CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XI.OBSERVATIONS ONKING JOHN; ONALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL; ONKING HENRY THE FIFTH; ONMUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING; ONAS YOU LIKE IT; ONMERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR; ONTROILUS AND CRESSIDA; ONHENRY THE EIGHTH; ONTIMON OF ATHENS; ONMEASURE FOR MEASURE; ONKING LEAR; ONCYMBELINE; ONMACBETH.—DISSERTATION ON THEPOPULAR BELIEF IN WITCHCRAFTDURING THE AGE OF SHAKSPEARE, AND ON HIS MANAGEMENT OF THIS SUPERSTITION IN THE TRAGEDY OFMACBETH.

OBSERVATIONS ONKING JOHN; ONALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL; ONKING HENRY THE FIFTH; ONMUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING; ONAS YOU LIKE IT; ONMERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR; ONTROILUS AND CRESSIDA; ONHENRY THE EIGHTH; ONTIMON OF ATHENS; ONMEASURE FOR MEASURE; ONKING LEAR; ONCYMBELINE; ONMACBETH.—DISSERTATION ON THEPOPULAR BELIEF IN WITCHCRAFTDURING THE AGE OF SHAKSPEARE, AND ON HIS MANAGEMENT OF THIS SUPERSTITION IN THE TRAGEDY OFMACBETH.

We are well aware, that, to many of our readers, the chronological discussion incident to a new arrangement, will be lamented as tedious and uninteresting; the more so, as nothing absolutely certain can be expected as the result. That this part of our subject, therefore, may be as compressed as possible, we shall, in future, be very brief in offering a determination between the decisions of the two previous chronologers, reserving a somewhat larger space for the few instances in which it may be thought necessary to deviate from both.

Of the plays enumerated by Meres, in September, 1598, only two remain to be noticed in this portion of our work, namely,King JohnandLove's Labour's Wonne:—

16.King John: 1598. Mr. Chalmers having detected some allusions in this play to the events of 1597, in addition to those which Mr. Malone had accurately referred to the preceding year, it becomes necessary, with the former of these gentlemen, to assign its production to the spring of 1598.[419:A]

IfKing John, as a whole, be not entitled to class among the very first rate compositions of our author, it can yet exhibit some scenes of superlative beauty and effect, and two characters supported with unfailing energy and consistency.

The bastard Faulconbridge, though not perhaps a very amiable personage, being somewhat too interested and worldly-minded in his conduct to excite much of our esteem, has, notwithstanding, so large a portion ofthe very spirit of Plantagenetin him, so much heroism, gaiety, and fire in his constitution, and, in spite of his vowed accommodation to the times[420:A], such an open and undaunted turn of mind, that we cannot refuse him our admiration, nor, on account of his fidelity to John, however ill-deserved, our occasional sympathy and attachment. The alacrity and intrepidity of his daring spirit are nobly supported to the very last, where we find him exerting every nerve to rouse and animate the conscience-stricken soul of the tyrant.

In the person of Lady Constance,Maternal Grief, the most interesting passion of the play, is developed in all its strength; the picture penetrates to the inmost heart, and seared must those feelings be, which can withstand so powerful an appeal; for all the emotions of the fondest affection, and the wildest despair, all the rapid transitions of anguish, and approximating phrenzy, are wrought up into the scene with a truth of conception which rivals that of nature herself.

The innocent and beauteous Arthur, rendered doubly attractive by the sweetness of his disposition and the severity of his fate, is thus described by his doating mother:—

"But thou art fair, and at thy birth, dear boy!Nature and fortune join'd to make thee great:Of Nature's gifts thou may'st with lillies boast,And with the half-blown rose."[420:B]

"But thou art fair, and at thy birth, dear boy!

Nature and fortune join'd to make thee great:

Of Nature's gifts thou may'st with lillies boast,

And with the half-blown rose."[420:B]

When he is captured, therefore, and imprisoned by John, and, consequently, sealed for destruction, who but Shakspeare could have done justice to the agonising sorrows of the parent? Her invocationto death, and her address to Pandulph, paint maternal despair with a force which no imagination can augment, and of which the tenderness and pathos have never been exceeded:—

"Death, death:—O amiable lovely death!—Come, grin on me; and I will think thou smil'st,——————————————— Misery's love,O, come to me!———— Father cardinal, 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 born.But now will canker sorrow eat my bud,And chase the native beauty from his cheek,And he 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 heavenI shall not know him: therefore never, neverMust I behold my pretty Arthur more.Pand.You hold too heinous a respect of grief.Const.He talks to me, that never had a son.K. Phi.You are as fond of grief, as of your child.Const.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 a loss as I,I could give better comfort than you do.—I will not keep this form upon my head,(Tearing off her head-dress.When there is such disorder in my wit.O lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son!My life, my joy, my food, my all the world!My widow-comfort, and my sorrow's cure!"[421:A][Exit.

"Death, death:—O amiable lovely death!—

Come, grin on me; and I will think thou smil'st,—

—————————————— Misery's love,

O, come to me!——

—— Father cardinal, 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 born.

But now will canker sorrow eat my bud,

And chase the native beauty from his cheek,

And he 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.

Pand.You hold too heinous a respect of grief.

Const.He talks to me, that never had a son.

K. Phi.You are as fond of grief, as of your child.

Const.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 a loss as I,I could give better comfort than you do.—I will not keep this form upon my head,(Tearing off her head-dress.When there is such disorder in my wit.O lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son!My life, my joy, my food, my all the world!My widow-comfort, and my sorrow's cure!"[421:A][Exit.

