next passage, Kis imagination runs riot 
in the mischief he i^ plotting, and breaks out 
into the wildness and impetuosity of real en* 
thusiasm, 

" Roderigo, Here is her father's house : I'll call aloud. 

logo. Do, with like timourous accent and dire yell^ 
As when^ by night and negligence^ the fire 
Is spied in populous cities/* 

One of his most favourite topics, on which 
he 'm rich indeed, and in descanting on which 
his spleen serves him for a Muse, is the dispro-r 



OTHELLO; &7 

^rtiohate match between Desdemona and the 
Moor. This is a clue to the chaMctet of the 
lady which he is by no means ready to part withi 
it is 4>rought forward in the first scene, and he 
recurs to it, when in answer to his insinuations 
s^inst Desdemona, Roderigo says, 

'' I caimot believe that in her — she's full of most blest 
conditions. 

logo. Bless*d fig's end. The wine she drinks is made of 
grapes. If she had been blest> she would never have mar- 
ried the Moor.'* 

And again with still more spirit and iatal effect 
afterwards, when he turns this very suggestion 
arising in Othello^s own breast to her prejudice. 

'' Othello. And yet how nature erring from itself — 
logo, Ay)e> there's the point 5— ^«is to be bold with you> 
Not to afifeet many proposed matches 
Of her own cUme> consplexion^ and degree^" &c. 

This is probing to the quick. lago here turns 
the character of poor Desdemona, as it were, 
inside out. It is certain that nothing but the 
genius of Shakespear could have preserved the 
entire interest and delicacy of the part^ and have 
even drawn an additional elegance and dignity 
from the peculiar circumstances in which she is 
placed. — ^The habitual licentiousness of lago's 
conversation is not to be traced to the pleasure 
he takes in gross or lascivious images, but to 
his desire of finding out the worst side of every 



98 0THSLLO« 

Ibing, and of proving himaelfs^n ov^r-mateh f<^ 
appearapces. He has none of " the milk of hu- 
man kindneas^^ in his composition. Hia imagi* 
nation rejects every thing that has not a strong 
infusion of the most unpalatable ingredients ; 
his mind digests only poisons. Virtue or good* 
ness or whatever has the least ^' relish of salva- 
tion in it/^ is, to his depraved appetite, sickly 
and insipid : and he even resents the good 
opinion entertained of his own integrityji as if 
it were an affront cast on the masculine sense 
and spirit of his character. Thus at the meeting 
between Othello and Desdemona, he exclaims 
— " Oh, you are well, tuned now : but Pll set 
down the pegs that make this music, as honest 
as I nm^^-^hia cjharact^r of bonhommie not sit- 
ting at all easily upon him. In the scenes, 
where he tries to work Othello to his purpose, 
he is proportionably guarded, insidious, dark, 
^nd deliberate. We believe nothing eyer came 
up to the profound dissimulation and dextrovs 
artifice of the well-known dialogue in the third 
act, where he first enters upon the execution of 
|iis dp9ign. 

'' Ijigo. My noble lord. 

Qthfillo. What do!3t thou say, lago ? 

Ta^o. Did Michael Cassio, 
When you woo'd my lady, know of your love ^ 

Q^^eZiot. He did fix)in fifst to last. 
Wliy 4o|t tfepu ^l§ ^ 



%«. But for » saitis&ction of loy tboi^, 
J^o further hfixm* 

Othello. Why of thy thought, lago } 

logo. I did not think he had been acquainted with it. 

Othello. O yes, and went between us very ofb— ' 

logo. Indeed ! 

Othello. Indeed ? Ay, indeed. Diseem'fit tlwru augbl 
ofthat? 
' Is he not hmiest \ 

logo. Honest, my lord? 

OtheUo. Honest ? Ay, hcniest. 

logo. My lord, for aught I know. 

OtheUo. What dost thou think ? 

lago. Think, my lord ! 

OtheUo. Think, my lord ! Alas, thou eoho'st rae, 
A4 if there was ac^me monst^ in thy thought 
Too hicJAOW to b^ 8hew9.'* — 

The stops aqd breaks, the deep workings of 
tr^chery updi^r the iDask of love and honesty, 
the ap^ioujs watcbfulaess, the cool earoestneas, 
and if we may so say, the pamou of hypocrisy 
marked in every lioey receive their last finishing 
in that inconceivable burst of pretended indiK-* 
nation at Othello's doubts of his sincerity. 

" O grace ! O Heaven forgive me ! 

Are you a man ? Have you a soul or sense ? 

God be wi* you ; take mine office. O wretched fool. 

That lov'st to make thine honesty a vice ! 

Oh monstrous world ! take note, take note, O world ! 

To be direct and honest, is not safe. 

I thank you for this profit, and from hence 

1*11 love no friend^ since love breeds such ofience.*' 



60 OTHELLO. 

If lago is detestable enough when he has bu- 
siness on his bands and all his engines at work, 
he is still worse when he has nothing to do, and 
we only see into the hollo wness of his heart. 
His indifference when Othello falls into a awoon, 
is perfectly diabolical. 

'^ Jago, How is it> General } Have you not hurt your 

head? 
Othello. Do'st thou mock me ? 
logo. I mock you not^ by Heaven>** &c. 

The part indeed would hardly be tolerated, 
even as a foil to the virtue and generosity 
of the other characters in the play, but for its 
indefatigable industry and inexhaustible re- 
sources, which divert the attention of the spec- 
tator (as well as his own) from the end he has in 
view to the means by which it must be accom^ 
plished.-i--£dmund the Bastard in Lear is some- 
thing of the same character, placed in less pro- 
minent circumstances. Zanga is a vulgar cari«* 
cature of it. 



TIMON OF ATHENS. 



TiMON OF Athens always appeared to us to 
be written with a^r intense a feeling of his sub^ 
ject as any one play of Shakespear. It is one 
of the few in which be seems to be in earnest 
throughout, never to trifle nor go out of his way. 
He does not relax in his efforts^ nor lose sight 
of the unity of his design. It is the only play 
of our author in which spleen is the predomi- 
nant feeling of the mind. It is as much a satire 
as a play : and contains some of the finest 
pieces of invective possible to be conceived, 
both in the snarling, captioua answers of the 
cynic Apemantus> and in the impassioned and 
more terrible imprecations of Timon. The 
latter remind the classical reader of the force 
and swelling impetuosity of the moral decla^ 
mations in Juvenal^ while the former have all 



6^ TIMON OF ATHENS. 

the keenness and caustic severity of the old 
Stoic philosophers. The soul of Diogenes ap- 
pears to have been seated on the lips of Ape- 
man tus. The churlish profession of misanthropy 
in the cynic is contrasted with the profound 
feeling of it in Timon, and also with the soldier- 
like and determined resentment of Alcibiades 
against his countrymen, who have banished him, 
though this forms only an incidental episode in 
the tragedy. 

The fable consists of a single event ;— of the 
transition from the highest pomp and profusion 
of artificial refinement to the most abject state 
of «avdge life^ ^nd privation of all social intef"" 
course. The change is m rapid as it is comi**^ 
plete ; nor id the descriptic»i of the rich Md 
generous Timon, banquetring in gilded palaces^ 
pampered by every luxury, podigal of bis hos- 
pitality, courted by crowds of flatterers, poets^ 
paiqters, lords, ladies, who-**- 

■ - } • ^ ' • ' 

'^ Follqw hin strides, bis lobbies fill mth tendance^ 
Rain sacrifiGial whisperings in his ear > . 
And through him drink the free air" — 

< ' * ' ' ' » 

more Striking than that of the suddeh falling oflf 
of his friends and fbrtufae, and his' naked ex- 
posure in a wild forest digging roots from the 
earth for his sustenance, with a lofty spirit of 
$elf-denial, and bitter scorn of the world, which 
raise him higher in our esteem than the da^-» 



TIMON OP ATHENa . tfS 

zling glosd of prosperity could do. He grudges 
himself the means of life, and is only busy in 
preparing his grave. How forcibly is the diflTer- 
ence between what he was, and whs^ he is 
described in Apemantus's taunting questions, 
when he comes to reproach him with the change 
in his way of life ! 



.'' What, think'st thou. 



l*hat the bleak air, thy boisterous chamberlain, 

IVIll put thy shirt on warm ? will these moist treed 

That Jmve tmt-'liv'd the eagle, pugo thy heels, 

Aad ak^ when tiiou point'st out ? will 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 spight 

Of Wreakfiil heav*n, whose bare tmhoused trunks. 

To the convicting elements exposed. 

Answer mere nature, bid them flatter thee/' 

The manners are every where preserved with 
distinct truth. The poet and painter are very 
skilfully played, off against one another, both 
affecting great attention to the other, and each 
taken up with his own vanity, and the superi- 
ority of his own art. Shakespear has put into 
the mouth of the former a very lively descrip- 
tion of the genius of poetry and of his ow9 in 
particular. 



.€€ 



A thing slipt idly from me. 



Out poesy is as a gum, which issues 

From whence 'tis liourish'd. The fire i* th' fliitt 



d4 TIMON OF ATHENS; 

Shew« not till it be struck : ottr gentle flame 
Provokes itself — and like the current flies 
Eatih bound it chafes.'* 

The hollow friendship and shuffling evasions 
of the Athenian lords, their smooth professions 
und pitiful ingratitude, are very satisfactorily ex- 
posed, as well as the different di^uises to which 
the meanness of self-love resorts in such cases 
to hide a want of generosity and good faith. The 
lurking selfishness of Apemantus does not pass 
undetected amidst the grossness of his sarcasms 
and his contempt for the pretensions of others. 
Even the two courtezans who accompany Alci-« 
biades to the cave of Timon are very characteris- 
tically sketched ; and the thieves who come to 
visit him are also " true men*^ in their way. — 
An exception to this general picture of selfish 
depravity is found in the old and honest steward 
Flavins, to whom Timon pays a full tribute of 
tenderness. Shakespear was unwilling to draw 
a picture " all over ugly with hypocrisy. ^^ He 
owed this character to the good-natured solici- 
tations of his Muse. His mind was well said 
by Ben Jonson to be the " sphere of human- 

ity.^^ 

The moral sententiousness of this play equals 
that of Lord Bacon's Treatise on the Wisdom 
of the Ancients, and is indeed seasoned with 
greater variety. Every topic of contempt or 
indignation is here exhausted ; but while the 



TIMON OF ATHENS. 6d 

sordid licentiousness of Apeniantus, which turns 
every thing to gall and bitterness, shews only 
the natural virulence of his temper and antipa- 
thy to good or evil alike. Timon does not utter 
an imprecation without betraying the extrava- 
gant workings of disappointed passion, of love 
altered to hate» Apemantus sees nothing good 
in any object, and exaggerates whatever is dis- 
gusting : Timon is tormented with the perpe- 
tual contrast between things and appearances, 
between the fresh, tempting outside and the 
rottenness within, and invokes miaebiefs on the 
heads of mankind proportioned to the sense of 
his wrongs and of their treacheries. He im- 
patiently cries out, when he finds the gold, 

" This yellow slave 
Will kiiit and break religions ; bless the accurs*d ^ 
Make the hoar leprosy adoir*d^ place thieves^ 
And giye tlietn tMe^ knee, afid approbation. 
With senators on the bench ; this is it. 
That makes the ivappenM widow wed again ; 
She, whom the spital-house 
Would cast the gorge at, this embalms and spices 
To tK April day again:* * 

One of his most dreadful imprecations is 
that which occurs immediately on his leaving 
Athens. 

'^ Let me look bade upon thee> O thou wall. 
That girdlest in those wolves ! Dive in the earth. 
And fence not Athens ! Matrons, turn incontinent ^ 

F 



66 TIMON OF ATHENS. 

Obedience &al in children -, 9laveB and fwls 

Pluck the grave wrinkled senate from the bendi. 

And minister in their steads. * To general filths 

Ck>nyert o* th* instant green virginity ! 

Do*t in your parents* eyes. Bankrupts, hold &st ; 

Rather than render back> out with your knives. 

Anil cut your truBters' throats ! Bound servants, irteal: 

X^arge-handed robbers your gcave masters t^t 

And pill by law. Maidj to thy niter's bed : 

Thy mistress is o* th' brothel. Son of sixteen^ 

Pluck the lin*d crutch from thy old limping sire. 

And with it beat his brains out ! Fear and piety, 

Heligioh Co the Gods, peace, justice, truth, 

iX>me8ti€ awe, night-rest, and neighbourhood, 

InatructionSi manners, mysteries and tradeSi 

Degrees, observances, customs and laws. 

Decline to your confounding contraries -, 

And let confusion live ! — ^Plagues, incident to men. 

Your potent and infectious fevers heap 

On Athens, ripe for stroke ! Thou tK>ld sciatica. 

Cripple our senators^ that their limbs may bait . 

As lamely as their manners ! Lust and libecty .. 

Creep in the min^ and inauners of pur youth. 

That *gainst the stream of virtue they may strive. 

And drown themselves in riot ! Itches, blains. 

Sow aU th* Athenian bosoms -, and their crop 

Be general leprosy : breath infect breathy 

That their society (as their friendship) may 

Be merely poison !" 

TimoD is here just as ideal in his passion for 
ill as he had before been in his belief of good. 
Apemantus was satisfied with the mischief ex- 
isting in the world, and with his own ill-qa- 



TIMON OP ATHENS. €f 

ture. One of the inbst decisive intimations of 
Timon^s morbid jealousy of appearances is in 
his answer to Apemantus, who asks him, 

'' What things in the world can*st thou nearest coitt- 

pare with thy flatterers? 
Itmon, Wdmen nearest : but men> men are the things 

themselves/' 

Apemantus, it is said, ^^ loved few things bet- 
ter than to abhor himself.^^ This is not the case 
with Timon, who neither loves to abhor himself 
nor others. All his vehement misanthropy is 
forced, up-hill work. From the slippery turns of 
fortune, from the turmoils of passion aqd adversi- 
ty, he wishes to sink into the quiet of the grave. 
On that subject his thoughts are intent, on that 
he finds time and place to grow romantic. He 
digs his own grave by the sea-shore ; contrives his 
funeral ceremonies amidst the pomp of desola- 
tion, and builds his mausoleum of the elements. 

'^ Come not to me again 3 but say to Athens, 
Timon hath made his everlasting mansion 
Upon the beached verge of the salt flood 5 
Which once a-day with his embossed froth 
The turbulent surge shall cover. — ^Thither come. 
And let my grave-stone be your oracle." 

And again, Alcibiades, after reading his epi- 
taph, says of him, 

" These well express in thee thy latter spirits : 
Though thou abhorred'st in us our human griefs. 



68 TIMON OF ATHENS. 

I 

Sconi'd*st our brain's flow> apd those our droplets, whkh 
From loiggard nature fall; yet rich conceit 
Taught thee to make vast Neptune weep for aye 
On thy low grave" 

tlius making the winds his funeral dirge, his 
mourner the murmuring ocean ; and seeking in 
the everlasting solemnities of nature oblivion of 
the transitory splendour of his life-time. 



COEIOLANUS, 



Shakespear has in this play shewn himself 
well versed in history and state-affairs. Corio- 
LANus is a store-house of political common- 
places. Any one who studies it may save him- 
self the trouble of reading Burke^s Reflections, 
or Paine's Rights of Man, or the Dd)ates in 
both Houses of Parliament since the French 
Revolution or our own. The arguments for and 
i^inst aristocracy or democracy, on the privile- 
ges of the few and the claims of the many, on liber* 
ty and slavery, power and the abuse of it, peaco 
and war, are here very ably handled, with the spi- 
rit of a poet and the acuteness of a philosc^her. 
Shakespear himself seems to have had a lean- 
ing to the arbitrary side of the question, perhaps 
from some feeling of contempt for his own ori- 
gin ; and to have spared no occasion of baiting 



70 COKIOLANUS. 

the rabble. What he says of them is very true : 
what he says of their betters is also very true, 
though he dwells less upon it. — The cause of 
the people is indeed but little calculated as a 
subject for poetry 2 it admits of rhetoric, which 
goes into argument and explanation, but it 
presents no immediate or distinct images to the 
mipd, ^^ no jutting frieze, buttress, or coigne of 
vantage'* for poetry *^ to make its pendant bed 
and procreant cradle in.** The language of poe-. 
try naturally falls in with the language of power. 
The imagination is an exaggerating and exclu* 
sive faculty: it takes from one thing to add to 
^notbet : it accumulatea circumstances together 
to give th^ greatest possible effect to a fiivourite 
olyect. The understanding is a dividing and 
XQeaauring faculty : it judges of things, not ac*> 
cordii^g to their immediate impressioa on tfa^ 
min4, but according to their relations to one 
^J[kQth^r• The one is a monopolizing faculty, 
which Sleeks th^ greatest quantity of piresent ex* 
icitemc^t by ineq^iiility and disproportion ; the 
otUer i^ a distributive faculty, which seeks the 
greatest quantity of ultimate good, by justice 
atiid proportioji. The one is an arisikocratical, 
th^ other a republican faculty. The principle 
of poetry ia a v^y anti-levelliBg priaciple. It 
aims at effect, it exists by contmst. It ad- 
mits of po niedium. It is every thing by excess. 
It rises above the ordinary standard of suffer? 



CORIOLANUS, 7\ 

iDgs and crimes. : It presents a daczling ap* 
pearance« It shews its head turretted, crown- 
ed, and crested. Its iVont is gilt and blood- 
stained^ * Before it ^^it carries noise, and be* 
hind it teais.^^ It has its altars and its vie- 
tims, «acrific«, human Bacrifices, Kings, priests, 
nobles,, are its train-bearers, tyrants and slaves 
its executioners.**^^^ Carnage is its daughter/'" 
-r-Poetry is right-royaU ' It puts the individual 
for the species, the one dbove the infinite many, 
might before right, A lion hunting a flock of 
sheep or a herd of wild asses is a more poetical 
object than they ; and we even take part with the 
lordly beast, because our vanity or some other 
feeling makes us disposed to pliice ourselves in 
the situation of the strongest party. So we feel 
some concern for the poor cititend of Rome 
when they meet together to compare their wants 
and grievances, till Coriolanus comes in and 
with blows and big 'words drives this set of 
^' poor rats,^^ this rascal scum, to their homes and 
beggary before hiin. There is nothing heroi- 
cal in a mnltitude of miserable rogues not wish- 
ing to be starved, or complaining that they are 
like to be so: but when a single man comes 
fcmvard to brave their cries and to make them 
submit' to the last indignities, from mere pride 
and self-will, our admiration of his prowess is 
immediately converted into contempt for their 



7^ CORIOLANUS. 

pusillaDimity. The. insolence of power is 
stronger than the plea of necessity. The tame 
submissioa to usurped authority or even the 
natural resistance to it has nothing to 'excite or 
flatter the imagination : it is the assumption of 
a right to insult ot oppress others that carries 
an imposing air of superiority with it. We had 
rather be the oppressor than the oppressed. 
The love of power in ourselves and the admi- 
ration of it in others are both natural to man : 
the one makes him a tyrant, the other a slave. 
Wrong dressed out in pride, pomp^ and cir- 
cumstance has^ more attraction than abstract 
right — Coriolanus complains of the fickleness 
of the people ( yet the instant he cannot gratify 
his pride aqd obstinacy at their expense, he 
turns his arms against his country. If his 
country was not worth defending, why did he 
build his pride on its defence ? He is a con-> 
queror and a hero; he conquers other coun<p 
tries, and makes this a plea for enslaving his 
own ; and when he is prevented from doing so, 
he leagues with its eoemies to destroy his 
country. He rates the people" as if he were 
a God to punish, and not a man of their;infir- 
paity.'* He scoffs at one of their tribunes for 
maintaining their rights aqd franchises: . " Mark 
you his absolute shall?^^ not marking his own 
absolute mil to take every thing from them« 



k 



CORIOLANUS- rS 

his impatience of the slightest opposition to his 
own pretensions being in proportion to their ar- 
rogsmce and absurdity. If the great and powdr- 
ful had the beneficence and wisdom of Gods, 
then ail this would have been well: if with a 
greater knowledge of what is good for the peo- 
ple, they had as great a care for their interest 
as they have themselves, if they were seated 
above the world, sympathising with the welfare, 
but not feeling the passions of men, receiving 
neither good nor hurt from them, but bestow- 
ing their benefits as free gifts on them, they 
might then rule over them like another Provi-^ 
dence. But this is not the case. Coriolanus 
is unwilling that the senate should shew their 
^* cares" for the people, lest- their " cares** 
should be construed into ** fears,** to the subver- 
sion of all due authority; and he is no sooner 
disappointed in his schemes to deprive the peo- 
ple not only of the cares of the state, but of ali 
power to redress themselves, than Yolumnia id 
made madly to exclaim, 

*' Now the red pestilence strike all trades in Rome> 
And occupations perish." 

This is but natural : it is but natural for a 
n>other to have more regard for her son than for 
a whole city ; but then the city should be left to 
t^e some care of itself. The car$ of the state 
cannot, we here see, be safely entrusted to ma^ 



f4 CORIOLANUS, 

temal affection > or to the domestic charities of 
high life. The great have private feelings of 
their own» to which the interests of humanity 
and justice must courtesy. Their interests are 
so far from being the same as those of the com* 
munity, that they are in direct and necessary 
opposition to them ; their power is at the ex- 
pense of our weakness; their riches of our 
poverty ; their pride of ottr degradation ; their 
splendour of our wretchedness; their tyranny 
of our servitude. If they had the superior 
knowledge ascribed to them (which they have 
not) it would only render them so much more 
formidable ; and from Gods would convert them 
into Devils. The whole dramatic moral of Co* 
EiOLANtJS is that those who haveMittle shall 
have less, and that those who have much shall 
take all that others have left. The people are 
poor ; therefore they ought to be starved. They 
are slaves ; therefore they ought to be beaten. 
They work hard ; therefore they ought to b? 
treated like beasts of burden. They are igno* 
rant ; therefore they ought not to be allowed 
to feel that they want food, or clothing, or rest, 
that they are enslaved, oppressed, and misera- 
ble. . This is the logic of the imagination and the 
passions ; which seek to aggrandisci what ex* 
cites admiration and to heap contempt 6n mi* 
sery^ to raise power iiito tyiaiiny, aad to make 
tyranny absolute ; to thrust down that which is 



GORIOLANUS. 75 

low still lower, and to make wretches desperate : 
to exalt magistrates into kings, kings into gods ; 
to degrade subjects to the rank of slaves, and 
slaves to the condition of brutes. The history of 
mankind is a romance, a mask, a tragedy, con- 
structed upon the principles of poetical justice; 
it is a noble or royal hunt, in which what is sport 
to the few, is death to the many, and in which 
the spectators halloo and encourage the strong 
to set upon the weak, and cry havoc in the 
chase, though they do not share in the spoil. 
We may depend upon it that what men delight 
to read in books, they will put in practice in 
reality. 

One of the .most natural traits in this play is 
th^ difference,. of the interest taken in the sue- 
•cess of Coriolanus by his wife and mother. The 
one is' only anxious for his honour ; the other is 
fearful for his life. 

^* V^tumnia. I^bthiiiks i MtJier hear your hunband-s 
drum: 
. I eee him p^dk A^cUiis dpwn by th' hair : 
Methinkft I see him stamp thus-^-and call thus- 
Come on, ye cowards ; ye were got in fear 
Though you were bom in Rome ; his bloody brow 
' ^^th Us mailM hand then Wiping, forth he goes 
Like to a harvest man, .that's task'd to mow 
Or all, or lose his hire. 

VirgUia. His bloody braw ! Oh Jupiter, no bbocL 
Vobmnia. Away, you feol ; it more heeomes a man 
Than gilt his tropky. The breast of Hecuba^ 



7« CORIOLANUS. 

Wheo she did suckle Hector^ look'd not kmlkr 
Than Hector*s forehead, when it spit forth hkx)d 
At Gredan swords contending.** 

When she hears the trumpets that proclaim 
her son's return, she says in the true spirit of a 
Roman matron, 



'' These are the ushers of Martins : before him 
He carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears. 
Death, that dark spirit, in*s nervy arm doth lie. 
Which being advanc*d, declines, and then men die. 



It 



Coriolanus himself is a complete character : 
his love of reputation, his contempt of popular 
opinion, his pride and modesty are consequences 
of each other. His pride consists in the inflexi* 
ble sternness of his wilt : his love of glory is a 
determined desire to bear down all opposition^ 
and to extort the admiration both of friends and 
foes. His contempt for popular favour, his un- 
willingness to hear his own praises, spring from 
the same source. He cannot contradict the 
praises that are bestowed upon him ; therefore 
he is impatient at hearing them. He would 
enforce the good opinion of others by .his ac- 
tions, but does not Want their acknowledgmentsi 
in words. 

*' Pray now, no more : my mother. 
Who has a charter to extol her blood. 
When she does pnose me> grieves me.'' 



CORIOLANTIIS. 77 

His magnanimity is of the same kind. He 
admires in an enemy that courage which he 
honours in himself: he places himself on the 
hearth of Aufidius with the same confidence 
that he would have met him in the field, and 
feels that by putting himself in his power, be 
takes from him all temptation for using it against 
him. 

In the title-page of Cobiqlanus, it is said 
at the bottom of the Dramatis Personae, " The 
whole history exactly followed, and many of 
the principal speeches copied from the life of 
Coriolanus in Plutarch." It will be interest- 
ing to our readers to see how far this is the case. 
Two of the principal scenes, those between Co- 
riolanus and Aufidius and between Coriolanus 
and his mother, are thus given in Sir Thomas 
North's translation of Plutarch, dedicated to 
Queen Elizabeth, 1579. The first is as fol- 
lows : — 

^* It was even twiligbt when he entered the city of An- 
tiiim, and many people met him m the 8treetB> but no man 
knew him. So he went directly to Tullus Anfidin»' house> 
and when he came thither^ he got him tip straight to the 
chimney-^hearth, and sat him down, and spi^e not a word 
to any man, his face all mnfflediover^ They of th& house 
spying him^ wondered what he should be, and yet they 
durst not bid him rise. For iU-favourediy muffled and dis-» 
guised as he was/ yet th^re appeared a certain majoty in 
his countenance and in his silence : whereupon they went to 
TuUus, who was at supper> to tell him of the strange dis* 



IB CORIOLANUS. 

guising of thb man. ToUus roee presently from the botrd^ 
and com}]Og towards him^ asked him what he was> and 
wherefore he came. Then Martins unmuffled himself^ and 
after he had paused awhile^ making.no answer^ he said 
unto himself^ If thou knowest me not yet, TuILus> and see- 
ing me, dost not perhaps believe me to be the man 1 am 
indeed, I must of necessity discover myself to be that I ^un. 
I am Cains Martins, who hath done ta thyself particu^ 
larly, and to all the Volsces generally, great hurt and 
mischief, which I cannot deny for my surname of Corio- 
lanus that I bear. For I never had other benefit nor re- 
compence of the true and painful service I have done, and 
the extreme dangers I have been in, but this only Sur- 
name: a good memory and witness of the malice and 
displeasure thou shouldest bear me. Indeed the name 
only retaaineth with me -, for the rest, the envy and cru-^ 
elty of the people of Rome have taken from me, by the 
sufierance of the dastardly nobility and magistrates, who 
have forsaken me, and let me be banished by the people. 
This extremity hath now driven me to come as a poor 
smtor, to take thy chimney-^hearth, not of any hope I 
have to save my life thereby. For if I had feared death, 
I would not have come hither to put myself in hazard : 
but pricked forward with desire to be revenged of them 
that thus have banished me, wbaeh now I do begin> in 
pntting my person into the hands of their enemie^^ 
Wherefore if thou hast any heart to be wrecked of th^ 
ii^^^u^ thy enemies have done thee, speed thee nowj 
and let my misery serve thy tarn, and so use it as my 
serviee may be a benefit to the Ydsees : promising thee^ 
that I will fight with bettor good tnU for all yoti« than I 
did when I was against you, knowing Iklt they ^^ 
more valiantly who know the force of the enemy, than 
such as have never proved it. And if it be so that them 
dare not, and that thou art weary to prove fortune any 



CORIOLANUS. 79 

* mcnre^ then am I aJao weary to live any loi^^er. And it 

* were no wisdom in thee to save the life of him wlio hath 
' heen heretofore thy mortal easmy, and wfaese service now 
' can nothing hdp> nor j^easure thee.' Tullus hearing 
what he said^ was a marvellous glad man, and taking 
him by the hand> he said unto him : ' Stand up^ O Mar- 
^ tius> and be of good cheer> for in proffering thyself unto 
' usj thou doest us great honour : and by this means thou 
' mayest hope also of greater things at all the Vdsees* 
' hands/ So he feasted him for that time^ and entertained 
him in the honourablest manner he could, talking with hini 
of no other matter at that present : but witliin fow days 
after> they fell to consultation together in what sort they 
should begin their wars/' 

The meeting between Coriolanus and his 
mother is also aearly the same as in the play. 

** Now was Martios set then in the chair of state, with 
all the honours of a general, and when he had spied the 

( ■ 

women coming afor ofiy he 'marvelled what the matter 
meant t but afterwards knowing his wife> which came fore- 
most, he determined at the first to persist in his obstinate 
and infiexible rancour. But overcome in the end with na- 
tural afiection» and being altogether altered io tee them, 
his heart would not serve him to tarry their coming to his 
chair, but coming down in haste, he went to meet them, 
and first he kissed his mother, and embraced her a pretty 
while, then his wife and Httle children. And nature so 
wrought with him, that the tears feU from his eyes^ and 
he could nbt keep himsdf from making mUch of them^ but 
yielded to the afiection of his blood, as if he had been vio- 
lently carried with the fury of a most swift-rUnning streeon. 
After he ha^ thus lovingly received them^ and perceiving 
that his mother Volumnia would begin to speak to him> he 



80 



CORIOLANUS. 



taUed the chieftst of the council of the Voboes to hear what 
she iwoOld say. Then she spake in this sort : ' If we held 
our peace^ my son> and determined not to speaks the 
state of our poor bodies^ and present sight of our rai-< 
mentj would easily betray to thee what life we hai« led 
at home, since thy exile and abode abroad 5 buttUnk 
now with thy8df> how much more unfortunate than ' all 
thewQoiien livings we are come hither^ ccmsidering.that 
the sight which should be most pleasant to all others to 
bqbold, spiteful fortune had made most fearful .to us ? 
making myself to see my son, and my daughter, here her 
husband, besieging the walls of his native country : so as 
that which is the only comfort to all others in th^ir ad- 
versity and misery, to pray unto the Gods, and to call to 
them for aid, is the only thing which plungeth us into 
most deep perplexity. For we caxmot, alas, together 
pray, both for victory to our country, and for safety of 
thy life also : but a world of grievous curses, yea more 
than any mortal enemy cai^ heap upon us, are forcibly 
wrapped up in our prayers. For the bitter sop of most hard 
choice is ofifered thy wife and children; to foregp one of 
the two : either to lose . the person of thyself, or the, 
nurse of toeir native country. For myself, my son, I am 
determined not to tarry till fortune in my lifetime do 
make an end of this war. For if I cannot persuade the 
rather to do good unto both parties, than to overthrow 
and destroy the one, preferring love and nature before, 
the malice and calamity of wars, th^ shalt see^ my son^ 
and trust unto it, thou shalt no sqpner march forward to 
assault thy country, but thy foot shall tread upon thy 
mother's womb,, that brought thee first into this world. 
And I may not defer to see the day, either that my son 
be led prisoner in triumph by his natural countrymen, or 
that he himself do triumph .of them, and of his natural 
country. For if it were, so, that my request tended to 



C0RI0LANU9. 81 

' save thy country^ in destroying the Volsees^ I must con- 
^ fess^ thou iirouldest hardly and doahtfWy msolve on that. 

* For as to destroy thy natural eountry> it is altogether un«> 
' meet and unlawfbl> so were it not just and less honour- 
*' able to betray those that put thetr trust in thee. But 
' my only demand consisteth> to make a goal deliyery of 
^ all evils, wfakh delivereth equal booefit and safety, both 
'^ to the one and the other> but most lionourable for the 
^ Vdbces. For it shall appear, that having victory in their 
' hands, they have of special favour granted us singular 
' gnats, peace and amity, albeit themsdves have no 1^ 
' part of both than we. Of vrhieh good, if so it came to 

* pass, thyself is the only author, and so hast thott the only 
' honour. But if it fidi, and fell out contrary^ thyself alone 
' deservedly shalt catry>the shameM reproach and burthen 
' of either party. So, though the end oi war be uncertain, 

* yet thb notwithstanding is most certain, that if it be thy 
' chance to conquer, this ben^t shfedt thou reap of thy 
' goodly conquest, to be chronicled thfe plague and de- 

* stroyer of thy country. And if ftxrtune overthrow thee, 
^ then the world will say, that through desire to revenge 
^ thy private ii^juries, thou hast fer ever undcme thy good 
' Mends, who did most lovingly and oourleously receive 
' thee.' Martins gave good ear unto his mother's words, 
without interrupting her speech at all, and after she had 
said what she would, he held his peace a pretty while, and 
answered not a word. * Hereupon she b^gan again to speak 
unto him, and said : ' My son, why dost thou not answer 
' me ? Dost thou think it good altogether to give place unto 
' thy choler and desire of revenge, and thinkest thou it 
' not honesty for thee to grant thy mother's request in so 

* weighty a cause? I>ost thou take it honourable for a 
' nobleman, to remember the wrongs and injuries done 
' him, and dost not in like case think it an honest nobh^ 

/ man's part, to be thankful for the goodness that piureats 
' do shew to their children, acknowledging the duty and 

G 



8^ CORIOJiANUS. 

' rQvereaca they ougbt to, bear unto them ? No man living 
' is more bound to shew himself thankful in all parts and 
' respects than thyself; who so uniTersallf sbewest all in* 
' . gratitude. Moreover^ my son, thou hast sorely taken of 
' thy co\mtry> exacting grievous payments upon them> in 
' revenge of the injuries ofi&red thee ; besides, thou hast 
' not hitherto shewed thy poor nuither any courtesy. And 
' therefore it is not only honejst, but. due unto me, that 
■* without compulsion I should obtain my so just and rea- 
' sonable request of thee. But since by reason ^ cannot 
' persuade thee to it, to what purpose do I defer my last 
' hope ?* And with these words hersdf, his wife and chil- 
dren, feu down upon their knees before him: Martins 
seeing that, could refrain no longer, but went etnoght and 
lifted her up, crying out, ' Oh mother, what have you 
' done to me V And holding her hard* by the right hdnd, 
' Oh mother,* ^aid he, * you have won a haf^y, victory for 
' your country, but mortal and unhappy for your scm: for 
' I see myself vanquished by you alone.' These words 
being spoken openly, he spake a little apart with his mother 
and wife, and then let them return again to Roipe, for so 
they did request him 5 and so remaining in the camp that 
nighty the next morning he dislodged, and marched home- 
ward unto the Volsces* country agun.*' 

Shakfisgpear has, in giving a dramatic form to 
this passage, adhered very closely and properly 
to the text. He did not think it necessary to 
improve upon the truth of nature. Seteral of 
the scenes in Julius Casar, particularly Portia^s 
appeal to the confidence of her husband by shew- 
ing him the wound she had given herself, and 
the appearance of the ghost of Csesar to Brutus, 
^re, iu iike manner, taken from the history^ 



TROILUS AND CRESSmA. 



■-• i 



This is one of the most loo^e and desultory 
of our author's plays : it rambles on just as it 
happens, but it overtakes, together with some 
indifferent matter, a prodigious number of fine 
things in its way. Troilus himself is no cha- 
racter: h^ is merely a commpn lover. : . bi^t Cres- 
sidaand: her uncle Pandar us are hit off with 
proverbial trnth. By the speeches given to the 
leaders of the Grecian host, Nestor, Ulysses, 
Agamemnon, Achilles, Shakespear seems to 
have known them as well as if he had been a 
spy sent by the Trojans into the.enQpiy^s csuatip 
— to say nothing of their being very lofty exam- 
ples of didactic eloquence. The following is 
a very stately and spirited declamation : 

UlffMes^ Tr^> yet upon her basiii^ had been down^ 
And the greit Hector's sword had laok'd a master^ 



84 TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. 

But for these instances. 

The specialty of rule hath heen neglected. 

The heavens themselves^ the planets> and this center^ 

Observe degree^ priority, and place, 

Insisture, course, proportion, season, form. 

Office^ and custom, in all line of ord^ : 

And therefore is the glorious planet, 89I, 

In noble eminence, enthron*d and spher'd 

Amidst the otlier, whose med*cinable eye 

Corrects the ill aspects of planets evil. 

And posts, like the rommandment of a king. 

Sans cheek, to good and bad. But, when the planets, 

in evil mixture to disorder wander. 

What plagues and what portents ? what mutinies } 

What raging of the sea) shaking of earth? 

Commotion in the wind3 > fHghts, changedji hmors,, 

Divert and crack, rend and deracinate 

The tuiity and married calm of states 

Quite from their fixture ! O, when degree is shaken, 

(Which is the ladder to all high designs) 

The enterprise is sick ! How could communities. 

Degrees in schools, and brotherhoods in cities, 

PeAoeful ccnnmeroe from dMdaUe shores. 

The pijmogenitive and due of birth. 

Prerogative of age, crowns, sceptres, laurels, 

(But by degi*ee) stand in authentic place ? 

Take but degree away, untune that string. 

And hark wluit discord follows ! each thing meets 

In mere oppugnancy. The bounded waters 

Would lift their bosoms higher than thie shores. 

And make a sop of ^11 this solid globe : 

Strength would be lord of imbecility. 

And the rude 43on would strike his fythet dead : 

Foree would be right } or rather, right and wroi^ 



TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. 85 

(Between whose endless jar Justice resides) 

Would lose tkeir names, and so would Justice too. 

Then every thing includes itself in power. 

Power into will, will into s^petite ; 

And appetite (an universal wolf. 

So doubly seconded with will and power) 

Mfttt make perforce an umversal prey> 

And last, eat up himself . Great Agamemnon, 

This chaos, when degree is sufibcate> 

Follows the choking : 

And this neglection of degree it is. 

That by a pace goes backward, in a purpose 

It hath to dimb- The gcjueral^s disdained 

By him one step below ; he, by the next; . 

That next, by him beneatli : at) every, step, 

Exaippkd by the first pace that is. sick 

Of hia superior, growa to an envious fever 
Of pale and bloodless emulation ^ 
And *ti8 this fever that keej^ Troy on foot. 
Not her own sinews. To end a tale of length, 
Troy in our weakness lives, not in her strength." 

It cannot be said of Shakespear^ as was said 
of some one, that he was ^V without overflowing 
fuU/v He was ftill, even to overflowing. He 
gave heaped measure, running over. This was 
his greatest fault. He Was only in danger " of 
losing distinction in his thoughts^^ (to borrow 
his own expression) 



'' As doth a battle when (hey charge on heaps 
The enemy flying*'* 



There is another passage, the speech of Ulys- 
ses to Achilles, shewing him the thankless na« 



66 TROILUS AWD CRESSIDA. 

ture of popularity, which has a rtill greater 
depth of moral observation and richness of il- 
lustration than the former. It is long, but worth 
the quoting. Th$ sometimes giving an entire 
extract from the unacted plays of our author 
may with one class of readers have almost the 
use of restoring b, lost passage ; and may serve 
to convince another class of critics, that the poet's 
genius was not confined to the production of 
stage eflfect by preternatural means.— 

" Ulysses, Time hath^ my lord> a wallet at' his backj, 
Wherein he puts alms for Obfivion; 
A great-siz*d monster of ingratitudes : ' 
Those scrape are good deeds past^ 
Which are devoured as fast as they are made. 
Forgot as soon as done : Persev'rance^ dear my lordj^ ' 
Keeps Honour bright -. to have done^ is to hang 
Quite out of &shion> like a rusty mail 
In moniunental mockery. Take the instant way ; 
For Honour traveb in a stnut so narrow^ . 
Where one but goes abreast 5 keep then the path> 
For Emulation hath a thousand sons^ 
That one by one pursue 5 if you give way. 
Or hedge aside from the direct .forth-right. 
Like to an entered ticle, they all rush by. 

And leave yoii hindmost 3 

Or, like a gaUant horse foll*n in first rank, 

O'er-run and trampled on : then what they do in present^ 

T^* l«i9 ttvan yours ia post, must o'ertop yoaxs: \ ^ 

For Time is like a foshionable host, 

T*hat slightly shakes his parting guest by th* handj. 

And with his anps but-stretchf d; as he would %, 

j^rasps in the ^o^r : the yMxcme jsvet smiles. 



THOILUS ANJ) CRES13IDA. 87 

And Farewel goes out s^^hing. O^ kt not Hrtae seek 
Remuneration for the thing it was $ fbr beaaty, vrit. 
High births vigour of bone^ desert in service^ 
Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all 
To envious and calumniating time : 
One touch of nature makes the whole world kin. 
That all, with mie consent, praise new-bom gauds, 
Tho* they are made and moulded of things past. 
The present eye praises the present object. 
Then marvel not, thou great and complete man. 
That all the Greeks begin to worship Ajax ^ 
Since things in motion sooner catch the eye. 
Than what not stirs. The cry went out on thee^ 
And still it might, and yet it may again, , 
If thou would*8t not entomb thyself alive, 
Ai>d case thy reputation in thy tent.**— - 

The throng of images in the above liqes is 
prodigious ; and though they sometimes jostle 
against one another, they every where raise 
and carry pa the feeling, which i9 metaphysi- 
cally true apd profound. The debater between 
the Trojan chiefs on the restoring of Helen are 
full of knowledge of human motives and cha- 
racter. Trqilus enters well into the philosophy 
of war, when he says in answer to something 
that falls from Hector, 

« Why there you tpuehU the life of our design : 
Were it not glory that we. more affected. 
Than the performance of our heaving spleens, - 
I wotdd not wish a drop of Trojan blood 
Spent more in her ddfence. But> worthy Hector;^ 



8d TR01LU5 AND CRBSSIDA. 

SSie ia a thcnieof howur and xeoowii, 

A gspvar to TB^aot and xnagnaiuiiioiis deads.*' 

The character of Hector, in the few slight in- 
dications which appear of it, is made very amia- 
ble. His death is sublime, and shews in a 
striking light the mixture of barbarity and hero- 
ism of the age. The threats of Achilles are 
fatal ; they carry their own naeans of execution 
with them. 

'^ Gome here about me> you my MynnidoiiSj 
Mark what I say.— -Attend me where I wheel: 
Strike not a stroke, but ke^ yourselves in breajth j 
And when I have the bloody Hector found. 
Empale him with your weapons round about : 
In fellest manner execute your arms. 
' Follow me, sirs, and my proceeding eye.'* 

He then finds Hector and 6layi» him, as if he 
had been hunting down a wild beast. There is 
something revolting sis well as terrific in the fe- 
rocious coolness with which \ke singles out his 
prey : nor does the splendour of the atchieve- 
llient reconcile us to the cruelty of the means. 

The characters of Cressida and Pandarus are 
very amusing and instructive. The disinte* 
rested willingness of Pandarus to serve his friend 
pn an afiair which lies next his heart is immedi- 
ftteiy brought forward. " Go thy way, Troilus, 
go thy way ; had I a sister were a grace, or a 
daughter ware a goddess, l^e should take his 



TROIIiU:S ANB CRBSSIPA. 89 

Choice. O admirable man ! Paris, Paris is dirt 
to him, and I wiiirraQt Helen, to cbaoge, woald 
give money to boot/' This is the language he 
addresses to his niece : nor is she much behind- 
hand in coming info the plot. Her iiead is as 
light and fluttering as her heart. . '' It is thepret* 
tiest villain, she fetches her breath so short as a 
new*ta'en sparrow/' Both characters are origin 
nals, and quite different from what they are in 
Chaucer. In Chaucer, Cressida is represented as 
a grave, sober, considerate personage (a widow^-^ 
be cannot tell her age, nor whether she has chii- , 
dren or no) who has an alternate eye to her 
character, her interest, and her pleasure: Shake- 
spear's Cressida is a giddy girl, an unpractised 
jilt, who falls in love with TrotluS| as she after* 
wards deserts him, from mere levity and thought- 
l^sness of temper. She- may. be wooed and won 
touany thing and from any thing, at a moment's 
warmng : tlse other knows v«ry well yvhat she 
woqld be at, and. sticks to it, and is more go- 
verned by substantial reasons than by caprice or 
Vanity. Pandarus again, in Chaucer's story, is a 
friendly sort of go-between, tolerably busy, offici- 
ous, and forward in bringing matters to bear : but 
in Shakespear he has ^^ a stamp exclusive and pro- 
fessional':" he wears the badge of his trade ; he is 
a regular knight of the game. The difference of 
the mEanner in which the subject is treated arises 
perhaps less from intention, than from the difiep* 



96 TROILUS AND CItBSSIDA/ 

en t geniue of the two poets. There i s ^ no da^k 
entendre in the eharacters of Chaucer : they are 
either quite serious or quite comic. In Shake* 
spear the ludicrous and ironical are constantly 
blended with the stately and the impassioned. 
We see Chaucer's characters as they saw them- 
selves, not as they appeared to others or might 
have appeared to the poet. He is as deeply im- 
plicated in the affairs of bis personages as they 
could be themselves. He had to go a long 
journey with each of them, and became a kind 
of necessary confidant. There is little relief, or 
light and shade in his pictures. The con- 
scious smile is not seen lurking under the brow 
of grief or impatience. Every thing with him 
is intense and continuous^^a working out of 
what went before. — Shakespear never committed 
himself to his characters. He trifled, laughed^ 
or wept with them as he chose. He has lio pi^^n- 
dices for or against them ; and it seems a matter 
of perfect indifference whether be shall be in jest 
or earnest. According to him " the web' of our 
lives is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together.^' 
Hislg^nius was dramatic, as Chauc^s was hiis- 
torical. He saw both sides of a question, the 
different views taken of it according to the dif- 
ferent interests of the parties concerned, and he 
was at once an actor and spiectator in the scene* 
If any thing, he is t6o various and flexible ; t<k> 
full of transitions^ of glancing lights, of salient 



TROILUS AND CRES^IDA; 



di 



pc»Dt8. If Chaucer followed up his subject too 
doggedly, perbiaps Sfaakespear was too ivolatile 
and heedless. The Muse's wing too often lifted 
him off bis feet. He made infinite excursions 
to the right and the left. 

— — : '*" He hath done 

Mad and fantastic execution, 

Bogs^^iog and redeeming of himself : ^ 

With such a carekss forc6 and forcelesa care> 

As if that luck in very spite of cunning 

3ad him win all.'* 

Chaucer attended chiefly to the real and na-» 
tural, that is^ to the inyoluntary and inevitable 
impressions on the mind in given circumstances : 
Shakespear exhibited also the possible and the 
fantastical, — not only what things are in theni- 
selves, but whatever they might seem to be, 
their different reflections, their endiesis com* 
binatiohs. He lent his fancy, wit, invention, to 
others, and borrowed their feelings in return; 
Chaucer excelled in the force of habitual senti* 
ment ; Shakespear * added to it every variety of 
passion, every suggestion of thought or acci* 
dent. Chaucer described external objecfts with 
the eye of a painter, or he might be said to have 
eoibodied them vrith the hand of a sculptor, 
every part is so thoroughly made out, and tan- 
gible :-^Shakespear's imagination threw over 
them a lustre / 

— '^ Prouder than when blue Iris bends." 



