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almost as anxiously desire that these men should triumphantly show the "mettle of their pastures," as that the heroic Harry and his "band of brothers" should

"Be copy now to men of grosser blood, And teach them how to war."

On the other hand, the discriminating truth of the poet is equally shown in exhibiting to us three arrant cowards in Pistol, Nym, and Bardolph. His impartiality could afford to paint the bullies and blackguards that even our nationality must be content to reckon as component parts of every army.

detached passages: for example, the reflections of the King upon ceremony, the description of the deaths of York and Suffolk, -the glorious speech of the King before the battle, the chorus of the fourth act,-are remarkable illustrations of Shakspere's power as a descriptive poet. Nothing can be finer, also, than the commonwealth of bees in the first act. It is full of the most exquisite imagery and music. The art employed in transforming the whole scene of the hive into a resemblance of humanity is a perfect study-every successive object, as it is brought forward, being invested with its

This drama is full of singularly beautiful characteristic attribute.

CHAPTER IV.

KING HENRY VI. AND KING RICHARD III.

WITH the local and family associations that must have belonged to his early years*, the subject of these four dramas of Henry VI. and Richard III., or rather the subject of this one great drama in four parts, must have irresistibly presented itself to the mind of Shakspere, as one which he was especially qualified to throw into the form of a chronicle history. It was a task peculiarly fitted for the young poet during the first five years of his connexion with the theatre. Historical dramas, in the rudest form, presented unequalled attractions to the audiences, who flocked to the rising stage. Without any undue reliance on his own powers, he might believe that he could produce something more worthily attractive than the rude dialogue which ushered in the "four swords and a buckler" of the old stage. He had not here to invent a plot, or to aim at the unity of action, of time, and of place, which the more refined critics of his day held to be essential to tragedy. The form of a chronicle history might appear to require little beyond a poetical exposition of the most attractive facts of the real Chronicles. It is in this

*See page 148.

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spirit, we think, that Shakspere approached the execution of 'The First Part of Henry VI.' It appears to us, also, that in that very early performance he in some degree held his genius in subordination to the necessity of executing his task, rather with reference to the character of his audience and the general nature of his subject than for the fulfilment of his own aspirations as a poet. There was before him one of two courses. He might have chosen, as the greater number of his contemporaries chose, to consider the dominions of poetry and of common sense to be far sundered; and, unconscious or doubtful of the force of simplicity, he might have resolved, with them, to substitute what would more unquestionably gratify a rude popular taste the force of extravagance. On the other hand, it was open to him to transfer to the dramatic shape the spirit-stirring recitals of the old chroniclewriters, in whose narratives, and especially in that portion of them in which they make their characters speak, there is a manly and straightforward earnestness which in itself not seldom becomes poetical. Shakspere chose this latter course. When we begin to

study the Henry VI.,' we find in the First | upon the scene, and the audience would Part that the action does not appear to progress have shouted with the same delight that to a catastrophe; that the author lingers they felt when the Barabas of Marlowe was about the details, as one who was called thrown into the caldron. Shakspere, followupon to exhibit an entire series of events ing the historian, has made her utter a conrather than the most dramatic portions of tradictory confession of one of the charges them; there are the alternations of success against her honour; but he has taken care and loss, and loss and success, till we some- to show that the brutality of her English what doubt to which side to assign the vic- persecutors forced from her an inconsistent tory. The characters are firmly drawn, but avowal, if it did not suggest a false one, for without any very subtle distinctions, and the purpose of averting a cruel and instant their sentiments and actions appear occa- death. In the treatment which she receives sionally inconsistent, or at any rate not from York and Warwick, the poet has not guided by a determined purpose in the writer. exhibited one single circumstance that might It is easy to perceive that this mode of deal- excite sympathy for them. They are cold, ing with a complicated subject was the most and cruel, and insolent, because a defencenatural and obvious to be adopted by an less creature whom they had dreaded is in unpractised poet, who was working without their power. Her parting malediction has, models. But, although the effect may be, to as it appears to us, especial reference to the a certain extent, undramatic, there is im- calamities which await the authors of her pressed upon the whole performance a won- death:derful air of truth. Much of this must have resulted from the extraordinary quality of the poet's mind, which could tear off all the flimsy conventional disguises of individual character, and penetrate the real moving principle of events with a rare acuteness, and a rarer impartiality. In our view, that whole portion of The First Part of Henry

