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Of learning, late deccased in beggary.” These expressions are too precise and limited to refer to the tears of the Muses for the decay of knowledge and art. We cannot divest ourselves of the belief that some real person, and some real death, were alluded to. May we hazard a conjecture?-Greene, a man of learning, and one whom Shakspere in the generosity of his nature might wish to point at kindly, died in 1592, in a condition that might truly be called beggary. But how was his death, any more than that of Spenser, to be the occasion of " some satire, keen and critical?" Every student of our literary history will remember the famous controversy of Nash and Gabriel Harvey, which was begun by Harvey's publication, in 1592, of 'Four Letters, and certain Sonnets, especially touching Robert Greene, and other parties by him abused.' Robert Greene was dead; but Harvey came forward, in revenge of an incautious attack of the unhappy poet, to satirize him in his grave— to hold up his vices and his misfortunes to the public scorn-to be "keen and critical" upon "learning, late deceased in beggary." The conjecture which we offer may have

little weight, and the point is certainly of very small consequence.

"This is the silliest stuff that e'er I heard," says Hippolyta, when Wall has "discharged" his part. The auswer of Theseus is full of instruction :-"The best in this kind are but shadows; and the worst are no worse, if imagination amend them." It was in this humble spirit that the great poet judged of his own matchless performances. He felt the utter inadequacy of his art, and indeed of any art, to produce its due effect upon the mind, unless the imagination, to which it addressed itself, was ready to convert the shadows which it presented into living forms of truth and beauty. "I am convinced," says Coleridge, "that Shakspeare availed himself of the title of this play in his own mind, and worked upon it as a dream throughout." The poet says so, in express words:"If we shadows have offended,

Think but this, (and all is mended),
That you have but slumber'd here,
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,

No more yielding but a dream,

Gentles, do not reprehend."

But to understand this dream-to have all its gay, and soft, and harmonious colours impressed upon the vision-to hear all the golden cadences of its poesy-to feel the perfect congruity of all its parts, and thus to receive it as a truth-we must not suppose that it will enter the mind amidst the lethargic slumbers of the imagination. We

must receive it

"As youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream." Let no one expect that the beautiful influences of this drama can be truly felt when he is under the subjection of the literal and prosaic parts of our nature: or, if he habitually refuses to believe that there are higher and purer regions of thought than are supplied by the physical realities of the world. In these cases he will have a false standard by which to judge of this, and of all other high poetry-such a standard as that possessed by a critic-acute, learned, in

many respects wise-Dr. Johnson, who lived in a prosaic age, and fostered in this particular the real ignorance by which he was surrounded. He sums up the merits of 'A Midsummer-Night's Dream,' after this extraordinary fashion :-" Wild and fantastical as this play is, all the parts in their various modes are well written, and give the kind of pleasure which the author designed. Fairies, in his time, were much in fashion: common tradition had made them familiar, and Spenser's poem had made them great." It is perfectly useless to attempt to dissect such criticism: let it be a beacon to warn us, and not a "load-star" to guide us. Old Pepys, with his honest hatred of poetry-"To the King's Theatre, where we saw 'MidsummerNight's Dream,' which I had never seen before, nor shall ever again, for it is the most insipid, ridiculous play that ever I saw in my life"-is to us more tolerable.

Mr. Hallam accounts A MidsummerNight's Dream' poetical, more than dramatic; "yet rather so, because the indescribable profusion of imaginative poetry in this play overpowers our senses, till we can hardly observe anything else, than from any deficiency of dramatic excellence. For, in reality, the structure of the fable, consisting as it does of three, if not four actions, very distinct in their subjects and personages, yet wrought into each other without effort or confusion, displays the skill, or rather instinctive felicity, of Shakspeare, as much as in any play he has written." Yet, certainly, with all its harmony of dramatic arrangement, this play is not for the stageat least not for the modern stage. It may reasonably be doubted whether it was ever eminently successful in performance. The tone of the epilogue is decidedly apologetic, and "the best of this kind are but shadows" is in the same spirit. Hazlitt has admirably described its failure as an acting drama in his own day:

"The Midsummer-Night's Dream,' when acted, is converted from a delightful fiction into a dull pantomime. All that is finest in the play is lost in the representation. The spectacle was grand; but the spirit was evaporated, the genius was fled. Poetry and

the stage do not agree well together. The attempt to reconcile them in this instance fails not only of effect, but of decorum. The ideal can have no place upon the stage, which is a picture without perspective: everything there is in the foreground. That which was merely an airy shape, a dream, a passing thought, immediately becomes an unmanageable reality. Where all is left to the imagination (as is the case in reading), every circumstance, near or remote, has an equal chance of being kept in mind, and tells accordingly to the mixed impression of all that has been suggested. But the imagination cannot sufficiently qualify the actual impressions of the senses. Any offence given to the eye is not to be got rid of by explanation. Thus Bottom's head in the play is a fantastic illusion, produced by magic spells: on the stage it is an ass's head, and nothing more; certainly a very strange costume for a gentleman to appear in. Fancy cannot be embodied any more than a simile can be painted; and it is as idle to attempt it as to personate Wall or Moonshine."