Const.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 a loss as I,

I could give better comfort than you do.—

I will not keep this form upon my head,

(Tearing off her head-dress.

When there is such disorder in my wit.

O lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son!

My life, my joy, my food, my all the world!

My widow-comfort, and my sorrow's cure!"[421:A][Exit.

Independent of the scenes which unfold the striking characters of Constance and Faulconbridge, there are two others in this play whichmay vie with any thing that Shakspeare has produced; namely, the scene between John and Hubert, and that between Hubert and Arthur. The former, where the usurper obscurely intimates to Hubert his bloody wishes, is conducted in so masterly a manner, that we behold the dark and turbulent soul of John lying naked before us in all its deformity, and shrinking with fear even from the enunciation of its own vile purpose; "it is one of the scenes," as Mr. Steevens has well observed, "to which may be promised a lasting commendation. Art could add little to its perfection; and time itself can take nothing from its beauties."[422:A]

The scene with Hubert and the executioners, where the hapless Arthur supplicates for mercy, almost lacerates the heart itself; and is only rendered supportable by the tender and alleviating impression which the sweet innocence and artless eloquence of the poor child fix with indelible influence on the mind. Well may it be said, in the language of our poet, that he who can behold this scene without the gushing tribute of a tear,

"Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils;—Let no such man be trusted."

"Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils;—

Let no such man be trusted."

As for the character of John, which, from its meanness and imbecillity, seems not well calculated for dramatic representation, Shakspeare has contrived, towards the close of the drama, to excite in his behalf some degree of interest and commiseration; especially in the dying scene, where the fallen monarch, in answer to the enquiry of his son as to the state of his feelings, mournfully exclaims,—

"Poison'd,—ill fare;—dead, forsook, cast off."

17.All's Well that Ends Well: 1598. There does not appear any sufficient reason for altering the date assigned to this play by Mr. Malone, whom we have, therefore, followed in preference to Mr. Chalmers, who has fixed on the succeeding year; a decision towhich we have been particularly induced, independent of other circumstances, by the apparent notice of this drama by Meres, under the title ofLove's Labour's Wonne, an appellation which very accurately applies to this, but to no other of our author's productions with any similar degree of pertinency. We have reason, therefore, to conclude, as nothing has hitherto been brought forward to invalidate the assumption, that Meres's title was the original designation of this comedy, and was intended by the poet as a counter-title toLove's Labour's Lost. What induced him to dismiss the first, and to adopt the present proverbial appellation, cannot positively be ascertained; but the probability is, as Mr. Malone has remarked, that the alteration was suggested in consequence of the adage itself being found in the body of the play.[423:A]

The noblest character in this comedy, which, though founded on a story somewhat too improbable, abounds both in interest and entertainment, is the good oldCountess of Rousillon. Shakspeare seems to have drawn this portraitcon amore, and we figure to ourselves for this amiable woman, a countenance beaming with dignity, sweetness, and sensibility, emanations from a heart which had ever responded to the impulses of love and charity. In short, her maternal affection for the gentle Helen, her piety, sound sense, and candour, call for our warmest reverence and esteem, which accompany her to the close of the representation, and follow her departure with regret.[423:B]

Helen, the romantic, the love-dejected Helen, must excite in every feeling bosom a high degree of sympathy; patient suffering in the female sex, especially when resulting from ill-requited attachment, and united with modesty and beauty, cannot but be an object of interest and commiseration, and, in the instance before us, these are admirably blended in

————————— "a maid too virtuousFor the contempt of empire,"

————————— "a maid too virtuous

For the contempt of empire,"

but who, unfortunately, has to struggle against the prejudices of birth, rank, and unfeeling pride, in the very man who is the object of her idolatry, and who, even after the most sacred of bonds should have cemented their destiny, flies with scorn from her embraces.

If in the infancy of her passion the error of indiscretion be attributable to Helen, how is it atoned for by the most engaging humility, by the most bewitching tenderness of heart: "Be not offended," she tells her noble patroness,

"Be not offended; for it hurts not him,That he is lov'd of me: I follow him notBy any token of presumptuous suit;Nor would I have him, till I do deserve him;Yet never know how that desert should be———————————— thus, Indian-like,Religious in mine error, I adoreThe sun, that looks upon his worshipper,But knows of him no more."[424:A]

"Be not offended; for it hurts not him,

That he is lov'd of me: I follow him not

By any token of presumptuous suit;

Nor would I have him, till I do deserve him;

Yet never know how that desert should be—

——————————— thus, Indian-like,

Religious in mine error, I adore

The sun, that looks upon his worshipper,

But knows of him no more."[424:A]

But when the wife of Bertram, with a resignation and self-devotedness worthy of the highest praise, she deserts the house of her mother-in-law, knowing that whilst she is sheltered there her husband will not return, how does she, becoming thus an unprotected wanderer, a pilgrimbare-foot plodding the cold groundfor him who has contemned her, rise to the tone of exalted truth and heroism!