99 TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. 

Every thii^ in Chaucer has a downright rea-» 
lity. A simile or a sentiment is as if it were 
..given in upon evidence. In Sbakespear the 
4:ommonest matter-of-fact has a romantic grace 
about it ; or seem? to float with the breath of 
imagination in a freer element. No one could 
have more depth of feeling or observation than 
Chaucer, but he wanted resourci^ of invention 
to lay open the stores of nature or the human 
heart with the same radiant light, that Shake- 
spear has done. However fine or profound the 
thought, we know what was coming, whereas 
the effect of reading Shakespear is ^^ like the eye 
c^ vassalage encountering mfltjes^/' Cbaucer^s 
mind was consecutive, rather than discunsive* 
He arrived at truth through a certain process ; 
Shakespear saw every thing by intuition. Chau-^ 
cer had great variety of power, bat Jbe could do 
only one thing at once. He set himself to work 
on a particular subject. His ideas were k^pt 
separate, labelled, ticketed and parcelled out 
in a set form, in pews and compartments by 
themselves. They did not play into one ano- 
ther's hands. They did not redact upon one 
anodier, as the blower's breath moulds the yields** 
iug glass. There is sometiiii^ hasd and dry in 
them. What is the most w<»iderful thing in 
Shakespear's faculties is their excessive socia* 
bility, and how they gossipped and compared 
notes together*/ 



TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. 99 

We mu6t conclude this criticism ; and we will 
^o it with a quotation or two. One of the 
most beautiful passages in Chaucer's tale is the 
description of Cresseide's first avowal of her 
love. 

*^ And as the new abashed nightingale. 
That stinteth first when she beginneth sing» 
When that she heareth any herde s tale. 
Or in the hedges any wight stirring. 
And, after, sicker doth her voice outring 5 
Right so Cresseide, when that her dread sient> 
Opened her heart, and told him her intent.** 

See also the two next stanzas, and particular- 
ly that divine one beginning 

'^ Her armes small, her back both straight and soft," &c. 

Compare this with the following speech of 
Troilus to Cressida in the play. 

'^ O, that I thought it couM be in a woman ) 
And, if it can, I wiU presume in you. 
To feed for aye her lamp and flame of love. 
To keep her constancy in plight and youth. 
Out-living beauties out-ward, with a mind 
That doth renew swifter than blood decays. 
Or, that persuasion could but thus convince. me, 
Tliat my integrity and truth to you 
Might be afironted with the match and weight 
Of such a winnow'd purity in love 5 
How were I then uplifted ! But alas, 
I am as true as Truth's simplicity. 
And simpler than the inlkney of Truth.'* 



94 TROiLUS AND CRESSIDA. 

These pas3ages may not seem very character- 
istic at first sight, though we think they are so. 
We will give two, that cannot be mistaken. 
Patroclus says to Achilles, 

" Rouse yourself i and the weak wanton Cupid 



Shall from your nedk. ualoose \m amorous fold/ 
And like a dew-dcqp fxoak the lion's m^xi&» . 
Be shook to air." 

Troilus, addressing the God c^ Day on the 
approach of the morning that parts him fix)m 
Cressida, says with much scorn, 

'^ What! proffer'at thou i}xy light here for to selH 
Go, sell it them that small6 sel^ grave." 

If nobody but Shakespear could have written 
the former, nobody but Chaucer would have 
thought of. the latter. — Chaucer was the most 
literal of poets, as Richardson was of prose^ 
writers. 



ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 



«« 



This is a very noble play» Though not in the 
first dass ofShakespear's productions, it stands 
next to them, and is, we think, the finest of 
his historical plays, that is, of those in which 
he made poetry the organ of history, and as- 
sumed a certain tone of character and sentiment, 
in <^onformity to known facts, instead of trusting 
to his observations of general nature or to the 
unlimited indulgence of his own fancy. What 
he has added to the history, is upon a par with 
it. His genius was, as it were, a niatch for his-^ 
tory as well as nature, and could grapple at will 
with either. This play is full of that pervading 
comprehensive power by which the poet could 
always make himself master of time and circum- 
stances. It presents a fine picture of Roman 
pride and Eastern magnificence : and in the 



96 ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 

Struggle between the two, the empire of the 
world seems suspended, " like the swan's down- 
feather, 

'' That stands upon the swell at full of tide^ 
And neither way inclines.*' 

The characters breathe, move, and live. Shake- 
spear does not stand reasoning on what his cha- 
racters would do or say, but at once becomes 
them, and speaks and acts for them. He does 
not present us with groups of stage-puppets or 
poetical machines making set speeches on hu- 
man life, and acting from a calculation of ostensi- 
ble motives, but he brings living men and women 
on the scene, who speak and act from real feelings, 
according to the ebbs and flows of passion, with-* 
out the least tincture of the pedantry of logic or 
rhetoric. Nothing is made out by inference and 
analogy, by climax and antithesis, but every thing 
takes place just as it would have done tn reality, 
according to the occasion.— * The character of 
Cleopatra is* a master-piece. What an extreme 
contrast it affordis to Imogen I One would think 
it almost impossible for the same person to have 
drawn both. She is voluptuous, ostentatious, 
conscious, boastful of her charms, haughty, ty- 
rannical, fickle. The luxurious pomp and gor- 
geous extravagance of the Egyptian queen are 
displayed in all their force and lustre, as well as 
the irregular grandeur of the soul of Mark An- 



ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 97 

tooy. Take only the first four lines that they 
speak as an example of the regal style of love- 
making. 

** Cleapaira. If it be lave, indeed^ tell me how much ? 

4ntony, There*8 b^gary in the love that 'can be reck- 
oned. 

CleopaHra. 1*11 set a bourn how flair to be beloved. 

Anixmy, Then must thou needs find out new heav'n> 
new earth," 

The rich and poetical description of her per- 
son, beginning — * 

'' The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne^ 
Burnt on the Water ; the poop was beaten gcdd^ 
Pttiple the sails, and so perfumed, that 
The winds were love-sick"— 

seems to prepare the way for, and almost to jus^ 
tify the subsequent infatuation of Antony when 
in the sea-fight at Actium, he leaves the battle, 
and '^ like a doating mallard^^ follows her flying 
sails. 

Few things in Shakespear (and we know of 
nothing in any other author like them) have 
more of that local truth of imagination and cha- 
racter than the passage in which Cleopatra is 
represented conjecturing what were the employ- 
ments of Antony in his absence. " He^s speak- 
ing now, or murmuring — Whereas my serpent of 
oU NikP^ Or again, when she says to Antony, 
after the defeat at Actium, and his summoning 

H 



Sf8 ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 

up resolutioD to risk another fight-^^' It is my 
birth-day ; 1 had thought to have held it poodr; 
but since my lord is Antony again, I will be 
Cleopatra/' Perhaps the finest burst of all is 
Antony's ^rage after his final defeat when he 
comes in, and surprises the messenger of CsBsar 
kissing her hand«*-« 

^' To let a fellow that will take rewards. 
And say, God quit you, be familiar with. 
My play*fellow, your hand i this kin^y seal. 
And plighter of high hearts." 

It is no wonder that he orders him to be whip- 
ped ; but his low condition is not the true reason : 
there is another feeling which lies deeper, though 
Antony's pride would not let him shew it, except 
by his rage ; he suspects the fellow to be Caesar's 
proxy. 

Cleopatra's whole character is the triumph of 
the voluptuous, of the love of pleasure and the 
power of giving it, over every other considera- 
tion. Octavia is a dull foil to her, and Fulvia a 
shrew and shrill-tongued. What a picture do 
those lines give of her — 

'^ Age cannot wither her, nor custom steal 
Her infinite variety. Other women doy 
The appetites they fbed, but she makes hungry 
Where most she satisfies. 

What a spirit and fire in her conversation 
with Antony's messenger who brings her the 



ANTONY AND CI^i^pPATRA. 99 

unwelcome news o( his marriage with Octavia ! 
How all the pride of beauty and of high rank 
breaks out in her promised reward to him — 



.^^ Ther0*a gjoM, and ber» 



My bluest veto to kis^ !"-^ 

She had great and ynpa^^o^able faq|ts» but 
the beauty of her death almost redeenift tb^m. 
She iBQifis from the depth of despaii" the strength 
of her affections. She keeps her queen-like 
state in the last disgrace, and her sense of the 
pleasurable in the last moments of her lif<^. She 
tastes a luxury iii death. 4fter applyipg the 
asp, she says with fondness— < 

'^ Dost thou not see my baby at my breast^ 
That sucks the nurse asleep ? 
As sweet as balm^ as spf^ ^s a^r^ ^ g^^t|e. 
Oh Antony !" 

It is worth while to observe that Shakespear 
has contrasted the extreme magnificence of the 
descriptions in this pliay with pictures of exr 
treif^^ suffering ai^d pby^i^^il horror, not less 
striking-^p^lTtly p^haps to ejc^i^fe tlju^ effenair 
aacy of Marie J^utony ^o yv\yom tb^ey ar^ rer 
lated 9S h^vipg happei^ed, but qiore to preserve 
a cfjrtain b^l^nce of fee^pg ip th$ mn4* Caesar 
says, hearing of bif cQn(s||ii.ct at tbie court of 
Clepp*tr», ^ 



J* 



Antony, 



ii^ve thy lascivious wassab. Whan thouoace 



100 ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 

Wert beaten from Mutina> where thou slew^st 

{Iirtiu3 and Fansa^ consuls^ at thy heel 

Did limine fbllow> whom thou foughfat against> 

Though daintily brought up^ with patience more 

Than savages could sufier. Thou did*8t drink 

The stale of horses, and the gilded puddle 

Which beast would cough at. Thy palate then did 4eiga 

The roughest berry on the rudest hedge. 

Yea, like the stag, when snow the pasture sheets. 

The barks of trees thou browsed'st. On the Alps> 

It is reported, thou did*0t eat strange fleshy 

Which spme did die tp look on : and all this. 

It wounds thine honour, that I speak it now, . 

Was borne so like a soldier, that thy cheek 

So much as lank'd not.*' 

The passage after Antony's defeat by Augus-» 

• 'I 

tus where he is made to say — 

'' Yes, yes j he at Fhilippi kept 
His sword e*en like a dancer ; while I struck 
The lean and wrinkled Cassius> and 'twas I 
That the m?id Brutus ended" — 

is one of those fine retrospections which shew 
us the winding and eventful march of human 
life. The jealous attention which has been paid 
to the unities both of time and place has taken 
away the principle of perspective in the drama, 
and all the interest which objects derive from 
distance, from contrast, from privation, from 
change of fortune, from long-cherished passion ; 
and contracts our view of life from a strange and 
romantic dream, long, obscure, and infinite, into 



ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 101 

a smartly contested, three hours' inaugural dis- 
putation on its merits by the different candi- 
dates for theatrical applause. 

The latter scenes of Antony and Cleopa- 
tra are full of the changes of accident and pas- 
sion. Success and defeat follow one another 
with startling rapidity. Fortune sits upon her 
wheel more blind and giddy than usual. This 
precarious state and the approaching dissolution 
of his greatness are strikingly displayed in the 
dialogue between Antony and Eros. 



i " 



Antony, £ros> thou yet behold*st me ? 

EroB. Ky, noble lord. 

Antony, Sometime we see a doud that*s dragonish, 
A vapour sometime^ like a bear or lion> 
A towered citadel, a pendant rock> 
A forked mountain, or blue promontory 
With trees upon*t, that nod unto the world 
And mock our eyes with air. Thou hast seen these signs. 
They are black vesper's pageants. 

Eto$. Ay, my lord. 

Antony, That which is now a horse, even with a thought 
The rack dislimns, and makes it indistinct 
As water is in water. 

Eto», It does, my lord. 

Antopy, My good knave, Eros, now thy captain is 
Even such a body," &c. 

This is, without doubt, one of the finest pieces 
of poetry in Sbakespear. The splendour of the 
imagery, the semblance of reality, the lofty range 
of picturesque objects hanging over the world. 



im ANTONY AND CLEOPAtttA. 

th^ir eTEUCHBeeht natbre^ the total unceriaitity 6( 
what is left behiiidi, are jttM like the mouldering 
schemes of human greatness. It i^ finer than 
Cleopatra^a passimiate lamentation over his fallen 
grandeur^ becauae it is more dim, unstable, iln- 
substantial. Antony's headstrong presumption 
and infatuated determination to yield to Cleopa- 
tVR^k wisbes^ to fight by sea instead of land^ meet 
a merited punishment ; and the extmvaganee of 
his msdlutimis^ inereasing with the desperateness 
of his circumstances, is well commented upon 
by OEnobarbus. 



tt 



I see men judgemeiitk ar^ 



A parcel of thieir fortunes^ and Ihhigs dUtward 
Do draw the inward quality after them 
To suffer all alike.*' 

The repentance of (Enobarbus after h\i trea- 
chery to his master is the most afibcting pArt of 
the play. He cannot recover from the blow 
which Antonyms generosity gives him, and he 
dies broken-hearted ^\ a master-leaver and a 
fugitive.^^ 

Shakespear's genius has spread over the whole 
• play a richness like the overflowing of the Nile. 



HAMLET. 



This is that Hamkt the Dane, whom we read 
of in our youth, and whom we seem almost to 
remember in our after-years ; be who made that 
femous soliloquy on life, who gave the advice 
to the players, who thought ^* this goodly frame, 
the earth, a steril promontory, and this brave 
p'er-ibangtng firmament, the air, this majesti- 
cal roof fretted with golden fire, a foul and pes- 
tilent congregation of vapours ;^^ whom ^Mnan 
delighted not, nor woman neither ;^^ he who 
talked' with the grave-diggers, and moralised on 
YcH*ick^9 skull ; the school-fellow of Rosencraus 
and Guildenstern at Wittenberg ; the friend of 
Horatio,; the lover of Ophelia; be that was mad 
and sent to England ; the slow avenger of his 
father's death; who lived at the court 6f Hor* 
wendillus five hundred years before we«were 



104 HAMLET. 

born, but all whose thoughts we seem to know 
as well as we do our own, because we have read 
them in Shakespear. 

Hamlet is a name : his speeches and sayings 
but the idle coinage of the poet^s brain. What 
then^ are they, not real ? They are as real as 
our own thoughts^ Their reality is in the 
reader's mind. It is we who are Hamlet. This 
play has a prophetic truth, which is above that 
of history.. Whoever has become thoughtful 
and melancholy through his own mishaps or 
those of others ; whoever has borne about with 
him the clouded brow of reflection, and thought 
himself ^* too much i' th' dun f^ whoever has 
seen the golden lamp of day dimmed by envious 
mists rising in his own breast, and could find in 
the world before him only a dull blank with no- 
thing left remarkable in it ; whoever has known 
'^ the pangs of despised love, the insolence of 
office, or the spurns which patient merit of the 
unworthy takes ;'^ he who has felt his mind sink 
within him, and sadness cling to his heart like 
a malady, who has had his hopes blighted and 
his youth staggered by the apparitions of strange 
things; who cannot be well at etise, while he 
sees evil hovering near him like a spectre; whose 
powers of action have been eaten up by though t» 
he to whom the universe seems infinite, and 
himself nothing ; whose bitterness of soul makes 
him careless of consequences, and who goes to 



HAMLET. 10& 

a play as his best resource to shove off, to a 
second remove, the evils of life by a mock^re^ 
presentation of them-^this is the true Hamlet. 

We have been so used to this tragedy that we 
hardly know how to criticise it any more than 
we should know how to describe our own faces. 
But we must make such observations as we can. 
It is the one of Sbakespear^s plays that we think 
of .oftenest, because it abounds most in^striking 
reflections on human life, and because the dis* 
tresses of Hamlet are transferred, by the turn of 
his mind, to the general account of humanity. 
Whatever happens to him, we apply to our- 
selves, because he applies it so himself as a 
means of general reasoning. He is a great mo- 
raliser; and what makes him worth attending 
to is, that he moralises on his own feelings and 
experience. He is not a common-place pedant. 
Jf Lear shews the greatest depth of passion, 
Hamlbt is the most remarkable for the inge- 
nuity, . (Originality, and unstudied developement 
of character. Shakespear had more magnani- 
mity than any other poet, and he has shewn 
more of it in this play than in any other. 
There is no attempt to force an interest: every 
thing is left. tor time and circumstances to un- 
fold. The attention is excited without effort, 
the incidents succeed each other as matters of 
course, the characters think and speak and act 
just as they might do, if left entirely to them- 



105 HAULET. 

selveSh There is no set purpote^ do straibing 
€^ a point The observation^ are suggested hy 
the passing scene^^the gusts of passion come 
and go like sounds of music borne on the wind. 
The whole play is an exact transcript of what 
might be supposed to have taken plttce M the 
court of Denmark, at the rem6te period of tiilve 
fixed upon, before the mod^n refinements in 
morals and manners were beard Of. It would 
bave been interesting enough to have been ad- 
mitted as a by-stander in such 4 sc^ne, at such 
a time, to have heard and seeii somMhing of 
what was going on. But here we are more than 
spectators. We have not only ^^ the outward 
pageants and the signs of grief;'' but '* we have 
that within which passes shew.'' We read the 
thoughts (rf* the heart, we catch the passions 
living as they rise. Other dramatic writers give 
us very fine versions and paraphrases of nature : 
but Sl^kespear, together with his own com- 
ments, gives us the origtnel text, that we may 
juQ^ for ourselves. This is a very great advan^ 
tage. 

The character of Hamlet is itself a pure effu^ 
sion of genius. It is not a character marked by 
strength of will or even of passion, but l^ re«- 
finement of thought and sentiment. Hamlet is 
as little of the hero as a man can well be : but 
he is a young and princely novice, full of high 
enthusiasm and quick 8ensibility-*-the sport of 



HAMLET. lor 

drcumMjMi<G6d, questioning with fortune and re- 
fining on his own feelings, and forced from the 
natural bias of his disposition by the strangenesa 
of h^s situation. He seems incapable of delibe^^ 
rate a<etion, and is bnly hurried into ejctremi^ 
ties on the spur of the occasion, when he has 
no time to reflect, as in ike scene where he kills 
Polonius, and ^gain, where he alters the letters 
tvhich Bosencraus and Guildenstern are taking 
With them to England, purporting his deatht. 
At other time^, wh^n he is most bound to act, 
he remains puzzled, undecided, and sceptical, 
dallies Mrith his purp6i<tes, tilt the occasion is 
lost, and always finds some pretence to relapse 
into indolence and thoughtfuhiess again, l^ov 
this reason he refuses to kill the King when he 
is at his prayers, and by a refinement in maUce, 
which is in truth only an excuse for his own 
want of resolution, defets hb ri^venge to some 
more fatal opportunity, when he shall be en* 
gaged jn some act ^^ that has no relish of salva- 
tion in it.^' 

*' He kneels and jprays. 

And now 111 d6% attd so he goes to Ixeaven^ 

And so am I W^&ig-ji : ffhat tooUldhe scanned. 

He killed my fietther^ atod fbr tli^t> 

h his sole soa> sehd bitn to he&vieii. 

Why this is reward^ not ifevenge. 

Up sword and know thou a more horrid thiie. 

When he is drunk> asleeip^ or in a rage/' 



108 HAMLET. 

He is the prince of philosophical speculators, 
and because he cannot have his revenge perfect, 
according to the most refined idea his wish can 
form, he misses it altogether. So he scruples 
to trust the suggestions of the Ghost, contrives 
the scene of the play to have surer proof of his 
uncle's guilt, and then rests satisfied with this 
confinnation of his suspicions, and the success 
of his experiment, instead of acting upon it. Yet 
he is sensible of his own weakness, taxes himself 
with it, and tries to reason himself out of it. 

''How all occasions do inform against me. 
And spur my dull revenge ! What is a man^ 
If his chief good and market of his time 
Be but to sleep and feed } A beast 5 no more. 
Sure he that made us with such large discourse. 
Looking before and after, gave us not 
That capability and god-like reason 
To rust in us unus*d : now whether it be 
Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple 
Of thinking too precisely on th* event,^- 
A thought which quaiter'd, hath but one part wisdom. 
And ever three parts coward ; — I do not know 
Why yet I live to say, this thing's to do 5 
Sith I have cause, and will, and strength, and means 
To do it. Examples gross as earth excite me : 
Witness this army of such mass and charge. 
Led by a delicate and tender prince. 
Whose spirit with divine ambition puff *d> 
Makes mouths at the invisible event. 
Exposing what is mortal and unsure 
To all that fortune, death, and danger dare^ 



HAMLET. 109 

£ren £br aa egg-shell. "lis not to.be greats 

Never to stir without great argument ji 

But greatly to find quarrel in a straw^ 

When honour's at the stake. How stand I then> 

That have a father kill'd^ a mother stain*d^ 

Excitements of my reason and my blood> 

And let aU sleeps while to my shame I see 

The imminent death of twenty thousand men> 

That for a fimtasy and trick of fkme^ 

Go to their graves like beds, fight for a plot 

Whereon the numbers cannpt try the cause. 

Which is not tomb enough and continent 

To hide the slain? — O, from this time forth. 

My thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth.**^ 

Still he does nothing; and this very speculation 
on his own infirmity only affords him another 
occasion for indulging it. It is npt for any want 
of attachment to his father or abhorrence of 
his murder that Hamlet is thus dilatory, but it 
is more to his taiste to indulge his imagination 
in reflecting upon the enormity of the crime and 
refining on his schemes of vengeance, than to 
put them into immediate practice. His ruling 
passion is to think, not to act : and any vague 
pretence that flatters this propensity instantly 
diverts him from his previous purposes. 

The moral perfection of this character has 
been called in question, we think, by those who . 
did not understand it. It is more interesting than 
according to rules: amiable, though not fault- 
less. The ethical delineations of ^^ that noble 



110 HhHhl^T. 

and liberal casuist'^ (as Shakespe^r has been well 
called) do not exhibit the drab^coiou^ed qtia- 
kerism of molrality. His plays are not copied 
either from The Whole Duty of Man^ or from 
The Academy of Cofnpliffients ! We poqfess, 
we are a little shocked at th^ want of rt^neinienr 
in those who are shocked at the want of refine- 
ment in Hamlet. The want of punctilious ex* 
actness in his behaviour either partakes of the 
" license of the time," pr else belpngs to the 
very excesisi of iptelleiptu^l reg^em^ot in the 
character, which nmkes the fiommoii ral^ of 
life, as well as his own purposes, sit loose upon 
him. He may be said to b» ammabk only to 
the tribunal of his own thoughts, and is too 
much taken up with the airy world of ^nt^mr 
plation to lay as much stress as be ought on 
the practical consequencas of things. His babi^ 
tual principles of action are unhinged and out 
of joint with the time. His conduct to Ophelia 
is quite natural in hi« circumstances. It 14 that 
of assumed severity only. It is the effect of 
diqappointed hope, of bitter regrets, of afiec* 
lion suspended, not obliterated, by the distrac* 
tions of the iscene afound him 1 Amicfat the 
natural and preternatural horrors of bis situa* 
tion, he might be exqused iq delicacy froul 
carrying on a regular courtship. When ^^ his fist* 
thcf's spirit was in arms,^^ it was not 4 time for 
the son to make love in* He could neither marry 



HAMLKT. ill 

Opheiia, nor wound her mind by e^cpl^iniQg 
the cause of bis alienation, whicb be duTat 
hardly trust himself to think of. It would b^Y§ 
taken him years to have come to a direct e^pla^ 
nation on the point. In the barasaed state pf 
his mind, he qould not hare dona otb^rwliii 
than he did. His eonduct does no|t contradiot 
. what he says when he sees hep funeral, 

'' I loved Ophelia : forty thousand brothe|% 
Could not with all their quantity of love 
Make up my sum/' 

Nothing can be more affecting or beautiful 
than the Queen^s apostrophe to Ophalia on 
throwing flowers into the grave. 



•'' Sweets to the gweet, farewell. 



I hop*d thoii should*st have been my Hamlet's wife : 
I thought thy bride-bed to have deck*d> sweet maid^ 
And net have 6tpew*d thy grave." 

Shakespear was thoroughly a master of tbfi 
mixed motives of human character, and he 
here shews us the Queen, who was so criiiii<« 
Hal in some respects, not without sensibi^t 
lity and affection in other relations of life.trrf 
Ophelia is a character alinost too exquisitely 
touching to he dwelt upon. Oh rose of May» 
oh flower too soon faded 1 Her love, h^ liiadt 
ness, her death, ace described with the truest 



m HAMLET. 

touches of tenderness and pathos. It is a cha* 
racter which nobody but Shakespear could have 
drawn id the way that he has done, and to the 
conception of which there is not even the small- 
est approach, except in some of the old romantic 
ballads. Her brother, Laertes, is a character 
we do not like so well: he is too hot and cho- 
leric, and somewhat rodomontade. Polonius 
is a perfect character in its kind ; nor is there 
any foundation for the objections which have 
been made to the consistency of this part. It 
is said that he acts very foolishly and talks 
very sensibly. There is no inconsistency in 
that. Again, that he talks wisely at one time 
and foolishly at another ; that his advice to La- 
ertes is very sensible, and his advice to the King 
and Queen on the subject of Hamlet's madness 
very ridiculous. But he gives the one as a fa- 
ther, and is sincere in it; he gives the other 
as a mere courtier, a busy-body, and is accord- 
ingly officious, garrulous, and impertinent. In 
short, Shakespear has been accused of incon- 
sistency in this and other character, only be- 
cause he has kept up the distinction which 
there is in nature, between the understandings 
and the moral habits of men, between the ab- 
surdity of their ideas and the absurdity of their 
motives. Polonius is not a fool, but he makes 
himself so. His folly, whether in his actions or 



HAMLST. 115 

tpeeekes, comes ander the hisad of impiopriety 
ofrnteotioB. 

We do not like to see our aulbpP» plays 
acted, and least of all, Haxl£T« Theie Ib no 
^ay that suffers so tmch in being transferred 
to the «tage. Hamlet himself seems hardly 
capable of being acted. Mr. Kemble unavoid^* 
ably fails in this character from a want of ease 
and variety. The character of Hamlet is made 
up of undulating lines ; it has the yielding flexi- 
bility of " a wave o' th* sea/^ Mr. Kemble 
plays it like a man in armour, with a deter- 
mined inveteracy of purpose, in one undeviat- 
ing straight line, which is as remote from the 
natural grace and refined susceptibility of the 
character, as the sharp angles and abrupt starts 
which Mr. Kean introduces into the part. Mr. 
Kean's Hamlet is as much too splenetic and 
rash as Mr. Kemble^s is too deliberate and for- 
mal. His manner is too strong and pointed. 
He throws a severity, approaching to virulence, 
into the common observations and answers. 
There is nothing of this in Hamlet. He is, as 
it were, wrapped up in his reflections, and only 
thinks aloud. There should therefore be no 
attempt to impress what he says upon others 
by a studied exaggeration of emphasis or man- 
ner ; no talking at his hearers. There should 
be as much of the gentleman and scholar as 



tl4 HAMLET; 

possible infused into the part, and as little of 
the actor; A pensive air of sadness should sit 
reluctantly upon his brow, but no appearance 
of fixed and suUen gloOm. He is full of weak- 
ness and melancholy, but there is no harshneto 
in his nature* He is the niost amiable of mi- 
santhropes* 



THE TEMPEST. 



saa 



There can be little doubt that Shakespear 
was the most universal genius that ever lived* 
** Either for tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, 
pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, scene in-^^ 
dividable or po6m unlimited, he is the only 
man. Seneca cannot be too heavy, nor Plan- 
tus too light for him/' He has hot only the 
same absolute command over our laughter and 
our tears, all the resources of passion, of wit, 
of thought, of observation, but he has the most 
unbounded range of fanciful invention, whe- 
ther terrible or playful, the same insight in^to 
the world of imagination that he has into the 
world of reality ; and over all there presides 
the same truth of character and nature, and 
the same spirit of humanity. His ideal be* 
ings are as true and natural as his real cha- 



116 THE TEMPEST. 

racters ; that is, as consistent with themselves, 
or if we suppose such beings to exist at all, they 
could not act, speak, or feel otherwise than as 
he makes them. He has invented for them a 
language, manners, and sentiments of their own, 
from the tremendous imprecations of the Witches 
in Macbeth^ when they do ^^ a deed without a 
name,^^ to the sylph-like expressions of Ariel, 
who ^^ does his spiriting gently ;'' the mischiev- 
ous tricks and gossipping of Robin Goodfellow, 
or the uncouth gabbling and emphatic gesticu- 
lations of Caliban in this play. 

The Tempest is one of the most original and 
perfect of Shakespear's productions, and he bcis 
shewn tn it all the variety of his powers. It is 
ibll of grace and grandeur. The humao and 
imaginary characters, the dramatic and tb9 
grotesque, are blended together with the greateat 
art, and without any appearance of it. Thoii^h 
he has here giv«n ^^ to airy nothing 9 local habi-» 
tation and a name,^^ yet that paft which is only 
the fantaalic creation of hia miadi has the sam^ 
palpable texture, and coheres ^' aeiablably'' with 
the reat. As the preternatun^l p«rt baa the w 
of reality, and ahnost haupti^ the umgioatioQ 
with a souse of truths thet re^ character^ and 
events partake of the wildmss of a dream. The 
atately magician, Pro^pero, driven from \>m 
dukedom, hut accnindwhom (so pot^t is \xi^ 
art) airy spirits thfURg ODfpbQf)^ S9 to do his 



THE TEMPEST. 117 

bidding; his daughter Miranda ('^ worthy of 
that name'^) to whom all the power of his art 
points, and who seems the goddess of the isle ; 
the princely Ferdinand, cast by fate upon the 
haven of his happiness in this idol of his love ; 
the delicate Ariel ; the savage Caliban, half bruto, 
half demon ; the drunken ship's crew'^are all 
connected parts of the story, and can hardly 
be spared from the place they filU Even the 
local scenery is of a piece and character with 
the snbjectt Prosperous enchanted island seems 
to have risen up out of the sea ; the airy music, 
the tempest-tost vessel, the turbulent waves, all 
have the effect of the landscape back^ground of 
some fine picture. Shakespear's pencil is (to use 
an allusion of his own) ^^ like the dyer's hand, 
subdued to what it works in/' Every thing in 
him, though it partakes of ^^ the liberty of wit/' is 
also subjected to ^^ the law" of the understand- 
ing* For instance, even the drunken sailors, who 
are made reeling-^ripe, share, in the disorder of 
their minds and bodies, in the tumult of the 
elements, and seem on shore to be is much at 
the mercy of chance as they were before at the 
mercy of the winds and waves* These fellows 
with their sea-wit are the least to our taste of any 
part of the play : but they are as like drunken 
sailors as they can be, and are an indirect foil 
to Caliban, whose figure acquires a classical 
dignity in the comparison. 



118 THE TEMPEST. 

The character of CaKban is generally thought 
(and justly so^ to be oiie of the author's master- 
pieces. It is not indeed pleasant to see this cha-t 
racter on the stage any more, than it is to see 
the God Fan ft personated there. But in itself it 
is one of ithe wildest and most abstracted of all 
Shakesp^ir's ; characters, whose defprmity whe- 
ther of body or mind is redeemed by the power 
and truth of the imagination displayed in it. 
It is the essence of grossness, but there is not 
a particle of vulgarity in it. Shakespear has 
described the brutal mind of Caliban in contact 
with the pure and original forms of nature ; the 
character grows out of the sqil where it is rooted 
uncontrouled, uncouth and wild, unoramped by 
any of the meannesses of custom. It is ^^ of the 
earth, earthy .'' It seems almost to have been, 
dug out of the ground, with a soul instinctively 
superadded to it answering to its wants and 
origin. Vulgarity is not natural coarseness, but 
conventional coarseness, learnt from others, 
contrary to, or without an entire conformity 
of natural power and disposition ; as fash- 
ion is the common-place affectation of what 
is elegant and refined without any feeling of 
the essence of it. Schlegel, the admirable 
German critic on . Shakespear, observes that 
Caliban is a poetical character, and ^' always 
i^peaks in blank verse.^' He first comes in 
thus : 



THE TEMPEST. 119 

*' Caliban. As wicked dew as e*er my mother brus)^ 
With ravelin's feather from imwholesonie fen^ . 
Prop on you both : a south-west blow on ye^ 
And blister you all o*er ! 

Prospero. For this^ be sore^ to*night thou shdit have 
cramp6> 'I 

. Side-stitches that sh^ pen thy,breath up ; urchins 
Shall for that vast of night that they may work^ 
All exercise on thee : thou shalt be 4princh*d 
As thick as honey-combs^ each pinch more stinging 
Than bees that made *em. 

Caliban, I must ^eat my> dinner. 
This idand's mine b^ Sycorax my mother^ 
Which thou tak'st from me. When thou earnest firsts 
Thou stroak*dst me> and mad*st much of me -, would* st 

give me 
Water with berries in*t ; and teach me how 
To name the bigger light and how the less 
That bum by day and night j and then I Ipv'd thee> 
And shewed thee all the (]^aa!lities o* th* isle^ 
The fresh springs, brine-pits> barren place ^d fertile : 
Curs*d be I that I did so ! All the chsu'ms 
Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, batsr light on you! 
For I am all the subjects that you have. 
Who first was mine own king ; and here you sty me 
In this hard rock, wlulea you do keep from me 
The rest o* th* island. 

And again, he promises Trinculo his services 
thus, if he will free him from h 13 drudgery. 

'^ 111 shew thee the best springs 5 TU pluck thee ber- 
ries, 
m fish for thee, and get thee wood enough. 
I pr'ythee let me bring thee where crabs grow. 



120 THE TEMPBST. 



And I wkh my long taSa will dig thee pigoiMits : 
Shew thee a jay's nest, and instmct thee hov 
To snare the nin^iie marmoset : I'll bring tiiee 
To dust'ring filberds 3 and sometimes I'M ge4 thee 
Young eounels from the rock." 

In conducting Stephfiho and Trinctilo to Pros- 
perous cell, Caliban shews the superiority of 
natural capacity over greater knowledge and 
greater folly ; and in a former scene, when Ariel 
frightens them with his musoc, Calibaa to en- 
courage them aecQUute for it in the ekiquent 
poetry of the senses. 

— ^^ Be not afiraid^ the isle is fiill of noises^ 

Soimdsj and sweet airs^ that give delight and hurt not. 

Sometimes a thousand twanging instruments 

Will hum about mine eareu and sometimes voices^ 

That if I then bad waked after long sleep^ 

Would make me sleep again 5 and th|en in dreaming^ 

The douds methought would open^ and shew riches 

Ready to drop upon me : when I wak*d 

I cried to dream again.*' 

This is not more beautiful than it is true. 
The poet here shews us the savage with the 
simplicity of a child, and makes die strange 
monster amiable. Shakespear had to paint the 
human animal rude and without choice in its 
pleasures, but not without the sense of pleasure 
or some germ of the affections. Master Bar* 
nardine in Measure for Measure^ the savage of 



THS TEMPEST. 181 

civilized life, is an admirable philosophical coun* 
terpart to Caliban. 

Shiakespear has, as it were by design, drawn 
off from Caliban the elements of whatever is 
ethereal and refined, to compound them in the 
UtteBftbly mould of Ariel. Nothing was ever 
more finely conceived than this contrast be« 
tween the material and the spiritual, the gross 
and delicate. Ariel is imaginary power, the 
swiftness of thought personified. When told 
to make good speed by Prospero, he says, ^^ I 
drink the air before me.'' This is something 
like Puck's boast on a similar occasion, '^ Pll 
put a girdle round about the earth in forty mi- 
nutes." But Arid differs from Pu/dc in having 
a fellow feeling in the interests of those he is 
employed about. How exquisite is the fol- 
lowing dialogue between him and Prospero ! 

'^ JrieL Your charm so stjpoiigly works *em^ 
Tbat if you now beheld them^ your aflfections 
Would become tender. 

Proipero. Dost thou think so, spirit? 

Ariel, Mine would> sir« were I human. 

Prospero. And mine shall. 
Ha3t thou^ whieh art but air> a touchy a feeling 
Of their afflictions^ and shall not myself^. 
One of their kind> that reUsh all as sharply^ 
Fto8u>n*d as they^ be ktaidlier moved than thou art V* 

It has been observed that there is a peculiar 
charm in the songs introduced in Shakespear, 



12« THE TEMPEST. 

which, without conveying any distinct images, 
seem to recall all the feelings connected with 
them, like snatches of half-forgotten music heard 
indistinctly and at intervals. There is this effect 
produced by Ariel's songs, which (as we are told) 
seem to sound in the air, and as if the person 
playing them were invisible. We shall give one 
instance out of many of this general power. 



ff 



Enter Fehdinanp ; and Aribl invisible, pUs^mg and 

singing. 

ARIEL'S SONG. 

Come unto these yellow sands^ 

And then take hands 5 

Curt*sied when you have, and kiss*d> 

(The wild waves whist;) 

Foot it featly here and there -, 

And sweet sprites the burden bear. 

[^Burden dispersedly. 

Hark, hark! bowgh-wowgh: the watch-dogs 
Bowgh-wowgh^ [bark, 

Ariel, Hark, hark ! I hear 

The striun of strutting chanticleer 
Cry cock-a-doodle-doo. 



Ferdinand. Where should this music be? in air or earth ^ 
It sounds no more : and sure it waits upon 
Some god o* th* island. Sitting on a bank 
Weeping against the king my father's wreck. 
This music crept by me upon the waters. 
Allaying both their fury and my passion 
With its sweet air -y thence I have follow*d it. 



THE TEMPEST. 123 

Or it hath drawn me ratber : — ^but *ti8 gone,*-^ 
No> it b^ins again* 

ARIEL'S SONG. 

Full feithom five thy &ther lies^ 

Of his Ixmes are coral made : 
Those are pearls that were his eyes> 
Nothing of him that doth feuie^ 
But doth sufibr a sea change^ 
Into something rich and strange. 
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell— » 
Hark ! now I hear them^ ding-dong bell. 

^Burden ding-dong* 

Ferdinand. The ditty does remember my ditiwn'd &ther. 
This is no mortal business^ nor no sound 
That the earth owns : I hear it now above me."^^ 

The courtship between Ferdinand and Mi- 
randa is one of the chief beauties of this play. 
It is the very purity of love. The pretended 
interference of Prospero with it heightens its in- 
terest, and is in character with the magician, 
whose sense of preternatural power makes him 
arbitrary, tetchy, and impatient of opposition. 

The Tempest is a finer play than the Mid- 
summer Nighfs Dream^ which has sometimes 
been compared with it ; but it is not so fine a 
poem. There are a greater number of beautiful 
passages in the latter. Two of the most striking 
in the Tempest are spoken by Prospero. The 
one is that admirable one when the vision which 
he has conjured up disappears, beginning ^^ The 



U4 THB TEMPEST. 

• 

cloud-capp^ towers, the goi^^eoua palaces/' &c. 
which has been so often quoted, that every 
school-boy knows it by heart ; the other is that 
which Prospero msd^es in abjuring his art. 

'' Ye elves of hills^ brooks^ standi^ lakesj and groves^ 
And ye that on the sands with printkss foot 
Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him 
When he comes back ; you demi-puppets^ that 
By moon-shiae do the green sour ringlets make^ 
Whereof the ewe not bites 3 and you whose pastime 
Is to make midnight mushrooms^ that rejoice 
To hear the solemn curfew^ by whose aid 
(Weak masters tho* ye be) I haVe be*ctimln*d 
The noon-tide sun, caU*d forth the mutinous winds^ 
And *twixt the green sea and the azur'd rank 
Set roaring war; to the dread rattling thunder 
Have I giv*n fire, and rifled Jove's stovt oak 

r 

With his own bolt; the 8trong-bas*d promontory 
Have I made shake^ and by the spurs pluck*d up 
The pine and cedar: graves at my command 
Have wak*d their sleepers 3 op*d^ and let 'em forth 
By my so potent art. But this rough magic 
I here abjure 5 and when I have requir'd 
Some heav'nly music> which ev'n now I do^ 
(To work mine end upon their senses that 
This airy charm is for) 1*11 break my staflf^ 
Bury it certain fisuloms in the earthy 
And deep^ than did ever plummet sou^d^ 
JH drown my book." — 

We must not forget to mention among other 
things in this play, that Shakespear has antici- 



THE TEMPEST. 125 

pated nearly all the arguments on the Utopian 
schemes of modern philosophy. 

*^ GoHzalo, Had I the plantation of this isle> my lord— 

Antonio, He'd 80w*t with nettle-seed. 

Sebastian, Or docks or mallows. 

Gonzalo, And were the king on% what would I do ? 

Sebastian. 'Scape being drunks for want of wine. 

Gonzalo. T th' commonwealth I would by contraries 
Execute aH things : lor no kind of traffic 
Would I admit} no name of magistrate ; 
Letters should not be known; wealth, poverty. 
And use of service, none ; contract, succession. 
Bourn, bound of land, tOth, vineyard, none ; 
No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil ; 
No occupation, all men idle, all. 
And women too; but innocent and pure ; 
No soy'reignty. 

Sebastian, And yet he would be king on't. 

Antonio. The latter end of his commonwealth forgets 
the beginning. 

Gonzalo. All things in common nature should produce 
l¥]tnout sweat or endeavour. Treason, felony, 
Sword> pike, kniiie, gun,, or need of my engine 
Would I not have J, but nature should bring forth. 
Of its own kind, all foizon, all abundance 
To feed my innocei)t people ! 

Sebastian, No manying 'mong his subjects } 

Anionio. None, man ; all idle; whores and knstves. 

iSnmavifh, I would with/sucb pcvUctieo gfwem> sir, 
X* eatfi the golden a^ 

Sebastian, Save his ms^eaty I". 



THE 



MIDSUMMER NIGHTS DREAM. 



SoTTOM the Weaver is a character that has 
not had justice done him. He is the most ro- 
mantic of mechanics. And what a list of com- 
panions he has — Quince the Carpenter, Snug 
the Joiner, Flute the Bellows-mender, Snout 
the Tinker, Starveling the Tailor; and then 
again, what a group of fairy attendants. Puck, 
Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth, and Mustard- 
seed ! It has* been observed that Shakespear^s 
characters are constructed upon deep physiolo- 
gical principles ; and there is something in this 
play which looks very like it. Bottom the 
Weaver, who takes the lead of 

" This crew of patches^ rude mechanicals^ 
That work for bread upon Athenian &talbj" 



MIDSUMMER NI6HT*S DREAM. 1^7 

follows a sedentary trade, and he is accordingly 
represented as conceited, seriods, and fentasti-* 
cal. He is ready to undertake any thing and 
every thing, as if it was as much a matter of 
course as the motion of his loom and shuttle. 
He is for playing the tyrant, the lover, the 
lady, the lion. '' He will roar that it shall do 
any man^s heart good to hear him;'^ and this 
being objected to as improper, he still has a 
resource in his good opinion of himself, and 
" will roar you an ^twere any nightingale/^ 
Snug the Joiner is the moral man of the piece, 
who proceeds by measurement and discretion in 
all things. You see him with his rule and com- 
passes in his hand. - ^^ Have you the lion^s part 
written ? Pray you, if it be, give it me, for I 
am slow of study .^^ — " You may do it extem- 
pore,'^ says Quince, ^' for it is nothing but roar- 
ing.'^ ' Starveling the Tailor keeps the peace, 
and objects to the lion and the drawn sword. 
^^ I believe we must leave the killing out when 
all's done.'' Starveling, however, does not start 
the objections himself, but seconds them when 
made by others, as if he had not spirit to ex- 
press his fears without encouragement. It is 
too much to suppose all this intentional : but 
it very luckily fells out so. Nature includes 
all that is implied in the most subtle analyti- 
cal distinctions ; and the same distinctions will 
be found in Shakespear. Bottom, who is not 



1% MIDSUMMBR NIGHT'S DUBAIf. 

only chief actor, but stage -manager for the 
occasion, has a device to obriate the danger of 
frighteoing the ladies : ^^ Write me a prologue, 
and let the prologue seem to say, we will do no 
harm with our swords, and that Pyramus is not 
killed indeed; and for better assurance, tell 
them that I, Pyramus, am not Pynamus, but 
Bottom the Weaver: this will put them out of 
fear/' Bottom seems to have understood the 
subject of dramatic illusion at least as well as 
any modern essayist. If our holiday mechanic 
rules the roast among bis fellows, he is no less 
at hoine in his new character of an ass, ^^ with 
amiabie cheeks, and fair large ears/^ He in« 
stinctively acquires a most learned taste, and 
grows fastidious in the choice of dried peas and 
bottled hay. He is quite familiar with his new 
attendants, and assigns them their parts with 
all due gravity. ^' Monsieur Cobweb,* good 
Monsieur, get yoiir weapon in your band, and 
kill me a red*hipt humble-bee on the top of a 
thistle, and, good Monsieur, bring me the ho- 
ney-bag/' What an exact knowledge is her^ 
shewn of natural history ! 

Puck, or Robm Goodfellow, is the lead^ of 
the fairy band* He is the Ariel of the Mxd^ 
SUMMUR Night's Drbam ; and yet as unlike 
as can be to the Ariel in The Tempesi. No 
other poet could have made two such difibrent 
cbamcters out of the same fiinciful materials 



MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 129^ 

aad situations. Ariel is a minister of retribu- 
tion, who is touched with a sense of pity fet 
the woes he inflicts. Puck is a mad-cap sprite, 
full of wantonness and mischief, who laughs at 
those whom he misleads — " Lord, what fools 
these mortals be ! " Ariel cleaves the air, and 
executes his mission with the zeal of a winged 
messenger; Puck is borne along oh his fairy 
eitand like the light and glittering gossamer 
before the breeze. He is, indeed, a most Epi- 
curean little gentleman, dealing in quaint de*> 
vices, and faring in dainty delights, Prospero 
and his world of spirits are a set of moralists : 
but with Oberon and his fairies we are launched 
at once into the empire of the butterflies. How 
beautifully is this race of beiqgs contrasted with 
the men and woinen actors in the scene, by a 
single epithet which Titania gives to the latter, 
" the human mortals !^^ It is astonishing that 
Shakespear, should be considered, not only by 
foreigners, but by many of pur own critics, as 
a gloomy and heavy writer, who painted no- 
thing but " gorgons and hydras, and chimeras 
dire.^^ His subtlety exceeds that of all other 
dramatic writers, insomuch that a celebrated 
person of the present day said that he regarded 
him rather as a metaphysician than a poet. His 
delicacy and sportive gaiety are infinite. In 
the Midsummer Night's Dream alone, we 
should imagine, there is more sweetness and 



ISO MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 

beauty of description than in the whole range 
of French poetry put together. What we mean 
is this, that we will produce out of that single 
play ten passages, to which we do not think any 
ten passages in the works of the French poets can 
be opposed, displaying equal fancy and imagery. 
Shall we mention the remonstrance of Helena 
to Hermia, or Titania^s description of her fairy 
train, or her disputes with Oberon about the 
Indian boy, or Puck^s account of himself and 
his employments, or the Fairy Queen^s exhor-* 
tation to the elves to pay due attendance upon 
her favourite, Bottom; or Hippolita^s descrfp- 
tion of a chace, or Theseus^s answer? The 
two last are as heroical and spirited as the 
others are full of luscious tenderness. The 
reading of this play is like wandering in a grove 
by moonlight : the descriptions breathe a sweet- 
ness like odours thrown from beds of flowers. 

