The Selected Writings of William Hazlitt. An Essay On The Priciples of Human Action Characters of Shakespeare's Plays. Edited by Duncan Wu

THE PICKERING MASTERS
THE SELECTED WRITINGS OF WILLIAM HAZLITT
Volume 1
An Essay on the Principles of Human Action
Characters of Shakespear's Plays
THE PICKERING MASTERS
THE SELECTED WRITINGS OF WILLIAM HAZLITT
Consulting Editors: David Bromwich

Stanley Jones
Roy Park
Tom Paulin
William Bewick, William Hazlitt, dated 25th October 1818, courtesy of the
Wordsworth Trust, Dove Cottage.
THE SELECTED WRITINGS
OF WILLIAM HAZLITT
Edited by
Duncan Wu
With an Introduction
by Tom Paulin
VOLUME 1
~ ~~o~I~;n~~~up
LONDON AND NEW YORK
First published 1998 by Pickering & Chatto (Publishers) Limited
Published 2016 by Routledge
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Copyright ©Taylor & Francis 1998

© General Introduction Tom Paulin 1998
© Editor's Introduction, editorial and Introductory Notes Duncan Wu 1998
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BRITISH LIBRARY CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION DATA
Hazlitt, William, 1778-1830
Selected works of William Hazlitt. - (The Pickering masters)
1. English Essays - 18th century
I. Title II. Wu, Duncan
824.7
ISBN 13: 978-1-13876-320-3 (hbk) (vol-01)
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Hazlitt, William, 1778-1830.
[Selections. 1998]
The selected writings of William Hazlitt/ edited by Duncan Wu;
consulting editors David Bromwich, Stanley Jones, Roy Park, Tom Paulin;
introduction by Tom Paulin.
p. cm.
Contents: v. 1. An essay on the principles of human action; Characters of
Shakespear's plays - v. 2. The round table; Lectures on the English poets - v. 3. A
view of the English stage - v. 4. Political essays - v. 5. A letter to William Gifford,
Esq; Lectures on the English Comic writers; Lectures on the dramatic literature of the
Age of Elizabeth - v. 6. Table talk - v. 7. Liber Amoris; The spirit of the age - v.
8. The plain speaker - v.9. Uncollected essays.
Includes bibliographical references and indexes.
ISBN 1-85196-369-3 (set: alk. paper). - ISBN 1-85196-361-8 (v. 1: alk.
paper). - ISBN 1-85196-362-6 (v. 2: alk. paper). - ISBN 1-85196-363-4 (v. 3:
alk. paper). - ISBN 1-85196-364-2 (v. 4: alk. paper). - ISBN 1-85196-365-0 (v.
5: alk. paper). - ISBN 1-85196-366-9 (v. 6: alk. paper). - ISBN 1-85196-367-7
(v. 7: alk. paper). ISBN 1-85196-368-5 (v. 8: alk. paper). - ISBN 1-85196-397-9
(v. 9 : alk. paper).
I. Wu, Duncan. II. Title
PR4771.W8 1998
824'.7-dc21
98-10129
CIP
Typeset by Antony Gray, London
CONTENTS
Volume 1
Contents of the edition vu

List of abbreviations 1x
General introduction by Tom Paulin x1

Editor's introduction by Duncan Wu xxxv
Acknowledgements Ii
Introductory notes liii
AN ESSAY ON THE PRINCIPLES OF HUMAN ACTION 1
CHARACTERS OF SHAKESPEAR'S PLAYS 83
Preface 85
Cymbeline 92
Macbeth 99
Julius Cesar 107
Othello 112
Timon of Athens 121
Coriolanus 125
Troilus and Cressida 132
Antony and Cleopatra 138
Hamlet 143
The Tempest 148
The Midsummer Night's Dream 154
Romeo and Juliet 158
Lear 167
Richard II 181
V
CONTENTS
Henry IV, in two parts 186

Henry V 194
Henry VI, in three parts 200
Richard III 206
Henry VIII 211
KingJohn 214
Twelfth Night; or, What You Will 221
The Two Gentlemen of Verona 226
The Merchant of Venice 228
The Winter's Tale 232
All's Well that Ends Wells 237
Love's Labour Lost 240
Much Ado About Nothing 243
As You Like It 246
The Taming of the Shrew 250
Measure for Measure 254
The Merry Wives of Windsor 258
The Comedy of Errors 259
Doubtful Plays of Shakespear 262
Poems and Sonnets 266
APPENDIX: Hazlitt's Review of Schlegel 271
Notes 309
Books referred to in the notes to volume 1 334
vi
CONTENTS OF THE EDITION
Volume 2
THE ROUND TABLE (1817)

LECTURES ON THE ENGLISH POETS (1818)
Volume 3
A VIEW OF THE ENGLISH STAGE (1818)
Volume 4
POLITICAL ESSAYS (1819)
Volume 5
LECTURES ON THE ENGLISH COMIC WRITERS (1819)

LECTURES ON THE DRAMATIC LITERATURE OF THE AGE OF ELIZABETH (1820)
A LETTER TO WILLIAM GIFFORD, ESQ. (1819)
Volume 6
TABLE TALK (1821-2)
Volume 7
LIBER AMORIS (1823)

THE SPIRIT OF THE AGE (1825)
Volume 8
THE PLAIN SPEAKER (1826)
Volume 9
UNCOLLECTED ESSAYS (c.1805-30)

INDEX
vii
LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS
Balguy The Decameron, or Ten Days Entertainment efBoccace, tr. Charles Balguy
(London, 17 41)
Howe The Works ef William Hazlitt, ed. P. P. Howe (21 vols., London,
1930-4)
Jones Stanley Jones, Hazlitt: A Life (Oxford, 1989)
Letters The Letters ef William Hazlitt, ed. Herschel Moreland Sikes, assisted by
Willard Hallam Bonner and Gerald Lahey (New York, 1978)
Mitchell The Writings and Speeches ef Edmund Burke, Volume 8: The French
Revolution 1790-1794, ed. L. G. Mitchell (Oxford, 1989)
Morley Henry Crabb Robinson on Books and Their Writers, ed. Edith J. Morley
(3 vols., London, 1938)
Munby Sale Catalogues ef Libraries efEminent Persons, ed. A. N. L. Munby (11
vols., London, 1971-5), vol i, pp 99-151.
Pope The Works ef Shakespear, ed. Alexander Pope (7 vols., London, 1723-
5)
Prose Works The Prose Works ef William Wordsworth, ed. W. J.B. Owen and Jane
Worthington Smyser (3 vols., Oxford, 197 4)
Schlegel A. W. Schlegel, A Course ef Lectures on Dramatic Art and Literature (2
vols., London, 1815)
Sherbo Johnson on Shakespeare, ed. Arthur Sherbo (2 vols., London, 1968)
GENERAL INTRODUCTION
by Tom Paulin
In a long essay on William Hazlitt, published in the Comhill Magazine in 1877,

more than forty years after his death in a Soho lodging-house, Leslie Stephen aimed
to give the Victorian reader a definitive assessment of his work. Hazlitt, Stephen
argued, was a genuine thinker, not a 'mere manufacturer of literary common-
places.' His thought was 'masculine' (a favourite adjective of Hazlitt's), and his
expression 'masterly.' On the other hand, no one ever indulged more persistently
in the habit of 'washing his dirty linen in public.' Not even Rousseau, whom
Hazlitt had worshipped, could be more demonstrative of his feelings and
recollections.
Like Robert Louis Stevenson -who praised Hazlitt as 'a splenetic, eager, tasteful,
unjust man, filled with gusto and revolt,' the one who, of all the English writers,
had had 'the scantest justice' - Leslie Stephen was embarrassed by Liber Amoris:
Hazlitt's account of his hopeless, obsessive affair with Sarah Walker, the daughter
of the family with whom he lodged in Southampton Row in central London after
the break-up of his marriage to Sarah Hazlitt in 1819. In Stephen's view, Hazlitt
was an emotional writer- fitful, volatile, cynical, morbidly egotistical, and without
application and steadiness:
The end, therefore, of his life exhibits a series of short impetuous fits of passionate
endeavour, rather than devotion to a single overruling purpose; and all his writings
are briefoutbursts ofeloquent feeling, where neither the separate fragments nor the
works considered as a whole obey any law oflogical development.
Shrewdly, though, Stephen notices the application ofhis philosophical idealism in

his critical writing: he sees 'every abstract principle by the concrete instance.'
However, dismissing Hazlitt's radical Whig politics as merely emotional, Stephen
states that they were the expression, in a generalised form, of'his intense feeling
of personality.' They were a projection upon the modem political world of'that
heroic spirit of individual self-respect which animated his Puritan forefathers.'
Although this simplifies Hazlitt's critical stance, it does affirm the shaping spirit of
Dissent in his imagination. When Hazlitt praises the Reformation in Great Britian,
we can hear a muscular pulpit eloquence in the heightened cadences of his
delivery:
Xl
SELECTED WRITINGS OF WILLIAM HAZLITT: VOLUME 1
There was a mighty fermentation: the waters were out; public opinion was in a state
ofprojection. Liberty was held out to all to think and speak the truth. Men's brains
were busy; their spirits stirring; their hearts full; and their hands not idle. Their eyes
were opened to expect the greatest things, and their ears burned with curiosity and
zeal to know the truth, that the truth might make them free. The death-blow which
had been struck at scarlet vice and bloated hypocrisy, loosened their tongues, and
made the talismans and love-tokens of Popish superstition, with which she had
beguiled her followers and committed abominations with the people, fall harmless
from their necks.
This address, although too direct, too much an anticipation of Carlyle's hectoring
prose, displays a protestant plain speaking which lies at the heart of Hazlitt's
criticism, and perhaps a vein of atavistic Ulster bigotry. Interestingly, Hazlitt
designs a mixed metaphor drawn from alchemy and popular phantasmagorias or
light shows to describe the projected state ofpublic opinion. There is an image here
of an illuminated lantern slide or transparency, and it is no accident that in his
criticism Hazlitt several times uses this as a metaphor for his own writing. A failed
painter, the first major art critic in English, he is a puritan journalist writing to the
moment, who aims to project and visualize ideas: to make the abstract concrete, as
Stephen states. And his task is fuelled by the inspiration of the Reformation, the
translated Bible, and the invention of the printing press which he sees as an
Archimedean lever, shifting the world and making liberty possible. Lecturing
under an oppressive government in the winter of1818, he tells his audience that the
translated Bible 'gave a mind to the people, by giving them common subjects of
thought and feeling. It cemented their union ofcharacter and sentiment: it created
endless diversity and collision of opinion.'
This delight in argument, in the collision not the consolidation ofopinion, is part
of Hazlitt's Unitarian inheritance: nourished in a small persecuted group of
intellectual aristocrats, he is committed to the liberal values Unitarians promulgated
in sermons, discourses, pamphlets and journals, many ofwhich were published from
72 St Paul's Churchyard by Joseph Johnson, the Dissenting bookseller who became
known as 'the father of the book trade.' Hazlitt is committed to benevolence,
disinterestedness, free speech, argument and communication, but he also has an
unusual sense of the limitations of liberal rationalism or 'mitigated, sceptical,
liberalised, enlightened belief', as he terms it in 'Guy Faux'. He has a fascination
with the criminal mind; he doubts liberal scepticism, partly because he believes that
such an attitude walls off the irrational and the prejudiced, as well as denying the
heroical, which he terms 'the fanaticism ofcommon life.' Here, his reading ofBurke
is crucial, for even though Burke was a vicious enemy of the Unitarians when
Hazlitt was a teenager in the 1790s, he recognized the dangerous modernity in
Burke's revolt against the eighteenth century.
Attacking Wordsworth and Coleridge in a letter to The Examiner, Hazlitt writes
Xll
ofthe man 'who resists tyranny with Hampden, or who worships the ONE GOD AND
FATHER with the Christian philosopher Locke.' The reference to the ONE GOD is a
straightforwardly Unitarian affirmation of the oneness of God, while the link with
Locke is established by the fact that Unitarians regarded him as being covertly one
of them, rejecting the Trinity like Milton and Newton. Hampden, one of the
leaders of the Puritans in parliament during the reign of Charles I, and one of the
military leaders during the Civil War, belongs to a pantheon of Puritans Hazlitt
invokes frequently in his essays: Pym, Marvell, Cromwell, Milton, Algernon
Sidney and Hampden are all sacral figures for him.
Hazlitt's puritanism is cultural, a matter of temperament and upbringing, not of
personal religious faith (he was not a believing Christian, though there is a form of
pantheism within the Priestleyan scientism he acquired, partly through his
Unitarian education and partly through his reading of Wordsworth - 'Tintern
Abbey', which was strongly influenced by a Unitarian sermon preached by
Hazlitt's friend Joseph Fawcett, is a seminal poem for him). Hazlitt rejected the idea
of studying for the Unitarian ministry, and greatly upset his father when he left
Hackney New College, the Unitarian academy he had entered in 1793 at the age
of 15. Yet in the absence of religious faith, he retained an attachment to his 'little
platoon' - a famous phrase ofBurke's - and writing in a letter to a friend in 1829,
just a year before his death, he declares:
I do not know if I have much natural piety in my constitution, but Dr Channing

preaches at an Unitarian Meeting in Boston the Liturgy (formerly Trinitarian) which
was drawn up by my father forty years ago and upwards, who went to America to
plant Unitarianism there.
The letter refers to the period 1783-7 when the Reverend William Hazlitt, his wife
Grace and their three children, John, Margaret and William, left Bandon, Co.
Cork, and emigrated to the new United States. Although Hazlitt's father
established the first Unitarian Church in Boston -T. S. Eliot's family later became
prominent members - his uncompromisingly radical views made him enemies, and
the family were obliged to return to England, settling in the remote village ofWem
in Shropshire.
Hazlitt's father, born in Shronell, Co. Tipperary, in 1737, studied at the
University ofGlasgow, and became Unitarian minister in Wisbech in 1764. There
he married Grace Loftus, the daughter of a Dissenting ironmonger whose family
was friendly with William Godwin's. (It is important to trace the Dissenting
network in studying Hazlitt: several of his friends were Unitarians, among them
Charles Lamb, the painter James Northcote and the writer and preacher Joseph
Fawcett.) Unitarianism is of considerable historical and cultural interest, but it has
been neglected as a subject, and there is no significant historical treatment of it.
In England John Biddle (1615-62) is generally seen as the father of English
xiii
Unitarianism. He stressed the humanity of Christ and opposed the doctrine of the
Trinity, a doctrine Unitarians tend to dismiss as gothic, magical, superstitious and
barbarous. In early Christianity, several churches rejected the Trinity, and in the
Middle Ages and in the post-Reformation period several sects also denied the
doctrine ofthe Trinity. This denial ofChrist's divinity and assertion ofmonotheism,
contributed to the idea ofscientific law. Unitarianism is what is termed a 'process
theology', and its roots lie in various churches that were formed in Hungary,
Romania and Poland in the 16th century (George Eliot, who was closely associated
with Unitarians, gives Ladislaw in Middlemarch a Polish background in order to
imply his freedom from the limitations of traditional English Anglicanism and
Nonconformism). Influenced by European anti-Trinitarianism, Unitarian churches
were established in England and the United States in the eighteenth and nineteenth
centuries. In England, the education offered by Unitarian academies during the
eighteenth century was superior to that offered by Oxford and Cambridge.
Unitarianism does not begin with an idea of God, or a doctrine about Christ or
a dogma concerning the Bible or a theory of the Church, but with the study of
human nature. It dreads to be 'artificial and insincere', has no common rites,
ceremonies or dogmas. It rejects the traditional doctrines of atonement, the
Trinity, Original Sin, vicarious Punishment and Eternal Hell, and regards evil as
having no substance. Unitarianism is closely associated with social and political
reform, educational theory, science, economics, periodical literature and
journalism (for example, The Manchester Guardian, now the Guardian newspaper, was
founded by a group of Unitarians). Historically, Unitarianism is a significant and
influential force in British culture: Unitarians have been described as 'an intellectual
aristocracy in the ranks of Dissent'. Persecuted in the 1790s, Unitarians became
powerful and respected members of the middle-class in the nineteenth century.
This is the elite culture of rational Dissent that formed Hazlitt, and although he
writes from time to time of its dryness and inflexibility, its 'exclusive and narrow-
minded spirit', he also identifies Dissenting culture with those values which are part
of the fabric of his critical imagination. In his essay 'On the Tendency of Sects,'
collected in The Round Table, he begins with the assertion that 'there is a natural
tendency in sects to narrow the mind', and then concludes that all sects share a
principle of 'strong fidelity':
They are the safest partisans, and the steadiest friends. Indeed, they are almost the
only people who have any idea of an abstract attachment either to a cause or to
individuals, from a sense of duty, independently of prosperous or adverse
circumstances, and in spite of opposition.
It is this concept of'abstract attachment' which underlies all Hazlitt's writing, and
takes it beyond the merely emotional egotistic discourse which Leslie Stephen
characterizes it as being.
xiv
Connected with this idea of abstract attachment, and drawing on the aesthetics
of the third Earl of Shaftesbury and Francis Hutcheson, is the attitude displayed in
Hazlitt's famous early remark that 'it has always been a test with me ofthe sense and
candour ofany one belonging to the opposite party, whether he allowed Burke to
be a great man'. By 'candour', Hazlitt means fairness, impartiality,justice, as well
as its more limited modern meaning of unreserved openness and outspokenness.
The term also carries meanings ofkindness, sweetness oftemper, and freedom from
malice, which he is arguing are qualities essential to the critic. It is equivalent to the
term 'disinterestedness', which in line with Shaftesbury and Hutcheson he uses to
articulate this critical ability to appreciate the argument or the art ofsomeone with
whom one disagrees. But this does not mean that the critic does not have a political
position. To Hazlitt, who was fiercely attacked by those critics who constituted, he
said, the invisible link between government and the police, this is impossible. What
counts is to be able to admire Burke's style and arguments, even while you disagree
with his savage gothic monarchism.
Matthew Arnold thought differently. Desiring to take the critic out of the fray,
he seized Hazlitt's term 'disinterestedness', and, in 'The Function of Criticism', a
lecture delivered in 1864 when Arnold was Professor of Poetry at Oxford, he
explains that the disinterested critic must keep aloof from 'the practical view of
things'. The critic, he argues, must keep out of the region of'immediate practice
in the political, social, humanitarian sphere', in order to make a beginning for a
'more free speculative treatment of things'. But there is a problem with Arnold's
argument. He wants the critic to float free into a realm of pure, weightless
impartiality, and yet he believes in a 'central authority representing high culture
and sound judgment'. Arnold wants 'a recognised authority in matters of
intellectual tone and taste'. As David Bromwich points out in his compelling study
ofHazlitt, Arnold gave a new meaning to 'disinterestedness' by his attempt to make
it synonymous with impartiality: it became the characteristic virtue, not of that
member of the opposite party who still recognized Burke's greatness, 'but of the
member of no party at all.'
In a sense, Arnold, like Leslie Stephen, is trying to curtail Hazlitt's critical
imagination. Stephen's view that Hazlitt is a narrowly emotional and partisan
writer reduces him to a near failure who should have left, instead of a mass of
journalism, what Stephen calls 'some more enduring monument to his remarkable
powers'. This, years later, was modified by Stephen's daughter, Virginia Woolf, in
an essay-review of volumes i, iv and v of P. P. Howe's magnificent centenary
edition of Hazlitt in the Times Literary Supplement (18 September 1930). Woolfs
was the lead review in the issue which was published on Hazlitt's birthday. (By
contrast, Hazlitt's bicentenary was noticed in the TLS with a brief review ofa 'dour
little exhibition' devoted to Hazlitt in the British Museum.) Virginia Woolf
suggests that Hazlitt's essays are not 'independent and self-sufficient', but are
xv
'fragments' broken off from some larger book, 'some searching inquiry into the
reason for human actions or into the nature of human institutions'. This, from an
early publisher and admirer ofT. S. Eliot, is perceptive and suggestive. There is, I
believe, an epic tendency in Hazlitt's work, as there is in The Waste Land, but what
we are given are a series offragments combined together within a cento form (see
p. xxiii below) and constituting overall a greater fragment, not a finished or
apparently coherent work. Woolfs characterization ofHazlitt makes him appear to
fit a new modernist aesthetic ofthe unfinished and fragmentary (though this is also
a Romantic aesthetic he practised), but it also implicitly begins to link him with
Eliot. It is as if Woolf intuitively understood their similarities.
And yet, Eliot succeeded in damaging Hazlitt's reputation, by dismissing his work
in his essay on Dryden (1924) with a few remarks on one quotation from a single
essay, concluding that Hazlitt had 'perhaps' the least interesting mind ofall the great
English critics. One effect of this hostility to his criticism is that his reputation has
slipped into the shadow-world he had an affinity for during his life - 'to be a lord,
a papist, and poor, is the most enviable distinction of humanity', Hazlitt said. 'It is
just the life I should have led.' This is part ofhis admiration for Guy Fawkes, whose
disinterestedness he praises, saying, 'I like the spirit ofmartyrdom'. Between Eliot's
'broken king at nightfall' - Charles I fleeing Oxford - and Hazlitt's icon of
martyrdom, there is some kind ofcurious cultural continuity; cultural, because Eliot
and Hazlitt belonged to the same form of dissenting protestantism: they were both
brought up as Unitarians and may, as I shall suggest, even have been related. They
seem to be opposites - Hazlitt a radical Whig, a republican, a free thinker and plain
speaker, Eliot a royalist and conservative, a critic ofliberalism - but they have certain
interesting affinities. Hazlitt is an opponent ofa smug, politically-correct optimism,
an opponent of utilitarianism. Like Eliot, he has a fascination with the life of the
people, with popular culture, and like Burke he wants to fire his prose style with a
plunging, sousing energy.
It's important to realize that Hazlitt was half-Irish, and his lifelong love-hate
relationship with Edmund Burke's writings is partly shaped by that background. In
a family memoir, his grandson, William Carew Hazlitt, says that the Rev. William
Hazlitt was 'an Irishman, and my grandfather' - that is the critic - 'after him'.
Hazlitt the critic, his grandson suggests, possessed 'a somewhat Celtic irritability',
and later in the same chapter of the memoir he discusses the friendship between
Hazlitt's sister and parents and an Irishwoman, Catherine Emmet, who was the
niece of the revolutionary leader Robert Emmet executed in Dublin in 1803.
Hazlitt's sister and parents looked after Catherine Emmet for the last five years of
her life and she left Margaret a small legacy. Discussing their friendship, Hazlitt's
grandson says that the source of the 'sympathy and tie between the two families is
tolerably obvious' - 'there was the common Irish blood and the common
republican leaning'.
xvi
The identification ofHazlitt as Irish has not survived, though George Saintsbury
notes in a history ofEnglish literature that Hazlitt was 'oflrish extraction'. His sister
Margaret suggests in her account of the family that had they remained in Ireland
(they moved to Bandon in Co. Cork in 1780), her father would not have survived
the 1798 rebellion. As a prominent radical in an Ascendancy town, his life would
have been sacrificed to what she terms 'party rage'. This is because Hazlitt Senior,
who was described by a friend as an ultra-Dissenter and republican, offended the
authorities in Bandon by publishing a number of polemical letters in which he
attacked them for their maltreatment of American prisoners of war in Kinsale.
Through these letters, and through his contacts within the Unitarian network, he
was able to communicate with the British prime minister Lord Shelburne and bring
about an improvement in the prisoners' conditions, but he had become a marked
man in the community. So when the American war of independence ended, the
Hazlitt family emigrated to the United States where they stayed for four years.
There, William Hazlitt Senior's outspokenness offended several of his fellow
ministers who referred to him as 'Paddy' and dismissed him as a good-hearted but
conceited man. As a family, the Hazlitts had, Carew Hazlitt writes, a 'radical
incapacity for disguising what they felt'. This bold honesty and boisterous
plainspeaking is characteristic ofwhat we might call the Whig mentalite, because the
Hazlitts were what are known as Real Whigs - intellectually they were the
descendants ofthe Commonwealthmen who made England briefly into a republic
in the middle of the seventeenth century. But Hazlitt's father's parents were
originally from the north of Ireland - they were calvinist presbyterians - and the
accounts which survive of Hazlitt's father make him appear to have been a very
typical kind of Ulster protestant - the name Hazlitt- pronounced 'Haizlitt' there
- is northern Irish.
Here, we must try to identify a particular kind of dissenting culture which
Hazlitt's writings embody- almost literally- since, as Virginia Woolfpoints out in
her essay, the body is central to his writing. It's an outlook which is both intellectual
- Unitarianism is a highly intellectual form of Christianity - and sensuously
particular, taking pleasure in nature, surface, texture, and aesthetic form.
That outlook is expressed by the very important, but also neglected early
eighteenth-century philosopher Francis Hutcheson, who is known as the founder
of the Scottish Enlightenment and who was the product of liberal Ulster
presbyterianism. It's also expressed in Characteristics, an early study ofaesthetics, by
the third Earl of Shaftesbury, the grandson of Anthony Ashley Cooper, the first
Earl, and the model for Dryden's Achitophel. Hazlitt's imagination was formed by
what I can only term Whig aesthetics, and in the vaults ofthe Maidstone Museum
you will find a portrait by Hazlitt of his father reading Shaftesbury's Characteristics.
The painting is damaged, the paint cracked, dark, bituminous, but it shows the old
minister- a big, craggy, benevolent man - reading from a book which is right in
xvii
the foreground ofthe painting. In 'The Pleasure ofPainting', Hazlitt tells us it was
Characteristics, though this must be a deliberate plant, because he admits his father
would as 'lieve' have read any other book. In the painting, the open book
functions as a masonic symbol, a symbol of openness, frankness and real Whig
honesty.
This, then, is the cultural idea Hazlitt wishes to give physical expression to in the
portrait; but he wants also, as in that late essay 'The Letter-Bell', to enact the sheer
physical pleasure ofpainting in his prose, the drag ofthe brush, the worked oiliness
of paint on canvas. Throughout his writing, he invokes the process of painting
because his whole imaginative effort as a critic is to make ideas have a physical,
corporeal, expressive sensuous existence, which is caught en passant, as he says ofa
luscious servant girl's face in Hogarth.
Discussing Rabelais he says 'his words are of marrow, unctuous, dropping
fatness', and that word unctuous is a central critical term for Hazlitt. He praises, for
example, the Irish comic actor John Liston for his 'oily richness of expression', his
'lubricated brogue', and then he criticises the artist David Wilkie (who sketched
Liston), for having a pencil which 'was not oily or unctuous enough'.
The erotic charge which 'oiliness' has for Hazlitt is obvious. He wants his prose
to have the tone, the silky ripple, the perfect ease and confidence of the human
body exultant at a peak ofhealth and fitness. He wants it to glisten like the boxer's
skin in his famous essay 'The Fight', which, although ostensibly about a boxing
match, is also a symbolist account ofprose style. For Hazlitt, prose style is a mode
of being, not simply descriptive, or a vehicle for ideas, or a means to an end; it is
emphatically not the window pane Orwell said it should resemble. Prose for Hazlitt
is a 'complete thing', like the boxing match, a glossy, perfectly articulated body in
energetic action.
Like Eliot, Hazlitt has a reverence and a fascination for seventeenth-century
English prose: he loves Bacon's essays and Jeremy Taylor's sermons, and sees them
as displaying a completely unified sensibility. In his essay 'Definition of Wit', he
offers a philosophical concept of wit which is as central to his criticism as Eliot's
more famous definition of wit is central to his writing. The connection between
Eliot and Hazlitt emerges most startlingly in a long-forgotten early book ofHazlitt's
called The Eloquence of The British Senate, a substantial anthology of parliamentary
speeches with briefbiographical notes and short essays, some ofwhich he reprinted
in his 1819 volume Political Essays.
In his brief account of the seventeenth-century English republican and
Commonwealth politician Bulstrode Whitelocke, he says that in compiling his
anthology, he is illustrating what he terms 'the successive changes that have taken
place in the minds and characters of Englishmen within the last 200 years'. He
argues that the distinctive character of the period in which Bulstrode Whitelocke
lived was this:
xviii
men's minds were stored with facts and images, almost to excess; there was a tenacity
and firmness in them that kept fast hold ofthe impressions ofthings as they were first
stamped upon the mind, and 'their ideas seemed to lie like substances in the brain.'
Facts and feelings went hand in hand; the one naturally implied the other; and our
ideas, not yet exorcised and squeezed and tortured out of their natural objects, into
a subtle essence ofpure intellect, did not fly about like ghosts without a body, tossed
up and down, or upborne only by the ELEGANT FORMS of words, through the
vacuum of abstract reasoning, and sentimental refinement. The understanding was
invigorated and nourished with its natural and proper food, the knowledge ofthings
without it; and was not left, like an empty stomach, to prey upon itself, or starve on
the meagre scraps of an artificial logic, or windy impertinence of ingenuity self-
begotten.
This passage is uncannily close to Eliot's 'dissociation of sensiblity', as was spotted

more than forty years ago by a scholar at Birkbeck College, Jeanne Andrews, who
published an essay making the link in Notes & Queries. The connection is close, and
it becomes even closer when we remember that Hazlitt's father founded the
Unitarian church in Boston in which Eliot's family became prominent. Eliot's
grandfather, the Rev. William Greenleaf Eliot, was a Unitarian minister. The
Eliots, like Henry Adams, belonged to the small, but highly influential culture of
Rational Dissent. The Hazlitts claimed kinship with the Adams family - John
Adams was the second president of the United States - and Eliot was a cousin of
Henry Adams. Eliot and Hazlitt are certainly culturally kin because oftheir common
Unitarian background, but they may also have actually been distant relatives.
Hazlitt in his note on Bulstrode Whitelocke remarks that a country- i.e. England
- may be as different from itself in different historical periods as one country from
another. Eliot, when he compares Donne and Lord Herbert of Cherbury, with
Browning and Tennyson, says that the difference between them is not a simple
difference between poets -it's caused by something which happened 'to the mind
of England between the two historical periods in which these writers lived'.
Praising Chapman for his 'direct sensuous apprehension of thought' Eliot states in
a famous passage that it is
the difference between the intellectual poet and the reflective poet. Tennyson and
Browning are poets, and they think; but they do not feel their thought as
immediately as the odour of a rose. A thought to Donne was an experience; it
modified his sensibility ... We may express the difference by the following theory:
The poets of the seventeenth century, the successors of the dramatists of the
sixteenth, possessed a mechanism of sensibility which could devour any kind of
experience ... In the seventeenth century a dissociation of sensibility set in, from
which we have never recovered; and this dissociation, as is natural, was aggravated
by the influence ofthe two most powerful poets ofthe century, Milton and Dryden.
There is a link from this to Unitarian culture. In his 1919 review of Henry
Adams's autobiography, The Education Of Henry Adams, Eliot obsessively uses the
XIX
word 'sensuous' as a way of defining what late nineteenth-century Unitarianism

lacked:
It is probable that men ripen best through experiences which are at once sensuous
and intellectual; certainly many men will admit that their keenest ideas have come to
them with the quality of sense-perception; and that their keenest sensuous
experience has been 'as if the body thought.'
Here Eliot quotes John Donne's well-known erotic lines from 'The Second
Anniversary' - 'her pure and eloquent blood/Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly
wrought,/That one might almost say, her body thought'.
By coincidence, Hazlitt uses the same quotation, also in a Unitarian context,
when he remarks in a brief essay, 'The late Doctor Priestley', that the famous
Unitarian scientist and cleric, looked like this:
His feet seemed to have been entangled in a gown, his features to have been set in
a wig or taken out ofa mould. There was nothing to induce you to say with the poet,
that 'his body thought,' it was merely the envelop of his mind.
Eliot may have read Hazlitt on Priestley in the Waller and Glover edition ofHazlitt,
and he may have read Hazlitt on Bulstrode Whitelocke in the course of his
researches into seventeenth-century literature. What Hazlitt calls the old English
mind, a mind which he finds in Bacon, Jeremy Taylor, and Whitelocke, is Eliot's
sensibility, which is at once sensuous and intellectual. Eliot hid his tracks very
carefully- all his references to Unitarianism are hostile -yet he still retained certain
Unitarian characteristics.
That famous moment in 'Tradition and the Individual Talent' where Eliot
describes what happens to a piece of finely filiated platinum when it is introduced
into a chamber containing oxygen and sulphur dioxide, is actually the expression
ofa religious upbringing which saw science as central to social life. Joseph Priestley,
who gave a series oflectures on experimental science at the school where Hazlitt
was a pupil, says that 'platina' is a perfect metal which suffers 'no change by fusion
or the longest continued heat'. There is no reason to suppose that Eliot read
Priestley, but what links the poet to the Unitarian imagination is the relish with
which he introduces science into his criticism. He is drawing on the modernizing
energies which are part of their shared culture.
Milton, who was seen as an early Unitarian, remarks that poetry is 'more simple,
sensuous and passionate' than logic, and this idea of pleasure runs thoughout
Unitarian discourse. Priestley remarks in his Essay On The First Prindples Of
Government that anyone who lacks political and religious liberty has 'no perfect
enjoyment of himself'. Thomas Jefferson, another Unitarian, writes to Priestley
recommending the Virginian climate, what he calls its great 'sensual enjoyment'.
It's this idea of pleasure, along with what Priestley terms a free and bold way of
xx
thinking, that lies behind the very tenor of Hazlitt's prose. He begins the preface
to Political Essays by saying: 'I am no politician, and still less can I be said to be a
party-man; but I have a hatred of tyranny, and a contempt for its tools.'
Political Essays was published on 14 August 1819, just before Hazlitt left London
for his rural bolt-hole, the village of Winterslow, near Salisbury, to begin writing
the lectures on Elizabethan literature. Two days after the book's publication, more
than 60,000 people attended a highly disciplined rally on St. Peter's Fields in
Manchester. This was the culmination ofa series ofdemonstrations which had often
involved military drilling carried out by Waterloo veterans. The demonstrators, we
know, were violently dispersed by cavalry who killed eleven people and wounded
about five hundred. The deserted field, with its hewed flag-staves and torn banners,
is obliquely present in the last, subtly queasy stanza of'To Autumn', which Keats
wrote the following month.
But in order to fully appreciate the opening sentence of Political Essays, we need
to examine the title page of the volume and the dedication to John Hunt, because
in 1819 readers would have quickly spotted the link between John Hunt and the
publisher, William Hone, and they would have understood how a particular
political victory was being affirmed here (see vol. 4, p. 1).
The connection between Hone and John Hunt, which like the memory ofboth
men is almost invisible now, is worth exploring.
John Hunt and his brother Leigh launched The Examiner in 1808. Very rapidly
that weekly paper established itself as Britain's leading liberal journal. In 1813 the
Hunt brothers were sentenced by Lord Ellenborough to two years' imprisonment
and a fine of £500 for libelling the Prince Regent. They were offered their
freedom if they promised to refrain from attacking the prince again. They refused
and went to jail.
In 1817 the radical writer and publisher William Hone was prosecuted for
blasphemy - Hone had angered the government with a publication called The
Reformist's Register, a journal which was praised by William Cobbett, who had
given up the publication of his great journal, The Political Register, and fled to the
United States. When Hone was brought to trial in December 1817, the jury
deliberated on the charge of blasphemous libel for fifteen minutes, and acquitted
him. The ChiefJustice Lord Ellenborough - the judge who had sent the Hunt
brothers down for two years - stepped in. Hone was tried again, but he humiliated
Ellenborough in the courtroom and was acquitted. He was tried a third time and
acquitted. The Lord ChiefJustice, it is said, never held up his head in public again.
He retired from public life and died a year later.
At the end ofDecember, after Hone's third and final acquittal, a public meeting
was held in London to promote a subscription for Hone. The sum of£3,000 was
collected, and Hone moved to a large shop at 45 Ludgate Hill, the address on the
title-page of Political Essays.
xxi
Angry, rough, vigorous, wild, Hazlitt's essays draw sustenance from his
identification with Hone: his collected journalism gains a popular energy from its
association with the shop on Ludgate Hill. It would not be an exaggeration to say
that that publishing address and the dedication to John Hunt - 'the tried, steady,
zealous, and conscientious advocate of the liberty of his country, and the rights of
mankind' - would have been seen by readers in 1819 as twin beacons ofliberty at
a dark time. It is fitting that we remember and cherish Hone and Hunt, for as Eliot
says 'a people without history is not redeemed from time'. History for Eliot and for
Hazlitt is a pattern of timeless moments, and scattered throughout Hazlitt's work
there are a series of cameo moments - petites histoires - which he uses often to
illustrate a philosophical point.
Usually, we think ofliberty as a value that is argued for in polemics against an
oppressive government, but one of the most distinctive features of English radical
journalism is the way writers like Cobbett and Hazlitt affirm liberty in the range and
vigour, the sheer pull, oftheir prose styles. These are wild native woodnotes they're
singing as they write, and their affirmation is both joyous and, in its concentrated
spontaneity, almost offhand, rather casual but firmly spoken. You can hear them
thrumming what Hopkins terms the 'catgut of the mind', you can feel the tensing
ofwhat Hopkins also terms the 'naked thew and sinew' of the English language -
'each tucked string tells', he says. Interestingly, Leigh Hunt in a verse letter to
Hazlitt in 1816 uses the same image when he says 'Dear Hazlitt, whose tact
intellectual is such/That it seems to feel truth, as one's fingers do touch'.
We can feel this thrumming quality at the start of Political Essays in the sentence
I quoted earlier:
I am no politician, and still less can I be said to be a party man; but I have a hatred
oftyranny, and a contempt for its tools; and this feeling I have expressed as often and
as strongly as I could.
The firm, strong 't' sounds pick up the dedication to John Hunt- 'the tried, steady,
zealous and conscientious advocate of the liberty of his country'. This is the bold
Whig address to the world which Joseph Priestley recommends, and in the studied
casualness of that opening sentence it follows the poetics of prose composition
which Priestley outlines in detail in an influential work called A Course of Lectures
in Oratory and Criticism. There he recommends that when one is writing or speaking
to an audience one should always give the appearance of 'present thought, and
extempore unprepared address' - this deliberate spontaneity will make one appear
to be 'in earnest', and Priestley applies classical metrics to prose style to explain how
to write prose, and what effects to seek.
This is how Hazlitt's prose style works - directly addressing us, using
conversational inflections, drawing on the way Priestley characterizes St Paul's
writings. Paul, Priestley writes, is a master of those abruptnesses which proceed
XXll
directly from the heart. We can tell from his abrupt style that he must have dictated
his real thoughts and sentiments 'at the time oftheir composition', and we can also
recognize that the apostle was 'a warm man, of a quick apprehension, of great
ardour and vehemence in whatever he was engaged in.' Behind Hazlitt's opening
sentence we begin to see that there is a theology and a style which derives through
Priestley from Paul's insistently plainspoken epistolary form. This vehement
directness is a way ofappearing to override or supplant print by suffusing it with the
energetic directness ofspeech. This is a prose poetic - and it is a republican poetic.
In that sense it runs counter to what Eliot stood for in his own prose and in the
monarchist ideology he espoused. But there is another area of influence I'd like to
touch on briefly.
Anyone who reads Hazlitt's collected works is bound to notice that he sometimes
uses the term 'cento' - cento meaning a patchwork garment and therefore a poem
made up out ofverses from other sources. Sometimes he uses it as a term ofpraise,
sometimes as a negative term: thus the jurist Sir James Mackintosh and the
conservative politician Canning write and speak in centos. Their discourse is
secondhand, not original. But in his essay on Shakespeare and Milton, Hazlitt says
this:
Milton has borrowed more than any other writer, and exhausted every source of
imitation, sacred or profane; yet he is perfectly distinct from every other writer. He
is a writer ofcentos, and yet in originality scarcely inferior to Homer. The power of
his mind is stamped on every line. The fervour of his imagination melts down and
renders malleable, as in a furnace, the most contradictory materials.
Milton's imagination melts his many different sources into a new malleable
material: his learning has the effect of intuition, his imagination has 'the force of
nature'. And this is more than a type ofbelle-lettrist rhetoric, for it also describes
the critical process as Hazlitt practices it. The critic is a creative artist who assembles
rapidly and intensely a prose argument which draws into its molten flux quotations,
single allusions and multiple, layered, intertextual allusions.
Hazlitt's furnace image is similar to the one he uses in 'Personal Identity', where
he says suddenly that he's stuck for a closing sentence, and then compares this to the
moment in Benvenuto Cellini's autobiography where Cellini gives a dramatic
account of how he melted down all the metal objects in his house to cast his statue
of Perseus, only to find that when the mould was broken away there was a small
dent in one heel of the figure caused by not having quite enough metal to fill it.
This is a metaphor for reviewing as one ofthe creative arts, because in Hazlitt's type
ofcritical prose -prose that's a version ofMilton's poetic centos, prose which is full
of quotations - there is a redemptive life, a new quickening spirit which melts
down or decomposes quotations, sources, subjects, in order to recompose. Anyone
who practices literary journalism - and literary journalism is the basis of literary
xxiii
SELECTED WRITINGS OF WILLIAM HAZLITT:VOLUME 1
criticism, its central fire, just as editing is the basis ofliterary scholarship - anyone
who practices literary journalism, with its rapid, heated bursts of energetically
assembled quotations, interpretative paraphrase and related commentary all
funnelling towards a deadline, pressured also by the social moment - anyone
involved in that desperately driven art must recognize that the related images of
cento, new-minted coins and Homeric originality are a means of praising Milton
and drawing attention to critical writing as it is practiced by one of the supreme
masters of the reviewer's art. The assonantal keeping of centos, originality, Homer
makes the point about quotation as a form of creativity by melting those words
together, then reflecting that composite sound in the strong 't' sounds in the next
two sentences.
Hazlitt had a huge bank of quotations lodged in his memory and he draws on
them lavishly in his writting. The Kurt Schwitters ofliterary criticism, he pastes up
his critical centos and abandons them rapidly. But he can make repeated lines from
Shakespeare, Milton or Burke sound like his own signature phrases. T. S. Eliot does
something similar in The Waste Land, where a line from Marvell can reverberate
with a snatch of overheard conversation or stage dialogue to produce an effect
resembling an orchestra tuning up. Here, I should point out that the cento is a
highly democratic form ofart, because it transforms bits and pieces ofcultural scrap
into a new type of broken or dissonant form, which allows the audience to
participate in the process of assembling diverging components. It treats various
literary quotations like a series of oil drums and beats music out of them. I would
suggest that Hazlitt on Milton, the writer of Homeric centos, may have inspired
Eliot to write that epic cento The Waste Land, and since Eliot in his essay on Dryden
quotes from Hazlitt's essay on Dryden and Pope he very probably read the previous
essay in Lectures on the English Poets (1819), probably in the Everyman edition which
was published in 1910 and reprinted in 1914 and 1916.
The curious affinity between Hazlitt and Eliot casts new light, I think, on both
writers, though it leaves Hazlitt almost permanently wrong-footed, so casually
complete is Eliot's dismisal of his criticism. In order, therefore, to place Hazlitt's
work in the history of literary criticism (though it belongs also to the literary
canon), we should look at George Saintsbury's essay on Hazlitt, published in
Macmillan's Magazine in 1887, which gives a more generous account than
Stephen's.
For Saints bury, who was a disinterested conservative, Hazlitt is 'the greatest critic
that England has yet produced', and he suggests that he served as a model for
Thackeray and Dickens, adding that there are 'distinct anticipations' of Carlyle's
style in The Spirit ofthe Age. He also suggests that Macaulay got his style, 'or at least
the beginnings of it', from Hazlitt. His confident and accurate perception of
Hazlitt's influence on Victorian fiction and historiography has not been followed
up by critics, and his argument that Hazlitt's last collection of essays, The Plain
XXIV
Speaker (1826), is a crucially important work has similarly been ignored. Last
reprinted in a cheap popular edition by Everyman in 1928, The Plain Speaker is now
an almost invisible text. For Saintsbury, it is the best introduction to Hazlitt, the
work where there is the greatest range and where Hazlitt is seen in 'an almost
complete repertory of his parts'.
Saintsbury also comments acutely on Hazlitt's prose style in his monumental
History of English Prose Rhythm (1912), though this again is a subject which has
interested few critics this century. Yet Hazlitt's subject - his real, enduring,
obsessive subject - is style, and here, as in his assertiveness and boldness, he
resembles Yeats. Saintsbury, as I've mentioned, saw him as a writer whose cultural
background was Irish, and it is significant that along with his twin idols Shakespeare
and Milton he upholds a personal pantheon of Swift, Burke, Goldsmith, Sheridan
and Sterne. Add to this Hazlitt's friendship with the radical Irish journalist Peter
Finnerty and admiration for the London-Irish racket player John Cavanagh, and an
author begins to emerge who isn't so straightforwardly English as he makes out.
Hazlitt's lifelong fascination with what he saw as Burke's tortured genius fuels his
writing and gives it a double-mindedness and distinctly unearnest hedonism which
complicates the ethic of plain speaking it also espouses.
The basis of his critical position, though not of his mature prose style, can be
found in the philosophical work which he first began to formulate as a teenager at
the Unitarian College in Hackney. Published by Joseph Johnson in 1805, when
Hazlitt was twenty-seven, An Essay on the Principles of Human Action argues the
'natural disinterestedness of the human mind', that concept which, as David
Bromwich shows, was weakened and distorted by Matthew Arnold thirty years
after Hazlitt's death.
Arguing in line with Francis Hutcheson, a key figure in Unitarian culture, for a
disinterested benevolence which puts the good ofothers above self-interest, Hazlitt
aims to challenge Hobbes and to reject Locke and Hartley's account of the mind.
Rejecting Hartley's doctrine of vibrations, Hazlitt offers the kind of image which
he was later to use frequently in his essays, but which much earlier he employs
rarely in an argument he later characterized as a 'dry choke-pear'. He says:
From the top of a long cold barren hill I hear the distant whistle of a thrush which
seems to come up from some woody shelter beyond the edge of the hill, this sound
coming faint over the rocks with a mingled feeling of strangeness and joy, the idea
of the place about me, and the imaginary one beyond will all be combined together
in such a manner in my mind as to become inseparable.
This early and in its context, rare, image anticipates the ontological texture of his
criticism, his manner ofusing images that are often drawn from nature to articulate,
rather than decoratively illustrate an idea. His praise of Thomson's The Seasons is
particularly interesting:
XXV
He does not go into the minutiae of a landscape, but describes the vivid impression
which the whole makes upon his own imagination; and thus transfers the same
unbroken, unimpaired impression to the imagination of his readers. The colours
with which he paints seem yet wet and breathing, like those ofthe living statue in The
Winter's Tale. Nature in his descriptions is seen growing around us, fresh and lusty as
in itsel£
The reference to The Winter's Tale may seem casually decorative, but it points to
Hazlitt's ethic of'great creating Nature', as Shakespeare terms it in the play, as well
as to his wish to move his criticism from its perceived status as second-order,
artificial, subservient discourse, into the living, moving body ofgenuinely creative
writing. Again, the phrase 'fresh and lusty', like 'lusty gusto' which he uses
elsewhere ofShakespeare, is characteristically self-reflexive: this is criticism which
holds up a mirror in order to show the lamp of the imagination which is designing
it. Hazlitt appears to be talking about Nature as it appears in Shakespeare and
Thomson's images, but his subject is also his own prose style.
Partly because he is wedded to his ethical aesthetic ofNature, Hazlitt has a dislike
of opera which is either disingenuous or rooted in a particular kind of self-disgust.
As a critic, he likes to indulge in occasional, huge, page-long, single-sentence arias,
so he has more in common with opera than his conscious mind likes to admit. And
as a writer whose subject is almost entirely art or the social world of politics, he is
bound to the artificial and manufactured, just like opera. In a brief essay, 'On the
Opera', he again employs the thrush as a symbol:
What makes the difference between an opera ofMozart's, and the singing ofa thrush
confined in a wooden cage at the corner of the street? The one is nature, and the
other is art: the one is paid for, and the other is not.
He goes on to argue that opera is 'the most artificial of all things', that it is
'ostentatious, unambiguous, exclusive art' in which the ear is 'cloyed and glutted
with warbled ecstasies or agonies'.
His conclusion is that opera may serve to assist 'the euthanasia of the British
character, ofBritish liberty, and British morals, - by hardening the heart, while it
softens the senses, and dissolving every manly and generous feeling in an
atmosphere of voluptuous effeminacy'. This is Hazlitt writing a type of routine
patriotic language he sometimes affects (his article appeared in the popular radical
paper, The Yellow Dwaif), but a year earlier he praises Mozart's DonJuan in a review
which he published in The Examiner (20 April 1817) and reprinted in A View of the
English Stage (1818), a work which Jonathan Bate suggests is the finest volume of
theatre criticism in the language. Praising what he terms the 'personal character' of
Mozart's mind, Hazlitt tells his liberal, middle-class audience that 'a light, airy,
voluptuous spirit' is infused into 'every line ofit'. This is praise which seeks to enact
the qualities it describes, and if we compare this remark with Hazlitt's praise of
xxvi
Goldsmith we can see that it issues from the deepest recesses of his critical
imagination. In his essay 'On Genius and Common Sense', he remarks that Samuel
Johnson was 'a fool to Goldsmith in the fine tact, the airy, intuitive faculty with
which he skimmed the surfaces of things, and unconsciously formed his opinions'.
As Hazlitt says in 'Personal Identity', Goldsmith is 'a person whom I considerably
affect, notwithstanding his blunders and misfortunes'. He is a writer whose temper
must have had something 'eminently amiable, delightful, gay, and happy in it'.
Writing to George Saintsbury, Stevenson exclaims 'haven't I tried to imitate
Hazlitt! But that elegant happiness ofmanner is beyond approach'. The idea ofairy,
careless happiness suffuses Hazlitt's criticism, and is part ofthe subtle and pervasive
sensuousness of his prose. Here, the word 'voluptuous' which he applies to
Mozart's opera points to the unembarrassed eroticism of much of his critical
writing.
This physical, tactile aesthetic sense is present in another opera review written a
month after his piece on DonJuan, where he praises the 'fine, rich, pulpy essence'
of Madame Fodor's singing, 'the elastic impulse of health and high animal spirits'.
Hazlitt was fond of that phallic or bubsy adjective 'pulpy', and it is interesting that
another Victorian writer he influenced- Ruskin - should have borrowed the word
without acknowledgment in a dismissive passage in Modem Painters.
It is Hazlitt's recurrent complaint that Johnson's prose style lacks fleshiness and
elasticity, and in the preface to Characters efShakespear's Plays he criticizes Johnson's
preface to his edition of Shakespeare:
All his ideas were cast in a given mould, in a set form: they were made out by rule
and system, by climax, inference, and antithesis: - Shakespeare's were the reverse.
Johnson's understanding dealt only in round numbers: the fractions were lost upon
him. He reduced everything to the common standard ofconventional propriety; and
the most exquisite refinement or sublimity produced an effect on his mind, only as
they could be translated into the language of measured prose . . . he saw only the
definite, the positive, and the practical, the average forms ofthings, not their striking
differences - their classes, not their degrees. He was a man ofstrong common sense
and practical wisdom, rather than of genius or feeling.
As so often, Shakespeare becomes the standard of Romantic sublimity and genius,

but this is also a moment where Hazlitt is covertly designing a poetics of prose
which rejects the 'measured' (his essay 'On the Prose Style of Poets' which opens
The Plain Speaker is his most considered and detailed account of that poetics). It is
part of his argument that Johnson isn't a true prose writer: he wrote 'a kind of
rhyming prose' in which he was 'as much compelled' to finish the different clauses
of his sentences, as the writer of heroic verse is forced to keep to ten-syllable lines
'with similar terminations'. It is against Johnson's 'cramp manner', his sluggish,
morose, regular, singsong prose - a prose that reads like a translation - that Hazlitt
pitches the native cadences of his own style, and the style of impetous, 'irregular'
xxvii
writers like Burke who challenge the sedately formal with their wildness and
molten substance. As Roy Park has shown, there is a 'kinetic' vocabulary of great
range and complexity in Hazlitt's criticism which energizes his prose.
Yet ifJohnson fails as a prose stylist, he succeeds as a conversationalist by the
'abruptness' of his manners and the 'pithiness' of his replies. He became - and this
is a significant comparison - a 'thorough prize-fighter' when he spoke. And Hazlitt
goes on to dignify Johnson with a favourite quotation from Coriolanus: he
' "fluttered" his politer antagonists "like an eagle in a dovecot!"' The eagle in a
dovecot- the Volscians overwhelmed by Coriolanus's fighting spirit - is a figure
Hazlitt often applies to Burke's style, and of course in this passage from a minor
essay- 'Spence's Anecdotes of Pope' - his praise ofJohnson's 'muscular strength
and agility' becomes an implicit recommendation ofthe sinewy, or 'nervous' as the
term was, texture of his own prose.
It was Hazlitt's fascination with Shakespeare's Coriolanus which produced one of
the most famous passages in his prose:
The language of poetry naturally falls in with the language of power. The
imagination is an exaggerating and exclusive faculty: it takes from one thing to add
to another: it accumulates circumstances together to give the greatest possible effect
to a favourite object. The understanding is a dividing and measuring faculty: it judges
ofthings not according to their immediate impression on the mind, but according to
their relations to one another. The one is a monopolising faculty, which seeks the
greatest quantity of present excitement by inequality and disproportion; the other is
a distributive faculty, which seeks the greatest quantity of ultimate good, by justice
and proportion. The one is an aristocratical, the other a republican faculty. The
principle of poetry is a very anti-levelling principle. It aims at effect, it exists by
contrast. It admits of no medium. It is every thing by excess. It rises above the
ordinary standard ofsufferings and crimes. It presents a dazzling appearance. It shows
its head turretted, crowned, and crested.
This excited, desperate, tormented passage is like an agonized soliloquy, and ifwe
remember that Hazlitt wrote this essay in the aftermath of Napoleon's defeat and
exile to St. Helena, then its clear-eyed recognition of reforming republicanism's
limitations takes on an almost tragic gaiety.
Hitting the word 'it' like an unbudging fencepost, he says that the principle of
poetry has a 'gilt and blood-stained' front:
Before it 'it carries noise, and behind it leaves tears.' It has its altars and its victims,
sacrifices, human sacrifices. Kings, priests, nobles, are its train-bearers, tyrants and
slaves its executioners. - 'Carnage is its daughter.' - Poetry is right-royal.
This is dashed off like a review, extemporized like a speech - 'sacrifices, human
sacrifices' is a perfectly spontaneous oral amplification which the logic of printed
prose should reduce to 'sacrifices, and human sacrifices'. Adapting a new-minted
Wordsworthian phrase, 'Carnage is thy Daughter', he tersely confronts the former
xxvm
republican's celebration of the Allied victory.

In his 'Thanksgiving Ode', which is dated 18 January 1816, Wordsworth says:
But thy most dreaded instrument,

In working out a pure intent,
Is Man - arrayed for mutual slaughter, -
Yea, Carnage is thy Daughter!
By alluding to this passage, Hazlitt is recognizingjust how completely Wordsworth

has rejected his earlier commitment to the people's cause. The poet has followed
the 'logic' of the imagination and the passions, which seek to 'aggrandize what
excites admiration and to heap contempt on misery'.
The essay on Coriolanus was first published in The Examiner on 15 December
1816, the same year as Wordsworth's poem celebrating the Allied victory at
Waterloo. It was subsequently reprinted in the study of Shakespeare which was
published in September 1817, and the following year Hazlitt included it in A View
of the English Stage. The publisher's brief advertisements which open Characters of
Shakespear's Plays include one which explains that the Edinburgh Annual Register for
1815 includes 'that memorable series of military and political events, which
terminated with the Battle of Waterloo, and the final downfall of Bonaparte's
Dominion'. Viewed in this context, there's an almost Nietzschean exhiliration as
Hazlitt rages against his hero's defeat by following the logic of the imagination
through, and describing the history of mankind as a 'romance, a mask, a tragedy,
which is constructed upon the principles of poetic justice. In this noble or royal
hunt, the spectators 'halloo and encourage the strong to set upon the weak'.
Significantly, he cites one of his favourite passages from Shakespeare in his
account of Coriolanus - that moment in Macbeth when Duncan, about to enter
Macbeth's castle, praises its 'pleasant seat', and Banquo replies:
this guest of summer,

The temple-haunting martlet, does approve
By his loved mansionary that the heaven's breath
Smells wooingly here. No jutty, frieze,
Buttress, no coign of vantage, but this bird
Hath made his pendent bed and procreant cradle.
(Macbeth, I. iv. 3-9)
Hazlitt was fascinated with these lines, and he often associates them with the gothic
and with Burke's prose - with everything, in other words, that he was by
temperament and upbringing opposed to. Significantly, he applies the phrase
'procreant cradle' to the character of his hero, the great Whig politician Charles
James Fox, arguing that the plainness of his character is like a marble slab which
cannot be adorned with a mud nest on a jutting frieze. In saying this, he is
admitting that Fox lacks Burke's imaginative complexity. Similarly, the cause of
XXlX
the people, in the Coriolanus passage, hasn't the imaginative appeal of royalty.
Hazlitt employs the image again in his introduction to Lectures on the Dramatic
Literature of the Age of Elizabeth, where· he concludes:
Our literature, in a word, is gothic and grotesque; unequal and irregular; not cast in
a previous mould, not ofone uniform texture, but ofgreat weight in the whole, and
ofincomparable value in the best parts. It aims at excess ofbeauty or power, hits, or
misses, and is either very good indeed, or absolutely good for nothing ... Our
understanding (such as it is, and must remain to be good for any thing) is not a
thoroughfare for common places, smooth as the palm ofone's hand, but full ofknotty
points and jutting excrescences, rough, uneven, overgrown with brambles; and I like
this aspect of the mind (as someone said ofthe country), where nature keeps a good
deal of the soil in her own hands.
This, in a sense, is Hazlitt's answer to Stephen: he is saying that however much he

wishes that English writing in general and his own in particular had a classical form,
grace and precision, it is by its almost tactile character disjointed, prickly, earthy, at
times rebarbative.
If we take that slightly jarring word 'excresences', we can see Hazlitt deploying
it in a piece ofjobbingjournalism called 'Trifles Light as Air', which he wrote ten
years later:
It is a curious speculation to take a modern belle, or some accomplished female

acquaintance, and conceive what her great-grandmother was like, some centuries
ago. Who was Mrs. - ofthe year 200? We have some standard ofgrace and elegance
among eastern nations 3000 years ago, because we read accounts ofthem in history;
but we have no more notion of, or faith in, our own ancestors than if we had never
had any. We cut the connexion with the Druids and the Heptarchy; and cannot fancy
ourselves (by any transformation) inmates of caves and woods, or feeders on acorns
and sloes. We seem engrafted on that low stem - a bright, airy, and insolent
excrescence.
Note the sudden surprise of that last verbless clause: the emphasized engrefted
prepares the way for that ugly final 'excrescence', while 'low' picks up 'insolent'
before the sentence seems to burst like a bubble or a pustule when we hit the last
word. As a sentence, it is gaily spontaneous, perfectly ofa piece, and yet in the end
it cancels itself - and by doing so adds to the fun of reading it. At some deep
subconscious level the two occurences of 'excrescence' are linked as types of
oxymoron which extract pleasure from pain or discomfort. They may appear
minor examples, but they show how carefully we must attend to Hazlitt's language.
His friend, the artist William Bewick, called him the 'Shakespeare prose writer' of
his country, and he is the only literary critic whose terminology resonates like the
use of 'honest' in Othello. In Empson's terms, he uses complex words, and only
Hazlitt can put a positive spin on apparently negative terms like 'dry' or 'plodding'.
For example, when he talks ofthe 'real, plodding strength' ofLocke's mind, and the
XXX
'plodding, persevering, scrupulous acuracy' of Jonathan Edwards's writing, he

means his readers to recognize that these uses are connected with each other and
with his various other references to the Dutch, the English, the Earl of Camden,
and the art ofpainting as merely 'plodding'. This means that Hazlitt's judgments are
both written to the moment - sudden, eruptive, unequivocal - and weighted with
the history of his own critical lexis.
Take this passage from the essay on A Midsummer Night's Dream:
I was with Hercules and Cadmus once,

When in a wood of Crete they bayed the bear
With hounds of Sparta. Never did I hear
Such gallant chiding; for, besides the groves,
The skies, the fountains, every region near
Seemed all one mutual cry. I never heard
So musical a discord, such sweet thunder.
(IV. i. 113-19)
Hazlitt cites this passage in his lecture on the play, commenting that even Titian
'never made a hunting-piece of a gusto so fresh and lusty, and so near the first ages
of the world as this'. It is a remark whose reference to Titian and whose prose
keeping - gusto fresh lusty first - richly insists on the passage's magnificence.
When he remarks in another essay that Pitt, unlike Burke, never attained 'So
musical a discord, such sweet thunder', the quotation keys Hippolyta's whole
speech and allows us to peer into Hazlitt's imaginative subconscious, a region
where Burke's reactionary madness and unmusical rhetoric are softened, uplifted,
classicized and utterly transformed by Shakespeare's stately lines. The sweetness of
the verse, Hazlitt's delighted sense ofits primal, painterly beauty and gusto, resolves
all dissonance and conflict into 'one mutual cry', so that Burke is wafted out of the
noise of political argument into the divine element of art and leisure. His prose
becomes poetic, even consensual, at least at this particular moment of critical
appreciation - I say particular moment because Hazlitt finds the style indefinable.
It is easy to describe second-rate talents, he says in his character of Cobbett, but
first-rate powers defy calculation because they are only defined by themselves:
I have tried half-a-dozen times to describe Burke's style without ever succeeding -
its severe extravagance; its literal boldness; its matter-of-fact hyperboles; its running
away with a subject, and from it at the same time - but there is no making it out, for
there is no example ofthe same thing any where else. We have no common measure
to refer to; and his qualities contradict even themselves.
Where Yeats for his own strategic purposes discerns a 'great melody' in the prose,
Hazlitt finds something slippery, self-contradictory and unclassifiable, an abyss of
violent irony from which he draws his own exasperated inspiration. Burke's
historical imagination is the procreant cradle, the deep womb which feeds Hazlitt's
xxxi
writing, and he can best express its oratorical power through phrases and images
drawn from verse drama. If Hazlitt seems to be elevating the prose by trying to
define its essential qualities through images taken from Shakespearean verse, we
should not ignore the fact that he is also grounding prose in the eloquence ofactive
bodies moving on an illuminated stage where they express the absolute social
moment of their performance. When he quotes Shakespeare, he must often be
remembering how a particular actor delivered that speech in a production of the
play.
In his account of A Midsummer Night's Dream, he quotes Theseus's reply to
Hippolyta:
My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind,

So flewed, so sanded; and their heads are hung
With ears that sweep away the morning dew;
Crook-kneed, and dew-lapped like Thessalian bulls;
Slow in pursuit, but matched in mouth like bells.
Each under each.
(IV. i. 120-125)
Applied to Burke, this passage suggests that the hound-cry of his style is both
dissonant and harmonious, like a type of early modernist music, but it's also
muscular, glossy, ringing and classical - and intent on trapping its prey.
Burke is a truth-teller, and Hazlitt takes his side against the modem 'Panoptic and
Chrestomathic School ofreformers' whose logical diagrams leave all taste, fancy,
sentiment to admirers of Reflections On the Revolution in France. In his virtually
unknown essay, 'On People of Sense', he expresses impatience with Prometheus
Unbound, describing Percy Shelley as a sophist indulging rhapsodies of words and
then characterizing the philosophic radicals' social ideas as 'bare walls and skeletons
of houses'. Destitute of comfort as of'outward show', their system wants 'house-
warming'. They make man with a 'quadrant', and although they can distinguish the
hard edges and 'determinate outline of things', they banish pleasure. Bentham has
no style - his language is a mere 'logical apparatus'.
Burke's writings embody an ontological idea of beauty for Hazlitt -
housewarming and elegance - and this is connected with their emotionalism. They
also have that quality of 'lusty gusto' which we can detect in another hunting-
passage, his comparison between Titian's Diana and Calisto and Diana and Actaeon:
In the figures, in the landscape, in the water, in the sky, there are tones, colours,
scattered with a profuse and unerring hand, gorgeous, but most true, dazzling with
their force, but blended, softened, woven together into a wooflike that oflris - tints
of flesh colour, as if you saw the blood circling beneath the pearly sky; clouds
empurpled with setting suns; hills steeped in azure skies; trees turning to a mellow
brown; the cold grey rocks, and the water so translucent, that you see the shadows
and the snowy feet of the naked nymphs in it.
xxxii
And he concludes: 'Every where tone, not form predominates - there is not a
distinct line in the picture - but a gusto, a rich taste of colour is left upon the eye
as if it were the palate, and the diapason of picturesque harmony is full to
overflowing.' This is criticism which breaks down the barriers of critical discourse
and pushes it towards a type ofperformance like a lecture, a sermon or a play, and
it also stretches prose so that it becomes more than prose - not verse, but a species
of heightened, gestured writing that feels intimately taut with pleasure and desire.
That key term 'gusto' is the link between the two passages.
As I've suggested, Hazlitt's critical language is performative and slippery. Thus
the word 'abrupt', which we've already seen applied to Johnson's conversation, and
which Priestley recommended as a quality, is used by Hazlitt to dismiss Southey: his
versification is 'abrupt, affected and repulsive'. But the adjective is more ambiguous
in his account ofMarlowe's Dr. Faustus: 'As the outline ofthe character is grand and
daring, the execution is abrupt and fearful'. The sentence appears to make a
distinction between outline and execution, but the various 'r' sounds bind it
together and give it the prose keeping Hazlitt sought. That keeping is there in the
phrase 'lusty gusto', as it is in 'sloe/insolent'. It's an effect that's both calculated and
vehemently spontaneous, like a punch in boxing. It is towards an analysis of the
layered richness of Hazlitt's critical language and prose style that discussions of his
work now need to tum. Duncan Wu's superb new edition of the bulk of Hazlitt's
writing will greatly assist the growing body of his admirers.
Tom Paulin
Hertford College, Oxford
August 1998
xxxiii
EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION
by Duncan Wu
The central aim of this edition is to establish reliable texts of Hazlitt's major book-
length works, and most important uncollected essays. Unlike some of his
contemporaries, he was a skilful reviser, and generally clarified his work when he
returned to it. It is therefore correct, in the majority of cases, to take the latest
lifetime edition as copy-text. There are one or two exceptions to this, and they are
accounted for in the headnotes to the relevant works.
This edition is not the occasion for a full-scale apparatus criticus of all known
variants; its parameters do not allow it. I have nonetheless undertaken a collation
of the various editions and manuscripts, and have recorded substantive variants
where they are of critical interest. But the primary job of this edition is to make
available, once more, some ofthe greatest prose non-fiction in the language. Many
of the works have been out of print since their appearance in Howe's Centenary
edition of the works in 1930-4, and it is high time they were put back into
circulation.
Manuscripts 1
As a rule, I have edited each work from the latest lifetime printed text. In theory,
it would have been possible to produce this entire edition without once consulting
any of the extant manuscripts, but I have chosen to collate those available to me
with the printed texts and include variants in my annotations where they are of
critical significance. This has been a far less challenging task than it would have been
in the case of, say, De Quincey, because relatively few ofHazlitt's manuscripts have
survived. Barbara Rosenbaum lists 132 Hazlitt items in her valuable index, and few
others are known to have surfaced. 2 Many are fragmentary, and for a number of
Hazlitt's book-length works, no manuscript survives. 3 Ofthose that have, most can
be traced to the Hazlitt family, the majority to the 1893 auction of Hazlitt books
and literary remains. 4 This is important because it suggests an explanation for the
fact that so few manuscripts have survived: Hazlitt disposed ofthem once they had
served their immediate purpose. Which begs the question of why particular
manuscripts were singled out for preservation; I suspect that they represent the
exceptional cases when Hazlitt thought the manuscripts of interest. I find an
interesting note to the printer on one ofthe Spirit ofthe Age manuscripts at Harvard:
XXXV
'M' H. would be glad of End of Manuscript about Hobhouse & M' F. Burdett'.
Perhaps he thought it was worth preserving, or thought it might be reworked for
something else.
At any rate, this very practical attitude was entirely in keeping with his craft.
Wordsworth, to take a contrasting example, retained virtually all his manuscripts,
and seems to have set considerable value by them. As early as 1798, when he moved
to Alfoxden from Racedown, he took his juvenile notebooks, and made them
available to Coleridge for the composition of, for instance, Lewti. 5 Today, were
you to edit the Ruined Cottage, you would need to take into account at least two
major manuscripts; were you editing the Thirteen-Book Prelude, you would need to
acquaint yourself with the contents of at least eight. It is clear, from the way in
which Wordsworth preserved his drafts and fair copies, that he held the evidence
of his own artistic processes in some regard; that, as modern scholars have
demonstrated, versions of his work in manuscript form represented to him
complete, and, at particular moments in time, finished artefacts. In that form, as we
know from the testimony of those who knew him (Hazlitt included),
Wordsworth's poems enjoyed publication, however informal and limited, through
his recitations. The manuscripts themselves seem also, in certain cases, to have
enjoyed a limited circulation.
Hazlitt viewed his works in an utterly different light: for him, the by-product of
composition - the manuscript-was secondary to the work itself It was the finished
form ofthe work that really counted. And Hazlitt rarely, ifever, devoted more than
one draft to its creation. Characteristically, the essay would be drafted once, and
subjected to rigorous redrafting and revision at proof stage, before publication.
Hazlitt's, in other words, is the attitude of the professional journalist. Unlike
Wordsworth, he saw himself as a writer who made a living by his pen: what
mattered was the end result, not the process. Nor, unlike Wordsworth, was he
pitting himself against the ghost of Milton when he wrote. He did not even need
to know what the plan of his essay was to be.
Even so, it is hard not to be struck by the care which the surviving manuscripts
reveal Hazlitt took over his labours. Appropriately for a writer who so prized the
quality of intensity, he worked feverishly at his essays for the limited period at his
disposal. All of the extant manuscripts, whether they represent first drafts or
printer's copy, show the work in a continuing state of evolution. Hazlitt simply
could not leave his prose alone. He marks in alternative readings for particular
words without deleting either, leaving the choice until the last moment; writing on
the rectos ofeach folio, he makes notes to himself on the facing verso as to whether
material could or should be added. Sometimes these notes are acted on, sometimes
not. Sentences are added or removed right up to the last minute. Unlike the
manuscripts of many other writers, there are none by Hazlitt that contain all the
substantive readings in their printed counterparts. Typically, Hazlitt's essays in print
xxxvi
contain whole sentences, with variant readings and footnotes, not present in
manuscript. Swathes of text were added at proof stage: for him, proofing
represented an extension ofthe process ofcomposition, and he came to depend on
the patience and reliability of those in the printing-house with whom he worked.
Take, for example, 'On the Knowledge of Character' in Table-Talk (1822), which
contains a passage damning Sarah Walker as 'The greatest hypocrite I ever knew',
followed within pages by an account of how he fell down and worshipped her as
a 'newly discovered goddess'. 6 The explanation for such apparent inconsistency, as
Howe was the first to point out, is that the former comment was made in proo£7
And, as Howe goes on to suggest, the effect is deliberate; Hazlitt enjoyed the clash
of strong feelings and opinions.
Take the two leaves ofpage proof from the first edition of Lectures on the English
Poets, now at the Folger Shakespeare Library in Washington, D.C. It is not clear
why they were preserved - they are unusual in having done so - but there is no
reason to regard them as otherwise unrepresentative. They confirm that Hazlitt
thought nothing of reworking his prose, sometimes quite extensively, in the
printing-house. On one ofthe versos he has entered no less than twelve substantive
emendations; on the facing recto there are five others, and a host of corrections to
his accidentals. Or, again, also at the Folger, some leaves survive from the page
proofs of Characters efShakespear's Plays (1817). On page 22, in the midst ofhis essay
on 'Macbeth' (see figure 1), he has indicated for insertion the following passage,
written in his hand on the margins of the proof:
What a descent ofthe imagination from that first towering elevation, inflamed with
passion & red with crime, to this cold, blank, shadowy appearance, & thence, being
seen no more [to dusty death de/.]. To have seen M". Siddons in this character [or
indeed in any other de/.] was an event in every one's life, not to be forgotten ever
after. - In one respect, things ofhigh art have an advantage over reality. Time has less
effect upon them. Those objects which are the farthest removed from us, make the
most lasting impression on us; as wherever we go, we still see the same heavenly
bodies hanging over our heads. That which appeals to the imagination can only
perish with it. We forget many things that have happened to us; but not our having
read Shakespear or seen M". Siddons.
In the event, Hazlitt decided not to insert this passage after all, crossed it out, and
substituted a shorter comment: 'To have seen her in that character was an event in
every one's life not to be forgotten.' But nonetheless, for a time, Hazlitt intended
that the printer should add, at proofstage, a five-sentence passage ofmore than 130
words. Proofing was, for him, a crucial part of the business of composition - a
natural extension of the process that had begun in manuscript.
Hazlitt is such a brilliant prose stylist that the appearance of his writing on the
printed page can seduce us into thinking that more inspiration than perspiration lies
behind his work. Of course, he was an inspired writer, but the manuscripts
xxxvii
fi IIAC.BBTlf.
awe the world with the majeety of ber •PP"'·

_,eel
I
ancie. Power wu 011 her brow, ~oa
df emanated fro01 her brea. If from 1 ,brine; abe
w.. rragedy penoni6ed. fo coming on in tbe
•leeping scene, her eyee were pPen, bot their
aenee was shut. She wu like a pereon be~
dered and unconacioua of i,iaat ahe did. Her
lips mo,ed involuntarily-II her geeturee were
involuntary and mechanical. She tided oa and
off tbe ,tage like an apparition. l"./,rl<...,.c.J
. . -1u-
,!tue~
ttcdMt
..t:J..~ - .. • "•··~ ,A. ,q, ,_~
if ff r ~ ;rrt The dramatic Seaut; oldie character of Dua-~• ~ ...t ,;.
..! ca~ ,.,hich e:r.cites tbe reepec:t and pity eYell e,l _,,~
t",Aira,u;.r+~~-+9' of hie murderere, hu been often pointed out. , . , ~
~ ""It fonnu picture of iteelf. An inttance oftlM a-.
· author', power or gi•ing a ,triking effect to a
~mon reflection, by the manner of iauodllCing
it, occun in a apeecb ol Duncan\, complaining
of hi■ having been decei,ed in bi, opinion of
;'3
tbe Thane of8C1wdor, u the ,ery moment that
~he i, expraaior the - t unttouoded confidence
in the loyalty and ,e"icee of Macbeth.
Figure 1: Hazlitt's corrected page-proof for Characters of Shakespear's Plays (1817), by

permission of the Folger Shakespeare Library, Washington D . C.
xxxviii
underline the care he lavished on every word he wrote. Most of the manuscripts of
complete essays begin in a fair copy hand, with relatively few alterations, before
degenerating by about page 13 or 14 into very rough draft with numerous deletions
and alternative readings. Sometimes, as in the case of the manuscript of'On Court
Influence' (also at the Folger), Hazlitt concludes by making a series ofnotes towards
the composition of the concluding sentences. As Rosenbaum has observed, the
manuscripts ofhis lectures are very carefully corrected and revised, using both rectos
and versos, carat marks, and the full range of symbols for deleting and inserting
material. Most ofthose prepared for the Lectures on the English Poets survive, and they
show that his lectures are more carefully worked over than the essays destined only
for appearance in print. In some cases, such as the lecture on Pope and Dryden (now
at the Buffalo and Erie County Public Library, NY), Hazlitt redrafts certain passages
several times before renumbering the folia. This pattern of fair copy opening
followed by rapid degeneration into messy, much-corrected scrawl, is repeated time
and again, and suggests that Hazlitt would begin with the idea, or the germ of an
idea, that would propel him forward through the first quarter of the essay very
rapidly, before slowing down and working, at a slower pace, through what
remained. He would then return to the beginning and start the business ofrevision.
Fascinatingly, one can observe in the manuscripts to the lectures how the
structure of each grew naturally out of an initial idea, how Hazlitt's mind was
drawn into byways, digressions that touched only obliquely on his theme, and how
he would then force himselfback to his main topic. One point worth making is that
a number of these digressions, some of them hitherto unpublished, deal with
Wordsworth and Coleridge, whose dereliction of their early promise resurfaces
again and again in Hazlitt's mind, especially when he is dealing with literary
matters. I have included most of these in my annotations to the relevant works.
The fact that so many of the surviving manuscripts of complete essays display
these traits suggest that they were composed at only one or two sittings. That said,
it should be admitted that the manuscript of'On the Picturesque and Ideal' is dated
2-28 August 1821, but I suspect that the bulk of the work was executed at the
beginning of the month, and the concluding part added several weeks later. More
impressively, perhaps, the surviving contract between Hazlitt and his publisher
William Hone8 reveals that copy for one of his largest single-volume collections,
Political Essays (1819), was prepared for publication within a week. Most of the
contents were already written, of course, but even so, seven days was little enough
time to assemble, revise, and prepare 439 pages of copy, and compose a 36-page
Preface. In a letter ofS March 1822, Hazlitt listed eleven essays, amounting to 390
pages, which he composed between 11 February and 7 March9 - a remarkable rate
of production, amounting to nearly 100 pages a week. This included the
composition of one of his most important essays, 'On Reason and Imagination',
between 5 and 7 March. 10
xxxix
For the most part, the study of Hazlitt's manuscripts, rewarding though it is, has
comprised only an element of my task as editor, as copy-texts throughout most of
this edition are early printed sources. However, in two cases I have been compelled
to edit works exclusively from a manuscript: 'To the Monthly Reviewers', and 'On
the Punishment ofDeath'. 'To the Monthly Reviewers' was identified as Hazlitt's
only in 1988, by Heather Jackson. It is assuredly in Hazlitt's hand and addresses an
issue close to his heart: Malthusian philosophy. 'On the Punishment ofDeath' has
been partially in print since 1831 when an extract appeared in Fraser's Magazine; a
manuscript has since turned up at the Folger, and texts from both sources are
presented here. Further details will be found in my notes to volume 9.
P. P. Howe: Centenary Edition of Hazlitt's Works

(i) Text
Before commencing this section ofthe Introduction, I acknowledge with gratitude
the scholarly excellence ofP. P. Howe's Centenary Edition ofthe works ofHazlitt,
which established a text and a body of scholarship that has stood the test of time,
and will no doubt remain the essential edition for those requiring the complete
works. Howe's achievement was remarkable by any standards. He augmented the
canon of works believed to have been written by Hazlitt, and left us with a
formidable corpus ofscholarly matter which continues to fuel critical discussion. I
have no wish to detract from it- indeed, as a mere selected works in 9 volumes, this
edition cannot hope to supersede it; I can hope only to complement, and
supplement, him. That said, it is necessary for me to be as specific as possible as to
how I have sought to improve on aspects of his work.
Howe is renowned for his accuracy, and deservedly so, but there are lapses. To
take one example, 'On the Opera' derives largely from The Yellow Dwa,fof23 May
1818. But there is a complication. Hazlitt's copy of the journal, retained at the
British Library, 11 contains corrections, and additions, in his hand. Howe has
incorporated some, but not all, ofthese. No rationale is provided. Furthermore, the
printed text is not rendered with complete accuracy; words and phrases are
sometimes omitted for no obvious reason. The problem of editorial inconsistency
is not damagingly widespread, but it is to be found elsewhere in the edition. Indeed,
my collations of the early printed texts with Howe have turned up a number of
substantive readings with which I cannot agree, many due to typographical or
transcription errors. At all events, there can be no justification for using Howe as
copy-text, 12 and I have instead derived all my texts from early printed sources,
collated with lifetime editions and manuscripts. Howe, too, collated printed
sources, but did not always transcribe his variants accurately. 13 As a rule, he does
not collate his texts with the manuscripts.
xl
Howe's policy towards Hazlitt's scribal errors might also be improved on. In
general, he declined to emend - for instance, when Hazlitt, in The Round Table,
misquotes Excursion (1814), iv. 936 as 'How, shall our great discoverers obtain',
rather than as 'Now, shall our great discoverers obtain' (see vol. 2, p. 116, below). 14
This is correct in the Examiner text but not in the Round Table; Howe allows the
error to stand (see Howe, vol. iv, p. 115). However, it could be attributable to the
printer as much as to Hazlitt, and on these occasions I have preferred to emend. To
take another example, in both the first and second editions of the Lectures on the
English Poets, Hazlitt refers to the poet Graeme as 'Greame' (p. 242 in the 1818 and
1819 editions); rather than correct this Howe leaves well alone. 15 As it is almost
certainly an oversight, I have corrected it (see vol. 2, p. 277 below). Indeed,
wherever I have found such slips of the pen (whether by Hazlitt or some other
party), I have not hesitated to emend.
Howe's reluctance to intervene has led to the perpetuation of numerous errors
-some of them misleading. To take an example: 'harmless' at Howe, vol. iv, p. 24
should be 'harmful', ifthe quotation is to make sense (cf. vol. 2, p. 26 ofthe present
edition); 'formerly' at Howe, vol. vii, p. 360 is a misprint for 'formally' (cf. vol. 4,
p. 332 of the present edition); 'inprogressive' at Howe, xi. 149 is a misprint
(deriving from the second edition of1825) for 'improgressive' (cf. vol. 7, p. 212 of
the present edition); '1792' at Howe, vol. xii, p. 193 is a misprint (deriving from
the first edition of 1826) for '1790' (cf. vol. 8, p. 177 of the present edition); 'case'
at Howe, vol. xii, p. 325 is another misprint (deriving from the first edition of1826)
for 'ease' (cf. vol. 8, p. 302 ofthe present edition). This is a random selection ofthe
errors I have found, and they beg one or two interesting questions concerning
Howe's edition. 'Harmless', 'inprogressive', '1790', and 'case' may be regarded as
errors on the part either ofHazlitt or his printer, or both, and editorial policy should
entail their correction. But Howe seems fairly consistently to have left well alone;
was this because he preferred not to, or because he did not uncover these mistakes?
There is no mistaking the fact that Howe collated most ofthose texts deriving from
early printed volumes with earlier versions in newspapers and magazines: his notes
are full ofvariants from those sources. But there is some question in my mind as to
whether he collated the texts of different editions of printed books. Some light is
shed on this by the other error listed above, that of 'formerly' for 'formally'.
Howe's text is erroneous in this instance, but in an unusual way. While the other
readings I have just listed derive either from Hazlitt or his printer, this one does not.
In fact, all contemporary witnesses are accurate: the 1819 first edition of Political
Essays, the 1822 'second edition', and even the manuscript copy made by Sara
Coleridge of the relevant passage (now at Victoria College Library, Toronto) give
the correct reading - 'formally'. It might be argued that the error was introduced
either by Howe or his printer. However, this is demonstrably not the case, because
it has a source in Waller and Glover, whose edition ofl 902-6 preceded Howe's by
xii
nearly 30 years. 16 This is not, of course, surprising, because, as Howe himself

admits, Waller and Glover provided him with his copy-text; he edited only those
works not included by them:
Having, in the course of more than ten years' usage, found that text trustworthy in
the extreme, I have not been to the labour, generally speaking, of collating it, but
such incidental errors ofthe press as I have noted have been corrected throughout. 17
It is thus inevitable that Howe's centenary edition repeats many ofthe errors in the
Waller and Glover edition of 1902-6. Indeed, a comparison of Howe with the
equivalent pages in Waller and Glover reveals that he not only used Waller and
Glover as copy-text, but that he used the same typesettings. This was possible
because the same publisher, J. M. Dent, was responsible for both editions. This
means that for twelve volumes of Howe's text, the reader is effectively using the
edition of Waller and Glover.
Howe's use ofWaller and Glover as copy-text is responsible, I would suggest, for
his shortcomings as textual critic. His apparent reluctance to emend errors by
Hazlitt or his printer, and failure to correct those of Waller and Glover, is owing
entirely to the fact that those texts 'inherited' from them were not systematically
collated with early printed sources. And where he edited his own texts, he adopted
the same principles as those stated by Waller and Glover in their introduction:
Some obvious errors ofthe press have been corrected, but no attempt has been made
to modernise or improve Hazlitt's orthography or punctuation. He himself expressed
contempt for 'the collating ofpoints and commas,' and was probably a careless proof
reader. He did not plume himself, as Boswell did, upon a deliberately adopted
orthography, and his punctuation and use ofitalics were perhaps rather his printers'
fancy than his own. However that may be, the Editors feel that there is no
justification for any tampering with his text. 18
Waller and Glover quote selectively: the remark about collating points and commas
is part of a lengthy attack on Hazlitt's arch-enemy, William Gifford. I doubt
whether Hazlitt would have disapproved of those labouring on his own behal£
Admittedly, I have not attempted to impose a system of orthography or
punctuation on these texts; my priority has been to reproduce the copy-text as
accurately as possible, and to correct solecisms where necessary. While paying
tribute to the work ofmy predecessors, it is an important element in my procedure
that neither Howe nor Waller and Glover has provided copy-text at any point;
Hazlitt's lifetime editions and manuscripts take priority throughout.
xiii
(ii) Notes
There are few authors more allusive in manner than Hazlitt. He was gifted with a
prodigious memory for passages of prose and poetry from a tremendous range of
sources, many of which he expected his readers to recognise. Howe is typically
straightforward and disarming when explaining his attitude towards the business of
annotation:
Messrs. Waller and Glover's notes were so integral a part of their edition that there
seemed to be no middle course between scrapping them and stealing them. The
former course was unthinkable, and I therefore, after some hesitation, adopted the
latter. I have, that is to say, corrected them, added to them, and subtracted from
them, without in any way altering the fact that the major proprietorship in them is
not my own .... In the matter ofHazlitt's quotations I have added what I can to my
predecessors' identifications, in extremely few cases have preferred alternative
identifications to theirs, and in all cases, both as regards their text and my own, have
indicated the fact when an identification has not been arrived at. 19
Once again, I must begin by expressing admiration for Howe's achievement. His
notes are justly revered, and have served the cause of Hazlitt scholarship well over
the years. The predominant difficulty with them is that they derive largely from
Waller and Glover. Although Howe set out to improve on their work, he did not
- and simply could not - check every page reference, and citation, in their edition.
To have done so would have been an epic task, and Howe simply did not have the
time. As a result, most of the shortcomings I am about to detail can be traced to
Waller and Glover.
By far the most pervasive problem with Howe's annotations is that his references
cannot always be followed up because they refer to outdated editions. For instance,
his references to Payne's three-volume selection ofBurke's writings (1874-8) (all
ofwhich derive from Waller and Glover), will, for the majority ofmodern readers,
be oflittle use. This is a chronic problem throughout the centenary edition in the
case of virtually every author cited. I have keyed all references to the standard
scholarly edition for the author or work concerned (in the case of Burke, to the
ongoing Clarendon edition of the Works) - which should be available to anyone
with access to a good reference library. Where no such edition is in print, I have
turned to one of the same vintage as that which Hazlitt himself might have used.
Anyone who has used Howe's edition over time will have observed that his
annotations are flawed by errors of various kinds; numerous examples might be
cited. Some are relatively simple, as when Howe supplies the source for 'as fortune
and the flesh shall serve' in Political Essays: 'C£ Measurefor Measure, II. 1. 68' .20 The
line number is completely wrong: it should be 253. On the next page, Howe
supplies the source for the phrase 'Upon his brow shame is ashamed to sit' as' Romeo
and Juliet, III. 2. 292'. 21 Once again, the line number is wrong: it should be 92.
xliii
Elsewhere in the notes to the same work, Howe traces a source for the phrase, 'was
not, and it cannot come to good' in the Political Essays. He refers us to Hamlet, I.
ii. 22 On this occasion no line reference is supplied at all (that in the Riverside
Shakespeare would be 158).
There are other, more exotic categories of erroneous reference: in Characters of
Shakespear's Plays, Howe's note to the phrase 'turning his vices into commodity',
in Hazlitt's essay on 'Henry IV', reads: 'Part II. I. 22. 77' 23 Completely useless.
Again, a reference to The Merchant of Venice reads 'II. 2-20'. 24 It goes without saying
that these are inapplicable to any edition ofShakespeare's works, past or present. All
references in this edition are entered afresh, keyed to a readily available text of
Shakespeare's plays.
Howe did not check the proofs of his notes as carefully as he might have done:
even many cross-references are incorrect, as when, in the notes to The Plain Speaker,
Howe refers the reader to an earlier volume: 'See Lectures on the Literature of the Age
of Elizabeth, vol. v. pp. 335 et seq.' 25 This is wrong; it should refer the reader to
Howe, vol. vi, p. 235. In the Political Essays a note to 'Dii Minores' instructs the
reader to 'C£ vol. XII., note top. 377'. 26 This simply does not work. Howe's cross-
references are a fraught subject in themselves, to which I shall return shortly.
Howe did a fine job in tracing many, but not all, of Hazlitt's sources. He fills
many gaps left by Waller and Glover, but some remain unannotated. This is not too
worrying when the source is Shakespeare or Milton, which the reader may be able
to place with little trouble, but in the case ofRichard Lalor Sheil's Adelaide, which
Hazlitt quotes on no less than seven occasions within a brief review of the play,
some kind ofreference would seem to be essential. I cannot claim to have remedied
this throughout, but I have done my utmost to do so. And it is reassuring to find
that, whatever the problems with other aspects ofthe annotation, there remain few
cases in which I have found it necessary to replace Howe's identifications with my
own. For instance, the phrase 'lean pensioners' in the Essay on the Principles of
Human Actions is, Howe notes, a reference to the 'Poor pensioner' in Young, Night
Thoughts, i. 66. Although Hazlitt had read Young's poem, the phrase occurs in the
midst of a distinctly unmemorable passage that would have presented a challenge
even for such a retentive mind as his. In fact, Hazlitt has in mind Cowper, Task, v.
93, where birds in winter are 'Lean pensioners upon the trav'ller's track'.
There are a number of occasions on which Howe has failed to provide
explanatory notes where they are needed. For instance, in the essay on 'Mr Booth's
Richard' in A View of the English Stage Hazlitt says that he was not present at 'the
O.P. rows' (see vol. 3, p. 191). Hazlitt could depend upon it that most readers in
1818 understood the reference, but few today could reasonably be expected to do
so. Again, in the essay on 'Mr Kean', Hazlitt refers to a 'facetious' article about
Kean's recent accident in 'a grave morning paper'. Once again, although some
contemporary readers may have understood the allusion, no one today could be
xliv
expected to do so. This problem is at its most acute throughout such works as the
Political Essays in which, for instance, Hazlitt is capable ofwriting such sentences as:
'Were the battles ofAusterlitz and Jena - were the march to Vienna, the possession
of Berlin, the invasion of Spain, the expedition to Russia, and the burning of
Moscow, the consequences of the signing or of the breaking of the Treaty of
Amiens?' 27 Anyone with a working knowledge of the Napoleonic Wars would
understand these references, but that kind of knowledge may now be somewhat
more specialized than it was in Hazlitt's day, and even Howe's. And even for the
specialist, detailed annotation is necessary for a full understanding of the
'Illustrations ofVetus'. These important essays, which Godwin observed were the
best things Hazlitt ever wrote, may be understood only by reference to letters of
Vetus, published in The Times, to which they were a response. To the best ofmy
knowledge, no one has yet provided this kind ofannotation until now. By the same
token, the Letter to Gilford, unquestionably one of the greatest works of invective
in the language, remains only partly comprehensible because Howe makes almost
no effort to annotate the numerous quotations from reviews of Hazlitt's Round
Table, Characters of Shakespear's Plays, and Lectures on the English Poets, published in
the Quarterly. For the first time, most of these quotations are annotated here.
In the Round Table essay 'On John Bunde', Hazlitt conducts the reader on a
whirlwind tour of his favourite episodes from the novel (see, in particular, vol. 2,
pp. 53-6, below). Howe provides no page references for these. Admittedly, few
modern readers will be within easy reach of a copy of the novel; it has not been
reprinted since the first edition of 17 56-66. But references are still needed for those
who are able to consult it, and in any case, an essential part of the editor's job is to
ensure that Hazlitt's own allusions are correct. Similarly, the Round Table essay 'On
Classical Education' is actually a paean ofpraise to Hazlitt's favourite papers in The
Tatler. Although Howe provides references for some of these, he leaves more than
a handful untraced; I have done my utmost to rectify this.
A minor, but significant, feature of Howe's annotations is the profusion of cross-
references. Howe makes abundant use of this feature of his edition, and it is a
minefield for the innocent reader. Even very straightforward and brief notes are
often given only by a cross-reference to another volume. For example, the phrase,
'millions made for one' is twice used in Political Essays, and on both occasions Howe
supplies a note reading: 'Cf. vol. XIII. p. xand note'. 28 The relevant note in volume
13 tells us only that 'This is a quotation which Hazlitt makes more than once, but
I do not identify it'. 29 This is the sort of note which could easily have been glossed
with the word 'untraced'; it did not warrant the labour of a cross-reference.
If there were no other problem with his use of this device, this would be a small
enough reservation. However, a number of notes are rendered useless by the fact
that the reference they provide is incorrect. For example, the note to 'Fratres
Poloni' in Political Essays (Howe, vol. vii, p. 398) directs the reader to 'See vol. II.,
xiv
note top. 165'. This ought to read 'vol. III, note top. 165'. However, the cross-
reference is less helpful than one might expect, even if it were to have been
correctly given, because the relevant note in volume 3 reads: 'Cf vol. IV. p. 82 and
note' .30 If the patient reader has made it this far, they will find the answer to the
quest in Howe, volume 4, page 378 - though why this reference could not have
been given in the first place it is hard to imagine.
Howe is the maestro of the circular cross-reference. A perfect example occurs in
the notes to the Lectures on the Comic Writers in volume 6 ofHowe's edition. A note
to a saying ofVoltaire's, given on page 17, reads: 'Cf vol. XII. p. 212'. 31 The note
to which this refers, in Howe's annotations to The Plain Speaker, refers us back from
whence we have come: 'Cf vol. VI. p. 17'. 32
There are many such notes in Howe's edition - and particularly, for some reason,
in the Political Essays. Take for instance his note to 'That will never do'; the
annotation, to volume 7, page 92, reads: 'See vol. XII., note top. 367'. 33 Turning
to the relevant note in volume 12, the hapless reader finds the note: 'It will never do.
See vol. VII., note top. 361 '. However, there are no relevant notes listed in volume
7, for page 361. Still more infuriatingly, the recurrence ofthe phrase later in Political
Essays is annotated by Howe: 'Cf ante, p. 92; and see vol. XII., note top. 367'. 34
As a result we will probably never know what explanation Howe meant to provide
for this lemma (unless he meant to offer the reader a practical demonstration of a
note that would itself never do).
Elsewhere in volume 7, the phrase 'On some high holiday ofonce a year', keyed
to page 148, is glossed 'Cf vol. XII. p. 75'; the correct note is in fact to be found
keyed to page 74 in Howe's volume 12, and reads: 'Cf vol. VII. p. 148'. Once
again, Howe has constructed a cross-reference to keep his readers chasing their
tails, having buried the source to that high holiday of once a year in an exercise of
Borgesian futility.
In the present edition I have taken the view that it is preferable to reprint notes
rather than to refer the reader elsewhere. Cross-referencing between volumes is
kept to a minimum and used only where it is unavoidable.
There are two significant omissions in Howe's policy of annotation. The first is
the matter of contemporary reception. There are few writers in the period for
whom a consideration ofthe critical response to his writings in his own day is more
important to an understanding of the shape of his career. Of course, all Romantic
writers, from Sydney Owenson, Lady Morgan, to Charlotte Dacre, to
Wordsworth, were aware oftheir own critical reception, and no doubt touched by
it. Hazlitt, as anyone who has read Stanley Jones's biography will know, is a special
case. He lived in an age when a form of censorship was implemented by the
government against radical journalists- 'libel', 'blasphemy' and 'sedition' were the
usual charges brought against them. Among his colleagues, Hunt and Cobbett were
imprisoned, and Hone threatened with imprisonment in 1817. Hazlitt had good
xlvi
cause to resent the likes of Southey, who wrote to the Prime Minister requesting
him to be ruthless in prosecuting radical writers for their seditious writings. Besides
the law, one weapon used against radicals was to attack them in the press - through
government-sponsored periodicals such as the Quarterly Review or Tory journals
such as john Bull and The Courier. Not surprisingly, Hazlitt was a prime target, and
attracted some of the most vicious and unfair reviews of the time. He was, if
anything, more than usually sensitive to his reviewers' opinions, and exquisitely
reactive to them. When Lockhart began his onslaught against the Cockneys, he
characterised them by the cultural icons that Hazlitt had helped establish: The
Flower and the Leaf.John Bunde, Hogarth's engravings, and so forth. It was Hazlitt
who was stung so hard by the onslaughts of the Blackwood's snipers that he took
them to court in 1818. 35 And at least two of his most important works were
inspired directly by the attacks launched against him by Tory reviewers: A Reply to
Zand A Letter to William Gifford. The war ofinvective and insult between him and
the likes of Lockhart, Gifford, and Wilson can be argued to have shaped not only
his career, but many of his opinions, and even the contents of his books. (Three
editors ofliterary journals - Jeffrey, Gifford, and Campbell - are profiled in The
Spirit ef the Age.) The caricaturing of his politics, and the lambasting of his morals
(particularly after publication of Liber Amoris) cannot but have made him more
entrenched than ever in his detestation ofhis opponents' prejudices and hypocrisies
- all of which comprised the orthodoxy of the day.
The case is easily made, and it is an essential part ofthe job ofall editors ofHazlitt
to keep readers informed of the critical reception where it may be argued to be
relevant to a full appreciation of the work. For that reason I have provided brief
summaries of contemporary reviews in the headnote to each work, and while I
cannot claim to have tracked down all ofthese, I have done my utmost to trace the
reviews that Hazlitt is likely to have seen, particularly those by his most virulent
enemies. Besides the headnote summaries, some oftheir comments are included in
my annotations.
The second category ofannotation which does not appear in Howe is manuscript
variants. Howe, of course, was very attentive to variants between the printed
sources, but it is also true that he sought, and gained, access to some of the extant
manuscripts. However, he did not see fit to include readings from them in his notes.
This is regrettable because as a whole the manuscripts are more revealing than the
printed texts. Hazlitt's mode of composition was sometimes very wayward; he was
capable ofallowing one ofhis lectures on the English poets to be taken over, ifonly
temporarily, by a diatribe against the Lake Poets. This was not premeditated, and
much of it was allowed to stand, or incorporated into another lecture. Moreover,
the manuscripts often disclose evidence about the means by which Hazlitt
constructed his essays. I have included some of this material in my annotations,
where it is of critical interest.
xlvii
And yet, when all is said and done, I can only reiterate my gratitude to my
predecessors; my task has been made much easier by the fact that so much work was
done by them. The majority of my annotations derive ultimately from Waller and
Glover, Howe, or another ofHazlitt's editors. I have sought to enlarge the body of
annotation where I can, to update existing references, and to rectify omissions or
errors, but my starting-point has been the existing scholarship of earlier years.
Whatever the shortcomings ofmy own work, I trust that it will be seen as a grateful
tribute to those who have preceded me.
Editorial Principles
The Wordsworthian scholar today is used to regarding the poet's manuscripts as,
very frequently, the preferred copy-text; some of his greatest works - The Ruined
Cottage, The Pedlar, The Two-Part Prelude, and The Thirteen-Book Prelude - derive
exclusively from manuscript sources. But a different case must be made for Hazlitt:
all the surviving manuscripts and proof sheets indicate that he regarded the
published form ofhis work as the most important. Everything is geared towards the
production ofa satisfactory printed text. And in almost all cases, successive editions
of the same work provided him with an opportunity of refining his work,
correcting aberrant facts or making minor stylistic changes. He was seldom absent
from the printing-house, implementing alterations right up to the last moment- he
was his own first, and most reliable, editor. For that reason, the Hazlittian turns
naturally to the latest lifetime editions as the preferred witnesses.
My editorial policy is designed to answer the needs of those who do not have
access to those volumes, but would like to do so. Thus, as in other volumes in the
Pickering Masters series, volume divisions are marked by the original end-of-
volume form ofwords, by photofacsimiles ofthe original title-pages for each work,
and by the original drop-head titles. Original page numbers are placed in square
brackets at the top margins ofeach page. Soliduses (slash-marks) indicate where the
original page-breaks came (except in volume 9), with this adaptation: where the
original page-break occurs in the middle ofa word, the solidus does not replace the
original hyphen, but is placed at the end of that word, so as to avoid excessive
distraction to the eye. However, cross-referencing within and between volumes of
this edition is made of Pickering & Chatto pagination.
Hazlitt's spelling, correct by the standards ofhis day (if not by ours), has been left
alone except in the case of obvious errors. Thus, 'dulness', 'tenour', 'staid',
'imbecil', 'farewel', and other such spellings are allowed to stand, even when they
are not consistent with those used in other works of a later vintage. Proper nouns,
too, are unaltered, providing they are used consistently within a given work. Thus,
'Pekin' (for Peking) and 'Rosencraus' (for Rosencrantz) are allowed to stand. In the
case of foreign words and names, idiosyncratic spelling and accentuation are
xlviii
characteristic of the period, and, whether assumed to derive from Hazlitt, or from
printing-house irregularities, not altered. Minor changes have been made to
accidental features, in line with other works in the Pickering Masters series; thus
full stops after the names of monarchs (for example, 'Charles II.') have been
eliminated - unless, of course, they mark the end of a sentence. Simple cases of
typographical error are emended and listed in the note on the text at the front of
individual volumes.
Editorial footnotes are geared primarily to identifying quotations, and
elucidating allusions. In many cases, Hazlitt appears to be quoting from memory;
I have attempted to distinguish between these recollected quotations and those
which are closer to the original, with the words, 'a recollection of. . .'. However,
the different categories ofallusion cannot always be distinguished with certainty. As
I have mentioned above, the vast majority of the annotations here are inherited
principally from the Centenary edition ofHazlitt's works by P. P. Howe. Each one
of these has been checked and the reference corrected where necessary. In most
cases the citation has been collated against the most recent standard scholarly
edition available (for instance, the Clarendon editions of the works of Gay,
Farquhar, Cowper, Fielding, and Sterne), and updated accordingly. All volumes in
this edition contain a bibliography listing the editions consulted in the notes. I have
provided listings ofpersonages mentioned, or referred to by Hazlitt, for most ofthe
volumes in this edition. Some factual footnotes are provided, but archaic and
foreign words are not normally noted.
Throughout work on this text, my central aim has been to convey the testimony
of the preferred witness (in most cases, the latest lifetime edition) with as little
intervention as necessary to the reader; Hazlitt was his first, and best, editor, and I
have not contradicted his judgments lightly.
As explained above, this edition has not provided the occasion for a full-scale
apparatus criticus, although I have collated all manuscript and printed sources
where they were available to me. I have not felt obliged to provide all substantive
variants, nor even all of those published by Howe (many of which are not
particularly interesting), but those of critical interest are included here. In the case
of quotations from manuscripts I have followed procedures designed to produce a
clear reading text. Drafts are presented as they stood on completion. Deletions are
accepted only when alternative readings are provided; where they are not, the
original is retained. Alternative readings are accepted only when the original has
been deleted; where they are not, the original is retained. Where the original
reading is deleted but legible, and the alternative is either fragmentary, illegible, or
inchoate, the original has been retained. These procedures have also governed the
editing of the two essays produced from a manuscript source, 'To the Monthly
Reviewers' and 'On the Punishment ofDeath', in volume 9, below.
xlix
NOTES
1 I must pay tribute to Barbara Rosenbaum, whose exemplary study of Hazlitt's