—————————— "Poor lord! is't IThat chase thee from thy country, and exposeThose tender limbs of thine to the eventOf the none-sparing war? and is it IThat drive thee from the sportive court, where thouWast shot at with fair eyes, to be the markOf smoky muskets?—————————— No, come thou home, Rousillon:———————————— I will be gone:My being it is, that holds thee hence:Shall I stay here to do't? no, no, althoughThe air of paradise did fan the house,And angels offic'd all: I will be gone;That pitiful rumour may report my flight,To consolate thine ear. Come, night,—For, with the dark, poor thief, I'll steal away."[425:A]

—————————— "Poor lord! is't I

That chase thee from thy country, and expose

Those tender limbs of thine to the event

Of the none-sparing war? and is it I

That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou

Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark

Of smoky muskets?——

———————— No, come thou home, Rousillon:—

——————————— I will be gone:

My being it is, that holds thee hence:

Shall I stay here to do't? no, no, although

The air of paradise did fan the house,

And angels offic'd all: I will be gone;

That pitiful rumour may report my flight,

To consolate thine ear. Come, night,—

For, with the dark, poor thief, I'll steal away."[425:A]

It was necessary, in order to place the character of Helen in its most interesting point of view, that Bertram should be represented as arrogant, profligate, and unfeeling; a coxcomb who to family-consequence hesitates not to sacrifice all that is manly, just, and honourable. The picture is but too true to nature, and, since the poet found such a delineation essential to the construction of his story, he has very properly taken care, though Bertram, out of tenderness to the Countess and Helena, meets not the punishment he merits, that nothing in mitigation of his folly should be produced.

To the comic portion of this drama too much praise can scarcely be given; it is singularly rich in all that characterises the wit, the drollery, and the humour of Shakspeare. The Clown is the rival of Touchstone inAs You Like It; and Parolles, in the power of exciting laughter and ludicrous enjoyment, is only secondary to Falstaff.

18.King Henry the Fifth: 1599. The chorus at the commencement of the fifth act, and the silence of Meres, too plainly point out the era of the composition of this play, to admit of any alteration depending on the bare supposition of subsequent interpolation, or on allusions too vague and general to afford any specific application.

No character has been pourtrayed more at length by our poet than that of Henry the Fifth, for we trace him acting a prominent part through three plays. InHenry the Fourth, until the battle of Shrewsbury, we behold him in all the effervescence of his mad-cap revelry; occasionally, it is true, affording us glimpses of the native mightiness of his mind, but first bursting upon us with heroic splendour on that celebrated field. In every situation, however, he is evidently thedarling offspring of his bard, whether we attend him to the frolic orgies in Eastcheap, to his combat with the never-daunted Percy, or, as in the play before us, to the immortal plains of Agincourt.

The fire and animation which inform the soul of Henry when he rushes to arms in defence of his father's throne, are supported with unwearied vigour, with a blaze which never falters, throughout the whole of his martial achievements in France. Nor has Shakspeare been content with representing him merely in the light of a noble and chivalrous hero, he has endowed him with every regal virtue; he is magnanimous, eloquent, pious, and sincere; versed in all the arts of government, policy, and war; a lover of his country and of his people, and a strenuous protector of their liberties and rights.

Of the various instances which our author has brought forward for the exemplification of these virtues and acquirements, it may be necessary to notice two or three. Thus the detection of the treason of Cambridge, Gray, and Scroop, who had conspired to assassinate Henry previous to his embarkation, exhibits a rich display of the mental greatness and emphatic oratory of this warlike monarch. After reprobating the treachery of Cambridge and Gray, he suddenly turns upon Scroop, who had been his bosom-friend, with the following pathetic and soul-harrowing appeal:—

——————————————— "ButWhat shall I say to thee, lord Scroop!—Thou, that didst bear the key of all my counsels,That knew'st the very bottom of my soul!—May it be possible, that foreign hireCould out of thee extract one spark of evil,That might annoy my finger?—O, how hast thou with jealousy infectedThe sweetness of affiance!——————————— I will weep for thee;For this revolt of thine, methinks, is likeAnother fall of man."[426:A]

——————————————— "But

What shall I say to thee, lord Scroop!—

Thou, that didst bear the key of all my counsels,

That knew'st the very bottom of my soul!—

May it be possible, that foreign hire

Could out of thee extract one spark of evil,

That might annoy my finger?—

O, how hast thou with jealousy infected

The sweetness of affiance!—

—————————— I will weep for thee;

For this revolt of thine, methinks, is like

Another fall of man."[426:A]

Nor can we forbear distinguishing the dismissal of these traitors, asa striking example of magnanimity, and of justice tempered with dignified compassion:—

"God quit you in his mercy!——Touching our person, seek we no revenge;But we our kingdom's safety must so tender,Whose ruin you three sought, that to her lawsWe do deliver you. Get you therefore hence,Poor miserable wretches, to your death:The taste whereof, God, of his mercy, give youPatience to endure, and true repentanceOf all your dear offences!"[427:A]

"God quit you in his mercy!——

Touching our person, seek we no revenge;

But we our kingdom's safety must so tender,

Whose ruin you three sought, that to her laws

We do deliver you. Get you therefore hence,

Poor miserable wretches, to your death:

The taste whereof, God, of his mercy, give you

Patience to endure, and true repentance

Of all your dear offences!"[427:A]

In the fourth act, what a masterly picture of the cares and solicitudes of royalty is drawn by Henry himself, in his noble soliloquy on the morning of the battle, especially towards the close, where he contrasts the gorgeous but painful ceremonies of a crown with the profitable labour and the balmy rest of the peasant, who

——————————— "from the rise to set,Sweats in the eye of Phœbus, and all nightSleeps in Elysium!"

——————————— "from the rise to set,

Sweats in the eye of Phœbus, and all night

Sleeps in Elysium!"

But the prayer which immediately follows is unrivalled for its power of impression, presenting us with the most lively idea of the amiability, piety, and devotional fervour of the monarch:—

"O God of battles! steel my soldiers' hearts!—————————— Not to-day, O Lord,O not to-day, think not upon the faultMy father made in compassing the crown!I Richard's body have interred anew;And on it have bestow'd more contrite tears,Than from it issued forced drops of blood.Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay,Who twice a day theirwither'dhands hold upToward heaven, to pardon blood; and I have builtTwo chantries, where the sad and solemn priestsSing still for Richard's soul."[427:B]

"O God of battles! steel my soldiers' hearts!

