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SHAKESPEARE 
 AS A DRAMATIC ARTIST 
 
 MOULTON 
 
£anion 
 
 HENRY FROWDE 
 
 Oxford University Press Warehouse 
 
 Amen Corner, E.C. 
 
 MACMILLAN i CO., 112 FOURTH AVENUE 
 
SHAKESPEARE 
 
 A DRAMATIC ARTIST 
 
 A POPULAR ILLUSTRATION OF 
 THE PRINCIPLES OF SCIENTIFIC CRITICISM 
 
 RICHARD G. MOULTON 
 
 A.M. (Cantab.), Ph. D. (Penn.) 
 
 PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LITERATURE IN THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO, LATE 
 
 LECTURER TO CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY (eXTENSIOn), TO THE LONDON 
 
 AND TO THE AMERICAN SOCIETIES FOR THE EXTENSION 
 
 OF UNIVERSITY TEACHING 
 
 THIRD EDITION : REVISED AND ENLA1?GED 
 
 AT THE CLARENDON PRESS 
 
 o. 1893 
 
 15,V 
 

 PRINTED AT THE CLARENDON PRESS 
 BY HORACE HART, PRINTER TO THE tmiVERSITY 
 
PREFACE TO THE THIRD 
 EDITION 
 
 The present edition is distinguished by two features. 
 In the first place, the h"st of plays treated in Part First 
 has been enlarged by three, — Othello, Love's Labour's 
 Lost, and As You Like It. The Study of Othello has 
 been made No. XI, to associate it with previous Studies 
 of Julius Casar and Lear, since it connects Character 
 and Plot as these had connected Passion and Movement. 
 The Studies of Love's Labour 's Lost and As You Like 
 It (Nos. XIV, XV) are placed after those on The 
 Tempest, and carry further the topics of Central Ideas 
 and Dramatic Colouring. The new matter is the sub- 
 stance of papers read at various times before the New 
 Shakspere Society of London. 
 
 Such additions to Part First involve, according to the 
 plan of the whole work, additions of detail and restate- 
 ments of various points in Part Second. But besides 
 these there is a change of a more general character in 
 Part Second, which makes the other main feature of 
 this edition. It has always been my contention that 
 the Science of Dramatic Criticism admits at present of 
 no systematisation other than a digest of critical topics, 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 and such a digest must always be provisional. One of 
 the most difficult problems in this science is the proper 
 treatment of Dramatic Movement, to determine wrhether 
 its relations with Passion or with Plot are the closer, or 
 whether indeed it does not constitute a fundamental 
 division of Drama by itself. In previous editions I 
 have treated this problem by making a compromise, 
 which separated Motive Force from Motive Form, 
 associating the former with Passion and the latter with 
 Plot. Further experience has led me to think that it is 
 more accurate — as it is certainly simpler — to treat the 
 whole of Movement as a division of Plot, leaving 
 Passion- Movement to be represented by successions of 
 Tone. A glance at the Table of Topics on page 398 
 will make the new scheme clear. 
 
 December, 1892. 
 
 PREFACE TO THE SECOND 
 EDITION 
 
 In this edition two new Studies, Nos. XI and XII, 
 have been added to Part First, dealing with The Tem- 
 pest, and bringing the treatment in that portion of the 
 book, which has for its purpose to illustrate master- 
 pieces of dramatic art in particular plays of Shakespeare, 
 to a natural climax in the discussion of Central Ideas. 
 The new Studies are the substance of a paper read 
 before the New Shakspere Society of London in 
 
PREFACE. vii 
 
 January, 1887. Such addition to Part First carries with 
 it, according to the plan of the whole work, additions of 
 detail and restatement of various points in Part Second. 
 A few verbal corrections and alterations have been 
 made in other parts of the book. 
 
 July, 1888. 
 
 PREFACE TO THE FIRST 
 EDITION 
 
 I HAVE had three objects before me in writing this 
 book. The first concerns the general reader. No one 
 needs assistance in order to perceive Shakespeare's 
 greatness ; but an impression is not uncommonly to 
 be found, especially amongst English readers, that 
 Shakespeare's greatness lies mainly in his deep know- 
 ledge of human nature, while, as to the technicalities 
 of Dramatic Art, he is at once careless of them 
 and too great to need them. I have endeavoured 
 to combat this impression by a series of Studies of 
 Shakespeare as a Dramatic Artist. They are chiefly 
 occupied with a few master-strokes of art, sufficient to 
 illustrate the revolution Shakespeare created in the 
 Drama of the world — a revolution not at once per- 
 ceived simply because it had carried the Drama at a 
 bound so far beyond Dramatic Criticism that the 
 appreciation of Shakespeare's plays was left to the 
 
viii PREFACE. 
 
 uninstructed public, while the trained criticism that ought 
 to have recognised the new departure was engaged 
 in clamouring for other views of dramatic treatment, 
 which it failed to perceive that Shakespeare had 
 rendered obsolete. 
 
 While the earlier chapters are taken up with these 
 Studies, the rest of the work is an attempt, in very 
 brief form, to present Dramatic Criticism as a regular 
 Inductive Science. If I speak of this as a new branch 
 of Science I am not ignoring the great works on 
 Shakespeare-Criticism which already exist, the later 
 of which have treated their subject in an inductive 
 spirit. What these still leave wanting is a recognition 
 of method in application to the study of the Drama : 
 my purpose is to claim for Criticism a position amongst 
 the Inductive Sciences, and to sketch in outline a plan 
 for the Dramatic side of such a Critical Science. 
 
 A third purpose has been to make the work of use 
 as an educational manual. Shakespeare now enters 
 into every scheme of liberal education ; but the an- 
 notated editions of his works give the student little 
 assistance except in the explanation of language and 
 allusions ; and the idea, I believe, prevails that any- 
 thing like the discussion of literary characteristics or 
 dramatic effect is out of place in an educational work — 
 is, indeed, too ' indefinite ' to be ' examined on.' Ten 
 years' experience in connection with the Cambridge 
 University Extension, during which my work has been 
 to teach literature apart from philology, has confirmed 
 my impression that the subject-matter of literature, its 
 
PREFACE. ix 
 
 exposition and analysis from the sides of science, his- 
 tory, and art, is as good an educational discipline as 
 it is intrinsically valuable in quickening literary ap- 
 preciation. 
 
 There are two special features of the book to which 
 I may here draw attention. Where practicable, I have 
 appended in the margin references to the passages of 
 Shakespeare on which my discussion is based. (These 
 references are to the Globe Edition.) I have thus 
 hoped to reduce to a minimum the element of personal 
 opinion, and to give to my treatment at least that 
 degree of definiteness which arises when a position 
 stands side by side with the evidence supporting it. 
 I have also endeavoured to meet a practical difficulty 
 in the use of Shakespeare-Criticism as an educational 
 subject. It is usual in educational schemes to name 
 single plays of Shakespeare for study. Experience 
 has convinced me that methodical study of the subject- 
 matter is not possible within the compass of a single 
 play. On the other hand, few persons in the educa- 
 tional stage of life can have the detailed knowledge of 
 Shakespeare's plays as a whole which is required for 
 a full treatment of the subject. The present work is 
 so arranged that it assumes knowledge of only five ' 
 plays — The Merchant of Venice, Richard III, Macbeth, 
 Julius Ccesar, and King Lear. Not only in the Studies, 
 but also in the final review, the matter introduced is 
 
 ' A sixth play, The Tempest, is added in the Second Edition, and 
 three more in the third Edition, viz. — Othello, Lovers Labour's Lost, 
 and As You Like It. 
 
X PREFACE. 
 
 confined to what can be illustrated out of these five 
 plays. These are amongst the most familiar of the 
 Shakespearean Dramas, or they can be easily read 
 before commencing the book ; and if the arrangement 
 is a limitation involving a certain amount of repetition, 
 yet I believe the gain will be greater than the loss. 
 For the young student, at all events, it affords an op- 
 portunity of getting what will be the best of all intro- 
 ductions to the whole subject — a thorough knowledge 
 of five plays. 
 
 In passing the book through the press I have re- 
 ceived material assistance from my brother. Dr. 
 Moulton, Master of the Leys School, and from my 
 College friend, Mr. Joseph Jacobs. With the latter, 
 indeed, I have discussed the work in all its stages, and 
 have been under continual obligation to his stores of 
 knowledge and critical grasp in all departments of 
 literary study. I cannot even attempt to name the 
 many friends — chiefly fellow-workers in the University 
 Extension Movement — through whose active interest 
 in my Shakespeare teaching I have been encouraged 
 to seek for it publication. 
 
 RICHARD G. MOULTON. 
 
 April, 1885. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 nfTRODUCTION. 
 
 PLEA FOR AN INDUCTIVE SCIENCE OF LITERARY 
 CRITICISM. 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE CONSIDERED AS A DRAMATIC ARTIST, 
 IN FIFTEEN STUDIES. 
 
 The Two Stories Shakespeare borrows for his 
 'Merchant of Venice.' 
 
 PAGt 
 
 A Study in the Raw Material of the Romantic Drama 43 
 
 II. 
 
 How Shakespeare manipulates the Stories in drama- 
 tising THEM. 
 
 A Study in Dramatic Workmanship . .58 
 
 III. 
 
 How Shakespeare makes his Plot more Complex in 
 
 ORDER to make IT MORE SIMPLE. 
 
 A Study in Underplot . . . 74 
 
xii CONTENTS. 
 
 IV. 
 A Picture of Ideal Villainy in 'Richard III.' 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Study in Character-Interpretalion . • 9° 
 
 V. 
 ' Richard III ' : How Shakespeare weaves Nemesis into 
 History. 
 
 A Study in Plot . . . . .107 
 
 VI. 
 
 How Nemesis and Destiny are interwoven in ' Mac- 
 beth.' 
 
 A further Study in Plot . 125 
 
 VII. 
 Macbeth, Lord and Lady. 
 
 A Study in Character- Contrast . 144 
 
 VIIL 
 Julius Caesar beside his Murderers and his Avenger. 
 
 A Study in Character- Grouping . 16S 
 
 IX. 
 
 How the Play of ' Julius Caesar ' works up to a Climax 
 
 .\T the centre. 
 
 A Study in Passion and Movement jg- 
 
 X. 
 How Climax meets Climax in the centre of ' Lear.' 
 
 A Study in more complex Passion and Movement . 202 
 
CONTENTS. xiii 
 
 XI. 
 
 'Othello' as a Picture of Jealousy and Intrigue. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Study in Character and Plot . . . . 225 
 
 XII. 
 How ' The Tempest ' is a Drama of Enchantment. 
 
 A Study in Dramatic Colouring V246 
 
 XIII. 
 
 How the Enchantment of ' The Tempest ' presents 
 Personal Providence. 
 
 A Study in Central Ideas ^ 364 
 
 XIV. 
 
 How 'Love's Labour's Lost' presents Simple Humour 
 IN conflict with various Affectations and Con- 
 ventionalities. 
 
 A further Study in Central Ideas . . 284 
 
 XV. 
 How ' As You Like It ' presents Varied Forms of Humour 
 IN conflict with a Single Conventionality. 
 
 A Study of more Complex Dramatic Colouring . 300 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 SURVEY OF DRAMATIC CRITICISM AS AN INDUCTIVE 
 SCIENCE. 
 
 XVI. 
 Topics of Dramatic Criticism 317 
 
 XVII. 
 Interest of Character 33° 
 
Xiv CONTENTS. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Interest of Passion 338 
 
 XIX. 
 Interest of Plot : Statics .... 35^ 
 
 XX. 
 
 Interest of Plot : Dynamics 370 
 
 Appendix : Technical Analysis of Plots .... 399 
 Indexes . 417 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 PLEA FOR AN INDUCTIVE SCIENCE 
 OF LITERARY CRITICISM 
 
I 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 N the treatment of literature the proposition which seems Proposi- 
 to stand most in need of assertion at the present *^°"" 
 moment is, that there is an inductive science of literary criticism. 
 As botany deals inductively with the phenomena of vegetable 
 life and traces the laws underlying them, as economy re- 
 views and systematises on inductive principles the facts of 
 commerce, so there is a criticism not less inductive in cha- 
 racter which has for its subject-matter literature. 
 
 The presumption is clearly that literary criticism should Presumf- 
 follow other branches of thought in becoming inductive. ?"" *" f 
 
 o a favour of 
 
 Ultimately, science means no more than organised thought; inductive 
 and amongst the methods of organisation induction is the criticism 
 most practical. To begin with the observation of facts ; to 
 advance from this through the arrangement of observed 
 facts ; to use a priori ideas, instinctive notions of the fitness 
 of things, insight into far probabilities, only as side-lights for 
 suggesting convenient arrangements, the value of which is 
 tested only by the actual convenience in arranging they 
 afford ; to be content with the sure results so obtained as 
 'theory' in the interval of waiting for still surer results based 
 on a yet wider accumulation of facts : this is a regimen for 
 healthy science so widely established in different tracts of 
 thought as almost to rise to that universal acceptance which 
 we call common sense. Indeed the whole progress of 
 science consists in winning fresh fields of thought to the 
 inductive methods. 
 
2 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Current Yet the great mass of literary criticism at the present 
 "f^ntid^m moment is of a nature widely removed from induction. The 
 coloured by prevailing notions of criticism are dominated by the idea of 
 ^K^rthan assaying, as if its function were to test the soundness and 
 inductive, estimate the comparative value of literary work. Lord 
 Macaulay, than whom no one has a better right to be heard 
 on this subject, compares his office of reviewer to that of a 
 king-at-arms, versed in the laws of literary precedence, mar- 
 shalling authors to the exact seats to which they are entitled. 
 And, as a matter of fact, the bulk of literary criticism, 
 whether in popular conversation or in discussions by pro- 
 fessed critics, occupies itself with the merits of authors and 
 works ; founding its estimates and arguments on canons of 
 taste, which are either assumed as having met with general 
 acceptance, or deduced from speculations as to fundamental 
 conceptions of literary beauty. 
 Criticism It becomes necessary then to recognise two different kinds 
 ^and indue- °^ library criticism, as distinct as any two things that can be 
 tive. The called by the same name. The difference between the two 
 ^Hnguished ^^^ ^^ summed up as the difference between the work of 
 A judge and of an invesligator. The one is the enquiry into 
 what ought to be, the other the enquiry into what is. 
 Judicial criticism compares a new production with those 
 already existing in order to determine whether it is inferior 
 to them or surpasses them ; criticism of investigation makes 
 the same comparison for the purpose of identifying the new 
 product with some type in the past, or differentiating it and 
 registering a new type. Judicial criticism has a mission to 
 watch against variations from received canons ; criticism of 
 investigation watches for new forms to increase its stock of 
 species. The criticism of taste analyses literary works for 
 grounds of preference or evidence on which to found judg- 
 ments; inductive criticism analyses them to get a closer 
 acquaintance with their phenomena. 
 
 Let the question be of Ben Jonson. Judicial criticism 
 
CRITICISM JUDICIAL AND INDUCTIVE, 3 
 
 Starts by holding Ben Jonson responsible for the decay of the 
 English Drama. 
 
 Inductive criticism takes objection to the word 'decay' as 
 suggesting condemnation, but recognises Ben Jonson as the 
 beginner of a new tendency in our dramatic history. 
 
 But, judicial criticism insists, the object of the Drama is 
 to pourtray human nature, whereas Ben Jonson has painted 
 not men but caricatures. 
 
 Induction sees that this formula cannot be a sufficient 
 definition of the Drama, for the simple reason that it does 
 not take in Ben Jonson ; its own mode of putting the matter 
 is that Ben Jonson has founded a school of treatment of 
 which the law is caricature. 
 
 But Ben Jonson's caricatures are palpably impossible. 
 
 Induction soon satisfies itself that their point lies in their 
 impossibility ; they constitute a new mode of pourtraying 
 qualities of character, not by resemblance, but by analysing 
 and intensifying contrasts to make them clearer. 
 
 Judicial criticism can see how the poet was led astray ; the 
 bent of his disposition induced him to sacrifice dramatic 
 propriety to his satiric purpose. 
 
 Induction has another way of putting the matter : that the 
 poet has utilised dramatic form for satiric purpose ; thus by 
 the 'cross-fertilisation' of two existing literary species he has 
 added to literature a third including features of both. 
 
 At all events, judicial criticism will maintain, it must be 
 admitted that the Shakespearean mode of pourtraying is 
 infinitely the higher : a sign-painter, as Macaulay points out, 
 can imitate a deformity of feature, while it takes a great 
 artist to bring out delicate shades of expression. 
 
 Inductive treatment knows nothing about higher or lower, 
 which lie outside the domain of science. Its point is that 
 science is indebted to Ben Jonson for a new species ; if the 
 new species be an easier form of art it does not on that 
 account lose its claim to be analysed. 
 
 B 2 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The two 
 
 criticisms 
 
 confused: 
 
 conception 
 of critical 
 method 
 limited to 
 judicial 
 method. 
 
 Partly a 
 survival of 
 Renais- 
 sance in- 
 fluence : 
 
 The critic of merit can always fall back upon taste : who 
 would not prefer Shakespeare to Ben Jonson ? 
 
 But even from this point of view scientific treatment can 
 plead its own advantages. The inductive critic reaps to the 
 full the interest of Ben Jonson, to which the other has beeij 
 forcibly closing his eyes; while, so far from liking Shake- 
 speare the less, he appreciates all the more keenly Shake- 
 speare's method of treatment from his familiarity with that 
 which is its antithesis. 
 
 It must be conceded at once that both these kinds of 
 criticism have justified their existence. Judicial criticism has 
 long been established as a favourite pursuit of highly culti- 
 vated minds ; while the criticism of induction can shelter 
 itself under the authority of science in general, seeing that it 
 has for its object to bring the treatment of literature into the 
 circle of the inductive sciences. It is unfortunate, however, 
 that the spheres of the two have not been kept distinct. In 
 the actual practice of criticism the judicial method has obtained 
 an illegitimate supremacy which has thrown the other into the 
 shade; it has even invaded the domain of the criticism that 
 claims to be scientific, until the word criticism itself has suf- 
 fered, and the methodical treatment of literature has by tacit 
 assumption become limited in idea to the judicial method. 
 
 Explanation for this limited conception of criticism is not 
 far to seek. Modern criticism took its rise before the 
 importance of induction was recognised : it lags behind 
 other branches of thought in adapting itself to inductive 
 treatment chiefly through two influences. The first of these 
 is connected with the revival of literature after the darkness 
 of the middle ages. The birth of thought and taste in 
 modern Europe was the Renaissance of classical thought 
 and taste ; by Roman and Greek philosophy and poetry the 
 native powers of our ancestors were trained till they became 
 strong enough to originate for themselves. It was natural 
 for their earliest criticism to take the form of applying the 
 
CRITICISM JUDICIAL AND INDUCTIVE. 5 
 
 classical standards to their own imitations : now we have and its 
 advanced so far that no one would propose to test ex- "asmaf 
 clusively by classical models, but nevertheless the idea oi models, 
 testing still lingers as the root idea in the treatment of litera- 
 ture. Other branches of thought have completely shaken off 
 this attitude of submission to the past : literary criticism 
 differs from the rest only in being later to move. This is 
 powerfully suggested by the fact that so recent a writer 
 as Addison couples science in general with criticism in 
 his estimate of probable progress ; laying down the startling 
 proposition that 'it is impossible for us who live in the later 
 ages of the world to make observations in criticism, in 
 morality, or in any art or science, which have not been 
 touched upon by others ' 1 
 
 And even for this lateness a second influence goes far to Partly that 
 account. The grand literary phenomenon of modern times is ^^^^^/^-^ 
 journalism, the huge apparatus of floating literature of which have in- 
 one leading object is to review literature itself. The vast in- ^^^^^^f '^ 
 crease of production consequent upon the progress of printing criticism. 
 has made production itself a phenomenon worthy of study, and 
 elevated the sifting of production into a prominent literary 
 occupation; by the aid of book -tasters alone can the 
 ordinary reader keep pace with production. It is natural 
 enough that the influence of journalism should pass beyond 
 its natural sphere, and that the review should tend to usurp 
 the position of the literature for which reviewing exists. Now 
 in journalism testing and valuation of literary work have a 
 real and important place. It has thus come about that in 
 the great preponderance of ephemeral over permanent 
 literature the machinery adapted to the former has become 
 applied to the latter: methods proper to journalism have 
 settled the popular conception of systematic treatment ; and 
 the bias already given to criticism by the Renaissance has 
 been strengthened to resist the tendency of all kinds of 
 thought towards inductive methods. 
 
6 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Thelimita- History will thus account for the way in which the criticism 
 Tendfd- °f *^^*^ ^"<^ valuation tends to be identified with criticism in 
 theory of general : but attempts are not wanting to give the identifica- 
 tasteascon- ^^^^ ^ scientific basis. Literary appreciation, it is said, is a 
 
 (tSttSCCt BX- ) • 1- 
 
 perience. thing of culture. A critic in the reviewer s sense is one wno 
 has the literary faculty both originally acute and developed 
 by practice : he thus arrives quickly and with certainty at 
 results which others would reach laboriously and after tem- 
 porary misjudgments. Taste, however arbitrary in appear- 
 ance, is in reality condensed experience ; judicial criticism is 
 a wise economy of appreciation, the purpose of which is to 
 anticipate natural selection and universal experience. He is 
 a good critic who, by his keen and practised judgment, can 
 tell you at once the view of authors and works which you 
 would yourself come to hold with sufficient study and 
 experience. 
 The theory Now in the first place there is a flaw in this reasoning : it 
 'The%df- ^"^^^^ *° ^^^ ^"'° account that the judicial attitude of mind 
 cial spirit a is itself a barrier to appreciation, as being opposed to that 
 treliaHon clelicacy of receptiveness which is a first condition of sensi- 
 bility to impressions of literature and art. It is a matter 
 of commonest experience that appreciation may be inter- 
 fered with by prejudice, by a passing unfavourable mood, or 
 even by uncomfortable external surroundings. But it is by 
 no means sufficient that the reader of literature should divest 
 himself of these passive hindrances to appreciation : poets 
 are pioneers in beauty, and considerable activity of effort 
 is required to keep pace with them. Repetition may be 
 necessary to catch effects — ^passages to be read over and 
 over again, more than one author of the same school to 
 be studied, effect to be compared with kindred effect each 
 helping the other. Or an explanation from one who has 
 already caught the idea may turn the mind into a receptive 
 attitude. Training again is universally recognised as a ne- 
 cessity for appreciation, and to train is to make receptive. 
 
CRITICISM TESTED BY ITS HISTORY. 7 
 
 Beyond all these conditions of perception, and including On the 
 them, is yet another. It is a foundation principle in art- "^^"'^ '"^"^ 
 
 1 11-1 . sympathy 
 
 culture, as well as in human mtercourse, that sympathy is the the great 
 grand interpreter : secrets of beauty will unfold themselves to '■"terfreter. 
 the sunshine of sympathy, while they will wrap theniselves 
 all the closer against the tempest of sceptical questionings. 
 Now a judicial attitude of mind is highly unreceptive, for it 
 necessarily implies a restraint of sympathy: every one, 
 remarks Hogarth, is a judge of painting except the con- 
 noisseur. The judicial mind has an appearance of receptive- 
 ness, because it seeks to shut out prejudice : but what if the 
 idea of judging be itself a prejudice ? On this view the very 
 consciousness of fairness, involving as it does limitation of 
 sympathy, will be itself unfair. In practical life, where 
 we have to act, the formation of judgments is a necessity^ 
 In art we can escape the obligation, and here the judicial 
 spirit becomes a wanton addition to difficulties of appre- 
 ciation already sufficiently great; the mere notion of con- 
 demning may be enough to check our receptivity to qualities 
 which, as we have seen, it may need our utmost effort to 
 catch. So that the judicial attitude of mind comes to defeat 
 its own purpose, and disturbs unconsciously the impression 
 it seeks to judge ; until, as Emerson puts it, ' if you criticise 
 a fine genius the odds are that you are out of your reckon- 
 ing, and instead of the poet are censuring your caricature 
 of him.' 
 
 But the appeal made is to experience : to experience let The theory 
 it go. It will be found that, speaking broadly, the whole ^^f^*^'^ h 
 history of criticism has been a triumph of authors over critics : the history 
 so long as criticism has meant the gauging of literature, so of^riticism 
 long its progress has consisted in the reversal of critical of authors 
 judgments by further experience. I hesitate to enlarge upon °^^^ critics. 
 this part of my subject lest I be inflicting upon the reader 
 the tedium of a thrice-told tale. But I believe that the 
 ordinary reader, however familiar with notable blunders of 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Case of 
 the Shake- 
 spearean 
 Drama : 
 retiring 
 waves of 
 critical op- 
 position. 
 
 1. Un- 
 measured 
 attack. 
 
 criticism, has little idea of that which is the essence of my 
 argument — the degree of regularity, amounting to absolute 
 law, with which criticism, where it has set itself in opposition 
 to freedom of authorship, has been found in time to have 
 pronounced upon the wrong side, and has, after infinite waste 
 of obstructive energy, been compelled at last to accept 
 innovations it had pronounced impossible under penalty of 
 itself becoming obsolete. 
 
 Shakespeare-criticism affords the most striking illustration. 
 Its history is made up of wave after wave of critical opposi- 
 tion, each retiring further before the steady advance of 
 Shakespeare's fame. They may almost be traced in the 
 varying apologetic tones of the successive Variorum editors, 
 until Reed, in the edition of 1803, is content to leave the 
 poet's renown as established on a basis which will ' bid 
 .defiance to the caprices of fashion and the canker of time.' 
 The first wave was one of unmeasured virulent attack. 
 Rymer, accepted in his own day as the champion of 
 ' regular ' criticism, and pronounced by Pope one of the 
 best critics England ever had, says that in Tragedy Shake- 
 speare appears quite out of his element : 
 
 His brains are turned ; he raves and rambles without any coherence, 
 any spark of reason, or any rule to control him or set bounds to his 
 phrensy. 
 
 The shouting and battles of his scenes are necessary to keep 
 the audience awake, ' otherwise no sermon would be so 
 strong an opiate.' Again : 
 
 In the neighing of an horse, or in the growling of a mastiff, there 
 is a meaning, there is as lively an expression, and, may I say, more 
 humanity, than many times in the tragical flights of Shakespeare. 
 
 The famous Suggestion Scene in Othello has, in Rymer's view, 
 no point but ' the mops, the mows, the grimace, the grins, the 
 gesticulation.' On Desdemona's 
 
 O good lago, 
 What shall I do to win my lord again? 
 
CRITICISM TESTED BY ITS HISTORY. g 
 
 he remarks that no woman bred out of a pig-stye would talk 
 so meanly. Speaking of Portia he says, ' she is scarce one 
 remove from a natural, she is own cousin-german, of one 
 piece, the very same impertinent flesh and blood with 
 Desdemona.' And Rymer's general verdict of Othello — 
 which he considers the best of Shakespeare's tragedies — 
 is thus summed up : 
 
 There is in this play some burlesque, some humour and ramble of 
 comical wit, some show and some mimicry to divert the spectators : but 
 the tragical part is plainly none other than a bloody farce, without salt 
 or savour. 
 
 In the eighteenth century Lord Lansdowne, writing on 
 ' Unnatural Flights in Poetry,' could refuse to go into the 
 question of Shakespeare's soliloquies, as being assured that 
 ' not one in all his works could be excused by reason or 
 nature.' The same tone was still later kept up by Voltaire, 
 who calls Shakespeare a writer of monstrous farces called 
 tragedies; says that nature had blended in him all that is 
 most great and elevating with all the basest qualities that 
 belong to barbarousness without genius ; and finally proceeds 
 to call his poetry the fruit of the imagination of an intoxicated 
 savage. — Meanwhile a second wave of opinion had arisen, 2. The 
 not conceiving a doubt as to the total inadmissibility of the ^^^^4^„ 
 Shakespearean Drama, yet feeling its attraction. This is Drama 
 perhaps most exactly illustrated in the forgotten critic J^jJ"^'^ ' 
 Edwards, who ruled that ' poor Shakespeare ' — the expression yet attrac- 
 is his own — must be excluded from the number of good '''"'' 
 tragedians, yet ' as Homer from the Republic of Plato, with 
 marks of distinction and veneration.' But before this the 
 more celebrated dramatists of the Restoration had shown the 
 double feeling in the way they reconstructed Shakespeare's 
 plays, and turned them into ' correct ' dramas. Thus Otway 
 made the mediaeval Capulets.and Montagus presentable by 
 giving them a classical dress as followers of Marius and 
 Sulla; and even Dryden joined in a polite version of The 
 
lo INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Tempest, with an original touch for symmetry's sake in the 
 addition to the heroine Miranda, a maid who had never 
 seen a man, of a suitable hero, a man who had never seen a 
 
 3. The maid. — Against loud abuse and patronising reconstruction 
 ^sie^'ean *^ ^'^'^'^^ P°^^'' °^ Shakespeare's works made itself more 
 Drama ad- and more felt, and we reach a third stage when the Shake- 
 mittedwith s gjj.gan Drama is accepted as it stands, but with excuses. 
 
 Excuse is made for the poet's age, in which the English 
 nation was supposed to be struggling to emerge from bar- 
 barism. Heywood's apology for uniting light and serious 
 matter is allowed, that 'they who write to all must strive 
 to please all.' Pope points out that Shakespeare was 
 dependent for his subsistence on pleasing the taste of 
 tradesmen and mechanics ; and that his ' wrong choice of 
 subjects ' and ' wrong conduct of incidents,' his ' false 
 thoughts and forced expressions' are the result of his being 
 forced to please the lowest of the people and keep the worst 
 of company. Similarly Theobald considers that he schemed 
 his plots and characters from romances simply for want 
 
 4. The of classical information. — With the last name we pass to yet 
 Shake- another school, with whom Shakespeare's work as a whole is 
 Drama not not felt to need defence, and the old spirit survives only 
 defencTasa '"^ ^^"^ distribution of praise and blame amongst its different 
 whole, but parts. Theobald opens his preface with the comparison 
 ^bUmed'^in °^ ^^ Shakespearean Drama to a splendid pile of buildings, 
 its parts, with 'some parts finished up to hit the taste of a con- 
 noisseur, others more negligently put together to strike 
 the fancy of a common beholder.' Pope — who reflects the 
 most various schools of criticism, often on successive pages — 
 illustrates this stage in his remark that Shakespeare has 
 excellences that have elevated him above all others, and 
 almost as many defects ; ' as he has certainly written better 
 so he has perhaps written worse than any other.' Dr. John- 
 son sets out by describing Shakespeare as ' having begun 
 to assume the dignity of an ancient' — the highest com- 
 
CRITICISM TESTED BY ITS HISTORY. 1 1 
 
 mendation in his eyes. But he goes on to point out the 
 inferiority of Shakespeare's Tragedy to his Comedy, the 
 former the outcome of skill rather than instinct, with little 
 felicity and always leaving something wanting; how he 
 seems without moral purpose, letting his precepts and 
 axioms drop casually from him, dismissing his personages 
 without further care, and leaving the examples to operate by 
 chance ; how his plots are so loosely formed that they might 
 easily be improved, his set speeches cold and weak, his 
 incidents imperfectly told in many words which might be 
 more plainly described in feV. Then in the progress of his 
 commentary, he irritates the reader, as Hallam points out, 
 by the magisterial manner in which he dismisses each play 
 like a schoolboy's exercise. — At last comes a revolution in 5. Finally 
 criticism and a new order of things arises ; with Lessing '"^"^"^ 
 to lead the way in Germany and Coleridge in England, a round en- 
 school of critics appear who are in complete harmony with shake" 
 their author, who question him only to learn the secrets speare. 
 of his art. The new spirit has not even yet leavened the 
 whole of the literary world ; but such names as Goethe, 
 Tieck, Schlegel, Victor Hugo, Ulrici, Gervinus suggest how 
 many great reputations have been made, and reputations 
 already great have been carried into a new sphere of great- 
 ness, by the interpretation and unfolding of Shakespeare's 
 greatness : not one critic has in recent years risen to 
 eminence by attacking Shakespeare. 
 
 And the Shakespearean Drama is only the most illustrious Other ex- 
 example of authors triumphing over the criticism that at- ""'P'"- 
 tempted to judge them. It is difficult for a modern reader Milton. 
 to believe that even Rymer could refer to the Paradise Lost 
 as 'what some are pleased to call a poem'; or that Dr. 
 Johnson could assert of the minor poems of Milton that 
 they exhibit ' peculiarity as distinguished from excellence,' 
 ' if they differ from others they differ for the worse.' He 
 says of Comus that it is ' inelegantly splendid and tediously 
 
12 
 
 INTR OD UC TION. 
 
 Shake- 
 speare's 
 Sonnets. 
 
 Spenser. 
 
 Gray. 
 
 Keats. 
 
 Waverley 
 Novels. 
 
 Words- 
 worth. 
 
 instructive'; and of Lycidas, that its diction is harsh, its 
 rhymes uncertain, its numbers unpleasing, that ' in this poem 
 there is no nature for there is no truth, there is no art for 
 there is nothing new,' that it is ' easy, vulgar, and therefore 
 disgusting,' — after which he goes through the different parts 
 of the poem to show what Milton should have done in each. 
 Hallam has pointed out how utterly impotent Dr, Johnson 
 has been to fix the public taste in the case of these poems; 
 yet even Hallam could think the verse of the poet who wrote 
 Paradise Lost sufficiently described by the verdict, 'some- 
 times wanting in grace and almost always in ease.' In the 
 light of modern taste it is astonishing indeed to find 
 Steevens, with his devotion of a lifetime to Shakespeare, yet 
 omitting the Sonnets from the edition of 1793, 'because the 
 strongest Act of Parliament that could be framed would not 
 compel readers into their service.' It is equally astonishing 
 to find Dryden speaking of Spenser's ' ill choice of stanza,' 
 and saying of the Faerie Queene that if completed it might 
 have been more of a piece, but it could not be perfect, be- 
 cause its model was not true : an example followed up in 
 the next century by a ' person of quality,' who translated a 
 book of the Faerie Queene out of its ' obsolete language and 
 manner of verse ' into heroic couplets. I pass over the 
 crowd of illustrations, such as the fate of Gray at the hands 
 of Dr. Johnson, of Keats at the hands of monthly and 
 quarterly reviewers, or of the various Waverley Novels capri- 
 ciously selected by different critics as examples of literary 
 suicide. But we have not yet had time to forget how Jeffrey 
 — one of the greatest names in criticism — set in motion the 
 whole machinery of reviewing in order to put down Words- 
 worth. Wordsworth's most elaborate poem he describes as 
 a ' tissue of moral and devotional ravings,' a ' hubbub of 
 strained raptures and fantastical sublimities ' : his ' effusions 
 on . . . the physiognomy of external nature ' he character- 
 ises as ' eminently fantastic, obscure, and affected.' Then, to 
 
CRITICISM TESTED BY ITS HISTORY. 13 
 
 find a climax, he compares different species of Wordsworth's 
 poetry to the various stages of intoxication : his Odes are 
 ' glorious delirium ' and ' incoherent rapture,' his Lyrical 
 Ballads a ' vein of pretty deliration,' his White Doe is ' low 
 and maudlin imbecility.' Not a whit the less has the in- 
 fluence of Wordsworth deepened and solidified ; and if all 
 are not yet prepared to accept him as the apostle of a new 
 religion, yet he has tacitly secured his place in the inner 
 circle of English poets. In fine, the work of modern criti- 
 cism is seriously blocked \>y the perpetual necessity of 
 revising and reversing what this same Jeffrey calls the 'im- 
 partial and irreversible sentences' of criticism in the past. 
 And as a set-off in the opposite scale only one considerable 
 achievement is to be noted : that journalism afforded a 
 medium for Macaulay to quench the light of Robert Mont- Robert 
 gomery, which, on Macaulay's own showing, journalism had ^'"^^' 
 puffed into a flame. 
 
 It is the same with the great literary questions that have Defeat of 
 from time to time arisen, the pitched battles of criticism : as 'P*'^"^'^ 
 
 ^ m the great 
 
 Goldsmith says, there never has been an unbeaten path literary 
 trodden by the poet that the critic has not endeavoured to ^""*^°^^- 
 recall him by calling his attempt an innovation. Criticism Blank 
 set its face steadily from the first against blank verse in ^^''^*" 
 English poetry. The interlocutors in Dryden's Essay on the 
 Drama agree that it is vain to strive against the stream of 
 the people's inclination, won over as they have been by 
 Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher ; but, as 
 they go on to discuss the rights of the matter, the most 
 remarkable thing to a modern reader is that the defence of 
 blank verse is made to rest only on the colloquial character 
 of dramatic poetry, and neither party seems to conceive the 
 possibility of non-dramatic poetry other than in rhyme. Be- 
 fore Dryden's Essay on Satire the Paradise Lost had made 
 its appearance; but so impossible an idea is literary novelty 
 to the 'father of English criticism' that Dry den in this Essay 
 
14 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 refuses to believe Milton's own account of the matter, saying 
 that, whatever reasons Milton may allege for departing from 
 rhyme, ' his own particular reason is plainly this, that rhyme 
 was not his talent, he has neither the ease of doing it nor 
 the graces of it.' To one so steeped in French fashions as 
 Rymer, poetry that lacks rhyme seems to lack everything; 
 many of Shakespeare's scenes might, he says, do better 
 without words at all, or at most the words set off the action 
 like the drone of a bagpipe. Voltaire estimates blank verse 
 at about the same rate, and having to translate some of 
 Shakespeare's for purposes of exact comparison, he remarks 
 that blank verse costs nothing but the trouble of dictating, 
 that it is not more diflBcult to write than a letter. Dr. John- 
 son finds a theoretic argument in the unmusical character of 
 English poetry to prove the impossibility of its ever adapting 
 itself to the conditions of blank verse, and is confident 
 enough to prophesy : ' poetry may subsist without rhyme, 
 but English poetry will not often please.' Even Byron is 
 found only one degree more tolerant than Dryden : he has 
 the grace to except Milton from his dictum that no one ever 
 wrote blank verse who could rhyme. Thus critical taste, 
 critical theory, and critical prophecy were unanimous against 
 blank verse as an English measure : for all that it has be- 
 come the leading medium of English poetry, and a doubter 
 of to-day would be more likely to doubt the permanence of 
 The 'three English rhyme than of English blank verse. As to the 
 unities . f^jjjQ^jg < (.ij].gg unities,' not only the principles themselves, but 
 even the refutation of them has now become obsolete. Yet 
 this stickling for the unities has been merely the chief 
 amongst many examples of the proneness the critical mind 
 has exhibited towards limiting literary appreciation and pro- 
 andhmita- duction by single standards of taste. The same tone of 
 
 tions oy , ■> *~) 
 
 still nar- mind that contended for the classical unities had in an 
 classical ^^"^^^^^ generation contended for the classical languages as 
 statidards. the sole vehicle of literary expression, and the modern Ian- 
 
CRITICISM TESTED BY ITS HISTORY. 15 
 
 guages of Europe had to assert their rights by hard fighting. 
 In Latin literature itself a more successftil attempt has been 
 made to limit taste by the writers of a single period, the 
 Augustan age, and so construct a list of Latin poets which 
 omits Lucretius. And for a short period of the Renaissance 
 movement the limitation was carried further to a single one 
 of the Augustan writers, and ' Ciceronianism ' struggled hard 
 against the freedom of style it chose to nickname ' Apu- 
 leianism,' till it fell itself before the laughter of Erasmus. It Criticism 
 would seem almost to be a radical law of the critical ^^"^^-^disTn \h 
 perament that admiration for the past paralyses faith in the theper- 
 future ; while criticism proves totally unable to distinguish ^a^Tran- 
 between what has been essential in the greatness of its idols sitory. 
 and what has been as purely accidental as, to use Scott's 
 illustration, the shape of the drinking-glass is to the flavour 
 of the wine it contains. And if criticism has thus failed in 
 distinguishing what is permanent in past literature, it has 
 proved equally mistaken in what it has assumed to be acci- 
 dental and transitory. Early commentators on Shakespeare, 
 whatever scruples they may have had upon other points, had 
 no misgivings in condemning the irregularities of his English 
 and correcting his grammar. This was described as obso- 
 lete by Dryden half a century after the poet's death ; while it 
 is delicious to hear Steevens, in the Advertisement to his 
 edition of 1766, mentioning that 'some have been of opinion 
 that even a particular syntax prevailed in the time of Shake- 
 speare ' — a novel suggestion he promptly rejects. If the two 
 could have lived each a century later, Dryden would have 
 found Malone laying down that Shakespeare had been the 
 great purifyer and refiner of our language, and Steevens 
 would have seen Shakespeare's grammar studied with the 
 same minuteness and reduced to the same regular form as 
 the grammar of his commentators and readers ; while one of 
 the most distinguished of our modern grammarians, insti- 
 tuting a comparison between Elizabethan and nineteenth- 
 
i6 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 century English, fancies the representative of the old- 
 fashioned tongue characterising current speech in the words 
 of Sebastian : 
 
 Surely 
 It is a sleepy language ! 
 
 Critical The critics may themselves be called as chief witnesses 
 
 "^vhere in- ^S^''^^'^ themselves. Those parts of their works in which 
 ductive they apply themselves to analysing and interpreting their 
 yorc"where S'Uthors survive in their full force : where they judge, find 
 jttdicial fault, and attempt to regulate, they inevitably become obso- 
 f/^^^j^^';"'"* lete. Aristotle, the founder of all criticism, is for the 
 most part inductive in his method, describing poetry as it 
 existed in his day, distinguishing its different classes and 
 elements, and tabulating its usages : accordingly Aristotle's 
 treatise, though more than two thousand years old, remains 
 the text-book of the Greek Drama. In some places, how- 
 ever, he diverges from his main purpose, as in the final 
 chapter, in which he raises the question whether Epic or 
 Tragic is more excellent, or where he promises a special 
 treatise to discuss whether Tragedy is yet perfect : here he 
 has for modern readers only the interest of curiosity. Dr. 
 Johnson's analysis of 'metaphysical poetry,' Addison's de- 
 velopment of the leading effects in Paradise Lost, remain as 
 true and forcible to-day as when they were written : Addison 
 constructing an order of merit for English poets with Cowley 
 and Sprat at the head. Dr. Johnson lecturing Shakespeare 
 and Milton as to how they ought to have written — these are 
 to us only odd anachronisms. It is like a contest with 
 atomic force, this attempt at using ideas drawn from the past 
 to mould and limit productive power in the present and 
 future. The critic peers into the dimness of history, and is 
 found to have been blind to what was by his side : Boileau 
 strives to erect a throne of Comedy for Terence, and never 
 suspects that a truer king was at hand in his own personal 
 friend MoUbre. It is in vain for critics to denounce, their 
 
CRITICISM TESTED BY ITS HISTORY. 17 
 
 denunciation recoils on themselves: the sentence of Rymer 
 that the soul of modern Drama was a brutish and not a 
 reasonable soul, or of Voltaire, that Shakespeare's Tragedy 
 would not be tolerated by the lowest French mob, can harm 
 none but Rymer and Voltaire. If the critics venture to 
 prophesy, the sequel is the only refutation of them needed ; 
 if they give reasons, the reasons survive only to explain how 
 the critics were led astray; if they lay down laws, literary 
 greatness in the next generation is found to vary directly 
 with the boldness with which authors violate the laws. If 
 they assume a judicial attitude, the judgment-seat becomes 
 converted into a pillory for the judge, and a comic side to 
 literary history is furnished by the mockery with which time 
 preserves the proportions of things, as seen by past criticism, 
 to be laid side by side with the true perspective revealed by 
 actual history. In such wise it has preserved to us the list 
 of ' poets laureate ' who preceded Southey : Shadwell, Tate, 
 Rowe, Eusden, Gibber, Whitehead, Warton, Pye. It reveals 
 Dryden sighing that Spenser could only have read the rules 
 of Bossu, or smitten with a doubt whether he might not after 
 all excuse Milton's use of blank verse ' by the example of 
 Hannibal Caro ' ; Rymer preferring Ben Jonson's Catiline 
 to all the tragedies of the Elizabethan age, and declaring 
 Waller's Poem on the Navy Royal beyond all modern poetry 
 in any language ; Voltaire wondering that the extravagances 
 of Shakespeare could be tolerated by a nation that had seen 
 Addison's Calo ; Pope assigning three-score years and ten as 
 the limit of posthumous life to ' moderns ' in poetry, and 
 celebrating the trio who had rescued from the ' uncivilised ' 
 Elizabethan poetry the ' fundamental laws of wit.' These 
 three are Buckingham, Roscommon, and Walsh : as to the 
 last of whom if We search amongst contemporary authorities 
 to discover who he was, we at last come upon his works 
 described in the Rambler as ' pages of inanity.' 
 
 But in the conflict between judicial criticism and science 
 
 c 
 
1 8 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 In actual the most important point is to note how the critics' own 
 ^criti^ism is '^^^^^ °f criticism are found to be graduaUy slipping away 
 found to from them. Between the Renaissance and the present day 
 ^"^ually criticism, as judged by the methods actually followed by 
 approached critics, has slowly changed from the form of laying down 
 induction, j^^^ ^^ authors into the form of receiving laws from authors. 
 Five stages. The process of change falls into five stages. In its first 
 
 I. Idea of gjj^ j]^g conception of criticism was bounded by the notion 
 judging ° ^ 11- 
 
 solely by of comparing whatever was produced with the masterpieces 
 
 'Y^L and trying it by the ideas of Greek and Roman literature. 
 Boileau objected to Corneille's tragedies, not because they 
 did not excite admiration, but because admiration was not 
 one of the tragical passions as laid down by Aristotle. To 
 Rymer's mind it was clearly a case of classical standards or 
 no standards, and he describes his opponents as ' a kind of 
 stage-quacks and empirics in poetry who have got a receipt 
 to please.' And there is a degree of naiveti in the way in 
 which Bossu betrays his utter unconsciousness of the possi- 
 bility that there should be more than one kind of excellence, 
 where, in a passage in which he is admitting that the 
 moderns have as much spirit and as lucky fancies as the 
 ancients, he nevertheless calls it 'a piece of injustice to 
 pretend that our new rules destroy the fancies of the old 
 masters, and that they must condemn all their works who 
 could not foresee all our humours.' Criticism in this spirit 
 is notably illustrated by the Corneille incident in the history 
 of the French Academy. The fashionable literary world, 
 led by a Scud^ry, solemnly impeach Corneille of originality, 
 and Richelieu insists on the Academy pronouncing judg- 
 ment ; which they at last do, unwillingly enough, since, as 
 Boileau admitted, all France was against them. The only 
 one that in the whole incident retained his sense of humour 
 was the victim himself; who, early in the struggle, being 
 confronted by critics recognising no merit but that of 
 obedience to rules, set himself to write his Clitandre as a 
 
CRITICISM TESTED BY ITS HISTORY. 19 
 
 play which should obey all the rules of Drama and yet have 
 nothing in it: 'in which,' he said, 'I have absolutely suc- 
 ceeded.' — But this reign of simple faith began to be dis- 2- Recogni- 
 turbed by sceptical doubts : it became impossible entirely to ^"j^{.„ ^s 
 ignore merit outside the pale of classical conformity. Thus illegitimate 
 we get a Dennis unable to conceal his admiration for the 
 daring of Milton, as a man who knew the rules of Arislode, 
 ' no man better,' and yet violated them. Literature of the 
 modern type gets discussed as it were under protest. Dr. 
 Johnson, when he praises Addison's Cato for adhering to 
 Aristotle's principles ' with a scrupulousness almost unex- 
 ampled on the English stage,' is reflecting the constant 
 assumption throughout this transitional stage, that departure 
 from classical models is the result of carelessness, and that 
 beauties in such offending writers are lucky hits. The spirit 
 of this period is distinctly brought out by Dr. Johnson where 
 he ' readily allows ' that the union in one composition of 
 serious and ludicrous is ' contrary to the rules of criticism,' 
 but, he adds, ' there is always an appeal open from criticism 
 to nature.' — Once admitted to examination the force of 3. Modern 
 modern literature could not fail to assert its equality with the ''J^udling- 
 literature of the ancients, and we pass into a third stage of side by 
 criticism when critics grasp the conception that there may ^*^Jj™^ 
 be more than one set of rules by which authors may be 
 judged. The new notion made its appearance early in the 
 country which was the main stronghold of the opposite view. 
 Perrault in 1687 instituted his 'Parallels' between the 
 ancients and the moderns to the advantage of the latter; 
 and the question was put in its naked simplicity by Fon- 
 tenelle, the 'Nestor of literature,' when he made it depend 
 upon another question, ' whether the trees that used to grow 
 in our woods were larger than those which grow now.' 
 Later, and with less distinctness, English criticism followed 
 the lead. Pope, with his happy indifference to consistency, 
 after illustrating the first stage where he advises to write ' as 
 
 c 2 
 
2 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 if the Stagirite o'erlooked each line/ and where he contends 
 that if the classical writers indulge in a licence that licence 
 becomes a law to us, elsewhere lays down that to apply 
 ancient rules in the treatment of modern literature is to try 
 by the laws of one country a man belonging to another. In 
 one notable instance the genius of Dr. Johnson rises 
 superior to the prejudices of his age, and he vindicates in 
 his treatment of Shakespeare the conception of a school of 
 Drama in which the unities of time and place do not apply. 
 But he does it with trembling : ' I am almost frightened at 
 my own temerity; and when I estimate the fame and the 
 strength of those who maintain the contrary opinion, am 
 
 4. Concep- ready to sink down in reverential silence.' — Criticism had set 
 cri'tkism °"'^ '^^^ judging by one set of laws, it had come to judge by 
 as judging two : the change began to shake the notion oi judging as the 
 ■umver ■" function of criticism, and the eyes of critics came to be 
 
 turned more to the idea of literary beauty itself, as the end 
 for which the laws of literary composition were merely 
 means. Addison is the great name connected with this 
 further transitional stage. We find Addison not only arguing 
 negatively that ' there is sometimes a greater judgment 
 shown in deviating from the rules of art than in ad- 
 hering to them,' but even laying down as a positive theory 
 changingio that the true function of a critic is ' to discover the concealed 
 for beau- beauties of a writer'; while the practical illustration of his 
 ti" ; theory which he gave in the case of the Paradise Lost is 
 
 supposed to have revolutionised the opinion of the fashion- 
 
 5. and able reading-public. — Addison was removed by a very little 
 mvesHga- ^""^"^ ^^^ ^"^^ ^'^S^ °^ criticism, the conception of which is 
 /JOB ^/flwj perhaps most fully brought out by Gervinus, where he de- 
 ture as it clares his purpose of treating Shakespeare as the ' revealing 
 stands. genius' of his department of art and of its laws. Thus 
 
 slowly and by gradual stages has the conception of criticism 
 been changing in the direction of induction : starting frpm 
 judgment by the laws of the ancient classics as standard 
 
SEPARATENESS OF THE TWO CRITICISMS. 21 
 
 beyond which there is no appeal, passing through the 
 transitional stage of greater and greater toleration for in- 
 trinsic worth though of a modern type, to arrive at the 
 recognition of modern standards of judgment side by side 
 with ancient ; again passing through a further transitional 
 stage of discrediting judgment altogether as the purpose of 
 criticism in favour of the search for intrinsic worth in litera- 
 ture as it stands, till the final conception is reached of ana- 
 lysing literature as it stands for the purpose of discovering 
 its laws in itself The later stages do not universally prevail 
 yet. But the earlier stages have at all events become obso- 
 lete ; and there is no reader who will not acquiesce cheerfully 
 in one of the details Addison gives out for his ideal theatre, 
 by which Rymer's tragedy Edgar was to be cut up into snow 
 to make the Storm Scene in Shakespeare's Lear. 
 
 It may be well to recall the exact purpose to which the Separate- 
 present argument is intended to lead. The purpose is not ^tf^f^ 
 to attack journalism and kindred branches of criticism in criticisms. 
 the interests of inductive treatment. It would be false to the 
 principles of induction not to recognise that the criticism of 
 taste has long since established its position as a fertile branch 
 of literature. Even in an inductive system journalism would still 
 have place as a medium for fragmentary and tentative treat- 
 ment. Moreover it may be admitted that induction in its 
 formal completeness of system can never be applied in prac- 
 tical life ; and in the intellectual pursuits of real life trained 
 literary taste may be a valuable acquisition. What is here 
 attacked is the mistake which has identified the criticism of 
 taste and valuation with the conception of criticism as a 
 whole; the intrusion of methods belonging to journalism into 
 treatment that claims to be systematic. So far from being a Criticism 
 standard of method in the treatment of literature, criticism of fj^^^^ ^^ 
 the reviewer's order is outside science altogether. It finds creative 
 its proper place on the creative side of literature, as a branch «'«''«''«''« ■" 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 as the 
 lyrics of 
 prose. 
 
 Applica- 
 tion of in- 
 duction to 
 literary 
 subject- 
 matter. 
 
 in which literature itself has come to be taken as a theme for 
 literary writing ; it thus belongs to the literature treated, not 
 to the scientific treatment of it. Reviews so placed may be 
 regarded almost as the lyrics of prose: like lyric poems 
 they have their completeness in themselves, and their interest 
 lies, not in their being parts of some whole, but in their 
 flashing the subjectivity of a writer on to a variety of isolated 
 topics; they thus have value, not as fragments of literary 
 science, but as fragments of Addison, of Jeffrey, of Macaulay. 
 Nor is the bearing of the present argument that commen- 
 tators should set themselves to eulogise the authors they treat 
 instead of condemning them (though this would certainly be 
 the safer of two errors). The treatment aimed at is one in- 
 dependent of praise or blame, one that has nothing to do with 
 merit, relative or absolute. The contention is for a branch 
 of criticism separate from the criticism of taste ; a branch 
 that, in harmony with the spirit of other modern sciences, 
 reviews the phenomena of literature as they actually stand, 
 enquiring into and endeavouring to systematise the laws and 
 principles by which they are moulded and produce their effects. 
 Scientific criticism and the criticism of taste have distinct 
 spheres: and the whole of literary history shows that the failure 
 to keep the two separate results only in mutual confusion. 
 
 Our present purpose is with inductive criticism. What, by 
 the analogy of other sciences, is implied in the inductive 
 treatment of literature ? 
 
 The inductive sciences occupy themselves directly with 
 facts, that is, with phenomena translated by observation into 
 the form of facts; and soundness of inductive theory is 
 measured by the closeness with which it will bear confront- 
 ing with the facts. In the case of literature and art the facts 
 are to be looked for in the literary and artistic productions 
 themselves: the dramas, epics, pictures, statues, pillars, 
 capitals, symphonies, operas — the details of these are the 
 phenomena which the critical observer translates into facts. 
 
PRINCIPLES OF INDUCTIVE CRITICISM. 23 
 
 A picture is a title for a bundle of facts : that the painter has 
 united so many figures in such and such groupings, that he 
 has given such and such varieties of colouring, and such and 
 such arrangement of light and shade. Similarly the Iliad is 
 a short name implying a large number of facts characterising 
 the poem: that its principal personages are Agamemnon 
 and Achilles, that these personages are represented as dis- 
 playing certain qualities, doing certain deeds, and standing 
 in certain relations to one another. ■ 
 
 Here, however, arises that which has been perhaps the Difficulty ■ 
 greatest stumbling-block in the way of securing inductive *ofp^^itive- 
 treatment for literature. Science deals only with ascertained »«•!• in 
 facts: but the details of literature and art are open to the j'^'^",^'"'" 
 most diverse interpretation. They leave conflicting impres- 
 sions on different observers, impressions both subjective and 
 variable in themselves, and open to all manner of distracting 
 influences, not excepting that of criticism itself. Where in 
 the treatment of literature is to be found the positiveness of 
 subject-matter which is the first condition of science ? 
 
 In the first place it may be pointed out that this want of The diffi- 
 certainty in literary interpretation is not a difficulty of a kind '^^^i^Jtg 
 peculiar to literature. The same object of terror will aifect literature. 
 the members of a crowd in a hundred different ways, from 
 presence of mind to hysteria ; yet this has not prevented the 
 science of psychology from inductively discussing fear. Logic 
 proposes to scientifically analyse the reasoning processes in 
 the face of the infinite degrees of susceptibility different 
 minds show to proof and persuasion. It has become pro- 
 verbial that taste in art is incapable of being settled by dis- 
 cussion, yet the art of music has found exact treatment in the 
 science of harmony. In the case of these well-established 
 sciences it has been found possible to separate the variable 
 element from that which is the subject-matter of the science: 
 such a science as psychology really covers two distinct 
 branches of thought, the psychology that discusses formally 
 
24 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 the elements of the human mind, and another psychology, 
 not yet systematised, that deals with the distribution of these 
 elements amongst diflferent individuals. It need then be no 
 barrier to inductive treatment that in the case of literature 
 and art the will and consciousness act as disturbing forces, 
 refracting what may be called natural effects into innumerable 
 eflfects on individual students. It only becomes a question 
 of practical procedure, in what way the interfering variability 
 is to be eliminated. 
 
 It is precisely at this point that a priori criticism and in- 
 Thevari- duction part company. The a priori critic gets rid of 
 minftobe uncertainty in literary interpretation by confining his atten- 
 eliminated tion to effects produced upon the best minds : he sets up 
 no7/oia"u; '''^^^ ^s a standard by which to try impressions of literature 
 which he is willing to consider. The inductive critic cannot 
 have recourse to any such arbitrary means of limiting his 
 materials; for his doubts he knows no court of appeal ex- 
 biit to the cept the appeal to the literary works themselves. The 
 "det^rof astronomer, from the vast distance of the objects he observes, 
 the litera- finds the same phenomenon producing different results on 
 ture itself, (jig-gj.gjjj observers, and he has thus regularly to allow for 
 personal errors : but he deals with such discrepancies only 
 by fresh observations on the stars themselves, and it never 
 occurs to him that he can get rid of a variation by ab- 
 stract argument or deference to a greater observer. In the 
 same way the inductive critic of literature must settle his 
 doubts by referring them to the literary productions them- 
 selves ; to him the question is not of the nobler view or the 
 view in best taste, but simply what view fits in best with the 
 details as they stand in actual fact. He quite recognises that 
 it is not the objective details but the subjective impressions 
 they produce that make literary effect, but the objective de- 
 tails are the limit on the variability of the subjective impres- 
 sions. The character of Macbeth impresses two readers 
 differently : how is the difference to be settled ? The a priori 
 
PRINCIPLES OF INDUCTIVE CRITICISM. 25 
 
 critic contends that his conception is the loftier \ that a hero 
 should be heroic; that moreover the tradition of the stage 
 and the greatest names in the criticism of the past bear him 
 out ; or, finally, falls back upon good taste, which closes the 
 discussion. The inductive critic simply puts together all the 
 sayings and doings of Macbeth himself, all that others in the 
 play say and appear to feel about him, and whatever view of 
 the character is consistent with these and similar facts of 
 the play, that view he selects ; while to vary from it for any 
 external consideration would seem to him as futile as for an 
 astronomer to make a star rise an hour earlier to tally with 
 the movements of another star. 
 
 We thus arrive at a foundation axiom of inductive literary 
 criticism : Interpretation in literature is of the nature of a Founda- 
 scientific hypothesis, the truth of which is tested by the degree gj-*^""^^!""' 
 completeness with which it explains the details of the literary ductive 
 work as they actually stand. That will be the true meaning <^"{^"^'" • 
 of a passage, not which is the most worthy, but which most tation of 
 nearly explains the words as they are ; that will be the true ^fT^iZ' 
 reading of a character which, however involved in expression pothesis. 
 or tame in effect, accounts for and reconciles all that is re- 
 presented of the personage. The inductive critic will interpret 
 a complex situation, not by fastening attention on its striking 
 elements and ignoring others as oversights and blemishes, 
 but by putting together with business-like exactitude all that 
 the author has given, weighing, balancing, and standing by 
 the product. He will not consider that he has solved the 
 action of a drama by some leading plot, or some central idea 
 powerfully suggested in different parts, but will investigate 
 patiently until he can find a scheme which will give point to 
 the inferior as well as to the leading scenes, and in connec- 
 tion with which all the details are harmonised in their proper 
 proportions. In this way he will be raising a superstructure 
 of exposition that rests, not on authority however high, but 
 upon a basis of indisputable fact. 
 
26 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Practical In actual operation I have often found that such positive 
 "oid^H ' analysis raises in the popular mind a very practical objection : 
 authors that the scientific interpretation seems to discover in literary 
 The^inter- works much more in the way of purpose and design than the 
 pretations ? authors themselves can be supposed to have dreamed of. 
 Would not Chaucer and Shakespeare, it is asked, if they 
 could come to life now, be greatly astonished to hear them- 
 selves lectured upon ? to find critics knowing their purposes 
 better than they had known them themselves, and discovering 
 in their works laws never suspected till after they were dead, 
 and which they themselves perhaps would need some eifort 
 to understand? Deep designs are traced in Shakespeare's 
 plots, and elaborate combinations in his characters and 
 passions; is the student asked to believe that Shakespeare 
 really intended these complicated effects ? 
 Answer: The difficulty rests largely upon a confusion in words. 
 \nmningof'^^^ words as 'purpose,' 'intention,' have a different sense 
 ' design ' when used in ordinary parlance from that which they bear 
 ■ when applied in criticism and science. In ordinary parlance 
 a man's ' purpose ' means his conscious purpose, of which he 
 is the best judge ; in science the ' purpose ' of a thing is the 
 purpose it actually serves, and is discoverable only by analysis. 
 Thus science discovers that the ' purpose ' of earthworms is 
 to break up the soil, the ' design ' of colouring in flowers is 
 to attract insects, though the flower is not credited with fore- 
 sight nor the worm with disinterestedness. In this usage 
 alone can the words ' purpose,' ' intention,' be properly applied 
 to literature and art : science knows no kind of evidence in 
 the matter of creative purpose so weighty as the thing it has 
 actually produced. This has been well put by Ulrici : 
 
 The language of the artist is poetry, music, drawing, colouring: 
 there is no other form in which he can express himself with equal depth 
 and clearness. Who would ask a philosopher to paint his ideas in 
 colours? It would be equally absurd to think that because a poet 
 cannot say with perfect philosophic certainty in the form of reflection 
 and pure thought what it was that he wished and intended to prodncBj 
 
PRINCIPLES OF INDUCTIVE CRITICISM. 27 
 
 that lie never thought at all, but let his imagination improvise at 
 random. 
 
 Nothing is more common than for analysis to discover 
 design in what, so far as consciousness is concerned, has 
 been purely instinctive. Thus physiology ascertains that 
 bread contains all the necessary elements of food except one, 
 which omission happens to be supplied by butter : this may 
 be accepted as an explanation of our ' purpose ' in eating 
 butter with bread, without the explanation being taken to 
 imply that all who have ever fed on bread and butter 
 have consciously intended to combine the nitrogenous and 
 oleaginous elements of food. It is the natural order of 
 things that the practical must precede the analytic. Bees by 
 instinct construct hexagonal cells, and long afterwards 
 mensuration shows that the hexagon is the most economic 
 shape for such stowage ; individual states must rise and fall 
 first before the sciences of history and politics can come to 
 explain the how and why of their mutations. Similarly it is 
 in accordance with the order of things that Shakespeare should 
 produce dramas by the practical processes of art-creation, and 
 that it should be left for others, his critics succeeding him at 
 long intervals, to discover by analysis his 'purposes' and the 
 laws which underlie his effects. The poet, if he could come 
 to life now, would not feel more surprise at this analysis of 
 his 'motives' and unfolding of his unconscious 'design' than 
 he would feel on hearing that the beating of his heart — to 
 him a thing natural enough, and needing no explanation — 
 had been discovered to have a distinct purpose he could 
 never have dreamed of in propelling the circulation of his 
 blood, a thing of which he had never heard. ™ 
 
 There are three leading ideas in relation to which inductive points of 
 and judicial criticism are in absolute antagonism : to bring "^^^^ 
 
 out these contrasts will be the most eiFecttve way of Ae-jtiduial 
 iribing the inductive treatment. t^^J^" 
 
 The first of these ideas is order of merit, together with the cism. 
 
28 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 I. kindred notions of partisanship and hostility applied to indi- 
 'Compari- j^^^^j authors and works. The minds of ordinary readers 
 
 sons Of 1 i_ J f 
 
 merit: are saturated with this class of ideas; they are the weeds ol 
 these out- j^gjg^ choking the soil, and leaving no room for the purer 
 forms of literary appreciation. Favoured by the fatal blunder 
 of modern education, which considers every other mental 
 power to stand in need of training, but leaves taste and 
 imagination to shift for themselves, literary taste has largely 
 become confused with a spurious form of it : the mere taste 
 for competition, comparison of Kkes and dislikes, gossip 
 applied to art and called criticism. Of course such likes and 
 dislikes must always exist, and journalism is consecrated to 
 the office of giving them shape and literary expression; 
 though it should be led by experience, if by nothing else, to 
 exercise its functions with a double reserve, recognising that 
 the judicial attitude of mind is a limit on appreciation, and 
 that the process of testing will itself be tried by the test of 
 vitality. But such preferences and comparisons of merit 
 must be kept rigidly outside the sphere of science. Science 
 knows nothing of competitive examination : a geologist is 
 not heard extolling old red sandstone as a model rock- 
 formation, or making sarcastic comments on the glacial 
 epoch. Induction need not disturb the freedom with which 
 we attach ourselves to whatever attracts our individual dis- 
 positions : individual partisanship for the wooded snugness 
 of the Rhine or the bold and bracing Alps is unaffected by 
 the adoption of exact methods in physical geography. What 
 is to be avoided is the confusion of two different kinds of 
 interest attaching to the same object. In the study of the 
 stars and the rocks, which can inspire little or no personal 
 interest, it is easy to keep science pure ; to keep it to ' dry 
 light,' as Heraclitus calls it, intelligence unclouded by the 
 humours of individual sentiment, as Bacon interprets. But 
 when science comes to be applied to objects which can excite 
 emotion and inspire affection, then confusion arises, and the 
 
PRINCIPLES OF INDUCTIVE CRITICISM. 29 
 
 scientific student of political economy finds his treatment of 
 pauperism disturbed by the philanthropy which belongs to 
 him as a man. Still more in so emotional an atmosphere as 
 the study of beauty, the student must use effort to separate 
 the beauty of an object, which is a thing of art and perfectly 
 analy sable, from his personal interest in it, which is as dis- 
 tinctly external to the analysis of beauty as his love for his 
 dog is external to the science of zoology. The possibility of 
 thus separating interest and perception of beauty without 
 diminishing either may be sufficiently seen in the case of 
 music — an art which has been already reduced to scientific 
 form. Music is as much as any art a thing of tastes and 
 preferences ; besides partialities for particular masters one 
 student will be peculiarly affected by melody, another is all 
 for dramatic effect, others have a special taste for the fugue 
 or the sonata. No one can object to such preferences, but 
 the science of music knows nothing about them ; its exposi- 
 tion deals with modes of treatment or habits of orchestration 
 distinguishing composers, irrespective of the private partialities 
 they excite. Mozart and Wagner are analysed as two items 
 in the sum of facts which make up music ; and if a particular 
 expositor shows by a turn in the sentence that he has a lean- 
 ing to one or the other, the slip may do no harm, but for the 
 moment science has been dropped. 
 
 There is, however, a sort of difference between authors and Inductive 
 works, the constant recognition of which would more than '^^^'"^"^^ 
 make up to cultured pleasure for discarding comparisons of with dif- 
 merit. Inductive treatment is concerned with differences c/^X^^'k»/ e/ 
 kind as distinguished from differences of degree. Elementary degree. 
 as this distinction is, the power of firmly grasping it is no 
 slight evidence of a trained mind : the power, that is, of clearly 
 seeing that two things are different, without being at the same 
 time impelled to rank one above the other. The confusion 
 of the two is a constant obstacle in the way of literary appre- 
 ciation. It has been said, by way of comparison between two 
 
30 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 great novelists, that George Eliot constructs characters, but 
 Charlotte Bronte creates them. The description (assuming 
 it to be true) ought to shed a flood of interest upon both 
 authoresses ; by perpetually throwing on the two modes of 
 treatment the clear light of contrast it ought to intensify our 
 appreciation of both. As a fact, however, the description is 
 usually quoted to suggest a preference for Charlotte Bronte 
 on the supposed ground that creation is ' higher ' than con- 
 struction ; and the usual consequences of preferences are 
 threatened — the gradual closing of our susceptibilities to those 
 qualities in the less liked of the two which do not resemble 
 the qualities of the favourite. Yet why should we not be 
 content to accept such a description (if true) as constituting 
 a diflference of kind, and proceed to recognise ' construction ' 
 and ' creation ' as two parallel modes of treatment, totally 
 distinct from one another in the way in which a fern is dis- 
 tinct from a flower, a distinction allowing no room for prefer- 
 ences because there is no common ground on which to com- 
 pare ? This separateness once granted, the mind, instead of 
 having to choose between the two, would have scope for 
 taking in to the full the detailed effects flowing from both 
 modes of treatment, and the area of mental pleasure would be 
 enlarged. The great blunders of criticism in the past, which 
 are now universally admitted, rest on this inability to recognise 
 differences of kind in literature. The Restoration poets had 
 a mission to bring the heroic couplet to perfection : poetry 
 not in their favourite measure they treated, not as different, 
 but as bad, and rewrote or ignored Spenser and Milton. And 
 generations of literary history have been wasted in discussing 
 whether the Greek dramatists or Shakespeare were the higher : 
 now every one recognises that they constitute two schools 
 Distinc- different in kind that cannot be compared. 
 
 Hons of , 
 
 kindapri- It IS hardly gomg too far to assert that this sensitiveness to 
 mary ele- differences of kind as distinguished from differences of degree 
 
 mtntmap- ... " 
 
 preciation. is the first condition of literary appreciation. Nothing can be 
 
PRINCIPLES OF INDUCTIVE CRITICISM. 31 
 
 more essential to art-perception than receptiveness, and 
 receptiveness implies a change in the receptive attitude of 
 mind with each variety of art. To illustrate by an extreme 
 case. Imagine a spectator perfectly familiar with the Drama, 
 but to whom the existence of the Opera was unknown, and 
 suppose him to have wandered into an opera-house, mis- 
 taking it for a theatre. At first the mistake under which he 
 was labouring would distort every effect : the elaborate over- 
 ture would seem to him a great ' waste ' of power in what was 
 a mere accessory ; the opening recitative would strike him as 
 'unnaturally' delivered, and he would complain of the 
 orchestral accompaniment as a 'distraction'; while at the 
 first aria he would think the actor gone mad. As, however, 
 arias, terzettos, recitatives succeeded one another, he must at 
 last catch the idea that the music was an essential element in 
 the exhibition, and that he was seeing, not a drama, but a 
 drama translated into a different kind of art. The catching 
 of this idea would at once make all the objectionable elements 
 fall into their proper places. No longer distracted by the 
 thought of the ordinary Drama, his mind would have leisure 
 to catch the special effects of the Opera : he would feel how 
 powerfully a change of passion could move him when magni- 
 fied with all the range of expression an orchestra affords, and 
 he would acknowledge a dramatic touch as the diabolic spirit 
 of the conspirator found vent in a double D. The illustration 
 is extreme to the extent of absurdity : but it brings out how 
 expectation plays an important part in appreciation, and how 
 the expectation has to be adapted to that on which it is exer- 
 cised. The receptive attitude is a sort of mental focus which 
 needs adjusting afresh to each variety of art if its effects are 
 to be clearly caught ; and to disturb attention when engaged 
 on one species of literature by the thought of another is as 
 unreasonable as to insist on one microscopic object appearing 
 definite when looked at with a focus adjusted to another 
 object. This will be acknowledged in reference to the great 
 
32 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Each 
 author 
 a separate 
 species. 
 
 Second 
 axiotn of 
 inductive 
 criticism : 
 its function- 
 in distin- 
 guishing 
 literary 
 species. 
 
 11. 
 The ' laws 
 of art' : 
 confusion 
 between 
 law exter- 
 nal and 
 scientific. 
 
 divisions of art : but does it not apply to the species as well as 
 the genera, indeed to each individual author ? Wordsworth 
 has laid down that each fresh poet is to be tried by fresh 
 canons of taste : this is only another way of saying that the 
 differences between poets are differences of kind, that each 
 author is a ' school ' by himself, and can be appreciated only 
 by a receptive attitude formed by adjustment to himself alone. 
 In a scientific treatment of literature, at all events, an ele- 
 mentary axiom must be : That inductive criticism is mainly 
 occupied in distinguishing literary species. And on this view 
 it will clearly appear how such notions as order of merit 
 become disturbing forces in literary appreciation : uncon- 
 sciously they apply the qualitative standard of the favourite 
 works to works which must necessarily be explained by 
 a different standard. They are defended on the ground of 
 pleasure, but they defeat their own object : no element in 
 pleasure is greater than variety, and comparisons of merit, 
 with every other form of the judicial spirit, are in reality 
 arrangements for appreciating the smallest number of 
 varieties. 
 
 The second is the most important of the three ideas, both 
 for its effect in the past and for the sharpness with which it 
 brings judicial and inductive criticism into contrast. It is the 
 idea that there exist 'laws' of art, in the same sense in which 
 we speak of laws in morality or the laws of some particular 
 state — great principles which have been laid down, and which 
 are binding on the artist as the laws of God or his country 
 are binding on the man; that by these, and by lesser principles 
 deduced from these, the artist's work is to be tried, and praise 
 or blame awarded accordingly. Great part of formal criticism 
 runs on these lines; while, next in importance to com- 
 parisons of merit, the popular mind considers literary taste to 
 consist in a keen sensitiveness to the 'faults' and 'flaws' 
 of literary workmanship. 
 
 This attitude to art illustrates the enormous misleading 
 
PRINCIPLES OF INDUCTIVE CRITICISM. 33 
 
 power of the metaphors that lie concealed in words. The 
 word ' law,' justly applicable in one of its senses to art, has 
 in practice carried with it the associations of its other sense ; 
 and the mistake of metaphor has been suflBcient to distort 
 criticism until, as Goldsmith remarks, rules have become the 
 greatest of all the misfortunes which have befallen the com- 
 monwealth of letters. Every expositor has had to point out 
 the widespread confusion between the two senses of this 
 term. Laws in the moral and poUtical world are external 
 obligations, restraints of the will ; they exist where the will 
 of a ruler or of the community is applied to the individual 
 will. In science, on the other hand, law has to do not with 
 what ought to be, but with what is ; scientific laws are facts 
 reduced to formulae, statements of the habits of things, so to 
 speak. The laws of the stars in the first sense could only 
 mean some creative fiat, such as ' Let there be lights in the 
 firmament of heaven ' ; in the scientific sense laws of the stars 
 are summaries of their customary movements. In the act of 
 getting drunk I am violating God's moral law, I am obeying 
 his law of alcoholic action. So scientific laws, in the case of 
 art and literature, will mean descriptions of the practice of 
 artists or the characteristics of their works, when these will go 
 into the form of general propositions as distinguished from 
 disconnected details. The key to the distinction is the notion 
 of external authority. There cannot be laws in the moral and 
 political sense without a ruler or legislative authority; in 
 scientific laws the law-giver and the law-obeyer are one and 
 the same, and for the laws of vegetation science looks no 
 further than the facts of the vegetable world. In literature The 'laws 
 and art the term ' law ' applies only in the scientific sense ; "tfLu^'^' 
 the laws of the Shakespearean Drama are not laws imposed Iwws. 
 by some external authority upon Shakespeare, but laws of 
 dramatic practice derived from the analysis of his actual 
 works. Laws of literature, in the sense of external obligations 
 limiting an author, there are none : if he were voluntarily to 
 
 D 
 
34 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 'fault 
 meaning- 
 less in in- 
 ductive 
 treatment. 
 
 bind himself by such external laws, he would be so far cur- 
 tailing art ; it is hardly a paradox to say the art is legitimate 
 The word only when it does not obey laws. What applies to the term 
 'law' applies similarly to the term 'fault.' The term is 
 likely always to be used from its extreme convenience in art- 
 training ; but it must be understood strictly as a term of edu- 
 cation and discipline. In inductive criticism, as in the other 
 inductive sciences, the word 'fault' has no meaning. If an 
 artist acts contrary to the practice of all other artists, the 
 result is either that he produces no art-effect at all, in which 
 case there is nothing for criticism to register and analyse, or 
 else he produces a new effect, and is thus extending, not 
 breaking, the laws of art. The great clash of horns in 
 Beethoven's Heroic Symphony was at first denounced as a 
 gross fault, a violation of the plainest laws of harmony ; now, 
 instead of a ' fault,' it is spoken of as a ' unique effect,' and 
 in the difference between the two descriptions lies the whole 
 difference between the conceptions of judicial and inductive 
 criticism. Again and again in the past this notion of faults 
 has led criticism on to wrong tracks, from which it has had 
 to retrace its steps on finding the supposed faults to be in 
 reality new laws. Immense energy was wasted in denouncing 
 Shakespeare's ' fault ' of uniting serious with light matter in 
 the same play as a violation of fundamental dramatic laws ; 
 experience showed this mixture of passions to be the source 
 of powerful art-effects hitherto shut out of the Drama, and the 
 ' fault ' became one of the distinguishing ' laws ' in the most 
 famous branch of modern literature. It is necessary then to 
 insist upon the strict scientific sense of the term ' law ' as 
 used of literature and art ; and the purging of criticism from 
 the confusion attaching to this word is an essential step in its 
 elevation to the inductive standard. It is a step, moreover, 
 in which it has been preceded by other branches of thought. 
 At one time the practice of commerce and the science of 
 economy suffered under the same confusion: the battle of 
 
PRINCIPLES OF INDUCTIVE CRITICISM. 35 
 
 ' free trade ' has been fought, the battle of ' free art ' is still 
 
 going on. In time it will be recognised that the practice 
 
 of artists, like the operations of business, must be left to its 
 
 natural working, and the attempt to impose external canons 
 
 of taste on artists will appear as futile as the attempt to 
 
 effect by legislation the regulation of prices. 
 
 Objections may possibly be taken to this train of argument OhjecUon 
 
 on very high grounds, as if the protest against the notion of "" '" *}^ 
 , , . . Z. . . . _ . vioralpur- 
 
 law-obeymg m art were a sort of antmomianism, Literature, pose of 
 
 it may be said, has a moral purpose, to elevate and refine, and ^«'«''«'«''« ■' 
 
 no duty can be higher than that of pointing out what in it is 
 
 elevating and refining, and jealously watching against any 
 
 lowering of its standard. Such contention may readily be this outside 
 
 granted, and yet may amount to no more than this : that ^J"^"'^(™^ 
 
 there are ways of dealing with literature which are more im- though in- 
 
 portant than inductive criticism, but which are none the less *'''-"'"<:;'^^y 
 
 ., . T ^ IT !• /- • more im- 
 
 outside It. Jeremy Collier did infinite service to our Restora- portant. 
 
 tion Drama, but his was not the service of a scientific critic. 
 The same things take different ranks as they are tried by the 
 standards of science or morals. An enervating climate may 
 have the eifect of enfeebling the moral character, but this 
 does not make the geographer's interest in the tropical zone 
 one whit the less. Economy concerns itself simply with the 
 fact that a certain subsidence of profits in a particular trade 
 will drive away capital to other trades. But the details of 
 human experience that are latent in such a proposition : the 
 chilling effects of unsuccess and the dim colour it gives to the 
 outlook into the universe, the sifting of character and separa- 
 tion between the enterprising and the simple, the hard 
 thoughts as to the mysterious dispensations of human pros- 
 perity, the sheer misery of a wage-class looking on plenty and 
 feeling starvation — this human drama of failing profits may 
 be vastly more important than the whole science of economy, 
 but economy none the less entirely and rightly ignores it. 
 To some, I know, it appears that literature is a sphere in 
 D 2 
 
36 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Objection : which the Strict sense of the word ' law ' has no application : 
 irbitrf" ^^'^^ ^"'^^ ^^^® belong to nature, not to art. The essence, it 
 product not is contended, of the natural sciences is the certainty of the 
 su^ect to f^^jg ^jjjj ^jjj^jj jijgy jjg3]_ ^rt, on the contrary, is creative ; 
 
 it does not come into the category of objective phenomena at 
 
 all, but is the product of some artist's will, and therefore 
 
 purely arbitrary. If in a compilation of observations in 
 
 natural history for scientific use it became known that the 
 
 compiler had at times drawn upon his imagination for his 
 
 details, the whole compilation would become useless ; and any 
 
 scientific theories based upon it would be discredited. But 
 
 the artist bases his work wholly on imagination, and caprice 
 
 is a leading art-beauty : how, it is asked, can so arbitrary a 
 
 subject-matter be reduced to the form of positive laws ? 
 
 Third In view of any such objections, it may be well to set up 
 
 axiom of ^ x\iix& axiom of inductive criticism : That art is a part of 
 tndzicttve . j , , T 
 
 criticistn : nature. Nature, it is true, is the vaguest of words : but this 
 
 art apart jg ^ vagueness common to the objection and the answer. The 
 
 of nature. ° ■^ 
 
 objection rests really on a false antithesis, of which one term 
 
 is ' nature,' while it is not clear what is the other term ; the 
 
 axiom set up in answer implies that there is no real distinction 
 
 between ' nature ' and the other phenomena which are the 
 
 subject of human enquiry. The distinction is supposed to 
 
 rest upon the degree to which arbitrary elements of the 
 
 mind, such as imagination, will, caprice, enter into such 
 
 OtAer arbi- a thing as art-production. But there are other things in 
 
 ducts mb- '^^'^'^ '^^6 human will plays as much part as it does in art, 
 
 ject to and which have nevertheless proved compatible with inductive 
 
 ''^catmint, treatment. Those who hold that ' thought is free ' do not 
 
 reject psychology as an inductive science ; actual politics are 
 
 made up of struggles of will, exercises of arbitrary power, and 
 
 the like, and yet there is a political science. If there is an 
 
 inductive science of politics, men's voluntary actions in the 
 
 pursuit of public life, and an inductive science of economy 
 
 men's voluntary actions in pursuit of wealth, why should 
 
PRINCIPLES OF INDUCTIVE CRITICISM. 37 
 
 there not be an inductive science of art, men's voluntary- 
 actions in pursuit of the beautiful ? The whole of human 
 action, as well as the whole of external nature, comes within 
 the jurisdiction of science ; so far from the productions of 
 the will and imagination being exempted from scientific 
 treatment, will and imagination themselves form chapters in 
 psychology, and caprice has been analysed. 
 
 It remains to notice the third of the three ideas in relation in- 
 to which the two kinds of criticism are in complete contrast ^_f^J ''' 
 with one another. It is a vague notion, which no o\)]zz\.ox standards 
 
 z j^coft szsi" 
 
 would formulate, but which as a fact does underlie judicial g„f ^^fj^ 
 criticism, and insensibly accompanies its testing and assay- inductive 
 ing. It is the idea that the foundations of literary form have 
 reached their final settlement, the past being tacitly taken as 
 a standard for the present and future, or the present as a 
 standard for the past. Thus in the treatment of new litera- 
 ture the idea manifests itself in a secret antagonism to 
 variations from received models ; at the very least, new forms 
 are called upon to justify themselves, and so the judicial 
 critic brings his least receptive attitude to the new effects 
 which need receptiveness most. In opposition to this tacit 
 assumption, inductive criticism starts with a distinct counter- 
 axiom of the utmost importance : That literature is a thing of 
 development. This axiom implies that the critic must come to Fourth 
 literature as to that in which he is expecting to find unlimited '^^S'"",- 
 change and variety ; he must keep before him the fact that criticism : 
 production must always be far ahead of criticism and J'^^^^lr 
 analysis, and must have carried its conquering invention into develop- 
 fresh regions before science, like settled government in the "'^'^'' 
 wake of the pioneer, follows to explain the new effects by 
 new principles. No doubt in name literary development is 
 recognised in all criticism; yet in its treatment both of old 
 literature and new the h priori criticism is false to development 
 in the scientific sense of the term. Such systems are apt to 
 begin by laying down that ' the object of literature is so and 
 
38 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Ignoring so,' or that ' the purpose of the Drama is to pourtray human 
 tpmentin nature'; they then proceed to test actual literature and 
 new litera- dramas by the degree in which they carry out these funda- 
 '"''^' mental principles. Such procedure is the opposite of the 
 
 inductive method, and is a practical denial of development in 
 'purpose' literature. Assuming that the object of existing literature 
 TureTon- ^ere correctly described, such a formula could not bind the 
 tinually literature of the future. Assuming that there was ever a 
 modifying, y^^^^^y^ ^f ^^^ ■ffirhich could be reduced to one simple purpose, 
 yet the inherent tendency of the human mind and its produc- 
 tions to develop would bring it about that what were at first 
 means towards this purpose would in time become ends in 
 themselves side by side with the main purpose, giving us in 
 addition to the simple species a modified variety of it ; ex- 
 ternal influences, again, would mingle with the native charac- 
 teristics of the original species, and produce new species 
 compound in their purposes and effects. The real literature 
 would be ever obeying the first principle of development 
 and changing from simple to complex, while the criticism that 
 tried it by the original standard would be at each step 
 removed one degree further from the onlystandard by which 
 the literature could be explained. And if judicial criticism 
 Develop- fails in providing for development in the future and present, 
 past litera- it is equally unfortunate in giving a false twist to development 
 
 ture con- -^hen looked for in the past. The critic of comparative 
 
 fused with 1 J . , - ,. 
 
 improve- Standards is apt to treat early stages of hterature as ele- 
 
 ment. mentary, tacitly assuming his own age as a standard up to 
 
 which previous periods have developed. Thus his treatment 
 
 of the past becomes often an assessment of the degrees in 
 
 which past periods have approximated to his own, advancing 
 
 from literary pot-hooks to his own running facility. The 
 
 clearness of an ancient writer he values at fifty per cent, as 
 
 compared with modern standards, his concatenation of 
 
 sentences is put down as only forty-five. But what if a 
 
 certain degree of mistiness be an essential element in the 
 
PRINCIPLES OF INDUCTIVE CRITICISM. 39 
 
 phase of literary development to which the particular writer 
 belongs, so that in him modern clearness would become, in 
 judicial phrase, a fault? What if Plato's concatenation of 
 sentences would simply spoil the flavour of Herodotus's story- 
 telling, if Jeremy Taylor's prolixity and Milton's bi-lingual 
 prose be simply the fittest of all dresses for the thought of 
 their age and individual genius ? In fact, the critic of fixed 
 standards confuses development with improvement : a parallel 
 mistake in natural history would be to understand the state- 
 ment that man is higher in the scale of development than 
 the butterfly as implying that a butterfly was God's failure 
 in the attempt to make man. The inductive critic will 
 accord to the early forms of his art the same independence he 
 accords to later forms. Development will not mean to him 
 education for a future stage, but the perpetual branching out 
 of literary activity into ever fresh varieties, different in kind 
 from one another, and each to be studied by standards of its 
 own : the ' individuality ' of authors is the expression in 
 literary parlance which corresponds to the perpetual ' differ- 
 entiation ' of new species in science. Alike, then, in his 
 attitude to the past- and the future, the inductive critic will 
 eschew the temptation to judgment by fixed standards, which 
 in reality means opposing lifeless rules to the ever-living 
 variety of nature. He will leave a dead judicial criticism to 
 bury its dead authors and to pen for them judicious epitaphs, 
 and vipl himself approach literature filled equally with rever- 
 ence for the unbroken vitality of its past and faith in its 
 exhaustless future. 
 
 To gather up our results. Induction, as the most uni- Summary. 
 versal of scientific methods, may be presumed to apply 
 wherever there is a subject-matter reducible to the form of 
 fact ; such a subject-matter will be found in literature where 
 its effects are interpreted, not arbitrarily, but with strict refer- 
 ence to the details of the literary works as they actually 
 vStand. There is thus an inductive literary criticism, akin in 
 
40 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 spirit and methods to the other inductive sciences, and dis- 
 tinct from other branches of criticism, such as the criticism 
 of taste. This inductive criticism will entirely free itself 
 from the judicial spirit and its comparisons of merit, which 
 is found to have been leading criticism during half its his- 
 tory on to false tracks from which it has taken the other half 
 to retrace its steps. On the contrary, inductive criticism 
 will examine literature in the spirit of pure investigation; 
 looking for the laws of art in the practice of artists, and 
 treating art, like the rest of nature, as a thing of continuous 
 development, which may thus be expected to fall, with each 
 author and school, into varieties distinct in kind from one 
 another, and each of which can be fully grasped only when 
 examined with an attitude of mind adapted to the special 
 variety without interference from without. 
 
 To illustrate the criticism thus described in its application 
 to Shakespeare is the purpose of the present work. 
 
 The scope of the book is hmited to the consideration of 
 Shakespeare in his character as the great master of the 
 Romantic Drama; and its treatment of his dramatic art 
 divides itself into two parts. The first applies the inductive 
 method in a series of Studies devoted to particular plays, 
 and to single important features of dramatic art which these 
 plays illustrate. One of the purposes of this first part is to 
 bring out how the inductive method, besides its scientific in- 
 terest, has the further recommendation of assisting more 
 than any other treatment to enlarge our appreciation of the 
 author and of his achievements. The second part will use the 
 materials collected in the first part to present, in the form of 
 a brief survey. Dramatic Criticism as an inductive science; 
 enumerating, so far as its materials admit, the leading topics 
 which such a science would treat, and arranging these topics 
 in the logical connection which scientific method requires. 
 
PART FIRST 
 
 SHAKESPEARE 
 
 CONSIDERED AS A 
 
 DRAMATIC ARTIST 
 
 IN FIFTEEN STUDIES 
 
I. 
 
 The Two Stories Shakespeare borrows 
 FOR HIS Merchant of Venice. 
 
 A Study in the Raw Material of 
 the Romantic Drama. 
 
 THE starting-point in the treatment of any work of litera- Chap. I. 
 ture is its position in literary history : the recognition 
 
 of this gives the attitude of mind which is most favourable for the Raw 
 extracting from the work its full effect. The division of the Material 
 universal Drama to which Shakespeare belongs is known as Romantic 
 the ' Romantic Drama/ one of its chief distinctions being Drama. 
 that it uses the stories of Romance, together with histories 
 treated as story-books, as the sources from which the matter 
 of the plays is taken ; Romances are the raw material out of 
 which the Shakespearean Drama is manufactured. This very 
 fact serves to illustrate the elevation of the Elizabethan 
 Drama in the scale of literary development : just as the 
 weaver uses as his raw material that which is the finished 
 product of the spinner, so Shakespeare and his contem- 
 poraries start in their art of dramatising from Story which is 
 already a form of art. In the exhibition, then, of Shake- 
 speare as an Artist, it is natural to begin with the raw 
 material which he worked up into finished masterpieces. 
 For illustration of this no play could be more suitable than 
 The Merchant of Venice, in which two tales, already familiar 
 in the story form, have been woven together into a single 
 plot : the Story of the Cruel Jew, who entered into a bond 
 with his enemy of which the forfeit was to be a pound of this 
 
44 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Chap. I. enemy's own flesh, and the Stoiy of the Heiress and the 
 Caskets. The present study will deal with the stories them- 
 selves, considering them as if with the eye of a dramatic 
 artist to catch the points in which they lend themselves to 
 dramatic effect ; the next will show how Shakespeare handles 
 the stories in telling them, increasing their dramatic force 
 by the very process of working them up ; a third study will 
 point out how, not content with two stories, he has added 
 others in the development of his plot, making it more complex 
 only in reality to make it more simple. 
 Story of In the Story of the Jew the main point is its special 
 * "'' capability for bringing out the idea of Nemesis, one of the 
 simplest and most universal of dramatic motives. Described 
 Nemesis as broadly, Nemesis is retribution as it appears in the world of 
 'iifea"""' "^ ^^^- ^^ reality the term covers two distinct conceptions : in 
 ancient thought Nemesis was an artistic bond between ex- 
 cess and reaction, in modern thought it is an artistic bond 
 between sin and retribution. The distinction is part of the 
 general difference between Greek and modern views of life. 
 Ancient The Greeks may be said to be the most artistic nation of 
 'artiMj!'" ' i^s-nkind, in the sense that art covered so large a proportion 
 connection of their whole personality : it is not surprising to find that 
 excesTand '^^^ P'"oJ^cted their sense of art into morals. Aristotle was 
 reaction, a moral philosopher, but his system of ethics reads as an 
 artistically devised pattern, in which every virtue is removed 
 at equal distances from vices of excess and defect balancing 
 it on opposite sides. The Greek word for law signifies pro- 
 portion and distribution, nomas ; and it is only another form 
 of it that expresses Nemesis as the power punishing viola- 
 tions of proportion in things human. Distinct from Justice, 
 which was occupied with crime. Nemesis was a companion 
 deity to Fortune ; and as Fortune went through the world 
 distributing the good things of life heedlessly without re- 
 gard to merit, so Nemesis followed in her steps, and, 
 equally without regard to merit, delighted in cutting down the 
 
STORY AS DRAMATIC MATERIAL. 45 
 
 prosperity that was high enough to attract attention. Poly- Chap. ]. 
 
 crates is the typical victim of such Nemesis : cast off by his 
 
 firmest ally for no offence but an unbroken career of good 
 luck, in the reaction from which his ally feared to be in- 
 volved ; essaying as a forlorn hope to propitiate by voluntarily 
 throwing in the sea his richest crown-jewel; recognising 
 when this was restored by fishermen that heaven had refused 
 his sacrifice, and abandoning himself to his fate in despair. 
 But Nemesis, to the moral sense of antiquity, could go even 
 beyond visitation on innocent prosperity, and goodness itself 
 could be carried to a degree that invited divine reaction. 
 Heroes like Lycurgus and Pentheus perished for excess of 
 temperance ; and the ancient Drama startles the modern 
 reader with an Hippolytus, whose passionate purity brought 
 down on him a destruction prophesied beforehand by those 
 to whom religious duty suggested moderate indulgence in 
 lust. 
 
 Such malignant correction of human inequalities is not Modern 
 a function to harmonise with modern conceptions of Deity, ""^^f^l"" ' 
 Yet the Greek notion of Nemesis has an element of per- connection 
 manency in it, for it represents a principle underlying human a^^X-j!" 
 life. It suggests a sort of elasticity in human experience, a button. 
 tendency to rebound from a strain ; this is the equilibrium of 
 the moral world, the force which resists departure from the 
 normal, becoming greater in proportion as departure from 
 the normal is wider. Thus in commercial speculation there 
 is a safe medium certain to bring profit in the long run ; in 
 social ambition there is a certain rise though slow : if a man 
 hurries to be rich, or seeks to rise in public life by leaps and 
 bounds, the spectator becomes aware of a secret force that 
 has been set in motion, as when the equilibrium of physical 
 bodies has been disturbed, which force threatens to drag the 
 aspirant down to the point from which he stai;ted, or to 
 debase him lower in proportion to the height at' which he 
 rashly aimed. Such a force is ' risk,' and it may remain risk. 
 
46 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Chap. I. 
 
 Dramatic 
 Nemesis 
 latent in 
 the Story 
 of the Jew. 
 
 but if it be crowned with the expected fall the whole is 
 recognised as ' Nemesis.' This Nemesis is deeply embedded 
 in the popular mind and repeatedly crops up in its pro- 
 verbial wisdom. Proverbs like ' Grasp all, lose all,' ' When 
 things come to the worst they are sure to mend,' exactly 
 express moral equilibrium, and the 'golden mean' is its 
 proverbial formula. The saying ' too much of a good thing ' 
 suggests that the Nemesis on departures from the golden 
 mean applies to good things as well as bad; while the 
 principle is made to apply even to the observation of the 
 golden mean itself in the proverb ' Nothing venture, nothing 
 have.' Nevertheless, this side of the whole notion has in 
 modern usage fallen into the background in comparison 
 with another aspect of Nemesis. The grand distinction of 
 modern thought is the predominance in it of moral ideas: 
 they colour even its imagination ; and if the Greeks carried 
 their art-sense into morals, modern instincts have carried 
 morals into art. In particular the speculations raised by 
 Christianity have cast the shadow of Sin over the whole 
 universe. It has been said that the conception of Sin is 
 unknown to the ancients, and that the word has no real 
 equivalent in Latin or Classical Greek. The modern mind 
 is haunted by it. Notions of Sin have invaded art, and 
 Nemesis shows their influence : vague conceptions of some 
 supernatural vindication of artistic proportion in life have 
 now crystallised into the interest of watching morals and 
 art united in their treatment of Sin. The link between Sin 
 and its retribution becomes a form of art-pleasure ; and no 
 dramatic effect is more potent in modern Drama than that 
 which emphasises the principle that whatsoever a man soweth 
 that shall he also reap. 
 
 Now for this dramatic effect of Nemesis it would be 
 difficult to find a story promising more scope than the Story 
 of the Cruel Jew. It will be seen at once to contain a 
 double nemesis, attaching to the Jew himself and to his 
 
STORY AS DRAMATIC MATERIAL. 47 
 
 victim. The two moreover represent the different conceptions Chap. I. 
 of Nemesis in the ancient and modern world; Antonio's 
 excess of moral confidence suffers a nemesis 'of reaction in 
 his humiliation, and Shylock's sin of judicial murder finds a 
 nemesis of retribution in his ruin by process of law. The 
 nemesis, it will be observed, is not merely two-fold, but 
 double in the way that a double flower is distinct from two 
 flowers : it is a nemesis on a nemesis ; the nemesis which 
 visits Antonio's fault is the crime for which Shylock suffers 
 his nemesis. Again, in that which gives artistic character 
 to the reaction and the retribution the two nemeses differ. 
 Let St. Paul put the difference for us : ' Some men's sins 
 are evident, going before unto judgment; and some they 
 follow after.' So in cases like that of Shylock the nemesis 
 is interesting from its very obviousness and the impatience 
 with which we look for it; in the case of Antonio the 
 nemesis is striking for the very opposite reason, that he of 
 all men seemed most secure against it. 
 
 Antonio must be understood as a perfect character: ^qx Antonio; 
 we must read the play in the light of its age, and intolerance ^^^^^,^1?" 
 was a mediaeval virtue. But there is no single good quality sufficiency, 
 that does not carry with it its special temptation, and the ^ j-„^. 
 sum of them all, or perfection, has its shadow in self-i»m«. 
 sufliciency. It is so with Antonio. Of all national types 
 of character the Roman is the most self-suSicient, alike 
 incorruptible by temptation and independent of the softer 
 influences of life : we find that ' Roman honour ' is the iii. ii. 297. 
 idea which Antonio's friends are accustomed to associate 
 with him. Further the dramatist contrives to exhibit Antonio 
 to us in circumstances calculated to bring out this draw- 
 back to his perfection. In the opening scene we see the 
 dignified merchant-prince suffering under the infliction of 
 frivolous visitors, to which his friendship with the young 
 nobleman exposes him : his tone throughout the interview is 
 that of the barest toleration, and suggests that his courtesies 
 
48 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Chap. I. are felt rather as what is due to himself than what is due to 
 
 those on whom they are bestowed. When Salarino makes 
 
 i. i. 60-64. flattering excuses for taking his leave, Antonio replies, first 
 with conventional compliment, 
 
 Your worth is very dear in my regard, 
 and then with blunt plainness, as if Salarino were not worth 
 the trouble of keeping up polite fiction : 
 
 I take it, your own business calls on you 
 And you embrace the occasion to depart. 
 
 i. i. 8. The visitors, trying to find explanation for Antonio's serious- 
 ness, suggest that he is thinking of his vast commercial 
 speculations ; Antonio draws'himself up : 
 
 i. i. 41. Believe me, no : I thank my fortune for it, 
 
 My ventures are not in one bottom trusted, 
 Nor to one place ; nor is my whole estate 
 Upon the fortune of this present year : 
 Therefore my merchandise makes me not sad. 
 
 Antonio is saying in his prosperity that he shall never be 
 moved. But the great temptation to self-sufficiency lies in 
 his contact, not with social inferiors, but with a moral out- 
 cast such as Shylock : confident that the moral gulf between 
 the two can never be bridged over, Antonio has violated 
 dignity as well as mercy in the gross insults he has heaped 
 upon the Jew whenever they have met. In the Bond Scene 
 
 i. iii. 99, we see him unable to restrain his insults at the very moment 
 in which he is soliciting a favour from his enemy ; the effect 
 
 1. ni. 107- reaches a climax as Shylock gathers up the situation in a 
 single speech, reviewing the insults and taunting his op- 
 pressor with the solicited obligation : 
 
 Well then, it now appears you need my help : 
 Go to, then ; you come to me, and you say, 
 ' Shylock, we would have moneys ' : you say so ; 
 You, that did void your rheum upon my beard 
 And foot me as yon spurn a stranger cur 
 Over your threshold ; moneys is your suit. 
 
 There is such a foundation of justice for these taunts that 
 
STORY AS DRAMATIC MATERIAL. 49 
 
 for a moment our sympathies are transferred to Shylock's Chap. I. 
 
 side. But Antonio, so far from taking warning, is betrayed 
 
 beyond all bounds in his defiance; and in the challenge 
 to fate with which he replies we catch the tone of infatuated 
 confidence, the hyhris in which Greek superstition saw the 
 signal for the descent of Nemesis. 
 
 I am as like to call thee so again, ' i. iii. 131. 
 
 To spit on thee again, to spnm thee too. 
 If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not 
 
 As to thy friends 
 
 But lend it rather to thine enemy, 
 
 Who, if he break, thou may'st with better face 
 
 Exact the penalty^ 
 
 To this challenge of self-sufficiency the sequel of the story 
 is the answering Nemesis : the merchant becomes a bank- 
 rupt, the first citizen of Venice a prisoner at the bar, the 
 morally perfect man holds his life and his all at the mercy of 
 the reprobate he thought he might safely insult. 
 
 So Nemesis has surprised Antonio in spite of his perfect- Shy lock: 
 ness : but the malice of Shylock is such as is perpetually ^'^^^S''m« 
 crying for retribution, and the retribution is delayed only Nemesis of 
 that it may descend with accumulated force. In the case of ^y"""^" 
 this second nemesis the Story of the Jew exhibits dramatic Measure. 
 capability in the opportunity it affords for the sin and the 
 retribution to be included within the same scene. Portia's iv. i. 
 happy thought is a turning-point in the Trial Scene on the 
 two sides of which we have the Jew's triumph and the Jew's 
 retribution ; the two sides are bound together by the prin- 
 ciple of measure for measure, and for each detail of vindic- 
 tiveness that is developed in the first half of the scene there 
 is a corresponding item of nemesis in the sequel. To begin Charter v. 
 with, Shylock appeals to the charter of the city. It is one of i^f"f jg . 
 the distinctions betweeii written and unwritten law that no compare 
 flagrant injustice can arise out of the latter. If the analogy ^°^' ^'5- 
 of former precedents would seem to threaten such an 
 injustice, it is easy in a new case to meet the special 
 
50 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Chap. I. emergency by establishing a new precedent ; where, however, 
 
 the letter of the written law involves a wrong, however great, 
 
 it must, nevertheless, be exactly enforced. Shylock takes 
 his stand upon written law ; indeed upon the strictest of all 
 compare kinds of written law, for the charter of the city would seem 
 m. 111. 26- j^ jjg ^j^g instrument regulating the relations between citizens 
 and aliens — an absolute necessity for a free port — which 
 could not be superseded without international negotiations. 
 But what is the result? As plaintiiF in the cause Shylock 
 would, in the natural course of justice, leave the court, when 
 judgment had been given against him, with no further 
 mortification than the loss of his suit. He is about to do so 
 when he is recalled : 
 
 It is enacted in the laws of Venice, &c. 
 
 Unwittingly, he has, by the action he has taken, entangled 
 iv. i. 314. himself with an old statute law, forgotten by all except the 
 learned Bellario, which, going far beyond natural law, made 
 the mere attempt upon a citizen's life by an alien punishable 
 to the same extent as murder. Shylock had chosen the 
 letter of the law, and by the letter of the law he is to suffer. 
 Humour v. Again, every one must feel that the plea on which Portia 
 ^'" '' upsets the bond is in reality the merest quibble. It is appro- 
 priate enough in the mouth of a bright girl playing the 
 lawyer, but no court of justice could seriously entertain it for 
 a moment : by every principle of interpretation a bond that 
 could justify the cutting of human flesh must also justify the 
 shedding of blood, which is necessarily implied in such 
 cutting. But, to balance this, we have Shylock in the earlier 
 part of the scene refusing to listen to arguments of justice, 
 iv. i. 40- and taking his stand upon his ' humour ' : if he has a whim, 
 he pleads, for giving ten thousand ducats to have a rat 
 poisoned, who shall prevent him ? The suitor who rests his 
 cause on a whim cannot complain if it is upset by a quibble. 
 Similarly, throughout the scene, every point in Shylock's 
 
STORY AS DRAMATIC MATERIAL. 51 
 
 justice of malice meets its answer in the justice of nemesis. Chap. I. 
 
 He is offered double the amount of his loan : 
 
 Offer of 
 If every ducat in six thousand ducats double v. 
 
 Were in six parts, and every part a ducat, refusal of 
 
 principal. 
 
 he answers, he would not accept them in lieu of his bond. iv. i. 318, 
 The wheel of Nemesis goes round, and Shylock would 336- 
 gladly accept not only this offer but even the bare principal ; 
 but he is denied, on the ground that he has refused it in open 
 court. They try to bend him to thoughts of mercy : Complete 
 
 ■' ■' a J security v. 
 
 Hovif shalt thou hope for mercy, rendering none ! total loss. 
 
 He dares to reply : 
 
 What judgement shall I dread, doing no wrong? 
 The wheel of Nemesis goes round, and Shylock's life and all 
 lie at the mercy of the victim to whom he had refused mercy 
 and the judge to whose appeal for mercy he would not 
 listen. In the flow of his success, when every point is Exultation 
 being given in his favour, he breaks out into unseemly ^' ^'^""y- 
 exultation : 
 
 A Daniel come to judgement ! yea, a Daniel! iv. i. 223, 
 
 The ebb comes, and his enemies catch up the cry and turn ,qj' !q°' 
 
 it against him : 
 
 A Daniel, still say I, a second Daniel ! iv. i. 313, 
 
 I thank thee. Tew, for teaching me that word. 3" 7) 323> 
 
 333; 34°- 
 Such then is the Story of the Jew, and so it exhibits 
 
 nemesis clashing with nemesis, the nemesis of surprise with 
 
 the nemesis of equality and intense satisfaction. 
 
 In the Caskets Story, which Shakespeare has associated The Cas- 
 with the Story of the Jew, the dramatic capabilities are of a ^^'^ ^'°^- 
 totally different kind. In the artist's armoury one of the 
 most effective weapons is Idealisation : inexplicable touches Idealisa- 
 throwing an attractiveness over the repulsive, uncovering '^"^ • 
 the truth and beauty which lie hidden in the commonplace, 
 and showing how much can be brought out of how little 
 
 i; 2 
 
52 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Chap. I. with how little change. A story will be excellent material, 
 , ~, . then, for dramatic handling which contains at once some 
 
 the exhibi- ,.r t i i j- i_- i_ 
 
 Hon of a experience of ordmary life, and also the surroundings which 
 common- ^^^ jjg made to exhibit this experience in a glorified form : 
 
 place ex- • iT 
 
 perience in the more commonplace the experience, the greater the 
 
 a. glorified triumph of art if it can be idealised. The point of the 
 form. -f^ ^ 
 
 Caskets Story to the eye of an artist in Drama is the oppor- 
 tunity it affords for such an idealisation of the commonest 
 problem in everyday experience — what may be called the 
 Problem of Judgment by Appearances. 
 Problem of In the choice between alternatives there are three ways in 
 tvAti"^ which judgment maybe exercised. The first mode, if it can be 
 ances. called judgment at all, is to accept the decision of chance — to 
 cast lots, or merely to drift into a decision. An opposite to 
 this is purely rational choice. But rational choice, if strictly 
 interpreted as a logical process, involves great complications. 
 If a man would choose according to the methods of strict 
 reason, he must, first of all, purge himself of all passion, for 
 passion and reason are antagonistic. Next, he must examine 
 himself as to the possibility of latent prejudice ; and as' 
 prejudice may be unconsciously inherited, he must include in 
 the sphere of his examination ancestral and national bias. 
 Then, he must accumulate all the evidence that can possibly 
 bear upon the question in hand, and foresee every eventuality 
 that can result from either alternative. When he has all the 
 materials of choice before him, he must proceed to balance 
 them against one another, seeing first that the mental 
 faculties employed in the process have been equally de- 
 veloped by training. All such preliminary conditions having 
 been satisfied, he may venture to enquire on which side the 
 balance dips, maintaining his suspense so long as the dip 
 is undecided. And when a man has done all this he has 
 attained only that degree of approach to strictly rational 
 choice which his imperfect nature admits. Such pure 
 reason has no place in real life : judgment in practical affairs 
 
STORY AS DRAMATIC MATERIAL. 53 
 
 is something between chance and this strict reason ; it Chap. I. 
 attempts to use the machinery of rational choice, but only so 
 far as practical considerations proper to the matter in hand 
 allow. This medium choice is what I am here calling Judg- 
 ment by Appearances, for it is clear that the antithesis 
 between appearance and reality will obtain so long as the 
 materials of choice are scientifically incomplete; the term 
 will apply with more and more appropriateness as the 
 divergence from perfect conditions of choice is greater. 
 
 Judgment by Appearances so defined is the only method This ideal- 
 of judgment proper to practical life, and accordingly an ^^a^i^um 
 exalted exhibition of it must furnish a keen dramatic interest, in the issue. 
 How is such a process to be glorified ? Clearly Judgment by 
 Appearances will reach the ideal stage when there is the 
 maximum of importance in the issue to be decided and the 
 minimum of evidence by which to decide it. These two 
 conditions are satisfied in the Caskets Story. In questions 
 touching the individual life, that of marriage has this unique 
 importance, that it is bound up with wide consequences which 
 extend beyond the individual himself to his posterity. With 
 the suitors of Portia the question is of marriage with the 
 woman who is presented as supreme of her age in beauty, in 
 wealth and in character ; moreover, the other alternative is ii. i. 40, 
 a vow of perpetual celibacy. So the question at issue in the 
 Caskets Story concerns the most important act of life in the 
 most important form in which it can be imagined to present 
 itself. When we turn to the evidence on which this question and a 
 is to be decided we find that of rational evidence there is ab- "^"^^"^'i. 
 solutely none. The choice is to be made between three dence. 
 caskets distinguished by their metals and by the accompany- 
 ing inscriptions : 
 
 Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire. ^i- vii. 5-9. 
 
 Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves. 
 - Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath. 
 
 However individual fancies may incline, it is manifestly im- 
 
54 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Chap. I. possible to set up any train of reasoning which should 
 
 discover a ground of preference amongst the three. And it 
 
 is worth noting, as an example of Shakespeare's nicety in 
 detail, that the successful chooser reads in the scroll which 
 announces his victory, 
 iii. ii. 132. You that choose not by the view, 
 
 Chance as fair, and choose as true : 
 Shakespeare does not say ' more fair,' ' more true.' This 
 equal balancing of the alternatives will appear still clearer 
 i. ii. 30-36. when we recollect that it is an intentional puzzle with which 
 we are dealing, and accordingly that even if ingenuity could 
 discover a preponderance of reason in favour of any one of 
 the three, there would be the chance that this preponderance 
 had been anticipated by the father who set the puzzle. The 
 case becomes like that of children bidden to guess in which 
 hand a sweetmeat is concealed. They are inclined to say the 
 right hand, but hesitate whether that answer may not have 
 been foreseen and the sweetmeat put in the left hand ; and if 
 on this ground they are tempted to be sharp and guess the 
 left hand, there is the possibility that this sharpness may have 
 been anticipated, and the sweetmeat kept after all in the 
 right hand. If then the Caskets Story places before us three 
 suilors, going through three trains of intricate reasoning for 
 guidance in a matter on which their whole future depends, 
 whereas we, the spectators, can see that from the nature of 
 the case no reasoning can possibly avail them, we have 
 clearly the Problem of Judgment by Appearances drawn out 
 in its ideal form; and our sympathies are attracted by the 
 sight of a process, belonging to our everyday experience, 
 yet developed before us in all the force artistic setting 
 can bestow. 
 Solution of But is this all .? Does Shakespeare display before us the 
 'letnT'the problem, yet give no help towards its solution ? The key to 
 characters the suitors' fates is not to be found in the trains of reasoning 
 they go through. As if to warn us against looking for it in 
 
STORY AS DRAMATIC MATERIAL. 55 
 
 this direction, Shakespeare contrives that we never hear the Chap. I. 
 reasonings of the successful suitor. By a natural touch 
 Portia, who has chosen Bassanio in her heart, is re- determine 
 presented as unable to bear the suspense of hearing him their fates. 
 deliberate, and calls for music to drown his meditations; it is ioj esp. 61. 
 only the conclusion to which he has come that we catch as 
 the music closes. The particular song selected on this 
 occasion points dimly in the direction in which we are to 
 look for the true solution of the problem : 
 
 Tell me where is fancy bred, iii. ii. 63. 
 
 Or in the heart or in the head ? 
 
 ' Fancy' in Shakespearean English means 'love'; and the 
 discussion, whether love belongs to the head or the heart, is 
 no inappropriate accompaniment to a reality which consists 
 in this — that the success in love of the suitors, which they 
 are seeking to compass by their reasonings, is in fact being 
 decided by their characters. 
 
 To compare the characters of the three suitors, it will be 
 enough to note the different form that pride takes in each. 
 The first suitor is a prince of a barbarian race, who has ii. i, vil 
 thus never known equals, but has been taught to consider 
 himself half divine ; as if made of different clay from the rest 
 of mankind he instinctively shrinks from 'lead.' Yet modesty ii. vii. 20. 
 mingles with his pride, and though he feels truly that, so far ii. vii. 24- 
 as the estimation of him by others is concerned, he might 3°- 
 rely upon ' desert,' yet he doubts if desert extends as far as 
 Portia. What seizes his attention is the words, ' what many ii. vii, from 
 men desire'; and he rises to a flight of eloquence in pictur- ^ " 
 ing wildernesses and deserts become thoroughfares by the 
 multitude of suitors flocking to Belmont. But he is all the 
 while betraying a secret of which he was himself uncon- 
 scious : he has been led to seek the hand of Portia, not 
 by true love, but by the feeling that what all the world is 
 seeking the Prince of Morocco must not be slow to claim. 
 Very different is the pride of Arragon. He has no regal ii. ix. 
 
5 6 THE MERCHANT OF VENtCE. 
 
 Chap. I. position, but rather appears to be one who has fallen in 
 
 social rank ; he makes up for such a fall by intense pride of 
 
 ii.Ti'.^y-g. family, and is one of those who complacently thank heaven 
 that they are not as other men. The 'many men' which 
 had attracted Morocco repels Arragon : 
 ii. ix. 31. I will not choose what many men desire, 
 
 Because I will not jump with common spirits. 
 And rank me with the barbarous multitudes. 
 
 ii. ix, from He is caught by the bait of ' desert.' It is true he almost 
 
 ' deceives us with the lofty tone in which he reflects how the 
 
 world would benefit if dignities and offices were in all cases 
 
 purchased by the merit of the wearer; yet there peeps 
 
 through his sententiousness his real conception of merit — the 
 
 sole merit of family descent. His ideal is that the 'true seed 
 
 of honour ' should be ' picked from the chaff and ruin of the 
 
 times,' and wrest greatness from the ' low peasantry ' who 
 
 had risen to it. He accordingly rests his fate upon desert : 
 
 and he finds in the casket of his choice a fool's head. Of 
 
 Bassanio's soliloquy we hear enough to catch that his pride 
 
 iii. ii, from is the pride of the soldier, who will yield to none the post of 
 
 compare danger, and how he is thus attracted by the ' threatening ' of 
 
 i. ii. 124. the leaden casket : ^^^^ ^^^^^ 1^^^^ 
 
 Which rather threatenest than dost promise aught. 
 Thy paleness moves me more than eloquence. 
 
 Moreover, he is a lover, and the threatening is a challenge 
 to show what he will risk for love : his true heart finds its 
 natural satisfaction in ' giving and hazarding ' his all. This 
 is the pride that is worthy of Portia ; and thus the ingenious 
 puzzle of the ' inspired ' father has succeeded in piercing 
 through the outer defence of specious reasoning, and carry- 
 ing its repulsion and attraction to the inmost characters 
 
 General of the SUitors. 
 
 character Such, then, is Shakespeare's treatment of the Problem of 
 as an ele- Judgment by Appearances : while he draws out the problem 
 iudemcnt. itself to its fullest extent in displaying the suitors elaborating 
 
STORY AS DRAMATIC MATERIAL. 57 
 
 trains of argument for a momentous decision in which we Chap. I. 
 see that reason can be of no avail, he suggests for the 
 solution that, besides reason, there is in such judgments 
 another element, character, and that in those crises in which 
 reason is most fettered, character is most potent. An im- 
 portant solution this is ; for what is character ? A man's 
 character is the shadow of his past life; it is the grand 
 resultant of all the forces from within and from without that 
 have been operating upon him since he became a conscious 
 agent. Character is the sandy footprint of the common- 
 place hardened into the stone of habit ; it is the complexity 
 of daily tempers, judgments, restraints, impulses, all focussed 
 into one master- passion acting with the rapidity of an 
 instinct. To lay down then, that where reason fails as an 
 element in judgment, character comes to its aid, is to bind 
 together the exceptional and the ordinary in life. In most of 
 the affairs of life men have scope for the exercise of 
 commonplace qualities, but emergencies do come where 
 this is denied them ; in these cases, while they think, like 
 the three suitors, that they are moving voluntarily in the 
 direction in which they are judging fit at the moment, in 
 reality the weight of their past lives is forcing them in the 
 direction in which their judgment has been accustomed 
 to take them. Thus in the moral, as in the physical world, 
 nothing is ever lost : not a ripple on the surface of conduct 
 but goes on widening to the outermost limit of experience. 
 Shakespeare's contribution to the question of practical 
 judgment is that by the long exercise of commonplace 
 qualities we are building up a character which, though 
 unconsciously, is the determining force in the emergencies 
 in which commonplace qualities are impossible. 
 
II. 
 
 Two points 
 of Drama- 
 tic Mechan- 
 
 How Shakespeare Manipulates the 
 STORIES IN Dramatising them. 
 
 A Study in Dramatic Workmanship. 
 
 Chap. II. T N treating Story as the raw material of the Romantic 
 J. Drama it has already been shown, in the case of the 
 Stories utilised for The Merchant of Venice, what natural capa- 
 cities these exhibit for dramatic effect. The next step is to 
 show how the artist increases their force for dramatic pur- 
 poses in the process of working them up. Two points will 
 be illustrated in the present study : first, how Shakespeare 
 meets the difficulties of a story and reduces them to a mini- 
 mum; secondly, how he adds effectiveness to the two tales 
 by weaving them together so that they assist one another's 
 effect. 
 
 The avoidance or reduction of difficulties in a story is an 
 obvious element in any kind of artistic handling; it is of 
 special importance in Drama in proportion as we are more 
 sensitive to improbabilities in what is supposed to take 
 place before our eyes than in what we merely hear of by 
 narrative. This branch of art could not be better illustrated 
 than in the Story of the Jew : never perhaps has an artist had 
 to deal with materials so bristling with difficulties of the 
 greatest magnitude, and never, it may be added, have they 
 been met with greater ingenuity. The host of improbabilities 
 gathering about such a detail as the pound of flesh must 
 strike every mind. There is, however, preliminary to these, 
 another difficulty of more general application : the difficulty 
 of painting a character bad enough to be the hero of the 
 
 Reduction 
 of diffi- 
 culties spe- 
 cially im- 
 portant in 
 Drama. 
 
 First diffi- 
 culty : 
 monstros- 
 ity of the 
 
DIFFICULTIES IN STORIES. ' 59 
 
 story. It might be thought that to paint excess of badness Chap. II. 
 is comparatively easy, as needing but a coarse brush. On the 
 contrary, there are few severer tests of creative power than ^^^^ 
 the treatment of monstrosity. To be told that there is 
 villainy in the world and tacitly to accept the statement may 
 be easy ; it is another thing to be brought into close contact 
 with the villains, to hear them converse, to watch their actions 
 and occasionally to be taken into their confidence. We realise 
 in Drama through our sympathy and our experience : in real 
 life we have not been accustomed to come across monsters 
 and are unfamiliar with their behaviour ; in proportion then 
 as the badness of a character is exaggerated it is carried out- 
 side the sphere of our experience, the naturalness of the 
 scene is interrupted and its human interest tends to decline. 
 So, in the case of the story under consideration, the dramatist 
 is confronted with this dilemma : he must make the character 
 of Shylock absolutely bad, or the incident of the bond will 
 appear unreal; he must not make the character extra- 
 ordinarily bad, or there is danger of the whole scene appear- 
 ing unreal. 
 
 Shakespeare meets a difficulty of this kind by a double Its re- 
 treatment. On the one hand, he puts no limits to ''^^^unter-" 
 blackness of the character itself; on the other hand, \\t acted by 
 provides against repulsiveness by giving it a special attraction ^zTI'l;/' 
 of another kind. In the present case, while painting Shylock wrongs. 
 as a monster, he secures for him a hold upon our sympathy 
 by representing him as a victim of intolerable ill-treatment 
 and injustice. The effect resembles the popular sympathy 
 with criminals. The men themselves and their crimes are 
 highly repulsive ; but if some slight irregularity occurs in the 
 process of bringing them to justice — if a counsel shows 
 himself unduly eager, or a judge appears for a moment one- 
 sided, a host of volunteer advocates espouse their cause. 
 These are actuated no doubt by sensitiveness to purity of 
 justice ; but their protests have a ring that closely resembles 
 
I ui ; IV. 
 ii. V. 
 
 60 THE: MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Chap. II. sympathy with the criminals themselves, whom they not 
 
 unfrequently end by believing to be innocent and injured. 
 
 e.^.iniii. In the same way Shakespeare shows no moderation 
 in the touches of bloodthirstiness, of brutality, of sordid 
 meanness he heaps together in the character of Shylock ; 
 but he takes equal pains to rouse our indignation at the 
 e.g. iii. i ; treatment he is made to suifer. Personages such as Gratiano, 
 IT. 1, &c. Saianio, Salarino, Tubal, serve to keep before us the medi- 
 aeval feud between Jew and Gentile, and the persecuting 
 insolence with which the fashionable youth met the money- 
 i. iii. 107- lenders who ministered to their necessities. Antonio 
 '^ himself has stepped out of his natural character in the 
 
 iii. i. 57, grossness of his insults to his enemy. Shylock has been 
 J.3.3 !.. injured in pocket as well as in sentiment, Antonio using his 
 and i. iii. wealth to disturb the money-market, and defeat the schemes 
 ■*S' of the Jew; according to Shylock Antonio has hindered 
 
 him of half-a-million, and were he out of Venice the usurer 
 could make what merchandise he would. Finally, our sense 
 of deliverance in the Trial Scene cannot hinder a touch 
 of compunction for the crushed plaintiff, as he appeals 
 against the hard justice meted out to him : — the loss of his 
 property, the acceptance of his life as an act of grace, the 
 abandonment of his religion and race, which implies the 
 abandonment of the profession by which he makes his living. 
 
 iv. i. 374. Nay, take my life and all ; pardon not that : 
 
 Yon take my house when you do take the prop 
 That doth sustain my house ; you take my life 
 When you do take the means whereby I live. 
 
 By thus making us resent the harsh fate dealt to Shylock the 
 dramatist recovers in our minds the fellow-feeling we have 
 Dramatic lost in contemplating the Jew himself. A name for such 
 Hedging, ^^y^^ treatment might be ' Dramatic Hedging ' : as the better 
 covers a possible loss by a second bet on the opposite side, 
 so, when the necessities of a story involve the creation of a 
 monster, the dramatic artist ' hedges ' against loss of attrac- 
 
DIFFICULTIES IN STORIES. 6 1 
 
 tiveness by finding for the character human interest in some Chap. II. 
 
 other direction. So successful has Shakespeare been in 
 
 the present instance that a respectable minority of readers 
 rise from the play partisans of Shylock. 
 
 We pass on to the crop of diflSculties besetting the pound Difficulties 
 of flesh as a detail in the bond. That such a bond should be '^"^%^ 
 proposed, that when proposed it should be accepted, that it pound of 
 should be seriously entertained by a court of justice, that if-'^*^'^- 
 entertained at all it should be upset on so frivolous a pretext 
 as the omission of reference to the shedding of blood : these 
 form a series of impossible circumstances that any dramatist 
 might despair of presenting with even an approach to 
 naturalness. Yet if we follow the course of the story as 
 moulded by Shakespeare we shall find all these impossibilities 
 one after another evaded. 
 
 At the end of the first scene Antonio had bidden Bassanio Proposal of 
 
 go forth and try what his credit could do in Venice. Armed ?'^f ''°"^- 
 ^ 1. 1. i7g. 
 
 with this blank commission Bassanio hurries into the city. 
 
 As a gay young nobleman he knows nothing of the com- 
 mercial world except the money-lenders ; and now proceeds 
 to the best-known of them, apparently unaware of what any 
 gossip on the Rialto could have told him, the unfortunate compare 
 relations between this Shylock and his friend Antonio. At ^' "'• ^~4°- 
 the opening of the Bond Scene we find Bassanio and Shylock 
 in conversation, Bassanio impatient and irritated to find that 
 the famous security he has to offer seems to make so little 
 impression on the usurer. At this juncture Antonio himself i. iii. 41. 
 falls ^ in with them, sees at a glance to what his rash friend 
 
 ' No commentator has succeeded in making intelligible the line 
 
 How like a fawning publican he looks ! i. iii. 42. 
 
 as it stands in the text at the opening of Shylock's soliloquy. The 
 expression 'fawning publican' is so totally the opposite of all the 
 qualities of Antonio that it could have no force even in the mouth of 
 a satirist. It is impossible not to be attracted by the simple change in 
 the text that would not only get over this difficulty, but add a new 
 effect to the scene : the change of assigning this single line to Antonio, 
 
62 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Chap. II. has committed him, but is too proud to draw back in sight 
 of his enemy. Already a minor difficulty is surmoimted, as 
 to how Antonio comes to be in the position of asking an 
 obligation of Shylock. Antonio is as impatient as dignity 
 will permit to bring an awkward business to a conclusion. 
 Shylock, on the contrary, to whom the interview itself is a 
 triumph, in which his persecutor is appearing before him in 
 the position of a client, casts about to prolong the conversa- 
 tion to as great a length as possible. Any topic would serve 
 his purpose ; but what topic more natural than the question 
 at the root of the feud between the two, the question of lend- 
 ing money on interest ? It is here we reach the very heart 
 of our problem, how the first mention of the pound of flesh 
 is made without a shock of unreality sufficient to ruin the 
 whole scene. Had Shylock asked for a forfeiture of a 
 million per cent., or in any other way thrown into a com- 
 mercial form his purpose of ruining Antonio, the old feud 
 and the present opportunity would be explanation sufficient : 
 the real difficulty is the total incongruity between such an 
 idea as a pound of human flesh and commercial transactions 
 The pro- of any kind. This difficulty Shakespeare has met by one of 
 tobvthe^^^ greatest triumphs of mechanical ingenuity; his leading 
 
 reserving, of course, the rest of the speech for Shylock. The passage 
 would then read thus [the stage direction is my own] : 
 
 Enter Antonio. 
 Bass. This is Signior Antonio. 
 Ant. \Aside\. How like a fawning publican he looks — 
 
 [Bassanio whispers Antonio and brings him to Shylock. 
 Shy. [Aside]. I hate him, for he is a Christian, 
 But more, c&c. 
 Both the terms ' fawning ' and ' publican ' are literally applicable to 
 Shylock, and are just what Antonio would be likely to say of him. It 
 is again a natural effect for the two foes on meeting for the first time in 
 the play to exchange scowling defiance. Antonio's defiance is cut short 
 at the first line by Bassanio's running up to him, explaining what he has 
 done, and bringing Antonio up to where Shylock is standing ; the time 
 occupied in doing this gives Shylock scope for his longer soliloquy. 
 
DIFFICULTIES IN STORIES. 63 
 
 up to the proposal of the bond by the discussion on interest. Chap. II. 
 
 The effect of this device a modern reader is in danger of ,. 
 
 ° discourse 
 
 losing : we are so familiar with the idea of interest at the on interest. 
 present day that we are apt to forget what the dif&culty was \ "'' ' 
 to the ancient and mediseval mind, which for so many gene- 
 rations kept the practice of taking interest outside the pale 
 of social decency. This prejudice was one of the confusions 
 arising out of the use of a metal currency. The ancient 
 mind could understand how corn put into the ground would 
 by the agency of time alone produce twentyfold, thirtyfold, 
 or a hundredfold ; they could understand how cattle left to 
 themselves would without human assistance increase from a 
 small to a large flock : but how could metal grow ? how 
 could lifeless gold and silver increase and multiply like 
 animals and human beings ? The Greek word for interest, 
 tokos, is the exact equivalent of the English word breed, and 
 the idea underlying the two was regularly connected with 
 that of interest in ancient discussions. The same idea is 
 present throughout the dispute between Antonio and Shylock. 
 Antonio indignantly asks : 
 
 when did friendship take i- iii- I34' 
 
 A breed for barren metal of his friend ? 
 
 Shylock illustrates usury by citing the patriarch Jacob and his i. iii. 72. 
 clever trick in cattle-breeding ; showing how, at a time when 
 cattle were 'the currency, the natural rate of increase might 
 be diverted to private advantage. Antonio interrupts him : 
 
 Is your gold and silver ewes and rams? i- iii- 9^- 
 
 Shylock answers : 
 
 I cannot tell ; I make it breed as fast ; 
 both parties thus showing that they considered the distinction 
 between the using of flesh and metal for the medium of 
 wealth to be the essential point in their dispute. With this 
 notion then of flesh versus money floating in the air between 
 them the interview goes on to the outbursts of mutual hatred 
 which reach a climax in Antonio's challenge to Shylock to do 
 
64 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Chap. II. 
 
 i. iii, from 
 1.S8. 
 
 Difficulty 
 of legally 
 recognising 
 the bond 
 evaded: 
 
 iv. i. 104. 
 
 IV. ]. 17. 
 
 his worst ; this challenge suddenly combines with the root 
 idea of the conversation to flash into Shylock's mind the sug- 
 gestion of the bond. In an instant he smoothes his face and . 
 proposes friendship. He will lend the money without interest, 
 in pure kindness, nay more, he will go to that extent of good 
 understanding implied in joking, and will have a merry bond ; 
 while as to the particular joke (he says in effect), since you 
 Christians cannot understand interest in the case of money 
 while you acknowledge it in the case of flesh and blood, 
 suppose I take as my interest in this bond a pound of your 
 own flesh. In such a context the monstrous proposal sounds 
 almost natural. It has further been ushered in in a manner 
 which makes it almost impossible to decline it. When one 
 who is manifestly an injured man is the first to make ad- 
 vances, a generous adversary finds it almost impossible to 
 hold back. A sensitive man, again, will shrink from nothing 
 more than from the ridicule attaching to those who take serious 
 precautions against a jest. And the more incongruous Shy- 
 lock's proposal is with commercial negotiations the better 
 evidence it is of his non-commercial intentions. In a word, 
 the essence of the difficulty was the incongruity between 
 human flesh and money transactions : it has been surmounted 
 by a discussion, flowing naturally from the position of the 
 two parties, of which the point is the relative position of 
 flesh and money as the medium of wealth in the past. 
 
 The bond thus proposed and accepted, there follows the 
 difficulty of representing it as entertained by a court of 
 justice. With reference to Shakespeare's handling of this 
 point it may be noted, first, that he leaves us in doubt 
 whether the court would have entertained it: the Duke is 
 intimating an intention of adjourning at the moment when 
 the entrance of Portia gives a new turn to the proceedings. 
 Again, at the opening of the trial, the Duke gives expression 
 to the universal opinion that Shylock's conduct was intel- 
 ligible only on the supposition that he was keeping up to the 
 
DIFFICULTIES IN STORIES. 65 
 
 last moment the appearance of insisting on his strange terms, Chap. II. 
 in order that before the eyes of the whole city he might 
 exhibit his enemy at his mercy, and then add to his ignominy 
 by publicly pardoning him : a fate which, it must be admitted, ,/ 
 was no more than Antonio justly deserved. This will explain 
 how Shylock comes to have a hearing at all : when once he 
 is admitted to speak it is exceedingly difficult to resist the 
 pleas Shakespeare puts into his mouth. He takes his stand iv. i. 38. 
 on the city's charter and the letter of the law, and declines 
 to be drawn into any discussion of natural justice ; yet even as 
 a question of natural justice what answer can be found when iv. i. 90. 
 he casually points to the institution of slavery, which we 
 must suppose to have existed in Venice at the period ? Shy- 
 lock's only offence is his seeking to make Antonio's life a 
 matter of barter: what else is the accepted institution of 
 slavery but the establishment of power over human flesh and 
 blood and life, simply because these have been bought with 
 money, precisely as Shylock has given good ducats for his 
 rights over the flesh of Antonio ? No wonder the perplexed 
 Duke is for adjourning. 
 
 There remains one more difficulty, the mode in which, Difficulty 
 according to the traditional story, the bond is upset. It is traditional 
 manifest that the agreement as to the pound of flesh, if it is mode of 
 to be recognised by a court of justice at all, cannot without "ke^hond 
 the grossest perversion of justice be cancelled on the ground met. 
 of its omitting to mention blood. Legal evasion can go 
 to great lengths. It is well known that an Act requiring 
 cabs to carry lamps at night has been evaded through the 
 omission of a direction that the lamps were to be lighted ; 
 and that importers have escaped a duty on foreign gloves at 
 so much the pair by bringing the right-hand and left-hand 
 gloves over in different ships. But it is perfectly possible to 
 carry lamps without hghting them, while it is a clear impos- 
 sibility to cut human flesh without shedding blood. Nothing 
 of course would be easier than to upset the bond on rational 
 
66 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Chap. II. grounds — indeed the difficulty is rather to imagine it receiving 
 rational consideration at all ; but on the other hand no solu- 
 tion of the perplexity could be half so dramatic as the one 
 tradition has preserved. The dramatist has to choose be- 
 tween a course of procedure which shall be highly dramatic 
 but leave a sense of injustice, and one that shall be sound 
 and legal but comparatively tame. Shakespeare contrives 
 to secure both alternatives. He retains the traditional plea 
 as to the blood, but puts it into the mouth of one known to 
 his audience to be a woman playing the lawyer for the nonce ; 
 iv. i. 314, and again, before we have time to recover from our surprise 
 ^"^'' and feel the injustice of the proceeding, he follows up the 
 brilliant evasion by a sound legal plea, the suggestion of a 
 real lawyer. Portia has come to the court from a conference 
 with her cousin Bellario, the most learned jurist of Venice, 
 iii. iv. 47 ; Certainly it was not this doctor who hit upon the idea of the 
 • '• 143- blood being omitted. His contribution to the interesting con- 
 sultation was clearly the old statute of Venice, which every 
 one else seems to have forgotten, which made the mere 
 attempt on the life of a citizen by an alien punishable with 
 death and loss of property: according to this piece of statute 
 law not only would Shylock's bond be illegal, but the de- 
 mand of such security constituted a capital offence. Thus 
 Shakespeare surmounts the final difficulty in the story of the 
 Jew in a mode which retains dramatic force to the fuU, yet 
 does this without any violation of legal fairness. 
 
 The inter- The second purpose of the present study is to show how 
 
 ^"he"w(i Shakespeare has added to the effectiveness of his two stories by 
 
 stories. so weaving them together that they assist one another's effect. 
 
 First, it is easy to see how the whole movement of the 
 
 play rises naturally out of the union of the two stories. One 
 
 of the main distinctions between the progress of events in 
 
 real life or history and in Drama is that the movement of a 
 
 drama falls into the form technically known as Complication 
 
INTERWEAVING OF STORIES. 67 
 
 and Resolution. A dramatist fastens our attention upon some Chap. II. 
 
 train of events : then he sets himself to divert this train of 
 
 events from its natural course by some interruption ; this Comphca- 
 
 ^ ^ ' Hon and 
 
 interruption is either removed, and the train of events returns Resolution. 
 
 to its natural course, or the interruption is carried on to some 
 tragic culmination. In The Merchant of Venice our interest 
 is at the beginning fixed on Antonio as rich, high-placed, the 
 protector and benefactor of his friends. By the events follow- 
 ing upon the incident of the bond we see what would seem 
 the natural life of Antonio diverted into a totally different 
 channel ; in the end the whole course is restored, and Antonio 
 becomes prosperous as before. Such interruption of a train 
 of incidents is its Complication, and the term Complication 
 suggests a happy Resolution to follow. Complication and 
 Resolution are essential to dramatic movement, as discords 
 and their ' resolution ' into concords constitute the essence of 
 music. The Complication and Resolution in the story of the The one 
 Jew serve for the Complication and Resolution of the drama ^J^J"^^ 
 as a whole ; and my immediate point is that these elements of and re- 
 movement in the one story spring directly out of its connec- ^t)^\fhir, 
 tion with the other. But for Bassanio's need of money and i. i, from 
 his blunder in applying to Shylock the bond would never have '^^ > "^ '"• 
 been entered into, and the change in Antonio's fortunes would 
 never have come about : thus the cause for all the Complication 
 of the play (technically, the Complicating Force) is the happy 
 lover of the Caskets Story. Similarly Portia is the means by 
 which Antonio's fortunes are restored to their natural flow : 
 in other words, the source of the Resolution (or Resolving 
 Force) is the maiden of the Caskets Story. The two leading 
 personages of the one tale are the sources respectively of the 
 Complication and Resolution in the other tale, which carry 
 the Complication and Resolution of the drama as a whole. 
 Thus simply does the movement of the whole play flow from 
 the union of the two stories. 
 
 One consequence flowing from this is worth noting ; tha.t The whole 
 F 2 
 
68 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 flay sym- 
 metrical 
 about its 
 central 
 sceiu. 
 
 Chap. II. the scene in which Bassanio makes his successful choice of 
 
 the casket is the Dramatic Centre of the whole play, as being 
 
 the point at which the Complicating and Resolving Forces 
 meet. This Dramatic Centre is, according to Shakespeare's 
 favourite custom, placed in the exact mechanical centre of 
 the drama, covering the middle of the middle Act, There is 
 again an amount of poetic splehdour lavished upon this 
 scene which throws it up as a poetic centre to the whole. 
 More than this, it is the real crisis of the play. Looking 
 philosophically upon the whole drama as a piece of history, 
 we must admit that the true turning-point is the success of 
 Bassanio ; the apparent crisis is the Trial Scene, but this is 
 in reality governed by the scene of the successful choice, and 
 if Portia and Bassanio had not been united in the earUer 
 scene no lawyer would have interposed to turn the current 
 of events in the trial. There is yet another sense in which 
 the same scene may be called central. Hitherto I have dealt 
 with only two tales ; the full plot however of The Merchant 
 of Venice involves two more, the Story of Jessica and the 
 Episode of the Rings : it is to be observed that all four stories 
 meet in the scene of the successful choice. This scene is 
 the climax of the Caskets Story. It is connected with the 
 iii. ii, from catastrophe in the Story of the Jew : Bassanio, at the moment 
 ^^'' of his happiness, learns that the friend through whom 
 
 he has been able to contend for the prize has forfeited his 
 life to his foe as the price of his liberality. The scene is 
 connected with the Jessica Story : for Jessica and her husband 
 are the messengers who bring the sad tidings, and thus link 
 together the bright and gloomy elements of the play. Finally, 
 the Episode of the Rings, which is to occupy the end of the 
 iii. ii. 173- drama, has its foundation in this scene, in the exchange of 
 ' ^' the rings which are destined to be the source of such ironical 
 
 perplexity. Such is the symmetry with which the plot of The 
 Merchant of Venice has been constructed : the incident which 
 is technically its Dramatic Centre is at once its mechanical 
 
UNION OF LIGHT AND SERIOUS STORIES. 6g 
 
 centre, its poetic centre, and, philosophically considered, its Chap. II. 
 true turning-point; while, considering the play as a Romantic 
 drama with its union of stories, we find in the same central 
 incident all the four stories dovetailed together. 
 
 These points may appear small and merely technical. But Shake- 
 it is a constant purpose with me in the present exposition of ^^^^^ ^l- 
 Shakespeare as a Dramatic Artist to combat the notion, so of Plot. 
 widely prevalent amongst ordinary readers, that Shakespeare, 
 though endowed with the profoundest grasp of human 
 nature, is yet careless in the construction of his plots : a 
 notion in itself as improbable as it would be that a sculptor 
 could be found to produce individual figures exquisitely 
 moulded and chiselled, yet awkwardly and clumsily grouped. 
 It is the minuter points that show the finish of an artist ; and 
 such symmetry of construction as appears in The Merchant 
 of Venice is not likely to characterise a dramatist who sacri- 
 fices plot to character-painting. 
 
 There remains another point, which no one will consider The union 
 small or technical, connected with the union of the two "f^'J^S^* 
 
 ' with a 
 
 stories: the fact that Shakespeare has thus united a light and serious 
 a serious story, that he has woven together gloom and bright- ''''"^" 
 ness. This carries us to one of the great battlefields of 
 dramatic history; no feature is more characteristic of the 
 Romantic Drama than this mingling of light and serious in 
 the same play, and at no point has it been more stoutly 
 assailed by critics trained in an opposite school. I say 
 nothing of the wider scope this practice gives to the dra- 
 matist, nor the way in which it brings the world of art nearer 
 to the world of reality ; my present purpose is to review the 
 dramatic effects which flow from the mingling of the two 
 elements in the present play. 
 
 In general human interest the stories are a counterpoise Dramatic 
 to one another, so different in kind, so equal in the degree |^J'^ ^^^^ 
 of interest their progress continues to call forth. The inci- of this 
 dents of the two tales gather around Antonio and Portia ^'"''"- 
 
70 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Chap. II. respectively ; each of these is a full and rounded character, 
 
 and they are both centres of their respective worlds. The 
 
 Effects of stories seem to start from a common point. The keynote to 
 
 Human . , , , i_ j • 
 
 Interest, the Story of the Jew is the strange ' sadness — the word im- 
 i. i. I. plies no more than seriousness — which overpowers Antonio, 
 
 and which seems to be the shadow of his coming trouble. 
 
 Compare with this the first words we hear of Portia : 
 
 i. ii. I. By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this great 
 
 world. 
 
 Such a humorous languor is a fitting precursor to the ex- 
 citement and energy of the scenes which follow. But from 
 this common starting-point the stories move in opposite 
 directions; the spectator's sympathies are demanded alter- 
 nately for two independent chains of circumstances, for the 
 fortunes of Antonio sinking lower and lower, and the for- 
 tunes of Portia rising higher and higher. He sees the 
 merchant and citizen become a bankrupt prisoner, the lordly 
 benefactor of his friends a wretch at the mercy of his foe. 
 He sees Portia, already endowed with beauty, wealth, and 
 character, attain what to her heart is yet higher, the power to 
 lay all she has at the feet of the man she loves. Then, when 
 they are at the climax of their happiness and misery, when 
 Portia has received all that this world can bestow, and Anto- 
 nio has lost all that this world can take away, for the first 
 time these two central personages meet face to face in the 
 Effects of Trial Scene. And if from general human interest we pass 
 ^^°*- on to the machinery of plot, we find this also governed by the 
 
 same combination : a half-serious frolic is the medium in 
 which a tragic crisis finds its solution. 
 Emotional But it is of course passion and emotional interest which 
 crease op' ^'^^ mainly afi'ected by the union of light and serious : these 
 tragic we shall appreciate chiefly in connection with the Trial Scene, 
 passion; ^jigj-g (-jjg emotional threads of the play are gathered into 
 a knot, and the two personages who are the embodiments of 
 the light and serious elements face one another as judge and 
 
UNION OF LIGHT AND SERIOUS STORIES. 71 
 
 prisoner. In this scene it is remarkable how Portia takes Chap. II. 
 
 pains to prolong to the utmost extent the crisis she has come . ": 
 
 to solve; she holds in her fingers the threads of the tangled 225.'' ^"^ 
 situation, and she is strong enough to play with it before she 
 will consent to bring it to an end. She has intimated her 178. 
 opinion that the letter of the bond must be maintained, she 184-207. 
 has made her appeal to Shylock for mercy and been refused, 
 she has heard Bassanio's appeal to wrest the law for once to 214-222. 
 her authority and has rejected it ; there remains nothing but 
 to pronounce the decree. But at the last moment she asks 225. 
 to see the bond, and every spectator in court holds his 
 breath and hears his heart beat as he follows the lawyer's eye 
 down line after line. It is of no avail ; at the end she can 227-230. 
 only repeat the useless offer of thrice the loan, with the effect 
 of drawing from Shylock an oath that he will not give way. 
 Then Portia admits that the bond is forfeit, with a needless 230-244. 
 reiteration of its horrible details ; yet, as if it were some evenly 
 balanced question, in which after-thoughts were important, 
 she once more appeals to Shylock to be merciful and bid 
 her tear the bond, and evokes a still stronger asseveration 
 from the malignant victor, until even Antonio's stoicism be- 
 gins to give way, and he begs for a speedy judgment. Portia 243. 
 then commences to pass her judgment in language of legal 
 prolixity, which sounds like a recollection of her hour with 
 Bellario : 
 
 For the intent and purpose of the law 
 
 Hath full relation to the penalty, 
 
 Which here appeareth due upon the bond, &c. 
 
 Next she fads about the details of the judicial barbarity, 255-261. 
 the balance to weigh the flesh, a surgeon as a forlorn hope ; 
 and when Shylock demurs to the last, stops to argue that he 
 might do this for charity. At last surely the intolerable 
 suspense will come to a termination. But our lawyer of 263- 
 half-an-hour's standing suddenly remembers she has for- 
 gotten to call on the defendant in the suit, and the pathos is 
 
72 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Chap. II. intensified by the dying speech of Antonio, calmly welcom- 
 ing death for himself, anxious only to soften Bassanio's re- 
 morse, his last human passion a rivalry with Portia for the 
 love of his friend. 
 
 iv. i. 276. Bid her be judge 
 
 Whether Bassanio had not once a love. 
 
 iv. i, from When the final judgment can be delayed no longer its open- 
 ^^^" ing sentences are still lengthened out by the jingling repeti- 
 
 tions of judicial formality, 
 
 The law allows it, and the court awards it, &c. 
 
 Only when every evasion has been exhausted comes the 
 thunderstroke which reverses the whole situation. Now it is 
 clear that had this situation been intended to have a tragic 
 termination this prolonging of its details would have been 
 impossible ; thus to harrow our feelings with items of agony 
 would be not art but barbarity. It is because Portia knows 
 what termination she is going to give to the scene that she 
 can indulge in such boldness ; it is because the audience 
 have recognised in Portia the signal of deliverance that the 
 lengthening of the crisis becomes the dramatic beauty of 
 suspense. It appears then that, if this scene be regarded only 
 as a crisis of tragic passion, the dramatist has been able to 
 extract more tragic efi"ect out of it by the device of assisting 
 the tragic with a light story. 
 reaction Again, it is a natural law of the human mind to pass 
 
 '^'^'°""' from strain to reaction, and suspense relieved will find vent 
 
 6JTSC1 J 
 
 in vehement exhilaration. By giving Portia her position in 
 the crisis scene the dramatist is clearly furnishing the means 
 for a reaction to follow, and the reaction is found in the 
 iv. i, from Episode of the Rings, by which the disguised wives entangle 
 ^'^^' their husbands in a perplexity affording the audience the 
 
 bursts of merriment needed as relief from the tension of the 
 Trial Scene. The play is thus brought into conformity with 
 the laws of mental working, and the effect of the reaction 
 
UNION OF LIGHT AND SERIOUS STORIES. 73 
 
 is to make the serious passion more keen because more Chap. II. 
 
 healthy. 
 
 Finally, there are the effects of mixed passion, neither effects of 
 wholly serious nor wholly light, but compounded of the two, '"^■*'!'^ 
 which are impossible to a drama that can admit only a 
 single tone. The eifect of Dramatic Irony, which Shake- 
 speare inherited from the ancient Drama, but greatly 
 modified and extended, is powerfully illustrated at the most 
 pathetic point of the Trial Scene, when Antonio's chance iv. i. 273- 
 reference to Bassanio's new wife calls from Bassanio and ^9'^' 
 his follower agonised vows to sacrifice even their wives 
 if this could save their patron — little thinking that these 
 wives are standing by to record the vow. But there is an 
 effect higher than this. Portia's outburst on the theme ofiv. i. 184- 
 mercy, considered only as a speech, is one of the noblest in ^°^" 
 " literature, a gem of purest truth in a setting of richest 
 music. But the situation in which she speaks it is so framed 
 as to make Portia herself the embodiment of the mercy she 
 describes. How can we imagine a higher type of mercy, 
 the feminine counterpart of justice, than in the bright 
 woman, at the moment of her supreme happiness, appearing 
 in the garb of the law to deliver a righteous unfortunate 
 from his one error, and the justice of Venice from the in- 
 soluble perplexity of having to commit a murder by legal 
 process ? And how is this situation brought about but by the 
 most intricate interweaving of a story of brightness with a 
 story of trouble ? 
 
 In all branches then of. dramatic effect, in Character, in 
 Plot and in Passion, the union of a light with a serious story 
 is found to be a source of power and beauty. The fault 
 charged against the Romantic Drama has upon a deeper view 
 proved a new point of departure in dramatic progress ; and 
 by such combination of opposites the two tales have increased 
 the sum of their individual effectiveness by the added effect 
 of their union in a drama. 
 
III. 
 
 How Shakespeare makes his plot more 
 
 Complex in order to make it more 
 
 Simple. 
 
 A Study in Underplot. 
 
 Chap. III. ' I ""HE title of the present study is a paradox : that Shake- 
 JL speare makes a plot more complex ' in order to make 
 stmtlicitv '^ "^^ore simple. It is however a paradox that finds an illustra- 
 liy tneans of tion from the material world in every open roof. The 
 "c'omplexity. architect's problem has been to support a heavy • weight • 
 without the assistance of pillars, and it might have been 
 expected that in solving the problem he would at least have 
 tried every means in his power for diminishing the weight to 
 be supported. On the contrary, he has increased this weight 
 by the addition of massive cross-beams and heavy iron- 
 girders. Yet, if these have been arranged according to the 
 laws of construction, each of them will bring a supporting 
 power considerably greater than its own weight ; and thus, 
 while in a literal sense increasing the roof, for all practical 
 purposes they may be said to have diminished it. Similarly 
 a dramatist of the Romantic school, from his practice of 
 uniting more than one story in the same plot, has to face the 
 
 ' It is a difficulty of literary criticism that it has to use as technical 
 terms words belonging to ordinary conversation, and therefore more or 
 less indefinite in their significations. In the present work I am making 
 a distinction between ' complex ' and ' complicated ' •- the latter is ap- 
 plied to the diverting a story out of its natural course with a view to its 
 ultimate ' resolution ' ; ' complex ' is reserved for the interweaving of 
 stories with one another. Later on ' single ' will be opposed to ' com- 
 plex, ' and ' simple ' to ' complicated.' 
 
US£S OF THE JESSICA STORY. 75 
 
 difficulty of complexity. This difficulty he solves not by seek- Chap. III. 
 
 ing how to reduce combinations as far as possible, but, on 
 
 the contrary, by the addition of more and inferior stories ; 
 yet if these new stories are so handled as to emphasise 
 and heighten the effect of the main stories, the additional 
 complexity will have resulted in increased simplicity. In the 
 play at present under consideration, Shakespeare has inter- 
 woven into a common pattern two famous and striking tales ; 
 his plot, already elaborate, he has made yet more elaborate 
 by the addition of two more tales less striking in their 
 character — the story of Jessica and the Episode of the Rings. 
 If it can be shown that these inferior stories have the effect The Jessica 
 of assisting the main stories, smoothing away their difficulties J^!^v^" 
 and making their prominent points yet more prominent, it Episode 
 will be clear that he has made his plot more complex only in ^"^^ * ^ 
 reality to make it more simple. The present study is de- stories. 
 voted to noticing how the Stories of Jessica and of the Rings 
 minister to the effects of the Story of the Jew and the 
 Caskets Story. 
 
 To begin with : it may be seen that in many ways the The Jessica 
 mechanical working out of the main stories is assisted by the ^JZ?' „^ 
 Jessica Story. In the first place it relieves them of their Underplot 
 superfluous personages. Every drama, however simple, iiiust-^^^^^^^ 
 contain 'mechanical' personages, who are introduced vcAo personages. 
 the play, not for their own sake, but to assist in presenting 
 incidents or other personages. The tendency of Romantic 
 Drama to put a story as a whole upon the stage multiplies 
 the number of such mechanical personages: and when 
 several such stories come to be combined in one, there is a 
 danger of the stage being crowded with characters which 
 intrinsically have little interest. Here the Underplots be- 
 come of service and find occupation for these inferior per- 
 sonages. In the present case only four personages are es- 
 sential to the main plot — Antonio, Shylock, Bassanio, Portia. 
 But in bringing out the unusual tie that binds together 
 
76 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Chap. III. a representative of the city and a representative of the 
 
 nobility, and upon which so much of the plot rests, it is an 
 
 f|?-.i: I ' assistance to introduce the rank and fUe of gay society and 
 iv. i. ' depict these paying court to the commercial magnate. The 
 high position of Antonio and Bassanio in their respective 
 spheres will come out still clearer if these lesser social per- 
 i. i ; com- sonages are graduated. Salanio, Salerio, and Salarino are 
 es^^ii^iS ™S''S parasites ; Gratiano has a certain amount of in- 
 i.i. 74-118. dividuality in his wit ; while, seeing that Bassanio is a scholar 
 i. ii. 124. as well as a nobleman and soldier, it is fitting to give pro- 
 V. i, &c. minence amongst his followers to the intellectual and artistic 
 i. ii, &c. Lorenzo. Similarly the introduction of Nerissa assists in 
 iii. i. 80, presenting Portia fully ; Shylock is seen in his relations with 
 ^'^- his race by the aid of Tubal, his family life is seen in con- 
 
 nection with Jessica, and his behaviour to dependants in 
 connection with Launcelot; Launcelot himself is set oflf by 
 Gobbo. Now the Jessica Story is mainly devoted to these in- 
 ferior personages, and the majority of them take an animated 
 part in the successful elopement. It is further to be noted 
 that the Jessica Underplot has itself an inferior story attached 
 ii. ii, iii ; to it, that of Launcelot, who seeks scope for his good nature 
 m- ''■ by transferring himself to a Christian master, just as his 
 
 mistress seeks a freer social atmosphere in union with a 
 Christian husband. And, similarly, side by side with the 
 Caskets Story, which unites Portia and Bassanio, we have a 
 iU. ii. i88, faintly-marked underplot which unites their followers, Nerissa 
 and Gratiano. In one or other of these inferior stories the 
 mechanical personages find attachment to plot; and the 
 multiplication of individual figures, instead of leaving an 
 impression of waste, is made to minister to the sense of 
 Dramatic Economy. 
 It assists Again : as there are mechanical personages so there are 
 "d^ehp"''^ mechanical difficulties— diffictildes of realisation which do not 
 ment: belong to the essence of a story, but which appear when the 
 "theOree ^'^''^ comes to be worked out upon the stage. The Story of 
 
USES OF THE JESSICA STORY. 77 
 
 the Jew involves such a mechanical difiSculty in the interval Chap. III. 
 of three months which elapses between the signing of the 
 bond and its forfeiture. In a classical setting this would be ^^"^^'/ 
 avoided by making the play begin on the day the bond falls 
 due ; such treatment, however, would shut out the great 
 dramatic opportunity of the Bond Scene. The Romantic 
 Drama always inclines to exhibiting the whole of a story; it 
 must therefore in the present case suppose a considerable 
 interval between one part of the story and another, and such 
 suppositions tend to be weaknesses. The Jessica Story con- 
 veniently bridges over this interval. The first Act is given 
 up to bringing about the bond, which at the beginning of the 
 third Act appears to be broken. The intervening Act consists 
 of no less than nine scenes, and while three of them carry 
 on the progress of the Caskets Story, the other six are 
 devoted to the elopement of Jessica : the bustle and activity 
 implied in such rapid change of scene indicating how an 
 underplot can be used to keep the attention of the audience 
 just where the natural interest of the main story would flag. 
 
 The same use of the Jessica Story to bridge over the and so 
 three months' interval obviates another mechanical difficulty ~^^^"fiy 
 of the main plot. The loss of all Antonio's ships, the the news of 
 supposition that all the commercial ventures of so prudent a ^^^^^^ 
 merchant should simultaneously miscarry, is so contrary to 
 the chances of things as to put some strain upon our sense 
 of probability; and this is just one of the details which, too 
 unimportant to strike us in an anecdote, become realised 
 when a story is presented before our eyes. The artist, it 
 must be observed, is not bound to find actual solutions for 
 every possible difficulty; he has merely to see that they do 
 not.interfere with dramatic effect. Sometimes he so arranges 
 his incidents that the difficulty is met and vanishes ; some- 
 times it is kept out of sight, the portion of the story which 
 contains it going on behind the scenes; at other times he 
 is content with reducing the difficulty in amount. In the 
 
78 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Chap. III. present instance the improbability of Antonio's losses is les- 
 
 sened by the gradual way in which the news is broken to us, 
 
 distributed amongst the numerous scenes of the three months' 
 
 ii. viii. 25. interval. We get the first hint of it in a chance conver- 
 sation between Salanio and Salarino, in which they are 
 chuckling over the success of the elopement and the fury of 
 the robbed father. Salanio remarks that Antonio must look 
 that he keep his day; this reminds Salarino of a ship he has 
 just heard of as lost somewhere in the English Channel : 
 
 I thought upon Antonio when he told me ; 
 And wish'd in silence that it were not his. 
 
 iii. i. In the next scene but one the same personages meet, and 
 
 one of them, enquiring for the latest news, is told that the 
 rumour yet lives of Antonio's loss, and now the exact place 
 of the wreck is specified as the Goodwin Sands; Salarino 
 adds : ' I would it might prove the end of his losses.' 
 Before the close of the scene Shylock and Tubal have been 
 added to it. Tubal has come from Genoa and gives Shylock 
 the welcome news that at Genoa it was known that Antonio 
 had lost an argosy coming from Tripolis; while on his 
 journey to Venice Tubal had travelled with creditors of 
 Antonio who were speculating upon his bankruptcy as a 
 
 iii. ii. certainty. Then comes the central scene in which the full 
 news reaches Bassanio at the moment of his happiness : all 
 Antonio's ventures failed — 
 
 From Tripolis, from Mexico and England, 
 From Lisbon, Barbary, and India, 
 
 iii. iii. not one escaped. In the following scene we see Antonio in 
 
 custody. 
 The Jessica These are minor points such as may be met with in any 
 '^^"'7 play, and the treatment of them belongs to ordinary Dra- 
 Dramatic matic Mechanism. But we have already had to notice that 
 ^**^£'" the Story of the Jew contains special difficulties which belong 
 Shylock. to the essence of the story, and must be met by special 
 
USES OF THE JESSICA STORY. 79 
 
 devices. One of these was the monstrous character of the Chap. III. 
 
 Jew himself; and we saw how the dramatist was obliged to 
 
 maintain in the spe'ctators a double attitude to Shylock, 
 
 alternately letting them be repelled by his malignity and 
 
 again attracting their sympathy to him as a victim of wrong. 
 
 Nothing in the play assists this double attitude so much as 
 
 the Jessica Story. Not to speak of the fact that Shylock 
 
 shows no appreciation for the winsomeness of the girl who 
 
 attracts every one else in the drama, nor of the way in which 
 
 this one point of brightness in the Jewish quarter throws up 
 
 the sordidness of all her surroundings, we hear the Jew's 
 
 own daughter reflect that his house is a ' hell,' and we see ii. iii. z. 
 
 enough of his domestic life to agree with her. A Shylock e.g. ii. v. 
 
 painted without a tender side at all would be repulsive ; he 
 
 becomes much more repulsive when he shows a tenderness 
 
 for one human being, and yet it appears how this tenderness 
 
 has grown hard and rotten with the general debasement of 
 
 his soul by avarice, until, in his ravings over his loss, his iii. i, from 
 
 ducats and his daughter are ranked as equally dear. ^^' 
 
 I would my daughter were dead at my foot, and the jewels in iii. i. 92. 
 her ear 1 Would she were hearsed at my foot, and the ducats in her 
 coffin 1 
 
 For all this we feel that he is hardly used in losing her. 
 Paternal feeling may take a gross form, but it is paternal 
 feeling none the less, and cannot be denied our sympathy; 
 bereavement is a common ground upon which not only high 
 and low, but even the pure and the outcast, are drawn 
 together. Thus Jessica at home makes us hate Shylock; 
 with Jessica lost we cannot help pitying him. The per- 
 fection of Dramatic Hedging lies in the equal balancing of 
 the conflicting feelings, and one of the most powerful 
 scenes in the whole play is devoted to this twofold display of 
 Shylock. Fresh from the incident of the elopement, he is 
 encountered by the parasites and by Tubal: these amuse 
 themselves with alternately ' chaffing ' him upon his losses, 
 
8o THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Chap. III. and 'drawing' him in the matter of the expected gratification 
 of his vengeance, while his passions rock him between 
 Jessica extremes of despair and fiendish anticipation. We may go 
 stearl's further. Great creative power is accompanied by great 
 compensa- attachment to the creations and keen sense of justice in dis- 
 Shylock posing of them. Looked at as a whole, the Jessica Story is 
 Shakespeare's compensation to Shylock. The sentence on 
 iv. i. 348- Shylock, which the necessities of the story require, is legal 
 ^'^^' rather than just; yet large part of it consists in a require- 
 
 ment that he shall make his daughter an heiress. And, to 
 put it more generally, the repellent character and hard fate 
 of the father have set against them the sweetness and beauty 
 of the daughter, together with the full cup of good fortune 
 which her wilful rebellion brings her in the love of Lorenzo 
 and the protecting friendship of Portia. Perhaps the dramatist, 
 according to his wont, is warning us of this compensating 
 treatment when he makes one of the characters early in the 
 ii. iv. 34. play exclaim : 
 
 If e'er the Jew her father come to heaven, 
 It will be for his gentle daughter's sake. 
 
 The Jessica The Other main source of difliculty in the Story of the 
 plains Shy- J^^ 's, as we have seen, the detail concerning the pound of 
 lock's un- flesh, which throws improbability over every stage of its 
 ^ness!"^ progress. In one at least of these stages the difficulty is 
 directly met by the aid of the Jessica Story: it is this which ex- 
 plains Shylock's resolution not to give way. When we try in 
 imagination to realise the whole circumstances, common sense 
 must take the view taken in the play itself by the Duke : 
 iv. i. 17. Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too. 
 
 That thou but lead'st this fashion of thy malice 
 To the last hour of act ; and then 'tis thought 
 Thou'lt show thy mercy and remorse more strange 
 Than is thy strange apparent cruelty. 
 A life-long training in avarice would not easily resist an 
 offer of nine thousand ducats. But further, the alternatives 
 between which Shylock has to choose are not so simple as 
 
U'S£S OF THE JESSICA STORY. 8i 
 
 the alternatives of Antonio's money or his life. On the one Chap. III. 
 
 hand, Shylock has to consider the small chance that either 
 
 the law or the mob would actually suffer the atrocity to be 
 judicially perpetrated, and how his own life would be likely 
 to be lost in the attempt. Again, turning to the other alter- 
 native, Shylock is certainly deep in his schemes of ven- 
 geance, and the finesse of malignity must have suggested to 
 him how much more cruel to a man of Antonio's stamp it 
 would be to fling him a contemptuous pardon before the 
 eyes of Venice than to turn him into a martyr, even sup- 
 posing this to be permitted. But at the moment when the 
 choice becomes open to Shylock he has been maddened by 
 the loss of his daughter, who, with the wealth she has stolen, 
 has gone to swell the party of his deadly foe. It is fury, not 
 calculating cruelty, that makes Shylock with a madman's 
 tenacity cling to the idea of blood, while this passion is 
 blinding him to a more keenly flavoured revenge, and risking 
 the chance of securing any vengeance at all '. 
 
 From the mechanical development of the main plot and The Jessica 
 the reduction .of its difficulties, we pass to the interweaving of ^'-"f^J^' 
 the two principal stories, which is so leading a feature of the intenueav- 
 play. In the main this interweaving is sufficiently provided ^"Spftne 
 for by the stories themselves, and we have already seen how stories. 
 the leading personages in the one story are the source of the 
 whole movement in the other story. But this interweaving 
 is drawn closer still by the affair of Jessica : technically It is thus 
 described the position in the plot of Jessica's elopement is "■^^^'^ 
 that of a Link Action between the main Stories. This 
 
 ' This seems to me a reasonable view notwithstanding what Jessica 
 says to the contrary (iii. ii. 286), that she has often heard her father 
 swear he would rather have Antonio's flesh than twenty times the 
 value of the bond. It is one thing to swear vengeance in private, another 
 thing to follow it up in the face of a world in opposition. A man of 
 overbearing temper surrounded by inferiors and dependants often utters 
 threats, and seems to find a pleasure in uttering them, which both he 
 and his hearers know he will never carry out. 
 
 G 
 
82 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Chap. III. 
 
 iii. ii, from 
 
 .>2I. 
 
 helping to 
 restore the 
 balance be- 
 tween the 
 main 
 stories., 
 
 and a bond 
 between 
 their bright 
 and dark 
 climaxes. 
 
 Character 
 effects. 
 Character 
 cf Jessica. 
 
 linking appears in the way in which Jessica and her suite 
 are in the course of the drama transferred from the one tale 
 to the other. At the opening of the play they are personages 
 in the Story of the Jew, and represent its two antagonistic 
 sides, Jessica being the daughter of the Jew and Lorenzo a 
 friend and follower of Bassanio and Antonio. First the 
 contrivance of the elopement assists in drawing together 
 these opposite sides of the Jew Story, and aggravating the 
 feud on which it turns. Then, as we have seen, Jessica and 
 her husband in the central scene of the whole play come into 
 contact with the Caskets Story at its climax. From this point 
 they become adopted into the Caskets Story, and settle down 
 in the house and under the protection of Portia. This 
 transference further assists the symmetry of interweaving by 
 helping to adjust the balance between the two main stories. 
 In its mass, if the expression may be allowed, the Caskets 
 tale, with its steady progress to a goal of success, is over- 
 weighted by the tale of Antonio's tragic peril and startling 
 deliverance : the Jessica episode, withdrawn from the one 
 and added to the other, helps to make the two more 
 equal. Once more, the case, we have seen, is not merely 
 that of a union between stories, but a union between stories 
 opposite in kind, a combination of brightness with gloom. 
 The binding effect of the Jessica Story extends to the union 
 between these opposite tones. We have already had occasion 
 to notice how the two extremes meet in the central scene, how 
 from the height of Bassanio's bliss we pass in an instant to 
 the total ruin of Antonio, which we then learn in its fulness 
 for the first time: the link which connects the two is the 
 arrival of Jessica and her friends as bearers of the news. 
 
 So far, the points considered have been points of Mechan- 
 ism and Plot ; in the matter of Character-Interest the Jessica 
 episode is to an even greater degree an addition to the whole 
 effect of the play, Jessica and Lorenzo serving as a foil to 
 Portia and Bassanio. The characters of Jessica and Lorenzo 
 
CrS£S OF THE JESSICA STORY. 83 
 
 are charmingly sketched, though liable to misreading unless Chap. III. 
 
 carefully' studied. To appreciate Jessica we must in the first 
 
 place assume the grossly unjust mediaeval view of the Jews as 
 
 social outcasts. The dramatist has vouchsafed us a glimpse 
 
 of Shylock at home, and brief as the scene is it is remark- ii. v. 
 
 able how much of evil is crowded into it. The breath of 
 
 home life is trust, yet the one note which seems to pervade 
 
 the domestic bearing of Shylock is the lowest suspiciousness. 
 
 Three times as he is starting for Bassanio's supper he draws 12, 16, .^6. 
 
 back to question the motives for which he has been invited. 
 
 He is moved to a shriek of suspicion by the mere fact of his 
 
 servant joining him in shouting for the absent Jessica, by the 7. 
 
 mention of masques, by the sight of the servant whispering 28, 44. 
 
 to his daughter. Finally, he takes his leave with the words 
 
 Perhaps I will return immediately, 52. 
 
 a device for keeping order in his absence which would be 
 a low one for a nurse to use to a child, but which he is not 
 ashamed of using to his grown-up daughter and the lady of 
 his house. The short scene of fifty-seven lines is sufficient 
 to gives us a further reminder of Shylock's sordid house- 
 keeping, which is glad to get rid of the good-natured 
 Launcelot as a ' huge feeder ' ; and his aversion to any form 3, 46. 
 of gaiety, which leads him to insist on his shutters being put 28. 
 up when he hears that there is a chance of a pageant in 
 the streets. Amidst surroundings of this type Jessica has 
 grown up, a motherless girl, mingling only with harsh men 
 (for we nowhere see a trace of female companionship for 
 her) : it can hardly be objected against her that she should 
 long for a Christian atmosphere in which her affections might ii. iii. 20. 
 have full play. Yet even for this natural reaction she feels 
 compunction : 
 
 Alack, what heinous sin is it in me ii. iii. 16. 
 
 To be ashamed to be my father's child ! 
 But though I am a daughter to his blood, 
 I am not to his manners. 
 G 3 
 
84 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Chap. III. Formed amidst such influences it would be a triumph to a 
 character if it escaped repulsiveness ; Jessica, on the contrary, 
 is full of attractions. She has a simplicity which stands to 
 her in the place of principle. More than this she has a high 
 degree of feminine delicacy. Delicacy will be best brought 
 out in a person who is placed in an equivocal situation, and 
 we see Jessica engaged, not only in an elopement, but in an 
 
 ii. iv. 30. elopement which, it appears, has throughout been planned by 
 herself and not by Lorenzo. Of course a quality like feminine 
 delicacy is more conveyed by the bearing of the actress than 
 by positive words ; we may however notice the impression 
 which Jessica's part in the elopement scenes makes upon 
 
 ii. iv. 30- those who are present. When Lorenzo is obliged to make a 
 
 ^°' confidant of Gratiano, and tell him how it is Jessica who has 
 
 planned the whole affair, instead of feeling any necessity of 
 apologising for her the thought of her childhke innocence 
 moves him to enthusiasm, and it is here that he exclaims : 
 
 If e'er the Jew her father come to heaven. 
 It will be for his gentle daughter's sake. 
 
 ii. vi. In the scene of the elopement itself, Jessica has steered clear 
 
 of both prudishness and freedom, and when after her pretty 
 confusion she has retired from the window, even Gratiano 
 breaks out: 
 
 ii. vi. 51. Now, by my hood, a Gentile and no Jew ; 
 
 while Lorenzo himself has warmed to see in her qualities he 
 had never expected : 
 
 ii. vi. 52. Beshrew me but I love her heartily ; 
 
 For she is wise, if I can judge of her, 
 And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true, 
 And true she is, as she has proved herself. 
 And therefore, like herself, wise, fair, and true, 
 Shall she be placed in my constant soul. 
 
 So generally, all with whom she comes into contact feel 
 ii. iii. 10. her spell : the rough Launcelot parts from her with tears he 
 iii. i. 41. is ashamed of yet cannot keep down ; Salarino — the last of 
 
irSES OF THE JESSICA STORY. Sg 
 
 men to take high views of women — resents as a sort of bias- Chap. III. 
 
 phemy Shylock's claiming her as his flesh and blood ; while 
 
 between Jessica and Portia there seems to spring in an ^"^ '^' ^ ' 
 instant an attraction as mysterious as is the tie between 
 Antonio and Bassanio. 
 
 Lorenzo is for the most part of a dreamy inactive nature, Character 
 as may be seen in his amused tolerance of Launcelot's of,^'»'e»-^o- 
 word-fencing — word-fencing being in general a challenge 75/ 
 which none of Shakespeare's characters can resist ; similarly, 
 Jessica's enthusiasm on the subject of Portia, which in reality iii. v. 75- 
 he shares, he prefers to meet with banter : ^9- 
 
 Even such a husband 
 Hast thou of me as she is for a wife. 
 
 But the strong side of his character also is shown us in the 
 
 play : he has an artist soul, and to the depth of his passion 
 
 for music and for the beauty of nature we are indebted for v. i. 1-24, 
 
 some of the noblest passages in Shakespeare. This is the ^"^ 
 
 attraction which has drawn him to Jessica, her outer beauty 
 
 is the index of artistic sensibility within : ' she is never merry v. i. 69, i- 
 
 when she hears sweet music,' and the soul of rhythm is ^^' 
 
 awakened in her, just as much as in her husband, by the 
 
 moonlight scene. Simplicity again, is a quality they have 
 
 in common, as is seen by their ignorance in money- iii. i. 113, 
 
 matters, and the way a valuable turquoise ring goes for a '^3' 
 
 monkey — if, at least, Tubal may be believed : a carelessness 
 
 of money which mitigates our dislike of the free hand Jessica 
 
 lays upon her father's ducats and jewels. On the whole, 
 
 however, Lorenzo's dreaminess makes a pretty contrast to 
 
 Jessica's vivacity. And Lorenzo's inactivity is capable of 
 
 being roused to great things. This is seen by the elopement 
 
 itself : for the suggestion of its incidents seems to be that esp. ii. iy. 
 
 Lorenzo meant at first no more than trifling with the pretty ^j ' ^ '^^ ' 
 
 Jewess, and that he rose to the occasion as he found and 
 
 appreciated Jessica's higher tone and attraction. Finally, 
 
 we must see the calibre of Lorenzo's character through the 
 
86 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Chap. III. eyes of Portia, who selects him at first sight as the repre- 
 
 sentative to whom to commit her household in her absence, 
 
 ^2. of which commission she will take no refusal. 
 
 Jessica and So interpreted the characters of Jessica and Lorenzo make 
 ^fou"o''por '^^ whole episode of the elopement an antithesis to the 
 Ha and main plot. To a wedded couple in the fresh happiness of 
 Bassamo. jj^^jj. ^^^^^ ji^g^g ^g^„ hardly fall a greater luxury than to 
 further the happiness of another couple; this luxury is 
 granted to Portia and Bassanio, and in their reception of the 
 fugitives what picturesque contrasts are brought together ! 
 The two pairs are a foil to one another in kind, and set one 
 another off like gold and gems. Lorenzo and Jessica are 
 negative characters with the one positive quality of intense 
 capacity for enjoyment ; Bassanio and Portia have every- 
 thing to enjoy, yet their natures appear dormant till roused 
 by an occasion for daring and energy. The Jewess and her 
 husband are distinguished by the bird-like simplicity that so 
 often goes with special art-susceptibility ; Portia and Bas- 
 sanio are full and rounded characters in which the whole of 
 human nature seems concentrated. The contrast is of degree 
 as well as kind : the weaker pair brought side by side with 
 the stronger throw out the impression of their strength. 
 Portia has a fulness of power which puts her in her most 
 natural position when she is extending protection to those 
 who are less able to stand by themselves. Still more with 
 Bassanio: he has so little scope in the scenes of the play 
 itself, which from the nature of the stories present him 
 always in situations of dependence on others, that we see his 
 strength almost entirely by the reflected light of the attitude 
 which others hold to him ; in the present instance we have 
 no difficulty in catching the intellectual power of Lorenzo, 
 and Lorenzo looks up to Bassanio as a superior. And the 
 couples thus contrasted in character present an equal like- 
 ness and unlikeness in their fortunes. Both are happy for 
 ever, and both have .become so through a bold stroke. Yet 
 
USES OF THE RINGS EPISODE. 87 
 
 in the one instance it is blind obedience, in face of all tempta- Chap. III. 
 
 tions, to the mere whims of a good parent, who is dead, that 
 
 has been guided to the one issue so passionately desired ; in 
 the case of the other couple open rebellion, at every practical 
 risk, against the legitimate authority of an evil father, still 
 living, has brought them no worse fate than happiness in 
 one another, and for their defenceless position the best of 
 patrons. 
 
 It seems, then, that the introduction of the Jessica Story is 
 justified, not only by the purposes of construction which it 
 serves, but by the fact that its human interest is at once a 
 contrast and a supplement to the main story, with which 
 it blends to produce the ordered variety of a finished 
 picture. 
 
 A few words will be sufficient to point out how the effects The Rings 
 of the main plot are assisted by the Rings Episode, which, ^^i°{^\j^g 
 though rich in fun, is of a slighter character than the Jessica mechanism 
 Story, and occupies a much smaller space in the field of view, j^imj 
 The dramatic points of the two minor stories are similar. 
 Like the Jessica Story the Rings Episode assists the me- 
 chanical working out of the main plot. An explanation 
 must somehow be given to Bassanio that the lawyer is Portia 
 in disguise ; mere mechanical explanations have always an 
 air of weakness, but the affair of the rings utilises the ex- 
 planation in the present case as a source of new dramatic 
 effects. This arrangement further assists, to a certain extent, 
 in reducing the improbability of Portia's project. The point 
 at which the improbability would be most felt would be, not 
 the first appearance of the lawyer's clerk, for then we are 
 engrossed in our anxiety for Antonio, but when the ex- 
 planation of the disguise came to be made ; there might be 
 a danger lest here the surprise of Bassanio should become 
 infectious, and the audience should awake to the improb- 
 ability of the whole story: as it is, their attention is at the 
 critical moment diverted to the perplexity of the penitent 
 
454- 
 
 88 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 Chap. III. husbands. The Story of the Rings, like that of Jessica, assists 
 the interweaving of the two main stories with one another, 
 
 "inVJweav- ''^ Subtlety suggesting to what a degree of detail this inter- 
 
 ing ; lacing extends. Bassanio is the main point which unites the 
 
 Story of the Jew and the Caskets Story; in the one he 
 occupies the position of friend, in the other of husband. 
 
 iv. i. 425- The affair of the rings, slight a» it is, is so managed by 
 Portia that its point becomes a test as between his friendship 
 and his love ; and so equal do these forces appear that, 
 though his friendship finally wins and he surrenders his 
 betrothal ring, yet it is not until after his wife has given him 
 a hint against herself: 
 
 And if your wife be not a mad-woman, 
 And know how well 1 have deserved the ring, 
 She would not hold out enemy for ever 
 For giving it to me. 
 
 The Rings Episode, even more than the Jessica Story, assists 
 in restoring the balance between the main tales. The chief 
 inequality between them lies in the fact that the Jew Story is 
 complicated and resolved, while the Caskets Story is a simple 
 progress to a goal; when, however, there springs from the 
 latter a sub-action which has a highly comic complication 
 and resolution the two halves of the play become drama- 
 tically on a par. And the interweaving of the dark and 
 bright elements in the play is assisted by the fact that the 
 Episode of the Rings not only provides a comic reaction 
 to relieve the tragic crisis, but its whole point is a Dramatic 
 Irony in which serious and comic are inextricably mixed. 
 and assists Finally, as the Jessica Story ministers to Character effect in 
 "e^pment Connection with the general ensemble of the personages, so 
 of Portids the Episode of the Rings has a special function in bringing 
 out the character of Portia, The secret of the charm which 
 has won for Portia the suffrages of all readers is the perfect 
 balance of qualities in her character : she is the meeting- 
 point of brightness, force, and tenderness. And, to crown the 
 
 character. 
 
USES OF THE RINGS EPISODE. 89 
 
 union, Shakespeare has placed her at the supreme moment of Chai'. III. 
 life, on the boundary line between girlhood and womanhood, 
 when the wider aims and deeper issues of maturity find 
 themselves in strange association with the abandon of youth. 
 The balance thus becomes so perfect that it quivers, and dips 
 to one side and the other. Portia is the saucy child as she i. ii. 39- 
 sprinkles her sarcasms over Nerissa's enumeration of the 
 suitors : in the trial she faces the world of Venice as a 
 heroine. She is the ideal maiden in the speech in which she iii. ii- 150. 
 surrenders herself to Bassanio : she is the ideal woman as 
 she proclaims from the judgment seat the divinity of mercy, iv. i. 184. 
 Now the fourth Act has kept before us too exclusively one 
 side of this character. Not that Portia in the lawyer's gown 
 is masculine : but the dramatist has had to dwell too long on 
 her side of strength. He will not dismiss us with this im- 
 pression, but indulges us in one more daring feat surpassing 
 all the madcap frolics of the past. Thus the Episode of the 
 Rings is the last flicker of girlhood in Portia before it merges 
 in the wider life of womanhood. We have rejoiced in a great 
 deliverance wrought by a noble woman : our enjoyment rises 
 higher yet when the Rings Episode reminds us that this 
 woman has not ceased to be a sportive girl. 
 
 It has been shown, then, that the two inferior stories in 
 The Merchant of Venice assist the main stories in the most 
 varied manner, smoothing their mechanical working, meeting 
 their special difficulties, drawing their mutual interweaving 
 yet closer, and throwing their character effects into relief: 
 the additional complexity they have brought has resulted in 
 making emphatic points yet raaore prominent, and the total 
 effect has therefore been to increase clearness and simplicity. 
 Enough has now been said on the building up of dramas out 
 of stories, which is the distinguishing feature of the Romantic 
 Drama ; the studies that follow will be applied to the more 
 universal topics of dramatic interest, Character, Plot, and 
 Passion. 
 
IV. 
 
 A PICTURE OF Ideal Villainy in 
 Richard III. 
 
 A Study in Character-Interpretation. 
 
 Chap. IV. T HOPE that the subject of the present study will not be 
 
 X considered by any reader forbidding. On the contrary, 
 Villainy as ^ . , ^ / . , , , , ... 
 
 a subject there IS surely attractiveness in the thought that nothing is so 
 
 for art- repulsive or so uninteresting in the world of fact but in some 
 treatment. . . . . , , , _ . . ^ 
 
 way or other it may be brought under the dominion ot art- 
 beauty. The author of L Allegro shows by the companion 
 poem that he could find inspiration in a rainy morning ; and 
 the great master in English poetry is followed by a great 
 master in English painting who wins his chief triumphs by 
 his handling of fog and mist. Long ago the masterpiece of 
 Virgil consecrated agricultural toil ; Murillo's pictures have 
 taught us that there is a beauty in rags and dirt; rustic 
 commonplaces gave a life passion to Wordsworth, and were 
 the cause of a revolution in poetry ; while Dickens has pene- 
 trated into the still less promising region of low London life, 
 and cast a halo around the colourless routine of poverty. 
 Men's evil passions have given Tragedy to art, crime is 
 beautified by being linked to Nemesis, meanness is the 
 natural source for brilliant comic effects, ugliness has reserved 
 for it a special form of art in the grotesque, and pain becomes 
 attractive in the light of' the heroism that suffers and the 
 devotion that watches. In the infancy of modern English 
 poetry Drayton found a poetic side to topography and maps, 
 and Phineas Fletcher idealised anatomy ; while of the two 
 
IDEAL VILLAINY. 91 
 
 greatest imaginations belonging to the modern world Milton Chap. IV. 
 produced his masterpiece in the delineation of a fiend, and 
 Dante in a picture of hell. The final triumph of good over 
 evil seems to have been already anticipated by art. 
 
 The portrait of Richard satisfies a first condition of ide- The 
 ality in the scale of the whole picture. The sphere in which he ^il^^hard 
 is placed is not private life, but the world of history, in which ideal in ih- 
 moral responsibility is the highest : if, therefore, the quality ""^ *' 
 of other villainies be as fine, here the issues are deeper. As and in its 
 another element of the ideal, the villainy of Richard is V^^ develop- 
 sented to us fully developed and complete. Often an artist ment. 
 of crime will rely — as notably in the portraiture of Tito 
 Melema — mainly on the succession of steps by which a cha- 
 racter, starting from full possession of the reader's sympathies, 
 arrives by the most natural gradations at a height of evil which 
 shocks. In the present case all idea of growth is kept out- 
 side the field of this particular play; the opening soliloquy 
 announces a completed process : 
 
 I am determined to prove a villain. 1. i- 'ip. 
 
 What does appear of Richard's past, seen through the 
 
 favourable medium of a mother's description, only seems to 
 
 extend the completeness to earlier stages : 
 
 A grievous burthen was thy birth to me : i''- 'v. 167. 
 
 Tetchy and vrayward was thy infancy; 
 
 Thy school-days frightful, desperate, vrild, and furious, 
 
 Thy prime of manhood daring, bold, and venturous. 
 
 Thy age confirm'd, proud, subtle, bloody, treacherous. 
 
 More mild, but yet more harmful, kind in hatred. 
 
 So in the details of the play there is nowhere a note of the 
 hesitation that betrays tentative action. When even Bucking- 
 ham is puzzled as to what can be done if Hastings should 
 resist, Richard answers : 
 
 Chop off his head, man; somewhat we will do. m. i- i93- 
 
 His choice is only between different modes of villainy, never 
 between villainy and honesty. 
 
92 KING RICHARD III: 
 
 Chap. IV. Again, it is to be observed that there is no suggestion of 
 
 impelling motive or other explanation for the villainy of 
 
 ^Lmc\ent Richard. He does not labour under any sense of personal 
 
 tuotrve. injury, such as lago felt in believing, however groundlessly, 
 
 Othello: that his enemies had wronged him through his wife; or 
 
 1. iii. ^Q2 
 
 &c. ' Edmund, whose soliloquies display him as conscious that his 
 
 Lear: i. ii. birth has made his whole life an injury. Nor have we in this 
 
 '"^^" case the morbid enjoyment of suffering which we associate 
 
 with Mephistopheles, and which Dickens has worked up into 
 
 one of his most powerful portraits in Quilp. Richard never 
 
 turns aside to gloat over the agonies of his victims ; it is not 
 
 so much the details as the grand schemes of villainy, the 
 
 handling of large combinations of crime, that have an interest 
 
 for him : he is a strategist in villainy, not a tactician. Nor 
 
 can we point to ambition as a sufficient motive. He is 
 
 ambitious in a sense which belongs to all vigorous natures ; 
 
 he has the workman's impulse to rise by his work. But 
 
 ambition as a determining force in character must imply 
 
 more than this; it is a sort of moral dazzling, its symptom is 
 
 a fascination by ends which blinds to the ruinous means 
 
 leading up to these ends. Such an ambition was Macbeth's; 
 
 but in Richard the symptoms are wanting, and in all his long 
 
 soliloquies he is never found dwelling upon the prize in view. 
 
 A nearer approach to an explanation would be Richard's 
 
 sense of bodily deformity. Not only do all who come in 
 
 contact with him shrink from the ' bottled spider,' but he 
 
 i. iii. 242, himself gives a conspicuous place in his meditations to the 
 
 Si &c. thought of his ugliness; from the outset he connects his 
 
 criminal career with the reflection that he ' is not shaped for 
 
 i. j. 14. sportive tricks ' : 
 
 Defonn'd, nnfinish'd, sent before my time 
 Into this breathing world, scarce half made up, 
 And that so lamely and unfashionable 
 That dogs bark at me as I halt by them ; 
 Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace, 
 Have no delight to pass away the time, 
 
FROM THE SIDE OF CHARACTER. 93 
 
 Unless to spy my shadow in the sun Chap. IV. 
 And descant on mine own deformity. 
 
 Still, it would be going too far to call this the motive of his 
 crimes : the spirit of this and similar passages is more 
 accurately expressed by saying that he has a morbid pleasure 
 in contemplating physical ugliness analogous to his morbid esp. i. ii. 
 pleasure in contemplating moral baseness. 252-2 4. 
 
 There appears, then, no sufficient explanation and motive Villainy 
 for the villainy of Richard : the general impression conveyed ^^^j;^f^'""j 
 is that to Richard villainy has become an end in itself needing an end in 
 no special motive. This is one of the simplest principles of * ^^■'' 
 human development — that a means to an end tends to be- 
 come in time an end in itself. The miser who began accu- 
 mulating to provide comforts for his old age finds the process 
 itself of accumulating gain firmer and firmer hold upon him, 
 until, when old age has come, he sticks to accumulating and 
 foregoes comfort. So in previous plays Gloster may have compare 
 been impelled by ambition to his crimes : by the time the fr/.^"^ ;; 
 present play is reached crime itself becomes to him the dearer 165-181. 
 of the two, and the ambitious end drops out of sight. This 
 leads directly to one of the two main features of Shakespeare's 
 portrait : Richard is an artist in villainy. What form and Richard an 
 colour are to the painter, what rhythm and imagery are to '^'ni^ifly 
 the poet, that crime is to Richard : it is the medium in which 
 his soul frames its conceptions of the beautiful. The gulf 
 that separates between Shakespeare's Richard and the rest of 
 humanity is no gross perversion of sentiment, nor the develop- 
 ment of abnormal passions, nor a notable surrender in the 
 struggle between interest and right. It is that he approaches 
 villainy as a thing of pure intellect, a religion of moral indiffer- 
 ence in which sentiment and passion have no place, attraction 
 to which implies no more motive than the simplest impulse to 
 exercise a native talent in its natural sphere. 
 
 Of the various barriers that exist against crime, the most Rtchard 
 powerful are the checks that come from human emotions. It emotions 
 
94 KING RICHARD III: 
 
 Chap. IV. is easier for a criminal to resist the objections his reason 
 interposes to evildoing than to overcome these emotional 
 
 "aftemtiHg restraints : either his own emotions, woven by generations of 
 
 crime. hereditary transmission into the very framework of his 
 nature, which make his hand tremble in the act of sinning ; 
 or the emotions his crimes excite in others, such as will 
 cause hardened wretches, who can die calmly on the scaffold, 
 to cower before the menaces of a mob. Crime becomes 
 possible only because these emotions can be counteracted by 
 more powerful emotions on the other side, by greed, by thirst 
 for vengeance, by inflamed hatred. In Richard, however, 
 when he is surveying his works, we find no such evil emotions 
 raised, no gratified vengeance or triumphant hatred. The 
 reason is that there is in him no restraining emotion to be 
 overcome. Horror at the unnatural is not subdued, but 
 absent ; his attitude to atrocity is the passionless attitude of 
 the artist who recognises that the tyrant's cruelty can be set 
 
 I. ii. to as good music as the mart)T's heroism. Readers are 
 
 shocked at the scene in which Richard wooes Lady Anne 
 beside the bier of the parent he has murdered, and wonder 
 that so perfect an intriguer should not choose a more favour- 
 able time. But the repugnance of the reader has no place in 
 Richard's feelings : the circumstances of the scene are so 
 many objeclions, to be met by so much skill of treatment. A 
 single detail in the play illustrates perfectly this neutral atti- 
 tude to horror. Tyrrel comes to bring the news of the 
 princes' murder ; Richard answers : 
 
 iv, iii, 31. Come to me, Tyrrel, soon at after supper, 
 
 And thou shalt tell the process of their death. 
 
 Quilp could not have waited for his gloating till after supper ; 
 
 other villains would have put the deed out of sight when done; 
 
 the epicure in villainy reserves his bonbouche till he has leisure 
 
 to do it justice. Callous to his own emotions, he is equally 
 
 callous to the emotions he rouses in others. When Queen 
 
 Margaret is pouring a flood of curses which make the inno- 
 
FROM THE SIDE OF CHARACTER, 95 
 
 cent courtiers' hair stand on end, and the heaviest curse of Chap. IV. 
 
 all, which she has reserved for Richard hitnself, is rolling on 
 
 to its climax, ^' '"■ "''" 
 
 239. 
 
 Thou alander of thy mother's heavy womb I 
 
 Thou loathed issue of thy father's loins ! 
 
 Thou rag of honour ! thou detested — 
 
 he adroitly slips in the word ' Margaret ' in place of the 
 intended ' Richard,' and thus, with the coolness of a school- 
 boy's small joke, disconcerts her tragic passion in a way that 
 gives a moral wrench to the whole scene. His own mother's iv. iv, from 
 curse moves him not even to anger; he caps its clauses with '^ 
 bantering repartees, until he seizes an opportunity for a pun, 
 and begins to move off ; he treats her curse, as in a previous 
 scene he had treated her blessing, with a sort of gentle im- ii, ii. 109, 
 patience as if tired of a fond yet somewhat troublesome 
 parent. Finally, there is an instinct which serves as resultant 
 to all the complex forces, emotional or rational, which sway 
 us between right and wrong; this instinct of conscience is 
 formally disavowed by Richard : 
 
 Conscience is but a word that cowards use, V. iii. 369. 
 
 Devised at first to keep the strong in awe. 
 
 But, if the natural heat of emotion is wanting, there is, on But he re- 
 the other hand, the full intellectual Warmth of an artist's 1,^^^^. 
 enthusiasm, whenever Richard turns to survey the game he is with the 
 playing. He reflects with a relish how he does the wrong ^^^fj^^f^'^l^ 
 and first begins the brawl, how he sets secret mischief fl/'''*« 
 abroach and charges it on to others, beweeping his own f f"'' 
 victims to simple gulls, and, when these begin to cry for ^^^' 
 vengeance, quoting Scripture against returning evil for evil, 
 and thus seeming a saint when most he plays the devil. The 
 great master is known by his appreciation of details, in the 
 least of which he can see .the play of great principles ; so the 
 magnificence of Richard's villainy does not make him in- 
 sensible to commonplaces of crime. When in the long 
 
96 KING RICHARD III: 
 
 Chap. IV. usurpation conspiracy there is a moment's breathing space 
 just before the Lord Mayor enters, Richard and Buckingham 
 
 m. V. i-ii. y(.[jjgg j{ Cqj. ^ burst of hilarity over the deep hypocrisy with 
 
 ■which they are playing their parts ; how they can counterfeit 
 
 the deep tragedian, murder their breath in the middle of a 
 
 world, tremble and start at wagging of a fltraw : — here we 
 
 have the musician's flourish upon his instrument from very 
 
 wantonness of skill. Again : 
 
 i. i. ii8. Simple, plain Clarence! I do love thee so 
 
 That I will shortly send thy soul to heaven — 
 
 is the composer's pleasure at hitting upon a readily workable 
 theme. Richard appreciates his murderers as a workman 
 appreciates good tools : 
 
 i. iii. 354. Your eyes drop millstones, when fools' ■eyes drop tears : 
 
 1 like you, lads. 
 
 i. ii, from And at the conclusion of the scene with Lady Anne we have 
 the artist's enjoyment of his own masterpiece; 
 
 Was ever woman in this humour woo'd? 
 
 Was ever woman in this humour won ? . . . 
 
 What ! I, that kill'd her husband and his father. 
 
 To take her in her heart's extremes! 'hate, 
 
 With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes, 
 
 The bleeding witness of her hatred by ; 
 
 Having God, her conscience, and these bars against me, 
 
 And I nothing to back my suit at all. 
 
 But the plain devil and dissembling looks. 
 
 And yet to win her, all the world to nothing! , 
 
 The tone in this passage is of the highest : it is the tone of a 
 musician fresh from a triumph of his art, the sweetest point 
 in which has been that he has condescended to no adven- 
 titious aids, no assistance of patronage or concessions to 
 popular tastes ; it has been won by pure music. So the artist 
 in villainy celebrates a triumph oi plain devil I 
 The This view of Richard as an artist in crime is sufficient to 
 
 Tdealln explain the hold which villainy has on Richard himself; but 
 
FROM THE SIDE OF CHARACTER. 97 
 
 ideal villainy must be ideal also in its success ; and on this Chap. IV. 
 
 side of the analysis another conception in Shakespeare's 
 
 portraiture becomes of first importance. It is obvious enough S^^^^^'^^^^'ok 
 that Richard has all the elements of success which can be ofirresisH- 
 reduced to the form of skill : but he has something more. Richard. 
 No theory of human action will be complete which does not 
 recognise a dominion of will over will operating by mere con- 
 tact, without further explanation so far as conscious influence 
 is concerned. What is it that takes the bird into the jaws of 
 the serpent ? No persuasion or other influence on the bird's 
 consciousness, for it struggles to keep back; we can only 
 recognise the attraction as a force, and give it a name, 
 fascination. In Richard there is a similar fascination of 
 irresistibility, which also operates by his mere presence, and 
 which fights for him in the same way in which the idea of 
 their invincibility fought for conquerors like Napoleon, and 
 was on occasions as good to them as an extra twenty or thirty 
 thousand men. A consideration like this will be appreciated 
 in the case of tours de force like the Wooing of Lady Anne, 
 which is a stumblingblock to many readers — a widow beside 
 the bier of her murdered husband's murdered father wooed 
 and won by the man who makes no secret that he is the 
 murderer of them both. The analysis of ordinary human 
 motives would make it appear that Anne would not yield at 
 points at which the scene represents her as yielding ; some 
 other force is wanted to explain her surrender, and it is found 
 in this secret force of irresistible will which Richard bears about 
 with him. But, it will be asked, in what does this fascination 
 appear ? The answer is that the idea of it is furnished to us 
 by the other scenes of the play. Such a consideration illus- 
 trates the distinction between real and ideal. An ideal inci- 
 dent is not an incident of real life simply clothed in beauty of 
 expression; nor, on the other hand, is an ideal incident 
 divorced from the laws of real possibility. Ideal implies that 
 the transcendental has been made possible by treatment : that 
 
 H 
 
98 
 
 KING RICHARD III : 
 
 Chap. IV. 
 
 The fasci- 
 nation is to 
 be conveyed 
 in the 
 acting. 
 
 The irre- 
 sistibility 
 analysed. 
 Unlikely 
 means. 
 
 i. i, from 
 42. 
 
 iii. iv; esp. 
 76 com- 
 pared with 
 iii. i. 184. 
 
 an incident (for example) which might be impossible in itself 
 becomes possible through other incidents with which it is as- 
 sociated, just as in actual life the action of a public personage 
 which may have appeared strange at the time becomes 
 intelligible -when at his death we can review his life as a 
 whole. Such a scene as the Wooing Scene might be im- 
 possible as a fragment ; it becomes possible enough in the 
 play, where it has to be taken in connection with the rest of 
 the plot, throughout which the irresistibility of the hero is 
 prominent as one of the chief threads of connection. Nor is 
 it any objection that the Wooing Scene comes early in the 
 action. The play is not the book, but the actor's interpreta- 
 tion on the stage, and the actor will have collected even from 
 the latest scenes elements of the interpretation he throws 
 into the earliest : the actor is a lens for concentrating the 
 light of the whole play upon every single detail. The fasci- 
 nation of irresistibility, then, which is to act by instinct in 
 every scene, may be arrived at analytically when we survey 
 the play as a whole — when we see how by Richard's 
 innate genius, by the reversal in him of the ordinary relation 
 of human nature to crime, especially by his perfect mas- 
 tery of the successive situations as they arise, the dra- 
 matist steadily builds up an irresistibility which becomes 
 a secret force clinging to Richard's presence, and through 
 the operation of which his feats are half accomplished by 
 the fact of his attempting them. 
 
 To begin with : the sense of irresistible power is brought 
 out by the way in which the unlikeliest things are con- 
 tinually drawn into his schemes and utilised as means. Not 
 to speak of his regular affectation of blunt sincerity, he 
 makes use of the simple brotherly confidence of Clarence as 
 an engine of fraticide, and founds on the frank famili- 
 arity existing between himself and Hastings a plot by 
 which he brings him to the block. The Queen's com- 
 punction at the thought of leaving Clarence out of the 
 
FROM THE SIDE OF CHARACTER. 99 
 
 general reconciliation around the dying king's bedside is the Chap. IV. 
 
 fruit of a conscience tenderer than her neighbours' : Richard .. -_ 
 
 adroitly seizes it as an opportunity for shifting on to the "^'/'cfl^i^,. 
 
 Queen and her friends the suspicion of the duke's murder. 
 
 The childish prattle of little York Richard manages to sug- iii. i. 154. 
 
 gest to the bystanders as dangerous treason; the solemnity 
 
 of the king's deathbed he turns to his own purposes by out- 11.1.53-72. 
 
 doing all the rest in Christian forgiveness and humility ; and 
 
 he selects devout meditation as the card to play with the m. v. 99, 
 
 Lord Mayor and citizens. On the other hand, amongst '^=- 
 
 other devices for the usurpation conspiracy, he starts a 
 
 slander upon his own mother's purity ; and further — by one iii. v. 75- 
 
 of the greatest strokes in the whole play — makes capital 94- 
 
 in the Wooing Scene out of his own heartlessness, de- i. «. 156- 
 
 scribing in a burst of startling eloquence the scenes of-'^7- 
 
 horror he has passed through, the only man unmoved to 
 
 tears, in order to add : 
 
 And what these sorrows could not thence exhale, 
 Thy beauty hath, and made them blind with weeping. 
 
 There are things which are too sacred for villainy to touch, 
 and there are things which are protected by their own foul- 
 ness : both alike are made useful by Richard. 
 
 Similarly it is to be noticed how Richard can utilise the The sensa- 
 very sensation produced by one crime as a means to bring *^"'-^t 
 about more ; as when he interrupts the King's dying moments one crime 
 to announce the death of Clarence in such a connection as ? . *", , 
 
 bring about 
 
 must give a shock to the most unconcerned spectator, and others. 
 
 then draws attention to the pale faces of the Queen's friends ^\ '' /''°™ 
 
 ■^ 77;cf. 134. 
 
 as marks of guilt. He thus makes one crime beget another 
 
 without further effort on his part, reversing the natural law 
 by which e^ch criminal act, through its drawing more sus- 
 picion to the villain, tends to limit his power for further 
 mischief. It is to the same purpose that Richard chooses Richard's 
 sometimes instead of acting himself to foist his own schemes "^i^ff^"'^ 
 on to others ; as when he inspires Buckingham with the to others. 
 
 H 2 
 
100 KING RICHARD III: 
 
 Chap. IV. idea of the young king's arrest, and, when Buckingham 
 
 .. ~. seizes the idea as his own, meekly accepts it from him : 
 
 11.11.112- ■' 
 
 154; esp. I, like a child, wiU go by thy direction. 
 
 149. 
 
 There is in all this a dreadful economy of crime: not the 
 
 economy of prudence seeking to reduce its amount, but the 
 
 artist's economy which delights in bringing the largest 
 
 number of effects out of a single device. Such skill opens 
 
 up a vista of evil which is boundless. 
 
 No signs of The sense of irresistible power is again brought out by his 
 
 Richard ■ Perfect imperturbability of mind : villainy never ruffles his 
 
 imperturb- spirits. He never misses the irony that starts up in the 
 
 'tiiind- circumstances around him, and says to Clarence : 
 
 i. i. III. This deep disgrace in brotherhood 
 
 Touches me deeply. 
 
 While taking his part in entertaining the precocious King 
 
 he treats us to continual asides — 
 
 iii. i. 79, So wise so young, they say, do never live long — 
 
 94. 
 
 showing how he can stop to criticise the scenes in which 
 
 he is an actor. He can delay the conspiracy on which his 
 
 iii. iv. 34. chance of the crown depends by coming late to the council, 
 
 and then while waiting the moment for turning upon his 
 
 iii. iv. 52. victim is cool enough to recollect the Bishop of Ely's straw- 
 
 huviour ; berries. But more than all these examples is to be noted 
 
 Richard's humour. This is par excellence the sign of a 
 
 mind at ease with itself: scorn, contempt, bitter jest belong 
 
 to the storm of passion, but humour is the sunshine of the 
 
 soul. Yet Shakespeare has ventured to endow Richard 
 
 with unquestionable humour. Thus, in one of his earliest 
 
 i. i- 151- meditations, he prays, ' God take King Edward to his 
 
 ^^ ■ mercy,' for then he will marry Warwick's youngest daughter : 
 
 » 
 What though I killed her husband and her father! 
 The readiest way to make the wench amends 
 Is to become her husband and her father ! 
 
 e. g. i. i. And all through there perpetually occur little turns of lan- 
 118; ii. ii. 
 
FROM THE SIDE OF CHARACTER. loi 
 
 guage into which the actor can throw a tone of humorous Chap. IV. 
 enjoyment; notably^ when he complains of being 'too '. — ... 
 childish-foolish for this world,' and where he nearly ruins the 38, 43 ; i. 
 effect of his edifying penitence in the Reconciliation Scene, j"- ^42.;. ii- 
 by being unable to resist one final stroke : vii. 61-54, 
 
 &c. 
 I thank my God for my humility! 
 
 Of a kindred nature is his perfect frankness and fairness \a freedom 
 his victims: villainy never clouds his judgment, l&go/^"^ ^"' 
 astutest of intriguers, was deceived, as has been already 
 noted, by his own morbid acuteness, and firmly believed — 
 what the simplest spectator can see to be a delusion — that 
 Othello has tampered with his wife. Richard, on the con- 
 trary, is a marvel of judicial impartiality ; he speaks of King 
 Edward in such terms as these — 
 
 If King Edward be as true and just i. i. 36. 
 
 As I am subtle, false and treacherous; 
 
 and weighs elaborately the superior merit of one of his 
 victims to his own : 
 
 Hath she forgot already that brave prince, i. ii, from 
 
 Edward, her lord, whom I, some three months since, ^4°- 
 
 Stabb'd in my angry mood at Tewksbury ? 
 
 A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman, 
 
 Framed in the prodigality of nature, 
 
 Young, valiant, wise, and, no doubt, right royal, 
 
 The spacious world cannot again afford : 
 
 And vifill she yet debase her eyes on me. 
 
 That cropped the golden prime of this sweet prince, 
 
 And made her widow to a woful bed ? 
 
 On me, whose all not equals Edward's moiety? 
 
 Richard can rise to all his height of villainy without its 
 leaving on_ himself the slightest trace of struggle or even 
 effort. 
 
 Again, the idea of boundless resource is suggested by an ^^'^ffj""' 
 occasional recklessness, almost a slovenliness, in the details gesting 
 of his intrigues. Thus, in the early part of the Wooing *^^J^^^^ 
 
102 KING RICHARD HI: 
 
 Chap. IV. Scene he makes two blunders of which a tyro in intrigue 
 . :: might be ashamed. He denies that he is the author of Ed- 
 
 ward's death, to be instantly confronted with the evidence 
 of Margaret as an eye-witness. Then a few lines further 
 on he goes to the opposite extreme : 
 
 i. ii. loi. Anne. Didst thoti not kill this king? 
 
 Glouc. I grant ye. 
 
 Anne. Dost grant me, hedgehog? 
 
 The merest beginner would know better how to meet 
 accusations than by such haphazard denials and acknow- 
 ledgments. But the crack billiard-player will indulge at 
 the beginning of the game in a little clumsiness, giving his 
 adversaries a prospect of victory only to have the pleasure 
 of making up the disadvantage with one or two brilliant 
 strokes. And so Richard, essaying the most difficult problem 
 ever attempted in human intercourse, lets half the interview 
 pass before he feels it worth while to play with caution. 
 General The mysterious irresistibility of Richard, pointed to by 
 
 chamcterof ^^ succession of incidents in the play, is assisted by the 
 
 Richard s r j > j 
 
 intrigue: very improbability of some of the more difficult scenes in 
 '^h'''^th'" '^'^^^'^h ^^ ^^ ^'^ actor. Intrigue in general is a thing of 
 calculation, reason, and its probabiUties can be readily analysed ; but the 
 genius of intrigue in Richard seems to make him avoid the 
 caution of other intriguers, and to give him a preference for 
 feats which seem impossible. The whole suggests how it is 
 not by calculation that he works, but he brings the touch of 
 an artist to his dealing with human weakness, and follows 
 whither his artist's inspiration leads him. If, then, there is 
 nothing so remote from evil but Richard can make it tri- 
 butary ; if he can endow crimes with power of self-multiply- 
 ing ; if he can pass through a career of sin without the taint 
 of distortion on his intellect and with the unruffled calmness 
 of innocence ; if Richard accomplishes feats no other would 
 attempt with a carelessness no other reputation would risk, 
 even slow reason may well believe him irresistible. When, 
 
FROM THE SIDE OF CHARACTER. 103 
 
 further, such qualifications for villainy become, by unbroken Chap. IV. 
 
 success in villainy, reflected in Richard's very bearing ; when " 
 
 the only law explaining his motions to onlookers is the law- 
 lessness of genius whose instinct is more unerring than the 
 most laborious calculation and planning, it becomes only 
 natural that the opinion of his irresistibility should become 
 converted into a raysiic fascination, making Richard's very 
 presence a signal to his adversaries of defeat, chilling with 
 hopelessness the energies with which they are to face his 
 consummate skill. 
 
 The two main ideas of Shakespeare's portrait, the idea of 
 an artist in crime and the fascination of invincibility which 
 Richard bears about with him, are strikingly illustrated in 
 the wooing of Lady Anne. For a long time Richard will not i. ii. 
 put forth effort, but meets the loathing and execration hurled 
 at him with repartee, saying in so many words that he regards 
 the scene as a ' keen encounter of our wits.' All this time 115. 
 the mysterious power of his presence is operating, the more 
 strongly as Lady Anne sees the most unanswerable cause 
 that denunciation ever had to put produce no effect upon 
 her adversary, and feels her own confidence in her wrongs 
 recoiling upon herself. When the spell has had time to from 152. 
 work then he assumes a serious tone : suddenly, as we have 
 seen, turning the strong point of Anne's attack, his own 
 inhuman nature, into the basis of his plea — he who never 
 wept before has been softened by love to her. From this 
 point he urges his cause with breathless speed ; he presses a 17,1;. 
 sword into her hand with which to pierce his breast, knowing 
 that she lacks the nerve to wield it, and seeing how such 
 forbearance on her part will be a starting-point in giving 
 way. We can trace the sinking of her will before the un- 
 conquerable will of her adversary in her feebler and feebler from 193. 
 refusals, while as yet very shame keeps her to an outward 
 defiance. Then, when she is wishing to yield, he suddenly 
 finds her an excuse by declaring that all he desires at this 
 
104 
 
 KING RICHARD III : 
 
 Ideal V. 
 
 real 
 
 villainy. 
 
 Chap. IV. moment is that she should leave the care of the King's 
 
 funeral 
 
 To him that hath more cause to be a mourner. 
 
 By yielding this much to penitence and religion we see she 
 has commenced a downward descent from which she will 
 never recover. Such consummate art in the handling of 
 human nature, backed by the spell of an irresistible pre- 
 sence, the weak Anne has no power to combat. To the last 
 iv. i. 66- she is as much lost in amazement as the reader at the way 
 "'' it has all come about : 
 
 Lo, ere I can repeat this curse again, 
 
 Even in so short a space, my woman's heart 
 
 Grossly grew captive to his honey words. 
 
 To gather up our results. A dramatist is to paint a por- 
 trait of ideal villainy as distinct from villainy in real life. In 
 real life it is a commonplace that a virtuous life is a life of 
 effort ; but the converse is not tnie, that he who is prepared 
 to be a villain will therefore lead an easy life. On the con- 
 trary, 'the way of transgressors is hard.' The metaphor 
 suggests a path, laid down at first by the Architect of the 
 universe, beaten plain and flat by the generations of men 
 who have since trodden it : he who keeps within this path of 
 rectitude will walk, not without effort, yet at least with 
 safety ; but he who ' steps aside ' to the right or left will 
 find his way beset with pitfalls and stumblingblocks. In 
 real life a man sets out to be a villain, but his mental power 
 is deficient, and he remains a villain only in intention. Or 
 he has stores of power, but lacks the spark of purpose to set 
 them aflame. Or, armed with both will to plan and mind to 
 execute, yet his efforts are hampered by unfit tools. Or, if 
 his purpose needs reliance alone on his own clear head and 
 his own strong arm, yet in the critical moment the emo- 
 tional nature he has inherited with his humanity starts into 
 rebellion and scares him, like Macbeth, from the half- 
 
FROM THE SIDE OF CHARACTER. 105 
 
 accomplished deed. Or, if he is as hardened in nature as Chap. IV. 
 
 corrupt in mind and -will, yet he is closely pursued by a 
 
 mocking fate, which crowns his well-laid plans with a mys- 
 terious succession of failures. Or, if there is no other 
 limitation on him from within or from without, yet he may 
 move in a world too narrow to give him scope : the man 
 with a heart to be the scourge of his nation proves in fact 
 no more than the vagabond of a country side. — But in 
 Shakespeare's portrait we have infinite capacity for mischief, 
 needing no purpose, for evil has become to it an end in 
 itself; we have one who for tools can use the baseness of his 
 own nature or the shame of those who are his nearest kin, 
 while at his touch all that is holiest becomes transformed 
 into weapons of iniquity. We have one whose nature in the 
 past has been a gleaning ground for evil in every stage of 
 his development, and who in the present is framed to look 
 on unnatural horror with the eyes of interested curiosity. 
 We have one who seems to be seconded by fate with a 
 series of successes, which builds up for him an irresistibility 
 that is his strongest safeguard ; and who, instead of being 
 cramped by circumstances, has for his stage the world of 
 history itself, in which crowns are the prize and nations the 
 victims. In such a portrait is any element wanting to arrive 
 at the ideal of villainy ? 
 
 The question would rather be whether Shakespeare has Ideal 
 not gone too far, and, passing outside the Umits of art, ex- '"^ ^"^f_ 
 hibited a monstrosity. Nor is it an answer to point to the strosity. 
 ' dramatic hedging ' by which Richard is endowed with un- 
 daunted personal courage, unlimited intellectual power, and 
 every good quality not inconsistent with his perfect villainy. 
 The objection to such a portrait as the present study presents 
 is that it offends against our sense of the principles upon which 
 the universe has been constructed ; we feel that before a 
 violation of nature could attain such proportions nature must 
 have exerted her recuperative force to crush it. If, however. 
 
lo6 KING RICHARD III. 
 
 Chap. IV. the dramatist can suggest that such reassertion of nature is 
 actually made, that the crushing blow is delayed only while 
 it is accumulating force : in a word, if the dramatist can 
 draw out before us a Nemesis as ideal as the villainy was 
 ideal, then the full demands of art will be satisfied. The 
 Nemesis that dominates the whole play of Richard III will 
 be the subject of the next study. 
 
V. 
 
 Richard III: How Shakespeare weaves 
 Nemesis into History. 
 
 I 
 
 A Study in Plot. 
 
 HAVE alluded already to the dangerous tendency, which, Chap. V. 
 
 as it appears to me, exists amongst ordinary readers of 
 
 Shakespeare, to ignore plot as of secondary importance, ^/f."'from 
 and to look for Shakespeare's greatness mainly in his con- i^e Charac- 
 ceptions of character. But the full character effect of a ^^ioiationof 
 dramatic portrait cannot be grasped if it be dissociated from Nemesis : 
 the plot; and this is nowhere more powerfully illustrated 
 than in the play of Richard III. The last study was 
 devoted exclusively to the Character side of the play, and 
 on this confined view the portrait of Richard seemed a huge 
 offence against our sense of moral equilibrium, rendering 
 artistic satisfaction impossible. Such an impression vanishes 
 when, as in the present study, the drama is looked at iramfrom the 
 the side of Plot. The effect of this plot is, however, J^*^^-^^^'' 
 missed by those who limit their attention in reviewing it Xo formation 
 Richard himself. These may feel that there is nothing in his "/^"^'y 
 fate to compensate for the spectacle of his crimes : man sis. 
 must die, and a death in fulness of energy amid the glorious 
 stir of battle may seem a fate to be envied. But the Shake- 
 spearean Drama with its complexity of plot is not limited 
 to the individual life and fate in its interpretation of history ; 
 and when we survey all the distinct trains of interest in the 
 play of Richard III, with their blendings and mutual 
 influence, we shall obtain a sense of dramatic satisfaction 
 
lo8 KIMG RICHARD III : 
 
 Chap. V. amply counterbalancing the monstrosity of Richard's villainy. 
 
 Viewed as a study in character the play leaves in us only an 
 
 intense craving for Nemesis : when we turn to consider the 
 
 plot, this presents to us the world of history transformed 
 
 into an intricate design of which the recurrent pattern is 
 
 Nemesis. 
 
 The under- This notion of tracing a pattern in human affairs is a 
 
 ifletarate convenient key to the exposition of plot. Laying aside 
 
 Nemesis for the present the main interest of Richard himself, we may 
 
 c tons. Q^,gg].yg tijat ti^g jjuiij of the drama consists in a number of 
 
 minor interests — single threads of the pattern — each of 
 
 Clarence, which is a separate example of Nemesis. The first of these 
 
 trains of interest centres around the Duke of Clarence. He has 
 
 betrayed the Lancastrians, to whom he had solemnly sworn 
 
 i. iv.50,66. fealty, for the sake of the house of York; this perjury is his 
 
 bitterest recollection in his hour of awakened conscience, and 
 
 is urged home by the taunts of his murderers ; while his only 
 
 defence is that he did it all for his brother's love. Yet his 
 
 ii. i. 86. lot is to fall by a treacherous death, the warrant for which is 
 
 signed by his brother, the King and head of the Yorkist house, 
 
 i. iv. 250. while its execution is procured by the bulwark of the house, 
 
 The King, the intriguing Richard. The centre of the second nemesis 
 
 is the King, who has thus allowed himself in a moment of 
 
 suspicion to be made a tool for the murder of his brother, 
 
 ii- i. 11- seeking to stop it when too late. Shakespeare has con- 
 
 ^3.3- trived that this death of Clarence, announced as it is in 
 
 so terrible a manner beside the King's sick bed, gives him a 
 
 shock from which he never rallies, and he is carried out to 
 
 die with the words on his lips : 
 
 O God, I fear Thy justice will take hold 
 
 On me, and you, and mine, and yours, for this. 
 
 The Queen In this nemesis on the King are associated the Queen and 
 
 Tindred ^'^^ kindred. They have been assenting parties to the 
 
 measures against Clarence (however little they may have 
 
 contemplated the bloody issue to which those measures have 
 
FROM THE SIDE OF PLOT. 109 
 
 been brought by the intrigues of Gloster). This we must Chap. V. 
 
 understand from the introduction of Clarence's children, 
 
 , , _ . , 11. li. 62- 
 
 who serve no purpose except to taunt the Queen m her gj 
 
 bereavement : 
 
 Boy. Good aunt, you wept not for our father's death ; 
 
 How can we aid you with our kindred tears 1 
 Girl. Our fatherless distress was left unmoan'd ; 
 
 Your widow-dolour likewise be unwept ! 
 
 The death of the King, so unexpectedly linked to that' of 
 Clarence, removes from the Queen and her kindred the sole ii. ii. 74, 
 bulwark to the hated Woodville family, and leaves them at '^'^• 
 the mercy of their enemies. A third Nemesis Action has Hastings. 
 Hastings for its subject. Hastings is the head of the court- i- i- 66 ; iii. 
 faction which is opposed to the Queen and her allies, and he 
 passes all bounds of decency in his exultation at the fate 
 which overwhelms his adversaries : 
 
 But I shall laugh at this a twelvemonth hence, 
 That they who brought me in my master's hate, 
 I live to look upon their tragedy. 
 
 He even forgets his dignity as a nobleman, and stops on his 
 
 way to the Tower to chat with a mere ofi&cer of the court, in iii. ii. 97. 
 
 order to tell him the news of which he is full, that his 
 
 enemies are to die that day at Pomfret. Yet this very 
 
 journey of Hastings is his journey to the block; the same 
 
 cruel fate which had descended upon his opponents, from 
 
 the same agent and by the same unscrupulous doom, is dealt 
 
 out to Hastings in his turn. In this treacherous casting off Bucking- 
 
 of Hastings when he is no longer useful, Buckingham has " ' 
 
 been a prime agent. Buckingham amused himself with the iii. ii, from 
 
 false security of Hastings, adding to Hastings's innocent ^''*" 
 
 expression of his intention to stay dinner at the Tower the 
 
 aside , , . 
 
 And supper too, although thou know st it not ; 
 
 while in the details of the judicial murder he plays second to 
 Richard. By precisely similar treachery he is himself cast 
 
no KING RICHARD III: 
 
 Chap. V. oflf when he hesitates to go further with Richard's villainous 
 
 schemes; and in precisely similar manner the treachery is 
 
 iv. ii, from flavoured with contempt. 
 
 86. ... 
 
 Buck. I am thus bold to put your grace m mmd 
 
 Of what you promised me. 
 K. Rich. Well, but what 's o'clock ? 
 
 Buck. Upon the stroke of ten. 
 K. Rick. Well, let it strike. 
 
 Buck. Why let it strike? 
 K. Rich. Because that, like a Jack, thou keep'st the stroke 
 
 Betwixt thy begging and my meditation. 
 
 I am not in the giving vein to-day. 
 Buck. Why, then resolve me whether you will or no. 
 K. Rich. Tut, tut. 
 
 Thou troublest me ; I am not in the vein. 
 
 \Exeunt all but Buckingham. 
 Buck. Is it even so? rewards he my true service 
 
 With such deep contempt ? made I him king for this ? 
 