manuscripts has provided the basis of my own work; in my comments below I have
assumed that the reader is aware of her remarks in Index to English Literary Manuscripts
Vol. IV: 1800-1900 Part 4 (1990) (hereafter Rosenbaum), pp. 225-57.
2 I know only of the two letters to Patmore and the note to Sarah Walker which came
into the hands of a dealer during work of this edition.
3 For Liber Amoris, that black sheep in the canon, there is, ironically, a plenitude of
manuscript material; see Rosenbaum, p. 226.
4 See Munby, pp. 242-50.
5 Coleridge drew on Wordsworth's juvenilia in other ways; see, for instance, my 'The
AncientMariner: A Wordsworthian Source', Notes and Queries, NS 38 (1991) p. 301.
6 See vol. 6, pp. 273, 278.
7 See Howe, vol. viii, p. 371.
8 This document is at SUNY at Buffalo, Poetry Collection, and is published in my
introduction to Political Essays, volume 4, page xiii, below.
9 See William Hazlitt tohisPublishers, Friends, and Creditors: Twenty-Seven New Holograph
Letters ed. Charles E. Robinson (York, 1987), p. 17, and Rosenbaum, p.245.
10 For further discussion of this feat, see Stanley Jones, 'Hazlitt's Missing Essay "On
Individuality'", Review of English Studies 28 (1977) pp. 421-30.
11 Shelfinark: 3612 aca.
12 I would go so far as to say that there can never be a justification for using Howe as
copy-text, as is the case in at least two paperback selections currently in print.
13 Most such lapses are minor; for instance, in Howe, vol. v, p. 402, line 9, 'at' should
read 'in'.
14 Confusingly, although Howe allows the error to stand in the main text, he corrects it
in his lemma (Howe, vol. iv, p. 382).
15 See Howe, vol. v, p. 122.
16 See The Collected Worksof WilliamHazlitt ed. A. R. Waller and Arnold Glover (13
vols., London, 1902-6) (hereafter Waller and Glover), vol. iii, p. 384.
17 Howe, vol. i, pp. vii—viii.
18 Waller and Glover, vol. i, p. xxvii.
19 Howe, vol. i, pp. viii—ix.
20 Howe, vol. vii, p. 391.
23 Howe, vol. iv, p. 401.
24 Howe, vol. iv, p. 405.
25 Howe, vol. xii, p. 399.
26 Howe, vii, p. 394.
27 See vol. 4, p. 71.
29 Howe, vol. xiii, p. 357.
30 Howe, vol. iii, p. 294.
31 Howe, vol. vi, p. 368.
32 Howe, vol. xii, p. 409.
35 See Jones, pp. 300—2.Jones provides an excellent account of Hazlitt's relations with
the Blackwood's reviewers at Jones, pp. 285—92.
1
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
In the course of this work I have incurred many debts, which it is a pleasure to
acknowledge here. For expert information and advice ofvarious kinds I am grateful
to: Jonathan Bate, John Beer, Peter Cochran, David Hewitt, Heather and Robin
Jackson, Brendan McLaughlin, Stephen Lloyd, Leslie Mitchell, Lucy Newlyn,
Cecilia Powell, Roger Robinson, Jane Stabler, Graeme Stones, John Strachan,
Mary Wedd, and Robert W 00£ I am profoundly grateful to the various librarians
who generously gave me access to Hazlitt's manuscripts in their custody: Robert
WoofandJeffCowton at the Wordsworth Library, Grasmere; Robert Bertholfand
his helpful staff at the Poetry Collection, SUNY at Buffalo; Bruce Barker-Benfield
at the Bodleian Library; Tina Gee and Roberta Lewis at Keats House, Hampstead;
and staff at the British Library and Manchester Central Library. In particular, I
thank the librarians in the Lower and Upper Reading Rooms at the Bodleian
Library, Oxford, where much ofmy research was executed; they have been very
helpful and patient with my numerous demands for out ofthe way volumes. David
Chandler and Massimiliano Demata have helped me at various points in my search
for Hazlitt's sources. Cathy Lambert and Henry Maas worked unstintingly on the
proofs ofthis edition, and helped eliminate inconsistency and vagary from the text.
Rick Tomlinson was my collaborator in the challenging task of reading the
manuscript of Hazlitt's 'On the Punishment of Death'.
It is a pleasure to thank my consulting editors, who commented on the contents
list at an early stage, and provided constant help and inspiration through their
published works. In particular, I owe a great debt to Stanley Jones, who, almost
from the beginning, has played godfather to this work. Through his labours over
four decades he has resolved a host of Hazlitt puzzles, and amplified our
understanding of the writer and his essays; without him, this edition would have
been much the poorer. He has shared his knowledge without hesitation, and in
doing so has saved me from pitfalls too numerous to recount. The mark ofhis good
offices is to be found throughout the nine volumes of this work. I am similarly
indebted to Tom Paulin, whose book, The Day-Star of Liberty: William Hazlitt's
Radical Style, helped instigate the present edition. Despite a hectic schedule he has
kept in constant touch throughout my work, and provided the encouragement and
support that kept me going. I cannot thank him enough.
I have been particularly fortunate in working with Bridget Frost, my editor at
Ii
Pickering & Chatto, who has patiently guided this edition from inception to
publication; her kindness and efficiency has expedited its production enormously.
Her colleagues, Rebecca Saraceno and Daniel Pounds, provided much-needed
assistance in numerous aspects of my research.
I am deeply grateful to those bodies which have nurtured this work, and who
made this edition possible in a number of practical respects. The British Academy
generously provided funds that enabled me to visit libraries in Toronto, Buffalo,
Manchester and London, and awarded a research grant that relieved me from
teaching for the academic year 1997-8. It is no exaggeration to say that without
their help I could not have completed this project. I thank the University of
Glasgow for granting me leave from teaching duties - in particular my hard-
working colleagues in the Department of English Literature for looking after my
students in my absence. The Master and Fellows ofSt Catherine's College, Oxford,
kindly bestowed on me the privileges ofa Visiting Fellow for the first two terms of
the academic year 1997-8, which substantially mitigated my labours in Oxford.
My most heartfelt debt is to my wife Caroline, who kindly accepted this dilated
project, with all its demands and impositions, into her life at Sunny Cottage: I could
not have completed it without her.
Duncan Wu
Fordwells, August 1998
The editor and the publishers would like to thank the following libraries for granting
permission to quote from the William Hazlitt manuscripts held in their collections:
'On Chaucer and Spenser', from Lectures on the English Poets: La Trobe Australian
Manuscripts Collection, State Library of Victoria.
'On Bums' and 'On the Living Poets': Berg Collection ofEnglish and American Literature,
The New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox and Tilden Foundations.
'A Lecture on Thomson and Cooper': Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center, The
University of Texas at Austin.
'On Punishment of Death': The Folger Shakespeare Library, Washington, DC.
'To the Monthly Reviewers': Victoria University Library, Toronto.
'On Dryden and Pope': James Fraser Gluck Collection, Buffalo & Erie County Public
Library, New York.
'Character of Lord Bacon's Works', Marginalia taken from Sir Francis Bacon, The Two
Bookes ofFrances Bacon. Ofthe Proficiency and Advancement ef Leaming (London, 1629): Keats
House, Hampstead, London.
'The Fight': The Pierpont Morgan Library, New York, MA 190.
'On a Sun Dial': The Huntington Library, San Marino, California, HM 12220.
Outline of'Course of Lectures on the Age and Literature ofQ. Elizabeth', The Bodleian
Library, MS Dep. b.215/6.
Iii
INTRODUCTORY NOTES
An Essay on the Principles

of Human Action
The first edition ofHazlitt's first book-length work was published anonymously on
19 July 1805 in one volume. He had been working on it since at least 1796 and had
taken the manuscript to Somerset when he visited Wordsworth and Coleridge
there in the spring of1798. No doubt some ofits central theses were discussed with
both poets, particularly the ideas ofHartley and Berkeley, ofwhich Coleridge was
an enthusiast. A philosophical discussion of some sort seems to have inspired
Wordsworth's 'Expostulation and Reply' and 'The Tables Turned'. Stanley Jones
has commented on the Essay: 'It came at the start ofhis career as a writer, and it was
fundamental to it' Gones, p. 18).
Text
Despite several setbacks over the long period of its composition, the Essay was
completed in 1804 and published by Joseph Johnson, to whom Hazlitt was
introduced by Anthony Robinson. Now being very scarce indeed, the first edition
had a very limited circulation; W. C. Hazlitt later commented: 'The sale was slow
and small, and I do not believe that the author ever received a penny from it'
(Memoirs, vol. i, p. 112). It was published in a posthumous second edition, in a new
text edited by his son, in 1836; this was claimed to be 'considerably improved from
marginal corrections in the Author's copy'. However, these improvements are few
in number and comprise minor stylistic alterations and the incorporation of
previously footnoted material into the main text. In the absence of Hazlitt's own
copy of the Essay (not now to be found), 1 I have preferred to use the first edition
as copy-text. In this edition I have intervened to emend 'it's' (possessive) to the less
distracting 'its', to correct 'Rochefocault' to 'Rochefoucault' (p. 75), and to
eliminate a superfluous 'a' (article) on page 44. Otherwise the text is as it appears
in the first edition. No manuscript survives.
Hazlitt remained proud of the volume, and returned to its central argument in
A Letter to William Gifford (1819) (see vol. 5) and 'Self-Love and Benevolence', a
dialogue in the New Monthly Magazine (October-December 1828).
liii
Reception
The Essay won a rather indulgent review from the Annual Review, which
commented: 'though we may not coincide in all, or perhaps in the most important
conclusions, which the author has endeavoured to substantiate, we are nevertheless
perfectly ready to bear our testimony to the acuteness, discrimination, and analytical
talent, which are stamped upon every page of his work'. 2 Hazlitt had to wait a bit
longer for further critical comment. He was not, perhaps, too surprised, by the
contempt meted out by the Anti:Jacobin Review, which began by saying: 'Under the
title of a Philosophical Essay it bears the characteristical marks of a highly finished
burlesque.' 3 The determination to regard the Essay as a joke remains the
distinguishing feature of the review:
The author is undoubtedly one ofthose gentlemen ofleisure and easy circumstances,
who, to prevent their ideas from stagnating, occasionally introduce among them a
little poetical frenzy, or metaphysical absurdity. With whatever intention he may
have issued this little volume to the world, it does not appear that it contains any
thing to alarm the friend of virtue. It is a little innocent absurd essay, which a
philosopher may be induced to read from seeing its title, and which he will lay aside
with a smile of contempt. 4
Hazlitt received equally unsympathetic treatment from the Eclectic, in a late review
in 1807:
This volume comes before us very abruptly. Without preface, dedication,

introduction, or advertisement; without table or index, without chapters or sections,
and without the Author's name, it would seem to pay a high compliment to our
candour, or else to intimate a surprising consciousness of intrinsic merit.
Unhappily too, the commencement ofthe work is so perplexed and indefinite, that
many a reader will be repelled by the difficulty which he finds in understanding it.
He seems to be plunged suddenly into a 'palpable obscure', without bottom, without
light, and must fight his way onward, like the Archfiend through Chaos, without
even an acquaintance with the advantage which is to remunerate his toils. 5
The reviewer evidently didn't follow Hazlitt's argument, and resented having to
read the volume at all:
His sentences and paragraphs are most wearisomely protracted, running on page after
page, and sheet after sheet, without giving us any indication ofmethod in the writer's
thoughts, or in many cases any consoling perception that we may make some
advance toward attaining the object he proposes. 6
liv
INTRODUCTORY NOTES
NOTES
1 It was already lost when W. C. Hazlitt wrote, in 1867: 'Where is his "Essay on Human
Action", enriched, as he left it, with his notes in his own hand?' (Memoirs, vol. ii, p.
272).
2 Annual Review, 4 (1805), 657-64, p. 658. The use of the adjective 'his' in the last
sentence makes me wonder whether the author of the review was acquainted with
Hazlitt.
3 Anti-Jacobin Review, 26 (January 1807), 17-22, p. 18.
4 Ibid., p. 21.
5 Eclectic Review, 3.2 (August 1807), 698-704, p. 698.
6 Ibid., p. 701.
Iv
Characters of Shakespear's Plays (1817)
Hazlitt's ninth published volume, and his first critical work, was published on 9 July
1817. A few of the essays had previously appeared in the Morning Chronicle (1814)
and The Examiner (1815-16), but the bulk of the volume was written during the
winter of 1816-17. The printer, Charles Reynell, was the brother-in-law ofJohn
Hunt, and printer of much ofLeigh Hunt's work. It was published by R. Hunter,
successor to Joseph Johnson, and C. and]. Ollier (also friends of Leigh Hunt). In
March 1818 they had published Shelley's Revolt of Islam and Keats' Endymion.
It was written in large part to refute the ideas ofJohnson, particularly those in his
Preface to Shakespeare (1765), and to extend the insights of Schlegel, whose
Lectures, first published in English in 1815, provided one ofHazlitt's most important
sources.' In the event, this was the first ofHazlitt's books to gain immediate success,
and went into a revised second edition on 30 May 1818.
Text
Two fragmentary manuscripts and 16 pages ofpage proofsurvive for the work. The
first of the manuscripts, a leaf from the Preface, is at Boston Public Library, and a
3-page fragment of the essay on Much Ado About Nothing (in Sarah Stoddart
Hazlitt's hand) and a 16-page page proof for Macbeth are at the Folger Shakespeare
Library. My copy-text is the second edition of 1818, which I have on occasion
emended; substantive alterations are as follows: 'Apemnatus' corrected to
'Apemantus' (p. 124); 'josle' to 'jostle' (p. 134); 'Hold' to 'Hood' (p. 162 - on
Howe's suggestion); 'Gold' to 'God' (p. 190- an obvious error); 'Lefeu' to 'Lafeu'
(p. 238); and 'faithful' to 'fruitful' (p. 242 - again at Howe's suggestion).
My chief aim in the annotations below has been to supply references for Hazlitt's
allusions and quotations, keyed to a widely available edition ofShakespeare with a
text not dissimilar from that known to him. The problem with this is that it is not
known exactly which editions ofShakespeare Hazlitt had to hand as he wrote. No
doubt many of the quotations, particularly those embedded in his sentences, were
recollected. My collations indicate that he had several editions of the Works at his
disposal, including those of Pope and Malone, and had no particular strategy in
mind as he moved from one to the other. The Hazlitt sale contained the 1632 and
1685 editions ofthe Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies, as well as a first edition quarto
of The Merchant of Venice (1600), but it is not clear whether they belonged to Hazlitt
or his descendants (see Munby, pp. 472-4). My solution has been to key all
lvi
INTRODUCTORY NOTES
quotations to The Riverside Shakespeare, ed. G. Blakemore Evans (2nd edn., 1997),
which is widely available both to the individual reader and in most academic
libraries, taking recourse to editions ofPope andJohnson when the occasion arises.
Reception
Initially, the reviewers were welcoming of Hazlitt's ninth volume. One of the
earliest reviews came from the Edinburgh Review (for which Hazlitt was writing); it
begins by describing the Characters as 'a very pleasing book - and, we do not hesitate
to say, a book of very considerable originality and genius',2 before going on to
quote generously from Hazlitt, particularly his comments on Macbeth and Hamlet.
A few months later, the Edinburgh Magazine framed its comments as a defence of
Hazlitt against 'the reproach of him for having dared to say, that he wrote "in the
manner of the earlier periodical essayists, the Spectator and Tatler" '. 3 It went on
to say that the Characters 'appear to us the most animated, intelligent, and
prepossessed criticism on the "great heir of fame" '. 4
No doubt these supportive comments helped sales, but less sympathetic reviews
were to come. As he later recalled: 'Taylor and Hessey told me that they had sold
nearly two editions of the Characters ofShakespear's Plays in about three months,
but that after the Quarterly Review of them came out, they never sold another
copy' (vol. 6, p. 86). In fact, the Quarterly notice was published in the January
number, belatedly, on 10 June 1818, shortly after the second edition of the
Characters had appeared on 30 May. Its reviewer,John Russell, begins by mocking
Hazlitt for 'his gorgeous accumulation of emblematical terms, which leave all
meaning far behind' ,5 before going on to express outrage at his criticism of the
monarchy in the essay on Henry VIII:
It is true he [i.e. Shakespeare] was not actuated by an envious hatred ofgreatness; he

was not at all likely, had he lived in our time, to be an orator in Spa-fields, or the
editor of a seditious Sunday newspaper; 6 he knew what discord would follow if
degree were taken away; and therefore, with the wise and good of every age, he
pointed out the injuries that must arise to society from a turbulent rabble instigated
to mischiefby men not much more enlightened, and infinitely more worthless than
themselves. 7
Russell concludes that Hazlitt is
one of the representatives of a class of men by whom literature is more than at any
former period disgraced, who are labouring to effect their mischievous purposes non
vised saepe cadendo; and therefore conceived that it might not be unprofitable to show
how very small a portion of talent and literature was necessary for carrying on the
trade of sedition. 8
The similarities are such that it is hard not to believe that the reviewer in the British
lvii
Critic was aware ofthe attack in the Quarterly; for there, too, the volume is attacked
for its politics. Drawing attention to precisely the same passage concerning Henry
VIII, the reviewer comments:
Prejudice is always disgusting, political prejudices peculiarly so; but to open a work
of taste with the expectation of being able to indulge in the pleasures of the
imagination, and to find it stuffed with dull, common-place,Jacobin declamation; to
draw one's chair round to the fire, a work on 'the characters ofShakespeare's Plays',
in one's hand, with a thousand well known passages floating in one's memory,
hoping to find new beauties pointed out, fresh admiration excited, and then to be
caught, entrapped, surprised into reading tirades of democratic trash, fit for the
columns of a Sunday newspaper, perhaps intended for or copied from one, is a
disappointment too severe not to irritate the sufferer beyond the bounds ofpatience. 9
The reviewer concludes in disgust: 'Politics lurk under every aphorism that the
author enunciates, and the reader, in gathering the flowers of poetry, must
constantly beware of the snake that lurks beneath it' .10
Subsequent reviews were either bland or cautious, most ofthem merely glancing
at the volume whilst commenting on other volumes such as The Round Table. Thus,
the British Review followed the Quarterly in criticising Hazlitt for attempting to rival
Schlegel. 11 The Monthly Review, in a very late notice, began by praising Hazlitt as
'the most sparkling prose-writer ofthe present day' before offering some favourable
comment, concurring with him in his criticisms ofJohnson. 12
NOTES
1 Hazlitt had procured an advance copy from the translator, his friend John Black (a
former colleague on the Morning Chronicle). Hazlitt proposed to review the Lectures for
Jeffrey on 1 May 1815 (Letters, 142), and his notice appeared in the Edinburgh Review,
26 (February 1816), pp. 67-107. It is reprinted in the Appendix, below.
2 Edinburgh Review, 28 (August 1817), 472-88, p. 472.
3 Edinburgh Magazine, 1 (November 1817), 352-61, p. 355.
4 Ibid., p. 359.
5 Quarterly Review, 18 Oanuary 1818), 458-66, p. 459.
6 I.e. The Examiner.
7 Quarterly Review, 18 Oanuary 1818), 458-66, p. 465.
8 Ibid., p. 466.
9 British Critic, 9 Oanuary 1818), 15-22, p. 19.
10 Ibid., p. 21.
11 British Review, 13 (May 1819), 313-39, p. 320.
12 Monthly Review, 92 (May 1820), 53-68, p. 53.
lviii
AN ESSAY
ON THS
PRINCIPLES OF HUMAN
ACTION:
BEING AM ARGUMENT IN FAVOUR OP

THE NATURAL DISINTERESTEDNESS
OF THE HUMAN MIND.
TO WHICH AM i S D I P j
SOME REMARKS ONTHE SYSTEMS Of
HARTLEY AND HELVETIUS.
LONDON:
PRtNTID FOR J. JOHNSON, MO. 7 2 , ST. PAWL'S
CHURCH-YARD.
1805.
[1/3]
An Argument in Defence of the Natural Disinterestedness

of the Human Mind
It is the design of the following Essay to shew that the human mind is naturally
disinterested, or that it is naturally interested in the welfare of others in the same
way, and from the same direct motives, by which we are impelled to the pursuit of
our own interest.
The objects in which the mind is interested may be either past or present, or
future. These last alone can be the objects of rational or voluntary pursuit; for
neither the past, nor present can be altered for the better, or worse by any efforts
of the will. It is only from the interest / excited in him by future objects that man
becomes a moral agent, or is denominated selfish, or the contrary, according to the
manner in which he is affected by what relates to his own future interest, or that of
others. I propose then to shew that the mind is naturally interested in its own
welfare in a peculiar mechanical manner, only as far as relates to its past, or present
impressions. I have an interest in my own actual feelings or impressions by means
ofconsciousness, and in my past feelings by means ofmemory, which I cannot have
in the past, or present feelings ofothers, because these faculties can only be exerted
upon those things which immediately and properly affect mysel£ As an affair of
sensation, or memory, I can feel no interest in any thing but what relates to myself
in the strictest sense. But this distinction does not apply to future objects, or to those
impressions, which determine my voluntary actions. I have not the same sort of
exclusive, or mechanical / self-interest in my future being or welfare, because I
have no distinct faculty giving me a direct present interest in my future sensations,
and none at all in those of others. The imagination, by means ofwhich alone I can
anticipate future objects, or be interested in them, must carry me out ofmyself into
the feelings of others by one and the same process by which I am throwri forward
as it were into my future being, and interested in it. I could not love myself, if I
were not capable ofloving others. Self-love, used in this sense, is in its fundamental
principle the same with disinterested benevolence.
Those who have maintained the doctrine of the natural selfishness of the human
mind have always taken it for granted as a self-evident principle that a man must love
himself, or that it is not less absurd to ask why a man should be interested in his own
3
[3/7] SELECTED WRITINGS OF WILLIAM HAZLITT: VOLUME 1
personal welfare, than it would be to ask why a man in a / state ofactual enjoyment,
or suffering likes what gives him pleasure, and dislikes what gives him pain. They
say, that no such necessity nor any positive reason whatever can be conceived to
exist for my promoting the welfare of another, since I cannot possibly feel the
pleasures, or pains which another feels without first becoming that other, that our
interests must be as necessarily distinct as we ourselves are, that the good which I
do to another, in itself and for its own sake can be nothing to me. Good is a term
relative only to the being who enjoys it. The good which he does not feel must be
matter of perfect indifference to him. How can I be required to make a painful
exertion, or sacrifice a present convenience to serve another, ifl am to be nothing
the better for it? I waste my powers out of myself without sharing in the effects
which they produce. Whereas when I sacrifice my present ease or convenience, for
the sake ofa greater good to myself at / a future period, the same being who suffers
afterwards enjoys, both the loss and the gain are mine, I am upon the whole a gainer
in real enjoyment, and am therefore justified to myself: I act with a view to an end
in which I have a real, substantial interest. The human soul, continue some ofthese
writers, naturally thirsts after happiness; it either enjoys, or seeks to enjoy. It
constantly reaches forward towards the possession ofhappiness, it strives to draw it
to itself, and to be absorbed in it. But as the mind cannot enjoy any good but what
it possesses within itself, neither can it seek to produce any good but what it can
enjoy: it is just as idle to suppose that the love ofhappiness or good should prompt
any being to give up his own interest for the sake of another, as it would be to
attempt to allay violent thirst by giving water to another to drink.
Now I can conceive that a man must be necessarily interested in his own actual
/ feelings, whatever these may be, merely because he feels them. He cannot help
receiving pain from what gives him pain, or pleasure from what gives him pleasure.
But I cannot conceive how he can have the same necessary, absolute interest in
whatever relates to himself, or in his own pleasures and pains, generally speaking,
whether he feels them, or not. This kind of reasoning, which in itself is all along
founded in a mere play ofwords, could not have gained the assent ofthinking men
but for the force with which the idea of self habitually clings to the mind of every
man, binding it as with a spell, deadening its discriminating powers, and spreading
the confused associations which belong only to past and present impressions over
the whole of our imaginary existence. It therefore becomes difficult to separate
ideas which have been thus knit together by custom, or 'by a long tract oftime, by
the use of language, and want of reflection.' / If it were possible for a man's
particular successive interests to be all bound up in one general feeling of self-
interest as they are all comprehended under the same word, self, or ifa man on the
rack really felt no more than he must have done from the apprehension ofthe same
punishment a year before, there would be some foundation for this reasoning,
which supposes the mind to have the same absolute interest in its own feelings both
4
AN ESSAY ON THE PRINCIPLES OF HUMAN ACTION [7/10]
past, present, and to come. I say the sophism here employed consists in comparing
the motives by which we are interested in the welfare ofothers with the mechanical
impulses of self-love, as if because we are mechanically affected by the actual
impression ofobjects on our senses in a manner in which we cannot be affected by
the feelings of others, all our feelings with respect to ourselves must be ofthe same
kind, and we could feel no interest in any thing but what was excited in the same
way. It is plain we are not interested in our general, remote welfare in/ the same
manner, or by the same necessity that we are affected by the actual sense ofpleasure,
or pain. We have no instinctive secret sympathy with our future sensations by
which we are attracted either consciously or unconsciously to our greatest good;
we are for the most part indifferent to it, ignorant ofit. We certainly do not know,
and we very often care as little what is to happen to ourselves in future: it has no
more effect upon us in any way, than ifit were never to happen. Were it not for
this short-sightedness, and insensibility, where would be the use, or what would
become of the rules of personal prudence?
It will be said, I know, that this is foreign to the purpose; for that whether he feels
it, or not, every man has a real interest in his own welfare which he cannot have
in that of another person. First, this is to shift the ground of the argument; for it
requires to be made out how a man can be said to have an interest in what he does
not feel. There is not evidently the same / contradiction in supposing him not to
be particularly interested in feelings which he has not, as there is in supposing him
not to be interested in his actual, sensible pleasures and pains. Secondly, I shall very
readily grant that to have and to feel an interest in any thing are not always
convertible terms, that is, an interest may attach or belong to an individual in some
way or other though he does not feel it at the time. My having a real interest in any
object may refer to the matter of fact that such an object will some time or other
exist: now the reality of its existence does not certainly depend on my feeling an
interest in it previously. Neither is the reality of another's pleasures, or pains
affected by my not feeling such an interest in them as I ought to do. The feelings
of others are evidently as real, or as much matters of fact in themselves as my own
feelings can ever be. This distinction between that which is true and what has
merely an imaginary existence, or none at all, does not / therefore so far apply to
the question, ifby a real interest be meant that which relates to a real object, for
it is supposed at first that this object does not excite any immediate or real interest
in the mind. Another difference that may be insisted on is this, that I shall have a
real sensible interest in my own future feelings which I cannot possibly have in
those of others. I must therefore as the same individual have the same necessary
interest in them at present. This may either proceed on the supposition of the
absolute, metaphysical identity of my individual being, so that whatever can be
affirmed of that principle at any time must be strictly and logically true of it at all
times, which is a wild and absurd notion; or it may refer to some other less strict
5
connection between my present and future self, in consequence of which I am

considered as the same being, the different events and impressions of my life
constituting one regular succession of conscious feelings. In this sense, the saying
that I I have a general interest in whatever concerns my future welfare in fact
amounts to no more than affirming, that I shall have an interest in that welfare, or
that I am nominally and in certain other respects the same being who will hereafter
have a real interest in it. The reason why we are so ready to attribute a real identity
of interests to the same person is, that we have an indistinct idea of extended
consciousness, and a community offeelings as essential to the same thinking being;
so that whatever interests me at one time must interest me, or be capable of
interesting me, at other times. Now this continued consciousness only serves to
connect my past with my present impressions. It only acts retrospectively. I have
not previously the same sympathy with my future being that I have with my past
being, nor consequently the same natural or necessary interest in my future welfare
that I have in my past. Lastly, it may be said, that there is something in the very idea
of pleasure I or pain as affecting myself which naturally excites a lively,
unavoidable interest in my mind. I cannot conceive how the mere idea ofself can
produce any such effect as is here described, unless we imagine that self-love
literally consists in the love ofself, or in a proper attachment to our own persons
instead of referring to the feelings of desire and aversion, hope, and fear, &c.
excited in us by those things which either do, or may immediately affect ourselves.
In consequence ofthe impression ofmany such objects on the thinking being, we
shall come no doubt to connect a sense ofself-interest with this very being, with
the motions of our blood, and with life itself, and shall by degrees transfer the
emotions of interest excited by particular positive feelings to the idea of our own
interest generally speaking. This however must be the work of time, the gradual
result ofhabit, and reflection, and cannot be the natural reason why a man pursues
his own welfare, or is interested in / his own feelings. I think therefore that in the
first instance the idea of personal pleasure or pain can only affect the mind as a
distinct idea of that which is in itself the object of desire, or aversion, and that the
idea ofselfis nothing more than the first and most distinct idea we have ofa being
capable of receiving pleasure and pain. It will be the business of the greatest part
of the following essay to make out these several points more distinctly.
There is another hypothesis which I shall just mention, that holds a sort ofmiddle
place between the two opposite ones already stated. The partisans of this more
liberal philosophy, who could not suppress the consciousness of humane and
benevolent dispositions in themselves, or the proofs of them in others, but yet
knew not how to reconcile these feelings with the supposed selfishness of human
nature, have endeavoured to account for the different impulses of generous
affection from habit, or the constant connection between the / pleasures and pains
of others, and our own, by which means we come at last to confound our own
6
AN ESSAY ON THE PRINCIPLES OF HUMAN ACTION (14/17]
interests with theirs, and to feel the same anxiety for their welfare without any view
to our own advantage. A man according to this hypothesis becomes attached to
others as he becomes attached to any other indifferent object, to a tree, or a stone,
from familiarity, and the frequent association of his immediate gratification with
the indifferent idea; and this attachment once formed, he must afterwards be
interested in their welfare whether he will or no. An example ofthis may be given
in boys at school. A boy is confined to his task at the same time with his school-
fellows; he feels the effects of the good, or ill humour of the master in common
with the rest; when the school-hour is over, they are all let loose to play together;
he will in general like the same games that others do, and be most delighted when
they are noisiest, when they happen to be in the best humour, in the hottest part
ofthe / game, on the finest days, or in the pleasantest places: they will have the same
joyous breakings-up for the holidays, and will often on some bright morning stroll
out in search of unknown good, and return home tired and disappointed together.
Would it not be strange if this constant fellowship of joys and sorrows did not
produce in him some sensibility to the good or ill fortune of his companions, and
some real good-will towards them? The greatest part ofour pleasures depend upon
habit: and as those which arise from acts of kindness and disinterested attachment
to others are the most common, the most lasting, the least mixed with evil of all
others, as a man devoid of all attachment to others, whose heart was thoroughly
hard and insensible to every thing but his own interest would scarcely be able to
support his existence, (for in him the spring and active principle oflife would be
gone) it follows that we ought to cultivate sentiments ofgenerosity and kindness for
others / out of mere selfishness. The obligations to the practice of virtue really
depend on its contributing to the original object of our nature, our own proper
happiness: for no man is bound to sacrifice his own ultimate welfare to any foreign
consideration whatever. The advantages of virtue are however to be derived, like
those of any liberal art, from the immediate gratification attending it, from its
necessary effect on the mind, and not from a gross calculation ofself-interest. This
effect must be the greatest, where there is the most love ofvirtue for its own sake,
as we become truly disinterested, and generous. Therefore as the habit ofgenerous
concern for others, and readiness to promote their welfare cannot be broken in
upon at will in every particular instance where our immediate interest might
require it, it becomes necessary to disregard all such particular, accidental
advantages for the sake of the general obligation, and thus confirm habit into
principle. /
Whatever may be the manner in which we first acquire disinterested feelings, I
do not think that much good can be done by tracing these feelings back again to
a selfish origin, and leaving virtue no other basis to rest upon than a principle of
refined self-interest, by setting on foot a sort ofgame at hide-and-seek between the
reasons and motives to virtue. Without stopping to inquire whether the effect ofthis
7
theory upon the mind would be to produce much true generosity, or disinterested
simplicity of character, there can be no doubt but that this end must be attained
much more effectually, as far as the philosophical theory, or a belief of certain
abstract distinctions will ever influence our habitual principles of action*, by
shewing to man that his nature / is originally and essentially disinterested; that as a
voluntary agent, he must be a disinterested / one; that he could neither desire, nor
will, nor pursue his own happiness but for the possession of faculties which
necessarily / give him an interest out of himself in the happiness of others; that
personal identity neither does, nor can imply any positive communication between
a man's future, and present self, that it does not give him a mechanical interest in
his future being, that man when he acts is always absolutely independent of,
uninfluenced by the feelings of the beingfor whom he acts, whether this be himself,
or another; lastly, that all morality, all rational, and voluntary action, every thing
undertaken with a distinct reference to ourselves or others must relate to the future,
that is, must have those things for its object which can only act upon the mind by
* The question whether abstract or merely intellectual ideas have ever much influence on the
conduct has not been fairly stated. The point is not whether an abstract proposition (no matter
whether true or false) of which I became convinced yesterday, will be able to overturn all my
previous / habits, and prejudices, but whether ideas ofthis kind may not be made the foundation
of inveterate prejudices themselves and the strongest principles of action. The ideas concerning
religion are ofa sufficiently abstract nature: and yet it will not be disputed that early impressions
of this kind have some influence on a man's future conduct in life. Two persons accidentally
meeting together, and who had never seen one another before shall conceive a more violent
antipathy to each other in consequence ofa dispute on religion or politics than they might have
done from having been personally at variance half their lives. It is objected that this proceeds
from wounded vanity. But why is our vanity more easily irritated upon these subjects than upon
any other but from the importance attached to them by the understanding? Questions ofmorality
do not always excite the same violent animosity; and this I think is because they do not so
properly admit ofdispute in themselves, also because they are not so often made the instruments
of cabal, and power, and therefore depend less on opinion, or the number of votes, and because
every one appealing to his own breast for the truth of his opinion attributes the continuance of
the contest not to any want of/ force in his own arguments, but to a want of proper feelings in
his opponent. - I will add here a remark in some measure connected with the last mentioned
observation, that the reason why men are generally more anxious about the opinion entertained
of their understanding than their honesty is not so much that they really think this last of less
consequence as that a man always believes himself to be the best judge of what passes in his own
breast. He therefore thinks very little the better of himself for the good opinion of others.
Indeed he considers their suffrages in this respect as a sort of impertinence at best, as implying
some doubt upon the subject: and as to their direct censures, he will always find some feelings,
or motives in his own mind, or some circumstances with which they are not acquainted, which
will in his opinion make a total difference in the case.With respect to manners, and those moral
qualities which are denominated plea.sing, these again depend on the judgment ofothers; and we
find the same jealousy of the opinions ofothers manifested with respect to these as with respect
to our sense, wit, &c.
8
means ofthe imagination, and must naturally affect it in the same manner, whether
they are thought of in connection with our own future being, or that of others.
I have thought upon this subject so long, and it has sunk into my mind I may say
so deeply in the single abstract form which / appears to me to explain almost every
other view which can be taken of it, that I cannot without difficulty bring myself
to consider it separately or in detail; and I am sure that many things will appear to
others very imperfectly and obscurely expressed which appear to me evident
truisms from having been accustomed to refer a number ofparticular observations,
and subordinate trains of feeling, which I have forgotten, to that general form of
reasoning. However I hope that the simplicity ofthe principle itself which must be
either logically and absolutely true, or not at all will make it sufficiently intelligible
if it be stated with tolerable accuracy.
All voluntary action, that is all action proceeding from a will, or effort ofthe mind
to produce a certain event must relate to the future, or to those things, the existence
of which is problematical, undetermined, and therefore capable ofbeing affected
by the means made use of with a/ view to their production, or the contrary. But
that which is future, which does not yet exist can excite no interest in itself, nor act
upon the mind in any way but by means of the imagination. The direct primary
motive, or impulse which determines the mind to the volition of any thing must
therefore in all cases depend on the idea of that thing as conceived of by the
imagination, and on the idea solely. For the thing itselfis a non-entity. By the very
act of its being willed, it is supposed not to exist. It neither is any thing, nor can be
the cause ofany thing. We are never interested in the things themselves which are
the real, ultimate, practical objects of volition: the feelings of desire, aversion, &c.
connected with voluntary action are always excited by the ideas of those things
before they exist. The true impulse to voluntary action can only exist in the mind
of a being capable of foreseeing the consequences of things, of being / interested
in them from the imaginary impression thus made upon his mind, and of making
choice of the means necessary to produce, or prevent what he desires or dreads.
This distinction must be absolute and universally applicable, if it is so at all. The
motives by which I am impelled to the pursuit ofmy own welfare can no more be
the result of a direct impression of the thing which is the object of desire, or
aversion, of any positive communication between my present, and future feelings,
or of a sort of hypostatical union between the interest of the being acting, and the
being acted upon, than the motives by which I am interested in the welfare of
others can be so. It is true I have a real, positive interest in my actual feelings which
I have not in those of others. But actual pleasure, and pain are not the objects of
voluntary action. It can be to no purpose, it is downright nonsense to will that
which actually exists, which is impressed on my senses-to exist, or not to exist, since
it will exist neither more nor/ less for my willing it, or not willing it. Our shrinking
from that which gives us pain could not in any respect be considered as an act of
9
volition, or reason, ifwe did not know that the same object which gives us pain will
continue to give us pain while we remain in contact with it. The mere mechanical
movement which generally accompanies much pain does not appear to me to have
any thing more to do with self-love properly so called than the convulsive motions
or distortions of the muscles caused by bodily disease. - In other words the object
of volition is never the cause of volition. The motive, or internal impression
impelling me to the pursuit of any object is by the supposition incompatible with
any such interest as belongs to the actual enjoyment of any good, or to the idea of
possession. The real object of any particular volition is always a mere physical
consequence of that volition, since it is willed for that very reason that otherwise
it would not exist at all, and since the effect / which the mind desires to produce
by any voluntary action must be subsequent to that action. It cannot therefore exert
any power over my present volitions, and actions, unless we suppose it to act before
it exists, which is absurd. For there is no faculty in the mind by which future
impressions can excite in it a presentiment of themselves in the same way that past
impressions act upon it by means ofmemory. When we say that future objects act
upon the mind by means of the imagination, it is not meant that such objects
exercise a real power over the imagination, but merely that it is by means of this
faculty that we can foresee the probable or necessary consequences of things, and
are interested in them.
I hardly know how to insist on a point so plain in itself that it cannot be made
plainer by any kind of reasoning. I only wish to define the sense of the general
position as strictly as I can, and to guard ifpossible against any mistake arising from
ambiguity / of expression. For nothing but the certainty ofabsolute proof, and of
having avoided every error of this sort can overcome the reluctance of the mind
to admit fully and in all its consequences a distinction, which however simple in
the abstract goes to the direct subversion ofone ofthe most deeply rooted feelings
ofthe human mind, namely that ofthe essential difference between the interest we
have in promoting our own welfare by all the means in our power, and that which
we take in promoting the welfare ofothers. Almost every one has a feeling that he
has a real interest in the one, but that his interest in the other is merely imaginary;
that his interest in the one is absolute and independent ofhimself, that it exists with
the same force whether he feels it, or not, whether he pursues, or neglects it, that
it is a part ofhimself, a bond from which he cannot free himself without changing
his being, whereas the interest which he takes into the welfare of others is a
voluntary interest, / taken up and dismissed at pleasure, and which exists no longer
than he feels it; that his interest in his own welfare, however distant, must affect
him equally at present, since he is really the same being who is to enjoy, or suffer
hereafter, but that with respect to the feelings ofpleasure, or pain which another
is to enjoy or suffer, he neither has any direct present interest, nor can have an
indirect future interest in them: they are nothing to him. This is the common
10
feeling; and it is perhaps not less common to the most generous than to the most
narrow and selfish minds: for a man ofa generous disposition will take pleasure in
sacrificing his own immediate interest considering it as a real sacrifice, and will be
fond of exulting in his superiority to the gross influence of selfish motives. If
however the distinction above insisted on with respect to voluntary action be any
thing more than a play ofwords without meaning, the whole of this feeling must
be utterly false, and groundless. / For the mind can take, it can have no interest in
any thing, that is an object of practical pursuit, but what is strictly imaginary: it is
absurd to suppose that it can have a real interest in any such object directly whether
relating to ourselves, or others (this has been I trust sufficiently shewn already):
neither can the reality ofmy future interest in any object give me a real interest in
that object at present, unless it could be shewn that in consequence of my being
the same individual I have a necessary sympathy with my future sensations of
pleasure or pain, by which means they produce in me the same mechanical
impulses as if their objects were really present. The puncture of a pin causing an
irritation in the extremity of one of the nerves is sensibly felt along the whole
extent of that nerve; a violent pain in any of the limbs disorders the whole frame;
I feel at the same moment the impressions made on opposite parts ofmy body; the
same conscious principle pervades every part of me, it / is in my hands, my feet,
my eyes, my ears at the same time, or at any rate is immediately affected by
whatever is impressed on all these, it is not confined to this, or that organ for a
certain time, it has an equal interest in the whole sentient system, nothing that
passes in any part of it can be indifferent to me. Here we have a distinct idea of a
real individuality ofperson, and a consequent identity ofinterests. Till some such
diffusive conscious principle can be shewn to exist, producing a real connection
between my future sensations and present impulses, collecting, and uniting the
different successive moments of my being in one general representative feeling of
self-interest as the impressions made on different parts ofmy body are all conveyed
to one common principle of thought, it is in vain to tell me that I have the same
interest in my future sensations as if they were present, because I am the same
individual. However nearly allied, however similar I may be to my future self,
whatever / other relation I may bear to that self, so long as there is not this
intercommunity ofthoughts and feelings, so long as there is an absolute separation,
an insurmountable barrier fixed between the present, and the future, so that I
neither am, nor can possibly be affected at present by what I am to feel hereafter,
I am not to any moral or practical purpose the same being. Natural impossibilities
cannot be made to give way to a mere courtesy of expression. 'But I know that I
shall become that being.' Then my interest in it is founded on that knowledge, and
not on an event which not only is not felt by my mind, but is itself yet to come,
viz. the transition of my present into my future being. How does it signify to me
what I shall hereafter feel, or how can it influence my present conduct, or how
11
ought it to do so but because, and in as far as, I have some idea ofit beforehand*?
/ The injury that I may do to my future interest will not certainly by any kind of
reaction return to punish me for my neglect of my own happiness. In this sense,
I am always free from the consequences ofmy actions. - The interests ofthe being
who acts, and of the being who suffers are never one. They are not swayed by the
influence ofthe same causes either directly, or by mechanical sympathy. The good
which is the object of pursuit can never coexist with the motives which make it
an object ofpursuit. The good which any being pursues is always at a distance from
him. His wishes, his exertions are always excited by 'an airy, notional good,' 1 by
the idea ofgood, not the reality. But/ for this there could be no desire, no pursuit
of any thing. We cannot strive to obtain what we already possess: we cannot give
to that which already exists a double reality. My real interest is not therefore
something which I can handle, which is to be felt, or seen, it is not lodged in the
organs of hearing, or taste, or smell, it is not the subject of any of the senses, it is
not in any respect what is commonly understood by a real, substantial interest. On
the contrary, it is fundamentally, and in its origin and by its very nature the
creature of reflection, and imagination; and whatever can be made the subject of
these, whether relating to ourselves or others, may also be the object ofan interest
powerful enough to become the motive of volition and action. If it should be
asked then what difference it can make to me whether I pursue my own welfare,
or entirely neglect it, what reason I can have to be at all interested in it, I answer
that according to the selfish hypothesis I do not see any. / But if we admit that
there is something in the very idea of good, or evil, which naturally excites desire
or aversion, which is in itselfthe proper motive ofaction, which impels the mind
to pursue the one and to avoid the other by a true moral necessity, then it cannot
be indifferent to me whether I believe that any being will be made happy or
miserable in consequence of my actions, whether this be myself or another. I
naturally desire and pursue my own good (in whatever this consists) simply from
my having an idea of it sufficiently warm and vivid to excite in me an emotion of
interest, or passion; and I love and pursue the good of others, of a relative, of a
friend, of a family, a community, or of mankind for just the same reason.
The scheme ofwhich I have here endeavoured to trace the general outline differs
from the common method ofaccounting for the origin ofour affections in this, that
it supposes what is personal or selfish in our / affections to be the growth of time
and habit, and the principle of a disinterested love of good as such, or for its own
* The distinction between the motives to action and the reasons for it cannot affect the argument
here insisted on. When it is said, that though I am not / really governed by such and such
motives, I ought to be governed by them, this must mean (or it means nothing) that such would
be the effect of a proper exertion of my faculties. The obligation to act in this or that manner
must therefore be deduced from the nature of those faculties, and the possibility of their being
impressed in a certain manner by certain objects.
12
sake without any regard to personal distinctions to be the foundation ofall the rest.
In this sense self-love is in its origin a perfectly disinterested, or if I may so say
impersonal feeling. 2 The reason why a child first distinctly wills or pursues his own
good is not because it is his, but because it is good. For the same reason he prefers
his own gratification to that of others not because he likes himself better than
others, but because he has a more distinct idea of his own wants and pleasures than
of theirs. Independently of habit and association, the strength of the affection
excited is in proportion to the strength of the idea, and does not at all depend on
the person to whom it relates except indirectly and by implication. A child is
insensible to the good of others not from any want of goodwill towards them, or
an exclusive attachment to self, but for want of knowing better. / Indeed he can
neither be attached to his own interest nor that of others but in consequence of
knowing in what it consists. It is not on that account the less natural for him to seek
to obtain personal pleasure, or to avoid personal pain after he has felt what these are.
We are not born benevolent, that is we are not born with a desire ofwe know not
what, and good wishes for we know not whom: neither in this sense are we born
with a principle ofself-love for the idea ofselfis also acquired. When I say therefore
that the human mind is naturally benevolent, this does not refer to any innate
abstract idea of good in general, or to an instinctive desire of general indefinite
unknown good but to the natural connection between the idea of happiness and
the desire ofit, independently ofany particular attachment to the person who is to
feel it.
There is a great difference between the general love of good which implies a
knowledge of it, and a general disposition to the / love of good, which does not
imply any such thing. It is necessary to keep this distinction in our minds, or the
greatest confusion will ensue. It is the general property ofiron to be attracted by the
loadstone, though this effect can only take place in consequence of the loadstone's
being brought near enough to it, nor is any thing more meant by the assertion. The
actual desire of good is not inherent in the mind of man, because it requires to be
brought out by certain accessory objects or ideas, but the disposition itself, or
property of the mind which makes him liable to be so affected by certain objects is
inherent in him and a part of his nature, as sensibility to pleasure and pain will not
be denied to be natural to man, though the actual feelings ofpleasure and pain can
only be excited in him by the impression of certain external objects. The love of
my own particular good must precede that ofthe particular good ofothers, because
I am acquainted with it first: the love of/ particular must precede that of general
good whether my own, or another's, or the general good of mankind for the same
reason. I do not therefore originally love my own particular positive good as a
portion ofgeneral good, or with a distinct reference in my mind to the good ofthe
whole; for I have as yet no idea ofnor any concern about the whole. But I love any
own particular good as consisting in the first conception I have of some one
13
desirable object for the same reason, for which I afterwards love any other known
good whether my own, or another's, whether conceived of as consisting in one or
more things, that is because it possesses that essential property common to all good,
without which it would cease to be good at all, and which has a general tendency
to excite certain given affections in my mind. I conceive that the knowledge of
many different sorts ofgood must lead to the love or desire ofall these, and that this
knowledge of various good must be accompanied / with an intermediate,
composite, or indefinite idea of good, itself the object of desire, because retaining
the same general nature: now this is an abstract idea. This idea will no doubt admit
ofendless degrees ofindefiniteness according to the number ofthings, from which
it is taken, or to which it is applied, and will be refined at last into a mere word, or
logical definition. In this case it will owe all its power as a motive to action to habit,
or association; for it is so immediately or in itself no longer than while it implies a
sentiment, or real feeling representative of good, and only in proportion to the
degree of force and depth which this feeling has.* /
The same objection evidently applies to the supposition either of an orig-
inal principle / of general comprehensive benevolence or of general and
comprehensive self-love. They both suppose the mind to have attained an
indefinite power ofabstraction/ which is not its natural state. Both the one and the
other must be made up of many actual pleasures and pains, of many forgotten
* Similarity has been defined to be partial sameness. Curve lines have a general resemblance, or
analogy to one another as such. Does this resemblance then consist in their being partially the
same?This may be said where the difference arises from drawing out the same sort of curve to a
greater extent because by adding to the shorter curve I can make it equal to the other. But I
cannot by adding any other line to an oval convert it into a circle, because / these two sorts of
curves can never coincide even in their smallest conceivable parts. It should seem then that their
similarity is not to be deduced from partial sameness, or their having some one thing exactly the
same, common to them both. But they have the same general nature as curves. True: but in what
does this abstract identity consist? Is it not the same with similarity? So that we return to the
same point from which we set out. I confess no light appears to me to be thrown on the subject
by saying that it is partial identity. The same sort of reasoning is applicable to the question
whether all good is not to be resolved into one simple principle, or essence, or whether all that
is really good or pleasurable in any sensation is not the same identical feeling, an infusion of the
same !even of good, and that all the rest is perfectly foreign to the nature of good and is merely
the form or vehicle in which it is conveyed to the mind. I cannot however persuade myself that
our sensations differ only as to more, or less; or that the pleasure derived from seeing a fine
picture, or hearing a fine piece of music, that the gratification derived from doing a good action
and that which accompanies the swallowing of an oyster are in reality and at the bottom the
same pleasure.The liquor tastes of the vessel through which it passes./ It seems most reasonable
to suppose that our feelings differ in their nature according to the nature ofthe objects by which
they are excited, though not necessarily in the same proportion, as objects may excite very
distinct ideas which have little or nothing to do with feeling.Why should there be only two sorts
of feeling, pleasure and pain? I am convinced that any one who has reflected much on his own
feelings must have found it impossible to refer them all to the same fixed invariable standard of
good or evil, or by throwing away the mere husk and refuse without losing any thing essential to
14
feelings and half-recollections, of hopes and fears and insensible desires: the one,
that is, a sentiment of general benevolence can only arise from an habitual
cultivation ofthe natural disposition ofthe mind to sympathize with the feelings of
others by constantly taking an interest in those which we know, and imagining
others that we do not know, as the other feeling of abstract self-interest, that is in
the degree in which it generally subsists, must be caused by a long narrowing ofthe
mind to our own particular feelings and interests, and a voluntary insensibility to
every thing which does not immediately concern ourselves. It is this excessive
attachment to our own good because it is ours, or for the sake of the abstract idea,
which has no immediate connection with a real imagination of our own pleasures
and pains, that I consider as a purely artificial / feeling and as proper selfishness; not
that love ofself which first or last is derived from a more immediate knowledge of
our own good and is a natural consequence of the general love ofgood as such. So
of our attachment to others; for the general principle as exerted with respect to
others admits of the same modifications from habit as when it has a merely selfish
direction. Our affections settle upon others as they do upon ourselves: they pass
from the thing to the person. 'I hate to fill a book with things that all the world
knows;' or I might here give a very elaborate and exact account taken from twenty
different authors of the manner in which this transition takes place. I do not see
how ideas are the better for being often repeated. Suffice it to say that in all these
cases ofhabitual attachment the motives to action do not depend so much on a real
interest in the thing which is the object of pursuit as on a general disposition to
serve that particular person occasioned by a previous / habit ofkind offices and by
transferring the feeling of a real interest in a number of things conducive to that
person's welfare to the abstract idea ofhis good in general. I leave it with the reader
to apply this to the cases of friendship, family attachments, the effects of
neighbourhood &c. and to consider the feuds, the partialities, the antipathies
produced by these attachments, and the consequent unwillingness to attend to the
natural feelings of compassion, humanity, and the love ofjustice: and then let him
see if the same process, that is the ingrafting a general, or abstract interest on an
habitual positive feeling will not account in the same way for the effects ofself-love,
without supposing this last as an exclusive principle to be natural to the human
mind. For my own part, I believe that the cases are exactly parallel. Thus we may
the feeling to arrive at some one simple principle, the same in all cases, and which determines
by its quantity alone the precise degree ofgood or evil in any sensation. Some sensations are like
others; this is all we know of the matter, and all that is necessary to form a class, or genus. The
contrary method of reasoning appears to proceed on a supposition that things differing at all in
kind must differ in toto, must be quite different from each other, so that a resemblance in kind
must imply an absolute coincidence in part, or in as far as the things resemble one another. - See
USHER on the Human Mind. 3
15
[43/47] SELECTED WRITINGS OF WILLIAM HAZLITT:VOLUME 1
consider self-love as bearing the same relation to family affection as this does to the
more general love ofour neighbour, as the love ofour neighbour does to I that of
our country, or as the love of our country does to that of mankind. The love of
mankind is here to be taken for an already given, definite, and to a certain degree
associated feeling. The comparison might be instituted with a slight shade of
difference between self-love, the love ofa relative or friend, ofa neighbour, and of
an entire stranger. It is in proportioning our anxiety to promote the welfare ofany
ofthese to our sense ofthe use our assistance may be of, to use a well known phrase,
without respect ofpersons, that what may be called the natural balance ofour affections
seems to consist. By the bye, this supposes that our insensibility to the feelings of
others does not arise from an unwillingness to sympathise with them, or a habit of
being stupidly engrossed by our own interests. Whether there may not be some
higher principle of our general nature in conformity to which our sentiments and
actions with respect to others should be voluntarily regulated, according / to the
same rule by which gross animal appetite is subjected to rational self-interest, may
be made the subject ofa future inquiry. All that is necessary to my present purpose
is to have made it appear that the principles of natural self-love and natural
benevolence, of refined self-love and refined benevolence are the same; that if we
admit the one, we must admit the other; and that whatever other principles may be
combined with them, they must stand, or fall together.
It is not therefore my intention to puzzle myself or my readers with the intricacies
of a debtor and creditor account between nature and habit. Whatever the force of
habit may be, however subtle and universal its influence, it is not every thing, not
even the principal thing. Before we plant, it is proper to know the nature ofthe soil,
first that we may know whether it is good for any thing, secondly that we may
know what it is good for. On these two questions will depend the / sort of
cultivation we bestow upon it. After this is settled, it is idle to dispute how much
ofthe produce is owing to cultivation, and how much to the nature ofthe soil. We
should only be sure ofhaving made the best use ofit we can. But we cannot be sure
of this till we know what it is naturally capable 0£ I will however lay down two
general maxims on this subject which will not admit of much controversy. First,
when there is no natural connection between any two things which yet have been
supposed inseparable from a confused association of ideas, it is possible to destroy
this illusion ofthe imagination by rational distinction, and consequently to weaken
the force ofthe habitual feeling which is confirmed and rendered permanent by the
conviction ofthe understanding. Thu,s, a principle ofgeneral self-interest has been
supposed inseparable from individuality, because a feeling of immediate
consciousness does essentially belong to certain individual impressions, and this
feeling of/ consciousness, ofintimate sympathy or ofabsolute self-interest has been
transferred by custom and fancy together to the abstract idea of sel£ It is therefore
ofsome use to separate these ideas, or to shew that there is no foundation in reason
16
or the nature ofthings for a very strong prejudice which has been conceived to arise
immediately out of them. The mind must be drawn together, must be contracted
and shrunk up within itself by the mere supposition of this perpetual unity with
itself and intense concentration of self-interest. Secondly, where this natural
connection is wanting, that is, where the habitual connection of certain feelings
with certain ideas does not arise from a predisposition in the mind to be affected by
certain objects more than others, but from the particular direction which has been
given to the mind or a more frequent association between those feelings and ideas,
a contrary habit may be produced by giving the mind a different direction, and
bestowing a greater / share of attention on other objects. It cannot be a matter of
indifference then whether the faculty by which I am originally interested in the
welfare of others is the same as that by which I am interested in my own welfare,
or whether I am naturally incapable of feeling the least interest in the welfare of
others except from its indirect connection with my own. Habit is by its nature to
a certain degree arbitrary, and variable, the original disposition of the mind, its
tendency to acquire or persevere in this or that habit is alone fixed and invariable.*
As however the force ofprevious habit is and always must be on the side / ofselfish
feelings, it is some consolation to think that the force of the habit we may oppose
to this is seconded by reason, and the natural disposition of the mind, and that we
are not obliged at last to establish generosity and virtue, 'lean pensioners' 4 on self-
interest. t /
I have thus far attempted to shew by a logical deduction that the human mind
is naturally disinterested: I shall at present try to shew the same thing somewhat
differently, and more in detail.
* It is a gross mistake to consider all habit as necessarily depending on association of ideas. We

might as well consider the strength which is given to a muscle by habitual exertion as a case of
the association of ideas. The strength, delicacy, &c. given to any feeling by frequent exercise is
owing to habit. When any two feelings, or ideas are often repeated in connection and the
properties belonging to the one are by this means habitually transferred to the other, this is
association.
t 'Ainsi se forment !es premiers liens qui l'unissent' [le jeune homme] 'a son espece. En dirigeant
sur elle sa sensibilite naissante ne craignez pas qu'elle embrassera d'abord tous !es hommes, &
que ce mot de genre-humain signifiera pour lui quelque chose. Non, cette sensibilite se bornera
premierement a ses semblables, & ses semblables ne seront point pour lui des inconnus, mais
ceux avec lesquels ii a des liaisons, ceux que l'habitude lui a rendus chers, ou necessaires, ceux
qu'il voit evidemment avoir avec lui des manieres de penser & de sentir communes, ceux qu'il
voit exposes aux peines qu'il a souffertes, & sensibles aux plaisirs qu'il a goutes; ceux, en un mot,
en qui l'identite de nature plus manifestee lui donne une plus grande disposition aaimer. Ce ne
sera qu'apres avoir cultive son nature! en milles manieres, apres bien des reflections sur ses
propres sentimens, & sur ceux qu'il observera dans / !es autres, qu'il pourra parvenir ageneraliser
ses notions individuelles sous l'idee abstraite d'hurnanite & joindre a ses affections particulieres
celles qui peuvent !'identifier avec son espece.' Emile, t. 2, p. 192. - It is needless to add another
thing on this passage. It speaks for itself.
'L'amour du genre-humain n'est autre chose en nous que !'amour de la justice.' Ibid. p. 248.
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[50/53) SELECTED WRITINGS OF WILLIAM HAZLITT:VOLUME 1
To suppose that the mind is originally determined in its choice of good and
rejection of evil solely by a regard to selfis to suppose a state of indijference to both,
which would make the existence ofsuch a feeling as self-interest utterly impossible.
If there were not something in the very notion of good, or evil which naturally
made the one an object ofimmediate desire and the other ofaversion, it is not/ easy
to conceive how the mind should ever come to feel an interest in the prospect of
obtaining the one or avoiding the other. It is great folly to think of deducing our
desire ofhappiness and fear ofpain from a principle ofself-love, instead ofdeducing
self-love itself from our natural desire of happiness and fear of pain. This sort of
attachment to self could signify nothing more than a foolish complacency in our
own idea, an idle dotage, and idolatry of our own abstract being; it must leave the
mind indifferent to every thing else, and could not have any connection with the
motives to action, unless some one should ch use to make it the foundation ofa new
theory of the love of life and fear of death. So long as the individual exists, and
remains entire, this principle is satisfied. As to the manner in which it exists, by
what objects it shall be affected, whether it shall prefer one mode of being to
another, all this is left undetermined. Ifthen by self-love be/ meant a desire ofone
mode ofbeing and aversion to another, or a desire of our own well-being, what is
it that is to constitute this well-being? It is plain there must be something in the
nature of the objects themselves which of itself determines the mind to consider
them as desirable or the contrary previously to any reference of them to ourselves.
They are not converted into good and evil by being impressed on our minds, but
they affect our minds in a certain manner because they are essentially good or evil.
- How shall we reconcile this with supposing that the nature of those objects or
their effect on the mind is entirely changed by their being referred to this or that
person? I repeat it that self-interest implies certain objects and feelings for the mind
to be interested in: to suppose that it can exist separately from all such objects, or
that our attachment to certain objects is solely deduced from, and regulated by our
attachment to self is plain, palpable nonsense. I
Take the example of a child that has been burnt by the fire, and consequently
conceives a dread of it. This dread we will say does not consist simply in the
apprehension of the pain itself abstractedly considered, but together with this
apprehension of pain he connects the idea (though not a very distinct one) of
himselfas about to feel it. Let us consider in what way the intervention ofthis idea
can be supposed to cause or increase his dread of the pain itsel( In the first place
then it is evident that the fire actually bums the child, not because he is thinking
ofhimself, or of its burning him, but because it is the nature of fire to bum and of
the child's hand to feel pain, and his dislike ofthe pain while it actually exists is the
immediate, necessary and physical consequence of the sense ofpain, surely not an
indirect and reflex result of the child's love to himself, or after consideration that
pain is an evil as it affects himsel( Again I apprehend that after the actual pain has
18
/ ceased it continues to be thought of and is afterwards recollected as pain, or in

other words, the feeling or sense ofpain leaves a correspondent impression in the
memory which adheres to the recollection of the object, and makes the child
involuntarily shrink from it by the same sort of necessity, that is from the nature
of the human mind and the recollected impression, and not from his referring it
historically to his own past existence. In like manner I conceive that this idea of
pain when combined by the imagination with other circumstances and transferred
to the child's future being will still retain its original tendency to give pain, and that
the recurrence ofthe same painful sensation is necessarily regarded with terror and
aversion by the child, not from its being conceived ofin connection with his own
idea, but because it is conceived ofas pain*. It/ should also be remembered as the
constant principle ofall our reasonings, that the impression which the child has of
himself as the subject of future pain is never any thing more than an idea of
imagination, and that he cannot possibly by any kind ofanticipation feel that pain
as a real sensation a single moment before it exists. How then are we to account
for his supposed exclusive attachment to this ideal self so as to make that the real
source of the dislike and dread which the apprehension of any particular pain to
be inflicted on himself causes in the mind? There are two ways in which this may
at first sight appear to be satisfactorily made out. The / first is from the notion of
personal identity: this has been considered already and will be again considered by
and bye. The other is something as follows. The child having been burnt by the
fire and only knowing what the pain of a burn is from his recollecting to have felt
it himself, as soon as he finds himself in danger of it again, has a very vivid
recollection of the pain it formerly gave him excited in his mind; and by a kind of
sudden transposition substituting this idea in the place of his immediate
apprehension, in thinking of the danger to which he is exposed he confounds the
pain he is to feel with that which he has already actually felt, and in reality shrinks
from the latter. I mean that the child strongly recollects that particular sort of pain
as it has affected himself, and as it is not possible for him to have a recollection of
its effect on any one else, he only regards it as an evil in future in connection with
the same idea, or as affecting himself, and is entirely indifferent to it as it is supposed
/ to affect any one else. Or in other words he remembers being burnt himself as
an actual sensation, and he does not remember the actual sensations ofany one but
himself: therefore being able to trace back his present feelings to his past
impressions, and struck with the extreme faintness of the one compared with the
* This account is loose enough. I shall endeavour to give a better, as to the manner in which
ideas may be supposed to be connected with volition,/ at the end of this essay. In the mean time
I wish the reader to be apprized, that I do not use the word imagination as contradistinguished
from or opposed to reason, or the faculty by which we reflect upon and compare our ideas, but
as opposed to sensation, or memory. It has been shewn above that by the word idea is not meant
a merely abstract idea.
19
other, he gives way to his immediate apprehensions and imaginary fears only as he
is conscious of, and dreads, the possibility of their returning into the same state of
actual sensation again.
I do not deny that some such illusion ofthe imagination as I have here attempted
to describe begins to take place very soon in the mind, and continues to acquire
strength ever after from various causes. What I would contend for (and this is all
that my argument requires) is that it is and can be nothing more than an illusion of
the imagination, strengthening a difference in subordinate, indirect, collateral
circumstances into an essential difference of kind. / The objection would indeed
hold good if it were true that the child's imaginary sympathy with the danger of
another must be derived as it were in a kind of direct line from that other's actual
sense of past pain, or its immediate communication to his own senses, which is
absurd. It is not supposed that the child can ever have felt the actual pains ofanother
as his own actual pains, or that his sympathy with others is a real continuation and
result of this original organic sympathy in the same way that his dread of personal
pain is to be deduced from his previous consciousness of it. His sympathy with
others is necessarily the result of his own past experience: ifhe had never felt any
thing himself, he could not possibly feel for others. I do not know that any light
would be thrown upon the argument by entering into a particular analysis of the
faculty of imagination; nor shall I pretend to determine at what time this faculty
acquires sufficient strength to enable the child to take a distinct interest / in feelings
of others. I shall content myself with observing that this faculty is necessary to the
child's having any apprehension or concern about his own future interest, or that
of others; that but for this faculty of multiplying, varying, extending, combining,
and comparing his original passive impressions he must be utterly blind to the
future and indifferent to it, insensible to every thing beyond the present moment,
altogether incapable of hope, or fears or exertion of any kind, unable to avoid or
remove the most painful impressions, or to wish for or even think oftheir removal,
to withdraw his hand out ofthe fire, or to move his lips to quench the most burning
thirst; that without this faculty of conceiving of things which have not been
impressed on his senses and ofinferring like things from like, he must remain totally
destitute of foresight, of self-motion, or a sense of self-interest, the passive
instrument of undreaded pain and unsought-for pleasure, suffering and enjoying
without / resistance and without desire just as long as the different outward objects
continued to act upon his senses, in a state of more than ideot imbecility; and that
with this faculty enabling him to throw himself forward into the future, to
anticipate unreal events and to be affected by his own imaginary interest, he must
necessarily be capable in a greater or less degree of entering into the feelings and
interests ofothers and ofbeing consequently influenced by them. The child (by the
time that his perceptions and actions begin to take any thing of a consistent form
so that they can be made the subject of reasoning) being supposed to know from
20
experience what the pain of a burn is, and seeing himself in danger a second time
is immediately filled with terror, and strives either by suddenly drawing back his
hand, catching hold ofsomething, or by his cries for assistance to avoid the danger
to which he is exposed. Here then his memory and senses present him with nothing
more than certain external objects in / themselves indifferent, and the recollection
of extreme pain formerly connected with the same or similar objects. lfhe had no
other faculties than these, he must stop here. He would see and feel his own body
moved rapidly towards the fire, but his apprehensions would not outrun its actual
motion: he would not think of his nearer approach to the fire as a consequence of
the force with which he was carried along, nor dream offalling into the fire till he
found it actually burning him. Even if it were possible for him to foresee the
consequence, it would not be an object of dread to him; because without a
reasoning imagination he would not and could not connect with the painted flame
before him the idea of violent pain which the same kind of object had formerly
given him by its actual contact. But in fact he imagines his continued approach to
the fire till he falls into it; by his imagination he attributes to the fire a power to
burn, he conceives ofan ideal self endued with a power to feel, and by the force of
/ imagination solely anticipates a repetition of the same sense of pain which he
before felt. If then he considers this pain which is but an ideal sensation impressed
on an ideal being as an object of real, present, necessary and irresistible interest to
him, and knowing that it cannot be avoided but by an immediate exertion of
voluntary power, makes a sudden and eager effort to avoid it by the first means he
can think of, why are we to suppose that the apprehension of the same pain to be
inflicted on another whom he must believe to be endued with the same feelings,
and with whose feelings he must be capable of sympathizing in the same manner
as with his own imaginary feelings, should not affect him with the same sort of
interest, the same sort of terrour, and impel him to the same exertions for his
relief?* /
Because, it is said, in his own case there is a natural deception, by which he
confounds his future being with his past being and the idea of a future imaginary
pain with the recollection of a past conscious pain. At any rate, this must be
unconsciously: if the sense of present danger acts so powerfully on his mind as to
bring back the recollection of a past sensation, and set that before him in the place
ofthe real object ofhis fear, so that, while he is endeavouring to avoid an immediate
* I take it for granted that the only way to establish the selfish hypothesis is by shewing that our
own interest is in reality brought home to the mind as a motive to action by some means or
other by / which that of others cannot possibly affect it. This is unavoidable, unless we ascribe a
particular genius of selfishness to each individual which never suffers his affections to wander
from himself for a moment; or shall we suppose that a man's attachment to himself is because he
has a long nose or a short one, because his hair is black or red, or from, an unaccountable fancy
for his own name, for all these make a part of the individual, and must be deemed very weighty
reasons by those who think it self evident that a man must love himself because he is himself?
21
danger, he is in fact thinking only of past suffering without his / perceiving this
confusion of ideas, surely the same thing must take place in a less degree with
respect to others. If it be thought necessary for him before he can seek his own
future interest, to confound it with his past interest by the violent transition of an
immediate apprehension into the stronger recollection of an actual impression,
then I say that by the same sort ofsubstitution he will identify his own interest with
that ofothers, whenever a like obvious danger recals forcibly to his mind his former
situation and feelings, the lenses ofmemory being applied in the one case to excite
his sympathy and in the other to excite personal fear, the objects of both being in
themselves equally imaginary and according to this hypothesis both perfectly
indifferent. But I should contend that the assumption here made that the direct and
proper influence of the imagination is insufficient to account for the effects of
personal fear, or of no force at all in itself is without any foundation. For there is /
no reason to be shewn why the ideas of the imagination should not be efficient,
operative, as well as those of memory, ofwhich they are essentially compounded.
Their substance is the same. They are of one flesh and blood. The same vital spirit
animates them both. To suppose that the imagination does not exert a direct
influence over human actions is to reject the plain inference from the most
undoubted facts without any motive for so doing from the nature and reason of
things. This notion could not have gained ground as an article ofphilosophical faith
but from a perverse restriction of the use of the word idea to abstract ideas, or
external forms, as if the essential quality in the feelings of pleasure, or pain must
entirely evaporate in passing through the imagination; and again from associating
the word imagination with merely fictitious situations and events, that is, such as
never will have a real existence, and as it is supposed never will, and which
consequently / do not admit of action.* Besides, though it is certain that the
imagination is strengthened in its operation by the indirect assistance of our other
faculties, yet as it is this faculty which must be the immediate spring and guide of
action, unless we attribute to it an inherent, independent power over the will so as
to make it bend to every change of circumstances or probability ofadvantage, and
power at the same time of controuling the blind impulses ofassociated mechanical
feelings and ofmaking them subservient to the accomplishment ofsome particular
purpose, in other words without a power of willing a given end for itself, and of
employing the means immediately necessary to the production ofthat end, because
they are perceived to be so, there could be neither volition, nor action, neither
rational fear nor steady pursuit ofany object, neither wisdom nor folly, generosity,
or selfishness: all would be left to the accidental concurrence / ofsome mechanical
impulse with the immediate desire to obtain some very simple object, for in no
other case can either accident or habit be supposed likely to carry any rational
* See the last note but one.
22
purpose into effect. To return however to what I have said above in answer to this
objection, it is evident that all persons are more inclined to compassionate those
pains and calamities in others by which they have been affected themselves, which
proves that the operation Of that principle, even supposing it to be the true one,
is not confined to selfish objects. Our sympathy is always directly excited in
proportion to our knowledge ofthe pain, and ofthe disposition and feelings ofthe
sufferer. Thus with respect to ourselves we are little affected by the apprehension
ofphysical pain which we have never felt and therefore can know little of; and we
have still less sympathy with others in this case. Our incredulity and insensibility
with respect to what others frequently suffer from the tooth-ache and other
incidental / disorders must have been remarked by every one, and are even
ludicrous from the excess to which they are carried. Give what account you will of
it, the effect is the same; - our self-love and sympathy depend upon the same causes,
and constantly bear a determinate proportion to each other, at least in the same
individual. The same knowledge ofany pain, which increases our dread ofit, makes
us more ready to feel for others who are exposed to it. When a boy I had my arm
put out ofjoint, and I feel a kind of nervous twitching in it to this day whenever
I see any one with his arm bound up in consequence ofa similar accident. This part
of my subject has been so well detailed by Smith5 and others that it is needless to
insist on it farther. There are certain disorders which have a disgusting appearance,
that shock and force attention by their novelty; but they do not properly excite our
sympathy, or compassion, as they would do if we had ever been subject to them
ourselves. I Children seem to sympathize more naturally with the outward signs of
passion in others without inquiring into the particular causes by which it is excited,
whether it is that their ideas of pain are more gross and simple, therefore more
uniform and more easily substituted for each other, or that grown-up persons,
having a greater number of ideas and being oftener able to sympathize with others
from knowing what they feel, habitually make this knowledge the foundation of
their sympathy.* In general / it seems that those physical evils, which we have
actually experienced, and which / from their nature must produce nearly the same
* The general clue to that ~nigma, the character of the French, seems to be that their feelings
are very imperfectly modified by the objects exciting them. That is, the difference between the
several degrees and kinds of feeling in them does not correspond as much as it does in most
other people with the different degrees and kinds of power in the external objects. They want
neither feeling nor ideas in the abstract; but there seems to be no connection in their minds
between the one and the other. Consequently their feelings want compass and variety, and
whatever else must depend on the 'building up of our feelings through the imagination.' / The
feelings of a Frenchman seem to be all one feeling. The moment any thing produces a change in
him, he is thrown completely out of his character, he is quite beside himself. This is perhaps in
a great measure owing to their quickness of perception. They do not give the object time to be
thoroughly impressed on their minds, their feelings are roused at the first notice of its approach,
and if I may so express myself, fairly runs away from the object. Their feelings do not grapple
with the object. The least stimulus is sufficient to excite them and more is superfluous, for they
23
effect upon every one, must excite / a more immediate and natural sympathy than
those which depend on sentiment or / moral causes. It is however neither so
complete nor durable, as these last being/ the creatures ofimagination appeal more
strongly to our sympathy, which is itself/ an act of the imagination, than mere
physical evils can ever do, whether they relate to ourselves or others. Our sympathy
with physical evil is also a more unpleasant feeling, and therefore submitted to with
more reluctance. So that it is necessary to take another circumstance into the
account in judging of the quantity of our / sympathy besides the two above
mentioned, namely, the nature ofthe pain or its fitness to excite our sympathy. This
makes no difference in the question.
To say that the child recollects the pain of being burnt only in connection with
his own idea, and can therefore conceive ofit as an evil only with respect to himself,
is in effect to deny the existence ofany such power as the imagination. By the same
power ofmind which enables him to conceive ofa past sensation as about to be re-
do not wait for the impression, or stop to inquire what degree or kind it is of. There is not
resistance sufficient in the matter to receive those sharp incisions, those deep, marked, and
strongly rooted impressions, the traces ofwhich remain for ever. From whatever cause it proceeds,
the sensitive principle in them does not seem to be susceptible of the same modification and
variety ofaction as it does in others; and certainly the outward forms of things do not adhere to,
do not wind themselves round their feelings in the same manner. For any thing that appears to
the contrary, objects might be supposed to have no direct communication with the / internal
sense of pleasure or pain, but to act upon it through some intermediate, very confined organ,
capable of transmitting little more than the simple impulse. But the same thing will follow, if we
suppose the principle itself to be this very organ, that is, to want comprehensiveness, elasticity,
and plastic force. (It is difficult to express this in English; but there is a French word, ressort,
which expresses it exactly. This is possibly owing to their feeling the want of it; as there is no
word in any other language to answer to the English word, comfort, I suppose, because the
English are the most uncomfortable ofall people). It will rather follow from what has been here
said than be inconsistent with it that the French must be more sensible of minute impressions
and slight shades of difference in their feelings than others, because having, as is here supposed,
less real variety, a narrower range of feeling, they will attend more to the differences, contained
within that narrow circle, and so produce an artificial variety. In short their feelings are very
easily set in motion and by slight causes, but they do not go the whole length of the impression,
nor are they capable ofcombining a great variety ofcomplicated actions to correspond with the
distinct / characters and complex forms of things. Hence they have no such thing as poetry. This
however must not be misunderstood. I mean then that I never met with any thing in French that
produces the same kind of feeling in the mind as the following passage. If there is any thing that
belongs even to the same class with it, I am ready to give the point up.
Antony. Eros thou yet behold'st me.

