through Plutarch, revives, in a new manner, the rhetorical element which was so prominent in the early historical plays. But the rhetoric is now more consciously elaborated, and with a variety of style adapted to the several characters. Cassius in persuading Brutus, Brutus in his vain attempt to convince the citizens, and Antony in the supreme effort through which he sways their minds, have each a different style of eloquence in which their mental characteristics are most strongly marked.

Is Coriolanus, properly speaking, a tragedy or a history-play? With regard to the construction, the latter description is more appropriate. The poet follows the historical biographer, incident for incident, and often line for line; the speech of Volumnia in the last act is a blank verse rendering, hardly a paraphrase, of the corresponding passage in North's Plutarch. But, beyond question, Coriolanus, as conceived by Shakespeare, is, par excellence, a tragic hero, and the imposing figure of the Roman matron is no less tragically presented. In both these plays (Julius Cæsar and Coriolanus) the poet's mind appears to be in transition towards the supreme ideal of tragic drama, so nobly realised in Othello, Macbeth, and Lear. But the transformation is not complete. Menenius Agrippa is, from first to last, a comic person, though not without touches of seriousness; the Tribunes are satiricaily rendered-it may be observed, however, that the treatment of the generals in the Ajax of Sophocles is open to the same remarkand the rest of citizens here, as in Julius Cæsar, are a sarcastic picture of the common people—the mutable many-as conceived of by the Tudor mind.

In Antony and Cleopatra the poet approaches more nearly to his tragic ideal. In some respects this drama ranks with the very highest. Enobarbus, who at the opening acts the part of a satyric chorus, in his first reappearance in Act IV. utters a truly tragic note, and emphasises, at the moment when it most needs to be recognised, the nobler side of Antony. In the earlier portion of the play, in which the person of Cleopatra is so wonderfully characterised, there is a rich vein of high comedy, without which the drama, as a whole, would lose much of its transcendant power. And the same is true of the scene in which the Triumvirs are feasted upon Pompey's barge. Although the countryman who brings the asp to Cleopatra bears those traces of rusticity of which Shakespeare and his audiences were so fond, yet the tragic burden of his basket of figs may well check the rising merriment that would else have marred the pathos of the close. Here, as in the grave-digger scene of Hamlet, the poet creates a difficulty which is the actor's opportunity. A great actress must overpower any sense of the ludicrous with the words: "How poor an instrument may do a noble deed; he brings me liberty." And, but for this half-page, the drama, from the ninth scene of Act III. to

the end, is wholly on tragic lines, and has a purely tragic effect that is unequalled except in Shakespeare. No drama of his mature period is more characteristic of his individual genius. To call it a tragi-comedy would be to degrade it by placing it on a level with works of the next generation that bear that name. It is a Shakesperian historical drama of the first order, developing as it proceeds into the deepest tragedy. And of this aspect of it, there is more to be said by-and-by.

I can only touch lightly on the two plays in which Shakespeare ostensibly deals with Greek subjects: Troilus and Cressida, of which the materials are mostly medieval, and Timon of Athens. Troilus and Cressida is a drama sui generis, very difficult to class; the only serious elements in it are the speeches of Ulysses, so replete with practical wisdom. The character of Timon, the spendthrift turned misanthrope, of itself is tragical enough, but some parts are of doubtful authenticity, and in any case Shakespeare has not handled the subject as if he greatly loved it.

Those who have attempted to connect Shakespeare's literary and dramatic development with the events of his life, have suggested that these two productions are evidence of a time when, through some personal disappointments, that mighty heart had been embittered and was out of harmony with the humanity which was his life-long study. Without accepting such a theory, which it is impossible to verify, we may admit that Troilus and Cressida at least has in it some of the quality of a noble fruit that becomes sour before it ripens and mellows.1 The ripeness comes in Lear, the mellowness in the Tempest and the Winter's Tale.

