than _Macbeth_, might, on that account, be preferred by Sophocles
and Virgil, will readily be granted; but that it has, in its general
style of composition, any pretensions to be classed as a production
of the school of Raffaelle, the leading features of which, according
to Sir Joshua Reynolds, are, in conception, _beauty_, _dignity_, and
_grace_, and in execution, _correctness of drawing_ and _purity of
taste_[530:B], is an imagination alike extravagant and unfounded. Were
we disposed to carry on the allusion to the art of painting, it might
be said with a much greater approximation to truth, that this very
impressive drama was _designed_ in the school of _Spagnuoletto_, and
tinted in that of _Rembrandt_; the dark strong manner of the former,
and the bold pencil and distinct colouring of the latter, being
infinitely more analogous to the strength of its characterisation, and
the forcible and often contrasted tone of its composition.
What, for instance, can be more opposed in structure, or contrasted in
manner, more partaking of the rapid transition of light and shade which
distinguish the school of Rembrandt, than the characters of Othello
and Desdemona. From the one we involuntarily retire, appalled by the
storm of vindictive passion which agitates his breast; while the other,
all tenderness, gentleness, and humility, is entwined about our hearts
by the most fascinating ties of simplicity and spotless purity. The
prevailing tone of the picture is, nevertheless, gloomy and terrific in
the extreme, and the denouement such, as not even Spagnuoletto, though
remarkable for the direful nature of his subjects, has ever exceeded.
We must acknowledge, however, that there is a grandeur and sublimity
in the delineation of Othello, of which the painter just mentioned had
no conception; for though in his jealousy he is sensual and ferocious,
apart from this horrid phrenzy which burns within him quenchless as
the fervors of his native climate, he exhibits many of the noblest
virtues of humanity, being open, magnanimous, and brave, confiding,
grateful, and affectionate; and, considering the subtlety with which
his suspicions are fostered and inflamed, he becomes at length, from
the intensity of his sufferings, an object both of pity and admiration.
Iago, the artful instrument of his ruin, the most cool and malignant
villain which the annals of iniquity have ever recorded, would,
from the detestation which accompanies his every action, be utterly
insupportable in the representation, were it not for the talents, for
the skill and knowledge in the springs and principles of human thought
and feeling, which he constantly displays, and which, fortunately
for the moral of the scene, while they excite and keep alive an
eager interest and curiosity, shield him not from our abhorrence and
condemnation.
Amid this whirlwind and commotion of hatred and revenge, the modest,
the artless, the unsuspicious Desdemona, seems, in the soothing but
transient influence which she exerts, like an evening star, that beams
lovely, for a moment, on the dark heavings of the tempest, and then is
lost for ever!
35. TWELFTH NIGHT: 1613. When Mr. Malone adopted the following passage,
on the suggestion of Mr. Tyrwhitt[531:A], as a sufficient basis for
the assignment of this play to the year 1614, he appears to have been
easily and egregiously misled. Antonio, addressing Sir Toby Belch,
says,—
——————— "If this young gentleman
Have done offence, _I take the fault on me_:"
to which the knight replies:—"Nay, if you be an _undertaker_, I am
for you[532:A];" a retort which Mr. Tyrwhitt imagined to contain an
allusion to some persons who, in 1614, "had _undertaken_, through
their influence in the House of Commons, to carry things according
to His Majesty's wishes;" and who, in consequence of this conduct,
were stigmatised with the invidious name of _undertakers_.[532:B] But
we find, from a reference to the Journals of the House of Commons,
that the terms _Takers_ and _Undertakers_ had been frequently used in
King James's parliaments, anteriorly to 1614[532:C], and Mr. Ritson
pertinently observes, that "_Undertakers_ were persons employed by
the King's purveyors to take up provisions for the royal household,
and were no doubt exceedingly odious[532:D];" so that an allusion to
this epithet, in a _political_ sense, if one were here intended, could
not serve to appropriate the date of 1614. This being the case, there
can be no hesitation in adopting the opinion of Ritson and Mason, who
conceive Sir Toby intended a mere quibble on the word, of which the
simple meaning is, that of one man taking upon himself the quarrel of
another.[532:D]
Having set aside, therefore, any chronological inference from this
source, let us turn to Mr. Chalmers, who seems to have determined the
date of this drama on better grounds. Yet of the three intimations
on which he has formed his conclusion, the _first_, derived from a
supposed reference to the British Undertakers for the plantation of
Ulster, we believe to be entitled to as little credit as the kindred
hypothesis of Mr. Malone. The _second_, which is founded on the evident
intention of our poet to place in a ludicrous light the then very
fashionable rage for duelling, is exclusively his own, and carries
with it no inconsiderable weight. "In _Twelfth Night_," he remarks,
"Shakspeare tried to effect, by ridicule, what the state was unable
to perform by legislation. The duels, which were so incorrigibly
frequent in that age, were thrown into a ridiculous light by _the
affair_ between Viola and Sir Andrew Ague-cheek. Sir Francis Bacon
had lamented, in the House of Commons, on the 3d of March, 1609-10,
the great difficulty of redressing the evil of duels, owing to the
corruption of man's nature.[533:A] King James tried to effect what the
Parliament had despaired of effecting; and, in 1613, he issued 'An
Edict and Censure against Private Combats[533:B],' which was conceived
with great vigour, and expressed with decisive force; but, whether with
the help of Bacon, or not, I am unable to ascertain. This is another
remarkable event in 1613, which the commentators have overlooked,
though it may have caught Shakspeare's eye."[533:C]
The _third_, common to both chronologers, but which has only received
its due influence, in the chronological scale, from the statement
of Mr. Chalmers, turns on the declaration of Fabian to Sir Toby,
that he would not give his part of the sport, alluding to the plot
against Malvolio, "for a pension of thousands to be paid from the
Sophy[533:D];" and on the assertion of Sir Toby to Sir Andrew
Ague-cheek, that Viola had been "fencer to the Sophy."[533:E] Now it
appears from Mr. Chalmers, that "in 1613, Sir Anthony Shirley published
his travels into Persia; with his _dangers_ and _distresses_, and his
_strange_ and _unexpected deliverances_;" that "Sir Robert Shirley, the
brother of Sir Anthony, arrived in October, 1611, as Ambassador from
_the Sophy_; bringing with him a Persian Princess, as his wife;" that
"he remained here, through the whole of the year 1612, at an expence
to King James of four pounds a day," and that "he departed in January,
1613."[533:F]
These intimations induced Mr. Chalmers to infer, "that _Twelfth Night_
was written in 1613, while these various objects were in the eye, or
in the recollection of the public;" a conclusion which we see no reason
to dispute.
The dramatic career of our immortal poet could not be closed with a
production, in its kind, more exquisitely finished, than the comedy
of _Twelfth Night_. The serious and the humorous scenes are alike
excellent; the former
——————— "give a very echo to the seat
Where love is thron'd,"[534:A]
and are tinted with those romantic hues, which impart to passion the
fascinations of fancy, and which stamp the poetry of Shakspeare with
a character so transcendently his own, so sweetly wild, so tenderly
imaginative. Of this description are the loves of Viola and Orsino,
which, though involving a few improbabilities of incident, are told
in a manner so true to nature, and in a strain of such melancholy
enthusiasm, as instantly put to flight all petty objections, and leave
the mind rapt in a dream of the most delicious sadness. The fourth
scene of the second act more particularly breathes the blended emotions
of love, of hope, and of despair, opening with a highly interesting
description of the soothing effects of music, in allaying the pangs of
unrequited affection, and in which the attachment of Shakspeare to the
simple melodies of the olden time is strongly and beautifully expressed.