Eros. Ay, noble Lord.
Ant. Sometimes we see a cloud that's Dragonish,
A vapour sometimes like a Bear, or Lion,
A tower'd Citadel, a pendant Rock,
A forked Mountain, or blue Promontory
with Trees upon't, that nod unto the World
24
excited in the same being, namely, himself, he must be capable of transferring the
same idea of pain to a different person. He creates the object, he pushes his ideas
beyond the bounds of his memory and senses in the first instance, and he does no
more in the second. Ifhis mind were merely passive in the operation, he would not
be busy in anticipating a new impression, but would still be dreaming of the old
one. It is ofthe very nature of the imagination to change the order in which things
have been impressed / on the senses, and to connect the same properties with
different objects, and different properties with the same objects; to combine our
original impressions in all possible forms, and to modify these impressions
themselves to a very great degree. Man without this would not be a rational agent:
he would be below the dullest and most stupid brute. It must therefore be proved
in some other way that the human mind cannot conceive ofor be interested in the
pleasures or pains of others because it has never felt them.
The most subtle way ofputting this objection is to represent the tendency ofthe
And mock our Eyes with Air. Thou hast seen these Signs,
They are black Vesper's Pageants.
Eros. Ay, my Lord.
Ant. That which is now a Horse, even with a thought
The rack dislimns, and makes it indistinct
As Water is in Water.
Eros. It does, my Lord.
Ant. My good Knave, Eros, now thy Captain is
Even such a body, &c. 6
It is remarkable that the French, who are a lively people and fond of shew and striking images,
should be able to read and hear with such delight their own dramatic pieces, which abound in
nothing but general maxims, and vague declamation, never embodying any thing, and which
would appear quite tedious to an English audience, who are generally considered as a dry, dull,
plodding people, much more likely to be satisfied with formal descriptions and grave reflections.
This appears to me to come to the same thing that I have said before, namely, that it is characteristic
of the French that their feelings let go their hold of things almost as soon as the impression is
made. Except sensible impressions therefore (which have on that account more force, and carry
them away without opposition while they last) all their feelings are general; and being general,
not being marked by any strong distinctions nor built on any deep foundation of inveterate
associations, one thing serves to excite them as well as another, the name of the general class to
which any feeling belongs, the words pleasure, I charming, delicious, &c. convey just the same
meaning, and excite the same kind of emotion in the mind' of a Frenchman, and at the same
time do this more readily than the most forcible description of real feelings and objects. The
English on the contrary are not so easily moved with words because being in the habit of
retaining individual images and of brooding over the feelings connected with them, the mere
names of general classes, or (which is the same thing) vague and unmeaning descriptions or
sentiments must appear perfectly indifferent to them. Hence the French are delighted with
Racine, the English (I mean some of them) admire Shakespear. Rousseau is the only French
writer I am acquainted with (though he by the bye was not a Frenchman7 ) who from the depth
of his feelings, without many distinct images, produces the same kind of interest in the mind
that is excited by the events and recollections ofour own lives. Ifhe had not true genius, he had
25
[77/79) SELECTED WRITINGS OF WILLIAM HAZLITT: VOLUME 1
child's apprehension of danger to deter him from going near the fire as caused not
simply by the apprehension or idea itself, which they say would never have strength
enough for a motive to action, but by his being able to refer that idea to an actual
sensation in his own mind, and knowing that with respect to himselfit will pass into
the same state of serious reality again if he exposes / himself to the same danger.
Now here we have nothing but a reflection on a reflection. It is supposed that the
direct idea ofa terrible and well-known pain has no effect at all upon the mind, but
that the idea of this idea as about to be converted into, or succeeded by the pain
itself in the same conscious being will immediately excite the strongest efforts to
prevent it. Certainly the near expectation of the object of your dread actually
realized to the senses strengthens the fear of it; but it strengthens it through the
imagination. Just as the knowing that a person whom you wished anxiously to see
and had not seen for many years was in the next room would make you recall the
impression of their face or figure almost with the same vividness and reality as if
they were actually present. The force then with which the mind anticipates future
pain in connection with the idea of continued consciousness can only tend to
produce voluntary action by making the idea stronger: but it could not have / this
effect at all if it were not of the nature of all pain when foreseen by the mind to
produce a tendency that way, that is to excite aversion, and a will to prevent it,
however slight this may sometimes be. The sophism which lurks at the bottom of
this last objection seems to be the confounding the idea of future pain as the cause
or motive of action with the after reflection on that idea as a positive thing, itself
the object of action. Finding in many cases that the first apprehension and
momentary fear of danger was gone by, but that the reason for avoiding it still
remained the same, the mind would be easily led to seek for the true cause ofaction
in something more fixed and permanent than the fleeting ideas of remote objects,
and to require that every object whether of desire or aversion should have some
stronger hold on the individual than its momentary effect on his imagination before
it became an object ofserious pursuit, or the contrary. But in rejecting the ideas of
at least something which was a very good substitute for it. The French generalise perpetually,
but seldom comprehensively: they make an infinite number of observations, but have never
discovered any great principle. They immediately perceive the analogy between a number / of
facts of the same class, and make a general inference, which is done the more easily, the fewer
particulars you trouble yourself with; it is in a good measure the art of forgetting. The difficult
part of philosophy is, when a number of particular observations and contradictory facts have
been stated, to reconcile them together by finding out some other distinct view of the subject,
or collateral circumstance, applicable to all the different facts or appearances, which is the true
principle from which when combined with particular circumstances they are all derived. Opposite
appearances are always immediately incompatible with each other, and cannot therefore be
deduced from the same immediate cause, but must be accounted for from a combination of
different causes, the discovery ofwhich is an affair ofcomprehension, and not ofmere abstraction.
26
things as themselves / the ultimate grounds and proper objects of action, and
referring the mind to the things themselves as the only solid basis of a rational and
durable interest, what do we do but go back to the first direct idea of the object,
which as it represents that object is as distinct from any secondary reflection on, or
oblique consciousness of, itself as an absolute thing, the object of thought, as a
sensation can be different from an idea, or a present impression from a future one.
There is nothing in the foregoing theory which has any tendency to overturn the
fundamental distinctions between truth and falsehood, or the common methods of
judging what these are: all the old boundaries and land-marks remain just where
they were. It does not surely by any means follow because the reality of future
objects can only be judged of by the mind, that therefore it has no power of
distinguishing between the probable consequences of things, and what can never
happen, that it is to take every/ impulse ofwill or fancy for truth, or because future
objects cannot act upon the mind from without, that therefore our ideas cannot
have any reference to, or properly represent those objects, or any thing external to
the mind, but must consist entirely in the conscious contemplation of themselves.
There is another feeling in a great measure the same with the former, but
distinguishable from it and still more strongly connected with a sense of self-
interest, namely, that of continued personal identity. This has been already treated
of: I shall here resume the question once for all, as it is on this that the chief stress
of the argument lies. The child seeing himself in danger of the fire does not think
of his present and future self as two distinct beings, but as one and the same being:
he as it were projects himself forward into the future, and identifies himself with his
future being. He knows that he shall feel his own future pleasures and pains, and /
that he must therefore be as much interested in them as if they were present. In
thinking of the future, he does not conceive ofany change as really taking place in
himself, or of any thing intermediate between his present and future being, but
considers his future sensations as affecting that very same conscious being in which
he now feels such an anxious and unavoidable interest. We say that the hand which
the child snatches back from the fire is the same hand which but for his doing so
would the next moment be exposed to the most excessive pain. But this is much
more true of that inward conscious principle which alone connects the successive
moments of our being together, and of which all our outward organs are but
instruments, subject to perpetual changes both ofaction and suffering. To make the
difference of time the foundation of an essential distinction and complete
separation between his present and future being as if this were the only thing to be
attended to is to oppose / an unmeaning sophism to plain matter offact, since mere
distance of time does not destroy individuality of consciousness. He is the same
conscious being now that he will be the next moment, or the next hour, or a month
or a year hence. His interests as an individual as well as his being must therefore be
the same. At least this must be the case as long as he retains the consciousness ofhis
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past impremons connecting them together in one uniform or regular train of

feeling: for the interruption ofthis sense ofcontinued identity by sleep, inattention
or otherwise seems from its being afterwards renewed to prove the point more
clearly, as it seems to shew that there is some deep inward principle which remains
the same in spite of all particular accidental changes.
The child does no doubt consider himself as the same being, or as directly and
absolutely interested in his own welfare, as far as he can distinctly foresee the
consequences of things to himsel£ But this / very circumstance of his identifying
himself with his future being, of feeling for this imaginary self as if it were
incorporated with his actual substance, and weighed upon the pulses of his blood
is itself the strongest instance that can be given of the force of the imagination,
which the advocates of the selfish hypothesis would represent as a faculty entirely
powerless.
No one, I should think, will be disposed seriously to maintain that this future
imaginary self is, by a kind of metaphysical transubstantiation, virtually embodied
in his present being, so that his future impressions are indirectly communicated to
him before-hand. For whatever we may imagine, or believe concerning the
substance itself, or elementary principle in which thought is supposed to reside, it
is plain that that principle as acted upon by external objects, or modified by
particular actual thoughts and feelings (which alone can be the motives of action,
or can impel the mind in this, or that direction) is / perpetually changing; and it is
also plain that the changes which it has to undergo at any time can have no possible
effect on those which it has previously undergone, which may be the cause indeed
but cannot be the effect ofsubsequent changes. In this sense the individual is never
the same for two moments together. What is true of him at one time is never (that
we know of) exactly and particularly true of him at any other time It is idle to say
that he is the same being generally speaking, that he has the same general interest.
For he is also a man in general; and this argument would prove that he has a general
interest in whatever concerns humanity. Indeed the terms mean nothing as applied
to this question. The question is whether the individual is the same being in such
sort or manner as that he has an equal, absolute interest in every thing relating to
himself, or that his future impressions affect him as much and impel him to action
with the same mechanical force as ifthey were / actually present. This is so far from
being true that his future impressions do not exert the smallest influence over his
actions, they do not affect him mechanically in any degree. The catechism of this
philosophy would run thus. You are necessarily interested in your future
sensations? Yes. And why so? Because I am the same being. What do you mean by
the same being? The same being is the same individual, that is, one who has the same
interests, the same feelings, the same consciousness, so that whatever affects him at
any one time must extend to his whole existence. He must therefore be at all times
interested in it alike. Do you then feel your future sensations before they really
28
exist? No. How then, if you do not feel them, can you be affected by them?
Because as the same individual, &c. That is, by the very supposition the pain which
the child is to suffer does not exist, of course he does not feel it, nor can he be
moved, affected or interested by it as if it / did: and yet in the same breath, by a
shrewd tum of logic it is proved that as he is the same being, he must feel, be
interested in and affected by it as much as he ever will. But then it will as shrewdly
follow that with this implication he is not the same being, for he cannot be affected
in the same manner by an object before it is impressed on his senses that he is
afterwards; and the fear or imaginary apprehension ofpain is a different thing from
the actual perception ofit. There is just the same difference between feeling a pain
yourself and believing that another will feel it.
I do request the reader to bear it in mind throughout the whole ofthis reasoning
that when I say that the child does not feel, that he is not interested in his future
sensations, and consider this as equivalent to his having no real or personal interest
in them, I mean that he never feels or can be affected by them before-hand, that he
is always necessarily cut off from every / kind of communication with them, that
they cannot possibly act upon his mind as motives to action; or excite in him any
kind of impulse in any circumstances or any manner: and I conceive that it is no
great stretch of speculative refinement to insist that without some such original
faculty of being immediately affected by his future sensations more than by those
of others, his relation to his future self, whatever that may be, cannot be made the
foundation of his having a real positive interest in his future welfare which he has
not in that of others. A general, or abstract, or reflex interest in any object implies
either a previous positive interest in that object, or a natural capacity in the mind
to be affected by it in the manner given. Thus I may be said to pursue any object
from a general interest in it, though it excites no interest or emotion in my mind
at the time, when I do this from habit, or when the impression has been so often
repeated as to have produced a mechanical tendency to the / pursuit of the object,
which has no need ofany new impulse to excite it. Or the same thing may be said
with reference to my general nature as a voluntary agent. This implies that the
object, in which I am supposed to be interested without being sensible of it, is in
itself interesting to me, that it is an object in which I can and must necessarily be
interested, the moment it is known to me; that I am interested generally in that
whole class of objects, and may be said to be interested in this inclusively. To go
farther than this, and say that the mind as the representative of truth is or ought to
be interested in things as they are really and truly interesting in themselves, without
any reference to the manner in which they immediately affect the individual, is to
destroy at once the foundation ofevery principle ofselfishness, which supposes that
all objects are good or bad, desirable or the contrary solely from their connection
with self. But I am tired of repeating the same thing so often; for 'as / to those that
will not be at the pains of a little thought, no multiplication of words will ever
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(90/93] SELECTED WRITINGS OF WILLIAM HAZLITT:VOLUME 1
suffice to make them understand the truth or rightly conceive my meaning.'*

To return. Even if it were possible to establish some such preposterous
connection between the same individual, as that, by virtue of this connection, his
future sensations should be capable oftransmitting their whole strength and efficacy
to his present impulses, and of clothing ideal motives with a borrowed reality, yet
such is the nature of all sensation, or absolute existence as to be incompatible with
voluntary action. How should the reality ofmy future interest in any object be (by
anticipation) the reason ofmy having a real interest in the pursuit of that object at
present, when ifit really existed I could no longer pursue it. The feelings ofdesire,
aversion, &c. connected with voluntary action must/ always be excited by the idea
ofthe object before it exists, and must be totally inconsistent with any such interest
as belongs to actual suffering or enjoyment. t The interest belonging to any
sensation or real object as such, or which arises as one may say from the final
absorption of the idea in the object cannot have any relation to an active or
voluntary interest which necessarily implies the disjunction of these two things: it
cannot therefore be the original, the parent-stock, the sole and absolute foundation
ofan interest which is defined by its connection with voluntary action. - Still it will
be said that however difficult it may be to explain in what this consists, there is a
principle of some sort or other which constantly connects us with ourselves, and
makes each individual the same person distinct from every one else. And certainly
if I did not think it possible to account satisfactorily for the origin of/ the idea of
self, and the influence which that idea has on our actions without loosening the
foundation ofthe foregoing reasonings, I should give them up without a question,
as there is no reasoning which can be safely opposed against a common feeling of
human nature left unexplained, and without shewing in the clearest manner the
grounds from which it may have arisen. I shall proceed to state (as far as is necessary
to the present argument) in what the true notion ofpersonal identity appears to me
to consist; and this I believe it will be easy to shew depends entirely on the
continued connection which subsists between a man's past and present feelings and
not, vice versa, on any previous connection between his future and his present
feelings, which is absurd and impossible.
Every human being is distinguished from every other human being, both
numerically, and characteristically. He must be numerically distinct by the
supposition / otherwise he would not be another individual, but the same. There
is however no contradiction in supposing two individuals to possess the same
absolute properties: but then these original properties must be differently modified
afterwards from the necessary difference of their situations, or we must suppose
them both to occupy the same relative situation in two distinct systems
* Berkeley's Essay on Vision. 8

t See page 22, and the following pages.
30
corresponding exactly with each other. In fact every one is found to differ
essentially from every one else, if not in original properties, in the circumstances
and events of their lives and consequent ideas. In thinking of a number of
individuals, I conceive of them all as differing in various ways from one another as
well as from myself. They differ in size, in complexion, in features, in the
expression of their countenances, in age, in the events and actions of their lives, in
situation, in knowledge, in temper, in power. It is this perception or apprehension
of their real differences that first / enables me to distinguish the several individuals
of the species from each other, and that seems to give rise to the most general idea
of individuality, as representing first positive number, and secondly the sum ofthe
differences between one being and another as they really exist in a greater or less
degree in nature, or as they would appear to exist to an impartial spectator, or to a
perfectly intelligent being. But I am not in reality more different from others than
any one individual is from any other individual; neither do I in fact suppose myself
to differ really from them otherwise than as they differ from each other. What is it
then that makes the difference greater to me, or that makes me feel a greater
difference in passing from my own idea to that ofany one else than in passing from
the idea of an indifferent person to that of any one else? Neither my existing as a
separate being, nor my differing from others is of itself sufficient to constitute
personality, or give / me the idea ofself, since I might perceive others to exist, and
compare their actual differences without ever having this idea.
Farther, individuality expresses not merely the absolute difference, or distinction
between one individual and another, but also a relation, or comparison of that
individual with itself, whereby we affirm that it is in some way or other the same
with itself or one thing. In one sense it is true of all existences whatever that they
are the same with themselves, that is they are what they are and not something else.
Each thing is itself, it is that individual thing and no other, and each combination
ofthings is that combination and no other. So also each individual is necessarily the
same with himself, or in other words that combination of ideas which represents
any individual person is that combination of ideas and not a different one. This is
the only true and absolute identity which can be affirmed ofany being; which it is
plain does not arise from a comparison / of the different parts composing the
general idea one with another, but each with itself, or all of them taken together
with the whole. I cannot help thinking that some idea of this kind is frequently at
the bottom of the perplexity which is felt by most people who are not
metaphysicians (not to mention those who are) when they are told that the man is
not the same with himself, their notion of identity being that he is the same with
himself in as far as he is positively different from every one else. They compare his
present existence with the present existence ofothers, and his continued existence
with the continued existence of others. Thus when they say that the man is the
same being in general, they do not mean that he is the same at twenty that he is at
31
sixty, but their general idea ofhim includes both these extremes, and therefore the
same man, that is collective idea, is both the one and the other. This however is but
a rude logic. Not well understanding the process of distinguishing / the same
individual into different metaphysical sections to compare, collate, and set one
against the other, (so awkwardly do we at first apply ourselves to the analytic art!)
to get rid of the difficulty, the mind produces a double individual part real and part
imaginary, or repeats the same idea twice over, in which case it is a contradiction
to suppose that the one does not correspond exactly with the other in all its parts.
There is no other absolute identity in the case.
All individuals (or all that we name such) are aggregates, and aggregates of
dissimilar things. Here then the question is not how we distinguish one individual
from another, or a number of things from a number of other things, which
distinction is a matter ofabsolute truth, but how we come to confound a number
ofthings together, and consider many things as the same, which cannot be strictly
true. This idea must therefore relate to such a connection between a number of
things as determines the mind to consider them as one whole, / each thing in that
whole having a much nearer and more lasting connection with the rest than with
any thing else not included in it, so that the degree ofconnection between the parts
after all requires to be determined by annexing the name of the thing, that is
collective idea, signified. (The same causes that determine the mind to consider a
number of things as the same individual must of course imply a correspondent
distinction between them and other things, not making part of that individual.
The eye is not the same thing as the ear, it is a contradiction to call it so. Yet both
are parts of the same body, which contains these and infinite other distinctions.
The reason of this is that all the parts of the eye have evidently a distinct nature,
a separate use, a greater mutual dependence on one another than on those of the
ear, at the same time that the connection between the eye and ear as well as the rest
of the body is still very great, compared to their connection with any other body
of the same kind, which is none / at all. Similarity is in general but a subordinate
circumstance in determining this relation. For the eye is certainly more like the
same organ in another individual than the different organs ofsight and hearing are
like one another in the same individual. Yet we do not, in making up the
imaginary individual, associate our ideas according to this analogy, which ofitself
would answer no more purpose than the things themselves would, so separated
and so reunited, but we think ofthem in that order in which they are mechanically
connected together in nature, because it is on this order that depends their power
of mutually acting and reacting on each other, of acting conjointly upon other
things or of being acted upon by them. To give an instance which just occurs to
me. Suppose there are two gold-headed canes standing together in the corner of
the room. I ofcourse consider each ofthem as the same cane. This is not from the
similarity of the gold to the wood. But the two gold-heads together would not/
32
AN ESSAY ON THE PRINCIPLES OF HUMAN ACTION [100/104)
if taken off at all answer the purpose of a cane, and the two canes together would
be more than I should want. Nor is it simply from the contiguity of the parts, (for
the canes themselves are supposed to touch one another) but from their being so
united that by moving any part ofone ofthem, I ofnecessity move the whole. The
closest connection between my ideas is formed by that relation of things among
themselves, which is most necessary to be attended to in making use of them, the
common concurrence ofmany things to some given end: for example, my idea of
the walking-stick is defined by the simplicity ofthe action necessary to wield it for
that particular purpose. However, it seems hardly possible to define the different
degrees or kinds ofidentity in the same thing by any general rule. Thus we say the
same tree, the same forest, the same river, the same field, the same country, the
same world, the same man, &c. The nature of the thing will best point out the /
sense in which it is said to be the same.* / - I am not the same thing, but many
different things. To insist on absolute simplicity of nature as essential to
individuality would be to destroy all individuality: for it would / lead to the
supposition ofas many distinct individuals, as there are thoughts, feelings, actions,
and properties in the same being. Each thought would be a separate consciousness,
each organ a different system. Each thought is a distinct thing in nature; and many
ofmy thoughts must more nearly resemble the thoughts ofothers than they do my
own sensations, for instance, which nevertheless are considered as a part of the
same being. As to the continued identity ofthe whole being, that is the continued
resemblance of my thoughts to my previous thoughts, of my sensations to my
previous sensations and so on, this does not by any means define or circumscribe
the individual, for we may say in the same manner that the species also is going on
at the same time, and continues the same that it was. It is necessary to determine
what constitutes the same individual at some given moment oftime before we can
say that he continues the same. Neither does the relation of cause and effect /
determine the point: the father of the child is not the child, nor the child the
* The sum of the matter is this. Individuality may relate either to absolute unity, to the identity,
or similarity of the parts of any thing, or to an extraordinary degree of connection between
things neither the same nor similar! This last alone in fact determines the positive use of the
word, at least with respect to man, and other organized beings. (Indeed the term is hardly ever
applied to other things in common language.) When I speak of the difference between one
individual and another, this must refer ultimately to the want ofsuch connection between them,
or to my perceiving that a number of things are so connected as to have a mutual and intimate
dependence on one another, making one individual, and that they are so disconnected with a
number of other things as not to have the least habitual dependence upon or influence over
them, which makes them two distinct individuals. As to the other distinctions between one
individual and another, namely those of number and properties, the first of these subsists as
necessarily between the parts of the individual, as between one individual and another, and the
second frequently subsists in a much greater degree between those parts, than between different
individuals. Two distinct individuals can certainly never be the / same: that is, supposing the
number ofparts in each individual to be as 10, 10 can never make 20. But neither can 10 ever be
33
father. 9 In this case there is an obvious reason to the contrary: but we make the
same distinction where a proper succession takes place and the cause is entirely lost
in the effect. We should hardly extend the idea ofidentity to the child before it has
life, nor is the fly the same with the caterpillar. Here we again recur to likeness as
essential to identity.
But to proceed to a more particular account of the origin of our idea of self,
which is this relation of a thinking being to itsel£ This can only be known in the
first instance by a consciousness ofwhat passes in our own minds. I should say then
that personality does not arise either from the being this, or that, from the identity
of the thinking being with itself at different times or at the same time, or still less
from being unlike others, which is not at all necessary to it, but from the peculiar
/ connection which subsists between the different faculties and perceptions of the
same conscious being, constituted as man is, so that as the subject of his own
reflection or consciousness the same things impressed on any of his faculties
produce a quite different effect upon him from what they would do if they were
impressed in the same way on any other being. Personality seems to be nothing
more than conscious individuality: it is the power of perceiving that you are and
what you are from the immediate reflection of the mind on its own operations,
sensations, or ideas. It cannot be affected in the same direct manner by the
impressions and ideas existing in the minds ofothers: otherwise they would not be
so many distinct minds, but one and the same mind; for in this sense the same mind
will be that in which different ideas and faculties have this immediate
communication with or power of acting and reacting, upon each other. If to this
we add the relation of such an inward conscious principle to a / certain material
substance, with which it has the same peculiar connection and intimate sympathy,
this combination will be the same person.
The visible impression ofa man's own form does not convey to him the idea of
personality any more than that ofany one else; because as objects ofsight they are
both equally obvious and make the same direct impression on the eye; and the
internal perception is in both cases equally incommunicable to any other being. It
is the impinging of other objects against the different parts ofour bodies, or of the
made into an unit; so that we should have ten individuals instead of one by insisting on the
absolute distinction of numbers. When 1 say therefore that one individual differs from another,
I must be understood by implication to mean, in some way in which the parts of that individual
do not differ from each other or not by any means in the same degree. The mind is however
extremely apt to fasten on the distinctions of number and properties where they co-exist with
the other distinction, and almost loses sight of those distinctions between things that have a very
close connection with each other. When therefore we include the distinctions of number and
properties in our account of the difference between one individual and another, this can only be
true in an absolute sense, and not if it be meant to imply that the same distinctions do not exist
in the same individual. -This account is altogether very crude and unsatisfactory.
34
body against itself so as to affect the sense of touch, that extends (though perhaps
somewhat indirectly) the feeling of personal identity to our external form. The
reason of which is that the whole class of tangible impressions, or the feelings of
heat and cold, ofhard and soft, &c. connected with the application ofother material
substances to our own bodies can only be produced by our immediate contact with
/ them, that is, the body is necessarily the instrument by which these sensations are
conveyed to the mind, for they cannot be conveyed to it by any impression made
on the bodies ofothers; whereas, as an object ofsight or where the body in general
acts from without on that particular organ, the eye, the impression which it excites
in the mind can affect it no otherwise than any similar impression produced by any
other body must do. Afterwards no doubt the visible image comes in to confirm
and give distinctness to the imperfect conclusions of the other sense.* /
It is by comparing the knowledge that I have of my own impressions, ideas,
feelings, powers, &c. with my knowledge ofthe same or similar impressions, ideas,
&c. in others, and with the still more imperfect conception that I form of what
passes in their minds when this is supposed to be essentially different from what
passes in my own, that I acquire the general notion ofself. Ifl had no idea ofwhat
passes in the minds of others, or if my ideas of their feelings and perceptions were
perfect representations, i.e. mere conscious repetitions ofthem, all proper personal
distinction would be lost either in pure self-love, or in perfect universal sympathy.
In the one case it would be impossible for/ me to prefer myself to others as I should
be the sole object of my own consciousness; and in the other case I must love all
others as myself, because I should then be nothing more than part of a whole, of
which all others would be equally members with myself. I will here add once more
that this distinction subsists as necessarily and completely between myself and those
who most nearly resemble me as between myself and those whose character and
properties are the very opposite ofmine: because it does not relate to the difference
between one being and another, or between one object and another considered
absolutely or in themselves, but solely to the difference of the manner and the
different degrees offorce and certainty, with which, from the imperfect and limited
nature ofour faculties, the same or different things affect us as they act immediately
upon ourselves, or are supposed to act upon others. Indeed the distinction becomes
marked and intelligible in proportion as the objects or impressions / are intrinsically
* I remember a story somewhere in the Arabian Nights of a man with a silver thigh. Why may
not a fable serve for an illustration as well as any thing else? Metaphysics themselves are but a dry
romance. Now suppose this thigh to have been endued with a power of sensation and to have
answered every other purpose of a real thigh. What difference would this make in its outward
appearance either to the man himself or to any one else? Or how by means of sight would he
know it to be his I thigh, more than it was? It would still look just like what it did, a silver thigh
and nothing more. Its impression on the eye would not depend on its being a sensible substance,
on its having life in it, or being connected with the same conscious principle as the eye, but on
its being a visible substance, that is having extension, figure, and colour.
35
the same, as then it is impossible to mistake the true principle on which it is

founded, namely the want of any direct communication between the feelings of
one being and those of another. This will shew why the difference between
ourselves and others must appear greater to us than that between other individuals,
though it is not really so.
Considering mankind in this two-fold relation, as they are to themselves, or as
they appear to one another, as the subjects of their own thoughts, or the thoughts
of others, we shall find the origin of that wide and absolute distinction which the
mind feels in comparing itself with others, to be confined to two faculties, viz.
sensation, or rather consciousness,* and memory. The operation of both these
faculties is of / a perfectly exclusive and individual nature; and so far as their
operation extends (but no farther) is man a personal, or if you will, a selfish being.
The sensation excited in me by a piece of red-hot iron striking against any part of
my body is simple, absolute, terminating in itself, not representing any thing beyond
itself, nor capable ofbeing represented by any other sensation or communicated to
any other being. The same sensation may indeed be excited in another by the same
means, but this sensation does not imply any reference to, or consciousness ofmine:
there is no communication between my nerves, and another's brain, by means of
which he can be affected with my sensations as I am myself. The only notice or
perception which another can have of this sensation in me or which I can have of
a similar sensation in another is by means ofthe imagination. I can form an imaginary
idea of that pain as existing out of myself: but I can only feel it as a sensation when
it is actually / impressed on myself. Any impression made on another can neither be
the cause nor object of sensation to me. The impression or idea left in my mind by
this sensation, and afterwards excited either by seeing iron in the same state, or by
any other means is properly an idea ofmemory. This idea necessarily refers to some
previous impression in my own mind, and can only exist in consequence of that
impression: it cannot be derived from any impression made on another. I do not
remember the feelings ofany one but myself. I may remember the objects which must
have caused such or such feelings in others, or the outward signs of passion which
accompanied them: these however are but the recollection of my own immediate
impressions, of what I saw or heard; and I can only form an idea of the feelings
themselves after they have ceased, as I must do at the time by means of the
imagination. But though we should take away all power of imagination from the
human mind, my own feelings must / leave behind them certain traces, or
representations of themselves retaining the same properties, and having the same
immediate connection with the consdous principle. On the other hand ifl wish to
anticipate my own future feelings, whatever these may be, I must do so by means
* To avoid an endless subtlety of distinction I have not here given any account of consciousness
in general: but the same reasoning will apply to both.
36
of the same faculty, by which I conceive of those of others whether past or future.
I have no distinct or separate faculty on which the events and feelings of my future
being are impressed before-hand, and which shews as in an inchanted mirror to me
and me alone the reversed picture of my future life. It is absurd to suppose that the
feelings which I am to have hereafter should excite certain correspondent
impressions, or presentiments of themselves before they exist, or act mechanically
upon my mind by a secret sympathy. I can only abstract myself from my present
being and take an interest in my future being in the same sense and manner, in which
I can go out of myself entirely and enter into the minds / and feelings of others. In
short there neither is nor can be any principle belonging to the individual which
antecedently gives him the same sort ofconnection with his future being that he has
with his past, or that reflects the impressions of his future feelings backwards with
the same kind of consciousness that his past feelings are transmitted forwards
through the channels ofmemory. The size ofthe river as well as its taste depends on
the water that has already fallen into it. It cannot roll back its course, nor can the
stream next the source be affected by the water that falls into it afterwards. Yet we
call both the same river, Such is the nature of personal identity.* If this account be
true (and / for my own part the only perplexity that crosses my mind in thinking of
it arises from the utter impossibility ofconceiving ofthe contrary supposition) it will
follow that those faculties which may be said to constitute self, and the operations
ofwhich / convey that idea to the mind, draw all their materials from the past and
present. But all voluntary action must relate solely and exclusively to the future.
That is, all those impressions or ideas with which selfish, or more properly speaking,
personal feelings must be naturally connected are just those which have nothing at
all to do with the motives of action.
If indeed it were possible for the human mind to alter the present or the past, so
as either to recal what was done, or to give it a still greater reality, to make it exist
over again and in some more emphatical sense, then man might with some pretence
of reason be supposed naturally incapable of being impelled to the pursuit of any
past or present object but from the mechanical excitement of personal motives. It
might in this case be pretended that the impulses of imagination and sympathy are
of too light, unsubstantial, and remote a nature to influence our real conduct, and
that nothing is worthy of the concern of a wise / man in which he has not this
direct, unavoidable, and homefelt interest. This is however too absurd a
* Suppose a number of men employed to cast a mound into the sea. As far as it has gone, the
workmen pass backwards and forwards on it, it stands firm in its place, and though it recedes
farther and farther from the shore, it is still joined to it. A man's personal identity and self-
interest have just the same principle and extents and can / reach no farther than his actual
existence. But if a man of a metaphysical turn, seeing that the pier was not yet finished, but was
to be continued to a certain point and in a certain direction, should take it into his head to insist
that what was already built and what was to be built were the same pier, that the one must afford
as good footing as the other, and should accordingly walk over the pier-head on the solid
37
(117/ 119] SELECTED WRITINGS OF WILLIAM HAZLITT: VOLUME t
supposition to be dwelt on for a moment. I do not will that to be which already

exists as an object ofsense, nor that to have been which has already existed, and is
become an object of memory. Neither can I will a thing not to be which actually
exists, or that which has really existed not to have been. The only proper objects
of voluntary action are (by necessity) future events: these can excite no possible
interest in the mind but by means of the imagination; and these make the same
direct appeal to that faculty whether they relate to ourselves, or others, as the eye
receives with equal directness the impression of our own external form, or that of
others.
It will be easy to perceive in this manner how notwithstanding the contradiction
involved in the supposition of a general, absolute self-interest, the mind comes to
feel a deep and habitual conviction of the truth / of this opinion. Feeling in itself
a continued consciousness ofits past impressions, it is naturally disposed to transfer
the same sort ofidentity and consciousness to the whole ofits being, as ifwhatever
is said generally to belong to itself must be inseparable from its very existence. As
our actual being is constantly passing into our future being, and carries this internal
feeling of consciousness along with it, we seem to be already identified with our
future being in that permanent part of our nature, and to feel by anticipation the
same sort ofnecessary sympathy with our future selves, that we know we shall have
with our past selves. We take the tablets of memory, reverse them, and stamp the
image ofselfon that, which as yet possesses nothing but the name. It is no wonder
then that the imagination constantly outstripping the progress of time, when its
course is marked out along the strait unbroken line of individuality, should
confound the necessary differences of things, and confer / on my future interests a
reality, and a connection with my present feelings which they can never have. The
interest which is hereafter to be felt by this continued conscious being, this
indefinite unit, called me, seems necessarily to affect me in every part of my
existence. In the first place, we abstract the successive modifications of our being,
and particular temporary interests into one simple nature, and general principle of
self-interest, and then make use of this nominal abstraction as an artificial medium
to compel those particular actual interests into the same close affinity and union
with each other, as different lines meeting in the same centre must have a mutual
communication with each other. - On the other hand, as I always remain perfectly
distinct from others, the interest which I take in their past or present feelings being
(like that which I take in their future feelings) never any thing more than the effect
foundation of his metaphysical hypothesis - he would argue a great deal more ridiculously, but
not a whit more absurdly than those who found a principle of absolute self-interest on a man's
future identity with his present being. But say you, the comparison does not hold in this, that
the man can extend his thoughts (and that very wisely too) beyond the present moment, whereas
in the other case he cannot move a single step forwards. Grant it. This will only shew that the
mind has wings as well as feet, which of itself is a sufficient answer to the selfish hypothesis.
38
ofimagination and sympathy, the same illusion / and preposterous transposition of

ideas cannot take place with regard to them, namely the confounding a physical
impulse with the rational motives of action. Indeed the uniform nature of my
feelings with respect to others (my interest in their welfare having always the same
source, sympathy) seems by analogy to confirm the supposition of a similar
simplicity in my relation to myself, and of a positive, natural, absolute interest in
whatever relates to that self, not confined to my actual existence, but extending
over the whole of my being. Every sensation that I feel, or that afterwards recurs
vividly to my memory strengthens the sense ofself, which increased strength in the
mechanical feeling is transferred to the general idea, and to my remote, future,
imaginary interest: whereas our sympathy with the feelings of others being always
imaginary, having no sensible interest, no restless mechanical impulse to urge it on,
the ties by which we are bound to others hang loose upon us, the interest we / take
in their welfare seems to be something foreign to our own bosoms, to be transient,
arbitrary, and directly opposite to the necessary, absolute, permanent interest
which we have in the pursuit of our own welfare.
There is however another consideration (and that the principal) to be taken into
the account in explaining the origin and growth of our selfish feelings, arising out
of the necessary constitution ofthe human mind, and not founded like the former
in a mere arbitrary association of ideas. There is naturally no essential difference
between the motives by which I am impelled to the pursuit of my own good and
those by which I am impelled to pursue the good ofothers: but though there is not
a difference in kind, there is one in degree. I know better what my future feelings
will be than what those of others will be in the like case. I can apply the materials
of memory with less difficulty and more in a mass in making out the picture of my
future pleasures / and pains, without frittering them away or destroying their
original sharpnesses, in short I can imagine them more plainly and must therefore
be more interested in them. This facility in passing from the recollection ofmy past
impressions to the imagination of my future ones makes the transition almost
imperceptible, and gives to the latter an apparent reality and presentness to the
imagination, so that the feelings of others can never be brought home to us to the
same degree. It is chiefly from this greater readiness and certainty with which we
can look forward into our own minds than out of us into those of other men, that
that strong and uneasy attachment to self which comes at last (in most minds) to
overpower every generous feeling takes its rise, not, as I think I have shewn, from
any natural hardness ofthe human heart, or necessary absorption of all its thoughts
and purposes in an exclusive feeling of self-interest.
It confirms the account here given that / we always feel for others in proportion
as we know from long acquaintance what the nature of their feelings is, and that
next to ourselves we have the strongest attachment to our immediate relatives and
friends, who from this intercommunity offeelings and situations may more truly be
39
said to be a part of ourselves than from the ties ofblood. Moreover a man must be
employed more continually in providing for his own wants and pleasures than
those of others. In like manner he is employed in providing for the immediate
welfare ofhis family and connections much more than in providing for the welfare
ofthose, who are not bound to him by any positive ties. And we consequently find
that the attention, time and pains bestowed on these several objects give him a
proportionable degree of anxiety about, and attachment to his own interests and
that of those connected with him, but it would be absurd to conclude that his
affections are therefore circumscribed by a natural necessity within / certain limits
which they cannot pass, either in the one case, or in the other. This general
connection between the pursuit ofany object and our habitual interest in it will also
account for the well-known observation that the affection ofparents to children is
the strongest of all others, frequently even overpowering self-love itsel£ This fact
is however inconsistent with the supposition that the social affections are all of
them ultimately to be deduced from association, or the repeated connection ofthe
idea ofsome other person with immediate selfish gratification. If this were the case,
we must feel the strongest attachment to those from whom we had received,
instead ofthose to whom we had done the greatest number ofkindnesses, or where
the greatest quantity of selfish enjoyment had been associated with an indifferent
idea. Junius has remarked, that friendship is not conciliated 'by the power of
conferring benefits, but the equality -with which they are received, and may be
retumed.' 10 /
I have hitherto purposely avoided saying a thing on the subject of our physical
appetites, and the manner in which they may be thought to affect the principle of
the foregoing reasonings. They evidently seem at first sight to contradict the
general conclusion which I have endeavoured to establish, as they all ofthem tend
either exclusively or principally to the gratification of the individual, and at the
same time refer to some future or imaginary object as the source of this
gratification. The impulse which they give to the will is mechanical, and yet this
impulse, blind as it is, constantly tends to, and coalesces with the pursuit ofsome
rational end. That is, here is an end aimed at, the desire and regular pursuit of a
known good, and all this produced by motives evidently mechanical, and which
never impel the mind but in a selfish direction. It makes no difference in the
question whether the active impulse proceeds directly from the desire of positive
enjoyment, or a wish to get rid ofsome / positive uneasiness. I should say then that
setting aside what is of a purely physical, or (for aught I can tell) instinctive nature
in the case, the influence of appetite over our volitions may be accounted for
consistently enough with the foregoing hypothesis from the natural effects of a
particularly irritable state of bodily feeling, rendering the idea of that which will
heighten and gratify its susceptibility ofpleasurable feeling, or remove some painful
feeling proportionably vivid, and the object ofa more vehement desire than can be
40
excited by the same idea, when the body is supposed to be in a state ofindifference,
or only ordinary sensibility to that particular kind of gratification. Thus the
imaginary desire is sharpened by constantly receiving fresh supplies of pungency
from the irritation ofbodily feeling, and its direction is at the same time determined
according to the bias of this new impulse, first indirectly by having the attention
fixed on our own immediate sensations; secondly, because that / particular
gratification, the desire of which is increased by the pressure of physical appetite,
must be referred primarily and by way of distinction to the same being, by whom
the want of it is felt, that is, to mysel£ As the actual uneasiness which appetite
implies can only be excited by the irritable state ofmy own body, so neither can the
desire of the correspondent gratification subsist in that intense degree which
properly constitutes appetite, except when it tends to relieve that very same
uneasiness by which it was excited. As in the case ofhunger, there is in the first place
the strong mechanical action of the nervous and muscular systems co-operating
with the rational desire ofmy own relief, and forcing it its own way. Secondly, this
state of uneasiness continues to grow more and more violent, the longer the relief
which it requires is withheld from it: - hunger takes no denial, it hearkens to no
compromise, is soothed by no flattery, tired out by no delay. It grows more
importunate / every moment, its demands become louder the less they are attended
to. The first impulse which the general love of personal ease receives from bodily
pain will give it the advantage over my disposition to sympathize with others in the
same situation with myself; and this difference will be increasing every moment, till
the pain is removed. Thus if I at first either through compassion or by an effort of
the will am regardless ofmy own wants, and wholly bent upon satisfying the more
pressing wants of my companions, yet this effort will at length become too great,
and I shall be incapable of attending to any thing but the violence of my own
sensations, or the means of alleviating them. It is plain with respect to one of our
appetites, I mean the sensual, where the gratification ofthe same passion in another
is the means of gratifying our own, that our physical sensibility stimulates our
sympathy with the desires of the other sex, and on the other hand this feeling of
mutual sympathy increases the/ physical desires of both. This is indeed the chief
foundation of the sexual passion though I believe that its immediate and
determining cause depends upon other principles not to be here lightly touched
on*. It would be easy to shew from many things that mere appetite (generally at
least in reasonable beings) is but the fragment of a self-moving machine, but a sort
of half-organ, a subordinate instrument even in the accomplishment of its own
purposes; that it does little or nothing without the aid ofanother faculty to inform
and direct it. There are several striking examples of this given by Rousseau in
relating the progress ofhis own passions. (See the first volume ofhis Confessions.) 11
* See Preface to Wordsworth's Poems. 12
41
Before the impulses ofappetite can be converted into the regular pursuit ofa given
object, they must first be communicated to the understanding, and modify the will
through that. Consequently as the desire of the ultimate gratification / of the
appetite is not the same with the appetite itself, that is mere physical uneasiness, but
an indirect result. Of its communication to the thinking or imaginative principle,
the influence ofappetite over the will must depend on the extraordinary degree of
force and vividness which it gives to the idea ofa particular object; and accordingly
we find that the same cause, which irritates the desire of selfish gratification,
increases our sensibility to the same desires and gratification in others, where they
are consistent with our own, and where the violence of the physical impulse does
not overpower every other consideration.
Make the most of the objection, - it can only apply to the determinations ofthe
will while it is subject to the gross influence of another faculty, with which it has
neither the same natural direction, nor is it in general at all controuled by it. The
question which I have proposed to examine is whether there is any general
principle of / selfishness in the human mind, or whether it is not naturally
disinterested. Now the effects ofappetite are so far from being any confirmation of
the first supposition, that we are even oftener betrayed by them into actions
contrary to our own well-known, clear, and lasting interest than into those which
are injurious to others. The 'short-lived pleasure' and the 'lasting woe' 13 fall to the
lot of the same being. - I will give one more example and then have done. A man
addicted to the pleasures of the bottle is less able to govern this propensity after
drinking a certain quantity and feeling the actual pleasure and state of excitement
which it produces, than he is to abstain entirely from its indulgence. When once the
liquor gets into his head, to use the common phrase, the force which it gives to his
predominant feeling gets the better ofevery other idea, and he from that time loses
all power ofself-controul. Both before, and after this, however, the same feeling of
actual excitement, which / urges him on, makes him enter more cordially into the
convivial dispositions of his companions, and a man is always earnest that others
should drink as he becomes unwilling to desist himsel£
To add that there is but one instance in which appetite hangs about a man as a
perpetual clog and dead-weight upon the reason, namely the sexual appetite, and
that here the selfish habit produced by this constant state ofanimal sensibility seems
to have a direct counterpoise given to it by nature in the mutual sympathy of the
sexes. Quere also whether this general susceptibility is not itself an effect of an
irritable imagination exerted on that particular subject. (See Notes to the Essay on
the Inequality ofMankind.) 14 I hope this will be sufficient to break the force of the
objection as above stated, and may perhaps furnish a clue to a satisfactory account
of the subject itsel£
I do not think I should illustrate the foregoing reasoning so well by any thing I
I could add on the subject as by relating the manner in which it first struck me. -
42
There are moments in the life of a solitary thinker which are to him what the
evening ofsome great victory is to the conqueror and hero - milder triumphs long
remembered with truer and deeper delight. And though the shouts of multitudes
do not hail his success, though gay trophies, though the sounds of music, the
glittering ofarmour, and the neighing ofsteeds do not mingle with his joy, yet shall
he not want monuments and witnesses of his glory, the deep forest, the willowy
brook, the gathering clouds of winter, or the silent gloom of his own chamber,
'faithful remembrancers ofhis high endeavour, and his glad success,' 15 that, as time
passes by him with unretuming wing, still awaken the consciousness of a spirit
patient, indefatigable in the search of truth, and the hope of surviving in the
thoughts and minds ofother men. - I remember I had been reading a speech which
Mirabeau / (the author of the System of Nature 16 ) has put into the mouth of a
supposed atheist at the Last Judgment; and was afterwards led on by some means or
other to consider the question whether it could properly be said to be an act of
virtue in any one to sacrifice his own final happiness to that ofany other person or
number ofpersons, if it were possible for the one ever to be made the price of the
other. Suppose it were my own case - that it were in my power to save twenty
other persons by voluntarily consenting to suffer for them: why should I not do a
generous thing, and never trouble myself about what might be the consequence to
myself the Lord knows when? - The reason why a man should prefer his own
future welfare to that ofothers is that he has a necessary, absolute interest in the one
which he cannot have in the other, and this again is a consequence of his being
always the same individual, of his continued identity with himsel£ The difference
I thought was this, that however insensible I / may be to my own interest at any
future period, yet when the time comes I shall feel differently about it. I shall then
judge of it from the actual impression of the object, that is truly and certainly; and
as I shall still be conscious of my past feelings and shall bitterly regret my own folly
and insensibility, I ought as a rational agent to be determined now by what I shall
then wish I had done when I shall feel the consequences ofmy actions most deeply
and sensibly. It is this continued consciousness ofmy own feelings which gives me
an immediate interest in whatever relates to my future welfare, and makes me at all
times accountable to myself for my own conduct. As therefore this consciousness
will be renewed in me after death, if I exist again at all - But stop - As I must be
conscious of my past feelings to be myself, and as this conscious being will be
myself, how if that consciousness should be transferred to some other being? How
am I to know that I am not imposed upon by a / false claim of identity? - But that
is ridiculous because you will have no other self than that which arises from this
very consciousness. Why then this self may be multiplied in as many different
beings as the Deity may think proper to endue with the same consciousness, which
if it can be renewed at will in any one instance, may clearly be so in an hundred
others. Am I to regard all these as equally myself? Am I equally interested in the fate
43
ofall? Or ifl must fix upon some one ofthem in particular as my representative and
other self, how am I to be determined in my choice?- Here then I saw an end put
to my speculations about absolute self-interest, and personal identity. I saw plainly
that the consciousness of my own feelings which is made the foundation of my
continued interest in them could not extend to what had never been, and might
never be, that my identity with myself must be confined to the connection between
my past and present being, that with respect to my future / feelings or interests they
could have communication with, or influence over my present feelings and
interests merely because they were future, that I shall be hereafter affected by the
recollection ofmy past feelings and actions, and my remorse be equally heightened
by reflecting on my past folly and late-earned wisdom whether I am really the same
being, or have only the same consciousness renewed in me, but that to suppose that
this remorse can react in the reverse order on my present feelings, or give me an
immediate interest in my future feelings, before it exists, is an express contradiction
in terms. It can only affect me as an imaginary idea, or an idea oftruth. But so may
the interests ofothers; and the question proposed was whether I have not some real,
necessary, absolute interest in whatever relates to my future being in consequence
ofmy immediate connection with myself, independently ofthe general impression
which all positive ideas have on my mind. How then can / this pretended unity of
consciousness which is only reflected from the past, which makes me so little
acquainted with the future that I cannot even tell for a moment how long it will be
continued, whether it will be entirely interrupted by or renewed in me after death,
and which might be multiplied in I don't know how many different beings and
prolonged by complicated sufferings without my being any the wiser for it, how I
say can a principle of this sort identify my present with my future interests, and
make me as much a participater in what does not at all affect me as ifit were actually
impressed on my senses? It is plain as this conscious being may be decompounded,
entirely destroyed, renewed again, or multiplied in a great number of beings, and
as, whichever of these takes place, it cannot produce the least alteration in my
present being, that what I am does not depend on what I am to be, and that there
is no communication between my / future interests, and the motives by which my
present conduct must be governed. This can no more be influenced by what may
be my future feelings with respect to it than it will then be possible for me to alter
my past conduct by wishing that I had acted differently. I cannot therefore have a
principle of active self-interest arising out of the immediate connection between
my present and future self, for no such connection exists, or is possible. I am what
I am in spite of the future. My feelings, actions, and interests must be determined
by causes already existing and acting, and are absolutely independent ofthe future.
Where there is not an intercommunity of feelings, there can be no identity of
interests. My personal interest in any thing must refer either to the interest excited
by the actual impression of the object which cannot be felt before it exists, and can
44
last no longer than while the impression lasts, or it may refer to the particular
manner in / which I am mechanically affected by the idea of my own impressions
in the absence ofthe object. I can therefore have no proper personal interest in my
future impressions, since neither my ideas of future objects, nor my feeling with
respect to them can be excited either directly or indirectly by the impressions
themselves or by any ideas or feelings accompanying them without a complete
transposition ofthe order in which effects follow one another in nature. -The only
reason for my preferring my future interest to that of others must arise from my
anticipating it with greater warmth of present imagination. It is this greater
liveliness and force with which I can enter into my future feelings, that in a manner
identifies them with my present being; and this notion of identity being once
formed, the mind makes use ofit to strengthen its habitual propensity, by giving to
personal motives a reality and absolute truth which they can never have. Hence it
has been inferred that my real, substantial / interest in any thing must be derived
in some indirect manner from the impression of the object itself, as if that could
have any sort ofcommunication with my present feelings, or excite any interest in
my mind but by means of the imagination, which is naturally affected in a certain
manner by the prospect of future good or evil. 17
45
Remarks on the Systems of Hartley and Helvetius 18
I find I owe the reader two explanations, one relating to the association of ideas,
from which Hartley and other writers have deduced the origin ofall our affections,
even ofself-love itself, the other relating to the mechanical principle ofself-interest
stated by Helvetius.* It was my first intention / to have given at the end of the
preceding essay a general account ofthe nature ofthe will, and to have tried at least
to dig down a little deeper into the foundation ofhuman thoughts and actions than
I have hitherto done. At present I have laid aside all thoughts ofthis kind as I have
neither time nor strength for such an undertaking; and the most that I shall attempt
is to point out such contradictions and difficulties in both these systems as may
lessen the weight ofany objections drawn from them against the one I have stated,
and leave the argument as above explained in its original force.
To begin with the doctrine of association.
The general principle of association as laid down by Hartley is this, that if any
given sensation, idea, or motion be for a number of times either accompanied, or
immediately followed by any other sensation, / idea, or muscular motion, the
recurrence ofthe one will afterwards mechanically give rise to that ofthe other. By
immediately followed l mean closely followed: for suppose A to be associated with B,
and B with C, A will not only produce Band C intermediately, but will in time
produce C immediately without the intervention of B. A mathematician would
perhaps here ask how this can ever be actually proved: for though it seems
reasonable to suppose that the influence ofA ifit extend to B should also go a little
farther to the next idea, and join indirectly and secretly with Bin producing C, yet
as the connection between A and B must be stronger than that between A and C
* I do not mean that Helvetius was the first who conceived the hypothesis here spoken of (for I
do not think he had wit enough to invent even an ingenious absurdity) but it was through him
I believe that this notion has obtained its present popularity, and in France particularly it has
had, I am certain, a very general influence on the national character. It was brought forward in
the most forcible manner by the writers of the last century, and it is expressly stated, and clearly
answered by Bishop Butler in the Preface to his Sermons at the Rolls' Chapel. 19 After Berkeley's
Essay on Vision, I do / not know of any work better worth the attention of those who would
learn to think than these same metaphysical Discourses preached at the Rolls' Chapel.
46
if in any case the connection between the former become gradually so weakened
as to dissolve ofitself, the latter must fail ofcourse, and therefore C can never follow
A, except when B stands equivocally between them. This question would go upon
the supposition, that B I and C must always be impressions ofexactly the same kind
and degree ofstrength, which is not the case. A, though more remote from C, may
yet be more intimately connected with it than with B from several other causes,
from the greater strength of the impression, from similarity, &c. (This implies by
the bye that the effect of association depends on the conjunction of many
circumstances, and principles of action, and is not simply determined by the
relation of proximity or remoteness between our ideas with respect to time or
place.) Thus if a person has done a number of good actions, which have been
observed with pleasure by another, this approbation will be afterwards associated
with the idea of the person, and the recollection of the benevolent disposition
which gave birth to those actions remains when the particular manner in which it
was exerted is forgotten. First, because the feeling is the principal or strongest
circumstance. / Secondly, the association of our ideas with moral qualities is
evidently assisted, and forced into the same general direction by the simplicity and
uniform character of our feelings compared with the great variety of things and
actions, which makes it impossible to combine such a number of distinct forms
under the same general notion.
What I have here stated is I believe the whole extent and compass of the law of
association. It has been said that this principle is ofitselfsufficient to account for all
the phenomena ofthe human mind, and is the foundation ofevery rule ofmorality.
My design is to shew that both these assertions are absolutely false, or that it is an
absurdity, and an express contradiction to suppose that association is either the only
mode of operation of the human mind, or that it is the primary and most general
principle ofthought and action. - But first ofall it will be necessary to consider the
account which Hartley himself has given of/ this principle as depending on the
mechanical communication ofmotion from the seat ofone idea to that of the next
and so on, according to a certain local arrangement of these ideas in the brain, as
certainly if thought is carried on in this manner, that is, by means of vibrations, it
is difficult to conceive ofits being produced by any other means than the accidental
justling of these one against the other, which is what is meant by association.
There are two or three general observations which will be of use in conducting
us through this inquiry. In the first place it appears to me certain that every
impression or idea is produced in such a manner as to affect or be perceived by the
whole brain at once, or in immediate succession, that is, before the action ceases.
For ifwe suppose a certain degree ofresemblance to subsist between two ideas, the
perception of the one will always be sure to excite a recollection of the other, ifit
is at / all worth remembering. I mean for instance ifa person should in some strange
place suddenly see an excellent picture of their dead father or mother, I suppose
47
there can be no doubt but the picture would call up the memory of the person
whom it resembled with an instantaneous and irresistible force. Now this could not
always happen but on the supposition that the visible impression ofthe picture was
conveyed to every part of the brain, as otherwise it must be a mere accident
whether it would ever come in contact with that part of it, where that distinct set
of recollections was lodged which it was calculated to excite. It is evident that the
force with which the impression ofthe picture acts upon the mind is subsequent to
the recollection ofthe likeness and not the cause ofit, since the picture ofany other
person would act physically upon my mind in the same manner. It may be worth
remarking here that the strength, or habitual or recent recurrence of any idea /
makes it more easily recollected. I might see a picture ofa person whom I had not
often seen and whose face did not at all interest me at the time without recollecting
whose it was, though the likeness should be never so great. The frequent
recurrence of the imitation on the other hand if it has had its usual effect renders
the recollection of the object less certain or at any rate less vivid every time, till at
last what remains ofit is entirely lost, and confounded with the imitation*. Again,
it is also certain that the proximity ofthe parts ofan object to one another, or ofone
object to another object is of itself a sufficient and necessary reason for their
recollection in succession or together, in the same order in which they were
actually perceived. Unless this were the case, we could never recollect any thing at
all, as every object / is necessarily composed of parts, and those again of others
without end. Now how are we to reconcile this with the first-mention inference
that thought is uniformly and necessarily communicated to every part of the
thinking substance? If thought is produced in such a manner, that the shock is
immediately felt in those parts nearest the seat of the individual impression, and is
indeed sure to excite thought in them without ever affecting the remote parts ofthe
brain in the same manner, it seems strange that its own communication over the
whole brain should be so rapid and certain, while the force with which it is sent
along (as implied in its confined power of producing other thoughts by simple
impulse) is so unequal.
The reader will I hope have the good nature to pardon some inconsistencies of
expression in treating of this subject. In order to disprove the theory which I am
combating I must first assume its truth, and go on talking of the seats of our ideas, I
the different parts ofthe brain, the communication ofthought by impulse, &c. till it is clearly
shewn that the hypothesis to which all these expressions refer is in reality good for
nothing.
Though I do not see my way out of the dilemma here stated, and find I have
engaged in an undertaking I am not equal to, I think I have seen enough of the
* No doubt the picture is always looked at with a very different feeling from what it would have
been, if the idea of the person had never been distinctly associated with it.
48
difficulties belonging to it to be able to reject the Hartleian hypothesis as directly

incompatible with a fair and comprehensive view of the subject. For, first, it has
been shewn above that every idea, or perception is communicated to all the parts
ofthe brain, or to the whole sentient principle, whatever this is supposed to be. Or
the same thing might be shewn from the nature of consciousness.* That there is
some faculty of/ this sort which opens a direct communication between our ideas,
so that the same thinking principle is at the same time conscious of different
impressions, and of their relations to each other, is what hardly any person who
attends in the least to what passes in his own mind and is not determined to reason
himself out of his senses will I should think deny. In other words, when any two
ideas or parts of an idea (for there is no difference in this respect) as those of two
lighted candles, or the top and bottom ofthe same candle are impressed at the same
time on different parts of the brain, before these ideas can be perceived in
connection as making parts ofa whole, or can be accompanied with a consciousness
of each other's existence, we must suppose them mutually to affect the seats of
action belonging to each other, or else to be united in some common principle of
thought, the same comparing power being exerted upon both. Without supposing
their distinct impressions thus to meet in / the same point, it seems a thing
impossible to conceive how any comparison can take place between different
impressions existing at the same time, or between our past, and present impressions,
or ever to explain what is meant by saying, I perceive such and such objects, I remember
such and such events, since these different impressions are evidently referred to the
same conscious being, which idea ofindividuality could never have been so much
as conceived of if there were no other connection between our ideas than that
which arises from the juxtaposition of the particles of matter on which they are
severally impressed. The mere juxtaposition of the parts of the thinking substance
on which different ideas are impressed will never produce any thing more than the
actualjuxtaposition of the ideas themselves, unaccompanied by any consciousness
of their having this relation to each other: for the mind in this case consisting of
nothing more than a succession ofmaterial points, each part will be / sensible ofthe
corresponding part ofany object which is impressed upon it, but can know nothing
of the impression which is made on any other part of the same substance, except
from its reaction on the seat; of the first, which is contrary to the supposition. In
short, to attempt accounting at all for the nature of consciousness from the
proximity of different impressions, or of their fluxional parts to each other in the
brain seems no less absurd than it would be to imagine that by placing a number of
persons together in a line we should produce in them an immediate consciousness
* Consciousness is here and all along (where any particular stress is laid upon it) used in its
etymological sense, as literally the same with consdentia, the knowing or perceiving many things
by a simple act.
49
and perfect knowledge ofwhat was passing in each other's minds. If consciousness
is to be deduced at all from the circumstance of place, it must be that different
impressions occupy exactly the same place. One place has no identity with another:
however thin the partition between one idea and another, the distinction must be
as absolute and complete, and must confine each idea as effectually within its own
bounds / in this fantastical mosaic-work of the brain, as if the solid skulls of ten
philosophers were interposed between each. There is another consideration to be
attended to, which is that sensible impressions appear to be continually made on the
same part of the brain in succession: - with respect to those received by the eye, a
new set of objects is almost every moment impressed on the whole organ, and
consequently transmitted along the nerves to the same receptacle in the brain.* It
follows from this last observation in particular (which is not a speculative
refinement but a plain matter of fact) that the sphere occupied by / different
vibrations is constantly the same or that the same region ofthe brain belongs equally
to a thousand different impressions, and consequently that the mere circumstance
of situation is insufficient to account for that complete distinctness, of which our
ideas are capable.
From all these considerations taken together I cannot help inferring the fallacy of
the Hartleian doctrine ofvibrations, which all along goes on the supposition ofthe
most exact distinction and regular arrangement ofthe places ofour ideas, and which
therefore cannot be effectually reconciled with any reasoning that excludes all local
distinction from having a share in the mechanical operations of the human mind.
For if we suppose the succession of our ideas to be carried on by the
communication of the impulse belonging to one idea to the contiguous cell, or
dormitory of another idea formerly associated with it, and if we at the same time
suppose each idea to occupy a separate cell which is inviolable, / and which it has
entirely to itself, then undoubtedly the ideas thus called up will follow one another
in the same order in which they were originally excited. But if we take away this
imaginary allotment of separate parcels of the brain to different ideas and suppose
the same substance or principle to be constantly impressed with a succession of
different ideas, then there seems to be no assignable reason why a vibratory motion
accompanied with thought in passing from one part ofthe thinking substance to the
next should not excite any other idea which had been impressed there, as well as
the one with which that particular vibration had been originally associated, or why
it should not by one general impulse equally excite them all. It is like supposing that
* Those of the touch admit of the greatest variety in this respect from the general diffusion of
that sense over the whole body, and those which depend on hearing from the small part of the
ear which is in general distinctly affected by sound at the same time. As to the taste and smell,
the stimulants applied to these senses are such as for the most part to act on a large proportion of
the organ at once, though only at intervals. The direction of smells is hardly distinguishable like
that of sounds.
50
you might tread on a nest ofadders twined together, and provoke only one ofthem
to sting you. On the other hand to say that this species of elective affinity is
determined in its operation by the greater readiness with which the idea of a
particular / impression recalls the memory ofanother impression which co-existed
with it in a state of sensible excitement is to repeat the fact but not (that I can
perceive) in any manner to account for it. Let any one compare this account with
the one given by Hartley of his own principle, and he will be able to judge.
But farther, even if it could be shewn that the doctrine of vibrations accounts
satisfactorily for the association of the ideas of any one sense, (as those of the sight
for example) yet surely the very nature of that principle must cut off every sort of
communication between the ideas ofdifferent senses, (as those ofsight and hearing)
which may have been associated in the order of time, but which with respect to
actual situation must be farther removed from one another than any ideas of the
same sense, at whatever distance of time they may have been severally impressed.
If from the top ofa long cold barren hill I hear the distant whistle ofa thrush which
seems / to come up from some warm woody shelter beyond the edge of the hill,
this sound coming faint over the rocks with a mingled feeling of strangeness and
joy, the idea of the place about me, and the imaginary one beyond will all be
combined together in such a manner in my mind as to become inseparable. Now
the doctrine ofvibrations appears absolutely to exclude the possibility ofthe union
ofall these into one associated idea, because as the whole ofthat principle is founded
on the greater ease and certainty with which one local impression is supposed to
pass into the seat of the next, and the greater force with which it acts there than it
can do farther off, the idea of a visible object can never run into the notion of a
sound, nor vice versa, these impressions being, of course conveyed along different
nerves to different and very remote parts ofthe brain. Perhaps it will be said that all
ideas impressed at the same moment of time may be supposed to be assigned to
particular compartments of the / brain as well as where the external objects are
contiguous. To this I should answer that such a supposition does not at all account
for what I have said above with respect to consciousness and the association ofideas
from similarity, &c. and secondly, this supposition is neither included in Hartley's
theory, nor does it seem to be compatible with it, as there is no other reason on the
common material hypothesis for inferring the contiguity of our ideas in the brain
than the contiguity oftheir external objects, and the impression ofthose objects on
corresponding parts of the external sensible organ.
The whole of Hartley's system is founded on what seems an entirely gratuitous
supposition, viz. the imaginary communication of our ideas to particular places in
the brain to correspond not only with the relations ofexternal objects, but with the
order of time. This supposition can never be reconciled with the inference
mentioned above (to go no farther) that thought is / communicated to every part
of the thinking substance by an immediate and uniform impulse. For though we
51
should suppose that it is communicated in one manner to what may be called its
primary seat, and in a different manner over the rest ofthe brain, yet we shall still be
as much at a loss as ever to shew a reason why its primary action should always
excite the associated or contiguous ideas, while its indirect or secondary action has
no power at all to excite any of the ideas, with the spheres of which it necessarily
comes in contact in its general diffusion over the whole brain, that is by its simple
impulse. This is not all. There is another circumstance which must entirely prevent
the least use being made of this distinction, which is that associated ideas are not
properly such as are contiguous in place, but all such as are connected in point of
time, the relation of place not being at all essential in the question, for ideas that
have been impressed together are always recollected/ as parts ofthe same complex
impression, without any regard to the proximity or remoteness of their direct,
primary seats in the brain, considered as distinct local impressions. As has been
explained above with respect to sounds and visible objects, where the association
must evidently arise from what I have called their secondary, or relative actions, or,
ifyou will, their conscious ideas, that is those which are not confined to a particular
spot in the circumference ofthe brain, but affect the general principle of thought,
whatever this may be, whether composed of extended, material parts, or
indivisible. Now if these secondary or conscious ideas which we may represent as
continually posting backwards and forwards like couriers in all directions through
all quarters of the brain to meet each other and exchange accounts are in fact the
only instruments ofassociation, it is plain that the account given by Hartley ofthat
principle falls to the ground at once, first because that account / affords no
explanation of any of the associations which take place in the mind, except when
there is an immediate communication between the primary seats of the associated
ideas; secondly, because these secondary or conscious ideas being spread over the
whole brain, or rather being impressed on the same thinking principle cannot have
any particular connection with or power to call up one another or the contrary
from any circumstances oflocal distinction, which is thus completely done away.
- The doctrine of vibrations supposes the order of place and the order of time to
correspond exactly in all combinations of our ideas, and that it is owing to this
circumstance entirely that those ideas which have been impressed nearly at the
same time have afterwards a power to call up one another from the facility with
which they must be supposed to pass from their own primary seats into the
contiguous ones of the associated ideas. I have endeavoured to shew on the
contrary not only / that there is no regular local arrangement of our ideas to
correspond exactly with the order in which they cohere together in the mind, but
that there appears to be no distinction whatever in this respect, that they all belong
absolutely to the same place or internal seat of consciousness, that this want of
distinction is an evident fact with respect to the successive impressions which are
made on the same parts of the body, and consequently on the same parts of the
52
thinking substance, and that it may be deduced generally from the nature of
thought itself, and the associations which arise from similarity, &c. that this
principle must be entirely nugatory with respect to the associations of the ideas of
different senses, even though it should hold true with respect to those of any one
sense,* lastly that / all ideas impressed at the same time acquire a power ofexciting
one another ever after without any regard to the coincidence of their imaginary
seats in the brain (according to the material hypothesis) and that therefore the true
account ofthe principle ofassociation must be derived from the first cause, viz. the
coincidence of time, and not from the latter which bears no manner ofproportion
to the effects produced.
The account indeed which Hartley has in one place given of successive
association as distinct from synchronous seems to have no necessary connection
with this last mentioned principle. He says, page 69,2.0
If A and B be vibrations impressed successively, then will the latter part of A, viz.
that part which remains after the impression of the object ceases, be modified and
altered by B, at the same time that it will a little modify and alter it, till at last it be
quite overpowered by it, and end in it. It follows therefore that the / successive
impression ofA and B sufficiently repeated will so alter the medullary substance, as
that when A is impressed alone, its latter part shall not be such as the sole impression
of A requires, but lean towards B, and end in c at last. But B will not excite a in a
retrograde order, since, by supposition, the latter part ofB was not modified and
altered by A, but by some other vibration, such as C or D.
First of all, this account seems to imply that the associated impressions A and B
are the only ones made on the mind, and that they extend over the whole
medullary substance. In this case when the action ofA ceases or grows very weak,
we may suppose that the tendency to B will be gradually revived, and at last
completely overpower that ofA, because these are the only impressions existing in
the mind, and it must consequently incline to one or other of them, which would
be equally the case, whether they had been impressed together, I or not. Otherwise
we must suppose the impressions thus made successively to have a distinct local
communication with each other, or there is no reason given why A should excite
b more than any other vibration impressed on the brain in general, or on the seat
of b in particular. We must besides this suppose the vibrations A and B to have a
particular line of direction, as well as primary sphere of action in the brain to
account for B's not exciting a in the reverse order, &c. The question is how the
impression of different objects at the same time, or in quick succession gives the
idea of one of those objects a power to excite the idea of the other, though the
* The method taken by Hartley in detailing the associations, which take place between the ideas
of each of the senses one by one, saves him the trouble of explaining those which take place
between the ideas of different senses at the same time.
53
object is absent; and it is no answer to this question to say, that A being often
repeated in connection with B, when it is afterwards excited, 'leans towards B, and
ends in it.' Hartley says by way of breaking the difficulty, that the latter part of A
is altered and modified by B. This is evident enough while B really / acts upon the
senses: but why should it be modified by it in the absence ofB? This modification
of the latter part ofA by B is not the intermediate cause of the excitement of b, for
b, the representative ofB, must be excited, at least imperfectly, before it can modify
A (B itself being nothing) and the point is how A, or a excites the movement
connected with B and that only, not how, supposing this connection between
them to be established, the one gradually passes into the other, and ends in it. I think
Hartley constantly mistakes tracing the order ofpalpable effects, or overt acts ofthe
mind for explaining the causes of the connection between them, which he hardly
ever does with a true metaphysical feeling. Even where he is greatest, he is always
the physiologist rather than the metaphysician*. /
Perhaps a better way to set about discovering the clue to the principle of
association, / setting aside all ideas of extension, contiguity, &c. would be by
* I have always had the same feeling with respect to Hardey (still granting his power to the
utmost) which is pleasantly expressed in an old author, Roger Bacon, quoted by Sir Kenelm
Digby in his / answer to Brown. 'Those students' he says, 'who busy themselves much with such
notions as relate wholly to the fantasie, do hardly ever become idoneous for abstracted metaphysical
speculations; the one having bulky foundation of matter or of the accidents of it to settle upon,
(at the least with one foot:) the other flying continually, even to a lessening pitch, in the subtil
air.And accordingly, it hath been generally noted, that the exactest mathematicians, who converse
altogether with lines, figures, and other differences of quantity, have seldom proved eminent in
metaphysicks or speculative divinity. Nor again, the professors of these sciences in the other arts.
Much less can it be expected, that an excellent physician, whose fancy is always fraught with the
material drugs that he prescribeth his apothecary to compound his medicines of, and whose
hands are inured to the cutting up, and eyes to the inspection of anatomized bodies, should
easily and with success, £lie his thoughts at so towring a game, as a pure intellect, a separated and
unbodied soul.' 21 - I confess I feel in reading Hardey something in the way in which the Dryads
must / have done shut up in their old oak trees. I feel my sides pressed hard, and bored with
points of knotty inferences piled up one upon another without being able ever to recollect
myself, or catch a glimpse of the actual world without me. I am somehow wedged in between
different rows of material objects, overpowering me by their throng, and from which I have no
power to escape, but of which I neither know nor understand any thing. I constantly see objects
multiplied upon me, not powers at work, I know no reason why one thing follows another but
that something else is conjured up between them, which has as little apparent connection with
either as they have with one another;- he always reasons from the concrete object, not from the
abstract or essential properties of things, and in his whole book I do not believe that there is one
good definition. It would be a bad way to describe a man's character to say that he had a wise
father or a foolish son, and yet this is the way in which Hardey defines ideas by stating what
precedes them in the mind, and what comes after them. Thus he defines the will to be 'that idea,
or state of mind which precedes action,' or 'a desire, or aversion sufficiently strong to produce
action,' &c. He gives you the outward / signs of things in the order in which he conceives them
to follow one another, never the demonstration ofcertain consequences from the known nature
of their causes, which alone is true reasoning. Nevertheless, it is not to be forgotten, that he was
also a great man. See his Chapter on Memory, &c.
54
considering / the manner in which the same conscious principle may be supposed
to adapt itself to, to combine, and as it were reconcile together the actions of
different objects impressed on it at once, and to all of which it is forced to attend
at the same time; by which means these several impressions thus compelled into
agreement, and a kind ofmutual understanding one with another afterwards retain
a particular tendency or disposition to unite together, that is to say, the mind when
thrown back into the same state by the recurrence of any one of these ideas is of
course put into the way of admitting or passing more readily to any other of the
same set of ideas than to any other ideas of a different set not so blended and
harmonized with it. It seems as if/ the mind was laid open to all the impressions
which had been made upon it at any given time, the moment any one of them
recalls a state of feeling habitually in unison with the rest. By touching a certain
spring, all obstacles are removed, the doors fly open, and the whole gallery is seen
at a single glance. - The mind has a capacity to perform any complex action the
easier for having performed the same action before. It will consequently have a
disposition to perform that action rather than any other, the other circumstances
being the same. I imagine that association is to be accounted for on the very same
principle as a man's being able to comprehend or take in a mathematical
demonstration the better for going over it a number of times, or to recognise any
well-known object, as the figure ofa man for instance in the middle ofa common,
sooner, than a stump of a tree, or piece of a rock of twice the size, and ofjust as
remarkable a shape. - In like manner, or at least consistently / with this, we may
suppose, ifone impression is very like another, though not associated with it, that the
mind will in that case slide more naturally, will feel less repugnance in passing from
the recollection ofthe one to that ofthe other, that is from its actual state into a state
very little different from it than into one of a totally different kind. When any
particular idea becomes predominant, the turn which is thus given to the mind
must be favourable to the reception or recollection of any other idea, which
requires but little alteration in the state of the mind to admit it. A slight turn of the
screws on which the tension of the mind depends will set it right to the point
required. When the actual state of the mind agrees, or falls in with some previous
tendency, the effort which the latent idea makes to pass into a state of excitement
must be more powerful than it would be without this co-operation, and where the
other circumstances are indifferent must always be effectual. / Thus the actual
feeling of warmth must have a tendency to call up any old ideas of the same kind:
e.g. to-day being a very warm day put me in mind ofa walk I took in a hot day last
summer. Here however another difficulty occurs: for the very opposition of our
feelings as of heat and cold frequently produces a transition in the mind from the
one to the other, This may be accounted for in a loose way by supposing, that the
struggle between very opposite feelings producing a violent and perturbed state of
mind excites attention, and makes the mind more sensible to the shock of the
55
contrary impression to that by which it is preoccupied, as we find that the body is

more liable to be affected by any opposite extremes, as of heat and cold,
immediately succeeding, and counteracting each other. Be this as it may, all things
naturally put us in mind of their contraries, cold of heat, day of night, &c. These
three, viz. association, similarity, and contrast I believe include / all the general
sources of connection between our ideas, for as to that of cause and effect, it seems
to be referable (as remarked by Priestley) or at least chiefly so to the first class, that
of common association. - I hope no one will think me weak enough to imagine
that what I have here stated is even a remote and faint approach to a satisfactory
account of the matter. Every attempt of this sort must be light and ineffectual
without first ascertaining (if that were possible) the manner in which our ideas are
produced, and the nature of consciousness, both of which I am utterly unable to
comprehend. I have endeavoured simply to point out what it is that is to be
accounted for, the general feeling with which a reflecting man should set out in
search of the truth, and the impossibility of ever arriving at it, if at the outset we
completely cover over our own feelings with maps ofthe brain, dry skulls, musical
chords, pendulums, and compasses, or think oflooking into the bottom ofour own
minds by means of / any other instrument than a sharpened intellect.
What I at first proposed was to shew, that association, however we may suppose
it to be carried on, is not the only source ofconnection between our ideas, or mode
of operation of the human mind. This has been assumed indirectly, and I think
proved with respect to similarity, &c. Here however a shrewd tum has been given
to the argument by the Hartleians, who, admitting similarity among the causes of
connection between our ideas, deny that it is any objection to their doctrine, for
that this very example is easily resolved into a case of mere association. Similarity
they say is nothing but partial sameness, and that where part ofa thing has been first
associated with certain circumstances, and is afterwards conjoined with others,
making in fact two different objects, its recurrence in the second instance will
necessarily recall the circumstances with which I it was associated in the first.* -
In general we suppose that ifwe meet a person in the street with a face resembling
some other face with which we are well acquainted, the reason why the one puts
us in mind ofthe other is that the one is like the other, and we should be little disposed
to believe any one who told us seriously that in reality we had before seen the one
man's nose upon the other's face, and that this old impression or very identical
object brought along with it the other ideas with which it had been formerly
associated. This account would be sufficiently contrary to common sense and
feeling, and I hope to shew that it has as little connection with any true subtlety of
thinking. No metaphysician will I am sure be disposed to controvert this, who takes
the trouble accurately to compare the meaning of the explanation with the terms
* See Priestley's Letters to a Philosophical Unbeliever. 22
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and necessary import of the law of association. For let an impression which I
received yesterday / be in every possible respect the same with the one which I
received to-day, still the one impression is not the other; they are two distinct
impressions existing at different times, and by the supposition associated with very
different circumstances. The one from having been co-existent with certain
circumstances has a power by the law of association of exciting the recollection of
those circumstances whenever it is itself recollected: the other has the same power
over that particular combination of circumstances with which it was associated,
merely because they were so impressed together on the mind at the same moment
of time. To say therefore that a particular property of an object has a power of
exciting the ideas of several other properties of another object, of which it never
made a part, on the principle of association, is a contradiction in terms. Its being
essentially or comparatively the same with another property which did actually
make part ofsuch an object no more proves the consequences / which fairly result
from the principle ofassociation than it would follow from my looking at the same
object at which another has been looking, that I must forthwith be impressed with
all the ideas, feelings and imaginations which have been passing in his mind at the
time. This last observation has been objected to on the ground that there is no
connection whatever between one man's ideas, and another's. No doubt: but then
it follows as clearly (and that is all I meant to shew) that the abstract identity of the
objects or impressions does not of itself produce this connection, so that the
perception ofthe one must needs bring along with it the associated ideas belonging
to the other. The objects or ideas are the same in both cases, ifthat were all: but this
is not sufficient to prove that they must have the same accompaniments, or
associations, because in the one case they are impressed on different minds, and in
the other on the same mind at different times, which is expressly / contrary to the
principle of association, unless we assume by the help of a verbal sophism that the
same generical idea is the same associated idea, and this again would lead to the
absurd consequence above stated. It is not here necessary to give a regular definition
or account of what in general constitutes sameness, or to inquire whether strictly
speaking such a relation can ever be said to subsist between any two assignable
objects. Such an inquiry would be quite foreign to the purpose, and I wish to avoid
as much as possible all useless common-place subtleties, all such as whichever way
they are determined can make no alteration in the state of the argument. It is plain
in the present instance for example that when it is stated that a particular idea having
been once associated with given circumstances, the same idea will ever afterwards
excite the recollection ofthose circumstances, all that is meant is that the idea in the
latter case must be a production, continuation, or properly a recollection of/ the
former one, so as to retain the impression ofthe accidental modifications by which
that idea was originally affected. It must be so far the same as to bear the same
relation to the surrounding ideas, as to depend for what it is on what it has been,
57
and connect the present with the past. It must be the old idea lurking in the mind
with all its old associations hanging about it, and not an entirely new impression
with entirely new associations. This idea must therefore be originally derived from
an individual impression in contradistinction to half a dozen different ones
possessing the same absolute properties: for the whole point turns upon this, that
such and such ideas have not naturally any sort of connection with certain other
ideas, but that any one ofthese ideas having been actually associated with any ofthe
others, this accidental relation begets a peculiar and artificial connection between
them which is continued along with the remembrance of the ideas themselves. /
Mr Mac-Intosh, I remember, explained this principle in his lectures23 in the
following manner. If, says he, any gentleman who has heard me in this place today
should by chance pass by this way tomorrow, the sight of Lincoln's-Inn Hall will
upon the principle we are now examining bring along with it the recollection of
some of the persons he has met with the day before, perhaps of some of the
reasonings which I have the honour to deliver to this audience, or in short any of
those concomitant circumstances with which the sight of Lincoln's-Inn Hall has
been previously associated in his mind. This is a correct verbal statement, but it is
liable to be misunderstood. Mr Mac-Intosh is no doubt a man of a very clear
understanding, of an imposing elocution, a very able disputant, and a very
metaphysical lawyer, but by no means a profound metaphysician, not quite a
Berkeley in subtlety of distinction. 24 I will try as well as I am able to help him out
in his explanation. / It is clear that the visible image of Lincoln's-Inn Hall which
any one has presented to his senses at any given moment of time cannot have been
previously associated with other images and perceptions. Neither is a renewed
sensible impression ofa particular object the same with or in any manner related to
a former recollected impression ofthe same object except from the resemblance of
the one to the other. There can be no doubt then of the connection between my
idea or recollection ofLincoln's-Inn Hall yesterday, and the associated ideas ofthe
persons whom I saw there, or the things which I heard, the question is how do I
get this idea ofyesterday's impression from seeing Lincoln's-Inn Hall to-day. The
difficulty I say is not in connecting the links in the chain of previously associated
ideas, but in arriving at the first link, - in passing from a present sensation to the
recollection ofa past object. Now this can never be by an act ofassociation, because
it is self-evident / that the present can never have been previously associated with
the past. Every beginning ofa series ofassociations, that is every departure from the
continued beaten track of old impressions or ideas remembered in regular
succession therefore implies and must be accounted for from some act ofthe mind
which does not depend on association.
Association is an habitual relation between continuations ofthe same ideas which
act upon one another in a certain manner simply because the original impressions
were excited together. Let A B C represent any associated impressions. Let a b c be
58
the ideas left in the mind by these impressions, and then let A M N represent a
repetition of A in conjunction with a different set of objects. Now a the idea of A
when excited will excite b c or the ideas ofB C by association, but A as part of the
sensible impression A M N cannot excite b c by association, because it has never
been associated with B C, because it / is not, like a, the production of the former
impression A, but an entirely new impression made from without, totally
unconnected with the first. I understand then from the nature of association how
a will excite b, but not how A excites a. I understand how my thinking ofLincoln's-
Inn Hall, the impression ofyesterday, should also lead me to think of other things
connected with that impression according to the principle of association: but I
cannot see how, according to this principle, there is any more connection between
my seeing Lincoln's-Inn Hall to-day, and recollecting my having seen it yesterday
than there is between the palace of St Cloud, 25 and the hovel in which Jack
Shepherd hid himself when he escaped out of Newgate. 26 Certainly the new
impression is not the old one, nor the idea ofthe old one. What is it then that when
this second impression is made on the mind determines it to connect itself with the
first more than with any other indifferent impression, what carries / it forward in
that particular direction which is necessary to its finding out its fellow, or setting
aside this geographical reasoning, what is there in the action ofthe one on the mind
that necessarily revives that of the other? All this has clearly nothing to do with
association.
A question however occurs here which perplexes the subject a good deal, and
which I shall state and answer as concisely as I can. I have hitherto endeavoured to
shew that a particular present impression cannot excite the recollection of a past
impression by association, that is, that ideas cannot be said to excite one another by
association which have never been associated. But still it may be asked whether a
present impression may not excite the ideas associated with any similar impression,
without first exciting a distinct recollection of the similar impression with which
they were associated. Now, however we may reconcile it with the foregoing
reasoning, it is certainly a fact that it does do so. / And I conceive it will not be
difficult to account for this, according to the explanation above hinted at of the
principle ofassociation: for we may in general suppose any similar state ofmind to
be favourable to the readmission, or recollection ofthe ideas already associated with
such a state ofmind, whether the similarity is produced by a revival ofthe old idea,
or by the recurrence of a similar external object. In this case however we must
suppose that association is only a particular and accidental effect of some more
general principle, not the sole-moving spring in all combinations which take place
between our ideas: and still more, that similarity itself must be directly a very strong
source of connection between them, since it extends beyond the similar ideas
themselves to any ideas associated with them. On the other hand according to the
Hartleian theory of association as carried on by the connection of different local
59
impressions, which alone makes it / difficult to admit similarity as a distinct source

of connection between our ideas, I am utterly unable to conceive how this effect
can ever take place, that is, I contend that there must be in this case a direct
communication between the new impression, and the similar old one before there
can be any possible reason for the revival of the associated ideas, and then the same
difficulty will return as before, why one similar impression should have a natural
tendency to excite another, which tendency cannot be accounted for from
association, for it goes before it, and on this hypothesis is absolutely necessary to
account for it. - Whatever relates to local connection must be confined to the
individual impression and cannot possibly extend to the class or genus. Suppose
association to depend on the actual juxtaposition oftwo, or more local impressions
which being thus accidentally brought together have thrown a sort of grappling
irons over one another, and continue to act in / concert in consequence of this
immediate local communication. It is clear that in this case none but the individual,
or numerical impressions so united can have any power over each other. No matter
how like any other impression may be to any ofthe associated ones, - ifit does not
agree in place as well as kind, it might as well not exist at all, its influence can no
more be felt in the seat of the first, than if it were parcel of another intellect, or
floated in the regions of the moon. Again suppose association to consist not in
connecting different local impressions, but in reconciling different heterogeneous
actions ofthe same thinking principle, 'in subduing the one even to the very quality
of the other,' 27 here the disposition of the mind being the chief thing concerned,
not only those very identical impressions will coalesce together which have been
previously associated, but any other very similar impressions to these will have a
facility in exciting one another, that is in acting/ upon the mind at the same time,
their association depending solely on the habitual disposition ofthe mind to receive
such and such impressions when preoccupied by certain others, their local relation
to each other being the same in all cases. - The moment it is admitted not to be
necessary to association that the very individual impressions should be actually
revived, the foundation ofall the inferences which have been built on this principle
is completely done away.
Association is then only one ofthe ways in which ideas are recollected or brought
back into the mind. Another view ofthe subject remains which is to consider their
effects after they get there as well as how they are introduced, why certain ideas
affect the mind differently from others, and by what means we are enabled to form
comparisons and draw inferences.
If association were every thing, and the cause of every thing, there could be no
comparison of one idea with another, no/ reasoning, no abstraction, no regular
contrivance, no wisdom, no general sense of right and wrong, no sympathy, no
foresight ofany thing, in short nothing that is essential, or honourable to the human
mind would be left to it. Accordingly the abettors ofthis theory have set themselves
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to shew, that judgment, imagination, &c. are mere words that really signify nothing
but certain associations of ideas following one another in the same mechanical
order in which they were originally impressed, and that all our feelings, tastes,
habits and actions spring from the same source. As I know ofno proofwhatever that
has, or can be given ofeither of these paradoxes but that many ofour opinions are
prejudices, and that many of our feelings arise from habit, I shall state as concisely
as I can my reasons for thinking that association alone does not account either for
the proper operations ofthe understanding, or for our moral feelings, and voluntary
actions or that there are other / general, original, independent faculties equally
necessary and more important in the 'building up of the human mind. ' 28 In every
comparison made by the mind of one idea with another, that is perception of
agreement, or disagreement, or of any kind of relation between them, I conceive
that there is something implied which is essentially different from any association
of ideas. Before I proceed, however, I must repeat that in this question I stand
merely on the defensive. I have no positive inferences to make, nor any novelties
to bring forward, and I have only to defend a common-sense feeling against the
refinements of a false philosophy. I understand by association of ideas the
recollecting or perceiving any two or more ideas together, or immediately one after
the other. Now it is contended that this immediate succession, coexistence or
juxtaposition ofour ideas is all that can be meant by their comparison. It is therefore
a question in this case what becomes of/ the ideas oflikeness, equality, &c. for if
there is no other connection between our ideas than what arises from positive
association, it seems to follow that all objects seen, or if you please thought of
together must be equally like, and that the likeness is completely done away by
separating the objects or supposing them to be separated. As these ideas are some
of the clearest and most important we have, it may be reasonably demanded that
any attempt to account for them by resolving them into other ideas with which
they have not at first sight the least connection should be perfectly clear and
satisfactory. Let us see how far this has been done. It has been contended then that
the only idea ofequality which the mind can possibly have is the recollection ofthe
sensible impression made by the meeting of the contiguous points, or ends of two
strait lines for example*. Here two questions will arise. The / first is whether the
idea of equality is merely a particular way of considering contiguity. Secondly,
whether association, that is the succession or juxtaposition of our ideas can ever of
* See Essays by T. Cooper of Manchester. 29 This very curious analysis was also delivered with
great/ gravity by Mr Mac-Intosh to the metaphysical students of Lincoln's-Inn. I confess I like
ingenuity, however misapplied, ifit is but a man's own: but the dull, affected pompous repetition
of nonsense is not to be endured with patience. In retailing what is not our own, the only merit
must be in the choice, or judgment. A man, however, without originality may yet have common
sense and common honesty. To be a hawker of worn-out paradoxes, and a pander to sophistry
denotes indeed a desperate ambition.
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itself produce the idea of this relation between them. My first object will be to
inquire whether the perception of the equality of two lines is the same with the
perception of the contiguity of their extremities, whether the one idea necessarily
includes every thing that is contained in the other.
I see two points touch one another, or/ that there is no sensible interval between
them. What possible connection is there between this idea, and that oftheir being
the boundaries of two lines of equal length? It is only by drawing out those points
to a certain distance that I get the idea of any lines at all; they must be drawn out
to the same distance before they can be equal; and I can have no idea oftheir being
equal without dividing that equal distance into two distinct parts or lines, both of
which I must consider at the same time as contained with the same limits. If the
ideas merely succeeded one another, or even co-existed as distinct images, they
would still be perfectly unconnected with each other, each being absolutely
contained within itself, and there being no common act of attention to both to
unite them together. Now the question is whether this perception of the equality
of these two lines is not properly an idea of comparison, (in the sense in which /
every one uses and feels these words) which idea cannot possibly be expressed or
defined by any other relation between our ideas, or whether it is only a round-
about way of getting at the old idea of the coincidence of their points or ends,
which certainly is not an idea of comparison, or of the relation between equal
quantities simply because there are no quantities to be compared. The one relates
to the agreement ofthe things themselves one with another, the other to their local
situation. There is no proving any farther that these ideas are different, but by
appealing to every man's own breast. If any one should choose to assert that two
and two make six, or that the sun is the moon, I can only answer by saying that these
ideas as they exist in my mind are totally different. In like manner I am conscious
of certain operations in my own mind in comparing two equal lines together
essentially different from the perception of the contiguity of their extremities, and
I therefore conclude / that the ideas of equality and contiguity are not the same.
The second question is whether the idea of contiguity itself is an idea of mere
association, that is whether it is nothing more than the recollection ofa compound
sensation. Ifby sensation is to be understood the direct impression of the parts of
any outward object on corresponding parts of an extended living substance, by
which means the general mass is converted from a dead into a living thing, and that
this is the only difference that takes place, then I deny that this combination of
living atoms, this diffusion of animal sensibility, however exquisite or thrilling to
the slightest touch, will ever give the idea of relation of any kind whether of
contiguity, coexistence, or any thing else either immediately at the time or by
recollection afterwards. It has been said that to feel is to think, 'sentir est penser.' 30 I
believe that this is true of the human mind, because the human mind is a thinking
principle, it is / natural to it to think, it cannot feel without thinking: but this maxim
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would not be at all true ofsuch a human mind as is described by these philosophers,
which would be equally incapable both ofthought, and feeling as it exists in us. As
this distinction is very difficult to be expressed, I hope I may be allowed to express
it in the best way that I am able. Suppose a number ofanimalcula: as a heap ofmites
in a rotten cheese lying as close together as they can stick, (though the example
should be ofsomething 'more drossy and divisible, ' 31 ofsomething less reasonable,
approaching nearer to pure sensation than we can conceive of any creature that
exercises the functions of the meanest instinct.) No one will contend that in this
heap of living matter there is any idea of the number, position, or intricate
involutions of that little, lively, restless tribe. This idea is evidently not contained
in any of the parts separately, nor is it contained in all of them put together. That
is, the aggregate / ofmany actual sensations is, we here plainly see, a totally different
thing from the collective idea, comprehension, or consciousness of those sensations
as many things, or ofany oftheir relations to each other. We may go on multiplying
and combining sensations to the end oftime without ever advancing one step in the
other process, or producing one single thought. But in what I would ask does this
supposition differ from that of many distinct particles of matter, full of animation,
tumbling about, and pressing against each other in the same brain, except that we
make use of this brain as a common medium to unite their different desultory
actions in the same general principle of thought, or consciousness? Therefore if
there is no power in this principle but to repeat the old story ofsensation over again,
if the mind is but a sort of inner room where the images of external things like
pictures in a gallery are lodged safe, and dry out of the reach of the turbulence of
the senses, but remaining as / distinct from, and ifl may so say as perfectly unknown
to one another as the pictures on a wall, there being no general faculty to overlook
and give notice of their several impressions, this medium is without any use, the
hypothesis is so far an incumbrance, not an advantage. To perceive the relation of
one thing to another it is not only necessary that the ideas ofthe things themselves
should co-exist (which would signify nothing) but that they should be perceived
to co-exist by the same conscious understanding, or that their different actions
should be felt at the same instant by the same being in the strictest sense. If I am
asked ifl conceive clearly how this is possible, I answer no: - perhaps no one ever
will, or can. But I do understand clearly, that the other supposition is an absurdity,
and can never be reconciled with the nature of thought, or consciousness, of that
power ofwhich I have an absolute certainty in my own mind. If any one who still
doubts of this will give / me a satisfactory reason why he denies the same
consciousness to different minds, or thinks it necessary to circumscribe this
principle within the limits of the same brain but upon the supposition that one
brain is one power, in some sort modifying and reacting upon all the ideas
contained in it, I shall then be ready to give up my dull, cloudy, English mysticism
for the clear sky ofFrench metaphysics. Till then it is in vain to tell me that the mind
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thinks by sensations, that it then thinks most emphatically, then only truly when by
decompounding its essence it comes at last to reflect the naked impression of
material objects. It is easy to make a bold assertion, and just as easy to deny it; and
I do not know that there is any authority yet established by which I am bound to
yield an implicit assent to every extravagant opinion which some man of celebrity
has been hard enough to adopt, and make others believe. It does not surely follow
that a thing is to be disbelieved, the moment any one thinks / proper to deny it,
merely because it has been generally believed, as if truth were one entire paradox,
and singularity the only claim to authority.* /
I never could make much of the subject of real relations in nature. But in
* This subject of consciousness, the most abstruse, the most important of all others, the most
filled with seeming inexplicable contradictions, that which bids the completest defiance to the
matter of fact philosophy and can only be developed by the patient soliciting of a man's own
spirit has been accordingly passed over by the herd of philosophers from Locke downwards.
There is a short note about it in Hartley in which he flatly denies the possibility of any such
thing. Lest what I have already said should therefore be insufficient to fix the attention of the
reader on a subject which he may think quite exploded, I will add the account which Rousseau
has given of the same subject, whose authority does not weigh the less with me because it is
unsupported by the Logic ofCondillac, 32 or the book De !'Esprit.
'Me voici deja tout aussi sur de !'existence de l'univers, que de la mienne. Ensuite je reflechis
sur !es objets de mes sensations, et trouvant en mot la faculte de Jes comparer,je me sens doue
d'une force active que je ne savois pas avoir auparavant.
'Appercevoir, c'est sentir; comparer, c'est juger: / juger et sentir ne sont pas la meme chose.
Par Ia sensation, Jes objets s' offrent a moi separes, isoles, tels qu'ils sont clans la Nature; par la
comparaison, je Jes remue, je Jes transporte, pour ainsi dire, je !es pose l'un sur l'autre, pour
prononcer sur leur difference ou sur leur similitude, et generalement sur tous leurs rapports.
Selon moi, la faculte distinctive de I' etre actif, ou intelligent est de pouvoir donner un sens a ce
mot, est.Je cherche en vain clans l'etre purement sensitif cette force intelligente, qui superpose,
et puis qui prononce; je ne la saurois voir clans sa nature. Cet etre passif sentira chaque obj et
separement, ou meme ii sentira l'objet total forme des deux, mais n'ayant aucune force pour !es
replier l'un sur l'autre, ii ne Jes comparera jamais, ii ne !es jugera point.
'Voir deux objets a la fois, n' est pas voir leurs rapports, nijuger de leurs differences, appercevoir
plusieurs objets Jes uns hors des autres, n'est pas Jes nombrer.Je puis avoir au meme instant l'idee
d'un grand baton et d'un petit baton sans Jes comparer, sans juger que l'un est plus petit que
I' autre, comme je puis voir a la fois ma main enti ere sans faire le compte de mes doigts. Ces idees
comparatives, plus grand, plus petit, de meme que !es idees numeriques d' un, de deux, &c. ne sont
certainement pas / des sensations, quoique mon esprit ne Jes produise qu'a !'occasion de mes
sensations.
'On nous dit que l'etre sensitif distingue !es sensations Jes unes des autres par !es differences
qu'ont entr'elles ces memes sensations: ceci demande explication. Quand !es sensations sont
differentes, I' etre sensitif Jes distingue par leurs differences: quand elles sont semblables, ii !es
distingue parce qu'il sent Jes unes hors des autres. Autrement, comment clans une sensation
simultanee distingueroit-il deux objets egaux? II faudroit necessairement qu'il confondit ces
deux objets, et !esprit pour le meme, sur-tout clans un systeme ou I' on pretend que Jes sensations
representatives de I' etendue ne sont point etendues.
'Quand Jes deux sensations a comparer sont apper~ues, leur impression est faite, chaque objet
est senti, Jes deux sont sentis; mais leur rapport n'est pas senti pour cela. Si le jugement de ce
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whatever / way we determine with respect to them, whether they are absolutely
true in nature, / or are only the creatures of the mind, they cannot exist in nature
after the same manner / that they exist in the human mind. The forms of things in
nature are manifold; they only become one by being united in the same common
principle ofthought. The relations of the things themselves as they exist separately
and by themselves must therefore be very different from their relations as perceived
by the mind where they have an immediate communication with each other. The
things themselves can only have the same relation to each other that the ideas of
things have in different minds, or that our sensible impressions must have to one
another before we refer them to some inward conscious principle. Without this
connection between our ideas in the mind there could be no preference of one
thing / to another, no choice of means to ends, that is, no voluntary action.
Suppose the ideas or impressions of any two objects to be perfectly distinct and
vivid, suppose them moreover to be mechanically associated together in my mind,
and that they bear in fact just the same proportion to each other that the objects do
in nature, that the one is attended with just so much more pleasure than the other,
and is so much more desirable, what effect can this of itself have but to produce a
proportionable degree of unthinking complacency in the different feelings
belonging to each, and a proportionable degree ofvehemence in the blind impulse,
by which I am attached to each of them separately and for the moment? If there is
no perception of the relation between different feelings, no proper comparison of
the one with the other, there may indeed be a stronger impulse towards the one
rapport n'etoit qu'une sensation, & me venoit uniquement de l'objet, mes jugemens ne me
tromperoient jamais, puisqu'il n' est jamais faux que je sente ce que je sens.
'Pourquoi done est-ce que je me trompe sur le rapport de ces deux batons, sur-tout s'ils ne
sont pas / paralleles? Pourquoi, dis-je, par exemple, que le petit baton est le tiers du grand, tandis
qu'il n'en est que le quart? Pourquoi !'image, qui est la sensation, n'est-elle pas conforme a son
modele, qui est l'objet? C'est que je suis actif quand je juge, que !'operation qui compare est
fautive, et que mon entendement, qui juge Jes rapports, mele ses erreurs ala verite des sensations
qui ne montrent que Jes objets.
'Ajoutez a cela une reflexion qui vous frappera,je m'assure, quand vous y aurez pense; c'est
que si nous etions purement passifs dans !'usage de nos sens, ii nous auroit entr'eux aucun
communication; ii nous auroit impossible de connoitre que le corps que nous touchons, et
I' obj et que nous voyons sont le meme. Ou nous ne sentirions jamais rien hors de nous, ou ii y
auroit pour nous cinq substances sensibles,dont nous n'aurions nu! moyen d'appercevoir l'identite.
'Qu'on donne tel ou tel nom a cette force de mon esprit qui rapproche et compare mes
sensations; qu'on l'appelle attention, meditation, reflexion, ou comme on voudra; toujours est ii
vrai qu'elle est en moi et non dans Jes choses, que c' est moi seul qui la produis, quoique je ne la
produise qu'a !'occasion de !'impression que font sur moi Jes objets. / Sans etre maitre de sentir
ou de ne pas sentir,je le suis d'examiner plus ou moins ce que je sens.
'Je ne suis done pas simplement un etre sensitif et passif, mais un etre actif et intelligent, et
quoi qu'en dise la philosophie,j'oserai pretendre a l'honneur de penser, &c.'- EMILE, beginning
of the third, or end of the second volume. 33
65
than there is towards the other in the different seats of perception which they
severally affect, but there can be no reasonable attachment, no preference of/ the
one to the other in the same general principle of thought and action. And
consequently on this supposition if the objects or feelings are incompatible with
each other, I, or rather the different sensible beings within me will be drawn
different ways, each according to its own particular bias, blindly persisting in its
own choice without ever thinking of any other interest than its own, or being in
the least affected by any idea ofthe general good ofthe whole sentient being, which
would be a thing utterly incomprehensible. - To perceive relations, - if not to
choose between good and evil, to prefer a greater good to a less, a lasting to a
transient enjoyment belongs only to one mind, or spirit, the mind that is in man,
which is the centre in which all his thoughts meet, and the master-spring by which
all his actions are governed. Every thing is one in nature, and governed by an
absolute impulse. The mind of man alone is relative to other things, it represents
not itselfbut many / things existing out ofitself, it does not therefore represent the
truth by being sensible of one thing but many things (for nature, its object, is
manifold) and though the things themselves as they really exist cannot go out of
themselves into other things, or compromise their natures, there is no reason why
the mind which is merely representative should be confined to any one of them
more than to any other, and a perfect understanding should comprehend them all
as they are all contained in nature, or in all. No one object or idea therefore ought
to impel the mind for its own sake but as it is relative to other things, nor is a motive
true or natural in reference to the human mind merely because it exists, unless we
at the same suppose it to be stronger than all others.
But to return. I conceive first that volition necessarily implies thought or
foresight, that is, that it is not accounted for from mere association. All voluntary
action implies a view to consequences, a perception / of the analogy between
certain actions already given, and the particular action then to be employed, also a
knowledge of the connection between certain actions and the effects to be
produced by them; and lastly, a faculty of combining all these with particular
circumstances so as to be able to judge how far they are likely to impede or assist
the accomplishment of our purposes, in what manner it may be necessary to vary
our exertions according to the nature of the case, whether a greater or less degree
offorce is required to produce the effect, &c. Without this 'discourse ofreason,' 34
this circumspection and comparison, it seems to be as impossible for the human
mind to pursue any regular object as it would be for a man hemmed in on all sides
by the walls of houses and blind alleys to see his way clearly before him from one
end ofLondon to the other, or to go in a strait line from Westminster to Wapping.
One would think it would be sufficient to state the question in order to shew / that
mere association or the mechanical recurrence of any old impressions in a certain
order, which can never exactly correspond with the given circumstances, would
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never satisfactorily account (without the aid of some other faculty) for the
complexity and subtle windings and perpetual changes in the motives of human
action. On the hypothesis here spoken of, I could have no comprehensive idea of
things to check any immediate, passing impulse, nor should I be able to make any
inference with respect to the consequences of my actions whenever there was the
least alteration in the circumstances in which I must act. If however this general
statement does not convince those who are unwilling to be convinced on the
subject, I hope the nature of the objection will be made sufficiently clear in the
course of the argument.
Secondly, it is necessary to volition that we should suppose the imaginary or
general ideas ofthings to be efficient causes ofaction. It is implied in the theory we
are / combating that some sort of ideas are efficient motives to action, because
association itself consists of ideas. Habit can be nothing but the impulsive force of
certain physical impressions surviving in their ideas, and producing the same effects
as the original impressions themselves. Why then should we refuse to admit the
same, or a similar power in any ideas of the same kind, because they have been
combined by the imagination with different circumstances, or because a great many
different ideas have gone to make up one general feeling? Why, if the inherent
qualities ofthe ideas are not changed, should not the effects which depend on those
qualities be the same also? It cannot be pretended that there is something in the
nature of all ideas which renders them inadequate to the production of muscular
action, the one being a mental, the other a physical essence. For ideas are evidently
the instruments ofassociation, and must therefore one way or other be the efficient
causes of / voluntary action. The ideas of imagination and reason must be
analogous to those of memory and association, or they could not represent their
several objects, which is absurd. - It is to be remembered that the tendency of any
ideas to produce action cannot be ascribed in the first instance to the accidental
association between the original impression and some particular action, for the
action is an immediate and natural consequence of the impression, and would
equally follow from the same impression in any other circumstances, and ought to
follow from any other idea partaking ofthe same general nature and properties. The
proper effects of association can only apply to those cases, where an impression or
idea by being associated with another has acquired a power of exciting actions to
which it was itself perfectly indifferent. But this power cannot always be transferred
from one impression to another, for there must be some original impression which
/ has an inherent independent power to produce action.
I do not know how far the rules ofphilosophizing laid down by Sir Isaac Newton
apply to the question, but it appears to me an evident conclusion of common sense
not to seek for a remote and indirect cause of any effect where there is a direct and
obvious one. Whenever therefore a particular action follows a given impression, if
there is nothing in the impression itself incompatible with such an effect, it seems
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an absurdity to go about to deduce that action from some other impression, which
has no more right to its production than that which is immediately and obviously
connected with it. In general it may be laid down as a principle of all sound
reasoning that where there are many things actually existing which may be assigned
as the causes ofseveral known effects, it is best to divide those effects among them,
not arbitrarily to lay the whole weight of a complicated series of effects on the
shoulders of/ some one of them, generally singled out for no other reason than
because it is the most remote and therefore the least probable. For this there can be
no more reason than for supposing when I see a large building standing on a number
of pillars, that the whole of it is secretly upheld by some main pillar in the centre,
and that all the other pillars stand there for shew, not use. The principle that the
fewest causes possible are to be admitted is certainly not true in the abstract; and the
injudicious application of it has I think been productive of a great deal of false
reasoning. Unquestionably, where there is no appearance ofthe existence ofcertain
causes, they are to be admitted with caution: we are not fancifully to multiply them
ad libitum merely because we are not satisfied with those that do appear, much less
are we to multiply them gratuitously, without any reason at all. But where the
supposed causes actually exist, where they are known to exist, and have an obvious
connection with certain effects,/ why deprive any ofthese causes ofthe real activity
which they seem to possess to make some one of them real and stagger under a
weight of consequences which nature never meant to lay upon it? This mistaken
notion of simplicity has been the general fault of all system-makers, who are so
wholly taken up with some favourite hypothesis or principle, that they make that
the sole hinge on which every thing else turns, and forget that there is any other
power really at work in the universe, all other causes being set aside as false and
nugatory, or else resolved into that one. - There is another principle which has a
deep foundation in nature that has also served to strengthen the same feeling, which
is, that things never act alone, that almost every effect that can be mentioned is a
compound result ofa series ofcauses modifying one another, and that the true cause
ofany thing is therefore seldom to be looked for on the surface, or in the first distinct
agent that presents itsel£ / This principle consistently followed up does not however
lead to the supposition that the immediate and natural causes of things are nothing,
but that the most trifling and remote are something, it proves that the accumulated
weight of a long succession ofreal, efficient causes is generally far greater than that
of any one of them separately, not that the operation of the whole series is in itself
null and void but as the efficacy ofthe first sensible cause is transmitted downwards
by association through the whole chain. Association has been assumed as the leading
principle in the operations of the human mind, and then made the only one,
forgetting first that nature must be the foundation of every artificial principle, and
secondly that with respect to the result, even where association has had the greatest
influence, habit is at best but a half-worker with nature, for in proportion as the
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habit becomes inveterate we must suppose a greater number / ofactual impressions

to have concurred in producing it.*
Association may relate only to feelings, habit implies action, a disposition to do
something. Let us suppose then that it were possible to account in this way for all
those affections which relate to old objects, and ideas which depend on recalling
past feelings by looking back into our memories. But the moment you introduce
action (if it is any thing more than an involuntary repetition of certain motions
without either end or object, a mere trick, and absense of mind) this principle can
be of no use without the aid of some other faculty to enable us to apply old
associated feelings to new circumstances, and to give the will a new direction.
Mr Mac-Intosh in his public lectures used to deny the existence ofsuch a feeling
as general benevolence or humanity, on the ground that all our affections
necessarily / owe their rise to particular previous associations, and that they cannot
exist at all unless they have been excited before in the same manner by the same
objects. If I were disposed to enter particularly into this question, I might say in the
first place that such a feeling as general benevolence or kindness to persons whom
we have never seen or heard ofbefore does exist. I should not scruple to charge any
one who should deny this with the mala fides, with prevaricating either to himself,
or others. It is a maxim which these gentlemen' seem to be unacquainted with that
it is necessary to strain an hypothesis to make it fit the facts, not to deny the facts
because they do not square with the hypothesis. It generally happens, that, when
a metaphysical paradox is first started, it is thought sufficient by a vague and
plausible explanation to reconcile it tolerably well with known facts: afterwards it
is found to be a shorter way and savours more of a certain agreeable daring in
matters ofphilosophy / and dashes the spirit ofopposition sooner to deny the facts
on the strength of the hypothesis. - Independently however of all experimental
proof, the reasoning as it is applied confutes itself. It is said that habit is necessary
to produce affection. Now suppose this, in what sense is the principle true? If the
persons, feelings and actions must be exactly and literally the same in both cases,
there can be no such thing as habit: the same objects and circumstances that
influenced me to-day cannot possibly influence me to-morrow. Take the example
of a child to whose welfare the attention of the parent is constantly directed. The
simple wants of the child are never exactly the same in themselves, the accidental
circumstances with which they are combined are necessarily varying every
moment, nor are the sentiments and temper ofthe father less liable to constant and
imperceptible fluctuations. These subtle changes, however, and this dissimilarity in
subordinate circumstances do not/ prevent the father's affection for the child from
becoming an inveterate habit. If therefore it is merely an extraordinary degree of
resemblance in the objects which produces an extraordinary degree of strength in
* I here speak of association as distinct from imagination or the effects of novelty.
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the habitual affection, a more remote and imperfect resemblance in the objects
ought to produce proportionable effects. For example, the cries ofa stranger's child
in want of food are similar to those of his own when hungry, the expressions of
their countenances are similar, it is also certain that wholesome food will produce
similar effects upon both, &c. I am not here inquiring into the degree of interest
which the mind will feel for an entire stranger (though that question was well
answered long ago by the story of the Samaritan35 .) My object is to shew that as to
mere theory there is no essential difference between the two cases; that a continued
habit of kindness to the same person implies the same power in the mind as a
general disposition to feel for others in the same situation; / and that the attempt
to reason us out ofa sense ofright and wrong and make men believe that they can
only feel for themselves, or their immediate connections is not only an indecent but
a very bungling piece of sophistry. - The child's being personally the same has
nothing to do with the question. The idea of personal identity is a perfectly
generical and abstract idea, altogether distinct from association. Any other artificial,
and general connection between our ideas (as that ofthe same species) might as well
pass for association.
The commentators on Hartley have either not studied or not understood him.
Otherwise his system could not have been supposed to favour the doctrine of
selfishness. My quarrel with it is not that it proves any thing against the notion of
disinterestedness, but that it proves nothing. He supposes that the human mind is
neither naturally selfish, nor naturally benevolent; that we are equally indifferent to
our own future happiness or that of others, I and equally capable of becoming
interested in either according to circumstances. [See his account of the origin of
self-love, page 370.] The difference between this account, and the one I have
endeavoured to defend is that I suppose that the idea of any particular positive
known good either relating to ourselves or others is in itself an efficient motive to
action, whereas according to Hartley no idea either of our own interest or that of
others has the least tendency to produce any such effect except from association. He
infers that there is no essential, original desire of happiness in the human mind,
because this desire varies according to circumstances, or is different in different
persons, and in the same person at different times according to the humour he is in,
&c. This objection indeed holds true if applied to the desire of happiness as a
general indefinite unknown object, that is, to a necessary, mechanical, uniform
disposition in man as a metaphysical agent to the pursuit of good / as an abstract
essence without any regard to the manner in which it is impressed on his
imagination, to the knowledge which he can possibly have of any object as good,
or to his immediate disposition to be affected by it. I have however all along
contended that the desire of happiness is natural to the mind only in consequence
of the idea or knowledge of it, in the same manner that it is natural to the eye to
see when the object is presented to it; to which it is no objection that this organ is
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endued with different degrees of sharpness in different persons, or that we