—————————— Not to-day, O Lord,

O not to-day, think not upon the fault

My father made in compassing the crown!

I Richard's body have interred anew;

And on it have bestow'd more contrite tears,

Than from it issued forced drops of blood.

Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay,

Who twice a day theirwither'dhands hold up

Toward heaven, to pardon blood; and I have built

Two chantries, where the sad and solemn priests

Sing still for Richard's soul."[427:B]

Of thepicturesque forceof an epithet, there is not in the records of poetry a more remarkable instance than what is here produced by the adoption of the termwithered, through which the scene starts into existence with a boldness of relief that vies with the noblest creations of the pencil.

The address to Westmoreland, on his wishing for more men from England, is a fine specimen of military eloquence, possessing that high tone of enthusiasm and exhilaration, so well calculated to inflame the daring spirit of the soldier. It is in perfect keeping with the historical character of Henry, nor can we agree with Dr. Johnson in thinking that its reduction "to about half the number of lines," would have added, either to its force or weight of sentiment[428:A]; so far, indeed, are we from coalescing with this decision, that we feel convinced not a clause could be withdrawn without material injury to the animation and effect of the whole.

Instances of the same impressive and energising powers of elocution, will be found in the King's exhortation to his soldiers before the gates of Harfleur[428:B]; in his description of the horrors attendant on a city taken by storm[428:C]; and in his replies to the Herald Montjoy[428:D]; all of which spring naturally from, and are respectively adapted to the circumstances of the scene.

Nor, amid all the dangers and unparalleled achievements of the Fifth Henry, do we altogether lose sight of the frank and easy gaiety which distinguished the Prince of Wales. His winning condescension in sympathising with the cares and pleasures of his soldiers, display the same kindness and affability of temper, the same love of raillery and humour, reminiscences, as it were, of his youthful days, and which, in his intercourse with Williams and Fluellin, produce the most pleasing and grateful relief.

These touches of a frolic pencil are managed with such art and address, that they derogate nothing from the dignity of the monarch and the conqueror; what may be termed the truly comic portion of the play, being carried on apart from any immediate connection with the person of the sovereign.

As the events of warfare and the victories of Henry form the sole subjects of the serious parts of this piece, it was necessary for the sake of variety and dramatic effect, and in order to satisfy the audience of this age, that comic characters and incidents should be interspersed; and, though we are disappointed in not seeing Falstaff, according to the poet's promise, again on the scene, we once more behold his associates, Bardolph, Pistol, and Hostess Quickly, pursuing their pleasant career with unfailing eccentricity and humour. The description of the death of Falstaff by the last of this fantastic trio, is executed with peculiar felicity, for while it excites a smile verging on risibility, it calls forth, at the same time, a sigh of pity and regret.

Of the general conduct of this play, it may be remarked, that the interest turns altogether upon the circumstances which accompany a single battle; consequently the poet has put forth all his strength in colouring and contrasting the situation of the two armies; and so admirably has he succeeded in this attempt, by opposing the full assurance of victory, on the part of the French, their boastful clamour, and impatient levity, to the conscious danger, calm valour, and self-devotedness of the English, that we wait the issue of the combat with an almost breathless anxiety.

And, in order that the heroism of Henry might not want any decoration which poetry could afford, the epic and lyric departments have been laid under contribution, for the purpose of supplying what the very confined limits of the stage, then in the infancy of its mechanism, had no means of unfolding. A preliminary chorus, therefore, is attached to each act, impressing vividly on the imagination what could not be addressed to the senses, and adding to asubject, in itself more epic than dramatic, all the requisite grandeur and sublimity of description.

19.Much Ado about Nothing: 1599. The allusion, in the opening scene of this comedy, to a circumstance attending the campaign of the Earl of Essex in Ireland, during the summer of 1599, which was first noticed by Mr. Chalmers, and which seems corroborated by the testimony of Camden and Moryson[430:A], has induced us to adopt the chronology dependent on this apparent reference, the only note of time, indeed, which has hitherto been discovered in the play.

This very popular production which appears to have originally had the title ofBenedick and Beatrice[430:B], and is, in its leading incidents, to be traced to one of the tales of Bandello[430:C], possesses, both with respect to its fable and characters, a vivacity, richness, and variety, together with a happiness of combination, which delight as much as they astonish.

The two plots are managed with uncommon skill; the first, involving the temporary disgrace and the recognition of Hero, includes a vast range of emotions, and abounds both in pathos and humour. The accusation of the innocent Hero by the man whom she loved, and at the very moment too, when she was about to be united to him for life, excites a most powerful impression; but is surpassed by the scene which restores her to happiness, where Claudio, supposing himself about to be united, in obedience to the will of Leonato, to a relation of his former beloved, and, as he concludes, deceased mistress, on unveiling the bride, beholds the features of her whom he had injured, and whom he had lamented as no more.

It is no small proof of the ingenuity of our poet, that through the means by which the iniquity practised against Hero is developed,we are furnished with a fund of the most ludicrous entertainment; the charge of Dogberry to the Watch, and the arrest and examination of Conrade and Borachio, throwing all the muscles of risibility into action.

