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He goes on to say,-"Even that (the name of Cymbeline') has its advantages in preparing the audience for the chaos of time, place, and costume, by throwing the date back into a fabulous king's reign." We do not understand that Coleridge meant to say that the play of 'Cymbeline' had neither co-ordination of characters nor a prominent object; but we do apprehend that the name was symbolical, in his belief, of the main features of the play-the chaos of time, place, and costume. For he proceeds, immediately, to remark, in reference to the judgment displayed by our truly dramatic poet in the management of his first scenes,

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writing by rule, are apt to try every composition by those laws which we have been taught to think the sole criterion of excellence. Critical taste is universally diffused, and we require the same order and design which every modern performance is expected to have, in poems where they never were regarded or intended." Warton was a man of too high taste not in some degree to despise this "criterion of excellence;" but he did not dare to avow the heresy in his own day. We have outlived all this. The "critical taste" to which Warton alludes belongs only to the history of criticism. But, even amongst those upon whom we have been accustomed to rely as infallible guides," With the single exception of Cymbeline," it does appear to us that 'Cymbeline' has been, in some degree, considered a departure from the great law of unity-not of time, nor of place, but of feeling-which Shakspere has unquestionably prescribed to himself. Neither Tieck nor Schlegel, according to their usual custom, attempt to show that any predominant idea runs through 'Cymbeline.' They each speak of it as a succession of splendid scenes, and high poetry; and, indeed, it cannot be denied that these attributes of this drama most forcibly seize upon the mind, somewhat, perhaps, to the exclusion of its real action. We venture to express our opinion that one predominant idea does exist; although Coleridge, even more distinctly than the German critics, if we apprehend him rightly, inferred the contrary:—“In the 'Twelfth Night,' Midsummer Night's Dream,' 'As You Like It,' and 'Winter's Tale,' the total effect is produced by a co-ordination of the characters as in a wreath of flowers. But in 'Coriolanus,' 'Lear,' 'Romeo and Juliet,' Hamlet,' 'Othello,' &c., the effect arises from the subordination of all to one, either as the prominent person, or the principal object." Coleridge is speaking of the great significancy of the names of Shakspere's plays. The consonancy of the names with the leading ideas of each drama is exemplified in this passage. He then adds-"Cymbeline' is the only exception;" that is, the name of 'Cymbeline' neither expresses the co-ordination of the characters, nor the principal object.

they place before us at one glance both the past and the future in some effect, which implies the continuance and full agency of its cause.' We venture to believe that Cymbeline' does not form an exception to the usual course pursued by Shakspere in the management of his first scenes; and that the first scenes of 'Cymbeline' do place before us the past and the future in a way which we think very strikingly discloses what | he intended to be the leading idea of his drama.

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The dialogue of the "two Gentlemen" in the opening scene makes us perfectly acquainted with the relations in which Posthumus and Imogen stand to each other, and to those around them. "She's wedded, her husband banish'd." We have next the character of the banished husband, and of the unworthy suitor who is the cause of his banishment; as well as the story of the king's two lost sons. This is essentially the foundation of the past and future of the | action. Brief indeed is this scene, but it well prepares us for the parting of Posthumus and Imogen. The course of their affections is turned awry by the wills of others. The angry king at once proclaims himself to us as one not cruel, but weak; he has before been described as "touch'd at very heart." It is only in the intensity of her affection for Posthumus that Imogen opposes her own will to the impatient violence of her father, and the more crafty decision of her step*Literary Remains,' vol. ii. p. 27.

mother. But she is surrounded with a third evil,

"A father cruel, and a step-dame false,

A foolish suitor to a wedded lady." Worse, however, even than these, her honour is to be assailed, her character vilified, by a subtle stranger; who, perhaps more in sport than in malice, has resolved to win a paltry wager by the sacrifice of her happiness and that of her husband. What has she to oppose to all this complication of violence and cunning? Her perfect purity- - her entire simplicity-her freedom from everything that is selfish-the strength only of her affections. The scene between Iachimo and Imogen is a contest of innocence with guile, most profoundly affecting, in spite of the few coarsenesses that were perhaps unavoidable, and which were not considered offensive in Shakspere's day. The supreme beauty of Imogen's character soars triumphantly out of the impure mist which is around her; and not the least part of that beauty is her ready forgiveness of her assailant, briefly and flutteringly expressed, however, when he relies upon the possibility of deceiving her through her affections:

"O happy Leonatus! I may say:

The credit that thy lady hath of thee Deserves thy trust; and thy most perfect goodness

Her assured credit!"