I pass on, therefore, to consider the tragedies properly so-called, in which, as indicated above, I would include the latter portion of Antony and Cleopatra. To estimate aright the difference between Shakespeare's earlier and later manner of dealing with an essentially tragic theme, one should compare his treatment of the passion of love in this play with that in Romeo and Juliet-his first real tragedy. The comparison in this case is not wholly to the advantage of the more mature production. The picture in Juliet of a first, last, and only love, of true womanhood in its earliest freshness, simplicity

(1) Critics are not yet agreed either as to the date of Troilus and Cressida, or as to the part attributable to Shakespeare in Timon of Athens. Dr. Brandes places them after the great tragedies and before the Winter's Tale. Allowing, for the sake of argument, the force of the biographical hypothesis, the order which I have suggested appears, psychologically, the more tenable. It is conceivable that the broad satire of Troilus belongs to 1603, while the deeper notes of the speeches of Ulysses may have been added between that and 1609. Whether the satire, as Mr. Wyndham suggests, has anything to do with the Poeto-machia-Trojan versus Greek-is a point which remains open to discussion. I will only add that to accuse a poet of "pessimisın" it is not enough to say that a tragedy of his ends badly. Were it otherwise, it would not be tragedy at all. I shall hope to return to this subject another time.

and depth, its infinite tenderness and wise prevision of the dangers which it defies, is an entire and perfect chrysolite, which stands alone among poetic creations.

Young manhood, with its single-minded impetuosity and scorn of circumstance, its attempt to grasp eternity in a moment; youth, the too rash despairer, is embodied, if with less of charm, yet with equal truth in Romeo. But in the later play (Antony and Cleopatra), if there is less of simplicity and directness, and even much of disillusion, there is a far deeper and more comprehensive insight into the complexity of human nature. Cleopatra is, of course, in any case, a very different type of womanhood, and she is not altogether kindly treated by the poet: Plutarch's Cleopatra is more heroic from the first, and has more native dignity; but she does not, as in Shakespeare's play, exhibit the "infinite variety," the fascination and the wilfulness of a splendid and capricious woman. In the fifth act he has, with surpassing skill, succeeded in reconciling us to a nature whose extravagances had been the cause of immense disaster. From the Roman whom she had loved deeply, as well as passionately, she has at last imbibed some portion of the Roman nobleness of spirit. She dies like a queen, and Augustus pays a parting tribute to "her strong toil of grace." Thus a sufficient cause is rendered for the sad history of a Roman warrior and statesman, who, while contending for the empire of the world, was drawn aside by a great passion to defeat, dishonour and death. The conflict of contending emotions has never been more tragically rendered than in the fourth act of this great drama. And, as is usual with him in portraying disaster, the tragic poet reminds us of what might have been--in other words, of that ideal of life which is set off in greater brilliance by the shadow of the tragic catastrophe.

This contrast becomes still more manifest in the three great masterpieces, Othello, Macbeth, and Lear. In Hamlet it is partly veiled by the strong tinge of irony. That unique and immortal drama was forming itself in the poet's mind at a somewhat earlier time, nearly contemporary with the production of Julius Cæsar. The remarkable deepening of the tragic note in Shakespeare has been associated with the dark events which clouded the last years of Elizabeth's reign, especially the revolt and execution of Essex, who was a friend of Shakespeare's patron, Lord Southampton. This is one of those hypotheses which is difficult either to affirm or deny. The coincidence is certainly striking that the great tragedies, including Hamlet, are subsequent to 1601.1

(1) The hypothesis in question exemplifies one of the revolutions in criticism which we have lived to see. It used to be said that all we know of the personal life of Shakespeare might be put into a sentence, and Lord Tennyson rejoiced in this as enabling us better to apprehend the poet's art. But little since has come to light, and

Into Hamlet the poet has thrown more of himself than into any other of his tragic creations. He loves him with a special predilection, such as in the English period he had bestowed on Henry V. That is perhaps one secret of the undying charm which this drama inevitably has for all possible spectators. If it were merely the product of philosophic contemplation, as some writers would almost have us believe, the effect of the work on a popular audience would be unaccountable. Philosophic wisdom is there in abundance, and with other high qualities raises Hamlet far above his contemporaries; but the contemplative spirit is steeped in passionate emotion. The passion of filial affection that has been cruelly robbed on the one side of its chief object, and on the other, that of wifehood and maternity, of its youthful ideal, is the mainspring of interest throughout the play. The more obvious motive, on which the prince himself ironically dwells, that the usurper has "popped in between the election and his hopes "—that although the monarchy was elective, the choice must surely have fallen on "the expectancy and rose of the fair state," although subordinate, is not therefore wholly unimportant.

