OBSERVATIONS ON _ROMEO AND JULIET_; ON _THE TAMING OF THE
SHREW_; ON _THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA_; ON _KING RICHARD
THE THIRD_; ON _KING RICHARD THE SECOND_; ON _KING HENRY THE
FOURTH, PARTS I. & II._; ON _THE MERCHANT OF VENICE_, AND
ON _HAMLET_—DISSERTATION ON THE _AGENCY_ OF _SPIRITS_ AND
_APPARITIONS_, AND ON THE _GHOST_ IN _HAMLET_.
In endeavouring to ascertain the chronological series of our author's
plays, we must ever hold in mind, that, in general, nothing more than
_a choice of probabilities_ is before us, and that, whilst weighing
their preponderancy, the slightest additional circumstance, so equally
are they sometimes balanced, may turn the scale. It appears to us, that
an occurrence of this kind will be found to point out, more accurately
than hitherto, the precise period to which the _first_ sketch of the
following tragedy may be ascribed.
7. ROMEO AND JULIET: 1593. The passage in this play on which the
commentators have chiefly relied for the establishment of their
respective dates, runs thus:—
"_Nurse._ Even or odd, of all days in the year,
Come Lammas-eve at night, shall she (Juliet) be _fourteen_.
That shall she, marry; I remember it well.
'Tis since _the earthquake_ now _eleven years_;
And she was _wean'd_,—I never shall forget it,—
For then she could _stand alone_; nay, by the rood,
She could have _run_ and _waddled_ all about."[356:A]
Building on Shakspeare's usual custom of alluding to the events of his
own time, and transferring them to the scene and period of the piece
on which he happened to be engaged, Mr. Tyrwhitt with much probability
conjectured, that the poet, in these lines, had in view the earthquake
which, according to Stowe[357:A] and Gabriel Harvey, took place in
England on the 6th of April, 1580; but then, relying, unfortunately
too much, on the computation of the good nurse, he hastily concludes,
that _Romeo and Juliet_, or a part of it at least, was written in
1591.[357:B]
Mr. Malone, after admitting the inference of Mr. Tyrwhitt, adds another
conjecture, that the foundation of this play might be laid in 1591, and
finished at a subsequent period[357:C], which period he has assigned in
his chronology to the year 1595.[357:D]
Lastly, Mr. Chalmers, principally because Shakspeare appears to have
borrowed some imagery in the fifth act, from _Daniel's Complaint
of Rosamond_, which was entered at Stationers' Hall on the 4th of
February, 1592, has ascribed the first sketch of _Romeo and Juliet_ to
the spring-time of the same year.[357:E]
Now, adopting the opinion of Mr. Tyrwhitt as to Shakspeare's reference
to the earthquake of 1580, a little attention to the lines which the
poet has put into the month of his garrulous nurse, will convince
us that these gentlemen are alike mistaken in their chronological
calculations.
The nurse in the first place tells us, that Juliet was within little
more than a fortnight of being fourteen years old, an assertion in
which she could not be incorrect, as it is corroborated by Lady
Capulet, who thinks her daughter, in consequence of this age, fit for
marriage. In the next place she informs us that Juliet was weaned on
the day of the earthquake, and as she could then stand and run alone,
we must conceive her to have been at this period at least a twelvemonth
old; and thirdly, and immediately afterwards we are told, with a
contradiction which assigns to Juliet but the age of twelve,—
"'Tis since the earthquake now eleven years."
There can be no doubt, therefore, that this miscalculation of _eleven_
for _thirteen_ years, was intended as a characteristic feature of the
superannuated nurse, and that, assuming the era of 1580 as the epoch
meant to be conveyed in the allusion to the earthquake at Verona, the
composition of _Romeo and Juliet_ must be allotted, not to the years
1591, 1592, or 1595, but to the year 1593.
It appears somewhat singular, indeed, that Mr. Malone, contrary to
his usual custom, should have given a place in his Chronology, not to
the _first sketch_ of this play, but to a _supposed completion_ of
it in 1595; more especially when we find, from his own words[358:A],
that this, like several other dramas of our bard, was gradually and
successively improved, and that, though first printed in 1597, it was
not filled up and completed as we now have it, until 1599, when a
second edition was published.
Some surprise also must be excited by the reasons which induced Mr.
Chalmers to date the first sketch of this tragedy in the spring of
1592. Of these the first, he remarks, "is plainly an allusion to the
Faerie Queene, the three first books of which were published in 1590;
and which was continually present in our poet's mind; Mercutio, in his
airy and satiric speech, cries out,—
"O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the fairies midwife; and she comes,
In shape no bigger than aggat stone
On the fore-finger of an alderman:"[358:B]
forgetting, that between the _popular fairies_, the _tiny elves_, of
Shakspeare, and the _allegorical fairies_ of Spenser, there is not the
smallest similarity, not even a point in contact. The second, drawn
from the imitation of Daniel, has been noticed above, and might with as
much, if not more probability be assigned for its date in 1593 as in
the year preceding.
There is much reason to suppose, from a late communication by Mr.
Haslewood, that this play was not altogether founded on Arthur Broke's
"Tragicall Historye of Romeus and Juliet," but partly on a _theatrical
exhibition_ of the same story which had taken place anterior to 1562;
for in a copy of Broke's poem of this date in the Collection of the
Rev. H. White, of the Close, Lichfield, occurs an address "To the
Reader," not found in Mr. Capell's impression of 1562, and omitted in
the edition of 1587, which closes with the following curious piece of
information:—"_Though I saw_," observes Broke, speaking in reference
to his story, "_the same argument lately set foorth on the stage with
more commendation, then I can looke for_: (_being there much better set
forth then I have or can dooe_) yet the _same matter_ penned as it is,
may serve to _lyke good effect_, if the readers do brynge with them
_lyke good myndes_, to consider it, which hath the more incouraged me
to publishe it, suche as it is."[359:A]
Here we find three important circumstances announced: that a play on
this subject had, previous to 1562, been _set forth with no little
preparation_; that it contained the _same argument_ and _matter_
with the Tragical History, and that it had been _well received_ and
productive of a _good effect_! Thirty years, consequently, before
Shakspeare's tragedy appeared, had the stage been familiar with this
pathetic tale.[359:B]
The play, therefore, as well as the metrical history of Broke, must
have departed, in its catastrophe, from the story of Luigi da Porta in
which Juliet awakens from her trance before the death of Romeo. It is
probable also that the play misled the English translator, and both
Shakspeare; for it is remarkable that Broke, who pretends to translate
from Bandello, has deserted his supposed original, which, with regard
to the denouement, as in every thing else, precisely copies Da Porta,
who, it would seem, had the honour of improving on a preceding writer
by the introduction of this novel and affecting incident.
"The origin of Shakspeare's _Romeo and Juliet_," observes Mr. Dunlop,
"has generally been referred to the Giuletta of Luigi da Porta. Of
this tale Mr. Douce has attempted to trace the origin as far back as
the Greek romance by Xenophon Ephesius; but when it is considered that
this work was not published in the lifetime of Luigi da Porta, I do
not think the resemblance so strong as to induce us to believe that it
was seen by that novelist. His Giuletta is evidently borrowed from the
thirty-second novel of Massucio, which must unquestionably be regarded
as the ultimate origin of the celebrated drama of Shakspeare, though it
has escaped, as far as I know, the notice of his numerous commentators.
