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THE

LIFE

SHAKSPEARE;

ENQUIRIES

INTO

THE ORIGINALITY OF HIS DRAMATIC PLOTS

AND CHARACTERS;

AND

ESSAYS

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By AI^GUSTINE'SKOTTOWE.

Z2Sr TWO VOLUMES.

VOL.L /^^^BlLl!^

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR

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LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, BROWN, AND GREEN,

PATERNOSTER-ROW.

1824.

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CHARLES MILLS, Es^.

AS A SINCERE

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AND OF GRATITUDE FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP.

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PREFACE.

In 1753, Mrs. Lennox pubKshed a work entitled
** Shakspeare Illustrated; or, the Novels and
Histories on which the Plays of Shakspeare are
founded.*^ The subject was well chosen ; for
as Johnson, the friend of the authoress, observed
with regard to Milton's great poem, " it must
be interesting to find what was first projected,
whence the scheme was taken, how it was im-
proved, by what assistance it was executed, and
from what stores the materials were collected j
whether its founder dug them from the quarries
of nature, or demolished other buildings to em.
bellish his own.**

Of the thirty-five plays usually ascribed to
Shakspeare, Mrs. Lennox entirely neglected no
less than twelve. Of the twenty-three on which
she wrote " essays, she failed in six instances of

VI PREFACE.

tracing them to their correct sources; and of
ten of the rest, she gave imperfect accounts of
Shakspeare*s materials. Without offering any
criticism on her " Illustrations** of the remain-
ing seven plays, it is evident that there is room
for another work on the subject.

Our great dramatist almost invariably select-
ed for the plot of his drama an event of history,
a romantic tale, or some previous dramatic com-
position, and imposed upon himself an almost
implicit adherence to his authorities, even in
cases where great improvement might have been
effected with little pains. For the alteratio7is
which he chose to make, he is not often to be
praised : his additions to his originals are, how-
ever, almost always excellent ; and so beauti-
fully has he blended the separate actions, that
they appear always to have formed one consistent

whole.

The characters of Shakspeare*s absolute
creation are as many as those which he pre-
pared on previous hints ; and, though his
serious dramas far outnumber his comedies, his

PREFACE. VU

comic portraits are somewhat more numerous
than his tragic. In point of importance, how-
ever, the preponderance is greatly on the side of
the tragic characters, and the fact is easily ac-
counted for : the materials borrowed were most-
ly serious fables, or grave historical events ; the
personages engaged in their transaction were of
a corresponding tone of mind, and the poet was
compelled to concede them a prominence on the
scene in some degree commensurate with their
prominence in the narrative.

Scarcely one of Shakspeare*s tragic characters
was conceived by himself; a singular fact, con-
sidering that his comic characters, with the ex-
ception of about half-a-dozen, were entirely his
own. The conclusion is inevitable that the bent
of his mind was decidedly comic. Why, with
such a disposition, so large a majority of the
subjects selected by him were serious, it is in vain
to enquire ; but it appears, that he eagerly sought
every opportunity which such a selection left
him, to indulge his fancy's course. His predi-
lection for the ludicrous required a wider field for

VIU PREFACE.

its display than was afforded him in his few
comedies ; and, with the mask and sock, he gjuly
rushed upon the consecrated ground of the tragic
muse, engrafting incidents purely comic on sub-
jects the most serious.

The biography of Shakspeare, and the History
of the Stage are subjects on which every lover of
the poet is desirous of information, and with a
view of making these volumes a Companion to
Shakspeare, both have been added to the origi-
nal design of illustrating the dramatist by com-
paring his plays with the materials used in their
construction* These additions will contribute,
it is hoped, to the general utility of the book ;
and, with the aid of such information as the
commonest editions of the poet afford, the ge«
neral reader will be furnished with all the eluci-
datory information he can require, and be spared
the pain of wading through the commentators'
tomes of controversy.

THE

LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.*

A FAMILY variously named Shaxper, Shake-
speare, Shakspere and Shakspearef, was spread
over the woodland part of Warwickshire in the
sixteenth century. They were tradesmen and
husbandmen, and their property was at least re*
spectable ; different depositories of legal writings
proving it to have been frequently the subject
of judicial controversy and testamentary dis-
position.

Of that particular branch of the family whence
the poet descended, nothing whatever is known
beyond his immediate parentt, John Shakspeare,
who was originally a glover §, and, subsequently,

* Note A. » t N^^® ^•

j: Rowe's account of the family is this : <' It appears by
the register, and other public writings of Stratford, that the
poet's family were of good figure and fashion there, and are
mentioned as gentlemen." This is extremely inaccurate.

§ A manuscript of the proceedings of the Bailiff's Court
in 1555, which so describes him.

VOL. I. B

S THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.

a butcher*, and also a dealer in wool in the
town of Stratford.t He filled various municipal
offices in the borough; among the records of
which his name first appears in 1555, in an ac-
count of the proceedings of it\e bailiff's court.
In Michaelmas, 1557, or some time very slightly
subsequent t, he was admitted a member of the
corporation. In September, 1561, he was elected
one of the chamberlains, and filled that office
during two successive years. In 15G5 he was
invested with an alderman's gown ; and in 1568
he attained the supreme honours of the borough,
by serving as high-bailiff from Michaelmas in
that year to the same festival in the following.
Two years afterwards, 1571, he was elected and
sworn chief alderman for the ensuing year. §

* Aubrey. . f Rowe.

'^ On Michaelmas day, 15579 John Lewis was the last on
the list of burgesses, and there were then four vacancies.
The next existing enumeration of burgesses is one dated
1564, in which John Shakspeare stands next but one toLewis :
he, therefore, probably, was elected into one of the va-
cancies mentioned. On this occasion Malone says, in the
text of his Life of Shakspeare, " It appears from a paper
inserted below, &c." We look below, and are met by, " See
Appendix." We look in the Appendix, and search in vain
for the promised document. Similar disappointment is oc-
casioned in the two succeeding pages, 76, 77.

§ Regist. Burg. Strat. Whatever respectability the cor-
poration of Stratford boasted, their claims to erudition must
have been most humble : out of nineteen members of that

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 3

The progress of John Shakspeare in municipal
distinctions is an implication of respectability
which is supported by other considerations. His
charities rank him in the secondclassof the towns-
men of Stratford* ; a public document, referring
to the year of his magistracy, states him to have
been possessed of property .to the amount of five
hundred pounds t ; so early as 1556 he was the
bolder of the leases of two houses, one in Green-
hill, the other in Henley-street, Stratford, and in
1570 he rented fourteen acres of land, called
Ingon, or Ington, meadow.J His prosperity
was undiminished in 1574', when he purchased
two houses, with a garden and orchard annexed
to each, in Henley-street, Stratford. §

body who signed a paper in 1564, only seven could write
their names, and among the twelve who set their mark is
John Shakspeare ; he is kept in countenance, however, by the
then chief magistrate, whose cross is ostentatiously termed
^< the sign manual of the high bailiff."

* Itt a subscription for the relief of the poor in 1564, put
of twenty-four persons, twelve gave more, six the same, and
six less than John Shakspeare : in a second subscription by
fourteen persons, eight gave more, five the same, and one
less.

f Grant of arms to John Shakspeare, 1596.

X Regist. Burg. Strat. Two indentures in the Roll's
chapel.

§ Chirograph of a fine levied to John Shakspeare, by
Edmund Hall, and Emma his wife, in 1574. Deed exe-
cuted by Elizabeth and Thomas Nash in 1639*

B 2

^ THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.

While in the exercise of his magisterial office,
John Shakspeare obtained from the Herald's
College a concession of arms. From some unex-
plaitied cause, he made another application for
a grant of arms in 1596, with similar success ;
and, in 1599, procured a confirmation, or ex-
emplification, of the former grants, with per-
mission, in consideration of his marriage with
Mary Arden, to impale his own with the arms
of that ancient family.* Some property in
money, an estate in land, and an exaltation in
rank, were the beneficial consequences of this
alliance.f

Mary was the youngest daughter of Robert
Arden, of Wilmecote in Warwickshire. The
Arden family was of great antiquity, and, in
the reign of Henry the Seventh, in particular,
of some consideration. Sir John Arden, the
elder brother of Mrs. Shakspeare's great-grand-
father, was squire for the body of that king ; her
grandfather was groom, or page, of the bedcham-
ber to the same monarch, who rewarded his fide-
lity by constituting him keeper of the park of Al-
dercar, and bailiff of the lordship of Codnore.t

* Note C.

f Robert Arden's will. John Shakspeare's bill of com-
plaint against Lambert.

J Grant of arms to John Shakspeare. Fuller's Worthies.

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. O

In 1574, John Shakspeare's affairs began
to fall into decay. In 1578, he mortgaged the
small estate he enjoyed through his wife, for forty
pounds* ; and his difficulties were so well known
to his brothers of the corporation, that they re-
mitted to him, in the same year, the payment
of half the sum of six shillings and eight pence
levied upon each alderman, and entirely ex-
empted him from a weekly contribution of four
pence to the poor.t At the same time, also, he
was indebted five pounds to a baker at Stratford,
and compelled to obtain collateral securities for
its payment, t In the following year his name
is among the defaulters to a contribution for the
purchase of defensive armour and weapons. §
In 1585-6, a distress was issued for the seizure
of his goods, which his poverty, however,
rendered nugatory, it being returned " Joh*es
Shackspere nihil habet unde distr. potest le-

Dugdale's Antiq. Sir John Arden's will, 1526, Prerog.
Off. Grants to Robert Arden. An Inquisition made in
1591.

* John Shakspeare's bill of complaint against John
Lambert.

f Regist. Burg. Strat.

% List of debts appended to Roger Sadler's will. Pk'erog^
Off. \

§ Regist. Durg. Strat.

B 3

6 THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.

vari.*** He was shortly after dismissed from
the corporation for a neglect of attendance at
the halls for the seven preceding years t ; and,
in 1587, subjected to an action for debt.t The
precise state of his affairs during the ten suc-
ceeding years is not known, but it does not
seem likely, from his describing himself in 1597
as of " very small wealth and very few friends,"
that the sun of prosperity ever again shone upon
him § ; and a supplication from the bailiff and
burgesses of Sti'atford, in 1590, records the
hopeless depression of the once highly pros-
perous trade of a woolstapler. The town had
then " fallen into much decay for want of such
trade as heretofore they had by clothing and
making of yarn, employing and maintaining a
number of poor people by the same, which now
live in great penury and misery, by reason they
are not set at work as before they h^ve been/*^
John' Shakspeare died in 1601;. His family
was numerous : Jone, Margaret, William, Gil-
bert, Jone, Ann, Richard, and Edmund. || The

* Register of the. Bailiff's Court.

f Regist. Burg. Strat.

X Declaration filed in the Bailiff^s Court.

§ Bill of complaint against John Lambert.

ifl Supplication to the Lord Treasurer Burghley.

II Note p.

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 7

first born, Jone, died in earliest infancy, and
Margaret when only five months old. William
was the poet. Of Gilbert nothing appears after
the registry of his baptism* : the register, indeed,
mentions the burial of " Gilbert Shakspeare,
adolescens,** in 1611-12, who might, or might
not, have been the son of the elder Gilbert.
Jone married William Hart, a hatter in Strat-
ford. She died in 1646, leaving three sons.t
She was remembered in her immortal brother's
will by a contingent legacy of fifty pounds to
her and her children ; a bequest of twenty pounds,
all his wearing apparel, and the house which she
then occupied, at a yearly rent of one shilling,
for her life. The Harts have continued in
Stratford during the two centuries which have
elapsed since the poet's death. In 1794, one of
Shakspeare's two houses in Henley-street was
the property of Thomas Hart, a butcher, the
sixth in descent from Jone. Ann Shakspeare
died in infancy .t Richard was buried in 1612-
13. § • Edmund Shakspeare embraced the calling

* The text states the fact literally ; but 1 have no doubt
that Gilbert lived till after the Restoration of Charles II.,
and was that brother of Shakspeare of whom Oldys reports,
that he saw the dramatist perform the character of Adam
in As You Like It. See Note N.

t Parish Register of Stratford. % Ibid. § IbieL

B 4

8 THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.

of an actor, influenced, probably, in his choice
by the connection of his brother with the theatre.
He was a player at the Globe, lived in St.
Saviour's, and was buried in the church of that
parish on the 31st of December, I607.*

William Shakspeare was born at Stratford-
upon-Avon, in April, 1564 1, a fact which com-
prises the whole of the poet's history till he is
found, " for some time," at the free grammar
school of his native townt, where he, doubtless,
acquired the Latin, " the small Latin,*' that his
friend Ben Jonson assures us he was master of.
The narrowness of his parent's circumstances
was an insuperable bar against the progress of
his education, and he was summoned home to
assist in the occupation of his father §, which,
at the period now spoken of, was that of a but-
cher, if the tradition is to be credited which
relates that young Shakspeare killed a calf in
«* high style," and graced his slaughter by a
speech.^ The same authority assigns also to

* Register of Saint Saviour's parish.

f Parish Register. He was baptized on the 26th, and
the day of his birth is said to have been the 23d, but on no
sufficient authority

J Rowe, § Rowe.

^ Aubrey. A good story is seldom good enough for
Aubrey. He adds, " There was at that time another
butcher's son in this town, that wai^ held not at all inferior to

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 9

his younger years the occupation of a school-
master in the country.*

Shakspeare had scarcely attained the age of
eighteen, when he married. His wife was Anne,
the daughter of Richard Hathaway, a substantial
yeoman in the neighbourhood of Stratfbrd.t
She was twenty-six years of age, (eight years
older than her husband,) who neither bettered
his circumstances, nor elevated himself in society
by the connection. In the following year, 1583,
his daughter Susanna was bom; and about
eighteen months afterwards his wife bore twins,
a son and a daughter, who were baptized by the
names of Hamnet and Judith.t

Shakspeare's marriage was no proof of his
worldly prudence, nor was the next great event
in his life of a wiser character.

His associates, it is recorded, were dissolute,
and some of them made a frequent practice of

him for a natural wit, his acquaintance and coetanean,
but died young."

* Aubrey. Note E.

f Rowe says, " the daughter of one Hathaway." The
inscription on her tomb-stone, in Stratford church, proves
her christian name and her age. ^' Here lyeth interred the
body of Anne, wife of William Shakspeare, who departed
this life the 6th August, 1623, being of the age of 67 years."
The date of Shakspeare's marriage is only known by re-
ference to the birth of the first child. Note F.

j; Parisli Register.

10 . THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.

deer-stealing. Shakspeare was, on one more than
one occasion, induced to join them in their in-
cursions on the property of Sir Thomas Lucy, of
Charlecote, in the neighbourhood of Stratford.
The opinions of the injurer and the injured, in
a case of this sort, were not very likely to ac-
cord ; and it, therefore, excites no surprise that,
on detection, Shakspeare imagined himself too
harshly treated. In revenge, he affixed a scur-
rilous ballad to the gate of the owner of the
stolen deer.* One stanza of the offensive pas-
quinade has descended in connection with the
story of its author's indiscretion :

<^ A parliament member, a justice of peace,
At home a poor scare-crowe, at London an asse,
If lowsie is Lucy, as some volke miscalle it,
Then Lucy is lowsie whatever befall it :

He thinks himself greate.

Yet an asse in his state
We allowe by his ears but with asses to mate.
IT Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscalle it.
Sing lowsie Lucy, whatever befall it."f

* Rowe.

f Jones of Tarbick, — related by Oldys and Capell.
The ballad has,at last, been discovered entire; but unaccom-
paniedby any illusion to the occasion of its composition. The
lines in the text are printed as two stanzas in the entire ballad.

^^ He thinks himself greate, yet an asse in his state,"
forming the first line of the second stanza. Note G.

THE .LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 11

This aggravation of injury by insult was produc-
tive of the very natural consequence of increased
severity on the part of Sir Thomas Lucy, and
proceedings were urged so far against the youth-
ful offender, as to induce him to fly from the
place of his nativity, the seat of his business and
the bosom of his family.* The date of his de-
parture is uncertain. It might have been pre-
vious to 1585, though his twin children were
baptized at Stratford in the February of that
year ; and it might, with, perhaps, greater pro-
bability; be assigned to a subsequent period.

The inhabitants of Stratford were great lovers
of the3.trical amusements. No less than four-
and-twenty visitations were made them by com-
panies of comedians between 1569, when
Shakspeare was five years old, and 1587. The
names of Burbage and Green occur, both in the
London companies of actors and in the lists of
the townsmen of Stratford.t From his earliest
childhood, therefore, to his advancement into
manhood, the attention of Shakspeare was di-
rected to the stage, by frequently recurring at-
traction, and in. all probability, by an acquaint-
ance, aad association with comedians. When a
change of life became unavoidable, it is natural

♦ Rowe. - t Note H.

12 THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.

to suppose that he yielded to the predilection
of his youth. His fugitive steps were directed
to London : he there embraced the occupation
of a player, and, subsequently, of a writer for
the stage. *

Shakspeare's arrival in the metropolis is an
era in the history of the theatre, and I shall
therefore trace the national drama from its birth,
through its slow and sickly growth, to the time
of which I am writing. A natural curiosity
will be similarly gratified by the collection and
arrangement of the scattered and various in-
formation we possess relative to the theatres and
theatrical usages of Shakspeare*s time, for who
can be indifferent respecting the circumstances
under which his works were first introduced, and
exhibited, upon the stage ? t

Mysteries, or miracle-plays, were mostly
founded on the characters and events of sacred
writ, or on the superstitions with which the fair
form of religion was surrounded. On the per-
sonification of the Deity, of Christ, and the
Holy 6host ; and on the representation on the
stage of the Incarnation, the Passion, the Resur-
rection, and Ascension, not a syllable need be
said ; nor is the appearance of Adam and Eve,

* Note I. Note J.

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 13

in one scene, naked and not ashamed^ and in the
next covered with fig leaves, exactly a topic for
criticism. The Devil was a particular favourite
with the audience ; usually displaying horns, a
very wide mouth, large eyes and nose, a flame-
coloured beard, a cloven foot, and a tail. A nim-
ble personage, called the Vice, was his constant
companion, whose wit consisted in jumping on
the devil*s back, and in the buffoonery of chast-
ising him with a wooden sword, till his satanic
majesty bellowed lustily under the infliction.
The altercation of Noah and his wife in the De-
luge, is a specimen of the treatment of sacred
subjects, when converted into mysteries. " Wel-
come, wife, into this boat," is the polite saluta-
tion of the attentive husband on handing his
lady into the ark ; " Take thou that for thy
note,** with the dutiful accompaniment of a box
on the ear, is the eloquent rejoinder of the mother
of the modem world. These productions,
wretched and impious as they seem to us, were
deemed serviceable to the interests of religion.
Festivals and saints' days were selected for their
performance ; a pardon of one thousand days
was awarded by the Pope, and forty additional
days by the bishop of the diocese, to all who re-
sorted in Whitsun week to the representation of
' the series of mysteries at Chester, " beginning

14 THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.

with the Creation and fall of Lucifer, and ending
with the general judgment of the world/* Mo-
nasteries, abbeys, and churches, were the usual
places of their exhibition, and, for some time,
the clergy themselves the only performers ; but,
by degrees, many of the parts fell into the hands
of the scholars and choir-boys, attached to the
monastic establishments, and on them the entire
performance ultimately devolved, the clergy
being prohibited, by an injunction from the
Mexican council, ratified at Rome in 1589, from
ever pla3dng in mysteries again. The parish-
clerks of London availed themselves of their
ability to read, and performed spiritual plays at
Skinner's Well, for three days successively, be-
fore Richard the Second, his queen, and the no-
bles of the realm.

The popularity of miracle-plays and mysteries
continued through four centuries. Early in
1500 their performance was, however, more oc-
casional than heretofore. The Chester mys-
teries were revived for the last time in 1574, and
the exhibition, in the reign of James the First,
of Christ's Passion, on Good Friday, was the
final degradation which subjects so solemn ex-
perienced on the stage.

The first departure in mysteries from the li-
teral representation of scriptural and legendary

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 15

Stories, was the introduction of allegorical cha-
racters as auxiliary to the main design. Some
attention was then bestowed on plot, description
of manners, and discrimination of character.
Sin, death, faith, hope, charity, and the leading
passions or vices of mankind, personified, at
length became the principal agents, and dramas
so constructed were called moralities, in contra-
distinction to mysteries. Moralities made their
appearance about the middle of the fifteenth
century, from which time they divided popula-
rity pretty equally with mysteries, till the im-
proved understanding of the audience drove both
from the stage.

Mysteries naturally paved the way for the
adoption of historical * or romantic tales, as the
subject of a drama ; and from moralities, wherein
the characters were allegorical, and the plot fan-
cifUl, the transition was easy to entertainments
of nearer approach to the regular play.

The custom of exhibiting pageants on great
public occasions, in honour, and for the recrea-
tion, of royalty, powerfully aided the introduc-
tion of the drama. Appropriately habited, his-
torical and allegorical characters represented
stories in dtrnihsheto on temporary moveable
stages in the streets. In the reign of Henry the
Sixth; dialogue and set speeches in verse were

16 THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.

added. Hence may be deduced those most in-
congruous productions,masquesj hence ideaswere
derived of the introduction of profane cha-
racters on the stage, and the mixture, subse-
quently met with, of pantomime and dialogue in
the same play, and the allegorical representation
in dumb shew of the matter of the scenes which
followed.

It is to the universities, inns of court, and
public seminaries, however, that we are indebted
for the first regular dramas which our language
boasts. The scholars of these establishments
assiduously engaged in free translations of the
classical models of antiquity, and in the compo-
sition and performance of plays constructed on
their modeL The eai'liest tragedy, Gorboduc, or
Ferrex and Porrex, the joint eflfort of Sackville
Lord Buckhurst, and Thomas Norton, was per-
formed at the Inner Temple in 1561-2 ; and the
first comedy, Gammar Gurton's Needle, a ju-
venile production of Bishop Still, was acted at
Christ's Church, Cambridge, in 1566.

There is a general similarity between all the
plays that preceded Shakspeare's dramatic ef-
forts. Their authors had no notion of a plot
comprehending one great design, nor of a plot
consisting of several actions emanating from the
same source, or combining for the promotion of

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. IJ

the sarae end, consistent with, though varying
froQfi, each other. They either ran into the error
of framing their story with such bald simplicity,
that it was scarcely worthy the name of story at
all, or they placed in the same play two, or more,
stories unconnected by one single link. Incidents
are either made the subject of long and tedious
conference, or they follow each other in such
quick succession, that actions and their results,
which a lapse of time only could produce, stand
in immediate contact, so that the passing scene
wears the appearance of arbitary arrangement,
rather than of a natural progress of events. One
of two faults generally marks the concluding
act. The denouement is delayed, after the result
is obvious, and all interest in it has evaporated^
or, the main story being finished, the author's
ingenuity is put to the rack to eke out his scene
to its prescribed extent, with whatever extra-
neous circumstances he could graft upon it.

The chorus very commonly formed a portion
of the earlier English plays, sometimes taking a
part in the performance, sometimes supplying
the deficiencies of the action by narrative or ex-
planation, and sometimes performing the office
of a moral commentator on the passing events.
A more incongruous accompaniment was the
cumbrous machinery of the dumb-shew which

VOL. I. C

18 THE LIFE OF SHAKSFEARE*

preceded the several acts, prefiguring their con-
tents by allegorical and pantomimic exhibition.
Into such extensive use was this mute mimickry
sometimes stretched, that it was made to cover
the want of business in the play ; and where an
author was extremely fastidious, and attentive to
probability, it was used to fill up the interval that
* was necessary to pass while a hero was expected
from the holy land, or a princess imported, mar-
ried, or brought to bed.

Prose, rhyme, and blank-verse, were indifl
ferently the mental vehicles of the early drama-
tists : occasionally plays were composed in one
or other of them entirely ; the mixture of two
was very frequent, and instances of the presence
of all three in the same play were by no means
common.

That our early dramatists were well acquainted
with the laws which antiquity prescribed for the
regulation of the drama, is a circumstance that
admits not of question, for they were all
scholars. Their neglect of the unities, there-
fore, and other proprieties, more essential, and
of much easier observance, was wilful, and th^
had, apparently, no hesitation in committing to
paper all the suggestions of their imaginations :
hence the occurrences of many years are crowded
into five acts ; in a single play the scene is often

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. IQ

shifted to different quarters of the globe ; hence
the mixture of characters of different countries ;
and while the scene is laid in Greece or Rome,
the customs, manners, sentiments, and allusions
proclaim all the personages to be English. In
short, their anachronisms and anomalies are with-
out end.

The leading characteristic of the early English
tragedy, in which the ancients were not imitated,
was exaggeration. The plot generally embodied
some circumstance of extraordinary horror or
wickedness, and all its accompaniments were,
attuned to a tiu*gid and unnatural pitch. Situ-
ations such as could scarcely be produced by
any possibility were diligently sought after;
passions were overstrained till no distinction re-
mained between what was intended for their
expression and the ravings of lunacy ; language
was inflated till it lost its connection with sense ;
and metaphors the most unlicensed, and con-
ceits of thought and expression the most fanci-
ftil, were used with the utmost freedom. It was
impossible that the heart could speak from be-
neath so cumbrous a load of folly and absurdity :
attempts were indeed made to imitate the voice
of nature, but rarely with such success as to be
productive of even a momentary delusion.

We turn to comedy, but meet with no superior

c 2

20 THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.

gratification: much greater diversity of scene
and incident she certainly exhibits, but she en-
tails even greater evils on her reader than those
already enumerated. Low buffoonery, horrible
obsceHity, petty conceits, quibbles,, puns, cross-
purposed questions and replies, and, in short,
every variety of rhodomontade was produced,
and accepted as substitutes for wit. The most
prominent characters in the old comedies were
waiters, pages, servants, and other personages
of the same humble description : the meanness of
their rank may be urged as some excuse for
their vulgarity.

The union of serious and comic business in
the same play was very common from the first
dawnings of dramatic literature in England. The
Vice and the Devil obtruded their impertinent
buffoonery on scenes of the most serious and
solemn import, and the audiences, who witnessed
such absurdity with delight, may well be supposed
incapable of relishing performances of pure and
simple beauty. The grossness of their taste was
administered to by a clown who thrust himself
upon the scene, on all occasions, to vent the
ebullitions of his folly or his wit He was privi-
leged to notice what was passing in the audience
part of the theatre, to enter into familiar con-
versation with the spectators, either between the

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 21,

acts or in the midst of the business of the scene.
But there was a particular expectation that the
clown should exhibit his talents at the conclusion
of a play in an entertainment called a jig, in
which he danced, sung, and chanted metrical
nonsense, to the accompaniment of a pipe and
tabor.

It would be unjust to associate the name of
Marlow with those of Green, Lodge, Peele,
Nash, Lily and Kyd, the principal authors
during the earliest age of the English drama.

Marlow's first undoubted play was produced
in 1590, and he died in 1593. His appearance,
therefore, was contemporaneous with that of
Shakspeare, from whom he borrowed nothing.
His own vigorous understanding taught him to
despise, and he had the courage to discard, the
puerility and diffusion, and, in a great measure,
the low buffoonery and vulgar witticisms also,
that disgraced the works of his predecessors.
His conceptions were striking and original, his
intellect grasped his subject as a whole, and
bending every faculty of his mind to the topic
immediately before him, he never shrunk from
the expression of his boldest thoughts. Sublimity
is Marlow's perpetual aim, and to his over strenu-
ous efforts for it^ attainment, and his indistinct
notions of the difference between sublimity and

c 3

22 THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.

horror, his most gls^ring faults are attributable.
He heaps crime on crime, and one disgusting
incident upon another, till a mass of deformity
IS accumulated which both nature and probability
disclaim. The richest success is often, how-
ever, the reward of his noble daring, and his
dramas exhibit many scenes both of deep pathos
and true sublimity. Marlow'slanguage harmonises
exactly with his thoughts. Its characteristics
are depth, clearness, and strength, but, par-
taking of the over-grown boldness of his designs,
it is distorted by far-fetched images, forced
comparisons, and turgid and bombastic phrases.
Marlow*s greatest misfortune was want of taste«
The arrangement of his scenes is generally bad,
the incidents are awkwardly and coarsely intro-
duced, and the whole plot so loosely hung to-
gether, that he might Uterally join with Polonius
in asserting, that he used " no art at all.'*

While the subjects of dramatic entertainments
were sacred, and the stage accessary to the views
of the priesthood, churches and chapels, and
their immediate vicinities, were deemed per-
fectly appropriate for dramatic exhibition. But
as mysteries yielded to profane subjects, and
lessons of instruction, in the shape of moralities^
gave way to scenes of mere amusement, the pro-
fanation of sacred edifices was loudly protested

Tim LIFE OF SHAKSP£AR£. 23

against, and, by degrees, entirely disused.
When scholars and singing boys succeeded the
clergy as the principal performers, schoolrooms,
hails in the universities and inns of court, the
mansions of the nobility, and the palaces of
royalty, became the theatres of exhibition. To
^ late period, indeed, of the reign of Elizabeth,
the regularly licensed comedians occasionally
performed in churches and chapels ; but with
this exception, and the further one of companies
being called upon to afford entertainment to
their sovereign, or immediate patron, the scenes
of their theatrical glories were temporary erec-
tions in the court>yards of inns : the stage
occupied one side of the quadrangle ; the centre
area, and the balconies on the three remaining
sides, afforded ample accommodation for the
audience.

The first building in England dedicated ex-
clusively, to the purposes of the drama, emphati-
cally termed the theatre^ was erected about
1570 in Blackfriars, near the present Apothe-
caries' Hall. The number of theatres rapidly
increased: a playhouse in Whitefriars, in, or
near, Salisbury Court, and another called the
Cuitain in Shoreditch, were raised previous to
1580 ; and, subsequently, the Globe, on Bank-
side J the Red Bull, at the upper end of St. John's

c 4

24 THF LIFE OF SHAKSP£AR£.

Street ; the Fortune, in Whitecross Street ; and
the Cockpit or Phoenix, in Drury Lane. There
were, besides, other theatres of minor import-
ance; the Swan, the Rose, and the Hope*
Each theatre, it is believed, was distinguished by
a sign indicative of its name : that on the Globe
was a figure of Hercules supporting the globe,
underwritten was the motto, Tottis mundus agit
kistrionem.* The roof of the Globe, and of the
other public theatres, was surmounted by a pole
which displayed a flag during the period of per-
formance. The playhouses were never all open
at the same time, some of them being summer,
others winter theatres. The roofs of summer
theatres extended only over the stage, passages,
and galleries ; the area of the pit was therefore
open to the weather : the winter houses were
completely covered in, and consequently their
performances took place by candle light. Such
were the Theatre, the playhouse in Whitefriars
and the Cockpit ; they were also smaller than
the other theatres, and for some reason now
unknown, called private theatres. The illumin-
ation of the body of the house was effected by
cressets, or large open lantherns, and, occasion-
ally, if it be possible to credit the circumstance,
wax lights were used: the stage was lighted

* Note K.

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 23

by two large branches similar to those that are
hung in churches.

The form of the English theatres was derived
from those buildings which experience had
proved to be well adapted to the purposes of the
drama. Like the court-yard of an inn, three
sides were occupied by balconies: these, properly
divided, were appropriated to the reception of dif-
ferent classes of company : the fourth side formed
the stage ; and the centre area the pit, which,
unlike the same place in modern English theatres,
was without benches. The common people, who
resorted thither, stood to witness the exhibition,
and hence are called groundlings by Shakspeare,
and, by Ben Jonson, the understanding gentle-
men of the ground. Between this class of spec-
tators, and the occupiers of the upper balconies,
or scaffolds, there was no distinction in rank,
both being of the lowest and most disreputable
description. The lower balconies, or rooms,
which answered to our boxes, were frequented
by company of rank. The " lords' rooms*' are
often mentioned by the old dramatists, and ap-
pear to have been next the stage.

Independently of the regular rooms, there
were, in some of the theatres, private boxes, but
their situation is not ascertained with precision.
Occasionally, also, the public rooms were appro-

26 THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.

priated to individuals, under the security of a
lock and key. An upper balcony, over what
is now called the stage box, constituted the
orchestra.

The stage was separated from the audience
part of the house by palings, and, previous to
the commencement of the performance, was
concealed by a curtain, which, divided in the
middle, could be drawn from the centre to
the sides : its materials varied, with the opulence
of the theatre, from woollen to silk. Like the
floors of private houses in the Elizabethan age,
the stage was usually strewed with rushes, but
on occasions of extraordinary ceremony, it was
covered with matting. At the back of the
stage there was a balcony, or upper stage, on
which the characters entered who were required
to appear in elevated situations, such as Juliet in
the balcony ; and Romeo and Juliet aloft. * Wl\en
not in use for the purposes of the scene, the
balcony stage was concealed by a curtain. Where
a play was exhibited within a play, the balcony
was made use of either for the audience before
whom the representation was to be made, or as
a stage for the performance of the auxiliary play.
Shakspeare himself furnishes an instance of each

* Acts. sc. 5. "Aloft" is the stage direction of the
second quarto.

• \

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPXAJIB. ^

practice. Sly would sit in the balcony to witness
the Taming of the Shrew ; and the mock play in
Hamlet was certainly acted on the upper stage.

The presence of scenery in the booths and
temporary erections in inn yards, where the first
companies of comedians exhibited, is not to be
supposed ; and the evidence collected on the sub-
ject, for the most part, goes to prove, that the
first regular theatres were nearly as destitute of
scenic decoration as their beggarly predecessors
had been. The absence of so essential an article
of theatrical furniture is a proof, above all others,
decisive of the excessive poverty of the first
dramatic establishments, since the account books
of Queen Elizabeth's master of the revels for
1571, and several subsequent years, clearly de-
monstrate the use of four varieties of scenery in
almost every masque or play exhibited at court.
1. Temporary erections on the stage j 2. paint-
ings on canvass stretched on frames ; 3. mecha-
nical contrivances ; and, 4. furniture and pro-
perties generally.*

Scarcely a representation took place in the
royal presence without the introduction of a
" castell*' or " battlement.'* Houses, arbours,
prisons, senate-houses, altars, tombs, rocks and
caves, devices for hell and hell-mouth, were

* Note L.

j^4BI

28 THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.

in constant requisition. On one occasion a
" church *' is specified, which appears, by a sub-
sequent item in the account, to have contained
a light Trees, " hollow," and " of holly,*' ap-
peared in painting or in effigy, and for the repre-
sentation of a ^* wilderness" the axe was laid to
the root, and the requisite proportion of timber
removed in a waggon from the place of its
growth to the revel-hall at court. The notice
of such rural scenery forms a natural introduc-
tion to the mention of an exhibition little to have
been expected on the ancient stage ; " hunters
that made cry after the fox (let loose in the
coorte,) with their hounds, homes, and hallowing
in the play of Narcissus, which crye was made
of purpose even as the words then in utterance,
arid the parte then played did requier." The
appearance of these realities was, however, the
exception rather than the rule. Notices else-
where appear of " hobby horses ;" and from the
perpetual charges throughout the accounts for
lions, dragons, and fish, it is evident that the
representation of animals was very common.

The suspension of the sun, in a cloud like-
wise suspended, must have been skilfully ex-
ecuted indeed, if it did not carry with it the
appearance of absurdity ; but the sun certainly
was exhibited in that way before her majesty.

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 29

who, in the masque of Janus, witnessed with de-
light the descent of " flakes of yse, hayle stones,
and snow-balls,'* delicately composed of " sugar
plate, musk, kurafets, corianders prepared, clove
cumfetts, synnamon cumfetts, ginger cumfetts,
rose-water, spike-water, &c." The royal ear
and eye were occasionally also recreated with arti-
ficial thunder, and its natural precursor, lightning.
An instance is afforded, by the description of a
chariot in these accounts, of the ponderous and
complicated machinery and properties sometimes
used in masques. " A charrott of 14 foote long
and 8 foote brode, with a rocke upon it, and
a fountayne therein, for Apollo and the Nine
Muzes.'*

The contrast afforded to the am})le equip-
ment of the royal stage by the destitute state
of the public theatres is striking. A simple
hanging of arras or tapestry was all the ornament
the stage could boast, and this, as it became decay-
ed or torn, was clumsily repaired by the display
of pictures over the fractured places. A plain
curtain hung up in a corner, separated distant
regions. A board inscribed with the name of a
country or a city, indicated the scene of action,
the varieties of which were proclaimed by the
removal of one board and the substitution of
another : a table with a pen and ink thrust in.

so THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.

signified that the stage was a counting house ; if
these were withdrawn, and two stools put in their
places, it was then a tavern. It was not always
thought necessary to clear the stage previous to
the execution of these inartificial contrivances.
The Dramatis Personae frequently remained im-
moveable during two or three shiflings of boards,
stools, and tables, and were thus transferred,
without the trouble of removal, to as many dif-
ferent places in succession. An endeavour was,
indeed, sometimes made to rectify so striking
an incongruity by the use of curtains, called
traverses, which were suspended across the
stage, and being withdrawn, discovered a person
in a place distinct from that where the scene
had hitherto been laid; and this constituted a
transfer of all the persons present to the new
locality.

When the theatres were entirely destitute of
scenery, the protruded board indicated that
the empty stage was to be considered as a
city, a house, a wood, or any other place. When
scenes were first introduced, the board was not
immediately discontinued, but was used to de-
note that the painting exhibited to the audience
represented such a particular city, wood, or
house. It was a long while indeed before the
theatres were rich enough to afford a separate

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 31

scene for every change of place throughout a
play, so that it was frequently the lot of one
painting, in the space of a few hours, to re-
present the metropolis of different countries.
Temporary erections on the stage, for the pur-
poses of the scene, were very cdmmon. In the
last act of Romeo and Juliet the interest centres
entirely in the descent of the hero into a tomb j
and in the historical plays, so much in favour on
the early stage, the frequent mention of the
walls of towns, attacks upon the gates, the
appearance of citizens and others on the battle-
ments, made some representation of the places
named absolutely indispensable. A very inarti-
ficial erection in the front of the balcony would
answer the principal purposes required; firm
footing for those who were to appear above, and
ingress or egress beneath, by means of a door
or gate«

Many old plays require in their representation
the use of somewhat complicated machinery. To
mention only those of Shakspeare. In the Tem-
pest, Ariel enters " like a harpy, claps his wings
on the table, and with a quaint device the ban-
quet yanishes.'' In another scene of the same
play Juno " descends.'* In Cymbeline, Jupiter
<< descends'* in thunder and lightning, sitting
upon an eagje. The ** cauldron sinks/' and iq>-

32 THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.

paritions rise at the bidding of the witches in
Macbeth. There were of course trap-doors ;
the subterraneous region to which they led was
known by the name of hell, in opposition to the
ceiling of the stage, which represented the
heavens. Azure hangings from the roof indi-
cated the presence of day ; a more sombre
drapery represented the shades of night. A " hell
mouth'* is enumerated among the articles be-
longing to the Admiral's company, and mention
of the same delectable avenue very frequently
occurs in the Revel Account Books.

It is impossible to-mark the introduction of
scenery on the public stage, or to describe its
actual state at any specific period. In the forty
years, or more, between the erection of the first
playhouse and the death of Shakspeare, con-
siderable advancement, it appears, had been
made in scenic decoration. The mention of a
few particulars of the properties actually belong-
ing to the Lord Admiral's company in 1598, may
probably, however, give rise to ideas that have
not been already suggested. After the mention
of rocks, tombs, coiSins and altars ; lions, dragons,
dogs and horses. Phaeton's chariot, and oh, la-
mentable fall! a bedstead; the articles most
indicative of the adoption of scenery, and a
gradual improvement in its use, are, " 2 stepells.

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEAJ^E; 33

and 1 chyme of belles, and 1 beacon/* *< the
sittie of Rome," a "raynbowe/* and the "cloth
of the Sone and Mone." Nor should the trees
of " gowlden apelles," and of " Tantelouse" be
omitted.

In the representation of masques and regular
dramatic pieces at court, the dresses worn by the
performers wnere remarkable for their elegance
and splendour. Gold, silver, sUk, satin, velvet,
and feathers, in every variety of colour and com-
bination, were exhausted in adorning the actors.
Nor was splendour the only consideration : con-
siderable pains were bestowed, and expense
incurred, in the provision of dresses, attributes,
and ornaments, appropriate to the characters
represented.

However cramped by poverty, various causes
combined to enable the theatres to emulate the
bravery of the royal stage. The customary
habits of the noble and wealthy were splendid ;
and their rejected wardrobes found ready sale at
the theatre, where a slight diminution of lustre was
immaterial, and casual soils were well compen-
sated by cheapness of acquisition. As plays or
masques were not frequently acted more than
once at court, little necessity existed for the preser-
vation of the dresses which were used j and they,
of course, readily found their way into the posses-
vox*. I. D

34 THE LIFE OF SHAKSFEARE.

sion of the only persons to whom they could be
valuable. Like the scenery, the dresses of the
theatres would vary, in quality and variety, with
the opulence or poverty of their treasuries j but
it is certain, that at most of the principal play-
houses the apparel was various, appropriate,
and elegant. Kings figured in crowns, imperial,
plain, or surmounted with a sun ; and globes
and sceptres graced their hands. Neptune had
his garland and his trident, and Mercury his
wings. Armour was in common use on the stage.
A great quantity of the theatrical wardrobe was
of satin, velvet, taflFety, and cloth of gold ; or-
namented with gold and silver lace, or em-
broidery, probably producing an eflFect little
inferior to what is now witnessed.* Greene
introduces a player, in his Groats worth of Wit,
boasting that his share in the stage apparel
could not be sold for two hundred pounds.

The theatre being thus furnished for the recep-
tion of an audience, the next care of the manager
was to announce to the public the entertainment
prepared for them. For this purpose he availed
himself of the multiplicity of posts, which for-
merly encumbered the streets of the metropolis ;
their conspicuousness being extremely favourable
to the display of bills of the performance. The

* Inventory of the properties of the Lord Admii^'i^ Cbm*-
pany, 1598.

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE, 35

name of the play to be acted was printed with-
out any list of the characters, or of the persons
who were to personate them.

The hour of performance varied at different
theatres from between one to three o'clock in
the afternoon.

The situation of the Globe, and other places
of public amusement on the side' of the Thames
opposite to the city, has made us acquainted with
a point of our ancestors* manners. It was the
very acme of gentility to be rowed across the river
by a pair of oars : the employment of a sculler was
carefully shunned by the fine gentleman as ple-
beian and ignoble. The company found their
way to Blackfiiars, and the theatres in Middle-
sex, on foot, on horseback, or in coaches.

No distinction seems to have been made in
any of the theatres between the company fre-
quenting the upper galleries or scc^lds^ and the
ipit or yard. The "groundling** and "gallery,
commoner** paid alike for admission to the
places which they severally occupied, though
that price varied with the rank and reputation
of the theatre Ihey went to : at the Blackfnars
and the Globe they gave sixpence ; at the For-
tune twopence, and, at some of the inferior
houses, as little as one penny. The best rooms,
or boxes, at the Globe, were a shilling ; at Blacfc-

D 2

6 THE LIFE OF SHAKSFEARE.

friars, apparently, sixpence more, and the price
was subsequently raised even as high as half-a-
crown. Such were the ordinary terms of ad-
mission to the theatres ; but on the first night of
a new play the prices were doubled, and, oc-
casionally, trebled. Dramatic poets were ad-
mitted gratis. Nine or ten pounds was the
average, and double that sum a very extra-
ordinary receipt at either the Globe or Black-
friars theatres.*

It was customary in the theatres denominated
private, to admit that class of spectators who
frequented the boxes, on the stage, where they
were accommodated with stools, for which they
paid, according to the comparative eligibility
of their situation, either sixpence or a shilling.
Here the fastidious critic was usually to be met
with, the wit ambitious of distinction, and the
gallant studious of the display of his apparel, or
his person. Either seated, or else reclining, on
the rushes on the floor, they regaled themselves
with the pipes and tobacco which their attendant
pages furnished. The felicity of their situations
excited envy, or their affectation and imper-
tinence disgust, among the less polished part of

• The Globe was much the largest theatre, but its prices
being less, its receipts did not exceed those of the Black-
IHart house.

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. SJ

^^e audience, who frequently vented their spleen

^^ hissing, hooting, and throwing dirt at the in-

'^iiders on the stage : it was the cue of these

&^lants to display their high breeding by an

^Xitire disregard of the proceedings of the ill-

*>>annered rabble.

Numerous methods were devised to wile away
^Ae tedious hour previous to the commencement
^^f the performance : books and cards, nuts and
^-pples, bottled ale and pipes, were placed in re-
quisition by the varying tastes of the motley
assemblage. A band, composed of trumpets,
comets, hautboys, lutes, recorders, viols, and
organs, attended in the theatre, and by flourishes
or soundingSj at short intervals, announced the
near approach of the commencement of the en-
tertainment : the third sounding was the signal
for the entrance of " the Prohguej** invariably
dressed in a long black velvet cloak : his humble
demeanour, and supplicatory aspect and address,
confessed the entire submission of the managers
and actors to the public wiD^ Only one dra-
matic piece was exhibited, but relief and variety
were given to the entertainment by the feats of
dancers, tumblers, and conjurers, and the intro-
duction of music between the acts. To what
further extent the orchestra was made use of is
uncertain. Many old plays furnish instances o{

36 THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.

It was customary in the theatres denominated
private, to admit that class of spectators who
frequented the boxes, on the stage, where they
were accommodated with stools, for which they
paid, according to the comparative eligibility
of their situation, either sixpence or a shilling.
Here the fastidious critic was usually to be met
with, the wit ambitious of distinction, and the
gallant studious of the display of his apparel, or
his person. Either seated, or else reclining on
the rushes on the floor, they regaled themselves
with the pipes and tobacco which their attendant
pages furnished. The felicity of their situations
excited envy, or their affectation and imper-
tinence disgust, among the less polished part of

• The Globe was much the largest theatre, but its prices
being less, its receipts did not exceed those of the Black-
friars house.

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. S7

the audience, who frequently vented their spleen
in hissing, hooting, and throwing dirt at the in-
truders on the stage : it was the cue of these
gallants to display their high breeding by an
entire disregard of the proceedings of the ill-
mannered rabble.

Numerous methods were devised to wile away
the tedious hour previous to the commencement
of the performance : books and cards, nuts and
apples, bottled ale and pipes, were placed in re-
quisition by the varying tastes of the motley
assemblage. A band, composed of trumpets,
comets, hautboys, lutes, recorders, viols, and
organs, attended in the theatre, and by flourishes
or soundingSj at short intervals, announced the
near approach of the commencement of the en-
tertainment : the third sounding was the signal
for the entrance of " the Prohguej** invariably
dressed in a long black velvet cloak : his humble
demeanour, and supplicatory aspect and address,
confessed the entire submission of the managers
and actors to the public will^ Only one dra-
matic piece was exhibited, but relief and variety
were given to the entertainment by the feats of
dancers, tumblers, and conjurers, and the intro-
duction of music between the acts. To what
further extent the orchestra was made use of is
uncertain. Many old plays furnish instances o{

36 THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.

It was customary in the theatres denominated
private, to admit that class of spectators who
frequented the boxes, on the stage, where they
were accommodated with stools, for which they
paid, according to the comparative eUgibility
of their situation, either sixpence or a shiUing.
Here the fastidious critic was usually to be met
with, the wit ambitious of distinction, and the
gallant studious of the display of his apparel, or
his person. Either seated, or else reclining on
the rushes on the floor, they regaled themselves
with the pipes and tobacco which their attendant
pages furnished. The felicity of their situations
excited envy, or their affectation and imper-
tinence disgust, among the less polished part of

• The Globe was much the largest theatre, but its prices
being less, its receipts did not exceed those of the Black-
friars house.

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. S7

the audience, who frequently vented their spleen
in hissing, hooting, a^d throwing dirt at the in-
truders on the stage : it was the cue of these
gallants to display their high breeding by an
entire disregard of the proceedings of the ill-
mannered rabble.

Numerous methods were devised to wile away
the tedious hour previous to the commencement
of the performance : books and cards, nuts and
apples, bottled ale and pipes, were placed in re-
quisition by the varying tastes of the motley
assemblage. A band, composed of trumpets,
comets, hautboys, lutes, recorders, viols, and
organs, attended in the theatre, and by flourishes
or soundingSj at short intervals, announced the
near approach of the commencement of the en-
tertainment : the third sounding was the signal
for the entrance of " the Frohgudj* invariably
dressed in a long black velvet cloak : his hiunble
demeanour, and supplicatory aspect and address,
confessed the entire submission of the managers
and actors to the public will^ Only one dra-
matic piece was exhibited, but relief and variety
were given to the entertainment by the feats of
dancers, tumblers, and conjurers, and the intro-
duction of music between the acts. To what
further extent the orchestra was made use of is
uncertain. Many old plays furnish instances ot

36 THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.

It was customary in the theatres denominated
private, to admit that class of spectators who
frequented the boxes, on the stage, where they
were accommodated with stools, for which they
paid, according to the comparative eligibility
of their situation, either sixpence or a shilling.
Here the fastidious critic was usually to be met
with, the wit ambitious of distinction, and the
gallant studious of the display of his apparel, or
his person. Either seated, or else reclining on
the rushes on the floor, they regaled themselves
with the pipes and tobacco which their attendant
pages furnished. The felicity of their situations
excited envy, or their affectation and imper-
tinence disgust, among the less polished part of

• The Globe was much the largest theatre, but its prices
being less, its receipts did not exceed those of the Black-
friars house.

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. S7

the audience, who frequently vented their spleen
in hissmg, hootmg, and throwing dirt at the in-
tmders on the stage : it was the cue of these
gallants to display their high breeding by an
entire disregard of the proceedings of the ill-
mannered rabble.