Nor is the second plot in any respect inferior to the first; indeed, there is reason to believe, that, to the masterly delineations of Benedick and Beatrice, "the most sprightly characters that Shakspeare ever drew," and to their mutual entrapment in the meshes of love, a great part of the popularity which has ever accompanied this comedy, is in justice to be ascribed. Fault, however, has been found with the mode by which the reciprocal affection of these sworn foes to love has been secured: "the second contrivance," observes Mr. Steevens, "is less ingenious than the first:—or, to speak more plainly, the same incident is become stale by repetition. I wish some other method had been found to entrap Beatrice, than that very one which before had been successfully practised on Benedick[431:A];" an objection which has been censured with some severity by Schlegel, who justly remarks, that the drollery of this twice-used artifice "lies in the very symmetry of the deception."[431:B]It may be added, that the conversation of the gentleman and the wit, in Shakspeare's days, may be pretty well ascertained from the part of Benedick in this play, and from that of Mercutio inRomeo and Juliet; both presenting us, after some allowance for a licence of allusion too broad for the decorum of the present day, with a favourable picture of the accomplishments of polished society in the reign of Elizabeth.

20.As You Like It: 1600. Though this play, with the exception of the disguise and self-discovery of Rosalind, may be said to be destitute of plot, it is yet one of the most delightful of the dramas of Shakspeare. There is something inexpressibly wild and interesting both in the characters and in the scenery; the former disclosing the moral discipline and the sweets of adversity, the purest emotionsof love and friendship, of gratitude and fidelity, the melancholy of genius, and the exhilaration of innocent mirth, as opposed to the desolating effects of malice, envy, and ambition; and the latter unfolding, with the richest glow of fancy, landscapes to which, as objects of imitation, the united talents of Ruysdale, Claude, and Salvator Rosa, could alone do justice.

From the forest of Arden, from that wild wood of oaks,

——————— "whose boughs were moss'd with age,And high tops bald with dry antiquity,"

——————— "whose boughs were moss'd with age,

And high tops bald with dry antiquity,"

from the bosom of sequestered glens and pathless solitudes, has the poet called forth lessons of the most touching and consolitory wisdom. Airs from paradise seem to fan with refreshing gales, with a soothing consonance of sound, the interminable depth of foliage, and to breathe into the hearts of those who have sought its shelter from the world, an oblivion of their sorrows and their cares. The banished Duke, the much-injured Orlando, and the melancholy Jaques, lose in meditation on the scenes which surround them, or in sportive freedom, or in grateful occupation, all corrosive sense of past affliction. Love seems the only passion which has penetrated this romantic seclusion, and the sigh of philosophic pity, or of wounded sensibility, (the legacy of a deserted world,) the only relique of the storm which is passed and gone.

Nothing, in fact, can blend more harmoniously with the romantic glades, and magic windings of Arden, than the society which Shakspeare has placed beneath its shades. The effect of such scenery, on the lover of nature, is to take full possession of the soul, to absorb its very faculties, and, through the charmed imagination, to convert the workings of the mind into the sweetest sensations of the heart, into the joy of grief, into a thankful endurance of adversity, into the interchange of the tenderest affections; and find we not here, in the person of the Duke, the noblest philosophy of resignation; in Jaques, the humorous sadness of an amiable misanthropy; in Orlando, the mild dejection of self-accusing humility; in Rosalind andCelia, the purity of sisterly affection, whilst love in all its innocence and gaiety binds in delicious fetters, not only the younger exiles, but the pastoral natives of the forest. A day thus spent, in all the careless freedom of unsophisticated nature, seems worth an eternity of common-place existence!

The nice discrimination of Shakspeare and his profound knowlege of human nature are no where more apparent than in sketching the character of Jaques, whose social and confiding affections, originally warm and enthusiastic, and which had led him into all the excesses and credulities of thoughtless attachment, being blighted by the desertion of those on whom he had fondly relied, have suddenly subsided into a delicately blended compound of melancholy, misanthropy, and morbid sensibility, mingled with a large portion of benevolent though sarcastic humour. The selfishness and ingratitude of mankind are, consequently, the theme of all his meditations, and even tinge his recreations with the same pensive hue of moral invective. We accordingly first recognise him in a situation admirably adapted to the nurture of his peculiar feelings, laid at length

"Under an oak, whose antique root peeps outUpon the brook that brawls along the wood,"

"Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out

Upon the brook that brawls along the wood,"

and assimilating the fate of an unfortunate stag, who had been wounded by the hunters, and who

"Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook,Augmenting it with tears,"

"Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook,

Augmenting it with tears,"

to the too common lot of humanity:—

"Duke.But what said Jaques?Did he not moralize this spectacle?Lord.O yes, into a thousand similes.First, for his weeping in the needless stream;Poor deer, quoth he,thou mak'st a testamentAs worldings do, giving the sum of moreTo that which had too much.Then, being there alone,Left and abandoned of his velvet friends;'Tis right, quoth he;thus misery doth partThe flux of company.Anon, a careless herd,Full of the pasture, jumps along by him,And never stays to greet him.Ay, quoth Jaques,Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens;'Tis just the fashion: wherefore do you lookUpon that poor and broken bankrupt there?"[434:A]

"Duke.But what said Jaques?Did he not moralize this spectacle?

"Duke.But what said Jaques?

Did he not moralize this spectacle?

Lord.O yes, into a thousand similes.First, for his weeping in the needless stream;Poor deer, quoth he,thou mak'st a testamentAs worldings do, giving the sum of moreTo that which had too much.Then, being there alone,Left and abandoned of his velvet friends;'Tis right, quoth he;thus misery doth partThe flux of company.Anon, a careless herd,Full of the pasture, jumps along by him,And never stays to greet him.Ay, quoth Jaques,Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens;'Tis just the fashion: wherefore do you lookUpon that poor and broken bankrupt there?"[434:A]

Lord.O yes, into a thousand similes.

