Chapter X (1)

OBSERVATIONS ON _ROMEO AND JULIET_; ON _THE TAMING OF THE
SHREW_; ON _THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA_; ON _KING RICHARD
THE THIRD_; ON _KING RICHARD THE SECOND_; ON _KING HENRY THE
FOURTH, PARTS I. & II._; ON _THE MERCHANT OF VENICE_, AND
ON _HAMLET_—DISSERTATION ON THE _AGENCY_ OF _SPIRITS_ AND
_APPARITIONS_, AND ON THE _GHOST_ IN _HAMLET_.

In endeavouring to ascertain the chronological series of our author's plays, we must ever hold in mind, that, in general, nothing more than _a choice of probabilities_ is before us, and that, whilst weighing their preponderancy, the slightest additional circumstance, so equally are they sometimes balanced, may turn the scale. It appears to us, that an occurrence of this kind will be found to point out, more accurately than hitherto, the precise period to which the _first_ sketch of the following tragedy may be ascribed.

7. ROMEO AND JULIET: 1593. The passage in this play on which the commentators have chiefly relied for the establishment of their respective dates, runs thus:—

"_Nurse._ Even or odd, of all days in the year,
Come Lammas-eve at night, shall she (Juliet) be _fourteen_.
That shall she, marry; I remember it well.
'Tis since _the earthquake_ now _eleven years_;
And she was _wean'd_,—I never shall forget it,—
For then she could _stand alone_; nay, by the rood,
She could have _run_ and _waddled_ all about."[356:A]

Building on Shakspeare's usual custom of alluding to the events of his own time, and transferring them to the scene and period of the piece on which he happened to be engaged, Mr. Tyrwhitt with much probability conjectured, that the poet, in these lines, had in view the earthquake which, according to Stowe[357:A] and Gabriel Harvey, took place in England on the 6th of April, 1580; but then, relying, unfortunately too much, on the computation of the good nurse, he hastily concludes, that _Romeo and Juliet_, or a part of it at least, was written in 1591.[357:B]

Mr. Malone, after admitting the inference of Mr. Tyrwhitt, adds another conjecture, that the foundation of this play might be laid in 1591, and finished at a subsequent period[357:C], which period he has assigned in his chronology to the year 1595.[357:D]

Lastly, Mr. Chalmers, principally because Shakspeare appears to have borrowed some imagery in the fifth act, from _Daniel's Complaint of Rosamond_, which was entered at Stationers' Hall on the 4th of February, 1592, has ascribed the first sketch of _Romeo and Juliet_ to the spring-time of the same year.[357:E]

Now, adopting the opinion of Mr. Tyrwhitt as to Shakspeare's reference to the earthquake of 1580, a little attention to the lines which the poet has put into the month of his garrulous nurse, will convince us that these gentlemen are alike mistaken in their chronological calculations.

The nurse in the first place tells us, that Juliet was within little more than a fortnight of being fourteen years old, an assertion in which she could not be incorrect, as it is corroborated by Lady Capulet, who thinks her daughter, in consequence of this age, fit for marriage. In the next place she informs us that Juliet was weaned on the day of the earthquake, and as she could then stand and run alone, we must conceive her to have been at this period at least a twelvemonth old; and thirdly, and immediately afterwards we are told, with a contradiction which assigns to Juliet but the age of twelve,—

"'Tis since the earthquake now eleven years."

There can be no doubt, therefore, that this miscalculation of _eleven_ for _thirteen_ years, was intended as a characteristic feature of the superannuated nurse, and that, assuming the era of 1580 as the epoch meant to be conveyed in the allusion to the earthquake at Verona, the composition of _Romeo and Juliet_ must be allotted, not to the years 1591, 1592, or 1595, but to the year 1593.

It appears somewhat singular, indeed, that Mr. Malone, contrary to his usual custom, should have given a place in his Chronology, not to the _first sketch_ of this play, but to a _supposed completion_ of it in 1595; more especially when we find, from his own words[358:A], that this, like several other dramas of our bard, was gradually and successively improved, and that, though first printed in 1597, it was not filled up and completed as we now have it, until 1599, when a second edition was published.

Some surprise also must be excited by the reasons which induced Mr. Chalmers to date the first sketch of this tragedy in the spring of 1592. Of these the first, he remarks, "is plainly an allusion to the Faerie Queene, the three first books of which were published in 1590; and which was continually present in our poet's mind; Mercutio, in his airy and satiric speech, cries out,—

"O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the fairies midwife; and she comes,
In shape no bigger than aggat stone
On the fore-finger of an alderman:"[358:B]

forgetting, that between the _popular fairies_, the _tiny elves_, of Shakspeare, and the _allegorical fairies_ of Spenser, there is not the smallest similarity, not even a point in contact. The second, drawn from the imitation of Daniel, has been noticed above, and might with as much, if not more probability be assigned for its date in 1593 as in the year preceding.