Numerous methods were devised to wile away
the tedious hour previous to the commencement
of the performance : books and cards, nuts and
apples, bottled ale and pipes, were placed in re-
quisition by the varying tastes of the motley
assemblage. A baud, composed of trumpets,
comets, hautboys, lutes, recorders, viols, and
organs, attended in the theatre, and by flourishes
or soundingSj at short intervals, announced the
near approach of the commencement of the en-
tertainment : the third sounding was the signal
for the entrance of " the Frologue^^^ invariably
dressed in a long black velvet cloak : his humble
demeanour, and supplicatory aspect and address,
confessed the entire submission of the managers
and actors to the public will^ Only one dra-
matic piece was exhibited, but relief and variety
were given to the entertainment by the feats of
dancers, tumblers, and conjurers, and the intro-
duction of music between the acts. To what
further extent the orchestra was made use of is
uncertain. Many old plays furnish instances oi

36 THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.

It was customary in the theatres denominated
private, to admit that class of spectators who
frequented the boxes, on the stage, where they
were accommodated with stools, for which they
paid, according to the comparative eligibility
of their situation, either sixpence or a shilling.
Here the fastidious critic was usually to be met
with, the wit ambitious of distinction, and the
gallant studious of the display of his apparel, or
his person. Either seated, or else reclining on
the rushes on the floor, they regaled themselves
with the pipes and tobacco which their attendant
pages furnished. The felicity of their situations
excited envy, or their affectation and imper-
tinence disgust, among the less polished part of

• The Globe was much the largest theatre, but its prices
being less, its receipts did not exceed those of the Black-
friars house.

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. S7

Numerous methods were devised to wile away
the tedious hour previous to the commencement
of the performance : books and cards, nuts and
apples, bottled ale and pipes, were placed in re-
quisition by the varying tastes of the motley
assemblage. A band, composed of trumpets,
comets, hautboys, lutes, recorders, viols, and
organs, attended in the theatre, and by flourishes
or soundtngSj at short intervals, annoimced the
near approach of the commencement of the en-
tertainment : the third sounding was the signal
for the entrance of " the Prohguej^* invariably
dressed in a long black velvet cloak : his humble
demeanour, and supplicatory aspect and address,
confessed the entire submission of the managers
and actors to the public will^ Only one dra-
matic piece was exhibited, but relief and variety
were given to the entertainment by the feats of
dancers, tumblers, and conjurers, and the intro-
duction of music between the acts. To what
further extent the orchestra was made use of is
uncertain. Many old plays furnish instances o{

36 THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.

It was customary in the theatres denominated
private, to admit that class of spectators who
frequented the boxes, on the stage, where they
were accommodated with stools, for which they
paid, according to the comparative eligibility
of their situation, either sixpence or a shilling.
Here the fastidious critic was usually to be met
with, the wit ambitious of distinction, and the
gallant studious of the display of his apparel, or
his person. Either seated, or else reclining on
the rushes on the floor, they regaled themselves
with the pipes and tobacco which their attendant
pages furnished. The felicity of their situations
excited envy, or their affectation and imper-
tinence disgust, among the less polished part of

• The Globe was much the largest theatre, but its prices
being less, its receipts did not exceed those of t^e Black-
jBriars house.

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. SJ

Numerous methods were devised to wile away
the tedious hour previous to the commencement
of the performance : books and cards, nuts and
apples, bottled ale and pipes, were placed in re-
quisition by the varying tastes of the motley
assemblage. A band, composed of trumpets,
comets, hautboys, lutes, recorders, viols, and
organs, attended in the theatre, and by flourishes
or soundings^ at short intervals, announced the
near approach of the commencement of the en-
tertainment : the third sounding was the signal
for the entrance of " the Prohgiie^** invariably
dressed in a long black velvet cloak : his himible
demeanour, and supplicatory aspect and address,
confessed the entire submission of the managers
and actors to the public will^ Only one dra-
matic piece was exhibited, but relief and variety
were given to the entertainment by the feats of
dancers, tumblers, and conjurers, and the intro-
duction of music between the acts. To what
further extent the orchestra was made use of is
uncertain. Many old plays furnish instances o{

J>3

38 THE LIF£ OF SHAKSP£AR£.

** euter music with a song," without the preser-
vation of the song itself, and we are left to con-
jecture whether the songs were characteristic,
or popular airs adopted for the occasion. Perhaps
the earUest regular vocal character was that of
Valerius, in Hey wood's Rape of Lucrece, 1608:
emboldened by success, the author continually
augmented the number of the songs. Sir William
Davenant appears to have been the first intro-
ducer of operatic pieces.

If the magnitude of his preparation was justly
indicative of the importance of his occupation,
the business of the critic was momentous. In
aid of his natural acumen, he armed himself with
a table-book, in which he maliciously noted down
during the performance, passages for criticism j
not forgetting, at the same time, to preserve such
jests and crumbs of wit as would bear retailing
in cofiee-houses, and at the tables of the great,
as appropriate opportunities occurred for their
display. It was in vogue among these witlings
to affect disgust at the performance by significant
signs, and indecent indications of contempt :

" How monstrous and detested is't to see
A fellow that has neither art nor brain.
Sit like an Aristarchus, or stark ass,
Taking men's lines, with a tobacco face.
In snuff, stiJl spitting, using his wry'd looks,

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 39

In nature of a vice, to wrest and turn

The good aspect of those that shall sit near him,

From what they do behold !"*

They commonly also laughed aloud in the
most serious scene of a tragedy, or rose, and
quitted the theatre in scorn. The boisterous
manifestations of dislike, hisses, howls, whistles,
and imitations of the mewing of a cat, were more
effectual in the condemnation of a new play,
which then, as now, had final sentence passed
on it the first time of its performance.

An epilogue was a usual, but not an invari-
able, appendage to a play. Sometimes, as in se-
veral of Shakspeare's dramas, it was spoken by
one of the performers, and adapted to the cha-
racter he had personated. In representations
at noblemen's houses, a prayer for the patron of
the company, and at the public theatres, for the
king and queen, closed the performance. The
prayer was sometimes interwoven in the epi-
logue. The actors paid this ostentatious piece
of flatteiy on their knees before the audience,
whose edification was, doubtless, commensurate
ydtb the piety that dictated the action.

The transition of the drama from sacred to
profane subjects effected a gradual change in
the performers of theatrical pieces, as well as in

• Jonson's Every Man Out of his Humour.. •

D 4

40 THE LIFE OF SHAK8PEARE.

the place of performance. As the clergy re-
ceded from, the scholars and choir-boys advanced
upon, the stage, and under the designation of
" children" became, in the reigns of Elizabeth
and James, proficient and popular performers.
Their establishments were regarded as import-
ant, for it is no less true than extraordinary, that
the masters of the schools and chapels were not
only authorised by patent to educate children as
comedians, but empowered to take up, and re-
tain by force, such children as they deemed suit-
able to their purpose.

The earliest mention of professional players
appears to be that of the " City Actors," in the
time of Edward the Fourth. Henry the Seventh
had a company of players. Henry the Eighth,
and his successors, Edward and Mary, granted
licences to comedians for the performance of all
kinds of stage plays ; and during those reigns,
and indeed until the time of James, it was a com-
mon practice of the nobility to retain a few come-
dians for their occasional private recreation. The
badge and livery of the noblemen whose servants
these players were, protected them from the pe-
nalties of Elizabeth's act for the suppression of va-
grancy in their strollings through the country,and,
when theatres were erected in the metropolis, the
same signs of noble service were their protection.

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 41

Elizabeth patf onised the drama very warmly. It
was her constant practice, throughout her reign,
to summon the children of the public schools and
chapels, Paul's, Merchant Taylor's, Westminster,
and Windsor, to entertain her with plays at
court ; and her progresses through the country
were always attended by a company of come-
dians. In 1574 she granted to four of the Earl
of Leicester's servants a licence for the perform-
ance of every species of dramatic entertainment
throughout England ; and, in 1583, twelve of the
principal actors were selected from the compa-
nies of various noblemen, and sworn her Majes-
ty's servants, with an allowance of wages and
liveries as grooms of the chamber : eight of them
had an annual stipend of 3L 6s. 8d. each.

The influence of the drama over the opinions
and feelings of society was early discovered, and
its importance acknowledged by the attention of
government to its progress. As early as the reign
of Henry VIII. there were legislative enactments
upon the subject, royal proclamations, and orders
of privy council were frequently promulgated, for
the restraint of the licentiousness of the players,
the interdiction of blasphemy on the stage, and
the prohibition of performances at the public
theatres on Sundays, in the season of Lent, and
in times of common plague.

42 THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.

From the first entertainment of royal com-
panies by English sovereigns, the actors were
subject to the authority of the Lord Chamberlain,
as general superintendent of the recreations of
the court. Henry VIII., however, gave a pre-
dominant importance to masques, music, plays,
and pageants, by the appointment ^of a special
oflScer, called the Master of the Revels, for their
superintendence. Elizabeth, ever anticipating
danger, extended his jurisdiction ; and in grant-
ing a licence to Burbage and others, in 1574,
for the exhibition of plays of every sort, they
" being before seen and allowed by the Master
of the Revels,'* she placed an effectual check on
the bad purposes to which theatrical entertain-
ments are convertible. Blasphemous and in-
decent words were erased, and doctrines, politi-
cal or religious, inimical to the views or faith of
the court, were altered or omitted by his direc-
tions : his command suspended the performance,
or closed the doors of the theatres ; and both
actors and authors were amenable to his authority,
for offences individuaUy or collectively com-
mitted.

When Elizabeth granted her licence to Bur-
bage, no idea appears to have been entertained
of theatrical representations being incompatible
with the duties of religion, restriction only being

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 4S

placed on performances during " the hours
of prayer/' Only four years afterwards the
privy council forbad the acting of plays in
Lent, and subsequently, on Sundays. It will
not create surprise that httle attention was
paid to these mandates, and that successive
endeavours were, in vain, made for their enforce-
ment, when it is found that masques and plays
were constantly exhibited in the courts, and in
the presence of Elizabeth and James, on Sun-
days, and days of religious festivity. The virtue
of the Master of the Revels relaxed on the
payment of a stipulated fee, and performances
in Lent were only deemed profane when not
exhibited under the protection of his special
licence.

Though they were associated under the au-
thority of royalty itself and extensively patro-
nised by the nobility, the theatrical companies of
the sixteenth century laboured under difficulties
which are now only to be met with amidst the
poverty of the meanest strollers. Between the
number of characters to be represented, and the
corps of actors, a lamentable disproportion often
existed, and the Protean qualities of the bus-
kined hero were not uncommonly tasked by the
assumption of two, and sometimes even three
characters in the same play. Masques were oc-

44 THE LIFE OF SHAKSFEARE.

casiohally resorted to for the concealment of
such incongruities, as well as of an equally in-
herent defect in the constitution of the old
theatrical companies, the entire absence of
female performers ; no woman appearing on. the
stage till after the restoration.

The actors on the old stage were divided into
two classes, sharers and hirelings. The sharer
was remunerated by a proportion of the profits
of the theatre, and an allowance of four, five, or
six shillings a week was given to his boy who
played either juvenile or female characters.
The hireling was engaged at a weekly salary, and
his services sometimes secured, by special arti-
cles of agreement, to a particular theatre for
two or three years. His stipend was naturally
proportioned to his abilities : one notice occurs
of the engagement of an actor at five shillings
a week for one year, and six shillings and eight-
pence for the second.

And here I shall resume the biography of
Shakspeare. It is improbable that he ever ob-
tained more than six shillings and eightpence a
week for his services on the stage. He was at
first engaged in a very mean capacity, and was
so little distinguished afterwards for any extra-
ordinary excellence as an actor, that the Ghost
in his own Hamlet was considered his most sue*

THE LIFE OF 8HAK8PEARE. 45

cessfiil effort* It was usual in old plays to men-
tion the names of the actors, but not to distin-
guish the character which each player performed.
The name of Shakspeare frequentiy occurs, but it
is only further known that he was the representa-
tive of Adam in As You Like It.t In the theory
of the art of acting, Shakspeare was, however,
perfectiy skilled. The directions of Hamlet to
the players are a keen censure upon the boisterous
rant, and impertinent ignorance of his contem-
raries, and an admirable epitome of general
principles for the guidance of the actor. But
deficient in those peculiarities of nature that are
necessary to the formation of a first-rate per-
former, it was in vain that Shakspeare entertained
the highest ideas of the perfection of which scenic
personification is capable. His name was, to all
appearance, on the point of sinking to oblivion,
but a spirit burnt within him which not the chil-
ling influence of poverty could repress, nor the
degradation of his situation long obscure, and the
actor of mediocrity aspired to distinction as a
writer for the stage.

Among the dramas produced antedecentiy to
1590, there were many felicitous ideas, both
of circumstance and passion which the half-

♦ Rowe, Note M. + Oldys, Note N.

46 THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.

formed tastes, of their authors had imperfectly
described. But as the love of theatricals be-
came general, and the principles of dramatic
composition better understood, the adaptation
of the early plays to the more modem stage was
a common practice. Encouraged by an easy
acquisition of pecuniary reward, for no com-
parison existed between the task of revisal and
the labour of original composition, authors of the
highest talents did not disdain the employment-
Decker, Rowley, Hayward, Jonson, and others,
were frequently thus engaged in conferring value
on the works of others, and to this ungrateful
task the first eflforts of Shakspeare were modestly
confined. The second and third parts of Henry
VI., (with the first part, Shakspeare had un-
doubtedly little, if any thing to do,) are vast
improvements upon precedmg dramatic pro-
ductions by no means destitute of merit, and
their success was such as to embolden the bard
to risk a higher flight.

The utmost efforts of industry, seconded by
a prudence too seldom found among the votaries
of the Musesj were barely adequate to the sup-
ply of nature's simplest wants. The price paid
by the managers for a new play was twenty
nobles, or 6/. 13^. 4(/., for which consideration

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARB. 47

the author surrendered all property whatever in
the piece. If, as was sometimes the case, the
play was not absolutely purchased by the theatre,
the poet looked for remuneration from the pro-
fits of a third night's representation, the preca-
rious produce of the sale of his play, when
published, at sixpence a copy, and the hard-
earned fee of forty shillings for an adulatory
dedication to a patron. The sums given for the
alteration of old plays varied extremely, and were,
doubtless, regulated by the quantity of new
matter furnished, and the success attendant upon
the revival: as little as ten shillings was sometimes
paid, and the highest remuneration was short of
what was given for a new play. Dramatic
writers were, therefore, generally poor : they
were bound to theatrical managers either by fa-
vours past, existing debts, or the perpetual dread
of one day needing their assistance. Their wants
often compelled them to solicit, nay, their very
existence appears sometimes to have depended
on, advances on the embryo productions of their
brains, and the labours of to-day were devoted
to cancel the obligation which the necessities of
yesterday had contracted. It is truly pitiable to
find the great Ben Jonson soliciting from Hens-
lowe, the advance of a sum so paltry as " five
shillings.*'

48 tHE LIFE OF SHAK8PEARE.

In 1592 Shakspeare was well known as a writer
for the stage, but no point of the poet's history
is involved in greater obscurity than the time of
his commencing original dramatic author, and
every attempt to connect with certainty so inte-
resting a circumstance with any one of his nu-
merous dramas has ended in disappointment.
The Two Gentlemen of Verona and the Comedy
of Errors have been pointed out, but others
might, with equal propriety, have been selected.

The combination of the profession of a drama-
tic writer with the occupation of a player must
have lightened the pecuniary difficulties of
Shakspeare, but could afford him little prospect
of emerging from the poverty in which almost
every writer for the stage was then involved.
But if he reaped no great pecuniary advantage
fron\ his labours as an actor and author, yet
in his latter character he advanced in worldly
consideration. The actors, in his day, were
both denominated and regarded as servants^
and when the comedian's duty summoned him
to attendance at the mansion of his noble pa-
tron, the buttery was the place to which he
was admitted. But the society of dramatic
writers was courted by the opulent ; the nobility
adopted them as acquaintances, and made them
at once the objects of their bounty and esteem.
And thus it happened to Shakspeare and the ac-

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 49

complished Lord Southampton. Sir Thomas
Heminge, his Lordship's father-inJaw, was trea-
surer of the chambers to the Queen, and the
rewarding of the actors at the court was part of
his office. The theatre and actors, therefore,
were almost necessarily forced upon the attention
of the young nobleman, and the effect of the
early impression is sufficiently marked at still
later periods of Lord Southampton's life by his
neglect of the court for a daily attendance at the
theatre; his entertainment of Cecil with "plaies";
and his causing the tragedy of Richard the Se-
cond to be acted, for the double purpose of se-
dition and of amusement, on the night previous to
Essex's rebellion.* At the theatre, then, com-
menced that connection between himself and
Shakspeare which is first intimated by the poet's
dedication to his Lordship of the poem of Venus
and Adonis, in 1593, when Lord Southampton
was just twenty years of age. Their mutual
satisfaction was testified, and their growing
friendship cemented, by Shakspeare's repetition
of the compliment on the publication of the Rape
of Lucrece in 1594.

It is reported of Lord Southampton that he at
one time gave to Shakspeare a thousand pounds to

* Letter from Sir Rowland Whyte to Sir Robert Sidney
in the Sidney, papers, and Lord Bacon's works.
VOL, I. E

50 THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.

enfible him to complete a purchase*; and the as-
sertion is strongly corroborated by the opulence
in which Shakspeare is found a veryfewyears after
his arrival in London, — an opulence far too con-
siderable to have accrued from his emoluments of
actor and writer for the stage. Some of his plays
could only have entitled him to the smaller re-
compence paid for the alteration of an old drama.
His original pieces were sold absolutely to the
theatre : the gain upon them, therefore, is as-
certainable with tolerable precision, as he neither
derived advantage from their publication nor
from their dedication to the opulentt

In 1597> Shakspeare bought New Place, one
of the best houses in his native town, which he
repaired and adorned. In the following year,
apparently as a man of known property, he was
applied to by a brother townsman for the loan
of thirty pounds t; and, about the same time,
he expressed himself as not unwilling to advance,
on adequate security, money for the use of the
town of Stratford. || The poet's still increasing

* Rowe, on the authority of Davenant.

t Fourteen plays of Shakspeare were printed during his
lifetime, but without advantage to him, as they were surrep-
titious publications, alike fraudulent on him, on the mana-
gers of the Globe, and on the public.

-^ Letter from Richard Quyney to Shakspeare.

II Two letters from Abm. Sturiey of Stratford*

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 51

wealth is marked by a continuation of his pur-
chases. In 1602, he gave 320/. for 107 acres of
land, which he connected with his former pro-
perty in New Place. In 1605, he bought, for
440/., the lease of a moiety of the great and
small tithes of Stratford * ; and, in 1 613, a house
in Blackfriars for 140/. A singularity attendant
upon this purchase is, that only 80/. of the
money were paid down, the remainder being
left as a mortgage upon the premises, t

The Earls of Pembroke and Montgomery
vied with Lord Southampton in patronizing
Shakspeare t ; and he was also distinguished by
the notice of two successive sovereigns, in a
manner not less flattering than unusual.

The delicacy of even a " virgin queen" was
not shocked by the grossness of that keen-witted
voluptuary, FalstafF; and so thoroughly did Eli-
zabeth relish the humour of the two parts of
Henry the Fourth, that she commanded the ap-
pearance of FalstaflT under the influence of love.
To this incident in the poet's life the world is
indebted for the Merry Wives of Windsor; aplay,
it is said, written in the short space of a fort-

* Wheeler's Guide to Stratford.

f Mortgage-deed executed by Shakspeare, and convey-
ance from Henry Walker.
% Dedication to the first folio.

E 3

52 THE LIF£ OF SHAKSPEARE.

night. * The extension of the poet's fame was
a necessary consequence of the public approba-
tion of his sovereign, and this, in all probability,
was the greatest benefit which resulted to him
from her patronage. Of the " many gracious
marks of her favour,'* which Rowe makes no
doubt Elizabeth conferred on Shakspeare, no
vestige remains in the shape of reward more
substantial than praise, on which to found a be-
lief that the case of our poet formed an exemp-
tion to the almost invariable parsimony which
characterized Elizabeth's conduct to literary
men t ; though the dramatist was no niggard of

* Rowe and Gildon.

•|- Elizabeth's treatment of Richard Robinson, the trans-
lator of the Gesta, who solicited a recompence for the Har-
mony of King David*s Harp, which he dedicated to her by
permission, may be quoted in illustration. " Your Majesty
thanked me for my good-will ; your Highness was glad you
had a subject could do so well, and that I deserved com-
mendations. But for any gratification for any such labour,
your Majesty was not in mynde to bestow any such relief
upon me, for your Highness had care of the chargeable
voyage to come, of relieving your needy soldiers and re-
quiting of their pains. Finally, your Highness set me not
on work, and therefore you were not to pay me my wages."
British Bibliographer, vol. i. p. iii. If the reader possesses
any curiosity to see instances of the gross flattery used to
Elizabeth, he may consult the same work and volume,
p. 33S.

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 53

his flattery, the most grateful incense that could
be offered at the shrine of her prodigious vanity.

The drama found in James a sincere and use-
ful patron. In 1599 he received some English
comedians under his protection in Edinburgh,
and scarcely was he seated on the English throne,
when he effected a complete revolution in the-
atrical affairs. An act of parliament of the first
year of his reign *, deprived the nobility of the
power of licensing comedians, and their several
meagre companies then became concentrated in
three regular establishments, under the patronage
of the royal family. Prince Henry was the pa-
tron of Lord Nottingham's company, which
played at the Curtain ; the servants of the Earl
of Worcester, who occupied the Red Bull, were
transferred to the Queen, and subsequently
distinguished by the designation of Children
of the Revels: the King appropriated to him-
self the company of the Lord Chamberlain.
His Majesty's licence t to Laurence FJetcher,
William Shakspeare, Richard Burbage, and
others, constituting them his servant^, con-
firmed them in the possession of their usual
house, the Globe, and authorised their exhi-
bition of every variety of dramatic entertain*

* Chap. VIL t Dated May 19, 1603.

P 3

54 THE LIFE OF 8HAKSPEAR£«

ment, in all suitable places throughout his do-
minions. The Globe, it appears from this do-
cument, was the general theatre of the Lord
Chamberlain's company ; but they had long en<^
joyed a sort of copartnership in the playhouse
in Blackfriars, with " the Children,'* and subse-
quently became the purchasers of that house.
At one or other of these theatres all Shakspeare's
dramas were produced, the Globe being the
summer, the Blackfriars the winter, theatre of
the company to which he attached himself. Like
the other servants of the household, the per-
formers enrolled in the King's company were
sworn into office, and each was allowed four
yards of bastard scarlet cloth for a cloak, aad a
quarter of a yard of velvet for the cape, every
second year.

With occasional variation in the number of
/companies, with the rise of one establishment,
and the decline of another, circumstances of little
influence on the general complexion of theatrical
affairs, the theatre continued pretty much on the
footing on which it was placed by James, till it
was buried by fanaticism amidst the ruins of
monarchy and civil order. From gratitude for
the honour conferred upon the company, or in
compliance with the prevailing fashion of the
time, Shakspeare paid his court in flattery to

THE JLIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 55

a monarch fully susceptible of its blandishments.
Contrary to all historical authority, Banquo, the
ancestor of James, is represented noble in mind,
and guiltless of participation in the murder of
his sovereign. The delicacy of the compliment,
and the skill of its execution, well merited the
reward it is said to have earned, — a letter from
ihe monarch penned with his own hand. * The
delight afforded by Shakspeare to both his sove.
reigns, was a fact familiar to his contemporaries.

" Sweet swan of Avon, what a sight it were
To see thee in our waters yet appear :
And mark those flights upon the banks of Thames,
That so did take Eliza and our James/' f

Though Elizabeth and her successor were ad-
mirers of Shakspeare, and of theatrical amuse-
ments generally, neither of them apparently ever
visited the public theatres, but gratified their
tastes by directing the attendance of the come-
dians at court. These perfbrmances before
royalty usually took place at night, an arrange-
ment which did not interfere with the other en-
gagements of the actors. The customary fee for
an exhibition in London was 6/. 135. 4e?., and

* Davenant possessed the letter, and related the circum-
stance to Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham. Oldys.
f Ben Jonson.

£ 4

66 THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.

royal bounty graciously added an additional
SI. 6s. 8d. When, however, the company at-
tended at any palace in the vicinity of the me*
tropolis, and consequently lost the morning per-
formance at their own theatre, the remuneration
was doubled.

At the end of a few years Shakspeare obtained
a commanding voice in the management of the
theatre. As a sharer he no longer received the
recompence, merely, of an actor or author for
services performed, but participated, addition-
ally, in the profits of the company. What an-
nual income he derived from that source it is
impossible to estimate with any pretensions to
precision. It is alike unknown how many shares
the property of the theatre was divided into, and
how many shares Shakspeare was possessed ofl
Supposing him, however, and the supposition is
more than sufficiently diffident, to have stood on
a footing with Heminges, who is associated with
him in James's licence, we have the authority of
his partner for asserting, that "a good yearly
profit'** accrued to him from the concern, and
his interest in it was as perfectly at his disposal
by sale, gift, or bequest, as any ^ thing else in
his possession. It was in consequence, probably,
of his elevation that Shakspeare ceased about

■* Heminges' will.

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 57

this time to make his appearance as an actor, a
profession which he followed without eminent
success, and, apparently, with considerable dis-
gust.* In the list of the performers of Jonsoh's
Sejanus, produced in 1603, the name of Shak-
speare occurs for the last time as a comedian ;
and henceforth he may be supposed to have
given his undivided attention to the manage-
ment of the theatre, and the cultivation of
dramatic literature, till he retired from the cares
of active life.

Including those plays which he either re-
wrote, or so materially modified as to stamp
them as his own, Shakspeare was the undoubted
author of thirty-four dramas between the period
of his departure from, and final return to,
Stratford. Of the order in which they made
their appearance little that is decisive is known ;
and the most ardent investigator of the subject,
after a laborious search for contemporary notices
of, and allusions to, Shakspeare' s dramas, and
for indications of time in his works themselves,
has not ventured to designate the result of his
labours by any other title than " An attempt to
ascertain the order in which the plays of Shak-
speare were written,** and modestly concludes,
that it is probable they were composed "nearly

• Sonnets 110, 111.

THE LIFE OF 8HAK8PEARE*

in the following succession; which, though it
cannot at this day be ascertained to be their
true order, may yet be considered as approach-
ing nearer to it than any which has been ob-
served in the various editions of his works."

1 Second Part of Henry VI.

1591

2 Third Part of Henry VI.

S Two Gentlemen of Verona

4? Comedy of Errors

1592

5 King Richard II.

1593

6 King Richard lU.

—

7 Love's Labours' Lost

1594f

8 Merchant of Venice

9 Midsummer Night's Dream

—

10 Taming of the Shrew -

1596

1 1 Romeo and Juliet

12 King John

13 First Part of King Henry IV.

1597

145 Second Part of King Henry IV.

1599

15 As You Like It

—

16 King Henry V.

—

17 Much Ado about Nothing

1600

18 Hamlet

1600

19 Merry Wives of Windsor

1601

20 Troilus and Cressida

1602

21 Measure for Measure -

1603

22 Henry Vm. -

—

23 Othello

1604

24? Lear -

1605

25 All's Well that Ends Well

1606

26 Macbeth

—

27 Julius Csesar

1607

28 Twelfth Night

—

29 Antony and Cleopatra

1608

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 59

SO Cymbeline - - - 1609

31 Coriolanus - - - 1610

32 Timon of Athens - - —

33 Winter's Tale - - 1611

34 Tempest • - - —

Some positions of this chronology rest on dis-
tinct and positive testimony, many are just
deductions from certain premises, but others are
the result of conjectures so refined, on allusions
so obscure and dubious, as to mock the name of
evidence.

Malone's arrangement was succeeded by the
belief that the order of Shakspeare's plays ex-
hibited the gradual expansion of their author's
mind. But how stands the fact ? In Shakspeare's
long career of authorship, the brightest period is
indisputably that which commences with the
composition of Hamlet in 1600, and closes with
Macbeth in 1606 : — it was between those years
that Lear and Othello were produced. Before
the composition of Hamlet are found Richard II.
and III., the Merchant of Venice, Romeo and
Juliet, King John, a Midsummer Night's Dream,,
the two parts of HenrylV. and Henry V., As You
Like It, and Much Ado about Nothing. And
what is the merit of Shakspeare's compositions,
subsequently to the Macbeth, which transcends
the excellence of these? The claims of Julius
CsBSar, Antony and Cleopatra, and Coriolanus,

60 THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.

which come under the last division, may be met
by the two Richards and Henry V. : King John,
an early play, is equal to Timon ; the Two Gen-
tlemen of Verona is a drama scarcely inferior to
Cymbeline ; and the Merchant of Venice of niore
merit than the Winter's Tale- Twelfth Night,
written in I6O7, is indeed a comedy of the
highest excellence ; but is Much Ado about
Nothing lower in the rubrick ? Nor is the Tem-
pest, the last of Shakspeare's compositions, and
admirable in its kind, without a rival in a Mid-
summer Night's Dream, which is among the
earliest productions of his muse. The merits of
Romeo and Juliet, the two parts of Henry IV.,
and the Taming of the Shrew, all early plays,
still remain to be urged, and they surely throw
a weight into the scale more than sufficient to
counterbalance any exceptions that can be taken
against the justice of the comparisons already
made.

Many of the subjects of Shakspeare's dramaa-
are foreign, and hence, and from the frequent
knowledge he displays of classic history, mjrtho-
logy, and poetry, an idea has been indulged that
his knowledge of languages was extensive. Ben
Johson, however, laments that his friend was
master of " small Latin and less Greek.** He
•acquired his Latin at the school at Stratford ; for

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 61

that language was taught in all the grammatical
institutions in England : with the source of his
Greek we are not acquainted. Before the con-
clusion of the reign of Elizabeth, the most
important works of the poets, historians, and
philosophers of Greece and Rome were acces-
sible to English readers ; and though rude and
uncritical, yet the early translations were suffi-
ciently accurate for purposes of general inform-
ation. Of these Shakspeare was an inquisitive
and diligent reader, and hence he acquired that
knowledge which has been sometimes hastily re-
ceived as a proof of his classical attainments.
With the languages of continental Europe his
acquaintance did not perhaps extend beyond the
French. His play of Henry V. proves his
knowledge of that language, and all the tales
whereon he grounded his plots existed either in
French ^ or English. Many of them were of
Italian origin, and Italian literature was in high
fevour in his time ; but as Shakspeare might have
become acquainted with them through a French
or. English translation, we cannot absolutely
infer his knowledge of the originals.
. It happened to Shakspeare, as to many other
eminent characters, to have works assigned to
him. of which he was not the author : these it
is necessary to mention, though not to dwell

62 THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.

upon. It will be seen from the essay on Henry VI.
why the play denominated the " first*' of the
three parts is omitted in the preceding Iist»
though printed in the first folio. Titus Andro-
nicus is also included in that collection, but the
internal evidence of its spuriousness would out-
weigh the testimony of fifty Heminges and
Condells in its favour, and the same remark
would have been extended to Locrine, The Lon-
don Prodigal, The Puritan, Sir John Oldcastle,
Lord CromweU, and the Yorkshire Tragedy, had
they appeared in the first foUo instead of the
third, a book of no authority whatever. The
first editors of Shakspeare denied Pericles a
place among his works, though it is now usually
printed with his undisputed productions. The
honour of this association has not been granted
from any conviction of the authenticity of the
play, but in complaisance to some trifling amend-
ments made in it by Shakspeare. His hand is
visible in a few scenes of Pericles, but only in
particular passages of the dialogue, not in the
construction of the plot or the formation of the
characters. Other dramas have been attributed
to Shakspeare, but aU on insufficient grounds.
Besides his plays, he was indisputably the author
of the poems of Venus and Adonis, the Rape of

THS LIFE Of SHAKSP£AR£« 63

Lucrece, the Passionate Pilgrim, the Lover's
Complaint, and 154 Sonnets.

The early-formed wish of the bard to pass the
evening of his days on the spot of his nativity
is intimated by his purchase of New Place in
1597- In the garden of that mansion he planted,
with his own hand, a mulberry-tree which long
flourished under the fame of such an honoiu*able
distinction*; and thither in 1613, or the fol-
lowing year, he withdrew for the repose, and
the calm enjoyments of a country lifcf We
learn from Aubrey that it was Shakspeare's
practice to visit Stratford once a year j but up
to 1596 the place of his residence in London is
not known. He then lived near the Bear-Gar-
den in Southwark ; and it is on presumptive

* The authority for the story of the mulberry-tree is
that of Mr. Hugh Taylor, an alderman of VTarwick, who
was eighty-five years old at the end of the last century, and
had lived, when a boy, at the next house to New Place.
His family had resided there for three hundred years, and
it was a tradition amoQg them that the tree in question was
planted by Shakspeare's hand. Note M.

f The period of Shakspeare's retirement is not exactly
ascertained : Rowe's account runs, <^ he spent some years
before his death at his native Stratford ;* but the discovery
of the mortgage on his house in Blackfriars proves that he
was in London in March^ 1612-13, and, consequently,
makes it doubtful whether he ceased to be a resident in the
metropolis as early as had been supposed.

64 THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.

evidence alone, that he is said to have continued
in the same abode till he finally retired to the
country.*

Shakspeare's associates were such as his con-
nectipn with the theatre, and his literary pursuits
led him into intimacy with. His felloms^ Hem-
inges, Burbage, and Condell, enjoyed a large
portion of his affection. t Augustine Phillips,
whose name is included in King James's licence,
marked his respect for the bard by a bequest of
a thirty shilling piece of gold.1: With Fletcher,
the literary associate of Beaumont, he was on
terms of such friendly intimacy, that it has not
been thought unreasonable to represent them as
jointly concerned in the composition of the Two x
Noble Kinsmen. Thbugh there is no proof df^]
his having assisted Ben Jonson in the production
of Sejanus, no doubt exists of the intimacy and
friendship that subsisted between them. On the
death of Shakspeare, Jonson composed an elegy

* What is advanced here rests on the authority of Malone,
who asserted in 1796 (Inquiry, p. 21 3-1 4) that he was in ^
possession of two documents establishing the above facts,
and which he intended to adduce in his Life of Shakspeare.
He lived till 1812, but never finished his work. In 1821
all that Mai one had written on the subject was published by
Boswell, with a large addition of illustrative papers, but
without the documents in question.

f Shakspeare*s will. :|: Phillips's will.

THE LIFE OP SHAKSPEARE. G5

on his friend ; he inscribed his resemblance with
his praise, and wrote (there is good ground for
the belief,) the preface to the first edition of his
works. Nor did time diminish his regard, or
efiace the remembrance of his companion from
his mind. Many years afterwards, he, with
warmth, exclaimed, " I loved the man, and do
honour his memory, on this side idolatry, as much
as any." Yet with these and other literary as-
sociates, in an age of free and generous expres-
sion of friendship, it is a remarkable fact, that,
with one exception, Shakspeare has not left a
commendatory line on any contemporary author
or publication. He joined Jonson in some verses
printed at the end of a little volume of poems by
Robert Chester.*

Shakspeare retired into the country at an age
little past the prime of life. No hint is any
where to be met with of the failure of his consti-
tution, and the execution, in " perfect health
and memory,'* of his will, on the 25th of March,
1616, raises no expectation of his speedy disso-
lution. He had then, however, reached the last
stage of his existence. He died on the 23d of
April, the anniversary of his birth, having exactly
completed his fifty-second year.

* A remark of the last editor of Jonson.
VOL. I. F

66 THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.

On the 25th of April his body was consigned
to its native earth under the north side of the
chancel of the great church at Stratford, A flat
stone, covering all that is mortal of the remains
of Shakspeare, conveys his benediction to the re*
specter, and his curse to the violator, of the
peace of the grave :

<< Good frend, for Jesus sake forbeare
To digg the dust encloased here ;
iBlese be the man that spares these stones,
And curst be he that moves my bones/*

Within seven years a monument, executed with
no mean skill by an unknown artist, was erected
to his memory,* He is represented under an
arch in a sitting posture ; a cushion is spread be-
fore hun, with a pen in his right hand, and his
left resting on a scroll of paper. Immediately
under the cushion is engraved the Latin distich,

'< Judicio Pyllum, genio Socratem, arte Maronem,
Terra tegit, populus moeret, Olympus habet ;"

and, on a tablet underneath,

<< Stay, passenger, why dost thou go so fast,
Read, if thou canst, whom envious death hath plac'd

* Leonard Digges published some encomiastic verses t>n
Shakspeare before the expiration of seven years from the
poet*s death, in which he speaks familiarly of the ** Stratford
Monument.**

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. G?

Within this moimment ; Shakspeare, with whom
Quick nature dy'd ; whose name doth deck the tomb
Far more than cost ; since all that he hath writ
Leaves living art but page to serve his wit.*'

Of the family of Skakspeare something re-
mains to be said. His wife survived him seven
years, and died on the 6th of August, 1623,
being sixty-seven years of age.* I fear that the
marriage of the poet was not productive of that
long continued bliss which he anticipated. His
wife did not reside with him in London; their
children were born within the first few years of
their marriage j and in his will Shakspeare speaks
of her with the cold and brief notice, " I give
unto my wife my second-best bed, with the fur-
niture.''t

In connection with these circumstances I may
mention the story of Shakspeare's gallantry at
Oxford, which has been transmitted to us by
authority as respectable as any that can be quoted
for the traditionary part of the poet's history.
In his journeys to and from Stratford and Lon-
don, the dramatist often baited at the Crown
Inn, in Oxford. Mine hostess was beautiful and
witty } her husband a grave and discreet citizen,
of a melancholy disposition, but a lover of plays

* Mrs. Shakspeare's tomb-stone in Stratford church,
f Note P.

F 2

68 THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE,

and play-makers, especially of Shakspeare.* The
frequent visits of the bard, and the charms of the
landlady, gave birth to the surmises which the
succeeding anecdote embodies. Young William
Davenant, afterwards Sir William, was then a
little school-boy in the town, of about seven or
eight years old, and so fond also of Shakspeare,
that whenever he heard of his arrival, he would#
fly from school to see him. One day an old
townsman observing the boy running homeward
almost out of breath, asked him whither he was
posting in that heat and hurry. He answered,
" to see his ^orf-father Shakspeare.'* " There's
a good boy," said the other, "but have a care
you don't take GoiTs name in vain."t

The sonnets of Shakspeare proclaim it to have
been the misfortune of their author to love where
" loving he was much forsworn."^: Scarcely
less pains are taken to proclaim the worthlessness
than the beauty of his enchantress ; he

" Swore her fair, and thought her bright, • '

" While she was black as hell, and dark as night."^

The affair is worth pursuing to its sequel.
With a perversity common in the history of love,
the lady slighted the poet, and fixed her affec-

* Athenae Oxon.

f Oldys, on the authority of Pope, who quoted Betterton.

X Sonnets 142. 151, 152. § Sonnet 147.

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 69

tions on a youth of singular beauty, the dear
and intimate companion of Shakspeare himself.
The participation of the young man in this out-
rage on love and friendship, is somewhat doubt-
ful, as appears from many passages *, and par-
ticularly from the hundred and forty-fourth
sonnet, which pretty nearly epitomizes the whole
of the hapless tale.

" Two loves I have of comfort and despair,
Which like two spirits do suggest me still ;
The better angel is a man right fair,
The worser spirit a woman coloured ill.
To win me soon to hell, my female evil
Tempteth my better angel from my side,
And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,
Wooing his purity with her foul pride.
And whether that my angel be tum'd fiend,
Suspect I may, yet not directly tell ;
And being both from me, both to each friend,.
I guess one angel in another's hell :
Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt,
Till my bad angel fire my good one out."

A breach nevertheless ensued between the
bard and his better angel. But the pangs of
alienation were intolerable, and, in defiance of
suspicion and perplexity, Shakspeare received
his friend to his bosom, with an attachment,

* Sonnets 40. 42. 132—4. 137—145.

F 3

70 THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.

apparently strengthened by its temporary ab-
ruption.*

But to resume our account of the family of the
bard. Hamnet, his only son, died in 1596, when

he was twelve years old. t

Judith, the twin child with Hamnet, was mar-
ried in February, 1615-16, the year of her father's
death, to Thomas Queeny, a vintner in Stratford.
Their children were Shakspeare, who died an
infant, and Richard and Thomas, both buried in
1638-9 ; the former in the twenty-first, the latter
in the nineteenth year of his age, without leaving
any issue. Their mother, Judith, survived till
February 1661-2, when she had attained the ad-
vanced age of seventy-seven, t

The legacies of the dramatist to this, his
youngest, daughter, are extremely inconsider-
able. One hundred pounds in discharge of her
marriage portion ; one hundred and fifty vested
in trustees, for the benefit of her and her issue ;
his " broad silver gilt bowl ;'* and fifty pounds,
as a compensation for the surrender of her in-
terest in a copyhold estate to her sister Sur
sanna.

Susanna, the eldest of the poet's family,
married, in June, 1607, Dr- John Hall, a phy-

* Note Q. t Parish Register.

X Rowe, Strat. Regist.

THB LIF£ OF SHAKSt>£AR£. 71

sician settled in Stratford, whom she survived
fourteen years. *

The causes which led to the marked distiiic-
tion, made in Shakspeare's will, between his two
surviving children, are buried in oblivion. The
fact alone remains, that while Judith is only
remembered by legacies to the amount of three
hundred pounds, Susanna is invested with the
entire remainder of her father's ample property,
excepting a few legacies. His capital dwelling-
house in Stratford, called New Place ; two houses
in Henley Street ; various lands and tenements
in, and in the neighbourhood of, Stratford ; and
his house in Blackfriars; are all specifically
given to her. The residue of his estate, after
the discharge of his funeral and testamentary
expences, is devised to her and her husband, who
are likewise nominated the executors of the will.

This favorite daughter of Shakspeare died in
July, 1649, aged sixty-six, and her tomb-stone
recorded her wit, her piety, and her humanity, t

** Witty above her sexe, but that's not ally
Wide to salvation, was good mistress Hall.
Something of Shakspeare was in that, but this
Wholly of him witli whom she's now in blisse.

• Strat. Regist.

t Strat. Regist. The verses are not now remaining on
the stone, but have been preserved by Dugdale.

F 4

72 THE LIFE OF SUAKSPEARE.

Then, passenger, hast ne'er a teare.
To weepe with her that wept with all :
That wept, yet set herselfe to chere
Them up with comforts cordiall ?

Her love shall live, her mercy spread.
When thou hast ne'er a teare to shed."

It is not to be presumed that the art of writing
was among the accomplishments of this lady,
as ihe.marJc of h^r sister Judith appears to a deed
still extant, accompanied by the explanatory ap-
pendage of " Signum Judith ShakspeareJ*^ •

The only child of Dr. and Mrs. Hall was a
daughter named Elizabeth. At the time of her
grandfather's death, she was eight years of age.
His remembrances of her in his will are, a con-
tingent interest in a hundred pounds bequeathed
to his daughter Judith and her heirs, and " all
his plate t,*' with the exception of the broad
silver and gilt bowl given to her aunt Judith.

Elizabeth Hall married a Mr. Thomas Nash.
He died in April, 1647 ; and his widow, after the
expiration of two years, was united to Sir John
Barnard, of Abington, Northamptonshire, where

• Wheeler's Guide to Stratford.

t Shakspeare bequeathed his plate twice : in the last
item of the will, which constitutes Dr. and Mrs. Hall resi-
duary legatees, he gives " all the rest of his goods, chattels,
leases, platCy jewels, &c.'

»»

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 7^

she was buried in 1669-70- She left no children,
and thus the family of Shakspeare became ex-
tinct.

" Worthy,'* " gentle/' and « beloved," are
the epithets uniformly connected with the con-
temporary mention of Shakspeare's name. He is
also described as a man of a ready, smooth, and
pleasant wit. * " Many were the wit-combates,**
says Fuller, " between Shakspeare and Ben Jon-
son. I behold them like a Spanish great gal-
leon, and an English man of war. Master
Jonson, like the former, was built far higher in
learning, solid, but slow in his performances ;
Shakspeare, like the latter, lesser in bulk, but
lighter in sailing, could turn with all tides, tack
about, and take advantage of all winds by the
quickness of his wit and invention.*' This far-
fetched simile of the quaint biographer is no
very happy illustration of conversational powers
rich in variety, and astonishing in versatility. A
few anecdotes have been transmitted as speci-
mens of Shakspeare's talent at repartee, but
they are really unworthy of transcription, and
must be deemed most unfortunate specimens of
the colloquial brilliancy of a man who was not
the meanest member of a club of which Jon-

*- Rowe and Aubrey.

74f THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARS.

son, Beaumont, Fletcher, Selden, Cotton, Carew,
Martin, and Donne were members, and whose
meetings furnished matter for retrospective de-
light in so competent a judge as Beaumont.

" What things have we seen
Done at the Mermaid J heard words that have been
So nimble^ and so full of subtle flame,
As if that every one from whom they came
Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest." *

The best specimen of Shakspeare's extem-
porary wit, is his jocular epitaph on Mr. John
Combe, who had amassed great wealth by the
practice of usury. In the gaiety of conversation,
Combe told the poet that he fancied he intended
to furnish his epitaph ; and since whatever might *
be said of him after he was dead must be un-
known to him, he requested that it might be
written forthwith : Shakspeare immediately gave
him the foUowing verses :

'< Ten in the hundred lies here ingrav'd ;
'Tis a hundred to ten his soul is not sav'd :
If any man ask, Who lies in this tomb,
Oh ! oh ! quoth the devil, 'tis my John-o-Combe." t

It is asserted of Shakspeare, that he was a
handsome, well-shaped mantj but as it is not

* Beaumont's Letter to Jonson.

f Rowe and Aubrey. J Aubrey.

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. ^5

known that any authentic likeness of him exists,
fancy is left at liberty to imagine the peculiar
conformation of his features. Pictures, indeed,
are not wanting whose claims to authenticity
have been confidently asserted ; but their merits
so generally fade before the test of examination,
that the pretensions of few are worthy of consi-
deration.

If the positive testimony of a contemporary,
and an associate, could authenticate a portrait,
the verses of Ben Jonson on the engraving by
Droeshout, attached to the first folio edition of
Shakspeare's works, its exact resemblance to the
immortal dramatist ought to be considered as
established.

" This figure that thou here seest put,
It was for gentle Shakspeare cut ;
Wherein the graver had a strife
With nature, to out-do the life.
O, could he but have drawn his wit
As well in brass, as he hath hit
His face, the priiit would then surpass
All that was ever writ in brass ;
But since he cannot, reader, look
Not on his picture, but his book."

Without the reader has had the misfortune io
behold this much eulogised specimen of the gra-
phic art, he will be surprised to learn, that the
plate is not only at variance with the tradition

76 THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.

of Shakspeare's appearance having been pre-
possessing; but irreconcUeable with the belief
of its ever having borne a striking resemblance
to any human being. Its defects, indeed, are
so obvious, that it has been thought necessary
to apologise for Jonson by the production of in-
stances of similar prostitutions of compliment j
and, also, by the supposition, that he never saw
the engraving, but wrote his lines from his re-
collection of the picture from which it was made,
confiding in the ability of Droeshout to execute
a faithful copy.

Not many years ago, an old painting was pro--
duced, and loudly proclaimed, as that long lost
treasure the original of Droeshout^s engraving.
The history of its purchase out of the Boar's
Head, in Eastcheap, " where Shakspeare and his
friends used to resort,*' was advanced with be-
coming diffidence ; but the authenticity of the
portrait was confidently urged, on the ground of
its near resemblance to the head of Shakspeare
in the first folio, and the inscription on its back,
" Guil. Shakspeare, 1597. R.N.*' The strenuous
patronage of Mr. Steevens insured its popularity
for a time ; but its pretensions gradually lost
ground before the sensible reflection, that where
the history of a picture was mysterious, coinci-
dences so easily contrived as . a resemblance to

THE UFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 77

the first folio, and the name of the poet on the
back, could not be received as conclusive evi-
dence in its favour. In 179S, this picture was
in the possession of Mr. Felton, of Drajton in
Shropshire, and thus became denominated the
" Felton Shakspeare.'* It was afterwards pur-
chased by the Boydells.

About 1725, a mezzotinto print was scraped
by Simon, said to be from an original picture of
Shakspeare by Zoust or Soest. But as the ear-
liest picture painted by Zoust, in England, was
in 1657, the story is falsified by discordant dates.

Another picture, now belonging to Mr. Jen-
nens of Gopsal in Leicestershire, has been ad-
vanced as a portrait of Shakspeare ; the master,
Cornelius Jansen. Its claims have generally
been disallowed, in consequence of an assertion of
Horace Walpole, that Jansen never saw England
till I6I8. The assertion is incorrect; and no
objection founded on an anachronism can be
raised against the genuineness of this picture.

The picture in the possession of Lord Oxford,
turns out to be a portrait, not of Shakspeare,
but of James the First! Pope's edition of our
author's works was ornamented by an engraving
from this head.

In the Somerville family, there is a tradition,
that an ancestor of Somerville the poet lived in

..^

78. THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.

habits of intimacy with Shakspeare, especially
after his retirement ; and that, at his request,
a portrait of the dramatist was painted. A small
miniature, very richly set, has descended with
the tradition, and is believed by its present pos-
sessor, Sir James Bland Burgess, to be an original
picture of Shakspeare. It is not stated at what
period of life Shakspeare gratified the wishes of
his friend, but the miniature is far too youthful
for the representation of a man of forty-five,
which Shakspeare must have been when He re-
tired to Stratford. This, however, forms no se-
rious objection against the picture, for it might
have been painted when Shakspeare was as
youthful as it represents him.

The picture in the collection of the Marquis
of Buckingham, at Stowe, usually called the
«* Chandos portrait," presents a very fair pedi-
gree of possessors up to Betterton the actor j
but there, where evidence is most wanted, it be-
gins to fail. It came into Betterton's possession,
it is said, after the death of Sir William Dave-
nant, but whether by purchase, or otherwise,
does not appear : administration of Davenant's
effects was granted to his principal creditor in
1668. The previous history of the picture is
still more unsatisfactory. It is not ascertained
that Davenant himself attached any importance

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 79

to it ; no credible account exists of the channel
through which he obtained it ; and the traditions
respecting the artist who painted it are vague
and contradictory.

