Criticisms on Shakspeare's Historical Dramas.
The five tragedies of which I have just spoken are deservedly the most
celebrated of all the works of Shakspeare. In the three last, more
especially, we have a display of a loftiness of genius which may almost be
said to surpass the powers of human nature: the mind is as much lost in
the contemplation of all the heights and depths of these works as our
feelings are overpowered by the first impression which they produce. Of
his historical plays, however, some possess a high degree of tragical
perfection, and all are distinguished by peculiar excellencies.
In the three Roman pieces, _Coriolanus_, _Julius Caesar_, and _Antony and
Cleopatra_, the moderation with which Shakspeare excludes foreign
appendages and arbitrary suppositions, and yet fully satisfies the wants
of the stage, is particularly deserving of admiration. These plays are the
very thing itself; and under the apparent artlessness of adhering closely
to history as he found it, an uncommon degree of art is concealed. Of
every historical transaction Shakspeare knows how to seize the true
poetical point of view, and to give unity and rounding to a series of
events detached from the immeasurable extent of history without in any
degree changing them. The public life of ancient Rome is called up from
its grave, and exhibited before our eyes with the utmost grandeur and
freedom of the dramatic form, and the heroes of Plutarch are ennobled by
the most eloquent poetry.
In _Coriolanus_ we have more comic intermixtures than in the others,
as the many-headed multitude plays here a considerable part; and when
Shakspeare portrays the blind movements of the people in a mass, he almost
always gives himself up to his merry humour. To the plebeians, whose folly
is certainly sufficiently conspicuous already, the original old satirist
Menenius is added by way of abundance. Droll scenes arise of a description
altogether peculiar, and which are compatible only with such a political
drama; for instance, when Coriolanus, to obtain the consulate, must
solicit the lower order of citizens whom he holds in contempt for their
cowardice in war, but cannot so far master his haughty disposition as to
assume the customary humility, and yet extorts from them their votes.
I have already shown [Footnote: Page 240.] that the piece of _Julius
Caesar_, to complete the action, requires to be continued to the fall
of Brutus and Cassius. Caesar is not the hero of the piece, but Brutus.
The amiable beauty of this character, his feeling and patriotic heroism,
are portrayed with peculiar care. Yet the poet has pointed out with great
nicety the superiority of Cassius over Brutus in independent volition and
discernment in judging of human affairs; that the latter from the purity
of his mind and his conscientious love of justice, is unfit to be the head
of a party in a state entirely corrupted; and that these very faults give
an unfortunate turn to the cause of the conspirators. In the part of
Caesar several ostentatious speeches have been censured as unsuitable. But
as he never appears in action, we have no other measure of his greatness
than the impression which he makes upon the rest of the characters, and
his peculiar confidence in himself. In this Caesar was by no means
deficient, as we learn from history and his own writings; but he displayed
it more in the easy ridicule of his enemies than in pompous discourses.
The theatrical effect of this play is injured by a partial falling off of
the last two acts compared with the preceding in external splendour and
rapidity. The first appearance of Caesar in festal robes, when the music
stops, and all are silent whenever he opens his mouth, and when the few
words which he utters are received as oracles, is truly magnificent; the
conspiracy is a true conspiracy, which in stolen interviews and in the
dead of night prepares the blow which is to be struck in open day, and
which is to change the constitution of the world;--the confused thronging
before the murder of Caesar, the general agitation even of the
perpetrators after the deed, are all portrayed with most masterly skill;
with the funeral procession and the speech of Antony the effect reaches
its utmost height. Caesar's shade is more powerful to avenge his fall than
he himself was to guard against it. After the overthrow of the external
splendour and greatness of the conqueror and ruler of the world, the
intrinsic grandeur of character of Brutus and Cassius is all that remain
to fill the stage and occupy the minds of the spectators: suitably to
their name, as the last of the Romans, they stand there, in some degree
alone; and the forming a great and hazardous determination is more
powerfully calculated to excite our expectation, than the supporting the
consequences of the deed with heroic firmness.