Titania's exhortation to the fairies t6 wait upon 
Bottom, which is remarkable for a certain cloy- 
ing sweetness in the repetition of the rhymes^ 
is as follows :— 

'^ Be kind and courteous to this gentleman. 
Hop in hb walks^ and gambol in his eyes^ 
Feed him with apricocks and dewberries^ 
With piuple grapes> green figs and mulberries 5 
The honey-bags steel from the humble bees^ 
And for night tapers crop their waxen thighs^ 
And light them at the fiery glow-worm's eyesj 



MIDSUMMER. NIfiHT'S DREAM. 131 

To have my love to bed> and to anse : 
And pluck the wings from painted butterflies^ 
To &n the moon-beams from his sleeping eyes ; 
Nod to him> elves^ and do him courtesies.*' 

Tl^e sounds of the lute and of the trumpet 
arc npt more distinct than the poetry of the 
foregoing passage, and of the conversation be- 
tween Theseus and Hippolita. 

,^ ** Thiueus. Q03 one of you^ find out the forester^ 

For .now our observation is per^rm'd ', 

And since we huve the vaward of the day^ 

My love shall hear the music of my hounds. 

Uncouple in the western vaUey^ gq, 

Diiq>atch^ I say^ and find the forester. 

We wiU^ &ir Queen> up to the mountain's top> 

And marie the musical confusion 

Of hounds and echo in conjunction. 

^ppolita. I was with Hercules and Cadmus once> 
When in a wood of Crete they bay'd the bear 
With hounds of Sparta y never did I hear 
Such gallant chiding. For besides the groves^ 
■ The skie»^ the fountains^ every region near 
SeemM all one mutual ery. I never heard 
So musical a discord^ such sweet thunder. 

TheseuA. My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind^ 
So flew*d^ so sanded# and their heads are hung 
With ears that sweep away the morning dew; 
Crook-laiee*d and dew-lap*d^ like ThessaUan buUs^ 
Slow in pursuit, but matched in mouth like beUs> 
Each under each. A cry more tuneable 
Was never h^oo'd to> nor cheer'd with horn> 
In Crete^ in Sparta, nor in Thessaly : 
Judge when you hear.*'— 



132 MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 

£ven Titiai> never made a hunting*piece of a 
gusto so fresh and lusty, and so near the first 
ages of the world as this. — 

It had been suggested to us, that the Mid* 
SUMMER Night's Dream would do admirably 
to get up as a Christmas after-piece ; and our 
prompter proposed that Mr. Kean should play 
the part of Bottom, as worthy of his great ta^ 
lents. He might, in the discharge of his duty, 
offer to play the lady like any of our actresses 
that he pleased, the lover or the tyrant like any 
of our actors that he pleased, and the lion like 
" the most fearful wild-fowl living.^' The car- 
penter, the tailor, and joiner, it was thought, 
would hit the galleries. The young ladies in 
love would interest the side-boxes ; and Robin 
Goodfellow and his companions excite a lively 
fellow-feeling in the children from school. 
There would bq two courts, an empire within 
an empire, the Athenian and the Fairy King 
and Queen, with their attendants, and with 
all their finery. What an opportunity for pro- 
cessions, for the 'sound of trumpets and glitter- 
ing of spears! What a fluttering of urqhins^ 
painted wings; what a delightful profusion of 
gauze clouds and airy spirits floating on them! 

Alas, the eqcperinpient has been tried, and has 
failed ; not through the fault of Mr. Kefin, who 
did not play the part of Bottom, nor of Mr. 



MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM* ISS 

Liston, who did, and who played it well, but 
from the nature of things. The Midsummer 
Night's Dream, when acted, is converted 
from a^^delightful fiction into a dull pantomime. 
All that is finest in the play is lost in the repre- 
sentation. The spectacle was grand; but the 
spirit Was (evaporated, the genius' was fled;*— 
Poetry tihd the stage do not agree well together. 
The attempt to reconcile them \n this instance 
fails not only of effect, but of decorum. The 
ideal can have no place upon the stage, which is 
a picture without perspective : every thing there 
is jn the fore-ground. That which was merely 
an airy shape, a dream, a passing thought, 
immediately becomes an unmanageable reality. 
Where all is left to the imagination (as is the 
case in reading) every circumstance, near or 
remote, has an equal chance of being kept in 
mind, and tells according to the mixed impres- 
sion of all that has been suggested. But the 
imagination cannot sufficiently qualify the actual 
impressions of the senses. Any offence given 
to the eye is not to be got rid of by explanation. 
Thus Bottom'^s head in the play is a fantastic 
illusion, produced by magic spells: on the stage, 
it is an ass's head, and nothing more; certainly 
a very strange costume for a gentleman to ap- 
pear in. Fancy cannot be embodied any more 
than a simile can be painted; and it is as idle 
to attempt it as to personate Wall or Moonshine. 



134 MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. 

Fairies are not incredible, but fairies six feet 
high are so. Monsters are not shocking, if they 
are seen at a proper distance. When ghosts 
appear at mid-day, when apparitions stalk alon^ 
Cheapside, then may the Midsummer Night^^ 
Dream be represented without injury at Go- 
vent-garden or at Drury-lane. The boards of a 
theatre and the regions of fancy are not the 
same thing* 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 



Romeo and Juliet is the only tragedy which 
Shakespear has written entirely on a love-story* 
It is. supposed to have been his first play, ^nd 
it deserves to stand in that proud rank. There 
is the buoyant spirit of youth in every line, in 
the rapturous intoxication of hope, and in the 
bitterness of despair. It has been said of Rohceo 
AND Juliet by a great critic, that " whatever 
is most intoxicating in the odour of a southern 
spring, languishing in the song of the nightin- 
gale, or voluptuous in the first opening of the 
rose, is to be found in this poem/^ The descrip- 
tion is true ; and yet it does not answer to our 
idea of the play. For if it has the sweetness of 
the rose, it has its freshness too^ if it has the 
languor of the nightingale V song, it has also its 
giddy transport ; if it has the softness of a south- 



136 ROMEO AND JULIET. 

ern spring, it is as glowing and as bright. There 
is nothing of a sickly and sentimental cast. 
Romeo and Juliet are in love, but they are not 
love-sick. £very thing speaks the very soul 
of pleasure, the high and healthy pulse of the 
passions: the heartbeats,- the blood circulates 
and mantles throughout. Their courtship is not 
an insipid interchange of sentiments lip-deep, 
learnt at .second*hand from poems and plays,— 
made up of beautied df the most shadowy kind, 
of " fancies wan that hang the pensive head,^' 
of evanescent smiles and sighs that breathe not, 
of delicacy that shrinks from the touch and fee* 
bleness that scarce supports itself, an elaborate 
vacuity of thought, and an artificial dearth . of 
sense, spirit, truth, ^nd nature! It is the re- 
verse of all this. It is Shakespear all over, and 
Shakespear when he was young. 

We have heard it objected to Romeo and 
Juliet^ that it is founded on an idle passion 
between a boy and a girl, who have scarcely 
seen and can have but little sympathy or ra** 
tional esteem for one another, who have had no 
experience of the good or ills of life, and whose 
raptures or despair must be therefore equally 
groundless and fantastical. Whoever objects to 
the youth of ^he parties in this play as " too 
unripe and crude'' to pluck the sweets of love, 
and wishes to see a first-love carried on into a 



ItOMEO AND JULIBT. 137 

^od old age, and the passions taken at the 
rebound, when their force is spent, may find 
all this done in the Stranger and in other Ger- 
man plays, where they do things by contraries, 
and transpose nature to inspire sentiment and 
create philosophy. Shakespear proceeded in a 
more straitrfor ward, and, we think, effectual way. 
He did not endeavour to extract beauty fix)m 
wrinkles, or the wild throb of passion from the 
last expiring sigh of indifference. He did not 
'^ gather grapes of thorns nor figs of thistles.^^ 
It was not his way. But he has given a picture 
of human life, such as it is in the order of nature. 
He has founded the passion of the two lovers 
not on the pleasures they had experienced, biit 
on all the pleasures they had not experienced. 
All that was tb come of life was theirs. At 
that untried source of promised happiness they 
slaked their thirst, and the first eager draught 
made them drunk with love and joy. They 
were in full possession of .their senses and 
their affections. Their hopes were of air, their 
desires of fire. Youth is the season of love, 
because the heart is then first melted in ten^ 
derness from the touch of novelty, and kindled 
to rapture, for it knows no end of its enjoyments 
or its wishes. Desire has no limit but itself. 
Passion, the love and expectation of pleasure, 
is infinite, extravagant, inexhaustible, till ex- 



138 ROM£0 AND JULIET. 

perience comes to check and kill it. Juliet 
exclaims on ber first interview with Romeo—* 

*' My bounty is as boundless as the sea^ 
My love as deep." 

And why should it not ? What was to hinder 
the thrilling tide of pleasure, which had just 
gushed from her heart, from flowing on without 
stint or measure, but experience which she was 
yet without ? What was to abate the transport 
of the first sweet sense of pleasure, which her 
heart and her senses had just tasted, but indif- 
ference which she was yet a stranger to ? What 
was there to check the ardour of hope, of iaith, 
of constancy, just rising in her breast, but dis- 
appointment which she had not yet felt ? As 
sire the desires and the hopes of youthful pas- 
sion, such is the keenness of its disappoint- 
ments, and their baleful efiect Such is the 
transition in this play fr6m the highest bliss to 
the lowest despair, from the nuptial couch to an 
untimely grave. The only evil that even in ap- 
prehension befalls the two lovers is the loss of the 
greatest possible felicity ; yet this loss is fatal 
to both^ for they bad rather part with life than 
bear the thought of surviving all that had made 
life dear to them. In all this, Shakespear has but 
f<^lowed nature, which existed in his time, as 
well as now. The modern philosophy, which. 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 139 

reduces the whole theory of the mind to habi^ 
tual impressions, and leaves the natural impulses 
of passion and imagination out of the account, 
had not then been discovered; or if it had^ 
would have been little calculated for the uses of 
poetry. 

It is the inadequacy of the same felse system 
of philosophy to account for th^ strength of our 
eliirliest attachments, i^hich has led Mr. Words- 
worth to indulge in the mystical visions of Fla* 
tomsm in his Ode on the Progress of Life. He 
has very admirably described the vividness of 
our impressions in youth and childhood, and how 
" they fade by degrees into the light of common 
day,^^ and he ascribes the change to the suppoisi^ 
tidn of a pre-existentstate, as if our early thoughts 
were neater heaven, reflections of former trails of 
glory, shadows of our past being. This is idle; 
It is not from the knowledge of the past that the 
first impressions of things derive their gloss and 
splendour, but from our ignorance of the future, 
which fills the void to come with the warmth of 
our desires, with our gayest hopes, and brightest 
fancies. It is the obscurity spread before it that 
colours the prospect of life with hope, as it is 
the cloud which reflects the rainbow. There ii 
no occasion to resort to any mystical union and 
tmnsmission of feeling through diflerent states 
of being to account for the romantic enthusiasm 
of youth ; nor to plant the root of hope itf the 



140 ROMEO AND JULIET. 

grave, nor to derive it from the skies. Its root 
is in the heart of man : it lifts its head above 
the stars. Desire and imagination are inmates 
of the human breast. The heaven '^ that lies 
about us in our infancy^' is only a new world, of 
which we know nothing but what we wish itto 
be, and believe all that we wish. In youth and 
boyhood, the world we live in is the world of de- 
sire, and of fancy : it is experience that brings 
us down to the world of reality. What is it that 
in youth sheds a dewy light round the evening 
star? That makes the daisy look so bright? 
That perfumes the hyacinth ? That embalms 
the first kiss of love ? It is the delight of no- 
velty, and the seeing no end to the pleasure that 
we fondly believe is still in store for us. The 
heart revels in the luxury of its own thoughts, 
and is unable to sustain the weight of hope and 
love that presses upon it. — The effects of the 
passion 6f love alone might have dissipated Mr. 
Wordsworth^s theory, if he means any thing more 
by.it than an ingenious and poetical allegory. 
7%a/ at least is not a link in the chain let down 
froin other worlds ; " the purple light of love^^ 
is not a dim reflection of the smiles of celestial 
bliss. It does not appear till the middle of life, 
and then seems like ^^ another mom risen on 
mid-day.'' In this respect the soul comes into 
the world '^ in utter nakedness.^^ Love waits 
for the ripening of the youthful blood. The 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 141 

sense of pleasure precedes the love of pleasure, 
but with the sense of pleasure, as soon as it is 
felt, come thronging infinite desires and hopes 
of pleasure, and love is mature as soon as born. 
It withers and it dies almost as soon ! 

This play presents a beautiful coup^d^csil of 
the progress of human Hfe. In thought it occu- 
pies years, and embraces the circle of the affec- 
tions from childhood to old age. Juliet has 
become a great girl, a young woman since we 
first remember her a little thing in the idle prat- 
tle of the nurse, Lady Capulet was about her 
age when she became a mother, and old Capulet 
somewhat impatiently tells his younger visitors, 



ft 



I*ve seen the day^ 



That I have worn a visor^ and could tell 

A whispering tale in a fair lady's earj 

Such as would please : 'tis gone> *tis gone^ 'tis gone." 

Thus qne period of life makes way for the fol- 
lowing, and one generation pushes another off 
the stage. One of the most striking passages to 
shew the intense feeling of youth in this play is 
Capulet's invitation to Paris to visit his enter- 
tainment. 

'' At my poor house> look to behold this night 
Earth- treading stars that make dark heav*n light } 
Such comfort as do lusty young men feel 
When well-apparerd April on the heel 



< 

J 



iit ROMEO AND JULIET. 

Qi limping winter treacUj e^en such deligbt 
Among fresh female-buds shall you this night 
Inherit at my house.'* 

The feelings of youth and of the spring are 
heate blended together like the breath of opening 
flowers. Images of vernal beauty appear to have 
floated before the author's mind, in writing this 
poem, in profusion. Here is another of exqui* 
site beauty, brought in more by accident than 
by necessity. Montague declares of his son 
smit with a hopeless passion, which he will not 
reveal — 

'^ But he, his own a£f^ction*s counsellor^ 
Is to himself so secret and so close^ 
So far from sounding and. discovery^ 
As is the bud bit with an envious worm> 
Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air> 
Or dedicate his beauty to the sun." 

This casual description is as full of passionate 
beauty as when Ronieo dwells in frantic fond- 
ness on *' the white wonder of his Juliet's hand.'^ 
The reader may, if he pleases, contrast the ex- 
quisite pastoral simplicity of the above lines with 
the gorgeous description of Juliet when Romeo 
first sees her at her father's house, surrounded 
by company and artificial splendour. 

'' What lady's that which cloth enrich the hand 
Of yonder knight ? 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 14S 

O she doth teach the torehes to bora bright 3 
Iler beauty hangs upon the cheek of nighty 
lake a rich jewel in an .£tluop*s ear." 

It would be bard to say wbich of the two 
garden scenes is tbe finest, that where be first 
converses with his love, or takes leave of her 
the morning after their marriage. Both are like 
a heaven upon earth : the blissful bowers of 
Paradise let down upon this lower world. We 
will give only one passage of these well known 
scenes to shew the perfect refinement and de- 
licacy of Shakespear's conception of the female 
character. It is woiylerful how Collins, who 
was a critic and a poet of great sensibility, should 
have encouraged the common error on this sub- 
ject by saying — " But stronger Shakespeac felt 
for man alone.'^ 

The passage we mean is Juliet^s apology for 
her maiden boldness. 



€€ 



Thou know*8t the mask of night is oa my face ; 
Else would a maiden Uush be|>aint my cheek. 
£or that which thou hast heard me speak to-night. 
Fain would I dwell on form^ fiadn, fain. deny 
What I have spoke — ^but £urew^ compliment : 
Dost thou love me} I know thou wilt say^ ay^ 
And I will. take thee at thy word — ^Yet.if thou swear*st^ 
Hiou may*st prove false; at lovers* perjuries 
Hiey say Jove laughs. Oh gentle Borneo^ 
If thou dost lave, pronounce it MthfuUy ; 
Or if thou think I am too quickly won^ 
rU frown and be perverse^ and say thee nay« 



144 ROMEO AND JULIET. 

So thou wilt woo : but else not for the world. 
In truths fair Montague^ I ami too fond > 
And therefore thou inay*^st think my 'havidur light; 
But trust me, gentleman, I*ll prove more true 
Than those that have more cunning to be strange. 
I should hav;e been -more strange, I must confess,' ^ 
But that thou ovet-heard*st, ere I was ware. 
My true love's passion 5 therefore pardon me. 
And not impute this yielding to light love. 
Which the dark night hath so discovered." 

In this and all the rest her heart fluttering be- 
tween pleasure, hope, and fear, seems to have 
dictated to her tongue, and " calls true love 
spoken simple modesty/* Of the same sort, but 
bolder in virgin innocence, is her soliloquy afte^: 
her marriage with Romeo. 

'* Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steedsj 
Towards Phoebus* mansion ; such a waggoner 
As Phagton would whip you to the west. 
And bring in cloudy night immediat^y. 
Spread thy close curtain, love- performing night j 
That run-aways* eyes may wink ; and Romeo 
Leap to these arms, untalked of, and unseen ! ■■ 
Lovers can see to do their amorous rites 
By their own beauties : or if love be blind. 
It best agrees with night. — Come, civil night, . 
Thou sober-suited matron, all in black. 
And learn me how to lose a winning match, 
Flay*d for a pair of stainless maidenhoods ; 
Hood my unmanned blood bating in my cheeks. 
With thy black mantle -, tiff strange love, grown bold^ 
Thinks true love acted^ simple modesty. 
Come night!— -Come, Romeo! come, thou day in night ; 



\ 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 

I^ir thou wilt lie upon the wings of night 
Whiter then now anow on a raven's ba^|^.--t 



145 



Ccoae, ^ntle ni^t \ qome> loving, blac]k-browM nigbtj 

Give me my Romeo : and when he shall die> 

Take him and cut him out in little stars^ 

And he will make the figure of heaVen so fincj 

That all the world shall be in love with nighty 

And pay no worship to the gaviah 8un .M . t 

Q, \ h^ve bought the n^anai^ of a lov^^ 

Qut not possessed it; and though I am soM^ 

Not yet enjoy*d : so tedious is this day> 

As is the night before some festival 

To an impatient child> that hath new robes> 

And may not wear them.*' 



We the rather insert this passage here^ inas-> 
much as we have up ^ovibt it has b^en ei^pviQged 
frotn the Family Shakegpear. Such critica do 
not perceive that the feelings of the heart sanc- 
tify, without disguising, the impulses of nature. 
Without refinement themselves, they confound 
modesty with hypocrisy. Not so the German 
critic, SchlegeL Speaking of Romeo aihd Ju- 
iiET, he says, " It was reserved for Shakespear 
to unite purity of heart and the glow of imagina- 
tion, sweetness and dignity of manners and pas- 
sionate violence, in one ideal picture.^^ The 
character- is indeed one of perfect truth and 
sweetness. It has nothing forward, nothing coy, 
qothing affected or coquettish about it ;-^it id a 

p^re effiision of nature. It is as frank as it is 
.... ■ . J. 



146 ROMEO ANP. JULIET. 

modest, for it has no thought that it wishes. to 
conceal. It reposes in conscious innocence on 
the strength of its affections. Its delicacy does 
not consist in coldness and reserve, but in com- 
bining w£(rmth of imagination and tenderness of 
heart with tb^ most voluptuous sensibility. 
Love is a gentle flame that rarefies and expands 
her whole being. What an idea of trembKng 
haste and airy grace, borne upon the thoughts of 
love, does the Friar's exclamation give of l\er, 
as she approaches his cell to be married — 

'*■ Here comes the lady. • Oh, so light of foot 
Will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint : 
A lover may bestride the gossamer. 
That idlels in the wanton summer air, ' 

And yet not &11, so l%ht is vanity.** ^ r . . . 

<• . < J •■■•>« 

. « > : 

The tragic part of this character is of a piece 
with the restw It is the heroic founded on ten- 
derness and delicacy. Of this kind are her reso- 
lutiqn tp follow the Friar's advice, and the con- 
flict in her bosom between apprehension and 
love when she comes to take the sleeping poisoq. 
Shakespear is blamed for the mixture of low 
characters. If thiB is a deformity, it is the source 
oC a thousand beauties. One instance is the 
contrast between the guileless siniplicity of Jur 
liet's attachment to her first love, and the conve- 
nient pohcy of the nurse in advising her to marry 
Pari9, which excites such indignation in her 



ROMEO. AND JULIET. 147 

ft 

mi&tress. " Ancient damnation ! oh most wicked 
fiend/* &c. ^ 

Romeo is Hamlet in love. There is the' same 
rich exuberance of passion and sentiment in the 
one, that there is of thought and sentiment in 
the other. Bpth are absent and self-involved, 
both live out of themselves in a world of imagi* 
nation. Hamlet is abstracted from every thing ; 
Romeo is abstracted from every thing but his 
love, and lost ^n it. His '^ frail thoughts dally 
with faint surmise/' and are fashioned out of the 
suggestions of hope, " the flatteries of sleep/' 
He is himself only in his Juliet; she is his only 
reality,. his heart's, true home and idol.. The 
rest of the world is to tarn a passing dream* 
How. finely is this character pourtrayed where 
l)e recollects himself on seeing Paris slain at the 
tomb of Juliet! 

^' What said my msui when my betossed soul 
Bid not attend him aa we rode } I think 
He told me Paris should have married Juliet.- 

And again, jgst before he hears the sudden tid-» 
ings of her death— 

* " • . 

^' If I may trust the flattery of sleep. 
My dreams pre^ige some j03rful news at hand > 
My bosom*s lord sits lightly on his throne^ 
And all this day an uilaecustom*d spirit 
Lifts me above the ground wit& cheerful thoughts* 
1 dreamt my lady cimle and found me deafd> 



148 ROMEO AND JULIST. 

(Strange cbrtam ! that gives a dead maa leave to think> 
And breath'd such life with kisses on my lips. 
That I teviv'd and was an eipperoer. 
Ah 9ie ! how sweet is love itself possess'd. 
When but love's shadows are so rich in joy !*' 

Romeo's passion for Juliet is not a first love: 
it succeeds and drives out his passion for another 
mistress, Rosaline, as the sun hides the stars. 
This is perhaps an artifice (not absolutely neees- 
$ary) to give us a higher opinion of the lady, 
while the first absolute surrender of her heart to 
him enhances the richness of the prize. The 
commencement, progress, and ending of his se^ 
cond passion are however complete in tbera* 
sdves, not injured, if they are not bett^ed by 
the first. The outline of the play is taken fimn 
an Italian novel ; but the dramatic arrangement 
of the different scenes between the lovers, the 
more than dramatic interest in the progress of 
the story, the d^velopement of the characters 
with time and ciricumftaicf^s, ju3t ftccofding to 
the degree, and kind of interest excited, are not 
inferior to the expression of passion and nature. 
It has been ingeniously remarked among other 
proofs of skill in the contrivance of the fable, 
that the improbability of the main incident in 
the piece, the adniinistering of the sleeping-;po« 
tion, is softened and c^vi^ted from the b^iQAing 
by the introduction of the Friar on his first ap- 
pearance culling simples and descanting on their 



R0M3O AN9 JUI^IET. i4d 

virtues. Of tbfe pittsi^nate ucenes in thia tra- 
g^y^ that between the Friar and Romeo when 
be 18 tdd of hia seataice of bani^hoieiit^ that 
between Juliet and the Nurse when ahe heAts ist 
it, Mid of the death <rf' her coudtn Tybalt (which 
bear no proportion ia her mind* when paaston 
after the lirat ahock of aurpriae throws its weigfart. 
into the scale of her afiectioixs) and the last 
scene at the toiiib» are among the most hatural 
iand overpowei'ing. In all of these it is not 
merely the force i6f any bne pasdion that is given, 
but the slightest and fnost il0looked*'for transi- 
tions fnMn one to another, the {ningliag curpents 
of every different feelidg rising tip land preVaililag 
in ture, swayed by the master- riiind of the poet, 
as the waves undulate beneath the gliding storm. 
Thus when Juliet has by her complaints encbu- 
riaiged the Nurae to say, '* Shame coikie to Ro* 
meo,'^ she instantly repek the wish, which she 
had herself occasioned, by answering—" 

'' Blister'd be tb^r jtixilllie 
; For such a wiab> fee was Aot tevn ta shame. 
Upon his brow shasgie is ashiufiicd to sitj 
For 'tis a throne where honmur may be crowB*d 
Sole monarch of the UAivenal earth ! 
O, what a beast was I to chide him so ? 

Nurte. Will you ^peak weB of him that Idll'd foar 

■ cooiiaEi? 

Juliet. ShaH I i»peak ill of him that is iti^ hvlAand? 
Ah my poor lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name^ 
When I^ thy three-hoxirs* vnie, have itiaagied it?*' 



ISO ROMEO AND JULIET. 

• And then follows on the nieck of her remcH'se 
and returning fondness, that wish treading aU 
most on the brink of impiety^ but stiH held baek 
by the 'Strength of her devbtii^n to her lord, 
that>^ father, mother,- nay, or both were dead,'^ 
mther than Romeo banished. If she requires 
any other excuse, it is in the manner in which 
Romeo ^eehoes her frantic grief and disappoint^ 
ment in the next scene at being banished from 
heri— Perhaps one of the finest pieces of acting 
that ever was witnessed on the stage, is Mr. 
Kean^s manner of doing this scene and his repe- 
tition of the word. Banished. He treads close 
iiadeed upon the genius of his author. 
. A passage which this celebrated actor and 
able commentator on Shakespear (actors are the 
best commentators on the poets) did not give 
with equal truth or force of feeling was the one 
wliich Romeo makes at the tomb of Juliet, be- 
fore he drtnks the poison. 



« 



Let me peruse this face — ' 



Mercutio*s kii^man ! noble county Paris ! 
What said my man^ when my betossed soul 
Did not attend him as we rode ! I thinks 
He told me, Paris should have marry'd Juliet ! 
Said he not so ? or did- 1 dream it so ? 
Or am I mad,- hearing- him talk of Juliet^ 

To think it was so ? O, give me thy hand> 

One writ wttbme in sour misfortune's book ! 
I'll bury thee-in a triumphant grave— 
For here lies Juliet. 



ROMEO;. AND XULI£T. 151 

• • ♦ • * * ft * 
■O, my love ! my wife ! 



Death that hath sucked the honey of thy bresith> 
Hath had no power' yet upon thy beauty : 
Thou art not conquered ; beauty *s ensign yet 
Ib cnmson in thy lips^ and in thy cheeks/ 
And Dieath'a pi^l^ flag is nof advanced there.-*— ^ 



Tybalt^ ly*st t)iQH there in thy bloody sheet } 

O, what inore fisivour can I do to thee^ 

Than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain> 

To sunder his that was thine eneniy ? 

Forgive me> eousin ! Ah^ dear Juliet^ 

Why iirt thou yet sofeir ! I will believe 

That unsubstantial death is amorous -, 

And that the lean abhorred monster keeps 

Thee here in dark to be his paramoiu:. 

For fear of that^ T will stay still with thee ^ 

And never from this palace of dim night 

Depart again : here, here will I remain . 

With worms tliat are thy chainber-maids ; 0> here 

Will I set up my everlasting rest ) 

4 

And shs^ke the yoke of inauspicious stars 
From this world-wearied flesh. — ^Eyes, look your last ! 
Arms, take your last embrace ! -and lips> O you 
The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss 

A dateless bargain to engrossing death ! 

Come, bitter conduct, come unsavoury guide ! 
Thou desperatjs pilpt, now at once run on 
The dashing rocks my sea-sick weary bark ! 
Here's to my love ! — [DrinksJ] O, true apothecary ! 
Thy drugs are quick. — ^Thus with a kiss I die. 

The lines io this speech describing the love- 
liness of Juliet, who is supposed to be dead, 
have been compared to those ia which it is said 



15SI ROMEO AND JULIET* 

of Cleopati*a after her death, thai she looked 
^^ as she would take another Antony in her 
strong toil of grace ;'^ and a question has been 
started which is the finest, that we do not pre- 
tend to decide. We can more easily decide 
between Shakespear and any other author, than 
between him and himfiielf.~-Shall we quote any 
more passages to shew his genius or the beauty 
of Romeo and Juliet ? At that rate, we 
might quote the whole. The late Mr. Sheri* 
dan, on being shewn avolume of the Beauties of 
Shakespear, very prbperiy asked — " Bqt where 
arc the other eleven V^ The character of Mer- 
cutio in this play is one of the most mercurial 
and spirited of the productions of Sbakespear's 
comic muse. 



LJiAR. 



IVs mish that we eould pen thid play over, 
and say nothing about it. All that we can say 
must fall far short of the subject; or even of 
what we ourselves conceive of it. To attempt 
to give a description of the play itself or of its 
effect upon the mind, is mere impertinence: yet 
we must say something. — It is then the best 
of all Shakespear's plays, for it is the one in 
which he was the most in earnest. He was here 
fairly caught in the web of his own imagination. 
The passion which he has taken as his iBubject 
is that which strikes its root deepest into the 
human heart ; of which die bond is the hardest 
to be unloosed ; and the cancelling and tearing 
to ]^ed6s of which gives the greatest revulsion 
to the fraine* This depth of natute^ this force 
of passion, this tug and war of the elements of 



154 LEAR. 

our being, this firm faith in filial piety, and 
the giddy anarchy and whirling tumult of the 
thoughts at finding this prop failing it, the 
contrast between the fixed, immoveable basis of 
natural affection, and the rapid, irregular starts 
of imagination, suddenly wrenched from all its 
accustomed holds and resting-places in the souF, 
this is what Shakespear has given, and what 
nobody else but he could give. So we believe, 
— The mind of Lear staggering between the 
weight of attachment and the hurried move* 
ments of passion is like a tall ship driven about 
by the winds, buffetted by the furious waves, 
but that still rides above the/storm, thaving ils 
anchor £xed ia thebottom of . the sea;i or it is 
like the sharp rock circled by the eddying, whirh 
pool that foams. and beiats against it, or likec.tbe 
solid promontory pushed from its basis by the 
force of an earthquake. 

The (dfharacter of Lear itself is very finely con* 
ceived for the purpose; It is the only ground 
on which such a story, could be built with the 
greatest truth and e£Eect. It is ibis rash haste, 
his violent impetuosity,, his blindness to every 
thing but the dictates of his: passions or affiee* 
tions, that produces all his misfortunes;, that 
aggravates ' his > impatience c^ them, that enfor- 
ces our pity for him. The part which Cor- 
delia beata in the scene is^extremely beautiful : 
the story is almost told in the first words she 



LEAR. 155 

Utters. We see at once the 'precipice on whibh 
the poor old king stands from his own extrava- 
gant and credulous importunity, the indiscreet 
simplicity of her love (wbich^ to be sure, has a 
little of her father's obstineicy in it) and the 
hollo wness of her sisters' pretensions. Almost 
the first burst of that noble tide of passion, 
which runs through the play, is in the remon- 
strance of Kent to his royal master oh the in- 
justice of his sentence against his youngest 
daughter—*^ Be Kent unmannerly, when Lear is 
mad !" This manly plainness which draws down 
on him the displeasure' of the unadvised' king 
is Worthy of the fidelity with which he adheres 
to his fallen fortunes. The true character of 
the two eldest daughters, Regan arid Gonerill 
^they are so thoroughly hateful that we do not 
even like to repeat their names) breaks Out in 
their ansv<^ef to Cordelia Who desires them to 
treat their lather weil-*-*' Prescribe not us our 
duties" — their hatred of advice being in propor- 
tion to their determination to do wrong, and to 
their hypocritical pretensions to do right Their 
deliberate hypocrisy addd the last finishing to 
the odiousness of their characters. It is the 
absence of this detestable quality that is the 
only relief in the character of Edmund the Bas- 
tard, and that at times reconciles us >to him. 
We are not tempted to exaggerate the guilt of 
his conduct, when he himself gives it up as 



156 IiSAR. 

a baid htisincnis, and writea himself dotrn ^' plaia 
▼iilain/^ Nothing more ranj^e aaid sdiout it* Hia 
religious honesty in this respect is admirable. 
One speech of his is worth a million. His fiithert 
Oloster, whom he has ju^t deluded with a foiled 
story of his brother Edgar's designs against .his 
life^ accounts, for his unnatural behaviour and 
•the strange depravity of the times from the kte 
edipses in the sun and moon. Edmund,. who 
is in the secret, says when he is. gone — ^' This 
is the excellent foppery of the world, that when 
.we are sick in fortune (often the surfeits of our 
own behaviour) we inake guilty of our disasters 
the sun, the moon, and stars: as if we were 
villaips on necessity i fools by heavenly compul* 
^ion ;. knayes, thieves, and treacherous by spfae* 
rical predominance; drunkards, liars, and adul- 
terers by an enforced obedience of planetary 
influence ; and all thait we are evil in, by a di- 
vine thrusting on. An admirable evasioot of 
-whore^master man, to lay his goatish disposition 
on the charge of a Star ! My father compounded 
With my mother under the Dragon^s tail, and my 
nativity was under Ursa Major : so that it follows., 
L am rough and lecherous. I should have been 
what I am, had tKe maidenliest star in the fir- 
mament twinkled on my bastardising/^ r- The 
whole character, its careless, lig^t-hearted vil- 
lainy, contrasted with the sullen, rancorous 
mal^nity of Regan and Gonerill, its connection 



's; 



v1^ 



ir»- 



LBAR. 157 

with tbe conduct of the under-plot, in which 
Cloister's persecution of one of his sons and the 
ingratitude of another, form a countei'part to the 
mistakes and misfortunes of Lear, — his double 
amour with the two sisters, and the share which 
he has in bringing about the fatal catastrophe^ 
are all managed with an uncommon degree of 
skill and power. 

It has been said, and we thinly justly, that the 
third act of Othello and the three first acts of 
LbXr, are Shakespear's great master-pieces in 
the logic of passion : that they contain the high** 
est examples not only of the force of individual 
passion, but of its dramatic vicissitudes and 
striking effects arising from the different circum^ 
i^tances and characters of the -persons speaking* 
We see the ebb and flow of the feeling, its 
pauses and feverish starts, its impatience of op* 
position, its accumulating force when it has 
time to recollect itself, the manner in which it 
avails itself of every passing word or gesture, its 
baste to repel insinuation, the alternate contrac-* 
tioh and dilatation of the isoul, and a|l ^^ thedaZ'*' 
zling fence of controversy'^ in this mortal combat 
with poisoned weapons, aimed at the hieart,- 
where each wound is fatal. We have seen in 
Othello^ how the unsuspecting frankness and 
impetuous passions of the Moor ar^ playied 
upon and exasperated by the iartful dexteri* 
ty of lago. In the present play, that which 



158 L&AR4 

> 

aggravates, the sense of ^sympathy in the tea- 
d^r, aad . of uncontroulable anguish in . the 
sw4olii heart of Lear, is the petrifying . indif* 
ference, the cold, calculating, obdurate self-» 
ishhess of his.:daughter8«. His keen, passions 
seem whetted on. their stony hearts. The con- 
test .would be; too painful, the shock too great, 
but for the intervention of the Fool, whose well- 
tiibed levity cpnkss in tobreak the d>ntiDuity of 
feehng when it can no longer be borne^ and t6 
bring'i«.to.play.again.;tha .fibres of the heart just 
as they are growing rigid from over^strained 
excitement. , The. iiilagifiation i% glad to. take 
refuge in the half-comic^ half-serious comments 
ef the.Fool,.jui9t^aa>the mind under the extreme 
i^ngaish/of a surgical operation vents itself in 
sallies of wit. The character was also a. gro- 
tesque ornaniient of the barbarous . times, in 
which alone the tragic ground-work of the story 
could be laid. In another point of view, it is 
indispensable, inasmuch as while it is a diver*< 
sion io the too great* intepsity of our disgust, it 
carries the pathos to the highest pitch of which 
it is capable, by shewing the pitiable weakness 
of the old king's conduct and its irretrievable 
consequences in the most faoiiliar point of view. 
Lear may 'well ^^ beat at the gate which let his 
folly in, '^ after, as the Fool says, " he has mad0 
his daughters his mothers.'^ The character is 



LEAR; 159. 

• 

dropped in the third act to make room for « the 
entrance of Edgar as Mad Toni^ which well ac-f 
cords with the increasing bustle and wildness of 
the incidents; and nothing Can be niore corn* 
plete than the distinction between Lear's real 
apd Edgar's assumed madness, while the resem- 
blance in the cause of their distresses, from. the 
severing of the nearest ties of natdral affection^ 
keeps lip a unity of interest. Shakespear's 
mastery over his subject, if it was not art, was 
owing to a knowledge of the connecting links of 
the passions, and their effect upon the mind^ 
still more wonderful than any systematic adhe- 
rence to rules, and that anticipated and outdid 
all the efforts of the most, refined art, not in- 
spired and rendered instinctive by genius. 

One of the mostpfirfect displays pf dramatic 
power is the first interview betweien Lear and bis 
daughter, after the ^designed affronts upon him, 
which till one of his knights reminds him of 
them, his sanguine temperament had led him^to 
overlook.. He returns with his train from hunt- 
ing, and his usual impatience breaks, out in:his 
first words, *' Let me not stay a jot for dinner; 
go, get It ready.*' He then encounters the faith- 
ful Kent in disguise, and retains him in his 
service ; and the first trial of his honest duty is 
to trip up the heels of the officious Steward 
who makes so prominent and despicable a figure 



160 LEAK* 



through the pieces Od the entrancte <tf Gonerill 
the following dialogue takeg place :i-^ 

'' Lear, How nowj daughter? what makes that flpoilt- 
\tt op> 
Methinks^ you are too much of late T the frown. 
Fool. Thou wast a pretty fe]iow> when thou had'st no 
need t6 care fsxc her ftiowningj now thou art an O^ without 
aSgure: I am bet^r than thou art new $ lamafbol^thou 
art nothing. — ^Yes^ forsooth^ I will hold my tongue; [To 
GonenlL'\ so your face bids me, though you say nothihg. 
Mum^ miun. 

He that keeps nor crust nor crurn^ 
Weary of all, shall wapt some — 

That's ^ 0beal*d pea^cod ! [Foimiing^ tq Lear. 

Gonerill. Not pnlyj sir, this yomraUtlicens'd fbol^ 
But other of your insolent retinue 
Do hourly carp and quarrel 5 breaking fbrUi 
In rank and not-^to-be-ehdured riots. 
J bad thought, by making this weli known trnto yoii^ ~ ^ 
To have found a 9a^ redress $ but iiow grow learful^ 
By what yourself too late have spol&e and iomj, 
That you protect this course, and put it on 
By your allowance $ which if you should, the fiadt 
Would not *scape censure, nor the redresses sleep. 
Which in the tender of a wholesome weed. 
Might in their worknig do you that offenocjr 
(Which else were shame) that then necessity 
Would call discreet proceeding. 
Fool. For you trow, nunde. 

The hedge sparrow fed the cuckoo so long# 
That it had its head bit off by its young. 

So out went the candle, and we were left darkling. 



LBARI 161 

Lfor. Are you our dauj^hierl ' 
Gonerill. €ome, 8lr» ^ -; <: i • . 

I would> you would makie vse of tliat good wisdom 
Whereof 1 know you are fraught j atid pti€ dway 
Thes^ dispositions^ which of late transform you 
Trom what you rightly are. 

Fool. May not. an ass know when the cart drawa the 
horse? — r-Whoop, Jug^ I love thee. 

Lec^, Does any here know Ine ? ^Why, this is not 

l4eac: 
Boesr X^eariiimlk thus^.? speak thus ?— ^Whel'e are his eyes? 
Either his notion weakens^ or his disdei^ngs 

Are lethalrgy*d Ha ! waking? — 'Tis not so. 

Who is it that can tell the who I am^ — ^Lear's shadow? 
I would learn that : for by the marks 
Of sov'reignty^ of knowledge, and of reason^ ' ' 
I should be fake. persuaded I had'daiightefS.--— - 
. Your name, fair gentleWpiuaa ? : 

GonerilL ComeiSir:.' ' 
This admiration is much Q* the fkvour ' 

jOf other your new pranks. I do beseech you 
Tb tmdelii^xnd' my purposes aFight: 
As you are old sknd revefrend, you should be wise:: 
Here do you ke8|> a hundred knights and squires j 
Men so disordered, so debaucfa'd,- and bold. 
That this, our court, infected With their manners. 
Shews like a riotous inn :* epicUrbtn and lust ) 
Make itd:n<)re,like>a tavern, or a brothel. 
Than a graced palace. The shame itself doth speak 
For instant remedy : be then desir'd :>* 

By her^ that else will take the thing she begsi 
A little to disquantity youi' train 5 ' 
And the remainder, th^t shall stiU depend, , , 
To be such men as may besort your agcy . ^ 
And know themselves aiid you. -. 

M 



162 LBAS: 

Lecar: Darkness and de^^!< 



Saddle my horses^ call my train togethei 
Deg^nersite baslazdl I'U not trouble thee $ 
Yet have I left a daughter. 

GonenlL You strike my people j and your disorder'd 
rabble 
Make servants of their betters. 

Enter Albany. 

Leaf. Woe> tbat too late repents-*-^ sir^ areyoucoo|e? 
Is it your, wffl^ &peak> sir,— r?rep8^0 my horses.—* 

IpgratitiM^! thou marblo-bearted fi^> 

More hideous^ when tbou phew'st thee in a, cbildj 

Than the sf^rnqna^eK ! 

Alhaoy, YtKf, m, be patient. 

Lear. Detested kite ! thottliest. [lb GomeHIL 

My train are men of choice and nurest parts> 
That all particulara of duly knibt^ 
And in the most exak^t regard, support 
The worships of theio iiame.-r-«<-;^0 most small finiH>^ 
\\1^^ ugly didst tkoif in. CovdeHa shew \ 
Whiqh^ like an engine^ wrenoh'dmy frame of nature 
From the fi^t place > drew from, ve^ heart all love/: 
And abided to the gall. Oi Leair^ Lear> Lcav I 
Beat at the gate> that let thy) foHy in^ ISUnkmg Im head. 
And thy dear judgment out ! Q x}, go, tty people ! 

AUnmy, My lord> I am guiitlessv as i am ignmrant 
Of what hath mov'd you. 

Lear, It may be i|o, my Ibrd v "* 
Hey> nature^ hear ! dear gbdd^^ hear I 
Suspend thy piHppse^ if thod cfidsl^ int^ad 
To make this creature fruil^'! 
Into her womb xx>nvey steiifity^ 



Diy i:^ i& key tte i^l^ <>f ifi^MM I / 

And from her derogate body nevttf spfiiig 

k Mte i» hMotff her I tfOuM tnu^t teem> 

Create her child of spleen : that it may live> 

1V> bd a thwart disnatur*d torment to her ! 

Let it dtamp wrinkks in her brorr of youth y 

With cadent tears fr^ channels in het cheeks ; 

Turn all her mother's pains^ and benefits, 

1*0 laughter and contempt 5 that she may feel 

llow sharper than a serpent's tooth it is. 

To have a thankless child ! ^Away^ away ! [Exit 

Athttritf, 'Sow, gods, that we atdtfrfe, i^h&t^t corires this ? 

GotieHll Neter afiiet youtscilf tb know ike odiise | 
Btit let his dispositiott have that scope 
That dotage gives it. 

Re-enter Lear. 

Lear, What, fifty of my followers at a clap !' 
Within a fortnight ! 

4t^ekp Whfeit*s the matter, sir > 

Leaf. TYL teH thee 3 fifb and death ! I am ashatn'd 
Thftt tihott hast power to shake tofy maAhood ihvA : 

That these hot tears, which break from me perforce. 
Should make thee worth them.— ——Blasts and fogs upon 

' thefe ! 
The untented woundings of a &ther*s curse 

Pierce every sense about thee ! Old fond eyes 

Beweep this^ catrse again, 1*11 pluck yoU out -, 
And cast yoil, with the waters that you lose. 

To temper clay. ^Hfia ? is it come td this ? 

Let it be so : ^Yet have I left a daughter. 

Who, i am sure, is kind and comfortabfe 3 . 
Wb^n ^e i^hair hear tUd of thee, with h^r i^fls ' 
Sh^*8 ffe^i thy wblfish vidag^. Ttibuslis&lt findi 



164 LEAR; 

That rU Tesame the shape/ whkii thout 6o«t' 
I have ciEi6t off lor ever. 

lExeuni Lear, Kent, cmd AtUkdimiU^ 

This is certainly fine : no wonder that Lear 
says after it, *^ O let me not be mad^ not mad, 
sweet heavens,^' feeling its effects by anticipa- 
tion : but fine as is this burst of rage and indig- 
nation at the first blow aimed at his hopes and 
expectations, it is nothing near so fine as what fol- 
lows from his double disappointment, and his 
lingering efforts to see which of them he shall 
lean upon for support and find comfort in, when 
both his daughters turn against his age and 
weakness. It is with some difficulty that Lear 
gets to speak with his daughter Regan, and her 
husband, at Gloster's castle. In concert with 
Gonerill they have left their own home on pur- 
pose to avoid him. His apprehensions are 
first alarmed by this circumstance, and when 
Gloster, whose guests they are, urges the fiery 
temper of the Duke of Cornwall as an eii^cuse 
for not importuning him a second time, Lear 
breaks out, 

*^ Vengeance ! Plague ! Death ! ConfuBion I 
Fiery ^ What fiery quaOity ? Why, Gloster, 
I*d speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife.*' 

Afterwards, feeling perhaps not well himself, 
he is inclined to admit their excuse from illness, 
but then recollecting that they bd^eset hiames-^^ 



LEAR. les 

senger (Kent) in the stocks, all his suspicions 
are roused again, and he insists on seeing them. 

'^ Enter Cornwall, Rboan, Gloster, and Servants. 

Lear. Good-morrow to you both. 

Cornwall, Hail to your grace ! IKent i$ set at lUerttf. 

Began. I am glad to see youi* highness. 
. Lear. Regan, I think you arej I know what reason 
I have to think so : if thou should'st not be glad, 
I would divorce me from thy mother's tomb, 
SepulchVing an adultress.— O, are you free? 

[To Kent, 
Some other i:ime for that^-^r^Beloved R^an,,, 

3 Thy sbter's naught : O Regan, she hath tied 
Sharp-tooth*d unkindness, like a vulture, here 

IPoints to his heart. 
I can scarce speak to thee ; thoult not believe. 
Of how deprav'd a quality^ — ^O Regan ! 
'Regan. I pray you, sir, take patience ; I have hope 
You less know how to value her desert. 
Than she to scant her duty. 
. Xmr. Say, how is that ? 
^ Regan. I cannot think my sister in the least 
Would fidl her obligation $ if, sir, perchance. 
She havie restrained the riots of your followers, 
*Tis 6tt such ground, and to such wholesome end. 
As clears her from aH blame.' 

Lear. My curses on her ! 

Regan. O, sir, you are old j 
Nature in you stands on the very verge 
Of her conline : you should be rul'd, and led 
By some discretion, that discerns your state 
Better than you yourself: therefbre, I pray you. 
That to our sister you do make return ; 
Say, you have wrong*d her, sip* 



U6 LBAR; 

Lear, Ask hst'iorgiyeo/sm ? 
Do you but mark how this beeomeii the \m ^ ' 
Dear daughter, I confess that I am old$ 
Jge is tamecessary^ <m my knees I b^. 
That you* II vouchsafe me raiment, bed, and food. 

Regan* Good ur, no more 3 ihes^ are tt|isig]it]y tricks : 
Return you to my sister* 

Leaf' Neyer^ Regan: 
She h^th abated me of half my trains 
Look*d blank upon me ; struck me with her tongue> 
Most serpent-like> upon the very heart ;■ ' ' ■ 
AU the stor*d vengeances of heaven faiHl 
On her ungrateful top ! Strike her young bones> 
You taking airs> with lameness ) 

Cornwall, "Fie, sir> fie ! 