There is much reason to suppose, from a late communication by Mr. Haslewood, that this play was not altogether founded on Arthur Broke's "Tragicall Historye of Romeus and Juliet," but partly on a _theatrical exhibition_ of the same story which had taken place anterior to 1562; for in a copy of Broke's poem of this date in the Collection of the Rev. H. White, of the Close, Lichfield, occurs an address "To the Reader," not found in Mr. Capell's impression of 1562, and omitted in the edition of 1587, which closes with the following curious piece of information:—"_Though I saw_," observes Broke, speaking in reference to his story, "_the same argument lately set foorth on the stage with more commendation, then I can looke for_: (_being there much better set forth then I have or can dooe_) yet the _same matter_ penned as it is, may serve to _lyke good effect_, if the readers do brynge with them _lyke good myndes_, to consider it, which hath the more incouraged me to publishe it, suche as it is."[359:A]

Here we find three important circumstances announced: that a play on this subject had, previous to 1562, been _set forth with no little preparation_; that it contained the _same argument_ and _matter_ with the Tragical History, and that it had been _well received_ and productive of a _good effect_! Thirty years, consequently, before Shakspeare's tragedy appeared, had the stage been familiar with this pathetic tale.[359:B]

The play, therefore, as well as the metrical history of Broke, must have departed, in its catastrophe, from the story of Luigi da Porta in which Juliet awakens from her trance before the death of Romeo. It is probable also that the play misled the English translator, and both Shakspeare; for it is remarkable that Broke, who pretends to translate from Bandello, has deserted his supposed original, which, with regard to the denouement, as in every thing else, precisely copies Da Porta, who, it would seem, had the honour of improving on a preceding writer by the introduction of this novel and affecting incident.

"The origin of Shakspeare's _Romeo and Juliet_," observes Mr. Dunlop, "has generally been referred to the Giuletta of Luigi da Porta. Of this tale Mr. Douce has attempted to trace the origin as far back as the Greek romance by Xenophon Ephesius; but when it is considered that this work was not published in the lifetime of Luigi da Porta, I do not think the resemblance so strong as to induce us to believe that it was seen by that novelist. His Giuletta is evidently borrowed from the thirty-second novel of Massucio, which must unquestionably be regarded as the ultimate origin of the celebrated drama of Shakspeare, though it has escaped, as far as I know, the notice of his numerous commentators. In the story of Massucio, a young gentleman, who resided in Sienna, is privately married by a friar to a lady of the same place, of whom he was deeply enamoured. Mariotto, the husband, is forced to fly from his country, on account of having killed one of his fellow-citizens in a squabble in the streets. An interview takes place between him and his wife before the separation. After the departure of Mariotto, Giannozza, the bride, is pressed by her friends to marry: she discloses her perplexing situation to the friar, by whom the nuptial ceremony had been performed. He gives her a soporific powder, which she drinks dissolved in water; and the effect of this narcotic is so strong that she is believed to be dead by her friends, and interred according to custom. The accounts of her death reach her husband in Alexandria, whither he had fled, before the arrival of a special messenger, who had been dispatched by the friar to acquaint him with the real posture of affairs. Mariotto forthwith returns in despair to his own country, and proceeds to lament over the tomb of his bride. Before this time she had recovered from her lethargy, and had set out for Alexandria in quest of her husband, who meanwhile is apprehended and executed for the murder he had formerly committed. Giannozza, finding he was not in Egypt, returns to Sienna, and, learning his unhappy fate, retires to a convent, where she soon after dies. The catastrophe here is different from the novel of Luigi da Porta and the drama of Shakspeare, but there is a perfect correspondence in the preliminary incidents. The tale of Massucio was written about 1470, which was long prior to the age of Luigi da Porta, who died in 1531, or of Cardinal Bembo, to whom some have attributed the greater part of the composition."[362:A]

With the exception of the incident which distinguishes the close of the story as related by Luigi da Porta, Shakspeare has worked up the materials which preceded his drama with the most astonishing effect; and by the beauty of his sentiments, the justness of his delineation, and the felicity of his language, he has drawn the most glowing, pathetic, and interesting picture of disastrous love which the world has yet contemplated.

We perceive the highest tone of enthusiasm, combined with the utmost purity, fidelity, and tenderness, pervading every stage of the intercourse between _Romeo and Juliet_: and, elevated as they are, to an almost _perfect ideal_ representation of the influence of love, so much of actual nature is interwoven with every expression of their feelings, that our sympathy irresistibly augments with the progress of the fable, and becomes at length almost overwhelming. Indeed, such is the force of the appeal which the poet makes to the heart in this bewitching drama, that, were it not relieved by the occasional intervention of lighter emotions, the effect would be truly painful; but, with his wonted fertility of resource, our author has effected this purpose in a manner, which, while it heightens by the power of contrast, at the same time diversifies the picture, and exhilarates the mind. Every hue of many-coloured life, the effervescence of hope, and the hushed repose of disappointment, the bloom of youth, and the withered aspect of age, the intoxication of rapture, and the bitterness of grief, the scintillations of wit, and the speechless agonies of despair, tears and smiles, groans and laughter, are so blended in the texture of this piece, as to produce the necessary relief, without disturbing the union and harmony of the whole, or impairing, in the smallest degree, the gradually augmenting interest which accompanies the hapless lovers to their tomb.

What, for instance, can be more opposed to each other, and to the youthful victims of the drama, than the characters of _Mercutio_, _Friar Lawrence_, and the _Nurse_; yet the brilliancy and gaiety of the first, the philosophic dignity of the second, and the humorous garrulity of the third, while they afford a welcome repose to our feelings, are essential to the developement of the plot, and to the full display of those scenes of terror and distress which alternately freeze and melt the heart, to the last syllable of this sweet and mournful tale.