_Antony and Cleopatra_ may, in some measure, be considered as a
continuation of _Julius Caesar_: the two principal characters of _Antony
and Augustus_ are equally sustained in both pieces. _Antony and
Cleopatra_, is a play of great extent; the progress is less simple
than in _Julius Caesar_. The fulness and variety of political and
warlike events, to which the union of the three divisions of the Roman
world under one master necessarily gave rise, were perhaps too great to
admit of being clearly exhibited in one dramatic picture. In this consists
the great difficulty of the historical drama:--it must be a crowded
extract, and a living development of history;--the difficulty, however,
has generally been successfully overcome by Shakspeare. But now many
things, which are transacted in the background, are here merely alluded
to, in a manner which supposes an intimate acquaintance with the history;
but a work of art should contain, within itself, every thing necessary for
its being fully understood. Many persons of historical importance are
merely introduced in passing; the preparatory and concurring circumstances
are not sufficiently collected into masses to avoid distracting our
attention. The principal personages, however, are most emphatically
distinguished by lineament and colouring, and powerfully arrest the
imagination. In Antony we observe a mixture of great qualities,
weaknesses, and vices; violent ambition and ebullitions of magnanimity; we
see him now sinking into luxurious enjoyment and then nobly ashamed of his
own aberrations,--manning himself to resolutions not unworthy of himself,
which are always shipwrecked against the seductions of an artful woman. It
is Hercules in the chains of Omphale, drawn from the fabulous heroic ages
into history, and invested with the Roman costume. The seductive arts of
Cleopatra are in no respect veiled over; she is an ambiguous being made up
of royal pride, female vanity, luxury, inconstancy, and true attachment.
Although the mutual passion of herself and Antony is without moral
dignity, it still excites our sympathy as an insurmountable fascination:--
they seem formed for each other, and Cleopatra is as remarkable for her
seductive charms as Antony for the splendour of his deeds. As they die for
each other, we forgive them for having lived for each other. The open and
lavish character of Antony is admirably contrasted with the heartless
littleness of Octavius, whom Shakspeare seems to have completely seen
through, without allowing himself to be led astray by the fortune and the
fame of Augustus.
_Timon of Athens_, and _Troilus and Cressida_, are not historical plays;
but we cannot properly call them either tragedies or comedies. By the
selection of the materials from antiquity they have some affinity to the
Roman pieces, and hence I have hitherto abstained from mentioning them.
_Timon of Athens_, of all the works of Shakspeare, possesses most the
character of satire:--a laughing satire in the picture of the parasites
and flatterers, and Juvenalian in the bitterness of Timon's imprecations
on the ingratitude of a false world. The story is very simply treated, and
is definitely divided into large masses:--in the first act the joyous life
of Timon, his noble and hospitable extravagance, and around him the throng
of suitors of every description; in the second and third acts his
embarrassment, and the trial which he is thereby reduced to make of his
supposed friends, who all desert him in the hour of need;--in the fourth
and fifth acts, Timon's flight to the woods, his misanthropical
melancholy, and his death. The only thing which may be called an episode
is the banishment of Alcibiades, and his return by force of arms. However,
they are both examples of ingratitude,--the one of a state towards its
defender, and the other of private friends to their benefactor. As the
merits of the General towards his fellow-citizens suppose more strength of
character than those of the generous prodigal, their respective behaviours
are not less different; Timon frets himself to death, Alcibiades regains
his lost dignity by force. If the poet very properly sides with Timon
against the common practice of the world, he is, on the other hand, by no
means disposed to spare Timon. Timon was a fool in his generosity; in his
discontent he is a madman: he is every where wanting in the wisdom which
enables a man in all things to observe the due measure. Although the truth
of his extravagant feelings is proved by his death, and though when he
digs up a treasure he spurns the wealth which seems to tempt him, we yet
see distinctly enough that the vanity of wishing to be singular, in both
the parts that he plays, had some share in his liberal self-forgetfulness,
as well as in his anchoritical seclusion. This is particularly evident in
the incomparable scene where the cynic Apemantus visits Timon in the
wilderness. They have a sort of competition with each other in their trade
of misanthropy: the Cynic reproaches the impoverished Timon with having
been merely driven by necessity to take to the way of living which he
himself had long been following of his free choice, and Timon cannot bear
the thought of being merely an imitator of the Cynic. In such a subject as
this the due effect could only be produced by an accumulation of similar
features, still, in the variety of the shades, an amazing degree of
understanding has been displayed by Shakspeare. What a powerfully
diversified concert of flatteries and of empty testimonies of devotedness!
It is highly amusing to see the suitors, whom the ruined circumstances of
their patron had dispersed, immediately flock to him again when they learn
that he has been revisited by fortune. On the other hand, in the speeches
of Timon, after he is undeceived, all hostile figures of speech are
exhausted,--it is a dictionary of eloquent imprecations.