From the same source which has given birth to this delightful portion
of the drama, appears to spring a large share of that rich and
frolic humour which distinguishes its gayer incidents. The delusion
of Malvolio, in supposing himself the object of Olivia's desires,
and the ludicrous pretensions of Sir Andrew Ague-cheek to the same
lady, fostered as they are by the comic manœuvres of the convivial
Sir Toby, and the keen-witted Maria, furnish, together with the
professional drollery of Feste the jester, an ever-varying fund of
pleasantry and mirth; scenes in which wit and raillery are finely
blended with touches of original character, and strokes of poignant
satire.
To these _thirty-five genuine_ plays[535:A], as they may be termed, a
large number, when we consider that the life of their author extended
very little beyond half a century, interest and unauthorised rumour
have added a long list of spurious productions. Among these, we
have assigned our reasons for placing what has been commonly called
the _First Part of King Henry the Sixth_, but which, in Henslowe's
catalogue of plays performed at the Rose theatre, is simply designated
by the title of _Henry the Sixth_. In the same catalogue, also, is to
be found _Titus Andronicus_, which, though printed like _Henry_, in the
first folio, has, if possible, still fewer pretensions to authenticity,
having been clearly ascertained by the commentators, both from external
and internal evidence, to possess no claim to such distinction, and to
hold no affinity with the undisputed works of Shakspeare.[536:A]
In a new edition of the _Supplement_, therefore, which Mr. Malone
published in 1780, it is our recommendation that these two pieces be
inserted, as proper companions for _Locrine_, _Sir John Oldcastle_,
_Lord Cromwell_, _The London Prodigal_, _The Puritan_, and _A Yorkshire
Tragedy_. Of these wretched dramas, it has been now positively
proved, through the medium of the Henslowe Papers, "that the name of
Shakspeare, which is printed at length in the title-pages of _Sir
John Oldcastle_, 1600, and _The London Prodigal_, 1605, was affixed
to those pieces by a knavish bookseller, without any foundation," the
following entry occurring in the manuscript, on the 16th of October,
1599:—"Received by me Thomas Downton, of Philip Henslowe, to pay Mr.
Monday, Mr. Drayton, Mr. Wilson, and Hathway, for _The first part of
the Lyfe of Sir Jhon Ouldcastell_, and in earnest of _the Second Pte_,
for the use of the company, ten pound, I say received 10lb."[536:B]
Not content with this ample addition, which first appeared in the
folio of 1664, the public has been further imposed upon by another
illegitimate group, principally derived from a blind confidence in
the accuracy of catalogues, and the fabrication of booksellers. From
these sources, and from the authority of a volume formerly in the
possession of King Charles the Second, and lettered on the back,
SHAKSPEARE, Vol. I., the subsequent enumeration has been given
by Mr. Steevens, viz.:—1. _The Arraignment of Paris_; 2. _The Birth
of Merlin_; 3. _Edward III._; 4. _Fair Emm_; 5. _The Merry Devil of
Edmonton_; and 6. _Mucedorus_; to which may be added, from Warburton's
Collection of Old Dramas, where they are said to have been entered
on the books of the Stationers' Company, as written by Shakspeare,
7. _Duke Humphrey_, a Tragedy; and 8. The History of _King Stephen_,
both registered, June 29. 1660.[537:A] George Peele, it appears, was
the author of _The Arraignment of Paris_[537:B], and a writer, who
signs himself T.B., of _The Merry Devil of Edmonton_[537:C], while the
ascription of the plays, once in Warburton's library, was probably
owing, at that distance of time, either to the ignorance, credulity, or
fraud, of some heedless or mercenary trader.
To enter into any critical discussion of the merits or defects of these
pieces, would be an utter abuse of time. We do not believe that, either
in the play of _Henry the Sixth_, or _Titus Andronicus_, twenty lines
can be found of Shakspeare's composition; and, in the residue of this
first group, consisting of six more, we decidedly think not so many.
In the second, including also eight dramas, the only production now
extant, of any worth, is _The Merry Devil of Edmonton_, which contains
a few pleasing and interesting passages expressed with ease and
simplicity.
We have still to notice some vague reports relative to our poet's
occasional junction with his contemporaries in dramatic composition:
thus, we are told, that he assisted Ben Jonson in his [537:D]_Sejanus_;
Davenport, in his _Henry the First_[537:E], and Fletcher, in his _Two
Noble Kinsmen_.[537:F] Of these traditional stories, the first has been
very deservedly given up, as "entirely out of the question[538:A];"
the second rests merely on the unsupported assertion of a Stationers'
Register[538:B], and the third, though more express and distinct, has
been completely refuted by Colman and Steevens.[538:C] Indeed, there
is much reason to suppose that _The Two Noble Kinsmen_ was not written
until after the death of Shakspeare.[538:D]
From what has been said, under each article of the preceding
chronology, perhaps no very inadequate idea may be formed of the
DRAMATIC CHARACTER of our poet; but, it will be expected
here, and it is indeed essential to a just and facile comprehension
of the subject, that a summary or condensed view of this character be
attempted, in order, by collecting the scattered rays into a focus, to
throw upon it a due degree of brilliancy and strength.
With the view of ascertaining the peculiar GENIUS OF HIS DRAMA, it
is necessary that we should attend to a distinction, which has been
very correctly and luminously laid down by some late German critics,
particularly by _Herder_ and _Schlegel_, who oppose the modern to the
ancient drama, under the appellation of the _Gothic_ or _romantic_,
assimilating the _antique_ or _classical_ theatre to _a group in
sculpture_, and the _Gothic_ or _romantic_ to _an extensive picture_,
_separation_ being the essence of the _former_, and _combination_ of
the latter; or, in other words, that the spirit of the Grecian drama is
_plastic_, and that of the English _picturesque_.
In fact, the _Romantic_ Drama is the result of that great change which
took place in society on the extinction of the western empire, when the
blended influence of Christianity and Chivalry, operating on the stern
virtues of the Teutonic tribes, gave birth to a spirit of seriousness
and sentiment, of love and honour, of enterprise and adventure, which
led to a constant aspiration after the great, the wonderful, the
wild, and, by mingling the melancholy of a sublime religion with an
enthusiastic homage for female worth, threw an anxious but unparalleled
interest over all the relations of existence, and all the products of
intellectual effort.
The effect of this combination on the poetry of the middle ages, and
more especially on that of the immediately subsequent centuries,
in impressing it with an awful and mysterious character, has been
beautifully sketched by Schlegel, particularly where, as in the
following passage, he accounts for the solemn and contemplative cast
of its structure, by tracing its dependency on the genius of our
faith. "Among the Greeks," he observes, "human nature was in itself
all-sufficient; they were conscious of no wants, and aspired at no
higher perfection than that which they could actually attain by the
exercise of their own faculties. We, however, are taught by superior
wisdom that man, through a high offence, forfeited the place for which
he was originally destined; and that the whole object of his earthly
existence is to strive to regain that situation, which, if left to his
own strength, he could never accomplish. The religion of the senses
had only in view the possession of outward and perishable blessings;
and immortality, in so far as it was believed, appeared in an obscure
distance like a shadow, a faint dream of this bright and vivid
futurity. The very reverse of all this is the case with the Christian;
every thing finite and mortal is lost in the contemplation of infinity;
life has become shadow and darkness, and the first dawning of our real
existence opens in the world beyond the grave. Such a religion must
waken the foreboding, which slumbers in every feeling heart, to the
most thorough consciousness, that the happiness after which we strive
we can never here attain; that no external object can ever entirely
fill our souls; and that every mortal enjoyment is but a fleeting
and momentary deception. When the soul, resting as it were under the
willows of exile, breathes out its longing for its distant home, the
prevailing character of its songs must be melancholy. Hence the poetry
of the ancients was the poetry of enjoyment, and ours is that of
desire: the former has its foundation in the scene which is present,
while the latter hovers betwixt recollection and hope. Let me not be
understood to affirm that every thing flows in one strain of wailing
and complaint, and that the voice of melancholy must always be loudly
heard. As the austerity of tragedy was not incompatible with the joyous
views of the Greeks, so the romantic poetry can assume every tone, even
that of the most lively gladness; but still it will always, in some
shape or other, bear traces of the source from which it originated. The
feeling of the moderns is, upon the whole, more intense, their fancy
more incorporeal, and their thoughts more contemplative."[540:A]
Who does not perceive that this reference to futurity, this
apprehension of the possible consequences of death, which chills the
blood with awful emotion, and mingles fear even with the energies of
hope, is peculiarly characteristic of the serious drama of Shakspeare?