And yet, just and philosophical as are these remarks, they offer no objection to the opinion of Mr. Hallam, that in this play there is no deficiency of dramatic excellence. We can conceive that, with scarcely what can be called a model before him, Shakspere's early dramatic attempts must have been a series of experiments to establish a standard by which he should regulate what he addressed to a mixed audience. The plays of his middle and mature life, with scarcely an exception, are acting plays; and they are so, not from the absence of the higher poetry, but from the predominance of character and passion in association with it. But even in those plays which call for a considerable exercise of the unassisted imaginative faculty in an audience, such as 'The Tempest,' and 'A Midsummer-Night's Dream,' where the passions are not powerfully roused, and the senses are not held enchained by the interests of a plot, he is still essentially dramatic. What has been called of late years the dramatie poem-that something between the epic and the dramatic which is held to form an apology for whatever of episodical or

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incongruous the author may choose to intro- | clouds, and fairies floating in ether, held up duce was unattempted by him. The by very invisible strings. And so the poetry Faithful Shepherdess' of Fletcher-a poet was borne for the sake of the sight-seeing who in some things knew how to accommo- and the songs. But, for a just comprehension date himself to the taste of a mixed audience of Shakspere's surpassing beauties in this more readily than Shakspere divine poem, we would rather hear the second demned on the first night of its appearance. scene of Act II. read as we have heard it Seward, one of his editors, calls this the read by a poet, than see the play, accomscandal of our nation. And yet it is ex- panied with every scenic propriety and pomp, tremely difficult to understand how the to show, after all, that "the best in this kind event should have been otherwise; for 'The are but shadows." Faithful Shepherdess' is essentially undra- Schlegel has happily remarked upon this matic. Its exquisite poetry was therefore drama, that "the most extraordinary comthrown away upon an impatient audience- bination of the most dissimilar ingredients its occasional indelicacy could not propitiate seems to have arisen without effort by some them. Milton's 'Comus' is in the same way ingenious and lucky accident; and the essentially undramatic; and none but such colours are of such clear transparency, that a refined audience as that at Ludlow Castle we think the whole of the variegated fabric could have endured its representation. But may be blown away with a breath.” It is the 'Midsummer-Night's Dream' is composed not till after we have attentively studied altogether upon a different principle. It this wonderful production that we underexhibits all that congruity of parts, that stand how solidly the foundations of the natural progression of scenes, that subor- fabric are laid. Theseus and Hippolyta dination of action and character to one move with a stately pace as their nuptial leading design, that ultimate harmony hour draws on. Hermia takes time to pause, evolved out of seeming confusion, which before she submits constitute the dramatic spirit. With "audience fit, though few," with a stage not encumbered with decorations, with actors approaching (if it were so possible) to the idea of grace and archness which belong to the fairy troop,-the subtle and evanescent beauties of this drama might not be wholly lost in the representation. But under the most favourable circumstances much would be sacrificed. It is in the closet that we must not only suffer our senses to be overpowered by its "indescribable profusion of imaginative poetry," but trace the instinctive felicity of Shakspere in the "structure of the fable." If the Midsummer-Night's Dream' could be acted, there can be no doubt how well it would act. Our imagination must amend what is wanting. It is no real objection to this belief that it has been acted with surpassing success since these observations were originally written. It was revived at Covent-Garden Theatre as a pantomimic opera, with exquisite scenery, and abundant music, and Oberon and Titania moving in golden chariots amongst silver

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"To death, or to a vow of single life," secretly resolving "through Athens' gates to steal." Helena, in the selfishness of her own love, resolves to betray her friend. Bottom the weaver, and Quince the carpenter, and Snug the joiner, and Flute the bellowsmender, and Snout the tinker, and Starveling the tailor, are thought fit through all Athens to play in the interlude before the duke and duchess on his wedding-day, at "dissimilar innight." Here are, indeed, gredients." They appear to have no aptitude for combination. The artists are not yet upon the scene, who are to make a mosaic out of these singular materials. We are only presented in the first act with the extremes of high and low-with the slayer of the Centaurs, and the weaver, who "will roar you an 't were any nightingale,"—with the lofty Amazon, who appears elevated above woman's hopes and fears, and the pretty and satirical Hermia, who swears

"By all the vows that ever men have broke, In number more than ever women spoke."

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"The course of true love" does not all "run smooth" in these opening scenes. We have the love that is crossed, and the love that is unrequited; and, worse than all, the unhappiness of Helena makes her treacherous to her friend. We have little doubt that all this will be set straight in the progress of the drama; but what Quince and his company will have to do with the untying of this knot is a mystery.

To offer an analysis of this subtle and ethereal drama would, we believe, be as unsatisfactory as the attempts to associate it with the realities of the stage. With scarcely an exception, the proper understanding of the other plays of Shakspere may be assisted by connecting the apparently separate parts of the action, and by developing and reconciling what seems obscure and anomalous in the features of the characters. But to follow out the caprices and illusions of the loves of Demetrius and Lysander, of Helena and Hermia ;-to reduce to prosaic description the consequence of the jealousies of Oberon and Titania;—to trace the Fairy Queen under the most fantastic of deceptions, where grace and vulgarity blend together like the Cupids and Chimeras of Raffaelle's Arabesques ;—and, finally, to go along with the scene till the illusions disappear-till the lovers are happy, and "sweet bully Bottom" is reduced to an ass of human dimensions ;—such an attempt as this would be worse even than unreverential criticism. No, the 'Midsummer-Night's Dream' must be left to its own influences.