First, for his weeping in the needless stream;

Poor deer, quoth he,thou mak'st a testament

As worldings do, giving the sum of more

To that which had too much.Then, being there alone,

Left and abandoned of his velvet friends;

'Tis right, quoth he;thus misery doth part

The flux of company.Anon, a careless herd,

Full of the pasture, jumps along by him,

And never stays to greet him.Ay, quoth Jaques,

Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens;

'Tis just the fashion: wherefore do you look

Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?"[434:A]

As might be imagined, music, the food of melancholy as well as of love, is the chief consolation of Jaques; he tells Amiens, who, on finishing a song, had objected to his request of singing again, that it would make him melancholy. "I thank it. More, I pr'ythee more. I can suck melancholy out of a song, as a weasel sucks eggs: More, I pr'ythee, more[434:B];" and we can well conceive with what exquisite pleasure he listened to the subsequent song of the same nobleman:

"Blow, blow, thou winter wind,Thou art not so unkindAs man's ingratitude;Thy tooth is not so keen,Because thou art not seen,Although thy breath be rude.—Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,Thou dost not bite so nighAs benefits forgot;Though thou the waters warp,Thy sting is not so sharpAs friend remember'd not."[434:C]

"Blow, blow, thou winter wind,

Thou art not so unkind

As man's ingratitude;

Thy tooth is not so keen,

Because thou art not seen,

Although thy breath be rude.—

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,

Thou dost not bite so nigh

As benefits forgot;

Though thou the waters warp,

Thy sting is not so sharp

As friend remember'd not."[434:C]

From this interesting and finely shaded character, the result of a false estimate of what is to be expected from human nature and society, much valuable instruction may be derived; but as a similar delineation will soon occur in the person of Timon, we shall defer what may be required upon this subject to a subsequent page.

21.Merry Wives of Windsor: 1601. It does not appear to us that Mr. Chalmers has succeeded in his endeavours to set aside the general tradition relative to this comedy, as recorded by Mr. Rowe, who says, that Queen Elizabeth "was so well pleased with the admirable character of Falstaff inThe Two Parts of Henry the Fourth, that she commanded Shakspeare to continue it for one play more, and to show him in love."[435:A]Rowe adopted this from Dennis, who mentions it as the tradition of his time; and has also related, that being "eager to see it acted," she ordered it "to be finished infourteen days[435:B]," and was highly gratified by the representation.

A tradition of the seventeenth century thus general in its diffusion, and particular in its circumstances, cannot, and ought not, to be shaken by the mere observations that "she (the Queen) was certainly too feeble in 1601 to think of such toys," and that at this time "she was in no proper mood for such fooleries[435:C];" more especially when we recollect, that at this very period, she was guilty of fooleries greatly more extravagant and out of character, than that of commanding a play to be written. At a "mask at Blackfriars, on the marriage of Lord Herbert and Mrs. Russel," relates Lord Orford, on the authority of the Bacon Papers, "eight lady maskers chose eight more to dance the measures. Mrs. Fritton, who led them, went to the Queen, and wooed her to dance. Her Majesty asked, what she was? 'Affection,' she said. 'Affection!' said the Queen;—'Affectionis false.'—Yet her majesty rose anddanced.—She was thenSIXTY-EIGHT![435:D]" If, at the age ofSIXTY-EIGHT, she was nottoo feeble to dance, nortoo wise to fancy herself in love, we may easily conceive, that she had bothstrengthandinclinationto attend and to enjoy a play!

Another objection of the same critic to the probability of this tradition, turns upon the extraordinary assumption, that it was not withinthe omnipotence of Elizabeth "to bring Falstaff toreal life, after beingpositively as dead as nail in door[436:A];" as if Falstaff had ever possessed arealexistence, and the Queen had been expected to have occasioned hisbodilyresurrection from the dead. In accordance with this supposed impossibility, impossible only in this strange point of view, we are further told, that "whatever a capricious Queen might have wished to have seen, the audience would not have borne to see thedeadknight on thelivingstage;" thus again confounding thedramaticdeath of animaginarybeing, with the physical dissolution incident to material nature! Surely Shakspeare had an unlimited control over the creatures of his own imagination, and had he reproduced the fat knight in half-a-dozen plays, after the death which he had already assigned him inHenry the Fifth, who, provided he had supported the merit and consistency of the character, would have charged him with a violation of probability? When Addison killed Sir Roger de Coverley, in order, as tradition says, to prevent any one interfering with the unity of his sketch, he could only be certain of the non-resumption of his imaginary existence in the very work which had detailed his decease; for if Addison himself, or any of his contemporaries, had reproduced Sir Roger, in a subsequent periodical paper, with the same degree of skill which had accompanied the first delineation, would it have been objected as a sufficient condemnation of such a performance, that the knight had been previously dispatched?

We see no reason, therefore, for distrusting the generally received tradition, and have, accordingly, placed theMerry Wives of Windsor, with Mr. Malone, after the three plays devoted toHenry the Fourth, andFifth.

In this very entertaining drama, which unfolds a vast display of incident, and a remarkable number of well-supported characters, we are presented with an almost unrivalled instance of pure domestic comedy, and which furnishes a rich draught of English minds andmanners, in the middle ranks of society, during one of the most interesting periods of our annals.

Shakspeare has here achieved, perhaps, the most difficult task which can fall to the lot of any writer; that of resuscitating a favourite and highly-wrought child of the imagination, and, with a success equal to that which attended the original production, re-involving him in a series of fresh adventures. Falstaff has not lost, in this comedy, any portion of his former power of pleasing; he returns to us in the fulness of his strength, and we immediately enter, with unabated avidity and relish, into a further developement of his inexhaustible stores of humour, wit, and drollery.

