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SHAKSPEREAN 
 
 FLY-LEAVES AND JOTTINGS, 
 
 BY H. T. HALL. 
 
SHAKSPERBAN 
 
 FLY-LEAVES AND JOTTINGS, 
 
 % ndn anb mhtQtU ^bitioit, 
 BY H. T. HALL, 
 
 Author of ShaJcsp&rean Statistics^ Dramatic Album, The May-Queen, 
 The Latest Edition of tlie Rye-Souse Plot^ Sfc. 
 
 " To inatruct by delighting 13 a power seldom enjoyed by man, and still seldomer 
 exercised. It is in thia respect that Homer may be called the second of men, and 
 Shakspere the first." — London Maqazihe, October 1, 1824. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 J. EUSSELL SMITH, 36, SOHO SQUARE. 
 
 CAMBRIDGE :-H. W. WALLIS, SIDNEY STREET. 
 
 M.DCCCLXXI. 
 
I I 
 
 K.z.sH'^n 
 
 CAMBEIDGE : 
 FEINTED BT J. WEBB, AlEXANDHA STEEET. 
 
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 The first edition of this little work having been 
 out of print for some time, I have ventured to publish a 
 second, considerably enlarged; and as I hope, improved. 
 Much new matter has been added, and the whole work 
 has undergone a thorough revision. Its production has 
 been to me a labour of love and delight, and I now 
 consign it to the care and consideration of the lovers of 
 the great dramatist, whose works are characterised by 
 so strong a love and knowledge of humanity, that they 
 have completely outshone the works of aU others in 
 " this narrow world of ours." 
 
 THE AUTHOE. 
 
 Oambeibgb, November, 1871. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 TAQB 
 
 On the Genius of Shakspere . . . 1 
 
 Hamlet ..... 35 
 
 The Merchant of Venice . • ?9 
 
 Timon of Athens .... 107 
 
 As you Like It . . 117 
 
 Macbeth . 139 
 
 King John . ... 175 
 
 King Eichard II. . . . 184 
 
 King Richard III. . ... 220 
 
 King Henry VIII. .... 233 
 
 Shaksperean Jottings : 
 
 Cymbeline ... . . 241 
 
 The Winter's Tale . . . .244 
 
 King Lear . . 245 
 
 Twelfth Night . ... 248 
 
 A Midsummer Nights' Dream , ■ 249 
 
 Much Ado about Nothing . 260 
 
 The Taming of the Shrew . . 251 
 
 Antony and Cleopatra .... 252 
 
 The Tempest .... 253 
 
 Hamlet, &c. ..... 254 
 
 Shakspere's Morality . . . 259 
 
 Shakspere's Religion . ... 260 
 
 Shakspere's Contemporaries . . 262 
 
 Shakspere as an Actor .... 263 
 
 Shakspere's Birthday ,. ■ 264 
 
 Shakspere's Non-observanco of the Unities . 266 
 
 The Period of Shakspere . . 268 
 
THE GENIUS OF SHAKSPEEE. 
 
 In seeking to consider the genius of Shakspere, 
 the subject should be approached with that reverent 
 admiration which its importance demands. No one 
 man ever fully understood, or can ever fully under- 
 stand the works of Shakspere in their entirety, nor 
 is Unity of thought and opinion to be expected of 
 one who is so diffuse, so general and so human.* 
 The works of Shakspere are all things to all men, 
 and in this universality is found the power and 
 greatness of his genius. The spirit of criticism, de- 
 veloped by the school of critics, who flourished in 
 the latter part of the seventeenth and the beginning 
 of the eighteenth centuries, of whom, Eymer may be 
 selected as the representative, has happily passed 
 away. The classic school, who believed in the 
 "chorus" as "the root and original," and "as cer- 
 tainly almost the most necessary part of tragedy," no 
 longer exist. Those great admirers of the cuckoo 
 
 * " Jiischylus and Shakspere seem made to prove that contraries may be 
 admirable. The point of departure for the one is absolutely opposite to 
 the point of departure of the other. iEschylus is concentration, Shakspere 
 is diffusion. One must be much applauded because he is condensed, and 
 the other because he is dilflise ; to Jischylus unity, to Shakspere ubiquity. 
 Between them they divide God. And, as such intellects are always 
 complete, one feels, in the drama unit of JUsohylus, the free agitation of 
 passion, and in the diffuse drama of Shakspere the convergence of all 
 the rays of life. The one starts from unity and roaches a multiple, the 
 other starts from tlio multiple and arrives at unity."— Ftrfor Mugo on 
 Shakspere, p. 246. 
 
 .A. 
 
2 THE GENI0S OE SHAKSPEEB. 
 
 school of " rules of art," Dennis and Gildon, were 
 succeeded by Rowe, Pope, Hanmer, Theobald and 
 Johnson, whose -preface to an edition of the bard's 
 works in 1765, was looked upon as a remarkable ef- 
 fort of Shaksperean criticism. The influence of 
 Johnson's preface, has been for evil, for he evidently 
 misunderstands our poet, nor has he completely 
 shaken off the trammels of an earlier school, and it 
 so abounds with ponderous and long-sounding words 
 of Latin origin, that there is not much to compen- 
 sate the reader for his trouble. To Johnson, 
 succeeded Stevens, Capell, and Malone, and theii- 
 efforts have been highly serviceable to the world of 
 Shakspere literature,^ The labours of Malone, as dis- 
 played in his edition of Shakspere, the best at the 
 time of its publication, (1790), have been adopted by 
 most modern commentators,, as the basis for a true 
 chronological arrangement of Shakspere's works. 
 
 A more genial school of critics has arisen since 
 Johnson^s time, for not fettered by any observance of 
 unities and other such like classic inanities, they 
 have developed the truthfulness and greatness of 
 Shakspere above all other dramatic poets. The works 
 of Lessing, Wieland, Schlegel, Horn, Goethe, Ukici, 
 Lencke, Bodenstedt, and Gervinius among the Germans, 
 and the works of Hazlitt, Coleridge, Lamb, Jameson, 
 Knight, Collier, Halliwell, Walker, White and Dyce, 
 among the English, have added largely to our means 
 of comprehending Shakspere, and the love of his 
 works which they have generated, hath become so 
 strong, that time will not eradicate the feeling, nor 
 man destroy it. 
 
 Shakspere is truly the world's poet, to him all 
 things owe allegiance. He is the genius of humanity. 
 
THE GENIUS OE SHAKSrBEB. 3 
 
 using all, things at pleasure, and changing and play- 
 ing with our purposes as with his own. None other 
 hath so fully developed nor shown such a love of 
 humanity. Our globe and all thereon and all there- 
 in he hath turned and played with for his amusement, 
 surveying generations of men, and observing individ- 
 uals as they passed, with all their acts of folly and 
 wisdom, their vices and their virtues. The simplicity 
 and innocence of childhood, the out-pourings of de- 
 spair, the ravings of disordered fancy, have been by 
 him most truthfully shown. Like his own Glendower, 
 the "spirits" of the "vasty deep" he has evoked; 
 the demonaic, the wondrous and the terrible, and hj his ' 
 "ways of art'' hath made them subservient to his, 
 purpose. His "deep experiments, '^ "full of fiery 
 shapes," and deeper knowledge made him familiar 
 with all within the womb of nature. The gentle fays 
 dancing their " ringlets to the whistling wind," 
 paid him respect, so did the " black and midnight 
 hags " who render darkness still darker. The out- 
 pourings of his fancy are wonderful, his creations 
 still more so. He had but to think and all was 
 resolved; all passed before him, as the kings passed 
 before Macbeth. His descriptions are so terse ; he 
 condenses into a line, what others take pages to 
 express. " He lays open to us in a single word, a 
 whole series of preceding conditions." With him 
 an epithet carries back the mind for years, the 
 brain reverts to the past, as when Prospero in relat- 
 ing the tale to his daughter of the causes which 
 produced his present sorrow, applies to her, "Me, 
 and thy crying self." The imagination is here 
 thrown back, and we pass from the grown woman to 
 
4 <rH£ QENiirs or sha-Ebpeb^:. 
 
 the helplessness of infancy, and immediately is placed 
 before us the first and most trying scene of his misfor- 
 tunes, and all that he must have suffered in the 
 interval. Again, in Richard III. he displays the 
 same power, though the example is of an opposite 
 nature, looking forward instead of reverting back, 
 
 " Up with my tent there ! here will I he to-night : 
 But where to-morrow ? " 
 
 The imagination is again on wing, to-morrow awakens 
 thoughts of the coming strife, of death and futurity, 
 with aU its calamities or pleasures. 
 
 In his high impassioned speeches no word can 
 be substituted for those which he uses; they must 
 be rendered correct, or else the sound is not euphonious, 
 it grates upon the ear, and the beauty of the sentence 
 is marred. Take his description of the" approach of 
 night in Macbeth, and try to alter one word, and see 
 if the beauty be not destroyed : 
 
 " Light thickens. 
 And the crow ^makes wing to the rooky wood, 
 ' Good things of day begin to droop and drowse, , 
 Whiles night's black agents to their preys do rouse." 
 
 Where can a word be substituted ? can one be al- 
 tered without marring the beautiful expression of feeling ? 
 Shakspere must have been thoroughly observant of 
 external nature, and have faithfully stored within the 
 chambers of his wondrous brain the results of his 
 observations, to have been so truthful in his descrip- 
 tions. The account of Ophelia's death displays his 
 closeness of observation, for no other author has 
 marked the difference of the sides of the willow leaf, 
 the upper being green, the underneath being white : 
 
THE GENItrS or SHAKSPEEE. 6 
 
 " There is a willow grows aslant a brook, 
 That shows his Jwwr leaves in the glassy stream." 
 
 Hamlet, A. it. S. 7. 
 
 In the Winter's Tale, how accurately he dis- 
 
 criminates between the bandied terms of art and 
 
 nature, when he observes, 
 
 " Nature is made better by no mean,. 
 But Nature makes that mean : so, over that art 
 "Which you say adds to Nature, is an art 
 That Nature makes. Tou see, sweet maid, we marry 
 A gentle scion to the wildest stock. 
 And make conceive a bark of baser kind 
 By bud of nobler race : this is an art 
 Which does mend Nature, change it rather, but 
 The art itself is Nature. — A. n. s. 4. 
 
 How thoroughly he displays his knowledge of 
 humanity^ the result of great observation, in Henry 
 IV., when depicting the fickleness of the popular will, 
 he says, 
 
 " An habitation giddy and unsure 
 Hath ho that buildoth on the vulgar heart. 
 O thou fond many, with what loud applause 
 Didst thou beat heaven with blessing BoHngbroke, 
 Before he was what thou wouldst have him be. 
 
 Fart II. A. II. s. 3. 
 
 In describing the power of imagination after the 
 brain has resolved upon action, how wonderful is 
 the knowledge he evinces, and how accurately he 
 analyses the courses of human thought. In Julius 
 Ccesar, he observes, 
 
 ' " Between the acting of a dreadful thing. 
 And the first motion, all the interim is 
 
 ' Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream. 
 The genius and the mortal instruments 
 Are then in council ; and the state of man. 
 Like to a little kingdom, suffers then 
 The nature of an insurrection." — A. u. S. 1. 
 
6 THUGBNIUS OF SHAKSPEEE. 
 
 In the Tragedy of Othello, one of the grandest 
 of all tragedies, how beautiful is his power of dis- 
 crimination displayed, how excellently through the 
 character of lago is effected the jealousy of Othello ; 
 how gradually, yet certain, is the coil wound round 
 the unsuspecting Moor ; how every circumstance tends 
 to work upon the impassioned black j and when 
 Othello asks lago, "If he dost not think Cassio 
 honest,^' how the echo of lago, "Honest my lord," 
 serves still further to arouse the Moor, causing him 
 to repeat the question, " Honest ? ay honest," and 
 when lago again echoes the words of Othello, the 
 chords are struck, the poison beginneth its work; 
 for Othello immediately exclaims to himself, 
 
 " Think,, my lord, by heaven, lie echoes me, 
 As if there were some monster in his thought 
 Too hideous to he shown." — A. ni. s. 3. 
 
 Throughout the whole of this scene the inuendoes 
 of lago have their weight and succeed in arousing 
 the jealousy of OtheUo ; and when Desdemona impor- 
 tunes the Moor for Cassio, how that passion becomes 
 strengthened, and waxes still stronger through the 
 loss of the handkerchief, so cleverly contrived by lago, 
 until Othello is completely carried away by his imaginary 
 wrongs and slays his innocent wife. How wonder- 
 fully is the remorse of the Moor pourtrayed, when 
 he discovers the treachery of lago, and what a 
 splendid conclusion the poet puts into the mouth of 
 the Moor, fit compeer for the splendid opening, when 
 addressing Ludovico, he says, 
 
 " Soft you ; a word or two, before you go. 
 I have done the state some service, and they know't. 
 No more of that. I pray you, in your letters, 
 
THE GENIUS OF SUAK8PEEE. 7 
 
 When you shall these Tmlncky deeds relate, 
 
 Speak of me as I am ; nothing extenuate, 
 
 Nor aught set down in malice : then must you speak 
 
 Of one that lov'd not wisely, but too well ; 
 
 Of one, not easily jealous, but, being wrought, 
 
 Perplex'd in the extreme ; of one, whose hand. 
 
 Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away, 
 
 Richer than all tus tribe ; of one, whose unsubdued eyes, ■ 
 
 Albeit unused to the melting mood, 
 
 Dropt tears as fast as the Arabian trees 
 
 Their m^edicinal gum. Set you down this ; 
 
 And say besides, — that in Aleppo once, 
 
 Where a malignant and turban'd Turk 
 
 Beat a Venetian and traduc'd the state, 
 
 I took him by the throat the uncircumcised dog. 
 
 And smote him, — thus 
 Lud. bloody period ! 
 Qra. All that is spoke is marr'd. 
 
 0th. I kiss'd thee, ere I kill'd thee : — no way but this, 
 Klilling myself, to die upon a kiss." — A. v. S. 2. 
 
 In reviewing Shakspere and his works, innumer- 
 able are the forms, phases, and guises under which 
 he appeareth. We behold in him the man of 
 learning, the poet, the statesman, the philosopher, 
 and the man of the multitude. If, we wish to learn 
 a code of morals, we have only to cull his works, 
 and Minerva like they spring up complete in every 
 page. Do we wish to learn his politics, we shall 
 find his works abound in political truisms, with a 
 knowledge of peoples and governments that seem 
 truly miraculous. Do we wish to view life and know 
 its character, read his pages, and you cannot fail to 
 discover and be bettered by your discovery. 
 
 " To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow. 
 
 Creeps in this pretty pace frord day to day. 
 
 To the last syllable of recorded time ; 
 
 And all our yesterdays have lighted fools 
 
 The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle ! 
 
8 THE GENIUS OP SHAKSPEEE. 
 
 Life's but a walking shadow ; a poor player, 
 That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, 
 And then is heard no more : it is a tale 
 Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, 
 Signifying nothing." — Macbeth, A. t. s. 5. 
 
 This may seem materialistic, but is it not true? 
 Doth not life partake of "a walking shadow," which 
 for a few brief moments is seen, " and then is heard 
 no more." How peculiarly happy is the expression 
 of life being " a tale," one " told by an idiot," and 
 how expressively it falls upon our senses, and stamps the 
 correctness of the opinion upon the brain, when the 
 sentence is concluded, of its being " full of sound 
 and fury signifying nothing." 
 
 In Measure for Measure, Shakspere again dwells 
 
 upon the subject of life ; and he here delineates with 
 
 unerring power, the hopes, desires and dreads which 
 
 all mankind have of death, that insatiate fisherman 
 
 into whose nets all classes of society must come. 
 
 He says, and mark the correctness of the saying, 
 
 " Reason thus with life : 
 If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing 
 That none but fools would keep : a breath thou art, 
 Servile to all the skyey influences. 
 That dost this habitation, where thou keep'st. 
 Hourly afflict : merely, thou art death's fool ; 
 For him thou labour'st by thy flight to shun. 
 And yot runn'st toward him still. Thou art not noble ; 
 For all the accommodations that thou bear'st 
 Are nursed by baseness. Thou'rt by no means valiant ; 
 For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork 
 Of a poor worm. Thy best of rest is sleep. 
 And that thou oft provokest ; yet grossly fear'st 
 Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not thyself ; 
 For thou exist'st on many a thousand grains 
 That issue out of dust. Happy thou art not ; 
 For what thou hast not, still thou strivest to get. 
 
THE GENIUS OF snAKSPEBB. 9 
 
 And what thou hast, forget'st. Thou art not certain ; 
 For thy complexion shifts to strange effects, 
 After the moon. If thou art rich, thou'rt poor ; 
 For, like an ass whose hack with ingots hows, 
 Thou bear'st thy heavy riches hut a journey, 
 And death unloads thee. Friend hast thou none ; 
 . For thine own bowels, which do call thee sire, 
 The mere efEusion of thy proper loins. 
 Do curse the gout, serpigo, and the rheum, 
 For ending thee no sooner. Thou hast nor youth nor age. 
 But, as it were, an after-dinner's sleep, 
 Dreamiilg on both ; for all thy blessed youth 
 Becomes as aged, and doth beg the abns 
 Of palsied old ; and when thou art old and rich, 
 Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty, 
 To make thy riches pleasant. What's yet in this 
 That bears the name of life ? Tet in this life 
 Lie hid more thousand deaths : yet death we fear, 
 That makes these odds all even." — A. iii. s. 1. 
 
 Do we wish for a monitor to display the evil effects 
 which follow the subordination of man to his animal 
 propensities, and to find a check or safeguard for 
 ourselves, we can perceive it imaged forth in his pages, 
 with such power, that it would tend, were he has 
 universally read as he ultimately will be, to check 
 that desolating blight, intemperance, throughout our 
 land : for 
 
 " As surfeit is the father of much fast. 
 So every scope by the immoderate use 
 Turns to restraint. Our natures do pursue 
 Like rats that ravin down their proper bane, 
 A thirsty evil ; and when we drink we die.'! 
 
 Measure for Measv/re, A. 1, s. 2. 
 
 " Boundless intemperance 
 In nature is a tyranny ; it hath boon 
 The untimely emptying of the happy throno, 
 And fall of many kings." — Macbeth, A. 4. S. IT. 
 
10 THE GENIUS OP . SHAKSPEEE. 
 
 Throughout the whole of his works, Shakspere 
 
 seeks to implant and engraft upon the reader's brain 
 
 thoughts of the highest and most ennobling character. 
 
 He seeks to teach a love of the beautiful, on account 
 
 of its beauty, and to show that even in that which is 
 
 externally deformed, there is a trace of the beautiful 
 
 to be discovered. How unassuming, yet how winning, 
 
 doth he advise us, and, ever alive to the importance 
 
 of man's welfare, strives to restrain our excesses, by 
 
 language like the following : 
 
 " Violent fires soon burn out themselves : 
 Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short ; 
 He tires betimes, that spurs too fast betimes ; 
 With eager feeding, food doth choke the feeder : • 
 Light vanity, insatiate cormorant, 
 Consuming means, soon preys upon itself." 
 
 lUchcurd II. A. ii. S. 1. 
 
 " Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot - 
 That it do singe yourself; we may outrun, 
 By violent swiftness, that which we run at, 
 And lose by over-running. Ejiow you not 
 The fire that mounts the Hquor till't run o'er, 
 In seeming to augment it, wastes it." 
 
 Henry Till., A. i. s. 1. 
 
 The good and true under all circumstances he 
 strives to elevate ; loving virtue for virtue's sake, and 
 detesting vice for her deformity. How faithfully doth 
 he pourtray aU the phases of human character, from 
 the noble to the ignoble, the base, the good, the vicious 
 and the virtuous. His kings are not individual kings, 
 but are legible types of their class, as are the whole 
 of his characters; for in none doth the individuality 
 of the author betray itself. By the power of his pen, 
 he unravels the threads which connect and hind man 
 to his fellow man. By the magic of his genius, he holds. 
 
TUB QENItrS OF HHAESPEEE. 11 
 
 "as ^twere, a mirror up to nature;" showing the 
 passions and desires of men, depicting them with all 
 their petty vices and frailties as they exist, and shows 
 
 " Men's jndgmenta are 
 A parcel of their fortunes, and things outward 
 Do draw the inward quality after them 
 To suffer all alike."— Ant. 8f Oleo. A. iii. s. 13. 
 
 Shakspere wrote with no special moral purpose, 
 though his plays abound with true moral passages. 
 He did not seek to bend everything towards a moral 
 end, like some moral story-tellers, who never effect 
 their purpose, from the simple fact they are never true. 
 Shakspere wrote of life, he Bought to pourtray Ufe, 
 and Ufe is presented in his pages — -life in its relation 
 to nature and to man. The pointing of a moral formed 
 no part of Shakspere's calculations. He has made his 
 ignoble characters talk and act ignobly, because such 
 is their nature. He has not always allowed virtue to 
 be triumphant, and vice defeated. His great knowledge 
 taught him that such a mode of writing would not be 
 true ; he has therefore in some instances, involved both 
 innocent and guilty in one common ruin, totally 
 uncaring whether such conclusion would point a moral, 
 but determining the result should be so, for so it is 
 often found in life. 
 
 The hand of Shakspere, like that of the great 
 master Eaphael, was unerring in its drawing. He 
 never fails ; his was the genius that grasps at a glance 
 the whole of Nature, undivided and unbroken. What 
 other men learn in detail and slowly attain, he com- 
 prehended in a moment, and with a dash of his mighty 
 pen embodied thoughts and ideas which were left to 
 future ages to develope. He hasL given a life to our 
 
12 TUB GENIUS OF SUA.KSPEBE. 
 
 literature, and endowed it with a vitality, which time 
 cannot subdue, but only serve to render the more 
 valuable. He hath imparted an importance to our 
 language, which but for him it would not have 
 possessed. "His noble hand" and brain hath wrought 
 much to the advantage of our people, for he has 
 breathed "an untirable and continuate goodness." 
 "His fame unparalled," "the spacious world can- 
 not again afford" one so "framed in the prodigality 
 of nature." "Enchantingly beloved,'" his "desert 
 speaks loud" " and 'gainst the tooth of time" is made 
 secure. The whole world hath acknowledged his 
 power, for to the supremacy of the bard of Stratford, 
 the sons of poesy of the various nations of the earth 
 have bowed their heads in silent awe and admiration.* 
 The shadow of his genius has flung over our land a 
 halo, which increaseth its intensity and burneth the 
 brighter, the more his works are diffused and read. 
 "Like a Colossus, he doth bestride this narrow world 
 of ours.'^ Shakspere is truly the poet of humanity, 
 he knows no bounds, no country, no kindred but the 
 whole great human family. He has written for all time 
 and aU peoples, for looking upon the human race as 
 one great family, in which all have an equal right to 
 share its pleasures and its woes, his language is 
 singularly applicable to all ; applicable on account of 
 its wisdom and the inherent truth which it manifests. 
 Shakspere, as all other great poets have been, (and it 
 is in this respect only he has anything in common with 
 other poets,) was a sincere lover of freedom, not the 
 turbulent freedom of a wild, impassioned, uneducated 
 
 * "Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show, 
 To whoui all scenes of Europe homage owe." 
 
 To the Memory of Shakspere: 
 
THE GENIUS OF SHAKS^BnE. 13 
 
 mob, but true freedom, such as can only be found 
 where all have a knowledge of the laws and have k 
 voice in the making thereof. Shakspere doth not seek 
 to cloak a wrong, he never fails to apply the lash with 
 vigour, where necessity calls for it, in exposing corrup- 
 tion and profligacy, the too frequent adjuncts of a court. 
 What worldly knowledge he doth display, when he 
 sayeth ' 
 
 "Throngli tatter' d clothes small vices do appear ; 
 Robes and fiirr'd gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold, 
 And the strong lance of justice hnrtless breaks ; 
 Arm it in rags a pigmy's straw does pierce it." 
 
 King Lear, A. it. s. 6. 
 
 How magnificently he inveighs against such dam- 
 ning sia as he hath here pourtrayed, and which, 
 unfortunately for our country, is yet prevalent, though 
 not so much as it was during the lifetime of our bard. 
 
 Shakspere, when describing Nature under her mani- 
 fold phases, and depicting the passions which animate 
 and pervade humanity, is lofty indeed. His descriptions 
 never tire, they pall not, for they ai*e always fresh and 
 varied, and always true. He is as accurate as nature 
 herself. His lines are not blurred nor feeble, — he lacks 
 not colour nor breadth, — his work is ever true, for 
 above all rises the feeling, that "truth is truest poetry.'" 
 The "soft stiUness" of " night, '^ the grey eye of 
 morning whose "golden gates''' opened to "the glorious 
 sun," turns our "cloddy earth to glittering gold." 
 The "all shaking thunder," "the ambitious ocean 
 Bwell," the "rage and foam" of "threatening clouds," 
 the "meteors" that "fright the fixed stars of heaven,''^ 
 " the violets that shew the green lap of the new come 
 spring," the "daffodils that come before the swallow 
 
^4 THU eENIUS OF SH^ESPBUB. 
 
 dares," the "pale primroses," the "bold oxlips," with 
 "lilies of all kinds," the "woodbine," "eglantine," 
 "musk-roses" and "harebells" blue were storied within 
 his wondrous brain which was exhaustless in its wealth 
 and unrivalled in its application. "He was familiar 
 with all beautiful forms and images, with all that is 
 sweet or majestic in the simple aspects of nature; 
 of that indestructible love of flowers and odours, and 
 dews, and of clear waters — and soft air and sounds, 
 and bright skies and woodland solitudes, and moonlight 
 bowers, which are the material elements of poetry, — 
 and with that fine sense of the undefinable relation 
 to mental emotion, which is its essence and vivifying 
 soul, and which, in the midst of his most busy and 
 atrocious scenes, fall like gleams of sunshine on rock& 
 and ruins — contrasting with all thp,t is rugged and 
 repulsive, and reminding us of the existence of purer 
 and brighter elements."* 
 
 Shakspere^s was a nature attuned to harmony, the 
 notes he struck were all sterling gold; no tinselled 
 ornaments pervade his works, for all is beautiful, 
 thoughtful and true. In his paintings of Nature and 
 her works, he lays on the coloiirs so delicately, yet with 
 I such power, that the picture is complete; it wants 
 not breadth, nor shade, nor light, so well he limns it. 
 Like Titian, his colouring is magnificent, because it 
 is true ; like the masters of the Dutch school, he is 
 powerful because he is minute ; and like Eaphael he is 
 all ideal grace and perfection. "He gives a living 
 picture of all the most minute and secret artifices by 
 which a feeling steals into our souls, of all the imper- 
 ceptible advantages which it there gains, of all the 
 
 * Edinburgh Beview, Vol. 28, p. 473. 
 
THE GENIUS OJ SHAKBPBEB. 15 
 
 Btratagems by which every other passion is made 
 subserTient to, till it becomes the sole agent of our 
 desires and aversions." {Lessing.) 
 
 There is no poet in our tongue so redolent with 
 beautiful and simple imagery. His "gracious words" 
 revive our "drooping thoughts/' . and "nimbly and 
 sweetly" do recommend themselves "unto our gentle 
 senses." He is ever "a summer bird" which "in the 
 haunch of winter sings," "lifting up the day,^' so that 
 "base contagious clouds" do not obscure the beauty 
 of the world. His endeavours come not too short of 
 our desires and his aspirations "lift him from the 
 earth" making him as "sweet as summer," so that 
 "he enchants" and "all men^s hearts are his." His 
 descriptions of night are most varied in their character 
 and how exquisitely they pourtray its approach, its 
 intensity, and its departure; and how Hke a warrior 
 eager for the fight, or a hunter for the chase, he leaps 
 with ardour, and glows with gladness, at the approach 
 of morn. 
 
 "Look how the sun begins to set ; 
 How ngly night comes breathing at his heels : 
 Even with the vail and dark'ing of the sun, 
 To close the day up." 
 
 Triohbs amd Oressida, A. v. S. 8. 
 
 "Ugly night," what various thoughts and emotions 
 are called up by this expression. Ugly, deformed, 
 fiend-like, base, brutal, black, and horrible, each of 
 which are expressed, and each of which are descriptive 
 of night, which follows day so close, "breathing at his 
 heels." 
 
 "The gaudy blabbing, and remorseful day ' 
 Is crept into the bosom of the sea ; 
 
16 THE SENIirs OF SHAKSPEBE. 
 
 And now loud-liowling wolves arouse the jades 
 That drag the tragic melancholy night ; ]^ • 
 
 Who, with their drowsy, slow and flagging wings, 
 Clip dead men's graves, and from their misty jaws, 
 Breathe foul contagious darkness in the air." .^ - 
 
 Henry VI., Fart II., A. iv. S. 1. 
 
 "When the searching eye of heaven is hid. 
 Behind the globe, that lights the lower world, 
 Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen, 
 In miu'ders and in outrage, boldly here." 
 
 liicha/rd II., A. III. s."2. 
 
 How the intensity of darkness is here displayed by the 
 comparisons drawn; the connecting, of thieves and 
 robbers with the almost necessary sequence of murder — 
 that "deed without a name," serves to show what 
 night is, and in the mind of each, exciting a horror, 
 that makes us almost dread "the tragic melancholy 
 night," which in its coming, breathes "foul contagious 
 darkness in the air." Let us leave "the night" with 
 its tragic horrors, and revel with our poet in his 
 splendid descriptions of "sable night's" best counter- 
 part, the "gentle day," which 
 
 "Before the wheels of Phoebus, round about. 
 Dapples the drowsy east with spots of grey." 
 
 Much Ado about Nothing, A. v. s. 3. 
 
 List to how bard as he sings,- 
 
 "Look love, what envious streaks 
 Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east: 
 Night's candles arc burnt out, and jocund day 
 Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops." 
 
 Borneo and Juliet, A. iii. s. 5. 
 
 "Look the morn in russet mantle clad. 
 Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastward hill.'' 
 
 • Hamlet, A. I. s. 1. 
 
 "Lo here the gentle lark, weary of rest, 
 From his moist cabinet mounts on high. 
 
THE OENIUS OF SHAKSPEIIE. ' 17 
 
 And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast, 
 
 The sun ariseth in his majesty ; 
 
 Who doth the world so glorious behold, 
 
 That cedar. tops and hills seem burnish'd gold."* 
 
 ' Poevis, 
 
 How simple and homely the image, yet how expressive, 
 "Night's candles are burnt out," how strikingly con- 
 clusive of the termination of the night with all its 
 terrors and its calamities. The "envious streaks," 
 "the severing clouds," aU clearly pourtray Shakspere's 
 wonderful observance of the workings of Nature, for they 
 are the distinguishing phenomena of the opening morn. 
 The "russet mantle" displays the homeliness of the 
 morning's early attire ; "the moist cabinet" of the lark 
 depicts the dewy covering of our earth, and how 
 splendidly is the beauty of the day described, when 
 from "the silver breast" of morning, 
 
 "the sun ariseth in his majesty ; 
 Who doth the world so glorious behold, 
 That cedar tops and hills seem burnish'd gold." 
 
 Shakspere did not create our drama, he regenerated 
 it. He found it existing in a crude form, rude in its 
 development, and from these materials he fashioned 
 it afresh, endowing it with life and vigour, enriching 
 it with' the gems of his extensive comprehension, and\ 
 enlivening it with the brilUant corruscations of his wit 
 and fancy. What to others was "painful ahd laborious 
 flight," which their pinions could 'not sustain, were to 
 him the efforts of every day life. From all regions 
 he drew, catching inspiration from everything by which 
 he was surrounded, by that which preceded him, and 
 to a great extent, forestalling that which was to come. 
 
 * For further examples of Shakspere's descriptions of night and morning, 
 see note A. 
 
18 THE GENITTS OF SHAKSPEKB. 
 
 Shakspere by many critics has been described as 
 a poor scholar, but little versed in classic lore : be it so ; 
 yet was he better versed in all that appertains to true 
 wisdoip.. By his productions, we find that he more 
 thoroughly understood humanity, and the minutiae 
 which make up the individual and the class, and 
 determine the actions thereof, than any of those who 
 were so well ...versed in the Greek and Latin tongues, 
 who flourished coeval with him, and had had the 
 advantages of a collegiate education. The epithet 
 barbarian Shakspere, was frequently applied to him, 
 and even one of our own great poets, John Milton, has 
 baptized "his wood notes wild," while the poet 
 Thomson has seconded the baptism, by "calling him 
 "wild Shakspere."* These are decidedly misnomers, 
 and ought not under any circumstances to be applied 
 to our bard ; for it was the union of the most consum- 
 mate judgment, with the highest creative power in 
 Shakspere, that refined our drama, and gave it that 
 order and symmetry, which has rendered it so pre- 
 eminently beautiful. Qualities such as these, cannot 
 partake of the "wild" or savage, but belong alone to 
 the truly learned, the wise, and the reflective. 
 
 In comparing Shakspere with any other poet, there 
 are but three in our own tongue with whom comparison 
 can be held. The one who flourished beforp, one 
 coeval, and the one who followed him, Chaucer, Spenser, 
 and Milton ; these, excepting the name of Shakspere, 
 stand highest in our poetic annals, and with these in 
 comparing, it might be said, "tha,t Chaucer excels as 
 the poet of manners or real life ; Spenser as the poet 
 
 * " Is not wild Shakspeare thine and Nature's boast." 
 
 Thomaon'a Summer, 
 
THE QBHIUS OF SHAKSPJIUE. 19 
 
 of romance ; Shakspere as the poet of Nature (in the 
 largest use of the terni) ; and Milton as the poet of 
 morality. Chaucer most frequently describes things 
 as they are : Spenser as we wish them to be ; Shakspere , 
 as they would be ; and MUton as they ought to be. 
 As poets, and as great poets, imagination, that is, the 
 power of feigning things according to nature, waS 
 common to them all: but the principal or moving 
 power to which this faculty was most subservient in 
 Chaucer, was habit, or inveterate prejudice ; in Spenser 
 novelty and the love of the marvellous ; in Shakspere, 
 it was the force of passion combined with every variety 
 of possible circumstances ; and in Milton, only with 
 the highest. The characteristic of Chaucer is intensity ; 
 of Spenser, remoteness ; of Milton, elevation ; of Shak- 
 spere, everything."* 
 
 The three great poets of the world are Homer, 
 the simple ; Dante, the terrible ; and Shakspere, the 
 wonderful. The last named poet embraces the other 
 two and stands alone when viewed as a whole. 
 Shakspere had more fancy, more imagination, more 
 philosophy, more knowledge, and a greater and deeper 
 acquaintance with nature than Dante or Homer had, 
 and therefore his works approach nearer to truth 
 and nature than their's ever did. It is this which 
 gives the student of Shakspere such a knowledge of 
 humanity that he cannpt fail to profit by his study, 
 and it also teaches him that when reading the great 
 master^s works, he is reading the works of one who 
 has Iain his head upon the great heart of nature and 
 heard the throbbings and beatings of her inmost pul- 
 sations. 
 
 * Hazlitt's Lectures on the Poets, p. 90. 
 
20 THE GENIUS or SHAKBPEUE. 
 
 Shakspere differs from ^schylus, Calderon and 
 Voltaire, in the mode by which they each consider 
 mankind to be governed. He does not, like thfe Father 
 of Greek tragedy, make them the sport of fate, nor 
 like the Spanish poet, represent the enigma of heaven 
 and hell as. the closing words of life; nor like the 
 volatile Frenchman, doth he make the world a vehicle 
 for the peculiar opinions which he held ; but he makes 
 the government of mankind to consist in the human 
 heart, in that region alone doth he find and develope 
 his fate. In his Richard II., the hopes and fears, the 
 resolutions and irresolutions, the dire confusion and 
 complete bewilderments, prepares all for the conclusion, 
 and teaches ua to conteniplate these sudden changes, 
 these strange vicissitudes, without us being in the 
 least degree surprised. Thus are his actors on lifers 
 puny stage, presented to the eye, and in his world of 
 poetry, stand arrayed as the real characters of History. 
 In the dramatic chronicle of Shakspere, we have a 
 pourtrayal of the things of the world, all is real ; for 
 the time being, we behold the same sights and feel 
 the same horrors, as those who moved and had their 
 being therein. The more the poet descends into minutiae 
 and detail, the more forcibly are we impressed, until 
 we are compelled by an irresistible power to acknow- 
 ledge the truth and accuracy of the poet's pourtrayal. 
 
 Shakspere in the fullest development of his wondrous 
 genius, possessed an absolute mastery over all the 
 moods of human passion. He, alone, among dramatic 
 poets poBBessed this power, and it is to the possession 
 of this mastery, that we can account for his wonderful 
 interpretations and illustrations of humanity. It was 
 by this faculty that he discovered the life he has 
 
,TI1E GENIUS or SHAKSPKRE. 21 
 
 embodied in his works, and it is this faculty which 
 gave him his great knowledge and his command of 
 the conditions whereby his knowledge could be • de- 
 veloped. No other poet, has like Shakspere, so truly 
 developed the anatomy of the human heart. No other 
 poet has so truthfully displayed the various emotions 
 and feelings by whi<!h poor humanity is governed ; and 
 no other poet presents so animated and so brilliant a 
 view of human life. In the pages of no other poet can 
 we find such a varied range of human character, as 
 those which his. presents. He pourtrays all phases of 
 human life and character, each having their idiosyn- 
 cracies developed. The tenderness of Juliet, the fine 
 frenzy of Lear, the melancholy scepticism of Hamlet, 
 the calm contemplation of Prospero, the wit, humour, 
 and pleasantrie of his Falstaff, Pistol, Malvolio, Dromio, 
 Speed, Touchstone, Dogberry, Lance, Gobbo, and 
 others ; the patient, enduring Imogen, the gentle, 
 loving DeBdomona, the fiery, impetuous Hotspur, the 
 cynical wisdom of Jaques, the physical monster Caliban, 
 the mental and moral monster Thersites, the manly 
 Valentine, the. gallant Falconbridge, the winning 
 Eosalind, the voluptuous Cleopatra, the , fair, the 
 graceful, tender Portia, the truthful, loving Cordelia, 
 the terrific, fiend-like Lady Macbeth, the wrathful, 
 passion-overwhelmed Othello, 'the cunning subtlety of 
 lago, the truly eloquent misanthrophy of a Timon, 
 the never swerving constancy of a Hermione, and the 
 fierce, fixed and irrevocable hate of Shylock are speci- 
 mens of the master's power, which foreshadow his deep 
 knowledge of humanity, and of the conditions necessary 
 to the development of that knowledge. 
 
 If we wish for a view of other times and other lands, 
 
22 THB QEHIUS OP SHAKSPEEK. 
 
 ■we can learn from his pages of the courtly Alcibiades, 
 of Pericles, and the wisdom and magnificence of the 
 lofty Athenians. If we wish to go still further hack, 
 we can learn the manners of those, who on the plains 
 of Troy for ten long years waged furious war ; of 
 Hector, Achilles, Ulysses, Troilus, Nestor, Ajax, Paris, 
 Priam, Helen, Cressida, and the fierce prophetess, the 
 wild Cassandra. Do we wish to learn of ancient Eome, 
 with her eagles, her tribunes, and her lictors, turn we 
 to Coriolanus and the Volsci, to Volumnia and her 
 children, to Julius Caesar, to Brutus, Marc Antony, 
 to Cassius, Casca and Cinnius. Do we wish to learn 
 of Egypt, with its pyramids, its deserts and its colossal 
 architecture, turn we to Antony and Cleopatra. Do we 
 wish to know of the days of semi-barbarism which have 
 characterised our own tight little isle, turn we to Lear 
 and Cymbeline. Do we wish to learn of fair Scotia's 
 soil, and of wintry Denmark, turn we to Macbeth and 
 Hamlet. Do we wish to learn of the dawn of human 
 freedom in our native land, turn we to King John and 
 Richard II. Do we wish to learn of the bloody wars 
 with France, of the wars of the red and white roses, 
 and of steel-clad knights, with brand, and glaive, and 
 ' spear, turn we to Henry IV., V., VI., and Richard III., 
 and do we wish to gather intelligence, turn we to his 
 pages, and we shall find, "that all ranks, all classes of 
 the people are faithfully pourtrayed during a period, 
 when the most startling innovations and changes were 
 taking place ; a period, when was being brought into 
 operation an instriunent, which paved the way for 
 Luther and Melancthon, and gave importance and 
 power to the hitherto despised toiling millions : a period 
 commencing with the fifteenth, and continuing through 
 
THE SEIfirS or SHAKSPERE, 23 
 
 the sixteenth and the first half of the seventeenth 
 centuries. In his pages shall we find a faithful reflec- 
 tion of those who dwelt upon the Arno, the Tiber, and 
 the Elbe; of those who had life and being in the waving 
 forest of Ardennes; of those who lived in Mantua, 
 Milan, Venice and fair Verona, all of whom he hath 
 peopled with inhabitants perfectly real. 
 
 If we wish for a view of English society, of the 
 feelings which actuated and directed Englishmen, we 
 must look to the historical plays of Shakspere. In 
 them shall we find English philanthrophy, English 
 pride, English patriotism, in fact, all the germs of 
 the English character revealed, for Shakspere was 
 thoroughly national. He wrote and spoke only as an 
 Englishman could write and speak in Elizabeth's time, 
 and the incidents of that stirring period gave force to 
 his writings and added wings to his imagination. The 
 historical plays are the noblest history of England 
 which has as yet been presented to the world, for they ^ 
 contain, not only the events, but the feelings, the 
 aspirations which swayed and governed our heroic 
 ancestors. They are life, real life, which from its 
 commencement to its close, is a chequered career, the 
 sunshine of April and the storms of December not 
 unfrequently commingling. They contain no dry an- 
 tiquarian research, they are not prolific of heroes of 
 the closet, but they are redolent with life and nature, 
 overflowing with discrimination of character, and 
 abounding with the pui-poses and motives which move 
 mankind. Shakspere was the historian of the feelings 
 of the period in which he lived; the great bulk of the 
 people only possessed the theatre as the means of their 
 obtaining information, and there would they resort, to 
 
24 THE SEKitrs or shakspebe. 
 
 observe the salient points of our history, to have them 
 presented with such force and power, by the language 
 of our bard, that they could not fail of being impressed 
 with the result.; The English people loved to have 
 the victories of Crecy, Poicters, and Agincourt presented 
 to their mental vision by the lines of the poet, in the 
 mouth of the actor, and to see once more upon the 
 mimic stage of life, the towering heroes of a past age, 
 the Black Prince, the Bastard, Prince Hal, Hotspur, 
 Talbot, Bedford, Warwick and others, who had often 
 conquered upon the sunny fields of Prance. The 
 Historic plays fostered this spirit, gave it new life and 
 energy, and materially assisted in forming the character 
 of our people ; giving them that fortitude and earnest- 
 ness, which, above all other nations they still display. 
 In the historic plays, Shakspere occupied the reahstic, 
 political and historical phase of the minds of the 
 English people, who not only revelled in the remem- 
 brance of victories achieved by their progenitors, but 
 they were enabled to see the weaknesses, the caprices, 
 the whims, and follies which moved them, and no other 
 author has so ably delineated all these as Shakspere. 
 It was said by Marlborough, the fighting Duke, that the 
 knowledge he possessed of English history, he acquired 
 from frequent perusal of the historic plays of Shakspere. 
 Shakspere possessed no model for his characters 1 
 he drew them not from life, though his strong powers 
 of observation and reflection, would often find sugges- 
 tions in the individuals with whom he came in contact. 
 Chiefly from within himself sprang forth his characters 
 "out of his self-drawing web," and though they were 
 creations of the poet's brain, yet they fail not in their 
 truthfulness, nor in their humanity. The external laws 
 
THE GEKIU8 OF BHAKSPBEE. 25 
 
 of human life seem to have been perceived and posseS' 
 sed by him. They became his moving power, at times 
 controlling him, while at others, he controlled them, 
 producing from his inner life, those vast problems of 
 humanity, which have not yet been solved. In himself, 
 he appears to possess all the knowledge for the under- 
 standing of his race, and their desires, thoughts, 
 aspirations, motives and deeds he fully comprehended 
 and as fully developed in his works. It is the posses- 
 sion of this knowledge and the power of putting it 
 forth, that distinguishes Shakspere from all other 
 dramatists. No matter what phase of human life we 
 wish to find, it has been better done by him than any 
 other. Whatever passion we niay wish pourtrayed, 
 coasult his pages and there you wiU find it so executed, 
 that none other hath done the like. Take his represen- 
 tations of insanity, the working of the brain, in its 
 various stages of disease, and you will discover that 
 under all forms he hath most truthfully pourtrayed it. 
 
 Shakspere's great powers of observation no doubt in 
 a great measure served him well, for there can be no 
 doubt that true imaginative conception of character 
 depends more upon observation than it does upon 
 invention. It cannot now be known to what extent 
 he drew from individual nature, nor can it be shown 
 how far his characters are tinged with personal por- 
 traiture, but this is most certain, that had he iiot 
 have closely observed and still more closely have 
 practised his powers of observation, his characters 
 would not have been so truthfully conceived and drawn, 
 nor would they have been so consonant with humanity. 
 Shakspere's treatment of character constitutes his 
 power as a dramatist, for it is in his characters, their 
 
26 THE ailNIVS OF SHAESPEBE. 
 
 thoughts and their expressions, their motives, their 
 emotions, and their mode of action, that his dramatic 
 art is found. It has been excellently said by Plato, 
 that "if a man so highly gifted as ^to have many sides 
 or places in his character, and to be able to represent 
 anything or everything in his poetry, were he to come 
 to us desiring to exhibit himself and his poems, we 
 should do obesiance to him as a man sacred, wondrous, 
 and captivating," this most appositely depicts our 
 Shakspere. There cannot be any doubt raised as to 
 his many-sidedness, for those who are acquainted with 
 his works, know that this power is constantly mani- 
 fested. Anything and everything is developed in his 
 poetry; there is no phase of thought, no motive for 
 human action, no emotion of love, none of the gay 
 frivolities of youth, the passion of jealousy, the fury 
 of anger, the fatal results of Ul-weaved ambition ; all 
 these find truthful exposition in his works, and those 
 who go to his pages for instruction and knowledge, 
 cannot but admit that in all things he is " sacred, 
 wondrous and captivating," and what is yet more 
 remarkable, they will find that whatever is beautiful 
 in Shakspere possesses this advantage, it will always 
 be beautiful, — and whatever he wrote true of mankind 
 in his period, will be true for ever. 
 
 Shakspere did' not play upon one string, perpetually 
 striking the same note ; but with a master's, hand he 
 struck the chord with true Promethean fire. His notes 
 are all varied, his songs never the same; he is not, 
 like other authors, to be told by his one style, for he 
 is all styles : "no importunate topic; but all is duly 
 given: no veins, no curiosities; no cow-painter, no 
 bird-fancier, no mannerist is he : he has no discoverable 
 
THE 8EN1US OF BHAK8PERE. 27 
 
 egotism; the great he tells greatly, the small subor- 
 dinately. He is wise without emphasis or assertion; 
 he is strong, as nature, who is strong, who lifts the 
 land into mountain slopes without effort, and by the 
 same rule as she floats a bubble in the air, and likes 
 as weU to do the one as the other."* 
 
 The state of the English language, just prior to the 
 appearance of Shakspere as an author, and even at 
 the time he did appear, was very bad. It was in a 
 state of transition, and was looked upon as a rude and 
 barbarous tongue, totally unfit to be used by scholars. 
 His genius, seizing on the labours of all those that 
 had preceded him in the .world of literature, added to 
 its strength, its sweetness, its grace, its fulness and 
 its beauty. He gave it a vitality and a power that 
 can never cease to be. He was the regenerator of our 
 language, its refiner, and whatever word he uses takes 
 its place in our literature, stamped with a mark that 
 cannot be questioned. For copiousness of language, 
 Shakspere hath no equal in our tongue ; he, above all 
 others, standeth pre-eminent, for with him language 
 is truly a flame of fire ; a flame of such fierceness, that 
 no other author hath ever handled it with the potency 
 that he hath. The destruction of feudalism, which was 
 accomplished by the wars of the red and white roses, 
 and the enfranchisement of the English mind from the 
 fetters of Rome; the work of the reformation, in a 
 great measure completed the English character. At 
 this period of our history, the exigences of our nation 
 requii-ed great men, and they came. A rich array of 
 names can be furnished, whose works have given to 
 
 * Emerson's Works, 1 vol. pp. 407, 408. Orr & Co., 1861. 
 
is THE GENIUS Ol" SHAKSPEJIE. 
 
 our literature such grace, and bestowed on the English 
 language such power, changing, in fact, the position 
 of our nation in the world. To this state of things 
 the works of Shakspere in no small degree contributed. 
 The extension of our commerce, our wars with Spain, 
 the acquirement of fresh geographical knowledge, all 
 served to expand our notions of humanity, the philo- 
 sophical conception of which, in Shakspere's time 
 " was immensely enlarged, diversified, and enriched. 
 The myriad-minded Shakspere — as, by an application 
 of a term borrowed from one of the Greek fathers, 
 Coleridge has so appropriately called him — took in 
 this vast conception in all its breadth, and was endowed 
 with a faculty of self-transformation into all the shapes 
 in which the nature of man has been incarnated. 
 He hence required a variety of phraseologies — words 
 and combinations of words — as great as the varieties 
 of humanity itself are numerous."* 
 
 Shakspere's personality is never displayed by any 
 of his characters. His own personality was too plastic, 
 looking not within, but on the infinite world without, 
 and it readily passed into the character he sought to 
 develope. This is one of the chief characteristics by 
 which he is distinguished from the rest of his dramatic 
 brethren, who frequently failed to lose their own 
 personality in the individual they sought to pourtray. 
 In the language of his characters, the individuality of 
 Shakspere is never discoverable. They each speak in 
 their true relation to the other characters of the drama, 
 and they are constantly revealing thoughts and feelings 
 which are common to all humanity. Each of the 
 
 * Marsh's Origin and History of the English Language, p. 606. 
 
THE GENIUS OF SHAK.SPHRB. , 29 
 
 characters work upon each other, they are made 
 mutually dependant, and in this consists Shakspere's 
 observance of the true law of unity, the unity of feeling. 
 Throughout the whole of his dramas is Shakspere 
 self-oblivious, for they require him to be so, and "he 
 was one of the least self-conscious men, and so he is 
 the least personally visible in his writings. This was 
 the condition of his greatness. He was to be so uncon- 
 scious of self as to be purely reflective of all passing 
 forms. If he had been a lesser man, he would have 
 shown us more of himself. If more imperfect, he 
 would have revealed more idiosyncracy. We should 
 have caught him taking a peep at himself in the 
 dramatic mirror. But Shakspeare's nature is all 
 mirror to the world around him. A more conscious 
 man would have managed to make the darkness that 
 hides him from us a sort of lamp-shade which should 
 concentrate the light on his own features, when he 
 looked up in some self-complaisant pause. Not so 
 Shakspeare ; he throws all the light on his work, and 
 bends over it so intently that it is most difiScult to get 
 a glimpse of his face. Our sole chance is to watch 
 him at his work, and not his human leanings and 
 personal relationship."* 
 
 Neither, is it alone, as a dramatic writer, that 
 Shakspere is to be considered. His "sugared Sonnets,^' 
 the sweet songs interspersed throughout his plays and 
 his minor poems are among the best in our tongue. 
 His plays transcend aU others that have been written, 
 and just in the same proportion his sonnets transcend 
 aU others. They are thoroughly natural and intensly 
 human, full of life, moral worth and manliness. The 
 
 * Maseey's Shakspeare's Sonnets, p. 633. 
 
30 THE GENIUS OP SHAKSPEBE. 
 
 "myriad-minded" Shakspere, "apart from dramatic 
 power, is the greatest poet that ever lived. His sym- 
 pathy is the most universal, his imagination the most 
 plastic, his diction the most expressive ever given to 
 any writer. His poetry has in itself the power and 
 varied excellencies of all other poetry. While in gran- 
 deur and beauty and passion, and sweetest music, and 
 all the other higher gifts of song, he may be ranked 
 with the greatest, — with Spencer, and Chaucer, and 
 Milton, and Dante, and Homer, — he is at the same 
 time more nervous than Dryden, and more sententious 
 than Pope, and more sparkling and of more abounding 
 conceit when he chooses, than Donne, or Cowley, 
 or Butler."* 
 
 What author can be compared with Shakspere for 
 capacity of heart; what author so redolent with 
 universal love, that like the waters in high places it 
 .is continually gushing forth and welling up. His 
 thorough knowledge of all, taught him a love for all ; 
 not the mawkish sentimentality which passes current 
 in the fashionable world for that feeling, but a hearty, 
 genuine love for the species to which he belonged, 
 and an earnest desire to promote the wellbeing of 
 humanity; for truly, as Ben Jonson, one of his 
 worthiest compeers, observed, 
 
 "He was not for an age, but — foe all time." 
 
 That Shakspere was perfect, I am not going to 
 avow, because it would be more than we can expect 
 from poor imperfect humanity; but that his errors 
 are so few it would be the height of fastidiousness 
 and false delicacy to parade them, I boldly aver. Such 
 
 * Craik's English Literature, Vol. 1. p. 663, 
 
THE GENHI8 OF SHAKSPEBB. 81 
 
 a course of judgment is a false one; it betrays a 
 meanness incompatible with the subject, is entirely 
 apart from the manner by which he should be judged, 
 for it is by that which he has done, and done so 
 well, his equal not being known, that his capabilities 
 should be tested. "It is by the imagination, dis- 
 played in a thousand varieties of character, by 
 his subtle and delicate fancies, his grand thoughts, 
 his boundless charity, — nay, even by the music that 
 steals in our souls, with the countless changes and 
 fluctuations, from strength to sweetness, of his charm- 
 ing verse, that we must learn to regard him truly. 
 But all this eulogy would be superfluous, except for 
 a limited class of thinkers; for Shakspere is now 
 making his way through foreign countries and distant 
 regions; vanquishing race after race, like the great 
 conquerors of old, in spite of ignorance and prejudice, 
 and impetfect teachers ; and in the midst of dim and 
 obscure interpretations, that would check the progress 
 of any spirit less potent and catholic than his own." 
 