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VI.' which deals with the character and actions of Joan of Arc is a remarkable exam

ple of this power in Shakspere. We find her described in the Chronicles under every form of vituperation,-a monstrous woman, a monster, a ramp, a devilish witch and satanical enchantress, an organ of the devil. She was the main instrument through which England had lost France; and thus the people still hated her memory. She claimed to be invested with supernatural powers; and thus her name was not only execrated, but feared. Neither the patriotism nor the superstition of Shakspere's age would have endured that the Pucelle should have been dismissed from the scene without vengeance taken upon her imagined crimes; or that confession should not be made by her which would exculpate the authors of her death. Shakspere has conducted her history up to the point when she is handed over to the stake. Other writers would have burnt her

"May never glorious sun reflex his beams

Upon the country where you make abode!
But darkness and the gloomy shade of death
Environ you."

But in all the previous scenes Shakspere
has drawn the character of the Maid with
her patriotism, her high intellect, and her
an undisguised sympathy for her courage,

enthusiasm. If she had been the defender

of England, and not of France, the poet could not have invested her with higher attributes. It is in her mouth that he puts his choicest thoughts and his most musical verse. It is she who says,

"Glory is like a circle in the water,

Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself, Till, by broad spreading, it disperse to nought.” It is she who solicits the alliance of Burgundy in a strain of impassioned eloquence which belongs to one fighting in a high cause with unconquerable trust, and winning over enemies by the firm resolves of a vigorous understanding and an unshaken will. The lines beginning

"Look on thy country, look on fertile France," might have given the tone to everything that has been subsequently written in honour of the Maid. It was his accurate knowledge of

the springs of character, which in so young | him almost contemptible, and fights onward a man appears almost intuitive, that made from scene to scene as if there were nothing Shakspere adopt this delineation of Joan of high in man except the power of warring Arc. He knew that, with all the influence against his fellows: but he weeps like a lover of her supernatural pretension, this extra- over the fruitless gallantry of his devoted son; ordinary woman could not have swayed the and he folds his dead boy in his rough arms, destinies of kingdoms, and moulded princes even as the mother, perishing with her child, and warriors to her will, unless she had been takes the cold clay of the dear one to her a person of very rare natural endowments. bosom. This is the truth which Shakspere She was represented by the Chroniclers as a substituted for the vague delineations of the mere virago, a bold and shameless trull, a old stage. These are the pictures of manners monster, a witch;-because they adopted the which he gave to the people, when other poets vulgar view of her character,—the view, in adopted the easier expedient of separating the truth, of those to whom she was opposed. imaginative from the vulgar view of human They were rough soldiers, with all the vir- actions and passions, only by rejecting whattues and all the vices of their age; the crea- ever was real. He gave to his audiences new tures of brute force; the champions, indeed, characters and new manners, simply because of chivalry, but with the brand upon them he presented to them the characters and of all the selfish passions with which the manners of the ages which he undertook to highest deeds of chivalry were too invariably delineate. Other men were satisfied to find associated. The wonderful thing about "The the new in what never had an existence. First Part of Henry VI.' is, that these men, who stood in the same relation of time to Shakspere's age as the men of Anne do to ours, should have been painted with a pencil at once so vigorous and so true. The English Chroniclers, in all that regards the delineation of characters and manners, give us abundant materials upon which we may form an estimate of actions, and motives, and instruments; but they do not show us the instruments moving in their own forms of vitality; they do not lay bare their motives; and hence we have no real key to their actions. Froissart is, perhaps, the only contemporary writer who gives us real portraits of the men of mail. But Shakspere marshalled them upon his stage, in all their rude might, their coarse ambition, their low jealousies, their factious hatreds-mixed up with their thirst for glory, their indomitable courage, their warm friendships, their tender natural affections, their love of country. They move over his scene, displaying alike their grandeur and their littleness. He arrays them, equally indifferent whether their faults or their excellences be most prominent. The "terrible Talbot" denounces his rival Fastolfe with a bitterness unworthy a companion in arms, enters into a fierce war of words with the Pucelle, in which her power of understanding leaves