Numerous as have been its relators, who has told it like our matchless bard? "It was reserved for Shakspeare," remarks Schlegel, in a tone of the finest enthusiasm, "to unite purity of heart and the glow of imagination, sweetness and dignity of manners and passionate violence, in one ideal picture. By the manner in which he has handled it, it has become a glorious song of praise on that inexpressible feeling which ennobles the soul, and gives to it its highest sublimity, and which elevates even the senses themselves into soul, and at the same time is a melancholy elegy on its frailty, from its own nature, and external circumstances; at once the deification and the burial of love. It appears here like a heavenly spark that, descending to the earth, is converted into a flash of lightning, by which mortal creatures are almost in the same moment set on fire and consumed. Whatever is most intoxicating in the odour of a southern spring, languishing in the song of the nightingale, or voluptuous in the first opening of the rose, is breathed into this poem. But even more rapidly than the earliest blossoms of youth and beauty decay, it hurries on from the first timidly-bold declaration of love and modest return, to the most unlimited passion, to an irrevocable union; then, amidst alternating storms of rapture and despair, to the death of the two lovers, who still appear enviable as their love survives them, and as by their death they have obtained a triumph over every separating power. The sweetest and the bitterest, love and hatred, festivity and dark forebodings, tender embraces and sepulchres, the fullness of life and self-annihilation, are all here brought close to each other; and all these contrasts are so blended in the harmonious and wonderful work, into a unity of impresions, that the echo which the whole leaves behind in the mind, resembles a single but endless sigh."[364:A]

8. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW: 1594. Nothing appearing to invalidate the conclusion of Mr. Malone, that this was one of our author's earliest plays, we have adhered to his chronology; for the lines quoted by Mr. Chalmers, in order to establish a posterior date,

"'Tis death for any one in Mantua
To come to Padua," &c.[364:B]

would, if there be any weight in this instance, procure a similar assignment, as to time, for the _Comedy of Errors_, where we find a like prohibition of intercourse:—

——— "If any Syracusan born
Come to the bay of Ephesus, he dies;"[364:C]

yet no one, in consequence of such a passage, has entertained an idea of ascribing this comedy to the year 1598.

The outline of the induction to this drama may be traced, as Mr. Douce observes[364:D], through many intermediate copies, to the _Sleeper Awakened_ of the Arabian Nights; but it is most probable, that the immediate source of this prelude, both to the anonymous author of the old _Taming of a Shrew_, and to Shakspeare himself, was the _story-book_ said by Warton to have been once in the possession of Collins the poet, a collection of short comic tales, "sett forth by maister Richard Edwards, mayster of her Majesties revels," in the year 1570.[364:E]

From whatever source, however, this apologue may have been directly taken, we cannot but feel highly indebted to Shakspeare for its conversion into a lesson of exquisite moral irony, while, at the same time, it unfolds his wonted richness of humour, and minute delineation of character. The whole, indeed, is conducted with such lightness and frolic spirit, with so many happy touches of risible simplicity, yet chastised by so constant an adherence to nature and verisimilitude, as to form one of the most delightful and instructive sketches.

So admirably drawn is the character of Sly, that we regret to find the interlocution of the groupe before whom the piece is supposed to be performed, has been dropped by our author after the close of the first scene of the play. Here we behold the jolly tinker nodding, and, at length, honestly exclaiming, '_Would't were done!_' and, though the integrity of the representation require, that he should finally return to his former state, the transformation, as before, being effected during his sleep, yet we hear no more of this truly comic personage; whereas in the spurious play, he is frequently introduced commenting on the scene, is carried off the stage fast asleep, and, on the termination of the drama, undergoes the necessary metamorphosis.

It would appear, therefore, either that our bard's continuation of the induction has been unaccountably lost, or that he trusted the remainder of Sly's part to the improvisatory ingenuity of the performers; or, what is more likely, that they were instructed to copy a certain portion of what had been written, for this subordinate division of the tinker's character, by the author of the elder play. Some of the observations, indeed, of Sly, as given by the writer of this previous comedy, are incompatible with the fable and _Dramatis Personæ_ of Shakspeare's production; and have, consequently, been very injudiciously introduced by Mr. Pope; but there are two passages which, with the exception of but two names, are not only accordant with our poet's prelude, but absolutely necessary to its completion. Shakspeare, as we have seen, represents Sly as nodding at the end of the first scene; and the parts of the anonymous play to which we allude, are those where the nobleman orders the sleeping tinker to be put into his own apparel again, and where he awakens in this garb, and believes the whole to have been a dream; the only alterations required in this _finale_, being the omission of the Christian appellative _Sim_, and the conversion of _Tapster_ into _Hostess_. These few lines were, most probably, those which Shakspeare selected as a necessary accompaniment to his piece, from the old drama supposed to have been written in 1590[366:A]; and these lines should be withdrawn from the notes in all the modern editions, and, though distinguished as borrowed property, should be immediately connected with the text.[366:B]

As to the play itself, the rapidity and variety of its action, the skilful connection of its double plot, and the strength and vivacity of its principal characters, must for ever ensure its popularity. There is, indeed, a depth and breadth of colouring, in its execution, a boldness and prominency of relief, which may be thought to border upon coarseness; but the result has been an effect equally powerful and interesting, though occasionally, as the subject demanded, somewhat glaring and grotesque.

_Petruchio_, _Katharina_, and _Grumio_, the most important personages of the play, are consistently supported throughout, and their peculiar features touched and brought forward with singular sharpness and spirit; the wild, fantastic humour of the first, the wayward and insolent demeanor of the second, contrasted with the meek, modest, and retired disposition of her sister, together with the inextinguishable wit and drollery of the third, form a picture, at once rich, varied, and pre-eminently diverting.

9. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA: 1595. There can be little doubt that the episode of _Felismena_, in the _Diana_ of _George of Montemayor_, was the source whence the principal part of the plot of this play has been taken; for, though the Translation of _Bartholomew Yong_, was not _published_ until 1598, it appears from the translator's "Preface to divers learned Gentlemen," that it had been completed in the year 1582; "it hath lyen by me finished," he says, "Horace's _ten and six yeeres more_," a declaration which renders it very probable, that the manuscript may have been circulated among his friends, and the more striking parts impressed upon their memory. But we are further informed, in this very preface, that a partial but excellent version of the _Diana_, had preceded his labours:—"Well might I," says Yong, "have excused these paines, if onely _Edward Paston, Esquier_, who heere and there for his own pleasure, as I understand, hath aptly turned out of Spanish into English some leaves that liked him best, had also made an absolute and complete Translation of all the Parts of _Diana_: the which, for his travell in that countrey, and great knowledge in that language, accompanied with other learned and good parts in him, had of all others, that ever I heard translate these Bookes, prooved the rarest and worthiest to be embraced." We also learn from Dr. Farmer, that the _Diana_ was translated two or three years before 1598, by one Thomas Wilson; but, he adds, "this work, I am persuaded, was never published _entirely_; perhaps some parts of it were, or the tale might have been translated by others."[367:A]

These intimations sufficiently warrant the conclusion, that Shakspeare may have become familiar with this portion of the Spanish romance, anterior to the publication of Yong's version in 1598; indeed so closely does the story of Proteus and Julia correspond with the episode of Montemayor, that Shakspeare's obligations cannot be mistaken. "He has copied the original," as Mr. Dunlop observes, "in some minute particulars, which clearly evince the source from which the drama has been derived. As for example, in the letter which Proteus addresses to Julia, her rejection of it when offered by her waiting-maid, and the device by which she afterwards attempts to procure a perusal. (Act i. sc. 2.) In several passages, indeed, the dramatist has copied the language of the pastoral."[368:A]

This play, though betraying marks of negligence and haste, especially towards its termination, is yet a most pleasing and instructive composition. There is scarcely a page of it, indeed, that is not pregnant with some just and useful maxim, and we stand amazed at the blind and tasteless decisions of Hanmer, Theobald, and Upton, who not only disputed the authenticity of this drama, but condemned it as a very inferior production.

So far are these opinions, however, from having any just foundation, that we may safely assert the peculiar style of Shakspeare to be vividly impressed on all the parts of this drama, whether serious or comic; and as to its aphoristic wealth, it may be truly said, with Dr. Johnson, that "it abounds with γνωμαι; beyond most of his plays, and few have more lines or passages, which, singly considered, are eminently beautiful."[368:B]

But besides this, justice requires of us to remark, that there is a romantic and pathetic cast, both of sentiment and character, throughout the more elevated parts of this production, which has given to them a peculiar charm. The delineation of _Julia_ in particular, from the gentleness and modesty of her disposition, the ill requital of her attachment, and the hazardous disguise which she assumes, must be confessed to excite the tenderest emotions of sympathy. This is a character, indeed, which Shakspeare has delighted to embody, and which he has further developed in the lovely and fascinating portraits of _Viola_ and _Imogen_, who, like _Julia_, forsaken or despised, are driven to the same expedients, and, deserting their native roof, perform their adventurous pilgrimages under similar modes of concealment.[369:A]

A portion also of this romantic enthusiasm has thrown an interest over the characters of _Sir Eglamour_ and _Silvia_, and evanescent as the part of the former is, we see enough of him to regret that he has not been brought more forward on the canvas. He is represented as a gentleman

"Valiant, wise, remorseful, well accomplished,"

and when Silvia, on the eve of her elopement, solicits his assistance, she thus addresses him:—

"Thyself hast loved; and I have heard thee say,
No grief did ever come so near thy heart,
As when thy lady and thy true love died,
Upon whose grave thou vow'dst pure chastity."[369:B]

Nor are the ludicrous scenes less indicative of the hand of Shakspeare, the part of Launce, which forms the chief source of mirth in this play, being supported throughout with undeviating wit and humour, and with an effect greatly superior to that of the comic dialogue of _Love's Labour's Lost_ and _The Comedy of Errors_.

Nor must we forget to remark, that the versification of the _Two Gentlemen of Verona_ is peculiarly sweet and harmonious, and very happily corresponds with the delicacy, simplicity, and tenderness of feeling which have so powerfully shed their never-failing fascination over many of its serious scenes. How exquisitely, for instance, does the rhythm of the following lines, coalesce with and expand their sentiment and imagery:—

"_Julia._ Counsel, Lucetta; gentle girl, assist me!
—————————— Tell me some good mean,
How, with my honour, I may undertake
A journey to my loving Proteus.

_Luc._ Alas! the way is wearisome and long.

_Jul._ A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary
To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps;
Much less shall she, that hath love's wings to fly,
And when the flight is made to one so dear.—

_Luc._ Better forbear, till Proteus make return.—

_Jul._ The current, that with gentle murmur glides,
Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage;
But, when his fair course is not hindered,
He makes sweet musick with the enamel'd stones,
Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge
He overtaketh in his pilgrimage;
And so by many winding nooks he strays,
With willing sport, to the wild ocean.
Then let me go, and hinder not my course:
I'll be as patient as a gentle stream,
And make a pastime of each weary step.
Till the last step have brought me to my love;
And there I'll rest, as, after much turmoil,
A blessed soul doth in Elysium."[370:A]

10. KING RICHARD THE THIRD: 1595. It is the conjecture of Mr. Malone, and by which he has been guided in his chronological arrangement, that this play, and _King Richard the Second_, were _written_, _acted_, _registered_, and _printed_ in the year 1597. That they were _registered_ and _published_ during this year, we have indisputable authority[370:B]; but that they were _written_ and _acted_ within the same period, is a supposition without any proof, and, to say the least of it, highly improbable.