 "In the summer time, when the world is cheerful 
 and fuU of life, let us regale ourselves with the laughing 
 scenes and merry songs of Shakspere. In the winter 
 evenings, when sadder thoughts come forth, let us 
 rest upon his grave, philosophic page, and try to 
 gather comfort as well as wisdom from the deep specu- 
 lations which may be found there. At all times let 
 his 'Book of Miracles' be near at hand; for, be sure 
 that the more we read therein the greater must our 
 reverence be. And if any intruder should tell us that 
 all we ponder on and admire is mere matter of imagina- 
 tion and fancy; is shadowy, unreal, without profit; 
 and that the end is nought: bid him shew you the 
 
32 THE QENICS OF SHAESFUBE. 
 
 thing that is eternal,T— or any effort of the human mind 
 that has outlasted the dreams of poetry. Have I said 
 that they are dreams? Alas! what is there here that 
 is so far beyond a dream? We ourselves (so our great 
 poet says) — . - '■ 
 
 " 'Are of such stufi 
 As dreams are made on: and onr little life 
 Is rounded \>y a sleep.'"* — Tempest, A. iv. S. 4. 
 
 * Barry Cornwall's J!ssay on the Genius of Shakspere, Tyas' edition, 
 pp. 27, 28. 
 
33 
 
 NOTE A. *- 
 
 " The west yet glimmers with some streaks of day ; 
 Now spurs the lated traveller apace, 
 To gain the timely inn." — Macbeth, A. in. S. 4. 
 
 " Sable night, mother of dread and fear. 
 Upon the world dim darkness doth display, 
 And in her vanity prison stows the day." — Poems. 
 
 " The cricket sings, and man's o'er-lahour'd sense 
 Repairs itself by rest." — Gymbelme, A. ii. s. 2. 
 
 " CivH night, 
 Thou sober-suited matron, all in black." 
 
 EiO'nieo amd Juliet, A. in. S. 2. 
 
 "The dragon wing of night o'erspreads the earth." 
 
 Troihis and Oressida, A. v. s. 9. 
 
 " Good things of day begin to droop and drowse. 
 While night's black agents to their preys do rouse." 
 
 Macbeth, A. in. S. 2. 
 
 " Now the wasted brands do glow. 
 
 Whilst the scritch-owl, scritching loud. 
 Puts the wretch, that lies in woe, 
 
 In remembrance of a shroud. 
 Now it is the time of night. 
 
 That the graves all gaping wide. 
 Every one lets forth his sprite 
 
 In the churchyard paths to glide." 
 
 Midsvmvmer NigMa Drea/m, A. v. s. 2. 
 
 " Look, the gentle day, 
 Before the wheels of Phoebus, round about, 
 Dapples the drowsy east with spots of grey." 
 
 Much ado about Nothing, A. v. s. 3. 
 
 " Hark ! hark the lark at heaven's gate sings. 
 And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
 His steed to water at those springs, 
 
 On chaliced flowers that Ues ; 
 And winking Marybuds begin 
 • To ope their golden eyes." — Oymbeline, A. ii. S. 3. 
 
 
 
M irOTB A. 
 
 " Ton grey lines 
 That fret tlie clouds, are messengers of the day." 
 
 Jtdvus Oossa/r, A. ii. b. 1. 
 
 " The silent hours steal on, 
 And flaky darkness breaks within the east." 
 
 Edcha/rd III., A! v. s. 3. 
 
 " The glow-worm shews the matin to be near. 
 And 'gins to pale his ineffectual fire." 
 
 Hamlet, A. i. s. 5. 
 
 " See how the morning opes her golden gates, 
 And takes her farewell of the glorious sun." 
 
 Henry VI., pt. 3. A. ii. s. 1. 
 
 " The morning steals upon the night. 
 Melting the darkness." 
 
 T?i0 Tempest, A. v. s. 1. 
 
 " The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn, 
 Doth witib. his lofty and shrill-sounding throat 
 Awake the god of day." 
 
 Hamlet, A. I. a. 1. 
 
 " The day begins to break, and night is fled. 
 Whose pitchy mantle over-veil'd the earth." 
 
 HetiTTj VI., pt. I. A. II. s. 2. 
 
 " Night's swift dragons cut the clouds fuU fast 
 And yonder shines Aurora's harbingers." 
 
 Midsmnmer Night's Bream, A. iii. S. 2. 
 
 " O comfort-kiUing night, image of hell ! 
 Dim register and notary of shame ! 
 Black stage for tragedies and murders fell ! 
 Vast sin-concealing chaos ! nurse of blame ! 
 Blind, muffled bawd ! dark harbour for defame ! 
 Grim cave of death ; whispering conspirator. 
 With close tongued treason and ravisher ! 
 
 " night, thou furnace of foul-reeking smoke. 
 Let not the jealous day behold that face 
 Which, underneath thy black, aU-hiding cloak, . 
 Immodestly lies mari^red with disgrace." 
 
 The Eape of Lucrece. 
 
HAMLET. 
 
 There have been two Hamlets, though but one 
 ShakBpere ; the first being an early effort of the won- 
 drous man of Stratford, the second being an elaboration 
 of the play; and, to such an extent 'did the author 
 proceed, that some have supposed the first was not 
 written by Shakspere, but that he had merely engrafted 
 upon the anonymous Hamlet his own emendations, the 
 creation of the parts being the work of another genius. 
 This opinion, owing to the searching enquiry which has 
 been instituted, turns out to be a fallacy, and both the 
 " Hamlets " have been proved to be the productions 
 of the one great dramatist, William Shakspere. The 
 date of the first production of Hamlet is the year 1600. 
 
 The earliest printed copy of Hamlet known, is the 
 edition of 1603, the title of which runs as follows: 
 " The Tragical Historie of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, 
 by William Shakspere, As it hath been diverse times 
 Acted by His Highnesse servants in the Cittie of Lon- 
 don ; as also in the two Universities of Cambridge and 
 Oxford, and elsewhere. At London, printed for N. L. 
 and John Trundell, 1603." There are only two known 
 copies of this edition, one being in the library of the 
 Duke of Devonshire, and the other which was lately 
 
36 HAMXiET. 
 
 diBcovered. This copy fell into the hands of an Irish 
 bookseller, Mr. Eooney of Dublin, who sold it in London, 
 and it was ultimately purchased by Mr. Halliwell, in 
 whose possession it now remains. In the last page 
 of this copy are several different readings to the one 
 hitherto known. In 1604 a second edition of Hamlet 
 appeared, considerably enlarged and improved ; the 
 number of lines being considerably augmented, while 
 the language is more polished and majestic in its- 
 character. It is said that the first edition was a pirated 
 one, the words being taken down in short-hand from 
 the mouths of the actors, while the second was pub- 
 lished under the sanction of the author. In 1605 
 another edition was published, and the play was again 
 reprinted in 1G07, 1609, and 1611. It is included in 
 the first folio edition of Shakspere's works, 1623, and 
 another edition in 4to. was published in 1637. 
 
 After it was shown that the editions of 1603 and 1604 
 were the work of one genius, William Shakspere, 
 another form of disbelief of his authorship arose, and 
 it was contended, that, owing to a play called Hamlet, 
 being played either in 1589 or 1590, thirteen years 
 prior to the publication in 1603, that he llad merely 
 added to the work of another author. The researches, 
 however, of modern commentators, have shown most 
 unquestionably, that the piece which was played, and 
 the one that was published in 1603, are identical with 
 each other, and that the authorship belongeth solely 
 to "Vyilliam Shakspere, who completed the play as we 
 possess it now, between the years 1604 and 1607. 
 
 The history of Hamlet is found in a work of the 
 Danish historian, Saxo Grammaticus, who died 1204. 
 It was translated into English and published in .a 
 
nAMLET, 37 
 
 separate quarto tract, under the title of "The Historie 
 of Hamlet, Prince Of Denmark." The history and 
 the play coincides to the end of the fourth chapter, 
 hut in the second, the most traces are to be found of 
 the use Shakspere made of the story of the chronicler. 
 It does not appear that he has borrowed scarcely an 
 expression from the history, with the exception of the 
 exclamation "A rat, a rat," when Polonius is slain 
 behind the arras; and the conclusion of the play is 
 vastly different to the history, for in that, after 
 Hamlet's return from England, he slays his uncle, 
 wins the affections of the Danes, is elected king, goes 
 back again to England, slays the English king, marries 
 two English ladies, and through the treachery of one 
 of these ladies on his return home, he is himself slain. 
 Such is the history, and vast is the improvement the 
 story has received at the hands of Shakspere. He 
 there saw a tale of rapine, murder, and adultery, the 
 usual characteristics of a state- of barbarism, and he 
 has wedded to it a character with which the world is 
 charmed ; a character in which mankind delight, simply 
 from the fact, of its being a reflex of themselves. 
 The intense intellectual grandeur which Shakspere has 
 shadowed forth in his tragedy of Hamlet, is as infinitely 
 superior to the history of the chronicler, as are the 
 temples of Greece to the wigwams of the Indians, or 
 the statues of Phidias, to the hideous and distorted 
 deities of the South Sea islander. 
 
 The great feature in the character of Hamlet is 
 irresolution : opportunities . present themselves, yet he 
 does not avail himself thereof; he plays with his 
 purposes, one moment resolving to do, the next not 
 to do. He dreads the result of his actions, at the same 
 
38 . HAMLET. 
 
 time he is firmly persuaded he must perform them; 
 for to him alone is given the power to avenge his 
 father's murder. The killing of Polonius is made the 
 result of accident, for on his crying for help, Hamlet 
 thrusts his sword through the arras, exclaipaing "Dead, 
 for a ducat, dead." And on the Queen asking him, 
 "What hast thou done?" the wish and desire that it 
 may provo his uncle, is shown in Hamlet's answer: 
 "Nay, I know not: Is it the king?" — A, iii. s. 4. 
 
 Hamlet is the representative of thought, not action ; 
 he is the child of doubt, he has no firm belief in 
 . himself, nor in those by whom he is surrounded. This 
 doubting, the result of great thinking, is the chief 
 cause of his non-acting; for all the results are calcu- 
 lated beforehand — the means whereby they are to be 
 arrived at — and yet these calculations are not fulfilled, 
 simply, because they serve to cripple action. This view 
 is beautifully expressed by Hamlet himself: 
 
 "And thus the native hue of reaolntion 
 Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; 
 And enterprises of great pith and moment, 
 With this regard, their currents turn awry, 
 And lose the name of action." — A. in. s. 1. 
 
 Hamlet, though highly educated, possessing a larger 
 share of world knowledge than any of his compeers, 
 is morally and physically weak; a weakness which is 
 made very apparent in the various resolutions which he 
 adopts and never acts upon. The physical comparison 
 which he institutes between himself and Hercules, 
 when he exclaims "than I to Hercules," is beautifully 
 descriptive .of himself; the one all action, the other 
 all doubt and passiveness. When Hamlet does act, 
 it is the result of impulse, not resolve of action; he 
 
HAMLET. 39 
 
 slays the garrulous Polonius, but it is only when the 
 fit is on him. His impulses after his first interview 
 with the ghost are to revenge his father's murder, 
 but he does not do it. He swears by heaven that he 
 will fulfil the commands of the ghost, that "from the 
 table of his memory,^' "he will "wipe away all trivial 
 fond records," that "with wings as swift as meditation, 
 or the thoughts of love,'' he wUl rush to his revenge; 
 but he does not, for he commences to think, and when 
 his thought becomes awakened, 
 
 " PiirpoBe is but the slave of memory," 
 and he fully illustrates his own lines, 
 
 " What to ourselves in passion we propose, 
 The passion ending, doth the purpose lose." 
 
 The influence of the ghost leaves him, and he begins 
 to doubt whether or no he is not the prey of an illu- 
 sion. He is weak and melancholy and this latter may 
 have over-ruled his true judgment. He is a "John a 
 dreams, a dull and muddy-mettled rascal," and he 
 fears the consequences of his taking action, for "the 
 spirit," he has seen 
 
 "May be the devil; and the devil hath power 
 To assume a pleasing shape ; yea, and, perhaps, 
 Out of my weakness and my melancholy 
 (As he is very potent with such spirits) 
 Abuses me to damn me. I'll have grounds 
 More relative than this." — A. ii. S. 2. 
 
 Upon the introduction of the players he determines 
 to settle his doubts, and he conceives the idea of having 
 presented a play, in which shall occur a scene of a 
 similar nature to the one in which his father died; 
 and to be more certain of the effect, he writes several 
 speeches based upon the supposed fact of his father 
 
40 HAMIEl'. 
 
 being murdered, and the easy way in which the for- 
 getting wife was won by the murderer. He says, 
 "I have heard 
 That guilty creatxiies, sitting at a play, 
 Have by the very cunning of the scene 
 Been steuck so to the soul, that presently 
 They have proolaim'd their malefactions; 
 For nmrther, though it have no tongue, will speak 
 With most miraculous organ." — A. ll. S. 2. 
 
 These doubts will not admit of his wholly relying 
 upon the relation of the ghost, as he does not deem 
 that a sufficient warranty for him to act upon; he 
 imagines his weakness may be taken advantage of, 
 a weakness of which he is well aware; this, coupled 
 with his melancholy, might lead to his being abused 
 and damned. He will have greater proof before he 
 dares to act, the chain of evidence must be strength- 
 ened, and he exclaims, 
 
 "The play's the thing 
 Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king." 
 
 A. n. s. 2. 
 
 His purpose is answered by the play, for the king 
 is startled, upriseth suddenly, demanding light. This 
 circumstance fully convinceth Hamlet of the king's 
 guilt, yet he doth not proceed to carry out his desire, 
 the result of that conviction. On the contrary, he 
 still procrastinates. The ghost again appears, and 
 Hamlet, aware of his non-action, hopeth that he doth 
 not come to chide him, 
 
 " That laps'd in time and passion, lets go by 
 The important acting of your dread command." 
 
 A. III. s. 4. 
 This second appearance of the ghost doth not 
 produce any manifestation of action on the part of 
 Hamlet, he is not yet fully decided; other circum- 
 
HAMLET. 41 
 
 stances are required to produce the resolve to act, and 
 the encountering of the army of Fortinbras on its way 
 to the war, gives occasion to Hamlet to reflect aloud 
 upon his position. He is perfectly convinced of his 
 laggardness, for he depicts it in the sentence, 
 
 "How aU occasions do inform against me, 
 And spur my dull revenge." — A. rv. s. 4. 
 
 Of the power to accomplish that ' revenge he never 
 doubts, though at times he questions its propriety, 
 
 " Some craven scruple, 
 Of tbinking too precisely on the event." — A. ry. s. 4. 
 
 But the next instant returneth his self-satisfaction and 
 the belief in his right to revenge his father's murder ; 
 yet he cannot fully resolve, there is yet somethuig 
 wanting, a craving he cannot satisfy, 
 
 "I do not know 
 Wiy yet I live to say 'This thing's to do;' 
 Sith I have cause, and will, and strength, and means 
 To do't. Examples, gross as earth, exhort me." 
 
 A. rv. s. 4. 
 
 Again he reviews his position, and compares it with 
 that of the ready energy and bold activity of young 
 Fortinbras, who fiery with haste is eager for the strife, 
 while he, is sick at heart and weary in spirit. Then 
 he compares his position with the army of the warlike 
 Fortinbras, and shews how little cause they have to 
 risk their lives, yet how cheerfully they do so, being 
 ready, willing, nay eager to expose 
 
 "Wha,t is mortal, and unsure, 
 To all that fortune, death, and danger dare. 
 Even for an egg-shell :" — A. iv. s. 4. 
 
 While he who has a great deed to perform, does not 
 attempt its performance; a deed, for which he hath 
 
42 HAMLET. 
 
 incentives of a far more powerful nature, for hath he 
 
 not 
 
 "A father kill'd; a mother stain'd, 
 Excitements of my reason, and my blood. 
 And let all sleep." 
 
 These thoughts engender grief, which oppresses and 
 overcomes his fears, and he determines, come weal, 
 come woe, to perform his duty to the manes of his 
 murdered parent. Thus resolved, he quits the scene 
 to perform the deed, exclaiming 
 
 "0, from this time forth, 
 My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth." — A. TV. s. 4. 
 
 This resolve is not carried out; the feeling gradually 
 dies away, and Hamlet embarks for England, but 
 returns again to Denmark, when the catastrophe is 
 brought about, not by his direct agency, though he 
 is the instrument whereby the king is slain. He 
 himself falls, as doth Laertes and his mother, a general 
 wreck, in which both innocent and guilty, the avenger 
 and the avenged, are alike destroyed; fulfilling, not 
 poetical justice, but what is higher, the law of hu- 
 manity. 
 
 The key to Hamlet's character* is found in the line 
 " Of thinking too precisely on the event." 
 
 This expression displays the strength of his powers of 
 perception, without which no high development of in- 
 tellectuality can take place, for it points out the cause 
 from whence Hamlet's non-activity proceeds ; and it 
 also serves to show the intensity of his reflective 
 powers, for his continual "cast of thought,'" his 
 " thinking too precisely," prohibits him from fulfilling 
 * See illustrations A and B, 
 
HAMLET. 43 
 
 his dearest hopes and wishes, and completely deters 
 him from carrying into effect those things upon which 
 he is constantly pondering. 
 
 He is apparently convinced of his inability to act, 
 for before he attempts action he feels that he cannot 
 succeed, and this feeling is thoroughly in accordance 
 with his nature which partaketh of too much thinking. 
 He is overwhelmed by " the pale cast " and this con- 
 stant state of thought awakens moral and intellectual 
 considerations which act as checks and ultimately 
 prevent his power of action. 
 
 Hamlet appears to be too intellectual for action ; 
 his powers of perception are so great, that he clothes 
 with such horror to himself the consequences of the 
 deed, that the deed itself becomes obscured, and he 
 fails to perform it. He shrinks from its performance, 
 wishing it to be rather the result of accident, than, 
 that he, should accomplish the wish of the ghost and 
 the tenor of his own thoughts. He is continually 
 starting to achieve the slaying of his uncle, yet as 
 continually drawing back, alarmed by the phantoms 
 which his ever-working brain calleth into existence. 
 When the death of the king is accomphshed, and the 
 murder of his father is avenged, it was not by Hamlet's 
 seeking^t was, as it were, thrust upon him by cir- 
 cumstances, the action drifted towards him. The 
 catastrophe is realized by the hand of Hamlet, but not 
 through him, for it appears not to be man that fulfils 
 it, but destiny. Hamlet had thrust upon him a great 
 work, a work greater than he was, capable of performing, 
 for his power lay chiefly in conceiving, not in action. 
 It is in this lack of activity and in the causes "which 
 produce it, one of Hamlet's chief characteristics, that 
 
44 , HAMLET. 
 
 Shakspere lias shown hia almost perfect knowledge 
 of human character, and displayed his power to de- 
 lineate it. The moral nature of Hamlet is of the 
 most "sweet and commendable " kind, he is naturally 
 gentle, full of conscientiousness, desirous of acting 
 upon principle, so that he never is fully satisfied 
 that to bo revenged, is to act justly, The inoral feelings 
 of the young prince are of a very sensitive nature, 
 and this coupled with the great intellectuality which 
 marks his character, saw no method of activity 
 wherewith it was satisfied, and, as the necessary 
 consequence of dissatisfaction, non-activity was the 
 result. The evil of not acting when we resolve , to 
 act is thoroughly understood by the crafty subtle 
 Claudio, for he most truthfully discourses upon its 
 results in his speech to Laertes, when he says, 
 
 "That we would do, 
 We should do when we would ; for this world changes, 
 And hath abatements and delays as many 
 As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents, 
 And then this ' should ' is like a spendthrift sigh, 
 That hurts by easing." — A. iv. S. 7. 
 
 This shows how great was the master's art, how com- 
 prehensive his genius, and what a profound knowledge 
 he possessed of humanity, and of the motives which 
 determine human conduct and procedure, when he 
 could thus successfully depict its character. 
 
 Hamlet in his own thinking is but the child of 
 destiny. He is but a weak, inactive creature who has 
 a mission to fulfil and which he shrinks from per- 
 forming. His course of action is predetermined, it is 
 thrust upon him, he being but the instrument of 
 destiny. He would that it were not so, his wishes 
 
HAMLET. 45 
 
 and inclinations being otherwise, but he feels that he 
 has no choice, for 
 
 " heaven hath pleas'd so, — 
 To punish me with this, and this with me. 
 That I must be their scourge and minister." 
 
 A. III. S. 4. 
 
 The play of Hamlet is said to contain the philo- 
 sophical opinions of the author, who undeniably 
 advocates the empire of necessity throughout the play. 
 The will is made subservient to the circumstance, and 
 the characters act solely as necessity doth regulate 
 them. , Hamlet is the type of a sceptic, his age is just 
 the period when men are torn with conflicting doubts, 
 ho questions everything, believes in no one, but 
 doubteth all. The pros and cojis, the doubts and hopes 
 are put forward more powerfully in Hamlet, than in 
 any other of Shakspere's plays. Hamlet is rendered 
 dissatified with this world, but stUl he sees no hope of 
 a -better one in the future. His first soliloquy betrays 
 this, when he says, ■ 
 
 " O, that this too, too sohd flesh would melt, 
 Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew ! 
 Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd 
 His canon 'gainst seM-slaughter. O god ! god ! 
 How weary, stale, fla.t, and unprofitable 
 Seems to me all the uses of this world ! 
 Fie on't ! ah fie ! 't is an unweeded garden, 
 That grows to seed ; things rank and gross in nature. 
 Possess it merely." — A. i. S. 2. 
 
 Here we have the wish for entire annihilation, 
 the complete destruction of existence ; the world is 
 not good enough to live in, the beauty of the work of 
 creation is questioned, and the wisdom of God is 
 doubted in the result produced, for 
 
4G HAMI.ET. 
 
 " it is an unweeded garden, 
 That grows to seed ; things mnk and gross in nature, 
 Possess it merely." 
 
 That Hamlet is a follower of the old creed of the 
 government of mankind by circumstances or necessity, 
 such terms being synonymous, is most forcibly shown 
 in his description of his countrymen. Necessity or 
 circumstance is the guide of their conduct, upon this 
 principle they are dependent, for 
 
 " So oft it chances in particular men, 
 That for some vicious mole of nature in them. 
 As in their birth, (wherein they are not guilty, 
 Since nature cannot choose his origin,) 
 By their o'ergrowth of some complexion, 
 Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason ; 
 Or by some habit, that too much o'erleavens 
 The form of plausive m.aniier3 ; that these men. 
 Carrying I say, the stamp of one defect ; 
 Being nature's livery, or fortune's star, 
 Their virtues else (be they as pure as grace. 
 As infinite as man may undergo) 
 Shall in the general censure take corruption 
 From that particular fault : the dram of ill 
 Doth all the noble substance often doubt, (to put out) 
 To his own scandal." — A. i. s. 4. 
 
 The world-famous soliloquy, "to be or not to be," 
 is another illustration of the same principle. Necessity, 
 thou mother of all, is the governing power, and the 
 conclusion arrived at, is that of non-futurity. Not 
 only does this speech show that the thoughts of Hamlet 
 are sceptical, but it also shows that he wishes for no 
 future state of existence ; he would that the old 
 Sadducean doctrine were true. 
 
 " To die, — to sleep, — 
 No more ; and, by a sleep, to say we end 
 The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks 
 
HAMLET. 47 
 
 That fleeh is heir to — 't is a consummation 
 
 Devoutly to be wished. To die, — to sleep." — A. iii. s. 1. 
 
 The same idea Shakspere hath pourtrayed in his 
 play of the Tempest, when Prospero exclaims 
 
 " Our little life is rounded with a sleep." — A. iv. S. 1. 
 In Measure for Measure, the same idea is found 
 in the speech of the Duke, who after reasoning for 
 some length on life, says it is 
 
 "As it were an after-dinner's sleep." — A. in. s. 1. 
 
 The words put in the mouth of the player king, 
 are but a development of the doctrine of necessity. 
 The destiny of man and his wiU run opposite to each 
 other ; our thoughts are our own, but the end, the 
 result of such thinking, is totally beyond our control : 
 we are only instruments acted upon, not the actor ; for 
 
 " Our wills and fates do so contrary run 
 That our devices still are overthrown ; 
 Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of their own." 
 
 A. ni. s. 2. 
 
 The scepticism of Hamlet removes much of the 
 obscurity attending the play. On no other ground 
 can the various inconsistences and strange vagaries 
 of Hamlet be accounted for. He is dissatisfied with 
 the circumstances by which he is surrounded and he 
 is equally as dissatisfied with himself. He believes 
 not in the truthfulness of those with whom he cometh 
 in daily contact, and his belief in humanity is there- 
 by destroyed. He doubts himself, he doubts his 
 fellows, and these doubts lead him into scepticism 
 and from thence into the broad principles of ma- 
 terialism. The changes of nature, her transformations 
 are shadowed forth in the lines, 
 
48 HA.MLET. 
 
 " Imperial Osesar, dead and turned to clay, 
 Might atop a hole to keep the wind away ; 
 that that earth, which kept the world in awe, 
 Should patch a wall to expel the winter's flaw." — A.y. S. 1 . 
 
 This is the basis of the philosophy of the material 
 philosophers of ancient and modern times. This 
 principle was not probably well understood by the 
 multitude in the days of Shakspere, but the men of 
 learning, the philosophers of the period, and the 
 companions of the poet were perfectly cognizant thereof. 
 Shelley in his Queen Mob, a poem, in which necessity 
 "thou mother of the world" as he calls her, is made 
 the governing power, dilates upon the same idea, 
 when he says, 
 
 "There's not one atom of yon earth 
 
 But once was living man; 
 Nor the minutest drop of rain, 
 That hangeth in its thinnest cloud, 
 
 But flowed in human veins." — 0. ii. 
 
 Of the material tendency of Hamlet's remarks on 
 the dust of Alexander there cannot be any doubt, 
 the reply of Horatio to Hamlet's question serves to 
 support this, 
 
 "Twere to consider too curiously to consider so," 
 
 for Horatio shrinks from contemplating the abyss to 
 which such reflections would lead; the conclusions he 
 is not at all prepared for, nor is he willing to accept 
 the consequences of such a creed. He is a Christian, 
 and thinks reason is perverted from its legitimate 
 purpose, when it is du-ected to such peculiar specula- 
 tions; while on the other hand, the scepticism of 
 Hamlet exults in such matters, for he exclaims in 
 answer to Horatio, "No, faith, not a jot,'^ and then 
 
UAMLET. 49 
 
 proceeds to show the various stages the hody passes 
 through, prior to becoming loam to " stop a beer barrel." 
 These principles have been more fully developed and 
 to a great extent have been established by the science 
 of modern days. The immense strides which science 
 has taken, have placed them upon a proper basis, 
 " and had the poet conveyed his ideas in a philosophic 
 dissertation, in place of a dramatic composition, the 
 language he would have used, in all probabihty, would 
 have been of that character which marks the philosophy 
 of the present day, for Hamlet^s observations upon 
 this occasion, amount to the same import which the 
 following passage implies : — Matter is eternal ! the 
 molecules of the body merely pass from one into the 
 other ; they survive the destruction, or rather the dis- 
 solution of organic and inorganic beings, when the 
 former ceasing to hve, restore to the inexhaustible 
 fund of nature those elements which she lends, without 
 ever parting with them.^'* 
 
 Vindictiveness is another marked point in the 
 character of Hamlet, and one that is very strongly 
 displayed. His slaying of Polonius, affords him an 
 opportunity of tormenting his mother, by language 
 of a harsh and cruel nature, and he does not forget 
 to avail himself of the opportunity. His mother 
 exclaims, 
 
 " what a rash, and bloody deed is this !" 
 
 A. III. s. 4 
 To which he answers, *■ 
 
 " A bloody deed : almost as bad, good mother, 
 As kill a king and marry with his brother." 
 
 A. III. S. 4. 
 
 * An Essay on the Tragedy of Hamlet, by P. Maodonell, late President 
 of the Boyal Physical Society of Edinburgh, pp. 48, 49. 
 
 D 
 
50 HAMLET. 
 
 Not content with this, Hamlet appears to lose all love of 
 his mother in this scene, and ho is determined she 
 shall feel the weight of his words ; he tells her to 
 
 "Leave -wriiiging of your hands : Peace, sit you down, 
 And let me wring your heart : for so I shall, 
 If it be made of penetrable stufB ; 
 If damned custom have not braz'd it so, 
 That it ia proof and bulwark against sense." — A. ill. S. 4. 
 
 Then, on being questioned by his mother, 
 
 " WTiat have I done that thou dar'st wag thy tongue. 
 In noise so rude agaiast me ?" 
 
 He paints her conduct in the darkest colours, describing 
 
 it as 
 
 " Such an act, 
 That blurs the grace and blush of modesty; 
 Calls virtue, hypocrite ; takes off the rose 
 From the fair forehead of an innocent love. 
 And sets a blister there ; makes marriage vows 
 As false as dicer's oaths." — A. in. s. 4. 
 
 The hasty marriage of his mother with his uncle, he 
 cannot accoimt for ; from that fact, he is almost 
 incHned to conceive her a partner in the crime ; he can- 
 not forgive her, so surprised is he at her conduct, and 
 he is struck with astonishment and wonder, that she 
 should have so soon forgotten his father, whom he 
 describes as 
 
 " A combination and a form indeed. 
 Whore every god did soom to sot his seal 
 To give the world assurance of a man." — A, in. s. 4. 
 
 While his uncle he paints as a 
 
 " A murtherer and a villain, 
 A slave, that is not twentieth part the tythe 
 Of your precedent lord : — a vice of kings ; 
 A cutpurse of the empire and the rule."-^^. in, s. 4. 
 
HAMLET. 61 
 
 So great is the enormity of his mother's conduct in his 
 
 view, that he cannot beheve that natural circumstance 
 
 caused his mother to marry his uncle, there must 
 
 have been some agency of a supernatural character to 
 
 have worked the change : he asks her 
 
 "What devil was 't, 
 That thus hath cozen'd you at hoodman-bUnd ?" 
 
 A. III. s. 4, 
 
 And then he proceeds to denounce her in language of a 
 very strong nature. 
 
 "0 shame ! where is thy blush ? Rebellious hell, 
 If thou canst mutine in a matron's bones. 
 To flaming youth let virtue be as wax, 
 •And melt in her own fire : proclaim no shame, 
 When the compulsive ardour gives the charge ; 
 Since frost itself as actively doth burn, 
 And reason panders will." — A. in. s. 4. 
 
 The vindictiveness of Hamlet towards his mother is 
 
 so great that he almost hates her. AH love for her 
 
 appears to be absorbed and swallowed up in his desire 
 
 to avenge his father's death, by accomplishing his 
 
 revenge upon his father's murderers. He cares not 
 
 how the venom of his tongue rankles in her breast ; 
 
 he doth not respect the love which she holds towards 
 
 him ; he will not hear of any excuse for her marriage 
 
 with his. uncle; he admits of no extenuating circunl- 
 
 stanees, but he is resolved to keep her in hand, and 
 
 tells her she 
 
 " shall not budge ; 
 Ton go not, tUl I set you up a glass. 
 Where you may see the inmost part of you." 
 
 The passion so grows upon him, that he would 
 probably have slain her, had not the ghost have com- 
 manded him not to do so ; for It teUs Hamlet, on its 
 first visitation, to 
 
52 HAMLET. 
 
 ' " Taint not tliy mind, noi- lot tliy soul conti-ive 
 Against thy motlior auglit, Icavo her to lioavon 
 And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge 
 To prick and sting her." — A. i. s. 5. 
 
 The remembrance of this injunction restrains the 
 prince, and it is only by words, and not by deeds, that 
 he severely rebukes his mother's conduct. 
 
 There is a refinement of malice, the height of 
 
 vindictiveness, displayed by Hamlet in his conduct 
 
 towards his uncle ; in the first place, by awakening 
 
 remorse in the bosom of the guilty monarch by means 
 
 of the play, and secondly, when he will not revenge his 
 
 father's death, because his uncle is at his prayers. 
 
 Hamlet, seeing the king kneeling, thus soliloquizes 
 
 " And am I then reveng'd, 
 To take him in the purging of his soul, 
 When he is fit and season'd for his passage ? 
 No, 
 
 Up sword, and know thou a more horrid hent ; 
 When lie is drunk, asleep, or in his rage. 
 Or in tlie incestuous pleasure of his bed ; 
 At gaming, swearing, or about some act - 
 That has no relish of salvation in't : 
 Then trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven ; 
 And that his soul may be as damn'd, and black, 
 As hell, whereto it goes." — A. iii. s. 4. 
 
 The conduct of Hamlet towards Ophelia, can only be 
 accounted for, by the spirit of vindictiveness which he 
 evinces. His wish to defeat the designs of Polonius 
 and his daughter, causes him to display but little regret 
 when they have left the stage of life. The scene with 
 Ophelia, when he tells her to get to a nunnery, fur- 
 nishes us with an example of his bitter mocking spirit. 
 He questions her honesty, her fairness, and then tells 
 her, if honest, she should " admit no discourse to your 
 
UAMLEt. 53 
 
 beauty ;" taunts her with her father being a fool, and 
 ■when told he is at home, tella her to " let the doors be 
 shut upon him, that he may play the fool no where but 
 in his own house." Upbraids her, and her sex, and 
 says, "if thou wilt marry, marry a fool, for wise men 
 know well enough what monsters you make them." 
 
 Hamlet could never have had much love for Ophelia 
 or he would not have treated her in the manner that he 
 did.* Where Shakspere has painted the true develop- 
 ment of love, as in Romeo and Juliet, feuds and family 
 quarrels all yield, nay, even life itself is surrendered to 
 its power, and had Hamlet have loved the fair Ophelia, 
 as ardently as she loved him, he never could so have 
 acted towards her. That Hamlet possessed no real 
 love for Ophelia, is evinced by his treatment of the fair 
 girl during the acting of the play scene. The coarseness 
 of the language, his ribald allusions, and even his ribald 
 conduct, all point to the fact that he had no love — that 
 the feeling had been put on, assumed, not felt : a mere 
 show, "worn upon his sleeve;" a toy, in which he 
 found amusement, and which being " as brief as the 
 poesy of a ring," could be easily cast off. One who 
 truly loved could not so have treated the object of his 
 affections, as Hamlet treated Ophelia , before the King 
 and his court. 
 
 It is said, that Hamlet's conduct at the fair girFs 
 funeral affords ample proof of his love, but this is much 
 to be questioned. His language is that of a mere 
 braggart ; besides, it is not sorrow for Ophelia, but 
 anger with her brother that causes him to leap into her 
 grave, else why the expression in the following scene to 
 Horatio, 
 
 * Seo illustration C. 
 
54 HAML£T. 
 
 " But sure, the bravery of his grief did prut me 
 Into a towering passion." — A. v. s. 2. 
 
 His being in " a towering passion " with her brother, is 
 presumptive proof of the truth of his own words, " I 
 loved you not." The grief, sympathy, and sorrow of 
 Laertes over the grave of his sister, would naturally 
 excite similar feelings in the breast of a lover, but here 
 to mark that no love existed, Hamlet admits that he 
 was wrought into a "towering passion" by the 
 "bravery" of her brother's grief. The expression 
 which Hamlet makes use of on first learning of Ophelia's 
 death, shows that his love was not very strong ; he 
 exclaims, " what, the fair Ophelia ?" is that all an 
 earnest lover would have said — does that sentence ex- 
 press the weight of woe and sorrow which a lover would 
 feel on learning for the first time the death of the dear 
 one ? No ! there would have been something different 
 to that expression, something in which more pain. 
 Borrow, and anguish, would have been depicted — 
 something more than is displayed in those boastful lines 
 he addressed to her brother : 
 
 " Dost thou come here to whine ? 
 To outface me with leaping in her grave ? 
 Be buried quick with her, and so will I ; 
 Ajid, if thou prate of mountains, let them throw 
 Milhons of acres on us ; till our ground. 
 Singeing his pate against the burning zone, 
 Make Ossa like a wart !" — A. v. s. 1. 
 
 Such language as this doth not show that Hamlet 
 possessed any love for " the fair Ophelia" ; it is but the 
 furious outpourings of a brain, not wrought on by 
 sorrow and grief at the loss of the loved one, but lashed 
 into a storm of passion, as he confesses, by the great 
 
HAMLET. 55 
 
 and real grief displayed by Laertes. Again, when 
 Hamlet has learned the fact, that through his rejection 
 of Ophelia combined with the slaying of her father, the 
 aberration of her brain ensues, and ultimately leads to 
 her death, he evinces no sorrow, and after the burial 
 scene he doth not even allude to her. This silence on 
 the part of Shakspere throughout the rest part of the 
 play, is highly significant ; it demonstrates that he 
 intended Hamlet's love of Ophelia, should not be of 
 a lasting nature ; it was a mere transient feeling 
 which passed away, and left the young prince's heart 
 totally unaffected by the result of the passion. 
 That this is the case with Hamlet is certain : were it 
 not, there would have been some melancholy image 
 lingering behind, which would have betrayed itself in 
 the outpourings of Hamlet's fancy. 
 
 The one passion in which the brain of Hamlet was 
 absorbed, is revenge of his father's murder ; to this end 
 all his thoughts converge. It takes possession of his 
 faculties, and aU other passions are discarded ; there was 
 no room for love in Hamlet's brain, that passion must 
 have been absorbed in the greater one, revenge. 
 Throughout the play, from its commencement to its 
 close, revenge, not love, is the all-absorbing passion of 
 the Danish prince, and yet frord the sensitiveness of his 
 moral nature he is never satisfied whether it is right 
 to act upon this passion ; and when even he does act, 
 such action is not provided for, it is not from con- 
 viction, but from impulse. 
 
 Hamlet by some writers has been represented as 
 being really mad, but this is a supposition quite apart 
 from the truth. "Were the madness of Hamlet otherwise 
 than assumed, the sovereignty of Hamlet, which is, 
 
66 HA.ML£T. 
 
 his great intellectuality, would be destroyed. This 
 assumed madness is the result of intellectual calculation, 
 for it serves as a cloak, the better to accomplish his 
 purposes; to lead astray the parties upon whom he 
 wishes to he revenged ; to throw them o£f their guard, 
 BO that they may not be prepared to counteract the 
 power that he intends to bring to bear upon them. 
 Hamlet is thoroughly master of himseK, for he can 
 disguise so artfully that his mask is not seen through 
 by those by whom he is surrounded. In the art of 
 concealment he is a thorough artist, his emotions 
 being hidden behind a veil that is impenetrable even 
 by his friend Horatio : and it is this power which 
 enables him to feign himself mad so closely and to 
 sustain so naturally the part he has undertaken. When 
 Hamlet first appears in the play, he doth not evince any 
 signs of madness ; no show of mental aberration takes 
 place until the second act. After the interview with 
 his " father's ghost,^' and he administers the oath of 
 secrecy to Horatio and Marcellus, Hamlet's course of 
 action commences against the usurping king. Eeasons 
 opposed to the opinion of Hamlet being really mad, 
 are easily to be found among his own words, which 
 furnish several examples. The first instance occurs in 
 A. I. s. 5, after the ghostly visitation, when Hamlet 
 addressing his two friends, says 
 
 " How strange or odd soe'er I bear myself, 
 Aa I perchance hereafter shall think meet 
 To put an antic disposition on." 
 
 Again, A. iii. s. 4, in the scene with his mother, 
 when the ghost appeareth to him a second time, and 
 she surprised at her son's behaviour, exclaims 
 
HAMLET. 57 
 
 " This ig the very coinage of yonr brain ; 
 This bodiless creation ecstacy 
 Is very cunning in," ' 
 
 to which he replies, 
 
 " Ecstacy ! 
 My puke as yours doth temperately keep time, 
 And make as healtlifal music : It is not madness 
 That I utter'd : bring me to the test, 
 And I the matter wiU reword ; which madness 
 Would gambol from." 
 
 In the same scene, near to the close, after 
 cautioning his mother not to let the king become ac- 
 quainted with the secret, he says 
 
 " Let him not 
 Make you to ravel all this matter out, 
 That I essentially am not in madness, 
 But mad in craft." 
 
 His soliloquies throughout the play are also reasons 
 against his being really mad, for no expressions can be 
 found in them, in the slightest degree tending to show 
 that the prince is in a state of, or approaching to 
 insanity. Hamlet's " wildness is never incoherent as it 
 would have been had he been really crazed. There is 
 always intellect behind his utterances, and he strikes 
 his adversaries as he might have done had he been 
 free to use no mask. Thus his mask and his face were 
 very near being one, and in the tumult of his excitement, 
 he must have felt it highly convenient to cover his 
 agitation with so ready an excuse."* 
 
 Of the madness of Hamlet, the king, in conjunction 
 with the rest of the court, does not entertain a doubt ; 
 his own guilt adding force to his conviction, he is 
 perfectly satisfied of his nephew's lunacy. In the king's 
 
 * Weldon'a Register, Dec. 6, 18G3, p. 683. 
 
58 HAMLET. 
 
 interview with Polonius, A. ni. s. 1, he explains to him 
 
 the mental condition of the prince, and after complying 
 
 with the advice of the old corn-tier, he exclaims, 
 
 " It shall be so, 
 Madness in great ones must not unwatch'd go." 
 
 The third scene in the same act furnishes still further 
 proof, when the king addressing Eosencrantz and 
 Guilderstein relative to Hamlet being sent to England, 
 says 
 
 " I like him not ; nor stands it safe with us, 
 
 To let his madness range. 
 
 The terms of our estate may not endure 
 
 Hazard so dangerous, as doth hourly grow 
 
 Out of his lunacies." 
 
 The fourth act scene also furnishes another proof of the 
 king's belief in Hamlet's madness, for when speaking 
 to the two same courtiers, he says, 
 
 "Hamlet in madness hath Polonius slain." 
 
 Hamlet never attempts to go straight or direct to 
 accomplish his purpose. Owing to his great thinking 
 on the result, he becomes fearful of the consequences, 
 and this deters him from a direct course of action. He 
 is glad to avail himself of any subterfuge, and under 
 the guise of madness, he is afforded more chances of 
 wounding his enemies by " hurtling words,"" than he 
 would, were he to attempt it in a state of lucidity. In 
 the history, Hamlet assumes madness to deceive his 
 uncle Fengon, in order to escape from his tyranny, and 
 Shakspere in this instance closely adheres to the story 
 of the chronicler. Another historic instance is found 
 of madness being assumed, in the case of Lucius Junius 
 Brutus, who adopted this course of action, in order that 
 he might better prepare the Eoman people to obtain 
 
HAMLET. 59 
 
 their freedom, and -which the rape of Lucrece, and her 
 death, gave him the opportilnity to achieve, by destroy- 
 ing the Tarquin dynasty. That Hamlet completely 
 deceives all those with whom he is brought in contact 
 is certain ; it is first seen in 4. ii. s. 2, when he enters 
 reading, in answer to the question of Polonius, as to 
 his knowing him, by saying, "Excellent, excellent, 
 well ; you're a fishmonger ;" then he gives him advice 
 relative to his daughter, teUs him, " If the sun breeds 
 maggots in a dead dog, being a good-kissing carrion," 
 not to let her " walk in the sun : conception is a 
 blessing; but not as your daughter may conceive/' 
 The instituting of the contrast between the conception 
 of the loving Ophelia, with the germination of animal 
 life by the rays of the sun, in the putrified carcase of a 
 dog, is so extravagant, that none but a madman, or he 
 who had assumed its guise, would ever have drawn it. 
 The expression shows to a great extent, that the mad- 
 ness is assumed, for it contains a philosophical opinion 
 of the day, viz. the theory of spontaneous generation, 
 that is generation without copulation. Through the 
 whole of this scene, Hamlet continues to banter 
 Polonius, and so finely is the line drawn, that after de- 
 picting the character of the old courtier, Polonius, 
 answers, " though thiS' be madness, there is method 
 in it." The reception given to Eosencrantz and 
 Guilderstein by Hamlet, and the peculiar vein of 
 language which he applies to them, affirms the truth 
 of his madness being assumed. It is true that the 
 madness of Hamlet is quite different to that of another 
 character which Shakspere has drawn in a similar 
 position, viz. Edgar, in Lear. In Edgar no expression 
 occurs that would lead to the purpose being suspected 
 
GO HAMLET. 
 
 for which he haB assumed madness ; he makes no 
 allusion to his wrongs, while Hamlet cannot refrain 
 from indulging in expressions which display his know- 
 ledge of the villany of his uncle. The greater firmness 
 of purpose which Edgar's course of action evinces, 
 arises from his intellectuality not being so great ; his 
 brain not being overwhelmed with doubt, he has no 
 scruples of " thinking too precisely." This is shown 
 too, in Edgar's choosing a character which undergoes 
 physical suffering, exposed to the war of the elements and 
 the external vicissitudes of nature. Even his language 
 partakes of his situation, for he exclaims, " Poor Tom's 
 a cold, poor Tom's a cold." Polonius is fully persuaded 
 that Hamlet's mental disease is the result of his loving 
 Ophelia and his rejection by her, for he<iells the king, 
 speaking of his daughter's conduct 
 
 " WMcli done, she took the fruits of my advice ; 
 And lie repulsed (a short tale to make), 
 Fell into a sadness, then into a fast, 
 Thence to watch, thence into a weakness, 
 Thence to a lightness ; and, by this declension. 
 Into the madness wherein now he raves, 
 And all we mourn for." — A. ii. s. 2. 
 
 So convinced is Hamlet's mother of her son's 
 madness, that she is ready to adopt the opinion, of 
 the loss of Ophelia's love as the cause, and hopes — but 
 the wish is father to the hope, that with her love will 
 come the cure. She thus addresses Ophelia, 
 
 "I do wish, 
 That your good beauties be the happy cause 
 Of Hamlet's wildness : so shall I hope your virtues 
 Will bring him to his wonted way again, 
 To both your honours." — A. m. s.l. 
 
HAMLET. ' Gl 
 
 The scene with Hamlet and Ophelia which follows, 
 ■display this wildness to its fullest extent, the bitter 
 words, the galling jibes, and Hamlet's total denial of 
 his gifts to the fair maiden, completely convince her 
 of the truth of her father's supposition, for she 
 exclaims, 
 
 "0 what a noble mind is here o'erthrown." 
 
 The scene with Eosencrantz and Guilderstein in A. in. 
 s. 3., clearly shows that his madness is assumed, for 
 he perceives to what purpose they are seeking to play 
 upon him, and by his conduct, he shows, how thorough- 
 ly conversant ho is with their designs. Had his mad- 
 ness been real, ' this great power of perception could 
 not have been displayed; madmen, may be cunning, 
 many have evinced the faculty, but none who have 
 been really mad, have ever developed such power of 
 perception as doth the character of Hamlet. How 
 exquisitely doth he reveal the inmost natures of the 
 two butterfly friends, and shows to them how futile 
 are their efforts to blind him to their purposes. His 
 introduction of the pipe, and his questions relative to 
 their playing upon it — their answers, and his crushing 
 reply — prove that it is an assumption of madness, not 
 reality. He says, "WiU you play upon this pipe?" 
 they cannot, for they have not the skill; to which 
 Hamlet replies, "Why, look you now, how unworthy 
 a thing you make of me. You would play upon me; 
 you would seem to know my stops ; you would pluck 
 out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me 
 from my lowest note to the top of my compass : and 
 there is much music, excellent voice, in this little 
 organ; yet you cannot make it speak. S'blood! do 
 
62 HAKLET. 
 
 you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? 
 Call me what instrument you will, though you can 
 fret me, you cannot play upon me." He who could 
 thus point out the weakness of his enemies, and display 
 bis own strength, must exist in a state of sanity, not 
 that of insanity. There is nought disordered or raving ; 
 there is no outpouring of frenzy or despair; but' there 
 is the cool, biting sarcasm of one who had a thorough 
 knowledge of his opponents, but whose opponents had 
 no knowledge of him. The conclusion of the scene, 
 when Hamlet resolves on visiting his mother, is yet 
 further illustrative of this view. The manner he 
 intends to act towards her, the language he shall use is 
 determined upon before going; he would not that "the 
 Boul of Nero" should enter his "firm bosom;" ho would 
 
 " Be cruel, not unnatural: 
 I win speak daggers to her, but use none; 
 My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites ; 
 How in my words soever she be shent, [reviled, dbusecli] 
 To give them seals never, my soul, consent." — A. in. s. 2. 
 
 The character of Ophelia is most exquisitely drawn 
 by Shakspere; "the fair Ophelia," the gentle rose, 
 the bud of beauty lost in blossoming, is another 
 triumph of the great master's skill. With a tempera^ 
 ment highly sensuous, yet not passing into sensuality, 
 alio plays hor part, moved to action by the wishes and 
 desires of her father and the commands of her 
 sovereign. She is perfectly pure in thought and in 
 action; her virtue is part of herself, it does not proceed 
 from fear of the world, but it is the result of her nature. 
 She quarrels not with her brother, when giving his 
 a.dvice and exhorting her to preserve her chastity; 
 
HAMLET. 63 
 
 she passes by the reproof, for her virtue is of that 
 
 nature, that it 
 
 "suns tlie doubt away 
 Wherewith mistrust would cloud it."* 
 
 Of her love for Hamlet there cannot be any doubt; with 
 her the passion is a strong and holy one; she loved him 
 with all the fervour of a woman's love, with all the 
 passion of a first love; and when Hamlet grows. cool, 
 denying the passages which occurred between them, 
 her reason gets unstrung, the death of her father giving 
 the finishing stroke to the evil, commenced by the 
 rejection of her love by Hamlet. She glows with pity, 
 when she imagines Hamlet has lost his reason, being 
 deceived by his assumption of madness, and her love 
 displays itself in the brilliant description which she 
 gives of her former lover. 
 
 "0, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown! 
 The courtier's, soldier's, scholar's, eye, tongue, Bword; 
 The expectancy and rose of the fair state, 
 1^ The glass of fashion and the mould of form. 
 The observ'd of aU observers, quite, quite, down! 
 And I, of ladies most deject and wretched, 
 That suck'd the honey of his music vows, 
 Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, 
 Like sweet beUs jangled, out of tune and harsh; 
 That unmatch'd form and feature of blown youth 
 Blasted with ecstacy: 0, woe is me! 
 To have seen what I have seen, seen what I see." 
 
 A. III. s. 1. 
 
 The real madness of OpheHa serves also to show 
 the madness of Hamlet to be assumed, by the latent 
 thoughts which are developed while the fair maid is in 
 her insane mood. Hamlet thoroughly perceives the 
 
 * The Wife, A. ill. s. 4. 
 
64 HAMLET. 
 
 movements of his opponents, he is completely master 
 of their positions, and in language of the most forcible 
 character ^e does not fail to tell them so. Intellec- 
 tuality being the distinguishing point of his character, 
 the madness which he assumes partakes of the intel- 
 lectual. This is the reverse of true madness, for in a 
 real state of insanity the very opposite is the case, 
 the most pious become blasphemous, the most pure 
 become lewd. Ophelia in her sane state was never 
 sensual, though sensuous; throughout her life she had 
 struggled and wrestled, conquering her passions, but 
 when reason was dethroned, when the brain became 
 unshipped, she sings snatches of lewd songs, and her 
 talk appertains to lewdness. This, by some, has been 
 raised as an objection to the completeness of the 
 author's skill; they, the objectors, have contended that 
 Ophelia ought not to have known such lewdness, 
 forgetting that the period in which the play was written 
 and the period to which the play alludes, that many of 
 the ballads were tainted with wantonness. The fact of 
 the author putting such snatches of songs into the 
 mouth of Ophelia, only proves his through knowledge 
 of hunianity. We all know things of a lewd natm-e, 
 the knowledge of which is forced upon us, for we know 
 not the means nor the manner by which it comes in our 
 passage through the world, and which our better part, 
 viz. our moral power, while in a state of sanity, would 
 prevent us from putting into practice, but should we 
 unfortunately pass from sanity into a state of insanity, 
 then the foe which we have struggled with and sub- 
 jected, becomes a master holding tyrannic sway. 
 
 Polonius is a character most masterly drawn ; we 
 find him under some circumstances a complete courtier, 
 
HAMLET. 65 
 
 full of garrulity and nonsense, squaring his notions with 
 those of his sovereign ; continually thrusting himself 
 forward to serve the kingly interest ; centering all 
 things to advance himself in kingly favour. He would 
 have made a most excellent diplomatist, for he turns 
 everything towards his one thing, and seeks to divert 
 the most opposite to support his own views. He is 
 fond of crooked ways, he loves eaves-dropping ; he 
 never looks direct but always aside; he is full of the 
 conceit of emptiness, whose fancied craftiness is hut 
 a "foolish prating knave." His wisdom. is of that 
 character that he arrives at his conclusions by the 
 use of contrarieties, as when he tells Eeynaldo, 
 "And thus we do of wisdom and of reach, 
 With windlasses and with assays of bias. 
 By indirections find directions out." — A. ii. S. 1. 
 
 He feels and acknowledges the "divinity which doth 
 hedge a king," and when he learns of the love-passages 
 between his daughter and young Hamlet, he determines 
 to prevent a continuation thereof, charges Ophelia to 
 return the presents she has received, and prohibits 
 her from having conversation with the young prince, 
 until he has learned the royal wiU. His subservience 
 to the court is here shown, his admiration of routine 
 is here displayed, for he even will not have the love 
 carried on, though fully satisfied of Hamlet's sincerity, 
 believing, as he does, his preventing the same is the 
 cause of the lord Hamlet's madness, until the prince's 
 uncle knows what has taken place. Afraid of the 
 consequences which would result to him, he says to 
 
 his daughter, 
 
 " Come, go we to the king : 
 This must be known ; which, being kept close, might move, 
 More grief to hide than hate to utter love." 
 