sometimes see better than at others. Neither can I conceive how the associated
impulses, spoken of in the passage above referred to, without an inherent,
independent power in the ideas ofcertain objects to modify the will, and in the will
to influence our actions can ever in any instance whatever account for voluntary
action. I need not attempt to shew that the mechanical impulses to the pursuit of
our own good or that of any / other person derived from past associations cannot
be supposed to correspond exactly and uniformly with the particular successive
situations, in which it is necessary for us to act, often with a view to a great number
of circumstances, and for very complex ends. To suppose that the mechanical
tendencies impressed on the muscles by any particular series ofpast objects can only
require to be unfolded to produce regular and consistent action is like supposing
that a hand-organ may be set to play a voluntary, or that the same types will serve
without any alteration to print a column of a newspaper and a page of Tristram
Shandy. A child for instance in going into a strange house soon after he had learned
to walk would not be able to go from one room to another from the mere force of
habit, that is from yielding to, or rather being blindly carried forward by the
impulse of his past associations with respect to walking when at home. He would
run against the doors, get entangled among / the chairs, fall over the stair case: he
would commit more blunders with his eyes wide open than he would otherwise do
blind-folded. He would be worse off without his understanding than without his
sight. He might feel his way without his eyes, but without his understanding
neither his hands nor eyes would be of any use to him. He would be incorrigible
to falls and bruises. Whoever has seen a blind horse stagger against a wall and then
start back from it awkward and affrighted, may have some idea of the surprise
which we should constantly feel at the effects of our own actions, but not of the
obstinate stupidity with which we should persist in them.
To this it is replied, that the account here given does not include all the
associations which really take place: that the associations are general as well as
particular, that there is the association of the general idea of a purpose, of the words
to walk, to go forwards, &c. and that these general / associated ideas, and the feelings
connected with them are sufficient to carry the child forward to the place he has in
view according to its particular situation. Association they say does not imply that
the very same mechanical motions should be again excited in the same order in
which they were originally excited, for that long trains of active associations may
be transferred from one object to another from the accidental coincidence of a
single circumstance, from a vague abstraction, from a mere name. This principle
does not therefore resemble a book, but an alphabet, the loose chords from which
the hand of a master draws their accustomed sounds in what order he pleases, not
the machinery by which an instrument is made to play whole tunes ofitselfin a set
order.
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I have no objection to make to this account of association but that nothing will
follow from it, and that nothing is explained by it. Let us see how it will affect the
question in dispute. - We will/ therefore return once more to the case ofthe child
learning to walk. How then does this explanation account for his not running
against any object which stands in his way in the pursuit of a favourite plaything,
if he has not been used to meet with the same interruption before? Why does he
not go strait on in the old direction in which he has always followed it? - Because
he is afraid of the blow, which would be the consequence of his doing so, and he
therefore goes out ofhis way to avoid it. This supposes that he has met with blows
before, though not in running after his ball, nor from that particular object which
he dreads, nor from one situated in the same way, or connected with the same
associations. But this difference is of no importance according to the gloss: for it is
not necessary that his fear or the effort which it leads him to make should proceed
from the recollection ofa former blow recurring in its proper place, and stopping
him by mechanical sympathy, as it had/ actually done before, in the midst of his
career. He is stopped by the idea ofa pain which he has not yet felt, and which can
only affect him as a general, or representative idea of pain, the object being new,
and there being nothing in his past associations in the order in which they are
recalled by memory to produce the necessary action. Here then he evidently
constructs an artificial idea ofpain beyond his actual experience, or he takes the old
idea ofpain which subsisted in his memory, and connects it by that act ofthe mind
which we call imagination with an entirely new object; and thus tom out of its
place in the lists of memory, not strengthened by its connection with any old
associated ideas, nor moving on with the routine of habitual impulses, it does not
fail on that account to influence the will and through that the motions ofthe body.
- Now ifany one chooses to consider this as the effect ofassociation, he is at liberty
to do so. The same kind of association, however, / must apply to the interest we
take in the feelings ofothers, though perfect strangers to us, as well as to the interest
we feel for ourselves. All that can ever take place in the imaginary anticipation
either of our own feelings or those of others can be nothing more than some sort
oftransposition and modification ofthe old ideas ofmemory, or ifthere is any thing
peculiar to this act of the mind, it is equally necessary to our feeling any interest in
our own future impressions, or those ofothers. According to this account therefore
the old idea ofphysical pain must be called up whenever I see any other person in
the like danger, and the associated action along with it, just as much as if I were
exposed to the same danger myself This is I believe the doctrine of sympathy
advanced by Adam Smith in his 'Theory ofMoral Sentiments. ' 36 It is in fact neither
self-love nor benevolence, neither fear nor compassion, nor voluntary attachment
to any thing, but an unmeaning game of battledore / and shuttle-cock kept up
between the nerves and muscles. But it seems to me a much more rational way to
suppose that the idea does not lose its efficacy by being combined with different
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circumstances, that it retains the same general nature as the original impression, that
it therefore gives a new and immediate impulse to the mind, and that its tendency
to produce action is not entirely owing to the association between the original
impression, and a particular action, which it mechanically excites over again. First,
because the connection between the impression and action was not accidental but
necessary, and therefore the connection between the idea and action is not to be
attributed to association, but to the general nature of the human mind by which
similar effects follow from similar causes. Secondly, ifthe imaginary or general idea
were entirely powerless in itself except as a means ofexciting some former impulse
connected with physical pain, none but the very identical action formerly excited
could I result from it, that is if I could not avoid an object in the same way that I
had formerly done I should not attempt to avoid it at all, but remain quite helpless.
Thirdly, because the ideas offuture objects having no effect at all on my feelings or
actions, and the connection between the original associated impressions being the
strongest and most certain of all others, any particular train ofmechanical impulses
being once set in motion would necessarily go on in the old way unrestrained by
any idea of consequences till they were stopped again by actual pain. - It is plain
however that the activity of the understanding prevents this rough rebuke of
experience, that the will (and our actions with it) bends and turns and winds
according to every change of circumstances and impulse of imagination, that we
need only foresee certain evils as the consequences of our actions in order to avoid
them. The supposition that the idea of any particular motion necessary to a given
end, or of the different motions / which combined together constitute some
regular action is sufficient to produce that action by a subtle law of association can
only apply to those different motions after they are willed, not to the willing them.
That is, there must be a previous determination of the will, or feeling of remote
good connected with the idea of the action before it can have any effect. The idea
of any action must be in itself perfectly indifferent, being always advantageous,
useless, or mischievous according to circumstances. I cannot therefore see any
reason according to this hypothesis why I should will or be inclined to make any
exertions not originating in some mechanical impulse that happens to be strongest
at the time, merely because they may be necessary to avoid an imaginary evil which
of itself does not cause the slightest emotion in my mind: on the contrary, if the
barely thinking of any external action is always immediately to be followed by that
action without a particular warrant from the will, there / could be no such thing
as reasonable action among men, our actions would be more ridiculous than those
ofa monkey, or ofa man possessed with St Vitus's dance; they would resemble the
diseased starts and fits of a madman, not the actions of a reasonable being. We
should thrust our hands into the fire, dash our heads against the wall, leap down
precipices, and commit more absurdities every moment of our lives than were
performed by Don Quixote with so much labour and study by way of penance in
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the heart of the Brown Mountain. The momentum of the will is necessary to give
direction and constancy to any of our actions; and this again can only be
determined by the ideas of future good and evil, and the connection which the
mind perceives between certain actions, and the attainment of the one or the
prevention of the other. If our actions did not naturally slide into this track, if they
did not follow the direction of reason wherever it points the way, they must / fall
back again at every step into the old routine of blind mechanical impulse, and
headlong associations that neither hear, nor see, nor understand any thing. - Lastly
the terms general association mean nothing of themselves. I have done a particular
action with a certain purpose, or I have had in my mind at the time the general idea
of a purpose, of something useful, connected with my action. What has this to do
with my ability to perform any other action, be it ever so different, because it is also
connected with a purpose? The associated idea either of a particular purpose, or of
a purpose generally speaking can only have an immediate tendency to excite that
particular action, with which it was associated not any action whatever, merely
because it may have a connection with some remote good. So of any number of
actions. For let ever so many different actions have been associated with the idea of
a purpose, this will not in the least enable me to perform any intermediate action,
or to combine the / old actions in a different order with a view to a particular
purpose, unless we give to the idea of this particular purpose as a general idea of
good an absolute power to controul our actions, and force them into their proper
places. I grant indeed that having once admitted a direct power in ideas ofthe same
general nature to affect the will in the same manner we may by a parity ofreasoning
suppose that this power is capable of being transferred by association to the most
indifferent ideas, which, as far as they resemble one another, will operate as general
motives to action, or give a necessary bias to the will. But ifthis analogy holds with
respect to secondary and artificial motives which are not in their own nature allied
to action, surely it must hold much more with respect to the direct, original
motives themselves, the ideas ofgood and evil, where the power inheres in the very
nature ofthe object. My being led to perform different actions with which the same
abstract idea ofutility / is connected is not therefore properly owing to association,
but because any ideas or motives of the same kind whether derived from a new
impression, or made out by the imagination, or only general feelings must naturally
influence the will in the same manner, and this impulse being once given, the
understanding makes choice of such means as are perceived to be necessary to the
attainment ofthe given object. For, after all, the execution ofour purposes must be
left to the understanding. The simple or direct ideas of things might excite
emotion, volition, or action; but it would be the volition of the objects or feelings
themselves, not ofthe means necessary to produce them. Feeling alone is therefore
insufficient to the production ofvoluntary action. Neither is it to be accounted for
from association. The actual means necessary to the production of a given end are
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willed, not because those very means have been already associated with that
particular end (for this does not happen / once in a thousand times) but because
those means are known to be inseparable from the attainment of that end in the
given circumstances.
There is however another objection to the disinterested hypothesis, which was
long ago stated by Hobbes, Rochefoucault, 37 and the author of the Fable of the
Bees,38 and has been since adopted and glossed over by Helvetius. It is pretended
that in wishing to relieve the distresses of others we only wish to remove the
uneasiness which pity creates in our own minds, that all our actions are necessarily
selfish, as they all arise from some feeling of pleasure or pain existing in the mind
of the individual, and that whether we intend our own good or that of others, the
immediate gratification connected with the idea of any object is the sole motive
which determines us in the pursuit of it.
First, this objection does not at all affect the question in dispute. For if it is
allowed that the idea of the pleasures or pains of others excites an immediate
interest / in the mind, if we feel sorrow and anxiety for their imaginary distresses
exactly in the same way that we do for our own, and are impelled to action by the
same motives, whether the action has for its object our own good or that ofothers,
the nature ofman as a voluntary agent must be the same, the effect ofthe principle
impelling him must be the same, whether we call this principle self-love, or
benevolence, or whatever refinements we may introduce into our manner of
explaining it. The relation of man to himself and others as a moral being is plainly
determined, for whether a regard to the future welfare of himself and others is the
real, or only the ostensible motive of his actions, they all tend to one or other of
these objects. And to one as directly as the other, which is the only thing worth
inquiring about. All that can be meant by the most disinterested benevolence must
be this immediate sympathy with the feelings of others, and it could never be
supposed that man is more immediately / affected by the interests ofothers than he
can be even by his own. If by self-love we understand any thing beyond the
impulse ofthe present moment, it can be no more a mechanical thing than the most
refined and comprehensive benevolence. I only contend then that we are naturally
interested in the welfare of others in the same sense in which we are said to be
interested in our own future welfare. Self-love used in the sense which the above
objection implies must therefore mean something very different from an exclusive
principle of deliberate, calculating selfishness, which must render us indifferent to
every thing but own advantage, or from the love ofphysical pleasure and aversion
to physical pain, which would produce no interest in any but sensible impressions.
Supposing therefore that our most generous feelings and actions were equivocal,
the object only bearing a shew ofdisinterestedness, the motive being always selfish,
/ this would be no reason for rejecting the common use of the term disinterested
benevolence, which expresses nothing more than an immediate reference of our
75
actions to the good of others, as self-love expresses a conscious reference of them

to our own good, as means to an end. This is the proper meaning of the terms. If
there is any impropriety in the one, the other must be equally objectionable, the
same fallacy lurks under both.
Secondly, the objection is not true in itself, that is, I see no reason for resolving
the feelings of compassion, &c. into a principle of mechanical self-love. That the
motive to action exists in the mind ofthe person who acts is what no one can deny.
The passion excited and the impression producing it must necessarily affect the
individual. There must always be some one to feel and act, or there could be no
such thing as feeling or action.* It / cannot therefore be implied as a condition in
the love of others, that this love should not be felt by the person who loves them,
for this would be to say that he must love them and not love them at the same time,
which is palpable nonsense. This absurd inference, I say, could never be implied in
the common use ofthe terms, as it could never be imagined that in order to feel for
others, we must in reality feel nothing. This distinction proves clearly that it is
always the individual who loves, but not that he always loves himself; for it is to be
presumed that the word selfhas some meaning in it, and it would have absolutely
none at all, if nothing more were intended by it than any object or impression
existing in the mind. Self-love would merely signify the love ofsomething, and the
distinction between ourselves and others be quite confounded. It therefore
becomes necessary to set limits to the meaning of the term.
First, it may signify, as explained above, the love or affection excited by the/ idea
of our own good, and the conscious pursuit of it as a general, remote, ideal thing.
In this sense, that is considered with respect to the proposed end of our actions, I
have shewn sufficiently that there is no exclusive principle of self-love in the
human mind which constantly impels us to pursue our own advantage and nothing
but that, and that it must be equally absurd to consider either self-love or
benevolence as a physical operation,
Another sense of the term may be, that the indulgence of certain affections
necessarily tends without our thinking ofit to our immediate gratification, and that
the impulse to prolong a state ofpleasure and put a stop to whatever gives the mind
the least uneasiness is the real spring and overruling principle of our actions. No
matter whether the impression existing in my mind is a sensation or an idea,
whether it is an idea of my own good or that of another, its effect on the mind is
entirely owing to this involuntary attachment to / whatever contributes to my own
gratification, and aversion from actual pain. Or the mind is so constructed that
without forethought or any reflection on itselfit has a natural tendency to prolong
and heighten a state of pleasurable feeling, and instantly remove every painful
feeling. This tendency must be wholly unconscious the moment my own
* See preface to Butler's Sermons.
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gratification is indirectly adverted to by the mind as the consequence of indulging

certain feelings, and so becomes a distinct motive to action, it returns back into the
limits of deliberate, calculating selfishness; and it has been shewn that there is
nothing in the idea ofour own good which makes it a proper motive ofaction more
than that ofothers. There appears to be as little propriety in making the mechanical
tendency to our own good the foundation of human actions. In the first place, it
may be sufficient to deny the mere matter offact, that such is the natural disposition
of the human mind. We do not on every occasion / blindly consult the interest of
the moment, there is no instinctive, unerring bias to our own good, controuling all
other impulses, and guiding them to its own purposes. It is not true that in giving
way to the feelings either ofsympathy or rational self-interest (by one or other of
which feelings my actions are constantly governed*) I always yield to that impulse
which is accompanied with most pleasure at the time. It is true that I yield to the
strongest inclination, but not that my strongest inclination is to pleasure. The / idea
of the relief I may afford to a person in extreme distress is not necessarily
accompanied by a correspondent degree ofpleasurable sensation to counterbalance
the painful feeling his immediate distress occasions in my mind. It is certain that
sometimes the one and sometimes the other may prevail without altering my
purpose in the least: I am held to my purpose by the idea (which I cannot get rid
ot) ofwhat another suffers, and that is in my power to alleviate his suffering, not that
that idea is always the most agreeable contemplation I could have. The mind is
often haunted by painful images and recollections, not that we court their
company, but that we cannot shake them off, even though we strive to do it. Why
does a woman ofthe town always turn round to look at another finer than herself?
Why does the envious man torment himself by dwelling on the advantages of his
rival? Not from the pleasure it affords him. Why then should it be maintained that
the feelings/ ofcompassion, generosity, &c. cannot possibly actuate the mind, but
because and in as far as they contribute to our own satisfaction? Those who
willingly perform the most painful duties of friendship or humanity do not do this
from the immediate gratification attending it; it is as easy to turn away from a beggar
as to relieve him; and ifthe mind were not governed by a sense oftruth, and ofthe
real consequences of its actions, we should treat the distresses of others with the
same sort offeeling as we go to see a tragedy because we know that the pleasure will
be greater than the pain. There is indeed a false and bastard kind of feeling which
is governed altogether by a regard to this reaction of pity on our own minds, and
* As far as the love ofgood or happiness operates as a general principle ofaction, it is in this way.
I have supposed this principle to be at the bottom of all our actions, because I did not desire to
enter into the question. If I should ever finish the plan which I have begun, 39 I shall endeavour
to shew that the love of happiness even in the most general sense does not account for the
passions ofmen. The love of truth, and the love ofpower are I think distinct principles ofaction,
and mix with, and modify all our pursuits. See Butler as quoted above.
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which therefore serves more strongly to distinguish the true. So there is a false fear,
as well as a refined self-interest. We very often shrink from immediate pain, though
we know that it is necessary to our obtaining some important object; and at / other
times undergo the most painful operations in order to avoid some greater evil at a
distance. - In the sense which the objection implies, my love of another is not the
love of myself but as it operates to produce my own good. The mind is supposed
to be mechanically attached to, or to fly from every idea or impression simply as it
affects it with pleasure, or pain. And if this were the case, it might with some
propriety be said to be actuated by a principle of mechanical or practical self-love.
If however there is no such principle regulating my attachment to others by my
own convenience, very little foundation will be left for the mechanical theory. For,
secondly, the real question is, why do we sympathize with others at all? It seems we
are first impelled by self-love to feel uneasiness at the prospect of another's
suffering, in order that the same principle of tender concern for ourselves may
afterwards impel us to get rid of that uneasiness by endeavouring to prevent the
suffering which is the cause / of it. It is absurd to say that in compassionating the
distress ofothers we are only affected by our own pain or uneasiness, since this very
pain arises from our compassion. It is putting the effect before the cause. Before I
can be affected by my own pain, I must first be put in pain. Ifl am affected by, or
feel pain and sorrow at an idea existing in my mind, which idea is neither pain itself
nor an idea of my own pain, I wonder in what sense this can be called the love of
myself. Again, I am equally at a loss to conceive how if the pain which this idea
gives me does not impel me to get rid ofit as it gives me pain or as it actually affects
myselfas a distinct, momentary impression, but as it is connected with other ideas,
that is, is supposed to affect another, how I say this can be considered as the effect
of self-love. The object, effort or struggle ofthe mind is not to remove the idea or
immediate feeling of pain from the individual or to put a stop to that feeling as it
affects his / temporary interest, but to produce a disconnection (whatever it may
cost him) between certain ideas ofother things existing in his mind, namely the idea
ofpain, and the idea ofanother person. Self, mere physical self, is entirely forgotten
both practically and consciously. My own good is neither the exciting cause nor the
immediate result of the feeling by which I am actuated. I do not shrink from the
idea of the pain which another feels as it affects myself, but it excites repugnance,
uneasiness, or active aversion in my mind as it affects, or is connected with the idea
ofanother; and it is because I know that certain actions will prevent or remove that
pain from that other person according to the manner in which I have perceived
effects to be connected together in nature, that I will those actions for that purpose,
or that their ideas take hold ofmy mind, and affect it in such a manner as to produce
their volition. In short, the change which the mind endeavours to produce is /
power ofreflection, that is, a mind capable ofperceiving the consequences ofthings
beyond itself, and of being affected by them. To ask therefore whether if it were
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possible to get rid of my own uneasiness without supposing the uneasiness of

another to be removed I should wish to remove it, is foreign to the purpose, for it
is to suppose that the idea.of another's uneasiness is not an immediate object of
uneasiness to me, or that by making a distinction of reflection between the idea of
what another suffers, and the uneasiness it causes in me, the former will cease to
give me an uneasiness, which is a contradiction. A question might as well be put
whether if pleasure gave me pain, and pain pleasure, I should not like pain, and
dislike pleasure. So long as the idea ofwhat another suffers is a necessary source of
uneasiness to me, and the motive and guide ofmy actions, it is not true that my only
concern is for myself, or that I am governed solely by / a principle ofself-interest.
- The body has a mechanical tendency to shrink from physical pain: this may be
called mechanical self-love, because, though the good of the individual is not the
object of the action, it is the immediate and natural effect of it. The movement
which is dictated by nature is directly followed by the cessation of the pain by
which the individual was annoyed. The evil is completely removed with respect to
the individual, the moment the object is at a distance from him; but it only exists
as it affects the individual, it is therefore completely at an end when it ceases to affect
him. The only thing necessary therefore is to produce this change in the relation of
the body to the object; now this is the exact tendency of the impulse produced by
bodily pain, that is, it shrinks at the pain and from the object. The being does not
suffer a moment longer than he can help it: for there is nothing that should induce
him to remain in pain. The body is / not in the relation ofa certain painful idea to
itself as perceiving it, but in the relation of certain ideas of external things to one
another. If this is not sufficient to make the distinction intelligible, I cannot express
it any better. 'Oh, but' (it will be said) 'I cannot help feeling pain when I see another
in actual pain, or get rid ofthe idea by any other means than by relieving the person,
and knowing that it exists no longer.' But will this prove that my love of others is
regulated by my love of myself, or that my self-love is subservient to my love of
others? What hinders me from immediately removing the painful idea from my
mind but that my sympathy with others stands in the way of it? That this
independent attachment to the good of others is a natural, unavoidable feeling of
the human mind is what I do not wish to deny. It is also, ifyou will, a mechanical
feeling; but then it is neither a physical, nor a selfish mechanism. I see colours, hear
sounds, I feel heat, and cold, and believe that two and two make four by a certain
mechanism, or from the necessary structure of the human mind; but it does not
follow that all this has any thing to do with self-love. - One half of the process,
namely the connecting the sense ofpain with the idea ofit, is evidently contrary to
self-love; nor do I see any more reason for ascribing the uneasiness, or active
impulse which follows to that principle, since my own good is neither thought of
in it, nor does it follow from it except indirectly, slowly and conditionally. The
mechanical tendency to my own ease or gratification is so far from being the real
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spring or natural motive of compassion that it is constantly overruled and defeated

by it. If it should be answered that these restrictions and modifications of the
principle ofself-love are a necessary consequence ofthe nature ofa thinking being,
then I say that it is nonsense to talk ofmechanical self-love in connection with a /
not tied down to do penance under the discipline of external objects, till by
fulfilling certain conditions, from which it reaps no benefit, it obtains a release; all
its exertions tend immediately to its own relie£ The body (at least according to the
account here spoken of) is a machine so contrived, that, as far as depends on itself
it always tends to its own good, in the mind, on the contrary, there are numberless
lets and impediments that interfere with this object inseparable from its very nature;
the body strives to produce such alterations in its relation to other things as conduce
to its own advantage, the mind seeks to alter the relations of other things to one
another; the body loves its own good, for it tends to it, the understanding is not
governed solely by this principle, for it is constantly aiming at other objects. To
make the two cases of physical uneasiness, and compassion parallel, it would be
necessary to suppose either an involuntary tendency in the muscles to remove every
/ painful object from another through mechanical sympathy, or that the real object
of compassion was to remove the nervous uneasiness, occasioned by the idea of
another's pain, as an abstract sensation existing in my mind, totally unconnected
with the idea which gave rise to it.
Lastly, should any desperate metaphysician persist in affirming that my love of
others is still the love ofmyself because the impression exciting my sympathy must
exist in my mind and so be a part ofmyself, I should answer that this is using words
without affixing any distinct meaning to them. The love or affection excited by any
general idea existing in my mind can no more be said to be the love ofmyself than
the idea ofanother person is the idea ofmyself because it is I who perceive it. This
method ofreasoning, however, will not go a great way to prove the doctrine ofan
abstract principle of self-interest, for by the same rule it would follow that I hate
myselfin hating any / other person. Indeed upon this principle the whole structure
of language is a continued absurdity. Whatever can be made the object of our
thoughts must be a part ofourselves, the whole world is contained within us, I am
no longerJohn orJames, but every one that I know or can think of, I am the least
part of myself, my self-interest is extended as far as my thoughts can reach, I can
love no one but I must love myself in him, in hating others I also hate mysel£ In
this sense no one can so much as think of, much less love any one besides himself,
for he can only think of his own thoughts. If our generous feelings are thus to be
construed into selfishness, our malevolent ones must at least be allowed to be
disinterested, for they are directed against ourselves, that is against the ideas of
certain persons in our minds. Ifl can have no feelingfor any one but myself, I can
have no feeling about any one but mysel£ Suppose I am seized with a fit of rage
against / a man, and take up a knife to stab him, the quantity of malice, which
80
according to the common notion is here directed against another, must according
to this system fall upon myself I see a man sitting on the opposite side of a table,
towards whom I think I feel the greatest rancour, but in fact I only feel it against
myself For what is this man whom I think I see before me but an object existing
in my mind, and therefore a part of myself? The sword which I see is not a real
sword, but an image impressed on my mind; and the mental blow which I strike
with it is not aimed at another being out ofmyself, (for that is impossible) but at an
idea of my own, at the being whom I hate within myself, at myself If I am always
necessarily the object ofmy own thoughts and actions, I must hate, love, serve, or
stab myself as it happens. It is pretended by a violent assumption that benevolence
is only a desire to prolong the idea of another's pleasure in one's own mind, I
because that idea exists there: malevolence must therefore be a disposition to
prolong the idea of pain in one's own mind for the same reason, that is, to injure
one's self, for by this philosophy no one can have a single idea which does not refer
to, nor any impulse which does not originate in self - If by self-love be meant
nothing more than the attachment ofthe mind to any object or idea existing in it,
or the connection between any object or idea producing affection and the state of
mind produced by it, this is merely the common connection between cause and
effect, and the love of every thing must be the love ofmyself, for the love of every
thing must be the love ofthe object exciting it. On the contrary, ifby self-love be
meant my attachment to or interest in any object in consequence ofits affecting me
personally or from the stronger and more immediate manner in which certain
objects and impressions act upon me, then it cannot be affirmed without an
absurdity that all affection whatever is self-love. So ifl / see a man wounded, and
this sight occasions in me a painful feeling ofsympathy, I do not in this case feel for
myself, because between that idea or object impressed on my mind and the painful
feeling which follows there is no such positive connection as there is between the
infliction ofthe same wound on my own body; and the physical pain which follows
it. Will it be pretended by any one, on whose brain the intricacies of metaphysics
have not had the same effect as the reading of romances had on the renowned
knight ofLa Mancha, that a piece ofwood which I see a man cutting in pieces, and
so is an object existing in my mind, is a part of myself in the same sense as a leg or
an arm? For my own part, as I am not at all affected by the hacking and hewing
which this piece of wood receives, or all the blows with which it rings, which are
to me mere harmless flourishes in the air, it seems to me a very different thing. The
one idea is myselfin a simple, very abstract sense/ indeed, the other idea is myself
in the common emphatical sense, it is a reduplication or aggravation ofthe idea, the
object becomes myself by a double right, I am sensible in the object as well as to it.
I should say, then, that when the sight ofanother person wounded excites a feeling
of compassion in my mind, this is not a selfish feeling in any narrow or degrading
sense of the word, which is the only thing in dispute. (If selfishness is to mean
81
generosity, there is an end at once ofthe dispute.) And that for this plain reason, that
the connection between the visible impression and the feeling ofpain is ofa totally
different kind from the connection between the feeling of pain, and the same
wound when inflicted on my own body. The one is an affair ofsensation, the other
is entirely an affair ofimagination. My love ofothers cannot therefore be built upon
the love ofmyself, considering this last as the effect of'physical sensibility', and the
moment I we resolve self-love into the rational pursuit of a remote object, it has
been shewn that the same reasoning applies to both, and that the love ofothers has
the same necessary foundation in the human mind as the love of ourselves.
THE END
82
<tbaractns
OF
SHAKESPEAR'S PLAYS.
BY WILLIAM HAZLITT.
LONDON:
Ptint,d by C.H. Reynell, 21, Piccadilly,
FOR R. HUNTER, SUCCESSOR TO MR. JOHNSON,
IN ST, PAUL'S CHVRCH•YARI>;
AND C. AND J. OLLIER,

\VELBECK-STREET, CAVBNDISH•SQVARE.
1817.
CHARLES LAMB, EsQ.
THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED, AS A MARK OF
OLD FRIENDSHIP
AND LASTING ESTEEM,
BY THE AUTHOR.
[vii/viii]
Preface
It is observed by Mr Pope, that 'If ever any author deserved the name ofan original
it was Shakespear. Homer himself drew not his art so immediately from the
fountains of nature; it proceeded through }Egyptian strainers and channels, and
came to him not without some tincture ofthe learning, or some cast ofthe models,
ofthose before him. The poetry ofShakespear was inspiration: indeed, he is not so
much an imitator, as an instrument of nature; and it is not so just to say that he
speaks from her, as that she speaks through him.
'His characters are so much nature herself, that it is a sort ofinjury to call them by
so distant a name as copies of her. Those of other poets have a constant
resemblance, which shews that they received them from one another, and were but
multipliers of the same image: each / picture, like a mock-rainbow, is but the
reflection of a reflection. But every single character in Shakespear, is as much an
individual, as those in life itself; it is as impossible to find any two alike; and such,
as from their relation or affinity in any respect appear most to be twins, will, upon
comparison, be found remarkably distinct. To this life and variety of character, we
must add the wonderful preservation ofit; which is such throughout his plays, that
had all the speeches been printed without the very names of the persons, I believe
one might have applied them with certainty to every speaker.' 1
The object ofthe volume here offered to the public, is to illustrate these remarks
in a more particular manner by a reference to each play. A gentleman of the name
of Mason,2 the author of a Treatise on Ornamental Gardening, (not Mason the
poet) 3 began a work of a similar kind about forty years ago, but he only lived to
finish a parallel between the characters of Macbeth and Richard III which is an
exceedingly ingenious piece of analytical criticism. Richardson's Essays4 include
but a few of Shakespear's principal characters. The only work which seemed to
supersede the necessity ofan attempt like the present was Schlegel's very admirable
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[viii/xi] SELECTED WRITINGS OF WILLIAM HAZLITT:VOLUME 1
Lectures on the Drama,5 which give by far the best account of the plays of
Shakespear that has hitherto appeared. The only / circumstances in which it was
thought not impossible to improve on the manner in which the German critic has
executed this part ofhis design, were in avoiding an appearance ofmysticism in his
style, not very attractive to the English reader, and in bringing illustrations from
particular passages of the plays themselves, of which Schlegel's work, from the
extensiveness ofhis plan, did not admit. We will at the same time confess, that some
little Jealousy of the character of the national understanding was not without its
share in producing the following undertaking, for 'we were piqued' that it should
be reserved for a foreign critic to give 'reasons for the faith which we English have
in Shakespear.' Certainly no writer among ourselves has shewn either the same
enthusiastic admiration of his genius, or the same philosophical acuteness in
pointing out his characteristic excellences. As we have pretty well exhausted all we
had to say upon this subject in the body of the work, we shall here transcribe
Schlegel's general account of Shakespear, which is in the following words: -
'Never, perhaps, was there so comprehensive a talent for the delineation of
character as Shakespear's. It not only grasps the diversities of rank, sex, and age,
down to the dawnings of infancy; not only do the king and the beggar,/ the hero
and the pickpocket, the sage and the idiot speak and act with equal truth; not only
does he transport himself to distant ages and foreign nations, and pourtray in the
most accurate manner, with only a few apparent violations ofcostume, the spirit of
the ancient Romans, of the French in their wars with the English, of the English
themselves during a great part of their history, of the Southern Europeans (in the
serious part of many comedies) the cultivated society of that time, and the former
rude and barbarous state of the North; his human characters have not only such
depth and precision that they cannot be arranged under classes, and are
inexhaustible, even in conception: - no - this Prometheus not merely forms men,
he opens the gates of the magical world of spirits; calls up the midnight ghost;
exhibits before us his witches amidst their unhallowed mysteries; peoples the air
with sportive fairies and sylphs; - and these beings, existing only in imagination,
possess such truth and consistency, that even when deformed monsters like
Caliban, he extorts the conviction, that if there should be such beings, they would
so conduct themselves. In a word, as he carries with him the most fruitful and
daring fancy into the kingdom ofnature, - on the other hand, he carries nature into
the regions of fancy, lying beyond the confines of / reality. We are lost in
astonishment at seeing the extraordinary, the wonderful, and the unheard of, in
such intimate nearness.
'If Shakespear deserves our admiration for his characters, he is equally deserving
of it for his exhibition of passion, taking this word in its widest signification, as
including every mental condition, every tone from indifference or familiar mirth to
the wildest rage and despair. He gives us the history ofminds; he lays open to us, in
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CHARACTERS OF SHAKESPEAR'S PLAYS [xi/xiii]
a single word, a whole series of preceding conditions. His passions do not at first
stand displayed to us in all their height, as is the case with so many tragic poets, who,
in the language ofLessing, 6 are thorough masters ofthe legal style oflove. He paints,
in a most inimitable manner, the gradual progress from the first origin. "He gives,"
as Lessing says, "a living picture ofall the most minute and secret artifices by which
a feeling steals into our souls; of all the imperceptible advantages which it there
gains; of all the stratagems by which every other passion is made subservient to it,
till it becomes the sole tyrant ofour desires and our aversions." Ofall poets, perhaps,
he alone has pourtrayed the mental diseases, - melancholy, delirium, lunacy, - with
such inexpressible, and, in every respect, definite truth, that the physician may
enrich his observations from them in the same manner as from real cases. /
'And yet Johnson has objected to Shakespear, that his pathos is not always natural
and free from affectation. 7 There are, it is true, passages, though comparatively
speaking, very few, where his poetry exceeds the bounds of true dialogue, where
a too soaring imagination, a too luxuriant wit, rendered the complete dramatic
forgetfulness of himself impossible. With this exception, the censure originates
only in a fanciless way ofthinking, to which every thing appears unnatural that does
not suit its own tame insipidity. Hence, an idea has been formed of simple and
natural pathos, which consists in exclamations destitute of imagery, and nowise
elevated above every-day life. But energetical passions electrify the whole of the
mental powers, and will, consequently, in highly favoured natures, express
themselves in an ingenious and figurative manner. It has been often remarked, that
indignation gives wit; and, as despair occasionally breaks out into laughter, it may
sometimes also give vent to itself in antithetical comparisons.
'Besides, the rights ofthe poetical form have not been duly weighed. Shakespear,
who was always sure ofhis object, to move in a sufficiently powerful manner when
he wished to do so, has occasionally, by indulging in a freer play, purposely
moderated the impressions when too painful, and immediately introduced a
musical/ alleviation ofour sympathy. He had not those rude ideas ofhis art which
many modems seem to have, as if the poet, like the clown in the proverb, must
strike twice on the same place. An ancient rhetorician delivered a caution against
dwelling too long on the excitation of pity; for nothing, he said, dries so soon as
tears; and Shakespear acted conformably to this ingenious maxim, without
knowing it.
'The objection, that Shakespear wounds our feelings by the open display of the
most disgusting moral odiousness, harrows up the mind unmercifully, and tortures
even our senses by the exhibition of the most insupportable and hateful spectacles,
is one ofmuch greater importance. He has never, in fact, varnished over wild and
blood-thirsty passions with a pleasing exterior, - never clothed crime and want of
principle with a false show of greatness of soul; and in that respect he is every way
deserving ofpraise. Twice he has pourtrayed downright villains; and the masterly
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[xiii/xvi] SELECTED WRITINGS OF WILLIAM HAZLITT:VOLUME 1
way in which he has contrived to elude impressions oftoo painful a nature, may be
seen in Iago and Richard the Third. The constant reference to a petty and puny
race must cripple the boldness ofthe poet. Fortunately for his art, Shakespear lived
in an age extremely susceptible ofnoble and tender impressions, but which had still
enough of the firmness inherited from a vigorous olden time not to shrink back /
with dismay from every strong and violent picture. We have lived to see tragedies
of which the catastrophe consists in the swoon of an enamoured princess. If
Shakespear falls occasionally into the opposite extreme, it is a noble error,
originating in the fulness of a gigantic strength: and yet this tragical Titan, who
storms the heavens, and threatens to tear the world from off its hinges; who, more
terrible than .tEschylus, makes our hair stand on end, and congeals our blood with
horror, possessed, at the same time, the insinuating loveliness of the sweetest
poetry. He plays with love like a child; and his songs are breathed out like melting
sighs. He unites in his genius the utmost elevation and the utmost depth; and the
most foreign, and even apparently irreconcileable properties subsist in him
peaceably together. The world ofspirits and nature have laid all their treasures at his
feet. In strength a demi-god, in profundity ofview a prophet, in all-seeing wisdom
a protecting spirit ofa higher order, he lowers himself to mortals, as ifunconscious
of his superiority: and is as open and unassuming as a child.
'Shakespear's comic talent is equally wonderful with that which he has shown in
the pathetic and tragic: it stands on an equal elevation, and possesses equal extent
and profundity. All that I before wished was, not to admit that / the former
preponderated. He is highly inventive in comic situations and motives. It will be
hardly possible to show whence he has taken any of them; whereas, in the serious
part ofhis drama, he has generally laid hold ofsomething already known. His comic
characters are equally true, various, and profound, with his serious. So little is he
disposed to caricature, that we may rather say many ofhis traits are almost too nice
and delicate for the stage, that they can only be properly seized by a great actor, and
fully understood by a very acute audience. Not only has he delineated many kinds
of folly; he has also contrived to exhibit mere stupidity in a most diverting and
entertaining manner.' Vol. ii. p. 145.
We have the rather availed ourselves ofthis testimony ofa foreign critic in behalf
of Shakespear, because our own countryman, Dr Johnson, has not been so
favourable to him. It may be said ofShakespear, that 'those who are not for him are
against him:' 8 for indifference is here the height of injustice. We may sometimes,
in order 'to do a great right, do a little wrong. ' 9 An overstrained enthusiasm is more
pardonable with respect to Shakespear than the want of it; for our admiration
cannot easily surpass his genius. We have a high respect for DrJohnson's character
and understanding, mixed with something like personal attachment: but he was /
neither a poet nor a judge ofpoetry. He might in one sense be a judge ofpoetry as
it falls within the limits and rules ofprose, but not as it is poetry. Least ofall was he
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CHARACTERS OF SHAKESPEAR'S PLAYS [xvi/xviii]
qualified to be a judge of Shakespear, who 'alone is high fantastical. ' 10 Let those
who have a prejudice against Johnson read Boswell's Life ofhim: 11 as those whom
he has prejudiced against Shakespear should read his Irene. 12 We do not say that a
man to be a critic must necessarily be a poet: but to be a good critic, he ought not
to be a bad poet. Such poetry as a man deliberately writes, such, and such only will
he like. Dr Johnson's Preface to his edition of Shakespear looks like a laborious
attempt to bury the characteristic merits of his author under a load of cumbrous
phraseology, and to weigh his excellences and defects in equal scales, stuffed full of
'swelling figures and sonorous epithets.' 13 Nor could it well be otherwise; Dr
Johnson's general powers of reasoning overlaid his critical susceptibility. All his
ideas were cast in a given mould, in a set form: they were made out by rule and
system, by climax, inference, and antithesis: - Shakespear's were the reverse.
Johnson's understanding dealt only in round numbers: the fractions were lost upon
him. He reduced every thing to the common standard of conventional propriety;
and the most exquisite refinement or sublimity produced / an effect on his mind,
only as they could be translated into the language of measured prose. To him an
excess of beauty was a fault; for it appeared to him like an excrescence; and his
imagination was dazzled by the blaze oflight. His writings neither shone with the
beams of native genius, nor reflected them. The shifting shapes of fancy, the
rainbow hues of things, made no impression on him: he seized only on the
permanent and tangible. He had no idea of natural objects but 'such as he could
measure with a two-foot rule, ortell upon ten fingers:' 14 he judged ofhuman nature
in the same way, by mood and figure: he saw only the definite, the positive, and the
practical, the average forms of things, not their striking differences - their classes,
not their degrees. He was a man of strong common sense and practical wisdom,
rather than of genius or feeling. He retained the regular, habitual impressions of
actual objects, but he could not follow the rapid flights of fancy, or the strong
movements ofpassion. That is, he was to the poet what the painter ofstill life is to
the painter of history. Common sense sympathizes with the impressions of things
on ordinary minds in ordinary circumstances: genius catches the glancing
combinations presented to the eye offancy, under the influence ofpassion. It is the
province of the didactic reasoner to take cognizance of those / results of human
nature which are constantly repeated and always the same, which follow one
another in regular succession, which are acted upon by large classes of men, and
embodied in received customs, laws, language, and institutions; and it was in
arranging, comparing, and arguing on these kind of general results, that Johnson's
excellence lay. But he could not quit his hold of the common-place and
mechanical, and apply the general rule to the particular exception, or shew how the
nature ofman was modified by the workings ofpassion, or the infinite fluctuations
of thought and accident. Hence he could judge neither of the heights nor depths
ofpoetry. Nor is this all; for being conscious of great powers in himself, and those
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[xviii/xx) SELECTED WRITINGS OF WILLIAM HAZLITT: VOLUME 1
powers of an adverse tendency to those of his author, he would be for setting up

a foreign jurisdiction over poetry, and making criticism a kind of Procrustes' bed
of genius, where he might cut down imagination to matter-of-fact, regulate the
passions according to reason, and translate the whole into logical diagrams and
rhetorical declamation. Thus he says ofShakespear's characters, in contradiction to
what Pope had observed, and to what every one else feels, that each character is a
species, instead of being an individual. He in fact found the general species or
didactic form in Shakespear's characters, which was all he sought or cared for; he /
did not find the individual traits, or the dramatic distinctions which Shakespear has
engrafted on this general nature, because he felt no interest in them. Shakespear's
bold and happy flights ofimagination were equally thrown away upon our author.
He was not only without any particular fineness of organic sensibility, alive to all
the 'mighty world of ear and eye,' 15 which is necessary to the painter or musician,
but without that intenseness of passion, which, seeking to exaggerate whatever
excites the feelings ofpleasure or power in the mind, and moulding the impressions
of natural objects according to the impulses ofimagination, produces a genius and
a taste for poetry. According to Dr Johnson, a mountain is sublime, or a rose is
beautiful; for that their name and definition imply. But he would no more be able
to give the description ofDover cliff in Lear, 16 or the description offlowers in The
Winter's Tale, 17 than to describe the objects of a sixth sense; nor do we think he
would have any very profound feeling of the beauty of the passages here referred
to. A stately common-place, such as Congreve's description of a ruin in the
Mourning Bride, 18 would have answered Johnson's purpose just as well, or better
than the first; and an indiscriminate profusion of scents and hues would have
interfered less with the ordinary/ routine of his imagination than Perdita's lines,
which seem enamoured of their own sweetness -
Daffodils
That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty; violets dim,
But sweeter than the lids ofJuno's eyes
Or Cytherea's breath.' -
No one who does not feel the passion which these objects inspire can go along
with the imagination which seeks to express that passion and the uneasy sense of
delight accompanying it by something still more beautiful, and no one can feel this
passionate love of nature without quick natural sensibility. To a mere literal and
formal apprehension, the inimitably characteristic epithet, 'violets dim,' must seem
to imply a defect, rather than a beauty; and to any one, not feeling the full force of
that epithet, which suggests an image like 'the sleepy eye oflove,' 19 the allusion to
'the lids ofJuno's eyes' must appear extravagant and unmeaning. Shakespear's fancy
lent words and images to the most refined sensibility to nature, struggling for
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CHARACTERS OF SHAKESPEAR'S PLAYS [xx/xxiii]
expression: his descriptions are identical with the things themselves, seen through
the fine medium ofpassion: strip them ofthat connection, and try them by ordinary
conceptions and ordinary rules, and they are as grotesque and barbarous as / you
please! - By thus lowering Shakespear's genius to the standard of common-place
invention, it was easy to shew that his faults were as great as his beauties; for the
excellence, which consists merely in a conformity to rules, is counterbalanced by the
technical violation of them. Another circumstance which led to Dr Johnson's
indiscriminate praise or censure of Shakespear, is the very structure of his style.
Johnson wrote a kind of rhyming prose, in which he was as much compelled to
finish the different clauses of his sentences, and to balance one period against
another, as the writer of heroic verse is to keep to lines often syllables with similar
terminations. He no sooner acknowledges the merits of his author in one line than
the periodical revolution of his style carries the weight of his opinion completely
over to the side of objection, thus keeping up a perpetual alternation ofperfections
and absurdities. We do not otherwise know how to account for such assertions as
the following: - 'In his tragic scenes, there is always something wanting, but his
comedy often surpasses expectation or desire. His comedy pleases by the thoughts
and the language, and his tragedy, for the greater part, by incident and action. His
tragedy seems to be skill, his comedy to be instinct.' 20 Yet after saying that 'his
tragedy was skill' he affirms in the next/ page, 'His declamations or set speeches are
commonly cold and weak,for his power was the power ofnature: when he endeavoured,
like other tragic writers, to catch opportunities of amplification, and instead of
inquiring what the occasion demanded, to shew how much his stores ofknowledge
could supply, he seldom escapes without the pity or resentment ofhis reader. ' 21 Poor
Shakespear! Between the charges here brought against him, ofwant ofnature in the
first instance, and of want of skill in the second, he could hardly escape being
condemned. And again, 'But the admirers of this great poet have most reason to
complain when he approaches nearest to his highest excellence, and seems fully
resolved to sink them in dejection, or mollify them with tender emotions by the fall
ofgreatness, the danger of innocence, or the crosses oflove. What he does best, he
soon ceases to do. He no sooner begins to move than he counteracts himself; and
terror and pity, as they are rising in the mind, are checked and blasted by sudden
frigidity.' 22 In all this, our critic seems more bent on maintaining the equilibrium of
his style than the consistency or truth ofhis opinions. - IfDrJohnson's opinion was
right, the following observations on Shakespear' s Plays must be greatly exaggerated,
ifnot ridiculous. Ifhe was wrong, what has been said / may perhaps account for his
being so, without detracting from his ability and judgment in other things.
It is proper to add, that the account ofthe Midsummer Night's Dream has appeared
in another work. *23
April 15, 1817.
* A few alterations and corrections have been inserted in the present edition.
91
Cymbeline
Cymbeline is one of the most delightful of Shakespear's historical plays. It may be

considered as a dramatic romance, in which the most striking parts ofthe story are
thrown into the form of a dialogue, and the intermediate circumstances are
explained by the different speakers, as occasion renders it necessary. The action is
less concentrated in consequence; but the interest becomes more aerial and refined
from the principle of perspective introduced into the subject by the imaginary
changes of scene, as well as by the length of time it occupies. The reading of this
play is like going a journey with some uncertain object at the end ofit, and in which
the suspense is kept up and heightened by the long intervals between each action.
Though the events are scattered over such an extent of surface, and relate to such
a variety of characters, / yet the links which bind the different interests of the story
together are never entirely broken. The most straggling and seemingly casual
incidents are contrived in such a manner as to lead at last to the most complete
developement of the catastrophe. The ease and conscious unconcern with which
this is effected only makes the skill more wonderful. The business of the plot
evidently thickens in the last act: the story moves forward with increasing rapidity
at every step; its various ramifications are drawn from the most distant points to the
same centre; the principal characters are brought together, and placed in very
critical situations; and the fate of almost every person in the drama is made to
depend on the solution of a single circumstance - the answer of Iachimo to the
question of Imogen respecting the obtaining of the ring from Posthumus. Dr
Johnson is ofopinion that Shakespear was generally inattentive to the winding-up
ofhis plots. 1 We think the contrary is true; and we might cite in proofofthis remark
not only the present play, but the conclusion of Lear, of Romeo andJuliet, ofMacbeth,
of Othello, even of Hamlet, and of other plays ofless moment, in which the last act
is crowded with decisive events brought about by natural and striking means.
The pathos in Cymbeline is not violent or tragical, but of the most pleasing and
amiable / kind. A certain tender gloom overspreads2 the whole. Posthumus is the
ostensible hero of the piece, but its greatest charm is the character of Imogen.
Posthumus is only interesting from the interest she takes in him; and she is only
interesting herself from her tenderness and constancy to her husband. It is the
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CYMBELINE [3/5]
peculiar excellence of Shakespear's heroines, that they seem to exist only in their
attachment to others. They are pure abstractions ofthe affections. We think as little
of their persons as they do themselves, because we are let into the secrets of their
hearts, which are more important. We are too much interested in their affairs to
stop to look at their faces, except by stealth and at intervals. No one ever hit the true
perfection ofthe female character, the sense ofweakness leaning on the strength of
its affections for support, so well as Shakespear- no one ever so well painted natural
tenderness free from affectation and disguise - no one else ever so well shewed how
delicacy and timidity, when driven to extremity, grow romantic and extravagant;
for the romance of his heroines (in which they abound) is only an excess of the
habitual prejudices of their sex, scrupulous of being false to their vows, truant to
their affections, and taught by the force of feeling when to forego the forms of
propriety for the essence ofit. His / women were in this respect exquisite logicians;
for there is nothing so logical as passion. They knew their own minds exactly; and
only followed up a favourite purpose, which they had sworn to with their tongues,
and which was engraven on their hearts, into its untoward consequences. They
were the prettiest little set of martyrs and confessors on record. - Cibber, in
speaking of the early English stage, accounts for the want of prominence and
theatrical display in Shakespear's female characters from the circumstance, that
women in those days were not allowed to play the parts ofwomen, which made it
necessary to keep them a good deal in the back-ground. 3 Does not this state of
manners itself, which prevented their exhibiting themselves in public, and confined
them to the relations and charities ofdomestic life, afford a truer explanation ofthe
matter? His women are certainly very unlike stage-heroines; the reverse oftragedy-
queens.
We have almost as great an affection for Imogen as she had for Posthumus, and
she deserves it better. Ofall Shakespear's women she is perhaps the most tender and
the most artless. Her incredulity in the opening scene with Iachimo, as to her
husband's infidelity, is much the same as Desdemona's backwardness to believe
Othello's jealousy. Her answer to the most/ distressing part of the picture is only,
'My lord, I fear, has forgot Britain.' 4 Her readiness to pardon Iachimo's false
imputations and his designs against herself, is a good lesson to prudes; and may shew
that where there is a real attachment to virtue, it has no need to bolster itself up with
an outrageous or affected antipathy to vice. The scene in which Pisanio gives
Imogen his master's letter, accusing her of incontinency on the treacherous
suggestions of Iachimo, is as touching as it is possible for any thing to be: -
Pisanio. What cheer, Madam?

Imogen. False to his bed! What is it to be false?
To lie in watch there, and to think on him?
To weep 'twixt clock and clock? If sleep charge nature,
To break it with a fearful dream of him,
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And cry myself awake? That's false to's bed, is it?

Pisanio. Alas, good lady!
Imogen. I false? thy conscience witness, Iachimo,
Thou didst accuse him of incontinency,
Thou then look'dst like a villain: now methinks,
thy favour's good enough. Some Jay ofltaly,
Whose mother was her painting, hath betray' d him:
Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion,
And for I am richer than to hang by th' walls,
I must be ript; to pieces with me. Oh,
Men's vows are women's traitors. All good seeming
By thy revolt, oh husband, shall be thought
Put on for villainy: not born where't grows,
But worn a bait for ladies.
Pisanio. Good Madam, hear me - /
Imogen. Talk thy tongue weary, speak:
I have heard I am a strumpet, and mine ear,
Therein false struck, can take no greater wound,
Nor tent to bottom that.-5
When Pisanio, who had been charged to kill his mistress, puts her in a way to live,
she says,
Why, good fellow,

What shall I do the while? Where bide? How live?
Or in my life what comfort, when I am
Dead to my husband?6
Yet when he advises her to disguise herselfin boy's clothes, and suggests 'a course
pretty and full in view,' by which she may 'happily be near the residence of
Posthumus,' she exclaims,
Oh, for such means,

Though peril to my modesty, not death on't;
I would adventure. 7
And when Pisanio, enlarging on the consequences, tells her she must change
Fear and niceness,

The handmaids of all women, or more truly,
Woman its pretty self, into a waggish courage,
Ready in gibes, quick-answer'd, saucy, and
As quarrellous as the weazel-8
she interrupts him hastily -
Nay, be brief;
I see into thy end, and am almost
A man already. 9 /
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CYMBELINE [7/8]
In herjourney thus disguised to Milford-Haven, she loses her guide and her way;
and unbosoming her complaints, says beautifully -
My dear lord,
Thou art one of the false ones; now I think on thee,
My hunger's gone; but even before, I was
At point to sink for food. 10
She afterwards finds, as she thinks, the dead body of Posthumus, and engages
herself as a footboy to serve a Roman officer, when she has done all due obsequies
to him whom she calls her former master
And when
With wild wood-leaves and weeds I ha' strew'd his grave,
And on it said a century of pray'rs,
Such as I can, twice o'er, I'll weep and sigh,
And leaving so his service, follow you,
So please you entertain me. 11
Now this is the very religion oflove. She all along relies little on her personal
charms, which she fears may have been eclipsed by some painted Jay ofltaly; she
relies on her merit, and her merit is in the depth of her love, her truth and
constancy. Our admiration of her beauty is excited with as little consciousness as
possible on her part. There are two delicious descriptions given of her, one when
she is asleep, and one when she is supposed dead. Arviragus thus addresses her - /
With fairest flowers,

While summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele,
I'll sweeten thy sad grave; thou shalt not lack
The flow'r that's like thy face, pale primrose, nor
The azur' d hare-bell, like thy veins, no, nor
The leaf of eglantine, which not to slander,
Out-sweeten'd not thy breath. 12
The yellow Iachimo gives another thus, when he steals into her bedchamber: -
Cytherea;
How bravely thou becom'st thy bed! Fresh lily,
And whiter than the sheets! That I might touch -
But kiss, one kiss - 'Tis her breathing that
Perfumes the chamber thus: the flame o' th' taper
Bows toward her, and would under-peep her lids
To see th' enclosed lights now canopied
Under the windows, white and azure, laced
With blue of Heav'ns own tinct - on her left breast
A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops
I' th' bottom of a cowslip. 13
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There is a moral sense in the proud beauty of this last image, a rich surfeit of the
fancy, - as that well-known passage beginning, 'Me of my lawful pleasure she
restrained, and prayed me oft forbearance,' 14 sets a keener edge upon it by the
inimitable picture of modesty and self-denial.
The character of Cloten, the conceited, booby lord, and rejected lover of
Imogen, though not very agreeable in itself, and at present obsolete, is drawn with
much humour and quaint extravagance. / The description which Imogen gives of
his unwelcome addresses to her - 'Whose love-suit hath been to me as fearful as a
siege' 15 - is enough to cure the most ridiculous lover of his folly. It is remarkable
that though Cloten makes so poor a figure in love, he is described assuming an air
of consequence as the Queen's son in a council of state, and with all the absurdity
of his person and manners, is not without shrewdness in his observations. So true
is it that folly is as often owing to a want of proper sentiments as to a want of
understanding! The exclamation ofthe ancient critic - Oh Menander and Nature,
which of you copied from the other!1 6 would not be misapplied to Shakespear.
The other characters in this play are represented with great truth and accuracy,
and as it happens in most ofthe author's works, there is not only the utmost keeping
in each separate character; but in the casting ofthe different parts, and their relation
to one another, there is an affinity and harmony, like what we may observe in the
gradations of colour in a picture. The striking and powerful contrasts in which
Shakespear abounds could not escape observation; but the use he makes of the
principle ofanalogy to reconcile the greatest diversities ofcharacter and to maintain
a continuity of feeling throughout, has not been sufficiently attended to. In
Cymbeline, for instance, the principal / interest arises out of the unalterable fidelity
of Imogen to her husband under the most trying circumstances. Now the other
parts of the picture are filled up with subordinate examples of the same feeling,
variously modified by different situations, and applied to the purposes of virtue or
vice. The plot is aided by the amorous importunities ofCloten, by the persevering
determination oflachimo to conceal the defeat ofhis project by a daring imposture:
the faithful attachment of Pisanio to his mistress is an affecting accompaniment to
the whole; the obstinate adherence to his purpose in Bellarius, who keeps the fate
of the young princes so long a secret in resentment for the ungrateful return to his
former services, the incorrigible wickedness of the Queen, and even the blind
uxorious confidence ofCymbeline, are all so many lines ofthe same story, fending
to the same point. The effect of this coincidence is rather felt than observed; and
as the impression exists unconsciously in the mind ofthe reader, so it probably arose
in the same manner in the mind ofthe author, not from design, but from the force
of natural association, a particular train of thought suggesting different inflections
ofthe same predominant feeling, melting into, and strengthening one another, like
chords in music.
The characters ofBellarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus, and the romantic scenes in
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CYMBELINE [10/12]
which/ they appear, are a fine relief to the intrigues and artificial refinements ofthe
court from which they are banished. Nothing can surpass the wildness and
simplicity of the descriptions of the mountain life they lead. They follow the
business of huntsmen, not of shepherds; and this is in keeping with the spirit of
adventure and uncertainty in the rest ofthe story, and with the scenes in which they
are afterwards called on to act. How admirably the youthful fire and impatience to
emerge from their obscurity in the young princes is opposed to the cooler
calculations and prudent resignation of their more experienced counsellor! How
well the disadvantages ofknowledge and of ignorance, of solitude and society, are
placed against each other!
Guiderius. Out of your proof you speak: we poor untledg' d

Have never wing'd from view o' th' nest; nor know not
What air's from home. Haply this life is best,
If quiet life is best; sweeter to you
That have a sharper known; well corresponding
With your stiff age: but unto us it is
A cell of ignorance; travelling a-bed,
A prison for a debtor, that not dares
To stride a limit.
Arviragus. What should we speak of
When we are old as you? When we shall hear
The rain and wind beat dark December! How,
In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse
The freezing hours away? We have seen nothing. /
We are beastly; subtle as the fox for prey,
Like warlike as the wolf for what we eat:
Our valour is to chase what flies; our cage
We make a quire, as doth the prison' d bird,
And sing our bondage freely. 17
The answer ofBellarius to this expostulation is hardly satisfactory; for nothing

can be an answer to hope, or the passion of the mind for unknown good, but
experience. - The forest of Arden in As you like it can alone compare with the
mountain scenes in Cymbeline: yet how different the contemplative quiet ofthe one
from the enterprising boldness and precarious mode of subsistence in the other!
Shakespear not only lets us into the minds of his characters, but gives a tone and
colour to the scenes he describes from the feelings oftheir supposed inhabitants. He
at the same time preserves the utmost propriety of action and passion, and gives all
their local accompaniments. Ifhe was equal to the greatest things, he was not above
an attention to the smallest. Thus the gallant sportsmen in Cymbeline have to
encounter the abrupt declivities of hill and valley: Touchstone and Audrey jog
along a level path. The deer in Cymbeline are only regarded as objects ofprey, 'The
game's a-foot,' 18 &c. -withJaques they are fine subjects to moralize upon atleisure,
97
'under the shade of melancholy boughs.' 19

We cannot take leave ofthis play, which is / a favourite with us, without noticing
some occasional touches of natural piety and morality. We may allude here to the
opening of the scene in which Bellarius instructs the young princes to pay their
orisons to heaven:
See, boys! this gate

Instructs you how t' adore the Heav'ns; and bows you
To morning's holy office.
Guiderius. Hail, Heav'n!
Arviragus. Hail, Heav'n!
Bellarius. Now for our mountain-sport, up to yon hill. 20
What a grace and unaffected spirit of piety breathes in this message! In like
manner, one of the brothers says to the other, when about to perform the funeral
rites to Fidele,
Nay, Cadwall, we must lay his head to the east;

My Father hath a reason for 't - 21
- as if some allusion to the doctrines of the Christian faith had been casually
dropped in conversation by the old man, and had been no farther inquired into.
Shakespear's morality is introduced in the same simple, unobtrusive manner.
Imogen will not let her companions stay away from the chase to attend her when
sick, and gives her reason for it -
Stick to your journal course; the breach of custom

Is breach of all! 22 /
When the Queen attempts to disguise her motives for procuring the poison from
Cornelius, by saying she means to try its effects on 'creatures not worth the
hanging,' 23 his answer conveys at once a tacit reproofofher hypocrisy, and a useful
lesson of humanity -
Your Highness
Shall from this practice but make hard your heart. 24
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MACBETH [15/17)
Macbeth
The poet's eye in a fine frenzy rolling

Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name. 1
Macbeth and Lear, Othello and Hamlet, are usually reckoned Shakespear's four
principal tragedies. Lear stands first for the profound intensity of the passion;
Macbeth for the wildness of the imagination and the rapidity of the action; Othello
for the progressive interest and powerful alternations of feeling; Hamlet for the
refined developement of thought and sentiment. If the force of genius shewn in
each ofthese works is astonishing, their variety is not less so. They are like different
creations ofthe same mind, not one ofwhich has the slightest reference to the rest.
/ This distinctness and originality is indeed the necessary consequence oftruth and
nature. Shakespear's genius alone appeared to possess the resources of nature. He
is 'your only tragedy-maker.' 2 His plays have the force ofthings upon the mind. What
he represents is brought home to the bosom as a part ofour experience, implanted
in the memory as if we had known the places, persons, and things of which he
treats. Macbeth is like a record ofa preternatural and tragical event. It has the rugged
severity of an old chronicle with all that the imagination of the poet can engraft
upon traditional belie£ The castle of Macbeth, round which 'the air smells
wooingly,' 3 and where 'the temple-haunting martlet builds,' 4 has a real subsistence
in the mind; the We:ird Sisters meet us in person on 'the blasted heath;' 5 the 'air-
drawn dagger' 6 moves slowly before our eyes; the 'gracious Duncan,' 7 the 'blood-
boultered Banquo' 8 stand before us; all that passed through the mind of Macbeth
passes, without the loss of a tittle, through ours. All that could actually take place,
and all that is only possible to be conceived, what was said and what was done, the
workings of passion, the spells of magic, are brought before us with the same
absolute truth and vividness. - Shakespear excelled in the openings ofhis plays: that
of Macbeth is the most striking of any. /The wildness of the scenery, the sudden
shifting of the situations and characters, the bustle, the expectations excited, are
99
equally extraordinary. From the first entrance of the Witches and the description
of them when they meet Macbeth,
What are these

So wither' d and so wild in their attire,
That look not like the inhabitants of th' earth
And yet are on't? 9
the mind is prepared for all that follows.

This tragedy is alike distinguished for the lofty imagination it displays, and for the
tumultuous vehemence ofthe action; and the one is made the moving principle of
the other. The overwhelming pressure ofpreternatural agency urges on the tide of
human passion with redoubled force. Macbeth himself appears driven along by the
violence of his fate like a vessel drifting before a storm: he reels to and fro like a
drunken man; he staggers under the weight ofhis own purposes and the suggestions
of others; he stands at bay with his situation; and from the superstitious awe and
breathless suspense into which the communications of the W e'ird Sisters throw
him, is hurried on with daring impatience to verify their predictions, and with
impious and bloody hand to tear aside the veil which hides the uncertainty of the
future. He is not equal to the struggle with fate and conscience. He now 'bends up
each / corporal instrument to the terrible feat;' 10 at other times his heart misgives
him, and he is cowed and abashed by his success. 'The deed, no less than the
attempt, confounds him.' 11 His mind is assailed by the stings ofremorse, and full of
'preternatural solicitings.' 12 His speeches and soliloquies are dark riddles on human
life, bafiling solution, and entangling him in their labyrinths. In thought he is absent
and perplexed, sudden and desperate in act, from a distrust of his own resolution.
His energy springs from the anxiety and agitation of his mind. His blindly rushing
forward on the objects of his ambition and revenge, or his recoiling from them,
equally betrays the harassed state of his feelings. - This part of his character is
admirably set off by being brought in connection with that of Lady Macbeth,
whose obdurate strength of will and masculine firmness give her the ascendancy
over her husband's faultering virtue. She at once seizes on the opportunity that
offers for the accomplishment of all their wished-for greatness, and never flinches
from her object till all is over. The magnitude of her resolution almost covers the
magnitude of her guilt. She is a great bad woman, whom we hate, but whom we
fear more than we hate. She does not excite our loathing and abhorrence like
Regan and Gonerill. She is only wicked to gain a great end; and is perhaps more
distinguished by her commanding / presence of mind and inexorable self-will,
which do not suffer her to be diverted from a bad purpose, when once formed, by
weak and womanly regrets, than by the hardness of her heart or want of natural
affections. The impression which her lofty determination ofcharacter makes on the
mind of Macbeth is well described where he exclaims,
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MACBETH [19/20]
Bring forth men children only;
For thy undaunted mettle should compose
Nothing but males! 13
Nor do the pains she is at to 'screw his courage to the sticking-place,' 14 the
reproach to him, not to be 'lost so poorly in himself,' 15 the assurance that 'a little
water clears them of this deed,' 16 shew any thing but her greater consistency in
depravity. Her strong-nerved ambition furnishes ribs of steel to 'the sides of his
intent;' 17 and she is herselfwound up to the execution of her baneful project with
the same unshrinking fortitude in crime, that in other circumstances she would
probably have shewn patience in suffering. The deliberate sacrifice of all other
considerations to the gaining 'for their future days and nights sole sovereign sway
and masterdom,' 18 by the murder of Duncan, is gorgeously expressed in her
invocation on hearing of'his fatal entrance under her battlements:' 19- /
Come all you spirits

That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here:
And fill me, from the crown to th' toe, top-full
Of direst cruelty; make thick my blood,
Stop up the access and passage to remorse,
That no compunctious visitings of nature
Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between
The effect and it. Come to my woman's breasts,
And take my milk for gall, you murthering ministers,
Wherever in your sightless substances
You wait on nature's mischief. Come, thick night!
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell,
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes,
Nor heav'n peep through the blanket of the dark,
To cry, hold, hold! - 20
When she first hears that 'Duncan comes there to sleep' 21 she is so overcome by
the news, which is beyond her utmost expectations, that she answers the
messenger, 'Thou'rt mad to say it:' 22 and on receiving her husband's account ofthe
predictions of the Witches, conscious of his instability of purpose, and that her
presence is necessary to goad him on to the consummation of his promised
greatness, she exclaims -
Hie thee hither,

That I may pour my spirits in thine ear,
And chastise with the valour of my tongue
All that impedes thee from the golden round,
Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem
To have thee crowned withal 23
101
This swelling exultation and keen spirit of triumph, this uncontroulable eagerness
of anticipation, / which seems to dilate her form and take possession of all her
faculties, this solid, substantial flesh and blood display ofpassion, exhibit a striking
contrast to the cold, abstracted, gratuitous, servile malignity of the Witches, who
are equally instrumental in urging Macbeth to his fate for the mere love ofmischief,
and from a disinterested delight in deformity and cruelty. They are hags ofmischief,
obscene panders to iniquity, malicious from their impotence of enjoyment,
enamoured of destruction, because they are themselves unreal, abortive, half-
existences - who become sublime from their exemption from all human
sympathies and contempt for all human affairs, as Lady Macbeth does by the force
of passion! Her fault seems to have been an excess of that strong principle of self-
interest and family aggrandisement, not amenable to the common feelings of
compassion and justice, which is so marked a feature in barbarous nations and
times. A passing reflection ofthis kind, on the resemblance of the sleeping king to
her father, alone prevents her from slaying Duncan with her own hand.
In speaking of the character of Lady Macbeth, we ought not to pass over Mrs
Siddons's24 manner ofacting that part. We can conceive ofnothing grander. It was
something above nature. It seemed almost as if a being of a superior order had
dropped from a higher sphere to / awe the world with the majesty of her
appearance. Power was seated on her brow, passion emanated from her breast as
from a shrine; she was tragedy personified. In corning on in the sleeping-scene, her
eyes were open, but their sense was shut. She was like a person bewildered and
unconscious of what she did. Her lips moved involuntarily - all her gestures were
involuntary and mechanical. She glided on and offthe stage like an apparition. To
have seen her in that character was an event in every one's life, not to be forgotten.
The dramatic beauty of the character of Duncan, which excites the respect and
pity even of his murderers, has been often pointed out. It forms a picture ofitself.
An instance of the author's power of giving a striking effect to a common
reflection, by the manner of introducing it, occurs in a speech of Duncan,
complaining of his having been deceived in his opinion of the Thane ofCawdor,
at the very moment that he is expressing the most unbounded confidence in the
loyalty and services of Macbeth.
There is no art
To find the mind's construction in the face:
He was a gentleman, on whom I built
An absolute trust.
0 worthiest cousin, (addressing himself to Macbeth)
The sin of my ingratitude e'en now
Was great upon me, &c. 25 /
Another passage to shew that Shakespear lost sight of nothing that could in any
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MACBETH [23/25]
way give relief or heightening to his subject, is the conversation which takes place
between Banquo and Fleance immediately before the murder-scene of Duncan.
Banquo. How goes the night, boy?

Fleance. The moon is down: I have not heard the clock.
Banquo. And she goes down at twelve.
Fleance. I take't, 'tis later, Sir.
Banquo. Hold, take thy sword. There's husbandry in heav'n,
Their candles are all out. -
A heavy summons lies like a lead upon me,
And yet I would not sleep: Merciful Powers,
Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature
Gives way to in repose. 26
In like manner, a fine idea is given of the gloomy coming on of evening, just as
Banquo is going to be assassinated.
Light thickens and the crow

Makes wing to the rooky wood27
* * * * *
Now spurs the lated traveller apace
To gain the timely inn. 28
Macbeth (generally speaking) is done upon a stronger and more systematic

principle ofcontrast than any other ofShakespear's plays. It/ moves upon the verge
ofan abyss, and is a constant struggle between life and death. The action is desperate
and the reaction is dreadful. It is a huddling together of fierce extremes, a war of
opposite natures which of them shall destroy the other. There is nothing but what
has a violent end or violent beginnings. The lights and shades are laid on with a
determined hand; the transitions from triumph to despair, from the height ofterror
to the repose of death, are sudden and startling; every passion brings in its fellow-
contrary, and the thoughts pitch and jostle against each other as in the dark. The
whole play is an unruly chaos of strange and forbidden things, where the ground
rocks under our feet. Shakespear's genius here took its full swing, and trod upon the
farthest bounds of nature and passion. This circumstance will account for the
abruptness and violent antitheses of the style, the throes and labour which run
through the expression, and from defects will turn them into beauties. 'So fair and
foul a day I have not seen,' 29 &c. 'Such welcome and unwelcome news together.' 30
'Men's lives are like the flowers in their caps, dying or ere they sicken.' 31 'Look like
the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it.' 32 The scene before the castle-gate
follows the appearance of the Witches on the heath, and is followed by a midnight
murder. / Duncan is cut off betimes by treason leagued with witchcraft, and
Macduffis ripped untimely from his mother's womb to avenge his death. Macbeth,
after the death ofBanquo, wishes for his presence in extravagant terms, 'To him and
103
all we thirst,' 33 and when his ghost appears, cries out, 'Avaunt and quit my sight,' 34
and being gone, He is 'himself again. '35 Macbeth resolves to get rid ofMacduff; that
'he may sleep in spite ofthunder;' 36 and cheers his wife on the doubtful intelligence
ofBanquo's taking-offwith the encouragement - 'Then be thou jocund: ere the bat
has flown his cloistered flight; ere to black Hecate's summons the shard-born beetle.
has rung night's yawning peel, there shall be done - a deed of dreadful note.' 37 In
Lady Macbeth's speech 'Had he not resembled my father as he slept, I had done 't,'38
there is murder and filial piety together; and in urging him to fulfil his vengeance
against the defenceless king, her thoughts spare the blood neither ofinfants nor old
age. The description ofthe Witches is full ofthe same contradictory principle; they
'rejoice when good kings bleed,' 39 they are neither ofthe earth nor the air, but both;
'they should be women, but their beards forbid it;' 40 they take all the pains possible
to lead Macbeth on to the height of his ambition, only to betray him 'in deeper
consequence,' 41 and after / shewing him all the pomp of their art, discover their
malignant delight in his disappointed hopes, by that bitter taunt, 'Why stands
Macbeth thus amazedly?' 42 We might multiply such instances every where.
The leading features in the character Macbeth are striking enough, and they form
what may be thought at first only a bold, rude, Gothic outline. By comparing it
with other characters of the same author we shall perceive the absolute truth and
identity which is observed in the midst ofthe giddy whirl and rapid career ofevents.
Macbeth in Shakespear no more loses his identity ofcharacter in the fluctuations of
fortune or the storm of passion, than Macbeth in himself would have lost the
identity ofhis person. Thus he is as distinct a being from Richard III as it is possible
to imagine, though these two characters in common hands, and indeed in the hands
ofany other poet, would have been a repetition of the same general idea, more or
less exaggerated. For both are tyrants, usurpers, murderers, both aspiring and
ambitious, both courageous, cruel, treacherous. But Richard is cruel from nature
and constitution. Macbeth becomes so from accidental circumstances. Richard is
from his birth deformed in body and mind, and naturally incapable of good.
Macbeth is full of'the / milk ofhuman kindness,' 43 is frank, sociable, generous. He
is tempted to the commission of guilt by golden opportunities, by the instigations
of his wife, and by prophetic warnings. Fate and metaphysical aid conspire against
his virtue and his loyalty. Richard on the contrary needs no prompter, but wades
through a series of crimes to the height of his ambition from the ungovernable
violence of his temper and a reckless love ,of mischie£ He is ·never gay but in the
prospect or in the success ofhis villainies: Macbeth is full of horror at the thoughts
ofthe murder of Duncan, which he is with difficulty prevailed on to commit, and
of remorse after its perpetration. Richard has no mixture of common humanity in
his composition, no regard to kindred or posterity, he owns no fellowship with
others, he is 'himself alone.' 44 Macbeth is not destitute of feelings of sympathy, is
accessible to pity, is even made in some measure the dupe ofhis uxoriousness, ranks
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MACBETH [27/29]
the loss offriends, ofthe cordial love ofhis followers, and ofhis good name, among
the causes which have made him weary oflife, and regrets that he has ever seized
the crown by unjust means, since he cannot transmit it to his posterity -
For Banquo's issue have I fil'd my mind -

For them the gracious Duncan have I murther' d,
To make them kings, the seed ofBanquo kings. 45 /
In the agitation ofhis mind, he envies those whom he has sent to peace. 'Duncan
is in his grave; after life's fitful fever he sleeps well.' 46 - It is true, he becomes more
callous as he plunges deeper in guilt, 'direness is thus rendered familiar to his
slaughterous thoughts,' 47 and he in the end anticipates his wife in the boldness and
bloodiness of his enterprises, while she for want of the same stimulus of action, 'is
troubled with thick-coining fancies that rob her of her rest,' 48 goes mad and dies.
Macbeth endeavours to escape from reflection on his crimes by repelling their
consequences, and banishes remorse for the past by the meditation of future
mischie£ This is not the principle of Richard's cruelty, which displays the wanton
malice ofa fiend as much as the frailty of human passion. Macbeth is goaded on to
acts ofviolence and retaliation by necessity; to Richard, blood is a pastime. -There
are other decisive differences inherent in the two characters. Richard may be
regarded as a man of the world, a plotting, hardened knave, wholly regardless of
every thing but his own ends, and the means to secure them. - Not so Macbeth.
The superstitions ofthe age, the rude state ofsociety, the local scenery and customs,
all give a wildness and imaginary grandeur to his character. From the strangeness of
the events that surround him, he is full ofamazement/ and fear; and stands in doubt
between the world of reality and the world of fancy. He sees sights not shewn to
mortal eye, and hears unearthly music. All is tumult and disorder within and
without his mind; his purposes recoil upon himself, are broken and disjointed; he
is the double thra:11 of his passions and his evil destiny. Richard is not a character
either of imagination or pathos, but of pure self-will. There is no conflict of
opposite feelings in his breast. The apparitions which he sees only haunt him in his
sleep; nor does he live like Macbeth in a waking dream. Macbeth has considerable
energy and manliness of character; but then he is 'subject to all the skyey
influences. ' 49 He is sure of nothing but the present moment. Richard in the busy
turbulence of his projects never loses his self-possession, and makes use of every
circumstance that happens as an instrument of his long-reaching designs. In his last
extremity we can only regard him as a wild beast taken in the toils: while we never
entirely lose our concern for Macbeth; and he calls back all our sympathy by that
fine close of thoughtful melancholy,
My way oflife is fallen into the sear,

The yellow leaf; and that which should accompany old age,
As honour, troops of friends, I must not look to have;
105
But in their stead, curses not loud but deep, /

Mouth-honour, breath, which the poor heart
Would fain deny, and dare not. 50
We can conceive a common actor to play Richard tolerably well; we can

conceive no one to play Macbeth properly, or to look like a man that had
encountered the W e'ird Sisters. All the actors that we have ever seen, appear as if
they had encountered them on the boards of Covent-garden or Drury-lane, but
not on the heath at Foris, and as if they did not believe what they had seen. The
Witches of Macbeth indeed are ridiculous on the modem stage, and we doubt ifthe
Furies of .IEschylus would be more respected. The progress of manners and
knowledge has an influence on the stage, and will in time perhaps destroy both
tragedy and comedy. Filch's picking pockets in the Beggar's Opera 51 is not so good
a jest as it used to be: by the force ofthe police and ofphilosophy, Lillo's murders52
and the ghosts in Shakespear will become obsolete. At last, there will be nothing
left, good nor bad, to be desired or dreaded, on the theatre or in real life. - A
question has been started with respect to the originality of Shakespear's witches,
which has been well answered by Mr Lamb in his notes to the 'Specimens ofEarly
Dramatic Poetry. ' 53
'Though some resemblance may be traced / between the charms in Macbeth, and
the incantations in this play, (the Witch ofMiddleton54 ) which is supposed to have
preceded it, this coincidence will not detract much from the originality of
Shakespear. His Witches are distinguished from the Witches of Middleton by
essential differences. These are creatures to whom man or woman plotting some
dire mischief might resort for occasional consultation. Those originate deeds of
blood, and begin bad impulses to men. From the moment that their eyes first meet
with Macbeth's, he is spellbound. That meeting sways his destiny. He can never
break the fascination. These Witches can hurt the body; those have power over the
soul. - Hecate in Middleton has a son, a low buffoon: the hags ofShakespear have
neither child of their own, nor seem to be descended from any parent. They are
foul anomalies, ofwhom we know not whence they are sprung, nor whether they
have beginning or ending. As they are without human passions, so they seem to be
without human relations. They come with thunder and lightening and vanish to
airy music. This is all we know of them. - Except Hecate, they have no name
which heightens their mysteriousness. The names, and some of the properties
which Middleton has given to his hags, excite smiles. The W e'ird Sisters are /
serious things. Their presence cannot co-exist with mirth. But, in a lesser degree,
the Witches ofMiddleton are fine creations. Their power too is, in some measure,
over the mind. They raise jars, jealousies, strifes, like a thick scuif o'er life.' 55
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JULIUS CAESAR [33/34]
Julius Cresar
Julius Ca!sar was one of three principal plays by different authors, pitched upon by
the celebrated Earl of Hallifax1 to be brought out in a splendid manner by
subscription, in the year 1707. The other two were the King and No King of
Fletcher, and Dryden's Maiden Queen. 2 There perhaps might be political reasons for
this selection, as far as regards our author. Otherwise, Shakespear' s Julius Ca!sar is
not equal as a whole, to either of his other plays taken from the Roman history. It
is inferior in interest to Coriolanus, and both in interest and power to Antony and
Cleopatra. l t however abounds in admirable and affecting passages and is remarkable
for the profound knowledge of character, in which Shakespear could scarcely fail.
If there is any exception to this remark, it is in the hero of the piece himself. We
do not much / admire the representation here given ofJulius Cesar, nor do we
think it answers to the portrait given ofhim in his Commentaries. He makes several
vapouring and rather pedantic speeches, and does nothing. Indeed, he has nothing
to do. So far, the fault of the character is the fault of the plot.
The spirit with which the poet has entered at once into the manners of the
common people, and the jealousies and heart-burnings of the different factions, is
shewn in the first scene, where Flavius and Marullus, tribunes of the people, and
some citizens of Rome, appear upon the stage.
Flavius. Thou art a cobler, art thou?

Cobler. Truly, Sir, all that I live by, is the awl: I meddle with no tradesman's
matters, nor woman's matters, but with-al, I am indeed, Sir, a surgeon
to old shoes; when they are in great danger, I recover them.
Flavius. But wherefore art not in thy shop to-day?
Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?
Cobler. Truly, Sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into more work
But indeed, Sir, we make holiday to see Cesar, and rejoice in his
triumph. 3
To this specimen of quaint low humour immediately follows that unexpected

and animated burst ofindignant eloquence, put into the mouth ofone ofthe angry
tribunes.
107
Marullus. Wherefore rejoice! - What conquest brings he home? /

What tributaries follow him to Rome,
To grace in captive-bonds his chariot-wheels?
Oh you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome!
Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft
Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements,
To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops,
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat
The live-long day with patient expectation,
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome:
And when you saw his chariot but appear,
Have you not made an universal shout,
That Tyber trembled underneath his banks
To hear the replication ofyour sounds,
Made in his concave shores?
And do you now put on your best attire?
And do you now cull out an holiday?
And do you now strew flowers in his way
That comes is triumph over Pompey's blood?
Begone-
Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,
Pray to the Gods to intermit the plague,
That needs must light on this ingratitude. 4
The well-known dialogue between Brutus and Cassius, in which the latter
breaks the design of the conspiracy to the former, and partly gains him over to it,
is a noble piece of high-minded declamation. Cassius's insisting on the pretended
effeminacy ofC.esar's character, and his description of their swimming across the
Tiber together, 'once upon a raw and gusty day,' 5 are among the finest strokes in
it. But perhaps the whole is not equal to the short scene / which follows, when
C.esar enters with his train: -
Brutus. The games are done, and Caesar is returning.

Cassius. As they pass by, pluck Casca by the sleeve,
And he will, after his sour fashion, tell you
What has proceeded worthy note to day.
Brutus. I will do so; but look you, Cassius -
The angry spot doth glow on Caesar's brow,
And all the rest look like a chidden train.
Calphurnia's cheek is pale; and Cicero
Looks with such ferret and such fiery eyes,
As we have seen him in the Capitol,
Being crost in conference by some senators.
Cassius. Casca win tell us what the matter is.
c~sar. Antonius -
Antony. C.esar?
108
Ci:esar. Let me have men about me that are fat,
Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep a-nights:
Yon Cassius has a lean and hungry look,
He thinks too much; such men are dangerous.
Antony. Fear him not, Caesar, he's not dangerous:
He is a noble Roman, and well given.
Ci:esar. Would he were fatter; but I fear him not:
Yet if my name were liable to fear,
I do not know the man I should avoid
So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much;
He is a great observer; and he looks
Quite through the deeds of men. He loves no plays,
As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music
Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort,
As ifhe mock'd himself, and scorn'd his spirit,
That could be mov'd to smile at any thing.
Such men as he be never at heart's ease,
Whilst they behold a greater than themselves; /
And therefore are they very dangerous.
I rather tell thee what is to be fear' d
Than what I fear; for always I am Cesar.
Come on my right hand, for this ear is deaf,
And tell me truly what thou think'st ofhim. 6
We know hardly any passage more expressive of the genius ofShakespear than
this. It is as ifhe had been actually present, had known the different characters and
what they thought of one another, and had taken down what he heard and saw,
their looks, words, and gestures, just as they happened.
The character ofMark Antony is farther speculated upon where the conspirators
deliberate whether he shall fall with Cesar. Brutus is against it -
And for Mark Antony, think not of him

For he can do no more than Cresar's arm,
When Cresar's head is off.
Cassius. Yet I do fear him
For in th' ingrafted love he bears to Cresar -
Brutus. Alas, good Cassius, do not think of him:
If he love Caesar, all that he can do
Is to himself, take thought, and die for Cresar:
And that were much, he should; for he is giv'n
To sports, to wildness, and much company.
Trebonius. There is no fear in him; let him not die:
For he will live, and laugh at this hereafter. 7
They were in the wrong; and Cassius was right.

The honest manliness of Brutus is however/ sufficient to find out the unfitness
109
of Cicero to be included in their enterprize, from his affected egotism and literary
vanity.
0, name him not: let us not break with him;

For he will never follow any thing,
That other men begin. 8
His scepticism as to prodigies and his moralising on the weather - 'This disturbed
sky is not to walk in' 9 are in the same spirit of refined imbecility.
Shakespear has in this play and elsewhere shewn the same penetration into
political character and the springs of public events as into those of every-day life.
For instance, the whole design of the conspirators to liberate their country fails
from the generous temper and overweening confidence ofBrutus in the goodness
oftheir cause and the assistance ofothers. Thus it has always been. Those who mean
well themselves think well ofothers, and fall a prey to their security. That humanity
and honesty which dispose men to resist injustice and tyranny render them unfit to
cope with the cunning and power of those who are opposed to them. The friends
ofliberty trust to the professions ofothers, because they are themselves sincere, and
endeavour to reconcile the public good with the least possible hurt to its enemies,
who have no regard to any thing but their own unprincipled / ends, and stick at
nothing to accomplish them. Cassius was better cut out for a conspirator. His heart
prompted his head. His watchful jealousy made him fear the worst that might
happen, and his irritability of temper added to his inveteracy of purpose, and
sharpened his patriotism. The mixed nature of his motives made him fitter to
contend with bad men. The vices are never so well employed as in combating one
another. Tyranny and servility are to be dealt with after their own fashion:
otherwise, they will triumph over those who spare them, and finally pronounce
their funeral panegyric, as Antony did that of Brutus.
All the conspirators, save only he,

Did that they did in envy of great Cresar:
He only in a general honest thought
and common good to all, made one of them. 10
The quarrel between Brutus and Cassius is managed in a masterly way. The
dramatic fluctuation of passion, the calmness of Brutus, the heat of Cassius, are
admirably described; and the exclamation of Cassius on hearing of the death of
Portia, which he does not learn till after their reconciliation, 'How 'scaped I killing
when I crost you so?' 11 gives double force to all that has gone before. The scene
between Brutus and Portia, where she endeavours to extort the secret of the
conspiracy from him, is / conceived in the most heroical spirit, and the burst of
tenderness in Brutus -
110
You are my true and honourable wife;
As dear to me as are the ruddy drops
That visit my sad heart - 12
isjustified by her whole behaviour. Portia's breathless impatience to learn the event
ofthe conspiracy, in the dialogue with Lucius, is full ofpassion. The interest which
Portia takes in Brutus and that which Calphurnia takes in the fate of C.esar are
discriminated with the nicest precision. Mark Antony's speech over the dead body
of C.esar has been justly admired for the mixture ofpathos and artifice in it: that of
Brutus certainly is not so good.
The entrance of the conspirators to the house of Brutus at midnight is rendered
very impressive. In the midst of this scene, we meet with one of those careless and
natural digressions which occur so frequently and beautifully in Shakespear. After
Cassius has introduced his friends one by one, Brutus says -
They are all welcome.

What watchful cares do interpose themselves
Betwixt your eyes and night?
Cassius. Shall I entreat a word? (They whisper)
Dedus. Here lies the east: doth not the day break here?
Gasca. No.
Cinna. 0 pardon, Sir, it doth; and yon grey lines,
That fret the clouds, are messengers of day. I
Gasca. You shall confess, that you are both deceiv' d:
Here, as I point my sword, the sun arises,
Which is a great way growing on the south,
Weighing the youthful season of the year.
Some two months hence, up higher toward the north
He first presents his fire, and the high east
Stands as the Capitol, directly here. 13
We cannot help thinking this graceful familiarity better than all the fustian in the
world. -The truth of history in Julius c~sar is very ably worked up with dramatic
effect. The councils ofgenerals, the doubtful turns ofbattles, are represented to the
life. The death ofBrutus is worthy ofhim-it has the dignity ofthe Roman senator
with the firmness of the Stoic philosopher. But what is perhaps better than either,
is the little incident of his boy, Lucius, falling asleep over his instrument, as he is
playing to his master in his tent, the night before the battle. Nature had played him
the same forgetful trick once before on the night of the conspiracy. The humanity
of Brutus is the same on both occasions.
It is no matter:
Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber.
Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies,
Which busy care draws in the brains of men.
Therefore thou sleep'st so sound. 14 /
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Othello
It has been said that tragedy purifies the affections by terror and pity. 1 That is, it
substitutes imaginary sympathy for mere selfishness. It gives us a high and
permanent interest, beyond ourselves, in humanity as such. It raises the great, the
remote, and the possible to an equality with the real, the little and the near. It makes
man a partaker with his kind. It subdues and softens the stubbornness ofhis will. It
teaches him that there are and have been others like himself, by shewing him as in
a glass what they have felt, thought, and done. It opens the chambers ofthe human
heart. It leaves nothing indifferent to us that can affect our common nature. It
excites our sensibility by exhibiting the passions wound up to the utmost pitch by
the power of imagination or the temptation of circumstances; and corrects their
fatal / excesses in ourselves by pointing to the greater extent of sufferings and of
crimes to which they have led others. Tragedy creates a balance of the affections.
It makes us thoughtful spectators in the lists oflife. It is the refiner of the species;
a discipline of humanity. The habitual study ofpoetry and works ofimagination is
one chief part of a well-grounded education. A taste for liberal art is necessary to
complete the character of a gentleman. Science alone is hard and mechanical. It
exercises the understanding upon things out of ourselves, while it leaves the
affections unemployed, or engrossed with our own immediate, narrow interests. -
Othello furnishes an illustration of these remarks. It excites our sympathy in an
extraordinary degree. The moral it conveys has a closer application to the concerns
ofhuman life than that ofalmost any other ofShakespear's plays. 'It comes directly
home to the bosoms and business of men.' 2 The pathos in Lear is indeed more
dreadful and overpowering: but it is less natural, and less ofevery day's occurrence.
We have not the same degree ofsympathy with the passions described in Macbeth.
The interest in Hamlet is more remote and reflex. That of Othello at once equally
profound and affecting.
The picturesque contrasts ofcharacter in this play are almost as remarkable as the
depth of/ the passion. The Moor Othello, the gentle Desdemona, the villain Iago,
the good-natured Cassio, the fool Roderigo, present a range and variety of
character as striking and palpable as that produced by the opposition ofcostume in
a picture. Their distinguishing qualities stand out to the mind's eye, so that even
112
OTHELLO (44/46]
when we are not thinking of their actions or sentiments, the idea of their persons
is still as present to us as ever. 3 These characters and the images they stamp upon the
mind are the farthest asunder possible, the distance between them is immense: yet
the compass ofknowledge and invention which the poet has shewn in embodying
these extreme creations ofhis genius is only greater than the truth and felicity with
which he has identified each character with itself, or blended their different
qualities together in the same story. What a contrast the character ofOthello forms
to that oflago! At the same time, the force of conception with which these two
figures are opposed to each other is rendered still more intense by the complete
consistency with which the traits ofeach character are brought out in a state ofthe
highest finishing. The making one black and the other white, the one unprincipled,
the other unfortunate in the extreme, would have answered the common purposes
of effect, and satisfied the ambition of an ordinary painter of character. Shakespear
has laboured the finer / shades of difference in both with as much care and skill as
ifhe had had to depend on the execution alone for the success ofhis design. On the
other hand, Desdemona and /Emilia are not meant to be opposed with any thing
like strong contrast to each other. Both are, to outward appearance, characters of
common life, not more distinguished than women usually are, by difference ofrank
and situation. The difference oftheir thoughts and sentiments is however laid open,
their minds are separated from each other by signs as plain and as little to be
mistaken as the complexions of their husbands.
The movement of the passion in Othello is exceedingly different from that of
Macbeth. In Macbeth there is a violent struggle between opposite feelings,
between ambition and the stings ofconscience, almost from first to last: in Othello,
the doubtful conflict between contrary passions, though dreadful, continues only
for a short time, and the chief interest is excited by the alternate ascendancy of
different passions, by the entire and unforeseen change from the fondest love and
most unbounded confidence to the tortures ofjealousy and the madness ofhatred.
The revenge of Othello, after it has once taken thorough possession of his mind,
never quits it, but grows stronger and stronger at every moment of its delay. The
nature of the Moor is noble, confiding, tender, and generous; but his blood/ is of
the most inflammable kind; and being once roused by a sense of his wrongs, he is
stopped by no considerations of remorse or pity till he has given a loose to all the
dictates of his rage and his despair. It is in working his noble nature up to this
extremity through rapid but gradual transitions, in raising passion to its height from
the smallest beginnings and in spite ofall obstacles, in painting the expiring conflict
between love and hatred, tenderness and resentment, jealousy and remorse, in
unfolding the strength and the weakness of our nature, in uniting sublimity of
thought with the anguish of the keenest woe, in putting in motion the various
impulses that agitate this our mortal being, and at last blending them in that noble
tide of deep and sustained passion, impetuous but majestic, that 'flows on to the
113
Propontic, and knows no ebb, ' 4 that Shakespear has shewn the mastery ofhis genius
and ofhis power over the human heart. The third act of Othello is his finest display,
not of knowledge or passion separately, but of the two combined, of the
knowledge of character with the expression of passion, of consummate art in the
keeping up of appearances with the profound workings of nature, and the
convulsive movements ofuncontroulable agony, ofthe power ofinflicting torture
and of suffering it. Not only is the tumult of passion in Othello's mind heaved up
I from the very bottom of the soul, but every the slightest undulation of feeling is
seen on the surface, as it arises from the impulses of imagination or the malicious
suggestions oflago. The progressive preparation for the catastrophe is wonderfully
managed from the Moor's first gallant recital of the story of his love, of'the spells
and witchcraft he had used,' 5 from his unlooked-for and romantic success, the fond
satisfaction with which he dotes on his own happiness, the unreserved tenderness
of Desdemona and her innocent importunities in favour of Cassio, irritating the
suspicions instilled into her husband's mind by the perfidy oflago, and rankling
there to poison, till he loses all command of himself, and his rage call only be
appeased by blood. She is introduced, just before Iago begins to put his scheme in
practice, pleading for Cassio with all the thoughtless gaiety of friendship and
winning confidence in the love of Othello.
What! Michael Cassio?