Mr. Chalmers, struck by this incautious assertion, of two such plays being written, acted, and published in a few months[370:C]; reflecting that Shakspeare, impressed by the character of Glocester, in his play of _Henry the Sixth_, might be induced to resume his _national_ dramas by continuing the _Historie_ of Richard, to which he might be more immediately stimulated by his knowledge that an enterlude entitled the _Tragedie of Richard the Third_, had been exhibited in 1593, or 1594; and ingeniously surmising that _Richard the Second_ was a subsequent production, because it ushered in a distinct and concatenated series of history, has, under this view of the subject, given precedence to _Richard the Third_ in the order of composition, and assigned its origin to the year 1595.

The description of a small volume of Epigrams by John Weever, in Mr. Beloe's Anecdotes of Literature, has since confirmed the chronology of Mr. Chalmers, so far as it proves that _one_ of Shakspeare's _Richards_ had certainly been acted in 1595.

The book in question, in the collection of Mr. Comb, of Henley, and supposed to be a unique, was published in 1599, at which period, according to the date of the print of him prefixed by Cecill, the author was twenty-three years old; but Weever tells us, in some introductory stanzas, that when he wrote the poems which compose this volume, he was _not_ twenty years old; that he was one

"That twenty twelve months yet did _never know_,"

consequently, these Epigrams _must have been written in 1595_, though not printed before 1599. They exhibit the following title: "Epigrammes in the oldest Cut and newest Fashion. A twise seven Houres (in so many Weekes) Studie. No longer (like the Fashion) not unlike to continue. The first seven, John Weever.

Sit voluisse sit valuisse.

At London: printed by V. S. for Thomas Bushell, and are to be sold at his shop, at the great North doore of Paules. 1599. 12mo."

Of this collection the twenty-second Epigram of the fourth Weeke, which we have formerly had occasion to notice, and which we shall now give at length, is addressed

"AD GULIELMUM SHAKESPEARE.

Honie-Tongd Shakespeare, when I saw thine issue,
I swore Apollo got them, and none other,
Their rosie-tainted features clothed in tissue,
Some heaven-born goddesse said to be their mother.
Rose cheeckt Adonis with his amber tresses,
Faire fire-hot Venus charming him to love her,
Chaste Lucretia, virgine-like her dresses,
Proud lust-stung Tarquine seeking still to prove her,
Romeo, RICHARD, more whose names I know not,
Their sugred tongues and power attractive beauty,
Say they are saints, althogh that Sts they shew not,
For thousand vowes to them subjective dutie,
They burn in love thy children Shakspeare let them
Go we thy muse more nymphish brood beget them."[372:A]

We have no doubt that by the _Richard_ of this epigram the author meant to imply the play of _Richard the Third_, which, according to our arrangement, was the _immediately succeeding tragedy_ to _Romeo_, and may be said to have been almost promised by the poet in the two concluding scenes of the _Last Part of King Henry the Sixth_, a promise which, as we believe, was carried into execution after an interval of three years.[372:B]

The character of _Richard the Third_, which had been opened in so masterly a manner in the _Concluding Part of Henry the Sixth_, is, in this play, developed in all its horrible grandeur.

It is, in fact, the picture of a demoniacal incarnation, moulding the passions and foibles of mankind, with super-human precision, to its own iniquitous purposes. Of this isolated and peculiar state of being Richard himself seems sensible, when he declares—

"I have no brother, I am like no brother:
And this word love, which grey-beards call divine,
Be resident in men like one another,
And not in me: I am myself alone."[373:A]

From a delineation like this Milton must have caught many of the most striking features of his Satanic portrait. The same union of unmitigated depravity, and consummate intellectual energy, characterises both, and renders what would otherwise be loathsome and disgusting, an object of sublimity and shuddering admiration.

Richard, stript as he is of all the softer feelings, and all the common charities, of humanity, possessed of

"neither pity, love, nor fear,"[373:B]

and loaded with every dangerous and dreadful vice, would, were it not for his unconquerable powers of mind, be insufferably revolting. But, though insatiate in his ambition, envious, and hypocritical in his disposition, cruel, bloody, and remorseless in all his deeds, he displays such an extraordinary share of cool and determined courage, such alacrity and buoyancy of spirit, such constant self-possession, such an intuitive intimacy with the workings of the human heart, and such matchless skill in rendering them subservient to his views, as so far to subdue our detestation and abhorrence of his villany, that we, at length, contemplate this fiend in human shape with a mingled sensation of intense curiosity and grateful terror.

The task, however, which Shakspeare undertook was, in one instance, more arduous than that which Milton subsequently attempted; for, in addition to the hateful constitution of Richard's moral character, he had to contend also against the prejudices arising from personal deformity, from a figure

————————— "curtail'd of it's fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deform'd, unfinish'd, sent before it's time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up;"[374:A]

and yet, in spite of these striking personal defects, which were considered, also, as indicatory of the depravity and wickedness of his nature, the poet has contrived, through the medium of the high mental endowments just enumerated, not only to obviate disgust, but to excite extraordinary admiration.