But, with all this truth of characterization and of costume, the scattered events, the multifarious details, the alternations from factions at home to wars abroad, would have never hung together as a dramatic whole, had the poet not supplied a principle of cohesion, by which what is distant either in time or space, or separated in the natural progression of events, is bound together. We feel in the First Part of the 'Henry VI.' that some unseen principle is in operation by which the action still moves onward to a fixed point. One by one the great soldiers of Henry V. fade from the scene the Salisburys, and Bedfords, and Talbots, who held France as their hunting-ground. Other actors come upon the busy stage, more distinctly associated with the scenes of factious strife which are to follow. The beginnings of those strifes are heard even amidst the din of the battlefields of France; and, surrounded by terrible slaughter and fruitless victories, we have an unstable peace and a marriage without hopean imbecile king and a discontented nobility. Amidst all this involvement the poet disdains, as it were, to illuminate the thick darkness beyond with a single ray. We see only the progression of events without their consequences; and the belief produced upon the mind is, that a fate presides over their direc

tion. The effect is achieved by the masterly | the high poetry of those plays—not the skill with which the future is linked to the present-felt, but not seen.

It appears to us that one of the most decisive proofs that Shakspere was the original author of the three Parts of Henry VI.' is to be derived from the evidence which these plays present of the gradual increase of power in the writer. We say this without reference to the passages which have been added to 'The Contention;'* for all the real dramatic power is most thoroughly developed in the original plays that have grown into the Second and Third Parts of the 'Henry VI.' The succeeding process to which they were subjected was simply one of technical elaboration and refinement. We have no doubt at all that 'The First Part of Henry VI.' originally existed in a rougher form. Whoever compares it critically with the two Parts of "The Contention' will perceive that much of the ruggedness which belongs to those dramas has no place in this first drama of the series. For instance, it has very few Alexandrines; the use of old words, such as "belike," is very rare, that word being frequently found in 'The Contention;' and the versification altogether, though certainly more monotonous, is what we may call more correct than that of 'The Contention.' How it could ever have been held that this play has undergone no repair, is to us one of the many marvellous things that belong to the ordinary critical estimation of it. Be the changes it has passed through few or many, it is evident to us that all the material parts of the original structure are still to be found. But whatever rapidity of action, truth of characterization, and correctness of style it may possess, in a pre-eminent degree, as compared with other plays of the period, it is not, in all the higher essentials of dramatic excellence, to be placed in the same scale as the two Parts of 'The Contention.' It wants, speaking generally,

* In 1594 was published The first Part of the Conten

tion between the two famous Houses of York and Lancaster.' This play, in the entire conduct of the scenes, and a great part of the dialogue, is the Second Part of Henry VI.' In 1595 appeared The true Tragedy of Richard Duke of York, known also as the Second Part of the Contention.' This is the parallel play to the Third Part of

Henry VI. The first Part of Henry VI.' originally ap peared in the folio of 1623.

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mere poetry of description, but the teeming thought, the figurative expression, the single word that conveys a complex idea with more distinctness and much more force than the periphrasis of ordinary writers. It results from this very defect that 'The First Part of Henry VI.' has far less obscurity than the succeeding parts. We may venture to say that there is no play of the whole number received as Shakspere's which exhibits so few passages of doubtful meaning; and this we hold to be a consequence of its being one of his very earliest performances. All the very early plays possess this attribute, more or less. We can understand how a poet of Shakspere's extraordinary judgment-the quality which we hold to be as remarkable in him as his invention - should, surrounded as he was with dramatic productions teeming with extravagance and unreality of every description, first endeavour to be correct and to be intelligible. But of what other author, who belonged to the transition-state of the drama, can it be said that intelligibility was a characteristic? Who else has attempted to give us the familiar without the vapid or the gross, and the dignified without the inflated? Who, in a word, of our dramatic writers between 1585 and 1590, trusted to the power of the real?

