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in 1174, about four years after the murder of his patron archbishop Becket, and in the twenty-first year of the reign of king Henry the Second, mentions that London, for its theatrical exhibitions, has religious plays, either the representations of miracles wrought by holy confessors, or the sufferings of martyrs."

It is notorious that those miracle-plays were the rudest compositions imaginable, utterly devoid of art; they were composed without regard to plot and altogether deficient in those rules since adhered to, as had been previously done by the Greeks and Romans, in the composition of the regular and authorised national drama. The cause of the introduction of miracle-plays into England, is supposed to have arisen from the following circumstance :-The clergy, observing that the mummeries represented at fairs demoralised the people, prohibited the use of them under pain of ecclesiastical penalties; but finding that these threats, and even the infliction of punishment in many cases, did not abate the nuisance, they concluded that by introducing religious dramas into their convents and other places rendered sacred by being subject to their authority, to which the public might be admitted under certain restrictions, they would at once contribute to the rational amusement as well as edification of the community at large, and at the same time materially serve the cause of religion; but in truth some of those sacred exhibitions were of so obscene a nature-Adam and Eve, as I have already said, appearing upon the stage perfectly naked that they too often tended to produce an effect the very reverse of what was declared to be contemplated by the pious projectors of so grave an innovation; and in due time their "mysteries," as they were called, from representing mystical subjects taken out of Holy Writ, gave place to that lighter order of drama not inaptly termed " Moralities." These were so designated from the circumstance of their exhibiting impersonations of the passions and virtues, which appeared as living characters on the scene, and worked out their moral in a tangible identity before the eyes of the spectators. They superseded the tamer spectacles in a great degree, because there was a higher reach of art shown in them; and to persons only accustomed to the rude histrionic displays of monks and nuns, mixed up as they were with all the legendary superstitions of the

times and falsely directed to a religious end, and to the still ruder efforts of mountebanks in public market-places, and at fairs, the advancing art of scenic exhibitions had a charm which gave encouragement to numerous writers of the improved drama.

The "Mysteries" being nothing more than bald and literal representations of facts from Scripture history, running on without order of time or place; or of some sacred legend sanctified by superstition and therefore venerated as a source of spiritual edification, but utterly destitute of invention, and violating all rules of art; it was not difficult to supplant them by something which appealed as strongly to the passions, and more strongly to the intellects. The “Moralities,” therefore, soon obtained the preference. In these there were some contrivances; they were constructed with much more than usual regard to dramatic effect. In them there was an attempt, and not altogether unsuccessful, to discriminate character by the blended light and shade of action, of sentiment, and of feeling. They aimed at exhibiting national customs and manners; at presenting nature before the eye of the spectator in those broad episodes of her history, which so often happily direct the mind from particulars to generals, and lead, by inference, to a contemplation of the whole, from a just and accurate scrutiny of a part. These "Moralities,” although in every respect far superior to the miracle-plays, were, nevertheless, extremely rude specimens of dramatic construction, and were chiefly addressed to the multitude who had little discrimination in such matters, and being utterly unlettered had no relish for any intellectual art of a high order: they were, therefore, content with any improvement, however small, and the clumsy conception of the plots and characters in the Moralities exhibited up to the time of Shakspeare, sufficiently show the extremely low elevation to which the drama had attained among our unenlightened ancestors at this period of their history, when the haughty pride and sullen consciousness of individual power kept the titled orders from encouraging any efforts of intellect that should tend to raise the lower classes to a higher degree of intellectual distinction, by which an unfavourable comparison with their social superiors might be provoked-a period, however, from which the drama was beginning to rise into something more worthy the name of

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an art.

A curious passage from the Poeticks of the elder Scaliger will show us the condition of the stage in his time. "At present in France," that is, about the middle of the sixteenth century, "plays are represented in such a manner that nothing is withdrawn from the view of the spectators. The whole apparatus of the theatre consists of some high seats ranged in proper order. The persons of the scene never depart during the representation. He who ceases to speak is considered as if he were no longer on the stage. But in truth it is extremely ridiculous that the spectator should see the actor listening, and yet the latter should not hear what one of his fellow actors says concerning him, though in his own presence and within his hearing; as if he were absent while he is present. It is the great object of the dramatic poet to keep the mind in a constant state of suspense and expectation; but in our theatres there can be no novelty, no surprise, insomuch that the spectator is more likely to be satiated with what he has already seen, than to have any appetite for what is to come. Upon this ground it was, that Euripides objected to Eschylus, in the Frogs of Aristophanes, for having introduced Niobe and Achilles as mutes upon the scene, with a covering which entirely concealed their heads from the spectators."