66 HAMLET. 
 
 At times, the spirit of the father, the love of bis 
 children breaks out, we find bim full of wise saws and 
 giving sound and healthy advice. His maxims to 
 Laertes, when going on an embassy to France, are 
 full of sound wisdom, of wisdom which shows his 
 knowledge of the world and his peculiar belief of the 
 manner which a man should act in it. They are 
 precepts which he wishes his son to treasure up in 
 his memory, precepts, which Laertes should remember 
 simply as precepts, for the ideas which' they should 
 engender, Polonius knows not of, be has no construction 
 in his nature, therefore the precepts are only preached : 
 he says, 
 
 "Give thy thoughts no tongue, 
 Nor any unproportion'd thought his act. 
 Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. 
 The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, 
 Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel ; 
 But do not dull thy palm with entertainment 
 Of each new-hatoh'd, unfledg'd comrade. Beware 
 Of entrance to a quarrel ; but, being in, 
 Bear't, that the opposed may beware of thee. 
 Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice: 
 Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. 
 Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, 
 But not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy: 
 For the apparel oft proclaims the man; 
 And they in France of the best rank and station 
 Are most select and generous, chief in that. 
 Neither a borrower, nor a lender be ; 
 For loan oft looses both itself and friend, ' 
 
 And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. 
 This above all, — To thine ownself be true. 
 And it must follow, as the night the day. 
 Thou canst not be false to any man." — A. i. s. 3. 
 
 These are precepts learnt by rote, they are but maxims* 
 
 * " A maxim is a conclusion upon observation of matter of fact, and is 
 merely retrospective : an idea, or, if you like, a principle, carries knowledge 
 
HA.MLET. 67 
 
 80 doled forth; with them, as Polonius prates, there 
 is no association of ideas, there is no weighing, no 
 analyzation; he does not teach his son their relative 
 value, but he only repeats them as he has learned 
 them, simply because he is a man of maxims, not 
 ideas. "Polonius never had an idea, and could not 
 have one; he had maxims, beautiful and true, and 
 laws warranted to apply to cases which he had tried; 
 but a constructive thought — something which, carried 
 with us, shall develope itself into a law, as circumstan- 
 ces demand — he had not; therefore, where experience 
 carried, he is wise; where rule of thumb had not taken 
 him, he is a fool."* In Polonius there is no real 
 sincerity, except we view him under the aspect of a 
 father; in all else, he is weak, garrulous and impotent; 
 and his discourse to the king, relative to Hamlet^s 
 madness, is a splendid example of the foUy of his 
 talking. When viewed as a courtier, Polonius appears 
 a tedious old fool, but when viewed as a father, he is 
 full of love for his children and highly gifted with 
 prudence. He was beloved by his children, for his 
 death is the chief cause of Opheha's insanity, and the 
 desire of Laertes to revenge his loved father's death 
 is so great, that he sacrifices his honour to accomplish 
 it. A natural result in one who is devoid of thought 
 and is but the creature of action. There is an incon- 
 sistency on first looking at the character of Polonius, 
 but it is only an apparent one, for Shakspere, always 
 
 within iteelf, and is prospective. Polonius is a man of maxims. Whilst he 
 is descanting on matters of past experience, as in that excellent speech to 
 Jjaertes before he sets out on his travels, he is admirable ; but vphen he 
 comes to advise a project, he is a mere dotard. You see Hamlet, as the 
 inan of ideas, despises him."— Coleridgis Table Talk, p. 40. 
 * Rev. George Dawson on Samlet. 
 
68 HAMLET. 
 
 true to nature, distinguishes between the understand- 
 ings and the moral habits of men, and he makes 
 Polonius to be a gossiping, time-serving man of the 
 world, devoid of a love of the truth, a repeater of 
 maxims, deficient in the power to construct and exem- 
 plify the ideas which should be generated by his 
 talking. 
 
 Horatio is a most excellent foil to the character of 
 Hamlet; be is a scholar and a gentleman, with just 
 sufficient ability to pass the ordeal of a University 
 examination, yet without the great genius to fully 
 value the character of his friend. He is prosaic, 
 belongs to the matter-of-fact world, while Hamlet is 
 full of poetry and philosophy. Horatio represents the 
 standstill policy of human thought and human action, 
 for he is terribly frightened at the consequences — con- 
 sequences anticipated by his own fears — at the longings 
 and questionings of the young prince. The speculations 
 of Hamlet, relating to a future life, he seeks to check; 
 he is perfectly content to take things as he finds them, 
 and implicitly to believe, solely, because he has been 
 so taught. There is just sufiicient intellectuality in 
 the character of Horatio for Hamlet to make him his 
 friend, but he lacks capacity, he is deficient in power 
 of brain to interchange thought and action in the 
 mental world with the Prince of Denmark. His friend- 
 ship partakes of the outer, not the inner world, with 
 him there is no similarity of ideas, no commingling 
 of intellectual activity, no rendering back a phase of 
 thought for those which he receives. Horatio is simply 
 receptive in his capacity, in him the productive faculty 
 does not exist. Had he have possessed this mental 
 calibre, the play would have contained two Hamlets, 
 
HA-MLET. 69 
 
 but Shakspere has wisely placed him as the receiver 
 of the outpourings of Hamlet's fancy and aspiration, 
 withholding the power of imaging them forth. 
 
 The character of the King is essentially true to 
 natm-e. In him we have the "vaulting ambition," of 
 which Macbeth is another phase. There is not the- 
 high resolve, the daring of the Scottish chieftain, to 
 be found in the king of Denmark, for he achieves by 
 means more stealthy, the murder of his brother. The 
 marriage of the widow, in fact, proceeds from a desire 
 to posses the show of right to claim the vacant throne. 
 He is but a petty villain ; 
 
 "A mnrfcliorer, — a slave, — a vice of kings! 
 A cutpurse of the empire and the rule ; 
 Tkat from a shelf the precious diadem stole." 
 
 A. III. s. 4. 
 
 Had the king have possessed the hardihood of 
 Macbeth and adopted the same mode of accomplishing 
 his purposes, the going direct, instead, of only plotting 
 as he does the death of Hamlet; had he himself been 
 the perpetrator, the doer of the evil deed, he would have 
 detracted from the all -absorbing character of the play, 
 for the course of action with which he commenced 
 would havd been continued by him, and the young 
 prince would have been as safely disposed of as the 
 aged Duncan was by the murderous thane. The nature 
 of Hamlet's uncle is too pusillanimous to adopt such 
 a course of action; it is too weak, shrinking, from fear 
 of the result to himself, and he simply conceives the 
 assassination, leaving it to others to effect his hopes 
 and desires. 
 
 The queen figures but as a subordinate in the play, 
 yet with her, as with some of the principal characters. 
 
70 HAMLBT, 
 
 theiQ is a coijtinual struggle, a wrestling for victory 
 between the antagonistic principles of right and wrong. 
 In the scene with her son, she is probed to the very 
 quick, and though pained by the sharp invectives which 
 he applies, her maternal love rises above the pain, 
 and she implores him, when he is wrought upon by 
 the appearance of the ghost, 
 
 " gentle son, 
 
 Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper 
 
 Sprinkle cool patience. — A. in. s. 4. 
 
 There is no allusion in the play to imply her guilty 
 knowledge of the deeds done; she is gentle, mild, and 
 maternal, anxious for the well-being of her only child ; 
 and even after that child "hast cleft her heart in 
 twain," she still loves him, and when dying, exclaims 
 with a mother's anxiety and love, 
 
 "O my dear Hamlet." — A. v. s. 2. 
 
 The choleric, impetuous Laertes is the opposite of 
 Hamlet, he does not give way to thinking, he reasons 
 not upon how, when, or where to act, but acts at 
 once. The nature of his character presents a most 
 striking and powerful contrast to that of the young 
 prince. No sooner does he learn of the death of his 
 father, than he flees from Paris to avenge it. The one 
 thought of vengeance alone fiUeth his mind, and every 
 nerve is strained to action. When he arrives in Den- 
 mark, and discovers to whom suspicion points as tho 
 murderer of his father, the king, he having caused 
 Polonius to be secretly buried, thus bringing suspicion 
 on himself, Laertes fears not, exciting the people by 
 his wrongs, he leads them to revolt, till "rebellion 
 looks so giant like,^' and backed by armed men rusheth 
 into the kingly presence, demanding his father, and 
 
HAMLET. 71 
 
 when told that he is dead, demands, 
 
 "How came he dead? I'll not be juggled with; 
 
 To hell, allegiance ! vows, to the blackest devil ! 
 
 Conscience, and grace, to the profonndest pit ! 
 
 I dare damnation : to this point I stand, — 
 ■ That both the worlds I give to negUgence, 
 
 Let come what comes ; only I'll be reveng'd 
 
 Most thoroughly for my father." — A. iv. s. 5. 
 
 Satisfied with the assertions of the king that the guilt 
 belongeth not to him, Laertes, in his intense desire 
 to avenge his father's murder, a desire rendered yet 
 more strong by witnessing the sad state of his dear 
 sister, falleth readily into the kingly plot, and deter- 
 mines to do aught and everything, for when questioned 
 by the king 
 
 "What wouM you undertake 
 
 To show yourself your father's son in deed 
 
 More than in words?" 
 
 answers, 
 
 "To cut his throat i' {he church," 
 
 and not content with this, in order that his revenge 
 
 may be gratified, he will sully his knightly honor, by 
 
 anointing his sword with ''an unction" bought of a 
 
 mountebank, 
 
 " So mortal, that but dip a knife in it, 
 Where it draws blood, no cataplasm so rare. 
 Collected from all simples that have virtue 
 Under the moon, can save the thing from death, 
 That is scratch'd withal: I'll touch my point 
 With this contagion, that if I gall him slightly 
 It may be death." — A. iv. s. 7. 
 
 Laertes and the warlike Fortinbras, are both rep- 
 resentatives of action, and as , such furnish a most 
 expressive contrast to the non-activity of the Danish 
 prince. 
 
72 HAMLET. 
 
 The grave digging scene is one of the most 
 charming in the tragedy. In it the reflective phase 
 of Hamlet's character is most excellently developed, 
 and his contemplative speeches afford a beautiful 
 contrast with the rude, rugged pleasantries of the 
 humorous sextons. The solemnity and pathos of 
 Hamlet's musings in the churchyard are most wonder- 
 fully set off by the jests of the grave diggers. Here 
 are two extreme aspects of the same humanity. The 
 fellow who "hath no feeling of his trade, shall yet have 
 acquittal, for need and custom have made him what 
 he is; and the fastidious prince shall shrink the less 
 from the coarse jester, since he might have been like 
 to him, but for the chances of thought and leisure, — 
 'the hand of little employment hath the daintier 
 sense.' "* 
 
 The introduction of this scene, has been condemned 
 by some writers, but their condemnation carries with 
 it its own refutation; for it shows how infantine was 
 and is their knowledge of humanity, and how little 
 they understood the author's aim. They have com- 
 plained that it was vulgar, the wit of the grave-diggers 
 low, and that the comedy which they pourtray, inter- 
 fered with the harmony and' destroyed the solemnity of 
 the play. In real life, we perceive the joys and sorrows, 
 the tragic and the comic phases mingle together; the 
 ridiculous treading hard upon the heroic, as night 
 followeth hard upon the day; and the poet to be true, 
 must not forget to display this.t His work to be 
 
 • The AtheruBum, No. 1491, January 7th, 1865. 
 
 t Gerald Massey, in one of his poems, called Sushand and Wife, 
 beautifully pourtrays this idea: 
 
 " The flunB will Bhine, and the rains will fall, , 
 
 On the loftiest, lowliest spot 1 
 And there's mourning and merriment mingled for all 
 That inherit the human lot.'* 
 
nAMLET. 73 
 
 perfect must he in harmony with nature, "and so in 
 it there must, as in an April day, be sunshine, and 
 cloud, and shadow, and the play of children, and the 
 sorrows of the soul, and the house of mourning next 
 to the wedding house, and men must go from one to 
 the other. Thus that grave-digging scene is just and 
 beautiful in its place — is obedient to the law of life, 
 shows us' what life truly is, makes us accept its 
 uncertainties, and learn that great lesson — how different 
 are the laws of the construction of this world from 
 what they would be if made by our unlearned art. If 
 out of life we can shake vain and unseemly jests, then 
 out of our play we may shake the clowns and the 
 jesters, who are always there in Bhakspere's plays to 
 teach us the lesser side of life, to show us the harmonic 
 whole, and teach us to call nothing common or 
 unclean.^'* 
 
 Murder, adultery, deep drinking and a great want of 
 honour and moral worth is evidenced by most of the 
 characters by whom Halmet is surrounded. The know- 
 ledge and power of thought which the young prince 
 possesses is not in unison with the state of society in 
 which he is placed. It is a wild period and the 
 manners and customs are rude and barbaric. From 
 such a state the nature of Hamlet whoUy reverts, for 
 by his great thinking he has become more tenderly 
 alive to the finer feelings of humanity, and thus he 
 hath enkindled a deep sensibihty and a high state of 
 intelligence which unfits him for the physical action 
 so necessary in such an age. ' 
 
 Hamlet is a work upon which no two writers have 
 wholly agreed, but it is a work the most complete that 
 
 * Eev. G. Dawson on Hamlet. 
 
74 . > HAMLET. 
 
 ever has been written. Human life with all its hopes 
 and aspirations, its joys and sorrows are here displayed, 
 and the reader or the spectator can readily embody 
 them as his own. The villainous king, the easy 
 yielding queen, the hot choleric Laertes, the cool pro- 
 saic Horatio, the rude wit of the grave-diggers, the 
 , sententious garrulity of the worldly wise, maxim 
 preaching Polonius, the foppery of Osric, the fawning 
 sycophancy of Eosencrantz and Guilderstein, the fair 
 and loving Ophelia, and the warlike Portinbras, with 
 the pomp and majesty of war, all form a picture of 
 the most varied and animated kind. A picture, in which 
 every shade of thought, the dark perplexities of our 
 being, the endless enquiries and divings in the arcana 
 of Nature, the restless longings, the hopes and fears 
 of another life, are aU foreshadowed and dwelt upon. 
 From another world the more forcibly to paint the 
 picture, has Shakspere drawn one of hia characters ; 
 the grave has been called upon to surrender one of its 
 tenants, and in the ghost of Hamlet's father, we see 
 as it were an herald demanding vengeance upon those 
 who had been guilty of an enormity : a demand which 
 is complied with by accidental means only, and not 
 by a course of justice, which would the more solemnly 
 impress upon the spectators, or reader, the natural 
 result of unbridled passions, but innocent and guilty 
 are alike dragged down in one common ruin, no dis- 
 tinction or difference being made, between the guilty, 
 the less guilty, and those wholly innocent. Nor could 
 the poet have made that distinction, he seeks to 
 represent the world and those who move and have their 
 being therein, to depict the motives which move and 
 govern humanity, and thus holding up " the mirror " 
 
HAMLET. 75 
 
 to be true to nature, he could not have made the piece 
 to finish with universal happiness, for it would have 
 been at variance with the law of humanity.* Under 
 all circumstances, is the poet ever faithful to this law, 
 and though in this play, to use the words of Schlegel, 
 " the destiny of humanity is exhibited as a gigantic 
 sphinx, which threatens to precipitate into the abyss of 
 scepticism, all who are unable to solve her dreadful 
 enigmas, "+ we are compelled to acknowledge that 
 truth, fair truth, is here seated on her throne, and 
 that a lesson of the most useful character is laid down 
 for our instruction and admiration.! 
 
 * See illustration D. 
 
 t Schlegel's Dramatic Literature, p. 406. 
 
 t "This drama is stern. In it truth doubts, sincerity lies. Nothing can 
 he more immense, more subtile. In it man is the world, and the world 
 is Zero. Hamlet, even full of life, is not sure of existence. In this tragedy, 
 which is at the same time a philosophy, everything floats, hesitates, delays, 
 staggers, becomes discomposed, scatters, and is dispersed. Thought is a 
 cloud, will is a vapour, resolution is a crepus oule; (broken light) the 
 action blows each moment in an inverse direction, man is governed by the 
 winds. Overwhelminfj and vertiginous, (whirling) work, in which is seen 
 the depth of everything, in which thought oscillates ouly between the 
 king murdered and Torick buried, and in which what is best realized, is 
 royalty represented by a ghost and mirth represented by a death's head. 
 
 Hamlet is the chef d'cBUvre of the tragedy dream.— Victor Hugo on 
 ShaJcspere, pp. 199, 200. 
 
76 HAMLET, 
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 (A) " If he had been a man of action, whose firstlings of 
 the heart are those of the hand, he would have struck in the 
 earliest heat of his revenge. He feels while he questions, that 
 it is not true that he is 'pigeon liver' d, and lacks gall to make 
 oppression bitter ;' but h^ does lack that resolution which 
 * makes mouths at the invisible event ;' Ji^ does make, ' I 
 would, wait upon, I will :' he does hesitate and procrastinate 
 and examine his motives, and make sure to his own mind of 
 his justification." — The Psychology of Shalfspere, by Dr. Buch- 
 nell, p. 6?. 
 
 " Hamlet's character is the prevalence of the abstracting 
 and generalizing habit over the practical. He does not want 
 courage, skill, wUl, or opportunity, but every incident sets 
 him. thinking ; and it is curious, and at the same time strictly 
 natural, that Hamlet, who all the play seems reason itself, 
 should be impelled at last by mere accident to effect his ob- 
 ject."— OoJencZr/e's Table Talk, p. 40. 
 
 Hamlet " is not a character marked by strength of passion 
 or will, but by refinement of thought and feeling. His ruling 
 passion is to think, not to act, and any vague pretence that 
 flatters this propensity, instantly diverts him from his previ- 
 ous purposes." — HazliWs ShaJcsjiere Characters, pp. 108, 111. 
 
 Hamlet's " irresolution results in no wise exclusively from 
 weakness, but essentially also from conscientiousness and 
 virtue : and it is just this subtle combination which renders 
 Hamlet such an essentially tragic character. His doubts as 
 to the certainty of the fact and the legitimacy of revenge, the 
 gentleness of his soul, which unconsciously struggles against 
 the means of vengeance, the bent of his mind to reflect upon 
 the nature and consequences of his deed, and by this means to 
 paralyse his active powers, all these scruples ' of thinking too 
 precisely on the event,' he himself calls in the warmth of self- 
 blame. 
 
HAMLET. 77 
 
 *'A thought which quartered, hath bnt one part wisdom, 
 And ever, three parts coward." 
 
 Oervinius'i Shahspere Oommentaries, vol. ii. p. 133. 
 
 "■The chief thing which strikes us in the character of Ham- 
 let is hia irresolution ; everything he does is ' sicklied o'er ' 
 with doubt and uncertainty ; he occupies himself with con- 
 stant and unsatisfactory meditations upon the great 
 mysteries of life and death; he is in all things sceptical, and 
 in losing hia faith in nature, he loses much of his love of it 
 also." — Essay on Hamlet, Sliakspere Gallery. 
 
 " The character of Hamlet embodies the predominance of 
 the contemplative element over the practical in a mind of the 
 highest order, both inteUeotually and morally." — W. W. 
 Lloyd's Essay on Hamlet. ' 
 
 " The rise, progress, and consummation of the whole plot 
 of the tragedy of Hamlet, is a consistent theme upon the con- 
 flict between determination and irresolution, arising from over 
 reflection ; and in nothing throughout the whole scheme of the 
 play is the art of the poet more grandly developed, than in 
 making the vacillation of the hero to turn solely upon that 
 over-reflectiveness of his nature." — ShaTcspere's Characters, by 
 
 0. 0. Ola/rJce, p. 91. 
 
 (B) " Captured by pirates, he is set on shore in Denmark 
 against his will, and although he seems at last to make up his 
 mind to act, nevertheless, no one of the subsequent events is 
 brought about by his own free volition, or according to his 
 own intention." — Ulrici on 8haJesj>ere's Dramatic Art, p. 220. 
 
 " To me it is clear that Shakspere meant in the present 
 case to represent the effects of a great action laid upon a soul 
 unfit for the performance of it. In this view, the whole piece 
 seems to me to be composed." — Goethe's Willxsvm Meister, vol. 
 
 1. p. 200. 
 
 Hamlet " is eaten up with a great woe, which shuts out all 
 sympathy with others, and wanders about on the stage of hfe 
 like a man who has some task to do greater than he can per- 
 form. Destiny has proposed to him a riddle which he cannot 
 solve ; and because he cannot, like the Sphinx of old, it 
 devours him." — H, T. Essay on Hamlet, Shaksp&re'a Gallery. 
 
78 HAMLET. 
 
 (C) " Even if we exclude the scene of his excited violence 
 towards her, and forget the dumb-show mummery that she re- 
 lates, there still remains a frigidness in all his allusions to her, 
 and in the rarity of these allusions also, that impeaches the 
 sincerity of the passion that he once professed for her, and 
 even the ordinary considerations and delicacy that were due to 
 her misfortunes, tho' they had not originated with himself." — 
 W. W. Lloyd, Essay on Hamlet. 
 
 (D) " Here we have no villain punished on some eelf-con- 
 ceived and rigidly accomplished scheme of vengeance : a 
 horrid deed occurs ; it rolls itself along with all its conse- 
 quences, dragging guiltless persons also in its course ; the 
 perpetrator seems as if he would evade the abyss which is 
 made ready for him ; yet he plunges in, at the very point by 
 which he thinks he shall escape and happily complete his 
 course. 
 
 " For it is the property of crime to extend its mischief, over 
 innocence, as it is of virtue to extend its blessings over many 
 that deserve them not ; while fi'equently the author of the one 
 or of the other is not punished or rewarded at all. Here in 
 this play of ours, how strange ! The pit of darkness sends its 
 spirit and demands revenge ; in vain ! Neither earthly nor 
 infernal thing may bring about what is reserved for Fate 
 alone. The hour of judgement comes : the wicked fall with 
 the good ; one race is moved away that another may spi'ing 
 up." — Qoetke's Wilheimi Meister, vol. i., p. 200. 
 
THE • ^ ' 
 
 MEllCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 This Comedy was probably produced in 1594, for 
 there is an allusion in Henslowe's Diary which serves 
 to support this view. It records the performance of 
 " The Venesyon Comedy," on the 26th of August, 1594, 
 at which date the company to which Shakspere 
 belonged, was playing conjointly with Henslowe's, at 
 Newington Butts. It is mentioned by Francis Meres, 
 in his Wifs Commonwealth, published in 1598. The 
 earliest printed edition was in 1600, the title of which 
 ran as foUows: "The most excellent Historie of the 
 Merchant of Venice, with the extreame crueltie of 
 Shylocke the lewe towards the sayd Merchant, in 
 cutting a just pound of his flesh: and the obtayning 
 of Portia by the choyse of the three chests. As it hath 
 beene diuers times acted by the Lord Chamberlaine 
 his Seruants. Written by William Shakspere. At 
 London, printed by J. E., for Thomas Heyes, and are 
 to be sold in Paules Churchyard, at the signe of the 
 Greene Dragon.'^ Another edition was published in 
 the same year, printed by J. Koberts. The Merchant 
 of Venice is among the plays contained in the folio 
 of 1623. In 1637 an edition in 4to. was published, 
 and another in 1652. 
 
80 THE MEBOBANT OF TENIOE. 
 
 It has teen thought by Bome that Shakspere derived 
 his plot from a ballad called Gernutus, the Jetv, printed 
 by Percy, in his Reliques of Antient English Poetry, 
 but the earliest date assigned to the publication of 
 the ballad is 1598, and the comedy being produced 
 about 1594, four years prior to the ballad, the plot or 
 idea could not possibly have been borrowed from it. 
 The allusion in Gosson's School of Abuse, is of too vague 
 a nature to conclude that an elder play existed prior 
 to Shakspere's, upon which he grafted his own con- 
 ception. A collection of tales under the title of Gesta 
 Ramanorum, was probably the source from whence the 
 incidents of the comedy were drawn, the incidents being 
 founded upon two separate narratives of the action of 
 the pound of flesh and of the three caskets contained in 
 that work, but the characters, the language, and the 
 poetry and sentiment, alone belong to William Shaks- 
 pere, who has produced a play full of the deepest 
 worldly wisdom, fraught with lessons to the human 
 race, for it is a reflection of the realities of ordinary 
 life, in which the qualities and passions of human 
 nature are investigated. 
 
 Shakspere in this comedy as well as in his tragedy 
 of Othello, seems thoroughly to understand the nature 
 and state of Venice and the Venetians. "It is imposr 
 sible not to feel the truth of atmosphere in the whole 
 movement and tone of tho plays themselves. The 
 moment we look behind Shylock or Othello wo see 
 Venice, the glare of its torches, the noise of its revels, 
 the endless warfare of lazzi and badinage, its easy 
 morals, its cynical proverbs, its quick, secret rivalries 
 and passions, the silence and order of its streets, the 
 proud gravity of its nobles, the wise whispers of its 
 
THE MEnOHANT OF TBNIOB. 81 
 
 council chamber, the hum of its Eialto, the strange 
 medley of East and West on its piazza." It was the 
 only state in which the confusion of tongues could be 
 heard, and in which the turban of the Turk and the 
 gaberdine of the Jew could be seen in contact with 
 each other. On its lagunes and canals, within its 
 palaces and squares, beneath its piazzas, the represen- 
 tatives of many nations were gathered together, and 
 Venice was the only city in Europe at that time, in 
 which a dream of our common humanity could be 
 indulged in with any degree of 'dramatic truth. Shak- 
 spere has seized upon this advantage and here reproduces 
 with wonderful fulness and completeness, the Venice 
 of the 16th century. 
 
 In this comedy Shakspere depicts the wrongs which 
 the Jews suffered because of their religious opinions; 
 and points out the intense hatred in which the Jews 
 were held by the Christian inhabitants of the European 
 continent, at the period of the play, which may be put 
 down as the early part of the author's life. All the 
 characters are tainted with this vice. They aU indulge 
 in sneering remarks upon the Jewish people, and under 
 every and all circumstances treat them with contempt. 
 This intense hatred of the Jews is first shown when 
 Shylock describes the wrongs he has undergone at 
 Antonio's hands. It is shown again in the conduct 
 of the clown Gobbo, who will not let his father make 
 a present to his master Shylock, because he is a Jew. 
 "Give him a halter," he exclaims; inferring that 
 anything but hanging is too good for a Jew. 
 
 The speeches which Shakspere hath put in the 
 mouth of Shylock show that' he lived before his age. 
 The intense dislike which was felt and held by ' the 
 
82 THE MBEOHAMT OF VENICE. 
 
 majority of mankind relative to the Jewish people had 
 not died out. Everywhere they were held up to scorn 
 and execration. ' But Shakspere's great love of human- 
 ity, — that golden link which binds and connects him 
 with all ages, — prevented him from indulging in the 
 common feeling against the Jews, and was the one great 
 cause of the fairness of his view and portraiture of 
 Shyloek. Though prohahly not wholly exempt from the 
 taint of dislike to the Jewish people, yet with what 
 infinite wisdom has he in this comedy inculcated that 
 great law of humanity, which owns the wickedness, as 
 well as shows the folly of revenge. To both Christian 
 and Jew he deals out the same vigorous blows; to both 
 he points out with unerring hand, the evil results which 
 flow from indulgence in "unbridled revenge," and that 
 under no circumstances can such a course of action be 
 right, for its basis is wrong, and all the results which 
 flow, must be wrong also. 
 
 The tragic interest turns upon the contumely with 
 which the Jews are treated. From this cause, in con- 
 junction with Antonio's lending "out money gi'atis," 
 arises the intense hatred which Shyloek bears him. 
 The railing of Antonio against Shylock's "sacred 
 nation," his mocking "at his gains," his thwarting of 
 his bargains, and his laughing at his losses, because he 
 is a Jew, awakens that fierce hate which leads to the 
 desire of Shyloek to accomplish Antonio's death, by 
 demanding the fulfilment of his bond, and thus "the 
 ancient grudge" which Shyloek holds, will be fatly fed. 
 '> The character of Shyloek is a compound of money- 
 \ loving and hatred of Christians. This can in no way 
 be wondered at; it is the natural result of what he and 
 his nation have suffered at the hands of the so-called 
 
THE MBKOHANT OF THNIOE. 83 
 
 followers of Christ. The hate of Shylock to Christians 
 displays itself almost as soon as he enters. In reply to 
 BasBanio's invitation, he breaks out into invectives, 
 sneers at Jesus, and says he will do anything but eat, 
 drink, and pray with a Christian. His deep hatred of 
 Antonio in particular, is most forcibly displayed, and 
 his reasons are made most apparent, — firstly, because 
 of his lending "out money gratis;" secondly, because 
 "he is a Christian;" and thirdly, because Antonio hates 
 his "sacred nation;" and he rails 
 
 "Even there where mercliants most do congregate, 
 On me, my bargains, and my well- won thrift;, 
 Which ho calls interest. Cursed bo my tribe, 
 If I forgive him," — A, i. s. 8. 
 
 Shylock's enumeration of the insults which he has 
 received, both in word and deed, awakens most strongly 
 his desire of revenge; and should he "catch him once 
 upon the hip," he will "feed fat the ancient grudge" 
 he bears him. His willingness to lend the money, not 
 for interest, hut simply for the bond "of a pound of 
 flesh," betrays his anxiety to have Antonio in his power, 
 for he calculates the probability and possibility of the 
 merchant's ventures on the main being swallowed up 
 by the "yesty waves that confound navigation," and 
 then, true to his hatred, he will have his bond and his 
 bond alone. 
 
 In the scene with Jessica, A. ii. s. 5, the same 
 feeling breaks forth in Shylock, when teUing her he is 
 
 "Bid forth to supper. 
 There are my keys. But wherefore should I go ? 
 I am net bid for love ; they flatter me : 
 But yet I'll go in hate, to feed upon 
 The prodigal Christian." 
 
 No fear of consequences can overcome this feeling. 
 
 Above all others it is paramount; the portents which 
 
84l THE MEBCHAHT OP VENICE. 
 
 affect him, do not so, sufficiently, to rule him. He is 
 "right loth to go," but go he will, though 
 
 " There is eome ill a-brewing towards his rest." 
 
 His dreaming "of money bags" will not deter him, so 
 
 strong is his hatred of Christians ; and this feeling is 
 
 also the cause of his parting with the fool, because he 
 
 parts with him 
 
 "To one that I would have him help to waste 
 His borrowed purse.". 
 
 The money-loving side of Sbylock's character is 
 most masterly shown in the speeches of Salanio when 
 describing the Jew. Shylock in money matters is 
 cautiously circumspect and full of meanness. He loves 
 his money for the results which flow from its possession 
 and for the importance which it adds to his position 
 on the Eialto where "merchants most do congregate." 
 He is the very opposite of Antonio in matters of wealth, 
 for the princely merchant values it, chiefly for the sake 
 of his friends and is therefore disinterested, while the 
 Jew loveth it for its own sake and for the good bargains 
 it enables him to drive. His love of money, and his 
 less love of his daughter, are truthfully displayed in his 
 exclamations, 
 
 "My daughter! my ducats! O my daughter! 
 Pled with a Christian ! O my Christian ducats ! 
 Justice ! the law ! my ducats, and my daughter ! 
 A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats, 
 double ducats, stolen from me by my daughter I 
 And jewels, two stones, two rich and precious stones, 
 Stolen by my daughter ! Justice ! find the girl 1 
 She hath the stones upon her, and the ducats 1" 
 
 A. n. s. 8. 
 
 In the opening part of scene 1, A. 3, above all 
 things rises the loss of his ducats. His money to him 
 
THE MEBOHANT OF TENICB. 
 
 is of more consequence than the loss of his daughter. 
 He cares not so much for her, it is not the loss of her 
 that makes him furious, it is the ducats she has 
 taken, — the ducats it hath cost him to pursue her. If 
 sho were dead at his feet, he would not care, so long as 
 she had the jewels in her ears, or "the ducats in her 
 coffin." It is the loss of the jewels and the ducats 
 which preys upon him, for there is no spark of hu- 
 manity left in his nature, it is completely absorbed, 
 swallowed up in his love of money and his hatred of the 
 Christian world. 
 
 In this scene, the hate which Shylock bears Antonio,- 
 weUs up till it bubbles over. Every insult, every wrong, 
 whether real or imaginary — he remembers, and upon 
 the head of Antonio will he pour out the vial of his 
 wrath. He is determined not to spare him,— he will 
 have his "pound of flesh," if only to "bait fish withal." 
 His appeal to Salarino relative to the hopes, desires> 
 and feelings of a Jew being equally the same as those 
 of a Christian, only serves to whet his appetite, and 
 make him the more resolved to vent the whole of bis 
 hatred of the Christian race upon the person of the 
 "royal merchant," Antonio. This hatred rises to the 
 topmost height, when Shylock learns from Tubal the 
 intelligence relative to Antonio. His present losses he 
 recks not of; all those losses can be made up again, for 
 by working out* his revenge on the merchant, in com- 
 pelling him to fulfil his bond, he "wiU have the heart of 
 him, for were he out of Venice, I can make what mer- 
 chandize I will." This sordid feeling which is one of 
 the great features in the Jewish character, in conjunc- 
 tion with his hatred of the Christian world, wholly 
 destroys all love for his child, and he leaves the scene, 
 directing Tubal to fee him "an olficer," without revert- 
 
86 THE MEEOHAUT OF TENICE. 
 
 ing to her who had rebelled against him, who had 
 forsaken his house and left him a childless man; for 
 childless he must become, his daughter being compelled 
 to abjure her father's creed and accept the Christian 
 one, before she could be married. 
 
 In scene 3, A. iii. the hatred of Shylock is still" 
 further developed. He is solely intent upon his bond. 
 No tears shall move him from his purpose. He will 
 not be told of mercy; he is sworn against it. His 
 solemn oath, the oath of his nation, is pledged to have 
 his bond, and have it he will : he^Jl 
 
 "not be made a soft and dull-eyed fool, 
 To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield 
 To Christian intercessors." 
 
 His passionate exclamation of "Follow not," shows that 
 he is determined not to be moved from his purpose; 
 he will not listen any longer, for he leaves, saying, 
 "I'll have no speaking: I will have my bond." 
 
 The trial scene is one of the finest in the comedy, 
 and throughout this scene Shylock has the best of the 
 argument. The law is in his favour. He has both that 
 and justice on his side, for the signing of the bond is 
 the voluntary act of Antonio, an act, the result of which 
 was foretold him before he signed it, and of which he 
 himself was perfectly cognizant. In the law lieth 
 Shylock's power, — to that he appeals, the law in its 
 letter not in relation to its spirit. He discards all 
 feelings of humanity, and demands the fulfilment of the 
 letter of the law. In this scene the coolness and firm- 
 ness of Shylock is magnificently pourtrayed. His 
 coolness, by the excellent manner in which he answers 
 both the Duke, Bassanio and the others who seek to 
 drive him from his purpose ; and he displays his firm- 
 
THE MEBOHANX OF TENIOB. 87 
 
 ness, by his positive expressions of standing by the law 
 
 and the law only. His intense hatred of Antonio, 
 
 because he is a Christian, and also because he has 
 
 injured him in trade, so bind up Shylock, that all 
 
 feeUng for human-kind is dried up within him, and he 
 
 desires nought, and will accept nought less, than the 
 
 "penalty and forfeit of his bond." When by an evasion, 
 
 owing to an omission in the wording of the bond, his 
 
 desires are overthrown and his purpose defeated, his 
 
 firmness giveth not way; it does not yield until the 
 
 means whereby he lives are taken from him, when his 
 
 whole wealth is wrested from him and given partly 
 
 to his foe, and partly to his daughter and her husband, 
 
 then his physical — not mental — nature yields, and he 
 
 asketh for 
 
 " Leave to go from hence ; 
 I am not well : send the deed after me, 
 And I will sign it." 
 
 This physical prostration lasts but an instant, for 
 when he is leaving the stage, the taunts of Gratiano 
 awaken once more his fierce hatred of the Christian 
 race, and he gathers himself together, and turning 
 round upon his tormentor, fixes upon him a look of 
 intense hate and ineffable scorn, and thus leaves the 
 busy scene to be seen no more. 
 
 Antonio, the sad, here used in the sense of grave, 
 yet gentle merchant, is most firmly and truthfully 
 drawn by the master's hand. He is no mere trader, 
 no " petty trafficker," he is truly of that great merchant - 
 class, whose commercial spirit and enterprise effected 
 changes of such a character as to influence, direct and 
 rule the destinies of nations. His dealings with the 
 world are of the most honorable kind. His charity, his 
 
88 THE MEEOHANT OF TENICH. 
 
 real love for his friend, which even the dread of death 
 can not destroy, all serve to mark him as a character 
 •which winneth the esteem of those with whom he 
 Cometh in contact. He is generous to a fault, and his 
 openness of nature will not permit him to tell a false- 
 hood. He has no care for wealth, but as it will serve 
 to administer to the wants of his friends, for when 
 appealed to by Bassanio, he says, 
 
 " My extremest means, 
 Lie all unlock'd to your occasions." 
 
 He is "the dearest friend," full of kindness and 
 goodness, an " unwearied spirit." 
 
 " In doing courtesies ; and one in whom 
 The ancient Roman honour more appears 
 ' Than any that draws breath in Italy." 
 
 A. 3. S. 2. 
 
 When charged by Shylock with having reviled his 
 " sacred nation," and " spat upon " his " Jewish gaber- 
 dine," he at once admits the truth of the charge in his 
 answer, and candidly confesses he should do the same 
 again. He says, 
 
 " I am as like to call thee so again, 
 To spit on thee again, to spurn thee too." — A. i. S. 3. 
 
 This scoffing of the Jew, this reviling and spitting 
 upon Shylock, was the characteristic of the age, rather 
 than of the individual ; • for the nature of Antonio is 
 gentleness and honesty. His bigotry and intolerance 
 result from the state of society, which collectively 
 looked upon the Jewish people as an inferior portion of 
 mankind. In the like manner in the Northern States 
 of America, although the negroes are legally held to be 
 free, yet are they still held up to scorn and looked upon 
 as an inferior race to the white population. No posts 
 of honour or of emolument in the state, however great 
 
THE MEEOHANT Or TETTIOE. 89 
 
 their ability, are they allowed to occupy, and even when 
 serving in the ranks of the Northern army, however 
 great the skill and bravery they may display, they are 
 not allowed to rise above the rank of a non-commis- 
 sioned' officer. Such too was the condition of the 
 Jewish people on the continent at the time of the play, 
 and the estimation they were held in was of no higher 
 character. Even in their dress, the law interfered, and 
 they were compelled to wear an orange coloured bonnet, 
 nor were they allowed to appear in any other colour on 
 the head, orange or yellow being considered an in- 
 famous colour. 
 
 Antonio's friendship for Bassanio is of the finest 
 description, it in fact passes into love, — a love not of 
 the character which is found existing between the sexes, 
 but a love which rises above the fear of consequences 
 and which nought oh earth can subdue or destroy. 
 Whatever comes " within the eye of honour,^' he is 
 willing and ready to do for Bassanio. His purse, his 
 person, his " extremest means," are "all unlocked" for 
 Bassanio's use. He even would not that Bassanio 
 should spend the time " to wind about " his " love 
 with circumstance." It is this love which sustains him 
 in the trying hour, and which causes him to exhort 
 Bassanio thus : 
 
 " Repent not yon, that you should lose your friend, 
 And lie repents not that he pays your debt." — A. rf. s. 1. 
 
 The approach of death, — for death must be the re- 
 sult of the carrying out of Shylock's bond, in nowise 
 intimidates Antonio. He preserves the same gravity 
 which he displays in the earlier scenes, nor does he 
 complain of the strait that he has fallen into by being 
 bound for his friend. On the other hand, he wishes 
 
90 THE,MEEOHAHT OF TENICE. 
 
 Bassanio to commend him to his " honourable wife/' 
 
 to tell her how he loved him, and when she knows all 
 
 " bid her be judge 
 Whether Bassanio had not once a love." — A. rv. s. 1. 
 
 When released from his state of peril, he seeketh 
 not to have his revenge upon the Jew. His gentleness 
 breaks forth — the gentleness of his nature overcoming 
 the harshness of his religious training — and he dis- 
 plays no desire to become possessed of the half of the 
 Jew's fortune which the state awards him, . 
 
 " So please my lord, the duke, and all the court. 
 To quit the fine for one half of his goods, 
 I am content ; ■ so he will let me have 
 The other half in use, to render it, 
 Upon hia death, unto the gentleman 
 That lately stole his daughter." 
 
 He then relapses slightly into the bigotry of the age, 
 
 when he demands 
 
 " Two things provided more, that, for this favour. 
 He presently become a Christian." 
 
 But it passes away in the next breath, for he proceeds 
 on Jessica and Lorenzo's behalf, when he asks, 
 
 " The other, that he do record a gift, 
 Here in the court, of all he dies posseas'd. 
 Unto his son Lorenzo and his daughter. 
 
 The gentleness of Antonio and the strength of his love 
 for his friend, are yet made more apparent in the last 
 scene, which ends this charming comedy, when he be- 
 comes the pefkcemaker between Bassanio and his wife. 
 In the playful quarrel which ensues between Portia and 
 her husband, relative to the giving of the ring, he says, 
 
 " I once did lend my body for thy wealth ; 
 Which, but for him that had your husband's ring, 
 Had quite miscarried : I dare be bound again, 
 
THE MEECHAKT OF TENIOE. 91 
 
 My soul upon the forfeit, that your lord, 
 
 Will never more break faith advisedly." — A. v. S. 1. 
 
 Bassanio is most skilfully depicted. He is an ad- 
 venturer, whose means have been dissipated in externals, 
 whose estate hath been disabled 
 
 " By something showing a more swelling port" 
 than his 
 
 " faint means would grant continuance." 
 
 His form and features are most excellent, his nature is 
 open, brave and generous, and this combination winneth 
 the love of Portia. His openness and generosity form 
 the chief connecting link between him and Antonio. 
 They are each ready to make sacrifices for each other ; 
 Antonio places himself and his life in peril to serve his 
 friend, and Bassanio in return, is willing to "pay twice 
 the sum" of Shylock's bond, and " if that will not 
 suffice," " to pay it ten times o^er,'' on forfeit of his 
 hands, his head, his heart. 
 
 Bassanio's love of dress, both for himself and his 
 followers is displayed, when he accepts the services of 
 Lancelot, and directs his steward, Leonardo, to 
 
 " Give him a livery 
 More guarded than his fellows." — A. ii. s. 2. 
 
 He is a "Venetian, a soldier and a gentleman," in- 
 capable of meanness, or any of the petty vices which 
 infect humanity ; for were he possessed of those and 
 guilty of their practice, he would not be a fit compeer 
 for the " royal merchant " Antonio, who, evidently 
 holds him in the highest esteem, placing him first upon 
 the list of his friends, as be is already first in his heart. 
 Believing, as Antonio does, that it is to Portia's ad- 
 vantage that she becomes possessed of Bassanio, he 
 
92 THE MEBOHA.NT OF TENIOE. 
 
 fails not to tell her, that it was for her "wealth," 
 (wealth being here used in the sense of advantage) that 
 he " did lend his body " and become security for his 
 friend. 
 
 Bassanio is also possessed of no mean share of 
 scholastic attainments, and his powers of perception 
 have been well cultured in his passage through the 
 world. He displays those powers in the scene with 
 Shylock and Antonio, when the Jew proposes the 
 terms of his bond as security for the loan advanced. 
 The fear of consequences, resulti;ig from such a bond, 
 is foreshadowed by his active intellect, which at once 
 perceives the risks to which Antonio's merchandise is 
 exposed, the possibility of a total loss, and he shrinks 
 with dread from his friend being bound for him in such 
 a bond. Instinctively he feels and knows the hate of 
 Shylock to Antonio, and this knowledge prompts him 
 to advise his friend not to sign such a deed, declaring 
 
 " You shall not seal to such a bond for me : 
 I'll rather dwell in my necessity." 
 
 This fear, this dread, is not removed by Antonio's answer, 
 and Bassanio, even after the merchant has declared 
 his intention of signing, still remains affected. He 
 cannot conceive of Shylock being 'kind; he believeth 
 not in the Hebrew, as evidenced by his expression, 
 " I like not fair terms and a villain's mind." 
 
 The praise bestowed upon Bassanio, by the mes- 
 senger, is of no mean character, and fitly pourtrays one 
 that should be compeer to such a one as Antonio. 
 Speaking of the "young Venetian," that comes to 
 announce his lord Bassanio^s approach, he says, 
 
 " I have not seen 
 So likely an ambassador of love ;" 
 
THE MEECHANT Or VENICE. 93 
 
 and the comparison he institutes between him and 
 Bassanio is most beautiful, 
 
 " A day in April never came so sweet, 
 , To show how costly summer was at hand, 
 As this fore-spurrer comes before his lord." — A. ii. s. 9. 
 
 Bassanio possesses all the qualities to win a woman's 
 sympathy and love, and it is these self-same qualities 
 that endears him to the feelings of Antonio, who 
 becometh security to supply his wants ; and it is 
 through these wants Shylock gets coimected with 
 Antonio and the action of the piece goeth on. 
 
 Gratanio is the gentleman wit of the comedy, and 
 
 presents a forcible contrast to the clown Lancelot 
 
 Gobbo. He makes no attempt to " try confusions," he 
 
 plays not upon words ; he transposes no sentences, but 
 
 he speaks " an infinite deal of nothing." He is a mere 
 
 utterer of words which convey no meaning and are only 
 
 pregnant with sound. He hath but little thought in 
 
 his composition, and his expressions evoke but little 
 
 thought in others. Eeason with him is almost a 
 
 stranger, for though he talks "more than any man 
 
 in all Venice, his reasons are as two grains of wheat 
 
 hid in two bushels of chaff; you shall seek all day 
 
 ere you find them : and when you have them, they are 
 
 not worth the search." He would play 
 
 " the fool, 
 With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come ; 
 And let my liver rather heat with wine, 
 Than my heart cool with mortifying groans." 
 
 He is all life and animal spirits. Sadness and he have 
 parted acquaintance ; he is full of bantering ; each and 
 all come in for their share of his lively rattle. He is 
 the prototype of a fast man of the modern time. 
 
94 THE MEEOHANT 01? TENIOE. 
 
 Bassanio's fears arise that the purpose of his visit to 
 Belmont may he spoiled hy Gratiano's exuberance ; his 
 "wild behaviour" maybe misunderstood. He is not 
 willing that he should go, and when Gratiano ex- 
 claims, 
 
 " I must go with you to Belmont," 
 
 Bassanio answers, 
 
 " Why, then you must : — But hear thee, Gratiano : 
 Thou art too wild, too rude, and bold of voice ; 
 Parts that become thee happily enough. 
 And in such eyes as ours appear not faults ; 
 But where they are not known, why there they show 
 Something too liberal. Pray thee, take pain 
 To allay with some cold drops of modesty 
 Thy skipping spirit ; lest, through thy wild behaviour, 
 I be misconstrued in the place I go to. 
 And lose my hopes." — A. ii. s. 2. 
 
 The reply of Gratiano is a quiet, yet highly effective 
 sarcasm upon the hypocrisy, not only of Shaksperp's 
 time but all other times. Its beauty consists in its 
 truthfulness and in its universal applicability, for the 
 putting "on a sober habit," looking "demurely," 
 " grace saying," sighing, &o. are still adopted, if not to 
 please " a grandam," to please the world, the better to 
 promote one's prospects therein. The serious side of 
 Gratiano's character is shewn in the trial scene ; he 
 there loses all his folly, when he perceives the 
 danger in which Antonio stands, for he quickly appre- 
 hends that the merchant's life must be lost if the tenor 
 of the bond be fulfilled. He thoroughly knows the 
 harshness of the Jew's nature, his own prejudices 
 strengthening his belief in that harshness. He sees 
 through the guise of Shylock, who in simply standing 
 by the law wiU obtain the life of the merchant, and 
 thus consummate the revenge he has long been seeking. 
 
THE MEHCHANT OF VENiOE. 95 
 
 Shakspere, true as he ever is, puts not in Gratiano's 
 mouth, even in his graver moments, language of a per- 
 suasive nature. In such a boisterous youth, one, " so 
 rude and bold of voice/' it would have been out of place 
 and totally inconsistent. He has therefore given him 
 language, in which invectives of the strongest character 
 are found, but all of which faU to move the Jew from his 
 point, the "bond," for Shylock somewhat tauntingly 
 replies, 
 
 "Till thou canst rail the seal from off my bond. 
 Thou but offend'st thy lungs to speak so loud: 
 Repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall 
 To cureless ruin." 
 
 Gratiano's mocking spirit returns to him when Shylock 
 is overcome by the subtlety of Portia, and when the 
 Jew is broken in fortune and in mind, compelled to 
 become a Christian, he tells him 
 
 "In christening shalt thou have two godfathers: 
 Had I been judge, thou shouldst have had ten more, 
 To bring thee to the gaUows, not the font." 
 
 There is not much to mark the character of Lorenzo, 
 yet there is sufficient to make him of interest and a 
 necessity to the development of the plot of the comedy. 
 His love for ShylocFs daughter, her love for him and 
 their elopement are necessary to the action of the piece. 
 In worldly knowledge Lorenzo is weak ; of the value of 
 money he hath scarcely any knowledge. Like Jessica, 
 he squanders it away upon any frivoHty. This is the 
 result of his training, and this weakness is well known 
 to Antonio, who wishes, and the wish is granted, to 
 have the haK of old Shylock^s money to use for the 
 benefit of Lorenzo and his wife. Lorenzo is another 
 of the trio of friends whose adventure upon the sea of 
 
96 THE MEEOHAHT Off VENICE. 
 
 matrimony has had a successful issue. He is a little 
 in advance of the period; his prejudices against the 
 Jewish people not being so strong as those of Antonio 
 and the rest of the characters. There is more poetry 
 in his nature than in any other of the male characters, 
 and wherever the poetic faculty exists, a corresponding 
 expansion of ideas is found. That he truly loveth 
 Jessica is evidenced by his language. He says, speak- 
 ing to Gratiano, 
 
 "Beshrew me, but I love her heartily; 
 For she is wise, if I can judge of her; 
 And fair she is, if that miae eyes be true ; 
 And true she is, as she hath prov'd herself; 
 And therefore, like herself, wise, fair, and true, ' 
 
 Shall she be placed in my constant soul." — A. ii. S. 6. 
 
 This speech is most beautiful, and it shows the earnest- 
 ness of his love for the pretty Jewess, despite the 
 difference of their, religious creeds, — a difference that 
 does not in any way affect his passion, nor prevent him 
 from fulfilling "the crown of his heart's desire," the 
 marrying of the Jewish maiden. This is but another 
 phase of the power of love, 
 
 "Sole monarch of the universal earth," 
 
 which the great master has so frequently and so skil- 
 fully shown. 
 
 The opening of the last act of the comedy is full of 
 splendid language, and the speeches which fall to the 
 lot of Lorenzo, are full of classic allusions and beautiful 
 ideas, developing the poetic side of his character, for 
 it is this poetic feeling, that first fixes his affection upon 
 the pretty Jewess, and which finally resolves him to 
 consummate his love by the bond of marriage. 
 
 Solanio and Salarino are specimens of the gay young 
 men of Venice, — lads for feasting, fun, and revelry. 
 
THE MEECHANT OF TENIOE. 97 
 
 They are of a class that were numerous in the city of 
 the sea, who were unfitted for trade by the volatility 
 of their dispositions, nor did they possess a sufficiency 
 of ballast to be marked for embassies or other matters 
 pertaining to the state. They are precursors of a class 
 that are to be found numerous in our own country, 
 possessing neither gentle manners nor great intellectual 
 acquirements. Both Solanio and Salarino are tainted 
 with the vice of the age, uncharitableness ; both scoff 
 and flout the Jew, sneering at the passion into which 
 Shylock is thrown by the loss of , his ducats and his 
 daughter. Both taunt him and upbraid him, and both 
 rejoice in the part they have played in assisting 
 Lorenzo in his elopement with Jessica. Their conduct 
 to the Jew is apt to raise our disgust, and it is only kept 
 down by the high admiration in which they hold the 
 "royal merchant.^' They are all feeling for Antonio, 
 than whom " a kinder gentleman treads not the earth." 
 They are apprehensive for his means and they would 
 not cause him any pain by the relation of his losses, 
 for when Salarino learns from the Frenchman, that 
 "in the narrow seas that part 
 The French and English, there miscarried 
 A vessel of our country, richly fraught: 
 I thought upon Antonio when he told me ; 
 And wish'd in silence that it were not his. 
 Solan. — Tou were best to tell Antonio what you heat; 
 Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him. 
 
 A. II. s. 7. 
 
 Launcelot Gobbo, " young master Launcelot" as he 
 would be called, is one of the pleasantest among the 
 quaint clowns of Shakspere. He is a worthy compeer 
 of Launce and Speed, and he is equally at home as either 
 of those worthies in playing, twisting and contorting 
 his mother tongue. He is full of misinterpretations. 
 
98 THE MESOHANT OF TENICE. 
 
 loving to "try confusions" with all and any with whom 
 he may come in contact; and so strongly does this 
 feeling abound with him, that he will play upon his 
 own father with as much readiness as he would upon a 
 stranger. He is redolent with mirth and the means 
 of mirth-making; "a merry devil/' robbing the house 
 of some taste of its tediousness, for his memory is 
 "planted" with "an army of good words," and 
 
 "Many fools, that stand in better place, 
 Garnish'd like him, that for a tricksy word 
 Defy the matter." — A. in. s. 5. 
 
 The pride, the haughtiness, and the punctilio of the 
 Prince of Arragon is no caricature, as drawn in this 
 comedy, of the Spanish character. Like the whole. 
 of Shakspere's works, it is in unison with truth, and 
 the language so aptly fits the character that none can 
 question its veracity. The Spanish prince will not 
 "jump," herd, agree "with common spirits;" his pride 
 of blood will not admit of that. Standing upon his 
 hidalgo extraction, he wishes to have the old proverb 
 applied to him, "eagles fly alone, sparrows herd 
 together." The vauntings of the blood-proud prince 
 meet with their just reward, for seeking to advance his 
 own merits by lowering the merits of others, thus 
 raising his own deserts in his own opinion, and fully 
 believing, puffed up with his own vanity, that he, and 
 he alone deserves the lady, — he chooseth the silver 
 casket for the reason, that he who chooseth that, gets 
 "as much as he deserves; forgetting that he has to take 
 another's measure of his standard and not his own. 
 This he soon discovers when unlocking the casket, he 
 perceives "a fool's head," being just as much as he 
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 99, 
 
 truly deserves ; and he quits the scene, muttering 
 
 "With one fool's head I came to woo, 
 But I go away with two. 
 Sweet, adieu. I'll keep my oath. 
 Patiently to bear my wroth." — A. ii. S. 9. 
 