In the story of Massucio, a young gentleman, who resided in Sienna,
is privately married by a friar to a lady of the same place, of whom
he was deeply enamoured. Mariotto, the husband, is forced to fly from
his country, on account of having killed one of his fellow-citizens
in a squabble in the streets. An interview takes place between him
and his wife before the separation. After the departure of Mariotto,
Giannozza, the bride, is pressed by her friends to marry: she discloses
her perplexing situation to the friar, by whom the nuptial ceremony
had been performed. He gives her a soporific powder, which she drinks
dissolved in water; and the effect of this narcotic is so strong that
she is believed to be dead by her friends, and interred according to
custom. The accounts of her death reach her husband in Alexandria,
whither he had fled, before the arrival of a special messenger, who
had been dispatched by the friar to acquaint him with the real posture
of affairs. Mariotto forthwith returns in despair to his own country,
and proceeds to lament over the tomb of his bride. Before this time
she had recovered from her lethargy, and had set out for Alexandria in
quest of her husband, who meanwhile is apprehended and executed for
the murder he had formerly committed. Giannozza, finding he was not in
Egypt, returns to Sienna, and, learning his unhappy fate, retires to a
convent, where she soon after dies. The catastrophe here is different
from the novel of Luigi da Porta and the drama of Shakspeare, but there
is a perfect correspondence in the preliminary incidents. The tale of
Massucio was written about 1470, which was long prior to the age of
Luigi da Porta, who died in 1531, or of Cardinal Bembo, to whom some
have attributed the greater part of the composition."[362:A]
With the exception of the incident which distinguishes the close of
the story as related by Luigi da Porta, Shakspeare has worked up the
materials which preceded his drama with the most astonishing effect;
and by the beauty of his sentiments, the justness of his delineation,
and the felicity of his language, he has drawn the most glowing,
pathetic, and interesting picture of disastrous love which the world
has yet contemplated.
We perceive the highest tone of enthusiasm, combined with the utmost
purity, fidelity, and tenderness, pervading every stage of the
intercourse between _Romeo and Juliet_: and, elevated as they are, to
an almost _perfect ideal_ representation of the influence of love, so
much of actual nature is interwoven with every expression of their
feelings, that our sympathy irresistibly augments with the progress
of the fable, and becomes at length almost overwhelming. Indeed,
such is the force of the appeal which the poet makes to the heart in
this bewitching drama, that, were it not relieved by the occasional
intervention of lighter emotions, the effect would be truly painful;
but, with his wonted fertility of resource, our author has effected
this purpose in a manner, which, while it heightens by the power of
contrast, at the same time diversifies the picture, and exhilarates
the mind. Every hue of many-coloured life, the effervescence of hope,
and the hushed repose of disappointment, the bloom of youth, and the
withered aspect of age, the intoxication of rapture, and the bitterness
of grief, the scintillations of wit, and the speechless agonies of
despair, tears and smiles, groans and laughter, are so blended in the
texture of this piece, as to produce the necessary relief, without
disturbing the union and harmony of the whole, or impairing, in the
smallest degree, the gradually augmenting interest which accompanies
the hapless lovers to their tomb.
What, for instance, can be more opposed to each other, and to the
youthful victims of the drama, than the characters of _Mercutio_,
_Friar Lawrence_, and the _Nurse_; yet the brilliancy and gaiety of
the first, the philosophic dignity of the second, and the humorous
garrulity of the third, while they afford a welcome repose to our
feelings, are essential to the developement of the plot, and to the
full display of those scenes of terror and distress which alternately
freeze and melt the heart, to the last syllable of this sweet and
mournful tale.
Numerous as have been its relators, who has told it like our matchless
bard? "It was reserved for Shakspeare," remarks Schlegel, in a tone
of the finest enthusiasm, "to unite purity of heart and the glow of
imagination, sweetness and dignity of manners and passionate violence,
in one ideal picture. By the manner in which he has handled it, it
has become a glorious song of praise on that inexpressible feeling
which ennobles the soul, and gives to it its highest sublimity, and
which elevates even the senses themselves into soul, and at the same
time is a melancholy elegy on its frailty, from its own nature, and
external circumstances; at once the deification and the burial of love.
It appears here like a heavenly spark that, descending to the earth,
is converted into a flash of lightning, by which mortal creatures
are almost in the same moment set on fire and consumed. Whatever is
most intoxicating in the odour of a southern spring, languishing in
the song of the nightingale, or voluptuous in the first opening of
the rose, is breathed into this poem. But even more rapidly than the
earliest blossoms of youth and beauty decay, it hurries on from the
first timidly-bold declaration of love and modest return, to the most
unlimited passion, to an irrevocable union; then, amidst alternating
storms of rapture and despair, to the death of the two lovers, who
still appear enviable as their love survives them, and as by their
death they have obtained a triumph over every separating power. The
sweetest and the bitterest, love and hatred, festivity and dark
forebodings, tender embraces and sepulchres, the fullness of life and
self-annihilation, are all here brought close to each other; and all
these contrasts are so blended in the harmonious and wonderful work,
into a unity of impresions, that the echo which the whole leaves behind
in the mind, resembles a single but endless sigh."[364:A]
8. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW: 1594. Nothing appearing to invalidate the
conclusion of Mr. Malone, that this was one of our author's earliest
plays, we have adhered to his chronology; for the lines quoted by Mr.
Chalmers, in order to establish a posterior date,
"'Tis death for any one in Mantua
To come to Padua," &c.[364:B]
would, if there be any weight in this instance, procure a similar
assignment, as to time, for the _Comedy of Errors_, where we find a
like prohibition of intercourse:—
——— "If any Syracusan born
Come to the bay of Ephesus, he dies;"[364:C]
yet no one, in consequence of such a passage, has entertained an idea
of ascribing this comedy to the year 1598.
The outline of the induction to this drama may be traced, as Mr. Douce
observes[364:D], through many intermediate copies, to the _Sleeper
Awakened_ of the Arabian Nights; but it is most probable, that the
immediate source of this prelude, both to the anonymous author of
the old _Taming of a Shrew_, and to Shakspeare himself, was the
_story-book_ said by Warton to have been once in the possession of
Collins the poet, a collection of short comic tales, "sett forth by
maister Richard Edwards, mayster of her Majesties revels," in the year
1570.[364:E]
From whatever source, however, this apologue may have been directly
taken, we cannot but feel highly indebted to Shakspeare for its
conversion into a lesson of exquisite moral irony, while, at the same
time, it unfolds his wonted richness of humour, and minute delineation
of character. The whole, indeed, is conducted with such lightness and
frolic spirit, with so many happy touches of risible simplicity, yet
chastised by so constant an adherence to nature and verisimilitude, as
to form one of the most delightful and instructive sketches.
So admirably drawn is the character of Sly, that we regret to find the
interlocution of the groupe before whom the piece is supposed to be
performed, has been dropped by our author after the close of the first
scene of the play. Here we behold the jolly tinker nodding, and, at
length, honestly exclaiming, '_Would't were done!_' and, though the
integrity of the representation require, that he should finally return
to his former state, the transformation, as before, being effected
during his sleep, yet we hear no more of this truly comic personage;
whereas in the spurious play, he is frequently introduced commenting
on the scene, is carried off the stage fast asleep, and, on the
termination of the drama, undergoes the necessary metamorphosis.