Lear. You nimble Ijghtnings^ dart your blindiiig iwkts 
Into her scornful eyes 1 Infect her bea^ty^ 
You fen-suck'd fogs^ drawn by the powerful sun^ 
To fall^ and blast her pri4e ! 

Regan. O the blest gods ! 
So will you wish on me^ when the rash mood is on. 

Lear. No^ Regan^ thou sbalt never have my curse ; 
Thy tender-hefted nat\ire shall not give 
Thee o'er to harshness -, her eyes are fierce^ but tiiine 
Do comfixrtj and n^ burn : 'Tis not in thee 
To grudge my pleasures^ to cut off my txain^ 
To bandy hasty words^ to scant my sizea» 
And^ in conclusion^ to oppose the bolt 
Against my comjng m : thou better know'st 
The offices of pature^ bond of chikUuiQdi 
Effects of courtesy^ dues of gi;atitwl^ } 
Thy half o* the kiiigdom thou hast not forgotj 
Wherein I thee en4pw*d' 



Begm. Oood dir, to> tim purpose. iTmni^ ^ihin. 
Lear. Wto put tsf ttmik V <li6 dbcks } 
ComuxOl. Wliatt trumpet's thait > 

Enter Steward* 

Regan. I know*t>.my iiistet-*s * tbii^ apprcives her l&^ex, 
That she wmild soon foe here.— ^-Is youi: hAf eotxie } 

Lear. This is a slave, whose easy-bdtroWd pride 
Dwells In the fickle grace of her he fellows :-i-^^^ ' 
Out, varleti from my sight ! 

Cornwall, What meanis your grace ? 

Lear. Who stock'd my serraitt} Regan, I hare good 
Jiope 
Thou did'st not knOw on*t.— *— Wh<y comes here? O 
heavens. 

Enter Gonekill. 

If yaa do love old meh> j^fyoifir eitveet nlway 

Allow ohedience^ if yourselves are eld} 

Make it your eause } eeud down, asad take my port !-^ 

Art not asham'dtd kK^ upon this beard ?-^ ITo GMerill. 

O, Regsn, wilt thou take her by the haiid ? 

Gonerill Why not by the haad, sir? How have I of- 
fended ? 
All*s not o£feiiee> that indiscretion fittds> 
And dotage teams so. 

Lear'. O, sides, you are too toG^h ! 
Will you yet hold ? — ^How oame my man i* the stocks ? 

Cornwall. I set him thefre^ sir : but his own disorders 
Deserved much less advaa^cefioient. 

Lfltff. You 1 dkl you ? 

R^an» 1 prafiyoii) MbAt, being weak, seem so. 
K, till the expirs^on of your month. 
You will return and sojouTlx widi liftf sister^ 
Dismissing half your train> «bme thentoi itte> 



168 JiEAR. 

I am now.firom bome^ s(nd out idiifBifra^ioa 
Which shall be needful for yjDur entertainment. 

Lear. Return to her> and fifty men diuniw'd } 
No> rather I abjure all roo&> and choose 
To be a comrade with the wolf and ow l ■ 
To wage against the enmity o* the air^^ 
Necessity's sharp pinch ! ■ R eturn with her !. 
\Vhy^ the hot-blooded France^ that dowerless took 
Our youngest bom^ I could as well be brought 
To knee his throne, and squire-like pension beg 

To keep base life afoot. ^Return with her ! 

Persuade me rather to be slave, and sumpter ' 

To this detested groom. [Xoo/rtn^ on the Steward. 

GanerUl. At youTXihoicey air. .^ 

Lear, Now, 1 pr*ythee, daughter, do not make me mad; 
I wiU not trouble thee, my child } farewell : 
We*ll no more meet, no more see one another ; > * 
But yet thou art my fleah, my blood, my tkughter ; 
Or, rather, a disease that's in my flethi 
Which I must needs call mine : thou art a bile, 
A plague-sore,, an embossed carbuncle^ 
In my corrupted blood. But TU not chide thee; 
Let shame come when it ydll, l.do not jcall it : 
I did not bid the thunder-bearer shoot> ' 
Nor tell tales of thee to high^juicjging Jove : 
Mend, when thou canst ; be better, at thy leisure : 
I can be patient ;' t can jstay with Regan,, 
f, and my hundred knight«. , . . 

Regirn. Not altogether sp, «ir> . ■.- 

I look'd not for you yeti i^»r;ain provided 
' For your fit welcome : Give ear, sir, to my ^ters 
For those that mingle reason with your passion ^ 

Must be content to think you old, and s o i ... 

But she knows what she 4oei^ • ... . ^ 

Lear, Is this well spok^ bchif ? ; » 



LBAR. ]169 

Regan. I dare avooch it^ sir : . What^ fifty Mbwei^ ? 
Is it not weU ? What should you need of more ' 
Yea^ or so many ? Sith that both charge and danger 
Speak *gainst so great a number } How, in one house> 
Should many people^ under two commands^ 
Hold amity ? 'Tis hard 3 almost impossible. 

QoneriU. Why might not you> my lord, receive at- 
tendance 
From those that she calls servants, or from mine ? 

Began. Why not, my lord? If then they chanc'il to 
slack 3rou, 
We would controul them : if you will come to me 
(For now I spy a danger) I entreat you 
To brii^ but fiye-and- twenty ; to no more 
Will I give place, or notice. 

Lear. I gaye you all 

Regan, And in good time you gave it. 

Ijear^ Made you my guardians, my depositaries ; 
But kept a reservation to be fbllow'd 
With sux^ a mmber : what, must I come to you 
With five-and-twenty, Regan ! said you so ? 

i^gon. i And speak it again, my lord $ no more with me. 

Lear. Those wicked creatures yet do look well-&vour*d. 
When others are more wicked ; not being the worst. 

Stands in some rank of praise : ^I'U go with thee ^ 

\Tq Gonerilk 
Thy fifty yet doth double five-and-twenty. 
And thou art twice her love. 

CraneriU. Hear me, my lord; 
What need you five-and-twenty, ten, or five, . 
To follow in a house, where twice so ihany 
Have a command to tend you ? 

F!^an. Wliat need one } 

Lear. O, reason not the neeid i our basest beggars 
Are in the poorest thing «i:^rfluous : 



170 LEAR. 

Aiknr not nitere more than natore netdd, 

Man*s life k.dieap as bes|8t*s ^ tkoa avt a iady $ 

If only to ^ wana were gang^aoB, 

Wfaj^: natare needs not what thou gcftgeood wear'st ^ 

Which scarcely keeps thee warm.— But, ifor true 

need ■ ■ 
You lieaven9> ^gp9<e me that patience widch I need ! ' 
You see me here> you gods ; a poor old man. 
As f dli of grief as age $ wretehed in both ! 
If it he you that stir these daughters* hearts 
Against their father, fool me not so much 
To bear it tamely 5 tench me with noble anger! 
O, let no woman's weapons, "^mter^drops. 
Stain my man's cheeks ! ■■■ N o, you unuatural hags> 
I will have such revenges mi you both. 

That all the world shall -i will do such things—^— 

What they are, yet I know not 5 but tliey shaH be 

The terrors of the earth. You think. Til weep : 

No, ril not weep :— — 

I have f^ll cause of weeping } but this heart 

Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws. 

Or e'er 1*11 weep : ■■ O, fool, I shafl go mad f 

* lExeunt Leat, GloBttr, Kent, and FooV 

If there is any thing in any author like this 
yearning of the heart, these thrpes of tender- 
ness, this profound expres6k>n of all that can be 
thought and felt in the most heart-reilding^ situ- 
ations, we are glful of it ; biit it is in some au- 
thor that we have not read. 

The scene in the storm, where he is exposed 
to all the fury of the elements, though grand 
and terrible, is oot ao fiae, but the moKsdising 



LBAR. 



Ml 



scen^ with Mad Tom, Kent, and Gloster, are 
npo^s^ pfirwith the former. His exdamdttoii 
in the supposed trial-scene of his daughters^ 
" See the little dogs and all. Tray, Blanch, wd 
Sweetheart, see they bark at me,^^ his issuing his 
ardent, /^ Let them an^omi^^ Regan, see what 
breeds about her heart,^^ and his reflection when 
b? sees the misery of Edgar, '^Nothing but his 
unkind daughters could have brought htm to 
thip,^^are in a style of pathos, where the extremest 
resources of the imagination are called in to lay 
open the deepest movements of the heart, which 
was peculiar to Shakespear. In the same style 
a<id spirit is his interrupting the Fool who asks, 
^^ whether a madman be a gentleman or a yeo«* 
man,^^ by answering " A king, a king P*-^ 

The indirect part that Gloster takes in these 
scenes where his generosity leads him to relieve 
Lear and resent the cruelty of bia daughters, at 
the v^ry time that he is himself instigated to 
seek the life of his son» and suffering under the 
sting of Im supposed ingratitude, i^ a stviking 
accompaniment to the situation of Lear. IiSk« 
deed} the manneir in which the threads of the 
story are woven together is almost as wonderful 
in the way of art as the carrying on the tide of 
passion, still varying and unimpaired, is on the 
score of nature. Among the remarkable in- 
stances of tlpii§ kind ase Edgar's weelisg with ' 

his old blind father ; the deception he practises 



in LBAR. 

upon him when he pretends to lead hi<n to the 
top of Dover-cliff—" Come on, sir, here^s- the 
place,^' to prevent his ending his life and mise- 
ries together; his encounter with the perfidious 
Steward whom he kills, and his Bnding the let- 
ter from Gonerill to his brother upon him which 
leads to the final catastrophe, and brings the 
wheel of Justice " full circle home'' to the guilty 
parties. The bustle and rapid succession of 
events in the last scenes is surprising. But the 
meeting between Lear and Cordelia is by far the 
most affecting part of them. It has all the wikU 
ness of poetry;, and all the heartfelt truth of na- 
ture. The previous account of her reception of 
the news of his unkind treatment, her involuntary 
reproached to her sisters, " Shame, ladies^ shame,'' 
Lear's backwardness to see his daughter, the 
picture of the desolate state to which he is re- 
duced, " Aladk, 'tis he; why he was met even 
now, as mad as the vex'd sea, singing aloud," 
only prepare the way for and heighten our expec- 
tation of what' follows, and assuredly this ex- 
pectation is not disappointed when through the 
tender care of Cordelia he revives and recollects 
her. 

'^ Cordelia. How does my royal lord ? Hpw fBjm your 

magesty! 
Lear. You do me wrongs to take me out o' the grave : 
Thou art a aoul in bliss ; but 1 am bound 



LEAIL )7a 

Upon a whed of fire; thaA^iDiBe. awn tears 
Do sdild like-nioHen lead. 

Cordelia, Sir> do you know me I 

Lear. You, are a spirit I know : when did you die ^ 

Cordelia, Stilly stiU, far wide ! 

Phyneian, He*s soarce awake >} let hin^ alone awUle. 

Lear, Where bcnre I teen ? Where am 1 1 — Fair day- 
light? — - 
I am mightily abU8*d.-r;I should even die witii pity. 
To see another tbus.-^il know not what to say.- 



I will not swear these are my hands : — let's see ; 
I feel this, pin prick. * Would I were as^ur'd 
Of my condition, 
Corddia. O, look upcm mt, «ir> 
, iknd hoU your hands in benediction o*er me ; . ; >■ ; 
N09 sir, you must not kneel. 

Lear, Pray, do not mock me : 
I am a very foolish fond old man> 
Fourscore and upwaid > 

Not an hour more> nor less : ^and> to deal plainly, 
I fear, I am not in my perfect mind. 
Methinks, i.shou*d know 3^u, and know this man; 
Yet I .am.doub^ul : for I am mainly ignorant 
. What place this is ; and all the skill I have 
Remembers not these garments 5 nor I know not 
Where I did lodge last night : do not laugh at me $ 
For, as I am^ man, I think this lady 
. *To be my chad Cordelia. 

Cerdelioi And so I am, I am !*' 

Almost equal to this in awfol beauty, is their 
consolation of e^ch other when, after the triumph 
of their enemies, they are led to prison. 



174 I<EAR. 

'' Cordelia* Wi( m sot tlii flfst/ 
Who^ with best meanings have iflcort^d the ykasMi' 
For thee^ oppressed Iuiig> Mo I cast dowK ^ 
Myself could elM ont-f^wn lake fortune's fr^wn.***-* 
Shall we not see these damghtei^/ and these sislera ? 

LeasLT. J9oj no, no^ no ! Cittiey kt's awAy to prncm t 
We two alone will shig* like Mrds i' the €aig& t 
When thou dost ask me blessings 1*11 kned d#wn> 
And ask of thoe forgiven«SHV sa we'll Aver, 
And pray/ £Uid sing^ saad tell old taks> alid htagtk 
At gilded lmtterftie»> and heai^ poor rogtfes 
Talk of court news; and well talk with th^n toD*^ 
Who loses^ and who wins ; who's in^ wh&B ottt {-*^ 
And take upon us the mystef/ef thk^, 
AsifweweteCfod^spie^: anid w^ wisaTM^, 
In a wall*d prison^ packs aild sects tfgteai (Mkei^> • 
H)at ebb and flow by tiie Inoon. 

Edmund. Take thent awaty. 

Lear. Upon such sacrifices^ my Cordelia> 
The gods thetnself ^ throw ineenie.*'^ 

The concluding erentsr are ^^, painfully sad ; 
but their pathos is extf etae. The op^rasi^iOo of 
the feelings is relieved by the very interest we 
take in the misfortunes of others, and by the re- 
flections to which they give birth. Cordelia is 
hanged in prison by the orders of the bastard 
Edmund, whicli are kjM>wn too late to b^i^oun- 
termanded, and Lear dies broken-hearted, la- 
meAtiug <l^ver her. 

'^ Lear. And my poor fool is hang*d ! No^ no^ no life : 
Why should a dog, a horse^ a rat^ have Iife> 



LSAJU 17s 

Never, nexe^M nevevj nerei, never ! 

Pray you> undo this button : thank you, sir." 



• • • 

He dies, and indeed we feel the truth of i*hat 
Kent says on the occasion-^- 

^' Vex not his ghost : 0> let him. pass ! he hates himj 
That would upon the rack of this rough, world 
Stretch him out longer.*' 

Yet a happy ending has been coBtrived for 
tbia p}ay, which k S4>prbved of by Dr. Johnson 
and condemDed by ScMegel. A betker author* 
ity Ihan either, on any sublet 'm wbicb poetry 
and feeling are concerned, has given it in favour 
of Shakespear, in some remarks on the acting 
of Lear, with which we skkM conclude this aq^ 
ockunt.. 

'' The Lear of Shakespear cannot be acted. 
The contemptible: machinery with Mrhich the^ 
ilaimic the storm which he goes out; in,, is nof 
more inadequate to represent the horrors of the 
real elements thaei any actor can be to repivesent 
Lear.^ The greatness of Lear is not ia cot po^ 
ral dkneeeion, but in intelleetnali; the ex^lo-* 
sions of his; passions are terrible as a vokano r 
they are storms turning uip and disclosiiig to the 
bottom that rich sea, his miod, with all; its vast 
riches. It ia bift^ mind which is hid: bare. This 
case of flesh and blood seems* toainsignifreant M^ 
be thought on ; even as he himself negkcts it. 



17^ LBARi. 

Oo the stagB we see nothing but corporal infir- 
mities and weakness, the impotence of rage; 
while we read it, we see not Lear, bat we are 
L»r ; — we are in his mind, we are sustained by 
^grandeur, which baffles the malice pf daughters 
and storms ; in the aberrations of his reason, we 
discover a mighty irregular power of reasonin^i 
immethodised from the ordinary purposes of life^ 
but exerting its powers, as the wind blows where 
it listeth, at will on the corruptions and abuses of 
mankind. What have looks or tones to do with 
that sublime identification of his i^e with that of 
the heavens them&elvei^ when in his reproaches tci 
them for conniving at the. injustice of his cbiU 
dren, he reminds them that '^ they themselves 
are old !^^ What gesture shall we appropriate 
to this ? What has the voice or the eye to do 
with such things ? But the play is beyond' all 
art, as the tamperings with it shew: it is too 
hard and stony : it must have love-scenes, and 
a happy ending. It is not enough that Cordelia 
is a daughter, she mui.. shine as a lover too. 
Tate has put his hook in the nostrils of. this 
Leviathan, for Garrick and his .followers, the 
shew men of the scene, to draw it about more 
easily. A happy ending! — as if the living maf« 
tyrdom that Lear had gone through,^-the flaying 
of his feelings alive, . did not make a fair dismis- 
sal frdm the staige of life the only decorous thing 
for him. If he is to live and be happy after, if 
he could sustaiin this world's burden after, why 



LEAR. \77 

all this puddet and preparation — ^why torment u^ 
with all this unnecessary sympathy ? As if the 
childish pleasure of getting his gilt robes and 
sceptre again could tempt him to act over again 
his misused station,-^as if at his years and with 
his experience, any thing was left but to die/^* 

Four things have struck us in reading Lear: 

1; Thtt poetry is an interesting study, for 
this reason, that it* relates to whatever is most 
interesting in humatd' life. Whoever therefore 
has a cotfitempt for pdetry, has a contempt for 
himself and humanity. 

3i That the hmg^iage of poetry i& superior (o 
the iangiiage of paititilig ; because the strongest 
of oiir recoUections relate to feelings, nbt to faces. 

3. That the greatest Strength of genius is. 
shewn in describing th€^ strongest passions; for 
tlie powbr of the imagination, in wQrk^ of inv^n-* 
tion; mtist be in proportion to the force of thie na* 
tural impressions, wbich ar^ th^ subject of thetQ« 

4.; That the cifeumstanbe which balances the 
pleasure against the pain ifi tragedy is, that in 
propOitio^n to the greatness of the evil, is our 
sense and d^&ire of the opposite good excited ; 
and thstt otrr sympathy with actual suffering is 
lost'ih the strong impulse giVen to oOr natural 
affections, and 6arried away with the sw^lUng 
tide of passion, that gushes frmn and relieves the 
hearf. 

* See an article^ called Theatralia, in the second vbltime 
of the Reflector, by Charles Lamb. 

N 



RICHARD II 



Iii€H:ARD II. 18 a play little known compared 
with Richard III. which last is a play that 
every unfledged candidate for theatrical iune 
chuses to strut and fret his hour upon the stage 
in; yet we confess that we prefer the nature 
and feeling of the one to the noise and bqstle 
of the other ; at least, as we are so often forced 
to see it acted. In Richasd IL the weakness 
of the king leaves us leisure to take a greater 
interest in the misfortunes of the mi^n. After 
the first act^ in which the arbitrariness of his 
behaviour only proves his want of resolution^ 
we see hiin staggering under the unlooked->far 
blows of fortune, bewailing his loss of kin^y 
power, not preventing it, sinking under the 
aspiring genius of Bolingbroke, his authori^ 
trampled on, his hopes failing him, and his 
pride crushed and broken down under insults 



RICHARD n. 179 

find injuries^ which his own misdbnduet had 
porovoked, but whioh he hais. not couiage or 
manliness to resent. The change of tone and 
behaviour in the two competitors for the throne 
according to their change of fortune, from the 
capricious sentence of banishment passed by 
Richard upon Bolingbroke, the suppliant offers 
and modest pretensions of the latter on his return, 
to the high and haughty tone with which he ac« 
cepts Richard's resignation of the crown after the 
loss of all his power, the use which he makes of 
the deposed king to grace his triumphal {^ogress 
through the ^streets of London, and the final 
intimation of his wish for his death, which im- 
mediately finds a servile executioner) is marked 
throughout with complete effect and without 
the slightest appearance of effort. The steps 
by which Boll ngbroke mounts the throne are 
those by which Richard sinks into the grave. 
We feel neither respect nor love for the deposed 
inoharch; for he is as wanting in energy as iri 
principle: but we pity him, for he pities him- 
self. His heart is by no means hardened against 
himself, but bleeds afresh at every new stroke 
of mischance, and his sensibility, absorbed in 
his own person, and unused to misfortune,' is 
not only tend^riy^ alive to ttii own sufferings, 
but without the fortitude to bear them. . He is, 
however, human in his distresses; for tQ feel 
pain, and sorrow, weakness^ disappointment. 



N 



180 RICHARD Ii; 

remorse and anguish, is the lot of humanity, and 
we sympathize with him accordingly. The suf- 
ferings of the man make us forget that he ever 
was a king. 

The ' right assumed by . sovereign power to 
trifle at its will with the happiness of others as a 
matter of. course, or, to remit its exercise as a 
matter of favour, is strikingly shewn in the sen<- 
tence of banishment so unjustly pronounced on 
Bolingbroke and Mowbray, and in what Boling- 
broke. says when four years of his banishment 
are. tak^n off, with as little reason. 

*^ How long a time lies in one little word ! 
Four lagging winters and four wanton springs 
End in a word : such is the breath of kings/* ' 

A more affecting image of the loneliness^ of a 
£tate of exile cap hardly be given than by what 
Bolingbroke afterwards observes of his having 
^^ sighed his English breath in foreign clouds-/^ 
or than that conveyed in Mowbray's complaint 
at being banished for life. 

^ The language I have learned thiese forty ]rears> 
My native English^ now I must iforego; 
And now my tongue's use is to me no more 
Than an unstringed viol or a harp^ 
Or like a cunning instrument cas*d up^ 
Or heing open« put into his hands 
That knows no touch to tune the harmony. 
I am too old to fawn upon a nurse^ 
Too fer in years to be a pupil now/*— ^ 



RICHARD n. 181 

How very beautiful is all tfais, and at the same 
time how very English too ! 

Richard 11. may be considered as the first of 
that series of English historicar plays, ip which 
^^i8 hung armour of the invincible knight^ of 
oldj^^ in which their hearts seem to strike against 
their coats of mail, where their blood tingles for 
the fight,^ and words are but the harbingers of 
blows. Of this state of s^ccpmplished barba- 
rism the appeal of Bolingbroke and Mowbray 
is an admirable specimen. , Another of these 
'^ keen encounters of their wits/^ which serve 
to whet the talkers' swords, is where Aumerle 
answers in the presence of Bolingbroke to the 
charge which Bagot brings against himi6f being 
an accessory in Gloster^s death. 
. ■ ^ ■ ' . . . » . 

^' Fiizwater. If that thy valour stand on sympathies^ 
There is my gage> Aimierle^ in gage to thine; 
By that hir sim thai shows me where, thou stand*st 
I beard thee say, ^d vauntingly thou spak'st it> 
That thou wert cs^use of noble 61oster*s death. 
If thou deny*st it twenty times thou liest, 
Apd I will turn thy falsehood to th^ het^rt 
Where it was fbrgedj with my rapier's point. 

Aumerte* Thou dar*st not, coward, live to see the day. 

JRtooa^er. Now, by my soul, I would it were this hour. 

Awnmie. Fiizwater, thou art damn*d to hell for this. 

Pixc^. Aumerle, thou Uest) his honour is. as trujO, 
Jn this appeal, as thou art all. iu\)ust^ , >, 

And that thou art so^ there I throw my gage 
To prove it on thee, to th* extremest point 
Of mortal breathing. Seize it, if thou dar*8t. 



193 RICHARD U. 

Aumerle, And if I d9 Wi, may nqr hands rot off^ - 
And never brandish mor^ revengeful steel 
Over the glittering helmet of my foe. 
Who sets me else ^ By heay n^ 1*11 throw at all. 
r have a thousand spirits in my breast^ 
' To answer twenty thousand such as you. 

Sktty. My lord JitKwater, I remend)^ -virett 
Tbeyery jiime Aumerleandyoudid t^lk. i 

. FUzwaier. My lord> *tis true ; you were in presence.then: 
And you can witness with me^ this is true. 

Surry, As faiUse, by heav n> as heav n itself is true. 

FUzwater. SUrry> thou liest. 

Surry. Dishonourable boy> 
That lie shafl. lye st> heavy on my isword> 
That it shall render vengeance and revenge^. ./ ^ 

Till thou the lie-giver a^d that lie rest 

^ • . • .... » ' 

In earth bs quiet as thy father's skulL 
In proof whereof;, there is mine honour's pawn: 
£ngage it to the trials if thoU dar*st. 
^. FUzwater. How fondly dost thou spur a forward hone : 
. If I dare eat or drink or breathe or lxve> 
I dare meet Surry in a wilderness^ 
And spit upon him> whilst I say be lies^ 
And lies> and lies : there is my bond of hath. 
To tie thee to thy strong correction. 
As I do hope to thrive in this new worlds 
Aumerle is guilty of my true appeal." 

The truth is, that there is neither trulli nor 
honour in «dl these noble persons : they answer 
words with words, as they do blows with blows, 
in mere self defence : nor have tliey any prin-* 
ciple whatever but that pf courage in maintain- 
ing any wrong they dare commit, or any false- 



RICHARD Ur 183 

hood which tbejriind it useful to assert. How 
different were these noble knights and ** barons 
bold'^ from their more refined descendants in the 
present day, who instead of deciding questions 
of right by brute force, refer every thing. to 
convenience, fashion, and.' good breeding! In 
point of any abstract love of truth or justice, 
they are just the same now that they were then. 
The characters of old John of Gaunt and of 
jiis brother York, uncles to the King, the one 
stern and foreboding, the other honest, good- 
natured, doiDg all for the best^ and therefore 
doing nothing, are well kept up. The speech 
of the former, in praise of England, is one of 
the most eloquent that ever was penned. We 
should perhaps hardly be disposed to feed the 
pampered egotism of our countrymen by quoting 
this description, were it not that the conclusion 
of it (which looks prophetic) may qualify any 
improper degree of exultation. 



if 



This royal thnme of Idngs^ ^his sceptered i^le^ 
This earth of Majesty^ this seat of Mars> 
This other Eden> deim-F^aradise> 
This fortress built by nature for herself 
Against infection and the hand of war 3 
This h^ppy breed of men, this little worlds 
This precious stone set in the silver sea> 
Which serves it in the office of a wall 
(Or as a moat defensive to a hou9e) . 
Against the envy of less ha^iy lands : 
This nurse^ this teemii^ wnmb Ckf loyal king8> 



/ 



184 VilfiUA^J) fl. 

' Fear'd for thw breed.and, £uaio^,fw tbeu^^ 
Renoim'd for their deeds, as £ax from bQOie> . , . 

r • ' 

For Christian service and true chivalry^ . 
As is the sepulchre in stubborn JeWry 
Of the world*s ransom^ blessed Mary's son; * 
•This land of such dear spuls, this dear dear Undjs 
Dgblt^ for h^ reputitlii^ .tbsough the worlds 

. )4 noyf leased iput (t die prcmouncing it) . . \ ,:, 
. \Sk^ to a. tepexnent or pelting farm. 
Bngland bound in with the triumphant sea> 
Whose, rocky shore beats back the envious surge 
Of wat*ry Neptune^ is bound'in with shame> 

* With inky-Uots and rotten parohment bonds. 

' That England^ that was want to oonquer others^ 

r . Hath made a shameful ooiiqaest. of itself.'* 

The character of Bolingbroke, afterwiards 
Heqry IV. is draiyn with a masterly hand :— 
patient for occasion, and then steadily availing 
himself of it, seeing his advantage afar off, but 
only seizing on it wh^n he has it within his reach, 
humble, crafty,' bold, and aspiring, encroaching 
by regular but slow degrees, building power 6n 
opinion, and cementing opinion by power. His 
disposition is. first unfolded by Richard himself, 
who however is too self-willed and secure to 
make a proper use of his knowledge. ; ^ 



it 



Ourself and Bu£/hy> Bagot here and Green> 
Observed his courtship of the common people : 
How he did seem to dive into their hearts^ 
With humble and iamiliar courtesy^ 
What reverence he did throw away on slaves^ 
Wooing" poor craftsmen' in^tk the crslft of smiles^ 



V 



RICHARD n. 18S 

And patient nndsr-bcaring of his ftrtuiie^ . 
As 'twere to banish their afieetions with btm* 
Off goes hif bonnet to an oyster-wench ; 
A brace of draynien bid God speed him we]l> 
And Iiad the tribute of his supple knee> 
With tlianks my comitrjmen, my loVhig friends $ 
As ws^ our England in reversion his> 
Andrhe our sttbjeets* next di^eem hqpe.*' 

Afterwards, he gives his own character to Percy, 
in these words: 

'^ I thank thee, genAle Percys and be sure ' w 
I count myself in nothing 9lserso happy. 
As in a soul rememb'nng my good fiiends} . 
And as my fortune ripens with thy love. 
It shall be still thy true love*s recompense." 

We "know how he afterwards kept his pro- 
mise. His bold assertion of his own rrghts, 
his pretended submissioi^ to the king, and t;)i6 
ascendancy which he tacitly ass umes over him 
without openly claiming it, as soon as he has 
him in his power, are characteristic traits of 
this, ambitious and politic usurper. But the 
part of Richard hioiself gives the ,qhief interest 
to the play. Hts fplly, bis vipqa, his niisfor- 
tunes, his reluctance to part with the crown, 
his fear to keep it, his weak and WOB&anish 
regrets, his starting tears, his fits or'hectio 
passion, his smothered majesty, pass ip succes- 
sion be;fore us^ and niake a picture . as ■ natural 
as it is affecting. . Anoiofig the. most striking 



tM RICHARD n; 

touches of pfttiios are bis wish \^ O that I were 
a mockery king of snow to melt away before 
the sun of Bblingbroke/^ and the incident of 
the poor groom who comes to visit him in pri- 
son, and tells him how ^Vit yearned his heart 
that Bolingbroke u{K>a bis coxonatio& day rode 
on Roan Barbary .^ We shall have occasios to 
return hereafter to the character of Richard IL 
in speaking of Henry VI. There is only one 
passage more, the description of his entrance 
into London with Bolingbroke, which we should 
like to quote here, if it had not been so used 
and worn out, so thumbed and got by rote, so 
praised and painted ; but its beauty surmounts 
all these considerations. 

'^ Duchess, My lord, you told me you would tell the rest. 
When weeping made you break the story off 
Of our two cousins coming into London. 

Ywk. Where did I leave } 

Duche$8. At that sad stopi my lord. 
Where rude misgoyem*d hands, from window tops. 
Threw dust and rubbish on king Richard*s head. 

York, Then, as I said, the duke, great JBolingbroke, 
Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed. 
Which his aspiring rider seem*d to know> 
Wiih slow, but stately pace, kept oa his coofse. 
While all tongues Cried — God save thee, Bolingbroke! 
Yovb would Ji^ve thought the very windows 8pake> 
So many greedy looks of young and old 
Througb casements darted their desiring eyes 
TT{M(m his visage; alid that all the walls. 
With painted iiiiag*ryi had said at once^-^ 



RICHARD n. 



187 



JesupTesei:vethee! welcome^ Bdingbroke! , 
Whilst hc^ from one side to the other tunung^ 
Bare-headed^ lower than his proud steed's neck^ 
Bespake them thus — I thank you> countr3rmen : 
And thus still doing thus he pass'd along. 

Duchess, A]aa, poor Rlfehalrd ! trhere rides he the while ? 

York. As in a theatre^ the ^es of men> 
After a we]l-grac*d actor leaves the stage;, 
Are idly bent on him that enter? next^ 
Thinking his prattle to be tedious : 
Even so^ or with much more contempt^ men's eyes 
Did scowl on Richard ; no man cried God save him ! 
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home : 
But dust was thrown upon his sacred head! 
Whidi with iwik gdntle sorrow l^e 4hpok off^ ' 
His fiice still combating with tears and smiles^ 
The badges of his grief and patience — 
That had not God^ for some strong purpose^ steeVd 
The hearts Of men> they must pe^orce liave melted^ 
And barbarism itself have pitied hiin." 



< ♦ 



HENRY IV. 



IN TWO PARTS. 



If Shakespear's fondiiess for the ludicrous some* 
times led to faults in his tragedies (which was 
not often the case) he has made us amends by 
the character of Falstaff. This is perhaps the 
most substantial comic chaiiftcter that ever was 
invented. Sir John carries a most portly pre- 
sence in the mind's eye; and in him, not to 
speak it profanely, ^^ we behold the fulness of 
the spirit of wit and humour bodily .^^ We are 
as well acquainted with his person as his mind, 
and his jokes come upon us with double force 
and relish from the quantity of flesh through 
which they make their way, as he shakes his 
fat sides with laughter, or ^^ lards the lean earth 
as he walks along/^ Other comic characters 
seem, if we approach and handle them, to re- 
solve themselves into air, ^^ into thin air ;^^ but 
this is embodied and palpable to the grossest 



HENRY. IV. 189 

apprehension : it lies '« three fingers deep upon 
the ribs/^ it plays about the lungs and the 
diaphragm with all the force of animal enjoy- 
ment. His body is like a good' estate to his 
mind, from which he recei^res rents and revenues 
of profit and pleasure in kind, according to its 
extent, and the richness of the soil. Wit is 
often a meagre substitute fpr pleasurable sen- 
sation ; an effusion of spleen and petty- spite 
at the comforts of others, from feeling none in 
i tself. Falstaff ^s wit is an emanation of a fine 
constitution; an exuberance of good-hufmour 
and good-nature ; ah overflowing of his love 
of laughter, and good-fellowship ; a' giving Tetit 
to his heart's ease and over-contentment with 
himself and others. He would not be in cfaai*- 
Tacteir, if he were not so fet as he is; for there is 
the greatest keeping in the boundless luxury 
of his invagination and the pampered- ^f-imcibU 
gehce of his physical appieUtes* He manurei 
and nourishes his mind with jests, as he doei 
his body vrith sack and sugar. He carves^ out 
his jokes, as he would a capon, ot a haxtncfa of 
venison, where there ik cut and comie agmn^ 
aiid pours' out upon them the oiJ of gladuesr. 
His tongue drops fatness, and in theohambesi 
<^ his brain ^^ it isnows of meat and drihk.^^' He 
keeps up perpetual holiday and open house, 
and we live with him in a round of invitationa 
to a rump and dozen. — ^Yet we are not to sup- 



190 HENRY IV* 

poae t)iat.he wad a infers aeildualiAt All thit 
ia.asfmuoh in imaginatictti as in teality^^ His 
senfMialily does not engross and atupify his other 
fiicultieSf bui ^f ascends me into the hrain, clears 
away dl the dull , crude vapours that environ 
it^ and makes it full of nimhle, fiery> and deiec^^ 
table shapes*'^ His imagination keeps up the 
ball after bis Sfnaes have done with it^ He 
seems to have even a greater enjoyment oft the 
freedom from restraint, of good cheer, of his 
ease, of his vanity, in the ideal exaggerated de«- 
soripftionst which be gives of them,: than infacti 
He. never fails to enrich hia discourse with alhi*'' 
stdnsio eating and drinking, but we never see 
him attabie« ^ He carries his own larder about 
with ihimy and he is himself '^ a tun of man.^ 
Hispulling out the bbltle in the field of battle 
is a joke to shew his contempt for glory accom<- 
panied with danger, his -systematic adherence 
to his Epicurean philosophy in the most trying 
circumstances. Again, such is his deliberate 
exaggeration of his own vices, that it does not 
aeetn quite certain whether the account of his 
hostess's bill, found in his pocket, with such, an 
0ut^f*the^way charge for capons and sack with 
only (me balfpenny«worthof Inread, was not put 
there by himself as a trick to humour the jest 
upon his favourite propensities, and as a con** 
scions caricature of himself. He is represented 
as a liar, a braggart, a coward, a glutton, &c. 



HENRY IV. 191 

and yet we are not oifeoded but delighted with 
him ; for be is all these as mu^h to amtise othezt 
as to gratify himself. He openly asaomes all 
these characters to shew the humourous putt of 
ihem^ Tbe unrestrained indulgence of hia.own 
ease^ appetites, and convenience, baa neither ma* 
liee nor hypocrisy in it, In a word, he is an actor 
in himself almost as much as upon the stage, and 
we no more object to the character of Falsftaff in 
a moral point of view than we sbould think of 
bringing an excellent comedian, who should re* 
present him to the life, before one of the police 
offims. We only consider the number of plea- 
sant lights in which he puts certain foibles (the 
more pleasant as they are opposed to the re- 
ceived rules and necessary restraints of society) 
and do not trouble oqrselyes about the conse*^ 
quences resulting from tbem, for no mischie- 
vous Consequences do result. Sir John is old 
as well as fat, which gives a melancholy retro* 
spectiye tinge to the character; and by tbe dis<^ 
parity between his inclinations and his capacity 
for enjoyment, makes it still more ludicrous and 
fantastical. . . 

Tbe secret of Falstaff^s wit is for tbe most 
part a masterly presence of mind, an absolute 
self-pos^^sioq, which nothing: can 4i9turb« His 
repartees are involuntary suggestions of his sel& 
love; instinctive evasions of every thing that 
threatens to interrupt the career of his trium-^ 



193 HENRY IV. 

phaot jollity and ; self-complaceBcy • His very 
size floats him out of all his difficulties in a sea 
of; rich conceits; and he turns round on the pivot 
of Jiis convenience, with every occasion and at 
a.moment^s warning. Etis natural repugnance 
to. every unpleasant thought or circumstance of 
itself makes light of. objections, and provokes 
the most, extravagant and licentious answers in 
bis own justification. His indifference to truth 
puts no check upon his invention, and the more 
improbable and unexpected his contrivances are, 
the more happily does he seem to be delivered 
of. them, the. anticipation of their effect acting 
gs a stimulus, to the gaiety of his fancy. The 
siljCQ(Q6s of oQe adventurous sally gives him spirits 
to^ut:)dertSike another : he deals always in round 
numbers, and his exaggerations and excuses are 
f^ open,, palpable, monstrous as the father that 
b^ets ; thenx/V His dissolute carelessness of 
what he says discovers itself in the first dialogue 
with the Prince. 

'' Falstaff* By the lord^ thou say*st true> lad > and is not 
mine hostess of the tavern a most sweet wench ? 

P. Henry, As the honey of Hibla^ my old lad of the cas« 
tie; and is not a bufP-jerkin a most sweet robe of durance? 

FaUtaff, How now, how now, mad wag, what in thy 
quips and 'thy quiddities ? what a plague have I to do with 
a bufiVjerkin? 

P. Henry. Why, what a pox have I to do with mine hos- 
tess of the tavern ?" 



HBNRY jRT. • K« 

In the 'satne scene he afterwards affects me* 
laikdioly, jrompure ^satisfaction, of heart, . and 
pfofessjes reform, because it is thefarthest thing 
^n the world from his thoughts. 'He has no 
qiialms of conscience, and therefore would as 
soon talk of them as of any thing else when the 
humour takes him. 

'^ Falstaff, But HaU I pr*ythee trouble me no more with 
T anity. I would to God thou and t knew where a commo- 
dity of good names were to be bought : an old lord of coun- 
cil rated me the other day in the street about you> sir} but 
I marked him iicit^ and yet he talked very,wisely> and.in 
the street top. \ 

P. Henry. Thou didst well> for wisdom cri^ out in the 
street, and no man regards it. 

Falstaff, O, thou hast damnable iteration^ and art indeed 
able to corrupt a saint. Thou hast done much harm untb 
mci Hal^ God forgive thee for it. Before I knew thee^ 
Halj I knew nothing, and now 1 am, if a man shotild speak 
truly, little better than one of the wicked. I miist give 
over this life, and I will give it over, by the lord ; an I do 
tuot, I am a villain; TU be 'damn*d for neiver a king's son 
in Christendom. 
^ p. Hmry,.Wiydve shall we take a. purse to^morirow^. Jack ? 

FaUtctff., .Where thou wilt, . laA> 1*11. make onej an I do 
nic^« call me yillaia, and baffle me. 

. p. Henry, I see good amendment of life in thee> from 
praying to purse-taking. 

. Falstaff, Why, Hal, 'tis my vocation^ Hal. 'Tis no ain 
for a man to labour in his vocation.** .} 

Of the other prominent passages, his account 
of his pretended resistance to the robbers, " who 



194 HENRT J¥. 



grew from four men in buckram into eleren^^ as 
the imagination of his own valour increased with 
his relating it, his getting off when the truth is 
discovered by pretending he knew the Prince, 
the scene in which in the person of the old king 
he lectures the prince and gives himself a good 
character, the soliloquy on honour, and descrip- 
tion of his new-raised recruits, his meeting with 
the chief justice, his abuse of the Prince and 
Poins, who overhear him, to Doll Tearsheet, 
his reconciliation with Mrs* Quickly who has 
arrested him for an old debt, and whom he per- 
suades to pawn her plate to lend him ten pounds 
more, and the scenes with Shallow and Silence, 
are all inimitable. Of all of them, the scene in 
which Falstaff plays the part, first, of the King, 
and then of Prince Henry, is the one that has 
been the most often quoted. We must quote 

it once more in illustration of our remarks. 

< 

'^ FabUjff^. Barry, I da not only msrirel v^n/ttt thou qp^ndeit 
thy time> but also how Uiou art accompanied : for though 
the caiooniile^ the more it ia trodden on, the &8ter it grows, 
yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears. That 
thou art my son, I have partly thy mother's word, partly 
myownopinionj but chieiy, a villainous trick of thine eye, 
and a foolish hanging of thy nether Up, that doth warrant 
me« If then thou be Mtt to me> here lies the point $■ ■ ■ 
Why, being son to me, art thou so pouoited at ? ShaU the 
blessed sun of heaven prove a micher, and eat blackberries ? 
A quedtion not to be askM. Shall the son of England prove 
a thief, and take purses } a question not to be ask'd. There 



HENKY IV. 1»& 

it a thing! Bbsttj, iNhkh thou hast oUbm heoid of, and it li 
Iu)Dinitoio«ftyinourlandb)rt3i«BMiieof pitch: thiipSfeehi 
as^uDciMt writen do r^art> doth defile; io doth thft oom^ 
pany thou ke^est : for> Hanry^ now I do not apeak to thee 
in drink* but in teani not in pleasttra> but in passion; not 
in worda only* but in xnxa alio :— <and yet th^w is a idrtu- 
0U6 man* whom I hare aitfen noted in thy company* but 1 
know not liia name. 

P. Hemf. What manner of man* an it like your majesty? 

Faistaff, A goodly portly man* i* fiuth* and a corpulent 5 
of a cheerful look* a pleasing eye* and a moat noble carri^ 
age ; and* as I think* his age some fifty* or* by^r^-lady* in- 
clining to threescore; and now I do remember me* his 
name is Falstaff : if that mab should be lewdly given* he 
(ieceiveth me ; for* Harry* I see virtue in his looks, if 
then the fruit may be knowh by the tree* as the. tree by the 
fruit* then peremptorily I speak it* there is virtue in that 
Falstaff: him keq) with* the rest banish. And tell me 
now* thou naughty varlet* tell me, where hast thou been 
this month } 

P. Henry. Bost thou speak like a king } Do thou stand 
§w me, and I'll play my fieUher. 

Faiskfff. Depose me? if thou dost it half so gravely* so 
mfuasticaily* both in word and matter* hang tne up by the 
heels fi>r a rabbit-sucker* or a poulteret*s hare. 

P. Henry, Well* here I am set. 

Fahtaff. And here I stand :-*-judge* my masters. 

P. Henry, Now* Harry* whence come you? 

FaUtqff, My noble lord* from Eastcheap. 

P. Henry. The complaints I hear of thee are grievous. 

Falstaff. S*blood* my lord* they are felse : — ^aay* Til tickle 
ye tor a young prince* i*faith. 

P. Henry. Swearest thou*, ungracious boy ? henceforth 
ne*er look on me. Thou art violently carried away £rom 
grace : there is a devil haunts thee* in the likeness of a fat 



196 HENRY IV. 

old man ; a tun of man is thy companion* Why dost thod 
convene with that trunk of' humours^ that bolting->httfoh 
of beasdiness, that swohi parcel of dropsies^ that huge bom- 
bard of sack^ that stuft doak-bag oi gat&, that roasted 
Manmng-tree dx with the pudding in his belly^ that reyer- 
end vice^ that grey iniquity, that father ruffian, that vanity 
in years? wherein is he good, but to ta&e 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 
villainy? wherein. viQainous, but in all things? wherein 
worthy> but in nothing ? 

FaUtaff. I Would, your grace would take me with you; 
whom means your grsice ? 

P, Henry. That villainous, abominable mis-leader of youth, 
Falstaff, that bid white-bearded Satan. 

FaUtaff* My lord> the man I know. 

P. Henry, I know thou dost. 

Falstaff, But to say> I know more harm in him than in 
myself> were to say more than I know. That he is old (the 
more the pity) his white hairs do witness it : but that he is 
(saving your reverence) a whore-master, that I utterly deny. 
If sack and sugar be a fault, God help the wicked ! if to 
be old and merry be a sin, then many an old host that I 
know is damned : if . to be fett be to be hated, then Pha- 
roah*s lean kine are to be loved. No, my good lord i banish 
Peto, banish Bardolph, banish Poins : hut for sweet Jack 
Falstafif, kind Jack Falstaff, tnie Jack Pabtaff, valiant Jack 
Falstaff, and therefore more valiant, being as he^is, old 
Jack Falstaff, banish not him thy Harry's company ; banish 
plump Jack, and banish all the world. 
. P. Henry. I do, I will. 

{^Knocking j and Hostess and Bardolph go out. 

Re-enter Bardolph, runniTig, 
Bardolph, O, my lord, my lord -, the sheriff, with a most 
monstrous watch, is at the door. 



HENRY IV. 197 

. Fakiqff^, Qut, yon rogv^fil playoutth^play: Ihaveoipch. 
to say in the behalf of that Falstaff.'* 

One of the most characteristic descriptions of 
Sir John is that which Mrs. Quickly gives of him 
when he asks her '' What is the gross sum that 
I owe thee ?" 

" Hasten, Marry> if thou wert an honest man> thyself^ 
and the money too. Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel- 
gilt goblet> sitting in my Dolphin-chamber^ at the round 
table, by a sea-coal fire on Wednesday in Whitsun-week, 
when the prince broke thy head for likening his father to a 
pinging man of Windspr -, thou diilst swear to me then, as 
I was washing thy wound, to marry me, and make me my 
lady thy wife. Canst thou deny it? Did not goodwife 
K^ech, the butcher's wife, come in then, and call me gossip 
Quickly ? coming in to borrow a mess of vinegar ', telling 
us, she had a good dish o£ prawns ; whereby thou- didst de- 
sire to eat some 3 whereby I told thee, they were ill for a 
green wound? And didst .thou not, .when she was gone 
down stairs, desire me to be no more so fauniliarity with 
such poor people ', saying, that ere long they should call 
me madam? And didst thou not kiss me, and bid me 
fetch thee thirty shillings ? I put thee nbw to thy book* 
oath 3 deny it, if thou canst.** 

This scene is to us the most convinciag proof 
of FalstaflPs< power of gaining oyer the good will 
of those he was familiar with, except indeed 
Bardolph's somewhat profane exclamation on 
hearing the account of his death, ^^ Would I were 



198 HENRY IV. 

with him, wberesoe'er he is, whether in hea« 
ven or hell.^* 

One of the topics of exulting superiority 
over others most common in Sir John's mouth 
is his corpulence and the exterior marks of good 
living which he carries about him, thus ^^ turn- 
ing liis vices into commodity/^ He accounts for 
the friendship between the Prince and Poins, 
from " their legs being both of a bigness ;*' and 
compares Justice Shallow to ^' a man made after 
supper of a cheese-paring/' There cannot be 
a more striking gradation of character than that 
between Falstaff and Shallow, a»d Shallow and 
Silence. It seems difficult at first to Ml lower 
than the squire; but this fool, great as he is, 
finds an admirer and humble foil in his cousin 
Silence. Vain of his acquaintance with Sir 
John, who mwkes a butt of him, he exclaims^ 
*^ Would, cousin Silence, that thou had'st seen 
that which this knight and I have seen !^*—r 
" Aye, Master Shallow, we have heard the 
chimes at midnight," says Sir John. To Fal- 
stafi^^s observation '^ I di^ not think Master Si- 
lence had been a man of this mettle," Silence 
answers^ " Who, 1 ? I have been merry twic^ 
and once ere now." What an idea ia here con* 
Vey^d iof a prodigality of living? What good 
husbandry and economical self-denial in his 
pleasures? What a stock of lively xecoUec* 



HENHY IT* 1» 

tions ? It is curioas that Shakespear has ridi- 
Goled in Justice Shallow, who was ^* in soma 
authority under the king/' that disposition to 
unmeaning tautology which is the regal infir- 
mity of later times^ and whi<ih, it may be sup« 
posed, he acquired from talking to his cousin 
Silence, and receiving no answers. 