That came a wooing with you, and so many a time,
When I have spoke of you dispraisingly,
Hath ta'en your part, to have so much to do
To bring him in? - Why this is not a boon:
'Tis as I should intreat you wear your gloves,
Or feed on nourishing meats, or keep you warm;
Or sue to you to do a peculiar profit
To your person. Nay, when I have a suit,
Wherein I mean to touch your love indeed,
It shall be full of poise, and fearful to be granted. 6 /
Othello's confidence, at first only staggered by broken hints and insinuations,

recovers itself at sight of Desdemona; and he exclaims
If she be false, 0 then Heav'n mocks itself:

I'll not believe it. 7
But presently after, on brooding over his suspicions by himself, and yielding to
his apprehensions of the worst, his smothered jealousy breaks out into open fury,
and he returns to demand satisfaction of Iago like a wild beast stung with the
envenomed shaft of the hunters. 'Look where he comes, ' 8 &c. In this state of
exasperation and violence, after the first paroxysms ofhis grief and tenderness have
had their vent in that passionate apostrophe, 'I felt not Cassio's kisses on her lips,' 9
114
OTHELLO [48/50]
Iago, by false aspersions, and by presenting the most revolting images to his mind,*
easily turns the storm of passion from himself against Desdemona, and works him
up into a trembling agony ofdoubt and fear, in which he abandons all his love and
hopes in a breath.
Now do I see 'tis true. Look here, Iago,

All my fond love thus do I blow to Heav'n. 'Tis gone.
Arise black vengeance from the hollow hell;
Yield up, 0 love, thy crown and hearted throne
To tyrannous hate! Swell bosom with thy fraught;
For 'tis of aspicks' tongues. 10 /
From this time, his raging thoughts 'never look back, ne'er ebb to humble
love,' 11 till his revenge is sure of its object, the painful regrets and involuntary
recollections ofpast circumstances which cross his mind amidst the dim trances of
passion, aggravating the sense of his wrongs, but not shaking his purpose. Once
indeed, where Iago shews him Cassio with the handkerchief in his hand, and
making sport (as he thinks) of his misfortunes the intolerable bitterness of his
feelings, the extreme sense of shame, makes him fall to praising her
accomplishments and relapse into a momentary fit of weakness, 'Yet, Oh the pity
of it, Iago, the pity of it!' 12 This returning fondness however only serves, as it is
managed by Iago, to whet his revenge, and set his heart more against her. In his
conversations with Desdemona, the persuasion of her guilt and the immediate
proofs ofher duplicity seem to irritate his resentment and aversion to her; but in the
scene immediately preceding her death, the recollection of his love returns upon
him in all its tenderness and force; and after her death, he all at once forgets his
wrongs in the sudden and irreparable sense of his loss.
My wife! My wife! What wife? I have no wife.

Oh insupportable! Oh heavy hour! 13
This happens before he is assured of her innocence; / but afterwards his remorse
is as dreadful as his revenge has been, and yields only to fixed and death-like despair.
His farewell speech, before he kills himself, in which he conveys his reasons to the
senate for the murder ofhis wife, is equal to the first speech in which he gave them
an account ofhis courtship ofher, and 'his whole course oflove.' 14 Such an ending
was alone worthy of such a commencement.
If any thing could add to the force ofour sympathy with Othello, or compassion
for his fate, it would be the frankness and generosity of his nature, which so little
deserve it. When Iago first begins to practise upon his unsuspecting friendship, he
answers-
* See the passage, beginning - 'It is impossible you should see this, were they as prime as goats;
&c.1s
115
'Tis not to make me jealous,

To say my wife is fair, feeds well, loves company,
Is free of speech, sings, plays, and dances well;
Where virtue is, these are most virtuous.
Nor from my own weak merits will I draw
The smallest fear or doubt of her revolt,
For she had eyes and chose me. 16
This character is beautifully (and with affecting simplicity) confirmed by what

Desdemona herself says of him to }Emilia after she has lost the handkerchief, the
first pledge of his love to her.
Believe me, I had rather have lost my purse

Full of cruzadoes. And but my noble Moor I
Is true of mind, and made of no such baseness,
As jealous creatures are, it were enough
To put him to ill thinking.
JEmilia. ls he not jealous?
Desdemona. Who he? I think the sun where he was born
Drew all such humours from him.17
In a short speech of}Emilia's, there occurs one of those side-intimations of the

fluctuations of passion which we seldom meet with but in Shakespear. After
Othello has resolved upon the death ofhis wife, and bids her dismiss her attendant
for the night, she answers,
I will, my Lord.
JEmilia. How goes it now? He looks gentler than he did. 18
Shakespear has here put into half a line what some authors would have spun out
into ten set speeches.
The character of Desdemona is inimitable both in itself, and as it appears in
contrast with Othello's groundless jealousy, and with the foul conspiracy ofwhich
she is the innocent victim. Her beauty and external graces are only indirectly
glanced at: we see 'her visage in her mind;' 19 her character every where pre-
dominates over her person.
A maiden never bold:

Of spirit so still and quiet, that her motion
Blush'd at itsel£ 20 /
There is one fine compliment paid to her by Cassio, who exclaims triumphantly
when she comes ashore at Cyprus after the storm,
Tempests themselves, high seas, and howling winds,

As having sense of beauty, do omit
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OTHELLO [52/53]
Their mortal natures, letting safe go by
The divine Desdemona. 21
In general, as is the case with most ofShakespear's females, we lose sight of her
personal charms in her attachment and devotedness to her husband. 'She is subdued
even to the very quality ofher lord;' 22 and to Othello's 'honours and his valiant parts
her soul and fortunes consecrates.' 23 The lady protests so much herself, and she is
as good as her word. The truth ofconception, with which timidity and boldness are
united in the same character, is marvellous. The extravagance of her resolutions,
the pertinacity of her affections, may be said to arise out of the gentleness of her
nature. They imply an unreserved reliance on the purity of her own intentions, an
entire surrender ofher fears to her love, a knitting ofherself (heart and soul) to the
fate of another. Bating the commencement of her passion, which is a little
fantastical and headstrong (though even that may perhaps be consistently accounted
for from her inability to resist a rising inclination*) her whole character/ consists
in having no will of her own, no prompter but her obedience. Her romantic turn
is only a consequence of the domestic and practical part of her disposition; and
instead offollowing Othello to the wars, she would gladly have 'remained at home
a moth ofpeace,' 24 if her husband could have staid with her. Her resignation and
angelic sweetness of temper do not desert her at the last. The scenes in which she
laments and tries to account for Othello's estrangement from her are exquisitely
beautiful. After he has struck her, and called her names, she says,
Alas, Iago,
What shall I do to win my lord then?
Good friend, go to him; for by this light of heaven,
I know not how I lost him. Here I kneel;
If e'er my will did trespass 'gainst his love,
Either in discourse, or thought, or actual deed,
Or that mine eyes, mine ears, or any sense
Delighted them on any other form;
Or that I do not, and ever did,
And ever will, though he do shake me off
To beggarly divorcement, love him dearly,
Comfort forswear me. Unkindness may do much,
And his unkindness may defeat my life,
But never taint my love.
Iago. l pray you be content: 'tis but his humour.
The business of the state does him offence.
Desdemona. If 'twere no other! - 25
* Iago. Ay, too gentle.

Othello. Nay, that's certain. 26
117
The scene which follows with .I.Emilia and the / song ofthe Willow, are equally
beautiful, and shew the author's extreme power of varying the expression of
passion, in all its moods and in all circumstances.
A3milia. Would you had never seen him.

Desdemona. So would not I: my love doth so approve him,
That even his stubbornness, his checks, his frowns,
Have grace and favour in them, 27 &c.
Not the unjust suspicions of Othello, not Iago's unprovoked treachery, place
Desdemona in a more amiable or interesting light than the conversation (half
earnest, halfjest) between her and .I.Emilia on the common behaviour ofwomen to
their husbands. This dialogue takes place just before the last fatal scene. If Othello
had overheard it, it would have prevented the whole catastrophe; but then it would
have spoiled the play.
The character oflago is one ofthe supererogations ofShakespear's genius. Some
persons, more nice than wise, have thought this whole character unnatural, because
his villainy is without a su.ffident motive. Shakespear, who was as good a philosopher
as he was a poet, thought otherwise. He knew that the love of power, which is
another name for the love of mischief, is natural to man. He would know this as
well or better than ifit had been demonstrated to him by a logical diagram, merely
from I seeing children paddle in the dirt or kill flies for sport. Iago in fact belongs
to a class ofcharacter, common to Shakespear and at the same time peculiar to him;
whose heads are as acute and active as their hearts are hard and callous. Iago is to
be sure an extreme instance of the kind; that is to say, of diseased intellectual
activity, with the most perfect indifference to moral good or evil, or rather with a
decided preference of the latter, because it falls more readily in with his favourite
propensity, gives greater zest to his thoughts and scope to his actions. He is quite
or nearly as indifferent to his own fate as to that of others; he runs all risks for a
trifling and doubtful advantage; and is himself the dupe and victim of his ruling
passion - an insatiable craving after action ofthe most difficult and dangerous kind.
'Our ancient' 28 is a philosopher, who fancies that a lie that kills has more point in
it than an alliteration or an antithesis; who thinks a fatal experiment on the peace
of a family a better thing than watching the palpitations in the heart of a flea in a
microscope; who plots the ruin of his friends as an exercise for his ingenuity, and
stabs men in the dark to prevent ennui. His gaiety, such as it is, arises from the
success of his treachery; his ease from the torture he has inflicted on others. He is
an amateur of tragedy in real life; and instead of employing his invention on /
imaginary characters, or long-forgotten incidents, he takes the bolder and more
desperate course of getting up his plot at home, casts the principal parts among his
nearest friends and connections, and rehearses it in downright earnest, with steady
nerves and unabated resolution. We will just give an illustration or two.
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OTHELLO [56/58]
One of his most characteristic speeches is that immediately after the marriage of
Othello.
Roderigo. What a full fortune does the thick lips owe,

Ifhe can carry her thus!
Iago. Call up her father:
Rouse him (Othello) make after him, poison his delight,
Proclaim him in the streets, incense her kinsmen,
And tho' he in a fertile climate dwell,
Plague him with flies: tho' that his joy be joy,
Yet throw such changes of vexation on it,
As it may lose some colour. 29
In the next passage, his imagination runs riot in the mischief he is plotting, and
breaks out into the wildness and impetuosity of real enthusiasm.
Roderigo. Here is her father's house: I'll call aloud.

Iago. Do, with like timourous accent and dire yell
As when, by night and negligence, the fire
Is spied in populous cities.30
One of his most favourite topics, on which he is rich indeed, and in descanting
on which his spleen serves him for a Muse, is the disproportionate/ match between
Desdemona and the Moor. This is a clue to the character of the lady which he is
by no means ready to part with. It is brought forward in the first scene, and he recurs
to it, when in answer to his insinuations against Desdemona, Roderigo says,
I cannot believe that in her - she's full of most blest conditions.

Iago. Bless' d fig's end. The wine she drinks is made of grapes. If she had
been blest, she would never have married the Moor. 31
And again with still more spirit and fatal effect afterwards, when he turns this very
suggestion arising in Othello's own breast to her prejudice.
Othello. And yet how nature erring from itself -

Iago. Aye, there's the point; - as to be bold with you,
Not to affect many proposed matches
Of her own clime, complexion, and degree, 32 &c.
This is probing to the quick. Iago here turns the character of poor Desdemona,
as it were, inside out. It is certain that nothing but the genius of Shakespear could
have preserved the entire interest and delicacy ofthe part, and have even drawn an
additional elegance and dignity from the peculiar circumstances in which she is
placed. -The habitual licentiousness oflago's conversation is not to be traced to the
pleasure he takes in gross or lascivious images, but to his desire of finding out the
worst side of everything, / and ofproving himself an over-match for appearances.
119
He has none of'the milk ofhuman kindness' 33 in his composition. His imagination
rejects every thing that has not a strong infusion of the most unpalatable
ingredients; his mind digests only poisons. Virtue or goodness or whatever has the
least 'relish of salvation in it, ' 34 is, to his depraved appetite, sickly and insipid: and
he even resents the good opinion entertained of his own integrity, as ifit were an
affront cast on the masculine sense and spirit of his character. Thus at the meeting
between Othello and Desdemona, he exclaims - 'Oh, you are well tuned now: but
I'll set down the pegs that make this music, as honest as I am' 35 - his character of
bonhommie not sitting at all easy upon him. In the scenes, where he tries to work
Othello to his purpose he is proportionably guarded, insidious, dark, and
deliberate. We believe nothing ever came up to the profound dissimulation and
dextrous artifice of the well-known dialogue in the third act, where he first enters
upon the execution of his design.
Iago. My noble lord.

Othello. What dost thou say, Iago?
Iago. Did Michael Cassio.
When you woo'd my lady, know of your love?
Othello. He did from first to last.
Why dost thou ask? /
Iago. But for a satisfaction of my thought, No further harm.
Othello. Why of thy thought, Iago?
Iago. l did not think he had been acquainted with it.
Othello. 0 yes, and went between us very oft -
Iago. Indeed!
Othello. Indeed? Ay, indeed. Discem'st thou aught of that?
Is he not honest
Iago. Honest, my lord?
Othello. Honest? Ay, honest.
Iago. My lord, for aught I know.
Othello. What do'st thou think?
Iago. Think, my lord!
Othello. Think, my lord! Alas, thou echo'st me,
As if there was some monster in thy thought
Too hideous to be shewn. - 36
The stops and breaks, the deep workings oftreachery under the mask oflove and
honesty, the anxious watchfulness, the cool earnestness, and ifwe may so say, the
passion of hypocrisy, marked in every line, receive their last finishing in that
inconceivable burst of pretended indignation at Othello's doubts of his sincerity.
0 grace! 0 Heaven forgive me!

Are you a man? Have you a soul or sense?
God be wi' you; take mine office. 0 wretched fool,
That lov'st to make thine honesty a vice!
120
OTHELLO [59/62]
Oh monstrous world! Take note, take note, 0 world!
To be direct and honest, is not safe.
I thank you for this profit, and from hence
I'll love no friend, since love breeds such offence. 37 /
Iflago is detestable enough when he has business on his hands and all his engines
at work, he is still worse when he has nothing to do, and we only see into the
hollowness of his heart. His indifference when Othello falls into a swoon, is
perfectly diabolical.
Iago. How is it, General? Have you not hurt your head?
Othello. Do'st thou mock me?
Iago. I mock you not, by Heaven, 38 &c.
The part indeed would hardly be tolerated, even as a foil to the virtue and
generosity of the other characters in the play, but for its indefatigable industry and
inexhaustible resources, which divert the attention of the spectator (as well as his
own) from the end he has in view to the means by which it must be accomplished.
- Edmund the Bastard in Lear is something of the same character, placed in less
prominent circumstances. Zanga39 is a vulgar caricature of it. /
Timon of Athens
Timon ofAthens always appeared to us to be written with as intense a feeling of his

subject as any one play ofShakespear. It is one of the few in which he seems to be
in earnest throughout, never to trifle nor go out of his way. He does not relax in
his efforts, nor lose sight of the unity ofhis design. It is the only play of our author
in which spleen is the predominant feeling of the mind. It is as much a satire as a
play: and contains some of the finest pieces of invective possible to be conceived,
both in the snarling, captious answers of the cynic Apemantus, and in the
impassioned and more terrible imprecations of Timon. The latter remind the
classical reader of the force and swelling impetuosity of the moral declamations in
Juvenal, while the former have all the keenness and caustic severity of the old Stoic
philosophers. / The soul of Diogenes appears to have been seated on the lips of
Apemantus. The churlish profession ofmisanthropy in the cynic is contrasted with
the profound feeling ofit in Timon, and also with the soldier-like and determined
121
resentment ofAlcibiades against his countrymen, who have banished him, though
this forms only an incidental episode in the tragedy.
The fable consists ofa single event; - ofthe transition from the highest pomp and
profusion ofartificial refinement to the most abject state ofsavage life, and privation
of all social intercourse. The change is as rapid as it is complete; nor is the
description of the rich and generous Timon, banqueting in gilded palaces,
pampered by every luxury, prodigal of his hospitality, courted by crowds of
flatterers, poets, painters, lords, ladies, who -
Follow his strides, his lobbies fill with tendance,

Rain sacrificial whisperings in his ear;
And through him drink the free air - 1
more striking than that of the sudden falling off of his friends and fortune, and his
naked exposure in a wild forest digging roots from the earth for his sustenance, with
a lofty spirit ofself-denial, and bitter scorn ofthe world, which raise him higher in
our esteem than the dazzling gloss ofprosperity could do. He grudges / himself the
means oflife, and is only busy in preparing his grave. How forcibly is the difference
between what he was, and what he is, described in Apemantus's taunting questions,
when he comes to reproach him with the change in his way oflife!
What, think'st thou,

That the bleak air, thy boisterous chamberlain,
Will put thy shirt on warm? will these moist trees
That have out-lived the eagle, page thy heels,
And skip when thou point'st out? will the cold brook
Candied with ice, caudle thy morning taste
To cure thy o'er-night's surfeit? Call the creatures,
Whose naked natures live in all the spight
Ofwreakful heav'n, whose bare unhoused trunks,
To the conflicting elements expos'd,
Answer mere nature, bid them flatter thee. 2
The manners are every where preserved with distinct truth. The poet and painter
are very skilfully played offagainst one another, both affecting great attention to the
other, and each taken up with his own vanity, and the superiority of his own art.
Shakespear has put into the mouth of the former a very lively description of the
genius of poetry and of his own in particular.
A thing slipt idly from me.

Our poesy is as a gum, which issues
From whence 'tis nourish'd. The fire i' th' flint
Shews not till it be struck: our gentle flame /
Provokes itself - and like the current flies
Each bound it chafes. 3
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TIMON OF ATHENS [64/66]
The hollow friendship and shuffling evasions ofthe Athenian lords, their smooth
professions and pitiful ingratitude, are very satisfactorily exposed, as well as the
different disguises to which the meanness of self-love resorts in such cases to hide
a want ofgenerosity and good faith. The lurking selfishness ofApemantus does not
pass undetected amidst the grossness of his sarcasms and his contempt for the
pretensions of others. Even the two courtezans who accompany Alcibiades to the
cave of Timon are very characteristically sketched; and the thieves who come to
visit him are also 'true men' 4 in their way. - An exception to this general picture
ofselfish depravity is found in the old and honest steward Flavius, to whom Timon
pays a full tribute of tenderness. Shakespear was unwilling to draw a picture 'ugly
all over with hypocrisy.' 5 He owed this character to the good-natured solicitations of
his Muse. His mind might well have been said to be the 'sphere ofhumanity.' 6
The moral sententiousness ofthis play equals that ofLord Bacon's Treatise on the
Wisdom of the Ancients, and is indeed seasoned with greater variety. Every topic
ofcontempt or indignation is here exhausted; but while the / sordid licentiousness
ofApemantus, which turns every thing to gall and bitterness, shews only the natural
virulence of his temper and antipathy to good or evil alike, Timon does not utter
an imprecation without betraying the extravagant workings of disappointed
passion, oflove altered to hate. Apemantus sees nothing good in any object, and
exaggerates whatever is disgusting: Timon is tormented with the perpetual contrast
between things and appearances, between the fresh, tempting outside and the
rottenness within and invokes mischiefs on the heads of mankind proportioned to
the sense of his wrongs and of their treacheries. He impatiently cries out, when he
finds the gold,
This yellow slave

Will knit and break religions; bless the accurs'd;
Make the hoar leprosy ador' d; place thieves,
With senators on the bench; this is it,
And give them title, knee and approbation,
That makes the wappen' d widow wed again;
She, whom the spital-house
Would cast the gorge at, this embalms and spices
To th' April day again. 7
One of his most dreadful imprecations is that which occurs immediately on his
leaving Athens.
Let me look back upon thee, 0 thou wall,

That girdlest in those wolves! Dive in the earth,
And fence not Athens! Matron, tum incontinent: /
Obedience fail in children; slaves and fools
Pluck the grave wrinkled senate from the bench,
And minister in their steads. To general filths
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(66/67] SELECTED WRITINGS OF WILLIAM HAZLITT: VOLUME 1
Convert o' th' instant green virginity!

Do't in your parents' eyes. Bankrupts, hold fast:
Rather than render back, out with your knives,
And cut your trusters' throats! Bound servants, steal
Large-handed robbers your grave masters are
And pill by law. Maid, to thy master's bed:
Thy mistress is o' th' brothel. Son of sixteen,
Pluck the lin'd crutch from thy old limping sire,
And with it beat his brains out! Fear and piety,
Religion to the Gods, peace, justice, truth,
Domestic awe, night-rest, and neighbourhood,
Instructions, manners, mysteries and trades,
Degrees, observances, customs and laws,
Decline to your confounding contraries;
And let confusion live! - Plagues, incident to men,
Your potent and infectious fevers heap
On Athens, ripe for stroke! Thou cold sciatica,
Cripple our senators, that their limbs may halt
As lamely as their manners! Lust and liberty
Creep in the minds and marrows of our youth,
That 'gainst the stream of virtue they may strive,
And drown themselves in riot! Itches, blains,
Sow all th' Athenian bosoms; and their crop
Be general leprosy: breath infect breath,
That their society (as their friendship) may
Be merely poison! 8
Timon is here just as ideal in his passion for ill as he had been before in his belief
ofgood. Apemantus was satisfied with the mischief existing in the world, and with
his own ill-nature. / One of the most decisive intimations of Timon's morbid
jealousy of appearances is in his answer to Apemantus, who asks him,
What things in the world can'st thou nearest compare with thy
flatterers?
Timon. Women nearest: but men, men are the things themselves. 9
Apemantus, it is said, 'loved few things better than to abhor himself:' 10 This is not
the case with Timon, who neither loves to abhor himself nor others. All his
vehement misanthrophy is forced, up-hill work. From the slippery turns offortune,
from the turmoils of passion and adversity, he wishes to sink into the quiet of the
grave. On that subject his thoughts are intent, on that he finds time and place to
grow romantic. He digs his own grave by the sea-shore; contrives his funeral
ceremonies amidst the pomp of desolation, and builds his mausoleum of the
elements.
Come not to me again; but say to Athens,

Timon hath made his everlasting mansion
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CORIOLANUS [67170]
Upon the beached verge of the salt flood;

Which once a-day with his embossed froth
The turbulent surge shall cover. - Thither come,
And let my grave-stone be your oracle. 11
And again, Alcibiades, after reading his epitaph, says of him,
These well express in thee thy latter spirits:

Though thou abhorred'st in us our human griefs, /
Scorn'd'st our brain's flow, and those our droplets, which
From niggard nature fall; yet rich conceit
Taught thee to make vast Neptune weep for aye
On thy low grave - 12
Thus making the winds his funeral dirge, his mourner the murmuring ocean; and
seeking in the everlasting solemnities ofnature oblivion ofthe transitory splendour
of his life-time. /
Coriolanus
Shakespear has in this play shewn himself well versed in history and state-affairs.
Coriolanus is a store-house ofpolitical common-places. Any one who studies it may
save himself the trouble of reading Burke's Reflections, or Paine's Rights of Man,
or the Debates in both Houses of Parliament since the French Revolution or our
own. The arguments for and against aristocracy or democracy, on the privileges of
the few and the claims of the many, on liberty and slavery, power and the abuse of
it, peace and war, are here very ably handled, with the spirit of a poet and the
acuteness of a philosopher. Shakespear himself seems to have had a leaning to the
arbitrary side of the question, perhaps from some feeling of contempt for his own
origin; and to have spared no occasion of bating the rabble. What he says of them
is very true: / what he says of their betters is also very true, though he dwells less
upon it. - The cause of the people is indeed but little calculated as a subject for
poetry: it admits of rhetoric, which goes into argument and explanation, but it
presents no immediate or distinct images to the mind, 'no jutting frieze, buttress, or
coigne of vantage' 1 for poetry 'to make its pendant bed and procreant cradle in.' 2
The language of poetry naturally falls in with the language of power. The
125
imagination is an exaggerating and exclusive faculty: it takes from one thing to add
to another: it accumulates circumstances together to give the greatest possible effect
to a favourite object. The understanding is a dividing and measuring faculty: it
judges of things not according to their immediate impression on the mind, but
according to their relations to one another. The one is a monopolising faculty,
which seeks the greatest quantity of present excitement by inequality and
disproportion; the other is a distributive faculty, which seeks the greatest quantity of
ultimate good, by justice and proportion. The one is an aristocratical, the other a
republican faculty. The principle ofpoetry is a very anti-levelling principle. It aims
at effect, it exists by contrast. It admits ofno medium. It is every thing by excess. It
rises above the ordinary standard of sufferings and crimes. It presents a dazzling
appearance. / It shews its head turretted, crowned, and crested. Its front is gilt and
bloodstained. Before it 'it carries noise, and behind it leaves tears. ' 3 It has its altars and
its victims, sacrifices, human sacrifices. Kings, priests, nobles, are its train-bearers,
tyrants and slaves its executioners - 'Carnage is its daughter. ' 4 - Poetry is right-royal.
It puts the individual for the species, the one above the infinite many, might before
right. A lion hunting a flock ofsheep or a herd ofwild asses is a more poetical object
than they; and we even take part with the lordly beast, because our vanity or some
other feeling makes us disposed to place ourselves in the situation of the strongest
party. So we feel some concern for the poor citizens of Rome when they meet
together to compare their wants and grievances, till Coriolanus comes in and with
blows and big words drives this set of 'poor rats,' 5 this rascal scum, to their homes
and beggary before him. There is nothing heroical in a multitude of miserable
rogues not wishing to be starved, or complaining that they are like to be so: but
when a single man comes forward to brave their cries and to make them submit to
the last indignities, from mere pride and self-will, our admiration of his prowess is
immediately converted into contempt for their pusillanimity. The insolence of
power is / stronger than the plea of necessity. The tame submission to usurped
authority or even the natural resistance to it has nothing to excite or flatter the
imagination: it is the assumption ofa right to insult or oppress others that carries an
imposing air of superiority with it. We had rather be the oppressor than the
oppressed. The love ofpower in ourselves and the admiration ofit in others are both
natural to man: the one makes him a tyrant, the other a slave. Wrong dressed out in
pride, pomp, and circumstance, has more attraction than abstract right. - Coriolanus
complains ofthe fickleness ofthe people: yet, the instant he cannot gratify his pride
and obstinacy at their expense, he turns his arms against his country. If his country
was not worth defending, why did he build his pride on its defence? He is a
conquerer and a hero; he conquers other countries, and makes this a plea for
enslaving his own; and when he is prevented from doing so, he leagues with its
enemies to destroy his country. He rates the people 'as ifhe were a God to punish,
and not a man oftheir infirmity.' 6 He scoffs at one of their tribunes for maintaining
126
CORIOLANUS [72/75]
their rights and franchises: 'Mark you his absolute shall?' 7 not marking his own
absolute will to take every thing from them, his impatience of the slightest
opposition to his / own pretensions being in proportion to their arrogance and
absurdity. If the great and powerful had the beneficence and wisdom of Gods, then
all this would have been well: if with a greater knowledge of what is good for the
people, they had as great a care for their interest as they have themselves, ifthey were
seated above the world, sympathising with the welfare, but not feeling the passions
ofmen, receiving neither good nor hurt from them, but bestowing their benefits as
free gifts on them, they might then rule over them like another Providence. But this
is not the case. Coriolanus is unwilling that the senate should shew their 'cares' for
the people, lest their 'cares' 8 should be construed into 'fears,' to the subversion ofall
due authority; and he is no sooner disappointed in his schemes to deprive the people
not only of the cares of the state, but of all power to redress themselves, than
Volumnia is made madly to exclaim,
Now the red pestilence strike all trades in Rome,

And occupations perish. 9
This is but natural: it is but natural for a mother to have more regard for her son
than for a whole city; but then the city should be left to take some care ofitsel£ The
care of the state cannot, we here see, be safely entrusted to maternal / affection, or
to the domestic charities of high life. The great have private feelings of their own,
to which the interests of humanity and justice must courtesy. Their interests are so
far from being the same as those of the community, that they are in direct and
necessary opposition to them; their power is at the expense of our weakness; their
riches of our poverty; their pride of our degradation; their splendour of our
wretchedness; their tyranny of our servitude. If they had the superior knowledge
ascribed to them (which they have not) it would only render them so much more
formidable; and from Gods would convert them into Devils. The whole dramatic
moral of Coriolanus is that those who have little shall have less, and that those who
have much shall take all that others have left. The people are poor; therefore they
ought to be starved. They are slaves; therefore they ought to be beaten. They work
hard; therefore they ought to be treated like beasts of burden. They are ignorant;
therefore they ought not to be allowed to feel that they want food, or clothing, or
rest, that they are enslaved, oppressed, and miserable. This is the logic of the
imagination and the passions; which seek to aggrandize what excites admiration
and to heap contempt on misery, to raise power into tyranny, and to make tyranny
absolute; to thrust down that which is / low still lower, and to make wretches
desperate: to exalt magistrates into kings, kings into gods; to degrade subjects to the
rank of slaves, and slaves to the condition of brutes. The history of mankind is a
romance, a mask, a tragedy, constructed upon the principles of poetical justice; it is
a noble or royal hunt, in which what is sport to the few is death to the many, and
127
in which the spectators halloo and encourage the strong to set upon the weak, and
cry havoc in the chase though they do not share in the spoil. We may depend upon
it that what men delight to read in books, they will put in practice in reality.
One ofthe most natural traits in this play is the difference ofthe interest taken in
the success of Coriolanus by his wife and mother. The one is only anxious for his
honour; the other is fearful for his life.
Volumnia. Methinks I hither hear your husband's drum:

I see him pluck Aufidius down by th' hair:
Methinks I see him stamp thus - and call thus -
Come on, ye cowards; ye were got in fear
Though you were born in Rome; his bloody brow
With his mail'd hand then wiping, forth he goes
Like to a harvest man, that's task'd to mow
Or all, or lose his hire.
Virgilia. His bloody brow! Oh Jupiter, no blood.
Volumnia. Away, you fool; it more becomes a man
Than gilt his trophy. The breast of Hecuba, /
When she did suckle Hector, look'd not lovelier
Than Hector's forehead, when it spit forth blood
At Grecian swords contending. 10
When she hears the trumpets that proclaim her son's return, she says in the true
spirit of a Roman matron,
These are the ushers of Martius: before him

He carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears.
Death, that dark spirit, in's nervy arm doth lie,
Which being advanc'd, declines, and then men die. 11
Coriolanus himself is a complete character: his love of reputation, his contempt

of popular opinion, his pride and modesty, are consequences of each other. His
pride consists in the inflexible sternness ofhis will; his love ofglory is a determined
desire to bear down all opposition, and to extort the admiration both offriends and
foes. His contempt for popular favour, his unwillingness to hear his own praises,
spring from the same source. He cannot contradict the praises that are bestowed
upon him; therefore he is impatient at hearing them. He would enforce the good
opinion of others by his actions, but does not want their acknowledgments in
words.
Pray now, no more: my mother,

Who has a charter to extol her blood,
When she does praise me, grieves me. 12 /
His magnanimity is of the same kind. He admires in an enemy that courage

which he honours in himself; he places himself on the hearth ofAufidius with the
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CORIOLANUS [77/79]
same confidence that he would have met him in the field, and feels that by putting
himself in his power, he takes from him all temptation for using it against him.
In the title-page of Coriolanus, it is said at the bottom of the Dramatis Persona!,
'The whole history exactly followed, and many of the principal speeches copied
from the life of Coriolanus in Plutarch.' 13 It will be interesting to our readers to see
how far this is the case. Two ofthe principal scenes, those between Coriolanus and
Aufidius and between Coriolanus and his mother, are thus given in Sir Thomas
North's Translation of Plutarch, dedicated to Queen Elizabeth, 1579. The first is
as follows: -
It was even twilight when he entered the city ofAntium, and many people met him
in the streets, but no man knew him. So he went directly to Tullus Aufidius' house,
and when he came thither, he got him up straight to the chimney-hearth, and sat
him down, and spake not a word to any man, his face all muffled over. They ofthe
house spying him, wondered what he should be, and yet they durst not bid him rise.
For ill-favouredly muffled and disguised as he was, yet there appeared a certain
majesty in his countenance and in his silence: whereupon they went to Tullus, who
was at supper, to tell him of the strange disguising / of this man. Tullus rose
presently from the board, and coming towards him, asked him what he was, and
wherefore he came. Then Martius unmuffled himself, and after he had paused
awhile, making no answer, he said unto himself, ifthou knowest me not yet, Tullus,
and seeing me, dost not perhaps believe me to be the man I am indeed, I must of
necessity discover myself to be that I am. 'I am Caius Martius, who hath done to
thyself particularly, and to all the V olces generally, great hurt and mischief, which
I cannot deny for my surname of Coriolanus that I bear. For I never had other
benefit nor recompence ofthe true and painful service I have done, and the extreme
dangers I have been in, but this only surname; a good memory and witness of the
malice and displeasure thou shouldest bear me. Indeed the name only remaineth
with me; for the rest, the envy and cruelty ofthe people ofRome have taken from
me, by the sufferance of the dastardly nobility and magistrates, who have forsaken
me, and let me be banished by the people. This extremity hath now driven me to
come as a poor suitor, to take thy chimney-hearth, not of any hope I have to save
my life thereby. For if I had feared death, I would not have come hither to put
myselfin hazard; but pricked forward with desire to be revenged ofthem that thus
have banished me, which now I do begin, in putting my person into the hands of
their enemies. Wherefore if thou hast any heart to be wrecked of the injuries thy
enemies have done thee, speed thee now, and let my misery serve thy tum, and so
use it as my service may be a benefit to the Vokes: promising thee, that I will fight
with better good will for all you than I did when I was against you, knowing that
they fight more valiantly who know the force ofthe enemy, than such as have never
proved it. And ifit be so that thou dare not, and that thou art weary to prove fortune
any / more, then am I also weary to live any longer. And it were no wisdom in thee
to save the life of him who hath been heretofore the mortal enemy, and whose
service now can nothing help, nor pleasure thee.' Tullus hearing what he said, was
a marvellous glad man, and taking him by the hand, he said unto him: 'Stand up,
0 Martius, and be of good cheer, for in proffering thyself unto us, thou doest us
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[79/81] SELECTED WRITINGS OF WILLIAM HAZLITT: VOLUME t
great honour: and by this means thou mayest hope also of greater things at all the
Vokes' hands.' So he feasted him for that time, and entertained him in the
honourablest manner he could, talking with him ofno other matter at that present:
but within few days after, they fell to consultation together in what sort they should
begin their wars.
The meeting between Coriolanus and his mother is also nearly the same as in the
play.
Now was Marti us set then in the chair ofstate, with all the honours ofa general, and
when he had spied the women coming afar off, he marvelled what the matter
meant: but afterwards knowing his wife which came foremost, he determined at the
first to persist in his obstinate and inflexible rancour. But overcome in the end with
natural affection, and being altogether altered to see them, his heart would not serve
him to tarry their coming to his chair, but coming down in haste, he went to meet
them, and first he kissed his mother, and embraced her a pretty while, then his wife
and little children. And nature so wrought with him, that the tears fell from his eyes,
and he could not keep himself from making much of them, but yielded to the
affection of his blood, as if he had been violently carried with the fury of a most
swift-running stream. After he had thus lovingly received them, and perceiving that
his mother Volumnia would begin to speak to him, he / called the chiefest of the
council ofthe Vokes to hear what she would say. Then she spake in this sort: 'If we
held our peace, my son, and determined not to speak, the state of our poor bodies,
and present sight of our raiment, would easily betray to thee what life we have led
at home, since thy exile and abode abroad; but think now with thyself, how much
more unfortunate than all the women living, we are come hither, considering that
the sight which should be most pleasant to all others to behold, spiteful fortune had
made most fearful to us: making myself to see my son, and my daughter here her
husband, besieging the walls of his native country: so as that which is the only
comfort to all others in their adversity and misery, to pray unto the Gods, and to call
to them for aid, is the only thing which plungeth us into most deep perplexity. For
we cannot, alas, together pray, both for victory to our country, and for safety ofthy
life also: but a world ofgrievous curses, yea more than any mortal enemy can heap
upon us, are forcibly wrapped up in our prayers. For the bitter sop of most hard
choice is offered thy wife and children, to forego one ofthe two: either to lose the
person of thyself, or the nurse of their native country. For myself, my son, I am
determined not to tarry till fortune in my lifetime do make an end of this war. For
ifl cannot persuade thee rather to do good unto both parties, than to overthrow and
destroy the one, preferring love and nature before the malice and calamity ofwars,
thou shalt see, my son, and trust unto it, thou shalt no sooner march forward to
assault thy country, but thy foot shall tread upon thy mother's womb, that brought
thee first into this world. And I may not defer to see the day, either that my son be
led prisoner in triumph by his natural countrymen, or that he himself do triumph
of them, and of his natural country. For ifit were so, that my request tended to I
save thy country, in destroying the Vokes, I must confess, thou wouldest hardly and
doubtfully resolve on that. For as to destroy thy natural country, it is altogether
unmeet and unlawful, so were it not just and less honourable to betray those that
put their trust in thee. But my only demand consisteth, to make a goal delivery of
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CORIOLANUS [81/82]
all evils, which delivereth equal benefit and safety, both to the one and the other,
but most honourable for the Voices. For it shall appear, that having victory in their
hands, they have ofspecial favour granted us singular graces, peace and amity, albeit
themselves have no less part ofboth than we. Ofwhich good, if so it came to pass,
thyselfis the only author, and so hast thou the only honour. But ifit fail, and fall out
contrary, thyself alone deservedly shalt carry the shameful reproach and burthen of
either party. So, though the end of war be uncertain, yet this notwithstanding is
most certain, that ifit be thy chance to conquer, this benefit shalt thou reap of thy
goodly conquest, to be chronicled the plague and destroyer ofthy country. And if
fortune overthrow thee, then the world will say, that through desire to revenge thy
private injuries, thou hast for ever undone thy good friends. Who did most lovingly
and courteously receive thee.' Martius gave good ear unto his mother's words,
without interrupting her speech at all, and after she had said what she would, he
held his peace a pretty while, and answered not a word. Hereupon she began again
to speak unto him, and said: 'My son, why dost thou not answer me? Dost thou
think it good altogether to give place unto thy choler and desire of revenge, and
thinkest thou it not honesty for thee to grant thy mother's request in so weighty a
cause? Dost thou take it honourable for a nobleman to remember the wrongs and
injuries done him, and dost not in like case think it an honest nobleman's part to be
thankful for the goodness that parents do shew to their children, acknowledging the
duty and reverence / they ought to bear unto them? No man living is more bound
to shew himself thankful in all parts and respects than thyself who so universally
shewest all ingratitude. Moreover, my son, thou hast sorely taken of thy country,
exacting grievous payments upon them, in revenge of the injuries offered thee;
besides, thou hast not hitherto shewed thy poor mother any courtesy. And
therefore, it is not only honest but due unto me, that without compulsion I should
obtain my so just and reasonable request of thee. But since by reason I cannot
persuade thee to it, to what purpose do I defer my last hope.' And with these words,
herself, his wife and children, fell down upon their knees before him: Martius
seeing that, could refrain no longer, but went straight and lifted her up, crying out
'Oh mother, what have you done to me?' And holding her hard by the hand, 'Oh
mother,' said he, 'you have won a happy victory for your country, but mortal and
unhappy for your son: for I see myself vanquished by you alone.' These word being
spoken openly, he spake a little apart with his mother and wife, and then let them
return again to Rome, for so they did request him; and so remaining in the camp
that night, the next morning he dislodged, and marched homeward unto the V olces
country again.
Shakespear has, in giving a dramatic form to this passage, adhered very closely and
properly to the text. He did not think it necessary to improve upon the truth of
nature. Several of the scenes in Julius Ccesar, particularly Portia's appeal to the
confidence of her husband by shewing him the wound she had given herself; and
the appearance ofthe ghost ofC.esar to Brutus, are in like manner, taken from the
history.
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Troilus and Cressida
This is one ofthe most loose and desultory of our author's plays: it rambles on just
as it happens, but it overtakes, together with some indifferent matter, a prodigious
number of fine things in its way. Troilus himself is no character: he is merely a
common lover: but Cressida and her uncle Pandarus are hit off with proverbial
truth. By the speeches given to the leaders of the Grecian host, Nestor, Ulysses,
Agamemnon, Achilles, Shakespear seems to have known them as well as ifhe had
been a spy sent by the Trojans into the enemy's camp - to say nothing of their
affording very lofty examples ofdidactic eloquence. The following is a very stately
and spirited declamation:
Ulysses. Troy, yet upon her basis, had been down,

And the great Hector's sword had lack'd a master,/
But for these instances.
The specialty of rule hath been neglected.
* * * * *
The heavens themselves, the planets, and this center,
Observe degree, priority, and place,
Insisture, course, proportion, season, form,
Office, and custom, in all line of order:
And therefore is the glorious planet, Sol,
In noble eminence, enthron'd and spher'd
Amidst the other, whose med'cinable eye
Corrects the ill aspects of planets evil,
And posts, like the commandment of a king,
Sans check, to good and bad. But, when the planets,
In evil mixture to disorder wander,
What plagues, and what portents? what mutinies?
What raging of the sea? shaking of the earth?
Commotion in the winds? frights, changes, horrors,
Divert and crack, rend and deracinate
The unity and marred calm of states
Quite from their fixture! 0, when degree is shaken,
(Which is the ladder to all high designs)
The enterprize is sick! How could communities,
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TROILUS AND CRESSIDA [84/86]
Degrees in schools, and brotherhoods in cities,
Peaceful commerce from dividable shores,
The primogenitive and due of birth,
Prerogative of age, crowns, sceptres, laurels,
(But by degree) stand in authentic place?
Take but degree away, untune that string,
And hark what discord follows! each thing meets
In mere oppugnancy. The bounded waters
Would lift their bosoms higher than the shores,
And make a sop of all this solid globe:
Strength would be the lord of imbecility,
And the rude son would strike his father dead:
Force would be right; or rather right and wrong /
(Between whose endless jar Justice resides)
Would lose their names, and so would Justice too.
Then every thing includes itself in power,
Power into will, will into appetite;
And appetite (ah universal wolf,
So doubly seconded with will and power)
Must make perforce an universal prey,
And last eat up himself. Great Agamemnon,
This chaos, when degree is suffocate,
Follows the choking:
And this neglection of degree it is,
That by a pace goes backward, in a purpose
It hath to climb. The general's disdained
By him one step below; he, by the next;
That next, by him beneath: so every step,
Exampled by the first pace that is sick
Of his superior, grows to an envious fever
Of pale and bloodless emulation;
And 'tis this fever that keeps Troy on foot,
Not her own sinews. To end a tale oflength,
Troy in our weakness lives, not in her strength. 1
It cannot be said of Shakespear, as was said of some one, that he was 'without
o'erflowing full.' 2 He was full, even to o'erflowing. He gave heaped measure,
running over. This was hi.s greatest fault. He was only in danger 'of losing
distinction in his thoughts' 3 (to borrow his own expression)
As doth a battle when they charge on heaps

The enemy flying. 4
There is another passage, the speech of Ulysses to Achilles, shewing him the
thankless nature/ ofpopularity, which has a still greater depth ofmoral observation
and richness of illustration than the former. It is long, but worth the quoting. The
sometimes giving an entire argument from the unacted plays of our author may
133
with one class of readers have almost the use of restoring a lost passage; and may
serve to convince another class ofcritics, that the poet's genius was not confined to
the production of stage effect by preternatural means. -
Ulysses. Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back,

Wherein he puts alms for Oblivion;
A great-siz' d monster of ingratitudes:
Those scraps are good deeds past,
Which are devour'd as fast as they are made,
Forgot as soon as done. Persev'rance, dear my lord,
Keeps Honour bright: to have done, is to hang
Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail
In monumental mockery. Take the instant way;
For Honour travels in a strait so narrow,
Where one but goes abreast; keep then the path,
For Emulation hath a thousand sons,
That one by one pursue; ifyou give way,
Or hedge aside from the direct forth right,
Like to an entered tide, they all rush by,
And leave you hindmost; -
Or, like a gallant horse fall'n in first rank,
O'er-run and trampled on: then what they do in present,
Tho' less than your's in past must o'ertop your's:
For Time is like a fashionable host,
That slightly shakes his parting guest by th' hand,
And with his arms outstretch'd, as he would fly,
Grasps in the comer: the welcome ever smiles, /
And farewell goes out sighing. 0, let not virtue seek
Remuneration for the thing it was; for beauty, wit,
High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service,
Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all
To envious and calumniating time:
One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.
That all with one consent praise new-born gauds,
Tho' they are made and moulded of things past.
The present eye praises the present object.
Then marvel not, thou great and complete man,
That all the Greeks begin to worship Ajax;
Since things in motion sooner catch the eye,
Than what not stirs. The cry went out on thee,
And still it might, and yet it may again,
If thou would'st not entomb thyself alive,
And case thy reputation in thy tent. 5
The throng of images in the above lines is prodigious; and though they
sometimes jostle against one another, they ever where raise and carry on the
feeling, which is intrinsically true and profound. The debates between the Trojan
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TROILUS AND CRESSIDA (87/89]
chiefs on the restoring of Helen are full of knowledge of human motives and
character. Troilus enters well into the philosophy of war, when he says in answer
to something that falls from Hector,
Why there you touch'd the life of our design:

Were it not glory that we more affected,
Than the performance of our heaving spleens,
I would not wish a drop of Trojan blood
Spent more in her defence. But, worthy Hector, /
She is a theme of honour and renown,
A spur to valiant and magnanimous deeds. 6
The character of Hector, in a few slight indications which appear ofit, is made
very amiable. His death is sublime, and shews in a striking light the mixture of
barbarity and heroism of the age. The threats of Achilles are fatal; they carry their
own means of execution with them.
Come here about me, you my myrmidons,

Mark what I say - Attend me where I wheel:
Strike not a stroke, but keep yourselves in breath;
And when I have the bloody Hector found,
Empale him with your weapons round about,
In fellest manner execute your arms.
Follow me, sirs, and my proceeding eye. 7
He then finds Hector and slays him, as ifhe had been hunting down a wild beast.
There is something revolting as well as terrific in the ferocious coolness with which
he singles out his prey: nor does the splendour of the achievement reconcile us to
the cruelty of the means.
The characters of Cressida and Pandarus are very amusing and instructive. The
disinterested willingness of Pandarus to serve his friend in an affair which lies next
his heart is immediately brought forward. 'Go thy way, Troilus, go thy way; had I
a sister were a grace, or a daughter were a goddess, he should take his / choice. 0
admirable man! Paris, Paris is dirt to him, and I warrant Helen, to change, would
give money to boot. ' 8 This is the language he addresses to his niece: nor is she much
behind-hand in coming into the plot. Her head is as light and fluttering as her heart.
'It is the prettiest villain, she fetches her breath so short as a new-ta'en sparrow.' 9
Both characters are originals, and quite different from what they are in Chaucer. In
Chaucer, Cressida is represented as a grave, sober, considerate personage (a widow
- he cannot tell her age, nor whether she has children or no) who has an alternate
eye to her character, her interest, and her pleasure: Shakespear's Cressida is a giddy
girl, an unpractised jilt, who falls in love with Troilus, as she afterwards deserts him,
from mere levity and thoughtlessness oftemper. She may be wooed and won to any
thing and from any thing, at a moment's warning; the other knows very well what
135
she would be at, and sticks to it, and is more governed by substantial reasons than
by caprice or vanity. Pandarus again, in Chaucer's story, is a friendly sort of go-
between, tolerably busy, officious, and forward in bringing matters to bear: but in
Shakespear he has 'a stamp exclusive and professional:' 10 he wears the badge of his
trade; he is a regular knight ofthe game. The difference ofthe manner in which the
subject is treated arises perhaps less from intention, than from the different / genius
of the two poets. There is no double entendre in the characters of Chaucer: they are
either quite serious or quite comic. In Shakespear the ludicrous and ironical are
constantly blended with the stately and the impassioned. We see Chaucer's
characters as they saw themselves, not as they appeared to others or might have
appeared to the poet. He is as deeply implicated in the affairs ofhis personages as they
could be themselves. He had to go a longjourney with each of them, and became
a kind ofnecessary confidant. There is little relief, or light and shade in his pictures.
The conscious smile is not seen lurking under the brow ofgriefor impatience. Every
thing with him is intense and continuous - a working out of what went before. -
Shakespear never committed himself to his characters. He trifled, laughed, or wept
with them as he chose. He has no prejudices for or against them; and it seems a
matter of perfect indifference whether he shall be in jest or earnest. According to
him 'the web of our lives is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together.' 11 His genius
was dramatic, as Chaucer's was historical. He saw both sides of a question, the
different views taken of it according to the different interests of the parties
concerned, and he was at once an actor and spectator in the scene. If any thing, he
is too various and flexible: too full of transitions, of glancing lights, of salient /
points. IfChaucer followed up his subject too doggedly, perhaps Shakespear was too
volatile and heedless. The Muse's wing too often lifted him from off his feet. He
made infinite excursions to the right and the left.
He hath done
Mad and fantastic execution,
Engaging and redeeming of himself
With such a careless force and forceless care,
As if luck in very spite of cunning
Bad him win all. 12
Chaucer attended chiefly to the real and natural, that is, to the involuntary and
inevitable impressions on the mind in given circumstances; Shakespear exhibited
also the possible and the fantastical, - not only what things are in themselves, but
whatever they might seem to be, their different reflections, their endless
combinations. He lent his fancy, wit, invention, to others and borrowed their
feelings in return. Chaucer excelled in the force ofhabitual sentiment; Shakespear
added to it every variety of passion, every suggestion of thought or accident.
Chaucer described external objects with the eye of a painter, or he might be said
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TROILUS AND CRESSIDA [91/93]
to have embodied them with the hand of a sculptor, every part is so thoroughly
made out, and tangible: - Shakespear's imagination threw over them a lustre
Prouder than when blue Iris bends. 13 /
Every thing in Chaucer has a downright reality. A simile or a sentiment is as ifit

were given in upon evidence. In Shakespear the commonest matter-of-fact has a
romantic grace about it; or seems to float with the breath of imagination in a freer
element. No one could have more depth of feeling or observation than Chaucer,
but he wanted resources ofinvention to lay open the stores ofnature or the human
heart with the same radiant light that Shakespear has done. However fine or
profound the thought we know what is coming, whereas the effect of reading
Shakespear is 'like the eye of vassalage at unawares encountering majesty.' 14
Chaucer's mind was consecutive, rather than discursive. He arrived at truth
through a certain process; Shakespear saw every thing by intuition. Chaucer had a
great variety of power, but he could do only one thing at once. He set himself to
work on a particular subject. His ideas were kept separate, labelled, ticketed and
parcelled out in a set form, in pews and compartments by themselves. They did not
play into one another's hands. They did not re-act upon one another, as the
blower's breath moulds the yielding glass. There is something hard and dry in them.
What is the most wonderful thing in Shakespear's faculties is their excessive
sociability, and how they gossiped and compared notes together. /
We must conclude this criticism; and we will do it with a quotation or two. One
ofthe most beautiful passages in Chaucer's tale is the description ofCresseide's first
avowal of her love.
And as the new abashed nightingale,

That stinteth first when she beginneth sing,
When that she heareth any herde's tale,
Or in the hedges any wight stirring,
And, after, sicker doth her voice outring;
Right so Cresseide, when that her dread stent,
Opened her heart, and told him her intent. 15
See also the two next stanzas, and particularly that divine one beginning -
Her armes small, her back both straight and soft, 16 &c.
Compare this with the following speech ofTroilus to Cressida in the play: -
0, that I thought it could be in a woman;

And if it can, I will presume in you,
To feed for aye her lamp and flame oflove,
To keep her constancy in plight and youth,
Out-living beauties outward, with a mind
137
That doth renew swifter than blood decays.

Or, that persuasion could but thus convince me,
That my integrity and truth to you
Might be affronted with the match and weight
Ofsuch a winnow' d purity in love;
How were I then uplifted! But alas,
I am as true as Truth's simplicity,
And simpler than the infancy ofTruth.17 /
These passages may not seem very characteristic at first sight, though we think
they are so. We will give two, that cannot be mistaken. Patroclus says to Achilles,
Rouse yourself; and the weak wanton Cupid

Shall from your neck unloose his amorous fold,
And like a dew-drop from the lion's mane,
Be shook to air. 18
Troilus, addressing the God of Day on the approach of the morning that parts
him from Cressida, says with much scorn,
What! proffer'st thou thy light here for to sell;

Go sell it them that smalle seles grave. 19
If nobody but Shakespear could have written the former, nobody but Chaucer
would have thought of the latter. - Chaucer was the most literal of poets, as
Richardson was of prose-writers. /
Antony and Cleopatra
This is a very noble play. Though not in the first class ofShakespear's productions,
it stands next to them, and is, we think, the finest of his historical plays, that is, of
those in which he made poetry the organ ofhistory, and assumed a certain tone of
character and sentiment, in conformity to known facts, instead of trusting to his
observations of general nature or to the unlimited indulgence of his own fancy.
What he has added to the actual story, is upon a par with it. His genius was, as it
were, a match for history as well as nature, and could grapple at will with either.
The play is full of that pervading, comprehensive power by which the poet could
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ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA [95/97]
always make himself master of time and circumstances. It presents a fine picture of
Roman pride and Eastern magnificence: and in the struggle between the two, the
empire of the / world seems suspended, 'like the swan's down-feather,
That stands upon the swell at full of tide,

And neither way inclines. 1
The characters breathe, move, and live. Shakespear does not stand reasoning on
what his characters would do or say, but at once becomes them, and speaks and acts
for them. He does not present us with groups ofstage-puppets ofpoetical machines
making set speeches on human life; acting from a calculation of problematical
motives, but he brings living men and women on the scene, who speak and act
from real feelings, according to the ebbs and flows of passion, without the least
tincture of pedantry of logic or rhetoric. Nothing is made out by inference and
analogy, by climax and antithesis, but every thing takes place just as it would have
done in reality, according to the occasion. - The character ofCleopatra is a master-
piece. What an extreme contrast it affords to Imogen! One would think it almost
impossible for the same person to have drawn both. She is voluptuous, ostentatious,
conscious, boastful ofher charms, haughty, tyrannical, fickle. The luxurious pomp
and gorgeous extravagance ofthe Egyptian queen are displayed in all their force and
lustre, as well as the irregular grandeur/ ofthe soul ofMark Antony. Take only the
first four lines that they speak as an example of the regal style of love-making.
Cleopatra. If it be love indeed, tell me how much?

Antony. There's beggary in the love that can be reckon'd.
Cleopatra. I'll set a bourn how far to be belov' d.
Antony. Then must thou needs find out new heav'n,
new earth. 2
The rich and poetical description of her person beginning -
The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne,

Burnt on the water; the poop was beaten gold,
Purple the sails, and so perfumed, that
The winds were love-sick3 -
seems to prepare the way for, and almost to justify the subsequent infatuation of
Antony when in the sea-fight at Actium, he leaves the battle, and 'like a doating
mallard' 4 follows her flying sails.
Few things in Shakespear (and we know of nothing in any other author like
them) have more of that local truth of imagination and character than the passage
in which Cleopatra is represented conjecturing what were the employments of
Antony in his absence - 'He's speaking now, or murmuring- Where's my serpent of
old Nile?' 5 Or again, when she says to Antony, after the defeat at Actium, and his
139
summoning I up resolution to risk another fight- 'It is my birth-day; I had thought

to have held it poor; but since my lord is Antony again, I will be Cleopatra. '6
Perhaps the finest burst of all is Antony's rage after his final defeat when he comes
in, and surprises the messenger of Ca:sar kissing her hand -
To let a fellow that will take rewards,

And say God quit you, be familiar with,
My play-fellow, your hand; this kingly seal,
And plighter of high hearts. 7
It is no wonder that he orders him to be whipped; but his low condition is not the
true reason: there is another feeling which lies deeper, though Antony's pride
would not let him shew it, except by his rage; he suspects the fellow to be Ca:sar's
proxy.
Cleopatra's whole character is the triumph of the voluptuous, of the love of
pleasure and the power ofgiving it, over every other consideration. Octavia is a dull
foil to her, and Fulvia a shrew and shrill-tongued. What a picture do those lines give
of her-
Age cannot wither her, nor custom steal

Her infinite variety. Other women cloy
The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry
Where most she satisfies. 8
What a spirit and fire in her conversation with Antony's messenger who brings
her the / unwelcome news of his marriage with Octavia! How all the pride of
beauty and of high rank breaks out in her promised reward to him -
There's gold, and here

My bluest veins to kiss! - 9
She had great and unpardonable faults, but the grandeur of her death almost
redeems them. She learns from the depth of despair the strength of her affections.
She keeps her queen-like state in the last disgrace, and her sense of the pleasurable
in the last moments of her life. She tastes a luxury in death. After applying the asp,
she says with fondness -
Dost thou not see my baby at my breast,

That sucks the nurse asleep?
As sweet as balm, as soft as air, as gentle.
Oh Antony!1°
It is worth while to observe that Shakespear has contrasted the extreme

magnificence ofthe descriptions in this play with pictures ofextreme suffering and
physical horror, not less striking - partly perhaps to place the effeminate character
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ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA [99/101]
of Mark Antony in a more favourable light, and at the same time to preserve a
certain balance of feeling in the mind. c~sar says, hearing of his rival's conduct at
the court of Cleopatra,
Antony,
Leave thy lascivious wassels. When thou once /
Wert beaten from Mutina, where thou slew'st
Hirtius and Pansa, consuls, at thy heel
Did famine follow, whom thou fought'st against,
Though daintily brought up, with patience more
Than savages could suffer. Thou did'st drink
The stale of horses, and the gilded puddle
Which beast would cough at. Thy palate then did deign
The roughest berry on the rudest hedge,
Yea, like the stag, when snow the pasture sheets,
The barks of trees thou browsed'st. On the Alps,
It is reported, thou didst eat strange flesh,
Which some did die to look on: and all this,
It wounds thine honour, that I speak it now,
Was borne so like a soldier, that thy cheek
So much as lank' d not.11
The passage after Antony's defeat by Augustus, where he is made to say -
Yes, yes; he at Philippi kept

His sword e'en like a dancer; while I struck
The lean and wrinkled Cassius, and 'twas I
That the mad Brutus ended - 12
is one of those fine retrospections which shew us the winding and eventful march
ofhuman life. The jealous attention which has been paid to the unities both oftime
and place has taken away the principle of perspective in the drama, and all the
interest which objects derive from distance, from contrast, from privation, from
change of fortune, from long-cherished passion; and contracts 13 our view of life
from a strange and romantic dream, long, obscure, and infinite, 14 into / a smartly
contested, three hours' inaugural disputation on its merits by the different
candidates for theatrical applause.
The latter scenes ofAntony and Cleopatra are full ofthe changes ofaccident and
passion. Success and defeat follow one another with startling rapidity. Fortune sits
upon her wheel more blind and giddy than usual. This precarious state and the
approaching dissolution of his greatness are strikingly displayed in the dialogue of
Antony with Eros.
Antony. Eros, thou yet behold'st me?

Eros. Ay, noble lord.
141
Antony. Sometime we see a cloud that's dragonish,

A vapour sometime, like a bear or lion,
A towered citadel, a pendant rock,
A forked mountain, or blue promontory
With trees upon't, that nod unto the world
And mock our eyes with air. Thou hast seen these signs,
They are black vesper's pageants.
Eros. Ay, my lord.
Antony. That which is now a horse, even with a thought
The rack dislimns, and makes it indistinct
As water is in water.
Eros. It does, my lord.
Antony. My good knave, Eros, now thy captain is
Even such a body, 15 &c.
This is, without doubt, one of the finest pieces of poetry in Shakespear. The
splendour of the imagery, the semblance ofreality, the lofty range of picturesque
objects hanging over the world, / their evanescent nature, the total uncertainty of
what is left behind, are just like the mouldering schemes of human greatness. It is
finer than Cleopatra's passionate lamentation over his fallen grandeur, because it is
more dim, unstable, unsubstantial. Antony's headstrong presumption and
infatuated determination to yield to Cleopatra's wishes to fight by sea instead of
land, meet a merited punishment; and the extravagance of his resolutions,
increasing with the desperateness ofhis circumstances, is well commented upon by
CEnobarbus.
I see men's judgments are

A parcel of their fortunes, and things outward
Do draw the inward quality after them
To suffer all alike. 16
The repentance of CEnobarbus after his treachery to his master is the most
affecting part of the play. He cannot recover from the blow which Antony's
generosity gives him, and he dies broken-hearted, 'a master-leaver and a fugitive. ' 17
Shakespear's genius has spread over the whole play a richness like the
overflowing of the Nile.
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HAMLET (103/105]
Hamlet
This is that Hamlet the Dane, whom we read of in our youth, and whom we may
be said almost to remember in our after-years; he who made that famous soliloquy
on life, who gave the advice to the players, who thought 'this goodly frame, the
earth, a steril promontory, and this brave o'er-hanging firmament, the air, this
majestical roof fretted with golden fire, a foul and pestilent congregation of
vapours;' 1 whom 'man delighted not, nor woman neither;' 2 he who talked with the
grave-diggers, and moralised on Yorick's skull; the school-fellow of Rosencraus
and Guildenstern at Wittenberg; the friend ofHoratio; the lover ofOphelia; he that
was mad and sent to England; the slow avenger of his father's death; who lived at
the court ofHorwendillus five hundred years before we were born, but all whose
thoughts we seem to know / as well as we do our own, because we have read them
in Shakespear.
Hamlet is a name; his speeches and sayings but the idle coinage ofthe poet's brain.
What then, are they not real? They are as real as our own thoughts. Their reality is
in the reader's mind. It is we who are Hamlet. This play has a prophetic truth, which
is above that of history. Whoever has become thoughtful and melancholy through
his own mishaps or those ofothers; whoever has borne about with him the clouded
brow ofreflection, and thought himself'too much i' th' sun;' 3 whoever has seen the
golden lamp ofday dimmed by envious mists rising in his own breast, and could find
in the world before him only a dull blank with nothing left remarkable in it;
whoever has known 'the pangs of despised love, the insolence of office, or the
spurns which patient merit of the unworthy takes;' 4 he who has felt his mind sink
within him, and sadness cling to his heart like a malady, who has had his hopes
blighted and his youth staggered by the apparitions ofstrange things; who cannot be
well at ease, while he sees evil hovering near him like a spectre; whose powers of
action have been eaten up by thought, he to whom the universe seems infinite, and
himself nothing; whose bitterness of soul makes him careless of consequences, and
who goes to a play as his best resource to shove off, to a / second remove, the evils
oflife by a mock representation of them - this is the true Hamlet.
We have been so used to this tragedy that we hardly know how to criticise it any
more than we should know how to describe our own faces. But we must make such
143
observations as we can. It is the one of Shakespear's plays that we think of the

oftenest, because it abounds most in striking reflections on human life, and because
the distresses of Hamlet are transferred, by the tum of his mind, to the general
account ofhumanity. Whatever happens to him we apply to ourselves, because he
applies it so himself as a means of general reasoning. He is a great moraliser, and
what makes him worth attending to is, that he moralises on his own feelings and
experience. He is not a common-place pedant. If Lear is distinguished by the
greatest depth of passion, Hamlet is the most remarkable for the ingenuity,
originality, and unstudied developement of character. Shakespear had more
magnanimity than any other poet, and he has shewn more ofit in this play than in
any other. There is no attempt to force an interest: every thing is left for time and
circumstances to unfold. The attention is excited without effort, the incidents
succeed each other as matters of course, the characters think and speak and act just
as they might do, if left entirely to themselves. / There is no set purpose, no
straining at a point. The observations are suggested by the passing scene - the gusts
of passion come and go like sounds of music borne on the wind. The whole play
is an exact transcript ofwhat might be supposed to have taken place at the court of
Denmark, at the remote period oftime fixed upon, before the modem refinements
in morals and manners were heard 0£ It would have been interesting enough to
have been admitted as a by-stander in such a scene, at such a time, to have heard
and witnessed something of what was going on. But here we are more than
spectators. We have not only 'the outward pageants and the signs ofgrief; ' 5 but 'we
have that within which passes shew.' 6 We read the thoughts of the heart, we catch
the passions living as they rise. Other dramatic writers give us very fine versions and
paraphrases of nature; but Shakespear, together with his own comments, gives us
the original text, that we may judge for ourselves. This is a very great advantage.
The character of Hamlet stands quite by itsel£ It is not a character marked by
strength of will or even of passion, but by refinement of thought and sentiment.
Hamlet is as little of the hero as a man can well be: but he is a young and princely
novice, full ofhigh enthusiasm and quick sensibility - the sport of/ circumstances,
questioning with fortune and refining on his own feelings, and forced from the
natural bias ofhis disposition by the strangeness ofhis situation. He seems incapable
ofdeliberate action, and is only hurried into extremities on the spur ofthe occasion,
when he has no time to reflect, as in the scene where he kills Polonius, and again,
where he alters the letters which Rosencraus and Guildenstem are taking with
them to England, purporting his death. At other times, when he is most bound to
act, he remains puzzled, undecided and sceptical, dallies with his purposes, till the
occasion is lost, and finds out some pretence to relapse into indolence and
thoughtfulness again. For this reason he refuses to kill the King when he is at his
prayers, and by a refinement in malice, which is in truth only an excuse for his own
want ofresolution, defers his revenge to a more fatal opportunity, when he shall be
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HAMLET [107/109)
engaged in some act 'that has no relish of salvation in it.' 7
[He kneels and prays.]

And now I'll do't, and so he goes to heaven,
And so am I reveng'd: that would be scann'd.
He kill'd my father, and for that,
I, his sole son, send him to heaven.
Why this is reward, not revenge.
Up sword and know thou a more horrid time,
When he is drunk, asleep, or in a rage. 8 /
He is the prince of philosophical speculators; and because he cannot have his

revenge perfect, according to the most refined idea his wish can form, he declines
it altogether. So he scruples to trust the suggestions ofthe ghost, contrives the scene
of the play to have surer proof of his uncle's guilt, and then rests satisfied with this
confirmation of his suspicions and the success of his experiment, instead of acting
upon it. Yet he is sensible of his own weakness, taxes himself with it, and tries to
reason himself out of it.
How all occasions do inform against me,

And spur my dull revenge! What is a man,
If his chief good and market of his time
Be but to sleep and feed? A beast; no more.
Sure he that made us with such large discourse,
Looking before and after, gave us not
That capability and god-like reason
To rust in us unus'd. Now whether it be
Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple
Of thinking too precisely on th' event, -
A thought which quarter' d, hath but one part wisdom,
And ever three parts coward; - I do not know
Why yet I live to say, this thing's to do;
Sith I have cause, and will, and strength, and means
To do it. Examples gross as earth exhort me:
Witness this army of such mass and charge,
Led by a delicate and tender prince,
Whose spirit with divine ambition puffd,
Makes mouths at the invisible event,
Exposing what is mortal and unsure
To all that fortune, death, and danger dare, /
Even for an egg-shell. 'Tis not to be great
Never to stir without great argument;
But greatly to find quarrel in a straw,
When honour's at the stake. How stand I then,
That have a father kill'd, a mother stain'd,
Excitements of my reason and my blood,
And let all sleep, while to my shame I see
145
The imminent death of twenty thousand men,

That for a fantasy and trick of fame,
Go to their graves like beds, fight for a plot
Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause,
Which is not tomb enough and continent
To hide the slain? - 0, from this time forth,
My thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth. 9
Still he does nothing; and this very speculation on his own infirmity only affords
him another occasion for indulging it. It is not from any want of attachment to his
father or ofabhorrence of his murder that Hamlet is thus dilatory, but it is more to
his taste to indulge his imagination in reflecting upon the enormity ofthe crime and
refining on his schemes of vengeance, than to put them into immediate practice.
His ruling passion is to think, not to act: and any vague pretext that flatters this
propensity instantly diverts him from his previous purposes.
The moral perfection of this character has been called in question, we think, by
those who did not understand it. It is more interesting than according to rules;
amiable, though not faultless. The ethical delineations of 'that noble / and liberal
casuist' 10 (as Shakespear has been well called) do not exhibit the drab-coloured
quakerism of morality. His plays are not copied either from the Whole Duty of
Man, 11 or from the Academy ofCompliments!1 2 We confess we are a little shocked
at the want of refinement in those who are shocked at the want of refinement in
Hamlet. The neglect ofpunctilious exactness in his behaviour either partakes ofthe
'licence ofthe time,' or else belongs to the very excess ofintellectual refinement in
the character, which makes the common rules oflife, as well as his own purposes,
sit loose upon him. He may be said to be amenable only to the tribunal ofhis own
thoughts, and is too much taken up with the airy world of contemplation to lay as
much stress as he ought on the practical consequences of things. His habitual
principles of action are unhinged and out ofjoint with the time. His conduct to
Ophelia is quite natural in his circumstances. It is that of assumed severity only. It
is the effect of disappointed hope, of bitter regrets, of affection suspended, not
obliterated, by the distractions of the scene around him! Amidst the natural and
preternatural horrors ofhis situation, he might be excused in delicacy from carrying
on a regular courtship. When 'his father's spirit was in arms,' 13 it was not a time for
the son to make love in. He could neither marry / Ophelia, nor wound her mind
by explaining the cause of his alienation, which he durst hardly trust himself to
think 0£ It would have taken him years to have come to a direct explanation on the
point. In the harassed state of his mind, he could not have done much otherwise
than he did. His conduct does not contradict what he says when he sees her funeral,
I loved Ophelia: forty thousand brothers

Could not with all their quantity oflove
Make up my sum. 14
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HAMLET [111/113]
Nothing can be more affecting or beautiful than the Queen's apostrophe to

Ophelia on throwing the flowers into the grave.
Sweets to the sweet, farewell.

I hop'd thou should'st have been my Hamlet's wife:
I thought thy bride-bed to have deck' d, sweet maid,
And not have strew' d thy grave. 15
Shakespear was thoroughly a master of the mixed motives of human character,

and he here shews us the Queen, who was so criminal in some respects, not without
sensibility and affection in other relations oflife. - Ophelia is a character almost too
exquisitely touching to be dwelt upon. Oh rose ofMay, 16 oh flower too soon faded!
Her love, her madness, her death, are described with the truest touches of
tenderness and pathos. It is a character / which nobody but Shakespear could have
drawn in the way that he has done, and to the conception ofwhich there is not even
the smallest approach, except in some of the old romantic ballads.* Her brother,
Laertes, is a character we do not like so well: he is too hot and choleric, and
somewhat rhodomontade. Polonius is a perfect character in its kind; nor is there
any foundation for the objections which have been made to the consistency ofthis
part. It is said that he acts very foolishly and talks very sensibly. There is no
inconsistency in that. Again, that he talks wisely at one time and foolishly at
another; that his advice to Laertes is very excellent, and his advice to the King and
Queen on the subject of Hamlet's madness very ridiculous. But he gives the one as
a father, and is sincere in it; he gives the other as a mere courtier, a busy-body, and
is accordingly officious, garrulous, and impertinent. In short, Shakespear has been
accused ofinconsistency in this and other characters, only because / he has kept up
the distinction which there is in nature, between the understandings and the moral
habits of men, between the absurdity of their ideas and the absurdity of their
motives. Polonius is not a fool, but he makes himself so. His folly, whether in his
actions or speeches, comes under the head of impropriety of intention.
We do not like to see our author's plays acted, and least of all, Hamlet. There is
no play that suffers so much in being transferred to the stage. Hamlet himself seems
hardly capable of being acted. Mr Kemble unavoidably fails in this character from
a want ofease and variety. The character of Hamlet is made up ofundulating lines;
it has the yielding flexibility of'a wave o' th' sea.' 17 Mr Kemble plays it like a man
* In the account ofher death,a friend has pointed out18 an instance ofthe poet's exact observation
of nature: -
There is a willow growing o'er a brook,
That shews its hoary leaves i' th' glassy stream. 19
The inside of the leaves of the willow, next the water, is of a whitish colour, and the reflection
would therefore be 'hoary.'
147
in armour, with a determined inveteracy of purpose, in one indeviating straight

line, which is as remote from the natural grace and refined susceptibility of the
character, as the sharp angles and abrupt starts which Mr Kean introduces into the
part. Mr Kean's Hamlet is as much too splenetic and rash as Mr Kemble's is too
deliberate and formal. His manner is too strong and pointed. He throws a severity,
approaching to virulence, into the common observations and answers. There is
nothing ofthis in Hamlet. He is, as it were, wrapped up in his reflections, and only
thinks aloud. There / should therefore be no attempt to impress what he says upon
others by a studied exaggeration of emphasis or manner; no talking at his hearers.
There should be as much of the gentleman and scholar as possible infused into the
part and as little ofthe actor. A pensive air ofsadness should sit reluctantly upon his
brow, but no appearance of fixed and sullen gloom. He is full of weakness and
melancholy, but there is no harshness in his nature. He is the most amiable of
misanthropes. /
The Tempest
There can be little doubt that Shakespear was the most universal genius that ever
lived. 'Either for tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-
pastoral, scene individable or poem unlimited, he is the only man. Seneca cannot
be too heavy, nor Plautus too light for him.' 1 He has not only the same absolute
command over our laughter and our tears, all the resources of passion, of wit, of
thought, of observation, but he has the most unbounded range of fanciful
invention; whether terrible or playful, the same insight into the world of
imagination that he has into the world ofreality; and over all there presides the same
truth of character and nature, and the same spirit of humanity. His ideal beings are
as true and natural as his real characters; that is, as consistent with themselves, or if
we suppose such I beings to exist at all, they could not act, speak, or feel otherwise
than as he makes them. He has invented for them a language, manners, and
sentiments of their own, from the tremendous imprecations of the Witches in
Macbeth, when they do 'a deed without a name,' 2 to the sylph-like expressions of
Ariel, who 'does his spiriting gently;' 3 the mischievous tricks and gossipping of
Robin Goodfellow, or the uncouth gabbling and emphatic gesticulations of
Caliban in this play.
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THE TEMPEST [116/118]
The Tempest is one ofthe most original and perfect ofShakespear's productions,
and he has shewn in it all the variety of his powers. It is full of grace and grandeur.
The human and imaginary characters, the dramatic and the grotesque, are blended
together with the greatest art, and without any appearance of it. Though he has
here given 'to airy nothing a local habitation and a name, ' 4 yet that part which is
only the fantastic creation of his mind, has the same palpable texture, and coheres
'semblably'5 with the rest. As the preternatural part has the air ofreality, and almost
haunts the imagination with a sense of truth, the real characters and events partake
of the wildness of a dream. The stately magician, Prospero, driven from his
dukedom, but around whom (so potent is his art) airy spirits throng numberless to
do his bidding; his daughter Miranda ('worthy of I that name' 6 ) to whom all the
power of his art points, and who seems the goddess of the isle; the princely
Ferdinand, cast by fate upon the haven of his happiness in this idol of his love; the
delicate Ariel; the savage Caliban, halfbrute, half demon; the drunken ship's crew
- are all connected parts of the story, and can hardly be spared from the place they
fill. Even the local scenery is of a piece and character with the subject. Prospero's
enchanted island seems to have risen up out ofthe sea; the airy music, the tempest-
tost vessel, the turbulent waves, all have the effect of the landscape background of
some fine picture. Shakespear's pencil is (to use an allusion of his own) 'like the
dyer's hand, subdued to what it works in.' 7 Every thing in him, though it partakes
of 'the liberty of wit,' is also subjected to 'the law' 8 of the understanding. For
instance, even the drunken sailors, who are made reeling-ripe, share, in the
disorder oftheir minds and bodies, in the tumult ofthe elements, and seem on shore
to be as much at the mercy ofchance as they were before at the mercy ofthe winds
and waves. These fellows with their sea-wit are the least to our taste of any part of
the play: but they are as like drunken sailors as they can be, and are an indirect foil
to Caliban, whose figure acquires a classical dignity in the comparison. I The
character of Caliban is generally thought (and justly so) to be one of the author's
masterpieces. It is not indeed pleasant to see this character on the stage any more
than it is to see the god Pan personated there. But in itself it is one of the wildest
and most abstracted of all Shakespear's characters, whose deformity whether of
body or mind is redeemed by the power and truth of the imagination displayed in
it. It is the essence of grossness, but there is not a particle of vulgarity in it.
Shakespear has described the brutal mind of Caliban in contact with the pure and
original forms of nature; the character grows out of the soil where it is rooted,
uncontrouled, uncouth and wild, uncramped by any ofthe meannesses of custom.
It is 'ofthe earth, earthy.' 9 It seems almost to have been dug out ofthe ground, with
a soul instinctively superadded to it answering to its wants and origin. Vulgarity is
not natural coarseness, but conventional coarseness, learnt from others, contrary to,
or without an entire conformity of natural power and disposition; as fashion is the
common-place affectation ofwhat is elegant and refined without any feeling ofthe
149
essence of it. Schlegel, the admirable German critic on Shakespear, observes that
Caliban is a poetical character, and 'always speaks in blank verse.' 10 He first comes
in thus:/
Caliban. As wicked dew as e'er my mother brush'd

With raven's feather from unwholesome fen,
Drop on you both: a south-west blow on ye,
And blister you all o'er!
Prospero. For this, be sure, to-night thou shalt have cramps,
Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up; urchins
Shall for that vast of night that they may work,
All exercise on thee: thou shalt be pinched
As thick as honey-combs, each pinch more stinging
Than bees that made them.
Caliban. I must eat my dinner.
This island's mine by Sycorax my mother,
Which thou tak'st from me. When thou earnest first,
Thou stroak'dst me, and mad'st much ofme; would'st give me
Water with berries in't; and teach me how
To name the bigger light and how the less
That burn by day and night; and then I lov' d thee,
And shew'd thee all the qualities o' th' isle,
The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place and fertile:
Curs'd be I that I did so! All the charms
Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you!
For I am all the subjects that you have,
Who first was mine own king; and here you sty me
In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me
The rest o' th' island. 11
And again, he promises Trinculo his services thus, if he will free him from his
drudgery.
I'll shew thee the best springs; I'll pluck thee berries,
I'll fish for thee, and get thee wood enough.
I pr'ythee let me bring thee where crabs grow, /
And I with my long nails will dig thee pig-nuts:
Shew thee a jay's nest, and instruct thee how
To snare the nimble marmozet: I'll bring thee
To clust'ring filberds; and sometimes I'll get thee
Young sea-mells from the rock. 12
In conducting Stephano and Trinculo to Prospero's cell, Caliban shews the

superiority of natural capacity over greater knowledge and greater folly; and in a
former scene, when Ariel frightens them with his music, Caliban to encourage
them accounts for it in the eloquent poetry of the senses.
150
Be not afraid, the isle is full of noises,

Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twanging instruments
Will hum about mine ears, and sometimes voices,
That if I then had waked after long sleep,
Would make me sleep again; and then in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open, and shew riches
Ready to drop upon me: when I wak'd,
I cried to dream again. 13
This is not more beautiful than it is true. The poet here shews us the savage with
the simplicity ofa child, and makes the strange monster amiable. Shakespear had to
paint the human animal rude and without choice in its pleasures, but not without
the sense ofpleasure or some germ of the affections. Master Bamardine in Measure
for Measure, the savage of/ civilized life, is an admirable philosophical counterpart
to Caliban.
Shakespear has, as it were by design, drawn off from Caliban the elements of
whatever is ethereal and refined, to compound them in the unearthly mould of
Ariel. Nothing was ever more finely conceived than this contrast between the
material and the spiritual, the gross and delicate. Ariel is imaginary power, the
swiftness of thought personified. When told to make good speed by Prospero, he
says, 'I drink the air before me.' 14 This is something like Puck's boast on a similar
occasion, 'I'll put a girdle round about the earth in forty minutes. ' 15 But Ariel differs
from Puck in having a fellow feeling in the interests ofthose he is employed about.
How exquisite is the following dialogue between him and Prospero!
Ariel. Your charm strongly works them,

That ifyou now beheld them, your affections
Would become tender.
Prospero. Dost thou think so spirit?
Ariel. Mine would, sir, were I human.
Prospero. And mine shall.
Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling
Of their affiictions, and shall not myself,
One of their kind, that relish all as sharply,
Passion'd as they, be kindlier moved than thou art? 16
It has been observed that there is a peculiar charm in the songs introduced in
Shakespear, / which, without conveying any distinct images, seem to recall all the
feelings connected with them, like snatches of half-forgotten music heard
indistinctly and at intervals. There is this effect produced by Ariel's songs, which (as
we are told) seem to sound in the air, and as if the person playing them were
invisible. We shall give one instance out of many of this general power.
151
Enter Ferdinand; and Ariel invisible, playing and singing.
Ariel's Song
Come unto these yellow sands,
And then take hands;
Curt'sied when you have, and kiss'd,
(The wild waves whist;)
Foot it featly here and there;
And sweet sprites the burden bear.
[Burden dispersedly.
Hark, hark! bowgh-wowgh: the watch-dogs bark,

Bowgh-wowgh.
Ariel. Hark, hark! I hear
The strain of strutting chanticleer
Cry cock-a-doodle-doo.
Ferdinand. Where should this music be? i' the air or the earth?
It sounds no more: and sure it waits upon
Some god o' th' island. Sitting on a bank
Weeping against the king my father's wreck,
This music crept by me upon the waters,
Allaying both their fury and my passion
With its sweet air; thence I have follow' d it, /
Or it hath drawn me rather:- but 'tis gone. -
No, it begins again.
Ariel's Song
Full fathom five thy father lies,
Of his bones are coral made:
Those are pearls that were his eyes,
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea change,
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell -
Hark! now I hear them, ding-dong bell.
[Burden ding-dong.
Ferdinand. The ditty does remember my drown'd father.

This is no mortal business, nor no sound
That the earth owes: I hear it now above me. - 17
The courtship between Ferdinand and Miranda is one ofthe chief beauties ofthis
play. It is the very purity oflove. The pretended interference of Prospero with it
heightens its interest, and is in character with the magician, whose sense of
preternatural power makes him arbitrary, tetchy, and impatient of opposition.
The Tempest is a finer play than the Midsummer Night's Dream, which has
sometimes been compared with it; but it is not so fine a poem. There are a greater
152
number ofbeautiful passages in the latter. Two of the most striking in the Tempest
are spoken by Prospero. The one is that admirable one when the vision which he
has conjured up disappears, beginning 'The/ cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous
palaces,' 18 &c. which has been so often quoted, that every school-boy knows it by
heart; the other is that which Prospero makes in abjuring his art.
Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves,

And ye that on the sands with printless foot
Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him
When he comes back; you demi-puppets, that
By moon-shine do the green sour ringlets make,
Whereof the ewe not bites; and you whose pastime
Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice
To hear the solemn curfew, by whose aid
(Weak masters tho' ye be) I have be-dimm'd
The noon-tide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds,
And 'twixt the green sea and the azur'd vault
Set roaring war; to the dread rattling thunder
Have I giv'n fire, and rifted Jove's stout oak
With his own bolt; the strong-bas' d promontory
Have I made shake, and by the spurs pluck' d up
The pine and cedar: graves at my command
Have wak'd their sleepers; oped, and let them forth
By my so potent art. But this rough magic
I here abjure; and when I have requir' d
Some heavenly music, which even now I do,
(To work mine end upon their senses that
This airy charm is for) I'll break my staff,
Bury it certain fadoms in the earth,
And deeper than did ever plummet sound,
I'll drown my book. - 19
We must not forget to mention among other things in this play, that Shakespear
has anticipated nearly all the arguments on the Utopian schemes of modem
philosophy. /
Gonzalo. Had I the plantation of this isle, my lord -

Antonio. He'd sow it with nettle-seed.
Sebastian. Or docks or mallows.
Gonzalo. And were the king of it, what would I do?
Sebastian. 'Scape being drunk, for want of wine.
Gonzalo. l' the commonwealth I would by contraries
Execute all things: for no kind of traffic
Would I admit; no name of magistrate;
Letters should not be known; wealth, poverty,
And use of service, none; contract, succession
Bourn, bound ofland, tilth, vineyard, none;
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No use of metal, com, or wine, or oil;

No occupation, all men idle, all,
And women too; but innocent and pure:
No sovereignty.
Sebastian. And yet he would be king on't.
Antonio. The latter end of his commonwealth forgets the beginning.
Gonzalo. All things in common nature should produce
Without sweat or endeavour. Treason, felony,
Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine
Would I not have; but nature should bring forth,
Of its own kind, all foizon, all abundance
To feed my innocent people!
Sebastian. No marrying 'mong his subjects?
Antonio. None, man; all idle; whores and knaves.
Gonzalo. I would with such perfection govern, sir,
To excel the golden age.
Sebastian. Save his majesty! 20 /
The Midsummer Night's Dream
Bottom the Weaver is a character that has not had justice done him. He is the most
romantic of mechanics. And what a list of companions he has - Quince the
Carpenter, Snug the Joiner, Flute the Bellows-mender, Snout the Tinker,
Starveling the Tailor; and then again, what a group of fairy attendants, Puck,
Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth, and Mustardseed! It has been observed that
Shakespear's characters are constructed upon deep physiological principles; and
there is something in this play which looks very like it. Bottom the Weaver, who
takes the lead of
This crew of patches, rude mechanicals,

That work for bread upon Athenian stalls,1
follows a sedentary trade, and he is accordingly represented as conceited, serious,

and fantastical. / He is ready to undertake any thing and every thing, as ifit was as
much a matter ofcourse as the motion ofhis loom and shuttle. He is for playing the
tyrant, the lover, the lady, the lion. 'He will roar that it shall do any man's heart
good to hear him;' 2 and this being objected to as improper, he still has a resource
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THE MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM (127/129]
in his good opinion ofhimself; and 'will roar you an 'twere any nightingale. ' 3 Snug
the Joiner is the moral man of the piece, who proceeds by measurement and
discretion in all things. You see him with his rule and compasses in his hand. 'Have
you the lion's part written? Pray you, if it is, give it me, for I am slow of study.' -
'You may do it extempore,' says Quince, 'for it is nothing but roaring. ' 4 Starveling
the Tailor keeps the peace, and objects to the lion and the drawn sword. 'I believe
we must leave the killing out when all's done.' 5 Starveling, however, does not start
the objections himself, but seconds them when made by others, as if he had not
spirit to express his fears without encouragement. It is too much to suppose all this
intentional: but it very luckily falls out so. Nature includes all that is implied in the
most subtle analytical distinctions; and the same distinctions will be found in
Shakespear. Bottom, who is not only chief actor, but stage-manager for the /
occasion, has a device to obviate the danger offrightening the ladies: 'Write me a
prologue, and let the prologue seem to say, we will do no harm with our swords,
and that Pyramus is not killed indeed; and for better assurance, tell them that I,
Pyramus, am not Pyramus, but Bottom the Weaver: this will put them out of
fear. ' 6 Bottom seems to have understood the subject of dramatic illusion at least as
well as any modem essayist. If our holiday mechanic rules the roast among his
fellows, he is no less at home in his new character of an ass, 'with amiable cheeks,
and fair large ears.' 7 He instinctively acquires a most learned taste, and grows
fastidious in the choice of dried peas and bottled hay. He is quite familiar with his
new attendants, and assigns them their parts with all due gravity. 'Monsieur
Cobweb, good Monsieur, get your weapon in your hand, and kill me a red-hipt
humble bee on the top ofa thistle, and, good Monsieur, bring me the honey-bag. ' 8
What an exact knowledge is there shewn of natural history!
Puck, or Robin Goodfellow, is the leader ofthe fairy band. He is the Ariel ofthe
Midsummer Night's Dream; and yet as unlike as can be to the Ariel in the Tempest.
No other-poet could have made two such different characters out of the same
fanciful materials / and situations. Ariel is a minister ofretribution, who is touched
with the sense of pity at the woes he inflicts. Puck is a mad-cap sprite, full of
wantonness and mischief, who laughs at those whom he misleads - 'Lord, what
fools these mortals be!' 9 Ariel cleaves the air, and executes his mission with the zeal
of a winged messenger; Puck is borne along on his fairy errand like the light and
glittering gossamer before the breeze. He is, indeed, a most Epicurean little
gentleman, dealing in quaint devices, and faring in dainty delights. Prospero and his
world of spirits are a set of moralists: but with Oberon and his fairies we are
launched at once into the empire of the butterflies. How beautifully is this race of
beings contrasted with the men and women actors in the scene, by a single epithet
which Titania gives to the latter, 'the human mortals!' 10 It is astonishing that
Shakespear should be considered, not only by foreigners, but by many of our own
critics, as a gloomy and heavy writer, who painted nothing but 'gorgons and
155
hydras, and chimeras dire.' 11 His subtlety exceeds that ofall other dramatic writers,
insomuch that a celebrated person of the present day said that he regarded him
rather as a metaphysician than a poet. His delicacy and sportive gaiety are infinite.
In the Midsummer Night's Dream alone, we should imagine, there is more sweetness
and / beauty ofdescription than in the whole range of French poetry put together.
What we mean is this, that we will produce out of that single play ten passages, to
which we do not think any ten passages in the works of the French poets can be
opposed, displaying equal fancy and imagery. Shall we mention the remonstrance
ofHelena to Hermia, or Titania's description ofher fairy train, or her disputes with
Oberon about the Indian boy, or Puck's account of himself and his employments,
or the Fairy Queen's exhortation to the elves to pay due attendance upon her
favourite, Bottom; or Hippolita's description ofa chace, or Theseus's answer? The
two last are as heroical and spirited as the others are full ofluscious tenderness. The
reading of this play is like wandering in a grove by moonlight: the descriptions
breathe a sweetness like odours thrown from beds of flowers.
Titania's exhortation to the fairies to wait upon Bottom, which is remarkable for
a certain cloying sweetness in the repetition of the rhymes, is as follows: -
Be kind and courteous to this gentleman.