It would appear, therefore, either that our bard's continuation
of the induction has been unaccountably lost, or that he trusted
the remainder of Sly's part to the improvisatory ingenuity of the
performers; or, what is more likely, that they were instructed to
copy a certain portion of what had been written, for this subordinate
division of the tinker's character, by the author of the elder play.
Some of the observations, indeed, of Sly, as given by the writer of
this previous comedy, are incompatible with the fable and _Dramatis
Personæ_ of Shakspeare's production; and have, consequently, been very
injudiciously introduced by Mr. Pope; but there are two passages which,
with the exception of but two names, are not only accordant with our
poet's prelude, but absolutely necessary to its completion. Shakspeare,
as we have seen, represents Sly as nodding at the end of the first
scene; and the parts of the anonymous play to which we allude, are
those where the nobleman orders the sleeping tinker to be put into his
own apparel again, and where he awakens in this garb, and believes
the whole to have been a dream; the only alterations required in this
_finale_, being the omission of the Christian appellative _Sim_, and
the conversion of _Tapster_ into _Hostess_. These few lines were, most
probably, those which Shakspeare selected as a necessary accompaniment
to his piece, from the old drama supposed to have been written in
1590[366:A]; and these lines should be withdrawn from the notes in all
the modern editions, and, though distinguished as borrowed property,
should be immediately connected with the text.[366:B]
As to the play itself, the rapidity and variety of its action, the
skilful connection of its double plot, and the strength and vivacity
of its principal characters, must for ever ensure its popularity.
There is, indeed, a depth and breadth of colouring, in its execution,
a boldness and prominency of relief, which may be thought to border
upon coarseness; but the result has been an effect equally powerful and
interesting, though occasionally, as the subject demanded, somewhat
glaring and grotesque.
_Petruchio_, _Katharina_, and _Grumio_, the most important personages
of the play, are consistently supported throughout, and their peculiar
features touched and brought forward with singular sharpness and
spirit; the wild, fantastic humour of the first, the wayward and
insolent demeanor of the second, contrasted with the meek, modest, and
retired disposition of her sister, together with the inextinguishable
wit and drollery of the third, form a picture, at once rich, varied,
and pre-eminently diverting.
9. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA: 1595. There can be little doubt that
the episode of _Felismena_, in the _Diana_ of _George of Montemayor_,
was the source whence the principal part of the plot of this play has
been taken; for, though the Translation of _Bartholomew Yong_, was
not _published_ until 1598, it appears from the translator's "Preface
to divers learned Gentlemen," that it had been completed in the year
1582; "it hath lyen by me finished," he says, "Horace's _ten and six
yeeres more_," a declaration which renders it very probable, that
the manuscript may have been circulated among his friends, and the
more striking parts impressed upon their memory. But we are further
informed, in this very preface, that a partial but excellent version
of the _Diana_, had preceded his labours:—"Well might I," says Yong,
"have excused these paines, if onely _Edward Paston, Esquier_, who
heere and there for his own pleasure, as I understand, hath aptly
turned out of Spanish into English some leaves that liked him best,
had also made an absolute and complete Translation of all the Parts
of _Diana_: the which, for his travell in that countrey, and great
knowledge in that language, accompanied with other learned and good
parts in him, had of all others, that ever I heard translate these
Bookes, prooved the rarest and worthiest to be embraced." We also
learn from Dr. Farmer, that the _Diana_ was translated two or three
years before 1598, by one Thomas Wilson; but, he adds, "this work, I
am persuaded, was never published _entirely_; perhaps some parts of it
were, or the tale might have been translated by others."[367:A]
These intimations sufficiently warrant the conclusion, that Shakspeare
may have become familiar with this portion of the Spanish romance,
anterior to the publication of Yong's version in 1598; indeed so
closely does the story of Proteus and Julia correspond with the episode
of Montemayor, that Shakspeare's obligations cannot be mistaken. "He
has copied the original," as Mr. Dunlop observes, "in some minute
particulars, which clearly evince the source from which the drama has
been derived. As for example, in the letter which Proteus addresses
to Julia, her rejection of it when offered by her waiting-maid, and
the device by which she afterwards attempts to procure a perusal. (Act
i. sc. 2.) In several passages, indeed, the dramatist has copied the
language of the pastoral."[368:A]
This play, though betraying marks of negligence and haste, especially
towards its termination, is yet a most pleasing and instructive
composition. There is scarcely a page of it, indeed, that is not
pregnant with some just and useful maxim, and we stand amazed at the
blind and tasteless decisions of Hanmer, Theobald, and Upton, who not
only disputed the authenticity of this drama, but condemned it as a
very inferior production.
So far are these opinions, however, from having any just foundation,
that we may safely assert the peculiar style of Shakspeare to be
vividly impressed on all the parts of this drama, whether serious or
comic; and as to its aphoristic wealth, it may be truly said, with
Dr. Johnson, that "it abounds with γνωμαι; beyond most of his plays, and
few have more lines or passages, which, singly considered, are eminently
beautiful."[368:B]
But besides this, justice requires of us to remark, that there is a
romantic and pathetic cast, both of sentiment and character, throughout
the more elevated parts of this production, which has given to them
a peculiar charm. The delineation of _Julia_ in particular, from
the gentleness and modesty of her disposition, the ill requital of
her attachment, and the hazardous disguise which she assumes, must
be confessed to excite the tenderest emotions of sympathy. This is
a character, indeed, which Shakspeare has delighted to embody, and
which he has further developed in the lovely and fascinating portraits
of _Viola_ and _Imogen_, who, like _Julia_, forsaken or despised,
are driven to the same expedients, and, deserting their native
roof, perform their adventurous pilgrimages under similar modes of
concealment.[369:A]
A portion also of this romantic enthusiasm has thrown an interest
over the characters of _Sir Eglamour_ and _Silvia_, and evanescent as
the part of the former is, we see enough of him to regret that he has
not been brought more forward on the canvas. He is represented as a
gentleman
"Valiant, wise, remorseful, well accomplished,"
and when Silvia, on the eve of her elopement, solicits his assistance,
she thus addresses him:—
"Thyself hast loved; and I have heard thee say,
No grief did ever come so near thy heart,
As when thy lady and thy true love died,
Upon whose grave thou vow'dst pure chastity."[369:B]
Nor are the ludicrous scenes less indicative of the hand of Shakspeare,
the part of Launce, which forms the chief source of mirth in this play,
being supported throughout with undeviating wit and humour, and with
an effect greatly superior to that of the comic dialogue of _Love's
Labour's Lost_ and _The Comedy of Errors_.
Nor must we forget to remark, that the versification of the _Two
Gentlemen of Verona_ is peculiarly sweet and harmonious, and very
happily corresponds with the delicacy, simplicity, and tenderness of
feeling which have so powerfully shed their never-failing fascination
over many of its serious scenes. How exquisitely, for instance, does
the rhythm of the following lines, coalesce with and expand their
sentiment and imagery:—
"_Julia._ Counsel, Lucetta; gentle girl, assist me!