 The Prince of Morocco is seldom placed upon the 
 stage, is hardly ever included in the dramatis persona ; 
 but why he should be left out no real reason has been 
 assigned. Both he and the Prince of Arragon, as a 
 rule, are not represented; but Messrs. Phelps and Kean, 
 with that love of Shakspere which they have ever 
 evinced, have restored them both to the stage. The 
 language used by the Moor affords a strong contrast 
 with that of the Spanish prince. The one boasts of his 
 birth, blood, and breeding; and the other of his deeds, 
 and what he would accomplish to win fair Portia. He 
 regrets that it is left to "blind fortune.'^ He would 
 that it were dependent, not upon chance, but upon 
 some deed — no matter what, he would attempt its 
 accomplishment. He swears by his scimetar, 
 
 "That slew the Sophy and a Persian prince, 
 That won three fields of the Sultan Solyman, 
 I would out-stare the sternest eyes that look. 
 Outbrave the heart most daring on the earth. 
 Pluck the young sucking cubs from the she-bear, 
 Tea, mock the lion when he roars for prey, 
 To win thee, lady."— ^. il. S. 1. 
 
 He is afraid to choose for fear, "blind fortune" leading 
 
 him, that he 
 
 "Miss that which one un worthier may attain, - 
 And die with grieving." 
 
 Ultimately he resolves to choose, atid he leaves the 
 
 scene exclaiming, 
 
 " Good fortune then ! 
 To make me bless'd or cursed'st among men." 
 
100 THE MEBOflANT OB TENICE. 
 
 What shall be said of Portia ! of ter, whom Jessica 
 deBcribes as one of the noblest of women, in" reality, 
 the noblest, for she says, 
 
 " the poor rude world 
 Hath not lier fellow." — A. iii. s. 5. 
 
 She is a character most exquisitely drawn ; — one among 
 the most beautiful ever limned by Bhakspere. Each 
 and all of the Venetians describe her as a paragon, and 
 Bassanio, when speaking to Antonio, says, 
 
 "In Belmont is a lady, richly left, 
 And she is fair, and fairer than that word 
 Of wond'rouB Tirtues. 
 Her name is Portia; nothing undervalued 
 To Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia." — A. i. s. 1. 
 
 Poi-tia is all knowledge, worth and gentleness. In 
 her the intellect is highly cultivated and aided in its 
 result by a strong poetic imagination. There is nothing 
 of the blue stocking in her character, nothing of clever- 
 ness, but there is a union of the perceptive and the 
 reflective faculties, and these are so harmoniously 
 blended, so closely interwoven with each other, that 
 they give to- her that sweetness, and dignity, and 
 tenderness, so characteristic of such a woman. In her 
 first scene, which is a most charming one, she displays 
 her culture, by the complete manner in which she 
 describes her nurnerous suitors. The way she dwells 
 upon their defects, dissecting o6,ch and pointing out 
 why she dislikes them, most plainly shows, that with 
 none of those her heart is touched ; but when Nerissa 
 mentions the "Venetian, a scholar and a soldier," she 
 remembers him and his name Bassanio, and also, that 
 he was worthy of praise, thus displaying symptoms. 
 
THE MEEOHANT OF TENIOB. ■ 101 
 
 which prove, that within her heart he hath effected a 
 lodgment. 
 
 In the two Bcenes, with the caskets, prior to the 
 one in which Bassanio chooses, her world knowledge 
 is again pourtrayed, and in the scene after the result 
 of the Spanish prince's choice, it is still further shown, 
 when she exclaims, 
 
 " Thus hath the candle singed the moth. 
 0, these deliberate fools I when, they do choose,. 
 They have their wisdom by their wit to loose." — A. ll. S. 9. 
 
 In the scene while Bassanio's choice is being made, 
 Portia is swayed alternately by hope and fear. She 
 evidently loveth Bassanio by the anxiety she displays, 
 and she can scarcely control her feelings when he has 
 made his selection, so apparent is her wish, that the 
 selection he hath made should be the right one. She 
 is on "the tip -toe of expectation" and exclaims, 
 
 "How all the other passions fleet to air, 
 As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embraced despair, 
 And shuddering fear, and green-eyed jealousy 1 
 
 love, be moderate; allay thy ecstacy; 
 
 In measure rein thy joy; scant this excess; 
 
 1 feel too much thy blessing — make it less, 
 For fear I surfeit!"— .4. in. S. 2. 
 
 Her worth is seen when she learns that her hus- 
 band's dearest friend is in trouble. She will have 
 everything give way, so that Bassanio may start, and 
 that promptly, to his friend's relief. Neither money, 
 or any other means are to be wanting, and . she will 
 that Bassanio shall only go with her to church, to caU 
 her wife, 
 
 "And then away to Venice to your friend; 
 For never shall you lie by Portia's side 
 With an unquiet soul. Ton shall have gold 
 
102 THE MEECHANT OF TETflOE, 
 
 To pay the petty debt twenty times over; 
 When it is paid, bring your friend along. 
 My maid Nerissa, and myself, meantime. 
 Will live as maids and widows. Come, away f 
 For yon shall hence upon your wedding day: 
 Bid your friends welcome, show a meiTy cheer: 
 Since you are dear bought, I will love you dear." 
 
 In the following scene, Portia adds to her worth, hy 
 the idea she seeks to convey relative to Antonio. She 
 believes her lord to be all that a man should be, and 
 she naturally concludes that his bosom friend, his 
 Damon, should be the counterpart of himself. She 
 thinks it impossible to be otherwise, for where 
 
 "Souls do bear an equal yoke of love, 
 There must be needs a like proportion 
 Of lineaments, of manners and of spirit; 
 Which makes me think, that this Antonio', 
 Being the bosom lover of my lord, 
 Must needs be like my lord." — A. in. s. 4. 
 
 Her tenderness is characteristically shown, when 
 appearing as the young advocate. She would have 
 the Jew merciful, because mercy is above all other 
 things, 
 
 "It is the mightiest in the mightiest." 
 
 She knows that she can save the merchant by the 
 wording of the bond, and that the Jew can be brought 
 within the jurisdiction of the law, but her tenderness 
 first appeals to his humanity. The appeal is in vain, 
 for Shylock's humanity is absorbed and taken up in 
 his desire for revenge. She then appeals to Shylock's 
 avarice, 
 
 "Shylock, there's thrice thy money offered thee," 
 
 but this like her former appeal meets with no success. 
 
THE MBHOHANT OF TDNIOE. 103 
 
 Not satisfied, she again appeals to his pity in combi- 
 nation with his avarice, 
 
 " Be merciful ! 
 Take thrico tliy money," 
 
 but the Jew is not moved. Her own tenderness and 
 sweetness of character • is so strong, that she remains 
 unwilling to accept Shylock's inhumanity; she can 
 scarcely credit the firmness of the Jew. She would that 
 Antonio should appeal to him, and it is only after the 
 failure of the merchant to move Shylock from his 
 purpose, that she resolves the law shall have its course, 
 knowing full well, that her husband's friend will be 
 saved and the Jew will bo ruined in reputation and in 
 fortune. Portia is a true woman, one worthy of being 
 loved, and one, who having chose her idol, would bestow 
 upon it the whole of her affections. 
 
 Nerissa, Portia's fair attendant is but a subordinate 
 part in the comedy, yet she serves to complete the 
 picture. She is witty, playful, and charming, copying 
 a part of her mistress^ elegance, affecting a portion 
 of her mental culture, and naturally, is not devoid of 
 grace and good manners. She is quick in discrimina- 
 tion, fails not in the use of her tongue, and is in all 
 respects an excellent match for Gratiano, for though 
 not so boisterous in her manner, she is equally as 
 playful and as ready for fun as he is. 
 
 Jessica, the pretty Jewess and Lorenzo's love, serves 
 to work out the sunny side of the comedy. Her love 
 for Lorenzo destroys her filial feeling, which is not of 
 the strongest nature; a result which arises from her 
 father valuing her less than the ducats and jewels he 
 possessed. The light manner in which he held his 
 daughter, is the only justification that can be pleaded 
 
104 THE MEEOHANT 01? TENIOE. 
 
 for her leaving him and taking away his property. The 
 
 manner in which her father has secluded her from the 
 
 world, his harshness and constant inveighing against 
 
 the Christian race, causes her to act with duplicity. 
 
 Her duplicity is made - manifest in the scene when 
 
 ■^Shylock is going out to supper, and bids her not to 
 
 thrust her 
 
 "liead into the public street 
 To gaze on Ckristian fools with, varnish'd faces;" 
 
 for in answer to her father's question, 
 
 "What says that fool of Hagar's offspring? ha!" 
 
 she replies knowing full well that the reply is not 
 
 truthful 
 
 "His words were, Farewell, mistress; nothing else." 
 
 This deceiveth the old man and awakens a little of his 
 humanity, for it extracts from him an acknowledgment, 
 
 "The patch is kind enongh." 
 In this same scene she hath already agreed to elope ; 
 the time and means are arranged, and her answer to 
 her father's proverb of 
 
 "Fast hind, fast find," 
 is, 
 
 "Farewell; and if my fortune be not crost, 
 I have a father, you a daughter, lost." — A. ii. s. 5. 
 
 It is not to be wondered at that Jessica should act 
 in the manner that she does, when we consider the 
 circumstances in which she is placed. We feel that it 
 is not right for children to revolt against their parents, 
 but what are we to expect from children when parents 
 forget to perform their duties towards their offspring. 
 That Shylock failed to perform his parental duties is 
 evident, and Shakspere with his usual truthfulness, in 
 
THE MEEOHANT OF TENICB. 105 
 
 the conduct of Jessica, shows the result of such a 
 
 failure. In all things, irrespective of her conduct to 
 
 her father, Shakspere has made Jessica good, kind and 
 
 chaste. Her chastity cannot be questioned, and her 
 
 modesty is shown in the elopement scene, when she is 
 
 dressed in a page's garb, in her words, 
 
 "I am glad 'tis night, you do not look on me, 
 For I am much asham'd of my exchange." , 
 
 Shakspere in his Romeo and Juliet has pourtrayed the 
 same feeling in the famous balcony scene, when Juliet 
 exclaims, 
 
 "The mask of night is on my face, 
 Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek." 
 
 The pretty Jewess, despite her want of deep filial 
 feeling, is one of the most beautiful characters Shak- 
 spere has drawn- Her simplicity is so child-like and 
 winning, her firm reliance upon her lover and her 
 strong belief in his truthfulness, the romance of her 
 position, and the veil of poetry with which both she 
 and her husband are enveloped, all serve to win our 
 sympathies, and to render her, if not a principal figurej 
 at least a charming one in this most charming comedy. 
 
 Among the whole of Shakspere's productions there 
 is none more perfect than this comedy, and there is 
 none that keeps its hold upon the stage and is more 
 frequently represented than this. It is fuU of interest. 
 The reader and the spectator, nntU the trial scene is 
 nearly ended, are full of anxiety and are kept in a state 
 of great suspense, happily relieved by the defeat of the 
 Jew's intent. The interest never flags, the action never 
 stands still, all goes on, gradually accumulating in 
 intensity until the climax is reached in the speech prior 
 to the evasion set forth by Portia, and which evasion 
 
106 THE MEECHANT OF TBNIOE. 
 
 relieves the feelings, and carries them from a state of 
 doubt, despondency and despair into one of pleasure, 
 joy and happiness. 
 
 A great absurdity is frequently committed by man- 
 agers and star actors (?) finishing this comedy with the 
 trial scene. Shylock, no more appearing among the 
 dramatis persona, they have conceived the idea, that 
 the piece should terminate with the fourth act, losing 
 sight entirely of the underplot, so necessary to be 
 developed to complete the chief character, Portia, and 
 the characters of Antonio, Bassanio, Gratiano and the 
 rest. By leaving out the fifth act, they also leave out 
 some of the finest poetry of the comedy, for the 
 language of Portia and Lorenzo overflows with poetic 
 imagery and beautiful ideas. The playfulness evinced 
 by Lorenzo and Jessica in their allusions to classic 
 love stories, and their seeking to outvie each other in 
 their protestations of love, — Lorenzo's apostrophe to 
 music, — the fictitious quarrel of Bassanio and Portia, 
 Gratiano and Nerissa relative to their rings, — and the 
 news which Portia giyes Antonio 
 
 "of tbree of your argosies, 
 Are ricUy come to harbour euddenly." 
 
 aptly finish a comedy, one of the highest among our 
 bard's productions, — a comedy which abounds in inci- 
 dent, interest and humour, enthralling, and keeping 
 enthralled both reader ^nd spectator. 
 
TIMON OF ATHENS, 
 
 "The Life of Timon of Athens/' was first printed 
 in the folio of 1623, and the date of its production 
 is assigned to the year 1610. There is but little exter- 
 nal evidence so to affix the date, but the internal 
 evidence will well serve this purpose, for it is written 
 in the same elliptical condensation of style which 
 distinguishes the plays of Henry VIII., Coriolanus, 
 and The Winter's Tale. These plays are all character- 
 ised by peculiar contractions and they all belong to 
 one period of writing. The twenty-eighth novel in 
 Painter's Palace of Pleasure, is said to be one of the 
 sources from whence this tragedy was derived, while 
 an early play* in which the character of Timon 
 appears, has been supposed to be another source, and 
 a passage in North's translation of Plutarch's Lives, 
 serves for another. In neither the novel by Painter, 
 nor in the early play, nor in North's translation, can 
 we, however, jBnd the Timon of Shakspere. Sliottowe 
 in his life of Shakspere, traces some remarkable 
 coincidences between Shakspere's Timon and Lucian's 
 Timon, or the Misanthrope ; but they are accidental 
 coincidences which have arisen irrespectively, for 
 
 * This play, which is a wretchedly poor production, was edited by the 
 Bev. W. Dyce, for the Shakspere Society, and published in 1842. 
 
108 TIMON OF ATHENS. 
 
 ShaliBpere could not have borrowed any incidents from 
 Lucian, no translation of Lucian's dialogue being known 
 at the date of the production of Shakspere's play. 
 
 There is none among the plays of Shakspere about 
 which a greater variety of opinions have been expressed 
 than about Timon of Athens. Coleridge thought that 
 much of the text had been mutilated and spoiled by 
 the actors, who frequently indulged in such alterations 
 for the purpose of making ppints. Charles Knight 
 says, that it is not wholly a work of Shakspere's, 
 but that he simply remodelled an elder play, which 
 he found existing ready for his hand. By some the 
 play has been looked upon as an unfinished work, a 
 mere outline left incomplete for representation, and 
 in this opinion Delius concurs. Others have ascribed 
 its origin to the peculiar state of the poet's mind at 
 this period, and give this as the only true solution 
 which can be found for the irregularities of the ver- 
 sification and the careless manner in which some of 
 the parts are developed, although the unity of idea 
 in the composition of the play is most carefully attended 
 to and carried out. By Hallam it was said, " There 
 seems to have been a period of Shakspere's life when 
 his heart was ill at ease, and ill content with the world 
 or his own conscience ; the memory of hours mis-spent, 
 the pang of affection misplaced or unrequited, the 
 experience of man's worser nature which intercourse 
 with unworthy associates, by choice or circumstance, 
 peculiarly teaches ; — these, as they sank down into the 
 depths of his great mind, seem not only to have 
 inspired into it the conception of 'L6ar' and 'Timon,' 
 but that of one primary character, the censurer of 
 
TIMOK OF ATHENS. 109 
 
 mankind/' * This phase of opinion is endorsed by 
 Ukici, who alludes to the latter period of Shakspere's life 
 being embittered by " outward causes," and it is also 
 endorsed by Gervinus, who says that "the carelessness 
 in a number of the plays of this date," is attributable 
 " to one common, though unfathomable cause, — the 
 state of the poet's mind." t The choosing for the sub- 
 ject of the play, " misanthropy, '^ partly shows a brain 
 somewhat vexed with the circumstances and with the 
 specimens of hiunanity with which the poet had come 
 in contact. This is a view evidently inconsistent with 
 the character of Shakspere, who above all other writers 
 expresses his untiring love and belief in humanity. 
 He was filled with charity and his works abound with 
 the manifestations of its spirit. On all classes, like 
 the beams of the morning sun, it falls, diffusing joy 
 and pleasure, on human kind. To infer that our gentle 
 bard had thoughts and was guilty of acts of which 
 he was thoroughly ashamed, and to prove that he was 
 repentant, he manifested his knowledge and regret of 
 such thoughts and acts by the production of this and 
 other plays of the same class, is entirely incompatible 
 with the whole tenour of his works. This question has, 
 however, received its coup-de-grace from the work of 
 Mr. G-. Massey, on the Bonnets of Shakspere, in which 
 work this opinion is most successfully combatted. The 
 propagation of such an opinion must have proceeded 
 from a forgetfulness of the great powers of Shakspere, 
 who myriad-minded as he was, none other possessing 
 " such strength at once, and such variety of imagi- 
 nation," it was just as easy for him to develope the 
 
 • Literary History, Vol. 3, page 309. 
 + Gervinus on Shakspere, Vol. 2, p. 422. 
 
110 XIMON OF ATHENS. 
 
 worst phases of human character as it was the best, 
 for all phases were by him thoroughly understood, 
 and this play must be looked upon as a simple manifes- 
 tation of his wonderful powers. 
 
 In this tragedy, the lower classes are most favour- 
 ably contrasted with the upper, for the servants of 
 Timou display an amount of incorruptibility which is 
 altogether wanting in most of the characters who 
 belong to the upper classes. The flame of humanity 
 is partially rekindled in the brain of Timon by the 
 prudence and fidelity of his frugal steward, who is as 
 true to Timon as was Kent to Lear, and who despite all 
 misfortunes, remains constantly true to his master, 
 being willing to share his last coin in seeking to 
 improve that master's condition. It has been wisely 
 said, that all extremes are hurtful to the individual 
 and also hurtful to society. This is fully evidenced 
 in this tragedy, by the profuse prodigality of Timoi^, 
 for the practice of such prodigality destroys the innate 
 goodness of Timon's character. The Merchant of Venice 
 also furnishes an example, for there the excessive greed 
 and avarice of Shylock defeats his own desires and 
 completely destroys his feelings of humanity. 
 
 Timon is the representative of a true prodigal, for 
 he is equally as lavish with his love as with his 
 fortune. If "the world" were his he would "give it 
 in a breath," nor care "how quickly were it gone." 
 He is untiring in his kindness, devoid of assumption, 
 and moved by disinterested and unselfish motives. 
 Prom a strict sense of duty he is impressed with the 
 belief that we are "born to do benefits,'' and most 
 faithfully he sought to carry out his ideal, which was 
 composed of all the social virtues and the truest 
 
TIMON OF ATUHN9. Ill 
 
 friendship. He thoroughly believes in the goodness of 
 humanity, and knowing his own goodness, and the 
 liberalness of his own thoughts and acts, he judges 
 that others are the same. When the hour of misfor- 
 tune comes upon him he still cherishes this belief, 
 nor does he yield it, when he receives his first check 
 by the act of the senators, who decline to assist him 
 in the hour of his adversity; Experience, that bitter 
 mistress, soon undeceives Timon, and he quickly learns 
 the sorrowful fact, that all those whom he had fed 
 by his liberal bounty, will not feed him when he is 
 in want. Ventidus, who ransomed from slavery by the 
 wealth of Timon and who hath become one of tho 
 wealthy few who fatten upon the needs of others, 
 even he, will not lend the sum to Timon that he 
 had formerly received as a gift. Lucullus, Sempronius 
 and Lucius, all of whom have been greatly benefitted 
 by Timon's generosity, all decline to aid him in the time 
 of his difficulties and evince a callousness of disposition^ 
 demonstrating their perfect inhumanity. These un- 
 grateful acts overwhelm Timon and strike him pros- 
 trate. He becomes aware of the folly he has committed, 
 and the unpleasant truth is forced upon him that he 
 has bartered wealth for avarice, friendship for falsehood, 
 and all the nobler feelings of his nature are wrecked, 
 " one winter's brush has shaken the leaves from the 
 boughs and left him open, bare for every storm that 
 blows." 
 
 Discarding his thorough belief in the goodness of 
 man, he loses his "alacrity of spirit,'^ his- "cheer of 
 mind," and he passes into the other extreme. Instead 
 of being a philanthropist, loving mankind and seeking 
 to promote the happiness and well being of his fellows, 
 
112 TIMON OF ATHENS. 
 
 he becomes a misanthrope, a hater of hia race, for 
 ■"man delights him not." From being a practiser of 
 the social virtues, he seeks in the solitude of nature 
 for solace to his withered hopes. The cherished dreams 
 of his life are for ever dispelled by the talisman of fact. 
 So marvellous is the transformation which he under- 
 goes, that even in his tastes and desires he is altogether 
 changed, and so wondrous is the effect produced by the 
 base ingratitude of those for whom he had smoothed life's 
 thorny path, that mentally, morally and physically, he 
 is different both in kind and in degree. There is no 
 pain too severe, no punishment too harsh for those 
 to undergo who have deceived him, and he invokes the 
 aid of "infectious fevers," "cold sciatica," "general 
 leprosy," of fire and all the other evils which affect poor 
 humanity to punish and destroy the "knot of mouth- 
 friends," "detested .parasites," and coyeteous de- 
 stroyers," whom he hath proved to be false as "dicer's 
 paths." 
 
 When Timon again becomes possessed of wealth he 
 gives it away that society may be punished, for he would 
 sow discord among the human race. To Alcibiades 
 he giveth gold "to pay his soldiers," conditionally, 
 they "spare not the babe," "the virgin's cheek," the 
 "white beard" of age, nor the "yells of mothers. '^ 
 He giveth gold to the courtesans, with the hope that 
 they will "consumptions sow in the hollow bones of 
 men," and he will share a portion of his wealth with , 
 the faithful Flavius, on the harsh condition, that he 
 
 shall 
 
 "build from men ; 
 Hate all, curse all; show charity to none; 
 But let the famish'd flesh slide from the bone, 
 Ere thou relieve the beggar." 
 
TIMON OF ATHENS. 113 
 
 Despite the intensity of his hatred the warm fidelity 
 displayed by his steward partially overcomes him, awa- 
 kening nobler feelings, developing the better part of 
 his nature, and forcing him to admit the uprightness 
 and truthfulness of "one honest man," and he prays 
 the gods to forgive him for his "general and exceptless 
 rashness." In this mood he doth not long remain, it is 
 but a transient feeling, and he quickly reverts again to 
 his fierce hatred of humankind, at whom he burls his 
 harsh invectives, and the more powerfully to strengthen 
 the consistency of this feeling, he quits the scene, not 
 to die of a broken heart, but seeking his rest in the 
 great bosom of nature, by the committal of suicide, and 
 thus "Timon hath done his reign." 
 
 Apemantus is a cynic, "native and to the manner 
 born," "opposite to humanity," charged with disgust 
 and exaggeration, representing the other extreme to 
 Timon. Apemantus despises all social virtues and 
 pleasures, refuses belief in the goodness of humanity, 
 for he looks upon the human race as degraded and 
 brutish, a natural result, when we remember that he 
 erects himself as the standard by which they should be 
 judged. He is a thorough "churl," who is ever angry, 
 filled with pride as great as his master Diogenes and 
 prouder than Timon, for he constantly flaunts his 
 poverty, his rags and his brutality. He is always 
 parading his plain speaking, this latter qualification 
 being the result of his base, envious and malicious 
 nature, which delights'in scurrility, and which conceives 
 that to indulge in coarse retorts and harsh and crabbed 
 answers is to speak plain. He refuses to see good in 
 anything except in "honest water," and he feels no 
 happiness only when slandering his fellow creatures 
 
 H 
 
114l XIMON OF ATHENS. 
 
 and seeking to enrage them, thus proving, he is either 
 "a knave or a fool." Apemantus is full of mistrust 
 and hatred, having no belief in the practice of virtue, 
 for the baseness of his own nature prevents him from 
 accepting such a creed. The cynicism of Timon is 
 an act approaching to madness, that of Apemantus is 
 his nature, the worthlessness of which is seen through 
 by Timon, who in their last encounter, fails not to tell 
 him so, and justly exclaims, "were I like thee, I'd throw 
 away myself." Apemantus having but one kind of 
 mental vision cannot understand the nature of Timon 
 which is evidently dualistic. He only sees the misan- 
 thropical side of Timon's character, he cannot see the 
 philanthropical side, because he is wrapt up in his own 
 misanthropy. Born in the lowest phase of human 
 society, without cultivation, with soured temper and 
 "sour-cold habit," the result of the state of poverty in 
 which he moved and had his being, he fails to com- 
 prehend the self-denial which Timon displays on 
 discovering the treasure. The hard words which Timon 
 hurls at his churlish head are all richly deserved, and 
 they contain great justice and truth in their character- 
 isation — 
 
 "Thou art a slave, whom fortune's tender arm, 
 With favour never clasp'd ; but bred a dog. 
 Hadst thou, like us from our first swath, proceeded 
 The sweet degrees that this brief world affords 
 To such as may the passive drugs of it 
 Freely command, thou wouldst have plunged thyself 
 In general riot; melted down thy youth 
 In different beds of lust; and never learn'd 
 The icy precepts of respect, but followed 
 The sugar'd game before thee. 
 Thy nature did commence in sufferance, time 
 Hath made thee hard in't. Why shouldst thou hate men P 
 
TIMON OF ATHENS. 115 
 
 They never flatter'd thee; what hast thou given, 
 Poor rogue hereditary? Heuce, be gone ! — 
 If thou hadst not been born the worst of men 
 Thou hadst been a knave and flatterer." 
 
 The character of Plavius, the prudent steward, is 
 most admirably pourtrayed ; it is one of a class which 
 is often dwelt upon by Shakspere and who has frequently 
 developed that high quality in man, fidelity. Flavius 
 is worthy to rank with Enobarbus, with Adam and with 
 the faithful Kent, for "he can endure to foUow with 
 allegiance a fallen lord/' Though his lord Timon is 
 forsaken by his "monstrous friends," the. parasites who 
 fed upon his wealth, causing him to feel the chilling 
 frosts of poverty, Flavins stUi wiU follow his fortunes 
 and exclaims "let me be your servant." He is the " one 
 honest man" of the tragedy, honest in intent, purpose 
 and deed, and this honesty causes him to be round 
 with Timon, and to teU him that he is acting unwisely 
 and that his means will not allow such continuance of 
 wastefulness. He has endured reproof when he hath 
 brought in his accounts, stiU wiU he persevere and place 
 before his "dear loved lord," the unpleasant fact, tha,t 
 all his means wUl lack "a half to pay his present 
 debts." Frankly and manfully he tells his master that 
 he is trusting to a broken staff when he relies upon his 
 so-caUed friends, who, when he has sought to move them 
 to reheve the difi&culties of Timon, "they do but shake 
 their heads,^' and he is not one whit the "richer in 
 return." With "distasteful looks," he hath been 
 received and "with certain half-caps and cold-moving 
 nods," that have froze him "into silence." When all 
 is lost by Timon, Flavins stiU clings to the fortunes 
 of his master, cheers his fellow-servants, "broken 
 
116 TIMOH OF ATHENS, 
 
 implements of a ruined house," gives them their money, 
 
 rejoices they "are fellows still, serving alike in sorrow," 
 
 bids them adieu, 
 
 "not one word more," 
 Thus part we rich in sorrow, parting poor." 
 
 He will after his lord, for he knows he has nought 
 
 " with him to 
 Supply his life, or that which can command it. 
 I'll follow, and enquire him out: 
 I'll ever serve hie mind with my best Trill, 
 Whilst I have gold, I'll be his steward still." 
 
 This resolve he fails not to carry out, for he seeks 
 his master, begs him to accept "his grief," and while 
 his "poor wealth lasts to entertain mo as your steward 
 etill." His service is composed of love and truthfulness, 
 and animated by duty to his "honoured lord," he 
 displays his zeal by stUl wishing to serve without "any 
 benefit," "either in hope or present;" — all that he 
 wishes, all that he desires, is not that he may be made 
 wealthy by such service, but that his lord, should he 
 have the "power and wealth.'" He would that Timon 
 should be again what he formerly was, and he would 
 be best requited by his lord making himself rich. 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 The first appearance of this comedy in print was in 
 the folio of 1623. It was entered in the Stationers' 
 Eegisters, August 4th, 1600, but some obstacle arose 
 to prevent its publication. The comedy of Much Ado 
 about Nothing, and the play of Henry the Fifth, were 
 similarly placed at the same time. The incidents of 
 the comedy were in all probability derived by Shakspere 
 from Lodge's novel of Eosalynde: Euphues Golden 
 Legacie, first published in 1590, reprinted in 1592, and 
 again in 1598. 
 
 Shakspere has closely followed the incidents of the 
 novel. The usurping king, the elder brother in exile, to 
 whom "ihen of great worth resorted,'^ the discovery of 
 Eosalind by her father, the happy marriage of the 
 princesses with their lovers, the shepherdess coy and 
 her loving shepherd. These in Lodge's tale are but 
 mere sketches, in the comedy, they are complete 
 pictures, for the hand of Shakspere has so fimished 
 them, that they are redolent with life and beauty. The 
 characters of Jaqties, Touchstone and Audrey were 
 added by Shakspere, and the Hfe and wit of Touchstone 
 adds materially to the interest, and lightens up by its 
 
118 AS TOTJ LIKE IT. 
 
 brilliancy the sober parts of the comedy. The catas- 
 trophe of the novel and the comedy are very differently 
 managed. In the former, the usurping king raises a 
 large army and goeth forth to fight, is met, and slain 
 by the sojourners in the forest, and the rightful monarch 
 is seated in» his place. In the comedy, Shakspere only 
 describes the gathering, and effects a change in the 
 moral nature of the usurper, by the influence of per- 
 suasion ; thus causing the comedy to end more happily 
 than the novel, which is marked by strife and war, with 
 its blood stained horrors. Prom the mouth of Jaques 
 de Bois, the forest duke learns the result, that 
 
 "Duke Frederick, hearing how that every day 
 Men of great worth resorted to this forest, 
 Address'd a mighty power; which were on foot, 
 In his own conduct, purposely to take 
 His brother here, and put him to the sword: 
 And to the skirts of this wild wood he came; 
 Where, meeting with an old rehgious man, 
 After some question with him, was converted 
 JBoth from his enterprise, and from the world ; 
 His crown bequeathing to his banish' d brother. 
 And all their lands restor'd to them again 
 That were with him exUed." — A. v. S. 4. 
 
 This comedy is one of the most delightful among 
 Shakspere's productions. It is one with which aU 
 classes are charmed, for the various phases of human 
 character, which go to make up the world, are here to 
 be found. The location of the comedy and its time, 
 lend an almost inexpressible charm, for we are in the 
 forest of Arden, in glorious summer time, when leaves 
 are green, skies are blue, bright flowers are springing, 
 heavenward lifting their heads, and the lark, heaven's 
 own chorister, pours forth his splendid song. The 
 grouping and contrasting of the characters are of the 
 
AS XOTJ LIKE IT. 119 
 
 most pleasing kind, the language is rich, full, and 
 flowing, and the snatches of melody with which the 
 comedy is interspersed, are numbered among the finest 
 lyrics in our tongue. It is one . of those pieces which 
 remind us of our youth, when we loved to roam beneath 
 the wide-spreading branches of umbrageous trees, to 
 wander through green lanes, to repose in quiet dells, to 
 seek acquaintance with bosky bournes and green shaws, 
 where sights pleasant to gaze on could be seen, and 
 where 
 
 "Floods of softest music feU upon the never-tiring ear." 
 
 This comedy is one in which old age can find delight. 
 The character of Adam, the part which Shakspere 
 himself is said to have played, cannot faU of pleasing 
 the aged and winning their sympathies, for the sunny 
 side of a good long life is most beautifully pourtrayed. 
 On the other hand, youth, yielding up to the warm 
 impulses which course through its system, abandons 
 itself to love and pleasure ; — abandons itself, to revel in 
 the delight of the inner world, for casting off the 
 external coating which it has gathered in the false 
 atmosphere of a court, and with the contact of every 
 day life, it revels in the delight of the beautiful and 
 true; and more than all, in displaying that secret chord 
 of harmony, which under the name of love, binds all 
 hearts in one common bond, eliciting one common 
 chorus from all classes, whether king or clown, peer 
 or peasant. 
 
 There is a charm of the sweetest nature to be found 
 in this pastoral drama. From the usurping duke, with 
 his constant fretfulncss, the result of his crime, to the 
 doting fondness of Audrey for that wit-owner, clever 
 
120 AS TOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Touchstone, all serve to fill and complete a picture, 
 
 Bketched and filled in only as a Shakspere and none 
 
 other could do. Prom palace to greenwood, and from 
 
 greenwood to palace, the characters shift and go, yet 
 
 they are still with the same truthfulness pourtrayed. 
 
 In the contrast between the life at court and the sylvan 
 
 life of the banished duke lies the great charm of this 
 
 play. It is this which wins our sympathies and causes 
 
 us to pass into the characters as they come before us. 
 
 The artificial life of the one and the natural life of the 
 
 other, are placed in exquisite contrast, certainly to the 
 
 advantage of the latter, and we think with the exiled 
 
 duke 
 
 "This life more sweet 
 Than that of painted pomp ? Are not these woods 
 More free from peril than the envious court ? 
 And this our life, exempt from public haunt, 
 Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 
 Sermons in stones and good in every thing." — A. ii. s. 1. 
 
 In this pastoral drama all the characters yield to the 
 power of love. Oliver and Orlando, who open the piece, 
 and who are at deadly enmity with each other, through 
 Celia and Kosalind become reconciled. Orlando, the 
 noble and generous, is not so tainted as Oliver, who 
 seeks his brother's life, and promises Charles the 
 wrestler a guerdon, if, when he wrestles with Orlando, 
 he will so throw him that he shall not trouble him any 
 more; even he, the murderous Oliver — murderous in 
 thought and wish, if not in deed — obeys the influence 
 of the young god, and when he sees Celia, falls in love 
 with her and she with him, so both are "heart in 
 heart.'' 
 
 The courtly, witty Touchstone, the motley, that 
 Jaques the cynical, met in the forest, and who worsted 
 
AS YOV LIKE IT. 121 
 
 the would-be moralist, even he can love ; and he deter- 
 mines to marry with Audrey, "who, tho' no slut, thanks 
 the -gods she is foul." Love works its change with 
 them, and have her he will. "A poor virgin, sir, an 
 ill-favour'd thing, sir, but mine own. A poor humour 
 of mine, sir, to take that no man elsd will. Eich 
 honesty dwells like a miser, sir, in a poor house ; as 
 your pearl in your foul oyster.^' 
 
 Phcebe and Silvius, Orlando and Rosalind, are each 
 enlinkt in the same golden cord. The loves of the two 
 latter being the turning point of the comedy, the scenes 
 in which they appear, and the scenes in which they are 
 referred to, are among the most beautiful ever penned 
 by the master bard. They are redolent with playful- 
 ness, gentleness, and love; the wind, the trees, the 
 flowers are all infected with this spirit, for 
 
 "Love, indeed, is light from heaven, 
 A spark of that immortal fire 
 With angels shared, — to mortals given, 
 To lift from earth our low desires." 
 
 Orlando is the true type of gentleness and manliness. 
 It is his manliness which breaks out and desires of his 
 brother a better and higher degree of education than he 
 has given him. He says, "The spirit of my father 
 grows strong in me, and I will no longer endure it; 
 therefore allow me such exercises as may become a 
 gentleman." That his father was honorable we have 
 Duke Frederick's word; and that Orlando respects his 
 father is seen, firstly, in the speech replying to his 
 brother, " I am no villain : I am the youngest son of 
 Sir Rowland de Boys; he was my father, and he is 
 thricfe a villain that says such a father begot villains." 
 Again, in the third scene of Act I. the same feeling 
 
122 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 bursts forth, when he exclaims, 
 
 "I am more proud to be Sir Rowland's son, 
 His youngest son ; and would not change that calling, 
 To be adopted heir to Frederick." 
 
 Orlando's gentleness is shown in the scene in the 
 forest with Adam. The old man, faint from want of 
 food and from the weakness of age, can proceed no 
 further. Orlando cheers him with words of comfort, 
 almost womanly in their kindness. Ultimately he 
 quits the scene, sustaining the burthen of the old man, 
 by carrying him away, thus displaying his strength and 
 manUness, combined with his gentleness. 
 
 The desire of preserving Adam's life makes Orlando 
 forget his gentleness of manners, and he threatens loud 
 when he rushes into the presence of the banished Duke. 
 Yet he is soon brought back to his natural state by 
 the gentleness of manner and import which marks 
 the Duke's replies, for Orlando says, 
 
 " Speak you so gently ? Pardon me, I pray you : 
 I thought that all things had been savage here ; 
 And therefore put I on the countenance 
 Of stern commandment. 
 Let gentleness my strong enforcement be : 
 In the which hope I blush, and hide my sword." — A. ii. s. 7. 
 
 The kindness and gentleness of Orlando is excel- 
 lently described by his brother Oliver, who when 
 compelled by. the reigning Duke to go in search of 
 Orlando, thus relates his own mishap to Eosalind and 
 Celia, and the generous conduct of his brother. 
 
 " When last the young Orlando parted from you 
 He left a promise to return again 
 Within an hour, and pacing through the forest, 
 Chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancy, 
 Lo, what befel ! he threw his eye aside, 
 
AS TOTJ LIKE IT. 123 
 
 And mark what object did present itself : 
 
 Under an oak, Tsriose bougks were moss'd with age, 
 
 And high-top bald with dry antiqtiity, 
 
 A wretched ragged man, o'ergrown with hair. 
 
 Lay sleeping on his back : abont his neck 
 
 -Agroen and gilded snake had wreathed itself. 
 
 Who with her head, nimble' in threats, approach'd 
 
 The opening of his mouth ; but suddenly, 
 
 Seeing Orlando, it unliok'd itself, 
 
 And with indented glides did slip away 
 
 Into a bush : under which bush's shade 
 
 A lioness, with udders all drawn dry. 
 
 Lay couching, head on ground, with cat-like watch, 
 
 When that the sleeping man should stir ; for 'tis 
 
 The royal disposition of that beast 
 
 To prey on nothing that does seem as dead : 
 
 This seen, Orlando did approach the man, 
 
 And found it was his brother, his elder brother. 
 
 Twice did he turn his back, and purposed so ; 
 
 But kindness, nobler ever than revenge. 
 
 And nature, stronger than his just occasion. 
 
 Made him give battle to the lioness, 
 
 Who quickly feU before him." — A. iv. S. 3. 
 
 It is this kindness and gentleness of manners, in com- 
 bination with his manliness, that steals away the heart 
 of Eosalind, at the same time his own is moved to 
 loving attachment, by the kind wishes and yet kinder 
 words of that sprightly, winning maiden. 
 
 The banished duke is courteous and overflowing 
 with the milk of human kindness. The "uses of 
 adversity " in his greenwood home, have taught him that 
 calmness, that sweet repose which has become so great 
 a part of his nature, and which causes him to feel an 
 unwillingness to return to courtly life and courtly 
 pleasures, when his dukedom is again proffered to him. 
 He is not to be moved or driven from his calm and 
 gentle manners, however harsh in their language and 
 
124 AS TOU LIKE IT. 
 
 their actions they may he, who seek so to do. The 
 violent demands of Orlando, he answers by gentle words. 
 
 "What would you have? Your gentleness shall force. 
 More than your force move us to gentleness." 
 
 He would that gentleness should be the governing 
 power, for it is with him the higher development of 
 human nature. When reproving Jaques for his desire 
 to 
 
 " Cleanse the foul body of the infected world," 
 
 his calmness is undisturbed, and the gentle tone, half 
 that of playfulness, with which the words are uttered, 
 render tlio reproof more forcible. lie thoroughly 
 understands and knows the source of Jaques' desire. 
 He is aware that it does not arise from a love of 
 humanity, but that it arises from disgust; a disgust 
 created in Jaques' brain by the remembrance of his 
 early life being spent in indulging in the very vices, of 
 which he would now "cleanse the foul body." 
 
 When once more possessing the ducal crown, he 
 evinces no hurry to commence action in his ducal 
 capacity. The desire of advancing the interest of his 
 daughter and her husband, Orlando, is the chief reason 
 of his return to his ducal palace, and he unmistakably 
 hints, that when he has settled the succession, back he 
 wiU go to the sylvan glades, exchanging his palace walls 
 for blue skies, the song of birds and leafy canopies. 
 
 Jaques is a mere pretender. His melancholy sits 
 not weU upon him; it is a mere affectation, there is 
 nothing earnest, nothing truthful. He would fain be 
 your moral lawgiver, but his moral lessons are only 
 words, they convey no feeling. He is melancholy over 
 the poor wounded stag, he complains of the injustice 
 
AS TOU LIKE IT. 125 
 
 of killing the denizens of the forest, he sorrows ov^r 
 their sufferings, but his sorrow is mere pretence, there 
 is no real feeling in it, for he sits down and eats and 
 fattens upon venison; upon that, which in all proba- 
 bility belonged to the beast whose sufferings furnished 
 him with a text to hang a moral on. He is ihe great 
 artificial of the comedy, and in every way he is foiled 
 when he comes in contact with the natural. Orlando, 
 Touchstone, and the singer Amiens, all in their turns 
 so flout and beat him with his own weapons, that he 
 readily retires from the contest. His early life has been 
 passed in vice, and his cynicism springs from the 
 remembrances of his vicious career. Disgusted by 
 those remembrances, he wishes to become the world's 
 purifier. He would go through the world to make it 
 virtuous, not from a love of virtue, but from a morbid 
 recollection of his own vicious proceedings. The motley 
 "he met in the forest" moves him to action, and he 
 tells his wishes to the banished duke, who, calmly 
 administers a rebuke of the most truthful character. 
 Jaques exclaims, 
 
 "give me leave 
 To speak my mind, and I -will through and through 
 Cleanse ihe foul body of the infected world, 
 If they will patiently receive my medicine. 
 
 Duhe S. Fie on thee ! I can tell what thou wouldst do. 
 
 Jaq. What for a counter, would I do but good ? 
 
 Buke S. Most mischievious fonl^ sin, in chiding sin : 
 For thou thyself hast been a libertine, 
 As sensual as the brutish sting itself; 
 And all the embossed sores and headed evils, 
 That thou with license of free foot hast caught, 
 Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world." — 
 
 A. II. s. 7. 
 
 Jaques is evidently intended as a satire upon the 
 
126 AS TOTJ LIKE IT. 
 
 would be moral philosophers, the pretenders to wisdom,. 
 He is a mere sham, whose forte lies in description, not . 
 in action, for he who is the most melancholic in words, 
 has no reason for his melancholy, as he undergoes no 
 trials, nor is he ever stricken by adversity. 
 
 Frederick, the usurping duke, is a harsh, ill-hum- 
 oured character, mistrustful of everybody, even of his 
 own child. He is covetous, full of gloomy fancies, 
 suspicious of those by whom he is surrounded, and 
 regards with hostiHty all honourable men. The crimes 
 that he has committed, the banishment of his brother 
 and the robbing of the lords who are with him banished, 
 bring their own punishment, and he fails to find rest, 
 contentment, or happiness. His character is well 
 described by Celia, 
 
 "My father's rougli and envious disposition 
 Sticks me at heart." — A. i. a. 3. 
 
 The old courtier Le Beau, also adds to the description, 
 
 "Tet STioli is now the duke's condition, (temper) 
 That he misconstrues all that you have done 
 The duke is humourous." (capricious) 
 
 The harshness of the usurping duke is essential to 
 the development of the plot of the comedy, for 'through 
 his tyrannic mode of government, the great revolution 
 in the character of Oliver is effected. By the stern 
 command of Frederick, relative to Orlando, of 
 
 "bring him dead or living, 
 Within this twelvemonth, or tui'n thou no more 
 To seek a living in our territory ;" 
 
 Oliver is compelled to go in search of his brother, and 
 during that search, his life is saved by Orlando. He 
 also cometh in contact with Celia, whose goodness, in 
 conjunction with the remembrance of his brother's act, 
 
AS TOU MKB IT. 127 
 
 beats down the "pales and forts" of his evil siti-e, and 
 awakens his better nature, causing him to confess juj'a 
 faults and to feel 
 
 "'Twas I; but 'tis not I: I do not sbame 
 To tell you what I was, since my conversion 
 So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am." 
 
 Oliver and Frederick are the two unnatural brothers, 
 of .the comedy, whose bad conduct appears to have its 
 origin in envy. The superior abilities of Orlando, and 
 the estimation in which he is held is the chief cause of 
 Oliver's conduct. No other reason can Oliver assign, 
 when seeldng to find out the cause of his antipathy 
 to his brother, but this, that Orlando is "full of noble 
 device; of all sorts enchantingly belor'd; and indeed, 
 so much in the heart of the world, and especially of my 
 own people who best know him, that I am altogether mis- 
 prised." Frederick's " rough and envious disposition'^ 
 is excited to action by the high estimation in which his 
 banished brother's daughter is held, and by hearing 
 that "men of great worth'^ resort to the forest to join 
 his brother, and "fleet the time carelessly, as they did 
 the golden world." In both instances, their envious 
 feelings so irritates them, that they are led into a 
 course of hateful thoughts and deeds, from which they 
 are ultimately reclaimed by a natural course of action. 
 Frederick through the influence of an "old religious 
 man," and Oliver through his love for Celia and the 
 saving of his life by his brother Orlando, whom he so 
 sought to destroy. 
 
 Corin, the shepherd, a type of the plain common 
 sense of the rural world, though not an important part 
 in this charming comedy, is yet a pleasing one. True 
 to his calling, and the manner in which he has been 
 
128 AS TOU LIKE IT. 
 
 brougK'd up, he looketh not beyond; he is content with 
 hi'd position, and exclaims in answer to Touchstone, 
 "Sir, I am a true labourer: I earn that I eat, get that 
 I wear, owe no man hate, envy no man's happiness ; 
 glad of other men's good, content with my arm; and 
 the greatest of my pride is, to see my ewes graze and 
 my lambs suck." He is not possessed of any philoso- 
 phy, nor does he aspire to possess any. The only 
 world that he knows of, and beyond which he looketh 
 not, is one immediately in connection witb his means 
 of living. He is possessed of strong practical sense, 
 which he displays in his reply to Touchstone's question, 
 "hast any philosophy in thee, shepherd? No more, 
 but that I know, the more one sickens the worse at ease 
 he is; and that he that wants money, means, and 
 content, is without three good friends ; that the property 
 of rain is to wet, and fire to burn; that good pasture 
 makes fat sheep ; and that a great cause of the night 
 is lack of the sun; that he that hath learned no wit by 
 nature nor art may complain of good breeding, or 
 comes of a very dull kindred." 
 
 Adam, old Adam, is one of the most pleasing 
 characters ever drawn by the hand of the poet. He is 
 a faithful representative of that class, so prevalent in 
 our own country, the faithful servitor. He truly loveth 
 Orlando, in whom he sees his late master "old Sir 
 Rowland," and he grieves at the rude treatment Orlando 
 receives at the hands of his older brother, OHver. He 
 is all gentleness, and he would that others were so. 
 He follows Orlando because he is so virtuous, gentle, 
 strong, and manly, qualities that Adam himself posses- 
 ses, and which causes him to admire their possession by 
 others. His speeches are fjill of beautiful language 
 
AS TOU LIKE IT. 129 
 
 breathing generosity, kindness, truth, and loyalty, and 
 redolent with moral feeling and power. He is a splen- 
 did example of a green old age, in which youthful hopes 
 and" feelings are found existing in conjunction ^with the 
 wisdom of a long practical life. His offer of his savings, 
 his desire to become Orlando's servant, and the reasons 
 he urges, are worthy of the character, and of the 
 occasion. His young master to him is the first thought 
 of his brain, for him would he lay down his life, and 
 
 he begs, 
 
 " Let me be yonr servant : 
 Though. I look old, yet I am strong and lusty; 
 For in my youth I never did apply 
 Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood. 
 Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo 
 The means of weakness and debUity; 
 Therefore my age is as a lusty winter, 
 Frostly, but kindly: let me go with you; 
 I'll do the service of a younger man 
 In all your business and necessities." 
 
 When Orlando accepts his offer he is full of joy and 
 
 exclaims, - ' 
 
 "Master, go on, and I will follow thee, 
 To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty. 
 Prom seventeen years tUl now almost fourscore 
 Here lived I, but now live here no more. 
 At seventeen years many there fortunes seek; 
 But at fourscore, it is too late a week : 
 Yet fortune cannot recompense me better, 
 Than to die well, and not my master's debtor." 
 
 A. II. S. 3. 
 
 Touchstone is a perfect type of his class, he is a 
 genuine clown, with real cap and bells, yet beneath his 
 folly lies a true vein of disinterestedness and fidelity. 
 He cometh not to Arden from choice, but he is moved 
 to coming by the respect in which he holds bis young 
 
130 AS TOTJ LIKE IT. 
 
 mistress, Celia. His leanings are towards a life at 
 court, the ease and comfort to be found there, fit his 
 antic disposition better than roaming among green trees 
 and the discomforts of a forest home, yet the truthful- 
 ness of his nature lying benpath his folly, which is only 
 his outer covering, directs him cheerfully to obey the 
 behest of Celia and he will, ' 
 
 "Jog on, jog on, the footpatli way, 
 *» And mei-rily tent the stile-a: 
 
 A merry heart goes all the day, 
 Your sad tires in a mile-a."* 
 
 He plays and flouts with all; each of the characters 
 become marks for his shafts of wit to be aimed at, and 
 each receive their share of his witty sayings. He is 
 thoroughly master of himself, and this becomes his 
 "coign of vantage" over the other characters, who 
 frequently seem to be the sport of their own wilfulness 
 and caprice, while he maintains a real independence 
 and displays his intellectual freedom, in the power and 
 mastery of his words. He is merry, wordy and witty, 
 with great powers of perception, — powerg that are 
 quickened in their action by the frequent opportunities 
 afforded him for wordy combats, and his powers are 
 most highly developed when brought in contact with the 
 mock moralist and would be censor of mankind, the 
 melancholy Jaques. The self-created armour of the 
 self-elected moralist, is pierced through and through 
 by the sharp quips of Touchstone's wit, and the hoUow- 
 ness and insincerity of the pretender is most excellently 
 shown, in the flouting he receives at the hands of this 
 "merry motley" whom he met in the forest. 
 
 * The Winter's Tale, A, IV. 8. 2. 
 
AS lOU LIKE IT. 131 
 
 The folly of Touchstone at times hardly conceals his 
 truthfulness from those who are observant of his words. 
 It is only those, who wrapped up like Jaques in their 
 armour of seU-complacency, that fail to perceive the 
 motley'ri meaning. When the true cometh in contact 
 with the true, as in the great scene, when Touchstone 
 discourses upon the seven causes of quarrel, the 
 banished duke, who is all gentleness and truthfulness, 
 discovers his meaning, and instantly perceives that 
 Touchstone "uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and 
 under the presentation of that he shoots his wit:" 
 Touchstone is one of the most elevated clowns that 
 Shakspere ever drew, and he never fails to charm his 
 hearers. "He is gay and easy at court; he is good- 
 tempered and at ease in the forest. He makes himself 
 at home anywhere and everywhere, for he carries his 
 own sunshine about with him. Touchstone is not a 
 mere jester — a mere extractor of fun from what occurs 
 around him ; and he is not in the least a buffoon-^there 
 is nothing low or common in his composition. He has 
 excellent sense, and the good feeling to draw truth and 
 beauty, as well as pure humour, out of passing life."* 
 
 Amiens, the forester, and the warbler of the forest, 
 belongs to the golden age. He follows the banished 
 duke out of pure love. He knows the value of gentle- 
 ness 'and truthfulness, and he takes up with the duke'^ 
 fortunes, because he knows his grace is possessed of 
 those good qualities. He would not change his present 
 life, for he loves the mode of living ; and more than that, 
 he loveth those by whom he is surrounded. He knows 
 the weight of man's ingratitude, and he would keep 
 
 * Clarke's Shakspere' s Characters, pp. 65, 56. 
 
132 AS TOU LIKE IT. 
 
 amid green shaws, inviting others to come to him, for 
 there will they 
 
 "see 
 No enemy, 
 But winter and rough, weather." 
 
 iEe is another instance of the true overcoming the false, 
 for in the scene with Jaques, the latter gets flouted, 
 Amiens hoaxing him and playing on his humour, tells 
 him his singing "will make him melancholy," which 
 the pretender takes literally to himself, so overweening 
 is his vanity. Amiens is a worthy follower of his grace, 
 who despite his banishment, 
 
 ■" Can translate the stubborness of fortune 
 Into so quiet and so sweet a style!" 
 
 William, the true country lout, who hath an affec- 
 tion for Audrey, but who is driven from his purpose by 
 the flouting of Touchstone, and Silvius, the loving 
 shepherd, enraptured with Phcebe, without whom he 
 cannot live, are but very subordinate parts, yet are they 
 60 introduced, that they add materially to the interest 
 of the comedy. Audrey, a rough country girl, a clot of 
 the earth, devoid of thought, with no idea of life beyond 
 that of a new gown, a merry-making and a marriage 
 feast, adds power to the comedy by the contrast she 
 affords in the rusticity of her manners. Phoebe the 
 fair, yet proud shepherdess, who falls in love vsrith 
 Rosalind when disguised as Ganymede, by the cross 
 purposes which such love engenders, lends an additional 
 charm. The scornful airs which she gives herself, 
 contrast most excellently with the manners of the 
 young princesses when in disguise, and the mode in 
 which she treats Silvius, her disdain and then her 
 
A3 TOU LIKE IT. 133 
 
 acceptance of his hand, completes her character, 
 marking her most truly as a coquette of famed Arcady. 
 Two of ihe most poetical passages to be found in the 
 comedy, belong to Phcebe, the one in which she taunts 
 Silvius, and the other full of delicacy and beauty, when 
 she describes Ganymede: 
 
 "Think not I love him, though I ask for him; 
 'Tis but a peeTish boy; yet he talks well; 
 But what care I for words? yet words do well, 
 When he that speaks them pleases those that hear. 
 It is a pretty youth : not very pretty : 
 But, sure, te's proud, and yet his pride becomes him:. 
 He'll make a proper man : the best thing in him 
 Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue' 
 Did make ofience, his eye did heal it up. 
 He is not very tall; yet for his years he's tall : 
 His leg is but so so; and yet 't is well: 
 There was a pretty redness in his Kp; 
 A little riper and more lusty red 
 
 Than that mix'd in his cheek; 't was just the difference- 
 Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask. 
 There be some women, Silvius, had they mark'd him 
 In parcels as I did, would have gone near 
 To fall in love with him; but for my part, 
 Hove him, not, nor- hate him not; and yet 
 I have more cause to hate him than to love him: 
 For what had he to do to chide at me." — A. iii. s. 5. 
 