In what poet, for instance, shall we find the terrors of dissolution
painted with such appalling strength? where nature recoiling with such
involuntary horror from the thoughts of extinction? and where those
blended feelings which, on the eve of our departure, even agitate
the good, ere the forms of earthly love sink into night, and a world
unknown receives the disembodied spirit? Need we point to _Henry the
Sixth_, to _Hamlet_, to _Measure for Measure_, to _Macbeth_, and
to many others, for proofs of this continual appeal to life beyond
the grave, this perpetual effort to unite, with influential power,
these two states of our existence, certainly one of the most striking
distinctions which separate the _romantic_ from the _antique_ style
of dramatic fiction, and in which, as in every other feature of this
species of poetry, Shakspeare was the first who, in our own or any
other country, exhibited such unrivalled excellence, as to constitute
him, in every just sense of the term, the founder of this species of
the drama.
For have we not, in his productions, the noblest model of that
comprehensive form which, including under one view all the varieties
and vicissitudes of human being, presents us with a picture in which
not only the virtues and the vices, but the follies and the frailties,
the levities and the mirth of man, are harmonised and blended into a
perfect whole, connected too, and that intimately, with a vast range
of surrounding circumstances which, both in the foreground and in the
distance, are so managed, as, by the illusory aid of tinting, grouping,
and shadowing, to assist in the production of a great and determinate
effect. To evince the superiority of this mode of composition over that
which prevailed on the Grecian stage, it is only necessary to reflect,
that the concatenated series of events which is unfolded, with so
much unity of design, in the single drama of _Macbeth_, could only be
represented, on the simple and confined plan of the school of Athens,
by a trilogy, or succession of distinct tragedies! Can a system, thus
necessarily broken into insulated parts, be put into competition with
the rich and full evolution of the _romantic_ or Shakspearean drama?
It is evident, therefore, that the _romantic_ or _picturesque_ drama
should be judged by laws and regulations of its own; that it is a
distinct order of art, displaying great originality and invention,
and a much more perfect and profound view of human life and its
dependencies, than any anterior effort in the same department of
literature; and as all the productions of our poet are exclusively
referable to this order, of which he is, without dispute, the greatest
master, a brief enquiry into the CONDUCT OF HIS DRAMA cannot fail to
throw some light on the subject.
Of the three unities, upon which so much stress has been laid by the
French critics, Shakspeare has in general, and, for the most part,
very judiciously, rejected two. One of these, the _unity of place_,
was, indeed, indissolubly connected with the tragedy of the Greeks;
for as the chorus was continually on their stage, no curtain could
be dropped, nor was any change of scene therefore possible; but the
_unity of time_ was, most assuredly, neither rigidly observed by
them, nor did it constitute any essential part of their system; on
the contrary, Aristotle, after remarking, "that the dramatic fable
should have such a length that the connexion of the circumstances
may easily be remembered," immediately afterwards declares of this
very length, that "as far as regards the time of the performance
and the spectators, it has no relation to the poetic art," and that
"as to the natural boundary of the action, _the greater it is the
better, provided it be perspicuous_."[542:A] In fact, as to _unity
of place_, no rule was required, this limitation, as we have seen,
being the inevitable consequence of the defective and insulated
construction of their dramatic fable; and as to _unity of time_, the
observation which we have just quoted from Aristotle is decisive, the
circumstances attending both these _supposed_ laws being such, as
fully to warrant the assertion of Mr. Twining, who, commenting on the
Stagyrite, observes, that "with respect to the _strict_ unities of
_time_ and _place_, no such rules were imposed on the Greek poets by
the critics, or by themselves; nor are imposed on _any_ poet, either
by the _nature_, or the _end_, of the dramatic imitation itself;" and
we may add, that, in as far as both have been simultaneously reduced
to practice, either by the Greeks themselves, or by their still more
scrupulous imitators the French, have interest and probability been
proportionably sacrificed.
Whether Shakspeare, therefore, acting solely from his own judgment,
rejected, or, guided merely by the usage of his day, overlooked, these
unities, a great point was gained for all the lovers of nature and
verisimilitude. For, omitting regulations which, though generally or
partially observed by the ancients, were either altogether arbitrary,
or only locally necessary, he has adopted two of which it may be
said, that neither time, circumstance, nor opinion, can diminish the
utility. To _unity of action_, the indispensable requisite of every
well-constituted fable, he has added, what in him is found more perfect
than in any other writer, _unity of feeling_, as applicable not only to
individual character, but to the prevailing tone and influence of each
play. Thus, while it must be confessed that the former is, in a few
instances, broken in upon, by the admission of extraneous personages or
occurrences, in no respect is the latter, throughout the whole range of
his productions, forgotten or violated.
It is to this sedulous attention in the preservation of _unity of
feeling_, that Shakspeare owes much of his fascination and powers of
impression over the hearts and minds of his audience. It has been
duly panegyrised by the critics with respect to his delineation of
character; but as referable to the expression and effect of an entire
drama, it has been too much overlooked. What, for example, can be more
distinct than the tone of feeling which pervades every portion of
_Romeo and Juliet_ and _Macbeth_, and how consistently is this tone
preserved throughout each! Through the first, from its opening to its
close, breathe the freshness and the fragrance of youth and spring,
their sweetness, their innocency, and alas! their transiency; while in
the second, a tempest of more than midnight horror, and the still more
turbulent strife of human vice and passion, howl for ever in our ears!
Again, how delightful is the tender and philosophic melancholy, which
steals upon us in every scene of _As You Like It_, and how contrasted
with the bustle and vivacity, the light and effervescent wit which
animate, and sparkle in, the dialogue of _Much Ado about Nothing_!—We
consider this _unity_, by which the separate parts of a drama are
rendered so strictly subservient to a single and a common object,
namely, the production of a combined and uniform impression, as one of
the most remarkable proofs of the depth and comprehensiveness of the
mind of Shakspeare.
This excellence is the more extraordinary, as no part in the _conduct
of his drama_ is perhaps so prominent, as that mixture of seriousness
and mirth, of comic and tragic effect, which springs from the very
structure itself of the _romantic drama_. But this interchange of
emotion serves only to place the intention of the poet, and the
fulness of his success, more completely in our view; for he has almost
always contrived, that the ludicrous personages of his play should
give essential aid to the pre-determined effect of the composition
as a whole; and this co-operation is even most apparent, where the
impression intended to be excited is the most tragic: thus the anguish
which lacerates the bosom of Lear, when deserted by his children, and
driven forth amid the horrors of the tempest, is augmented almost to
madness by the sarcastic drollery of the fool; developed, indeed, with
an energy and strength which no other expedient could have accomplished.
These contrasts, which are, in fact, of the very essence of the
_romantic drama_, as requiring richer and more varied accompaniments
than the _antique_ species, form, in their whole spirit and effect,
a sufficient apology, were one in the least necessary, for the
_tragi-comic_ texture of our author's principal productions.