—————————— Tell me some good mean,
How, with my honour, I may undertake
A journey to my loving Proteus.
_Luc._ Alas! the way is wearisome and long.
_Jul._ A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary
To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps;
Much less shall she, that hath love's wings to fly,
And when the flight is made to one so dear.—
_Luc._ Better forbear, till Proteus make return.—
_Jul._ The current, that with gentle murmur glides,
Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage;
But, when his fair course is not hindered,
He makes sweet musick with the enamel'd stones,
Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge
He overtaketh in his pilgrimage;
And so by many winding nooks he strays,
With willing sport, to the wild ocean.
Then let me go, and hinder not my course:
I'll be as patient as a gentle stream,
And make a pastime of each weary step.
Till the last step have brought me to my love;
And there I'll rest, as, after much turmoil,
A blessed soul doth in Elysium."[370:A]
10. KING RICHARD THE THIRD: 1595. It is the conjecture of Mr. Malone,
and by which he has been guided in his chronological arrangement,
that this play, and _King Richard the Second_, were _written_,
_acted_, _registered_, and _printed_ in the year 1597. That they were
_registered_ and _published_ during this year, we have indisputable
authority[370:B]; but that they were _written_ and _acted_ within the
same period, is a supposition without any proof, and, to say the least
of it, highly improbable.
Mr. Chalmers, struck by this incautious assertion, of two such plays
being written, acted, and published in a few months[370:C]; reflecting
that Shakspeare, impressed by the character of Glocester, in his play
of _Henry the Sixth_, might be induced to resume his _national_ dramas
by continuing the _Historie_ of Richard, to which he might be more
immediately stimulated by his knowledge that an enterlude entitled the
_Tragedie of Richard the Third_, had been exhibited in 1593, or 1594;
and ingeniously surmising that _Richard the Second_ was a subsequent
production, because it ushered in a distinct and concatenated series
of history, has, under this view of the subject, given precedence to
_Richard the Third_ in the order of composition, and assigned its
origin to the year 1595.
The description of a small volume of Epigrams by John Weever, in Mr.
Beloe's Anecdotes of Literature, has since confirmed the chronology of
Mr. Chalmers, so far as it proves that _one_ of Shakspeare's _Richards_
had certainly been acted in 1595.
The book in question, in the collection of Mr. Comb, of Henley, and
supposed to be a unique, was published in 1599, at which period,
according to the date of the print of him prefixed by Cecill, the
author was twenty-three years old; but Weever tells us, in some
introductory stanzas, that when he wrote the poems which compose this
volume, he was _not_ twenty years old; that he was one
"That twenty twelve months yet did _never know_,"
consequently, these Epigrams _must have been written in 1595_, though
not printed before 1599. They exhibit the following title: "Epigrammes
in the oldest Cut and newest Fashion. A twise seven Houres (in so many
Weekes) Studie. No longer (like the Fashion) not unlike to continue.
The first seven, John Weever.
Sit voluisse sit valuisse.
At London: printed by V. S. for Thomas Bushell, and are to be sold at
his shop, at the great North doore of Paules. 1599. 12mo."
Of this collection the twenty-second Epigram of the fourth Weeke, which
we have formerly had occasion to notice, and which we shall now give at
length, is addressed
"AD GULIELMUM SHAKESPEARE.
Honie-Tongd Shakespeare, when I saw thine issue,
I swore Apollo got them, and none other,
Their rosie-tainted features clothed in tissue,
Some heaven-born goddesse said to be their mother.
Rose cheeckt Adonis with his amber tresses,
Faire fire-hot Venus charming him to love her,
Chaste Lucretia, virgine-like her dresses,
Proud lust-stung Tarquine seeking still to prove her,
Romeo, RICHARD, more whose names I know not,
Their sugred tongues and power attractive beauty,
Say they are saints, althogh that Sts they shew not,
For thousand vowes to them subjective dutie,
They burn in love thy children Shakspeare let them
Go we thy muse more nymphish brood beget them."[372:A]
We have no doubt that by the _Richard_ of this epigram the author
meant to imply the play of _Richard the Third_, which, according to
our arrangement, was the _immediately succeeding tragedy_ to _Romeo_,
and may be said to have been almost promised by the poet in the two
concluding scenes of the _Last Part of King Henry the Sixth_, a promise
which, as we believe, was carried into execution after an interval of
three years.[372:B]
The character of _Richard the Third_, which had been opened in so
masterly a manner in the _Concluding Part of Henry the Sixth_, is, in
this play, developed in all its horrible grandeur.
It is, in fact, the picture of a demoniacal incarnation, moulding the
passions and foibles of mankind, with super-human precision, to its
own iniquitous purposes. Of this isolated and peculiar state of being
Richard himself seems sensible, when he declares—
"I have no brother, I am like no brother:
And this word love, which grey-beards call divine,
Be resident in men like one another,
And not in me: I am myself alone."[373:A]
From a delineation like this Milton must have caught many of the
most striking features of his Satanic portrait. The same union
of unmitigated depravity, and consummate intellectual energy,
characterises both, and renders what would otherwise be loathsome and
disgusting, an object of sublimity and shuddering admiration.
Richard, stript as he is of all the softer feelings, and all the common
charities, of humanity, possessed of
"neither pity, love, nor fear,"[373:B]
and loaded with every dangerous and dreadful vice, would, were it
not for his unconquerable powers of mind, be insufferably revolting.
But, though insatiate in his ambition, envious, and hypocritical in
his disposition, cruel, bloody, and remorseless in all his deeds, he
displays such an extraordinary share of cool and determined courage,
such alacrity and buoyancy of spirit, such constant self-possession,
such an intuitive intimacy with the workings of the human heart, and
such matchless skill in rendering them subservient to his views, as
so far to subdue our detestation and abhorrence of his villany, that
we, at length, contemplate this fiend in human shape with a mingled
sensation of intense curiosity and grateful terror.
The task, however, which Shakspeare undertook was, in one instance,
more arduous than that which Milton subsequently attempted; for, in
addition to the hateful constitution of Richard's moral character,
he had to contend also against the prejudices arising from personal
deformity, from a figure
————————— "curtail'd of it's fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deform'd, unfinish'd, sent before it's time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up;"[374:A]
and yet, in spite of these striking personal defects, which were
considered, also, as indicatory of the depravity and wickedness of his
nature, the poet has contrived, through the medium of the high mental
endowments just enumerated, not only to obviate disgust, but to excite
extraordinary admiration.
One of the most prominent and detestable vices indeed, in Richard's
character, his hypocrisy, connected, as it always is, in his person,
with the most profound skill and dissimulation, has, owing to the
various parts which it induces him to assume, most materially
contributed to the popularity of this play, both on the stage, and in
the closet. He is one who can
—— "frame his face to all occasions,"[374:B]
and accordingly appears, during the course of his career, under the
contrasted forms of a subject and a monarch, a politician and a wit,
a soldier and a suitor, a sinner and a saint; and in all with such
apparent ease and fidelity to nature, that while to the explorer
of the human mind he affords, by his penetration and address, a
subject of peculiar interest and delight, he offers to the practised
performer a study well calculated to call forth his fullest and finest
exertions. He, therefore, whose histrionic powers are adequate to the
just exhibition of this character, may be said to have attained the
highest honours of his profession; and, consequently, the popularity of
_Richard the Third_, notwithstanding the moral enormity of its hero,
may be readily accounted for, when we recollect, that the versatile and
consummate hypocrisy of the tyrant has been embodied by the talents of
such masterly performers as Garrick, Kemble, Cook, and Kean.