The establishing of the claims of either the
Chandos portrait, or the Somerville miniature,
would invalidate the claims of the other ; for of
two pictures so exceedingly unlike, it is impos-
sible to admit the genuineness of both. Of the
two portraits, the reader would most readily
believe the Somerville a resemblance of Shak-
speare, if it were admissible to give any weight
to prepossession : the countenance of the Chan-
dos picture is heavy, duU, and inexpressive.

Of the prints which have been so prodigally
issued of Shakspeare, some are mere fanciful
delineations of the artist ; some copies of the
various genuine portraits of the bard found one
day and forgotten on the next ; but for the most
part they are to be traced to the sources already
pointed out. The origin of the head attached
to the first folio is uncertain ; but if, as is ex-
tremely probable, it was copied from an original
picture, it is entitled, notwithstanding its abo-
minable imitation of humanity, to somewhat
more consideration than copies of unauthenti-
cated pictures.

It is a tradition at Stratford, that Shakspeam's

80 THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.

monumental bust was copied from a cast after
nature. In imitation of nature, the hands and
face were painted flesh colour, the eyes of a
light hazel, and the hair and beard auburn ; the
doublet or coat was scarlet, and covered with a
loose black gown, or tabard, without sleeves;
the upper part of the cushion was green, the
under half crimson, and the tassels gilt.

After remaining in this state above one hun-
dred and twenty years, Mr. John Ward, grand-
father of the Kembles, caused it to be repaired,
and the original colours revived, from the profits
of the performance of Othello, in 1748. In
1793, Mr. Malone was inspired with the ambi-
tion of connecting his name with Shakspeare's
bust. His purpose was ingeniously effected by
covering it over with one or more coats of white
paint. This injudicious destruction of the ori-
ginal character of the figure, deprived it of mpre
than half its interest ; for it is no longer to be
seen as Shakspeare's friends and acquaintances
were wont to gaze upon it.

No pretensions whatever are made to ori-
ginality by any other bust or statue of Shak-
speare. The head of the statue in Westminster
Abbey, executed by Scheemaker, was modelled
from Simon's mezzotinto print. The figure
carved by Roubiliac, for Garrick, was from the

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE« 81

same authority ; with the adoption of a hint or
two from the Chandos picture. Hence the head
so universaUy recognised in casts, seals, and
other ornaments, as that of Shakspeare.

It was seven years subsequent to the death of
Shakspeare, before any publication of the whole
of his dramatic works was attempted, the policy
of the managers, whose principal profits arose
from the attraction of manuscript plays, pointing
out to them the necessity of keeping the dramas
belonging to their theatres unpublished. Four-
teen * plays of Shakspeare, however, appeared
singly, in quarto, previous to the death of their
author, and Othello was printed in the year 1622.
Of these plays. Love's Labour's Lost, and Much
Ado about Nothing, only, did not reach a
second edition ^ the first part of Henry the
Fourth, went into a sixth, and Richard the
Third, even to a seventh impression.

Though something must be allowed to the
desire of the managers to enhance the value of
their own edition, their description of all the
quartos, as " stolne, and surreptitious copies.

• Richard II., Richard III., Romeo and Juliet, Love's
Labour's Lost, Henry IV., part one and two, Henry V., Mer-
chant of Venice, Midsummer Night's Dream, Much Ado
about Nothing, Merry Wives of Windsor, Hamlet, Lear,
and Troilus and Cressida.

VOL, !• G

82 THE LIFE OF SHAK8PEARE.

maimed and defonned by the fraudes and
stealthes of injurious impostors/' points out suf-
ficiently clearly the means by which they found
their way into the world. They were, in fact^
purloined from the theatre, entire, when oppor-
tunity afforded time for the completion of a
perfect transcript from the prompter's book, or
piecemeal, as the parts written out for the
different players could be procured. It isnot to
be wondered at, therefore, that there are many
chasms in their matter, and frequent incohe-
rendes in their scenes. With the exception of
Othello, they are not divided into either acts or
scenes ; entries are frequently given to persons
who take no part in the business of t^e stage ;
othet persons whose entrances were not noticed
ate engaged iii action ; exits are frequently marked
in improper places; very few stage directions
are to be met with ; and speeches are^equently
assigned to wrong characters, and sometimies even
the name of the actor who performed the part
is inserted in the text, instead of that of the
dramatis personae. The text throughout is
miserably spelt ; uncommon words are deformed
almost beyond the possibility of recognition ;
prose is often printed for verse, and verse «
frequently for prose. If amidst a mass of error,
of which this is no exaggerated account, any

THE LIFE 0*F SHAKSPEARE, 83

preference is to be given to one edition over
another, it is to the earlier copies ; for additional
errors were the consequence of every renewed
passage through the press. It may be a matter
of amusement to some readers, perhaps, to wit-
ness a specimen of the titles under which such
of Shakspeare's plays as appeared in quarto were
. recommended to the public for purchase. " The
Tragedy of Richard the Third. Containing his
treacherous Plots against his brother Clarence :
the pittieful Murder of his innocent Nephewes : his
tyrannical Usurpation : with the whole of his
detested Life, and most deserved Death. As it
hath been lately acted by the Right Honorable
the Lord Chamberlaine his servants.'* " A
tnost plesaunt and excellent conceited comedie,
of Syr John Falstaflfe and the Merrie Wives of
Windsor. Entermixed with sundiie variable
and pleasing Humors, of Syr Hugh the Welch
Knight, Justice Shallow, and his wise Cousin,
M. Slender. With the swaggering vaine of aun-
cient Pistol! and Corporal! Nym. By William
Shakspeare. As it hath, &c. &c.'' "M.William
Shake-speare his True Chronicle History of the
Life and Death of King Lear, and his Three
Daughters. With the unfortunate Life of Ed-
gar, Sonne and Heire to the Earle of Glocester^
and his sullen and assumed Humour of Tom of

G 2

84 THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.

Bedlam. As it was plaid before the King's
Majesty at White-Hall, uppon S. Stephens
Night; in Christmas Hollidaies. By his Ma-
jesties Servants playing usually at the Globe on
the Banck-side/'

The art of puffing is improved, but our an-
cestors were not a jot behind us in intention.

To remedy the defects of the quartos, and to
present the world with an entire collection of
Shakspeare's dramatic works, was the professed
object of " Henrie Condell and John Heminge,"
the managers of the Globe theatre, and the
friends and fellows of Shakspeare, in publishing
their folio in 1623. Such plays as had already
appeared were " now offered cur'd, and perfect
of their limbes ; and all the rest, absolute in
their numbers as he conceived them.** The
pretensions were great, but the performance
mean, for the foUo exhibits reprints of several
of those very quartos which its preface labours
to depreciate; reprints encumbered too with
the typographical errors which the folio accu-
mulated as it went through the press. The
materials, therefore, used by the players in their
edition were not of a value superior to those that
had belonged to the publishers of the quarto
plays. Indeed there is no doubt but that they
were essentially the same: — the prompter's book,

TH£ LIFE OF SHAK8P£AR£. 85

where it contained the entire piay, and* the
parts written out for the actors when the piece
existed in no single manuscript. Like the quar-
tos, the folio transposes verses, assigns speeches
to wrong characters, inserts the names of actors
instead of those of the dramatis personam, con-
founds and mixes characters together, prints
verse for prose and prose for verse.

It must be mentioned in praise of the folio,
that most of its plays are divided into acts, and
many into both acts and scenes, and the divi-^
sions were made by competent authority, if we
may argue from the uniformity of principle appa-
rent in much of the volume ; but still scenes not
unfr^quently end without a pause in the action,
and stand in an order perfectly unnatural, shuffled
backwards or forwards in absurd confusion.

The folio rejected the descriptive titles ap-
pended to the quartos, simply calling each play
by the name which now distinguishes it ; and in
obedience to the statute 3 James 1. cap. 21.,
which prohibits, under severe penalties, the use
of the sacred name in any plays or interludes,
substituted general terms for the awful name of
the Deity, often impiously profaned by invoca-
tion on the stage.

A second folio was published in 1632, a vo-
lume described by all the editors of Shakspeare,

G 3

86 THE LIFB OF SHAKSPEARE.

with the exception of Steevens, as utterly worthr-
less. It is a reprint of the former folio, with
hundreds of additional errors, the productions
of chance, negligence, and ignorance.

A third folio appeared in 1664, exhibiting a
still more miserable copy of the first edition, with
seven additional plays* falsely attributed to Shak-
speare. It was the good fortune of this edition to
be almost entirely destroyed in the fire of Lon-
don, in 1666, so that copies of it are now more
rare than those of the first folio itself.

A fourth foKo, originating in the same source,
issued from the press in 1685 ; it rather fejl be-
low than rose above the merit of its predecessor^

Such were the only editions of Shakspear.^
before the world when, in 1709j Rowe's octavo
edition in seven volumes apppeared. Rowe was
fully aware of the degraded state of the poet's
text, and acknowledged " that there was tiothing
left but to compare the several editions, and
give the true reading as well as he could from
thence ;" yet he perversely neglected the per-
formance of this important duty altogether, and
printed his volumes from the latest of the foUos,
pimply directing his attention to the correction

* Locrine, The London Prodigal, Pericles, The Puri-
tan, Sir John Oldcastle, Thomas Lord Cromwell, and the
Yorkshire Tragedy.

THE LIF£ OF SHAKSFEAaS. 87

of the grossest of the printer's errors, and to the
division of such plays into acts and scenes as had
been hitherto undivided. Notwithstanding the
imperfections of this edition, its success was so
great that it was reprinted in nine volumes
duodecimo in 1714.

Pope was the next editor of Shakspeare. He
perfectly understood the defects of the existing
editions, and boldly undertook to collate the
quartos themselves, professing to adopt no reading
unsanctioned by their authority, or that of the
early folio, and asserting his <^ religious abhor*
rence'* of all innovation, or the indulgence of
any private sense or conjecture. But he soon
found the task he had undertaken << dull," and
acbpted a much more compendious mode of
criticism. He took Rowe's text as the ground-
work of his own, and, by a partial collation of
the old copies, restored many passages to their
integrity, but at the same time indulged himself
in the liberty of rejecting whatever he disliked^
of jitering whatever he did not understand,^ and
pf revising Shakspeare with as littie fearlessness
and as much diligence as he would have sat
down to the correction of his own poems. Pope*&
edition was printed in six volumes quarto, in
1725, and in ten volumes duodecimo, in 1728..

In 1733 Theobald followed Pope, aod by a

G 4

98 THE LIFE OF SHAKSFEARE.

■

more strict adherence to the old copies, and
many judicious notes, fully earned the praise of
having superseded him. But the foundation of
Theobald's edition was laid in error ; the text he
undertook to correct was that of Pope, and his
collation of the old copies was neither sufficiently
extensive nor accurate to make very consider-
able .progress towards its amendment He,
nevertheless, purged it from many arbitrary
corruptions, and though he cannot himself be
acquitted from the charge of innovation, yet in
comparison with Pope, he appears a judicious
critic. His first edition was in seven vols, octavo j
his second in eight vols, duodecimo, in 1740.

A splendid edition of Shakspeare was printed
at Oxford, in 1744, by Sir Thomas Hanmer, but
with little advantage to the poet Hanmer
thought all was right that had been done by
former editors, and for himself he seems to have
despised all common canons of criticism. He di&r
dained reference to either the quartos or folios^
and printed the text of Pope, adding whatever
he conjectured would contribute to the beauty^
harmony, or force of his author.
; In 1747 Bishop Warburton publislied the
dramatist in eight octavo volumes. The avowed
cliampion of Pope acted consistently in making
that poet's edition the ground-. work of his own.

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 89

' and he more than emulated the boldness of his
proteg^ in the temerity with which he himself
trod the path of criticism. Of all the guides
through the difficulties of a corrupted text, an-
tiquated phraseology, and obscure expression,
Warburton was the most incompetent. No con-
sideration restrained him from the substitution
of his own chimerical conceits in the place of
his author's text, and in the copious notes which
accompanied it, he perpetually exhibits the most
perverse interpretations, and improbable ccmjec-
.tures; he at one time gives the author more
profundity of meaning than the sentence admits,
and at another discovers absurdities, where the
sense is plain to every other reader. His emen-
^tions may sometimes, indeed, b^ thought suct
cessful ; but they are fortunate guesses, rather
than wise conclusions.

Nearly a century and a half had elapsed
isince the death of Shakspeare, and no critical
-edition of his works existed which could boast a
higher authority for its text, than the fourth
folio, partially amended, or capriciously and
Ignorandy altered. The dramatist now fell into
different hands, and a proper basis was laid for a
correct text The first folio, collated with what-
ever earlier copies the editor could procure, wa^
the foundation of Johnson's edition, in eight

90 .THE LIFE OF 8HAKSPEARE.

volumes, octavo, published in 1765. Much of
Johnson's text is far more accurate than that of
>any of his predecessors, and so correct was his
^u;umen as a verbal critic, that had his diligence
extended over the whole of his work, the pfailo^
•logical labours of others would have been spared.
•But indolence was his bane ; his text is in con-
sequence faulty, and his acquaintance with the
domestic history of the Elizabethan age was so
Buperficial that he could not perform the harm*
less drudgery of explaining the local allusions of
his audior. Johnson's skill was great in dis-
entangling comphcated passages, and his panu
phrases are- remarkable for their accuracy and
beauty. When Shakspeare was the poet of
common life, Johnson was his faithful inteiv
preter, for the author of " The Rambler*^ knew
human nature well ; but he could not watch hiil
course through the vast regions of the imagin-
ation, and his adamantine and rugged mind was
impassive to the playful sparkles of Shakspeare's
fancy. Johnson's general critical abilities are
displayed in his noble Preface ; but his unfitness
for his ofiice of commentator on Shakspeare is
manifest in his observations at the close of each
|)lay, than which nothing can be more tamie, in^
sipid, and unsatisfactory. It is singular, that his

TH£ lilFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 91

subject no where inspires him, except when he
is dilating on the character of Falstaff,

Johnson was assisted by Steevens, in the pub-
lication of another edition of Shakspeare in 1773,
in ten octavo volumes ; the result of their joint
labours was a new publication of the same num*
ber of volumes in I778 j and a third edition,
bearing the names Johnson and Steevens, appear-
ed, under the superintendence of Isaac Reed^
in 1785.

There is no necessity for me to notice at any
length Capell's edition, in ten crown-octavQ
volumes, in I768, for the work is more remark-^
able for typographical beauty than critical merit;
and I pass on at once to the names of Steevens
and Malone.

Steevens commenced his career of labour in the
cause of Shakspeare in I766, by superintending
the reprint of such of the dramatist's plays a^
had. made their appearance in quarto, and pre-
paring a. list, to accompany them, of the various
readings of the different quarto editions of each
play. Where the dissimilarity between the early
and later editions was so great as to create 4
suspicion that the former was a first draft which
the author afterwards expanded, Mr. Steevens
printed the first as well as the subsequent copy,
jconceiving that there >yere "many persons,

-jA

9S THE LIF£ OF SHAKS?EAR£»

who, not contented with the possession of a
finished picture of some great master, would be
desirous to procure the first sketch that was
made for it, that they might have the pleasure
of tracing the progress of the artist from the first
colouring to the finishing stroke."

Steevens subsequently assisted Johnson, but
in 1793 he appeared as an independent editor of
Shakspeare, though he affixed to his work the
name of his former coadjutor, being unable, as
he says with modesty and beauty, " to forego
an additional opportunity of recording in a title
page that he had once the honour of being
united in a task of literature with Dr. Samuel
Johnson.'' This was the last edition of Shak-
speare of which Steevens superintended the
publication, but his attention to a subject which
employed so many years of his life did not relax,
and previous to his death, in 1800, he had pre-
pared another edition in twenty-one volumes,
on which Mr. Isaac Reed bestowed his attention
in its passage through the press in 1803.

In the course of his Shakspearean labours,
Steevens received many valuable communications
from Malone ; who, in 1780, added to Steevens*
i^cond edition two supplementary volumes, con-
taining Shakspeare's Poems, the seven spurious
plays ascribed to him by the third folio, and

THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE. 93

additional notes on the poet's genuine plays.
To Reed's edition of Johnson and Steevens he
contributed some notes also, which occasionally
controverted Steevens' opinions, and, in 1790,
printed an entire and independent edition of
Shakspeare in ten octavo volumes.

Malone's industry did not forsake him here^
for he employed himself up to the hour of his
death in 1812, in the preparation of an improved
edition of the poet. The materials he col-
lected were arranged and published by Boswell,
as a second edition of Malone's Shakspeare, in
twenty-one octavo volumes, in 1821.

Steevens was a wit, a scholar, ^nd a man of
taste. He was deeply read in the literature of
Shakspeare's age, and explained with skill many
of the local allusions of his author. But Steevens
was no poet, and he could not, therefore, com-
ment on the deep pathos and lofty imaginings of
Shakspeare. His want of poetic feehng di-
minished even his philological merits. He often
rejected readings both of the quartos and the
folios for the adoption of others which har-
monised, as he thought, a Une previously halt-
ing in the measure. He loved only the artificial
arid stately march of epic verse, and * wood not^
wUd' whispered no charm to his ear.

94 THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.

^ As a philologist Malone is a much safer guide.'
His first principle was a rigid adherence to the
elder copies, and when any intelligible meaning
was to be extracted from those sources, he pro-
fessed never to admit into his page a reading un-
authorised by the earliest quarto extant, where
the play had been pubUshed in quarto, or by the
first folio, when the play had originally made its
appearance there ; and on no occasion whatever
did he adopt a reading unsanctioned by authority
without apprising his reader of the liberty he had
taken.

Malone, like Steevens, was destitute of poetie
feeling, and he had not the wit and taste of his
rival. In knowledge they were equals. Steevens
had hie acquirements at his free and immediate
command. He applies them on all occasions
with perfect facility, unencumbered by their bulk,
and unconfiised by their desultoriness. His
vivacity frolicki^ beneath the trammels of the
most uninteresting minutiae, and his wit en-
livens the reader's passage through the dreary
paths of black letter quotation. But discretion
did not always guide him in the exercise of his
wit, and his love of minutiae was not always
harmless. He often wrote notes as traps to en-
tangle his fellow labourers in error, and insure

THE LIFE OF SHA1CSPEARE. ^

himself a triumph iii confuting them ; and his
Ulustrations of passages the most disgusting are
remarkable for their elaborateness. It aggra*
vates his crime that he shrunk £rom responsibility^
and sought refuge from reprobation and disgrace,
under the borrowed names of Collins and of
Anmer.*

The hostiUty in which Steevens and Malone
continually appear in their notes, forces them
into comparison with each other. Malone, un-
like Steevens, always appears oppressed by his
acquisitions, and all he accomplished, he ac-
complished with effort He wanted judgment
to direct him in the distinction of great from
little things ; all matters were, in his estimation,
equally important ; he bestows as many words on
a trivial subject as on one of real consequence.
Steevens* intellectual powers were certainly
superior to Malone's, but Steevens* unsound
principles of criticism, and dubious honesty,
weigh heavily against him. Malone's strict ad-
herence to the dry canons of criticism is an ad-

* steevens has lately been completely unmasked by two
writers : — Miss Hawkins, in her book of anecdotes ; and
more skilfully by D* Israeli in his paper on " Puck the Com-
mentator/' in the second series of the Curiosities of
Literature.

96 THE LIFE OF SHAKSPEARE.

mirable warrant for the integrity of the text he
has printed; and the indisputable uprightness
of his intentions forms a powerful counterpoise
to the mental superiority of his less conscientious
rival.

NOTES.

Note A,

SS o attempt was made to give an account of the life
pf Sbakspeare till near a century after his decease. The
name of Sbakspeare, indeed, occurs in Dugdale's Anti-
quities of Warwickshire, in Fuller's Worthies, and in
Phillips' Theatrum Poetarum, but only in the way of in-
cidental notice. Winstanley's Lives of the Poets, Lang-
baine, Blount, Gildon, and Antony Wood, added no-
diing new. It remained for Rowe, in 1 709, to give the
first connected life of Sbakspeare. The materials from
which he wrote were derived, as he himself informs us,
fix)m Thomas Betterton, the player, whose veneration
of the memory of Sbakspeare induced him to take a
journey into Warwickshire to collect such information •
as remained respecting him.

All anecdotes relative to the poet's residence in Strat- -
ford, whether before or after his emigration to London,
were in little danger of falsification in his native town.
Very strong evidence existed of the occurrences of his
early life up to 1646, when his sister Joan died. In a long
continued intercourse with their aunt, the two daughters
of Sbakspeare could not fail to acquire a knowledge of
all the fects of which she was mistress, and they pos-

VOL. I. H

100 NOTES.

ton instituted his inquiries^ little more than twenty years
after the death of Shakspeare's grand-daughter, &ble8
only remained for him to collect The facts adduced
by Betterton are indeed few ; but this leads to the in-
ference that he was scrupulous, not careless, in his
, inquiries. The " Picturesque Tourist" to Stratford
shewed, nearly a century later, how successful Betterton
might have been had he opened his ears to every idle
tale. With respect to the authority of Rowe, I am com-
pletely at issue with Malone : I think Rowe's account
substantially correct, and, consequently, that the modem
biographer has not iulfilled his boast, that he would
prove to be false eight out of the ten facts which Rowe
advances.

The anecdotes related of Shakspeare by Mr. Jones
and Mr. Taylor are of the same class of traditionary
evidence. Mr. Jones died at Tarbick, a village in
Worcestershire, in 1703, upwards of ninety years
old, and is the relator of an anecdote which he remem-
bered to have heard from many old people at Stratford.
Mr. Taylor, an alderman of Warwick, was eighty-five
years old in 1790. When a boy he lived at the next
house to New Place, which his family had occupied
almost three hundred years.

About 1680, Mr. Aubrey was engaged 'in the collec-
tion of aneedotes respecting the most eminent English
writers. His work was never completed, but his manu-
scripts are now reposited in the Ashmolean Museum at
Oxford. Aubrey was on terms of intimacy with most
literary men of his day, and acquainted with many of
tlie players. His opportunities, therefore, for the col-

NOTES- 101

iectioii of anecdotes were great ; but, unhappily, all he
heard he believed, and all he believed he committed to
paper. As an authority for any thing relative to Shak-
speare, he is by no means to be placed on a footing
with Rowe. Rowe and Betterton, apparently, consulted
their judgment before they recorded the result of their
enquiries : Aubrey had no judgment to consult.

Mr. William Oldys, Norry King at Arms, well known
for the share he had in the compilation of the Biogra-
phia Britannia, left several quires of paper covered with
coUecticms for a regular life of Shakspeare, but they
present few circumstances either of novelty or inform-
ation; and even these must be received with caution.
Oldys was a very careful writer, and his insertion 9f
any of these materials in a life of Shakspeare by him,
would have stamped them with the character of authen-
ticity, for he would not so have used them without ex-
amination. At present they can only be received as
evidence unwarranted by any opinion of his own upon
their merits ; that is, merely as indications of the belief
or tradition of the time in which they were collected^

Note B.

Many more varieties might be quoted f for the name
of Shakspeare is an extremely apposite instance of
the singular forms which simames assumed under the
loose orthography of our ancestors, who appeared to
have followed no guide but sound in their spelling.
Shakspeare himself wrote his name variously : there are^

H 3 -

1(M NOTES.

^^^her^ five signatures, which some writers presume
to be genuine aut(^raphs : three are indisputably so :
•i^One to a mortgage deed executed in 1613, —
fVm. Shakspe^ s a second to a conveyance from Henry
Walker to the poet, William Shaksper; and one upon
each of the three briefs of his will, WiUiam Shacksperej
William Shaksperej WiUiam Shakspeare. The contrac-
tions exhibited by the two first signatures neutralize
their evidence, as it is with respect to the last syllable
only that any doubt exists ; and, in regard to the signa-
tures to the will, a sort of doubt has been cast on the
first and second, by the suggestion that they might be
the hand-writing of the notary employed on the occa-
sion : the third signature to the will is clear smd deci-
sive; in deference to which, the poet's name will,
throughout the pages of these volumes, be written
Shakspeare.

Note C.

The instrument which first assigned arms to John
Shakspeare is no where to be found; but in a note
at the bottom of the grant made in 1596 it is stated,
that he then produced " a patent thereof under Clarence
Code's hand;" and, in the exemplification made in
1599, that he produced his ancient coat (^arms assign-
ed to him while he was bailiff of Stratford. The arms
are thus described in the last document : ^^ In a field
of gould upon a bend sables a speare of the first, the
point upward, hedded argent ; and for his crest or ocg-

NOTES. 103

nizance, a falcon with his wyngs displayed, standing on
a wrethe of his couUers, supporting a speare armed
hedded, or steeled sylver, fyxed uppon a helmet with
mantell and tassels." In the same docunent (1599)
the christian name of Mrs. Shakspeare is omitted, and
her &ther erroneously designated of WeUingcote. Hie
instrument of 1596, calls her ^^ Mary^ daughter and
fa^yress of Kobert Ard«i of Wilmecotey

Some explanation is necessary of the apparj^nt neglect
of the authoritie3 of these grants or confirmations of armSf
in the account whidi has been given of the Shakspeare
fiunily. The assertion of these instruments is, that the
ancei^cn's of John Shakspeare were advanced and re<-
warded for their services to Henry the Seventh, by a
grant of lands in those parts of Warwickshire, where
they had continued for some descents, in good reputation
and credit. The grant of 1596 reads ^^ whose parent
^d late antecessors," which is corrected in another
copy, by an interlineation, into ^^ whose grandfather *^
the confirmation of 1599 says, ^^ whose parent and
great-grandfather." I pass over the contradictions of
the heralds as immaterial, and not at all afiecting the
question as to the persons meant by the ^^ antecessors"
of John Shakspeare. I do not think that the actual
father, grandfather, great-grandfather, or any actual
ancestor of John Shakspeare was at all in the contem-
plation of the heralds; 1st, because there is no trace
whatever of a grant to any of the lineal ancestors of
John Shakspeare, in the chapel of the rolls, during the
whole reign of Henry the Seventh ; 2dly, because there
is no trace of any person of the name of Shakspeare

H 4

104 NOTES.

ever having been in possession of lands or tenements,
said to have been granted by royal bounty ; but, on the
contrary, the whole family, wherever they appear, pre-
sent an uniform appearance of respectability without
wealth ; 3dly, because that which is quite irreconcileable^
when interpreted of the lineal ancestor of John Shak-
speare, is almost literally true of the ancestors of his
wife, whose grandfather, Robert Arden, was groom of
the bed-chamber to Henry VII., keeper of the royal
park called Aldercar, bailiff of the lordship of Codnore,
and keeper of the park there. In 1507, he obtained a
lease from the crown of the manor of Yoxsall, in Staf-
ford, of above 4600 acres for twenty-one years, at the
low annual rent of forty-two pounds. I have no hesi-
tation, therefore, to believe, that the Arden's, and not
the Shakspeare's, were in the contemplation of the
heralds when they spoke of the " antecessors" of the
poet's father. Nor is any difficulty involved in this
belief, it being usual in, and long after, the sixteenth,
century, for a husband to speak of the relatives of his
wife in the same terms as he did of his own. Edward
Alleyn, the player, constantly styles Philip Henslow his
father^ though he was only his wife's stepfather. Tho-
mas Nash, who married the poet's grand-daughter,
Elizabeth Hall, calls Mrs. Hall in his will, his mcther.
Malone has produced a variety of instances of the
lax application of the terms of relationship. (Shake-
speare, vol. ii. p. 29. 31-2. note.) The maccuracy and
confusion of the heralds in these instruments, is a procrf*
that they were not masters of the subject before them,
\vbich renders it little surprising that the grant of lands

NOTES. 10.5

which they say was in Warwick, should turn out to
have been in Stafford. To those who believe them in-
capable of the commission of such an error, the forego-
ing reasoning will be inconclusive, and consequently, in
their estimation, fatal to the account given of John
Shakspeare in the text.

Note D.

Considerable obscurity has, from the days of Rowe^
hung over the accounts of John Shakspeare's family,
originating in the unhesitating application to the father
of the poet of every circumstance recorded in the parish-
register of John Shakspeare. After having eight chil-
dren ascribed to him between 1558 and 1580, John
Shakspeare is said, in 1584, to have mamed Margery
Roberts, who died 1587. The register, however, goes
on to record the birth of three children of John Shak-
speare between March 1588-9, and September 1591.
Whence it was inferred, that the poet's mother, Mary,
though the register is silent, died shortly after 1580:
that his father re-married in 1584, and that, on the death
of his second wife, was still so enamoured of the matri-
monial yoke as a third time to subject himself to its
endurance, and became the father of the three children
bom from 1588 to 1591, he himself dying in 1601, and
his third wife surviving him till 1608, when the death of
Mary Shakspeare, widow, occurs. As there were no
positive contradictions in this account, it was generally
acquiesced in, though not as perfectly satisfactory.

1 06 NOTES.

M alone has cleared the way for a much more natural
statement, by observing, that throughout the roister the
father of the poet is invariably called John Shakspeare,
without any distinction whatever, previous to his filling
the office of high bailiff; but subsequently, wherever the
baptisms or deaths of his children are recorded, he is
denominated Mr. John Shakspeare (filius aut filia Ma-
gistri Shakspeare), a distinction ever afterwards con-
ferred upon him, as upon every other bailiff, in all the
records of the proceedings of the corporation. Now
the person who married Margery Roberts fifl;een years
after the poet's father had been chief magistrate of Strat-
ford, is simply called John Shakspeare, and the three
children, Ursula, Humphrey, and Philip, bom between
1588 £md 1591, are described as the children of John
Shakspeare, without any distinction or addition to the
name whatever. It admits not, therefore, of the slightest
doubt, that the husband of Margery Roberts, and the
lather of the three children, was not the quondam bailiff
of the borough. In answer to the question, who then
was he? it is replied, in all probability, John Shakspeare,
a shoe-maker, who, not being a native, of the town,
paid, in 1585-6, thirty shillings for his freedom in the
Shoe-makers' Company; served as constable in 1586
and 1587 ; who had money advanced him by the cor-
poration in 1590 ; was accepted hi two cases as a secu-
rity for the re-payment of money advanced by them to
other individuals, and who was master of the Shoe-
makers' Company 1592. (Regis. Burg. Strat.)

NOTES. 107

NOTB E.

The ingenuity of commentators will be tasked anew
by the discovery that Shakspeare's father was a glover.
Tlie scenes of the dramatist must be ransacked for
allttsions to that indispensable feature in a gentleman's
appard, a pair c{ gloves. Passages must now be tor-
tured to furnish evidence of the poet's intimate know-
ledge 0( the details of the business of a glove-maker.
How much his own works countenance the tradi-
tion that he was a wool-dealer, may be seen in the
notes on " Let me see : — Every 'leven wether — tods ;
every tod yields — pound and odd shilling; fifteen
hundred shorn, — What comes the wool to ?" (Winter's
Tale, Act IV. sc. 2.) The reader may consult also, though
he would hardly have guessed it, the notes on

" There's a divinity that shapes our 9nd^
Rougli-Jiew them how we wilL**

Hamlet, Act V. sc. 2.

iSiakspeare is reported to have been a butcher — *^ Pat^
like the catastrophe of the old comedy."

** And as the butcher takes away the calf
And binds the wretch, and beats it when it strays.
Bearing it to the bloody slaughter-house;
Even so, remorseless, have they borne him hence.
And as the dam runs lowing up and down.
Looking the way her harmless young one went,
And can do nought but wail her darling's loss;
Even so," &c Henry VI. part 3. Act III. sc. 1.

In these cases, however, there is a matter of reliance —
the voice of tradition. But it is stmning for ocmse-

108 NOTES*

quences to argue from the dramatist's technical accu-
racy in the use of legal phrases, that he was a clerk in
the office of a country attorney; and Malone is more
than usually reprehensible in endeavouring to support
so bold a conjecture, by the suggestion that the school-
master story of Aubrey is a mere adumbration of the
truth. Aubrey's evidence is positive, — " he understood
Latin pretty well, for he had been in his younger years
a school-master in the country;" and is entitled to as
much credit as any other tradition he has preserved,
neither involving in itself improbability, nor standing in
opposition to any recorded fact.

Note F.

Shakspeare's wife was not of ^^ Shottery," as has been
affirmed by the author of the " Picturesque Tour to the
Banks of the Avon," and his blundering followers.
What then becomes of the cottage at Shottery, where
the wife of the poet and her parents dwelt, and in which
their descendants, who are poor and numerous, still ccxi-
tinue to reside ? Here the credulous have been grati-
fied by the display of undoubted relics of the poet
Very particular mention is made of a bed, which an old
woman of seventy had slept in from her childhood, and
had always been told it had been there since the house
was built. Her absolute refusal to part with this trea-
sure, is adduced as a proof that the purchasers of the
Shakspearian relics had not listened with a too easy
credulity to whatever they had been told. At the time

NOTES. 109

of the Jubilee, George, the brother of David Garrick,
purchased an ink-stand, and a pair of fringed gloves,
said to have been worn by Shakspeare; but David's
enthusiasm for Shakspeare was tempered by judgment,
and he purchased nothing.

Note G.

Malone has laboured to reiute the whole of this ac->
count. His arguments may be reduced to two : 1st, the
Sir Thomas Lucy alleged to have been Shakespeare's
prosecutor, never had a park, it being universally ac-
knowledged that there was none at Charlecote, and
Fulbroke was not purchased by the family till the
reign of James I. : no theft of deer, therefore, could
have been made from Sir Thomas Lucy, it not being
possible to produce an example of the keeping of deer
in grounds not recognised as parksj in the legal meaning
of that word ; 2dly, such grounds only were protected
by the common law, and by the fifth of Elizabeth,
ci^. 21.

Without the latter part of the first objection be as
ihcontrovertibly true as the former, the argument avails
nothing; for it is alleged that Shakspeare stole deer
from Sir Thomas lAtcy^ not that he stole it either from
Charlecote or Futtroke. That no deer were ever kept
in private grounds, because the practice was not so uni-
versal as to have forced itself into notice, is what cannot,
in contradiction to probability, be conceded. Gentle-
men of the 16th century would derive as much pleasure

110 NOTES.

irom the preservation of a few bead of deer in grounds
contiguous to their dwellings, as we know they do in
the present day. The passage quoted from Blackstone
might have engendered a suspicion, even in the mind
of Malone, that the practice was no novel^ many years
ago. " It is not every field or common which a gentle-
man chooses to surround with a wall or paling, and
stock with a herd of deer, that is thereby constituted a
legal park." As it is admitted that Sir Thomas Lucy
had no park^ in its legal sense, we will just review our
authorities for believing, that he at least had deer, and,
if that be proved, I care not where he kept them. The
first evidence, in point of date, is that furnished by
Malone himself, who quotes some notes made by Arch-
deacon Davies, to the manuscript notices of Mr. William
Fulman, on the most eminent English poets. Davies
died in 1707, and the pikers of himself and Fulman are
preserved in Corpus College, Oxon. Davies relates,
that Shakspeare stole venison and rabbits from the
knight. (Shakspeare, vol. ii. p. 121-S.) Rowe's ac-
count has been given in the text. We next come to
Jones of Tarbick, whose facts are nearly the same as
Rowe's, with the added particular, that the offensive
ballad was fixed on Sir Thomas' park gate, and such
confirmation of the whole story as the repetition erf the
first stanza of the ballad alleged to have been written
afforded. The value of Jones' evidence has been
already estimated ; it is only necessary here to show,
that the stanza repeated by Jones has descended in an
uncorrupted state. Jones recited the lines to an ac-
quaintance, who committed them to writing, and a

NOTES. Ill

relative of Jones' acquaintance communicated them to
Oldys : from him the lines in the text are copied.
Capel's account is this : Jones himself wrote down the
stanza ; this stanza was repeated from memory, by CapePs
maternal grandfather, Mr. Thomas Wilkes, to Cape?s
fiither, who committed it to writing. The two copies of
the stanza derived from the same source, but transmitted
through different channels, agree precisely with each
other. The story, thus authenticated, is surely conclu-
sive as to Sir Thomas Lucy having had deer, and as to
some of those deer having been purloined by Shak-
speare. I have forborne to cite Chetwood, because his
authority is suspicious ; the stanzas he produces are not
in the discovered song, with which, moreover, they are
at variance in the mode of attack upon Sir Thomas
Lucy, and the measure of verse in which they are con-
structed. It is Hot too much to believe of Chetwood,
that presuming on the irrecoverable loss of all but the
first stanza of the ballad, he forged what he thought
an appropriate continuation of it. As to Malone's
second objection, he partly answers it himself, admitting
that Shakspeare might have been proceeded against by
an action of trespass. He dismisses the supposition,
however, of such having been the case, because it has
never been alleged that any civil suit was instituted
against Shakspeare on this ground. Rowe's account is
much too loose and general to warrant a decision re^
specting the nature of the proceeding against Shakspeare^
but he states positively enough, that the poet was
prosecuted in consequence of his depredation on Sir
Thomas Lucy's property ; and, from all that appears, he

112 NOTES.

might as well have been prosecuted for the trespass as
any thing else. But even allowing Malone to have suc-
ceeded in the interposition of a legal impossibility against
the prosecution of the poet, does the whole story neces-
sarily fidl to the ground ? Was prosecution the only evil
to be apprehended from the anger of so powerful an
enemy as Sir Hiomas ? certainly not ; and this Malone
well knew when he said, a few pages before, " if our
author was so unfortunate as to offend him, he certainly
could afterwards find no safe or comfortable abiding in
his native town, where he could not escape the constant
notice of his prosecutor ^ (Shakspeare, vol. ii. p. 132.)
The story then, on Malone's own statement, will stand
well enough without the prosecution. And here let me
ask, why the same licence of interpretation is not allow-
ed to the words prosecuted and prosecution^ in Rowe's
narrative, as we are compelled to give to that of prose-
cutor in the sentence quoted from Malone ? The word
there can only be understood to mean persecutor, and
no difficulty remains to contend with, if we read perse- .
cuted and persecution in Rowe's sentence.

The collateral proofs of the tradition are, that Sir
Hiomas Lucy was very active in the preservation of
game, consequently an extremely likely man to act with
severity against a depredator on his manor. It has
always been believed that Sir Thomas Lucy was ridi-
culed under the portrait of Justice Shallow, who com-
plains of Falstaff for beating his men, killing his deer,
and breaking open his lodge. Sir Hugh Evans also
plays upon the word luce in the same manner as the
ballad does upon Lucy, Lucies are little fish, and the
arms of the Lucy family " three lucies hariant."

NOTES. 113

Note H.

" Thomas Greene, alias Shakspeare, was buried
6th March, 1589-90." (Strat. Rcgist) What the alias^
\n the Register, means, I do not know. If the Greens
were related to any family of the name of Shakspeare
I believe they were the connections of John, the shoe-
maker. In 1565 Philip Greene married Ursula Bur-
badge. Ursula will be remembered as the name of one
of the shoemaker's children. (Note D.) The shoemaker
was security for Philip Grreene in 1592. Though I
express a doubt of the relationship of Green, the
actor, to the Grreens of Stratford, I am not ignorant of
the four lines adduced as a proof of that relationship ;
they are quoted by Chetwood, from a play in which
they do not exist. If the lines were genuine, they would
certainly prove all that is required of them ; but I am
not so infatuated with Chetwood, as to assert the relation-
ship between the Grreens, in the text, on his authority
alone, though I admit the extreme probability of the
fact

Note I.

I BELIEVE the text to be a fair representation of the

truth. My rejection of the tale of Shakspeare having

held horses at the play-house door follows of course, it

beinir impossible that of two stories, so inconsistent with

each other, both should be true. The narrative in the

text is natural and consistent; the other abounds with

114 NOTES.

difficulty and improbability. There is yet another
objection against it. Rowe knew the story, but omitted
to insert it in his life of our author, which I agree with
Steevens in believing he would not hare done, had he
thought it true. Its genealc^ is respectable: had it
merely rested on die authority of Gibber's Lives of the
Poets, it would not have merited the notice it has
received.

Note J.

The materials made use of in the account here given
of the theatre and theatrical usages of Shakspeare's time,
are principally those collected by Malone, whose Histo-
rical Account of the English Stage is an invaluable
repository of facts on the subject In their arrangement,
however, he was particularly unfortunate; for no prin-
ciple of the difference of the importance of his collections
guided him in divi4ing them between text and notes^ I
have concerned myself with his facts alone, and from
them I have deduced my own conclusions. They are
frequently at variance with those of my predecessor :
that our coincidences are numerous, is attributable to
the circumstance, that some facts speak too plainly to
admit of diversity of opinions. Many matters in the
text are not Malone's ; for in a long indulgence of a
predilection for the subject of theatrical history, I have
sometimes gleaned trifles which appeared to have escaped
him.

NOTES. 1 15

Note K.

The Globe vras a hexagonal wooden building. Hen-
slow and Allen's contract for the building of the Fortune
playhouse in 1599> gives us a pretty accurate idea of its
dknensions; for that ^ Indenture''' again and again insists
OR the Fortune being built, though somewhat larger, yet
like die Globe. The contract for the Fortune stipulates
fcHT the arectkm of a building of four equal external sides
of eighty feet^ reduced by necessary arrangements to an
iRtemal area of fifty-five feet square. The length of the
stage fit)m side to side was to be fi:Mrty-three feet, and m
depth it was to extend over half the space of the internal

^liree tiers of galleries occupied three sides of the
house. Hie height of die first firom the ground is not
named. Hie second is stated at twelve feet above the
lower tier; the third eleven feet firom the second, and
the height above the third, nine feet. There were four
convenient rooms, or what are now called boxes, for the
accommodation of gentlemen, partitioned off fi*om the
lower gallery ; and other divisions, for company of an
inferior order, in the tipper. The lower galleries
measured twelve feet and a half bom the bade to the
fvGOt; the uf^r stories had an additicmal projection of
texk indies.

The space between the outward wall of the dieatre
and the firont of the galleries was completely roofed in
wkh thatch, as was likewise all that part of the theatre^

I 2

116 NOTES.

occupied by the stage ; so that the stage, galleries, pas-
sages, and stair-cases, were entirely protected from the
weather, whilst the open area, or pit,, was exposed.

I do not profess to understand this document. It is,
in fiu^t, inconsistent with itself. A square of eighty feet
every way, reduced on each side by galleries of twelve
feet and a half, would certainly leave a square area of
fifiy-five feet on every side. But as the stage would
necessarily occupy one side of the square, and the depth
of the stage was to be exactly half of the remaining area,
nothing like the area spoken of could be left open. Again,
the length of the stage is expressly defined forty-three
feet, which leaves it six feet too short at each side to form
a junction with the ends of the galleries next the stage.
I have no doubt, therefore, of an error in the document,
which I take to be the omission to calculate the space
occupied by the passages and stair-cases. ^ A passage of
six feet wide behind the galleries, added to their width,
would make a deduction of eighteen feet and a half from
each side of the theatre, and leave a space between the
front of one gallery to the front of the other of forty-three
feet^ which is the exact width assigned to the stage.

The description of the ground plot of the house would
then run thus : a square of eighty feet reduced on three
sides by a passage of six feet, and a gallery of twelve feet
and a half in breadth, leaving an area of. forty-three feet
wide, and sixty-one feet and a half long : the width of
the area the width of the stage; half the length of .the
area thirty feet and three quarters, the depth of the stage.
To make myself better understood, a plan of this conr

NOTES.

117

jecture is sketched, below. The height of the theatre
was probably thirty-eight feet^ allowing six feet for the
height of the stage and undermost gallery, or row of boxes,
which would, I suppose, be oh a level with each other.

80 feet.

•»
^

•

Rooms or Boxes.

1-^

•44>

Area

6 feet.

121 feet

VI*

Rooms

or
Boxes. ^

Pit

48 feet |

Stage.

■ !

Note L.

A SCENE has been defined as ^^ a painting in perspec*
tive, on a cloth &5tened to a wooden frame or roller*;"
and the want of this simple contrivance at the public

• Malohe.
I 3

118 NOTES.

theatres is singular, when the account books of the
Revel Office prove, even to satiety, that the use of such
paintings was an every day occurrence when plays were
performed at Court

<^ One hundred and fifty ells of canvass for the houses
and properties made for the players."

** A painted cloth and two frames."

" Wm. Lyzarde for syze, cullers, pottes, nayles, and
pensills used and occupied upon the paynting of vii
cities, one villadge, one oountrey-house, one b^tle-
ment, &c."

" One citty, and one battlement of canvas."

" Wm. Lyzarde for paynting by greate ccx yaxds of
canvas."

Six plays ^^ furnished, perfected and garnished neces-
sarely and answerable to the matter, person and parte to
be played ; having apt howeses made of canvass, framed,
fashioned, and paynted accordingly, as might best serve
their several purposes."

Note M.

Rowe's testimony is positive, and corroborated by the
&ct adduced for its illustration. Oldys' &ct jrields a
similar inference; and then follows the testimony of
Wright, which is perfectly clear also : ** Shakspeare
was a much better poet than .player." (Historia His-
trionica.) I cannot extract from Aubrey^s account that
Shakspeare ** did act exceedingly well," any stronger
meaning than that those parts which he did play he

NOTES. 119

played well : in fitvour of his being a first-rate actor,
which has been contended for, it testifies nothing. As
for the contemporary evidence of Chettle, so much re-
lied on in support of the latter position, it is enough
to say, that his address ^^ to the Gentlemen Readers,''
is apologetical to Shakspeare; and apologies are so apt
to be complimentary, that it will be long before their
literal meaning will be received as authentic historical
testimony.

Note N.

I MUST here enter a protest against Malone's un-
warrantable conjectures. Oldys' story is this: ** One
of Shakspeare's younger brothers, who lived to a good
old age, even some years, as I compute, after the re-
storation of King Charles the Second, would, in his
younger days, come to visit his brother Will, as he
called him, and be a spectator of him as an actor in
some of his own plays." Oldys then mentions circum-
stances which leave no doubt that As You Like It was
one of the plays seen, and Adam the character repre-
sented by Shakspeare.

Now for Malone's remarks. " Mr. Oldys seems to
have studied the art of ^ marring a plain tale in the
teUing of it* From Shakspeare's not taking notice of
any of his brothers or sisters in his will, except Joan
Hart, I think it highly probable that they were all
dead in 1616, except her. The truth is, th^ this ac-
count came originally from Mr. Jones of Tarbrick, who

I 4

120 NOTES.

related it from the information, not of one of Sbak"
speare's brothers^ but of a relation of our poet, who lived
to a good old age, and had seen him act in his youth.
Mr. Jones' informer might have been Mr. Richard
Quiney;" and a thousand other conjectures Malone
adds. Now, every word of this is hypothesis, and most
miwarrantable. Oldys says nothing about Jones ; why
then is the story referred to him, and, if justly to him,
why is not his assertion that it was a brother of Shak-
speare who saw him play Adam, to be believed ? It is
well ascertained that all Shakspeare's brothers and sisters
were dead previous to 1616, except Joan and Gilbert
Gilbert, therefore, was the brother alluded to by Oldys.
And what has Malone to say to this ? Why, ^^ I shall,
in its proper place, show that the anecdote of one of
Shakspeare's brothers having lived till after the testor-
ifttion, is utterly impossible to be true." (Vol. ii. p. 141.
note.) It is much to be regretted, that the '* proper
place" never occurred for the display of his overwhelm-
ing evidence. Till it is produced, let it be remembered
that, as yet, nothing whatever is known of Gilbert
Shakspeare, except that Oldys " computed" his existence
to have extended to a period subsequent to the restor-
f^tion.

Note O.

A FEW additional particulars of the history of New
Place will not, perhaps, be unacceptable to the reader.
The house was originally built by Sir Hugh Clopton,

NOTES. 12l

in the time of Henry the Seventh, and was then " a fair

house, J)uilt of brick and timber*' (Dugdale), and con-
tinned in the Clopton family until 1563, when it was
bought by William Bott, and re-sold in 1570 to Wil-
liam Underhill, Esq., of whom Shakspeare purchased it
in 1597. On Shakspeare's death, New Place came to
his daughter, Mrs. Hall ; and then to her only child,
Elizabeth Nash, afterwards Lady Barnard. In the
house of Shakspeare, Mr. and Mrs. Nash enjoyed the
remarkable distinction of entertaming Henrietta Maria^
the wife of Charles the First, who, during the civil war
in 1643, kept her court for three weeks in New Place.
After Lady Barnard's death, in 1670, by a variety of
changes, it reverted to the possession of the Clopton
family, and Sir Hugh Clopton so completely mo-
dernized it, by internal and external alterations, as to
confer on it the character of a new building altogether.
In 1742, Macklin, Garrick, and Dr. Delaney, were en-
tertained under Shakspeare's mulberry-tree by Sir
Hugh. His son-in-law, Henry Talbot, Esq., sold New
Place to the Rev. Francis Gastrell, vicar of Frodsham,
in Cheshire. The mulberry-tree first became an object
of dislike to its reverend possessor, because it subjected
him to the frequent importunities of travellers, whose
veneration for Shakspeare prompted them to visit it In
an evil hour he cut it down, and hewed it to pieces for
firewood. The greater part, however, was purchased by
Thomas Sharp, a watchmaker in Stratford, who turned
it to wonderful advantage by converting every fi'agment
into trifling articles of utility or ornament. A disagree-
ment between Mr. Gastrell and the overseers of the

1S2 NOTES.

parish, respecting an assessmait for the maintenance of
the poor, fixed the final &te of New Place, In the heat
of his anger, he declared, that that house should never
be assessed again : in 1759, he pulled it down, and sold
the materials. Here it is, with ple&sure, added, that
Mr. Gastrell left Stratford amidst the rage and execra-
tions of the inhabitants. (Wheeler's Guide to, and His-
tory o^ Stratford.)

Note P.

When Shakspeare made his will, his wife was, at
firsts forgotten altogether, and only became entitled to
her l^acy under the benefit of an interlineation. To
those in search of subjects for controversy, the tempt-
ation was irresistible. Malone acknowledges the bard's
contempt for his wife, and, thinking it derogatory to his
penetration not to be able to account for it, makes him
jealous of her. Steevens, rightly enough, defends the
lady, but forgetting, for once, his knowledge of lii^
appears quite unconscious that husbands, as well 'as
wives, are occasionally false. The conversion of the
bequest of an inferior piece of furniture into a mark
of peculiar t^iderness,

^ The very bed that on his bridal night
Recdved him to the arms of Belvidera,"

is not much in the usual style of this veiy knowing
commentator.