Hop in his walks, and gambol in his eyes,
Feed him with apricocks and dewberries,
With purple grapes, green figs and mulberries;
The honey-bags steal from the humble bees,
And for night tapers crop their waxen thighs,
And light them at the fiery glow-worm's eyes, /
To have my love to bed, and to arise:
And pluck the wings from painted butterflies,
To fan the moon-beams from his sleeping eyes;
Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies.'2
The sounds of the lute and of the trumpet are not more distinct than the poetry
of the foregoing passage, and of the conversation between Theseus and Hippolita.
Theseus. Go, one of you, find out the forester,

For now our observation is perform'd;
And since we have the vaward of the day,
My love shall hear the music of my hounds.
Uncouple in the western valley, go,
Dispatch, I say, and find the forester.
We will, fair Queen, up to the mountain's top,
And mark the musical confusion
Of hounds and echo in conjunction.
Hippolita. l was with Hercules and Cadmus once,
When in a wood of Crete they bay' d the bear
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THE MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM [131/133]
With hounds of Sparta; never did I hear
Such gallant chiding. For besides the groves,
The skies, the fountains, every region near
Seem'd all one mutual cry. I never heard
So musical a discord, such sweet thunder.
Theseus. My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind,
So flew'd, so sanded, and their heads are hung
With ears that sweep away the morning dew;
Crook-knee'd and dew-lap'd, like Thessalian bulls,
Slow in pursuit, but matched in mouthlike bells.
Each under each. A cry more tuneable
Was never halloo'd to, nor cheer'd with horn,
In Crete, in Sparta, nor in Thessaly:
Judge when you hear. - 13 /
Even Titian never made a hunting-piece of a gusto fresh and lusty, and so near the
first ages of the world as this. -
It had been suggested to us, that the Midsummer Night's Dream would do
admirably to get up as a Christmas after-piece; and our prompter proposed that Mr
Kean should play the part of Bottom, as worthy of his great talents. He might, in
the discharge of his duty, offer to play the lady like any of our actresses that he
pleased, the lover or the tyrant like any of our actors that he pleased, and the lion
like 'the most fearful wild-fowl living. ' 14 The carpenter, the tailor, and joiner, it was
thought, would hit the galleries. The young ladies in love would interest the side-
boxes; and Robin Goodfellow and his companions excite a lively fellow-feeling in
the children from school. There would be two courts, an empire within an empire,
the Athenian and the Fairy King and Queen, with their attendants, and with all
their finery. What an opportunity for processions, for the sound of trumpets and
glittering of spears! What a fluttering of urchins' painted wings; what a delightful
profusion of gauze clouds and airy spirits floating on them!
Alas the experiment has been tried, and has failed; not through the fault of Mr
Kean, who did not play the part ofBottom, nor ofMr/ Liston, who did, and who
played it well, but from the nature ofthings. The Midsummer Night's Dream, when
acted, is converted from a delightful fiction into a dull pantomime. All that is finest
in the play is lost in the representation. The spectacle was grand; but the spirit was
evaporated, the genius was fled. - Poetry and the stage do not agree well together.
The attempt to reconcile them in this instance fails not only of effect, but of
decorum. The ideal can have no place upon the stage, which is a picture without
perspective: every thing there is in the fore-ground. That which was merely an
airy shape, a dream, a passing thought, immediately becomes an unmanageable
reality. Where all is left to the imagination (as is the case in reading) every
circumstance, near or remote, has an equal chance ofbeing kept in mind, and tells
accordingly to the mixed impression of all that has been suggested. But the
imagination cannot sufficiently qualify the actual impressions of the senses. Any
157
offence given to the eye is not to be got rid ofby explanation. Thus Bottom's head
in the play is a fantastic illusion, produced by magic spells: on the stage it is an ass's
head, and nothing more; certainly a very strange costume for a gentleman to
appear in. Fancy cannot be embodied any more than a simile can be painted; and
it is as idle to attempt it as to personate Wall or Moonshine. I Fairies are not
incredible, but fairies six feet high are so. Monsters are not shocking, if they are
seen at a proper distance. When ghosts appear at mid-day, when apparitions stalk
along Cheapside, then may the Midsummer Night's Dream be represented without
injury at Covent-garden or at Drury-lane. The boards ofa theatre and the regions
of fancy are not the same thing. /
Romeo and Juliet
Romeo andJuliet is the only tragedy which Shakespear has written entirely on a love
story. It is supposed to have been his first play, and it deserves to stand in that proud
rank. There is the buoyant spirit of youth in every line, in the rapturous
intoxication of hope, and in the bitterness ofdespair. It has been said of Romeo and
Juliet by a great critic, that 'whatever is most intoxicating in the odour ofa southern
spring, languishing in the song ofthe nightingale, or voluptuous in the first opening
ofthe rose, is to be found in this poem.' 1 The description is true; and yet it does not
answer to our idea of the play. For if it has the sweetness of the rose, it has its
freshness too; if it has the languor of the nightingale's song, it has also its giddy
transport; if it has the softness of a southern / spring, it is as glowing and as bright.
There is nothing ofa sickly and sentimental cast. Romeo and Juliet are in love, but
they are not love-sick. Every thing speaks the very soul of pleasure, the high and
healthy pulse of the passions: the heart beats, the blood circulates and mantles
throughout. Their courtship is not an insipid interchange of sentiments lip-deep,
learnt at second-hand from poems and plays, - made up of beauties of the most
shadowy kind, of 'fancies wan that hang the pensive head,' 2 of evanescent smiles,
and sighs that breathe not, of delicacy that shrinks from the touch, and feebleness
that scarce supports itself, an elaborate vacuity of thought, and an artificial dearth
ofsense, spirit, truth, and nature! It is the reverse ofall this. It is Shakespear all over,
and Shakespear when he was young.
We have heard it objected to Romeo andJuliet, that it is founded on an idle passion
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ROMEO AND JULIET (136/139]
between a boy and a girl, who have scarcely seen and can have but little sympathy
or rational esteem for one another, who have had no experience ofthe good or ills
of life, and whose raptures or despair must be therefore equally groundless and
fantastical.3 Whoever objects to the youth of the parties in this play as 'too unripe
and crude' 4 to pluck the sweets oflove, and wishes to see a first-love carried on into
a / good old age, and the passions taken at the rebound, when their force is spent,
may find all this done in the Strangef and in other German plays, where they do
things by contraries, and transpose nature to inspire sentiment and create
philosophy. Shakespear proceeded in a more strait-forward, and, we think,
effectual way. He did not endeavour to extract beauty from wrinkles, or the wild
throb of passion from the last expiring sigh of indifference. He did not 'gather
grapes of thorns nor figs ofthistles.' 6 It was not his way. But he has given a picture
ofhuman life, such as it is in the order ofnature. He has founded the passion ofthe
two lovers not on the pleasures they had experienced, but on all the pleasures they
had not experienced. All that was to come oflife was theirs. At that untried source
of promised happiness they slaked their thirst, and the first eager draught made
them drunk with love and joy. They were in full possession oftheir senses and their
affections. Their hopes were ofair, their desires offire. Youth is the season oflove,
because the heart is then first melted in tenderness from the touch of novelty, and
kindled to rapture, for it knows no end of its enjoyments or its wishes. Desire has
no limit but itsel£ Passion, the love and expectation of pleasure, is infinite,
extravagant, inexhaustible, till experience / comes to check and kill it. Juliet
exclaims on her first interview with Romeo -
My bounty is as boundless as the sea,

My love as deep. 7
And why should it not? What was to hinder the thrilling tide ofpleasure, which had
just gushed from her heart, from flowing on without stint or measure, but
experience which she was yet without? What was to abate the transport ofthe first
sweet sense of pleasure, which her heart and her senses had just tasted, but
indifference which she was yet a stranger to? What was there to check the ardour
of hope, of faith, of constancy, just rising in her breast, but disappointment which
she had not yet felt? As are the desires and the hopes ofyouthful passion, such is the
keenness ofits disappointments, and their baleful effect. Such is the transition in this
play from the highest bliss to the lowest despair, from the nuptial couch to an
untimely grave. The only evil that even in apprehension befalls the two lovers is the
loss of the greatest possible felicity; yet this loss is fatal to both, for they had rather
part with life than bear the thought ofsurviving all that had made life dear to them.
In all this, Shakespear has but followed nature, which existed in his time, as well as
now. The modem philosophy, which/ reduces the whole theory of the mind to
habitual impressions, and leaves the natural impulses ofpassion and imagination out
159
of the account, had not then been discovered; or if it had, would have been little
calculated for the uses of poetry.
It is the inadequacy of the same false system of philosophy to account for the
strength of our earliest attachments, which has led Mr Wordsworth to indulge in
the mystical visions of Platonism in his Ode on the Progress ofLife. 8 He has very
admirably described the vividness of our impressions in youth and childhood, and
how 'they fade by degrees into the light of common day,' 9 and he ascribes the
change to the supposition ofa pre-existent state, as ifour early thoughts were nearer
heaven, reflections offormer trials ofglory, shadows of our past being. This is idle.
It is not from the knowledge of the past that the first impressions of things derive
their gloss and splendour, but from our ignorance ofthe future, which fills the void
to come with the warmth of our desires, with our gayest hopes, and brightest
fancies. It is the obscurity spread before it that colours the prospect of life with
hope, as it is the cloud which reflects the rainbow. There is no occasion to resort
to any mystical union and transmission of feeling through different states of being
to account for the romantic enthusiasm ofyouth; nor to plant the root of hope in
the I grave, nor to derive it from the skies. Its root is in the heart ofman: it lifts its
head above the stars. Desire and imagination are inmates ofthe human breast. The
heaven 'that lies about us in our infancy' 10 is only a new world, ofwhich we know
nothing but what we wish it to be, and believe all that we wish. In youth and
boyhood, the world we live in is the world ofdesire, and of fancy: it is experience
that brings us down to the world of reality. What is it that in youth sheds a dewy
light round the evening star? That makes the daisy look so bright? That perfumes
the hyacinth? That embalms the first kiss oflove? It is the delight of novelty, and
the seeing no end to the pleasure that we fondly believe is still in store for us. The
heart revels in the luxury of its own thoughts, and is unable to sustain the weight
of hope and love that presses upon it. - The effects of the passion of love alone
might have dissipated Mr Wordsworth's theory, ifhe means any thing more by it
than an ingenious and poetical allegory. That at least is not a link in the chain let
down from other worlds; 'the purple light oflove' 11 is not a dim reflection of the
smiles of celestial bliss. It does not appear till the middle oflife, and then seems like
'another morn risen on rnid-day.' 12 In this respect the soul comes into the world 'in
utter nakedness.' 13 Love waits for the ripening of the youthful blood. The I sense
of pleasure precedes the love ofpleasure, but with the sense ofpleasure, as soon as
it is felt, come thronging infinite desires and hopes of pleasure, and love is mature
as soon as born. It withers and it dies almost as soon!
This play presents a beautiful coup-d'reil ofthe progress ofhuman life. In thought
it occupies years, and embraces the circle of the affections from childhood to old
age. Juliet has become a great girl, a young woman since we first remember her a
little thing in the idle prattle ofthe nurse. Lady Capulet was about her age when she
became a mother, and old Capulet somewhat impatiently tells his younger visitors,
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ROMEO AND JULIET [141/143]
I've seen the day,

That I have worn a visor, and could tell
A whispering tale in a fair lady's ear,
Such as would please: 'tis gone, 'tis gone, 'tis gone. 14
Thus one period oflife makes way for the following, and one generation pushes
another offthe stage. One of the most striking passages to shew the intense feeling
of youth in this play is Capulet's invitation to Paris to visit his entertainment.
At my poor house, look to behold this night

Earth-treading stars that make dark heav'n light;
Such comfort as do lusty young men feel
When well-apparel' d April on the heel /
Of limping winter treads, even such delight
Among fresh female-buds shall you this night
Inherit at my house. 15
The feelings ofyouth and ofthe spring are here blended together like the breath
of opening flowers. Images of vernal beauty appear to have floated before the
author's mind, in writing this poem, in profusion. Here is another of exquisite
beauty, brought in more by accident than by necessity. Montague declares of his
son smit with a hopeless passion, which he will not reveal -
But he, his own affection's counsellor,

Is to himself so secret and so close,
So far from sounding and discovery,
As is the bud bit with an envious worm,
Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air,
Or dedicate his beauty to the sun. 16
This casual description is as full of passionate beauty as when Romeo dwells in

frantic fondness on 'the white wonder of his Juliet's hand.' 17 the reader may, ifhe
pleases, contrast the exquisite pastoral simplicity of the above lines with the
gorgeous description ofJuliet when Romeo first sees her at her father's house,
surrounded by company and artificial splendour.
What lady's that which doth enrich the hand

Of yonder knight? /
0 she doth teach the torches to burn bright;
Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night,
Like a rich jewel in an }Ethiop's ear. 18
It would be hard to say which of the two garden scenes is the finest, that where
he first converses with his love, or takes leave of her the morning after their
marriage. Both are like a heaven upon earth; the blissful bowers of Paradise let
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down upon this lower world. We will give only one passage of these well known
scenes to shew the perfect refinement and delicacy ofShakespear's conception of
the female character. It is wonderful how Collins, who was a critic and a poet of
great sensibility, should have encouraged the common error on this subject by
saying - 'But stronger Shakespear felt for man alone.' 19
The passage we mean is Juliet's apology for her maiden boldness.
Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face;

Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek
For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night.
Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny
What I have spoke - but farewel compliment:
Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say, ay,
And I will take thee at thy word - Yet if thou swear'st,
Thou may'st prove false; at lovers' perjuries
They say Jove laughs. Oh gentle Romeo,
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully;
Or if thou think I am too quickly won,
I'll frown and be perverse, and say thee nay, /
So thou wilt woo: but else not for the world.
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond;
And therefore thou may'st think my 'haviour light;
But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true
Than those that have more cunning to be strange.
I should have been more strange, I must confess,
But that thou over-heard'st, ere I was ware,
My true love's passion; therefore pardon me,
And not impute this yielding to light love,
Which the dark night hath so discovered. 20
In this and all the rest, her heart, fluttering between pleasure, hope, and fear,
seems to have dictated to her tongue, and 'calls true love spoken simple modesty. ' 21
Of the same sort, but bolder in virgin innocence, is her soliloquy after her marriage
with Romeo.
Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,

Towards Phc:ebus' mansion; such a waggoner
As Phaeton would whip you to the west,
And bring in cloudy night immediately.
Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night;
That run-aways' eyes may wink; and Romeo
Leap to these arms, untalked of, and unseen!
Lovers can see to do their amorous riles
By their own beauties: or if love be blind,
It best agrees with night. - Come, civil night,
Thou sober-suited matron, all in black,
And learn me how to lose a winning match,
Play' d for a pair of stainless maidenhoods:
162
Hood my unmann' d blood bating in my cheeks,
With thy black mantle; till strange love, grown bold,
Thinks true love acted, simple modesty.
Come night! - Come, Romeo! come, thou day in night; /
For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night
Whiter than new snow on a raven's back.-
Come, gentle night; come, loving, black-brow' d night,
Give me my Romeo: and when he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine,
That all the world shall be in love with night,
And pay no worship to the garish sun. -
0, I have bought the mansion of a love,
But not possess'd it; and though I am sold,
Not yet enjoy'd: so tedious is this day,
As is the night before some festival
To an impatient child, that hath new robes,
And may not wear them. 22
We the rather insert this passage here, inasmuch as we have no doubt it has been
expunged from the Family Shakespear. Such critics do not perceive that the
feelings of the heart sanctify, without disguising, the impulses of nature. Without
refinement themselves, they confound modesty with hypocrisy. Not so the
German critic, Schlegel. Speaking of Romeo andJuliet, he says, 'It was reserved for
Shakespear to unite purity of heart and the glow of imagination, sweetness and
dignity of manners and passionate violence, in one ideal picture. ' 23 The character
is indeed one of perfect truth and sweetness. It has nothing forward, nothing coy,
nothing affected or coquettish about it; - it is a pure effusion ofnature. It is as frank
as it is / modest, for it has no thought that it wishes to conceal. It reposes in
conscious innocence on the strength of its affections. Its delicacy does not consist
in coldness and reserve, but in combining warmth of imagination and tenderness
ofheart with the most voluptuous sensibility. Love is a gentle flame that rarities and
expands her whole being. What an idea of trembling haste and airy grace, borne
upon the thoughts of love, does the Friar's exclamation give of her, as she
approaches his cell to be married -
Here comes the lady. Oh, so light of foot

Will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint:
A lover may bestride the gossamer,
That idles in the wanton summer air,
And yet not fall, so light is vanity. 24
The tragic part ofthis character is ofa piece with the rest. It is the heroic founded
on tenderness and delicacy. Of this kind are her resolution to follow the Friar's
advice, and the conflict in her bosom between apprehension and love when she
comes to take the sleeping poison. Shakespear is blamed for the mixture of low
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characters. If this is a deformity, it is the source ofa thousand beauties. One instance
is the contrast between the guileless simplicity ofJuliet's attachment to her first
love, and the convenient policy of the nurse in advising her to marry Paris, which
excites such indignation in her / mistress. 'Ancient damnation! oh most wicked
fiend,' 25 &c.
Romeo is Hamlet in love. There is the same rich exuberance of passion and
sentiment in the one, that there is of thought and sentiment in the other. Both are
absent and self-involved, both live out of themselves in a world of imagination.
Hamlet is abstracted from every thing; Romeo is abstracted from every thing but
his love, and lost in it. His 'frail thoughts dally with faint surmise,' 26 and are
fashioned out ofthe suggestions ofhope, 'the flatteries ofsleep. ' 27 He is himself only
in his Juliet; she is his only reality, his heart's true home and idol. The rest of the
world is to him a passing dream. How finely is this character pourtrayed where he
recollects himself on seeing Paris slain at the tomb ofJuliet! -
What said my man when my betossed soul

Did not attend him as we rode? I think
He told me Paris should have married Juliet. 28
And again, just before he hears the sudden tidings of her death -
If I may trust the flattery of sleep,

My dreams presage some joyful news at hand;
My bosom's lord sits lightly on his throne,
And all this day an unaccustom'd spirit
Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.
I dreamt my lady came and found me dead, /
(Strange dream! that gives a dead man leave to think)
And breath'd such life with kisses on my lips;
That I reviv' d and was an emperour.
Ah me! how sweet is love itself possess' d,
When but love's shadows are so rich injoy! 29
Romeo's passion for Juliet is not a first love: it succeeds and drives out his passion
for another mistress, Rosaline, as the sun hides the stars. This is perhaps an artifice
(not absolutely necessary) to give us a higher opinion of the lady, while the first
absolute surrender of her heart to him enhances the richness of the prize. The
commencement, progress, and ending ofhis second passion are however complete
in themselves, not injured if they are not bettered by the first. The outline of the
play is taken from an Italian novel; but the dramatic arrangement of the different
scenes between the lovers, the more than dramatic interest in the progress of the
story, the developement of the characters with time and circumstances, just
according to the degree and kind of interest excited, are not inferior to the
expression of passion and nature. It has been ingeniously remarked among other
164
proofs of skill in the contrivance of the fable, that the improbability of the main
incident in the piece, the administering of the sleeping-potion, is softened and
obviated from the beginning by the introduction ofthe Friar on his first appearance
culling simples and descanting on their / virtues. Of the passionate scenes in this
tragedy, that between the Friar and Romeo when he is told of his sentence of
banishment, that between Juliet and the Nurse when she hears of it, and of the
death of her cousin Tybalt (which bear no proportion in her mind, when passion
after the first shock ofsurprise throws its weight into the scale ofher affections) and
the last scene at the tomb, are among the most natural and overpowering. In all of
these it is not merely the force ofany one passion that is given, but the slightest and
most unlooked-for transitions from one to another, the mingling currents ofevery
different feeling rising up and prevailing in turn, swayed by the master-mind ofthe
poet, as the waves undulate beneath the gliding storm. Thus when Juliet has by her
complaints encouraged the Nurse to say, 'Shame come to Romeo,' she instantly
repels the wish, which she had herself occasioned, by answering -
Blister' d be thy tongue

For such a wish! He was not born to shame.
Upon his brow shame is ashamed to sit,
For 'tis a throne where honour may be crown'd
Sole monarch of the universal earth!
0, what a beast was I to chide him so?
Nurse. Will you speak well of him that kill'd your cousin?
Juliet. Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband?
Ah my poor lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name,
When I, thy three-hours' wife, have mangled it? 30 /
And then follows on the neck of her remorse and returning fondness, that wish
treading almost on the brink of impiety, but still held back by the strength of her
devotion to her lord, that 'father, mother, nay, or both were dead,' 31 rather than
Romeo banished. If she requires any other excuse, it is in the manner in which
Romeo echoes her frantic grief and disappointment in the next scene at being
banished from her. - Perhaps one of the finest pieces of acting that ever was
witnessed on the stage, is Mr Kean's manner of doing this scene and his repetition
of the word, Banished. He treads close indeed upon the genius of his author.
A passage which this celebrated actor and able commentator on Shakespear
(actors are the best commentators on the poets) did not give with equal truth or
force offeeling was the one which Romeo makes at the tomb ofJuliet, before he
drinks the poison.
Let me peruse this face -

Mercutio's kinsman! noble county Paris!
What said my man, when my betossed soul
165
Did not attend him as we rode! I think,

He told me, Paris should have married Juliet!
Said he not so? or did I dream it so?
Or am I mad, hearing him talk ofJuliet,
To think it was so? - 0, give me thy hand,
One writ with me in sour misfortune's book!
I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave -
For here lies Juliet. /
*0, *my *love!* my* wife!
Death that hath suck' d the honey of thy breath,
Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty:
Thou art not conquer'd; beauty's ensign yet
Is crimson in thy lips, and in thy cheeks,
And Death's pale flag is not advanced there -
Tybalt, ly'st thou there in thy bloody sheet?
0, what more favour can I do to thee,
Than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain,
To sunder his that was thine enemy?
Forgive me, cousin! Ah, dear Juliet,
Why art thou yet so fair! - Shall I believe
That unsubstantial death is amorous;
And that the lean abhorred monster keeps
Thee here in dark to be his paramour!
For fear of that, I will stay still with thee
And never from this palace of dim night
Depart again: here, here will I remain
With worms that are thy chamber-maids; 0, here
Will I set up my everlasting rest;
And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars
From this world-wearied flesh. - Eyes, look your last!
Arms, take your last embrace! and lips, 0 you,
The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss
A dateless bargain to engrossing death! - A
Come, bitter conduct, come unsavoury guide!
Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on
The dashing rock my sea-sick weary bark!
Here's to my love! - [Drinks.), true apothecary!
Thy drugs are quick. - Thus with a kiss I die. 32
The lines in this speech, describing the loveliness ofJuliet, who is supposed to be
dead, have been compared to those in which it is said / ofCleopatra after her death,
that she looked 'as she would take another Antony in her strong toil ofgrace;' 33 and
a question has been started which is the finest, that we do not pretend to decide. We
can more easily decide between Shakespear and any other author, than between
him and himself. - Shall we quote any more passages to shew his genius or the
beauty of Romeo andJuliet? At that rate, we might quote the whole. The late Mr
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Sheridan, on being shewn a volume of the Beauties of Shakespear, very properly

asked- 'But where are the other eleven?' The character ofMercutio in this play is
one of the most mercurial and spirited of the productions of Shakespear's comic
muse./
Lear
We wish that we could pass this play over, and say nothing about it. All that we can
say must fall far short of the subject; or even of what we ourselves conceive of it.
To attempt to give a description of the play itself or of its effect upon the mind, is
mere impertinence: yet we must say something. - It is then the best of all
Shakespear's plays, for it is the one in which he was the most in earnest. He was here
fairly caught in the web of his own imagination. The passion which he has taken
as his subject is that which strikes its root deepest into the human heart; of which
the bond is the hardest to be unloosed; and the cancelling and tearing to pieces of
which gives the greatest revulsion to the frame. This depth of nature, this force of
passion, this tug and war of the elements of our being, this firm faith in filial piety,
and / the giddy anarchy and whirling tumult of the thoughts at finding this prop
failing it, the contrast between the fixed, immoveable basis ofnatural affection, and
the rapid, irregular starts of imagination, suddenly wrenched from all its
accustomed holds and resting-places in the soul, this is what Shakespear has given,
and what nobody else but he could give. So we believe. - The mind of Lear,
staggering between the weight of attachment and the hurried movements of
passion, is like a tall ship driven about by the winds, buffetted by the furious waves,
but that still rides above the storm, having its anchor fixed in the bottom ofthe sea;
or it is like the sharp rock circled by the eddying whirlpool that foams and beats
against it, or like the solid promontory pushed from its basis by the force of an
earthquake.
The character ofLear itselfis very finely conceived for the purpose. It is the only
ground on which such a story could be built with the greatest truth and effect. It
is his rash haste, his violent impetuosity, his blindness to every thing but the dictates
of his passions or affections, that produces all his misfortunes, that aggravates his
impatience of them, that enforces our pity for him. The part which Cordelia bears
in the scene is extremely beautiful: the story is almost told in the first words she /
167
utters. We see at once the precipice on which the poor old king stands from his own
extravagant and credulous importunity, the indiscreet simplicity of her love
(which, to be sure, has a little of her father's obstinacy in it) and the hollowness of
her sisters' pretensions. Almost the first burst of that noble tide of passion, which
runs through the play, is in the remonstrance of Kent to his royal master on the
injustice of his sentence against his youngest daughter - 'Be Kent unmannerly,
when Lear is mad!' 1 This manly plainness, which draws down on him the
displeasure of the unadvised king, is worthy of the fidelity with which he adheres
to his fallen fortunes. The true character of the two eldest daughters, Regan and
Gonerill- (they are so thoroughly hateful that we do not even like to repeat their
names) breaks out in their answer to Cordelia who desires them to treat their father
well - 'Prescribe not us our duties' 2 - their hatred of advice being in proportion to
their determination to do wrong, and to their hypocritical pretensions to do right.
Their deliberate hypocrisy adds the last finishing to the odiousness of their
characters. It is the absence of this detestable quality that is the only relief in the
character ofEdmund the Bastard, and that at times reconciles us to him. We are not
tempted to exaggerate the guilt of his conduct, when he himself gives it up as/ a
bad business, and writes himself down 'plain villain.' 3 Nothing more can be said
about it. His religious honesty in this respect is admirable. One speech of his is
worth a million. His father, Gloster, whom he has just deluded with a forged story
of his brother Edgar's designs against his life, accounts for his unnatural behaviour
and the strange depravity of the times from the late eclipses in the sun and moon.
Edmund, who is in the secret, says when he is gone - 'This is the excellent foppery
of the world, that when we are sick in fortune (often the surfeits of our own
behaviour) we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and stars: as if we
were villains on necessity; fools by heavenly compulsion; knaves, thieves, and
treacherous by spherical predominance; drunkards, liars, and adulterers by an
enforced obedience of planetary influence; and all that we are evil in, by a divine
thrusting on. An admirable evasion of whore-master man, to lay his goatish
disposition on the charge of a star! My father compounded with my mother under
the Dragon's tail, and my nativity was under Ursa Major: so that it follows, I am
rough and lecherous. Tut! I should have been what I am, had the maidenliest star
in the firmament twinkled on my bastardising. ' 4 - The whole character, its careless,
light-hearted villainy, contrasted with the sullen, rancorous malignity of Regan
and Gonerill, its connection / with the conduct of the under-plot, in which
Gloster's persecution of one of his sons and the ingratitude of another, form a
counterpart to the mistakes and misfortunes of Lear, - his double amour with the
two sisters, and the share which he has in bringing about the fatal catastrophe, are
all managed with an uncommon degree of skill and power.
It has been said, and we think justly, that the third act of Othello and the three first
acts of Lear, are Shakespear's great master-pieces in the logic of passion: that they
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contain the highest examples not only of the force of individual passion, but of its
dramatic vicissitudes and striking effects arising from the different circumstances
and characters of the persons speaking. We see the ebb and flow of the feeling, its
pauses and feverish starts, its impatience ofopposition, its accumulating force when
it has time to recollect itself, the manner in which it avails itself of every passing
word or gesture, its haste to repel insinuation, the alternate contraction and
dilatation of the soul, and all 'the dazzling fence of controversy' 5 in this mortal
combat with poisoned weapons, aimed at the heart, where each wound is fatal. We
have seen in Othello, how the unsuspecting frankness and impetuous passions ofthe
Moor are played upon and exasperated by the artful dexterity / of Iago. In the
present play, that which aggravates the sense of sympathy in the reader, and of
uncontroulable anguish in the swoln heart of Lear, is the petrifying indifference,
the cold, calculating, obdurate selfishness of his daughters. His keen passions seem
whetted on their stony hearts. The contrast would be too painful, the shock too
great, but for the intervention of the Fool, whose well-timed levity comes in to
break the continuity of feeling when it can no longer be borne, and to bring into
play again the fibres of the heart just as they are growing rigid from over-strained
excitement. The imagination is glad to take refuge in the half-comic, half-serious
comments of the Fool, just as the mind under the extreme anguish of a surgical
operation vents itself in sallies ofwit. The character was also a grotesque ornament
of the barbarous times, in which alone the tragic ground-work of the story could
be laid. In another point of view it is indispensable, inasmuch as while it is a
diversion to the too great intensity ofour disgust, it carries the pathos to the highest
pitch of which it is capable, by shewing the pitiable weakness of the old king's
conduct and its irretrievable consequences in the most familiar point ofview. Lear
may well 'beat at the gate which let his folly in,' 6 after, as the Fool says, 'he has made
/ his daughters his mothers. ' 7 The character is dropped in the third act to make
room for the entrance of Edgar as Mad Tom, which well accords with the
increasing bustle and wildness of the incidents; and nothing can be more complete
than the distinction between Lear's real and Edgar's assumed madness, while the
resemblance in the cause of their distresses, from the severing of the nearest ties of
natural affection, keeps up a unity ofinterest. Shakespear's mastery over his subject,
if it was not art, was owing to a knowledge of the connecting links of the passions,
and their effect upon the mind, still more wonderful than any systematic adherence
to rules, and that anticipated and outdid all the efforts of the most refined art, not
inspired and rendered instinctive by genius.
One ofthe most perfect displays ofdramatic power is the first interview between
Lear and his daughter, after the designed affronts upon him, which till one of his
knights reminds him of them, his sanguine temperament had led him to overlook.
He returns with his train from hunting, and his usual impatience breaks out in his
first words, 'Let me not stay a jot for dinner; go, get it ready.' 8 He then encounters
169
the faithful Kent in disguise, and retains him in his service; and the first trial of his
honest duty is to trip up the heels ofthe officious Steward who makes so prominent
and despicable a figure / through the piece. On the entrance of Gonerill the
following dialogue takes place: -
Lear. How now, daughter? what makes that frontlet on?

Methinks, you are too much oflate i' the frown.
Fool. Thou wast a pretty fellow, when thou had'st no need to care for her
frowning; now thou art an O without a figure: I am better than thou
art now; I am a fool, thou art nothing. - Yes, forsooth, I will hold
my tongue; [To Gonerilij so your face bids me, though you say
nothing. Mum, mum.
He that keeps nor crust nor crum,

Weary of all, shall want some. -
That's a sheal'd peascod! [Pointing to Lear.

Gonerill. Not only, sir, this your all-licens'd fool,
But other of your insolent retinue
Do hourly carp and quarrel; breaking forth
In rank and not-to-be-endured riots.
I had thought, by making this well known unto you,
To have found a safe redress; but now grow fearful,
By what yourself too late have spoke and done,
That you protect this course, and put it on
By your allowance; which if you should, the fault
Would not 'scape censure, nor the redresses sleep,
Which in the tender of a wholesome weal,
Might in their working do you that offence,
(Which else were shame) that then necessity
Would call discreet proceeding.
Fool. For you trow, nuncle,
The hedge sparrow fed the cuckoo so long,

That it had its head bit off by its young.
So out went the candle, and we were left darkling. /

Lear. Are you our daughter?
Gonerill. Come, sir,
I would, you would make use of that good wisdom
Whereof I know you are fraught; and put away
These dispositions, which of late transform you
From what you rightly are.
Fool. May not an ass know when the cart draws the horse? - Whoop, Jug, I
love thee.
Lear. Does any here know me - Why, this is not Lear:
Does Lear walk thus? speak thus? - Where are his eyes?
Either his notion weakens, or his discernings
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Are lethargy'd - Ha! waking? - 'Tis not so. -
Who is it that can tell me who I am? - Lear's shadow?
I would learn that: for by the marks
Of sov'reignty, of knowledge, and of reason,
I should be false persuaded I had daughters.
Your name, fair gentlewoman?
Gonerill. Come, sir:
This admiration is much o' the favour
Of other your new pranks. I do beseech you
To understand my purposes aright:
As you are old and reverend, you should be wise.
Here do you keep a hundred knights and squires;
Men so disorder' d, so debauch' d, and bold,
That this our court, infected with their manners,
Shews like a riotous inn: epicurism and lust
Make it more like a tavern, or a brothel,
Than a grac'd palace. The shame itself doth speak
For instant remedy: be then desir' d
By her, that else will take the thing she begs,
A little to disquantity your train;
And the remainder, that shall still depend,
To be such men as may besort your age,
And know themselves and you. /
Lear. Darkness and devils! -
Saddle my horses; call my train together -
Degenerate bastard! I'll not trouble thee;
Yet have I left a daughter.
Gonerill. You strike my people; and your disorder' d rabble
Make servants of their betters.
Enter Albany.
Lear. Woe, that too late repents - 0, sir, are you come?
Is it your will? speak, sir. - Prepare my horses. -
[To Albany.
Ingratitude! thou marble-hearted fiend,
More hideous, when thou shew'st thee in a child,
Than the sea-monster!
Albany. Pray, sir, be patient.
Lear. Detested kite! thou liest. [To Goneri/1.
My train are men of choice and rarest parts,
That all particulars of duty know;
And in the most exact regard support
The worships of their name. - 0 most small fault,
How ugly didst thou in Cordelia shew!
Which, like an engine, wrench'd my frame of nature
From the fixt place; drew from my heart all love,
And added to the gall. 0 Lear, Lear, Lear!
Beat at the gate, that let thy folly in, [Striking his head.
171
And thy dear judgment out! - Go, go, my people!

Albany. My lord, I am guiltless, as I am ignorant
Of what hath mov'd you.
I.ear. It may be so, my lord -
Hear, nature, hear! dear goddess, hear!
Suspend thy purpose, if thou didst intend
To make this creature fruitful!
Into her womb convey sterility; /
Dry up in her the organs of increase;
And from her derogate body never spring
A babe to honour her! If she must teem,
Create her child of spleen: that it may live,
To be a thwart disnatur'd torment to her!
Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth;
With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks;
Turn all her mother's pains, and benefits,
To laughter and contempt; that she may feel
How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is
To have a thankless child! Away, away! [Exit.
Albany. Now, gods, that we adore, whereof comes this?
Gonerill. Never aillict yourself to know the cause
But let his disposition have that scope
That dotage gives it.
Re-enter Lear.
I.ear. What, fifty of my followers at a clap!

Within a fortnight!
Albany. What's the matter, sir?
I.ear. I'll tell thee, life and death! I am asham' d
That thou hast power to shake my manhood thus:
[To Gonerill.
That these hot tears, which break from me perforce,
Should make thee worth them. - Blasts and fogs upon thee!
The untented woundings of a father's curse
Pierce every sense about thee! - Old fond eyes
Beweep this cause again, I'll pluck you out;
And cast you, with the waters that you lose,
To temper clay. - Ha' is it come to this?
Let it be so: - Yet have I left a daughter,
Who, I am sure, is kind and comfortable;
When she shall hear this of thee, with her nails
She'll flea thy wolfish visage. Thou shalt find, /
That I'll resume the shape, which thou dost think
I have cast off for ever. 9
[Exeunt I.ear, Kent, and Attendants.
This is certainly fine: no wonder that Lear says after it, 'O let me not be mad, not
mad, sweet heavens,' 10 feeling its effects by anticipation; but fine as is this burst of
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rage and indignation at the first blow aimed at his hopes and expectations, it is
nothing near so fine as what follows from his double disappointment, and his
lingering efforts to see which of them he shall lean upon for support and find
comfort in, when both his daughters turn against his age and weakness. It is with
some difficulty that Lear gets to speak with his daughter Regan, and her husband,
at Gloster's castle. In concert with Gonerill they have left their own home on
purpose to avoid him. His apprehensions are first alarmed by this circumstance, and
when Gloster, whose guests they are, urges the fiery temper of the Duke of
Cornwall as an excuse for not importuning him a second time, Lear breaks out -
Vengeance! Plague! Death! Confusion! -

Fiery? What quality? Why, Gloster, Gloster,
I'd speak with the Duke of Cornwall, and his wife. 11
Afterwards, feeling perhaps not well himself, he is inclined to admit their excuse
from illness, but then recollecting that they have set his messenger / (Kent) in the
stocks, all his suspicions are roused again, and he insists on seeing them.
Enter Cornwall, Regan, Gloster, and Servants.
Lear. Good-morrow to you both.

Cornwall. Hail to your grace! [Kent is set at liberty.
Regan. I am glad to see your highness.
Lear. Regan, I think you are; I know what reason
I have to think so: if thou should'st not be glad,
I would divorce me from thy mother's tomb,
Sepulch'ring an adultress. - 0, are you free?
[To Kent.
Some other time for that. - Beloved Regan,
Thy sister's naught: 0 Regan, she hath tied
Sharp-tooth' d unkindness, like a vulture, here -
[Points to his heart.
I can scarce speak to thee; thou'lt not believe,
Of how deprav' d a quality - 0 Regan!
Regan. I pray you, sir, take patience; I have hope
You less know how to value her desert,
Than she to scant her duty.
Lear. Say, how is that?
Regan. I cannot think my sister in the least
Would fail her obligation; if, sir, perchance,
She have restrain' d the riots of your followers,
'Tis on such ground, and to such wholesome end,
As clears her from all blame.
Lear. My curses on her!
Regan. 0, sir, you are old;
Nature in you stands on the very verge
Of her confine: you should be rul' d, and led
173
By some discretion, that discerns your state

Better that yourself: therefore, I pray you,
That to our sister you do make return;
Say, you have wrong'd her, sir. /
Lear. Ask her forgiveness?
Do you but mark how this becomes the use?
Dear daughter, I confess that I am old;
Age is unnecessary; on my knees I beg
That you'll vouchsafe me raiment, bed, andfood.
Regan. Good sir, no more; these are unsightly tricks:
Return you to my sister.
Lear. Never, Regan:
She hath abated me of half my train;
Look' d blank upon me; struck me with her tongue,
Most serpent-like, upon the very heart: -
All the stor' d vengeances of heaven fall
On her ungrateful top! Strike her young bones,
You taking airs, with lameness!
Cornwall. Fie, sir, fie!
Lear. You nimble lightnings, dart your blinding flames
Into her scornful eyes! Infect her beauty,
You fen-suck' d fogs, drawn by the powerful sun,
To fall, and blast her pride!
Regan. 0 the blest gods!
So will you wish on me, when the rash mood is on.
Lear. No, Regan, thou shalt never have my curse;
Thy tender-hefted nature shall not give
Thee o'er to harshness; her eyes are fierce, but thine
Do comfort, and not burn: 'Tis not in thee
To grudge my pleasures, to cut off my train,
To bandy hasty words, to scant my sizes,
And, in conclusion, to oppose the bolt
Against my coming in: thou better know'st
The offices of nature, bond of childhood,
Effects of courtesy, dues of gratitude;
Thy half o' the kingdom thou hast not forgot,
Wherein I thee endow' d. /
Regan. Good sir, to the purpose. [Trumpets within.
Lear. Who put my man i' the stocks?
Cornwall. What trumpet's that?
Enter Steward.
Regan. I know't, my sister's: this approves her letter,

That she would soon be here. - Is your lady come?
Lear. This is a slave, whose easy-borrow'd pride
Dwells in the fickle grace of her he follows: -
Out, Varlet, from my sight!
Cornwall. What means your grace?
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Lear. Who stock'd my servant? Regan, I have good hope

Thou did'st not know on't - Who comes here? 0 heavens,
Enter Gonerill
If you do love old men, if your sweet sway

Allow obedience, if yourselves are old,
Make it your cause; send down, and take my part! -
Art not asham'd to look upon this beard? - [To Gonerill.
0, Regan, wilt thou take her by the hand?
Gonerill. Why not by the hand, sir? How have I offended?
All's not offence, that indiscretion finds,
And dotage terms so.
Lear. 0, sides, you are too tough!
Will you yet hold? - How came my man i' the stocks?
Cornwall. I set him there, sir: but his own disorders
Deserv' d much less advancement.
Lear. You! did you?
Regan. I pray you, father, being weak, seem so.
If, till the expiration of your month,
You will return and sojourn with my sister,
Dismissing half your train, come then to me; /
I am now from home, and out of that provision
Which shall be needful for your entertainment.
Lear. Return to her, and fifty men dismiss'd?
No, rather I abjure all roofs, and choose
To be a comrade with the wolf and owl -
To wage against the enmity o' the air,
Necessity's sharp pinch! Return with her!
Why, the hot-blooded France, that dowerless took
Our youngest born, I could as well be brought
To knee his throne, and squire-like pension beg
To keep base life afoot. - Return with her!
Persuade me rather to be slave and sumpter
To this detested groom. [Looking on the Steward.
Gonerill. At your choice, sir.
Lear. Now, I pr'ythee, daughter, do not make me mad;
I will not trouble thee, my child; farewell:
We'll no more meet, no more see one another:
But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my daughter;
Or, rather, a disease that's in my flesh,
Which I must needs call mine: thou art a bile,
A plague-sore, an embossed carbuncle,
In my corrupted blood. But I'll not chide thee;
Let shame come when it will, I do not call it:
I did not bid the thunder-bearer shoot,
Nor tell tales of thee to high-judging Jove:
Mend when thou canst; be better, at thy leisure:
I can be patient; I can stay with Regan,
175
I, and my hundred knights.

Regan. Not altogether so, sir;
I look'd not for you yet, nor am provided
For your fit welcome: Give ear, sir, to my sister;
For those that mingle reason with your passion
Must be content to think you old, and so -
But she knows what the does.
Lear. Is this well spoken now? /
Regan. I dare avouch it, sir: What, fifty followers?
Is it not well? What should you need of more?
Yea, or so many? Sith that both charge and danger
Speak 'gainst so great a number? How, in one house,
Should many people, under two commands,
Hold amity? 'Tis hard; almost impossible.
Gonerill. Why might not you, my lord, receive attendance
From those that she calls servants, or from mine?
Regan. Why not, my lord? If then they chanc' d to slack you,
We would controul them: if you will come to me
(For now I spy a danger) I entreat you
To bring but five-and-twenty; to no more
Will I give place, or notice.
Lear. I gave you all -
Regan. And in good time you gave it.
Lear. Made you my guardians, my depositaries;
But kept a reservation to be follow' d
With such a number: what, must I come to you
With five-and-twenty, Regan! said you so?
Regan. And speak it again, my lord: no more with me.
Lear. Those wicked creatures yet do look well-favour' d,
When others are more wicked; not being the worst,
Stands in some rank of praise: - I'll go with thee;
[To Gonerill.
Thy fifty yet doth double five-and-twenty,
And thou art twice her love.
Gonerill. Hear me, my lord;
What need you five-and-twenty, ten, or five,
To follow in a house, where twice so many
Have a command to tend you?
Regan. What need one?
Lear. 0, reason not the need: our basest beggars
Are in the poorest thing superfluous: /
Allow not nature more than nature needs,
Man's life is 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 -
You heavens, give me that patience which I need!
You see me here, you gods; a poor old man,
176
LEAR [170/172]
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
To bear it tamely; touch me with noble anger!
0, let no woman's weapons, water-drops,
Stain my man's cheeks! - 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. You think, I'll weep:
No, I'll not weep: -
I have full cause of weeping; but this heart
Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws,
Or e'er I'll weep: - 0, fool, I shall go mad! - 12
[Exeunt Lear, Gloster, Kent, and Fool.
If there is any thing in any author like this yearning of the heart, these throes of
tenderness, this profound expression ofall that can be thought and felt in the most
heart-rending situations, we are glad ofit; but it is in some author that we have not
read.
The scene in the storm, where he is exposed to all the fury ofthe elements, though
grand and terrible, is not so fine, but the moralising/ scenes with Mad Tom, Kent,
and Gloster, are upon a par with the former. His exclamation in the supposed trial-
scene ofhis daughters, 'See the little dogs and all, Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see
they bark at me,' 13 his issuing his orders, 'Let them anatomize Regan, see what
breeds about her heart' 14 and his reflection when he sees the misery of Edgar,
'Nothing but his unkind daughters could have brought him to this,' 15 are in a style
ofpathos, where the extremest resources ofthe imagination are called in to lay open
the deepest movements ofthe heart, which was peculiar to Shakespear. In the same
style and spirit is his interrupting the Fool who asks 'whether a madman be a
gentleman or a yeoman,' by answering 'A king, a king.' 16 -
The indirect part that Gloster takes in these scenes where his generosity leads him
to relieve Lear and resent the cruelty of his daughters, at the very time that he is
himself instigated to seek the life of his son, and suffering under the sting of his
supposed ingratitude, is a striking accompaniment to the situation ofLear. Indeed,
the manner in which the threads of the story are weaved together is almost as
wonderful in the way of art as the carrying on the tide of passion, still varying and
unimpaired, is on the score ofnature. Among the remarkable instances ofthis kind
are Edgar's meeting with/ his old blind father; the deception he practises upon him
when he pretends to lead him to the top ofDover-cliff- 'Come on, sir, here's the
place,' 17 to prevent his ending his life and miseries together; his encounter with the
perfidious Steward whom he kills, and his finding the letter from Gonerill to his
brother upon him which leads to the final catastrophe, and brings the wheel of
177
Justice 'full circle home' 18 to the guilty parties. The bustle and rapid succession of
events in the last scenes is surprising. But the meeting between Lear and Cordelia
is by far the most affecting part ofthem. It has all the wildness ofpoetry, and all the
heart-felt truth ofnature. The previous account ofher reception ofthe news ofhis
unkind treatment, her involuntary reproaches to her sisters, 'Shame, ladies,
shame,' 19 Lear's backwardness to see his daughter, the picture of the desolate state
to which he is reduced, 'Alack, 'tis he; why he was met even now, as mad as the
vex' d sea, singing aloud,' 20 only prepare the way for and heighten our expectation
of what follows, and assuredly this expectation is not disappointed when through
the tender care of Cordelia he revives and recollects her
Cordelia. How does my royal lord? How fares your majesty!

Lear. You do me wrong, to take me out o' the grave:/
Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound
Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears
Do scald like molten lead.
Cordelia. Sir, do you know me?
Lear. You are a spirit I know: when did you die?
Cordelia. Still, still, far wide!
Physician. He's scarce awake; let him alone awhile.
Lear. Where have I been? Where am I? - Fair daylight? -
I am mightily abus'd. - I should even die with pity,
To see another thus. - I know not what to say. -
I will not swear these are my hands: - let's see;
I feel this pin prick. 'Would I were assured of my condition.
Cordelia. 0, look upon me, Sir,
And hold your hands in benediction o'er me: -
No, sir, you must not kneel.
Lear. Pray, do not mock me:
I am a very foolish fond old man,
Fourscore and upward;
I fear, I am not in my perfect mind.
Methinks, I shou'd know you, and know this man;
Yet I am doubtful: for I am mainly ignorant
What place this is; and all the skill I have
Remembers not these garments; nor I know not
Where I did lodge last night: do not laugh at me;
For, as I am a man, I think this lady
To be my child Cordelia.
Cordelia. And so I am, I am! 21
Almost equal to this in awful beauty is their consolation ofeach other when, after
the triumph of their enemies, they are led to prison. /
Cordelia. We are not the first,

Who, with best meaning, have incurr'd the worst.
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LEAR [174/175]
For thee, oppressed king, am I cast down;
Myself could else out-frown false fortune's frown. -
Shall we not see these daughters, and these sisters.
Lear. No, no, no, no! Come, let's away to prison:
We two alone will sing like birds i' the cage:
When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down,
And ask of thee forgiveness: so we'll live,
And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh
At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues
Talk of court news; and we'll talk with them too -
Who loses, and who wins; who's in, who's out; -
And take upon us the mystery of things,
As ifwe were God's spies: and we'll wear out,
In a walled prison, packs and sects of great ones,
That ebb and flow by the moon.
Edmund. Take them away.
Lear. Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia,
The gods themselves throw incense. 22
The concluding events are sad, painfully sad; but their pathos is extreme. The
oppression ofthe feelings is relieved by the very interest we take in the misfortunes
of others, and by the reflections to which they give birth. Cordelia is hanged in
prison by the orders of the bastard Edmund, which are known too late to be
countermanded, and Lear dies broken-hearted, lamenting over her.
Lear. And my poor fool is hang'd! No, no, no life:

Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, /
And thou no breath at all? 0, thou wilt come no more,
Never, never, never, never, never! -
Pray you, undo this button: thank you, sir. 23
He dies, and indeed we feel the truth of what Kent says on the occasion -
Vex not his ghost: 0, let him pass! he hates him,

That would upon the rack of this rough world
Stretch him out longer. 24
Yet a happy ending has been contrived for this play, which is approved ofby Dr
Johnson and condemned by Schlegel. 25 A better authority than either, on any
subject in which poetry and feeling are concerned, has given it in favour of
Shakespear, in some remarks on the acting of Lear, with which we shall conclude
this account.
'The Lear of Shakespear cannot be acted. The contemptible machinery with
which they mimic the storm which he goes out in, is not more inadequate to
represent the horrors of the real elements than any actor can be to represent Lear.
The greatness of Lear is not in corporal dimension, but in intellectual; the
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(175/177) SELECTED WRITINGS OF WILLIAM HAZLITT: VOLUME l
explosions of his passions are terrible as a volcano: they are storms turning up and
disclosing to the bottom that rich sea, his mind, with all its vast riches. It is his mind
which is laid bare. This case offlesh and blood seems too insignificant to be thought
on; even as he himself neglects it. / On the stage we see nothing but corporal
infirmities and weakness, the impotence ofrage; while we read it, we see not Lear,
but we are Lear; -we are in his mind; we are sustained by a grandeur, which bailles
the malice of daughters and storms; in the aberrations of his reason, we discover a
mighty irregular power ofreasoning, immethodised from the ordinary purposes of
life, but exerting its powers, as the wind blows where it listeth, at will on the
corruptions and abuses of mankind. What have looks or tones to do with that
sublime identification of his age with that of the heavens themselves, when in his
reproaches to them for conniving at the injustice of his children, he reminds them
that 'they themselves are old!' What gesture shall we appropriate to this? What has
the voice or the eye to do with such things? But the play is beyond all art, as the
tamperings with it shew: it is too hard and stony: it must have love-scenes, and a
happy ending. It is not enough that Cordelia is a daughter, she must shine as a lover
too. Tate has put his hook in the nostrils of this Leviathan, for Garrick and his
followers, the shewmen ofthe scene, to draw it about more easily. A happy ending!
- as ifthe living martyrdom that Lear had gone through, - the flaying ofhis feelings
alive, did not make a fair dismissal from the stage oflife the only decorous thing for
him. Ifhe is to live and be happy after, ifhe could sustain this world's burden after,
why / all this pudder and preparation - why torment us with all this unnecessary
sympathy? As ifthe childish pleasure ofgetting his gilt robes and sceptre again could
tempt him to act over again his misused station, - as if at his years and with his
experience, any thing was left but to die.'* 26
Four things have struck us in reading Lear.
1. That poetry is an interesting study, for this reason, that it relates to whatever
is most interesting in human life. Whoever therefore has a contempt for poetry, has
a contempt for himself and humanity.
2. That the language of poetry is superior to the language of painting; because
the strongest of our recollections relate to feelings, not to faces .
3. That the greatest strength of genius is shewn in describing the strongest
passions: for the power of the imagination, in works of invention, must be in
proportion to the force of the natural impressions, which are the subject of them.
4. That the circumstance which balances the pleasure against the pain in
tragedy is, that in proportion to the greatness of the evil, is our sense and desire of
the opposite good excited; and that our sympathy, with actual suffering is lost in the
strong impulse given to our natural affections, and carried away with the swelling
tide of passion, that gushes from and relieves the heart.
* See an article, called Theatralia, in the second volume of the Reflector, by Charles Lamb. /
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RICHARD II [178/180]
Richard II
Richard II is a play little known compared with Richard III which last is a play that
every unfledged candidate for theatrical fame chuses to strut and fret his hour upon
the stage 1 in; yet we confess that we prefer the nature and feeling of the one to the
noise and bustle of the other; at least, as we are so often forced to see it acted. In
Richard II the weakness ofthe king leaves us leisure to take a greater interest in the
misfortunes of the man. After the first act, in which the arbitrariness of his
behaviour only proves his want of resolution, we see him staggering under the
unlooked-for blows offortune, bewailing his loss of kingly power, not preventing
it, sinking under the aspiring genius ofBolingbroke, his authority trampled on, his
hopes failing him, and his pride crushed and broken down under insults, / and
injuries, which his own misconduct had provoked, but which he has not courage
or manliness to resent. The change of tone and behaviour in the two competitors
for the throne according to their change of fortune, from the capricious sentence
of banishment passed by Richard upon Bolingbroke, the suppliants offers and
modest pretensions of the latter on his return to the high and haughty tone with
which he accepts Richard's resignation ofthe crown after the loss ofall his power,
the use which he makes ofthe deposed king to grace his triumphal progress through
the streets of London, and the final intimation of his wish for his death, which
immediately finds a servile executioner, is marked throughout with complete effect
and without the slightest appearance of effort. The steps by which Bolingbroke
mounts the throne are those by which Richard sinks into the grave. We feel neither
respect nor love for the deposed monarch; for he is as wanting in energy as in
principle: but we pity him, for he pities himsel£ His heart is by no means hardened
against himself, but bleeds afresh at every new stroke of mischance, and his
sensibility, absorbed in his own person, and unused to misfortune, is not only
tenderly alive to its own sufferings, but without the fortitude to bear them. He is,
however, human in his distresses; for to feel pain, and sorrow, weakness,
disappointment/ remorse and anguish, is the lot of humanity, and we sympathize
with him accordingly. The sufferings of the man make us forget that he ever was
a king.
The right assumed by sovereign power to trifle at its will with the happiness of
181
others as a matter ofcourse, or to remit its exercise as a matter offavour, is strikingly

shewn in the sentence ofbanishment so unjustly pronounced on Bolingbroke and
Mowbray, and in what Bolingbroke says when four years of his banishment are
taken off, with as little reason.
How long a time lies in one little word!

Four lagging winters and four wanton springs
End in a word: such is the breath of kings. 2
A more affecting image of the loneliness of a state of exile can hardly be given
than by what Bolingbroke afterwards observes of his having 'sighed his English
breath in foreign clouds;' 3 or than that conveyed in Mowbray's complaint at being
banished for life.
The language I have learned these forty years,

My native English, now I must forego;
And now my tongue's use is to me no more
Than an unstringed viol or a harp,
Or like a cunning instrument cas'd up,
Or being open, put into his hands
That knows no touch to tune the harmony.
I am too old to fawn upon a nurse,
Too far in years to be a pupil now. - 4 /
How very beautiful is all this, and at the same time how very English too!
Richard II may be considered as the first of that series ofEnglish historical plays,
in which 'is hung armour of the invincible knights of old, ' 5 in which their hearts
seem to strike against their coats ofmail, where their blood tingles for the fight, and
words are but the harbingers ofblows. Of this state of accomplished barbarism the
appeal ofBolingbroke and Mowbray is an admirable specimen. Another of these
'keen encounters of their wits,' 6 which serve to whet the talkers' swords, is where
Aumerle answers in the presence ofBolingbroke to the charge which Bagot brings
against him of being an accessory in Gloster's death.
Fitzwater. If that thy valour stand on sympathies,

There is my gage, Aumerle, in gage to thine;
By that fair sun that shows me where thou stand'st,
I heard thee say, and vauntingly thou spak'st it,
That thou wert cause of noble Gloster's death.
If thou deny'st it twenty times thou liest,
And I will turn thy falsehood to thy heart
Where it was forged, with my rapier's point.
Aumerle. Thou dar'st not, coward, live to see the day.
Fitzwater. Now, by my soul, I would it were this hour.
Aumerle. Fitzwater, thou art damn'd to hell for this.
182
Percy. Aumerle, thou liest; his honour is as true,
In this appeal, as thou art all unjust;
And that thou art so, there I throw my gage
To prove it on thee, to the extremest point
Of mortal breathing. Seize it, if thou dar'st. /
Aumerle. And ifl do not, may my hands rot off,
And never brandish more revengeful steel
Over the glittering helmet of my foe.
Who sets me else? By heav'n, I'll throw at all.
I have a thousand spirits in my breast,
To answer twenty thousand such as you.
Surry. My lord Fitzwater, I remember well
The very time Aumerle and you did talk.
Fitzwater. My lord, 'tis true: you were in presence then: and you can
witness with me, this is true.
Surry. As false, by heav'n, as heav'n itself is true.
Fitzwater. Surry, thou liest.
Surry. Dishonourable boy,
That lie shall lye so heavy on my sword,
That it shall render vengeance and revenge,
Till thou the lie-giver and that lie rest
In earth as quiet as thy father's skull.
In proof whereof, there is mine honour's pawn:
Engage it to the trial, if thou dar'st.
Fitzwater. How fondly dost thou spur a forward horse:
Ifl dare eat or drink, or breathe or live,
I dare meet Surry in a wilderness,
And spit upon him, whilst I say he lies,
And lies, and lies: there is my bond of faith,
To tie thee to thy strong correction.
As I do hope to thrive in this new world,
Aumerle is guilty of my true appeal. 7
The truth is, that there is neither truth nor honour in all these noble persons: they
answer words with words, as they do blows with blows, in mere self-defence: nor
have they any principle whatever but that of courage in maintaining any wrong
they dare commit, or any falsehood / which they find it useful to assert. How
different were these noble knights and 'barons bold' 8 from their more refined
descendants in the present day, who, instead ofdeciding questions ofright by brute
force, refer every thing to convenience, fashion, and good breeding! In point ofany
abstract love of truth or justice, they are just the same now that they were then.
The characters ofoldJohn ofGaunt and ofhis brother York, uncles to the King,
the one stern and foreboding, the other honest, good-natured, doing all for the
best, and therefore doing nothing, are well kept up. The speech of the former, in
praise of England, is one of the most eloquent that ever was penned. We should
perhaps hardly be disposed to feed the pampered egotism of our countrymen by
183
quoting this description, were it not that the conclusion of it (which looks
prophetic) may qualify any improper degree of exultation.
This royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle,

This earth of Majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-Paradise,
This fortress built by nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war;
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house
Against the envy ofless happy lands:
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England, /
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
Fear' d for their breed and famous for their birth,
Renowned for their deeds as far from home,
(For Christian service and true chivalry)
As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry
Of the world's ransom, blessed Mary's son;
This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land,
Dear for her reputation through the world,
Is now leas'd out (I die pronouncing it)
Like to a tenement or pelting farm.
England bound in with the triumphant sea,
Whose rocky shore beats back the envious surge
Ofwat'ry Neptune, is bound in with shame,
With inky-blots and rotten parchment bonds.
That England that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a shameful conquest of itsel£9
The character of Bolingbroke, afterwards Henry IV is drawn with a masterly

hand: - patient for occasion, and then steadily availing himself of it, seeing his
advantage afar off, but only seizing on it when he has it within his reach, humble,
crafty, bold, and aspiring, encroaching by regular but slow degrees, building power
on opinion, and cementing opinion by power. His disposition is first unfolded by
Richard himself, who however is too self-willed and secure to make a proper use
of his knowledge.
Ourself and Bushy, Bagot here and Green,

Observed his courtship of the common people:
How he did seem to dive into their hearts,
With humble and familiar courtesy,
What reverence he did throw away on slaves; /
Wooing poor craftsmen with the craft of smiles,
And patient under-bearing of his fortune,
As 'twere to banish their affections with him.
184
Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench;
A brace of draymen bid God speed him well,
And had the tribute of his supple knee,
With thanks my countrymen, my loving friends;
As were our England in reversion his,
And he our subjects' next degree in hope. 10
Afterwards, he gives his own character to Percy, in these words:
I thank thee, gentle Percy, and be sure

I count myself in nothing else so happy,
As in a soul rememb'ring my good friends
And as my fortune ripens with thy love,
It shall be still thy true love's recompense. 11
We know how he afterwards kept his promise. His bold assertion of his own
rights, his pretended submission to the king, and the ascendancy which he tacitly
assumes over him without openly claiming it, as soon as he has him in his power,
are characteristic traits ofthis ambitious and politic usurper. But the part ofRichard
himself gives the chief interest to the play. His folly, his vices, his misfortunes, his
reluctance to part with the crown, his fear to keep it, his weak and womanish
regrets, his starting tears, his fits of hectic passion, his smothered majesty, pass in
succession before us, and make a picture as natural as it is affecting. Among the most
striking / touches ofpathos are his wish 'O that I were a mockery king ofsnow to
melt away before the sun of Bolingbroke,' 12 and the incident of the poor groom
who comes to visit him in prison and tells him how 'it yearned his heart that
Bolingbroke upon his coronation-day rode on Roan Barbary.' 13 We shall have
occasion to return hereafter to the character ofRichard II in speaking ofHenry VI.
There is only one passage more, the description of his entrance into London with
Bolingbroke, which we should like to quote here, if it had not been so used and
worn out, so thumbed and got by rote, so praised and painted; but its beauty
surmounts all these considerations.
Duchess. My lord, you told me you would tell the rest,

When weeping made you break the story off
Of our two cousins coming into London.
York. Where did I leave?
Duchess. At that sad stop, my lord,
Where rude misgovern'd hands, from window tops,
Threw dust and rubbish on king Richard's head.
York. Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke,
Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,
Which his aspiring rider seem'd to know,
With slow, but stately pace, kept on his course,
While all tongues cried - God save thee, Bolingbroke!
You would have thought the very windows spake,
185
So many greedy looks of young and old

Through casements darted their desiring eyes
Upon his visage; and that all the walls,
With painted imag'ry, had said at once - I
Jesu preserve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke!
Whilst he, from one side to the other turning,
Bare-headed, lower than his proud steed's neck,
Bespake them thus - I thank you, countrymen:
And thus still doing thus he pass' d along.
Duchess. Alas, poor Richard! where rides he the while?
York. As in a theatre, the eyes of men,
After a well-grac' d actor leaves the stage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious:
Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes
Did scowl on Richard; no man cried God save him!
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home:
But dust was thrown upon his sacred head!
Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off -
His face still combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience -
That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel' d
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarism itself have pitied him. 14 /
Henry IV
in two parts
If Shakespear's fondness for the ludicrous sometimes led to faults in his tragedies
(which was not often the case) he has made us amends by the character of Falstaff.
This is perhaps the most substantial comic character that ever was invented. Sir
John carries a most portly presence in the mind's eye; and in him, not to speak it
profanely, 'we behold the fulness of the spirit ofwit and humour bodily.' 1 We are
as well acquainted with his person as his mind, and his jokes come upon us with
double force and relish from the quantity of flesh through which they make their
way, as he shakes his fat sides with laughter, or 'lards the lean earth as he walks
along. ' 2 Other comic characters seem, ifwe approach and handle them, to resolve
themselves into air, 'into thin air;' 3 but this is embodied and palpable to the
186
HENRY IV [189/191]
grossest / apprehension: it lies 'three fingers deep upon the ribs,' 4 it plays about the
lungs and the diaphragm with all the force of animal enjoyment. His body is like
a good estate to his mind, from which he receives rents and revenues ofprofit and
pleasure in kind, according to its extent, and the richness of the soil. Wit is often
a meagre substitute for pleasurable sensation; an effusion of spleen and petty spite
at the comforts of others, from feeling none in itsel£ Falstaff's wit is an emanation
of a fine constitution; an exuberance of good-humour and good-nature; an
overflowing ofhis love oflaughter and good-fellowship; a giving vent to his heart's
ease, and over-contentment with himself and others. He would not be in character,
ifhe were not so fat as he is; for there is the greatest keeping in the boundless luxury
of his imagination and the pampered self-indulgence of his physical appetites. He
manures and nourishes his mind with jests, as he does his body with sack and sugar.
He carves out his jokes, as he would a capon or a haunch of venison, where there
is cut and come again; and pours out upon them the oil ofgladness. His tongue drops
fatness, and in the chambers ofhis brain 'it snows ofmeat and drink. ' 5 He keeps up
perpetual holiday and open houses and we live with him in a round of invitations
to a rump and dozen. - Yet we are not to suppose / that he was a mere sensualist.
All this is as much in imagination as in reality. His sensuality does not engross and
stupify his other faculties, but 'ascends me into the brain, clears away all the dull,
crude vapours that environ it, and makes it full of nimble, fiery, and delectable
shapes. ' 6 His imagination keeps up the ball after his senses have done with it. He
seems to have even a greater enjoyment of the freedom from restraint, of good
cheer, ofhis ease, ofhis vanity, in the ideal exaggerated description which he gives
of them, than in fact. He never fails to enrich his discourse with allusions to eating
and drinking, but we never see him at table. He carries his own larder about with
him, and he is himself'a tun ofman. ' 7 His pulling out the bottle in the field ofbattle
is a joke to shew his contempt for glory accompanied with danger, his systematic
adherence to his Epicurean philosophy in the most trying circumstances. Again,
such is his deliberate exaggeration of his own vices, that it does not seem quite
certain whether the account of his hostess's bill, found in his pocket, with such an
out-of-the-way charge for capons and sack with only one halfpenny worth of
bread, was not put there by himself as a trick to humour the jest upon his favourite
propensities, and as a conscious caricature ofhimsel£ He is represented as a liar, a
braggart, a coward, a glutton, &c. / and yet we are not offended but delighted with
him; for he is all these as much to amuse others as to gratify himsel£ He openly
assumes all these characters to shew the humorous part of them. The unrestrained
indulgence of his own ease, appetites, and convenience, has neither malice nor
hypocrisy in it. In a word, he is an actor in himself almost as much as upon the stage,
and we no more object to the character of Falstaffin a moral point ofview than we
should think ofbringing an excellent comedian, who should represent him to the
life, before one ofthe police offices. We only consider the number ofpleasant lights
187
in which he puts certain foibles (the more pleasant as they are opposed to the
received rules and necessary restraints ofsociety) and do not trouble ourselves about
the consequences resulting from them, for no mischievous consequences do result.
Sir John is old as well as fat which gives a melancholy retrospective tinge to the
character; and by the disparity between his inclinations and his capacity for
enjoyment, makes it still more ludicrous and fantastical.
The secret of Falstaff's wit is for the most part a masterly presence of mind, an
absolute self-possession, which nothing can disturb. His repartees are involuntary
suggestions of his self-love; instinctive evasions of every thing that threatens to
interrupt the career of his triumphant/ jollity and self-complacency. His very size
floats him out of all his difficulties in a sea of rich conceits; and he turns round on
the pivot ofhis convenience, with every occasion and at a moment's warning. His
natural repugnance to every unpleasant thought or circumstance, of itself makes
light ofobjections, and provokes the most extravagant and licentious answers in his
own justification. His indifference to truth puts no check upon his invention, and
the more improbable and unexpected his contrivances are, the more happily does
he seem to be delivered ofthem, the anticipation oftheir effect acting as a stimulus
to the gaiety of his fancy. The success of one adventurous sally gives him spirits to
undertake another: he deals always in round numbers, and his exaggerations and
excuses are 'open, palpable, monstrous as the father that begets them. ' 8 His dissolute
carelessness of what he says discovers itself in the first dialogue with the Prince.
Falstqff. By the lord, thou say'st true, lad; and is not mine hostess of the
tavern a most sweet wench?
P. Henry. As the honey of Hibla, my old lad of the castle; and is not a buff-
jerkin a most sweet robe of durance?
Falstqff. How now, how now, mad wag, what in thy quips and thy
quiddities? what a plague have I to do with a buff-jerkin?
P. Henry. Why, what a pox have I to do with mine hostess of the tavem?9 /
In the same scene he afterwards affects melancholy, from pure satisfaction of

heart, and professes reform, because it is the farthest thing in the world from his
thoughts. He has no qualms of conscience, and therefore would as soon talk of
them as of any thing else when the humour takes him.
Falstaff. But Hal, I pr'ythee trouble me no more with vanity. I would to

God thou and I knew where a commodity of good names were to be
bought: an old lord of council rated me the other day in the street
about you, sir; but I mark'd him not, and yet he talked very wisely,
and in the street too.
P. Henry. Thou didst well, for wisdom cries out in the street, and no man
regards it.
Falstaff. 0, thou hast damnable iteration, and art indeed able to corrupt a
saint. Thou hast done much harm unto me, Hal; God forgive thee
188
HENRY IV (193/195]
for it. Before I knew thee, Hal, I knew nothing, and now I am, if a
man should speak truly, little better than one of the wicked. I must
give over this life, and I will give it over, by the lord; an I do not, I
am a villain. I'll be damn'd for never a king's son in Christendom.
P. Henry. Where shall we take a purse to-morrow, Jack?
Falsteff Where thou wilt, lad, I'll make one; an I do not, call me villain,
and baffle me.
P. Henry. I see good amendment oflife in thee, from praying to purse-
taking.
Falsteff Why, Hal, 'tis my vocation, Hal. 'Tis no sin for a man to labour in
his vocation. 10
Of the other prominent passages, his account of his pretended resistance to the
robbers, 'who / grew from four men in buckram to eleven' 11 as the imagination of
his own valour increased with his relating it, his getting off when the truth is
discovered by pretending he knew the Prince, the scene in which in the person of
the old king he lectures the prince and gives him a good character, the soliloquy on
honour, and description of his new-raised recruits, his meeting with the chief
justice, his abuse ofthe Prince and Poins, who overhear him, to Doll Tearsheet, his
reconciliation with Mrs Quickly who has arrested him for an old debt, and whom
he persuades to pawn her plate to lend him ten pounds more, and the scenes with
Shallow and Silence, are all inimitable. Of all of them, the scent in which Falstaff
plays the part, first, of the King, and then ofPrince Henry, is the one that has been
the most often quoted. We must quote it once more in illustration ofour remarks.
Falstaff. Harry, I do not only marvel where thou spendest thy time, but also
how thou art accompanied: for though the camomile, the more it is
trodden on, the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the
sooner it wears. That thou art my son, I have partly thy mother's
word, partly my own opinion; but chiefly, a villainous trick of thine
eye, and a foolish hanging of thy nether lip, that doth warrant me. If
then thou be son to me, here lies the point; - Why, being son to me,
art thou so pointed at? Shall the blessed sun of heaven prove a
micher, and eat blackberries? A question not to be ask' d. Shall the
son of England prove a thief; and take/ purses? a question not to be
ask'd. There is a thing, Harry, which thou hast often heard of, and it
is known to many in our land by the name of pitch: this pitch, as
ancient writers do report, doth defile; so doth the company thou
keepest: for, Harry, now I do not speak to thee in drink, but in tears;
not in pleasure, but in passion; not in words only, but in woes also: -
and yet there is a virtuous man, whom I have often noted in thy
company, but I know not his name.
P. Henry. What manner of man, an it like your majesty?
Falsteff A goodly portly man, i'faith, and a corpulent; of a cheerful look, a
pleasing eye, and a most noble carriage; and, as I think, his age some
fifty, or, by'r-lady, inclining to threescore; and now I do remember
189
me, his name is Falstaff: if that man should be lewdly given, he

deceiveth me; for, Harry, I see virtue in his looks. If then the fruit
may be known by the tree, as the tree by the fruit, then peremptorily
I speak it, there is virtue in that Falstaff: him keep with, the rest
banish. And tell me now, thou naughty varlet, tell me, where hast
thou been this month?
P. Henry. Dost thou speak like a king? Do thou stand for me, and I'll play
my father.
Falstaff. Depose me? if thou dost it half so gravely, so majestically, both in
word and matter, hang me up by the heels for a rabbit-sucker, or a
poulterer's hare.
P. Henry. Well, here I am set.
Falstaff. And here I stand: - judge, my masters.
P. Henry. Now, Harry, whence come you?
Falstaff. My noble lord, from Eastcheap.
P. Henry. The complaints I hear of thee are grievous.
Falstaff. S'blood, my lord, they are false: - nay, I'll tickle ye for a young
prince, i'faith.
P. Henry. Swearest thou, ungracious boy? henceforth ne'er look on me.
Thou art violently carried away from grace: there is a devil haunts
thee, in the likeness of a fat old man; a tun of man is thy companion.
Why dost thou converse with / that trunk of humours, that bolting-
hutch of beastliness, that swoln parcel of dropsies, that huge bombard
of sack, that stuft cloak-bag of guts, that roasted Manning-tree ox
with the pudding in his belly, that reverend vice, that grey iniquity,
that father ruffian, that vanity in years? wherein is he good, but to
taste sack and drink it? wherein neat and cleanly, but to carve a
capon and eat it? wherein cunning, but in craft? wherein crafty, but
in villainy? wherein villainous, but in all things? wherein worthy, but
in nothing?
Falstaff. l would, your grace would take me with you; whom means your
grace?
P. Henry. That villainous, abominable mis-leader of youth, Falstaff; that old
white-bearded Satan.
Falstaff. My lord, the man I know.
P. Henry. I know thou dost.
Falstaff. But to say, I know more harm in him than in myself, were to say
more than I know. That he is old (the more the pity) his white hairs
do witness it: but that he is (saving your reverence) a whore-master,
that I utterly deny. If sack and sugar be a fault, God help the wicked!
if to be old and merry be a sin, then many an old host that I know is
damned: if to be fat be to be hated, then Pharoah's lean kine are to
be loved. No, my good lord; banish Peto, banish Bardolph, banish
Poins: but for sweet Jack Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff,
valiant Jack Falstaff, and therefore more valiant, being as he is, old
Jack Falstaff, banish not him thy Harry's company; banish plump
Jack, and banish all the world.
P. Henry. I do, I will.
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HENRY IV [196/198]
[Knocking; and Hostess and Bardolph go out.
Re-enter Bardolph running.
Bardolph. 0, my lord, my lord; the sheriff, with a most monstrous watch, is

at the door. /
Falstaff. Out, you rogue! play out the play: I have much to say in the behalf
of that Falstaff. 12
One ofthe most characteristic descriptions ofSirJohn is that which Mrs Quickly
gives of him when he asks her 'What is the gross sum that I owe thee?'
Hostess. Marry, if thou wert an honest man, thyself, and the money too.
Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my
Dolphin-chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire on
Wednesday in Whitsun-week, when the prince broke thy head for
likening his father to a singing man of Windsor; thou didst swear to
me then, as I was washing thy wound, to marry me, and make me
my lady thy wife. Canst thou deny it? Did not goodwife Keech, the
butcher's wife, come in then, and call me gossip Quickly? coming in
to borrow a mess of vinegar; telling us, she had a good dish of
prawns; whereby thou didst desire to eat some; whereby I told thee,
they were ill for a green wound? and didst thou not, when she was
gone down stair, desire me to be no more so familiarity with such
poor people; saying, that ere long they should call me madam? and
didst thou not kiss me, and bid me fetch thee thirty shillings? I put
thee now to thy book-oath; deny it, if thou canst.13
This scene is to us the most convincing proof ofFalstaffs power of gaining over
the good will of those he was familiar with, except indeed Bardolph's somewhat
profane exclamation on hearing the account of his death, 'Would I were / with
him, wheresoe'er he is, whether in heaven or hell.' 14
One ofthe topics ofexulting superiority over others most common in SirJohn's
mouth is his corpulence and the exterior marks of good living which he carries
about him, thus 'turning his vices into commodity.' 15 He accounts for the
friendship between the Prince and Poins, from 'their legs being both ofa bigness; ' 16
and compares Justice Shallow to 'a man made after supper of a cheese-paring.' 17
There cannot be a more striking gradation of character than that between Falstaff
and Shallow, and Shallow and Silence. It seems difficult at first to fall lower than the
squire; but this fool, great as he is, finds an admirer and humble foil in his cousin
Silence. Vain of his acquaintance with Sir John, who makes a butt of him, he
exclaims, 'Would, cousin Silence, that thou had'st seen that which this knight and
I have seen!' - 'Aye, Master Shallow, we have heard the chimes at midnight,' 18 says
Sir John. To Falstaffs observation 'I did not think Master Silence had been a man
of this mettle,' Silence answers, 'Who, I? I have been merry twice and once ere
191
now.' 19 What an idea is here conveyed of a prodigality of living! What good

husbandry and economical self-denial in his pleasures! What a stock of lively
recollections! / It is curious that Shakespear has ridiculed in Justice Shallow, who
was 'in some authority under the king,' 20 that disposition to unmeaning tautology
which is the regal infirmity of later times, 21 and which, it may be supposed, he
acquired from talking to his cousin Silence, and receiving no answers.
Falstaff. You have here a goodly dwelling, and a rich.

Shallow. Barren, barren, barren; beggars all, beggars all, Sir John: marry,
good air. Spread Davy, spread Davy. Well said, Davy.
Falstaff. This Davy serves you for good uses.
Shallow. A good varlet, a good varlet, a very good varlet. By the mass, I
have drank too much sack at supper. A good varlet. Now sit down,
now sit down. Come, cousin. 22• 23
The true spirit of humanity, the thorough knowledge of the stuff we are made
of, the practical wisdom with the seeming fooleries in the whole of the garden-
scene at Shallow's country-seat, and just before in the exquisite dialogue between
him and Silence on the death ofold Double, have no parallel any where else. In one
point of view, they are laughable in the extreme; in another they are equally
affecting, if it is affecting to shew what a little thing is human life, what a poor
forked creature man is!24
The heroic and serious part ofthese two plays founded on the story ofHenry IV
is not inferior to the comic and farcical. The characters / of Hotspur and Prince
Henry are two of the most beautiful and dramatic, both in themselves and from
contrast, that ever were drawn. They are the essence ofchivalry. We like Hotspur
the best upon the whole, perhaps because he was unfortunate. - The characters of
their fathers, Henry IV and old Northumberland, are kept up equally well. Henry
naturally succeeds by his prudence and caution in keeping what he has got;
Northumberland fails in his enterprise from an excess of the same quality, and is
caught in the web ofhis own cold, dilatory policy. Owen Glendower is a masterly
character. It is as bold and original as it is intelligible and thoroughly natural. The
disputes between him and Hotspur are managed with infinite address and insight
into nature. We cannot help pointing out here some very beautiful lines, where
Hotspur describes the fight between Glendower and Mortimer.
When on the gentle Severn's sedgy bank,

In single opposition hand to hand,
He did confound the best part of an hour
In changing hardiment with great Glendower:
Three times they breath'd, and three times did they drink,
Upon agreement, of swift Severn's flood;
Who then affrighted with their bloody looks,
Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds,
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HENRY IV [200/202]
And hid his crisp head in the hollow bank,
Blood-stained with these valiant combatants. 25 /
The peculiarity and the excellence ofShakespear's poetry is, that it seems as ifhe
made his imagination the hand-maid of nature, and nature the plaything of his
imagination. He appears to have been all the characters, and in all the situations he
describes. It is as ifeither he had had all their feelings, or had lent them all his genius
to express themselves. There cannot be stronger instances of this than Hotspur's
rage when Henry IV forbids him to speak of Mortimer, his insensibility to all that
his father and uncle urge to calm him, and his fine abstracted apostrophe to honour,
'By heaven methinks it were an easy leap to pluck bright honour from the moon, ' 26
&c. After all, notwithstanding the gallantry, generosity, good temper, and idle
freaks of the mad-cap Prince of Wales, we should not have been sorry, if
Northumberland's force had come up in time to decide the fate of the battle at
Shrewsbury; at least, we always heartily sympathise with Lady Percy's grief, when
she exclaims,
Had my sweet Harry had but half their numbers,

To-day might I (hanging on Hotspur's neck)
Have talked of Monmouth's grave. 27
The truth is, that we never could forgive the Prince's treatment of Falstaff;
though perhaps Shakespear knew what was best, according to / the history, the
nature of the times, and of the man. We speak only as dramatic critics. Whatever
terror the French in those days might have of Henry V yet, to the readers ofpoetry
at present, Falstaff is the better man of the two. We think of him and quote him
oftener. /
193
HenryV
Henry V is a very favourite monarch with the English nation, and he appears to
have been also a favourite with Shakespear, who labours hard to apologise for the
actions of the king, by shewing us the character of the man, as 'the king of good
fellows.'' He scarcely deserves this honour. He was fond ofwar and low company:
- we know little else of him. He was careless, dissolute, and ambitious; - idle, or
doing mischie£ In private, he seemed to have no idea ofthe common decencies of
life, which he subjected to a kind of regal licence; in public affairs, he seemed to
have no idea ofany rule ofright or wrong, but brute force, glossed over with a little
religious hypocrisy and archiepiscopal advice. His principles did not change with
his situation and professions. His adventure on Gadshill was a prelude to the affair
I ofAgincourt, only a bloodless one; Falstaff was a puny prompter ofviolence and
outrage, compared with the pious and politic Archbishop ofCanterbury, who gave
the king carte blanche, in a genealogical tree ofhis family, to rob and murder in circles
oflatitude and longitude abroad - to save the possessions of the church at home.
This appears in the speeches in Shakespear, where the hidden motives that actuate
princes and their advisers in war and policy are better laid open than in speeches
from the throne or woolsack. Henry, because he did not know how to govern his
own kingdom, determined to make war upon his neighbours. Because his own title
to the crown was doubtful, he laid claim to that ofFrance. Because he did not know
how to exercise the enormous power, which had just dropped into his hands, to
any one good purpose, he immediately undertook (a cheap and obvious resource
of sovereignty) to do all the mischief he could. Even if absolute monarchs had the
wit to find out objects oflaudable ambition, they could only 'plume up their wills' 2
in adhering to the more sacred formula of the royal prerogative, 'the right divine
ofkings to govern wrong, ' 3 because will is only then triumphant when it is opposed
to the will of others, because the pride of power is only then shewn, not when it
consults the rights and interests of others, but when it insults and / tramples on all
justice and all humanity. Henry declares his resolution 'when France is his, to bend
it to his awe, or break it all to pieces' 4 - a resolution worthy of a conqueror, to
destroy all that he cannot enslave; and what adds to the joke, he lays all the blame
194
HENRYV [205/207]
of the consequences of his ambition on those who will not submit tamely to his
tyranny. Such is the history ofkingly power, from the beginning to the end of the
world; - with this difference, that the object of war formerly, when the people
adhered to their allegiance, was to depose kings; the object latterly, since the people
swerved from their allegiance, has been to restore kings, and to make common
cause against mankind. The object ofour late invasion and conquest of France was
to restore the legitimate monarch, the descendant of Hugh Capet, to the throne:
Henry V in his time made war on and deposed the descendant of this very Hugh
Capet, on the plea that he was a usurper and illegitimate. What would the great
modem catspaw5 oflegitimacy and restorer ofdivine right have said to the claim of
Henry and the title of the descendants of Hugh Capet? Henry V it is true, was a
hero, a King ofEngland, and the conqueror ofthe king ofFrance.Yet we feel little
love or admiration for him. He was a hero, that is, he was ready to sacrifice his own
life for the pleasure of destroying thousands of other / lives: he was a king of
England, but not a constitutional one, and we only like kings according to the law;
lastly, he was a conqueror of the French king, and for this we dislike him less than
ifhe had conquered the French people. How then do we like him? We like him
in the play. There he is a very amiable monster, a very splendid pageant. As we like
to gaze at a panther or a young lion in their cages in the Tower, 6 and catch a pleasing
horror from their glistening eyes, their velvet paws, and dreadless roar, so we take
a very romantic, heroic, patriotic, and poetical delight in the boasts and feats ofour
younger Harry, as they appear on the stage and are confined to lines often syllables;
where no blood follows the stroke that wounds our ears where no harvest bends
beneath horses' hoofs, no city flames, no little child is butchered, no dead men's
bodies are found piled on heaps and festering the next morning - in the orchestra!
So much for the politics ofthis play; now for the poetry. Perhaps one ofthe most
striking images in all Shakespear is that given of war in the first lines of the
Prologue.
0 for a muse of fire, that would ascend

The brightest heaven of invention,
A kingdom for a stage, princes to act,
And monarchs to behold the swelling scene!
Then should the warlike Harry, like himself, /
Assume the port of Mars, and at his heels
Leash'd in like hounds, shouldfamine, sword, and.fire
Crouch for employment. 7
Rubens, if he had painted it, would not have improved upon this simile.
The conversation between the Archbishop ofCanterbury and the Bishop ofEly,
relating to the sudden change in the manners ofHenry Vis among the well-known
Beauties of Shakespear. It is indeed admirable both for strength and grace. It has
195
sometimes occurred to us that Shakespear, in describing 'the reformation' 8 of the

Prince, might have had an eye to himself -
Which is a wonder how his grace should glean it,

Since his addiction was to courses vain,
His companies unletter' d, rude and shallow,
His hours fill'd up with riots, banquets, sports;
And never noted in him any study,
Any retirement, any sequestration
From open haunts and popularity.
Ely. The strawberry grows underneath the nettle,
And wholesome berries thrive and ripen best
Neighbour'd by fruit of baser quality:
And so the prince obscur' d his contemplation
Under the veil of wilderness, which no doubt
Grew like the summer-grass, fastest by night,
Unseen, yet crescive in his faculty. 9
This atleast is as probable an account ofthe progress ofthe poet's mind as we have
met with / in any of the Essays on the Learning of Shakespear.
Nothing can be better managed than the caution which the king gives the
meddling Archbishop, not to advise him rashly to engage in the war with France,
his scrupulous dread ofthe consequences ofthat advice, and his eager desire to hear
and follow it.
And God forbid, my dear and faithful lord,

That you should fashion, wrest, or bow your reading,
Or nicely charge your understanding soul
With opening titles miscreate, whose right
Suits not in native colours with the truth.
For God doth know how many now in health
Shall drop their blood, in approbation
Of what your reverence shall incite us to.
Therefore take heed how you impawn your person,
How you awake our sleeping sword of war;
We charge you in the name of God, take heed.
For never two such kingdoms did contend
Without much fall of blood, whose guiltless drops
Are every one a woe, a sore complaint
'Gainst him, whose wrong gives edge unto the swords
That make such waste in brief mortality.
Under this conjuration, speak, my lord;
For we will hear, note, and believe in heart,
That what you speak, is in your conscience wash' d,
As pure as sin with baptism. 10
Another characteristic instance of the blindness of human nature to every thing
196
HENRYV [208/210]
but its own interests, is the complaint made by the I king of 'the ill neighbour-
hood'11 of the Scot in attacking England when she was attacking France.
For once the eagle England being in prey,

To her unguarded nest the weazel Scot
Comes sneaking, and so sucks her princely eggs. 12
It is worth observing that in all these plays, which give an admirable picture of
the spirit of the good old times, the moral inference does not at all depend upon the
nature of the actions, but on the dignity or meanness of the persons committing
them. 'The eagle England' has a right 'to be in prey,' but 'the weazel Scot' has none
'to come sneaking to her nest,' which she has left to pounce upon others. Might was
right, without equivocation or disguise, in that heroic and chivalrous age. The
substitution ofright for might, even in theory, is among the refinements and abuses
of modem philosophy.
A more beautiful rhetorical delineation of the effects of subordination in a
commonwealth can hardly be conceived than the following: -
For government, though high and low and lower,

Put into parts, doth keep in one concent,
Congruing in a full and natural close,
Like music.
Therefore heaven doth divide
The slate of man in divers functions,
Setting endeavour in continual motion;
To which is fixed, as an aim or butt, /
Obedience: for so work the honey-bees;
Creatures that by a rule in nature, teach
The art of order to a peopled kingdom.
They have a king, and officers of sorts:
Where some, like magistrates, correct at home;
Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad;
Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings,
Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds;
Which pillage they with merry march bring home
To the tent-royal of their emperor;
Who, busied in his majesty, surveys
The singing mason building roofs of gold;
The civil citizens kneading up the honey;
The poor mechanic porters crowding in
Their heavy burthens at his narrow gate;
The sad-eyed justice, with his surly hum,
Delivering o'er to executors pale
The lazy yawning drone. I this infer, -
That many things, having full reference
To one concent, may work contrariously:
As many arrows, loosed several ways,
197
Fly to one mark;

As many several ways meet in one town;
As many fresh streams meet in one salt sea;
As many lines close in the dial's centre;
So may a thousand actions, once a-foot,
And in-one purpose, and be all well borne -
Without defeat. 13
Henry Vis but one ofShakespear's second rate plays. Yet by quoting passages, like
this, from his second-rate plays alone, we might make a volume 'rich with his
praise,'
As is the oozy bottom of the sea

With sunken wrack and sumless treasuries. 14 /
Ofthis sort are the king's remonstrance to Scroop, Grey, and Cambridge, on the
detection oftheir treason, his address to the soldiers at the siege ofHarfleur, and the
still finer one before the battle ofAgincourt, the description ofthe night before the
battle, and the reflections on ceremony put into the mouth of the king.
0 hard condition; twin-born with greatness,

Subjected to the breath of every fool,
Whose sense no more can feel but his own wringing!
What infinite heart's ease must kings neglect,
That private men enjoy; and what have kings,
That privates have not too, save ceremony?
Save general ceremony?
And what art thou, thou idol ceremony?
What kind of God art thou, that suffer'st more
Of mortal griefs, than do thy worshippers?
What are thy rents? what are thy comings-in?
0 ceremony, shew me but thy worth!
What is thy soul, 0 adoration?
Art thou aught else but place, degree, and form,
Creating awe and fear in other men?
Wherein thou art less happy, being feared,
Than they in fearing.
What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet,
But poison'd flattery? 0, be sick, great greatness,
And bid thy ceremony give thee cure!
Think'st thou, the fiery fever will go out
With titles blown from adulation?
Will it give place to flexure and low bending?
Can'st thou, when thou comrnand'st the beggar's knee,
Command the health of it? No, thou proud dream,
That play'st so subtly with a king's repose, /
I am a king, that find thee: and I know,
'Tis not the balm, the sceptre, and the ball,
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HENRYV [212/213]
The sword, the mace, the crown imperial,
The enter-tissu'd robe of gold and pearl,
The farsed title running 'fore the king,
The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp
That beats upon the high shore of this world,
No, not, all these, thrice-gorgeous ceremony,
Not all these, laid in bed majestical,
Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave;
Who, with a body fill' d, and vacant mind,
Gets him to rest, cramm' d with distressful bread
Never sees horrid night, the child of hell:
But like a lacquey, from the rise to set,
Sweats in the eye of Phrebus, and all night
Sleeps in Elysium; next day, after dawn,
Doth rise, and help Hyperion to his horse;
And follows so the ever-running year
With profitable labour, to his grave:
And, but for ceremony, such a wretch,
Winding up days with toil, and nights with sleep,
Has the forehand and vantage of a king.
The slave, a member of the country's peace,
Enjoys it; but in gross brain little wots,
What watch the king keeps to maintain the peace,
Whose hours the peasant best advantages. 15
Most of these passages are well known: there is one, which we do not remember
to have seen noticed, and yet it is no whit inferior to the rest in heroic beauty. It
is the account of the deaths of York and Suffolk.
Exeter. The duke ofYork commends him to your majesty./

K. Henry. Lives he; good uncle? thrice within this hour,
I saw him down; thrice up again, and fighting;
From helmet to the spur all blood he was.
Exeter. In which array (brave soldier) doth he lie,
Larding the plain: and by his bloody side
(Yoke-fellow to his honour-owing wounds)
the noble earl of Suffolk also lies.
Suffolk first died: and York, all haggled o'er,
Comes to him, where in gore he lay insteep 'd,
and takes him by the beard; kisses the gashes,
That bloodily did yawn upon his face;
and cried aloud - Tarry, dear cousin Suffolk!
My soul shall thine keep company to heaven:
Tarry, sweet soul,for mine, then fly a-breast;
As, in this glorious and well:foughtfield,
We kept together in our chivalry!
Upon these words I came, and cheer' d him up:
He smil' d me in the face, raught me his hand,
and, with a feeble gripe, says - Dear my lord,
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Commend my service to my sovereign.

So did he tum, and over Suffolk's neck
He threw his wounded arm, and kiss'd his lips;
And so, espous'd to death, with blood he seal'd
A testament of noble-ending love. 16
But we must have done with splendid quotations. The behaviour of the king, in
the difficult and doubtful circumstances in which he is placed, is as patient and
modest as it is spirited and lofty in his prosperous fortune. The character of the
French nobles is also very admirably depicted; and the Dauphin's praise ofhis horse
shews the vanity ofthat class ofpersons in a very striking point ofview. Shakespear
/ always accompanies a foolish prince with a satirical courtier, as we see in this
instance. The comic parts of Henry V are very inferior to those of Henry IV. Falstaff
is dead, and without him, Pistol, Nym, and Bardolph, are satellites without a sun.
Fluellen the Welchman is the most entertaining character in the piece. He is good-
natured, brave, choleric, and pedantic. His parallel between Alexander and Harry of
Monmouth, and his desire to have 'some disputations' 17 with Captain Macmorris on
the discipline ofthe Roman wars, in the heat ofthe battle, are never to be forgotten.
His treatment ofPistol is as good as Pistol's treatment ofhis French prisoner. There
are two other remarkable prose passages in this play: the conversation of Henry in
disguise with the three centinels on the duties of a soldier, and his courtship of
Katherine in broken French. We like them both exceedingly, though the first
savours perhaps too much of the king, and the last too little of the lover. /
HenryVI
in three parts
During the time ofthe civil wars ofYork and Lancaster, England was a perfect bear-
garden, and Shakespear has given us a very lively picture of the scene. The three
parts of Henry VI convey a picture of very little else; and are inferior to the other
historical plays. They have brilliant passages; but the general ground work is
comparatively poor and meagre, the style 'flat and unraised.' 1 There are few lines
like the following: -
Glory is like a circle in the water;

Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself;
Till by broad spreading it disperse to nought. 2
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HENRY VI [215/217]
The first part relates to the wars in France after the death ofHenry V and the story
of the Maid of Orleans. She is here almost as scurvily / treated as in Voltaire's
Pucelle. 3 Talbot is a very magnificent sketch: there is something as formidable in
this portrait ofhim, as there would be in a monumental figure ofhim or in the sight
of the armour which he wore. The scene in which he visits the Countess of
Auvergne, who seeks to entrap him, is a very spirited one, and his description ofhis
own treatment while a prisoner to the French not less remarkable.
Salisbury. Yet tell'st thou not how thou wert entertain' d.

Talbot. With scoffs and scorns, and contumelious taunts.
In open market-place produced they me,
To be a public spectacle to all.
Here, said they, is the terror of the French,
The scarecrow that affrights our children so.
Then broke I from the officers that led we,
And with my nails digg' d stones out of the ground,
To hurl at the beholders of my shame.
My grisly countenance made others fly,
None, durst come near for fear of sudden death.
In iron walls they deem' d me not secure:
So great a fear my name amongst them spread,
That they supposed I could rend bars of steel,
And spurn in pieces posts of adamant.
Wherefore a guard of chosen shot I had:
They walk' d about me every minute-while;
And ifl did but stir out of my bed,
Ready they were to shoot me to the heart. 4
The second part relates chiefly to the contests between the nobles during the
minority of/ Henry, and the death ofGloucester, the good Duke Humphrey. The
character of Cardinal Beaufort is the most prominent in the group: the account of
his death is one ofour author's master-pieces. So is the speech of Gloucester to the
nobles on the loss ofthe provinces ofFrance by the King's marriage with Margaret
of Anjou. The pretensions and growing ambition of the Duke ofYork, the father
ofRichard III are also very ably developed. Among the episodes, the tragi-comedy
ofJack Cade, and the detection of the impostor Simcox are truly edifying.
The third part describes Henry's loss ofhis crown: his death takes place in the last
act, which is usually thrust into the common acting play of Richard III. The
character of Gloucester, afterwards King Richard, is here very powerfully
commenced, and his dangerous designs and long-reaching ambition are fully
described in his soliloquy in the third act, beginning, 'Aye, Edward will use women
honourably.' 5 Henry VI is drawn as distinctly as his high-spirited Queen, and
notwithstanding the very mean figure which Henry makes as a King, we still feel
more respect for him than for his wife.
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[217 /220] SELECTED WRITINGS OF WILLIAM HAZLITT:VOLUME 1
We have already observed that Shakespear was scarcely more remarkable for the
force and marked contrasts of his characters than for the truth and subtlety with
which he has distinguished / those which approached the nearest to each other. For
instance the soul of Othello is hardly more distinct from that of Iago than that of
Desdemona is shewn to be from }Emilia's; the ambition of Macbeth is as distinct
from the ambition of Richard III as it is from the meekness of Duncan; the real
madness of Lear is as different from the feigned madness of Edgar* as from the
babbling ofthe fool; the contrast between wit and folly in Falstaffand Shallow is not
more characteristic though more obvious than the gradations of folly, loquacious
or reserved, in Shallow and Silence; and again, the gallantry of Prince Henry is as
little confounded with that ofHotspur as with the cowardice of Falstaff, or as the
sensual and philosophic cowardice of the Knight is with the pitiful and cringing
cowardice of Parolles. All these several personages were as different in Shakespear
as they would have been in themselves: his imagination borrowed from the life, and
every circumstance, object, motive, passion, operated there as it would in reality,
and produced a world ofmen and women as distinct, as true and as various as those
that exist in nature. The peculiar property ofShakespear's imagination/ was this
truth, accompanied with the unconsciousness of nature: indeed, imagination to be
perfect must be unconscious, at least in production; for nature is so. - We shall
attempt one example more in the characters of Richard II and Henry VI.
The characters and situations ofboth these persons were so nearly alike, that they
would have been completely confounded by a common-place poet. Yet they are
kept quite distinct in Shakespear. Both were kings, and both unfortunate. Both lost
their crowns owing to their mismanagement and imbecility; the one from a
thoughtless, wilful abuse of power, the other from an indifference to it. The
manner in which they bear their misfortunes corresponds exactly to the causes
which led to them. The one is always lamenting the loss ofhis power which he has
not the spirit to regain; the other seems only to regret that he had ever been king,
and is glad to be rid ofthe power, with the trouble; the effeminacy ofthe one is that
ofa voluptuary, proud, revengeful, impatient ofcontradiction, and inconsolable in
his misfortunes; the effeminacy of the other is that of an indolent, good-natured
mind, naturally averse to the turmoils of ambition and the cares of greatness, and
who wishes to pass his time in monkish indolence and contemplation. - Richard
bewails the loss ofthe kingly power only as it was the / means ofgratifying his pride
and luxury; Henry regards it only as a means of doing right, and is less desirous of
the advantages to be derived from possessing it than afraid of exercising it wrong.
* There is another instance of the same distinction in Hamlet and Ophelia. Hamlet's pretended
madness would make a very good real madness in any other author.
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HENRY VI [220/221]
In knighting a young soldier, he gives him ghostly advice -
Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight,

And learn this lesson, draw thy sword in right. 6
Richard II in the first speeches of the play betrays his real character. In the first
alarm of his pride, on hearing ofBolingbroke's rebellion, before his presumption
has met with any check, he exclaims -
Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords:

This earth shall have a feeling, and these stones
Prove armed soldiers, ere her native King
Shall faulter under proud rebellious arms.
* * * * *
Not all the water in the rough rude sea
Can wash the balm from an annointed king;
The breath of worldly man cannot depose
The Deputy elected by the Lord. 7
For every man that Bolingbroke hath prest,
To lift sharp steel against our golden crown,
Heaven for his Richard hath in heavenly pay
A glorious angel; then if angels fight,
Weak men must fall; for Heaven still guards the right. 8
Yet, notwithstanding this royal confession offaith, on the very first news ofactual
disaster, / all his conceit ofhimselfas the peculiar favourite ofProvidence vanishes
into air.
But now the blood of twenty thousand men

Did triumph in my face, and they are fled.
All souls that will be safe fly from my side;
For time hath set a blot upon my pride,9
Immediately after, however, recollecting that 'cheap defence' 10 ofthe divinity of

kings which is to be found in opinion, he is for arming his name against his enemies.
Awake, thou coward Majesty, thou sleep'st;

Is not the King's name forty thousand names?
Arm, arm, my name: a puny subject strikes
At thy great glory .11
King Henry does not make any such vapouring resistance to the loss ofhis crown,
but lets it slip from off his head as a weight which he is neither able nor willing to
bear; stands quietly by to see the issue of the contest for his kingdom, as if it were
a game at push-pin, and is pleased when the odds prove against him.
When Richard first hears of the death of his favourites, Bushy, Bagot, and the
203
rest, he indignantly rejects all idea of any further efforts, and only indulges in the
extravagant impatience of his grief and his despair, in that fine speech which has
been so often quoted: - /
Aumerle. Where is the duke my father, with his power?

K. Richard. No matter where: of comfort no man speak:
Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs,
Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes
Write sorrow in the bosom of the earth!
Let's chuse executors, and talk of wills:
And yet not so - for what can we bequeath,
Save our deposed bodies to the ground?
Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's,
And nothing can we call our own but death,
And that small model of the barren earth,
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.
For heaven's sake let us sit upon the ground,
And tell sad stories of the death of Kings:
How some have been depos'd, some slain in war;
Some haunted by the ghosts they dispossess'd,
Some poison' d by their wives, some sleeping kill' d;
All murder'd: - for within the hollow crown,
That rounds the mortal temples of a king,
Keeps death his court: and there the antic sits,
Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp!
Allowing him a breath, a little scene
To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks;
Infusing him with self and vain conceit -
As if this flesh, which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable; and, humour' d thus,
Comes at the last, and, with a little pin,
Bores through his castle wall, and - farewell king!
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With solemn reverence; throw away respect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty,
For you have but mistook me all this while:
I live on bread like you, feel want, taste grief,
Need friends, like you; - subjected thus,
How can you say to me - I am a king? 12 /
There is as little sincerity afterwards in his affected resignation to his fate, as there
is fortitude in this exaggerated picture of his misfortunes before they have
happened.
When Northumberland comes back with the message from Bolingbroke, he
exclaims, anticipating the result, -
What must the king do now? Must he submit?