_Troilus and Cressida_ is the only play of Shakspeare which he allowed to
be printed without being previously represented. It seems as if he here
for once wished, without caring for theatrical effect, to satisfy the
nicety of his peculiar wit, and the inclination to a certain guile, if
I may say so, in the characterization. The whole is one continued irony of
that crown of all heroic tales, the tale of Troy. The contemptible nature
of the origin of the Trojan war, the laziness and discord with which it
was carried on, so that the siege was made to last ten years, are only
placed in clearer light by the noble descriptions, the sage and ingenious
maxims with which the work overflows, and the high ideas which the heroes
entertain of themselves and each other. Agamemnon's stately behaviour,
Menelaus' irritation, Nestor's experience, Ulysses' cunning, are all
productive of no effect; when they have at last arranged a single combat
between the coarse braggart Ajax and Hector, the latter will not fight in
good earnest, as Ajax is his cousin. Achilles is treated worst: after
having long stretched himself out in arrogant idleness, and passed his
time in the company of Thersites the buffoon, he falls upon Hector at a
moment when he is defenceless, and kills him by means of his myrmidons. In
all this let no man conceive that any indignity was intended to the
venerable Homer. Shakspeare had not the _Iliad_ before him, but the
chivalrous romances of the Trojan war derived from _Dares Phrygius_.
From this source also he took the love-intrigue of _Troilus and Cressida_,
a story at one time so popular in England, that the name of Troilus had
become proverbial for faithful and ill-requited love, and Cressida for
female falsehood. The name of the agent between them, Pandarus, has even
been adopted into the English language to signify those personages
(_panders_) who dedicate themselves to similar services for inexperienced
persons of both sexes. The endless contrivances of the courteous Pandarus
to bring the two lovers together, who do not stand in need of him, as
Cressida requires no seduction, are comic in the extreme. The manner in
which this treacherous beauty excites while she refuses, and converts the
virgin modesty which she pretends, into a means of seductive allurement,
is portrayed in colours extremely elegant, though certainly somewhat
voluptuous. Troilus, the pattern of lovers, looks patiently on, while his
mistress enters into an intrigue with Diomed. No doubt, he swears that he
will be revenged; but notwithstanding his violence in the fight next day,
he does no harm to any one, and ends with only high-sounding threats. In a
word, in this heroic comedy, where, from traditional fame, and the pomp of
poetry, every thing seems to lay claim to admiration, Shakspeare did not
wish that any room should be left, except, perhaps, in the character of
Hector, for esteem and sympathy; but in this double meaning of the
picture, he has afforded us the most choice entertainment.
The dramas derived from the English history, ten in number, form one of
the most valuable of Shakspeare's works, and partly the fruit of his
maturest age. I say advisedly _one_ of his works, for the poet
evidently intended them to form one great whole. It is, as it were, an
historical heroic poem in the dramatic form, of which the separate plays
constitute the rhapsodies. The principal features of the events are
exhibited with such fidelity; their causes, and even their secret springs,
are placed in such a clear light, that we may attain from them a knowledge
of history in all its truth, while the living picture makes an impression
on the imagination which can never be effaced. But this series of dramas
is intended as the vehicle of a much higher and much more general
instruction; it furnishes examples of the political course of the world,
applicable to all times. This mirror of kings should be the manual of
young princes; from it they may learn the intrinsic dignity of their
hereditary vocation, but they will also learn from it the difficulties of
their situation, the dangers of usurpation, the inevitable fall of
tyranny, which buries itself under its attempts to obtain a firmer
foundation; lastly, the ruinous consequences of the weaknesses, errors,
and crimes of kings, for whole nations, and many subsequent generations.
Eight of these plays, from _Richard the Second_ to _Richard the
Third_, are linked together in an uninterrupted succession, and embrace
a most eventful period of nearly a century of English history. The events
portrayed in them not only follow one another, but they are linked
together in the closest and most exact connexion; and the cycle of
revolts, parties, civil and foreign wars, which began with the deposition
of Richard II., first ends with the accession of Henry VII. to the throne.