By embracing in one view the whole of the checkered scene of human
existence, its joys and sorrows, its perpetually shifting circumstances
and relations, and by blending these into one harmonious picture,
Shakspeare has achieved a work to which the ancient world had nothing
similar, and which, of all the efforts of human genius, demands
perhaps the widest and profoundest exertion of intellect. It demands a
knowledge of man, both as a genus and a species; of man, as acting from
himself, and of man in society under all its aspects and revolutions:
it demands a knowledge of what has influenced and modified his
character from the earliest dawn of record; and, above all, it demands
a conversancy of the most intimate kind with his constitution, moral,
intellectual, and religious; so that in detaching a portion of history
for the purposes of dramatic composition, the philosopher shall be as
discernible in the execution as the poet.
It is this depth and comprehension of design in the conduct of his
drama, this amplitude of "a mind reflecting ages past[545:A]," which,
while it has rendered Shakspeare an object of admiration to the
intelligent student of nature, has occasioned him to be so often and so
grossly misinterpreted by the narrow critic and the careless reader.
To these brief remarks on the _Genius_ and _Conduct_, it will
be necessary to add a few observations on the _Characters_, the
_Passions_, the _Comic Painting_, and the _Imaginative Powers_, of his
drama.
"To give a stage,
Ample, and true with life,—voice, action, age,
To story coldly told—
To raise our ancient sovereigns from their herse,
To enliven their pale trunks,"
and to make us
"Joy in their joy, and tremble at their rage,"
is, indeed, a task of the utmost magnitude and difficulty, but one in
which our poet has succeeded with a felicity altogether unparalleled.
His _characters_ live and breathe before us; we perceive not only what
they say and do, but what they feel and think; and we are tempted
to believe, that like some magician of old, he possessed the art of
transfusing himself into the frame, and of speaking through the organs,
of those whom he wished to represent; so exactly has he drawn, without
deviation from the general laws and broad tract of life, each class and
condition of mankind.
Whether he delineate the possessor of a throne, or the tenant of a
cottage; the warrior in battle, or the statesman in debate; youth in
its fervour, or old age in its repose; guilt in agony, or innocence
in peace; the votaries of pleasure, or the victims of despair; we
behold each character developing itself, not through the medium of
self-description, but, as in actual experience, through the influence
and progression of events, and through the re-action of surrounding
agents. Thus, from the mutual working of conflicting interests and
emotions, from their various powers of coalescence and repulsion, the
characters of Shakspeare are, like those in real life, evolved with
an energy and strength, with a freedom and boldness of outline which
will, probably for ever, stamp them with the seal of unapproachable
excellence.
Nor is he less distinguished for an illimitable sway over the
_Passions_:—
——————————— "To move
A chilling pity—
To strike—both joy and ire;
To steer the affections; and by heavenly fire
Mold us anew,—
Yet so to temper passion, that our ears
Take pleasure in their pain, and eyes in tears
Both weep and smile"—
are some of the noblest attributes of the dramatic poet, and more
peculiarly characteristic of Shakspeare than of any other writer. The
birth and progress of the numerous passions which awaken _pity_ and
_terror_, he has unfolded, indeed, with such minute fidelity to nature,
that it is scarcely possible, as Madame De Stael has observed, to
sympathise thoroughly with Shakspeare's sufferers, without tasting also
of the bitter experience of real life.
The _pathos_ of Shakspeare is either simple or figurative, in
accordancy with the character, and in proportion to the intensity of
the feeling, from which it emanates. The sigh of suffering merit,
or the pang of unrequited love, affects us most when clothed in the
language of perfect simplicity; but the energy, the paroxysm of extreme
sorrow, naturally bursts into figurative language, nay often demands
that very play of imagery and words, for which our bard has been
ignorantly condemned, but which, like laughter amid the horrors of
madness, can alone impress us with an adequately keen sense of the
overwhelming agony of the soul. Of these two modes of exciting pity, we
possess very striking examples in the sufferings of Katherine in _Henry
the Eighth_, and in the parental afflictions of Constance in _King
John_.
The excitement, indeed, of unallayed pity must necessarily either be
very short, or very painful, and it has therefore been the endeavour
of our dramatist, according to the language of the fine old bard just
quoted,
———— "so to temper passion, that our ears
Take pleasure in their pain;"
and this he has effected, and often with great skill and judgment, by
a transient intermixture of playful fancy or comic allusion, of which,
instances without number are to be found dispersed throughout his plays.
Yet great as we acknowledge the influence of Shakspeare to have been,
in eliciting the tears of pity and compassion, he has surpassed not
only others, but himself, in the power and extent of his dominion
over the sources and operation of _terror_. "It may be said of crimes
painted by Shakspeare," remarks an accomplished critic, "as the Bible
says of Death, that he is the KING OF TERRORS[547:A];" an assertion
fully warranted by an appeal to _Richard_, to _Lear_, to _Hamlet_, to
_Macbeth_, where this soul-harrowing emotion, as derived from natural
or supernatural causes, from remorseless cruelty, from phrenzy-stricken
sorrow, from conscious guilt or withering fear, is depicted with an
energy so awful and appalling as to blanch the cheek and chill the
blood of every intellectual being. More especially do we pursue his
creations with trembling hope and breathless apprehension, when he
traces the wanderings of despair, when he presents to our view that
"shipwreck of moral nature," in which "the storm of life surpasses its
strength."[548:A]
The scenes which are necessarily required for the developement of
villany and its artifices, must, of course, disclose many deeds
of atrocity and vice, from which the unpolluted mind recoils with
shuddering astonishment; but vividly, and justly too, as these have
been portrayed by our poet, in all their native deformity, he has,
with only one or two exceptions, so managed the exhibition, that,
unless to very feeble minds, the impression never becomes too painful
to be borne. Some qualifying property in the head or heart of the
offender, or some repose from the intervention of more amiable or more
cheerful characters, occurs to subdue to its proper tone what would
otherwise amount to torture. Thus the disgust which would be apt to
arise from contemplating the gigantic iniquity of _Richard the Third_,
is corrected by an almost involuntary admiration of his intellectual
vigour; and the merciless revenge of Shylock, being perpetually broken
in upon by the alleviating harmonies of love and pity in the characters
of those who surround him, passes not beyond the due limits of tragic
emotion.[548:B]
The inimitable felicity, indeed, with which Shakspeare has
intermingled the finest chords of _pity_ and of _terror_, such as we
listen to, with unsated rapture in his _Romeo_, his _Lear_, and his
_Othello_, has been a subject of eulogium to thousands, but never can
it meet, from mortal tongue, with praise of corresponding worth. For
who shall paint the beauty of those transitions, when on a night of
horror breaks the first bright ray of heaven, the dawn of light and
hope; when, like the sounds of an Æolian harp amid the pauses of a
tempest, the still soft voice of love succeeds the tumult of despair,
and whispers to the troubled spirit accents of mercy, peace, and
pardon?
It is perhaps only of Shakspeare that it can be said with truth,
that his _comic_ possesses the same unrivalled merit as his _tragic_
drama. The force and versatility of his _painting_ in this department,
its richness, its depth, and its expression, and, more than all, the
originality and fecundity of invention which it every where exhibits,
astonish, and almost overwhelm the mind in its endeavour to form
an estimate of powers so gigantic, and which may not be altogether
incommensurate with its scope and comprehensiveness. Whether we
consider his delineations of this kind as the product of pure fiction,
or founded on the costume of his age, they alike delight us by their
novelty and their adhesion to nature. _Falstaff_ and _Parolles_ are,
in many respects, as much the birth of fancy as _Caliban_ or _Ariel_;
but being strictly confined within the pale of humanity, and displaying
all its features with living truth and distinctness, the _inventive
felicity_ of their _combination_ is apt to escape us through our
familiarity with its component parts. His _Fools_, or Clowns, on the
contrary, were, in his time, of daily occurrence, and not only to be
found in the court of the monarch, and the castle of the baron, but in
the hall of the squire, and even beneath the roof of the churchman;
yet, from comparing what history has recorded of this motley tribe
with the spirited sketches of our author, how has he heightened their
wit and sarcasm!—to such a degree, indeed, that they have frequently
become in his hands personages of poetic growth, wild and grotesque, it
is true, yet powerfully original.