 O, let me think on Hastings, and be gone 
 
 To Brecknock, while my fearful head is on I 
 
 The four These four Nemesis Actions, it will be observed, are not 
 nemeses separate trains of incident Roing on side by side, they are 
 
 formedinto ,. ^ , , . , , ^ , . , . , 
 
 a system by hnked together mto a system, the law of which is seen to be 
 Nemesis as (-jjaf those who triumph in one nemesis become the victims 
 
 a link. 
 
 of the next ; so that the whole suggests a ' chain of destruc- 
 tion,' like that binding together the orders of the brute 
 creation which live by preying upon one another. When 
 Clarence perished it was the King who dealt the doom and 
 the Queen's party who triumphed : the wheel of Nemesis goes 
 round and the King's death follows the death of his victim, 
 the Queen's kindred are naked to the vengeance of their 
 enemies, and Hastings is left to exult. Again the wheel of 
 Nemesis revolves, and Hastings at the moment of his highest 
 exultation is hurled to destruction, while Buckingham stands 
 by to point the moral with a gibe. Once more the wheel 
 goes round, and Buckingham hears similar gibes addressed 
 to himself and points the same moral in his own person. 
 Thus the portion of the drama we have so far considered 
 
FROM THE SIDE OF PLOT. ill 
 
 yields us a pattern within a pattern, a series of Nemesis Chap. V. 
 
 Actions woven into a complete underplot by a connecting-link 
 
 which is also Nemesis. 
 
 Following out the same general idea we may proceed to The 'En- 
 notice how the dramatic pattern is surrounded by a fringe or '"^^"P^^s 
 border. The picture of life presented in a play will have the Nemesis. 
 more reality if it be connected with a hfe wider than its own. 
 There is no social sphere, however private, but is to some 
 extent affected by a wider life outside it, this by one wider 
 still, until the great world is reached the story of which is 
 History. The immediate interest may be in a single family, 
 but it will be a great war which, perhaps, takes away some 
 member of this family to die in battle, or some great com- 
 mercial crisis which brings mutation of fortune to the 
 obscure home. The artists of fiction are solicitous thus to 
 suggest connections between lesser and gi-eater; it is the 
 natural tendency of the mind to pass from the known to the 
 unknown, and if the artist can derive the movements in his 
 httle world from the great world outside, he appears to have 
 given his fiction a basis of admitted truth to rest on. This 
 device of enclosing the incidents of the actual story in a frame- 
 work of great events — technically, the 'Enveloping Action' 
 — is one which is common in Shakespeare; it is enough to 
 instance such a case as A Midsummer Night's Dream, in which 
 play a fairy story has a measure of historic reality given to it 
 by its connection with the marriage of personages so famous 
 as Theseus and Hippolyta. In the present case, the main 
 incidents and personages belong to public life ; nevertheless 
 the eff'ect in question is still secured, and the contest of 
 factions with which the play is occupied is represented as 
 making up only a few incidents in the great feud of Lan- 
 caster and York. This Enveloping Action of the whole play, 
 the War of the Roses, is marked with special clearness : two 
 personages are introduced for the sole purpose of giving it 
 prominence. The Duchess of York is by her years and ii. ii. 80. 
 
112 KING RICHARD III : 
 
 Chap. V. position the representative of the whole house ; the factions 
 ■ who in the play successively triumph and fall are all de- 
 scended from herself; she says: 
 
 Alas, I am the mother of these moans I 
 Their woes are parcell'd, mine are general. 
 
 i. iii, from And probabilities are forced to bring in Queen Margaret, 
 i " iv^i- ^^ ^^^'^ ^'^'^ ^°'^ rallying-point of the ruined Lancastrians : 
 125. when the two aged women are confronted the whole civil 
 
 war is epitomised. It is hardly necessary to point out that 
 this Enveloping Action is itself a Nemesis Action. All the 
 rising and falling, the suffering and retaliation that we 
 actually see going on between the different sections of the 
 Yorkist house, constitute a detail in a wider retribution : the 
 esp. ii. ii ; presence of the Duchess gives to the incidents a unity. Queen 
 iv.i;iv.iv. ]\/[argaret's function is to point out that this unity of woe is 
 ii. iii ; and only the nemesis falling on the house of York for their 
 ^^' '^" wrongs to the house of Lancaster. Thus the pattern made 
 up of so many reiterations of Nemesis is enclosed in a 
 border which itself repeats the same figure. 
 The En- The effect is carried further. Generally the Enveloping 
 Nemesis ■'Action is a sort of curtain by which our view of a drama is 
 carried on bounded; in the present case the cvutain is at one point 
 'niteness ^'f'^*^' ^^"^ ^^ Z^^ ^ glimpse into the world beyond. Queen 
 Margaret has surprised the Yorkist courtiers, and her pro- 
 phetic denunciations are still ringing, in which she points to 
 the calamities her foes have begun to suffer as retribution for 
 the woes of which her fallen greatness is the representative 
 
 1. iii. 174- — when Gloster suddenly turns the tables upon her : 
 
 194. 
 
 The curse my noble father laid on thee. 
 When thou didst crown his warlike brows with paper 
 And with thy scorns drew'st rivers from his eyes, 
 And then, to dry them, gavest the duke a clout 
 Steep'd in the faultless blood of pretty Rutland, — 
 His curses, then from bitterness of soul 
 Denounced against thee, are all fall'n upon thee ; 
 And God, not we, hath plagu'd thy bloody deed. 
 
FROM THE SIDE OF PLOT. 113 
 
 And the new key-note struck by Gloster is taken up in Chap. V. 
 
 chorus by the rest, who find relief from the crushing effect of 
 
 Margaret's curses by pressing the charge home upon her. 
 This is only a detail, but it is enough to carry the effect of 
 the Enveloping Action a degree further back in time : the 
 events of the play are nemesis on York for wrongs done to 
 Lancaster, but now, it seems, these old wrongs against 
 Lancaster were retribution for yet older crimes Lancaster had 
 committed against York. As in architecture the vista is 
 contrived so as to carry the general design of the building 
 into indefiniteness, so here, while the grand nemesis, of 
 which Margaret's presence is the representative, shuts in the 
 play like a veil, the momentary lifting of the veil opens up a 
 vista of nemeses receding further and further back into 
 history. 
 
 Once more. All that we have seen suggests it as a sort The one 
 of law to the feud of York and Lancaster that each is °-ttemptto 
 
 reverse me 
 
 destined to wreak vengeance on the other, and then itself nemesis 
 suffer in turn. But at one notable point of the play an ^""/'"'"■^ ''■ 
 attempt is made to evade the hereditary nemesis by the 
 marriage of Richard and Lady Anne. Anne, daughter to 
 Warwick — the grand deserter to the Lancastrians and martyr 
 to their cause — widow to the murdered heir of the house 
 and chief mourner to its murdered head, is surely the 
 greatest sufferer of the Lancastrians at the hands of the 
 Yorkists. Richard is certainly the chief avenger of York 
 upon Lancaster. When the chief source of vengeance and 
 the chief sufferer are united in the closest of all bonds, the 
 attempt to evade Nemesis becomes ideal. Yet what is the 
 consequence? This attempt of Lady Anne to evade the 
 hereditary curse proves the very channel by which the curse 
 descends upon herself. We see her once more : she is then iv. i. 66- 
 on her way to the Tower, and we hear her tell the strange ^" 
 story of her wooing, and wish the crown were ' red hot steel 
 to sear her to the brain ' ; never, she says, since her union 
 
 I 
 
114 KIN<^ RICHARD III: 
 
 Chap. V. with Richard has she enjoyed the golden dew of sleep ; she is 
 
 but waiting for the destruction, by which, no doubt, Richard 
 
 will shortly rid himself of her. 
 
 To counter- An objection may, however, here present itself, that con- 
 
 7ffectlfre '^^^^ repetition of an idea like Nemesis, tends to weaken its 
 
 petition the artistic effect, until it comes to be taken for granted. No 
 
 "l^Za"" ^°^^^ it is a law of taste that force may be dissipated by 
 
 empha- repetition if carried beyond a certain point. But it is to be 
 
 "^'^'^' noted, on the other hand, what pains Shakespeare has taken 
 
 to counteract the tendency in the present instance. The 
 
 force of a nemesis may depend upon a fitness that addresses 
 
 itself to the spectator's reflection, or it may be measured by 
 
 the degree to which the nemesis is brought into prominence 
 
 in the incidents themselves. In the incidents of the present 
 
 by recog- play Special means are adopted to make the recognition of 
 
 mtion, jjjg successive nemeses as they arise emphatic. In the first 
 
 place the nemesis is in each case pointed out at the moment 
 
 of its fulfilment. In the case of Clarence his story of crime 
 
 i. iv, from and retribution is reflected in his dream before it is brought 
 
 to a conclusion in reality ; and wherein the bitterness of this 
 
 review consists, we see when he turns to his sympathising 
 
 jailor and says : 
 
 i. iv. 66. O Brackenbury, I have done those things. 
 
 Which novif bear evidence against my soul, 
 For Edward's sake : and see how he requites me ! 
 
 The words have already been quoted in which the King re- 
 cognises how God's justice has overtaken him for his part in 
 Clarence's death, and those in which the children of Clarence 
 taunt the Queen with her having herself to bear the bereave- 
 ment she has made them suffer. As the Queen's kindred are 
 being led to their death, one of them exclaims : 
 
 iii. iii. 15. Now Margaret's curse is fall'n upon our heads 
 
 For standing by when Richard stabb'd her son. 
 
 Hastings, when his doom has wakened him from his in- 
 fatuation, recollects a priest he had met on his way to the 
 
FROM THE SIDE OF PLOT. 115 
 
 Tower, with whom he had stopped to talk about the dis- Chap. V. 
 
 comfiture of his enemies : 
 
 O, now I want the priest that spake to me ! iii. iy. 89. 
 
 Buckingham on his way to the scaffold apostrophises the 
 souls of his victims : 
 
 If that your moody discontented souls v. i. 7. 
 
 Do through the clouds behold this present hour, 
 
 Even for revenge mock my destruction. 
 And such individual notes of recognition are collected into a 
 sort of chorus when Margaret appears the second time to iv,iv.i,35. 
 point out the fulfilment of her curses, and sits down beside 
 the old Duchess and her daughter-in-law to join in the 
 ' society of sorrow' and 'cloy her' with beholding the re- 
 venge for which she has hungered. 
 
 Again, the nemeses have a further emphasis given to by pro- 
 them by prophecy. As Queen Margaret's second appear- ■?*'*^'^-''' 
 ance is to mark the fulfilment of a general retribution, so her i. iii, from 
 first appearance denounced it beforehand in the form of ^95- 
 curses. And the eifect is carried on in individual pro- 
 phecies: the Queen's friends as they suffer foresee that the 
 turn of the opposite party will come : 
 
 You live that shall cry woe for this hereafter ; jii_ ;;;_ ^ 
 
 and Hastings prophesies Buckingham's doom : 
 
 They smile at me that shortly shall be dead. iii_ iy_ jQg_ 
 
 It is as if the atmosphere cleared for each sufferer with the 
 approach of death, and they then saw clearly the righteous 
 plan on which the universe is constructed, and which had 
 been hidden from them by the dust of life. 
 
 But there is a third means, more powerful than either re- and especi- 
 cognition or prophecy, which Shakespeare has employed to '^}^y 'p* 
 make his Nemesis Actions emphatic. The danger of an effect 
 becoming taihe by repetition he has met by giving to each 
 train of nemesis a flash of irony at some point of its course. 
 In the case of Lady Anne we have already seen how the 
 exact channel Nemesis chooses by which to descend upon 
 
 I 2 
 
ii6 KING RICHARD 111: 
 
 Chap. V. her is the attempt she made to avert it. She had bitterly 
 cursed her husband's murderer : 
 
 iv. i. 75. And be thy wife — if any be so mad — 
 
 As miserable by tlie life of thee 
 As thou hast made me by my dear lord's death ! 
 
 In spite of this she had yielded to Richard's mysterious 
 power, and so, as she feels, proved the subject of her own 
 hearts curse. Again, it was noticed in the preceding study 
 how the Queen, less hard than the rest in that wicked court, 
 or perhaps softened by the spectacle of her dying husband, 
 essayed to reverse, when too late, what had been done 
 against Clarence ; Gloster skilfully turned this compunction 
 ii. i. 134. of conscience into a ground of suspicion on which he traded 
 to bring all the Queen's friends to the block, and thus a 
 moment's relenting was made into a means of destruction. 
 In Clarence's struggle for life, as one after another the 
 i. iv. 1 87, threads of hope snap, as the appeal to law is met by the 
 199, 200, King's command, the appeal to heavenly law by the re- 
 minder of his own sin, he comes to rest for his last and surest 
 i. iv. 232. hope upon his powerful brother Gloster — and the very mur- 
 derers catch the irony of the scene : 
 
 Clar. If you be hired for meed, go back again. 
 And I will send you to my brother Gloster, 
 Who shall reward you better for my life 
 Than Edward will for tidings of my death. 
 Sec. Murd. You are deceived, your brother Gloster hates you. 
 Clar. O, no, he loves me, and he holds me dear: 
 
 Go yon to him from me. 
 Both. Ay, so we will. 
 
 Clar. Tell him, when that our princely father York 
 Bless'd his three sons with his victorious arm, 
 And charg'd us from his soul to love each other, 
 He little thought of this divided friendship : 
 Bid Gloster think of this, and he will weep. 
 First Murd. Ay, millstones ; as he lesson'd us to weep. 
 Clar. O, do not slander him, for he is kind. 
 First Murd. Right, 
 
 As snow in harvest. Thou deceivest thyself: 
 'Tis he that sent us hither now to slaughter thee. 
 
FROM THE SIDE OF PLOT. 117 
 
 Clar. It cannot be ; for when I parted with him, Chap. V. 
 
 He hugg'd me in his arms, and sWore, with sobs, 
 
 That he would labour my delivery. 
 Sec. Murd. Why, so he doth, now he delivers thee 
 
 From this world's thraldom to the joys of heaven. 
 
 In the King's case a special incident is introduced into the ii. i. 95. 
 scene to point the irony. Before Edward can well realise 
 the terrible announcement of Clarence's death, the decoru;n 
 of the royal chamber is interrupted by Derby, who bursts 
 in, anxious not to lose the portion of the king's life that yet 
 remains, in order to beg a pardon for his follower. The 
 King feels the shock of contrast : 
 
 Have I a tongue to doom my brother's death. 
 And shall the same give pardon to a slave ? 
 
 The prerogative of mercy that exists in so extreme a case as 
 
 the murder of a ' righteous gentleman,' and is so passionately 
 
 sought by Derby for a servant, is denied to the King himself 
 
 for the deliverance of his innocent brother. The nemesis iii. ii, from 
 
 on Hastings is saturated with irony; he has the simplest 4'- 
 
 reliance on Richard and on ' his servant Catesby,' who has 
 
 come to him as the agent of Richard's treachery; and the 
 
 very words of the scene have a double significance that all 
 
 see but Hastings himself. 
 
 Hast. I tell thee Catesby,— 
 
 Cate. What, my lord? 
 
 Hast. Ere a fortnight make me elder 
 
 I'll send some packing that yet think not on it. 
 Cate. 'Tis n vile thing to die, my gracious lord. 
 
 When men are unprepared, and look not for it. 
 Hast. O monstrous, monstrous ! and so falls it out 
 
 With Kivers, Vaughan, Grey r and so 'twill do 
 
 With some men else, who think themselves as safe 
 
 As thou and I. 
 
 As the scenes with Margaret constituted a general summary 
 of the individual prophecies and recognitions, so the Recon- ii. i. 
 ciliation Scene around the King's dying bed may be said to 
 gather into a sort of summary the irony distributed through 
 
11. 1. 32. 
 
 Il8 KING RICHARD III: 
 
 Chap. V. the play ; for the effect of the incident is that the different 
 parties pray for their own destruction. In this scene Buck- 
 ingham has taken the lead and struck the most solemn notes 
 in his pledge of amity ; when Buckingham comes to die, his 
 bitterest thought seems to be that the day of his death is All 
 V. i, from Souls' Day. 
 
 lO. 
 
 This is the day that, in King Edward's time, 
 I wish'd might fall on me, when I was found 
 False to his children or his wife's allies; 
 This is the day wherein I wish'd to fall 
 By the false faith of him I trusted most ; . . . . 
 That high All-Seer that I dallied with 
 Hath tum'd my feigned prayer on my head 
 And given in earnest what I begg'd in jest. 
 
 By devices, then, such as these ; by the sudden revelation of 
 
 a remedy when it is just too late to use it; by the sudden 
 
 memory of clear warnings blindly missed ; by the spectacle 
 
 of a leaning for hope upon that which is known to be ground 
 
 for despair ; by attempts to retreat or turn aside proving 
 
 short cuts to destruction ; above all by the sufferer's perception 
 
 that he himself has had a chief share in bringing about his 
 
 doom : — by such irony the monotony of Nemesis is relieved, 
 
 and fatality becomes flavoured with mockery. 
 
 Thismulti- Dramatic design, like design which appeals more directly 
 
 ^Nemesis ""^*° '^^ ^^'^' ^^^ ''^ perspective : to miss even by a little the 
 
 a dramatic point of view from which it is to be contemplated is enough 
 
 background^ throw the whole into distortion. So readers who are not 
 
 for the 
 
 villainy of careful to watch the harmony between Character and Plot 
 " "'' ■ have often found in the present play nothing but wearisome 
 repetition. Or, as there is only a step between the sublime 
 and the ridiculous, this masterpiece of Shakespearean plot 
 has suggested to them only the idea of Melodrama, — that 
 curious product of dramatic feeling without dramatic inven- 
 tiveness, with its world in which poetic justice has become 
 prosaic, in which conspiracy is never so superhumanly secret 
 but there comes a still more superhuman detection, and how- 
 
FROM THE SIDE OF PLOT. 119 
 
 ever successful villainy may be for a moment the spectator Chap. V. 
 confidently relies on its being eventually disposed of by a 
 summary ' off with his head.' The point of view thus missed 
 in the present play is that this network of Nemesis is all 
 needed to give dramatic reality to the colossal villainy of the 
 principal figure. When isolated, the character of Richard is 
 unrealisable from its offence against an innate sense of re- 
 tribution. Accordingly Shakespeare projects it into a world 
 of which, in whatever direction we look, retribution is the sole 
 visible pattern ; in which, as we are carried along by the 
 movement of the play, the unvarying reiteration of Nemesis 
 has the effect oi giving rhythm to fate. 
 
 What the action of the play has yielded so far to our in- The motive 
 vestigation has been independent of the central personage : ■{^^^'^^^^^^ 
 we have now to connect Richard himself with the plot, is another 
 Although the various Nemesis Actions have been carried on ^^^ ^^^S,' 
 by their own motion and by the force of retribution as a and Death 
 principle of moral government, yet there is not one of them "■' 
 which reaches its goal without at some point of its course 
 receiving an impetus from contact with Richard. Richard 
 is thus the source of movement to the whole drama, commu- 
 nicating his own energy through all parts. It is only fitting 
 that the motive force to this system of nemeses should be 
 itself a grand Nemesis Action, the Life and Death, or crime 
 and retribution, of Richard III. The hero's rise has been 
 sufficiently treated in the preceding study ; it remains to trace 
 his fall. 
 
 This fall of Richard is constructed on Shakespeare's The fall of 
 favourite plan ; its force is measured, not by suddenness and ^^^^^^g].^ 
 violence, but by protraction and the perception of distinct but a suc- 
 stages — the crescendo in music as distinguished from the "^^"^ °-' 
 fortissimo. Such a fall is not a mere passage through the air 
 — one shock and then all is over — but a slipping down the 
 face of the precipice, with desperate clingings and con- 
 sciously increasing impetus : its effect is the one inexhaust- 
 
120 KING RICHARD III: 
 
 Chap. V. ible emotion of suspense. If we examine the point at which 
 
 the fall begins we are reminded that the nemesis on Richard 
 
 A^ot a is different in its type from the others in the play. These 
 
 TqulutyLt are (like that on Shylock) of the equality type, of which the 
 ofsureness. motto is measure for measure : and, with his usual exactness, 
 Shakespeare gives us a turning-point in the precise centre 
 iii. iii. 15. of the play, where, as the Queen's kindred are being borne 
 to their death, we get the first recognition that the general 
 retribution denounced by Margaret has begun to work. But 
 the turning-point of Richard's fate is reserved till long past 
 the centre of the play ; his is the nemesis of surmess, in 
 which the blow is delayed that it may accumulate force. 
 Not that this turning-point is reserved to the very end ; the 
 The turn- change of fortune appears just when Richard has com- 
 ing-point: ^{fig^ himself to his final crime in the usurpation — the 
 
 irony of lis ■' ^ 
 
 delay. murder of the children — the crime from which his most 
 iv. ii. from unscrupulous accomplice has drawn back. The effect of 
 "•^ ■ this arrangement is to make the numerous crimes which 
 
 follow appear to come by necessity ; he is ' so far in blood 
 that sin will pluck on sin ' ; he is forced to go on heaping up 
 his villainies with Nemesis full in his view. This turning- 
 point appears in the simple announcement that ' Dorset has 
 fled to Richmond.' There is an instantaneous change in 
 Richard to an attitude of defence, which is maintained to the 
 end. His first instinct is action : but as soon as we have 
 heard the rapid scheme of measures — most of them crimes — 
 by which he prepares to meet his dangers, then he can give 
 from 98. himself up to meditation ; and we now begin to catch the 
 significance of what has been announced. The name of 
 Richmond has been just heard for the first time in this play. 
 But as Richard meditates we learn how Henry VI pro- 
 phesied that Richmond should be a king while he was but a 
 peevish boy. Again, Richard recollects how lately, while 
 viewing a castle in the west, the mayor, who showed him 
 over it, mispronounced its name as ' Richmond ' — and he had 
 
FROM THE SIDE OF PLOT. 121 
 
 Started, for a bard of Ireland had told him he should not Chap. V, 
 live long after he had seen Richmond. Thus the irony that 
 has given point to all the other retributions in the play is 
 not wanting in the chief retribution of all : Shakespeare 
 compensates for so long keeping the grand nemesis out 
 of sight by thus representing Richard as gradually realising 
 that the finger of Nemesis has been pointing at him all his life 
 and he has never seen it ! 
 
 From this point fate never ceases to tantalise and mock Tantalis- 
 Richard. He engages in his measures of defence, and with ^^^^^I'^i 
 their villainy his spirits begin to recover : ard'sfate. 
 
 The sons of Edward sleep in Abiaham's bosom, iv. iii. 38. 
 
 And Anne my wife hath bid the world good night; 
 
 young Elizabeth is to be his next victim, and 
 
 To her I go, a jolly thriving wooer. 
 
 Suddenly the Nemesis appears again with the news that comp. 49. 
 Ely, the shrewd bishop he dreads most of all men, is with ^^' "'" 45- 
 Richmond, and that Buckinghatn has raised an army. 
 Again, his defence is completing, and the wooing of Eliza- 
 beth — his masterpiece, since it is the second of its kind — has 
 been brought to an issue that deserves his surprised exulta- 
 tion : 
 
 Relenting fool, and shallow, changing woman ! iv. iv. 431. 
 
 Suddenly the Nemesis again interrupts him, and this time is 
 nearer : a puissant navy has actually appeared on the west. 
 And now his equanimity begins at last to be disturbed. He His equa- 
 storras at Catesby for not starting, forgetting that he has "^^^■'"?''" 
 given him no message to take. More than this, a litde iv. iv. 444. 
 further on Richard changes his mind! Through the rest of 54°- 
 the long scene destiny is openly playing with him, giving 
 him just enough hope to keep the sense of despair warm. 
 Messenger follows messenger in hot haste : Richmond is on 
 the seas — Courtenay has risen in Devonshire— the Guild- 
 fords are up in Kent. — But Buckingham's army is dis- 
 
122 KING RICHARD III: 
 
 Chap. V. persed. — But Yorkshire has risen. — But, a gleam of hope, 
 the Breton navy is dispersed — a triumph, Buckingham is 
 taken. — Then, finally, Richmond has landed 1 The suspense 
 is telling upon Richard. In this scene he strikes a messenger 
 before he has time to learn that he brings good tidings. 
 V. iii. i, 5, When we next see him he wears a false gaiety and scolds 
 
 ' ■ his followers into cheerfulness ; but with the gaiety go 
 
 sudden fits of depression : 
 
 Here will I lie to-night ; 
 But where to-morrow ? 
 
 V. iii, from A httle later he becomes nervous, and we have the minute 
 
 ^'' attention to details of the man who feels that his all depends 
 
 upon one cast ; he will not sup, but calls for ink and paper 
 
 to plan the morrow's fight, he examines carefully as to his 
 
 beaver and his armour, selects White Surrey to ride, and at 
 
 last calls for wine and confesses a change in himself : 
 
 I have not that alacrity of spirit, 
 
 Nor cheer of mind, that I was wont to have. 
 
 Climax of Then comes night, and with it the full tide of Nemesis. 
 flte t^sipii- -^y ^^^ device of the apparitions the long accumulation of 
 fcame of crimes in Richard's rise are made to have each its due re- 
 tions "' presentation in his fall. It matters not that they are only 
 V. iii, from apparitions. Nemesis itself is the ghost of sin : its sting lies 
 not in the physical force of the blow, but in the close con- 
 nection between a sin and its retribution. So Richard's 
 victims rise from the dead only to secure that the weight of 
 each several crime shall lie heavy on his soul in the morrow's 
 doom. This point moreover must not be missed — that the 
 Signifi- climax of his fate comes to Richard in his sleep. The 
 'Richards supreme conception of resistance to Deity is reached when 
 sleep. God is opposed by God's greatest gift, the freedom of the 
 
 will. God, so it is reasoned, is omnipotent, but God has 
 made man omnipotent in setting no bounds to his will ; and 
 God's omnipotence to punish may be met by man's omni- 
 potence to endure. Such is the ancient conception of Pro- 
 
FROM THE SIDE OF PLOT. 123 
 
 metheus, and such are the reasonings Milton has imagined Chap. V. 
 
 for his Satan : to whom, though heaven be lost, 
 
 All is not lost, the unconquerable will . . . 
 And courage never to submit or yield. 
 
 But when that strange bundle of greatness and littleness 
 which makes up man attempts to oppose with such weapons 
 the Almighty, how is he to provide for those states in which 
 the will is no longer the governing force in his nature ; for 
 the sickness, in which the mind may have to share the 
 feebleness of the body, or for the daily suspension of will in 
 sleep ? Richard can to the last preserve his will from falter- 
 ing. But, like all the rest of mankind, he must some time 
 sleep : that which is the refuge of the honest man, when he 
 may relax the tension of daily care, sleep, is to Richard his 
 point of weakness, when the safeguard of invincible will can 
 protect him no longer. It is, then, this weak moment which 
 a mocking fate chooses for hurling upon Richard the whole 
 avalanche of his doom ; as he starts into the frenzy of his 
 half- waking soliloquy we see him, as it were, tearing off 
 layer after layer of artificial reasonings with which the will- 
 struggles of a lifetime have covered his soul against the touch 
 of natural remorse. With full waking his will is as strong 
 as ever : but meanwhile his physical nature has been shat- 
 tered to its depths, and it is only the wreck of Richard that 
 goes to meet his death on Bosworth field. 
 
 There is no need to dwell on the further stages of the Remaining 
 fall : to the last the tantalising mockery continues. Richard's ^f^ii^°** ^ 
 spirits rise with the ordering of the battle, and there comes v. iii. 303. 
 the mysterious scroll to tell him he is bought and sold. His 
 spirits rise again as the fight commences, and news comes of v. iii. 342. 
 Stanley's long-feared desertion. Five times in the battle he 
 has slain his foe, and five times it proves a false Richmond, v. iv. n. 
 Thus slowly the cup is drained to its last dregs and Richard 
 dies. The play opened with the picture of peace, the peace i,i, from 1. 
 which led Richard's turbid soul, no longer finding scope in 
 
124 KING RICHARD III: 
 
 Chap. V. physical warfare, to turn to the moral war of villainy ; from 
 that point through all the crowded incidents has raged the 
 tumultuous battle between Will and Nemesis ; with Richard's 
 death it ceases, and the play may return to its keynote : 
 
 V. V. 40. Now civil wounds are stopp'd, peace lives again. 
 
VI. 
 
 How Nemesis and Destiny are inter- 
 woven IN Macbeth. 
 
 A further Study in Plot. 
 
 THE present study, like the last, is a study in Plot. The Chap. VI. 
 last illustrated Shakespeare's srrandeur of conception, ~ 
 
 • , ■ .,■,,, o ■ , .... \. Macbeth as 
 
 how a single principle is held firm amidst the intricacies of a study of 
 
 history, and reiterated in every detail. The present purpose subtlety m 
 is to give an example of Shakespeare's subtlety, and to exhibit 
 the incidents of a play bound together not by one, but by 
 three, distinct threads of connection — or, if a technical term Its three- 
 may be permitted, three Forms of Dramatic Action — alF" "^ "'"" 
 working harmoniously together into a design equally involved 
 and symmetrical One of these forms is Nemesis ; the other 
 two are borrowed from the ancient Drama : it thus becomes 
 necessary to digress for a moment, in order to notice certain 
 differences between the ancient and modern Drama, and 
 between the ancient and modern thought of which the Drama 
 is the expression. 
 
 In the ancient Classical Drama the main moral idea under- in the 
 lying its action is the idea of Destiny. The ancient world t^^^" 
 recognised Deity, but their deities were not supreme in the ancient to 
 universe ; Zeus had gained his position by a revolution, ^^J^L 
 and in his turn was to be overthrown by revolution ; there changes 
 was thus, in ancient conception, behind Deity a yet higher ^^^ ^°^^' 
 force to which Deity itself was subject. The supreme force 
 of the universe has by a school of modern thought been de- 
 fined as a stream of tendency in things not ourselves making 
 
126 MACBETH. 
 
 Chap. VI. for righteousness : if we attempt to adapt this formula to the 
 
 ideas of antiquity the difficulty will be in finding anything to 
 
 substitute for the word ' righteousness.' Sometimes the sum 
 of forces in the universe did seem, in the conception of the 
 ancients, to make for righteousness, and Justice became the 
 highest law. At other times the world seemed to them 
 governed by a supernatural Jealousy, and human prosperity 
 was struck down for no reason except that it was prosperity. 
 In such philosophy as that of Lucretius, again, the tendency 
 of all things was towards Destruction ; while in the handling 
 of legends such as that of Hippolytus there is a suggestion of 
 a dark interest to ancient thought in conceiving Evil itself as 
 an irresistible force. It appears, then, that the ancient mind 
 had caught the idea oi force in the universe, without adding 
 to it the further idea of a motive by which that force was 
 guided : blind fate was the governing power over all other 
 powers. With this simple conception of force as ruling the 
 world, modern thought has united as a motive righteousness 
 or law : the transition from ancient to modern thought may 
 be fairly described by saying that Destiny has become 
 changed into Providence as the supreme force of the uni- 
 The change verse. The change may be well illustrated by comparing the 
 'ancUntand ^"^ient and modern conception of Nemesis. To ancient 
 modem thought Nemesis was simply one phase of Destiny ; the story 
 emesis. ^^ Polycrates has been quoted in a former study to illustrate 
 how Nemesis appeared to the Greek mind as capricious a 
 deity as Fortune, a force that might at any time, heedless of 
 desert, check whatever happiness was high enough to attract 
 its attention. But in modern ideas Nemesis and justice are 
 strictly associated: Nemesis may be defined as the artistic 
 side of justice. 
 
 So far as Nemesis then is concerned, it has, in modern 
 thought, passed altogether out of the domain of Destiny and 
 been absorbed into the domain of law : it is thus fitted to be 
 one of the regular forms into which human history may be 
 
NEMESIS. 127 
 
 represented as falling, in harmony with our modern moral Chap. VI. 
 
 conceptions. But even as regards Destiny itself, while the 
 
 notion as a whole is out of harmony with the modern notion 
 
 of law and Providence as ruling forces of the world, yet 
 
 certain minor phases of Destiny as conceived by antiquity 
 
 have survived into modern times and been found not irre- Nemesis 
 
 concilable with moral law. Two of these minor phases of ^f^-?"" 
 
 ^ tiny in- 
 
 Destiny are, it will be shown, illustrated in Macbeth : and terwoven 
 we may thus take as a general description of its plot, the ^Z*^cub°th 
 interweaving of Destiny with Nemesis. 
 
 That the career of Macbeth is an example of Nemesis The whole 
 needs only to be stated. As in the case oi Richard III, '^^ j^e^^^is 
 have the rise and fall of a leading personage ; the rise is a Action, 
 crime of which the fall is the retribution. Nemesis has just 
 been defined as the artistic aspect of justice ; we have in 
 previous studies seen different artistic elements in different 
 types of Nemesis. Sometimes, as with Richard III, the 
 retribution becomes artistic through its sureness; its long 
 delay renders the effect of the blow more striking when it 
 does come. More commonly the artistic element in Nemesis of the type 
 consists in the perfect equality between the sin and its retri- ^ ^I'l^O'^ty. 
 bution ; and of ,the latter type the Nemesis in the play of 
 Macbeth is perhaps the most conspicuous illustration. The 
 rise and fall of Macbeth, to borrow the illustration of 
 Gervinus, constitute a perfect arch, with a turning-point in 
 the centre. Macbeth's series of successes is unbroken till it 
 ends in the murder of Banquo ; his series of failures is un- 
 broken from its commencement in the escape of Fleance. 
 Success thus constituting the first half and failure the second 
 half of the play, the transition from the one to the other is 
 the expedition against Banquo and Fleanpe, in which success 
 and failure are mingled : and this expedition, the keystone to 
 the arch, is found to occupy the exact middle of the middle iii. iii: 
 Act. 
 
 But this is not all : not only is the play as a whole an 
 
128 
 
 MACBETH. 
 
 Chap. VI. example of nemesis, but if its two halves be taken sepa- 
 rately they will be found to constitute each a nemesis com- 
 
 ThrB vis 6 of 
 
 Macbeth a plete in itself. To begin with the first half, that which is 
 occupied with the rise of Macbeth. If the plan of the play 
 extended no further than to make the hero's fall the retribu- 
 
 separate 
 Nemesis 
 action. 
 
 tion upon his rise, it might be expected that the turning- 
 point of the action would be reached upon Macbeth's 
 elevation to the throne. As a fact, however, Macbeth's rise 
 does not stop here ; he still goes on to win one more success 
 in his attempt upon the life of Banquo. What the purpose of 
 this prolonged flow of fortune is will be seen when it is con- 
 sidered that this final success of the hero is in reality the 
 source of his ruin. In Macbeth's progress to the attainment 
 of the crown, while of course it was impossible that crimes so 
 violent as his should not incur suspicion, yet circumstances 
 had strangely combined to soothe these suspicions to sleep. 
 But — so Shakespeare manipulates the story — when Macbeth, 
 seated on the throne, goes on to the attempt against Banquo, 
 this additional crime not only brings its own punishment, but 
 has the further effect of unmasking the crimes that have gone 
 before. This important point in the plot is brought out to us 
 in a scene, specially introduced for the purpose, in which 
 Lennox and another lord represent the opinion of the 
 court. 
 
 Lennox. My former speeches have but hit your thoughts, 
 Which can interpret further : only, I say, 
 Things have been strangely borne. The gracious Duncan 
 Was pitied of Macbeth : marry, he was dead : 
 And the right-valiant Banquo walk'd too late ; 
 Whom, you may say, if't please you, Fleance kill'd. 
 For Fleance fled : men must not walk too late. 
 Who cannot want the thought how monstrous 
 It was for Malcolm and for Donalbain 
 To kill their gracious father ? damned fact ! 
 How it did grieve Macbeth ! did he not straight 
 In pious rage the two delinquents tear. 
 That were the slaves of (Jrink and thralls of sleep ? 
 
NEMESIS AS A FORM OF ACTION. 129 
 
 Was not that nobly done ? Ay, and wisely too ; Chap. VI. 
 
 For 'twould have anger'd any heart alive 
 
 To hear the men deny't. So that, I say, 
 
 He has borne all things well : and I do think 
 
 That had he Duncan's sons under his key — 
 
 As, an 't please heaven, he shall not — ^they should find 
 
 What 'twere to kill a father; so should Fleance. 
 
 Under the bitter irony of this speech we can see clearly 
 
 enough that Macbeth has been exposed by his series of 
 
 suspicious acts ; he has ' done all things well ' ; and in 
 
 particular by peculiar resemblances between this last incident 
 
 of Banquo and Fleance and the previous incident of Duncan 
 
 and his son. It appears then that Macbeth's last successful 
 
 crime proves the means by which retribution overtakes all his 
 
 other crimes ; the latter half of the pfay is needed to develop 
 
 the steps of the retribution, but, in substance, Macbeth's fall 
 
 is latent in the final step of his rise. Thus the first half of 
 
 the play, that which traces the rise of Macbeth, is a complete 
 
 Nemesis Action — a career of sins in which the last sin secures 
 
 the punishment of all. 
 
 The same reasoning applies to the latter half of the play : The fall of 
 
 the fall of Macbeth not only serves as the retribution for his ^'^*«f « 
 
 -' separate 
 
 rise, but further contains in itself a crime and its nemesis Nemesis 
 complete. What Banquo is to the first half of the play ^'^''''"• 
 Macduff is to the latter half; the two balance one another as, 
 in the play of Julius Ccssar, Csesar himself is balanced by 
 Antony ; and Macduff comes into prominence upon Banquo's 
 death as Antony upon the fall of Caesar. Now Macduff, when 
 he finally slays Macbeth, is avenging not only Scotland, but 
 also his own wrongs ; and the tyrant's crime against Macduff, 
 with its retribution, just gives unity to the second half of the 
 play, in the way in which the first half was made complete by 
 the association between Macbeth and Banquo, from their joint 
 encounter with the Witches on to the murder of Banquo as iii. i. 5^- 
 a consequence of the Witches' prediction. Accordingly we ^^' 
 find that no sooner has Macbeth, by the appearance of the 
 
 K 
 
130 MACBETH 
 
 Chap. VI. Ghost at the banquet, realised the turn of fate, than his first 
 thoughts are of Macduif : 
 
 iii. iv. 138. Macbeth. How say'st thou, that Macduff denies his person 
 At our great bidding? 
 Lady M. Did you send to him, sir ? 
 
 Macbeth. I hear it by the way ; but I will send. 
 
 When the Apparitions bid Macbeth 'beware Macduff,' he 
 answers, 
 
 iv. i. 74. Thou hast harp'd my fear aright ! 
 
 iv. i, from On the vanishing of the Apparition Scene, the first thing that 
 
 '29- happens is the arrival of news that Macduff has fled to 
 
 England, and is out of his enemy's power ; then Macbeth's 
 
 bloody thoughts devise a still more cruel purpose of vengeance 
 
 to be taken on the fugitive's family. 
 
 Time, thou anticipatest my dread exploits : 
 
 The flighty purpose never is o'ertook 
 
 Unless the deed go with it ... . 
 
 The castle of Macduff I will surprise ; 
 
 Seize upon Fife ; give to the edge o' the sword 
 
 His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls 
 
 That trace him in his line. 
 
 iv. ii, iii. In succeeding scenes we have this diabolical massacre carried 
 
 out, and see the effect which the news of it has in rousing 
 
 V. vii. 15. Macduff to his revenge ; until in the final scene of all he feels 
 
 that if Macbeth is slain and by no stroke of his, his wife and 
 
 children's ghosts will for ever haunt him. Thus Macduff's 
 
 function in the play is to be the agent not only of the grand 
 
 nemesis which constitutes the whole plot, but also of a 
 
 nemesis upon a private wrong which occupies the latter half 
 
 of the play. And, putting our results together, we find that 
 
 a Nemesis Action is the description alike of the whole plot 
 
 and of the rise and fall which are its two halves. 
 
 TheOracu- With Nemesis is associated in the play of Macbeth Destiny 
 
 phased in two distinct phases. The first of these is /^« Ora<ra/ar. In 
 
 Destiny: ancient thought, as Destiny was the supreme governor of the 
 
 its partial . , ^ , . 
 
 revelatwn. Universe, so oracles were the revelation of Destiny ; and tlius 
 
THE ORACULAR ACTION. 131 
 
 the term ' the Oracles of God ' is appropriately applied to Chap. VI. 
 the Bible as the Christian revelation. With the advent of ' 
 Christianity the oracles became dumb. But the triumph of 
 Christianity was for centuries incomplete ; heathen deities 
 were not extirpated, but subordinated to the supernatural 
 personages of the new religion ; and the old oracles declined A minor 
 into oracular beings such as witches and wizards, and ■^'''^ "/'''"' 
 
 ° ' Oracular 
 
 oracular superstitions, such as magic mirrors, dreams, appa- in modem 
 ritions — all means of dimly revealing hidden destiny. Shake- "''"'^"^''■^ 
 
 ■' ° •' beings. 
 
 speare is never wiser than the age he is pourtraying ; and 
 
 accordingly he has freely introduced witches and apparitions 
 
 into the machinery of Macbeth, though in the principles that 
 
 govern the action of this, as of all his other plays, he is true 
 
 to the modern notions of Providence and moral law. An TheOracu- 
 
 oracle and its fulfilment make up a series of events eminently ^^^JJ^ ' 
 
 fitted to constitute a dramatic interest ; and no form of working 
 
 ancient Drama and Story is more common than this of the-^^^^^ ^^ 
 
 ' Oracular Action.' Its interest may be formulated as Destiny clearness ; 
 
 working from mystery to clearness. At the commencement 
 
 of an oracular story the fated future is revealed indeed, but 
 
 in a dress of mystery, as when the Athenians are bidden to 
 
 defend themselves with only wooden walls ; but as the story 
 
 of Themistocles develops itself, the drift of events is throwing 
 
 more and more light on to the hidden meaning of the oracle, 
 
 until by the naval victory over the Persians the oracle is at 
 
 once clear and fulfilled. 
 
 The Oracular Action is so important an element in plot, 
 that it may be worth while to prolong the consideration of it 
 by noting the three principal varieties into which it falls, all 
 of which are illustrated in the play of Macbeth. In each case 
 the interest consists in tracing the working of Destiny out of 
 mystery into clearness : the distinction between the varieties 
 depends upon the agency by which Destiny works, and the (i) by the 
 relation of this agency to the original oracle. In the first "fii^^Ji^^. 
 variety Destiny is fulfilled by the agency of blind obedience, ence ; 
 
132 MACBETH. 
 
 IChap. VI. The Spartans, unfortunate in their war with the Messenians, 
 enquire of an oracle, and receive the strange response that 
 they must apply for a general to the Athenians, their heredi- 
 tary enemies. But they resolve to obey the voice of Destiny, 
 though to all appearance they obey at their peril ; and the 
 Athenians mock them by selecting the most unfit subject 
 they can find — a man whose bodily infirmities had excluded 
 him from the military exercises altogether. Yet in the end 
 the faith of the Spartans is rewarded. It had been no lack 
 of generalship that had caused their former defeats, but dis- 
 cord and faction in their ranks ; now Tyrtaeus turned out to 
 be a lyric poet, whose songs roused the spirit of the Spartans 
 and united them as one man, and when united, their native 
 military talent led them to victory. Thus in its fulfilment the 
 hidden meaning of the oracle breaks' out into clearness : 
 and blind obedience to the oracle is the agency by which it 
 has been fulfilled. 
 (2) by the In the second variety the oracle is fulfilled by the agency 
 agency of ^^ indifference and free will : it is neither obeyed nor dis- 
 obeyed, but ignored. One of the best illustrations is to be 
 found in the plot of Sir Walter Scott's novel, The Betrothed. 
 Its heroine, more rational than her age, resists the family 
 tradition that would condemn her to sleep in the haunted 
 chamber ; overborne, however, by age and authority, she 
 consents, and the lady of the bloody finger appears to pro- 
 nounce her doom : 
 
 Widow'd wife, and wedded maid; 
 Betrothed, Betrayer, and Betrayed. 
 
 This seems a mysterious destiny for a simple and virtuous 
 girl. The faithful attendant Rose declares in a burst of devo- 
 tion that betrayed her mistress may be, but betrayer never ; the 
 heroine herself braces her will to dismiss the foreboding from 
 her thoughts, and resolves that she will not be influenced by 
 it on the one side or on the othfl-. Yet it all comes about. 
 Gratitude compels her to give her hand to the elderly 
 
THE ORACULAR ACTION. 133 
 
 Constable, who on the very day of betrothal is summoned Chap. VI. 
 
 away to the Crusade, from which, as it appears, he is never to 
 
 return, leaving his spouse at once a widowed wife and a 
 wedded maid. In the troubles of that long absence, by a 
 perfectly natural series of events, gratitude again leads the 
 heroine to admit to her castle her real deliverer and lover in 
 order to save his life, and in protecting him amidst strange 
 circumstances of suspicion to bid defiance to all comers. 
 Finally the castle is besieged by the royal armies, and the 
 heroine has to hear herself proclaimed a traitor by the herald 
 of England ; from this perplexity a deliverance is found only 
 when her best friend saves her by betraying the castle to the 
 king. So every detail in the unnatural doom has been in the 
 most natural manner fulfilled : and the woman by whose 
 action it has been fulfilled has been all the while maintaining 
 the freedom of her will and persistently ignoring the oracle. 
 
 But the supreme interest of the Oracular Action is reached (3) by the 
 when the oracle is fulfilled by an agency that has all the Ip'Zstni 
 while set itself to oppose and frustrate it. A simple illustra- will. 
 tion of this is seen in the Eastern potentate who, in opposition 
 to a prophecy that his son should be killed by a lion, forbad 
 the son to hunt, but heaped upon him every other indulgence. 
 In particular he built him a pleasure-house, hung with 
 pictures of hunting and of wild beasts, on which all that art 
 could do was lavished to compensate for the loss of the for- 
 bidden sport. One day the son, chafing at his absence from 
 the manly exercise in which his comrades were at that 
 moment engaged, wandered through his pleasure-house, until, 
 stopping at a magnificient picture of a lion at bay, he began 
 to apostrophise it as the source of his disgrace, and waxing 
 still more afigry, drove his fist through the picture. A nail, 
 hidden behind the canvas, entered his hand ; the wound 
 festered, and he died. So the measures taken to frustrate the 
 destiny proved the means of fulfilling it. But in this third 
 variety of the Oracular Action the classical illustration is the 
 
134 MACBETH. 
 
 Chap. VI. story of CEdipus : told fully, it presents three examples woven 
 
 together. Laius of Thebes learns from an oracle that the son 
 
 about to be born to him is destined to be his murderer; 
 accordingly he refuses to rear the child, and it is cast out to 
 perish. A herdsman rescues the infant, and afterwards dis- 
 poses of it surreptitiously to the childless wife of Polybus, 
 king of Corinth, keeping the secret of its birth. In due 
 time this CEdipus seeks advice of the oracle as to his future 
 career, and receives the startling response that he is destined 
 to slay his own father. Resolved to frustrate so terrible a 
 fate, he will not return to Corinth, but, as it happens, takes 
 the road to Thebes, where he falls in accidentally with Laius, 
 and, in ignorance of his person, quarrels with him and slays 
 him. Now if Laius had not resisted the oracle by casting 
 out the infant, it would have grown up like other sons, and 
 every probability would have been against his committing 
 so terrible a crime as parricide. Again, if the herdsman had 
 not, by sending the child out of the country, sought to bar him 
 against a chance of the dreadful fate prophesied for him, 
 he would have known the person of Laius and spared him. 
 Once more, if Qildipus had not, in opposition to the oracle, 
 avoided his supposed home, Corinth, he would never have 
 gone to Thebes and fallen in with his real father. Three 
 different persons acting separately seek to frustrate a declared 
 destiny, and their action unites in fulfilling it. 
 
 The plot of Macbeth, both as a whole and in its separate 
 
 parts, is constructed upon this form of the Oracular Action, 
 
 in combination with the form of Nemesis. The play deals 
 
 with the rise and fall of Macbeth : the rise, and the fall, and 
 
 again the two taken together, present each of them an 
 
 riie rise of example of an Oracular Action. Firstly, the former half of 
 
 ^mcullr" *® P'^J'' ^^^ "^® °^ Macbeth, taken by itself, consists in an 
 
 Action, oracle and its fulfilment — the Witches' promise of the crown 
 
 and the gradual steps by which the crown is attained. 
 
 Amongst the three varieties of the Oracular Action we have 
 
THE ORACULAR ACTION. 135 
 
 just distinguished, the present example wavers between the Chap. VI. 
 
 first and the second. After his first excitement has passed ; ' 
 
 away, Macbeth resolves that he will have nothing to do with tween the 
 
 the temptation that lurked in the Witches' words : in his ^^'^""'^ ""^ 
 ,...,,.. , , . . first type. 
 
 disjomted meditation we hear him saying : 
 
 If chance will have me king, why chance may crown me i. iii. 143. 
 
 Without my stir; 
 
 and again : 
 
 Come what come may, i. iii. 146. 
 
 Time and the hour runs through the roughest day; 
 
 in which last speech the very rhyming may, according to 
 Shakespeare's subtle usage, be pointed to as marking a mind 
 made up. So far then we appear to be following an Oracular 
 Action of the second type, that of indifference and ignoring. 
 But in the very next scene the proclamation of a Prince of 
 Cumberland — that is, of an heir-apparent like our Prince of 
 Wales — takes away Macbeth's ' chance ' : 
 
 Macb. \Aside\. The prince of Cumberland! that is a step i. iv. 48. 
 
 On which I must fall down, or else p'erleap, 
 For in my way it lies. 
 
 He instantly commits himself to the evil suggestion, and thus 
 changes the type of action to the first variety, that in which 
 the oracle is fulfilled by the agency of obedience. 
 
 Similarly Macbeth's fall, taken by itself, constitutes an The fall an 
 Oracular Action, consisting as it does of the ironical promises J^^'^^^^f 
 given by the Apparitions which the Witches raise for Macbeth the first 
 on his visit to them, and the course of events by which these ^^^' 
 promises are fulfilled. Its type is a highly interesting 
 example of the first variety, that of blind obedience. The iv. i. 71- 
 responses of the Apparitions lay down impossible conditions, 
 and as long as these conditions are unfulfilled Macbeth is to 
 be secure ; he will fall only when one not born of woman 
 shall be his adversary, only when Birnam Wood shall come 
 to Dunsinane. Macbeth trusts blindly to these promises; 
 further he obeys them, so far as a man can be said to obey 
 
136 MACBETH. 
 
 Chap. VI. an oracle which enjoins no command : he obeys in the sense 
 ■ of relying on them, and making that reliance his ground 
 of action. But this reliance of Macbeth on the ironical 
 promises is an agency in fulfilling them in their real mean- 
 iv. i. 144- ing. In his reckless confidence he strikes out right and left, 
 '^ ■ and amongst others injures one to whom the description 
 
 'not born of woman' applies. In his reliance on the 
 Apparitions he proceeds, when threatened by the English, to 
 shut himself up in Dunsinane Castle ; but for this fact the 
 English army would not have approached Dunsinane Castle 
 by the route of Birnam Wood, and the incident of the boughs 
 would never have taken place. Thus Macbeth's fate was 
 made to depend upon impossibilities : by his action in 
 reliance on these impossibilities he is all the while giving 
 them occasion to become possible. In this way an ironical 
 oracle comes to be fulfilled by the agency of blind obe- 
 dience. 
 The whole Thirdly, the rise and fall of Macbeth are so Knked to- 
 plot an gether as to constitute the whole plot another example of the 
 Action of Oracular Action. The original oracle given by the Witches 
 the third ^^ ^jjg blasted heath was a double oracle : besides the promise 
 i iii 8- °^ '■^^ thaneships and the crown there was another revelation 
 50, 62-66. of destiny, that Banquo was to be lesser than Macbeth and 
 yet greater, that he was to get kings though to be none. In 
 this latter half of the oracle is found the link which binds 
 together the rise and fall of Macbeth. When the first half 
 of the Witches' promise has been fulfilled in his elevation to 
 the throne, Macbeth sets himself to prevent the fulfilment of 
 the second half by his attempt upon Banquo and Fleance. 
 Now we have already seen how this attempt has the effect of 
 drawing attention, not only to itself, but also to Macbeth's 
 other crimes, and proves indeed the foundation of his ruin. 
 Had Macbeth been content with the attainment of the crown, 
 all might yet have been well : the addition of just one more 
 precaution renders all the rest vain. It appears, then, that that 
 
IRONY AS A FORM OF ACTION. 137 
 
 which binds together the rise and the fall, that which makes Chap. VI. 
 
 the fall the retribution upon the rise, is the expedition against 
 
 the Banquo family; and the object of this crime is to 
 frustrate the second part of the Witches' oracle. So the 
 original oracle becomes the motive force to the whole play, 
 setting in motion alike the rise and fall of the action. The 
 figure of the whole plot we have taken as a regular arch ; its 
 movement might be compared to that terrible incident of 
 mining life known as 'overwinding,' in which the steam engine 
 pulls the heavy cage from the bottom to the top of the shaft, 
 but, instead of stopping then, winds on till the cage is carried 
 over the pulley and dashed down again to the bottom. So 
 the force of the Witches' prediction is not exhausted when it 
 has tempted Macbeth on to the throne, but carries him on to 
 resist its further clauses, and in resisting to bring about the 
 fall by which they are fulfilled. Not only then are the rise 
 and the fall of Macbeth taken separately oracular, but the whole 
 plot, compounded of the two taken together, constitutes 
 another Oracular Action ; and the last is of that type in which 
 Destiny is fulfilled by the agency of a will that has been 
 opposing it. 
 
 A second phase of Destiny enters into the plot of Macbeth : Irony a 
 this is Irony. Etymologically the word means no more than mMmant 
 saying. Pressing the idea of saying as distinguished from Destiny. 
 meaning we get at the ordinary signification, ambiguous 
 speech ; from which the word widens in its usage to include 
 double-dealing in general, such as the 'irony of Socrates,' 
 his habit of assuming the part of a simple enquirer in order 
 to entangle the pretentious sophists in their own wisdom. 
 The particular extension of meaning with which we are 
 immediately concerned is that by which irony comes to be 
 applied to a double-dealing in Destiny itself; the link between 
 this and the original sense being no doubt the ambiguous 
 wording of oracular responses which has become proverbial. 
 In ancient conception Destiny wavered between justice and 
 
humoiir. 
 
 138 MACBETH. 
 
 Chap. VI. malignity ; a leading phase of malignant destiny was this 
 
 Irony or double-dealing; Irony was the laughter or mockery 
 
 of Fate. It is illustrated in the angry measures of CEdipus for 
 penetrating the mystery that surrounds the murder of Laius 
 in order to punish the crime, impunity for which has 
 brought the plague upon his city: when at last it is made 
 clear that CEdipus himself has been unknowingly the culprit, 
 there arises an irresistible sensation that Destiny has been all 
 the while playing with the king, and using his zeal as a 
 means for working his destruction. In modern thought the 
 supreme force of the universe cannot possibly be represented 
 A modified as malignant. But mockery, though it may not be enthroned 
 Irony. Jus- -^^ opposition to justice, may yet, without violating modern 
 mocking ideas, be made to appear in the mode of operatmi by which 
 justice is brought about ; here mockery is no longer malig- 
 nant, but simply an index of overpowering force, just as we 
 smile at the helpless stubbornness of a little child, whereas a 
 man's opposition makes us angry. For such a reconciliation 
 of mockery with righteousness we have authority in the 
 imagery of Scripture. 
 
 Why do the heathen rage? 
 
 And the people imagine a vain thing? 
 The kings of the earth set themselves 
 
 And the rulers take counsel together 
 Against the Lord 
 
 And against His Anointed : 
 Saying, Let us break their bonds, 
 
 And cast away their cords from us. 
 
 He that sitteth in the heavens shall laugh : 
 The Lord shall have them in derision. 
 
 Then shall He speak u'hto them in His wrath; 
 And vex them in His sore displeasure. 
 
 There could not be a more perfect type of Irony, in that 
 form of it which harmonises with justice, than this picture 
 in three touches, of the busy security of the wicked, of 
 justice pausing to mock their idle efforts, and then with a 
 
IRONY AS A FORM OF ACTION. 139 
 
 burst of wrath and displeasure annihilating their projects at a Chap. VI. 
 stroke. 
 
 In modern thought, then, Irony is Justice in a mocking 
 humour. The mockery that suddenly becomes apparent in 
 the mysterious operations of Providence, and is a measure of 
 their overpowering force, is clearly capable of giving a highly 
 dramatic interest to a train of events, and so is fitted to be 
 a form of dramatic action. The operation of Destiny as Irony in 
 exhibited in the plot of Macbeth is throughout tinctured with ^^^^"Z 
 irony : the element of mockery appearing always in this, that obstacles 
 apparent checks to Destiny turn out the very means Destiny '^J'^'^^^ 
 chooses by which to fulfil itself. Irony of this kind \^ ping-stones. 
 regularly attached to what I have called the third variety of 
 the Oracular Action, that in which the oracle is fulfilled by the 
 agency of attempts to oppose it; but in the play under 
 consideration the destiny, whether manifesting itself in that 
 type of the Oracular Action or not, is never dissociated 
 from the attitude of mockery to resistance which converts 
 obstacles into stepping-stones. It remains to show how 
 the rise of Macbeth, the fall of Macbeth, and again the 
 rise and the fall taken together, are all of them Irony 
 Actions. 
 
 The basis of Macbeth's rise is the Witches' promise of the The rise of 
 crown. Scarcely has it been given when an obstacle starts /^"^^ 
 up to its fulfilment in the proclamation of Malcolm as heir- Action. 
 apparent. I have already pointed out that it is this very 
 proclamation which puts an end to Macbeth's wavering, and 
 leads him to undertake the treasonable enterprise which only 
 in the previous scene he had resolved he would have nothing 
 to do with. Later in the history a second obstacle appears : ii. iii. 141. 
 the king is slain, but his two sons, this heir-apparent and 
 his brother, escape from Macbeth's clutches and place two 
 lives between him and the fulfilment of his destiny. But, as 
 events turn out, it is this very flight of the princes that, by 
 diverting suspicion to them for a moment, causes Macbeth to 
 
140 MACBETH. 
 
 Chap. VI. be named as Duncan's successor. A conversation in the play 
 itself is devoted to making this point clear. 
 
 ii. iv. 2 2. Ross. Is't known who did this more than bloody deed? 
 Macduff. Those that Macbeth hath slain. 
 Ross. Alas, the day! 
 
 What good conld they pretend? 
 Macduff. They were suborn'd : 
 
 Malcolm and D'onalbain, the king's two sons, 
 
 Are stol'n away and fled; which puts upon them 
 
 Suspicion of the deed. 
 Ross. 'Gainst nature still! 
 
 Thriftless ambition, that will ravin up 
 
 Thine own life's means! Then 'tis most like 
 
 The sovereignty will fall upon Macbeth. 
 Mcuduff. He is already named, and gone to Scone 
 
 To be invested. 
 
 Thefallan Twice, then, in the course of the rise Destiny allows 
 
 a'^ui obstacles to appear only for the sake of using them as an 
 
 unexpected means of fulfilment. The same mockery marks 
 the fall of the action. The security against a fall promised 
 by the Apparitions to Macbeth had just one drawback — 
 
 iv. i. 71. 'beware Macduff'; and we have already had occasion to 
 notice Macbeth's attempt to secure himself against this 
 
 iv. ii, &c. drawback in the completest manner by extirpating the 
 dangerous thane and his family to the last scion of his stock, 
 and also how this cruel purpose succeeded against all but 
 Macduff himself. Now it is to be noted that this attempt 
 against the fulfilment of the destined retribution proves the 
 very source of the fulfilment, without which it would never 
 have come about. For at one point of the story Macduff, 
 the only man who, according to the decrees of Fate, can 
 harm Macbeth, resolves to abandon his vengeance against 
 him. In his over-cautious policy Macduff was unwilling to 
 move without the concurrence of Malcolm the rightful heir. 
 
 iv. iii. In one of the most singular scenes in all Shakespeare 
 Macduff is represented as urging Malcolm to assert his 
 rights, while Malcolm (in reality driven by the general panic 
 
IRONY AS A FORM OF ACTION. 141 
 
 to suspect even Macduff) discourages his attempts, and Chap. VI. 
 
 affects to be a monster of iniquity, surpassing the tyrant of 
 
 Scotland himself. At last he succeeds in convincing Macduff iv.iii, from 
 of his villainies, and in a burst of despair the fate-appointed ° ' 
 avenger renounces vengeance. 
 
 Macduff. Fit to govern? 
 
 No, not to live .... Fare thee well ! 
 These evils thou repeat'st upon thyself 
 Have banish'd me from Scotland. O my breast. 
 Thy hope ends here ! 
 
 Malcolm, it is true, then drops the pretence of villainy, but 
 he does not succeed in reassuring his companion. 
 
 Macduff. Such welcome and unwelcome things at once iv. iii. 1 38. 
 
 'Tis hard to reconcile. 
 
 At this moment enters Ross with the news of Macbeth's 
 expedition against Fife, and tells how all Macduff's house- 
 hold, ' wife, children, servants, all,' have been cut off ' at 
 one swoop ' : before the agony of a bereavement like this ■ 
 hesitation flies away for ever. 
 
 Gentle heavens, Iv. iii. 231. 
 
 Cut short all intermission ; front to front 
 Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself; 
 Within my sword's length set him : if he 'scape, 
 Heaven forgive him too ! 
 
 The action taken by Macbeth with a view to prevent Mac- 
 duff's being the instrument of retribution, is brought by a 
 mocking Fate to impel Macduff to his task at the precise 
 moment he had resolved to abandon it. 
 
 Finally, if the rise and the fall be contemplated together The plot as 
 as constituting one action, this also will be found animated "'j™" ^ "'" 
 by the sarne spirit of irony. The original promise of the Action. 
 Witches, as well as the later promise of the Apparition, had 
 its drawback in the destiny that Banquo was to be lesser i. iii. 62- 
 than Macbeth and yet greater, to get kings though to be " 
 none ; and to secure against this drawback is Macbeth's 
 
142 
 
 MACBETH. 
 
 Chap. VI. purpose in his plot against Banquo and Fleance, by which 
 the rival family would be extirpated. The plot only half 
 succeeds, and by its half-success contributes to the exactness 
 with which the destiny is fulfilled. Had Macbeth's attempt 
 fully succeeded, Banquo would neither have got kings nor 
 been one ; had no such attempt at all been made, then, for 
 anything we see to the contrary in the play, Banquo would 
 have preceded his sons on the throne, and so again the 
 oracle would not have been fulfilled which made Banquo 
 lesser than Macbeth. But by the mixture of success and 
 failure in Macbeth's plot Banquo is slain before he can attain 
 the crown, and Fleance lives to give a royal house to Scot- 
 land. Once more, then, mockery appears a characteristic of 
 the Destiny that finds in human resistance just the one 
 peculiar device needed for effecting the peculiar distribution 
 of fortune it has promised. 
 
 Summary. Such is the subtlety with which Shakespeare has con- 
 structed this plot of Macbeth, and interwoven in it Nemesis 
 and Destiny. To outward appearance it is connected with 
 the rise and fall of a sinner : the analysis that searches for 
 inner principles of construction traces through its incidents 
 three forms of action working harmoniously together, by 
 which the rise and fall of Macbeth are so linked as to exhibit 
 at once a crime with its Nemesis, an Oracle with its fulfilment, 
 and the Irony which works by the agency of that which 
 resists it. Again the separate halves of the play, the rise and 
 the fall of the hero, are found to present each the same triple 
 pattern as the whole. Once more, with the career of 
 Macbeth are associated the careers of Banquo and Macduff, 
 and these also reflect the threefold spirit. Macbeth's rise 
 involves Banquo's fall : this fall is the subject of oracular 
 prediction, it is the starting-point of nemesis on Macbeth, 
 and it has an element of irony in the fact that Banquo all but 
 escaped. With Macbeth's fall is bound up Macduff's rise ; 
 this also had been predicted in oracles, it is an agency 
 
IRONY AS A FORM OF ACTION. 143 
 
 in the main nemesis, and Macduff's fate has the irony that Chap. VI. 
 he all hut perished at the outset of his mission. Through all 
 the separate interests of this elaborate plot, the three forms 
 of action — Nemesis, the Oracular, Irony — are seen perfectly 
 harmonised and perfectly complete. And over all this is 
 thrown the supernatural interest of the Witches, who are 
 agents of nemesis working by the means of ironical oracles. 
 
VII. 
 
 Macbeth, Lord and Lady. 
 
 A Study in Character-Contrast. 
 
 Chap. VII. /''^ONTRASTS of character form one of the simplest 
 
 V , elements of dramatic interest. Such contrasts are often 
 
 obvious; at other times they take definitiveness only when 
 looked at from a particular point of view. The contrast of 
 character which it is the object of the present study to sketch 
 rests upon a certain distinction which is one of the funda- 
 
 The anti' mental ideas in the analysis of human nature — the distinction 
 
 thesis of the between the outer life of action and the inner life of our 
 outer and 
 
 inner life, own experience. The recognition of the two is as old as 
 the Book of Proverbs, which contrasts the man that ruleth 
 his spirit with the man that taketh a city. The heathen 
 oracle, again, opened out to an age which seemed to have 
 exhausted knowledge a new world for investigation in the 
 simple command, Know thyself. The Stoics, who so de- 
 spised the busy vanity of state cares, yet delighted to call 
 their ideal man a king ; and their particular tenet is univer- 
 salised by Milton when he says : 
 
 Therein stands the office of a king, 
 His honour, virtne, merit, and chief praise, 
 That for the public all this weight he bears : 
 Yet he who reigns within himself, and rules 
 Passions, desires, and fears, is more a king. 
 
 And the modern humourist finds the idea indispensable for 
 his pourtrayal of character and experience. ' Sir,' says one of 
 Thackeray's personages, ' a distinct universe walks about 
 
THE PRACTICAL AND INNER LIFE. 145 
 
 under your hat and under mine . . . You and I are but a pair Chap. VII. 
 of infinite isolations with some fellow-islands more or less 
 near to us,' And elsewhere the same writer says that ' each 
 creature bom has a little kingdom of thought of his own, 
 which it is a sin in us to invade.' 
 
 This antithesis of the practical and inner life is so ac- 
 cepted a commonplace of the pulpit and of the essayist on 
 morals and culture that it may seem tedious to expound it. 
 But for the very reason that it belongs to all these spheres, 
 and that these spheres overlap, the two sides of the anti- 
 thesis are not kept clearly distinct, nor are the terms 
 uniformly used in the same sense. For the present purpose 
 the exact distinction is between the outer world, the world of 
 practical action, the sphere of making and doing, in which 
 we mingle with our fellow men, join in their enterprises, and 
 influence them to our ideas, in which we investigate nature 
 and society, or seek to build up a fabric of power : and, on 
 the other hand, the inner intellectual life, in which our 
 powers as by a mirror are turned inwards upon ourselves, 
 finding a field for enterprise in self-discipline and the contest 
 with inherited notions and passions, exploring the depths of 
 our consciousness and our mysterious relations with the 
 unseen, until the thinker becomes familiar with strange situa- 
 tions of the mind and at ease in the presence of its problems. 
 The antithesis is thus not at all the same as that between 
 worldly and religious, for the inner life may be cultivated 
 for evil : self-anatomy, as Shelley says. 
 
 Shall teach the will 
 Dangerons secrets: for it tempts our powers. 
 Knowing what must be thought and may be done, 
 Into the depth of darkest purposes. 
 
 Still less is it the antithesis between intellectual and common- 
 place; the highest intellectual powers find employment in 
 practical life. The various mental and moral qualities be- 
 long to both spheres, but have a different meaning for each. 
 
146 MACBETH. 
 
 Chap. VII. Practical experience is a totally diflferent thing from what the 
 religious thinker means by his ' experience.' The discipline 
 given by the world often consists in the dulling of those 
 powers which self-discipline seeks to develope. Knowledge 
 of affairs, with its rapid and instinctive grasp, is often 
 possessed in the highest degree by the man who is least of 
 all men versed in the other knowledge, which could explain 
 and analyse the processes by which it operated. And every 
 observer is struck by the different forms which courage takes 
 in the two spheres, courage in action, and courage where' 
 nothing can be done and men have only to endure and wait. 
 Macaulay in a well-known passage contrasts the active and 
 passive courage as one of the distinctions between the West 
 and the East. 
 
 An European warrior, who rnslies on a battery of cannon with a loud 
 hurrah, will sometimes shriek nnder the surgeon's knife, and fall into 
 an agony of despair at the sentence of death. Bnt the Bengalee, who 
 wonld see his conntiy overrun, his house laid in ashes, his children 
 murdered or dishonoured, without having the spirit to strike one blow, 
 has yet been known to endure torture with the firmness of Macios, and 
 to mount the scaffold with the steady step and even pulse of Algernon 
 Sidney. 
 
 The two lives are complete, each with its own field, its own 
 
 qualities, culture, and fruit. 
 
 The anii- It is obvious that relation to these two lives will have a 
 
 tiusts an ^,g|.y great effect in determining individual character. In the 
 
 Character- Same man the two sides of experience may be most un- 
 
 tion^'''^ equally developed ; an intellectual giant is often a child in 
 
 the affairs of the world, and a moral hero may be found in 
 
 the person of some bedridden cripple. On the other hand, 
 
 to some the inner life is hardly known : familiar perhaps with 
 
 every other branch of knowledge they go down to their 
 
 graves strangers to themselves. 
 
 All things without, which round about we see. 
 We seek to know and how therewith to do ; 
 
 But that whereby we reason, live, and be 
 Within ourselves, we strangers are thereto. 
 
MACBETH AS THE PRACTICAL MAN. 147 
 
 We seek to know the moving of each sphere, Chap. VII. 
 
 And the strange cause of the ebbs and flows of Nile : ■ 
 
 But of that clock within our breasts we bear, 
 
 The subtle motions we forget the while. 
 
 We, that acquaint ourselves with every zone. 
 
 And pass both tropics, and behold each pole. 
 When we come home, are to ourselves unknown, 
 
 And unacquainted still with our own soul. 
 
 The antithesis then between the outer and inner life will be 
 among the ideas which lie at the root of Character-Inter- 
 pretation. 
 
 When the idea is applied to an age like that of Macbeth, the In a simple 
 antithesis between the two lives almost coincides with the dis- '^fi^^ides 
 tinction of the sexes : amid the simple conditions of life belong- with the 
 ing to such an age the natural tendency would be for genius offu sexes 
 in men to find scope in the outer and practical world, while 
 genius in women would be restricted to the inner life. And 
 this is the idea I am endeavouring to work out in the present 
 study : — that the key to Shakespeare's portraiture of Macbeth The anti- 
 and Lady Macbeth will be found in regarding the two as^^*"'^^^^ 
 illustrations of the outer and inner life. Both possess force characters 
 in the highest degree, but the two have been moulded by ^^^'* 
 the exercise of this force in different spheres ; their cha- Macbeth. 
 racters are in the play brought into sharp contrast by their 
 common enterprise, and the contrast of practical and in- 
 tellectual mind is seen maintained through the successive 
 stages of their descent to ruin. 
 
 Thus Macbeth is essentially the practical man, the man Macbeth as 
 of action, of the highest experience, power, and energy in ^^^'^ *" 
 military and political command, accustomed to the closest con- 
 nection between willing and doing. He is one who in another 
 age would have worked out the problem of free trade, or 
 unified Germany, or engineered the Suez Canal. On the 
 other hand, he has concerned himself little with things tran- 
 scendental ; he is poorly disciplined in thought and good- 
 ness ; prepared for any emergency in which there is anything 
 
 L 2 
 
148 MACBETH. 
 
 Chap.VII. to be done, yet a mental crisis or a moral problem afflicts 
 
 him with the shock of an unfamiliar situation. This is by 
 
 no means a generally accepted view : amongst a large 
 number of readers the traditional conception of Macbeth 
 lingers as a noble disposition dragged down by his con- 
 His no- nection with the coarser nature of his wife. According to 
 vmfio^i *^ '^''^^ ^^""^ suggested the nobility of Macbeth is of the 
 flimsiest and most tawdry kind. The lofty tone he is found 
 at times assuming means no more than virtuous education 
 and surroundings. When the purely practical nature is 
 examined in reference to the qualities which belong to the 
 intellectual life, the result is not a blank but ordinariness; 
 the practical nature will reflect current thought and goodness 
 as they appear from the outside. So Macbeth's is the 
 morality of inherited notions, retained just because he has 
 no disposition to examine them ; he has all the practical 
 man's distrust of wandering from the beaten track of opinion, 
 which gives the working politician his prejudice against doc- 
 trinaires, and has raised up stout defenders of the Church 
 amongst men whose lives were little influenced by her teaching. 
 And the traditionary morality is more than merely retained. 
 When the seed fell into stony ground forthwith it sprang 
 up because it had no deepness of earth : the very shallowness 
 of a man's character may lend emphasis to his high pro- 
 fessions, just as, on the other hand, earnestness in its first 
 stage often takes the form of hesitation. So Macbeth's 
 practical genius takes in strongly what it takes in at all, and 
 gives it out vigorously. But that the nobility has gone beyond 
 the stage of passive recognition, that it has become absorbed 
 into his inner nature, there is not a trace ; on the contrary, 
 it is impossible to follow Macbeth's history far without 
 abundant evidence that real love of goodness for its own 
 sake, founded on intelligent choice or deep affection, has 
 failed to root a single fibre in his nature. 
 
 First, we have the opportunity of studying Macbeth's 
 
MACBETH AS THE PRACTICAL MAN. 149 
 
 character in the analysis given of it in the play itself by the Chap. VII. 
 
 one person who not only saw Macbeth in his public life, but 
 
 knew also the side of him hidden from the world. i^t^^ 
 
 Lady Macbeth. I fear thy nature; "herhus- 
 
 It is too full o' the milk of human kindness bands cha- 
 
 To catch the nearest way. racter. 
 
 I beUeve that this phrase, the ' milk of human kindness,' ^' ^' ' ^ ' 
 divorced from its context and become the most familiar of 
 all commonplaces, has done more than anything else to- 
 wards giving a false twist to the general conception of 
 Macbeth's character. The words kind, kindness are amongst 
 the most difficult words in Shakespeare. The wide original 
 signification of the root, natural, nature, still retained in the 
 noun kind, has been lost in the adjective, which has been 
 narrowed by modern usage to one sort of naturalness, ten- 
 der-heartedness ; though in a derivative form the original 
 sense is still familiar to modern ears in the expression ' the 
 kindly fruits of the earth.' In Elizabethan English, however, 
 the root signification still remained in all usages of kind and 
 its derivatives. In Schmidt's analysis of the adjective, two 
 of its four significations agree with the modern use, the 
 other two are ' keeping to nature, natural,' and ' not dege- 
 nerate and corrupt, but such as a thing or person ought to 
 be.' Shakespeare delights to play upon the two senses of 
 this family of words : tears of joy are described as a ' kind Muck Ado, 
 overflow of kindness'; the Fool says of Regan that she will ^' '• ^^" 
 use Lear 'kindly,' i.e. according to her nature; 'the worm Zr. i.v. 15. 
 will do his kind,' i. e. bite. How far the word can wander Ant. and 
 from its modern sense is seen in a phrase of the present Cleop.yr.n. 
 play, ' at your kind'st leisure,' where it is simply equivalent ^ ; 24. 
 to 'convenient.' Still more will the wider signification of 
 the word obtain, when it is associated with the word human ■ 
 ' humankind ' is still an expression for human nature, and 
 the sense of the passage we are considering would be more 
 obvious if the whole phrase were printed as one word, not 
 
150 MACBETH. 
 
 Chap. VII. 'human kindness,' but ' humankind-ness ' : — that shrinking 
 from what is not natural, which is a marked feature of the 
 practical nature. The other part of the clause, milk of 
 humankind-ness, no doubt suggests absence of hardness : 
 but it equally connotes natural, inherited, traditional feelings, 
 imbibed at the mother's breast. The whole expression of 
 Lady Macbeth, then, I take to attribute to her husband an 
 instinctive tendency to shrink from whatever is in any way 
 unnatural. That this is the true sense further appears, not 
 only from the facts — for nothing in the play suggests that 
 
 i. ii. 54. Macbeth, ' Bellona's bridegroom,' was distinguished by kind- 
 ness in the modern sense — but from the context. The 
 form of Lady Macbeth's speech makes the phrase under 
 discussion a summing up of the rest of her analysis, or 
 rather a general text which she proceeds to expand into 
 details. Not one of these details has any connection with 
 tender-heartedness : on the other hand, if put together the 
 details do amount to the sense for which I am contending, 
 that Macbeth's character is a type of commonplace morality, 
 the shallow unthinking and unfeeling man's lifelong hesita- 
 tion between God and Mammon. 
 
 Thou would'st be great ; 
 Art not without ambition, but without 
 The illness should attend it : what thou would'st highly 
 That would'st thou holily; would'st not play false, 
 And yet would'st wrongly win : thou'ldst have, great Glamis, 
 T hat which cries ' Thus thou must do, if thou have it. 
 And that which rather thou dost fear to do 
 Than wishest should be undone' 
 
 If the delicate balancing of previous clauses had left any 
 doubt as to the meaning, the last two lines remove it, and 
 assert distinctly that Macbeth has no objection to the evil 
 itself, but only a fear of evil measures which must be as- 
 sociated to a practical mind with failure and disgrace. It is 
 striking that at the very moment Lady Macbeth is so medi- 
 i.iv. 48-53. tating, her husband is giving a practical confirmation of her 
 
MACBETH AS THE PRACTICAL MAN. igr 
 
 description in its details as well as its general purport. He Chap. VII. 
 had resolved to take no steps himself towards the fulfilment . Z. 
 of the Witches' prophecy, but to leave all to chance ; then /^g/ 
 the proclamation of Malcolm, removing all apparent chance 
 of succession, led him to change his mind and entertain the 
 scheme of treason and murder : the words with which he 
 surrenders himself seems like an echo of his wife's analysis. 
 
 Stars, hide your fires ; 
 Let not light see my black and deep desires : 
 The eye wink at the hand ; yet let that be 
 Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see. 
 
 But we are not left to descriptions of Macbeth by others. Macbeth' s 
 We have him self-displayed ; and that in a situation so ^g/an"m- 
 framed that if there were in him the faintest sympathy with inently 
 goodness it must here be brought into prominence. ^^^- i^rMter. 
 beth has torn himself away from the banquet, and, his mind i. vii. 1-28. 
 full of the desperate danger of the treason he is meditating, 
 he ponders over the various motives that forbid its execution. 
 A strong nobility would even amid incentives io crime feel 
 the attraction of virtue and, have to struggle against it ; but 
 surely the weakest nobility, when facing motives against sin, 
 would be roused to some degree of virtuous passion. Yet, 
 if Macbeth's famous soliloquy be searched through and 
 through, not a single thought will be found to suggest that 
 he is regarding the deep considerations of sin and retri- 
 bution in any other light than that of immediate practical 
 consequences. First, there is the thought of the sureness of 
 retribution even in this world. It may be true that hope of 
 heaven and fear of hell are not the highest of moral incen- 
 tives, but at least they are a degree higher than the thought 
 of worldly prosperity and failure ; Macbeth however is willing 
 to take his chance of the next world if only he can be 
 guaranteed against penalties in this life. 
 
 If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well 
 It were done quickly: if the assassination 
 
152 MACBETH. 
 
 Chap. VII. Could trammel up the consequence, and catch 
 
 With his surcease success ; that but this blow 
 
 Might be the be-all and the end-all here. 
 But here, upon this bank and shoal of time, 
 We 'Id jump the life to come. But in these cases 
 We still have judgement here ; that we but teach 
 Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return 
 To plague the inventor : this even-handed justice 
 Commends the ingredients of our poisoned chalice 
 To our own lips. 
 
 So far he has reached no higher consideration, in reference 
 to treason and murder, than the fear that he may be sug- 
 gesting to others to use against himself the weapon he is 
 intending for Duncan. Then his thoughts turn to the 
 motives against crime which belong to the softer side of our 
 nature. 
 
 He's here in double trust, 
 First, as I am his kinsman and his subject. 
 Strong both against the deed ; then, as his host, 
 Who should against his murderer shut the door, 
 Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan 
 Hath bome his faculties so meek, hath been 
 So clear in his great office, that his virtues 
 Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against 
 The deep damnation of his taking-off ; 
 And pity — 
 
 At all events it is clear this is no case of a man blinded for 
 the moment to the emotions which resist crime ; and as we 
 hear him passing in review kinship, loyalty, hospitality, pity, 
 we listen for the burst of remorse with which he will hurl 
 from him the treachery he had been fostering. But, on the 
 contrary, his thoughts are still practical, and the climax to 
 which this survey of motives is to lead up is no more than 
 the effect they will have on others : pity 
 
 Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, 
 That tears shall drown the wind. 
 
 And then he seems to regret that he cannot find more incen- 
 tives to his villainy. 
 
MACBETH AS THE PRACTICAL MAN. 153 
 
 I have no spur Chap. VII. 
 
 To prick the sides of my intent, but only 
 
 Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself 
 And falls on the other. 
 
 So Macbeth's searching self-examination on topics of sin and 
 retribution, amid circumstances specially calculated to rouse 
 compunction, results in thoughts not more noble than these — 
 that murder is a game which two parties can play at, that 
 heartlessness has the effect of drawing general attention, that 
 ambition is apt to defeat its own object. 
 
 Again : that Macbeth's union of superficial nobility with Macbeth 
 real moral worthlessness is connected with the purely prac- ^^fg^i 
 tical bent of his mind will be the more evident the wider deeds and 
 the survey which is taken of his character and actions. It ^^"i/y^i 
 may be observed that Macbeth's spirits always rise with evil conflicts. 
 deeds : however he may have wavered in the contemplation 
 of crime, its execution strings him up to the loftiest tone. 
 This is especially clear in the Dagger Scene, and in the ii. i, from 
 scene in which he darkly hints to his wife the murder of y'j'j?"^ 
 Banquo, which is in a brief space to be in actual perpetra- 39. 
 tion. As he feels the moment of crime draw near, his whole 
 figure seems to dilate, the language rises, and the imagery 
 begins to flow. Like a poet invoking his muse, Macbeth 
 calls on seeling night to scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day. 
 He has an eye to dramatic surroundings for his dark deeds. 
 Now, o'er the one half-world 
 
 Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse 
 
 The curtain' d sleep; witchcraft celebrates 
 
 Pale Hecate's offerings, and wither'd murder, 
 
 Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf, 
 
 Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, 
 
 With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design 
 
 Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth, 
 
 Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear 
 
 The very stones prate of my whereabout. 
 
 And take the present horror from the time, 
 
 Which now suits with it. 
 
 The man who had an hour or two before been driven from 
 
154 MACBETH. 
 
 Chap. VII. the table of his guests by the mere thought of a crime moves 
 
 to the deed itself with the exalted language of a Hebrew 
 
 prophet. On the other hand, in his spiritual struggles there 
 
 is a simpleness that sometimes suggests childishness. His 
 
 ii. ii. 3L. trouble is that he could not say 'Amen' when the sleepers 
 
 cried ' God bless us ' ; his conscience seems a voice outside 
 
 ii. ii. 35- him ; finally, the hardened warrior dare not return to the 
 
 '' ■ darkness and face the victim he had so exultingly done to 
 
 death. 
 
 Macbeth, then, is the embodiment of one side of the anti- 
 thesis with which we started ; his is pre-eminently the prac- 
 tical nature, moulded in a world of action, but uninfluenced 
 by the cultivation of the inner life. Yet he is not perfect 
 as a man of action : for the practical cannot reach its per- 
 Two flaws fection without the assistance of the inner life. There are 
 ^ a« m- ' '^° flaws in Macbeth's completeness. For one, his lack of 
 iodtment 0/ training in thought has left him without protection against 
 'cal^hUsu- *^^ superstition of his age. He is a passive prey to super- 
 perstition; natural imaginings. He himself tells us he is a man whose 
 V. V. 10. senses would cool to hear a night-shriek, and his fell of hair 
 rouse at a dismal treatise. And we see throughout the play 
 how he never for an instant doubts the reality of the super- 
 natural appearances : a feature the more striking from its 
 e. g. iii. iv. contrast with the scepticism of Lady Macbeth, and the 
 °' ■^jj"'" hesitating doubt of Banquo. Again : no active career can 
 iii i. 6. be without its periods when action is impossible, and it is in 
 and his such periods that the training given by the intellectual life 
 umkrlus- "^^^^^ itself felt, with its self-control and passive courage. 
 fense. All this Macbeth lacks : in suspense he has no power of 
 compare self-restraint. When we come to trace him through the 
 '^'ii"iu'u stages of the action we shall find that one of these two flaws 
 16. springing out of Macbeth's lack of the inner life, his super- 
 
 stition and his helplessness in suspense, is at every turn the 
 source of his betrayal. 
 
 In the case of Lady Macbeth, the old-fashioned view of 
 
LADY MACBETH A TYPE OF THE INNER LIFE. 155 
 
 her as a second Clytsemnestra has long been steadily giving Chap.VII. 
 
 way before a conception higher at least on the intellectual 
 .J mi 1 1 T ... ,. Lady Mac - 
 
 Side. 1 he exact key to her character is given by regarding idfi as an 
 
 her as the antithesis of her husband, and an embodiment of embodi- 
 the inner life and its intellectual culture so markedly wanting inner life.. 
 in him. She has had the feminine lot of being shut out 
 from active life, and her genius and energy have been turned 
 inwards ; her soul — like her ' little hand ' — is not hardened v. i. 58. 
 for the working-day world, but is quick, delicate, sensitive. 
 She has the keenest insight into the characters of those 
 around her. She is accustomed to moral loneliness and 
 at home in mental struggles. She has even solved for 
 herself some of their problems. In the very crisis of Dun- 
 can's murder she gives utterance to the sentiment : 
 
 the sleeping and the dead ii. ii. 53. 
 
 Are but as pictures. 
 
 When we remember that she must have started with the 
 superstitions of her age such an expression, simple enough 
 in modern lips, opens up to us a whole drama of personal 
 history : we can picture the trembling curiosity, the struggle 
 between will and quivering nerves, the triumph chequered 
 with awe, the resurrection of doubts, the swayings between 
 natyral repulsion and intellectual thirst, the growing courage 
 and the reiterated victories settling down into calm prin- 
 ciple. Accordingly, Lady Macbeth has won the grand 
 prize of the inner life : in the kingdom of her personal 
 experience her will is unquestioned king. It may seem 
 strange to some readers that Lady Macbeth should be held 
 up as the type of the inner life, so associated is that phrase 
 to modern ears with the life fostered by religion. But the 
 two things must not be confused — religion and the sphere in 
 which religion is exercised. ' The kingdom of God is within 
 you,' was the proclamation of Christ, but the world within 
 may be subjugated*; to other kings than God. Mental dis- 
 cipline and perfect self-control, like that of Lady Macbeth, 
 
156 MACBETH. 
 
 Chap. VII. would hold their sway over evil passions, but they would 
 
 also be true to her when she chose to contend against 
 
 goodness, and even against the deepest instincts of her 
 
 A struggle feminine nature. This was ignored in the old conception of 
 
 %se^e^'^e character, and a struggle against the softer side of her 
 
 the softer nature was mistaken for its total absence. But her in- 
 
 qiiahtiis. {g]jg^tjjj^i culture must have quickened her finer sensibilities 
 
 at the same time that it built up a will strong enough to 
 
 hold them down; nor is the subjugation so perfect but 
 
 that a sympathetic insight can throughout trace a keen 
 
 delicacy of nature striving to assert itself. In particular, 
 
 i. V. 41. when she calls upon the spirits that tend on mortal thoughts 
 
 to unsex and fill her from crown to toe with direst cruelty, 
 
 she is thrilling aU over with feminine repugnance to the 
 
 bloody enterprise, which nevertheless her royal will insists 
 
 upon her undertaking. Lady Macbeth's career in the play 
 
 is one long mental civil war ; and the strain ends, as such a 
 
 strain could only end, in madness. 
 
 The Cha- Such is the general conception of Lord and Lady Macbeth 
 
 racter-Con- ^^q.,^ (jjg point of view of the antithesis between the outer 
 
 through the and inner life, ^^'e have now to turn fi-om character to action, 
 
 '^'"^* and trace the contrasted pair through the stages of their 
 
 common career. 
 Situation The two opposing natures have been united in a happy 
 fiKoffhe' ™3-iTi^g6> ^^ happier because a link between characters so 
 play. forceful and so antithetic, if it held at all, must be a source of 
 
 compare interest : the dark tragedy of this unhappy pair is softened by 
 i \\^^°' ^^ tenderness of demeanour which appears on both sides. 
 iii. ii. 27, Another source of marriage happiness is added: there is not 
 iu fvitV ^ ^^^^^ °^ self-seeking in Lady Macbeth. Throughout the 
 play she is never found meditating upon what she is to gain 
 by the cro\\'n ; wife-like, she has no sphere but the career of 
 Theorigin- her husband. In a picture of human characters, great in 
 'to'evUcame^^'^^ scale. Overwhelmed in moral ruin, the question of 
 
 from Mac- absorbing interest is the commencement of the descent, and 
 beth. 
 
THE CONTRAST TRACED THROUGH THE ACTION. 157 
 
 the source from which the impulse to evil has come. This, Chap.VII. 
 
 in the present case, Shakespeare has carefully hidden from 
 
 us : before the play opens the essential surrender of spirit 
 has taken place, and all that we are allowed to see is its 
 realisation in life and fact. If, however, we use the slight 
 material afforded us for speculation on this point, it would 
 appear that the original choice for evil has for both been 
 made by Macbeth. In the partnership of man and wife it is 
 generally safe to assume that the initiative of action has 
 come from the husband, if nothing appears to the contrary. 
 In the present case we are not left to assumptions, Lady 
 Macbeth distinctly speaks of her husband as first breaking i. vii. 48. 
 to her the enterprise of treacherous ambition. 
 
 What beast was't, then, 
 Which made you break this enterprise to me ? 
 
 Nor time nor place 
 
 Did then adhere, and yet you would make both. 
 
 The reference can only be to a period before the commence- 
 ment of the play ; and the general drift of the passage sug- 
 gests that it was no mere choice, made by Macbeth with 
 deliberation during which he would be open to conviction, 
 but an impulse of uncontrollable passion that it would have 
 been vain for his wife to resist, supposing that she had had 
 the desire to resist it — so uncontrollable, indeed, that it 
 appears to Lady Macbeth stronger than the strongest of i. vii. 54. 
 feminine passions, a mother's love. 
 
 I have given suck, and know 
 How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me : 
 I would, while it was smiling in my face, 
 Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums. 
 And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you 
 Have done to this. 
 
 The only sense in which Lady Macbeth can be pronounced 
 the ruin of her husband is that her firm nature holds him in 
 the path to which he has committed them both, and will not 
 
158 ' MACBETH. 
 
 Chap. VII. allow his fatal faltering to lose both the virtue he has re- 
 
 nounced and the price for which he has bartered it. Denied 
 
 by her feminine position, the possibility— even if she had 
 had the desire — of directing the common lot for good, she 
 has recognised before we make her acquaintance that this 
 lot has been cast for evil, and she is too well-trained in self- 
 knowledge to attempt the self-deception her husband tries to 
 keep up. And to this evil lot she applies her full force. Her 
 
 i. vii. 54. children have died, and this natural outlet for passion is 
 wanting ; the 'whole of her energy is brought to bear upon 
 her husband's ambition, and she is waiting only an oc- 
 casion for concentrating her powers upon some definite 
 project. 
 
 Four With such mutual relations between the hero and the 
 
 ito^«2» heroine the play opens: we are to watch the contrasted 
 characters through the successive stages of the Temptation, 
 the Deed, the Concealment, the Nemesis. 
 
 TheTempt- The Temptation accosts the two personages when se- 
 
 '''*'^' parated from one another, and we thus have the better 
 opportunity of watching the different forms it assumes in 
 adapting itself to the different characters. The expedition, 
 which has separated Macbeth from his wife, is one which 
 must have led him to brood over his schemes of ambition. 
 Certainly it exhibits to him an example of treason and shows 
 him the weakness of his sovereign. Probably he sees events 
 shaping in a direction that suggests opportunity; he may 
 have known that the king must pass in the direction of his 
 castle, or in some other way may have anticipated a royal 
 visit; at all events the king's intimation of this visit in the 
 play itself — 
 
 i. iv. 42. From hence to Inverness, 
 
 And bind us further to yon, — 
 
 does not look like a first mention of it. To a mind so pre- 
 i. iii. 38- pared the supernatural solicitation brings a shock of tempta- 
 7^- ' tion ; and as the Witches in their greeting reach the promise, 
 
THE CONTRAST TRACED THROUGH THE ACTION. 159 
 
 ' Thou shall be King hereafter,' Macbeth gives a start that Chap. VII. 
 
 astonishes Banquo : 
 
 Good sir, why do you start ; and seem to fear 
 Things that do sound so fair? 
 
 To Banquo this prediction of the Witches seems no more 
 than curious ; for it must be remembered that Macbeth's 
 position in the kingdom was not such as to exclude hope of 
 succession to the crown, though the hope was a remote one. 
 But Macbeth's start tells a tale of his inner thoughts at the 
 time. This alone should be sufficient to vindicate Shake- 
 speare from the charge sometimes brought against him of 
 turning a great character from virtue to vice by demoniac 
 agency; his is the higher conception that a soul which has 
 commenced the surrender to evil will find in the powers of 
 darkness agencies ready to expedite its descent, it matters 
 not what form these agencies assume. Macbeth has been 
 for years playing with the idea of treason, while never 
 bracing himself up to the point of acting it : suddenly the 
 thought he fancied so safe within his bosom appears outside 
 him in tangible form, gleaming at him in the malignant 
 glances of recognition the Witches are casting at him. To a 
 mind utterly undefended by culture against superstitious 
 terror this objective presentation of his own thought proves 
 a Rubicon of temptation which he never attempts to recross. 
 On Lady Macbeth the supernatural incident makes not the i. v. 1-55. 
 shghtest impression of any kind ; we see her reading her 
 husband's excited account of the interview with the most 
 deliberate calmness, weighing its suggestions only with re- 
 ference to the question how it can be used upon her husband. 
 To her temptation comes with the suggestion of opportunity. 
 The messenger enters during her quiet meditation : 
 
 Mess. The king comes here to-night. 
 
 Lady M. Thou 'rt mad to say it i 
 
 The shock that passes over her is like the shock of chemical 
 change. In an instant her whole nature is strung up to 
 
l6o MACBETH. 
 
 Chap. VII. a single end; the long-expected occasion for the concen- 
 tration of a whole life's energy upon a decisive stroke is 
 come. So rapidly does her imagination move that she sees 
 the deed before her as already done, and, as she casts her 
 eyes upwards, the very ravens over her head seem to be 
 croaking the fatal entrance of Duncan under her battle- 
 ments. 
 The meet- The Stage of Temptation cannot be considered complete 
 ^wardl"' without taking in that important section of the play which 
 i. V, from intervenes between the meeting of the two personages. after 
 55 . • vii. jjjgjj. separate temptations and the accomplishment of the 
 treason. This is essentially a period of suspense, and ac- 
 cordingly exhibits Macbeth at his weakest. As he enters 
 his castle his tell-tale face is as a book where men may 
 read strange matters; and his utter powerlessness of self- 
 contror throws upon his wife's firm will the strongest of all 
 strains, that of infusing her own tenacity into a vacillating 
 ally. I have already dealt with the point at which Macbeth's 
 suspense becomes intolerable, and he leaves the supper-table ; 
 and I have drawn attention to the eminently practical nature 
 of his thoughts even at this crisis. The scene which follows, 
 when his wife labours to hold him to the enterprise he has 
 undertaken, illustrates perhaps better than any other incident 
 in the play how truly this practical bent is the key to Mac- 
 beth's whole character. At first he takes high ground, and 
 rests his hesitation on considerations of gratitude. Lady 
 Macbeth appeals to consistency, to their mutual love, and, 
 her anger beginning to rise at this wavering of will in a 
 critical moment, she taunts her husband with cowardice. 
 Then it is that Macbeth, irritated in his turn, speaks the 
 noble words that have done so much to gain him a place in 
 the army of martyrs to wifely temptations. 
 
 Prithee, peace: 
 I dare do all that may become a man ; 
 Who dares do more is none. 
 
THE CONTRAST TRACED THROUGH THE ACTION. 1 6 1 
 
 But it is difficult to share Macbeth's self-deception long. At Chap. VII. 
 his wife's reminder how he had been the one to first moot 
 the undertaking, and swear to it in spite of overwhelming ob- 
 stacles, already the noble attitude looks more like the sour 
 grapes morality of the man who begins to feel indignation 
 against sin at the precise moment when the sin becomes 
 dangerous. And the whole truth comes sneaking out at 
 Macbeth's next rejoinder : ' If we should fail I ' Here is 
 the critical point of the scene. At its beginning Macbeth is i. vii, from 
 for abandoning the treason, at its end he prepares for his '" 
 task of murder with animation : where does the change 
 come ? The practical man is nerved by having the practical 
 details supplied to him. Lady Macbeth sketches a feasible 
 scheme : how that the King will be wearied, his chamberlains 
 can by means of the banquet be easily drugged, their con- 
 fusion on waking can be interpreted as guilt — before she has 
 half done her husband interrupts her with a burst of en- 
 thusiasm, and completes her scheme for her. The man who 
 had thought it was manliness that made him shrink from 
 murder henceforward never hesitates till he has plunged his 
 dagger in his sovereign's bosom. 
 
 In the perpetration of the Deed itself we have the woman The Deed. 
 passing from weakness to strength, the man from strength to J^ |j ^' 
 weakness. To Lady Macbeth this actual contact with a deed 
 of blood is the severest point of the strain, the part most 
 abhorrent to her more delicate nature. For a single moment 
 she feels herself on the verge of the madness which eventually 
 comes upon her : 
 
 These deeds must not be thought ii. ii. 33. 
 
 After these ways ; so, it will make us mad ! 
 
 And at the beginning of the scene she has been obliged to 
 have recourse to stimulants in order to brace her failing 
 nerves : 
 
 That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold. ii. ii. 1. 
 M 
 
l62 MACBETH. 
 
 Chap. VII. And in part the attempt to bring her delicate nature to the 
 
 repugnant deed does fail. It is clear that, knowing how 
 
 little her husband could be depended upon, she had intended 
 
 to have a hand in the murder itself : 
 
 i. vii. 69 ; What cannot you and I perform npon 
 
 compare The unguarded Duncan ? 
 
 1. V. 68. 
 
 But the will which was strong enough to hold down con- 
 science gave way for a moment before an instinct of feminine 
 
 tenderness : -.t j t .. t, j 
 
 ii. ii. 13. Had he not resembled 
 
 My father as he slept, I had done't. 
 
 The superiority, however, of the intellectual mind is seen in 
 this, that it can nerve itself from its own agitation, it can 
 draw strength out of the weakness surrounding it, or out of 
 the necessities of the situation : musl is the most powerful of 
 spells to a trained will. And so it is that Lady Macbeth rises 
 to the occasion when her husband fails. At first Macbeth in 
 the perpetration of the murder appears in his proper sphere 
 of action, and we have already noticed how the Dagger 
 Soliloquy shows no shrinking, but rather excitement on the 
 side of exultation. The change in him comes with a moment 
 of suspense, caused by the momentary waking of the grooms : 
 ii. ii. 24. ' I stood and heard them.' With this, no longer sustained 
 by action, he utterly breaks down under the unfamiliar terrors 
 of a fight with his conscience. His prayer sticks in his throat ; 
 his thoughts seem so vivid that his wife can hardly tell whether 
 he did not take them for a real voice outside him. 
 
 Who was it that thus cried ? Why, worthy thane, 
 You do unbend your noble strength, to think 
 So brainsickly of things. 
 
 In his agitation he forgets the plan of action, brings away 
 the daggers instead of leaving them with the grooms, and 
 finally dares not return to finish what he has left uncompleted. 
 And accordingly his wife has to make another demand upon 
 her overwrought nature : with one hysterical jest, 
 
THE CONTRAST TRACED THROUGH THE ACTION. 163 
 
 If he do bleed, Chap. VII. 
 
 I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal, 
 
 For it must seem their guilt, 
 
 her nature rallies, and the strength derived from the inner 
 life fills up a gap in action where the mere strength of action 
 had failed. 
 
 The Concealment of the murder forms a stage of the The first 
 action which falls into two different parts : the single effort ^c°ncea{- 
 which faces the first shock of discovery, and the very different ment. ii. 
 strain required to meet the slowly gathering evidence of guilt. '"' ^°'^ ' 
 In the Scene of the Discovery Macbeth is perfectly at home : 
 energetic action is needed, and he is dealing with men. His 
 acted innocence appears to me better than his wife's ; Lady 
 Macbeth goes near to suggesting a personal interest in the 
 crime by her over-anxiety to disclaim it. 
 
 Macduff. O Banquo, Banqno, 
 
 Our royal master 's murder'd I 
 Lady M. Woe, alas ! 
 
 What, in our house? 
 'M. Too cruel anywhere. 
 
 Yet in this scene, as everywhere else, the weak points in 
 Macbeth's character betray him : for one moment he is left 
 to himself, and that moment's suspense ruins the whole 
 episode. In the most natural manner in the world Macbeth 
 had, on hearing the announcement, rushed with Lennox to the 
 scene of the murder. Lennox quitted the chamber of blood 
 first, and for an instant Macbeth was alone, facing the grooms 
 still heavy with their drugged sleep, and knowing that in 
 another moment they would be aroused and telling their 
 tale : the sense of crisis proves too much for him, and under 
 an ungovernable impulse he stabs them. He thus wrecks 
 the whole scheme. How perfectly Lady Macbeth's plan 
 would have served if it had been left to itself is shown by 
 Lennox's account of what he had seen, and how the grooms 
 
 stared, and were distracted ; no man's life 
 Was to be trusted with them. 
 M 2 
 
l64 MACBETH. 
 
 Chap. VII. Nothing, it is true, can be finer than the way in which Mac- 
 beth seeks to cover his mistake and announces what he has 
 done. But in spite of his briUiant outburst, 
 
 Who can be wise, amazed, temperate and furious, 
 Loyal and neutral, in a moment? 
 
 and his vivid word-picture of his supposed sensations, his 
 
 efforts are in vain, and at the end of his speech we feel that 
 
 there has arisen in the company of nobles the indescribable 
 
 effect known as ' a sensation,' and we listen for some one to 
 
 speak some word that shall be irrevocable. The crisis is 
 
 ii. iii. 124. acute, but Lady Macbeth comes to the rescue and faints ! 
 
 It matters little whether we suppose the fainting assumed, 
 
 or that she yields to the agitation she has been fighting 
 
 against so long. The important point is that she chooses 
 
 this exact moment for giving way : she holds out to the end 
 
 of her husband's speech, then falls with a cry for help ; there 
 
 is at once a diversion, and she is carried out. But the crisis 
 
 ii. iii. 132. has passed, and a moment's consideration has suggested to 
 
 the nobles the wisdom of adjourning for a fitter occasion the 
 
 enquiry into the murder they all suspect : before that occasion 
 
 ii. iv. 24- arrives the flight of the king's sons has diverted suspicion into 
 
 ^^' an entirely new channel. Lady Macbeth's fainting saved her 
 
 husband. 
 The long To convey dramatically the continuous strain of keeping 
 c''""al- ^P 3-PPca-rances in face of steadily accumulating suspicion is 
 ment. iii. more difficult than to depict a single crisis. Shakespeare 
 '■ "■ manages it in the present case chiefly by presenting Macbeth 
 
 to us on the eve of an important council, at which the whole 
 truth is likely to come out. 
 
 iii. i. 30. We hear, our bloody cousins are bestowed 
 
 In England and in Ireland, not confessing 
 Their cruel parricide, filling their hearers 
 With strange invention : but of that to-morrow. 
 
 It is enough to note here that Macbeth takes the step — the 
 fatal step, as was pointed out in the last study — of contriving 
 
THE CONTRAST TRACED THROUGH THE ACTION. 1 65 
 
 Banquo's murder simply because he cannot face the suspense Chap. VII. 
 
 of waiting for the morrow, and hearing the defence of the 
 
 innocent princes made in presence of Banquo, who knows 
 the inducement he had to such a deed. That he feels the 
 danger of the crime, which nevertheless he cannot hold him- 
 self back from committing, is clear from the fact that he will 
 not submit it to the calmer judgment of his wife. The con- iii. ii. 45. 
 trast of the two characters appears here as everywhere. Lady 
 Macbeth can wait for an opportunity of freeing themselves 
 from Banquo : 
 
 Macb. Thou know'st that Banquo, and his Fleance, lives. iii- ii- 3?. 
 
 Lady M. But in them nature's copy 's not eterne. 
 
 To Macbeth the one thing impossible is to wait ; and once 
 more his powerlessness to control suspense is his ruin. 
 
 We have reviewed the contrasted characters under Tempta- The first 
 tion, in the Deed of sin itself, and in the struggle for Conceal- ■^'"^* °J 
 ment : it remains to watch them face to face with their iii. iv. 
 Nemesis. In the present play Shakespeare has combined the 
 nemesis which takes the form of a sudden shock with the yet 
 severer nemesis of a hopeless resistance through the stages of 
 a protracted fall. The first Shock of Nemesis comes in the 
 Banquet Scene. Macbeth has surrendered himself to the 
 supernatural, and from the supernatural his retribution comes. 
 This is not the place to draw out the terrible force of this 
 famous scene ; for its bearing on the contrast of character 
 under delineation it is to be remarked that Macbeth faces his 
 ghostly visitation with unflinching courage, yet without a 
 shadow of doubt as to the reality of what nevertheless no one 
 sees but himself. Lady Macbeth is equally true to her 
 character, and fights on to the last in the now hopeless 
 contest — her double task of keeping up appearances for her- 
 self and for her husband. Her keen tact in dealing with 
 Macbeth is to be noted. At first she rallies him angrily, and 
 seeks to shame him into self-command; a moment shows 
 
l66 MACBETH. 
 
 Chap. VII. that he is too far gone to be reached by such motives. In- 
 
 stantly she changes her tactics, and, employing a device so 
 
 often effective with patients of disordered brain, she en- 
 deavours to recall him to his senses by assuming an ordinary 
 tone of voice ; hitherto she has whispered, now, in the hear- 
 ing of all, she makes the practical remark : 
 iii. iv. 83. My worthy lord. 
 
 Your noble friends do lack yon. 
 
 The device proves successful, his nerves respond to the tone 
 of everyday life, and recovering himself he uses all his skill 
 of deportment to efface the strangeness of the episode, until 
 the reappearance of his victim plunges the scene in confusion 
 past recovery. In the moment of crisis Lady Macbeth had 
 used roughness to rouse her husband ; when the courtiers 
 
 iii. iv, from are gone she is all tenderness. She utters not a word of re- 
 
 '^^" proach : perhaps she is herself exhausted by the strain she has 
 
 gone through ; more probably the womanly solicitude for the 
 physical sufferer thinks only how to procure for her husband 
 ' the season of all natures, sleep.' 
 
 The full At last the end comes. The final stage, like the first is 
 brought to the two personages separately. Lady Macbeth 
 has faced every crisis by sheer force of nerve ; the nemesis 
 
 V. i. comes upon her fitly in madness, the brain giving way under 
 
 the strain of contest which her will has forced upon it. In 
 the delirium of her last appearance before us we can trace 
 three distinct tones of thought working into one another as if 
 in some weird harmony. There is first the mere reproduction 
 of the horrible scenes she has passed through. 
 
 One : two : why then 'tis time to do 't. . . . Yet who would have 
 thought the old man to have had so much blood in him. . . . The thane 
 of Fife had a mfe : where is she now ? 
 
 Again there is an inner thought contending with the first, the 
 struggle to keep her husband from betraying himself by his 
 irresolution. 
 No more o' that, my lord, no more o' that : you mar all with this 
 
THE CONTRAST TRA CED THROUGH THE ACTION. 167 
 
 starting. . . . Wash your hands, put on your night-gown ; look not so Chap. VII 
 pale. ... Fie ! a soldier and afear'd ? 
 
 And there is an inmost thought of all; the uprising of her 
 feminine nature against the foulness of the violent deed. 
 
 Out, damn'd spot ! . . . Here 's the smell of blood still : all the per- 
 fumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand— 
 
 and the ' sorely charged heart ' vents itself in a sigh which 
 the attendants shudder to hear. On Macbeth Nemesis heaps 
 itself in double form. The purely practical man, without 
 resources in himself, finds nemesis in an old age that receives 
 no honour from others. 
 
 My way of life v. iii. 22. 
 
 Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf; 
 And that which should accompany old age, 
 As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, 
 I must not look to have, but, in their stead, 
 Curses, not loud, but deep. 
 
 Again, as the drunkard finds his refuge in drink, so the 
 victim of superstition longs for deeper draughts of the super- 
 natural. Macbeth seeks the Witches, forces himself to hear iv. i. 
 the worst, and suffers nemesis in anticipation in viewing 
 future generations which are to see his foes on his throne, iv. i. 11 o- 
 Finally from the supernatural comes the climax of retribution '25' 
 when Macbeth is seen resting in unquestioning reliance on an from iv. i. 
 ironical oracle : till the shock of revelation comes, the pledge 
 of his safety is converted into t6e sign of his doom, and the 3,' . -^ yj;; 
 , brave Macbeth, hero of a hundred battles, throws down his ^^om 13. 
 sword and refuses to fight. ^' ^'"" "• 
 
VIII. 
 
 Julius Caesar beside his Murderers 
 AND Kis Avenger. 
 
 A Study in Character-Grouping. 
 