'' FaUtaff, You haTS here a goodly dwellings and a rich. 

Shallow, Barren^ barren^ barren ^ beggars all^ beggars 
aD, Sir John : many> good air. Spread Davy, spread Davy. 
Weil said, Davy. 

FabU^. This Davy ierves yoa Ibr good uses. 

iSUknUoiD. A good variety 4 good variety a very good vaxlet. 
By die masB^ I have draak too much sack at supper. A good 
varlet. Now sit down> now ait down. Corne^ cousin.'* 

The true spirit of humanity, the thorough 
knowledge of the stuff we are made of, the prac- 
tical wisdom with the seeming fooleries in the 
whole of the garden-scene at ShaBow^s country* 
seat, and just before in the exquisite dialogue 
between him and Silence on the death of old 
Double, have no parallel any where else. In 
one point of view, they are laughable in the ex« 
treme ; in another they are equally affecting, if 
it is affecting to shew what a Utile thing ii hu^ 
man life^ what a poor forked creature man is t 

The heroic and serious part of these two plays 
founded on the iitory of Henry I V. is not in-^ 
ferior to the comic and &rcic*l. The characters 



900 HENRY IV. 

of Hotspur wd Prince Henry are two of the 
most beautiful and drainaliic, both in ^em* 
selves aod from contrast, that ever were drawn. 
They are the essence of chivalry. We like 
Hotspur the best upon the whole, perhaps 
because he was unfortunate.-^The characters 
of their fathers, Henry IV. and old Northum- 
berland, are kept up equally well. Henry na- 

> ' • * 

turally succeeds by his prudence and caution 
in keeping what he has got ; Northumberland 
fails in his enterprise from an excess of the same 
quality, and is caught in tbe web of his own 
cold, dilatory policy, Owen Glendower is a 
masterly character. It is as bold and original 
as it is intelligible and thoroughly natural. The 
disputes between him aiid Hotspur are managed 
with infinite address and insight into nature; 
We cannot help pointing out here some very 
beautiful lines, where Hotspur describes the 
fight between Glendowef: and Mortimer. 



€< 



When on the gentle Severn's sedgy bank^ 



In single oppositipn hand to hand. 

He did confound the best part of an hour 

In changing hardiment with great Glendower : 

Three times they breath*d, and tlu*ee times did they drink; 

Upon agreement^ of swift Severn's flood ; 

Who then affrighted with their blooi^y looks. 

Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds. 

And hid his crisp head in the hoUbw bank^ ' 

Bloodrstained with these valiant .combatants.*' 



BTENRY lY. 90k 

The peculiarity aiid the excellence of Shake^ 
spefir's poetry is, that it seeittS' as if he made his 
imagination the hand-maid of nature, and nature 
the play-thing of his imagination* He appears 
,to have been all the characters, and in all the 
situations he describes. It is as if either he had 
had all their feelings, or had lent them all his 
genius to express themselves. There cannot 
be stronger instances of this than Hotspur's rage 
when Henry IV* forbids him to speak of Mor- 
timer, his insensibility to all that his father and 
u.ncle urge to calm him, and his fine abstracted 
apostrophe to honour, ^* By heaven methinks 
it were an easy leap to pluck bright honour from 
the moon,'^ &c. After all, notwithstanding the 
gallantry, generosity, good temper, and idle 
freaks of the mad-cap Prince of Wales, we 
should not have been sorry, if Northumber- 
land's force had come up in time to decide the 
fate of the battle at Shrewsbury; at least, we 
always heartily sympathise with Lady Percy's 
grief, when she exclaims, 

*^ Had my sw^eet Harry had but half their numlyeiv^ 
To-day might I (hanging on Hotspur*s neck) 
Have talked of Monmouth's grave.** 

The truth is, that we never could forgive the 
Prince's treatment of Falstaff; though perhaps 
Shakespear knew what was best, according to 



HENRY IV. 



the history, the nature of the times, and of the 
man. We speak only as dramatic critics. What** 
eTer tenor the French in those days might 
have of Henry V. yet to the readers of poetry 
at present, Falstaff is the better man of the 
twOr We think of him and quote him oftener. 



HENRY V. 



Hbkry y. i8 a very favourite monarch with 
the English nation, and he appears to have 
been also a favourite with Shakespear, who la- 
bours hard to apologise for the actions of the 
l^ing) l>y shewing us the character of the man» 
as ^' the king of good fellows?^ He scarcely 
deserves this honour. He was fond of war and 
low company Z'^^we know littlie else of him. He 
was careless, dissolute, and ambitious ;~'idle9 
or doing mischief. In private^ he seemed to 
have no idea of the common decencies of life, 
which he subjected to a kind of regal licence; 
in public affairs, he seemed to have no ide^ of 
any rule of right or wrong, but brute force^ 
glossed over with a little religious hypocrisy and 
archieptscopal advice. His principles did not 
change with his situation and professions. His 
adventure on Gadshill was a prelad# to the 



804 HENRY V. 

affair of Agincourt, only a bloodless one ; Falstaff 
was a puny prompter of violence and outrage, 
compared with the pious and politic Archbishop 
of Canterbury, who gave the king carte blanche^ 
in a genealogical tree of his family, to rob and 
murder in circles of latitude and longitude abroad 
-^to save the possessions of the church at home. 
This appears in the speeches in Shakespear, 
where the hidden motives that actjuate princes 
and their advisers in war and policy are better 
laid open than in speeches from the throne or 
woolsack. Henry, because he did not know 
how to govern hia own kingdom, determined to 
make war upon his neighbours. Because his 
own title to the crown was doubtful, he laid 
claim to that of France. Because he did not 
know how to exercise the enormous power, 
which had just dropped into his hands, to any 
one good purpose, he immediately undertook 
{a cheap and obvious resource of sovereignty) 
to do all the niischief he could. Even if abso- 
lute monarchs had the wit to find out objects of 
laudable ambition, they could only '^ plume up 
their wills" in adhering to the more sacred for- 
mula of the royal prerogative, " the right divine 
of kings to govern wrong," because will is only 
theti triumphant when it is opposed to the will 
of others, because the pride of power is only 
then shewn, not when it consults the rights 
and interests pf others, but when it insults and 



HENRY V. ao«^ 

tramples on all justice and all humanity. Henry 
declares bis resolution^' when France is his,, to 
bend it to bis awe, or break it all to pieces'^ — 
a resolution worthy of a conqueror, to destroy 
all that he cannot enslave; and what adds to the 
joke, be lays all the blame of the consequences 
of his ambition on those who will not submit 
tamely to his tyranny. . Such is the history of 
kingly power, from the beginning to the end of 
the world ; — with this difference, that the ob- 
ject of war formerly, when the people adhered 
to their allegiance, was to depose kings ; the 
object latterly, since the people swerved from 
their allegiance, has been to restore kings, and 
to make common cause against mankind. The 
object of our late invasion and conquest of 
France was to restore the. legitimate monarch, 
the descendant of Hugh Capet, to the throne : 
Henry V*. in his time made war on and deposed 
the descendant of this very Hugh Capet, on the 
plea that he was a usurper and illegitimate. 
What would the great modern catspaw of legi- 
timacy and restorer of divine right have. said to 
the claim of Henry and the title of the. des^reii* 
dants of Hugh Capet? Henry V. it is: true, 
was a hero, a king of England, and the con- 
queror of the king of France. Yet we feel little 
love or adtoiration for him. He was a. hero, 
that is, he was ready to sacrifice bis pwn life 
for the pleasure of destroy ing thousands of other 



3M HENRY V. 

lives: he was a king of Engliand, but not a 
constitutional one, and we only like kings ac«- 
cording to the law ; lastly, he was a conqueror 
of the French king, and for this we dislike him 
less than if he had conquered the French people. 
How then do we like him ? We like him in 
the play. There he is a very amiable monster, 
a very splendid pageant. As we like to gaze at 
a panther or a young lion in their cages in the 
Tower, and catch a pleasing horror from their 
glistening eyes, their velvet paws, and dreadless 
roar, so we take a very romantic, heroic, patriot- 
tic, and poetical delight in the bpasts and feats 
of our younger Harry, as they appear ou the 
stage and are confined to lines of ten syllables ; 
where no blood follows the stroke that wounds 
our ears, where no harvest bends beneath horses' 
hoofe, no city flames, no little child is but* 
chered, no dead men's bodies are found piled on 
heaps and festering the next morning — in the 
orchestra ! 

So much for the politics of this play ; now fbr 
the poetry. Perhaps one^ of the most striking 
images in all Shakespear is that given of war in 
the first lines of the Prologue. 

^^ O for a muse of fire> that would ascend 
The brightest heaven of invention^ 
A Idngdom fbr a stage^ princes to aet> 
And monaixshs to behold the sWeUing Uient ! 
Then AofQld the warlike Harry^ like himself^ 



HEKRT V* «07 

Attume the port of Man, and at W# heels 

Leashed in like hounds, should famine, sword, and fire 

Crouch for employment" 

Rubens, if he had painted it, w6uld not have 
improved upon this simile. 

The conversation between the Archbishop of 
Canterbury and the Bishop of Ely relating to 
the sudden change ih the manners of Henry V. 
is among the well-known Beauties of Shake- 
spear. It is indeed admirable both for strength 
and grace. It has sometimes occurred to us 
that Shakespear, in describing '^ the reforma- 
tion*^ of the Prince, might have* had an eye to 
himself— 

'^ Which is a wonder how his grace should glean it^ 
Since his addiction was to courses Tain> 
His companies unletter*d^ rude and shallow^ 
His hours fill'd up with riots^ banquets^ sports ; 
And never noted in him any study^ 
Any retirement^ any sequestration 
From open haunts and popularity. 

Ely, The strawberry grows underneath the nettle^ 
And wholesome berries thrive and ripen best 
Neighbour*d by fruit of baser quality : 
And so the prince obscured his contemplation 
Under the veil of wildness^ which no doubt 
Grew like the summer-grass^ fastest by nigh^^ 

Unseen^ yet crescive in his &culty.'* 

» 

This at least is as probable an. account of the 
progress of the poet^s mind as w:e have met 



90B HENRY V. 

ill any of the Essays on the Liearniog of Sbake^ 
spear. 

Nothing can be better managed than the cau- 
tion which the king gives the meddling Arch- 
bishop, not to advise himself rashly to engage in 
<the war with France,, his scrupulous dread of 
the consequences of that advice, and his eager 
desire to hear and follow- it. 

** And God forbid> my dear and faithful lord> 
That you should ^hion> wrests or bow your readingj» 
Or nicely charge your understanding soul 
With opening titles miscreate^ whose right 
Suits not in native colours with the truth. 
For God doth know how many now in health 
Shall drop their blood> in approbation 
Of what your reverence shall incite us to. 
Therefore take heed how you impawn your person^ 
How you awake our sleeping sword of war 3 
We charge you in the name of (jod> take heed. 
For never two such kingdoms did contend 
Without much fiaU of blood> whose guiltless drops 
Are every one a woe> a sore complaint 
'Grainst him^ whose wrong gives edge unto the swords 
That make such waste in brief mortality. 
Under this conjuration^ speaks my lord ; 
For we will hear^ note> and believe in hearty 
That what you speaks is in your conscience wash'd^ 
^^As pure as sin with baptism.** 

Another characteristic instance of the blind- 
ness of human nature to every thing but its 
own interests is the complaint made by the 



HENRY V. 90D 

king of " the ill neighbourhood'^ of the S^ot 
in attacking England when she was attacking 
France. 

** Ffjit once the eagle England being in prey. 
To her unguarded nest the wea^sel Scot 
Gomes sneaking, and so«ueks her princely eggs.** 

It is worth observing that in all these plays^ 
which give an admirable picture of the spirit of 
the good old times j the tnoral inference does not 
at all depend upon the nature of the actions, but 
on the dignity or meanness of the persons com- 
mitting theni. '^ The eagle England^' has a right 
"to be in prey/' but " the weazel Scot" has 
none " to come sneaking to her nest/^ which 
she has left to pounce upon others. Might was 
rihgt, without equivocation or disguise, in that 
heroic and chivalrous age. The substitution of 
right for might, even in theory, is among the 
refinements and abuses of modern philosophy. 

A more beautiful rhetorical delineation of the 
effects of subordination in a commonwealth can 
hardly be conceived than the following : — 

'^ For government, though high and low and lower> 
Put into parts, doth keep in one consent, 
Congruing in a full and natural close, 
lake music^ 

— — Therefore heaven doth divide 
The state of man in divers functions. 
Setting endeavour in continual motion 3 
To which is fixed, as^an aim or butt, 

P 



210 HENRY V. 

ObedieacQ : for so work tbe honey bees ; . 
Creatures that by a rule in nature^ teach 

4 

The art of order to a peopled kingdom. 

They have a king,, and officers of sorts 

Where somej like magistrates, oorreet'at home ; 

Others, like merchants^ venture trade abroad ; 

Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings^ 

Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds i 

Which pillage they with merry march bring home 

To the tent-royal of their emperor 3 

Who, busied in his majesty, surreys 

The singing mason building roo& of gold. 

The civil citizens kneading up the honey. 

The poor mechanic porters crowding in 

Their heavy burthens at his narrow gate ; 

The sad-eyed justice, with his surly hum^ 

Delivering o er to executors pale 

The lazy yawning drone. I this infer. 

That many things, having fuU reference 

To one consent, may work contrariously : 

As many arrows, loosed several ways. 

Come to one mark ; as many ways meet in one town ; 

As many fresh streams meet in one salt sea; 

As many lines close in the dial's centre; 

So may a, thousand actions^ once a-fbot^ 

End in one purpose, and be all well borne 

Without defeat." 

Henry V, is but one of Shakespear's second- 
rate plays. Yet by quoting passages, like this, 
from his second-rate plays alone, we might make 
a volume " rich with his praide,' 



yy 



*' As is the oozy bottom of the sea 

With sunken wrack and sundess treasuries. 



ilENRY V 2U 

Of this sort are the king's remonstmnde to 
Scroop, Grey, and Cambridge, on the detection 
of their treason^ his address to the soldiers at 
the siege of Harfleur, and the still finer one 
before the battle of Agincourt, the description 
of the night before the battle, and the reflections 
on ceremony put into the mouth of the king. 

'^ O hard condition ; twin-botn with grtiatness^ 
Subjected to the breath of every fool, 
- Whose dense no more can feel but his own wringing ! 
What infinite heart's ease must kings negle<it. 
That private men enjoy ? and what have kihgs^ 
That privates have not too, save ceremoiiy ? 
Save general ceremony ? 
And what art thou, thou idol cerei&ony i 
What kind of god art thou, thdt sufifer*st more 
Of mortal griefs, than do thy worshippers } 
What are thy rents ?^ what are thy comings-in ? 
O ceremony, ahevk me but thy worth ! 
What is thy soul, O adoration ? 
Art thou aught else but place, degree, and fonUi 
Creating awe and fear in other men I 
Wherein thou art less happy, being feared. 
Than they in fearing. 

What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet. 
But poison*d flattery ? O, be sick, great greatness. 
And bid thy ceremony give thee cure ! 
Think'st thou,, the fiery fever will go out 
With titles blown from adulation ? 
Will it give place to flexure and low bending ? . 
Can*st thou, when thou command'st the beggar's knee> 
Command the health of it ? No, thou proud dre^on. 
That play'st so subtly with a king's repose. 



!2J^ HENR Y^^^ V. 

, Iflijm,ftking> thfltfihdtlite: bud I know/ 
*Tis not the balm> the 'soeptre^ and the btf I, 

. The sword, the mace^ the crown imperial^ 

The enter-tis8u*d robe of gold and pearl, 
• "iThe fersed title rtuiniiig 'fbife' tlie king, ' ' 
TKe throne fie ^tsloii,-nb^ the tide of pomp ' 
T!]iatlSeals«p6ii the shore dp ^e- world. 
No, not an these> tbrice-gorgeous'cfremony. 
Not all these, laid in bed majestical. 
Can dc^p so .sofimPy 9i^ th*^ wretQl^ed slate ; 
Who, with a body f^*d> and ^v^ci^t^ mind. 
Gets hli;n to rest, crapam'd wit)i dintr^ssful breads 
Never sees horrid night> the chUd pf.hell : 
But, like: a laoq^^^ ttom therris^ to set. 
Sweats in the eye of Ffa^jebuS} and all night 
Sleeps in Elysium ; next day, after dawn. 
Doth rise, and help Hyperion to.his horse ; 
And follows so^ the eyer*runmig year ^ 
With profitable labowr» to his gr»y^ : 
And, but for ccgreiEKmy, such ;a.wret^i) ; 
Winding up dayis witU toU^ an4 ntg]^t3 with skepi 
Has the forehand and Vtot$ge 6ftf kilig^ 
The alave, ji member tf the G0iiiitry*d pisaee, 
Ei\joysit; but 16 gT«6s btain littk: WOts, 
What watch; the king keepa to maintnin the p^ftee^t 
Whose hours the peasant best advafidtages/* 

Most of these passages are well known: there 
is one, which we do not remember to have seen 
noticed, and vet it is no whit inferior to the rest 
in heroic beauty. It is the account of the deaths 
of York land Suffolk. ^ 

'^ Exeter, fhe duke of York commends him ta fom 
majesty. 



H/ENrV. v. ^IS 

K. Hentf. Livfs Jie^ :good dnde? thfice "within this houri 

1 daw him down ; thfice ]up agaip«, an^ fighting } 

From helmet to the 9pur. all blood he was. 

Exeter. In'which.aqray (brave soldier) dotb he lie^ 

Larding the plain : and by his bloody side 
' (Ydke-fellotr to his honotir-owtng wounds) 

The noble earl of Suffolk -also lies. 

Sufiblk fir^t died : and.Yock^,^hag|^tedo'«r^ ... 

Comes to him, wh^^^ g9re he k^t iiiBleep*d> 

And takes bim by tb^ be^Ai, t^es tbe,ge^hes> 

That bloodily, did yawn Mjxm Ips .face ; 

And cries aloud — Tamf, dear cotisin Suffolk ! 

My sinil shall thine keep company to heaven : 
^ Tarry, sweet sM, for mine, ihenfly d-hreast; 
. Jb, in this glotioiv^ mi pfelfrfoiughifinjietd, . . 

We kept together m ourchjxtglry /. . 

Upon these words I came^ and che^r*d him up : 

He smil*d me in the &ce^ raught me his hand> 

And^ with a feeble gripe, says — pear my lord. 

Commend my service , to my soi^eign. 

So did he turn, and over S«ffi>lk*s neck 

He threw his wounded arm, and kito*d his lips : 

And so, espou&'d to d^th>,witb blood he seal*d 

A testament of noble-ending love." 

But we must have dotie with splendid quota- 
tions. The behaviour of the king, in the diffi- 
cult and doubtful circumstances in which he is 
placed, is as patient iUMtsiodest as it is spirited 
and lofty in his prosperous fortune. The cha- 
racter of the French nobles is also very admira- 
bly depicted ; and the Dauphin^s praise of his 
horse shews the vanity of that class of persons 
in a very striking point of view. Shakespea^ 



214 HENRY V. 

always accompihies a foolish priDce with a sati- 
rical courtier, as we see in this instance. The 
comic parts of Hekby V. are very inferior to 
those of Henry IV, Falstaff is dead^ and with- 
out him, Pistol, Nym, and Bardolph, are satel- 
lites without a sun, Fluellen the Welchman is 
the most entertaining character in the piece. 
He is goodi-natured, brave, choleric, and pedan- 
tic. His parallel between Alexander and Harry 
of Monmouth, and his desire to have ^' some 
disputation?'^ with Captain Macmorris on the 
discipline of the Roman wars, in the heat of 
the battle, are never to be forgotten. His treat- 
ment of Pistol is as good as PistoFs treatment 
of his French prisoner. There are two other 
remarkable prose passages in this play: the con- 
versation of Henry in disguise with the three 
centinels on the duties of a soldier, and his 
courtship of Katherine in broken French. We 
like them both exceedingly, though the first 
savours perhaps too much of the king, and the 
last too little of the lover. 



HENRY VI. 



IN THRBE PARTS. 



During the time of the civil wars of York and 
Lancaster, England was a perfect bear-garden, and 
Shakespear has given us a very lively picture of 
the scene. The% three parts of Henry VI. con- 
vey a picture of very little else ; and are inferior 
to the other historical plays. They have bril- 
liant passages; but the general ground- work is 
comparatively poor and meagre, the style ^^ flat 
and unraised.^^ There are few lines like the fol- 
lowing: — 

" Glory is like a circle in the water ; 
Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself^ 
Till by broad spreading it disperse to nought." 

The first part relates to . the wars in France 
after the death of Henry V. and the story of the 
Maid of Orleans. She is here almost as scurvily 



«16 HENRY VI. 

treated as ia Voltaire's Pucelle. Talbot is a 
very magnificent sketch : there is something as 
formidable in this portrait of him, as there would 
be in a monumental figure of him or in the sight 
of the armour which he wore. The scene ia 
which he visits tlie Countiess of Auvergne, who 
seeks to entrap him, is a very spirited one, and 
his description g( his own treatment while a 
prisoner to the French not less remarkable* 

'^ Salisbury, Yet teU'at tbou not how thou w^ enter- 
tain*d. 

Talbot. With 8co£& and scorns^ and contumelious taunts> 
In open market-place produced they me^ 
To foe a public 8pecta<de to all. 
H€ire^ said they^ is the terror of the French, 
The scarecrow that affrights our children so. 
Then broke I from the ofEcers that led me^ 
And with my nails digg'd stones out of the ground^ 
To hurl at the beholders of my shame. 
^ My gtMy countenance made others fly> 
Nome. durst come near for fear of eneidden death. 
In iron yiralls they. deem*d jnp no:t secure : 
So gp^t a fear mj name amongst them spread^ 
That they supposed I could rend bars of steely ^ 
And spurn in pieces posts of adamant. 
Wherefore a guard of chosen shot I had : 
They walk'd about me every nunute-w;hile ; 
And if I did but stir out of my bed^ 
Ready they were to shoot me to the heart." 

The second part relates chiefly to the con*' 
tests between the* nobles during the minority of 



HENRY VI 8T7 

Henry, and the death of Gloucester, the good 
Dukie Hunipbrey. The characti^r of Cardinal 
BiSl^ufort is the most prominent in the group: 
the account of his death is one of 'our anthor'ii 
IDMtet-piecesl. So is the speech of* Gloucester 
to the nobles on the toss of the provinces of 
Franoeby. the king's marriage with Margaret of 
4aijoq., . The, pretensions and growing ambition 
of the Dqke of York, the father of Bichard 1II« 
tur^ also Veiy ably denteloped. Amon^ the epi» 
sodes,.;th)e, tragi-comedy of Jack Cade, and the 
detectipn. of the iinpostor Simco± are truly iedi- 
fying. 

The ; third part describes Henfy^s loss of fais 
crown : his death tidces place in .tiie last act, 
which is usually thrust into the common acting 
play of Richard III. The character.of Glouces^ 
ter, afterwards King Richard, is he^e very pow- 
erfhlly. commenced, and his dangerous designs 
and ;long-reaching ambition ar6 fully described in 
his soliloquy in the third act, begintring, ^^ Aye, 
Edward will use woinen honourably.*' Henry 
VI. is drawn as distinctly as his high*spirited 
Queen, . and notwithstanding the very mean 
iigute which Henry makes as a king,, we still 
feel more respect for him than for his. wife; 

We have already observed that Shakespe'ar 
was scarcely more remarkable for the force and 
marked . contrasts of bis characters than for the 
truth and subtlety with whidi he has distin<« 



tl» HENRY VI. 

guished tboflte which approached the nearest to 
^ach other. For instance, the soul of OthfeUo 
is hardly more distinct from that of lago than 
that of Desdemona is shewn to be from Mtni'^ 
lia^s; the ambition of Macbeth is as distinct 
from the ambition of Richard IIL as it is from 
the meekness of Duncan ; the real madness of 
Lear is as diffepeqt from the feigned madness of 
Edgar* as from the babbling of the fool ; the 
contrast between wit and folly in Falstaff and 
Shallow is not more characteristic though more 
obvious than the gradations of folly, loquacious 
or reserved, in Shallow and Silence ; and again^ 
the gallantry of Prince Henry is as little con- 
founded with that of Hotspur as with the cow- 
ardice of FalstafiF, or as the sensual and philoso- 
phic cowardice of the Knight is with the pitiful 
and cringing cowardice of Parolles, All these 
several personages were as different in Shake-' 
spear as they would have been in themselves: his 
imagination borrowed from the life, and every 
circumstance, object, motive, passion, operated 
there as it would in reality, and produced a 
world of men and women as distinct, as true and 
as various as those that exist in nature. The 
peculiar property of Shakespear's imagination 

* There is another instance of the same distinction in 
Hamlet and Ophelia. Hamlet's pretended madness would 
make a very good real madness in any other author. 



HENRY VI. 21? 

was this truth, accompanied with the uncon- 
sciotisness of nature : indeed, imagination to bei 
perfect must be unconscious, at least in produo<* 
tion ; for nature is so.-^We shall attempt one 
example more in the characters of Richard II, 
and Henry VI. 

The characters and situations of both these 
persons were so nearly alike, that they would 
have been completely confounded by a com- 
mon-place poet. Yet they are kept quite dis- 
tinct in Shakespear. Both were kings, and both 
unfortunate. Both lost their crowns owing to 
their mismanagement and imbecility ; the one 
firom a thoughtless, wilful abuse pf power^ the 
other from an indiflference to it. The manner 
in which they bear their misfortunes corresponds 
exactly to the causes which led to them. The 
one is always lamenting the loss of his power 
which he has not the spirit to regain ; the other 
seems only to regret that he had ever been king, 
and is glad to be rid of the power, with the trou- 
ble ; the effeminacy of the one is that of a vo- 
luptuary, proud, revengeful, impatient of con- 
tradiction, and inconsolable in his misfortunes ; 
the effeminacy of the other is that of an indo- 
lent, good-natured mind, naturally averse to the 
turmoils of ambition and the cares of greatness, 
and who wishes to pass his time in monkish in- 
dolence and contemplation.— Richard bewails 
the loss of the kingly power only as it was the 



820 HENRY VL 

means of gratifying his pride and luxury; Henry 
regaida it only as a OEifiauis of doing rigfaft, and 
is less desirous of the advantages to be derived 
from possessing it than afraid of exercising it 
Mrrong. In knighting a young soldier, he gives 
him ghostly advice — 

, > < ■ » * • .« »^ V ■ » '. ' ... 

• ^^ Edwaid' Plant«genet?» arise a kn^ht^ 
And learn this lesson^ draw fby sword in right.** 

Richard 11. in the- first speecfhe^ of the play 
betravs his real character. In the first atarm of 
his pride, on hearing of Bolingbroke's rebdlion, 
before his presumption has met with any check, 
he exclaims— - 



€f 



Mack not my aenaeleas conjuration, lords : 
Tills earth sbaU havife a feieliag> and these stones 
Prove armed soldiers^ ere her native kinig 
Shall faulter under proud rebellioys arms. 

>k**4s*** ****** 

Not all the water in the rough rude sea 
- Can wash the halm from an anointed king \ 
The breadi of worhSsr man cannot depose 
The Deputy elected by the Lord. 
For eveiy maQ that Bolingbroke hath presto 
To lift sharp steel against our golden crown> 
Heaven for his Richard hath in heavenly pay 
A glorious angel \ then if angels fights 
Weak men must Ml 3 for Heaven still guards the right.** 

fiuth, on the very first news <>f actual disiister. 



HllNRY VI. «n 

all bi^Gonoeil of hifiidelf a8 4lie peculiar favour- 
ite of Providence vanishes into air. 

'^ But DOW the blood of twenty thousand men 
Did triumph in my face, and they are fled. 
All souls that will be safe fly firom my side f 
For time hath set a blot upon my pridd^" 

Immediately after, however, recollecting that 
" cheap defence*^ of the divinity of kings which 
is to be found in opinion, he is for arming his 
nume agaiD^t his enemie^« 

T » » r 

■ ^ r ■* * . • 

'^ Awake, thou coward Majesty, thou.sk^*4t ; 
Is not the King's name forty thousand names ) 
Arn^, arm, my name : a puny subject strikes , r ^ . . 
At thy great glory." 

King Henry does not make any such < vapour- 
ing resistance to tb^ loss of his crown, but lets 
it slip from off his head as a weight which he id 
neither able nor willing to bear ; stands quietly 
by to see the issue of the contest for his king- 
dom, as if it were a game at push-pin, and is 
pleased when the odds prove against him. 

When Richard first hears of the death of his 
favourites, Bushy, Bagot, and the rest, he indig- 
nantly rejects all idea of any Yurther efforts, and 
only indulges in the extravagant impatience^ of 
his grief and his despair, in that fine speech 
which has been so often quoted :<-^ 



S83 HENRY VI. 

'^ Jwmerle. Where is the duke my fii^er> with his power? 

K. Richard, l^o mmtter where : of comfort no man speak : 
^t*s talk of graves^ of worms^ and epitaphs^ 
Make dust our paper^ and with rainy eyes 
Write sorrow in t^e bosom of the earth ! 
Let's chuse executors> and talk of wil]p : 
And yet not so-*-for what can we bequeath^ 
Save our deposed bodies to the ground } 
Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke*s, 
And nothing can we call our own but death. 
And that small model of the barren earth. 
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. 
For heaven's sake let us sit upon the ground, ** 

And tell sad stories of the death of Kings : 
How some have been depos'd, some slain in war ; 
Some haunted by the ghosts they dispossess'd ; 
Some poisoned by their wives, some sleeping kill'd ; 
All murder'd : — for within the hollow crown. 
That rounds the mortal temples of a king. 
Keeps death his coutt : and there the antic sit9. 
Scoffing his state/ and grinning at his pomp ! 
Allowing him a breath, a little scene 
To monarchic, be fear'd, and kill with looks ; 
Infusing him with self and vain conceit — 
As if this flesh, which walls about our lifo. 
Were brass impregnable ; and, humour'd thus. 
Comes at the last, and, with a little pin, 
Bosres through his castle wall, and — ^forewell king ! 
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood 
With solemn reverence ; throw away respect> 
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty. 
For you have but mistook me all this while : 
I live on bread like you, foel want, taste grief. 
Need friends, like you ; — subjected thus. 
How can you say to me — I am a king V* 



H£NRY VI. «38 

There is as little sincerity afterwards in his 
affected resignation to his fate, as there is forti- 
tude in this exaggerated picture of hisi misfor- 
tunes before they have happened^ 

When Northumberland comes back with the 
message from Bolingbroke, he exclaims^ antici- 
pating the result^* 



'' What must the king do now^ Must he submit ? 
The king shall do it : must he be depo6*d } 
The king shall be contented : must be lose 
The name of king? O' God's name let it go. 
1*11 give my jewels for a set of beads ^ 
My gorgeous palace fbr a hermitage 5 
My gay apparel for an alms-man*s gowii i 
My figur*d goblets for a dish of wOod -, 
My sceptre for a palmer's walking staff 5 
My subjects for a pair of carved saints^ 
And my large kingdom fbr a little grave — 
A little^ little grave> an obscure grave." 

How differently is all this expressed in King 
Henry's soliloquy during the battle with Ed-» 
ward's party : — 

^' This battle fares like to the moming*8 war^ 
When dying clouds contend with growing lights 
What time the shepherd blowing of his i{ai]8> 
Can neither call it perfect day or night* 
Here on this mole-hill will I sit me dawtk 5 
To whom God will> there be the victory ! 
For Margaret my Queen and Cliffi>rd too 
Have chid me from the battle^ swearing both 
They prosper best of all whence I am thence. 
Would I were dead, if God's good will were so* 



S24 HENRY VI. 

For what is in this world but grief and woe ? 
O God 1 methinks it were a happy Mle 
To be no better than a homely 8waui> 
To sit upon a hill as I do now> 
To carve out di^ quaintly^ point by point. 
Thereby to see the minutes how they.nm : 
- ttow mioqr tnake the hour fhll completei 
How many hours bring about the day^ 
How many days will finish up the year> 
How many years a mortal man may live. 
When this is known, then to divide the times : 
So many hours must I tend my flock. 
So many hours must I take my rest. 
So many hours must I contemplate. 
So many hours nliist I sport myself 3 
So many days my ewes have been vrtth young. 
So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean. 
So many months ere I shall shear the fleece : 
So many minute, hotu%, weeks, months, and years 
ftat over, to the end they *were created. 
Would bring white hairs ubto i qtifet grave. 
Ah ! what a life were this ! how sweet, how lovely ! 
Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade 
To shepherds looking on their silly sheep. 
Than doth a rich embroidered canopy 
To kii^s thjBCt flear their subjects* treachery? 
O yes it doth^ a thousand ft>ld it doth. 
And to conclftd^^ the shepherds' homely curds. 
His cold thin diink out of his leather bottle. 
His wonted «)eep undera fi^h tree's shade, 
AH which secure and sweetly he enj<>y». 
Is far beyond.a prince's delicates> '^ 
His vianc|9 sparkling in a golden cup> 
His body couched in a curious bed. 
When care, mistrust, and treasons wait on him." 



HSNRT VI. SS5 

This IS a true and beautiful description of a 
naturally quiet and contented disposition, and 
not, like the former, the splenetic effusion of 
disappointed ambition. 

In the last scene of Richard II. his despair 
lends him courage : he beats the keeper, slftys 
two of his assassins, and dies with imprecations 
in his mouth against Sir Pierce Exton, who 
" had staggered his royal person.^* Henry, 
when he is seized by the deer-stealers, only 
readd them a moral lecture on the duty of alle- 
giance and the sanctity of an oath ; and when 
stabbed by Gloucester in the Tower, reproaches 
him with his crimes, but pardons him his own 
death. 



Q 



RICHARD III. 



RjcHARi) IIL may be (x>nsidered as properly 
a ^tage-play: it belongs to the theatre, rather 
than to the closet. We shall therefore criticise, 
it chiefly with a reference to the manner in 
which we have seen it performed. It is the 
character in which Garrick came out: it was 
the second character in which Mr. Kean ap- 
peared, and in which he acquired his fame. 
Shakespear we have always with us: actors we 
have only for a few seasons ; and therefore some 
account of them may be acceptable, if not to 
our cotemporaries, to those who come after us, 
if " that rich and idle personage, Posterity,*' 
should deign to look into our writings. 

It is possible to form a higher conception of the 
character of Richard than that given by Mr. Kean: 
but we cannot imagine any character represented 
with greater distinctness and precision, more 



RICHARD m. 827 

I 

perfectly articulated in fevery part. Perhaps in- 
deed there is too much of what is technically 
called execution. When we first saw this cele- 
brated actor in the part, we thought he some- 
times failed from an exuberance of manner, and 
dissipated the impression of the general charac- 
ter by the variety of his resources. To be 
complete, his delineation ^of it sh6uld have more 
solidity, depth, sustained and impassioned feel- 
ings with somewhat less brilliancy, with fewer, 
glancing lights, pointed transitions, and panto- 
mimic evolutions. 

The Richard of Shakespear is towering and 
lofty ; equally impetuous and commanding ; 
haughty, violent, and subtle ; bold and treacher- 
ous; confident in his strex!igth as >v^ell as in his 
cunning; raised high by his birth, and higher 
by his talents land his crimes ; a royal usurper, a 
princiely hypocrite, a tyrant and a* murderer of 
the house of Plantagenet. 

'' But I was bom so high : , 

Our aery buildeth in the cedar*s top> 

And dallies with the wind^ and scorns the sun.** 

The idea conveyed in these lines (which are 
indeed omitted in the miserable medley aqted 
for Richard III.) is never lost sight of by 
Shakespear, and should not be out of the actor^s 
mind for a moment. The restless and sangui- 
nary Richard is not a maii striving to be great. 



9$8 RICBARD m. 

but to be greater than he is ; conseious of hid 
strength of will, his power of intellect, his daring 
courage, his elevated station ; and making use of 
these advantages tb commit tinheard*of crindes, 
and to shield himself firom remorse and infamy. 
If Mr. Kean does not entirely succeed in 
concentrating all the lines of the character, as 
drawn by Shakespear, he gives an animation, 
vigour, and relief to the part which we have not 
seen equalled. He is more refined than Cooke ; 
more bold, varied, and original than Kemble in 
the s^me character. In some parts he is defi** 
cient in dignity, and partieulariy in the scenes 
of state business, he has^ by no means an air of 
artificial authority. There is at times an ;aspir« 
ing elevation, an enthusiastic rapture in his ex- 
pectations of attaining the crown, and at others 
a gloating expression of sullen delight, as if he 
already clenched the bauble, and held it in his 
grasp. The courtship scene with Lady Anne is 
an admirable exhibition of smooth and smiling 
villainy. The progress of wily adulation, of 
encroaching humility, is finely marked by his 
•action, voice and eye. He seems, like the first 
Tempter, to approach his prey, secure of the 
event, and as if success had smoothed his way 
before him. The late Mr. Cooke's manner of 
representing this scene was more vehement, 
hurried, and fiill of anxious uncertainty. This, 
though more natural in general, was less in 



:richarp in. «39 

character in this particuliur instance. Richard 
should woo less as a lover than as an actor-^ 
to shew bis mental superiority, and power of 
making others the play-tbings of his purposes. 
Mr. Kean^s attitude in leaning against the side 
of the stage before he comes forward to address 
Lady Anne, is one of the most graceful and 
striking ever witnessed on the stage. It would 
do for Titian to paint* The frequent and rapid 
transition of his voice from, the expression of 
the fiercest passion to the most &miliar tones 
of conversation was that which gave a peculiar 
grace of novelty to his acting on his first appear* 
ance. This has been since imitated and carica^i- 
tured by others, and ha himself uses the artifice 
more sparingly than he did. His bye*play is 
excellent. His manner of bidding his friends 
^' Good night,^^ after pausing with the point of 
his sword, drawn slowly backward and forward 
on the ground, as if considering the plan of the 
battle next day, is a particularly happy and 
patural thought. He gives to the two last acts 
of the play the greatest animation and efiect. 
He fills every part of the stage ; and makes up 
for the deficiency of his person by what has 
been sometimes objected to as an excess of ac* 
tioQ. The concluding scene in which he is 
killed by Richmond is the most brilliant of the 
whole. He fights at last like one drunk with 
wounds i wd the attitude in which he stands 



230 RICHARD lU. 

with his hands stretched out, after his sword 
is wrested from him, has a preternatural, and 
terrific grandeur, as if his will could not be 
disarmed, and the very phantoms of his despair 
had power to kill. — Mr.'Kean has since in a great 
meaisure effaced the impression of his Richard 
III. by the superior efforts of his genius in 
Othello (his master-piece), in the murder-scene 
iii Macbeth, in Richard 11. iq Sir Giles Over- 
reach, and lastly in Oroonoko ; but we still like 
to look back to his first performance of this 
part, both because it first assured his admirers 
of his future success, and because we bore our 
feeble but, at that time, not useless testimony 
to the merits of this very original' actor, on 
which the town was considerably divided- for 
no other reason than because they were original. 

The manner in which Shakespear's plays have 
been generally altered or rather mangled by mo- 
dern mechanists, -is a disgrace to the English 
stage. The patch-work Richarb HI. which 
is acted under the sanction of his name, and 
which was manufactured by Gibber, is a striking 
example of this remark. 

The play itself is undoubtedly a very pow- 
erful effusion of Shakespear's genius. The 
ground- work of the character of Richard, • th^t 
mixture of intellectual vigour with moral de- 
pravity, in which Shakespear delighted to shew 
his strength — gave full scope as well as temp- 



RICHARD ni. 431 

tacioir to the exercise of his imagination. The 
character of his hero is almost every where pre- 
dominant, and'jmarks its lurid track throughout. 
The original play is however too long for rejire- 
sentation, and there are some few scenes which 
might be better spared than preserved, and by 
omitting which it would remain> a complete 
whole. The only rule, indeedy for altering 
Shakespear is to retrench certain passages which 
may be considered either as superfluous or ob- 
solete, but not to add or transpose any thing. 
The arrangement and developem^nt of the 
story, and the mutual contrast and combination 
of the dramatis persofUB^ are in general as finely 
managed as the developement of the characters 
or the expression of the passions. 

This rule has not been adhered to in the 
present instance. Some of the most important 
and striking passages in the principal character 
have been omitted, to make room for idle and 
misplaced extracts from other plays; the only 
intention of vrhich seems to have been to make 
the character of Richard as odious and disgust- 
ing as possible, l^ is apparently for no other 
purpose than to make Gloucester stab King 
Henry on the stage,- that the fine- abrupt intro- 
duction* of. the character in the opening of the 
play is lost in the- tedious whining morality of 
the uxorious king (taken from another play); — 



-51» 



SSt RICHARD VL 

Vre say tedious^ because it inteirupts the busi* 
ness of the scene, and loses its beauty and eJSTect 
by having no intelligible connection with the 
previous character of the mild, well-meaning 
monarch. The passages which the unfortunate 
Henry has to recite ar6 beautiful and pathetic 
in themselves, but they have nothing to do 
with the world- that Richard has to ^^ bustle 
in/^ In the same spirit of vulgar caricature 
is the scene between Richard and Lady Anne 
(when his wife) interpolated without any au* 
thority, merely to gratify this favourite propen- 
sity to disgust and loathing. With the saine 
perverse consistency^ Richard^ after his last fatal 
struggle, is raised up by some Galvanic process, 
to utter the imprecation, without any motive 
but pure malignity, which Shakespear has so 
properly put into the mouth of Northumberland 
on hearing of Percy^s death. To make room 
for these worse than needless additions, many 
of' the most striking passages in the real play 
have been omitted by the foppery and ignorance 
of the prompt-book critics. We do not mean 
to insist merely on passages which are fine as 
poetry and to the reader, such as Clarence^s 
dream, &c. but on those which are important to 
the understanding of the character, and pecu- 
liarly adapted for stage-effect. We will give 
the following as instances among several others. 



RICHARD m. S33 

The first is the scene where Richard enters 
abruptly to the queen and her friends to defend 
himself:— 

'^ GUmcetter. They do me Wfopg, aad I wQl not endure it. 
Who are they that complain imto the king> 
That I forsooth am stem^ and love them not? 
By holy Fanl; they love Kis grace but lightly. 
That fill his ean with euch diMentions rumomne ; 
Because I cannot flatter and look fair , 
Smile in men's &ces, smooth, deceive, and cog. 
Duck with French nods, and apish courtesy, 
I must be held a rancourous enemy. 
Canndt a plain' man live, and think no harm. 
But thus his simple tnftth must be abus'd 
With silken, sly, insinuatii^ Jacks? 

Gray, To whom in all this presence speaks yeur grace? 

GUmcester, To thee> that hast nor honesty nor grace } 
When have I injur'd thee, when done thee wrong? 
Or thee? or thee? or any of your faction? 
A league upon you all!'* 

Nothing can be more characteristic than the 
turbulent pretensions to meekness and simpli-r 
city in this address. Again, the versatility and 
adroitness of Richard is admirably described in 
the following ironical conversation with Braken- 
bury : — 

^^ BrdMibury, I beseech your graces both to pardon me; 
His migesty hath straitly given in charge. 
That no man shall have private conference. 
Of what degree soever, with your brother. 

Glaueegter. E*en so, and j^ease your viforship^ Braken- 
bury. 



934 RICHARD.UL 

Tou may partake cxf any thing we say: 
We speak no treason^ man — ^we say the king 
Is wise and virtuous, and his noble queen 
Well strook in years, fair, and not jealous. 
We say that Shore's wife hath a pretty foot^ 
A cherry lip, a passing pleasing tongue 3 
That the. queen's kindred are made gentlef<^ks. 
How say you, sir? Can you deny all this? 

Brakenbury, With this,' my lord^ myself have nought 
to do. 

GUmqeiter, What, feUow^ naught to . do with mistress 
Shore? 
I tell you, sir, he that doth naught with. her. 
Excepting one, were best to do it secretly alone. 

Bralfenbury. What one, my lord? 

Gloucester, Her husband, knave — would'st thou betray 
me?" 
* 

The feigned reconciliation of Gloucester with 
the queen^s kinsmen is also a master-piece. 
One of the finest strokes in the play, and which 
serves to shew as much as any thing the deep, 
plausible manners of Richard, is the unsuspect* 
ing security of Hastings, at the very time when 
the former is plotting his death, and when that 
very appearance of cordiality And good-humour 
on which Hastings builds his confidence arises 
from Richard's consciousness of having betrayed 
him to his' ruin. This, with the whole charac- 
ter of Hastings, is omitted. 

Perhaps the two most beautiful passages in 
the original play are the farewel apostrophe of 
the queen to the Tower, where her children are 



RICHARD IIL Q35 

shut up fVom her, and TyrreFs description of 
their death. We will finish our quotations with 
them. 

'' Queen, Stay, yet look back with ipe unto the Tower ; 
Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes> 
Whom envy hath immured within your walls ; 
Rough cradle for such little firetty ones. 
Rude, rugged nurse, old sullen play-fellow. 
For tender princes !*' 

The Other passage is the account of their death 
by Tyrrel : — 

'^ Dighton and Forrest, whom I did suborn 
To do this piece of ruthless butchery. 
Albeit they were flesh'd villains, bloody dogs. 
Wept like to' children in their death's sad story : 
O thus ! quoth Dighton, lay the gentle babes ', 
Thus, thus, quoth Forrest, girdling one another 
Within their innocent alabaster arms 3 
Their lips were four red roses on a stalk. 
And in that summer beauty kissed each other; 
A book of prayers on their pillow lay, 
"Which once, quoth Forrest, almost changed my mind: 
But oh the devil ! — there the villain stopped -, 
When Dighton thus told on — we smothered 
The most replenished sweet work of nature. 
That from the prime creation ere she framed." 

These are some of those wonderful bursts 
of feeling, done to the life, to the very height 
of fancy and nature, which our Shakespear 
alone could give. We do not insist on the 



U6 RICHAliD m. 

repetition of these last passages as proper for 
the stage : we should indeed be loth to- trust 
them in the mouth of almost any actor: but we 
should wish them to be retained in preference at 
least to the fantoccini exhibition of the young 
princes, Edward and York, bandying childish 
wit with their uncle. 



HENRY Vm. 



