6

however tragic in its results, moves on in measured, unvaried solemnity, nor would the English taste tolerate this stately French style. The great preceptress of Shakspeare was Nature; he spoke from her inspired dictates, warm from the heart, and faithful to its fires,' and in his disregard of classic rules, pursued at will his winged way through all the labyrinths of fancy and of the human heart. These celestial flights, however, were regulated, as we have said, by knowledge and taste. Mere poetical imagination might have created a Caliban, or evoked the airy spirits of the enchanted island and the Midsummer Dream; but to delineate a Desdemona or Imogen, a Miranda or Viola, the influence of a pure and refined spirit, cultivated and disciplined by gentle arts,' and familiar by habit, thought, and example, with the better parts of wisdom and humanity, were indispensably requisite. Peele or Marlowe might have drawn the forest of Arden, with its woodland glades, but who but Shakspeare could have supplied the moral beauty of the scene-the refined simplicity and gaiety of Rosalind, the philosophic meditations of Jaques, the true wisdom, tenderness, and grace, diffused over the whole of that antique half-courtly and half-pastoral drama. These and similar personations, such as Benedict and Beatrice, Mercutio, &c., seem to us even more wonderful than the loftier characters of Shakspeare. No types of them could have existed but in his own mind. The old drama and the chroniclers furnished the outlines of his historical personages, though destitute of the heroic ardour and elevation which he breathed into them. Plutarch and the poets kindled his classic enthusiasm and taste; old Chapman's Homer perhaps rolled its majestic cadences over his ear and imagination; but characters in which polished manners and easy grace are as predominant as wit, reflection, or fancy, were then unknown to the stage, as to actual life. They are among the most perfect creations of his genius, and, in reference to his taste and habits, they are valuable materials for his biography.

In judgment, Shakspeare excels his contemporary dramatists as much as in genius, but at the same time it must be confessed that he also partakes of their errors. To be unwilling to acknowledge any faults in his plays, is, as Hallam remarks, 'an extravagance rather derogatory to the critic than honourable to the poet' Fresh from the perusal of any of his works, and under the immediate effects of his inspirations-walking, as it were, in a world of his creating, with beings familiar to us almost from infancy-it seems like sacrilege to breathe one word of censure. Yet truth must admit that some of his plays are hastily and ill constructed as to plot; that his proneness to quibble and play with words is brought forward in scenes where this peculiarity constitutes a positive defect; that he is sometimes indelicate where indelicacy is least pardonable, and where it jars most painfully with the associations of the scene; and that his style is occasionally stiff, turgid, and obscure, chiefly because it is at once highly figurative and condensed in expression. Ben Jonson has touched freely, but with manliness and fairness, on these defects:

'I remember,' he says, 'the players have often mentioned it as an honour to Shakspeare, that in his writing-whatsoever he penned-he never blotted out a line. My answer hath been, would he had blotted out a thousand! which they thought a malevolent speech. I had not told posterity this, but for their ignorance who chose that circumstance to commend their friend by wherein he most faulted, and to justify mine own candour; for I loved the man, and do honour his memory on this side idolatry as much as any. He was indeed honest, and of an open and free nature; had an excellent phantasy, brave notions, and gentle expressions, wherein he flowed with that facility, that sometimes it was necessary he should be stopped, sufflimandus erat, as Augustus said of Haterius. His wit was in his own power; would the rule of it had been so too! Many times he fell into those things could not escape laughter, as when he said, in the person of Cæsar, one speaking to him: “ Cæsar, thou dost me wrong," he replied: "Cæsar did never wrong but with just cause," and such like, which were ridiculous.* But he redeemed his vices with his virtues. There was ever more in him to be praised than to be pardoned.'

The first edition of Shakspeare was published, as already stated, in 1623. A second edition was published in 1632, the same as the first, excepting that it was more disfigured with errors of the press. A third edition was published in 1614, and a fourth in 1685. The public admiration of this great English classic now demanded that he should receive the honours of a commentary; and Rowe, the poet, gave an improved edition in 1709. Pope, Warburton, Johnson, Chalmers, Steevens, and others successively published editions of the poet, with copious notes. In our own day, editions by Collier, Knight, Singer, Halliwell, Dyce, and others have appeared. The critics of the great poet are innumerable, and they bid fair, like Banquo's progeny, to 'stretch to the crack of doom.' The scholars of Germany have distinguished themselves by their philosophical and critical dissertations on the genius of Shakspeare. There never was an author, ancient or modern, whose works have been so carefully analysed and illustrated, so eloquently expounded, or so universally admired.

He so sepulchred in such pomp does lie,

That kings, for such a tomb, would wish to die.
Milton on Shakspeare, 1630.

The difficulty of making selections from Shakspeare must be obvious. If of character, his characters are as numerous and diversified as those in human life; if of style, he has exhausted all styles, and has one for each description of poetry and action; if of wit, humour, satire, or pathos, where shall our choice fall, where all are so abundant? We have felt our task to be something like being deputed to search in some magnificent forest for a handful of the finest leaves or plants, and as if we were diligently exploring the world of woodland beauty to accomplish faithfully this hopeless adventure. Happily, Shakspeare is in all hands, and a single leaf will recall the fertile and majestic scenes of his inspiration.

* Jonson's allusion is to the following line in the third act of Julius Cæsar:
Know. Cæsar doth not wrong, nor without cause
Will he be satisfied.