The careless rule of the first of these monarchs, and his injudicious
treatment of his own relations, drew upon him the rebellion of
Bolingbroke; his dethronement, however, was, in point of form, altogether
unjust, and in no case could Bolingbroke be considered the rightful heir
to the crown. This shrewd founder of the House of Lancaster never as Henry
IV. enjoyed in peace the fruits of his usurpation: his turbulent Barons,
the same who aided him in ascending the throne, allowed him not a moment's
repose upon it. On the other hand, he was jealous of the brilliant
qualities of his son, and this distrust, more than any really low
inclination, induced the Prince, that he might avoid every appearance of
ambition, to give himself up to dissolute society. These two circumstances
form the subject-matter of the two parts of _Henry the Fourth_; the
enterprises of the discontented make up the serious, and the wild youthful
frolics of the heir-apparent supply the comic scenes. When this warlike
Prince ascended the throne under the name of Henry V., he was determined
to assert his ambiguous title; he considered foreign conquests as the best
means of guarding against internal disturbances, and this gave rise to the
glorious, but more ruinous than profitable, war with France, which
Shakspeare has celebrated in the drama of _Henry the Fifth_. The early
death of this king, the long legal minority of Henry VI., and his
perpetual minority in the art of government, brought the greatest troubles
on England. The dissensions of the Regents, and the consequently wretched
administration, occasioned the loss of the French conquests and there
arose a bold candidate for the crown, whose title was indisputable, if the
prescription of three governments may not be assumed to confer legitimacy
on usurpation. Such was the origin of the wars between the Houses of York
and Lancaster, which desolated the kingdom for a number of years, and
ended with the victory of the House of York. All this Shakspeare has
represented in the three parts of _Henry the Sixth_. Edward IV. shortened
his life by excesses, and did not long enjoy the throne purchased at the
expense of so many cruel deeds. His brother Richard, who had a great share
in the elevation of the House of York, was not contented with the regency,
and his ambition paved himself a way to the throne through treachery and
violence; but his gloomy tyranny made him the object of the people's
hatred, and at length drew on him the destruction which he merited. He was
conquered by a descendant of the royal house unstained by the guilt of the
civil wars, and what might seem defective in his title was made good by
the merit of freeing his country from a monster. With the accession of
Henry VII. to the throne, a new epoch of English history begins: the curse
seemed at length to be expiated, and the long series of usurpations,
revolts, and civil wars, occasioned by the levity with which the Second
Richard sported away his crown, was now brought to a termination.
Such is the evident connexion of these eight plays with each other, but
they were not, however, composed in chronological order. According to all
appearance, the four last were first written; this is certain, indeed,
with respect to the three parts of _Henry the Sixth_; and _Richard
the Third_ is not only from its subject a continuation of these, but is
also composed in the same style. Shakspeare then went back to _Richard
the Second_, and with the most careful art connected the second series
with the first. The trilogies of the ancients have already given us an
example of the possibility of forming a perfect dramatic whole, which
shall yet contain allusions to something which goes before, and follows
it. In like manner the most of these plays end with a very definite
division in the history: _Richard the Second_, with the murder of that
King; _the Second Part of Henry the Fourth_, with the accession of his son
to the throne; _Henry the Fifth_, with the conclusion of peace with
France; _the First Part of Henry the Sixth_, also, with a treaty of Peace;
the third, with the murder of Henry, and Edward's elevation to the throne;
_Richard the Third_, with his overthrow and death. _The First Part of
Henry the Fourth_, and _the Second of Henry the Sixth_, are rounded off in
a less satisfactory manner. The revolt of the nobles was only half quelled
by the overthrow of Percy, and it is therefore continued through the
following part of the piece. The victory of York at St. Alban's could as
little be considered a decisive event, in the war of the two houses.
Shakspeare has fallen into this dramatic imperfection, if we may so call
it, for the sake of advantages of much more importance. The picture of the
civil war was too great and too rich in dreadful events for a single
drama, and yet the uninterrupted series of events offered no more
convenient resting-place. The government of Henry IV. might certainly have
been comprehended in one piece, but it possesses too little tragical
interest, and too little historical splendour, to be attractive, if
handled in a serious manner throughout: hence Shakspeare has given to the
comic characters belonging to the retinue of Prince Henry, the freest
development, and the half of the space is occupied by this constant
interlude between the political events.
The two other historical plays taken from the English history are
chronologically separate from this series: King John reigned nearly two
centuries before Richard II., and between Richard III. and Henry VIII.
comes the long reign of Henry VII., which Shakspeare justly passed over as
unsusceptible of dramatic interest. However, these two plays may in some
measure be considered as the Prologue and the Epilogue to the other eight.
In _King John_, all the political and national motives which play so
great a part in the following pieces are already indicated: wars and
treaties with France; a usurpation, and the tyrannical actions which it
draws after it; the influence of the clergy, the factions of the nobles.