 Ch. VIII. TT VERY lover of art feels that the different fine arts form 
 
 CharacUr- 
 
 H. VIII. T~^ "^ 
 
 , 1 ^ not a crowd but a family ; the more familiar the mind 
 
 'Grouping, becomes with them the more it delights to trace in them the 
 application of common ideas to different media of expression. 
 We are reminded of this essential unity by the way in which the 
 arts borrow their terms from one another. ' Colour ' is applied 
 to music, ' tone ' to painting ; we speak of costume as ' loud,' 
 of melody as ' bright,' of orchestration as ' massive ' ; ' fragrance ' 
 was applied by Schumann to Liszt's playing. Two classes 
 of oratorical style have been distinguished as ' statuesque ' 
 and ' picturesque ' ; while the application of a musical term, 
 'harmony,' and a term of sculpture, 'relief,' to all the arts 
 alike is so common that the transference is scarcely felt. 
 Such usages are not the devices of a straitened vocabulary, 
 but are significant of a single Art which is felt to underlie 
 the special arts. So the more Drama is brought by criticism 
 into the family of the fine arts the more it will be seen to 
 present the common features. We have already had to 
 notice repeatedly how the idea of pattern or design is the 
 key to dramatic plot. We are in the present study to see how 
 contrast of character, such as was traced in the last study 
 between Lord and Lady Macbeth, when applied to a larger 
 number of personages, produces an effect on the mind 
 analogous to that of grouping in pictures and statuary : the 
 different personages not only present points of contrast with 
 
INDIVIDUALITY AND PUBLIC LIFE. 169 
 
 one another, but their varieties suddenly fall into a unity of Ch. VIII. 
 effect if looked at from some one point of view. An example 
 of such Character-Grouping is seen in the play of Julius grouping 
 CcBsar, where the four leading fiffures, all on the sriandest ^njultus 
 
 , , , , r , ? , , . CcBsar rests 
 
 scale, have the elements of their characters thrown mto on the anti- 
 relief by comparison with one another, and the contrast tliesisoftlu 
 
 practical 
 
 Stands out boldly when the four are reviewed in relation and inner 
 to one single idea. ^'f'- 
 
 This idea is the same as that which lay at the root of the 
 Character-Contrast in Macbeth — the antithesis of the practical 
 and inner life. It is, however, applied in a totally different 
 sphere. Instead of a simple age in which the lives coincide 
 with the sexes we are carried to the other extreme of civilisa- \ 
 tion, the final age of Roman liberty, and all four personages 
 are merged in the busy world of political life. Naturally, then, 
 the contrast of the two lives takes in this play a different 
 form. In the play of Macbeth the inner life was seen in the This takes 
 force of will which could hold down alike bad and good J^^^^^ 
 impulses ; while the outer life was made interesting by its sympathies 
 confinement to the training given by action, and an exhi- Ig^"y 
 bition of it devoid of the thoughtfulness and self-control for 
 which the life of activity has to draw upon the inner life. 
 But there is another aspect in which the two may be re- 
 garded. The idea of the inner life is reflected in the word 
 ' individuality,' or that which a man has not in common with 
 others. The cultivation of the inner life implies not merely 
 cultivation of our own individuality, but to it also belongs 
 sympathy with the individuality of others; whereas in the 
 sphere of practical life men fall into classes, and each 
 person has his place as a member of these classes. Thus 
 benevolence may take the form of enquiring into indi- 
 vidual wants and troubles and meeting these by personal 
 assistance; but a man has an equal claim to be called 
 benevolent who appUes himself to such sciences as political 
 economy, studies the springs which regulate human society, 
 
1^0 JULIUS C/ESAR. 
 
 Ch. VIII. and by influencing these in the right direction confers 
 
 benefits upon whole classes at a time. Charity and political 
 
 science are the two forms benevolence assumes correspon- 
 dent to the inner life of individual sympathies and the outer 
 life of public action. Or, if we consider the contrast from 
 the side of rights as distinguished from duties, the supreme 
 form in which the rights of individuals may be summed 
 up is justice; the corresponding claim which public life 
 makes upon us is (in the highest sense of the term) policy : 
 wherever these two, justice and policy, seem to clash, the outer 
 and inner life are brought into conflict. It is in this form 
 that the conflict is raised in the play of Julius CcEsar. To 
 get it in its full force, the dramatist goes to the world of 
 antiquity, for one of the leading distinctions between ancient 
 and modern society is that the modern world gives the fullest 
 play to the individual, while in ancient systems the individual 
 was treated as existing solely for the state. ' Liberty ' has 
 been a watchword in both ages ; but while we mean by liberty 
 the least amount of interference with personal activity, the 
 liberty for which ancient patriots contended was freedom of 
 the government from external or internal control, and the 
 ideal republic of Plato was so contrived as to reduce indi- 
 vidual liberty to a minimum. And this subordination of 
 private to public was most fully carried out in Rome. ' The 
 common weal,' says Merivale, ' was after all the grand object 
 of the heroes of Roman story. Few of the renowned heroes 
 of old had attained their eminence as public benefactors 
 without steeling their hearts against the purest instincts of 
 nature. The deeds of a Brutus or a Manlius, of a Sulla 
 or a Caesar, would have been branded as crimes in private 
 citizens: it was the public character of the actors that 
 stamped them with immortal glory in the eyes of their 
 countrymen.' Accordingly, the opposition of outer and 
 inner life is brought before us most keenly when, in Roman 
 life, a public policy, the cause of republican freedom, seems 
 
CHARACTER OF BRUTUS. 171 
 
 to be bound up with the supreme crime against justice and Ch. VIII. 
 
 the rights of the individual, assassination. J T^f" 
 
 Brutus is the central figure of the group : in his charact er mutuh 
 
 the two sides are so balanced that the antithesis disappears. '"■''■''<^'^*"' 
 
 r-r so evenly 
 
 This evenness of development in his nature is the thought oi developed 
 those who in the play gather around his corpse ; giving ^^^f^ff^'^is 
 prominence to the quality in Brutus hidden from the casual disappears. 
 observer they say : 
 
 His life was gentle ; and the elements v. v. 73. 
 
 So mix'd in him that Nature might stand up 
 And say to all the world ' This was a man ! ' 
 
 Of another it would be said that he was a poet, a philoso- 
 pher ; of Brutus the only true description was that he was a 
 man 1 It is in very few characters that force and softness 
 are each carried to such perfection. The strong side oi Force of his 
 Brutus's character is that which has given to the whole play '^^"''^"■'^^"'■ 
 its characteristic tone. It is seen in the way in which he 
 appreciates the issue at stake. Weak men sin by hiding from 
 themselves what it is they do ; Brutus is fully alive to the 
 foulness of conspiracy at the moment in which he is con- 
 spiring. 
 
 O conspiracy, ii. i. 77. 
 
 Shamest thou to show thy dangerous brow by night, 
 
 When evils are most free ? O, then by day 
 
 Where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough 
 
 To mask thy monstrous visage ? 
 
 His high tone he carries into the darkest scenes of the play. 
 The use of criminal means has usually an intoxicating effect 
 upon the moral sense, and suggests to those once committed 
 to it that it is useless to haggle over the amount of the crime 
 until the end be obtained. Brutus resists this intoxication, 
 setting his face against the proposal to include Antony in ii. i. 162. 
 Caesar's fate, and resolving that not one life shall be unneces- 
 sarily sacrificed. He scorns the refuge of suicide ; and with '■ 
 warmth adjures his comrades not to stain — 
 
1^2 JULIUS CMSAR. 
 
 Ch. VIII. The even virtue of our enterprise, 
 Nor the insuppressive mettle of our spirits, 
 
 ii. i. 114. To think that or our cause or our performance 
 
 Did need an oath ; when every drop of blood 
 That every Roman bears, and nobly bears. 
 Is guilty of- a several bastardy. 
 If he do break the smallest particle 
 Of any promise that hath pass'd from him. 
 
 The scale of Brutus's character is again brought out by his 
 relations with other personages of the play. Casca, with all 
 his cynical depreciation of others, has to bear unqualified 
 testimony to Brutus's greatness : 
 
 i. iii. 157. O, he sits high in all the people's hearts; 
 
 And that which would appear offence in us. 
 His countenance, like richest alchemy, 
 Will change to virtue and to worthiness. 
 
 ii. i, fin. We see Ligarius coming from a sick-bed to join in he knows 
 not what : ' it sufficeth that Brutus leads me on.' And the 
 hero's own thought, when at the point of death he pauses to 
 take a moment's survey of his whole life, is of the unfailing 
 
 V. V. 34. power with which he has swayed the hearts of all around 
 
 him : 
 
 My heart doth joy that yet in all my life 
 I found no man but he was true to me. 
 
 Above all, contact with Cassius throws into relief the great- 
 
 i. ii. ness of Brutus. At the opening of the play it is Cassius that 
 
 we associate with the idea of force ; but his is the ruling 
 
 mind only while Brutus is hesitating ; as soon as Brutus has 
 
 thrown in his lot with the conspirators, Cassius himself is 
 
 swept along with the current of Brutus's irresistible influence. 
 
 Cf. ii. i. In the councils every point is decided — and, so far as success 
 
 XiXi^ixo- ^® concerned, wrongly decided — against Cassius's better judg- 
 
 146,231- ment. In the sensational moment when Popilius Lena enters 
 
 nt^ioe- ^^® Senate-house and is seen to whisper Caesar, Cassius's 
 
 235, &c. presence of mind fails him, and he prepares in despair for 
 
 iii. i. 19. suicide ; Brutus retains calmness enough to watch faces : 
 
CHARACTER OF BRUTUS. 173 
 
 Cassius, be constant : Ch. VIII. 
 
 Popilius Lena speaks not of our purposes; 
 
 For, look, he smiles, and Csesar doth not change. 
 
 In the Quarrel Scene Cassius has lost all pretensions to iv. iii. 
 dignity of action in the impatience sprung from a ruined 
 cause ; Brutus maintains principle in despair. Finally, at the 
 close of the scene, when it is discovered that under all the 
 hardness of this contest for principle Brutus has been hiding iv. iii, from 
 a heart broken by the loss of Portia, Cassius is forced to give ^*'^' 
 way and acknowledge Brutus's superiority to himself even in 
 his own ideal of impassiveness : 
 
 I have as much of this in art as you, iv. iii. 194. 
 
 But yet my nature could not bear it so. 
 
 The force in Brutus's character is obvious : it is rather its Its softness. 
 softer side that some readers find difficulty in seeing. But this 
 difficulty is in reality a testimony to Shakespeare's skill, for 
 Brutus is a Stoic, and what gentleness we see in him appears 
 in spite of himself. It may be seen in his culture of art, 
 music, and philosophy, which have such an effect in softening 
 the manners. Nor is this in the case of the Roman Brutus 
 a mere conventional culture : these tastes are among his 
 strongest passions. When all is confusion around him on the 
 eve of the fatal battle he cannot restrain his longing for the iv. iii. 256. 
 refreshing tones of his page's lyre ; and, the music over, he 
 takes up his philosophical treatise at the page he had turned 
 down. Again Brutus's considerateness for his dependants is iv. iii. 24a. 
 in strong contrast with the harshness of Roman masters. 
 On the same eve of the battle he insists that the men who 
 watch in his tent shall lie down instead of standing as dis- 
 cipline would require. An exquisite little episode brings out iv.iii,from 
 Brutus's sweetness of demeanour in dealing with his youthful ^S^- 
 page; this rises to womanly tenderness at the end when, 
 noticing how the boy, wearied out and fallen asleep, is lying 
 in a position to injure his instrument, he rises and disengages 
 it without waking him. 
 
174 JULIUS C^SAR. 
 
 Ch. VIII. Bru. Look, Lucius, here's the book I sought for so; 
 I put it in the pocket of my gown. 
 
 Luc. I was sure your lordship did not give it me. 
 
 Bru. Bear with me, good boy ; I am much forgetful. 
 Can'st thou hold up thy heavy eyes awhile, 
 And touch thy instrument a strain or two? 
 
 Luc. Ay, my lord, an't please yon. 
 
 Bru. It does, my boy : 
 
 I trouble tliee too much, but thou art willing. 
 
 Luc. It is my duty, sir. 
 
 Bru. I should not urge thy duty past thy might ; 
 I know young bloods look for a time of rest. 
 
 Luc. I have slept my lord, already. 
 
 Bru. It was well done; and thou shalt sleep again; 
 I will not hold thee long: if I do live 
 I will be good to thee. {Music and a song. 
 
 This is a sleepy tune. O murderous slumber, 
 Lay'st thou thy leaden mace upon my boy. 
 That plays thee music? Gentle knave, good night; 
 I will not do thee so much wrong to wake thee. — 
 If thou dost nod, thou break'st thy instrument ; 
 I'll take it from thee ; and, good boy, good night. 
 
 ii. i, from Brutus's relations with Portia bear the same testimony. 
 
 ^33- Portia is a woman with as high a spirit as Lady Macbeth, 
 
 and she can inflict a wound on herself to prove her courage 
 and her right to share her husband's secrets. But she lacks 
 the physical nerve of Lady Macbeth ; her agitation on the 
 
 ii. iv. morning of the assassination threatens to betray the con- 
 
 spirators, and when these have to flee from Rome the 
 suspense is too much for her and she commits suicide. 
 Brutus knew his wife better than she knew herself, and was 
 right in seeking to withhold the fatal confidence; yet he 
 allowed himself to be persuaded : no man would be so 
 swayed by a tender woman unless he had a tender spirit of 
 his own. Li all these ways we may trace an extreme of 
 
 This is gentleness in Brutus. But it is of the essence of his character 
 
 concealed ^j^^j. ^jjjg softer side is concealed behind an imperturbability 
 
 under stoic ^ 
 
 imper- of outward demeanour that belongs to his stoic religion : 
 turbabihty. jj^jg struggle between inward and outward is the main feature 
 
CHARACTER OF BRUTUS. 175 
 
 for the actor to bring out. It is a master stroke of Shake- Ch. VIII. 
 speare that he utilises the euphuistic prose of his age to 
 express impassiveness in Brutus's oration. The greatest iii. ii, from 
 man of the world has just been assassinated; the mob are ^'^' 
 swaying with fluctuating passions ; the subtlest orator of his 
 day is at hand to turn those passions into the channel of 
 vengeance for his friend: Brutus called on amid such sur- 
 roundings to speak for the conspirators still maintains the 
 artificial style of carefully balanced sentences, such as 
 emotionless rhetoric builds up in the quiet of a study. 
 
 As Caesar loved me, I weep for him ; as he was fortunate, I rejoice 
 at it ; as he was valiant, I honour him : but, as he was ambitious, I slew 
 him. There is tears for his love; joy for his fortune; honour for his 
 valour ; and death for his ambition. 
 
 Brutus's nature then is developed on all its sides ; in his The anti- 
 character the antithesis of the outer and inner life disappears, '''/f" ^^' 
 
 '^^ appears for 
 
 It reappears, however, in the action ; for Brutus is compelled Brutus in 
 
 to balance a weighty issue, with publit policy on the one *l^f ^f^"*^- 
 side, and on the other, not only justice to individual claims, 
 but further the claims of friendship, which is one of the 
 fairest flowers of the inner life. And the balance dips to 
 the wrong side. If the question were of using the weapon 
 of assassination against a criminal too high for the ordinary 
 law to reach, this would be a moral problem which, how- 
 ever doubtful to modern thought, would have been readily 
 decided by a Stoic. But the question which presented 
 itself to Brutus was distinctly not this. Shakespeare has ii. i. 18-34. 
 been careful to represent Bfutus as admitting to himself 
 that Caesar has done no wrong : he slays him for what he 
 might do. 
 
 The abuse of greatness is, when it disjoins 
 Remorse from power: and, to speak truth of Ceesar, 
 f have not known when his affections swafd 
 More than his reason. But 'tis a common proof. 
 That lowliness is young ambition's ladder, 
 Whereto the climber-upward turns his face; 
 
176 JULIUS C^SAR. 
 
 Ch. VIII. But when he once attains the upmost round, 
 
 He then unto the ladder turns his back, 
 
 Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees 
 
 By which he did ascend. So Csesar may. 
 
 Then, lest he may, prevent. And since the quarrel 
 
 Will bear no colour for the thing he is, 
 
 Fashion it thus; that what he is, augmented, 
 
 Would run to these and these extremities : 
 
 And therefore think him as a serpent's egg 
 
 Which hatch'd, would, as his kind, grow mischievous. 
 
 And kill him in the shell. 
 
 It is true that Shakespeare, with his usual ' dramatic hedging,' 
 softens down this immoral bias in a great hero by represent- 
 ing him as both a Roman, of the nation which beyond all 
 other nations exalted the state over the individual, and a 
 compare Brutus, representative of the house which had risen to great- 
 1- "• 159- jjgss ^jy leading violence against tyranny. But, Brutus's own 
 conscience being judge, the man against whom he moves is 
 guildess ; and so the conscious sacrifice of justice and friend- 
 ship to policy is a fatal error which is source sufficient for the 
 whole tragedy of which Brutus is the hero. 
 Ccesar-.dis- The character of Csesar is one of the most difficult in 
 crepannes Shakespeare. Under the influence of some of his speeches 
 racter to be we find ourselves in the presence of one of the master spirits 
 reconcile . ^j- uj^nkind ; other scenes in which he plays a leading part 
 breathe nothing but the feeblest vacillation and weakness. 
 It is the business of Character-Interpretation to harmonise 
 this contradiction ; it is not interpretation at all to ignore one 
 side of it and be content with describing Csesar as vacillating. 
 The force and strength of his. character is seen in the im- 
 pression he makes upon forceful and strong men. The 
 attitude of Brutus to Csesar seems throughout to be that of 
 looking up ; and notably at one point the thought of Csesar's 
 greatness seems to cast a lurid gleam over the assassination 
 plot itself, and Brutus feels that the grandeur of the victim 
 gives a dignity to the crime : 
 ii. i. 173. Let's carve him as a dish fit for the gods. 
 
CHARACTER OF C^SAR. 177 
 
 The strength and force of Antony again no one will ques- Ch. VIII. 
 
 tion ; and Antony, at the moment when he is alone with the 
 
 corpse of Csesar and can have no motive for hypocrisy, 
 apostrophises it in the words — 
 
 Thou art the ruins of the noblest man iii. i. 256. 
 
 That ever lived in the tide of times. 
 
 And we see enough of Caesar in the play to bear out the 
 opinions of Brutus and Antony. Those who accept vacilla- 
 tion as sufficient description of Caesar's character must ex- 
 plain his strong speeches as vaunting and self-assertion. But 
 surely it must be possible for dramatic language to distinguish 
 between the true and the assumed force ; and equally surely 
 there is a genuine ring in the speeches in which Caesar's 
 heroic spirit, shut out from the natuial sphere of action in 
 which it has been so often proved, leaps restlessly at every 
 opportunity into pregnant words. We may thus feel certain 
 of his lofty physical courage. 
 
 Cowards die many times before their deaths ; ii. ii. 32. 
 
 The valiant never taste of death but once. 
 
 Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, 
 
 It seems to me most strange that men should fear . . . 
 
 Danger knows full well ii. ii. 44. 
 
 That Coesar is more dangerous than he : 
 We are two lions litter'd in one day. 
 And I the elder and more terrible. 
 
 A man must have felt the thrill of courage in search of its 
 food, danger, before his self-assertion finds language of this 
 kind in which to express itself. In another scene we have 
 the perfect fortiter in re and suaviter in modo of the trained 
 statesman exhibited in the courtesy with which Caesar receives ii. ii, from 
 the conspirators, combined with his perfect readiness to ' tell ^' ' 
 graybeards the truth.' Nor could imperial firmness be more iii. i. 3c. 
 ideally painted than in the way in which Caesar ' prevents ' 
 Cimber's intercession. „ ^ . , 
 
 Be not lond, 
 To think that Caesar bears such rebel blood 
 
178 
 
 JULIUS CMSAR. 
 
 Ch. VIII. 
 
 Reconcili- 
 ation : 
 CcEsar tke 
 highest 
 type of the 
 practical ; 
 
 but lacking 
 
 in the inner 
 
 life. 
 
 i. ii. 100- 
 
 128. 
 
 That will be thaw'd from the true quality 
 
 With that which melteth fools ; I mean, sweet words, 
 
 Low-crooked court'sies, and base spaniel-fawning. 
 
 Thy brother by decree is banished : 
 
 If thou dost bend and pray and fawn for him, 
 
 I spurn thee like a cur out of my way. 
 
 Know, Caesar doth not wrong, nor without cause 
 
 Will he be satisfied. 
 
 Commonplace authority loudly proclaims that it will never 
 relent : the true imperial spirit feels it a preliminary condition 
 to see first that it never does wrong. 
 
 It is the antithesis of the outer and inner life that explains 
 this contradiction in Csesar's character. Like Macbeth, he is 
 the embodiment of one side and one side only of the anti- 
 thesis ; he is the complete type of the practical — though in 
 special qualities he is as unlike Macbeth as his age is unlike 
 Macbeth's age. Accordingly Caesar appears before us perfect 
 up to the point where his own personality comes in. The 
 military and political spheres, in which he has been such a 
 colossal figure, call forth practical powers, and do not in- 
 volve introspection and meditation on foundation principles 
 
 of thought. 
 
 Theirs not to reason why : 
 Theirs but to do. 
 
 The tasks of the soldier and the statesman are imposed upon 
 them by external authority and necessities, and the faculties 
 exercised are those which shape means to ends. But at last 
 Caesar comes to a crisis that does involve his personality ; he 
 attempts a task imposed on him by his own ambition. He 
 plays in a game of which the prize is the world and the 
 stake himself, and to estimate chances in such a game tests 
 self-knowledge and self-cornmand to its depths. How want- 
 ing Caesar is in the cultivation of the inner life is brought out 
 by his contrast with Cassius. The incidents of the flood and 
 the fever, retained by the memory of Cassius, illustrate this. 
 The first of these was no mere swimming-match ; the flood 
 in the Tiber was such as to reduce to nothing the diff'erence 
 
CHARACTER OF C/ESAR. 179 
 
 between one swimmer and another. It was a trial of nerve : Ch. VIII. 
 and as long as action was possible Csesar was not only as 
 brave as Cassius, but was the one attracted by the danger, i. ii. 102. 
 Then some chance wave or cross current renders his chance 
 of life hopeless, and no buffeting with lusty sinews is of any 
 avail ; that is the point at which the passive courage born of 
 the inner life comes in, and gives strength to submit to the 
 inevitable in calmness. This Caesar lacks, and he calls for 
 rescue : Cassius would have felt the water close over him and 
 have sunk to the bottom and died rather than accept aid from 
 his rival. In like manner the sick bed is a region in which 
 the highest physical and intellectual activity is helpless ; the 
 trained self-control of a Stoic may have a sphere for exercise 
 even here ; but the god Caesar shakes, and cries for drink 
 like a sick girl. It is interesting to note how the two types The con- 
 of mind, when brought into personal contact, jar upon one "yl^Xtout 
 another's self-consciousness. The intellectual man, judging by personal 
 the man of action by the test of mutual intercourse, sees ^J^"^ 
 nothing to explain the other's greatness, and wonders what Cassias. 
 people find in him that they so admire him and submit to his 
 influence. On the other hand, the man of achievement is 
 uneasily conscious of a sort of superiority in one whose intel- 
 lectual aims and habits he finds it so difiicult to follow — yet 
 superiority it is not, for what has he done ? Shakespeare has 
 illustrated this in the play by contriving to bring Csesar and 
 his suite across the 'public place' in which Cassius is dis- i. "• 182- 
 coursing to Brutus. Cassius feels the usual irritation at ^' 
 being utterly unable to find in his old acquaintance any 
 special qualities to explain his elevation. 
 
 Now, in the names of all the gods at once, i. ii. 148. 
 
 Upon what nieat doth this our Csesar feed, 
 That he is grown so great ? 
 
 Similarly Csesar, as he casts a passing glance at Cassius, be- 
 comes at once uneasy. ' He thinks too much,' is the ex- 
 clamation of the man of action : 
 
 N 2 
 
i8o JULIUS CMSAR. 
 
 Ch. VIII. He loves no plays, 
 
 As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music. 
 
 The practical man, accustomed to divide mankind into a few 
 
 simple types, is always uncomfortable at finding a man he 
 
 cannot classify. Finally there is a climax to the jealousy that 
 
 exists between the two lives : Caesar complains that Cassius 
 
 ' looks quite through the deeds of men' 
 
 Achangein There is another circumstance to be taken into account in 
 
 a fhan£-ein explaining the weakness of Cassar. A change has come over 
 
 Romeitself. the spirit of Roman political life itself — such seems to be 
 
 comp. i. i, Shakespeare's conception : Caesar on his return has found 
 
 i ii. 151, ' Rome no longer the Rome he had known. Before he left 
 
 164 ; 1 iii. for Gaul, Rome had been the ideal sphere for public life, the 
 
 ill i. 66- arena in which principles alone were allowed to combat, and 
 
 70; V. V. from which the banishment of personal aims and passions 
 
 ' ' was the first condition of virtue. In his absence Rome has 
 
 gradually degenerated ; the mob has become the ruling force, 
 
 and introduced an element of uncertainty into political life ; 
 
 politics has passed from science into gambling. A new order 
 
 of public men has arisen, of which Cassius and Antony are 
 
 the types ; personal aims, personal temptations, and personal 
 
 risks are now inextricably interwoven with public action. 
 
 This is a changed order of things to which the mind of 
 
 Caesar, cast in a higher mould, lacks the power to adapt 
 
 itself His vacillation is the vacillation of unfamiliarity with 
 
 the new political conditions. He refuses the crown 'each 
 
 i. ii. 230. time gentler than the other,' showing want of decisive reading 
 
 in dealing with the fickle mob; and on his return from the 
 
 i. ii. 183. Capitol he is too untrained in hypocrisy to conceal the angry 
 
 spot upon his face ; he has tried to use the new weapons 
 
 which he does not understand, and has failed. It is a subtle 
 
 touch of Shakespeare's to the same eiFect that Caesar is 
 
 ii. i. 195. represented as having himself undergone a change of late: 
 
 For he is superstitious grown of late. 
 
 Quite from the main opinion he held once 
 
 Of fantasy, of dreams and ceremonies. 
 
C ASS/US AND ANTONY. l8l 
 
 To come back to a world of which you have mastered the Ch. VIII. 
 machinery, and to find that it is no longer governed by 
 machinery at all, that causes no longer produce their effects — 
 this, if anything, might well drive a strong intellect to super- 
 stition. And herein consists the pathos of Caesar's situation. 
 The deepest tragedy of the play is not the assassination of 
 Caesar, it is rather seen in such a speech as this of Decius : 
 
 If he be so resolved, ii. i. 202. 
 
 I can o'ersway him ; for he loves to hear 
 That unicorns may be betray'd vpith trees, 
 And bears with glasses, elephants with holes, 
 Lions with toils and men with flatterers ; 
 But when I tell him, he hates flatterers, 
 He says he does, being then most flattered. 
 
 Assassination is a less piteous thing than to see the giant 
 intellect by its very strength unable to contend against the 
 low cunning of a fifth-rate intriguer. 
 
 Such, then, appears to be Shakespeare's conception of 
 Julius Csesar. He is the consummate type of the practical : 
 emphatically the public man, complete in all the greatness 
 that belongs to action. On the other hand, the knowledge 
 of self produced by self-contemplation is wanting, and 
 so when he comes to consider the relation of his individual 
 self to the state he vacillates with the vacillation of a strong 
 man moving amongst men of whose greater, intellectual 
 subtlety he is dimly conscious : no unnatural conception for a 
 Csesar who has been founding empires abroad while his 
 fellows have been sharpening their wits in the party contests 
 of a decaying state. 
 
 The remaining members of the group are Cassius and Cassius : 
 Antony. In Cassius thought and action have been equally ^^^^"ter 
 developed, and he has the qualities belonging to both developed 
 the outer and the inner life. But the side which in Brutus jgcteTto a 
 barely preponderated, absolutely tyrannises in Cassius ; his master- 
 public life has given him a grand passion to which the whole t'hat''is dis- 
 of his nature becomes subservient. Inheriting a ' rash interested. 
 
l82 
 
 JULIUS C^SAR. 
 
 Ch. Vin. humour ' from his mother, he was specially prepared for im- 
 . ~. patience of political anomalies ; republican independence has 
 become to him an ideal dearer than life. 
 
 1. ii. 95. 
 
 I had as lief not be as live to be 
 In awe of such a thing as I myself. 
 
 ii,iii; ii. He has thus become a professional politician. 
 
 Politics is to 
 
 1. 11. 319. 
 
 IV. iii. 7, 
 29, &c. 
 
 1. 
 
 177^' him a game, and men are counters to be used ; Cassius finds 
 i. ii. 312- satisfaction in discovering that even Brutus's 'honourable 
 i!'9- metal may be wrought from that it is disposed.' He has the 
 
 politician's low view of humEin nature ; while Brutus talks of 
 principles Cassius interposes appeals to interest : he says to 
 Antony, 
 iii. i. 177. Your voice shall be as strong as any man's 
 
 In the disposing of new dignities. 
 
 His party spirit is, as usual, unscrupulous; he seeks to 
 work upon his friend's unsuspecting nobility by concocted 
 le.tters thrown in at his windows ; and in the Quarrel Scene 
 loses patience at Brutus's scruples. 
 
 I '11 not endure it : yon forget yourself, 
 To hedge me in ; I am a soldier, I, 
 Older in practice, abler than yourself 
 To make conditions. 
 
 At the same time he has a party politician's tact ; his advice 
 throughout the play is proved by the event to have been 
 right, and he does himself no more than justice when he says 
 his misgiving 'still falls shrewdly to the purpose.' 1 Antony 
 also has all the powers that belong both to the intellectual 
 and practical life ; so far as these powers are concerned, he 
 has them developed to a higher degree than even Brutus and 
 Cassius. His distinguishing mark lies in the use to which 
 these powers are put ; like Cassius, he has concentrated his 
 whole nature in one aim, but this aim is not a disinterested 
 object of public good, it is unmitigated self-seeking. Antony 
 has greatness enough to appreciate the greatness of Caesar ; 
 hence in the first half of the play he has eflfaced himself, 
 
 m. 1. 145. 
 
 Antony : 
 his whole 
 <haracter 
 developed 
 and sub ■ 
 jected to 
 selfish 
 passion. 
 
SURVEY OF THE WHOLE GROUP. 183 
 
 choosing to rise to power as the useful tool of Caesar. Here, Ch. Vill. 
 indeed, he is famed as a devotee of the softer studies, but . 
 it is not till his patron has fallen that his irresistible strength from 190; 
 is put forth. There seems to be but one element in Antony comp. ii. i. 
 that is not selfish : his attachment to Csesar is genuine, and "' 
 its force is measured in the violent imagery of the vow with iii. i, from 
 which, when alone for a moment with the corpse, he promises jgll™™''' 
 vengeance till all pity is ' choked with custom of fell deeds.' 
 And yet this perhaps is after aU the best illustration of his 
 callousness to higher feelings ; for the one tender emotion of 
 his heart is used by him as the convenient weapon with which 
 to fight his enemies and raise himself to power. 
 
 Such, then, is the Grouping of Characters in the play of TheGrouf- 
 Julius CcEsar. To catch it they must be contemplated in the ^^^outui- 
 light of the antithesis between the outer and inner life. In veyed. 
 Brutus the antithesis disappears amid the perfect balancing 
 of his character, to reappear in the action, when Brutus has 
 to choose between his cause and his friend. In Csesar the 
 practical life only is developed, and he fails as soon as action 
 involves the inner life. Cassius has the powers of both outer 
 and inner life perfect, and they are fused into one master- 
 passion, morbid but unselfish. Antony has carried to an even 
 greater perfection the culture of both lives, and all his powers 
 are concentrated in one purpose, which is purely selfish. In 
 the action in which this group of personages is involved the 
 determining fact is the change that has come over the spirit 
 of Roman life, and introduced into its public policy the 
 element of personal aggrandisement and personal risk. The 
 new spirit works upon Brutus : the chance of winning 
 political liberty by the assassination of one individual just 
 overbalances his moral judgment, and he falls. Yet in his fall 
 he is glorious : the one false judgment of his life brings him, 
 what is more to him than victory, the chance of maintaining 
 the calmness of principle amid the ruins of a falling cause, 
 and showing how a Stoic can fail and die. The new spirit 
 
184 JULIVS C^SAR. 
 
 Ch. VIII. affects Caesar and tempts him into a personal enterprise in 
 
 which success demands a meanness that he lacks, and he 
 
 is betrayed to his fall. Yet in his fall he is glorious : the 
 assassins' daggers purge him from the stain of his momentary 
 personal ambition, and the sequel shows that the Roman 
 world was not worthy of a ruler such as Caesar. The spirit 
 of the age affects Cassius, and fans his passion to work itself 
 out to his own destruction, and he falls. Yet in his fall he is 
 glorious : we forgive him the lowered tone of his political 
 action when we see by the spirit of the new rulers how 
 desperate was the chance for which he played, and how 
 Cassius and his loved cause of republican freedom expire 
 together. The spirit of the age which has wrought upon the 
 rest is controlled and used by Antony, and he rises on their 
 ruins. Yet in his rise he is less glorious than they in their 
 fall : he does all for self ; he may claim therefore the prize 
 of success, but in goodness he has no share beyond that 
 he is permitted to be the passive instrument of punishing 
 evil. 
 
IX. 
 
 How THE Play of Julius C^sar works 
 TO A Climax at the centre. 
 
 T 
 
 A Study in Passion and Movement. 
 
 HE preceding chapters have been confined to two of Chap. IX. 
 the main elements in dramatic effect, Character and '. 
 
 Passion 
 
 Plot : the third remains to be illustrated. Amongst other and Move- 
 devices of public amusement the experiment has been tried '"f"'* "'^ ^ 
 
 BiBTJzs'fzts or 
 
 of arranging a game of chess to be played by living pieces dramatic 
 on a monster board ; if we suppose that in the midst of such ^ff^'^t- 
 a game the real combative instincts of the living pieces should 
 be suddenly aroused, that the knight should in grim earnest 
 plunge his spear into his nearest opponent, and that missiles 
 should actually be discharged from the castles, then the 
 shock produced in the feelings of the bystanders by such 
 a change would serve to bring out with emphasis the dis- 
 tinction between Plot and the third element of dramatic 
 effect, Passion. Plot is an interest of a purely intellectual 
 kind, it traces laws, principles, order, and design in the 
 incidents of life. Passion, on the other hand, depends on the 
 human character of the personages involved ; it consists in 
 the effects produced on the spectator's emotional nature as 
 his sympathy follows the characters through the incidents of 
 the plot ; it is War as distinguished from Kriegspiel. Effects 
 of such Passion are numerous and various : the present study 
 is concerned with its Movement. This Movement com- 
 prehends a class of dramatic effects differing in one obvious 
 
i86 JULIUS C^SAR. 
 
 Chap. IX. particular from the effects considered so far. Character- 
 
 Interpretation and Plot are both analytical in their nature ; 
 
 the play has to be taken to pieces and details selected from 
 various parts have to be put together to give the idea of a 
 complete character, or to make up some single thread of 
 Passion design. Movement, on the contrary, follows the actual order 
 ""l^fh'^ of the events as they take place in the play itself. The 
 movement emotional effects produced by such events as they succeed 
 of a drama. ^^^ another will not be uniform and monotonous ; the skill 
 of the dramatist will lie in concentrating effect at some points 
 and relieving it at others ; and to watch such play of passion 
 through the progress of the action will be a leading dramatic 
 interest. Now we have already had occasion to notice the 
 prominence which Shakespeare in his dramatic construction 
 gives to the central point of a play ; symmetry more than 
 sensation is the effect which has an attraction for his genius, 
 and the finale to which the action is to lead is not more im- 
 portant to him than the balancing of the whole drama about 
 a turning-point in the middle. Accordingly it is not surprising 
 to find that in the Passion-Movement of his dramas a similar 
 plan of construction is often followed ; that all other varia- 
 tions are subordinated to one great Climax of Passion at the 
 The centre. To repeat an illustration already applied to Plot : the 
 
 ^ank-form movement of the passion seems to follow the form of a 
 applicable regular arch, commencing in calmness, rising through 
 Movement, emotional strain to a summit of agitation at the centre, then 
 through the rest of the play declining into a calmness of a 
 different kind. It is the purpose of this and the next studies 
 to illustrate this kind of movement in two very different 
 plays. Julius Casar has the simplest of plots ; our attention 
 is engaged with a train of emotion which is made to rise 
 gradually to a climax at the centre, and then equally 
 gradually to decline. Lear, on the contrary, is amongst the 
 most intricate of Shakespeare's plays; nevertheless the 
 dramatist contrives to keep the same simple form of emotional 
 
A'^y TO THE MOVEMENT OF THE PLAY. 187 
 
 effect, and its complex passions unite in producing a concen- Chap. IX. 
 tration of emotional agitation in a few central scenes. 
 
 The passion in the play oi Julius Casar gathers ^x<yoxi& In Julius 
 the conspirators, and follows them through the mutations of „iovement 
 their fortunes. If however we are to catch the different 'p2a\s follows the 
 of the action in their proper proportions we must remember -J^y-^"^^ 
 the character of these conspirators, and especially of their conspira- 
 leaders Brutus and Cassius. These are actuated in what audience : 
 they do not by personal motives but by devotion to the 
 public good and the idea of republican liberty ; accordingly 
 in following their career we must not look too exclusively at 
 their personal success and failure. The exact key to the 
 movement of the drama will be given by fixing attention 
 upon ihii justification of the conspirators' cause in the minds of 
 the audience ; and it is this which is found to rise gradually this rises to 
 to its height in the centre of the play, and from that point to ^^ ^^_ 
 decline to the end. I have pointed out in the preceding dines from 
 study how the issue at stake in Julius Casar amounts to a 
 conflict between the outer and inner life, between devotion 
 to a public enterprise and such sympathy with the claims of 
 individual humanity as is specially fostered by the cultivation 
 of the inner nature. The issue is reflected in words of 
 Brutus already quoted : 
 
 The abuse of greatness is, when it disjoins ii. i. 18. 
 
 Remorse from power. 
 
 Brutus applies this as a test to Caesar's action, and is forced 
 to acquit him : but is not Brutus here laying down the very 
 principle of which his own error in the play is the violation ? 
 The assassin's dagger puts Brutus and the conspirators in 
 the position of power ; while ' remorse ' — the word in Shake- 
 spearean English means human sympathy — is the due of 
 their victim Csesar, whose rights to justice as a man, and to 
 more than justice as the friend of Brutus, the conspirators 
 have the responsibility of balancing against the claims of a 
 political cause. These claims of justice and humanity are 
 
1 88 JULIUS CMSAR. 
 
 Chap. IX. deliberately ignored by the stoicism of Brutus, while the rest 
 
 of the conspirators are blinded to them by the mists of 
 
 political enthusiasm ; this outraged human sympathy asserts 
 itself after Caesar's death in a monstrous form in the passions 
 of the mob, which are guided by the skill of Antony to the 
 destruction of the assassins. Of course both the original 
 violation of the balance between the two lives and the 
 subsequent reaction are equally corrupt. The stoicism of 
 Brutus, with its suppression of the inner sympathies, arrives 
 practically at the principle — destined in the future history of 
 the world to be the basis of a yet greater crime — that it is 
 expedient that one man should die rather than that a whole 
 people should perish. On the other hand, Antony trades upon 
 the fickle violence of the populace, and uses it as much for 
 personal ends as for vengeance. This demoralisation of both 
 the sides of character is the result of their divorce. Such is 
 the essence of this play if its action be looked at as a whole ; 
 but it belongs to the movement of dramatic passion that we 
 see the action only in its separate parts at different times. 
 Through the first half of the play, while the justification of 
 the conspirators' cause is rising, the other side of the question 
 is carefully hidden from us ; from the point of the assassina- 
 tion the suppressed element starts into prominence, and 
 sweeps our sympathies along with it to its triumph at the 
 conclusion of the play. 
 First stage: In following the movement of the drama the action seems 
 stiracy '^ divide itself into stages. In the first of these stages, which 
 forming, comprehends the first two scenes, the conspiracy is only 
 indistin- fo''™iiig J the Sympathy with which the spectator follows the 
 guishable details is entirely free from emotional agitation ; passion so 
 interest^ far is indistinguishable from mere interest. The opening 
 i- i, ii- scene strikes appropriately the key-note of the whole action. 
 Starting- In it we see the tribunes of the people — officers whose whole 
 ^ofnMtim ^'^^^"^ ^^^^^ i® t° '^s '^^ mouthpiece of the commonalty — re- 
 in the Straining their own clients from the noisy honours they are dis- 
 
FIRST STAGE OF THE MOVEMENT. 189 
 
 posed to pay to Caesar. To the justification in our eyes of a Chap. IX 
 
 conspiracy against Caesar, there could not be a better starting- ■ 
 
 point than this hint that the popular worship of Caesar, •^£,"^'^C ^y 
 
 which has made him what he is, is itself reaching its Ccesar. 
 
 reaction-point. Such a suggestion moreover makes the 
 
 whole play one complete wave of popular fickleness from 
 
 crest to crest. 
 
 The second is the scene upon which the dramatist mainly The Rise 
 
 relies for the crescendo in the justification of the con- ''^S^"^- '^'^^ 
 
 •' cause seen 
 
 spirators. It is a long scene, elaborately contrived so as to at its best, 
 keep the conspirators and their cause before us at their very ^^i^^"''"^ 
 best, and the victim at his very worst. Cassius is the life worst. 
 and spirit of this scene, as he is of the whole republican ^' "' 
 movement. Cassius is excellent soil for republican prin- 
 ciples. The ' rash humour ' his mother gave him would pre- 
 dispose him to impatience of those social inequalities and con- 
 ventional distinctions against which republicanism sets itself. 
 Again he is a hard-thinking man, to whom the perfect 
 realisation of an ideal theory would be as palpable an aim as 
 the more practical purposes of other men. He is a Roman 
 moreover, at once proud of his nation as the greatest in the 
 world, and aware that this national greatness had been 
 through all history bound up with the maintenance of a 
 republican constitution. His republicanism gives to Cassius 
 the dignity that is always given to a character by a grand 
 passion, whether for a cause, a woman, or an idea — the 
 unification of a whole life in a single aim, by which the 
 separate strings of a man's nature are, as it were, tuned into 
 harmony. In the present scene Cassius is expounding the 
 cause which is his life-object. Nor is this all.. Cassius was 
 politician enough to adapt himself to his hearers, and could 
 hold up the lower motives to those who would be influenced 
 by them ; but in the present case it is the ' honourable metal ' 
 of a Brutus that he has to work upon, and his exposition 
 of republicanism must be adapted to the highest possible 
 
I go JULIUS CMSAR. 
 
 Chap. IX. standard. Accordingly, in the language of the scene we find 
 
 the idea of human equality expressed in its most ideal form. 
 
 Without it Cassius thinks life not worth living. 
 
 i. ii. 95. I had as lief not be as live to be 
 
 In awe of such a thing as I myself. 
 I was bom free as Csesar ; so were you ; 
 We both have fed as well, and we can both 
 Endure the winter's cold as well as he. 
 
 The examples follow of the flood and fever incidents, which 
 
 show how the majesty of Caesar vanished before the violence 
 
 of natural forces and the prostration of disease. 
 
 115. And this man 
 
 Is now become a god, and Cassius is 
 
 A wretched creature and must bend his body, 
 
 If Caesar carelessly but nod on him. 
 
 In the eye of the state, individuals are so many members of 
 a class, in precisely the way that their names are so many 
 examples of the proper noun. 
 
 142. Brutus and Caesar: what should be in that ' Caesar'? 
 
 Why should that name be sounded more than yours? 
 Write them together, yours is as fair a name; 
 Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well ; 
 Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with them, 
 Bmtus will start a spirit as soon as Caesar. 
 Now, in the names of all the gods at once. 
 Upon what meat doth this our Caesar feed, 
 That he is grown so great? 
 
 And this exposition of the conspirators' cause in its highest 
 form is at the same time thrown into yet higher relief by a 
 background to the scene, in which the victim is presented at 
 his worst. All through the conversation between Brutus and 
 Cassius, the shouting of the mob reminds of the scene which 
 from 182. is at the moment going on in the Capitol, while the conversa- 
 tion is interrupted for a time by the returning procession of 
 Caesar. In this action behind the scenes which thus mingles 
 with the main incident Caesar is committing the one fault of 
 his life : this is the fault of ' treason,' which can be justified 
 
SECOND STAGE OF THE MOVEMENT. 191 
 
 only by being successful and so becoming ' revolution,' Chap. IX. 
 whereas Caesar is failing, and deserving to fail from the 
 vacillating hesitation with which he sins. Moreover, un- 
 favourable as such incidents would be in themselves to our 
 sympathy with Caesar, yet it is not the actual facts that we 
 are permitted to see, but they are further distorted by 
 the medium through which they reach us — the, cynicism of 
 Casca which belittles and disparages all he relates. 
 
 Bru. Tell us the manner of it, gentle Casca. i. ii. 235. 
 
 Casca. I can as well be hanged as tell the manner of it : it was mere 
 foolery ; I did not mark it. I saw Mark Antony offer him a crown ; — 
 yet 'twas not a crown neither, 'twas one of these coronets ; — and, as I 
 told you, he put it by once : but, for all that, to my thinking, he would 
 fain have had it. Then he offered it to him again ; then he put it by 
 again : but, to my thinking, he was very loath to lay his fingers off it. 
 And then he offer'd it the third time ; he put it the third time by : and 
 still as he refused it, the rabblement hooted and clapped their chapped 
 hands and threw up their sweaty night-caps and uttered such a deal of 
 stinking breath because Csesar had refused the crown that it had almost 
 choked Csesar ; for he swounded and fell down at it : and, for mine own 
 part, I durst not laugh, for fear of opening my lips an'd receiving the 
 bad air. . . . When he came to himself again, he said. If he had done or 
 said anything amiss, he desired their worships to think it was his 
 infirmity. Three or four wenches, where I stood, cried, 'Alas, good 
 soul ! ' and forgave him with all their hearts ; but there 's no heed to be 
 taken of them ; if Caesar had stabbed their mothers they would have 
 done no less. 
 
 At the end of the scene Brutus is won, and we pass Second 
 
 immediately into the second stage of the action : the con- ^^g^L'^/Jf^ 
 
 spiracy is now formed and developing, and the eraoiionA formed and 
 
 strain begins. The adhesion of Brutus has given us con- p^sswu^' 
 
 fidence that the conspiracy will be effective, and we have Strain be- 
 
 only to watt for the issue. This mere notion of waiting isf""' .. 
 
 ,■- . r ■ ■ • > !• iii-ii- ii- 
 
 Itself enough to mtroduce an element of agitation into the ^^^^j^^^ 
 
 passion suflScient to mark off this stage of the action from one element 
 
 the preceding. How powerful suspense is for this purpose we ^^^^^'m of 
 
 have expressed in the words of the play itself: passion. • 
 
 Between the acting of a dreadful thing ii. i. 63. 
 
 And the first motion, all the interim is 
 
192 JULIUS CAESAR. 
 
 Chap. IX. Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream : 
 
 — — - The Genius and the mortal instruments 
 
 Are then in council ; and the state of man, 
 Like to a little kingdom, suffers then 
 The nature of an insurrection. 
 
 The back- But besides the suspense there is a special device for 
 Temust °^ securing the agitation proper to this stage of the passion : 
 and super- throughout there is maintained a Dramatic Background of 
 
 natural 
 portents a 
 
 night, storm, and supernatural portents. 
 
 device for The conception of nature as exhibiting sympathy with 
 )T"tra7n ^^'^^^^ turns in human affairs is one of the most funda- 
 mental instincts of poetry. To cite notable instances : 
 it is this which accompanies with storm and whirlwind the 
 climax to the Book of Job, and which leads Milton to make 
 the whole universe sensible of Adam's transgression : 
 
 Earth trembl'd from her entrails, as again 
 
 In pangs, and Nature gave a second groan ; 
 
 Sky lowr'd, and muttering thunder, some sad drops 
 
 Wept at completing of the mortal sin 
 
 Original. 
 
 So too the other end of the world's history has its appropriate 
 accompaniments : ' the sun shall be darkened and the moon 
 shall not give her light, and the stars shall be falling from 
 heaven.' There is a vagueness of terror inseparable from 
 these outbursts of nature, so mysterious in their causes and 
 aims. They are actually the most mighty of forces — for 
 human artillery is feeble beside the earthquake — yet they are 
 invisible : the wind works its havoc without the keenest eye 
 being able to perceive it, and the lightning is never seen till 
 it has struck. Again, there is something weird in the feeling 
 that the most frightful powers in the material universe are all 
 soft things. The empty air becomes the irresistible wind; 
 the fluid and yielding water wear down the hard and 
 massive rock and determines the shape of the earth; im- 
 palpable fire that is blown about in every direction can be 
 roused till it devours the solidest constructions of human 
 
DRAMATIC BACKGROUND OF NATURE. 193 
 
 skill ; while the most powerful agencies of all, electricity and Chap. IX. 
 atomic force, are imperceptible to any of the senses and are 
 known only by their results. This uncanny terror attaching 
 to the union between force and softness is the inspiration of 
 one of Homer's most unique episodes, in which the be- 
 wildered Achilles, struggling with the river-god, finds the 
 strength and skill of the finished warrior vain against the 
 ever-rising water, and bitterly feels the violation of the 
 natural order — 
 
 That strong might fall by strong, where now weak water's luxury 
 Must make my death blush. 
 
 To the terrible in nature are added portents of the super- i. iii ; ii. 
 natural, sudden violations of the uniformity of nature, the "" ^'^ 
 principle upon which all science is founded. The solitary 
 bird of night has been seen in the crowded Capitol ; fire has 
 played around a human hand without destroying it ; lions, 
 forgetting their fierceness, have mingled with men ; clouds 
 drop fire instead of rain ; graves are giving up their dead ; 
 the chance shapes of clouds take distinctness to suggest 
 tumult on the earth. Such phenomena of nature and the 
 supernatural, agitating from their appeal at once to fear and 
 mystery, and associated by the fancy with the terrible in 
 human events, have made a deep impression upon primitive 
 thought ; and the impression has descended by generations 
 of inherited tradition until, whatever may be the attitude of 
 the intellect to the phenomena themselves, their associations 
 in the emotional nature are of agitation. They thus become 
 appropriate as a Dramatic Background to an agitated passion 
 in the scenes themselves, calling out the emotional effect by 
 a vague sympathy, much as a musical note may set in vibra- 
 tion a distant string that is in unison with it. 
 
 This device then is used by Shakespeare in the second 
 stage of the present play. We see the warning terrors 
 through the eyes of men of the time, and their force is 
 
 
 
194 JULIUS Cy^SAR. 
 
 Chap. IX. measured by the fact that they shake the cynical Casca into 
 eloquence. 
 
 i. iii. 3. Are not you moved, when all the sway of earth 
 
 Shakes like a thing unfirm! O Cicero, 
 I have seen tempests, when the scolding winds 
 Have rived the knotty oaks, and I have seen 
 The ambitions ocean swell and rage and foam, 
 To be exalted with the threatening clouds : 
 But never till to-night, never till now. 
 Did I go through a tempest dropping fire. 
 Either there is a civil strife in heaven. 
 Or else the world, too saucy with the gods. 
 Incenses them to send destruction. 
 
 And the idea thus started at the commencement is kept 
 
 before our minds throughout this stage of the drama by 
 
 compare perpetual allusions, however slight, to the sky and external 
 
 11. 1. 44, nature. Brutus reads the secret missives by the light of 
 
 221,263; exhalations whizzing through the air; when some of the 
 
 "• "• conspirators step aside, to occupy a few moments while the 
 
 rest are conferring apart, it is to the sky their thoughts 
 
 naturally seem to turn, and they with difficulty can make out 
 
 the East from the West ; the discussion of the conspirators 
 
 includes the effect on Caesar of the night's prodigies. Later 
 
 Portia remonstrates against her husband's exposure to the 
 
 raw and dank morning, to the rheumy and unpurged air; 
 
 even when daylight has fully returned, the conversation is of 
 
 Calpurnia's dream and the terrible prodigies. 
 
 i. iii. Against this background are displayed, first single figures 
 
 ii. i. 1-85. of Cassius and other conspirators ; then Brutus alone in calm 
 
 ii. i. 86- deliberation : then the whole band of conspirators, their wild 
 
 ^^^- excitement side by side with Brutus's immovable moderation. 
 
 ii. i, from Then the Conspiracy Scene fades in the early morning light 
 
 ^■''^" into a display of Brutus in his softer relations; and with 
 
 ii. ii. complete return of day changes to the house of Caesar on 
 
 the fatal morning. Caesar also is displayed in contact with 
 
 the supernatural, as represented by Calpurnia's terrors and 
 
 repeated messages of omens that forbid his venturing upon 
 
RISE OF THE MOVEMENT. 195 
 
 public action for that day. Caesar faces all this with his Chap. IX. 
 
 usual loftiness of mind ; yet the scene is so contrived that, as . 
 
 far as immediate effect is concerned, this very loftiness is s^g^ at a 
 
 made to tell against him. The unflinching courage that disadvan- 
 
 overrides and interprets otherwise the prodigies and warnings ' 
 
 seems presumption to us who know the reality of the danger. 
 
 It is the same with his yielding to the humour of his wife. ii. ii. 8-56. 
 
 Why should he not ? his is not the conscious weakness that 
 
 must be firm to show that it is not afraid. Yet when, upon 
 
 Decius's explaining away the dream and satisfying Calpur- 
 
 nia's fears, Caesar's own attraction to danger leads him to 
 
 persevere in his first intention, this change of purpose seems 
 
 to us, who have heard Decius's boast that he can o'ersway ii. i. 202. 
 
 Caesar with flattery, a confirmation of Csesar's weakness. So 
 
 in accordance with the purpose that reigns through the first 
 
 half of the play the victim is made to appear at his worst : 
 
 the passing effect of the scene is to suggest weakness in 
 
 Caesar, while it is in fact furnishing elements which, upon 
 
 reflection, go to build up a character of strength. On the and the 
 
 other hand, throughout this stage the justification of '^^^^ilnoTthe 
 
 conspirators' cause gains by their confidence and their high conspira- 
 
 tone ; in particular by the way in which they interpret to °^^i^l 
 
 their own advantage the supernatural element. Cassius feels l. iii. 42- 
 
 the wildness of the night as in perfect harmony with his own 79- 
 
 spirit. 
 
 For my part, I have walk'd about the streets, i. iii 46. 
 
 Submitting me unto the perilous night. 
 
 And, thus unbraced, Casca, as you see. 
 
 Have bared my bosom to the thtmder-stone ; 
 
 And when the cross blue lightning seem'd to open 
 
 The breast of heaven, I did present myself 
 
 Even in the aim and very flash of it. 
 
 And it needs only a word from him to communicate his 
 
 confidence to his comrades. 
 
 Cassius. Now could I, Casca, name to thee a man i. iii. 72. 
 
 Most like this dreadful night. 
 That thunders, lightens, opens graves, and roars 
 O 2 
 
196 JULIUS CMSAR. 
 
 Chap. IX. As doth the lion in the Capitol, 
 
 A man no mightier than thyself or me 
 
 In personal action, yet prodigious grown 
 And fearful, as these strange eruptions are — 
 Casca. 'Tis Csesar that you mean; is it not, Cassius? 
 
 Third The third stage of the action brings us to the climax of 
 
 ^^^''^^ , ^^^ the passion ; the strain upon our emotions now rises to a 
 passion- height of agitation. The exact commencement of the crisis 
 ^loaClimax seems to be marked by the soothsayer's words at the opening 
 ii. iii- of Act III. Caesar observes on entering the Capitol the 
 lu. 1. 121. soothsayer who had warned him to beware of this very 
 
 ■^' Casar. The ides of March are come. 
 
 Sooth. Ky, Caesar ; but not gone. 
 
 Such words seem to measure out a narrow area of time in 
 which the crisis is to work itself out. There is however no 
 distinct break between different stages of a dramatic move- 
 Devicesfor ment like that in the present play ; and two short incidents 
 'ut'tluaei- ^'^^^ preceded this scene which have served as emotional 
 tation. devices to bring about a distinct advance in the intensifica- 
 Ariemi- tion of the Strain. In the first, Artemidorus appeared reading 
 ii iii and ^ letter of warning which he purposed to present to Caesar 
 iii. i. 3. on his way to the fatal spot. In the Capitol Scene he pre- 
 sents it, while the ready Decius hastens to interpose another 
 petition to take off Caesar's attention. Artemidorus conjures 
 Caesar to read his first for ' it touches him nearer ' ; but the 
 imperial chivalry of Caesar forbids : 
 
 What touches us ourself shall be last served. 
 
 rortia ; The momentary hope of rescue is dashed. In the second 
 incident Portia has been displayed completely unnerved by 
 the weight of a secret to the anxiety of which she is not 
 equal; she sends messengers to the Capitol and recalls 
 them as she recollects that she dare give them no mes- 
 sage; her agitation has communicated itself to us, besides 
 suggesting the fear that it may betray to others what she is 
 anxious to conceal. Our sympathy has thus been tossed 
 
 11. IV. 
 
CJ!IS/S OF THE MOVEMENT. 197 
 
 from side to side, although in its general direction it still Chap. IX. 
 moves on the side of the conspirators. In the crisis itself ~r~ 
 the agitation becomes painful as the entrance of Popilius Lina. 
 Lena and his secret communication to Caesar cause a panic "*■ i- '3- 
 that threatens to wreck the whole plot on the verge of its 
 success. Brutus's nerve sustains even this trial, and the way 
 for the accomplishment of the deed is again clear. Emotional 
 devices like these have carried the passion up to a climax of 
 agitation; and the conspirators now advance to present 
 their pretended suit and achieve the bloody deed. To the 
 last the double effect of Caesar's demeanour continues. 
 Considered in itself, his unrelenting firmness of principle 
 exhibits the highest model of a ruler ; yet to us, who know 
 the purpose lurking behind the hypocritical intercession of 
 the conspirators, Caesar's self-confidence resembles the in- 
 fatuation that goes before Nemesis. He scorns the fickle from 58. 
 politicians before him as mere wandering sparks of heavenly 
 fire, while he is left alone as a pole-star of true-fixed and 
 resting quality : — and in answer to his presumptuous boast 
 that he can never be moved come the blows of the assassins 
 which strike him down ; while there is a flash of irony as he 
 is seen to have fallen beside the statue of Pompey, and the compare 
 marble seems to gleam in cold triumph over the rival at last ^' 
 lying bleeding at its feet. The assassination is accomplished, 
 the cause of the conspirators is won : pity notwithstanding 
 we are swept along with the current of their enthusiasm ; 
 and the justification that has been steadily rising from the ThejusHfi- 
 commencement reaches its climax as, their adversaries dis- -^^ height 
 persing in terror, the conspirators dip their hands in their in the ap- 
 victim's blood, and make their triumphant appeal to ^^^i^^e."" 
 whole world and all time. 
 
 Cassius. Stoop, then, and wash. How many ages hence iii. 
 
 Shall this our lofty scene be acted over 
 
 In states unborn and accents yet unknown ! 
 Brutus. How many times shall Csesar bleed in sport, 
 
198 JULIUS C^SAR. 
 
 Chap. IX. That now on Pompey's basis lies along, 
 
 No worthier than the dust ! 
 
 Cassius. So oft as that shall be, 
 
 So often shall the knot of ns be call'd 
 The men that gave their country liberty ! 
 
 Catas- Enter a servant: this simple stage-direction is the 
 
 '^»f:^««"^ ' catastrophe,' the turning-round of the whole action; the 
 
 tnent of the arch has reached its apex and the Reaction has begun. So 
 
 iU^'fr^m instantaneous is the change, that though it is only the servant 
 
 122. of Antony who speaks, yet the first words of his message 
 
 ring with the peculiar tone of subtly-poised sentences 
 
 which are inseparably associated with Antony's eloquence; 
 
 it is like the first announcement of that which is to be a final 
 
 theme in music, and from this point this tone dominates the 
 
 scene to the very end. 
 
 12^ Thus he bade me say : 
 
 Bnitns is noble, wise, valiant, and honest, 
 Caesar was mighty, bold, royal, and loving, 
 Say I love Bmtus, and I honour him ; 
 Say I fear'd Coesar, hononr'd him, and lov'd him. 
 If Bmtus will vouchsafe that Antony 
 May safely come to him, and be resolv'd 
 How Csesar hath deserved to lie in death, 
 Mark Antony shall not love Caesar dead 
 So well as Brutns living. 
 
 In the whole Shakespearean Drama there is nowhere such a 
 swift swinging round of a dramatic action as is here marked 
 by this sudden up-springing of the suppressed individuality 
 
 ii. i. 165. in Antony's character, hitherto so colourless that he has 
 been spared by the conspirators as a mere limb of Caesar. 
 The tone of exultant triumph in the conspirators has in an 
 
 iii. i. 144. instant given place to Cassius's 'misgiving' as Brutus grants 
 Antony an audience ; and when Antony enters, Brutus's first 
 
 from 164. words to him fall into the form of apology. The quick 
 subdety of Antony's intellect has grasped the whole situa- 
 tion, and with irresistible force he slowly feels his way 
 towards using the conspirators' aid for crushing themselves 
 
CATASTROPHE AND DECLINE. 199 
 
 and avenging their victim. The bewilderment of the con- Chap. IX. 
 
 spirators in the presence of this unlooked-for force is seen 
 
 in Cassius's unavailing attempt to bring Antony to the point, iii. i. 211; 
 as to what compact he will make with them. Antony, on j°'J'P^''^ 
 the contrary, reads his men with such nicety that he can 
 indulge himself in sailing close to the wind, and grasps 
 fervently the hands of the assassins while he pours out a from 184. 
 flood of bitter grief over the corpse. It is not hypocrisy, 
 nor a trick to gain time, this conciliation of his enemies. 
 Steeped in the political spirit of the age, Antony knows, as 
 no other man, the mob which governs Rome, and is con- 
 scious of the mighty engine he possesses in his oratory to 
 sway that mob in what direction he pleases ; when his bold 
 plan has succeeded, and his adversaries have consented to 
 meet him in contest of oratory, then ironical conciliation 
 becomes the natural relief to his pent-up passion. 
 
 Friends am I with you all and love you all, 320. 
 
 Upon this hope, that you shall give me reasons 
 Why and wherein Cassar was dangerous. 
 
 It is as he feels the sense of innate oratorical power and of 
 the opportunity his enemies have given to that power, that 
 he exaggerates his temporary amity with the men he is 
 about to crush : it is the executioner arranging his victim 
 comfortably on the rack before he proceeds to apply the 
 levers. Already the passion of the drama has fallen under 
 the guidance of Antony. The view of Csesar as an inno- 
 cent victim is now allowed full play upon our sympathies 
 when Antony, left alone with the corpse, can drop the from' 2 54. 
 artificial mask and give vent to his love and vengeance. 
 The success of the conspiracy had begun to decline as we 331-243. 
 marked Brutus's ill-timed generosity to Antony in granting 
 him the funeral oration ; it crumbles away through the cold iii. ii, from 
 unnatural euphuism of Brutus's speech in its defence; it is ^^' 
 hurried to its ruin when Antony at last exercises his spell iii. ii, from 
 upon the Roman people and upon the reader. The speech ^ ' 
 
200 JULIUS CMSAR. 
 
 Chap. IX. of Antony, with its mastery of every phase of feeling, is a 
 
 perfect sonata upon the instrument of the human emotions. 
 
 iii. ii. 78. Its opening theme is sympathy with bereavement, against 
 
 which are working as if in conflict anticipations of future 
 
 95, 109, themes, doubt and compunction. A distinct change of 
 
 * movement comes with the first introduction of what is to be 
 
 133. the final subject, the mention of the will. But when this new 
 
 movement has worked up from curiosity to impatience, there 
 
 I??' is a diversion: the mention of the victory over the Nervii 
 
 turns the emotions in the direction of historic pride, which 
 
 178. harmonises well with the opposite emotions roused as the 
 
 orator fingers hole after hole in Csesar's mantle made by the 
 
 daggers of his false friends, and so leads up to a sudden 
 
 200. shock when he uncovers the body itself and displays the 
 
 popular idol and its bloody defacement. Then the finale 
 
 243. begins : the forgotten theme of the will is again started, and 
 
 from a burst of gratitude the passion quickens and inten- 
 
 The mob sifies to rage, to fury, to mutiny. The mob is won to the 
 
 Reaction. Reaction; and the curtain that falls upon the third Act rises 
 
 iii. iii. for a moment to display the populace tearing a man to 
 
 pieces simply because he bears the same name as one of the 
 
 conspirators. 
 
 Last stage. The final staffe of the action works out the development 
 Develop- ^ . . , ,° . ^, . , . ^ 
 
 mentofan °' ^'^ mevitable fate. Ihe emotional stram now ceases, 
 
 inevitable and, as in the first stage, the passion is of the calmer order, 
 
 jate : pas- u i • 
 
 sion-strain t"^ calmness m this case of pity balanced by a sense of 
 
 ceases. justice. From the opening of the fourth Act the decline in 
 the justification of the conspirators is intimated by the logic 
 of events. The first scene exhibits to us the triumvirate that 
 now governs Rome, and shows that in this triumvirate 
 
 Acts iv, V. Antony is supreme : with the man who is the embodiment 
 of the Reaction thus appearing at the head of the world, 
 the fall of the conspirators is seen to be inevitable. The 
 decline of our sympathy with them continues in the following 
 
 iv. ii. 3- scenes. The Quarrel Scene shows how low the tone of 
 
FALL OF THE MOVEMENT. 201 
 
 Cassius has fallen since he has dealt with assassination as a Chap. IX. 
 
 political weapon ; and even Brutus's moderation has hard- 
 
 ened into unpleasing harshness. There is at this point iv.iii. 148, 
 
 plenty of relief to such unpleasing effects : there is the .'.., 
 
 exhibition of the tender side of Brutus's character as shown 239. ' 
 
 in his relations with his page, and the display of friendship iv. iii. 
 
 maintained between Brutus and Cassius amid falling fortunes. 
 
 But such incidents as these have a different effect upon us 
 
 from that which they would have had at an earlier period; 
 
 the justification of the conspirators has so far declined that 
 
 now attractive touches in them serve only to increase the 
 
 pathos of a fate which, however, our sympathy no longer 
 
 seeks to resist. We get a supernatural foreshadowing of the 
 
 end in the appearance to Brutus of Csesar's Ghost, and the iv.iii. 275. 
 
 omen Cassius sees of the eagles that had consorted his army v. i. 80. 
 
 to Philippi giving place to ravens, crows, and kites on the 
 
 morning of battle : this lends the authority of the invisible 
 
 world to our sense that the conspirators' cause is doomed. 
 
 And judicial blindness overtakes them as Brutus's authority iv. iii. 196 
 
 in council overweighs in point after point the shrewder ~^^°' 
 
 advice of Cassius. Through the scenes of the fifth Act we 
 
 see the republican leaders fighting on without hope. The Justifica- 
 
 last remnant of justification for their cause ceases as the ly^g^i^j^^l 
 
 conspirators themselves seem to acknowledge their error and as the cm- 
 
 fate. Cassius as he feels his death-blow recognises the very ylco^se 
 
 weapon with which he had committed the crime : Cesar's 
 
 victory. 
 Csesar, thou art revenged, v. iii. 45. 
 
 Even with the sword that kill'd thee. 
 
 And at last even the firm spirit of Brutus yields : 
 
 O Julius Caesar, thou art mighty yet ! v. v. 94. 
 
 Thy spirit walks abroad, and turns our swords 
 In our own proper entrails. 
 
X. 
 
 How Climax meets Climax in 
 
 THE CENTRE OF LeAR. 
 
 Chap. X. 
 
 The plot 
 of Lear 
 highly 
 complex. 
 
 The main 
 plot ex- 
 hibits the 
 Problem 
 form of 
 
 A Sludy in more complex 
 Passion and Movement. 
 
 IN Julius CcEsar we have seen how, in the case of a very 
 simple play, a few simple devices are sufficient to pro- 
 duce a regular rise and fall in the passion. We now turn to 
 a highly elaborate plot and trace how, notwithstanding the 
 elaborateness, a similar concentration of the passion in the 
 centre of the play can be secured. King Lear is one of the 
 most complex of Shakespeare's tragedies ; its plot is made 
 up of a number of separate actions, with their combinations 
 accurately carried out, the whole impressing us with a sense 
 of artistic involution similar to that of an elaborate musical 
 fugue. Here, however, we are concerned only indirectly 
 with the plot of the play : we need review it no further than 
 may suffice to show what distinct interests enter into it, and 
 enable us to observe how the separate trains of passion work 
 toward a common climax at the centre. 
 
 Starting from the notion of pattern as a fundamental idea 
 we have seen how Plot presents trains of events in human 
 life taking form and shape as a crime and its nemesis, an 
 oracle and its fulfilment, the rise and fall of an individual, or 
 even as simply a story. The particular form of action under- 
 lying the main plot of King Lear is different from any we 
 have yet noticed. It may be described as a Problem Action. 
 A mathematician in his problem assumes some unusual com- 
 
PROBLEM ACTION OF THE MAIN PLOT. 203 
 
 bination of forces to have corae about, and then proceeds to Chap. X. 
 trace its consequences : so the Drama often deals with , '. 
 
 .,. ,,.,. . ,,. dramatic 
 
 problems m history and life, setting up, before the com- action. 
 
 mencement of the play or early in the action, some peculiar 
 
 arrangement of moral relations, and then throughout the 
 
 rest of the action developing the consequences of these to the 
 
 personages involved. Thus the opening scene of King Lear 
 
 is occupied in bringing before us a pregnant and suggestive 
 
 state of affairs : imperiousness is represented as overthrowing 
 
 conscience and setting up an unnatural distributipn of power. 
 
 A human problem has thus -been enunciated which the re- The prob- 
 
 mainder of the play has to work out to its natural solution. 
 
 Imperiousness seems to be the term appropriate to Lear's 
 conduct in the first scene. This is no case of dotage dividing 
 an inheritance according to public declarations of affec- 
 tion. The division had already been made according to 
 the best advice : in the case of two of the daughters ' equali- i. i. 3, &c. 
 ties had been so weighed that curiosity in neither could 
 make choice of cither's moiety ' ; and if the portion of the 
 youngest and best loved of the three was the richest, this 
 is a partiality natural enough to absolute power. The 
 opening scene of the play is simply the court ceremony in 
 which the formal transfer is to be made. Lear is already 38. 
 handing to his daughtcFS the carefully drawn maps which 
 mark the boundaries of the provinces, when he suddenly 49. 
 pauses, and, with the yearning of age and authority for tes- 
 timonies of devotion, calls upon his daughters for declarations 
 of affection, the easiest of returns .for the substantial gifts he 
 is giving them, and which Goneril an-d Regan pour forth 
 with glib eloquence. Then Lear turns to Cordelia, and, 84. 
 thinking delightedly of the special prize he has marked out 
 for the pet of his old age, asks her : 
 
 What can you say to draw 
 A third more opulent than your sisters? 
 
 But Cordelia has been revolted by the fulsome flattery of the 
 
204 KING LEAR. 
 
 Chap. X. sisters whose hypocrisy she knows so well, and she bluntly 
 refuses to be drawn into any declaration of affection at all. 
 Cordelia might well have found some other method of 
 separating herself from her false sisters, without thus flouting 
 her father before his whole court in a moment of tenderness 
 to herself; or, if carried away by the indignation of the 
 moment, a sign of submission would have won her a ready 
 pardon. But Cordelia, sweet and strong as her character is 
 compare in great things, has yet inherited a touch of her father's 
 II- 13I- temper, and the moment's sullenness is protracted into ob- 
 stinacy. Cordelia then has committed an offence of manner ; 
 Lear's passion vents itself in a sentence proper only to a 
 moral crime : now the punishment of a minute offence with 
 wholly disproportionate severity simply because it is an 
 offence against personal will is an exact description of im- 
 periousness. 
 
 As Lear stands for imperiousness, so conscience is repre- 
 sented by Kent, who, with the voice of authority derived 
 from lifelong intimacy and service, interposes to check the 
 King's passion in its headlong course. 
 
 141-190. Kent. Royal Lear, 
 
 Whom I have ever honour'd as my king. 
 
 Loved as my father, as my master foUow'd, 
 
 As my great patron thought on in my prayers, — 
 
 Lear. The bow is bent and drawn, make from the shaft. 
 
 Kent. Let it fall rather, though the fork invade 
 The region of my heart : be Kent unmannerly 
 When Lear is mad. What wilt thou do, old man ? 
 Think'st thou that duty shall have dread to speak, 
 When power to flattery bows? To plainness honour's bound. 
 When majesty stoops to folly. Reverse thy doom , . . 
 
 Lear. Kent, on thy life, no more. 
 
 Kent. My life I never held but as a pawn 
 
 To wage against thy enemies, nor fear to lose it, 
 Thy safety being the motive . . . 
 
 Lear. O, vassal ! miscreant ! 
 
 [^Laying his hand on his sword. 
 
 Albany. \ ^ . - , 
 
 Cornwall. 1 ^^" ^"> *^°'^^"- 
 
SOLUTION OF THE PROBLEM. 205 
 
 Kent. Do : Chap. X. 
 
 Kill thy physician, and the fee bestow 
 
 Upon thy foul disease. Revoke thy doom ; 
 Or, whilst I can vent clamour from my throat, 
 I'll tell thee thou dost evil. 
 
 In the banishment of this Kent, then, the resistance of Lear's 
 conscience is overcome, and his imperious passion has full 
 swing in transferring Cordelia's kingdom to her treacherous 
 sisters. 
 
 The opening scene has put before us, not in words but 
 figured in action, a problem in human affairs : the violation 
 of moral equity has set up an unnatural arrangement of 
 power — power taken from the good and lodged in the hands 
 of the bad. Here is, so to speak, a piece of moral unstable 
 equilibrium, and the rebound from it is to furnish the re- 
 mainder of the action. The very structure of the plot 
 corresponds with the simple structure of a scientific pro- 
 position. The latter consists of two unequal parts : a few 
 lines are sufficient to enunciate the problem, while a whole 
 treatise may be required for its solution. So in Kiiig Lear 
 a single scene brings about the unnatural state of affairs, the 
 consequences of which it takes the rest of the play to trace. 
 The ' catastrophe,' or turning-point of the play at which the 
 ultimate issues are decided, appears in the present case, not 
 close to the end of the play, nor (as in Julius Casar) in the 
 centre, but close to the commencement: at the end of the 
 opening scene Lear's act of folly has in reality determined 
 the issue of the whole action; the scenes which follow are 
 only working out a determined issue to its full realisation. 
 
 We have seen the problem itself, the overthrow of con- T/ie solu- 
 science by imperiousness and the transfer of power from the *">'^'>f'"-^ 
 good to the bad : what is the solution of it as presented by a triple 
 the incidents of the play ? The consequences flowing from '''"S^")'- 
 what Lear has done make up three distinct tragedies, which 
 go on working side by side, and all of which are essential to 
 the full solution of the problem. First, there is the nemesis 
 
2o6 KING LEAR. 
 
 Chap. X. upon Lear himself— the double retribution of receiving nothing 
 
 but evil from those he has unrighteously rewarded, and 
 
 ''ef £gan ''' nothing but good from her whom, he bitterly feels, he has 
 cruelly wronged. But the punishment of the wrong-doer is 
 {2) Tragedy only one element in the consequences of wrong; the inno- 
 "midKeia ^^"^^ ^^*° ^^^ involved, and we get a second tragedy in the 
 sufferings of the faithful Kent and the loving Cordelia, who, 
 through Kent as her representative, watches over her father's 
 safety, until at the end she appears in person to follow up her 
 devotion to the death. When, however, the incidents making, 
 up the sufferings of Lear, of Kent, and of Cordelia are taken 
 out of the main plot, there is still a considerable section left — 
 (3") Tragedy that which is occupied with the mutual intrigues of Goneril 
 "LidRl^ ^^^ Regan, intrigues ending in their common ruin. This 
 constitutes a third tragedy which, it will be seen, is as neces- 
 sary to the solution of our problem as the other two. To 
 place power in the hands of the bad is an injury not only to 
 others, but also to the bad themselves, as giving fuel to the 
 fire of their wickedness : so in the tragedy of Goneril and 
 Regan we see evil passions placed in improper authority 
 using this authority to work out their own destruction. 
 An under- To this main plot is added an underplot equally elaborate. 
 samTbasis -^^ ''^ "^^ Merchant of Venice, the stories borrowed from two 
 as the main distinct Sources are worked into a common design; and the 
 ^ " ' interweaving in the case of the present play is perhaps 
 
 Shakespeare's greatest triumph of constructive skill. The 
 two stories are made to rest upon the same fundamental idea — 
 compare that of undutifulness to old age : what Lear's daughters 
 ' ■ actually do is that which is insinuated by Edmund as his 
 false charge against his brother. 
 
 i.ii 76, &c. I have heard him oft maintain it to be fit, that, sons at perfect age, 
 and fathers declining, the father should be as ward to the son, and the 
 son manage his revenue. 
 
 So obvious is this fundamental connection between the main 
 and the underplot, that our attention is called to it by a 
 
PARALLELISM OF MAIN AND UNDERPLOT. 207 
 
 personage in the play itself : ' he childed as I father'd,' is Chap. X. 
 
 Edgar's pithy summary of it when he is brought into contact ... ; 
 
 with Lear. But in this double tragedy, drawn from the y,^^ ^^^.^^ ' 
 
 two families of Lear and of Gloucester, the chief bond and under- 
 
 between its two sides consists in the sharp contrast which ■^^^^^^_ ' 
 
 extends to every detail of the two stories. In the main plot trasted 
 
 we have a daughter, who has received nothing but harm from g^""^'' 
 
 her father, who has unjustly had her position torn from her 
 
 and given to undeserving sisters : nevertheless she sacrifices 
 
 herself to save the father who did the injury from the sisters 
 
 who profited by it. In the underplot we have a son, who has 
 
 received nothing but good from his father, who has, contrary 
 
 to justice, been advanced by him to the position of an elder 
 
 brother whom he has slandered : nevertheless, he is seeking 
 
 the destruction of the father who did him the unjust kindness, 
 
 when he falls by the hand of the brother who was wronged 
 
 by it. Thus as the main and underplot go on working side 
 
 by side, they are at every turn by their antithesis throwing up 
 
 one another's effect; the contrast is like the reversing of the 
 
 original subject in a musical fugue. Again, as the main Theunder- 
 
 plot consisted in the initiation of a problem and its solution, ji^"^^ 
 
 so the underplot consists in the development of an intrigue Action : 
 
 and its consequences. The tragedy of the Gloucester family 
 
 will, if slated from the point of view of the father, correspond 
 
 in its parts with the tragedy in the family of Lear. 
 
 It must be remembered, however, that the position of the 
 
 father is different in the two cases ; Gloucester is not, as Lear, 
 
 the agent of the crime, but only a deceived instrtiment in the 
 
 hands of the villain Edmund, who is the real agent ; if the 
 
 proper allowance be made for this difference, it will be seen 
 
 that the three tragedies which make up the consequences of involving- 
 
 Lear's error have their analogies in the three tragedies which tragedy 
 
 flow from the intrigue of Edmund. First, we have x\\t parallel 
 
 nemesis on Gloucester, and this, in analogy with the nemesis ^^/,^ „,^^„ 
 
 on Lear, consists in receiving nothing but evil from the son plot. 
 
2o8 KING LEAR. 
 
 Chap. X. he has so hastily advanced, and nothing but good from the 
 other son whom, he comes gradually to feel, he has unin- 
 of Glm- ^ tentionally wronged. In the next place we have the suffer- 
 cester. ings of the innocent Edgar. Then, as we before saw a third 
 of'sdr^ tragedy in the way in which the power conferred upon 
 {i^Tragedy Goneril and Regan is used to work out their destruction, so 
 4 Ed- jjj jjjg underplot we find that the position which Edmund has 
 gained involves him in intrigues, which by the development of 
 the play are made to result in a nemesis upon his original 
 intrigue. And it is a nemesis of exquisite exactness : for he 
 meets his death in the very moment of his success, at the 
 hands of the brother he has maligned and robbed, while 
 the father he has deceived and sought to destroy is the 
 means by which the avenger has been brought to the scene. 
 Complexity We have gone far enough into the construction of the plot 
 iruonsht- ''^ perceive its complexity and the principal elements into 
 ent with which that complexity can be analysed. Two separate systems, 
 ^of'move-^ each consisting of an initial action and three resulting 
 ment. tragedies, eight actions in all, are woven together by common 
 personages and incidents, by parallelism of spirit, and by 
 movement to a common climax ; not to speak of lesser 
 Link Actions which assist in drawing the different stories 
 closer together. As with plot generally, these separate ele- 
 ments are fully manifest only to the eye of analysis ; in 
 following the course of the drama itself, they make them- 
 selves felt only in a continued sense of involution and har- 
 monious symmetry. It is with passion, not with plot, that 
 the present study is concerned; and the train of passion 
 which the common movement of these various actions calls 
 out in the sympathy of the reader is as simple as the plot 
 itself is intricate. In the case both of the main plot and 
 the underplot the emotional effect rises in intensity ; more- 
 over at this central height of intensity the two merge in a 
 common Climax. The construction of the play resembles, if 
 such a comparison maybe allowed, the patent gas-apparatus^ 
 
GRADUAL ONCOMING OF MADNESS IN LEAH. 209 
 
 which secures a high illuminating power by the simple Chap. X. 
 
 device of several ordinary burners inclined to one another at 
 
 such an angle that the apexes of their flames meet in a point. 
 So the present play contains a Centrepiece of some three from ii. iv. 
 scenes, marked off (at least at the commencement) decisively, yf^it^ the 
 in which the main and underplot unite in a common Climax, interrup- 
 with special devices to increase its eifect ; the diverse interests 5;°° ij "^' 
 to which our sympathy was called out at the commencement. The differ- 
 and which analysis can keep distinct to the end, are focussed, ^"* i''"^,"^ 
 
 ^ '^ ' ■' ' of passion 
 
 so far as passion is concerned, in this Centrepiece, in which, focussed in 
 human emotion is carried to the highest pitch of tragic """*''''' 
 agitation that the world of art has yet exhibited. 
 
 The emotional effect of the main plot rises to a climax in Thepas- 
 the madness of Lear. This, as the highest form of human """f "ff" 
 
 ' ° main plot 
 
 agitation, is obviously a climax to the story of Lear himself- gather to a 
 It is equally a climax to the story of Kent and Cordelia, who '^J^'"""- . 
 suffer solely through their devoted watching over Lear, and themadness 
 to whom the bitterest point in their sufferings is that they feel "f ^^''■ 
 over again all that their fallen master has to endure. Finally, 
 in the madness of Lear the third of the three tragedies, the 
 Goneril and Regan action, appears throughout in the back- 
 ground as the cause of all that is happening. If we keep our 
 eye upon this madness of Lear the movement of the play 
 assumes the form we have so often had to notice — the 
 regular arch. The first half of the arch, or rise in emotional 
 strain, we get in symptoms of mental disturbance preparing 
 us for actual madness which is to come. It is important to 
 note the difference between passion and madness : passion is 
 a disease of the mind, madness is a disease extending to the 
 mysterious Unking of mind and body. At the commence- 
 ment Lear is dominated by the passion of imperiousness, an 
 imperiousness born of his absolute power as king and father ; 
 he has never learned from discipline restraint of his passion, 
 but has been accustomed to fling himself upon obstacles and 
 see them give way before him. Now the tragical situation is 
 
210 KING LEAR. 
 
 Chap. X. prepared for him of meeting with obstacles which will not 
 
 give way, but from which his passion rebounds upon himself 
 
 with a physical shock. As thus opposition follows opposition, 
 we see waves of physical, that is of hysterical, passion, sweep- 
 ing over Lear, until, as it were, a tenth wave lands him in the 
 full disease of madness. 
 1 iv. The first case occurs in his interview with Goneril after that 
 
 which is the first check he has received in his new life, the 
 insolence shown to his retinue. Goneril enters his presence 
 with a frown. The wont had been that Lear frowned and all 
 cowered before him : and now he waits for his daughter to 
 remember herself with a rising passion ill concealed under 
 the forced calmness with which he enquires, ' Are you our 
 daughter ? ' ' Doth any here know me ? ' But Goneril, on 
 the contrary, calmly assumes the position of reprover, and 
 details her unfounded charges of insolence against her father's 
 sober followers, until at last he hears himself desired 
 By her, that else will take the thing she begs, 
 to disquantity his train. Then Lear breaks out : 
 
 Darkness and devils ! 
 Saddle my horses ; call my train together. 
 Degenerate bastard ! I '11 not trouble thee : 
 Yet have I left a daughter. 
 
 In a moment the thought of Cordelia's ' most small fault' and 
 how it had beeii visited upon her occurs to condense into a 
 single pang the whole sense of his folly; and here it is that 
 the first of these waves of physical passion comes over Lear, 
 its physical character marked by the physical action which 
 accompanies it : 
 i. iv. 292. O Lear, Lear, Lear ! 
 
 Beat at this gate, that let thy folly in, {Striking his head. 
 
 And thy dear judgement out. 
 
 i- *•• It lasts but for a moment : but it is a wave, and it will 
 
 return. Accordingly in the next scene we see Lear on his 
 journey from one daughter to the other. He is brooding 
 
GRADUAL ONCOMING OF MADNESS IN LEAR. 211 
 
 over the scene he is leaving behind, and he cannot disguise a Chap. X. 
 
 shade of anxiety, in his awakened judgment, that some such 
 
 scene may be reserved for him in the goal to which he is 
 
 journeying. He is half listening, moreover, to the Fool, who 
 
 harps on the same thought, that the King is suffering what he 
 
 might have expected, that the other daughter will be like the 
 
 first : — until there comes another of these sudden outbursts of 
 
 passion, in which Lear for a moment half foresees the end 
 
 to which he is being carried. 
 
 O, let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven ! i. v. 49. 
 
 Keep me in temper : I would not be mad ! 
 
 Imperiousness is especially attached to outward signs of 
 reverence : it is reserved for Lear when he arrives at Regan's ii- iv. 4. 
 palace to find the messenger he has sent on to announce him 
 suffering the indignity of the stocks. At first he will not be- 
 lieve that this has been done by order of his daughter and son. 
 
 Kent. It is both he and she; 13. 
 
 Your son and daughter. 
 Lear. No. 
 Kent. Yes. 
 Lear. No, I say. 
 Kent. I say, yea. 
 Lear. No, no, they would not. 
 Kent. Yes, they have. 
 Lear. By Jupiter, I swear, no. 
 Kent. By Juno, I swear, ay. 
 Lear. They durst not do 't ; 
 
 They could not, would not do 't ; 'tis worse than murder. 
 
 To do upon respect such violent outrage. 
 
 But he has to listen to a circumstantial account of the insult, 
 
 and, further, reminded by the Fool that 
 
 Fathers that wear rags 
 
 Do make their children blind, 
 
 he comes at last to realise it all, — and then there sweeps over 
 
 him a third and more violent wave of hysterical agitation. 
 
 O, how this mother swells up toward my heart ! 56. 
 
 Hysterica passio, down, thou climbing sorrow, 
 Thy element's below! 
 
 P 2 
 
212 KING LEAR. 
 
 Chap. X. He has mastered the passion by a strong effort : but it is a 
 .. ": wave, and it will return. He has mastered himself in order 
 
 9. ^^ confront the culprits face to face : his altered position is 
 brought home to him when they refuse to receive him. And 
 the refusal is made the worse by the well-meant attempt of 
 Gloucester to palliate it, in which he unfortunately speaks 
 of the ' fiery quality ' of the duke. 
 
 Lear. Vengeance ! plague ! death ! confasion ! 
 Fiery ? what quality ? 
 
 Nothing is harder than to endure what one is in the habit of 
 inflicting on others ; it was Lear's own ' fiery quality ' by 
 which he had been accustomed to scorch all opposition out 
 of his way ; now he has to hear another man's ' fiery quality' 
 quoted to him. But this outburst is only momentary; the 
 very extremity of the case seems to calm Lear, and he begins 
 himself to frame excuses for the duke, how sickness and 
 infirmity neglect the ' office ' to which health is bound — until 
 his eye lights again upon his messenger sitting in the stocks, 
 and the recollection of this deliberate affront brings back 
 again the wave of passion. 
 
 122. O me, my heart, my rising heart! but, down! 
 
 Lear had a strange confidence in his daughter Regan. As 
 we see the two women in the play, Regan appears the more 
 cold-blooded ; nothing in Goneril is more cruel than 
 Regan's 
 
 204- I pray you. Father, being weak, seem so ; 
 
 or her meeting Lear's ' I gave you all ' with the rejoinder, 
 
 253. And in good time you gave it 
 
 But there was something in Regan's personal appearance 
 that belied her real character; her father says to her in this 
 scene : 
 173. Her eyes are fierce, but thine 
 
 Do comfort and not bum. 
 
GRADUAL ONCOMING OF MADNESS IN LEAR. 213 
 
 Judas betrayed with a kiss, and Regan persecutes her father Chap. X. 
 
 in tears. But Regan has scarcely entered her father's presence 
 
 when the trumpet announces the arrival of Goneril, and Lear 185. 
 has to see the Regan in whom he is trusting take Goneril's 197- 
 hand before his eyes in token that she is making common 
 cause with her. When following this the words ' indiscretion,' 
 ' dotage,' reach his ear there is a momentary swelling of the 
 physical passion within : 
 
 O sides, you are too tough ; 300. 
 
 Will you yet hold? 
 
 He has mastered it for the last time: for now his whole 
 world seems to be closing in around him ; he has committed 
 his all to the two daughters standing before him, and they from 233. 
 unite to beat him down, from fifty knights to twenty-five, 
 from twenty-five to ten, to five, until the soft-eyed Regan 
 asks, ' What need one ? ' A sense of crushing oppression 
 stifles his anger, and Lear begins to answer with the same 
 calmness with which the question had been asked : 
 
 O, reason not the need : our basest beggars 
 
 Are in the poorest thing superfluous : 
 
 Allow not nature more than nature needs, 
 
 Man's life's as cheap as beast's: thou art a lady; 
 
 If only to go warm were gorgeous, 
 
 Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear'st, 
 
 Which scarcely keeps thee warm. But, for true need, — 
 
 He breaks off at finding himself actually pleading : and the 
 blinding tears come as he recognises that the kingly passion 
 in which he had found support at every cross has now 
 deserted him in his extremity. He appeals to heaven against 
 the injustice. 
 
 You heavens, give me that patience, patience I need ! 
 You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, 
 As full of grief as age ; wretched in both ! 
 If it be you that stir these daughters' hearts 
 Against their father, fool me not so much 
 
2 14 iT/A'G LEAR. 
 
 Chap. X. To bear it tamely ; touch me with noble anger, 
 
 And let not women's weapons, water-drops. 
 
 Stain my man's cheeks 1 
 
 The prayer is answered; the passion returns in full flood, 
 and at last brings Lear face to face with the madness which 
 has threatened from a distance. 
 
 No, you unnatural hags, 
 I will have such revenges on you both. 
 That all the world shall— I will do such things, — 
 What they are, yet I know not ; but they shall be 
 The terrors of the earth. Yon think I '11 weep ; 
 No, I '11 not weep : 
 
 I have full cause of weeping ; but this heart 
 Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws. 
 Or ere I '11 weep. O fool, I shall go mad ! 
 
 ii. iv. 290. As Lear with these words rushes out into the night, we 
 The storm j^g^j. ^^ g^gj gQund of the storm — the storm which here, as 
 
 marks off 
 
 the Centre- in Julius Ccssar, will be recognised as the dramatic back- 
 ptece^ of the g^Quud to the tempest of human emotions ; it is the signal 
 that we have now entered upon the mysterious Centrepiece 
 of the play, in which the gathering passions of the whole 
 drama are to be allowed to vent themselves without check or 
 bound. And it is no ordinary storm : it is a night of bleak 
 winds sorely ruffling, of cataracts and hurricanoes, of curled 
 waters swelling above the main, of thought-executing-fires, 
 and oak-cleaving thunderbolts ; a night 
 
 iii. i. 12, wherein the cub-drawn bear would couch, 
 
 &c. The lion and the belly-pinched wolf 
 
 Keep their fur dry. 
 
 And all of it is needed to harmonise with the whirlwind of 
 human passions which finds relief only in outscorning its fury. 
 The purpose of the storm is not confined to this of marking 
 the emotional climax : it is one of the agencies which assist 
 in carrying it to its height. Experts in mental disease have 
 noted amongst the causes which convert mere mental excite- 
 ment into actual madness two leading ones, external physical 
 shocks and imitation. Skakespeare has made use of both in 
 
CLIMAX AND DECLINE OF LEAR'S MADNESS. 215 
 
 the central scenes of this play. For the first, Lear is exposed Chap. X. 
 without shelter to the pelting of the pitiless storm, and he ...~ 
 waxes wilder with its wildness. Again when all this is at its iji' d, &c. 
 height he is suddenly brought into contact with a half-naked iii. iv,from 
 Tom o'Bedlam. This gives the final shock. So far he had ^9' 
 not gone beyond ungovernable rage ; he had not lost self- 
 consciousness, and could say, ' My wits begin to turn ' ; 
 but the sight of Edgar completely unhinges his mind, and iii. iv. 66. 
 hallucinations set in ; a moment after he has seen him the 
 spirit of imitation begins to work, and Lear commences to 
 strip off his clothes. Thus perfect is the regular arch of 
 effect which is connected with Lear's madness. We have its 
 gradual rise in the waves of hysterical passion which ebbed 
 after they had flowed, until, at the point separating the 
 Centrepiece from the rest of the play, Lear's ' O fool I shall 
 go mad ' seems to mark a change from which he never goes 
 back. Through these central scenes exposure to the storm is 
 fanning his passion more and more irretrievably into mad- 
 ness ; at the exact centre of all, imitation of Edgar comes to iii. iii. 39. 
 make the insanity acute. After the Centrepiece Lear dis- Decline 
 appears for a time, and when we next see him agitation has %'^^^tretiece 
 declined into what is more pathetic : the acute mania Yoj&from vio- 
 given place to the" pitiful spectacle of a shattered intellect ; J^^ "^^ " 
 there is no longer sharp suffering, but the whole mind is shattered 
 
 wrecked, sleams of coherence coming at intervals to mark ''"^ ^^ ' 
 
 iv vi Si 
 
 what a fall there has been: the strain upon our emotions 
 
 compare 
 
 sinks into the calm of hopelessness. iv.vi.ij8; 
 
 He hates him much v. iii. 314. 
 
 That would upon the rack of this tough world 
 Stretch him out longer. 
 
 But who is this madman with whom Lear meets at the Thepas- 
 
 turning-point of the play ? It is Edgar, the victim of the 3^^^//' 
 
 underplot, whose life has been sought by his brother and gather to a 
 
 father until he can find no way of saving himself but the ^/TwI^w 
 
 disguise of feigned madness. This feigned madness oi thevtadness 
 
 of Edgar. 
 
2l6 KING LEAR. 
 
 Chap. X. Edgar, as it appears in the central scenes, serves as emotional 
 
 climax to the underplot, just as the madness of Lear is the 
 
 emotional climax of the main plot. Edgar's madness is 
 obviously the climax to the tragedy of his own sufferings, 
 but it is also a central point to the movement of the other 
 two tragedies which with that of Edgar make up the under- 
 plot. One of these is the nemesis upon Gloucester, and this, 
 we have seen, is double, that he receives good from the son 
 he has wronged and evil from the son he has favoured. The 
 
 iii. iv. 170. turning-point of such a nemesis is reached in the Hovel 
 Scene, where Gloucester says : 
 
 I'll tell thee, friend, 
 I am almost mad myself: I had a, son. 
 Now outlaw'd from my blood ; he sought my life. 
 But lately, very late : I loved him, friend : 
 No father his son dearer : truth to tell thee. 
 This grief hath crazed my wits ! 
 
 He says this in the presence of the very Edgar, disguised 
 
 under the form of the wretched idiot he hardly marks. 
 
 Edgar now learns how his father has been deceived ; in his 
 
 heart he is re-united to him, and from this point of re-union 
 
 springs the devotion he lavishes upon his father in the 
 
 compare affliction that presently falls upon him. On the other hand, 
 
 111. 111. 15. ^jjg^j. -yvhich brings Gloucester to this Hovel Scene, the attempt 
 
 iii. iii. 22 ; to Save the King, is betrayed by Edmund, who becomes 
 
 111. vii. thereby the cause of the vengeance which puts out his 
 
 father's eyes. Thus from this meeting of the mad Edgar 
 
 with the mad Lear there springs at once the final stroke in 
 
 the misery Gloucester suffers from the son he has favoured, 
 
 and the beginning of the forgiving love he is to experience 
 
 from the son he has wronged : that meeting then is certainly 
 
 the central climax to the double nemesis which makes up the 
 
 Gloucester action. The remaining tragedy of the underplot 
 
 embraces the series of incidents by the combination of 
 
 which the success of Edmund's intrigue becomes gradually 
 
 converted into the nemesis which punishes it. Now the 
 
A DOUBLE CLIMAX. 217 
 
 squalid wretchedness of a Bedlamite, together with the Chap. X. 
 
 painful strain of supporting the assumed character amidst 
 
 the conflicting emotions which the unexpected meeting of 
 the Hovel Scene has aroused, represent the highest point to 
 which the misery resulting from the intrigue can rise. At 
 the same time the use Edgar makes of this madness after 
 hearing Gloucester's confession is to fasten himself in attend- iv. i, &c. 
 ance upon his afflicted father, and proves in the sequel the 
 means by which he is brought to be the instrument of the 
 vengeance that overtakes Edmund. The central climax of 
 a tragedy like this of intrigue and nemesis cannot be more 
 clearly marked than in the incident in which are combined 
 the summit of the injury and the foundation of the retribu- 
 tion. Thus all three tragedies which together make up 
 the resultant of the intrigue constituting the underplot reach 
 their climax of agitation in the scene in which Lear and 
 Edgar meet. 
 
 It appears, then, that the Centrepiece of the play is occupied TheCentre- 
 with the contact of two madnesses, the madness of Lear and -^^^f "' 
 the madness of Edgar ; that of Lear gathering up into a by the ad- 
 climax trains of passion from all the three tragedies of the t\l°p^Ji 
 main plot, and that of Edgar holding a similar position to the « trio of 
 three tragedies of the underplot. Further, these madnesses 
 do not merely go on side by side ; as they meet they 
 mutually affect one another, and throw up each other's 
 intensity. By the mere sight of the Bedlamite, Lear, already 
 tottering upon the verge of insanity, is driven really and 
 incurably mad ; while in the case of Edgar, the meeting with 
 Lear, and through Lear with Gloucester, converts the burden 
 of feigning idiocy from a cruel stroke of unjust fate into a 
 hardship voluntarily undergone for the sake of ministering to 
 a father now forgiven and pitied. And so far as the general 
 effect of the play is concerned this central Climax presents a 
 terrible duet of madness, the wild ravings and mutual inter- 
 workings of two distinct strains of insanity, each answering 
 
2i8 KING LEAR. 
 
 Chap. X. and outbidding the other. The distinctness is the greater as 
 the two are diflferent in kind. In Lear we have the madness 
 of passion, exaggeration of ordinary emotions; Edgar's is 
 the madness of idiocy, as idiocy was in early ages when the 
 cruel neglect of society added physical hardship to mental 
 affliction. In Edgar's frenzy we trace rapid irrelevance 
 with gleams of unexpected relevance, just sufficient to partly 
 answer a question and go off again into wandering ; a sense 
 of ill-treatment and of being an outcast; remorse and 
 thoughts as to close connection of sin and retribution ; visions 
 of fiends as in bodily presence ; cold, hunger : these alter- 
 nating with mere gibberish, and all perhaps within the 
 compass of a few lines. 
 
 iii. iv. 51. Who gives anything to poor Tom? whom the foul fiend hath led 
 through fire and through flame, and through ford and whirlipool, o'er 
 bog and quagmire ; that hath laid knives under his pillow, and halters 
 in his pew ; set ratsbane by his porridge ; made him proud of heart, to 
 ride on a bay trotting-horse over four-inched bridges, to course his own 
 shadow for a traitor. Bless thy five wits ! Tom 's a-cold, — O, do de, 
 do de, do de. Bless thee from whirlwinds, star-blasting, and taking ! 
 Do poor Tom some charity, whom the foul fiend vexes : there cou'.d 
 I have him now, — and there, — and there again, and there. 
 
 But this is not all. When examined more closely this 
 Centrepiece exhibits not a duet but a trio of madness ; with 
 the other two there mingles a third form of what may be 
 called madness, the professional madness of the court fool. 
 Institution This court fool or jester is an institution of considerable 
 cf e cMir ijjterest. It seems to rest upon three mediaeval and ancient 
 notions. The first is the barbarism of enjoying personal 
 defects, illustrated in the large number of Roman names 
 derived from bodily infirmities, Varus the bandy-legged, Bal- 
 bus the stammerer, and the like ; this led our ancestors to 
 find fun in the incoherence of natural idiocy, and finally 
 made the imitation of it a profession. A second notion 
 underlying the institution of a jester is the connection to the 
 ancient mind between madness and inspiration; the same 
 
INSTITUTION OF THE COURT FOOL. 219 
 
 Greek word eniheos stands for both, and to this day the idiot CHAr. X. 
 of a Scotch village is believed in some way to see further 
 than sane folk. A third idea to be kept in mind is the 
 mediseval conception of wit. With us wit is weighed by its 
 intrinsic worth ; the old idea, appearing repeatedly in Shake- 
 speare's scenes, was that wit was a mental game, a sort of 
 battledore and shuttlecock, in which the jokes themselves 
 might be indifferent since the point of the game lay in keep- 
 ing it up as smartly and as long as possible. The fool, 
 whose title and motley dress suggested the absence of 
 ordinary sense or propriety, combines in his office all three 
 notions : from the last he was bound to keep up the fire of 
 badinage, even though it were with witless nonsense ; from 
 the second he was expected at times to give utterance to 
 deep truths ; and in virtue of the first he had license to make 
 hard hits under protection of the ' folly ' which all were 
 supposed to enjoy. 
 
 He that a fool doth very wisely hit. 
 Doth veiy foolishly, although he smart, 
 Not to seem senseless of the bob. 
 
 The institution, if it has died out as a personal office attached The insti- 
 to kings or nobles, has perhaps been preserved by the nation adapted to 
 as a whole in a form analogous to other modern institutions : modern 
 the all-embracing newspaper has absorbed this element of p^tnck. 
 life, and Mr. Punch is the national jester. His figure and face 
 are an improvement on the old motley habit ; his fixed num- 
 ber of pages have to be filled, if not always with wit, yet with 
 passable padding : no one dare other than enjoy the compli- 
 ment of his notice, under penalty of showing that ' the cap 
 has fitted'; and certainly Mr. Punch finds ways of conveying 
 to statesmen criticisms to which the pjoprieties of parliament 
 would be impervious. The institution of the court fool is 
 eagerly utilised by Shakespeare, and is the source of some 
 of his finest effects : he treats it as a sort of chronic Comedy, 
 the function of which may be described as that of trans-. 
 
2 20 KING LEAR. 
 
 Chap. X. lating deep truths of human nature into the language of 
 laughter. 
 
 In applying, then, this general view of the court fool to the 
 present case we must avoid two opposite errors. We must 
 not pass over all his utterances as unmeaning folly, nor, on 
 the other hand, must we insist upon seeing a meaning in 
 everything that he says : what truth he speaks must be ex- 
 pected to make its appearance amidst a cloud of nonsense. 
 Thefunc- Making this proviso we may lay down that the function of 
 'fooiU''^ the Fool in King Lear is to keep vividly before the minds of 
 Lear is to the audience (as well as of his master) the idea at the root 
 u?the of the main plot — that unstable moral equilibrium, that un- 
 origiTtal natural distribution of power which Lear has set up, and of 
 pro em . ^j^j^j^ jjjg y,hole tragedy is the rebound. In the first scene 
 V. in which he appears before us he is, amid all his nonsense, 
 
 harping upon the idea that Lear has committed the folly of 
 trusting to the gratitude of the ungrateful, and is reaping the 
 inevitable consequences. As he enters he hands his cox- 
 comb, the symbol of folly, to the King, and to Kent for 
 taking the King's part. His first jingling song, 
 
 Have more than thon showest, 
 Speak less than thou knowest, 
 I*nd less than thou owest, &c., 
 
 is an expansion of the maxim. Trust nobody. And however 
 irrelevant he becomes, he can in a moment get back to this 
 root idea. They tell him his song is nothing : 
 
 Fool. Then 'tis like the breath of an unfee'd lawyer ; you gave me 
 nothing for 't. Can you make no use of nothing, nuncle ? 
 
 Lear. Why, no, boy ; nothing can be made out of nothing. 
 
 Fool [to JTent]. Prithee, tell him, so much the rent of his land comes 
 to : he will not believe a fool. 
 
 i. i. 92. 'Nothing will come of nothing' had been the words Lear 
 had used to Cordelia; now he is bidden to see how they 
 have become the exact description of his own fortune. No 
 wonder Lear exclaims, ' A bitter fool 1 ' 
 
FUNCTION OF THE FOOL IN THIS PLAY. 221 
 
 Fool. Dost thou know the difference, my boy, between a bitter fool Chap. X. 
 
 and a sweet one ? 
 
 Lear. No, lad ; teach me. 
 Fool. That lord that connsell'd thee 
 
 To give away thy land. 
 Come place him here by me. 
 
 Do thou for him stand : 
 The sweet and bitter fool 
 Will presently appear ; 
 The one in motley here, 
 The other found out there. 
 Lear. Dost thou call me fool, boy? 
 
 Fool, All thy other titles thou hast given away ; that thou wast 
 bom with. 
 
 Again and again he turns to other topics and comes suddenly 
 back to the main thought. 
 
 Fool. Prithee, nuncle, keep a schoolmaster that can teach thy fool i. iv. 195. 
 to lie : I would fain learn to lie. 
 
 Lear. An you lie, sirrah, we '11 have you whipped. 
 
 Fool. 1 marvel what kin thou and thy daughters are : they '11 have 
 me whipped for speaking true, thou 'It have me whipped for lying ; 
 and sometimes I am whipped for holding my peace. I had rather be 
 any kind o' thing than a fool : and yet I would not be thee, nuncle ; 
 thou hast pared thy wit o' both sides, and left nothing i' the middle : 
 here comes one o' the parings. 
 
 It is Goneril who enters, and who proceeds to state her case i. iv. 207. 
 in the tone of injury, detailing how the order of her house- 
 hold state has been outraged, but ignoring the source from 
 which she has received the power to keep up state at all : 
 what she has omitted the Fool supplies in parable, as if con- 
 tinuing her sentence — 
 
 For, you trow, nuncle, 
 The hedge-sparrow fed the cuckoo so long. 
 That it's had it head bit off by it young, 
 
 and then instantly involves himself in a cloud of irrele- 
 vance. 
 
 So, out went the candle, and we were left darkling. 
 
 In the scene which follows, the Fool is performing a variation i. v. 
 on the same theme : the sudden removal from one sister 
 
2 22 KING LEAR. 
 
 Chap. X. to the other is no real escape from the original foolish 
 
 situation. 
 
 i. V. 8. Fool. If a man's brains were in's heels, were 't not in danger of 
 
 kibes ? 
 
 Lear. Ay, boy. 
 
 Fool. Then, I prithee, be merry ; thy wit shall ne'er go slip-shod. 
 
 To say that Lear is in no danger of suffering from brains in 
 his heels is another way of saying that his flight is folly. He 
 goes on to insist that the other daughter will treat her father 
 'kindly,' that 'she's as like this as a crab's like an apple.' 
 His laying down that the reason why the nose is in the 
 middle of the face is to keep the eyes on either side of the 
 nose, and that the reason why the seven stars are no more 
 than seven is ' a pretty reason — because they are not eight,' 
 suggests (if it be not pressing it too far) that we must not 
 look for depth where there is only shallowness — the mistake 
 Lear has made in trusting to the gratitude of his daughters. 
 And the general thought of Lear's original folly he brings 
 out, true to the fool's office, from the most unlikely be- 
 ginnings. 
 
 i. V. 26. Fool. Canst tell how an oyster makes his shelll 
 
 Lear. No. 
 
 ' Nor I neither,' answers the Fool, with a clown's impudence ; 
 ' but,' he adds, ' I can tell why a snail has a house.' 
 
 Ixar. Why ? 
 
 Fool. Why, to pnt his head in ; not to give it away to his daughters. 
 
 ii. iv. I- All through the scene in front of the stocks the Fool is harp- 
 "^- ing on the folly of expecting gratitude from such as Goneril 
 
 and Regan. It is fathers who bear bags that see their children 
 kind; the wise man lets go his hold on a great wheel running 
 down hill, but lets himself be drawn after by the great wheel 
 that goes up the hill ; he himself, the Fool hints, is a fool for 
 staying with Lear ; to cry out at Goneril and Regan's be- 
 haviour is as unreasonable as for the cook to be impatient 
 with the eels for wriggling ; to have trusted the two 
 
A TREBLE CLIMAX. 223 
 
 daughters with power at all was like the folly of the man that, Chap. X. 
 
 ' in pure kindness to his horse, buttered his hay.' 
 
 The one idea, then, stationary amidst all the Fool's gyrations 
 
 of folly is the idea of Lear's original sin of passion, froni the 
 
 consequences of which he can never escape ; only the idea is but in an 
 
 put, not rationally, but translated into an emotional form yj,^^^ ^ 
 
 which makes it fit to mingle with the agitation of the central adapted to 
 
 scenes. The emotional form consists partly in the irrelevance fj„„ ofthe 
 
 amid which the idea is brought out, producing continual Centre- 
 
 shocks of surprise. But more than this an emotional form is 
 
 given to the utterances of the Fool by his very position with 
 
 reference to Lear. There is a pathos that mingles with his iii. i. 16 ; 
 
 humour, where the Fool, a tender and delicate youth, is found "■■'■ iJ; '?.'. 
 ' ^ ' 25, 00 ; 111. 
 
 the only attendant who clings to Lear amid the rigour of the iv. 80, 150. 
 storm, labouring with visibly decreasing vigour to out-jest 
 his master's heart-struck injuries, and to keep up holiday 
 abandon amidst surrounding realities. Throughout he is i. iv. 107 ; 
 Lear's best friend, and epithets of endearment are continually y"' JJ" ' 
 passing between them : he has been Cordelia's friend (as 
 Touchstone was the friend of Rosalind), and pined for Cor- i. iv. 79. 
 delia after her banishment. Nevertheless he is the only one 
 who can deliver hard thrusts at Lear, and bring home to him, 
 under protection of his double relation to wisdom and folly, 
 Lear's original error and sin. So faithful and so severe, the 
 Fool becomes an outward conscience to his master : he keeps 
 before Lear the unnatural act from which the whole tragedy 
 springs, but he converts the thought of it into the emotion of 
 self-reproach. 
 
