with truth,—never threw down the boundaries between vice and virtue,—never strove by voluptuous images to excite the passions,-nor by fallacious arguments to ensnare the mind or confuse the intellect upon any subject whatsoever. The objections to the greater number of poets and fabulists (and to the dramatists in particular) lie, I imagine, not so much in their want of a good moral, as in their mode of illustrating it,—not so much in the end as in their means of arriving at the end. The bustling incidents of a story, the bright pictures of human happiness, the terrible truths which escape with throes out of our erring nature, and in a word the passions and absorbing interests of life, with whatever purpose presented, are all too real and stimulative to be tolerated by any sect who are "exclusives" in their own opinion, and in whose cold creed Charity (in its extensive sense) does not prevail. Yet the beautiful and touching parables of Scripture are surely as holy and as pregnant with wisdom, as the most moral proverb which the wisest of sages has bequeathed. It is well argued by Sir Philip Sidney-" Even our Saviour, Christ, could as well have given the moral common-places of uncharitableness and humbleness, as the divine narration of Dives and Lazarus; or of disobedience and mercy, as the heavenly discourse of the lost child and the gracious father; but that his thorough-searching wisdom knew the estate of Dives burning in hell, and of Lazarus in Abraham's bosom, would more constantly, as it were, inhabit both the memory and judgment." Shakspere, like all other great imaginative writers, thought thus, and is therefore seldom didactic. He does not always paint even the virtues triumphant. It is by enlisting our sympathies on the side of those who are good, by exciting our pity for the injured, and our hatred towards the knave and the oppressor, that his moral effects are produced; not by merely predicting and insisting on a moral or consequence, as necessarily flowing from certain premises; for that may be insisted on and elaborated without producing any effect at all. For my own part, I have no doubt but that Shakspere (banished as he may be from some good men's tables) was right,-right in his philosophy, right in his extensive charity, right in his morals, and right in his mode of demonstrating all. Had he ventured upon any other mode than the one he has chosen, he would have slighted, unwisely, the impulse of his genius, and would not have effected one-hundredth part of the good that he has produced. The soundness as well as importance of a writer may generally be learned from the number and quality of his admirers, better than from any laboured analysis of his works, or any contrast drawn between him and others. A man who is at the head of a small Sect, is probably a person of small and eccentric mind,influencing a few others, of a similar mean and distorted intellect. But the founder of a RELIGION must always be a mighty Spirit. No one who is the theme of reverence with a million intelligent minds, but must have propounded in his writings or doctrines much both of the good and the true. Throughout the language in which he wrote, Shakspere is all supreme. There is not a sceptic or dissentient whose arguments are worth refutation. That our great author may be imperfect, as he is said to be, is merely saying that he belonged to imperfect humanity. The flaws and errors of his dramas are few, however, and possibly owe their origin to interpolators; besides which, I must protest against such a process of judging. It is not by what a man occasionally fails or omits to do (for that may arise from hurry or accident) but by what he has done, that his capability and value must be decided. It is by the profound wisdom of Shakspere, by his wonderful imagination, displayed in a thousand varieties of character, by his subtle and delicate fancies, his grand thoughts, his boundless charity,-nay, even by the music that steals into our souls, with the countless changes and fluctuations, from strength to sweetness, of his charming verse, that we must learn to regard him truly. But all this eulogy would be superfluous, except for a limited class of thinkers; for Shakspere is now making his way through foreign countries and distant regions; vanquishing race after race, like the great conquerors of old; in spite of ignorance and prejudice, and imperfect teachers; and in the midst of dim and obscure interpretations, that would check the progress of any Spirit less potent and catholic than his own! In the summer time, when the world is cheerful and full of life, let us regale ourselves with the laughing scenes and merry songs of SHAKSPERE. In the winter evenings, when sadder thoughts come forth, let us rest upon his grave, philosophic page, and try to gather comfort as well as wisdom from the deep speculations which may be found there. At all times, let his "Book of Miracles" be near at hand: for, be sure that the more we read therein, the greater must our reverence be. And, if any intruder should tell us that all we ponder on and admire is mere matter of imagination and fancy; is shadowy, unreal, without profit; and that the end is-nought: bid him shew you the thing that is eternal,- —or any effort of the human mind that has outlasted the dreams of Poetry. Have I said that they are dreams? Alas! what is there here that is so far beyond a dream? WE ourselves (so our great poet says) "Are of such stuff AS DREAMS ARE MADE OF; AND OUR LITTLE LIFE FTER a careful examination of the sources from which Shakspere appears to have derived hints for the plot, characters, and incidents of the present drama, the predominating impression left on our minds is that of its originality. In this instance, as in almost all others, the more he borrows, the more does his entire power over his materials become apparent. The vulgar is metamorphosed into the refined; the crude outlines are filled up with well-established life; shadows are changed into substance, or substance into shadow; and the whole is put in motion, not like a new set of things, but with the crowded impetus of foregone existences, and all their complex activities. A wild-headed, old "conceitede comedie," called "MUCEDORUS," has been thought by a pleasant critic of antiquarian literature (Octavius Gilchrist by name), to have furnished Shakspere with the first idea of the plot and persons of the "TEMPEST." The passages he adduces in support of his opinion are amusing from their dissimilarity. The romantic monster in " 'MUCEDORUS" makes love to the heroine princess in so truly poetical and touching a strain, that she absolutely consents to live with him in the woods; but eventually receives the hand of her royal lover! Still, there may be some slight foundation for the critical fancy. It should be observed, that certain kinds of harmless "monsters" were in high favour with the court at this period. We find in the old chronicles and black-letter correspondence, that Queen Elizabeth, during a hunting excursion, was occasionally met, "all unawares," by some savage man issuing out of the woods, his naked body overgrown "with mosse and yvie." Instead of flourishing his club so as to bring his rich prize to the ground, and carry her off to his cave, according to his nature and "usual custom of an afternoon," the savage man made her a profound bow, and instantly fell to reciting a well-conceited batch of complimentary verses, very pleasant to hear. 64 A far more feasible origin of the "TEMPEST" than the old, and once very popular comedy of MUCEDORUS," may be supposititiously traced to an account by one Silvester Jourdan of the discovery of the Bermudas. In this we find a narrative of the shipwreck of Sir George Somers, who was on a voyage for the purpose of colonising Virginia. He was cast on the Bermuda Islands, then uninhabited, and generally believed to be enchanted; although a benevolent commentator on Jourdan edifies and comforts his readers with the assurance that they were not really enchanted. Several mutinies occurred while Sir George Somers and his people remained on the island; and a sea-monster-man had once shewn himself to some of the party whose eyes were best suited to the rare discovery. Stowe, in his "ANNALS," speaking of this shipwreck upon "the dreadful coast," further remarks, that these islands "were, of all nations, said and supposed to be enchanted and inhabited with witches and devills, which grow by reason of accustomed monstrous thunder, storms, and tempests." This account by old Stowe of the elemental growth and generation of the hags and imps and devils and abortions of the island, is fearfully fine. Caliban and Sycorax and Setebos, might well be imagined to have first glared into life through the long fermenting incantation of "accustomed monstrous thunder!"' The narrative of the shipwreck of Sir George Somers was published in 1610: the romantic drama of the "TEMPEST," in 1611. It is supposed to have been the last of Shakspere's productions. How beautiful the thought, that after his hard struggle with the common world, and the licentious society into which he had been so much thrown, he should yet have preserved the freshness of heart, the youth of mind, the purity of affection, and the magnanimity of soul, which pervade this "enchanted" drama. R. H. H. |