_Henry the Eighth_ again shows us the transition to another age; the
policy of modern Europe, a refined court-life under a voluptuous monarch,
the dangerous situation of favourites, who, after having assisted in
effecting the fall of others, are themselves precipitated from power; in a
word, despotism under a milder form, but not less unjust and cruel. By the
prophecies on the birth of Elizabeth, Shakspeare has in some degree
brought his great poem on English history down to his own time, as far at
least as such recent events could be yet handled with security. He
composed probably the two plays of _King John_ [Footnote: I mean the
piece with this title in the collection of his works. There is an older
_King John_, in two parts, of which the former is a re-cast:--perhaps
a juvenile work of Shakspeare, though not hitherto acknowledged as such by
the English critics. See the disquisition appended to this Lecture.] and
_Henry the Eighth_ at a later period, as an addition to the others.
In _King John_ the political and warlike events are dressed out with
solemn pomp, for the very reason that they possess but little of true
grandeur. The falsehood and selfishness of the monarch speak in the style
of a manifesto. Conventional dignity is most indispensable where personal
dignity is wanting. The bastard Faulconbridge is the witty interpreter of
this language: he ridicules the secret springs of politics, without
disapproving of them, for he owns that he is endeavouring to make his
fortune by similar means, and wishes rather to belong to the deceivers
than the deceived, for in his view of the world there is no other choice.
His litigation with his brother respecting the succession of his pretended
father, by which he effects his acknowledgment at court as natural son of
the most chivalrous king of England, Richard Coeur de Lion, forms a very
entertaining and original prelude in the play itself. When, amidst so many
disguises of real sentiments, and so much insincerity of expression, the
poet shows us human nature without a veil, and allows us to take deep
views of the inmost recesses of the mind, the impression produced is only
the more deep and powerful. The short scene in which John urges Hubert to
put out of the way Arthur, his young rival for the possession of the
throne, is superlatively masterly: the cautious criminal hardly ventures
to say to himself what he wishes the other to do. The young and amiable
prince becomes a sacrifice of unprincipled ambition: his fate excites the
warmest sympathy. When Hubert, about to put out his eyes with the hot
iron, is softened by his prayers, our compassion would be almost
overwhelming, were it not sweetened by the winning innocence of Arthur's
childish speeches. Constance's maternal despair on her son's imprisonment
is also of the highest beauty; and even the last moments of John--an
unjust and feeble prince, whom we can neither respect nor admire--are yet
so portrayed as to extinguish our displeasure with him, and fill us with
serious considerations on the arbitrary deeds and the inevitable fate of
mortals.
In _Richard the Second_, Shakspeare exhibits a noble kingly nature,
at first obscured by levity and the errors of an unbridled youth, and
afterwards purified by misfortune, and rendered by it more highly and
splendidly illustrious. When he has lost the love and reverence of his
subjects, and is on the point of losing also his throne, he then feels
with a bitter enthusiasm the high vocation of the kingly dignity and its
transcendental rights, independent of personal merit or changeable
institutions. When the earthly crown is fallen from his head, he first
appears a king whose innate nobility no humiliation can annihilate. This
is felt by a poor groom: he is shocked that his master's favourite horse
should have carried the proud Bolingbroke to his coronation; he visits the
captive king in prison, and shames the desertion of the great. The
political incident of the deposition is sketched with extraordinary
knowledge of the world;--the ebb of fortune, on the one hand, and on the
other, the swelling tide, which carries every thing along with it. While
Bolingbroke acts as a king, and his adherents behave towards him as if he
really were so, he still continues to give out that he has come with an
armed band merely to demand his birthright and the removal of abuses. The
usurpation has been long completed, before the word is pronounced and the
thing publicly avowed. The old John of Gaunt is a model of chivalrous
honour: he stands there like a pillar of the olden time which he has
outlived. His son, Henry IV., was altogether unlike him: his character is
admirably sustained throughout the three pieces in which he appears. We
see in it that mixture of hardness, moderation, and prudence, which, in
fact, enabled him to secure the possession of the throne which he had
violently usurped; but without openness, without true cordiality, and
incapable of noble ebullitions, he was so little able to render his
government beloved, that the deposed Richard was even wished back again.