The self-delusion of Sir John, who conceives himself to be an object of love, and the incongruities, absurdities, and intrigues, into which this monstrous piece of vanity plunges him, form, together with the secondary plot of Fenton and Anne Page, the richest tissue of incident and stratagem that ever graced a stage. The mode, also, in which the two intrigues are interwoven, the happy termination of the second, arising out of the contrivance which brings about the issue of the first, has a just claim to praise both for its invention and execution.

To the comic characters which had formerly been associated with the exploits of the Knight, and which, as accessories or retainers, accompany him in this play, some very laughable and grotesque additions are to be found in the persons ofSlender,Sir Hugh Evans, andDr. Caius, who are deeply implicated in the fable, and who, by the most ludicrous exhibitions of rustic simplicity, provincial accent, and broken English, contribute in a high degree to the variety and hilarity of the scene.

22.Troilus and Cressida: 1601. That this play was written and acted before the decease of Queen Elizabeth, is evident from the manner in which it is entered on the Stationers' Books, being registered on February 7. 1602-3, "as acted by my Lord Chamberlen's men[437:A]," who, in the year of the accession of King James, obtained alicence for their theatre, and were denominated "his majesty's servants."

It also appears, from some entries in Mr. Henslowe's Manuscript, that a drama on this subject, at first calledTroyelles and Cresseda, but, before its production, altered in its title to "The Tragedy of Agamemnon," was in existence anterior to Shakspeare's play, and was licensed by the Master of the Revels, on the 3rd of June, 1599.[438:A]

From these premises we have a right to infer that our poet'sTroilus and Cressidawas written between June, 1599, and February, 1603, and, accordingly, our two chronologers have thus placed it; Mr. Malone in 1602, and Mr. Chalmers in 1600. But it appears to us, for reasons which we shall immediately assign, that its more probable era is that of 1601.

It has been correctly observed by the Commentators, that an incident in our author'sTroilus and Cressida, is ridiculed in an anonymous comedy, entitledHistriomastix, "which, though not printed till 1610, must have been written before the death of Queen Elizabeth, who, in the last act of the piece, is shadowed, under the character of Astræa, and is spoken of as then living."[438:B]

We cannot avoid thinking it somewhat extraordinary that when Mr. Malone recorded this circumstance, it did not occur to him, that, by placing the composition of Shakspeare's play in 1602, he allowed scarcely any time to the author ofHistriomastixfor the composition of his work. In order that a parody or burlesque may be successful, it is necessary that the production ridiculed, should have acquired a certain degree of celebrity, and however well received by the court, before which it was at first chiefly performed, this drama of our author may have been, some time must have elapsed ere it could have acquired a sufficient degree of notoriety for the purpose of successful satire. But if Shakspeare wrote hisTroilus and Cressidain 1602, and had even completed it by the middle of the year, scarcely nine monthscould intervene between this completion and the death of the Queen in March, 1603; and during this short interval, the play of our poet must have been acted, and celebrated so repeatedly and so highly, as to have excited the pen of envy and burlesque, and the comedy ofHistriomastixmust have been written and performed; a space certainly much too inadequate for these effects and results, more particularly if we are allowed to conclude, what most probably was the case, that the anonymous comedy was finished some months anterior to the decease of Elizabeth.

On the other hand, it would seem that Mr. Chalmers, by approximating the date of Shakspeare's play too closely to that of the elder drama, may be taxed with a similar error. That our poet was in the habit of adopting subjects which had been previously rendered popular on the stage, has been acknowledged by all his commentators, and that his attention was first attracted to the fable under consideration, by the play exhibited on Mr. Henslowe's theatre, there can be little doubt. But this production, we find, was not licensed by the Master of the Revels until June, 1599, and as popularity attached to the performance would be necessary to stimulate Shakspeare to remodel the subject, we can scarcely conceive him, both on this account, and from a motive of delicacy to a rival theatre, to have commenced the composition of hisTroilus and Cressidabefore the beginning of 1601.

It was at this period then, that our bard, excited by the success of the prior attempt in 1599, turned his attention to the subject; and, referring to his Chaucer, to Caxton's Translation of theRecuyles or Destruction of Troy, fromRaoul le Fevre, and to the first seven books of Chapman's Homer, for the materials of his story, presented us with the most singular, and, in some respects, the most striking, of his productions.

This play is, indeed, a most perfectuniqueboth in its construction and effect, appearing to be a continued sarcasm on thetale of Troy divine, an ironical copy, as it were, of the great Homeric picture. Whether this was in the contemplation of Shakspeare, or whether itmight not, in a great measure, flow from the nature of the Gothic narratives to which he had recourse, may admit of some doubt. As Homer, however, was in part before him, in the excellent version of Chapman, it appears to us, that it certainly was his design to expose the follies and absurdities of the Trojan war; the despicable nature of its origin, and the furious discords which protracted its issue. In doing this he has stripped the Homeric characters of all their epic pomp; he has laid them naked to the very heart, but he has, at the same time, individualised them, with a pencil so keen, powerful, and discriminating, that we become more intimately acquainted with them, as mere men, from the perusal of this play, than from all the splendid descriptions of the Greek poet.