One of the most prominent and detestable vices indeed, in Richard's character, his hypocrisy, connected, as it always is, in his person, with the most profound skill and dissimulation, has, owing to the various parts which it induces him to assume, most materially contributed to the popularity of this play, both on the stage, and in the closet. He is one who can

—— "frame his face to all occasions,"[374:B]

and accordingly appears, during the course of his career, under the contrasted forms of a subject and a monarch, a politician and a wit, a soldier and a suitor, a sinner and a saint; and in all with such apparent ease and fidelity to nature, that while to the explorer of the human mind he affords, by his penetration and address, a subject of peculiar interest and delight, he offers to the practised performer a study well calculated to call forth his fullest and finest exertions. He, therefore, whose histrionic powers are adequate to the just exhibition of this character, may be said to have attained the highest honours of his profession; and, consequently, the popularity of _Richard the Third_, notwithstanding the moral enormity of its hero, may be readily accounted for, when we recollect, that the versatile and consummate hypocrisy of the tyrant has been embodied by the talents of such masterly performers as Garrick, Kemble, Cook, and Kean.

So overwhelming and exclusive is the character of Richard, that the comparative insignificancy of all the other persons of the drama may be necessarily inferred; they are reflected to us, as it were, from his mirror, and become more or less important, and more or less developed, as he finds it necessary to act upon them; so that our estimate of their character is entirely founded on his relative conduct, through which we may very correctly appreciate their strength or weakness.

The only exception to this remark is in the person of Queen Margaret, who, apart from the agency of Richard, and dimly seen in the darkest recesses of the picture, pours forth, in union with the deep tone of this tragedy, the most dreadful curses and imprecations; with such a wild and prophetic fury, indeed, as to involve the whole scene in tenfold gloom and horror.

We have to add that the moral of this play is great and impressive. Richard, having excited a general sense of indignation, and a general desire of revenge, and, unaware of his danger from having lost, through familiarity with guilt, all idea of moral obligation, becomes at length the victim of his own enormous crimes; he falls not unvisited by the terrors of conscience, for, on the eve of danger and of death, the retribution of another world is placed before him; the spirits of those whom he had murdered, reveal the awful sentence of his fate, and his bosom heaves with the infliction of eternal torture.

11. KING RICHARD THE SECOND: 1596. Our great poet having been induced to improve and re-compose the Dramatic History of _Henry the Sixth_, and to continue the character of Gloucester to the close of his usurpation, in the drama of _Richard the Third_, very naturally, from the success which had crowned these efforts, reverted to the prior part of our national story for fresh subjects, and, led by a common principle of association, selected for the commencement of a new series of historical plays, which should form an unbroken chain with those that he had previously written, the reign of _Richard the Second_. On this account, therefore, and from the intimation of time, noticed by Mr. Chalmers, towards the conclusion of the first [376:A]act, we are led to coincide with this gentleman in assigning the composition of _Richard the Second_ to the year 1596.

Of the character of this unfortunate young prince, Shakspeare has given us a delineation in conformity with the general tone of history, but heightened by many exquisite and pathetic touches. Richard was beautiful in his person, and elegant in his manners[376:B]; affectionate, generous, and faithful in his attachments, and though intentionally neglected in his education, not defective in understanding. Accustomed, by his designing uncles, to the company of the idle and the dissipated, and to the unrestrained indulgence of his passions, we need not wonder that levity, ostentation, and prodigality, should mark his subsequent career, and should ultimately lead him to destruction.

Though the errors of his misguided youth are forcibly depicted in the drama, yet the poet has reserved his strength for the period of adversity. Richard, descending from his throne, discovers the unexpected virtues of humility, fortitude, and resignation, and becomes not only an object of love and pity, but of admiration; and there is nothing in the whole compass of our author's plays better calculated to produce, with full effect, these mingled emotions of compassion and esteem, than the passages which paint the sentiments and deportment of the fallen monarch. Patience, submission, and misery, were never more feelingly expressed than in the following lines:

"_K. Rich._ What must the king do now? Must he submit?
The king shall do it. Must he be depos'd?
The king shall be contented: Must he lose
The name of king? o'God's name, let it go:
I'll give my jewels, for a set of beads;
My gorgeous palace, for a hermitage;
My gay apparel, for an alms-man's gown:
My figur'd goblets, for a dish of wood;
My scepter, for a palmer's walking staff;
My subjects, for a pair of carved saints;
And my large kingdom for a little grave,
A little, little grave, an obscure grave:—
Or I'll be buried in the king's highway,
Some way of common trade, where subjects' feet
May hourly trample on their sovereign's head:"[377:A]

and with what an innate nobility of heart does he repress the homage of his attendants!

"Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With solemn reverence; throw away respect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty,
For you have but mistook me all this while:
I live with bread like you, feel want, taste grief,
Need friends:—Subjected thus,
How can you say to me—I am a king?"[377:B]

Nor does his conduct, in the hour of suffering and extreme humiliation, derogate from the philosophy of his sentiments. In that admirable opening of the second scene of the fifth act, where the Duke of York relates to his Duchess the entrance of Bolingbroke and Richard into London, the demeanour of the latter is thus pourtrayed:—

————————————— "Men's eyes
Did scowl on Richard; no man cried, God save him;
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home:
But dust was thrown upon his sacred head;
Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,—
His face still combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience,—
That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel'd
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarism itself have pitied him."[378:A]

In representing Richard as falling by the hand of Sir Piers of Exton, Shakspeare has followed the Chronicle of Holinshed; but there can be no doubt but this unhappy monarch either starved himself under the influence of despair, or was starved by the cruelty of his enemies. If in the account which Speed has given us of this tragedy, the most complete that we possess, the relation of Polydore Virgil be correct, nothing can be conceived more diabolical than the conduct of Henry and his agents. "His diet being served in," says that historian, "and set before him in the wonted Princely manner, hee was not suffered either to taste, or touch thereof." "Surely," adds Speed, in a manner which reflects credit on his sensibility, "hee is not a man who at the report of so exquisite a barbarisme, as Richard's enfamishment, feeles not chilling horror and detestation; what if but for a justly condemned galley-slave so dying? but how for an annointed King whose character (like that of holy orders) is indeleble?"[378:B]

Of the secondary characters of this play, "Old John of Gaunt, time-honour'd Lancaster," and his son Henry Bolingbroke, are brought forward with strict attention to the evidence of history; the chivalric spirit, and zealous integrity of the first, and the cold, artificial features of the second, being struck off with great sharpness of outline, and strength of discrimination.