The first part of _Henry the Fourth_ is particularly brilliant in the
serious scenes, from the contrast between two young heroes, Prince Henry
and Percy (with the characteristical name of Hotspur.) All the amiability
and attractiveness is certainly on the side of the prince: however
familiar he makes himself with bad company, we can never mistake him for
one of them: the ignoble does indeed touch, but it does not contaminate
him; and his wildest freaks appear merely as witty tricks, by which his
restless mind sought to burst through the inactivity to which he was
constrained, for on the first occasion which wakes him out of his unruly
levity he distinguishes himself without effort in the most chivalrous
guise. Percy's boisterous valour is not without a mixture of rude manners,
arrogance, and boyish obstinacy; but these errors, which prepare for him
an early death, cannot disfigure the majestic image of his noble youth; we
are carried away by his fiery spirit at the very moment we would most
censure it. Shakspeare has admirably shown why so formidable a revolt
against an unpopular and really an illegitimate prince was not attended
with success: Glendower's superstitious fancies respecting himself, the
effeminacy of the young Mortimer, the ungovernable disposition of Percy,
who will listen to no prudent counsel, the irresolution of his older
friends, the want of unity of plan and motive, are all characterized by
delicate but unmistakable traits. After Percy has departed from the scene,
the splendour of the enterprise is, it is true, at an end; there remain
none but the subordinate participators in the revolts, who are reduced by
Henry IV., more by policy than by warlike achievements. To overcome this
dearth of matter, Shakspeare was in the second part obliged to employ
great art, as he never allowed himself to adorn history with more
arbitrary embellishments than the dramatic form rendered indispensable.
The piece is opened by confused rumours from the field of battle; the
powerful impression produced by Percy's fall, whose name and reputation
were peculiarly adapted to be the watchword of a bold enterprise, make him
in some degree an acting personage after his death. The last acts are
occupied with the dying king's remorse of conscience, his uneasiness at
the behaviour of the prince, and lastly, the clearing up of the
misunderstanding between father and son, which make up several most
affecting scenes. All this, however, would still be inadequate to fill the
stage, if the serious events were not interrupted by a comedy which runs
through both parts of the play, which is enriched from time to time with
new figures, and which first comes to its catastrophe at the conclusion of
the whole, namely, when Henry V., immediately after ascending the throne,
banishes to a proper distance the companions of his youthful excesses, who
had promised to themselves a rich harvest from his kingly favour.
Falstaff is the crown of Shakspeare's comic invention. He has, without
exhausting himself, continued this character throughout three plays, and
exhibited him in every variety of situation; the figure is drawn so
definitely and individually, that even to the mere reader it conveys the
clear impression of personal acquaintance. Falstaff is the most agreeable
and entertaining knave that ever was portrayed. His contemptible qualities
are not disguised: old, lecherous, and dissolute; corpulent beyond
measure, and always intent upon cherishing his body with eating, drinking,
and sleeping; constantly in debt, and anything but conscientious in his
choice of means by which money is to be raised; a cowardly soldier, and a
lying braggart; a flatterer of his friends before their face, and a
satirist behind their backs; and yet we are never disgusted with him. We
see that his tender care of himself is without any mixture of malice
towards others; he will only not be disturbed in the pleasant repose of
his sensuality, and this he obtains through the activity of his
understanding. Always on the alert, and good-humoured, ever ready to crack
jokes on others, and to enter into those of which he is himself the
subject, so that he justly boasts he is not only witty himself, but the
cause of wit in others, he is an admirable companion for youthful idleness
and levity. Under a helpless exterior, he conceals an extremely acute
mind; he has always at command some dexterous turn whenever any of his
free jokes begin to give displeasure; he is shrewd in his distinctions,
between those whose favour he has to win and those over whom he may assume
a familiar authority. He is so convinced that the part which he plays can
only pass under the cloak of wit, that even when alone he is never
altogether serious, but gives the drollest colouring to his love-
intrigues, his intercourse with others, and to his own sensual philosophy.
Witness his inimitable soliloquies on honour, on the influence of wine on
bravery, his descriptions of the beggarly vagabonds whom he enlisted, of
Justice Shallow, &c. Falstaff has about him a whole court of amusing
caricatures, who by turns make their appearance, without ever throwing him
into the shade. The adventure in which the Prince, under the disguise of a
robber, compels him to give up the spoil which he had just taken; the
scene where the two act the part of the King and the Prince; Falstaff's
behaviour in the field, his mode of raising recruits, his patronage of
Justice Shallow, which afterwards takes such an unfortunate turn:--all
this forms a series of characteristic scenes of the most original
description, full of pleasantry, and replete with nice and ingenious
observation, such as could only find a place in a historical play like the
present.