So overwhelming and exclusive is the character of Richard, that the
comparative insignificancy of all the other persons of the drama may be
necessarily inferred; they are reflected to us, as it were, from his
mirror, and become more or less important, and more or less developed,
as he finds it necessary to act upon them; so that our estimate of
their character is entirely founded on his relative conduct, through
which we may very correctly appreciate their strength or weakness.
The only exception to this remark is in the person of Queen Margaret,
who, apart from the agency of Richard, and dimly seen in the darkest
recesses of the picture, pours forth, in union with the deep tone of
this tragedy, the most dreadful curses and imprecations; with such
a wild and prophetic fury, indeed, as to involve the whole scene in
tenfold gloom and horror.
We have to add that the moral of this play is great and impressive.
Richard, having excited a general sense of indignation, and a general
desire of revenge, and, unaware of his danger from having lost, through
familiarity with guilt, all idea of moral obligation, becomes at length
the victim of his own enormous crimes; he falls not unvisited by the
terrors of conscience, for, on the eve of danger and of death, the
retribution of another world is placed before him; the spirits of those
whom he had murdered, reveal the awful sentence of his fate, and his
bosom heaves with the infliction of eternal torture.
11. KING RICHARD THE SECOND: 1596. Our great poet having been induced
to improve and re-compose the Dramatic History of _Henry the Sixth_,
and to continue the character of Gloucester to the close of his
usurpation, in the drama of _Richard the Third_, very naturally, from
the success which had crowned these efforts, reverted to the prior
part of our national story for fresh subjects, and, led by a common
principle of association, selected for the commencement of a new series
of historical plays, which should form an unbroken chain with those
that he had previously written, the reign of _Richard the Second_. On
this account, therefore, and from the intimation of time, noticed by
Mr. Chalmers, towards the conclusion of the first [376:A]act, we are
led to coincide with this gentleman in assigning the composition of
_Richard the Second_ to the year 1596.
Of the character of this unfortunate young prince, Shakspeare has
given us a delineation in conformity with the general tone of history,
but heightened by many exquisite and pathetic touches. Richard
was beautiful in his person, and elegant in his manners[376:B];
affectionate, generous, and faithful in his attachments, and
though intentionally neglected in his education, not defective in
understanding. Accustomed, by his designing uncles, to the company of
the idle and the dissipated, and to the unrestrained indulgence of his
passions, we need not wonder that levity, ostentation, and prodigality,
should mark his subsequent career, and should ultimately lead him to
destruction.
Though the errors of his misguided youth are forcibly depicted in
the drama, yet the poet has reserved his strength for the period
of adversity. Richard, descending from his throne, discovers the
unexpected virtues of humility, fortitude, and resignation, and becomes
not only an object of love and pity, but of admiration; and there is
nothing in the whole compass of our author's plays better calculated
to produce, with full effect, these mingled emotions of compassion and
esteem, than the passages which paint the sentiments and deportment of
the fallen monarch. Patience, submission, and misery, were never more
feelingly expressed than in the following lines:
"_K. Rich._ What must the king do now? Must he submit?
The king shall do it. Must he be depos'd?
The king shall be contented: Must he lose
The name of king? o'God's name, let it go:
I'll give my jewels, for a set of beads;
My gorgeous palace, for a hermitage;
My gay apparel, for an alms-man's gown:
My figur'd goblets, for a dish of wood;
My scepter, for a palmer's walking staff;
My subjects, for a pair of carved saints;
And my large kingdom for a little grave,
A little, little grave, an obscure grave:—
Or I'll be buried in the king's highway,
Some way of common trade, where subjects' feet
May hourly trample on their sovereign's head:"[377:A]
and with what an innate nobility of heart does he repress the homage of
his attendants!
"Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With solemn reverence; throw away respect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty,
For you have but mistook me all this while:
I live with bread like you, feel want, taste grief,
Need friends:—Subjected thus,
How can you say to me—I am a king?"[377:B]
Nor does his conduct, in the hour of suffering and extreme humiliation,
derogate from the philosophy of his sentiments. In that admirable
opening of the second scene of the fifth act, where the Duke of York
relates to his Duchess the entrance of Bolingbroke and Richard into
London, the demeanour of the latter is thus pourtrayed:—
————————————— "Men's eyes
Did scowl on Richard; no man cried, God save him;
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home:
But dust was thrown upon his sacred head;
Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,—
His face still combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience,—
That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel'd
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarism itself have pitied him."[378:A]
In representing Richard as falling by the hand of Sir Piers of Exton,
Shakspeare has followed the Chronicle of Holinshed; but there can be
no doubt but this unhappy monarch either starved himself under the
influence of despair, or was starved by the cruelty of his enemies.
If in the account which Speed has given us of this tragedy, the most
complete that we possess, the relation of Polydore Virgil be correct,
nothing can be conceived more diabolical than the conduct of Henry and
his agents. "His diet being served in," says that historian, "and set
before him in the wonted Princely manner, hee was not suffered either
to taste, or touch thereof." "Surely," adds Speed, in a manner which
reflects credit on his sensibility, "hee is not a man who at the report
of so exquisite a barbarisme, as Richard's enfamishment, feeles not
chilling horror and detestation; what if but for a justly condemned
galley-slave so dying? but how for an annointed King whose character
(like that of holy orders) is indeleble?"[378:B]
Of the secondary characters of this play, "Old John of Gaunt,
time-honour'd Lancaster," and his son Henry Bolingbroke, are brought
forward with strict attention to the evidence of history; the chivalric
spirit, and zealous integrity of the first, and the cold, artificial
features of the second, being struck off with great sharpness of
outline, and strength of discrimination.
12. HENRY THE FOURTH; PART THE FIRST: 1596;
13. HENRY THE FOURTH; PART THE SECOND: 1596:
That both these plays were written in the year 1596, will, we think,
appear from consulting the arguments and quotations adduced by Mr.
Malone to prove them the compositions of 1597 and 1598, and by Mr.
Chalmers with the view of assigning them to the years 1596 and 1597;
for while the _latter_ gentleman has rendered it most probable, from
the allusions which he has noticed in the play itself, that the _First
Part_ was written in 1596, the authorities and citations produced by
the _former_, for the assignment of the _Second Part_ to the year
1598, almost necessarily refer it, strange as it may appear, with only
one exception[379:A], and that totally indecisive, to the very same
year which witnessed the composition of its predecessor, namely 1596!
Influenced by this result, and by the observation of Dr. Johnson, that
these dramas appear "to be two, only because they are too long to
be one[379:B]," we have placed them under the same year, convinced,
with Mr. Malone, that they could not be written _before_ 1596; and
induced, from the arguments to which he, and his immediate successor in
chronological research have advanced, though with a different object,
to consider them as not written _after_ that period.[379:C]
The inimitable genius of Shakspeare is no where more conspicuous than
in the construction of these dramas, whether we consider the serious
or the comic parts. In the former, which involve occurrences of the
highest interest in a national point of view, the competition, and
we may say, the contrast between Percy and the Prince of Wales, is
supported with unrivalled talent and discrimination. Full of a fiery
and uncontrollable courage, mingled with a portion of arrogance and
spleen, generous, chivalric, and open, and breathing throughout a
lofty, and even sublime spirit, Hotspur appears before us a youthful
model of enthusiastic and impetuous heroism.