This is the First Act; and, if we mistake not the object of Shakspere, these opening scenes exhibit one of the most confiding and gentle of human beings, assailed on every side by a determination of purpose, whether in the shape of violence, wickedness, or folly, against which, under ordinary circumstances, innocence may be supposed to be an insufficient shield. But the very helplessness of Imogen is her protection. In the exquisite Second Scene of the Second Act, the perfect purity of Imogen, as interpreted by Shakspere, has converted what would have been a most dangerous situation in the hands of another poet-Fletcher, for example-into one of the most refined delicacy:

""T is her breathing that Perfumes the chamber thus."

The immediate danger is passed; but there is a new danger approaching. The will of her unhappy husband, deceived into madness, is to be added to the evils which she has

already received from violence and selfishness. Posthumus, intending to destroy her, writes, "Take notice that I am in Cambria, at Milford-Haven; what your own love will out of this advise you, follow." She does follow her own love; she has no other guide but the strength of her affections; that strength makes her hardy and fearless of consequences. It is the one duty, as well as the one pleasure, of her existence. How is that affection requited? Pisanio places in her hand, when they have reached the deepest solitude of the mountains, that letter by which he is commanded to take away her life. One passing thought of herself-one faint reproach of her husband,—and she submits to the fate which is prepared for

her:

"Come, fellow, be thou honest: Do thou thy master's bidding: When thou see'st him,

A little witness my obedience: Look!
I draw the sword myself: take it; and hit
The innocent mansion of my love, my heart."

But her truth and innocence have already subdued the will of the sworn servant of her husband. He comforts her, but he necessarily leaves her in the wilderness. The spells of evil wills are still around her:

"My noble mistress,

Here is a box: I had it from the queen."

Perhaps there is nothing in Shakspere more beautifully managed,-more touching in its romance,―more essentially true to nature,— than the scene between Imogen and her unknown brothers. The gentleness, the grace, the "grief and patience," of the helpless Fidele, producing at once the deepest reverence and affection in the bold and daring mountaineers, still carry forward the character of Imogen under the same aspects. Belarius has beautifully described the bro

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Not wagging his sweet head: and yet, as another victim of worldly craft and selfish-
rough,
Their royal blood enchafed, as the rud'st wind,
That by the top doth take the mountain pine,
And make him stoop to the vale."

It was in their gentleness that Imogen found
a support for her gentleness;-it was in their
roughness that the roughness of Cloten met
its punishment. Imogen is still saved from
the dangers with which craft and violence
have surrounded her. When she swallows
the supposed medicine of the queen, we know
beforehand that the evil intentions of her
step-mother have been counteracted by the
benevolent intentions of the physician :-
"I do know her spirit,
And will not trust one of her malice with
A drug of such damn'd nature."

"The bird is dead;" she was sick, and we
almost fear that the words of the dirge are
true:-

"Fear no more the frown o' the great,

Thou art pass'd the tyrant's stroke. But she awakes, and she has still to endure the last and the worst evil-her husband, in her apprehension, lies dead before her. She has no wrongs to think of "O my lord, my lord," is all, in connexion with Posthumus, that escapes amidst her tears. The beauty and innocence which saved her from Iachimo, -which conquered Pisanio,—which won the wild hunters, commend her to the Roman general-she is at once protected. But she has holy duties still to perform :—

"Gods! if you

Should have ta'en vengeance on my faults, I

never

Had lived to put on this; so had you saved
The noble Imogen to repent; and struck
Me, wretch, more worth your vengeance."
In the prison scene his spirit is again united
"O Imogen,

with hers:

I'll speak to thee in silence. The contest we now feel is over between the selfish and the unselfish, the crafty and the simple, the proud and the meek, the violent and the gentle.