NOTES. 123

Note Q.

Sonnets 33, 34, 35. 40-2. 120. It is natural that
love and firiendship should be the subjects of Shak-
speare's Sonnets ; and these Sonnets contain abundant
evidence of the statements in the text. Perhaps other
circumstances regarding the poet remain to be dis-
covered ; but hitherto most of the endeavours to trace
the mind of Shakspeare in his Sonnets have been dreams
and conjectures wilder and more absurd than the fimcies
of Warburton. The subject of the greater number of
the Sonnets was, undoubtedly, a male friend of the poet,
and Shakspeare's praise of the personal beauty and
accomplishments of the favoured youth are far too ardent
to be pleasing.* The hundred and twenty-sixth is
the last stanza to the ^^ lovely boy,'' and a transition is
then made to the lady whose inconstancy to Shakspeare^
and attachment to his bewitching friend, have been al-
ready noticed.

* Sonnets 18, 19,20--38. 59. 45. 47.

.^iitM

ESSAYS.

** Tet must I not give Nature all ; tliy art.
My gentle Shakspeare^ must enjoy a part :—
For though the poet's matter nature be^
His art doth give the fiuhion.'*

Bnr JovsoK.

127

KING JOHN.

1596.*

In the composition of his English historical
plays, Shakspeare usually referred to the Chro-
nicles of Holinshed for the facts necessary for
his purpose. - On the present occasion, however,
he rested satisfied with the authority of an ano-
nymous play, in two parts, printed in 1591. Its
title is, «* The troublesome Raigne of John King
of England, with the Discoverie of King Richard
CordeKon's -base Sonne (vulgarly named the
Bastard Fauconbridge) : also, the Death of King
John at Swinstead Abbey.**

The various events of John's confused reign
are ill calculated for dramatic representation, in

• Shakspeare's English hUtorical plays are here con-
sidered chronologically. The principle adopted in the ar-
rangement of the other dramas is that of the order of their
composition ; and I have acquiesced in Malone's hypo-
thesis, except in the cases of the Merchant of Venice and
Cymbeline.

128 KING JOHN.

which the want of a leading interest is imper-
fectly supplied by a mere collection of incidents.
The great fault of the old play is, that it gives
a very inadequate idea of what it professes to
represent. If the reader be not previously ac-
quainted with the history, he will in vain seek a
knowledge of it from the progress of the scene.
It is scarcely ever clear, for instance, whether
the barons are in arms against the king in de-
fence of their own liberties, or as the tools of
Philip and partisans of Lewis, and thus the sup-
porters of the cause of the pope. Throughout
the play, indeed, John's disagreement with his
nobility, and their extensive confederacy against
him, for the protection of their independence,
are kept too much out of sight ; and of an event
so important as the signature of Magna Charta,
there is a total neglect. With almost implicit
fidelity, Shakspeare copied the old play in its
story and scenic arrangement of circumstances.
He seldom corrects his author, but with him
attributes the death of Richard the First to the
Duke of Austria, and names that duke f* Ly-
moges." * Richard was, indeed, imprisoned
on his return from Palestine, by Leopold Duke
of Austria ; but he met his death, several years

* Act III. sc. 1.

KING JOHN. 129

afterwards, from the hand of Bertrand de Gour-
don, while besieging Vidomar, vicount of Li-
moges, in the castle of Chains. Holinshed re-
lates that Arthur was imprisoned in Falais, and
afterwards at Rouen, and in this latter place he
was supposed to be murdered : in the old play,
Arthur is confined somewhere in England, and
there Shakspeare also confines him.

Shakspeare has forcibly displayed the art, so-
phistry, insincerity, and ambition of the court of
Rome; but' it is singular that. he has not, like
the author of the old play, exhibited the de-
pravity of the monastic orders, and the horrid
tendency of papistical principles.

The same view is taken of John's character by
Shakspeare, and by the anonymous author. In
prosperity he is bold and insolent, and over-
bearing; in adversity, an abject coward; —
weak in judgment, precipitate in action. With
no views beyond the exigency of the moment,
he eageriy attempts the accomplishing of his
desires, unrestrained by religious awe, and un-
checked by moral principle. Devoid of talent,
he reaps not the benefit of his villainy : superior
ability overreaches him ; he succumbs to the
power he insolently defies, and affectedly de-
spises, and he is at once the object of hatred an (J
contempt.

VOL. I. K

130 KING JOHN.

The old play makes John an usurperi anji not,
as represented by Holinshed, the. legal possessor
of the throne under the dying testament of his
predecessor, and brother, Richard. It was the
object of both the dramatists to excite pity in
favour of Arthur, and they, therefore, judiciously
suppressed the facts recorded by Holinshed,
that the nobility " willingly took their oaths of
obedience'' to John, and that the pretensions of
his nephew were at one time so little insisted
upon, that " a peace was concluded upon be-
twixt King John and Duke Arthur/*

The most celebrated, and^ indeed, the best
scene in Shakspeare's play, is that in which the
tyrant insinuates to Hubert his wishes for the
death of Arthur: its whole merit is Shakspeare'^
the bare hint for such an interview iq the original
play being comprised in the following lines :

^' Hubert de Burgh, take Arthur here to thee.
Be he thy prisoner : Hubert, keep him safe.
For on his life doth hang thy sovereign's crown.
But in his death consists thy sovereign's bliss :
Then, Hubert, as thou shortly hear'st from me.
So use the prisoner I have given in charge."

The sequel to this scene, Hubert's explanation
to John that Arthur had not been sacrificed, is
generally illustrative of Shakspeare's method ctf

KING JOHN. 131

treating his predecessor's composition. * The
beautiful passage descriptive of the general and
deep sensation excited by the report of the
death of Arthur is entirely Shakspeare's, as are,
also, John's ungrateful reflections on Hubert's
supposed obedience to his command, t

The remainder of the scene is inimitably am-
plified from the following passage of the old
play :

** Art thou there, villain ? Furies haunt thee still,
For killing him whom all the world laments.

Hub* Why, here's, my lord, your highnes hand and
seal,
Charging, on life's regard, to do the deed.

John. Ah, dull, conceited peasant, know'st thou not
It was a damned execrable deed ?
Shew'st me a seal ? Oh, villain, both our souls
Have sold their freedom to the thrall of hell
Under the warrant of that cursed seal.
Hence, villain, hang thyself, and say in hell
That I am coming for a kingdom there."

Shakspeare's representation of John suffering
under poison, and desiring winter and the bleak
winds of the north to cool his internal heat, is a
circumstance borrowed from the old play : how
eloquently he has amplified the idea of his pre-
decessor, requires not to be pointed out.

* Act IV. SC.2.

f " It is the curse of kings to be attended
By slaves," &c.

K 2

132 KING JOHN,

'< Philip; some drink ; oh ! for the frozen Alpg,
To tumble on and cool this inward heat
That rageth as the furnace seven-fold hot."

Few scenes of deeper pathos occur in Shak-
speare than the triumph of humanity over stern-
ness in the breast of Hubert, and the glory is
due to Shakspeare only.

The pleadings of Arthur, in the old play, are
the reasonings of an adult, harsh, quaint, and
cold, Shakspeare has converted the young man
into a child, and artfully invested his supplica-
tions with the beautiful simplicity of infantine
innocence. One specimen of the style of the
old play will be sufficient.

<< Then do thy charge, and charged be thy soul
With wrongful persecution done this day.
Yon rowling eyes, whose superficies yet
I do behold with eyes that nature lent :
Send forth the terror of your mover's frown.
To wreak my wrong upon the murthereri^
That rob me of your fair reflecting view :
Let hell to them (as earth they wish to me)
Be dark and direful guerdon for their guilt,
And let the black tormentors of deep Tartary
Upbraid them with this damned enterprise.
Inflicting change of tortures on their souls.
Delay not, Hubert, my orisons are ended.
Begin, I pray thee, reave me of my sight :
But to perform a tragedy indeed,
Conclude the period with a mortal stab.
Constance, farewell, tormentor come away,
Make my dispatch the tjnrant's feasting day.

fciNG JOHN. 133

Hubert. I faint, I fear, my conscience bids desist t
Faint did I say ? fear was it that I nam'd ?
My king commands, that warrant sets me free :
But God forbids, and he commandeth kings.
That great Commander counterchecks my charge,
He stays my hand, he maketh soft my heart.
Go, cursed tools, your office is exempt :
Cheer thee, young lord, thou shalt not lose any eye,
Though I should purchase it with loss of life.
rU to the king, and say his will is done.
And of the langour tell him thou art dead ;
Go in with me, for Hubert was not born
To blind those lamps that nature polish'd so."

From Arthur we naturally turn to his mother,
the Lady Constance, who makes a far less pro-
minent and alluring figure in history than on the
stage. The tragic muse has not described her
as the widow of Gefferey, the divorced wife of
the earl of Chester, and the actual consort of a
third husband, Guie de Tours, but has repre-
sented the only beautiful feature in her character
— maternal tenderness, — and super-added the
^^ widow* s plaint, that issues from a wounded
soul."* In Shakspeare, also, she is

^* sick and capable of fears.
Oppressed with wrongs, and therefore full of fears;
A tvidotvy husbandless, subject to fears."t

The maternal distress of Constance, in the old
play, is clamorous and passionate, vindictive

* Old play. t Act III. sc. 1.

K 3

184 KING JOHN.

and contumelious. The hand of Shakspeare
tempered her rage into vehemence, attuned her
clamour to eloquence, and (for the most part)
modulated her coarse vindictiveness into a deep
sense of gross injuries and undeserved mis-
fortunes. For those passages in her character
most worthy of admiration, Shakspeare drew
chiefly from his own resources. Of her eloquent
rejoinder to the prayer of Arthur that she would
be " content*,'* not a trace is to be met with in
the original, nor of that noble burst of passion,

" I will instruct my sorrows to be proud ;

For grief is proud, and makes its owner stoop.
To me> and to.the state of my great grief,
Let kings assemble ; for my grief's so great.
That no supporter but the huge firm earth
Can hold it up ; here I and sorrows sit ;
Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it."

Equally free from obligation, also, in the
same scene, is Constance's designation of the
nuptial day of Blanch and Lewis, and her ani-
mated exposure of the perfidy of Philip and
Austria.

- The entrance of Constance, in the fourth scene
of the third act, is prefaced, in the old play, by
Philip's observation :

** To aggravate the measure of our grief.

All mal-content comes Constance for her son.

♦ Act III. sc. 1.

KING JOHN. 135

Be briefy good madam, for your face imports
A tragick tale behind that's yet untold.
Her pai^ions stop the organ of her voice,
Deep sorrow throbeth mis-befairn events ;
Out with it lady, that our act may end
A full catastrophe of sad laments."

Shakspeare substituted the following vivid
picture :

^* Look, who comes here ! a grave unto a soul ;
Holding the eternal spirit, against her will.
In the vile prison of afflicted breath :" —

The whole of the part is Shakspeare's from the^
striking apostrophe to death*, to Constance's
beautiful detail of her inducements for doating
upon grief.t This is the last scene of her ap-
pearance.

The bold admixture of broad humour, sar-
castic bitterness, and playful levity, in a plain,
blunt, and unpretending Englishman, was first
sketched in the " Troublesome Raigne.'* The
character is not wrought with the care, nor
pointed with the emphasis, that mark theFaulcon-
bridge of Shakspeare, yet it is delineated with
much discrimination and vigour.

* " Death, death : — O amiable, lovely death \

Arise forth from the couch of lasting night/' &o.

Act ni. sc. 4*

\ << Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
Liesf in his bed/' &c.

K 4

136 KING JOHK*

'* Then, Robin Faulconbridge, I wish thee joy^
My sire a king, and I a landless boy.
God's lady-mother, the world is in my debt.
There's something owing to Plantagenet.
Aye marry, sir, let me alone for game,
111 act some wonders now I know my name.
By blessed Mary, 111 not sell that pride
For England's wealth and all the world beside.
Sit fast the proudest of ihy father^s foes,
Away, good mother, there the comfort goes.''

Though Shakspeare has not actually imitated
this spirited passage, it undoubtedly influenced
him when he composed the conclusion of his
first act. Faulconhridge*s defiance of Austria, in
the old play, is dull and tedious :

<' What words are these ? How do my sinews shake?
My father's foe clad in my father's spoil;
A thousand furies kindle with revenge,
This heart, that choler keeps a consistory.
Searing my inwards with a brand of hate r
How doth Alecto whisper in mine ears ?
Delay not, Philip, kill the villain straight.
Disrobe him of the matchless monument,
Thy father's triumph o'er the savages ;
Base heardgroom, coward, peasant, worse than a

threshing slave,
What mak'st thou with the trophic of a king ?
Sham'st thou not, coistril, loathsome dunghill swad^
To grace thy carcase with an ornament
Too precious for a monarch's coverture?
Scarce can I temper due obedience
Unto the presence of my sovereign,
From acting outrage on this trunk of hate :
Put arm thee, traitor, wronger of renown.

KING JOHN. 137

For by his soul I swear, my father's soul,
Twice will I not review the morning's rise,
'Till I have torn that trophie from thy back.
And split thy heart for wearing it so long.
Philip hath sworn, and if it be not done,
Let not the world repute me Richard's son."

But in Shakspeare, with what spkit and concise
ness is it said —

Austria. — — " What the devil art thou ?

Falcon. " One that will play the devil, sir, with you.

An 'a may catch your hide and you alone.

You are the hare of whom the proverb. goes,

Whose valour plucks dead lions by the beard ;

I'll smoke your skin-coat, an I catch you right ;

Sirrah^ look to't ; i'faith, I will, i'faith."

Act U. sc. 1.

Faulconbridge's keen reflections on the uni-
versal sway of interest in every transaction of
life*, is entirely Shakspeare's, as is the fine
strain of humour with which Austria is taunted
through the first scene of the third act Shaks-
peare has nobly elevated the Bastard by his
feeling and manly conduct when Hubert is
accused of the marder of Arthurt, and by as-'
signing him some of the most animated sen-
tences in the play. Of his appeal to the cou-
rage, pride, and glory of John t j his bold defi^
ance of Lewis§ ; and his afiectionate lament over.

♦ Act II. sc. 2. t Act IV. sc. 3.

i Act V. sc. 1. " But wherefore do you droop," &c.

§ Act V. sc. 2. " Now hear our English king."

138 KING JOHN.

the dead body of the king, there are no traces
in the original play.

The singular inattention of Shakspeare to a
highly poetic passage in the old King John, de-
mands its quotation here. It is the imprecation
of the Bastard on Austria, whom he had in vain
pursued in the field of battle.

^* And art thou gone ! misfortune haunt thy steps.
And chill cold fear assail thy times of rest.
Morpheus, leave here thy silent ebon cave ;
Besiege his thoughts with dismal fantasies,
And ghastly objects of pale threatening maws.
Affright him every minute with stem looks,
Let shadow temper terror in his thoughts.
And let the terror make the coward mad.
And in his madness let him fear pursuit.
And so in frenzy let the peasant die."

Shakspeare is the author of the best passages
in John, Arthur, Constance and Faulconbridge,
though the stamp of each character remains un-
altered from what he found it. He did not act
fairly by himself: he adopted the plot of his
predecessor in all its details, and his characters
in their several groupings, and thus circum"
scribed his own power of improvement. •

i39

RICHARD IL

1593.

The action of the present play commences in
1398, when Richard had attained his thirty-
second year, and closes with his death in 1400.
Hcdinshed furnished the facts which the poet
dramatised ; and, with the exception of a few
minor points, which require notice, Shakspeare
adhered with considerable exactness to his aur
thority. He is inaccurate, for instance, in hia
statement of the circumstances under which the
first interview between Richard and Bolingbroke
took place : he entirely passes over the meeting
of Richard and Northumberland at Conway
Castle, where the king was entrapped into the
power of the wily earL From that moment
Richard was a king only in name. He did not
meet Bolingbroke at Flint with the freedom
which Shakspeare represents, for he was forcibly
carried thither ; that castle was surrounded with
the soldiers o£ his enemy ; and though the duke

140 RICHARD II.

of Lancaster thrice bowed his knee in reverence
to his " sovereign lord and king/* Richard was
then actually a prisoner, and conveyed to Lon-
don, without being " permitted once to change
his apparel, but rode still through alj the towns
simply clothed in one suit of raiment" * The
poet is further incorrect in representing Boling-
broke ignorant of Richard's sojourn in Flint, he
" being still advertised, from hour to hour, by
posts, how the earl of Northumberland sped.'* t
The disclosures of Bagot,, and his accusation of
Aumerle, took place in the parliament sum-
moned, under new writs, in the name of Henry
the Fourth, and not in the parliament that con-
firmed and proclaimed the deposition of Richard,
on the last day of September, 1399. The intro-
duction of the bishop of Carlisle's celebrated
spieech, in the same scene, is a similar antici-
pation of an occurrence in the parliament of
Henry. Shakspeare has pushed the bishop's
argument against the incompetency of the tri-
bimal which deposed Richard, into a broad as-
sertion of the divine right of kings : Carlisle's
more solid objection against the condemnation
of his sovereign, without giving him an oppor-
tunity to answer the charges made against him^

* Holinshed. f Ibid.

RICHARD II. 141

has been skilfully converted into a pretext for
Richard's appearance in Westminster Hall, there
to resign the crown in person, instead of making
his resignation by the signature of a legal in-
strument..

The short period of Richard's reign embraced
in the action of the drama, is too barren of
events of a dramatic nature to furnish materials
for a pleasing play, and Shakspeare made one
eflfort to remedy the defect. Richard married
his second wife, Isabell, daughter of the king of
France, then in the ninth year of her age, in .
1596. On the deposition of her husband, there-
fore, she was only twelve, and consequently
by no meaiis the prototype of Shakspeare's
queen, whose acts, words, and thoughts, bespeak
the woman of maturity. If the author's inten-
tion in this change was the communication of
interest and pathos to his scenes, he has violated
the truth of history in vain. The part of the
queen is altogether feebly written ; and the in-
terview of separation between her and her
wretched husband remarkable for its poverty and
tameness.

Richard is the only person in the play whose
qualities Shakspeare has formed into a dramatic
character. The king was not deficient in na-
tural talent, but his education had been neg-

142 RICHARD II.

lectedy and his easy temper early resigned him
into the hands of designing sycophants, who,
intent on their own ambitious projects, flattered
his vanity and pampered his passions, regardless
of their country's welfare or their sovereign's
honour. Neglecting public duties, he wbs a
votary of pleasure ; his court was a scene of
perpetual revelry, and the splendour of his re-
tinue, and the magnificence of his mode of living,
surpassed all the previous splendour of the crown
of England. The people, on whom the support
of these expensive pleasures fell, murmured,
and the king was impatient of opposition : mu-
tual dissatisfaction and, subsequently, hatred
ensued, and his reign was passed amidst the
dangerous contentions of parties endeavouring
one to establish, and the other to circumscribe,
the inordinate power which he claimed as his
prerogative.

To avoid all mention of the bad features of
his hero's character was impossible ; but the
^ dramatist touched them with a lenient hand. He
found Richard a voluptuary, a tjTant, and a de-
sponding coward : but by commencing his play
within two years of Richard's deposition, he
sunk twenty of violence, rapacity, and tyranny.

Shakspeare judiciously selected the banish-
ment of Hereford, and the seizure of Gaunt's

RICHARD II. 143

wealth, as instances of Richard's despotism and
rapacity, for both those events are intimately con-
nected with the subsequent action of the play.
This inadequate tribute having been paid to
truth, the reverse of the picture is heightened
by the most strenuous exertion of the poet's
skill. Bold and various imagery, pious, philoso-
phical, and sublime reflection, and all the graces
of impassioned eloquence, are lavished on Rich-
ard. If he had manfully braved the buffets of
calamity, and become a prey to sorrows, sub-
dued only by the might of their accumulation,
the struggle would have been awful. But as he
pusillanimously yielded to despair, our sympathy
is but slight, and Richard is upbraided and for-
gotten. Holinshed relates, that under his mis-
fortunes, Richard was " almost consumed with
sorrow, and in a manner half dead.** Such is
the historian's slight mention of the king's cha-
racter in the hour of adversity ; and this brief
notice has been expanded by the magic genius of
Shakspeare into a perfect picture of intellectual
cowardice. He who was at one moment self-
confident, nothing doubting, comparing his
power to that of the sun itself, was in the next
plunged in the deepest despair, willing to resign
his crown when he heard that some of his liege
men had fallen off.

144 RICHARD II.

Notwithstanding all the pains bestowed on the
delineation of the king, and the success with which
those pams were followed, a heavy drama is stUl
the result. With but one character that can be
deemed a dramatic portrait, with a plot advanced
as much by narrative as by action, and with a dia-
logue distributed into speeches of a length far ex-
ceeding the importance of their contents, Richard
the Second, though an exquisite poem, is an in-
different play : it is deficient in variety and con-
trast of character, a quick succession of incidents,
and an animated and interesting dialogue.

145

HENRY IV. AND HENRY V.

Erst Part of Henry IV., 1597.

Second Part of Henry IV. and Henry V., 1599.

These three plays owe their origin to the same
sources, the Chronicles of Holinshed, and an
anonymous play, exhibited longbefore Shakspeare
became a writer for the stage, entitled, " The
Famous Victories of Henry the Fifth. Con-
taining the Honourable Battell of Agincourt"

The action of the First Part of Henry the Fourth
begins immediately after the defeat of the Scots
at Holmidon in 1402, the second year of Henry's
reign, and terminates with the death of Hotspur
about ten months afterwards. The news of this
event commences the Second Part of the dra-
matised history ; the death of Henry, and the
coronation of his successor in 1413, form its
close.

Henry the Fifth opens with the proceedings
of the parliament held at Leicester in 1414, and
rapidly glancing over the eventii of six years,
exhibits, in conclusion, the marriage of Henry

VOL. I. L

146 HENRY IV. AND HENRT V.

with Katharine of France in 1420. The series
of plays comprises the history of eighteen years.

« The Famous Victories of Henry the Fifth"
contams no aUusioft ta the intestine broils which
disturbed the peace of his predecessor ; Shak-
speare, therefore, derived no assistance whatever
from that source in arranging the civil feuds of
the fourth Harry's reign for dramatic represen-
tation, and he adopted few hints for the conduct
of the wars of the conqueror of France. The
historical events of the three plays were epitom-
ised from Holinshed by Shakspeare himself, with
few pecoliarities of arrangement requiring any
formal notice.

The life of Henry the Fifth, after his access
sion to the throne, is little more than a history of
battles and sieges in a foreign land ; the action
of the play which bears his name is^ therefore,
principally laid in France. In opening with the
Archbishop of Canterbury's arguments agaiBst
the appUcabiUty of the SaUque law to France a
deference is paid to the author of ^ The Famous
Victories," but Holinshed taught Shakspeare to
talk much more learnedly on the subject than
his predecessor. The same historian also in-
structed the poet to transfer the Earl of Wesfc-
moreland's recommendation to subdue Scotland
before France was invaded^ from the Bishcf)^

HENRY IV. AND HENRY V. 147

who offers it in the old play, to its rightfiil
owner. *

In the early scenes of Henry the Fifth the
Dauphin appears an active agent, but silently
disappears towards the conclusion of the fourth
act, though many of the subsequent scenes are
in the very court of France. History explains
what Shakspeare has neglected to account. for.
** Shortly after (the battle of Agincourt,) either
for melancholy that he had for the loss, or by
some sudden disease, Lewis Dolphin of Viennois,
heir-apparent to the French king, departed this
life without issue."

Shakspeare would have had no reluctance to
continue the character of the Dauphin on the
scene, without at all noticing that the person
represented was no longer the same t, had the

* Act I. 8c. 2.

f In Henry the Eighth, the Duke of Norfolk appears in
the £b*st scene of the play, and again in the second scene of
the third act : historicsdly speaking, two different persons
are represented in these different appearances ; dramatically
they are the same. As Shakspeare here made two persons
into one, so, on the contrary, he has made one person into
two. The Earl of Surrey, in the third act, is the nobleman
who married the Duke of Buckingham's daughter. But
Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey, who married the Duke of
Buckingham's daughter, was Duke of Norfolk at the time
Wolsey was called upon to deliver up the seals, and is re-
presented by Shakspeare in this very scene (Act III. sc. 2.)

L 2

148 HENRY IV. AND HENRY V.

succeeding Dauphin acquiesced in the line of
poUtics which then actuated the French court.
But justly indignant, as next heir to the throne,
at the disgraceful treaty which was for ever to
exclude him from the regal seat, he asserted, by
arms, his right against the king of England's
claim. Shakspeare's silence is judicious: the
mention of the death of the first Dauphin was
unnecessary, and, unanimity being a great ob-
ject in the concluding scenes of the drama, all
notice of the second Dauphin's dissent from the
treaty of Troyes, which led to a series of bloody
wars, would have been improper,

Shakspeare's discretion may also be remembered
in neglecting to notice another circumstance in
the history of the French court The king, says
Holinshed, was occasionally "frantick:" the
direction of the government, therefore, was al-
temately in the hands of the king and the
Dauphin; but as such changes, though agree-
able to the truth of history, would have occa-
sioned unnecessary perplexity on the stage, the
king is continued in authority throughout the
play.

In reading Holinshed for these plays, the

as making that demand : so that Shakspeare in one scene
exhibits the same person under two forms. (Vide Read's
Note/Maione's Shak. vol. xix. p. 419.)

HENRY IV. AND HENRY V. 1*9

poet's eye was eager in quest of scattered hints
of personal character, and on these, whenever he
wad fortunate enough to meet with them, his
exuberant imagination worked with boldness.
His Henry the Fourth admirably exemplifies the
prudence, moderation, and dignity which cha-
racterised that monarch in his latter days,
wherein, says Holinslied, " he shewed himself
so gentle, that he got more love amongst the
nobles and people of this realm than he had pur-
chased malice and evil-will in the beginning/*

Shakspeare pays a just tribute to the amiable
Scroop by the transfusion of the historian's ho-
nourable mention of him into elegant verse.*
" The respect that men had to the Archbishop,
caused them to think the better of the cause,
since the gravity of his age, his integrity of life,
and incomparable learning, with the reverend as-
pect of his amiable personage, moved all men to
have hun in no small estimation.''

" Irregular and wild" are epithets applied
by the dramatist, with inimitable propriety, to
Glendower's desultory warfare and serious pre-
tensions to the power of a magician. Shakspeare
does not make him speak at random in boasting
the marvellous occurrences attendant on his
birth, for Holinshed bears testimony to the pn>-

* Henry IV. pt. 2. Act L sc. 1.

L 3

150 HENRY IV. AND HENBY V.

digies, and to Owen's skill in magic alsa How
extraordinarily versatile were Shakspeare's pow-
ers ! Witchcraft and magic, by which, on other
occasions, he produces impressions the mos^
imposing, in Henry the Fourth are held up to
scorn by the lights of argument and satire ! *

Percy, a gem distinguishable by its brilliancy in
the constellation of characters which adcnn the
scenes of Henry the Fourth, is the creation of
the poet. Something, indeed, of his bcddness
was caught from the historian, but Holinshed's
hero could never abstract his mind from present
realities, and think it were an easy leap to pluck
bright honor from the pale-faced moon, and
wifidi that danger swept from the east to the west,
so that honor crossed it from the north to the
south ; nor could the dull chronicler have fancied
a battle so fiercely waged, that the observant
river, affrighted with the bloody looks of the
combatants,

*' Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds,
And hid his crisp head in the hollow bank/'

This most splendid picture in the drama of
chivalric daring could be conceived only by a
contemporary of Spenser and Sidney. But
Shakspeare, always regardful of nature, has d6-

* Part I. Act III. sc. 1.

HBNRT IV. AND HENRY V. 151

fined and marked him amidst all hk fellows of
knighthood. Percy is as remarkable for his
irritabiUty and impetuosity as for his grand and
lofty daring : his calm straight forward sense is
as striking as his high poetic spirit ; and not
satisfied with all these various qualities, Shak-
speare has added to hisi character a vein of dry
sarcastic humour.

For the idea o£ bringing Henry the Fifth cm
the stage m the twofold character of a dissolute
young man * and a hero, Shakq>eare was indebted
to the ancmymous play already mentioned, where
the prince figures as a low, blaspheming repro-
bate, at the head of a gang of ruffians, who
obtain means for the indulgence of their licen-
tious extravagance by plunder. The scene of
a robbery which they commit, on the king^s
receivers, is GadsfUll, and the injured parties are
buUied into silence. The prince and his asso-
ciates retire to a tavern in Eastcheap, to carouse
upon the spoil ; a riot of intoxication follows,
and Henry is committed to the Counter. In the
mean time, a second robbery is perpetrated on
a poor carrier J by one of the prince's servants,
who is detected and brought to trial. His royal
master then rescues him from the hands of

* Kote A.
L 4

152 HENRY IV. AND liENRY Y.

justice, and commits a violent assault upon the
judge. The prince is a second time consigned
to prison ; an interview with his father succeeds ;
admonition makes a due impression, and the
parent and son are reconciled. The prince's
next appearance is at the death-bed of the old
king, who is discovered sleeping. Young Henry
removes the crown from his father's heiad, and
answers the rebuke of his fault with such affec-
tion, that the dying king, with his own hand,
consigns to his son the symbol of sovereignty.
Seated on the throne, Henry the Fifth disclaims,
and banishes, the companions of his looser hours,
and henceforth devotes himself to the acquisition
of a glorious name in arms.

Shakspeare has done ample justice to the con-
ception of his predecessor, by copying the lead-
ing feature of his plot ; but though he adopted
the incidents of the old play, he was not content
to receive Henry's character from the same
authority. He had recourse to the historians,
and from them delineated his portrait of the
prince, who was, indeed, says Holinshed,
" youthfully given, grown to audacity, and had
chosen his companions agreeable to his age;
with whom he spent the time in such recreations,
exercises, and delights, as he fancied. But yet
his behaviour was not offensive, or at least tend-

HENRY IV. AND HENRY V. 153

ing to the danger of anybody; sith he had a
care to avoid doing wrong, and to tender his
affections within the tract of virtue, whereby he
opened unto himself a ready passage of good
liking among the prudent sort, and was well
beloved of such as could discern his disposition,
which was in no degree so excessive, as that he
deserved in such vehement manner to be sus-
pected. In whose dispraise I find little, but to
his praise very much.*'

The effect of this favourable testimony of
Holinshed is perceptible throughout the poet's
delineation of the prince. The reformation of
Henry resulted from the sterling worth of his
character ; and Shakspeare has judiciously con-
trived that, amidst all his follies, his mental
superiority should never be lost sight of. His
first appearance is in the company of the vicious
and unprincipled J yet he quits not the scene
without making it evident, that hi? heart is
uncontaminated by their association, and that he
was prepared, whenever his honour or dignity
demanded the sacrifice, to disengage himself
from companions, to whose vices he was no more
blind than to the charms of their exhaustless
humour ; thus, in his conduct, emulating (as he
says, with some little vanity) the glory of the
sun, — '^

154 HENRY IV. AND HENRY V.

<< Who doth permit the base contagious clouds
To smother up his beauty from the world,
That, when he please again to be himself,
Being wanted, he may be more wonder'd at.
By breaking through the foul and ugly mists
Of v{^ours that did seem to strangle him*" *

The robbery committed by the prince in the
old play, is an act of the grossest profligacy.
Tenacious of the character of his hero; Shak-
speare conformed the conduct of Henry to the
account he met with of it in Stowe, who gives
to the whole transaction the air of a harmless
and agreeable jest

" He lived somewhat insolently, insomuch,
that being accompanied with some of his young
lords and gentlemen, he would wait in disguised
array for his own receivers, and distress them of '
their money ; and sometimes at such enterprises
both he and his company were sorely beaten.
And when his receivers made to him their com-
plaints how they were robbed in coming unto
him, he would give them discharge of so much
money as they had lost. And besides that, they
should not depart from him without great
rewards for their trouble and vexatioti."

« Who, I rob ? la thief? Not I, by my faith,"
is the natural reply of the dramatic Hal, unac-

* Act I. sc. 2.

H£NRY IV. AND HENRT V. 155

customed to participate in such lawless courses,
to Falstaflfs proposition to make one of the
plundering party to GadshilL He consents,
indeed, on this occasion, to become << a mad-
cap,'* but, for what? Simply for a frolic, which
<* would be argument for a week, laughter for a
month, and a good jest for ever." The affair
is in dl parts free from the slightest suspicion of
dishonour. Henry sees not the parties who are
'- robbed; yet he more than compensates the
injury he incautiously sanctions by his presence.
** The money shall be paid back again with
advantage.'**

When Shakspeare represents the parties robbed
at Gadshill as public officers, carrying money to
the exchequer, he conforms^ both to Stowe and
the old play. But he abandons this story when
he introduces the sheriff* seeking Falstaff, to
answer the charge of having plundered a carrier, t
A reference to the old play explains the contra-
diction, by exposing its origin. Two independ-
ent thefts, as I have already noticed, are there
committed, one by the prince on the " king's
receivers," the other on " a poor carrier" by
Gadshill, the prince's servant, who is brought to
trial for the off*ence. Shakspeare confounded

* Act II. sc. 4. t Ibid.

156 HENRY IV. AND HENRY V.

the two occurrences, and thus involved himself
in inconsistency.

In accompanying the plunderers of each play
from the exploit in Kent, to the tavern in East-
cheap, every reader will be struck by the dissimi-
larity of their recreations. With what pleasur-
able sensations is the scene of Falstaflfs recital of
his prodigies of valour recalled ; and what high
commendations are due to Shakspeare for his
substitution of this exquisite piece of comedy,
for a scene in which ** came the young prince,
and three or four more of his companions, and
called for wine good store ; and then they sent
for a noyse of musicians, and were very merry
for the space of an hour ; then whether their
music liked them^ not, or whether they had
drunke too much wine or no, I cannot tell ; but
our pots flew against the walls, and then they
drew their swords, and went into the street and
fought ; and some took one part, and some took
another* :*' but enough of such trash.

Prince Henry's assault upon the judge is, by
the anonymous dramatist, actually exhibited on
the stage. Shakspeare cautiously avoided giv-
ing prominence to so disgusting an act . of vio-
lence, influenced, doubtless, by the example of

♦ " The Famous Victories," &c.

HENRY IV. AND HENRY V. 157

Holinshed, who defers the notice of this occur-
rence to the commencement of Henry the
Fifth's reign, and accompanies the mention of it
with circumstances reflecting the highest credit
on the king. " He banished his former com-
panions from his presence, and in their places
chose men of gravity, wit, and high poUcy, by
whose wise council he might at all times rule to
his honour and dignity; calling to mind how
once to high offence of the king his father, he
had with his fist stricken the chief justice, for
sending one of his minions (upon desert) to
prison, when the justice stoutly commanded him-
self also straight to ward, and he (then prince)
obeyed.'* Shakspeare, in like manner, delays
the mention of the circumstance, till after his
hero had become king; his allusion to it then
is equally as slight as the historian's, and, like
his, coupled with the palliation of the prince's
ready obedience to the representative of his
father. Shakspeare, however, still kept the old
play in his recollection. Henry there appoints
the lord chief justice " protector." As the
bard merely confirms the judge in his office, the
breach of propriety is not so flagrant ; but
historical truth is in both cases equally violated,
for Sir William Ga^coigne, the judge in question,
died before Henry ascended the throne.

158 HENRY IV. AND HENRY V.

Shakspeare's delineation of Henry, from Im
first appearance, as a youth who was hurried
into, but not attached to, dissoluteness, freed him
firom the embarrassment of the abrupt and unna-
tural reformation of the depraved hero of the
" famous victories," whose vulgar violence,^ and
want of filial reverence, are exemplified in his
rudely forcing himself, and a rabble of followers,
into the royal palace. The prince is alone
admitted to the presence, and here the picture is
suddenly reversed : by a dozen lines of parental
admonition the reprobate is converted to peni-
tence and piety !

Of the interview represented in the second
scene of the third act, between the prince and
his father, Holinshed gives rather a long account
and the old play accords with the historian in
many minute particulars. Shakspeare cannot
be said to follow either ; he adopts the incident
as a simple fact, and treats it in an independent
manner. The king's part in the dialogue is
inimitably sustained ; his gradual transition from
the censure of his son's conduct, to a contrast of
it with his own, when young, is executed with a
grace equal to its propriety j as is also his eulogy
on Percy, a theme, above all others, calculated
to rouse the dormant energies, and develope the
latent virtues of the prince.

HENRY IV. AND HENRY V. 159

Bpth Holinshed and the old play contain the
incidents employed in the construction of the
death-bed scene of Henry the Fourth ; but its
thoughts and their beautiful expression are Shak-*
speare's own, with the exception of two passages.
Shakspeaxe says,

<' Let there be no noise made, my gentle friends ;
Unless some dull and favourable hand
Will whisper musick to my weary spirit."

The circumstance (not the poetry of these lines)
is in the old play : " cause some musick to rock
me asleep/*

Hen* •* How I came by the crown, O God, forgive !
And grant it may with thee in true peace live.

P. Hen, My gracious liege,

You won it, wore it, kept it, gave it me ;
Then plain and right must my possession be.
Which I with more than with a common pain
*Grainst all the world will rightfully maintain."

Words almost similar to these of Shakspeare are
found in the anonymous play, and in Holinshed.
Holinshed and the two dramatists distinguish
Henry the Fifth on the throne by the same
circumstances ; the renunciation of his former
companions, and his martial exploits on the
plains of France. The leading features of the
momentous contest which ensued are common to
both plays; but not even the ingenuity of

160 HENRJ IV. AND HENRY V.

Shakspeare could extract from the coarseness
and vulgarity of his predecessor, one hint of
princely dignity, or one gleam of elevated
thought, to adorn the hero of the scene. It is
the fire of Shakspeare illuminating the cold
narrative of Holinshed, that exalts the king to
the proud and towering eminence which he now
maintains. But if the abject poverty of the old
play afforded no aid to the poet in his flight, it
unhappily possessed scenes which he was too
fatally seduced to emulate. How zealously he
emulated his predecessor, the comparison •of
Henry's love scene *, with an extract from a
parallel passage in the old play, will abundantly
testify.

Hen. '< But tell me, sweet Kate, can'st thou tell how to love?
Kate. I cannot hate^ my good lord,

Therefore far unfit were it for me to love.
Hen. Tush, Kate ; but' tell me in plain terms.

Canst thou love the king of England ?

I cannot do as these countries do.

That spend half their time in wooing :

Tush, wench, I am none such.

But wilt thou go over to England ?
Kate. I would to God that I had your Majesty

As fast in love, as you have my father in wars/'

Holinshed relates, that Henry in youth,
" made himself a companion unto misruly mates

* Henry V. Act V. sc. 2. .

HENRY IV. AND HENRY V. 161

of dissolute order and life ;'* and the old play
associates him with " Ned, Tom, Sir John
Oldcastle, and Gadshill," whose claims to the
notice of the heir apparent are depravity and
vulgarity, FalstafF and Poins, Bardolph and
Peto, are the substitutes for these disgusting
reprobates. Shakspeare has not done much
towards the reformation of their morals ; but he
endued Henry's companions with qualities which
palliate, though they cannot justify, his choice.

So highly finished a gallant as Henry could
not be insensible to the merits of Poins. The
prince's " legs and his are both of a bigness, and
he plays at quoits well; and eats conger and
fennel ; and drinks off candles* ends for flap
dragons ; and rides the wild mare with the boys ;
and jumps upon joint stools ; and swears with a
good grace ; and wears his boot very smooth,
like unto the sign of the leg ; and breeds no
bate with telling of discreet stories; and such
other gambol faculties he hath, that show a weak
mind arid an able body, for the which the prince
admits him ; for the prince himself is such an-
other ; the weight of a hair will turn the scales
between their avoirdupois.** * Poins acquired
his surname Ned from the old play, which

* Henry IV. Part 11. Act II. sc. 4.

VOL. I. M

16* HENRT lY. AND HENRT V*

is to be reckoned as his only obligation to that
source.

Mirth and FalstajST are inseparable, but it is to
be regretted, that Shakspeare should have alloyed
his inimitable wit with so large a portion of
depravity. If sensuality and profaneness be the
abstracts of wickedness, Falstaff is^ a perfect
epitome of vice. It is enough to refer to hid
wanton allusions to Scripture, which he quotes
even to " damnable iteration ;*' and it is unne-
cessary to dwell on the obscenity and gross-
ness absolutely interwoven with the character.
FalstafTs unwieldy carcase is very comical, but
a corporeal infirmity is a sorry subject for a jest,
destined to last through two entire plays.

More legitimate sources of pleasure are the
brilliant qualities of Falstafifs understanding;
and those ludicrous, but not disgusting traits of
character displayed in the comic situations in
which he figures. An unhappy propensity to
exaggeration, and the assumption of a valour
which his heart disowns, naturally lead to the
exposure of his cowardice; and irretrievable dis*
grace apparently awaits him. But with the love
of boasting, FalstafF was endowed with an inge-
nuity matchless in evasion ; a confidence impene-
trable to exposure ; and a disposition so happy
and easy, that no accident can ruffle its serenity.

. HlENRY IV. AND HENRY V. 1(S3

Every object is reflected on his mind by the
eye of cheerfulness, and his whole mental com-
position exhibits an absolute ineptitude to pain.
To a disposition so happy, Falstaiff unites a
fancy rich in an infinite variety of imagery,
which, with the facility of will, his ingenuity
weaves into the most ludicrous combinations.
The jest is ever ready on his lips ; his thoughts
are jests ; and his brilliant wit pours them forth
with peculiar happiness of expression, in the
uninterrupted course of caisual conversation.
The harmonious union of the various qualities of
Falstaf^ is perhaps the secret of that charm,
which has constituted the knight a continual and
universal favourite.

Faldtaff is particularly rich in humoUr in the
first part of Henry the Fourth. In the early
scenes of the second part he is a little in the^
back ground*, especially with my Lord Chief
Justice ; but he resumes his wonted splendour in
the company of Shallow and Silence. The
caricature of the Justice, the remarks on the
** semblable coherence" of Shallow and his ser-
vants, and the eulogy on wine, are not inferior
to any former displays of his comia powers.t

* Act I. sc. 2. Act II. 8c. 1.
f Act IV. 80. 3.

M S

164 HENRT rV. AND HENRT V.

The dismissal of Falstafl^ as one of Henrfs
dissolute companions, is conformable to Holin-
shed and the old play ; but his commitment to
the Fleet is an act of severity voluntieered by
Shakspeare. If the knight's imprisonment,
when he looked for an appointment of honour
and emolument, was used as a means of mirth,
the effort failed completely. The destruction
of a hope which the king himself had created,
was not a subject for laughter : tenderness, and
not insult, should have been mingled with a cup
of the utmost bitterness. The effect of Falstaffs
ctisappointment was death ; the king had ** killed
his heart"* Shakspeare certainly intended
Henry's conduct to stand beyond the reach of
question; he would surely, therefore, have done
wisely to omit an expression which represents the
end of Falstaff as so truly pitiable. A reference
to Stowe in this case would have been eminently
useful to him : the prince's compani(»is are there
disposed of in a manner gratifying to the feelings
of humanity, and consistent with the claims of
justice. "Afler his coronation. King Heniy
called unto him all those young lords and gen-
tlemen who were the followers of his young acts,
to every one of "whom he gcwe rich gifts ; and

* Hen. v. Act II. sc. 1.

HENRY IV. AND HENRY V. l65

then commanded that as many as would change
their manners, as he intended to do, should abide
with him in his court ; and to all that would
persevere in their former like conversation, he
gave express commandment, upon pain of their
heads, never after that day to come in his
presence/'

Here are, indeed, materials for a noble scene,
in which Henry might have appeared with a
splendour superadded to his present lustre.*

Whatever pains the creation of Shallow and
Silence cost Shakspeare, he was amply com-
pensated by the pleasing variety which they
communicate by their presence to the closing
scenes of Henry the Fourth. As his historical
subject drew towards a close, and the Chronicles
failed to supply a succession of incidents suitable
to the purposes of the drama, the demands on
the dramatist's invention were reiterated. Whilst
the prince, Poins, and. Falstaff are almost con-
tinually on the stage, Bardolph and Pistol are
judiciously placed in the back ground, and as
judiciously propelled when the reformation of
Henry, the death of Falstafi^ and the loss of
Poins, left the scene vaCant. But they poorly
compensate us for our loss.

• Note B.

M 3

166 HENRY IV. AND HENRY V.

Bardolph, like his master, is ^ liar, a thieff
and a coward ; but, unlike his master, he has no
wit but in his nose : furnish him in this corporeal
particular like other men, and he would imme-
diately sink into a duUer companion than most
people. Whilst selecting incidents for Bardolph's
character, the poet was not unmindful of the
vraisemblance of his picture of the wars in
France. "A soldier,*' says Holinshed, "took
a pix out of a church, for which he was appre-
hended, and the king not once removed till the
box was restored, and the offender strangled.'*
Such is the crime, and such the end of Bardplph.*
Before finally parting with him it should be
mentioned, that the trick he relates Falstaff to
have devised for giving himself and companions
the appearance of men fresh from fight t is
copied from the old play.

^* Every day when I went into the field,
I would take a straw and thrust it into my nose.
And make my nose bleed."

Pistol is a far more effective personage than
his fellow. He makes no despicable show as ai
swaggering, pompous braggadocio in his cir-

• Henry V. Act III. sc. 6.

f Part L Act II. sc. 4. " Yea and to tickle our noses
with spear grass, to make them bleed."

HENRY IV. AND HENRY V.: .167

cumscribed sphere of action in the second part
of Henry the Fourth ; and his increased impor-
tance in Henry the Fifth justifies the experiment
of expanding his character. The ridiculous
scene with the French soldier * would have been
omitted with advantage ; but . Shakspeare was:
led astray by a piece of farce equally (it would
be hard to say more) absurd between Dericke
and a Frenchman, in the old play^ . .

The boaster and coward Nym is accurately
discriminated from Pistol. They maybe quoted
in illustration of the different appearance given
to the same qualities by the personal characters
of their possessors.

The honourable and amiable, but ludicrous
Fluellen, likewise emanated from the imagination
of Shakspeare. The Welshman's garrulity,
however, is not all assigned to him at random,
several trifling particulars being interwoven in
his "pibble pabble," which were noted by the
poet in his perusal of HoUnshed.

When Fluellen complains that " th*athve$ary
is dight himself four yards under the counter^*
mines ; by Chesher, I think, *a will plow up all*
if there is not better directions/*— Shakspeare
had in, view the historian's account ^ of the.

* Henry Y. Act IV. sc. 4.
M 4

168 HENRY IV. AND HENRY V.

failure of the English to effect their conquest by
the operation of mining. "They with their coun-
termining somewhat disappointed the English-
men, and came to fight with them hand to haiid
within the mines, so that they went no further
forward with that work.'*

The admonition to speak lower*, which Gower
receives from Fluellen, is likewise founded on
a passage in Holinshed. " Order was taken by
commandment from the king after the army
was first set in battle array, that no noise or
clamour should be made in the host." It is
truly replied by Gower, " the enemy is loud j
you heard him all night,*' for, says the Chronicle,
the Frenchmen " all that night made great chear,
and were very merrjr, pleasant, and fiill of
game.**

Illustrative instances of Shakspeare*s use of
his authorities in the composition of these plays
might be multiplied with ease, but, probably,
without advantage, as it has been kept much in
view to adduce those passages most recom-
mended by their interest or importance. It will
have been observed, that the poet's deviations
from history are principally made with a view to
dramatic convenience 5 and that he is indebted

■

» Act IV. sc. 1.

HENRY IV. AND HENRY V. 1(J9

to his theatrical predecessor for little that is
valuable except the happy idea of representing
Henry the Fifth in his twofold character of a
dissipated prince and a warlike king. By the
expansion of the narrow plan of the old play
into a general view of the reigns of the two
Henrys, Shakspeare opened to himself a Avide
field for the exercise of one of his greatest talents,
— delineation of character. The highly-finished
portraits of Henry the Fourth and Fifth, and of
Hotspur and Glendower, founded on scanty no-
tices of history, and from hints in the old play
so often alluded to, mark the vigour and fertility
of the mind that produced them. It may justly
be conceded to the anonymous author, that
the representation of Henry surrounded by dis-
solute companions led to the production of
Falstafl^ Poins, Bardolph, and Pistol : his
claim to any other merit in their composition
will never be asserted* Shallow, Silence, the
Page ; Mouldy, Shadow, Wart, Feeble, and Bull-
calf ; Mrs. Quickly and Doll Tear-sheet, are all
foils for Falstaff^'s wit. What other dramatist
could have afibrded the expenditure of so much
talent upon the adorning of mere auxiliary cha-
racters ?

This series of plays is written with extraor-
dinary animation of style. The humblest thoughts

170 HENRY IV. AND HENRT V.

are perpetually adorned with delicate graces of
expression.

How beautiful and just is Henry's apostrophe
to sleep *, and how exquisitely touching Exeter's
narration of the glorious death of the Duke of
York at the battle of Agincourt. t Some pas-
sages of a different complexion have been already
noticed, and more, unhappily, remain. The
scene between Katharine and Alice t was per-
haps never surpassed in absurdity. Hal's ex-
ploits with the drawers, and his poor witticism
upon Francis, are miserable attempts at mirth. §
Little is added to the pleasantry of Hal, and
much detracted from the dignity of the king, by
his joke of piu^chasing Fluellen a box on the ear
with the gift of the soldier's glove. || What
must be said of the Welsh lady whom the author
has directed to gabble what he could not set
down ^, and what no audience ever assembled in
London would have comprehended, even if Shak-
speare had possessed the abiUty of writing Welsh
as fluently as it was chaunted by the bards ! It

* Henry IV. Part II. Act HI. sc. 1.

t Henry V. Act III. sc. 6.

t Henry V. Act III. sc. 4.

§ Henry IV. Part I. Act II. sc. 4?.

11 Henry V. Act IV sc. 8.

f Henry IV. Part I. Act.111. sc 1.

HENRY IV. AND HENRY V. I7I

may not be proper to designate the introduction
of Glendower's daughter as a failure, for it is
hazardous to say what effect she was intended to
produce : assuredly, she is neither " witty her-
selfi nor the cause of wit in others/*

172

HENRY VI.