The value of any work of art is to be tested rather by its effect as a whole than by the effect of particular parts. And this especially applies to a work of dramatic art; for parts even fine in themselves may, with reference to the entire effect of a drama, be blemishes instead of beauties. No writer that ever lived has approached Shakspere in the skill by which the whole is made to produce its entire and undisturbed effect. He is thus, of all poets, the least to be appreciated from the study alone of "specimens." For, although these may be sufficient to place him in the highest rank, in comparison with the "specimens" of other writers, yet, separated from the parts by which they are naturally surrounded, they furnish no idea of the extraordinary harmony with which they are blended with all that has preceded and all

that follows them. Shakspere, beyond every other dramatic writer, possesses the power of sustaining the continuous idea, which imparts its own organization and vitality to the most complex and apparently incongruous action, to the most diversified and seemingly isolated characters.

Without understanding the paramount idea, the manufacturers of acting plays have proceeded to the abridgment and transposition of Shakspere's scenes, and have produced such monsters as Davenant's 'Tempest' and Tate's Lear.' It is in the same spirit that the critics upon the 'Henry VI.' hold that these dramas are greatly inferior to Shakspere's other performances; and hence the theory of their spuriousness. But, as we believe, the informing idea in all its dramatic power and unity runs through the entire series of these plays, and, as we think, is most especially manifest in the two Parts of The Contention.' For what is the effect which the poet intended in these two dramas to produce on the minds of his audience? There was to be shown a dark chaotic mass of civil tumult, of factious strifes, of fierce and bloody hatreds, of desperate ambition, of political profligacy, of popular ignorance, of weak government. The struggle was to be continued, while each faction had its alternations of success; each was to exhibit the same demoralising effects of the same frenzied ambition which drove them onward; the course of events was sometimes to be determined by energy and sometimes by accident; weakness was to throw away what power and good fortune had won; alliances were to be broken by causeless quarrels, and cemented by motiveless treachery; and, lastly, when the everpresent fate which seemed to dominate over this wild and fearful confusion gave the final battle to the feeble, and hurled down the mighty from the car of victory, there was to be superfluous guilt in the hour of success, and the conquerors were to march to thrones with their hands red with murder. But what principle was to hold together all these apparently incongruous elements? How were the separate scenes, each so carelessly, as it were, linked with the other,

to produce one overwhelming interest, stimulate one prevailing curiosity, satisfy one irresistible craving in the spectators? The stern majesty of justice was made to preside over the course of these wild and mysterious events-sometimes dimly seen, sometimes wholly hidden, but rising up ever and anon out of thick clouds and darkness, to assert the overruling power of some government of events, more equal, more enduring, more mighty, and more fearful, than the direction which they received from human energy, and passion, and intellect, and guilt. Shakspere has never chosen to exhibit this tremendous agency after that unnatural manner which we are accustomed to call poetical justice— he developes the progress of that real justice which sometimes, for inscrutable purposes, permits the good to be forsaken, to be humiliated, to be crushed, to perish, but which invariably follows the guilty with some dismal retribution, more striking if it be seen,— more terrible if it be hidden from all eyes, and revealed only in the innermost heart of the peace-abandoned. He never distorts and vulgarises the manifest workings of a providential arbitrement of human actions, by heaping every calamity upon the good man, -searing his heart with tortures which leave the wheel and the stake but little to inflict,

and then, hey presto, turning the dirge into a dance-the prison into a palace,whilst the tyrant and the villain has his profitable account settled with a stab or an execution. Poetical justice is "your only jig-maker." But Shakspere never forgets that in the general course of actual events there is a slow but unerring retribution that follows the violation of justice, evolved, not by the shifting of a scene, but out of the natural consequences of the events themselves. Let us endeavour to trace how this paramount idea is brought out in the dramas before us.

Sir Walter Scott somewhere speaks, through one of his characters, of the "Lancastrian prejudices" of Shakspere. The great novelist had probably in his mind the delineation of Richard. But it would be difficult, we think, to have conducted the entire chronicle history of 'The Contention between the two

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