"It is probable," says Steevens, "that the hint of this play was received from Chaucer's 'Knight's Tale.' We agree with this

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opinion. Malone has, with great hardihood, asserted that the part of the fable which relates to the quarrels of Oberon and Titania was "not of our author's invention." He has nothing to show in support of this, but the opinion of Tyrwhitt, that Pluto and Proserpina, in Chaucer's 'Merchant's Tale,' were the true progenitors of Oberon and Titania; that Robert Greene boasts of having performed the King of the Fairies, and that Greene has introduced Oberon in his play of 'James IV.' Malone's assertion, and the mode altogether in which he speaks of this drama, furnish a decisive proof of his incompetence to judge of the higher poetry of Shakspere. Because the names of Oberon and Titania existed before Shakspere, he did not invent his Oberon and Titania! The opinion of Mr. Hallam may correct some of the errors which the commentators have laboured to propagate. "The MidsummerNight's Dream' is, I believe, altogether original in one of the most beautiful conceptions that ever visited the mind of a poet, the fairy machinery. A few before him had dealt in a vulgar and clumsy manner with popular superstitions; but the sportive, beneficent, invisible population of the air and earth, long since established in the creed of childhood, and of those simple as children, had never for a moment been blended with

human mortals' among the personages of the drama. Lyly's 'Maid's Metamorphosis' is probably later than this play of Shakspeare, and was not published till 1600. It is unnecessary to observe that the fairies of Spenser, as he has dealt with them, are wholly of a different race.”*

*Literature of Europe,' vol. ii. p. 338.

CHAPTER III.

ROMEO AND JULIET.

'ROMEO AND JULIET' was first printed in the year 1597, under the following title: An excellent conceited Tragedie of Romeo and Juliet. As it hath been often (with great applause) plaid publiquely, by the right honourable the L. of Hunsdon his Seruants.' The second edition was printed in 1599, under the following title: The most excellent and lamentable Tragedie, of Romeo and Juliet. Newly corrected, augmented, and amended: As it hath bene sundry times publiquely acted, by the right Honourable the Lord Chamberlaine his Seruants.'

The subsequent original editions, and the folio of 1623, are founded upon the quarto of 1599, from which they differ very slightly. The quarto of 1599 was declared to be "newly corrected, augmented, and amended." There can be no doubt whatever that the corrections, augmentations, and emendations were those of the author. There are typographical errors in this edition, and in all the editions, and occasional confusions of the metrical arrangement, which render it more than probable that Shakspere did not see the proofs of his printed works. But that the copy, both of the first edition and of the second, was derived from him, is, to our minds, perfectly certain. We know of nothing in literary history more curious or more instructive than the example of minute attention, as well as consummate skill, exhibited by Shakspere in correcting, augmenting, and amending the first copy of this play. We would ask, then, upon what canon of criticism can an editor be justified in foisting into a copy, so corrected, passages of the original copy, which the matured judgment of the author had rejected? Essentially the question ought not to be determined by any arbitrement whatever other than the judgment of the author. Even if his corrections did not appear, in every case, to be improvements, we should be still bound to receive them with respect and deference.

We would not, indeed, attempt to establish it as a rule implicitly to be followed, that an author's last corrections are to be invariably adopted; for, as in the case of Cowper's 'Homer,' and Tasso's 'Jerusalem,' the corrections which these poets made in their first productions, when their faculties were in a great degree clouded and worn out, are properly considered as not entitled to supersede what they produced in brighter and happier hours. Mr. Southey has admirably stated the reason for this in the advertisement to his edition of Cowper's 'Homer.' But, in the case of Shakspere's 'Romeo and Juliet,' the corrections and augmentations were made by him at that epoch of his life when he exhibited "all the graces and facilities of a genius in full possession and habitual exercise of power." The augmentations, with one or two very trifling exceptions, are amongst the most masterly passages in the whole play, and include many of the lines that are invariably turned to, as some of the highest examples of poetical beauty. These augmentations, further, are so large in their amount, that, in Steevens's reprint, the first edition occupies only seventy-three pages; while the edition of 1609, in the same volume, printed in the same type as the first edition, occupies ninety-nine pages. The corrections are made with such exceeding judgment, such marvellous tact, that of themselves they completely overthrow the theory, so long submitted to, that Shakspere was a careless writer. Such being the case, we consider ourselves justified in treating the labour of Steevens and other editors, in making a patchwork text out of the author's first and second copies, as utterly worthless. We most readily acknowledge our own particular obligations to them; for, unless they had collected a great mass of materials, no modern edition could have been properly undertaken. But we, nevertheless, cannot conceal * Coleridge's Literary Remains.'

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