Yet, noble and exciting as this character must be pronounced,
notwithstanding the very obvious alloy of a vindictive and ungovernable
temper, it is completely overshadowed by that which is attributed to
the Prince of Wales; a result which may, with a perfect conviction
of certainty, be ascribed to the combination of two very powerful
causes,—to the rare union, in fact, of great and varied intellectual
energy, with the utmost amiability of disposition. Percy has but the
virtues and accomplishments of a military adventurer, for in society
he is boisterous, self-willed, and unaccommodating; while Henry, to
bravery equally gallant and undaunted, adds all the endearing arts of
social intercourse. He is gay, witty, gentle, and good-tempered, with
such a high relish for humour and frolic as to lead him, through an
over-indulgence of this propensity, into numerous scenes of dissipation
and idleness, and into a familiarity with persons admirably well
calculated, it is true, for the gratification of the most fertile
and comic imagination, but who, in every moral and useful light, are
altogether worthless and degraded.
From the contaminating influence of such dangerous connections, he
is rescued by the vigour of his mind, and the goodness of his heart;
for, possessing a clear and unerring conception of the character of
Falstaff and his associates, though he tolerate their intimacy from a
reprehensible love of wit and humour, he beholds, with a consciousness
of self-abasement, the depravity of their principles, and is guarded
against any durable injury or impression from these dissolute
companions of his sport.
The effect, however, of this temporary delusion is both in a moral and
dramatic light, singularly striking; contemned and humiliated in the
eyes of those who surround him, little expectancy is entertained, not
even by the King himself, of any permanently vigorous or dignified
conduct in his son; for though he has, more than once, exhibited
himself equal to the occasion, however great, which has called him
forth, he has immediately relapsed into his former wild and eccentric
habits. When, therefore, annihilating the gloom which has hitherto
obscured his lustre, and shaking off his profligate companions like
"dew-drops from the lion's mane," he comes forward, strong in moral
resolution, dignified without effort, firm without ostentation, and
consistent without a sense of sacrifice, a denouement is produced, at
once great, satisfactory, and splendid.[381:A]
If the serious parts of these plays, however, be powerful and
characteristic, the comic portion is still more entitled to our
admiration, being rich, original, and varied, in a degree unparalleled
by any other writer.
There never was a character drawn, perhaps, so complete and
individualized as that of Falstaff, nor one in which so many contrasted
qualities are rendered subservient to the production of the highest
entertainment and delight. In the compound, however, is to be found
neither atrocious vices, nor any decided moral virtues; it is merely
a tissue, though woven with matchless skill, of the agreeable and the
disagreeable, the former so preponderating as to stamp the result with
the power of imparting pleasurable emotion.
_Sensuality_, under all its forms, is the _vice_ of Falstaff; _wit_ and
_gaiety_ are his _virtues_.
As to gratify his animal appetites, therefore, is the sole end and
aim of his being, every faculty of his mind and body is directed
exclusively to this purpose, and he is no further vicious, no further
interesting and agreeable than may be necessary to the acquisition
of his object. Had he succeeded but partially in the attainment of
his views, and consequently by the means usually put in practice, he
would have been contemptible, loathsome, and disgusting, but he has
succeeded to an extent beyond all other men, and therefore by means of
an extraordinary kind, and which have covered the fruition of his plans
with an adventitious and even fascinating lustre.
The perfect Epicurism, in short, which he cultivates, requires for
the obtention of its gratifications a multitude of brilliant and
attractive qualifications; for, in order to run the full career of
sensual enjoyment, associated as he was with a man of high rank, and
considerable mental powers, it was necessary that he should render
himself both highly acceptable and interesting, that he should assume
the appearance or pretend to the possession of several virtues,
and that he should be guilty of no very revolting or disgustful
intemperance.
To perform this task, however, with unfailing effect, demanded, on
the part of Falstaff, incessant intellectual vigour, and a perpetual
command of temper, and these Shakspeare has bestowed upon him in
their full plenitude. His wit is inexhaustible, his gaiety and
good-humour undeviating, his address shrewd and discriminating, and,
as the favourable opinion of his associates is, to a certain extent,
essential to his enjoyments, he endeavours to impress the prince with
confidence in his friendship and courage, his gratitude and fidelity,
and to impose on his equals and inferiors a sense of his military and
political importance. It is also requisite that, though an incorrigible
lover of wine, of dainty fare, and of all libidinous delights, he
should exhibit nothing either as the accompaniment or consequence of
these pursuits, which should be beastly or loathsome; he is, therefore,
never represented as in a state of intoxication, nor loaded with more
infirmities than what corpulency produces; but is always himself,
crafty, sprightly, selfish, and intelligent, ever ready to invent and
to enjoy the sport, the revel, and the jest.
Thus constituted, his social and intellectual qualities so blending
with the dissolute propensities of his nature, that the epicure, and
free-booter, the whore-monger and vain-glorious boaster, lose in
the composition their native deformity, Falstaff becomes the most
entertaining and seductive companion that the united powers of genius,
levity, and laughter have ever, in the most felicitous hour of their
mirth and fancy, created for the sons of men.
Yet, dangerous as such a delineation may appear, Shakspeare, with his
usual attention to the best interests of mankind, has rendered it
subservient to the most striking moral effects, both as these apply to
the character of Falstaff himself, and to that of his temporary patron,
the Prince of Wales; for while the virtue, energy, and good sense
of the latter are placed in the most striking point of view by his
firm dismissal of a most fascinating and too endeared voluptuary, the
permanently degrading consequences of sensuality are exhibited in their
full strength during the career, and in the fate, of the former.
It is very generally found that great and splendid vices are
mingled with concomitant virtues, which often ultimately lead to
self-accusation, and to the salutary agonies of remorse; but he who is
deeply plunged in the grovelling pursuits of appetite is too frequently
lost to all sense of shame, to all feeling of integrity or conscious
worth. Polluted by the meanest depravities, not only religious
principle ceases to affect the mind, but every thing which contributes
to honour or to grandeur in the human character is gone for ever; a
catastrophe to which wit and humour, by rendering the sensualist a
more self-deluded and self-satisfied being, lend the most powerful
assistance.
Thus is it with Falstaff—to the last he remains the same, unrepentant,
unreformed; and, though shaken off by all that is valuable or good
around him, dies the very sensualist which he had lived!
We may, therefore, derive from this character as much instruction
as entertainment; and, to the delight which we receive from the
contemplation of a picture so rich and original, add a lesson of
morality as aweful and impressive as the history of human frailty can
present.