 Our total result then is this. The intricate drama of King Summary. 
 Lear has a general movement which centres the passion of 
 the play in a single Climax. Throughout a Centrepiece of a 
 few scenes, against a background of storm and tempest is 
 thrown up a tempest of human passion — a madness trio, or 
 mutual play of three sorts of madness, the real madness of 
 passion in Lear, the feigned madness of idiocy in Edgar, and 
 
224 Ay/VG LEAR. 
 
 Chap. X. the professional madness of the court fool. When the 
 
 elements of this madness trio are analysed, the first is found 
 
 to gather up into itself the passion of the three tragedies 
 which form the main plot ; the second is a similar climax to 
 the passion of the three tragedies which make up the under- 
 plot ; the third is an expression, in the form of passion, of the 
 original problem out of which the whole action has sprung. 
 Thus intricacy of plot has been found not inconsistent with 
 simplicity of movement, and from the various parts of the 
 drama the complex trains of passion have been brought to a 
 focus in the centre. 
 
XL 
 
 ' Othello ' as a Picture of Jealousy 
 AND Intrigue. 
 
 A Study in Character 
 and Plot. 
 
 TN no play of Shakespeare is the organic connection be- Chap. XI. 
 
 -*- tween Character and Plot so simply and so emphatically . 
 
 marked as in the play of Othello. Viewed from the side of of Charac- 
 Character, its personages fall into a magnificent piece olterand 
 
 \Plot tft 
 
 Grouping around the passion of Suspicious Jealousy '. When Othello. 
 we turn to analyse the Plot, this is found to be a network 
 of Intrigue— the mode of action in which Jealousy most 
 naturally finds vent ; and the intrigues, however elaborate, 
 are by the movement of the plot drawn to a simple culmina- 
 tion which remains for all literature the typical climax of 
 tragic jealousy. 
 
 The leading personages in Othello are, in character, varia- Character- 
 tions of a single passion, suspicious jealousy, and their ^^"^P^S 
 
 position in the play is exactly determined by their relation upon 
 
 Jealousy. 
 
 ' It is important to remember that in Shakespearean English the word 
 ' jealousy ' comes nearer in meaning to ' suspicion ' than in modern 
 usage. Compare Oih. iii. iii. 198 : ' not jealous nor secure ; ' or 
 Henry V, ii. ii. 126: 
 
 O, how hast thou with jealousy infected 
 The sweetness of affiance ! 
 
 Compare Scotch usage : ' They jaloused the opening of our letters at 
 Fairport.' {Antiquary, chapter xxiv.) 
 
 Q 
 
2 26 OTHELLO. 
 
 Chap. XI. to this passion. Othello himself represents jealousy in a 
 
 trusting nature : 
 
 one not easily jealous, bnt, being wrought, 
 Perplex'd in the extreme. 
 
 lago sees truly that his leader's ' unbookish jealousy' must 
 construe things wrong ; how unbookish it is would be suffi- 
 ciently proved by the wearisome iteration with which he 
 applies the epithet 'honest' to lago. On the contrary, 
 lago's is the jealousy of a nature that believes in nothing ; 
 
 ii. i. in his soliloquies he lets it appear that he suspects both 
 
 304. 316; Othello and Cassio to have tampered with his wife, and this 
 obviously baseless jealousy is largely the motive of lago's 
 action, as the jealousy of other persons is mainly the instru- 
 ment with which he works. Both his subordinate agents hold 
 their place in the play by the same thread of connection. In 
 Roderigo we have the ordinary jealousy of a love intrigue 
 utilised by the skill of lago ; and where the virtue of 
 Desdemona makes lago's scheme too transparent in its 
 
 ii. i. 215. weakness, it is only by working on Roderigo's jealousy of 
 Cassio that the plotter is able to retain his tool. Bianca 
 strikes a yet lower key — the jealousy of a vulgar liaison. 
 Her connection is with only a single phase of the action, 
 the misunderstanding in the matter of the handkerchief. For 
 this link in the plot it is merely necessary for her to appear 
 at two points : at the first it is jealousy that brings her to look 
 for Cassio, and reproach him for long absence — when he 
 gives her the handkerchief ; and it is jealousy that brings her 
 again to fling it back at him in the sight of the concealed 
 Othello. Finally, Cassio and Desdemona are prominent in 
 the play by the utter absence of the passion. This appears 
 
 ii. iii. 12- negatively in Cassio ; for example, when lago, inviting him 
 to the drinking-bout, insinuates that Desdemona even is 
 susceptible, Cassio in sheer simplicity misunderstands all he 
 says. In Desdemona the absence of jealousy and suspicion 
 amounts to a phenomenon, and when we come to trace the 
 
 33 
 
ECONOMY OF THE PLOT. 327 
 
 Story we shall see how it is her simplicity which is for ever Chap. XI. 
 
 betraying her. Such are the varieties of form, positive and 
 
 negative, which jealousy assumes in these various personages, 
 and they thus blend themselves into a character-group round 
 this passion as the central point of view. 
 
 What Jealousy is to the Character of this play Intrigue is Plot 
 to its Plot. Shakespeare's plots are, almost without exception, -^^^"^^^/" 
 distinguished by their complexity : the fulness of life he has 
 drawn within the field of his drama can have design given 
 to it only by a plan of system within system. He keeps 
 going side by side several different stories, or interests, or 
 technically, ' actions,' and the triumph of his plot-handling is 
 the exquisite symmetry between these different drifts of events, 
 and the way in which they move on to a common consumma- 
 tion. The analysis of such plot falls into two divisions : 
 Economy views the play as a whole, and the relation of its 
 various parts to one another ; Movement traces the develop- 
 ment of the total effect through the successive scenes, from 
 imperfect to complete. Whether we review the Economy or 
 the Movement one idea is found to animate the present 
 play. Its plot presents a number of separate intrigues or 
 other ' actions,' gradually by the course of the play merged 
 in one, which rushes on to a tragic consummation of Jealousy, 
 and a reaction of Nemesis on the Intriguer. 
 
 I distinguish in the play eight of these ' actions,' or 
 separate trains of incident. 
 
 The first, and slightest, is the illicit liaison between Bianca Economy 
 and Cassio. It appears in no more than four incidents of the "-^j^^" 
 story; twice Bianca appears to reproach her lover; once the Three 
 tie between the two is made a subject of conversation between "^f^^^J 
 Cassio and lago, in order that the by-play of this con versa- iii.iv. 169; 
 tion may be seen by and deceive the concealed Othello ; and g^ljig^^' 
 yet again accident brings Bianca to the spot where her lover v. i. 73. 
 has just fallen wounded. Yet slight as this liaison is, — a 
 mere matter of course for an Italian gentleman of that corrupt 
 
 Q 2 
 
228 OTHELLO. 
 
 Chap. XI. age, — Shakespeare must needs give it a touch of individuality. 
 He has reversed the usual relations of mistress and lover ; 
 the pretty Bianca, who no doubt has been cruel to many 
 adorers in her time, has now to feel the slights of the still 
 more handsome Cassio ; she is the one genuinely in love, 
 and it is Cassio who se laisse aimer. Moreover, it is a 
 tragic action ; for though the two know no evil in the bond 
 which has united them, yet it comes to an end with the 
 arrest of Bianca on the false suspicion of murdering her 
 lover, and as she is borne off in custody she has to hear 
 from the wife of lago the plain language which conveys the 
 honest matron's opinion of loose life. 
 
 Roderigo, The second action is Roderigo's pursuit of Desdemona. 
 No name can be given to it worthier than ' pursuit.' Rode- 
 rigo is merely a Venetian youth without parts or character, 
 a typical man about town, one who is no fool, as he thinks, 
 yet has just wit enough to be used by lago for his own 
 purposes. He has in due course fallen head over heels in love 
 with the great beauty of Venice. It is hardly necessary to 
 remark that the passion is all on one side. There is nothing 
 to show that Desdemona so much as knows of Roderigo's 
 existence; certain it is that she never once speaks to him, 
 
 1. i. 95. nor he to her, in the whole play. Roderigo had indeed got 
 as far as Desdemona's father, but only to be warned off the 
 premises as one not fit to pay addresses to Brabantio's 
 daughter. It is true that the shock of Desdemona's elope- 
 ment with Othello, announced to her father by Roderigo, 
 throws him for a time into the arms of Brabanlio, but only 
 on the principle that misfortune makes strange bedfellows ; 
 and we must understand it only as a measure of Brabantio's 
 disgust at Othello, that he turns to Roderigo with the words, 
 
 i. i. 176. ' O, would you had had her I ' The whole of this action is 
 simply a piece of amorous hunting. Yet it has a tragic 
 dignity given to it, for it costs poor Roderigo his life. 
 
 Third in order I place that which is the main action of 
 
ECONOMY OF THE PLOT. 229 
 
 the whole play, — the love of Othello and Desdemona. Not Chap. XI. 
 only does this remain as one of the world's most tragic . , .. , 
 stories — Desdemona. 
 
 O, the pity of it ! the pity of it ! 
 
 but it further stands out as one of the great fundamental 
 types of love. It is the love that attracts contraries into the 
 closest of bonds. Desdemona is above all things the ' gentle ' 
 Desdemona — 
 
 A maiden never bold ; 
 Of spirit so still and qniet, that her motion 
 Blush'd at herself. 
 
 She is essentially domestic : 
 
 So opposite to marriage that she shunn'd 
 The wealthy curled darlings of our nation. 
 
 Yet she is drawn to the ' thick-lipped,' ' sooty ' Moor, who is 
 in Venetian eyes the type of ugliness, the battered soldier 
 whose only charms are his scars from disastrous chances and 
 moving accidents by flood and field, and the ' rude speech ' 
 which tells of them. 
 
 For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith, 
 Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used 
 Their dearest action in the tented field, 
 And little of this great world can I speak, 
 More than pertains to feats of broil and battle. 
 
 True, he is tlie great warrior of his age, whose genius 
 haughty Venice is glad to purchase. And the quiet life 
 drinks in the story of the life of action, until the opposites run 
 together with a shock, and Desdemona is the one to speak i. iii. 164. 
 the first word of wooing. Yet, opposites though they be, 
 they have one heritage in common, which plays a great part 
 in their characters and their fate. Their common quality is 
 utter simplicity. Like Siegfried, who had learned everything 
 but how to fear, so Othello with all his knocking about the 
 world has never learned how to suspect. Desdemona thinks 
 
2 30 OTHELLO. 
 
 Chap. XI. that the sun where Othello was born had drawn from him all 
 ~ such humours as jealousy; and must not we think so too 
 
 ii.iii.6,&c. when we find him throughout the play treating lago as his 
 type of honesty? And a like absence of suspiciousness 
 betrays Desdemona into acts that look equivocal. If we 
 knew nothing of the plot, we should feel a note of danger in 
 her enthusiastic sympathy : 
 
 My lord shall never rest; 
 I '11 watch him tame, and talk him ont of patience ; 
 His bed shall seem a school, his board a shrift; 
 I '11 intermingle everything he does 
 With Cassio's suit. 
 
 When language has been used to her that there is no mis- 
 understanding, she asks her attendant : 
 
 Dost thou in conscience think, — tell me, Emilia, — 
 That there be women do abuse their husbands 
 In such gross kind? 
 
 It is like seething a kid in its own mother's milk when lago 
 trades upon this simple unsuspiciousness in order to rouse a 
 fiend of jealousy. Yet it is only too easily intelligible. To 
 such simplicity of nature human character appears only 
 simple ; men must be classified as sheep or goats ; there is 
 good and evil only, without fine shadings or neutral colours, 
 without compromises or allowances. Let Desdemona once 
 appear guilty, and all the whiteness of her soul is the white 
 hypocrisy that makes the black all the blacker. So the true 
 love of Othello and Desdemona ends in murder and suicide : 
 though even these are scarcely more terrible than for such a 
 love to end in jealousy. 
 
 All these three actions are trains of affairs moving on side 
 
 by side when the play opens. We now come to four actions 
 
 which are conscious intrigues, all carried on by the master- 
 
 Four In- plotter lago. The first is lago's intrigue against Roderigo, 
 
 tngues of ^jjjgjj ig as simple as intrigue can be ; it is merely the 
 
 sharper's planning to get all the money he can out of his 
 
ECONOMY OF THE PLOT. 231 
 
 dupe and then get rid of him. When Desdemona is married Chap. XI. 
 
 beyond the possibility of undoing, lago tells the disappointed 
 
 suitor, ' I could never "better stead thee than now.' i. iii. 344. 
 
 Put money in thy purse ; follow thou the wars ; defeat thy favour 
 with an usurped beard ; I say, put money in thy purse. It cannot be 
 that Desdemona should long continue her love to the Moor, — put 
 money in thy purse, — nor he his to her : it was a violent commence- 
 ment, and thou shalt see an answerable sequestration : — put but money 
 in thy purse. These Moors are changeable in their wills : — fill thy 
 purse with money : — the food that to him now is as luscious as locusts, 
 shall be to him shortly as bitter as coloquintida. She must change for 
 youth : when she is sated . . . she must have change, she must : there- 
 fore put money in thy purse. 
 
 So Roderigo cheers up and goes to sell his land, while lago 
 soliloquises : 
 
 Thus do I ever make my fool my purse. 
 
 When the orange has been sucked dry it is naturally thrown 
 away, and so in the fifth act lago soliloquises : 
 
 Live Roderigo, v. i. 14. 
 
 He calls me to a restitution large 
 Of gold and jewels that I bobbed from him, 
 As gifts to Desdemona ; 
 It must not be. 
 
 Accordingly, when other means have failed, he seizes a 
 favourable opportunity for stabbing Roderigo. The whole 
 affair is quite simple. 
 
 Against Cassio lago has, not one, but two, distinct in- 
 trigues, animated by two separate motives. lago's first 
 grudge is that all the interest he had made among the great 
 ones of Venice had been insufficient to gain him the post of 
 Othello's lieutenant, which had instead fallen to a foreigner. 
 
 And what 'was he? 
 
 Forsooth, a great arithmetician, 
 
 One Michael Cassio, a Florentine, 
 
 A fellow almost damned in a fair wife ; 
 
232 
 
 OTHELLO. 
 
 Chap. XI. That never set a squadron in the field, 
 
 Nor the division of a battle knows 
 
 More than a spinster ; unless the bookish theoric. 
 
 Wherein the toged consuls can propose 
 
 As masterly as he: mere prattle, without practice, 
 
 Is all his soldiership. But he, sir, had the election : 
 
 And I, of whom his eyes had seen the proof 
 
 At Rhodes, at Cyprus and on other grounds 
 
 Christian and heathen, must be be-leed and calmed 
 
 By debitor and creditor : this counter-caster. 
 
 He, in good time, must his lieutenant be. 
 
 And I — God bless the mark ! — his Moorship's ancient. 
 
 Disappointed rivalry, pressure of debts, the combined pre- 
 judices of practical man against doctrinaire and of Venetian 
 against Florentine, make up a formidable motive for action 
 in a nature such as lago's. Accordingly he has studied the 
 new-comer until he has found the weak side by which he may 
 ii. iii. 34- be betrayed. This weak side, it is worth noting, is not the 
 ^^' moral vice of intemperance so much as the physical weakness 
 
 of stomach which makes a small dose of alcohol produce 
 upon Cassio the effect that excess produces on other men. 
 Cassio drinks most unwillingly, and in circumstances which 
 made refusal almost impossible ; but the poison acts on him 
 instantly, and he is betrayed into unmiUtary conduct which 
 lago adroitly magnifies into a brawl. So his purpose is 
 gained, and a little past the middle of the play lago hears the 
 iii. iii. 478. welcome words, ' Now art thou my lieutenant.' But it is only 
 after this point that we are allowed to see a wider and more 
 fundamental antagonism between Cassio and the villain of 
 our play. lago in the fifth act mutters : 
 
 If Cassio do remain, 
 He hath a daily beauty in his life 
 That makes me ugly ... 
 
 • It is the primitive feud of light and darkness, reinforced by a 
 ii. i. 316. suspicion — for lago turns his foul suspicions in all impossible 
 directions — that Cassio has played him false with Emilia, 
 that brings lago to the conclusion that Cassio must die. 
 
ECONOMY OF THE PLOT. 233 
 
 The same antagonism of light and darkness makes lago Chap. XI. 
 
 hate the Moor, and there is the same additional motive of . ~ 
 
 suspicions, grounded on nothing but his own foul thoughts, ii.T.'soi;' 
 that by Othello also he has been wronged in his wedded ^^- "■ HS- 
 life. 
 
 Emilia. The Moor's abused by some most villainous knave. 
 
 Some such squire he vfas 
 
 That turned your wit the seamy side without. 
 And made 'you to suspect me with the Moor. 
 
 lago has said of this in soliloquy : — 
 
 I know not if't be tnie; 
 But I, for mere suspicion in that kind, 
 Will do as if for surety. 
 
 By the end of the next act the feeling has grown the stronger 
 by brooding : — 
 
 — the thought whereof 
 Doth, like a poisonous mineral, gnaw my inwards; 
 And nothing can or shall content my soul 
 Till I am even'd with him, wife for wife. 
 Or, failing so, yet that I put the Moor 
 At least into a jealousy so strong 
 That judgment cannot cure. 
 
 Here again are fine materials for an intrigue, and this 
 constitutes one of the main actions in our plot. 
 
 We have now before us three trains of circumstances 
 moving on independently at the opening of the play, and four 
 evil intrigues added to them by the villainy of lago : in all 
 seven ' actions,' each an intelligible whole, which can be 
 traced separately through the details of the story in the way 
 in which an historian distinguishes movements and tendencies 
 underlying the complex events of human life. It may assist 
 clearness to recapitulate and number these actions : — 
 
 1. Bianca's liaison with Cassio. 
 
 2. Roderigo's pursuit of Desdemona. 
 
 3. The love of Othello and Desdemona. 
 
234 OTHELLO. 
 
 Chap. XI. 4- lago's intrigue against Roderigo. 
 5. lago's intrigue to gain Cassio's place. 
 
 6. lago's intrigue to get rid of Cassio altogether. 
 
 7. lago's intrigue to destroy the happiness of Othello and 
 
 Desdemona. 
 
 But the dramatic interest of Economy finds its highest 
 
 satisfaction in watching these separate actions become united ; 
 
 in seeing how, by a series of dramatic devices, one after 
 
 another they are drawn together, and merged in one common 
 
 movement to a goal of tragic ruin. 
 Economic The first of these devices is that lago, having it as a fixed 
 liking the Purpose to arouse jealousy in the guileless Othello, hits at 
 actions last upon Cassio as the one to be made the object of these 
 
 suspicions. We are allowed to see this idea gradually dawn 
 
 upon lago. 
 
 together. 
 
 i. iii. 398. Cassio 's a proper man : let me see now : 
 
 How, how ? — Let 's see : — 
 
 After some time, to abuse Othello's ear 
 That he is too familiar with his wife. 
 He hath a person and a smooth dispose 
 To be suspected, framed to make women false. 
 
 ^^'hen lago proceeds to act upon this notion he gains the 
 economic advantage of making his evil machinations against 
 Othello serve as the instrument of his evil purpose to ruin 
 Cassio; in other words, Nos. 6 and 7 of our actions are 
 now merged in one. 
 
 In carrying out this double scheme of ruining Cassio and 
 Othello at once, by making the one the object of the other's 
 jealousy, accident suggests to lago a further device, which 
 produces further amalgamation of our different actions. 
 Cassio's ruin has already been so far compassed that he has 
 been cast from oflBce, and is seeking restoration; the 
 ii. iii. 250. momentary appearance of Desdemona on the scene suggests 
 to lago that Cassio should be led to use Desdemona's 
 intervention in his behalf It will be easy to misinterpret 
 
ECONOMY OF THE PLOT. 235 
 
 her warmhearted intervention as dictated by naore than good- Chap. XI. 
 
 nature. By this simple device the whole force of the love 
 
 between Desdemona and her lord is utilised to help forward 
 the evil intrigue against Cassio, which we have seen to be at 
 the same time an intrigue against Othello's happiness. Thus 
 now No. 3 of our actions is united with Nos. 6 and 7 in one 
 common drift. 
 
 Two more devices serve to draw in Roderigo's pursuit of 
 Desdemona, and make this part of the general attack upon 
 Cassio. Cassio is made the object of Roderigo's jealousy, 
 but — that there may not be too much sameness in the devices 
 of this drama — the suggestion this time is, not that Cassio 
 loves Desdemona, which to Roderigo would seem a matter 
 of course, but that Desdemona loves Cassio. ii- i, from 
 
 220. 
 
 lago. . . . Desdemona is directly in love with him. 
 
 J^od. With him ! why, 'tis not possible. 
 
 lag'o. Lay thy finger thus, and let thy soul be instructed. Mark me 
 with what violence she first loved the Moor, but for bragging and 
 telling her fantastical lies : and will she love him still for prating ? let 
 not thy discreet heart think it. Her eye must be fed ; and what delight 
 shall she have to look on the devil ? 
 
 He proceeds to dilate on Cassio's advantages of person : 
 
 The knave is handsome, young, "and hath all those requisites in him 
 that folly and green minds look after : a pestilent complete knave ; and 
 the woman hath found him .already. 
 
 I?od. I cannot believe that in her; she's full of most blessed con- 
 dition. 
 
 /ag^o. Blessed fig's end ! 
 
 Roderigo is soon sufficiently indoctrinated with this suspicion 
 
 to make him bear his part in the comedy which is to present 
 
 Cassio as a brawler, and hurl him from his office. But when 
 
 this is accomplished the jealous suspicions still live, and a 
 
 second bit of ingenuity on lago's part utilises them to assist 
 
 his deeper scheme against Cassio. A commission has arrived 
 
 from Venice : affairs in Cyprus no longer need Othello, the iv. ii, from 
 
 225. 
 
236 OTHELLO. 
 
 Chap. XI. Senate consider Cassio sufBcient for this government while 
 the great general goes forward to the war in Mauretania. 
 lago adroitly suggests to the love-sick Roderigo that Othello 
 will take Desdemona away ^\^th him, and that there is only 
 one way of preventing this : — 
 
 . . . unless his abode be lingered here by some accident : wherein 
 none can be so determinate as the removing of Cassio. 
 
 Rod, How do you mean, removing of him ? 
 
 lago. Why, by making him nncapable of Othello's place ; knocking 
 out his brains. 
 
 Rod. And that you would have me to do ? 
 
 Roderigo this time needs a good deal of persuading ; but 
 when he does give consent we have the whole force of his 
 passion for Desdemona working into lago's intrigues against 
 Cassio. That is to say, No. 2 of our scheme of actions is 
 now seen to co-operate with Nos. 5 and 6. 
 
 But this No. 6 (the attempt to make Cassio a victim of 
 Othello's jealousy) has already been seen to have amal- 
 gamated with two other actions, Nos. 3 and 7. We have 
 thus five of our separate trains of incidents — Nos. 2, 3, 5, 6, 7 
 — now merged in one, and assisting each other's course. 
 But further: the same devices which succeeded in drawing 
 in Roderigo as a force against Cassio have at the same time 
 been assisting another purpose in the play — lago's scheme 
 of getting money out of his dupe Roderigo ; for lago sees 
 
 V. i. 15. clearly that, once Roderigo despaii-s of success, all his own 
 pecuniary chances are gone, and indeed he may be called 
 upon to make restitution. So the action we have numbered 
 as No. 4 is now seen to be working in the same direction as 
 the other five. There remains only one more — the affair of 
 
 iii.ivjiv.i. Bianca and Cassio. Every reader will remember how this 
 paltry bit of low life crosses the main tragedy at just the 
 point where it can serve as an unintended link in a terrible 
 chain of events. Desdemona's handkerchief, dropped, given 
 to Bianca to be altered, brought back by her in a ftioment of 
 
ECONOMY OF THE PLOT. 237 
 
 suspicion, is made by the contrivance of the plotter to seem Chap. XI. 
 like a final proof of Desdemona's abandoned passions. This 
 handkerchief device has drawn in action No. i into the drift 
 of the rest ; and all the actions of our scheme, from i to 7, 
 are now blended in a single stream of movement. 
 
 Every reader who has in the smallest degree developed 
 interest in plot must appreciate this triumph of dramatic 
 economy, by which so many separate trains of action are, by 
 a touch here and there of a great contriver, made to coalesce 
 with one another and unite their forces, so that the author 
 can reduce in amount the demand he has to make upon evil 
 contrivance, and can show himself thrifty in making each 
 device produce the maximum of results. But if the reader The 
 does not appreciate it, there is one in the play who does, ^il^f"""^, 
 a.nd that is the arch-villain himself: for what is it but &gestedin 
 rhapsody on dramatic economy which lago gives us when, ^^flJf^^ 
 after hitting upon the idea of utilising Desdemona to plead 
 for Cassio, he reflects that the very counsel he has given with 
 a view to his dark purposes is the counsel which an honest 
 adviser would have given to Cassio for his own sake ? 
 
 And what's he then that says I play the villain? ii. iii. 342. 
 
 When this advice is free I give, and honest, 
 Probal to thinking, and indeed the course 
 To win the Moor again ? For 'tis most easy 
 The inclining Desdemona to subdue 
 In any honest suit : she 's framed as fruitful 
 As the free elements. And then for her 
 To win the Moor — were't to renounce his baptism, 
 ' All seals and symbols of redeemed sin, 
 His soul is so enfetter'd to her love. 
 That she may make, unmake, do what she list, 
 Even as her appetite shall play the god 
 With his weak function. How am I then a villain 
 To counsel Cassio to this parallel course. 
 Directly to his good ? Divinity of hell ! 
 When devils will the blackest sins put on. 
 They do suggest at first with heavenly shows, 
 As I do now : for whiles this honest fool 
 
238 OTHELLO. 
 
 Chap. XI. Plies Desderaona to repair his fortunes 
 
 And she for him pleads strongly to the Moor, 
 
 I '11 pour this pestilence into his ear, 
 
 That she repeals him for her body's lust; 
 
 And by how much she strives to do him good. 
 
 She shall undo her credit with the Moor. 
 
 So will I turn her virtue into pitch. 
 
 And out of her own goodness make the net 
 
 That shall enmesh them all. 
 
 No one will suppose that lago has any other interest in 
 reducing the amount of evil in the world beyond this economic 
 interest of watching one device produce two effects, and 
 leaving the hostile forces of goodness to work his ends 
 without his troubling to draw upon his own resources of 
 evil. 
 
 We have counted seven actions, and seen them unite in a 
 Reaction: tragic catastrophe. The scheme of the play includes an 
 uimYago ^'g^'^ action, or rather, reaction ; the recoil of this cata- 
 strophe upon lago himself. What is the source of this 
 nemesis upon lago ? In part it arises from accident : his 
 final intrigue against Cassio is only partially successful, 
 Cassio being wounded, but not killed. But Cassio comes 
 only to complete the retribution upon the villain of the play, 
 which has begun before his arrival, and in another and un-. 
 V. ii, from suspected quarter. It is lago's own wife Emilia whose 
 ' 39- quick woman's wit is the first to pierce the web of intrigue, 
 
 and stimulated by sight of her murdered mistress she gives 
 her suspicions vent, though at the point of her husband's sword. 
 The principle underlying this nemesis is one of the pro- 
 foundest of Shakespeare's moral ideas — that evil not only 
 corrupts the heart, but equally undermines the judgment. 
 To lago is applicable the biting sentence oi Junius ; ' Virtue 
 and simplicity have so long been synonymous that the reverse 
 of the proposition has grown into credit, and every villain 
 fancies himself a man of ability.' It is because he knows 
 himself unfettered by scruples that lago feels himself infallible, 
 
MOVEMENT OF THE PLOT. 239 
 
 and considers honest men fools ; he never sees how his foul Chap. XI. 
 thoughts have blinded his perceptive powers, and made him 
 blunder where simple men would have gone straight. True, 
 he brings infinite acuteness to bear upon the details of his 
 intrigues ; but he never perceives, what the reader sees at a 
 glance, that the whole ground of his action in these intrigues 
 — his suspicions that Emilia has been tampered with by 
 Cassio and Othello — is a stupid mistake, which no one with 
 any wholesome knowledge of human nature would make. 
 And the same want of insight into honest human nature, 
 which made him set up his atrocious schemes, is the cause 
 now of their failure. He thought he had foreseen everything : 
 it never occurred to him that his wife might betray him with 
 nothing to gain by such betrayal, simply from affection and 
 horror. 
 
 I care not for thy sword; I'll make thee known, 
 Though I lost twenty lives. — Help ! help, ho ! help ! 
 The Moor hath kill'd my mistress ! 
 
 In vain lago seeks to stop her mouth ; a few words put all 
 
 the suspicious circumstances together, until in rage and spite 
 
 lago stabs Emilia, though the blow seals his own ruin. 
 
 This detail is a fresh touch in the perfection of the nemesis 
 
 upon lago : in a sense different from what he intended he is 
 
 now ' evened ' with Othello, ' wife for wife.' The nemesis 
 
 draws items of equal retribution from all the intrigues of 
 
 lagp. It was on account of Emilia that he played the villain, 
 
 and it is Emilia who betrays him. He had made a tool of 
 
 Roderigo, and the contents of the dead Roderigo's pockets v. ii. 308. 
 
 furnish the final links of evidence against him. His main 
 
 purpose was to oust Cassio both from office and life : Cassio 
 
 lives to succeed Othello as Governor, and make his first v. ii. 367. 
 
 official act the superintendence of lago's torturing. 
 
 I turn to the other side of plot interest — Movement: the Movement 
 life and development of the play through the succession of "-^ ^ ^ ^ "'^- 
 
240 OTHELLO. 
 
 Chap. XI. scenes, as distinguished from the dissection of its component 
 parts when it is considered as a whole. In this drama the 
 movement is as simple as the economic analysis is complex. 
 Hardly in any other play have we so direct a motive force as 
 lago is here; and the stages into which the development of the 
 whole falls are both few and clear ; moreover, the successive 
 sohloquies of lago are the author's own index to the gathering 
 Its tui-n- fulness of the development. We may note the usual tuming- 
 ing-points. pQjj^jg jjj jjjg general action. In the middle of the middle 
 act comes the central turning-point, with the words : 
 
 iii. iii. 90. Excellent wretch ! Perdition catch my soul. 
 
 But I do love thee! and when I love thee not. 
 Chaos is come again. 
 
 The tide of Othello's love has reached its height, and from 
 here the ebb begins. And of course it is in the fifth act that 
 we get the outer change, or ' catastrophe,' where the tragic 
 consummation gives place to the reaction upon lago. 
 Stage of The first act is not so much the commencement of the 
 
 tim'^^'^ movement as a preparation for it. It is devoted to bringing 
 out the situation of the various parties at the opening of the 
 story. This is just what a classical dramatist, tied by the 
 unities, would merely assume, and bring it out by incidental 
 reference. Shakespeare, on the contrary, often puts his most 
 vivid dramatic setting into the preparatory phase of his 
 action (witness the first acts of Lear and Henry F.); and 
 here the marriage of Othello and Desdemona is made known 
 with passionate emphasis. Moreover, the casting-oif of his 
 daughter by Brabantio, and her resolution to accompany her 
 husband to the war, serve to isolate our hero and heroine 
 from their previous surroundings ; they have no world now 
 but their mutual love, and when that is invaded it means 
 ruin. The motive force of the action, again, appears in 
 this act only in an embryonic stage ; lago exhibits his 
 animus against Othello and Cassio, and begins to feel about 
 for plots and instruments ; the final words of his soliloquy 
 
MOVEMENT OF THE PLOT. 241 
 
 mark well the embryonic character of his purposes at Chap. XI. 
 present : 
 
 I have't. It is engendered. Hell and night 
 
 Must bring this monstrous birth to the world's light. 
 
 Nevertheless, this act of preparation culminates in a note of 
 warning which points to the coming development, when 
 Brabantio, made quick-sighted by sorrow, cries to his un- 
 welcome son-in-law : 
 
 Look to her. Moor, if thou hast eyes to see : 
 She has deceived her father, and may thee. 
 
 The second act presents the plot in transition stage. One Stage of 
 hundred and eighty lines of it are given to a dramatic '^^'^^^^'t'"'- 
 interval, made by the transference of the parties from Venice 
 to Cyprus. Desdemona is here separated from her husband, 
 and the interest of plot yields to other effects : the spectacular 
 effect of the storm (which wrecks the enemy's fleet and leaves 
 Othello free when he arrives for home affairs), the pageant 
 of arrival, and the thrust and parry of wit when lago is seen 
 in the unwonted character of a lady's man. We get back to ii. i. 168. 
 business in the soliloquy in which lago mocks Cassio's courtly 
 bearing to Desdemona : 
 
 'Tis so, indeed : if such tricks as these strip you out of your 
 lieutenantry, it had been better you had not kiss'd your three fingers 
 so oft. . . . Very good ; well kissed ! an excellent courtesy ! 'tis so, 
 indeed. 
 
 Now the separate intrigues become apparent, and are being 
 loosely drawn together. Even in the first scene lago has 
 made Roderigo jealous, and suggested that he should pick a 
 quarrel with the touchy Cassio ; but his purposes are still only 
 forming, and his last words in the scene are : 
 
 'Tis here, but yet confused: 
 Knavery's plain face is never seen till used. 
 
 Then comes Othello's proclamation of a festival, and with it ii. ii. 
 
 R 
 
242 
 
 OTHELLO. 
 
 Chap. XI. lago's idea of making Cassio drunk ; the action has now 
 made progress, and the lesser intrigue against Cassio is suc- 
 cessful. But the moment of its success is the great moment 
 of advance in the movement, when the scene, already busy 
 
 ii. iii. 249. enough, culminates in an emotional shock. Othello, with 
 gentle, regretful firmness, has just spoken the memorable 
 words of dismissal : 
 
 Cassio, I love thee : 
 But never more be officer of mine — 
 
 when we have the stage-direction : ' Re-enter Desdemona, 
 attended: Othello is in an instant transformed : 
 
 Look, if my gentle love be not raised up ! 
 I'll make thee an example. 
 
 By this unexpected appearance of Desdemona not only has 
 the love of Othello become a force that tells against Cassio, 
 but the master-thought is flashed into lago's mind of utilising 
 Desdemona's intervention, — the device which more than any 
 other carries forward the plot. He at once suggests this 
 to Cassio, and, as soon as he is alone, bursts into the 
 exultation already quoted. His scheme he now feels com- 
 plete ; and in concluding this second act he speaks not of 
 plaiming, but of acting. 
 
 The plot In the third and fourth acts the plot is working. We may 
 
 working. jjQfg {-Qjy. stages. The first is the famous Suggestion Scene. 
 
 iii. iii. lago's skill in this is a skill that soars above analysis. It is 
 easy to note the indirectness and affected unwillingness of 
 his hints; how he dares to sail close to the wind, admitting 
 
 145. his own tendency to over-suspiciousness, and even, when 
 
 OtheUo begins to boil over, warning him against jealousy ; 
 
 — the green-eyed monster which doth mock 
 The meat it feeds on. 
 
 Or how he covers the weakness of his actual case against 
 193- Desdemona until Othello is frantic with suspense, and would 
 
MOVEMENT OF THE PLOT. 243 
 
 sooner hear evil than hear nothing ; how he recalls Brabantio's Chap. XI. 
 warning, and makes Othello's sure ground of trust — ~ 
 Desdemona's strange preference for himself — a suggestion 
 of rank will and intemperate nature. When the suffering 
 Othello turns upon lagc 
 
 If thou dost slander her and torture me, 
 Never pray more ; abandon all remorse — 
 
 lago flings up oflice and everything, thus utilising Othello's 3?5- 
 outburst in order to speak from the standpoint of injured 
 friendship. Finally, when the whole is complete, and Othello 
 breaks into an oath of vengeance, the astute plotter allows 4^2- 
 himself to be swept away by the tempest he has raised, and 
 kneeling down includes himself in Othello's vow. 
 
 In the second stage, the intermingling of the various ii. i-v 
 intrigues produces a fine piece of dramatic irony. Desdemona 
 is questioned as to the handkerchief, and seeking to evade 
 the question — for she knows not what has become of it — 
 she hits upon an unhappy ' happy thought,' which leads her 
 on to pour oil on fire : 
 
 Des. This is" a trick to put me from my suit : 
 
 Pray you, let Cassio be received again. 
 0th. Fetch me the handkerchief : my mind misgives. 
 Des. Come, come ; 
 
 You'll never meet a more sufficient man. 
 0th. The handkerchief ! 
 
 Des. I pray, talk me of Cassio. 
 
 0th. The handkerchief! 
 Des. A man that all his time 
 
 Hath founded his good fortunes on your love, 
 
 Shared dangers with you, — 
 0th. The handkerchief! 
 Des. In sooth, you are to blame. 
 0th. Away ! 
 
 In the third stage ocular evidence is furnished to Othello, iv. i. 
 when lago in his presence draws gestures of amused contempt 
 by his talk of Bianca, and Othello applies them all to 
 
 R 2 
 
244 OTHELLO. 
 
 Chap. XI. Desdemona ; and further, by an accident that not even lago 
 could have contrived, Bianca comes at the moment and flings 
 down the very handkerchief itself at the feet of Cassio. The 
 arrival of the Commission installing Cassio in Othello's place 
 draws from the still unsuspicious Desdemona a cry of joy, 
 and brings the blow on her cheek that shocks all the court, 
 making the overt act from which there can be no turning 
 
 iv. ii. back. Accordingly the fourth stage merely displays a 
 
 jealousy strong enough to transmute impediments into stimu- 
 lants ; reading Aemilia's honest indignation as a procuress's 
 brazen-facedness, and interpreting Desdemona's innocent 
 
 The beauty as making the deeper sin. Then comes the tragic 
 
 ^^^'"^^i^''"'^ consummation, the achievement of the minor intrigues 
 serving as relief scenes between the long-drawn agonies of 
 the main tragedy. The final scene of the fourth act has been 
 a dramatic foreshadowing of the end, in the sad song of 
 death that will haunt Desdemona as she prepares for bed on 
 
 v. ii- the fatal night. The Murder Scene freezes us with its awful 
 
 calmness : Othello's belief in his wife's guilt is deep enough 
 , to give his act the deliberateness of Justice. 
 
 If you bethink yourself of any crime 
 Unreconciled as yet to heaven and grace, 
 Solicit for it straight . . . 
 I would not kill thy unprepared spirit. 
 
 Desdemona's protestations of innocence are met with — 
 
 Sweet soul, take heed, 
 Take heed of perjury ; thou art on thy death- bed. 
 
 And this is just the note of the tragic discord which is 
 carried into the equally tragic resolution, when Emilia and 
 , the rest have poured in, and explanation is dawning. 
 
 O, I were damned beneath all depth in hell. 
 But that I did proceed upon just grounds 
 To this extremity. 
 
 Othello has pronounced his own doom in these words, and 
 
MOVEMENT OF THE PLOT. 245 
 
 when Emilia has sealed her tidings with her blood, Othello Chap. XI. 
 feels this more than any of those who look on horror-struck : 
 
 This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven, 
 And fiends will snatch at it. 
 
 The movement has been carried from first preparation to 
 tragic consummation; but there is still the reaction as a 
 final stage wherein we may recover ourselves in artistic sense 
 of satisfaction. Nemesis is satisfied over lago, caught help- 
 lessly in toils of his own over-astute blundering. And there 
 is time for Othello to die calmly on his own sword, amid his 
 enemies' recognition of his ' great heart,' and having survived 
 his shock of discovery long enough to do justice even to 
 
 himself. 
 
 Speak V. ii. 342. 
 
 Of one that loved not wisely but too well ; 
 Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought 
 Perplex'd in the extreme ; of one whose hand, 
 Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away 
 Richer than all his tribe. 
 
XII. 
 
 How The Tempest is a 
 Drama of Enchantment. 
 
 Ch. XII. 
 
 The super- 
 natural a 
 difficulty 
 in art. 
 Three 
 modes of 
 treatment. 
 
 A Study in Dramatic 
 Colouring. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE'S play, The Temtest, is, on the face of it, 
 3^^-?f-£0fiJj3'niS£at- But, this Enchantment Jike^^all 
 other forms of the superq ^ t.^yaL ^B'^ to ^ greater degr ee than 
 most of them, constitutes one of the standard c('fflcu'iltiesin (jra- 
 matic art. A foundation task of the artist is to give creative 
 reality to his story. But we realise through our memories, 
 our sympathies, our experience : i ipw Ench antmer^t,„js a 
 thing wholly outside XUtfa^ESlkOce, it jias no associa ti p ffa of 
 memory int^i;^£a.vediMiith-iti, n or has i t ev er appealed to_oiu: 
 sympathies. in^,^gljife. The artist who dramatises a super- 
 natural story is perpetually facing the practical diflBculty — 
 how to bridge over the gulf between his supernatural matter 
 and the experience of his hearers or readers. There are 
 three modes of treatment open to a dramatist by which he 
 may meet such a difficulty. First, he may derationalise, or 
 remove as far as possible from commonplace experience, the 
 general surroundings amidst which the supernatural is to 
 appear. Again, he may rationalise the supernatural element 
 itself, that is, give it as many points of contact as possible 
 with thought and experience. Yet again, he may give 
 further support to the supernatural element by uniting with it 
 as much as possible of what is nearest akin to it in the 
 world of reality. All three modes of treatment are combined 
 in Sbakespeais ^s handling of Enchantment m the present plav. 
 
DRAMATIC BACKGROUND OF NATURE. 247 
 
 To begin with, Shakespeare has prepared a suitable back- Ch. XII. 
 gfDtmtnor his 3ram'a"''or'enc'Kanrment OT^^ scene 
 
 to a distance from busy town hre, and loading it with sug- tionalisa- 
 gestions of pure external nature — the accepted haunt of the *'■'''"■•, 
 supernatural : while associations of artificial civilisation ^re gyound of 
 rigidly excluded. The scene is a desert island, impressing ^"^^e. 
 itself at first as uninhabitable, and almost inaccessible, the island, 
 secret of a few sailors, and of ocean currents that convey men "• '-.35-52 
 to it ' by accident most strange,' ' by providence divine,' ' by passim, ' 
 bountiful fortune.' It is guarded by a belt of fierce storms 
 that have given a name to the play ; and by a further barrier 
 of forbidding cliffs that o'er their wave-worn basis bow, huge 
 enough to contain deep nooks in which a king's ship may lie 
 hid. Yet the island is of wondrous charm when the boundary 
 is once passed : it is of a ' subtle, tender, and delicate tem- 
 perance ' ; ' the air breathes most sweetly ' ; the grass looks loaded with 
 ' lush and lusty ' ; ' there is everything advantageous to life.' g^^^l^ 
 All the elements of life on the ,^,is)anr' >^plQa^-*Q-»-Q'vt<iQ"'- nature. 
 nature;. F or dwellings we find a cell weatherfended by a line- 
 grove ; the very prisons are the prisons of nature — the rift of 
 a cloven pine, the knotty entrails of an oak. Labour on the 
 island is to fetch in wood for firing, or make dams for fish ; 
 education is learning how to name the bigger light, and how 
 the less, that burn by day and night ; for food there are fresh- 
 brook muscles, wither'd roots, and husks of acorns. By 
 accident some artificial wealth has found its way to the 
 island — store of glistering apparel — ^but it is used only as stale iv. i. 187. 
 to catch thieves : when, however, the islanders boast of their 
 treasures it is the treasures of nature : 
 
 I prithee, let me bring thee where crabs grow; 
 And I with my long nails will dig thee pig-nnts ; 
 Show thee a jay's nest, and Instruct thee how 
 To snare the nimble marmoset; I'll bring thee 
 To clustering filberts, and sometimes I '11 get thee 
 Young scamels from the rock. 
 
248 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Ch. XII. If there are drawbacks to the beauty of the landscape they 
 
 .. 7 — are bushless and shrubless deserts, or the over-luxuriance of 
 
 iv.'i. 180;' nature, the toothed briers, sharp furzes, pricking goss and 
 
 iii. iii. 3. thorns of the tropical jungle. It is just f ^^'-\ °;',^I\i;Tr ^^"^ 
 
 tradition has linked with fairy life, and in the islarLiwe.^ear 
 
 songs and conversations which fill into the^^.eSg^4tS in- 
 
 V. i. 33. visible 'infiaBitantsr°TS*TnWs, ferooks, standing lakes and 
 
 grows' Tiave"'eS?!lf'lts b and of elves ; the long reaches of 
 
 yellow sands are a pl aygroun d for the fairies, who now chase 
 
 the ebbing Neptune, and now fly hini wE'en he comes back, 
 
 or take hands and foot it featly here and there, while the 
 
 wild waves hush themselves to be spectators ' of that dance, 
 
 sweet sprites hum the music, and cheerful farmyard sounds 
 
 of barking dogs and crowing cocks come in pat for the 
 
 chorus. Remoteness from ordinary busy life is just the 
 
 impression the island makes on the courtiers who behold it. 
 
 ii. i. 143. It sets Gonzalo thinking of a golden age when civilisation 
 
 should not be known : no traffic nor name of magistrate, 
 
 no riches, poverty, or service, no use of metal, corn, or 
 
 wine, or oil, no treason nor need for weapons, but nature 
 
 should pour forth of its own kind all foison, all abundance, 
 
 to feed the innocent people. And, while suggestions of 
 
 nature are scattered broadcast through every scene, they are 
 
 Masque of gathered to a climax in the Masqub of the fourth ^cL\\;} juch 
 
 ofnature-wealth. In form it is a meeting of mythical 
 deities; But'^nffi* language presents them as embodiments 
 of the different elements of landscape. Ceres is addressed 
 as the owner of 
 
 Rich leas 
 Of wheat, rye, barley, vetches, oats, and pease ; 
 Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep. 
 And ilat meads thatch'd with stover, them to keep; 
 
 ' i. ii. 3?9- I take the punctuation of the Leopold edition which 
 makes ' the wild waves whist ' parenthetical. 
 
DRAMATIC BACKGROUND OF NATURE. 249 
 
 Thy banks with pioned and twilled brims, Ch. XII. 
 
 Which spongy April at thy hest betrims, 
 
 To make cold nymphs chaste crowns ; and thy broom -groves 
 Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves, 
 Being lass-lorn ; thy pole-clipt vineyard ; 
 And thy sea- marge, sterile and rocky-hard, 
 Where thoii thyself dost air. 
 
 To her is added Iris, of the rainbow hue, diflfusing honey- 
 drops on the flowers, and crowning with her blue bow the 
 bosky acres and the unshrubb'd down — a rich scarf for the 
 proud earth. These unite with Juno, Queen of Heaven — 
 the sky in its softer moods — to invoke marriage blessings 
 on the wedded couple: but these are seen to be blessings 
 of nature. 
 
 Earth's increase, foison plenty, 
 Bams and gamers never empty. 
 Vines with clustering bunches growing, 
 Plants with goodly burthen bowing ; 
 Spring come to you at the farthest 
 In the very end of harvest ! 
 
 That water as a feature of scenery may not be omitted, an 
 
 invocation follows to the 
 
 Nymphs, call'd Naiads, of the windring brooks, 
 With your sedg'd crowns and ever-harmless looks; 
 
 these mingle with the ' sun-burnt sicklemen of August weary ' 
 in a dance of harvest home, and so complete the Masque as 
 a symphony of all joys of landscape, lulling us to pastoral 
 repose with its flow of sleepy verse. 
 
 The effect is carried on from still life to the inhabitants^|0/«>fl«(&, 
 
 . I "11 . .jii 11.11 1 n n I II I I . . — »— — ««»'»'"*>"*™'*" child of 
 
 Miranda. Brought up from infancy on the island without 
 ever seeing one of her sex, she has been formed by nature 
 alone ; analysis can discover in her only the elementary fea- 
 tures of female character, unconditioned by social forms or 
 by individuality ; she might almost be called a desert island of 
 
 humanjtv. The most distinctive note of Miranda is a sim- i. ii ; iii. 
 plicity that acts like a charm, and, in the wooing scenes, '• °'°' 
 
250 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Ch. xn. needs the best acting to distinguish it from forwardness ; 
 """"■ it becomes a child -like naivet e of admiration when she first 
 has the chance of seeing ' how beauteous mankind is.' Yet 
 there is in her plenty of womanly strength : capacity for the 
 most \-i\id appreciation of nature in the storm, and the ' very 
 virtue of compassion ' for those suffering in it ; she exhibits 
 an equally quick and intelligent play of emotion as she follows 
 her father's story, and stUl more at the end of the scene, 
 where she is distracted between two tendernesses. For 
 beauty, Jliranda is almost a definition of ideal — ' created of 
 every creature's best.' And her creed seems to be a simple 
 faith in beauty : even the ' brave vessel ' she doubts not con- 
 tains ' noble creatures in her,' and this instinctive confidence i 
 that a fair outside must mean fairness within leaps forth to/ 
 defend Ferdinand when, in the glory of his youthful beauty, , 
 he stands accused of treachery. 
 
 There 's nothiog ill can dwell in such a temple : 
 
 If the ill spirit hare so fair a house. 
 
 Good things will strive to dwell with't. 
 
 Caliban a At the opposite pole from Miranda, yet equally with her 
 linked to the idea of nature, stands Caliban, the natural 
 savage, or wild man of the woods : we shall see later on 
 that this does not exhaust the description of Caliban, but 
 this is undoubtedly one aspect of him. And in connection 
 with this Shakespeare has thrown in an effect of a very special 
 kind, one which, when we consider the date of the play, 
 seems almost a flash of prophecy. The name 'Caliban' 
 
 i.ii. 321. is an anagram for 'cannibal'; and in a single dialogue be- 
 tn'een Caliban and Prospero we have painted, in successive 
 clauses, the whole history of the relations between savage 
 vx races and civilisation, wherever at least that civilisation has 
 not been reinforced by the elevating power of religion. First, 
 we have the wrongs of the savage, and his dispossession by 
 the white man : 
 
 This island's mine, by Sycorax my mother. 
 Which thou takest from me. 
 
 natural 
 savage. 
 
ENCHANTMENT RATIONALISED. 251 
 
 Next, we see the early and pleasant relations between the Ch. XII. 
 two ; the white man pets the savage almost like an animal, — 
 
 When thou earnest first. 
 Thou strokedst me and madest much of me, wouldst give me 
 Water with berries in't — 
 
 There is an interchange of good offices, education on the 
 ■one side, on the other reverence and gifts of natural riches : 
 
 [Thou wonldest] teach me how 
 To name the bigger light, and how the less, 
 That bum by day and night : and then I lov'd thee 
 And show'd thee all the qualities o' the isle, 
 The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place and fertile. 
 
 But soon there appears a moral gulf between the two that 
 
 forbids equal intercourse : _, ., 
 
 ^ iny vile race. 
 
 Though thou didst learn, had that in't which good natures 
 
 Could not abide to be with. 
 
 There is nothing for it but the forced domination of the 
 
 white man : ^, . , 
 
 Therefore wast thou 
 
 Deservedly confined into this rock, 
 
 Who hadst deserved more than a prison. 
 
 So that the gift of civilisation is turned into a curse : 
 
 You taught me language; and my profit on't 
 Is, I know how to curse I 
 
 And a later scene completes the analogy, and exhibits ii. ii. 
 civilisation introducing one undeniably new gift into savage 
 life — the gift of intoxicating drink 1 In this way Caliban 
 presents the aborigines of nature crushed beneath the ad- 
 vance of artificial life. Yet the impartial dramatist finds an 
 attractiveness even for him. Beside Caliban, the dregs of 
 natural life, he places the drunken sailors, the dregs of 
 civilisation : and as Caliban kneels to Stephano we feel that v 
 the savage is the nobler of the two, for he has not exhausted 
 his faculty of reverence. 
 
 So far we have been occupied with the remote nature that chantment 
 
252 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Ch. XII. is proper as a dramatic background for enchantment. But 
 
 ^ ^ vwrn M iMi iiiiiiiTiw i^iiiii I iiL,.jjxi.ii I iiwi iw i i T^aumiai 
 
 ised ment itself; and so fully is itmSPJaye d that .\X.is. rationalised, 
 
 this thms; of the supernatural seeminsf here to fall into laws 
 
 Laws of of its ownrand^^g|jgjjg^§^g^,|^^4ysteKw Enchantment, 
 ^^^''"^"^Th one oTitsaspects, is felt as the arbitrary suspension of the 
 bitrary link between cause and effect. On the one hand a train of 
 c tisa ton. ^.g^yggg jg jj^ f^JJ array, yet the effects refuse to follow : the 
 voyagers plunge from the burning ship into the boiling j 
 
 ocean, yet • , . . ,,, 1 
 
 J jj 2jy not a hair perish d : / 
 
 On their sustaining garments not a blemish. 
 
 But fresher than before. 
 
 On the other hand, beside these effectless causes we see 
 i. ii. 466. causeless effects : the warrior in his full strength drawing 
 
 his sword to strike, yet ' charm'd from moving/ his ' spirits, J 
 The casual as in a dream, all bound up.' Again, we see the casual 
 ^bydeslm '^^'^o™'"? permeated by design. The distracted scrambling 
 
 of the shipwrecked courtiers on shore, each saving himself 
 i. ii. 219- as he can, we see as the 'disposing ' by Ariel of actors, each 
 ^37- to take his proper part in a drama of which he is unconscious. 
 
 Still more is this aspect of enchantment illustrated in the 
 
 expulsion of Prospero from Milan. 
 
 I. ii. 144. They hurried us aboard a bark, 
 
 Bore us some leagues to sea ; where they prepared 
 A rotten carcass of a boat, not rigg'd, 
 Nor tackle, sail, nor mast ; the very rats 
 Instinctively had quit it : there they hoist us. 
 To cry to the sea that roar'd to us, to sigh 
 To the winds, whose pity, sighing back again, 
 Did us but loving wrong. 
 
 What is the outcome of this multiplication of possibilities 
 of destruction? The exposed victims are found drifting to 
 the exact spot, to which years after their persecutors will 
 i. ii. 178. drift at the precise moment of Prospero's power : — a'contrived 
 accumulation of chances eventuates in design. Yet, again. 
 
ENCHANTMENT RATIONALISED. 253 
 
 a third aspect of enchantment is seen in the partial breaking Ch. XII. 
 down of the barrier between mind and matter ; in the island . 
 
 thought and the external world can at times act upon one between 
 another without any medium of communication. ^^Wlien """'^ "'"^ 
 Ferdinand is musing alone on his father' s loss, a vpifiajjajpi breaking 
 the unsggTf'-'Snddw-itrWg^^l'gre^ .,at '^o'^"- 
 
 rest ; so, when the revellers cannot recall the tune of their ^^ 
 catch, it is played for them on an invisible pipe and tabor, iii. ii. 133. 
 Very noticeable under this head is the conclusion of the 
 Masque. In the midst of the spectacle which Prospero has 
 called up for his children his mind happens to revert to the 
 forgotten conspiracy: — the unspoken thought is enough for 
 the spirit-actors, and 'to a strange, hollow and confused 
 noise, they heavily vanish.' Of enchantment like this, the 
 consequences on those who suffer it are just what we might 
 expect. For this linking of cause and efTect, this ' law of 
 uniformity,' is the foundation upon which the edifice of ^ 
 reason is built ; it is to the scientific thinker what his creed 
 is to the man of religion. And the helpless despair of the 
 religionist, whose creed has been shattered, is the only 
 parallel for the hopeless bewilderment of wanderers in the 
 island when their confidence in natural order has broken 
 down: they suffer 'ecstasy,' the 'subtilties of the isle' will 
 not 'let them believe things certain'; their 'brains are use- v. i. 60, 80, 
 less, boil'd within their skull'; the 'tide' of understanding '^'^' 
 has ebb'd, and left the shore of reason foul and muddy. 
 
 In handling gr.oV,nr.trv,or.<- ^t^o prj^^l ^j||,^-,t.Ji»Uj^hi» t/^ m^i-1. Passage 
 
 the proc'ess-oi passffig''from_theri^J to the supernatural. ^''"^/'^^ 
 The usage^t' ' soffl5'''lS}'ff5fs"maKesthis passage a very gradual super- 
 one ; notably Goethe, in his Walpurgis Night, takes us by "■°-'"^<^^- 
 numerous and almost imperceptible stages from a scene of 
 spring evening into the very heart of magic, Shakespea re's 
 play recogn ises only a single tra nsition stage between realit y 
 and encliaulu'i<illl^-lltUi!l(!. strangely linked with dreamy 
 
 ■ ,1 II I I III ** ' lll W II WH UliM" 
 
 slumber. 
 
254 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Agencies 
 of the su- 
 
 Ch. XII. The isle is full of noises, 
 Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not. 
 
 iii. ii. 144. Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments 
 
 Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices 
 That, if I then had waked after long sleep. 
 Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming, 
 The clouds methought would open and show riches 
 Ready to drop upon me, that, when I waked, 
 I cried to dream again. 
 
 The sleepy atmosphere seems a fixed quality of the climate, 
 
 appeE^Mices. The music , however, tha!t bre g^s_ o ut from 
 time to time isaiwaysaffW¥H?S?R3'1!eraf8'm^o^?^K 
 tiaffif^ene^T^ ^^ lt^ ro um^^^ ^a^ pass 
 
 outTfi^Bf'^^l^^^^ntm^r^*"^*'^*""*'*™** 
 
 •vjiMaji I ti ' >iw> iw; III WJwaww^— ■»» 
 Agents from the spirit world are the instrument with which 
 
 "iernatural ^'^ magician works his will; and his power of inflicting 
 
 ii. ii. 3 ; harm on his enemies becomes enhanced when the very 
 
 m. lu ; IV. instrument of punishment can add its own quota of malice. 
 
 For every trifle are they set upon me; 
 Sometime like apes that mow and chatter at me, 
 And after bite me ; then like hedgehogs which 
 Lie tumbling in my barefoot way, and mount 
 Their pricks at my footfall ; sometime am I 
 All wound with adders who with cloven tongues 
 Do hiss me into madness. 
 
 The spirits may be invisible, and thus distance from the 
 enchanter is no protection : 
 
 His spirits hear me. 
 And yet I needs must curse. 
 
 Or they can take shapes, passing in monstrosity travellers' 
 tales of mountaineers dew-lapp'd like bulls, or men whose 
 heads do grow beneath their shoulders; and they can 
 increase the uncanniness by the inexpHcable uncertainty of 
 
 ' It is not directly mentioned in the case of the spirits that chase the 
 drunken sailors ; but I presume 'a noise of hunters ' includes a blast of 
 horns, [iv. i. 256.] 
 
ENCHANTMENT AS HUMANISED NATURE. 255 
 
 their behaviour, inviting to a supernatural banquet with Ch. XII. 
 gentle actions of salutation, and again with mops and mows 
 dancing out with it ere the courtiers have had time to 
 partake. Sometimes in the form of hounds they 'hunt' 
 their victim, lengthening his torture by the chance they give 
 him of flight ; while, as a climax of torture, there is always 
 held in reserve the horror of transformation. 
 
 [We shall] all be tum'd to barnacles, or to apes 
 With foreheads villanons low. 
 
 Bu t the most important .pd.n.t in rnnnectinn-wiih. this use of 
 spinLaSSaSI, is the„wide commandJL^ugge^tg.fif, the powers 
 of nature. As modern science sees lawpervading all things, 
 so ancient magic ^pj a££d.^ a}ies!fej de a aa j te ^ under 
 
 different orders of spirits, and^g^^^^^^XS-ls^ii*'**"*^ ^^ of 
 contr0lljn2S^3aM8Sifs-*t©H!J6?~SWe"T^ 
 ganuit of-aatufesfiSfCSSr^oucn 'Is the 'rough magic' which 
 Prospero boasts. 
 
 By [your] aid. 
 Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm'd 
 The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds, 
 And 'twlxt the green sea and the aznred vault 
 Set roaring war : to the dread rattling thunder 
 Have I given fire, and rifted Jove's stout oak 
 With his own bolt ; the strong-based promontory 
 Have I made shake, and by the spurs pluck'd up 
 The pine and cedar : graves at my command 
 Have waked their sleepers, oped and let 'em forth 
 By my so potent art. 
 
 V. 1. 40. 
 
 There is yet an aspect of en chantm ent to b e noted,_o ne Enchant- 
 
 ..t h£L„xa; .]jfiq^|,^, umyergfa, and", ye... have .just seen, peraQRalit| '*'^'"''*- 
 given to sornfc„(^f,fe ipinnr. fnrrps- of .^jmAite 4n 4])A,.^its 
 
 gP^P^PffAiferwSi^iPigBaQft. I But the grand division of nature 
 has always been that into the 'four elements' of Earth, 
 Air, Fire, Water ; and poetic imagination has loved to endow 
 these with human tempers and sympathies, and an occasional 
 
256 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Ch. XII. appearance of human will To a certain degree language 
 
 itself retains traces of such humanising of the elements, as 
 
 ■when we talk of a srust of passion, raging fire, greedy ocean, 
 an earthy disposition, a fiery temper; e nchantment can 
 complete the process, and give us fully developed JKlentental 
 
 EkwuHtal Beingsr- Svlphs of Air, Naiads of Water, Salamanders of 
 
 '^" Fire, Gnomes of Earth. The^m^^ment of t hese Elem ental 
 
 Bein^ i&.Qne .(£J^e^com^Sg^^^^^maja\^*'':fef^^^ 
 
 spear.' p ""i^fr j^ ^oc 
 
 He has not given us the orthodox fovur orders of spirits. 
 
 nor has he, like Sir Walter Scott in his Monastery, framed 
 
 a being compounded of all four elements. But, in giving 
 
 us two Elemental Beings he has been able to surest a 
 
 deep analogy between human nature and the^Joig. elements 
 
 -—how "these nave tBe1rai\Tsion into upward-tending and 
 
 downward-tending, just as man has his higher and his lower 
 
 nature. Shakespeare has made Ariel an El emental Being 
 
 ' o f the higher order, identified with the u pward-tend ing 
 
 elements "f ^if aad Firfi..^ ad ''^th the hig her nat^^igf; of 
 
 man; and he has made CalibM. an__nementd,_Bemo^ of the 
 
 lower order, identified with the__do\vTiwardttending^ elements 
 
 c;y [Eaitn and Water, and ^« lowerj^Qire of imn. 
 
 ArU: up- The identification is too detailed to be fanciful. Thp Yfiyv 
 
 I'n.^ ^^/,-. name_of_Arielisborrowed firom air, and he is directly 
 
 Jied zcHh addressed ■ ' T hou^ wtuch ai T btit ^ .' ' jhe identiScaSon 
 
 j^^g with fire is not less complete : when describing the Ughtning 
 
 ■ 21 • L -^^^ ^*^^ ^°^ ^y ^^^ ^^ ^'^^ '^^ ^''•P a-fire, but that the 
 ii 1S9-304. ship was ' all a-fire vjith me : ' 
 
 Now in the waist, the deck, in ereiy cabin, 
 / flamed amazement : sometime /'Id divide. 
 And bom in many places. 
 
 We can see in him just the qualities of air and fire. He is 
 in^^sible, but, like the lightning, can take shape as he acts. 
 Like air and fire he can penetrate everywhere, treading the 
 ooze of the salt deep, running upon the sharp wings of the 
 
ELEMENTAL BEINGS. 257 
 
 north, doing business in the veins of earth when it is Ch. XII. 
 
 baked with frost. His natural speech is music, or waves of 
 
 air. His ideas are the ideas associated with the atmosphere 
 — ^liberty and omnipresence : to be ' free as mountain winds,' 
 to fly on the bat's back merrily, couch in the cowslip's 
 bell, live under the blossom that hangs on the bough. 
 Like the atmosphere he reflects human emotions without 
 feeling them. 
 
 Ariel. If you now beheld them, your affections v. i. 17. 
 
 Would become tender. 
 Prospero. Dost thou think so, spirit ? 
 
 Ariel. Mine would, sir, were I human. 
 
 The analogy extends to character. Even a character can 
 ht. found fq f the, atmosphere: in place of our motive and 
 passion it substitutes caprice- — ' the wind bloweth where it 
 
 listeth.' So Ariel is 'moody.' or fuH ,,fl£ iMiflBdSir "TttliiiifJr^f ^- "• ^44- 
 of the niQSt dithcult ^ jncldP-" &!''.n^..-ti;^fi,^ p]gj;— ^^^^ quarrel i, ii. 237- 
 between Prospero and Ariel — takes coherency, if we see in 3°4- 
 it Prospero governing this incarnation of caprice by out- 
 capricing him ; there is a n absence of moral SCT^yupnes s 
 t hEPUgbput. and a curious irony, by which Pm .snera. JUfldar 
 tjiegu^e of invective, 's brin g m ^ out Arjg^g liXSi'^ p^diHr- 
 ance ^^^^"j^^^^^fihement. and in the form of threats 
 gives his rebellious subject more than he had asked for. 
 Final l y, a single passage^ is g j^) Qjf; [ent ..to.i.finMeCiti. AitieLffi*^^ i- "• 270. 
 tho^ upward tendencies of hu3aaa»»tfl^'"^' ^^ \iRZ.r the 
 reason of nis cnieRutferings at the hands of Sycorax. 
 
 For thou wast a spirit too delicate 
 To act her earthy and abhorr'd commands, 
 Refusing her grand bests, she did confine thee, 
 By help of her more potent ministers. 
 And in her most unmitigable rage. 
 Into a cloven pine. 
 
 Nothing could more clearly paint the instincts of light 
 
 oppressed by the power of darkness until the deliverer 
 
 comes. 
 
 'M 
 
258 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Ch. XII. Over against Ariel, an Elemental Being of the higher 
 ~; order, is set an Elemental being of the lower order, Caliban. 
 
 downward- Caliban approaches near enough to humanity to stand, as 
 tending, ^e have seen, for the natiiral savage ; but his origin — from 
 with earth the Devil and the Island Witch ' — forbids us to rank him as 
 and water, human. And marks are not wanting of his identification 
 with the downward-weighing elements of earth and water, 
 i. ii. 314- He is directiy addressed by Prospero as, 'Thou Earth, 
 I thou'; and terms like 'monster,' 'moon-calf,' 'dispropoir- 
 
 tioned shape,' so constantly applied to him, just express the 
 uncouthness traditionally associated with tjie Earth-Gnome. 
 The connection with the element of water is not so clear. 
 Yet what else can be the significance of Shakespeare's per- 
 petually attaching the idea fish to his personal appearance ? 
 ii. ii. Wherever he is seen for the first time — by Trinculo, and 
 
 in the last scene of all by the whole body of courtiers — 
 the sight of him provokes exclamations of 'fish,' and doubts 
 whether he is fish or man ; epithets, ' fish-monster,' ' de- 
 boshed fish,' are showered upon him, and prolonged joking 
 on the same idea is maintained while he is in presence'. 
 When Trinculo calls him 'half a fish and half a monster,' 
 the identification with Elemental Beings of both Water and 
 Earth is complete. And he is only too evidently identified 
 with the lower side of human nature. How animal he is 
 the words describing his birth will sufiiciently suggest : 
 
 1. ii. 383. — the son that she did litter here, 
 
 A freckled whelp, hag-bom. 
 
 i. ii. 349. He not only indulges the lowest passions, but gloats over 
 them. And he is incapable of rising above them : 
 
 ' This is distinctly said in i. ii. 319. Perhaps this is the 'one thing 
 which she did ' for which the sailors would not take her life (i. ii. 266). 
 
 ' No such expressions are used by Stephano on his first introduction 
 to Caliban in ii. ii. But it must be remembered that what he sees is not 
 Caliban, but Caliban and Trinculo mixed together under the same gaber- 
 dine : hence he talks of a four-leg'd monster. 
 
REALITY AKIN TO ENCHANTMENT. 
 
 259 
 
 Abhorred slave, Ch. XII. 
 
 Which any print of goodness wilt not take, 
 
 Being capable of all ill. 
 
 It is true that we do not in the play itself see Caliban 
 performing superhuman feats such as distinguish Ariel. But 
 it must be remembered that Ariel exercises these powers 
 only in the service of Prospero ; and the corresponding 
 source from which Caliban would derive his wonder-working 
 strength — his mother Sycorax — is dead before the play i. ii. 279. 
 opens. 
 
 This Sycorax introduces into the drama Witchcra ft, Witch- 
 >as a, _dark counterpart. to /j^p entihaii|Hfij]|t„fl,^„f,);Q§fl^,fcQ„a5r, ■>. , .,- 
 
 works for good. Like Prospero, she has been conveyed by ment. 
 
 force to the island, and she has ruled it by her charms ^' "• ^5 ' 
 
 ' ' 270, &C. 
 
 before he arrives. She uses as her instruments malignant ^ y 
 things of nature — wicked dew brushed with black raven'^s 340; ii. ii. 
 feather from unwholesome fen; her charms are toads, ^' '^' 
 beetles, bats — creatures that hate the light ; her son's curse 
 is the infections that the sun sucks up from bog and fen and 
 flat. She has an ugliness which is deformity alike of body 
 and mind — 
 
 — with nge and envy grown into a hoop ; 
 and — if the reading be correct — the epithet, ' blue-eyed hag,' i. ii. 269. 
 may suggest that worst ugliness which comes of corrupted 
 beauty. This addition of Syc orax as a foil to Prospero 
 completesThe balaThbfe"fit gooa ana eyil^^of hght^agd dgrk ; 
 
 cast oyer the purely, imj^ginative matter 
 of the play, -especially' s uit^^ ,drapia^.ffil4p]L.has to 
 
 connect^"^n ciTantmgnt '^^ith'the p rovid^^jfigjl-ffovp-rnment. of 
 
 Two of the modes of treat ment b y which a n arti st seeks (3J Addi- 
 b_r£ailc.g.jiifestramjiaade,u£o£^^^^^^ by *'^j{ty 
 
 nQwJtj^Pi.ai|l ustrate d. But when a suitable background has ^^„^ 
 been prepared for EnchaBTlt igHf,' kAcI w'tieij' airtltet is^ossible 
 
 "t" r'"*™T~"' --.' millliu I I ,. \ .iiiin , I ,11,1.1, 111*'!"-' 
 
 has b een 
 
 ^ve " a ra tional aspec t to that which,, is 
 
26o 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Ch. XII. outside reasnn , \\ gti1l rpmainf^ to p;ive increased reality to th e 
 
 story by e xhibiting the supernat ural element^ as mtimately 
 
 assoaS"eTwith~phases of common life that alrea^ possess a 
 hold ii pnn piirj!v mpathies. Where" then are to be foun d 
 iMijUj litii of >i(iirin'iiiii'"lifr- thai; -h.a ye_kins hip w ith ench ant- 
 iH«nH' May not one of them be seen '" what is described 
 by the phrase, .'love at first siRht,' which, as IT miraculously, 
 transforms the lovers to one another's eyes by the mere 
 Ferdinand sho£li,£fjfl£it.fiiskJaegtiBg;i Ordmary parlance suggests as 
 
 Larve at 
 first sight. 
 Story of 
 
 and Mi 
 randa. 
 
 1- "■ 375 
 iii. i ; IT , 
 i; V. i. i; 2 
 
 much when it describes such lovers as ' smitten ' with one 
 another, — touched with an enchanter's wand, causing them 
 to see in each other visions of perfection not perceptible to 
 ordinary beholders. At all events, this is the idea which 
 gives unity to the Story of Ferdinand and Miranda ; it is not 
 merely one of the hundred love stories of the Elizabethan 
 drama, but it is an ideal study of ' love at first sight,' com- 
 plete in all its stages. First we have the lovers prepared for 
 their meeting. Miranda awakes out of a charmed sleep to 
 behold Ferdinand for the first time : 
 
 Prospero. The fringed curtains of thine eye advance 
 
 And say what thou seest yond. 
 Miranda. What is 't ? a spirit ? 
 
 So Ferdinand is drawn to the spot by supernatural music, 
 
 until he sees — 
 
 Most sure, the goddess 
 
 On whom these airs attend. 
 
 The mutual shock follows. ' At the first sight they have 
 
 changed eyes,' says the delighted Prospero, and Ferdinand 
 
 confesses : 
 
 The very instant that I saw you, did 
 
 My heart ily to your service ; there resides, 
 
 To make me slave to it. 
 
 Accident favours the immediate betrayal of their feelings : 
 
 Miranda. This 
 
 Is the third man that e'er I saw, the first 
 That e'er sighed I for ... . 
 
REALITY AKIN TO ENCHANTMENT. 261 
 
 Ferdinand forgets his own danger to exclaim : Ch. XII. 
 
 O, if a virgin, 
 And your affection not gone forth, I'll make you 
 The queen of Naples. 
 
 Trouble follows to bind them closer and closer together, and 
 Miranda steals away to the log-house to cast the gleam of 
 her sympathy and pretty fancies over Ferdinand's ignoble 
 service, until it is ' fresh morning with him when she is by at 
 night.' Finally the cloud of trouble rolls away, and the 
 incidents of the Masque and the game of chess give us 
 glimpses into the pure intercourse of a lovers' paradise. 
 
 Similarly, the comic side of common life contains a Intoxicor 
 counterparr to encha ntme nt m mtoxication, thaFlmsits "f IT , 
 
 ^.■ , i .^ ., .^.^ .i jK . ^ '<' l i "" 'i > -" ^ . u M ir i n w *ii »w* i.i . »ii..i Fmw< i , »»ty.,...-«,..B«Mwty3wjiiftyw»jrj7^ . ■. counterpart 
 
 victim with delusions alike of heartland of head. And it is to En- 
 this which gives unity to the Underplot of the Butler and comi^ 
 Jester ; the bottle saved from the wreck dominates it through- Under- 
 out. Moreover, while intoxication might be presented in -^ " ' 
 
 many ditterent aspects — as ToaEKsomF, as wickedTas gro- "'. " ' "' 
 
 tesque, as dangerous — here its transforming power is dwelt 165 ; v. i. 
 jipon. Caliban is transformecTintoaworsm^er, with the '^^ • 
 drunken butler for his god. Stephano pours wine down the 
 throat of the supposed dead moon-calf, and, by a fine stroke 
 of detail, Shakespeare makes Caliban, at this first taste of 
 alcohol, break from prose into blank verse, which he main- 
 tains through the scene : 
 
 These be fine things, an if they be not sprites ; 
 That's a brave god, and bears celestial liquor. 
 
 Another pull at the bottle, and the apotheosis of Stephano is 
 far advanced : 
 
 Caliban. Hast thou not dropp'd from heaven? 
 Stephano. Out o' the moon, I do assure thee : I was the man i" the 
 moon when time was. 
 
 Caliban. I have seen thee in her, and I do a^ore thee. 
 
 Another draught and he is kissing his god's foot, and 
 devoting himself to his service; a few more, and he is 
 
262 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Ch. XII. dancing on the threshold of a new dispensation. So 
 
 Stephano is transformed into a king, and disposes the spoils 
 
 of the clothes-line ; Trinculo into an expectant viceroy ; all 
 three into an expeditionary force on the point of achieving a 
 conquest : 
 
 So full of valour that they smote the air 
 For breathing in their faces, beat the ground 
 For kissing of their feet. 
 
 With drunken infirmity of purpose they pursue their project, 
 and are diverted by easy lures of Ariel into the paths of 
 destruction; drunk they appear at the close under their 
 punishment; and the last stroke in the comic underplot is 
 the awakening of Caliban out of his enchantment : 
 
 What a thrice-double ass 
 Was I, to take this drunkard for a god. 
 
 It is such_ ti ; fi^j^ii }pnt as _th i s w hich Shakespeare has agglied 
 
 to The Tempest that entitles it to be called a Drama of 
 
 ^mcKantmmt." 'T!i?lermr''3oes not merely mean j;,Staj:jW3f 
 
 ordinary li(e. JpL'mMcli rsuDerhuman beings are allowed to 
 
 interpose : the world of this play is penetrated through and 
 
 thro ugh ~D y the supernatural ; from the supernatui^_it__^es 
 
 Dramatic its We and~CQtou T. The very girene. insulate d like a magic 
 
 i^oiounng. j,,j.g]g^ jg e xcluded from the commonplace, and is confined to 
 
 tiat r emoteness of natur e m which distance from the real 
 
 presents itself as nearness ToTHe"uhseen. On the enchanted 
 
 island there is nothing to break^ the spell by a suggestion of 
 
 every-day experience, and the atmosphere Js electrical with 
 
 enchantment ; while the inhabitants, untouched by social 
 
 influences, are formed equally by nature and magic. As the 
 
 story moves before us, the laws of nature — the basis of our 
 
 sense of reality — appear suspended, and it isjhe unimtural 
 
 which presents itself as a thing pf law. When at last 
 
 personages of familiar experience are introduced they fall 
 
 wholly under the mysterious infliuence, and their realisn^ 
 
 their tender loving and brutal- -earousi»g — OBly-sentes to 
 
DRAMATIC COLOURING. 
 
 263 
 
 remind us how much of realji|i 
 ment. 
 
 beyond the field of the 
 
 colour of the play upon 
 
 powerful language that real life is 
 
 of all. The Masque of Spirits has vanished into air, — into 
 
 thin air 1- 
 
 V Enchant- Ch. XII. 
 
 £s,paasa^,goes 
 
 dominant 
 
 JPg- in 
 
 t V 
 
 And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, 
 The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces^ 
 The solemn temples, the great globe itself. 
 Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, 
 And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, 
 Leave not a rack behind ! 
 
 IV. 1. 150. 
 
XIII. 
 
 How THE Enchantment of The Tempest 
 PRESENTS Personal Providence. 
 
 A Study in Central Ideas. 
 
 Ch. XIII. 'nn* HE criticism that addresses itself to the function of inter- 
 preting literature was early attracted to the discovery 
 
 T'.,„. 
 
 Central of Central Ideas in plays and poems. The treatment, how- 
 Ideas. ever, has not always been favourably received. For one 
 thing, critics were found not to agree in their results : and, 
 when different suggestions were put forward, each as a com- 
 plete explanation of the same work, the suspicion naturally 
 would arise that the interpreters had put into the plays the 
 ideas which they professed to bring out of them. Moreover, 
 a hasty use of terms led to the confusion between a ' central 
 idea ' and a mere lesson, or reflection, derivable (with fifty 
 others) from the course of a story, in the way in which an 
 accomplished preacher will draw the whole gospel out of 
 half a clause. Thus the theory of Central Ideas has been 
 discredited : yet surely the presumption is in its favour. The 
 existence of some harmony binding together all varieties of 
 detail into a unity is a fundamental conception of art : the 
 only further question is whether, for any particular play, 
 this unity can be formulated in words. In contending, as . 
 I am in the present work, for a strictly inductive treatment 
 of literature, I would point out that the question of Central 
 Ideas is, at all events, one that admits of definite treatment. 
 
THEORY OF CENTRAL IDEAS. 
 
 265 
 
 A central idea, to be worthy of the name, must be based, not Ch. XIII. 
 
 upon the authority of the expounder, nor even on inel3eauty 
 
 of the idea itself, but entirely upon the degree in which it 
 
 associates itself 'wjth t§^^^[|S^^^^^^|^^^L!!^S^ 
 u p— a matter which admits of accurate examination. It is, 
 in fact, a scientific hypothesis, and the details are the phe- 
 nomena which the hypothesis has to explain ; none of these 
 details must be outside the proposed unity, all of them must 
 have a function in connection with it, and the degree to 
 which any phase of the whole is developed must be in pro- 
 portion to the closeness or remoteness of its bearing upon 
 the central idea. 
 
 From this definition it is clear that an approach to such 
 a central idea for The Tempest may be found in thejgfls^ 
 chan tment descr ibed in the preceding study, whi(;,)^,cj;jjnflgfctf 
 i tself with p.11 Darts,-o£ the i?l^X' ._ ^" analysing such con- 
 "nection it is well to draw a distinction between direct and 
 indirect bearing. The greater part of a work of art may be 
 expected to connect itself directly with its central idea. 
 But there may be some portions, the bearing of which on 
 the central idea itself may not seem clear; but these upon 
 examination will be found to have the closest connection 
 with some other notion, which notion is in its turn closely 
 related to the central idea, throwing it out by contrast, or 
 importing some kindred conception, without which the 
 central idea would be deficient in intelligibility or interest. 
 So, in the play under consideration, theOTeat^^^_jj|]»„ 
 details has been seen to be occupied in presenting Enchant- 
 rnent. AmflTiRi- set of "details, numerous and scattered 
 thi Qiigh ever y scene, group themselves around the idea of 
 re mote natu re °'1ngCTefl'''a'S«'»»ii»«Mtt^^ the 
 
 ' "L'.' '" ijl » iimiwi LIII'MIII »»lluwii,.-»»»IP«».e. 
 
 Enqhantm ent. Once moreTthe uiiaer plot — that is, the btory 
 rf ^-FerJinanl and Miranda, and the atorf of Tgr^w ith 
 the Sailors — was seen t oliav e a bearing, though an indirect 
 bearing, upon the same fundam'enfgr'fiotion, the function 01 
 
266 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Ch. XIII. 
 
 Central 
 idea for 
 TRe 
 
 Tempest : 
 Enchant- 
 ment pre- 
 senting 
 Personal 
 Providence. 
 
 Providence 
 as a 
 
 dramatic 
 motive. 
 
 this undeTDlot being, not to depict Enchantment, but to 
 introduce some elements ofi^J life closely akin to En- 
 chantment. It is surely no weakening of the theory oi 
 Centrdl^s, but the reverse, that the underplot should 
 appear, not to repeat the central idea itself, but to display 
 its counterpart in a different medium. Such treatment is 
 just what we should expect from the analogy of the other 
 arts : thus to relieve imagination with ordinary experience, 
 to throw up enchantment by a contrast of real life, seems as 
 natural as to set off vivid colouring by neutral tints, or to 
 use a scherzo for separating an adagio from a march. Putting 
 all these considerations together we may see that, not only 
 is the play full in a ge n jgra l se nse of Enchantm e nt, b ut 
 further that the distribution of its parts corresponds with 
 their bearing on this fundamental notion. 
 
 But Enchantment would seem the central idea of the 
 play only if we confined our attention to the matter of which 
 it is made up : when we proceed to take in the drift of the 
 action and movement we see that the unity of the whole 
 may be formulated in a more compact manner thus: — the 
 presentation of Enchantment as an engine of Personal Pro- 
 vidence. A double bond weaves the parts of this play into 
 a whole : its action is occupied equally in throwing up a 
 picture of Enchantment, and in working out ideas of Pro- 
 vidence, while every single detail has an active function in 
 elaborating one or both of these. 
 
 Providence is a leading motive in fiction; indeed, every 
 dramatist is not only a creator, but also the providence that 
 moulds events in the sphere of his creation. This is partly 
 recognised in the common phrase. Poetic Justice : but the 
 term is not wide enough to cover the practice of artists in 
 their moral government of the world of fiction. Poetic 
 Justice has a great function to perform in making retribution 
 artistic, or, where the term retribution will not apply, in 
 tracing an artistic harmony between character and fate. 
 
PROVIDENCE AS A DRAMATIC MOTIVE. 267 
 
 But great part of life, whether in reality or fiction, lies out- Ch. XIII. 
 side the sphere of justice ; nay, it often impresses our sym- 
 pathies, and thus becomes matter for art-treatment, by its 
 very opposition to our conception of justice. What else is 
 implied in the fundamental conception of tragedy ? Tragedy, 
 of course, includes retribution, but it becomes most dis- 
 tinctively tragic where retribution is not : where not only 
 Lear pays the penalty of his errors, but the innocent 
 Cordelia suffers with him, where honest Othello endures 
 more agony than lago is capable of, where rescue comes too ^' 
 
 late to save Antigone from her martyrdom. Were this 
 not so there would be a gulf between nature and art : the 
 negation of Poetic Justice has been one of the inspirations of 
 poetry in every age. 
 
 How oft is it that the lamp of the wicked is put out ? 
 
 That their calamity cometh upon them ? 
 
 That God distributeth sorrows in his anger? 
 That they are as stubble before the wind. 
 
 And as chaff that the storm carrieth away ? . . . . 
 One dieth in his full strength. 
 Being wholly at ease and quiet : 
 His breasts are full of milk, 
 And the marrow of his bones is moistened. 
 
 And another dieth in bitterness of soul. 
 
 And never tasteth of good. 
 
 They lie down alike in the dust. 
 
 And the worm covereth them. 
 
 What the lyric poet describes and meditates upon, the dra- 
 matist pourtrays in action ; and thus no term less wide than 
 ' Providence ' will convey his handling of moral government. 
 Any principle which the course of the universe suggests to 
 thinkers has a right to be reflected in fiction, with the em- 
 phasis of artistic setting. Now the dramatist will show com- 
 binations of evil overthrown in a moment by the irony of 
 fate; now, exhibiting the best effort met by overpowering 
 external antagonism, or overthrown by the smallest of flaws 
 within itself, he will appeal to our sense of pathos. What- 
 
268 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Ch. XIII. ever other impressions underlie the spectacle of human issues 
 will be added; and, if these principles seem mutually con- 
 tradictory, it is the business of philosophy to systematise, 
 poetry may choose to stop short at pourtraying. 
 In The When these general considerations are applied to The 
 P^erfmal Tempest we shall find a peculiarity that separates this from 
 Providence, all Other plays of Shakespeare. The course of human 
 events leaves upon thinkers two impressions, different but 
 not inconsistent. All spectators behold the chaos of chance 
 giving place to order, and see the emergence of moral laws. 
 But some thinkers go further, and trace in what happens 
 the guidance of a Personal Providence, never losing touch 
 of the issues of life, though hiding himself till he appears in 
 striking displays of his will. So Shakespeare's dramas as a 
 whole make up a world in which moral law is for ever being 
 displayed. But in this one play of The Tempest something 
 more has been done. The whole course of circumstances 
 is controlled by Prospero, who is for the purpose endowed 
 with the power of enchantment. Now enchantment is, 
 within its sphere, omnipotence : thus within the field of the 
 play Prospero has been made the Providence which irre- 
 sistibly controls the issues of events. Of course the mere 
 V. i. 201- sense of an overruling providence, such as Gonzalo ex- 
 's- presses, may be paralleled from many other plays, as 
 simply the opinion of an individual personage. But in 
 The Tempest it is the dramatic machinery itself that unveils 
 to us the governing power of its universe in the magically- 
 endowed Prospero. If then we review the successive in- 
 cidents of this play as they unfold themselves, we shall be 
 se'eing, under Shakespeare's guidance, the different aspects 
 of Personal Providence. 
 Opening The opening scene is of the nature of a prologue : in the 
 prologue iiicident of the storm and shipwreck, with its tossings to and 
 fro of sharp rough dialogue, we are passing from the outer 
 world into the magic region within which Prospero reigns 
 
PERSONAL PROVIDENCE. 269 
 
 omnipotent. With the majestic blank verse of the second Ch. XIII. 
 
 scene we find ourselves upon the island, and are met by . 
 
 1 ii 
 an unexpected eifect : a note of trouble opens Prospero's Sorrows 
 
 triumph, and he commences his glory of playins; Providence "fP^o- 
 
 by having to console the being he loves best in the world, 
 
 who is heartstruck at the ravages of the storm. So he who 
 
 would sway the moral government of the universe must be 
 
 prepared to bear upon his soul the weight of all the troubles "^ 
 
 and sufferings of the innocent inherent to the very machinery 
 
 of government, all the questionings and heart-searchings of 
 
 the reverent while the designs of Providence are dark. As 
 
 Prospero speaks his words of consolation another aspect of a Providence 
 
 Personal Providence is called up : "ZaLt'' 
 
 The direful spectacle of the wreck, which touch'd i. ii. 26. 
 
 The very virtue of compassion In thee, 
 
 I have with such provision in mine art 
 
 So safely order'd, that there is no soul — 
 
 No, not so much perdition as an hair 
 
 Betid to any creature in the vessel. 
 
 A judgment is abroad that is to strike princes and revolu- 
 tionise kingdoms, yet is under restraint that it touch not the 
 simplest individual who crosses its path. 
 
 The greater part of this long second scene is outside the Movement 
 scenic unity of the play. It will be noted that in this one '^^"J^^^f 
 play Shakespeare has followed the classic unities of time and outside 
 place ; not traversing the long period of time, and touching ^^^^f^"^' 
 the variety of locality usual to a romantic drama, but con- ^ y ^^_ 
 fining the action to a single island and a single day, — an 374- 
 arrangement peculiarly harmonious with the central idea, 
 as if marking off the charmed circle within which alone the 
 enchanter's power prevails. But it usually is found in plays ' 
 
 of the classic type that a few incidents of the story, prevented 
 by their distance of time» and place from being acted, are 
 introduced into the play by means of narrative. So in the 
 present case, when the keynote of the action has been struck 
 by the brief dialogue between Prospero and Miranda, the 
 
270 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Ch. XIII. 
 
 Prosperous 
 Story ; 
 genesis of 
 his provi- 
 dential 
 position. 
 33-186. 
 
 Dramatic 
 Prepara- 
 tion. 
 
 ArieTs 
 Story : 
 Mercy. 
 187-304. 
 
 action stands still for more than three hundred lines, and the 
 interval is used to give us back-glances into the past. First 
 Prospero tells his daughter the story of his life; and it is 
 worth noting how he lays his magic mantle aside, as if to 
 mark the suspension of the enchantment, which is the unity 
 of the play. This story of Prospero is no part of his playing 
 Providence, but gives the genesis of the situation which 
 makes him a Providence for the island. We see the price 
 he has had to pay for his magic power: a hfe devoted to 
 study, the surrender of the world and its prizes, tragic suffer- 
 ing for himself and his child on the open sea, twelve years of 
 solitary toil in the island to master his art, amid privations 
 and constant watchfulness, where a moment's inattention 
 would leave him to be torn to pieces by the spirits he has 
 raised. With all this strange accidents must concur, such as 
 the preservation of the rotten boat ; and there is the waiting 
 of a whole lifetime for a single moment of opportunity : 
 
 By my prescience 
 I find my zenith doth depend upon 
 A most auspicious star, whose influence 
 If now I court not, but omit, my fortunes 
 Will ever after droop. 
 
 The action still remains stationary while the dialogues 
 with Ariel and with Caliban continue to review the past. 
 These illustrate the dramatic effect of ' preparation ' : just as 
 the musician will let us hear at the beginning of his piece a 
 hint of the theme which is to dominate the close, so drama- 
 tists prepare for their main effects by introducing them in a 
 modified form at an earlier stage. Prospero in the sequel is 
 to control the fate of his human friends and enemies ; these 
 early sections survey his providential sway over the world of 
 spirits during his long years in the island. Mercy and 
 judgment, the two chief works of providence, have been 
 exercised on Ariel and on Caliban. Ariel so bright and 
 loving, suffering cruel tortures such as made wolves howl, 
 
PERSONAL PROVIDENCE : IIS GENESIS. 271 
 
 and penetrated the breasts of ever-angry bears, all because Ch. XIII. 
 his delicacy shrank from the earthy abominations of the 
 hideous witch — to have delivered such a sufferer when 
 Sycorax was dead, and there was none but Prospero to undo 
 the charm, this is the very luxury of mercy. And the luxury 
 of punishment is a phrase hardly out of place when used in 
 connection with Caliban. A creature humanised from his Caliban's 
 brutality by the assiduous care of Prospero, and brought by r^^^^f 
 him within his family circle, who has repaid such benefits 321-374. 
 with attempted foulness, which he still chuckles to think of, 
 and for which the only repentance he shows is bitter dis- 
 appointment at his unsuccess — in dealing with him there is a 
 sense of satisfaction in the possession of irresistible torture : 
 
 Shrng'st thou, malice ? 
 If thou neglect'st or dost unwillingly 
 What I command, I'll rack thee with old cramps, 
 Fill all thy bones with aches, make thee roar 
 That beasts shall tremble at thy din. 
 Cal. No, pray thee. 
 
 [^Aside] I must obey : his art is of such power, 
 It would control my dam's god, Setebos, 
 And make a vassal of him, 
 
 The suspended action begins to move forward again as Movement 
 Ferdinand is drawn by Ariel's music into the scene. "^^^^EiiTd^'f 
 episode of Ferdinand and Miranda has an independent Ferdinand 
 interest of its own in its bearing upon the central idea. It '^„^^' 
 must be remembered that providence, as a dramatic motive, i. ii. 375. 
 must always be artistic shaping of events : it may be so by 
 giving artistic setting to some moral interest, or it may 
 consist in the exercise of purely artistic handling on the 
 control of events. Now it is one of the instincts of the 
 imagination to work out the welfare of the attractive, and ^ 
 
 poetic providence could not have a more congenial task than 
 in moving the course of incidents so as to draw together two 
 lovers so rich in gifts of youth and beauty as Ferdinand and 
 Miranda. Yet here also a moral touch is added when we 
 
2 72 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Ch. XIII. see how Prospero's unlimited power uses trouble in order to 
 procure the happiness of the lovers and make it greater. 
 The progress of the episode, as it mingles with the other 
 scenes, is suggestive on the subject of Personal Providence 
 at every stage. Prospero's aside, 
 
 i. ii. 450. This swift business 
 
 I must uneasy make, lest too light winning 
 Make the prize light, 
 
 may be taken as the unfolding, before the event, of a provi- 
 dential purpose such as in real life, after the event, is some- 
 ^ times seen to explain some phase of dark experience. 
 
 Suggestive again is the harshness imder which Prospero is 
 veiling his schemes of happiness, and which has the effect of 
 displaying Miranda in the full beauty of her soul as she seeks 
 iii. i. to mediate between father and lover. And very suggestive is 
 
 the stolen visit of Miranda to the log-house, with ' Prospero 
 above ' — to use the stage-phrase — watching the two lovers 
 carry forward his plans, while they fancy they are escaping 
 his notice, and Miranda feels compunction for disobedience, 
 iv. i ; V. Then the whole trouble is seen by Ferdinand as no more 
 '^^' than a trial of his love, which has strangely stood the test ; and 
 
 the episode at last merges itself in the main plot, and becomes 
 the chief link in the universal restoration that crowns it. 
 Main With the second act and the arrival of the courtiers the 
 
 ^'"Y ' * iiiS'''^ story is in full progress. The elaborate scene which 
 vidential Stands first in that act is devoted to one of the darker and 
 mysteries. ujQyg terrible mysteries of providential government. The 
 idea of Personal Providence must not be limited to that 
 which a Christian would understand by the term. The 
 ancient fatalistic systems of thought would recognise an 
 occasional personality in the governing power of the uni- 
 verse — a malice in circumstances that enticed a sinner on in 
 his sin till his punishment should be ripe. Nor is the notion 
 entirely without sanction in Biblical thought, as where a 
 lying spirit is put in the mouths of the evil king's prophets. 
 
MYSTERIES OF PROVIDENTIAL WORKING. 273 
 
 A similar conception animates the incident now ensiling : Ch. XIII. 
 
 Providence seems there to contrive for the irreclaimable 
 
 evil-doers a malicious vengeance, that operates by encourage- 
 ment to fresh crime. Antonio and Sebastian are villains for Intrigue of 
 whom no sympathy can be evoked. Yet when they reach and'seLs- 
 the sphere of Prospero's power they alone appear unaffected dan. 
 by his enchantment; and when, at a strain of music from "' '" ^^^' 
 Ariel, all the rest of the party drop off in deep and over- 
 powering slumber, they are left unvisited by the quality of the y 
 climate, staring at one another as they stand alone among 
 the sleeping courtiers with mutual consciousness of the 
 treason in their hearts. Then Antonio, as the bolder of the 
 two, begins bit by bit to read into hard definite speech the 
 hideous suggestiveness of the situation from which his com- 
 panion shrinks, and a providential concurrence of circum- 
 stances is made to stand out, pointing to a deed of murder 
 — the rightful heir that morning drowned, the king and his 
 faithful followers bound in leaden slumber, the next of kin in 
 regions distant ten leagues beyond man's life. One by one 
 Sebastian's scruples give way, and with a burst of enthusiasm 
 he embraces the project. All is ready — no, one thing has 
 been forgotten, and they ' talk apart,' as if shrinking from 
 their victims while they complete the plot for their death. It 
 is just at this last moment, when they are stopping to put a 
 final touch of perfection to their scheme, that the turn in 
 events comes. The death-like stillness is broken by the 
 distant sighing of the wind ; it seems to come nearer, playing 
 with the white hairs of the sleeping Gonzalo and fanning his 
 aged cheek ; it sounds more human in its sighing, it takes to 
 itself articulate words and becomes the voice of Ariel : 
 
 While you here do snoring lie, 
 Open-eyed conspiracy 
 
 His time doth take. 
 If of life you keep a care, 
 Shake off slumber, and beware: 
 
 Awake, awake ! 
 T 
 
274 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Ch. XIII. The sound has died away again into silence ; the con- 
 
 spirators return on tiptoe intoxicated with the excitement of 
 
 murder ; they draw their swords together. 
 
 Antonio. Then let us both be sudden. 
 Gonzalo. Now, good angels 
 
 Preserve the King! 
 
 In an instant Gonzalo has awoke and roused his fellows, 
 7 and all stand facing the intending traitors. A piocking fate 
 
 has led them on to fully stain their souls with purpose of 
 crime, while the crowning deed and prize has been snatched 
 from them. 
 Comic The next scene opens the comic business, which continues 
 
 '^m\k '° mingle with and relieve the other incidents. These relief 
 ii. ii ; incidents are bound into a whole, not only by their develop- 
 ^"' ." ' , ment of the enchantment of intoxication, but equally by their 
 V. i. 256. ' bearing on poetic justice. Even sin has a comic side, and 
 the resources of dramatic providence are suflBcient to visit it 
 with comic nemesis ; but for all the comedy the spectacle 
 none the less brings out one deep principle of moral govern- 
 ment — how much force for the punishment of evil is latent 
 in the evil itself. In the present case Ariel, as the instrument 
 of retribution, has no need to draw upon his stores of super- 
 natural might : he makes his victims furnish the force for 
 their punishment, he himself only giving a touch of impulse 
 to their passions, or twisting their purposes in a different 
 direction. After the first scene has displayed the transform- 
 ing power of alcohol upon Caliban, the second scene opens 
 with a situation in which already are visible elements of 
 discord. Stephano, possessed of the bottle, is the man in 
 power, and Caliban's eyes are 'set in his head' with hero- 
 , worship. Trinculo has no bottle, and CaUban has no worship 
 ^ for him; a spirit of depreciatory criticism is thus pitted 
 against the hero-worship, and all that Ariel need do when he 
 encounters the party is to draw the spirit of quarrel to a head. 
 A few words he casts on the air from his shroud of in- 
 
MYSTERIES OF PROVIDENTIAL WORKING. 275 
 
 visibility are mistaken for words of Trinculo, and the com- Ch. XIII. 
 rades are plunged in civil war. They are united again by 
 the project against Prospero, and inflamed with a martial 
 spirit already referred to in the words of the play : 
 
 So full of valour that they smote the air 
 For breathing in their faces; beat the ground 
 For kissing of their feet. 
 
 This drunken valour Ariel harnesses to his purpose, and 
 makes it pull them to their confusion : 
 
 I beat my tabor; 
 At which, like unback'd colts, they prick'd their ears. 
 Advanced their eyelids, lifted up their noses 
 As they smelt music: so I charm'd their ears 
 That calf-like they my lowing followed through 
 Tooth'd briers, sharp furzes, pricking goss and thorns. 
 Which enter'd their frail shins ; at last I left them 
 I' the filthy-mantled pool beyond your cell, 
 There dancing up to the chins. 
 
 Once more, their martial guise much bedraggled, they are 
 led on by the indomitable will of Caliban to the very 
 threshold of Prospero's cell. But even here the magician 
 will not summon force to his protection ; he simply appeals 
 from one form of covetousness to another, and, bidding Ariel 
 strew glistening baubles in their path, waits to see ambition 
 diverted from its object by cupidity. Only when he has ^ 
 by such means sufficiently defended himself, and the con- 
 spirators are engrossed in the division of their spoil, does 
 Prospero, as an extra eifect, throw in the external vengeance 
 of cramps and dry convulsions to complete his discipline on 
 creatures whose souls can be reached only through their 
 bodies. The whole suggests an idea equally artistic and Provi- 
 moral — a sense of economy in the governing power of the y"^' 
 universe : the ends of justice are secured with the least 
 expenditure of supernatural force, a few touches of direction 
 being sufficient to exhibit evil working out its own de- 
 struction, 
 
 T 2 
 
276 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Ch. XIII. 
 
 Climax : 
 the maitt 
 Nemesis. 
 iil. iii. 
 
 The matter reviewed brings us to the last scene of the 
 third act. This is the climax, the magician's nemesis upon 
 his human persecutors. Judgment is one of the great works 
 of Providence, and judgment translated into the language 
 of art is nemesis : its force lies not in the weight of 
 the blow struck, but in the artistic links that connect the 
 retribution with the sin. Enchantment serves to make the 
 present nemesis ideal : no external force ^ appears from first 
 to last, yet all the resources of artistic retribution are lavished 
 upon it. There is preparation of the victims for the great 
 shock. The antithesis to a sense of a Personal Providence 
 is the confidence in the uniformity of the order of nature ; 
 this confidence is sapped by the ' quality of the isle,' with its 
 suggestions of mysteries all around, and still more on the 
 threshold of the Nemesis Scene by the incident of the super- 
 natural banquet, where moreover the ' gentle actions of salu- 
 tation' of the spirit-attendants assist in giving a personal 
 reference to what follows. The courtiers have just over- 
 come their shrinking from the supernatural, and braced 
 themselves to partake, when the sudden reversal takes place : 
 the banquet changes into the horror of a harpy, and from 
 the harpy's ruffled feathers looks forth the infant face of Ariel 
 to speak the doom. 
 
 You are three men of sin, whom Destiny, 
 
 That hath to instrument this lower world 
 
 And what is in't, the never-surfeited sea 
 
 Hath caused to belch up you ; and on this island 
 
 Where man doth not inhabit, you 'mongst men. 
 
 Being most unfit to live. I have made you mad ; 
 
 And even with such-like valour men hang and drown 
 
 Their proper selves. {They draw their swords. 
 
 Yon fools I I and my fellows 
 Are ministers of Fate : , the elements. 
 Of whom your swords are temper'd, may as well 
 Wound the loud winds, or with bemock'd-at stabs 
 
 • The word ' pinch'd ' in v. i. 74 I understand in the light of ' inward 
 pinches' (three lines lower) and the general context to be metaphorical. 
 
MYSTERIES OF PROVIDENTIAL WORKING. 2*i1 
 
 Kill the still-closing waters, as diminish Ch. XIII. 
 
 One dowle that 's in my plume : my fellow-ministers 
 
 Are like invulnerable. If yon could hurt, 
 
 Your swords are now too massy for your strengths. 
 
 And will not be uplifted. But remember — 
 
 For that's my business to you — that you three 
 
 From Milan did supplant good Prospero ; 
 
 Exposed unto the sea, which hath requit it, 
 
 Him and his innocent child: for which foul deed 
 
 The powers, delaying, not forgetting, have 
 
 Incensed the seas and shores, yea, all the creatures. 
 
 Against your peace. Thee of thy son, Alonso, 
 
 They have bereft ; and do pronounce by me : 
 
 Lingering perdition, worse than any death 
 
 Can be at once, shall step by step attend 
 
 You and your ways; whose wraths to guard you from — 
 
 Which here, in this most desolate isle, else falls 
 
 Upon your head — is nothing but heart-sorrow 
 
 And a clear life ensuing. 
 
 It is only a speech ; yet, set in its framework of enchantment 
 what sting of retribution does it omit ? The guilty ones feel 
 their power of physical resistance mysteriously paralysed, 
 and that in face of the strongest stimulus of external 
 mockery ; they are reminded of the loneliness of the island '^ 
 from which all help of man is far ; what sense of safety there 
 is in the steady course of nature has already been snatched 
 from them. In its place a terrible Destiny has emerged, of 
 which the whole world is the instrument : its voice speaks 
 in the voice of Ariel, and fellow-ministers are waiting all 
 around to become visible. Their whole past stands out 
 before them as no more than the story of one foul deed 
 and its avenging; the very sea, which they had made the 
 innocent accomplice of their crime, has bided his time to 
 requite them, and the shores, yea, every creature, are in- 
 censed against them. For their present, they hear hurled 
 at them the word ' mad,' the very sound of which has power 
 to work that which it signifies, and they are told of the self- 
 slaughter to which madness prompts. Their future looms 
 
2'] 8 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Ch. XIII. before them as lingering perdition stretching beyond death, 
 and they know its first stroke has already been accom- 
 plished in the drowning of the king's son. All space and 
 time seems to have resolved itself into a trap of fate for 
 them ; and there is but one small avenue of escape hinted at 
 in ' heart-sorrow and a clear life ensuing.' 
 
 The nemesis has fallen: and what is its effect on those 
 who suffer it? Here Shakespeare is faithful to that wide 
 conception of dramatic providence, which makes it reproduce 
 all the impressions that the world of reality leaves upon 
 thinkers, not alone those that are pleasing, but also those 
 which disturb. Shakespeare is not satisfied with the easy 
 morality which converts all its villains before the fall of the 
 curtain. In the play, as in actual fact, men are seen divided 
 into two classes : those in whom evil is only accidental, to 
 be purged out of them by the discipline of experience, and 
 those in whom the evil seems to be a part of their nature, 
 and all the working of events upon them serves only to drive 
 it deeper in. Alonso is by his doom driven to ecstasies of 
 remorse : why ? because he has before had a heart that could 
 feel compunction, 
 iii. iii. 95. O, it is monstrous, monstrons ! 
 
 Methought the billows spoke and told me of it ; 
 The winds did sing it to me, and the thunder, 
 That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounced 
 The name of Prosper : it did bass my trespass. 
 
 But, on the other hand, the hard hearts of Antonio and 
 
 Sebastian are carried forward in blind resistance : 
 
 iii. iii. 102. Sebastian. But one fiend at » time, 
 
 I '11 fight their legions o'er. 
 Antonio. I '11 be thy second. 
 
 Mystery of From first to last there is no note of softening in them. The 
 ^in^line ' P^^^ ^^ reflecting a view of the course of the universe^ which 
 amongst has troubled so many thinkers — the conception of a terrible 
 '""" ' ■ dividing-line amongst mankind, on one side of which is 
 purification making purer and purer, on the other side evil 
 
MYSTERIES OF PROVIDENTIAL WORKING. 279 
 
 becoming hardened and more hard ; and there is nothing Ch. XIII. 
 
 in Shakespeare's treatment to suggest that this double pro- 
 
 cess stops short of the climax, ' He that is righteous let him 
 
 be righteous still, and he that is filthy let him be filthy 
 
 still.' 
 
 This nemesis has presented itself as a climax ; and yet The higher 
 there is in reserve a higher climax still, when judgment re- jf^"^y ^ 
 solves itself into mercy. By a graceful stroke of art, the ^ ; j_,j 
 intercession of Ariel is made the occasion for accomplishing and from 
 a purpose which has long before formed itself in Prospero's 
 breast ^. Like day stealing upon night, sound understanding 
 is allowed to replace the distraction of the guilty sinners, and 
 it is a triumph of enchantment to cancel the wrongs of a 
 whole life in a moment of time. So the action has scope for 
 gratifying that which is one of the most passionate instincts 
 of the imagination — the longing for an ultimate universal Universal 
 restoration, however distant, from which none shall be ex- '''^^toration. 
 eluded. If it be asked how this is reconcilable with what has 
 just been said about the dividing-Kne, I can only answer that 
 Shakespeare has been content to let these two aspects of 
 providential government stand side by side in his play un- v' 
 reconciled, precisely as philosophic meditation on the course 
 of the universe suggests the two thoughts without giving any 
 clue as to their harmony. In The Tempest the universal 
 restoration is unbroken by exception: not the impenitent 
 Antonio and Sebastian are excluded, nor the brutalised 
 Stephano and Trinculo ; Alonso is restored to his kingdom, 
 Ferdinand and Miranda, already restored to one another, are 
 given to the bereaved father ; Ariel is restored to liberty, and 
 Caliban to his island : Gonzalo adds : 
 
 All of ns to ourselves 
 When no man was his own. 
 
 Nay, the restoration extends to things inanimate, and the 
 
 • This seems clear from V. i. 29; the whole speech, v. i. 21-30, seems 
 a justification of a plan previously formed, not a change of purpose. 
 
THE TEMPEST. 
 
 ch. xm. 
 
 Mystery of 
 Evil pro- 
 ducing 
 Good. 
 
 The Cli- 
 max ex- 
 tended to \ 
 the Per- 
 sonal Pro- 
 vidence 
 himself: 
 
 iv. i. fin. 
 and V. i. 
 
 init. 
 
 V. 1. 33- 
 
 self-renun- 
 ciation. 
 
 ship, which in the opening scene we beheld sunk in the 
 stormy sea, reappears in the sequel in all her gallant trim, 
 her master capering to behold her. There is more than 
 restoration, and Gonzalo in his musing on the strange ex- 
 perience catches a glimpse of one of the deepest providential 
 mysteries — evil itself proved to be the outer husk of a higher 
 
 good: 
 
 Was Milan thrust firom Milan that his issne 
 Should become KINGS of Naples ? 
 
 The universal restoration makes a grand final chord, on 
 which this drama of Providence may conclude. But must 
 there not of necessity be in it one note of discord ? A goal 
 of happiness is found for all the rest, but what of the magician 
 himself.? Though dukedoms and kingdoms are in disposal, 
 yet for one who wields the empire of enchantment can any 
 prize be found without making the end an anti-climax for 
 him ? If we examine the way in which, as an actual fact, 
 Shakespeare has treated this point, we shall find dimly sug- 
 gested in it a moral idea worthy even a ruler of the universe. 
 There comes a point at which Prospero's project passes be- 
 yond the reach of failure : 
 
 At this hour 
 
 Lie at my mercy all mine enemies 
 
 My charms crack not, my spirits obey, and time 
 
 Goes upright with his carriage. 
 
 He pauses to take survey of the unbroken completeness of 
 his power, that has every department of nature under its 
 control, that marshals all the elements to his will, that is 
 obeyed beyond the grave itself. And to what does such a 
 survey lead him ? He realises the extent of his dominion 
 only to lay it down. 
 
 This rough magic 
 
 I here abjure I'll break my staff, 
 
 Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, 
 
 And deeper than did ever plummet sound 
 
 I'll droWn my book. 
 
 The human mind has conceived no higher moral notion than 
 
PROVIDENCE AND SELF-RENUNCIATION. 281 
 
 self-renunciation; and where the power is nearest to omni- Ch. XIII. 
 
 potence the renunciation comes nearest to divine. Such a 
 
 climax is reserved for the Providence of the enchanted island, 
 who, while he feels the fulness of his sway, empties himself, 
 and descends to simple human station. So the last note in 
 the play is the human note of parting. Ariel, however re- 
 gretted, must be dismissed to the elements; Miranda must 
 follow the course of nature in quitting her father and cleaving 
 to her husband; and for Prospero himself there is in full 
 view the greatest parting of all : 
 
 Thence retire me to my Milan, where 
 Every third thought shall be my grave. 
 