This pre-eminence of Shakspeare in the characterisation of his fools
probably led to their dramatic extinction; for it must have been found
very difficult to support their tone and spirit after such a model.
Beaumont and Fletcher, it has been observed, have but rarely introduced
them; Ben Jonson and Massinger never[550:A]; and yet the _court_-fool
had not ceased to exist in the reign of Charles the First, nor the
_domestic_ until the commencement of the eighteenth century.[550:B]
Another of the great distinctions which have elevated Shakspeare so
completely above the _dramatic_ class of poets, is the splendour and
infinity of his _imagination_—
"To out-run hasty time, retrieve the fates,
Roll back the heavens, blow ope the iron gates
Of death and Lethe——by art to learn
The physiognomy of shades, and give
Them sudden birth—'and' from 'his' lofty throne,
Create and rule a world, and work upon
Mankind by secret engines,"
was deemed, even by his contemporaries, the peculiar destiny of our
bard; a destination that has been still more thoroughly felt and
acknowledged by succeeding ages, and by which, without sacrificing
any of the more legitimate provinces of the drama, he has acquired
for his poetry that stamp of glowing inspiration, which more than
places it on a level with the daring flights of Homer, of Dante, or of
Milton; while, at the same time, there exclusively belongs to him an
insinuating loveliness of fancy that endears him to our feelings, and
brings with it a recognition of that visionary happiness which charmed
our earliest youth, when all around us breathed enchantment, and the
heart alone responded to the fairy melodies of love and hope.
What contrast, for instance, of poetic power has ever exceeded that
which we experience in passing from the mysterious horrors of _Hamlet_
and _Macbeth_, from the visitations of the midnight spectre, and the
unhallowed rites of witchcraft, to the sportive revelry of the tripping
elves, and the exquisite delights of Ariel; from the fiend-like
character of Iago, from the soul-harrowing distraction of Lear, and
the unearthly wildness of Edgar, to that music of paradise which falls
melting from the tongue of Juliet or Miranda!
Were we to lengthen this summary by any dissertation on the _morality_
of our author's drama, it might justly be considered as a work of
supererogation. So completely, indeed, does this, the most valuable
result of composition, pervade every portion of his dramatic writings,
that we can scarcely open a page of his best plays without being
forcibly struck by its lessons of virtue and utility; such as are
applicable, not only to extraordinary occasions, but to the common
business and routine of life; and such as, while they must make every
individual better acquainted with his own nature and conditional
destiny, are calculated, beyond any other productions of unrevealed
wisdom, to improve that nature, and to render that destiny more happy
and exalted.
Still less is it necessary to comment on the _faults_ of Shakspeare,
for they lie immediately on the surface. When we add, that some
coarsenesses and indelicacies which, however, as they excite no
passion and flatter no vice, are, in a moral light, not injurious;
some instances of an injudicious play on words, and a few violations,
not of essential, but merely of technical, costume, form their chief
amount, no little surprise, it is possible, may be excited; but let us
recollect, that many of the defects which prejudice and ignorance have
attributed to Shakspeare, have, on being duly weighed and investigated,
assumed the character of positive excellences. Among these, for
example, it will be sufficient to mention the composite or mixed nature
of his drama, and his general neglect of the unities of time and place,
features in the conduct of his plays which, though they have for a long
period heaped upon his head a torrent of contemptuous abuse, are, at
length, acknowledged to have laid the foundation, and to have furnished
the noblest model of a dramatic literature, in its principles and
spirit infinitely more profound and comprehensive than that which has
descended to us from the shores of Greece.
It was in reference to the narrow and mistaken views which were once
entertained of the genius of Shakspeare; it was in refutation of the
calumnies of Rymer, and the senseless invective of Voltaire, who had
charged us with an extravagant admiration of this _barbarian_, that
Mr. Morgan, forty years ago, stood forward the avowed champion, and, we
may add, one of the most eloquent defenders which his country has yet
produced, of _England's_ calumniated _Bard_.
Speaking of the magic influence which our poet almost invariably exerts
over his auditors, he remarks, that "on such an occasion, a fellow,
like _Rymer_, waking from his trance, shall lift up his Constable's
staff, and charge this great Magician, this daring _practicer of
arts inhibited_, in the name of _Aristotle_, to surrender; whilst
_Aristotle_ himself, disowning his wretched officer, would fall
prostrate at his feet and acknowledge his supremacy.—'O supreme
of Dramatic excellence! (_might he say_) not to me be imputed the
insolence of fools. The bards of _Greece_ were confined within
the narrow circle of the Chorus, and hence they found themselves
constrained to practice, for the most part, the precision, and copy
the details of nature. I followed them, and knew not that a larger
circle might be drawn, and the drama extended to the whole reach of
human genius. Convinced, I see that a more compendious _nature_ may be
obtained; a nature of _effects_ only, to which neither the relations
of place, or continuity of time, are always essential. Nature,
condescending to the faculties and apprehensions of man, has drawn
through human life a regular chain of visible causes and effects: But
Poetry delights in surprize, conceals her steps, seizes at once upon
the heart, and obtains the sublime of things without betraying the
rounds of her ascent: True Poesy is _magic_, not _nature_; an effect
from causes hidden or unknown. To the Magician I prescribed no laws;
his law and his power are one; his power is his law.—If his end is
obtained, who shall question his course? Means, whether apparent or
hidden, are justified in Poesy by success; but then most perfect and
most admirable when most concealed.'—
"'Yes,' whatever may be the neglect of some, or the censure of others,
there are those, who firmly believe that this wild, this uncultivated
Barbarian has not yet obtained one half of his fame; and who trust that
some new Stagyrite will arise, who, instead of pecking at the surface
of things, will enter into the inward soul of his compositions, and
expel, by the force of congenial feelings, those foreign impurities
which have stained and disgraced his page. And as to those _spots_
which still remain, they may perhaps become invisible to those who
shall seek them thro' the medium of his beauties, instead of looking
for those beauties, as is too frequently done, thro' the smoke of some
real or imputed obscurity. When the hand of time shall have brushed
off his present Editors and Commentators, and when the very name
of _Voltaire_, and even the memory of the language in which he has
written, shall be no more, the _Apalachian_ mountains, the banks of the
_Ohio_, and the plains of _Sciola_ shall resound with the accents of
this Barbarian: In his native tongue he shall roll the genuine passions
of nature; nor shall the griefs of _Lear_ be alleviated, or the charms
and wit of _Rosalind_ be abated by time."[554:A]
Since this eloquently prophetic passage was written, how has the
fame of Shakspeare increased! Not only in England has the growth
of a more enlightened criticism operated in his favour, but on the
continent an enthusiasm for his genius has been kindled, which, we may
venture to say, will never be extinguished. In Germany, the efforts
of Herder[554:B], of Goethe[554:C], of Tieck[554:D], and, above
all, of Augustus William Schlegel, the "_new Stagyrite_," as he may
justly be termed, the best critic on, and the best translator, of our
author[554:E], have, as it were, naturalised the poet; and if in France
the labours of Le Mercier and Ducis have failed to produce a similar
effect, yet a taste for Shakspeare in the original has been very
powerfully heightened by the nervous and elegant compositions of De
Stael.