First Part, 1589.

Second and Third Parts, 1591.

1 HE three parts of Henry the Sixth have been
attributed to Shakspeare on the authority of the
first editors of his dramas ; an allusion to them
by the poet himself*, and the apparent connec-
tion between the last act of the third part, and
the first act of Richard the Third.

In 1594 the first part of a play, still in exist-
ence, was printed under the title of " The Con-
tention of the Two Famous Houses of York and
Lancaster :'* the second part was published in
1595, distinguished from the first by its title,
" The True Tragedy of Richard Duke of York,
and the good King Henry the Sixth ; with the
whole contention between the two Houses of
Lancaster and York/* Both parts were re-

* u

They lost fair France, and made his England bleed :
Which oft our stage hath shown ; and, Jbr their sake,
In your fair minds let this acceptance take."

(Last Chorus to Henry V.)

HENRY VI. 173

printed together in I6OO, without any author's
name, but described in the title page as plays
" sundry times acted by the Earl of Pembroke
his servants.** Both were again printed in 1619,
when their correction and enlargement were as-
signed to Shakspeare, though the edition was a
reprint of that of I6OO.

Between these plays, and the second and third
parts of Henry the Sixth, as exhibited in the first
folio edition of Shakspeare*s works, many points
of similarity subsist : the events represented,
the arrangement of the action, and the dramatis
personae are, generally speaking, the same,; not
only single lines, but whole speeches are found
in the quarto plays and in Shakspeare's works,
distinguishable from each other by trifling verbal
differences only. A coincidence so remarkable
has given rise to two contradictory opinions :
1. " the old copies were Shakspeare's first drafts
of the pieces which he afterwards wrought into
greater perfection :'* 2. " they were editions of
Shakspeare's plays surreptitiously obtained by a
short-hand writer, or a person of retentive me-
mory, who witnessed their representation on the
stage.'*

To the latter supposition it is triumphantly an-
swered, that the quarto plays contain much mat-
ter, of which no trace is to be found in the folio :

174 HENRY VI.

the superabundance does not consist only of
occasional amplifications of such thoughts, dia*
logues, and speeches as are found in the folio ;
but likewise of thoughts, dialogues, and speeches,
and facts narrated and exhibited, of which the
folio does not even afford a hint. The errors
of a person who wrote from memory, or fix)m
notes of what he had seen and heard, would
indisputably be those of omission or variation ;
but how is it possible to suppose him writing
down what he neither heard nor saw, without
also supposing fraud : but fraud would have de-
feated the very object he had in view, the exhi-
bition of as perfect a copy as possible of the play
represented.

The first supposition is also satisfactorily an-
swered. No author more frequently repeats his
thoughts and quotes himself than Shakspeare.
An examination of the two quarto plays, with
the undoubted works of Shakspeare, detects no
coincidences of thought or expression between
them, whilst a comparison of the second and
third parts of Henry the Sixth with Shakspeare's
genuine works, yields a variety of both descrip-
tions of coincidence. Whence it is inferred,
that the former are not the works of Shakspeare,
but that the latter are. Pushing this' argument
one step furtlier, the true conclusion is arrived

HENBt Vt. 175

at. All the lines that appear in the quartos and
in the folio, in the same form, were the compo*
sition of a dramatist who preceded Shakspeare * ;
the lines that appear in the folio and the
quarto, with variations, were altered by Shak-
speare from the work of his predecessor t ; all
the verses that are exhibited by the folio and are
not found in the quartos, were the entire com«-
position of Shakspeare. t It follows, that the
two parts of the contention of the two Houses of
York and Lancaster, were the production of a
writer who preceded our bard, and that Shak-
speare took those plays for the basis of his second
and third parts of Henry the Sixth, as he founded
the Taming of the Shrew on the Taming of a
Shrew ; King John, on the Troublesome Reign ;
the two parts of Henry the Fourth and Henry
the Fifth, on The Famous Victories ; King Lear
on the History of King Lear and his Daughters;;
and Measure for Measure, on Whetstones* Promos
and Cassandra. § The description, in the edition

* Of these there are 1771. t ^ number 2378.

X Wliichare 1899.

§ Malone wrote an elaborate Dissertation on the Three
Parts of Henry the Sixth, in which these positions are proved
to demonstration. How much is it to be regretted diat this
gentleman should ever have deserted the so(in4 principles
of criticism, to embark, as he did with delight, on the vast
and trackless ocean of conjecture ! ~

176 HENRY VI.

of 1600, of the two quartos as plays, "acted by
the Earl of Pembroke his servants,** is corrobor-
ative of this opinion, as not one of Shakspeare's
plays are said in their title pages to have been
acted by any but the Lord Chamberlain's, or the
Queen's, or the King's servants ; whilst Titus
Andronicus and the Taming of a Shrew were
acted by Lord Pembroke's servants.

It is a corroborative fact, also, that the two
quarto plays were founded upon the Chronicle
of Hall. Holinshed, and not Hall, is the histo-
lian whose narrative is followed in all the Eng-
lish historical plays of which Shakspeare was un-
doubtedly the author.

The second and third parts. of Henry the
Sixth,, as printed in the first folio, being then, in
fact, " The Whole Contention," &c. " corrected
and enlarged," it is easily explained how the ori-
ginal work became so described in the quarto of
1619. It was a mere bookseller's trick to de-
ceive his customers into a belief that they were
purchasing the plays exhibited at Shakspeare's
theatre: the, words in the title page of I6OO,
" acted by the Earl of Pembroke his servants,"
were omitted, and "Newly corrected and en-
larged by William Shakspeare," fraudulently in-
serted in their stead. William Pavier was the
printer. Let not the reader think him libelled.

HENRY VI. 177

The old play of King John was originally printed
in 1591, **as it was acted in the honourable city
of London/* Pavier reprinted it in I6II,
omitting the quoted words, and adding the ini-
tials W. Sh., with the view of inducing the ^be-
lief that the play was a play of Shakspeare.

Few words need be said respecting the first
part of Henry the Sixth. As a general propo-
sition it is beyond controversy true, that neither
. the sentiments, allusions, diction, nor versifica-
tion bear any resemblance to Shakspeare*s un-
disputed plays. A few lines are, indeed, fixed
on as such as Shakspeare might have written.
Perhaps they were written by him ; for what imr
probability is there in the supposition, that a
performance which formed a suitable, if not
necessary, introduction to two plays on which
he bestowed some labour, was not totally neg-
lected by him, though he undertook no formal
revision of its scenes ?

There is no edition of this play, ante-
cedent to that of the first folio. The editors
inserted it as knowing that Shakspeare had con-
sidered it introductory to the two plays which
he had written on the events of the same king's
reign: hence it naturally became denominated
the First Part, and Shakspeare's two plays, the
Second and Third Parts of Henry the Sixth ;

vol,. I. • N

178 HENRY VI.

or the editors might have admitted it into their
folio, because Shakspeare was the author of a
few lines in it : for no better reason they pub-
lished Titus Andronicus as one of his works.

If the merit of the Second and Third Parts of
Henry the Sixth entitled them to a high rank
among the wor^s of Shakspeare, a minute inves-
tigation of his deviations from his predecessor,
would be interesting and instructive ; but as it
is confessed on all hands that they are decidedly
inferior to the poet's other dramas, it will be
sufficient to direct attention to one celebrated
scene, and to the first dramatic sketch of that
Duke of Glocester whom Shakspeare has im-
mortalised as the tyrant Richard.

The shortness of the scene of Cardinal Beau-
fort's death makes its transcription from the
original quarto practicable.

Card, " O Death, if thou wilt let me live but one wholeyear,
I'll give thee as much gold as will purchase such another
island.

King. O see, my Lord of Salisbury, how he is troubled.
Lord Cardinal, remember, Christ must have thy soul.

Card, Why, dy'd he not in his bed ?
What would you have me to do then ?
Can I make men live, whether they will or no?
Sirrah, go fetch me the strong poison, which
The *pothecary sent me.
O, see where Duke Humphrey's ghost doth stand.

HENRY VI. 179

And stares me in the face ! Look; look; comb down his

nair.
So now, he*s gone again. Oh, oh, oh !

Salts. See how the pangs of death doth gripe his heart.

King, Lord Cardinal, if thou diest assured of heavenly
bliss.
Hold up thy hand and make some sign to me.

IThe Cardinal diei.
O see, he dies, and makes no sign at all 1
O God, forgive his soul !

Sails. So bad an end did never none behold :
But as his death, so was his life in all.

King. Forbear to judge, good Salisbury, forbear ;
For God will judge us all. Go take him hence.
And see his funerals be perform'd." lExeunl.

Shakspeare only preserved, in his Second Part
of Henry the Sixth*, that line entire which is
distinguished by an asterisk: every other line he
either omitted or altered : of the fourteen lines
which he inserted of his own composition, three
are perfectly immaterial t; eight are pious ejacu-
lations of Henry the Sixth t, and three only have

♦ Act III. sc, 3.

f '< How fares my lord ? Speak, Beaufort, to thy sovereign.''

• * * , •

'< Beaufort, it is thy sovereign speaks to thee."

<< Disturb him not, let him pass peaceably."

% " Ah, what a sigii it is of evil life.

When death's approach is seen so terrible."

« • » #

« O thou

N 2^

*• i,

180 HENRT VI.

in view the illustration of the terrors of a guilty
conscience*; to which, however, they do not
much contribute.

As no contemptible idea will be formed of the
author of a play in which the quoted scene is
found, it may not be thought surprising that the
character of Richard is, considering the narrow
sphere in which he moves, skilfully and vigorously
sketched.

Bold and energetic, he delights in war and
bloodshed : his courage is not devoid of heroism,
but its display is rather prompted by a thirst
for revenge than the acquisition of military re-
nown. The darker passions so much predomi-
nate in his boson^ as to absorb in their violence
every emotion of sensibiUty, and, in the identi-
cal words of the quarto, he has " neither pity,
love, nor fear.'* But ambition is the prominent

'< O thou eternal mover of the heavens.
Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch f
0» beat away the busy meddling fiehd,
That lays strong siege unto this wretch's soul,
And from his bosom purge this black despair !"

<^ Peace to his soul, if God*s good pleasure it be!"

»i

• " Bring me unto my trial when you will.'

• * * *

" O ! torture me no more, I will confess."
♦ • •

^< He hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded them.

«
»»

HENRY VI. 181

feature in his character, and to this all his other
passions are auxiliary. For this his sword is
ever remorselessly unsheathed ; ambition points
it against those who seek the downfall of his
House, jEind from its glittering blade drop tears
of blood " weeping the death*' of a Lancastrian
king. Ambition bows his proud and stubborn
nature as low, even, as to the servility of hypo-
crisy: he condescends to ** smile,** and "add
colours to the cameleon,** for he "murders
whUe he smiles.** The prevailing expression of
brutal ferocity in Ric^hard is relieved by a broad
vein of humour, now pointed by the malignity
of sarcasm, now softened into sallies of licen-
tious gaiety.

The Dukes of Glocester of the anonymous
author and of Shakspeare, are marked by the
same leading features. It will be interesting to
cite a few instances of the additions made by
Shakspeare when he revised his predecessor's
plays.

The three following additional lines very
forcibly express the resolute determination of
Richard. .

<< Then, Clifford, were thy heart aa hard as steel,
(As thou hast shown it flinty by thy deeds,)
I come to pierce it, — or to give thee mine/'*

* Part III. Act 11. sc. 3.

N 3

182 HENRY VI.

Another line conveys the same idea with the
added impression of his remorseless and impene-
trable nature.

*< Tears, then, for babes ; blows and rerenge for me."*

. In the first scene of the fourth actt, Shaks-
peare has thrown in a stroke or two of irony
with great effect.

Gios. '^ Hath not our brother made a worthy choice ?
Clar. Alas! you know 'tis far from hence to France ;
}Iow could he stay till V^arwick made return ?

Sotn. My lords, forbear this talk ; here comes tl^e king,
Glo. And his well-chosen bride.**

Like the anonymous author, Shakspeare made
ambition Richard's leading principle, and how
beautifully he strengthened this characteristic in
Gloster*s address to the Duke of York.

And, father, do but think,
How sweet a thing it is to wear a crown ;
Within whose circuit is Elysium,
And all that poets feign of bliss and joy." j:

But the most important obligations conferred
upon the original character, are in the additions
made to the following soliloquy of Richard,
It has not been thought necessary to distinguish
the lines which Shakspeare merely altered from
the old play ; those printed in italics were his
own entire composition.

♦Part 111. ActU. sc.l. f Part III. t Part 111. Act L sc. 2.

HENRY VI. 183

'' Ay, Edward will use women honourably.
'Would he were wasted, marrow, bones, and all,
That from his loins no hopeful branch may spring,
To cross me from the golden time I look for!
And yet, between my soul's desire, and me,
( The lustful Ed'osard's title buried^)
Is Clarence, Henry, and his son young Edward,
And all the unlook*d-for issue of their bodies,
To take their rooms, ere I can place myself:
A cold premeditation for my purpose !
Why^ then I do hut dream on sovereignty ;
Like one that stands upon a promontory^
And spies a far-off shore inhere he toould tready
Wishing his foot xvere equal toith his eye ;
And chides the sea that sunders him from thencCy
Saying — he*U lade it dry to have his uoay .•
So do Itvish the croivn, being so far off';
And so I chide the means that keep me from it ;
And so I say — Fll cut the causes qffy
Flattering me tvith impossibilities. —
My eye*s too quicky my heart o'eruoeens too muchy
Unless my hand and strength could equal them.
Well, say there is no kingdom then for Richard :
What other pleasure can the toorld afford?
I'll make my heaven in a lady's lap.
And deck my body in gay ornaments.
And witch sweet ladies with my words and looks
O miserable thought ! and more unlikely.
Than to accompUsh twenty golden crowns i
Why, love foreswore me in my mother's womb :
And, for I should not deal in her soft laws.
She did corrupt frail nature with some bribe
To shrink mine arm up like a wither'd shrub ;
To make an envious mountain on my back.
Where sits deformity to mock my body j;

N 4

184 HENRY VI.

To shape my legs of an unequal size;

To disproporHon me in eveiypari^

Like to a chaos, or an urdiclcd bear ^hdpy

That carries no impression like the dam*

And am I then a man to be belov'd?

O, monstrous fault, to harbour such a thought !

Then, since this earth qffhrds no joy to me.

But to command, to check, to overbear such

As are of betta- person than myself,

rU make my heaven — to dream upon the croton ;

And, ivhiles I live, to account this voorld but hell.

Until my mis-shaped trunk that bears this head.

Be round empaled with a glorious crown*

And yet I know not how to get the crown.

For many lives stand between me and home ^

And I — like one lost in a thorny wood.

That rents the thorn, and is rent with the thorns ;

Seeking a way and straying Jrom the way ;

Not knowing how to find the open air,

Bui toiling desperately to find it out ; —

Torment myself to catch the English crown :

And Jrom that torment I will free myselfx

Or hew my way out with a bloody axe*

Wliy, I can smile, and murder while I smile ;

And cry content, to that which grieves my heart ;

And wet my cheeks with artificial tears,

Andjrame my face to all occasions.

m drown more sailors than the mermaid shall;

ril slay more gazers than the basilisk ;

Til play the orator as well as Nestor,

Deceive more slily than Ulysses could.

And, like a Sinon, take another Troy :

I can add colours to the cameleon ;

Change shapes, with Proteus, for advantages.

And set the {nurd^rous Machiavel to schooK

HENRY VI. 185

Can I do this, and cannot get a crown?

Tut ! were it further off, 1*11 pluck it down." *

It will be observed of this speech, of which
Shakspeare furnished rather more than half,
that many of the additions are mere amplifica-
tions of thoughts previously expressed j and
that some lines, especiaily the five last of
Shakspeare's composition, would have been
better omitted. But the importance of others
can hardly be too highly appreciated. What an
hiatus of thought is supplied by the lines inter-
vening between —

*^ A cold premeditation for my purpose V*
and

<< ril make my heaven in a lady's l^p."

Above all, how magnificently do the ambitious
monster's present motives and future views open
in the lines commencing —

<< Then since this earth affords no joy to me."

Ambition, is Richard's characteristic. His
consciousness of his inability to enjoy the com-
mon sympathies of life, gives rise to feelings of
hatred and indignation against mankind. His
ambition for the crown had been already fully

* Act III. sc. 2.

186

HENRY VI.

developed ; but that ambition was strengthened
by the hope that in its gratification he would be
able to- indulge those feelings which had been
created by a bitter sense of his own deformity.
The idea was not entirely Shakspeare's ; for
after the murder of Henry in the old play,
Gloster comments on the prophecy of the dying
monarchy and invokes the infernal powers to
assimilate his mind to his body, which was so
much distinguished from that of other men by
its deformity, that he exclaims —

" I have no brother, / am like no brother :
And this word love, which greybeards call divine.
Be resident in men like one another
And not in me; I am myself alone — "

Some regret may perhaps be felt at depriving
Shakspeare of lines so long and so generally
identified with his name ; but, like many other
good things in the Second and Third Parts of
Henry the Sixth, they must be assigned to the
author of " The Whole Contention ;** and
among others, that passage of bitterest irony —

<* What, will the aspiring blood of Lancaster
Sink in the ground ?"

Shakspeare polished, invigorated, and cor-
rected much of what he found rude, uncouth,
feeble, or injudicious in his predecessor, and,
particularly, gave shape and consistency to the

HENRY VI. 187

character of the Duke of Gloster; but the
attempt to compress the events of a long and
varied reign into a dramatic representation, was
attended with diflSculties which even the genius
of Shakspeare was unable to surmount. For
the sake of connection he was compelled to
notice many particulars of trifling import ; and
hence he was deprived of space to dwell on
incidents more worthy of his pen. The conse-
quence is, that the number of his characters
prevented him from concentrating the spectator's
attention : scenes follow each other without ex-
citiog curiosity at their commencement, or regret
at their conclusion.

188

RICHARD IIL

159S.

1 HE occurrences in the brief reign of Richardy
were recorded under the linx-eyed scrutiny of
the jealous Tudors, a dynasty whose claim to
the throne was that of conquest, or the un-
founded pretence of having delivered a suffer-
ing nafion from the yoke of an oppressor. The
name of Richard has therefore reached pos-
terity under a weight of obloquy which the
impartial pens of modem writers will never,
perhaps, be entirely able to remove. Shaks-
peare imbibed all the Lancastrian prejudices,
and he had moreover others which we cannot
trace to that source : that the modem detesta-
tion of Richard is, in a great measure, to be
attributed to the popularity of Shakspeare's
drama cannot be doubted, and it will be the
business of the following pages to trace how
far the poet followed the authority of historians,
and how much of his portrait of the crook-
backed tyrant is attributable only to himself.

RICHARD III. 189

Shakspeare's historical authorities were the
History of Richard the Third, by Sir Thomas
More, and its Continuation in Holinshed's
Chronicle. Unlike the usual contents of the
Chronicles, Sir Thomas More's history is not
a mere record of facts, but its pages are en-
riched by much eloquence of style, and, what
was infinitely more important to the dramatist,
an animated and discriminative picture of the
hero of the narrative. " Richard, the third
son (of Richard Duke of York), was in wit and
courage equal with either of them, (his brothers
Edward the Fifth and George Duke of Clarence)
in body and prowess far under them both, little
of stature, ill-featured of limbs, crook-backed,
his left shoulder much higher than his right,
hard favoured of visage, and such as is in states
called warlie, in other menne otherwise ; he was
malicious, wrathftil, envious, and from afore his
birth ever froward. It is for truth reported,
that the duchess his mother had so much ado
in her travail, that she could not be delivered
of him uncut ; and that he came into the worid
with the feet forward, as men be bom outward,
and (as the fame runneth also) not untoothed,
whether men of hatred report above the truth,
or else that nature changed her course in his
beginning, which in the course of his life many

..^

190 RICHARD III.

things unnaturally committed. None evil c^
tain was he in the war, as to which his dispo*
sition was more metely than for peace. Sundry
victories had he, and sometime overthrows,
but never m default as for his own person,
either of hardiness or politic order, — ^free was he
called of dispense, and somewhat above his
power liberal, with large gifts he got him un-
stedfast friendship, for which he was fain to pil
and spoil in other places, and get him stedfast
hatred. He was close and secret, a deep dis-
sembler, lowly of countenance, arrogant of
heart, outwardly companionable where he in-
wardly hated, not letting to kiss- whom he
thought to kill : dispiteous and cruel, not for
evil will alway, but after for ambition, and either
for the surety or increase of his estate. Frigid
and foe was much what indifferent, where his
advantage grew, he spared no man's death,
whose life withstood his purpose.'* Here
were ample materials for the mind of a poet;
and it must be reckoned, also, as an advan^
tage which Shakspeare enjoyed in the com-
position of his drama, that he had already be-
stowed much attention on the character of Rich^
ard, as the Duke of Gloster, while engaged in
the revision of " The True Tragedy of. the
Duke of York.'* So well was the poet pleased

RICHARD III. 191

with the principles on which the character of
Gloster was constructed, that his Richard exhi-
bits a continuation of their developement. He
is fierce and bloody, and his bold designs are un-
checked by any moral curb. One object en-
grosses his mind, — the attainment of the crown ;
and if his character were to be estimated only
from the opening soliloquy of the play, it might
be contended that the foimdation of his ambition
was laid in repinings at a deformity repulsive to
love and effeminate delights of peace : but it is
evident from the third part of Henry the Sixth,
that ambition in the general sense and common
form of that passion was his charasteristic, and
that it was strengthened, not created, by the mali-
cious desire of the power of revenging himself
on men better graced by nature. He is morose
and savage when disappointed or opposed, but
in the flood of prosperity he unbends : his wit is
brilliant, sometimes playful, though generally dis-
tinguished by bitter irony, sarcastic levity, and
wanton insult : the queen, and her friends are
favourite subjects of his cruel mirth. Richard
the Third, not less than Gloster in the " Tra*
gical History,*' is a master in the art of hypo-
crisy, and a happier display of versatile villainy
could not have been made than what is exhi-
bited in the courtship of Lady Ann ; but sober

.:ii

192 RICHARD III.

criticism will question whether dramatic effect
be not lessened by that celebrated scene. The
confidence of the wooer is inconsistent with his
previously expressed opinion, that his assumption
of the character of a lover would be preposterous.
His surprise at his success ;

<< What ! I, that kill'd her husband, and his father,"

pleads guilty, by anticipation, to the objection
which might be justly urged against the proba-
bility of his preceding conquest

Shakspeare had no authority whatever for as-
signing Lady Ann a place in the funeral proces-
sion of Henry the Sixth, and much less for as-
signing Richard's courtship of the lady to an
hour so unpropitious. His historians call her
widow f and hence his error of representing her
as the wife of Edward, but in point of fact she
was betrothed, not married^ to that prince.

It is in conformity with the authorities he fol-
lowed, that Shakspeare makes Richard the mur-
derer of his wife, and Queen Elizabeth dissemble
an assent to the marriage of her daughter to
the monarch. The charging of the king with
the murder of his wife is contradictory to the
other testimony of the same historian, that
Richard was affectionate in his attention to
Ann. With respect to his marriage with his

RICHARD III. 193

niece Elizabeth, so far is it from appearing to
have been a disagreeable proposition to her, that
on the contrary the youthful princess wrote a
letter with her own hand to the Duke of Nor-
folk, soliciting him to become a mediator for her
to the king, in behalf of the marriage propounded
between them. She adds, that he, the king,
was her only joy and maker in this world, and
that she was his in heart and thought. Richard
was, at this period, not thirty-three years of age ;
and the princess nineteen. It was not unfair of
Shakspeare to assume Richard's guilt with respect
to the death of Clarence, though Sir Thomas
More is free to acknowledge that " of all this
point there is no certainty." To deepen the
effect of the dramatic portrait, it was necessarj'
to blacken Richard, and the poet therefore
represented him applying to Clarence the idle
prophecy " that after King Edward one should
reign, whose first letter of his name should be a
G *;" though it would appear, from what is
further related by the historian, that the rela^
fives of the queen might, with more propriety,
have -been charged with the insidious crime :
*< and thereby old malice revived betwixt the
king and his brother ; which the queen and her

* Holinshed. Edward IV.
VOL. I. O

194 RICHARD III.

blood (ever mistrusting, and. privily barking at
the king's lineage) ceased not to increase.''.
Holinshed speaks of Clarence's being '< privilie
drowned in a butt of malmesie,'' as of an exe*
cution according to due course of law. — Shaks-
peare seems to have been indebted to his own
imagination only for the scene of Clarence in
prison, his beautiful narrative of his dream, and
the less happy dialogue of the murderers.

The death of his brothers, Edward and
Clarence, assisted to clear the passage of Richard
to the throne; and Shakspeare closely follows
the historian, in representing the means he todc
to remove the minor impediments.

It appears, from Sir Thomas More, that the
reception of the Duke of Buckingham by the
citizens of London, was precisely such as is
described in the drama. When, at the conclusion
of his well*told tale, the Duke anticipated the^
cry of " King Richard ! King Richard !'* all;
was husht and mute, and not one word aniswered
thereunto. * * * When the. mayor saw
this, he drew unto the Duke, and sajid, << that the
people had not been accustomed there to be
spoke unto but by the Recorder, which is^ ihe
mouth of the city, and happely to him they will
answer.** With that the Recorder made re-
hearsal to the Commons of that the Duke had

% '

RICHARD III.. 195

twice rehearsed to them himself; but the Re-
corder so tempered his tale, " that he shewed,
every thing as the Duke's words and no part his
own." The result was, that " at last, in the
nether end of the hall a bushment of the Duke's
servants, and Nashfeld's, and other longing to
the Protector, with some 'prentices and lads that
thrust into the hall among the press, began
suddenly at mens backs to cry out as loud as
their; throats would give : " King Richard !
King Richard!" and threw up their caps in
token of joy. * * And when the Duke and
the Mayor saw this manner, they wisely turned
it to their purpose. And said, ^* it was a goodly
cry and a joyful to hear, every man with one
voice, no man saying nay. Wherefore, friends,
quoth the Duke, since that we perceive it is all
your whole minds to have this nobleman for
your king, whereof we shall make his grace so
effectual report, that we doubt not but it shall
redound unto your great weal and commodity :
we require ye, that ye to-morrow go with us,
and we with you, unto his noble grace, to make
our humble request unto him in manner before
remembered." * Shakspeare had no authority

• Sir Thomas More,
o 2

196 RICHARD III.

for ascribing to Richard the arch hypocrisy of
being

" Well accompanied,
With reverend divines, and well learned bishops/'

when he expected the arrival of the citizens;
but a reference to Sir Thomas More furnishes a
pleasing commentary on Gloster*s command :

** Go, Lovel, with all speed to doctor Shaw, —
Go thou [to Cateshy]y to friar Penker ; — bid them both
Meet me, within this hour, at Baynard's castle/

»» •

Shaw and Penker were " both doctors of
divinity, both great preachers ; both of more
learning than virtue ; of more fame than learning.
* * * For these two the one had a
sermon in praise of the Protector before the
coronation, the other after ; both so full of tedious
flattery, than no man's ears could abide them.
Penker in his sermon so lost his voice, that he
was fain to leave off and come down in the
middes. Doctor Shaw by his sermon lost his
honesty, and soon after his life, for very shame
of the world, into which he durst never after
come abroad. But the friar forced for no
shame, and so it harmed him the less.'*

No intimation is given in history, that Richard

* Act III. sc. 5.

RICHARD III. 197

ever consulted Buckingham respecting the
murder of the young princes, as represented by
Shakspeare, who is consequently wrong in
assigning the reluctance of the duke to comply
with his sovereign's bloody suggestion, as the
primary cause of dissention between them. The
circumstance, as recorded by More, which led
to the separation of Richard and his favourite,
was the pretension of Buckingham himself to
the crown. His demand of " the earldom of
Hereford and the moveables,'* let Richard at
once into his designs; <* forasmuch, as the
title (that of Duke of Hereford) was somewhat
interlaced with the title to the crown, by the
line of King Henry before deprived, the Pro-
tector conceived such indignation, that he
rejected the duke*s request with many spiteful
and minatory words, which so wounded his
heart with hatred and mistrust, that he never
after could endure to look aright on King
Richard, but ever feared his own life.'* *

Shakspeare should have gone further than he
did in his adherence to Sir Thomas More } and
not only have made Buckingham offended at the
rejection of his claim, but grounded Richard's
irritation on his prosecution of it.

• Sir T. More,
o 3.

198 RICHARD 1X1.

Thus far respecting Shakspeare and Sir Tho-
mas More. But how stands the historical fact?
Seven days after his coronation, Richard gave
to Buckingham his letters patent, by which he
willed and granted, that in the next parliaonent,
the duke should be legally restored, from the
preceding Easter, to all the manors, IprdsbipBf
and lands of the Earl of Hereford, specified in
the schedule. The crown could not make a
fuller grant ; it only wanted the parliamentary
sanction.

Following the arrangement of the drama,
which connects the murder of the princes with
the disgrace of Buckingham, it remains to notice,
that Sir James Tirrel, Miles Forest, and John
Digh ton, whom Shakspeare brings upon the scene,
were the persons actually employed iu the per-
petration of the honid deed. TirrePs assertion,

** The chaplain of the tower hath buried them ;
But where, to say the truth, I do not know,"*

displays the poet's remembrance of one passage,
and forgetfulness of another, in Sir Thomas
More ; who first narrates, that Tirrel himself
directed the burial of the children ** at the stair
foot, meetly deep in the ground under a great
heap of stones/* But, it is added, the bodies

* ActlV, SC.3.

[

RICHARD III. 199

were aftetwards taken up by " a priest of Sir
Robert Brafcenburyj and secretly interred in
such place, as by the occasion of his death,
\*^hich only knew it, could never since come to
light. Very truth it is and well known, that at
such titne as Sir Jatiies Tinpel was in the Tower,
for treason committed against the most famous
prince, King Henry tlie Seventh, both Dighton
and he were examined, and Confessed the murder
in manner above written, but whither the bodies
were removed they could nothing telV^

The blood of his nephews secured not to
Richard quiet possession of the throne, but,
"tlie Bretagne Richmond now looks proudly
on the crown,*' and " stirred up by Dorset,
Buckingham and Morton makes for England.'*^
The statement is historically true, as are the
events successively represented; — the dispersion
of Buckingham and his "rash-levied strength*'
** by sudden floods and fall of waters t, his cap-
ture and execution; — Richard's doubts of Stan«
ley on account of his wife's relationship to
Richmond, and Richard's tetaining of young
George Stanley, as a pledge for his father's
truth, t The irritability, impatience, and inde-
cision of a mistrustful mind are boldly delineated
as Richard becomes harassed by tiie defection of

♦ActIV.8c.4. t Ibid. J Ibid*

o 4

200 RICHARD III.

his friends and the growth of Richmond's power,
and a tinge of melancholy, ever inseparable
from anxiety and doubt, is beautifully dashed in
at the approach of the awful crisis.* In all this
Shakspeare still kept the historian in view.
When tidings came that Richmond had arrived
at Shrewsburie without opposition, the king was
" sore moved and broyled with melancholy and
dolor, crjdng out, and asking vengeance of them
that (against their oath and promise) had so de-
ceived him.** t The lines,

*' I have not that alacrity of spirit,
Nor qheer of mind, that 1 was wont to have,"j:

are founded on the historian's assertion, that
Richard used not "the alacrity and mirth of
mind and countenance as he was accustomed to
do before he came toward the battle.** The du
rection,

" Saddle white Surrey for the field to-morrow §,"

originated in the description of Richard's en-
trance into Leicester " invironed with his
guard with a frowning countenance and cruel
visage, mounted on a great white courser J^ \\ The
couplet,

" Jpcky of Norfolk, be not too bold,
For Dickon thy master is bought and sold,"

• ■ / ■ > J. ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ,

♦ Act V. sc. 3. f Holinshed. J Act V. sc. 3.

§ Ibid. II Holinshed.

RICHARD III. SOI

is found in Holinshed with the single variation of
"Jacke** for Jocky.

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

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

Shakspeare modified the "terrible devils*' into
** the souls of all that he had murdered." The
starting of the affrighted tyrant from his couch,
was suggested by the narration of Sir Thomas
More : after the murder of his nephews, " he

* Holinshed. f Act V. sc.S.

202 RICHARD III.

never had quiet in his mind, he never thought
himself sure. * * ♦ He took ill rest
a'nights, lay long waking and musing, sore
wearied with care and watch, rather slumbered
tiian slept^ troubled with fearful dreams, sud-
denly sometimes start up, leap out qf his bed
and run about the chamber J* The first six lines
of the aoliloquy which Shakspeare assigns to
Richard, on this occasion, are deeply expressive
of the terrors of a guilty conscience ; but the con-
ceits and quibbles which disfigure the remainder,
completely destroy the moral impression.

But the terrors of a disordered imagination
were quickly dispelled by the bustle of active
preparation, and on the morning of the mo«
mentoua contest the warlike character of Richard
shone forth in all its wonted splendour. He
addressed his followers in a lengthened justifica-
tion of his own cause, of encouraging confidence
in success, and of coi^temptuous invective against
his foesi It is unnecessary to transcribe more of
his speech thati illustrates some of the scenes of
Shakspeare. "You see also, what a number of
beggarly Britains and faint-hearted Frenchmen
bewidi him (Richmond) arrived to destroy us,
our wives,* and > children. ♦ * - /AiiA to
b^grn with the Earl of Richmond, c£q)tain of this
rebellion, he is a Welsh milk-spp, a man of small

RICHARD III. SOS

courage, and of less experience in martial acts
and feats of war, brought up by my mother's
means'*, and mine, Uke a captive in a close cage
in the court of Francis Duke of Britain ; and
never saw army, nor was , exercised in martial
affiiirs : by reason whereof he neither can, nor is
able by his own witt or experience to guide or
rule an host'* » # « ^j^ij as fQj|. ^j^^

Frenchmen and Britans, their valiantness is such,
that our noble progenitors and your valiant
parts have them oftener vanquished and over-
come in one month, than they in the beginning
imagined possibly to compass and finish in a
whole year. What will you make of them ? Beg-
gars without audacity, drunkards without dis-
cretion, ribalds without reason, cowards without
r^isting, and, in conclusion, the most effemi-
nate and lascivious people that ever shewed
themselves in front of battle ;- ten times more
courageous to fled and escape 'than once to
assault the breast of our strong and populous

* It is so indisputable that Shakspeare acquired his
knowledge of English history from Holinshed, that no for-
mal proof has been thought necessary of a fact so gene-
rally admitted : if one be required, take the present in-
stance : Shakspeare says, '* long kept in Bretagne at our
mother's cost.'' Holinshed has the passage as above, and
he copied from Hall, who, however, has his brdtheVf inatemi
of mother.

204 RICHARD III.

army. ♦ ♦ • As for me, I assure
you, this day I will triumph by glorious victory,
or suffer death for immortal fame.** ♦ That this
was no idle vaunt is learnt from a subsequent
page of the historian. " When the loss of the
battle was imminent and apparent, they brought
to him a swift and a light horse, to convey him
away.** But he disdained an ignominious flight,
and "inflamed with ire and vexed with out-
rageous malice, he put his spurs to his horse,
and rode out of the side of the range of his bat-
tle, leaving the vant-guard fighting ; and like a
hungry lion ran with spear in rest toward him.
The Earl of Richmond perceived well the king
furiously coming toward him, and because the
whole hope of his wealth and purpose was
to be determined by battle, he gladly prof-
fered to encounter with him body to body^
and man to man. King Richard set on so
sharply at the first brunt, that he overthrew the
earPs standard, and slew Sir William Brandon
his standard-bearer, and matched hand to hand
with Sir John Cheinie, a man of great force
and strength, which would have resisted him :
but the said John was by him manfully over-
thrown. And so he making open passage by

■

dint of sword as he went forward, the Earl of

* Holinshed.

RICHARD III. 205

Kichmond withstood his violence and kept him
at the sword's point without advantage longer
than his companions either thought or judged,
which being almost in despair of victory, were
suddenly recomforted by Sir William Stanley
which came to succours with three thousand tall
men, at which very instant King Richard's
men were driven back and fled, and he him-
self manfully fighting in the middle of his ene-
mies was slain and brought to his death as he
worthily had deserved.**

Shakspeare slightly notices one or two oc-
currences of this awful conflict; such as Richard's
rejection of a horse when flight only could
ensure his safety ♦ ; but he has given no cha-
racter whatever to the fierce encounter between
the martial competitors for the crown. " Enter
Richard and Richmond ; and exeunt, fighting,**
is the vapid close of the career of the only
eminent personage of the tragedy.

Richard the Third had flourished as a<lramatic
hero previous to the composition of Shakspeare's
play i and if internal evidence may be trusted,
an old play printed in Malone*s last edition of
the great dramatist, was the work of one of his
predecessors.

* << Slave, I have set my life upon a cast,
And I will stand the hazard of the die."

S06 RICHARD III.

Shakspeare did not here, as on many other
occasions, adopt the plan of the play before him ;
but grafted on his own view of the subject such^
hints as he conceived conducive to its improver
ment. In Shafcspeare's play*, Brakenbury in-
forms Elizabeth, that " the king*' had strictly
forbidden her visits to the princes. To her
astonished interrogatory, " The king! who's
that?" he replies, " I mean the lord protector."
What follows i^ from the old play.

Forest. " My lord, it was one that was appointed by the
king to be an aid to Sir Thomas Brakenbury.
. ^fng.E<itu. Did the king? why Miles Forest, am not I
tjie king ?

For, I would have said, my lord, your uncle, the Pro-
tector."

The dialogue between Richard and Lord
Stanley, in the old play, furnishes these passages.

King. " Well, Stanley, I fear, it will be proved to the
contrary, that thou didst furnish him both with money
and munition ; which, if it be, then look for no favour at
my hands, but the due deserts of a traitor ; but let thig
pass. What's your repair to our presence ?

Stan. Only this, my lord, that I may repair from the
court to my house in the country. .

King. Ay, sir, that you might be in Cheshire and Lan-
cashire, then should your posts pass invisible into Britain,
and you to depart the realm at pleasure; or else, I to

Act IV. sc. 1.

RICHARD III. 207

suffer an intolerable foe under me, which I will not^ But,
Stanley, to be brief, thou shalt not go, • # ♦ Come
hither, Stanley, thou shalt go, leaving^ me here thy son and
heir George Stanley for a pledge^ that he inay perish for
thy fault if need should be ; if thou likest this, go, if not —
answer me briefly, and say quickly, no."

The same leading idea is thus expressed in
Shakspeare :

Stan. *^ Pleaseth your majesty to give me leave,
ril muster up my friends ; and meet your grace,
Where, and what time, your majesty shall please.

Rich. Ay, ayl thou would' st be gone to join with
Richmond:
I will not trust you, sir.

Stan, Most mighty sovereign,
You have no cause to hold my friendahip doubtful ;
I never was, nor never will be false.

- Rich. Well, go, muster men. But, hear, you leave behind
Your son, George Stanley ; look your heart be firm,
Or else his head's assurance is but frail." *

The reader is only troubled with the mentioa
of a long soliloquy, which is assigned to Richard!^
in the old play; because ShaJkspeare caught
from it the idea of the formidable array of ghosts,,
which he produces to aflfright the soul of

Richard.

—— '< l^eep I, wake I, or whiitsoever I do,

Mee thinkes their ghosts come gaping for revenge.

• Act IV. iCi 4.

SOS RICHARD III.

Whom I have slain in reaching for a crown :
Clarence complains and crieth for revenge.
My nephews bloods revenge, revenge 'doth cry:
The headless peers comes pressing for revenge ;
And every one cries, let the tyrant die."

Few theatrical phrases have attained greater
celebrity than Richard's clamorous demand for
a horse, the origin of which is to be traced to the
old play : " The battle enters, Richard wounded
with his page." — King. " A horse, a horse, a
fresh horse." — Page. " Ah, fly my lord, and save
your life." — King. "Fly villain, look I as though
I would fly, no first shall," &c.

The examination of Shakspeare's play with
the historians, and his dramatic predecessor,
might be pursued much further, but an addi-
tional gratification of the reader's curiosity
could be afforded only at the risk of an exhaus-
tion of his patience, Richard not simply being
the first, but the only object of interest in the
play. The abrupt grandeur of the opening
soliloquy, his successful personification of the
lover, the hypocrite, the humourist, and the
hero, leave him without the show of a com-
petitor. But still all does not appear to have
been done for the character of which it is sus-
ceptible. It is not easy » to conceive why the
display of its excellence is principally confined

BICHARD III. 1209

to the early scenes of the play, since the situ-
ations in the latter are equally favourable to the
purposes of a dramatic writer. It is to be
regretted that Shakspesure dwelt on less pro-
mising materials. The introduction of Margaret,
the widowed queen of Henry the Sixth, is not
only unnecessary, but improper : after the battle
of Tewksbury, in which she was captured by
the victorious Edward, she was ransomed by her
&.ther the Duke of Anjou, and never afterwards
returned to England* — The clamorous squab-
bUng in the third scene of the first act ; the
tedious negotiation between Richard and Eliza-
beth, in the fourth scene of the fourth act j and
the harangues of the ghosts, are all insufferably
tedious, and, like other long passages of dia-
logue, tend to no end but that of unnecessarily
protracting the catastrophe.

In its general arrangement, also, the tragedy
is not so excellent as most of Shakspeare's.
Such short scenes as that of the Scrivener, the
one between Stanley and Sir Christopher
Urswick, and that of Buckingham led to exe-
cution, are sad violations of the continuity of the
action. • It is a strong and curious proof of
Shakspeare's submission to the dramatic usages

• Act IIL sc. 6. Act IV. sc. 5. Act V. sc. !•
VOL. I. P

210 RICHARD III.

of his time, violating as they did taste and pro-
priety, that he encamps Richard on one side of
the stagq, and Richmond on the other : neither
of them notices, nor is, indeed, aware of the
presence of the . other v and the ghosts rise be-
tween the chieftains' tents and address them
alternately. *

But if Shakspeare has passed with careless*
ness over some minor passages, with what truth,
and beauty, and feeling, has he distinguished
others ! We turn with delight to the ease and
fluency with which the interview between
Richard, Buckingham, and the citizens is ex-
pressed. Gloster's reply, commencing, *» I can-
not tell, if to depart in silence," is remarkable,
in particular, for its unembarrassed expression
of a complex idea without the aid of circum-
locution, t Is it necessary to mention TyrrePs
description of the murder of the princes Pt. It
cannot be : yet, who is not pleaded U> have it.
recalled to his recollection ?

♦ Act V. 8c. 3. t Act III. 8c. 3. X Act IV. sc,7.

211

HENRY VIIL

1603.

Unlike the other English historical plays of
Shakspeare, Henry the Eighth had no pre-
decessor on the stage. The page of history
alone furnished materials for its composition,
and so exact is the poet's conformity to his
authorities, that there are few passages through-
out the play which cannot be traced to Fox's
Acts and Monuments of Christian Martyrs, or
to Cavendishe's Life of Wolsey, as Shakspeare
found it in the Chronicles of Holinshed, The
proof of this assertion, to its full extent, could
only be effected by transcripts of a length which
would be irksome to the reader, while the notice
of points of leading interest and importance,
appears to be all that the subject calls for, —
The play commences in 1521, the twelfth year
of Henry's reign, and closes with the christen-
ing of Elizabeth in 1533.

Of the three leading characters in the play,

312 HENRY VIII.

Henry, Katharine, and Wolsey, the last is most
decidedly delineated with the greatest ability.
The disappearance of the cardinal so early as
at the termination of the third act, would hardly
seem to have aflforded sufficient scope for the
complete development of his character, but a
judicious selection of incidents and a very care-
ful composition of the part, have left no defi-
ciency.

The introduction of Wolsey crushing, by
bare-faced power, the Duke of Buckingham,
one of the most potent and wealthy noblemen
of the land, at once displays the prelate in all
his pride, malignity and arrogance, whUe the
short dialogues which precede and follow his
interview with his victim, lightly, but distinctly,
touch on these and other . circumstances of the
cardinal's character and history : the meanness of
his birth, his ascent to the eminence of power by
the force of his own ability, his presumption upon
his talents, his ambition and his venality, are
all brought to notice. Next follows that most
daring and presumptuous act of his life, the
attempt to exact money from the subject with-
out sufficient authority.* " Wherefore, by the
cardinal, there was devised strange commisidons,

* Act I. sc. 2.

HENRY VIII. 213

and sent into every shire, and commissioners
appointed, and privy instructions sent to them
how they should proceed in their sittings, and
order the people to bring them to their purpose ;
which was, that the sixth part of every man's
substance should be paid in money or plate to
the king. Hereof followed such cursing, weep-
ing, and exclamation against both king and
cardinal, that pity it was to hear. * *
The Duke of Suffolk, sitting in commission
about this subsidy, persuaded by courteous
means the rich clothiers to assent thereto : but
when they came home, and went about to dis-
charge and put from them their spinners, car-
ders, fullers, weavers, and other artificers, which
they kept in work aforetime, the people began
to assemble in companies. • * The
king then came to Westminster to the cardinal's
palace, and assembled there a council, jn the
which he openly protested, that his mind was
never to ask any thing of his commons which •
might sound to the breach of his laws, where-
. fore he willed to know by whose means the*
commissions were so strictly given forth, to
demand the sixth part of every man's goods.
The cardinal excused himself^ and said, that
when it was moved in council how to levy money
to the king's use; the king's council, and

p 3

214 HENRY VIII.

namely the judges, said, that he might lawfully
demand any sum by commission, and that by
consent of the whole council it was done, and
took God to witness that he never desijred the
hinderance of the commons, but like a true
counsellor devised how to enrich the king.
The king, indeed, was much offended that his
commons were thus intreated, and thought it
touched his honour, that his council should at-
tempt such a doubtful matter in his pame, and
to be denied both of the spirualty and tern-
poralty. Therefore he would no more of that
trouble, but caused letters to be sent into all
shires, that the matter should no further be talked
of: and he pardoned all them that had denied
the demand openly or secretly. The cardinal,
to deliver himself of the evU will of the com-
mons, purchased by procuring and advancing of
this demand, affirmed, and caused it to be bruited
abroad, that through his intercession the king
had pardoned and released all things.*'* The
accordance of Shakspeare*s scene with these
passages is strikingly obviouSj^ but the part of
Wolsey's defence beginning with

" If I am traduced by. ignorant tongues f ,"

is Shakspeare's own, and who but Shakspeare

*' Holinshed. t Act I. sc. 2,

HENRY VIII. 215

could have interwoven so much worldly know-
ledge and such delicious poetry ?

The representation in the play of the sump-
tuous entertainment given by the cardinal at
York House, is extremely judicious, as an in-
stance at once illustrative of the unlimited con-
fidence and high estimation in which he was held
hy the king; of the profuse magnificence which
characterised Wolsey's mode of life, and of the
little value he set upon that austerity and self-
denial which it was his duty to inculcate by pre-
cept and example. Shakspeare has done little
more than convert the account which he found
of this entertainment in Holinshed (who copied it
from Stowe) into action and dialogue : the in-
troduction of Anne Bullen is unauthorised, the
idea of presenting her to Henry on this occa-
sion being entirely the poet's, evidently sug-
gested by the dramatic convenience and effect of
the arrangement.

In assigning the refusal of the emperor to pre-
sent Wolsey to the " archbishopric of Toledo •,*'
as the origin of his desire of divorcing Katharine
from the king, Shakspeare strictiy adheres to the
truth of history. " The cardinal verily was put
in most blame for this scruple now cast into the
king's conscience, for the hate he bare to the

* Act II. 8C. 1.

p 4

216 HENRY VIII.

emperor, because he would not grant to him the
archbishopric of Toledo, for which he was a
suitor. And, therefore, he did not only procure
the king of England to join in friendship with
the French king, but also sought a divorce be-
twixt the king and the queen, that the king might
have had in marriage the duchess of Alen90o,
sister unto the French king. « • ♦ Whilst
these things were thus in hand, the cardinal
of York was advised that the king had set
his affections upon a young gentlewoman, named
Anne, the daughter of Sir Thomas Bullen, Vii^
count Rochford, which did wait upon the queen.
This was a great grief unto the cardinal, as he
that perceived aforehand, that the king would
marry the said gentlewoman, if the divorce took
place. Wherefore he began with all diligence
to disappoint that match, which by reason of the
misliking that he had to the woman, he judged
ought to be avoided more than present death.
While the matter stood in this state, and that the
cause of the queen was to be heard and judged
at Rome, by reason of the appeal which by her
was put in, the cardinal required the pope, by
letters and secret messengers, that, in anywise, he
^ould defer the judgement of the divorce till he
might irame the king's mind to his purpose^
Uowbeit, he went about nothing so secretly, but

HENRY VIII. 217

that the same came to the king's knowledge,
who took so high displeasure with such his
cloaked dissimulation, that he determined to
abase his degree, sith as an unthankful person
he forgot himself and his duty towards him that
had so highly advanced him to all honour and
dignity/'

The preceding quotation pleasingly exempli-
fies the propriety of the soliloquy which Shaks-
peare assigns to Wolsey,

'^ It shall be to the duchess of Alen9on,

The French king's sister : he shall marry her. —
Anne Bullen ! No ; I'll no Anne BuUens for him :
There is more in it than fair visage. — Bullen !
No, we'll no BuUens. Speedily I wish

To hear from Rome. — The marchioness of Pembroke !

• ♦ ♦ • • •

The late queen's gentlewoman ; a knight's daughter.
To be her mistress' mistress ! the queen's queen ! —
This candle bums not clear : 'tis I must snu£P it ;
Then, out it goes. '* ♦

The endeavour to thwart this match was the
primary cause of Wolsey*s ruin, a subject which
Shakspeare has perplexed by departure from his-
toric truth. He had evidently, however, a cor-
rect view of the causes which led to the cardinal's
decline from the favour of his imperious master,
for, in reference to Anne Bullen, he makes
Wolsey say,

* Act III. sc. 2.

218 HENRY VIII.

'^ There was the weight that pull'd me down.

