in favour of devotion towards so noble a father and an hereditary honour which promises to call him to still higher honour; and he rejects legitimacy of birth, his mother's honour, inheritance, possession, and interest. He flatters himself that he is, what John also calls himself, 'lord of his presence,' and that he may thank his merits for his success, as John might have done had he continued as noble-minded in his kingly calling as at the outset. The coarse moral of the Bastard, which he utters like a catechism, suits both alike equally: though?' he says,

Something about, a little from the right,

In at the window, or else o'er the hatch :
Who dares not stir by day must walk by night,
And have is have, however men do catch :
Near or far off, well won is still well shot,
And I am I, howe'er I was begot.

What

It is suitable to this worldly, unamiable, but respect-compelling man, so far removed from a subtle morality, but still more inaccessible to all dishonour, that the poet only makes him occasionally think of being religious, that he imputes an excessive reverence for the church to him as little as to John, that he twice gladly and successfully executes the king's command to lay the clergy under contribution, and to shake their bags; that he upholds the defiance of his prince towards the Pope, only that his opposition is more contemptuous and is exhibited in a time of misfortune and danger, while John only ventures upon it in prosperity. If we would personify the English national character, if we would sketch the idea of John Bull according to the then existing condition of the popular civilisation and life, we should say that in the plain, blunt unpretending Faulconbridge, in this simple straightforwardness of sound common sense, of hearty ability and natural cheerfulness and wit, the traits of the national English character are gathered together just as we should expect in a tragedy of this purport, in which this representative of the people is assigned the task of deciding for the popular welfare in those critical political transactions in which the bad are ruined and the good confounded.

Let us follow in conclusion this genuine son of England on his way through the rugged intricacies of that policy, into the midst of which he finds himself drawn by his original union with the king. We meet with him first considering himself in

his knightly dignity, in his 'new-made honour' which will never'fit' him; the genuine sons of the age and their manners, which he must now adopt, are as repugnant to him as his feeble brother; but he means to familiarise himself with this poison, not for the sake of practising to deceive, but to avoid deceit. He then follows the course of the war until John's league with France, which deprives England of a part of her possessions, and Constance of the help of France. Neutral himself, he utters here the judgment of unerring uprightness against this mad composition,' in which John divides his property and France defiles her honour. His soliloquy at the close of the second act (Shakespeare's addition entirely) severely points out the god of this world, that selfish desire of gain which is the cause of all these intricacies; he himself will 'worship' him, for he sees that all bow before the idol. But at the time that he gave his land to his brother for unsubstantial honour, he too well proved that he was not made for this idol-worship. The old play makes Faulconbridge in this scene in love with Blanche; Shakespeare judiciously omitted this trait, that the Bastard's judgment, which should guide us in all these matters, might not in any way be injured by personal interest; his fierce attack upon Austria, in the spirit of the enemy Constance, is thus the wholly pure expression of honourable disgust at unnatural alliances, aye, of joy at their interruption, and of design in their dissolution. The time comes when the vassals of John revolt on account of Arthur's death. He stands agitated over the bloody and condemned deed, but he is cautious of conceding the point to the barons before he receives full explanation. He will not provoke them still more to defection from their country-a step which he would not even justify if the murder were proved. For this reason he turns upon Hubert all the condemnation of his judgment, if he has done the deed; he believes the voice of honour when Hubert denies it. His fidelity to the king goes too far for him to break it, like Salisbury, for the sake of an unproved accusation; but never would it have gone to such a point as Hubert's, silently and obediently to receive a command or a hint like that of the murder of Arthur. But the intricacies of the matter are felt by this man, formerly so sure of his path, no less than by the others; he fears to lose his way among the thorns and dangers of this world; he calls him happy, 'whose cloak and cincture can hold out this tempest;' he sees that on