Nor has Europe alone borne testimony to the progress of his reputation;
not twenty years had passed over the glowing predictions of Morgan,
when the first transatlantic edition of Shakspeare appeared at
Philadelphia[555:A]; nor is it too much to believe that, ere another
century elapse, the plains of Northern America, and even the unexplored
wilds of Australasia, shall be as familiar with the fictions of our
poet, as are now the vallies of his native Avon, or the statelier banks
of the Thames.
It is, indeed, a most delightful consideration for every lover and
cultivator of our literature, and one which should excite, amongst
our authors, an increased spirit of emulation, that the language in
which they write, is destined to be that of so large a portion of
the new world; a field of glory to which the genius of Shakspeare
will assuredly give an imperishable permanency; for the diffusion and
durability of his fame are likely to meet with no limit save that which
circumscribes the globe, and closes the existence of time.
FOOTNOTES:
[492:A] Reed's Shakspeare, vol. xvi. p. 422.
[494:A] The representation of the character of Coriolanus by Mr.
Kemble, which realises the very conception of the poet, and which in
spirit, manner, and costume, can scarcely be deemed susceptible of
improvement, has rendered this drama very popular in our own day.
[495:A] Winter's Tale, act i. sc. 2.
[495:B] Illustrations, vol. i. p. 347.
[495:C] Osborne's Works, 9th edit. 8vo. 1689, p. 477.
[496:A] History of Great Britain, folio, 1653, p. 12.
[496:B] "I am inclined to think," says Mr. Malone, "that he (Jonson)
joined these plays in the same censure, in consequence of their having
been produced at no great distance of time from each other."—Reed's
Shakspeare, vol. ii. p. 326. note. That this passage was intended,
however, as a censure on Shakspeare remains doubtful.
[496:C] Reed's Shakspeare, vol. ii. p. 326.
[497:A] It appears, from Mr. Malone, that the copy of The Winter's
Tale, licensed by Sir George Buck, had been lost.—Vide Reed's
Shakspeare, vol. ii. p. 326. note.
[498:A] Reed's Shakspeare, vol. ix. p. 209.
[498:B] Illustrations of Shakspeare, vol. i. p. 364.
[498:C] Lectures on Dramatic Literature, vol. ii. p. 181.—That
Shakspeare considered the romantic incidents of this play as properly
designated by the appellation of _an old tale_, is evident from his
own application of the phrase to several parts of the plot. Thus, in
the second scene of the fifth act, we find it used in the following
passages:—
"How goes it now, sir? this news, which is called true, is so
like _an old tale_."
"_2d Gent._ What, pray you, became of Antigonus, that carried
hence the child?
_3d Gent._ Like _an old tale_ still."
And again, in the next scene:—
"_Paul._ That she is living,
Were it but told, you should be hooted at,
Like _an old tale_."
[499:A] Reed's Shakspeare, vol. ix. p. 362. Act iv. sc. 3.
[499:B] Ibid. vol. ix. p. 343. Act iv. sc. 3.
[500:A] Reed's Shakspeare, vol. ix. pp. 366, 367. Act iv. sc. 3.
[500:B] Winwood's Memoirs, vol. iii. p. 422.
[500:C] Supplemental Apology, pp. 438, 439.
[501:A] Reed's Shakspeare, vol. ii. p. 363.
[502:A] Wilson's Historie of Great Britain, pp. 64, 65.
[502:B] The idea of the witch, says Mr. Steevens, might have been
caught from Dionyse Settle's _Reporte of the Last Voyage of Captaine
Frobisher_, 12mo. bl. l. 1577. He is speaking of a woman found on one
of the islands described:—"The old wretch, whome divers of our Saylers
supposed to be a Divell, or a _Witche_, plucked off her buskins, to see
if she were clouen footed, and for her ougly hewe and deformitie, we
let her goe."—Reed's Shakspeare, vol. iv. p. 33. STEEVENS.
Eden tells us in his History of Travayle, 1577, that "the giantes,
when they found themselves fettered, roared like bulls, and cried upon
_Setebos_ to help them."—Ibid. vol. iv. p. 43. note by Farmer.
Mr. Douce thinks that the name of Caliban's mother, Sycorax, was
probably taken by Shakspeare from the following passage in _Batman
uppon Bartholome_, 1582:—"The raven is called _corvus_ of _Corax_
. . . . . . it is said that _ravens birdes_ be fed with _deaw_ of
heaven all the time that they have no black _feathers_, by benefite of
age." Lib. xii. c. 10.—Illustrations, vol. i. p. 8.
[503:A] Vide Chalmers's Apology, p. 578.
[503:B] Reed's Shakspeare, vol. iv. p. 3.
[504:A] As the passage which we have just quoted from Jourdan's
pamphlet is, as Mr. Chalmers confesses, in the first edition of 1610,
what necessity was there for referring us, for Shakspeare's obligation,
to little more than a second edition of it, under the title of "A
Plaine Description," &c.?—Vide Chalmers's Apology, p. 580.
[504:B] Illustrations of Shakspeare, vol. i. pp. 5-7.
[505:A]
"_Alon._ If thou beest Prospero,
Give us particulars of thy preservation:
How thou hast met us here, who _three hours since
Were wreck'd upon this shore_."
Act v. sc. 1. Reed's Shakspeare, vol. iv. pp. 160, 161.
"_Alon._ What is this maid, with whom thou wast at play?
Your eld'st acquaintance cannot be _three hours_."
Act v. p. 163.
[509:A] Discoverie of Witchcraft, edit. of 1584. pp. 467-469.
[509:B] Anatomy of Melancholy, p. 33.
[510:A] Worthies of England, Part II. p. 116.
[511:A] Dibdin's Bibliomania, pp. 313-346. Mr. Dibdin has given us the
following account of _Dee's Library_, "as drawn up by our philosopher
himself."
"_400 Volumes_—printed and unprinted—bound and unbound—valued at
2000 lib.
"1 Greek, 2 French, and 1 High Dutch, volumes of MSS., alone worth 533
lib. 40 years in getting these books together.
"Appertaining thereto.
"_Sundry rare and exquisitely made Mathematical Instruments._
"_A radius Astronomicus_, ten feet long.
"_A magnet stone, or Load stone_: of great virtue—which was sold out
of the library but for v shill. and for it afterwards (yea piece-meal
divided) was more than xx lib. given in money and value.
"_A great case or frame of boxes_, wherein some hundreds of very rare
evidences of divers Irelandish territories, provinces, and lands, were
laid up. Which territories, provinces, and lands, were therein notified
to have been in the hands of some of the ancient Irish princes. Then,
their submissions and tributes agreed upon, with seals appendant to
the little writings thereof in parchment: and after by some of those
evidences did it appear, how some of those lands came to the Lascies,
the Mortuomars, the Burghs, the Clares, &c.
"_A Box of Evidences_ antient of some Welch princes and noblemen—the
like of Norman donation—their peculiar titles noted on the forepart
with chalk only, which on the poor boxes remaineth. This box, with
another containing similar deedes, were embezzled.
"_One great bladder_ with about 4 pound weight, of a very sweetish
thing, like a brownish gum in it, artificially prepared by thirty
times purifying of it, hath more, than I could well afford him for 100
crownes; as may be proved by witnesses yet living.
"To these he adds his three _Laboratories_, 'serving for Pyrotechnia,'
—which he got together after twenty years labor. 'All which furniture
and provision, and many things already prepared, is unduly made
away from me by sundry meanes, and a few spoiled or broken vessels
remain, hardly worth 40 shillings.' But one feature more in poor Dee's
character—and that is, his unparalleled serenity and good nature under
the most griping misfortunes—remains to be described: and then we may
take farewel of him with aching hearts.