 I have thus endeavoured to justify my choice of a central Summary. 
 idea for The Tempest, showing how all the matter of the play 
 falls into place in such a scheme ; due regard being had to 
 the general principle, that the central idea must not be ex- 
 pected to connect itself with every single detail directly, but 
 that it will attract round it other kindred notions, each in its 
 turn a centre for a group of details. The Tempest bears the 
 closest examination as a dramatic study of Providence ; the 
 fact tha t we are kep t in contact with Prospero's meditations 
 on' his schemes of conffoTmaSeT'fffill'^W^eE^S!!!' a 
 
 personanorniT'wKnememgine which he worksJusmQ is 
 Ericn'aritfflrentrThe personages or the play find their raison 
 tf Slr'aMlgents or victims of E±ovidfi ntial Encha^^^ ^ ; 
 
 their characters interpret themselves and show development, 
 they fall into contrasts and groupings according to their 
 bearing on this fundamental purpose. The incidents, situa- 
 
 tiPiifi»aiML£.fiects o f the playarethose^^^^^Sgh||2gJg|||]3E' 
 ^"TOi^fimngof a supernatural scheme of 
 gvernment. If we consider the poem from the 
 side of plot we seeme dramatist here (and in scarcely any 
 other case) going to the Classical Drama for his mode of 
 treatment, because its narrow unities are more in keeping 
 with the confined circle of a magician's power; while the 
 
282 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Ch. XIII. relation between the main and the underplots is precisely the 
 same as that between the central idea itself and the kindred 
 ideas required to give it reality by associating it with common- 
 place experience. One remark only is yet necessary to make 
 the analysis of the play complete; and it is a remark of 
 
 Mechanical general application. In every romantic drama there must of 
 r'^lf"' necessity be a large number of mechanical personages, intro- 
 
 Gonzalo, duced not for their own sake but to assist the presentation of 
 others : yet, in proportion to the space they cover in the field 
 of view, Shakespeare will endow them with some dramatic 
 interest. Their function is not unlike that of the Chorus in 
 
 / Ancient Tragedy, except that they are distributed amongst 
 
 the scenes of the drama instead of being kept as a body of 
 external commentators. Such personages are in The Tempest 
 to be found in the crowd of courtiers led by Gonzalo, and 
 the crowd of sailors led by the boatswain. Their part is 
 mainly to illuminate and reflect the various situations that 
 arise : outside the movement of the play themselves they 
 furnish ■&. point d'appui on which that movement rests. Thus 
 the busy opening scene has spice given to it by the clashing 
 between the wit of Gonzalo and the rough tongue of the 
 
 ii. i. boatswain. In the island it is the forced talk of Gonzalo 
 
 that brings out the marvel of the deliverance from the sea, 
 and the character of the enchanted island ; then his passages 
 of irritable wit with Antonio and Sebastian help to paint the 
 character of the two by suggestion of the antipathy between 
 them and honesty. Gonzalo takes the lead in helping us to 
 
 iii. iii. 27, realise the incident of the supernatural banquet, and the 
 
 104, &c. condition of the guilty after the blow has fallen ; while, during 
 
 V. i, from the long-drawn finale, Gonzalo follows exactly the function 
 of chorus-leader, and reads into meaning every stage of the 
 universal restoration; when its last note is complete the boat- 
 
 alsotouched swwx and he resume their passage of arms. Yet these 
 
 /faf/rfS"" ™^*^^^"^'^^' personages are not entirely outside the central 
 idea; the sailors have their loss and recovery of the ship. 
 
MECHANICAL PERSONAGES. 283 
 
 and Gonzalo has connection enough with the original crime Ch. XIII. 
 to feel his heart stirred by the final issue. Moreover, his 
 personal character is one well fitted to be a stationary point 
 in a moving drama of Providence. He is pre-eminently a 
 man of an even temperament; good, but easy; like an 
 ancient chorus, little elevated or depressed by the storms of 
 circumstance. He has not been heroic to resist evil, though 
 finessing to reduce by his practical compassion the suffering it i. ii. 161. 
 entailed. But the changes of fortune do little to shake him ; 
 he does not forget his humour amid shipwreck, he maintains i. i ; ii. i. 
 laborious cheerfulness when depression is all around ; treason 
 scorns him as merely a ' spirit of persuasion,' yet will do ii. i. 235, 
 V murder rather than face his ' upbraidings.' He has elected ^ ■ 
 to be a spectator of Ufe, so much as may be, and not an 
 actor ; and he is valuable in the spectacle of Providence from 
 the eye he has to its fine dramatic effects, while as to the 
 action his place is that of one who stands at an equal distance 
 from the prizes of life and from its crimes. 
 
XIV. 
 
 How ' Love's Labour 's Lost ' presents Simple 
 Humour in conflict with Various Affec- 
 tations AND Conventionalities. 
 
 A further Study in 
 Central Ideas. 
 
 Ch. XIV. 'T^HE title of this chapter contains the word ' humour.' 
 , X The word is as varied and interesting as the thing it 
 
 The word , ., n . ,- • i • • ^ . ■ > 
 
 ' humour^ describes. Starting from a material sigmfication, ' moisture, 
 it became early appropriated by the various forms of moisture 
 within the human body — the blood, the phlegm, the bile. 
 In this connection it encountered the theory of mediaeval 
 physiology, which made the particular tempers and dis- 
 positions of men dependant upon the preponderance of 
 one or other of these juices of the body : if a man was 
 ' phlegmatic ' in disposition, it was because he had too 
 much phlegm in him, bright (arterial) blood would make 
 him ' sanguine,' and dark (venous) blood ' melancholy ' (or 
 
 K-.^-b black-juiced). It was then an easy transition for men's 
 
 ' humours ' to mean the bent of their individual characters, 
 and a ' humourist ' was a painter of character. But these 
 individualities of character in men are a leading source of the 
 ludicrous : as the north-country proverb puts it, ' there's 
 nought so queer as folk.' Hence the word ' humour ' widens, 
 to include the whole range of the ludicrous. But again, 
 such a wide range must invite fresh specialisation, and a 
 specialisation has taken place which I know not how to 
 describe, unless by calUng humour the human interest in the 
 
HUMOUR VERSUS AFFECTATION. 285 
 
 ludicrous, distinguished in the clearest manner from wit, Ch. XIV. 
 with its cold intellectual brightness. In this final sense of 
 humour the ludicrous can appear in happy combination 
 with every passion of the human heart, the tragic and 
 pathetic not excepted, and the humour of Dickens and 
 Thackeray is often more nearly allied to tears than to 
 laughter. 
 
 Shakespeare illustrates every phase and variety of humour : 
 a complete analysis of Shakespeare's humour would make a 
 system of psychology. I have here to deal with only a single 
 one among its countless varieties, and one which is intelligible 
 enough. Humour is a complete solvent to every form oi Humour 
 affectation. It is a more subtle foe to unnaturalness than ^g^^^^f ^f 
 satire itself, because satire is on the face of it hostile : Affectation. 
 humour may be keenly alive to the ludicrous even in that 
 with which it is in sympathy. Satire is the wind in the fable, 
 and may be met by resistance: humour is the sunshine 
 which succeeds by getting the traveller himself on its side. 
 Humour is thus the great vindicator of the natural ; it is an ^ 
 
 exquisite perception of the normal in human affairs ; it is 
 common sense etherealised ; the readiness with which it is 
 roused by every unreasonable excess constitutes it a sort of 
 comic nemesis. The special interest which dominates the This the 
 play Love's Labour 's Lost is the bringing of humour into 'j^"*'''^^ 
 contact with its antipathetic, with some train of unna.tma.\ the play. 
 circumstances, or the various artificial conventionalities of its 
 age : these are, by the mere contact, exposed and shattered. 
 
 The unnaturalness to be exposed consists, first, in a forced Main 
 
 and unnatural social regimen, to which the king and his aUackedT 
 
 friends have bound themselves by oath : theCelibacy 
 
 scheme. 
 To live and stndy here three years, i. i. 
 
 . . . not to see a woman in that term, . . . 
 And one day in a week to touch no food 
 And bnt one meal on every day beside, . . . 
 And then to sleep but three hours in the night, 
 And not be seen to wink of all the day. 
 
286 LOVE'S LABOUR 'S LOST. 
 
 Ch. XIV. This artificial life prescribed by authority produces time- 
 
 serving and hypocritical imitation amongst lesser personages, 
 
 and we have an underplot of Don Armado, who, having 
 
 discovered a man violating the royal edict by being found in 
 
 company with a woman within the precincts of the court, 
 
 shows his zeal by sending the man to the king for punish- 
 
 ' - ti ment, while of the woman (who is a^eauty) he undertakes 
 
 Lesser the custody himself. There are further various convention- 
 
 fwi^Tx- ^li'ies of the age, introduced for incidental eflfects. One is 
 
 posed: the euphuism of this Armado. He addresses the king in 
 
 f«/*«^'"' his letter: 
 
 Great deputy, the welkin's vicegerent and sole dominator of Navarre, 
 my soul's earth's god, and body's fostering patron. 
 
 The circumstances under which he discovered the guilty pair, 
 were that — 
 
 besieged with sable-coloured melancholy, I did commend the black- 
 oppressing humour to the most wholesome physic of thy health-giving 
 air. 
 
 When he has had time to make acquaintance with the pretty 
 peasant girl who is his captive, he affects the very ground, 
 which is base, where her shoe, which is baser, guided by her 
 foot, which is basest, has trod. For a second conventionality, 
 word-play and pedantry have their representative in Holo- 
 Pedantry, femes. In his extempore epitaph on the deer, he ' something 
 affects the letter, for it argues facility ' : 
 
 iv. ii. 58. The preyfiil princess pierced and prick'd a pretty pleasing pricket ; 
 
 Some say a sore ; but not a sore, till now made sore with shooting. 
 
 The dogs did yell: put L to sore, then sorel jumps from thicket; 
 
 Or pricket sore, or else sorel ; the people fall a-hooting. 
 If sore be sore, then L to sore makes fifty sores one sorel. 
 '1^ Of one sore I^ an hundred make by adding but one more L. 
 
 iv. ii. &c. ; This effect is doubled by the addition of the curate. Sir 
 '■ '■ ' ■ Nathaniel, who follows Holofernes at an admiring distance, 
 and takes out his tablets to note down his expression ' pere- 
 grinate,' as applied to Don Armado, This last is an illus- 
 
HUMOUR VERSUS AFFECTATION. 287 
 
 tration of another affectation attacked, the striving after Ch. XIV. 
 
 unusual and at that time new words. Armado employs . 
 
 Costard to carry a letter, and gives him something for wolds. "^ 
 ' remuneration ' : 
 
 Costard. Now will I look to his remuneration. Remuneration ! 
 O, that's the Latin word for three farthings : three farthings — remunera- 
 tion. — ' What's the price of this inkle ? ' — ' One penny.' — ' No, I'll give 
 you a remuneration ' : why, it carries it. ... I will never buy and sell 
 out of this word. 
 
 Biron comes up and accosts him, and sends him on a similar 
 errand : ' There's thy guerdon : go.' 
 
 Costard. Gardon, O sweet gardon ! better than remuneration, a ili. i. 1 36- 
 'levenpence farthing better : most sweet gardon ! I will do it, sir, in 174. 
 print. Gardon ! Remuneration ! 
 
 It is quite in accordance with humour, as distinguished Humor- 
 from satire, that it should to some extent sympathise with ^^ incon- 
 what it is laughing at ; and no one can rise from a perusal sistent with 
 of Love's Labour 's Lost without feeling that the dramatist is 
 himself, in moderation, a euphuist at heart. Biron is re- 
 presented as the antagonist of excess in the king's circle ; yet 
 Biron when soliloquising, and therefore under no control from 
 his fellows, is found to indulge in sustained hairsplitting. iv. iii. 1. 
 
 The king he is hunting the deer ; I am coursing myself : they have 
 pitched a toil ; I am toiling in a pitch, — pitch that defiles : defile ! a 
 foul word. Well, set thee down, sorrow ! for so they say the fool said, 
 and so say I, and I the fool : well proved, wit I By the Lord, this love 
 is as mad as Ajax : it kills sheep ; it kills me, I a sheep : well 
 proved again o' my side ! 
 
 Even when the play at its close turns serious, the euphuistic 
 strain has still a place, and a formidable exhibition of this 
 elaborate style is offered by Biron as ' plain words.' v. ii. 763. 
 
 Honest plain words best pierce the ear of grief; 
 And by these badges understand the king. 
 For your fair sakes we have neglected time, 
 Play'd foul play with our oaths: your beauty, ladies. 
 
288 LOVes LABOUR'S LOST. 
 
 Ch. XIV. Hath much deform'd us, fashioning our humours 
 
 Even to the opposed end of our intents : 
 
 And what in us hath seem'd ridiculous, — 
 
 As love is full of unbefitting strains, 
 
 All wanton as a child, skipping and vain, 
 
 Form'd by the eye, and therefore, like the eye. 
 
 Full of strange shapes, of habits and of forms, 
 
 Varying in subjects as the eye doth roll 
 
 To every varied object in his glance : 
 
 Which parti-coated presence of loose love 
 
 Put on by us, if, in your heavenly eyes, 
 
 Have misbecomed our oaths and gravities, 
 
 Those heavenly eyes, that look into these faults. 
 
 Suggested us to make. Therefore, ladies. 
 
 Our love being yours, the error that love makes 
 
 Is likewise yours : we to ourselves prove false. 
 
 By being once false for ever to be true 
 
 To those that make us both, — fair ladies, you: 
 
 And even that falsehood, in itself a sin, 
 
 Thus purifies itself and turns to grace. 
 
 Word-play It would Seem that euphuism was recognised by the poet as 
 
 'dramatic ^ dramatic weapon with specific uses; and throughout the 
 
 weapon. play, where a pause takes place in the action, the interest is 
 
 iv. i. maintained by verbal subdeties. Thus, the plot brings the 
 
 Princess and her suite, under pretext of a shooting match, to 
 
 a certain spot in order that a letter intended for another 
 
 quarter may accidentally come into their hands: the brief 
 
 interval before the messenger falls in with them is occupied 
 
 less with the shooting than with a battle of puns. Again, in 
 
 the scene which presents the first formal interview between 
 
 the court of Navarre and their exalted visitors, as soon as the 
 
 ii. i, from king has withdrawn, the relief to the strain of courtesy is 
 
 ' °' admirably conveyed by an outburst of verbal subtleties. One 
 
 V. ii. 15. more example fills up an interval in the fifth act. 
 
 Katherine. And so she died : had she been light, like you. 
 Of such a merry, nimble, stirring spirit. 
 She might ha' been a grandam ere she died : 
 And so may you; for a light heart lives long. 
 
 Rosaline. What 's your dark meaning, mouse, of this light word ? 
 
HUMOUR VERSUS AFFECTATION. 289 
 
 Katherine. A light condition in a beauty darlc. Ch. XIV. 
 
 Rosaline. We need more light to find your meaning out. 
 
 Katherine. You'll mar the light by taking it in snuff; 
 
 Therefore I'll darkly end the argument. 
 
 Rosaline. Look, what you do, you do it still i' the dark. 
 
 Katherine. So do not you, for you are a light wench. 
 
 Rosalijte. Indeed I weigh not you, and therefore light. 
 
 Katherine. You weigh me not? O, that's you care not for me. 
 
 Rosaline. Great reason ; for 'past cure is still past care.' 
 
 Princess. Well bandied both ; a set of wit well play'd. 
 
 The last line is specially interesting; it clearly puts Shake- 
 speare's conception of word-play as mental fencing, in which 
 the mind finds a channel for redundant energy, and delights 
 in exercise for exercise sake. 
 
 With such unnaturalness and such affectations the plot is The repre- 
 contriving constantly to bring humour into contact. The ^ofkumour 
 main source of the humour is found in an accidental circum- in the flay. 
 stance, which disconcerts the king's elaborate scheme : the 
 arrival of a French princess with a train of ladies, on a lengthy 
 embassy. The king does go so far as to keep these fair 
 ambassadors outside the court ; but to avoid visiting them is 
 impossible, and thus the play settles down into a contest 
 between the force of natural attraction and artificial resolu- ^ 
 
 tion. The French ladies, and particularly their agent Boyet, i. i, from 
 stand for the triumphant humour ; they are exhibited as '33- 
 giving full play to their natural feelings; they have a rich 
 flow of spirits, and perhaps they are all the better repre- 
 sentatives of humour from the fact that their wit is indifferent, 
 needing youth and good spirits to carry it through. They 
 exhibit, moreover, the special note of humour,-— that it can be 
 turned on themselves; and with all their mockings the 
 princess makes no attempt to conceal from herself that she 
 is in love. 
 
 We are wise girls to mock our lovers so. V. ii. 58. 
 
 These representatives of humour, then, are kept by the plot 
 in a position of advantage throughout, and by sheer force of 
 
290 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. 
 
 Ch. XIV. fun they are able to disconcert the celibates at every turn ; 
 
 humour thus coming to be a sort of poetic justice, which visits 
 
 the different characters in exact proportion to their artifi- 
 ciality and offence against the natural. 
 The Hu- There was a double unnaturalness in the scheme of the 
 ^^li^he celibates, and the comic nemesis upon it is double. In the 
 Artificial first place, it was an unnatural state of things as regarded 
 m conjiic . |.j^^.^ relations to one another, and they needed a mutual 
 oath to support their resolution; accordingly, they attempt 
 to conceal their lapses from one another, but are betrayed. 
 iv. iii. In a superbly comic scene the four come one after another to 
 a sequestered spot in the park, seeking a secret place where 
 they may indulge in a recitation of the love-sonnet which 
 each has composed to his mistress, believing himself to be 
 the only offender; and each in turn hides as he sees his 
 comrade coming on the same errand, hoping to surprise 
 his fellow in an act of perjury, while he conceals his own. 
 The last to arrive is so surprised by the third, when suddenly 
 the second leaps out of ambush to confront the third, and 
 then the first in his turn comes down upon the second. 
 Nor has he enjoyed his triumph over the three long, when 
 the arrival of an intercepted letter reduces him to the level of 
 his companions. Again, the celibate scheme of life was a 
 violation of nature in reference to the ladies ; and conse- 
 quently there is a further nemesis of ridicule when the men 
 Compare break through their vow, after having urged it to their 
 01 and°™ visitors by such overt means as keeping them outside the 
 ii. from palace. 
 
 395- 
 
 Princess. None are so surely caught, when they are catch'd, 
 
 As wit tum'd fool . . . 
 Rosaline. The blood of youth bums not with such excess 
 
 As gravity's revolt to wantonness. 
 
 The celibates can recover their position only by entering 
 into the humour of the circumstances which have turned 
 against them. In the scene of their betrayal to one another, 
 
HUMOUR VERSUS AFFECTATION. 291 
 
 after a spirited attempt to brazen it out, they yield to the Ch. XIV. 
 
 force of the situation, calling on Biron to give them reasons . ~7.. 
 
 r 1 1 , ,1 ,,,.,,. iv.m. 221- 
 
 for the course they have resolved on, to cheat the devil after' 282 ; 283- 
 
 the sin has been committed ; this he does in a mock pompous ^°'^- 
 oration, after which they lay these glozings by, and set about 
 wooing these girls of France. But they are not yet completely 
 purged of their sin against humour, and resolve to cover 
 their approach with an elaborate masque — another of the 
 conventionalities of the age to be pilloried. This purpose v. ii. from 
 unfortunately is overheard, and communicated to the ladies, 
 who determine to disconcert it, solemnly turning their backs 
 at the supreme moment of the compliment, and afterwards, 
 in the more miscellaneous conversation, arranging to ex- 
 change masks, so that each courtier pours his adoration into 
 the ear of the wrong mistress. The celibates fully recover 
 their equality with their visitors only when they enter into 
 the humour of their persecutors, and — hardest test of all — ]' 
 join in abuse of thdr spoiled pageants. Then the action w- 
 reaches its climax in a prolonged cascade of humorous v. ii, from 
 fireworks. ^'^' 
 
 In this nemesis of humour upon affectation, the different Fate of 
 personages fare exactly according to the sense of humour ^^^^^^^/^'^ 
 they possess. Of the celibates Biron has most sense of by sense of 
 humour, especially seen in his ready appreciation of the 
 arch-persecutor Boyet, and accordingly he always has the v. ii. 315, 
 advantage over his fellows : he alone objects to the scheme i ; .t . jv 
 at the outset, he is the last to be exposed in the discovery iii- 200. 
 scene, and the first to enter into the spirit of the finale. 
 The king is a constant contrast. Of the lesser personages v. ii. 335, 
 the dramatist keeps our sympathy with those that are the *^" 
 most natural, and have most sense of fun. Moth, the bright 
 page of Armado, is always natural, always seen to advantage, i. ii. &c, 
 and even proves not unequal to the exigencies of the re- 
 ception scene, where he is the speaker of the conventional 
 compliment : 
 
 t u 2 
 
W'V 
 
 292 love's labour's lost. 
 
 Ch. XIV. Moth. All hail, the richest beauties on the earth. . . . 
 
 A holy parcel of the fairest dames 
 
 V. ii. 158. \The Ladies turn their backs to him. 
 
 That ever tum'd their — backs— to mortal views ! 
 Biron. {Aside to Moth]. Their eyes, villain, their eyes. 
 
 E. g. iii. i. Costard and Dull are natural by the side of Armado and 
 VilPs^.' Holofernes. Costard's humorous termination to his pre- 
 sentation of Pompey in the pageant — 
 
 '' If your ladyship would say, 'Thanks, Pompey,' I had done — 
 
 V. ii. secures him an easy dismissal ; whereas Holofernes' pedantry 
 
 is drowned in a shower of puns and wit-thrusts, and 
 Armado not only fares hard as Hector, but by an acci- 
 j', , dental word of his gives opportunity to the simple Costard 
 to bring out the whole scandal of Jaquenetta his captive. 
 So the triumph of comic justice has become complete, and 
 in affectation thus melting away at the touch of humour the 
 play has found its motive and inspiration. 
 The Cen- So far I have discussed only in a general way the matter 
 'j,.'' of which this drama is composed. If we now proceed to 
 
 underlies '^ '^ 
 
 the Struc- analyse it with due attention to the disposition and proportion 
 'fh'"*i °^ ''■^ parts, which are the basis of plot, we shall find that the 
 
 structure of the play, no less than its general spirit, rests upon 
 the conflict between humorous and artificial. 
 Main plot. Love's Labour 's Lost has a very regular plot, of the type 
 ' Complication and Resolution.' Its Main Action may be 
 stated as a series of humorous situations, produced by the 
 incidence of the Complication — the Princess's visit, with 
 all the forces of social attraction it brings — upon the un- 
 natural mode of life set up at the beginning of the play. 
 As already intimated, it falls into a double action, cor- 
 responding to the double unnaturalness of the celibates' 
 scheme. Their plan of life implied an artificial bond 
 amongst themselves, needing a mutual oath to support their 
 resolution : when this artificial barrier against love has broken 
 
PLOT OF THE PLAY. 293 
 
 down, thej' attempt each to deceive the rest, but are all Ch. XIV. 
 betrayed to one another. Agreed among themselves to give 
 way they still, as against their visitors, seek to cover their 
 yielding by the disguise of their approach, but the betrayal 
 of their purpose involves them in a second humorous exposure, 
 where Biron leads the way in complete surrender to simplicity 
 and nature. 
 
 Biron. Can any face of brass hold longer out? v. ii. 395. 
 
 Here stand I : lady, dart thy skill at me ; 
 
 Bruise me with scorn, confound me with a flout ; 
 Thrust thy sharp wit quite through my ignorance ; 
 
 Cut me to pieces with thy keen conceit ; 
 And I will wish thee never more to dance, 
 
 Nor never more in Russian habit wait. 
 O, never will I trust to speeches penn'd, 
 
 Nor to the motion of a schoolboy's tongue, 
 Nor never come in vizard to my friend, 
 
 Nor woo in rhyme, like a blind harper's song! 
 Taffeta phrases, silken terms precise, 
 
 Three-piled hyperboles, spruce affectation. 
 Figures pedantical ; these summer flies 
 
 Have blown me full of maggot ostentation : 
 I do forswear them ; and I here protest. 
 
 By this white glove, — ^how white the hand, God knows ! — 
 Henceforth my wooing mind shall be express'd 
 
 In russet yeas and honest kersey noes : 
 And, to begin, wench, — so God help me, la ! — 
 
 My love to thee is sound, sans crack or flaw. 
 Rosaline. Sans sans, I pray you. 
 
 We thus seem to see two successive waves of pretentious Underplot, 
 artificiality break in humour ; and this makes the main action 
 of the play. There is further an Underplot, analogous in 
 spirit and in form to this main action. It rests upon two 
 groups of inferior personages, embodying two convention- 
 alities of the period placed in conflict with influences making 
 for naturalness and humour. The centre of the first group 
 is Don Armado, who never speaks but in the conventional 
 language of euphuism, and whose life is as showy and 
 
294 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. 
 
 Ch. XIV. deceitful as his talk. He is kept in continual contact with 
 Moth and his genuine sparkle of youthful vivacity. 
 
 i. ii. 60. 
 
 Armado. I will hereupon confess I am in love : and as it is base 
 for a soldier to love, so am I in love with a base wench. If drawing 
 my sword against the humour of affection would deliver me from 
 the reprobate thought of it, I would take Desire prisoner, and ransom 
 him to any French courtier for a new-devised courtesy. I think scorn 
 to sigh : methinks I should outswear Cupid. Comfort me, boy : what 
 great men have been in love ? 
 
 Moth. Hercules, master. 
 
 Armado. Most sweet Hercules! More authority, dear boy, name 
 more ; and, sweet my child, let them be men of good repute and carriage. 
 
 Moth. Samson, master : he was a man of good carriage, great 
 carriage, for he carried the town-gates on his back like a porter ; and 
 he was in love. 
 
 Armado. O well-knit Samson ! strong-jointed Samson ! I do excel 
 thee in my rapier as much as thou didst me in carrying gates. I am in 
 love too. Who was Samson's love, my dear Moth ? 
 
 Moth. A woman, master. 
 
 Armado. Of what complexion ? 
 
 Moth. Of all the four, or the three, or the two, or one of the four. 
 
 Armado. Tell me precisely of what complexion. 
 
 Moth. Of the sea-water green, sir. 
 
 Armado. Is that one of the four complexions ? 
 
 Moth. As I have read, sir ; and the best of them too. 
 
 Armado. Green indeed is the colour of lovers ; but to have a love 
 of that colour, methinks Samson had small reason for it. He surely 
 affected her for her wit. 
 
 Moth. It was so, sir ; for she had a green wit. 
 
 Armado. My love is most immaculate white and red. 
 
 Moth. Most maculate thoughts, master, are masked under such 
 colours. 
 
 Armado. Define, define, well-educated infant. 
 
 Moth. My father's wit and my mother's tongue, assist me ! 
 
 Armado. Sweet invocation of a child ; most pretty and pathetical ! 
 
 Moth. If she be made of white and red. 
 
 Her faults will ne'er be known. 
 For blushing cheeks by faults are bred. 
 
 And fears by pale white shown : 
 Then if she fear, or be to blame. 
 
 By this you shall not know. 
 For still her cheeks possess the same 
 Which native she doth owe. 
 
PLOT OF THE PLAY. 295 
 
 Nor is Moth the only foil to Armado : even when he en- Ch. XIV. 
 counters the rough common sense of Costard, or the simple 
 human nature of the pretty Jaquenetta, the pompous knight 
 regularly, in the reader's eyes, gets the worse, though the 
 wit of such contests is too thin to be adequately brought 
 out by quotations unsupported by the actors' by-play. i. ii. 138. 
 
 Armado. I do betray myself with blushing. Maid I 
 
 Jaquenetta. Man ? 
 
 Armado. I will visit thee at the lodge. 
 
 Jaquenetta. That 's hereby ^- 
 
 Armado. I know where it is situate. 
 
 Jaquenetta. Lord, how wise you are ! 
 
 Armado. I will tell thee wonders. 
 
 Jaquenetta. With that face ? 
 
 Armado. I love thee. 
 
 Jaquenetta. So I heard you say. 
 
 Armado. And so, farewell. 
 
 Jaquenetta. Fair weather after you ! 
 
 Dull. Come, Jaquenetta, 4way I \Exeunt Dull and Jaquenetta. 
 
 Armado. Villain, thou shalt fast for thy offences ere thou be 
 pardoned. 
 
 Costard. Well, sir, I hope, when I do it, I shall do it on a full 
 stomach. 
 
 Armado. Thou shalt be heavily punished. 
 
 Costard. I am more bound to you than your fellows, for they are but 
 lightly rewarded. 
 
 Armado. Take away this villain. 
 
 The second group gathers around the pedantry of Holo- 
 fernes, which is set off by a double foil : an admiring rival in 
 Sir Nathaniel the curate, and a foil of a different kind in 
 goodman Dull, whose density is continually contrasting with 
 the other's learning, and at the same time spoiling the in- 
 tended effect. 
 
 Holofernes. The deer was, as you know, sanguis, in blood ; ripe as iv. ii. 2. 
 the pomewater, who now hangeth like a jewel in the ear of caelo, the 
 sky, the welkin, the heaven ; and anon falleth like a crab on the face of 
 terra, the soil, the land, the earth. 
 
 Nathaniel. Truly, Master Holofernes, the epithets are sweetly varied, 
 
 ' A phrase for ' That 's as it may turn out.' 
 
296 LOVJ^S LABOUR'S LOST. 
 
 Ch. XIV. like a scholar at the least : but, sir, I assure ye, it was a buck of the 
 
 first head. 
 
 Holofernes. Sir Nathaniel, baud credo. 
 Dull. 'Twas not a baud credo ; 'twas a pricket. 
 Holofernes. Most barbarous intimation ! yet a kind of insinuation, 
 as it were, in via, in way, of explication ; facere, as it were, replica- 
 tion, or rather, ostentare, to show, as it were, his inclination, after his 
 undressed, unpolished, uneducated, unpruned, untrained, or rather, 
 unlettered, or ratherest, unconfirmed fashion, to insert again my baud 
 credo for a deer. 
 
 Dull. I said the deer was not a baud credo ; 'twas a pricket. 
 Holofernes. Twice-sod simplicity, bis coctua ! 
 
 O thou monster of Ignorance, how deformed dost thou look ! 
 Nathaniel. Sir, he hath never fed of the dainties that are bred in a 
 book; 
 he hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink: his 
 intellect is not replenished ; he is only an animal, only sensible in the 
 duller parts ; 
 
 And such barren plants are set before us that we thankful should be, 
 Which we of taste and feeling are, for those parts that do fructify 
 
 in us more than he. 
 For as it would ill become me to be vain, indiscreet, or a fool. 
 So were there a patch set on learning, to see him in a school: 
 But omne bene, say I ; being of an old father's mind, 
 Many can brook the weather that love not the wind. 
 Dull. You two are book-men : can you tell me by your wit 
 
 What was a month old at Cain's birth, that 's not five weeks old 
 as yet ? 
 Holofernes. Dictynna, goodman Dull ; Dict)'nna, goodman Dull. 
 Dull. What is Dictynna ? 
 
 Nathaniel. A title to Phoebe, to Luna, to the moon. 
 Holofernes. The moon was a month old when Adam was no more, 
 And raught not to five weeks when he came to five-score. 
 The allusion holds in the exchange. 
 
 Dull. 'Tis true indeed ; the collusion holds in the exchange. 
 Holofernes. God comfort thy capacity ! I say, the allusion holds in 
 the exchange. 
 
 Dull. And I say, the poUusion holds in the exchange ; for the moon 
 is never but a month old : and I say beside that, 'twas a pricket that the 
 princess killed. 
 
 Out of these two character groups rise two Sub-Actions, 
 which are drawn into the general movement of the play. 
 The first is the intrigue of Armado with Jaquenetta. This 
 
PLOT OF THE PLAY. 297 
 
 gives support to the earlier of the two phases in the main Ch. XIV. 
 
 action : there is a blunder in the delivery of the love-letters, 
 
 the effect of which extends to the King and his fellow- 
 conspirators, and completes their mutual betrayal. By the 
 same mistake Armado's intrigue is itself betrayed, and this iv.iii. 189; 
 sub-action in the end reaches a position of equilibrium when '' *^" 
 the pretentious impostor descends to naturalness, sees the 
 day of wrong through the little hole of discretion, and vows 
 to hold the plough three years for love of his base peasant v. ii. 732, 
 girl. Again, the stationary interest of the pedantic display ^^' 
 takes movement to support the later phase of the main action, 
 Holofernes being charged with the pageant under cover v. i. 119; ii. 
 of which, with all its Classic Worthies, the lovers are to 
 approach their mistresses : but the turn in the main action 
 overthrows the sub-action also, and the pageant-manager, 
 in his hour of importance, finds employers, audience, and 
 half his actors uniting to overwhelm the performance in 
 chaff. 
 
 One more remark has to be made before the statement Enveloping 
 of the plot is complete. The main body of the play — plot ''^''"' 
 and underplot — is surrounded by a wider Enveloping Action, 
 slightly sketched : the comic interchange of personal per- 
 plexities and reconciliations is framed in a sober interest 
 of high politics — the illness and death of the French king, 
 that just appears at the beginning and end. It is in ac- 
 cordance with Shakespeare's usual handling of plot thus to 
 enclose action within action, like the sphere within sphere of 
 the Ptolemaic astronomy, as Holofernes would no doubt have 
 remarked. If I may continue in the spirit of Holofernes, 
 I would point out that in this case the outer Enveloping 
 Action is like the primum mobile of that astronomic system, 
 and imparts motion to all the interior actions. For it is 
 the embassy necessitated by the king's failing health which 
 brings the French ladies into the play, and sets up the 
 conflict of humour and convention. When this conflict has 
 
298 LOVE'S LABOUR 'S LOST. 
 
 Ch. XIV. worked itself out to its natural resolution, the enveloping 
 action appears a second time to effect a further resolution. 
 
 V. ii. 724. In the height of the mirth over the discomfited pageant 
 the sudden announcement is made of the King's death. In 
 an instant the play becomes serious. But the lovers take 
 advantage of the seriousness to press their suits in earnest. 
 The ladies take advantage of the period of mourning to fix 
 conditions. The King of Navarre is bidden to immure 
 himself in some forlorn and naked hermitage, remote from 
 the pleasures of the world, for twelve months : if his love 
 stands this test he may challenge his princess, who will 
 have been a solitary mourner all the time, and she vows 
 to be his. Similar terms are made with Navarre's com- 
 panions, and Biron in particular is to exercise his jesting 
 humour in a hospital, to see 
 
 If sickly ears. 
 Deaf d with the clamours of their own dear groans, 
 Will hear yonr idle scorns — 
 
 if not, to reform : but in either case Rosaline will have him. 
 The plot has thus provided for a dramatic nemesis : the 
 self-inflicted unnatural regimen of the celibates, at the be- 
 V ginning of the play, is balanced by the forced unnatural 
 regimen imposed on them as a preliminary condition when 
 they desire to marry : and this stipulation of celibacy seems to 
 follow naturally from the King of France's death. The 
 dramatist who feels equally all attractions, will not build 
 up his light structure of humour and passing affectation 
 without giving us a glimpse of some foundation for it in the 
 sober political world. 
 
 Thus the whole play oi Love's Labour's Lost appears per- 
 meated with these clashings between humorous and artificial ; 
 whether we look at the personages and their fate in the story, 
 or survey the subject-matter, or watch the succession of 
 comic effects, or technically analyse the structure of the 
 drama, we find that every kind of interest refers back to the 
 
PLOT OF THE PLAY. 299 
 
 same source. The conflict, then, of humour with affectation Ch. XIV. 
 and conventionality is, in the fullest sense of the word, the 
 Central Idea of this play. And the following chapter will 
 show that the same idea largely colours another play which is 
 too many-sided in its interest to be referred to any single 
 motive. 
 
XV. 
 
 How ' As You Like It ' presents Varied 
 Forms of Humour in conflict with a 
 Single Conventionality. 
 
 A Study of more Complex 
 Dramatic Colouring. 
 
 Ch. XV. 
 
 Labour 's 
 Lost and 
 As You 
 Like Lt 
 compared. 
 
 n 
 
 VE'S Labour 's Lost is an early play. But in another 
 drama, more complex in its general character, 
 Shakespeare has again introduced the impact of humour 
 upon affectation as a dominant motive. Between the two 
 there is the difference we should expect. The earlier play 
 we have seen resolve as a whole into the central idea, which 
 gives significance to its every part; in As You Like It 
 the conflict of humour with convention is only one motive 
 amongst several. Moreover, the idea itself, which is common 
 to the two plays, takes different form in each. In Love's 
 Labour 's Lost the humour is one and the same throughout, 
 the artificialities with which it is in conflict are many. In 
 As Yoti Like It, on the other hand, there are three distinct 
 types of humour : while, for the artificial element, we have 
 that one great conventionality of poetry beside which all 
 others may be called secondary. 
 
 I distinguish the healthy humour of Rosalind, the pro- 
 ^""a"ind J'^^^""'^^ humour of Touchstone, and the morbid humour 
 of Jaques. The fun, that plays like sunUt ripples about 
 Rosalind and her friends, Celia and Orlando, there is no 
 need to discuss; every reader drinks it in eagerly, and no 
 
 Three 
 types of 
 humour in 
 As You 
 Like Lt. 
 
 Healthy 
 
HUMOURS OF THE PLAY ANALYSED. 301 
 
 one, I imagine, will object to the description of it as Ch. XV* 
 
 'healthy.' I do not doubt that, as an individual. Touch- 
 
 stone is worthy to be added to this set: but the office ^^ sionalHu- 
 
 holds gives a different tone to his humour. In connection mourof 
 
 with another play it has been pointed out that the yi^^^t stone. 
 
 occupied, in the age of court officials, the same position 
 
 which in this age of newspapers is held by Punch: both 
 
 are national institutions for flashing a comic light on every v^ 
 
 passing topic. As a professional Fool, Touchstone has 
 
 privileges : he may attack everything, and every sufferer 
 
 must applaud his own castigation. But equally he has ii. vii. 50. 
 
 professional duties : he must use his folly as a stalking-horse 
 
 under which to present wisdom, or, in other words, he must v. iv. iii. 
 
 from time to time hint deep truths as well as keep up a 
 
 continuous stream of vapid nonsense. The absence of 
 
 spontaneity is the note which distinguishes this professional 
 
 folly from natural wit such as Rosalind's. In the course of 
 
 this play Touchstone has to draw fun on demand from such 
 
 diverse topics as courtiers' oaths, travellers' complaints, the 
 
 course of Time, the irregularities of Fortune, shepherd life, 
 
 court life, music, versification, and his own intended wife — 
 
 ' a poor virgin, sir, an ill-favoured thing, sir, but mine own.' 
 
 And, to fill up a moment of waiting, he is called upon to 
 
 exercise his professional function at length, and extemporises 
 
 a whole system of scientific quarrelling, through its degrees 
 
 of Retort Courteous, Quip Modest, Reply Churlish, Reproof 
 
 Valiant, Countercheck Quarrelsome, Lie with Circumstance, v. iv, from 
 
 up to the unpardonable Lie Direct. '°' 
 
 Of Jaques humour is a prominent feature, no less than of Morbid 
 Touchstone and Rosalind : but to determine this third type of off^ues. 
 humour is much more difficult. The whole character of Jaques 
 is one not easy to define, and one which leaves the most 
 strangely opposite impressions upon different readers. He ^ 
 
 is a general favourite with audiences in the theatre. Actors, 
 so far as I have observed, seem to form an exalted opinion 
 
302 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Ch. XV. of him; and it must be difficult for them to do otherwise 
 
 when they have to speak in his character the most famous 
 
 of quotations that compares all the world to a stage. On 
 
 the other hand, Jaques is certainly not a favourite with the 
 
 personages in the story : he is least liked by the best of them, 
 
 y and the poet himself takes pains to except him from the 
 
 happy ending which crowns the careers of the rest. The 
 
 epithet ' philosophical ' has stuck to Jaques, and there is good 
 
 reason for it. We find him everywhere showing, not only 
 
 seriousness of bent, but also that deep eye to the lessons of 
 
 life underlying the outward appearances of things which is 
 
 traditionally associated with wisdom. Yet in the scenes of 
 
 the play his seriousness is not treated with much respect, 
 
 and his wisdom by no means gives him the victory when 
 
 he has to encounter much more unpretentious personages. 
 
 Interpretation must find some view of him which will be 
 
 consistent with all this ; and we get a hint as to the direction 
 
 in which we are to look for such a view in the play itself, 
 
 where the Duke, in answer to Jaques' longing for the Fool's 
 
 licence of universal satire, says that by such satire he would 
 
 do— 
 ii. vii. 64. Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin : 
 
 For thou thyself hast been a libertine. 
 
 As sensual as the brutish sting itself; 
 
 And all the embossed sores and headed evils, 
 
 That thou with license of free foot hast caught, 
 
 Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world. 
 
 The hypothesis which will make the whole character clear, 
 so far as it can be summed up in a single phrase, might be 
 -^ expressed as the morbid humour of melancholy. 
 
 Humour is the flower of healthy mental growth ; it is 
 mental exertion not for a practical purpose but for its own 
 sake, arbitrary and delighting in its own arbitrariness; it 
 is turned on everything good or bad, great or trivial (for to 
 humour all things are humorous), drawing from everything its 
 sparkling surprises and for ever catching unexpected novelties 
 
HUMOURS OF THE PLAY ANALYSED. 303 
 
 of aspect ; it is an insight into the singularities that lie just • Ch. XV. 
 
 below the surface of things, estimated more by their number 
 
 and the quickness with which they present themselves than by 
 weight and lasting worth ; it is further in its sharpest strokes 
 the outcome of the genial good-will which is the normal con- 
 dition of a well-balanced mind. There is, however, a special 
 Elizabethan view of humour, which emphasised one single 
 element of it, — it was an arbitrary assumption of some ^ 
 mental attitude ; ' tis my humour ' is excuse sufficient for any 
 perverse and unnatural mental condition that Ben Jonson's 
 personages choose to indulge in. Amongst humours in this 
 second sense one of the commonest is ' melancholy ' ; it was, 
 we find, a specially English affectation, and so much a thing 
 of fashion that in Ben Jonson's Every Man in his Humour 
 Stephen practises it before his looking-glass, and in asides 
 asks his mentors whether he is melancholy enough. Yet 
 this fashion rests on a weakness of human nature that is 
 universal. At all times discontent has been affected as a 
 sign of superiority; a chronic turned-up nose is to the 
 superficial a suggestion of select taste. Every one is familiar 
 with one form of such discontent, — the depreciation of home 
 which travelling alrriost always produces in a shallow mind, 
 and which is in the play itself alluded to as a characteristic 
 of Jaques. 
 
 Farewell, Monsieur Traveller ; look you lisp and wear strange suits, iv. i. 33. 
 disable all the benefits of your own country, be out of love with your 
 nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you 
 are, or I will scarce think you have swam in a gondola. 
 
 Jaques has adopted this Elizabethan humour of melancholy. 
 But more than this, his humour is totally opposed to all that 
 is healthy, and has become morbid; natural emotions have 
 been worn out by his course of dissipation, and discontent 
 supplies their place ; with the corruption of his soul his 
 humour, so to speak, has gone bad, and while he retains all 
 the analytic power and insight into unexpected singularities, 
 
304 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Ch. XV. ■ yet his humour is no longer spontaneous but laboured, no 
 longer genial, but flavoured with malevolence and self- 
 exaltation. 
 I/s morbid Examined in detail, Jaques' character exhibits the paradox 
 'ttZed'in ^"'^ perversity of view which belongs to humour, but these 
 ditail. are gloomy instead of bright, and suggest laborious search, 
 and not involuntary mind-play. He is ' compact of jars '; he 
 can suck melancholy out of a song as a weasel sucks eggs ; 
 he speaks of sleeping and railing as of the two sides of his 
 normal condition. We have the Duke throughout by his side 
 as a healthy contrast. The Duke did not seek the artificial 
 life of the forest, though when driven to it by the stubbornness 
 of fortune he can translate it to a quiet and sweet style: 
 Jaques is repelled by his comrades' life as soon as it turns 
 fortunate, and voluntarily flies from dancing measures to get 
 V. iv, from pleasure out of a dethroned convertite. So with regard to 
 ' ■ the dying stag : the Duke's pity is accidental, rising naturally 
 out of surrounding circumstances — that the brute as a native 
 burgher of the forest should be slaughtered in his own 
 confines. Jaques pours out his pathos as an indulgence ; to 
 borrow a word from the vocabulary of funeral sermons, he 
 'improves' the stag's dying agonies (having first found a 
 comfortable position from which he can watch them) with a 
 ii. i. thousand ingenious similes, and is so left by his companions 
 weeping and commenting. Similar is Jaques' connection 
 with the celebrated simile of the stage : the brilliant working 
 out of this idea must not blind us to the morbid tone of mind 
 of which it is the outcome. The Duke's reflection which 
 ii. vii. 136. gives rise to the speech is cheerful, inviting to resignation 
 because others have to endure. His accidental use of 
 dramatic imagery is seized upon by Jaques as an opportunity 
 for harping on the hollowness of everything human; it is 
 that all the world is no more than a stage, and the men and 
 women merely players, which makes the attraction of the 
 theme to Jaques' mind, and his ingenuity catches the lowest 
 
HUMOURS OF THE PLAY ANALYSED. 305 
 
 view of every phase of life— the mewling and puking infant, Ch. XV. 
 
 the sighing and woeful young man, he characterises a soldier 
 
 as quick in quarrel, reputation as a bubble, he distinguishes 
 the justice by his creature comforts, old age by its leanness 
 and childish treble, until he reaches a congenial climax in 
 ' sans everything.' 
 
 Yet that melancholy is not the real object of this apostle of 
 melancholy some minor touches show. Amiens sings a song 
 in praise of melancholy, Jaques at once turns it into ridicule, ii. v. v 
 for to morbid humour its own pet affectation becomes ob- 
 jectionable when put forward by another. In fact he must 
 have his melancholy to himself, as he is betrayed by Rosalind 
 into avowing — 
 
 I have neither the scholar's melancholy, which is emulation ; nor the iv. i. 10. 
 musician's, which is fantastical ; nor the courtier's, which is proud ; nor 
 the soldier's, which is ambitious ; nor the lawyer's, which is politic ; 
 nor the lady's, which is nice ; nor the lover's, which is all these : but it 
 is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted 
 from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, 
 in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness. 
 
 It is thus egotism that is at the root of his morbid humour, 
 which is no outcome of social life, but a constant attempt at 
 self-exaltation by the mode of differing from others. He ii. v. 
 snubs modest excuses for a ragged voice, and compares 
 compliments to the encounter of two dog-apes. He mocks 
 again at ' burdens ' and ' stanzos,' and similar technical terms : 
 for your egotist both despises what everybody does as com- 
 mon-place, and equally regards any distinctive peculiarity he 
 does not share as silly pedantry. Similarly with Jaques' ob- 
 jection to the Duke as too ' disputable ' : the natural course 
 for one who has information being to impart it, the morbid 
 mind affects reserve ; he ' thinks of as many things as others, 
 but gives Heav'n thanks, and makes no boast ' — making thus 
 his powers one more difference between himself and his 
 fellow-men. It must not however be supposed that there is 
 no exception to this universal depreciation. Morbid egotism 
 
 X 
 
306 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Ch. XV. shows its exaltation above ordinary pleasures by a selection 
 
 of its own, and by vehemence of admiration in proportion as 
 
 admiration is unexpected. Not only is Jaques merry on 
 hearing a melancholy song, but — like an aesthete with a sun- 
 flower — he is raised to a delirious ecstasy by meeting a pro- 
 fessional Fool. 
 
 ii. vii. 13. A fool, a fool! I met a fool i' the forest, 
 
 A motley fool ; a miserable world ! 
 As I do live by food, I met a fool. 
 
 As the Fool follows his profession of railing Jaques' lungs 
 begin to crow like chanticleer, and he laughs sans intermission 
 an hour by the dial. 
 
 It is abundantly clear that malevolence is the inspiration of 
 Jaques' humour. His moralisings on the dying stag are, as 
 ii. i. 44. the courtiers point out, ' invectively ' conceived : he hits the 
 landowners in his reflection on the stag weeping tears into the 
 brook, giving his sum of more to that which has too much ; 
 the court come in for their share in the proverb of misery 
 parting the flux of company, and the city when the herd is 
 upbraided for forsaking the broken bankrupt. He envies the 
 ii.vii, from Fool's motley for the sake of the Fool's unfettered liberty of 
 ■**■ attack; and when the Duke points out how ill Jaques is 
 
 quahfied for the Jester's oflSce of good-natured censor, his 
 answer shows that Jaques believes the world to be as bad as 
 he wishes to paint it. If Rosalind's humour is a tribute to 
 the delightful oddities of things in general, and Touchstone's 
 humour is a tribute to his professional oflBce, Jaques' morbid 
 humour is a tribute only to himself. 
 
 Into these three contrasted types has the simple humour of 
 Loves Labour's Lost been expanded. On the other hand, for 
 the elaborate and varied artificialities of that play we have 
 Pastoral substituted one single conventionality which has maintained 
 gnat "on- ^'® ground in the world of imagination from Theocritus to 
 vention- Watteau — Pastoral Life. The traditional life of the old 
 fhe^play eclogues is lived again in the forest of Arden by the banished 
 
PLACE OF THE HUMOUR IN THE ACTION. 307 
 
 Duke and his followers : with no worse ill than Adam's Ch. XV. 
 penalty, the seasons' difference ; with hunting of the stag for 
 enterprise, and presentation of him who killed the deer for 
 triumph; with feasts alfresco, and songs under the green- 
 wood tree. The simplicity of bucolic life is sufficiently 
 represented in William and Audrey; and, if pastoral lovers 
 are wanted, Phcebe for the fair unkind, Silvius as the de- 
 spairing lover, with Corin as the Old Shepherd to soothe him, 
 are types that the Sicilian Muses, could not surpass. To the 
 end of time, I suppose, shepherd life will be the traditional 
 form in which the more elementary moods of the quiet 
 passions will be enshrined, and Shakespeare is paying his 
 footing as a universal poet when he makes the middle acts of 
 As You Like It a dramatised idyl. 
 
 Upon this accepted and most unmitigated conventionality The three 
 the three founts of humour in the drama are continually ^^g^"^" 
 playing. To draw out in detail the resulting effects would be mith the 
 to turn into dull prose half the play. Rosalind is V^^''-^^ ctnvention- 
 mainly against the pastoral lovers, and for the soft and sleepy ality. 
 tenderness of such love there can be no more wholesome 
 tonic than the bright audacity and overwhelming flood of 
 high spirits that belong to our heroine. 
 
 What though you have no beauty, — iii. v. 37. 
 
 As, by my faith, I see no more in you 
 Than without candle may go dark to bed — 
 Must you be therefore proud and pitiless ? 
 
 . Od's my little life, 
 
 I think she means to tangle my eyes too I . . . 
 I pray you, do not fall in love with me, 
 For I am falser than vows made in wine: 
 Besides, I like you not. 
 
 Moreover, Rosalind in disguise is a humorous situation 
 embodied ; and this applied to the hopeless suit of Silvius 
 draws out for the spectators a lengthened irony which finds a 
 happy climax in reconciled impossibilities. 
 
 X 2 
 
308 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Ch. XV. Touchstone also has his fling at the pastoral lovers. 
 When the unhappy Silvius paints the true idyllic passion — 
 
 ii. iv. 34. If thou remember'st not the slightest folly 
 
 That ever love did make thee run into. 
 Thou hast not loved — 
 
 the professional Fool seconds him with instances : 
 
 I remember, when I was in love I broke my sword upon a stone and 
 bid him take that for coming a-night to Jane Smile ; and I remember 
 the kissing of her batlet and the cow's dugs that her pretty chopt hands 
 had milked . . . W'e that are true lovers run into strange capers ; but as 
 all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly. 
 
 Rosalind. Thou speakest wiser than thou art ware of. 
 
 Touchstone. Nay, I shall ne'er be ware of mine own wit till I break 
 my shins against it. 
 
 But Touchstone's license roams more widely over all the 
 
 denizens of the woodland. He woos the rustic Audrey with 
 m.iii;v.i. folly, with folly he frightens away his rival William; he 
 iii. ii. plays a match with Corin of court folly against pastoral wit, 
 
 and when this model Shepherd, getting the worse, falls back 
 
 upon his dignity — 
 
 Sir, I am a true labourer : I earn that I eat, get that I wear, owe no 
 man hate, envy no man's happiness, glad of other men's good, content 
 with my harm, and the greatest of my pride is to see my ewes graze 
 and my lambs suck — 
 
 Touchstone swoops upon this dyllic picture with a demon- 
 stration in theology that Corin's occupation is a simple sin 
 involving him in a parlous state : 
 
 If thou beest not damned for this, the devil himself will have no 
 shepherds. 
 
 Finally the Fool gets an opportunity for one of his set 
 discourses on this theme of the pastoral life : 
 
 Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a good life ; but in respect 
 that it is a shepherd's life, it is naught. In respect that it is solitary, 
 I like it very well ; but in respect that it is private, it is a very vile 
 life. Now, in respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me well; but in 
 
PLACE OF THE HUMOUR IN THE ACTION. 309 
 
 respect it isnot in the court, it is tedious. As it is a spare life, look you, Ch. XV. 
 
 it fits my humour well ; but as there is no more plenty in it, it goes 
 
 much against my stomach. 
 
 If the conventionalities of pastoral poetry are to be taken 
 literally, I do not know that the merits of that phase of 
 existence could be more profoundly summed up. 
 
 As to the third type of humour, I have in describing it 
 indicated sufficiently how the morbid melancholy of Jaques is 
 turned upon every element of the life around him. But 
 when, by expansion of the treatment in the earlier play, The thru 
 three distinct humours have been brought to bear upon the ^-^^^^v; 
 conventional, a further effect is still possible — the three with one 
 humours can be brought into conflict with one another. "'"'' ""' 
 
 Touchstone is the comrade and firm friend of Rosalind 
 and her set, and if he chaffs them, it belongs to his office, and 
 they readily join in the game. But when the folly is sprung 
 upon them by surprise it is possible for them to be discon- 
 certed. Celia believes herself alone as she comes reading the iii. ii. 133- 
 lover's verses, which endow her friend with the ' quintessence 
 of every sprite ' — 
 
 Helen's cheek, but not her heart, 
 
 Cleopatra's majesty, 
 Atalanta's better part, 
 
 Sad Lucretia's modesty. 
 
 Touchstone ^ startles her dreaming away — 
 
 O most gentle pulpiter ! what tedious homily of love have you 
 wearied your parishioners withal, and never cried, ' Have patience, good 
 people ! ' 
 
 Celia. How now ! back, friends ! Shepherd, go off a little. Go with 
 him, sirrah. 
 
 ' The editions give this speech to Rosalind (iii. ii. 163). But this 
 is surely impossible. Not only is Celia's reproof addressed to Touch- 
 stone, and he in retiring treats it as such, but when he is gone Celia 
 asks Rosalind, ' Didst thou hear these verses ? ' — which would be absurd 
 if Rosalind had spoken the words of satire on them. 
 
310 AS yOV LIKE IT. 
 
 Ch. XV. Celia is clearly ' out ' in this game of wit, for she has 
 answered pettishly ; Touchstone feels he has scored : 
 
 Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable retreat ; though not with 
 bag and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage. 
 
 iii. ii, from A precisely similar encounter takes place with Rosalind : but 
 ^'' though surprised she rallies to the game, and puts the Fool 
 
 himself out. She is indulging in the pastoral to her own 
 
 praise — 
 
 From the east to western Ind 
 
 No jewel is like Rosalind. 
 
 Her worth, being mounted on the wind. 
 
 Through all the world bears Rosalind. 
 
 All the pictures fairest lined 
 
 Are but black to Rosalind. 
 
 The Fool breaks in, offering to rhyme her so for eight years 
 together, dinners and suppers and sleeping-hours excepted : 
 for such false gallop of verses is no more than the right 
 butter-woman's rank to market. 
 
 If a hart do lack a hind, 
 Let him seek out Rosalind. 
 If the cat will after kind. 
 So be sure will Rosalind. 
 Winter garments must be lined, 
 So must slender Rosalind, &c. 
 
 Our heroine is disconcerted, but alert enough to exchange 
 thrust and cut. 
 
 Rosalind. Peace, you dull fool ! I found them on a tree. 
 
 Touchstone. Truly, the tree yields bad fruit. 
 
 Rosalind. I'll graff it with you, and then I shall graff it with a 
 medlar: then it will be the earliest fruit i'the country; for you'll be 
 rotten ere you be half ripe, and that 's the right virtue of the medlar. 
 
 For once the professional Jester is unable to come up to time, 
 and he has no repartee ready. 
 
 Touchstone. You have said; but whether wisely or no, let the forest 
 judge. 
 
PLACE OF THE HUMOUR IN THE ACTION. 311 
 
 Similarly, although Jaques patronises Touchstone, takes Ch. XV. 
 the Fool for his model and his ambition, snubs other 
 discourse in order to draw out his folly, and calls upon others 
 to enjoy it, yet a conflict between the morbid and the 
 professional humours is possible, when Touchstone descends 
 so far from the dignity of his office as to contemplate the 
 step of marrying. Jaques will assist his prot^g^'s insane act 
 by giving Audrey away, but must at all events sneer at the 
 parson. iii.iiiifirom 
 
 72- 
 
 Will you, being a man of your breeding, be married under a bush 
 like a beggar ? . . . . this fellow will but join you together as they join 
 wainscot ; then one of you will prove a shrunk panel, and, like green 
 timber, warp, warp. 
 
 Touchstone is equal to a reply in his most professional 
 style. 
 
 I am not in the mind but I were better to be married of him than of 
 another : for he is not like to marry me well ; and not being well 
 married, it will be a good excuse for me hereafter to leave my wife. 
 
 Professional humour then has clashed with genuine, 
 morbid with professional. The treatment is complete when 
 the unhealthiness of humour in Jaques is accentuated by 
 his being brought into contact with humour that is sound. 
 When the man of melancholy crosses swords with the lover 
 Orlando he does not come off victorious. iii ii, from 
 
 a6S. 
 
 Jaques. God be wi' you : let 's irieet as little as we can. 
 
 Orlando. I do desire we may be better strangers. 
 
 Jaques. I pray you, mar no more trees with writing love-songs in 
 their barks. 
 
 Orlando. I pray you, mar no more of my verses with reading them 
 ill-favouredly. 
 
 Jaques. Rosalind is your love's name ? 
 
 Orlando. Yes, just. 
 
 Jaques. I do not like her name. 
 
 Orlando. There was no thought of pleasing yon when she was 
 christened. 
 
 Jaques. What stature is she of ! 
 
312 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT. 
 
 Ch. XV. Orlando. Jnst as high as my heart. 
 Jaques. You are full of pretty answers. Have you not been ac- 
 quainted with goldsmiths' wives, and conned them out of rings 1 
 
 Orlando. Not so ; but I answer you right painted cloth, from whence 
 you have studied your questions. 
 
 Jaques admires the nimble wit, and proposes to sit down and 
 rail in duet against ' our mistress the world, and all our misery.' 
 Orlando takes up the position — unintelligible to a being like 
 Jaques — of caring to rail at none but himself, against whom 
 he knows most faults. Jaques retires in disgust. 
 
 Jaques. By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I found you. 
 
 Orlando. He is drowned in the brook : look but in, and you shall 
 see him. 
 
 Jaques. There I shall see mine own figure. 
 
 Orlando. Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher. 
 
 Jaques. I '11 tarry no longer with you : farewell, good Signior Love. 
 
 Orlando. I am glad of your departure : adieu, good Monsieur 
 Melancholy. 
 
 But the supreme touch of delineation for morbid humour is 
 given by the mere contact of Jaques with the essence of health 
 Esp. iv. i. and brightness in the disguised Rosalind. Like evil spirits 
 compelled by the touch of Ithuriel's spear to show themselves 
 in their true shapes, Jaques seems drawn on by Rosalind's 
 presence to call attention to his peculiar qualities with almost 
 infantile complacency : — how he loves melancholy more than 
 laughing, and thinks it good to be sad and say nothing (like 
 a post, Rosalind interjects), and how, in detail, his melancholy 
 has been compounded out of the scholar, the musician, the 
 courtier, and all others he has met on his travels. So far 
 Rosalind seems to have been looking at him quietly, as a 
 curiosity: in the last sentence she finds the clue to under- 
 standing him. 
 
 Rosalind. A traveller ! By my faith, you have great reason to be sad : 
 I fear you have sold your own lands to see other men's ; then, to have 
 seen much and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor hands. 
 
 Jaques. Yes, I have gained my experience. 
 
 init, 
 
PLACE OF THE HUMOUR IN THE ACTION. 313 
 
 Rosalind. And your experience makes you sad : I had rather have a Ch. XV. 
 
 fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad ; and to travel 
 
 for it too ! 
 
 Jaques appears suddenly to wake up to the sort of impression 
 he is making on the attractive youth, and he seizes the first 
 opportunity for retreating in disgust, with the woman's last 
 word following him down the glade. 
 
PART SECOND. 
 
 SURVEY OF 
 
 DRAMATIC CRITICISM 
 
 AS AN INDUCTIVE SCIENCE. 
 
I 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Topics of Dramatic Criticism. 
 
 N the Introduction to this book I pleaded that a regular Cii. XVI. 
 inductive science of literary criticism was a possibility. 
 In the preceding fifteen chapters I have endeavoured to exhibit to survey 
 such a regular method at work on the dramatic analysis of Dramatic 
 leading points in Shakespeare's plays. The design of the as an in- 
 whole work will not be complete without an attempt to d'n^^uve 
 
 SCZ£7ZC£ 
 
 present our results in complete form, in fact to map out a 
 Science of Dramatic Art. I hope this may not seem too pre- 
 tentious an undertaking in the case of a science yet in its 
 infancy; while it may be useful at all events to the young 
 student to have suggested to him a methodical treatment with 
 which he may exercise himself on the literature he studies. 
 Moreover the reproach against literary criticism is, not that 
 there has not been plenty of inductive work done in this de- 
 partment, but that the assertion of its inductive character has 
 been lacking; and I believe a critic does good service by 
 throwing his results into a formal shape, however imperfectly 
 he may be able to accomplish his task. It will be understood 
 that the survey of Dramatic Science is here attempted only 
 in the merest outline : it is a glimpse, not a view, of a new 
 science that is proposed. Not even a survey would be pos- 
 sible within the limits of a few short chapters except by con- 
 fining the matter introduced to that previously laid before the 
 reader in a different form. The leading features of Dramatic 
 Art have already been explained in the appUcation of them 
 to particular plays : they are now included in a single view. 
 
31 8 TOPICS OF DRAMATIC CRITICISM. 
 
 Ch. XVI. so arranged that their mutual connection may be seen to be 
 building up this singleness of view. Such a survey, like a 
 microscopic lens of low power, must sacrifice detail to secure 
 a wider field. Its compensating gain will consist in what it 
 can contribute to the orderly product of methodised enquiry 
 which is the essence of science, and the interest in which 
 becomes associated with the interest of curiosity when the 
 method has been applied in a region not usually acknow- 
 ledging its reign. 
 Definition The Starting-point in the exposition of any science is 
 "li^fl^ naturally its definition. But this first step is suflBcient to 
 Criticism: divide inductive criticism from the treatment of literature 
 mostly in vogue. I have already protested against the criti- 
 cism which starts with the assumption of some ' object ' or 
 ' fundamental purpose ' in the Drama from which to deduce 
 binding canons. Such an all-embracing definition, if it is 
 possible at all, will come as the final, not the first, step of 
 investigation. Inductive criticism, on the contrary, will seek 
 as to its its point of departure from outside. On the one hand it will 
 method ^ ^ consider the relation of the matter which it proposes to treat 
 to other matter which is the subject of scientific enquiry ; on 
 the other hand it will fix the nature of the treatment it 
 proposes to apply by a reference to scientific method in 
 general. That is to say, its definition will be based upon 
 diflferentiation of matter and development in method. 
 Stagesofde- To begin with the latter. There are three well-marked 
 velopment^ Stages in the development of sciences. The first consists in 
 ductive the mere observation of the subject-matter. The second is 
 tnethod. distinguished by arrangement of observations, by analysis and 
 classification. The third stage reaches systematisation — ^the 
 wider arrangement which satisfies our sense of explanation, 
 or curiosity as to causes which is the instinct specially 
 developed by scientific enquiry. Astronomy remained for 
 long ages in the first stage, while it was occupied with the 
 observation of the heavenly bodies and the naming of the 
 
DEFINITION OF DRAMATIC CRITICISM. 319 
 
 constellations. It would pass into the second stage with Ch. XVI. 
 division of labour and the study of solar, lunar, planetary, and 
 cometary phenomena separately. But by such discoveries as 
 that of the laws of motion, or of gravitation, the great mass 
 of astronomical knowledge was bound together in a system 
 which at the same time satisfied the sense of causation, and 
 astronomy was fully developed as an inductive science. Or 
 to take a more modern instance : comparative philology has 
 attained completeness in our own day. Philology was in its 
 first stage at the Renaissance, when 'learning' meant the 
 mere accumulation of detailed knowledge connected with the 
 Classical languages ; Grimm's Law may illustrate the second 
 stage, a classification comprehensive but purely empiric ; the 
 principle of phonetic decay with its allied recuperative pro- 
 cesses has struck a unity through the laws of philology which 
 stamps it as a full-grown science. Applying this to our Dramatic 
 present subject, I do not pretend that Literary Criticism has f"^"-^'" 
 reached the third of these three stages : but materials are termediate 
 ready for giving it -a secure place in the second stage. In 
 time, no doubt, literary science must be able to explain the 
 modus operandi of literary production, and show how different 
 classes of writing come to produce their different effects. 
 But at present such explanation belongs mostly to the region 
 of speculation ; and before the science of criticism is ripe 
 for this final stage much work has to be done in the way of 
 methodising observation as to literary matter and form. 
 
 Dramatic Criticism, then, is still in the stage of provisional 
 arrangement. Its exact position is expressed by the technical or ' topical' 
 term ' topical.' Where accumulation of observations is great •^^ 
 enough to necessitate methodical arrangement, yet progress 
 is insufficient to suggest final bases of arrangement which 
 will crystallise the whole into a system, science takes refuge 
 in ' topics.' These have been aptly described as intellectual 
 pigeon-holes — convenient headings under which materials 
 may be digested, with strict adherence to method, yet only as 
 
320 TOPICS OF DRAMATIC CRITICISM. 
 
 Ch. XVI. a provisional arrangement until further progress shall bring 
 
 more stable organisation. This topical treatment may seem 
 
 an unambitious stage in scientific advance, the goal and 
 reward of which is insight into wide laws and far-reaching 
 systematisations. Still it is a stage directly in the line of sound 
 method : and the judicious choice of main and subordinate 
 topics is systematisation in embryo. The present enquiry 
 looks no further than this stage in its analysis of Dramatic 
 Art. It endeavours to find convenient headings under which 
 to set forth its observations of Shakespeare's plays. It also 
 seeks an arrangement of these topics that will at once cover 
 the field of the subject, and also carry on the face of it such 
 an economy of mutual connection as may make the topics, 
 what they ought to be, a natural bridge between the general 
 idea which the mind forms of Drama and the realisation of 
 this idea in the details of actual dramatic works. 
 
 Continuous But the definition of our subject involves further that we 
 
 differentia- ^^^^ measure out the exact field within which this method 
 tion of 
 
 scientific is to be applied. Science, like every other product of the 
 ^matter human mind, marks its progress by continuous differentia- 
 tion : the perpetual subdivision of the field of enquiry, the 
 rise of separate and ever minuter departments as time goes 
 on. Originally all knowledge was one and undivided. The 
 name of Socrates is connected with a great revolution which 
 separated moral science from physics, the study of man from 
 the study of nature. With Aristotle and inductive method 
 the process became rapid : and under his guidance ethics, as 
 the science of conduct, became distinct from mental science ; 
 and still further, political science, treating man in his relations 
 with the state, was distinguished from the more general 
 science of conduct. When thought awoke at the Renaissance 
 after the sleep of the Dark Ages, political science threw 
 off as a distinct branch political economy; and by our own 
 day particular branches of economy, finance, for example, 
 have practically become independent sciences. This charac- 
 
DEFINITION OF DRAMATIC CRITICISM. 321 
 
 teristic of science in general, the perpetual tendency to Ch. XVI. 
 
 separate more confined from more general lines of investi- . 
 
 gation, will apply in an especial degree to literature, which criticism 
 
 covers so wide an area of the mind and is the meeting- branches off 
 
 J r . mi r,, 1 .on the one 
 
 ground 01 so many separate mterests. Thus Shakespeare is side from 
 
 a poet, and his works afford a field for considering poetry in '^'^f wider 
 general, both as a mode of thought and a mode of expression, criticism : 
 Again, no writer could go so deeply into human nature as 
 Shakespeare has done without betraying his philosophy and 
 moral system. Once more, Shakespeare must afford a speci- 
 men of literary tendencies in general, and that particular 
 modification of them we call Elizabethan; besides that 
 the language which is the vehicle of this literature has an 
 interest of its own over and above that of the thought which 
 it conveys. All this and more belongs properly to ' Shake- 
 speare-Criticism ' : but from Literary Criticism as a whole a 
 branch is being gradually differentiated, Dramatic Criticism, 
 and its province is to deal with the question, how much of 
 the total effect of Shakespeare's works arises from the fact of 
 his ideas being conveyed to us in the form of dramas, and 
 not of lyric or epic poems, of essays or moral and philoso- 
 phical treatises. It is with this branch alone that the present 
 enquiry is concerned. 
 
 But more than this goes to the definition of Dramatic "« f^e 
 Criticism. Drama is not, like Epic, merely a branch '^'^ from the 
 literature : it is a compound art. The literary works which allied art 
 in ordinary speech' we call dramas, are in strictness only %gpy£^' 
 potential dramas waiting for their realisation on the stage, sentation. 
 And this stage-representation is not a mere accessory of 
 literature, but is an independent art, having a field where 
 literature has no place, in dumb show, in pantomime, in 
 mimicry, and in the lost art of Greek ' dancing.' 
 
 The question arises then, what is to be the relation of Dra- 
 matic Criticism to the companion art of Stage-Representation ? 
 Aristotle, the father of Dramatic Criticism, made Stage-Repre-f 
 
 Y 
 
32 2 TOPICS OF DRAMATIC CRITICISM. 
 
 Ch. XVI. sentation one of the departments of the science ; but we shall 
 
 be only following the law of differentiation if we separate the 
 
 two. This is especially appropriate in the case of the Shake- 
 spearean Drama. The Puritan Revolution, which has played 
 such a part in its history, was in effect an attack rather on 
 the Theatre than on the Drama itself. No doubt when the 
 movement became violent the two were not discriminated, 
 and the Drama was made a ' vanity ' as well as the Stage. 
 Still the one interest was never so thoroughly dropped by the 
 nation and was more readily taken up again than the other ; 
 so that from the point of view of the Stage our continuity with 
 the Elizabethan age has been severed, from the point of view 
 of the literary Drama it has not. The Shakespearean Drama 
 has made a field for itself as a branch of literature quite 
 apart from the Stage; and, however we may regret the 
 severance and look forward to a completer appreciation of 
 Shakespeare, yet it can hardly be doubted that at the present 
 moment as earnest and comprehensive an interest in our 
 great dramatist is to be found in the study as in the 
 theatre. 
 
 Dramatic Criticism, then, is to be separated, on the one 
 
 side, from the wider Literary Criticism which must include a 
 
 review of language, ethics, philosophy, and general art ; and, 
 
 on the other hand, from the companion art of Stage-Repre- 
 
 Dramaand sentation. But here caution is required : it may be con- 
 
 'sentatwn lenient to make Liter^ Drama and Stage-Representation 
 
 separate in separate branches of enquiry, it is totally inadmissible and 
 
 'nottn 'idea highly misleading to divorce the two in idea. The literary 
 
 play must be throughout read relatively to its representation. 
 
 In actual practice the separation of the two has produced 
 
 the greatest obstacles in the way of sound appreciation. 
 
 Amongst ordinary readers of Shakespeare, Character-Interest, 
 
 which is largely independent of performance, has swallowed 
 
 up all other interests ; and most of the effects which depend 
 
 upon the connection and relative force of incidents, and on 
 
DEFINITION OF DRAMATIC CRITICISM. 323 
 
 the compression of the details into a given space, have been Ch. XVI. 
 completely lost. Shakespeare is popularly regarded as su- 
 preme in the painting of human nature, but careless in the 
 construction of Plot : and, worst of all, Plot itself, which it 
 has been the mission of the English Drama to elevate into 
 the position of the most intellectual of all elements in literary 
 effect, has become degraded in conception to the level of 
 a mere juggler's mystery. It must then be laid down 
 distinctly at the outset of the present enquiry that the Drama 
 is to be considered throughout relatively to its acting. Much 
 of dramatic effect that is special to Stage-Representation will 
 be here ignored : the whole mechanism of elocution, effects 
 of light, colour and costume, the greater portion of what 
 constitutes mise-en-scine. But in dealing with any play the 
 fullest scope is assumed for ideal acting. The interpretation 
 of a character must include what an actor can put into it ; in 
 dealing with effects regard must be had to surroundings 
 which a reader might easily overlook, but which would be 
 present to the eye of a spectator; and no conception of the 
 movement of a drama will be adequate which has not 
 appreciated the rapid sequence of incidents that crowds the 
 crisis of a life-time or a national revolution into two or three 
 hours of actual time. The relation of Drama to its acting 
 will be exactly similar to that of Music to its performance, 
 the two being perfectly separable in their exposition, but 
 never disunited in idea. 
 
 Dramatic Art, then, as thus defined, is to be the field QiFunda- 
 our enquiry, and its method is to be the discovery and '^sion of' 
 arrangement of topics. For a fundamental basis of such Dramatic 
 analysis we shall naturally look to the other arts. Now all ^^^^ j^^ 
 the arts agree in being the union of two elements, abstract '««» Inter- 
 and concrete. Music takes sensuous sounds, and adds a 'J^^ 
 purely abstract element by disposing these sounds in har- 
 
 Y 2 
 
324 TOPICS OF DRAMATIC CRITICISM. 
 
 Ch. XVI. monies and melodies ; architecture applies abstract design 
 
 to a concrete medium of stone and wood; painting gives 
 
 us objects of real life arranged in abstract groupings ; in 
 dancing we have moving figures confined in artistic bonds of 
 rhythm ; sculpture traces in still figures ideas of shape and 
 attitude. So Drama has its two elements of Human Interest 
 and Action : on the one hand life 'presented in action' — so the 
 word 'Drama' may be translated; on the other hand the 
 action itself, that is, the concurrence of all that is presented 
 in an abstract unity of design. The two fundamental 
 divisions of dramatic interest, and consequently the two 
 fundamental divisions of Dramatic Criticism, will thus be 
 Human Interest and Action. But each of these has its 
 different sides, the distinction of which is essential before we 
 can arrive at an arrangement of topics that will be of practical 
 Twofold value in the methodisation of criticism. The interest of the 
 '^Humlli °'^ ^''^^ presented is twofold. There is our interest in the separate 
 Interest. personages who enter into it, as so many varieties of the^««a.f 
 homo : this is Interest of Character. There is again our in- 
 terest in the experience these personages are made to undergo, 
 their conduct and fate : technically. Interest of Passion. 
 
 \ Character. 
 
 Human Interest , _ 
 
 ( Passion. 
 
 Threefold It is the same with the other fundamental element of art, the 
 ^Ac'tim °^ working together of all the details so as to leave an impres- 
 sion of unity : while in practice the sense of this unity, say 
 in a piece of music or a play, is one of the simplest of 
 instincts, yet upon analysis it is seen to imply three separate 
 mental impressions. The mind, it implies, must be conscious 
 of a unity. It must also be conscious of a complexity of 
 details without which the unity could not be perceptible. 
 But the mere perception of unity and of complexity would 
 not give the art-pleasure it does give unless the unity were 
 seen to be developed out of the complexity, and this brings in 
 a third idea of progress and gradual movement. 
 
ELEMENTS OF DRAMATIC CRITICISM. 
 
 325 
 
 ( Unity. 
 Action < Complexity. 
 
 ( Development, Succession, Movement. 
 
 Now if we apply the threefold idea involved in Action to the 
 twofold idea involved in Human Interest we shall get the 
 natural divisions of dramatic analysis. One element of 
 Human Interest was Character : looking at this in the three- 
 fold aspect which is given to it when it is connected with 
 Action we shall have to notice the interest of single charac- 
 ters, or Character-Interpretation, the more complex interest 
 of Character-Contrast, and in the third place Character-De- 
 velopment. Applying a similar treatment to the other side 
 of Human Interest, Passion, we shall review single elements of 
 Passion, that is to say. Incidents and Effects ; the mixture 
 of various passions to express which the term Passion-Tones 
 will be used; and again the succession of these, or Tone- 
 Movement. But Action has an interest of its own, considered 
 in the abstract and as separate from Human Interest. This 
 is Plot; and it will lend itself to the same triple treatment, 
 falling into the natural divisions of Single Action, Complex 
 Action, and that development of Plot which constitutes 
 dramatic Movement in the most important sense. At this 
 point it is possible only to name these leading topics of 
 Dramatic Criticism : to explain each, and to trace them 
 further into their lesser ramifications, will be the work of the 
 remaining three chapters. 
 
 i Single Character-Interest, or 
 Character-Interpretation. 
 Complex Character-Interest, or 
 Character- Contrast. 
 Character-Development. 
 
 i Single Passion-Interest, or 
 Incident and Effect. 
 Complex Passion-Interest, or 
 Passion- Tone. 
 Tone-Movement. 
 
 Ch. XVI. 
 
 Applica- 
 tion of the 
 threefold 
 division of 
 Action to 
 the twofold 
 division of 
 Human 
 Interest. 
 
 Ele- 
 mentary 
 Topics of 
 Dramatic 
 Criticism. 
 
 The Literary ^ 
 Drama 
 
 \ Plot (or Pnre 
 Action) 
 
 \ Single Action. 
 Complex Action. 
 Plot-Movement. 
 
326 TOPICS OF DRAMATIC CRITICISM. 
 
 Ch. XVI. These are the topics of Dramatic Criticism strictly so-called, 
 
 resting on the fundamental conception of it as a branch of 
 
 science. Before passing on to the general exposition of 
 them in the chapters that follow, it is right to notice that 
 there are other topics belonging to the Drama in common 
 with other branches of art, though varying in part with the 
 
 Mechanical varieties of medium in which they are applied. These may 
 
 Construe- ^g classed under the general term Mechanical, Construction : 
 
 turn com- ° 
 
 man to ' they are dependent, not on anything special to Drama, but 
 
 Dramaand ^pgjj Qyj. general interest in art, and in the operations of the 
 dramatist considered as a workman. Examples of these 
 topics have been fully discussed in various parts of the 
 studies that have preceded : a brief enumeration will be 
 Reduction sufficient here. One of them is the Reduction of Difficulties 
 of Difficul- jj^ jjjg construction of a story and the presentation of its 
 page 58. matter. Specially prominent amongst devices used for this 
 page 246. purpose are Rationalisation and Derationalisation : both 
 ^'^- illustrated in The Tempest, where the standing difficulty of 
 
 realising the supernatural is met by at once derationalising 
 the surroundings in which the enchantment is to appear, 
 and rationalising the supernatural element itself. Again, 
 the sense of economy, which in so many ways enters into 
 Construe- dramatic art, is gratified in Constructive Economy, by which 
 tive Econo- pgrgonages and details introduced for mechanical purposes, 
 that is to assist other effects, are also utilised for efifecls of 
 pages 75, their own. This has been fully illustrated in The Merchant 
 ^ ^' of Venice; in The Tempest it has been further shown how 
 
 such personages can be faintly affected by the movement 
 of the play, and assist, though with a slightness proportioned 
 to their mechanical character, in reflecting the central 
 General idea. Besides these, any Constructive Processes may be 
 hZ"^o- enrolled amongst the topics of Dramatic Art, if they are 
 cesses. prominent enough to present an interest in themselves, apart 
 from their bearing on the drift of the play. Such a Con- 
 page 247. structive Process is the maintenance throughout The Tempest 
 
ELEMENTS OF DRAMATIC CRITICISM. 327 
 
 of a Dramatic Background of nature artistically in harmony Ch. XVI. 
 with the enchantment of the play '. Previous studies have 
 also noticed the Dramatic Hedging, by which unpleasant pages 60, 
 elements in the characters of Shylock and Brutus are met '' " 
 by another treatment bringing out peculiarities in the position 
 of these personages which restores them to our sympathy. 
 As a third example of Constructive Processes may be men- 
 tioned Preparation : by this the final effect to which a whole page 270. 
 play is leading up is anticipated in a modified form at an 
 early stage of the action ; as when the grand example of 
 providential control in Prospero's treatment of his human 
 friends and foes is, so to speak, rehearsed in the- deliverance 
 of Ariel and the judgment on Caliban. 
 
 In general literary history Conventionalities of Construction Construct 
 have played a great part, — arbitrary limitations prescribed iimtion- 
 by literary fashion as problems of construction, chiefly inter- alities. 
 esting as feats of skill, like that of a violinist playing upon 
 one string. An example of such conventionality is the page 269. 
 Scenic Unities of Place and Time, discussed in the review 
 of The Tempest. By the Unity of Place, the arrangement 
 of the story is so limited that the scene shall always suggest 
 itself as the same — though (as in the case of the enchanted 
 island) different parts of this uniform scene may be ex»- 
 hibited in the various scenes. By the Unity of Time the 
 story is so arranged as not to require any intervals to be 
 supposed between consecutive scenes, the duration of the 
 action being, roughly, the same as the duration of the per- 
 formance. The time taken up by the course of events in 
 The Tempest is, in so many words, limited to six hours ; and i. ii. 
 the suggestion is that Prospero concludes his scheme at 
 Ariel's intercession earlier than he intended. Such unities v. i. 20, 
 seem peculiarly suitable to a story of enchantment, as har- 
 
 "■ This should be distinguished from the case of Dramatic Back- 
 ground of nature in Julius Casar (above, p. 192), which changes with the 
 movement of the play, and is thus a dramatic motive (below, p. 393). 
 
328 TOPICS OF DRAMATIC CRITICISM. 
 
 Ch. XVI. monising with the circumscribed area and duration of a 
 
 magician's power. In the case of The Tempest, as is usual 
 
 with classical plays, the observation of these unities carries 
 with it Unity Devices, such as the presentation of Prospero's 
 story, and other important incidents anterior to the opening 
 of the play, by means of narrative, or narrative dialogue. 
 Construe- But the interest of Mechanical Construction which stands 
 tive Unity. ^^^ ^^^^ ^ Others is where the dramatist suggests to our 
 sense of analysis a grasp of the unity which binds together 
 his work into a single whole. That a play should impress 
 itself upon our minds as a unity is only another way of 
 saying that it is a work of art : it is a different thing when 
 this impression of unity seems to be analysable, and can be. 
 Dramatic wholly Or partially, formulated in words. The term Dramatic 
 Colouring. Qgig^f^^g jnay be used where some unity of impression 
 extends to so large a proportion of the whole mass of matter 
 in a play as to give it a distinctive and recognisable indi- 
 viduality. It has been argued above that The Tempest is 
 thus coloured with enchantment ; and the passion of Jealousy 
 has a similar prominence in Othello. It has been often 
 remarked how the play of Macbeth is coloured by the super- 
 stition and violence of the Dark Ages. The world of this 
 drama seems given over to the powers of darkness who can 
 read, if not mould, destiny ; witchcraft appears as an instru- 
 ment of crime and ghostly agency of punishment. We have 
 rebellion without any suggestion of cause to ennoble it, ter- 
 minated by executions without the pomp of justice ; we have 
 a long reign of terror in which massacre is a measure of daily 
 administration and murder is a profession. With all this 
 there is a total absence of relief in any picture of settled 
 life : there is no rallying-point for order and purity. The 
 very agent of retribution gets the impulse to his task in a 
 compare reaction from a shock of bereavement that has come down 
 andiv^ii' '^P°'^ ^™ ^^ ^ natural punishment for an act of indecisive 
 1-22. folly. 
 
ELEMENTS OF DRAMATIC CRITICISM. 329 
 
 Such Dramatic Colouring is, however, a thing of general Ch. XVI. 
 impression ; there is a constructive unity going beyond this 
 in the Central Idea, which will bear the test of the fullest j^gas. 
 analysis as to its connection with the whole matter of a 
 drama, characterisation, passion, and plot being all duly 
 related to it. I am chiefly concerned to maintain that the 
 theory of Central Ideas is a matter which admits of accurate 
 examination, and to urge that the term should not be lightly 
 used. A Central Idea, to be worthy of the name, should be 
 shown to embrace all the details of the play, it must be 
 suflBciently distinctive to exclude other plays, while the 
 distribution of the sepaiute parts of the play should appear 
 to agree with their direct or indirect bearing on this central 
 and fundamental notion. I have in previous chapters sug- 
 gested, with detailed justification, such Central Ideas for The 
 Tempest and for Love's Labour 's Lost. 
 
 It is obvious that these last two topics, Dramatic Colouring 
 and Central Ideas, are closely connected with one another. 
 Their mutual relation is well illustrated by the fact, noted 
 above, that the Central Idea claimed for Love's Labour 's Lost 
 — namely, the conflict of humour with the conventional — 
 is also found to colour large parts of As You Like It, in the 
 central scenes of which the traditional conventionality of 
 Pastoral Life is being played upon by three different types 
 of humour in succession. 
 
 /Reduction of Difficulties : especially, Rationalisation 
 and Derationalisation. 
 
 Mechanical 
 Construction 
 
 Constructive Economy : utilisation of mechanical 
 personages and details. 
 
 Constructive Processes: Dramatic Background, Dra- 
 matic Hedging, Preparation, 
 
 Constructive Conventionalities : especially, the Scenic 
 Unities of Place and Time. 
 
 Constructive Unity: Dramatic Colouring, Central 
 Ideas. 
 
XVII. 
 
 Interest of Character. 
 
 Ch. XVII. /^F the main divisions of dramatic interest Character 
 
 — — y^_y stands first for consideration : and we are to view it 
 
 plillto under the three aspects of unity, complexity, and movement. 
 
 Character: The application of the idea unity to the idea character sug- 
 Character- ^ ^ • ^ ^ • ■ i t'i,- 
 
 Interpre- gests at once our interest m single personages. Inis in- 
 
 tation. terest becomes more defined when we take into account the 
 medium through which the personages are presented to us : 
 characters in Drama are not brought out by abstract dis- 
 cussion or description, but are presented to us concretely, 
 self-pourtrayed by their own actions without the assistance 
 of comments from the author. 
 
 Accordingly, the leading interest of character is Interpre- 
 tation, the mental process of turning from the concrete to 
 the abstract : out of the most diverse details of conduct and 
 impression Interpretation extracts a unity of conception 
 Interpre- which we call a character. Interpretation when scien- 
 ihtnaiure tifi^ally handled must be, we have seen, of the nature of an 
 of an hypo- hypothesis, the value of which depends upon the degree in 
 which it explains whatever details have any bearing upon 
 the character. Such an hypothesis may be a simple 
 idea: and we have seen at length how the whole por- 
 traiture of Richard precipitates into the notion of Ideal 
 Villainy, ideal on the subjective side in an artist who 
 follows crime for its own sake, and on the objective side in 
 a success that works by fascination. But the student must 
 beware of the temptation to grasp at epigrammatic labels as 
 
CHARACTER-INTERPRETATION. 331 
 
 sufficient solutions of character. In the great majority of Ch. XVII.. 
 cases Interpretation can become complete only by recog- 
 nising and harmonising various and even conflicting ele- 
 ments ; and a practical illustration of this principle has 
 been given above in an elaborate discussion of the difficult 
 character of Jaques in As You Like It. 
 
 Incidentally we have noticed some of the principles govern- Canons of 
 ing careful Interpretation. One of these principles is that it ^"'f/'"''" 
 must take into consideration all that is presented of a per- It must be 
 sonage. It is unscientific on the face of it to say (as is '^''■'^^^*^'"^- 
 repeatedly said) that Shakespeare is ' inconsistent ' in ascrib- 
 ing deep musical sympathies to so thin a character as 
 Lorenzo. Such allegation of inconsistency means that the 
 process of Interpretation is unfinished ; it can be paralleled 
 only by the astronomer who should complain of eclipses as 
 'inconsistent' with his view of the moon's movements. In 
 the particular case we found no difficulty in harmonising the 
 apparent conflict: the details of Lorenzo's portraiture fit 
 in well with the not uncommon type of nature that is so 
 deeply touched by art sensibilities as to have a languid in- 
 terest in life outside art. Again : Interpretation must look 
 for indirect evidence of character, such as the impression a Itmusttake 
 personage seems to have made on other personages in the ^^1^^^"'^ 
 story, or the effect of action outside the field of view. It 
 is impatient induction to pronounce Bassanio unworthy of 
 Portia rherely from comparison of the parts played by the 
 two in the drama itself. It happens from the nature of the 
 story that the incidents actually represented in the drama 
 are such as always display Bassanio in an exceptional and 
 dependent position ; but we have an opportunity of getting 
 to the other side of our hero's character by observing the 
 attitude held to him by others in the play, an attitude 
 founded not on the incidents of the drama alone, but upon 
 the sum total of his life and behaviour in the Venetian 
 world. This gives a very diffierent impression ; and when we 
 
332 
 
 INTEREST OF CHARACTER. 
 
 Ch. XVII. 
 
 and the de- 
 gree to 
 which the 
 character is 
 displayed. 
 
 Interpre- 
 tation re- 
 acting on 
 the details. 
 
 take into consideration the force with which his personality 
 sways all who approach him, from the strong Antonio and 
 the intellectual Lorenzo to giddy Gratiano and the rough 
 common sense of Launcelot, then the character comes out 
 in its proper scale. As a third principle, it is perhaps too 
 obvious to be worth formulating that Interpretation must 
 allow for the degree to which the character is displayed by 
 the action : that Brutus's frigid eloquence at the funeral of 
 Caesar means not coldness of feeling but stoicism of public 
 demeanour. It is a less obvious principle that the very 
 details which are to be unified into a conception of cha- 
 racter may have a different complexion given to them when 
 they are looked at in the light of the whole. It has been 
 noticed how Richard seems to manifest in some scenes a 
 slovenliness of intrigue that might be a stumbling-block to 
 the general impression of his character. But when in our 
 view of him as a whole we see what a large part is played 
 by the invincibility that is stamped on his very demeanour, 
 it becomes clear how this slovenliness can be interpreted by 
 the analyst, and represented by the actor, not as a defect 
 of power, but as a trick of bearing which measures his 
 own sense of his irresistibility. Principles like these flow 
 naturally from the fundamental idea of character and its unity. 
 Their practical use however will be mainly that of tests for 
 suggested interpretations : to the actual reading of character 
 in Drama, as in real life, the safest guide is sympathetic 
 insight. 
 
 Complexity The second element underlying all dramatic effect was 
 
 Character, complexity; when complexity is applied to Character we 
 
 get Character-Contrast. In its lowest degree this appears in 
 
 Character- the form of Character-Foils : by the side of some prominent 
 
 character is placed another of less force and interest but cast 
 
 in the same mould, or perhaps moulded by the influence of 
 
CHARACTER-CONTRAST. 333 
 
 its principal, just as by the side of a lofty mountain are Ch. XVII- 
 often to be seen smaller hills of the same formation. Thus 
 beside Portia is placed Nerissa, beside Bassanio Gratiano, 
 beside Shylock Tubal ; Richard's villainy stands out by 
 comparison with Buckingham, Hastings, Tyrrel, Catesby, 
 any one of whom would have given blackness enough to an 
 ordinary drama. It is quite possible that minute examina- 
 tion may find differences between such companion figures : 
 but the general effect of the combination is that the lesser 
 serves as foil to throw up the scale on which the other is 
 framed. The more pronounced effects of Character-Con- 
 trast depend upon differences of kind as distinguished from 
 differences of degree. In this form it is clear how Cha- 
 racter-Conlrast is only an extension of Character-Interpre- character- 
 tation : it implies that some single conception explains (that Contrast. 
 is, gives unity to) the actions of more than one person. A 
 whole chapter has been devoted to bringing out such con- 
 trast in the case of Lord and Lady Macbeth: to accept 
 these as types of the practical and inner life, cast in such an 
 . age and involved in such an undertaking, furnishes a con- 
 ception sufficient to make clear and intelligible all that the 
 two say and do in the scenes of the drama. Character- Duplka- 
 Contrast is especially common amongst the minor figures of ^°"'' 
 a Shakespearean drama. In the case of personages demanded 
 by the necessities of the story rather than introduced for 
 their own sake Shakespeare has a tendency to double the 
 number of such characters for the sake of getting effects of 
 contrast. We have two unsuccessful suitors in The Merchant 
 of Venice bringing out, the one the unconscious pride of 
 royal birth, the other the pride of intense self-consciousness ; 
 two wicked daughters of Lear, Goneril with no shading in 
 her harshness, Regan who is in reality a degree more calcu- 
 lating in her cruelty than her sister, but conceals it under a 
 charm of manner, 'eyes that comfort and not burn.' Of 
 the two princes in Richard III the one has a gravity iii. i. 
 
334 INTEREST OF CHARACTER. 
 
 Ch. XVII. beyond his years, while York overflows with not ungraceful 
 
 pertness. Especially interesting are the two murderers in 
 
 that play. The first is a dull, ' strong-framed ' man, without 
 i. iv, from any better nature. The second has had culture, and been 
 ^' accustomed to reflect ; his better nature has been vanquished 
 
 by love of greed, and now asserts itself to prevent his 
 sinning with equanimity. It is the second murderer whose 
 no- conscience is set in activity by the word 'judgment'; and he 
 
 124-157- discourses on conscience, deeply, yet not without humour, as 
 he recognises the power of the expected reward over the oft- 
 vanquished compunctions. He catches, as a thoughtful 
 167. man, the irony of the duke's cry for wine when they are 
 
 about to drown him in the butt of malmsey. Again, instead 
 165- of hurrying to the deed while Clarence is waking he cannot 
 
 resist the temptation to argue with him, and so, as a man 
 263. open to argument, he feels the force of Clarence's un- 
 
 expected suggestion : 
 
 He that set you on 
 To do this deed will hate you for the deed. 
 
 Thus he exhibits the weakness of all thinking men in a 
 
 moment of action, the capacity to see two sides of a 
 
 question; and, trying at the critical moment to alter his 
 
 284. course, he ends by losing the reward of crime without 
 
 escaping the guilt. 
 Character- Character- Contrast is carried forward into Character- 
 Grouping. Q.yQ^p{jig -when the field is still further enlarged, and a single 
 conception is found to give unity to more than two person- 
 ages of a drama. A chapter has been devoted to showing 
 how the same antithesis of outer and inner life which 
 made the conception of Macbeth and his wife intelligible 
 would serve, when adapted to the widely diff'erent world of 
 Roman political life, to explain the characters of the leading 
 conspirators in Julius Ccesar, of their victim and of his 
 avenger : while, over and above the satisfaction of Interpret- 
 ation, the Grouping of these four figures, so colossal and so 
 
CHARACTER-GROUPING. 335 
 
 impressive, round a single idea is an interest in itself. It Ch. XVII. 
 has been shown, again, how the principal personages in 
 Othello can be grouped about the idea of Suspicious Jealousy. 
 In Love's Labour 's Lost the underplot is made up of two 
 Character Groups : one, coloured by Euphuism, centering 
 around Armado, while the other centers round Holofernes 
 and is distinguished by Pedantry. 
 
 There are, then, two distinct effects that arise when com- 
 plexity enters into Character-Interest. The complexity is 
 one never separable from the unity which binds it together : 
 in the first effect the diversity is stronger than the unity, and 
 the whole manifests itself as Character-Contrast ; in Character- 
 Grouping the contrast of the separate figures is an equal 
 element with the unity which binds them all into a group. 
 
 When to Character-Interpretation, the formation of a Movement 
 single conception out of a multitude of concrete details, the '^^harader • 
 further idea of growth and progress is added, we get the Character- 
 third variety of Character-Interest — Character-Development, ^^^f 
 In the preceding chapters this has received otily negative 
 notice, its absence being a salient feature in the portraiture 
 of Richard. For a positive illustration no better example 
 could be desired than the character of Macbeth. Three 
 features, we have seen, stand out clear in the general concep- 
 tion of Macbeth. There is his erriinently practical nature, 
 which is the key to the whole. And the absence in him of 
 the inner life adds two special features : one is his helpless- 
 ness under suspense, the other is the activity of his imagina- 
 tion with its susceptibility to supernatural terrors. Now, if 
 we fix our attention on these three points they become three 
 threads of development as we trace Macbeth through the 
 stages of his career. His practical power developes as 
 capacity for crime. Macbeth undertook his first crime only 
 after a protracted and terrible struggle ; the murder of the 
 
336 INTEREST OF CHARACTER. 
 
 Ch, XVII. grooms was a crime of impulse ; the murder of Banquo 
 appears a thing of contrivance, in which Macbeth is a 
 
 deliberate planner directing the agency of others, while his 
 iii. ii. 40, dark hints to his wife suggest the beginning of a relish for 
 **^- such deeds. This capacity for crime continues to grow, 
 
 until slaughter becomes an end in itself — 
 
 iv. iii. 4. Each new mom 
 
 New widows howl, new orphans cry : 
 
 and then a mania : 
 
 V. ii. 13. Some say he's mad; others that lesser hate him 
 
 Do call it valiant ftiry. 
 
 We see a parallel development in Macbeth's impatience of 
 suspense. Just after his first temptation he is able to brace 
 himself to suspense for an indefinite period : 
 
 i. iii. 143. If chance will hare me king, why, chance may crown me, 
 
 Without my stir. 
 
 i. vii. On the eve of his great crime the suspense of the few hours 
 
 that must intervene before the banquet can be despatched 
 and Duncan can retire becomes intolerable to Macbeth, and 
 he is for abandoning the project. In the next stage it is 
 the suspense of a single moment that impels him to stab the 
 grooms. From this point suspense no longer comes by fits 
 
 iii. ii. 13, and starts, but is a settled disease : his mind is as scorpions; 
 
 36, &c. j(. jg toj-tured in restless ecstasy. Suspense has undermined 
 his judgment and brought on him the gambler's fever — the 
 haunting thought that just one more venture will make him 
 safe; in spite of the opposition of his reason — which his 
 
 iii. ii. 45. unwillingness to confide the murder of Banquo to his wife 
 betrays — he is carried on to work the additional crime which 
 unmasks the rest. And finally suspense intensifies to a panic, 
 and he himself feels that his deeds 
 
 iii. iv. 140. must be acted ere they may be scarm'd. 
 
 The third feature in Macbeth is the quickening of his sen- 
 
CHARACTER-DEVELOPMENT. 337 
 
 sitiveness to the supernatural side by side with the deadening Ch.XVII. 
 of his conscience. Imagination becomes, as it were, a pic- 
 torial conscience for one to whom its more rational channels 
 have been closed : the man who ' would jump the world to 
 come ' accepts implicitly every word that falls from a witch. 
 Now this imagination is at first a restraining force in Mac- 
 beth : the thought whose image unfixes his hair leads him to i. iii- i34- 
 abandon the treason. When later he has, under pressure, 
 delivered himself again to the temptation, there are still signs 
 that imagination is a force on the other side that has to be 
 overcome : St^g, hide your fires ; i- iv. 5°- 
 
 Let not light see my black and deep desires:' 
 
 Tlie eye wink at the hand. 
 
 Once passed the boundary of the accomplished deed he be- 
 comes an absolute victim to terrors of conscience in super- 
 natural form. In the very first moment they reach so near ii- ii- "- 
 the boundary that separates subjective and objective that a "' ' 
 real voice appears to be denouncing the issue of his crime : 
 
 Macbeth. Methought I heard a. voice cry 'Sleep no more.' . . . 
 Lady M. Who was it that thus cried? 
 
 In the reaction from the murder of Banquo the supernatural 
 appearance — which no eye sees but his own— appears more iii. iv. 
 real to him than the real life around him. And from this 
 point he seeks the supernatural, forces it to disclose its iv. i. 48. 
 terrors, and thrusts himself into an agonised vision of gener- 
 ations that are to witness the triumph of his foes. 
 
XVIII. 
 
 Interest of Passion. 
 
 Ch.XVIII. 
 
 Passion. 
 
 Unity ap- 
 plied to 
 Passion, 
 
 Incident. 
 
 HUMAN Interest includes not only varieties of human 
 nature, or Character, but also items of human ex- 
 perience, Or Passion. Passion is the second great topic of 
 Dramatic Criticism. It is concerned with the life that is lived 
 through the scenes of the story, as distinguished from the 
 personages who live it; not treating this with the abstract 
 treatment that belongs to Plot, but reviewing it in the light 
 of its human interest ; it embraces conduct still alive with the 
 motives which have actuated it — fate in the process of forging. 
 The word ' passion ' signifies primarily what is suffered of 
 good or bad ; secondarily the emotions generated by sutfer- 
 ing, whether in the sufferer or in bystanders. Its use as a 
 dramatic term thus suggests how in Drama an experience can 
 be grasped by us through our emotional nature, through our 
 sympathy, our antagonism, and all the varieties of emotional 
 interest that lie between. To this Passion we have to apply 
 the threefold division of unity, complexity, and movement. 
 
 When unity is applied to Passion we get a series of details 
 bound together into a singleness of impression as an Inci- 
 dent, a Situation, or an Effect. The distinction of the three 
 rests largely on their different degrees of fragmentariness. 
 Incidents are groups of continuous details forming a com- 
 plete interest in themselves as ministering to our sense of 
 story. The suit of Shylock against Antonio in the course of 
 which fate swings right round ; the murder of Clarence with 
 its long-drawn agony; Richard and Buckingham with the 
 
INCIDENT, SITUATION, EFFECT. 339 
 
 Lord Mayor and Citizens exhibiting a picture of political Ch.XVIII. 
 
 manipulation in the fifteenth century ; the startling sight of a 
 
 Lady Anne wooed beside the bier of her murdered husband's 
 murdered father, by a murderer who rests his suit on the 
 murders themselves ; Banquo's Ghost appearing at the feast 
 at which Banquo's presence had been so vehemently called 
 for; Lear's faithful Gloucester so brutally blinded and so 
 instantly avenged ; the outraged Brabantio at midnight 
 impeaching before the Duke's throne the unnatural wooer of 
 his daughter, and seeing all Venice draw to his adversary's 
 side ; the chain of discovery forged by fate for the Celibates 
 of Navarre by which each hoping to surprise the others is 
 himself taken by surprise ; a mysterious concurrence of 
 circumstances luring on Antonio and Sebastian to a deed of 
 murder, and reversing itself to check them in the moment 
 of action : — all these are complete stories presented in a 
 single view, and suggest how Shakespeare's dramas are con- 
 structed out of materials which are themselves dramas in 
 miniature. 
 
 In Situation, on the other hand, a series of details cohere Situation. 
 into a single impression without losing the sense of in- 
 completeness. The two central personages in The Merchant 
 of Venice, around whom brightness and gloom have been 
 revolving in such contrast, at last brought to face one 
 another from the judgment-seat and the dock ; Lorenzo and 
 Jessica wrapped in moonlight and music, with the rest of the 
 universe for the hour blotted out into a background for their 
 love ; Rosalind from under the shelter of her disguise enjoying 
 the sport of dictating to her unsuspecting lover how he 
 should woo her ; Margaret like an apparition of the sleeping 
 Nemesis of Lancaster flashed into the midst of the Yorkist 
 courtiers while they are bickering through very wantonness 
 of victory ; Shylock pitted against Tubal, Jew against Jew, 
 the nature not too narrow to mix affection with avarice, 
 mocked from passion to passion by the nature only wide 
 
 z 2 
 
340 INTEREST OF PASSION. 
 
 Ch. XVIII. enough to take in greed; Richard waking on Bosworth 
 
 morning, and miserably piecing together the wreck of his 
 
 invincible will which a sleeping vision has shattered ; Mac- 
 
 beth's moment of rapture in following the airy dagger, 
 
 while the very night holds its breath to break out again 
 
 presently into voices of doom ; the panic mist of universal 
 
 suspicion amidst which Malcolm blasts his own character to 
 
 feel after the fidelity of Macduff; Edgar from his ambush of 
 
 outcast idiocy watching the sad marvel of his father's love 
 
 restored to him ; Prospero surveying the unbroken range of 
 
 his omnipotence in the very act of renouncing it : — all these 
 
 brilliant Situations are fragments of dramatic continuity in 
 
 which the fragmentariness is a part of the interest. Just as 
 
 the sense of sculpture might seek to arrest and perpetuate a 
 
 casual moment in the evolutions of a dance, so in Dramatic 
 
 Situation the mind is conscious of isolating something from 
 
 what precedes and what follows so as to extract out of it 
 
 an additional impression; the morsel has its purpose in 
 
 ministering to a complete process of digestion, but it gets a 
 
 sensation of its own by momentary delay in contact with the 
 
 palate. 
 
 Effect. Of a still more fragmentary nature is Dramalic Effect — 
 
 Effect strictly so called, and as distinguished from the looser 
 
 use of the term for dramatic impressions in general. Such 
 
 Effect seems to attach itself to single momentary details, 
 
 though in reality these details owe their impressiveness to 
 
 their connection with others : the final detail has completed 
 
 an electric circle and a shock is given. No element of the 
 
 Drama is of so miscellaneous a character and so defies 
 
 analysis : all that can be done here is to notice three special 
 
 Dramatic Effects. 
 
 Irony as Dramatic Irony is a sudden appearance of double-dealincr 
 
 an Effect. . ,. , . ° 
 
 m surroundmg events: a dramatic situation accidentally 
 starts up and -produces a shock by its bearing upon con- 
 flicting states of affairs, both known to the audience, but one 
 
INCIDENT, SITUATION, EFFECT. 341 
 
 of them hidden from some of the parties to the scene. Ch.XVIII. 
 This is the special contribution to dramatic effect of Greek 
 tragedy. The ancient stage was tied down in its subject- 
 matter to stories perfectly familiar to the audience as sacred 
 legends, and so almost excluding the effect of surprise : in 
 Irony it found some compensation. The ancient tragedies 
 harp upon human blindness to the future, and delight to ex- 
 hibit a hero speculating about, or struggling with, or perhaps 
 in careless talk stumbling upon, the final issue of events 
 which the audience know so well ; — CEdipus, for example, 
 through great part of a play moving heaven and earth to 
 pierce the mystery of the judgment that has come upon his 
 city, while according to the familiar sacred story the offender 
 can be none other than himself. Shakespeare has used to 
 almost as great an extent as the Greek dramatists this effect 
 of Irony. His most characteristic handling of it belongs to 
 the lighter plays, in which the touches of Irony will often be 
 so numerous as to amount to a Motive ' ; yet in the group of 
 dramas dealt with in this work it is prominent amongst his' 
 effects. It has been pointed out how Macbeth and Richard III 
 are saturated with it. There are casual illustrations in 
 Julius CcEsar, as when the dictator bids his intended 
 
 murderer — 
 
 Be near me, that I may remember you ; ii. ii. 123. 
 
 or in Lear, when Edmund, intriguing guiltily with Goneril, in 
 
 a chance expression of tenderness unconsciously paints the 
 
 final issue of that intrigue : 
 
 Yours in the ranks of death! i"V. ii. 25. 
 
 The pathos of Desdemona's position in the latter part of 
 
 Othello produces some wonderful strokes of Irony. One has 
 
 been pointed out in the chapter on that play; another is 
 
 where in all her simplicity she turns to the author of her 
 
 ruin : O good lago, 
 
 What shall I do to win my lord again ? 
 
 ' See below, page 388 note. 
 
342 INTEREST OF PASSION. 
 
 Ch. XVIII. A comic variety of Irony occurs in the Trial Scene of The 
 ~ Merchant of Venice, when Bassanio and Gratiano in their 
 
 IV. 1. 2 2. jjjgjj,^2jg^ gj.jgf j^^g .^^,-iiiing to sacrifice their new wives if this 
 
 could save their friend — little thinking these wives are so near 
 
 to record the vow. The doubleness of Irony is one which 
 
 attaches to a situation as a whole : the effect however is 
 
 iii. ii. 6o- especially keen when a scene is so impregnated with it that 
 
 73- the very language is true in a double sense. 
 
 Cateshy. 'Tis a vile thing to die, my gracious lord, 
 When men are unprepared and look not for it. 
 Hastings. O monstrous, monstrous ! and so falls it out 
 With Rivers, Vaughan, Grey: and so 'twill do 
 With some men else, who think themselves as safe 
 As thou and I. 
 Nemesis ai Nemesis, though usually extending to the general movement 
 an Effect, ^f g^ drama, and so considered below, may sometimes be only 
 an effect of detail — a sign connecting very closely retribution 
 with sin or reaction with triumph. Such a nemesis may be 
 
 V. iii. 45. seen where Cassius in the act of falling on his sword recog- 
 
 nises the weapon as the same with which he stabbed Caesar. 
 Dramatic Another special variety of effect is Dramatic Foreshadow- 
 shadowim ^^S — mysterious details pointing to an explanation in the 
 
 sequel, a realisation in action of the saying that coming 
 
 events cast their shadows before them. The unaccountable 
 i. i. 1. ' sadness ' of Antonio at the opening of The Merchant of 
 
 Venice is a typical illustration. Others will readily suggest 
 iii. i. 68. themselves — the Prince's shuddering aversion to the Tower 
 i. i. 39. in Richard III, the letter G that of Edward's heirs the 
 V. i. 77-90. murderer should be, the crows substituted for Cassius's eagles 
 
 on the morning of the final battle. A more elaborate 
 
 example is seen in fulius CcBsar, where the soothsayer's 
 i. ii. 18. vague warning ' Beware the Ides of March' — a solitary voice 
 
 that could yet arrest the hero through the shouting of the 
 iii. i. I. crowd — is found later on not to have become dissipated, 
 
 but to have gathered definiteness as the moment comes 
 
 nearer : 
 
MIXTURE OF TONES. 343 
 
 Ccssar. The Ides of March are come. Ch.XVIII. 
 Soothsayer. Ay, Csesar; but not gone. 
 