no side is honour and blessing to be gained. He shows at once, on the next occurrence, how little he, the king's most faithful servant, is the king's flatterer. He does not conceal from him his political blame upon his disgraceful alliance with Rome; it seems insufferable to the patriot that weapons of offence should be met with good words and compromises, that a 'cockered silken wanton' like the Dauphin should 'flesh his spirit in a warlike soil!' He recalls the king's old intrepidity and confidence, and vicariously assumes these qualities, when he sees them lost in the king. It is not the king but he, who now watchful, 'towers like an eagle over his aiery, to souse annoyance that comes near his nest.' He hastens, as much as lies in his power, to destroy the league between his king and the Pope, as he had before interrupted the peace between him and France; at the same time he calls the rebel nobles to duty and to shame, 'the Neroes, ripping up the womb of their dear mother England.' In the same way his exhortation to them, when they have returned in repentance, is that they should 'push' destruction and perpetual shame out of the weak door of the fainting land. So long as the king's command is not at variance with the divine command, he identifies throughout the king with the country. The king's evil star begins to shine when he sins against his country in the French contract of marriage; he meets with his tragic fall at the instigation of the church, when he was betraying his country to this very church; and in the same manner no blessing can rest on Constance's claim to the throne, when she is in league with the enemy of the land. The king's crime against his country thus falls upon his own head; but the king's crime, such is Faulconbridge's opinion, is not to be expiated by his country. He, therefore, holds to him. through thick and thin; 'something about, a little from the right,' are the same to him; the preservation and strength of the land is more to him than the lawful right to the crown, which he sees in Arthur; many thousand cares he sees at hand in the vast confusion, but the greatest to him is that Heaven itself frowns upon the land. In this position he acts according to that maxim of Bacon: 'God takes care of the world, take thou care of thy country.' For its safety he stretches every nerve, and most of all when he sees the king most fallen. The feeling for his country binds him to the king, when the sense of law and morality loosens Salisbury from him; each of them knows that he is only halfway on the right path; the Bastard exe

crates the murder and curses the subjection to Rome, Salisbury
weeps manly tears over the necessity for a state crime, by
which he would save his country. The moral finer-feeling man.
commits the greater political error, the greater politician takes
the side less morally pure, but in perfect firmness of conviction
that in such conflicts the country and its independence and
preservation is the only way-mark to follow, and that for
patriots the foundation of all virtue is persistent steadfastness,
which in the service of the fatherland can invest even moral
transgression with nobility. He perceived selfishness, interest,
and advantage to be the star which governs the political world;
if it be so, then as a last resort the advantage of the country
should be that before which all others are to be silent.
the opinion of the poet, therefore, as well as of Faulconbridge,
no foreign policy and no hostile sword should heal domestic
wounds. Hearty unity with a natural enemy is of no value to
him, and the national discontent at the league with foreign
propaganda, though it may be formed even against tyranny and
arbitrariness at home, is to him a sight full of ignominy and
dishonour. A lesson grandly inculcated upon us Germans, who
will have no state, nor politics, nor common nationality, nor
public welfare, until we understand how to apply to ourselves
the conclusion of this play, which is at the same time the soul
of it :-

This England never did, nor never shall,
Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror,
But when it first did help to wound itself.
Now these her princes are come home again,
Come the three corners of the world in arms,

And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue,
If England to itself do rest but true.

In

III. COMEDIES.

THE four comedies in which Shakespeare rises to a higher degree of refinement and elegance than in his earlier ones-in which his wit and mirth sparkle most brightly, and in which the fewest serious scenes occur to disturb the comic key-notelie between the second and third periods of his poetry. The Merry Wives of Windsor was written, according to the epilogue to Henry IV., after that piece (1598), and before 1602, when it first appeared in print. As You Like It is not mentioned in the Meres' list of Shakespeare's plays in 1598; it must therefore fall between this year and 1600, when it is named in a notice of the Bookseller's Register of August 4. Much Ado About Nothing is noticed at the same time in the records of the Booksellers' Company, and What You Will, according to the concurrent opinion of almost all editors, likewise belongs to the year 1600 or 1601. Following closely upon this merry group, Measure for Measure-written somewhat later, about 1603has indeed the air of a more serious drama, and thus may afford us an easy transition to the tragedies of the third period. In the four comedies prose decidedly predominates, more so than in other plays of our poet, which, from the date of their origin, lie remote from this group. This prose diction, so masterly in Shakespeare's pen, adds extraordinarily to the freedom of the dialogue and to the versatility of the wit.

At the termination of this series of the Shakespearian comedies with the last-named drama, Measure for Measure (which more than any other play of the poet combines the nature of comedy and tragedy), we feel ourselves involuntarily called upon to cast a glance of inquiry upon the various dramatic styles; to see how they were formed under Shakespeare's hands, and whether, with respect to their distinction, a law may be deduced from his own practice, and if so, what this law may be. The result of this consideration is an aesthetic theory