In the account of the stage arrangements by Leland, who describes an entertainment given to king James the First, at Oxford, in 1605: that writer says, "The stage was built close to the upper end of the hall, as it seemed at the first sight; but indeed it was but a false wall faire painted, and adorned with stately pillars, which pillars would turn about; by reason whereof, with the help of other painted cloths, their stage did vary three times in the acting of one tragedy." These passages may suffice to convey an idea of the stage in Shakspeare's time, and at the period immediately subsequent.

During the reign of Elizabeth, dramatic exhibitions still continued to be given at fairs and on market days, in towns remote from, and in the neighbourhood of, the metropolis. Nothing could well exceed the ribaldry of those exhibitions, in spite of the pains taken by the conventual authorities to suppress them; and though superseded in a degree by the "Mysteries" and "Moralities," they nevertheless continued to attract popular attention, until a more attractive form of drama almost entirely VOL. X.-NO V.-MAY, 1837.

supplanted them, for which the country was indebted to the classical labours of Peele, Lodge, Marlowe, Nashe, Green, Kyd, and Lily, who paved the way for that revolution in dramatic taste, which nearly reached perfection under the commanding and colossal genius of Shakspeare. These authors, however, had not the power to impress upon their performances the mintage of true genius; and though their labours were received, in a comparatively rude age, as commendable improvements upon very barbarous models, they nevertheless did not possess sufficient vitality to give them a perpetuation of existence beyond the period in which they appeared, or that immediately subsequent.

"In the reign of Elizabeth, there existed no less than seven principal theatres. Three of these were private houses, namely, that in Blackfriars, that in Whitefriars, and the Cockpit or Phoenix, in Drury Lane: and four that were called public theatres, viz. the Globe on the Bankside, the Curtain in Shoreditch, the Red Bull at the upper end of St. John Street, and the Fortune in Whitecross Street. The last two were chiefly frequented by citizens. There were, however, but six companies of comedians; for the playhouse in Blackfriars and the Globe belonged to the same troop. Besides these seven theatres, there were for some time on the Bankside three other public theatres, the Swan, the Rose, and the Hope; but the latter being chiefly used as a bear-garden, and the two former having fallen to decay early in king James's reign, they ought not be enumerated with the other regular theatres *."

All the plays of Shakspeare appear to have been performed either at the Globe or the theatre in Blackfriars, and these, consequently, became the favourite houses. The dramatic entertainments presented in them had already assumed the more elevated tone of the stage as at present existing, though these entertainments were still exhibited with very inferior accompaniments, as will appear from the account of the celebrated Sir Philip Sidney; who, describing the state of the stage and of the drama in his time, about the year 1583 says,— "Now you shall have three ladies walk to gather flowers, and then we must beleeve the stage to be a garden. By-and-by we heare news of shipwrack in the same place;

* Malone. F F

then we are to blame, if we accept it not for a rock. Upon the back of that comes out a hideous monster with fire and smoke, and then the miserable beholders are bound to take it for a cave; while, in the mean time, two armies fly in, represented with four swords and bucklers, and then what hard heart will not take it for a pitched field !" When we consider under what circumstances Shakspeare wrote, and how degraded was the state of the drama in his day, it is astonishing how he surmounted the impediments which stood in the way of his success, and the extent of that success may be measured by the fact, that his dramas at this moment not only hold the highest rank upon the stage as works of genius, but are witnessed with greater delight than any thing subsequently produced by men of more learning and skill, but of infinitely less judgment, and who have shown themselves to be very far behind him in that depth of insight into the almost unexplored recesses of human nature, open alone to Shakspeare, or at least investigated alone by him. The imperfection of his plays, when tested with the performances of those more modern writers who are supposed to have produced perfect dramas, in the comparative sense of the term, and perfect according to the dramatic canons said to have been laid down by Aristotle, though attributed falsely to him, and observed by all the Greek writers of tragedy, is to be ascribed rather to the circumstances which governed his genius than to any natural want of skill. He was compelled, and no doubt frequently against his own judgment, to adapt his productions in a measure to the vitiated and debasing prejudices of the times, and the indecencies so frequently found in his plays were rather the compelled violations of good taste than the morbid effervescences of a naturally prurient imagination or of impure feeling. However low some of the scenes in his dramas, however gross his infractions of dramatic propriety, and however remote many of his scenes may be from critical accuracy with reference to the classical canons, he has nevertheless upon the whole displayed a dexterity of combination, a fulness and variety of incident, a sterling richness of material, a depth and harmony of colouring, a freshness and gorgeousness of tint, never overcharged even in its mightiest exuberance of splendour, exhibited by no other writer either ancient or

modern. “The stream of time," says Johnson, with equal truth and eloquence, "which is continually washing the dissoluble fabrics of other poets, passes without injury by the adamant of Shakspeare.”