In order fully to unfold the extraordinary character of Falstaff, it
was necessary to throw around him a set of familiar associates, who
might, through all the privacies of domestic life, lay open his follies
and knaveries, while, at the same time, they themselves contributed,
in no small degree, to the amusement of the scene. How admirably the
poet has succeeded in this design, the spirited and glowing sketches
of Bardolph, Pistol, and Mrs. Quickly, and of Justices Shallow and
Silence, will bear an ever-during testimony. Than the scenes in
which the two magistrates appear, nothing can be conceived more
characteristically pleasant and original. The garrulity, vanity, and
knavish simplicity of Shallow; the asinine gravity of Silence when
sober, and his irrepressible hilarity when tipsy; Falstaff's exquisite
appreciation of their characters, and his patronage of Shallow,
are presented to us with a naïveté, raciness, and completeness of
conception, which it is in vain to look for elsewhere.
We have further to remark, that the _fable_ of the _Two Parts of Henry
the Fourth_ is connected with peculiar skill through the intervention
of the _comic_ incidents. It was essential, in fact, for the purposes
of representation, that there should be a satisfactory close to each
Part, while, at the same time, such a medium of communication should
exist between the two, as to form a perfect whole. To effect this, the
serious and the ludicrous departments of these dramas are conducted
in a different way; the former exhibiting two catastrophes while
the latter has but one. Thus the death of Percy in the first play,
and the death of Henry the Fourth in the second, form two judicious
terminations of the tragic portion, while the rich vein of comedy
running through both divisions, is only bounded by the _Reformation_ of
Henry the Fifth, and the _Fall_ of his vicious but facetious companion;
a denouement at once natural and complete, and springing from
intrinsic causes, being the sole result of firmness and penetration in
the prince, and of self-delusion in the knight.
14. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE: 1597. We are inclined to prefer this date
to that of 1598, in consequence of the two allusions to time noticed
by Mr. Chalmers in his Chronology[385:A]; and which, as the epoch
formerly fixed on by the commentators was founded merely on the fact
of this play being registered on the 22d of July, 1598, a circumstance
perfectly indecisive as to the period of its composition, ought
consequently to possess the privilege of establishing its era.
Of the _three_ plots which constitute this very interesting drama,
namely that of the _Caskets_, that of the _Bond_, and that of the
_Elopement_ of Jessica, the first two appear to have formed the fable
of a play entitled _The Jew_, long anterior to our author's production.
"The Jew shown at the Bull," says Gosson in his _School of Abuse_,
1579, "representing the _greediness of worldly choosers_, and the
_bloody minds of usurers_——these plays," says he, mentioning others
at the same time, "are goode and sweete plays."[385:B]
Now, there can be no doubt that Shakspeare, in conformity to his
usual custom, would avail himself of the labours of this his dramatic
predecessor; but it is also evident that he had other resources.
"The author of the old play of _The Jew_," observes Mr. Douce, "and
Shakspeare in his _Merchant of Venice_, have not confined themselves
to one source only in the construction of their plot; but, that the
_Pecorone_, the _Gesta Romanorum_, and perhaps the old _Ballad of
Gernutus_, have been respectively resorted to. It is however most
probable that the original play was indebted chiefly, if not altogether
to the _Gesta Romanorum_, which contained both the main incidents; and
that Shakspeare expanded and improved them, partly from his own genius,
and partly, as to the bond, from the _Pecorone_, where the coincidences
are too manifest to leave any doubt. Thus, the scene being laid at
Venice; the residence of the lady at Belmont; the introduction of a
person bound for the principal; the double infraction of the bond,
viz., the taking more or less than a pound of flesh and the shedding
of blood, together with the after-incident of the ring, are common to
the novel and the play. The whetting of the knife might perhaps have
been taken from the _Ballad of Gernutus_. Shakspeare was likewise
indebted to an authority that could not have occurred to the original
author of the play in an English form; this was, Silvayn's _Orator_,
as translated by Munday. From that work Shylock's reasoning before the
senate is evidently borrowed; but at the same time it has been most
skilfully improved."[386:A]
The _Orator_ of _Silvayn_, translated by Munday from the French,
was printed by Adam Islip in 1596, and forms one of Mr. Chalmers's
authorities for assigning the composition of the _Merchant of Venice_
to the year 1597.
Of the _two English Gesta_ mentioned by Mr. Douce, that containing the
story of the _Bond_ is as old as the reign of Henry the Sixth, and
though now only known to exist in manuscript[386:B], might probably
have been in print in the time of Shakspeare and the author of the
elder play.
The _Gesta_, including the story of the _Caskets_, there is reason
to think, was translated by _Leland_ and revised by R. Robinson; for
a memorandum relative to the first edition of the improved version,
written by Robinson himself, and occurring in his _Eupolemia_, is
thus worded:—"1577. A record of ancyent historyes intituled in Latin
_Gesta Romanorum_, translated (auctore ut supponitur Johane Leylando
antiquario) by mee perused corrected and bettered. Perused further by
the wardens of the stationer's and printed first and last by Thomas
Easte."[386:C] If the supposition here recorded be correct, it is
highly probable that Leland's translation is identical with that
referred to by Mr. Warton and Dr. Farmer[387:A] as printed by Wynkyn
de Worde without date; though it must be remarked, that neither Mr.
Herbert, nor Mr. Douce, nor Mr. Dibdin has been fortunate enough to
discover such an impression.[387:B]
As many of the incidents in the Bond story of the _Merchant of Venice_
possess a more striking resemblance to the first tale of the fourth
day in the _Pecorone_ of _Ser Giovanni_, than to either the Gesta, the
Ballad of Gernutus, or the Orator of Silvayn, the probability is, that
a version of this tale, if not of the entire collection, was extant in
Shakspeare's days. _Il Pecorone_, though written almost two centuries
before, was not published until 1558, when the first edition came forth
at Milan.
The love and elopement of Jessica and Lorenzo have been noticed by
Mr. Dunlop as bearing a similitude to the fourteenth tale of the
second book of the _Novellino_ of _Massuccio Di Salerno_[387:C]; but
it must be recollected, that until the play alluded to by Gosson can
be produced, it is impossible to ascertain to whom Shakspeare is most
peculiarly indebted for the materials of his complicated plot.
There is much reason to conclude, however, that the felicitous union of
the two principal actions of this drama, that concatenation of cause
and effect, which has formed them into a whole, is to be ascribed,
almost exclusively, to the judgment and the art of Shakspeare. There
is also another unity of equal moment, seldom found wanting, indeed,
in any of the genuine plays of our poet, but which is particularly
observable in this, that _unity of feeling_ which we have once before
had occasion to notice, and which, in the present instance, has given
an uniform, but an extraordinary, tone to every part of the fable. Thus
the unparalleled nature of the trial between the Jew and his debtor,
required, in order to produce that species of dramatic consistency
so essential to the illusion of the reader or spectator, that the
other important incident of the piece should assume an equal cast of
singularity; the enigma, therefore, of the caskets is a most suitable
counterpart to the savage eccentricity of the bond, and their skilful
combination effects the probability arising from similitude of nature
and intimacy of connection.