There is another way in which the dreaminess, or rather moodiness, of that high-wrought nature, his hesitation, as it is thought, before a plain duty, is sometimes misconstrued. It is not merely, as he himself complains, that he is "lapsed in time and passion":—that is the result of the original hesitation, which has grown upon him in the sequel. It is rather that considerations infinite prevent him from forming a distinct and well-prepared plan. For with whom should he conspire? With Horatio? that would be the ruin of his best and only friend; with Laertes? his own act has rendered that impossible; with Rosencrantz or Guildenstern? the very suggestion is ridiculous, he knows them too well. To act alone, as he clearly sees, is to seal his own doom. Yet when convinced of his uncle's guilt, and rightly suspecting that he has overheard his colloquy with his mother, he thinks to stab him in presence of the Queen, and by misadventure kills Polonius instead. That hastens his exile, and the plot against his life in which his two friends are the accomplices. On discovering this he acts with promptitude and unhesitating resolution. The engineer is hoisted with his own petard, and when, favoured by circumstances, the Prince returns to Denmark, he would have watched his opportunity, yet how much has been founded upon that little. Dr. Brandes' work perhaps registers the high-water mark of the biographical method. It is not wonderful that the inanities of the Baconian theorists should have provoked him to it, and in so far he has earned our gratitude. But in concentrating attention on the elusive figure of the man Shakespeare, such views are apt to distract the mind from the conditions and principles of dramatic art. The fact which remains, that the great tragedies fall within the Jacobean period, should indeed enhance our sense of the splendid isolation of Shakespeare as a tragic poet. It should be said on behalf of Mr. Wyndham that in his treatment of the Sonnets he has struck a happy mean between the biographical and the purely aesthetic method.

but is again frustrated through the blood feud with Laertes. His heart will not suffer him to take the King at his prayers; but his final resolution has been made; and when the plot against his own life, in which Laertes is now enlisted, has at last succeeded, and he is wounded mortally, he resolutely stabs the usurper and forces on him the poisoned bowl. And this he does not merely in self-requital, but in the determined execution of a long-meditated resolve. The act so long contemplated is now trebly justified, and motives which have impelled him towards it, but were hitherto foiled by external obstacles and mental scruples, have now accumulated into a compelling cause which is fully approved by reason. Even at that crowning momentand this reveals at once the depth and the practical wisdom of his unique personality—he shrinks from the misconstruction which must inevitably follow his most rightful deed, unless his one friend survives him, to report his cause aright to Denmark and to the world.

"O God! Horatio, what a wounded name,

Things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me!

If thou did'st ever hold me in thy heart,

Absent thee from felicity awhile.

And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain

To tell my story."

The scene with

The popularity of Hamlet, no doubt, owes something also to the comic element which Shakespeare, with an audacity which some critics have thought questionable, still mingles with the tragic motive. The character of Polonius is not the less comic because his meddlesomeness has a fatal end, though the comedy is often played too low. The same is true of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. the players also greatly relieves and lightens the seriousness of the piece, while it brings out the large discourse of Hamlet; and even in the fifth Act, we have the gravediggers and the ridiculous courtier. These lighter parts may be said to assist the tragic effect, not only because they act as a foil to the essential nobleness of the chief person, and of the companion figures of Horatio and Laertes, but because, together with his pretended madness, they give occasion for the utterance of that profound irony which, for a nature like Hamlet's, in the imagined circumstances, was the only armour of defence against the importunity and stupidity of the world. Even poor Ophelia has to suffer from this. It is only on suddenly finding that she has gone beyond recall that his true feeling for her finds a momentary vent (except in the lines which I believe to be spoken to himself aside, almost involuntarily, at the end of the famous soliloquy, "Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered!") His real thoughts are only overheard in the soliloquies, in his confidential speeches to Horatio, "the man that is not passion's slave," and in his earnest pleading with his mother. One very important point in the structure of the play is