O Cromwell,
The king has gone beyond me, all mj glories
In that one woman I have lost for ever !'' *

The assigning of Henry's marriage to a period
previous to the death of Wolsey, also marks the
dramatist's sense of the connection between that
marriage and Wolsey's fall. Wolsey died in 1530,
and Henry did not marry Anne till 1532, yet
Cromwell informs the cardinal,

** that the ladj Anne,
Whom the king hath in secrecy long married.
This day was viewed in open as his queen." f

In the face, however, of his better know-
ledge, Shakspeare ascribed the king's displeasure
against Wolsey to the minister's accidental
enclosure to him of a letter on the subject of the
divorce, which was intended for the pope, and
an inventory of the wealth which the cardinal
had amassed by his cupidity and extortion* No
such circumstances ever occurred in the case of
Wolsey ; but Holinshed relates the incident of
the inventory to have happened to Ruthall,
bishop of Durham. The bishop was commanded
by the king to make a book of the whole estate
of the kingdom. Wolsey was directed to de-
mand the account, and Ruthall desired his ser-

* Act III. sc. 2. t Ibid.

HENRY VIII. 219

vant to fetch the volume, bound in white vellum,
from his study. Unfortunatdy the bishop's ac-
count of his private wealth was contained in a
book of similar appearance, and the servant de-
livered that book to Wolsey. The historian
adds, that Ruthall was so affected by tlie oc-
currence, that he shortly after died of grief.
Ruthall's misfortune is perfectly credible; but
that the crafty, politic, and cautious Wolsey
should, with his own hands, consign th^ most
damnatory evidence against himself to him whose
frown could *^make him nothing," is neither
c6n8istent with fact nor probability.

Every passage in the scene of Wolsey's degrade
ation, from the entrance of Henry, till Norfolk*,

* Shakspeare has cpmmitted a curious error in the ar-
rangement of these dramatis personam. Holinshed says,
'< die king sent the two dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk." The
poet adds *^ Surrey" with peculiar impropriety. The Duke
of Norfolk appears la the first scene of the play, which re-
presents the occurrences of 1521 : that Duke of Norfolk died
in 1525, and was succeeded in his title by Thomas Howard
Earl of Surrey, who married the Duke of Buckin^am'i
daughter : this is Shakspeare's Earl of Surrey, who, in the
opening of the scene, in which the seals are demanded of

Wolsey, says

^' I am jojrful

To meet the least occasion, that may give me

Remembrance of my father-in-law, the duke,

To be reveng'd on him." (Act HI. sc. 2.)

But Wolsey did not resign the great seal till 1529, conse-
quently Surrey was then Duke of Norfolk, and Shakspeare

220 HENRY vm.

Suffolk, and Surrey are sent to demand Grom the
chancellor the delivery of the great seal, is Shak-
speare's. Holinshed's narrative is then re-
sumed, whence are taken the particulars of the
cardinal's confinement to Asher House, his re-
fusal to yield obedience to a verbal message
from the king, and the confiscation of his pro-
perty under judgment on a writ of prceiiiunire.
The principal charges against the cardinal are
embodied in the vindictive dialogue which he
holds with the noblemen who announce the com-
pletion of his ruin. From that moment the dra-
matist labours to exalt Wolsey in estimation : his
first step is the mental superiority which he makes
him maintain over his malignant enemies in their
ungenerous assaults upon a fallen man. How
skilful is his reply to the charge of incontinence :

" How much, methinks, I could despise this man,
But that I am bound in charity against it i"

When threatened with the recitation of his
offences, and called upon to " blush and cry
guilty," how manly and dignified is his rejoinder:

" Speak on, sir ;
I dare your worst objections : if I blush,
It is to see a nobleman want manners."

made two representatives of the same person appear on the
stage at once.

HENRY VIII. SSI

Holinshed remarks, that Wolsey was <* never
happy till his overthrow, wherein he showed such
moderation, and ended so perfectly, * that the
hour of his death did him more honour than all
the pomp of his life past." In the place of this
bald notice, Shakspeare has thrown out a long
strain of eloquent reflection which impressively
marks the cardinal's conviction of the vanity,
vexation, and inutility of a life devoted to pro-
jects of ambition. Subdued to the common
feeUngs of humanity, his interview with Crom-
well is affecting ; his frequent mention of the
king with expressions of love, respect, and duty,
operates very powerfully in his favour, by in-
ducing a belief of his sincere attachment to his
sovereign. One passage, indeed, is opposed to
this remark : .

^ Had I but serv'd my God with half the zeal
I serv'd my king, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies."

This is a direct charge of ingratitude against
the king: it was copied almost literally from
Holinshed. " If I had served God as diligently
as I have done the king, he would not have
given me over in my grey hairs."

The death of the great child of honour is nar-
rated, not exhibited, in the drama. * Shakspeare

• Act IV. ic. 2.

332 HEKRV vni*

gives two characters of the dardindl^ 6tie by
Queen Katharine, embodying all that coti justly
be alleged against him ; the other by Griffith,
which is an equally fair summary of Wolsey's
merits.* In both cases, Shakspeare's authority
was Holinshed.

<^ This carding was of a great stomach, for he
counted himself equal with princes, and by crafty
suggestion got into his hands innumerable trea-
sure: he forced little on simony, and was not
pitiful, and stood affectionate in his own opinion :
in open presence he would lie and say untruth,
and was double both in speech and meaning :
he would promise much and perform little : he
was vicious of his body, and gave the clergy evil
example.**

Here it will be observed, that Shakspeare has
not much improved his original, but on the
fairer side of the medal he has thrown many
graces. Holinshed never fancied the beautiful
image by which the poet has described the com-
parative duration of men's good and evil fame ;
nor had he feeling enough for the thought that
the university of Ipswich fell, because it was
unwilling to outlive the good that raised it

" This cardinal was a man undoubtedly bom

• Act IV. »c2.

HENRY VIU. 223-

to honour: I think some prince's bastard, no
butcher's son ; exceeding wise, fiiu: spoken^ high,
minded, full of revenge, vicious of his body,
lofty to his enemies were they never so big, to
those that accepted and sought his friendship:
wonderful courteous, a iripe schoolman, thrall,
to affections, brought a bed with flattery, insati..
able to get, and more princely m bestowing, as
£^peareth by his two colleges at Ipswich and.
Oxenford, the one overthrown with his fell, the
other unfinished. He held and enjoyed at once
the bishopricks of York, Duresme, and Win-
Chester, the dignities of the lord cardinal, legate,
and chancellor, the abbey of Albans, divers
priories^ sundry, fat benefices in commendam.
A great preferer of his servants, an advancer of
learning, stout in every quarrel, never happy till
his overthrow; wherein he showed such moder-
ation and ended so perfectly, that the hour of.
his death did him more honour than all the pomp
of his life passed."

Shak^eare has bestowed niuch pains on the
exaltation of Queen Katharine into interest and
importance. With these views she is first ex^
hibited high in the affection of the king, her hus-
band, and, contrary to the truth of history,
exerting her influence for the redress of the
grievances attendant on Wolsey's illegal issue of

424 HENRY VIII.

commissions.* The Dukes of Norfolk and
Sufiblk, were the persons who on this occasion
acted as mediators between the king and the
disturbed commons, t The presence of the queen
at the examination of Buckingham's surveyor is
equally without authority. Shakspeare cautiously
restrains her from active participation in the pro-
ceedings, but assigns her a few sentences in-
dicative of the piety and humanity by which he
wished to characterise her.

The next appearance of the queen is under a
sad reverse of fortune ; the victim of a tyrant's
caprice, she now herself needs the protection
she had lately afforded others. The speech
assigned her by the poet, when she is summoned
to appear in a court where the legality of her
marriage with Henry was to be debated^, is
copied as literally from Holinshed as the trans-
fusion of a prose oration into blank verse would
admit of. The fine opening of the queen's ob-
jection against Wolsey as a judge in her cause,
is Shakspeare* s, and powerftdly supports the
impression the poet was soUcitous to produce in
her favour :

« Sir,
I am about to weep ; but, thinking that

* Act I. sc. 2. f Holinshed. % Act II. sc. 4w

HENRY VIII. ^25

We are a queen (or long have dreamed so), certain
The daughter of a king, my drops of tears
ril turn to sparks of fire."*

The challenge which immediately follows, ih
from Holinshed. " The queen, in presence of
the whole court, most grievously accused the
cardinal of untrutli, deceit, wickedness, and
malice, which had sown dissention betwixt her
and the king her husband ; and therefore openly
protested, that she did utterly abhor, refuse, and
forsake such a judge, as was not only a most
malicious enemy to her, but also a manifest ad-
versary to all right and justice, and therewith did
she appeal unto the pope, committing her whole
cause to be judged of him."

The dignified departure of the queen from the.
court, in the play, would naturally give rise to
the idea that it was contrived by a dramatic
writer, but the passage stands nearly the same
in history. " The king being advertised that
she was ready to go out of the house, com-
manded the crier to call her again, who called
her by these words ; Katharine Queen of Eng-
land come iAto the court. With that (quoth
master Griffith) madam, you be called again.
On, on, (quoth she) it maketh no matter, I will

* Act II. sc. 4.
VOL. I. Q

Sj26 henry VIII,

not tarry, go on your ways. And thus she^de-
parted without any farther answer at that time,
or any other, and never would' appear after in
any court."

The entire arrangement of the first scene of
the third act is taken from HoUnshed, as are also
the forcible objections made by Katharine against
the probabihty of her obtaining justice in an
English court. Shakspeare considerably length-
ed the dialogue with the particular view of ex-
citing sympathy in favour of the queen, who is
beautifully land poetically depicted as

<< Shipwreck'd upon a kingdom, where no pity,
No friends, no hope, no kindred weep for me.
Almost no grave allowed me ; — Like the lily.
That once was mistress of the field, and flourish'd,
ril hang my head, and perish.'

The remaining steps in the accomplishing
of Henry's divorce from his consort are confined
in the drama to narration ; and Katharine ap-
pears no more till the memorable scene of her
death, an event which Shakspeare was necessarily
led to anticipate by the desire of closing his play
with the joyful christening of Elizabeth : ^ thi^
princess was born in 1533, and Katharine die)
not die till 1535-6.

The extent of Shakspeare's obligations to. the

H]^NRY VriT. 227

historian is marked by the following extract
from the Clironicles. " The Princess^Dowager
lying at Kimbalton, fell into her last sickness,
whereof the king being advertised, appointed the
Emperor*s ambassador, that was legier here with
him, named Eustachius Caputius, to go to visit
her, and to do his commendations to her, and
will her to be of good comfort. The ambassador
with all diligence did his duty therein, comforti-
ing her the best he might: but she within six
days after, perceiving herself to wax very weak
and feeble, and to feel death approaching
at hand, caused one of her gentlewomen to
write a letter to the king, commending to him
her daughter and his, beseeching him to stand
good father unto her j and further desired him
to have some consideration for her gentle-
women that had served her, and to see them
bestowed in marriage. Further, that it would
please him to appoint that her servants might
have their due wages, and a year's wages be-
side. This in effect was all that she requested,
and so immediately hereupon she departed this
life the eighth of January at Kimbalton afore-
said, and was buried at Peterborourgh.'*

Such were Shakspear^'s historical materials in
accomplishing one of his greatest triumphs in the
excitement of pathetic feeling. The calm con-

Q 2

228 HENRY VIII.

fidence of a christian spirit, on the point of
returning to heaven, was never more affectmgly
displayed than in the dramatic history of
Katharine. Her forgiveness of enemies, and
her affectionate solicitude for fiiends, are happily
conjoined to the meekest piety. Hurled froim
the proud pre-eminence of a regal seat, by
an act of wanton cruelty, the humiliation of the
queen involved in it no degradation of character,
for she was a faultiess sufferer. With the great-
est propriety, therefore, Katharine appears
equally dignified in her humble, as in her exalted
station ; and how beautifully she exemplifies
her solicitude for a good name after death :

<< When I am dead, good wench,
Let me be us'd with honour ; strew me over
With maiden flowers, that all the world may know
I was a chaste wife to my grave : embalm me,
Then lay me forth : although unqueen'd, yet like
A queen, and daughter to a king, inter me." *

Holinshed's account of the divorce of Ka-
tharine is apologetical for Henry : the good man
apparentiy believed that " the king sore la-
mented his chance, and made no manner of
mirth nor pastime as he was wont to do/'
Shakspeare so far conforms to this represen-

• Act. IV. sc. 2.

HENRY viii. 229

tation of the case, as to make the king's scruple
of conscience the avowed cause of the dis-
solution of his marriage ; but the poet was too
much a man of the world to be imposed on by
such a thin disguise, and very archly displays
his knowledge of the real motives which in-
fluenced Henry to* cast away " a jewel that had
^ hung for twenty years about his neck, yet never
lost her lustre.*' *

The second scene of the play exhibits Ka-
tharine in the Full enjoyment of her husband's
love, and participation in his ppwer ; but ere the
first act closes, the king had held " the fairest
hand he ever touched." t The image of Anne
Bullen was impressed upon his heart; and
he, for the first time, acknowledged the omni-
potence of beauty, t His devotion is expressed
by the exaltation of the lady into the Mar-
chioness of Pembroke, and " the gift of a thousand
pound a year § ;" and in the mean time the
king's conscience becomes troubled, by a doubt
he never knew before, respecting the legality of
his marriage with Katharine; and he is re-
conciled to the resignation of the " queen of
earthly queens." || " Alas!" says the poor lady,

* Act n. sc 2. f Sc. IV.

:t " O beauty, till now I never knew thee."

§ Act 11. sc. 3. II Act U. sc. 1> 2. 4.

Q 3

SSO HENRY VIII,

<< I am old*;'' a lamentation sadly contrasted
by the praises bestowed upon her rival :

'< Believe me» sir, she is tlie goodliest woman

That ever lay by man.'*

* • •

*^ Sir, as I have a soul, she is an angel ;
Our king has all the Indies in his armSy
And more, and richer, when he strains that lady :
/ cannot blame his conscience** \

Shakspeare copied from Holinshed all the
artful glosses by which Henry sought to conceal
the odiousness of his conduct; still, however,
leaving suflScientiy legible traces of his hypo-
crisy. With every prospect before him of a
speedy dissolution of his matrimonal tie, it is
his question : —

<< Would it not grieve an able man, to leave
So sweet a bedfellow ? But, conscience, conscience,
O, *tis a tender place, and I must leave her.*' \

Yet, SO anxious is he to slip his yoke that the
least symptom of delay alarms and vexes him :

" I may perceive
These cardinals trifle with me: I abhor
This dilatory sloth, and tricks of Rome,
My learn'd and well-beloved servant, Cranmer,
Pr'ythee, return ! with thy approach, I know,
My comfort comes along." J

-1^

fr^« » • • r .-

♦ Act III. 8C.I. t ActIV.*o.r.

X Act II. 8C.2. § Act II. 8G. 4.

HENRY Vlll. 231

Cranmer does return, and is the bearer of
opinions which

■ ■ ** satisfied the king for his divorce,

Together with all famous colleges
Almost in Christendom : shortly, I believe.
His second marriage shall be published, and
Her coronation.*'*

As the play made its appearance in the life-
time of Elizabeth, Shakspeare had a task to
perform of great delicacy. Elizabeth was not a
princess with whom the liberty could be safely
taken of exhibiting her father in all his native
deformity. The poet contrived, therefore, with-
out altogether suppressing the harshness, tyranny,
and impetuosity which distinguished him, to
create an impression generally favourable to his
character. The bluntness of his manner is
humorous and pleasing ; carrying with it a large
portion of apparent goodnature, kind feeling,
and general integrity of intention. The measure
of the divorce, indeed, speaks volumes against
Henry ; and his sacrifice of Buckingham hardly
seems defensible. But in his quarrel with
Wolsey hie is clearly right ; and his conduct to,
and protection of, Cramner, is noble, generous,
and wise, t For the particulars of this trans-
action, Shakspeare was not indebted to Ho-

♦ Act III. sc. 2. f Act V. «c. 1, 2.

Qt 4

'2S2 HENRY Vlir.

linslied, but to the acts and monuments of the
christian martyrs by Fox, who minutely details
the circumstances of the attempt of the privy
council to crush the worthy Archbishop of
Canterbury.

If the motives be obvious which led the
poet to represent Henry in advantageous colours,
they are even more so in the case of Anne Bullen,
the mother of Elizabeth. She, accordingly, shines
forth a perfect pattern of excelling nature.

Whilst the dramatist was anxious to excite pity
for the fate of Katharine, it was no easy task to
create an impression favourable to the person, who
was the cause of all her unmerited misfortunes.
Shakspeare artfully makes Anne unconscious of
the king's intentions towards her ; and she com-
miserates the fate, and expatiates on the virtues,
of her unhappy mistress. By a natural transition,
her reflections are turned on the advantages of
humble life.

" I swear, 'tis better to be lowly born,
And range with humble livers in content.
Than to be perk'd up in a glistering grief,
And wear a golden sorrow." *

. The entire freedom of her mind from views or
projects of ambition, and her consequent guilt-

* Act II. sc. 3.

HENRY Vlll. 233

lessness of injury against her on whose ruin she
was raised, are strongly expressed in her de-
claration that she would not be a queen,

" No, not for all the riches under heaven."

Less, however tempted her.

Anne's reception of the king's profuse gene-
rosity is beautifully modest and graceful; and
her after-reflection delicately expressive of the
amiable feeling, that since her own elevation
would occasion pain to her mistress, she looked
on it with dread. *

A more seductive opportunity for the offer of
homage at the shrine of Elizabeth's vanity could
not have presented itself than this play afforded,
and the poet has not neglected it. In addition
to the indirect flattery of Elizabeth, through
the medium of her father and mother, Shak-
speare has plentifully offered the less delicate,
but more acceptablci incense of personal com-
pliment to his sovereign.

I have perus'd herf well ;

Beauty and honour in her are so mingled,

That they have caught the king : and who knows yet,

Bid from this lady may 'proceed a gem^

To lighten all this isle f %

The compliment is subsequently repeated,

Act II. sc. 3. t Anne BuUen. % Act U. sc. 3.

234 HENRY VIII.

though unrecommended by an added grace of
variety of expression or expansion of the idea :

**• I persuade me^ from her
Will fall some blessing to this land, which shall
In it be memoriz'd.** *

But the greatest and most effective efibrt is
that which is made in the last scene, where Cran-
mer, in the spirit of prophecy, bursts forth into an
eulogium of the future virtues of the princess
whom he christens.

" This royal infant, (heaven still move about her [)
Though in her cradle, yet now promises
Upon this land a thousand thousand blessings.
Which time shall bring to ripeness : she shall be
A pattern to all princes living with her,
And all that shall succeed : Sheba was never
More covetous of wisdom, and fair virtue,
Than this pure soul shall be : all princely graces
That mould up such a mighty piece as this is.
With all the virtues that attend the good.
Shall still be doubled on her: Truth shall nurse her.
Holy and heavenly thoughts still council her :
She shall be lov'd, and fear*d : Her own shall bless her:
Her foes shall shake like a field of beaten com.
And hang their heads with sorrow : Good grows with

her!
In her days, every man shall eat in safety
Under his own vine, what he plants ; and sing
The merry songs of peace to all his neighbours :
God shall be truly known ; and those about her

* Act III. sc. 2.

From her shall read the perfect ways of honour,
And by those claim their greatness, not by bloodi
She shall be, to the happiness of England,
An aged princess ; many days shall see her,
And yet no day without a deed to crown it.
*Would I had known no more 1 but she must die.
She must, the saints must have her; yet a virgin,
A most unspotted lily shall she pass
To the ground, and all the world shall mourn her.

The passage is here quoted as it is supposed
to have 5tood when the play first appeared,
during the lifetime of Elizabeth. But, as the
prophet wisely foresaw, she diedj and it hap-
pened that her successor was eminently service-
able to Shakspeare. The poet, in consequence,
considered James entitled to honourable men-
tion; though he manifested no disposition to
discharge his debt of gratitude, at the expense
of any considerable trouble. A shorter me-
thod could scarcely have been hit upon, than
that of foisting into Cranmer's prophecy re-
specting Elizabeth, a similar compliment to
James. The break thus occasioned in the speech
is greatly injurious to its effect by the disjunc-
tion of the natural connection between its parts,
and the new matter is not recommended by suf-
ficient novelty, truth, or beauty to atone for the
awkwardness occasioned by its introduction.
It has been made a question, whether the pro-

236 HENRY VIII.

logue and epilogue of this play were composed
by Shakspeare, or additions made by another
hand. If the solution of the question were pos-
sible, it is doubtful whether it would be worth
the trouble, as the pieces are too unimportant to
afford any insight into the mind of their author,
whoever he might be. It has been also asserted,
that another hand than Shakspeare's is discover-
able in various passages of the dialogue. There
may be truth in the supposition ; but it is impos-
sible to assume it as a fact without better evi-
dence than mere conjecture.

237

THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF

VERONA.

1591.

The plot of the Two Gentlemen of Verona is
taken from the story of Felismena m the second
book of the Diana, a Spanish pastoral romance,,
by George of Montemayor, translated into'
English by one Thomas Wilson.

Felix, the hero of the romance, prevails on*
the attendant of Felismena to convey a letter to
her mistress. FeUsmena affects indignation and
rebukes her maid for presumption. But the
servant, readily penetrating her real sentiments,
drops, as if by accident, the rejected letter in her
presence. A short contest ensues between pride
and curiosity : the latter of course prevails, and
Felix receives assurances of the return of his
passion by Felismena. The happiness of the
lovers, however, is suddenly interrupted. The
father of Felix determines he shall travel, telling
his son, it is unfit that a youth of his noble ex-

238 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.

traction should spend his time at home. Unable
to support the pangs of absence, the unhappy
FeUsmena follows her lover, concealed under
the disguise of a page. She arrives at the court
to which he had repaired, and is induced in the
evening to bestow attention on some music:
alas! it was the serenade of Felix to a beauty
whose obduracy he was lamenting. Felismena
does not betray herself, but, secure in her dis-
guise, engages in the service of the peijured
l^elix : as his page, she is the bearer of letters,
messages, and presents, to her rivaL — All these
incidents are copied by Shakspeare with circum-
stantial minuteness.

The romance proceeds to relate, that Celia,
the new mistress of Felix, grew enamoured of
his page, and that she died of grief when her
love met not the return it pined for. Felix, in
an agony of passion, fled in despair. The
faithful Felismena pursued him, and was happy
enough both to discover him, and to save Ms
life. A reconciliation ensued, and Felix and
Felismena were united. The first of these in-
cidents, the passion' of Celia for her lovePs
page, is wholly omitted in the play ; the latter^
the reconciliation and union of Felix with hit;
first love, is adopted ^ and it appears likely,
that the flight of V^dentine and Silvia's pur-

THB TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 239

suit of him. was likewise suggested by the
romance.

FeUx, a mere changeUng in the Spanish stoiy,
is darkened by Shakspeare into a mean and
despicable villain. Felix deserts his mistress,
and this is " the head and front of his offend-
ing ;'* but Proteus, (Shakspeare's Felix) in
addition, betrays his friend ; he renounces Julia,
having fallen in love, at a single interview,
with Silvia, to whom Valentine is engaged by
bonds of the most ardent affection.

** I will forget that Julia is alive,
RemembVing that my love to her is dead;
And Valentine 1*11 hold an enemy.
Aiming at Silvia as a sweeter friend." *

In conformity with this honourable resolution,
he discloses the intended flight of Valentine and
Silvia to the father of the lady, and thus obtains
an opportunity of wooing her himself. His suit
excites well-merited disgust. Silvia flies her
father's court ; Proteus pursues, and overtakes
her in a forest, and crowns his crimes by a
determination to violate her person. On the
frustration of this design by the fiiend whom
he had so deeply injured, the villain shelters his
crimes under a trite expression of repentance,
and a declaration, that

♦ Act II. sc. 6.

240 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.

- ** were man

But constant, he were perfect : that one error

Fills him with faults ; makes him run through all sins :

Inconstancy falls off, ere it begins :

What is in Silvia's face, but I may spy

More fresh in Julia's with a constant eye ?" *

The apology is deemed satisfactory: Proteus
renews his vows to Julia, and his pardon is
ratified by her hand.

The story in the romance is feeble, and
Shakspeare's additional circumstances at the
court of the duke give it nd interest. His
new characters are sketches rather than per-
sonifications of passion. Valentine is the con-
trast of Proteus. He has honour, courage,
fidelity both in love and friendship ; but there
is so little vividness and force in his character
that he leaves no mark on our minds. Speed
is a sketch of those servants who stand so pro-
minent in modern comedy, with their wit on
their master's amatory follies, and their reflec-
tions on their own love of eating and drinking
and sleeping. His compeer, Launce, differs
as much from Speed, and the crowd of similar
characters that flourish in the old dramas, as if
he were of a different race of beings. The
romance affords no hint whatever for the cha-

*ActV. sc.^.

THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 241

racter, or, as it would be more properly stated,
the characters of Launce and his dog. The
master of this " cruel hearted cur" narrates his
actions, interprets his thoughts, and explains his
qualities, as of infinite importance, with ludi-
crous gravity; while his attachment to Crab,
his description of the parting with his family,
and his " catalogue of his mistress's conditions,*'
give an extensive variety to the display of
Launce's peculiarities.

The female characters are germs of much of
thatfeminine excellence which Shakspeare loved,
and which he so skilfully elaborated in many of his
subsequent and more highly finished dramas.
Both Silvia and Julia are amiable and affectionate,
while the maiden coyness and deep passion of
the latter are pleasingly contrasted by the wit
and spirit of the former. In the novel, Felismina
pleads with earnestness in behalf of the perjured
Felix to his new mistress: Julia, on the con-
trary, artfully excites the compassion of Silvia
in favour of Proteus' deserted love ; a conduct
far more in accordance with nature. Yet in
Twelflh Night Shakspeare follows the course he
here rejects : Viola pleads to her rival, Olivia,
in favour of the duke, with an eloquent warmjth
even exceeding that of Felismina.

Altogether, the Two Gentlemen of Verona is

VOL. I. R

242 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.

one of the lighter productions of Shakspeare,
undistinguished by depth of pathos or power of
imagination, yet containing much sweet and
graceful poetry. The commencement of the
play, Valentine's description of his friend *, his
reflections on his solitary lifet, are all distin-
guished by tenderness and elegance, while the
versification is even more harmonious than most
of the poetry of Shakspeare.

* Act II. 8C. 4.

f " How use doth breed a habit in a man." Act V. sc. 4.

243

THE COMEDY OF ERRORS.

1592.

1 HE plot of the Comedy of Errors undoubt-
edly originated in the Menaechmi of Plautus,
but it is not known through what channel Shak-
speare became acquainted with his Latin autho-
rity. A translation of Plautus' play was printed
in 1595, but if, as is generally said, the Comedy
of Errors was written three years previously, its
author could not have derived any assistance from
the translation of " W. W/* , As, however, the
chronology of the Comedy of Errors maybe con-
sidered disputable, it is necessary to add, that
between Shakspeare's play and the "pleasant and
fine conceited comedy called Menechmus," there
is an entire discordance in the names of the
dramatis personse, and a total absence of those
coincidences of expression which proclaim Shak-
speare a copier on other occasions.

The "Historie of Error*' is the name of a
piece enacted on new-year's night 1576-7» be-

R 2

S44 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS.

fore Queen Elizabeth at Hampton-Court, but
the play is no longer in existence. It is neither
apparent, therefore, by what means Shakspeare
obtained his knowledge of the plot of the
Menaechmi, nor are any materials left to guide
us in the enquiry, how far the deviations which
his play exhibits from Plautus are to be attri-
buted to himself, how far to the authority he fol-
lowed. Since this subject is involved in so much
obscurity, little can be effected towards the il-
lustration of the play before us ; but it may afford
gratification to a reasonable curiosity to contrast
the translation of Plautus by W. W. (whom
Wood calls WilUam Warner) with the Comedy
of Errors.

Both plays agree in ascribing twin sons to a
merchant of Syracuse; in separating them' at
seven years of age ; in conferring, after the loss
of the elder, his name on the younger brother ; in
sending the younger forth in search of his bro-
ther; and in a series of mistakes arising out of
their perfect similarity of feature and name. The
cause which produced the separation of the bro-
thers is stated differently : in Menechmus the
elder is stolen ; in the Comedy of Errors he is
supposed to be lost in a wreck.

The two plays differ in the scene of action.
Shakspeare makes the elder brother a highly re-

THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 245

spectable merchant of Ephesus ; not " dwelling
enriched" at Epidamnum. When, however, the
younger brother, Antipholus of Syracuse, arrives
at Ephesus, he gives himself out " of Epidam-
num."

Menechmus the citizen, and Antipholus of
Ephesus, are both married to women of pro-
perty, who are jealous of them ; each goes to
dine with a courtezan; each is shut out of
doors by his wife, and each is believed by his
relatives to be mad. A physician is sent for to
Menechmus ; a conjurer to Antipholus, who is
actually bound with cords as a madman ; whilst
Menechmus only escapes similar treatment by
the interference of the servant Messenio.

Menechmus the traveller, and Antipholns of
Syracuse, are each mistaken by their brother*8
courtezan ; the former is prevailed upon to go
and dine with the lady; the latter accepts a
similar invitation from his brother's wife. Me-
nechmus of Epidamnum, gives his courtezan a
gold chain, which he had stolen from his wife.
Antipholus of Ephesus orders a similar orna-
ment for his wife; but in a fit of anger, de-
termines to make a present of it to his courtezan.
In both cases, the chain falls into the hand of
the travelling brother.

On the arrival of the travelling brothers, the

n S

246' THE COMEDY OF ERRORS.

one in Epidamnum, the other ia Ephesus, the
several cities are described in odious colours.
The idea is the same in each play ; but the de-
scriptions are too decidedly different for one to
liave originated from the other.

The characters of a parasite, and father-in-
law of Menechmus of Epidamnum, have no
existence in the Comedy of Errors.

The incidents in the Comedy of Errors, not

found in Menechmus, are, the introduction of

the father and mother of the twin brothers ; the

sister-in-law of Antipholus of Ephesus, with

whom Antipholus of Syracuse falls in love; and

the duplication of the original plot in the persons

of the two Dromios. In Menechmus, the

traveller is accompanied by a servant, Messenio.

In the Comedy of Errors, each of the brothers has

a servant ; and these servants, like their masters,

are twins, so perfectly resembling each other,

that they are not to be known apart: a new

source of error and confusion is thus opened,

where most readers will be inclined to believe

enough existed before. Notwithstanding this

accumulation of perplexities, the scenes are

conducted with infinite skill and ingenuity, and

the play brought to a clear and satisfactory

conclusion.

. The introduction of ^geon, tho fatKer of the
AntijAolus*, enables Shakspeare to dispense

THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 247

with the " Argument" attached to the Me-
nechmus ; an equally satisfactory reason cannot
be assigned for the presence of j^milia, his wife.
Improbability only is added, by the alteration of
the causes of the separation of the brothers. The
change of the younger brother's name by an
affectionate grandfather, anxious to perpetuate
the name of a darling child, is perfectly natural
in Menechmus. The change is made in the
Comedy of Errors; but all mention of the
occasion is neglected. It is left equally unao
counted for, how the Dromios became possessed
of the same name.

248

LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.

1594*.

Xhe scene of Love's Labour's Lost is laid in
Navarre. The king retires to a secluded
palace with his nobility, vowing to dedicate the
three ensuing years to study; to admit no
woman within the precincts of his court; to
debar himself entirely from female society ; and
to live in the strictest abstinence from every
personal indulgence. Unfortunately, for letters
and mortification, the princess of France arrives
on an embassy from her father ; a circumstance
necessarily leading to an interview between the
fair ambassadress and the secluded king. His
majesty falls in love with the princess ; his lords
with her attendants; and thus sacrifice their
vows at the shrine of beauty. Each of the ladies
imposes on her lover a penance for his perjury,
the performance of which is to entitle him to
her hand ; and with this understanding the play
closes.

love's labour's lost. 249

Love's Labour's Lost is one of the very few
plays of its author that are not ascertained to
have been founded on some previously existing
work. Its incidents, however, are so simple,
and in such entire conformity with the chivalric
and romantic feeling of the sixteenth century,
that they would readily present themselves to
any mind imbued with the fashionable literature
of the age.

The play is rich and spirited in dialogue, and
full of the poetry of fancy. Many of its ob-
servations have passed into sentences, though
the drama itself has fallen into neglect. Biron
is still referred to as the character of a genuine
wit.

. " Another of these students at that time

Was there with him : if I have heard a truth,
Biron they call him ; but a merrier man,
Within the limit of becoming mirth,
I never spent an hour's talk withal ;
His eye begets occasion for his wit ;
For every object that the one doth catch,
The other turns to a mirth-moving jest ;
Which his fair tongue (conceit's expositor,)
Delivers in such apt and gracious words.
That aged ears play truant at his tales.
And younger hearings are quite ravished ;
So sweet and voluble is his discourse." *

* Act II. 80. 1.

250 love's labour's lost.

In the coincidence of sparkling wit; and in-
dulgence in somewhat bitter repartee, Rosalind •
may not unaptly be considered the first sketch
of a character which the author fiilly embodied
afterwards in Beatrice, as Biron was, un-
doubtedly, the precursor of Benedick.

Rosalind. '< Ofl 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 your wit/

"•

Biron takes himself to task for falling in love
so identically, in the spirit of Benedick, that his
soliloquy might, with very slight variation, be
transferred to the scenes of Much Ado about
Nothing, without any injury to the keeping of
that admirably delineated character.

*< O! — And I, forsooth, in love ! I, that have been love's
whip;
A vfery beadle to a humorous sigh ;
A critick ; nay, a ni^ht-watch constable ;
A domineering pedant o'er the boy,
Than whom no mortal so magnificent 1
This wimpled, whining, purblind, wa)rward boy ;
This senior-junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid ;
Regent of love*rhymes, lord of folded arms,

* ActV. »c. 2.

love's LABOUIt's LOST. 251

The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans,

Liege of all loiterers and malcontents,

# * * *

Sole imperator and great general
Of trotting paritors, — O my little heart!—
And I to be a corporal of his field,
And wear his colours like a tmnbler's hoop !
What? II I love ! I sue ! I seek a wife !
A woidan. that is like a German clock, *

* Still a repairing ; ever out of frame ;
And never going aright, being a watch,
But being watch'd that it still may go right ?
Nay, to be perjur'd, 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 face for eyes ;
Ay, and, by heaven, one that will do the deed»
Though Argus were her eunuch and her guard :
And I to sigh for her ! to watch for her !
To pray for her ! Go to ; it is a plague
That Cupid will impose for my neglect
Of his almighty dreadful little might*
Well, I will love, write, sigh, pray, sue, and groan ;
Some men must love my lady, and some Joan/'*

The pedant, Holofernes, is very happily con-
ceived and executed, but it is to be doubted
whether Shakspeare has not been too liberal to
the literary coxcomb in assigning to him what
Johnson was contented to receive as a perfect
definition of colloquial excellence : " Your rea-
sons at dinner have been sharp and sententious,
witty without affectation, audacious without im-

♦ Act HI. sc. 1.

252 LOVE S LABOUR a LOST.

piidency, learned without opinion, and strange
without heresy.** * It can hardly be imagined
that conversation which merited this elegant
eulogium, and such insufferable nonsense as the
following could proceed from the same mouth :

Nath. — '< Sir, I assure ye> it was a buck of the first
heacl.

HoU Sir Nathaniel, hand credo,
DuU, 'Twas not a hand credo, 'twas a pricket*
HoL Most barbarous intimation ! yet a kind of insinua-
tion, as it were, in via, in way of explication ;yacere, as it
were, replication, or, rather, ostentare, to show, as it were,
his inclination, — afler his undressed, unpolished, unedu-
cated, unpruned, untrained, or rather unlettered, or,
ratherest, unconfirmed, fashion, — to insert again ny ^ui
credo for a deer.

DtdL I said, the deer was not a haud credo ; ^twas a
pricket.

HoL Twice sod simplicity, his coctus! — O thou monster
ignorance, how deformed dost thou look T f

The poetical vice of the time, the love of alli-
teration, is very happily ridiculed in Holofemes*
sonnet, wherein he " something affects the
letter, for it argues facility.** J The scraps of
Latin and Italian which he vomits forth on aU
occasions are transcribed principally from the
works of Florio, a contemporary, who shared

• Act V. sc. 1. t Act IV. sc 2.

:|: " The praiseful princes pierced and prick'd a pretty
pleasing pricket.*' — Act IV. sc. 2.

LOVE*g labour's lost. 253

with the dramatist the patronage of I-.ord South-
ampton.

The comedy is rich in diversity of character ;
and next steps forward into notice Don Adriano
de Armado,

a refined traveller of Spain,

A man in all the world's new fashion planted,
That hath a mint of phrases in his brain :
One, whom the musick of his own vain tongue
Doth ravish like enchanting harmony ;
A man of compliments, whom right and wrong
Have chose as umpire of their mutiny."*

One additional quotation will place the reader
in perfect possession of this gentleman's various
excellencies :

<< Sir, the king is a noble gentleman ; and my familiar, I
do assure you, very good friend : — For what is inward be-
tween us, let it pass : — I do beseech thee, remember thy
courtesy; — I beseech thee apparel thy head ; — and among
other importunate and most serious designs, — and of great
import indeed too ; — but let that pass : — for I must tell
thee, it will please his grace (by the world) sometime to
lean upon my poor shoulder; and with his royal finger,
thus, dally with my excrement, with my mustachio : but,
sweet heart, let that pass. By the world, I recount no fable ;
some certain special honours it pleaseth his greatness
to impart to Armado, a soldier, a man of travel, that
hath seen the world : but let that pass. — The very all of
all is, — but, sweet heart, I do implore secrecy." f

^ _ ^ 11 I I ■ I ■ • I ■l_B.I

* ActL scl. f ActV. sc. 1.

95ii LOV£^9l labour's lost.

But the remark of Holofemes is already jus-
tified :

^ He draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer than
the staple of his argument/'*

Yet with all its diversity of characters, poetic
beauties, wit, and sentences. Lovers Labour's
Lost is but little regarded. It is devoid of
dramatic interest, and not even the fairest and
freshest beauties of Shakspeare's genius can
compensate for poverty of plot and deficiency
of action.

• Act V. sc. 1.

255

A MIDSUMMER.NIGHT'S DREAM.

1594.

Few plays consist of such incongruous ma-
terials as " A Midsummer-Night's Dream.**
It comprises no less than four histories: —
that of Theseus and Hippolyta ; — of the four
Athenian lovers j — the actors; — and the fairies.
It is not indeed absolutely necessary to se-
parate Theseus and Hippolyta from the lovers }
nor the actors from the fairies ; but the link of
connection is extremely slender. Nothing can
be more irregularly wild than to bring into
contact the Fairy-mythology of modem Europe,
and the early events of Grecian history ; or to
introduce Snug, Bottom, Flute, Snout, and Starve-
ling, " hard-handed men, which never laboured
in their minds till now,** as amateur actors in the
classic dty of Athens.

Of the characters constituting the serious ac-
tion of this play Theseus and Hippolyta are

256 A midsummer-night's dream.

entirely devoid of interest Lysander and De-
metrius, and Hermia and Helena, scarcely merit
notice except on account of the frequent com-
bination of elegance, delicacy, and vigour, in
their complaints, lamentations, and pleadings,
and the ingenuity displayed in the management
of their cross-purposed love through three several
changes. In the first place, there is a mutual
passion between Lysander and Hermia : De-
metrius loves Hermia, he having previously
loved Helena, who returned his love« In the
second stage, Lysander deserts Hermia, and
urges his suit to Helena, who remains faithful
to Demetrius ; and, tliirdly, Lysander disclaims
his love for Helena, and renews his vows to his
first love, Hermia ; Demetrius relinquishes Her-
mia, and renews his affection for Helena.

Bottom and his companions are probably
highly drawn caricatures of some of the mo-
narchs of the scene whom Shakspeare found in
favour and popularity when he first appeared in
London, and in the bickerings, jealousies, and
contemptible conceits which he has represented,
we are furnished with a picture of the green-
room politics of the Globe.

After perusing any half-dozen dramas of
the early part of Elizabeth's reign, we can
readily concur with Steevens, in thinking that

A midsumMer-night's dream.' 257

the doggerel nonsense of Bottom and his
worthies, is only an extract from ** the boke of
Perymus and Thesbye/' printed in 1562. The
conjecture, however, is equally plausible, that
Shakspeare emulated the style in which the
story of these unhappy lovers is narrated in the
fourth book of Golding's version of Ovid's Me-
tamorphoses:

" Within the towne of whose huge walles so monstrous

high and thick,
(The fame is given Semyramis for making them of bricke,)
Dwelt hard together two young folke in houses joynd so

nere
That under a]l one roofe well nigh both twayne convayed

were.
The name of him was Pyramus and Thisbe call'd was she,
So faire a man in all the East was none alive as he.
Nor nere a woman, mayde nor wife, in beautie like to her."

Manilbld are the opinions that have been ad-
vanced respecting the origin of the fairy mytho-
logy of our ancestors. The superstitions of the^
East and of the North, and of Greece and of
Rome have been resorted to in search of a clue
which would lead to a consistent historv of its
rise and growth.

It appears safe to assume that the oriental
genii in general, and the Dews and Peries of Per-
sia in particular, are the remote prototypes of
modern fairies. The doctrine of the existence

VOL. I. s

258 A midsummer-kioht's dream.

of this peculiar race of spirits was imported into
the north of Europe by the Scythians, and it
forms a leading feature in the mythology of the
Celts. Hence was derived the popular fairy-
system of our own country, which our ances-
tors modified by the mythology of the classics.

The Peries and Dews of the orientals were
paralleled by the Scandinavian division of their
genii, or diminutive supernatural beings, with
which their imaginations so thickly peopled the
earth, into bright or beneficent elves, and
black or malignant dwarfs ; the former beautiful,
the latter hideous in their aspect. A similar
division of the fairy tribe of this coimtry was
long made, but, by almost imperceptible de-
grees, the qualities of both species were ascribed
to fairies generally. They were deemed inter-
mediate between mankind and spirits ; but still
as they parto<A: decidedly of a spiritual nature,
, they were, like all other spirits, under the influ-
ence of the devil; but their actions were more
mischievous than demonaical, more perplexing
than malicious, more frolicksome than seriously
injurious. Possessing material bodies, they had
all the wants and passions of human nature : being
spiritual, they had the power of making them-
selves invisible, and of passing through tiie
smallest aperture.

Of the diminutiveness of these interesting

A MIDSUMMER NlGHt's DREAM. Z59

sprites, Shakspeare presents a pleasing idea, by
his representation of them as in danger of being
overwhehned by the bursting of a honey-bag
newly gathered from the bee *^ ; as seeking refuge
from peril in the beds of acorn cups t ; and as,
in comparison with the cowslip, short in sta-
turet; but he has left it to the imagination to
paint that unfading and unalterable beauty of
form and feature for which they were celebrated,
and to clothe them in the tasteful apparel which
they arranged and wore with matchless delicacy
and grace. The long yellow ringlets that waved
over their shoulders, were restrained from con-
cealing the delicacy of their complexions, or the
beauty of their brows, by combs of gold. A
mantle of green cloth, inlaid with wild flowers,
reached to their middle; green pantaloons,
buttoned with tags of silk, and sandals of silver,
formed their under-dress. On their shoulders
hung quivers storeid with pernicious arrows;
and bows, tipped with gold, ready bent for war-
fare, were slung by their sides. Thus accoutred,
they set forward on their perambulations,
mounted on milk-white steeds, so exquisitely
light of foot, that they left not the print of their
hoo& on land newly ploughed, nor even dashed
the dew from the cup of a harebell.

* Act IV. sc. 1. t Act II. so. 1. t l*>'^-

260 A MIDSUMMER NJOHT's DREAM.

The employments assigned to these beautifld
diminutives are at once appropriate and ele-
gant. Of some, says Shakspeare, it is the business
to seek ^* dew-drops/*

" And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear ♦ ;"

Of others, to

" fetch jewels from the deept;**

'< Some, to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds ;
Some war with rear-mice for their leathern wings,
To make my small elves coats ; and some keep back
The clamorous owl, that nightly hoots, and wonders
At our quaint spirits."^

Titania's commands are admirably adapted to
the capabilities of the delicate and fragile forms
on which they are laid ; the tasks she assigns
them yielding delight in their performance :

*^ Be kind and courteous to this gentleman;
Hop in his walks, and gambol in his eyes;
Feed him with apricocks, and dewberries,
With purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries ;
The honey-bags steal from the humble-bees.
And, for night-tapers, crop their waxen thighs.
And light them at the fiery glow-worm's eyes.
To have my love to bed and to arise ;
And pluck the wings from painted butterflies,
To fan the moon-beams from his sleeping eyes.J

The government of fairy-land was strictly

♦ Act II. sc. 1. f Act III. sc. 1. J Act n. sc. S.

§ Act III. sc. 1.

A MIDSUMMER KIGHt's DREAM. 261

monarchical. Oberon and Mab*, the king'and
queen, resided in an elegant palace formed of
mother-of-pearl, ivory, spices, precious stones,
jewels, and gold. They maintained a splendid
court and numerous retinue, and were strict in*
the exaction of tend and duty from their sub-
jects. The plan of his drama must have been
entirely different to have enabled Shakspeare to
exhibit Oberon and Titania amidst this splendid
mockery of terrestrial magnificence ; and he has
placed them, with perfect propriety, in the re-
cesses of rural obscurity. The description of the

- ■ ■ •

" close and consecrated bower** dedicated to the
repose of Titania, is Conceived in the perfect
spirit of fairy beauty, and profuse in luxuriant
sweetness.

A bank where the wild thyme blows,

Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows ;
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine ;

* The names Oberon and Mab were so universally used
as the appellatives of the king and queen of Fairy, that a
reason is naturally asked for Shakspeare's preference of
Titania for the latter, especially as he has called the queen
by her proper name in Romeo add Juliet, in the elegant
told tale of Mab, her equipage, and exploits, ^< Athwart
men's noses as they lie asleep.*' The reader will probably
be satisfied that it arose from the conjunction of Titania and
Oberon in a dramatic entertainment exhibited before Queen
Elizabeth in 1591.

5 3

262 A midsummer-night's dreah.

There sleeps Titania, sometime of the night,
Luird in these flowers with dances and delight ;
And there the snake throws her enameU'd skin>
Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in." *

It was a principal delight of fairies to

" meet in grove or green.

By fountain clear, and spangled star-light sheen, "f

. • • •

'^ On hill, in dale, forest, or mead, .
By paved fountain or by rushy brook,
Or on the beached margent of the sea,
To dance their ringlets to the whistling wind/'^

Almost every meadow exhibits specimens of
fairy circles, which are ringlets of grass, higher,
sourer, and of a deeper green than the grass
immediately surrounding them : their descrip-
tion in the Tempest, as

" green-sour ringlets whereof the ewe bites not §,"

is founded on extreme accuracy of remark. The
midnight frolicks of the fairies parched up the
grass whereon they danced, and the luxuriant
verdure of their orbs was the effect of their care
to repair the injury they had caused by refresh-
ing them with moisture, an oflSce assigned to
one of Titania*s attendants :

" And I serve the fkiry qiieen,

To dew her orbs upon the grfe^." H

• Act II. 1BC.2. f Act II. sc. 1. i Act II. sc. 2.
§ Act ¥♦ sc. 1. II Act II. sc. 1.

A midsummer-night's DR£AM« 263

As the power of the magician was absolute
within his circle, so was the fairy irresistible
within her ring. It was thought dangerous
for cattle to encroach on her boundaries, and
when the damsels of old gathered dew from the
grass for the improvement of their complexions,
they left undisturbed such as they perceived on
fairy rings, apprehensive that by subjecting
themselves to their power, the fairies would
maliciously destroy their beauty.

Of all spirits it was peculiar to fairies to be
actuated by the feelings and passions of man-
kind. The loves, jealousies, quarrels, and
caprices of the dramatic king, give a striking
exemplification of this infirmity. Oberon is by
no means backward in the assertion of supre-
macy over his royal consort, who, to do her
justice, is as little disposed, as any earthly beauty,
tacitly to acquiesce in the pretensions of her
redoubted lord. But, knowledge, we have been
gravely told, i^ power, and the animating truth
is exemplified by the issue of the contest be-
tween Oberon and Titania: his majesty's ac-
quaintance with the secret virtues of herbs and
flowers, compels the wayward queen to yield
what neither love nor duty could force from
her.

Let it not be too hastily inferred from the

s 4

S64 A midsumm£r-night's dream.

diminutiveness of these testy beings, that their
quarrels are indifferent to the sons of men.
Alas! mortals know not how deep is their in-
terest in the domestic harmony of the fairy
court !

Sbakspeare has given an elegant summary of
the calamities believed to be attendant on the
dissensions of the king and queen .of Fairy:
the winds,

** As in revenge, have suck'd up from the sea
Contagious fogs ; which falling in the land,
Have every pelting river made so proud,
That they have overborne their continents :
The ox hath therefore stretch'd his yoke in vain.
The ploughman lost his sweat ; and the green corn
Hath rotted, ere his youth attained a beard :
The fold stands empty in the drowned field.
And crows are* fatted with the murrain flock ;
The nine men's morris is RU'd up with mud ;
And the quaint mazes in the wanton green,
For lack of tread, are undistinguishable :
The human mortals want their winter here ;
No night is now with hymn or carol blest : —
Therefore the moon, the governess of floods.
Pale in her anger, washes all the air,
That rheumatick diseases do abound :
And thorough this distemperature, we see
The seasons alter : hoary-headed frosts
Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose ;
And on old Hyems' chin, and icy crown,
An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds
Is, as in mockery, set : The spring, the summer.
The childing autumn,, angry winter, change

A midsummer-night's dream. 265

Their wonted liveries ; and the ^mazed world,
By their increase, now knows not which is which :
And this same progeny of evils comes
From our debate, from our dissension ;
We are their parents and original^

Not of such an awful nature, however, were
all the evils to which the human race were sub-
jected by the quarrels or malignity of fairies.
It was an inconvenience, indeed, that they in-
truded nightlyinto dwelling houses, and revenged
any neglect of the domestics to provide clean
water for their ablutions, or bread and milk for
their repast^ by skimming the bowls set for cream,
obstructing the operation of butter making, and
interfering with the working of the beer. But
these nocturnal visits weie not without corre-
sponding advantages. Particularly attached to
cleanliness, the fairies rewarded good servai\ts by
dropping money into their shoes, and rings into
the pail, by sweeping the house, grinding the
corn, threshing the wheat, and carding the wool :
with exemplary justice, they punished the sluttish
by pinches till they were black and blue, and sore
from head to foot ; invisible hands stripped the
bed-dothes from the sluggard, and then, as
Robin Goodfellbw says in the old ballad,

* Act II. sc, 2.