Several of the comic parts of _Henry the Fourth_, are continued in _The
Merry Wives of Windsor_. This piece is said to have been composed by
Shakspeare, in compliance with the request of Queen Elizabeth, [Footnote:
We know with certainty, that it was acted before the Queen. Many local
descriptions of Windsor and its neighbourhood, and an allusion in
which the Order of the Garter is very poetically celebrated, make it
credible that the play was destined to be first represented on the
occasion of some festival of the Order at the palace of Windsor, where the
Knights of the Garter have their hall of meeting.] who admired the
character of Falstaff, and wished to see him exhibited once more, and in
love. In love, properly speaking, Falstaff could not be; but for other
purposes he could pretend to be so, and at all events imagine that he was
the object of love. In the present piece accordingly he pays his court, as
a favoured Knight, to two married ladies, who lay their heads together and
agree to listen apparently to his addresses, for the sake of making him
the butt of their just ridicule. The whole plan of the intrigue is
therefore derived from the ordinary circle of Comedy, but yet richly and
artificially interwoven with another love affair. The circumstance which
has been so much admired in Molière's _School of Women_, that a
jealous individual should be made the constant confidant of his rival's
progress, had previously been introduced into this play, and certainly
with much more probability. I would not, however, be understood as
maintaining that it was the original invention of Shakspeare: it is one of
those circumstances which must almost be considered as part of the common
stock of Comedy, and everything depends on the delicacy and humour with
which it is used. That Falstaff should fall so repeatedly into the snare
gives us a less favourable opinion of his shrewdness than the foregoing
pieces had led us to form; still it will not be thought improbable, if
once we admit the probability of the first infatuation on which the whole
piece is founded, namely, that he can believe himself qualified to inspire
a passion. This leads him, notwithstanding his age, his corpulency, and
his dislike of personal inconveniences and dangers, to venture on an
enterprise which requires the boldness and activity of youth; and the
situations occasioned by this infatuation are droll beyond all
description. Of all Shakspeare's pieces, this approaches the nearest to
the species of pure Comedy: it is exclusively confined to the English
manners of the day, and to the domestic relations; the characters are
almost all comic, and the dialogue, with the exception of a couple of
short love scenes, is written in prose. But we see that it was a point of
principle with Shakspeare to make none of his compositions a mere
imitation of the prosaic world, and to strip them of all poetical
decoration: accordingly he has elevated the conclusion of the comedy by a
wonderful intermixture, which suited the place where it was probably first
represented. A popular superstition is made the means of a fanciful
mystification [Footnote: This word is French; but it has lately been
adopted by some English writers.--TRANS.] of Falstaff; disguised as the
Ghost of a Hunter who, with ragged horns, wanders about in the woods of
Windsor, he is to wait for his frolicsome mistress; in this plight he is
surprised by a chorus of boys and girls disguised like fairies, who,
agreeably to the popular belief, are holding their midnight dances, and
who sing a merry song as they pinch and torture him. This is the last
affront put upon poor Falstaff; and with this contrivance the conclusion
of the second love affair is made in a most ingenious manner to depend.
King Henry the Fifth is manifestly Shakspeare's favourite hero in English
history: he paints him as endowed with every chivalrous and kingly virtue;
open, sincere, affable, yet, as a sort of reminiscence of his youth, still
disposed to innocent raillery, in the intervals between his perilous but
glorious achievements. However, to represent on the stage his whole
history subsequent to his accession to the throne, was attended with great
difficulty. The conquests in France were the only distinguished event of
his reign; and war is an epic rather than a dramatic object. For wherever
men act in masses against each other, the appearance of chance can never
wholly be avoided; whereas it is the business of the drama to exhibit to
us those determinations which, with a certain necessity, issue from the
reciprocal relations of different individuals, their characters and
passions. In several of the Greek tragedies, it is true, combats and
battles are exhibited, that is, the preparations for them and their
results; and in historical plays war, as the _ultima ratio regum_,
cannot altogether be excluded. Still, if we would have dramatic interest,
war must only be the means by which something else is accomplished, and
not the last aim and substance of the whole. For instance, in _Macbeth_,
the battles which are announced at the very beginning merely serve to
heighten the glory of Macbeth and to fire his ambition; and the combats
which take place towards the conclusion, before the eyes of the spectator,
bring on the destruction of the tyrant. It is the very same in the Roman
pieces, in the most of those taken from English history, and, in short,
wherever Shakspeare has introduced war in a dramatic combination. With
great insight into the essence of his art, he never paints the fortune of
war as a blind deity who sometimes favours one and sometimes another;
without going into the details of the art of war, (though sometimes he
even ventures on this), he allows us to anticipate the result from the
qualities of the general, and their influence on the minds of the
soldiers; sometimes, without claiming our belief for miracles, he yet
exhibits the issue in the light of a higher volition: the consciousness of
a just cause and reliance on the protection of Heaven give courage to the
one party, while the presage of a curse hanging over their undertaking
weighs down the other. [Footnote: Aeschylus, with equal wisdom, in the
uniformly warlike tragedy of the _Seven before Thebes_, has given to the
Theban chiefs foresight, determination, and presence of mind; to their
adversaries, arrogant audacity. Hence all the combats, excepting that
between Eteocles and Polynices, turn out in favour of the former. The
paternal curse, and the blindness to which it gives rise, carry headlong
the two brothers to the unnatural strife in which they both fall by the
hands of each other.--See page 91.] In _Henry the Fifth_, no opportunity
was afforded Shakspeare of adopting the last-mentioned course, namely,
rendering the issue of the war dramatic; but he has skilfully availed
himself of the first.--Before the battle of Agincourt he paints in the
most lively colours the light-minded impatience of the French leaders for
the moment of battle, which to them seemed infallibly the moment of
victory; on the other hand, he paints the uneasiness of the English King
and his army in their desperate situation, coupled with their firm
determination, if they must fall, at least to fall with honour. He applies
this as a general contrast between the French and English national
characters; a contrast which betrays a partiality for his own nation,
certainly excusable in a poet, especially when he is backed with such a
glorious document as that of the memorable battle in question.