This unparalleled strength and distinctness of characterisation, as unfolded in the play before us, has been admirably painted by Mr. Godwin. "The whole catalogue," he observes, "of theDramatis Personæin the play ofTroilus and Cressida, so far as they depend upon a rich and original vein of humour in the author, are drawn with a felicity which never was surpassed. The genius of Homer has been a topic of admiration to almost every generation of men since the period in which he wrote. But his characters will not bear the slightest comparison with the delineation of the same characters as they stand in Shakspeare. This is a species of honour which ought by no means to be forgotten when we are making the eulogium of our immortal bard, a sort of illustration of his greatness which cannot fail to place it in a very conspicuous light. The dispositions of men perhaps had not been sufficiently unfolded in the very early period of intellectual refinement when Homer wrote; the rays of humour had not been dissected by the glass, or rendered perdurable by the pencil, of the poet. Homer's characters are drawn with a laudable portion of variety, and consistency; but his Achilles, his Ajax, and his Nestor are, each of them, rather a species than an individual, and can boast more of the propriety of abstraction, than of the vivacity of a moving scene of absolute life. The Achilles, the Ajax, and the various Grecian heroes of Shakspeare, on the other hand, are absolute men,deficient in nothing which can tend to individualise them, and already touched with the Promethean fire that might infuse a soul into what, without it, were lifeless form. From the rest perhaps the character of Thersites deserves to be selected, (how cold and school-boy a sketch in Homer,) as exhibiting an appropriate vein of sarcastic humour amidst his cowardice, and a profoundness and truth in his mode of laying open the foibles of those about him, impossible to be excelled.

"Shakspeare possessed, no man in higher perfection, the true dignity and loftiness of the poetical afflatus, which he has displayed in many of the finest passages of his works with miraculous success. But he knew that no man ever was, or ever can be, always dignified. He knew that those subtler traits of character which identify a man, are familiar and relaxed, pervaded with passion, and not played off with an external eye to decorum. In this respect the peculiarities of Shakspeare's genius are no where more forcibly illustrated than in the play we are here considering. The champions of Greece and Troy, from the hour in which their names were first recorded, had always worn a certain formality of attire, and marched with a slow and measured step. No poet, till this time, had ever ventured to force them out of the manner which their epic creator had given them. Shakspeare first supplied their limbs, took from them the classic stiffness of their gait, and enriched them with an entire set of those attributes, which might render them completely beings of the same species with ourselves."[441:A]

The great defect of this play, which, in other respects, is highly entertaining and instructive, and abounding in didactic morality, expressed with the utmost beauty, vigour, and boldness of diction, is a want of attachment for its characters. If we set aside Hector, who seems to have been the favourite hero with Shakspeare, and his Gothic authorities, there is not a person in the drama, for whom wefeel any sympathy or interest; the Grecian chiefs, though varied and coloured in the highest style of relief, are any thing but amiable, and of the persons involved in the love-intrigue, two are proverbially infamous, whilst the forsaken Troilus appears in too tame and inefficient a light to call forth any share of admiration or regret.

23.King Henry the Eighth: 1602. Few of the plays of Shakspeare have occasioned more difference of opinion, with regard to the era of their production, than this historical drama. Mr. Malone contends that it was written in 1601 or 1602, and that, after having lain by for some years unacted, on account of the costliness of its exhibition, it was revived in 1613, under the title ofAll is True, with new decorations, and a new prologue and epilogue; and that this revival took place on the very day, being St. Peter's, on which the Globe Theatre was burnt down, occasioned, it is said, by the discharge of some small pieces, called chambers, on King Henry's arrival at Cardinal Wolsey's gate at Whitehall, one of which, being injudiciously managed, set fire to the thatched roof of the theatre. He also joins with Dr. Johnson and Dr. Farmer in conceiving, that the prologue, and even some part of the dialogue, were, on this occasion, written by Ben Jonson, to whom he also ascribes the conduct and superintendence of the representation.[442:A]

Mr. Chalmers, on the contrary, believes that this piece was neither represented nor written before 1613, and that its first appearance on the stage was the night of the conflagration above-mentioned. He reprobates the folly of supposing "that Ben Jonson,who was in perpetual hostility with Shakspeare, madeadycyonstoHenry VIII., or even wrote the prologue for our poet."[442:B]

And, lastly, Mr. Gifford declares it to be his conviction that the tragedy of our poet was produced in 1601; but that, on the supposed revival of it in 1613, neither the prologue was written by Jonson, northe play by Shakspeare, the piece then performed being anew play, calledAll is Truth, constructed, indeed, on the history of Henry the Eighth, and, like that, full of shows, but not the composition of our author. He has here likewise, as every where else, very successfully combated the prejudice and credulity of the commentators, in their perpetual assumption of the enmity of Jonson to Shakspeare.[443:A]

For the arguments by which these conflicting opinions are maintained, we must refer to the respective writings of the combatants, our limits only permitting us to state and briefly to support one or two circumstances which, in our view of them, seem irresistibly to prove, that, in the first place, the play performed on the 29th of June, 1613, wasShakspeare's tragedy of Henry the Eighth; and, secondly, that it washis tragedy revived, with a new name, and with anew prologue, both emanating from himself.

Now, if the prologue which has always accompanied our author's drama from its first publication in 1623,manifestlyandrepeatedly alludeto thetitleof the play which was represented on the 29th of June, 1613, and which we know to have been founded on the history of King Henry the Eighth, can there be a stronger proof of their identity, or a more satisfactory reply to the query of Mr. Gifford, who asks, who would have recognisedHenry the Eighthunder the name ofAll is Truth? (or rather, as he should have said,All is True?) than what these intimations afford? That they have, indeed, been noticed both by Mr. Tyrwhitt and Mr. Malone, as alluding to the title in question, is true; but they appear to us so important and decisive, as to merit being brought forward more distinctly, especially as they have escaped Mr. Gifford's attention. We shall therefore transcribe them, being convinced that not accident but design dictated their insertion:—

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