S66 A midsummer-night's dream.

" *Twixt sleep and wake
I do them take,
And on the key-cold floor them throw."

A respectful attention to their wants and
inclinations, however, never failed to propitiate
their good will, which, as a last act of fevour,
they displayed by conferring a blessing on the
house and its inhabitants. It is with this friendly
feeling that Puck proclaims of Theseus' dwel-
Hng —

<< not a mouse
Shall disturb this hallow'd house i
I am sent with broom, before,
To sweep the dust behind the door."

And Oberon commands,

" Through this house give glimmering light.
By the dead and drowsy fire :
Every elf, and fairy sprite,
Hop as light as bird from brier."

" With this field-dew consecrate,
Every fairy take his gait ;
And each several chamber bless,
Through this palace with sweet peace:
Ever shall in safety rest,
And the owner of it blest."*

Nor less important is to be reckoned their
attendance on the night of the nuptials of their
favourites, for purposes which the poet very
perspicuously describes :

♦ Act V. sc. 2.

A midsummer-night's dream. 267

" To the best bride-bed will we,
Which by us shall blessed be ;
And the issue there create,
Shall be ever fortunate.
So shall all the couples three
Ever true in loving be :
And the blots of nature's hand
Shall not in their issue stand ;
Never mole, hare-lip, nor scar,
Nor mark prodigious, such as are
Despised in nativity.
Shall upon their children be."*

Among other encroachments of the clergy
upon the province of spiritual agents, was that
of taking into their own hands this charitable
deed of the fairies ; and, completely to turn the
tables on those whose rivals they made them-
selves : the pretext of the priests was, that pious
exorcisms were necessary to dissipate the illu-
sions of the very spirits whose actions they
emulated ! No poet had ever a keener insight
into these matters than Chaucer, and he is ex-
quisitely happy in his ridicule of the clergy's
absurd and ambitious substitution of themselves
in the place of the fairies :

^< I speke of many hundred yeres agoe,
But now can no man see non elves mo.
For now the grete Charite and Prayers
Of Limitours and other holy freres,

• Act V. sc. 2.

268 A midsummer-night's dream*

That serchen every lond and every streme>

As thick as motes in the sunne beme."

♦ • • •

<< This maketh that there ben no fairies,
For there as wont to walken was an elfe.
There walketh now the Liraitour himself.
And as he goeth in his Limitacioune,
Wymen may now goe safely up and downe.
In every bush and under every tree,
There nis none other Incubus but he.'**

To a belief in magic, witchcraft, and the
agency of spirits, was always superadded that
of the power of charms both to create love,
and cause infidelity and hatred. The singular
tergiversations of the lovers Lysander, Deme-
triusi Hermia, and Helena, are kll effects of
such a power : the love of Titania for Bottom,
with his asse's head, is a similar instance, and it
was, doubtless, by the same means that the queen
had led Theseus

" through the glimmering night,
From Perigenia, whom he ravished ;
And made him with fair JEg\6 break his faith,
With Ariadne and Antiopa." f

The whole circle of poetry does not contain
a passage richer in poetical beauties and of
sweeter versification, than that wherein Shak-
speare describes the power of the • heart's-ease

*\Vife of Bath's Tale. t Act IV, sc. 1. Act 11. so. 2.

A midsummer-night's dream. 269

to create love. Elizabeth never received a more
graceful * compliment.

" Thou remember'st
Since once I sat upon a promontory,
And heard a mermaid oh a dolphin's back,
Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath.
That the rude sea grew civil at her song.
And certain stars shot madly from their spheres
To hear the sea maid's music.
That every time I saw (but thou could'st not)
Flying between the cold moon and the earth
Cupid all arm'd : a certain aim he took
At a fair vestal, throned by the west,
And loos'd his love-shaft smartly from his bow
As it should pierce an hundred thousand hearts.
But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft
Quencht in the chaste beams of the watery moon ;
And the imperial vot'ress passed on
In maiden meditation, fancy free.
Yet, mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell ; —
It fell upon a little western flow'r
Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound.
And maidens call it <' Love in Idleness."

Among other mischievous propensities which
were attributed to fairies, was that of stealing the
unbaptized infants of mortals, and leaving their
own progeny in their stead. Before they put a
new-bom child into the cradle, the Danish women
were accustomed to place either there, or over
the door, garlick, salt, bread, and also steel, or
some cutting instrument made of that metal, as
preventives against so great an evil. The child

S70 A midsummer-night's dream.

of a pagan was lawful game for every waggish
sprite, and, in a pilfering excursion to the East,
Titania found no obstructions to her success
from precautions similar to those of the northern
matron. She had for her attendant

" A lovely boy, stol'n from an Indian king ;
She never had so sweet a changeling :
And jealous Oberon would have the child
Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild :
But she, perforce, withholds the lovely boy.
Crowns him with flowers, and makes him all her joy."*

The poet has not left it to this exploit of
Titania, nor to the return of Oberon " from
farthest steep of India t," to proclaim that
celerity of motion by which the fairies were
distinguished. The king boasts that they

it __ {}|g globe can compass soon,

Swifter than the wand'ring moon." %

Puck undertakes to

" Put a girdle round about the earth
-In forty minutes || ;"

and the following lines seem almost to invest
the fairy tribe with the power of ubiquity :

" Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,

* Act II. sc. 1. t Act 11. sc. 2. t Act IV. sc. 1.

II Act II. sc. 2.

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT's DREAM. 271

Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander every where,
Swifler than the moones sphere."*

The tribe of fairies generally was deemed
mischievous, and Puck, Robin-Goodfellow, or
Hobgoblin, as he was variously called, enjoyed
the reputation of being the master-spirit of
wickedness among them. Delighted by every
combination of the preposterous, his never-
wearying pursuit of mischief rendered his name
universally terrific. If he met a person returning
home at night, his delight was to lead him by
a feigned voice out of his way : such is the ex-
ploit of Puck when he entangles Lysander and
Demetrius in the mazes of a wood, and separates
them from each other :

^* Up and down, up and down ;
I will lead them up and down :
I am fear'd in field and town ;
Goblin, lead them up and down."f

At other times he assumed the shape of an
animal, making his metamorphosis the vehicle
of a prank :

<< Sometime a horse Til be, sometime a hound,
A hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire ;

^ Act L sc, 2. t Act III. sc. 2.

272 A MIDSUMMER NIGHT's DR£AM«

And neigh, and bark, and grunt, and roar, and bum,
Like horse, hound, hog, bear, fire, at every turn."*

It would be tedious to recapitulate the whole
of Robin's gambols, and useless also, as Shak-
speare has given an elegant summary of his
frolics.

Fairy. " Either I mistake your shape and making quite,
Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite,
Caird Robin Goodfeliow : are you not he.
That fright the maidens of the villagery ;
Skim milk ; and sometimes labour in the quern,
And bootless make the breathless housewife chum ;
And sometime make the drink to bear no barm ;
Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm ?
Those that Hobgoblin call you, and sweet Puck,
You do their work and they shall have good luck :
Are not you he ?

Puck. Thou speak'st aright ;

I am that merry wanderer of the night.
I jest to Oberon, and make him smile.
When I a fat and bean* fed horse beguile.
Neighing in likeness of a filly foal ;
And sometime lurk I in a gossip's bowl,
In very likeness of a roasted crab ;
And, when she drinks, against her lips I bob.
And on her withered dew lap pour the ale.
The wisest aunt, telling the sadest tale.
Sometime for three foot stool mistaketh me ;
Then slip I from her bum, down topples she,
And tailor cries, and falls into a cough ;
And then the whole quire hold their hips, and loffe ;

♦ Act III. ic. 1.

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT's DREAM. 273

And waxen in their mirth, and neeze, and swear
A merrier hour was never wasted there." *

The subject of darkness and night, as con-
nected with the appearance of spirits, will de-
mand so much of our attention in Hamlet, that
nothing more is necessary here than to notice
the several allusions to the same superstition in
the present play.

" Now the hungry lion roars,
And the wolf behowls the moon ;
Whilst the heavy plowman snores,
All with weary task fordone.
Now the wasted brands do glow,
Whilst the scritch-owl, scritt;hing loud,
Puts the wretch, that lies in woe,
In remembrance of a shroud.
Now it is the time of night,
That the graves, all gaping wide.
Every one lets forth his sprite.
In the church-way paths to glide :
And we fairies that do run

By the triple Hecat*s team,
From the presence of the sun.
Following darkness like a dream,
Now are frolick."t

It was an indication of the comparative purity
of the fairies that they delighted most to cele-
brate their revels in " spangled star-light sheen,"
or beneath the mild effulgence of the moon. But

* Act II. sc. I. t Act V. so. 2.

VOL. I. T

^4t A MIDSUMMER NIGHT's DREAM.

the slight relation which they bore to demo-
niacal spirits is more decisively proclaimed, by
the superior privilege they enjoyed of protract^
ing their gambols till day-light actually broke
upon them.

Pttck. ** My fairy lord, this must be done with haste ;
For night's swift dragons cut the clouds full fast.
And yonder shines Aurora's harbinger ;
At whose approach, ghosts wandering here and there,
Troop home to church-yards : damned spirits all,
That in cross-ways and floods have burial,
Already to their worm beds are gone ;
For fear lest day should look their shames upon.
They wilfully themselves exile from light.
And must for aye consort with black-brow'd night.

Oberon, But we are spirits of another sort :
I with the morning's love have ofl made sport ;
And, like a forester, the groves may tread.
Even till the eastern gate, all fiery-red.
Opening on Neptune with fair blessed beams,
Turns into yellow gold his salt-green streams."*

An air of peculiar lightness distinguishes the
poet's treatment of this extremely fanciful sub-
ject from his subsequent and bolder flights into
the regions of the spiritual world. He rejected
from the drama on which he engrafted it, every
thing calculated to detract from its playfulness,
or to encumber it with seriousness, and giving
the rein to the brilliancy of youthful imagination,

• Act III. sc. 2.

(

A MIDSUMMER NIGHX's DREAM. 9!J5

he scattered, from his superabundant wealth,
the choicest flowers of fancy over the fairies'
paths : his fairies move amidst the fragrance of
enameled meads, graceful, lovely, and enchant-
ing. It is equally to Shakspeare's praise, that
A Midsummer Night's Dream is not more highly
distinguished by the richness and variety, than
for the propriety and harmony which characterises
the arrangement of the materials out of which he
constructed this vivid and animated picture of
fairy mythology.

T 2

276

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

1596.

The idea of conveying a person in his sleep to
scenes entirely new to him, which is the plot of
the Induction to this play, is of oriental origin.
The adventures of Abou Hassan, whose credu-
lity was practised on by the caliph Haroun
Alraschid, are familiar to every reader of the
Arabian-Nights; and scarcely less known, since
the appearance of Mr. Marsden's translation of
Marco Polo, is the deception of Alo-eddin, who,
under the influence of sleeping potions, fre-
quently had young men of his court removed
into secluded palaces and gardens inhabited by
beautiful and accomplished damsels. In this
scene of delight they were permitted to revel for
several days, till, again influenced by a soporlflc,
they were reconveyed to their own habitations.
Alo-eddin then persuaded them that they had

.3p

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 277

been for a time translated, by his power, to the
realms of Paradise.*

In the European world the story has assumed
a less romantic form, nay, it has even made its
appearance under the grave authority of the his-
torian, and is related as true by Heuteriist, of
Duke Philip the Good of Burgundy ; and by Sir
Richard Barckleyt, of the Emperor Charles the
Fifth.

From Heuterus the story was translated into
French, and may be seen in Goulart's Histoires
Admirables, and it also found its way into a col-
lection of stanzas in prose, " sett forth by Maister
Richard Edwards, mayster of her Majestie*s
revels,'** and printed in the year 1570. The

• story was popular with our ancestors, and ap-
peared again, somewhat changed in fashion, in
the Admirable and Memorable histories of

. E. Grimstone, in I607. The general circum-
stances of the tale are these : —

Philip, walking one night through the streets of
Bruxelles, finds a mechanic drunk, and sleeping
soundly on the stones. The duke causes him to be
taken up, carried to his palace, laid on one of his
richest beds, and entirely re-cloathed. When the

* Book I. ch. 21-

t Rerum Burgund. Lib. 4.

\ A Discourse on the Felicitie of Man. 159&

T 3

278 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

drunkard awakes he is surrounded with attend-
ants, who, with studied respect, ask him if it be
his pleasure to rise, and what apparel he will
wear. Amazed at such courtesy, and doubting
the evidence of his senses, he cahnly acquiesces.
All day he is treated with the greatest ceremony,
and gratified with every enjoyment wealth can
furnish. In the evening a play is represented
before him j a banquet follows, and night wit-
nesses his relapse into a drunkenness, as sense-
absorbing as that in which the duke had first
discovered him. Hereupon he is disrobed of all
his rich attire, re-dressed in his rags, and carried
to the place whence he had been taken. Awak-
ing in the morning he begins to remember what
had happened; he cannot distinguish between
realities and fancies, but in the end he concludes
that all was but a dream, and relates the vision
to his wife.

In 1594, a play called the Taming of a Shrew
was entered on the books of the Stationer*s Com-
pany. Like Shakspeare's Taming of the Shrew,
the Taming of a Shrew has its Induction ; and
the Induction, in each case, opens with the ejec-
tion of Sly from an alehouse. Shakspeare has
merely substituted a "Hostess** for a "Tapster."
The lord who finds the drunkard is, in both
plays, just returned from hunting, and gives his di-

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 279

rections for Sly*s disposal with great minuteness.
Every preparation being completed to insure
the deception and confusion of Sly, even to the
disguise of the lord's page, who is to personate
Sly's wife, the tinker at length awakes in the
midst of splendour, and surrounded with attend-
ants. True to nature, his first demand is

« a little small ale :"*

" For God's sake, a pot of small ale." f

In order to establish a belief in Sly's mind that
he is really a lord, the same method is pursued
in both plays: the obsequious attendants offer
the choice, and immediate enjoyment of every
luxury: in some instances, with remarkable
similarity of expression.

The conviction of the tinker that he was " a
lord indeed,*' is succeeded by the introduction of
a company of players, when the comedy of the
Taming of the Shrew commences. At the con-
clusion of the first scene of the first act, Shak-
speare puts a few words into the mouth of Sly,
and from that period notices him no further ;
whilst, in the old play, Sly*s interference is fre-
quent; and at the conclusion, having relapsed
into his former state of drunkenness, he is re-
moved from the scene, placed in the situation

* Taming of a Shrew. f Shakspeare.

T 4

280 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW*

m •

in which he was first found ; and on his return
to sobriety, perfectly convinced that all that had
passed was merely an idle dream.

The advantages of wealth and the enjoyments
of luxury are displayed by Shakspeare with gor-
geous magnificence, and form a striking contrast
to the meagre outline of the preceding play.
The absurdities of the drunkard, also, in his new
situation, are admirably selected and developed ;
and hence the vast superiority of our author's In-
duction over that of his predecessor.

Notwithstanding some discordances, the plots
of the Taming of the Shrew and of the Taming
of a Shrew are essentially the same. It would
weary the patience of the reader to enter into a
minute contrast of their several parts, and were
we to proceed to the notice of verbal coin-
cidences, it would become necessary to transcribe
at least half of each of the comedies. Every
thing particularly worthy of notice is comprised
in the two principal characters j to them, there-
fore, will the following observations be mostly
confined.

The story of the old play is that of the father
of three daughters, whose determination it was
to have the eldest married before either of her
sisters. But the lady's temper was so notoriously
bad, that suitors were deterred from approach,

.THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. @81

and the lovers of the younger sisters, as -a refuge
from absolute despair, resorted to the expedient
of procuring a husband for Kate. By a rough
and singular method of courtship the shrew was
won, and by a perseverance in the same violence,
tamed. The scene of these transactions is
Athens : Shakspeare has transferred it to Padua.
He has given his heroine only one sister, Biancha,
but bestows no less than three lovers upon her.
The interest of the play centers in the contest
between Kate and her adventurous assailant ;
and he is a man actuated by the hope of wealth,
and represented

"As blunt in speech as she is sharp in tongue." (OldPlay^
<' As peremptory as she proud minded."

(Shakspeare.)

On the day appointed for the wedding, the
bridegroom appears so rudely and fantastically
attired, as to shock the taste of the company.

" Re Ferando, not thus attired, for shame,
Come to ray chamber and there suite thyself
Of twenty suits that I did never weare." {Old Play.)

" See not your bride in these unreverent robes ;
Go to my chamber, put on clothes of toine."

{Shahpeare.)

The old play assigns a motive for this singuhir
conduct, while Shakspeare trusts the matter

282 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

to the general circumstances of Petruchio's
character.

" For when my wife and I are married once,
She's such a shrew, if we should once fall out,
Sheele pull my costly sutes over mine eares.
And therefore am I thus attir'd a while." (Old Plat/,)

The marriage ceremony concluded, the bride-
groom takes leave of his friends, and in spite of
all their intreaties, in defiance of the wishes,
anger, and solicitations of thd bride, refuses
to partake of the wedding dinner, and carries her
directly to his own house. And here her painful
discipline commences. He beats the servants
without a cause, finds fault with the meat, which,
although it is excellent, he casts about the room.
In fine, the bride goes supperless to bed, and the
next day, overpowered with hunger, the haughty
Katharine is reduced to solicit her husband's
servant for a supply of viands. All the bantering
between Katharine and Grumio, in Shakspeare,
is copied from the scene between Katharine and
Sander in the old play, though varied in its
form : in both cases it ends by Katharine beating
the domestic, the entrance of her husband with
some meat for her, and his sending it away again
without permitting her to taste it.

This scene of mortification is succeeded by a
still severer trial of female patience, — the inter-

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 283

ference of the lady's husband in her choice of
articles of dress. Shakspeare has here copied
almost every idea from the original play, in which
are found the objections to the cap, the goxvn,
the compassed cape^ the trunk sleeves^ the balder-
dash about taking up the gown^ and the quarrel
between the servant and the tailor.

Shakspeare also copied the scene in which
Petruchio makes Katharine call the sun the
moon, from the old play; as likewise that,
wherein he compels her to address an old gen-
tleman as a " young budding virgin, fair and
fresh, and sweet.*' * In this instance it is re-
markable, that though the leading idea is
adopted, not a single expression of the original
is preserved, but the similies and language are
altered throughout.

The following quotation from the old play,
will show how splendid was the array of imagery
that Shakspeare had before him.

\_Ferando speaks to the old man,"]

" Faire lovely maid, young and affable.
More clear of hew and far more beautiful
Than precious sardonix or purple rocks
Of amithests or glistering hiasinth.
More amiable far than is the plain.
Where glistering Cepherus in silver bowers

* Act IV. sc. 5.

284 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW*

Gaseth upon the giant Andromede^
Sweet Kate entertain this lovely woman.

Duke. I think the man is mad, he calls me a woman.

Kate. Fair lovely lady, bright and christaliney
Stately and beauteous as the eye-train'd bird.
As glorious as the morning wash't with dew.
Within whose eyes she takes her dawning beams.
And golden summer sleeps upon thy cheeks.
Wrapt up thy radiations in some cloud,
Lest that thy beauty make this stately town
Inhabitable like the burning zone,
With sweet reflections of thy lovely face."

In both incidents, Shakspeare is not satisfied
with a single surrender of Kate's understanding
to her husband's will. Petruchio pursues the
joke one step fiirther than the old play ; he
makes Katharine deny that the sun is the moon,
after having compelled her to affirm that it was ;
and apologise to the old gentleman for having
addressed him as a woman, though she had done
so by Petruchio's command.

The last trial of Katharine's obedience is, like
the former ones, derived from the old Taming of
a Shrew; and Petruchio triumphs over those,
who, placing implicit reliance on the meek and
loving dispositions of their partners, had not
thought any discipline requisite for duly im-
pressing on them the necessity of submission.
Shakspeare exemplifies the complete reformation
of Kate, by assigning to her an eloquent lecture

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 285

on the duty due to a husband from a wife.* He
borrowed the circumstance, and the last line or
two, from the old play ; and there his obligations
ended, as will be readily believed after the
perusal of the following lines :

^* Then to His (God's) image he did make a man,
Old Adam, and from his side asleep
A rib was taken, of which the Lord did make
The woe of man, so term'd by Adam then.
Woman, for that by her came sin to us.
And for her sin was Adam doom'd to die.
As Sarah to her husband, so should we
Obey them, love them, keep and nourish them.
If they by any means do want our helps.
Laying our hands under their feet to tread.
If that by that we might procure their ease.
And for a president 111 first begin.
And lay my hand under my husband's feet."

The underplot of Shakspeare's play consists of
the adventures of a young man who falls in love,
and determines to devote his attention entirely
to the interests of his passion. He divests him-
self of his cloaths, his name, his credit, and con-
fers them on his servant. Affairs take such a
turn, that the presence of his father becomes ne-
cessary; but as the old gentleman's approbation
of his proceedings was not very probable, the
hopeful youth hits upon the device of engaging

* Act V, sc. 2.

286 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

a person to represent his parent At this criti-
cal juncture, the real father unexpectedly ar-
rives, and encounters his son's servant, dressed
in his master's robes : the servant impudently
disclaims all knowledge of his master's father.
These incidents are all found in the Taming
of a Shrew; but it is curious that Shakspeare did
not adopt them from that source, but from an
old comedy called the "Supposes," translated
from Ariosto by George Gascoigne, and pub-
lished in 1566, The Supposes represents the
young gentleman who changed cloaths with his
servant, as having left his home for the purposes
of study. Shakspeare does the same : in the
old Taming of a Shrew, the motive is totally
different.

<< Thankes noble Polidor, my second selfe,
The faithful love which I have found in thee
Hath made me leave my father's princelie court
To come to Athens thus to find thee out."

In Gascoigne's play, as in Shakspeare's, the
metamorphosed servant is, as a matter of policy,
converted also into a suitor of his master's mis-
tress. In the Taming of a Shrew, the servant
goes not as a lover, but merely to teach music to
Kate. The office of music-master Shakspeare
confers upon Hortensio, a real lover of Bianca,
who gets his head broke with a lute ; a joke car-

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 287

ried somewhat beyond the original, where Kate
only threatens a similar violence.

In the Taming of a Shrew, it does not appear
how the pretended father was induced to assume
his feigned character ; but in the Supposes, and
in Shakspeare's play, the same circumstances
lead to it. In both these plays, also, the I'eal and
the pretended father meet, and the former is
outfaced by the impudent confidence of the
impostor : in both plays, the servant denies all
knowledge of his master's father ; and the old
gentleman concludes, seeing his servant superbly
dressed, that his son- had been murdered for the
sake of his wealth. In the Supposes, Shak-
speare found the name of Petruchio. More
than any of Shakspeare*s plays, the Taming of
the Shrew has the appearance of being a mere
alteration of a previous performance, with few
pretensions to the character of a new and inde-
pendent composition. In the progress of his re-
vision, the dramatist consulted the Supposes as
the source whence some part of the play before
him had been derived, and partly restored the
omissions of his predecessor. The disparity of
merit between the old and the subsequent per-
formance, forcibly arrests the attention, for the
value of their materials is intrinsically the same;
but in one case, they are wrought with ordinary

288 THE TAMING OF THE SHR£W«'

skill ; in the other, moulded into life and
mind by the hand of a master. The pointed di-
rection of the shaft of wit, the judicious intro-
duction of skilful observation, and the powerful
marking of character, are the points in which
our author's superiority-is displayed. The cha-
racter of Katharine he left pretty nearly as he
found it, but the Shrew-tamer is infinitely im-
proved. Roughness, sternness, and inflexibility,
were necessary to the performance of his herculean
task, and all these qualities are natural in Fer-
ando. But by Petruchio they are only assumed;
his native character is highly humourous, and
ever amidst his most outrageous fits of anger,
tome ludicrous image, or brilliant flash of ima-
gination or wit, belies the assumed severity of
his threatenings. His reflections on the vanity
of dress are philosophically just and poetically
beautiful*, and entirely the property of Shak-
speare, after the deduction is made from them of
the merit due to the following passage ift the
old play.

** Come Kate, we now will go see thy father'd house
Even in these honest mean habiliments.
Our purses shall be rich, our garments plain,
To shroud our bodies from the winter rage, .
And that's enough, what should we care for more ?"

• Act IV. sc. 3.

289

ROMEO AND JULIET.

1596.

The story of Romeo and Juliet originated with
the Neapolitan Massuccio, who flourished about
1470. From his thirty- third novel it was copied
by Luigi da Porto, a gentleman of Vicenza,
who published it under the title of La Guilietta,
in 1535. Bandello has a novel on the subject,
and the tale is clad in the garb of truth by its
insertion in the History of Venice, by Girolamo
de la Corte. The tale of the lovers, varied from
its Italian origin, appeared in a French novel,
by Pierre Boisteau ; and in 1562 it found its
way from the French, with considerable altera-
tions and large additions, into an English poem
of four thousand tedious lines, by Mr. Arthur
Brooke, imder the title of " The Tragicall
Hystory of Romeus and Juliet, containing a
rare Ea^ample of true Constancie : with the sub-
till Counsels and Practices of an old Fryer, and
vol. I. u

^90 ROMEO AND JULIET.

their ill event.^* Another translation from the
French of Boisteau was made in prose by
William Painter, and published in his " Palace
of Pleasure" in 15G7, as Rhomeo and Julietta.
It appears also that a play on the subject was
exhibited on the stage even before the publica-
tion of Brooke's poem.*

Brooke's poem was the basis of Shakspeare's
tragedy. After the versifier, the dramatist de-
signates the Prince of Verona, Escalus ; the
family of Romeo, Montague; the messenger
employed by Friar Lawrence to carry his letter
to Mantua, John ; and he gives the name of
Freetowny which Brooke calls the residence of
the Montagues, to the " common judgement-
place'* of the prince. Painter calls the prince
Signor Escala^ and Lord Bartholomew of Es-
cala ; Romeo's family, Montesches ; their
abode. Villa Franca ; and the friar's messenger,
Ansehne. The incident of Capulet writing the
names of the guests whom he invites to supper;
exists in the poem and the play, but is not no*-
ticed by Painter, nor is it found in the original
Italian novel. Neither is there ^ny mebtioli
in the Palace of Pleasure of the Italian cus-
tom alluded to in the play and poem, of

• Address " To the Reader," prefixed to Brooke^s poeni.

ROMEO AND JULIET. 291

Conveying the dead to the grave " in their best
robes, uncovered on the bier.'*

The preference given by Shakspeare to the
verses of Brooke did not, however, preclude
him from occasionally availing himself of Pain-
ter^s translation. The poem represents Tybalt,
the cousin of Juliet, as a choleric and overbear-
ing man ; whilst the prose translation speaks of
liim as one " of good experience in arms," and
describes the inhabitants of Verona lamenting
bis death ; " so well for his dexterity in arms as
for the hope of his great good service in time to
come,** which explains Mercutio*s allusion to
Tybalt as " the very butcher of a silk button, a
duellist, a duellist,** &c. &c.

The poem assigns no particular period for
the operation of the opiate on Juliet ; but in
the Palace of Pleasure the friar tells her she
shall remain in a state of insensibility "the
space oi forty hours at the least :** the dramatic
friar intimates to Juliet that in her

" T—^ borrow'd likeness of shrunk death

Thou shalt remain full ttno and forty hours**

The payment made by Romeo to the apothe-
cary is said by Shakspeare to be forty ducats :
Painter says fifiy ducats, and Brooke's poem
forty crowns !

u 2

29^ ROMEO AND JULIET.

I come now to a particular comparison be-
tween the poem and the play. Brooke's narra-
tive is as follows :

Among the noble families at Verona were
those of Capulet and Montague. They were
rivals and enemies ; blood was frequently shed
at the shrine of their animosity, and both the
friendly mediation, and the authority of their
prince, were in vain exerted to suppress their
disgraceful feuds-
Romeo, the son of Montague, was remark-
able for his personal accomplishments. Juliet,
the daughter of Capulet, was unrivalled in charms
amidst the grace and beauty of Verona. Romeo
was deeply enamoured of a maid whose un-
grateful coldness at length determined him to
drive her from his mind, by devoting himself
to the service of another. He plunged into all
the gaiety of Verona, and accidentally meeting
Juliet at a masquerade, they conceived a mutual
attachment : love furnished the means of com-
munication, and a secret marriage appeared to
realize their romantic anticipations of felicity.

But bliss is transient In a tumultuous en-
counter of the Montagues and Capulets, Tybalt,
the cousin of Juliet, was slain by Romeo ; and
Romeo, as a punishment for his crime, was banish-
ed. The unsuspecting relatives of Juliet naturally

ROMEO AND JULIET. 293

attributed her consequent affliction to the death
of Tybalt ; and, in the hope of diverting her
melancholy, they resolved to marry her to the
noble County Paris. Juliet's trepidation was
excessive; but her father, inexorable to every
intreaty, peremptorily fixed the day for her
espousals. In an agony of despair, she flew for
assistance to the friar who had married her.
She received with delight a medicine from his
hands which gradually suspended the powers of
animation, and clad her beauteous form in
death's repulsive garb. On the day appointed
for her nuptials they bore her body to the
grave, and placed her, as was the custom of the
country, in the cemetry of her ancestors upon
an open bier.

In the mean time friar Lawrence had de-
spatched a messenger to Romeo with the sad
and interesting intelligence, and arranged his
secret return to Verona before the period when
Juliet would awake. But the destiny of the
lovers was misfortune. Seeking for a companion
in his^ journey, the messenger of the friar en-
tered a house infected with the plague, whence
he was 'not suffered to depart The delay
afforded opportunity for the arrival of the news
of Juliet's death at Mantua, before the expla-
natory letter of the frair. Wretched and im-

u 3

S94 ROMEO AND JULIET.

patient, the distracted husband hastened to
Verona. In the obscurity of night he forced
an entrance to the monument of Capulet»
clasped his clay-cold mistress in his arms, took
poison and expired.

Calculating the duration of Juliet's insen-
sibility, the friar repaired to the vault to release
her from her frightful and perilous entombment
The corpse of Romeo lay stretched before him,
and the wretched Juliet revived to a sense of
all her hopeless woe : impenetrable to consola-
tion, and deaf to every entreaty to flight, after
a thousand times kissing the body of her hus-
band, she closed her hapless life by plunging
Romeo's dagger into her heart.

The management of this story by the dra-
matist first claims attention ; and subsequently
his use of the characters of the poem.

In deference to the metrical authority Shak-
speare's hero first appears devoted to the charms
of a relentless beauty, whose indifierence at
length di^oses her admirer to listen to the
sage suggestions of a friend, no longer to con-
sume his youth in the pursuit of insensibility,
but give the rein to imagination^ and seek amidst
the youthful loveliness of Verona. the favour of
a less frigid fair.

Accompanied by his friend, bc^ in the pjoem

ROMEO AND JUUET. 29^

and the play, Romeo enters the mansion of
Capulet at the celebration of a spendid enter-
tainment, and there, for the first time, beholds
the lovely daughter of his enemy. He possesses
himself of a seat next that which would be
occupied by Juliet at the conclusion of the
dance, and he then takes her hand.

Juliet's affectedly careless enquiries after the
names of the guests as they depart from the
masquerade, till she comes to Romeo, are
copied from the poem ; as is also the recogni-
tion of Romeo by the Capulets, who

€i

disdayne the presence of theyr foe,

Yet they suppress theyr styrred yre :

• ^ ♦ * • «

They use no taunting talke, ne harme him by theyre

deede.
They neyther say, what makst thou here, ne yet they say,
God speede."

The poem represents the love-sick Romeus
as nightly resorting to the garden of Capulet,
to enjoy the delight of gazing on the chamber
of his mistress : many evenings elapsed before
the an£ous Juliet was made happy by the sight
of her lover. In the play, Romeo leaps tlie
wall of Capulet's garden immediately after the
conclusion of the masquerade. In the enchant-
ing scene that follows, the influence of the
poem is distinctly to be traced :

u 4

296 ROMEO AND JULIET.

** See how she leans her cheek upon her band,''

was suggested by Brooke's description of Juliet,

<< In windowe on her leaning arme her weary hed doth rest;**

So also Juliet's expostulation ;

** O Romeus of your lyfe too lavas sure you are,
That in this place and at this time, to hasard it you dare.
What if your dedly foes, my kinsmen, saw you here ?**

which is thus expressed by Shakspeare,

** The orchard walls are high, and hard to climb ;
And the place death, considering who thou art.
If any of my kinsmen find thee here."

After the interview in the garden, both
Romeus and Juliet resort to the cell of friar
Lawrence, who, in the poem and the play, con-
sents to the marriage of the impatient lovers,
hoping it may prove the means of reconciling
family animosities.

Shakspeare greatly accelerated the progress
of the occurrences which followed the marriage
of Romeo and Juliet. Instead of suffering them
to revel for three months, as in the poem, in
the bliss of their union, he renews the bloody
encounters of the rival houses on the very day of
the marriage, and on that day Tybalt receives
his death from the hand of Romeo, Shak-
speare has taken some pains to justify this action.

ROMEO AND JULIET. 297

It not appearing enough to him, that Tybalt,
as in the novel, should be the unprovoked
aggressor, or that Romeo's self-command should
only be overcome by repeated insult, he adds
the aggravation of Mercutio's murder, Shak-
speare's Romeo is indifferent to Tybalt's brutality
to himself; but the brave V Mercutio slain'* "in
his behalf;" the insolent victor before him,
" Alive ! in triumph !" — forbearance became not
only impossible, but criminal.

Romeo's flight to the cell of the friar ; his
ungovernable distraction at his sovereign's sen-
tence of banishment, his unchecked flood of
grief, and his insensibility to every attempt at
consolation, are circumstances common both to
tlie poem and the play; as is also the restoration
of Romeo's mind to calmness by the prospect
of an interview with his bride ere he bent his
steps to exile.

Shakspeare has made the parting scene of the
lovers very short, omitting the first part of the
interview, and commencing so late as the dawn-
ing of the melancholy day destined for their
eternal separation. The train of thought which
suggested the beautiful opening of this in-
terview is to be traced in the following
lines :

298 9.0ME0 AND JULIET.

'' The fresh Aurora with her pale and silver glade

Did clear the skies, and from the earth had chased ougly

shade.
When thou ne lookest wide^ ne closely dost thou winke,
When Phoebus from our hamysphere in westerne wave doth

sinke.
What cooller then the heavens do shew unto thine eyes,
The same, (or like,) saw Romeus in farthest esteme skyes.
As yet he sawe no day, ne could he call it night.
With equal force decreasing darke fought with increasing

light."

The succeeding lines are the pure inspirations
of Shakspeare's genius :

" ' look love, what envious streaks

Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east :
light's candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops."

Throughout the remaining scenes of the play,
IShakspeare's adherence to the incidents of the
poem is so close as to leave no important ex-
ception for notice till we arrive at the intro-
duction of Paris at the end, for no other apparent
purpose than that of giving Romeo an opportu-
nity to slay him ; an arrangement certainly un-
necessary, and detrimental to the general effect
The page of Paris, alarmed by his master's
rencontre with Romeo, runs to summon the
watch, who are by this means brought to the
spot instead of being attracted, in passing, by

ROMEO AND JULIET. 299

the unusual cii*cumstance of a light burning in
a tomb.

The concluding circumstances of the Italian
novel, (except perhaps the mode of Juliet's
death) are infinitely more affecting, and better
calculated for dramatic effect, than those of
Shakspeare, who was misled in this important
particular by the English versions of the story.
Luigi da Porto relates, that having taken the
poison, Romeo, anticipating the approach of death,
clasped the body of his mistress in his arms.
His warm embrace assisted to dispel the effects
of the almost exhausted medicine. Juliet awoke,
and, recognizing her Romeo, pressed him to
her breast and covered him with kisses. But
the subtle poison had now begun to manifest its
power, and scarcely affording him time to ex-
plain his fatal error, Romeo sunk senseless on
the earth. Distracted by grief, the unfortunate
Juliet tore her lovely locks and beat her innocent
and spotless breast, by turns pouring over him a
flood of tears, and imprinting a thousand kisses
on his cheek.

The friar, on his arrival, stood motionless
with horror at the scene before him. The bosom
<rf' Juliet supported the head of her expiring
lover, whose latest breath her sweet lips strove
to catch. The fiiar called on Romeo to lode

300 ROMEO AND JULIET.

up and once more bless his mistress with his
voice. At the beloved name of Juliet the dying
lover raised his languid eyes, but the heavy
hand of death was on him ; convulsions shook
his frame, and one short sigh released him from
his woe.

No entreaty could prevail with Juliet to quit
the body of her husband, or shake her resolu-
tion to follow him to death. She ^ earnestly in-
treated the friar never to make known what had
passed, so that their bodies might remain united
in one sepulchre ; and if by any accident the
manner of their death should be discovered, she
adjured him to implore their miserable parents
to suffer those whom one flame of love had con-
sumed, to remain together in one tomb. Then
turning to the body of her lover, she closed his
eyes, and bathed his cold visage with her tears : —
" Lord of my heart," she exclaimed, " without
you what have I to do with life ? what can I do
but follow you to death? Nothing! not even
death itself shall part us!" Reflecting with
horror on her fate, she violently suppressed her
respiration, and at length uttering a piercing
shriek, fell dead upon her husband's corpse.

With the action Shakspeare did not think fit
to close the dialogue of his tragedy, but he pro-
longs his scene by assigning to the friar an un-

ROMEO AND JULIET. 301

interesting narration of events already exhibited.
Into such singular errors is our author frequently
betrayed by his implicit adoption of the arrange-
ments of the materials which he used in the
construction of his plots. The friar of the poem
recapitulates the whole of the sad story of the
lovers, and Shakspeare followed without any
question of its propriety.

Over the grave of their children Shakspeare
reconciles the Montagues and Capulets, who de-
termine on erecting statues of pure gold to the
memory of their ill-fated ofispring. The dra-
matis personae are then dismissed with the in-
timation that

** Some shall be pardon'd, and some punish'd."

The poem concludes with the retirement of
the friar for the remainder of his days to the
solitude of a hermitage ; the banishment of
the nurse for her guUty concealment of the '
marriage of her mistress ; and the execution of
the poverty-struck apothecary for selling Romeo
poison. The faithful lovers are interred in a
splendid marble monument inscribed with
epitaphs commemorative of their untimely fate.

The characters of the principal personages in
this fascinating play are copied from the poem,
with the same fidelity as the plot. The hero's

302 ROM£0 AND JULIET.

feelings are susceptible and ardent; his mind
knows no cold medium in its impressions;
despondency, joy, and despair, assert their do-
minion by turns. An unrequited passion absorbs
him in melancholy, and dissolves him into tears ;
successful love elates him beyond the bounds of
reason ; and the pressure of misfortune plunges
him into the vortex of despair. The first im-
pulse of his feeUngs is the sole director of his
conduct The love both of Romeus and Romeo
for Rosaline has every appearance of assured
sincerity; Rosaline is their goddess. Yet the
beauty of Juliet at once efiaces this arbitress of
their destinies from their remembrance; and
every faculty of heart and understanding is ab-
sorbed in the delirium of a new and sudden
passion. They see no difficulty, and are heed-
less of every obstacle : regardless of life, they
pursue Juliet through every danger, and never
rest till their fate is indissolubly connected with
the daughter of their mortal enemy.

The scene between Romeo and the fiiar in
the cell, exemplifies the use made by Shakspeare
of the poem. Romeo is thus described as re-
ceiving his sentence of banishment :

<< These heavy tjdings heard, his golden lockes he tare,
And like a firantike man hath tome the garmentes that he
ware.

ROMBO AND JULIET* S09

Aod as the smitten deere in brakes is waltring found.

So waltreth he, and with his breast doth beate the troden

grounde.
He riseth e(t, and strikes his hed against the viralsy
He falleth downe againe, and lowde for hasty death he

cals.
Come spedy deth, (quoth he), the readiest leache in

love.
Since nought can els beneth the sunne the ground of grefe

remove,
Of lothsome life breake downe the hated staggeringstayes,
Destroy, destroy at once the lyfe that faintly yet decays."

In Shakspeare it appears thus :

Friar. '' Let me dispute with thee of thy estate.

Rom* Thou canst not speak of what thou dost not feel :
Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love,
An hour but married, Tybalt murdered.
Doting like me, and like me banished,
Then might'st thou speak, then might'st thou tear

thy hair.
And fidl upon the ground, as I do now.
Taking the measure of an unmade grave."

The reproaches also of the friar, and his
efforts to administer consolation are closely
imitated*

** Art thou, quoth he, a man? Thy shape saith, so thou art ;
Thy crying, and thy weping eyes denote a woman's hart.
For manly reason is quite from of thy mynd out-chased,
And in her stead affections lewd and fancies highly

placed :
So that I stoode in doute, this houre (at the least,)
If thou a man or woman wert, or else a brutish beasts"

304 ROMEO AND JULIET*

Thus in Shakspeare :

" Hold thy desperate hand :

Art thou a man ? thy form cries out thou art ;

Thy tears are womanish ; thy wild acts denote

The unreasonable fury of a beast."

• • •

<' Why raiFst thou on thy birth, the heaven and earth ?*'

The last line quoted from the play, exhibits
one of those instances of forgetfulness and in-
difference to minutiae, so frequently to be de-
tected in Shakspeare's works. In reading the
previous part of the scene, it will not be found
that Romeo had vented any imprecations either
on his " birth," the " heavens," or the " earth ;"
but so it was found in the original; and in
composing the admonition of his holy father,
Shakspeare adopted the suggestions of his recol-
lection, without investigating the propriety of
their application to his own scene. *

* In this very play are found two other instances of for-
getfulness. In Benvolio's account to the prince of Romeo's
conduct in his encounter with Tybalt, he relates, that Romeo

■ " Bade him bethink
How nice the quarrel was, and urg'd withal
Your high displeasure,*'

arguments which we search for in vain in Romeo's address
to Tybalt. — When Capulet had fixed the day of Juliet's
nuptials he expressed his determination to

ROMEO AND JULIET. 30.5

*' Tyrst nature did he blame, the author 6f his lyfe.

In which his joyes had been so scant, and sorrowes aye

so ryfe ;
The time and place of byrth he fiersly did reprove,
He cryed out (with open mouth) against the stares

above 2"

The poem made no inconsiderable contri-
butions towards the formation of Shakspeare's
Juliet, that lovely picture of innocence, truth,
and constancy. It luxuriantly describes her

■ ■ " Right fa3rre, of perfect shape,
Which Theseus or Paris would have chosen to their rape ;*'

and much more interestingly.

'' Beside her shape and native bewties hewe,

With which like as she grew in age, her vertues prayses
grew.

** Keep no great ado ; — a friend, or two :

("or hark you, Tybalt being slain so late,
It may be thought we held him carelessly.
Therefore we'll have some half a dozen friends,
And there an end."

As Ritson. observes, Capu^t's mind became strangely
altered, or Shakspeare was strangely forgetful ; for the old
gentleman is afterwards found overwhelmed with the cares
of preparation, delivering a written list to his servant of
guests to be invited, and directing the hire of '< twen^
cunning cooks/'

VOL. I. X

306 ROMEO AND JULIET.

She was also so wise^ so lowly, and so mylde.

That even from the hory head unto the witless childe.

She woo the hearts of all."

The love of Juliet, though sudden and violent,
is virtuous. Her vows are only pledged to
Romeo on the conviction of his equal sincerity,
and that his object was such, as virtue could en-
courage without a blusli.

** If your thought be chaste and have on vertue ground,
If wedlocke be the ende and marke which your desire

hath found,
Obedience set aside, unto my parentes dewe.
The quarell eke that long agone betwene our housholdes

grewe,
Both me and mine I will all whole to you betake,
And following your whereso you goe, my father's house

forsake.
But if by wanton love and by unlawful sute
You thinke.in ripest yeres to plucke my maydenhoods

dainty frute,
You are begylde ; and now your Juliet you beseekes
To cease your sute, and suffer her to live among her

likes,"

Juliet's impatience for the hour which was to
bless her with her husband's presence, owes its
origin also to the poen^ j where it is expressed
by a wish similar to that in the play^ tiat the
approach of night might be hastened '• by ati
accelerated motion of the sun.

ROMEO AND JULIET. 307

The fatal encounter of Romeo with her cousin
is the event which precipitates Juliet from the
summit of ideal happiness into the abyss of misery,
and her mental agitation is strikingly similar in
the poem and the play. In its first impulse her
feeling is directed against Romeo, whom she ac-
cuses of unkindness, cruelty, and deceit ; but
the powerful passion of love quickly reassuming
its ascendency in her bosom, she upbraids herself
for her ang^r and ungenerous suspicions.

Transcendently engaging as Juliet appears in
the fond interchange of love with Romeo, her
character is exalted into heroism, when, amidst
overwhelming distress, she displays courage and
constancy which no considerations of personal
danger can subdue, or even shake. Her firm
resolve to meet death rather than suffer the pol-
lution of a second marriage, and her steady ex-
pression of that determination to her mother, are
derived from the poem, as are also Juliet's flight,
in the extremity of her misfortunes, to the friar
for assistance and advice ; her joyful acceptance
of the horrible alternative offered her, and her
feigned repentant submission to the wishes of her
parents after her return from shrifl.

The skill of Shakspeare in the adaptation of
the materials of others to his own purpose is no
where displayed to more advantage than in the

X 2

308 ROMEO AND JULIET.

impressive soliloquy of Juliet on the point of
swallowing the -potion, on the due effect of which
her fate seemed then suspended.* What follows
is from Brooke's poem.

*' What do I know (quoth she), if that this powder shall
Sooner or later than it should or els not work at all ?
And then my craft descride as open as the day.
The people's tale and laughing stocke shall 1 remayne for

aye.
And what know I (quoth she), if serpents odious,
And other beasts and worms that are of nature venomous,
That wonted are to lurke in darke caves under grounde,
And commonly, as I have heard, in dead mens tombes are

found,
Shall harm me, yea or nay, where I shall lye as ded?
Or how shall I that alway have in so fresh ayre been bred,
Endure the lothsome stinke of such an heaped store
Of carkases, not yet consumde, and bones that long before
Intombed were, where I my sleeping place shall have,
Where all my auncestors doe rest, my kindreds common

grave?
Shall not the fryer and my Romeus, when they come,
Fynde me (if I awake before), y- stifled in the tombe ?*'

To the following passage must be ascribed the
beautiful and striking exempHfication of the
power of fear over the imagination, which in
Juliet is exhibited with such infinite force :

<< And whilst she in these thoughtes doth dwell somewhat
too long,

• *( What if this mixture do not work at all," &c.

Act IV. sc. S.

ROMEO AND JULIET. 309

The force of her ymagining anon doth waxe so strong,
That she surmysde she saw, out of the hollow vaulte
(A griesly thing tolooke upon,) the karkas of Tybalt;
Right in the selfe same sort that she few days before
Had seene him in his blood embrewde, to death eke wounded
sore."

Shakspeare assigns to Juliet at the opening of
her soliloquy a short description of her personal
feelings :

'' I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins
That almost freezes up the heat of life :"

Which is a refined version of these lines of
Brooke :

*' Her dainty tender partes gan shever all for dred.
Her golden heares did stande upright upon her chillish hed.
Then pressed with the feare that she there lived in,
A sweate as colde as mountain yse pearst through her slender
skin."

It remains to notice one arbitrary deviation of
Shakspeare from his authorities. The poem par-
ticularly describes Juliet as " scarce yet full
sijcteen years, — too young to be a bryde/* Shak-
speare is not less specific. — " She hath not seen
the change oi fourteen years.** Bandello and
the Palace of Pleasure' both speak of Juliet as
eighteen years of age.

The friar Lawrence of the poem, and the fnar
Lawrence of the play, are identically the same j
meekness, piety, and virtue are exemplified, in

X 3

310 ROMEO AND JULIET.

both. But it was necessary to make it credible
that the friar should be in possession of a medi-
cine capable of producing an appearance per-
fectly resembling death. He is therefore repre-
sented in the poem, not like the generality of his
brethren,

" a grosse unlearned foole,

But doctor of divinitie proceded he in schoole.
The secretes eke he knew in Nature's workes that loorke ;
By magiks arte most men supposed that he could wonders
woorke ;"

And in speaking of himself, he says,

*< What force the stones, the plants and metals have to

woorke,
And divers other things that in the bowels of the earth do

loorke,
With care I have sought out, with pajne I did them prove;
With them eke can I help myself at times of my behove/'

The praise, therefore, bestowed on the bard
for the appropriate discourse of his friar on the
wonderful properties of the vegetable world*, is
not, in the fullest extent, his due ; sin6e he
copied the idea of making Laurence highly
learned in the medicinal virtues of plants from
the old poem of Brooke. Shakspeare^fe merit is
his use of so judicious a preparation for the sin-
gular circumstance that follows.

* Schlegers Lectures on Dram. Lit. Vol. ii. p. 188.

' ROMEO AND JULIET. Sll

Nothing is known of Shakspeare's friar beyond
what is to be gleaned from his progress in the
drama ; but an amusing piece of his prototype's
private history slips out in the narrative of the
poem. When Romeus flies to him for protec--
tion, the friar is not without the means of afford-
ing him an effectual concealment, for

'^ A secret place he hath^ well seeled round about,

The mouth of which so close is shut, that none may finde

it out ;
But roome there is to walke, and place to sitte and rest,
Beside a bed to sleep upon, full soft and trimly drest.
The floure is planked so, with mattes ; it is so warme,
That neither wind nor smoky damps have powre him ought

to harme.
Where he toas 'voont in youth his Jayre Jrends to bestotoe^
There now he hydeth Romeus : "

The character of the nurse is drawn with
peculiar fidelity ; she is impertinently loquacious,
disgustingly obsequious, and basely regardless of
principle when assailed by the temptation of a
bribe, or tickled by the speculative charms of an

intrigue.