It is scarcely within our purpose to follow the unravelling of the incidents in the concluding scene. Steevens has worthily endeavoured to make amends for the injustice of the criticism which 'Cymbeline' has received from his associate commentator:"Let those who talk so confidently about the skill of Shakspeare's contemporary, Jonson, point out the conclusion of any one of his plays which is wrought with more artifice, and yet a less degree of dramatic violence, than this. In the scene before us, all the surviving characters are assembled; and at the expense of whatever incongruity the former events may have been produced, perhaps little can be discovered on this occasion to offend the most scrupulous advocate for regularity: and, I think, as little is found wanting to satisfy the spectator by a catastrophe which is intricate without

"I'll follow, sir. But, first, an 't please the confusion, and not more rich in ornament

gods,

I'll hide my master from the flies, as deep
As these poor pickaxes can dig: and when
With wild wood-leaves and weeds I have
strew'd his grave,

And on it said a century of prayers,
Such as I can, twice o'er, I'll weep and sigh;
And, leaving so his service, follow you,
So please you entertain me."

It is the unconquerable affection of Imogen
which makes us pity Posthumus even while
we blame him for the rash exercise of his
revengeful will. But in his deep repentance
we more than pity him. We see only

than in nature."

The conclusion of 'Cymbeline' has been lauded because it is consistent with poetical justice. Those who adopt this species of reasoning look very imperfectly upon the course of real events in the moral world. It is permitted, for inscrutable purposes, that the innocent should sometimes fall before the wicked, and the noble be subjected to the base. In the same way, it is sometimes in the course of events that the pure and the gentle should triumph over deceit and outrage. The perishing of Desdemona is as træe as the safety of Imogen; and the poetical

case

truth involves as high a moral in the one as in the other. That Shakspere's notion of poetical justice was not the hackneyed notion of an intolerant age, reflected even by a Boccaccio, is shown by the difference in the lot of the offender in the Italian tale and the lot of Iachimo. The Ambrogiolo of the novelist, who slanders a virtuous lady for the gain of a wager, is fastened to a stake, smeared with honey, and left to be devoured by flies and locusts. The close of our dramatist's story is perfect Shakspere :

"Post. Speak, Iachimo; I had you down, and might

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CHAPTER III.

THE TEMPEST.

superior genius who commands both Prospero and Ariel. But the time was approaching when the potent sorcerer was to break his staff, and to bury it fathoms in the ocean,

THIS comedy stands the first in the folio | Shakspere himself is Prospero, or rather the collection of 1623, in which edition it was originally printed. In the entry upon the Stationers' registers of November the 8th, 1623, claiming for the booksellers Blount and Jaggard such plays of Shakspere were not formerly entered to other men," it also is the first in order. The original text is printed with singular correctness.

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A very general belief has always prevailed that 'The Tempest' was the last of Shakspere's works. We are inclined to think that this belief was rather a matter of feeling than of judgment. Mr. Campbell has put the feeling very elegantly:"The Tempest' has a sort of sacredness as the last work of a mighty workman. Shakspere, as if conscious that it would be his last, and as if inspired to typify himself, has made his hero a natural, a dignified, and benevolent magician, who could conjure up spirits from the vasty deep, and command supernatural agency by the most seemingly natural and simple means. And this final play of our poet has magic indeed; for, what can be simpler in language than the courtship of Ferdinand and Miranda, and yet what can be more magical than the sympathy with which it subdues us? Here