The King shall do it: must he be depos' d?
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HENRY VI [223/224]
The king shall be contented: must he lose
The name of king? O' God's name let it go.
I'll give my jewels for a set of beads;
My gorgeous palace for a hermitage;
My gay apparel for an alms-man's gown;
My figur'd goblets for a dish of wood;
My sceptre for a palmer's walking staff;
My subjects for a pair of carved saints,
And my large kingdom for a little grave -
A little, little grave, an obscure grave. 13
How differently is all this expressed in King Henry's soliloquy, during the battle
with Edward's party: -
This battle fares like to the morning's war,

When dying, clouds contend with growing light,
What time the shepherd blowing of his nails,
Can neither call it perfect day or night.
Here on this mole-hill will I sit me down;
To whom God will, there be the victory!
For Margaret my Queen and Clifford too
Have chid me from the battle, swearing both
They prosper best of all whence I am thence.
Would I were dead, if God's good will were so./
For what is in this world but grief and woe?
0 God! methinks it were a happy life
To be no better than a homely swain,
To sit upon a hill as I do now,
To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes how they run:
How many make the hour full complete,
How many hours bring about the day,
How many days will finish up the year,
How many years a mortal man may live.
When this is known, then to divide the times;
So many hours must I tend my flock,
So many hours must I take my rest,
So many hours must I contemplate,
So many hours must I sport myself;
So many days my ewes have been with young,
So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean,
So many months ere I shall shear the fleece:
So many minutes, hours, weeks, months, and years
Past over, to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
Ah! what a life were this! how sweet, how lovely!
Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade
To shepherds looking on their silly sheep,
205
Than doth a rich embroidered canopy

To kings that fear their subjects' treachery?
0 yes it doth, a thousand fold it doth.
And to conclude, the shepherds' homely curds,
His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,
His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade,
All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,
Is far beyond a prince's delicates,
His viands sparkling in a golden cup,
His body couched in a curious bed,
When care, mistrust, and treasons wait on him. 14 /
This is a true and beautiful description of a naturally quiet and contented

disposition, and not, like the former, the splenetic effusion of disappointed
ambition.
In the last scene ofRichard II his despair lends him courage: he beats the keeper,
slays two of his assassins, and dies with imprecations in his mouth against Sir Pierce
Exton, who 'had staggered his royal person.' 15 Henry, when he is seized by the
deer-stealers, only reads them a moral lecture on the duty of allegiance and the
sanctity of an oath; and when stabbed by Gloucester in the tower, reproaches him
with his crimes, but pardons him his own death. /
Richard III
Richard III may be considered as properly a stage-play: it belongs to the theatre,

rather than to the closet. We shall therefore criticise it chiefly with a reference to
the manner in which we have seen it performed. It is the character in which Garrick
came out: 1 it was the second character in which Mr Kean appeared,2 and in which
he acquired his fame. Shakespear we have always with us: actors we have only for
a few seasons; and therefore some account ofthem may be acceptable, ifnot to our
cotemporaries, to those who come after us, if 'that rich and idle personage,
Posterity,'3 should deign to look into our writings.
It is possible to form a higher conception of the character of Richard than that
given by Mr Kean: but we cannot imagine any character represented with greater
distinctness and precision, / more perfectly articulated in every part. Perhaps indeed
there is too much of what is technically called execution. When we first saw this
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RICHARD III [227/229]
celebrated actor in the part, we thought he sometimes failed from an exuberance

of manner, and dissipated the impression of the general character by the variety of
his resources. To be complete, his delineation of it should have more solidity,
depth, sustained and impassioned feeling, with somewhat less brilliancy, with fewer
glancing lights, pointed transitions and pantomimic evolutions.
The Richard of Shakespear is towering and lofty; equally impetuous and
commanding; haughty, violent, and subtle; bold and treacherous; confident in his
strength as well as in his cunning; raised high by his birth, and higher by his talents
and his crimes; a royal usurper, a princely hypocrite, a tyrant, and a murderer ofthe
house of Plantagenet.
But I was born so high:

Our aery buildeth in the cedar's top,
And dallies with the wind, and scorns the sun. 4
The idea conveyed in these lines (which are indeed omitted in the miserable
medley acted for Richard III) is never lost sight ofby Shakespear, and should not be
out of the actor's mind for a moment. The restless and sanguinary Richard is not
a man striving to be great, / but to be greater than he is; conscious of his strength
ofwill, his power of intellect, his daring courage, his elevated station; and making
use of these advantages to commit unheard-of crimes, and to shield himself from
remorse and infamy.
If Mr Kean does not entirely succeed in concentrating all the lines of the
character, as drawn by Shakespear, he gives an animation, vigour, and relief to the
part which we have not seen equalled. He is more refined than Cooke; 5 more bold,
varied, and original than Kemble in the same character. In some parts he is deficient
in dignity, and particularly in the scenes ofstate business, he has by no means an air
ofartificial authority. There is at times an aspiring elevation, an enthusiastic rapture
in his expectations of attaining the crown, and at others a gloating expression of
sullen delight, as if he already clenched the bauble, and held it in his grasp. The
courtship scene with Lady Anne is an admirable exhibition ofsmooth and smiling
villainy. The progress of wily adulation of encroaching humility, is finely marked
by his action, voice and eye. He seems, like the first Tempter, to approach his prey,
secure ofthe event, and as ifsuccess had smoothed his way before him. The late Mr
Cooke's manner of representing this scene was more vehement, hurried, and full
ofanxious uncertainty. This, though more natural in general, was less in/ character
in this particular instance. Richard should woo less as a lover than as an actor - to
shew his mental superiority, and power of making others the playthings of his
purposes. Mr Kean's attitude in leaning against the side ofthe stage before he comes
forward to address Lady Anne, is one of the most graceful and striking ever
witnessed on the stage. It would do for Titian to paint. The frequent and rapid
transition ofhis voice from the expression ofthe fiercest passion to the most familiar
207
tones of conversation was that which gave a peculiar grace of novelty to his acting
on his first appearance. This has been since imitated and caricatured by others, and
he himself uses the artifice more sparingly than he did. His bye-play is excellent. His
manner of bidding his friends 'Good night,' after pausing with the point of his
sword, drawn slowly backward and forward on the ground, as if considering the
plan ofthe battle next day, is a particularly happy and natural thought. He gives to
the two last acts ofthe play the greatest animation and effect. He fills every part of
the stage; and makes up for the deficiency ofhis person by what has been sometimes
objected to as an excess of action. The concluding scene in which he is killed by
Richmond is the most brilliant of the whole. He fights at last like one drunk with
wounds; and the attitude in which he stands / with his hands stretched out, after his
sword is wrested from him, has a preternatural and terrific grandeur, as if his will
could not be disarmed, and the very phantoms of his despair had power to kill. -
Mr Kean has since in a great measure effaced the impression of his Richard III by
the superior efforts ofhis genius in Othello (his master-piece), in the murder-scene
in Macbeth, in Richard II in Sir Giles Overreach,6 and lastly in Oroonoko; 7 but we
still like to look back to his first performance ofthis part, both because it first assured
his admirers ofhis future success, and because we bore our feeble but, at that time,
not useless testimony to the merits of this very original actor, on which the town
was considerably divided for no other reason than because they were original.
The manner in which Shakespear's plays have been generally altered or rather
mangled by modern mechanists, is a disgrace to the English stage. The patch-work
Richard III which is acted under the sanction of his name, and which was
manufactured by Cibber, is a striking example of this remark.
The play itself is undoubtedly a very powerful effusion of Shakespear's genius.
The ground-work of the character of Richard, that mixture of intellectual vigour
with moral depravity, in which Shakespear delighted to shew his strength - gave
full scope as well as temptation/ to the exercise of his imagination. The character
of his hero is almost every where predominant, and marks its lurid track
throughout. The original play is however too long for representation, and there are
some few scenes which might be better spared than preserved, and by omitting
which it would remain a complete whole. The only rule, indeed, for altering
Shakespear is to retrench certain passages which may be considered either as
superfluous or obsolete, but not to add or transpose any thing. The arrangement
and developement of the story, and the mutual contrast and combination of the
dramatis persona?, are in general as finely managed as the developement of the
characters or the expression of the passions.
This rule has not been adhered to in the present instance. Some of the most
important and striking passages in the principal character have been omitted, to
make room for idle and misplaced extracts from other plays; the only intention of
which seems to have been to make the character of Richard as odious and
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RICHARD III [231/233]
disgusting as possible. It is apparently for no other purpose than to make Gloucester

stab King Henry on the stage, that the fine abrupt introduction of the character in
the opening ofthe play is lost in the tedious whining morality ofthe uxorious king
(taken from another play); - / we say tedious, because it interrupts the business of
the scene, and loses its beauty and effect by having no intelligible connection with
the previous character ofthe mild, well-meaning monarch. The passages which the
unfortunate Henry has to recite are beautiful and pathetic in themselves, but they
have nothing to do with the world that Richard has to 'bustle in. ' 8 In the same spirit
of vulgar caricature is the scene between Richard and Lady Anne (when his wife)
interpolated without any authority, merely to gratify this favourite propensity to
disgust and loathing. With the same perverse consistency, Richard, after his last
fatal struggle, is raised up by some Galvanic process, to utter the imprecation,
without any motive but pure malignity, which Shakespear has so properly put into
the mouth of Northumberland on hearing of Percy's death. To make room for
these worse than needless additions, many of the most striking passages in the real
play have been omitted by the foppery and ignorance of the prompt-book critics.
We do not mean to insist merely on passages which are fine as poetry and to the
reader, such as Clarence's dream, &c. but on those which are important to the
understanding of the character, and peculiarly adapted for stage-effect. We will
give the following as instances among several others. / The first is the scene where
Richard enters abruptly to the queen and her friends to defend himself: -
Gloucester. They do me wrong, and I will not endure it.

Who are they that complain unto the king,
That I forsooth am stem, and love them not?
By holy Paul, they love his grace but lightly,
That fill his ears with such dissentious rumours:
Because I cannot flatter and look fair,
Smile in men's faces, smooth, deceive, and cog,
Duck with French nods, and apish courtesy,
I must be held a rancorous enemy.
Cannot a plain man live, and think no harm,
But thus his simple truth must be abus'd
With silken, sly, insinuatingJacks?
Gray. To whom in all this presence speaks your grace?
Gloucester. To thee, that hast nor honesty nor grace;
When have I injur' d thee, when done thee wrong?
Or thee? or thee? or any of your faction?
A plague upon you all! 9
Nothing can be more characteristic than the turbulent pretensions to meekness

and simplicity in this address. Again, the versatility and adroitness of Richard is
admirably described in the following ironical conversation with Brakenbury -
209
Brakenbury. I beseech your graces both to pardon me.

His majesty hath straitly given in charge,
That no man shall have private conference,
Of what degree soever, with your brother.
Gloucester. E'en so, and please your worship, Brackenbury. /
You may partake of any thing we say:
We speak no treason, man - we say the king
Is wise and virtuous, and his noble queen
Well strook in years, fair, and not jealous.
We say that Shore's wife hath a pretty foot,
A cherry lip,
A bonny eye, a passing pleasing tongue;
That the queen's kindred are made gentlefolks.
How say you, sir? Can you deny all this?
Brakenbury. With this, my lord, myself have nought to do.
Gloucester. What, fellow, naught to do with mistress Shore?
I tell you, sir, he that doth naught with her,
Excepting one, were best to do it secretly alone.
Brakenbury. What one, my lord?
Gloucester. Her husband, knave - would'st thou betray me? 10
The feigned reconciliation of Gloucester with the queen's kinsmen is also a

master-piece. One of the finest strokes in the play, and which serves to shew as
much as any thing the deep, plausible manners of Richard, is the unsuspecting
security of Hastings, at the very time when the former is plotting his death, and
when that very appearance of cordiality and good-humour on which Hastings
builds his confidence arises from Richard's consciousness of having betrayed him
to his ruin. This, with the whole character of Hastings, is omitted.
Perhaps the two most beautiful passages in the original play are the farewell
apostrophe of/ the queen to the Tower, where the children are shut-up from her,
and Tyrrel's description of their death. We will finish our quotations with them.
Queen. Stay, yet look back with me unto the Tower;

Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes,
Whom envy hath immured within your walls;
Rough cradle for such little pretty ones,
Rude, rugged nurse, old sullen play-fellow,
For tender princes!1 1
The other passage is the account of their death by Tyrrel: -
Dighton and Forrest, whom I did suborn

To do this piece of ruthless butchery,
Albeit they were flesh'd villains, bloody dogs, -
Melting with tenderness and mild compassion,
Wept like to children in their death's sad story:
0 thus! quoth Dighton, lay the gentle babes;
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HENRY VIII [235/238]
Thus, thus, quoth Forrest, girdling one another
Within their innocent alabaster arms;
Their lips were four red roses on a stalk,
And in that summer beauty kissed each other;
A book of prayers on their pillow lay,
Which once, quoth Forrest, almost changed my mind:
But oh the devil! - there the villain stopped;
When Dighton thus told on - we smothered
The most replenished sweet work of nature,
That from the prime creation ere she framed. 12
These are some ofthose wonderful bursts offeeling, done to the life, to the very
height of fancy and nature, which our Shakespear alone/ could give. We do not
insist on the repetition of these last passages as proper for the stage: we should
indeed be loth to trust them in the mouth ofalmost any actor: but we should wish
them to be retained in preference at least to the fantoccini exhibition of the young
princes, Edward and York, bandying childish wit with their uncle. /
Henry VIII
This play contains little action or violence ofpassion, yet it has considerable interest
of a more mild and thoughtful cast, and some of the most striking passages in the
author's works. The character of Queen Katherine is the most perfect delineation
ofmatronly dignity, sweetness, and resignation, that can be conceived. Her appeals
to the protection ofthe king, her remonstrances to the cardinals, her conversations
with her women, shew a noble and generous spirit accompanied with the utmost
gentleness ofnature. What can be more affecting than her answer to Campeius and
Wolsey, who come to visit her as pretended friends.
Nay, forsooth, my friends,

They that must weigh out my afilictions,
They that my trust must grow to, live not here;
They are, as all my comforts are, far hence,
In mine own country, lords 1 /
Dr Johnson observes of this play, that 'the meek sorrows and virtuous distress of
Katherine have furnished some scenes, which may be justly numbered among the
greatest efforts oftragedy. But the genius ofShakespear comes in and goes out with
211
Katherine. Every other part may be easily conceived and easily written. ' 2 This is
easily said; but with all due deference to so great a reputed authority as that of
Johnson, it is not true. For instance, the scene of Buckingham led to execution is
one of the most affecting and natural in Shakespear, and one to which there is
hardly an approach in any other author. Again, the character of Wolsey, the
description of his pride and of his fall, are inimitable, and have, besides their
gorgeousness ofeffect, a pathos, which only the genius ofShakespear could lend to
the distresses of a proud, bad man, like Wolsey. There is a sort of child-like
simplicity in the very helplessness of his situation, arising from the recollection of
his past overbearing ambition. After the cutting sarcasms of his enemies on his
disgrace, against which he bears up with a spirit conscious of his own superiority,
he breaks out into that fine apostrophe -
Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!

This is the state of man; to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms, I
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost;
And - when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a ripening - nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
These many summers in a sea of glory;
But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of the world, I hate ye!
I feel my heart new open'd: 0 how wretched
Is that poor man, that hangs on princes' favours!
There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and our ruin,
More pangs and fears than war and women have;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again!3-
There is in this passage, as well as in the well-known dialogue with Cromwell

which follows, something which stretches beyond commonplace; nor is the
account which Griffiths gives of Wolsey's death less Shakespearian; and the
candour with which Queen Katherine listens to the praise of'him whom ofall men
while living she hated most' 4 adds the last graceful finishing to her character.
Among other images of great individual beauty might be mentioned the
description of the effect of Ann Boleyn's presenting herself to the crowd at her
coronation. /
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HENRY VIII [240/242]
While her grace sat down

To rest awhile, some half an hour or so,
In a rich chair of state, opposing freely
The beauty of her person to the people.
Believe me, sir, she is the goodliest woman
That ever lay by man. Which when the people
Had the full view of, such a noise arose
As the shrouds make at sea in a stiff tempest,
As loud and to as many tunes. 5
The character of Henry VIII is drawn with great truth and spirit. It is like a very
disagreeable portrait, sketched by the hand of a master. His gross appearance, his
blustering demeanour, his vulgarity, his arrogance, his sensuality, his cruelty, his
hypocrisy, his want of common decency and common humanity, are marked in
strong lines. His traditional peculiarities of expression complete the reality of the
picture. The authoritative expletive, 'Ha!' with which he intimates his indignation
or surprise, has an effect like the first startling sound that breaks from a thunder-
cloud. He is of all the monarchs in our history the most disgusting: for he unites in
himself all the vices of barbarism and refinement, without their virtues. 6 Other
kings before him (such as Richard III) were tyrants and murderers out ofambition
or necessity: they gained or established unjust power by violent means: they
destroyed their enemies, or those who barred their access to / the throne or made
its tenure insecure. But Henry VIII's power is most fatal to those whom he loves:
he is cruel and remorseless to pamper his luxurious appetites: bloody and
voluptuous; an amorous murderer; an uxorious debauchee. His hardened
insensibility to the feelings of others is strengthened by the most profligate self-
indulgence. The religious hypocrisy, under which he masks his cruelty and his lust,
is admirably displayed in the speech in which he describes the first misgivings ofhis
conscience and its increasing throes and terrors, which have induced him to
divorce his queen. The only thing in his favour in this play is his treatment of
Cranmer: there is also another circumstance in his favour, which is his patronage
ofHans Holbein. - It has been said ofShakespear - 'No maid could live near such
a man.' It might with as good reason be said- 'No king could live near such a man. ' 7
His eye would have penetrated through the pomp of circumstance and the veil of
opinion. As it is, he has represented such persons to the life - his plays are in this
respect the glass of history- he has done them the same justice as ifhe had been a
privy counsellor all his life, and in each successive reign. Kings ought never to be
seen upon the stage. In the abstract, they are very disagreeable characters: it is only
while living that they are 'the best ofkings.' 8 It is their power, I their splendour,
it is the apprehension of the personal consequences of their favour or their hatred
that dazzles the imagination and suspends the judgment of their favourites or their
vassals; but death cancels the bond ofallegiance and ofinterest, any seen as they were,
213
their power and their pretensions look monstrous and ridiculous. The charge
brought against modern philosophy as inimical to loyalty is unjust, because it might
as well be brought against other things. No reader ofhistory can be a lover ofkings.
We have often wondered that Henry VIII as he is drawn by Shakespear, and as we
have seen him represented in all the bloated deformity of mind and person, is not
hooted from the English stage. /
King John
Kingjohn is the last of the historical plays we shall have to speak of; and we are not
sorry that it is. If we are to indulge our imaginations, we had rather do it upon an
imaginary theme; ifwe are to find subjects for the exercise of our pity and terror,
we prefer seeking them in fictitious danger and fictitious distress. It gives a soreness
to our feelings of indignation or sympathy, when we know that in tracing the
progress of sufferings and crimes, we are treading upon real ground, and recollect
that the poet's dream 'denoted aforegone conclusion' 1 - irrevocable ills, not conjured
up by fancy, but placed beyond the reach ofpoetical justice. That the treachery of
Kingjohn, the death of Arthur, the grief of Constance, had a real truth in history,
sharpens the sense of pain, while it hangs a leaden weight on the heart and / the
imagination. Something whispers us that we have no right to make a mock of
calamities like these, or to turn the truth ofthings into the puppet and plaything of
our fancies. 'To consider thus' may be 'to consider too curiously; ' 2 but still we think
that the actual truth of the particular events, in proportion as we are conscious of
it, is a drawback on the pleasure as well as the dignity of tragedy.
Kingjohn has all the beauties oflanguage and all the richness of the imagination
to relieve the painfulness ofthe subject. The character ofKingJohn himselfis kept
pretty much in the back ground; it is only marked in by comparatively slight
indications. The crimes he is tempted to commit are such as are thrust upon him
rather by circumstances and opportunity than of his own seeking: he is here
represented as more cowardly than cruel, and as more contemptible than odious.
The play embraces only a part of his history. There are however few characters on
the stage that excite more disgust and loathing. He has no intellectual grandeur or
strength of character to shield him from the indignation which his immediate
conduct provokes: he stands naked and defenceless, in that respect, to the worst we
can think of him: and besides, we are impelled to put the very worst construction
214
KING JOHN [244/246]
on his meanness and cruelty by the tender picture of the beauty and helplessness /
of the object ofit, as well as by the frantic and heart-rending pleadings ofmaternal
despair. We do not forgive him the death of Arthur, because he had too late
revoked his doom and tried to prevent it; and perhaps because he has himself
repented ofhis black design, our moral sense gains courage to hate him the more for
it. We take him at his word, and think his purposes must be odious indeed, when
he himself shrinks back from them. The scene in which King John suggests to
Hubert the design ofmurdering his nephew is a master-piece of dramatic skill, but
it is still inferior, very inferior to the scene between Hubert and Arthur, when the
latter learns the orders to put out his eyes. If any thing ever was penned, heart-
piercing, mixing the extremes of terror and pity, of that which shocks and that
which soothes the mind, it is this scene. We will give it entire, though perhaps it
is tasking the reader's sympathy too much.
Enter Hubert and Executioner.
Hubert. Heat me these irons hot, and look you stand

Within the arras; when I strike my foot
Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth
And bind the boy, which you shall find with me,
Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch.
Executioner. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed.
Hubert. Uncleanly scruples! fear not you; look to't. -
Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you. /
Enter Arthur
Arthur. Good morrow, Hubert.

Hubert. Morrow, little Prince.
Arthur. As little prince (having so great a title
To be more prince) as may be. You are sad.
Hubert. Indeed I have been merrier.
Arthur. Mercy on me!
Methinks no body should be sad but I;
Yet I remember when I was in France,
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,
Only for wantonness. By my Christendom,
So were I out of prison, and kept sheep,
I should be merry as the day is long
And so I would be here, but that I doubt
My uncle practises more harm to me.
He is afraid of me, and I of him.
Is it my fault that I was Geoffery's son?
Indeed it is not, and I would to heav'n
I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.
Hubert. Ifl talk to him, with his innocent prate
He will awake my mercy, which lies dead;
215
Therefore I will be sudden, and dispatch. (Aside.

Arthur. Are you sick, Hubert? you look pale to-day?
In sooth, I would you were a little sick,
That I might sit all night and watch with you.
Alas, I love you more than you do me.
Hubert. His words do take possession of my bosom.
Read here, young Arthur - [Shewing a paper.
How now, foolish rheum, (Aside.
Turning dis-piteous torture out of door!
I must be brief, lest resolution drop
Out at mine eyes in tender womanish tears -
Can you not read it? Is it not fair writ?
Arthur. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect,
Must you with irons bum out both mine eyes? /
Hubert. Young boy, I must
Arthur. And will you?
Hubert. And I will.
Arthur. Have you the heart? When your head did but ache,
I knit my handkerchief about your brows,
(The best I had, a princess wrought it me)
And I did never ask it you again;
And with my hand at midnight held your head;
And like the watchful minutes to the hour,
Still and anon chear' d up the heavy time,
Saying, what lack you? and where lies your grief?
Or, what good love may I perform for you?
Many a poor man's son would have lain still,
And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you;
But you at your sick service had a prince.
Nay, you may think my love was crafty love,
And call it cunning. Do, and if you will:
Ifheav'n be pleas'd that you must use me ill,
Why then you must - Will you put out mine eyes?
These eyes, that never did, and never shall,
So much as frown on you?
Hubert. I've sworn to do it;
And with hot irons must I bum them out.
Arthur. Oh if an angel should have come to me,
And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes,
I would not have believ'd a tongue but Hubert's.
Hubert. Come forth; do as I bid you. [Stamps and the men enter.
Arthur. 0 save me, Hubert, save me! my eyes are out.
Ev'n with the fierce looks of these bloody men.
Hubert. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here
Arthur. Alas, what need you be so boist'rous rough?
I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still. /
For heav'n's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound!
Nay, hear me, Hubert! drive these men away,
And I will sit as quiet as a lamb:
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KING JOHN [248/249]
I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,
Nor look upon the iron angrily:
Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you,
Whatever torment you do put me to.
Hubert. Go, stand within; let me alone with him.
Executioner.lam best pleas'd to be from such a deed. [Exit.
Arthur. Alas, I then have chid away my friend.
He hath a stem look, but a gentle heart;
Let him come back, that his compassion may
Give life to yours.
Hubert. Come, boy, prepare yourself
Arthur. ls there no remedy?
Hubert. None, but to lose your eyes.
Arthur. 0 heav'n! that there were but a mote in yours,
A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wand'ring hair,
Any annoyance in that precious sense!
Then, feeling what small things are boist'rous there,
Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.
Hubert. ls this your promise? go to, hold your tongue.
Arthur. Let me not hold my tongue; let me not, Hubert;
Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue,
So I may keep mine eyes. 0 spare mine eyes!
Though to no use, but still to look on you.
Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold,
And would not harm me.
Hubert. I can heat it, boy
Arthur. No, in good sooth, the fire is dead with grief,
Being create for comfort, to be us' d
In undeserv' d extremes; see else yourself, /
There is no malice in this burning coal;
The breath ofheav'n hath blown its spirit out,
And strew' d repentant ashes on its head.
Hubert. But with my breath I can revive it, boy.
Arthur. All things that you shall use to do me wrong,
Deny their office; only you do lack
That mercy which fierce fire and iron extend,
Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses.
Hubert. Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eyes
For all the treasure that thine uncle owns:
Yet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy,
With this same very iron to bum them out.
Arthur. 0, now you look like Hubert. All this while
You were disguised.
Hubert. Peace; no more. Adieu,
Your uncle must not know but you are dead.
I'll fill these dogged spies with false reports:
And, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secure,
That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world,
Will not offend thee.
217
Arthur. 0 heav'n! I thank you, Hubert

Hubert. Silence, no more; go closely in with me;
Much danger do I undergo for thee. 3 [Exeunt.
His death afterwards, when he throws himself from his prison walls, excites the
utmost pity for his innocence and friendless situation, and well justifies the
exaggerated denunciations of Falconbridge to Hubert whom he suspects wrong-
fully of the deed.
There is not yet so ugly a fiend of hell

As thou shalt be, if thou did'st kill this child.
- If thou did'st but consent /
To this most cruel act, do but despair.
And if thou want'st a cord, the smallest thread
That ever spider twisted from her womb
Will strangle thee; a rush will be a beam
To hang thee on; or would'st thou drown thyself,
Put but a little water in a spoon,
And it shall be as all the ocean,
Enough to stifle such a villain up. 4
The excess ofmaternal tenderness, rendered desperate by the fickleness offriends

and the injustice of fortune, and made stronger in will, in proportion to the want
ofall other power, was never more finely expressed than in Constance. The dignity
of her answer to King Philip, when she refuses to accompany his messenger, 'To
me and to the state of my great grief, let kings assemble,' 5 her indignant reproach
to Austria for deserting her cause, her invocation to death, 'that love of misery,' 6
however fine and spirited, all yield to the beauty ofthe passage, where, her passion
subsiding into tenderness, she addresses the Cardinal in these words: -
Oh father Cardinal, I have heard you say

That we shall see and know our friends in heav'n:
If that be, I shall see my boy again,
For since the birth of Cain, the first male child,
To him that did but yesterday suspire,
There was not such a gracious creature born.
But now will canker-sorrow eat my bud,
And chase the native beauty from his cheek,
And he will look as hollow as a ghost, /
As dim and meagre as an ague's fit,
And so he'll die; and rising so again,
When I shall meet him in the court ofheav'n,
I shall not know him; therefore never, never
Must I behold my pretty Arthur more.
K. Philip. You are as fond of grief as of your child.
Constance. Grief fills the room up of my absent child:
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me;
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KING JOHN [251/253]
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts;
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form.
Then have I reason to be fond of grie£7
The contrast between the mild resignation ofQueen Katherine to her own wrongs,
and the wild, uncontroulable ailliction of Constance for the wrongs which she
sustains as a mother, is no less naturally conceived than it is ably sustained
throughout these two wonderful characters.
The accompaniment of the comic character of the Bastard was well chosen to
relieve the poignant agony ofsuffering, and the cold cowardly policy ofbehaviour
in the principal characters ofthis play. Its spirit, invention, volubility oftongue and
forwardness in action, are unbounded. Aliquando su.ffiaminandus erat, 8 says Ben
Jonson ofShakespear. But we should be sorry ifBenJonson had been his licenser.
We prefer the heedless magnanimity of his wit infinitely to all Jonson's laborious
caution. The character of the Bastard's comic humour is the/ same in essence as
that of other comic characters in Shakespear; they always run on with good things
and are never exhausted; they are always daring and successful. They have words
at will, and a flow of wit like a flow of animal spirits. The difference between
Falconbridge and the others is that he is a soldier, and brings his wit to bear upon
action, is courageous with his sword as well as tongue, and stimulates his gallantry
by his jokes, his enemies feeling the sharpness of his blows and the sting of his
sarcasms at the same time. Among his happiest sallies are his descanting on the
composition of his own person, his invective against 'commodity, tickling
commodity,' 9 and his expression ofcontempt for the Archduke ofAustria, who had
killed his father, which begins in jest but ends in serious earnest. His conduct at the
siege ofAngiers shews that his resources were not confined to verbal retorts. -The
same exposure of the policy of courts and camps, of kings, nobles, priests, and
cardinals, takes place here as in the other plays we have gone through, and we shall
not go into a disgusting repetition.
This, like the other plays taken from English history, is written in a remarkably
smooth and flowing style, very different from some of the tragedies, Macbeth, for
instance. The passages consist of a series of single lines, not running into one
another. This peculiarity in the versification, / which is most common in the three
parts of Henry VI has been assigned as a reason why those plays were not written by
Shakespear. But the same structure ofverse occurs in his other undoubted plays, as
in Richard II and in Kingjohn. The following are instances: -
That daughter there of Spain, the lady Blanch,

Is near to England; look upon the years
Of Lewis the dauphin, and that lovely maid.
Iflusty love should go in quest of beauty,
219
Where should he find it fairer than in Blanch?

If zealous love should go in search of virtue,
Where should he find it purer than in Blanch?
Iflove ambitious sought a match of birth,
Whose veins bound richer blood than lady Blanch?
Such as she is, in beauty, virtue, birth,
Is the young dauphin every way complete:
If not complete, 0 say he is not she;
And she again wants nothing, to name want,
If want it be not, that she is not he.
He is the half part of a blessed man,
Left to be finished by such as she;
And she a fair divided excellence,
Whose fulness of perfection lies in him.
0, two, such silver currents, when they join,
Do glorify the banks that bound them in:
And two such shores to two such streams made one,
Two such controuling bounds, shall you be, kings,
To these two princes, if you marry them. 10
Another instance, which is certainly very happy as an example of the simple

enumeration/ of a number of particulars, is Salisbury's remonstrance against the
second crowning of the king.
Therefore to be possessed with double pomp,

To guard a title that was rich before;
To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,
To throw a perfume on the violet,
To smooth the ice, to add another hue
Unto the rainbow, or with taper light
To seek the beauteous eye ofheav'n to garnish;
Is wasteful and ridiculous excess. 11 /
220
TWELFTH NIGHT [255/257]
Twelfth Night; or,

What You Will
This is justly considered as one of the most delightful of Shakespear' s comedies. It

is full ofsweetness and pleasantry. It is perhaps too good-natured for comedy. It has
little satire, and no spleen. It aims at the ludicrous rather than the ridiculous. It makes
us laugh at the follies of mankind, not despise them, and still less bear any ill-will
towards them. Shakespear's comic genius resembles the bee rather in its power of
extracting sweets from weeds or poisons, than in leaving a sting behind it. He gives
the most amusing exaggeration of the prevailing foibles of his characters, but in a
way that they themselves, instead of being offended at, would almost join in to
humour; he rather contrives opportunities for them to shew themselves off in the
happiest lights, than renders/ them contemptible in the perverse construction ofthe
wit or malice ofothers. - There is a certain stage ofsociety in which people become
conscious oftheir peculiarities and absurdities, affect to disguise what they are, and
set up pretensions to what they are not. This gives rise to a corresponding style of
comedy, the object of which is to detect the disguises of self-love, and to make
reprisals on these preposterous assumptions of vanity, by marking the contrast
between the real and the affected character as severely as possible, and denying to
those, who would impose on us for what they are not, even the merit which they
have. This is the comedy of artificial life, of wit and satire, such as we see it in
Congreve, Wycherley, Vanbrugh, &c. To this succeeds a state of society from
which the same sort ofaffectation and pretence are banished by a greater knowledge
ofthe world or by their successful exposure on the stage; and which by neutralising
the materials of comic character, both natural and artificial, leaves no comedy at all
- but the sentimental. Such is our modem comedy. There is a period in the progress
ofmanners anterior to both these, in which the foibles and follies ofindividuals are
of nature's planting, not the growth of art or study; in which they are therefore
unconscious ofthem themselves, or care not who knows them, ifthey can but have
their whim out; and / in which, as there is no attempt at imposition, the spectators
rather receive pleasure from humouring the incantations of the persons they laugh
at, than wish to give them pain by exposing their absurdity. This may be called the
comedy of nature, and it is the comedy which we generally find in Shakespear. -
Whether the analysis here given be just or not, the spirit ofhis comedies is evidently
221
quite distinct from that of the authors- above mentioned, as it is in its essence the
same with that of Cervantes, and also very frequently of Moliere, though he was
more systematic in his extravagance than Shakespear. Shakespear's comedy is of a
pastoral and poetical cast. Folly is indigenous to the soil, and shoots out with native,
happy, unchecked luxuriance. Absurdity has every encouragement afforded it; and
nonsense has room to flourish in. Nothing is stunted by the churlish, icy hand of
indifference or severity. The poet runs riot in a conceit, and idolises a quibble. His
whole object is to tum the meanest or rudest objects to a pleasurable account. The
relish which he has of a pun, or of the quaint humour of a low character, does not
interfere with the delight with which he describes a beautiful image, or the most
refined love. The clown's forced jests do not spoil the sweetness ofthe character of
Viola; the same house is big enough to hold Malvolio, the Countess, Maria, Sir
Toby, I and Sir Andrew Ague-cheek. For instance, nothing can fall much lower
than this last character in intellect or morals: yet how are his weaknesses nursed and
dandled by Sir Toby into something 'high fantastical,'' when on Sir Andrew's
commendation ofhimselffor dancing and fencing, Sir Toby answers - 'Wherefore
are these things hid? Wherefore have these gifts a curtain before them? Are they like
to take dust like mistress Moll's picture? Why dost thou not go to church in a
galliard, and come home in a coranto? My very walk should be a jig! I would not
so much as make water but in a cinque-pace. What dost thou mean? Is this a world
to hide virtues in? I did think by the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was framed
under the star of a galliard!' 2 - How Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and the Clown
afterwards chirp over their cups, 3 how they 'rouse the night-owl in a catch, able to draw
three souls out of one weaver!' 4 What can be better than Sir Toby's unanswerable
answer to Malvolio, 'Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no
more cakes and ale?' 5 - In a word, the best tum is given to everything, instead ofthe
worst. There is a constant infusion of the romantic and enthusiastic, in proportion
as the characters are natural and sincere; whereas, in the more artificial style of
comedy, every thing gives way to ridicule and indifference, there being nothing left
I but affectation on one side, and incredulity on the other. - Much as we like
Shakespear's comedies, we cannot agree with Dr Johnson that they are better than
his tragedies; 6 nor do we like them half so well. If his inclination to comedy
sometimes led him to trifle with the seriousness of tragedy, the poetical and
impassioned passages are the best parts of his comedies. The great and secret charm
of Twelth Night is the character ofViola. Much as we like catches and cakes and ale,
there is something that we like better. We have a friendship for Sir Toby; we
patronise Sir Andrew; we have an understanding with the Clown, a sneaking
kindness for Maria and her rogueries; we feel a regard for Malvolio, and sympathise
with his gravity, his smiles, his cross garters, his yellow stockings, and imprisonment
in the stocks. But there is something that excites in us a stronger feeling than all this
- it is Viola's confession of her love.
222
Duke. What's her history?

Viola. A blank my lord, she never told her love:
She let concealment, like a worm i' th' bud,
Feed on her damask cheek: she pin'd in thought,
And with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat like Patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?
We men may say more, swear more, but indeed,
Our shews are more than will; for still we prove
Much in our vows, but little in our love. /
Duke. But died thy sister of her love, my boy?
Viola. l am all the daughters of my father's house,
And all the brothers too; - and yet I know not. 7 -
Shakespear alone could describe the effect of his own poetry.
Oh, it came o'er the ear like the sweet south

That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour. 8
What we so much admire here is not the image ofPatience on a monument, which
has been generally quoted, but the lines before and after it. 'They give a very echo
to the seat where love is throned. ' 9 How long ago it is since we first learnt to repeat
them; and still, still they vibrate on the heart, like the sounds which the passing wind
draws from the trembling strings ofa harp left on some desert shore! There are other
passages of not less impassioned sweetness. Such is Olivia's address to Sebastian,
whom she supposes to have already deceived her in a promise of marriage.
Blame not this haste of mine: if you mean well,

Now go with me and with this holy man
Into the chantry by: there before him,
And underneath that consecrated roof,
Plight me the full assurance of your faith,
That my most jealous and too doubiful soul
May live at peace. 10
We have already said something of Shakespear's / songs. One of the most

beautiful of them occurs in this play, with a preface of his own to it.
Duke. 0 fellow, come, the song we had last night.

Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain;
The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,
And the free maids that weave their thread with bones,
Do use to chaunt it: it is silly sooth,
And dallies with the innocence oflove,
Like the old age. 11
223
Song
Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
0 prepare it;
My part of death no one so true
Did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet,

On my black coffin let there be strewn;
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown;
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O! where
Sad true-love never find my grave,
To weep there.
Who after this will say that Shakespear's genius was only fitted for comedy? Yet
after reading other parts of this play, and particularly the garden-scene where
Malvolio picks up the / letter, ifwe were to say that his genius for comedy was less
than his genius for tragedy, it would perhaps only prove that our own taste in such
matters is more saturnine than mercurial.
Enter Maria.
Sir Toby. Here comes the little villain: - How now, my nettle oflndia?
Maria. Get ye all three into the box-tree: Malvolio's coming down this
walk: he has been yonder i' the sun, practising behaviour to his own
shadow this half hour: observe him, for the love of mockery; for I
know this letter will make a contemplative idiot of him. Close, in the
name ofjesting! Lie thou there; for here come's the trout that must
be caught with tickling.
[They hide themselves. Maria throws down a letter, and Exit.
Enter Malvolio.
Malvolio. 'Tis but fortune; all is fortune Maria once told me, she did affect
me; and I have heard herself come thus near, that, should she fancy,
it should be one of my complexion. Besides, she uses me with a
more exalted respect than any one else that follows her. What should
I think on't?
Sir Toby. Here's an over-weening rogue!
Fabian. 0, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him; how he
jets under his advanced plumes!
Sir Andrew. 'Slight, I could so beat the rogue: -
Sir Toby. Peace, I say.
224
Malvolio. To be count Malvolio; -
Sir Toby. Ah, rogue!
Sir Andrew. Pistol him, pistol him.
Sir Toby. Peace, peace!
Malvolio. There is example for't; the lady of the Strachy married the
yeoman of the wardrobe. /
Sir Andrew. Fie on him, Jezebel!
Fabian. 0, peace! now he's deeply in; look, how imagination blows him.
Malvolio. Having been three months married to her, sitting in my chair of
state, -
Sir Toby. 0 for a stone bow, to hit him in the eye!
Malvolio. Calling my officers about me, in my branch'd velvet gown;
having come from a day-bed, where I have left Olivia sleeping.
Sit Toby. Fire and brimstone!
Fabian. 0 peace, peace!
Malvolio. And then to have the humour of state: and after a demure travel
of regard, - telling them, I know my place, as I would they should
do theirs, - to ask for my kinsman Toby. -
Sir Toby. Bolts and shackles!
Fabian. 0, peace, peace, peace! now, now.
Malvolio. Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make out for him; I
frown the while; and, perchance, wind up my watch, or play with
some rich jewel. Toby approaches; curtsies there to me.
Sir Toby. Shall this fellow live?
Fabian. Though our silence be drawn from us with cares, yet peace.
Malvolio. I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar smile with
an austere regard to controul.
Sir Toby. And does not Toby take you a blow o' the lips then?
Malvolio. Saying- Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your
niece, give me this prerogative of speech; -
Sir Toby. What, what?
Malvolio. You must amend your drunkenness.
Fabian. Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot.
Malvolio. Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a foolish
knight. - /
Sir Andrew. That's me, I warrant you.
Malvolio. One Sir Andrew -
Sir Andrew. I knew, 'twas I; for many do call me fool.
Malvolio. What employment have we here? 12
[Taking up the letter.
The letter and his comments on it are equally good. If poor Malvolio's treatment
afterwards is a little hard, poetical justice is done in the uneasiness which Olivia
suffers on account ofher mistaken attachment to Cesario, as her insensibility to the
violence of the Duke's passion is atoned for by the discovery ofViola's concealed
love of him. /
225
The Two Gentlemen ofVerona
This is little more than the first outlines of a comedy loosely sketched in. It is the
story of a novel dramatised with very little labour or pretension; yet there are
passages of high poetical spirit, and of inimitable quaintness ofhumour, which are
undoubtedly Shakespear's, and there is throughout the conduct of the fable a
careless grace and felicity which marks it for his. One ofthe editors (we believe Mr
Pope) remarks in a marginal note to the Two Gentlemen <if Verona- 'It is observable
(I know not for what cause) that the style ofthis comedy is less figurative, and more
natural and unaffected than the greater part ofthis author's, though supposed to be
one of the first he wrote. ' 1 Yet so little does the editor appear to have made up his
mind upon this subject, that we find the / following note to the very next (the
second) scene. 'This whole scene, like many others in these plays (some of which
I believe were written by Shakespear, and others interpolated by the players) is
composed ofthe lowest and most trifling conceits, to be accounted for only by the
gross taste of the age he lived in: Populo ut placerent. l wish I had authority to leave
them out, but I have done all I could, set a mark of reprobation upon them,
throughout this edition.' It is strange that our fastidious critic should fall so soon
from praising to reprobating. The style ofthe familiar parts ofthis comedy is indeed
made up of conceits - low they may be for what we know, but then they are not
poor, but rich ones. The scene ofLaunce with his dog (not that in the second, but
that in the fourth act) is a perfect treat in the way offarcical drollery and invention;
nor do we think Speed's manner ofproving his master to be in love deficient in wit
or sense, though the style may be criticised as not simple enough for the modem
taste.
Valentine. Why, how know you that I am in love?

Speed. Marry, by these special marks: first you have learned, like Sir
Protheus, to wreathe your arms like a malcontent, to relish a love-
song like a robin-red-breast, to walk alone like one that had the
pestilence, to sigh like a school-boy that had lost his ABC, to weep
like a young wench that had buried her grandam, to fast like one that
/ takes diet, to watch like one that fears robbing, to speak puling like
a beggar at Hallowmas. You were wont, when you laughed, to crow
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THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA [267/268]
like a cock; when you walked, to walk like one of the lions; when
you fasted, it was presently after dinner; when you looked sadly, it
was for want of money: and now you are metamorphosed with a
mistress, that when I look on you, I can hardly think you my master. 2
The tender scenes in this play, though not so highly wrought as in some others,
have often much sweetness ofsentiment and expression. There is something pretty
and playful in the conversation ofJulia with her maid, when she shews such a
disposition to coquetry about receiving the letter from Protheus; and her behaviour
afterwards and her disappointment, when she finds him faithless to his vows,
remind us at a distance oflmogen's tender constancy. Her answer to Lucetta, who
advises her against following her lover in disguise, is a beautiful piece of poetry.
Lucetta. I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire,

But qualify the fire's extremest rage,
Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason.
Julia. The more thou damm'st it up, the more it burns;
The current that with gentle murmur glides,
Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage;
But when his fair course is not hindered,
He makes sweet music with th' enamell'd stones,
Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge
He overtaketh in his pilgrimage: /
And so by many winding nooks he strays,
With willing sport, to the wild ocean. *
Then let me go, and hinder not my course;
I'll be as patient as a gentle stream,
And make a pastime of each weary step,
Till the last step have brought me to my love;
And there I'll rest, as after much turmoil,
A blessed soul doth in Elysium. 3
If Shakespear indeed had written only this and other passages in the Two
Gentlemen of Verona, he would almost have deserved Milton's praise of him -
And sweetest Shakespear, Fancy's child,

Warbles his native wood-notes wild. 4
But as it is, he deserves rather more praise than this.
* The river wanders at its own sweet will. Wordsworth. 5 /
227
The Merchant ofVenice
This is a play that in spite of the change of manners and prejudices still holds
undisputed possession of the stage. Shakespear's malignant has outlived Mr
Cumberland's benevolentJew. 1 In proportion as Shylock has ceased to be a popular
bugbear, 'baited with the rabble's curse,' 2 he becomes a half-favourite with the
philosophical part of the audience, who are disposed to think that Jewish revenge
is at least as good as Christian injuries. Shylock is agood hater; 'a man no less sinned
against than sinning. ' 3 Ifhe carries his revenge too far, yet he has strong grounds for
'the lodged hate he bears Anthonio,' 4 which he explains with equal force of
eloquence and reason. He seems the depositary of the vengeance of his race; and
though the long habit of brooding over daily insults and injuries has crusted over
his temper/ with inveterate misanthropy, and hardened him against the contempt
ofmankind, this adds but little to the triumphant pretensions ofhis enemies. There
is a strong, quick, and deep sense ofjustice mixed up with the gall and bitterness of
his resentment. The constant apprehension of being burnt alive, plundered,
banished, reviled, and trampled on, might be supposed to sour the most forbearing
nature, and to take something from that 'milk ofhuman kindness,' 5 with which his
persecutors contemplated his indignities. The desire of revenge is almost
inseparable from the sense ofwrong; and we can hardly help sympathising with the
proud spirit, hid beneath his 'Jewish gaberdine,' 6 stung to madness by repeated
undeserved provocations, and labouring to throw off the load of obloquy and
oppression heaped upon him and all his tribe by one desperate act of 'lawful'7
revenge, till the ferociousness of the means by which he is to execute his purpose,
and the pertinacity with which he adheres to it, turn us against him; but even at last,
when disappointed ofthe sanguinary revenge with which he had glutted his hopes,
and exposed to beggary and contempt by the letter of the law on which he had
insisted with so little remorse, we pity him, and think him hardly dealt with by his
judges. In all his answers and retorts upon his adversaries, he has the best not only
of the argument but of the / question, reasoning on their own principles and
practice. They are so far from allowing ofany measure ofequal dealing, ofcommon
justice or humanity between themselves and the Jew, that even when they come
to ask a favour ofhim, and Shylock reminds them that 'on such a day they spit upon
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THE MERCHANT OF VENICE [271/273]
him, another spumed him, another called him dog, and for these curtesies request
he'll lend them so much monies' 8 - Anthonio, his old enemy, instead of any
acknowledgment of the shrewdness and justice of his remonstrance, which would
have been preposterous in a respectable Catholic merchant in those times, threatens
him with a repetition of the same treatment -
I am as like to call thee so again,

To spit on thee again, to spurn thee too. 9
After this, the appeal to the Jew's mercy, as if there were any common principle
of right and wrong between them, is the rankest hypocrisy, or the blindest
prejudice; and the Jew's answer to one of Anthonio's friends, who asks him what
his pound of forfeit flesh is good for, is irresistible -
To bait fish withal; if it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He hath
disgrac' d me, and hinder' d me ofhalf a million, laughed at my losses, mock' d at my
gains, scom'd my nation, thwarted my bargains, cool'd my friends, heated mine
enemies; and what's his reason? I am a Jew./ Hath not a Jew eyes; hath not a Jew
bands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions; fed with the same food, hurt
with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means,
warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer that a Christian is? Ifyou prick
us, do we not bleed? Ifyou tickle us, do we not laugh? Ifyou poison us, do we not
die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we
will resemble you in that. If aJew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? revenge.
If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example?
why revenge. The villainy you teach me I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will
better the instruction. 10
The whole of the trial-scene, both before and after the entrance of Portia, is a
master-piece ofdramatic skill. The legal acuteness, the passionate declamations, the
sound maxims of jurisprudence, the wit and irony interspersed in it, the
fluctuations of hope and fear in the different persons, and the completeness and
suddenness of the catastrophe, cannot be surpassed. Shylock, who is his own
counsel, defends himself well, and is triumphant on all the general topics that are
urged against him, and only fails through a legal flaw. Take the following as an
instance: -
Shylock. What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong?

You have among you many a purchas' d slave,
Which like your asses, and your dogs, and mules,
You use in abject and in slavish part, /
Because you bought them: - shall I say to you,
Let them be free, marry them to your heirs?
Why sweat they under burdens? let their beds
Be made as soft as yours, and let their palates
Be season'd with such viands? you will answer,
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[273/275] SELECTED WRITINGS OF WILLIAM HAZLITT:VOLUME l
The slaves are ours: - so do I answer you:

The pound of flesh, which I demand of him,
Is dearly bought, is mine, and I will have it:
If you deny me, fie upon your law!
There is no force in the decrees of Venice:
I stand for judgment: answer; shall I have it? 11
The keenness of his revenge awakes all his faculties; and he beats back all
opposition to his purpose, whether grave or gay, whether ofwit or argument, with
an equal degree of earnestness and self-possession. His character is displayed as
distinctly in other less prominent parts of the play, and we may collect from a few
sentences the history of his life - his descent and origin, his thrift and domestic
economy, his affection for his daughter, whom he loves next to his wealth, his
courtship and his first present to Leah, his wife! 'I would not have parted with it'
(the ring which he first gave her) 'for a wilderness of monkies!' 12 What a fine
Hebraism is implied in this expression!
Portia is not a very great favourite with us; neither are we in love with her maid,
Nerissa. Portia has a certain degree ofaffectation and pedantry about her, which is
very unusual in Shakespear's women, but which perhaps was a / proper qual-
ification for the office of a 'civil doctor,' 13 which she undertakes and executes so
successfully. The speech about Mercy is very well; but there are a thousand finer
ones in Shakespear. We do not admire the scene of the caskets: and object entirely
to the Black Prince, Morocchius. We should like Jessica better if she had not
deceived and robbed her father, and Lorenzo, if he had not married a Jewess,
though he thinks he has a right to wrong a Jew. The dialogue between this newly-
married couple by moonlight, beginning 'On such a night,' 14 &c. is a collection of
classical elegancies. Launcelot, the Jew's man, is an honest fellow. The dilemma in
which he describes himselfplaced between his 'conscience and the fiend, ' 15 the one
ofwhich advises him to run away from his master's service and the other to stay in
it, is exquisitely humourous.
Gratiano is a very admirable subordinate character. He is the jester of the piece:
yet one speech of his, in his own defence, contains a whole volume of wisdom.
Anthonio. l hold the world but as the world, Gratiano,

A stage, where every one must play his part;
And mine a sad one.
Gratiano. Let me play the fool;
With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come; /
And let my liver rather heat with wine,
Than my heart cool with mortifying groans.
Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,
Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?
Sleep when he wakes? and creep into the jaundice
By being peevish? I tell thee what, Anthonio -
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THE MERCHANT OF VENICE [275/277]
I love thee, and it is my love that speaks; -

There are a sort of men, whose visages
Do cream and mantle like a standing pond:
And do a wilful stillness entertain,
With purpose to be drest in an opinion
Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit;
As who should say, I am Sir Oracle,
And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark!
0, my Anthonio, I do know of these,
That therefore only are reputed wise,
For saying nothing; who, I am very sure,
If they should speak, would almost damn those ears,
Which hearing them, would call their brothers, fools.
I'll tell thee more of this another time:
But fish not with this melancholy bait,
For this fool's gudgeon, this opinion. 16
Gratiano's speech on the philosophy oflove, and the effect of habit in taking off
the force ofpassion, is as full of spirit and good sense. The graceful winding up of
this play in the fifth act, after the tragic business is despatched, is one ofthe happiest
instances of Shakespear's knowledge of the principles of the drama. We do not
mean the pretended quarrel between Portia and Nerissa and their husbands about
the rings, which is amusing enough, but the conversation / just before and after the
return of Portia to her own house, beginning 'How sweet the moonlight sleeps
upon this bank,' 17 and ending 'Peace! how the moon sleeps with Endymion, and
would not be awaked.' There is a number ofbeautiful thoughts crowded into that
short space, and linked together by the most natural transitions.
When we first went to see Mr Kean in Shylock, we expected to see, what we had
been used to see, a decrepid old man, bent with age and ugly with mental
deformity, grinning with deadly malice, with the venom of his heart congealed in
the expression of his countenance, sullen, morose, gloomy, inflexible, brooding
over one idea, that of his hatred, and fixed on one unalterable purpose, that of his
revenge. We were disappointed, because we had taken our idea from other actors,
not from the play. There is no proof there that Shylock is old, but a single line,
'Bassanio and old Shylock, both stand forth,' 18 - which does not imply that he is
infirm with age - and the circumstance that he has a daughter marriageable, which
does not imply that he is old at all. It would be too much to say that his body should
be made crooked and deformed to answer to his mind, which is bowed down and
warped with prejudices and passion. That he has but one idea, is not true; he has
more ideas than any other person in the piece; / and ifhe is intense and inveterate
in the pursuit of his purpose, he shews the utmost elasticity, vigour, and presence
of mind, in the means of attaining it. But so rooted was our habitual impression of
the part from seeing it caricatured in the representation, that it was only from a
careful perusal of the play itself that we saw our error. The stage is not in general
231
the best place to study our author's characters in. It is too often filled with
traditional common-place conceptions of the part, handed down from sire to son,
and suited to the taste of the great vulgar and the small. 19 - ''Tis an unweeded garden:
things rank and gross do merely gender in it!' 20 If a man of genius comes once in
an age to clear away the rubbish, to make it fruitful and wholesome, they cry, ' 'Tis
a bad school: it may be like nature, it may be like Shakespear, but it is not like us.'
Admirable critics! /
The Winter's Tale
We wonder that Mr Pope should have entertained doubts ofthe genuineness ofthis
play. 1 He was, we suppose, shocked (as a certain critic suggests) at the Chorus,
Time, leaping over sixteen years with his crutch between the third and fourth act,
and at Antigonus's landing with the infant Perdita on the sea-coast of Bohemia.
These slips or blemishes however do not prove it not to be Shakespear's; for he was
as likely to fall into them as any body; but we do not know any body but himself
who could produce the beauties. The stuffofwhich the tragic passion is composed,
the romantic sweetness, the comic humour, are evidently his. Even the crabbed and
tortuous style ofthe speeches ofLeontes, reasoning on his own jealousy, beset with
doubts and fears, and entangled more and more in the thorny labyrinth, bears every
mark of Shakespear's / peculiar manner of conveying the painful struggle of
different thoughts and feelings, labouring for utterance, and almost strangled in the
birth. For instance: -
Ha' not you seen, Camillo?

(But that's past doubt; you have, or your eye-glass
Is thicker than a cuckold's horn) or heard,
(For to a vision so apparent, rumour
Cannot be mute) or thought (for cogitation
Resides not within man that does not think it)
My wife is slippery? If thou wilt, confess,
Or else be impudently negative,
To have nor eyes, nor ears, nor thought. - 2
Here Leontes is confounded with his passion, and does not know which way to
turn himself, to give words to the anguish, rage, and apprehension, which tug at his
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THE WINTER'S TALE [279/281]
breast. It is only as he is worked up into a clearer conviction of his wrongs by

insisting on the grounds of his unjust suspicions to Camillo, who irritates him by
his opposition, that he bursts out into the following vehement strain of bitter
indignation: yet even here his passion staggers, and is as it were oppressed with its
own intensity.
Is whispering nothing?
Is leaning cheek to cheek? is meeting noses?
Kissing with inside lip? stopping the career
Oflaughter with a sigh? (a note infallible
Of breaking honesty! ) horsing foot on foot?
Skulking in corners? wishing clocks more swift? /
Hours, minutes? the noon, midnight? and all eyes
Blind with the pin and web, but theirs; theirs only,
That would, unseen, be wicked? is this nothing?
Why then the world, and all that's in't, is nothing,
The covering sky is nothing, Bohemia's nothing,
My wife is nothing!3
The character of Hermione is as much distinguished by its saint-like resignation

and patient forbearance, as that of Paulina is by her zealous and spirited
remonstrances against the injustice done to the queen, and by her devoted
attachment to her misfortunes. Hermione's restoration to her husband and her
child, after her long separation from them, is as affecting in itself as it is striking in
the representation. Camillo, and the old shepherd and his son, are subordinate but
not uninteresting instruments in the developement ofthe plot, and though last, not
least, comes Autolycus, a very pleasant, thriving rogue; and (what is the best feather
in the cap of all knavery) he escapes with impunity in the end.
The Winter's Tale is one of the best-acting of our author's plays. We remember
seeing it with great pleasure many years ago. It was on the night that King took
leave ofthe stage, when he and Mrs Jordan played together in the after-piece ofthe
Wedding-day. 4 Nothing could go offwith more eclat, with more spirit, and grandeur
of effect. Mrs Siddons played Hermione, / and in the last scene acted the painted
statue to the life - with true monumental dignity and noble passion; Mr Kemble,
in Leontes, worked himself up into a very fine classical phrensy; and Bannister, as
Autolycus, roared as loud for pity as a sturdy beggar could do who felt none of the
pain he counterfeited, and was sound of wind and limb. We shall never see these
parts so acted again; or ifwe did, it would be in vain. Actors grow old, or no longer
surprise us by their novelty. But true poetry, like nature, is always young; and we
still read the courtship of Florizel and Perdita, as we welcome the return ofspring,
with the same feelings as ever.
233
Florizel. Thou dearest Perdita,

When these fore' d thoughts, I pr'ythee, darken not
The mirth o'the feast: or, I'll be thine, my fair,
Or not my father's: for I cannot be
Mine own, nor any thing to any, if
I be not thine. To this I am most constant,
Tho' destiny say, No. Be merry, gentle;
Strangle such thoughts as these, with any thing
That you behold the while. Your guests are coming:
Lift up your countenance; as it were the day
Of celebration of that nuptial, which
We two have sworn shall come.
Perdita. 0 lady fortune,
Stand you auspicious!
Enter Shepherd, Clown, Mopsa, Dorcas, Servants; with Polixenes, and

Camillo, disguised.
Florizel. See, your guests approach. /

Address yourself to entertain them sprightly.
And let's be red with mirth.
Shepherd. Fie, daughter! when my old wife liv' d, upon
This day, she was both pander, butler, cook;
Both dame and servant: welcom' d all, serv' d all:
Would sing her song, and dance her tum: now here
At upper end o' the table, now i' the middle:
On his shoulder, and his: her face o' fire
With labour; and the thing she took to quench it
She would to each one sip. You are retir'd,
As if you were a feasted one, and not
The hostess of the meeting. Pray you, bid
These unknown friends to us welcome; for it is
A way to make us better friends, more known.
Come, quench your blushes; and present yourself
That which you are, mistress o' the feast. Come on,
And bid us welcome to your sheep-shearing,
As your good flock shall prosper.
Perdita. Sir, welcome! [To Polixenes and Camillo
It is my father's will I should take on me
The hostess-ship o' the day: you're welcome, sir!
Give me those flowers there, Dorcas - Reverend sirs,
For you there's rosemary and rue; these keep
Seeming, and savour, all the winter long:
Grace and remembrance be unto you both,
And welcome to our shearing!
Polixenes. Shepherdess,
(A fair one are you) well you fit our ages
With flowers of winter.
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THE WINTER'S TALE (282/284]
Perdita. Sir, the year growing ancient,
Not yet on summer's death, nor on the birth
Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o' the season
Are our carnations, and streak' d gilly-flowers,
Which some call nature's bastards: of that kind
Our rustic garden's barren; and I care not
To get slips of them./
Polixenes. Wherefore, gentle maiden,
Do you neglect them?
Perdita. For I have heard it said
There is an art, which, in their piedness, shares
With great creating nature.
Polixenes. Say, there be:
Yet nature is made better by no mean,
But nature makes that mean: so, o'er that art
Which you say, adds to nature, is an art
That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry
A gentler scyon to the wildest stock;
And make conceive a bark of baser kind
By bud of nobler race. This is an art
Which does mend nature, change it rather: but
The art itself is nature
Perdita. So it is.*
Polixenes. Then make your garden rich in gilly-flowers,
And do not call them bastards.
Perdita. I'll not put
The dibble in earth, to set one slip of them;*
No more than, were I painted, I would wish
This youth should say, 'twere well; and only therefore
Desire to breed by me - Here's flowers for you;
Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram;
The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun,
And with him rises, weeping: these are flowers
Of middle summer, and, I think, they are given
To men of middle age. You are very welcome.
Camillo. I should leave grazing, were I of your flock,
And only live by gazing.
Perdita. Out, alas!
You'd be so lean, that blasts ofJanuary/
'Would blow you through and through.
Now my fairest friends,
I would I had some flowers o' the spring, that might
Become your time of day; and your's, and your's,
That wear upon your virgin branches yet
Your maiden-heads growing: 0 Proserpina,
For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou let'st fall
From Dis's waggon! daffodils,
* The lady, we here see, gives up the argument, but keeps her mind.
235
That come before the swallow dares, and take

The winds of March with beauty: violets dim,
But sweeter than the lids ofJuno's eyes,
Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses,
That die unmarried, ere they can behold
Bright Phcebus in his strength (a malady
Most incident to maids); bold oxlips, and
The crown-imperial; lilies of all kinds,
The fleur-de-lis being one! 0, these I lack
To make you garlands of; and my sweet friend
To strow him o'er and o'er.
Florizel. What, like a corse?
Perdita. No, like a bank, for love to lie and play on;
Not like a corse; or ifnot to be buried,
But quick, and in mine arms. Come take your flowers;
Methinks, I play as I have seen them do
In Whitsun pastorals: sure this robe of mine
Does change my disposition.
Florizel. What you do,
Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet,
I'd have you do it ever: when you sing,
I'd have you buy and sell so; so, give alms;
Pray, so; and for the ordering your affairs,
To sing them too. When you do dance, I wish you
A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do
Nothing but that: move still, still so,
And own no other function. Each your doing, /
So singular in each particular,
Crowns what you're doing in the present deeds,
That all your acts are queens.
Perdita. 0 Doricles,
Your praises are too large; but that your youth
And the true blood, which peeps forth fairly through it,
Do plainly give you out an unstained shepherd;
With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles,
You woo'd me the false way.
Florizel. I think you have
As little skill to fear, as I have purpose
To put you to't. But come, our dance, I pray
Your hand, my Perdita so turtles pair,
That never mean to part.
Perdita. I'll swear for 'em.
Polixenes. This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever
Ran on the green-sward; nothing she does, or seems,
But smacks of something greater than herself,
Too noble for this place.
Camillo. He tells her something
That makes her blood look out: good sooth she is
The queen of curds and cream. 5
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ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL [285/288]
This delicious scene is interrupted by the father ofthe prince discovering himself
to Florizel, and haughtily breaking off the intended match between his son and
Perdita. When Polixenes goes out, Perdita says,
Even here undone:

I was not much afraid; for once or twice
I was about to speak; and tell him plainly,
The self-same sun that shines upon his court,
Hides not his visage from our cottage, but
Looks on't alike. Wilt please you, sir, be gone?
[To Florizel. I
I told you what would come of this. Beseech you,
Of your own state take care: this dream of mine,
Being now awake, I'll queen it no inch farther,
But milk my ewes and weep. 6
As Perdita, the supposed shepherdess, turns out to be the daughter ofHermione,

and a princess in disguise, both feelings ofthe pride ofbirth and the claims ofnature
are satisfied by the fortunate event of the story, and the fine romance of poetry is
reconciled to the strictest court etiquette. /
All's Well That Ends Well
All's Well That Ends Well is one ofthe most pleasing ofour author's comedies. The
interest is however more ofa serious than ofa comic nature. The character ofHelen
is one of great sweetness and delicacy. She is placed in circumstances of the most
critical kind, and has to court her husband both as a virgin and a wife: yet the most
scrupulous nicety offemale modesty is not once violated. There is not one thought
or action that ought to bring a blush into her cheeks, or that for a moment lessens
her in our esteem. Perhaps the romantic attachment ofa beautiful and virtuous girl
to one placed above her hopes by the circumstances ofbirth and fortune, was never
so exquisitely expressed as in the reflections which she utters when young
Roussillon leaves his mother's house, under whose protection she has / been
brought up with him, to repair to the French king's court.
237
Helena. Oh, were that all - I think not on my father,

And these great tears grace his remembrance more
Than those I shed for him. What was he like?
I have forgot him. My imagination
Carries no favour in it, but Bertram's.
I am undone, there is no living, none
If Bertram be away. It were all one
That I should love a bright particular star,
And think to wed it; he is so above me:
In his bright radiance and collateral light
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.
Th' ambition in my love thus plagues itself;
The hind that would be mated by the lion,
Must die for love. 'Twas pretty, tho' a plague,
To see him every hour, to sit and draw
His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls
In our heart's table: heart too capable
Of every line and trick of his sweet favour.
But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must sanctify his relics. 1
The interest excited by this beautiful picture ofa fond and innocent heart is kept
up afterwards by her resolution to follow him to France, the success of her
experiment in restoring the king's health, her demanding Bertram in marriage as a
recompense, his leaving her in disdain, her interview with him afterwards disguised
as Diana, a young lady whom he importunes with his secret addresses, and their
final reconciliation / when the consequences ofher stratagem and the proofs ofher
love are fully made known. The persevering gratitude of the French king to his
benefactress, who cures him ofa languishing distemper by a prescription hereditary
in her family, the indulgent kindness of the Countess, whose pride ofbirth yields,
almost without a struggle, to her affection for Helen, the honesty and uprightness
of the good old lord Lafeu, make very interesting parts of the picture. The wilful
stubbornness and youthful petulance ofBertram are also very admirably described.
The comic part of the play turns on the folly, boasting, and cowardice ofParolles,
a parasite and hanger-on of Bertram's, the detection of whose false pretensions to
bravery and honour forms a very amusing episode. He is first found out by the old
lord Lafeu, who says, 'The soul of this man is in his clothes;' 2 and it is proved
afterwards that his heart is in his tongue and that both are false and hollow. The
adventure of'the bringing off of his drum' 3 has become proverbial as a satire on all
ridiculous and blustering undertakings which the person never means to perform:
nor can any thing be more severe than what one ofthe bye-standers remarks upon
_what Parolles says of himself, 'Is it possible he should know what he is, and be that
he is?' 4 Yet Parolles himself gives the best solution ofthe difficulty afterwards when
I he is thankful to escape with his life and the loss of character; for, so that he can
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ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL [290/292]
live on, he is by no means squeamish about the loss ofpretensions, to which he had
sense enough to know he had no real claim, and which he had assumed only as a
means to live.
Parolles. Yet I am thankful; if my heart were great,

'Twould burst at this. Captain I'll be no more,
But I will eat and drink, and sleep as soft
As captain shall. Simply the thing I am
Shall make me live: who knows himself a braggart,
Let him fear this; for it shall come to pass,
That every braggart shall be found an ass.
Rust sword, cool blushes, and Parolles live
Safest in shame; being fool'd, by fool'ry thrive;
There's place and means for every man alive.
I'll after them. 5
The story of All's Well That Ends Well, and of several others of Shakespear's
plays, is taken from Boccacio. The poet has dramatised the original novel with
great skill and comic spirit, and has preserved all the beauty of character and
sentiment without improving upon it, which was impossible. There is indeed in
Boccacio's serious pieces a truth, a pathos, and an exquisite refinement of
sentiment, which is hardly to be met with in any other prose writer whatever.
Justice has not been done him by the world. He has in general passed for a mere
narrator oflascivious tales or idle jests. This / character probably originated in his
obnoxious attacks on the monks, and has been kept up by the grossness of
mankind, who revenged their own want ofrefinement on Boccacio, and only saw
in his writings what suited the coarseness oftheir own tastes. But the truth is, that
he has carried sentiment ofevery kind to its very highest purity and perfection. By
sentiment we would here understand the habitual workings ofsome one powerful
feeling, where the heart reposes almost entirely upon itself, without the violent
excitement of opposing duties or untoward circumstances. In this way, nothing
ever came up to the story of Frederigo Alberigi and his Falcon. 6 The perseverance
in attachment, the spirit of gallantry and generosity displayed in it, has no parallel
in the history of heroical sacrifices. The feeling is so unconscious too, and
involuntary, is brought out in such small, unlooked-for, and unostentatious
circumstances, as to show it to have been woven into the very nature and soul of
the author. The story oflsabella7 is scarcely less fine, and is more affecting in the
circumstances and in the catastrophe. Dryden has done justice to the impassioned
eloquence of the Tancred and Sigismunda; 8 but has not given an adequate idea of
the wild preternatural interest of the story ofHonoria. 9 Cimon and Iphigene 10 is
by no means one ofthe best, notwithstanding the popularity of the subject. / The
proof of unalterable affection given in the story ofJ eronymo, 11 and the simple
touches of nature and picturesque beauty in the story of the two holiday lovers, 12
239
who were poisoned by tasting of a leaf in the garden at Florence, are perfect
master-pieces. The epithet ofDivine was well bestowed on this great painter ofthe
human heart. The invention implied in his different tales is immense: but we are
not to infer that it is all his own. He probably availed himself of all the common
traditions which were floating in his time, and which he was the first to
appropriate. Homer appears the most original ofall authors- probably for no other
reason, than that we can trace the plagiarism no farther. Boccaccio has furnished
subjects to numberless writers since his time, both dramatic and narrative. The
story ofGriselda13 is borrowed from his Decameron by Chaucer; as is the Knight's
Tale (Palamon and Arcite) from his poem of the Theseid. /
Love's Labour Lost
If we were to part with any of the author's comedies, it should be this. Yet we
should be loth to part with Don Adriano de Armado, that mighty potentate of
nonsense, or his page, that handful ofwit; with Nathaniel the curate, or Holofernes
the school-master, and their dispute after dinner on 'the golden cadences ofpoesy;' 1
with Costard the clown, or Dull the constable. Biron is too accomplished a
character to be lost to the world, and yet he could not appear without his fellow
courtiers and the king: and ifwe were to leave out the ladies the gentlemen would
have no mistresses. So that we believe we may let the whole play stand as it is, and
we shall hardly venture to 'set a mark of reprobation on it. '2 Still we have some
objections to the style, which we think savours more of the pedantic spirit of
Shakespear's time/ than ofhis own genius; more ofcontroversial divinity, and the
logic of Peter Lombard,3 than of the inspiration of the Muse. It transports us quite
as much to the manners ofthe court, and the quirks ofcourts oflaw, as to the scenes
of nature or the fairy-land of his own imagination. Shakespear has set himself to
imitate the tone of polite conversation then prevailing among the fair, the witty,
and the learned, and he has imitated it but too faithfully. It is as ifthe hand ofTitian
had been employed to give grace to the curls of a full-bottomed periwig, or
Raphael had attempted to give expression to the tapestry figures in the House of
Lords. Shakespear has put an excellent description of this fashionable jargon into
the mouth of the critical Holofernes 'as too picked, too spruce, too affected, too
odd, as it were, too peregrinate, as I may call it;' 4 and nothing can be more marked
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LOVE'S LABOUR LOST [294/296]
than the difference when he breaks loose from the trammels he had imposed on
himself, 'as light as bird from brake,' 5 and speaks in his own person. We think, for
instance, that in the following soliloquy the poet has fairly got the start of Queen
Elizabeth and her maids of honour: -
Biron. O! and I forsooth in love,

I that have been love's whip;
A very beadle to an amorous sigh:
A critic; nay, a night-watch constable,
A domineering pedant o'er the boy,/
Than whom no mortal more magnificent.
This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy,
This signior Junio, giant dwarf, Dan Cupid,
Regent oflove-rhymes, lord of folded arms,
Th' anointed sovereign of sighs and groans;
Liege of all loiterers and malecontents,
Dread prince of plackets, king of codpieces,
Sole imperator, and great general
Of trotting parators (0 my little heart!)
And I to be a corporal of his field,
And wear his colours like a tumbler's hoop!
What? I love! I sue! I seek a wife!
A woman, that is like a German clock,
Still a repairing; ever out of frame;
And never going aright, being a watch,
And being watch' d, that it may still go right?
Nay, to be perjur'd, which is worst of all:
And among three to love the worst of all,
A whitely wanton with a velvet brow,
With two pitch balls stuck in her face for eyes;
Ay, and by heav'n, one that will do the deed,
Though Argus were her eunuch and her guard;
And I to sigh for her! to watch for her!
To pray for her! Go to; it is a plague
That Cupid will impose for my neglect
Of his almighty dreadful little might.
Well, I will love, write, sigh, pray, sue, and groan:
Some men must love my lady, and some Joan. 6
The character ofBiron drawn by Rosaline and that which Biron gives ofBoyet
are equally happy. The observations on the use and abuse of study, and on the
power of beauty to quicken the understanding as well as the senses, are excellent.
I The scene which has the greatest dramatic effect is that in which Biron, the king,
Longaville, and Dumain, successively detect each other and are detected in their
breach oftheir vow and in their profession ofattachment to their several mistresses,
in which they suppose themselves to be overheard by no one. The reconciliation
between these lovers and their sweethearts is also very good, and the penance
241
which Rosaline imposes on Biron, before he can expect to gain her consent to
marry him, full of propriety and beauty.
Rosaline. Oft have I heard of you, my lord Biron,

Before I saw you: and the world's large tongue
Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks;
Full of comparisons, and wounding flouts;
Which you on all estates will execute,
That lie within the mercy of your wit.
To weed this wormwood from your fruitful brain;
And therewithal to win me, if you please,
(Without the which I am not to be won)
You shall this twelvemonth term from day to day
Visit the speechless sick, and still converse
With groaning wretches; and your task shall be,
With all the fierce endeavour of your wit,
T' enforce the pained impotent to smile.
Biron. To move wild laughter in the throat of death?
It cannot be: it is impossible:
Mirth cannot move a soul in agony.
Rosaline. Why, that's the way to choke a gibing spirit,
Whose influence is begot of that loose grace,
Which shallow laughing hearers give to fools: /
A jest's prosperity lies in the ear
Of him that hears it; never in the tongue
Of him that makes it: then, if sickly ears,
Deafd with the clamours of their own dear groans,
Will hear your idle scorns, continue then,
And I will have you, and that fault withal;
But, if they will not, throw away that spirit,
And I shall find you empty of that fault,
Right joyful of your reformation.
Biron. A twelvemonth? Well, befall what will befall,
I'll jest a twelvemonth in an hospital.7
The famous cuckoo-song closes the play: but we shall add no more criticisms:
'the words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo. ' 8 /
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MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING [298/299]
Much Ado About Nothing
This admirable comedy used to be frequently acted till oflate years. Mr Garrick's
Benedick was one of his most celebrated characters; and Mrs Jordan, we have
understood, played Beatrice very delightfully. The serious part is still the most
prominent here, as in other instances that we have noticed. Hero is the principal
figure in the piece, and leaves an indelible impression on the mind by her beauty,
her tenderness, and the hard trial of her love. The passage in which Claudio first
makes a confession ofhis affection towards her, conveys as pleasing an image ofthe
entrance oflove into a youthful bosom as can well be imagined:
Oh, my lord,
When you went onward with this ended action,
I look'd upon her with a soldier's eye,
That lik' d, but had a rougher task in hand /
Than to drive liking to the name oflove;
But now I am return'd, and that war-thoughts
Have left their places vacant; in their rooms
Come thronging soft and delicate desires,
All prompting me how fair young Hero is,
Saying, I lik' d her ere I went to wars. 1
In the scene at the altar, when Claudio, urged on by the villain Don John, brings
the charge of incontinence against her, and as it were divorces her in the very
marriage-ceremony, her appeals to her own conscious innocence and honour are
made with the most affecting simplicity.
Claudio. No, Leonato,

I never tempted her with word too large,
But, as a brother to his sister, shew'd
Bashful sincerity, and comely love.
Hero. And seem' d I ever otherwise to you?
Claudio. Out on thy seeming, I will write against it:
You seem to me as Dian in her orb,
As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown;
But you are more intemperate in your blood
243
Than Venus, or those pamper' d animals

That rage in savage sensuality.
Hero. Is my lord well, that he doth speak so wide?
Leonato. Are these things spoken, or do I but dream?
John. Sir, they are spoken, and these things are true.
Benedick. This looks not like a nuptial.
Hero. True! 0 God!2
The justification of Hero in the end, and her restoration to the confidence and
arms of her / lover, is brought about by one of those temporary consignments to
the grave ofwhich Shakespear seems to have been fond. He has perhaps explained
the theory of this predilection in the following lines: -
Friar. She dying, as it must be so maintain'd,

Upon the instant that she was accus'd,
Shall be lamented, pity'd, and excus'd,
Of every hearer: for it so falls out,
That what we have we prize not to the worth,
While we enjoy it; but being lack'd and lost,
Why then we rack the value; then we find
The virtue, that possession would not shew us
Whilst it was ours. - So will it fare with Claudio;
When he shall hear she dy'd upon his words,
The idea of her love shall sweetly creep
Into his study of imagination;
And every lovely organ of her life
Shall come apparel' d in more precious habit,
More moving, delicate, and full oflife,
Into the eye and prospect of his soul,
Than when she liv'd indeed. 3
The principal comic characters in Much Ado About Nothing, Benedick and
Beatrice, are both essences in their kind. His character as a woman-hater is
admirably supported, and his conversion to matrimony is no less happily effected
by the pretended story ofBeatrice's love for him. It is hard to say which ofthe two
scenes is the best, that ofthe trick which is thus I practised on Benedick, or that in
which Beatrice is prevailed on to take pity on him by overhearing her cousin and
her maid declare (which they do on purpose) that he is dying oflove for her. There
is something delightfully picturesque in the manner in which Beatrice is described
as coming to hear the plot which is contrived against herself -
For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing, runs

Close by the ground, to hear our conference. 4
In consequence ofwhat she hears (not a word ofwhich is true) she exclaims when
these good-natured informants are gone,
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MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING [301/303]
What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?
Stand I condemn'd for pride and scorn so much?
Contempt, farewell! and maiden pride adieu!
No glory lives behind the back of such.
And, Benedick, love on, I will requite thee;
Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand;
If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee
To bind our loves up to an holy band:
For others say thou dost deserve; and I
Believe it better than reportingly. 5
And Benedick, on his part, is equally sincere in his repentance with equal reason,
after he has heard the grey-beard, Leonato, and his, friend, 'Monsieur Love,'
discourse of the desperate state of his supposed inamorata. /
This can be no trick; the conference was sadly borne. - They have the truth of this
from Hero. They seem to pity the lady; it seems her affections have the full bent.
Love me! why, it must be requited. I hear how I am censur'd: they say, I will bear
myself proudly, if I perceive the love come from her; they say too, that she will
rather die than give any sign of affection. - I did never think to marry: I must not
seem proud: - happy are they that hear their detractions, and can put them to
mending. They say, the lady is fair; 'tis a truth, I can bear them witness: and
virtuous; - 'tis so, I cannot reprove it: and wise - but for loving me: - by my troth
it is no addition to herwit;-norno great argument ofherfolly, for I will be horribly
in love with her. - I may chance to have some odd quirks and remnants of wit
broken on me, because I have rail'd so long against marriage: but doth not the
appetite alter? A man loves the meat in his youth, that he cannot endure in his age.
- Shall quips, and sentences, and these paper bullets of the brain, awe a man from
the career ofhis humour? No: the world must be peopled. When I said, I would die
a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I were marry'd. - Here comes Beatrice:
by this day, she's a fair lady: I do spy some marks oflove in her. 6
The beauty of all this arises from the characters of the persons so entrapped.
Benedick is a professed and staunch enemy to marriage, and gives very plausible
reasons for the faith that is in him. And as to Beatrice, she persecutes him all day
with her jests (so that he could hardly think ofbeing troubled with them at night)
she not only turns him but all other things into jest, and is proofagainst every thing
serious./
Hero. Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes,

Misprising what they look on; and her wit
Values itself so highly, that to her
All matter else seems weak: she cannot love,
Nor take no shape nor project of affection,
She is so self-endeared.
Ursula. Sure, I think so;
And therefore, certainly, it were not good
She knew his love, lest she make sport at it.
245
Hero. Why, you speak truth: I never yet saw man,

How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featur' d,
But she would spell him backward: if fair-fac'd,
She'd swear the gentleman should be her sister;
Ifblack, why, nature, drawing of an antick,
Made a foul blot: if tall, a lance ill-headed;
Iflow, an agate very vilely cut:
If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds;
If silent, why, a block moved with none.
So turns she every man the wrong side out;
And never gives to truth and virtue that
Which simpleness and merit purchaseth. 7
These were happy materials for Shakespear to work on, and he has made a happy
use of them. Perhaps that middle point of comedy was never more nicely hit in
which the ludicrous blends with the tender, and our follies, turning round against
themselves in support of our affections, retain nothing but their humanity.
Dogberry and Verges in this play are inimitable specimens of quaint blundering
and misprisions of meaning; and are a standing record of/ that formal gravity of
pretension and total want of common understanding, which Shakespear no doubt
copied from real life, and which in the course oftwo hundred years appear to have
ascended from the lowest to the highest offices in the state. I
As You Like It
Shakespear has here converted the forest of Arden into another Arcadia, where
they 'fleet the time carelessly, as they did in the golden world.'' It is the most ideal
ofany ofthis author's plays. It is a pastoral drama, in which the interest arises more
out of the sentiments and characters than out of the actions or situations. It is not
what is done, but what is said, that claims our attention. Nursed in solitude, 'under
the shade ofmelancholy boughs, ' 2 the imagination grows soft and delicate, and the
wit runs riot in idleness, like a spoiled child, that is never sent to school. Caprice
and fancy reign and revel here, and stem necessity is banished to the court. The
mild sentiments of humanity are strengthened with thought and leisure; the echo
of the cares and noise of the world strikes upon the ear of those 'who have / felt
them knowingly,' 3 softened by time and distance. 'They hear the tumult, and are
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AS YOU LIKE IT [306/307]
still. ' 4 The very air ofthe place seems to breathe a spirit ofphilosophical poetry: to
stir the thoughts, to touch the heart with pity, as the drowsy forest rustles to the
sighing gale. Never was there such beautiful moralising, equally free from pedantry
or petulance.
And this their life, exempt from public haunts,

Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing. 5
Jaques is the only purely contemplative character in Shakespear. He thinks, and

does nothing. His whole occupation is to amuse his mind, and he is totally
regardless of his body and his fortunes. He is the prince of philosophical idlers; his
only passion is thought; he sets no value upon any thing but as it serves as food for
reflection. He can 'suck melancholy out of a song, as a weasel sucks eggs;' 6 the
motley fool, 'who morals on the time,' 7 is the greatest prize he meets with in the
forest. He resents Orlando's passion for Rosalind as some disparagement ofhis own
passion for abstract truth; and leaves the Duke, as soon as he is restored to his
sovereignty, to seek his brother out who has quitted it, and turned hermit.
Out of these convertites

There is much matter to be heard and learnt. 8 /
Within the sequestered and romantic glades of the forest of Arden, they find
leisure to be good and wise, or to play the fool and fall in love. Rosalind's character
is made up of sportive gaiety and natural tenderness: her tongue runs the faster to
conceal the pressure at her heart. She talks herself out ofbreath, only to get deeper
in love. The coquetry with which she plays with her lover in the double character
which she has to support is managed with the nicest address. How full of voluble,
laughing grace is all her conversation with Orlando -
In heedless mazes running

With wanton haste and giddy cunning. 9
How full of real fondness and pretended cruelty is her answer to him when he
promises to love her 'For ever and a day!'
Say a day without the ever: no, no, Orlando, men are April when
they woo, December when they wed: maids are May when they are
maids, but the sky changes when they are wives: I will be more
jealous of thee than a Barbary cock-pigeon over his hen; more
clamorous than a parrot against rain; more new-fangled than an ape;
more giddy in my desires than a monkey; I will weep for nothing like
Diana in the fountain, and I will do that when you are disposed to be
merry; I will laugh like a hyen, and that when you are inclined to
sleep.
247
Orlando. But will my Rosalind do so?

Rosalind. By my life she will do as I do. 10 /
The silent and retired character of Celia is a necessary relief to the provoking
loquacity of Rosalind, nor can any thing be better conceived or more beautifully
described than the mutual affection between the two cousins: -
We still have slept together,

Rose at an instant, leam'd, play'd, eat together,
And wheresoe'r we went, like Juno's swans,
Still we went coupled and inseparable.11
The unrequited love of Silvius for Phebe shews the perversity of this passion in
the commonest scenes oflife, and the rubs and stops which nature throws in its way,
where fortune has placed none. Touchstone is not in love, but he will have a
mistress as a subject for the exercise of his grotesque humour, and to shew his
contempt for the passion, by his indifference about the person. He is a rare fellow.
He is a mixture of the ancient cynic philosopher with the modern buffoon, and
turns folly into wit, and wit into folly, just as the fit takes him. His courtship of
Audrey not only throws a degree of ridicule on the state of wedlock itself, but he
is equally an enemy to the prejudices of opinion in other respects. The lofty tone
ofenthusiasm, which the Duke and his companions in exile spread over the stillness
and solitude of a country life, receives a pleasant / shock from Touchstone's
sceptical determination of the question.
Corin. And how like you this shepherd's life, Mr Touchstone?

Clown. 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 respect it
is not in the court, it is tedious. As it is a spare life, look you, it fits
my humour; but as there is no more plenty in it, it goes much against
my stomach. 12
Zimmerman's celebrated work on Solitude 13 discovers only half the sense of this
passage.
There is hardly any of Shakespear's plays that contains a greater number of
passages that have been quoted in books of extracts, or a greater number ofphrases
that have become in a manner proverbial. If we were to give all the striking
passages, we should give half the play. We will only recall a few of the most
delightful to the reader's recollection. Such are the meeting between Orlando and
Adam, the exquisite appeal of Orlando to the humanity of the Duke and his
company to supply him with food for the old man, and their answer, the Duke's
description ofa country life, and the account ofJaques moralising on the wounded
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AS YOU LIKE IT [309/311]
deer, his meeting with Touchstone in the forest, his apology / for his own
melancholy and his satirical vein, and the well-known speech on the stages of
human life, the old song of 'Blow, blow, thou winter's wind,' 14 Rosalind's
description of the marks of a lover and of the progress of time with different
persons, the picture of the snake wreathed round Oliver's neck while the lioness
watches her sleeping prey, and Touchstone's lecture to the shepherd, his defence
of cuckolds, and panegyric on the virtues of'an If.' 15 - All of these are familiar to
the reader: there is one passage of equal delicacy and beauty which may have
escaped him, and with it we shall close our account of As You Like It. It is Phebe's
description of Ganimed at the end of the third act.
Think not I love him, tho' I ask for him;

'Tis but a peevish boy, yet he talks well; -
But what care I for words! yet words do well,
When he that speaks them pleases those that hear:
It is a pretty youth; not very pretty;
But sure he's proud, and yet his pride becomes him;
He'll make a proper man; the best thing in him
Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue
Did make offence, his eye did heal it up:
He is not very tall, yet for his years he's tall;
His leg is but so so, and yet 'tis well;
There was a pretty redness in his lip,
A little riper, and more lusty red
Than that mix' d in his cheek; 'twas just the difference /
Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask.
There be some women, Silvius, had they mark'd him
In parcels as I did, would have gone near
To fall in love with him: but for my part
I love him not, nor hate him not; and yet
I have more cause to hate him than to love him;
For what had he to do to chide at me? 16 /
249
The Taming of the Shrew
The Taming of the Shrew is almost the only one ofShakespear's comedies that has a
regular plot, and downright moral. It is full of bustle, animation, and rapidity of
action. It shews admirably how self-will is only to be got the better ofby stronger
will, and how one degree of ridiculous perversity is only to be driven out by
another still greater. Petruchio is a madman in his senses; a very honest fellow, who
hardly speaks a word oftruth, and succeeds in all his tricks and impostures. He acts
his assumed character to the life, with the most fantastical extravagance, with
complete presence of mind, with untired animal spirits, and without a particle of
ill humour from beginning to end. - The situation ofpoor Katherine, worn out by
his incessant persecutions, becomes at last almost as pitiable as it is ludicrous, and it
is difficult / to say which to admire most, the unaccountableness of his actions, or
the unalterableness of his resolutions. It is a character which most husbands ought
to study, unless perhaps the very audacity ofPetruchio's attempt might alarm them
more than his success would encourage them. What a sound must the following
speech carry to some married ears!
Think you a little din can daunt my ears?

Have I not in my time heard lions roar?
Have I not heard the sea, puffd up with winds,
Rage like an angry boar, chafed with sweat?
Have I not heard great ordnance in the field?
And heav'n's artillery thunder in the skies?
Have I not in a pitched battle heard
Loud larurns, neighing steeds, and trumpets clang?
And do you tell me of a woman's tongue,
That gives not half so great a blow to hear,
As will a chesnut in a farmer's fire? 1
Not all Petruchio's rhetoric would persuade more than 'some dozen followers' 2
to be of this heretical way ofthinking. He unfolds his scheme for the Taming of the
Shrew, on a principle of contradiction, thus: -
I'll woo her with some spirit when she comes.

Say that she rail, why then I'll tell her plain
250
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW [313/315]
She sings as sweetly as a nightingale;
Say that she frown, I'll say she looks as clear
As morning roses newly wash'd with dew;
Say she be mute, and will not speak a word,
Then I'll commend her volubility, /
And say she uttereth piercing eloquence:
If she do bid me pack, I'll give her thanks,
As though she bid me stay by her a week;
If she deny to wed, I'll crave the day,
When I shall ask the banks, and when be married? 3
He accordingly gains her consent to the match, by telling her father that he has
got it; disappoints her by not returning at the time he has promised to wed her, and
when he returns, creates no small consternation by the oddity of his dress and
equipage. This, however, is nothing to the astonishment excited by his mad-
brained behaviour at the marriage. Here is the account of it by an eye-witness: -
Gremio. Tut, she's a lamb, a dove, a fool to him:

I'll tell you, Sir Lucentio; when the priest
Should ask if Katherine should be his wife?
Ay, by gogs woons, quoth he; and swore so loud,
That, all amaz' d, the priest let fall the book;
And as he stooped again to take it up,
This rnad-brain'd bridegroom took him such a cuff,
That down fell priest and book, and book and priest.
Now take them up, quoth be, if any list.
Tranio. What said the wench when he rose up again?
Gremio. Trembled and shook; for why, he stamp'd and swore,
As if the vicar meant to cozen him.
But after many ceremonies done,
He calls for wine; a health, quoth he; as if
He'ad been abroad carousing with his mates
After a storm; quaft off the muscadel, /
And threw the sops all in the sexton's face;
Having no other cause but that his beard
Grew thin and hungerly, and seem'd to ask
His sops as he was drinking. This done, he took
The bride about the neck, and kiss'd her lips
With such a clamourous smack, that at their parring
All the church echoed: and I seeing this,
Came thence for very shame; and after me,
I know, the rout is coming; -
Such a mad marriage never was before.4
The most striking and at the same time laughable feature in the character of
Petruchio throughout, is the studied approximation to the intractable character of
real madness, his apparent insensibility to all external considerations, and utter
251
indifference to every thing but the wild and extravagant freaks ofhis own self-will.
There is no contending with a person on whom nothing makes any impression but
his own purposes, and who is bent on his own whims just in proportion as they
seem to want common sense. With him a thing's being plain and reasonable is a
reason against it. The airs he gives himself are infinite, and his caprices as sudden as
they are groundless. The whole of his treatment of his wife at home is in the same
spirit of ironical attention and inverted gallantry. Every thing flies before his will,
like a conjuror's wand, and he only metamorphoses his wife's temper by
metamorphosing her senses and all the objects I she sees, at a word's speaking. Such
are his insisting that it is the moon and not the sun which they see, &c. This
extravagance reaches its most pleasant and poetical height in the scene where, on
their return to her father's, they meet old Vincentio, whom Petruchio immediately
addresses as a young lady: -
Petruchio. Good morrow, gentle mistress, where away?

Tell me, sweet Kate, and tell me truly too,
Hast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman?
Such war of white and red within her cheeks;
What stars do spangle heaven with such beauty,
As those two eyes become that heav'nly face?
Fair lovely maid, once more good day to thee:
Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty's sake.
Hortensio. He'll make the man mad to make woman of him.
Katherine. Young budding virgin, fair and fresh and sweet,
Whither away, or where is thy abode?
Happy the parents of so fair a child;
Happier the man whom favourable stars
Allot thee for his lovely bed-fellow.
Petruchio. Why, how now, Kate, I hope thou art not mad:
This is a man, old, wrinkled, faded, wither' d,
And not a maiden, as thou say'st he is.
Katherine. Pardon, old father, my mistaken eyes
What have been so bedazed with the sun
That every thing I look on seemeth green.
Now perceive thou art a reverend father. 5 /
The whole is carried offwith equal spirit, as ifthe poet's comic Muse had wings
of fire. It is strange how one man could be so many things; but so it is. The
concluding scene, in which trial is made of the obedience of the new-married
wives (so triumphantly for Petruchio) is a very happy one. - In some parts of this
play there is a little too much about music-masters and masters ofphilosophy. They
were things ofgreater rarity in those days than they are now. Nothing however can
be better than the advice which Tranio gives his master for the prosecution of his
studies: -
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THE TAMING OF THE SHREW [317/319]
The mathematics, and the metaphysics,
Fall to them as you find your stomach serves you:
No proof grows, were is no pleasure ta' en:
In brief, sir, study what you most affect. 6
We have heard the Honey-Moon7 called 'an elegant Katherine and Petruchio.' We
suspect we do not understand this word elegant in the sense that many people do.
But in our sense of the word, we should call Lucentio's description of his mistress
elegant.
Tranio, I saw her coral lips to move,

And with her breath she did perfume the air:
Sacred and sweet was all I saw in her. 8
When Biondello tells the same Lucentio for his encouragement, 'I knew a wench
married in an / afternoon as she went to the garden for parsley to stuff a rabbit, and
so may you, sir' 9 - there is nothing elegant in this, and yet we hardly know which
of the two passages is the best.
The Taming of the Shrew is a play within a play. It is supposed to be a play acted
for the benefit of Sly the tinker, who is made to believe himself a lord, when he
wakes after a drunken brawl. The character of Sly and the remarks with which he
accompanies the play are as good as the play itself. His answer when he is asked how
he likes it, 'Indifferent well; 'tis a good piece of work, would 'twere done,' 10 is in
good keeping, as ifhe were thinking ofhis Saturday night's job. Sly does not change
his tastes with his new situation, but in the midst of splendour and luxury still calls
out lustily and repeatedly 'for a pot o' the smallest ale.' He is very slow in giving up
his personal identity in his sudden advancement. - 'I am Christophero Sly, call not
me honour nor lordship. I ne'er drank sack in my life: and if you give me any
conserves, give me conserves ofbeef: ne'er ask me what raiment I'll wear, for I have
no more doublets than backs, no more stockings than legs, nor no more shoes than
feet, nay, sometimes more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through
the over-leather. - What, would you make me mad? Am not I Christophero Sly,
old Sly's son ofBurtonheath, I by birth a pedlar, by education a card-maker, by
transmutation a bear-herd, and now by present profession a tinker? Ask Marian
Hacket, the fat alewife ofWincot, ifshe know me not; ifshe say I am not fourteen-
pence on the score for sheer ale, score me up for the lying'st knave in
Christendom.' 11
This is honest. 'The Slies are no rogues,' 12 as he says ofhimsel£ We have a great
predilection for this representative of the family; and what makes us like him the
better is, that we take him to be of kin (not many degrees removed) to Sancho
Panza./
253
Measure for Measure
This is a play as full of genius as it is of wisdom. Yet there is an original sin in the
nature of the subject, which prevents us from taking a cordial interest in it. 'The
height of moral argument' 1 which the author has maintained in the intervals of
passion or blended with the more powerful impulses of nature, is hardly surpassed
in any of his plays. But there is in general a want of passion; the affections are at a
stand; our sympathies are repulsed and defeated in all directions. The only passion
which influences the story is that of Angelo; and yet he seems to have a much
greater passion for hypocrisy than for his mistress. Neither are we greatly
enamoured oflsabella's rigid chastity, though she could not act otherwise than she
did. We do not feel the same confidence in the virtue that is 'sublimely good' 2 at
another's expense, / as if it had been put to some less disinterested trial. As to the
Duke, who makes a very imposing and mysterious stage-character, he is more
absorbed in his own plots and gravity than anxious for the welfare ofthe state; more
tenacious of his own character than attentive to the feelings and apprehensions of
others. Claudio is the only person who feels naturally; and yet he is placed in
circumstances of distress which almost preclude the wish for his deliverance.
Mariana is also in love with Angelo, whom we hate. In this respect, there may be
said to be a general system of cross-purposes between the feelings of the different
characters and the sympathy of the reader or the audience. This principle of
repugnance seems to have reached its height in the character ofMaster Barnardine,
who not only sets at defiance the opinions ofothers, but has even thrown offall self-
regard, - 'one that apprehends death no more dreadfully but as a drunken sleep;
careless, reckless, and fearless of what's past, present, and to come.' 3 He is a fine
antithesis to the morality and the hypocrisy of the other characters of the play.
Barnardine is Caliban transported from Prospero's wizard island to the forests of
Bohemia or the prisons ofVienna. He is the creature ofbad habits as Caliban is of
gross instincts. He has however a strong notion of the natural fitness of things,
according to his own sensations - 'He/ has been drinking hard all night and he will
not be hanged that day' 4 - and Shakespear has let him off at last. We do not
understand why the philosophical German critic, Schlegel, should be so severe on
those pleasant persons, Lucio, Pompey, and Master Froth, as to call them
254
MEASURE FOR MEASURE [322/324]
'wretches.' 5 They appear all mighty comfortable in their occupations, and

determined to pursue them, 'as the flesh and fortune should serve.' 6 A very good
exposure of the want of self-knowledge and contempt for others which is so
common in the world, is put into the mouth of Abhorson, the jailor, when the
Provost proposes to associate Pompey with him in his office - 'A bawd, sir? Fie
upon him, he will discredit our mystery.' And the same answer will serve in nine
instances out of ten to the same kind of remark, 'Go to, sir, you weigh equally; a
feather will tum the scale.'7 Shakespear was in one sense the least moral of all
writers; for morality (commonly so called) is made up of antipathies; and his talent
consisted in sympathy with human nature, in all its shapes, degrees, depressions,
and elevations. The object of the pedantic moralist is to find out the bad in every
thing; his was to shew that 'there is some soul of goodness in things evil. ' 8 Even
Master Bamardine is not left to the mercy of what others think of him; but when
he comes in, speaks for himself and pleads his own cause, I as well as if counsel had
been assigned him. In one sense, Shakespear was no moralist at all: in another, he
was the greatest ofall moralists. He was a moralist in the same sense in which nature
is one. He taught what he had learnt from her. He shewed the greatest knowledge
of humanity with the greatest fellow-feeling for it.
One of the most dramatic passages in the present play is the interview between
Claudio and his sister, when she comes to inform him of the conditions on which
Angelo will spare his life.
Claudio. Let me know the point.