Whatever may be laid to the charge of our immortal bard on the score of imperfection, his works sufficiently show that he possessed no common skill, and more than he could judiciously employ in the inefficient and ill appointed theatres for which he wrote; these were at least two centuries behind the rapid march of his genius which had made so boundless a stride towards the remote and unattainable goal of perfection. As the rich effusions of his prolific fancy, had he soared to the extreme height of his creative capacity, would have been in a measure inaccessible to the rude tastes of the audience before whom they were represented, he no doubt levelled the soaring of his aspiring mind to the perceptions of those who could not have traced him in the utmost elevation of his genius. However this may be, with all his blots, with all his indecencies, with all his barbarisms, and each are numerous, it is not too much to say of him that he raised the drama of this country from the degraded state to which bad taste, ignorance, and false enthusiasm had reduced it; and while he produced plays which have been the admiration of the learned world, they were such as could be abundantly relished, though not fully appreciated, by the lowest understandings of his day. This alone is high and very rare praise.

Shakspeare has been accused of wanting originality because the plots of his plays were taken from some obscure novels known in his time, though as this latter fact has never been clearly proved in all instances, those in which the proof fails must still rest upon conjecture or unsubstantiated report. But if he has taken other men's dross-for had it been sterling it would have reached our times, since fine ore is indestructible-he has transmuted it to gold by his own sublime alchemy. He is the only man who has ever yet been able to carry on and effectuate so difficult a process upon materials so scanty and intractable. As a proof of what we have here predicated, the works of those authors to whom our bard is said to have been indebted for the subjects of his dramas are now lost in the gulf of time, and many of the former are now matter of speculation, while the plays to

which their rude productions are supposed to have given rise, and no doubt in many instances truly, remain imperishable memorials of a genius that shall survive the wreck of empires, when the works of inferior men, having passed through the brief cycle of their reputation, shall have lapsed into oblivion.

The assumed fact of Shakspeare's ignorance of the learned languages has been said to be deducible from his writings. He is stated to have used the best translations which his age afforded, whenever he made choice of subjects belonging to classical periods, on which no information was to be directly obtained, except through the languages of Greece and Rome, and indirectly through translations. But the fact of Shakspeare having availed himself of the readier access of a translation was no proof that he was unable to read the original, though it may fairly lead to the inference that his scholarship was not of the highest order. Nevertheless, as he only wanted a subject for the exercise of his own constructive powers, he obtained as readily all he wished to acquire through the medium of a translation as he could have done had he been ever so familiar with the original. I have no doubt that the trammels of learning would have encumbered the free and excursive flights of his towering imagination; he was therefore the better for those privative qualities, which neither cramped his understanding nor biassed his judgment. It was not his object to appropriate the thoughts and sentiments of other men, but having found sufficient material for the framework of a play he cast the crude mass into the mould of his own capacious mind, and thus produced dramas which have since been the admiration of all civilised Europe. He is allowed to have no competitor. While the plays of Marlowe, Ford, Shirley, and even of Ben Jonson and Fletcher, are all but forgotten, except by the few who admire the racy poetry which those of the two latter contain, his are still fresh upon the stem of their growth; they will outlive the country in which they have bloomed and flourished to such transcendant maturity, and reach the last scene of time, when every thing shall be involved in

"The wreck of matter and the crush of worlds."

The literary character of Shakspeare has been speculated upon by some of the most gifted men since his time, and after all that

has been written upon a subject so infinitely interesting to every admirer of our great dramatic bard, no more light has been thrown upon it than is exhibited in the plays themselves-the chief and imperishable monuments of his genius; for of his sonnets and other poems so little is comparatively known, that, had not the magic of his name obtained for them a conventional reputation, they would have long since passed into oblivion, as is evident from the low estimation in which they are now held, save by those worshippers of their distinguished author who value them only because they are his. The merits of those effusions are unquestionably far below what might have been expected from the genius which produced them. Many of them are contemptible as poetical productions, even apart from the great name of their author; they, with a few exceptions, would have done no honour to the most inferior hand. There are, however, some of those poems in every respect worthy of the diadem with which the united voice of posterity has encircled the brows of Shakspeare; generally, however, they cannot add to his fame. Most of them have been surpassed by very inferior

men.