'Deeper than did ever plummet sound.' That staff has never been, and never will be, recovered." But this feeling, pretty and fanciful as it is, is certainly somewhat deceptive. It is not borne out by the internal evidence of the play itself. Shakspere never could have contemplated, in health and intellectual vigour, any abandonment of that occupation which constituted his happiness and glory. We have no doubt that he wrote on till the hour of his last illness. His later plays are unquestionably those in which the mighty intellect is more tasked than the unbounded fancy. His later plays, as we believe, present the philosophical and historical aspect of human affairs rather than the passionate and the imaginative. The Roman historical plays are, as it appears to us, at the end of his career, as the English historical plays are at the beginning. Nothing can be more different than the principle of art upon which the 'Henry VI.' and the

years of his life. We cannot bring ourselves
to believe that 'The Tempest' belonged to
the latest period. Ulrici has said ""
"The
Tempest' is the completing companion-piece
of the 'Winter's Tale' and 'A Midsummer-
Night's Dream." The 'Midsummer-Night's
Dream' was printed in 1600;—it was probably
written some five or six years previous. The
'Winter's Tale' was acted in 1611. From
the 'Extracts from the Accounts of the
Revels at Court,' edited by Mr. Peter Cun-
ningham, we learn that on Hallowmas Night
(November 1), 1611, was presented at
Whitehall, before the King's Majesty, a play
called 'The Tempest.'" Four nights after-
wards the 'Winter's Tale' was also presented.
The Winter's Tale' appears to us to bear
marks of a later composition than 'The
Tempest.'

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'Antony and Cleopatra' are constructed. | that there are any productions of the human The Roman plays denote, we think, the mind in existence, ancient or modern, which growth of an intellect during five-and-twenty can give us so complete a notion of what years. The Tempest' does not present the Roman life was under its great general characteristics of the latest plays. It has aspects. This was the effect, not only of the playfulness and beauty of the comedies, his instinctive wisdom, but of that leisure mingled with the higher notes of passionate for profound inquiry and extensive investigaand solemn thought which distinguished the|tion which Shakspere possessed in the latter great tragedies. It is essentially, too, written wholly with reference to the stage, at a period when an Ariel could be presented to an imaginative audience without the prosaic | encumbrance of wings. The later plays, such as 'Troilus and Cressida,' and the three Roman subjects, are certainly written without any very strong regard to dramatic effect. They are noble acting plays, especially 'Julius Cæsar' and 'Coriolanus;' but even in these the poet appears to have poured himself forth with a philosophical mastery of the great principles by which men are held in the social state, without being very solicitous as to the favourable reception of his opinions by the mixed audiences of the days of James I. The Antony and Cleopatra' is still more remarkable for its surpassing historical truth-not the mere truth of chronological exactness, but that truth which is evolved out of the power of making the past present and real, through the marvellous felicity of knowing and representing how individuals and masses of men must have acted under circumstances which are only assimilated to the circumstances of modern times by the fact that all the great principles and motives of human action are essentially the same in every age and in every condition of civilization. The plays that we have mentioned must have been the result of very profound thought and very accurate investigation. The characters of the 'Troilus and Cressida' are purposely Gothicised. An episode of "the tale of Troy divine" is seized upon, to be divested of its romantic attributes, and to be presented with all the bold colouring of a master regardless of minute proprieties of costume, but producing the most powerful and harmonious effect through the universal truth of his delineations. On the contrary, the Roman plays are perfect in costume. We do not believe

But we are not disposed to

separate them by any very wide interval: more especially we cannot agree with Mr. Hunter, who has brought great learning to an investigation of all the points connected with 'The Tempest,' that this play, “instead of being the latest work of this great master, is in reality one of the earliest, nearly the first in time, as the first in place, of the dramas which are wholly his." The difficulty of settling the chronology of some of Shakspere's plays by internal evidence is very much increased by the circumstance that some of them must be regarded as early performances that have come down to us with the large additions and corrections of maturer years. For example: 'Pericles', was, it is probable, produced as a novelty in 1608, or not long before. There are portions of that play which we think no one could have written but the mature Shakspere; mixed up with other portions which indicate, not so much immature powers as the treatment of a story in the spirit of the oldest dramas. So it is with Cymbeline;' and, to

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