The poem characteristically marks the old
lady's indifference to honesty, in her conduct to
Juliet : —

*< Not easily she made the froward nurseto bowe.
But wonne at length mth promest-hyre she made a solemne
vowe

X 4

SIS ROMEO AND JULIET.

To do what she commancU, as handmajde of her hest ;
Her mistress secrets hide she will, within her covert brest."

To this assailable point of her character Ro-
meus was equally alive.

*' Then he six crownes of gold out of his pocket drew,
And gave them her ; — a slight reward (quod he) and so

adiew.
In seven yeres twise tolde she had not bowd so lowe
Her crooked knees, as now they bowe : she sweares she will

bestowe
Her crafty wit, her time, aod all her busy payne,
To helpe him to his hoped blisse ; and, cowring downe

agayne.
She takes her leave : "

Shakspeare has not failed to introduce these
characteristic traits: Romeo bestows on the
nurse a present " for her pains/* which proves
productive of all the happy effects ascribed to
the present in the original,*

** The best y shapde is he and hath the fayrcst face,
Of all this towne, and there is none hath halfe so good a grace :
So gentle of his speeche, and of his counsell wise : -^
And still with many prayses more she heave him to the
skies.'*

Thus Shakspeare : " though his face be better
than any man's, yet his leg excels all men's;
and for a hand, and a foot, and a body, — though

* In Painter's Palace of Pleasure, there is no mention of
any present made by Romeo to the nurse. '

ROMEO AND JULIET* 313

they be not to be talked on, yet they are past
compare : he is not the flower of courtesy, —
but I'll warrant him, as gentle as a lamb/* *

A more detestable feature in this time-serving
creature's character is displayed in her conduct
when Juliet is urged to an union with Paris :

** And County Paris now^ she praise th ten times more,

By wrong, than she herself by right had Romeus praysde

before.
Paris shall dwell there still, Romeus shall not returne ;
What shall it booteher all her life to languish still and mourne.
The pleasures past before she must account as gayne ;
But if he do retorne — what then ? — for one she shall have

twayne."

The dramatist has not pressed the grossness of
his original into his service, but in other respects
he has not paid less deference to the authority
of Brooke, f Two features yet remain to be no-
ticed, without which any representation of a
nurse world have been defective, — an uncon-
trollable propensity to babble, and indecency.
The poem is rich in instances of both ; and no
one will suspect Shakspeare of reluctance to fol-
low so worthy an example. The dialogue of his
nurse is in perfect harmony with the poem, in

• Act U. sc. 5.

t ■ Taith, here *tis : Romeo

Is banished," &c. &c. Act III. sc. 5*

314 ROMEO AND JULIET.

some points highly imitative as to manner^
though the matter of her discom*se is mostly ori-
ginal.

No personage in the play is so distinguished
for perfect distinctness and individuality as
Mercutio, and Mercutio is the indisputable pro-
perty of the dramatist. The name, indeed, is
met with in the poem, and the description of
him as

*' A courtier that eche where was highly had in price.
For he was courteous of his speech and pleasant of device.
Even as a lion would among the lambs be bold,
Such was among the bashful maids Mercutio to behold,''

may be allowed to have furnished a leading idea
for the delineation of his character. But Mer-
cutio, the gallant and the gay, is to be met with
no where but in the scenes of Shakspeare ; Mer-
cutio, whose imagination is as fertile as his wit is
brilliant, whose vivacity never flags, whose
" martial scorn'* ne'er stoops to an acknow-
ledgement of danger, nor knows one thought of
fear ; Mercutio, who draws his sword for combat
with the same gaiety as he equips himself for a
masquerade, and, receiving a mortal thrust, jests
on his wound, and dies with a banter on his
lips.

No writer was ever more sensible of the ad-
vantage of contrast than Shakspeare. It is an

RaMEO AND JULIET. 315

expedient to which he continually resorts, and
from which his ability in the delineation of cha-
racter enabled him to reap the highest advantage.
Mercutio is skilfully interwoven with the busi-
ness of the play, and made essential to its pro-
gress. His presence is the harbinger of cheer-
fulness and bustle : his brilliant and easy wit
forms a delightful refuge from the amorous
sighs of Romeo and Juliet in the early scenes,
and contributes, by the effect of contrast, to deep-
en the solemnity of the afflicting incidents that
succeed his death ; a death in itself melancholy,
for no one ever parted from Mercutio without a
sigh.

Shakspeare's ill-timed, but still delightfiil, de-
scription of the unhappy apothecary, has exalted
him into more notice than his business in the
play confers on him.

The germ of almost eyery idea is to be met
with in the poem.

" And then fro street to street he wandreth up and down,

To see if he in any place may find, in all the town,

A salve meet for his sore, an oil fit for his wound ;

And seeking long, (a lack too soon !) the thing he sought he

found.
An apothecary sat unbusied at his door.
Who by his heavy countenance he guessed to be poor.
And in his shop he saw his boxes were but few,
And in his window (of his wares) there was so small a shew •

316 ROMEO AND JUL1£T.

Wherefore our Romeus assuredly hath thought.

What by no friendship could be got, with money could be

bought ;
For needy lack is like the poor man to compel.
To sell that which the city's law forbideth him to sell.
Then by the hand he drew the needy man apart.
And with the sight of glittering gold enflamed hath his

heart :
Take fifly crowns of gold (quoth he) I give them thee.
So that before I part from hence, thou straight deliver me
Some poison strong, that may in less than half an hour.
Kill him whose wretched hap shall be the potion to devour.
The wretch by covetise is won, and doth assent
To sell the thing, whose sale, ere long, too late, he doth

repent.
In haste he poison sought, and closely he it boimd.
And then began with whisp'ring voice thus in his eare to

round :
' Fair sir, (quoth he) be sure this is the speeding gear.
And more there is than you shall need ; for half of that is

there
Will serve, I undertake, in less than half an hour
To kill the strongest man alive, such is the poison's power. "

Such are the selections made by Shakspeare
from the materials before him, and suchis his beau-
tiful adaptation of them. By judiciously blend-
ing, correcting, and omitting, he has produced
an harmonious and graceful whole out of a poem
that abounded in those absurd and risible exuber-
ances, common to the compositions of Brooke's
contemporaries. The muse of the dramatist has
conferred a charm of deUcacy and pathos on the
loves of Romeo and Juliet, to which they could

ROMEO AND JULIET. 317

make no pretensions previous to their becoming
the subjects of his pen. That this is entirely
attributable to the elegance of his composition
is evident, for the alterations and additions made
by Shakspeare to the story of the poem are few,
and, with the exception of Mercutio, by no means
violent or important.

S18

THE MERCHANT OF VENICK

1597/

Xhe plot of the Merchant of Venice comprises
the main incident of the bond, the auxiliary cir-
cumstance of the caskets, and the episode of the
loves of Lorenzo and Jessica ; all unconnected
by any natural association, and deducible from
entirely separate sources.

The story of the bond bears every stamp
of oriental origin, and is still extant in the
Persian language. So early as the fourteenth
century it made its appearance in Europe in a
work called II Pecorone, by Ser Giovanni, a
Florentine novelist ; and before the close of the
sixteenth century it had found its way into
various collections of romantic tales. The dra-

* Note C.

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 319

matist, however, derived his materials, though
probably indirectly, from the Pecorone, of which
the story is as follows :

Giannetto, adopted by his godfather, An-
saldo, obtains permission to go> to Alexandria ;
but changes his destination in the hope of ob-
taining in marriage a lady of great wealth and
beauty at Belmont, whose hand would be be-
stowed on the adventurer who could obtain a pre-
mature enjoyment of the connubial rites: his
enterprise fails, for his senses are absorbed at
night in sleep by a narcotic given to him in his
wine ; and, agreeably to stipulation, his vessel
and merchandise are forfeited. Giannetto re-
turns to Venice, and fits out another vessel
which he loses in a second attempt upon the
lady. His generous benefactor equips him a
third time, and, that his godson might be
furnished with the greatest splendour, Ansaldo
borrows ten thousand ducats of a Jew on the
condition that, if they are not repaid on an ap-
pointed day, the Jew may take a pound of flesh
from any part of the body of his debtor. Gian-
netto' s expedition proves fortunate; he had learnt
the cause of his failure, provided against its recur-
rence, and he now obtains the lady in marriage.
But, lost in a delirium of pleasure with his bride,
Giannetto forgets Ansaldo's bond till th6 very
day that it becomeisf due. He hastens to Venice,

320 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

but the specified time has elapsed, and the Jew
refuses to accept ten times the value of his debt
The newly married lady, who had secretly fol-
lowed her husband disguised as a lawyer, arrives
at this crisis at Venice, and causes it to be
proclaimed that she came to resolve diiBScult
legal questions. Being consulted on the case of
Ansaldo, she decides, that the Jew is intitled to
the pound of flesh, but that he shall be beheaded
if he cuts more or less than a pound, or draws
one drop of blood from his victim. The Jew
relinquishes his claim, and Ansaldo is released.
The disguised bride declines accepting any
pecuniary recompence, but demands from Gian-
netto his wedding-ring, as a fee for the service
she had rendered him. The lady takes her
leave, and contrives to reach Belmont before
her husband. On his arrival she receives him
in her own character with coldness, and afiects
to believe that he had bestowed his ring upon
some favoured mistress : he protests his inno-
cence and relates the truth ; the lady perseveres
in asserting that he had given the ring to a
woman. At length Giannetto's grief at this im-
putation of falsehood penetrates the bosom of his
wife ; she throws her arms about his neck, and
explains the circumstances of her journey and
disguise.

The similarity between the novel and the

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 321

play is striking. In both, the money engaged
for by the bond is borrowed, not for the use of
the borrower, but to enable a young man to
obtain the hand of a wealthy lady resident at
Belmont. The forfeiture of the same portion of
flesh is stipulated on failure of payment, and
the flesh, in both instances, is to be taken from
what part of the merchant's body pleased the
Jew*; who, in each case, is offered ten times
the amount of his debt by the person for whom
it was contracted. The bride, in both cases,
arrives at Venice disguised as a lawyer, and
interposes the same insurmountable obstacles to
the exaction of the bloody penalty. Both the
fair judges refuse pecuniary recompence ; both
request from the fingers of their husbands rings
which they themselves had given to them, and
the same species of badinage is the consequence
of compliance when the ladies resume their own
characters at Belmont.

The incident of the caskets, in the seventh
scene of the second act, is borrowed from the

* On this point Shakspeare is at variance with himself:
in Act I. sc. 3. Shylock' stipulates for a pound of flesh,

'< to be cut off and taken
In what part of your^body pleaseth me."

In Act IV. sc. 1. the bond confines the operation to the.
** breast/' " nearest his heart, those are the very words."

VOL. I. Y

322 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

English Gesta Romanorum, a collection of tales
in the highest estimation with our story-loving
ancestors. Three vessels were placed before
the daughter of the king of Apulia for her
choice, to prove whether she was worthy to
receive the hand of the son of Anselmus,
Emperor of Rome. The first was of pure gold,
and filled with dead men's bones ; on it was this
inscription : who chuses me shall Jind *what he
deserves. The second was of silver, filled with
earth, and thus inscribed : who chuses me shall
Jind what nature covets. The third vessel was
of lead, but filled with precious stones ; it had
this inscription : who chuses me shall find what
God hath placed. The princess, after praying
to God for assistance, preferred the leaden ves-
sel. The Emperor informed her she had chosen
as he wished, and immediately united her with
his son.

The third plot in the drama, — the love of
Jessica and Lorenzo, — bears a great resemblance
to the fourteenth tale of Massuccio di Salerno,
who flourished about 1470. In that tale we
have an avaricious father, a daughter carefully
shut up, her elopement with her lover by the
intervention of a servant, her robbing her father
of his money, and his grief on the discovery of
his misfortunes ; — his grief also is divided equally

THE MERCHANT OF VENICEr 325

between the loss of his daughter and the loss of
his ducats.*

The widow at Belmont, Giannetto, Ansaldo,
and the Jew in the Pecorone, are the prototypes
of Portia, Bassanio, Antonio, and Shylock in the
play. Portia resembles the lady in the novel,
only in those particulars already noticed* She
neither " ruins many gentlemen,** nor, like her
fair original, admits them to her bed under the
delicate security of a sleeping potion skilfully
and secretly administered. The scene of the
caskets was wisely substituted for an incident
which would have accorded ill with the character
of a lady " of wond'rous virtues :"

" Nothing undervalued
To Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia.*'

In the novel, the improbability of a lady
possessing so large a portion of legal acumen as
the judgment on the Jew's case implies, is not
disguised by any artifice. In the play, the ob-
jection is skilfully removed, by making Portia
consult an eminent lawyer, Bellario, and act
under his advice.

To cut a pound of flesh from the breast of a
living fellow-creature, is a circumstance so abhor*
rent from the mind, that the strongest motives
are necessary to give it the colour of credibility.

• See Dunlop's History of Fiction.

Y 2

324 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE*

In the Pecorone, the Jew's reasons for his coa-
duct are very unintelligible, but in the play, the
defect is abundantly supplied. The rapacious
cravings of sense}ess avarice, and the ferocious
malignity of religious animosity, are causes ade-
quate to the production of the most atrocious
crimes. With consummate judgment, there-
fore, has Shakspeare ascribed Shylock's actions
to this powerful combination of malignant pas-
sions, making their union the basis of that
" lodged hate, and certain loathing** which he
bears to the person of Antonio. * Avarice and
religious animosity are the ruling passions of the
monster's mind, the darling crimes of his black
bosom, the sins which, thwarted in their indul-
gence, rouse and hurry into action with frightful
energy and desperate inflexibility a spirit

<< More fierce, and more inexorable far,
Than empty tigers, or the roaring sea."

Such are the actuating motives which render
Shylock's ferocity natural, and his deafness to
the strongest pleadings of nature credible, t
Here is the answer to the enquiry, why, under
the semblance of " a merry bond,** did he
treacherously entrap Antonio into his power?

* <' I bate him, for he is a Christian ;

But more/' &c. &c. (Act I. sc. 3.)
\ '< He hath disgraced me, and hindered me of half a
million," &c. (Act III. sc. 1.)

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

3«^

and here, the avouchihetit for the truth of hk
asseveration, " I will have the heart of him, . if
he forfeit, for were he out of Venice, I can make
what merchandise I will."

Shylock is abhorred and execrated ; but the
skill of the poet has endued him with qualities
tvhich preserve him from contempt. His fierce-
ness, cruelty, and relentlessness are dignified by
intellectual vigour. His actions are deliberate,
they are the emanations of his bold and mascu-
line understanding. Let the art with which he
negotiates his bond be contemplated ; consider
his coolness, his plausible exaggeration of the
dangers to which Ailtonio's property is sub-
jected ; his bitter sarcasms and insulting gibes ;
all efforts of the mind to induce a belief of his
indifference, and to disguise his rfeal design :
follow him into court, behold him maintaining^
his superiority in argument, unmoved by insult
and unawed by power, till disappoiiitment leaves
him nothing to contend for, and anguish stops
his speech, and then let his claims to intellectual
distinction be decided on.

Fertile, and apparently inexhaustible, as were
the powers of Shakspeare's own imagination, no
presumptuous confidence in his facility of draw-
ing on them, precluded him from gleaning such
hints from other sources as were calculated to

Y 3

3^6 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE^

contribute to the perfection of his Jewish por-«
trait In a work, called the "Orator," which was
printed in 1596, and is a translation from the
French of Alexander Silvayn, is the Declaration
" of a Jew, who would for his debt have a
pound of the flesh of a Christian,*' which appears
to have suggested several hints for the conduct
of Shylock before the court. " It is impossible,*-
urges the Jew, " to break the credit of trafick
xtmongst men without great detriment to the
commonwealth.** Thus Shylock :

** And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn
To have the due and forfeit of my bond.
If you deny it, let the danger light
Upon your charter and your city's freedom." •

The Declaration of the Jew justifies his cruel
exaction by the example set him of greater cruel-
ties by Christians ; " as to bind all the body unto
a most loathsome prison, or unto an intolerable
slavery,** Shylock resorts to the same argUf
jnent:

'' You have amongst you many a purchased slave.**

* Shakspeare has a parallel passage in Act III. sc. 3.
*< The duke cannot deny the course of law —
For the commodity that strangers have
With us in Venice, if it be denied,
Will much impeach the justice of the state ;
Since that the trade and profit Of the city
Consisteth of all nations/'

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE^ 3^7

The Jew is anxious^ in his Declaration, to anti-
cipate objections against the unreasonableness of
his demand : " A man may ask why I would
not rather take silver of this man, than his flesh.**
Shylock similarly anticipates the argument of
his adversaries :

" You'll ask of me, why I rather choose to have
A weight of carrion flesh, than to receive
Three thousand ducats*''

The Jew's rejoinder to his own question is sub-
stantially the same in the Declaration and in the
play : ** But I will only say, that by his obli-
gation he oweth it me.** Declaration.

'* So do I answer you :
The pound of flesh which I demand of him,
Is dearly bought, is mine."

Merchant of Yenic«»

An old ballad, preserved in the Reliques of An-
cient Poetry, bearing every appearance of a date
prior to that of Shakspeare's play, suggests the
notion that from this source the poet caught the
idea of Shylock's artful device for entrapping
Antonio into the fatal bond* :

No penni/Jbr the loan of ii.
For one year you shaU pay.

* Act I, sc. 3.
Y 4

328 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

You may do me ai good a turn
Before my dying day.

But we will have a merry Jesif
For to be talked long :
You shall make me a bond> quoth he^
That shall be large and strong."

Here also might have been obtained Antonio's
unanswerable plea in extenuation of his want of
punctuality in the discharge of his obligation to
the Jew :

'< The merchant's ships were all at sea.
And money came not in." >

Lastly, in the ballad is found that characteristic
trait of the Jew's determination and cruelty, his
preparation of the fatal instrument with which
he was to perpetrate his crime :

" The bloody Jew, now ready is,
With whetted blade in hand.
To spoil the blood of innocei^t
By forfeit of his bond."

A more perfect contract to the Jew could not
have been framed than Antonio. He is open, can-
did, unsuspicious ; the purest spirit of friendship
glows within his breast, and he freely dispenses
his riches, and places his life in peril, for the
benefit of him he loves, requiring no recom-
mendation of Bassanio's enterprise to his pa-

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 329

tronage beyond the assurance of its strict con-
formity to the standard of integrity.* In the
terrific hour, when he is about to fall a prey to
the ferocity of a mortal enemy, his manly re-
signation is admirable. From first to last
Antonio is the man who held " the world
but as the world," and piously acknowledged,
that all its strange mutations were " sway*d
and fashioned by the hand of heaven.'* This .
elegant, rather than briUiant portrait, is an
expansion of the indulgent goodness and dis-
interested affection displayed by Ansaldo in th^
novel.

Gratiano and Launcelot are the only promi-
nent characters which appear in the scenes of
the Merchant of Venice that are not to be met
with in the authorities already mentioned. Nor
is Shakspeare's title even to these characters
perfectly indisputable, since it is certain that a
play on the same subject was exhibited long
befpre our dramatist commenced his career.

* Act I. sc. 1. "I pray you, good Bassanio/' &c. — Baa»
sanio is guilty of detestable selfishness in suffering his friend
to risk his life for him. As the story adrances, Shakspeare
has represented him in a more amiable light than the rot
velist has done : in the play no blame is imputable to the
young bridegroom on account of the non-repayment of the
money ; but the novelist makes him dream away his life in
love, utterly forgetful of honour.

830 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

The loss of this performance is justly a subject
of regret, for as it combined within its plot the
two incidents of the bond and the caskets*, it
would, in all probability, have thrown much ad-
ditional light on Shakspeare's progress in the
composition of his highly finished comedy. At
present we have no resource left but a reference
to the novelists, who relate the stories which
the plot of the Merchant of Venice combines ;
and the result of their comparison with the
drama is, that Shakspeare directed his attention
to the improvement of the materials before him,
and imposed not on himself the labour of ori-
ginating any thing entirely new. Gobbo and
Gratiano seem exceptions to tliis remark. Both
characters are unnecessary to the progress of
the plot, and have every appearance of being
introduced with a view to relief and variety, a
practice so common with Shakspeare, that it is
not unfair to assign Gobbo and Gratiano to him
as his own. But the discovery of the old play
may hereafter prove the fallacy of this conclu-
sion.

* ** The Jem shown at the Bull, ]:epresenting the greedi'
ness of xnorldly choosers^ and the bloody minds of usurers"
Stephen Gosson's School of Abuse, 1579.

SSI

AS YOU LIKE IT.

1599.

The plot of this beautiful and romantic comedy
was copied by Shakspeare from Lodge's Rosa-
lynd, or Euphues' Golden Legacye.

Sir John of Bourdeaux, a man of remarkable
worth and wisdom, bequeathed to his eldest son,
Saladyne, fourteen plou^Uands, with all his
manors, houses, and richest plate : unto his se-
cond son, Fernandyne, twelve ploughlands ; but
unto Rosader, the youngest, he gave his horse,
his armour, and his lance, with sixteen plough-
lands ; for, if the inward qualities be indicated
by exterior appearances, Rosader would, he
thought, transcend his brothers in honour as he
already did in comeliness. Saladyne was discon-
tented with his father's distribution of pro-
perty : both his brothers were under age ; he

332 AS YOU LIKE IT.

was their guardian, and he resolved to appro-
priate their property to himself. Femandyne
was a scholar, and Saladyne determined to keep
him at his studies, while he used his wealth.
Rosader was to remain uneducated, for if he
knew little, it was argued, he could execute
but little, and though nature made him a gen-
tleman, nurture would degrade him to a pea-
sant : Saladyne employed him as his foot-boy.
But the high-spirited Rosader spumed at the
ignominious yoke, and manfully asserted his
equaUty with his brother by nature, though he
confessed his inferiority as a younger son.
" Why,*' he demanded, " had Saladyne felled
his woods and spoilt his manors." Saladyne
ordered his men to chastise him. Rosader
seized a rake and drove his brother from the
garden, but desisted from injuring him on his
soliciting peace and reconciliation.

The throne of France was at this time filled
by Torismond, who had usurped the crown
from his brother Gerismond, an outlaw in the
forest of Arden. To divert the people from
reflection on political matters, Torismond pro-
claimed a tournament and wrestling match. A
Norman wrestler was to appear in the lists,
and Saladyne bribed him to kill Rosader, whom
he induced to assert the glory of Sir John of

AS YOU LIKE IT. 33S

Bourdeaux in chivalry. The festival took
place, and the tournament was succeeded by
the wrestling. Alinda, Torismond*s daughter,
arid Rosalynd, the daughter of Gerismond,
were present, with all the beauty of France.
Rosader stepped into the lists where two young
men had been already killed' by the Norman
champion. But Rosader noticed the company
rather than the combatant, and fixed his eyea
on Rosalynd till the Norman called his atten-
tion. The whole assembly wished Rosader the
palm of victory. The encounter was fiercely
and obstinately contested : the gold of Saladyne
prompted the exertions of the Norman, while
the affectionate glances of Rosalynd were a no
less powerful stimulus to Rosader. The Nor-
man at length was thrown. High were the
compliments bestowed upon the victor,- and
particularly when he was known to be the
youngest son of Sir John of Bourdeaux. Ros-
salynd thought of love as of a toy, and feared
not to dally with the flame: she took a jewel
from her neck and sent it by a page to Rosader/
Rosader returned to the house of Saladyne
accompanied by some friends, but his brother
reusing to admit them, Rosader entered by.
force, and found in the hall only Adam Spjen-
(jer, an Bui^slHnan, an old and trusty servant

SS4f AS TOU LIKE IT.

of Sir John, and always the friend of Rosader.
By the mediation of Adam, Saladyne and Rosa-
der are again reconciled.

Torismond observing the general love and fa-
vour with which Rosalynd was regarded, ba-
nished her from his court. Alinda remonstrated,
and sentence of banishment was then passed on
both. The cousins resolved to travel together,
and as they were without a male companion,
Rosalynd, the tallest, dressed herself as a page,
boasting that she would play the man to ad-
miration, she would carry a rapier, and if any
knave offered Alinda wrong, he should feel the
point of her weapon. They changed their
names into Ganimede and Aliena, and set
forth. A few days brought them to the forest
of Arden, where they purchased a cottage of the
shepherd Coridon : they there also encountered
another shepherd, Montanus, who amused them
by his sincere but fruitless courtship of the af-
fections of a country coquette named Phoebe.

In the meanwhile, Saladyne's hatred of Ro-
sader burst out afresh. He seized and tied him
to a post in the hall, forbidding his servants to
give him either meat or drink : but he was fed
and released by Adam Spencer. The old man
restrained Rosader's thoughts of revenge, and
advised him still to appear bound, and wait till

AS YOU LIKE IT* 335

the morrow, when his brother was to give a noble
entertainment to his friends, on purpose to scoff
at Rosader's helplessness. The feast was held,
Rosader was pointed at as a lunatick, and the
guests were regardless of his remonstrances.
Rosader then took a signal from Adam, brake
his bonds, seized a poleaxe, and used it with
such ability, that he drove all the guests from
the house. Saladyne summoned the sheriff to
his aid ; but Rosader overcame all who opposed
him. He left the house, however, soon after-
wards, dreading the vengeance of the law, and
fled to Arden, accompanied by Adam. They
chanced on a path that led into the thickest of
the forest, and they were in danger of perishing
from hunger.

Rosader was on the point of yielding to
despair, when the offer of Adam to open his
veins, and save his master's life by the sacrifice
of his own, suddenly roused him to exertion.
Rosader scoured the forest in search of gamje,
and accidentally arrived at the spot where
Gerismond was celebrating his birth-day by a
feast which he gave to his companions in exile.
Rosader saluted them graciously, entreating
food, and was answered kindly by Gerismond^
Rosader quitted the party, and returned with
Adam on his back: he then related his own

336 AS YOU LIKE IT.

tale of misfortune, and added the circumstances
of the banishment of Rosalynd and Alinda. The
violence of Torismond did not stop here: — he
first imprisoned, and then banished Saladyne, on
pretence of the injuries he had done his brother
Rosader, but, in reaUty, to possess himself of his
estate. Saladjoie wandered to the forest of
Arden ; fruit and berries were his only food ;
and he was on the eve of falling a prey to' a
hungry lioness, when his injured brother Ro-
sader saved him by kilUng the animal. The
brothers were reconciled ; and the repentant
Saladyne, shortly afterwards, rescued Alinda
from the hands of ruffians. He fell in love with
her himself, and was rewarded for his generous
valour by the return of her affection.

Rosader had not yet learnt by absence, to
forget the beauty whose applauding smiles had
stimulated, and whose gift of a jewel from her
neck had intelligibly expressed her admiration
of his bravery. He wandered through the wUds
of Arden sighing the name of Rosalynd, and
cutting verses in her praise on trees. The
cousins met him, tfnd, under favour of their
disguises, conversed with him on the subject of
his passion. In due time, it appeared^ that Ga-
nimede, the page, was no other than Rosalynd

AS YOU LIKE IT. 337

herself: she was restored to her father and
united to Rosader.

Powerfully aided by the peers of France, the
dethroned king fought and overcame his usurping
brother Torismond, and Gerismond was rein-
stated on his throne.

This story is told by Lodge with prolixity the
most exhausting, and pedantry and conceit per-
fectly insufferable. The style is stilted and
inflated ; the thoughts unnatural, and the senti-
ments affected. With a depravity of taste com-
mon to the age in which he lived, he thought
more of the display of his own learning than of
beauty and simplicity in the style of his nar-
rative, and his ladies quote Latin with the glib-
ness of pedagogues.

Such was the work selected by Shakspeare
for the foundation of As You Like It ; and the
use he made of it demonstrates both the force of
his genius and the delicacy of his taste. He
seized the romantic character of a tale in which
nobles lived, " like the old Robin Hood of
England, and fleeted the time carelessly, as they
did in the golden world* ;'* he embellished it with
all the bewitching graces of his own poetic pen,
and enriched it with the high-toned observations

* Act I. sc. 1.

VOL. I. Z

340 AS YOU LIKE IT.

Orlando at the degradation of his breeding,
and with what true nobility of spirit asserts he
his claim to the dignity of a gentleman — his
birth-right as the son of Sir Rowland de Bois*!^
How amiable is his solicitude for the fainting
Adam, and how tender his attentions! and
with what beauty has Shakspeare substituted for
the offer of Rosader to fight with any of the
foresters in proof of his valour, a pathetic appeal
from Orlando to the duke :

" If ever you have look'd on better days ;

If ever been where 'bells have knoll'd to church ;
If ever sat at any good man's feast ;
If ever from your eye-lids wip*d a tear,
And know what 'tis to pity and be pitied ;
Let gentleness my strong enforcement be :" •

Of the verses distributed by Orlando through
the forest, the Fool very pertinently remarks that
hecouldrhyme "so, eight yearstogether; dinners,
and suppers, and sleeping hours exceptedt,'* but
the purity and ardour of the flame that burnt in
the bosom of Orlando, are, nevertheless, strongly
and interestingly pourtrayed.

Rosalynd in the novel, and Rosalind in the
play, are banished from their uncle's court, on ac-
count of the universal pity with which they were
regarded. In similar coincidences of circum-

* Act II. sc. 7. t Act III. sc. 2.

AS YOU LIKE IT. 341'

stances the two characters abound, but the men-
tal qualities of Lodge's heroine will bear no
comparison with those of Shakspeare's quick-
witted and animated Rosalind. With a heart of
exquisite sensibility, she combines a buoyancy of
spirit, bidding defiance to the vicissitudes of for-
tune. Her father is deposed ; she is herself
driven into exile from her uncle's court, and at
the same time entangled in all the perplexities
of love ; yet she ever ** shows more mirth than
she is mistress of*,'* and her wit gambols, in
playful delicacy, or well-pointed satire, through
all subjects as they rise. The incident of the
lover wooing his mistress, who is disguised,
merely as the representative of his beloved, is
managed by the dramatist with infinite address.
It wears not even the appearance of improba-
bility, so playful is the form in which Rosalind
makes the proposition to Orlando. And in re-
spect to what is natural, can any thing be more
perfectly so than that a love-sick maid should .
avail herself of the habit of a page, in which she
was unknown, to receive a homage most accept-
able to her heart — the protestations of an im-
passioned lover ?

Far unequal to the brilliancy of Rosalindas
portrait is that of Celia. But Shak^peare made

* Act I. sc. 2.

z 3

342 AS YOU LIKE IT.

large amends for the partial neglect with which
he treated Lodge's Alinda by the beautiful trait
of disinterested affection which he assigns to her
representative. Celia follows her cousin into exile
from the pure suggestions of attachment :

.'« the Duke

Hath banish'd me his daughter.

RosaU That he hath not.

CeL No ? hath not ? Rosalind lacks then the love

Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one ?

No ; let my father seek another heir.'*

« • ♦ »

" we still have slept together ;

Rose at an instant, learn'd, play'd, eat together ;
And wheresoever we went, like Juno's swans.
Still we went coupled and inseparable."*

Alinda, as well as her cousin Rosalynd, is
driven into exile by the usurper Torismond.

It was perfectly in accordance with nature, that
the laurels which encircled the brow of the he-
roic Rosader, should prove fatal to the peace of
the susceptible heart of Rosalynd ; and even a
more powerful plea for Aliena's love of the once
cruel and sanguinary Saladyne was provided by
the novelist. Saladyne rescued Aliena from the
apparent danger of violation. Shakspeare re-
jected this incident ; and the attachment of the
princess to Oliver, was thus left open to the
roguish witticism of Rosalind : —

* Act I. sc. 3.

AS YOU LIKE IT. 343

** There was never any thing so sudden, but the fight
of two rams, and Caesar's thrasonical brag of— I came, sato,
and overcame.*'*

Oliver, like Saladyne, hates, and cruelly per-
secutes his youngest brother ; like Saladyne he
is lumself banished ; and is subdued like Sala-
dyne, by an act of heroism and generosity, to
acknowledge his inferiority to one whom he
had hitherto regarded with feelings of envy and
detestation. The idea of Shakspeare's exquisite
picture of the scene was caught from Lodge's
novel, but its high poetic colouring is the glory
of the dramatist:

" Under an old oak, who boughs were moss'd with age,
And high top bald with dry antiquity,
A wretched ragged man, o'ergrown with hair,
Lay sleeping on his back." f

These lines are substituted for " Saladyne,
wearie with wandring up and downe, and
hungry with long fasting, finding a little cave
by the side of a thicket, eating such finite as
the forest did aflfoord, and contenting himself
with such drinke as nature had provided, and
thirst made delicate, after his repast fell into
a dead sleepe." For the following picturesque

* Act V. sc. 2. t Act IV. sc. 3.

z 4

344 AS YOU LIKE IT.

and graceful verses, Shakspeare was indebted to
his own poetic feeling and imagination only,
for of the serpent there is no mention in the
novel :

<* About his neck
A green and gilded snake had wreath'd itself,
Who with her head, nimble in threats, approached
The opening of his mouth; but suddenly
Seeing Orlando, it unlinkM itself,
And with indented glides did sh'p away
Into a bush :*'

Of the Other characters in the play Sylvius is
met with in the novel under the name of Mon-
tanus, who, like Shakspeare's swain, persever-
ingly courts Phoebe in despite of the professed
antipathy of the perverse vixen.

In finally disposing of his dramatic personages
the poet unjustly neglected the aged and faith-
ful Adam, in whom so well appears

" The constant service of the antique world,
When service sweat for duty, not for meed !"*

The novel rewarded the good man's fidelity by
placing him in the honourable situation of cap-
tain of the guard to the restored monarch,
Gerismond.

Touchstone, Audrey, and Jaques originated
in Shakspeare's own imagination.

* Act II. sc. 3.

AS YOU LIKE IT. 34^

As You Like It, is the earliest play of the
bard's, in which he introduced the character of
" a motley fool/' In the essay on the early
theatres the prominence of the vice in mysteries
and moralities was remarked on, and the clown
pointed out as his successor. Shakspeare
severely censured these privileged buffoons*,
and many low characters probably found a place
in his dramas to take away all plea for the
appearance in them of the extemporary clown.
His fools, in particular, must be regarded in that
light, and they might well have been received
as adequate substitutes for their disgusting pre-
decessors. Shakspeare's fools are represent-
atives of the hireling fools once common in the
domestic establishments of our wealthy an-
cestors. Their business was to furnish the
family with amusement in a variety of ways :
their dialogues abounded in jests, songs, and
stories. They had, as Jaques says of them,
" strange places cramm'd with observation,"
the which they vented " in mingled forms t;"
and they ** used their folly like a stalking-horse,
and, under the presentation of that, shot witt ;'*
for they had ** as large a charter as the wind,

♦ Hamlet. Act III. sc. 2. f Act II. sc. 7.

J Act V. sc, 4.

346 AS YOU LIKE IT.

to blow on whom they pleased ;" and they that
were most galled with then- folly found the
obligation strongest on them to laugh :

" And why, sir, must they so ?
The xjohy is plain as way to parish church :
He, that a fool doth very wisely hit,
Doth very foolishly, although he smart,
Not to seem senseless of the bob : if not
The wise man's folly is anatomiz'd
Even by the squandring glances of the fool/' *

A domestic fool of this character is Touch-
stone, in the present play, and the fool both in
Twelfth Night, and in AU's Well that Ends
Well. The fool in Lear is subservient to higher
purposes : his comments and reflections on the
folly of the unhappy king are inimitably just,
and, though the comparison may carry with it
something of the ludicrous, he by no means
inefficiently performs the office of the chorus
in classic tragedy.

Jaques, the melancholy-loving Jaquest, is
broadly distinguished from the common misan-
thrope, who, disclaiming the sympathies of
humanity, in pride or in revenge, mocks at the
misfortunes, and rails at the pursuits of his
fellow-creatures ; for the disposition of Jaques
is amiable, gentle, and humane. He regards

* Act II. sc 7. t Act II. sc. 5. Act IV. sc. 1.

AS YOU LIKE IT. 347

the world, indeed, with a jaundiced and dis-
contented eye ; he depreciates its pleasures, and
undervalues its occupations, for he deduced the
emptiness of both from his experience. He
had been, it appears, a libertine •, but his power-
ful and highly-cultivated mind revolted at
slavery to his passions : the frivolity and mono-
tony of dissipation disgusted him, and his high-
toned moral principles triumphed over the gross-
ness of sensual indulgence. The only legitimate
pursuit of life, he found to be virtue ; and the truth
which he deeply felt, he studiously inculcates : it
is the moral his sententious wisdom teaches ; it
is the weighty " matter t " of his sullen or melan-
choly musings ; which, whether capriciously in-
truded, or naturally arising out of the passing in
cident, are at all times welcome and effective.

There is weight and dignity about the play of
As You Like It, altogether unusual in comedy,
for which it appears principally indebted to the
presence of the moralising Jaques, whose cha-
racter is not only conceived with felicity, but is,
throughout, supported with vigour, and managed
with inimitable tact. It may be partly accounted
for on the principle of contrast, that the sombre
reflections of Jaques heighten, rather than detract

• Act II. sc. 7. f Act II. sc. 1.

348 AS YOU LIKE IT.

from, the effect of the high-wrought comedy of
the play. But the cause of a result so unex-
pected, from a combination so unusual, lays
somewhat more remote. It is to be found in
that perfect harmony which the genius of Shak-
speare established between the two distinct fea-
tures of his subject. Had Jaques taken a
saturnine view of the vices and follies of man-
kind, the spirit of comedy would have been
damped by the gloom of his misanthropy. But
the better feelings of humanity predominate in
his bosom, and he never gives' utterance to a
sentiment which loses not its asperity in the 'dry
humour or good-natured badinage which accom-
panies it. Nor is even the romantic character
of this beautiful drama injured by the introduc-
tion of the sententious sage. With equal taste
and judgment it is provided, that the deep re-
cesses of the forest, and the

" . oak, whose antique root peeps out

Upon the brook that brawls along the wood,"

should be the scenes whence Jaques inculcated
his lessons of philosophy and morality.

S49

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

1600.

The principal incident of this comedy of wit
and taste, may be traced to a period as early as
the date of the Spanish romance, Tirante the
White, composed in the dialect of Catalonia,
about the year 1 400. In the fifth canto of the
Orlando Furioso, the same story is also to be
found; and from that poem it was copied by the
Italian novelist, Bandello, who made it the sub-
ject of the twenty-second fable of the first part
of his work.

Fenicia, the daughter of Lionato, a gentle-
man of Messina, is betrothed to Timbreo de
Cardona. Girondo, a ^disappointed lover of the
young lady, resolves, if possible, to prevent the
marriage. He insinuates to Timbreo that his
mistress is disloyal, and ofiers to show him a
stranger scaUng her chamber window. Timbreo
accepts the invitation, and witnesses the hired

350 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

servant of Girondo, in the dress of a gentleman,
ascending a ladder, and entering the house of
Lionato. Stung with rage and jealousy, Tim-
breo, the next morning, accuses his innocent
mistress to her father, and rejects the alliance.
Fenicia sinks into a swoon ; a dangerous illness
succeeds, and to stifle ^1 reports injurious to her
fame, Lionato proclaims that she is dead. Her
funeral rights are performed in Messina, while
in truth she lies concealed in the obscurity of a
country residence.

The thought of having occasioned the death
of an innocent and lovely female, strikes Girondo
with horror: in the agony of remorse, he con-
fesses his villainy to Timbreo, and they both
throw themselves on the mercy, and ask for-
giveness, of the insulted family of Fenicia. On
Timbreo is imposed only the penance of espous-
ing a lady, whose face he should not see previous
to his marriage : instead of a new bride, whom
he expected, he is presented, at the nuptial altar,
with his injured and beloved Fenicia.

Such is the story of Bandello, which probably
reached Shakspeare, through the medium of the
Cent Histoires Tragiques, a compilation from tra-
gical writers, published by Belleforest in 1583,
and translated into English shortly afterwards.

The place in which the scene is laid ; the name

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 351

of the father of the heroine ; the entire scope and
bearing of the story ; and many more minute par-
ticulars are palpable coincidences between the
novel and the play. - Shakspeare's deviations from
the narrative are curious, and all are not easily
capable of vindication.

Disappointed love, in the novel, forms an in-
telligible motive for the treacherous treatment of
the heroine ; but in the play, Don John's hatred
of Claudio, without any apparent cause beyond
the indulgence of a saturnine disposition, is
surely inadequate to the production of a design,
so base and cruel as that which is practised upon
Hero.

Shakspeare again deviates from the novel, when
he desires to excite jealousy in Claudio, who
witnesses an amorous conversation between Bo-
rachio and the waiting- woman of Hero, disguised
in the clothes of her mistress ; Borachio address-
ing Margaret throughout, by the name of Hero.
Probability is violated in this case, for as Claudio
is supposed to be near enough to hear distinctly
the dialogue contrived for his deception, he must
have been stupid beyond all calculation not to
have discovered, that the pretended lady, neither
in voice nor person, resembled Hero.

The story is brought to a happy termination
in the novel, by the repentance of the guilty

352 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

Girotido. Shakspeare, on the contrary, makes
his villain Don John, fly from Messina, and his
guilt is brought to light by two watchmen, who
overhear the drunken garrulity of Borachio.
Happy for the drama is this deviation, for it has
been the means'of enriching the stage with Dog-
berry and Verges. In delineating these worthies,
Shakspeare may have outdone the life, but who
regrets that he wantons in the abundance of his
humour ?

But it is neither in the management of the
plot, which he derived from the Italian novelist,
nor in the delineation of its necessary characters,
that the merit of this elegant comedy is comprized.
Benedick and Beatrice constitute its real claim
to admiration. Scarcely in any way connected
with the main incident, and in no shape existing
in the original, they form the peculiar charm of
the play. They are alike in disposition and
mind, and that very similarity is ingeniously
made the foundation of an avowed hostility be-
tween them, which expresses itself in agreeable,
yet pointed raillery. Benedick is endowed with
every accomplishment that becomes a gentleman,
" of a noble strain, of approved valour, and con-
fiirmed honesty;** and his courteous qualities are
graced by wit, which is remarkable for its
promptitude, brilliancy, and good-nature, per-

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 353

petually playing upon an imaginary dislike to
matrimony.

. Beatrice is delineated in a style spirited and
entertaining. She is happy in the possession of an
amiable temper ; and the essence of her mental
character is wit, which, like Benedick, she di-
rects with peculiar felicity against love and
marriage.

In the gaiety of his fancy, Shakspeare re-
solved to reconcile and to marry these wit-
combatants. He has made each anxious for the
favourable opinion of the other, though they are
apparently foes: thus Benedick is piqued at
being called the prince's jester, and Beatrice's
vanity is wounded at being reproached for taking
her wit from the hundred merry tales. Each
party dreaded the other's scorn j but when Bene-
dick believed that Beatrice loved him, all fear of
raillery ceased ; his self-opinion was flattered, and
we are prepared to find him returning her sup-
posed passion ; for he had already avowed that
" if she were not possessed by a fury, she ex-
ceeded Hero as much in beauty, as the first of
May does the last of December." The whole of
Benedick's soliloquy, as he falls into the snare
that is laid for him, is a fine satire on the muta-
bility of opinion, and an admirable specimen of
that specious mode of argument by which we

VOL. I. A A

354 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

reconcile to our judgments the suggestions of
self-love.

The management of Beatrice is equally happy.
She loved, because she thought that another
loved her, — a beautiful illustration of a general
latith: she was a generous feeling woman, and
needed no cold sophistry to satisfy the pride of
intellect, before she yielded up her heart.

Shakspeare has been deservedly praised for
his skill in overcoming the difficulties that still
interposed between the union of Benedick and
Beatrice. Delay was impossible ; the story of
Benedick's love being a fable, great care was
necessary to prevent Beatrice from discover-
ing the deception practised on her ; a disco-
very which would have altogether defeated
the design of bringing her and Benedick
together, for Beatrice never could have con-
descended to own a passion she had been
tricked into. Shakspeare, therefore, combines
in her mind, a desire of revenge on Claudio
with her new feelings for Benedick. In the
most natural way possible, she engages her lover
to call Claudio to account for the injury done
her cousin ; and she is thus at once compelled
to drop her capricious humour, and treat Bene-
dick with the confidence and candour his ser-
vice merited.

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 355

Benedick and Beatrice are the pure and beau-
tiful productions of Shakspeare's imagination.
He first conceived and gave a faint sketch of their
characters in Love's Labour's Lost In Much
Ado About Nothing, they are expanded into
finished portraits, and launched into a new scene
of action of which he himself was the entire in-
ventor. It is not often that Shakspeare appears
as the constructor of his dramatic incidents.
The plot on the two marriage haters is in-
geniously conceived and executed ; and the cha-
racters of the parties being as similar as is consist-
ent with the difference of sex, the practice of the
same mode of deception on each of them is
highly natural and humorous.

A A 2

NOTES.

Note A.

Mr. Luder, in his Essay on the Character of Henrys
is eminently successful in exposing the exaggeration
with which successive historians have adorned their por-
traits of the prince. But, in truth, after stripping the
tale of all its meretricious colouring, enough remains in
the report of Ehnham, Henry's original biographer,
to justify the idea of his having been a Corinthian of the
highest order — *^ He was much given to lasciviousness,
and very fond of musical instruments. Passing the
bounds of modesty, and burning with the fire of youth,
he was eager in the pursuit of Venus as of Mars. When
not engaged in military exercises, he also indulged in
other excesses which unrestrained youth is apt to &1I
into." The truth of this picture cannot be shaken by
the omission of some circumstances in Henry's life
which Elmham ought to have recorded, or by the mis«
representation of others on which he should have been
informed more correctly. Such failings are common
to all historians; but Elmham, the contemporary of
Henry and his father, and who survived both, could

358 NOTES.

not erroneously h^ve made an allegation against the
prince of excessive and habitual indulgence in the vices
of youth. At the same time, I perfectly agree with
Mr. Luder, that if, in the spring of life, " the feathers
of the prince's crest played wantonly over his brow,
we are not obliged to add ungracefully." But I cannot
acquiesce in the opinion, that the historians borrowed
from the theatre the idea that the prince's associates
were low and degrading. Shakspeare's influence over
the historians is entirely out of the question, for he
wrote his play afler Holinshed and Stowe's works were
published. In the supposition that the mischief was
produced by " The Famous Victories," the fact is as-
sumed that it was in existence previous to 1573, when
Holinshed's Chronicle was printed. Of this there isr
no proof, and the probabilities appear to me against it.
The old play is proved to have existed in 1588; be-
cause Tarlton the actor, who was much admired in the
clown's part, died in that year. But its date bnust be
carried at least fifteen years higher, before it will }rield
any support to the hypothesis of Mr. Luder. Internal
evidence tliere is none ; conjecture is as available on one
side as the other; and the same objection may, perhaps,
be urged against the opinion that the probability is
greater of the dramatists having copied from the his-
torians, thm the historians from the dramatists.

NOTES. 359

Note B.

tradition preserved by Rowe of the part of
FaktafF having been originally written under the name
of Oldcastle, has given rise to many pages of edifying
notes by the commentators, which those will do well to
read who deem more information necessary than they
will find here on a question so immaterial. Sir John
Oldcastle is one of Henry the Fifth's dissolute compar
nions in the anonymous play; and the following line still
stands in the First Part of Henry the Fourth, " As the
honey of Hybla, my old lad of the castled Contem-
porary writers speak of FalstafF as standing in the shoes
of Oldcastle, which some critics say is clear proof that
Shakspeare substituted the former name for the latter ;
whilst others assert the legitimate inference to be no
more than that Shakspeare's Falstaff had superseded
the old buffoon character of Oldcastle in the anonymous
play. The Epilogue to the Second Part of Henry the
Fourth disclaims the supposition that the dramatic Fal-
stafF is a satire upon the real Sir John Oldcastle, Lord
Cobliam, who died a martyr : no two characters were 1%
fact ever more different ; and the objection could never
have been raised, without the idea had been suggested
by some such leading feature as a similarity of names.
Coupling this argument with facts of the still extant
punning line in Henry the Fourth, and the occurrence
of the name of Oldcastle in " The Famous Victories,"
I cannot but think that the tradition of Rowe represents
the truth.

360 NOTES.

Note C.

I TRANSFER this plflywithout hesitation from 1594,
where it is placed by Malone on very insufiScient
grounds, to 1597. Shakspeare's obligations to the
" Orator" prove the composition of the play to have
been subsequent to 1596, and its mention by Meres,
that it was previous to 1598. By the present arrange-
ment two plays are assigned to 1597? and two to 1594k
Malone gave three plays to 1594, and one to 1597.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

London i

Printed by A. & R. Spottiiwoode,
NewStreet-Square.

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s. .

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THB NEW YORK PUBUC UBRARY

RBPBRBNCB DBPARTMBNT

This book is under no oiroumsUuioes to be
taken from the Building

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■',*■

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V ! * •

MoKL'JIENT TO THE MeIIOKV OF ShaKSPEARE. — A

projuvt is uow in progresH fur erecting a grand mo- '
tiument to thu memory of Shakspeave ; the expense to ■■
be defrayed by guinea BubaoriptiunB. According to '
Uie plan, it is propoaed to erect a noble column mucb
higher tlian tlie loonument near London-bridge, on
ivbich a roloHsal stamp, of great lieigbt, of the im-
mortal bard, fs to be placed ; and .on a square basc-
ment a principal character from each of his plays is lo
be represented. The situation of this lof^y pillar is
intended at present to be some high eminence near
the niuutli of the Tliames, that it may be distinctly '
seen by all persons who enter the river, while it will
be seen al^io many mites distant by land, from Gad's-
tiill to the ^orth l-oreland. The statue is to be taken
from the most approved likenesa of Sliakspeare, a
a building in to be erected at the base of the column .
for a person to reside, and it is calculated that the ad-
mission money of individuals to ascend to the top, to
riew the extensive prospect from thence, ii'ill be suffi-
cient to keep the monument in repair and tp defray
other expetHCs. /i^'«'(C o 3.

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