 And the supreme example of Dramatic Foreshadowing is the 
 scene in Othello when Desdemona is retiring to bed on the iv. iii. 
 fatal night, under an irresistible weight of boding. She bids 
 her marriage sheets be laid on the bed, and adds : 
 
 If I do die before thee, prithee, shroud me 
 In one of those same sheets. 
 
 Her mother's maid Barbara, who died of love, comes per- 
 sistently into her mind, and when she tries to talk of other 
 topics, the wailing burden of Barbara's song keeps reviving. 
 The shadow of the murder has already enveloped her. 
 
 ■ These three leading effects may be sufficient to illustrate 
 a branch of dramatic analysis in which the variety is 
 endless. 
 
 We are next to consider the application of complexity to Complexity 
 Passion, and the contrasts of passion that so arise. Here ^-^"f^ '" 
 care is necessary to avoid confusion with a complexity of 
 passion that hardly comes within the sphere of dramatic 
 criticism. In the scene in which Shylock is being teased by iii. i. 
 Tubal it is easy to note the conflict between the passions of 
 greed and paternal affection : such analysis is outside dra- 
 matic criticism and belongs to psychology. In its dramatic 
 sense Passion applies to experience, not decomposed into its 
 emotional elements, but grasped as a whole by our emotional 
 nature : there is still room for complexity of such passion in 
 the appeal made to different sides of our emotional nature, the 
 serious and the gay. In dealing with this element of dramatic Passion- 
 effect a convenient technical term is Tone. The deep insight 
 of metaphorical word-coining has given universal sanction to 
 the expression of emotional differences by analogies of 
 music : our emotional nature is exalted with mirth and de- 
 pressed with sorrow, we speak of a chord of sympathy, a 
 
344 INTEREST OF PASSION. 
 
 Ch.XVIII. strain of triumph, a note of despair; we are in a serious 
 mood, or pitch our appeal in a higher key. These expres- 
 sions are clearly musical, and there is probably a half 
 association of music in many others, such as a theme of 
 sorrow, acute anguish, and profound despair, response of 
 gratitude, or even the working of our feelings. Most exactly 
 to the purpose is a phrase of frequent occurrence, the ' gamut 
 of the passions,' which brings out with emphasis how our 
 emotional nature in its capacity for different kinds of im- 
 ScaU of pressions suggests a scale of passion-contrasts, not to be 
 Passion- sharply defined but shading off into one another like the 
 tones of a musical scale — Tragic, Heroic, Serious, Elevated, 
 Light, Comic, Farcical. It is with such complexity of tones 
 that Dramatic Passion is concerned. 
 Mixture of Now this Mixture of Tones, or inclusion of different tones 
 Tones. -^^ ^^ g^^ ^j- ^j^^ game play, is for the Shakespearean drama 
 a most important department of dramatic interest. In 
 The Merchant of Venice, as often in plays of Shakespeare, 
 iv. i. every tone in the scale is represented. When Antonio is 
 enduring through the long suspense, and triumphant malig- 
 nity is gaining point after point against helpless friendship, 
 we have travelled far into the Tragic; the woman-nature 
 iv. i. 184. of Portia calling Venetian justice from judicial murder to 
 the divine prerogative of mercy throws in a touch of the 
 Heroic ; a great part of what centres around Shylock, when 
 he is crushing the brightness out of Jessica or defying the 
 ii. V ; iii. Christian world, is pitched in the Serious strain ; the incidents 
 '■ "^" of the unsuccessful suitors, the warm exuberance of Oriental 
 ii i, vii ; courtesy and the less grateful loftiness of Spanish family pride, 
 "■ ^' might be a model for the Elevated drama of the English 
 i. i, &c. Restoration ; the infinite nothings of Gratiano, prince of 
 *■ "■ diners-out, the more piquant small talk of Portia and Nerissa 
 when they criticise the man-world from the secrecy of a 
 maiden-bower — these throw a tone of Lightness over their 
 
 ii. ii, iii ; sections of the drama ; Launcelot is an incarnation of the 
 iu. V, &c. 
 
MIXTURE OF TONES. 345 
 
 conventional Comic serving-man, and his Comedy becomes Ch.XVIII. 
 broad Farce where he teases the sand-blind Gobbo and draws .. .. 
 him on to bless his astonishing beard. Such Mixture of 3^'. 
 Tones can be appreciated from contrast with the Classical a distinc- 
 Drama, where it was found impossible. The exclusive and ^l°"^°{^ " 
 uncompromising spirit of antiquity carried caste into art Drama. 
 itself, and their Tragedy and Comedy were kept rigidly 
 separate, and indeed were connected with different rituals. 
 The spirit of modern life is marked by its comprehensive- 
 ness and reconciliation of opposites ; and nothing is more 
 important in dramatic history than the way in which 
 Shakespeare and his contemporaries created a new departure 
 in art, by seizing upon the rude jumble of sport and earnest 
 which the mob loved, and converting it into a source of 
 stirring passion-effects. For a new faculty of mental grasp 
 is generated by this harmony of tones in the English Drama. 
 If the artist introduces every tone into the story he thereby 
 gets hold of every tone in the spectator's emotional nature; 
 the world of the play is presented from every point of view 
 as it works upon the various passions, and the difference 
 this makes is the difference between simply looking down 
 upon a surface and viewing a solid from all round: — the 
 mixture of tones, so to speak, makes passion of three 
 dimensions. Moreover it brings the world of fiction nearer 
 to the world of nature, which has never yet evolved an 
 experience in which brightness was dissevered from gloom : 
 half the pleasure of the world is wrung out of others' pain ; 
 the two jostle in the street, house together under every roof, 
 share every stage of life, and refuse to be sundered even in 
 the mysteries of death. 
 
 Complexity of Passion arises in its most pronounced form Tom- 
 when opposing tones of passion clash in the same incident "'^ ' 
 and are fused together. These terms are, I think, scarcely 
 metaphorical : as a physiological fact we see our physical 
 susceptibility to pleasurable and painful emotions drawn into 
 
346 INTEREST OF PASSION. 
 
 Ch.XVIII. conflict with one another in the phenomena of hysteria, and 
 
 their mental analogues must be capable of much closer 
 
 union. As examples of these effects resting upon an appeal 
 
 to opposite sides of our emotional nature at the same time 
 
 may be instanced the flash of comic irony, already referred to 
 
 more than once, that starts up in the most pathetic moment 
 
 iT. i. 288, of Antonio's trial by his friend's allusion to his newly wedded 
 
 ^'^- wife. Of the same double nature are the strokes of pathetic 
 
 iii. iii. 33. humour in this play ; as where Antonio describes himself so 
 
 worn with grief that he will hardly spare a pound of flesh to 
 
 his bloody creditor ; or again his pun, 
 
 iv. i. 280. For if the Jew do cut but deep enough 
 
 I'll pay it presently with all my heart! 
 
 A play upon the same word, more elaborate and in equally 
 pathetic circumstances, is found in Antony's lament over 
 Caesar's body : — ^, . - .j 1. 1. . 
 
 iii. i. 304. Here wast tnou bay d, brave hart ; 
 
 Jlere didst thou fall ; and here thy hunters stand, 
 Sign'd in thy spoil, and crimson'd in thy lethe. 
 O world, thou wast the forest to this hart; 
 And this indeed, O world, the heart of thee. 
 
 Shakespeare seems to regard the pun as the established form 
 
 for expression of these hysterical stages of emotion; for 
 
 the pun is distinguished by the clashing between sound and 
 
 sense, and so is fitted to be an outward symbol for clashings 
 
 of emotion where grief unnaturally laughs, and laughter 
 
 grows to tears. 
 
 Humour But these casual and isolated clashings of Passion-Tones are 
 
 fTon^'^ swallowed up in the wider Humour, the most volatile and 
 
 Clash. unanalysable of all varieties of dramatic effect. Humour 
 
 cannot exist without some conflict of opposites, or of 
 
 things incongruous ; and the more the incongruity the greater 
 
 is the humour. If, by a change of metaphor, the various 
 
 Passion-Tones be regarded as different colours, then Humour 
 
 is the white light made by their fusion or rapid alternation. 
 
MIXTURE OF TONES. 347 
 
 Humour is thus the climax of Tone-Clash ; and it is no- Ch.XVIII. 
 
 where clearer to the eye of analysis than in the two plays of 
 
 Love's Labour 's Lost and As You Like It, in which, as two 
 chapters have been devoted to showing, the dominant effect 
 is the perpetual clashings between humour and things which 
 are its antipathetic, resulting in tours-de-force of comic 
 brilliance. 
 
 Tone-Clash rises into Tone-Storm in such rare climaxes Tone- 
 as the centre-piece of Lear, where, against a tempest of "''"'' 
 nature as a fitting background, we have the conflict of 
 three madnesses — the madness of fury, of idiocy and of 
 folly : each in itself is a fusion of several passion-tones, but 
 here we have them bidding against one another, and in- 
 flaming each other's wildness into an inextricable whirl of 
 frenzy. A comic counterpart to this may be found in As 
 You Like It, where, as already pointed out, the three types of 
 natural, professional and morbid humour, besides playing 
 upon the various conventionalities and affectations of the 
 story, are in some of the central scenes pitted against one 
 another, and thus throw up the middle part of this comedy 
 with a perfect tempest of humorous passion. 
 
 Not only is dramatic interest susceptible to these varied Movement 
 tones of passion in a play, but it catches a further effect from \J^^ig„\ 
 their alternation and succession. We here reach the appli- applied to 
 cation to Passion of the third element in action — movement, 
 development, succession. The new type of dramatic interest 
 is most simply illustrated from the companion art of music, 
 where we are accustomed to find an adagio and an allegro, a 
 fantastic scherzo and a pompous march, included within the 
 same symphony or sonata, though in separate movements. 
 Such alternations may be technically described as Tone-Play 
 or Tone-Relief. 
 
 Tone-Play is made by simple variety and alternation of Tone-Play. 
 
348 INTEREST OF PASSION. 
 
 Ch.XVIII. light and serious passions. It has been pointed out in a 
 previous chapter what a striking example of this is The 
 Merchant of Venice, in which scene by scene two stories 
 of youthful love and of deadly feud alternate with one 
 another as they progress to their climaxes, until from the 
 iii. ii. 121. rapture of Portia united to Bassanio we drop to the full 
 realisation of Antonio in the grasp of Shylock ; and again the 
 cruel anxiety of the trial and its breathless shock of deliver- 
 iv. i. 408. ance are balanced by the mad fun of the ring trick and the joy 
 V. i. of the moonlight scene which Jessica feels is too deep for mer- 
 
 Tone-Re- riment. A slight variation of this is Tone-Relief: in an action 
 ^"f- which is cast in a uniform tone the continuity is broken by 
 
 a brief spell of a contrary passion, the contrast at once re- 
 lieving and intensifying the prevailing tone. One of the best 
 examples (notwithstanding its coarseness) is the introduction 
 ii. iii. I. in Alacbeth of the jolly Porter, who keeps the impatient nobles 
 outside in the storm till his jest is comfortably finished, 
 making each furious knock fit in to his elaborate conceit of 
 Hell-gate. This tone of broad farce, with nothing else like it 
 in the whole play, comes as a single ray of common daylight 
 to separate the agony of the dark night's murder from the 
 iii. i, ii, iii. agony of the struggle for concealment. A not dissimiliar 
 effect is in Othello, where the terrible Suggestion Scenes 
 — carrying on the action of the drama from the first request 
 of Cassio for Desdemona's assistance up to the point where 
 the ruin of both is vowed by Othello and lago on their 
 knees — are fringed off from the rest of the play by two 
 morsels of farce from the Clown. In the first he chaffs the 
 musicians and conveys the general's orders to cease playing, 
 unless they happen to have some music that is inaudible ; in 
 the second he will not obey Desdemona's order to call 
 Cassio without a word-combat over the double sense of the 
 word 'lie.' And these make the only appearance of the 
 Clown in the whole play. 
 
 Such word-play as that of this Clown seems to be re- 
 
ALTERNATION OF VERSE AND PROSE. 349 
 
 cognised by Shakespeare as a regular dramatic weapon, Ch.XVIII. 
 useful for tone-relief and other purposes ; and in Love's ~: — 
 Labour's Lost I have illustrated' how, where the interest of ToneRe- 
 the story stands still for a moment, the interval is filled up W- Word- 
 •with this other interest of mental fencing. But Shakespeare ' 
 has another device in his repertoire, of the highest literary 
 importance, capable of marking the most delicate changes of 
 tone in his scenes. This is the alternation between prose and alier- 
 and verse, or between different styles of verse. "ver'seand 
 
 This Shakespearean usage is not one that stands by itself: Prose. 
 it has its parallels in other divisions of the universal drama. 
 A leading feature of ancient classical dramas is the subtle 
 play of emotions they express by changes from iambics — 
 the Greek form of blank verse — to lyric measures. I am not 
 alluding to the purely lyric odes sung by the Chorus between 
 the scenes, but to the alternations between iambs and lyric 
 measures in the episodes on the stage. So in the late 
 Romantic Drama, such as Goethe's Faust, every possible 
 variation of measure, including prose as non-measure, is made 
 use of to fit in with variations of feeling to be expressed. 
 And when we come to Shakespeare himself, there are signs 
 in his earlier plays (notably in Midsummer Night's Dream) of 
 an attempt to use the variation between blank verse and 
 rhyme as a means of conveying changes in tone. But this 
 was abandoned as he followed his original genius more and 
 more ; and the bolder device of variation between blank verse 
 and prose took more and more hold on him. 
 
 The point to be emphasised is, not that any particular class 
 of emotions is associated with any particular metrical form, 
 but that changes of tone are reflected in changes between 
 metre and metre, or metre and prose. Of course it will 
 usually happen that the more elevated tone or more agitated 
 passion will have verse rather than prose for its medium. 
 But this is not universally the case. In the finale of Goethe's 
 ' See page 288. 
 
350 INTEREST OF PASSION: 
 
 Ch.XVIII. Faust the awakening from the dissipation of the Walpurgis 
 
 Night to the full agony of knowing Margaret's fate is marked 
 
 by a sudden drop to prose ; and no device could better 
 convey the shock of awakening. In Macbeth, where nearly 
 the whole play is in blank verse, prose is reserved for the 
 cHmax of the Sleep-walking Scene. So in the great Sug- 
 gestion Scenes of Othello, the hero's passion has mounted in 
 
 iv. i. 34. intensity until at the breaking pitch he changes from verse 
 to prose just before he falls down in a fit. 
 
 A very late play, The Tempest, illustrates the delicate changes 
 or varieties Shakespeare is able to suggest by this means. 
 
 i. i. The bustle of the Shipwreck is conveyed in rough prose ; but 
 
 when the courtiers realise that death is before them the 
 language rises to verse. 
 
 Con. The king and prince at prayers ! let 's assist them. 
 For our case is as theirs. 
 
 But after a while Gonzalo is unable to keep down his native 
 sense of humour, and there is a change back to prose. 
 
 Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren 
 ground. . . , The wills above be done ! but I would fain die a dry- 
 death. 
 
 i. ii. Then a change to mellifluous verse exquisitely conveys our 
 
 passing within the magic circle of the Enchanted Island. A 
 
 ii. i. later scene is a conversation between the whole party of 
 
 courtiers ; Gonzalo essaying to console the bereaved King 
 
 keeps up the main thread of conversation in verse, while 
 
 Sebastian and Antonio, chafling Gonzalo in an undertone, 
 
 use prose. But when Gonzalo can no longer ignore their 
 
 20. interruptions he turns on them in prose, and the conversation 
 
 becomes general, prose being spoken until the King elevates 
 
 106. the tone, when he breaks silence, and pours out his sorrows 
 
 in verse. The talk has now to be addressed to the King ; 
 
 and even Sebastian and Antonio use verse. Gonzalo, to 
 
 143. divert the King from painful subjects, puts (in verse) his 
 
ALTERNATION OF VERSE AND PROSE. 351 
 
 project for a golden age, and Sebastian and Antonio resume Ch.XVIII. 
 
 in prose their comments in an undertone. But at last the 
 
 King is irritated by Gonzalo's well-meant but tiresome loqua- 
 ciousness, and expresses his irritation in prose : this checks 171. 
 altogether the elevated tone of the conversation, and Gonzalo 
 turns to exchange prose sarcasms with his tormentors, till the 
 main bulk of the parly fall asleep under the charm of Ariel. 
 The startling suddenness of this drives the King into verse, 191. 
 and, when he too has joined the sleepers, the hideous 
 suggestiveness of the situation to the traitors keeps them at 
 the white heat of verse all through their conspiracy to the 
 end of the scene. 
 
 In the case of Caliban, fine dramatic effects are got out of 
 the variations between prose and verse. In his first ap- i. ii. 321. 
 pearance the scene is an exchange of fierce passion between 
 himself and his master, and is in verse throughout. He next ii. ii. i. 
 enters pouring out the passion of the previous scene in curses 
 of blank verse. Then Trinculo and Stephano enter, and the 
 total change of tone is marked by change to prose ; until 
 Stephano pours liquor from his bottle down Caliban's throat. 97. 
 The effect of liquor on Caliban is to make him worship the 
 drunken butler as a god ; and this effect is finely opened by 
 Caliban's first words rising into verse : 121. 
 
 These be fine things, an if they be not sprites. 
 That's a. brave god, and bears celestial liquor. 
 
 So to the end of the scene (except a single morsel of musical 130. 
 prose) Caliban addresses his god in verse — the tone sharply 
 contrasting with the speeches of Trinculo and Stephano in 
 prose. When the party reappear the general situation is iii. ii. 
 continued : but here a very subtle transition is to be noted. 
 Caliban, his eyes ' set in his head ' with drunken worship of 
 Stephano, can hardly be induced to speak at all ; when 
 compelled, he addresses his god in a line of musical verse : 26. 
 
 How does thy honour) Let me lick thy shoe — 
 
352 INTEREST OF PASSION. 
 
 Ch.XVIII. but in the very next line drops to prose to express his 
 attitude to Trinculo, whom he does not worship : 
 
 I '11 not serve him ; he 's not valiant. 
 
 A quarrel ensues, and breaks the serene tone of worship, 
 prose continuing to the beginning of Caliban's tale ; when 
 the interruption, Thou liest, drives Caliban to passion and to 
 52. blank verse — which he maintains through his prayer and his 
 joy at its acceptance to the end of the scene, Stephano and 
 Trinculo, of course, continuing to talk in prose. When we 
 
 iv. i. 194. next see the party the relations of the three are maintained ; 
 and the contrast of tone between Caliban, intent on his 
 treason now all but consummated, and his companions too 
 drank to be kept quiet though a sound may ruin all, is 
 admirably conveyed by the alternations between the verse of 
 Caliban and the prose of the other two. In the Finale 
 
 V, i. 261. Caliban is confronted by his master, and the sight of a new 
 civilisation, and speaks his repentance in verse ^- 
 
 ' I may here remark, anticipating the subject of a later chapter, that 
 alternations between verse and prose are also used by Shakespeare to 
 emphasise changes in dramatic ' movement ' ; though not (so far as I 
 have observed) in the plays reviewed in this book. One example is in 
 Measure for Measure. A great note of Shakespeare's action is his 
 contrivance of a central turning-point to the movement — somewhere in 
 the middle Act, and often at its exact centre. In Measure for Measure 
 the passion of the complication reaches its height in the tenible scene 
 between Clandio and his sister (iii. i.). Where the agony is at its 
 highest enters the (disguised) Duke (152), whom the audience recognise 
 (being in the secret of his disguise from i. iii.) as representing the 
 resolving force of the plot : and the Duke at once draws Isabella aside, 
 and commences with her the intrigue which proves the resolution of the 
 whole play. Now this central turning-point, or passage from the com- 
 plication to the resolution, is emphasised by a change from verse to 
 prose : and every one must feel how the shock of this change gives 
 additional effect to the turn in the movement. 
 
 A precisely parallel case is Winter s Tale. In no play is the passage 
 from complication to resolution so clearly marked as here. In the course 
 of the middle Act (iii. iii. 58), Antigonus deposits the infant, and exit, 
 pursued by a bear — the complication which is connected with Sicilia is 
 
METRICAL ALTERNATION. 353 
 
 The extension of this usage by which variations between Ch.XVIII. 
 one metre and another are added to variations between metre 
 
 AltCT- 
 
 and prose, as devices for conveying changes of tone, is nations 
 characteristic, as has been already remarked, of Shakespeare's between one 
 early plays. In his later works it has left only slight traces, another. 
 Every reader is familiar with the use of a rhymed couplet at 
 the close of a scene. Akin to this is the indication by a 
 rhymed couplet of a resolution formed, or the termination of 
 a train of thought. A fine example of this is to be found in 
 Macbeth's rhymed soliloquy breaking a scene of blank verse. 
 
 The Prince of Cumberland ! that is a step i. iv. 48 ; 
 
 On which I must fall down, or else o'erleap, compare 
 
 - For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires; "'• '4o- 
 
 Let not light see my black and deep desires: 
 The eye wink at the hand ; yet let that be, 
 Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see. 
 
 It is, again, only natural that the more artificial measure 
 should be used to convey what is consciously artificial 
 language ; thus, when Desdemona, to fill up a moment of 
 waiting, calls upon lago for an exercise in praising her, he 
 puts his praises of women in rhyme, till he reaches the famous 
 conclusion : 
 
 She was a wight, if ever such wight were — 
 To suckle fools, and chronicle small beer. 
 
 One of the plays treated in this book. Love's Labour's Lost, 
 has claims to be considered Shakespeare's earliest original 
 play, and it is found to be the one in which his metrical 
 repertoire is most varied. We may erect a metrical scale, 
 at the bottom of which is prose ; next in order comes blank 
 verse ; rhymed couplets are a degree more elevated ; .and 
 
 played out. Then the Shepherd and Clown enter and discover the 
 child — the resolution of the plot and the Boheinian side of the story , 
 begin. This change from complication to resolution is mai-ked by a 
 change from verse to prose. 
 
 A a 
 
354 INTEREST OF PASSION. 
 
 Ch.XVIII. at the top come measures more lyrical than the couplet, 
 
 such as alternate rhyming, or even trochaic and anapaestic 
 
 rhythms '. The alternation of these three metrical styles is 
 
 iv. iii. well illustrated in the central scene of the play, where the 
 perjured celibates discover one another. Biron is the first on 
 the ground, and his soliloquy is in prose. The scene can 
 hardly be said to have commenced until the arrival of another 
 of the band, to be followed at intervals by the rest, each to 
 expose in fancied solitude the perjury which is to be over- 
 
 a6. heard. From this point the scene may be said to be in the 
 
 medium measure of rhymed couplets, broken by brief drops 
 
 e.g. 21,48, to prose or irregular verse where the different parts of the 
 
 '^' scene join on to one another, and rising to climaxes of the 
 
 elaborate lyrics. Thus three of the lovers read amatory 
 
 effusions in lyrics ^ ; the comments on these are in couplets, 
 
 45-6, 85-6, and often a line of comment from one place of concealment 
 is, to the ear of the audience, capped by a rhyme from another. 
 Where the lovers spring in succession from their concealment 
 the battle still rages in couplets, until a great change is made 
 in the spirit of the scene by Biron, who abandons his 
 
 214. annoyance at being discovered for justification of his perjury 
 
 on the ground that his Rosaline surpasses the mistresses of all 
 the rest. This change is reflected in a change to alternate 
 rhyming, and in this metre the climax of the scene continues. 
 
 384. At last another break in the scene comes when the king 
 
 proposes to take things as they are and boldly justify them, 
 and he calls on Biron for reasons, such as may serve to cheat 
 the devil. Biron responds, and his immensely long speech is 
 in blank verse, here heard for the first time in the scene. 
 
 ' Trochaics in iv. iii. 101-20; anapaestics ii. i. from 217 to end. 
 The Globe edition marks a good deal of the talk between Holofernes 
 and Sir Nathaniel as verse : but it is verse such as these pedants alone 
 coald scan and classify. [E.g. iv. ii.] 
 
 ' A piece of lyrics in alternate rhyme regularly closes with rhymed 
 couplets ; e.g. Longaville's effusion, 60-73. 
 
METRICAL ALTERNATION. 355 
 
 This continues to the end, except that a scene of such Ch.XVIII. 
 
 metrical varieties cannot be wound up with merely the 
 
 ordinary couplet, but has for its coda a couple of couplets 
 followed by a quatrain of alternate rhymes. 
 
 Bir. For revels, dances, masks and merry hours 
 
 Forerun fair Love, strewing her way with flowers. 
 King. Away, away ! no time shall be omitted 
 
 That will betime, and may by us be fitted. 
 Bir. Allons ! allons ! Sow'd cockle reap'd no com ; 
 
 And justice always whirls in equal measure ; 
 
 Light wenches may prove plagues to men forsworn; 
 
 If so, our copper buys no better treasure. 
 
 A a 3 
 
XIX. 
 
 Interest of Plot: Statics. 
 
 Ch. XIX. TTTE now come to the third great division of Dramatic 
 
 - , ~ V V Criticism — Plot, or the purely intellectual side of 
 
 Plot as the action. Action itself has been treated above as the mutual 
 
 application connection and interweaving of all the details in a work of 
 of design to ° 
 
 human life, art SO as to Unite in an impression of unity. But we have 
 found it impossible to discuss Character and Passion en- 
 tirely apart from such action and interworking : the details 
 of human interest become dramatic by being peimeated with 
 action-force. When however this mutual relation of all the 
 parts is looked at by itself, as an abstract interest of design, 
 the human life being no more than the material to which 
 this design is applied, then we get the interest of Plot. So 
 defined, I hope Plot is sufiiciently removed from the vulgar 
 conception of it as sensational mystery, which has done so 
 much to lower this element of dramatic effect in the eyes of 
 literary students. If Plot be understood as the extension of 
 design to the sphere of human life, threads of experience 
 being woven into a symmetrical pattern as truly as vari- 
 coloured threads of wool are woven into a piece of wool- 
 work, then the conception of it will come out in its true 
 dignity. What else is such reduction to order than the 
 meeting-point of science and art? Science is engaged in 
 tracing rhythmic movements in the beautiful confusion of 
 the heavenly bodies, or reducing the bewildering variety of 
 
GENERAL CONCEPTION OF PLOT. 367 
 
 external nature to regular species and nice gradations of life. Ch. XIX. 
 Similarly, art continues the work of creation in calling ideal 
 order out of the chaos of things as they are. And so the 
 tangle of life, with its jumble of conflicting aspirations, its 
 crossing and twisting of contrary motives, its struggle and 
 partnership of the whole human race, in which no two in- 
 dividuals are perfectly alike and no one is wholly inde- 
 pendent of the rest — this has gradually in the course of ages 
 been laboriously traced by the scientific historian into some 
 such hannonious plan as evolution. But he finds himself 
 long ago anticipated by the dramatic artist, who has touched 
 crime and seen it link itself with nemesis, who has trans- 
 formed passion into pathos, who has received the shapeless 
 facts of reality and returned them as an ordered economy of 
 design. This application of form to human life is Plot: 
 and Shakespeare has had no higher task to accomplish than 
 in his revolutionising our ideas of Plot, until the old critical 
 conceptions of it completely broke down when applied to 
 his dramas. The appreciation of Shakespeare will not be 
 complete until he is seen to be as subtle a weaver of plots as 
 he is a deep reader of the human heart. 
 
 As with Character and Passion, so Plot is to be considered 
 in its three aspects of unity, complexity and movement. But 
 the last is at once of special importance in itself, and different 
 in nature from the other two. It has been already noted how 
 the analysis which traces unity and complexity treats the 
 drama as a finished whole, and may piece together into one 
 elements of effect drawn from different parts of the play ; 
 movement, on the contrary, is tied to the succession of 
 incidents as they stand in the story. The difference is 
 parallel to the difference between the two sides of mechanical 
 science: Statics treating matter in repose, and Dynamics 
 considering matter in relation to motion. It will be con- 
 venient in the present treatment to separate movement from 
 the other two divisions : the present Chapter will deal with the 
 
358 
 
 INTEREST OF PLOT: STATICS. 
 
 Ch. XIX. interest of Plot which is Statical ', and the Dynamics of Plot 
 will be left to the following Chapter. 
 
 Unity ap- 
 plied to 
 Plot. 
 
 The Single 
 Action. 
 
 Forms of 
 Dramatic 
 Action. 
 
 The simplest element of Plot is the Single Action, which 
 may be defined as any train of incidents in a drama which 
 can be conceived as a separate whole. Thus a series of 
 details bringing out the idea of a crime and its nemesis will 
 constitute a Nemesis Action, an oracle and its fulfilment will 
 make up an Oracular Action, a problem and its solution a 
 Problem Action. Throughout the treatment of Plot the root 
 idea of pattern should be steadily kept in mind : in the case 
 of these Single Actions — the units of Plot — we have as it were 
 the lines of a geometrical design, made up of their details as 
 a geometrical line is made up of separate points. The Form 
 of a dramatic action — the shape of the line, so to speak — will 
 be that which gives the train of incidents its distinctiveness : 
 the nemesis, the oracle, the problem. An action may get its 
 distinctiveness from its tone as a Comic, a Tragic or a Hu- 
 morous Action ; or it may be a Character Action, when a 
 series of details acquire a unity in bringing out the character 
 of Hastings or Lady Macbeth ; an action may be an Intrigue, 
 or the Rise and Fall of a person, or simply a Story like the 
 Caskets Story ; it may be a Motive Action, bringing about, as 
 it progresses, the general changes in the fortunes of the 
 story ; or it may be a Stationary Action that is kept entirely 
 outside the dramatic movement. Finally, an action may 
 combine several different forms at the same time, just as a 
 geometrical line may be at once, say, an arch and a spiral. 
 The action that traces Macbeth's career has been treated as 
 exhibiting a triple form of Nemesis, Irony, and Oracular 
 Action ; further, it is a Tragic Action in tone, it is a Character 
 Action in its contrast with the career of Lady Macbeth, and 
 
 ' I borrow these terms from an able article by Mr. F. Ryland on the 
 Morte d^ Arthur (in the English Illustrated Magazine for October, 
 1888). Mr. Ryland uses the term 'statical' somewhat differently. 
 
HARMONY OF ACTIONS AS UNITY. 359 
 
 it Stands in the relation of Main Action to others in the Ch. XIX. 
 play\ ' 
 
 Now what I have called Single Action constituted the Complexity 
 whole conception of Plot in ancient Tragedy ; in the '^PP]'^^^*" 
 Shakespearean Drama it exists only as a unit of Complex distinction 
 Action. The application of complexity to action is ren- <'f^'"^^''" 
 dered particularly easy by the idea of pattern, patterns which 
 appeal to the eye being more often made up of several lines 
 crossing and interweaving than of single lines. Ancient 
 tragedy clung to ' unity of action,' and excluded such matter 
 as threatened to set up a second interest in a play. Modern 
 Plot has a unity of a much more elaborate order, perhaps 
 best expressed by the word harmony — a harmony of distinct 
 actions, each of which has its separate unity. The illus- 
 tration of harmony is suggestive. Just as in musical har- 
 mony each part is a melody of itself, though one of them 
 leads and is the melody, so a modern plot draws together 
 into a common system a Main Action and other inferior yet 
 distinct actions. Moreover the step from melody alone to 
 melody harmonised, or that from the single instruments of 
 the ancient world to the combinations of a modern orchestra, 
 marks just the difference between ancient and modern art 
 which we find reflected in the different conception of Plot 
 held by Sophocles and by Shakespeare. Shakespeare's 
 plots are federations of plots : in his ordering of dramatic 
 events we trace a common self-government made out of 
 elements which have an independence of their own, and 
 at the same time merge a part of their independence in 
 common action. 
 
 ' A Sub-Action is either an action distinctly subordinate to another 
 action {Merchant of Venice), or of inferior importance in the general 
 scheme of the play {Love's Labour 's Lost) ; or it is so called because its 
 course is confined to a part and not the whole of the movement {Julius 
 C<Bsar). See Tabular Analysis, pages 399-416. 
 
36o INTEREST OF PLOT: STATICS. 
 
 Ch. XIX. The foundation of critical treatment in the matter of Plot 
 : is the Analysis of Complex Action into its constituent Single* 
 
 Ac/ion" Actions. This is easy in such a play as The Merchant of 
 Venice. Here two of the actions are stories, a form of 
 unity readily grasped, and in this case the stories had an 
 independent existence outside the play. These identified and 
 separated, it is easy also to see that Jessica constitutes a 
 fresh centre of interest around which other details gather 
 themselves; that the incidents in which Launcelot and 
 Gobbo are concerned are separable from these ; while the 
 matter of the rings constitutes a distinct episode of the 
 Caskets Story: already the junction of so many separate 
 stories in a common working gratifies our sense of design. 
 In other plays where the elements are not stories the in- 
 dividuality of the Single Actions will not always be so posi- 
 tive : all would readily distinguish the Lear Main plot from 
 the Underplot of Gloucester, but in the subdivision of these 
 difi'erence of opinion arises. In an Appendix I have sug- 
 gested schemes of Analysis for each of the nine plays treated 
 
 Canons of in this work : I may here add four remarks, (i) Any series 
 
 nay SIS. ^^ details which can be collected from various parts of a drama 
 Analysis "^ 
 
 tentative, to make up a common mterest may be recognised in Analysis 
 
 not post- g^g ^ separate action. It follows from this that there may be 
 very different modes of dividing and arranging the elements 
 of the same plot : such Analysis is not a matter in which we 
 are to look for right or wrong, but simply for better or worse. 
 No scheme will ever exhaust the wealth of design which 
 reveals itself in a playof Shakespeare; and the value of Analysis 
 as a critical process is not confined to the scheme it produces, 
 but includes also the insight which the mere effort to analyse a 
 
 Design as drama gives into the harmony and connection of its parts. 
 
 'Ani%i{. (^) '^^^ essence of Plot being design, that will be the best 
 scheme of Analysis which best brings out the idea of symmetry 
 
 Analysis and design. (3) Analysis must be exhaustive : every detail in 
 
 exhaustive. 
 
 ' See note on page 74. 
 
ANALYSIS OF ACTION. 361 
 
 the drama must find a place in some one of the actions. Ch. XIX. 
 
 (4) The constituent actions will of course not be mutually 
 
 ... The ele- 
 
 exclusive, many details being common to several actions : mentary 
 
 these details are so many meetinar-points, in which the lines ''^'«'"" «"' 
 
 r • , TTT- , , ^ . , , . mutually 
 
 01 action cross one another. — With these suflBciently obvious exclusive. 
 principles I must leave the schemes of analysis in the 
 Appendix to justify themselves. 
 
 In the process of analysis we are led to notice special The En- 
 forms of action : in particular, the Enveloping Action. This ""^ctimf 
 interesting element of Plot may be described as the fringe, 
 or border, or frame, of a dramatic pattern. It appears when 
 the personages and incidents which make up the essential 
 interest of a play are more or less loosely involved with 
 some interest more wide-reaching than their own, though 
 more vaguely presented. It is seen in its simplest form 
 where a story occupied with private personages connects 
 itself at points with public history: homely life being thus 
 wrapped round with life of the great world ; fiction having 
 reality given to it by its being set in a frame of accepted 
 fact. We are familiar enough with it in prose fiction. 
 Almost all the Waverley Novels have Enveloping Actions, 
 Scott's regular plan being to entangle the fortunes of in- 
 dividuals, which are to be the main interest of the story, with 
 public events which make known history. Thus in Wood- 
 stock a Cavalier maiden and her Puritan lover become, as 
 the story proceeds, mixed up in incidents of the Common- 
 wealth and Restoration ; or again, the plot of Redgauntlet, 
 which consists in the separate adventures of a pair of Scotch 
 friends, is brought to an issue in a Jacobite rising in 
 which both become involved. The Enveloping Action is a 
 favourite element in Shakespeare's plots. In the former part 
 of the book I have pointed out how the War of the Roses 
 forms an Enveloping Action to Richard III; how its con- 
 nection with the other actions is close enough for it to catch 
 the common feature of Nemesis; and how it is marked 
 
362 INTEREST OF PLOT: STATICS. 
 
 Ch. XIX. with special clearness by the introduction of Queen Margaret 
 
 and the Duchess of York to bring out its opposite sides. 
 
 In Macbeth there is an Enveloping Action of the super- 
 natural centring round the Witches: the human workings 
 of the play seem to be wrapped in a deeper working out of 
 destiny, with prophetic beings to keep it before us. More 
 simply, the supernatural gives to The. Tempest an Enveloping 
 Action of Enchantment. Julius CcBsar, as a story of political 
 conspiracy and political reaction, is furnished with a loose 
 Enveloping Action in the passions of the Roman mob : 
 this is a vague power outside recognised political forces, 
 appearing at the beginning to mark that uncertainty in public 
 life which can drive even good men to conspiracy, while 
 from the turning-point it furnishes the force the explosion 
 of which is made to secure the conspirators' downfall. 
 
 A typical example is to be found in Lear, all the more 
 typical from the fact that it is by no means a prominent 
 interest in the play. The Enveloping Action in this drama 
 is the French War. The seeds of this war are sown in the 
 opening incident, in which the French King receives his wife 
 i. i. 265. from Lear with scarcely veiled insult : it troubles Gloucester 
 i. ii. 23. in the next scene that France is ' in choler parted.' Then 
 we get, in the second Act, a distant hint of rupture from 
 ii. ii. 172. the letter of Cordelia read by Kent in the stocks. In the 
 other scenes of this Act the only political question is of 
 ii. i. II. 'likely wars toward' between the English dukes; but at the 
 beginning of the third Act Kent directly connects these 
 quarrels of the dukes with the growing chance of a war with 
 iii. i. 19- France : the French have had intelligence of the ' scattered 
 ^^' kingdom,' and have been ' wise in our negligence.' In this 
 
 iii. iii. Act Gloucester confides to Edmund the feeler he has re- 
 ceived from France, and his trustfulness is the cause of his 
 iii. iii. 22. downfall ; Edmund treacherously reveals the confidence to 
 iii. vi. 95- Cornwall, and makes it the occasion of his rise. Gloucester's 
 ^° measures for the safety of Lear have naturally a connection 
 
THE ENVELOPING ACTION. 363 
 
 with the expected invasion, and he sends him to Dover to Ch. XIX. 
 
 find welcome and protection. The final scene of this Act, 
 
 devoted to the cruel outrage on Gloucester, shows from its ^' ^'* ^' 
 very commencement the important connection of the En- 
 veloping Action with the rest of the play : the French army 
 has landed, and it is this which is felt to make Lear's escape 
 so important, and which causes such signal revenge to be 
 taken on Gloucester. Throughout the fourth Act all the 
 threads of interest are becoming connected with the invading 
 army at Dover ; if this Act has a separate interest of its own 
 in Edmund's intrigues with both Goneril and Regan at once, 
 yet these intrigues are possible only because Edmund isiv. ii. 11, 
 hurrying backwards and forwards between the princesses in if 'J^'^^ 
 the measures of military preparation for the battle. The 
 fifth Act has its scene on the battlefield, and the double 
 issue of the battle stamps itself on the whole issue of the 
 play: the death of Lear and Cordelia is the result of the 
 French defeat, while, on the other hand, all who were to 
 reap the fruits of guilt die in the hour of victory. Thus v. iii. 238, 
 this French War is a model of Enveloping Action : — outside ^^ ' 
 the main issues, yet loosely connecting itself with every 
 phase of the movement ; originating in the incident which is 
 the origin of the whole action ; the possibility of it developed 
 by the progress of the Main story, alike by the cruelty 
 shown to Lear and by the rivalry between his daughters; 
 the fear of it playing a main part in the tragic side of the 
 Underplot, and the preparation for it serving as occasion for 
 the remaining interest of intrigue ; finally, breaking out as a 
 reality in which the whole action of the play merges. 
 
 In no play is this device of the Enveloping Action carried The Frame 
 so far as in As You Like It. The matter of this play analyses ^2ikflt 
 into two distinct systems of related actions ^. One of these 
 is a system of love stories developed and carried to a happy 
 
 ^ See Tabular Analysis, below, page 415. 
 
364 INTEREST OF PLOT: STATICS. 
 
 Ch. XIX. conclusion in the Forest of Arden. But machinery has to be 
 
 set in motion to bring the personages of these love stories 
 
 into the forest world, where they are to meet and feel one 
 another's influence : the portions of the whole play devoted 
 to this purpose thus constitute a Frame in which the main 
 interest is enclosed. But when this Frame comes to be 
 itself analysed, it is found to be a system of four distinct 
 Enveloping Actions, one inside another, like Chinese boxes. 
 The outermost belongs to the widest world of politics, the 
 Civil War of the Dukes, which has driven the good Duke into 
 exile and so set up the outlaw life of Arden forest. One 
 degree less wide than Civil War are the dissensions of great 
 families, and the Feud in the De Boys family makes our 
 second Enveloping Action. It appears to be loosely involved 
 
 i. ii, from in the first, since the reigning Duke seems about to extend his 
 
 ^33- protection to the oppressed Orlando, until he hears that he is 
 
 the son of his enemy, and then not only Orlando has to fly, 
 but the persecutor Oliver is made responsible for him and 
 driven from his estate. These two Enveloping Actions are 
 accountable for the Woodland Life in the forest of Arden, and 
 the presence there of the lovers. But this Woodland Life 
 itself makes another Enveloping Action, wrapping round all 
 the incidents of the love plot with its pastoral spirit. And 
 there is yet one more effect of the same kind ; for this 
 Woodland Life has (before the commencement of the main 
 plot) attracted the morbid Jaques as a region favourable for 
 moraUsing, and his humour of melancholy makes an atmo- 
 sphere in which the lovers are to move and breathe. All 
 this complex system is no more than a Frame to the love 
 passages which make up the main plot. But a Frame that 
 is so prominent will not unnaturally be allowed some share in 
 the movement of the play, and we get a very striking bit of 
 plot handling at the end. The marriage of Celia and Oliver 
 
 V. ii. init. terminates the Feud of the De Boys brothers, Oliver proposing 
 to estate upon Orlando all his father's revenues. At the 
 
ECONOMY OF ACTION. 365 
 
 marriage feast news comes of how the Duke, marching after Ch. XIX. 
 
 Oliver's flight against the Forest of Arden and its inmates, 
 
 had been smitten with penitence, and resigned his government 
 to the rightful ruler. Accordingly the Woodland Life of the 
 Arden outlaws ceases with the occasion that brought it into 
 existence. And, for a final touch, Jaques finds no longer any v. iv. 1 6. 
 attraction in his companions thus made happy, but goes to 
 the more congenial region of the penitent ' convertite.' The 
 consummation of the love plot is thus made coincident with 
 the termination of the actions constituting the enclosing Frame, 
 which thus seems to drop to pieces, like a scaffold which has 
 served its purpose and been taken down. 
 
 From Analysis we pass naturally to Economy. Considered Economy. 
 in the abstract, as a phase of plot beauty, Economy may be ™^^^L, ^g 
 defined as that perfection of design which lies midway be- Analysis. 
 tween incompleteness and waste. Its formula is that a play 
 must be seen to contain all the details necessary to the. 
 unity, no detail superfluous to the unity, and each detail 
 expanded in exact proportion to its bearing on the unity. 
 In practice, as a branch of treatment in Shakespeare- 
 Criticism, Economy, like Analysis, deals with complexity of 
 plot. The two are supplementary to one another. The one 
 resolves a complexity into its elements, the other traces the 
 unity running through these elements. Analysis distinguishes 
 the separate actions which make up a plot, while Economy 
 notes the various bonds between these actions and the way 
 in which they are brought into a common system: it 
 being clear that the more the separateness of the diff"erent 
 interests can be reduced the richer will be the economy of 
 design. 
 
 It will be enough to note three Economic Forms. The Economic 
 first is simple Connection: the actual contact of action/''"'^' . 
 
 *^ Connection 
 
 with action, the separate lines of the pattern meeting at 
 various points. In other words, the different actions have 
 details or personages in common. Bassanio is clearly a 
 
366 INTEREST OF PLOT: STATICS, 
 
 Ch. XIX. bond between the two main stories of The Merchant of 
 
 Venice, in both of which he figures so prominently; and it has 
 
 been pointed out that the scene of Bassanio's successful choice 
 is an incident with which all the stories which enter into the 
 and Link- action of the play connect themselves. There are Link 
 ^"g- Personages, who have a special function so to connect 
 
 stories, and similarly Link Actions : Gloucester in the play 
 of Lear and the Jessica Story in The Merchant of Venice are 
 examples. Or Connection may come by the interweaving 
 of stories as they progress : they alternate, or fill, so to 
 speak, each other's interstices. Where the Story of the 
 Jew halts for a period of three months, the elopement of 
 from ii.i. to Jessica comes to occupy the interval; or again, scenes 
 HI- "• 319- fj-om the tragedy of the Gloucester family separate scenes 
 from the tragedy of Lear, until the two tragedies have 
 become mutually entangled. Envelopment too serves as a 
 kind of Connection : the actions which make up such a play 
 as Richard III gain additional compactness by their being 
 merged in a common Enveloping Action. 
 Depend- Another Form of Economy is Dependence. This term ex- 
 
 '""' presses the relation between an underplot and main plot, 
 
 or between subactions and the actions to which they are 
 subordinate. The fact that Gloucester is a follower of 
 compare Lear — he would appear to have been his court chamber- 
 • '• 35. 9 • j^ijj — makes the story of the Gloucester family seem to spring 
 out of the story of the Lear family ; that we are not called 
 upon to initiate a fresh train of interest ministers to our 
 sense of Economy. In The Tempest, where the action is 
 mainly occupied with enchantment, it has been shown that 
 the underplot assists this fundamental idea by bringing for- 
 ward phases of actual life allied to enchantment. Here also 
 the relation of the underplot to the mainplot may be de- 
 scribed as dependence: the term fairly covers such con- 
 structive support, just as in architecture buttresses at once 
 lean against and support the main mass. 
 
PARALLELISM AND CONTRAST. 367 
 
 But in the Shakespearean Drama the most important Ch. XIX. 
 
 Economic Form is Symmetry : between different parts of a „ 
 
 . -^ ^ X Symmetry : 
 
 design symmetry is the closest of bonds. A simple form of „ , ^^ 
 Symmetry is the Balance of actions, by which, as it were, 
 the mass of one story is made to counterpoise that of an- 
 other. If the Caskets Story, moving so simply to its goal 
 of success, seems over-weighted by the thrilling incidents of 
 the Jew Story, we find that the former has by way of com- 
 pensation the Episode of the Rings rising out of its close, 
 while the elopement of Jessica and her reception at Bel- 
 mont transfers a whole batch of interests from the Jew side 
 of the play to the Christian side. Or again, in a play such 
 as Macbeth, which traces the Rise and Fall of a personage, 
 the Rise is accompanied by the separate interest of Banquo 
 till he falls a victim to its success ; to balance this we have 
 in the Fall Macduff, who becomes important only after 
 Banquo's death, and from that point occupies more and 
 more of the field of view until he brings the action to a close. 
 Similarly in Julius Ccesar the victim himself dominates the 
 first half; Antony, his avenger, succeeds to his position for 
 the second half. 
 
 More important than Balance as forms of Symmetry are Paralkl- 
 ParaUelism and Contrast of actions. Both are, to a certain ^r^„f!Zj( 
 extent, exemplified in the plot of Macbeth : the triple form of 
 Nemesis, Irony, and Oracular binding together all the elements 
 of the plot down to the Enveloping Action illustrates Paral- 
 lelism, and Contrast has been shown to be a bond between 
 the interest of Lady Macbeth and of her husband. But Paral- 
 lelism and Contrast are united in their most typical forms in 
 Lear, which is at once the most intricate and the most sym- 
 metrical of Shakespearean dramas. A glance at the scheme 
 of this plot shows its deep-seated parallelism. A Main story 
 in the family of Lear has an Underplot in the family of 
 Gloucester. The Main plot is a problem and its solution, the 
 Underplot is an intrigue and its nemesis. Each is a system of 
 
368 INTEREST OF PLOT: STATICS. 
 
 Ch. XIX. four actions : there is the action initiating the problem with 
 the three tragedies which make up its solution, there is again 
 the action generating the intrigue and the three tragedies 
 which constitute its nemesis. The threefold tragedy in 
 the Main plot has its elements exactly analogous, each to 
 each, to the threefold tragedy of the Underplot : Lear and 
 Gloucester alike reap a double nemesis of evil from the 
 children they have favoured, and good from the children they 
 have wronged ; the innocent Cordelia has to suffer like the 
 innocent Edgar; alike in both stories the gains of the 
 wicked are found to be the means of their destruction. Even 
 in the subactions, which have only a temporary distinctness 
 in carrying out such elaborate interworking, the same 
 e.g. i. iv. Parallelism manifests itself. They run in pairs : where Kent 
 « ~i)°i-' ^^s ^'^ individual mission as an agency for good, Oswald 
 runs a course parallel with him as an agency for evil ; of the 
 e. g. iv. ii. two heirs of Lear, Albany, after passively representing the 
 '^ "... , good side of the Main plot, has the function of presiding 
 59. over the nemesis which comes on the evil agents of the 
 
 Underplot, while Cornwall, who is active in the evil of the 
 iii. vii. Main plot, is the agent in bringing suffering on the good 
 i'''- ii ; i''- victims of the Underplot; once more from opposite sides 
 2j8_ ■ ■ of the Lear story Goneril and Regan work in parallel in- 
 trigues to their destruction. Every line of the pattern runs 
 parallel to some distant line. Further, so fundamental is the 
 symmetry that we have only to shift the point of view and 
 the Parallelism becomes Contrast. If the family histories 
 be arranged around Cordelia and Edmund, as centres of 
 good and evil in their different spheres, we perceive a 
 sharp antithesis between the two stories extending to every 
 detail : though stated already in the chapter on Lear, I 
 should like to state it again in parallel columns to do it full 
 justice. 
 
PARALLELISM AND CONTRAST. 
 
 369 
 
 In the Main Plot a 
 
 Daughter, 
 
 "Who has received nothing 
 but Harm from her 
 father, 
 
 Who has had her po- 
 sition unjustly torn 
 from her and given 
 to her undeserving 
 elder Sisters, 
 
 Nevertheless sacrifices 
 herself to save the 
 Father who did the 
 injury from the Sis- 
 ters who profited by 
 it. 
 
 In the Underplot a 
 
 Son, 
 
 Who has received nothing 
 but Good from his 
 father. 
 
 Who has, contrary to jus- 
 tice, been advanced 
 to the position of an 
 innocent elder Bro- 
 ther he had maligned, 
 
 Nevertheless is seeking 
 the destruction of the 
 Father who did him 
 the unjust kindness, 
 when he falls by the 
 hand of the Brother 
 who was wronged by 
 it. 
 
 Ch. XIX. 
 
 The play of Lear is itself sufficient to suggest to the critic 
 that in the analysis of Shakespeare's plots he may safely 
 expect to find symmetry in proportion to their intricacy. 
 
 B b 
 
XX. 
 
 Interest of Plot : Dynamics. 
 
 Chap. XX. "\'^7'-^ "°^ reach the Dynamics of Plot : the important 
 
 Movement 
 
 department of dramatic interest which comprehends 
 
 applie'd'to the effects dependent upon the actual progress of the story, 
 
 ^''<''' as distinguished from those which imply the selection and 
 
 comparison of its various parts. This interest of Movement 
 
 falls under two heads — Motive Form and Motive Force. 
 
 The first is made by a succession of incidents acting upon 
 
 our sense of design. But motion implies force : and the 
 
 second type of interest is in watching the underlying causes 
 
 or principles which the current of incidents reveals. The 
 
 first addresses itself to our sense of symmetry, the second to 
 
 our sense of economy. They will be considered separately. 
 
 Motive Motive Form is the impression of design left by the 
 
 torm. succession of incidents in the order in which they actually 
 
 Movement ■ ^^and. The succession of incidents may suggest progress to 
 
 the Line of 3. goal, as in the Caskets Story. This is Simple ' Movement : 
 
 straight ^^^ IJint of Action becomes a straight line. We get the 
 
 line. next Step by the variation that is made when a curved line is 
 
 Compli- substituted for a straight line : in other words, when the 
 caledMove- . e ■ -j i- 11 ,^ 
 
 ment: the Succession of incidents reaches its goal, but only after a 
 
 Line of diversion. This in its most prominent form is what is 
 
 curve. known as Complication and Resolution. A train of events is 
 
 obstructed and diverted from what appears its natural course, 
 
 which gives the interest of Complication : after a time the 
 
 obstruction is removed and the natural course is restored, 
 
 ' See note on page 74. 
 
MOTIVE FORM. 371 
 
 ■which is the Resolution of the action : the Complication, like Chap. XX. 
 a musical discord, having existed only for the sake of being ' 
 resolved. No clearer example could be desired than that of 
 Antonio, whose career when we are introduced to it appears 
 to be that of leading the money-market of Venice and ex- 
 tending patronage and protection all around; by the en- 
 tanglement of the bond this career is checked and Antonio 
 turned into a prisoner and bankrupt ; then Portia cuts the 
 knot and Antonio becomes all he has been before. Or again, 
 the affianced intercourse of Portia and Bassanio begins with iii. ii. 173. 
 an exchange of rings ; by the cross circumstances connected 
 with Antonio's trial one of them parts with this token, and iv. ii. 
 the result is a comic interruption to the smoothness of lovers' 
 life, until by Portia's confession of the ruse the old footing is v. i. 266. 
 restored. 
 
 Complicated Movement as so stated belongs to the Action Action- 
 side of dramatic effect. It rests upon design and the inter- ^;^J""" 
 working of details ; its interest lies in obstacles interposed to guished 
 be removed, doing for the sake of undoing, entanglement ^Q'' sion-Move- 
 its own sake ; in its total effect it ministers to a sense of ment. 
 intellectual satisfaction, like that belonging to a musical 
 fugue, in which every opening suggested has been sufBciently 
 followed up. We get a movement which is at once different, 
 and yet a counterpart, when the sense of design is inseparable 
 from effects of passion, and the movement is, as it were, traced 
 in our emotional nature. In this case a growing strain is put 
 upon our sympathy which is not unlike Complication. But 
 no Resolution follows : the rise is made to end in fall, the 
 progress leads to ruin ; in place of the satisfaction that 
 comes from restoring and unloosing is substituted a fresh 
 appeal to our emotional nature, and from agitation we pass 
 only to the calmer emotions of pity and awe. There is 
 thus a Passion-Movement distinct from Action-Movement; 
 and, analogous to the Complication and Resolution of the 
 latter, Passion-Movement has its Strain and Reaction. The 
 
 B b 2 
 
372 INTEREST OF PLOT: DYNAMICS. 
 
 Chap. XX. Line of Passion has its various forms. A chapter has been 
 —'— devoted to illustrating one form of Passion-Movement, which 
 '^fPasTon may be called the Regular Arch—ii we may found a tech- 
 3 Regular nical term on the happy illustration of Gervinus. The 
 '^^ '' example was taken from the play of Julius Casar, the 
 
 emotional effect in which was shown to pass from calm 
 interest to greater and greater degree of agitation, until after 
 culminating in the centre it softens down and yields to the 
 different calmness of pity and acquiescence. The movement 
 an Inclined oi Richard III, Othello, and many other dramas more re- 
 ^'"^"^ sembles the form, of an Inclined Plane, the turn in the emo- 
 iv. ii. 46. tion occurring long past the centre of the play. Or again, 
 or a Wave there is the Wave Line of emotional distribution, made by 
 ■^'"^' repeated alternations of strain and relief. This is a form 
 
 of Passion-Movement that nearly approaches Action-Move- 
 ment, and readily goes with it in the same play ; in The 
 Merchant of Venice the union of the two stories gives such 
 alternate Strain and Relief, and the Episode of the Rings 
 comes as final Relief to the final Strain of the trial. 
 Por The distinction between Action-Movement and Passion- 
 
 ', ^'"''^y> , Movement is of special importance in Shakespeare-Criticism, 
 substitute', inasmuch as it is the real basis of distinction between the 
 
 tn the case ^-^q main classes of Shakespearean dramas. Every one 
 of Snake- 
 
 speare, feels that the terms Comedy and Tragedy are inadequate, 
 and indeed absurd, when a,pplied to Shakespeare. The dis- 
 tinction these terms express is one of Tone, and they were 
 quite in place in the Ancient Drama, in which the comic 
 and tragic tones were kept rigidly distinct and were not 
 allowed to mingle in the same play. Applied to a branch of 
 Drama of which the leading characteristic is the complete 
 Mixture of Tones the terms necessarily break down, and the 
 so-called ' Comedies ' of The Merchant of Venice and Measure 
 for Measure contain some of the most tragic effects in 
 Shakespeare. The true distinction between the two kinds 
 of plays is one of Movement, not Tone, In The Merchant 
 
MOTIVE FORM. 373 
 
 of Venice the leading interest is in the complication of An- Chap. XX. 
 tonio's fortunes and its resolution by the device of Portia. 
 In all such cases, however perplexing the entanglement of 
 the complication may have become, the ultimate effect of 
 the whole lies in the resolution of this complication ; and 
 this is an intellectual effect of satisfaction. In the plays 
 called Tragedies there is no such return from distraction to 
 recovery : our sympathy having been worked up to the emo- 
 tion of agitation is relieved only by the emotion of pathos or 
 despair. Thus in these two kinds of dramas the impression 
 which to the spectator overpowers all other impressions, and 
 gives individuality to the particular play, is this sense of in- 
 tellectual or of emotional unity in the movement : is, in other 
 words, Action-Movement or Passion-Movement. The two 'AcHon- 
 may be united, as remarked above in the case of The Mer- <^^-^^. 
 chant of Venice ; but one or the other will be predominant Drama.'' 
 and will give to the play its unity of impression. The 
 distinction, then, which the terms Comedy and Tragedy 
 fail to mark would be accurately brought out by sub- " . 
 stituting for them the terms Action-Drama and Passion- 
 Drama. 
 
 With complexity of action comes complexity of movement. Compound 
 Compound Movement takes in the idea of the relative motion. ^^*'""^'' 
 amongst the different actions into which a plot can be 
 analysed. A play of Shakespeare may present a system of 
 wheels within wheels, like a solar system in motion as a whole 
 while the separate members of it have their own orbits to 
 follow. The nature of Compound Movement can be most Tts three 
 simply brought out by describing its three leading Modes of j^g^on: 
 Motion. In Similar Motion the actions of a system are similar 
 moving in the same form. The plot of Richard III, for ^^'"'■'"'' 
 example, is a general rise and fall of Nemesis made up of 
 elements which are themselves rising and falling Nemeses. 
 Such Similar Motion is only Parallelism looked at from the 
 side of movement. A variation of it occurs when the form 
 
374 
 
 INTEREST OF PLOT: DYNAMICS. 
 
 Contrary 
 Motion : 
 Counter- 
 Action, 
 
 Chap. XX. of one action is distributed amongst the rest : the main 
 action oi Julius CcBsar is a Nemesis Action, the two sub- 
 actions are the separate interests of Csesar and Antony, 
 which put together amount to Nemesis. 
 
 Of Contrary Motion the simplest form is Counter- Action : 
 where (as in The Tempest) an intrigue which serves as the 
 original Complicating Action of the play has pitted against it 
 a Revolving Action which undoes it. The difference between 
 Contrary and Similar Motion is well illustrated in this play ^ 
 Its scheme involves three systems of Actions : a Main Plot, 
 an Underplot, and a crowd of Mechanical Personages, who 
 faintly reflect the general movement of the play. These three 
 systems move in Similar Motion, all being included in a 
 common complication and resolution. But the separate 
 Actions of which each system is made up move in directions 
 contrary from one another. The Complicating Action of the 
 Main Plot has for Sub-Action an intrigue which is met by 
 a like Sub- Action attached to the Resolving Action: these 
 two Sub- Actions counteract one another. The Resolving 
 Action of the Main Plot has two Sub-Actions, outside the 
 scenic unity, and serving as preparation for the main move- 
 ment. One of them is Prospeio's judgment on Caliban, 
 which prepares for that amount of further complication which 
 is usually the task of a Resolving Action before it proceeds 
 to resolve ; the other, the work of mercy done to Ariel, pre- 
 pares for the resolving side of Prospero's task : thus this pair 
 of Sub-Actions also move in opposition to one another as 
 Judgment and Mercy. Again, of the two Link Actions which 
 constitute the Underplot one, the story of Ferdinand and 
 Miranda, moves in the direction of their ultimate union; the 
 other, the conspiracy of Caliban and the sailors, tends to- 
 wards their ultimate separation, Caliban awaking in the 
 universal restoration to the deception under which he has 
 laboured : 
 
 ' See Tabular Analysis, pages 411-2. 
 
MOTIVE FORM. 37.5 
 
 What a thrice-double ass Chap. XX. 
 
 Was I, to take this drunkard for a god 
 
 And worship this dull fool ! v. i. 294. 
 
 Even amongst the Mechanical Personages the group of 
 Sailors and the group of Courtiers, so far as they have any 
 share in the action of the play, seem to move in an oppo- 
 sition reflected in the humorous antagonism of their leaders, 
 the Boatswain and Gonzalo, who are sparring with one i. i. and 
 another at the point of death, and resume their sparring as ^' '' ^^'^' 
 soon as they meet in the final enchantment. The whole 
 play is a beautiful study for complexity of dramatic move- 
 ment, exhibiting three systems of Actions moving together 
 in Similar Motion, while the individual Actions of which 
 each system is made up move forward in mutual an- 
 tagonism. 
 
 Another variety of Contrary Motion is Interference, when Inter- 
 the separate actions as they move on interfere with one.^^"""' 
 another ; as the Touchstone Action, or the Jaques Action, in 
 As You Like It, with their professional or morbid humour, is 
 continually clashing with the Main Action of Rosalind and 
 Orlando, which is animated throughout by genuine humour. 
 A more pronounced form of Interference between actions is 
 where each acts as complicating force to the other, turning 
 it out of its course ; in reality they are helping one another's 
 advance, seeing that complication is a step in dramatic 
 progress. The Merchant of Venice furnishes an example. 
 The Caskets Siory progresses without check to its climax ; 
 in starting it complicates the Jew action — for before Bassanio 
 can get to Belmont he borrows of Antonio the loan which is 
 to entangle him in the meshes of the Jew's revenge; then 
 the Caskets Story as a result of its climax resolves this 
 complication in the Story of the Jew — for the union of 
 Portia with Bassanio provides the deliverer for Bassanio's 
 friend. But in thus resolving the Story of the Jew the 
 Caskets Story, in the new phase of it that has commenced 
 
376 INTEREST OF PLOT: DYNAMICS. 
 
 Chap. XX. with the exchange of betrothal rings, itself suffers complica- 
 
 tion — the circumstances of the trial offering the suggestion 
 
 to Portia to make the demand for Bassanio's ring. Thus of 
 the two actions moving on side by side the one interferes 
 with and diverts the other from its course, and again in re- 
 storing it gets itself diverted. This mutual interference 
 makes up Contrary Motion. 
 Convergent A third modeof Compound Movement is Convergent Motion, 
 Motion. ^y which actions, or systems of actions, at first separate, 
 become drawn together as they move on, and assist one 
 another's progress. This has been described at length in the 
 chapter on Othello. The play of Lear again furnishes a 
 typical example. This play, it will be recollected, includes 
 two distinct systems of actions tracing the story of two 
 separate families. Moreover the main story after its opening 
 incident presents, so far as movement is concerned, three 
 different sides, according as its incidents centre around Lear, 
 Goneril, or Regan. The first link between these diverse 
 actions is Gloucester, the central personage of the whole 
 i.i. 35, 191. plot. Gloucester has been the King's chamberlain and his 
 ii. i. 93. close friend, the King having been godfather to his son. 
 Accordingly, in the highly unstable political condition of a 
 kingdom divided equally between two unprincipled sisters, 
 Gloucester represents a third party, the party of Lear : he 
 holds the balance of power, and the effort to secure him 
 draws the separate interests together. Thus as soon as 
 i. V. I. Lear and Goneril have quarrelled Lear sends Kent to Glou- 
 cester, and our actions begin to approach one another, 
 ii i. 9. Before this messenger can arrive we hear of ' hints and ear- 
 kissing arguments' as to rupture between the dukes, and 
 we see Regan and her husband making a hasty journey — 
 ii. i. 121. 'out of season threading dark-eyed night' — in order to be 
 ii. iv. 192. the first at Gloucester's castle; when Goneril in self-defence 
 follows all the separate elements of the main plot have 
 found a meeting-point. But this castle of Gloucester in 
 
MOTIVE PORM. 377 
 
 which they meet is the seat of the underplot, and the two Chap. X>^. 
 systems become united in the closest manner by this central " " 
 linking. Regan arrives in time to use her authority in fur- ii. i. 88- 
 thering the intrigue against Edgar as a means of recom- J^^' e^p. 
 mending herself to the deceived Gloucester; the other in- 
 trigue of the underplot, that against Gloucester himself, is iii. v, &c. 
 promoted by the same means when Edmund has betrayed to 
 Regan his father's protection of Lear ; while the meeting of 
 both sisters with Edmund lays the- foundation of the mutual 
 intriguing which forms the further interest of the entangle- 
 ment between underplot and main story. All the separate 
 lines of action have thus moved to a common centre, and 
 their concentration in a common focus gives opportunity 
 for the climax of passion which forms the centre-piece 
 of the play. Then the Enveloping Action comes in as a 
 further binding force, and it has been pointed out above 
 how throughout the fourth and fifth Acts all the separate 
 actions, whatever their immediate purpose, have an ultimate 
 reference to Dover as the landing-place of the invading army : 
 in military phrase Dover is the common objective on which 
 all the separate trains of interest are concentrating. In this 
 way have the actions of this intricate plot, so numerous 
 and so separate at first, been found to converge to a 
 common centre and then move together to a common (//- 
 nouemeni. 
 
 The distinction of movement from the other elements of Turning- 
 Plot leads also to the question of Turning-points, an idea-^ * 
 equally connected with movement and with design. In the 
 movement of every play a Turning-point is implied : move- 
 ment could not have dramatic interest unless there were a 
 change in the direction of events, and such change implies a 
 point at which the change becomes apparent. Changes of 
 a kind may be frequent through the progress of a play, but 
 one notable point will stand out at which the ultimate issues 
 present themselves as decided, the line of action changing 
 
378 INTEREST OF PLOT: DYNAMICS. 
 
 Chap. XX. from complication to resolution, the line of passion from 
 
 strain to reaction. Such a point is technically a Catastrophe : 
 
 strophe: or a word whose etymological meaning suggests a turning 
 Focus of round so as to come down. In Shakespeare's dramatic 
 
 Movement. . _, ,. .^rr^- ■ .. ■ 
 
 practice we find a not less important Turning-point in 
 
 relation to the design of the plot. That is at the exact 
 
 centre^ — the middle of the middle Act — and serves as a 
 
 balancing point about which the plot may be seen to be 
 
 The Centre symmetrical : it is a Centre of Plot as the Catastrophe is 
 
 of Plot. ^ p^^^^ of Movement. The Catastrophe of The Merchant of 
 
 iv. i. 305. Venice is clearly Portia's judgment in the Trial Scene, by 
 which in a moment the whole entanglement is resolved. In 
 an earlier chapter it has been pointed out how the union of 
 
 iii. ii. Portia and Bassanio — at the exact centre of the play — is the 
 
 real determinant of the whole plot, uniting the complicating 
 and resolving forces, and constituting a scene in which all 
 the four stories find a meeting-point. In Richard III, while 
 
 iv. ii. 4j. the Catastrophe comes in the hero's late recognition of his 
 own nemesis, yet there has been, before this and in the 
 exact centre, a turn in the Enveloping Action, which in- 
 
 iii. iii. 15. eludes all the rest, shown by the recognition that Margaret's 
 curses have now begun to be fulfilled. The exact centre of 
 
 iii. iv. 20. Macbeth, as pointed out above, marks the hero's passage 
 
 from rise to fall, that is from unbroken success to unbroken 
 
 iii. iv. 49 ; failure : the corresponding Catastrophe in this play is double, 
 V. ^iii. 13. 
 
 ' The play of Love's Labour 's Lost is only an apparent exception. 
 For some reason I do not understand the numbering of the scenes is ex- 
 ceptional in this play : the second and third acts are yery short, and the 
 fifth act includes nearly half the play (ten twenty-fifths). Measured by 
 lines the centre of the play falls within iv. iii : and this is obviously the 
 Centre of Plot. In some plays the centring of the plot seems to be dis- 
 tributed evenly through the scenes of the middle Act. In The Tempest, 
 for example, the different Actions reach their full complexity in the suc- 
 cessive scenes of the third Act ; in scene i, the Ferdinand and Miranda 
 Action ; in scene ii, the Caliban and Stephano Action ; in scene iii, the 
 Main Plot (including the Motive Sub- Actions: compare lines 10-17). 
 
MOTIVE FORM. 379 
 
 a first appearance of Nemesis in Banquo's ghost, its final Chap. XX. 
 
 stroke in the revelation of Macduff's secret of birth. Julius ' 
 
 Casar presents the interesting feature of the Catastrophe 
 and Central Turning-point exactly coinciding, in the trium- iii. i. 122. 
 phant appeal of Lhe conspirators to future history. A Centre 
 of Plot and a Catastrophe have already been pointed out in 
 Othello ^. \vi. As You Like It Orlando meets the disguised 
 Rosalind for the first time in the central scene ; the dropping 
 of the disguise in the fifth act makes a Catastrophe. Lear, 
 according to the scheme of analysis suggested in this vcork, 
 has its Catastrophe at the close of the initial scene, by 
 which time lhe problem in experience has been set up in 
 action, and the tragedies arising out of it thenceforward 
 work on without break to its solution. A Centre of Plot is 
 found for this play where, in the middle Scene of the middle iii. iv. 45. 
 Act, the third of the three forms of madness is brought into 
 contact with the other two and makes the climax of passion 
 complete. This regular union by Shakespeare of a marked 
 catastrophe, appealing to every spectator, with a, subtle 
 dividing-point, interesting to the intellectual sense of analysis, 
 illustrates the combination of force with symmetry, which is 
 the genius of the Shakespearean Drama : it throughout pre- 
 sents a body of warm human interest governed by a mind of 
 intricate design. 
 
 It may be added that in plots where the Enveloping Action Further 
 is prominent Shakespeare usually gives a Further Resolution, •"""""''''»• 
 after the action of the play itself has been regularly wound 
 up ; and a Further Resolution implies a third Turning- Point. 
 The most marked case is Love's Labour's Lost, where, after the v. ii. 723. 
 Complication set up by the French Princess's visit has 
 worked itself out to complete Resolution, a shock is given 
 by the news of the king of France's death, and a Further 
 Resolution of the action takes place which converts comic 
 
 ' See above, page 240. Compare in all cases the Tabular Analysis 
 on pages 399-416. 
 
380 INTEREST OF PLOT: DYNAMICS. 
 
 Chap. XX. into serious. So (as pointed out above) when the plot of 
 As You Like It has been wound up in a quadruple marriage, 
 
 V. iv. 157. fjjg entrance of Jaques de Boys with his news makes a fresh 
 Turning-point, which has the effect of dissipating the Frame 
 
 compare Actions that have held the play together. And in The 
 
 EiDiloffue'^ Tempest, where the Enveloping Action is Enchantment, 
 Prospero after bringing the plot to a complete consummation 
 makes a Further Resolution by laying his Enchantment 
 down. 
 
 Motive From Motive Form we pass to Motive Force. In fiction, 
 
 toice. j^gj ^g much as in real life, the course of events is perpetually 
 suggesting to us underlying causes or controlling forces, — 
 whether these be Law, or some higher Will, or Chance ; or, 
 at the very least, the particular succession of incidents finds 
 explanation in their combining to advance some common 
 purpose. What are the purposes, or underlying principles, 
 or technically, Motives, which thus carry forward the move- 
 ment of the Shakespearean drama ? 
 Providence To begin with,. Providence is itself a Motive Force in 
 "nramatic fiction, the analyst finding the same interest in tracing 
 Motive. meaning and design in the action of a story that the thinker 
 finds in discovering a Moral Providence in the issues of real 
 life. It has been argued in a previous chapter that, to under- 
 stand the term Dramatic Providence aright, it is necessary to 
 recognise how all principles which the thinker sees in the 
 actual universe, alike those which assist and those which 
 disturb our notions of moral order, have a right to a place in 
 the dramatic picture of the world. One of the plays reviewed 
 stands alone in relation to this topic : The Tempest is a study 
 of Personal Providence. By a device not uncommon in 
 prose fiction ^ we are in this play enabled to see an individual 
 
 ' The most familiar example is The Count of Monte-Cristo, by 
 Alexander Dumas. The plot of this novel brings its hero, by a con- 
 
MOTIVE FORCE. 381 
 
 will elevated into a controlling destiny. Enchantment is, Chap. XX. 
 within its circle and during the influence of its auspicious star, 
 equivalent to omnipotence ; by such omnipotence of enchant- 
 ment Prospero knows all that happens in his island, and 
 irresistibly controls the issues of all events : the dramatist, by 
 keeping us in continuous sympathy with Prospero, is working 
 out for our benefit a conception of Personal Providence. 
 But this is necessarily an exceptional case ; in the great mass 
 of plays the matter is confined to the experience of ordinary 
 life, nor will the action be allowed to display the ruling mind 
 of the universe to any greater degree than it presents itself 
 in the actual thinking of mankind. In general, then, the 
 Motive Forces handled by the dramatist will be such as he 
 can artistically associate with the course of events in real 
 life. 
 
 One of the great determinants of fate in the Drama is Poetic Jtis- 
 Poetic Justice. What exactly is the meaning of this term ? It If^^t"'' 
 is often understood to mean the correction of justice, as if beauty. 
 justice in poetry were more just than the justice of real life. 
 But this is not supported by the facts of dramatic story. An 
 English judge and jury would revolt against measuring out to 
 
 cnrrence of extraordinary circumstances, consisting partly in personal 
 discipline, and partly in vast accessions of wealth and social power, 
 into the position pf an Earthly Providence to the world of the French 
 capital, enabling him to execute irresistible designs on his friends and 
 foes. A more direct treatment still is Eugene Sue's Mysteries of Paris. 
 Here we have a hero actuated, not by sense of wrong, as in Monte- Crista, 
 but by pure benevolence, raising himself into a providential director of 
 circumstances ; and he incites others to do the same. But the most 
 interesting variation of the theme is The Wandering Jew of the same 
 author. In this work a family, distinguished by a vast inheritance that 
 is to descend to the surviving members after generations of accumulation, 
 are displayed as placed between two opposing Earthly Providences : 
 the Jesuits (who, as a society, never die) are treated by the author as a 
 malignant Providence, seeking through a series of criminal intrigues to 
 secure the treasure for themselves ; while the ' Wandering Jew ' and his 
 sister (cursed, according to the legend, with immortality on earth, but 
 repentant) counteract these machinations. 
 
382 INTEREST OF PLOT: DYNAMICS. 
 
 Chap. XX. Shylock the justice that is meted to him by the court of 
 
 Venice, though the same persons beholding the scene in a 
 
 theatre might feel their sense of Poetic Justice satisfied; 
 unless indeed, which might easily happen, the confusion of 
 ideas suggested by this term operated to check their acqui- 
 escence in the issue of the play. A better notion of Poetic 
 Justice is to understand it as the modification of justice by 
 considerations of art. This holds good even where justice 
 and retribution do determine the fate of individuals in the 
 Drama; in these cases our dramatic satisfaction still rests, 
 not on the high degree of justice exhibited, but on the artistic 
 mode in which it works. A policeman catching a thief with 
 his hand in a neighbour's pocket and bringing him to 
 summary punishment affords an example of complete justice, 
 yet its ver)' success robs it of all poetic qualities ; the same 
 thief defeating all the natural machinery of the law, yet over- 
 taken after all by a questionable ruse, would be to the poetic 
 sense far more interesting. 
 Nemesis as Treating Poetic Justice, then, as the application of art to 
 "motive'^ " iTiorals, its most important phase will be Nemesis, which we 
 have already seen involves an artistic link between sin and 
 retribution. The artistic connection may be of the most 
 Varieties varied description. There is a Nemesis of perfect equality, 
 of Acmesis. g{,j,]Q(,]j reaping measure for measure as he has sown. When 
 Nenaesis overtook the Roman conspirators it was partly its 
 compare suddenness that made it impressive : within fifty lines of their 
 "nd'ieV appeal to all time they have fallen into an attitude of depre- 
 cation. For Richard, on the contrary, retribution was 
 delayed to the last moment : to have escaped to the eleventh 
 hour is shown to be no security. 
 
 Jove strikes the Titans down 
 Not when they first begin their mountain piling, 
 But when another roclc would crown their work. 
 
 Nemesis may be emphasised by repetition and multiplication ; 
 in the world in which Richard is plunged there appears to be 
 
MOTIVE FORCE. 383 
 
 no event which is not a nemesis. Or the point may be the Chap. XX. 
 
 unlooked-for source from which the nemesis comes ; as when ~' — 
 
 upon the murder of Caesar a colossus of energy and resource 
 
 starts up in the time-serving and frivolous Antony, whom the 
 
 conspirators had spared for his insignificance. Or again, ii. i 165. 
 
 retribution may be made bitter to the sinner by his tracing 
 
 in it his own act and deed : from Lear himself, and from no 
 
 other source, Goneril and Regan have received the power 
 
 they use to crush his spirit. Nay, the very prize for which 
 
 the sinner has sinned turns out in some cases the nemesis 
 
 fate has provided for him ; as when Goneril and Regan use 
 
 their ill-gotten power for the state intrigues which work their iii. iii. 53- 
 
 death. In the great crisis of The Tempest the whole universe ^^" 
 
 seems to resolve itself into nemesis upon a single crime. 
 
 And most keenly pointed of all comes the nemesis that is 
 
 combined with mockery: Macbeth, if he had not essayed 
 
 the murder of Banquo as an extra precaution, might have iii. i. 49. 
 
 enjoyed his stolen crown in safety; his expedition against 
 
 Macduff's caslle slays all except i!a& fate-appointed avenger; iv. iii. 219. 
 
 Richard disposes of his enemies with flawless success until 
 
 the last, Dorset, escapes to his rival. iv. ii. 46. 
 
 Such is Nemesis, and such are some of the modes in 
 which the connection between sin and retribution may be 
 made artistically impressive. Poetic Justice, however, is a Poetic 
 wider term than Nemesis. The latter implies some offence, ff""//, 
 as an occasion for the operation of judicial machinery. But, Nemesis. 
 apart from sin, fate may be out of accord with character, and 
 the correction of this ill distribution will satisfy the dramatic 
 sense. But here again the practice of dramatic providence 
 appears regulated, not with a view to abstract justice, but to 
 justice modified by dramatic sympathy : Poetic Justice ex- 
 tends to the exhibition of fate moving in the interests of those 
 with whom we sympathise and to the confusion of those 
 with whom we are in antagonism. This gives point, we 
 have seen, to the episode of Ferdinand and Miranda in The 
 
384 INTEREST OF PLOT: DYNAMICS. 
 
 Chap. XX. Tempest. Again, viewed as a piece of equity the sentence on 
 
 . ": ^ Shylock — a plaintiff who has lost his suit by an accident of 
 
 363. statute-law — seems highly questionable. On the other hand, 
 
 this sentence brings a fortune to a girl who has won our 
 
 sympathies in spite of her faults ; it makes provision for those 
 
 for whom there is a dramatic necessity of providing ; above 
 
 all it is in accord with our secret liking that good fortune 
 
 should go with the bright and happy, and sever itself from 
 
 the mean and sordid. Whether this last is justice, I will not 
 
 discuss : it is enough that it is one of the instincts of the 
 
 imagination, and in creative literature justice must pay tribute 
 
 to art. 
 
 Pathos as a But however widely the term be stretched, justice is only 
 
 dramatic ^^^ ^p ^j^^ determinants of fate in the Drama, and perhaps 
 
 this principle is never more clearly seen than in Love's 
 
 Labour's Lost, where, as has been pointed out ^, the fortune of 
 
 the various personages is determined for better or worse 
 
 simply according to the sense of humour which each possesses. 
 
 Cojnfusion on this point has led to many errors of criticism. 
 
 The case of Cordelia is in point. Because she is involved in 
 
 the ruin of Lear it is felt by some commentators that a 
 
 consideration of justice must be sought to explain her death : 
 
 they find it perhaps in her original resistance to her father ; 
 
 or the ingenious suggestion has been made that Cordelia, in 
 
 her measures to save her father, invades England, and this 
 
 breach of patriotism needs atonement. But this is surely 
 
 twisting the story to an explanation, not extracting an 
 
 explanation from the details of the story. It would be a 
 
 violation of all dramatic proportion, needing the strongest 
 
 evidence from the details of the play, if Cordelia's ' most small 
 
 iv. iv. 27. fault ' betrayed her to dramatic execution. And as to the sin 
 
 "77 *-'iS" ^g^'™^' patriotism, the whole notion of it is foreign to the play 
 
 1, V. itself, in which the truest patriots, such as Kent and Gloucester, 
 
 ' See above, page 291. 
 
 * The text in this passage is regarded as difficult by many editors, and 
 
MOTIVE FORCE. 385 
 
 are secretly confederate with Cordelia and look upon her as Chap. XX. 
 the hope of their unhappy country ; while even Albany him- 
 self, however necessary he finds it to repel the invader, yet iv. ii. 2- 
 distinctly feels that justice is on the other side. The fact is '° °™" 
 that in Cordelia's case, as in countless other cases, motives 95) ; v. i. 
 determine fate which have in them no relation to justice ; ^'"^^ 
 fiction being in this matter in harmony with real life, where 
 in only a minority of instances can we recognise any element 
 of justice or injustice as entering into the fates of individuals. 
 When in real life a little child dies, what consideration of jus- 
 tice is there that bears on such an experience ? Nevertheless 
 there is an irresistible sense of beauty in the idea of the fleeting 
 child-life arrested while yet in its completeness, before the 
 rude hand of time has begun to trace lines of passion or 
 hardness ; the parent indeed may not feel this in the case of 
 his own child, but in art, where there is no mist of individual 
 
 is marked in the Globe Edition as corrupt. I do not see the difficulty 
 of taking it as it stands, if regard be had to the general situation, in 
 which (as Steevens has pointed out) Kent is reading the letter in dis- 
 jointed snatches by the dim moonlight. Commentators seem to me to 
 have increased the obscurity by taking ' enormous ' in its rare sense of 
 ' irregular,' ' out of order,' and making it refer to the state of England. 
 Surely it is used in its ordinary meaning, and applies to France ; the 
 clause in which it occurs being part of the actual words of Cordelia's 
 letter, who naturally uses ' this ' of the country from which she writes. 
 Inverted commas would make the connection clear. 
 
 Approach, thou beacon to this under globe. 
 
 That by thy comfortable beams I may 
 
 Peruse this letter! — 'Nothing almost sees miracles' — 
 
 ' But misery ' — I know 'tis from Cordelia, 
 
 Who hath ' most fortunately been inform'd ' 
 
 Of my ' obscured course, and shall find time 
 
 From this enormous state ' — ' seeking to give 
 
 Losses their remedies,' &c. 
 I. e. Cordelia promises she will find leisure from the oppressive cares of 
 her new kingdom to remedy the evils of England. Kent gives up the 
 attempt to read ; but enough has been brought out for the dramatist's 
 purpose at that particular stage, viz. to hint tliat Kent was in corre- 
 spondence with Cordelia, and looked to her as the deliverer of England. 
 
 c c 
 
386 INTEREST OF PLOT: DYNAMICS. 
 
 Chap. XX. feeling to blind, the sense of beauty comes out stronger than 
 
 the sense of loss. It is the mission of the Drama thus to 
 
 interpret the beauty of fate : it seeks, as Aristotle puts it, to 
 purify our emotions by healthy exercise. The Drama does 
 with human experience what Painting does with external 
 nature. There are landscapes whose beauty is obvious to all ; 
 but it is one of the privileges of the artist to reveal the charm 
 that lies in the most ordinary scenery, until the ideal can 
 be recognised everywhere, and nature itself becomes art. 
 Similarly there are striking points in life, such as the 
 vindication of justice, wliich all can catch : but it is for the 
 dramatist, as the artist in life, to arrange the experience he 
 depicts so as to bring out the hidden beauties of fate, until 
 the trained eye sees a meaning in all that happens; — until 
 indeed the word 'suffering' itself has only to be translated 
 into its Greek equivalent, and pathos is recognised as a form 
 of beauty. Accumulation of Pathos then must be added to 
 Poetic Justice as a determinant of fate in the Drama. And 
 our sensitiveness to this form of beauty is nowhere more 
 signally satisfied than when we see Cordelia dead in the arms 
 of Lear : fate having mysteriously seconded her self-devotion, 
 and nothing, not even her life, being left out to make her 
 sacrifice complete. 
 
 As the Accumulation of Pathos is a determining purpose 
 in one class of dramas, so for plays of the opposite type a 
 leading motive is the Accumulation of Humour. Loves 
 Labour 's Lost is a clear example, the plot of which has been 
 seen to be a contrivance for bringing together two opposites, 
 the conflict of which will continually explode in humour. 
 In Comedy generally Fun plays the part of Fate. 
 The Super- There remains a third great determinant of fate in the 
 "a dramatic Drama — the Supernatural. Here, as in the discussion of 
 motive. Dramatic Providence, The Tempest must be placed in a cate- 
 gory by itself : where the whole story is elevated out of the 
 natural into the region of enchantment the Supernatural may 
 
MOTIVE FORCE. 387 
 
 be said to vanish '. The supernatural element that can be Chap. XX. 
 
 treated as a dramatic motive must be one that interferes in a 
 
 world of reality. I have in a former chapter pointed out 
 how in relation to this topic the modern Drama stands in 
 a different position from that of ancient Tragedy. In the 
 Drama of antiquity the leading motive forces were super- 
 natural, either the secret force of Destiny, or the interposition 
 of supernatural beings who directly interfered with human 
 events. We are separated from this view of life by a TheSuper- 
 revolution of thought which has substituted Providence for "'''^ral 
 
 ° rattonal- 
 
 Destiny as the controller of the universe, and absorbed the isedUi 
 
 supernatural within the domain of Law. Yet elements that '«<"^«'^ 
 
 '^ Drama : 
 
 had once entered so deeply into the Drama would not be 
 
 easily lost to the machinery of Passion-Movement; super- 
 natural agency has a degree of recognition in modern thought, 
 and even Destiny may still be utilised if it can be stripped of 
 antagonism to the idea of a benevolent Providence. To begin 
 with the latter: the problem for a modem dramatist is to 
 reconcile Destiny with Law. The characteristics which made 
 the ancient conception of fate dramatically impressive — its ir- 
 resistibility, its unintelligibility, and its suggestion of personal 
 hostility — he may still insinuate into the working of events : 
 only the destiny must be rationalised, that is, the course of 
 events must at the same time be explicable by natural causes. 
 
 First : Shakespeare gives us Destiny acting objectively, as As an oh- 
 an external force, in the form o^ Irony, already discussed {^Jf^i'^'fi'''^' 
 
 -^ ' J m Irony ; 
 
 connection with the standard illustration of it in Macbeth. 
 In the movement of this play Destiny appears in the most 
 pronounced form of mockery: every difficulty and check 
 being in the issue converted into an instrument for furthering 
 
 ' Even in this case the principle that distinguishes the action of en- 
 chantment in The Tempest agrees with that laid down in the text for 
 Shakespeare's general treatment: — the supernatural intensifies, rather 
 than determines, human action, leading Antonio and Sebastian along 
 a path chosen by themselves, and bringing repentance only to those to 
 whom before repentance was possible. [Above, pages 273, 278.] 
 t C c 2 
 
388 INTEREST OF PLOT: DYNAMICS. 
 
 Chap. XX. the course of events. Yet this mockery is wholly without 
 any suggestion of malignity in the governing power of the 
 universe ; its effect being rather to measure the irresistibility 
 of righteous retribution. This Irony makes just the differ- 
 ence between the ordinary operations of Law or Providence 
 and the suggestion of Destiny : yet each step in the action is 
 sufficiently explained by rational considerations. What more 
 i- iv. 37. natural than that Duncan should proclaim his son heir- 
 apparent to check any hopes which too successful service 
 might excite ? Yet what more natural than that this loss of 
 i. iv. 48. Macbeth's remote chance of the crown should be the occa- 
 sion of his resolve no longer to be content with chances ? 
 ii. iii. 141. What more natural than that the sons of the murdered king 
 should take flight upon the revelation of a treason useless to 
 its perpetrator as long as they were living ? Yet what again 
 more natural than that the momentary reaction consequent 
 ii. iv. 21- upon this flight should, in the general fog of suspicion and 
 ^^' terror, give opportunity to the object of universal dread him- 
 
 self to take the reins of government ? The Irony is throughout 
 no more than a garb worn by rational history '. 
 As a sub- Or, again, Destiny may be exhibited as a subjective force 
 force in In- ''^ Infatuation ox Judicial Blindness : ' whom the gods would 
 fatuaiion. destroy they first blind.' This was a conception specially 
 impressive to ancient ethics ; the lesson it gathered from 
 almost every great fall was that of a spiritual darkening which 
 hid from the sinner his own danger, obvious to every other eye, 
 till he had been tempted beyond the possibility of retreat. 
 
 Falling in frenzied guilt, he knows it not ; 
 
 So thick the blinding clond 
 That o'er him floats ; and Rumour widely spread 
 With many a sigh repeats the dreary doom, 
 
 A mist that o'er the house 
 
 In gathering darkness broods. 
 
 ' In comic stories the Irony of Circumstances is a counterpart to the 
 tragic Irony of Fate. Rosalind's disguise converts the principal scenes 
 of As You Like It into a prolonged Irony, 
 
MOTIVE FORCE. 389 
 
 Such Infatuation is very far from being inconsistent with the Chap. XX. 
 idea of Law ; indeed, it appears repeatedly in the strong 
 figures of Scriptural speech, by which the ripening of sin to 
 its own destruction — a merciful law of a righteously-ordered 
 universe — is suggested as the direct act of Him who is the 
 founder of the universe and its laws. By such figures God 
 is represented as hardening Pharaoh's heart ; or, again, an 
 almost technical description of Infatuation is put by the 
 fervour of prophecy into the mouth of God : — 
 
 Make the heart of this people fat, and make their ears heavy, and shut 
 their eyes ; lest they see with their eyes, and hear with their ears, and 
 understand with their heart, and convert, and be healed. 
 
 In the case of Macbeth the judicial blindness is main- 
 tained to the last moment, and he pauses in the final combat v. viii. 13. 
 to taunt Macduff with certain destruction. Yet, while we 
 thus get the full dramatic eflfect of Infatuation, it is so far 
 rationalised that we are allowed to see the machinery by 
 which the Infatuation has been brought about : we have heard 
 the Witches arrange to deceive Macbeth with false oracles, iii. v. 16. 
 A very dramatic, but wholly natural, example of Infatuation 
 appears at the turning-point of Richard's career, where, when 
 he has just discovered that Richmond is the point from 
 which the storm of Nemesis threatens to break upon him, 
 prophecies throng upon his memory which might have iv. ii. 98, 
 all his life warned him of this issue, had he not been blind ' 
 to them till this moment. Again, Antonio's challenge to i. iii. 131. 
 Shylock to do his worst is, as I have already pointed out, an 
 outburst of hybris, the insolence of Infatuation : but this is 
 no more than a natural outcome of a conflict between two 
 implacable temperaments. In Infatuation, then, as in all its 
 other forms, Destiny is exhibited by Shakespeare as har- 
 monised with natural law. 
 
 Besides Destiny the Shakespearean Drama admits direct Super- 
 
 natural 
 as portents and violations of natural law. It appears to 
 
 supernatural agencies — witches, ghosts, apparitions, as well ^ ^^^^^^ . 
 
390 INTEREST OF PLOT: DYNAMICS. 
 
 Chap. XX. nie idle to contend that these in Shakespeare are not really 
 
 ' supernatural, but must be interpreted as delusions of their 
 
 victims. There may be single cases, such as the appearance 
 of Banquo to Macbeth, where, as no eye sees it but his own, 
 the apparition may be resolved into an hallucination. But 
 to determine Shakespeare's general practice it is enough to 
 point to the Ghost in Hamlet, which, as seen by three persons 
 at once and on separate occasions, is indisputably objective : 
 and a single instance is sufficient to establish the assumption 
 in the Shakespearean Drama of supernatural beings with a 
 real existence. Zeal for Shakespeare's rationality is a main 
 source of the opposite view; but for the assumption of 
 such supernatural existences the responsibility lies not with 
 Shakespeare, but with the opinion of the age he is pourtraying. 
 A more important question is how far Shakespeare uses such 
 supernatural agency as a motive force in his plays ; how far 
 does he allow it to enter into the working of events, for the 
 interpretation of which he is responsible? On this point 
 Shakespeare's usage is clear and subtle : he uses the agency 
 of the supernatural to intensify and to illuminate human 
 action, not to determine it. 
 
 Intensify- Supernatural agency intensifying human action is illus- 
 
 uction ■ trated in Macbeth. No one can seriously doubt the objective 
 existence of the Witches in this play, or that they are 
 endowed with superhuman sources of knowledge. But the 
 question is, do they in reality turn Macbeth to crime? In 
 one of the chapters devoted to this play I have dwelt on 
 the importance of the point that Macbeth has been akeady 
 meditating treason in his heart when he meets the Witches 
 on the heath. His secret thoughts — which he betrays in his 
 
 i. iii. 51. guilty start — have been an invitation to the powers of evil, 
 and they have obeyed the summons : Macbeth has already 
 ventured a descent, and they add an impulse downward. To 
 bring this out the more clearly, Shakespeare keeps Banquo 
 side by side with Macbeth through the critical stages of the 
 
MOTIVE FORCE. 391 
 
 temptation : Banquo has made no overtures to temptation, Chap. XX. 
 
 and to him the tempters have no mission. It is noticeable 
 
 that where the two warriors meet the Witches on the heath 
 
 it is Banquo who begins the conversation. i- "i- 38- 
 
 5°- 
 Banquo. How far is't called to Forres? 
 
 No answer. The silence attracts his attention to those he is 
 
 addressing. 
 
 What are these 
 So wither'd and so wild in their attire. 
 That look not like the inhabitants o' the earth, 
 And yet are on't? 
 
 Still no answer. 
 
 Live you? or are you aught 
 That man may question? 
 
 They signify in dumb show that they may not answer. 
 
 You seem to understand me, 
 By each at once her chappy finger laying 
 Upon her skinny lips : you should be women. 
 And yet your beards forbid me to interpret 
 That you are so. 
 
 Still he can draw no answer. At last Macbeth chimes in : — 
 
 Speak, if you can : what are you ? 
 
 The tamperer with temptation has spoken, and in a moment 
 they break out, ' All hail, Macbeth ! ' and ply their super- 
 natural task. Later on in the scene, when directly challenged 57. 
 by Banquo, they do respond and give out an oracle for him. 
 But into his upright mind the poison-germs of insight into 
 the future fall harmlessly; it is because Macbeth is already 
 tainted that these breed in him a fever of crime. In the 
 second incident of the Witches, so far from their being the iii. v. and 
 tempters, it is Macbeth who seeks them and forces from ^^- '• 
 them knowledge of the future. Yet, even here, what is 
 the actual eflfect of their revelation upon Macbeth ? It is, 
 like that of his air-drawn dagger, only to marshal him 
 along the way that he is going. They bid him beware Mac- iv. i. 74. 
 
392 INTEREST OF PLOT: DYNAMICS. 
 
 Chap. XX. duff: he answers, 'Thou hast harp'd my fear aright.' 
 
 They give him preternatural pledges of safety: are these a 
 
 help to him in enjoying the rewards of sin? On the con- 
 trary, as a matter of fact we find Macbeth, in panic of sus- 
 iv. ii. 4, picion, seeking security by means of daily butchery ; the 
 ^'^- oracles have produced in him confidence enough to give 
 
 agony to the bitterness of his betrayal, but not such con- 
 fidence as to lead him to dispense with a single one of the 
 natural bulwarks to tyranny. The function of the Witches 
 throughout the action of this play is exactly expressed by a 
 phrase Banquo uses in connection with them : they are only 
 i. iii. 1 24. ' instruments of darkness,' assisting to carry forward courses 
 of conduct initiated independently of them. Macbeth has 
 made the destiny which the Witches reveal. 
 Illuminat- Again, supernatural agency is used to illuminate human 
 "Tw"""^" action : the course of events in a drama not ceasing to obey 
 natural causes, but becoming, by the addition of the super- 
 The Ora- natural agency, endowed with a new art-beauty. The great 
 cular Ac- g^ample of this is the Oracular Action. This important 
 element of dramatic effect — how it consists in the working 
 out of Destiny from mystery to clearness, and the different 
 forms it assumes — has been discussed at length in a former 
 chapter. The question here is, how far do we find such 
 superhuman knowledge used as a force in the movement of 
 events ? As Shakespeare handles oracular machinery, the 
 conditions of natural working in the course of events are 
 not in the least degree altered by the revelation of the 
 future. The actor's belief (or disbelief) in the oracle may be 
 one of the circumstances which have influenced his action — 
 as it would have done in the real life of the age — but to the 
 spectator, to whom the Drama is to reveal the real govern- 
 ing forces of the world, the oracular action is presented not 
 as a force but as a light. It gives to a course of events the 
 illumination that can be in actual fact given to it by History, 
 the office of which is to make each detail of a story interesting 
 
MOTIVE FORCE. 393 
 
 in the light of the explanation that conies when all the Chap. XX. 
 details are complete. Only it uses the supernatural agency to 
 project this illumination into the midst of the events them- 
 selves, which History cannot give till they are concluded; 
 and also it carries the art-effect of such illumination a stage 
 further than History could carry it, by making it progressive 
 in intelligibility, and making this progress keep pace with the 
 progress of the events themselves. Fate will allow none but 
 Macduff to be the slayer of Macbeth. True : but Macduff 
 (who moreover knows nothing of his destiny) is the most 
 deeply injured of Macbeth's subjects, and as a fact we find 
 it needs the news of his injury to rouse him to his task ; as iv. iii. 
 he approaches the battle he feels that the ghosts of his wife v. vii. 15. 
 and children will haunt him if he allows any other to be the 
 tyrant's executioner. Thus far the interpretation of History 
 might go : but the oracular machinery which Shakespeare 
 has introduced points dimly to Macduff before the first 
 breath of the King's suspicion has assailed him, and the 
 suggestiveness becomes clearer and clearer as the conver- 
 gence of events carries the action to its climax. The natural 
 working of human events has been undisturbed : only the 
 spectator's mind has been endowed with a special illumina- 
 tion for receiving them. 
 
 In another and very different way we have supernatural The Super- 
 agency called in to throw a peculiar illumination over Dyn^^tic 
 human events. In dealing with the movement of Julius Back- 
 CcEsar I have described at length the Supernatural Back-^""" 
 ground of storm, tempest, and portent, which assist the emo- 
 tional agitation throughout the second stage of the action. 
 These are clearly supernatural in that they are made to sug- 
 gest a mystic sympathy with, and indeed prescience of, mu- 
 tations in human life. Yet their function is simply that of 
 illumination : they cast a glow of emotion over the spectator 
 as he watches the train of events, though all the while the 
 action of these events remains within the sphere of natural 
 
394 INTEREST OF PLOT: DYNAMICS. 
 
 Chap. XX. causes. In narrative and lyric poetry this endowment of 
 
 nature with human sympathies becomes the commonest of 
 
 poetic devices, personification; and here it never suggests 
 anything supernatural because it is so clearly recognised as 
 belonging to expression. But • expression ' in the Drama 
 extends beyond language, and takes in presentation ; and it 
 is only a device in presentation that tumult in nature and 
 tumult in history, each perfectly natural by itself, are made 
 to have a suggestion of the supernatural by their coin- 
 cidence in time. After all there is no real meaning in storm 
 any more than in calm weather, only that contemplative 
 observers have transferred their own emotions to particular 
 phases of nature: it would seem, then, a very slight and 
 natural reversal of the process to call in this humanised 
 nature to assist the emotions which have created it. 
 
 In these various forms Shakespeare introduces super- 
 natural agency into his dramas. In my discussion of them 
 it will be understood that I am not in the least endeavouring 
 to explain away the reality of their supernatural character. 
 My purpose is to show for how small a proportion of his 
 total effect Shakespeare draws upon the supernatural, allow- 
 ing it to carry further or to illustrate, but not to mould or 
 determine a course of events. It will readily be granted that 
 he brings effect enough out of a supernatural incident to 
 justify the use of it to our rational sense of economy. 
 
 Motive When all these special Dramatic Motives have been con- 
 
 Forceasa. gifjgj-gjj there Still remains an interest of Motive Force 
 part of De- 
 sign, belonging to a plot considered purely as a piece of design. 
 
 In the adaptation of means to ends, which is one phase of 
 
 design, it is clear that our sense of economy is gratified 
 
 when we see single devices producing multiplicity of effects ; 
 
 when the successive incidents do not appear dependent upon 
 
 any arbitrary will of the author, but, on the contrary, it is 
 
 only necessary to assume a few postulates, and the rest of the 
 
 story seems to follow from these of itself. It is a function. 
 
MOTIVE FORCE. 395 
 
 then, of plot analysis to discover the main motive force of any Chap. XX. 
 
 play. Sometimes this is found in a Motive Personage : ""; — ' 
 
 great part of the action in Othello is carried forward directly Personages. 
 
 by the energy of lago, and in .^j' Fou Like It by the activity 
 
 of Rosalind. In the latter case we can go further, and 
 
 point to a distinct Motive Circumstance — Rosalind's disguise Motive 
 
 — as responsible for the larger proportion of the dramatic J^^'^"^' 
 
 entanglement. In connection with the Merchant of Venice, it 
 
 was pointed out how one of the actions — the Caskets Story Motive 
 
 — motives all the rest, the hero serving to complicate, the ^'*^'"'- 
 
 heroine to resolve. Lovers Labour's Lost gives us at the outset 
 
 a Motive Situation : Biron in the first scene sees how the Motive 
 
 proclamation of celibacy, taken in conjunction with the for- ^^t"°-^^°"- 
 
 gotten circumstance of the Princess's visit, constitutes a sort 
 
 of unstable equilibrium in social relations, and the working 
 
 from this back to nature constitutes the whole plot. The 
 
 same description applies to Lear, except that Lear himself 
 
 creates the unstable situation by his false distribution of 
 
 power ; and thus the first act generates what all the rest of 
 
 the play has to work out. In The Tempest, one personage, Complicat- 
 
 Antonio, has been the source of the complication, while j^Lp- * 
 
 another, Prospero, by his power of enchantment is the sole Personages. 
 
 contriver of the Resolution. Often in Passion Movement 
 
 the Fall and the Rise seem natural parts of a single action. Rise and 
 
 Precisely as the effort which throws a ball into the air seems ^f'^^ "■ 
 
 ■' _ single Mo- 
 
 to the eye all that is responsible for the ball's eventually tive. 
 turning round and descending, so when the conspirators in 
 Julius CcBsar, or the hero in Macbeth, have risen by their 
 energy to a climax, they seem to fall by no other force than 
 the exhaustion of their original energy against a sort of 
 moral gravitation. This is true also of Richard III, with The En- 
 the exception that in this play the Enveloping Action — the ^JfJ^'^ 
 feud of York and Lancaster — ^yields considerable part of the source of 
 Motive Force : Richard does much to carry forward the " ^°"' 
 progress of this war, but he is himself a product of it, and is 
 
396 INTEREST OF PLOT: DYNAMICS. 
 
 Chap. XX. eventually swept by its momentum to destruction. In most 
 
 of the cases previously mentioned the Enveloping Action of 
 
 the play is responsible for some part of the Motive Force : 
 
 the Witches assist the career of Macbeth, though they do not 
 
 alter its direction ; and the fickleness of the Roman mob 
 
 counts for something in the sum of forces which produce the 
 
 and under- downfall of the Republicans. And such a consideration 
 
 ^MoHve re- l^nds especial interest to the case of plays mentioned in a 
 
 action. previous paragraph, where a further Revolution makes the 
 
 Enveloping Action share the movement of the play ; and, in 
 
 the particular case oi As You Like It, the elaborate Frame 
 
 which has brought into existence and supported the main 
 
 actions of the play is by the consummation of these itself 
 
 shattered and brought to an end. 
 
 Conclusion. The plan laid down for this work has now been followed 
 to its completion. The object I have had in view throughout 
 has been the recognition of inductive treatment in literary 
 study. For this purpose it was first necessary to distinguish 
 the inductive method from other modes of treatment founded 
 on arbitrary canons of taste and comparisons of merit, so 
 natural in view of the popularity of the subject-matter, and 
 to which the history of Literary Criticism has given an un- 
 fortunate impetus. This having been done in the Intro- 
 duction, the body of the work has been occupied in applying 
 the inductive treatment to some of the masterpieces of 
 Shakespeare. The practical effect of such exposition has 
 been, it may be hoped, to intensify the reader's appreciation 
 of the poet, but also to suggest that the detailed and me- 
 thodical analysis which in literary study is usually reserved 
 for points of language is no less apphcable to a writer's 
 subject-matter and art. But to entitle Dramatic Criticism to 
 a place in the circle of the inductive sciences it has further 
 appeared necessary to lay down a scheme for the study as a 
 
CONCLUSION. 397 
 
 whole, that should be scientific both in the relation of its Chap. XX. 
 parts to one another, and in the attainment of a complete- 
 ness proportioned to the area to which the enquiry was 
 limited and the degree of development to which literary 
 method has at present attained. The proper method for 
 the nascent science was fixed as the enumeration and ar- 
 rangement of topics; and by analogy with the other arts 
 a simple scheme for Dramatic Criticism was found, in which 
 all the results of the analysis performed in the first part of 
 the book could be readily distributed under one or other of 
 the main topics — Character, Passion and Plot. Incidentally 
 the discussion of Shakespeare has again and again reminded 
 us of just that greatness in the modern Drama which judi- 
 cial criticism with its inflexibility of standard so persistently 
 missed. Everywhere early criticism recognised our poet's 
 grasp of human nature, yet its almost universal verdict of 
 him was that he was both irregular in his art as a whole, 
 and in particular careless in the construction of his plots. 
 We have seen, on the contrary, that Shakespeare has 
 elevated the whole conception of Plot, from that of a mere 
 unity of action obtained by reduction of the amount of 
 matter presented, to that of a harmony of design binding 
 together concurrent actions from which no degree of com- 
 plexity was excluded. And, finally, instead of his being a 
 despiser of law, we have had suggested to us how Shake- 
 speare and his brother artists of the Renaissance form a 
 point of departure in legitimate Drama so important as amply 
 to justify the instinct of history which named that age the 
 Second Birth of literature. 
 
TOPICS OF DRAMATIC SCIENCE. 
 
 Character 
 
 Passion 
 
 Plot 
 
 Single Character- Interest or f Interpretation as an hypothesis 
 
 Character-Interpretation 1 Canons of Interpretation 
 _ - _. ^ T ^ * i Character-Contrast and Duplication 
 Complex Character-Interest \ character-Grouping 
 
 Character-Development 
 
 Incident and Situation 
 
 (Single Passion-Interest 
 
 ( Irony 
 Effect ■{ Nemesis 
 
 I Dramatic Foreshadowing 
 
 [ Complex Passion-Interest or f Mixture of Tones 
 
 Passion-Tone 
 \ Tone- Movement 
 
 Single Action 
 
 1 Tone-Clash, Humour, Tone-Storm 
 
 ( Tone-Play and Tone-Relief 
 1 Metrical Alternation 
 
 ( General conception of Single Actions 
 1 Forms of Dramatic Action 
 
 / General conception of Complex Action 
 I Analysis of Complex Action into Single Actions, 
 Canons of Analysis 
 
 with 
 
 Complex Action 
 
 Economy " 
 
 Connection 
 
 Dependence 
 
 Symmetry 
 
 /■ Contact and Linking 
 J Interweaving 
 ^ Envelopment 
 
 ( Balance 
 
 1 Parallelism and Contrast 
 
 Movement [Mo- 
 tive Form] 
 
 /Simple Movement : the Line of Motion a straight line 
 Action -Movement or Complication and Resolution : 
 
 Line of Motion a curve 
 Passion-Movement or 
 Strain and Reaction : / Regular Arch 
 the Line of Passion a-J Inclined Plane 
 y Wave Line 
 
 Compound (or Relative) j Sary'^^L 
 Movement \ Convergent Motion 
 
 e Catastrophe : or Focus of Movement 
 Turning-points ■< Centre of Plot 
 \ ^ Further Resolution 
 
 ^Dramatic Providence 
 
 / Poetic Justice : or Retribution as a form of Art-beauty 
 
 I Pathos : or [unretributive] Fate as a form of Art-beauty 
 
 the 
 
 Movement [Mo- 
 tive Force] 
 
 /Destiny ra- / Objectively in Irony 
 tionalised 1 Subjectively in Infatuation 
 
 The Super.. 
 
 natural 
 
 Super- 
 natural 
 Agency 
 
 Intensifying human action 
 
 Illuminat- / The Oracular 
 inghuman-J Supernatural 
 action I Background 
 
 (Reduction of Difficulties : especially. Rationalisation and Derationalisation. 
 Constructive Economy: utilisation of mechanical persons and details. 
 Constructive Processes : Dramatic Background, Dramatic Hedging, Prepara- 
 tion, etc 
 Constructive Conventionalities: especially, Scenic Unities of Place and 
 Time. 
 Co„structiv.Uni.y{°Xf'j;£olouring 
 
f 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 TECHNICAL ANALYSIS OF PLOTS. 
 
401 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 
 
 Main 
 Plot, 
 
 Story of the Jew : 
 
 Under- 
 plot. 
 
 An Action-Drama 
 
 Scheme of Actions 
 
 'First Main Cross Nemesis Action 
 complicated and resolved. 
 /Sub- Action to First Main, also Link Action : 
 Jessica and Lorenzo : simple movement. 
 '■< \ Comic Relief Action : Launcelot: stationary \ 
 Sub-Action to Second Main : Episode of the 
 V Rings : complicated and resolved. 
 Second Main Problem Action : Caskets Story : simple 
 
 movement. 
 External Circumstance " : The (rumoured) Shipwrecks. 
 