"In the 10th chapter, speaking of the wretched poverty of himself and
family ('having not one penny of certain fee, revenue, stipend, or
pension, either left him or restored unto him')—Dee says that 'he has
been constrained now and then to send parcels of his little furniture
of plate to pawn upon usury; and that did he so oft till no more could
be sent. After the same manner went his wive's jewels of gold, rings,
bracelets, chains, and other their rarities, under the thraldom of the
usurer's gripes: 'till _non plus_ was written upon the boxes at home.'
"In the 11th chapter, he anticipates the dreadful lot of being brought
'to the stepping out of doors (his house being sold). He, and his, with
bottles and wallets furnished, to become wanderers as homish vagabonds;
or, as banished men, to forsake the kingdom!' Againe: 'with bloody
tears of heart, he, and his wife, their seven children, and their
servants, (seventeen of them in all) did that day make their petition
unto their honors,' &c. Can human misery be sharper than this—and to
be the lot of a philosopher and bibliomaniac? But VENIET FELICIUS
ÆVUM."—Bibliomania, pp. 347-349.
[512:A] "In his edition of _John Confrat. Monach. de. rebus. gestis
Glaston._, vol. ii., where twelve chapters (from whence the above
note is partly taken) are devoted to the subject of our philosopher's
travels and hardships." Bibliomania, p. 343. note.
[513:A] Vide Theatrum Chemicum, p. 481.
[513:B] Worthies of England, Pt. III. pp. 172, 173.
[514:A] Vide Weaver's Funeral Monuments, p. 45., and Wood's Athenæ
Oxon. vol. i. col. 279.
[514:B] In what estimation Kelly was held in 1662, is evident from the
opinion of Fuller, who closes his account of this daring impostor with
the following sentence:—"If his pride and prodigality were severed
from him, he would remain a person, on other accounts, for his industry
and experience in practical Philosophy, worthy recommendation to
posterity." Worthies, p. 174.
That Shakspeare was exempt from the astrological mania of his age, we
learn from his fourteenth sonnet, where he tells us,—
"Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck;
And yet methinks I have astronomy,
But not to tell of good, or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or season's quality:
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain, and wind;
Or say with princes if it shall go well,
By oft predict that I in heaven find."
[515:A] Discoverie of Witchcraft, book xv. chap. 42. p. 466.
[516:A] Discoverie of Witchcraft, p. 415.
[516:B] Reed's Shakspeare, vol. iv. p. 53. Act i. sc. 2.
[516:C] Ibid. p. 152. Act v. sc. 1.
[517:A] Discoverie of Witchcraft, p. 451.
[517:B] Reed's Shakspeare, vol. iv. p. 100. Act iii. sc. 1.
[517:C] Ibid. p. 152.
[517:D] Ibid. vol. iv. p. 106. Act iii. sc. 2.
[517:E] Ibid. p. 134. Act iv. sc. 1.
[518:A] Reed's Shakspeare, vol. iv. p. 148. 167.
[520:A] Discoverie of Witchcraft, pp. 401, 402. 404-407.
[520:B] "Go," says Prospero, addressing Ariel,
———————————— "Go, bring the rabble,
_O'er whom I give thee power_, here, to this place."
Act iv. sc. 1.
[521:A] "Batman uppon Bartholome, His Booke, _De Proprietatibus
Rerum_," &c. folio, 1582, p. 168. col. 4.—He tells us, however, in
another place, that "in the region of the sunne, the spirits of the
sunne are of more force than the rest. In the region of the moone,
those spirites of the moone, and so of the residue." P. 170. col. 4.
[522:A] Batman uppon Bartholome, p. 84. col. 3, 4.
[522:B] Reed's Shakspeare, vol. iv. p. 28. Act i. sc. 2.
[523:A] Reed's Shakspeare, vol. iv. pp. 43-46. Act i. sc. 2.—This song
has been admirably imitated by Kirke White in the opening of his fine
fragment, entitled "The Dance of the Consumptives."—Vol. i. p. 295.
1st edit.
[524:A] Reed's Shakspeare, vol. iv. p. 81. Act ii. sc. 2.
[524:B] Ibid. p. 147. Act iv. sc. 1.
[524:C] Ibid. p. 134. Act iv. sc. 1.
[524:D] Ibid. p. 109. Act iii. sc. 2.
[525:A] Reed's Shakspeare, vol. iv. p. 154. Act v. sc. 1.
[525:B] Ibid. pp. 38, 39. Act i. sc. 2.
[525:C] Ibid. p. 151. Act v. sc. 1.
[525:D] Ibid. vol. xviii. pp. 24, 25. Act i. sc. 1.
[526:A] Reed's Shakspeare, vol. xvii. p. 471. Act iii. sc. 4.
[526:B] Ibid. vol. iv. pp. 151, 152. Act v. sc. 1.
[527:A] Discoverie of Witchcraft, p. 377.
[527:B] Vide Reed's Shakspeare, vol. xix. p. 414. and note.
[527:C] Reed's Shakspeare, vol. xix. p. 415. and vol. ii. p. 359.
[528:A] Illustrations of Shakspeare, vol. ii. p. 270.
[528:B] Supplemental Apology, p. 460.
[528:C] Reed's Shakspeare, vol. ii. p. 359.
[528:D] Supplemental Apology, p. 459.
[528:E] Ibid. p. 162.
[528:F] Ibid. p. 459.
[529:A] History of Fiction, 1st edit. vol. ii. p. 365.
[530:A] Reed's Shakspeare, vol. xix. pp. 528, 529.
[530:B] Reynolds's Works apud Malone, vol. i. p. 129., and vol. iii. p.
173., where this
"Unrivall'd sovereign of the realms of grace"
is characterized in a most masterly manner.
[531:A] Vide Reed's Shakspeare, vol. ii. p. 366.
[532:A] Reed's Shakspeare, vol. v. p. 373. Act iii. sc. 4.
[532:B] Ibid. vol. v. p. 374.
[532:C] Chalmers's Supplemental Apology, p. 442.
[532:D] Reed's Shakspeare, vol. v. p. 374. note.
[533:A] Howe's Chronicle, 1004, under the year 1613.
[533:B] It was printed by Barker, the King's Printer, the same year.
[533:C] Supplemental Apology, pp. 443, 444.
[533:D] Reed's Shakspeare, vol. v. p. 334. Act ii. sc. 5.
[533:E] Ibid. vol. v. p. 372. Act iii. sc. 4.
[533:F] Supplemental Apology, pp. 444, 445.
[534:A] Reed's Shakspeare, vol. v. p. 306. Act ii. sc. 4.
[535:A] Of these, _twenty_ were published in 4to., (including
_Pericles_, and omitting _Titus Andronicus_,) and the rest in the
first folio, 1623. On this, the earliest complete collection of our
author's plays, Mr. Steevens has given us, with the wit and humour
which so peculiarly distinguished him, the following interesting _jeu
d'esprit_:—
"Of all volumes, those of popular entertainment are soonest injured. It
would be difficult to name four folios that are oftener found in dirty
and mutilated condition, than this first assemblage of Shakspeare's
plays—God's Revenge against Murder—The Gentleman's Recreation—and
Johnson's Lives of the Highwaymen.