 Celia, the modest,. the retiring, is in most admirable 
 keeping. The love of her cousia> in conjunction with 
 that cousin's loquacity and vivacity of spirits, keep her 
 somewhat in the background, yet she is not less gifted, 
 being full of wisdom, gentleness and sweetness. The 
 love existing between her and her cousin is of the 
 purest character. She ~ believes in Eosalind, and when 
 her father rebukes her cousin and decrees her banish- 
 nlent, she lacks not spirit to defend her cousin. She. 
 exclaims, describing their fondness for each other, 
 
134 AS TOU LIKE IT. 
 
 "if she be a traitor, 
 Why, so am I; we still have slept together, 
 Rose at an instant, learn'd, play'd, eat together; 
 And wheresoe'er we went, like Jnno's swans. 
 Still we went coupled and inseparable." 
 
 When her father will not revoke the decree of banish- 
 ment, but repeats the sentence, "she is banish'd," Celia 
 answers by saying, 
 
 "Pronounce that sentence then on me, my liege: 
 I cannot liye out of her company." 
 
 Her love for Eosalind causes her to dare and to do. 
 She cannot conceive of their being separated; — 
 
 "Shall we part, sweet girl? 
 No: let my father seek another heir." 
 
 She is fertile in her invention and prompt in her action. 
 She decides where to go, whom to go to, and suggests 
 means whereby the journey may be accomplished. She 
 is in no way dispirited by the harsh conduct of her 
 father, on the contrary, her flow of spirits becomes 
 stronger by the occasion. She will "devise the fittest 
 time," and "the safest way," to baffle those , who may 
 be desirous of pursuing. She will but collect her jewels 
 and her wealth, and then she says, speaking to her 
 cousin, as they quit the scene, 
 
 "Now go we in content 
 To liberty, and not to banishment." 
 
 Celia is equally as witty as her cousin, though she 
 makes not so much display. The interest which her 
 love for her cousin creates, continues throughout the 
 whole of the comedy, and our sympathies are retained 
 for one who could love so true, and act so kindly. 
 
AS TOU I/IKE IT. , 135^' 
 
 Eosalind, the winning, the loving, the witty, playful 
 maiden, is one of those charming characters that at all 
 times and under all circumstances fails not to please. 
 She is the principal character of the comedy, the centre 
 on which the chief interest turns. She is the real 
 heroine, possessing much sprightliness, and yet withal 
 a thoughtfulnesB that lends force and strength to her 
 character; When she first appears, she is not in her 
 true position. She is but a mere dependant, a half- 
 willing captive at her uncle's court, and her natural 
 flow of spirits is checked by the remembrance of her' 
 father who is in banishment. 
 
 This feeling is driven from her mind by her love of 
 Orlando; which springeth up out of pure sympathy. 
 It is this which moves her in her first interview with; 
 him. Her sympathy is excited, and whenever such a 
 feeling arises, love is sure to follow. The manliness 
 and gentleness of Orlando quickens that which his un- 
 fortunate position began, and this is completed, when' 
 she learns his name and knows from whom he sprung,- 
 She saye, 
 
 "My father lov'd Sir Rowland as his soul, 
 And all the world was of my father's mind: 
 Had I before known this young man his son, 
 I should have given him tears unto entreaties, 
 Ere he should thus have ventured." 
 
 This knowledge adds fuel to the fire, and she falls truly 
 in love with him; thus affording another instance of- the.' 
 power of that feeling, which 
 
 "From court to the cottage,. 
 In bower and in hall. 
 From the king unto the beggar ' 
 Love conquers all."* 
 
 * TruWs Integrity, or Love will find out the leayt Early Billads- eiitedi 
 By B. Bell, p. 176. , 
 
136 AS Ton LIKE IT. 
 
 The speeches 'of Eosaliud are full of playfulness and 
 wit, which bubbles up like a fountain, scattering its 
 refreshing waters on all things around. She is voluble 
 but never tiring, for her volubility is full of life and joy, 
 and her impulses are all marked by kindness and 
 gentleness. She never loses her maiden modesty, even 
 when clothed in man's attire; and man's attire she 
 surely wears — not that of a boy — if her own description 
 can be relied upon. 
 
 "Were it not better, 
 Because I am more ttan common tall, 
 That I did suit me aU points like a man? 
 A gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh, 
 A boar-spear in my hand; and (in my heart 
 Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will) 
 We'll have a swashing and a martial outside; 
 As many other mannish cowards have, 
 That do outface it with their semblances." 
 
 While so disguised, she never uses words nor per- 
 forms any acts which are contrary to her feminine 
 disposition. She never unsexes herself, and she as 
 readily and as gracefully puts off her manly garments 
 to wear her own womanly attire, as when she adopted 
 her masculine ones to assist her in her flight. 
 
 The wit of Bosalind differs greatly from that of 
 Beatrice's. It is not so caustic; there is much less of 
 satire in her word-playing. It is more humourous, 
 more mirthful, and less pointed. There is more feeling 
 and earnestness in Eosalind than in Beatrice. The 
 female character that most resembles Eosalind is 
 Imogen. Both are possessed of great tenderness and 
 sympathy,— both possess high intellectual powers, — 
 both are heroines of their respective plays, and "in 
 both are found the same clear and prompt intelligence — 
 
AS you LIKE IT. 13Z 
 
 the same consummate grace and self-possession in 
 enacting those respective masculine parts which the 
 exigences of their fortune compel them to assume. The 
 deeper pathos and the graver wisdom which lend a 
 more solemn«though scarcely more tender colouring to 
 the charactet of Imogen, seem hardly more than may 
 be sufficiently accounted for by that maturer develop- 
 ment which one and the same original character would 
 receive from the maturer years, the graver position, and 
 more tragic trials of the wife, in which the heroine of 
 Cymheline is set before us, — as compared with that 
 early bloom, and those fond anxieties of youthful 
 courtship, which we behold in Eosalind."* 
 
 The whole of the love scenes, the manner in which 
 the characters fall in love with each other, is done in 
 the most masterly marmer by Shakspere. He evidently 
 intendeth their actions to support the opinion of love 
 at first sight. The reasons for this are twofold; firstly, 
 because of its frequent occurrence in the world, thereby 
 showing its truthfulness ; and secondly, out of compli- 
 ment to one of his greatest contemporaries, Marlow, of 
 the mighty line, to whom he alludes when he says, 
 
 "Dead shepherd! now I find thy saw of might, 
 'Whoever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight?'" 
 
 In the closing scene, Jaques, true to his character, 
 
 wiU not fall in with the measures proposed by the duke., 
 
 He will away, for 
 
 " Out of these convertites. 
 There is nnich matter to be heard and learn'd." . 
 
 His cynical disposition wiU not allow him to par- 
 ticipate in the happiness of others; it is contrary to 
 
 * Fletcher's Studies of Shakspere, p. 237. 
 
138 AS TOU LIKE IT. 
 
 the part he has assumed. True to his artificiality, and 
 
 to the external manners which he hath put on,' with a 
 
 slight remembrance of how Touchstone worsted him 
 
 in the forest, he sneers at the motley and his wife, 
 
 saying, 
 
 "And you to wrangling; for thy loTing voyage 
 Is but for two months victualled. So, to your pleasures,, 
 I am for other than your dancing measures." 
 
 On the Duke's command of "Stay, Jaques, stay,"' 
 
 he answers, 
 
 "To see no pastime I : what you would have 
 I'll stay to know at your abandon'd cave."' 
 
 The catastrophe is brought about most satisfactorily^, 
 and the comedy ends most happily. The good duke's, 
 patrimony is restored, his daughter firmly fixed with 
 the son of his bosom friend, "the good Sir Eowland," — 
 his niece, enlinkt in the same bonds with Oliver, whom, 
 she hath won from his evil ways; and in the same 
 tangled web are also enmeshed Silvius and Phoebe,. 
 Touchstone and his Audrey, their hands and hearts in^ 
 fond communion joined, by 
 
 ■ "Hymen! god of every town." 
 
 Throughout the whole of the comedy, the poetry 
 existing in human nature is shown forth by the master's- 
 hand. The natural is placed above the artificial; and 
 it requires but a slight effort of the imagination, while 
 under the influence of this charming work, once more 
 to revel in golden dreams amid the scenes of a goldem 
 age. 
 
MACBETH. 
 
 The date of the production of this tragedy is usually 
 given in the last ten years of the author's life, about 
 the year 1606, and it was printed for the first time 
 in the folio of 1623. The reasons assigned by Malone 
 for its earlier production are very vague and unsatis- 
 factory, nor do they militate against the year now 
 generally accepted. The materials of this tragedy were 
 derived by Shakspere from the chronicles of Holinshed, 
 and though he and the chronicler are occasionally at 
 variance, yet the main incidents of the tragedy are 
 to be found in the pages of the chronicle. The meeting 
 of the witches, the murder of Duncan, also that of 
 Banquo, the attempt to slay Macduff, and the death 
 of the usurper at the hands of Macduff, are all related 
 by Holinshed. In Shakspere taking up these incidents, 
 he has so interwoven them in his tragedy, has so 
 re-clothed them in the true language of poetry, and 
 endowed them with the power of his own genius, that 
 the truthfulness and beauty which the lines convey 
 win never die, nor will the incidents be forgotten. In 
 1673, Sir W. Davenant altered, added and otherwise 
 amended and improved this tragedy, — so at least it 
 was said at the time, — but a greater mistake was never 
 
140 MACBETH. 
 
 made. In 1731, it was again altered by Mr. Nahum 
 Tate, wlio had some time before tried his "prentice 
 hand" upon the tragedy of Lear, to the detriment of 
 the text and the action of the play. In 1748, a special 
 version was produced by Garrick, who pretended to 
 restore the original text by omitting the additions and 
 removing the mutilations of Davenant. This, however, 
 he did not do, for though he left out many of the 
 additions which had been made, he was guilty of raSHay 
 interpolations of his own, which in no way added to the 
 grandeur and beauty of the tragedy, nor to the strength 
 and sweetness of the poetic diction. So thoroughly did 
 Garrick appear to understand Shakspere's intent and 
 meaning in this tragedy, that he added a most con- 
 temptible dying speech to the part of Macbeth. 
 
 In this tragedy we see the difference between the 
 man of genius and he of mediocrity. With the latter, 
 this tragedy would have been but a mere chamber of 
 horrors, producing a strong state of excitement, from 
 which both reader and spectator would have shrank 
 with disgust. On the other hand, Shakspere has so 
 made use of them, even in their most striking forms, 
 in association with the beautiful and pure, that under 
 no circumstances do they create any emotions which 
 are not of a healthful • and pleasurable kind. It is 
 in this power, that Shakspere stands so pre-eminent ; 
 it is this art which places him above all others, for 
 in no other, but in him alone, is seen its pm-e develop- 
 ment. 
 
 The opening of this tragedy is wonderfully finely 
 conceived. Amidst thunder, lightning, hail and rain, 
 the weu'd-sisters big with fate, prepare the reader or 
 spectator for the supernatural influences which are 
 
MACBETH. 141 
 
 to follow. The bleeding soldier, his tale of fighting, 
 the blasted heath, the wild prophecies all serve to pave 
 the way for the perpetration of crimes of a deeper hue 
 and deeds of a more deadly character. 
 
 The scene in which Lady Macbeth appears, completes 
 what the opening scenes have already foreshadowed. 
 Her allusions to the killing of Duncan, to the natural in- 
 fluences by which her husband is surrounded, and to the 
 ;aid which the supernatural part of the story gives him, 
 produces that peculiar state of the brain, that it becomes 
 prepared to receive without wonderment all the results 
 which follow. It is in this, that the great dramatic 
 skill of Shakspere is shown. He passes not from one 
 extreme to the other abruptly, everything is prepared, 
 for the interest gradually accumulates, and the brain 
 drinks in, without the power of refusing, the deeds and 
 actions of the character of the tragedy. 
 
 Several writers ufon this tragedy have contended 
 that the witches, whose introduction into the play takes 
 us out of the course of ordinary life, their supernatural 
 influence determining the action of the play, should be. 
 represented by young and pretty women on the stage, 
 but the whys and wherefores which are urged, "pale 
 their ineffectual fire" before the description given of 
 them by Banquo : — 
 
 " So wither'd, and so wild in their attire. 
 That look not like the inhabitants o' the earth, 
 And yet are on't P Live you ? or are you aught 
 That man may question ? Tou seem to understand me, 
 By each at once her choppy finger laying 
 Upon her skinny lips. Tou should be women, 
 And yet your beards forbid me to interpret 
 That you are so," 
 
142 MACBETH. 
 
 . The expressions " withered," " choppy finger/' and 
 " skinny lips," are refutations of the notion of their 
 being young and pretty, whUe the more forcibly to 
 point out the external character of these haggards of the 
 night, their beards are alluded to as a reason that they 
 are hardly women at all. This surely ought to suiSce 
 as a refutation of such an opinion, but still further, in 
 A. IV. s. 1., they are called by Macbeth, "black and 
 midnight hags," an expression that can not be possibly 
 applied, nor in any way construed to apply to young 
 and pretty women. 
 
 The tragedy of Macbeth furnishes a splendid con- 
 trast to the tragedy of Hamlet. In the latter, action 
 scarcely advances, so slow is the movement of the 
 principal character, who is continually resolving to act, 
 yet never acting upon his resolution. In Macbeth, the 
 action marches rapidly and grandly on; there is no 
 standing still, no halting by the way, for the progress of 
 events is swift and the catastrophe is speedily arrived 
 at. Every character tends to develope the catastrophe 
 and lend its aid in magnifying the qualities and nature 
 of its completeness. The little as well as the great all 
 help towards working out the result, which is in itself 
 most complete. 
 
 Macbeth is made up of action, for he is the repre- 
 sentative of activity, while Hamlet is exceedingly 
 passive. Macbeth is all physical strength while Hamlet 
 is physically weak. There is but little room for 
 thought in Macbeth, he has to do, not to reason and 
 reflect. In him, manly audacity and human might are 
 strained to the utmost when he has resolved ; for he 
 dares a contest with fate having no dread or fear of 
 the result. In the opening scene Macbeth is described 
 
MACBETH. 143 ' 
 
 as a man of worth, possessing all the requirements of ■ 
 a true and perfect soldier. Sword and shield never fell 
 into worthier hands and the good use he makes of his 
 flashing falchion, when he "unseamed'^ the rebel lord 
 "from the nave to the chaps,'" speaks weU for his 
 prowess; speaks well for him who was "valour's 
 minion," "Bellona's bridegroom." The truthfulness of 
 the witches' first greeting, lends weight to their sugges- 
 tions for his futm-e greatness, and his natural 
 promptitude of action soon causes him to set about 
 realizing what his brain desires. His nature is one of 
 activity; action is born within him, he cannot relapse 
 into supineness nor sluggishness, and when he is 
 crownfed king, he still must act ; he must let his thought 
 and action proceed together. The thirst for action 
 increases in the latter part of the tragedy, and this to- 
 a great extent is engendered by his fears. Wbile 
 engaged or absorbed in the performance of any deed 
 his fears are overcome, and he rises above the dreadful 
 consequences which he foreshadows to himself while 
 thinking and not acting. 
 
 The chief feature in the character of Macbeth is 
 ambition, a strong lust of power. The good parts of 
 his nature are wholly overcome by this one particular 
 passion, to this they all yield. His honour, his respect, 
 his love of his fellow-creature, his desire to stand well 
 with the world, are aU absorbed by his dominant pas- 
 sion, ambition, the insatiate monster, that ultimately 
 destroys him. The seeds of this passion exist in him 
 prior to his interview with the witches on the heath. 
 The desire of Duncan's death and the wish to be king 
 are familiar thoughts of Macbeth's before the action 
 of the tragedy begins. He has thought this matter 
 
144 MACBETH. 
 
 over and has partly resolved how and what to do. 
 
 This is shown in his interview with his wife, when she 
 
 taunts him for his cowardice in shrinking from the 
 
 assassination, 
 
 "What teast was't then 
 That made you break this enterprise to me ?" 
 
 His interview with the weird-like three only re -awa- 
 kens the feeling that had long been slumbering within 
 him, and from that moment the feeUng gradually grows 
 upon him and takes possession of all his faculties. 
 After the first salutation he stands "rapt," and the 
 greater honour which they confer on Banquo, does not 
 destroy the feeling; it still exists within him and giv§s 
 evidence of its existence when the witches have van- 
 ished, by his questioning his friend "your children shall 
 be kings?" to which Banquo replies "you shall be 
 king," and the impatient manner in which Macbeth 
 answers, as if to hide the thought, which he had pre- 
 viously betrayed, "and thane of Cawdor too; went it 
 not so?" 
 
 The intensity of this feeling is increased when Eosse 
 salutes him as "thane of Cawdor," and this first con- 
 firmation of the witches' prophecies makes him become 
 the more strongly impressed with the desire of kingly 
 dignity and kingly power, and he also becomes con- 
 vinced that the greater which they have foretold shaU 
 be fulfilled. This belief and reliance on the words of 
 the three is shown when speaking to himself, he 
 exclaims "the greatest is behind," and in the question 
 which he puts to Banquo, 
 
 "Do not yon hope your children shall be kings. 
 When those that gave the thane of Cawdor to me 
 Promis'd no less for them?" 
 
MACBETH. 145 
 
 The imagination of Macbeth now becomes excited 
 and he clearly sees the ultimatum to be arrived at. 
 His first success gives him warranty for his future 
 successes, and his active brain immediately passes in 
 review all the circumstances, and the cotirse of action 
 he must adopt. The thoughts that now arise, are of 
 the foulest and bloodiest character, to these he doth 
 gradually yield, for he sees no other way, but in fol- 
 lowing that "suggestion" which exacts from him the 
 words 
 
 " Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair, 
 And make my seated heart knock at my ribs, 
 Against the use of nature ? Present fears 
 Are less than horrible imaginings: 
 My thought, whose murther yet is but fantastical, 
 Shakes so my single state of man, that function 
 Is smother'd in surmise; and nothing is, 
 But what is not." 
 
 When be awakes from this state he rests satisfied 
 with the resultp, he cares not what may happen, it will 
 not be of everlasting duration, 
 
 "for come what may, 
 , Time and the hour run thro' the roughest day.'' 
 
 In the next scene when visiting Duncan in his 
 palace at Forres, he does not lose sight of the crown 
 of his heart's desire. When the king addresses him 
 firstly as "worthiest cousin," and then as " my worthy 
 Cawdor," this kindness doth not destroy the thought 
 nor uproot the feeling, on the Contrary both are 
 strengthened by what takes place. When Duncan 
 declares that his estate shall be established upon his 
 "eldest Malcolm," and proclaims him "prince of Cum- 
 berland," the necessity for prompt action reveals itself 
 to Macbeth, who sees that unless he rapidly decides and 
 
146 MACBETH. 
 
 as rapidly acts, he will let slip opportunity. He per- 
 ceives bat one way to accomplish his wishes, and that 
 is the death of the king, no matter by what means. He 
 will not shrink from the performance of the "foul 
 unnatural murther," for by no other method does he 
 conceive that the crown can be obtained. The appoint- 
 ment of a successor fully determines his course of 
 action and the resolution he has arrived at. This is 
 made most evident by the language he uses when he 
 is thinking aloud. 
 
 "The prince of Cumberland. — That is a step, 
 On which I must fall down, or else o'orlcap, 
 For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires I 
 Let not light boo my black and deep dosiros: 
 The eye wink at the hand I Yet let that be, 
 Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see." 
 
 There is much moral cowardice in the nature of 
 Macbeth. He is prone to superstitious fears and they 
 so work upon him, that he relents from his purposes 
 and requires to be spurred to "prick the sides of his 
 intent," before he will attempt to achieve that which 
 when performed will lead to that position which his 
 ambitious desires would have him fulfil. Those fears 
 are soon aroused and his apprehension conjures up 
 consequences so fearful to himself, that he determines 
 not to attempt that to which his thoughts have long 
 been tending. When his wife tells him he hath been 
 enquired for by the king, he asserts his determination 
 to "proceed no further in the business," alleging for 
 his reasons, that Duncan of "late hath honoured" him, 
 and that he has 
 
 "bought , 
 
 Golden opinions from all sorts of people, 
 Which would be worn now in their newest gloss. 
 Not cast aside too soon." 
 
MACBETH. 147 
 
 Throughout this scene the sharp taunts of his 
 scoffing partner once more rekindles the fierce desire, 
 which beneath her lash, burns with such vigour that he 
 unhesitatingly and without remorse decides to slay his 
 " kinsman" and his king. His conscience has now 
 become stifled, yielding at last to the more powerful 
 will of his wife, and having resolved, his daring and 
 active nature must have play. Strung up to do the 
 deed, he has visions arising in his "heat oppressed 
 brain," all marshalling "the way" he intends "to go" 
 and shadowing the "instrument" he is "to use." Ih 
 silence he would move, so that the "firm set earth," 
 should not hear his " steps," for silence is in unison 
 with the "present horror" of the time. The sounding 
 bells break on this silence, and invites him to execute 
 his purpose, "to go and it is done." When "'tis 
 done," his fears come crowding back with renewed 
 vigour, so that he shrinks with alarm from every sound 
 he hears, and he imagines cries that make him quake, 
 
 "Qlamis hath miirdor'd sloop: and tberoforo Cawdor 
 Shall sleep no more." 
 
 These ring in his ears a knell so dreadful, making 
 his fears so strong, that mentally and physically he is 
 BO overthrown, that he cannot complete those measures 
 necessary "to tho safety of himself and his wife. So 
 strongly is he affected, so deeply is he moved, that the 
 taunts of his cool and more determined partner fail 
 to give him courage, and she herself is forced to per- 
 form those things which are necessary to be done. 
 When left alone "every noise appals" him, he is fright- 
 tened by the colour of his hands; their bloodiness takes 
 away his physical vision, nor "wiU all great Neptune's 
 ocean wash" away the stains. When his wife returns 
 
148 MACBETH. 
 
 those fears and phantasies still cling around him, and 
 heartily he wishes that the murdered Duncan should 
 "wake^' with the "knocking;" and though he knows he 
 cannot, he gives expression to his thought in the words 
 "I would thou could'st." In the interim between the 
 perpetration of the murder and the discovery thereof, 
 his "state" "suffers an insurrection," but the example 
 of his wife, coupled with the wish of self-preservation 
 and the desire of realizing his ambitious thoughts, 
 engender a calmness of external demeanour, which 
 hides the raging fire which burns within. When the 
 " sacrilegeous murther" is discovered, his brain resumes 
 its state of activity, and he readily seizes upon the 
 occasion "to see" and judge for himself, for it affords 
 him an opportunity to slay the "sleeping grooms,^' and 
 thus remove all chances of detection. To think this, 
 is to do it, and it is done. Weighty and manifold are 
 the excuses he can urge in favour of the act, for "the 
 expedition" of his "violent love outran the pauser 
 reason." Though he does "repent" that he "did kill 
 them," yet he skilfully argues that "in a moment like 
 this" who could "be wise, amaz'd, temperate and 
 furious," for "here lay Duncan,''' "there the murth- 
 erers," "their daggers, steeped in the colours of their 
 trade," 
 
 " Who could refrain 
 That had a heart to love, and in that heart 
 Courage to make his love known?" 
 
 The fainting of Lady Macbeth diverts the attention 
 of the fi-iends of Duncan, otherwise directing their 
 thoughts for the instant and preventing any answer 
 being given to the excuses of the perpetrator of "this 
 most bloody piece of work." This incident also affords 
 
MACBETH. 149 
 
 Macbeth an opportunity of recovering his self-command 
 and exhorting Banquo, Macduff and the rest, who are 
 all shook with fears and scruples/' to "put on manly 
 readiness," so that they may "question" "to know it 
 further,^' by meeting "in the hall together." 
 
 When the lofty seat is gained and the crown rests 
 upon his head, still the fears of Macbeth for his own 
 safety arise. He knows full well, the "royalty of 
 nature" which reigns in Banquo, — the "dauntless 
 temper of his, mind," the "wisdom that doth guide his 
 valour," — by these qualities his "genius is rebuked," 
 and therefore he fears, that if Banquo lives, he will 
 unmake him. His death is necessary to his safety, 
 instinctively he feels that Banquo is his "enemy," who 
 if he is allowed to live, will "every minute" be thrusting 
 after his seat and life. He must be swept away, and 
 the instruments are ready that will perform the deed. 
 The snake^s "scotched" not killed, and he would make 
 all sure. "Both the worlds" shall "suffer" he tells his 
 wife, 
 
 "Ere we -will eat our meal in fear, and sleep 
 In the affliction of these terrible dreams, 
 That shake us nightly." 
 
 The excitement attending upon the murder of 
 Banquo, in conjunction with his other deed, reawakens 
 his superstitious fears and leads him, "to his seeing" 
 within the compass of his agitated brain, the ghastly 
 form of Banquo in the banquet scene "with twenty 
 trenched gashes in his head." He shrinks with horror 
 from this mental vision, he is. quite "unmanned in 
 folly," and he is only brought back to his natural state 
 by the greater fortitude of his wife, who so far restores 
 him, that he is enabled to tell his "worthy friends" he 
 
150 MAOBTITH. 
 
 has a "strange infirmity, which is nothing, to those 
 that know me." Again his excitement crops up, to be 
 allayed by the same means, and then he cannot help 
 exclaiming 
 
 "Can Buch things be, 
 
 And overcome us like a summer cloud, 
 
 Without our special wonder?" 
 
 When these fears have wholly subsided and he 
 becomes himself, his activity is awakened and he deter- 
 mines on a course of action that shall be conducive to 
 his safety. He will to "the weird-sisters" to know 
 "the worst" for his "own good." 
 
 "All causes shall give way; I am in blood 
 Stopp'd in so far, that, should I wado no moro, 
 Returning were as tedious as go o'er : 
 Strange things I have in head, that will to hand; 
 Which must be acted, 'ere they may be scann'd." 
 
 This reliance upon the words of the fearful three, 
 serves to display his moral weakness. He is not con- 
 tent with what he can devise to make himself secure, 
 but he would learn from those who have already told 
 him true, what can and will be done. He wishes to be 
 on his guard against his enemies, to learn who they 
 are, how their efforts may be defeated and his position 
 made secure. He has already had fears of "the thane 
 of Fife," for when he receives the "good caution" from 
 the armed head, he says, "thou hast harped my fear 
 aright." Though told to fear no "power of man, for 
 none of woman born" can do him harm, he resolves 
 that Macduff shall "not live," so that he "may tell 
 pale-hearted fear it lies." The third prediction con- 
 firms him, he is fully convinced that that can "never 
 be," for "who can impress the forest?" or "bid the 
 tree unfix his earthbound root?" These "bodements" 
 
MACBETH. 151 
 
 1 
 
 fully satisfy his cravings to know what can and will be 
 done relative to his own person, and his course of 
 conduct is now plainly inarked out, it must be "bloody, 
 bold and resolute." From this time henceforth, to 
 think is to act, "the very firstlings of his thoughts shall 
 be the firstlings of his hand," and though he, whom he 
 hath been told to be aware of, "the thane of Fife," has 
 "fled to England," he will carry out his murderous 
 intent, by having revenge upon "his wife," "his 
 babes," and all others "that trace him in his line." 
 His career is now marked by unbridled violence, his 
 thoughts are bloody and bloody are his deeds : — 
 
 " each morn, 
 New widows ho-wl; new orphans cry; new sorrows 
 Strike heaven on the face." 
 
 He has no friends, nor must he look for any, his 
 path is now alone, for the potent spirit that moved him 
 to his task, that incited him to do the "deed without a 
 name," is fallen "diseased" in mind, her bosom filled 
 with "perilous stuff" she no longer can buoy him up, 
 her fortitude and power is wanting, and his sole reliance 
 is now on the predictions of the witches, to those pre- 
 dictions he clings as the anchor of his safety; he will 
 not shrink, he 
 
 "will not be afraid of death and bane, 
 Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane." 
 
 Nothing that arises seems in any way after this 
 interview to alarm Macbeth, so firm is his reliance on 
 the words of the weird-three. ^ When he learns of 
 further defection aihong his court and of the approach 
 of the English army, he has no fears for himself; he so 
 thoroughly believes in that which he hath been told,, 
 that the contrary is the case. Come what may, let the 
 
152 MACBETH. 
 
 "false thanes" fly, be will "never sagg with doubt nor 
 
 shake with fear," He is all activity, ready for the 
 
 approaching struggle, in which he will bear a soldier's 
 
 part, for he "will fight'" till from his "bones" his 
 
 "flesh be hacked." He has no dread of death, and 
 
 when he learns the death of his queen, he is so 
 
 unmoved, that he soliloquises on life, believes it to be 
 
 "but a walking shadow." 
 
 "a tale 
 Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury. 
 Signifying nothing." 
 
 The last hope but one is now removed, for "Birnam 
 
 forest" be "come to Dunsinane," yet his physical 
 
 courage rises with the occasion, and he hurries to the 
 
 fight resolved to "die with harness on his back." His 
 
 moral courage almost breaks down when he learns that 
 
 the last plank to which he clings, fails him, and that 
 
 Macduff is not of "woman born." His "better part," 
 
 is "cowed," and all belief in the "juggling friends" is 
 
 banished from his brain. When called upon to yield, 
 
 the fighting qualities of his nature ro-assert their sway ; 
 
 his physical courage rides to its topmost height and 
 
 like a gallant warrior "famoused for fight," before "his 
 
 body" he throws his "warlike shield," for he "will try 
 
 the last," and exclaims 
 
 "Lay on Macduff, 
 And damn'd be he that first cries, Hold! enough." 
 
 In furious combat with his brother thane, they quit 
 the scene, to which Macbeth returns no more, for he 
 is slain by Macduff, who brings to the young prince 
 "the usurper's head," and since "the time is free,"' he 
 with others of the courtly circle, whose voices in con- 
 junction with his, l4ail Malcolm, as "king of Scotland." 
 
MAODETH. 153 
 
 The character of Macbeth cannot really be put in 
 comparison with Eichard III, for they have only one 
 thing in common, ambition. Eichard relies upon no 
 one, he is himself "alone;" he possesses unlimited confi- 
 dence in himself, using others only as tools to accom- 
 plish his desires, while Macbeth, on the other hand, is 
 constantly wanting support. This phase of his charac- 
 ter is thoroughly known and understood by his wife, 
 who through the love she feels for him, united with her 
 own ambition, directs and supports him in his varied 
 acts. This necessity for some support beside his own 
 strength, is. shown in his consulting with the sisters 
 three, and in the full reUance which he places on the 
 predictions which they give utterance to. He could not 
 have walked alone in his path of crime, from this want 
 of self-sustaining power, which is most strongly evi- 
 denced in the high intellectual development of the 
 crafty, criminal Eichard. 
 
 Lady Macbeth is a strong, bold, courageous and 
 ambitious woman, full of lofty daring, reckless as to 
 consequences, treacherous when treachery will serve 
 her purpose, yet so far womanly, that she is full of love 
 for her irresolute lord. She is physically strong, not 
 lacking astuteness, and possessing a great mastery over 
 her husband. She goeth straight to effect her pm-pose, 
 no difficulty that may or does arise will turn her aside, 
 for when the thought has pierced her brain, awakening 
 her ambitious desires, she suffers nought else to prevail 
 lintil those wishes and desires are accomplished. All 
 other feelings and passions are absorbed in the develop- 
 ment of this particular one. Her brain is filled with 
 this one thought, and everything is bent and warped to 
 accomplish this desire. It is this which gives her 
 
154 MACBETH. 
 
 courage, controls her imagination, and adds strength to 
 the power which she already possesses' over her hus- 
 band. The tide of ambition carries her away, and from 
 the instant she learns the prophecy of the weird-sisters, 
 she resolves that such prophecy shall be fulfilled : — 
 
 "Glamis ttou art and Cawdor; 
 And shalt be what thou art promised," 
 
 The first speech of Lady Macbeth foreshadows her 
 power over her husband, and it also shows her complete 
 knowledge of his nature. She apprehends that he is 
 too full of "the milk of human kindness" to accomplish 
 that, to which his thoughts are ever tending, and which 
 is a necessary result of his ambition. She would that 
 her husband should arrive; she is impatient for his 
 coming, knowing that when he does come, she can be 
 the incentive which will arouse him to do the deed, 
 which he does fear to do, and which must be done, if 
 their thoughts and desires are to be realized. She 
 exclaims, 
 
 "Hie thee hither, 
 That I may pour my spirits in thine ear ! 
 And chastise with the valour of my tongue 
 All that impedes thee from the golden round, , 
 Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem 
 To have thee crown'd withal." 
 
 She is full of joy on learning that the king will bide with 
 ^them that night. The golden opportunity for which 
 she and her husband have so long been waiting shall 
 not be lost by them. The king with her is but a sorry 
 bird to be enmeshed in the fowler's snares. The assas- 
 sination of Duncan hath often been thought of, both by 
 herself and by her husband, and when she learns of his 
 approach, revealing how murderous are her thoughts 
 
MACBETH. 155 
 
 and intent, she says, 
 
 "The raven himself is hoarse. 
 That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan 
 Under my battlements." 
 
 For the fulfilment of those thoughts and desires, 
 
 she wishes that the "spirits that tend on mortal 
 
 thoughts,^' should 
 
 "Unsex me here; 
 And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full 
 Of direst cruelty ! Make thick my blood, 
 Stop up the access and passage to remorse; 
 That no compunctious visitings of nature 
 Shake my fall pwpose, nor keep peace between 
 The efiect, and it! Come to my woman's breasts. 
 And take my milk for gall, you murthering ministers, 
 Wherever in your sightless substances 
 Tou wait on nature's miischief ! Come, thick night. 
 And pall thee in the dimmest smoke of hell ! 
 That my keen knife see not the wound it makes; 
 Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark. 
 To cry, "Hold, hold!" Great Glamis, worthy Cawdor." 
 
 Upon the entrance of her husband, her thoughts 
 still running on the crown, she continues, 
 
 "Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter," 
 
 and then turns to express to him the joy which the 
 receiving of his letters have engendered. They convey 
 to her the realization of her most ambitious hopes, they 
 "have transported her'' beyond the "ignorant present,'' 
 and she feels "the future in the instant." She is 
 impatient for action, she would go on at once, she will 
 not let opportunity wait upon opportunity, she will seize 
 it. She answers her husljand by a question, when he 
 says, "My dearest love, Duncan comes here to night. 
 And when goes hence?" Here again we have proof 
 that her thoughts have been previously occupied with 
 
156 MAOBETU. 
 
 the murder of the king, and the speeches which follow 
 also hear out this construction. When Macbeth 
 answers "To-morrow, as he purposes," she most em- 
 phatically exclaims, "0, never shall sun that to-morrow 
 Bee." She is fully resolved, nought shall turn her from 
 her purpose. She has surveyed the giddy height and 
 she will climb it, not fearing or heeding the consequen- 
 ces which may result. She hath resolved upon what 
 shall be effected, and she will take the best means of 
 carrying that resolution into effect. She wiU for the 
 time being, veil over what her thoughts and desires are, 
 and perceiving that her husband's face "is as a book, 
 where men may road strange matters," she bids him 
 
 "beguile the time, 
 Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye, 
 . Tour hand, your tongue : look like the innocent flower, 
 
 But he the serpent under it. Se that's coming 
 Must be provided for : and you shall put 
 This night's great business into my despatch; 
 "Which shall to all our nights and days to come 
 Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom." 
 
 She here strikes the note that jars not, but is in 
 
 keeping with Macbeth's own thoughts, for he does not 
 
 upbraid her, nor seek to check the expression of her 
 
 wishes, nor does he seek to divert the current of her 
 
 feeling. Assenting by his words "we will speak 
 
 further^' on this thought, they quit the scene, she 
 
 advising him to look up clear, 
 
 " To alter favour ever is to fear: 
 Leave all the rest to me." 
 
 Not anything appears cap,able of altering her deter- 
 mination, within and without she is resolved upon what 
 is to be accomplished, shall be accomplished. In scene 
 7, when Macbeth shrinks from the performance of his 
 
MACBBTH. 167 
 
 self-appointed task, and tells her "we will proceed no 
 
 further in this business," giving as his reasons that 
 
 Duncan had "honoured'' him "of late," and that he 
 
 had "bought" 
 
 "Golden opinions from aU sorts of people, 
 Which would be worn now in their newest gloss, 
 Not cast aside so soon." 
 
 Full of scorn and sarcasm, she replies 
 
 "Was the hope drunk 
 Wherein you dress'd yourself? Hath it slept since ? 
 And wakes it now, to look so green and pale 
 At what it did so freely? Art thou afoard 
 To be the same in thine own act and valour, 
 As thou art in desire ? Wouldst thou have that 
 Which thoti esteem'st the ornamfent of life, 
 And live a coward in thine own esteem; 
 Letting I dare not, wait upon I would. 
 Like the poor cat i' the adage." 
 
 This com-se of talking she is thoroughly cognizant will 
 arouse her husband, for she is well aware of his weak- 
 ness, and she is also fully persuaded that hor taunts 
 will awaken his desire, will make that desire paramount, 
 and the necessary effect is partially shown in Macbeth's 
 hurried exclamation 
 
 "Prithee, peace: 
 
 I dare do all that may becom.e a man; 
 
 Who dares do more, is none." 
 
 She continues her scoffs and tauntings, probing his 
 weakness to the very quick. Telling him he was a man 
 when he "durst do it," and asking him to be "so much 
 more the man," noij? "time" and "place" "have made 
 themselves" and "their fitness" for the reaUzation of 
 their wishes and desires. Calling him a "beast" when 
 he did "break this enterprise to" her, and taunting 
 him about his fears which now unmake him for the 
 
158 MACBETH. 
 
 task. Eather than she would be so infirm of purpose, 
 she moves him by saying what she would have done 
 having once resolved to do. She speaks of the power 
 of a mother's love, tells him, she hath "given suck" 
 and knows "how tender 'tis to love the babe that 
 milks," and rising in her scofling, she exclaims, 
 
 "I would, while it was smiling in my face, 
 Have plnck'd my nipple from his boneless' gums, 
 Ajid dash'd the brains out, had I so swoni, 
 As you have done to this?" 
 
 His doubts are almost all removed by her earnest- 
 ness and but a faint whisper arises in his reply, "If we 
 should fail." This last doubt is enliirely removed and 
 dispelled by the fulness of hor answer, In which the 
 way to perform the murder is shown, how its con- 
 sequences may be avoided and its guilt thrown upon 
 others. 
 
 "We fail. 
 But screw your courage to the sticking place, 
 And we'U not fail. When Duncan is asleep, 
 (Whereto the rather shall his day's hard journey 
 Soundly invite him,) his two chamberlains 
 Will I with wine and wassel so convince, 
 That memory, the warder of the brain, 
 Shall be a fume, and the receipt of reason 
 A limbeck* only: — when in swinish sleep 
 Their drenched natures lie, as in a death, 
 What cannot you and I perform upon 
 The unguarded Duncan? — what not put upon 
 His spongy officers ? who shall bear the guilt 
 Of our great quell." 
 
 This speech determines Macbeth's course of action, 
 dispels all his fears of the consequences that may arise 
 and he resolves on binding up each "corporal agent" 
 to the accomplishment of "this terrible feat." His 
 * An alembic, or still. 
 
MACBETH. • 159 
 
 admiration for his wife is awakened by her words and 
 
 by her complete control over the how and when. He 
 
 becomes enraptured with her clearness of perception 
 
 and her display of courage, and he cannot refrain from 
 
 expressing his admiration, for he exclaims 
 
 "Bring forth men children only, 
 For thy nndaunted mettle should compose 
 Nothing but males." 
 
 In this scene the physical side of the character of Lady 
 Macbeth is freely and fully developed, nor does the 
 mental side of her character lack illustration. She 
 clearly depicts how and when the deed can be done, by 
 which the object of their ambition, the crown of 
 Scotland, can be achieved. Her perceptive faculties are 
 more acute than those of her husband's, and she thinks 
 and reasons less upon the consequences in the future 
 than he does, because her reflective faculties are less 
 strong than his. She rapidly perceives and fully 
 displays to her husband this perception, overcomes his 
 moral cowardice by her taunts and sneers, and so 
 moves him by her fierce denunciations of his conduct, 
 that he becomes "settled" in his determination to dare 
 and to do, that he quits the stage filled with dissimu- 
 lation and resolved to 
 
 "mock the time with fairest show 
 False face must hide what the false heart doth know." 
 
 Lady Macbeth is all action until the desired goal is 
 reached. She halts not by the way, once having started 
 upon the road, not anything stays or sways her from 
 her purpose. The end with her is everything, — she 
 has no cares about the means, they are but lightly 
 estimated. She has no doubt of success, no scruples 
 of conscience; "no compunctious visitings of nature," 
 
160 MACBETH. 
 
 every circumstance must give way to that which she 
 desires and which has become to her a necessity. She 
 has no distorted visions Hke her husband in the dagger 
 scene, with "gouts of blood" upon the "blade and 
 dudgeon," and she is only prevented from perpetrating 
 the deed herself by a physical accident, the resemblance 
 Duncan bore to her dead father. After the murder has 
 been committed and Macbeth's courage begins to fail, 
 his dread of the consequences re-awakening his moral 
 cowardice, her spirit of boldness and of going straight 
 to the purpose, once more developes itself in the taunts 
 and sneers which she casts upon her husband, whose 
 fears hath imagined that some one did cry "Macbeth 
 shall sleep no more." She says, 
 
 "Who was it that cried? Why, worthy thane, 
 Tou do imbend your noble strength to think 
 So brain-sickly of things ; — go, get some water. 
 And wash this filthy witness from your hand, — 
 Wliy did you bring these daggers from the place ? 
 They naust lie there: — go, carry tliem; and smear 
 The sleepy grooms with blood." 
 
 This speech does not have the desired effect', it does not 
 infuse the requisite amount of com'age in Macbeth, he 
 has not the heart to revisit the scene of his crimes ; 
 he shrinks appalled from that which he hath performed . 
 and is "afraid to think" upon that which he has 
 "done." He will "go no more," and "dare not'" "look 
 on it again." Her resolution now rises to its topmost 
 height, her physical courage is raised to its highest 
 pitch. To her purpose firm, she owns no fear, nor feels 
 no dread. The living, "the sleeping and the dead," 
 are to her but toys and "pictures^' that are beneath her 
 breeding. ScofBngly vehement, she exclaims, 
 
MACBETH. 161 
 
 " Infirm of purpose! 
 Give me the daggers : the sleeping and the dead, 
 Are hut as pictures ; 'tis the eye of childhood 
 That fears a painted devU. If h6 do bleed, 
 I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal, 
 For it must seem their guilt." 
 
 When She returns after the disposal of the instru- 
 ments of death, she exults in what she has done, and 
 draws her husband's attention to the bloodiness of her 
 own hands, and scoffs at him for the weakness he 
 displays ; 
 
 "My hands are of your colour; but I shame 
 To wear a heart so white." 
 
 Though strung up to the highest pitch yet her 
 
 coolness and tranquility does not forsake her. She is 
 
 fully prepared for any and every emergency that may 
 
 arise, and when a knocking is heard, she fails not to 
 
 direct what is to be done. Her mastery over herself, 
 
 her husband, and even over the circumstances which 
 
 crowd upon her, is truly great. She cheerfully states 
 
 the means whereby the evidence of their guUt can be 
 
 removed and how easily it is accomplished : 
 
 "retire we to our chamber 
 A little water clears us of this deed : 
 How easy is it then! Tour constancy 
 Hath left you unattended." 
 
 When more knocking ia heard she is prompt in 
 
 thought, bids her husband "get on" his "night gown," 
 
 "lest occasion call us, 
 And show us to be watchers." 
 
 She then exhorts Macbeth to be himself, not to let 
 his imagination override his senses, lUling him with 
 fears of his own creation, but to bo firm and true to his 
 own nature, nor be "lost so poorly" in his "thoughts." 
 
-162 MACBETH. 
 
 Her coolness and cleverness of acting is most excellently 
 displayed, when she enters amid the turmoil and con- 
 fusion attending upon the discovery of the murder. 
 She enquires 
 
 "Wliat's the business, 
 That such a hideous trumpet calls to parley 
 The speakers of the house? speak, speak." 
 
 Macduff at first will not say the cause, so completely 
 is he deceived by her manner, that he fears he shall 
 commit a murder were he to tell her; — her womanly 
 nature would be overcome by the shock, for "in a 
 woman's ear," it "would murther as it fell." On 
 Banquo's entrance he blurts out the deed, and she, true 
 to the part she is acting, with eye and voice of horror, 
 exclaims "what, in our house?" And when she learns 
 from her husband's speech of the safety of their plans, 
 by his slaying of "the sleeping grooms," she falls into 
 a fainting state, calling "help me hence, hoa!" as if 
 deeply affected by the horror of the crime which has 
 been perpetrated, and to effect which she has really 
 been the principal instigator. 
 
 The hardihood, and boldness, the cunning and subtlety 
 of Lady Macbeth is strongly evidenced in the second 
 scene of act 8. She has no compunctions of conscience 
 for the crime in which she has been a participator; 
 unlike her husband she gives not way to "sorriest 
 fancies;'' she uses no "thought which should indeed 
 have died with them they think on." She looks upon 
 the past without regret, and while upbraiding Macbeth 
 for his weakness, in yielding to his fancies and in 
 keeping himself aloof from others, she would have 
 
 "things without remedy, 
 Should be without regard: what's done is done.'' 
 
MACBETH. 163 
 
 In the deep vault of oblivion would she bury all remem- 
 brance of the past, and with thoughts solely alive to 
 their safety in the future, and to the means whereby 
 they shall be enabled to hoodwink and deceive those by 
 whom they are suiTounded, she would have her husband 
 play the host with gentleness, would have him courteous 
 and affable withal, and bids him "sleek o'er" his 
 "rugged looks," and "be bright and jovial 'mong" his 
 " guests to-night." 
 
 In the banquet scene her presence of mind and her 
 fortitude are excellently developed. Her lack of reflec- 
 tion is also made most apparent by the great activity 
 she displays of her perceptive powers. She has never 
 fully weighed the consequences of the foul deed which 
 has been committed, she only looks upon the results as 
 they affect her present position in relation to the past 
 action, and she readily perceives how to thrust aside 
 the unpleasant circumstances which may arise» She is 
 prompt in seeking to divert the attention of the court 
 from the ravings of her husband, and readily proffers 
 excuses for his strange conduct. 
 
 "Sit wortliy friends: my lord is often thus, 
 And hath been from his youth: pray yon, keep seat; 
 The fit is momentary; upon a thought 
 He will again be well : If much you note him, 
 Ton shall ofTend and extend his passion; 
 Feed, and regard him not." 
 
 After this apology she turns to Macbeth, sneeringly 
 enquiring "are you a man?" and when he answers 
 
 "Ay, and a bold one, that dare look on that ' 
 WTiich might appal the devil :" 
 
 she BcofSngly replies, knowing that such a mode of 
 talking is the only way by which his weakness can be 
 
1G4 MACBETH. 
 
 overcome. 
 
 "0 proper stuff! 
 This is the very painting of your fear : 
 This is the air-drawn dagger, which, you said. 
 Led you to Duncan. 0, these flaws and starts 
 Impostors to true fear, would well hecome 
 A woman's story, at a winter's fire, 
 Authoriz'd by her grandam. Shame itself! 
 Why do you make such faces? When all's done 
 You look but on a stool." 
 
 On the second outbreak of her husband's fears arising 
 frpm his strong imagination and his "thinking too 
 precisely'^ on what he hath done and caused to be done, 
 she implores their patience, and hopes the "good peers" 
 will think it only 
 
 "As a thing of custom: 'tis no other; 
 Only it spoils the pleasure of the time." 
 
 When Macbeth partially recovers from the mental vision 
 in which he has been entranced, and reason begins to 
 assert its sway, he wonders that she could "behold such 
 sights,'" still keeping "the natural ruby of her 
 "cheeks," while his "are bland with fear." Her strong 
 physique buoys her up and the realisticnoss of her 
 nature will not allow of any spiritual visitations. She 
 upbraids him with his weakness and scoffs at the fears 
 which he has displayed through the mental visit of "the 
 blood-boltered Banquo." When the lord Rosse enquires 
 "what sights" have moved Macbeth, she skilfully evades 
 the question, requesting that "he speak not," for 
 enquiry will make him "grow worse and worse," and 
 wishes they would go, bidding them "good night," and 
 kindly requests they will not stand "upon the order of 
 your going, but go at once." In reply to their good 
 wishes, she dismisses the court with "a kind good 
 
MACBETH. 165 
 
 night to all/' and then promptly answers her husband's 
 query, "what is the night?" "almost at odds with 
 morning." Throughout the whole of this scene, which 
 is of a most trying character for her, she is always on 
 her guard, always prepared for what ever may ensue. 
 She is full of grace and queenly dignity, glossing over 
 with such an air of charming sweetness aU the stormy 
 incidents of the scene, and thus displaying a thorough 
 mastery over her active brain, and skilfully hiding 
 under those guises her internal emotions. 
 
 After the banquet scene we see but little of Lady 
 Macbeth. The murder of Macduff^s family takes place 
 and this is the last foul deed of which she has any 
 cognizance. When next we see her, she is not sane. 
 The activity of her perceptive powers, buoyed up by her 
 physical nature, and the constant action for her own 
 safety and the safety of her husband, prevent her from 
 thinking upon the enormity of the crimes in which she 
 has been engaged. When action ceases, these events 
 come crowding thick upon her, and her brain, whoso 
 sphere is activity, gives way. Lacking the necessary 
 spurs to action, she sinks into a hopeless condition of a 
 confirmed melancholy. Even while in this state, she 
 thinks of nought but the crimes with which she has 
 been connected, and her actions, the washing of her 
 hands, and her language, all turn upon her misdeeds. 
 "Out damned spot," "yet who would have thought the 
 old man to have so much blood in him." — "What will 
 these hands ne'er be clean?" These and similar 
 expressions tend to show wherein her" weakness lay, 
 in her reflective faculties; and these not being strongly 
 developed, she has not the requisite power to sustain 
 herself when the circumstances requiring activity cease 
 
166 MACBETH. 
 
 to be. Like most of those whose misdeeds have been 
 of a foul character, the remembrance thereof becomes 
 vivid, laying like an incubus upon the brain, so that 
 ■with "self and violent hands," she takes away her own 
 life. There are two redeeming points in the character 
 of Lady Macbeth, her love for her husband and the 
 womanly feeling which prevents her from committing 
 the murder of Duncan, from the resemblance he bore 
 to her father. Without these she would almost be 
 placed beyond the pale of humanity, with them she 
 comes within its Law, and Shakspere to have done 
 otherwise, would haye been untrue to his great know- 
 ledge of humanity and to his still greater knowledge in 
 depicting it. Her death is a fit termination to th© 
 career of the "fiend-like queen," perfectly in unison 
 with her nature and consonant with a true development 
 of humanity. 
 
 The aged Puncan is a weak, though good man, 
 anxious to stand well in the estimation of his court and 
 also most anxious to rewc^.rd those whom he believes act 
 faithfully in his interest, On the traitor thane of 
 Cawdor, whom Macbeth plays and succeeds, he had 
 placed the greatest reliance, for his mental weakness 
 prevents him from finding "the minds' construction in 
 the face." He is one of those who "think men honest 
 that but seem to be so," and accepts as truth the 
 protestations of love and service which they offer. It 
 is thus he is deceived by Cawdor, for " he was a gentle- 
 man on whom he built an absolute trust." He has no 
 fear of his direst foe Macbeth; no thoughts arise within 
 his brain that he is likely to act in a treacherous 
 manner, for he looks upon him as "a peerless 
 kinsman," whoso great merits ho cannot sufficiently 
 
MACBETH. 167 
 
 compensate, for more is due to him, "than more than 
 all can pay." He has no thought of wrong, nor any 
 desire to commit any. There is nb meanness in his 
 nature, his thoughts are bound in honour's bond, and 
 those that serve him well, he "will labour" to make 
 them "full of growing." His nature was too tranquil for 
 the turbulent times in which he lived, and he lacked the 
 requisite mental and physical power to hold the mastery 
 over such fierce spirits as Macbeth and his wife. His 
 gentleness and unsuspicious nature made him an easy 
 victim to the craft and subtlety of the ambitious thane 
 and his partner. His goodness makes his murder the 
 more unnatural, adding greatly to the interest of the 
 tragedy, and failing not to win the sympathies of the 
 audience or reader. 
 
 Banquo is a manly, interesting and truthfully drawn 
 character. He is not without ambition, yet he would 
 not realize his ambitious thoughts by unholy means. 
 He is the soul of honour, by whose principles he wishes 
 to be governed, and though the "cursed thought" will 
 rise within him, relative to his own and the advance- 
 ment of his family, caused no doubt by the mystic, 
 prophecy of the weird-like three, his conduct and his 
 actions are both regulated by his love of justice and his 
 feelings of honour. He would have those thoughts 
 restrained which his "nature gives way to in repose," 
 and from the tablets of his brain be razed out. Prior 
 to the murder of Duncan, he tells Macbeth he did 
 dream " of the three weird-sisters," "who have showed 
 some truth" towards him, and when Macbeth expresses 
 a wish to have Some words upon that business, if he 
 "would grant the time," he readily agrees, and in reply 
 to Macbeth's wish that he would "cleave" to his 
 
168 MAOBETU. 
 
 "consent," when "it is, for "it shall make honour for 
 
 you," he says, 
 
 " So lose I none, 
 In seeking to augment it, but still keep — 
 My bosom francliis'd, and all allegiance clear, 
 I shall be counsell'd." 
 