Yet the ingenuity of the fable is surpassed by the truth and
originality of the characters that carry it into execution. Avarice
and revenge, the prominent vices of Shylock, are painted with a pencil
so discriminating, as to appear very distinct from the same passions
in the bosom of a Christian. The peculiar circumstances, indeed,
under which the Jews have been placed for so many centuries, would of
themselves be sufficient, were the national feelings correctly caught,
to throw a peculiar colouring over all their actions and emotions;
but to these were unhappily added, in the age of Shakspeare, the most
rooted prejudices and antipathies; an aversion, indeed, partaking of
hatred and horror, was indulged against this persecuted people, and
consequently the picture which Shakspeare has drawn exhibits not only a
faithful representation of Jewish sentiments and manners, the necessary
result of a singular dispensation of Providence, but it embodies in
colours, of almost preternatural strength, the Jew as he appeared to
the eye of the shuddering Christian.
In Shylock, therefore, while we behold the manners and the associations
of the Hebrew mingling with every thing he says and does, and touched
with a verisimilitude and precision which excite our astonishment, we,
at the same time, perceive, that, influenced by the prepossessions
above-mentioned, the poet has clothed him with passions which would not
derogate from a personification of the evil principle itself. He is, in
fact, in all the lighter parts of his character, a generical exemplar
of Judaism, but demonized, individualized, and rendered awfully
striking and horribly appalling by the attribution of such unrelenting
malice, as we will hope, for the honour of our species, was never yet
accumulated, with such intensity, in any human breast.
So vigorous, however, so masterly is the delineation of this Satanic
character, and so exactly did it, until of late years, chime in with
the bigotry of the Christian world, that no one of our author's plays
has experienced greater popularity. Fortunately the time has now
arrived when the Jew and the Christian can meet with all the feelings
of humanity about them; a state of society which, more than any other,
is calculated to effect that conversion for which every disciple of our
blessed religion will assuredly pray.
There is, also, to be found in this beautiful play a charm for the most
gentle and amiable minds, a vein of dignified melancholy and pensive
sweetness which endears it to every heart, and which fascinates the
more as affording the most welcome relief to the merciless conduct
of its leading character. What, for instance, can be more soothing
and delightful to the feelings, than the generous and disinterested
friendship of Antonio, when contrasted with the hard and selfish
nature of Shylock; what more noble than the sublime resignation of
the merchant, when opposed to the deadly and relentless hatred of his
prosecutor! Never was friendship painted more intense and lovely than
in the parting scene of Antonio and Bassanio; Salarino, speaking of the
former, says,—
"A kinder gentleman treads not the earth.
I saw Bassanio and Antonio part:
Bassanio told him, he would make some speed
Of his return: he answer'd—'Do not so,
Slubber not business for my sake, Bassanio,
But stay the very riping of the time;
And for the Jew's bond, which he hath of me,
Let it not enter in your mind of love:
Be merry; and employ your chiefest thoughts
To courtship, and such fair ostents of love
As shall conveniently become you there:'
_And even there, his eye being big with tears,
Turning his face, he put his hand behind him,
And with affection wond'rous sensible
He wrung Bassanio's hand, and so they parted_.
_Salanio._ I think, he only loves the world for him."[389:A]
Nor do the female personages of the drama contribute less to this
grateful effect: the sensible, the spirited, the eloquent _Portia_,
who has a principal share in the business of both plots, is equally
distinguished for the tenderness of her disposition and the goodness of
her heart, and her pleadings for mercy in behalf of the injured Antonio
will dwell on the ear of pity and admiration to the last syllable of
recorded time.
With a similar result do we enter into the character of _Jessica_,
whose artlessness, simplicity, and affectionate temper, excite, in
an uncommon degree, the interest of the reader. The opening of the
fifth act, where Lorenzo and Jessica are represented conversing on a
summer's night, in the avenue at Belmont, and listening with rapture to
the sounds of music, produces, occurring as it does immediately after
the soul-harrowing scene in the court of justice, the most enchanting
emotion; it breathes, indeed, a repose so soft and delicious, that the
mind seems dissolving in tranquil luxury:
"How sweet the moon-light sleeps upon this bank!
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of musick
Creep in our ears; soft stillness, and the night,
Become the touches of sweet harmony."[390:A]
Shakspeare was an enthusiast in music in a musical age; and though
his subsequent encomium upon it be somewhat extravagant, and his
reprobation of the man who "is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,"
undeservedly harsh and severe, yet are they both more applicable
and judicious than the flippant and undiscriminating censure of Mr.
Steevens, whose note on the subject has met with its due castigation
from the pen of Mr. Douce, who, after stigmatising the commentator's
disingenuous effort to throw an odium on this recreation, in
conjunction with the feeble aid of an illiberal passage from Lord
Chesterfield's _Letters_, justly and beautifully adds, that "It is a
science which, from its intimate and natural connexion with poetry
and painting, deserves the highest attention and respect. He that is
happily qualified to appreciate the _better parts_ of music, will never
seek them in the society so emphatically reprobated by the noble lord,
nor altogether in the way he recommends. He will not lend an ear to
the vulgarity and tumultuous roar of the tavern catch, or the delusive
sounds of martial clangour; but he will enjoy this heavenly gift, this
exquisite and soul-delighting sensation, in the temples of his God,
or in the peaceful circles of domestic happiness: he will pursue the
blessings and advantages of it with ardour, and turn aside from its
abuses."[391:A]
The fifth act of this play, which consists of but one scene, appears
to have been intended by the poet to remove the painful impressions
incident to the nature of his previous plot; it is light, elegant,
and beautifully written, and, though the main business of the drama
finishes with the termination of the fourth act, it is not felt as an
incumbrance, but on the contrary is beheld and enjoyed as a graceful,
animated, and consolatory close to one of the most perfect productions
of its author.
15. HAMLET: 1597. That this tragedy had been performed before 1598 is
evident from Gabriel Harvey's note in Speght's edition of Chaucer, as
quoted by Mr. Malone[391:B]; and, from the intimations of time brought
forward by Mr. Chalmers[391:C], we are induced to adopt the era of this
gentleman, placing the first sketch of _Hamlet_ early in 1597, and its
revision with additions in 1600.[391:D] Soon after which, namely, on
the 26th of July, 1602, it was entered on the Stationers' book, the
first edition hitherto discovered being printed in the year 1604.
No character in our author's plays has occasioned so much discussion,
so much contradictory opinion, and, consequently, so much perplexity,
as that of _Hamlet_. Yet we think it may be proved that Shakspeare
had a clear and definite idea of it throughout all its seeming
inconsistencies, and that a very few lines taken from one of the
monologues of this tragedy, will develope the ruling and efficient
feature which the poet held steadily in his view, and through whose
unintermitting influence every other part of the portrait has received
a peculiar modification. We are told, as the result of a deep but
unsatisfactory meditation on the mysteries of another world, on "the
dread of something after death," that
—— "thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the _pale cast of thought_;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action."[392:A]
Now this _pale cast of thought_ and its consequences, which, had not
Hamlet been interrupted by the entrance of Ophelia, he would have
himself applied to his own singular situation, form the very essence,
and give rise to the prominent defects of his character. It is evident,
therefore, that Shakspeare intended to represent him as variable and
indecisive in action, and that he has founded this want of volition
on one of those peculiar constitutions of the mental and moral
faculties which have been designated by the appellation of _genius_,
a combination of passions and associations which has led to all the
useful energies, and all the exalted eccentricities of human life; and
of which, in one of its most exquisite but speculative forms, Hamlet
presents us with perhaps the only instance on _theatric_ record.