■^iAj^Omi t *» 



1 HIS play contains little action or violence of 
passion, yet it has considerable interest of a more 
mild and thoughtful cast, and some of the most 
striking passages in the author's works. The 
character of Queen Katherine is the most per- 
fect delineation of matronly dignity, sweetness, 
and resignation, |hat can be conceived. Her 
appeals to the protection of the king, her re- 
monstrances to the cardinals, her conversations 
with her women, shew a noble and generous 
spirit accompanied with the utmost gentleness 
of nature. What can be more affecting than 
her answer to Campeius and Wolsey, who come 
to visit her as pretended friends. 



-'' Na7> forsooth^ my friends^ 



They tbst my tnut miut grow to> hrt not h&^y 
They are^ as all my eomfortB are> fkt henee^ 
In mine own country^ lordi." 



238 HENRY VIIL 

Dr. Johnson observes of this play, that ^' the 
meek sorrows and virtuous distress of Katherine 
have furnished some scenes, which may be justly 
numbered among the greatest efforts of tragedy. 
But the genius of Shakespear comes ^n and goes 
out with Katherine. Every other part may be 
easily conceived and easily written.*^ This is 
easily said ; but with all due deference to so 
great a reputed authority as that of Johnson, it 
is not true. For instance, the scene of Buck- 
ingham led to execution is one of the most af- 
fecting and natural in Shakespear, and one to 
which there is hardly an approach in any other 
author. Again, the character of Wolsey,. the 
description of his pride and of his fall, are in- 
imitable, and have, besides their gorgeousness 
of effect, a pathos, which only the genius of 
Shakespear could lend to the distresses of a 
proud, bad man, like Wolsey. There is a 
sort of child-like simplicity in the very help- 
lessness of his situation, arising from the recol- 
lection of his past overbearing ambition. After 
the cutting sarcasms of his enemies on his dis- 
grace, against which he bears up with a spirit 
conscious of his own superiority, he breaks out 
into that fine apostrophe — 

*^ Farewell a long farewell to all lojr greatness ! 
This is the state of man > to-day he puts forth 
The tender leaves of hope^ to-morrow blossoms^ 



HENRY Vnr. 339 

And bears his blushing honours thick upon him $ 

The third day> comes a frosty a kUIing frost 5 

And — ^when he thinks, good easy man> full surely 

His greatness is a ripening — ^nips his root. 

And then he M1s> as I dd. I faaye ventured. 

Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders. 

These many summers in a sea of glory ; 

But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride 

At length broke under me 3 and now has left me. 

Weary and old with service, to the mercy 

Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. 

Vain pomp and glory of the world, I hate ye ! 

I feel my heart new open*d : O how wretched 

Is that poor man, that hangs on princes* favours ! 

There is betwixt that smUe we would aspire to, ' 

That sweet aspect of princes, and our ruin. 

More pangs and fears than war and women have; 

And when he Mis, he falls like Lucifer, 

Never to hope again !"-^ 

There is in this passage, as well as in the well- 
known dialogue with Cromwell which follows, 
something which stretches beyond common- 
place; nor is the account which Griffiths gives 
ofWolsey^s death less Shakespearian; and the 
candour with which Queen Katherine 'listens 
to the praise of " him whom of all men while 
living she hated most'^ adds the last graceful 
finishing to her character. 

Among other images of great individual beau- 
ty might be mentioned the description of the 
effect of Ann Boleyn's presenting herself to the 
crowd at her coronation. 



1^40 HENRY VIU. 



/' While her gnce sat down 



To rest awhile, aome half an hour or ao. 
In a rich chair of state, exposing freely 
The beauty of her person to the people. 
Believe me, sir, ^e is the goodliest woman 
That ev^r lay by man^ Which wten the people 
; Had the full view o^ $uch a noUe arose 
As the shrouds nutke at sea in a s^ tempest. 
As Umd and to as wumy tunes" 

The character of Henry VIII. is drawn with 
great truth and spirit. It is like a very dis- 
agreeable portrdit, sketched by the hand of a 
master. His gross appearance, his blustering 
demeanour, his vulgarity, his arrogance, his 
sensuality, his cruelty, his hypocrisy, his want 
of common decency and common humanity, are 
marked in strong lines. His traditional pecu- 
liarities of expression complete the reality of the 
picture* The authoritative expletive, " Ha 1^' 
with which he intimates his indignation or sur- 
prise, has an effect like the first startling sound 
that breaks from a thunder-cloud. He is of all 
the monarchs in our history the most disgust- 
ing: for he unites in himself all the vices of 
barbarism and refinement, without their virtues. 
Other kings before him (such as Richard III.) 
were tyrants and murderers out of ambition or 
necessity: they gained or established unjust 
power by violent means : they destroyed their 
enemies, or those who barred their access to 



HENRY Vin. 241 

the throne or made its tenure insecure. But 
Henry VIlL^s power is most fatal to those whom 
he loves : he is cruel and remorseless to pamper 
his luxurious appetites: bloody and voluptuous; 
an amorous murderer; an uxorious debaiifchee. 
His hardened, insensibility to 'the feelings of 
others is strengthened by the most profligate 
self-indulgence. The religious hypdCrisy, under 
which he maslcs his cruelty and his lust, is ad- 
mirably displayed in the speech in which he 
describes the first misgivings of his conscience 
and its increasing throes and terrors, which 
have induced him to divorce his queen. The 
only thing in his favour in this play is his treat- 
ment pfCraniper: there is also another circum- 
stance in bis favour, which is his patroniage of 
Hans Holbein. — It has been said of Shakespear 
— " No maid could live near such a man.^^ It 
might with as good reason be said — " No king 
could live near such a man.^^ His eye would 
have penetrated through the pomp of circum- 
stance and the veil of opinion. As it is, he has 
represented such persons to the life — his plays 
are in this respect the glass of histoiy — he has 
done them the same justice as if he had been 
a privy counsellor all his life, and in each succes- 
sive reign. Kings ought never to be seen upon 
the stage. In the abstract, they are very disa- 
greeable characters : it is only while living that 
they are " the best of kings.*^ It is their power, 

R 



5242 HENRY VIH. 

their splendour, it is the apprehension of the 
personal consequences of their favour or their 
hatred, that dazzles the imagination and sus- 
pends the judgment of their favourites or their 
vassals ; but death cancels the bond of allegi- 
ance and of interest ; and seen as they were, 
their power and their pretensions look inon'** 
strous arid ridiculous. The chaise brought 
against modern philosophy as inimical to loyalty 
is unjust, because it might as well be brought 
against other things* No reader of history can 
be a lover of kings. We have often wondered 
that Henry VIII. as he is drawn by Shakespear^ 
and as we have seen him represented in all'the 
bloated deformity of mind apd person, is not 
hooted from the English stage. 



. I 






KING JOHN. 



K.IN6 John is th|^ last of the historical plays 
we shall have to ^peak of; and we are not sorry 
that it is. If we are to indulge ouir imagina- 
tions, we bad rather do it upon an imaginary 
theme ; if we are to find spbjects for the exer- 
cise of our pity and terror, vfe prefer seeking 
them in fictitious danger and fictitious distress. 
It gives a soreness to oifr feelings of indignation 
or sympathy, when wp know that in tracing 
the progress of sufferings and crinies, we are 
treading upon real ground, and recollect that 
the poet^s " dream^' denoted a foregone conclu^ 
SUM — irrevocable ills, pot qopjured up by fancy, 
but placed beyond thp rpa^li of poetical jus- 
tice. That the treachery of King John, the 
death of Arthur, the grief of Constance, bad a 
real truth in history, sharpens the sense of pain j 
while it hangs a leaden weight on the heart and 



244 KING JOHN. 

the imagination. Something whispers* us that 
we have no right to make a mock of calamities 
like these, or to turn the truth of things, into 
the puppet and play-thing of our fancies. " To 
consider thus" may be " to consider too curi- 
ously ;" but still we think that the actual truth 
of the particular events, in proportion as we are 
conscious of it, is a drawback on the pleasure 
as well as the dignity of tragedy. 

King John has all the beauties of language 
and all the richness of the imagination to re- 
lieve the painfulness of the subject. The cha- 
ractet" of King John himself is kept pretty much 
in the back-ground; it is only marked in by 
comparatively slight indications. The crimes he 
i$ tempted to commit are such as are thrust upon 
him rather by circumstances and opportunity 
than of his own seeking : he is here represented 
as more cowardly than cruel, and as more con- 
temptible than odious. The play embraces only 
a part of his history. There are however few 
characters on the stage that excite more disgust 
dnd loathing. He has tio intellectual grandeur 
or strength of character to shield him from the 
indignation which his immediate conduct pro- 
vokes; he stands naked and defenceless, in that 
respect, to the worst we can think of him : and 
besides, we are implelled to put the very worst 
construction on his meanness and cruelty by 
tlie tender picture of the beauty and helplessness 



KINO JOHN. M9 

of the object of it) as well as by the frantic 
and heart-rending pleadings of maternal despair. 
We do not forgive him the death of Arthur be- 
cause he had too late revoked his doom and 
tried to prevent it, and perhaps because he has 
himself repented of his black design, our moral 
sense gains courage to hate him the more for iu 
We take him at hia word, and think his ptir** 
poses must be odious indeed, when be himself 
shrinks back from them. The scene in which 
King John suggests to Hubert the design of 
murdering his nephew is a master-piece of dra<» 
matic skill, but it is still inferior, very. infe« 
rior to the scene between Hubert and Arthur, 
when the latter learns the orders to put out his 
eyes. If any thing ever was penned, heart- 
piercing, mixing the extremes of terror and pity, 
of that which shocks and that which soothe^ the 
mind, it is this scene. We will give it entire, 
though perhaps it is tasking the reader^s sympa- 
thy too much. 

" Enter Hcbert and Executioner. 

JfuberU Heat me these irons hot^ and look yoa stand 
Within the arras 5 when I stride my foot 
Upon the bosom of the ground> rush forth 
And bind the boy> which you shall -find w|tb me. 
Fast to the chair : be heedful : h^nce^. and watphf . 

Executioner. I hope your warrant will bear out the dis^. 

Hubert. Uncleanly scruples ! fear not you j look to't.-» 
Young lad> come forth ; I have to say with you. 



946 KING JOHN. 

Enter AArnvn. 
Arthur. Good morrow^ Hubert. 

■ 

Hubert Morrow, littl^ Prince. 

Arthur. As little prince (having so great a title 
To be more prince) as may be. You are sad. 

Hubert. Indeed I have been merrier. 

Arthur, Mercy on me ! 
■ Methinks no body dhould be sad but I ; 
Tet I remember ii^to I was in France^ 
Young gentlemen would be as sad as nighty 
Only for wantonness. By my Christendom, 
So were I out of prison, and kept sheep, 
I should be. merry as the day is long. 
And so I would be here, but that I doubt 
My unde practises xhore harm to me. 
He is afraid of mb, and I of him. 
Is it my foult that I was Geoffery*s son ? 
Indeed it is not, and I would to heav'n 
I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert. 

Hubert If I taOc to him, with his innocent prate 
He wiU awake my mercy, which lies dead 5 
Their^re I will be sudden, and dispatch. [Aside. 

Arthur. Are you sick, Hubert ? you look pale to-day ? 
In sooth, I would you were a little sick. 
That I might sit aU night and watch with you. 
Alas, I love you more than you do me. 

Hubert. His words do tdke possession of my bosom. 
Read here> young Arthur-*- "[Shewvng a paper. 

How now, foolish rheum, lAside. 

Turning dis-piteous torture out of door ! 
I must be brief, lest resolution drop 
Out at mine eyes in tender wOmanish tears.—- 
Can you not read it ? Is it not fur writ ? 

Arthur. Too JBurly, Hubert, A>r so foivl eWed, 
Must you with irons bum out both mine eyes ? 



KING JOHN- 247 

Hubert Young boy> I moat* 

Arthur. , And will you } 

Hubert. And I wiU. 

Hubert. Have you the heart ? When your head did but^ 
ache^ 
I knit inv handkerchief about your browsj 
(The bes( I had^ a princess wrought it me) 
And I did never ask it you again > 
And with my hand at midnight held your head $ 
And> like the watchful minutes to the hour^ 
Still and anon chear*d up the heavy time, 
Sayingj what lack you ? and where lies your grief? 
Or, what good love may I perforapi for you ? 
Many a poor man*s son would have lain still. 
And ne*er have spoke a loving word to you ; 
But you at your sick service had a prince. 
Nay, you may think my love was crafty^ love^ 
And C9HI it cunning. Do, and if you will : 
If heaVn be pleas*d that you must use me ill, ^ 
Why then you must.— Will you put out mine eyes ? 
These eyes, that never did> and never shall. 
So much as frown on you ? 

Btf&ert. I've sworn to do it^ 
And with hot irons must I hvffa them out. 

Arthur. Oh if an angel should have come to mej. 
And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes, 
I would not have believ'd a tongue but Hubert's. 

Hubert. Come forth ) do as I bid you. 

[Stamps, <md the men enter. 
Arthur. O save me, Hubert, save me ! my eyes are out 
£v*n with the fierce looks of these 'bloody men. 

Hii&er^. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here. 
Arthur. Alas, what need you be so boist'rous rough \ 
I will not struggle^ I will stand stone-still. 



248 K^NG JOHN, 

For heav'n*s sake, Hubert, let xne no% be bousd. 
Nay> hear me, Hubert, drive these men «way» . 
And I will sit as quiet as a lamb. . . 
' I will not stir^ nor winoej nor ^peak a ward, . 
Nor look upon the iron angrily : 
Thrust but these men away, and 111 fbif^ive you. 
Whatever torment ypu do put me tQ< 

Hubert Go, stand within ; letme akmewith. 

Exeqiition^* I am best pleased to be from such a deed. 

lEsit 

Arthur. Alas, I then harve chid away my friend. 
He hath a stem look, but a §pentle heart -, 
Let him come back, that his companion may 
Give life to yours. 

Hubert Come^.bQy^ pr^ojoe yourself. . 

Arthur. Is there no remedy I 

Hubert. None, but to lose your ey^es. . 

Arthur. O heav'n ! that thece were but ft moth in yottrs, 
A grain, a dust, a gnat, a jwand'ring hair^ 
Any annoyance in that preciwis sense.; 
Then feeling what small things are boist*rous there> 
Your vile intent must needs seem. honriiUe. 

Hubert. Is this your pi?omise ? go.tOi hold your tongue. 

Arthur. Let me not hold my tongue ; let me not, Hu- 
bert; 
Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue. 
So I may keep mine eyes. O spore mine eyes ! 
Though to no use, but still to look 09 you. 
JjOj by my troth, the instrument is qold. 
And would not hann. me. 

Hubert. I can heat it, boy. 

Arthur. No> in good sooth, the fire is dead with grief. 
Being create for comfort, to be us*d 
In undeserv'd extremes i see else yourself. 



a 



KING- JOHN. 249 

There is no malicB in this burning coal > 

Tbe breath of heav*n hath blown its spirit; outv ■ 

And 8trew*d repentant ashes o^ itd head, 

Hubert. But iiyith iny bi;e9,ifa, I can rffyive it^ boy. 

Arthur. All things th^t you should use to do me wrong> 
Deny their office s only you dp lack 
That mercy which fierce fire anKd ii:on,extend^ 
Creatures of note for mer<^-lacking uses; 

Hubert. Well, see to live -, I will not touch thine eyes 
For all the treasure that thine uncle owns : 
Yet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy. 
With this same very iron to bum them out. 

Arthur. O, now you look like Hubert. All this while 
You were disguised. 

Hubert. Peace • no more. Adieu> 
^. Your unde must not know but you toe dead. 
Ill fill these dogged spies with false reports * 
. And, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secure. 
That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world, 

« 

Will not ofiend thee. 

Arthur. O heav'n ! I thank you, Hubert. 

Hubert. Silence, no more ; go^closely in with me 5 
Maeh danger do I undergo for thee. [Exeunt.'* 

His death afterwards, when he thrown him- 
self from his prison -»walls, excites the utmost 
pity for his innocence and friendless situation, 
and well justifies the exaggerated denunciations 
of Falconbridge to Hubert whom he suspects 
wrongfully of the deed. 

'*; There is liot yet so ugly a fiend of hell 
As thou shalt be, if thou 'did*st kiU this child. 
— If thou did'st but consent 



250 KING JOHN. 

To this mo6t cruel set, do but despair : 

And if thou want'st a cord^ tJie smallest thread 

That ever spider twisted firom her womb 

Will strangle thee ; a rush will be a beam 

To hang thee on : or would*st thou drown thyself^ 

Put but a little water in a spoon^ 

And it shall be as aU the ocean> 

•Enough to stifle such a Tillain up." 

The excess of maternstl tenderness, rendered 
desperate by the fickleness of friends and the 
injustice of fortune, and made stronger in will, 
in proportion to the want of all other power, was 
never more finely expressed than in Constance. 
The dignity of her answer to King Philip, when 
she refuses to accompany his messenger, " To 
me and to the state of my great grief, let 
kings assemble,^' her indignant reproach to Aus- 
tria for deserting her cause, her invocation to 
death, " that love of misery,** however fine and 
spirited, all yield to the beauty of the passage, 
where, her passion subsiding into tenderness, 
she addresses the Cardinal in these words :-— 

*^ Oh &ther Cardinal^ I have heard you say 
That we shall see and know our friends in heav'n : 
If that he, I shall see my boy again. 
For since the birth of Cain> the first male child> 
To him that did but yesterday suspire. 
There was not such a gracious creature bom. 
But now will canker-sorrow eat my bud> 
And chase the native beauty from his cbeekj 
And he will look as hollow as a ghosts 



KmO JOHN. 251 

As dim and meagre as an ague's fit^ 
And so be'U die; and rising so. again> : 
When I shall meet him in the- court of heav*n« 
I shall not know himj therefore never^ never 
Must I behold my pretty Arthur more. 

JIT. Philip, You are as fond of grief as of your child. 

Constance, Grief fills the room up of my absent child : 
Lies in his bed> walks up aUd dow!n With me; 
Puts on his pretty looks> repeats his words. 
Remembers me of all his gracious parts j 
Stu£& out his vacant garments with lus form. 
Then have I reason to be fond of grief.** 

The contrast between the mild resignation of 
Queen Katberine to ber own wrongs, and tbe 
wild, uncontroulable affliction of Constan^ce' for 
tbe wrongs wbicb sbe sustains as a motb^r, 
IS no less naturally conceived than it is ably 
sustained throughout these two wonderful cha-* 
racters. 

Tbe accompaniment of tbe comic character 
of the Bastard was well chosen to relieve tbe 
poignant agony of suffering, and tbe cold, cow- 
ardly policy of behaviour in the principal cha- 
racters of this play. Its spirit, invention, volu- 
bility of tongue, and forwardness in action, are 
unbounded. Aliquando sufflaminandus erat, says 
Ben Jonson of Shakespear. But we should be 
sorry if Ben Jonson bad been bis licenser^ We 
prefer tbe heedless magnanimity of his wit infi- 
nitely to allJonson's laborious caution. The 
character of tbe Bastard's comic humour is tbe 



S$« KINQ JOHN« 

same in essence as that of other comic characters 
in Shakespear; they always run on with good 
things and are never exhausted ; they are always 
daring and successful. They have words at 
will and a flow of wit, like a flow of animal spi- 
rits. The difference between Falqonbridge and 
the others is that be is a soldier, and brings his 
wit to bear upon action, is courageous with his 
sword as well as tongue, and stimulates his gal- 
lantry by his jokes, his enemies feeling the 
sharpness of his blows and the sting of his sar- 
casms at . the same time. Among his happiest 
sallies are his descanting on the composition of 
his own person, his invective against '^ commo- 
dity, tickling commodity ,^^ and his expression 
of contempt for the Archduke of Austria, who 
had. killed his father, which begins in jest but 
ends in serious earnest. His conduct at the siege 
of Angiers shews that his resources were not con- 
fined to verbal retorts^ — ^The same exposure of 
the policy of courts and camps, of kings, nobles, 
priests, and cardinals, takes place here as in the 
other plays we. have gone through, and we shall 
not go into a disgusting repetition. 

This, like the other plays taken from. English 
history, is written in a remarkably smooth and 
flowing style, very different from some of the 
tragedies, Macbeth^ for instance. The passages 
consist of a series of single lines, not running 
into one another* This peculiarity in the versifi- 



KING JOHN. 95S 

cation, which is most common in the three parts 
oi Henry VI. has been assigned as a reasbh why 
those plays were not written by Shakespear. 
But the same structure of verse occurs in his 
other undoubted plays, as Jn Biehard II. and 
in King John. The following are instances : — 

* 

'* That daughter there of Spain> the lady Blaneh^ 
Is near to England ; look updn the years 
Of Lewis the dauphin^ and that lo'r^ly niaid. 
If lusty love should go in quest of beauty^ 
Where should he find it &irer than in Blanch ? 
If zealous love should go in search of virtue^ 
Where should he find it purer than in Blanch ? 
If love ambitious sought a match of birth> 
Whose veins bound richer blood than lady Blanch? 
Such as she is> in beauty^ virtue^ births 
Is the young dauphin every way complete : 
If not complete of^ say he is not she 5 
And she wants nothings to name want^ 
If want it be not^ that she is not he. 
He is the half part of a blessed man^ 
Iieft to be finished by such as she ; 
And she a fair divided excellence^ 
Whose fulness of perfection lies in him. 
O, two such silver currents, when they join, ^ 
Bo glorify the banks that bound them in : 
And two such shores to two such streams made one> 
Two such controuling bounds, shall you be, kings. 
To these two princes, if you marry them.*' 

Another instance, which is certainly very 
happy as an example of the simple enumeration 



«54 KING JOHN, 

of a number of particulars, is Salisbury's remon- 
strance against the second crowning of the king. 



€€ 



Therefore to be possessed with double pomp> 
To guard a title that was rich before ; 
To gild refined gold, to paint the lily. 
To throw a perftiipe on the violet. 
To smooth the ice, to add another hu# 
Unto the rainbo^^, or Yit|i ^per li§^ 
To seek the b^uteous eye of heav'n* to 
Is wasteful and ridiculoMS excess.*' 



TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT 

YOU WILL. 



■p" 



Xhis is justly considered as one of the most 
delightful of Shakespear's comedies. It is full 
of sweetness and pleasantry. It is perhaps too 
good-natured for comedy. It has little satire, 
and no spleen. It aims at the ludicrous rather 
than the ridiculous. It makes us laugh at the 
tollies of mankind, not despise them, and still 
less bear any ill*will towards them. Shake- 
spear's comic genius resembles the bee rather in 
its power of extracting sweets from weed^.QC 
poisons, than in leaving a sting behind it. He 
gives the most amusing exaggeration of the pre- 
vailing foibles of his characters, but in a way 
that they themselves, instead of being offended 
at, would almost join in to humour; he rather 
contrives opportunities for them to shew them- 
selves off in the happiest lights, than renders 



«66 TWELFTH NIGHTi OR, 

them contemptible in the perverse construction 
of the wit or malice of others. — ^There is a cer- 
tain stage of society in which people become 
conscious of their peculiarities and absurdities, 
affect to disguise what they are, and set up pre- 
tensions to what they are not. This gives rise 
to a corresponding style of comedy, the object 
of which is to detect the disguises of self-love, 
and to make reprisals on these preposterous as- 
sumptions of vanity, by marking the contrast 
between the real and the affected character as 
severely as possible, and denying to those, who 
would impose on us for what they are not, even 
the merit which they have. This is the comedy 
of artificial life, of wit and satire, such as we 
see it in Congreve, Wycherley, Vanbrugh, &c. 
To this succeeds a state of society from which 
the same sort of affectation and pretence are 
banished by a greater knowledge of the world 
or by their successful exposure on the stage; 
and which by neutralising the materials of comic 
character, both natural and artificial, leaves no 
comedy at all — ^but the sentimental. Such is 
our modern comedy. There is a period in the 
progress of manners anterior to both these, in 
which the foibles and follies of individuals are 
of nature's planting, not the growth of art or 
study; in which they are therefore unconscious 
of them themselves, or care not who knows 
them, if they can but have their whim out ; and 



WHAT YOU WILL. ^57 

in which) as there is na attempt at impositioB, 
the spectators rather receive pleasure from hu-« 
mouring the inclinations of the persons they 
laugh at, than wish to give them pain by expos^ 
ing their absurdity. This may be called the 
^omedy of nature, and it i^ the coiiivedy which 
we generally find in Shakespear.— Whether the 
analysis here given be just or not, the spirit of 
his comedies is ^evidently quite distinct from 
d>at of the authors above mentioned, as it is in 
its essence the same with that of Cervantes, and 
also very frequently of Moliere, thpugh he was 
more systematic in bis extravagance than Shake- ^ 
spear. Shakespett^'s comedy is of a pastoral 
and poetical cast. EoUy is indigenous to the 
soil, and shoots out with native, happy, un- 
checked luxuriance. Absurdity has every en- 
couragement afforded it; and nonsense has room 
to flourish in. Nothing is stunted hy the churl* 
ishyicy hand of indifference or severity. The 
poet runs riot in a omceit,' and idolises a quib- 
ble. His whole object is to turn the mean^t 
or rudest objects to a pleasurable^ account. The 
relish which he has of a pun, or of the qtiaint hu- 
mour of a low character, does not interfere with 
the delight with which he describes a beautiful 
image, or the modt refined love. The clown^s 
fdrced jests do not spoilthe sweetness of th^ 
character of Yiola ; the same house is big enough 
to hold Malvolio, the Countess, Maria, Sir Toby, 

s 



«58 TWELFTH NIGHTj OR, 

and Sir Andrew Ague^^cbeek. For Jnstanoe,. 
nothing can fall much lower than this last cha- 
racter in intellect or morals: yet hote are his 
weaknesses nursed and dandled by Sir Toby 
into something '' high fantastical/^ when on Sir 
Andrew^s commendation of himself for dancing 
and fencing. Sir Toby answers — " Wherefore 
are these things hid? Wherefore have these gifts 
a curtain before them? Are they like to take 
dust like mistress MolPs picture? Why dost 
thou not go to church in a galliard, and come 
home in a Corieinto? My very walk should be a 
jig! I would not so much as make water but 
in a cinque-pace. What dost thou mean ? Is 
this a world to hide virtues in? I did think 
by the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was 
framed under the star of a galliard P' — How Sir 
Toby, Sir Andrew, and the Clown afterwards 
chirp over their cups, . how they '^ rouse the 
nig|pit-(Owl in a catch, able to draw three souls out 
of one weaver ?^^ What can be better than Sir 
Toby's unanswerable answer to Malvolio, '^ Dost 
thou think, because thou art virtuoqs, there shall 
be no more cakes and ale?''-^In a word, the best 
turn is given to every thing, instead of the worst. 
There is a constant infusion of the romantic and 
enthusiastic, in proportion as the characters are 
natural and sincere : whereas, in the more arti- 
ficial style of comedy, every thing gives way to 
ridicule and indifference, there being nothing left 



WHAT YOU WILL. S69 

but affectation on one side, and inctednlity on 
the other.— Much as we like Shakespear's co- 
medies, we cannot agree with Dr. Johnson that 
they are better than his tragedies; nor do we 
like them half so well. If his inclination to 
comedy sometimes led him to trifle with the 
seriousness of tragedy, the poetical and impas- 
sioned passages are the best parts of his come- 
dies. The great and secret charm of Twelfth 
Night is the character of Viola. Much, as we 
like catches and cakes and ale, there is some- 
^ thing that we like better. We have a friend- 
ship for Sir Toby; we patronise Sir Andrew; 
we have an understanding with the Clown, a 
sneaking kindness for Maria and her rogueries ; 
we feel a regard for Malvolio, and sympathise 
with his gravity, his smiles, his cross garters, 
his yellow stockings, and imprisonment in the 
stocks. But there is something that excites 
in us a stronger feeling than all this — it is Viola^s 
confession of her love. 

'^ Duke. What's her history ? 

yiqla. A blank, my lord, she never told her love: 
She let ooncealment^ like a worm i' th' bud^ 
Prey on her damask cheeky she pin'd in thought, 
And with a green and yellow melancholy^ 
She sat like Patience on a monument^ 
Smiling at grief. Woa not this love indeed? 
We men may say mpre> swear more^ but indeed> 
Our shews are more than will; for still we prove . 
Much in.our vows, but little in our love. 



am TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, 

Duke. But die4 thy sjajter of bef }five, my bo]r<? 
Fioto. I am all the daughters of my Other's houiie^ 
And all the brothers too 5-— and ^et I know not." — 

Shakespear ^lone could describe the effect of 
his own poetry. 

" Ohi it came o'er the ear like the sweet south 
That breathes upon a bank of violets. 
Stealing and giving odour." 

What we so much admire here i» not the im^ge 
of Patience on a monument, which has been 
generally quoted, but the lines before and after 
it; ** They give a very echo to the . seat where 
love is throned.^' How long ago it is since we 
first learnt to^ repeat them ; ftnd still, still tbegr 
vibrate on the heart, like the sounds which 
the passing wind driaws from the trembling 
strings of a hwp left on some desert shore ! 
There are other passages of not less impassioned 
sweetness. Such is Olivia's address to Sebas* 
tian whom she supposes to have already de- 
ceived her in a promise of marriage. 

** Blaine not this haste of tsAtA : if^you mean well^. 
Now go with me and with this holy man 
Into the diantry by : there be^re him^ 
And underneath that consecrated roof^ 
Plight me the fiiU assufatice of your fkXh, 
ThoJt my mostJ^aUms antd'tdo dofuhtfal stml 
May lite at pe(xcey ' 

We have already said something of Shake- 



WHAT TOH WltL. 2<J1 

spear^s flongs. One of the most beautiful of 
them occurs in this play, with a preface of his 
own to it. 

^^ Duke. 6 fellow^ come ; the song we had last night. 
Mark it> Cesario^ it is ohl. and plain ; 
The spinstera and the knitters. ia^tiiesiin^ 
And the free maids that weave their thread mth bonea> 
Do use to chaunt it : ^t i^ sUly spoth. 
And dallies with the innocence of love, 
LikeAe old i^. 

SONG. 

Come away> come away> deaths 
And in sad cypress let me be laid • ^ 

Fly away, fly away, breath; 
I am slain by a foir cruel maid. 
My shjpoud of whitei stuck all with yew> 

O prepare it; 
My part of death no one so true 
Did share it. 

Not a flower/ not a flower sweet. 
On my black coffin let there h^ strewn; 

Not a friend, not a friend greet 
My poor corpse, whete my bones shall be thrown: 
A thousand thousand sighs to save^ 

Lay me, O! where ^ 

Sad true-love never find my grave^ 
To weep there." 

Who after this will say that Shakespear's g6- 
nius was only fitted for comedy? Yet after 
reading other parts of this play, and particularly 
the garden-scene where MfilvoUo picks up the 



^62 TWEtPTH NIGHTj OR, 

letter, if we were tb say that bis genius for 
comedy was less than his genius for tragedy, it 
would perhaps only prove that our own taste in 
such m^t^ters is more saturnine than mercurial. 

*' Enter Maria. 

Sir Toby, Here comes the little villain :—-Hovr now, my 
nettle of India ? 

Maria, Get ye all three into the box-tree : Malvolio's 
coming down this walk :' he has been yonder i' the sun, 
practising behaviour to his own shadow this half hour : ob- 
serve him, for the love of inoekery ; for I know this letter 
will make a contempUtive idiot of him. Close, in the name 
pf jesting! lie thou there ^ for here come's the trout that 
must be caught with tickling. 

J^They hide themselves. Maria throws down a letter, and 

\Exit. 
Enter Malvolio. 

Maloolio, 'Tis but fortune; all is fortune. Maria once 
told me, she did a£fect me ; and I have heard herself come thus 
neaTj that> should she foncy, it should be one of my com- 
plexion. Besides^ she uses me with a more exalted respect 
than any one else that follows her. What should I think 
on't? 

Sir Toify, Here*s an over-weening rogue ! 

Fabian, O, peace ! Contemplation makes a rare turkey- 
cock of him 3 how he jets under his advanced plumes ! 

Sir An^ew. 'Slights I could so beat the rogue : — 

Sir Toby. Peace^ I say. . 

Mdholio. To be count Malvolio;— - 

Sir Toby, Ah, rogue! 

Sir Andrew, Pistol him> pistol him. 

Sir Toby, Feace^ peace ! 

Malsoolvo, There is example for't ; the lady of the Strachy 
married the yeoman of the wardrobe. 



WHAT YOU WILL. ««3 

Sir Andxem* Fie on him> Jesebel ! 

Fabian. O, peace ! now lie*8 deeply in 5 look^ how imagi- 
nation blows him* 

Maholio. Having been three months married to her> 
sitting in my chair of state. 

Sir Toby. O for a stone bow, to hit him in the eye! 

Malwlio, Calling my officers about me, in my branch'd 
velvet gown; having oodie from a day-bed, where I have 
kit Olivia slj^eping. ^ 
' Sir r<^. Fire fmd brimstone! 

Fabian. O peace, peace ! 

MtJ^looUo. And then to have the humour of state: and 

after a demure travel of regard, ^telling them, I know 

^y place, as I would they should dQ th^s,4-to 9sk for my 
kinsman Toby.-^ • 

Sir Toby. Bolts and shackles ! 

Fainan. O, peace, peace, peace ! now, now. 

Malvolio. Seven of my people, with an obedient start, 
make out for him* I froifm the while; and, perchance, 
wind up my watch, or play with some rich jewel. Toby 
approaches ; curtsies there to me : 

Sir Toby. Shall this feUow live? 

Fabian. Though our silence be drawn firom us with cares, 
yet peace. 

Malvolio. I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my 
fieuniliar smile with an austere regard of controul : 

Sir Toby. And does not Toby take you a blow o'the lips 
then? 

Maholio. Saying — Cousin Toby, my fc^unes having cast 
me on your niece, give me this prerogative of speech; — 

Sir Toby. What, what? 

MahoUo. You must amend your drunkenness. 

Fabian. Nay, patience, or we break the s^iews of our plot. 

Malvolio. Besides, you waste the tre^smre of your time 
with a fooUsh knight*- 



994 TWS^LFTB NJGHT. 

Sir Andrew: That's me, I wBnwi 700. 

JUaloolm. One Sir An drew ^ - 

Sir Andrew. I knew^ 'twas Ij for many do call ineibd.. 

MakooUo. What ttuplogrmHit have we here? 

[r^olcMf up lAe Mer/* 

• 

The letter ^nd his comments on it are equally 
good. If poor Malvolio^s treatment afterwards 
is a little hard, poetical justice is done in the 
uneasiness which Olivia suffers on account of 
her mistaken attachment to Cesario, as her in* 
sensibility to the violence of the Duke's passion 
is atoned for by the discovery of Viola's con- 
cealed loye of him. 



TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 



f 



Thi« is little more than the first outlines of i^ 
comedy loosely sketched in. It is the story of 
a novel dramatised with very little labour or 
pretension ; yet there are passages of high poe* 
tical spirit, and of inimitable quiuntness of hii« 
mour, which are undoubtedly Shakespear's, and 
there is throughout the conduct of the fable, a 
careless grace and felicity Which marks it lor 
his. One of the editors (we believe, Mr. Pope) 
remarks in a marginal note to the Two Gen* 
TLEMEN OF Verona-^— " It is observablc (I 
know not for what cause) that the ' style of this 
comedy is less figurative, and more natural and 
unaffected than the greater part of this author's, 
though supposed to b^ one of the first he wrote.^^ 
Yet so little does the editor appear to have made 
up his mind upon this subject, that we find the 



/ . 



966 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 

following note to the very next (the second) 
scene. ^^ This whole scene, like many others 
in these plays (some of which I believe were 
written by Shakespear, and others interpolated 
by the players) is composed of the lowest and 
most trifling conceits, to be accounted for only 
by the gross taste of the age he lived in : Po- 
pulo ut placerent. I wish I had authority to 
leave them out, but I have done all I could, set 
a mark of reprobation upon them, throughout 
this edition/^ It is strange that our fastidious 
critic should fall so soon from praising to repro- 
bating. The style of the familiar parts of this 
Qomedy is indeed made up of conceits — low 
they may be for what we know, but then they 
are not poor, but rich ones. The scene of 
Laujice with his dog (not that in the second, 
but that in the fourth act) is a perfect treat in 
the way of farcical drollery and invention ; nor 
do we think Speed^s manner of proving his mas- 
ter to be in love deficient in wit or sense, though 
th^ style may be criticised as not simple enough 
for the modern taste. 

" Falmime. Why, how. k^ow you that I am in love? 

Speed. Many, by these special marks : first/ yoii have 
learned, like Sir Frotheus, to wreathe yoiir arms like a 
mal-content, to relish a love-song like a robin-red-breast, 
to walk alone like one that had the pestilence, to sigh like 
a school-boy that had lost his A B C, to weep like a young 
wench. that had lc»t^her grandam, to &st like pne that 



TWO OENTLBlflW &P VERONA. 1267 

takes diet, to watchi like one that fears robbidg, to speak 
puling like a beggar at Hallowmas. Yoa.were wont, when 
you laughed, to crow like a cock -,- when jou walked, to 
walk like one of the lions ^ when you fiisted,. it was pre- 
sently after dinner^ when you looked sadly, it was fbrwant 
of money ; and now you are metamorphosed with a mistress, 
that when I look on you, I can hardly think you my mas* 
ter." 

Tbe tender scenes in this play, though npt so 
highly wrought as in some others, have often 
much sweetness of sentiment and expression. 
There is something pretty and playful in the 
conversation of Julia with her maid, when she 
shews such a disposition to coquetry about re* 
ceiving the letter from Protheus ; and her beha- 
viour afterwards and her disappointment, when 
she finds him faithless to his vows, remind us 
at a distance of Imogen^s' tender constancy. 
Her answer to Lucetta, who advises her against 
following her lover in disguise, is a beautiful 

piece of poetry. 

ft 

*' Lucetta. I do not seek to quench your love*s hot fire. 
But qualify the fire*s extremest rage. 
Lest it should bum above the bounds of reason. 

Julia, The more thou damm*st it up, the more it bums ; 
The current that with gentle murmur glides. 
Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage 3 
But when his &ir course is not hindered. 
He makes sweet music with th' enamelled stones. 
Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge 
He overtaketh in his pilgrimage : 



Mt 



TWO GSNXLBMBN OF VERONA. 



Aiid iD by. UMiiy MndJiig aoola bft Btii^ 
Witih iwiUifig iQKNi;, to Oe iilld oobui.* 
Tli«ii>kt we go, and hinder not mj oourae -, 
1*11 be as paftieiit as a gtttlla atieam^ 
And aoake a pastime of eadi weaiy step. 
Till tbe kat itepbavebinugfat me to my loirc } 
And Ibere Til rost^ aa after much tamiail^ 
A blessed soul doth In Elysium.*' 

If Shakespear indeed had written only ttiia" 
and other passages in the Two Gentlbkbn 
OF Verona, he would abnost have deserved 
Milton's praise of him-^ 

'* And sweetest Shakespear^ S'ancy's child^ 
Wsrbles his natite wood-notes itfild.*' 

But as it is, he deserves rather more praise than 
this. 



* The river wanders at its own sweet will. 

WoanswoRTH. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 



a=s 



This is a play that in spite of the change 06 
manners and of prgudicea still holds undisputed 
possession of the stage. Shakeapear's malig* 
naat has outlived Mr. Cumberland's benevolent 
Jew. In proportion as Shylock has ceased to;^ 
he a popular bugbear^ ^^ baited with the rabble'^ 
curse/' he becomes a half-favourite with the 
philosophical part, of the audience^ who are disi* 
posed to think that Jewish revenge is at least as. 
good as Christian injuries. Shylock is a good 
hater ; ^^ a man no less: 'sinned against than sin** 
ning/' If he carries his revenge too far, yet he 
has strong grounds for ^* the lodged hate he 
bears Anthonio/' which he explains with equal 
force of eloquence and reason; He seems, ibe^ 
depositary of the vengeance of his race ; audi 
though the long habit of brooding over daily; in^ 
suits and injuries has crusted over his teihper 



^70 MERCHANT OF VENICE. 

with inveterate misanthropy, and hardened him 
against the contempt of mankind, this adds 
but little to the triumphant pretensions of his 
enemies. There is a strong, quick, and deep 
sense of justicis^ mixed up with the gall and bit- 
terness of bis resentment* The constant appre- 
hension of being buriit alive, plundered, banished, 
reviled, and trampled on, might be supposed to 
sour the most forbearing nature, and to take 
something from that ^^ milk of human kindness,^' 
with which his persecutors contemplated his in- 
dignities. The desire of revenge is almost inse- 
parable from the sense of wrong ; and we can 
hardly help sympathising with the proud spirit, 
hid beneath his ^^ Jewish gaberdine,^^ stung to 
madness by repeated undeserved provocations, 
and labouring to throw off the load of obloquy 
and oppression heaped upon him and all his tribe 
by one desperate act of " lawfuP^ revenge, till 
the ferociousness of the means by which he is 
to eisecute his purpose, and the pertinacity witl^ 
which he adheres to it, turn us against him^ 
but even at last, when disappointed of the san^ 
guinary revenge with which he had glutted his 
hopes, and exposed to beggary and contempt, 
by the letter of the law on which he had insisted 
with so little remorse, we pity him, and jthink him 
hafdly dealt with by his judges. In all his an- 
swers and retorts upon his adversaries, he has 
the :best hot only of the argumtot but .of the 



MERCHANT OP VENIOfi. «?1 

questibn, reasoning on their own princi|4es and 
practice. Th6y are so far from allowing of any 
measure of equal dealing, of common justice 
or humanity between themselves and the Jew, 
that even when they come to ask a favour of 
him, and Shylock reminds them thai *^ on sueb 
a day they spit upon him, another spumed him^ 
another called him dog, and for these curtesies 
request he'll lend them so much monies" — An- 
thonio, his old enemy, instead of any acknow-' 
ledgment of the shrewdness and justice of his 
remonstrance, which would have been preposter-» 
ous in a respectable Catholic merchant in those 
times, threatens himi with a repetition of the 

same treatment — 

« 

'^ I am as like to call thee so agiiin> 

To spit on thee again> to spurn thee too.*' 

After this, the appeal to the Jew's mercy, as 
if there were any common principle of right and 
wrong between them, is the rankest hypocrisy, 
or the blindest prejudice ; and the Jew's answer 
to one of Anthonio's friends, who asks him 
what his pound of forfeit flesh is good for, is 
irresistible — 

'' To bait fish withal) if it will feed nothing else; it will 
feed my revenge." He hath disgrac*d me^ and hindered me 
of half a million^ laugh*d at my losses^ mock'd at my gainsj 
seom*d my nation, thwiirted my bargains, oooVd my fiiiGodB, 
heated mine enemies } and what's his reason ? I am a Jew. 



^7^ MBRCHAN'T OF VSNICE. 

Iliifliijioit a Jew eyes.i hatb not a Jew ha&dsj organs, di^ 
menfiiQns* seniea^ a£foctiaai> passiooB ; fed with the Mae 
Ibod^ hurt with the (^anaie weaponsj subject to the same 
diseases^ healed by the same means^ warmed and cooled by 
the same winter and summer that a Christian is ? If you 
prick us> do we not Ueed? If you tickle U8> do we not 
Unigh ? If yott poisoki us, do we not die ? and if you yrVofog 
v»s shall we not Terenge ) If . we are like you in the rest, 
we win resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong: a Christiaaj 
what is his huitiility? revenge. If a Christian wrong a 
Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example ^ 
why revenge. The villainy you teach me I will execute, 
aind it shall go hard but I will better the instruction.^ 

' The whole of the triai-^scene, both before and 
after the eatrance of Portia, is a maater-piece 
of dramatic skill. The legal acuteness, the pas* 
sionate declamations, the sound maxims of 
jurisprudence, the wit and irony interspersed in 
it, the fluctuations of hope and fear in the dif- 
fiurent persons, and the completeness and sud- 
denness of the catastrophe, cannot be surpassed. 
Shylock, who is his own. counsel, defends bim- 
aelfwell, and is triumphant on all the general 
topics that are urged against him, and only foils 
through a legal flaw. Take the following as au 
instance : — 

*^ Sh^hdc What judgment shall I dread> doing no 
wrong? 
. Y6u bnre among youmany a purchased slave^ 
Wlddii like your asses> and your dog^, and mutei 
Tou use in abject and iii slavish party 



MBRCH ANT OP VENICfi. «7S 

Because you boaght them :-Hifa^ I say to you^ 
Let them be free, marry them to your heirs } 
Why 0Tveat they imder burdens } let thdr beds 
Be made as soft as yours> and let their palates 
Be seasonal with sUch viands ? you will answer> 
The skves are ours : — so do I answer you ; 
The pound of flesh, which I demand of him. 
Is dearly bought, is mine, and I will have it : 
. if you deny me, fie upon your law ! 
There is no fbrce ih the decrees of Venice : 
I stand for Judgment : answer ; shall I have it V* 

The keenness of bis revenge awakes all hiil 
faculties \ and he beatd back all opposlition to 
hfs purpose, wbether grave or gay^ whether o^ 
wit or ttrgument^ with an equal degree of earn* 
estneSs and self-possession. His character is 
displayed as distinctly in other less prominent 
parte of the play, and we may collect from a few 
sentences the history of his life-^his descent and 
origin, his thrift and domestic economy, his af^ 
fection for his daughter, whom he loves next to 
his wealth, his Courtship and his first present to 
Lenh, his wife I ^^ I would not have parted 
With it*^ (the ring which he fifst gave her) " for 
a wilderness of monkies !^' What a fine H^b^ 
raism is implied in this expression ! 
'.Portia is not a very great favourite with us; 
neither are we in love with her maid, Nerissa* 
Portia has a certain degree of affectation and 
pedantry about her, which is very umtsoal in 
Shakespear's women, but which perhaps was a 

t 



274 MERCHANT OP VENICE. 

proper qualification for the office of a '^ civil 
doctor/' which she undertakes and executes so 
successfully. The speech about Mercy is very 
well ; but there are a thousand finer ones in 
Shakespear. We do not admire the scene of 
the caskets; and object entirely to the Black 
Prihce Morocchius. We should like Jessica 
better if she had Dot deceived and robbed her 
father, and Lorenl^o, if he had riot married a 
Jewess, though he thinks he has a right to 
wrong a Jew. The dialogue between this 
newly -married couple by moonlight, begin- 
ning " On such a night," &c. is. a collection 
of classical elegancies^ Launcelot^ the Jew's 
xn£(n, is an honest fellow. The dilemma. in 
which he describes himself placed between his 
" conscience and the fiend,'' the one of which 
advises him to run away from his master's ser^- 
vice and the other to stay in it^ is exquisitely 
humourous. 

Gratiano is a very admirable subordinate cha- 
racter. He is the jester of the piece: yet one 
speech of his^ ii^t his own defence^ contains a 
whole volume pf^ wisdom. 

'^ Anthonio. I hold the world but as the worlds Gra- 
tiano> 
A stage^ where every one must play his part ; 
And mine ^ dad one. 

GraHmio. Let me jplay the fool : 
With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come; 



MERCHANT OFVENIC1&. 2?5 

And let my liver rather heat with winci 
. Than my heart cool with mortifying groans. 

Why should a man, whose hlood is warm within^ 

Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster } 
. ' Sleep when he wakes } and creep into the jaundice 

By being peevish t I tell thee what^ Anthonio-r> 

I love= thee> and it is my love tlmt speaks 5-^ * 
i . There ate • a sort of men> whose visages 

Do cream and mantle like a standing pond : 

And do a wilful stillness entertain^ 

With purpose to be drest m an opinion 

Of wisdoioci^ gravity^ profound cionceit ; 

As who should say> I am Sir ^Oracle, 

And tohen I ope my lips, let no dog bark ! 
. p, my Anthonio^ I do know^of these^ 

That therefore only are reputed wise. 