 He rapidly hits the blot of Duncan's murderer, his 
 judgment Loing aided by the knowledge that he had 
 gained at the meeting on the heath. All that was 
 promised his brother thane has now taken place, and 
 though he has no doubt that Macbeth has "played 
 most foully for it," the realization engenders the 
 thought that they may be "my oracles as well, and 
 that he will prove "the root and father of many kings/' 
 This thought leads him to think of quitting the court 
 and thereby ensure the safety of his son Pleanee, and 
 when he is being assassinated, this thought becomes 
 most paramount, for with dying voice, he bids "good 
 Fleance, fly." 
 
 Macduff is a true specimen of the qualities of the 
 fighting men of the period, rude and rugged in his 
 manners, plain in his speech, honest withal, with 
 sufficient perception to discover whose hand has done 
 the "sacrilegious murder," and to feel certain mis- 
 givings for his own safety, on which he thinketh pretty 
 freely, for he will not "to Scone," but unto "Fife." 
 He will not come to Macbeth's court, "denies his 
 person" when he is sent for, and flies to England: — 
 
 "to pray the holy king upon his aid 
 To wake Northumberland and warlike Siward, — 
 
 that, by the help of these, peace may be brought to his 
 native land. Macduff is personally brave, filled with 
 patriotism and anxious for the well-being of his country, 
 
MACBETH. 169 
 
 ao much so, that he would "hold fast the mortal sword^' 
 on behalf of his native soil, bonny Scotland. There is 
 no treachery in his nature, which is open, unsuspecting 
 of others and therefore the more readily deceived. 
 This is made most apparent in his interview with the 
 late king's son, Malcolm, whose representations of 
 himself, the opposite of what he is, so completely 
 hoodwinks Macduff, that he becomes fully convinced of 
 their truth, and he fails not to lament the fallen state 
 of his country, when "the truest issue of its "throne^' 
 "by his own interdiction stands accursed." From his 
 breast all hope vanishes and so complotoly have the 
 words of Malcolm taken possession of his brain, that 
 when the young prince unspeaks his "own detraction," 
 and affirms it was his "first false speaking," he cannot 
 "reconcile such welcome and unwelcome things at 
 once." He has thought but little of the safety of his 
 wife and children, "those strong knots of love," for his 
 "fears" for his country have made him unwittingly 
 "a traitor to their interest," so that wheil ho learns the 
 sad fate that has befallen them, the strength of his 
 love displays itself, making him "play the woman with" 
 his "eyes" and when the flood-tide of his grief is over 
 he would that "front to front," "this fiend of Scot- 
 land" stood within his "sword^'s length," and "if he 
 scape heaven forgive him." His wish is soon gratified, 
 he and the "hell-hound" meet and the last prophecy 
 of the three sisters is fulfilled -by his arm, for he not 
 being of "woman born," but "was from his mother's 
 womb untimely ripped," slays the" foul tyrant, and 
 restores the son of the good Duncan to the throne of 
 Scotland. 
 
 Malcolm and Donalbain, the sons of the murdered 
 
170 MACBETH. 
 
 monarch are most carefully drawn. Though not play- 
 ing an important part in the tragedy, they are both 
 marked by great perception, quickness of judgment and 
 rapidity of action when their judgment is formed. Soon 
 as they know that their royal father is murdered, they 
 both display a knowledge of human character and of the 
 circumstances by which they are surrounded. They 
 wisely judge by what has been done, what is also likely 
 to be done, and knowing the weakness of their position, 
 they determine to flee, Malcolm to England, his brother 
 to Ireland, their "separated fortune" making "both the 
 safer," for where they are, 
 
 "There's daggers in men's smilos: tlio near in blood, 
 The nearer bloody." 
 
 They must not wait for any "dainty leave-taking," 
 there is no time for that, they must be prompt, seeing 
 as thfey do the dangers by which they are environed, 
 for "this murtherous shaft that's shot, hath not yet 
 lighted;" and their "safest way is to avoid the aim." 
 Though their flight may lend a colour to the accusations 
 which will be made against them, and bestow a seeming 
 show of guiltiness, it were best to put much distance 
 between them and Macbeth. Swift as midnight they 
 must to horse, for they feel unless they do so, they will 
 be added to the list of victims, and thus they hold 
 
 "There's warrant in that theft, 
 Which steals itself, when there's no mercy left." 
 
 The correctness of their judgment is soon evidenced 
 and the wisdom of their acts soon proved. After their 
 flight we hear no more of Donalbainj but Malcolm 
 returns, backed by armed thousands of stalwart 
 EngHshmen, led by the gallant Siward, "an older and 
 
MACBETH. 171 
 
 a better soldier," not " Christendom gives out." They 
 besiege the slayer of Duncan in his castle at Dunsinane, 
 fulfilling another of the prophecies of the weird-sisters, 
 carry it by assault, the usurper is slain and Malcolm 
 succeeds to his father's crown. 
 
 Eosse, Lennox, Angus, Monteith and the other 
 courtiers are true exponents of their class. They may 
 most justly be looked upon as pure representatives of 
 the courtly circle of the period. Trained to arms, 
 inured to danger, in love with fighting, they thoroughly 
 represent the rude manners of those troublous times, 
 when the hand more frequently sought the falchion's 
 hilt, than the pen, to settle their differences, and the 
 rule of the sword was paramount throughout the land. 
 These characters though of a subordinate kind are all 
 necessary to the developmeni and completeness of the 
 tragedy. They are thoroughly consistent in themselves 
 and are also thoroughly consistent in fulfilling that, 
 which the poet, ever true to himself, designed them to 
 do. They fill up a picture, whose canvass is not over- 
 . crowded, giving a complete and correct view of • human 
 life and of the motives by which humanity is governed, 
 for of all those whom Shakspere hath presented in this 
 tragedy, there are none, no not one, but what may be 
 looked upon with human interest and viewed as faithful 
 embodiments of the law of humanity. 
 
 The weird-sisters are most skilfully used and are 
 really important characters in the tragedy. As a 
 dramatic effort of the poet, they » may not inaptly be 
 compared with the Fates, or Furies of the Greek 
 dramatists. They are the deluders of men, pattering 
 "in a double sense" with those who seek their aid, 
 entangling them in oracles of a dual nature. Belief in. 
 
172 MACBETH. 
 
 witches and in witchcraft was prevalent in the age of 
 Shakspere, and during the period which thg tragedy 
 seeks to represent, such belief was universal. Shaks- 
 pere has therefore seized upon this belief and in his 
 exposition thereof is true as he ever is. The weird- 
 sisters do not in themselves represent the laws of fate 
 they are but its "metaphysical aid." Like humanity 
 they are governed and directed by the laws of necessity, 
 a power beyond their will. When Macbeth wrestles 
 with fate and desires to know the worst, they ask him if 
 he would know from their own "mouths^' or "from our 
 masters,^' what shall be his destiny. The weird-three 
 are but an opposite development of the same belief 
 which produced those wonderful fairy creations to be 
 found in his Midsummer Nighty's Dream.* The govern- 
 ment of fairies and their interference with human 
 affairs was but another phase of witches and their 
 masters, both of whom were considered to have their 
 influence in determining the career and character of 
 
 * " Shakspere added a new grace to fairy lore, he almost remodelled and 
 re-invented it. The places to which fairies were supposed to be most 
 atluohod,— the groon knoll, the opening in the wood, the crystal fountain ; 
 the ornaments and costume they most affected, the playful pranks in which 
 they revelled, their dancing on the sands " with printless foot," their making 
 of "midnight mushrooms," their gathering of dewdrops, and hanging 
 " a pearl in every cowslip's ear," then creeping into aoorn cups, then killing 
 of "cankers in the musk rosebuds," their keeping back the "clamorous 
 owl" that nightly wondered at them, their singing their Queen Titania 
 asleep, their stealing the honey-bags from the humble bees, and plucking 
 the wings from painted butterflies, their bringing "jewels from the deep" 
 for the bewildered Bottom, and feeding him with dewberries, their putting 
 a girdle " round about the earth in forty minutes,"— all these, and many 
 other traits of fairy life and customs, we learn from him, and are indebted 
 for the knowledge to the captivating enthusiasm with which he entered 
 into this ideal world, and sported with those favourite children of his 
 fancy."— H. Q. Ban. SiograpAical Introduction, p. 26. 
 
MACBETH. 173 
 
 humankind. In this instance they possess no human 
 sympathy, are not really in human form, and are old, 
 wild and haggard. Amid the warring of the elements 
 they are first introduced, and under circumstances of a 
 similar character they disappear. 
 
 Apart from the development of human character, 
 this tragedy contains some splendid illustrations of the 
 author's power of observation of external nature. The 
 description of the position of Macheth's castle by 
 Duncan, the confirmation thereof by Banquo, in which 
 the characteristics of the swallow is used to justify the 
 king's approval, could only have been written by one 
 who must closely have observed nature under her many 
 forms, and failed not to tender the results of his 
 observation. 
 
 "This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air 
 Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself 
 Unto our gentle senses. 
 
 This guest of summer, 
 The temple-haunting martlet, does approve, 
 By his lov'd mansionry, that the heaven's breath 
 Smells wooingly here : no jutty, frieze, 
 Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird 
 Hath made his pendant bed, and procreant cradle 
 Where they most breed and haunt, I have observ'd, 
 The air is delicate." 
 
 The governing power throughout this tragedy, as in 
 that of Hamlet, is fate or circumstance. Everything is 
 subordinate to fate. The weird-sisters are but the 
 instruments of destiny, whose laws the whole of 'the 
 characters obey. The forming and directing hand of 
 outward and inward circumstance everywhere prevails. 
 The web of life is enwoven, and within its threads the 
 acts, wishes and desires of the whole dramatis personsB 
 are moulded and directed. The governing principles of 
 
174 MACBETH. 
 
 human nature in this great work are truly displayed, 
 and so clearly are they presented that a more faithful 
 rendering of humanity was never effected. 
 
 Under whatever form this tragedy is considered, it 
 is one among the grandest that has ever been produced. 
 The various characters spring into existence and are 
 created by the wonderful knowledge which the poet 
 possessed. From the depths of his own brain he has 
 evolved the characters and by the force of his wondrous 
 imagination made them entirely his own. He has 
 endowed them with a reality, abounding in life and. 
 nature. None other but he who produced Hamlet and 
 Lear could have written this truly gf eat work ; great in 
 its irresistibleness, and great in its rapidity of action. 
 The grandeur of its poetic diction and picturesqueness 
 coupled with its truly living representations of persons, 
 incidents and places, must for ever place it in the 
 foremost rank of the works of its inimitable producer 
 the "myriad-minded" Shakspere. 
 
KING JOHN. 
 
 This play forms a fitting prologue to Shakspero's 
 great dramatic 6hronicle, and it is unquestionably based 
 upon an elder play of that name, which had been known 
 to the English stage more than forty years prior to 
 Shakspere's play. The elder work was written by Bale, 
 a furious protestant bishop, whose production holds an 
 intermediate place between the morahties and historical 
 plays. In 1591 ' another play under this title was 
 produced, but the name of the author is not 'known. 
 Two other editions of this spurious play wore published 
 one in 1611, and one in 1622. Shakspere's play, in 
 which there is no mention of Magna Charta was 
 produced in 1596, and was first printed in the folio 
 of 1623. 
 
 This is one of the most interesting of the great 
 series of historic plays, for it is full of variety, force and 
 splendour, and the poetic side of the principal charac- 
 ters, so necessary to dramatic fitness, is most excellently 
 preserved. The darker shades in the character of 
 King John are partially lightened up by Shakspere, for 
 he makes the king to be the representative of the 
 country and the exponent of her policy. The cares and 
 troubles of John are not alone his personal cares and 
 
176 KING JOHN, 
 
 troubles, but they are the cares and troubles of the 
 English nation. In the king we see the nation and his 
 deeds are made to represent the national will. The 
 king is an incarnation of the national interest, and it is 
 as an incarnation of that feeling, that he is always 
 treated with respect, even by his opponents, despite the 
 follies and crimes of which he has been guilty. 
 
 The closing scene of John's life is most masterly 
 drawn and it fails not to win our pity for the dying 
 king, whose "heart is cracked and burned,^' and whose 
 life is "turned to one thread, one little hair," which 
 breaks when he learns from the lips of his cousin, that 
 the power on which ho had trusted for the defence of 
 his kingdom, was with his treasures, "in the night," 
 " all unwarily devoured by the unexpected sea." 
 
 It is a great advantage to this play, a strong element 
 in its success, that its chief interest should be of a 
 national character. Its appeals are thus of a higher 
 character than when appealing to motives of a personal 
 nature, for they affect the spectator and the reader 
 nationally, animating and developing their patriotic 
 feelings and causing them to watch its course with much 
 concern and interest, for the fortunes of their country 
 are involved, either for evil or for good, in the fortunes 
 of the king, who thus becomes the representative of the 
 national policy. 
 
 Constance is most truthfully pourtrayed, for she is 
 fuU of maternal love, and it is the strength of this 
 feeling goaded by ambition, which produces so large an 
 amount of activity in her nature. She is violently 
 passionate when she cannot accomplish that which she 
 desires, and she rails loudly and curses deeply when 
 thwaiiod in her wishes. This is a weak point in her 
 
KING JOHN. 177 
 
 character, leading to disastrous results to herself and to 
 the cause of her "oppressed boy," yet this weakness is 
 truly womanly. Her upbraidings of Austria arc of the 
 bitterest kind, so much bo, that she loses friends, dispirits 
 her son and defeats her own purpose. She presents a 
 most forcible contrast in her changes of mood, which are 
 of a varied character, from the extreme height of pas- 
 sion and bitterness to the tenderest depths of maternal 
 love. She is imperious, the result of her grief, for "grief 
 is proud," and " to the state of " her " great grief " 
 
 "Let kings assemble, for my grief's so great, 
 That no supporter but the huge firm earth 
 Can hold it up : here I and sorrows sit ; • 
 Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it." 
 
 She fuUy beUeves in the right of her son Arthur to the 
 throne of England, and she is also fully convinced that 
 he does "deserve a crown, '^ for did not "nature and 
 fortune," at his birth join to make him great. Her 
 fears for his success engender doubts of the honesty of 
 John and Philip, for hath "not France forsworn," and 
 is not "fortune corrupted, changed and won" by 
 hourly adulterating with his " uncle John.". Her pride 
 and her maternal love may be said to be the basis of 
 her character, in which the power of imagination holds 
 no mean sway. Whatever may be the nature of her 
 passion, ■ whether soft and subdued, or moved to 
 vehemence of the strongest kind, the development of 
 her imaginative power, charged as it is with rich poetic 
 colouring, sheds a true feminine grace over her whole 
 character, completely winning our sympathies and en- 
 listing our opinions in favour of her claims. 
 
 When aU chances of Arthur's success are entirely 
 overthrown and there is no probability of her wishes 
 
 H 
 
178 KING JOHN. 
 
 ^nd desires being accomplished, for circumstances run 
 
 contrary to her purpose, the full strength of Constance's 
 
 maternal love is evidenced in the tenderness of her 
 
 address to the cardinal legate, when her eon is taken 
 
 prisoner and held in custody by his uncle John. She 
 
 says, 
 
 ■ " Father caidinal, I have heard you say, 
 That we shall see and know our friends in heaven. 
 If that be true, I shall see my boy again ; 
 For since the birth of Cain, the first male child. 
 To him that did but yesterday suspire. 
 There was not such a gracious creature borp. 
 But now will canker sorrow eat my bud, 
 And chase the native beauty from his cheek. 
 And ho will look as hollow as a ghost. 
 As dim and meagre as an ague's fit ; 
 And so he'll die ; and, rising so again. 
 When I shall meet him in the court of heaven 
 I shall not know him : therefore never, never 
 Must I behold my pretty Arthur more. 
 
 Pond. Tou hold too heinous a respect of grief. 
 
 Oons. He talks to me that never had a son. 
 
 K. Phil. Tou are as fond of grief as of your child. 
 
 Cons. Grief fills the room up of my absent child. 
 Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, 
 Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words. 
 Remembers me of all his gracious parts, 
 Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form : 
 Then have I reason to be fond of grief. 
 Fare you well ; had you such loss as I, 
 I could give better comfort than you do." 
 
 The nature of the young prince Arthur, is evidently 
 unfitted for the rudeness and force which marks this 
 period of our history. He is boyish and innocent, quiet 
 in his expressions, gentle in his manners, and he feels 
 that he is not worth "the turmoil" that wiU he made on 
 his account. He is fuU of pathos and he weeps at the 
 thought of the sorrow and suffering that must be under- 
 
KING JOHN. 179 
 
 gone by others, of the blood that must be shed, should 
 " the blast of war " be blown in his behoof. He would 
 rather be laid in his grave than these things should 
 occur, and he would fain " be content " were he "out of 
 prison " to " keep sheep," for he would then " be merry 
 as the day is long." He is full of affection and sim- 
 plicity and in the scene with Hubert, when pleading for 
 his eyes, his speeches are full of true pathos and are 
 marked by great dramatic power: 
 
 The character of Hubert in his relation to the king 
 is most consistently drawn, for ho is a complete courtier, 
 desirous of obeying his sovereign's behests, and he there- 
 by becomes a ready instrument in carrying out the 
 king's will. He is loyal to the king, because in doing 
 so, he is loyal to the state. He is loyal in obedience to 
 his feudal oath and from habitual service, till it hath 
 become with him a necessity. Owiiig to this latter 
 reason, he, dqes not like Salisbury and some others of 
 the barons' revolt against the king, and it also prevents 
 him from committing a breach against his Country, and 
 preserves his nationality. He is fully cognizant of the 
 craft and subtlety of John, being thoroughly versed in 
 the sinuous policy of his master, and he readily under- 
 stands the insinuations and murderous intent of the 
 king towards young Arthur, Constance's "fair son." 
 He is won to the purpose by his duty, by the admission 
 of John " we do owe thee much," by the king's strong 
 wishes for his welfare, coupled with the advantages 
 promised wherewith the "king's means to pay" his 
 love. The "good respect" and the love that is ex- 
 pressed for him, causes him to give that pledge, that 
 whatever the king may bid him " undertake," though 
 "death were adjunct to the act," "by heaven," he 
 
180 KINQ JOHN. 
 
 " would do it.*" The violence of the times, for it was a 
 barbarous age, have given to Hubert that external rough- 
 ness and harshness, which he himself thinks prevails 
 within, in this he is however mistaken, for the better 
 part of his nature is not altogether dead, there is a 
 leaven of humanity left, and though he resolves to 
 commit the murder, when he attempts its committal, 
 he is deterred therefrom by the pleadings of the young 
 prince. His latent power of goodness is awakened, 
 he is not proof to the earnest appeals of the fair boy, his 
 resolution is broken down, and though he knows he must 
 undergo "much danger '"' for not perpetrating the deed 
 he " will not do it for all the treasure that thine uncle 
 owns." This is probably one of the. greatest dramatic 
 «cehes ever penned by Shakspere, for the two extremes 
 of pity and terror are most wonderfully pourtrayed. 
 It must be ranked among the finest productions of the 
 "Swan of Avon," stamping him as a master that 
 completely understood the nature of humanity and the 
 development thereof. 
 
 The character of cardinal Pandulph is not only 
 essentially true in its relation to humanity, but it is 
 also true to history.. The Annals of the monastery of 
 Burton, recently published, show how thoroughly cor- 
 rect Shakspere is in his delineation of this papal 
 prelate. Haughty and arrogant, the result of his 
 vanity and the office which he held, Shakspere fails not 
 to pourtray these features of his character, and ho 
 justly puts in his mouth, language by which the desires 
 of the dictatorial priest are fully developed ; language 
 which cannot fail to awaken in a discerning and patri- 
 otic audience, an intense disgust and hatred of papal 
 pride and papal intolerance. 
 
KIHG JOHN. 181 
 
 Faulconbridge is a rough, good-humoured and 
 thoroughly honest man, by nature noble. He is proud 
 of his martial courage, and still more proud of his 
 descent from the lion-hearted Eichard, whose charac- 
 teristics he in a great degree possesses. He is a 
 complete representatiTe of our national character, for' 
 he is compounded of cheerfulness, a lively wit, common 
 sense and an intense love of his native land. He is 
 eager and bold, filled with a love of glory and the 
 achievement of gallant deeds by the force of arins. His 
 natural powei's soon fit him for his new position, andi 
 he readily assumes the seriousness ' and' the dignities 
 of his occupation. Nothing call win him from the 
 cause he espouses; he is a complete thorough-going 
 partisan, and his great courage and daring render him 
 invaluable as a servant to the weak, irresolute John. 
 
 Salisbury is a purely natural man, strong in love, 
 a true friend, ad excellent neighbour, but no politician. 
 Lacking politics, Salisbury does not attract much atten- 
 tion until the close of the history. He is a man of 
 feeling, not of reasoning powers, and by his feelings he 
 is mostly actuated and directed. When leagued' vdth 
 France against his native land, and having good' 
 grounds for such alliance, his feelings will crop up, and 
 he cannot withhold his lamentations which are strongly 
 embued with patriotic feeling. He says, , 
 
 "Such ia the infection of the time, 
 That, for the health and physic of our right, 
 We cannot deal but with the very hand 
 Of stern injustice and confused wrong. 
 And is't not pity, my grieved friends, 
 That we, the sons and childreft of this isle, 
 Were bom to see so sad an hour as this." — A. v. s, 2. 
 
 Salisbury is somewhat sui-prised at the prospects of 
 
182 KING JOHN. 
 
 his eovereign, bis iuattejition to politick prevented him 
 from forming anything approaching a correct idea of 
 the king's strength, for he says, 
 
 "I did not tiling: the king so stored with friends." 
 
 When he is made aware of the intended treachery of 
 France, in the words of the dying Melun, his private 
 wrongs become entirely subservient to the love of his 
 native land. He fails not to take warning, reverting 
 back to his former allegiance, and the honour and safety 
 of England is affirmed. 
 
 Both Philip of France and he of Austria, are true 
 representatives of their class. They are selfish and 
 ' calculating, caring not whether their actions are right 
 or wrong, so long as they will be benefitted by the 
 course of action which they resolve on. In the nature 
 of their kingliness they take oaths, make promises and 
 then as readily break them. They think only of them- 
 selves, and their immediate class. They do not seek to 
 advance the interest of the whole, but only their own 
 self-interest, which they consider to be the state. 
 Within the circle of their crowns is concentrated every 
 thing that has a tendency for the promotion of their 
 own advancement, at the same time they are quite 
 oblivious to the advantage of the people. They are 
 firm believers in the divinity that doth hedge a king, 
 though their frequent oath-breakings and acts of 
 rapacity completely demonstrate the fallacy of their 
 belief. 
 
 The grouping of the characters is most exquisitely 
 managed, the picture is in every way complete. No 
 other hand but Shakspere's could have drawn it, and no 
 other brain but his could have pourtrayed with such 
 
KING JOHN. 183 
 
 dramatic power' the varied characters of this history, 
 ■which teaches us a most important lesson, a lesson that 
 should be remembered by all those who are desirous of 
 promoting the welfare of a nation, that no hostile sword, 
 no appeal to a foreign power can ever heal the domestic 
 wounds of a state. The cure must come from within, 
 it lies not in outward intervention. What Faulcon- 
 bridge exultingly says of his native land, admits of 
 general application : 
 
 "This England never did, nor never shall. 
 Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror, 
 But when it first did help to wound itself. 
 Now these, her princes, are come home again, 
 Come the three corners of the world in arms, 
 And we shall shock them : nought ghaU make us rue. 
 If England to itself do rest but true." 
 
EICHARD 11. 
 
 o»;o 
 
 The precise date of the appearance of this tragedy 
 cannot be determined. Whether it was written three or 
 four years prior to its publication, or whether it was 
 published immediately after its production upon the 
 stage, are questions which now cannot be definitely 
 settled. The first edition was printed by Valentine 
 Simmes, and published by Andrew Wise, under the 
 title of the "Tragedie of King Eichard the Second," in 
 the year 1597, and this edition is looked upon as the 
 most accurate of all the quartos by some of the editors 
 of Shakspere. Eichard II. is one among the number of 
 plays mentioned in the list pf Francis Meres, published 
 in 1598, in which year a second edition, also printed by 
 Simmes, was published by Andrew Wise. 
 
 , In 1608 a third edition of the tragedy was published. 
 This edition was considerably enlarged, the Parliament 
 scene and the deposing of King Eichard receiving great 
 additions. In fact, "all that part of the fourth act in 
 which Eichard is introduced to make surrender of his 
 crown, comprising 154 lines, was never printed in the 
 age of Elizabeth." This edition was printed by W. W. 
 for Matthew Law, and bears the following title: "The 
 
EIOHABD H. 185 
 
 Tragedie of King • Eichard the Second, with new addi- 
 tions of the Parliament Sceane, and the deposing of 
 King Eichard. As it hath heen lately acted by the 
 King's Servants at the Globe, by WiUiam Shakspere." 
 In 1615 a fourth edition in 4to. was published, and the 
 tragedy is also contained in the folio of 1G23, in which 
 edition it was for the first time divided into acts and 
 scenes. In 1634 it was again published in 4to. In 
 1691 it was altered, under the title of "The Sicilian 
 Usurper.^' In 1720 it was again altered by Lewis 
 Theobald, and again in 1722 by James GoodhaU. 
 
 Another play bearing the same title was in the 
 possession of the company acting at the Glob^ Theatre, 
 and it has been thought that this was also a production 
 of Shakspere's. This play, however, differs so materi- 
 ally in its construction, that it is not in any way 
 probable that one mp^n would have written both. It 
 commences at an earher time than the play of Shak- 
 spere's, the incidents are altogether different, and there 
 is a greater amount of aavageness and barbarity than 
 can be found in Shakspere's Eichard II. 
 
 The chronicles of Hall and Fabian served as the 
 text-book for the chronicle of Holingshed, from whose 
 pages Shakspere derived this play, for the incidents 
 follow very close on the rendering of Holingshed, though 
 in spirit, language and characterization, the play is 
 wholly Shakspere's. He has endowed the musty records 
 of the old chronicler with a vitahty that will never die; 
 and he has also developed in this poetic play a know- 
 ledge and a love of humanity which is ever a proniinent 
 characteristic of the poet. There is one particular 
 feature with which this history abounds, and which 
 fails not to win our sympathies. It is pregnant with 
 
186 EIOHARD II. 
 
 true pathos, and under every circumstance, whether of 
 situation or moral, development of character, it 
 is most loftily sustained. That Eichard II. is an early 
 work of the great master is evidenced by the ever- 
 recurring rhymes, a style and mannerism which 
 Shakspere wholly abandoned in his later works. 
 
 Eichard II. is not really the first of Shakspere's 
 historical plays, for King John precedes Eichard in an 
 historical point of view upwards of a century; but it is 
 the first of those eight splendid chapters of Shakspere's 
 dramatic chronicle, which carries us from the cause, 
 through all the incidents, to the close of our great Civil 
 Wars, — the war of the Eed and White Eoses, which, 
 from the reign of Henry VI. to the death of Eichard III, 
 and the union of the great houses of York and Lancaster 
 under the sovereignty of Henry VII., devastated our 
 land, cut up our nobility, and to a great extent gave to 
 our countrymen that fierce hardihood and martial 
 bearing, at that time the terror of foreigners, and at the 
 present day is still one of the leading characteristics of 
 our sturdy sons. In the perusal of the chronicle of the 
 dramatist we are enabled better to understand the 
 period which he seeks to represent than we are in any 
 of the so-called histories. It is not a dry detail of the 
 wars in which our country has been engaged, the 
 famines we have undergone, the pestilences with which 
 we have been afflicted; but it shows in what manner 
 the sovereign reigned, and how the power of the par- 
 liaments, which had their origin in the reign of an 
 Edward, were gradually gathering their strength in the 
 weaknesses and follies which Eichard displayed. In it 
 is also shown the marked progress of mankind, and if in 
 a future period, a dramatic poet were to attempt an 
 
BIOHARD II. 187 
 
 historical play of our own times, he -would have to 
 pourtray the Parliament, not the Queen and her court, 
 because under existing circumstances the Parliament 
 alone represents the people, and is the criterion of 
 our period. 
 
 In the paths of history alone can be found the rule 
 whereby men are to be guided and nations governed. 
 If we view the historic field in its proper light, we shall 
 find it to be the lofty height from which can be viewed 
 the foUies, vices, fashions, forms, customs, and manners 
 of society. History stands in the same relation to life, 
 as the loftiest peak is to the searcher after the pictures- 
 que, who, were he to keep to the ravine, the gorge, or 
 the plain, would loose one-half in his search. Let him, 
 however, place himself upon a lofty peak, &nd vale and 
 valley, hiUock and hill, mount and mountain, are there 
 before him, his eye drinking in the wondrous sight and 
 discharging its copious draughts upon the brain. Just 
 so does history. By its magic wand the past starts into 
 existence; we learn of other men and other times; we 
 are taught there have been men before us, imbued with 
 the same feelings, moved by the same passions, and 
 governed by motives of a similar character as ourselves, 
 though existing and developed under entirely different 
 circumstances. Thus we are led to this point, when 
 contemplating ourselves, that, as we look upon the past, 
 so will future generations look upon our acts on the 
 world's wide stage in a similar manner. 
 
 In the chronicle of Shakspere everything is endowed 
 with a human aspect, and it is this humanity that gives 
 the poet such marked pre-eminence over the mere 
 historian of fact. It is the spectrum by which he 
 unfolds to our gaze the wisdom, foUies, and vices of our 
 
188 EIOHAED II. 
 
 progenitors; plucking aside with nerveless hand the 
 veil of antiquity, and showing that, like us, they were 
 hut children of Nature — beings obeying and fulfilling to 
 the best of their ability, considering the peculiar ctrcum'- 
 stances in which they were placed, the law of humanity, 
 Impressed with these views, pervaded with these ideas, 
 one cannot fail of perceiving how infinitely superior is 
 the poet's chronicle to the relation of the mere historian. 
 To the philosophy of history doth the poet rise, and 
 gives strength and wisdom for our guidance in the 
 future. With this view the eight plays become but 
 chapters pf one great work, to which we may not inaptly 
 apply King John as the prologue, and Henry VIII., that 
 play of pomp and magnificence, as the epilogue-. A 
 worthy close to so worthy a commencement, in which 
 the continuation is equally as good. 
 
 The tragedy of Richard II. is not by any means so 
 well known as that of Richard III. It has not been so 
 much presented on the stage, nor is it so melo-dramatic 
 in its construction as to win the popular taste Uke that 
 of the crooked-back tyrant.* Until its revival by 
 Charles Kean, some eleven years ago, it was almost 
 unknown to the playgoers of the present generation. 
 In this tragedy there are no imaginary characters, like- 
 that of the Bastard in King John; they are all purely 
 historical, their names and the incidents of the play 
 
 • Riohard III. as written by Shakspore, is almost unknown to the British 
 slaKO, Mr. S. I'Uolps being the only manager who has restored Shakspero's 
 own play during the present century. Colley Oibber's hash is the one con- 
 stantly played, and is very popular with star-actors, who oare less for the 
 poet's lines than they do for making points. The difference between 
 Cibber's version and Shakspere's is very great i Gibber's being a mass of 
 incongruities, whole scenes being borrowed from other plays, and many of 
 Shakspere's characters omitted. 
 
ElOUAED II, 189 
 
 being found in the pages of the historian. The interest 
 of the tragedy hinges upon the character of the King, 
 for in his character is found the history. In thus 
 presenting character, the essentials of dramatic poetry 
 are preserved, and the poet at the same time relates the 
 history of the period. The tragedy opens with the 
 quarrel between Bolingbroke and the Duke of Norfolk, 
 which occurred in 1897, in the twentieth year of the 
 reign of Eichard. With consummate skill, is drawn 
 the character of that class, who thought and acted upon 
 the principle that the sword was the proper weapon to 
 rule mankind. In this scene we see at once the dis- 
 tracted state to which the affairs of the nation had been 
 brought by a fierce, turbulent nobiUty, and the discord 
 which existed between the members of the royal family 
 is fully exemplified. The King, seated upon his throne, 
 waiting for the appearance of the "accuser and the 
 accused," thus describes them, 
 
 "High stomach'd are they both, and full of ire, 
 In rage deaf as the sea, hasty as fire." 
 
 Upon the entrance of the diverse parties, the class to 
 which they belong, and upon whom, for a long period 
 of our history rested the government of our land, is 
 beautifully pourtrayed. We have their humbleness to 
 i,h.e symbol of royalty, painted by their tongues, while 
 their fierce bickering, the result of their martial pride 
 .and power, is admirably shown forth. It is not in the 
 language of clowns and jesters that they accuse and 
 retort, but in language characteristic of their high 
 position in the then state of society. Vauntings of 
 their own worth and the abnegation of all other classes 
 is the prevailing feature. They bandy terms like prac- 
 tised tilters in the world of tongue, fighting skillfully 
 
190 BIOHAED II. 
 
 with words, and at the same time are equally ready to 
 fight with sword, lance and shield for the truth of what 
 they so loudly and fiercely affirm. BoUngbroke " fiery 
 in haste and hot with speed," calls Norfolk, 
 
 " a traitor and a miscreant ; 
 Too good to be so, and too bad to live ; 
 Since the more fair and crystal is the sky, 
 The uglier seems the clouds that in it fly. 
 Once more, the more to aggravate the note, 
 With a foul traitor's name stulf I thy throat ; 
 And wish, so please my sovereign, ere I move 
 What mytongue speaks,myrightdrawn sword mayprove." 
 
 To which Norfolk in rage made hot, retorts, 
 
 "Let not my cold words here accuse my zeal : 
 'Tia not the trial of a woman's war, 
 The bitter clamour of two eager tongues. 
 Can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain ; 
 The blood is hot that must be.cool'd for this. 
 Tet can I not of such tame patience boast, 
 As to be hush'd and nought at all to say : 
 First, the fair reverence of your highness curbs me 
 Prom, giving rein and spurs to my free speech ; 
 Which else would post, until it had return'd 
 These terms of treason doubled down his throat. 
 Setting aside his high blood's royalty, 
 And lot hiui bo no kinsman to my licgo, ' 
 I do defy him, and I spit at him ; 
 CaU him a slanderous coward, and a villain: 
 Which to maintain, I would allow him odds, 
 I meet him, were I tied to run a foot 
 Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps, 
 Or any other ground inhabitable, 
 Wherever Enghshman durst set his foot. 
 Meantime, lot this defend my loyalty — 
 , By all my hopes, most falsely doth he lie." 
 
 The war of words continues, until so harsh and 
 discordant become the two peers, that the king,, per- 
 ceiving no other way to remove the hate which rankles 
 
BIOHAED II. 191 
 
 in their breasts, decides, that 
 
 " At Coventry, upon Saint Lambert's day : 
 There shall yoiir swords and lances arbitrate 
 The swelling difBerence of your settled hate : 
 Since we cannot atone yon, you shall see 
 Justice design the victor's chivalry. 
 Lord marshal, command our officers at arms 
 Be ready to direct these home alarms.": — -^^ i- S- 1- 
 
 The hatred borne between Bolingbroke and Norfolk, 
 is truly typical of this fierce period, and is, in itself, a 
 forerunner of those calamitous wars of the red and 
 white roses, which commenced in the reign of Henry 
 VI. and were only brought to a close by the victory of 
 Eichmond at the battle of Bosworth Field, in whom the 
 red and white roses were ultimately united. Hatred 
 of each other was not confined to the males of this 
 period. Among the gentler sex it existed with an in- 
 tensity nearly equal to that which was found among the 
 men, though the results of its action were less deadly. 
 Shakspere, true historian as he is, has not lost sight of 
 this fact. Thai it was forcibly impressed upon his 
 brain, we have evidence in this play, when he makes 
 the Duchess of Gloster revile her husband's brother, 
 "time-honoured Gaunt," in her wish, 
 
 " O sit my husband's wrongs on Hereford's spear, 
 That it may enter butcher Mowbray's breast I 
 Or, if misfortune miss the first career. 
 Be Mowbray's sins so heavy ia his bosom. 
 That they may break his foaming courser's back, 
 And throw the rider headlong in the lists 
 A caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford." — A. i. s. 2. 
 
 Eichard, by historians has al-Vays been , represented 
 as weak, credulous, cunning, criminal, irresolute and 
 rapacious. A counterpart of the irresolute John in his 
 mode of action, aij one time heaping insult on the heads 
 
192 EIOHABD II. 
 
 of his nobles, and at another time, completely subject to 
 their wishes and desires. By turns fawning and yield- 
 ing, then harsh and tyrannous, winning neither their love 
 nor their admiration, governing only to be feared or de- 
 spised. Faithfully are all these failing represented by 
 Shakspere's play, and yet despite these failings, he 
 teaches us to pity, and wins from us our sympathies for 
 the fortunes of the fallen monarch. These very infirmities 
 cause him to creep into our affections ; they are allied 
 with the beautiful parts of Eichard's character, and 
 i/they show how slight the partition between the highest 
 and lowest parts of our nature. These failings are 
 common to humanity, they belong to all members of 
 the human family and their universality excites our 
 syTQpathies, and moves us to pity and forgive the' 
 weakness of Eichard. 
 
 The passionate weakness of Eichard is frequently 
 evinced. It is distinguished by displays o^ puerile con- 
 ceits and childish expressions. In A . ni. s. 3, the king 
 says, 
 
 " We'll make foul weather with despised tears ; 
 Our sighs, and they shall lodge the summer corn, , 
 And make a dearth in this revolting land." 
 
 Then he proceeds to talk of " shedding tears " to fret a 
 "pair of graves," until finding his remarks are but 
 wantonly received, he exclaims, 
 
 "Well, weU, I see, 
 I talk but idly, and you mock at me." 
 
 This weakness is still more forcibly developed in the 
 same act, when he learns of the landing of the crafty 
 Bolingbroke. Instead of marching straight to meet his 
 foe with a warrior's stride, and seeking to effect his 
 overthrow by the action of the sword, he evokes the 
 
BICHAED II. 193 
 
 earth not to feed his enemy, 
 
 " Nor with thy sweets comfort his ravenous sense : 
 But let thy spiders, that suck up thy venom, 
 And heavy-gaited toads, he in their way, 
 Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet 
 Which with usurping steps do trample thee. 
 Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies, 
 And when they from thy bosom pluck a flower ' 
 Guard it, I pray thee, with a lurking adder. 
 Whose double tongue may with a mortal's touch 
 Throw death upon thy sovereign's enemies." — s. 2. 
 
 Other examples of the king's weakness of character 
 can easily be found. One most forcible is afforded in 
 the scene, when the poor groom, the only one faithful 
 out of the king's mass of retainers, speaks of his 
 " yearning heart," on seeing Bolingbroke bestride 
 Eichard's favourite roan. The king touched by the 
 grief of the groom, and his own sorrows, rails upon the 
 horse and then upon his position, saying 
 " I was not made a horse ; 
 And yot I boar a burthen like an ass, 
 Spurr'd, gall'd and tirod by jauncing Bolingbrbko," 
 
 A. v. s. 6. 
 
 The answer of Eichard to Scroop on hearing of his 
 favourites. Bushy, Wiltshire, and Green, having made 
 peace with Bolingbroke, is another proof of his weak 
 and passionate nature. The peace which they have 
 made is that of the grave, for they have been executed 
 by the orders of Bolingbroke, and the king sees not 
 through the reply of Scroop, when he says, 
 
 " Peace have they made with him indeed, my lord !", 
 
 He still, thinks them alive, and he bursts out into in- 
 vectives against his faithful friends — who for their 
 faithfulness to his fortunes, have passed into the valley 
 of death. He calls them ' 
 
 N 
 
194 EICHAED II. 
 
 " Villains, vipers, damn'd without redemption ! 
 Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man ! 
 Snakes, in my heart-blood warm'd, that sting my heart ! 
 Three Judases, each one thrice worse than Judas ! 
 Would they make peace ? terrible hell make war 
 Upon their spotted souls for this offence." — A. ill. s. 2. 
 
 Wheii Eichard learns of the defection of his uncle York, 
 another phase of the weak parts of his character is most 
 admirably developed. The violent invectives in which 
 he indulged against his three favourites, give way to the 
 apathy of despair. His intellect becomes completely 
 prostrate, all desire of action is lost, and he wails the 
 general popularity of his rival and his own unpo- 
 pularity. 
 
 " What comfott have we now ? 
 
 By Jieaven, I'll hate him everlastingly 
 
 That bids me be of comfort any nacre. 
 
 Go to FHnt castle : there I'll pine away ; 
 
 A king, woe's slave, shall kingly woe obey. 
 
 That power I have, discharge, and let them go 
 
 To ear the land that hath some hope to grow, 
 
 For I have none : — Let no man speak again 
 
 To alter this, for counsel is but vain. 
 Aiim. My liege, one word, / 
 
 King B. He does me double wrong 
 
 That wounds me witli the flatteries of his tongue. 
 
 Discharge my followers, let them hence. — Awuy, 
 
 From Richard's night to Bolingbroke's fair day." 
 
 The contrast between Eichard and the cool, astute, 
 calculating, and selfish Bolingbroke, is forcibly marked. 
 At every point we see the advantages which the matured 
 intellect of Bolingbroke possesses over the weakness of 
 the king ; a weakness which is yet further confirmed by 
 the exclamation of Eichard when looking in the glass : 
 
 " hath sorrow struck 
 So many blows upon this face of mine, 
 And made no deeper wounds ? flattering glass. 
 
biohAed II, 195 
 
 Like to my followers in prosperity, 
 
 Thou dost beguile me ! Was tkis face, the face 
 
 That every day under his household roof 
 
 Did keep ten thousand men ? was this the face 
 
 That, like the sun, did make beholders wink ? 
 
 Was this the face that fac'd so many follies. 
 
 And was at last out-fac'd by Bolingbroke ?" — A. iv. s. 1. 
 
 The next speech of the deposed Richard is also fraught 
 with this feeling. The shadow of his sorrow over- 
 whelms him, and forces upon him bitter memories and 
 bitter thoughts^ awakening reflections which redound 
 not to his advantage, and which compel him to admit 
 the correctness of his rival and his conqueror's remark, 
 
 " The shadow of your sorrow hath destroy'd 
 ' The shadow of your face." 
 
 Eichard is struck with his rival's words ; they are in 
 unison with his own thoughts. He would hear them 
 once more, for he says, , 
 
 " Say that again. 
 The shadow of my sorrow ? ha ! lot's see : — 
 'Tis very true, my grief lios aU within ; 
 And those external manners of laments 
 Are merely shadows to the unseen grief 
 That swells with silence in the tortur'd soul ; 
 There lies the substance : and I thank thee, king, 
 For thy great bounty, that not only giv'st 
 Me cause to wail, but teachest me the way 
 How to lament the cause." ' 
 
 The thought of what he was, of what he is, and his 
 knowledge of the causes which have brought about his 
 present position, are too much for him to vsdthstand. 
 He dreads that his foe should know his weakness, this 
 connected with his anxiety to be free from the presence 
 of Bolingbroke, moves him to " beg one boon," and 
 then he will away to trouble his haughty cousin "no 
 more." 
 
196 EICHA.ED II. 
 
 The moral cowardice of Eichard is most beauti- 
 fully displayed by Shakspere. Like ■ his father, the 
 Black Prince, he lacks not the physical courage to fight, 
 in that respect, he is no coward. On the other hand,- 
 in the moral world;^ his fears are always uppermost, 
 by those he is governed, lacking the coherence of 
 thought requisite for self-government. This lack of moral 
 power is not lost sight of by the dramatist, in it he 
 is true to history. In his coinciding with the historian, 
 he however goes' beyond him, for he more ably de- 
 velopes this want in the kingly character. In the 
 scene of the banishment of the two peers, Eichard 
 moved by his fears and anxious for his own safety, 
 would embitter — not subdue the quarrel. He would 
 have them continue " the tempest of their home-bred 
 hate." He would not they should 
 
 " Embrace each othep's loye in banishment," 
 and in order that he may be the more secure in his 
 royal seat, he would bind them by their vows, and ere 
 they leave the kingly presence, they must pledge their 
 knightly words. He says, 
 
 " Lay on our royal sword your banist'd hands ; 
 Swear by the duty that you owe to God, — 
 Our part therein yre banish with yourselves, 
 To keep the oath that we administer : — \ 
 
 You never shall, so help you truth and God ! — 
 , Embrace each other's love in banishment ; , 
 
 Nor never look upon each other's face ; 
 Nor never write, regreet, nor reconcile 
 This louring tempest of your home-bred hate ; 
 Nor never by advised purpose meet 
 To plot, contrive, or complot any ill 
 'Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land." 
 
 A. I. s. 3. 
 That Eichard was violent in temper, meets with the 
 concurrence of all writers, nor has Shakspere departed 
 
EIOHAED It. 197 
 
 from the. historic relation in thia respect. This failing 
 
 in the kingly character is pourtrayed by York, when 
 
 standing by the death-bed of " time-honour'd Gaunt," 
 
 in the line 
 
 " For young hot colts, being rag'd, do rage the more." 
 
 A. III. "s. 1, 
 
 This feeling is still more forcibly displayed by Eichard 
 himself, who is carried aWay by the violence of his 
 temper, a violence aroused and brought into action 
 by the reproaches of the dying Gaunt. So strong is the 
 passion of the royal Eichard, that he forgets the respect 
 due to age, and to the near relationship which existed 
 between him and Gaunt. The king is completely 
 carried away by the turbulence of his passions,, and he 
 calls his relative and adviser, 
 
 " a lunatic, lean-witted fool. 
 Presuming on an ague's privilege, 
 Barest with thy frozen admonition 
 Make pale our cboek, chasing the royal blood 
 With fury from liis native residonco. 
 Now, by my seat's right royal majesty. 
 Were thou not brother to great Edward's son. 
 This tongue that runs so roundly in thy head, 
 Should run thy head from thy unreverent shoulders." 
 
 A. II. s. 1. 
 
 Eichard in his state was extremely costly and 
 extravagant. His means were lavished upon favourites 
 and upon frivolities, which greatly served to alienate 
 from him the people's love. To meet the demands of 
 his courtiers, the king was compelled to levy fresh 
 imposts upon the people, and even these imposts were 
 found to be insufficient for his purpose, though the 
 greater part of his reign was passed in peace. On the 
 breaking out of the Irish war, which occurred about 
 
198 EIOHABD II. 
 
 the time of Gaunt's death, the king forcibly seized upon 
 the estates and coffers of his uncle. This act, the 
 result of his violent temper, was in direct opposition to 
 the wishes of his uncle York, whose sense of duty to the 
 crown made him overlook the wrong done to his 
 brother's house. This act was the " crowning mercy," 
 for not the slightest doubt can exist, that it was mainly 
 instrumental in bringing about the downfall of Eichard. 
 This taken in conjunction with his treatment of the 
 commons, whom he 
 
 " pill'd with grievous taxes," 
 
 and the "new exactions," which daily were devised, 
 awakened the heads of that party, which ultimately 
 became famous throughout our history as the Lancas- 
 trian, inciting them to action, and combining all classes 
 in the movement against the tyranny of the king. The 
 fear of this is shown in the speech of York, who 
 strongly advises the king to forego his seizure of the 
 estates of Gaunt. York pathetically appeals to his 
 royal nephew, and thus beautifully observes : — ' 
 
 " Tou pluck a thousand dangers on your head, 
 Tou lose a thousand well-disposed hearts, 
 And prick my tender patience to those thoughts 
 Which honour and allegiance cannot think." 
 
 To this Eichard replies, 
 
 " Think what you will ; we seize into our hands 
 His plate, his goods, his money, and his lands." 
 
 York, annoyed at his nephew's harshness and obstinacy, 
 yet still more annoyed at the consequences which he 
 foresees will follow such a course of conduct, conse- 
 quences of the direst nature to the weak monarch, 
 retires from the kingly presence, but not without 
 
BICHARD II. 199 
 
 continuing the same idea, and seeking to advise the 
 king to adopt another and a wiser course. He says, 
 
 " I'll not be by the while : my liege, farewell : 
 What will ensue hereof, there's none can tell ; 
 But by bad courses may be understood 
 That their ovents can never fall out good." — A. ii. s. 1. 
 
 I 
 
 That Eichard was criminal in his conduct most 
 historians agree. If not the actual perpetrator of 
 murder, he was the undoubted cause of the murder of 
 his uncle Gloster. Yet what other course of action 
 was open to the Idng, it is difficult t6 decide. Gloster 
 was a bold, bad, overbearing and turbulent man, who 
 had consented to the deposing of the king, whose safety 
 in a great measure depended upon the capture of 
 Gloster, who was seized, taken to Calais and there 
 strangled. This instance of Eichard's criminality, and 
 which even Froissart, the king's chief defender is 
 compelled to admit, is still further confirmed and 
 endorsed by the old chroniclers Hall and Holingshed. 
 Shakspere has not departed from the historic view, 
 for in two allusions to Gloster's death, he fixes the guilt 
 upon Eichard. The first occurs when Gloster's widow 
 meets John of Gaunt, and strives to excite him to re- 
 venge his brother and her husband's death. Gaunt 
 answers her, by speaking of the king as 
 
 " heaven's substitute, 
 His deputy anointed in his sight. 
 Hath caused his death." — A. I. s. 2, 
 
 The second reference to Gloster's death occurs after a 
 violent speech of the king, when threatening Gaunt 
 that he will take his life, to which the aged noble 
 answers 
 
200 ' EIOHABD II. 
 
 " My brother Gloster, plain well meaning soul, 
 Whom fair befal in heaven 'mongst happy Bonis ! 
 
 ■ May be a precedent and witness good, 
 That thou respect'st not spilling Edward's blood." 
 
 A. II. s. 1. 
 
 There cannot be any doubt that the character of 
 Eichard as drawn by Shakspere is literally a true one. 
 The weaknesses, the frivolities, the storm of passion, 
 the rapacities, and favoritism which distinguish his 
 reign, are all to be found in the tragedy of the poet aa 
 well as in the pages of the historian. It is not only in 
 the mere meagre field of facts and incidents that we 
 discover the truthfulness of the poartrayal of Shak- 
 spere's Eichard. In the higher attributes of history, 
 the poet is the truest historian, for he presents the most 
 correct analysis of the king's character, displaying to a 
 great extent the motives by which Eichard was actuated 
 and governed, and in the largeness of his comprehension 
 completely developing the working of the human heart. 
 It is this, which, despite the deformities of Eichard's 
 character, causes us to feel pity for his misfortunes. 
 His very infirmities are of that nature that they take 
 hold of our affections. " His heart is by no means 
 hardened against , himself, but bleeds afresh at every 
 new stroke of chance; and his sensibility, absorbed in 
 his own person, and unused to misfortune, is not only 
 tenderly alive to its own sufferings, but without the 
 fortitude to bear them. He is, however, human in his 
 distresses ; ' for to feel pain and sorrow, weakness, 
 disappointment, remorse and anguish, is the lot of 
 humanity, and we sympathize with him accordingly. 
 The sufferings of the man make us forget that he ever 
 was a king."* 
 
 * Hazlitt's Characters of Shakspere's Plays, pp. 79, 80. 
 
KIOHAED II. . 201 
 
 Eichard is not deficient in perception ; it was not 
 from a lack of mental qualifications that he fell, but 
 rather from the non-activity of his mental powers. It 
 was the want of energy, of continuity of action, and the 
 lack of perseverance that lost him his throne. Had he 
 have displayed the same amount of promptitude in the 
 revolt of Bolingbroke, as he did in the revolt of Wat 
 Tyler, history would in all probability have told a 
 different tale. He would have been "skilful enough to 
 have lived " and "the foul and ugly mists," with which 
 he was enshrouded by the wiles of his cousin would have 
 been dispelled. Shakspere shows this failing, the 
 chief weakness in the king's character, by the compari- 
 son he institutes in the third act of the play. It occurs 
 in a conversation between the gardeners of the king, the 
 under one asking his chief, 
 
 " Wliy should we, in the compass of a pale,' 
 Keep law, and form, and due proportion. 
 Showing, as in a model, our firm state, 
 When our sea-walled garden, the whole land, 
 Is full of weeds ; her fairest flowers choked up, 
 Iler fruit trees all nnprun'd, her hedges ruin'd, ' 
 . Her knots disorder'd, and her wholesome herbs 
 Swarming with caterpillars ? 
 
 \st. Gard. Hold thy peace : — 
 
 He that hath suffered this disordered spring ' 
 Hath now himself met with the faU of leaf; 
 The weeds, that his broad-spreading leaves did shelter, 
 That seem'd in eating him to hold him up. 
 Are pluck'd up, root and all, by.Bohngbroke ; 
 I mean the earl of Wiltshire, Busby, Green. 
 
 Serv. What, are they dead ? 
 
 Gard. They are ; 
 
 And Bolingbroke hath seiz'd the wasteful king. — 
 Oh ! what J)ity is it, 
 
 That he had not so trimm'd and dress'd the land, 
 As we this garden ! We at time of year 
 
202 BIOHA.BD II. 
 
 Do wound tke bark, tlie skin of our fruit-trees. 
 Lest, being over-proud with sap and blood, 
 Witli too mucb ricbes it confound itself ; 
 Had he done so to great and growing men, 
 They might have Uv'd to bear and he to taste 
 Their fruits of duty. Superfluous branches 
 We lop away, that bearing boughs may live : 
 Had he done so, himself had borne the crown 
 Which waste of idle hours hath quite thrown down."^ 
 
 s. 4. 
 
 Eichard was possessed of good intellectual powers^ 
 his perceptive faculties being above the average. He 
 lacked not the faculty of discrimination, and at times he 
 evinced great promptitude in action, seizing the right 
 moment, and displaying talent of no mean order, 
 Shakspore loses not sight of this side of Eiohard's charac- 
 ter, for, with a truthfulness which is all his own, and 
 which he never fails to display, he hath put in the mouth 
 of the king, language which implies a deeper, knowledge 
 of himself, of those by whom he was surrounded, and a 
 keener perception of the motives for their course of 
 action, than has been usually assigned to the weak, 
 vacillating monarch. In the speech of the King to 
 Aumerle, we perceive how thoroughly he understands 
 the character of Bolingbroke, whose conduct awakens 
 his perceptive powers. He says : 
 
 " Ourself and Bushy, Bagot here, and Green, 
 Observ'd his courtehip to the common people: — 
 How he did seem to dive into their hearts. 
 With humble and familiar courtesy : 
 Wliat reverence he did ~throw away on slaves. 
 Wooing poor craftsmen with the craft of smiles. 
 And patient overbearing of his fortune, 
 As 'twere to banish their affects with him. 
 Off goes his bonnet to an oyster wench ; 
 A brace of draymen bid God speed him well, 
 And had the tribute of his supple knee, 
 
EIOHAED ai. 203 
 
 With "thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends ;" 
 As were our England m reversion his, 
 And he our subjects' next degree in hope." 
 