12. HENRY THE FOURTH; PART THE FIRST: 1596;

13. HENRY THE FOURTH; PART THE SECOND: 1596:

That both these plays were written in the year 1596, will, we think, appear from consulting the arguments and quotations adduced by Mr. Malone to prove them the compositions of 1597 and 1598, and by Mr. Chalmers with the view of assigning them to the years 1596 and 1597; for while the _latter_ gentleman has rendered it most probable, from the allusions which he has noticed in the play itself, that the _First Part_ was written in 1596, the authorities and citations produced by the _former_, for the assignment of the _Second Part_ to the year 1598, almost necessarily refer it, strange as it may appear, with only one exception[379:A], and that totally indecisive, to the very same year which witnessed the composition of its predecessor, namely 1596! Influenced by this result, and by the observation of Dr. Johnson, that these dramas appear "to be two, only because they are too long to be one[379:B]," we have placed them under the same year, convinced, with Mr. Malone, that they could not be written _before_ 1596; and induced, from the arguments to which he, and his immediate successor in chronological research have advanced, though with a different object, to consider them as not written _after_ that period.[379:C]

The inimitable genius of Shakspeare is no where more conspicuous than in the construction of these dramas, whether we consider the serious or the comic parts. In the former, which involve occurrences of the highest interest in a national point of view, the competition, and we may say, the contrast between Percy and the Prince of Wales, is supported with unrivalled talent and discrimination. Full of a fiery and uncontrollable courage, mingled with a portion of arrogance and spleen, generous, chivalric, and open, and breathing throughout a lofty, and even sublime spirit, Hotspur appears before us a youthful model of enthusiastic and impetuous heroism.

Yet, noble and exciting as this character must be pronounced, notwithstanding the very obvious alloy of a vindictive and ungovernable temper, it is completely overshadowed by that which is attributed to the Prince of Wales; a result which may, with a perfect conviction of certainty, be ascribed to the combination of two very powerful causes,—to the rare union, in fact, of great and varied intellectual energy, with the utmost amiability of disposition. Percy has but the virtues and accomplishments of a military adventurer, for in society he is boisterous, self-willed, and unaccommodating; while Henry, to bravery equally gallant and undaunted, adds all the endearing arts of social intercourse. He is gay, witty, gentle, and good-tempered, with such a high relish for humour and frolic as to lead him, through an over-indulgence of this propensity, into numerous scenes of dissipation and idleness, and into a familiarity with persons admirably well calculated, it is true, for the gratification of the most fertile and comic imagination, but who, in every moral and useful light, are altogether worthless and degraded.

From the contaminating influence of such dangerous connections, he is rescued by the vigour of his mind, and the goodness of his heart; for, possessing a clear and unerring conception of the character of Falstaff and his associates, though he tolerate their intimacy from a reprehensible love of wit and humour, he beholds, with a consciousness of self-abasement, the depravity of their principles, and is guarded against any durable injury or impression from these dissolute companions of his sport.

The effect, however, of this temporary delusion is both in a moral and dramatic light, singularly striking; contemned and humiliated in the eyes of those who surround him, little expectancy is entertained, not even by the King himself, of any permanently vigorous or dignified conduct in his son; for though he has, more than once, exhibited himself equal to the occasion, however great, which has called him forth, he has immediately relapsed into his former wild and eccentric habits. When, therefore, annihilating the gloom which has hitherto obscured his lustre, and shaking off his profligate companions like "dew-drops from the lion's mane," he comes forward, strong in moral resolution, dignified without effort, firm without ostentation, and consistent without a sense of sacrifice, a denouement is produced, at once great, satisfactory, and splendid.[381:A]

If the serious parts of these plays, however, be powerful and characteristic, the comic portion is still more entitled to our admiration, being rich, original, and varied, in a degree unparalleled by any other writer.

There never was a character drawn, perhaps, so complete and individualized as that of Falstaff, nor one in which so many contrasted qualities are rendered subservient to the production of the highest entertainment and delight. In the compound, however, is to be found neither atrocious vices, nor any decided moral virtues; it is merely a tissue, though woven with matchless skill, of the agreeable and the disagreeable, the former so preponderating as to stamp the result with the power of imparting pleasurable emotion.

_Sensuality_, under all its forms, is the _vice_ of Falstaff; _wit_ and _gaiety_ are his _virtues_.

As to gratify his animal appetites, therefore, is the sole end and aim of his being, every faculty of his mind and body is directed exclusively to this purpose, and he is no further vicious, no further interesting and agreeable than may be necessary to the acquisition of his object. Had he succeeded but partially in the attainment of his views, and consequently by the means usually put in practice, he would have been contemptible, loathsome, and disgusting, but he has succeeded to an extent beyond all other men, and therefore by means of an extraordinary kind, and which have covered the fruition of his plans with an adventitious and even fascinating lustre.