The passage was probably altered by Ben's suggestion. or. still more likely, it was corrupted by the blunder of the player. But Mr. Halliwell's remark on the point is worthy of notice: If wrong is taken in The sense of injury or harm, as Shakspeare sometimes ases it, there is no absurdity in the line.'

Garden Scene in Romeo and Juliet. ROMEO. He jests at scars that never felt a wound.

[Juliet appears above, at a window. But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks! It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief,

That thou her maid art far more fair than she;
Be not her maid, since she is envious;
Her vestal livery is but sick and green.

And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.-
It is my lady; O! it, is my love;
O that she knew she were !--
She speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that?
Her eye discourses; I will answer it.-
Lam too bold; 'tis not to me she speaks:
Two of the fairest stars of all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright,

That birds would sing, and think it were not night.
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!

O that I were a glove upon that hand,

That I might touch that cheek!

JULIET. Ah me!

ROM. She speaks.

Oh, speak again, bright angel! for thou art
As glorious to this sight, being o'er my head,
As is a winged messenger of heaven

Unto the white-upturned, wond'ring eyes
Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him,
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds,

And sails upon the bosom of the air.

JUL. O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo ? Deny thy father, and refuse thy name:

Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,

And I'll no longer be a Capulet.

ROM. Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?

JUL. Tis but thy name that is my enemy:

Thou art thyself though, not a Montague.
What's Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face-nor any other part

Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
What's in a name? That which we call a rose,
By any other name would smell as sweet.
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes,
Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name;
And for that name, which is no part of thee,
Take all myself!

ROM. I take thee at thy word:

Call me but love, and I'll be new baptised;
Henceforth I never will be Romeo.

JUL. What man art thou, that thus, bescreened in night,
So stumblest on my counsel ?

Rом. By a name

I know not how to tell thee who I am:

My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself.
Because it is an enemy to thee.

Had I it written, I would tear the word.

JUL. My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words Of that tongue's uttering, yet I know the sound.

Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?

ROM. Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike.

JUL. How cam'st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?

The orchard walls are high, and hard to climb;

And the place death, considering who thou art,

If any of my kinsmen find thee here.

ROM. With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls, For stony limits cannot hold love out;

And what love can do, that dares love attempt:

Therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me.

JUL. If they do see thee, they will murder thee. ROM. Alack! there lies more peril in thine eyes Than twenty of their swords; look thou sweet,

And I am proof against their enmity.

JUL. I would not for the world they saw thee here. ROM. I have night's cloak to hide me from their eyes; And but thou love me, let them find me here;

My life were better ended by their hate,

Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love.

JUL. By whose direction found'st thou out this place? ROM. By love, that first did prompt me to inquire;

He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes.

I am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far

As that vast shore washed with the farthest sea,

I would adventure for such merchandise.

JUL. Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face,

Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek

For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night.
Fain would I dwell on form; fain, fain deny
What I have spoke-but farewell compliment!
Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say-Ay;
And I will take thy word. Yet, if thou swear'st,
Thou may'st prove false: at lovers' perjuries,
They say, Jove laughs. O, g ntle Romeo!
If thou do t love, pronounce it faithfully;
Or, if thou think'st I am too quickly won,
I'll frown and be perverse, and say thee nay,

So thou wilt woo: but, else, not for the world.
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond,
And therefore thou may'st think my 'haviour light;
But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true
Than those that have more coying to be strange.
I should have been more strange, I must confess,
But that thou overheard'st, ere I was 'ware,
My true love's passion; therefore pardon me,
And not impute this yielding to light love,
Which the dark night hath so discovered.

ROM. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear,
That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops-

JUL. O swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon,

That monthly changes in her circled orb:

Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.
ROM. What shall I swear by ?

JUL. Do not swear at all;

Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self,
Which is the god of my idolatry,

And I'll believe thee.

ROM. If my heart's dear love

JUL. Well, do not swear. Although I joy in thee,

I have no joy of this contract to-night;

It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden;
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be,
Ere one can say, It lightens! Sweet, good night!
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath,
May prove a beauteous flower, when next we meet.
Good-night, good-night-as sweet repose and rest
Come to thy heart, as that within my breast!

Moonlight, with Fine Music.

Act II. sc. 2.

LORENZO. The moon shines bright: in such a night as this,
.When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees,
And they did make no noise; in such a night,
Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan walls,
And sighed his soul towards the Grecian tents,
Where Cressid lay that night.

JESSICA. In such a night

Did Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew;
And saw the lion's shadow ere himself,
And ran dismayed away.

LOR. In such a night

Stood Dido, with a willow in her hand,

Upon the wild sea-banks, and waft her love
To come again to Carthage.

JES. In such a night

Medea gathered the enchanted herbs
That did renew old son.

LOR. In such a night

Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew,

And with an unthrift love did run from Venice,
As far as Belmont.

JES. In such a night

Did young Lorenzo swear he loved her well;
Stealing her soul with many vows of faith,
And ne'er a true one.

LOR. In such a night

Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew,

Slander her love, and he forgave it her...

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears; soft stillness and the night
Become the touches of sweet harmony.

Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold;

There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st,
But in his motion like an angel sings,

Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins;

Such harmony is in immortal souls;

But whilst this muddy vesture of decay

Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.

Enter Musicians.

Come, ho, and wake Diana with a hymn:
With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' car,
And draw her home with music.

JES. I'm never merry when I hear sweet music.
LOR. The reason is, your spirits are attentive;

For do but note a wild and wanton herd,

Or race of youthful and unhandled colts,