He has surrounded the general events of the war with a fulness of
individual, characteristic, and even sometimes comic features. A heavy
Scotchman, a hot Irishman, a well-meaning, honourable, but pedantic
Welchman, all speaking in their peculiar dialects, are intended to show us
that the warlike genius of Henry did not merely carry the English with
him, but also the other natives of the two islands, who were either not
yet fully united or in no degree subject to him. Several good-for-nothing
associates of Falstaff among the dregs of the army either afford an
opportunity for proving Henry's strictness of discipline, or are sent home
in disgrace. But all this variety still seemed to the poet insufficient to
animate a play of which the subject was a conquest, and nothing but a
conquest. He has, therefore, tacked a prologue (in the technical language
of that day a _chorus_) to the beginning of each act. These prologues,
which unite epic pomp and solemnity with lyrical sublimity, and
among which the description of the two camps before the battle of
Agincourt forms a most admirable night-piece, are intended to keep the
spectators constantly in mind, that the peculiar grandeur of the actions
described cannot be developed on a narrow stage, and that they must,
therefore, supply, from their own imaginations, the deficiencies of the
representation. As the matter was not properly dramatic, Shakspeare chose
to wander in the form also beyond the bounds of the species, and to sing,
as a poetical herald, what he could not represent to the eye, rather than
to cripple the progress of the action by putting long descriptions in the
mouths of the dramatic personages. The confession of the poet that "four
or five most vile and ragged foils, right ill disposed, can only disgrace
the name of Agincourt," (a scruple which he has overlooked in the occasion
of many other great battles, and among others of that of Philippi,) brings
us here naturally to the question how far, generally speaking, it may be
suitable and advisable to represent wars and battles on the stage. The
Greeks have uniformly renounced them: as in the whole of their theatrical
system they proceeded on ideas of grandeur and dignity, a feeble and petty
imitation of the unattainable would have appeared insupportable in their
eyes. With them, consequently, all fighting was merely recounted. The
principle of the romantic dramatists was altogether different: their
wonderful pictures were infinitely larger than their theatrical means of
visible execution; they were every where obliged to count on the willing
imagination of the spectators, and consequently they also relied on them
in this point. It is certainly laughable enough that a handful of awkward
warriors in mock armour, by means of two or three swords, with which we
clearly see they take especial care not to do the slightest injury to one
another, should decide the fate of mighty kingdoms. But the opposite
extreme is still much worse. If we in reality succeed in exhibiting the
tumult of a great battle, the storming of a fort, and the like, in a
manner any way calculated to deceive the eye, the power of these sensible
impressions is so great that they render the spectator incapable of
bestowing that attention which a poetical work of art demands; and thus
the essential is sacrificed to the accessory. We have learned from
experience, that whenever cavalry combats are introduced the men soon
become secondary personages beside the four-footed players [Footnote: The
Greeks, it is true, brought horses on the tragic stage, but only in solemn
processions, not in the wild disorder of a fight. Agamemnon and Pallas, in
Aeschylus, make their appearance drawn in a chariot with four horses. But
their theatres were built on a scale very different from ours.].
Fortunately, in Shakspeare's time, the art of converting the yielding
boards of the theatre into a riding course had not yet been invented. He
tells the spectators in the first prologue in _Henry the Fifth_:--
Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them
Printing their proud hoofs in the receiving earth.