 Economy 
 
 Two Main Actions connected by Common Personage [Bassanio] 
 
 and by Link Action [Jessica]. 
 General Interweaving. 
 Balance. The First Main Action, which is complicated, balances 
 
 the Second, which is simple, by the additions to the latter of the 
 
 Jessica interest transferred to it, and the Episode of the Rings 
 
 generated out of it. [Pages 82, 88.] 
 
 Movement 
 
 Action-Movement : with Contrary Motion between the two Main 
 Actions. The First Main complicated and resolved by the Second 
 
 ' Stationary, as having no place in the movement of the plot ; its separate- 
 ness from the rest of the Jessica Action only for purposes of Tone-effect, as 
 Comic Relief. 
 
 ' ' External ' as not included in any action, ' Circumstance ' because it pre- 
 sents itself as a single detail instead of the series of details necessary to make 
 up an Action. An External Circumstance is analogous to an Enveloping 
 Action : outside the other Actions, yet in contact with them at certain points. 
 
 Dd 
 
402 APPENDIX. 
 
 Main [hero of Second, Bassanio, is Complicating Force ; heroine 
 of Second, Portia, is Resolving Force], the Complication assisted 
 by the External Circumstance of the Shipwrecks— in process of 
 resolving the First generates a Complication to the Second in the 
 form of the Episode of the Rings, which is self-resolved. [Pages 
 
 66, 375 •] 
 Motive Force : The Second Main Action thus serves as Motive 
 Action to the rest : assisted by the Motive Circumstance of the 
 Shipwreck. 
 
 Turning-Points 
 
 Centre of Plot : Scene of Bassanio's Choice (iii. ii.) in which the 
 
 Complicating and Resolving Forces are united and all the Four 
 
 Actions meet. [Pages 67-8.] 
 Catastrophe : Portia's Judgment in the Trial (iv. i, from 299). 
 
403 
 
 RICHARD THE THIRD 
 
 A Passion-Drama 
 Scheme of Actions 
 
 Main Nemesis Action : Life and Death of Richard. 
 
 Clarence has betrayed 
 the Lancastrians for the 
 sake of the House of 
 York: 
 
 Underplot : System of 
 Cross ilSreinesis Ac- 
 tions connecting Main 
 with York side of En- 
 veloping Action. 
 
 He falls by a treach- 
 erous death from the 
 King of the House of 
 York. — To this the 
 Queen and her kin- 
 dred have been assent- 
 ing parties [ii. ii. 62- 
 5]: 
 
 The shock of Clarence's 
 death as announced by 
 Gloster kills the King 
 (ii. i. 131), leaving the 
 Queen and her kindred 
 at the mercy of their ene- 
 mies. — Unseemly Ex- 
 ultation of their great 
 enemy Hastings : 
 
 The same treachery step 
 by step overtakes Hast- 
 ings in his Exultation 
 [iU. iv. 15-95). — In 
 this treacherous casting 
 off of Hastings when he 
 will no longer support 
 them Buckingham has 
 been a prime agent [Hi. 
 i, from 157; iii.ii. 114]: 
 
 By precisely similar 
 treachery Buckingham 
 himself is cast off when 
 he hesistates to go fur- 
 ther with Richard [iv. 
 .ii. and v. i]. 
 
 D d 2 
 
404 APPENDIX. 
 
 Link M"emeBia Action connecting Main with Lancaster side of 
 Enveloping Action : Marriage of Richard and Anne (page 113). 
 
 Enveloping ITemesis Action : The War of the Roses [the Duchess 
 of York introduced to mark the York side, Queen Margaret to 
 mark the Lancastrian side]. 
 
 Economy 
 
 All the Actions bound together by the Enveloping Action of which 
 
 they make up a phase. 
 Parallelism : the common form of Nemesis. 
 Central Personage : Richard. 
 
 Movement 
 
 fassion-Movement, with Similar Motion [form Nemesis repeated 
 
 throughout (page 373)]. 
 Motive Force : The Enveloping Action and Richard as Motive 
 Personage. [Page 395.] 
 
 Turning-points 
 
 Centre of Plot : Realisation of Margaret's Curses [turn of En- 
 veloping Action] in iii. iii. 15. 
 
 Catastrophe : Realisation of Nemesis in the Main Action : iv. ii, 
 from 45. 
 
405 
 
 MACBETH 
 
 A Passion-Drama 
 
 Scheme of Actions 
 
 I Main Character Action : Rise and Fall of Macbeth. 
 ( Character Counter- Action : Lady Macbeth. 
 
 / Character Sub-Action : covering and involved in the Rise : 
 ^ Banquo. 
 
 y Character Sub-Action : covering and involving the Fall r 
 ^ Macduff. [Pages 129, 142.] 
 Enveloping Supernatiiral Action : The Witches. 
 
 Economy 
 
 Parallelism : Triple form of Nemesis, Irony and Oracular Action 
 extending to the Main Action, to its parts the Rise and Fall 
 separately, and through to the Enveloping Action. 
 
 Contrast as a bond between the Main and Counter-Action. 
 
 Balance : the Rise by the Fall, the Sub-Action to the Rise by the 
 Sub-Action to the Fall. [Page 367.] 
 
 Movement 
 
 Passion-Movement, with Similar Motion between all. 
 Motive Force : The Main Action — partly assisted by Enveloping 
 Action. [Pages 387, 396.] 
 
 Turning-points 
 
 Centre of Plot : Change from unbroken success to unbroken 
 
 failure: iii. iii. 18. [Page 127.] 
 Catastrophe : Divided : First Shock of Nemesis : Appearance of 
 Banquo's Ghost (iii. iv). 
 Final Accumulation of Nemesis : Revela- 
 tion of Macduff's birth (v. viii. 12). 
 
4o6 
 
 JULIUS C^SAR 
 
 A Passion-Drama 
 
 Scheme of Actions 
 
 Main Tfemesis Action : Rise and Fall of the Republican Con- 
 spirators. 
 Sub-Action to the Rise [Charaeter-decline] : The Victim 
 j Ctesar. 
 
 ] Sub-Action to the Fall [Character-rise] : The Avenger An- 
 tony. 
 Enveloping Action : the Roman Mob. 
 
 Economy 
 
 Balance about the Centre : the Rise by the Fall, the Sub- Action to 
 the Rise by the Sub-Action to the Fall. 
 
 Movement 
 
 Passion- Movement, with Similar Motion between the Main and 
 Sub-Actions. [The form of the Main is distributed between the 
 two Sub-Actions : compare page 374.] 
 Motive Force : The Main Action, slightly assisted by the Envelop- 
 ing Action. (Page 396.) 
 
 Turning-points 
 
 The Centre of Plot and Catastrophe coincide: iii. i. between 121 
 and 122. 
 
407 
 
 KING LEAR 
 
 A Passion-Drama 
 
 Scheme of Actions 
 
 Main Plot : a Problem Action : Family of Lear : falling into 
 
 Generating Action : Lear's unstable settlement of the kingdom, 
 [the Problem]. power transformed from the good to the 
 
 bad. 
 
 "Double TTemesis Action : Lear receiving 
 good from the injured and evil from the 
 favoured children. 
 
 Tragic Action : Cordelia : Suffering of the 
 innocent. 
 
 Tragic Action : Goneril and Regan : Evil 
 passions endovi^ed with power using it 
 to work their own destruction. 
 
 System of Tragedies 
 [the Solution]. 
 
 Underplot : an Intrigue Action : Family of Gloucester : falling into 
 Generating Action : Gloucester deceived into reversing the 
 
 [the Intrigue]. 
 
 System of Tragedies 
 [its Nemesis]. 
 
 positions of Edgar and Edmund. 
 
 'Double Heraesis Action : Gloucester re- 
 ceiving good from the injured and evil 
 from the favoured child. 
 
 Tragic Action : Edgar : Suffering of the 
 innocent. 
 
 Tragic Actioi^ : Edmund : Power gained 
 by intrigue used for the destruction of 
 the intriguer. 
 
4o8 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Sub-Actions, linking 
 Main and Under- 
 plot, or different 
 elements of the 
 Main together. 
 
 First 
 Pair: 
 
 Central Link Personage between Main Plot and Underplot : Glou- 
 cester (page 376). 
 
 From the good side of. Crossing 
 the Main : Kent. & com- 
 j i- plicating 
 
 From the evil side of I one an- 
 *^ the Main : Oswald. ' other. 
 From the good side of the Main 
 assistingNemesis on Evil Agent 
 Second J of the Underplot : Albany. 
 Pair: 1 From the evil side of the Main as- 
 sisting Nemesis on Good Victim 
 of the Underplot: Cornwall. 
 Third Pair: Cross Intrigues between 
 the Evil sides of Main and Underplot 
 I Goneril and Edmund ) culminating in 
 ( Regan and Edmund ) 
 destruction of all three (v. iii. 96,221-7, 
 and compare 82 with 160). 
 
 Farcical Relief Action : The Fool: Stationary. 
 Enveloping Action : The French War : originating ultimately in ' 
 the Initial Action and becoming the Objective of the denoue- 
 ment. [Page 377.] 
 
 Economy 
 
 The Underplot dependent to the Main (page 366). 
 
 Especially : Parallelism and Contrast (page 367-9). 
 
 Central Linking by Gloucester. 
 
 Interweaving: Linking by Sub- Actions, &c., and movement to a 
 
 common Objective. 
 Envelopment in common Enveloping Action. 
 
 Movement 
 
 Passion-Movement, with Convergent Motion between the Main and 
 Underplot, and their parts : the Lear and Gloucester systems 
 by the visit to Gloucester's Castle drawn to a Central Focus and 
 then moving towards a common Objective in the Enveloping 
 Action. [Pages 376-7.] 
 
 Motive Force : The Motive Situation set up by the Generating 
 Actions. 
 
 Turning-points 
 
 Catastrophe : at the end of the Initial Action, the Problem being 
 
 set up in practical action (page 205). 
 Centre of Plot: the summit of emotional agitation when three 
 
 madnesses are brought into contact (page 223). 
 
409 
 
 OTHELLO 
 
 A Passion-Drama 
 Scheme of Actions 
 
 Three Tragic Actions : 
 
 I. Bianca's illicit liaison with Cassio — culminates in her being 
 
 arrested as his murderer (v. i. fin.). 
 3. Roderigo's pursuit of Desdemona — culminates in his murder. 
 
 3. True love of Othello and Desdemona — ends in jealousy, 
 murder, suicide. 
 
 Four Intrigues centering in lago: 
 
 4. lago versus Roderigo: to get money out of him and then 
 get rid of him (v. i. 14). — [Succeeds.] 
 
 5. lago versus Cassio : to get his place. [Arising out of Cassio's 
 appointment (i. i.) — successful (iii. iii. fin.).] 
 
 6. lago versus Cassio : to destroy him. [Arises out of general 
 hatred (v. i. 19) and marriage jealousy (ii. i. 316). — Partially 
 fails and assists the Reaction.] 
 
 7. lago versus Othello : to make him the victim of his own 
 jealousy. [Arises out of general hatred (i. i. init.) and 
 marriage jealousy (ii. i. 304, &c). — Succeeds.] 
 
 Beactiou : 
 
 8. Nemesis upon lago. — [All his Intrigues recoil on him : see 
 page 239.] 
 
 Faint Enveloping Action : The Turkish War. 
 
4IO APPENDIX. 
 
 Economy and Movement 
 
 The main Economy of the plot lies in the Convergent Motion of 
 all the Actions to a common Culmination with Reaction. Chiefly 
 through a series of Link Devices : 
 By the device of making Cassio the object of Othello's jealousy 
 (i. iii. 400) : 
 Nos. 6 and 7 are merged in one action. 
 By the device of making Cassio in his repentance utilise 
 Desdemona (ii. iii. 319) : 
 No. 3 is made to work in with Nos. 6 and 7. 
 By the device of making Cassio the object of Roderigo's 
 jealousy (ii. i. from 220)— and the device of utilising the 
 Commission (iv. ii. 220) : 
 No. 2 is made to co-operate with Nos. 6 and 7, and at the 
 
 same time with No. 4: 
 Thus Nos. 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 are now merged in one action. 
 By the device of the handkerchief (iii. iii. 321) : 
 No. I is worked in to No. 7 : 
 
 Thus all the actions are united in one common movement. 
 Motive Force : lago is the Motive Personage of the plot : source 
 of the Intrigues, and of the convergence of the Actions, and 
 object of the Reaction. 
 
 Turning-points 
 
 Catastrophe : v. ii. 140 : First hint of the Reaction. 
 Centre of Plot: iii. iii. 90: Climax of Main Action (No. 3) before 
 its Fall begins. 
 
411 
 
 THE TEMPEST 
 
 An Action-Drama 
 Constructed in the Scenic Unities of the Classical Drama'. 
 
 Scheme of Actions 
 
 Main Plot : A pair of Motive Counter-Actions. 
 
 Complicating Intrigue Action : Conspiracy of Antonio and 
 Sebastian against Prospero. 
 
 / Sub-Action to the Complicating Action : In- 
 
 -, . ^ , 1 trigue of Sebastian and Antonio against 
 Motive Sub-J . , 
 
 <■ Alonso. 
 
 /Sub-Action to the Resolving Action: Ariel 
 
 ' and the invisible music. 
 
 Resolving Providence Action : Prospero on the Island. 
 
 / On the Complicating side \^Judgment'\ : Cali- 
 
 Preparation \ ban and Prospero (i. ii). 
 
 Sub- Actions. \ On the Resolving side [Mercy] : Ariel's de- 
 
 ' liverance (i. ii). 
 
 Underplot : A pair of Dependent Link Actions, motived with the 
 
 Main Plot. 
 
 / Love of Ferdinand and Miranda : linking the children of 
 
 ) the two sides of the play. 
 
 \ Conspiracy of Caliban and Stephano : linking the servants 
 
 ^ of the two sides of the play. 
 
 Mechanical Personages, outside the strict movement yet faintly 
 
 motived with the Main and Underplot (see page 261). 
 
 ( The Crowd of Sailors, led by Boatswain. 
 
 ( The Crowd of Courtiers, led by Gonzalo. 
 
 Enveloping Supernatural Action : Enchantment. 
 
 ' Actions outside the scenic vinity are printed in italics. 
 
412 APPENDIX. 
 
 Economy 
 
 Dependence and Linking between Main and Underplot. 
 Parallelism between separate parts of Underplot and Mechanical 
 
 Personages. 
 Common Envelopment. 
 
 Movement 
 
 Action-Movement. Counter-Action between the two main Actions : 
 the Resolving Action further complicates the opening compli- 
 cation, and finally resolves it (v. i. 20) — Similar Motion between 
 Main and Underplot (and Mechanical Personages)— Contrary 
 Motion between the separate members of each — all the actions 
 Convergent by the link Prospero to the final scene of universal 
 restoration. 
 Motive Force. Two Motive Personages : Antonio of the Complica- 
 tion, Prospero (with the aid of the Enveloping Action) of the 
 Resolution. 
 
 Turning-Points 
 
 Centre of Plot : In Act iii the different Actions successively reach 
 
 their full complication. [See page 378 note.] 
 Catastrophe : The change from Judgment to Mercy : v. i. 20. 
 Further Resolution: The Resolving Force demotived: Prospero 
 
 renouncing his enchantment (v. i. 51). 
 
413 
 
 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST 
 
 An Action-Drama 
 Scheme of Actions 
 
 Main Humour Action : The Celibate Scheme disconcerted by 
 the French Embassy : rises in complication out of the initial 
 situation and self-resolved. — Falls into two phases : 
 
 Artificial attitude of Celibates to one another — breaks down 
 
 (iv. iii) and abandoned. 
 Artificial attitude of Celibates to ladies ; gradually abandoned 
 (from iv, iii). 
 
 Underplot. 
 
 Two Character-Groups : 
 
 {a) Armado : set off by Moth, Custard, Jaquenetta, &c. 
 [Euphuism.] 
 
 {b) Holofemes : set off by Nathaniel and Dull. [Pedantry.] 
 Out of which rise two Sub-Actions : 
 
 (A) Intrigue Sub- Action of Armado and Jaquenetta — setting 
 off first phase of main Action and Complications. 
 
 (B) Farcical Sub-Action : Pageant of the Worthies — setting 
 off second phase of the Main Action and Resolution. 
 
 Enveloping Motive Action : The king of France's illness [generat- 
 ing the Complication] and Death [bringing about a Further 
 Resolution]. 
 
 Economy 
 
 Common Envelopment. 
 
 The Underplot and Main by Dependence. 
 
4 1 4 APPENDIX. 
 
 Movement 
 
 Action-Movement of Complication and Resolution [with Further 
 Resolution by a turn in the Enveloping Action : page 297-8]. 
 — Similar Motion between Main and Underplot. 
 
 Motive Force : The whole movement comes from the Initial Motive 
 Situation (page 395) : this from the Enveloping Action in conflict 
 with the Complicating Circumstance of the Vow of Celibacy. — 
 The Further Resolution motived by the Enveloping Action. 
 
 Turning-points 
 
 Centre of Plot: The Discovery Scene (iv. iii). See page 378 note. 
 Catastrophe : v. ii. 522 : the Representatives of conventionality 
 
 join in ridiculing their own pageant. 
 Further Resolution : v. ii. 723 : Entrance of Mercade with news 
 
 of the king of France's death. 
 
41^ 
 
 AS YOU LIKE IT 
 
 An Action-Drama 
 
 Scheme of Actions 
 
 Frame: A System of Enveloping Actions, one within another 
 (pages 363-5) : 
 
 Outer Enveloping Action : Civil War of the Dukes. 
 Inner Enveloping Action : Feud in the De Boys family. 
 Woodland Action : Life in Arden Forest. 
 Humour Action : Melancholy of Jaques. 
 
 These form a setting to 
 
 Main Plot : A System of Four Love Actions : 
 
 1. Love and (Genuine) Humour : Orlando and Rosalind : 
 
 initiated in complication out of the Enveloping Action 
 and self-resolved. 
 
 2. Love at first sight : Oliver and Celia : initiated out of the 
 
 Frame and consummated. 
 
 3. Conventional Pastoral Love : Silvius and Phoebe : rises out 
 
 of the Frame, complicated and resolved by No. I. 
 
 4. Love and (Professional) Humour : initiated out of the 
 
 Frame Actions and consummated. 
 
 [Half-developed Character Sub-Action : Adam — ignored after 
 second act.] 
 
 Economy 
 
 Actions united by Common Envelopment and Movement. 
 
GENERAL INDEX. 
 
 *»* for particular Characters or Scenes see ttnder their respective plays. 
 
 Abbott, Dr., quoted 15. 
 Academy, French 18. 
 Achilles and the River-god 193. 
 
 Action a fundamental element of 
 Drama 323-5 — its threefold di\i- 
 sion 324 — Plot as pure Action 325 
 — or the intellectual side of Action 
 356. 
 
 Action, Analysis of: 360-5 — canons 
 of Analj-sis 360-1. 
 
 ' Action-Drama ' as substitute for 
 • Comedy ' 372-3. 
 
 Action, Economy of : 365-9. Gen- 
 eral notion and coimection with 
 Analysis 365 — Economic Forms 
 365-6 — Connection and Linking 
 365-6 — Dependence 366 — Sym- 
 metry 366-9 — Balance 367— Par- 
 allelism and Contrast 367-9 — 
 Economy in Technical Analyses 
 of the plays 401-16. 
 
 Action, Enveloping 361-5 — Illus- 
 trations : Richard III ^61 — 1 1 1- 
 2 — Macbeth 362 — -Jiilitis Cicsar 
 363 — J^ifig Lectr 362-3 — As Ycu 
 Like It 363-5. 
 
 Actions, focussing of : 209. 
 
 Action, Forms of Dramatic : 35S-9, 
 125, 202. 
 
 Action, Schemes of in Technical 
 Anal}-ses, 401-16. 
 
 Action, Single and Complex 324, 
 357. &C. 
 
 Action, Systems of: 108, 110, 
 208. 
 
 Action, Unit}' of: 14, 324, 3.S8-9 — 
 unity of action in Modem Drama 
 becomes haimony 359. 
 
 Actions, Varieties of: Character- 
 
 Action 358; Comic Action 35S, 
 401 ; Enveloping 361-5 ; Farcical 
 408 ; Generating 407 ; Humorous 
 3,=iS, 413 ; Initial and Resultant 
 208 ; Intrigue 358, 207 ; Irony 
 358; Link 81, 208; Main and 
 Subordinate 359; Motive 35S; 
 Nemesis 358, &c ; Oracular 35S, 
 &c ; Problem 358, 202 ; Provi- 
 dence 411; Relief 401, 40S : 
 Rise and Fall 35S, 119, 127; 
 Stationary 401 ; Story 35 8 ; Super- 
 natural 411; Tragic 358, 407 : 
 Triple 358, 125, 143. 
 
 Actor, Acting 98, 321. \_Su Stage- 
 Representation.] 
 
 Addison : on scientific progress 5 — 
 his Critique of Paradise Lost 16 — 
 his list of English poets 16 — his 
 Cato 17, 19 — on rules of art 30 — 
 on Rymer 21. 
 
 Affectations attacked by Humour 
 the Central \&^&oi Ltrae' s Labonr^s 
 Lost 2S5 — compare As You Like 
 It 30a 
 
 Analysis as a stage in scientific de- 
 velopment 31 8. 
 
 Analysis, Dramatic : 360. {See 
 Action, Analysis of.] 
 
 Ancient Drama J25, 3S7 — Mixture 
 of Tones an impossibility 345 — 
 the Supernatural its leading Mo- 
 tive 3S7 — its unity of action dif- 
 ferent from that of the Modem 
 Drama 359. 
 
 Ancient Thought, points of differ- 
 ence from Modem: 44, 125-7, 
 
 137- 
 Antigone and Poetic Justice 367. 
 
 £62 
 
420 
 
 GENERAL INDEX. 
 
 Antithesis of Outer and Inner (or 
 Practical and Intellectual) Life 
 144-6 — as an element in Character- 
 Interpretation 146 — applied to 
 the age of Macbeth 147 — key to 
 the portraiture of Macbeth and 
 his wife i47-i67^^applied to the 
 age of Julius Csesar in the form 
 of policy V. justipe 168-71 — con- 
 nected with character of Antony 
 182, Brutus 171-6, C^sar 176- 
 81, Cassius 181 — applied to the 
 group as a whole 183-4. 
 
 Apparitions : Richard III 122, Mac- 
 feM 135-6, 140, 167, 389-91. \iiee 
 Supernatural.] 
 
 Arch as an illustration of dramatic 
 form 127, 372 — applied to the 
 Movement va Julius Ctesar 186, 
 372— ^to jnng Lear: Main Plot 
 20g — Underplot 215-7. 
 
 Aristotle : his criticism inductive 1 6 
 — ^judicial 16 — his position in the 
 progress of Induction 320. — made 
 Stage-Representation a division of 
 Dramatic Criticism 321 — on the 
 purification of our emotions in the 
 Drama 386, 
 
 Art applied to the repulsive and 
 trivial 90 — common terms in the 
 different arts j68 — Dramatic Art 
 40, 317, &c. — Art in general affords 
 a fundamental basis for the Ana- 
 lysis of Drama 323 — concrete and 
 abstract elements in all the arts 
 alike 323. 
 
 As You Like It, Play of; How it 
 presents various forms of Humour 
 in conflict with a single Con- 
 ventionality 300 and Chapter XV 
 — compared with Love's Labour 's 
 Lost 299, 300. — Three types of 
 Humour : Healthy (Rosalind) 
 
 300, Professional (Touchstone) 
 
 301, Morbid (Jaqnes) 301-6 — 
 The Pastoral Conventionality 306 
 — The three Humours in conflict 
 with the Pastoral Conventionality 
 307-9 — the three Humours in 
 conflict with one another 309-13. 
 
 The play as a study of 
 
 Dramatic Colouring 300 and 
 Chapter XV. Affords ex- 
 
 amples of (Comic) Tone-Storm 
 347 — Irony of Circumstances 388 
 note. 
 
 As You Like It, Characters in: 
 Audrey 307. Corin 307. 
 Jaques : his disputed character 
 301 — explained as the morbid 
 humour of melancholy^ 302-6 — 
 Jaques in contrast with the Duke 
 and his followers 304-6 — with the 
 pastoral surroundings 304 — with 
 Orlando sii^with the Fool 306, 
 311 — with Rosalind 305, 312. 
 Phoebe 307. Rosalind: re- 
 
 presentative of healthy humour 
 300, 306 — her disguise a humor- 
 ous situation embodied 307 — in 
 conflict with the pastoral sur- 
 roundings 307 — with the Fool 
 309-10 — with Jaques 305, 312. 
 Silvius 307. Touchstone : 
 
 representative of professional hu- 
 mour 301 — in conflict with the 
 pastoral surroundings 308 — with 
 Rosalind 309-10 — with Jaques 
 311. William 307. 
 
 As You Like It, Plot of: Technical 
 Analysis 415-6. — Its Enveloping 
 Action as Motive Force 396 — 
 Further Resolution 380 — Rosalind 
 a Motive Personage 395. 
 
 Background, Dramatic 327, 329, 
 247-9. 
 
 Background of Nature as an element 
 in dramatic effect 192-4, compare 
 327, 3291:— its widespread use in 
 poetry 192 — analysed 192 — illus- 
 trated in Julius Ccesar in con- 
 nection with the Supernatural 
 193-6 — used in Centrepiece of 
 King Lear 214 — plays a great 
 part in The Tempest 247-51, 
 326^considered as an example 
 of the Supernatural illuminating 
 human action 393. 
 
 Balance 82 — as an Economic form 
 367— j«e Technical Analyses 
 401-16. 
 
GENERAL INDEX. 
 
 421 
 
 Betrothed, The : as example of Ora- 
 cular Action 132. 
 
 Blank Verse 13, and see Metrical 
 Variation. 
 
 Catastrophe, or Focus of Movement : 
 378-9 — Examples 378-9 — in 
 Technical Analyses 40) -16. 
 
 Central Ideas: 264 and Chapter 
 XIII, 329.— Theory of 264— dis- 
 tinction between direct and indi- 
 rect bearing 265 — relation to 
 IJramatic Colouring 329 — illus- 
 trated in Tempest 266 and Chap- 
 ter XIII — Love's Labo-Ur's Lost 
 284 and Chapter XIV, &c. 
 
 Central Personages 119 — Gloucester 
 in King Lear 376, 408 — Richard 
 404. 
 
 Centre, Dramatic 68, 186 — Shake- 
 speare's fondness for centrall effects 
 186, 378. 
 
 Centre of Plot 378 — Exariiples 378- 
 9 — in Technical Analyses 401- 
 16. 
 
 Character: as an element in Judg- 
 ment 56 — as an Elementary Topic 
 of Dramatic Criticism 324 — sub- 
 divided 325. 
 
 Character, Interest of: 330 and 
 Chapter XVII. Character in 
 Drama presented concretely 330. 
 
 Unity in Character'Interest 
 330-2 — Complexity in Character- 
 Interest 332-5 — Development in 
 Character-Interest 335-7. 
 Character- Interpretation 330-2. 
 
 Character-Foils 332 — Con- 
 trast 333 — Duplication 333 — 
 Grouping 334. 
 
 Character-Contrast as a general term 
 333-.5— strictly so-called 333, 144 
 and Chapter VII — as an Ele- 
 mentary Topic of Dramatic Criti- 
 cism 325 — Illustrations: Mer- 
 chant of Venice 82-7 — Macbeth 
 144 and Chapter NM— Julius 
 Casar 17^, &c. 
 
 Character-Development 335-7 — Il- 
 lustration : Macbeth 335-7. 
 
 Character- Duplication 333 — 11- 
 lustrations : Murderers in liich- 
 ard III, &c. 334. 
 
 Character- Foils 332 — Illustra- 
 tions : Jessica to Lorenzo 85 — 
 Jessica and Lorenzo to Portia and 
 Bassanio 86— Cassius and Caesar 
 179. 
 
 Character-Grouping described 168 — 
 Illustrations : Julius Casar 169 
 and Chapter VIII — Othello 225-7 
 — Love's Labour's Lost 335 and 
 293-7- 
 
 Character-Interpretation 325, 330-2 
 — of the nature of a scientific 
 hypothesis 330 — canons of inter- 
 pretation 331-2 — applied to 
 more than one Character becomes 
 Character-Contrast 333 — analy- 
 tical in its nature 186 — Illustra- 
 tions : Richard III 90 and 
 Chapter IV — Jaques in As You 
 Like It 301-6. 
 
 Chess with living pieces, an illustra- 
 tion of Passion 185. 
 
 Circumstance External 401. 
 
 Clash of Tones 345. {See Tone.] 
 
 Classical Drama 125, 387 : see 
 Ancient. 
 
 Classification a stage in development 
 of Inductive Method 318, 319. 
 
 Climax in Passion-Movement 1S5-7 
 — applied to Julius Casar 1 86-8 
 and Chapter IX. Illustrated, 
 in King Lear 202 and Chapter X. 
 Gradual rise to the climax of the 
 Main Plot 209-15— the climax 
 itself 215-^climax of Underplot 
 2 1 5-8 — climax of the play double 
 217 — and triple 218, 223 — double 
 in Tempest 276-9. 
 
 Colouring, Dramatic : 328, 329— 
 connection with Central Ideas 329 
 — Illustrations : Macbeth 328 — 
 Tempest 246 and Chapter XIII — 
 As You Like It 300 and Chapter 
 ^W— Othello 328. 
 
 ' Comedy ' unsuitable as a term in 
 Shakespeare-Criticism 372-3. 
 
 Comic as a Tone, 344. 
 
422 
 
 GENERAL INDEX. 
 
 Complex distinguished from Com- 
 plicated 74 (note) — applied to Plot 
 of Merchant of Venice 74 and 
 Chapter III — Complexity distin- 
 guishes the plot of King Lear as 
 compared with that of Julius 
 CtzsarlS6 — traced in plot of King 
 Lear 202, 208-9, ^<=- — °°t incon- 
 sistent with simplicity 208, 74 — 
 an element of Action 325 — ap- 
 plied to Character 332, Passion 
 343, Plot 359. 
 
 Complicated distinguished from 
 Complex 74 (note) — Complicated 
 Movement 370-2. 
 
 Complicating Force 67. 
 
 Complication and Resolution 66, 
 370 — Illustration : Merchant of 
 Venice 67. 
 
 Connection as an Economic form 365 
 — by Link Personages and Actions 
 366 — by Interweaving 366 — by 
 common Envelopment 366. 
 
 Construction and Creation as pro- 
 cesses in Character-Painting 30. 
 
 Contrast as an Economic Form 367 ; 
 compare Tables 401-16. 
 
 Courage, active and passive 146, 1 79. 
 
 Creation and Construction as pro- 
 cesses in Character-Painting 30. 
 
 Criticism, h friori ^4, 37. \See 
 Criticism, Judicial.] 
 
 Criticism, Dramatic ; as an Induc- 
 tive Science 40, 317, &c. — surveyed 
 in outline 317 — indirectly by 
 Studies 317 — its definition 318-2.^ 
 — its method 318-20 — its field 320 
 -23 — distinguished from Literary 
 Criticism in general 321 — relation 
 of Dramatic Art to Stage-Repre- 
 sentation 321-3 — Drama and 
 Representation separable in ex- 
 position not in idea 322-3 — 
 fundamental divisions of Dramatic 
 Criticism 323-5 — its elementary 
 Topics tabulated , 325, 329 — 
 General Table of its Topics 398. 
 
 Criticism: History of 7-21. \See 
 Criticism Judicial, Shakespeare- 
 Criticism.] 
 
 Criticism, Inductive : distinguished 
 from Judicial 2 — the two illus- 
 trated by the case of Ben Jonson 
 2-4 — confusion of the two 4 — 
 gradual development of Inductive 
 method in the history of Criticism 
 17-21 — sphere of Inductive Criti- 
 cism separate from that of the 
 Criticism of Taste 2 1 — three main 
 points of contrast between Induc- 
 tive and Judicial Criticism 27-40 
 — (i) as to comparisons of merit 
 27-32 — (2) as to the 'Jaws' of 
 Art 32-7 — (3) as to fixity of 
 standard 37-40. Diffleulties 
 
 of Inductive Criticism : want of 
 positiveness in the subject-matter 
 23-5 — absence of 'design' in 
 authors 26 — objection as to the 
 ignoring of moral purpose 35 — 
 arbitrariness of literary creation 
 35-7. Principles and 
 
 Axioms of Inductive Criticism. 
 Its foundation Axiom : Interpreta- 
 tion is of the nature of a scientific 
 hypothesis 25 — its antagonism to 
 comparisons of merit 27-9 — con- 
 cerned with differences of kind 
 ratherthan degree 29-32 — Axiom: 
 Its function to distinguish literary 
 species 32 — principle that each 
 writer is a species to himself 30-^ 
 — the laws of Art scientific laws 
 32-7 — Inductive Criticism has no 
 province to deal with faults 34 — 
 Axiom : Art a part of Nature 36 
 — Axiom : Literature a thing of 
 development 37 — development to 
 be applied equally to past and 
 new literature 38. Illustra- 
 
 tions of Inductive Criticism. Ap- 
 plied by Addison 16, 20; Aristotle 
 16; Fortenelle 19; Perrault 19; 
 Gervinus 20; Dr. Johnson 16. — 
 Applied to the character of Mac- 
 beth 24 ; Music 29 ; to Charlotte 
 Bronte and George Eliot 30; 
 Beethoven 34. 
 
 Criticism, Judicial : distinguished 
 from Inductive 2 — the two illus- 
 trated by the case of Ben Jonson 
 2-4 — confusion of the two 4 — 
 
GENERAL INDEX. 
 
 423 
 
 three main points of contrast be- 
 tween Judicial and Inductive Criti- 
 cism 2 7-40 — (i) as to comparisons 
 of merit 27-32 — (2) as to the 
 'laws' of Art 32-7— (3) as to 
 fixity of standard 37-40. Il- 
 
 legitimate supremacy of Judicial 
 method in Criticism 4 — connected 
 with influence of Renaissance 
 4 — and Journalism 5 — defence : 
 Theory of Taste as condensed 
 experience 6 — the theory ex- 
 amined : judicial spirit a limit on 
 appreciation 6. History of 
 
 Judicial Criticism a triumph of 
 authors over critics 7-21. Case 
 of Shakespeare-Criticism 8-1 1 — 
 other authors 11-13 — defeat of 
 Judicial Criticism in the great 
 literary questions 13-15 — its fail- 
 ure to distinguish the permanent 
 and transitory 15 — its tendency to 
 become obsolete 16 — its gradual 
 modification in the direction of 
 Inductive method 17-21. 
 Proper sphere of Judicial Criticism 
 21 — outside science 21 — and be- 
 longing to creative literature 21. 
 Vices of Judicial Criticism : 
 its arbitrary method of eliminating 
 variability of impression in literary 
 effect 24 — its fondness for com- 
 parisons of merit 27 — its attempt 
 to limit by 'laws' 32-5 — its as- 
 sumption of fixed standards 37-9 
 — its confusion of development 
 with improvement 39. Il- 
 
 lustrations of Judicial Criticism : 
 applied by the French Academy 
 18 ; Aristotle 16 ; Boileau 16, 18 ; 
 Byron 14; Dennis 19; Dryden 9, 
 12, 13, 17; Edwards 9; Hallam 
 1 2 ; Heywood i o ; Jeffrey 12; Dr. 
 Johnson 10, 12, 16, 19, 20; Lans- 
 downe 9 ; Macaulay 13 ; Otway 9 ; 
 Pope 10, 19; Rymer 8, 14, 17; 
 Steevens 12, 15; Theobald 10; 
 Voltaire 9, 14, 17. — Applied to 
 Addison's Cato 17; Beethoven 34; 
 Bronte 30 ; Buckingham 1 7 ; Eliot 
 (Geo.) 30 ; Gray 12 ; Greek 
 Drama 30 ; Herodotus 39 ; Jonson 
 
 (Ben) 2, 17; Keats 12; Milton 
 II, 12, 14, 17, 39; Montgomery 
 1 3 ; Roscommon 1 7 ; Skakespeare's 
 Plays 8-1 1, &c.; Shakespeare's 
 Sonnets 12; Spenser 12, 17; 
 Taylor (Jeremy) 39; Waller 17; 
 Walsh 17; Waverley Novels 12; 
 Wordsworth 12. 
 
 Criticism of Assaying 2, 6. \See 
 Criticism, Judicial.] 
 
 Criticism of Taste 2, 6, 21-2. \See 
 Criticism, Judicial.] 
 
 Cross Nemeses 401, 403, 47, 51. 
 
 Dancing (Greek) 321. 
 
 Dependence as an Economic form 
 366. 
 
 Derationalisation 247. \See Super- 
 natural.] 
 
 Design, its significance in Criticism 
 26. 
 
 Destiny interwoven vrith Nemesis in 
 Macbeth 125 and Chapter VI — 
 conception of it in Ancient and 
 Modern Thought 125, 387 — 
 phases of Destiny in Modem 
 Drama 127 — the Oracular Action 
 one phase of Destiny 130 — Irony 
 as a phase of Destiny 137-43 — 
 Destiny acting objectively387-8 — 
 rationalised in Modem Drama 387 
 — as a subjective force, Infatuation 
 388-9 — rationalised in Shake- 
 speare 388-9. 
 
 Development in literature 37-9 — as 
 an element of Action 324-5 — 
 applied to character 335-7. 
 
 Devices for increasing emotional 
 strain 196. 
 
 Differentiation of matter accompany- 
 ing progress of Inductive Science 
 320 — applied to Dramatic Criti- 
 cism 320-3. 
 
 Difficulties, Reduction of 326, 329. 
 
 Dividing line. Mystery of 2 78. 
 
 Drama : the word ' drama ' 324 — 
 Drama a compound art 321 — the 
 Shakespearean branch of the Ro- 
 mantic Drama 43 — ^its relations 
 with Stage-Representation 321-3, 
 98 — one of its purposes to inter- 
 pret the beauty of fate 386. 
 
424 
 
 GENERAL INDEX. 
 
 Dramatic Satire J. 
 
 Dryden on Spenser 12,17 — on Blank 
 Verse I ■^—\As, Essay on the Drama 
 13 — his Essay on Satire 13 — on 
 Milton's Blank Verse 17 — on 
 Shakespeare's English 15. 
 
 Duplication 333. 
 
 Dynamics of Plot 370 and Chapter 
 XX. \See Motive Form and 
 Motive Force.] 
 
 Economic Devices in Othello 234. 
 
 Economy of Action 365-9 \see Ac- 
 tion] — Constructive 326, 329 — an 
 economy in Richard's Villainy 100 
 — in providential workings 275. 
 
 Effect as a general term in Dramatic 
 Criticism 340 — strictly so-called 
 lb. — an element of Passion ib. — 
 distinguished from Situation and 
 Incident 338 — described 340-3. 
 Special Effects : Irony 340, 
 Nemesis 342, Dramatic Fore- 
 shadowing 342. 
 
 Elemental Beings 255-9 — Ariel up- 
 ward-tending (Air and Fire) 256 
 — Caliban downwatd - tending 
 (Earth and Water) 256. 
 
 Elevated as a Tone 344. 
 
 Enveloping Action 361-5, iii. 
 Illustrations : Richard III 1 1 1- 
 12 — King Lear 362-3 — Love's 
 Labour'' s Lost 297-9 — As You 
 Like It 363-5. Analogous to 
 External Circumstances 401 (note) 
 — in Technical Analyses 401-16. 
 
 Envelopment as a kind of Connec- 
 tion 366. 
 
 Euphuism in Brutus's oration 175 — 
 in Love's Labour's Lost 286 — as a 
 dramatic weapon 288. 
 
 External Circumstance 401 (note). 
 
 Farcical as a Tone 344, 345. 
 
 Fascination as an element in human 
 influence 97. 
 
 Fate, determinants of in Drama 
 380-1 \see Motive Force] — fate 
 other than retributive included in 
 Poetic Justice 383— function of 
 Drama to interpret beauty of fate 
 38£-6. 
 
 Fault as a critical term 32, 34. 
 Focussing of trains of passion in 
 
 King Lear 209. 
 Foils 332. \See Character.] 
 Fool, Institution of the Court : 
 
 218-20 — Fool in King Lear 
 
 220-3 — ™ -^^ ^"^ ^^^' ^^ 3°' 
 
 — Clown in Othello 348. 
 Foreshadowing, Dramatic 342-3, 
 
 201. 
 Frame (Enveloping Action') 363-5. 
 Free Trade and Free Art 35. 
 
 Gervinus 11, 20, 127, 372. 
 Gloucester: see King Lear and 
 
 Richard III. 
 Grouping 334. \See Character.] 
 
 Hamlet, Play of 390. 
 
 Hedging, Dramatic 60, 78, 327, 329. 
 Illustrations : Shylock 58-61 ; 
 Richard III 105 ; Brutus 176. 
 
 Henry V an example of Preparation 
 Stage 240. 
 
 Heroic as a Tone 344. 
 
 Heroic couplet 30. 
 
 History, its interpretation of events 
 compared with the effect of the 
 Oracular Action 392. 
 
 Homer : Episode of Achilles and 
 the River-god 193 — Iliad 23, 193. 
 
 Human Interest one of the two lead- 
 ing divisions of Drama 324 — 
 further divided ib. 
 
 Humour: the word analysed 284- 
 5. Humour as the Solvent 
 
 of Affectation in Love's Labour 's 
 Lost 284 and Chapter XIV. 
 Humour in As You Like It, three 
 types: Healthy Humour of 
 Rosalind 30c — Professional Hu- 
 mour of Touchstone 301 — Morbid 
 Humour of Jaques 301-6 — the 
 three Humours in conflict with 
 thePastoral Conventionality 307-9 
 — the three in conflict with one 
 another 309-13. Humour 
 
 as a climax of Tone-Clash 346, 
 162-3— as a dramatic Motive 386. 
 
 Hybris 49, 389. 
 
 Hysterical passion in King Lear 
 210-15. 
 
GENERAL INDEX. 
 
 425 
 
 lago compared with Richard III 
 92 — self-deceived loi. [See 
 
 Othello:\ 
 
 Idealisation as a dramatic effect 51 
 —applied to the Caskets Story 
 51-4 — of Incident 97. 
 
 Iliad 23, 193. 
 
 Imitation as a force in developing 
 madness 214-5. 
 
 Incident as a division of Passion 338 
 ■ — distinguished from Situation and 
 Effect ib. Illustrations : 338-9. 
 
 Inclined Plane as a form of Passion- 
 Movement 372. 
 
 Inconsistency in characters a mark 
 of unfinished Interpretation 331. 
 
 Indirect elements of Character-In- 
 terpretation 331, 86. 
 
 Individuality of authorship corre- 
 sponds to differentiation of species 
 39 — individuality an element in 
 the Inner Life 169. 
 
 Induction : its connection with facts 
 I — application to literature 22- 
 40. {See Criticism, Inductive.] 
 Stages in the development of In- 
 ductive Science 318-20 — its pro- 
 gress accompanied by differentia- 
 tion of subject-matter 320 — appli- 
 cation to Science of Dramatic 
 Criticism 317 and Chapters XVI 
 to XX — to the definition of Dra- 
 matic Criticism 318. 
 
 Infatuation : Destiny acting as a 
 subjective force 388 — prominence 
 in Ancient Ethics 388 — traces in 
 Scripture expression 389 — ra- 
 tionalised by Shakespeare 389. 
 Illustrations : Antonio 
 389, 49 ; Caesar 197 ; Macbeth 
 
 389. 
 Inner Life 144-6, {See Antithesis 
 
 of, &c.] 
 Interference as a form of Contrary 
 
 Motion 375 — Illustrated in As 
 
 Vou Like It and Merchant of 
 
 Venice 375. 
 Interpretation by the actor an ele- 
 
 mentin dramatic analysis 98. {See 
 
 Character-Interpretation.] 
 Interweaving of Stories 43-4, 58, 
 
 66-73, 74 and Chapter III, 81-2, 
 
 87-8 — of light and serious Stories 
 69-73. {See Story.] In- 
 
 terweaving as a kind of Connec- 
 tion 366 — compare Technical 
 Analyses 401-16. 
 
 Intoxication as a counterpart to en- 
 chantment 261. 
 
 Intrigue Action 207-8 — in the Un- 
 derplot of King Lear 207-8 — In- 
 trigues of Goneril and Regan 
 206, 407 — in the plot of Othello 
 227. 
 
 Irony as a phase of Destiny 137-9 
 — the word 'irony' 137 — Iroiiy of 
 Socrates ib. — illustrated by Story 
 of CEdipus 138 — in language of 
 Scripture 138 — modified in mo- 
 dem conception 138-9— connected 
 with Oracular Action 139 — com- 
 iained with Nemesis, 383 — as an 
 objective presentation of Destiny 
 387-8 — Irony of Circumstances 
 388 (note), 341. Dramatic 
 
 Irony as example of mixed Passion 
 73 — as a mqde of emphasising 
 Nemesis 11 5-9, 120 — as one of 
 the triple Forms of Action in 
 Macbeth 139-42 — as a Dramatic 
 Effect 340-2 — this a. contribution 
 of the Greek Stage 341 — Dramatic 
 Irony extended to the language of 
 a scene 342 — Comic Irony 342, 
 346. Illustrations : in 
 
 Merchant of Venice 73, 342 ; 
 Richard III 11 5-9, 120, 121, 
 341, 383 ; Macbeth 139-42, 383; 
 Macduff 143 ; Banquo 142 ; the 
 Witches' Action 143 ; proclamation 
 of Cumberland 387-8; Julius 
 Ccesar 341, 197 ; King Lear 341 ; 
 Story of (Edipus 341 ; As You 
 Like It 388 (note); Othello 341, 
 243- 
 
 Jealousy: the word 'Jealousy' 225 
 (note) — colours the pliiy of Othello 
 225-7. 
 
 Jester 218. {See Fool.] 
 
 Jew, Story of : 44, &c. {See Story.] 
 — Feud of Jew and Gentile 60— 
 Jews viewed as social outcasts 83. 
 
 Job, Book of : its conclusion as an 
 
426 
 
 GENERAL INDEX. 
 
 example of Dramatic Background 
 of Nature 192. 
 
 Johnson, Dr. : on Shakespeare 10- 
 II, 20 — on Milton's minor poems 
 II — on Blank Verse 14 — on 
 Metaphysical Poetry 16 — on Ad- 
 dison's Cato 19 — on the Unities 20. 
 
 Jonson, Ben : 2-4 — his Dramatic 
 Satires 3 — his Blank Verse 13 — 
 his Catiline 17. 
 
 Journalism : its influence on critical 
 method 5 — place of Reviewing in 
 literary classification 21-2. 
 
 Judicial Blindness 201, 38S. \See 
 Infatuation.] 
 
 Julius Ccesar, Play of: 168-201, 
 Chapters VIII and IX. As an 
 example of Character-Grouping 
 168 and Chapter VIII, 334— 
 as a study of Passion and Move- 
 ment 185 and Chapter IX. 
 
 Julius Ccesar, Characters in : An- 
 tony balances Csesar 129 — spared 
 by the Conspirators 171 — con- 
 trasted by Csesar with Cassius 
 1 79-80 — his general character 
 182-3 — its culture 179-80 — self- 
 seeking 182 — affection for Caesar 
 183, 199 — his position in the 
 group of characters 183, 184 — 
 peculiar tone of his oratory 198 
 — dominant spirit of the reaction 
 198 — upspringing of a character 
 in him 1 98 — his ironical concilia- 
 tion of the conspirators 199 — his 
 oration 199-200 — Antony's ser- 
 vant 198. Artemidorus 196. 
 Brutus : general character 
 1 71-6 — its equal balance 17 1-5 — 
 its force 171 — softness 173 — this 
 concealed under Stoicism 173, 
 1 74-5, 183 — his culture 173 — 
 relations with his Page 173-4 — 
 with Portia 173-4 — '"'''h Csesar 
 175 — slays Csesar for what he 
 might become 175 — position in 
 the State 176 — relations with 
 Cassius 172, 173, 182 — overrules 
 Cassius in council 172 — his gene- 
 ral position in the Grouping 183. 
 Csesar : a balance to An- 
 
 tony 129 — general discussion of 
 his character 176-81 — its diffi- 
 culty and contradictions 176-8 — 
 his vacillation 176-7 — explained 
 by the antithesis of Practical and 
 Inner Life 1 78 — Csesar pre-emin- 
 ently the Practical man 178-9— 
 strong side of his character 176-7 
 — lacking in the Inner Life 1 78-9 
 —compared with Macbeth 178 — 
 a change in Csesar and his world 
 x8o-i — his superstition i8o-i — 
 position in the Grouping 183 — 
 different effect of his personality 
 in the earlier and later half of the 
 play 188, 195, 197. Calpur- 
 
 nia 194-5. Casca 172, 
 
 194, 195. Cassius : his re- 
 
 lations with Brutus 172, 182 — • 
 brings out the defective side of 
 Csesar 1 79 — contrasted by Csesar 
 with Antony 179-80 — -his charac- 
 ter discussed 181-2 — Republican- 
 ism his grand passion ih. — a pro- 
 fessional politician 182— his tact 
 182 — his position in the Grouping 
 183-4 — '^'^ relish for the superna- 
 tural portents 195 — his nemesis 
 342 —Cassius and the eagles 342. 
 Decius 181, 195. Liga- 
 
 rius 172. Page of Brutus 
 
 173-4, 201. Popilins Lena 
 
 172, 197. Portia 173, 174, 
 
 196. Roman Mob 188, 200. 
 
 Soothsayer 196, 342. Tre- 
 
 bonius 341 . 
 
 Julius Ccesar, Incidents and Scenes : 
 Capitol Scene 196-200 — Con- 
 spiracy Scene 171, 172, 176, i8i 
 — its connection with storm and 
 portents 193-4 — Incidents of the 
 Fever and Flood 178, 179 — 
 Funeral and Will of Csesar 175, 
 199-200, 332. 
 
 Julius CiBsar, Plot of: Technical 
 Analysis 406. — Affords examples 
 of Enveloping Action 362 — 
 Balance 367 — Regular Arch- 
 Movement 372 — Similar Motion 
 374— Turning-points 379 — Rise 
 and Fall a. single motive 395. 
 [See next paragraph.] 
 
GENERAL INDEX. 
 
 427 
 
 Julius Ciesar, Movement of: com- 
 pared with movement of King 
 Lear 1 86 — its simplicity and form 
 of Regular Arch 186, 372 — key 
 to the movement the justification 
 of the conspirators' cause 187. 
 Stages of its Movement: 
 Rise 1 88-96 — Crisis 196-8 — Cata- 
 strophe and Decline 198-201. 
 Starting-point in popular 
 reaction against Csesar 188 — 
 Crescendo in the Rise 189-91 — 
 the conspiracy formed and de- 
 veloping the Strain begins 19 1-6 
 — suspense an element in Strain 
 191 — Strain increased by back- 
 ground of the Supernatural 192-6, 
 393 — the conspirators and the 
 victim compared in this stage 
 194-6. Crisis, the Strain 
 
 rising to a climax 196-200 — 
 exact commencement of the Crisis 
 is marked 196 — devices for height- 
 ening the Strain 196 — the con- 
 spirators and victim just before 
 the Catastrophe 197— the justifi- 
 tation at its height 197 — Cata- 
 strophe and commencement of 
 the Decline 198 — Antony domin- 
 ating the Reaction 198 — the Mob 
 won to the Reaction 200. 
 Final stage of an Inevitable Fate : 
 the Strain ceasing 200-1 — the 
 representative of the Reaction 
 supreme 200 — the position of con- 
 spirators and Caesar reversed 201 
 — judicial blindness 201 — the jus- 
 tification ceases 201. 
 
 Justice, Poetic, as Dramatic Motive 
 381-6, 266-8 — the term dis- 
 cussed 266, 381 — less wide than 
 Providence 266 — its negation a 
 literary motive 267— its connec- 
 tion with tragedy 267— Nemesis 
 as a form of Poetic Justice 382-3 
 — Poetic Justice other than Ne- 
 mesis 383-6. 
 
 • Kindness ' : the word discussed 
 149-50, 222 — 'milk of human 
 kindness' 149-50. 
 
 King Lear, Play of : as a study in 
 complex Passion and Movement 
 202 and Chapter X — compared 
 ■vi'VCa. Julius Casar 186. 
 
 King Lear, Characters in. Cor- 
 
 delia : her conduct in the opening 
 Scene 203-4 — ^^"^ Tragedy 206 — 
 friendship for the Fool 223 — 
 question of her patriotism 384- 
 (> — an illustration of Pathos as 
 a Dramatic Motive 384-6 — con- 
 nection with the Enveloping Ac- 
 tion 362 — connection with Poetic 
 Justice 267. Cornwall 212. 
 
 Edgar: hisTragedy 208 — his feign- 
 ed madness and position in the 
 Centrepiece 215-8, 223 — his con- 
 tact with his father and Lear in 
 the hovel 215-8, 340 — his mad- 
 ness an emotional climax to the 
 Underplot 216. Edmund 
 
 compared with Richard III 92 — 
 his charge against Edgar 206 — an 
 agent in the Underplot 207-8 — his 
 Tragedy 208, 216 — example of 
 Irony 341 — connected with the 
 Enveloping Action 363. 
 The Fool : Institution of the Fool 
 or Jester 218-20 — modem ana- 
 logue in Punch 219 — utilised by 
 Shakespeare 219 — function of the 
 Fool in King Lear 220-3— his 
 personal character 223 — friendship 
 with Lear and Cordelia 223. 
 Gloucester : the central Per- 
 sonage of the Underplot 206-7 — 
 Link Personage between Main and 
 Underplot 360 — the Chamberlain 
 and friend of Lear 376 — his con- 
 nection with the Enveloping Ac- 
 tion 362-3, 408 — with the Con- 
 vergent Motion of the Play, 376- 
 7, 408. Goneril 203, 206, 
 
 210, 213, 333, 363, 376-7, 383. 
 Kent represents Conscience in the 
 Opening of the Problem 204-5 — 
 his Tragedy 206. Lear : his 
 
 conduct in the opening scene an 
 example of imperiousness 203-5, 
 2 1 1 — his Nemesis double 205-6 — 
 gradual oncoming of madness 
 209-15 — Lear in the Centrepiece 
 
428 
 
 GENERAL INDEX. 
 
 of the play 214-5 — after the centre 
 madness gives place to shattered 
 intellect 315 — his connection with 
 the Fool 220-3 — with the En- 
 veloping Action 362-3 — an ex- 
 ample of Poetic Justice 384. 
 Regan 203, 206, 212, 213, 333, 
 
 ^(>^, 376-7, 383- 
 
 King Lear, Incidents and Scenes of; 
 Opening Scene 203-5 — Stocks 
 Scene 2 1 1, 384 (note) — Outrage on 
 Gloucester 339 — Hovel Scene 
 215-8, 34°- 
 
 King Lear, Plot of: Technical 
 Analysis 407 -8. — The Main Plot 
 a Problem Action 202-6 — the 
 Problem enunciated in action 203- 
 5 — solution in a Triple Tragedy 
 305-6 — TheUnderplotan Intrigue 
 Action 207-8 — its Initial Action 
 207 — its resultant a Triple Tragedy 
 parallel with that of the Main 
 Plot 207-8. Affords an ex- 
 
 ample of Plot-Analysis 360 — of 
 Enveloping Action in the French 
 War 362-3. Main and 
 
 Underplot drawn together by 
 common Central Climax 208 — by 
 Parallelism and Contrast 206-8, 
 367-9, 407-8 — by Dependence 
 and Linking 366. [See next para- 
 graph.] 
 
 King Lear, Movement of : 303 and 
 Chapter X — its simplicity 308-9 
 — Lear's madness a common cli- 
 max to the trains of passion in the 
 Main Plot 209 — Rise of the Move- 
 ment in the waves of on-coming 
 madness 209—15 — form of move- 
 ment a Regular Arch ib. — connec- 
 tion of the Fool with the Rise of 
 the Movement 2 20-23 — passage 
 into the Central Climax marked 
 by the Storm 214-5 — Central Cli- 
 max of the Movement 214-8 — 
 effect on Lear of the Storm 214 — 
 of Contact with Edgar 215 — Ed- 
 gar's madness a common Climax 
 to the trains of passion in the 
 Underplot 215-7 — "1^ Central 
 Climax a trio of madness 217-23 
 —an example of Tone-Storm 347. 
 
 Kriegspiel 185. 
 
 Laius 134. 
 
 Law as a term in Criticism and 
 
 Science generally 32-7. 
 Light as a Tone 344, 345. 
 Line of Motion 370-1. 
 Line of Passion 372. 
 Linking 366. 
 Love at first sight a counterpart to 
 
 Enchantment 360. 
 
 Lovers Labour 's Lost, Play of : How 
 it presents Simple Humour in con- 
 flict with various Affectations and 
 Conventionalities 284 and Chapter 
 XIV. Its Central Idea Hu- 
 
 mour as the solvent of Affectation 
 285 — the Affectations attacked 
 285-7 — humorous attack not in- 
 consistent with sympathy 387 — 
 the representatives of Humour in 
 the play 289 — conflict of Humour 
 and the Artificial 290, 298 — fate 
 of the personages determined by 
 their sense of humour 291 — con- 
 nection of the Central Idea with 
 the structure of the plot 292-9. 
 
 Love's Labour 's Lost and As 
 You Like It compared 300, 299. 
 
 The Celibate Scheme 285— 
 Euphuism 286 — Pedantry 286 — 
 Word-play as a dramatic weapon 
 2S8 — Metrical system of the play 
 
 353-5- 
 Love's Labour 's Lost, Characters in : 
 Armado, his connection with the 
 Central Idea 386 — with Euphuism 
 286 — withJaquenetta(Snb- Action) 
 286, 292, 296 — brought out by 
 contrast 293-5. Biron 287, 
 
 291,293, 298;Boyet289,29i; Cos- 
 tard 292, 295 ; Dull 292, 295. 
 Holofemes: his connection with 
 the Central Idea 286 — represent- 
 ative of pedantry 286, 293 — centre 
 of a Group or Sub-Action 297, 
 295 — brought out by contrast 295. 
 Jaqnenetta 286, 292, 295 ; 
 Katherine 288. King of 
 
 Navarre : his connection with 
 the Celibates' scheme 285 — his 
 
GENERAL INDEX. 
 
 429 
 
 lack of humour 291 — his connec- 
 tion with the Further Resolution 
 298. Moth 291 , 294 ; Nathaniel 
 286,295. Princess of France : 
 
 representative of Humour 289 — 
 her use of word-play 288. 
 Rosaline 288. 
 
 Love's Labour 's Lost, Incidents and 
 Scenes in : The Central Scene of 
 Mutual Exposure 290-1, 339 — 
 Masque Scene 291-2 — -Pageant of 
 the Worthies 297. 
 
 Love's Labour 's Lost, Plot of : Tech- 
 nical Analysis 413-4. — Its con- 
 nection with the Central Idea 292 
 — Main Plot 292-3 — Underplot 
 293-7 — Enveloping Action 297- 
 8 — An example of Further Re- 
 solution 379. Connection 
 of the Movement with Poetic 
 Justice 384 — Humour as a motive 
 386 — Motive Situation 395. 
 
 Lyrics of Prose 22. 
 
 Macanlay 2, 13 — on active and 
 passive courage 146. 
 
 Macbeth, Play of : affords examples 
 of Dramatic Colouring 328 — of 
 Tone-Relief 348 — its metrical va- 
 riations 350, 35,:!. 
 
 Macbeth, Character of : an illustra- 
 tion of methodical analysis 24 — 
 compared with Richard 92-^with 
 Julius Caesar 178— an example of 
 Character-Development 335-7. 
 
 General Analysis 147-54, 
 161,335-7. Macbeth asthe 
 
 Practical Man 147-54-^his nobi- 
 lity superficial 148, 161 — his cha- 
 racter as analysed by his wife 
 148-50 — illustrated by his soli- 
 loquy 151-3 — compared in action 
 and in mental conflicts 153, 162 
 — flaws in his completeness as 
 type of the practical 154 — Mac- 
 beth's superstition 154, 159, 162, 
 165-6, 167, 335-7— Ws inability 
 to bear suspense 154, 160, 162- 
 
 5.335-7- , 
 
 Macbeth under temptation 158 
 
 — in the deed of murder 161 — his 
 breakdown and blunder 162— in 
 the Discovery Scene 163 — his 
 blunder in stabbing the grooms 
 163 — under the strain of conceal- 
 ment 164 — confronted with ' the 
 Ghost of Banquo 165 — nemesis in 
 his old age 167 — and his trust in 
 the false oracles 167. Mac- 
 
 beth an example of Infatuation 
 3S9 — relations with the Witches 
 390-2 — not turned from good to 
 evil by their influence 390. 
 
 Macbeth (Lady), Character of: 
 154-6 — type of the Inner Life 
 154-6— her tact 155, 161, 164, 
 165 — her feminine delicacy 156, 
 161, 162, 166 — her wifely devo- 
 tion 156. Lady Macbeth 
 under temptation 159 — in the 
 deed of murder 161 — in the dis- 
 covery 163 — her fainting 164 — 
 under the strain of concealment 
 165 — her tact in the Ghost Scene 
 165 — her gentleness to Macbeth 
 166 — her break-down in madness 
 166. 
 
 Macbeth, Lord and Lady, as a Study 
 in Character-Contrast 144 and 
 Chapter VII, 333 — rests on the 
 Antithesis of the Practical and 
 Inner Life 147-56. The 
 
 Contrast traced through the action 
 of the play 156-67 — relations at 
 the beginning of the play 156-8 
 — first impulse to crime from 
 Macbeth 156 — the Temptation 
 158-61 — the meeting after their 
 separate temptations 1 60-1 — the 
 Deed 161-3 — ^^^ Concealment 
 163-5- — "^^ Nemesis 165-7, 
 
 Macbeth, other Characters in. Ban- 
 quo : his attitude to the super- 
 natural compared with Macbeth's 
 I54i I59> 39°-^ — the attempt 
 against Banquo and Fleance the 
 end of Macbeth's success and 
 beginning of his failure 127 — 
 binds together the Rise and Fall 
 137 — Macbeth's exultation over 
 it 153 — the Banquo Action ba- 
 lances the Macduff Action 129 — 
 
430 
 
 GENERAL INDEX. 
 
 gives unity to the Rise 127-9 — 
 partakes flie triple form of the 
 whole play 142. 
 Fleance : see Banqno. 
 Lennox 128, 163. Macduff: 
 
 massacre of his family 130, 141 — 
 his position in the scene with 
 Malcolm 140, 340 — the M4cduff 
 Action balances the Banquo Ac- 
 tion 129 — gives tonity to the Fall 
 139-30 — partakes triple form of 
 the whole play 142 — example of 
 Oracular Action 393-3. 
 Malcolm 139, 340. The 
 
 Porter 348. the Witches 
 
 139. 134, 135, 136, 137, 139, 141 
 — an example of the Supernatural 
 intensifying human action 390-2 
 — their different behaviour to 
 Macbethand Banquo 390-2 — their 
 exact function in the play 392 — 
 the Witches' Action an Enveloping 
 Action 405, 143 — partakes the 
 triple form of the whole play 143. 
 
 Macbeth, Incidents and Scenes in : 
 Witches Scene 158-9, 390-2 — 
 Apparitions Scene 130, 135, 140 
 — Ghost Scene 165-6, 339 — Pro- 
 clamation of Cumberland 135, 
 151, 388— Dagger Scene 153, 340 
 — Discovery Scene 163 — Flight of 
 Duncan's Sons 139, 164, 388 — 
 Macduff with Malcolm in Eng- 
 land 140, 340 — the Sleep-walking 
 166-7 — Final Combat 389. 
 
 Macbeth, Plot of : Technical Analy- 
 sis 405. — The interweaving of 
 Nemesis and Destiny 127 and 
 Chapter VI— its Action multiple 
 in form 127, 358. Macbeth 
 
 as a Nemesis Action 127-30 — the 
 Rise 127 — the Fall 129 — the Rise 
 and Fall together 127. Mac- 
 
 beth as an Oracular Action 130-7 
 — the Rise 134 — the Fall 135 — 
 the Rise and Fall together 136. 
 
 Macbeth as an Irony Action 
 139-43 — the Rise 139 — the Fall 
 140 — the Rise and Fall together 
 141. Affords examples of Envel- 
 oping Action (the Witches) 362 — 
 Balance 367 — Parallelism and 
 
 Contrast 367. Movement of the 
 Play in four Stages : The Temp- 
 tation 158-61 — The Deed 161-3 
 — The Concealment 163-5 — The 
 Nemesis 165-7. The Rise 
 
 and Fall a single Motive 395. 
 
 Madness distinguished from Passion 
 209 — connected with inspiration 
 2t8 — madness of Lear: its gradual 
 on-coming in waves of hysteri- 
 cal passion 210 — change in its 
 character after the Centrepiece 
 2 1 5 — it makes the Passion-Climax 
 of the main Plot 209 — the mad- 
 ness of passion 2 1 7 — madness of 
 JEdgar : the madness of idiocy 
 217-8 — feigned 315 — common 
 Climax of the passions of the 
 Underplot 215-8 — madness of the 
 Fool : professional madness 218- 
 23 — madness-duett 217-8 — mad- 
 ness-trio 218, 223. 
 
 Masque in The Tempest 248, 263. 
 
 Metisure for Measure, Play of 372, 
 352 (note). 
 
 Mechanical Constniction 326-7, and 
 Chapters II and III generally. 
 Reduction of Difficulties 326 — 
 Constructive Economy 326 — Con- 
 structive Processes 326 — Con- 
 structive Conventionalities 327-8 
 — Constructive Unity 328-9. 
 
 Mechanical Details utilised 77. 
 
 Mechanical Difficulties, their Reduc- 
 tion 326, 76-7 — the three months' 
 interval in the Story of the Jew 
 77— the loss of Antonio's ships 
 77 — not always necessary to solve 
 these 77. 
 
 Mechanical Personages 75, 326, 329 
 — their multiplication in Romantic 
 Drama 75 — in The Tempest re- 
 semble Greek Chorus 282 — and 
 connected with the Central Idea 
 283. 
 
 Melancholy, Morbid Humour of 
 302. 
 
 Melodrama 118. 
 
 Mephistopheles compared with 
 Richard 92. 
 
GENERAL INDEX. 
 
 431 
 
 Merchant of Venice, T'/^e, Playof : as 
 an illustration of the construction 
 of Drama out of Story 43-89 — 
 Story as the Raw Material of the 
 Romantic Drama 43 — the two 
 main Stories in the Merchant of 
 Venice considered as Raw Mate- 
 rial 43 — Story of the Jew gives 
 scope for Nemesis 44-51 — Anto- 
 nio side of the Nemesis 47-9 — 
 Shy lock side of the Nemesis 49-5 t 
 — Caskets Story gives scope for 
 Idealisation 51-7 — Problem of 
 Judgment by Appearances ideal- 
 ised 52-4 — its solution : Charac- 
 ter as an element in Judgment 54- 
 7 — characters of the three Suitors 
 55-6. Working up of the 
 
 two Main Stories 58 and Chap- 
 ter II. Reduction of Diffi- 
 culties 58-66 — Monstrosity in 
 Shylock's Character met by Dra- 
 matic Hedging 58-61 — Difficul- 
 ties as to the pound of flesh 61-6 
 — significance of the discussion on 
 interest 61-4. Interweaving 
 of the two Stories 66-73 — assist- 
 ance it gives to the movement of 
 the play 66, 395 — to the symmetry 
 of the plot 67-9 — union of a light 
 and serious story 69-73. 
 Further multiplication of Stories 
 by the addition of an Underplot 
 74 and Chapter III. Paradox 
 of simplicity by means of com- 
 plexity 74-5 — uses of the Jessica 
 Story 75-87 — characters of Jessica 
 and Lorenzo 82-7 — uses of the 
 Rings Episode 87-9. The 
 play illustrates every variety of 
 Tone 344-5 — Tone-Play 348. 
 
 Merchant of Venice, Characters in : 
 Antonio 338 — his Nemesis 47-9 — 
 general character 47 — friendship 
 with Bassanio 47, 85 — conduct in 
 Bond Scene 48-9, 61, 389 — cen- 
 tre of the serious side of the play 
 69-70 — the loss of his ships 77 — 
 his sadness 342 — his pathetic hu- 
 mour 346. Arragon 55, 333, 
 344. Bassanio : friendship 
 with Antonio 47, 85— as a suitor 
 
 56 — his part in the Bond Scene 
 61— in the Trial 73 — in the Rings 
 Episode 72, 88 — a scholar 76 — set 
 off by Lorenzo 86 — a Link Person- 
 age 88, 365 — seen at a disadvantage 
 in the play 86, 331^ — example of 
 Tone-Clash 346. Bellario 
 
 66. Duke 64, 65. 
 
 Gobbo 76, 345. Gratiano 
 
 60, 76, 84, 333, 342, 344. 
 Jessica, her Story 75-87, 68, &c. — 
 her character 82-7 — a compensa- 
 tion to Shylock 80 — her attraction 
 to Portia 85— foil to Portia 86— 
 in Moonlight Scene 339. 
 Launcelot 76, 83, 84, 344. 
 Lorenzo : his character 85-7— its 
 alleged inconsistency 331 — a foil 
 to Bassanio 86 — in Moonlight 
 Scene 339. Morocco 55, 
 
 333. 344- Nerissa 76, 333, 
 
 344. Portia as centre of the 
 
 lighter side of the play 69-70, 
 344-^in the Trial Scene 49-51, 
 65-6, 70-3 — her plea an evasion 
 65 — playing with the situation 
 70-2 — her outburst on mercy 73, ^ 
 344 — the Rings Stratagem 72 — 
 relations with Jessica 85-7— her 
 character 88-9. Salarino 48, 
 
 60, 76, 84 — Salanio 60, 76 — Sa- 
 lerio 76. Shylock as a study 
 
 of Nemesis 49-51 — in the Trial 
 Scene 49-51, 338 — his character 
 59-61 — sentence on him 60, 80, 
 382 — ^relation with Jessica 78-81, 
 83. Tubal 60, 76, 79, 333, 
 
 339- 
 
 Merchant of Venice, Incidents and 
 Scenes in : Bond Scene 48-9, 61- 
 4, 389 — Scene of Bassanio's Choice 
 55. 56, 68, 348, 371— Scene be- 
 tween Shylock and Tubal 79, 
 339. Trial Scene 49. — its difficul- 
 ties 64-6 — its mixture of passions 
 70-2, 73 — as an Incident 338 — 
 its Comic Irony 342 — its Tone- 
 Clash 346 — sentence on Shylock 
 384. Moonlight Scene 339. 
 
 Merchant of Venice,'P\ot of: Techni- 
 cal Analysis 401-2.' — The Actions 
 of the play Stories 43 — Story of 
 
432 
 
 GENERAL INDEX. 
 
 the Jew a Nemesis Action 44-51 
 — Caskets Story a Problem Action 
 51-7 — Link Story of Jessica 75- 
 87 — Sub-Action of Rings 87-9 — 
 Comic Relief Action of Launcelot 
 401. Interweaving of 
 
 Stories 66-73, 366 — Connection 
 365 — Linking 365 — Balance 367 — 
 Contrast of Lightand SeriousStory 
 69-73 — External Circumstance 
 analogous to Enveloping Action 
 401 (note 2). Exemplifies 
 
 Simple Movement 370 — Compli- 
 cated Movement 370-1 — Wave 
 Line of Strain and Relief 372 — 
 unites Action and Passion Move- 
 ment 373 — exemplifies Contrary 
 Motion (Interference) 375 — Turn- 
 ing-points 378. Motive Force 
 Nemesis 382, 44-51 — Infatuation 
 389, 49 — Caskets Story a Motive 
 Action 395, 66. 
 
 Metrical Variation : Alternation of 
 Verse and Prose as a device of 
 Tone-Relief 349-52 — as a device 
 of Movement 352 (note) — extended 
 to variations betKreen one metreand 
 another 353-5. Illustrations: 
 Tfmpest 349-52 — Measure for 
 Measure3Ci2(note) — Winter stale 
 352 (note)' — Macbeth 353 — Love's 
 Labour's Lost 353-5. 
 
 Midsummer Night's Dream, Play 
 of III, 349. 
 
 ' Milk of human kindness' 149-50. 
 
 Milton's Paradise Loit 11 — minor 
 poems 11, 12 — versification 12, 
 14 — his Satan 123 — on the Inner 
 Life 144 — his use of the Back- 
 ground of Nature 192. 
 
 Mixture of Tones 344-5. \_See 
 Tone.] 
 
 Mob ia Julius Ccesar 406, 188, 200. 
 
 Monte Crista, Count of ^Q (note). 
 
 Motion, Line of 371-2. 
 
 Motion, Modes of 373-7— Similar 
 Motion 373 — Contrary Motion 
 374-6 — Convergent Motion 376- 
 7. [Compare Tables 401-16.] 
 
 Motive, Dramatic 380-396. [See 
 Motive Force.] Motive Action 
 395 — Motive Circumstance 395 
 . — Motive Enveloping Action 395 
 — Motive Personages 395 — 
 Motive Rise and Fall 395. 
 
 Motive Force 370, 380-96. {Com- 
 pare the Tables 401-16.] Lead- 
 ing Dramatic Motives : Provi- 
 dence 380-1 [compare 264 and 
 Chapter XIII]— Poetic Justice 
 381-2 — Nemesis 382-3 — Pathos 
 384-6 — The Supernatural 386-94 
 — Motive Force as n part of 
 Design 394-6. 
 
 Motive Form 370-80. — Simple 
 Movement 370 — Complicated 
 Movement 370-1 — Action and 
 Passion Movement 371-3 — Com- 
 pound (or Relative) Movement 
 373-80, 398 [see Motion, Modes 
 of ]. — Turning - Points 377-80 
 [Compare the Tables 401-16.] 
 
 Movement : as an element in Drama 
 185 — Arch form applied to 186 — 
 simple in Julius Casar, complex 
 xaKing Lear 186, 202 — traced in 
 Julius CcBsar 185 and Chapter IX 
 — in King Lear 202 and Chapter 
 X — in Othello 239-45. Move- 
 ment as one division of Action 
 324-5 — applied to Character as 
 Character-Development 335-7 — 
 applied to Passion 347-55 [see 
 Tone-Movement] — applied to 
 Plot 370 and Chapter XX [see 
 Motive Form and Motive Force]. 
 Movement shown in the Tech- 
 nical Analyses 401-16. 
 
 Movement, Centre of, Focus "of 
 377-9. [See Catastrophe.] 
 
 Movement, Single* 370-3 — its 
 division into Simple and Com- 
 plicated 370 — Action-Movement 
 
 * The reader will remember that ' Single ' is used as antithetical to 
 ' Compound ' or ' Complex,' and ' Simple ' to ' Complicated.' See note to 
 page 74. 
 
GENERAL INDEX. 
 
 433 
 
 and Passion-Movement 371-3 — 
 this distinction the basis of the 
 main division of Shakespeare's 
 plays 372-3 — varieties of Passion- 
 Movement 372. Compound 
 Movement 373-80— general idea 
 373 — its three Modes of 
 Motion : Similar Motion 373 — 
 Contrary Motion 374-6 — Con- 
 vergent Motion 376-7. 
 Movement, Varieties of: Single* 
 370 — Compound 373-80— Sim- 
 ple* and Complicated* 373 — 
 Action and Passion 372-3 — 
 Regular Arch 372 — Inclined 
 Plane 372 — Wave 372 — Similar 
 373 — Contrary 374-6— Conver- 
 gent 376-8. {Compare Tables 
 401-16.] 
 
 Multiplication of Actions 359 — of 
 Stories 74. \See Story.] 
 
 Mysteries of Paris 381 (note). 
 
 Mysteries of Providence 272, &c. 
 {See Providence, Personal.] 
 
 Nature, Miranda a child of 249. 
 
 Natural Savage (Caliban) 250. 
 
 Nemesis as a dramatic idea 44 — an- 
 cient and modern conception 44-5 
 — its change with change in the 
 idea of Destiny 126 — its distinc- 
 tion from Justice 44 — connection 
 with Fortune 44 — with risk 45 — 
 proverbs of Nemesis 46 — connec- 
 tion with hybris 49. Neme- 
 sis needed to counterbalance 
 Richard's Villainy 1 06 — woven 
 into history in Richard III 107 
 and Chapter V — a system of 
 Nemesis Actions in the Underplot 
 of Richard III 108-19 — modes 
 of emphasising 114-8 — its mul- 
 tiplication a suitable background 
 to Richard's character 118. 
 Nemesis interwoven with Des- 
 tiny in Macbeth 125 and Chapter 
 
 - VI— applied to the Plot of Mac- 
 
 beth 127-30. Nemesis as a 
 Dramatic Effect 342 — as a Dra- 
 matic Motive 382-3. 
 
 Nemesis, Varieties of : Surprise 47 
 — Expectation and Satisfaction 51 
 — Unlooked-for Source 383 — 
 Equality, or Measure for Measure 
 49, 120, 127, 208, 382 — Sureness 
 or Delay 120, 382 — Suddenness 
 198, 382 — Repetition and Multi- 
 plication 382, 107 and Chapter V 
 generally — Self-inflicted 383 — the 
 Prize of Guilt 383 — Combined 
 with Mockery 383 and compare 
 ii.S-p — Double 47, 205-6, 207-8 
 — Cross Nemeses 401, 403, com- 
 pare 47, 51. 
 
 Nemesis, Illustrations of: Anne 
 11.1 — Antonio 47 — Buckingham 
 109 — C^sar 197 — Cassins 342 — 
 Clarence 108 — the Conspirators in 
 Julius Casar 201, 382 — Edmund 
 208, 216-7 — King Edward IV 
 108 — Gloucester (in King Lear) 
 207-8, 216-7 — Goneril and Regan 
 206, 383 — Hastings log — Hippo- 
 lytus 45 — in the Story of the Jew 
 46 — Lear 205-6, 209-15, 220-3, 
 383 — Lycnrgus 45 — Macbeth 
 335-7. 165-7, 383— Lady Mac- 
 bethi66 — Macduff 1 29— Pentheus 
 46 — Polycrates 45 — Queen and 
 her kindred {Richard III) 108 — 
 Regan 206, 383 — Richard III 
 119-24, 382 — Shylock 49, 382 — 
 Wars of the Roses 11 1-3 — lago 
 238, 245. 
 
 Observation as a Stage of Inductive 
 Science 318-9. 
 
 CEdipus as an example of Oracular 
 Action 1 34 — of Irony 138. 
 
 Omens 193, 201. {See Supernatural.] 
 
 Oracular Action 130-4 — applied to 
 Macbeth 134-7 — as an example 
 of Supernatural agency illuminat- 
 ing human action 392-3 — com- 
 pared with the illumination of 
 history 392. Illustrations ; 
 
 * See Note on previous page, 
 rf 
 
434 
 
 GENERAL INDEX. 
 
 of the first type 131, 134, 135— 
 of the second 133, 134 — of the 
 third 133, 136. 
 
 Othello, Play of: As a Study in 
 Character and Plot 225 and 
 Chapter XI. Close connec- 
 
 tion of Character and Plot 225 — 
 Grouping of the Personages 
 around the idea of Jealousy 225- 
 7 — Plot founded on Intrigue 227 
 — Simplicity of Movement of the 
 Play 239-45. Affords ex- 
 
 amples of Tone-Relief 348 — 
 Metrical variations 350, 353 — 
 Rymer on this play 8, 9. 
 
 Othello, Characters in : Emilia 
 
 233, 239; Bianca 226, 237, 236. 
 Cassio: his connection with 
 
 Jealousy 226 — intrigues directed 
 against him 231, 234, 236. 
 Clown 348. Desdemona : her 
 lack of Jealousy 226 — her sim- 
 plicity 229 — tragedy of Othello 
 and Desdemona 229 — her con- 
 nection with lago's intrigues 
 
 234. lago : his connection 
 with Jealousy 226 — his intrigues 
 230 — Nemesis upon him 238 — 
 compared with Richard III 92, 
 loi. Othello : his connec- 
 tion with Jealousy 226 — his sim- 
 plicity 229 — tragedy of Othello 
 and Desdemona 2 29 — Intrigues 
 of lago against him 233. Ro- 
 derigo 226, 228, 230, 235, 236. 
 
 Othello, Incidents and Scenes in : 
 Desdemona cast off by Brabantio 
 240. 339 — the Arrival in Cyprus 
 241 — the Fete at Cyprus 241-2 — 
 the Suggestion Scenes 242-4 — 
 the Murder Scene 244. 
 
 Othello, Plot of : Technical Analy- 
 sis 409-10. — Its connection with 
 Character 225 — founded on In- 
 trigue 227. Economy of the 
 Plot 22 7-39 — Three tragic actions 
 227-30 — Four Intrigues 230-4 
 — Economic devices drawing 
 these together 234-7 — Reaction 
 upon lago 238-9. Move- 
 
 ment of the Play 239-45 — Stage 
 of Preparation 340 — Transition 
 241 — the Plot working 242-4^ 
 Climax and Reaction 244-5 — 
 Connection of the Movement with 
 Poetic Justice 267. 
 
 Outer and Inner Life 144-6. \See 
 
 Antithesis.] 
 Overwinding as an illustration for 
 
 the Movement ol Macbeth 137. 
 
 Paradox of simplicity by means of 
 complexity 74. 
 
 Parallelism 367-9 [see Action, 
 Economy of] — between Main and 
 Underplot in King Lear 206-9, 
 367-9, 407 — other illustrations 
 in the Technical Analyses 401-16. 
 
 Passion 338 — as an element in 
 Drama 185-6 — its connection with 
 Movement ib. — as an Elementary 
 Topic in Dramatic Criticism 324 
 — subdivided 325. Examples : 
 Julius Cssar 185 and Chapter IX; 
 King Lear 202 and Chapter X. 
 
 ' Passion-Drama ' as substitute for 
 'Tragedy' 372-3, and Tables 
 401-16. 
 
 Passion, Interest of: 338 and 
 Chapter XVIII - general descrip- 
 tion 338 — unity in Passion-Interest 
 338-43 \see Incident, Situation, and 
 Effect] — complexity in Passion- 
 Interest 343-7 {see Tone] — Move- 
 ment (or Succession) applied to 
 Passion 347-55. 3^5 V'' Tone- 
 Play and Tone-Relief]. 
 
 Passion, Line of 373. 
 
 Passion-Movement 347-55, 335. 
 
 Passion-Strain 186 — Strain and Re- 
 action 371. Examples : Julius 
 Casar 191-201; King Lear 208, 
 
 215- 
 
 Pastoral Conventionality 306-7 — 
 
 in conflict with Humour 307-9. 
 Pathos as a Dramatic Motive 384-6. 
 
GENERAL INDEX. 
 
 435 
 
 Perspective in Plot Ii8. 
 
 Physical passion or madness in Lear 
 
 2 1 o- 1 5 — external shocks as a cause 
 
 of madness 215. 
 Plato's Republic and its treatment of 
 
 liberty 170. 
 
 Plot as an Elementary Topic in Dra- 
 matic Criticism 325 — the intel- 
 lectual side of Action, or pure 
 Action 325 — Shakespeare a Master 
 of Plot 69, 356 — close connection 
 between Plot and Character illus- 
 trated by Richard III 107 and 
 Chapter V — and in Othello 225 — 
 Richard III an example of com- 
 plexity in Plot 107— perspective 
 in Plot 118 — Macbeth an example 
 of subtlety in Plot 125, 142 — 
 Plot analytical in its nature 1 86 
 — simple in Julius Ccesar, com- 
 plex in King Lear 202 — effect 
 on the estimation of Plot of dis- 
 sociation from the theatre 322 — 
 the most intellectual of all the 
 elements of Drama 323 — Techni- 
 cal Analyses of Plots 401-16. 
 
 Plot, Interest of: 356 and Chapters 
 XIX, XX.— Definition of Plot 
 356-7 — its dignity as an element 
 of literary effect ib — its cormec- 
 tion with design and pattern 356, 
 358, 360, 108, III, 118, 202. 
 Statical Interest of Plot 3.^7 and 
 Chapter XIX.— Unity -applied to 
 Plot 358-9 [see Action, Single; 
 Action, Forms of] — complexity 
 applied to Plot 359-69 [«« 
 Action, Analysis of ; Economy J — 
 complexity of Action distinguishes 
 Modem Drama from Ancient 359 
 — Unity of Action becomes in 
 Modem Drama Harmony of 
 Actions 359. Dynamic In- 
 
 terest of Plot 370 and Chapter 
 XX. — Movement applied to Plot 
 370. [See Motive Form ; Motive 
 Force.] 
 
 Poetic Justice 381-4. \See Justice.] 
 Polycrates, Story of 45, 126. 
 
 Portia : see Merchant of Venice ; 
 Julius Ccesar. 
 
 Practical Life 144-6. {See Anti- 
 thesis.] 
 
 Preparation as a Dramatic Effect 
 327, 329 — illustrated in The 
 Tempest 270. 
 
 Problem Action 202-6, 224, 358 — of 
 Judgment by Appearances 52-6. 
 
 Prose, Alternation of with Verse 
 349. {See Metrical Variation.] 
 
 Proverbs of Nemesis 46. 
 
 Providence as a Dramatic Motive 
 380-1, 266, 125 — in prose fiction 
 380 (note) — connected with Poetic 
 Justice 266 — may include any 
 principle suggested by actual ex- 
 perience 267. 
 
 Providence, Personal : as a Central 
 Idea for Ihe Tempest 268 and 
 Chapter XIII — distinguished from 
 Providence in General 268 — its 
 genesis in the play 270 — sorrows 
 of 269 — restraint of ib. — exercised 
 in the Spirit world 270 — con- 
 nected with Ferdinand and Mi- 
 randa 271 — Mysteries of provi- 
 dential working 272-80 — con- 
 nected with Antonio and Sebastian 
 272 — with the comic business 274 
 —with the Main Story 276 — its 
 climax of Judgment 276 — its 
 climax of Mercy 279 — Self- Re- 
 nunciation as climax of Personal 
 Providence 280. 
 
 Punch as modem counterpart to 
 
 Court Fool 219, 301. 
 Puns as an expression of hysterical 
 
 emotion 346,162 — compare 288-9. 
 Puritan Revolution, its effect on 
 
 Dramatic Criticism 322. 
 
 Quilp compared with Richard III 
 92, 94. 
 
 Rationalisation as a mode of treating 
 the Supernatural 246, 326, 329, 
 252-9. Illustrated in The Tem- 
 
 F f 2 
 
436 
 
 GENERAL INDEX. 
 
 pest: arbitrary causation 252 — 
 casual permeated by design ib. — 
 barrier between mind and matter 
 breaking down 253 — passage from 
 real to supernatural 253 — super- 
 natural agents 254— nature hu- 
 manised 255. 
 
 Raw Material of the Romatic Drama 
 43. 
 
 Reaction 198. \See Passion-Strain.] 
 
 Reduction of Difficulties an element 
 in Dramatic workmanship 58, 326, 
 329 — illustrated: Merchant of 
 Venice 58-66. 
 
 Relief 348. \See Tone.] 
 
 Renaissance and its influence on 
 critical method 4, 18, 320 — Shake- 
 speare a type 397. 
 
 Representation 321. {See Stage.] 
 
 Resolution 67, 370 \see Complica- 
 tion] — Resolving Force 67. — 
 Further Resolution 379-80, 398, 
 and Tables 401-16. 
 
 Reviewing, the lyrics of prose 22. 
 
 Rhymed couplet 30 — its usage by 
 Shakespeare 135, 353-5. 
 
 Richard III, Play of : an example 
 of the intimate relation between 
 Character and Plot 107 — treated 
 from the side of Character 90 and 
 Chapter IV — from the side of Plot 
 107 and Chapter V — affords 
 examples of Situations 339 — of 
 Dramatic Foreshadowing 342. 
 
 Richard III, Character of: 90 and 
 Chapter IV — Ideal Villainy 90-1, 
 330 — in scale 91 — development 
 91, 335 — not explained by suffi- 
 cient motive 92 — an end in itself 
 93. Richard as an Artist in 
 
 Villainy 93-6 — absence of emo- 
 tion 93 — intellectual enjoyment 
 of Villainy 95-6. His 
 
 Villainy ideal in its success 96- 
 103 — fascination of irresistibility 
 97, 103 — ^use of unlikely means 
 98 — economy 99 — imperturba- 
 bility and humour loo-i — fairness 
 loi — recklessness suggesting re- 
 source loi, 332 — inspiration as 
 
 distinguished from calculation 
 102 — bis keen touch for human 
 nature 102. 
 
 Ideal and Real Villainy 104— 
 Ideal Villainy and Monstrosity 
 105. [Also called Gloster.] 
 
 Richard III, Characters in : Anne 
 94, 113, 115 \see Wooing Scene] 
 — Buckingham 91, 96, 100, 109, 
 115, 118, 121, 333— Catesby 117, 
 333 — Clarence 108, 114, 116— 
 his Children 109 — ^his Murderers 
 334 — Derby 117 — Dorset 120 — 
 Elizabeth 121— Ely 100, 121— 
 Hastings 91, 98, 109, 114, 115, 
 117, 333, 342 — King Edward IV 
 99, 108, 114, 117 — King Edward 
 V 100, 333-4, 342 — Lord Mayor 
 99 — Margaret 94, 112, 115, 339 
 — Queen and her kindred 98, 108, 
 114, 115, 116 — Richmond 120, 
 121 — Stanley 117, 12 3 — Tyrrel 
 94, 333— York 99, 333-4— 
 Duchess of York 95, ill. 
 
 Richard III, Incidents and Scenes 
 in : Wooing Scene 339 — analysed 
 103-4 — an example of fascination 
 94, 97 — Richard's blunders 102, 
 332. Margaret and the 
 
 Courtiers 94, 339 — Reconciliation 
 Scene 99, 117 — Murder of Clar- 
 ence 116, 334,338. 
 
 Richard III, Plot of: 107 and 
 Chapter V. How Shakespeare 
 weaves Nemesis into History ib. — 
 Its Underplot as a System of 
 Nemeses 108 — its Enveloping Ac- 
 tion a Nemesis 1 1 1 — furthermulti- 
 plication of Nemesis 1 1 2 — special 
 devices for neutralising the weaken- 
 ing effect of such multiplication 
 114-8 — the multiplication needed 
 as a background to the villainy 
 1 1 8 — Motive Force of the whole a 
 Nemesis Action 119. Fall of 
 
 Richard 119-23 — protracted not 
 sudden 119, 382 — Turning-point 
 delayed 120 — tantalisation and 
 mockery in Richard's fate 121-4 — 
 Climax in sleep and the Appari- 
 tions 122 — final stages 123 — play 
 begins and ends in peace 123. 
 
GENERAL INDEX. 
 
 437 
 
 Technical Analysis of the Plot 
 403-4.- — Its Enveloping Action 
 361 — Tuming-pointssyS — Similar 
 Motion 373 — Motive Action 
 395-6- 
 
 Roman political life 169-71 and 
 Chapter VIII generally— its sub- 
 ordination of the individual to the 
 State: 70 — achangeduringCassar's 
 absence 180, 183. 
 
 Romantic Drama : Shakespeare its 
 Great Master 40, 43 — its connec- 
 tion with Stories of Romance 43. 
 
 Romeo and Juliet, Play of 9. 
 
 Rymer the champion of ' Regular ' 
 Criticism 8 — on Portia 8 — and 
 Othello generally 8 — on Paradise 
 Lost II — on Blank Verse 14 — on 
 Modem Drama 17 — on Catiline 
 17 — on Classical Standards 18 — 
 his Edgar 21. 
 
 Satire, Dramatic 3. 
 
 Scale of Passion-Tones 344. 
 
 Science of Dramatic Art 40, 317. 
 {See Criticism.] 
 
 Self- Renunciation as climax of Per- 
 sonal Providence 280. 
 
 Serious as a Tone 344. 
 
 Shakespeare-Criticism, History of, 
 in five stages 8-1 1. 
 
 Shakespeare's English 15 — his Son- 
 nets 12. 
 
 Situation, Dramatic 339-40. 
 
 Stage-Representation : an element in 
 Interpretation 98 — an allied art to 
 Drama 321— separated in the 
 present treatment 321-2 — in ex- 
 position but not in idea 322-3. 
 
 Statics of Plot 356 and Chapter XIX. 
 
 Stationary Action 401 (note). 
 
 Stoicism 144, 173, 174, 175, 179, 
 18S. 
 
 Storm m Jttlius Casar 192-6, 214 
 \see Background of Nature] — in 
 King Lear 214-5. 
 
 Story as the Raw Material of the 
 Shakespearean Drama 43 and 
 
 Chapter I — construction of Drama 
 out of Stories illustrated in The 
 Merchant of Venice 43-89 — two 
 Stories worked into one design in 
 The Merchant of Venice 58 and 
 Chapter II— in King Lear 206 — 
 Multiplication and Interweaving 
 of Stories 66-73 — effects on Move- 
 ment 66-7 — of Symmetry 67-9 — 
 interweaving of a Light with a 
 Serious Story 69-73 — effects of 
 Human Interest 70 — of Plot 70 — 
 of Passion 70-3. 
 
 Story of the Jew 43, 44-51. Its two- 
 fold Nemesis 46-5 1 — its difficulties 
 met 58-66 — Complicated and Re- 
 solved 67 — connection with the 
 Central Scene 68 — its mechanical 
 difficulties 76-8. 
 
 Story of the Caskets 44, 51-7.— An 
 illustration of Idealisation 51 — 
 careful contrivance of inscriptions 
 and scrolls 53, 54 — its problem 52 
 — and solution 54 — connection 
 with the central scene 68. 
 
 Story of Jessica 75-87. Its connec- 
 tion with the central scene 68 — 
 an Underplot to The Merchant of 
 Venice 75-87 — its use in attaching 
 to Plot the Mechanical Personages 
 75 — and generally assisting Mech- 
 anism 76-7 — helps to reduce diffi- 
 culties in the Main Plot 77-81 — a 
 Link Action 8i- — assists Symmetry 
 and Balance 82 — assists Character- 
 isation 82-7. 
 
 Story [or Episode] of the Rings : its 
 uses in the Underplot of The Mer- 
 chant of Venice 87-9 — compare 
 68, 72. 
 
 Strain of Passion 186. {See Passion- 
 Strain.] 
 
 Sub-Actions : 359 — Launcelot 76, 
 401 — Csesar and Antony 374, 406 
 — in Technical Analyses 401-16. 
 
 Succession as an element of Action 
 
 325- 
 Supernatural, The, as a Dramatic 
 Motive 386-94. Different use in 
 Ancient and Modem Drama 387 — 
 
438 
 
 GENERAL INDEX. 
 
 rationalised in Modem Drama 
 387. In an objec- 
 
 tive form as Irony 387-8 — in a 
 subjective form as Infatuation 
 388-9. 
 
 Supernatural Agencies 389-94 — 
 not to be explained as hallucina- 
 tions 390 — Shakespeare's usage of 
 Supernatural Agency : to intensify 
 human action 390-2 — to illumin- 
 ate human action 392-4 — the 
 Oracular 392-3 — the Dramatic 
 Background of Nature 393-4 — its 
 difficulties, modes of reducing : 
 246, &c. — Derationalisation 247 — 
 Rationalisation 252 — Addition of 
 kindred Reality 259. Illustra- 
 tions : the Apparitions to Richard 
 122— the Ghost of Banquo 165-6 
 — the Apparitions '\a Macbeth 135, 
 &c. — the Witches 158, 390-2 — 
 portents in Juliits Casar 193-4 — 
 the Ghost of Csesar 201 — omen of 
 Eagles to Cassius 201. 
 Symmetry as a dramatic element 68 
 — as a form of Economy 366-9. 
 lUustrations : Merchant of 
 Venice 67-8 ; King Lear 207-9, 
 
 367-9. 
 Systematisation as a Stage of scien- 
 tific progress 318, 319. 
 
 Table of Elementary Topics 325, 
 329 — of general Topics 398. 
 
 Taste as condensed Experience 6. 
 {See Criticism.] 
 
 Tempest, Play of: as a drama of 
 Enchantment 246 and Chapter XII 
 — as a study in Dramatic Colour- 
 ing 263 and Chapter XII — as a 
 study in Central Ideas 264 and 
 Chapter XIII — as a Study in Per- 
 sonal Providence 264 and Chapter 
 XIII — as a study in the Super- 
 natural 386. Dryden's alteration 
 of 10. Its Dramatic Background 
 of Nature 247 — Masque in 248 — 
 Metrical Variations 350-2. 
 
 Tempest, Characters in : Alonso 
 
 277-8, 279. Antonio 273, 277-8, 
 279> 339. Ariel : as an 
 
 Elemental Being 256-8 — deli- 
 vered by Prospero 270 — Ariel's 
 Story 270 — dismissed 281. 
 Boatswain 282. Caliban : as 
 
 a Natural Savage 250 — as an Ele- 
 mental Being 258-g — his origin 
 258 — his connection with Ste- 
 phano and Trinculo 261 — Cali- 
 ban's story 271 — his use of verse 
 and prose 351-2. Ferdinand 
 
 250, 252, 260, 271. Gonzalo : 
 
 248, 274, 279, 280 — as a leading 
 Mechanical Personage 282 — his 
 connection with the Boatswain 
 282 — as a Chorus-leader 282 — 
 his relations to Providence 283. 
 Miranda : as a Child of Nature 
 249 — her connection with Ferdi- 
 nand 260, 271, 281. Prospero: 
 Chapter yjl passim, ChapterXIII 
 passim [see under Providence, 
 Personal] — his story 270 — his 
 relations with Ariel 257, 262, 
 270, 279 — his relations with Cali- 
 ban 250, 271 — his connection 
 with Ferdinand and Miranda 260, 
 271 — his connection with the 
 comic personages 275 — his con- 
 nection with the climax 280, 340. 
 Sebastian 273, 277-8, 279. 
 Stephano 261, 274. Sycorax 258, 
 259. Trinculo 261, 274. 
 
 Tempest, Incidents and Scenes in : 
 The Masque 248 — Quarrel of 
 Caliban and Prospero 250 — Ex- 
 pulsion from Milan 252 — Quarrel 
 of Ariel and Prospero 257— Open- 
 ing Tempest 269 — Ariel's Deli- 
 verance 270 — Caliban's revolt 
 271 — Conspiracy of Antonio and 
 Sebastian 273, 339 — Quarrel of 
 Trinculo and Stephano 274 — 
 Nemesis Scene 276-8 — Universal 
 Restoration 279 — Prospero's Re- 
 nunciation 280, 340. 
 
 Tempest, Plot of: Technical Analysis 
 41 1-2. — Its Underplot: Story of 
 Ferdinand and Miranda as a study 
 of love at first sight 260 — con- 
 nected with the Movement 271 — 
 
GENERAL INDEX. 
 
 439 
 
 Story of the Butler and Jester as 
 a study of intoxication 261 — 
 connected with the Movement 
 274- Enveloping Action of 
 
 Enchantment 362 — Example of 
 Dependence 366. \See next para- 
 graph.] 
 Tempest, Movement of: founded on 
 Personal Providence 266 and 
 Chapter XIII— opening scene a 
 prologue 268 — Movement sus- 
 pended 269 — Classical unities of 
 time and place 269 — genesis of 
 the providential position 270 — 
 Prospero's government of the 
 spiritual virorld outside the Move- 
 ment 270 — Movement resumed 
 271 — Connection with Movement 
 of Ferdinand and Miranda Story 
 271 — of Antonio's conspiracy 273 
 — of the comic matter 274 — of the 
 Mechanical Personages 282 — 
 climax of the Movement 276 — 
 higher climax 279 — climax ex- 
 tended to Prospero 280. Af- 
 fords an example of Counter- 
 Action 374 — of Similar and Con- 
 trary Motion 374-5. Its 
 Turning-points 378 (note) — Fur- 
 ther Resolution 380. Compli- 
 cating and Resolving Personages 
 395- 
 
 Textual Emendations : of Merchant 
 of Venice i. iii. 42, page 61 (note) — 
 of As You Like It iii. ii. 163, 
 page 309 (note) — of Lear ii. ii. 
 170-7, page 384 (note). 
 
 Thackeray on the Inner Life 144. 
 
 Theseus and Hippolyta iii. 
 
 Tito Melema compared with Richard 
 91. 
 
 Tone as a dramatic term : the appli- 
 cation of complexity to Passion 
 325.343-— Passion-Tones 343-4— 
 Scale of Tones 344 — Mixture of 
 Tones 344-S — Tone-Clash 345 — 
 Humour a climax of Tone-Clash 
 346 — Tone-Storm 347. Tone- 
 Movement: the application of 
 succession to Passion-Tones 325, 
 347 — Tone-Play and Tone-Relief 
 
 347-8. Devices of Tone- 
 
 Relief 349-55— Word-Play 349, 
 288-9 — Alternation of Verse and 
 Prose 349-55 — place of Tone in 
 Topics of Dramatic Criticism 398. 
 
 Topics as a technical term in science 
 319-20 — topical stage of develop- 
 ment in sciences 319— applied to 
 Dramatic Criticism 319-20 and 
 Chapter XVI — Elementary Topics 
 of Dramatic Criticism 325, 329 
 — General Table of Topics 398. 
 
 'Tragedy' or 'Passion-Drama' 372- 
 3 — Tragedies of Lear 205-6, &c., 
 209-15, 220-3 — of Cordelia and 
 Kent 206 — of Goneril and Regan 
 206 — of Gloucester 207-8, 216-7 
 — of Edgar 208, 216-7 — of Ed- 
 mund 208, 216-7. Systems of 
 Tragedies 208-9. 
 
 Tragic as a Tone 344. 
 
 Turning-points 37 7-80 — compare 
 Tables40i-i6. Double in Shake- 
 speare's plays: Catastrophe or 
 Focus of Movement and Centre 
 of Plot 378-9 — occasionally a 
 Further Resolution 379 - 80 — 
 Illustrations 377-80 — compare 
 68, 120, 127, 186, 198, 205, 
 216-7. 
 
 Underplot 74 and Chapter III. Il- 
 lustrations : Merchant of Venice 
 74 and Chapter III, 401 — Richard 
 III 108-19, 4°3 — ^^'^^ 206-9, 
 215-8. 223, 360, 376-7, 407-8. 
 
 Union of Light and Serious Stories 
 
 69-73- 
 
 Unities, the Three 14 — Scenic 327, 
 329 — Unity Devices 328. Il- 
 
 lustration in The Tempest 269, 
 41 1-2. 
 
 Unity as an element of Action 324 
 — applied to Character 330 — to 
 Passion 338 — to Plot (Action) 
 
 358- 
 
 Universal Restoration in The Tem- 
 pest 7,11). 
 
 Unstable equilibrium in morals 45, 
 205. 
 
 Utilisation of the Mechanical 76-8, 
 326, 329. 
 
440 
 
 GENERAL INDEX. 
 
 Variorum Shakespeare 8. 
 
 Verse, Alternation of, with Prose 
 349-52. [See Metrical Variation.] 
 
 Villainy as a subject for art treat- 
 ment 90— Ideal Villainy 90 and 
 Chapter IV. 
 
 Wandering Jew, The 380 (note). 
 Wave-Form of Passion-Movement 
 
 372, 402 — waves of hysterical 
 
 passion in Lear 210-15. 
 Winter's Tale 352 (note). 
 Wit as a mental game 219, 288. [See 
 
 Word-play.] 
 Witchcraft (Sycorax) 259. 
 Word-play as a dramatic weapon 288. 
 Workmanship, Dramatic : 58 and 
 
 Chapter II, 326. 
 
INDEX OF SCENES 
 
 ILLUSTRATED IN THE FOREGOING CHAPTERS. 
 
 *jf* Clarendon type is used where the passage referred to approaches the 
 character of an analysis of the scene. 
 
 AS TOXJ LIKE IT. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 Sc. i. 304, 306. 
 iv. 308. 
 
 V. 305- 
 
 vii. 301, 302, 304, 306. 
 
 Act III. 
 
 Sc. ii. 308, 309, 310, 311. 
 iii. 308, 311. 
 V. 307. 
 
 Act IV. 
 So. i. 303, 305, 312. 
 
 Act V. 
 So. i. 308. 
 
 iv. 301, 304. 
 
 JXTLItrS C^SAK. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 So. i. 180, 188-9. 
 
 ii. 172,178-80, 180, 189-91. 
 iii. 191-4, 195-6. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 So. i. 171-2, 172, 174, 175-6, 176, 
 180-1, 187, 191, 194. 
 ii. 177, 194-5. 
 iii. 196. 
 iv. 196-7. 
 
 Act III. 
 
 So. i. 172-3, 177. i77-8> 182, 183, 
 196-9, 379. 
 ii. 175, 199-200. 
 iii. 180, 200. 
 
 Act IV. 
 Sc. i. 200. 
 
 ii. and iii. 172, 173-4, 182, 
 200-1. 
 
 Act V. 
 Sos. iii, V. 171, 172, 201. 
 
 KIITG- LEAK. 
 
 Act L 
 
 So. i. 203-5, 206, 379. 
 ii. 206. 
 
 iv. 210, 220-1. 
 V. 210-1, 221-2. 
 
 Act II. 
 Sc. i. 376. 
 
 ii. 384 (note). 
 
 iv. 209, 211-4, 222-3, 376. 
 
 Act III. 
 
 Sc. i. 209, 214, 215, 223. 
 ii. 209, 215, 223. 
 iii. 209, 215, 216. 
 iv. 209, 215, 216, 217-8, 223, 
 
 379- 
 V. 209, 377. 
 vi. 207, 209. 
 vii. 209, 216. 
 
 Act IV. 
 
 Sc. i. 216, 217. 
 vi. 215. 
 
 Act V. 
 
 Sc. ui. 208, 215. 
 
442 
 
 INDEX OF SCENES, ETC. 
 
 LOVE'S LABOTJE'S LOST. 
 Act I. 
 
 So. i. 285, 286, 289, 291. 
 ii. 286, 291, 294, 295. 
 
 Act II. 
 Sc. i. 288, 290. 
 
 Act III. 
 So. i. 287, 292. 
 
 Aotrv. 
 
 So. i. 288, 297. 
 ii. 286, 295. 
 iii. 287, 290, 291, 297. 
 
 Act V. 
 
 So. i. 286, 292, 297. 
 
 ii. 287, 288, 289, 290, 291, 292, 
 293, 297. 298- 
 
 MACBETH. 
 Act I. 
 
 So. iii. 135, 136, 141, 154, 158-9, 
 336, 390-2. 
 iv. 135, 150-1, 337, 388. 
 V. 149-50, 156, 159-60. 
 vii. 151-3, 157, 160-1. 
 
 Act II. 
 So. i. 153-4. 
 
 ii. 154, 155, 161-3, 337. 
 
 iii. 139-40, 163-4, 348, 388. 
 
 iv. 140, 164. 
 
 Act IIL 
 
 So. i. 129, 154, 164-5. 
 ii. 154, 164-5, 336. 
 ill. 127, 405. 
 iv. 130, 154, 165-6, 405. 
 
 V. 389. 391- 
 vi. 128-9. 
 
 Aotrv. 
 
 So. i. 130, 135-6, 140, 167, 391. 
 ii. 130, 140. 
 iii. 140-1. 
 
 Act V. 
 
 So. i. 166-7. 
 iii. 167. 
 V. 167. 
 vii. and viii. 130, 167, 378. 
 
 MERCHANT OP VENICE. 
 
 Aot I. 
 
 So. i. 48, 61, 70, 76. 
 
 ii- 54. 56. 7°- 
 
 iii. 48-9, 61-4, 389. 
 
 Aot II. 
 So. i. 53. 
 ii. 76. 
 iii. 76, 84. 
 iv. 84, 85. 
 V. 60, 76, 83. 
 vi. 84, 85. 
 
 ™. 53. 55- 
 viii. 78. 
 ix. 55-6. 
 
 Aot III. 
 
 So. i. 60, 76, 78, 79, 85. 
 ii- 54-5. 56. 67-9, 76, 78. 
 iii. 60, 76, 78. 
 iv. 85, 86. 
 v. 76, 85. 
 
 Aot IV. 
 Sos. i. and ii. 49-51, 60, 64-6, 
 
 70-3, 80, 87-8, 
 384- 
 
 -9. 346, 
 
 So. i. 85. 
 
 Aot V. 
 
 OTHELLO. 
 
 Aot I. 
 
 Sc. i. 228. 
 
 iii. 229, 231, 233, 234. 
 
 Aot II. 
 
 So. i. 226, 233, 241. 
 ii. 241. 
 iii. 236, 230, 232, 237, 242. 
 
INDEX OF SCENES, ETC. 
 
 443 
 
 Act III. 
 So. i. 348. 
 ii. 34S. 
 
 iii. 225, 232, 240, 242-3, 348. 
 iv. 227, 236, 243. 
 
 Act IV. 
 So. 1. 227, 236, 243, 350. 
 "• 233, 235- 
 
 Act V. 
 
 So. i. 227, 231, 236. 
 
 ii. 238, 239, 244, 245. 
 
 EICHAEB III. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 So. i. 92-3,96, 100, loi, 123. 
 
 ii. 93, 94, 96, 97-8, 99, 101, 
 
 102, 103-4, 113. 
 iii. 95, 96, m-3, ii.s. 
 iv. 108, 114, 116, 334. 
 
 AotlL 
 
 So. i. 99, loi, 108, 116, 1 17-8. 
 ii. 95, 100, 109, iii-a. 
 
 Act III. 
 
 So. i. 91, 99, 100. 
 ii. 109, 117, 342. 
 iii. 114, IIS, 120. 378. 
 iv. 98, 100, 114, 115. 
 V, vii. 96, 99. 
 
 Act IV. 
 
 So. i. 104, 111-2, 116. 
 ii. no, 389, 372, 378. 
 iii. 94, 120-1. 
 iv. 91, 95. 111-2, 115,121- 
 
 Act V. 
 
 So. i. 115, 118. 
 iii. 95, 122-3. 
 iv. and v. 123. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Act I. 
 So. i. 268, 283. 
 
 ii. 250-1, 260, 269-72, 283. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 So. i. 272^, 282, 283. 
 ii. 261, 274. 
 
 Act III. 
 
 So. i. 260, 272. 
 ii. 261, 274. 
 iii. 276-9, 282. 
 
 Act IV. 
 
 So. i. 260, 261, 272, 274. 
 (Masque), 248-9, 253, 261. 
 
 AotV. 
 
 So. i. 260, 261, 272, 274, 279-81, 
 282.