"Though Shakspeare was not, like Fox the Martyrologist, deposited in
churches, to be thumbed by the congregation, he generally took post
on our hall tables; and that a multitude of his pages have 'their
effect of gravy,' may be imputed to the various eatables set out
every morning on the same boards. It should seem that most of his
readers were so chary of their time, that (like Pistol, who gnaws
his leek and swears all the while,) they fed and studied at the same
instant. I have repeatedly met with thin flakes of pie-crust between
the leaves of our author. These unctuous fragments, remaining long in
close confinement, communicated their grease to several pages deep on
each side of them.—It is easy enough to conceive how such accidents
might happen;—how aunt Bridget's mastication might be disordered at
the sudden entry of the Ghost into the Queen's closet, and how the
half-chewed morsel dropped out of the gaping Squire's mouth, when the
visionary Banquo seated himself in the chair of Macbeth. Still, it is
no small eulogium on Shakspeare, that his claims were more forcible
than those of hunger.—Most of the first folios now extant, are known
to have belonged to ancient families resident in the country.
"Since our breakfasts have become less gross, our favourite authors
have escaped with fewer injuries; not that (as a very nice friend of
mine observes) those who read with a coffee-cup in their hands, are to
be numbered among the contributors to bibliothecal purity.
"I claim the merit of being the first commentator on Shakspeare who
strove, with becoming seriousness, to account for the frequent stains
that disgrace the earliest folio edition of his plays, which is now
become the most expensive single book in our language; for, what other
English volume without plates, and printed since the year 1600, is
known to have sold, more than once, for thirty-five pounds fourteen
shillings?"—Reed's Shakspeare, vol. ii. pp. 146, 147.
Since this note was written, a copy of the first folio has produced the
enormous price of ONE HUNDRED POUNDS. See Roxburghe Catalogue, p. 112.
No. 3786.
[536:A] Vide Reed's Shakspeare, vol. xxi. pp. 4, 5, 6.
[536:B] Reed's Shakspeare, vol. iii. p. 390, 391.
[537:A] See Gentleman's Magazine, vol. lxxxv. p. 219., and Reed's
Shakspeare, vol. ii. pp. 154, 155.
[537:B] Reed's Shakspeare, vol. ii. p. 154. note.
[537:C] Ibid. p. 129.
[537:D] Capell's School of Shakspeare, vol. iii. p. 479. See also
Gifford's Ben Jonson, vol. i. p. lxx.
[537:E] Gentleman's Magazine, vol. lxxxv. p. 219.
[537:F] On the authority of the title of the first quarto, printed in
1634, eighteen years after the death of Shakspeare.
[538:A] For proof of this, see Gifford's Jonson, vol. i. p. lxx. note.
[538:B] See Gent. Magazine, vol. lxxxv. p. 219., and Biographia
Dramatica, 1782, vol. i. p. 118. article _Davenport_.
[538:C] Colman's Beaumont and Fletcher, vol. i. p. 118., and Reed's
Shakspeare, vol. xxi. p. 401. et seq.
[538:D] "_The Two Noble Kinsmen_," observes Steevens, "could not have
been composed till after 1611, nor perhaps antecedent to the deaths
of Beaumont and our author, when assistance and competition ceased,
and the poet, who resembled the latter most, had the fairest prospect
of success. During the life of Beaumont, which concluded in 1615, it
cannot well be supposed that Fletcher would have deserted him, to write
in concert with any other dramatist. Shakspeare survived Beaumont
only by one year, and, during that time, is known to have lived in
Warwickshire, beyond the reach of Fletcher, who continued to reside
in London till he fell a sacrifice to the plague in 1625."—Reed's
Shakspeare, vol. xxi. p. 407.
[540:A] Lectures on Dramatic Literature, vol. i. pp. 15, 16.
[542:A] Pye's Aristotle, 4to. 1792, p. 22.
[545:A] This expression, and the verses which open some of the leading
subjects of this summary, are taken from a poem "On worthy Master
Shakspeare," supposed to have been the composition of Jasper Mayne, but
which Mr. Godwin, if we recollect aright, for the book is not before
us, is desirous of attributing, on account of its singular excellence,
to the pen of Milton.—See his Lives of E. and J. Philips, 4to.
[547:A] "The Influence of Literature upon Society," by Madame De
Stael-Holstein, vol. i. p. 294. Translation, 2d. edit. 1812.
[548:A] "The Influence of Literature upon Society," by Madame De
Stael-Holstein, vol. i. p. 305. Translation, 2d edit. 1812.
[548:B] Of the soothing and delightful effect of this _contrasted
repose_, Homer, more than any other writer, affords us abundant
examples; perpetually introducing, in the midst of slaughter and
contention, similes fraught with pathetic incident or picturesque
description. One of these, for the purpose of being followed by an
imitation which, in my opinion, greatly transcends the original, I
shall now transcribe. The Grecian bard, after mentioning the fall
of Simoisius, slain by Ajax, in the bloom of youth and beauty, thus
proceeds:—
"——————————— Him, what time she went
From Ida, with her parents to attend
Their flocks on Simois' side, his mother bore,
And thence they named him. But his days were few,
Too few to recompense the care that rear'd
His comely growth; for Ajax, mighty Chief,
Received him on his pointed spear, and, pierced
Through breast and shoulder, in the dust he fell.
So, nourish'd long in some well-water'd spot,
Crown'd with green boughs, the smooth-skinn'd poplar falls,
Doom'd by the builder to supply with wheels
Some splendid chariot, on the bank it lies,
A lifeless trunk, to parch in summer airs."
Cowper, Iliad IV.
Tender and beautiful as this must be deemed, greatly am I mistaken,
if the following lines be not preferred. They are taken from an
_unpublished_ poem, entitled _Alfred_, the composition of Mr. _John
Fitchett_ of Warrington, whom I have the pleasure of personally
knowing, and who, I trust, will pardon the liberty thus assumed,
of endeavouring to accelerate the publication of his work, by the
production of one of its numerous beauties. Alfred consists of twenty
books, ten of which, in a printed form, lie now before me. In the
eighth book, Berthun, a brave and youthful thane, is slain by the pagan
Amund:—
"—————————— Down the hero fell,
Riv'n through the brain. Sleep overcast his eyes.
Full many a tear his early fate shall mourn
Where on the woody side of Axham's vale
His pleasant dwelling stands. In vain shall look
At dawn or eve his tender wife to hail
His glad return, but hopeless to her heart
Press his fair image in her smiling babe.
He fell, as by some murm'ring riv'let's side
The tow'ring poplar, whose broad branches shade
A rural cottage, guardian of its peace,
Sinks crashing, and uptears the flow'ry bank,
Whelm'd by the tempest; the defenceless cot
Howls to the moaning wind: the birds behold
Their nests, their young, in ruin lost: the brook
Rolls o'er the tree whose image long it loved."
[550:A] Douce's Illustrations of Shakspeare, vol. ii. p. 327.
[550:B] Of court-fools, it is observed by Mr. Douce, that "Muckle John,
the fool of Charles the First, and the successor of Archee Armstrong,
is perhaps the last regular personage of the kind."—Illustrations,
vol. ii. p. 308.
We also find an epitaph by Dean Swift, on Dicky Pierce, the Earl of
Suffolk's fool, who was buried in Berkeley church-yard, June 18. 1728,
in the same ingenious essay. Vide Dissertation on the Clowns and Fools
of Shakspeare,—Illustrations, vol. ii. p. 309.
[554:A] Essay on the Dramatic Character of Falstaff, pp. 69, 70, 71.
and 64, 65.
[554:B] In his _Blättern von deutscher Art und Kunst_.
[554:C] In his _Wilhelm Meister_.
[554:D] _Poetisches Journal_, 1800.
[554:E] For just and discriminative characters of Schlegel and his
writings, see the Germany of Madame De Stael, and the Monthly and
Edinburgh Reviews.
[555:A] In the year 1795. Printed and sold by Bioren and Madan.—Vide
Reed's Shakspeare, vol. ii. p. 149.