 A. I. s. 4. 
 
 Of the perceptive powers qf the King there is another 
 forcible example to be found in his reply to York, who 
 implores Eichard not to heed the words of Gaunt, tel- 
 ling the King that 
 
 " He loves you, on my life, and holds you dear, 
 As Harry, duke of Hereford, were he here." 
 
 To which Eichard answers, 
 
 " Right, you say true : as Hereford's love, so his ; ■ ' 
 As theirs, so mine; and all be as it is." — A. ii. 'S. 1. 
 
 The knowledge which Eichard possesses of the 
 character of Bolingbroke leads him to perceive the 
 ambitious yearnings, despite the outward humbleness 
 which Bolingbroke at times assumes. This knowledge, 
 coupled with the knowledge of his own weakness to 
 repel the proud lord, produces sorrow and grief at heart 
 and causes the deposed monarch to speak like a frantic 
 man. In reality no longer a king, he despises the 
 bended knee and suppliant form of the wily Boling- 
 broke, and tells him, 
 
 " Fair cousin, you debase your princely knee, 
 To make the base earth proud with kissing it : 
 Me rather had my heart might feel your love. 
 Than my unpleas'd eye see your courtesy. 
 Up, cousin, up ; yowr hea/rt is up, I know. 
 Thus high at least [touching his head} although your 
 'knee be loW." A. in. s. 3. » 
 
 Eichard in his adversity displays great powers of 
 perception; powers which have been quickened into 
 activity by the varied and strange circumstances in 
 which he has been placed. The better part of his nature 
 
204 EIOHAKD II. 
 
 is developed by his misfortunes. He is chastened ,by 
 his sorrows and rendered more human, thus winning 
 our sympathies and gaining our pity and our admiration. 
 His removal from the kingly dignity destroys the over- 
 weening vanity which marked his earlier career, and it 
 teaches him to look within, and there find the causes 
 which have produced his fall. He is stung to the quick 
 when Northumberland seeks to thrust on him the paper 
 for his signature, telling the deposed monarch the 
 Commons will not be satisfied till it be done, and Eic- 
 hard answers, 
 
 " They shall be satisfied : I'll read enough, 
 When I do see the very book indeed 
 Where all my sins are writ, and that's myself." 
 
 A. IV. s. 1. 
 
 The death of the king is admirably managed, and is 
 in perfect keeping with his character. The fierce valour 
 which blazes up at the words of the keeper, the 
 snatching of the sword and the slaying .of the attend- 
 ants, are deeds all ia unison with this man of impulse, 
 this creature of storm and calm. The closing words 
 of Richard are truly in accordance with his cha- 
 racter, thsy are in keeping with one who could speak 
 of angels fighting on his behalf, and then relying 
 upon his own efforts. Of one, who at one moment was 
 sunk in a state of the lowest despondency, and then 
 could joyfully depart from this life with the assurance 
 and faith contained in his exclamation, 
 
 " Mount, mount my soul ! thy seat is up on high, 
 Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to die." 
 
 A. v. s. 5. 
 
 Shakspere has briefly, yet most excellently pointed 
 out the manners of Richard's court : — the base flatterers 
 
EIOHAED II. 205 
 
 bj whom he was surrounded, the extravagance displayed 
 
 in the number of his retainers, which in the king's 
 
 household alone, formed no mean army. From the 
 
 royal mouth we have the number, for the king describes 
 
 himself as one who, 
 
 " every day under his hoiisehold roof 
 Did keep ten thonsand men." 
 
 The inordinate desire of display in dress, the fop- 
 pishness which characterised the external appearance of 
 the handsome king, and the other follies which crept 
 into his court, and which had chiefly been imported 
 from the land of song and sunny skies, fair Italy, these 
 things are most forcibly shown; a few lities of the 
 master's work conveying most truthfully the state and 
 manners of the court of Eichard. Thfe example is found 
 in the speech of York when addi'essing Gaunt, 
 
 "then, there are found 
 Lascivious metres, to whose venom sound 
 The open ear of youth dotli always listen j 
 Report of fashions in proud Italy, 
 Whose manners still our tardy apish nation 
 I Limps after in base imitation. 
 
 Where doth the woi-ld thrust for a vanity, 
 
 So it be new, there's no respect how vile — - 
 
 That is not quickly buzz'd into his ears." — A. ii. s. 1. 
 
 The rude habits and the unchecked indulgence in 
 vicious pleasures, some of the characteristics of the 
 period are not forgotten by Shakspere. He shows that 
 all classes, from the highest to the lowest, were affected 
 by the coarse manners of the time. In Bolingbroke's 
 enquiry for his son, the future sovereign of the realm, 
 gallant Harry of Monmouth, the victor of Azincour, we 
 have the vices of the age faithfully depicted. For three 
 months he has not seen the young prince, and Boling- 
 
206 BIOHAUD II. 
 
 broke tells his attendants when directing them to go in 
 search of prince Harry, to 
 
 " Inquire at London, 'mongst tlie taverns tliere, 
 For tliere, they say, he daily doth frequent. 
 With unrestrained loose companions- 
 Even such, they say, as stand in narrow lanes 
 And beat our watch, and rob our passengers : 
 Wliile he, young, wanton, and effeminate boy, 
 Takes on the point of honour, to support 
 So dissolute a crew." 
 
 The consort of the deposed Eichard is most 
 exquisitely drawn by Shakspere. She is a gentle, , 
 loving being, a character which no one fails to admire ; 
 and her disposition is of such a nature, that it steals 
 upon our senses, wins our sympathies, making us feel 
 pity for her misfortunes, and evoking our admiration for 
 the constancy of affection she evinces for her husband. 
 When Eichard is deposed from his high estate and 
 committed to the Tower, her love for him above all 
 other things stands forth. Nothing can overcome this 
 feeling, with her it is all paramount ; it is the " be-all 
 and the end-all " of her existence. 
 
 Her marriage with Eichard was a most unfortunate 
 step for her ; unfortunate in, its results, and in the fact, 
 that the alliance was unpopular with the English 
 people. The twenty-five years' truce which had been 
 agreed upon to celebrate the event, was regarded with 
 aversion by the great majority of the English nation, 
 and it served in no mean degree to alienate their affec- 
 tions from Eichard, and transfer them to his antagonist, 
 the cool and crafty Bolingbroke. The state of feeling 
 which existed between the French and the English na- 
 tion at the time of Eichard, and that which exists now, 
 affords a striking contrast. Our ancestors, at this 
 
niCHAED II. 207 
 
 early period of English history, looked upon France 
 and the French people as iheit natural enemies, whom 
 they were bound at all times to fight. To harry and 
 scour the French territory, destroying life and property, 
 was one of the sworn duties of the English people. 
 This feeling has only subsided in the last few years, and 
 that through a better understanding of the relations 
 which one country should hold towards another. 
 Within the last fifteen years, side by side, shedding their 
 best blood like sworn brothers in the deadly strife, have 
 , fought the brave men of France in conjunction with 
 the gallant sons of our fatherland. At the present time 
 we are striving by all possible means to cement still 
 closer the bond of union which already exists, and the 
 conduct of the English government and of the English 
 nation during the late Franco-Prussian War, has won 
 the esteem and approbation of the French government 
 and people. 
 
 Shakspere, by some writers, has boon blamed for 
 making bo womanly a character of the consort of 
 Eichard. At the time of Anne^s marriage, 1396, her age 
 was eight years, and Eichard was deposed in 1399, at 
 which time his wife would be eleven. Shakspere, 
 however, has great authority for the character he has 
 drawn, even in its relation to historic truth, and still 
 greater authority in the poetic world for the beautiful 
 exposition of humanity presented in the character of 
 Eichard's .queen. Her love of her husband is first 
 shown in the anxiety she evinces and displays when 
 " her lord, the king," is gone to Ireland. Her attendant 
 Bushy tells her she 
 
 I "is too much sad : 
 
 Ton promis'd when you parted with the king, 
 
208 EIOIfAKD II. 
 
 ■ To lay aside life-harming heaviness, 
 And entertain a cheerful disposition. 
 Queen. To please the king I did : to please myself 
 I cannot do it ; yet I know no cause 
 Why I should welcome such a guest as grief, 
 Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guest 
 As my sweet Richard ; yet again, methinks. 
 Some unborn sorrow, ripe in fortune's womb. 
 Is ceming towards me ; and my inward soul 
 With nothing trembles ; at something it grieves 
 More than with parting from my lord the king." 
 
 A. II. s. 2. 
 
 These forebodings — the result of her ever thinking upon 
 her husband, are speedily reaUzed, — they are fulfilled 
 when Green informs her of banished Polingbroke haying 
 "set footing in this land." This intelHgenc'e fully 
 convinces her of what will follow, for she exclaims, 
 
 " So, Green, thou art the midwife to my woe. 
 And Bolingbroke my sorrow's dismal heir : 
 
 , Now hath my soul brought forth her prodigy ; 
 And I, a gasping, new deUver'd mother. 
 Have woe to woe, sorrow to sorrow join'd." 
 
 The dignity and grace of the queen is admirably shown 
 forth in the garden scene of the tower, when she re- 
 buketh the gardeners for speaking of the deposition of 
 the king. Yet her queenlinoss soon yields to her 
 womanly feelings and to a wife's fears. This is evi- 
 denced by what the gardener observes after she hath • 
 quitted the scene. He says, 
 
 "Here did she drop a tear ; here in this place, 
 I'll set a bank of rue, sour herb of grace : 
 Rue, even for ruth, here shortly shall be seen 
 In the remembrance of a weeping qu£en." — A. Ill, S. 4. 
 
 Her parting with her husband is extremely beautiful, 
 and shows the loving-kindness and goodness of her 
 character. Nought can eradicate and destroy the love 
 
'EICHA.ED 11. 209 
 
 she feels for the king. The chilling hand of adversity 
 has fallen upon her husband's head, and loth is she to 
 leave him with whom she has mated for life. The " fair 
 rose" indeed has withered, yet she would wash it "fresh 
 again with true-love tears." Weeping, she says, 
 " And must we be divided ? must we part ? " 
 
 She implores Northumberland not to sever her from her 
 husband, but to 
 
 " Banish us both, and send the king with me," 
 to which the rebel lord repUes, 
 
 " That were some love, but little policy." 
 Again, she asks to be allowed to accompany her lord, 
 
 " Then whither he goes, thither let me go ? " 
 
 All her requests are refused and she is compelled to 
 part from the king, with but a loving kiss, which she 
 repays with interest, exclaiming, 
 
 " Give me mine own again ; 'twere no good j^art, 
 To take on mo to keep and kill tliy heart. 
 So now I have mine own again, begone, 
 That I may strive to kill it with a groan." — A. v.'s. 2. 
 
 The character of John of Gaunt, the duke of 
 Lancaster, is one of the finest in the play. His intense 
 love of his country, his desire to see her renowned above 
 aU others, prevents him from ever leaving the party 
 of the king. He believes in the sacredness of royalty 
 as exemplified in the person of Eichard, and also in the 
 well-being of his country, depending on the due 
 observance of the laws. This feeling, while it strongly 
 attaches him to the cause of the king, also directs and 
 moves him to rebuke and administer wholesome advice 
 to the weak and credulous Eichard. What a splendid 
 
21D EICHAED ir. 
 
 contrast between the •wisdom of Gaunt, and the frivolity 
 and levity of Eichard, is furnished in ^. 2. s. 1. Gaunt 
 is dying, and York, his brother; wishes him not to 
 upbraid the king, telling him, 
 
 " For all in vain comes counsel to his ear." 
 To this Gaunt replies ^ 
 
 " but they say, the tongues of dying men 
 Enforce attention like deep harmony : 
 Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain ; 
 For they breathe truth, that breatbe their words in pain. 
 He that no more must say, is listen'd more 
 
 Than they whom youth and ease have taught to glose ; 
 More are men's ends mark'd, than their Uvea before : 
 
 The setting sun, and music at the close. 
 As tlio last tasto of uweots, is swcetost last. 
 Writ in remembrance, move than things long past : 
 Though Richard my life's counsel would not hear, 
 My death's sad tale may yet undeaf his ear." 
 
 The king enters, and in a mocking tone, enquires 
 
 " how is't with aged Gaunt?" who responds in a speech 
 
 playing upon his name. After two or three bantering 
 
 speeches between Eichard and Gaunt, speeches in which 
 
 the frivolity and capriciousness of the king prevail ; 
 
 the. dying duke bursts forth in the following splendid 
 
 lines, as an answer to the king's remark of 
 
 "I am in health, I breathe, and see thee ill. 
 Gaunt. Now, He that made me knows I see thee ill, 
 111 in myself to see, and in thee seeing ill ; 
 Thy death-bed is no lesser than thy land. 
 Wherein thou liest in reputation sick : 
 And thou, too careless patient as thou art, 
 Committ'st thy anointed body to the cure 
 Of those physicians who first wounded thee." 
 
 What a magnificent rebuke to the folly of Eichard, whose 
 weakness is completely exposed in his committal of the 
 cure of the state, of the body politic, into the hands "of 
 
HIOHAED II. 211 
 
 those physicians -who first wounded" it. How beauti- 
 fully Gaunt depicts the greatness of the king's illness 
 over his own. Gaunt is but an individual suffering, his 
 own death being of no consequence, while the ills which 
 the king's misgovernment has brought about, are of 
 such naagnitude, that with the king's 
 
 " death-bed, is no lesser than thy land 
 Wherein thou liest in reputation sick." . 
 
 Gaunt further proceeds to tell the king of the evil results 
 which flow from his system of favoritism, and says, 
 
 "A thousand flatterers sit within thy crown, 
 Whose compass is no bigger than thy head ; 
 And yet, incaged in so small a verge. 
 The waste is no whit lesser than thy land." 
 
 Here again, the dying noble desires the well-being of 
 his native land above all other things. To him, his 
 country is his parents and his friends. Above ^1 things 
 the land of his birth, — above aU things, the preserving 
 of its honour, its position and its worth. He acknow- 
 ledges no other land like this "precious stone set in the 
 silver sea." To him, sunny Spain, with its groves of 
 citron and her dark-eyed maids, — fair France, with her 
 lilies and her blooming demoiselles, and Italy, the land 
 of song and sunny skies, all these are nought when 
 compared with England, the home of bravery, honour and 
 virtue. Of Spain, Italy, and France, Gaunt possessed 
 no mean knowledge. He had visited them, sojourned 
 there, and fought on their soil with honour to himself 
 and to his country. The experience he had gathered 
 during his sojourn, only served to increase his love and 
 admiration of his native land. The high estimation in 
 which he held the land of his birth, is evidenced in the 
 conclusion of the same speech, when he says. 
 
212 BICHABD II. 
 
 "Why, cousin, -wert thou regent of the world, 
 It were a shame to let this land by lease ; 
 But for thy world, enjoying but this land, 
 Is it not more than shame to shame it so." 
 
 The faithfulness of Gaunt to the cause of Eichard, is 
 also shewn, when the duchess of Gloster, his brother's 
 widow, upbraids him for his apathy in not revenging 
 her husband, and his kinsman's death. Nothing can 
 move him from his determination to abide by the cause 
 of his nephew. Her railing does not in the slightest 
 degree change his loyalty, nor incite him to act in 
 opposition to the king. He tells her, 
 
 " God's is the quarrel ; for God's substitute, 
 His deputy anointed in his sight, 
 Hath caus'd his death ; the which if wrongfully, 
 Let heaven revenge ;■ for I may never lift 
 An ajigry arm against his minister." — A. I. s. 2. 
 
 The character of Gaunt stands out in fine relief, 
 
 when contrasted with Gloster, Northumberland, or any 
 
 of the turbulent barons of the period. In him all desire 
 
 of self-aggrandisement, is lost ; it has given way to a 
 
 real love of the land which gave him birth, a love which 
 
 displays high national feeling, indelibly stamping his 
 
 character as that of a true patriot. The words which 
 
 Shakspere has given to "time-honoured Gaunt," are of 
 
 such sterling value, possessing the real ring of the true 
 
 metal, that they ought to be imprinted on the brains of 
 
 every inhabitant of the united kingdom. 
 
 " This royal throne of kings, this scoptor'd isle, 
 This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, 
 This other Eden, demi-paradise ; 
 This fortress built by nature for herself. 
 Against infection and the hand of war ; 
 This happy breed of men, this little world ; 
 This precious stone set in the silver sea, 
 
EICHAED II. 213 
 
 Wtich serves it in the oifice of a wall, 
 
 Or as a moat defensive to a house, 
 
 Against the envy of less happier lands ; 
 
 This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England. 
 
 This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, 
 
 Fear'd by their breed, and famous by their birth, 
 
 Renowned for their deeds as far from home, — 
 
 For Christian service and true chivalry, — 
 
 As is the sepulchre, in stubborn Jewry, 
 
 Of the world's ransom, blessed Mary's son ; — 
 
 This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land. 
 
 Dear for her reputation through the world, 
 
 Is now leas'd out — I die *pronouncing it — 
 
 Like to a tenement or pelting farm : 
 
 England, bound in with the triumphant sea, 
 
 Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege 
 
 Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame, ' 
 
 With inky blots, and rotten parchment bonds : 
 
 That England, that was wont to conquer others 
 
 Hath made a shameful conquest of itself. 
 
 Ah, would the scandal vanish with my life, 
 
 How happy then were my ensuing death. — A. ll. s. 1. 
 
 The moral reflections uttered by Gaunt in this scene 
 relative to the probable result of Eicbard's conduct, are 
 truly beautiful. Not only were they applicable to his 
 time, but they are applicable to all times, conveying in 
 a few lines, a lesson, which the whole of mankind would 
 be none the worse for studying. How true is the excla- 
 mation of the poet Keats, that 
 
 " A thing of beauty is a joy for ever," 
 
 and how excellently is this assertion verified by the 
 language of Gaunt. Its" merit is of the highest order, 
 for the idea is so sustained and continuous, and the 
 language is , so ' in unison with the thought, that the 
 creation is really beautiful. From the lines, like a 
 figure from the canvass of the painter, starts forth, 
 moral beauty, and remains " a joy for ever." The aged 
 
214 HIOHA.ED II. 
 
 patriot says, 
 
 " His rasi fierce blaze of riot cannot last ; 
 For violent fires soon burn out themselves ; 
 Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short ; 
 He tires betimes, that spurs too fast betimes ; 
 With eager feeding food doth choke the feeder ; 
 Light vanity, insatiate cormorant, 
 Consuming moans, soon preys upon itself." 
 
 Northumberland in this play is but a mere sketch, 
 which the dramatist eventually and most truthfully 
 completed in Henry IV. He is an ambitious, restless, 
 and selfish man; a thorough hater of peace. Only 
 amidst strife, plots and turbulence does he enjoy ex- 
 istence. Upon the battle-field, with the blast of war 
 blowing in his ears, he revels with delight, and his son, 
 the gallant Harry Hotspur, is a worthy fighting de- 
 scendant of such a fighting sire. Of the rest of the 
 baronial and knightly characters, with two exceptions, 
 they are men of words, ready to give the lie and back 
 it with their swords. The quarrel scene in the 4th act, 
 is but a bandying of foul names and foul words : — of 
 boastings, and of hurling of gauntlets, Qone of which 
 are redeemed, for Bolingbroke observes, 
 
 " Lords appellant, 
 Tour differences shall all rest under gage, 
 Till we assign you to your days of trial." 
 
 The bishop of Carlisle is a distinct character, and 
 one which contrasts most favourably with some of the 
 other dignitaries of the play. Under every phase of 
 fortune he remains faithful to Eichard. He persistently 
 abideth by the king's course of action, and even after 
 others have given up the struggle he ceases not from 
 action. Of all the followers of Eichard, he alone has 
 the courage to defend the fallen monarch. His consis- 
 
BICHABD II; 215 
 
 tency of conduct winneth the respect of his adversaries, 
 and when he is taken prisoner and brought before 
 Bolingbroke, charged with having conspired against 
 his life, he is dismissed by the usurping monarch, who 
 says, 
 
 " Carlisle, this is your doom ; — 
 Choose out some secret place, some reverend room, 
 More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life ; 
 So, as thou liv'st in peace, die free from strife : 
 For though mine enemy thou hast ever been, 
 High sparks of honour in thee have I seen." — A. v. s. 6. 
 
 Of the Duke of York, uncle of the king, it may with 
 justice be said, that he had neither the energy nor the 
 ability to play a conspicuous or important part in the 
 struggle between the barons and the kiiig.. He was too 
 much attached to the sports of the field, and to retire- 
 ment upon his estate, to be capable of lending force or 
 strength to either side. His whole conduct is marked 
 by indecision ; he could not resolve, and this lack of 
 resolution prevented him from adopting any definite 
 course of action. His irresolution did not proceed 
 "from thinking too precisely upon the event," but from 
 a want of thought, due to a deficiency of mental calibre 
 and insufficient training. When left in charge of the 
 realm, he having been deputed regent during the 
 absence of his nephew Richard, in Ireland, the weak 
 side of his character is soon made manifest: When he 
 learns of the landing of Bolingbroke he knoweth not 
 what to do, nor whither to go, and most truly doth he 
 depict his own character in the language which he 
 uses when describing his position. He says, 
 
 " Here am I left to underprop his land, 
 Who weak with age cannot support myself." 
 " what a tide of woes 
 
216 EICHAKD II. 
 
 Comes rushing on ttis woeful land at once ! 
 I know not wliat to do." 
 
 " Gentlemen, will you go muster men ? If I know 
 How, or which way to order these affairs, 
 Thus disorderly thrust into my hands. 
 Never belieye me." 
 
 " All is uneven. 
 And everything is left at six and seven." — A. ii. s. 2. 
 
 Eichard II. is undoubtedly one of the finest of Shak- 
 spere's historic plays. It is a. grand opening chapter of 
 his groat dramatic chronicle, for it presents all things 
 in their true historic light, and embues them with that 
 true human interest which is the keystone of success. 
 The historical relation of this play is continued through 
 the roign of Ilonry IV. by Shakspere, in two parts. 
 Though the actual period of time which this play 
 extends over is but three years, yet what a field, what a 
 vast extent of view it doth present. What various 
 passions, emotions, and sentiments it calls into exist- 
 ence, moving and acting upon ourselves as if we were 
 engaged in the strife, instead of being mere spectators, 
 gazing through the glass of Father Time. Taken 
 individually and collectively, the characters form a 
 group upon which speculation will busy herself in 
 analyzing the motives, determining the results, and in 
 calculating how, and in what way, we have been and 
 are affected. Life's mirror is here presented, and by 
 its reflection, like the lantern of Diogenes, we perceive 
 that the figures are composed of clay and brass, silver 
 and gold. That the good and the bad are bound up in 
 each other; and we are to some extent shown the 
 means, which the advances of civilization prove, whereby 
 the condition of humanity has been and can be bettered. 
 The rude clamour of the barons, enough "to fright the 
 
nioiiARD II. ' 217 
 
 isle from its propriety," and the upheaving of the 
 masses under Tyler, were forerunners of that great and 
 earnest cry for social reform which the improved 
 intelligence of our people is seeking to realize. The 
 liberty of thought and speech which we now enjoy, the 
 removal of serfdom and villeinage, are results which 
 have flowed from the conduct of our ancestors. In the 
 reign of Eichard II. the seed which had been sown by 
 Simon de Montfort, viz. the creation of Parliaments, 
 was nourished and cultured by the Commons, who also, 
 by their unity of action, succeeded in establishing the 
 principle of the right of Parliament to vote and check 
 the disbursements of the monies of the State. The 
 infringement of this principle by Charles I. brought his 
 head to the block, and established the power of the 
 great and good Protector, Oliver Cromwell. 
 
 In the reign of Eichard, as evidenced in the play, we 
 see the natural result of the misgovernment of the king. 
 We BOO that a groat and wonderful cliango of fooling 
 towards the reigning house camo over all classes, both 
 lord and knight, burghdr and peasant. In the revolt 
 of the villeins under Wat Tyler, which occurred some 
 fourteen years prior to the opening of this play, 1397, 
 so bitter was the animosity of the people against the 
 house of Lancaster, that they compelled all men, with 
 whom they were brought in contact, to take an oath 
 never to seat one of that hous^ upon the throne of 
 England. Yet by the tyranny, the vices and follies of 
 Eichard, this feeling was destroyed, and Bolingbroke, 
 the son of John of Gaunt, of the house of Lancaster, 
 was hailed as a deUverer by the great body of the 
 English people. 
 
 Northumberland in this play, is the outline of that 
 
218 - BICHAHD II. 
 
 greatness and power, which some of the barons attained 
 during the feudal, times. Northumberland is the fore- 
 runner of him, of the bear and ragged staff, who in an 
 after period of om* history, Wks one of the principal 
 actors among the ever-changing scenes on the ever- 
 shifting stage of life. Warwick was to the 15th century, 
 what Napoleon the Great was to the 19th, — a putter up 
 and knocker down of kings. Northumberland was .to 
 Bolingbroke — what Warwick was to Henry VI. • and 
 Edward IV. The growing up of these barons and the 
 expansion of their power, was a natural result of the sys- 
 tem under which they lived. The families of a Neville, 
 of a Clifford, of a Percy, and others, arose, from th'e 
 turbulence of the times, and for awhile, assumed a dicta- 
 torial power over the sovereign, a power sometime in 
 the ascendant, and at others not, but which power was 
 eventually destroyed, when the great Warwick fell upon 
 the bloody field of Barnet. The pomp and magnificence 
 of dress — another distinguishing mark of the period, ran 
 into great extravagance during the reign of the 
 unfortunate Richard. The splendour and richness of 
 costume, the paraphernalia Of war which characterized 
 the lists at Shrewsbury, serves to show how great was 
 Eichard's delight, how strong was his desire for 
 display, — a desire which was productive of injury to 
 himself, assisting in evoking the ferment which ended 
 with his dethronement. Every scene of the play affords 
 ample scope for reflection ; for whether we consider the 
 incidents, the intrigues, the state of morals, the growth 
 of parliamentary power, the extension of the principles 
 of freedom, the unlocking of the priestly influence by the 
 translations of the bible, the turbulence and lawlessness 
 of the knights and mail-clad barons, it forms a picture 
 
BICHABD II. , 219 
 
 whose lines are forcibly impressed upon the brain ; a 
 volume, whose pages are pregnant with true wisdom, and 
 it also serves to 
 
 '"form a scene, 
 Where musing solittide might love to lift 
 Her Boul above this sphere of earthliness," 
 
 and in the bright future, read the happy destiny of 
 humankind. 
 
EICHAED III. 
 
 The tragedy of Eichard III. was first produced in the 
 year 1593, and it was first printed and published in 4to. 
 in 1597, under the title of " The Tragedy of King 
 Richard the Third. Containing His treacherous Plots 
 agfiinst liis lirolhor Olaronoo ; tho pittiofull murlhor of 
 his innocent nephewes ; his tyrannicall vsurpation ; 
 with the whole course of his detested life, and most 
 deserued death. As it hath beene lately Acted by the 
 Eight honourable the Lord Chamberlaine, his servants. 
 At London, Printed by Valentine Sims, for Andrew Wise, 
 dwelling in Paules Churchyard, at the sign of the 
 Angell." Five other editions were published in 4to., 
 prior to the production of the complete dramatic works 
 of Shakepere in folio, in 1G23 ; one in 1698, in 1G02, in 
 1605, in 1612, and in 1622. Two editions in 4to. were 
 also published after the first folio, one in 1629 and one 
 in 1634. In the folio edition, the title was altered to 
 " The Tragedy of Eichard the Third ; with the landing 
 of Earle Eichmond, and the Battell of Bosworth Field." 
 There was an elder play of Eichard III., published 
 by Thos. Creede, in 1594, its title running as follows : 
 " The Tragedie of Eichard the third : Wherein is shown 
 the death of Edward the fourth, with the smothering of 
 the two young Princes in the Tower ; With a lamentable 
 
EIOHAED III. 221 
 
 end of Shore's wife — an example for all wicked women. 
 And lastly, the coniunction and ioyning of the two noble 
 houses, Lancaster and Yorke. As it was played by tho 
 Queenes Maiesties Players. London Printed by Thomas 
 Creede and are to be sold by William Barley, at his shop 
 in Newgate Market, neare Christ Church dooro." This 
 play bears no affinity to Shakspere's Eichard IIL, for 
 it is wholly different in its construction, and after the 
 scene in which Edward the Fourth dies, the "story is 
 thenceforward most inartificiaUy and clumsily conducted, 
 with a total disregard of dates, facts, and places, by 
 characters imperfectly drawn and ill sustained. Shore's 
 wife plays a conspicuous part ; and the tragedy does not 
 finish with the battle of Bosworth Field, but is carried 
 on subsequently, although the plot is clearly at an end." 
 Eichard in the elder play, is a coarse, unvarnished ruf- 
 fian, possessing none of the subtlety nor the intellectual 
 power which marks the character of Eichard, as drawn 
 by Shakspore. The language of the elder play is partly 
 prose and partly very ponderous blank vorse, and iu no 
 way can it be compared with the splendour of language 
 which is found in Shakspere's production. 
 
 Li this gre&,t tragedy the mind is preferred to the 
 body, above all things the mental power, to that, every 
 thing must yield. The mental superiority which 
 Eichard possesses, and feels he does possess, gives a 
 strong dash of irony to all his utterances. The conven- 
 tions of society, though Eichard pretends to respect 
 them to answer his own purposes, he thoroughly 
 despises, and no matter the instrument or the means, so 
 that they serve his desires and promote his interest, he 
 cares not what the world may think or say^ he is 
 himself, alone i 
 
222 EICHABD III. 
 
 Eichard being thoroughly conscious of his own 
 mental superiority, enabled him accurately to discrimi- 
 nate and weigh the powers of those by whom he is 
 surrounded. To be wise is to be strong, and his 
 strength laid in his superior knowledge. His quick 
 sharp wit, his great powers of dissimulation, and his 
 resolve to spare neither friend nor foe that stood in his 
 path, gave him " a tower of streugth,^^ greater than "the 
 king's name," and which at every opportunity and 
 under every circumstance he never failed to avail him- 
 self thereof. Those with whom he is brought in contact, 
 he seizes on as stepping-stones towards the height 
 which his ambition is desirious of climbing to, and no 
 matter what has to be performed to reach the giddy 
 height, reach it he will. His physical deformity preys 
 upon his inward sense., though he laments it not, for it 
 serves as an incentive to hurry him on in the path he 
 has chosen. He has " no delight to pass away the 
 time,'" by looking on his " own deformity," and since he 
 "cannot prove a lover," he wiU " prove a villain." He 
 hates " the idle pleasures" of the day, and by 
 
 " inductions dangerous. 
 By drunken prophecies, libela and dreams," 
 
 he determines to commence his course of action by 
 
 .setting his 
 
 " brother Clarence and the King 
 In deadly hate the one against the other." 
 
 The stupid Clarence, the vapouring Hastings, and 
 the ambitious Buckingham, are but tools of his iron will, 
 which he uses and destroys to effect his purposes. His 
 " naked villany he will hide 
 
 " With old ends stolen out of holy writ, 
 And seem a saint, when most he plays the devil." 
 
EICHAED III. 223 
 
 The scene with Lady Anne, displays his powers of 
 speech, the expansiveness of his intellectual powers and 
 his wonderful self-reliance. It is this combination 
 which enables him to effect so much, and elevates him 
 so grektly above the pigmies by whom he is surrounded. 
 His spring of action is ambition, and hypocrisy is the 
 chief instrument in the development of his schemes. 
 His hypocrisy is not of the sneaking kind, it is of the 
 intellectual, giving him the power .to conceal his aims, 
 and to hoodwink thos^ that stand in his way. There is 
 nought of cowardice in his nature, ho is constitutionally 
 brave, — brave without being rash, but resolving to be a 
 villain, he conceals his ' villany, cloaking thoroughly the 
 end he desires to arrive at. 
 
 Though Eichard possesses a recklessness of thought, 
 there is a weak place in his character, and in the scene 
 before he loses his life and crown, his superstitious fears 
 are awaked by his ghostly visitations, and the terrors 
 which they create, overmaster for a time the self-reliance' 
 which he has hitherto displayed. The entrance of 
 Catesby and the intelligence he brings of the advance of 
 Eichmond's army, soon arouses his shattered energies, 
 and he joyfuUy prepares for the final struggle — a strug- 
 gle in which he displayed ft vigour of action marked by 
 the greatest bravery, as if " greatness would be greater 
 than itself ;'' and thus defiant he passes away, winning 
 sympathy, in spite of the great depravity he throughout 
 his career displayed. 
 
 The tragedy as written by Shakspere, is vastly dif- 
 ferent from the hash of Colley Gibber's, now generally 
 enacted on the stage, the latter opening with the last 
 scene of Henry VI., while Shakspere's opens with the 
 soliloquy of the principal character, in which the key- 
 
224 EIOHABD III. 
 
 note of the whole tragedy is struck. The thoughts and 
 intents of Eichard, relative to his brother Clarence, are 
 realized in the first and second acts ; so is also his 
 desire fulfilled of marrying the Lady Anne, whose, hus- 
 band and father he had previously killed. The wooing 
 scene in the 1st act, is a splendid example of the 
 knowledge of humanity which Shakspere possessed, and 
 also of the great mental power with which Eichard is 
 endowed. In the third, we have his simulation of anger 
 at pretended wrongs done to himself ; then we have the 
 entrance of Queen Margaret who loads him with curses, 
 and yet he is triumphant over all. Everything makes 
 for him, 
 
 " I do the wrong, and first begin tlio brawl ; 
 The soorot miscliiof that I sot abroacli, 
 I lay unto tbe grievous charge of others." 
 
 Eichard is prompt in action ; the act .follows the 
 thought; no sooner does he decide than the deed is 
 performed. Clarence must die, the warrant is ready 
 and the murderers are at once sent to accomplish their 
 work, after being told not " to hear him plead, 
 
 For Clarence is well-spoken, and perhaps 
 
 May move your hearts to pity, if you mark him," 
 
 The fate of the imprisoned Clarence is beautifully fore- 
 shadowed in that wonderful prophetic dream which he 
 relates in the following scene. The fear of Eichard is 
 partly realized, for one of the assassips is moved to 
 pity by the words of Clarence, but the other, intent only 
 on the reward promised by Gloster, and possessing less 
 of the milk of human kindness, first stabs and then 
 drowns him "in the malmsey-butt within." The lan- 
 guage throughout the whole of this act is of the loftiest 
 character, far different to that served up by Cibber in 
 
moHAED III. 225 
 
 his version of this tragedy. The lines are full and 
 flowing; there is no abatement in their vigour, for the 
 language and thought are in unison with each other, 
 and the true height of poetry and passion is constantly 
 sustained. ' 
 
 The historic relation according to the chronicles is 
 not strictly observed by Shakspere in this tragedy, for 
 he perpetrates an innovation by the introduction of 
 Margaret, the consort of Henry -VI., she at that time 
 being exiled from England. The completeness of the 
 tragedy would have been marred by the absence of 
 Matgaret, — for one of the grandest characters of the 
 period would have been absent from the picture, whose 
 beauty is added to by the words which she utters, when 
 replying to Gloster's questioning, and which in them- 
 selves contain sufficient excuse for the author's inno- 
 vation. Gloste:? says, 
 
 "Wert thou not banished on pain of deathp" 
 
 to which she replies, 
 
 " I was; but I do find more pain in banishment, 
 Than death can yield me here by my abode." 
 
 She is the only one that reads the aim and intent of 
 the wily Gloster, and this he well knows, for he rather 
 fears her words lest they should awaken in others the 
 thought which she herself doth think, and which her 
 words pourtray, when cautioning the queen and her 
 court, she says, 
 
 "Poor painted queen, vain flourish of my fortune! 
 Why strew'st thou on that bottled spider, 
 Whose deadly web ensnareth thee about? 
 Pool, fool! thou whet'st a knife to kill thyself. 
 The time will come that thou shalt wish for mo 
 To help thee curse that poisonous hunch-back'd toad." 
 
226 BIOHA.BS III. 
 
 And again, 
 
 "Take heed of yonder dog! 
 Look, wben he fawns, he bites ; and when he bites, 
 His venom tooth will rankle to the death : 
 Have not to do with him, beware of him; ' 
 
 Sin, death, and hell haye set their marks on him. 
 And all their ministers attend on him." — A. I. s. 3. 
 
 With the exception of the character of Margaret, the 
 historical relation is strictly preserved, and the facts of 
 history are given with great exactitude, and can be as 
 safely relied upon for their data, as any so-called history 
 of the period. But apart from this, the poet has 
 endowed each of his characters with a Titality that is 
 not to he found in the pages of the historian, and this 
 he has been enabled to do by hi,s searching out the 
 inner truths and nature of humanity, as well as looking 
 only to the outward, or external. In this manner, the 
 pages of the poet are more true than those of the his- 
 torian, for he rises to one higher and universal truth 
 which he has gathered from a series of historical facts, 
 and thus we have truth and poetry, each becoming the 
 handmaiden of the other, going hand in hand to the 
 advantage of the reader of history and the lover of 
 poetry. 
 
 Shakspere apparently intended this tragedy to mark 
 with strong distinctive features, the close of a strong 
 distinctive period. The fearful career of crime which 
 Eichard indulged in, is a most apt termination to the 
 wars of the Eed and White Eoses, and which completed 
 the ruin of the armed aristocracy and became the 
 commencement of a new civil order. All classes were 
 affected with the taint of the times, and so strong were 
 the passions of the people and the governors, that they 
 became restless, turbulent and unruly, producing a 
 
BIOHABD III. 227 
 
 terrible state of anarchy and destruction, and which 
 state was destroyed by the death of Eichard, and the 
 ascension to the throne of the Earl of Eichmond, under 
 the title of Henry VII., who united both the houses, 
 and whose reign was remarkable for the progress of 
 the English people. 
 
 In the second act, events march rapidly on to the 
 advantage of the designing Gloster. No sooner is the 
 intelligence of Clarence's death conyeyed to the court, 
 than Edward himself shuffles off his mortal coil, leaving 
 only in the way of his crafty brother, his two sons — 
 the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York. Eichard, 
 assisted by Buckingham, who now becomes his principal 
 confidant, seizes upon every opportunity, and by their 
 joint warrant, the Lords Elvers and Grey and Sir 
 Thomas Vaughan, are sent prisoners to Pomfret Castle. 
 This act alarms the Queen for the safety of her children, 
 and she "will to sanctuary," for she can perceive the 
 downfall of her Mouse, for 
 
 "The tiger now hath seized the gentle hind; 
 Insulfdng tyranny begins to jet 
 Upon the innocent and aweless throne: 
 Welcome destruction, death, and massacre ! 
 I see, as in a map, the end of all." — A. ii. s. 4. 
 
 The third act is the beginning of the end. It is 
 easy to perceive that the cherished desires of the 
 crooked-back duke will soon be gratified. Everything 
 is being prepared for his elevation, at the same time 
 the end is not far off. Events are hurrying on, and 
 one by one he removes from his path those who are in 
 any way in opposition to his wiU. Hastings, his bosom 
 friend, is sacrificed, and no wonder, for he is a weak, 
 vain, ineflScient man; inflated, without the necessary 
 
22S EIOHAUD III. 
 
 ballast to preserve his life in such troublous times. 
 
 Closely connected with Gloster, the latter thoroughly 
 
 knows and understands his character, and consequently 
 
 despises him. He carefully enmeshes the butterfly 
 
 lord, and by a master stroke of policy obtaineth his 
 
 condemnation and death. There is nought criminal in 
 
 the character of Hastings, for he fully resolves to stand 
 
 by the late king's 
 
 "heirs in true descent," 
 And will not give his "voice on Richard's side, 
 God knows I will not do it, to the death." 
 
 The overweening confidence of Hastings prevents, him 
 
 from escaping the fate he otherwise might have avoided. 
 
 He possesses not the power to understand the character 
 
 pf Gloster, for he firmly believes 
 
 "there's never a man in Christendom 
 That can less hide his love or hate than he ! 
 For by his face, straight shall you know his heart;" 
 
 and he perceives not the intensity of dissimulation 
 which marks Gloster's character. Hastings is more in 
 love with life when nearer death, than in any other 
 period of his existence. He says, in reply to Stanley, 
 
 "My lord, 
 I hold my life" as dear as you do yours; 
 And never in my life, I do protest. 
 Was it more precious to me than 'tis now : 
 Think you, but that I know our state secure, 
 I would be so triumphant as I am."- — A. iii., s. 2. 
 
 This self-joyousness and exaltation leads him to dis- 
 regard the warnings he receives, and to place implicit 
 confidence in his fiiend Catesby, who brings about his 
 utter ruin. He does not heed the words of Stanley, 
 who 
 
 "did dream the boar did raze his helm," 
 
EIOHAED III. 229 
 
 but on the other hand, he did disdain "it and did Bcorn 
 to Q.j" until it is too late, and he quits the scene 
 lamenting his own folly which led him to believe in the 
 "momentary grace of mortal men;"' and, he is led to 
 the block to meet the same doom as had already fallen 
 on the heads of Eivers, Grey and Vaughan, who aU 
 " at Pomfretj bloodily were butoher'd." 
 
 The remainder of the third act is occupied with the 
 coquettings of Buckingham and Gloster with the lord 
 mayor and citizens of London. The latter are so 
 practised on and deceived by the assumed humility and 
 the external show of piety which Gloster displays, that 
 they proffer and beg his acceptance of the crown. This, 
 he at first refuses, but on their warmly entreating him 
 a second time, Gloster reluctantly assents to have 
 fortune buckled to his back, "to bear her burthen." 
 
 The character of Gloster when made king, undergoes 
 a great change. He hath lept into the seat he hath so 
 long been sighing and playing for, and now fixed in his 
 "coign of vantage,'^ he no longer dissimulates; he 
 wears no hypocritical garb, but he goes direct to his 
 purpose. He is not to be tui-ned aside by any com- 
 punctions of conscience from preserving the position he 
 has attained. He will have none with him that wish to 
 examine too closely into his desires and acts, aU such 
 he will banish from his presence, he will only hold 
 
 " converse "with iron-witted fools, 
 And unrespective boys : none are for me 
 That look into me with, considerate eyes." 
 
 Such as these he will have, for he can bend such to his 
 purpose; with them there will not be any scruples 
 relative to the acts they may be called upon to perform. 
 Unscrupulous himself, his instruments must be of the 
 
230 BIOUABO HI. 
 
 same character, or else things will not be as he desires. 
 
 He is fully resolved on keeping the throne, nor does he 
 
 shrink from any crime, however deep or deadly, to 
 
 render himself secure in the royal seat. His proposal 
 
 of the murder of the young princes to his friend 
 
 Buckingham, is put partly as a test to that courtier, 
 
 who hesitates, betrays a fear of consequences which 
 
 may result from the achievement of such a deed, 
 
 though he of all others has been the chief instrument 
 
 by whose assistance the crafty usurper is seated on the 
 
 throne. Buckingham recoils , from the plain speaking 
 
 of his master, when he says, 
 
 "I wish the bastards dead; 
 And I would Lqvo it suddenly porfprm'd." 
 
 He asks for time, the consequences are such that he 
 
 cannot accept them at once, he would have 
 
 "some breath, Bome little pause, my lord, 
 Before I positively speak herein'; , 
 I will resolve your grace immediately." 
 
 Richard has resolved upon the death of his nephews ; 
 it is necessary to his safety they should cease to be, 
 and when "high-reaching Buckingham grows circum- 
 spect" and refuses to fulfil, his wishes, he soon finds 
 means to accomplish his desires. He questions his 
 page, 
 
 "Boy! 
 Know'st thou not any whom corrupting gold 
 Would tempt unto a close exploit of death?" 
 
 And, when he learns of one — "a discontented gentle- 
 man," whom gold would "no doubt tempt him to 
 anything," — sends for such a one at once. He will 
 not delay, nor will he shrink from having the deed 
 performed. He now resolves upon the most desperate 
 
EICHAED III. 231 
 
 resorts, for in conjunction with the murder of the 
 princes, he plans the death of his queen and the 
 marrying of his brother's daughter. He firmly believes 
 the doing of these deeds is necessary to his safety, and 
 that is sufficient cause for him to have them done. It 
 behoves him so to act, for he says, 
 
 > "it stands me mncli upon, 
 
 To stop all hopes whose growth may damage me. 
 I mnst be married to my brother's daughter,' 
 Or else my kingdom stands on brittje glass. 
 Murder her brothers, and then marry Tier! 
 Uncertain way of gain! But I am in 
 So far in blood that sin wiU pluck on sin." — A. iv. s. 2. 
 
 Eichard and Macbeth are both examples of promp- 
 titude of action, and also of resolve to do anything and 
 everything that may be thought by them necessary for 
 their own safety. They both plunge into crime with 
 the same object, both are moved by ambition, both 
 seek their self-preservation by the cordmittal of more 
 crime, both are imbued with the same ideas, and both 
 give expression to the feelings by which they are moved, 
 
 "For mine good, 
 AU causes shall give way; I am in blood, 
 Stept in so far, that, should I wade no more, 
 Retor'ning were as tedious as go o'er: 
 Strange things I have in head, that will to hand; 
 Which must be acted ere they may be scann'd." 
 
 Macbeth, A. in. s. 4. 
 
 The desire of Eichard to marry his brother's 
 daughter, is not fulfilled, for he is outwitted by her 
 mother. Queen Elizabeth, who listens to his warm 
 pleadings and apparently consents to grant his wish, 
 though firmly resolved to prevent it. The cunning, 
 crafty usurper, is here beaten by his own weapons, and 
 he readily falls into the snare which the queen lays for 
 
232 RTOHA.ED III. 
 
 him, when she says, 
 
 "Shall I go win my daughter to thy will? 
 I go. Write to me very shortly, 
 And you shall understand from me her mind." 
 
 The whole tragedy is full of action, but more par- 
 ticularly so in the last act ; event follows event in rapid 
 succession, and the whole of oui' faculties are awakened 
 and absorbed in the bustle and active agitation with 
 which this act is crowded. Destiny rides upon the 
 storm, and Eichard, strong in courage and in mental 
 power, striving to bend all things to his will, yields only 
 to the fate, — the inexorable. 
 
 The versification in this tragedy is one grand 
 sonorous march ; one constant flow without a break or 
 impediment. The thought, passion and imagery, are 
 in unison with each other, and the diction is most 
 appropriate to the occasion. The hand of the master is 
 traceable throughout the whole of the tragedy, and the 
 wealth of his genius has been lavished upon its 
 production. It is characterised by great ease ; there 
 is no apparent effort in its pourtrayal ; everything 
 yields to the directing influence of Shakspere's genius, 
 which from ^-st to last is truly astonishing. 
 
HENEY VIII. 
 
 This is the last of Shakspere's historic plays, and it 
 forms a worthy epilogue to his dramatic chronicle. The 
 date of its production hath long heen a disputed 
 question, but it is now currently assigned to the year 
 1605, and it was first printed in the folio of 1623. In 
 all probability it was produced at the Globe Theatre 
 in the summer season of the above mentioned year. 
 The production of this play has been placed by some 
 writers in the latter part of the reign of Ehzaboth, but 
 both external and internal evidence lean towards the 
 conclusion, that it was . written and produced in the 
 early part of the reign of James I. The internal 
 evidence, viz. the allusions to the "aged princess" 
 and the prophecy by Cranmer have been said to be 
 interpolations by Ben Jonson, in 1613, yet no evidence 
 has been advanced in support of the assertion. These 
 so called interpolatory passages are not in any way in , 
 the manner of the learned Ben ; they are quite distinct 
 from his style, and this fact, in itself, ought to destroy 
 his claim to be the author. The allusions to the king 
 contained in the speech of Cranmer are not personal 
 allusions to the character of James, but to the character 
 of his government, which sought to " make new 
 
234" HENET Till. 
 
 nations " as evidenced by their attempts at the coloniza- 
 tion of Virginia. This was a movement in which James 
 took an especial interest, and more particularly in 
 relation to this important settlement, and the poet 
 without undue flattery might ascribe to the king, through 
 his executive, the power "to make new nations." 
 The speech is in the last scene of the play and its whole 
 tenour, for the glories of the reign of Queen Bess are 
 promised to be continued to her successor, goeth to 
 support the position that the play was not produced 
 earlier than the year 1605, and that it belongeth to the 
 reign of the pedaQt James. After speaking of the 
 greatness of the virgin queen, the liaes proceed 
 
 " Nor shall tliis peace sleep with her : But as when 
 The bird of wonder dies, the maiden phoenix, 
 Her ashes new create another heir, 
 As g^eat in admiration as herself; 
 So shall she leave her blessedness to one, 
 (When heaven shall call her from this clond of darkness,) 
 Who, from the sacred ashes of her honour, 
 Shall star-like rise, as great in fame as she was, 
 And so stand fix'd : Peace, plenty, love, truth, terror. 
 That were the servants to this chosen infant. 
 Shall then be his, and like a vine grow to him ; 
 Wherever the bright sun of heaven shall shine, 
 His honour, and the greatness of his name, 
 Shall be, and make new nations : He shall flourish. 
 And like a mountain cedar, reach his branches 
 To all the plains about him : — Our children's children 
 Shall see this, and bless heayen." 
 
 This play is not " merry " nor " wanton," but " sad, 
 high, and working ;" full of " noble scenes," magnifi- 
 cence, pomp and " earthly glory .^' In its pages once more 
 we see the old nobility of the realm attempting to play the 
 most important part in the nation's welfare. The Duke 
 of Buckingham is chief among his companions, who 
 
HENET Till. • ' 235 
 
 pride themselves upon their blood, and not only is he 
 versed in matters of the sword, but he is learned, wise 
 in council, with an expansive mind, the result of much 
 culture and observation. Unfortunately Buckingham 
 is impetuous, he cannot hide the hostility he feels 
 against Wolsey, who galls him by the mode and manner 
 he acts towards the court, " without the privity of the 
 king." Buckingham is " high reaching,^' and in con- 
 junction with his fellows wishes . to restore the old 
 authority of the nobles. He most thoroughly detests 
 the upstart Wolsey, whom he calls a " butcher's cur," 
 and regrets he has " not the power to muzzle him." 
 Both Buckingham and Norfolk know full well the nature 
 of the crafty cardinal, his " maUce and his potency," 
 and also that "he is revengeful," prone to mischief and 
 " able to perform it." They are fully cognizant of the 
 deeds of this " keech," "this holy fox or wolf," for his 
 acts hold in check these blood-proud peers. The " am- 
 bitious finger" of the " count cardinal," is the thorn 
 that is constantly pricking the sides of haughty 
 Buckingham and his brother peers, who are vexed that 
 "a beggar look, outworth's a noble's blood.'^ The 
 wisdom and better judgement of Buckingham is 
 overborne by the spleen and vexation which he feels 
 against Wolsey, and knowing that he has " gone to the 
 king," resolves "to follow and outstare him." This he 
 does not do, for "the fire of passion " with which' he is 
 moved is allayed by the reasons of Norfolk, and he then 
 unfolds his plan whereby he means to ensnare this 
 " top-proud fellow," but unfortunately for himself, by 
 " practice and device," he is caught in his own net. 
 The death scene of Buckingham is one of the most 
 beautiful and affecting ever written by Shakspere. 
 
236 HENEY Tin. 
 
 The character of Wolsey is essentially true to his- 
 tory. He is the architect of his own fortunes, winning 
 his way by the force of his intellectual faculties, and by 
 his powers of dissimulation, to the annoyance, disgust 
 and hate of the nobles of the court, who do not fail to 
 porceivo the fostering care he receives at the hands of 
 the king. He is full of ambition, and by "the force of 
 his own merit makes his way," and wins "a place next 
 to the king." He is full of pride, covetousness and love 
 of pomp, altogether incompatible with his sacred calling, 
 and the practice of these unholy matters ultimately lead 
 to his overthrow. He is devoid of truth, in love only 
 with himself, for the king's honour he "does buy and 
 sell" as he pleases "for his own advantage." He is a 
 practiser of dissimulation, under which mask he con- 
 ceals the malice of his nature. He is munificent to his 
 servants, all of whom he strives to advance, for in them 
 he has the willing tools to carry out his will. He bribes 
 the confidants of his foes, and buys them over to serve 
 his own purposes. He is full of rapacity and oppresses 
 the commons with enormous taxes, which he greedily 
 consumes and devotes to promote his own desires. By 
 the practice of deceit he obtains credit for actions not 
 his own, but belonging to others, for when the commons 
 refuse to pay the levy and remonstrate with the king, 
 who on- hearing of their case, directs a free pardon to aU 
 that have denied "the force of this commission," 
 Wolsey true to his craft, teUs his secretary, 
 
 "let it be nois'd 
 That tLrougli our intercession this revokement 
 And pardon comes." 
 