The perfect Epicurism, in short, which he cultivates, requires for the obtention of its gratifications a multitude of brilliant and attractive qualifications; for, in order to run the full career of sensual enjoyment, associated as he was with a man of high rank, and considerable mental powers, it was necessary that he should render himself both highly acceptable and interesting, that he should assume the appearance or pretend to the possession of several virtues, and that he should be guilty of no very revolting or disgustful intemperance.

To perform this task, however, with unfailing effect, demanded, on the part of Falstaff, incessant intellectual vigour, and a perpetual command of temper, and these Shakspeare has bestowed upon him in their full plenitude. His wit is inexhaustible, his gaiety and good-humour undeviating, his address shrewd and discriminating, and, as the favourable opinion of his associates is, to a certain extent, essential to his enjoyments, he endeavours to impress the prince with confidence in his friendship and courage, his gratitude and fidelity, and to impose on his equals and inferiors a sense of his military and political importance. It is also requisite that, though an incorrigible lover of wine, of dainty fare, and of all libidinous delights, he should exhibit nothing either as the accompaniment or consequence of these pursuits, which should be beastly or loathsome; he is, therefore, never represented as in a state of intoxication, nor loaded with more infirmities than what corpulency produces; but is always himself, crafty, sprightly, selfish, and intelligent, ever ready to invent and to enjoy the sport, the revel, and the jest.

Thus constituted, his social and intellectual qualities so blending with the dissolute propensities of his nature, that the epicure, and free-booter, the whore-monger and vain-glorious boaster, lose in the composition their native deformity, Falstaff becomes the most entertaining and seductive companion that the united powers of genius, levity, and laughter have ever, in the most felicitous hour of their mirth and fancy, created for the sons of men.

Yet, dangerous as such a delineation may appear, Shakspeare, with his usual attention to the best interests of mankind, has rendered it subservient to the most striking moral effects, both as these apply to the character of Falstaff himself, and to that of his temporary patron, the Prince of Wales; for while the virtue, energy, and good sense of the latter are placed in the most striking point of view by his firm dismissal of a most fascinating and too endeared voluptuary, the permanently degrading consequences of sensuality are exhibited in their full strength during the career, and in the fate, of the former.

It is very generally found that great and splendid vices are mingled with concomitant virtues, which often ultimately lead to self-accusation, and to the salutary agonies of remorse; but he who is deeply plunged in the grovelling pursuits of appetite is too frequently lost to all sense of shame, to all feeling of integrity or conscious worth. Polluted by the meanest depravities, not only religious principle ceases to affect the mind, but every thing which contributes to honour or to grandeur in the human character is gone for ever; a catastrophe to which wit and humour, by rendering the sensualist a more self-deluded and self-satisfied being, lend the most powerful assistance.

Thus is it with Falstaff—to the last he remains the same, unrepentant, unreformed; and, though shaken off by all that is valuable or good around him, dies the very sensualist which he had lived!

We may, therefore, derive from this character as much instruction as entertainment; and, to the delight which we receive from the contemplation of a picture so rich and original, add a lesson of morality as aweful and impressive as the history of human frailty can present.

In order fully to unfold the extraordinary character of Falstaff, it was necessary to throw around him a set of familiar associates, who might, through all the privacies of domestic life, lay open his follies and knaveries, while, at the same time, they themselves contributed, in no small degree, to the amusement of the scene. How admirably the poet has succeeded in this design, the spirited and glowing sketches of Bardolph, Pistol, and Mrs. Quickly, and of Justices Shallow and Silence, will bear an ever-during testimony. Than the scenes in which the two magistrates appear, nothing can be conceived more characteristically pleasant and original. The garrulity, vanity, and knavish simplicity of Shallow; the asinine gravity of Silence when sober, and his irrepressible hilarity when tipsy; Falstaff's exquisite appreciation of their characters, and his patronage of Shallow, are presented to us with a naïveté, raciness, and completeness of conception, which it is in vain to look for elsewhere.

We have further to remark, that the _fable_ of the _Two Parts of Henry the Fourth_ is connected with peculiar skill through the intervention of the _comic_ incidents. It was essential, in fact, for the purposes of representation, that there should be a satisfactory close to each Part, while, at the same time, such a medium of communication should exist between the two, as to form a perfect whole. To effect this, the serious and the ludicrous departments of these dramas are conducted in a different way; the former exhibiting two catastrophes while the latter has but one. Thus the death of Percy in the first play, and the death of Henry the Fourth in the second, form two judicious terminations of the tragic portion, while the rich vein of comedy running through both divisions, is only bounded by the _Reformation_ of Henry the Fifth, and the _Fall_ of his vicious but facetious companion; a denouement at once natural and complete, and springing from intrinsic causes, being the sole result of firmness and penetration in the prince, and of self-delusion in the knight.

14. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE: 1597. We are inclined to prefer this date to that of 1598, in consequence of the two allusions to time noticed by Mr. Chalmers in his Chronology[385:A]; and which, as the epoch formerly fixed on by the commentators was founded merely on the fact of this play being registered on the 22d of July, 1598, a circumstance perfectly indecisive as to the period of its composition, ought consequently to possess the privilege of establishing its era.

Of the _three_ plots which constitute this very interesting drama, namely that of the _Caskets_, that of the _Bond_, and that of the _Elopement_ of Jessica, the first two appear to have formed the fable of a play entitled _The Jew_, long anterior to our author's production. "The Jew shown at the Bull," says Gosson in his _School of Abuse_, 1579, "representing the _greediness of worldly choosers_, and the _bloody minds of usurers_——these plays," says he, mentioning others at the same time, "are goode and sweete plays."[385:B]