For saying nothing ; who, I am very sur^. 

If they should Speak, would almost damn those eard. 

Which hearing them, would call their brothers, fools^ 

VU tell thee more of this another time : 

But fish ttot, with this mekincholy 'bait> ' 

For this fboPs gudgeon^ this opinion." , 

Gratiano^s speech on the philosophy of love^ 
and the .effect of habit in taking off the ibrce of 
passion, is as full of spirit and good sense. The 
graceful winding up of this play in the fifth act, 
after the tragic bui&infsss is despatched, is one of 
the; happiest instances of Shakespear^s know- 
ledge^ of the principles of the drama. We do 
not. mean the pretended quarrel between Portia 
ahd Nerissa and their husbands about the rings, 
which is amusing enough^ but the conversation 



S76 BCERCHANT OF VS19ICE. 

just before and after the return of Portia to 
her own house, beginning " Hdw i^Weet the 
moonlight sleeps upon this bsiiik/^ and ehding 
^^ Peace ! bow the moon sleeps with £ndymioii, 
and would not be awaked/^ There is a number 
of beautiful thoughts erowded into that short 
space, and linked together by the most natui^ 
transitions. ' 

When we first went to see Mr. Keaii iii Shy- 
lock, we expected to*see, what we had been 
used to see, a decrepid old man, bent with age 
and ugly with mental deformity^ grinning with 
deadly malice, with the Venom of bis heart con- 
gealed in the expression of his countenance, 
sullen, morose, gloomy, inflexible, brooding over 
one idea, that of his hatred, and fixed on one 
unalterable purpose^ that of hia revenge. We 
were disappointed, because i^e bad taken our 
idea from other actors, not from the play. There 
is no proof there that Shylock is old, but a sin^ 
gle line, ^* Basdanio and old Shylock, both stand 
forth,^^ — ^which does tiot impty that he is infirm 
with age — ^and the ctrctiixistance that he has a 
daughter marriageable^ which does not imply 
that he is old at all; It would be. too much to 
say that his body should be made crooked and 
deformed to answer to his mind, which is bowed 
down and warped with prejudice^ aiki passion. 
Thslt he hsis but one idi^a, id tiot true; he has 
ttiore idead than any ether person in the piece r 



MERCHANT OF VENICE. 277 

and if he is intense abd inveterate in the pur- 
suit of his purpose, he shews the utmost elasti- 
city, vigour, and presence of mind, in the means 
of attaining it. But so rooted was our habitual 
impression of the part from seeing it caricatured 
in the representation, that it was only from a 
careful perusal of the play itself that we saw 
our error. Thj^ stage is not in general the best 
place to study our ai]^thor's characters in. It is 
too often filled with traditional common-place 
conceptions of the part, handed down from sire 
to son, and suited to the taste of the grtat vulgar 
and the emaltfT^^^ ^Tis an unweeded garden : 
things rank and gross do merely gender in it !^^ 
If a man of genius comjes once in an age to clear 
away the rubbish, to mii^ke it fi*uitful and whole- 
s(Hne, they cry, ^^ 'Tis a bad school : jt may be 
like nature^ it may be like Shakespear, but it is 
not like us/^ Adm^fable critics !«- 



TH]^ WINTER'S TALE. 



^ ' jj 



\ 



We woh(^er that Mr. Pope should have enter- 
tained doubts of the genuineness of thid play. 
He was, we suppose, shocked (as a certain cri- 
tic suggests) at the Chorus, Time, leaping over 
sixteen years with his crutch between the thkd 
and fourth act, and at A ntigonus's landing with 
the infant Perdita on the.sea-coast of Bohemia. 
These slips or blemishes however do not prove 
it not to be Shakespear^s ; for he was as likely to 
fall into them as any body; but we do not know 
any body but himself who could produce the 
beauties. The stuff oi which the tragic passion 
* is composed, the romantic sweetness, the comic 
humour, are evidently his. Even the crabbed 
and tortuous style of the speeches of Leontes, 
reasoning on his own jealousy, beset with doubts 
and fears, and entangled more and more in the 
thorny labyrinth, bears every mark of Shake- 



THE WINTERS TALE. 2T9 

spear^s peculiar manner of conveying^ the pain* 
fill struggle of different thoughts and feelings, 
labouring for utterance, and afmost strangled in 
the birth. For instance: — 

V 

'^ Ha* not you seen> Camillo ? 
(But that's past doubt 5 you have^ or your eye-elass 
Is thicker than a cuckold's horp) or heard ? 
(For to a vision so apparent^ rumour 
Cannot be mute) or thought (for cogitation 
Resides not within man that does not think) 
My wife is slippery ; if thou wilt^ copfess^ 
Or else be impudently ne^tive^ 
To have nor eyes, nor ears, nor t)iought." — 

Here Leontes is confounded with his passion, 
and does not know which way to turn himself, 
to 'give word^ to the anguish^ rage, and appre- 
hension, which tug at his breast. It is only as 
he is worked up into a clearer conviction of his 
wrohgs by insisting on the grounds of his un- 
just suspicions to Gamillo, who irritates him 
by his opposition, that he bursts out into the 
following vehement strain of bitter indignation : 
yet even here his passion staggers, and is as it 

were oppressed with its own intensity. 

' < » . . . . . ' • 

i 

'f Is whispering nothing ? 
Is leaning cheek to cheek ? i^ meeting noses ? 
Kissing with inside lip ? stopping the career 
Of laughter with a sigh ? (a note in£adlible 
Of breaking honesty!) horsing foot on foot ? 
Skulking in pomers ? wishing clocks more swift ? 



MD THE WINTER'S TAI/E. 



Hours^ mi^futes } tke iioqii> midnights aod all eyes 
Slind with the pin and web> but thd^ ; thdrs onljj 
That would . unseen^ be wicked } is this nothing } 
Why then the worlds and all thafs in*t> is nothings 
The covering sky is nothings Bohemia's nothings 
|dy wife is nothing !*' 

The charsicter of Hermione is as much dis- 
tinguished by its saiut-like resignatioo and pa- 
tient forbearance, as that of Paulina is by her 
zealous and spirited remonstrances against the 
injustice done to the queen, and by her devoted 
attachment to her misfortunes. Hermione^s res- 
toration to her husband and her child, after her 
long separation from them, is as affecting in 
itself as it is striking in the representation. Ca- 
millo, and the old shepherd and his son, are 
subordinate but. not uninteresting instruments 
in the developement of the plot, and though 
last, not least, comes Autolyqus, a very plea- 
sant, thriving rogue; and (what is the best 
feather in the cap of all knavery) he escapes 
Mrith impunity in the end. 

The Winter^s Tai^e is one of the best-act- 
ing of our author's plays. We remember seeing 
it with great pleasure niany years ago. It was 
on the night that King took leave of the stage, 
when he and Mrs. Jordan played together in the 
after-piece of the Wedding-day. Nothing could 
go off with more eqlat, with more spirit, and 
grandeur of effect. Mrs. Siddons played Her- 



THE WINTER'^ TALE. $81 

ihione, and in the Ia»t 8dene acted the painted 
statue to thehTe — ^with true monumental dig- 
nity and noble passion ; Mr. Kemble, in Leontes, 
worked himself up into a very fine classical 
phrensy ; and Bannister, as Aqtolyicus, roared as 
loud for pity as a stucdy beggar could do who 
felt none of the pain he counterfeited, and was 
sound of wind and limb. We shall never see 
these parts so acted again ; or if we did, it would 
be in vain. Actors grow old, or no longer sur- 
prise us by their novelty. But true poetry, 
like nature, is always young; and we still read 
the courtship of Florizel and Perdita, as we 
welcome the return of spring, with the sanie 
feelings as ever. 

'' Florizel Thou dearest Perdita^ 
With these forc*d thoughts^ I pi^ythee^ darken not 
The muth o*the feast: or, 1*11 he thine^ my fsdr, 
, Or not my father's : lor I cannot he ^ 
Mine own> nor any thing to any^ if 
I be not thine. To this I am most constant^ 
Tho* destiny eaj. No. Be merry^ gentle 5 
Strangle such thoughts as these^ with any thing 
That you behold the while. Your guests are comiBg : 
Lift up your countenance; as it were the day 
Of celebration of that nuptial^ which 
We two have sworn shall eome. 

PerditcL O lady fortune^ 
Stand you auspicious! 

Enter Shepherd, Chwn, MorsA> Dorcas^ Servai^f wUk 
PoLixBKBSj and Camillo> disked* 

Fhrizel See, yohr guests approach. 



992 THE WINTERS TALEi 

Address ypunelf to entertain them sprightly^ 
And let's be red with mirth. 

Shepherd, Fie^ day^t^r ! when v\j oli wife liv'd^ upoQ 
This day, sh^ was both pantler, butler, cook 3 
Both dame and servant : welcom*d all, serv*d all -. 
Would sing her song, and dance her turn : now here 
At upper end q* the table, now i* the middle : 
On hia shoulder, and his : her £ace o* fire 
Wi^ labours and (he thin^ she took to quench it 
She would to each one sip. You are retired. 
As if you were a feasted one, and not 
The hostess of the meeting. Fray you, bid 
These unknown friends to us welcome; foi; it is 
A way to make us better friends, more known. 
Coine> quench your blushes; and present yourself 
That which you are, mistress o* the feast. Come on. 
And bid us welcome to your sheep-shearing, 
" As your good flock shall prosper. 

Perdita. Sir, welcome! [To Polixene9 and Camillo, 

It is my £Either*s will I should take on me 
The hostess-ship o* the day: you're welooipej m\ 
Give me those flowers ther^, Dprcajs. — jReverend sirs. 
For you there's rosemary and rue ; thes^ keep 
Seeming, and savQur, all the winter long : 
Grace and remembrance be unto you both. 
And welcome to our shearing ! 

Polixenes, Shepherdess, 
(A fidr one are you) well you fit our ages 
With flowers of winter. 
• Perdita. Sir, the year growing ancient^ 
Not yet on summer's death, nor on the birth 
Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o* the season 
Are our carnations, and streak* d gilly-flowers. 
Which some call nature's bastards : of that kind 
Our rustic garden's barren ; and I care not . 
To get slips of them. 



THE WINTEE« TArLE. 983 

Polixenes, Wherefore^ gentle maiden^ 
Do you neglect them ? 

Perditd. For I have heard it said . 
There is an art^ which^ in their piedness^' shares 
With great creating nature. 

Polixenes, Say^' there be : 
Tet nature is made better by no mean^ ' 
But nature makes that mean : : so> o*er that art 
Whichj you say^ adds to nature^ is an art 
That nature makes. You see^ sweet maid^ we marry. 
A gentler scyon to the wildest stocks ' 
And make conceive a bai^k of baser kind 
By bud of nobler rade. ' Thll is an art 
Which does mend nature^ change it rather: but 
The art itself is nature. 

Perdita. So it is. 

Policenee. Then make your garden rich in gilly-flowers^ 
And do not call them bastards. 

Perdita. Til not put' 
The dibble in earthy to set one slip of them > 
No more than> were I painted, I would wish 
This youth should^ say, 'twere well r and oidy therefore 
Desire to breed by me. — Here's Iflowers for youj 
Hot layedder/ mints, savoury, marjoram; 
The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun^ 
And with him rises, weeping: these are flowers 
Of middle summer, and, I think, they are given . 
To men of middle age. You are -Very welcome. 

CamUlo. I should leave grazing, were I of your flock. 
And only live by gazing. 

Perdita. Out, alas! 
You'd be so lean, that blasts of January 
Would blow you through and through. Now my £Ediest 

friends, 
I would I had some flowers o' the spring, that might 
Become your time of days ai^^ ybur's, and your's. 



tS84 THB WINTER'S TALE. , 

That wear upon ycmr virgia bnuiches yet 

Your maiden-heads growing : O Proserpina> 

For the flowers nowj thltt> finghted> thou let'ft £edl 

From Dt8*8 waggon! dafibdils^ 

That oome before the swallow dares> and take 

The winds of March with beauty : yidets diin> . 

But sweeter thaa the lids of Jund*s eyes> 

Or Cythefea's breath -, pale primroses^ 

That die unmarnad^ ere they can behold 

bright Fhf«biis in his strength (a malady 

Most incident to maids); bold oxlips> and 

The crown-imperiai; lilies of all.kinds^ 

The fleur-de-lis bang on#! O, tliese I lack 

To mdce you gazlands of j and> my sweet firiend 

To strow him o*er and o*er. 

FUmzeL What> like a corse? 

Fsrdtiif . No> like a b^^ ^ ^^^ ^ U® wi pby on ; 
Kot like a corse ; or if— not to be buried^ 
But quicks and in mine arms. Copie, take your flowers -, 
Methinksi i play as I have seen them do 
In Whitsun pastorals : sure th|s robe of mine 
Does change my disposition. 

FUymd, What you do> 
Still betters what is done. When you spMk> sweet> 
rd have you do it ever : when you sifl^> 
rd have you buy and sdl so f se# give alm0 f 
Fray^iso^ and for the <MPdering your a^&irs. 
To sing them too. When you do dance^ I wish you 
A wave p* the sea^ that yoi} m^t eveir do 
Nothing but that : move still, still so> 
And own no other function. Each your doi3gj 
So singular in each particulBr» 
C^wns what you're doing ia the pv'esent deeds; 
That all your acts are queens. 

Fer^&ia. O Dorides^ 
Your praises are too large; but that your youth 



THB WINTER'S TALEL 

Afid the true bloody ^hich peepet forth fidrly throog^ if > 
Do (dainly give you out an unstained shepherd *, 
With wisdom I might fear^ my Doricles^ 
You woo'd me the false iivay. 

FlorizeL I think you have 
As little skill to fear; as I hare j>uipose 
To put you to*t* But icome^ our dance^ I ptay : 
Tour hand> my Perdita : so turtles pajr j 
That never mean to part. 

PerdUa, 1*11 swear for *em. 

Polixettes. This is the prettiest low-bom lass that ever 
Han on the green-sward ^ nothing she doesj or seems> 
But smacks of something greater than herself^ 
Too noble for this place. 

CamUlo, He tells her something 
That makes her blood look out : gpod sooth she is 
The queen of curds and cream.*' 

This delicious scene is interrupted by the father 
of the prince discovering himself to Florizel, and 
haughtily breaking off the intended match be- 
tween his son and Perditd« When Polixenes 
goes out, Perdita says, 

'^ Even here undone : 
I was not much afraid 5 for once or twice 
i was about to speak 5 and tell him plainly^ 
The self-same sun that shines upon his courts 
Hides not his visage from our cottage^ but 
Ifooks on*t &like. Wilt please you^ sir> be gone ? 

[To Fhrizel 
I told you what would come of this. Beseech ywx. 
Of your own state take care : this dream of mine«. 
Being now awake> I'll queen it no inch farther^ 
But milk my ewes and weep." 



€86 



THE WINTERS TALE. 



As Perdita, the suppos^ shepherdess, turns out 
to be the daughter of Hermione, and a princess 
in disguise, both feelings of the pride of birth 
and the claims of nature are satisfied by the 
fortunate event of the story, and. the fine-ro- 
mance .of poetry is reconciled to the strictest 
court-etiquette. 



ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 



All's well that ends well is one of the 
most pleasing of our author's comedies. The 
interest is however more of a serious than of a 
comic nature. The character of Helen is one 
of great sweetness and delicacy. She is placed 
in circumstances of the most critical kind, and 
has to court her husband both as a virgin and 
a wife: yet the most scrupulous nicety of fe- 
male modesty is not once violated. There is 
not one thought or action that ought to bring 
ablush into her cheeks, or that for a moment 
lessens her in our esteem^ Perhaps the roman- 
tic attachment of a beautiful and virtuous girl 
to one placed above her hopes by the circum- 
stances of birth and fortune, was never so ex- 
quisitely expressed SU3 in the reflections which 
she utters when young Roussillon leaves his 
mother's house,' under whose protection she has 



288 ALLS WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 

been brought up with him, to repair to the 
French king's court. 

" Helena. Oh, Were that all — ^I think not on my fether. 
And these great tears grace his remembrance more 
Than those I shed for him. Wha^ was he like ^ 
I have forgot him. My imagination 
Carries no &ivour in it^ but my Bertram's. 
I am undone, there is no living, none. 
If Bertram be away. It were all one 
That I should love a bright particular star. 
And think to wed it 3 he is so above me : 
In his bright radiance and collateral light 
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere. 
Th' ambition in my Idte thus plagues itsdf ; 
llie hiiid that Wduld' be inated by the liOn, 
Must die fw IpVe. 'TW^s pretty, tho* a pla^ue> , 
To see him every hour, to sit and draw 
His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls 
In oUr heart's table : heart too capable 
Of every line and trick of his sweei favoui*. 
But now he*s gone, and my idolatrous &ncy 
Must sanctify his relics.*' 

The interest excited by this beautiful picture 
of a fond and innocent heart is kept up after-* 
wards by her resolution to follow him to France, 
the success of her experiment in^ restoring the 
king's health, her demanding Bertram in mar-* 
riage as a reconipense, his leaving hei^ in disdain, 
her interview with him afterwards disguised as 
Diana, a young lady whom he importunes with 
his secret addresses^ and their final reconciliation 



ALLS WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 289 

when the consequences of her stratagem and the 
proofs of her love are fully made known. The 
persevering gratitude of the French king to his 
benefactress, who cures him of a langiiishing dis- 
temper by a prescription hereditary in her family, 
the indulgent kindness of the Countess, whose 
pride of birth yields, almost without a struggle, 
to her affection for Helen, the honesty and up- 
rightness of the good old lord Lafeu, make very 
interesting parts of the picture* The wilful 
stubbornness and youthful petulance of Bertram 
are also very admirably described. The comic 
part of the play turns on the folly, boasting,, 
and cowardice of Parolles, a parasite and hang- 
er-on of Bertram^s, the detection of whose 
false pretensions to bravery and honour forms a 
very amusing episode. He is first found out 
by the old lord Lafeu, who says, ^^ The soul 
of this man is in his clothes;'^ and it is proved 
iafterwards that his heart is in his tongue, and 
that both are false and hollow. The adventure 
of " the bringing off of his drum^^ has become 
proverbial as a satire on all ridiculous and blus- 
tering undertakings which the person never 
means toperfprm: nor can anything be more 
severe than what one of the bye-standers re* 
marks upon what Parolles says of himself^ '^ Is 
it possible he should know what he is, and be 
that he is y^ Yet Parolles himself gives the 
best solution of the difficulty afterwards when 

u 



\ 



990 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 

he is thankful to escape with bis life and the 
loss of character ; for, so that he can live on^ he 
is by no means squeamish about the loss of (Nre- 
tensions, to which be had sense enough to know 
he had no real claim, and which he had assumted 
only as a means to live. 

'^ ParoUeB. Yet I am thankful : if my heart were ,^reat> 
*Twould burst at thia. Captain^ I'll be no more> 
But I will eat and drink> and sleep as soft 
As captain shaH. Simply the thing I am 
l^liall make me lire : who knows himself a braggart, ^ 
Let him £ear this i for it shall come to pais^ 
That every braggart shall be found an ass. 
Rust sword> cool blushes^ and ParoUes live 
Safest in shame 5 being fool'd, by fool'ry thrive 5 
There's place and means for every man alive. 
ru after them. 

The story of Axl^s Well that kxds Wjell, 
and of several others . of Shakespear^s plays, is 
taken from Boceacio. The poet has dramatised 
the original novel with; great skill and comic 
spirit, and. has preserved all the beauty of cbo^ 
racter and sentiment without improving npon it, 
which was impossible. . There is indeed in Boc^ 
cacio^s sejrious pieces a truth, a pathos, and an 
exquisite refinement of sentiment^ which is 
hardly to be met with in any other prose writer 
whatever* Justice has not been done him by 
the world. He has in general passed for.a mere 
narrator of lasdvipus tales or idle jeste* This 




AUE.*S WEUL THAT IMSS WELL. 99l 

character probably driginated in his obnoxiou$ 
Attacks on the monks, and has been kept up by 
th« grossness of maflkittd, who revedged th^i)* 
oWik want of refttienient tm Bbecado, and only 
saw in bis Wrifings what Suited the c^o^ts^neas 
of their own tastes. But the twth is, that h6 
has carried sentiment of every kind to its t^ty 
highest purity and perfection. By sentiment 
we would here undcfrstand th^ habitual Work-^ 
logs of some one powerful feeling, where th^ 
heart reposes almost entirely upon itself, with^ 
out the violent excitement of opposing duties or 
untoward circumstances. . In this way, nothing 
ev«p came up to the story of Frederigo Alberigi 
and his Falcon. The perseverance in attach*- 
ment, the spirit of gallantry and generosity dis- 
played in it, has no parallel in the history of 
heroical sacrifices. The feding is so unconscious 
too, and infvolantary, is bi^ought out in such 
small, unlooked-^for, add unc)stentatious circum- 
stances, as to show it to have been woven into 
the very nature and soul of the author. The 
story of Isabella is scarcely less fine, and is more 
a^ecting in the cire^ffistanees and in the catas- 
trophe. Dryden has done justice to the impas* 
sioned eloquence of theTancredandSigismunda; 
but has not given an adequate idea of the wild 
preternatural interest of the story of Honoria. 
Cimon and Iphi^ene is by no means one of the 
best, notwithstanding the popularity of the sub- 



^n ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 

ject. The proof of uDalterable affection given in 
the story of Jeronymo, and the . simple touches 
of nature and picturesque beauty in the story of 
the two holiday lovers, who were poisoned by 
tasting of a leaf in the garden at Florence, are 
perfect m^ster-pieoes. The epithet of Divine 
was well bestowed on this great painter of the 
human heart The invention implied in his 
different tales i^i^mense: but we are not to 
infer that it is all bis own. He probably availed 
himself of all the common traditions which were 
floating in his time, and which he was the. first 
to appropriate. Homer appears the most origi- 
nal of all authorsf^probably for no other reason 
than that we can trace t:he plagiarism no farther. 
Boccacio has furnished subjects to numberless 
writers since his time, both dramatic and narra-^ 
tive. The story of Griselda is borrowed from 
bis Decameron by Chaucer ; as is the Knight^s 
Tale (Palamdn and Arcite) from his poem of 
the Theseid, 



^» . 



LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. 



If we were to part with any of the authored 
comedies^ it should be this. Yet we should 
be loth to part with Don Adriano de Armado^ 
that mighty potentate of nonsense, or his page, 
that handful of wit; with Nathaniel the curate, 
or Holofernes the school- master, and their dis« 
pute after dinner on ^^ the golden cadences of 
poesy ;^^ with Costard the clown, or Dull the 
constable. Biron is too accomplished a charac- 
ter to be lost to the world, and yet he could 
not appear without his fellow courtiers and the 
king: and if we were to leave out the ladies, 
the gentlemen would have no mistresses. So 
that we believe we may let the whole play stand 
as it is, and we shall hardly venture to '^ set a 
mark of reprobation on it/^ Still we have some 
olDJections to the style, which we think savours 
more of the pedantic spirit of Shakespear's ticpe 



i94 LOVFS LABOUR'S LOST. 

than of his own genius ; more of controversial di- 
vinity, and the logic of Peter Lombard, than of the 
inspiration of the Muse. It transports us quite as 
much to the manner^ of the court, and the quirks 
of courts of lawi ^ to the scenes of nature or the 
fairy-land of his own imagination. Shakespear 
has set himself to imitate the tone of polite con- 
versation then prevailing am6ng the fair, the 
witty, and the learned, and he has imitated it 
but too faithfully. It is as if the hand of Titian 
had been employed to give grace to the curls of a 
full-bottomed periwig, or Raphael had attempted 
to give expression to the tapesitry figures in the 
House of Lord?. Shakespear has put aa excel- 
lent description of this feshionabkr jargon into 
the mouth of the critical Holo&nies ^^ as too 
picked^ too spruce, too affeetf^d, too odd, as. it 
were) too peregrinate, as I may caU it;'' and 
nothing c:^ be mpre marked than tjbe difference 
when be breaks^ loose frosx the tacaiBniQb he 
had imposed on himself, '^ as light as bird fix>iii 
bmke,'' and speaks in bis qwb person. We 
think, for instance, that in tl^ foUoiwiiig soliloquy 
the poet has fairly got the start of Queen Eliza- 
beth and. her maids of honour :-^ 

*^ 'B^(m. O ! and I forsooth in kyve> 
I that have been love's whip; 
A very beadle to an amorous sigh : 
A critic I nay^ a night-vratch constable^ 
A domineering pedant p*er the boy^ 



LOVJBS I^AJOUB'S LOST 296 

. 3i'hfi% i^Mun BO inortal loaore Toagnificcmt. 
Tbi9 whimpled^ whiiuDg, purblind^ wayward boy^ 
This signior Junio^ giant dwarfs Dan Cupid> 

' Regent of love-rhimes> lord of folded arms^ 
Th' anointed sorereign of sighs and g^roans : 
liege ol aU loiterers aad iMlecaiit«ats, 
]>ffeii4 piiociQ of pbck^tS;^ kiiig of ocxIpi^G^j 
Sole inqierator^ and great general 
Of trotting parators (O my little heart!) 
And I to be a corporal of his fields 
And wear his colours like a tumbler's hoop! 
What? Ikv^! I sue! i seek a wife! 
A woKnan^ that is JSke a German dock, 
StiU a repairing 3 ever, out of fnuoe > 
And never going aright^ being a watch^ 
And being watch'd^ that it may still go right } 
Nay, to be perjured, which is worst of all : 
And among three to love the worst of all^ 
A whitely wanton with a velvet brow. 
With two pitch balls stuck in her &ce for eyes j 
Ay, and by heav*n, one that will dp the deed, 
Thoi^h Argus were her eunuch and her guard 3 
And i to sigh for her ! to watch for her ! . 
To pray for her ! Go to ; it is a p^^fgue 
That Cupid wiU impose for my neglect 
Of his almighty dreadful littLe might. 
Well, I will love, writ^, sigh^ p)^y> sue, and grofui : 
Some men must love my lady, and some Joan." 

The cfasuraeter of Siroa drawn by Rosaline and 
that which Biron gives of Boyet are equally 
happy. The observations on the use and abuse 
of study, and on the power of beauty ^quiclcen 
the understanding as well as the senses, are ex- 



mI L0VB*S LABOUR'S LOST. , 



cellent. The scene which has the greatest dra- 
matic effect is that in which Biron, the king, 
Longaville, and Dumain, successively detect 
each other and are detected in their breach of 
their vow and in their profession of attachment 
to their several mistresses, in which they suppose 
themselves to be overheard by no one. The 
reconciliation between these lovers and their 
sweethearts is also very good, and the penance 
which Rosaline imposes on Biron, before he can 
expect to gain her consent to marry him, full of 
propriety and beauty. 

'' Eosalme, Oft have I heard of you> my lord Biron> 
Before I saw you : and the world's large tongue 
Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks ; 
Full of comparisons^ and wounding flouts > 
"Which you on all estates will execute^ 
That lie within the mercy of yoitr wit. 
To weed this wormwood horn your &ithfu1 brahrj; 
And therewithal to win me> if you please^ 
(Without the which I am not to be won) 
Tou shaU this twelvemonth term from day to day 
Visit the speechless sick^ and still converse 
With groaning wretches ; and yo«ir task shall be> 
With all the fierce endeavour of your wit> 
T* enforce the pained impotent to smile. 

Bvron, To move wild laughter in the throat of deatM 
It cannot be : it is impossible : 
Mjrth cannot move a soul in agony. 

BosaUne, Why^ that's the way to choke a gibing s;pfrit> 
Whose influence is begot of that loose g^cej 
Which shallow laughing hearers give to fools : 



LOVE'S LABOUH'S LOST. 297 

A Jest's prosperity lies in the ear 

Of him that hears it ; never in the tongue 

Of him that makes it : then^ if sickly ears> 

Deaf 'd vrith the clamours of their own- dear groans^ 

Will hear your idle scorns^ continue then> 

And I will have you> and that ftiult withal ; 

But> if they will not^ throw away that spirit^ 

And I shall find you empty of that faulty 

Hight joyful of your reformation. 

Biron, A twelvemonth? Well> be&U what wil^ befieJl^ 
I'll jest a twelvemonth in an hospital/* 

The famous cuckoo-song closes the play: but 
we shall add no more criticisms : " the words 
pf Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo/* 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 



Xhis admirable corned^ used to be frequently 
acted till of late years. Mr. Garrick^s Bene- 
dick was one of his most celebrated characters ; 
and Mrs. Jordan, we have understood, played 
Beatrice very delightfully. The serious part is 
still the most prominent here, as in other in- 
stances that we have noticed. Hero is the prin- 
cipal figure in the piece, and leaves an indelible 
impression on the mind by her beauty, her ten- 
derness, and the hard trial of her love. The 
passage in which Claudio first makes a confes- 
sion of his afiection towards her conveys as 
pleasing an image of the entrance of love into a 
youthful bosom as can well be imagined. 

" Oh> my lord. 
When you went onward with this ended actioiij 
I looked upon her vrith a soldier's eye. 
That lik*d, but had a rougher task in hand 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, 9OT* 

Than to drive liking to the name of lof 6 ^ 
But now I am retum'd^ and tbat war-thoughts 
Haye left their places vacant ^ in their rooms 
Come thronging soft and delicate desires> 
All prompting me how fiair young Hero is^ 
Saying> I lik'd her ere I went to wars." 

In the scene at the altar, when Claudio, urged 
on by the villain Don John, bikings the charge 
of incontinence against her, and as it were di- 
vorces her in the very marriage-ceremony, her 
appeals to her own conscious innocence and ho- 
nour are made with the most affecting simpQcity. 

'' CZottdioi. No^ Leonato^ 

I never tempted her with word toe lai^> 

But, as a brother to his sister^ 8hew*d 

Bashful sincerity^ and comely lore. 

Hero» And seem*d I ever otherwise to you } 
Clemdio, Out on thy seeming^ I will write against it : 

You seem to me as Dion in her orb^ 

As chaste as is the hud ere it be blown } 

I ' 

But you are more intemperate in your bkx>d 
Than Venus^ or those pamper'd animals 
That rage in savage sensuality. 

Hero. Is my lord weU^ that he doth speak so wide ? 

JLeonaio. Are these things spoken^ or do I but dream ? 

John, Sir^ they are spoken^ and these things are true. 

Benedick. This looks not like a nuptial. 

Sero. True! OGod!"— 

The justification of Hero in the end, aod her 
restoration to the confidepce and arms of her 



1900 MUCH ADO ABOUt NOTHING. 

lover, is brought about by one of those tempo* 
rary consignments to the grave of which Shake- 
spear seems to have been fond. He has perhaps 
explained the theory of this predilection in the 
following lines: — 

<< JPWar. She dyingj as it must be so mamtain'd» 
Upon the instant that she was accus*d> 
Shall be lamented^ pity*d> and excus*d^ 
Of every hearer : for it so fklls out^ 
That what we have we prize not to the worthy 
While we eiyoy it; but being ]ack*d and lost^ 
Why then we rack the value ; then we find 
The virtue^ that possession would not shew us x 

Whilst it was oura.-— So wiU it fore with Claudio : 
When he shall hear she dy'd upon his words. 
The idea of her love shall sweetly creep 
Into his study of imagination $ 
And every lovely organ of her li£& 
Shall come i^parel'd in more precious habit> 
More moving^ delicate^ and fiill of life. 
Into the eye and prospect of his soul> 
Than when she liv*d indeed." 

The principal comic characters in Much ado 
ABOUT Nothing, Benedick and Beatrice, are 
both essences in their kind. His character as 
a woman-hater is admirably supported; and his 
conversion to matrimony is no less happily ef- 
fected by the pretended story of Beatrice's Jove 
for him. It is hard ta say which of the twa 
scenes is the best, that of the trick which i& thus 



MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTEHNO. SOi 

practised on Benedick, or that in which Bea- 
trice is prevailed on to take pity on him by over- 
bearing her cousin and her maid declare (which 
they do on purpose) that he is dying of love for 
her. There is something delightfully picturesque 
in the manner in which Beatriice is described as 
coming to hear the plot which is contrived, 
against herself — 

" For look where Beatrice^ like a lapwings runs 
Close by the ground^ to hear our conference.'* 

In consequence of what she hears (not a word 
of which is true) she exclaims when these good- 
natured informants are gone, 

'^ What fire is in mine ears ? Can this be true ? 

Stand I condemned fer pride and scorn so much ? 
Contempt^ ftrewel ! and maiden pride adieu ! 

No glory lives behind the back of such. 
And> Benedick^ love on^ I wiU requite thee \ 

Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand \ 
If thou dost love> my kindness shall incite thee 

To bind our loves up in an holy band : 
For others say thou dost deserve \ and I 
Believe it better than reportingiy.** 

And Benedick, on his part, is equally sincere in 
his repentance with equal reason, after he has 
heard the grey»beard, Leonato, and his friend, 
" Monsieur Love'/^ discourse of the desperate 
state of his supposed inamorata. 



308 MUCH ADO ABOUT KOTItmG. 

''Tills can he iaa tricky the coAlbreti€i& was liadly bome. 
— ^They hay« the trutk of tliiii from Heit>« They secni to 
pity the lady; it seems her affections have the full bent. 
Love me ! why^ it must be requited. I hear how I am 
censur'd: they say^ I will bear myself proudly^ if I perceive 
the love come fh>m facr^ they say too^ that she teill nither 
<fie than give any ^gn of afieetion.^^! -did never think tb 
^mnrry • 1 must nUt seem prolid i-^happy $xe ^ey tbM, hear 
their detractions^ and can put them to meBdiag. They say^ 
the lady is fadr ; 'tis a truths I can bear them witness : and 
virtuous 3*^'tis' so^ I <»miot reprove it : and wis^— but for 
loving nie>-«-by my troth it is no addition to her wit 5 — 
nor no great argument of her folly^ for I will be hornbly in 
love with her."— ^J ms^ chance to have some odd quirks and 
semns^ts of wit broken on me^ because I have raal'd so 
long against marriage: but doth not the appetite alter? 
A man loves the meat id his youths that he cannot endure 
in his age. — Shall quips^ and sentences^ and these paper 
bullets of the brain> awe a man from the career of his hu- 
mour ? No : the world must be peopled. When I said^ I 
would die a bachelor^ I did not think I should live till I 
were marry'd.— Here comes Beatrice : by this day, she's a 
fiur lady : . I do spy some marks of love in her." 

The beauty of all this arises from the charac- 
ters of the persons so entrapped. Benedick is 
a professed and staunch enemy to marriage, and 
gives very plausible reasons for the faith that is 
in him. And as to Beatrice, she persecutes him 
all day ivith her jests (so that he could hardly 
think of being troubled with them at night) she 
Bot only turns him but all other things into jest, 
and is proof against every thing serious. 



L 



MUCK ADO ABOUT NOTHIIKi. SfS 



I' Hero. Djadaia «ad sooni tide sparkHng.in her eym; 
MispdMOg what they look on; aad her wit 
Values itself so highly^ th^t to her 
All matter else seems weak : she cannot love» 
Nor take no shape nor project of affection^ 
She is so self-endeared. 

Ursula. Swre, I think so ; 
And therefore, certainly, it were not good 
She knew his love, lest she make sport at it. . 

Hero. Why, you speak truth ; I nev^r yet saw man. 
How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featur*d. 
But she would spell him backward : if fair-fac'd, 
She*d swear the gentleman should be her sister ^ 
If black, why, nature, drawing of an antick> 
Made a foul blot : if taU, a lance ill-headed ; 
If low, an agate very vilely cut : 
If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds } 
If silent, why, a block moved with none. 
So turns she every man the wrong side out ; 
And never gives to truth and virtue that 
Which simpleness and merit purchaseth.** 

These were happy materials for Shak^spear to 
work on, and he has made a happy use of them. 
Perhaps that middle point of comedy was never 
more nicely hit in which the ludicrous blends 
with the tender, and our follies, turning round 
against themselves in support of our affections, 
retain nothing bu! their humanity. 

Dogberry and Verges in this play are inimita- 
ble specimens of quaint blundering and mispri- 
sions of meaning ; and are a standing record of 



aot MUCH ADO ABoinr nothing. 

I 

that formal gravity of preteDsion and total want 
of common understanding, which Shakespear no 
doubt copied from real life, and which in the 
course of two hundred years appear to have as- 
cended from the lowest to the highest offices in 
the state. 



* ^ 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 



Sbak-bsfbab has Kete converted the forest of 
Arden into another Arcadia, where they ^* jfleet 
the time carekssly, as they did in the golden 
world/' It is the most ideal of any of this au-* 
tkor's plays. It is a pastoral drama in which 
the interest arises more out of tbe sentiments 

• 

and. characters than ont of tbe actions pr situa*' 
tions. It is not what is done, but what is said^ 
that ekims oor atteniioii. 'Nursed in solitude^ 
*' under tbe shade of melancholy boughs/' tfa«, 
imagination grows soft: and delicate, and th^ 
wit runs riot in idleness, like a spoiled child, 
that is never sent to school. Caprice and fancy 
reign and revel here) and stern necessity is ba- 
nisheid to the ootift; The mild sentiments <>f 
humanity' are strengthened With thought and 
leisure; the echo of the cares and noise of the, 
world strikes upon die ear of those ^^ who hare 

X 



306 AS YOU LIKE IT. 

felt them knowingly/' softened by time ^nd dis- 
tance. *^ They hear the tumult, and are still/' 
The very air of the place seems to breathe 
a spirit of philosophical poetry ; to stir the 
thoughts, to touch the heart with pity, as the 
drowsy forest rustles to the sighing gale. Never 
was there such beautiful moralising, equally free 
from pedantry or petulance. 

" And this their life> exempt from public haunts^ 
Finds tongues in trees^ books in the running brooki^ 
Sermons in stones^ and good in every thing." 

Jaques is the only purely contemplative cha- 
racter in Shakespear. He thinks, and does no- 
thing. His whole occupation is to amuse his 
mind, and he is totally regardless of his body and 
his fortunes. He is the prince of philosophical 
idlers ; his only passion is thought ; be sets no 
value upon any thing but as it serves as food 
for reflection. He can ^' suck melancholy out 
of a song, as a weasel sucks eggs;^' the motley 
fool, ^^ who morals on the timev'^ isthe greatest 
prize he meets with in the forest. He resents 
Orlando's passion for Rosalind as some dispa- 
ragement of his own passion for abstract truth ; 
and leaves the Duke, as soon as he is restored ^to 
bis sovereignty, to seek his brother out wh<>.bas 
quitted it, and turned hermit. 

— '' Out of these convertites 
There is muckmatter to be beard and learnt." 



AS YOU LIRE TTs 307 

Within the sequestered ind romantic glades 
of the forest of Ardeny they find leisure to be 
good and wise, or to play the fool and fall in 
love^ Rosalind's character is made up of sport** 
ive gaiety and natural tenderness t her tongue 
runs the faster to conceal the pressure at her 
heart. She talks herself out of breath, only to 
get deeper in love. The coquetry with which 
she plays with her lover in the double character 
which she has to support is managed with the 
nicest/address. How full of voluble, laughing 
grace is all her conversation with Orlando — 

>— ^'^ In heedless mazes running 
With wanton haste and giddy cunning/* 

How full of i*eal fondness and pretended cru- 
elty is her answer to him When he promises to 
love her " For ever and a day !" 

^^ Say a day without the ever : no> no^ Orlando^ men are. 
April when they woo^ December when they wed : maids 
are May when they are maids^ but the sky changes when 
they are wives : I will be more Jealous of thee than a Bar- 
bary cock*pigeon over his hen^ ^ more clamorous than a par- 
rot against rain ; more new-^^angled than din ape -, more 
giddy in my desures than a monkey > I will weep for- nothing 
like Diana in the fountain^ and I will do that when you are 
disposed to be merry ) I. will laugh like a hyen^ and that 
when you are inclined to sleep. 

Orlando.' But will my Rosalind do so ? 

Rostilmd, By my life she will do as I do." 



900 AS you LIKB IT 

Tbe sileat md ratioed character of Celia is a 
neceasary relief to the pxovokiBg loquacity of 
Rosalind, nor oan any thing he better conccdred 
or more beautifyjly described than the mutual 
adectton. between the two couains. . 

-— " We still have slept togetber^ 
Qqse at an instant^ leam'd> play'd> eat together^ 
And wheresoe*er we went^ like Juno*s 8wans> 
Stifi we went eoupled and inseparable;** 

The i^nrequited loye of Silviua for Pfaebe 
shew» the perversity of this passion in the com* 
nionest scenes of life, and the rubs and stops 
which nature throws in its way, where fortune 
has placed none. Touchstone is not in love, but 
he will have a n^istr^ss as a subject for the exer- 
cise of his grotesque humour, and to shew his 
contempt for the passion, by hiii indifference 
about the person. He is a rare fellow. He is 
a mixture of the ancient cynic philosopher with 
the modern buffoon, and turns folly into wit, and 
wit into folly, just as the fit takes him. His 
courtship of Audrey not only throws a degree 
of ridicule on the state of wedlock itself, but 
he is equally an enemy to the prejudices of 
opinion in other respects. The lofty tone of 
enthusiasm, which the Duke and his com- 
panions in exile spread over the stillness and 
solitude of a country life, receives a pleasant 



AS YOU LJKX IT. Md 

sbock ftom Touch^XMEie's sceptical determinatton 
oC the questioQ. 

" &>rm. And how like you this shepherd's life, Mr. Touch- 
stone?^ 

Cl&wn. Thii^, shepherd, in respect of itself, it iff a good 
fifoj hut in mspect that it k a shepherd's life, it is naught. 
Ia respect that it i$ aoliteyjf lUkeiit^erjrw^; fautlnTe^ 
^ect that it is private^, it is arery vile Ufe. Now in refect 
it is in the fields, it pleaseth me well ; but in respect it is 
not in the court, it is tedious. As it is a spare life, look 
you, it fits my humour ; but as there is no more plenty in 
it, it goes much against my stdmach.*' 

Zimmeroian'a , celebrated wotk on Solitude dud^ 
pavers w\y ^^if ^^^ ntnse of this passage. 

Tlner^ 13 h^fdly any of Sbakespeac's plays tliat 
contains a greater number of passages that have 
been quoted in books of extracts, or a greater 
number of phrases that fatfve become in a manner 
proverbial. If we were to give all the striking 
passaj^es, we should give half the play. We 
will only recall a few of the most delightful to 
the reader'airecqlkction.. Sucb are the meeting 
between^ Otdandb and Adani^ the exq4i]site aip- 
peal of Obndo te the humanity of the Duke 
and his company to supply him with food for 
the old man, and their answer, the Duke's de- 
scription of a country life,, and^ the account of 
Jaques moralising on the wounded de^r, his 
jpjoetmgimtk Touchstone in liie foresty his apo- 



310 AS TOU LIKB IT. 

logy for his own melancholy and his satirical 
vein, and the well-known speech on the stages 
of hqm&n life, the old song of ^^ Blow, blow, 
thou winter*8 wind,'^ Rosalind's description of 
the marks of ^ lover and of the progress of time 
with different persons, the picture of the snake 
Wreathed round Oliver's neck while the lioness 
watches her sleeping prey, and Touchstone's 
lecture to the shepherd, his defence of cuckolds^ 
and panegyric on the virtues of " ^i\ If "-r-AU 
of these are familiar to the ree^der :. there is oqe 
passage of equal delicacy and beauty which may 
have escaped him, and with it we shall close 
our account of As you like it. It is Phebe's 
description of Qs^nimecl at t\ke end of the third 
act, 

tf Think not I love Yarn, tho* I ask for hisii j 
*Tis but a peevish boy, yet he talk^ lyell j — 
But what care I for words ! yet words do well. 
When he that speaks them please^ those that hear : 
It is a pretty youth 5 not very pretty 5 
But sure he*s proud, and yet his pride becomes him ^ 
He*ll make a proper ipan -, the best thing in him 
Is his complexiop J and faster than his tofiga^ 
Did make offenci^, his eye did heal it up :. 
He is not v^ry tail, yet for his years he's tall 3. 
His leg is but so so, and yet 'tis well} 
There was a pretty redness in his lip, 
A little riper, and more lusty fed 
Than that mix'd in his cheek ; 'twa^ just th« digerence 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 311 

Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask. 

There be some women^ Silviiis^ had they mark*d him 

In parcels as I did> would have gone near 

To fidl in love with him : but for my part 

I love him not> nor hate him nptj ai^d yet 

I have more cause to hate him than to love him 3 

For what had he to do tp chide at me }" 



THE TAMING Of THE SHREW: 



The Taming of the Shrew is almost the 
only one of Shakespear's comedies that has a re- 
gular plot, and downright moral. It is full of bus- 
tle, animation, and rapidity of action. It shews 
admirably how self-will is only to be got the 
better of by stronger will, and how one degree 
of ridiculous perversity is only to be driven out 
by another still greater. Petruchio is a madman 
in his senses; a very honest fellow, who hardly 
speaks a word of truth, and succeeds in all his 
tricks and impostures. He acts his assumed 
character to the life, with the most fantastical 
extravagance, with complete presence of mind, 
with untired animal spirits, and without a par- 
ticle of ill-humour from beginning to end. — ^The 
situation of poor Katherine, worn out by his in- 
cessant persecutions, becomes at last almost as 
pitiable as it is ludicrous, and it is difficult 



THE TAMINO OF THB SHREW. SIS 

tosay which to admire most, the iinaccounta- 
bleness of his actions, or the unalterableness of 
his resolutions. It is k character which most 
husbands ought to study, unless perhaps the 
very audacity of Petruchio's attempt might alarm 
them more than his success would encourage 
them. What a soupd inuet the following speech 
carry to some married ears ! 

'^ Think you a little din can daunt my ears ? 
Have I not in my time heard lions roar ? 
Have I not heard the aea^ puflp'd up with winds/ 
lUge like an sQagry boar^ chafed i;ddi sweat ? 
Have I not heard great ordnance in the field ? 
And heav*n's artillery thunder in the skies ? 
Have I not in a pitched battle heard 
Loud larums^ neighing steeds^ and trumpets dang ? 
And do you tell me of a woman's tongue. 
That gives not half so great a blow to hear. 
As will a chesuut in a farmer's fire ?*' 

Not all Petruchio's rhetoric would persuade 
more than " some dozen followers^^ to be of this 
heretical way of thinking. He unfolds bis 
scheme for the Taming of the Shrew^ on a prin* 
ciple of contradiction, thus : — 

** 1*11 woo her with some spirit when she come&^ 
Say that she rail, why then I'll tell her plain 
She sings as sweetly as a nightingale ; 
Say that she frown, I'll say she looks as clear 
As morning roses newly wash'd with dew j 
Say she be mute, and will not speak a word,^ 
Then ITJ commend her volubility. 



314 THE TABONG OF THE SHBJSW. 

And (Nty she uttmth pierciiig eloquence : 

If she do bid vbe pack> Til give her thanks; 

As tho* she bid me stay by her a week ; 

Jf she deny to wed> 1*11 crave the day. 