 He is opposed to the nobility, from the fact, that he is 
 despised by them, and he strives all that he can to 
 
HENRT Tin. 237 
 
 subjugate them to his will. He seeks to destroy them 
 as a class, not that the country will be served by such 
 destruction, but that he will have less opponents and 
 enemies in his path. The leader of the nobles he 
 overthrows, by the evidence of his surveyor, whom he 
 hath corrupted and bought over to his purpose; nor 
 does this act content him, for he attempts to lord it 
 over his sovereign, to whom he stands so deeply 
 indebted. The highest ecclesiastical appointments in 
 the land he seizes on, becomes the papal legate and 
 ultimately aims at the Papal chair. Though of mean 
 descent himself, he thoroughly despises all others of 
 that class, especially if they possess the virtues of 
 humanity, for though a priest, he holds that man "a 
 fool" who "would needs be virtuous." He allows none 
 to think for themselves, and he will only be surrounded 
 by those that foUow his desires, yield to his wishes and 
 obey his commands; and these must not be of the 
 common class, for he will "not be griped by meaner 
 persons.''' The object and purpose for which he 
 amasses great riches, "the piles of wealth he hath 
 accumulated," were to "fee'^ his "friends in Kome," 
 so that he might "gain the Popedom,-" and thus be 
 higher than his natural sovereign. This ambitious 
 desire, engenders mental blindness, and which leads 
 firstly to his failure relative to being Pope, and it also 
 leads to his final overthrow, for his "contrary proceed- 
 ings'^ in the matter of "the divorce" become "unfolded." 
 He would that Hemy should marry "the French king's 
 sister," "no Anne Bullen for him."' He knows that she 
 is "well deserving'" but she is a "spleeny Lutheran," 
 "not wholesome to the Papal cause," and he would 
 "his holiness" should "stay the judgment of the 
 
238 HENBX Till. 
 
 divorce." Thia pereistency of opposition to the gratifi- 
 cation of the king's amorous desires, awakens Henry's 
 hostility to the cardinal, whose spell is out, for "the 
 king hath found" . 
 
 " Matter against Mm that for ever mars 
 The honey of his language." 
 
 With all his knowledge of the king's character there 
 was this one particular phase, viz., Henry's sexual 
 passion, that he had entirely overlooked. He had never 
 accurately weighed nor discriminated the strength of 
 this passion, and this oversight, coupled with his 
 neghgence, in putting his "main secret in the packet" 
 be "sent the king,' causes Henry to break with him, 
 deposing him from bis high estate, commanding him to 
 surrender the great seal to his direst foes, and confines 
 him "to Asher house." True to his nature, which is 
 made up of dissimulation, craft and hypocrisy, he quits 
 the scene doling forth precepts of virtue which he 
 himself did never act upon during his life, and punished 
 those who had been fools enough so to do. 
 
 The character of thq king, as drawn by Shakspere, is 
 not particularly flattering to the amorous monarch, 
 whose dalliance with the fair sex partook more of the 
 animal portion of his nature than any development of 
 the feeling of love. There is no attempt to disguise the 
 "tyranny together working with his jealousness," the 
 cruelty and the sensuality of Henry's conduct, though 
 such deeds and actions are not prominently thrust 
 forward. The self-will and passion of which the king 
 was to a great extent a slave, are faithfully pourtrayed, 
 BO is also his intense implacability, for it is said and 
 justly so that Henry never forgave an enemy; for he 
 
HENEX Till. 239 
 
 was entirely "void and. empty from any dram of 
 mercy."* ' 
 
 'Of Anne Bullen we see but little. There is not 
 
 much of her character ' pourtrayed, . but sufficient is 
 
 shown to intimate that she is fully capable of bearing 
 
 the honours which are being thrust upon her, and 
 
 though she "would not be a queen for all the world," 
 
 she is well able to play a queenly part. She bears "a 
 
 gentle mind," and beauty and. honour in her are 
 
 mingled. Her chastity and good humour are thoroughly 
 
 exhibited and her completeness of mind and feature 
 
 is of that high class, that 
 
 " She will outstrip all praise 
 And make it halt behind her."f 
 
 The character of Katharine is charmingly and truth- 
 fully drawn. She is full of womanly goodness and virtue, 
 true in her love for her husband and full of gentleness. 
 " She bore a mind that envy could not but call fair," 
 and those with whom she associated and by whom she 
 was surrounded are of the most virtuous kind, so that 
 her bitterest enemy can say nought against her virtue. 
 Her husband she loves "witb that excellence that 
 angel's love good men with," "loved him next Heaven," 
 and almost forgot her " prayers to content him." She 
 readily obeys his wishes and desires with but one 
 exception, and that is the attempt to divorce her from 
 him with whom she had been mated for twenty years. 
 This arouses her womanly nature and she fails not 
 to castigate the arrogant cardinal, refusing "to be 
 judged by him," and rising in her queenly dignity, 
 declines "ever more upon this business" to "make 
 
 * Merchant of Venice, Act iv. Sc. 1. t The Tempest, Act iv. Sc. 1. 
 
240 HENEY Till. 
 
 appearance in any of their courts." The death scene 
 of the outraged Katharine is particularly beautiful, for 
 in her last moments, full of true gentleness, she forgives 
 her bitter enemy, Wolsey, fails not to wish joy and 
 happiness to her late husband, hoping "that he may 
 for ever flourish," and bids Oapucius that he will "tell 
 him, in death I blessed him, for so I will." 
 
SHAKSPEREAN JOTTINGS. 
 
 Cymbeline. — The date of the production of this grand 
 romantic drama, for it can hardly be called a tragedy, 
 cannot be said to be definitely ascertained. It was seen 
 by Dr. S. Forman, the astrologer, either in 1610 or 1611, 
 for he has recorded the witnessing thereof, though he does 
 not name the day nor the theatre at which it was played. 
 The historical materials were found in Holinshed, who 
 mentions the names of the king and his sons, but no 
 trace of their adventures in the drama «an be found in 
 the pages of the historian. The fortunes of Posthumus 
 and Imogen, the wager, the treachery of lachimo, were 
 probably derived from the Decameron of Boccaccio, 
 though the position of the characters who lay the wager 
 is different in degree. The old dry bones of others, in 
 this instance, Shakspere has endowed with vitality, and 
 enriched with the charms and graces of his own 
 consummate powers. Cloten is an original portraiture, 
 made up of contradictions, full of self-conceit, which is 
 mainly engendered by his position and the gross flattery 
 of the courtiers by whom he is surrounded. He is tainted 
 with brutality and folly, yet not lacking all the quahties 
 of humanity, for at times he displays a manliness of 
 nature, which fails not to stamp him as one of human 
 kind. 
 
 Q 
 
** 
 242 SHAKSPEEEAN J0TTINQ8. 
 
 Both the young princes, the brothers of Imogen, are 
 distinguished by their simple-hearted goodness, and this 
 is most fully developed by the training which they 
 receive from Belarius, by whom they are brought up in 
 a knowledge and love of the natural and true. The 
 yearnings for a wider field of distinction which they feel, 
 are but promises of true wisdom and greatness, which 
 is ultimately fulfilled. Their mixed character is excel- 
 lently and faithfully described by their aged counsellor, 
 when he says they are " the sweetest companions in the 
 
 world," and 
 
 ,- " They are gentle, 
 
 As zephyrs, blowing bolow the violet, 
 Not wagging hia sweet head j and yet as rough, 
 Their royal blood onchaf d, as the md'st wind. 
 That by the top doth take the mountain pine 
 And make him stoop to the vale." 
 
 They are apparently both alike in character, yet they 
 are not truly so, for the elder Guiderius is the most im- 
 petuous and passionate of the two, and upbraids the 
 more gentle Arviragus, who uses richer and more flow- 
 ing language, for playing " in wench-like words with 
 that which is so serious." 
 
 The character of the queen, " a crafty devil who coins 
 plots hourly," is the blackest among the whole of the 
 women ever drawn by Shakspere. She is remarkable 
 for her coolness, her cunning, her hypocrisy and her 
 treachery, being truly " a woman that bears all down 
 with hor brain." She lusteth for power, in which 
 everything is included, and her desire for Cloten to 
 marry Imogen, proceeds from her love of dominion. In 
 the development of her wickedness, she cares not who 
 may suffer, so that she obtains her desire. She needs 
 no broker when practising her deceit ; her "cunning 
 
BHAKSPEEEAN JOTTINGS. 243 
 
 sin " can " cover itself withal," for she can attempt 
 slowly to poison her husband, yet watching him with 
 the tenderest care. She too is not lacking in her 
 expression of friendship for Imogen and Posthumus, 
 well knowing that by her pleading for the persecuted 
 pair, she wUl be increasing the king's anger against 
 them, and thus under the guise of friendship which " is 
 constant in all other things," she will be " tickling 
 where she wounds." She can wet her " cheeks with 
 artificial tears," and frame her " face to all occasions." 
 Her brain is "more busy than the labouring spider,"/ 
 and her "serpent heart/' is "hid with a flowering: 
 face." 
 
 Imogeii is one of the most charming, artless and 
 lovely female characters that Shakepere ever produced. 
 There is none other more exquisite among the whole 
 range of his creations. She is all grace, it is not that 
 she is beautiful in form and featm-e, her true beauty 
 consists in her purity, her tenderness, hor artlessnoss 
 and the depth of her love,, all these are finely conceived 
 and most beautifully displayed. Her outward quaUties 
 charm each beholder, but her inward qualities are of a 
 loftier character, and it is these which give her the 
 power by which she acts. The purity of her nature 
 instinctively divines what is the true course of action, 
 and she is never at fault in the mode she adopts. The 
 language which she uses is of the truest hature, true to 
 her divine purity, and the love which she has for Pos- 
 thumus. Love with Imogen is aU in all. She is aU 
 love, it is her ev^ry^day thought, in fact, her religion. 
 Her character is made up of love ; and her husband, "a 
 man worth any woman," is the "bright particular star" 
 upon whom her love is concentrated. With her 
 
2M SHAKSPEEEAN JOTTINGS. 
 
 goeth the aifections of the audience, who are moved in 
 like manner with herself. With her sorrows they 
 sympathise and in her joys they equally participate. 
 She is the centre round which the lesser characters all 
 revolve, for they all serve to heighten by the force of 
 contrast, the purity of her thoughts, and to developo 
 the charming grace, innocence and truthfulness of her 
 nature. 
 
 The Winter's Tale. — This comedy was first printed 
 in the folio of 1623, and the first record of its production 
 is an entry in the manuscript diary of Dr. S. Forman, 
 which exists in the Ashmoleura museum. It was played 
 at the Globe Theatre on the 16th of May, 1611. It was 
 the custom for the king's players, to which company of 
 actors Shakspere belonged, during the spring and 
 summer season to play at such theatres as the Globe, 
 which was open to the sky, and in the winter they 
 played at the private house in Blaekfriars. Greene's 
 History of Dorastes and Fawnia served Shakspere to 
 found this play upon, and his version is a vast improve- 
 ment upon the work of Gre,(^no. Though ho has 
 adopted many of the incidents of Greeners story, in no 
 way has Shakspere adopted his language. The termi- 
 nation is also different, displaying more judgment and 
 evincing more power than is found in the novel. The 
 characters of Autolycus, Antignous, the Clown Shepherd 
 and Paulina have been added, and are entirely the 
 creations of Shakspere, for no characters of their class 
 are found in Greene's story. 
 
 Some writers have wished to place this comedy among 
 the historical works of Shakspere, but it may more truly 
 
SHAKSPEEEAN JOTTINGS. 245 
 
 be termed a tragic-comic pastoral, for the oracle of Delphi 
 decides the tragic catastrophe and prepares the reader for 
 the happy conclusion of the piece. The jealousy of 
 Leontes is of a totally different kind to that of Othello's. 
 Leontes' passion proceeds from within, while Othello's 
 passion is brought about by the whisperings of the 
 crafty lago. Othello is not prone to jealousy, the 
 subtlety of his ancient and the outward circumstances 
 by which he is surrounded, evoke the passion with him, 
 ■while Leontes has no outward incidents to serve this 
 purpose ; things external do not give rise to nor develope 
 this passion with him, for he is naturally affected by it, 
 owing to the suspiciousness of his nature. Leontes is 
 the dupe of his own. imagination, Othello is the dupe of 
 lago, who fans into a flame all the elements of mistrust 
 with which he has sought to surround the gentle, 
 loving Desdemona. Hermione is thoroughly conscious 
 of her own innocence, strong in her moral power, full 
 of dignity, grace, honour and duty. She is calmness 
 personified when she learns the worst, and this calmness 
 is the result of her innocence and of her belief in the 
 ultimate triumph of her cause. She defends her 
 honour most eloquently in words, yet still more bo by 
 her acts. Perdita possesses fuUy the nature of her 
 mother. She has the same calm dignity, the same 
 repose, the same resignation and power of self-denial. 
 Both mentally and in her physical aspect, she ia a true 
 copy of the wronged Hermione. 
 
 Kino Leae. — This tragedy was produced at the 
 Globe Theatre in the spi'ing of 1605. There was an 
 elder play which was entered on the stationers' books in 
 
246 SHAKSPEBEAN JOTXIITQS. 
 
 1594, and there is no doubt that Shakspere derived 
 Bome hints therefrom, particularly in relation to the 
 character of the faithful, enduring Kent. Prom Holina- 
 hed's chronicles the chief materials have been derived, 
 though the catastrophe of Shakspere's tragedy differs 
 from all others. Three editions in 4to. were published 
 in 1608 of Lear, which is one of the greatest of all 
 tragedies, for it is composed only of tragic elements. 
 Though complex in its arrangements, it is faultless. 
 Parental love and filial ingratitude are the leading 
 feeUngs of the tragedy, and out of their development is 
 evolved all the results of the tragedy. The fool is a 
 splendid set-off to the sorrows of the fallen monarch, 
 and he also serves to render those sorrows more im- 
 pressive than they otherwise would be. The introduc- 
 tion of the fool is a wonderful example of the dramatic 
 skill of Shakspere, and shows how clearly and completely 
 he was versed in true dramatic construction. 
 
 The character of Cordelia is one of the most beauti- 
 ful of the great master's creations, and one of the most 
 difficult for any actress to represent. The actress who 
 may undertake this part must be perfectly natural, she 
 must not descend to any of the trickeries of her art, sho 
 must be gentle, kind, innocent and affectionate, "of all 
 compounded,'" with a sweetness in her articulation, for 
 the voice of Cordelia is "ever soft, gentle and low; an 
 excellent thing in woman." Cordelia is fuU of truth 
 and constancy to the truth, and she cannot heave her 
 heart into her mouth, for the truth "nor more nor less" 
 will she speak, whatever be the cost. Her "fortunes" 
 may be marred, yet gently though firmly she says in 
 answer to her father's query, "I love you and most 
 honour you," and then adds 
 
SHAKSPHEEAN JOTTINGS. 24^ 
 
 "Why have my sisters husbands, if they say 
 They love you all P Haply, when I shall wed, 
 That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry 
 Half my love with him, half my care and duty : 
 Sure, I shall never marry like my sisters, 
 To love my father all. 
 
 Loar. But goes thy heart with this ? 
 
 Oor, Ay, my good lord. 
 
 Lea/r, So young, and so untender? 
 
 Cor. So young, my lord, and true." 
 
 The wrong which her father enacts towards her 
 when he disclaims all "paternal Care," holds her "as a 
 stranger" to his heart, and leaves her "shorn of her 
 fair proportion," does not ruffle her gentleness,^ for when 
 saying farewell to her sisters she bids them "use well 
 our father." When she learns of the ill treatment 
 which her father had received from her "two sisters," 
 it does not move her anger, she does not indulge in 
 rage, there is no "hideous rashness" in her nature; 
 what they have done only moves her "patience .and 
 sorrow," and in a true womanly way she yields to her 
 • feelitigs, and then resolves that nothing shall bo wanting 
 on her part to save her father, for above everything 
 rises her filial feeling. She has no thought for, herself, 
 "no blown ambition incites her to arms," on the con- 
 trary she is moved to action by "love, dear love," "our 
 aged father's right," and by her natural hate of all 
 wrong doing. She would that the "kind gods" should 
 cure the "great breach" and wind up "the untuned 
 and jarring senses" of her dear father. She knows by 
 whom this ill result has been wrought, but in the 
 tenderness and gentleness of her nature she does not 
 revile her "two sisters," who have caused the "violent 
 harms" in the "reverence" due to her father, and she 
 fervently hopes that the "medicine" of "restoration" 
 
248 SHAKSPEUEAN JOTTINGS. 
 
 will hang upon her lips, so that by kissing she may 
 repair the wrong. Though defeated in battle, her 
 object is accomplished, for she feels and knows that she 
 has saved her father from "the rack of this rough 
 world.'* 
 
 Twelfth Night. — In 1601 this comedy was pro- 
 duced, and on the second of February 1602, it was acted 
 on the celebration of the Eeaders' Feast at the Middle 
 Temple. It was first printed in the folio of 1623. Two 
 Italian plays, composed upon a novel of Bandello^s, are 
 said to be the source from whence Shakspere drew the 
 serious incidents of his comedy, and there is some 
 slight resemblance between the story told in each play 
 and that told by Shakspere. It was however not from 
 these plays that Shakspere derived such incidents which 
 he has used, when they suited his purpose, but from an 
 old translation of the novel itself. There is no affinity 
 of language or ideas to bo found in the Italian plays, 
 nor in the novel, when compared with Shakspere's 
 comedy, who has drawn entirely upon his own intermin- 
 able resources for the poetry and diction, of this, ono 
 of his grandest character plays. The comic characters. 
 Sir Toby Belch, Sir Andrew Aguecheek, Malvolio, and 
 others are pure creations of the poet. Self esteem is 
 the chief feature of Malvolio, whose character is truly 
 described by Maria, when she says, he is "an affectioned 
 ass, that cons state without book, and utters it by great 
 swaths : the best persuaded of himself, so crammed, he 
 thinks, with excellencies." This description is also 
 confirmed by his mistress, the lady Olivia. Festo is 
 the opposite of the conceited steward, for he possesses 
 
SUAKSPEEEAN JOTTINGS. 249 
 
 all the good qualities which Malvolio affects, and only 
 affects, while he pretends not to possess them. 
 
 A MiDSUMMEB Night's Deeam. — This comedy was 
 produced in the year 1595, and was first printed and 
 pubUshed in the year 1600, by Thomas Fisher, a second 
 edition printed by James Eoberts, was published in the 
 same year. The custom, "more honoured in the breach 
 than in the observance," of charging Shakspere with 
 deriving his plots from the works of other authors, hath 
 not been failed to be made, in regard to this truly 
 poetical play, though in this instance, it is not 
 sustainable, for no work is yet known from whence 
 Shakspere could have derived his plot. It has been 
 said that Chaucer's Knight's tale and Plutarch's Life of 
 Theseus, furnished hints that Shakspere profited by, 
 but in neither of the named sources, is there the 
 slightest trace of a similar story to that which is told 
 in the comedy. There cannot be a doubt that the 
 source of this comedy, is to be attributed to Shaks- 
 pere's great knowledge of folk lore, his complete 
 acquaintance with the superstitions of the day, and from 
 his own luxuriant imagination sprang the conception 
 and the development of this lovely dream, which is a 
 splendid poetic effort of a great poet's brain. The 
 characters are all finely and truly conceived, and the' 
 language of each is consonant with the character. 
 Throughout the whole of the comedy, there is a vein of 
 the highest poetry that charms both the reader and the 
 spectator, for it is equally fitted for the closet or the 
 stage, and it is as delicate in its conception as it is 
 beautiful in its execution. Bully Bottom, the weaver, 
 is full of self-esteem.. He never doubts his own 
 
250 SHAK8PEEEAN JOTTIKOS. 
 
 capacity, and he would undertake all and everybody's 
 business, so confident is he in his own powers. His 
 colleague Quince, and the rest of the "rude mechan- 
 icals,'* in conjunction with himself, form a rough 
 contrast to the delicate play of the fairies. The 
 material world is here opposed to the ideal; the 
 unimaginative to that which is most fanciful, and this 
 contrast serves to give a prominence to both. 
 
 Much Ado About Nothing. — In 1600, this comedy 
 was first published in 4to., and it was not again printed 
 till it appeared in the folio of 1623. The serious portion 
 of the plot of this comedy, it is said, may be traced in 
 the 6th canto of Ariosto's Orlando Furioso and in 
 Spenser's Faery Queen, book 2, canto 4, but the chief 
 portion of its plot, was in all probability derived from a 
 novel by Bandello, to which Shakspere has added, 
 however, the principal parts. The gentle Hero, a jewel 
 so rare that "the world" cannot "buy such;" Claudio 
 who hath so "borne himself beyond the promise of his 
 age," and the exquisite word-talkers, witty and pointed, 
 Beatrice and Benedick, are Shakspere's own coinage. 
 The comic portions of the comedy are entirely the work 
 of Shakspere, the inimitable Dogberry, and his choice 
 companions of the watch, the worthies Verges, Sexton 
 and Seaeole are his own, and deeply we stand indebted 
 to the bard for those exquisite creations. Even the 
 incidents of the original tale he has varied at his 
 pleasure, and made them more subservient to the 
 dramatic interest. The characters of Beatrice and 
 Benedick are foreshadowed in his Biron and Eosaline, 
 the latter being his,, early attempt, the former, the 
 
SHAKSPEEEAN JOTTINSS. 251 
 
 finished production of his master mind. In the first 
 two acts, silentless and retirement are the distinguishing 
 features in the character of Hero, and she thinks with 
 Claudio that 
 
 "Silence is the perfectest herald of joy." 
 
 The talkativeness of Beatrice and Benedick are the 
 necessary contrast to the reticence of Hero and Claudio, 
 without which the dramatic composition would not be 
 effective nor true. 
 
 The Taming of the Sheew. — In 1594, a comedy was 
 published having for its title, "A Pleasant conceited His- 
 torie caUed the Taming of a Shrew," but, it bears little or 
 no relation to Shakspere's comedy, which was first pro- 
 duced in 1596, and first printed in the folio of 1623. 
 The name of the author of the elder play is not known, 
 and the comedy is a very poor production, lacking humour 
 and character. Shakspere made but little use of the in- 
 cidents contained in the work of his predecessor, nor did 
 he derive any of his characterization from the elder play. 
 The life and spirit which marks Shakspere's " Taming 
 of the Shrew," is entirely his own, for there is nought 
 approaching it in the crude effort of the earlier damatist, 
 neither is the poetry of the same nature, the diction of 
 Shakspere being immeasurably superior. 
 
 The character of Petruchio, is admirably conceived 
 and most completely developed. The great knowledge 
 which Shakspere possessed of human nature, has made 
 him thoroughly consistent in his drawing of Petruchio, 
 who possesses humour, is coarse, unscrupulous, fuU of 
 determination, resolved to have his own way, and 
 possesses a strong admiration of, and a still stronger 
 
252 SnAKSPEBEAN JOTTINGS. 
 
 desire to possess " wealth," which is the " burden " of 
 his " wooing dance." If " wealthily " he wives, then 
 "happily'^ he marries, and when told of one that is 
 "rich, and very rich," he will have her, though she 
 were " as curst and shrewd as Socrates^ Xantippe." 
 He also has a personal liking for Katharine, his "super- 
 dainty Kate," " the prettiest Kate in Christendom," 
 which feeling takes root at the first interview and 
 gradually crops up. Tame Kate he will, to do this 
 he has resolved, and in all probability effects his pur- 
 pose more securely by this means than he would have 
 done by his hectoring blustering manner. The tamed 
 one evidently perceives, beneath the rude external, traces 
 of love, and by .those traces, though subtle, faint, and 
 indistinct, she herself is personally attracted, and thus 
 is made to own, when speaking of her sex, that she is 
 
 " aBliam'd tliat womea are so simple, 
 To offer war, where they should kneel for peace ; 
 Or seek for rule, supremacy and sway, 
 Wlien they are bound to serve, love and obey." 
 
 Antony and Cleopatba. — This tragedy was produced 
 at the commencement of the year 1C08 and was fii-st 
 printed in the folio of 1623. The materials were in all 
 probability derived from Sir Thomas North's translation 
 of Plutarch. The tragedy is written in the matured 
 style of Shakspere and the dignity and manliness of 
 Antony is preserved throughout. Though the atmos- 
 phere of the tragedy is of a sensual character, there is 
 no attempt to make it alluring. In no form or way has 
 the author made vice attractive, nor is any sympathy 
 excited for the proceedings and the fate which befalls 
 Antony and his bewitcher, the voluptuous Cleopatra. 
 
SnAKSPEBBAN JOTTINHS. 253 
 
 This tragedy ehould be read with that of Eomeo and 
 Juliet. They both treat of and relate to love, the 
 latter, being one of the purest and most perfect repre- 
 sentations of the feeling in its natural state ever 
 written ; while in Antony and Cleopatra, the mere 
 animal passion of love apart from affection, pervades 
 the whole tragedy, which rivals Lear, Hamlet, Macbeth, 
 and Othello, in the power and strength of its language, 
 in the truth of its construction and in the correctness of 
 its portraiture of character. 
 
 The Tempest. — The Tempest is a remarkable in- 
 stance of the true romantic drama. It is addressed to 
 the imaginative portion of man^s nature, and is unique 
 in its kind. The excitement of the opening scene 
 prepares the mind for everything which follows, and the 
 sympathy which we feel for the characters does not 
 proceed so much from the circumstances in which they 
 are placed, for its source can be traced within, it being 
 our sympathetic imagination that is awakened. 
 
 The character of Prospero, is marked by a strong 
 love of humankind and redolent in the practice of 
 humanity. Possessed of the power to punish those 
 whose usurpation had driven him from his throne, his 
 country and his friends, he seeks not to do so, but 
 satisfied with their penitence, he takes them back into 
 his friendship. To their evil action he opposes good 
 deeds, for malevolence he returns benevolence. 
 
 The fair Miranda is one of the most exquisite 
 creations in the whole range of the Shaksperean drama. 
 She is a fit compeer for Cordeha, Perdita and Desde- 
 mona, — one of those quiet natures whose mental worth 
 
254 SnAKSPBEEAN JOTTINGS. 
 
 is closed aa in a budj whose depth of character is 
 concealed like the fire of the diamonds, untU occasions 
 serves and reveals the strength and beauty of her inner 
 life. She is full of pity, and her training, which has 
 been without intercourse with the outer world, has 
 taught her the two virtues, modesty and pity, both of 
 which she never fails to practice. 
 
 The deeds of Prospero and the acts of the dainty 
 Ariel, whose characteristics are tenderness, speed and 
 grace, remove the drama from the world of reality, and 
 they, in conjunction with its poetic thoughts and its 
 true poetic language, create for awhile a world of fancy, 
 in which our imagination revels in the very madness of 
 pleasure and delight. 
 
 No work is known from whence Shakspere could 
 have drawn the incidents of this most charming play. 
 Prom within himself — from the vast stores of his own 
 imaginative powers, did Shakspere get both language 
 and incident of this most marvellous poem. Every- 
 thing is in harmony ; the rough manners of the boat- 
 swain are quite truthful and dramatic, they are not too 
 extravagant, and they serve as an excellent contrast to 
 the polislHid manners and expressions of the king and 
 his courtiers. 
 
 This romantic play is usually ascribed to be the 
 last of Shakspere's productions, and if so, it is a re- 
 markable instance of the vigour of his powers, and also 
 remarkable for the firm grasp which the day-dreams of 
 his youth, held of his powers in the days of their 
 maturity. 
 
 Hamlet. — The character of Hamlet is of the highest 
 type, no further refinement is scarcely possible, either 
 
SnAKBPEEBAN JOTTINGS. 255 
 
 in the cifcumstances in which he is placed, or in the 
 niceties and subtleties by which he is moved. In this 
 early work, 1588, Shakspere had learned to subordinate 
 all the characters in a drama to one, spreading one 
 feeling over the whole. This was a great advance in 
 dramatic art, and the play of Hamlet is remarkable for 
 its unity, being most excellent in its dramatic construc- 
 tion and one of the noblest poems the world has yet 
 known. 
 
 In the character of Hamlet we have the development 
 of thought instead of action. The deep-thinking of the 
 young prince prevented action, for the consequences of 
 action are aU foreshadowed in his thinking. The action 
 of the tragedy drifts towards Hamlet, instead of its 
 being a result of a course of action resolved on by the 
 young prince. 
 
 Man and his destiny is the burden of tlio tragedy of 
 Hamlet. The endless perplexities of life, its hopes and 
 fear, its melancholy, and the thoughts which "come 
 like shadow^," stand face to face with the silent, 
 immoveable and impenetrable world of destiny^ 
 
 Hamlet is the story of a life, in it is represented the 
 various phases of human existence. There would not 
 be harmony in all its parts if the grave-digging scene 
 was omitted. The picture would not be perfect; one 
 phase of humanity would be unrepresented and the 
 completeness of the work would be marred. Life is an 
 enigma, an uncertainty, and this tragedy is a develop- 
 ment of it. It teaches us a lesson and causes us to 
 accept life with its uncertainties, and shows that the 
 
256 SHAKSPEKEAlf JOTTINGS. 
 
 whole is harmonious and complete ; that nought trans- 
 pires but what contains a lesson which we should 
 profit by. 
 
 The deeper nature of Hamlet overpowers the shal- 
 lowness of Polonius. The young prince at once inter- 
 prets the character of the old courtier, and being 
 throughout a hater and detester. of falsehood, he 
 despises and contemns the fawning courtier, who has 
 been all through " his life, a foolish prating knave." 
 
 "To be, or not to be, — that is the question: — 
 Wbether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer 
 The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, 
 Or to take arms against a sea of troubles. 
 And by opposing end them?" 
 
 Shakspere has been charged by some writers with 
 being guilty of great incoherence of thought in this 
 passage, they saying, the train of reflection does not 
 take its natural or logical course. To this opinion I 
 cannot subscribe. The condition of thought sought 
 to be pourtrayed is that of doubt, and while that state 
 exists, incoherency is a result to be calculated on. It is 
 only when those doubts are satisfied, — when in fact the 
 pros and cons of th6 question have been fully argued, 
 and a clear fixity of opinion is obtained, that we can 
 expect coherence of thought. Shakspere has thus most 
 justly — because truthfully, in those lines displayed his 
 almost infinite knowledge of the action of the human 
 brain. 
 
 The character of Sir John Falstaff is one of the 
 most remarkable in the whole range of the comic drama. 
 
SHAKSPEEBAN JOTTliJas. 257 
 
 It stands by itself, independent of all other characters, 
 both in Shakspere, or any other writer. Its true 
 characterization is found in what Falstaff" says of 
 himself, the "brain of this foolish-compounded clay, 
 man, is not able to invent anything that tends to laugh- 
 ter, more than I invent or is invented on me. I am 
 not only witty in myself, but the cause of that wit is 
 in other men."* To analyse the character of Falstaff 
 in aU its fulness, would not only be difficult, but it 
 would also be unacceptable, for in the performance of 
 such an analysis, much of its comic power, which lies 
 in its unintentional wit and in its dry humour, would 
 be destroyed. There is great fancy, deep truthfulness, 
 merriment unrestrained, the choicest wit, an abundance 
 of liveliness, and an almost inexhaustible variety to be 
 found in the character of the fat knight. 
 
 Mbrootio is one of the most brilliant characters 
 that Shakspere ever created. Ho possesses a strong 
 humourous perception, and is talkative in the highest 
 degree, for he " speaks more in a minute, than he 
 will stand to in a month." His confidence in his own 
 powers is unbounded, and he was " very well beloved of 
 aU men." He is a prime jester, dashing, wordy, yet 
 not lacking meaning, and he is most sarcastic on 
 the foUies of his compeers. He is compounded of wit, 
 fancy and valour, and they are so dexterously displayed 
 in this marvellous creation, that they stamp it as one of 
 the finest specimens of the bard's power of characteri- 
 zation. Mercutio quickens the action of the tragedy, 
 and gives it a vitality which greatly heightens the 
 interest. 
 
 * Henry IV. Part ii, A. 1, s. 2. 
 
258 ' shakspehean jottings. 
 
 In a state of madness the patient knows not physical 
 Buffering, his mental powers are so coiled within, that 
 he is impervious to feeling the vicissitudes of nature, 
 The storm may. howl, the thunder may roar, yet the 
 elements disturb not, nor can they overpower the canker- 
 worm which gnaws within and which shuts out all 
 other fears, hopes and pains. In depicting insanity, 
 the wonderful truthfulness of Shakspere is pre-eminent. 
 He appears to have grasped the whole range of mental 
 phenomena without effort, and to have truly understood 
 and pourtrayed the workings of insanity. The madness 
 of Lear and Ophelia is singularly true to nature, and its 
 truthfulness is shown in his faultlessness of treatment. 
 Wlien the aged monarch appears, he never alludes to 
 his physical suffering, he is completely overpoworod by 
 mental sorrows, and he has no recollections of peril, 
 nor has he any feeling of pain. This disregard of 
 physical suffering is also shown in the Queen's descrip- 
 tion of the death of Ophelia. The fair girl floats down 
 the stream undisturbed by her impending fate, 
 
 "Her clothes spread wide, 
 And mormaid like, awhile thoy bore her up : 
 Wliicli tuuo, bIlo oiiauutod snatcLos of old tunes, 
 Ab one incapable of her own distress." 
 
 The gloom of winter, the joy of spring, the warmth 
 of summer, and the ripeness of autumn, pass away, for 
 such is the course of nature's action, yet they each 
 leave behind their silent lessons, full of meaning for the 
 benefit of humanity. The trees and flowers bloom, and 
 have their being, and though like the seasons, their 
 lessons are silent, yet are they pregnant with meaning 
 to the true observer of nature. He fails not to read the 
 
SHAKSPEBEAN JOTTINGS. 259 
 
 lessons which they teach, and he garners it up with 
 true -wiBdom, till broadcast he scatters his knowledge to 
 the advantage of humanity. Shakspere is a brilliant 
 example of this power to read and understand the silent 
 lessons of nature. He neglected nothing that he came 
 in contact with; all things he observed; saving and 
 hoarding up all he saw and heard, illustrating his own 
 words, "Let us cast away nothing, for we may live to 
 have need of such a verse."* 
 
 Shakspere had no respect for hypocrisy, the "ser- 
 pent heart hid with a flowering face."- With nerveless 
 hand he exposes "the goodly apple rotten at the core.'^ 
 The evil results which flow from the practice of hypoc- 
 risy, the bane of political and social life, he unsparingly 
 points out. The "holy leer,^' the "woK in sheep's 
 array," he most unflinchingly condemns, and he 
 unmasks the hypocrite tongue which speaks without 
 the heart. He never holds back nor fails to apply the 
 lash to this most "cunning sin," which is but " a sort of 
 homage that vice pays to virtue." Bigotry had no 
 terrors for him: free .in spirit and endowed with 
 unlimited charity, he vindicated the rights of man and 
 woman both fearlessly and lovingly. Shakspere studied 
 both men, nature and books, and fortunately for 
 humanity, he read them all with advantage. 
 
 Shaespeeb's Morality. — ^The morality of Shakspere 
 is built upon nature and reason, independent of all 
 religious considerations, for as Bacon banished religion 
 from science, so Shakspere has done the like in the 
 
 * Troilus and Cressida, Acliv. a. 4. 
 
260 BHAKSPEEEAN JOTTINGS. " 
 
 development of his art. He never attempts at preaching 
 morals by direct precept, for he seems to write without 
 moral aim, thus showing the highest development of 
 his art, which consists, not in direct teaching, but by 
 living, acting impulses, by illustration and example. 
 The relation of Shakspere's poetry to morality and 
 moral influence upon men, is most perfect, and nothing 
 higher has been asked of poetry than that which 
 Shakspere rendered. One noble impulse does more 
 towards the ennobling of men, than a hundred good 
 precepts, and a bad passion is best subdued by the 
 excitement of a better. Shakspere differs from most 
 other poets, especially those , of modern times. His 
 powers of self-command were unquestionably of tho 
 highest order, and the strong development of this power 
 prevented him from committing the fault so prevalent 
 among many poets, of inventing passions and bestowing 
 upon them such attractions, so that we are apt to be led 
 morally astray. The constant aim of the Shaksperean 
 drama is the pm-ification of the passions, and this is the 
 true aim and action of tragedy. Fear and sympathy 
 are both excited, and this excitement serves to purify 
 these and similar emotions of the brain. Shakspere's 
 poetry is moral; he took up life as a whole, and he, into 
 himself absorbed more of the moral element of life than 
 any other poet has ever done. 
 
 Shakspere's Eeligion. — No definite religious creed 
 can be assigned to Shakspere. Both Protestant and 
 CathoUc claim him as their own, yet he belongeth to 
 neither. His religion could not be bounded by any 
 church, for it was like his genius, universal. The 
 
SHAKBPEEEAN JOTTINGS. 261 
 
 clearness of Shakspere^s perceptive and the great 
 strength of his reflective powers, prevented him from 
 doing homage to any form of superstition, whether 
 coarse or relined. He acknowledged no particular form 
 of faith, but lived in the belief of the goodness of 
 humanity, of which he was, and is, the most powerful 
 exponent. He set aside all religious consideration and 
 took a complete secular view of life,* pointing out the 
 consequences of immoral acts, and above all things 
 doth ho extol the love of humanity, as the true law 
 for the guidance of human kind, the love of whom 
 pervades the whole of his works, and it is the develop- 
 ment of this love, that marks him as the poet of 
 humanity, which is the sentiment of sympathy univer- 
 sally applied. When we seek to elevate the human 
 race, when we experience pleasure in seeing and striving 
 to make others happy, and when our feelings compel us 
 to share their pains and sorrows, we are carrying out 
 the law of humanity. All this is constantly taught by 
 the poet, and this teaching fails not to beget that due 
 reverence and love for the author which can never die. 
 To the lines of Bhakspere can we turn for guidance and 
 solace, resting assured there is more real knowledge of 
 humanity and a truer love of humankind to be found 
 in his pages, than in any of the sermons ever delivered 
 
 * Men and women are made to drain the cup of misery to the droRs ; 
 but as from the depths into which they have fallen, by llieir own weakness 
 or the wickedness of others, the poet never raises them in violation of the 
 inexorable laws of nature, so neither does he " put a new song" into their 
 mouths, or any expression of confidence In God's righteous dealing. With 
 as precise and hard a hand as Bacon did he sunder the celestial from the 
 terrestial globe, the things of earth from those of heaven ; resolutely and 
 sternly refusing to look beyond the limits of this world, to borrow comfort, 
 in suffering and injustice, from the life to come." — The Quarterly Eemew^ 
 No. 261, p. 46. 
 
202 SHAKSPEBEAN JOTTINGS. 
 
 by clerical men, or in any other volume that has ever 
 been written, the bible not excepted. 
 
 Shakspbre's CoNTEMPOEAaiES. — Coleridge speaks of 
 Shakspere's contemporaries, as "giants," but this 
 opinion, I conceive, to be an erroneous one. Not any of 
 the dramatic poets of Shakspere's time, nor any of the 
 those that preceded or followed him, can in any way be 
 compared with the incomparable master. Marlowe, 
 evidently the greatest among the contemporaries of 
 Shakspere, is not of lofty stature. The great besetting 
 fault among the dramatists of the period, was a love 
 of the horrible, and in the display of this coarse 
 taste, Marlowe, Massinger, and most others revelled. 
 No single work can be adduced which approaches 
 the great master either in power, invention, skill of 
 handling, sweetness and knowledge of humanity. It is 
 only in isolated scenes, or in scattered passages, that 
 any of Shakspere's contemporaries has reached the 
 Shaksperean height, and that rarely. No instance can 
 be furnished of any of their flights of power or grandeur 
 being sustained beyond mere passages. Their works 
 have been, and still are considerably over-rated. This 
 is demonstrated in the fact, that none of their phrases 
 have ever become familiar in our mouths " as household 
 words," like those of Shakspere. Not a passage, not 
 a line, not a single happy expression took root among 
 those with whom they lived, nor have they took root 
 with any generation since their time. This failing to 
 secure a lasting place in the common utterances of 
 the English people, affirms the position, that they did 
 not possess those gigantic proportions which have been 
 BO frequently claimed for and ascribed to them. The 
 
SHAKSPEEEAN JOTTINGS. 263 
 
 position which their works now occupy, being chiefly 
 known by the detached specimens strung together by 
 Charles Lamb, is another important proof of the weak- 
 ness of their powers, and at the same time, a strong 
 argument against their giant developments. 
 
 Shakspere as an Actor. — Upon the merits of 
 Shakspere as an actor, thefe has existed, and still does 
 exist, a wide difference of opinion. Many have held that 
 he was but an inferior actor, playing but parts of a 
 lesser degree, and in no instance rising higher than the 
 part of "Adam," in "As You Like It," or the "Ghost" 
 in the tragedy of Hamlet. Both these parts are really 
 of a higher character than most persons generally 
 assign, they require a more than ordinary amount of 
 ability to properly sustain them, and it is but seldom 
 upon the modern stage that they are well played. 
 Tho " Ghost" in Hamlot, is a part which only Shak- 
 spere could have played, for none but himself could 
 have conceived and understood the mode and manner 
 in which a spirit could and would talk. Eowe, 
 who edited an edition of Shakspere's works, 1709, says^ 
 he never rose higher than the part of the Ghost in 
 Hamlet, while Chettle says, he was " excellent in the 
 quality he professeth.-" By Wright we are told that "he 
 was a much better poet than player," and by pleasant 
 gossiping Aubrey, we are told he did "act exceeding 
 well." Stage traditions, however give him a much, 
 higher position as an actor, for he is said to have been 
 the original Mercutio in "Komeo and Juliet," a charac- 
 ter, which judging from his works, is an outline of his 
 own, embracing the fire, energy, sweetness, and all the 
 
264 SHAKSPEEBAN JOTTINaS. 
 
 other attributes of his genius. It is also said of him, 
 
 that Queen Elizabeth being present at the playhouse, 
 
 so engrossed was Shakspere in the kingly part he was 
 
 personating, that he failed to notice the presence of her 
 
 majesty, who dropped her glove to excite his attention, 
 
 upon which he immediately picked it up, adding the 
 
 following extempore lines to his speech : — 
 
 "And though now bent on this high embassy, 
 Yot stoop we to take up our cousin's glove." 
 
 Whatever may have been his merits as an actor, the 
 success he attained, affords pretty good proof that his po- 
 sition was a high one. Most of his contemporaries spoke 
 of his success, and in most of his pieces it is known, that 
 he played parts. Had he have b'oon but an indifferent 
 actor, he would not have been attached to the king's com- 
 pany of players, performing before the court of James I. 
 If Downes, who was the prompter of the day, can be 
 relied upon, Taylor and Lowon, two of the original actors 
 in Shakspere^s pieces, were instructed in their various 
 parts by the poet himself, and those instructions were 
 afterwards handed down to Betterton, by Sir W. 
 Davenant, who attributed Betterton's success in the 
 parts of Henry the Eighth and Hamlet, in a great 
 measure to those instructions. These circumstances, 
 coupled with Hamlet's advice to the players, warrants 
 the conclusion, that Shakspere, was as great in practice 
 as he was perfect in theory. 
 
 Shaksperb's Birthday. — It is most remarkable, yet 
 no more remarkable than true, that no public recog- 
 nition has yet taken place in acknowledgment of the 
 greatness of the genius of Shakspere, and the influence 
 his works have had in the formation of the national 
 
BHA.K8PEEEAN J0TTIN8B. 265 
 
 character. Our progress as a nation, is in a great 
 measure, owing to the works of the bard of Stratford, 
 who taught that the common good is the highest aim, 
 and the only one for the activity of man to be directed 
 to. The world is the great school in which mankind 
 must be tested, and those only can be perfect, who have 
 been "tried and tutored.''' Possessing a world-wide 
 reputation, "the best among the rarest of good ones,"v 
 his name is not held in that respect and honour in his 
 own country, that it deserves to be. His works are 
 "familiar in our mouths as household words;" they 
 impregnate the ordinary conversation of the day, and 
 his thoughts direct, mould and form the thoughts and 
 manners of our time. In Germany, his natal day is 
 celebrated with great rejoicings. The literati of that 
 nation devote their intellectual energies to the develop- 
 ment of his works, and numerous are the essays which 
 are published, as a rule, on the 23rd of April. Much 
 feasting is also hold in celebration of his name, while 
 in England, with the exception of the annual dinner at 
 Stratford-upon-Avon, no rejoicing is held in general 
 recognition of the "myriad-minded poet." It is to be 
 regretted that this should be so; it is also to be regretted 
 that our people should be wanting in this respect, for 
 "how poor an instrument may do a noble deed," and 
 what deed could be nobler than paying honour to him, 
 who hath conferred greatness and honour upon our 
 country. It is much to be regretted that our people 
 pay their external devotions, more to those who have 
 conquered with the sword, than those who have con- 
 quered with the pen, — to those who have directed 
 armies and achieved victoi;ies upon the battle-field, than 
 to those whose works have built up and formed the 
 
266 SHAESFEBBAN JOTXINOB. 
 
 character of the people of this great nation, foremost 
 among whom standeth the name of William Shakspere, 
 whose fame, "folds in this orb of the earth." It is to 
 be hoped that in the progress of society — and it can 
 really be af&rmed that society has progressed, intellec- 
 tually and morally, and is still progressing, that the 
 time is not far distant, when the people of the United 
 Kingdom will not fail to observe the birthday of 
 Shakspere as a national festival, for on the people must 
 this task devolve. Those in high places, and those who 
 are possessed of ample means, set no example, nor 
 take any steps to accomplish such a purpose. Prom 
 "poor men's cottages,'- not "princes^ palaces,", must the 
 public expression of thankfulness come, for the manifold 
 advantages which have accrued to our nation, from the 
 productions of the incomparable swan of Avon. 
 
 Shakspeee's Non-obseevance of the Unities. — 
 Owing to Shakspere's non-observance of the unities of 
 time and place — though he strictly observes unity of 
 feeling, the true law of unity — he has been called by 
 many critics (i barbarian, wanting art ; a wild, untutored 
 genius, without learning, poor in scholarship and void 
 of a knowledge of classic lore. This class of critics, 
 agreeing with nothing but what coincided with the 
 peculiarities of their education, contended for the full 
 observances of the unities, from the simple reason that 
 the Greek dramatists always observed them. They 
 entirely lost sight of the circumstances attending the 
 introduction of the unities, and the nature of the Greek 
 drama, when contrasted with that of Shakspere. The 
 introduction of the unities was an innovation equally as 
 
SHAKSPBRHAN JOTTINGS. 267 
 
 great as Shakspere's disregard of them. The Greek 
 dramatists introduced that which was in unison with 
 their feelings and in keeping with the spirit of their 
 stage. In their dramas, they appealed chiefly to the 
 reason of their hearers through their outward senses, 
 inasmuch as they supposed an ideal state, instead of 
 referring to an existing reality. On the other hand, 
 the Shaksperean drama appeals to the imagination; to 
 that power which looking within, contemplates our 
 inward nature and its relation to humanity. 
 
 Though the productions of the Greek dramatists 
 contain many passages of surpassing beauty, yet there 
 is a want of dramatic power. This want arises from 
 their seeking to represent men as they should be, while 
 the drama being a poem accoihmodated to action, its 
 objsct and aim is to represent the phases of human life ; 
 to display the motives of human action, and to show 
 the effects of various circumstances upon the human 
 race; to unravel the pages of old time's mighty book, 
 and to unmask the human character with all its follies 
 and vices, its hopes and sorrows, its varied aspirations, 
 its meanness and its greatness, and thus teaching a 
 lesson of great moral worth. 
 
 For Shakspere to have preserved the unities of time 
 and place in his dramas, he must have introduced long 
 speeches, describing events, such speeches being equiva- 
 lent to the chorus of the ancients. Had he have done 
 this, -instead of the presence of character and the 
 realization of the event, we should have had a wondrous 
 amount of word-painting, which in itself would have 
 overwhelmed the progress of the drama. For Shaks- 
 pere to have strictly followed the unities of time and 
 place, he could not have shown Macbeth upon the heath 
 
268 SHAKSPEEEAN JOTTINGS. 
 
 with the weird-sisters, in his castle, his interview with 
 his wife, the murder of Duncan, his coronation, and his 
 death, years after. He could only have shown but one 
 phase of Macbeth's character, and one action during the 
 day. This would have borne no more relation to the 
 true Macbeth, than does the classic drama of antiquity 
 bear to the real life of the world, in which storms and 
 calms, clouds and sunshine, misery and happiness are 
 seen commingling together. 
 
 The Period op Shakspebe. — It was a remarkable 
 period, that, in which the poot Shalcsporo was born ; 
 remarkable not only with regard to our own country, 
 but also to the other nations of Europe. The exigencies 
 of the time required great men, and they came in 
 all their varied phases, adding strength to the mentality 
 of their own age and force to the character of the 
 nation to which they belonged. The external and 
 internal circumstances of our nation at this time, 
 were of an extraordinary character, and the quality 
 of the men, both mentally and physically, who 
 enacted their parts, was fully commensurate with the 
 requirements of the age. During the fifty-two years 
 that Shakspere moved and had his being upon 
 this earth, the number of great men in all walks of 
 literature, in the arts and in the scientific world was 
 truly astojlishing. Such a combination of talent, such 
 an array of genius was never before witnessed, nor 
 can any other fifty-two years' of the world's history 
 hardly furnish forth a parallel. No period of our own 
 history, either preceding or following this time, can 
 
SHAKSPEKEAN JOTTINGS. 2G9 
 
 present such a glorious array of great and wise men, 
 whose works redound to the honour of our native land ; 
 for leaving out the lesser lights which flourished during 
 those days, have we not Bacon for our philosopher; 
 Burleigh for our statesman ; Shakspere and Spenser for 
 our poets ; Drake, Frobisher, Davis, Howard and Gren- 
 ville, for our admirals ; Gresham for our merchant ; 
 Andrews, Hall, and Hooper, for our theologians ; and 
 Enolles, Speed and Stow, for our historians. 
 
 On the continent, among painters who have achieved 
 a world wide reputation, there existed coeval with 
 Shakspere, Titian, the master of colour ; Annibal 
 Carracci, he who painted the Three Maries ; Eembrandt 
 the painter of contrast, of deep shadows and strong 
 lights ; Cuyp, whose delightful landscapes with drowsy 
 cattle are the. pride of fenny Holland; Claude, the 
 ethereal, the limner of sunlight and beauty ; Salvator 
 Eosa, ho of the wild and terrible, whose dark caves 
 and darker men are so full of picturosquo beauty ; 
 Zurbani Henera, the master of the great Velasquez, 
 and others whose works remain memorials of their 
 love of truth and beauty. To particularise the great 
 painters who came into the world and went out of it, 
 and others who flourished during the Shaksperean 
 period, would be a task of some length ; sufQcient to 
 mention the names of Teniers, the elder, Tintoretto, 
 Paul Veronese, Nicolas Poussin, Spagnoletto, Vandyke, 
 Snyders, Eeni Guido, and Abraham Bloemart. 
 
 In the world of astronomy we have a trinity of 
 giants in the names of Tycho Brahe, Kepler and Galileo 
 Galilei. Descartes, the eminent philosopher, whose 
 works created a revolution in the world of thought, 
 flourished during this period. Tasso, the poet, — he, 
 
270 SHAKSPEEEAN JOTTINGS. 
 
 whose immortal song of Jerusalem Delivered, has filled 
 the world with delight, and Montaigne, the great 
 essayist, were contemporary ; so was Eizzio, Camoens, 
 the Portugese poetj author of the Lysiad, Lope de Vega, 
 the prolific dramatist of Spain, and Calderon, the 
 eminent Spanish poet, of whom Schlegel says, "a poet, 
 if ever man deserved that name," was co-existent with 
 the " sweet swan of Avon." 
 
 In directing our attention to this period, whether 
 we confipe our view "to our own country or extend 
 it to the continent of Europe, we cannot fail to perceive 
 its greatness. The immense activity which was dis- 
 played in the mental world, the rude shocks which 
 existing notions roeoived, the upheaving of the religious 
 element, and the planting and culture of the right 
 of private judgment in those days, presents points of 
 such a forcible character, that they will be remembered 
 "to the last syllable of recorded time." The state 
 of English society during this period, was of a very 
 peculiar nature, and Shakspere, as evidenced by his 
 works, was thoroughly acquainted with and understood 
 the age, which was essentially dramatic. "In set 
 speeches, in conversation, in grave state papers, the 
 mythical and the legendary were mixed up with the 
 historical and the present, as if all were alike real, 
 and all intimately blended with one another. The vivid 
 imaginations of men supplied the connecting links and 
 brought the picture home to the mind, instead of setting 
 it off at greater distance, as is the tendency of modern 
 criticism to do. The common ground of all was the 
 supposed humanity of all ; varying, indeed, according to 
 time, climate, circumstances, but in all essentials one 
 
SHAE8PEEBAN JOTTINGS. ^71 
 
 and the same with themselves and those around them."* 
 Filled -with a love of humanity, wherever found, Shak- 
 spere failed not to respect the popular will, and his 
 great knowledge and foresight taught him that this was 
 a gradually extending power. Though not whoUy de- 
 spising the royal prerogative, he felt, and he wrote 
 what he felt, that it must gradually decline before the 
 growth of popular opinion. 
 
 The power of feudahsm all but expired with our 
 great civil wars, which resulted in the throne of 
 England being occupied by the House of Tudor, under 
 whose supremacy, the English character became whoUy 
 freed from the evil consequences of feudal influence and 
 the papal authority. The spirit of enterprise, one of 
 the strong characteristics of the English nation, de- 
 veloped itself with marvellous rapidity. The industrial 
 power of the English people began to be nurtured and 
 soon made itself felt and acknowledged. The outward 
 power of the nation gradually expanded and many of 
 the internal obstacles to trade and commerce were 
 removed. 
 
 Our allegiance to Eome which had been partially 
 thrown off in the reign of the sensual Henry VIH., was 
 not completed tUl the reign of his daughter Eliza- 
 beth : nor was the English power consolidated till 
 the Spanish nation under the direction of its fanatical 
 and murderous sovereign, PhUip, in its religious. zeal 
 and bigotted fury, thought to conquer this isle and 
 restore it to the dominancy of the papal Pontiff. This 
 inconsiderate act awoke the energies of the English 
 people; brought into operation the latent power of 
 
 * The Quarterly Review, No. 261, p. 41. 
 
272 SHA.KSPEEEAN JOTTINGS, 
 
 the nation, and afforded the sublime spectacle of a 
 whole people rising to do^battle for their hearths, their 
 homes, their country, and their creed. Such an instance 
 was not lost sight of by our bard, for proudly he sings 
 
 of this 
 
 " Eden, of this demi-paradise, 
 This precious stone set in the silver sea ;" 
 
 and, exulting in the results produced by English valour 
 and English skill upon the so-called invincible armada 
 of Spain, exclaims : 
 
 " Come the three corners of the world in arms, 
 And we shall shock them. Nought shall piake ns me, 
 If England to itself do rest but true." * 
 
 • King John, Aoi v. s. 7. 
 
 J. WEBB, PEINTEE, CAMBBIDQE. 
 
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