It is in the plays that we are to look for the bright emanations of Shakspeare's mind; these present us with a vigorous application and infinitely varied powers of intellect, never exhibited by any other dramatic bard, either ancient or modern, and excite an enthusiasm, a thrill of admiration in the soul of the reader, which no writer can create in the same degree. Opinions

never

vary upon the transcendency of Shakspeare's genius. No one disputes this universally acknowledged fact. It is as incontrovertible as an axiom in mathematics, which no dexterity of logic or astuteness of argument can prove to be false. He is an object almost of national adoration.

If it be asked why the plays of Shakspeare have excited such extraordinary admiration above those of all other English dramatic authors, we answer by the mastery of mind developed in those marvellous compositions, which, notwithstanding their numerous and frequently striking faults,— though for many of these their author should not be held responsible,-are unrivalled for the consummate knowledge of nature which they display in all its infinite variety of phases and of modifications; for the profound insight which they show the writer

to have possessed into the secret sources of human passion, showing that he had the clue to every avenue that traversed the vast maze of human feeling and of human sympathies; for the philosophical discrimination of social attributes they exhibit, a discrimination which so projects the character into view that all its minutest details, no less than its principal features, are brought as it were before the eye with a development almost magical.

Of the peculiar qualities of Shakspeare's genius, volumes have been and might still be written. Its great charm and paramount ascendency consisted in his intuitive perception of Nature in all her hidden mysteries and delicate combinations, frequently so exquisitely minute and intangible as to escape the scrutiny and elude the grasp of ordinary minds, or indeed of any mind not endued with a power almost transcendent. Shakspeare's was a deep mine of knowledge, from which he drew with unsparing liberality, giving frequently the native dross with the ore, but pouring forth the latter from the boundless storehouse of his intellect with a gorgeous and lavish profusion. He exhibited a broad and intuitive philosophy, which showed its magnificent results, not by ostentatiously displaying the mechanical and embarrassing process of solving a set of intricate problems, but by laying at once the mighty result before the eye in all the grandeur of its consummation, without exposing the dull machinery of investigation. In his representations of life and manners, not a tint is absent that could give value to the picture. Every touch seems to have the force of instinct, evolving some new element of moral life, and imparting a spiritual as well as physical vitality to the groups, so admirably diversified in all his plays, and yet always so naturally and so appropriately disposed as to exhibit everywhere a life-like reality. Yet this man, with all his genius, his mighty grasp of intellect, his microscopic perception of the subtler elements of emotion and of thought, appears to have been unconscious of his marvellous powers; or if conscious, it is certain that he did not appreciate them, for it has been made clear to a demonstration, that he did not produce his plays with any regard to future fame, but only to present emolument. This fact has indeed been questioned; but it is difficult to account, upon any other supposition, for his never having given an edition of his own dramas to

the world. He appears to have left them in the hands of the performers, who interpolated them according to their own notions of improvement, without any check or limitation from the author, who, so long as the audiences were satisfied, seems not to have cared for the further fate of his productions.

So loose and imperfect were the first printed copies, that the directions for the stage business were occasionally incorporated with the text, so as to render it completely unintelligible. The names too of the actors are frequently printed indiscriminately with those of the characters represented by them, as in "Much Ado About Nothing," folio edition, 1623, we find in act the second, "Enter Prince Leonato, Claudio, and Jack Wilson." It has only been by the industry of subsequent editors, from Rowe especially down to Steevens and Malone, including a host of commentators in the intervening interval, that our great dramatic bard has been restored to something like his original beauty; though even now much remains to be done, for there is still a vast deal absolutely unintelligible, and more that is defaced by barbarisms which such a master mind as Shakspeare's could never have admitted into any thing bearing the sole impress of his capacious and original mind.

The frightful inroads made by the first transcribers of our author's dramas, upon the purity of the original text, is deeply to be deplored, as not only have they thus come to us in a state of sad mutilation, but it is this circumstance that has given rise to such a number of new readings, which every actor now considers himself privileged to employ in order to show his ingenuity, though too often greatly to the prejudice of the author whom he affects to venerate. This pitiful ambition has done much more towards eclipsing than evolving the beauties of our great dramatist, and it really were to be wished that the Lord Chamberlain should be empowered to prohibit these empirical licences, unless a man can substantiate his capability of throwing new light upon obscurities which it is to be feared the beams of modern interpretation will never penetrate.

Most of the new readings adopted by our modern artists of repute are of the most trifling description, and merely put forth for the sake of establishing a paltry claim to originality. How for instance does Mr.

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