When I shall ask the banns, and when be married V 

m 
I 

( 

He accordingly gains her consent to the match, 
by telling her father that he has got it ; disap- 
points her by not returning at the time he has 
promised to wed ber, and when he returns, 
creates no small consternation by the oddity of 
his dresd tod equipage. This however is no- 
thing to the astonishment excited by his mad- 
brained behaviour at the marriage. Here is the 
account of it by an eye-witness : — 

'^ Gremlo. Tut, she's a lamb, a dove, a fool to him : 
111 tell you. Sir Lucentio -, when the priest 
Should ask if Katherine should be his wife ? 
Ay, by gogs woons, quoth he 3 and swore so loud. 
That, aU ainaz*d, the priest let iail the book i 
And as he stooped again to take it up. 
This mad-brain*d bridegroom topk him such a cuff. 
That down fell priest and book, and bode and priest. 
Now take them up, quoth he, if any list. 

Tranio, What said the wench when he rose up again ? 

Gremio. Trembled and shook ; for why, he stamp'd and 
swore. 
As if the vicar meant to cozen him. 
But after many ceremonies done. 
He calls for wine 3 a health, quoth he 3 as if 
He'ad been aboard carousing with his mates 
After a storm 3 quaft off the muscadeU 



THE TAMING OF TH£ SHRBW. 815 

Jind threw the sops sill in the sexton's face ; . 
Having no other cause but that his beard 
Grew thin and hungerly> and seem*d to ask 
His sops as he was drinking. This done, he took 
The bride about the neck> and kiss'd her lips 
With such a damourous smacks that at their pitrtin^ 
, i All the church echoed: and I seeing thos^ / 
Came thence for very shame ; and Mter jm, 
I know, the rout is coming ; 
Such a mad mam^ge never was befoire.** 

The most striking and at the same time laugh- 
able feature in the character of Petruchip through- 
out is the studied approximation to the intrac- 
table character of real madness, his apparent in- 
sensibility to all external considerations, and 
utter indifference to every thing but the wild 
and extravagant freaks of his own self will. 
There is no contending with a person on whom 
nothing makes any impression but his own pur- 
poses, and who is bent on his own whims just 
in proportion as they seem to want common 
sense. With him a thing's being plain and rea- 
sonable is a reason against it. The airs he gives 
himself are infinite, and his caprices as sudden 
as they are groundless. The whole of his treat- 
ment of his wife at home is in the same Spirit of 
ironical attention and inverted gallantry. Every 
thing hies before his will, like a conjuror^s wand, 
and he only metamorphoses his wife's temper 
"by metamorphosing her senses and all the objects 



316 THE TAMING OF THB SHBBW. 

she sees, at a word's speaking. Such are his 
insisting that it is the moon and not the sun 
which they see, &c. This extravagance reaches 
its most pleasant and poetical height in the scene 
where, on their return to her father's, they meet 
old YincentiOy wbcmi Petrudnio immediately, 
addresses as a young lady :— 

^^ Petruchio. Good morrow^ gientle mntress^ where 
away? 
Tell me, sweet Kate> and tell me truly too> 
Vbit thou b^ield a fresher gentiewoman^ 
. 8iBdL war of White and red widiiD her cheeks > 
What «ta» do spangle heaven with such beauty^ 
As those two ^es beoome that heav*nly fice ? 
Fair lovely maid^ once more good day to thee : 
Sweet t^atej embrace her for her beauty*s sake. 

Uartetuio, He'll make the man mad to make a woman 
of him. 

Kafherinc.. Yoong buddings vic^^ £iir and frerii and 
sweety 
Whither away^ or where is thy abode } 
Happy the parents of so fsdr a child ; 
Happier the man whom Barvourable stars 
Altot thee for his lovely bed-fellow. 

Petruchi&. Vfhf^ hdw now^ Kale> I hope thoa art not 
. m^d: 
This ia a man* old, wrixdded« &ded| wither*d« 
And not a maiden^ as thou say'st he is. 

Sdth^rine, Pardon, old father, my mistaken eyes 
That have been so bedazed with the sun 
That every thing I look on seemeth green.. 
Now I pesTceive- theu avt a reverend fiiether/* 



THE TAMING OB THE SHBEW. SIT 

• 

The vrhole is carried off with equal spirit, as 
if the poet's coaiic Muse had wings of fire. 
It is strange how one man couid be so many 
things ; but so it is. The concluding scene^ in 
which trial is made of the (d>edience of the new- 
married wives (fiK^ triumphantly for Petruchio) is 
a very happy one.^— In some parts of this play 
there is a little too much about music-masters 
and masters of philosophy. They were things 
of greater rarity in those days than they are now. 
Nothing however can be better than the advice 
which Tranio gives bis master for the prosecu- 
tion of his studies : — 

'' Th6 mathematics^ and the metaphysics^ 
Fall to them as you find your stomach serves you : 
No profit grows, where is no pleasure ta'en : 
In briefs sir^ study what you most affect.** 

We have heard the Honey^Moon called ^^ an 
elegant Katherine and Petruchio/^ We suspect 
we do not understand this word elegant in the 
sense that many people do. But in our sense 
of the word, we should call Lucentio's descrip-* 
tion of his mistress elegant. 

*^ Tranio^ I saw her coral lips to move^ 
And with her breath she did perfume the air : 
Sacred and sweet was all I saw in her." -. ' 

When Biondello tells the same Lucentio for his 
encouragement, ^' I knew a wench miBuried in an 



\ 



318 THE TAMING OF THE SHBEW. 

afternoon as she went to the garden for parsley 
to stuflF a rabbit, and so may you, sir**— there is 
nothing elegant in this, and yet we hardly know 
which of the two passages is the best« 

The Taming of the Shrew is a play 
within a play. It is supposed to be a play acted 
for the benefit of Sly the tinker, who is made 
to believe himself a lord, when he wakes after a 
drunken brawl. The character of Sly and the 
renoarks with which he accompanies the play 
are as good as the play itself His answer when 
he is asked how he likes it, ^^ Indifferent well ; 
'tis a good piece of work, would ^twere done,** 
is in good keeping, as if he were thinking of his 
Saturday night's job. Sly does not change his 
tastes with his new situation, but in the midst 
of splendour and luxury still calls out lustily and 
repeatedly " for a pot o* the smallest ale/* He 
is very slow in giving up his personal identity 
in his sudden advancement. — " I am Christo- 
phero Sly, call not me honour nor lordship. 
I ne*er drank sack in my life : and if you give, 
me any conserves, give me conserves; of beef: 
ne*er ask me what raiment PU wear, for I have 
no more doublets than backs, no more stock- 
ings than legs, nor no more shoes than feet,^^ 
nay, sometimes more feet than shoes, or such 
shoes as my toes look through the over-leather. 
— What, would you make me mad ? Am dot 
I Christophero Sly, old Sly^s son of Burton- 



THE TAMING OF THE SHREW, SW 

heath, by birth a pedlar, by education a card- 
maker, by transmutation a bear-herd, and now 
by present profession a tinker? Ask Marian 
Hacket, the fat alewife of Wincot, if she know 
me not ; if she say I am not fourteen pence on 
the score for sheer ale, score me up for the ly- 
ing'st knave in Christendom/' 

This is honest. " The Slies are no rogues,'* 
as he says of himself. We have a great predilec- 
tion for this representative of the family; and 
what makes us like him the better is, that w^ 
take him to be of kin (not many degrees re- 
moved) to Sancho Panza. 



• 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 



' I l l I I' l l I' 



This is a play as full of genius as it is of wis^ 
dom. Yet there is an original sin in the nature 
of the subject, which prevents us from taking 
a cordial interest in.it, " The height of moral 
argument^^ which the author has maintained in 
the intervals of passion or blended with the more 
powerful impulses of nature, is hardly surpassed 
in any of his plays. But there is in general a 
want of passion ; the affections are at a stand ; 
our sympathies are repulsed and defeated in 
all directions. The only passion which influ- 
ences the story is that of Angelo ; and yet he 
selems to have a much greater passion for hy- 
pocrisy than for his mistress. Neither, are we 
greatly enamoured of Isabella's rigid chastity, 
though she could not act otherwise than she did* 
We do not feel the same confidence in the virtue 
that is ^^ sublimely good'' at another's expense, 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. S31 

tt if it had been put to some less disinterested 
tnal. As to the Duke^ who makes a very im« 
posing and mysterious stage-charaeter, he is 
mfore absorbed in his own plots and gravity than 
anxious for the welfare of the state ; more tena- 
cious of his own character than attentive to the 
feelings and apprehensions of othersv Claudio 
is the only person who feels naturcdly ; and yet 
he is placed in circumstances of distress which al- 
most preclude the wish for his deliverance.. Ma» 
riana is also in love with Aiagelo, whom we hate. 
In this respect, there may be said to be a general 
system of cross-purposes between the feelings of 
the diflPerent characters and the sympathy of the 
reader or the audience. This principle of re- 
pugnance seems. to have reached its height in 
the character of Master Barnardine, who not 
only* sets at defiance the opinions of others, but 
has even thrown off all self«regard,-~*^ one that 
apprehiends death no more dreadfully but as a 
drunken sleep; careless, reckless, and fearless 
of what^s past, present, and to come.^^ He is a 
fine antithesis to the morality and the hypo-^ 
crisy of the other characters of the play. Bar- 
nardine is Caliban transported from Prospero^^ 
wizard island to the forests of Bohemia or the 
prisons of Vienna. He is the creature of bad 
habits as Caliban is of gross instincts. He has 
however a strong notion of the natural fitness of 
things, according to his own sensations — ^^ He 



593 afSASURB FOR HBASURE. 

has been drinking hard all night, and he will not 
be hanged that day^*— and Shakespear has let 
faim off at last. We do not understand why the 
philosophical German critic, Schlegel, should be 
60 severe on those pleasant persons, Lucio, 
Pompey, and Master Froth, as to call them 
** wretches/^ They appear all mighty comfor- 
table in their occupations, and determined to 
pursue them, '^ as the flesh, and fortune should 
serve/^ A vely good exposure of the want of 
self*knowle(%e and contempt for others, which 
is so common in the world, is put into the 
mouth of Abhorson, the jailor, when the Pro* 
vost proposes to associate Pompey with him in 
his ofBc^^'^ A biawd, sir } Fie upon him, he 
will discredit our mystery/^ And the same an>- 
Bwer would serve in nine instances out often to 
the same kind of remark, *^ Gro to, dir, you weigh 
equally ; a feather will turn the scale/' Shaken- 
spear was in one sense the least moral of all 
writers ; for momlity (commonly so called) is 
made up of antipathies ; aod his talent consisted 
in sympathy with human nature, in all its shapes, 
-degrees, depressions, and elevations. The ob«- 
ject of the pedantic momlist is to find out the 
bad in every thing : his was to skew that ^' there 
is scHne soul of goodness in things evil/' Even 
Master Barnardine is not left to the m^cy of 
what others think of him ; but when he comes 
in, speaks for himself, -^nd pleads his own cause. 



MEilSURE FOtt MBASURE. S9S 

as well as if counsel had been assigned - him. 
In one sense, Sbakespear was no moralist at 
all: in another, he was the greatest of all moral- 
ists. He was a jcQoralist in the same sense in 
which nature is oae. He taught what be had 
learnt from her* He shewed the greatest know- 
ledge of humanity with the greatest Miow-feel- 
ing for it. 

One of the most dramatic passages in the pre- 
sent play is the interview between Claudio and 
his sister, when she comes to inform him oi the 
conditions on which Angeto will spare his life. 



rr 



Claudio. Let me know ttte point. 

Isabella. 0> I <io fear thee^ Claudio : and I qiudie, ' 
Lest thou a feverous life should'st emtertaifii^ 
And six or seven winten mora respaist 
Than a perpetual honour. Dar-st thou dfe I 
The sense of death is most in appreheaoon -, 
And the poor beetle, that ws tscikd upoii^ 
Li corporal sufierance finds a paoj^ ad gtvat. 
As when a giant dica. ^ 

ClaudM. Why give jdu me this ahiaM }' 
Think yaa I can a lesolotiaa'Mck 
From flowery tendfeimst ; af i must Ae, 
I will encounter darkness as a tnidfij 
And hug it in mine arms* 

Isabella, There c^tfce my fafother ! there my Other's 
grave * 

IMd utter Ibrth a vmtt ! Yes> tk>u must die : 
Hiou art too noble to eonsierpe a life 
In base appliances. This ontward-sainted deputy — : 
Whose settled visage and dclibenfte ^^v^ 



324 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 

Nips youth i' the head, and follies doth emmew. 
As fiatulcon doth the fowl^-is yet a devil. 

Claudio. The princely Angelo } 

Isabella. Oh, 'tis the cunning livery of hell. 
The damned*st body to invest and cover 
In princely guards ! Dost thou think, Claudio, 
If I would yield him my virginity. 
Thou, might st be freed ? 

Claudio, Oh, heavens ! it cannot be. 

Isabella. Yes, he would give it thee, for this rank of- 
fence. 
So to offend him still : this night's the time 
That 1 should do what I abhor to name. 
Or else thou dy'st to-morrow. . 

Claudio. Thou shalt not do't. 

Isabella. Oh, were it but my lifci 
I'd throw it dovm for your deliverance 
As frankly as a pin. , 

Claudio. Thanks, dear Isabel* 

Isabella. Be ready^ Claudio> for yOur death to-morrow. 

Claudio. Yes. — Has he.itffections in hibi, I 

That thus can make him bite the law by the nose ? ^ 
When he would force it, sure it is no sin 3 
Or of the deadly seven it is the least. 

Isabella. Which is the least ? 

Claudio. ^If it were damnable, he, being so wise. 
Why would he for the momentary trick 
Be perdurably fin'd } Oh, Isabel ! 

Isabella. What says my brother? 

Claudio. Death is a fearful thing. 

Isabella. And shamed life a hateful. 

Claudio. Aye, but to die, and go we know not where -, 
To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot ; - 
This sensible warm motion to become 
A kneaded cbd 3 and the delighted spirit 



MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 3!25 

To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside 

In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice ; 

To' be imprisoned in the viewless winds. 

And blown with restless violence roimd s^bout 

The pendant world 3 tfr to be worse than wotst 

Of those, that lawless and incertain thoughts 

Imagine howling:! — *tis too horrible! 

The weariest and most loathed worldly life. 

That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment 

Can lay, on nature, is a paradise 

To what we fear of death. 

Isabella, Alas ! alas ! 

Claudio, Sweet sister, let me live : 
What sin you do to save a brother's life. 
Nature dispenses with the deed so far. 
That it becomes a virtue." 

What adds to the dramatic beauty of this 
scene and the effect of Claudio's passionate at- 
tachment to life is, that it immediately follows 
the Duke's lecture to him, in the character of 
the Friar, recommending an absolute indifference 
to it. 

— '* Reason thus with life,-— 
If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing. 
That none but fools would keep : a breath thou art. 
Servile to all the skyey influences 
That dq this habitation, where thou keep'st. 
Hourly afflict : merely, thou art death*s fool ; 
For him thou labour*st by thy flight to shun. 
And yet run'st toward him still : thou art not noble ; 
For all the accommodations, that thou bear'st. 
Are nurs*d by baseness : thou art by no means valiant 3 
For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork 



dM MEASURE FOR MEASURE; 

Of a poor worm : tby best of rest is sleep. 
And that thou oft provok*st ; yet grossly fear's! 
Thy deaths which is no more. Thou art not thyself ^ 
For thou exifl^-st on many a thousand grains 
That issue out of dust : happy thou art not ; 
For what tiiou hast not, still thou strir'st to get; 
And what thou hast, fbrget'st: thou art not certain $ 
For thy complexion shifts to strange effects. 
After the moon ; if then art rich, thou art poor ; 
For, like an ass, whose hfnek with ingots bows. 
Thou bear*st thy heavy riches but a joum^. 
And death unloads thee : friend thou hast none ; 
For thy own bowels, whidi do call thee sire. 
The mere effusion ef thy proper loins. 
Do curse the gout, serpigo, amd the rheum. 
For ending thee no sooner : thou hast nor youth, nor age; 
But, as it were, an after-dinner's sleep. 
Dreaming on both : for all thy blessed youth 
. Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms 

Of palsied eld ; imd when thou art old, and Ttck, 
Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty. 
To make thy riches pleasant. What's yet in this. 
That bears the name of life ? Yet in this life 
Lie hid more thousand deaths ; yet death we fear^ 
That makes these odds al) evcsa.** 



THE 

MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 



The Merry Wivrs op Windsor is no doubt 
a very amusing play, with a great deal of hu«- 
mour, character, and nature in it: but we should 
have liked it much better, if any one else had 
been the hero of it, instead of Falstaff. We could 
have been contented if Shakespear had not been 
" commanded to shew the knight in love/^ Wits 
and philosophers, for the most part, do qot shine 
in that character ; and Sir John himself, by no 
means, comes off with flying colours. Many, 
people complain of the degradation and insults 
to which Don Quixote is so frequently exposed 
in his various adventures. But what are the 
unconscious indignities which he suffers, com- 
pared with the sensible mortifications which 
Falstaff is made to bring uppn himself? What 
are the.blows and buffettings which the Don re* 



328 THE MERRT WIVES OF WINDSOR. 

ceives from the staves of the Yanguesian car- 
riers or from Sancho Panza's more hard-hearted 

• 

hands, compared with the contamination of the 
buck-basket, the disguise of the fat woman of 
Brentford, and the horns of Heme the hunter, 
which are discovered on Sir John^s head? In read- 
ing the play, we indeed wish him well through 
all these discomfitures, but it would have been 
as well if he had'not got into them. Falstaff in 
the Merry Wives of Windsor is not the man 
he was in the two parts of Henry TV. His wit 
and eloquence have left him. Instead of making 
a butt of others, he is made a butt of by them. 
Neither is there a single particle of love in him 
to excuse bis follies: he is merply a designing, 
bare-faced knave, and an unsuccessful one. , The 
scene with Ford as Master Brook, and that with' 
Simple, Slender's man, who comes to ask after 
the Wise Woman, are almost the only ones 
in which his old intellectual ascendancy ap- 
pears. He is like a person recalled to the sjtage 
to perform an unaccustomed and ungracious 
part ; and in which we perceive only *' some 
faint sparks of those flashes of merriment, that 
were wont to set the hearers in a roar.*^ But 
the single scene with Doll Tearsdicet, or Mrs. 
Qiiickly's account of his desiring " to eat some 
of housewife Keach's prawns,^^ and telling her 
" to be no more so familiarity with such peo- 
ple,^^ is worth the whole of the Merry Wives 



\ 



THE MERRY WIVE6 OF WINDSOH. 5^ 

or Windsor put together. Ford^s jealoasy, 
which is the main spring of the comic incidents, 
IS certainly very well managed. Page, on the 
contrary, appears to be somewhat uxorious in 
his disposition ; and we have pretty plain indi-^ 
cations of the effect of the characters of the hus- 
bands on the different degrees of fidelity in their 
wives, Mrs. Quickly makes a very lively go- 
between, both between Falstaff and his Dulci- 
neas, and. Anne Page and her lovers, and seems 
ill. the latter case so intent on her ! own interest 
as totally to overlook the intentions of her em*- 
ployers. Her master. Doctor Gains, the French- 
man j: and> her fellow-servant Jack Bugby, are 
^very completely described. This last-^mentioned 
person is rather quaintly commended by Mrs. 
Quickly as ^' an honest, willing, kind fellow, as 
ever servant shall come in house withal, and I 
warrant you, no tell-tale, nor no breed-bate; 
his worst fault is that he is given to prayer ; he 
is something peevish that way ; but no body 
but has his fault.^'^ The Welch Parson, Sir 
Hugh Evans (a title which in those days was 
given to the clergy) is an excellent character in 
all respects. He is as respectable as he is laugh- 
able. He has " very good discretions, and very 
odd humours.^^ The duel-scene with Caius 
gives him an opportunity to shew his " cholers 
and his tremblings of mind,^' his valour and hjs 
melancholy, in an irresistible manner. In the 



ISa imt IfBBRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 

diald^e, which at his mother's request he holds 
with his pupil, William Pag«, to shew his pro* 
gress in learning, it is hard to say whether the 
simplicity of the master or the scholar is the 
greatest. Nym, Baidolph, and Pistol, are but 
the shadows of what they were; and Justice 
Shallow himself has little of his consequence 
left. But his cousin, Slender, makes up for the 
deficiency. He is a very potent piece of imbe«« 
cility. In him the pretensions of the worthy 
Gloucestershire family are well kept up, and 
immortalised. He and his friend Sackersbn and 
his book of songs and his love of Anne Page 
and bis having nothing to say to her Can never 
be forgotten. It is the only first-rate ^chara<;ter 
in the play : but it is in that class. Shakespear 
is the only writer who was as great in describ- 
ing weakness as strength. 



THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 



This comedy is taken very much firomiSie 
Mensechmi of.Plautus, and is not an ioiprove- 
ment on it. Shakespear appears to have be^ 
stowed no great pains on it, and there are but a 
few passages which bear the decided stamp of 
his genius. He seems to have relied on his 
author, and on the interest arising out of the 
intricacy of the plot. The curic^ity excited 19 
certainly very considerable, though not of the 
most pleasing kind. We are teazed as with a 
riddle, which notwithstanding we try to solve. 
In reading the play, from the sameness of the 
names of the two Antipholises and the two 
Dromios, as well from their being constantly 
taken for each other by those who. see them, it 
is difficulty without a painful effort of attention, 
to keep the characters distinct in the mind. 
And again, on the stage^ either the complete 



332 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 

similarity of their persons and dress must pro- 
duce the same perplexity whenever they first 
enter, or the identity of appearance which the 
story supposes, will be destroyed. We still, 
however, having a clue to the difficulty, can 
tell which is which, merely from the practical 
contradictions which arise, as soon as the dif- 
ferent parties begin to speak; and we are in- 
demnified for the perplexity and blunders into 
which we are thrown by seeing others thrown 
into greater and almost inextricable ones. — 
This play (among other considerations) leads us 
liot to feel pixuch regret that Shakespear was not 
what is called a classical scholar. We do not 
think his forte would ever have lain in imitat- 
ing or improving on what others invented, so 
much as in inventing for himself, and perfecting 
what he invented, — not perhaps by the omission 
of faults, but by the addition of the highest ex- 
cellencies. His own genius was strong enough 
to bear him up, and he soared longest and best 
on unborrowed plumes. — ^The only passage of 
a very Shakespearian cast in this comedy is the 
one in which the Abbess, with admirable cha- 
racteristic artifice, makes Adriana confess her 
own misconduct in driving her husband mad. 

'^ Abbess, How long hath this possession held the man? 
Adriana, This week he hath been heavy, sour, sad. 
And much, much different from the man he was ^ ' > 



THE CQMEDY Ot* ERRORS. 333 

But> till this afternoon^ his passion 
Ne*er brake into extremity of rage.. 

Abbess, Hath tie not lost much wealth by wreck at sta? 
Bury*d some dear ^end ? Hath not else his eye 
Stray'd his aflEection in unlawful lore? 
A sin prevailing much in youthful men^ 
Who give their eyes the libetty of gazing. 
Which of these sorrows is he subject to? > 

Adriana. To none of these> except it be the last : 
Namely^ some love» that drew him oft from home. 

Abbess, You should for that have reprehended him. 

Adriana, Why> so I did.. 

Abbess, But not rough enough. 

Adriana. As roughly as my modesty would let me. 

Abbess, Haply^ in private. 

Adriana. And in assemblies too. 

Abbess, Aye> but not enough. 

Adriana, It was the copy of our conference : 
In bed> he slept not for my urging it ; ^ 
At boardj he fed not for my urging it; 
Alone it was the subject of my theme ? 
In company^ I often glanc'd at it; 
Still did I tell him it was vile and bad. 

Abbess, And therefore came it that the man was mad: 
The venom*d clamours of a jealous woman 
Poison more deadly than a mod dog's tooth. 
It seems^ his sleeps were hindered by thy railing : 
And therefore comes it that his head is light. 
Thou say*st his meat was sauc*d'with thy upbraidings : 

« 

Unquiet meals make iU digestions^ 

Therefore the raging fire of fever bred : 

And what's a fever but a fit of madness ? 

Thou say'st his sports were hinder*d by thy brawb : 

Sweet recreation barr*d^ what doth ensue> 

But mopdy and dull melancholy^ 



834 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 

Kinsman to ^-im and oomfinrtiess despair} 
And> at her liee!s> a linge infectioua troop 
Of pale dktemperalUTe8> and foes to life? 
In fbod^ in aport^ soad life-preserving rest 
To be disturb'd^ would mad or man or beast: 
The consequence is tiien> thy jealous fits 
Jlave scared thy husband from the use of wits. 

Luciana. She never r^iehended faim but mildly> 
When he demeaned himself rough, nide> and wildly .^-^ 
. Why bear yon these rebukes, and answer not? 

Adriama. She did betray me to my own repioof." 

Pinch the conjuror is also an excrescence not 
to be found in Plautus. He is indeed a very 
formidable anachronism. 

'' They brought one Pinch, a hungry lean-&c*d villain, 
A meer anatomy, a mountebank, 
A thread-bare juggler and a fovtane^teQer, 
A needy, hoUow-ey'd, sharp^kxAIng wretch, 
A living dead man/' 

This is exactly likie some of the Puritanical por- 
traits to be met with in Hogarth. 



DOUBTFUL PLAYS 

OF 

SHAKESPEAR. 



Wk shall give for the satisfaction of the reader 
what the celebrated German critic, Schiegel, says 
on this subject, and then add a very few remarks 
of our own. 

" All the editors, with the exception of Ca# 
pell, are unanimous in rejecting Tttus Andranu 
cus as unworthy of Shak^spear, though they 
always allow it to be printed with the other 
pieces, as the scape*goat, as it were, of their 
abusive criticism. The correct method in such ^ 
an investigation is first to examine into the ex- 
ternal grounds, evidences, &c. and to weigh their 
worth ; and then to adduce the internal reasons 
derived from the quality of the work. The cri- 
tics of Shakespear follow a course directly the 
reverse of this ; they set out with a preconceived 
opinion against a piece, and seek, in justifi- 
cation of this opinion, to render the historical 



336 DOUBTFUL PLAYS. 

grounds suspicious, and to set them aside. Tttus 
Andronicus is to be found in the first folio edition 
of Shakespear's works, which it was known was 
^. conducted by Heminge and Condell, for many 

years his friends and fellow-managers of the same 
theatre. Is it possible to persuade ourselves 
that they would not have known if a piece in %, 
their repertory did or did not actually belong to 
Shakespear? And are we to lay to the charge 
of these honourable men a designed fraud in 
this single case, when we know that they did 
not shew themselves so very desirous of scraping 
every thing together which went by the dame^of 
Shakespear, but, as it appears, merely gave those 
plays of which they had manuscripts in hand? 
Yet the following circumstance is still stronger: 
George Meres, a contemporary - and adooirer of 
Shakespear, mentions Titus Andronicus in an 
enumeration of his works, in the year 1;598. 
Meres was piersonally acquainted with the poet, 
and so very intimately, that the latter read over* 
to him his Sonnets before they were printed. I 
cannot conceive that all the' critical scepticism 
in the world would be sufficient to get over such 
a testimony. 

" This tragedy, it is true^ is framed according 
to a false idea of the tragic, which by an accu- 
mulation of cruelties and enormities degenerates 
into the horrible, and yet leaves no deep im- 
pression behind : the story of TereUs and Philo- 



DODBTFITL: PLAYS* m 

mela is heightened and overcharged under other 
nameS) and mixedup^ with the repast of Atreus 
and. Thyestes, and mainy^ k>lher incidents. In 
detail there is no want of beautiful lines, bold 
knagseS', nay, ev«n features which betray the pen 
culiar conception of Sbakespear. Among these 
we may reckon the joy of the treacherous Moor 
at the blackness and ugliness of his child begot 
in. adultery ; and in the compassion of Titus 
Andronicus, grown childish through. grief, for a 
fly. which had been struck dead,. and his rage 
afterwards whW he itnhgiii^s he discovers in it 
his black ' enemy, we recognise the future poet 
of Leaf. Are the critics afraid that Shakespear^s 
fame would be injured, were it established that 
inihis early youth he ushered into the world a 
feeble and immatiire work^ .Was. Rome the less 
the conqueror of the world because Remus could 
leap, over its first walls ? ; Let any one place 
himself in Shakespear^s situation at the c6m^ 
mencem^ent of his careeri - He found only a few 
indifferent models, and yet these met with the 
most favourable reception, because men are never 
difficult tO' please> in the novelty of an art before 
their taste has become fastidious from choice 
and abundance. Must not this, situation have 
had its influence on him before he learned to 
make h^ber demands on himself, and by dig-* 
ging deepet in his own mind, discovered the 
richest veins of a mJble metal ? It is even highly 

z 



33a DOUBTFUL FLAYS; 

prdbabl^ that he must have made several fiiilures 
before getting into the right path. Genius is in 
axectain sense infallible, aiidhaa nothing to 
l^arn ; but; art is to be learned, and must be ac^ 
quired by practice and expefienee. In Shake-^ 
spear's acknowledged works we find hardly anyi 
traces of his apprenticeship, and yet. an appren^ 
tioeabip he certainly bad. This every artist 
mu$t have, and especially in a period, where he 
has not before. hi iti the exan>ple of a achool alu 
ready formed. ' I eodsider it aa extremely pron 
bahte, that* Shakespear began to write for the 
theatre at a ntmeh earlier period, than the one 
v^bich is generally stated, namely, nbt tiU after 
th0 year 1590. It appear^ that, aa edriy as the 
yea): 1584, when only twenty years di age, he 
had left his paternal hdaie and repairied to Lon- 
dc^. Can we imagine that sdch an active head 
wpikkl remain idle for' silc whole years without 
making any attempt to emerge by his talents 
froin an . uncongenial situation? That in the 
dedication of the poem ofcYenitsiaQd Adonis Iiei 
^Ik it,^^ the first heir of h^ invention,'^ prov^a 
npthing agunat the supposition. It^wisu^ the 
first which he printed; he. might hate com posed 
it at I an earlier period ^ perhaps, also, he did hot 
iQchide theatrical labbmrs, as they.tbeti piossesadi 
but; little literary dignity. The! earlier. Shakef- 
apear began to .compose for > the theatre, theies3 
aCe w& enabled :to consider the immaturity and 



DOUBTFUL PLAYS.- 330 

iimperfection of a work as a proof of its spurious* 
ness in opposition to historical evidence, if we 
only find in it prominent features of his mind* 
Several of the works rejected as spurious, may 
still have been produced in the period betwixt 
Titus Andronicus^ and the earliest of the ac- 
knowledged pieces. * 

^' At last, Steevens published seven pieces as- 
cribdd to Shakespear in two supplementary vo- 
lumes. It is to be remarked, that they all ap- 
peared in print in Shakespear's life-time, with- 
his name prefixed at full length. They are the 
following :— 

^^ 1. Locrine. The proofs of the genuineness 
of this piece are not altogether unambiguous; 
the grounds for doubt, on the other hand, are 
entitled to attention. However^ this questioii is 
immediately connected with that respecting Ti- 
tu8 Andronicm^ aiid must be at the same time 
resolved in the affirmative t)r negative. . 

" 2. Pericles J Prince of Tyre* This piece was 
acknowledged by Dryden, but as a youthful 
work of Shakespear. It is most undoubtedly 
his, and it has been admitted into several of the 
late editions. The supposed imperfections cfi- 
ginate in the circumstance, that Shakespear here 
handled a childish and extravagant romance of 
the old poet Gower, and was unwilling to drag 
the subject out of its proper sphere. Hence he 
even introduces Gower himself, and makes him 



340 DOUBTFUL PLAYS. 

I 

deliver a prologue entirely in bis antiquated, 
language and versification. This power of as- 
suming so foreign a manner is at least no proof 
of helplessness. 

^^ 3. The London ProdigaL If we are not 
mistaken, Lessing pronounced this piece to be 
Shakespear^s, and wished to bring it on the 
German stage; 

" 4k The Puritan ; or^ the Widow of Watltng^ 
Street. One of my literary friends, intimately 
acquainted with Shakespear, was of opinion that 
the poet must have wished to write a play for 
once in the style of Ben Jonson, and that in 
this way we must account for the difference be- 
tween the present piece and his usual manner. 
To follow out this idea however would lead to a 
very nice critical investigation. 

*^ 5* Thomas, Lord CromwelL 

" 6. Sir John Oldcastle-^First Part. 

" 7* ^ Yorkshire Tragedy. 

^^ The three last pieces are not only unqucfa- 
tionably Shakespear's, but in my. opinion they 
deserve to be classed among his best and ma- 
turest works. — Steevens admits at last, in some 
degree, that they are Shakespear's, as well as the 
others, excepting Locrine, but he speaks of all of 
them with great contempt, as quite worthless 
productions. This condemnatory sentence is 
not however in the slightest degree convincing, 
nor is it supported by critical acumeQ* I should 



DOUBTFUL PLAYS. 941 

like to see hove such a critic would, of his own 
natural suggestion, have decided on Shaiiespear's 
acknowledged master-pieces, and what he would 
have thought of praising in them, had the public 
opinion not imposed on him the duty of admira- 
tion. Thomas^ Lord Cromwell^ and Sir John 
Oldcaslle, are biographical dramas, and models 
in this species: the first is linked, from its sub- 
ject, to Henry the Eighth, and the second to 
Henry the Fifth. The second part of Oklcastle 
is .wanting; I know not whether a cqpy of the 
old edition has been discovered in England, or 
whether it is lost. The Yorkshire Tragedy is a 
tragedy in one act, a dramatised tale of murder: 
the tragical effect is overpowering, and it is ex- 
tremely important to see how poetically Shake- 
spear could handle such a subject. 

" There have been still farther ascribed to 
him : — 1st. The Merry Devil of Edmonton, a co- 
medy in one act, printed in Dodsley's old plays. 
This has certainly some appearances in its fa-» 
vour. It contains a merry landlord, who bears 
a great similarity to the one in the Merry Wives 
of Windsor^ However, at all events, though an 
ingenious, it is but a hasty sketch. 2d. The 
Accusation of Paris. 8d. The Birth of Merlin. 
4th. Edward the Third. 5th. The Fair Emma. 
6th. Miicedorus. 7th. Arden of Feversham. I 
have never seen any of these, and cannot there- 
fore say any thing respecting them. From the 



SM DOUBTFUL PLAYS. 

I 

passages cited, I am led to conjecture that the 
subject of Mucedorus is the popular story of Va- 
lentine and Orson ; a beautiful subject which 
Lope de Vega has also taken for a play. Ardmof 
Feversham is said to be a tragedy on the story of 
a man, from whom the poet was descended by the 
mother^s side. If the quality of the piece is not 
too directly at variance with this claim, the cir- 
cumstance would afford an additional probability 
in its favour. For such motives were not foreign 
to Shakespear : he treated Henry the Seventh, 
-who bestowed lands on his forefathers for ser- 
vices performed by them, with a visible par- 
tiality. 

" Whoever takes from Shakespear a play early 
ascribed to himv and confessedly belonging to 
his time, is unquestionably bound to answer, 
with some degree of probability, this question : 
who had then written it ? Shakespear's compe- 
titors in the dramatic walk are pretty well known, 
wd if those of them who have even acquired a 
considerable name, a Lilly, a Marlow, a Hey- 
wood, are still so very far below him, we can 
hardly imagine that the author of a work, which 
rises so high beyond theirs, would have remained 
unknown.^' — Lectures on Dmmatic Literature, 
vol. ii. page 253. 

- We agree to the truth of this last observation, 
but not to the justice of its appUcatioq to some of 
the plays here mentioned. It is true that Shake- 



DOUBTFUL FLUtVB.: Si» 

bdst wcnrks me very stfperior to tbose of 
Jlfarlow, or Hey wood, but it is not true that the 
best of the doubtful plays tbove enumerated atfe 
superior w even equal to the best of tbeips. 
The Yorkshire. Tragedy^ which Schlegel speaks 
of as. an undoubted production of our author's^ is 
much moi*e in the manner of Hey wood than Of 
Sfa&kespear. The effect is indeed oirerpoweriAg'^ 
bat the mode of producing it is by no means 
poedcaL The ptaiise which Schlegel gives to 
Thatnms, - Lord Cromwell^ and to Sir John Old^ 
cuitle^: is altogether exaggerated. They are very 
indifferent compositions, which have not the 
sbghtest pretensions to rank with Henry V. or 
Henry VII L We suspect that the German critic 
w^ not very well acquainted with the dramatic 
cod temporaries of Shakespfi^r, or aware of their 
general merits ; and tbftt be accordingly, mistakep 
a resemblance in style ^nd . manner for an e(}ual 
degree of excellence^ . Shakesp«ar. differed fh»^ 
the other writers lof. his. ^ge not in the mddeof 
treating bis subjiaQts^ but in the graee and.power 
which he. displayed in fcbeib^ The .realson as-i 
signed by a literary fiiend.of SeblefgePii for snp*- 
po^ng The Puriiftn; or, the Widow of WiUUng 
jSlr^el,. to be Sbakesfre^r^s^ viz. that it is in. the 
style of Ben Jonson,. that is to say^ in a style, 
just the reverse of his own, is. not very satisfac-^ 
tory to a plain English understanding. Locrine^ 
and The London Prodigal, if they were Shake-^ 



344 DOUBTFUL iPI/AYa 

spear's at all, must have been atnong the sins xif: 
bis youth. Arden of Feversham eontains sevenii 
striking passages, btit the passion which they 
express is rather that of a sanguine temperament 
than of a lofty imagination ; and in this respect 
they approximate more nearly to the style of 
other writers of the time than to Shakespear's* 
Titus Andromcus is certainly as unlike Shake* 
spear's usual style as it is possible. It is an ac- 
cumulation of vulgar pfaysiciil horrors, in which 
the power exercised by the po^t bears no pro- 
portion to the repugnance excited by the subject* 
The character of Aaron the Moor is the only 
thing which shews any originality of concep- 
tion ; and the scene in which he expresses his 
joy '' at the blackness and ugliness of his child 
begot in adultery,'' the only one worthy of Shake- 
spear. Even this is worthy of him only in the 
display of power, for it gives no pleasure. 
Shakespear managed these things differently. 
Nor do we think it a sufficient answer to say 
that this was an embryo or crude production of 
the author. In its kind it is full grown, and its 
features decided and overcharged. It is not like 
a first imperfect essay, but shews a confirmed 
habit, a systematic preference of violent effect 
to every thing else. There are occasional de- 
tached images of great beauty and delicacy,, 
but these were not beyond the powers of other 
writers then living. The circumstance wbkb 



DOUBTFUL PLAYS. 345 

inclines us to reject the external evidence in 
favour of this play being Sbakespear's is, that the 
grammatical construction is constantly false and 
mixed up with vulgar abbreviations, a fault that 
never occurs in any of his genuine plays. A si- 
milar defect, and the halting measure of the verse 
are the chief objections to Pericles of Tyre^ if 
we except the far-fetched and complicated ab- 
surdity of the story. The movement of the 
thoughts and passions has something in it not 
unlike Shakespear, and several of the descrip- 
tions are either the original hints of passages 
which Shakespear has ingrafted on his othet 
plays, or are imitations of them by some co« 
temporary poet. The most memorable idea in 
it is in Marina's speech, where she compares 
the world to '' a lasting storm, hurrying her from 

t 

her friends.'* 






POEMS AND SONNETS. 



Oun idolatry pf Sbak^pear {iM>t to s^iy oor ^ad- 
miration) Q?fii^ witb» bis plays. In bjs otb.ier 
produ.ctionsy he was a mere authoFt tl^ough not 
a common autbcMT. ; It was only by representing 
others, that he became himself. He could.go out 
of himself, and express the soul of Cleopatra; 
but in his own person, he appeared to be al- 
ways waiting for the prompter's cue. In expres- 
sing the thoughts of others, he seemed inspired ; 
in expressing bis own» he was a mechanic. The 
licence of an assumed character was necessary 
to restore his genius to the privileges of nature, 
and to give him courage to break through the 
tyranny of fashion, the trammels of custom. In 
his plays, he was '^ as broad and casing as the 
general air :^' in his poems, on the contrary, he 
appears to be " cooped, and cabined in*' by all 
the technicalities of art, by all the petty intrica- 



POEMS AND SONNETS. 847 

cies of thought and Jangus^e, which poetry had 
learned from the controversial jargon of the 
schools, where words. had been- made a sub* 
stitute for things* There was, if we mistake 
not, something of modesty, and a painful sense 
of personal propriety at the bottom of this. 
Sh^kespear^s imagination, by identifying itself 
with the strongest characters in the most try- 
ing circumstances, grappled at once with nature^ 
and trampled the littleness of art under his fe^t : 
the rapid changes of situation, the wide range 
of the universe, gave him life and spirit, add 
afforded full scope to his genius; but return- 
ed into his closet again, and having assumed 
the badge of his profession, he could only labour 
in his vocation, and conform himself to existing 
models. The thoughts, the passions, the words 
which the poet's pen, " glancing from heaven to 
earth, from earth to heaven,^' lent to others, 
shook pff the fetters of pedantry and affec- 
tation ; while his own thoughts and feelings, 
standing by themselves,! were siezed upon as 
lawful prey, and tortured to death according to 
the established rules and practice of the day. In 
a word, we do not like Shakespear's poems, be- 
cause we like his plays : the one, in all theit 
excellencies, are just the reverse of the other. 
It has been the fashion of late to cry up our 
author'^s poems, as equal to his plays: this is 
the desperate cant of modem criticisib. We 



348 POEMS AND SONNETS. 

would ask, was there the slightest comparisoa 
between Shakespear, and either Chaucer or 
Spenser, as mere poets? Not any.-^-The two 
poems of Venus and Adonis and of Tarquin and 
Lucrece appear to us like a couple of ice-houses. 
They are about as hard, as glittering, and as cold. 
The author seems all the time to be thinking of 
his verses, and not of his subject,— not of what 
jbis characters would feel, but of what he shall 
^ay ; and as it must happen in all such cases, 
he always puts into their mouths those things 
which they would be the last to think of, and 
which it shews the greatest ingenuity in him to 
find out. The whole is laboured, up-hill work. 
The poet is perpetually singling out the difficul- 
ties of the art to make an exhibition of his 
strength and skill in wrestling with them. He is 
making perpetual trials of them as if his mas^ 
tery over them were doubted. The images, 
which are often striking, are generally applied to 
things which they are the least like: so that they 
do not blend with the poem, but seem stuck up- 
on it, like splendid patch-work, or remain quite 
distinct from it, like detachied substances, painted 
and varnished over. A beautiful thought is sure 
to be lost in an endless commentary upon. it. The 
speakers are like persons who have both leisure 
and inclination to make riddles on their own si- 
tuation, and to twist and turn every object or 
incident into aciostics^ and anagrams. Every 



•■-• 



POEMS AND SONNBTS. 349 

thing is spun out into allegory ; and a digression 
is always preferred to the main story. Senti- 
ment is built up upon plays of words ; the hero 
or heroine feels, not from the impulse of passion> 
but from the force of dialectics. There is besides 
a strange attempt to substitute the language of 
painting for that of poetry, to make us see their 
feelings in the faces of the persons ; and again, 
consistently with this, in the description of the 
picture in Tarquin and Lucrece, those circum- 
stances are chiefly insisted on, which it would be 
impossible to convey except by words. The in- 
vocation to Opportunity in the Tarquin and Lu- 
crece is full of thoughts and images, but at the 
same time it is over-loaded by them. The con- 
cluding stanza expresses all our objections to 
this kind of poetry : — 

** Oh ! idle word8> servants to shallow fools ; - 
Unprofitable sounds^ weak arbitrators ; 
Busy yourselves in skill-contending schools -, 
Debate when leisure serves with dull debaters ; 
To trembling clients be their mediators : 
For me I force not argument a straw^ 
Since that my case is past all help of law." 

The description of the horse in Venus and 
Adonis has been particularly admired, and not 
without reason : — 

<^ Round hoofd^ short jointed^ fetlocks shag and long> 
Broad breast^ full eyes, small head and nostril wide^ 
High crests short ears^ strait legs^ and passing strong. 
Thin mane^ thick tail> broad buttock^ tender hide^ 



S50 POEMS AND SONNETS. 

Look what a horse should have« he did not lack> 
Save a proud rider on so proud a hack.*' 

Now this inventory of perfections shews great 
knowledge of the horse ; and is good matter-of- 
fact poetry. Let the reader but compare it with 
a speech in the Midsummer Nighfs Dreamwheve 
Theseus describes his hounds^ — 

'' Asxd their heads are hung 
With ears that sweep away the morning dew" — 

and he will perceive at once what we mean by 
the difference between Shakespear's own poetry, 
atid that of his plays. We prefer the Pass^ionate 
Pilgrim very much to the Lover's Complain.t. 
It has been doubted whether the latter poem is 
Shakespear's. 

Of the sonnets we do, not well know what to 
say. The subject of them seem» to be somewhat 
equivocal ; but many of them are highly beaui- 
tiful in themselves, and interesting as they re-* 
Jate to the state of the personal feelings of the 
author. The following are some of the most 
striking: — 

CONSTANCY. 

'' Let those who are in &w)iar with their stars^ 
Of public honour and proud titles boasts 
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars, 
Unlook*d for joy in that I honour most. 
Great princes* favourites their feir leaves spread^ 
But as the marigold in the sun*s eye ; 



P0£MS and sonnets, 351 

< 

And in themsdves their pricle lies buried^ 

For at a firowa they in their, glory die. 

The painful warrior &mou8'd,fbr fight,. 

After a thousand vietories once foiVct 

Is from the book of hpnour raised quite. 

And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd : 
Then happy I, that love and am belov'd. 
Where I may not remove, nor be remov'd/* 

LOVES CONSOLATION. 

'( When in disgrace with fortune and laxeD!^ eyes, 
I all alone beweep my out-cast state. 
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries. 
And look upon myself, a^d curse my flBite, 
Wishing me like to one more rich in bope^ 
Featured like him, like him with friends possess*d. 
Desiring this man*s art« and that man's scope. 
With what I most enjoy contented 1/^ast : 
Yet in these thoughts myself almost diypifting. 
Haply I think on 'thee, — and .tbyei^ my static. 
(Like to the.lark at break of, day arising 
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate ; 
For thy sweet lore remembei**d> such wsahh brings 
That then I scorn to change my state with kings/* 

NOVELTY. 

'^ My love is strengthen*d^ though more weak in seeming; 
I love not less, though less the show appear : 
That love is merchandised, whose rich esteeming 
The owner's tongue doth publish every where. 
Our love was new^ and then but in the springs 
When I was wont to greet it with my lays : 
As Philomel in summer's front doth sing> 
And stops his pipe in growth of riper days : 
Not that the summer is less pleasant now > 



352 PQEWAl^ SONNETS. 

Than when her mournful hyinns did hush the nighty 
3ut that v^d music burdens every bought 
And sweets gro#n common lose their deaii^delight. 
Tl|brefore> like her^ I sometime hold my tongue^ 
Because I would not dull you with my song.*' 

LIFE'S DECAY. f 

*' That time of year thou may'st in me behold 
When yellow leaves^ or none^ or few do hang 
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold^ 
Bare ruin*d choirs^ where late the sweet birds sang. 
In me thou seest the twilight of such day^ 
As after sim-set fadeth in the west. 
Which by and by blaok night doth take away> 
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. 
In me* thou see'st the glowing of such fire. 
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie. 
As the death-bed whereon it must expire, 
€onsum*d with that which it was nourish'd by. 
This' thou perceiv*st^ which makes thy love more strong. 
To love that well which thou must leave ere long." 

In ail these, as well as in many others, there 
is a mild tone of sentiment, deep, mellow, and 
sustained, very different from the crudeness of 
his earlier poems. 



THE BND. 



LONDON: PRINTED BY C. H. RBYNELL^ 
31, PICCADILLY.— 1817> 



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