Isabella. 0, I do fear thee, Claudio: and I quake,
Lest thou a feverous life should'st entertain,
And six or seven winters more respect
Than a perpetual honour. Dar'st thou die?
The sense of death is most in apprehension;
And the poor beetle, that we tread upon,
In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great
As when a giant dies.
Claudio. Why give you me this shame?
Think you I can a resolution fetch
From flowery tenderness; if I must die,
I will encounter darkness as a bride,
And hug it in mine arms.
Isabella. There spake my brother! there my father's grave
Did utter forth a voice! Yes, thou must die:
Thou art too noble to conserve a life
In base appliances. This outward-sainted deputy -
Whose settled visage and deliberate word /
Nips youth i' the head, and follies doth emmew,
As faulcon doth the fowl - is yet devil.
Claudio. The princely Angelo?
255
Isabella. Oh, 'tis the cuning livery of hell,

The damned'st body to invest and cover
In princely guards! Dost thou think, Claudio,
Ifl would yield him my virginity,
Thou might'st be freed?
Claudio. Oh, heavens! it cannot be.
Isabella. Yes, he would give it thee, for this rank offence,
So to offend him still: this night's the time
That I should do what I abhor to name,
Or else thou dy'st to-morrow.
Claudio. Thou shalt not do't.
Isabella. Oh, were it but my life,
I'd throw it down for your deliverance
As frankly as a pin.
Claudio. Thanks, dear Isabel.
Isabella. Be ready, Claudio, for your death to-morrow.
Claudio. Yes. - Has he affections in him,
That thus can make him bite the law by the nose?
When he would force it, sure it is no sin;
Or of the deadly seven it is the least.
Isabella. Which is the least?
Claudio. If it were damnable, he, being so wise
Why should he for the momentary trick
Be perdurably fin'd? Oh, Isabel!
Isabella. What says my brother ?
Claudio. Death is a fearful thing.
Isabella. And shamed life a hateful.
Claudio. Aye, but to die, and go we know not where;
To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot;
This sensible warm motion to become
A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit
To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside/
In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice;
To be imprison'd in the viewless winds,
And blown with restless violence round about
The pendant world; or to be worse than worst
Of those, that lawless and incertain thoughts
Imagine howling! - 'tis too horrible!
The weariest and most loathed worldly life,
That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment
Can lay on nature, is a paradise
To what we fear of death.
Isabella. Alas! alas!
Claudio. Sweet sister, let me live:
What sin you do to save a brother's life,
Nature dispenses with the deed so far,
That it becomes a virtue. 9
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MEASURE FOR MEASURE [325/326]
What adds to the dramatic beauty of this scene and the effect of Claudio's
passionate attachment to life is, that it immediately follows the Duke's lecture to
him, in the character of the Friar, recommending an absolute indifference to it.
Reason thus with life, -

Ifl do lose thee, I do lose a thing,
That none but fools would keep: a breath thou art,
Servile to all the skyey influences
That do this habitation, where thou keep'st,
Hourly affiict: merely, thou art death's fool;
For him thou labour'st by thy flight to shun,
And yet run'st toward him still: thou art not noble;
For all the accommodations, that thou bear'st,
Are nurs'd by baseness: thou art by no means valiant;
For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork
Of a poor worm: thy best of rest is sleep, /
And that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly fear'st
Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not thyself;
For thou exist'st on many a thousand grains
That issue out of dust: happy thou art not;
For what thou hast not, still thou striv'st to get;
And what thou hast, forget'st: thou art not certain;
For thy complexion shifts to strange effects,
After the moon: if thou art rich, thou art poor;
For, like as ass, whose back with ingots bows
Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey,
And death unloads thee: friend thou hast none;
For thy own bowels, which do call thee sire,
The mere effusion of thy proper loins,
Do curse the gout, serpigo, and the rheum,
For ending thee no sooner; thou hast nor youth, nor age;
But, as it were, an after-dinner's sleep,
Dreaming on both: for all thy blessed youth
Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms
Of palsied eld; and when thou art old, and rich,
Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty,
To make thy riches pleasant. What's yet in this,
That bears the name oflife? Yet in this life
Lie hid more thousand deaths; yet death we fear,
That makes these odds all even. 10 /
257
The Merry Wives ofWindsor
The Merry Wives ef Windsor is no doubt a very amusing play, with a great deal of
humour, character, and nature in it: but we should have liked it much better, ifany
one else had been the hero ofit, instead of Falstaff. We could have been contented
if Shakespear had not been 'commanded to shew the knight in love.' 1 Wits and
philosophers, for the most part, do not shine in that character; and SirJohn himself,
by no means, comes off with flying colours. Many people complain of the
degradation and insults to which Don Quixote is so frequently exposed in his
various adventures. But what are the unconscious indignities which he suffers,
compared with the sensible mortifications which Falstaff is made to bring upon
himself? What are the blows and buffettings which the Don receives / from the
staves ofthe Yanguesian carriers or from Sancho Panza's more hard-hearted hands,
compared with the contamination of the buck-basket, the disguise of the fat
woman ofBrentford, and the horns of Heme the hunter, which are discovered on
Sir John's head? In reading the play, we indeed wish him well through all these
discomfitures, but it would have been as well ifhe had not got into them. Falstaff
in the Merry Wives ef Windsor is not the man he was in the two parts of Henry IV.
His wit and eloquence have left him. Instead ofmaking a butt ofothers, he is made
a butt ofby them. Neither is there a single particle of love in him to excuse his
follies: he is merely a designing bare-faced knave, and an unsuccessful one. The
scene with Ford as Master Brook, and that with Simple, Slender's man, who comes
to ask after the Wise Woman, are almost the only ones in which his old intellectual
ascendancy appears. He is like a person recalled to the stage to perform an
unaccustomed and ungracious part; and in which we perceive only 'some faint
sparks of those flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the hearers in a roar. ' 2
But the single scene with Doll Tearsheet, or Mrs Quickly's account of his desiring
'to eat some of housewife Keach's prawns,' and telling her 'to be no more so
familiarity with such people,' 3 is worth the whole of the Merry Wives I ef Windsor
put together. Ford's jealousy, which is the main spring of the comic incidents, is
certainly very well managed. Page, on the contrary, appears to be somewhat
uxorious in his disposition; and we have pretty plain indications ofthe effect ofthe
characters of the husbands on the different degrees of fidelity in their wives. Mrs
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THE COMEDY OF ERRORS [329/331]
Quickly makes a very lively go-between, both between Falstaff and his Dulcineas,
and Anne Page and her lovers, and seems in the latter case so intent on her own
interest as totally to overlook the intentions of her employers. Her master, Doctor
Caius, the Frenchman, and her fellow-servant Jack Rugby, are very completely
described. This last-mentioned person is rather quaintly commended by Mrs
Quickly as 'an honest, willing, kind fellow, as ever servant shall come in house
withal, and I warrant you, no tell-tale, nor no breed-bate; his worst fault is, that he
is given to prayer; he is something peevish that way; but no body but has his fault. ' 4
The Welch Parson, Sir Hugh Evans (a title which in those days was given to the
clergy) is an excellent character in all respects. He is as respectable as he is laughable.
He has 'very good discretions, and very odd humours.' 5 The duel-scene with Caius
gives him an opportunity to shew his, 'cholers and his tremblings of mind,' 6 his
valour and his melancholy, in an irresistible manner. In the/ dialogue, which at his
mother's request he holds with his pupil, William Page, to shew his progress in
learning, it is hard to say whether the simplicity of the master or the scholar is the
greatest. Nym, Bardolph, and Pistol, are but the shadows of what they were; and
Justice Shallow himself has little of his consequence left. But his cousin, Slender,
makes up for the deficiency. He is a very potent piece of imbecility. In him the
pretensions of the worthy Gloucestershire family are well kept up, and
immortalised. He and his friend Sackerson and his book of songs and his love of
Anne Page and his having nothing to say to her can never be forgotten. It is the only
first-rate character in the play: but it is in that class. Shakespear is the only writer
who was as great in describing weakness as strength. /
The Comedy of Errors
This comedy is taken very much from the Menrechmi of Plautus, and is not an
improvement on it. Shakespear appears to have bestowed no great pains on it, and
there are but a few passages which bear the decided stamp of his genius. He seems
to have relied on his author, and on the interest arising out of the intricacy of the
plot. The curiosity excited is certainly very considerable, though not of the most
pleasing kind. We are teazed as with a riddle, which notwithstanding we try to
solve. In reading the play, from the sameness of the names of the two Antipholises
and the two Dromios, as well from their being constantly taken for each other by
259
those who see them, it is difficult, without a painful effort ofattention, to keep the
characters distinct in the mind. And again, on the stage, either the complete /
similarity of their persons and dress must produce the same perplexity whenever
they first enter, or the identity of appearance which the story supposes, will be
destroyed. We still, however, having a clue to the difficulty, can tell which is
which, merely from the practical contradictions which arise, as soon as the different
parties begin to speak; and we are indemnified for the perplexity and blunders into
which we are thrown by seeing others thrown into greater and almost inextricable
ones. - This play (among other considerations) leads us not to feel much regret that
Shakespear was not what is called a classical scholar. We do not think his forte would
ever have lain in imitating or improving on what others invented, so much as in
inventing for himself, and perfecting what he invented, - not perhaps by the
omission of faults, but by the addition of the highest excellencies. His own genius
was strong enough to bear him up; and he soared longest and best on unborrowed
plumes.- The only passage of a very Shakespearian cast in this comedy is the one
in which the Abbess, with admirable characteristic artifice, makes Adriana confess
her own misconduct in driving her husband mad.
Abbess. How long hath this possession held the man?

Adriana. This week he hath been heavy, sour, sad,
And much, much different from the man he was; /
But, till this afternoon, his passion
Ne'er brake into extremity of rage.
Abbess. Hath he not lost much wealth by wreck at sea?
Bury' d some dear friend? Hath not else his eye
Stray' d his affection in unlawful love?
A sin prevailing much in youthful men,
Who give their eyes the liberty of gazing.
Which of these sorrows is he subject to?
Adriana. To none of these, except it be the last:
Namely, some love, that drew him oft from home.
Abbess. You should for that have reprehended him.
Adriana. Why, so I did.
Abbess. But not rough enough.
Adriana. As roughly, as my modesty would let me.
Abbess. Haply, in private.
Adriana. And in assemblies too.
Abbess. Aye, but not enough.
Adriana. It was the copy of our conference:
In bed, he slept not for my urging it;
At board, he fed not for my urging it;
Alone it was the subject of my theme?
In company, I often glanc'd at it;
Still did I tell him it was vile and bad.
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THE COMEDY OF ERRORS [333/334]
Abbess. And therefore came it that the man was mad:
The venom' d clamours of a jealous woman
Poison more deadly than a mad dog's tooth.
It seems his sleeps were hinder' d by thy railing:
And therefore comes it that his head is light.
Thou say'st his meat was sauc'd with thy upbraidings:
Unquiet meals make ill digestions,
Therefore the raging fire of fever bred:
And what's a fever but a fit of madness?
Thou say'st his sports were hinder'd by thy brawls:
Sweet recreation barr' d, what doth ensue,
But moody and dull melancholy,/
Kinsman to grim and comfortless despair;
And, at her heels, a huge infectious troop
Of pale distemperatures, and foes to life?
In food, in sport, and life-preserving rest
To be disturb'd, would mad or man or beast:
The consequence is then, thy jealous fits
Have scar' d thy husband from the use of wits.
Luciana. She never reprehended him but mildly,
When he demeaned himself rough, rude, and wildly. -
Why bear you these rebukes, and answer not?
Adriana. She did betray me to my own reproof 1
Pinch the conjuror is also an excrescence not to be found in Plautus. He is indeed

a very formidable anachronism.
They brought one Pinch, a hungry lean-fac' d villain,

A meer anatomy, a mountebank,
A thread-bare juggler and a fortune-teller;
A needy, hollow-ey'd, sharp-looking wretch,
A living dead man. 2
This is exactly like some of the Puritanical portraits to be met with m

Hogarth./
261
Doubtful Plays of Shakespear
We shall give for the satisfaction of the reader what the celebrated German critic,
Schlegel, says 9n this subject, and then add a very few remarks of our own.
'All the editors, with the exception of Capell, are unanimous in rejecting Titus
Andronicus as unworthy of Shakespear, though they always allow it to be printed
with the other pieces, as the scape-goat, as it were, of their abusive criticism. The
correct method in such an investigation is first to examine into the external
grounds, evidences, &c. and to weigh their worth; and then to adduce the internal
reasons derived from the quality of the work. The critics of Shakespear follow a
course directly the reverse ofthis; they set out with a preconceived opinion against
a piece, and seek, in justification ofthis opinion, to render the historical/ grounds
suspicious, and to set them aside. Titus Andronicus is to be found in the first folio
edition ofShakespear's works, which it was known was conducted by Heminge
and Condell, for many years his friends and fellow-managers of the same theatre.
Is it possible to persuade ourselves that they would not have known if a piece in
their repertory did or did not actually belong to Shakespear? And are we to lay to
the charge of these honourable men a designed fraud in this single case, when we
know that they did not shew themselves so very desirous of scraping every thing
together which went by the name of Shakespear; but, as it appears, merely gave
those plays of which they had manuscripts in hand? Yet the following
circumstance is still stronger: George Meres, a contemporary and admirer of
Shakespear, mentions Titus Andronicus in an enumeration ofhis works, in the year
1598. Meres was personally acquainted with the poet, and so very intimately, that
the latter read over to him his Sonnets before they were printed. I cannot conceive
that all the critical scepticism in the world would be sufficient to get over such a
testimony.
'This tragedy, it is true, is framed according to a false idea ofthe tragic, which by
an accumulation of cruelties and enormities degenerates into the horrible, and yet
leaves no deep impression behind: the story of Tereus and Philomela / is
heightened and overcharged under other names, and mixed up with the repast of
Atreus and Thyestes, and many other incidents. In detail there is no want of
beautiful lines, bold images, nay, even features which betray the particular
262
DOUBTFUL PLAYS OF SHAKESPEAR [337/339]
conception ofShakespear. Among these we may reckon the joy of the treacherous
Moor at the blackness and ugliness of his child begot in adultery; and in the
compassion ofTitus Andronicus, grown childish through grief, for a fly which had
been struck dead, and his rage afterwards when he imagines he discovers in it his
black enemy, we recognize the future poet of Lear. Are the critics afraid that
Shakespear's fame would be injured, were it established that in his early youth he
ushered into the world a feeble and immature work? Was Rome the less the
conqueror of the world because Remus could leap over its first walls? Let any one
place himself in Shakespear's situation at the commencement of his career. He
found only a few indifferent models, and yet these met with the most favourable
reception, because men are never difficult to please in the novelty of an art before
their taste has become fastidious from choice and abundance. Must not this
situation have had its influence on him before he learned to make higher demands
on himself, and by digging deeper in his own mind, discovered the richest veins of
a noble metal? It is even highly / probable that he must have made several failures
before getting into the right path. Genius is in a certain sense infallible, and has
nothing to learn; but art is to be learned and must be acquired by practice and
experience. In Shakespear's acknowledged works we find hardly any traces of his
apprenticeship, and yet an apprenticeship he certainly had. This every artist must
have, and especially in a period where he has not before him the example of a
school already formed. I consider it as extremely probable, that Shakespear began
to write for the theatre at a much earlier period than the one which is generally
stated, namely, not till after the year 1590. It appears that, as early as the year 1584,
when only twenty years of age, he had left his paternal home and repaired to
London. Can we imagine that such an active head would remain idle for six whole
years without making any attempt to emerge by his talents from an uncongenial
situation? That in the dedication ofthe poem ofVenus and Adonis he calls it, "the
first heir of his invention," proves nothing against the supposition. It was the first
which he printed; he might have composed it at an earlier period; perhaps, also, he
did not include theatrical labours, as they then possessed but little dignity. The
earlier Shakespear began to compose for the theatre, the less are we enabled to
consider the immaturity and / imperfection ofa work as a proofofits spuriousness
in opposition to historical evidence, ifwe only find in it prominent features of his
mind. Several ofthe works rejected as spurious, may still have been produced in the
period betwixt Titus Andronicus, and the earliest of the acknowledged pieces.
'At last, Steevens published seven pieces ascribed to Shakespear in two
supplementary volumes. It is to be remarked, that they all appeared in print in
Shakespear's life-time, with his name prefixed at full length. They are the
following: -
'1. Locrine. The proofs of the genuineness of this piece are not altogether
unambiguous; the grounds for doubt, on the other hand, are entitled to attention.
263
However, this question is immediately connected with that respecting Titus

Andronicus, and must be at the same time resolved in the affirmative or negative.
'2. Pericles, Prince of Tyre. This piece was acknowledged by Dryden, but as a
youthful work ofShakespear. It is most undoubtedly his, and it has been admitted
into several of the late editions. The supposed imperfections originate in the
circumstance, that Shakespear here handled a childish and extravagant romance of
the old poet Gower, and was unwilling to drag the subject out ofits proper sphere.
Hence he even introduces Gower himself, and makes him / deliver a prologue
entirely in his antiquated language and versification. This power of assuming so
foreign a manner is at least no proof of helplessness.
'3. The London Prodigal. If we are not mistaken, Lessing pronounced this piece to
be Shakespear's, and wished to bring it on the German stage.
'4. The Puritan; or, the Widow of Watling Street. One of my literary friends,
intimately acquainted with Shakespear, was of opinion that the poet must have
wished to write a play for once in the style ofBenJonson, and that in this way we
must account for the difference between the present piece and his usual manner. To
follow out this idea however would lead to a very nice critical investigation.
'5. Thomas, Lord Cromwell.
'6. SirJohn Oldcastle - First Part.
'7. A Yorkshire Tragedy.
'The three last pieces are not only unquestionably Shakespear's, but in my
opinion they deserve to be classed among his best and maturest works. - Steevens
admits at last, in some degree that they are Shakespear's, as well as the others,
excepting Locrine, but he speaks of all of them with great contempt, as quite
worthless productions. This condemnatory sentence is not however in the slightest
degree convincing, nor is it supported by critical acumen. I should/ like to see how
such a critic would, of his own natural suggestion, have decided on Shakespear's
acknowledged master-pieces, and what he would have thought ofpraising in them,
had the public opinion not imposed on him the duty of admiration. Thomas, Lord
Cromwell, and SirJohn Oldcastle, are biographical dramas and models in this species:
the first is linked, from its subject, to Henry the Eighth, and the second to Henry the
Fifth. The second part of Oldcastle is wanting; I know not whether a copy ofthe old
edition has been discovered in England, or whether it is lost. The Yorkshire Tragedy
is a tragedy in one act, a dramatised tale of murder: the tragical effect is
overpowering, and it is extremely important to see how poetically Shakespear
could handle such a subject.
'There have been still farther ascribed to him: -1st. The Merry Devil of Edmonton,
a comedy in one act, printed in Dodsley's old plays. This has certainly some
appearances in its favour. It contains a merry landlord, who bears a great similarity
to the one in the Merry Wives of Windsor. However, at all events, though an
ingenious, it is but a hasty sketch. 2d. The Accusation of Paris. 3d. The Birth ofMerlin.
264
DOUBTFUL PLAYS OF SHAKESPEAR [341/344]
4th. Edward the Third. 5th. The Fair Emma. 6th. Mucedorus. 7th. Arden of Feversham.
I have never seen any ofthese, and cannot therefore say any thing respecting them.
From the / passage cited, I am led to conjecture that the subject of Mucedorus is the
popular story of Valentine and Orson; a beautiful subject which Lope de Vega has
also taken for a play. Arden of Feversham is said to be a tragedy on the story ofa man,
from whom the poet was descended by the mother's side. If the quality ofthe piece
is not too directly at variance with this claim, the circumstance would afford an
additional probability in its favour. For such motives were not foreign to
Shakespear: he treated Henry the Seventh, who bestowed lands on his forefathers
for services performed by them, with a visible partiality.
'Whoever takes from Shakespear a play early ascribed to him, and confessedly
belonging to his time, is unquestionably bound to answer, with some degree of
probability, this question: who has then written it? Shakespear's competitors in the
dramatic walk are pretty well known, and ifthose ofthem who have even acquired
a considerable name, a Lilly, a Marlow, a Heywood, are still so very far below him,
we can hardly imagine that the author ofa work, which rises so high beyond theirs,
would have remained unknown. ' 1 - Lectures on Dramatic Literature, vol. ii. page 252.
We agree to the truth of this last observation, but not to the justice of its
application to some of the plays here mentioned. It is true that Shakespear's / best
works are very superior to those ofMarlow, or Heywood, but it is not true that the
best of the doubtful plays above enumerated are superior or even equal to the best
of theirs. The Yorkshire Tragedy, which Schlegel speaks of as an undoubted
production of our author's, is much more in the manner of Heywood than of
Shakespear. The effect is indeed overpowering, but the mode of producing it is by
no means poetical. The praise which Schlegel gives to Thomas, Lord Cromwell, and
to Sir John Oldcastle, is altogether exaggerated. They are very indifferent
compositions, which have not the slightest pretensions to rank with Henry V or
Henry VIII. We suspect that the German critic was not very well acquainted with the
dramatic contemporaries ofShakespear, or aware oftheir general merits; and that he
accordingly mistakes a resemblance in style and manner for an equal degree of
excellence. Shakespear differed from the other writers ofhis age not in the mode of
treating his subjects, but in the grace and power which he displayed in them. The
reason assigned by a literary friend of Schlegel's for supposing The Puritan; or, the
Widow of Watling Street, to be Shakespear's, viz, that it is in the style ofBen Jonson,
that is to say, in a style just the reverse of his own, is not very satisfactory to a plain
English understanding. Locrine, and The London Prodigal, ifthey were Shakespear's /
at all, must have been among the sins of his youth. Arden of Feversham contains
several striking passages, but the passion which they express is rather that ofsanguine
temperament than ofa lofty imagination; and to this respect they approximate more
nearly to the style ofother writers ofthe time than to Shakespear's. Titus Andronicus
is certainly as unlike Shakespear's usual style as it is possible. It is an accumulation of
265
vulgar physical horrors, in which the power exercised by the poet bears no
proportion to the repugnance excited by the subject. The character of Aaron the
Moor is the only thing which shews any originality of conception; and the scene in
which he expresses his joy 'at the blackness and ugliness of his child begot in
adultery,' the only one worthy ofShakespear. Even this is worthy ofhim only in the
display of power, for it gives no pleasure. Shakespear managed these things
differently. Nor do we think it a sufficient answer to say that this was an embryo or
crude production of the author. In its kind it is full grown, and its features decided
and overcharged. It is not like a first imperfect essay, but shews a confirmed habit,
a systematic preference of violent effect to every thing else. There are occasional
detached images ofgreat beauty and delicacy, but these were not beyond the powers
of other writers then living. The circumstance which / inclines us to reject the
external evidence in favour of this play being Shakespear's is, that the grammatical
construction is constantly false and mixed up with vulgar abbreviations, a fault that
never occurs in any of his genuine plays. A similar defect, and the halting measure
of the verse are the chief objections to Pericles of Tyre, if we except the far-fetched
and complicated absurdity ofthe story. The movement ofthe thoughts and passions
has something in it not unlike Shakespear, and several of the descriptions are either
the original hints of passages which Shakespear has ingrafted on his other plays, or
are imitations ofthem by some contemporary poet. The most memorable idea in it
is in Marina's speech, where she compares the world to 'a lasting storm, hurrying her
from her friends.' 2 /
Poems and Sonnets
Our idolatry ofShakespear (not to say our admiration) ceases with his plays. In his
other productions, he was a mere author, though not a common author. It was only
by representing others, that he became himsel£ He could go out of himself, and
express the soul of Cleopatra; but in his own person he appeared to be always
waiting for the prompter's cue. In expressing the thoughts of others, he seemed
inspired; in expressing his own, he was a mechanic. The licence of an assumed
character was necessary to restore his genius to the privileges of nature and to give
him courage to break through the tyranny of fashion, the trammels of custom. In
his plays, he was 'as broad and casing as the general air:' 1 in his poems, on the
266
POEMS AND SONNETS [346/349)
contrary, he appears, to be 'cooped, and cabined in' 2 by all the technicalities ofart,
by all the petty intricacies / of thought and language, which poetry had learned
from the controversial jargon of the schools, where words had been made a
substitute for things. There was, if we mistake not, something of modesty, and a
painful sense ofpersonal propriety at the bottom ofthis. Shakespear's imagination,
by identifying itself with the strongest characters in the most trying circumstances,
grappled at once with nature, and trampled the littleness of art under his feet: the
rapid changes ofsituation, the wide range of the universe, gave him life and spirit,
and afforded full scope to his genius; but returned into his closet again, and having
assumed the badge of his profession, he could only labour in his vocation, and
conform himself to existing models. The thoughts, the passions, the words which
the poet's pen, 'glancing from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven,' 3 lent to
others, shook offthe fetters ofpedantry and affection; while his own thoughts and
feelings, standing by themselves, were siezed upon as lawful prey, and tortured to
death according to the established rules and practice of the day. In a word, we do
not like Shakespear's poems, because we like his plays: the one, in all their
excellencies, are just the reverses of the other. It has been the fashion oflate to cry
up our author's poems, as equal to his plays: this is the desperate cant of modem
criticism. We / would ask, was there the slightest comparison between Shakespear,
and either Chaucer or Spenser, as mere poets? Not any. -The two poems ofVenus
and Adonis and ofTarquin and Lucrece appear to us like a couple of ice-houses.
They are about as hard, as glittering, and as cold. The author seems all the time to
be thinking of his verses, and not ofhis subject, - not ofwhat his characters would
feel, but ofwhat he shall say; and as it must happen in all such cases, he always puts
into their mouths those things which they would be the last to think of, and which
it shews the greatest ingenuity in him to find out. The whole is laboured, up-hill
work. The poet is perpetually singling out the difficulties of the art to make an
exhibition ofhis strength and skill in wrestling with them. He is making perpetual
trials ofthem as ifhis mastery over them were doubted. The images which are often
striking, are generally applied to things which they are the least like: so that they do
not blend with the poem, but seem stuck upon it, like splendid patch-work, or
remain quite distinct from it, like detached substances, painted and varnished over.
A beautiful thought is sure to be lost in an endless commentary upon it. The
speakers are like persons who have both leisure and inclination to make riddles on
their own situation, and to twist and tum every object or incident into acrostics and
anagrams. Every / thing is spun out into allegory and a digression is always preferred
to the main story. Sentiment is built up upon plays of words; the hero or heroine
feels, not from the impulse of passion, but from the force of dialectics. There is
besides a strange attempt to substitute the language of painting for that of poetry,
to make us see their feelings in the faces ofthe persons; and again, consistently with
this, in the description ofthe picture in Tarquin and Lucrece, those circumstances
267
are chiefly insisted on, which it would be impossible to convey except by words.
The invocation to opportunity in the Tarquin and Lucrece is full of thoughts and
images, but at the same time it is over-loaded by them. The concluding stanza
expresses all our objections to this kind of poetry: -
Oh! idle words, servants to shallow fools;

Unprofitable sounds, weak arbitrators;
Busy yourselves in skill-contending schools;
Debate when leisure serves with dull debaters;
To trembling clients be their mediators:
For me I force not argument a straw,
Since that my case is past all help oflaw. 4
The description ofthe horse in Venus and Adonis has been particularly admired,
and not without reason: -
Round hoofd, short jointed, fetlocks shag and long,

Broad breast, foll eyes, small head, and nostril wide,
High crest, short ears, strait legs, and passing strong,
Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide, I
Look what a horse should have, he did not lack,
Save a proud rider on so proud a back. 5
Now this inventory of perfections shews great knowledge of the horse, and is
good matter-of-fact poetry. Let the reader but compare it with a speech in the
Midsummer Night's Dream where Theseus describes his hounds -
And their heads are hung

With ears that sweep away the morning dew 6 -
And he will perceive at once what we mean by the difference between Shakespear's
own poetry, and that of his plays. We prefer the Passionate Pilgrim very much to
the Lover's Complaint. It has been doubted whether the latter poem is
Shakespear's.
Of the Sonnets we do not well know what to say. The subject ofthem seems to
be somewhat equivocal; but many of them are highly beautiful in themselves, and
interesting as they relate to the state of the personal feelings of the author. The
following are some of the most striking: -
Constancy7
Let those who are in favour with their stars,
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,
Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most.
Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread,
But as the marigold in the sun's eye; /
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POEMS AND SONNETS [351/352]
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
For at a frown they in their glory die.
The painful warrior famous' d for fight,
After a thousand victories once foil' d,
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
And all the rest forgot for which he toil' d:
Then happy I, that love and am belov' d,
Where I may not remove, nor be remov'd.'
Love's Consolation 8
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my out-cast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least:
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, - and then my state
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember' d, such wealth brings,
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
Novelty 9
My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming;
I love not less, though less the show appear:
That love is merchandis'd, whose rich esteeming
The owner's tongue doth publish every where.
Our love was new, and then but in the spring,
When I was wont to greet it with my lays:
As Philomel in summer's front doth sing,
And stops his pipe in growth of riper days:
Not that the summer is less pleasant now/
Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,
But that wild music burdens every bough,
And sweets grown common-lose their dear delight.
Therefore, like her, I sometime hold my tongue,
Because I would not dull you with my song.
Life's Decay 10
That time of year thou may' st in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin' d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day,
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[352] SELECTED WRITINGS OF WILLIAM HAZLITT: VOLUME 1
As after sun-set fadeth in the west,

Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou seest the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
In all these, as well as in many others, there is a mild tone of sentiment, deep,
mellow, and sustained, very different from the crudeness of his earlier poems. I
270
APPENDIX [67]
APPENDIX
Hazlitt's Review of Schegel 1

Lectures on Dramatic Literature. By W.A. SCHLEGEL.
Translated from the German, by JOHN BLACK Esq.
2 vol. Baldwin & Co. 1815.
This work is German; and is to be received with the allowances which that school
ofliterature generally requires. With these, however, it will be found a good work:
and as we should be sorry to begin our account ofit with an unmeaning sneer, we
will explain at once what appears to us to be the weak side of German literature.
In all that they do, it is evident that they are much more influenced by a desire of
distinction than by any impulse of the imagination, or the consciousness of
extraordinary qualifications. They write, not because they are full ofa subject, but
because they think it is a subject upon which, with due pains and labour, something
striking may be written. So they read and meditate, - and having, at length, devised
some strange and paradoxical view ofthe matter, they set about establishing it with
all their might and main. The consequence is, that they have no shades ofopinion,
but are always straining at a grand systematic conclusion. They have done a great
deal, no doubt, and in various departments; but their pretensions have always much
exceeded their performance. They are universal undertakers, and complete
encyclopedists, in all moral and critical science. No question can come before them
but they have a large apparatus oflogical and metaphysical principles ready to play
off upon it; and the less they know of the subject, the more formidable is the use
they make of their apparatus. In poetry, they have at one time gone to the utmost
lengths ofviolent effect, - and then turned round, with equal extravagance, to the
laborious production of no effect at all. The truth is, that they are naturally a slow,
heavy people; and can only be put in motion by some violent and often repeated
impulse, under the operation ofwhich they lose all control over themselves - and
nothing can stop them short ofthe last absurdity. Truth, in their view ofit, is never
what is, but what, according to their system, ought to be. Though they have dug
1
Hazlitt's review ofSchlegel's Lectures on Dramatic Literature was published in the Edinburgh Review
26 (February 1816) 67-107. Hazlitt had procured an advance copy from the translator, his
friend John Black (a former colleague on the Morning Chronicle), and proposed to review the
Lectures in a letter to Jeffrey of 1 May 1815:'Perhaps Schlegel would make a future article .... In
Schlegel there might be a comparison between Shakespeare and the French and german drama'
(Letters, 142). I have decided to include his first response to Schlegel in this appendix, as the
Lectures are such a pervasive influence on the Characters of Shakespear's Plays.
271
deeply in the mine of knowledge, they have too often confounded the dross and
the ore, and counted their gains rather by their weight than their quality. They are
a little apt, we suspect, literally to take the will for the deed, - and are not always
capable of distinguishing between effort and success. They are most at home,
accordingly, in matters of fact, and learned inquiries. In art they are hard, forced,
and mechanical; and, generally, they may be said to have all that depends on
strength ofunderstanding and persevering exertion, - but to / want ease, quickness
and flexibility. We should not have made these remarks, ifthe work before us had
formed an absolute exception to them.
William Schlegel has long been celebrated on the Continent as a philosophical
critic, and as the admirable translator of Shakespear and Calderon into his native
tongue. Madame de Stael acknowledges her obligations to him, for the insight
which he had given her into the discriminating features ofGerman genius: And M.
Sismondi, in his work on Southern literature, bears the most honourable testimony
to his talents and learning. The present work contains a critical and historical
account of the ancient and modern drama, - the Greek, the Latin, the Italian, the
French, the English, the Spanish, and the German. The view which the author has
taken of the standard productions, whether tragic or comic, in these different
languages, is in general ingenious and just; and his speculative reasonings on the
principles of taste, are often as satisfactory as they are profound. But he sometimes
carries the love of theory, and the spirt of partisanship, farther than is at all
allowable. His account of Shakespear is admirably characteristic, and must be
highly gratifying to the English reader. It is indeed by far the best account which
has been given of the plays of that great genius by any writer, either among
ourselves, or abroad. It is only liable to one exception - he will allow Shakespear
to have had no faults. Now, we think he had a great many, and that he could afford
to have had as many more. It shows a distrust of his genius, to be tenacious of his
defects.
Our author thus explains the object of his work -
Before I proceed farther, I wish to say a few words respecting the spirit of my
criticism - a study to which I have devoted a great part of my life. We see
numbers of men, and even whole nations, so much fettered by the habits of
their education and modes of living, that nothing appears natural, proper, or
beautiful, which is foreign to their language, their manners, and their social
relations. In this exclusive mode of seeing and feeling, it is no doubt possible,
by means of cultivation, to attain a great nicety of discrimination in the narrow
circle within which they are circumscribed. But no man can be a true critic or
connoisseur, who does not possess a universality of mind, - who does not
possess that flexibility which, throwing aside all personal predilections and blind
habits, enables him to transport himself into the peculiarities of other ages and
nations, - to feel them as it were from their proper central point, - and to
recognize and respect whatever is beautiful and grand under these external
272
APPENDIX [69/70]
circumstances which are necessary to their existence, and which sometimes
even seem to disguise them. There is no monopoly of poetry for certain ages
and nations; and consequently, that / despotism in taste, by which it is
attempted to make those rules universal, which were at first perhaps arbitrarily
established, is a pretension which ought never to be be allowed. Poetry, taken
in its widest acceptation, as the power of creating what is beautiful, and
representing it to the eye or ear, is a universal gift of Heaven; which is even
shared to a certain extent by those whom we call barbarians and savages.
Internal excellence is alone decisive; and where this exists, we must now allow
ourselves to be repelled by external circumstances.
It is well known, that, three centuries and a half ago, the study of ancient
literature, by the diffusion of the Greek language (for the Latin was never
extinct) received a new life: The classical authors were sought after with avidity,
and made accessible by means of the press; and the monuments of ancient art
were carefully dug up, and preserved. All this excited the human mind in a
powerful manner, and formed a decided epoch in the history ofour cultivation;
the fruits have extended to our times, and will extend to a period beyond the
power ofour calculation. But the study ofthe ancients was immediately carried
to a most pernicious excess. The learned, who were chiefly in possession ofthis
knowledge, and who were incapable ofdistinguishing themselves by their own
productions, yielded an unlimited deference to the ancients, - and with great
appearance of reason, as they are models in their kind. They maintained, that
nothing could be hoped for the human mind, but in the imitation of the
ancients; and they only esteemed, in the works of the moderns, whatever
resembled, or seemed to bear a resemblance, to those of antiquity. Every thing
else was rejected by them as barbarous and unnatural. It was quite otherwise
witht he great poets and artists. However strong their enthusiasm for the
ancients, and however determined their purpose of entering into competition
with them, they were compelled by the characteristic peculiarity oftheir minds
to proceed in a track oftheir own, - and to impress upon their productions the
stamp oftheir own genius. Such was the case with Dante among the Italians, the
father of modern poetry: he acknowledged Virgil for his instructor; but
produced a work, which of all others differs the most from the Aeneid, and far
excels it, in our opinion, in strength, truth, depth, and comprehension. It was the same
afterwards with Ariosto, who has been most unaccountably compared to
Homer; for nothing can be more unlike. It was the same in the fine arts with
Michael Angelo and Raphael, who were without doubt well acquainted with
the antique. When we ground our judgment of modern painters merely on
their resemblance to the ancients, we must necessarily be unjust towards them.
As the poets for the most part acquiesced in the doctrines ofthe learned, we may
observe a curious struggle in them between their natural inclination and their
imagined duty. When they sacrificed to the latter, they were praised by the
learned; but, by yielding to their own inclinations, they became the favourites
ofthe people. What preserves the heroic poems ofa Tasso or a Camoens to this
day alive, in the hearts and / on the lips of their countrymen, is by no means
their imperfect resemblance to Virgil or even to Homer, - but, in Tasso, the
tender feeling of chivalrous love and honour, and in Camoens the glowing
inspiration of patriotic heroism.
273
The author next proceeds to unfold that which is the nucleus of the prevailing
system of German criticism, and the foundation of his whole work, namely, the
essential distinction between the peculiar spirit of the modern or romantic style of
art, and the antique or classical. There is in this part of the work a singular mixture
of learning, acuteness and mysticism. We have certain profound suggestions and
distant openings to the light; but, every now and then, we are suddenly left in the
dark, and obliged to grope our way by ourselves. We cannot promise to find a clue
out of the labyrinth; but we will at least attempt it. The most obvious distinction
between the two styles, the classical and the romantic, is, that the one is conversant
with objects that are grand or beautiful in themselves, or in consequence ofobvious
and universal associations; the other, with those that are interesting only by the
force ofcircumstances and imagination. A Grecian temple, for instance, is a classical
object: it is beautiful in itself, and excites immediate admiration. But the ruins of a
Gothic castle have no beauty or symmetry to attract the eye; and yet they excite a
more powerful and romantic interest from the ideas with which they are habitually
associated. If, in addition to this, we are told that this is Macbeth's castle, the scene
of the murder of Duncan, the interest will be instantly heightened to a sort of
pleasing horror. The classical idea or form of any thing, it may also be observed,
remains always the same, and suggests nearly the same impressions; but the
associations of ideas belonging to the romantic character, may vary infinitely, and
take in the whole range of nature and accident. Antigone, in Sophocles, waiting
near the grove of the Furies - Electra, in JEschylus, offering sacrifice at the tomb
of Agamemnon - are classical subjects, because the circumstances and the
characters have a correspondent dignity, and an immediate interest, from their
mere designation. Florimel, in Spenser, where she is described sitting on the
ground in the Witch's hut, is not classical, though in the highest degree poetical and
romantic: for the incidents and situation are in themselves mean and disagreeable,
till they are redeemed by the genius of the poet, and converted, by the very
contrast, into a source of the utmost pathos and elevation of sentiment. Othello's
handkerchief is not classical, though 'there was magic in the web;' - it is only a
powerful instrument of passion and imagination. Even Lear is not classical; for he
is a poor crazy old man, who has nothing sublime about him but his affiictions, and
who dies of a broken heart. /
Schlegel somewhere compares the Furies of JEschylus to the Witches of
Shakespear - we think without much reason. Perhaps Shakespear has surrounded
the Weird Sisters with associations as terrible, and even more mysterious, strange,
and fantastic than the Furies ofJEschylus; but the traditionary beings themselves are
not so petrific. These are of marble, - their look alone must blast the beholder; -
those are of air, bubbles; and though 'so withered and so wild in their attire,' it is
their spells alone which are fatal. They owe their power to 'metaphysical aid;' but
the others contain all that is dreadful in their corporal figures. In this we see the
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distinct spirit of the classical and the romantic mythology. The serpents that twine
round the head of the Furies are not to be trifled with, though they implied no
preternatural power: The bearded Witches in Macbeth are in themselves grotesque
and ludicrous, except as this strange deviation from nature staggers our
imagination, and leads us to expect and to believe in all incredible things. They
appal the faculties by what they say or do; - the others are intolerable, even to sight.
Our author is right in affirming, that the true way to understand the plays of
Sophocles and 1.Eschylus, is to study them before the groupes of the Niobe or the
Laocoon. If we can succeed in explaining this analogy, we shall have solved nearly
the whole difficulty. For it is certain, that there are exactly the same powers ofmind
displayed in the poetry ofthe Greeks as in their statues. Their poetry is exactly what
their sculptors might have written. Both are exquisite imitations ofnature; the one
in marble, the other in words. It is evident, that the Greek poets had the same
perfect idea ofthe subjects they described, as the Greek sculptors had ofthe objects
they represented; and they give as much of this absolute truth of imitation, as can
be given by words. But, in this direct and simple imitation, as in describing the form
ofa beautiful woman, the poet is greatly inferior to the scupltor: It is in the power
ofillustration, in comparing it to other things, and suggesting other ideas ofbeauty
or love, that he has an entirely new source of imagination opened to him; and of
this power, the moderns have made at least a bolder and more frequent use than the
ancients. The description of Helen in Homer, is a description ofwhat might have
happened and been seen, as 'that she moved with grace and that the old men rose
up with reverence as she passed;' the description of Belphoebe in Spenser, is a
description of what was only visible to the eye of the poet.
Upon her eyelids many graces sat,

Under the shadow of her even brow.
The description of the soldiers going to battle in Shakespear, / 'all plumed like
estriches, like eagles newly bathed, wanton as goats, wild as young bulls,' is too
bold, figurative, and profuse of dazzling images, for the mild, equable tone of
classical poetry, which never loses sight of the object in the illustration. The ideas
ofthe ancients were too exact and definite, too much attached to the material form
or vehicle in which they were conveyed, to admit of those rapid combinations,
those unrestrained flights offancy, which, glancing from heaven to earth, unite the
most opposite extremes, and draw the happiest illustrations from things the most
remote. The two principles of imitation and imagination indeed, are not only
distinct, but almost opposite. For the imagination is that power which represents
objects, not as they are, but as they are moulded according to our fancies and
feelings. Let an object be presented to the senses in a state ofagitation and fear- and
the imagination will magnify the object, and convert it into whatever is most
proper to encourage the fear. It is the same in all other cases in which poetry speaks
275
the language ofthe imagination. This language is not the less true to nature because
it is false in point of fact; but so much the more true and natural, if it conveys the
impression which the object under the influence ofpassion makes on the mind. We
compare a man of gigantic stature to a tower; not that he is any thing like so large,
but because the excess of his size, beyond what we are accustomed to expect,
produces a greater feeling of magnitude and ponderous strength than an object of
ten times the same dimensions. Things, in short, are equal in the imagination,
which have the power of affecting the mind with an equal degree of terror,
admiration, delight or love. When Lear calls upon the Heavens to avenge his cause,
'for they are old like him,' there is nothing extravagant or impious in this sublime
identification of his age with theirs; for there is no other image which could do
justice to the agonizing sense of his wrongs and his despair!
The great difference, then, which we find between the classical and the romantic
style, between ancient and modern poetry, is, that the one more frequently
describes things as they are interesting in themselves, - the other for the sake ofthe
associations of ideas connected with them; that the one dwells more on the
immediate impressions ofobjects on the senses - the other on the ideas which they
suggest to the imagination. The one is the poetry ofform, the other of effect. The
one gives only what is necessarily implied in the subject; the other all that can
possibly arise out of it. The one seeks to identify the imitation with an external
object, - clings to it, - is inseparable from it, - is either that or nothing; the other
seeks to identify the original impression with whatever else, within the range of
thought or/ feeling, can strengthen, relieve, adorn or elevate it. Hence the severity
and simplicity of the Greek tragedy, which excluded every thing foreign or
unnecessary to the subject. Hence the unities: for in order to identify the imitation
as much as possible with the reality, and leave nothing to mere imagination, it was
necessary to give the same coherence and consistency to the different parts of a
story, as to the different limbs of a statue. Hence the beauty and grandeur of their
materials; for deriving their power over the mind from the truth of the imitation,
it was necessary that the subject which they made choice of, and from which they
could not depart, should be in itself grand and beautiful. Hence the perfection of
their execution; which consisted in giving the utmost harmony, delicacy, and
refinement to the details of a given subject. Now, the characteristic excellence of
the moderns is the reverse ofall this. As, according to the author, the poetry of the
Greeks is the same as their sculpture; so, he says, our own more nearly resembles
painting, - where the artist can relieve and throw back his figures at plesure, - use
a greater variety ofcontrasts, - and where light and shade, like the colours offancy,
are reflected on the different objects. The Muse of classical poetry should be
represented as a beautiful naked figure: the Muse of modern poetry should be
represented clothed, and with wings. The first has the advantage in point of form;
the last in colour and motion.
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Perhaps we may trace this difference to something analogous in physical

organization, situation, religion and manners. First, the natural organization ofthe
Greeks seems to have been more perfect, more susceptible ofexternal impressions,
and more in harmony with external nature than ours, who have not the same
advantages ofclimate and constitution. Born ofa beautiful and vigorous race, with
quick senses and a clear understanding, and placed under a mild heaven, they gave
the fullest development to their external faculties: and where all is perceived easily,
every thing is perceived in harmony and proportion. It is the stern genius of the
North which drives men back upon their own resources, which makes them slow
to perceive, and averse to feel, and which, by rendering them insensible to the
single, successive impressions of things, requires their collective and combined
force to rouse the imagination violently and unequally. It should be remarked,
however, that the early poetry ofsome ofthe Eastern nations has even more ofthat
irregularity, wild enthusiasm, and disproportioned grandeur, which has been
considered as the distinguishing character of the Northern nations.
Again, a good deal may be attributed to the state of manners and political
institutions. The ancient Greeks were warlike tribes encamped in cities. They had
no other country than that which / was enclosed within the walls of the town in
which they lived. Each individual belonged, in the first instance, to the State; and
his relations to it were so close, as to take away, in a great measure, all personal
independence and free-will. Every one was mortised to his place in society, and had
his station assigned him as part of the political machine, which could only subsist
by strict subordination and regularity. Every man was as it were perpetually on
duty, and his faculties kept constant watch and ward. Energy of purpose, and
intensity of observation, became the necessary characteristics of such a state of
society; and the general principle communicated itself from this ruling concern for
the public, to morals, to art, to language, to every thing. - The tragic poets of
Greece were among her best soldiers; and it is no wonder that they were as severe
in their poetry as in their discipline. Their swords and their styles carved out their
way with equal sharpness. This state of things was afterwards continued under the
Roman empire. In the ages of chivalry and romance, which, after a considerable
interval, succeeded its dissolution, and which have stamped their character on
modern genius and literature, all was reversed. Society was again resolved into its
component parts; and the world was, in a manner, to begin anew. The ties which
bound the citizen and the soldier to the State being loosened, each person was
thrown back, as it were, into the circle of the domestic affections, or left to pursue
his doubtful way to fame and fortune alone. This interval of time might be
accordingly supposed to give birth to all that was constant in attachment,
adventurous in action, strange, wild and extravagant in invention. Human life took
the shape ofa busy, voluptuous dream, where the imagination was now lost amidst
'antres vast and deserts idle;' or, suddenly transported to stately palaces, echoing
277
with dance and song. In this uncertainty of events, this fluctuation of hopes and
fears, all objects became dim, confused and vague. Magicians, dwarfs, giants,
followed in the train ofromance; and Orlando's enchanted sword, the horn which
he carried with him, and which he blew thrice at Roncesvalles, and Rogero's
winged horse, were not sufficient to protect them in their unheard-of encounters,
or deliver them from their inextricable difficulties. It was a return to the period of
the early heroic ages; but tempered by the difference ofdomestic manners, and the
spirit ofreligion. The marked difference in the relation ofthe sexes, arose from the
freedom ofchoice in women, which, from being the slaves ofthe will and passions
of men, converted them into the arbiters of their fate, which introduced the
modem system of gallantry, and first made love a feeling of the heart, founded on
mutual affection and esteem. The leading virtues of the Christian religion / self-
denial and generosity, assisted in producing the same effect. - Hence the spirit of
chivalry, of romantic love, and honour!
The mythology ofthe romantic poetry differed from the received religion: both
differed essentially from the classical. The religion, or mythology of the Greeks,
was nearly allied to their poetry: it was material and definite. The Pagan system
reduced the Gods to the human form, and elevated the powers ofinanimate nature
to the same standard. Statues carved out of the finest marble, represented the
objects of their religious worship in airy porticos, in solemn temples and
consecrated groves. Mercury was seen 'new-lighted on some heaven-kissing hill;'
and the Naiad or Dryad came gracefully forth as the personified genius ofthe stream
or wood. All was subjected to the senses. The Christian religion, on the contrary,
is essentially spiritual and abstract; it is 'the evidence of things unseen.' In the
Heathen mythology, form is everywhere predominant; in the Christian, we find
only unlimited, undefined power. The imagination alone 'broods over the
immense abyss, and makes it pregnant.' There is, in the habitual belief of an
universal, invisible Principle ofall things, a vastness and obscurity which confounds
our perceptions, while it exalts our piety. A mysterious awe surrounds the doctrines
of the Christian faith: the Infinite is everywhere before us, whether we tum to
reflect on what is revealed to us of the Divine nature or our own.
History, as well as religion, has contributed to enlarge the bounds ofimagination;
and both together, by showing past and future objects at an interminable distance,
have accustomed the mind to contemplate and take an interest in the obscure and
shadowy. The ancients were more circumscribed within 'the ignorant present
time,' - spoke only their own language, - were conversant only with their own
customs, - were acquainted only with the events of their own history. The mere
lapse of time then, aided by the art ofprinting, has served to accumulate for us an
endless mass of mixed and contradictory materials; and by extending our
knowledge to a greater number ofthings, has made our particular ideas less perfect
and distinct. The constant reference to a former state of manners and literature, is
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a marked feature in modern poetry. We are always talking of the Greeks and
Romans; - they never said any thing of us. This circumstance has tended to give a
certain abstract elevation, and etherial refinement to the mind, without
strengthening it. We are lost in wonder at what has been done, and dare not think
of emulating it. The earliest modern poets, accordingly, may be conceived to hail
the glories of the antique world, dawning through the dark abyss of time; while
revelation, on the other hand, opened its / path to the skies: As Dante represents
himself as conducted by Virgil to the shades below; while Beatrice welcomes him
to the abodes of the blest.
We must now return, however, to our author, whose sketch of the rise and
progress of the Drama, will be interesting to our readers.
The invention of the dramatic art, and of a theatre, seem to lie very near one
another. Man has a great disposition to mimicry. When he enters vividly into
the situation, sentiments and passions of others, he even involuntarily puts on
a resemblance to them in his gestures. Childen are perpetually going out of
themselves: it is one oftheir chiefamusements to represent those grown people
whom they have had an opportunity of observing, or whatever comes in their
way: And with the happy flexibility oftheir imagination, they can exhibit all the
characteristics ofassumed dignity in a father, a schoolmaster, or a king. The sole
step which is requisite for the invention ofa drama, namely, the separating and
extracting the mimetic elements and fragments from social life, and
representing them collected together into one mass, has not, however, been
taken in many nations. In the very minute description of ancient Egypt in
Herodotus and other writers, I do not recollect observing the smallest trace of
it. The Etrurians, again, who in many respects resembled the Egyptians, had
their theatrical representations; and what is singular enough, the Etruscan name
for an actor, histrio, is preserved in living languages down to the present day. The
Arabians and Persians, though possessed of a rich poetical literature, are
unacquainted with any sort ofdrama. It was the same with Europe in the middle
ages. On the introduction of Christianity, the plays handed down among the
Greeks and Romans were abolished, partly from their reference to Heathen
ideas, and partly because they had degenerated into the most impudent and
indecent immorality; and they were not again revived till after the lapse of
nearly a thousand years. Even in the fourteenth century, we do not find in
Boccacio, who, however, gives us a most accurate picture of the whole
constitution of social life, the smallest trace ofplays. In place ofthem, they had
then only story-tellers, minstrels, and jugglers. On the other hand, we are by no
means entitled to assume, that the invention of the drama has only once taken
place in the world, or that it has always been borrowed by one people from
another. The English navigators mention, that among the islanders ofthe South
Seas, who, in every mental acquirement, are in such a low scale of civilization,
they yet observed a rude drama, in which a common event in life was imitated
for the sake ofdiversion. And to go to the other extreme:- Among the Indians,
the people from whom, perhaps, all the cultivation of the human race has been
derived, plays were known long before they could have experienced any
foreign influence. It has lately been made known to Europe, that they have a
279
rich dramatic literature, which ascends back for more than two hundred years.
The only specimen of their / plays (nataks) hitherto known to us, is the
delightful sakontala, which, notwithstanding the colouring ofa foreign climate,
bears, in its general structure, such a striking resemblance to our romantic
drama, that we might be inclined to suspect we owe this resemblance to the
predilection for Shakespear entertained by Jones the English translator, if his
fidelity were not confirmed by other learned Orientalists. In the golden times
of India, the representation of this natak served to delight the splendid imperial
court of Delhi; but it would appear that, from the misery of numberless
oppressions, the dramatic art in that country is now entirely at an end. The
Chinese, again, have their standing national theatre, stationary perhaps in every
sense of the word; and I do not doubt that, in the establishment of arbitrary
rules, and the delicate observance ofinsignificant points ofdecorum, they leave
the most correct Europeans very far behind them. When the new European
stage, in the fifteenth century, had its origin in the allegorical and spiritual pieces
called Moralities and Mysteries, this origin was not owing to the influence of
the ancient dramatists, who did not come into circulation till some time
afterwards. In those rude beginnings lay the germ of the romantic drama as a
peculiar invention. p.28.
The fault of this book is to have too much of every thing, but especially of
Greece; and we cannot help feeling, that the bold and independent judgment
which the author has applied to all other nations, is somewhat suborned or
overawed by his excessive veneration for those ancient classics. There is a glow and
a force, however, in all that he says upon the subject, that almost persuades us that
he is in the right, - and that there was something incomparably more lofty in the
conceptions of those early times, than the present undignified and degenerate age
can imagine. This imposing and enthusiastic tone discloses itselfin his introductory
remarks on the Grecian theatre. 'When we hear the word theatre' he says,
we naturally think ofwhat with us bears the same name; and yet nothing can be
more different from our theatre than the Grecian, in every part of its
construction. If, in reading the Greek pieces, we associate our own stage with
them, the light in which we shall view them must be false in every respect. -
The theatres of the Greeks were quite open above, and their dramas were
always acted in open day, and beneath the canopy of heaven. The Romans, at
an after period, endeavoured by a covering to shelter the audience from the rays
of the sun; but this degree of luxury was hardly ever enjoyed by the Greeks.
Such a state of things appears very inconvenient to us: But the Greeks had
nothing of effeminacy about them; and we must not forget, too, the beauty of
their climate. When they were overtaken by a storm or a shower, the play was
of course interrupted; and they would much rather expose themselves to an
accidental inconvenience, than, by shutting themselves up in a close and
crowded house, entirely destroy the serenity of a religious solemnity, which
their plays certainly/ were. To have covered in the scene itself, and imprisoned
gods and heroes in dark and gloomy apartments, imperfectly lighted up, would
have appeared still more ridiculous to them. An action which so nobly served
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to establish under an unobstructed sky, and under the very eyes of the gods, as
it were, for whom, according to Seneca, the sight ofa brave man struggling with
adversity is an attractive spectacle. The theatres of the ancients were, in
comparison with the small scale of ours, of a colossal magnitude, partly for the
sake ofcontaining the whole ofthe people, with the concourse ofstrangers who
flocked to the festivals, and partly to correspond with the majesty ofthe dramas
represented in them, which required to be seen at a respectful distance.
One ofthe most elaborate and interesting parts ofthis work, is the account ofthe
Greek tragedians, which is given in the fourth Lecture. Our extracts from it will be
copious, both on account of the importance of the subject, and the ability with
which it is treated.
Of the inexhaustible stores possessed by the Greeks in the department of

tragedy, which the public competition at the Athenian festivals called into
being, as the rival poets always contended for a prize, very little indeed has come
down to us. We only possess works of three of their numerous tragedians,
JEschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides; and these in no proportion to the number
of their compositions. The three authors in question were selected by the
Alexandrian critics as the foundation for the study of ancient Greek literature,
not because they alone were deserving ofestimation, but because they afforded
the best illustration of the various styles of tragedy. Of each of the two oldest
poets, we have seven remaining pieces; in these, however, we have, according
to the testimony ofthe ancients, several oftheir most distinguished productions.
Of Euripides, we have a much greater number, and we might well exchange
many of them for other works which are now lost; for example, the Satirical
Dramas of Act:eus, JEschylus and Sophocles; several pieces of Phrynichus, for
the sake ofcomparison with JEschylus; or ofAgathon, whom Plato describes as
effeminate, but sweet and affecting, and who was a contemporary ofEuripides,
though somewhat younger.
The tragic style ofJEschylus is grand, severe, and not unfrequently hard. In
the style of Sophocles, we observe the most complete proportion and
harmonious sweetness. The style ofEuripides is soft and luxuriant: Extravagant
in his easy fulness, he sacrifices the general effect to brilliant passages.
JEschylus is to be considered as the creator of Tragedy, which sprung from
him completely armed, like Pallas from the head ofJupiter. He clothed it in a
state ofsuitable dignity, and gave it an appropriate place of exhibition. He was
the inventor ofscenic pomp; and not only instructed the chorus in singing and
dancing, but appeared himselfin the character ofa player. He was the first/ who
gave development to the dialogue, and limits to the lyrical part of the tragedy,
which still however occupies too much space in his pieces. He draws his
characters with a few bold and strongly marked features. The plans are simple
in the extreme. He did not understand the art of enriching and varying an
action, and dividing its development and catastrophe into parts, bearing a due
proportion to each other. Hence his action often stands still; and this
circumstance becomes still more apparent, from the undue extension of his
choral songs. But all his poetry betrays a sublime and serious mind. Terror is his
element, and not the softer affections: he holds up the head of Medusa to his
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astonished spectators. His manner of treating Fate is austere in the extreme; he

suspends it over the heads of mortals in all its gloomy majesty. The Cothurnus
ofJEschylus has, as it were, an iron weight; gigantic figures alone stalk before
our eyes. It seems as ifit required an effort in him to condescend to paint mere
men to us: he abounds most in the representation of gods, and seems to dwell
with particular delight in exhibiting the Titans, those ancient gods who typify
the dark powers of primitive nature, and who had long been driven into
Tartarus, beneath a better regulated world. He endeavours to swell out his
language to a gigantic sublimity, corresponding with the standard of his
characters. Hence he abounds in harsh combinations and overstrained epithets;
and the lyrical parts of his pieces are often obscure in the extreme, from the
involved nature of the construction. He resembles Dante and Shakespeare in
the very singular cast of his images and expressions. These images are nowise
deficient in the terrible graces, which almost all the writers ofantiquity celebrate
in JEschylus. He flourished in the very first vigour ofthe Grecian freedom; was
an eyewitness of the overthrow, and annihilation of the Persian hosts under
Darius and Xerxes; and, in one of his pieces - the Persians - describes in the
most vivid and glowing colours the battle of Salamis. p.94.
Such is the general account ofJEschylus given by our author. He then proceeds
to give a distinct sketch ofeach ofhis tragedies. This, we will acknowledge, appears
to us considerably too rapturous and too long; - but we must give our readers a
specimen of what is perhaps the most elaborate, if not the most impressive part of
the whole publication. We shall select his account of the Eumenides or Furies, the
most terrible of all this poet's compositions.
The fable of the Eumenides is the justification and absolution of Orestes from
his bloody crime, the murder of Clytemnestra his mother. It is a trial, but a trial
where the gods are accusers and defenders and judges; and the manner in which
the subject is treated, corresponds with its majesty and importance. The scene
itself brought before the eyes of the Greeks the highest objects of veneration
which were known to them. It opens before the celebrated temple at Delphi,
which occupies the back-ground. The aged Pythia / enters in sacerdotal pomp,
addresses her prayers to the gods who preside over the oracle, harangues the
assembled people, and goes into the temple to seat herself on the tripod. She
returns full of consternation, and describes what she has seen in the temple; a
man stained with blood, supplicating protection, surrounded by sleeping
women with serpent hair. She then makes her exit by the same entrance. Apollo
now appears with Orestes in his traveller's garb, and a sword and olive branch
in his hands. He promises him his farther protection, commands him to fly to
Athens, and recommends him to the care of the present but invisible Mercury,
to whom travellers, and especially those who were under the necessity of
concealing their journey, were usually consigned. Orestes goes off at the side
alloted to strangers; Apollo re-enters the temple, which remains open, and the
Furies are seen in the interior sleeping on their seats. Clytemnestra now ascends
through the orchestra, and appears on the stage. We are not to suppose her a
haggard skeleton, but a figure with the appearance of life, though paler, still
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bearing her wounds in her breast, and shrouded in ethereal-coloured vestments.
She calls repeatedly to the Furies in the language of vehement reproach; and
then disappears. The Furies awake; and when they no longer find Orestes, they
dance in wild commotion round the stage during the choral song. Apollo
returns from the temple, and expels them from his sanctuary as profanatory
beings. We may here suppose him appearing with the sublime displeasure ofthe Apollo
of the Vatican, with bow and quiver, or clothed in his sacred tunic and chlamys. The
scene now changes; but the back-ground probably remained unchanged, and
had now to represent the temple ofMinerva on the hill ofMars; and the lateral
decorations would be converted into Athens and the surrounding landscape.
Orestes comes as from another land, and embraces as a suppliant the statue of
Pallas placed before the temple. The chorus (who were clothed in black, with
purple girdles, and serpents in their hair), follow him on foot to this place, but
remain throughout the rest ofthe piece beneath in the orchestra. The Furies had
at first exhibited the rage ofbeasts ofprey at the escape oftheir victim: but they
now sing with tranquil dignity their high and terrible office among mortals,
claim the head ofOrestes as forfeited to them and consecrate it with mysterious
charms of endless pain. Pallas, the warlike virgin, appears in a chariot and four
at the itercession of the suppliant. She listens with calm dignity to the mutual
complaints of Orestes and his adversaries, and finally undertakes the office of
umpire at the solicitation of the two parties. The assembled judges take their
seats on the steps ofthe temple; the herald commands silence among the people
by sound of trumpet, as at an actual tribunal. Apollo advances to advocate the
cause ofthe youth; the Furies in vain oppose his interference; and the arguments
for and against the deed are gone through in short speeches. The judges throw
their calculi into the um; Pallas throws in a white one; all are wrougth up to the
highest pitch of expectation; Orestes calls out, full of anguish, to his protector:
I 'O Phrebus Apollo, how is the cause dedded?' - The Furies on the other hand,
exclaim - 'O Black Night, mother of all things, dost thou behold this?' In the
enumeration of the black and white pebbles, they are found equal in number,
and the accused is therefore declared by Pallas acquitted of the charge. He
breaks out into joyful expressions ofthanks, while the Furies declaim against the
arrogance of the younger gods, who take such liberties with the race of Titan.
Pallas bears their rage with equanimity; addresses them in the language of
kindness, and even of veneration; and these beings, so untractable in their
general disposition, are unable to withstand the power of her mild and
convincing eloquence. They promise to bless the land over which she has
dominion; while Pallas assigns them a sanctuary in the Attic territory, where
they are to be called the Eumenides, that is, the Benevolent. The whole ends
with a solemn procession round the theatre, with songs of invocation; while
bands of children, women, and old men, in purple robes and with torches in
their hands, accompany the Furies in their exit. p .104.
The situation of Orestes at the opening of this tragedy, with the Furies lying
asleep on the floor, like aged women, with serpent hair, is perhaps the most terrible
that can be conceived. But yet, in this situation, dreadful as it is - the sense of
power; the representation of preternatural forms; the sacredness of the place; the
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momentary suspense ofthe action; the death-like stillness; the expectation ofwhat
is to come, subdue the spirit to a tone of awful tranquility, and, from the depth of
despair, produce a lofty grandeur and collectedness of mind.
If this extraordinary play be the most terrible ofJEschylus's works, the Chained
Prometheus is the grandest. It is less a tragedy than an ode. It does not describe a
series of actions, but a succession ofvisions. Prometheus, chained to a rock on the
verge of the world, holds parley with the original powers and oldest forms of
Nature, with Strength and Violence, and Oceanus and the race of the Titans.
Compared with the personages introduced in this poem,Jupiter and Mercury, and
the rest ofthat class, appear mere modern deities; we are thrown back into the first
rude chaos of Nature, where the universe itself seems to rock like the sea, and the
empire of heaven was not yet fixed. 'Prometheus,' says our author,
is an image of human nature itself; endowed with a miserable foresight, and

bound down to a narrow existence, without an ally, and with nothing to oppose
to the combined and inexorable powers of Nature, but an unshaken will, and
the consciousness of elevated claims. The other poems of the Greek tragedians
are single tragedies; but this may be called tragedy itself; its purest spirit is
revealed with all the overpowering influence of its first unmitigated austerity.
We agree with M. Schlegel, when he says, that 'there is I little external action in
this piece: Prometheus merely suffers and resolves from the beginning to the end.'
But we cannot assent to his assertion, that 'the poet has contrived in a masterly
manner, to introduce variety into that which was in itself determinate.' All that is
fine in it, is the abstract conception of the characters: The story is as uninteresting,
as it is inartificial and improbable.
The Seven before Thebes has also a very imperfect dramatic form. It is for the
most part only a narrative or descriptive dialogue passing between two persons, the
King and the Messenger. 'The description of the attack with which the city is
threatened,' says our critic, 'and of the seven leaders who have sworn its
destruction, and who display their arrogance in the symbols borne on their shields,
is an epic subject, clothed in the pomp of tragedy.' The Agamemnon and Electra
are the two tragedies ofJEschylus, which approach the nearest to the perfection of
the dramatic form, and which will bear an immediate comparison with those of
Sophocles on the same subjects. M. Schlegel has drawn a detailed and very
admirable parallel between the two poets. Sophocles, he observes, is the more
elegant painter of outward forms and manners; but JEschylus catches most of the
enthusiasm of the passion he describes, and communicates to the reader the lofty
impulses of his own mind. In giving a poetical colouring to objects from the
suggestions ofhis own genius - in describing not so much things themselves, as the
impression which they make on the imagination in a state ofstrong excitement, he
more nearly resembles some ofthe modern poets, than any ofhis countrymen. The
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magnificent opening of the Agamemnon, in which the watchman describes the

appearance ofthe fires for which he had watched ten long years, as the signal ofthe
destruction of Troy, might be cited as an instance of that rich and varied style,
which gives something over the bare description of the subject, and luxuriates in
the display of its own powers. The Ajax of Sophocles comes the nearest to the
general style of JEschylus, both in the nakedness of the subject, and the poetical
interest given to the character.
The account ofSophocles, which is next in order, is one ofthe most finished and
interesting parts of this work: though it is disfigured by one extraordinary piece of
rhodomontade, too characteristic to be omitted. After observing that Sophocles
lived to be upwards of ninety years of age, our philosophical German breaks out
into the following mystic strain.
It would seem as if the Gods, in return for his dedicating himself at an early age
to Bacchus as the giver ofalljoy, and the author ofthe cultivation ofthe human
race, by the representatives of tragical dramas for his festivals, had wished to
confer immortality / on him, so long did they delay the hour ofhis death: but,
as this was impo~sible, they extinguished his life at least as gently as possible, that
he migh imperceptibly change one immortality for another- the long duration
of his earthly existence for an imperishable name! p.117.
We cannot afford to enter into the detailed critique which M. Schlegel has here
offered upon the several plays of this celebrated author. The following passage
exhibits a more summary view ofthem. After mentioning the native sweetness for
which he was so celebrated among his contemporaries, he observes -
Whoever is thoroughly imbued with the feeling of this property, may flatter
himself that a sense for ancient art has arisen within him: for the lovers of the
affected sentimentality of the present day would, both in the representation of
bodily sufferings, and in the language and economy of the tragedies of
Sophocles, find much of an insupportable austerity. When we consider the
great fertility of Sophocles, for, according to some, he wrote a hundred and
thirty pieces, and eighty according to the most moderate account, we cannot
help wondering that seven only should have come down to us. Chance,
however, has so far favoured us, that, in these seven pieces, we find several
which were held by the ancients as his greatest works, Antigone, for example,
Electra, and the two Oedipuses; and these have also come down to us tolerably
free from mutilation and corruption in the text. The first Oedipus and
Philoctetes have been generally, without any good reason, preferred to all the
others by the modem critics: the first, on account of the artifice of the plot, in
which the dreadful catastrophe, powerfully calculated to excite our curiosity (a
rare case in the Greek tragedies), is brought about inevitably, by a succession of
causes, all dependent on one another: the latter, on account of the masterly
display of character, the beautiful contrast observable in the three leading
individuals, and the simple structure ofthe piece, in which, with so few persons,
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every thing proceeds from the truest motives. But the whole ofthe tragedies of
Sophocles are conspicuous for their separate excellences. In Antigone we have
the purest display offemale heroism; in Ajax the manly feeling ofhonour in its
whole force; in the Trachiniae, the female levity of Dejanira is beautifully
atoned for by her death; and the sufferings of Hercules are pourtrayed with
suitable dignity. Electra is distinguished for energy and pathos; in Oedipus
Coloneus there prevails the mildest emotion, and over the whole piece there is
diffused the utmost sweetness. I will not undertake to weigh the respective
merits ofthese pieces against each other; but I am free to confess that I entertain
a singular predilection for the last of them, as it appears to me the most
expressive ofthe personal feelings ofthe poet himsel£ As this piece was written
for the very purpose ofthrowing a lustre upon Athens, and the spot ofhis birth
more particularly, he appears to have laboured it with a remarkable degree of
fondness. p.123. I
In describing the Oedipus Coloneus, M. Schlegel has strikingly, and, we think,

beautifully, exemplified the distinct genius of Sophocles and .IEschylus, in the use
these two poets make of the Furies. 'In .IEschylus,' he says,
before the victim of persecution can be saved, the hellish horror of the Furies
most congeal the blood ofthe spectator, and make his hair stand on end; and the
whole rancour of these goddesses of rage must be exhausted. The transition to
their peaceful retreat is therefore the more astonishing: It seems as if the whole
human race were redeemed from their power. In Sophocles, however, they do
not even once make their appearance, but are altogether kept in the back-
ground; and they are not called by their proper name, but made known to us
by descriptions, in which they are a good deal spared. But even this obscurity
and distance, so suitable to these daughters ofNight, is calculated to excite in us
a still dread, in which the bodily senses have no part. The clothing the grove of
the Furies with all the charms ofa southern spring, completes the sweetness of
the poem: and were I to select an emblem of the poetry ofSophocles from his
tragedies, I should describe it as a sacred grove ofthe dark goddesses of Fate, in
which the laurel, the olive, and the vine, display their luxuriant vegetation, and
the song of the nightingale is for ever heard. p.128.
After all, however, the tragedies of Sophocles, which are the perfection of the
classical style, are hardly tragedies in our sense ofthe word. They do not exhibit the
extremity of human passion and suffering. The object of modern tragedy is to
represent the soul utterly subdued as it were, or at least convulsed and overthrown
by passion or misfortune. That ofthe ancients was to show how the greatest crimes
could be perpetrated with the least remorse, and the greatest calamities borne with
the least emotion. Firmness of purpose, and calmness of sentiment, and their
leading characteristics. Their heroes and heroines act and suffer as if they were
always in the presence of a higher power, or as if human life itself were a religious
ceremony, performed in honour of the Gods and of the State. The mind is not
shaken to its centre; the whole being is not crushed or broken down. Contradictory
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motives are not accumulated; the utmost force of imagination and passion is not
exhausted to overcome the repugnance of the will to crime; the contrast and
combination of outward accidents are not called in to overwhelm the mind with
the whole weight of unexpected calamity. The dire conflict of the feelings, the
desperate struggle with fortune, are seldom there. All is conducted with a fatal
composure. All is prepared and submitted to with inflexible constancy, as ifNature
were only an instrument in the hands of Fate.
It is for deviating from this ideal standard, and for a nearer approximation to the
frailty of human passion, that our author/ falls foul of Euripides without mercy.
There is a great deal of affectation and mysticism in what he says on this subject.
Allowing that the excellences of Euripides are not the same as those offEschylus
and Sophocles, or even that they are excellences ofan inferior order, yet it does not
follow that they are defects. The luxuriance and effeminacy with which he
reproaches the style ofEuripides might have been defects in those writers; but they
are essential parts ofhis system. In fact, as fEschylus differs from Sophocles in giving
greater scope to the impulses of the imagination, so Euripides differs from him in
giving greater indulgence to the feelings of the heart. The heart is the seat of pure
affection, - ofinvoluntary emotion, - of feelings brooding over and nourished by
themselves. In the dramas ofSophocles, there is no want ofthese feelings; but they
are suppressed or suspended by the constant operation of the senses and the will.
Beneath the rigid muscles by which the heart is there braced, there is no room left
for those bursts ofuncontrollable feeling, which dissolve it in tenderness, or plunge
it into the deepest woe. In the heroic tragedy, no one dies of a broken heart, -
scarcely a sigh is heaved, or a tear shed. Euripides has relaxed considerably from this
extreme self-possession; and it is on that account that our critic cannot forgive him.
The death of Alcestes alone might have disarmed his severity.
This play, which is the most beautiful of them all, - the Iphigenia, which is the
next to it, - the Phredra and Medea, which are more objectionable, both from the
nature of the subject, and the inferiority of the execution, are instances of the
occasional use which Euripides made of the conflict of different passions. Though
Antigone, in Sophocles, is in love with Hremon, and though there was here an
evident opportunity, and almost a necessity, for introducing a struggle between this
passion, which was an additional motive to attach her to life, and her affection to
the memory of her brother, which led her to sacrifice it, the poet has carefully
avoided taking any advantage of the circumstance. Such is the spirit of the heroic
tragedy, which suffers no other motives to interfere with the calm determination
of the will, and which admits of nothing complicated in the development, either
of the passions or the story! M. Schlegel decidedly prefers the Hippolytus of
Euripides to the Phredra ofRacine. His reasons he gives in another work, which we
have not seen; but we are not at a loss to guess at them. His taste for poetry is just
the reverse ofthe popular: He has a horror ofwhatever obtrudes itself violently on
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the notice, or tells at first sight; and is only disposed to admire those retired and
recondite beauties which hide themselves from all but the eye ofdeep discernment.
He relishes most I those qualities in an author which require the greatest sagacity
in the critic to find them out, - as none but connoisseurs are fond of the taste of
olives. We shall say nothing here of the choice of the subject; but such as it is,
Racine has met it more fully and directly: Euripides exhibits it, for the most part,
in the back-ground. The Hippolytus is a dramatic fragment in which the principal
events are given in a narrative form. The additions which Racine has chiefly
borrowed from Seneca to fill up the outline, are, we think, unquestionable
improvements. The declaration oflove, to which our author particularly objects,
is, however, much more gross and unqualified in Racine than in Seneca. The
modern additions to the Iphigenia in Aulis, by Racine, as the love between Achilles
and Iphigenia, and the jealousy of Eriphile, certainly destroy the propriety of
costume, as M. Schlegel has observed, without heightening the tragic interest. In
other respects, the French play is little more than an elegant, flowing, and
somewhat diffuse paraphrase ofthe Greek. The most striking example ofpathos in
it is the 'Tuy seras, mafille,' addressed by Agamemnon to his daughter, in answer
to her wish to be present at the sacrifice, ofwhich she is herself the destined victim.
Euripides was the model of Racine among the French, as he was of Seneca
among the Romans. The remarks which Schlegel makes on this last mentioned
author are exceedingly harsh, dogmatical, and intolerant. They are as bad, and
worse, than the sentence pronounced by Cowley on
- the dry chips of short-lung' d Seneca.
Hear what he says of him.
But whatever period may have given birth to the tragedies ofSeneca, they are
beyond description bombastical and frigid, unnatural in character and action -
revolting, from their violation of every propriety - and so destitute of every
thing like theatrical effect - that I am inclined to believe they were never
destined to leave the rhetorical schools for the stage. Every tragical
commonplace is spun out to the very last; all is phrase; and even the most
common remark is delivered in stilted language. The most complete poverty of
sentiment is dressed out with wit and acuteness. There is even a display offancy
in them, or at least a phantom of it; for they contain an example of the
misapplication of every mental faculty. The author or authors have found out
the secret of being diffuse, even to wearisomeness; and at the same time so
epigrammatically laconic, as to be often obscrure and unintelligible. Their
characters are neither ideal nor actual beings, but gigantic puppets, who are at
one time put in motion by the string of an unnatural heroism, and, at another,
by that of passions equally unnatural, which no guilt nor enormity can appal.
- Yet not merely learned men, without a feeling for art, have judged favourably
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I of them, nay preferred them to the Greek tragedies, but even poets have
accounted them deserving oftheir study and imitation. The influence ofSeneca
on Corneille's idea of tragedy cannot be mistaken: Racine, too, in his Pha::dra,
has condescended to borrow a good deal from him; and, among other things,
nearly the whole of the declaration of love, of all which we have an
enumeration in Brumoy.
The distaste of our learned critic to Euripides is sanctioned, no doubt, by the

ridicule of Aristophanes, from whom he gives a whole scene, in which a buffoon
comes to the tragic poet, to beg his rags, his alms-basket, and his water-pitcher, in
allusion to the homeliness of costume, and the outward signs of distress which are
sometimes exhibited in his tragedies. Aristophanes, of course, is an immense
favourite with Schlegel - though it requires all his ingenuity to gloss over and
allegorize his extravagance and indecency.
The plays of Peace, the Achamae and Lysistrata, will be found to recommend
peace. In the Clouds, he laughs at the metaphysics ofthe sophists; in the Wasps,
at the rage of the Athenians for hearing and determining lawsuits. The subject
ofthe Frogs is the decline ofthe tragic art; and Plutus is an allegory on the unjust
distribution of wealth. The Birds are, of all his pieces, the one of which the aim is
the least apparent; and it is on that very account one of the most diverting. p.213.
The comedies ofAristophanes, we confess, put the archaism of our taste, and the
soundness of our classic faith to a most severe test. The great difficulty is not so
much to understand their meaning, as to comprehend their species - to know to
what possible class to assign them - of what nondescript productions of nature or
art they are to be considered as anomalies. According to Schlegel, who might be
styled the Oedipus of criticism, they are the perfection of the old comedy. There is
much virtue, we are aware, in that appellation: But to us, we confess, they appear
to be neither comedies, nor farces, nor satires - but monstrous allegorical
pantomimes - enormous practical jokes - far-fetched puns, represented by
ponderous machinery, which staggers the imagination at its first appearance, and
breaks down before it has answered its purpose. They show, in a more striking
point of view than any thing else, the extreme subtlety of understanding of the
ancients, and their appetite for the gross, the material, and the sensible. Compared
with Aristophanes, Rabelais himself is plain and literal. For example -
Peace begins in the most spirited and lively manner: The tranquilly-disposed
Trygaeus rides on a dunghill beetle to heaven, in the manner ofBellerophon:
War, a desolating giant, with Tumult his companion, in place of all the other
gods, inhabits Olympus, and pounds the cities in a great mortar, making use of
the celebrated / generals as pestles; Peace lies bound in a deep well, and is
dragged up by a rope, through the united efforts of all the Greek states, &c.
289
Again-
It is said ofa man addicted to unintelligible reveries, that he is up in the clouds:-

accordingly Socrates, in the play of the Clouds, is actually let down in a basket
at his first appearance.
The comic machinery in Aristophanes, is, for the most part, a parody on the
Greek mythology, and his wit a travestie on Euripides. Whatever we may think of
his talent in this way, the art itself of making sense into nonsense, and of letting
down the sublime into the ludicrous, in general is rather a cheap one, and implies
much more a want of feeling than an excess of wit.
The account which is given of the old, the middle, and the new comedy, is very
learned and dogmatical. The different styles and authors rise in value with the critic,
in proportion as he knows nothing of them. He likes that, which some old
commentator has praised, better than what he has read himself; and that still better,
which neither he himself, nor any one else, has read. Diphilus, Philemon,
Apollodorus, Menander, Sophron, and the Sicilian Epicharmus, whose works are
lost, are prodigiously great men; and the author 'tries conclusions infinite'
respecting their different possible merits. On the contrary, Terence is only half a
Menander, and Plautus a coarse buffoon. In spite, however, of this fastidiousness,
he cannot deny the elegant humanity of the one, nor the strong native humour of
the other. The style of these writers, particularly that of Terence, is admirable for
a certain conversational ease, and correct simplicity, exactly in the mid-way
between carelessness and affectation. But M. Schlegel has a mode of doing away
this merit, by observing, that
- Plautus and Terence were among the most ancient Roman writers, and
belonged to a time when the language ofbooks was hardly yet in existence, and
when every thing was drawn fresh from life. This naive simplicitiy had its charms
in the eyes ofthose Romans, who belonged to the period ofleamed cultivation;
but it was much more a natural gift, than the fruit of poetical art.
We shall conclude this part ofthe subject, with his observations on the nature and
range of the characters introduced into the ancient Comedy.
Athens, where the fictitious, as well as the actual scenes, were generally placed,
was the centre ofa small territory; and in nowise to be compared with our great
cities, either in extent or population. The republican equality admitted no
marked distinction of ranks: There were no proper nobility; all were alike
citizens, richer or poorer; and, for the most part, had no other occupation, than
that of managing their properties. Hence the Attic comedy could not / well
admit of the contrasts arising from diversity of tone and conversation; it
generally continues in a sort of middle state, and has something citizen-like;
nay, ifl may so say, something of the manners ofa small town about it, which
we do not see in those comedies, in which the manners of a court, and the
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refinement or corruption of monarchical capitals, are pourtrayed.
From what has been promised, we may at once see nearly the whole circle of
characters; nay, those which perpetually occur, are so few, that they may almost
all ofthem be here enumerated. The austere and frugal, or the mild and yielding
father, the latter not unfrequently under the dominion ofhis wife, and making
common cause with his son; the housewife, either loving and sensible, or
obstinate and domineering, and proud of the accession brought by her to the
family-property; the giddy and extravagant, but open and amiable, young man,
who, even in a passion, sensual at its very commencement, is capable of true
attachment; the vivacious girl, who is either thoroughly depraved, vain,
cunning and selfish - or well-disposed, and susceptible ofhigher emotions; the
simple and boorish, or the cunning slave, who assists his young master to
deceive his old father, and obtain money for the gratification ofhis passions by
all manner oftricks; the flatterer, or accommodating parasite, who, for the sake
ofa good meal, is ready to say or do any thing that may be required ofhim; the
sycophant, a man whose business it was to set quietly-disposed people by the
ears, and stir up lawsuits, for which he offered his services; the braggart soldier,
who returns from foreign service, generally cowardly and simple, but who
assumes airs from the fame of the deeds performed by him abroad; and, lastly,
a servant, or pretended mother, who preaches up a bad system ofmorals to the
young girl entrusted to her guidance; and the slave-dealer, who speculates on
the extravagant passions ofyoung people, and knows no other object than the
furtherance ofhis own selfish views. The two last characters are to our feelings
a blemish in the new Grecian comedy; but it was impossible, from the manner
in which it was constituted, to dispense with them. p.263.
We must now pass on to modem literature. - Ofthe Italian drama, which is the
least prolific of their literature, we shall shortly have to speak with reference to
another work; and shall at present proceed to our author's account of the French
Theatre, which forms a class by itself, and which is here most ably analyzed.
With respect to the earlier tragical attempts of the French in the last half of the
sixteenth, and the first part of the seventeenth century, we refer to Fontenelle,
La Harpe, the Melanges Litteraires of Suard and Andre. Our chief object is an
examination ofthe system oftragic art, practically followed by their later poets;
and by them partly, but by the French critics universally, considered as alone
entitled to any authority, and every deviation from it viewed as a sin against
good taste. Ifthe system is in itself the best, we shall be / compelled to allow that
its execution is masterly, perhaps not to be surpassed. But the great question
here is, how far the French tragedy is, in spirit and inward essesnce, related to
the Greek, and whether it deserves to be considered as an improvement upon
it.
Of their first attempts, it is only necessary to observe, that the endeavour to
imitate the ancients displayed itself at a very early period in France; and that they
conceived that the surest method of succeeding in this endeavour, was to
observe the strictest outward regularity of form, of which they derived their
ideas more from Aristotle, and especially from Seneca, than from an intimate
acquaintance with the Greek models themselves. In the first tragedies which
291
were represented, the Cleopatra and Dido ofJodelle, a prologue and chorus
were introduced; Jean de la Peruse translated the Medea of Seneca; Garnier's
pieces are all taken from the Greek tragedies, or from Seneca; but, in the
execution, they bear a much closer examination to the latter. The writers ofthat
day employed themselves also diligently on the Sophonisba ofTrissino, from a
regard for its classic appearance. Whoever is acquainted with the mode of
proceeding of real genius, which is impelled by the almost unconscious and
immediate contemplation of great and important truths, will be extremely
suspicious of all activitiy in art, which originates in an abstract theory. But
Corneille did not, like an antiquary, execute his dramas as so many learned
school exercises, on the model ofthe ancients. Seneca, it is true, led him astray;
but he knew and loved the Spanish theatre; and it had a great influence on his
mind. The first ofhis pieces with which it is generally allowed that the classical
epoch of French tragedy begins, and which is certainly one ofhis best, the Cid,
is well known to have been borrowed from the Spanish. It violates,
considerably, the unity of place, if not also that of time, and it is animated
throughout by the spirit of chivalrous love and honour. But the opinion ofhis
contemporaries, that a tragedy must be framed accurately according to the rules
of Aristotle, was so universally prevalent, that it bore down all opposition.
Corneille, almost at the close ofhis dramatic career, began to entertain scruples
ofconscience; and endeavoured, in a separate treatise, to prove, that his pieces,
in the composition of which he had never even thought of Aristotle, were,
however, all accurately written according to his rules.
It is quite otherwise with Racine: of all the French poets he was, without
doubt, the best acquainted with the ancients, and he did not merely study them
as a scholar; he felt them as a poet. He found, however, the practice of the
theatre already firmly established, and he did not undertake to deviate from it
for the sake of approaching these models. He only therefore appropriated the
separate beauties of the Greek poets; but, whether from respect for the taste of
his age, or from inclination, he remained faithful to the/ prevailing gallantry,
so foreign to the Greek tragedy, and for the most part made it the foundation
of the intrigues of his pieces.
Such was nearly the state of the French theatre till Voltaire made his
appearance. He possessed but a moderate knowledge of the Greeks, ofwhom,
however, he now and then spoke with enthusiasm, that on other occasions he
might rank them below the more modern masters ofhis own nation, including
himself; but yet he always considered himself bound to preach up the grand
severity and simplicity of the Greeks as essential to tragedy. He censured the
deviations ofhis predecessors as errors, and insisted on purifying and at the same
time enlarging the stage, as, in his opinion, from the constraint of court
manners, it had been almost straitened to the dimensions ofan antichamber. He
at first spoke of the bursts of genius in Shakespear, and borrowed many things
from this poet, at that time altogether unknown to his countrymen; he insisted
too on greater depth in the delineation ofpassion, on a more powerful theatrical
effect; he demanded a scene ornamented in a more majestic manner; and lastly,
he not unfrequently endeavoured to give to his pieces a political or
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philosophical interest altogether foreign to poetry. His labours have
unquestionably been of utility to the French stage, although it is now the
fashion to attack this idol of the last age, on every point, with the most
unrelenting hostility. p.323.
M. Schlegel very ably exposes the incongruities which have arisen from
engrafting modern style and sentiments on mythological and classical subjects in the
French writers. In Ph.edra,' he says,
this princess is to be declared regent for her son till he comes of age, after the
supposed death ofTheseus. How could this be compatible with the relations of
the Grecian women ofthat day?- It brings us down to the times ofa Cleopatra.
- When the way ofthinking oftwo nations is so totally opposite, why will they
torment themselves with attempts to fashion a subject, formed on the manners
of the one to suit the manners of the other? - How unlike the Achilles in
Racine's Iphigenia to the Achilles of Homer! The gallantry ascribed to him is
not merely a sin against Homer, but it renders the whole story improbable. Are
human sacrifices conceivable among a people, whose chiefs and heroes are so
susceptible of the most tender feelings?
Corneille was in the best way in the world when he brought his Cid on the
stage; a story of the middle ages, which belonged to a kindred people; a story
characterized by chivalrous love and honour, and in which the principal
characters are not even of princely rank. Had this example been followed, a
number of prejudices respecting tragical ceremony would of themselves have
disappeared; tragedy, from its greater truth, from deriving its motives from a
way ofthinking still current and intelligible, would have been less foreign to the
heart; the quality ofthe objects would ofthemselves have turned them from the
stiff observation of the rules of the ancients, which they did not understand; in
one word, the French tragedy would have become national and truly romantic.
But I know not/ what unfortunate star had the ascendant. Notwithstanding the
extraordinary success of his Cid, Corneille did not go one step farther: and the
attempt which he made had no imitators. In the time of Louis XIV it was
considered as beyond dispute, that the French, and in general the modern
European history was not adapted for tragedy. They had recourse therefore to
the ancient universal history. Besides the Greeks and Romans, they frequently
hunted about among the Assyrians, Babylonians, Persians, and Egyptians, for
events, which, however obscure they might often be, they could dress out for
the tragic state. Racine made, according to his own confession, a hazardous
attempt with the Turks: It was successful; and since that time, the necessary
tragical dignity has been allowed to this barbarous people. But it was merely the
modern, and more particularly the French names, which could not be tolerated
as untragical and unpoetical; for the heroes of antiquity are, with them,
Frenchmen in every thing but the name; and antiquity was merely used as a thin
veil under which the modern French character could be distinctly recognized.
Racine's Alexander is certainly not the Alexander of history: but if, under this
name, we imagine to ourselves the great Conde, the whole will appear tolerably
natural. - And who does not suppose Louis XIV and the Dutchess de la Valiere
represented under Titus and Berenice? Voltaire expresses himself somewhat
strongly, when he says, that, in the tragedies which succeeded those ofRacine,
293
we imagine we are reading the romances ofMademoiselle Scuderi, which paint

citizens of Paris under the names ofheroes of antiquity. He alluded here more
particularly to Crebillon. However much Corneille and Racine were tainted
with the way ofthinking oftheir own nation, they were still at times penetrated
with the spirit of true objective exhibition. Corneille gives us a masterly picture
of the Spaniards in the Cid; and this is conceivable - for he drew his materials
from them. With the exception ofthe original sin ofgallantry, he succeeded also
pretty well with the Romans: Of one part of their character at least, he had a
tolerable conception, their predominating patriotism, and unyielding pride of
liberty, and the magnanimity of their political sentiments. All this, it is true, is
nearly the same as we find it in Lucan, varnished over with a certain inflation
and self-conscious pomp. The simple republican austerity, the humility of
religion, he could not attain. Racine (in Britannicus) has admirably painted the
corrupt manners of the Romans under the Emperors, and the timid and
dastardly manner in which the tyranny of Nero first began to display itsel£ He
had Tacitus indeed for a model, as he himself gratefully acknowledges; but still
it is a great merit to translate history in such an able manner into poetry. He has
also shown a just conception ofthe general spirit ofHebrew history. He was less
successful with the Turks: Bajazet makes love wholly in the European manner:
The blood-thirsty policy of Eastern despotism is very well portrayed in the
Vizier; but the whole resembles Turkey turned upside down, where the
women, instead of being slaves, have contrived / to get possession of the
government; and the result is so very revolting, that we might be inclined to
infer, from it, the Turks are really not so much to blame in keeping their women
under lock and key. Neither has Voltaire, in my opinion, succeeded much
better in his Mahomet and Zaire: the glowing colours of an oriental fancy are
no where to be found. Voltaire has, however, this great merit, that he insisted
on treating subjects with more historical truth; and further, that he again
elevated to the dignity of the tragical stage the chivalrous and christian
characters of modem Europe, which, since the time of the Cid, had been
altogether excluded from it. His Lusignan and Nerestan are among his most
true, affecting, and noble creations; his Tancred, although the invention as a
whole is defective in strength, will always gain upon every heart, like his
namesake in Tasso. p.369.
Our author prefers Racine to Corneille, and even seems to think Voltaire more
natural: But he has exhausted all that can be said of French tragedy in his account
of Corneille; and all that he adds upon Racine and Voltaire, is only a modification
of the same general principles. He has been able to give no general character of
either, as distinct from the original founder of the French dramatic school;
Corneille had more pomp, Racine more tenderness; Voltaire aimed at a stronger
effect: But the essential qualities are the same in all of them; the style is always
French, as much as the language in which they write.
It has been often remarked, that, in French tragedy, the poet is always too easily
seen through the discourses of the different personages; that he communicates
to them his own presence ofmind; his cool reflection on their situation; and his
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desire to shine upon all occasions. When we accurately examine the most of
their tragical speeches, we shall find that they are seldom such as would be
delivered by persons, speaking or acting by themselves without any restraint; we
shall generally discover in them something which betrays a reference, more of
less perceptible, to the spectator. Rhetoric, and rhetoric in a court dress, prevails
but too much in many French tragedies, especially in those ofCorneille, instead
ofthe suggestions ofa noble, but simple and artless nature: Racine and Voltaire
have approximated much nearer to the true conception ofa mind carried away
by its sufferings. Whenever the tragic hero is able to express his pain in
antitheses and ingenious allusions, we may safely dispense with our pity. This
sort of conventional dignity is, as it were, a coat of mail, to prevent the blow
from reaching the inward parts. On account oftheir retaining this festal pomp,
in situations where the most complete self-forgetfulness would be natural,
Schiller has wittingly enough compared the heroes in French tragedy to the
kings in old copperplates, who are seen lying in bed with their mantle, crown,
and sceptre. p. 373, &c.
Racine is deservedly the favourite of the French nation; for, / besides the
perfection of his style, and a complete mastery over his art, according to the rules
prescribed by the national taste, there is a certain tenderness of sentiment, a
movement ofthe heart, under all the artificial pomp by which it is disguised, which
cannot fail to interest the reader. His Athalie is perhaps the most perfect of all his
pieces. Some of the lyrical descriptions are equally delightful, from the beauty of
the rhythm and the imagery. We might mention the chorus in which the infant
Joaz is compared to a young lily on the side of a stream. Poetry is the union of
imagery with sentiment; and yet nothing can be more rare than this union in
French tragedy. Another passage in Racine, which might be quoted as an
exception to their general style, is the speech ofPha:dra describing her descent into
the other world, which is, however, a good deal made up from Seneca; and indeed
it is the fault of this author, that he leans too constantly for support on others, and
is rather the accomplished imitator than the original inventor. There is but one
thing wanting to his plays - that they should have been his own. He can no more
be considered as the author of the Iphigenia, for instance, than La Fontaine can be
considered as the inventor ofAesop's fables. Voltaire is more original in the choice
of his subjects. But the means by which he seeks to give an interest to them, are of
the most harsh and violent kind; and, even in the variety ofhis materials, he shows
the monotony of his invention. Four of his principal tragedies tum entirely on the
question of religious apostasy, or on the conflict between the attachment of
supposed orphans to their newly discovered parents, and their obligations to their
old benefactors. As a relief, however, the scene of these four tragedies is laid in the
four opposite quarters of the globe.
M. Schlegel speaks highly ofRacine's comedy, 'Les Plaideurs;' and thinks that if
he had cultivated his talents for comedy, he would have proved a formidable rival
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ofMoliere. He might very probably have succeeded in imitating the long speeches
which Moliere too often imitated from Racine; but nothing can (we think) be
more unlike, than the real genius of the two writers. In fact, Moliere is almost as
much an English as a French author, - quite a barbare, in all in which he particularly
excels. He was unquestionably one of the greatest comic geniuses that ever lived;
a man ofinfinite wit, gaiety, and invention, - full oflife, laughter, and observation.
But it cannot be denied that his plays are in general mere farces, without nature,
refinement of character, or common probability. Several of them could not be
carried on for a moment without a perfect collusion between the parties to wink
at impossibilities, and act in defiance of all common sense. For instance, take the
Mededn I malgre lui, in which a common wood-cutter takes upon himself, and is
made to support, through a whole play, the character of a learned physician,
without exciting the least suspicion; and yet, notwithstanding the absurdity of the
plot, it is one of the most laughable, and truly comic productions, that can well be
imagined. The rest of his lighter pieces, the Bourgeois Gentilhomme, Monsieur
Pourceaugnac, &c. are of the same description, - gratuitous fictions, and fanciful
caricatures of nature. He indulges in the utmo!tt license of burlesque exaggeration;
and gives a loose to the intoxication of his animal spirits. With respect to his two
most laboured comedies, the Tartuffe and Misanthrope, we confess that we find
them rather hard to get through. They have the improbability and extravagance of
the rest, united with the endless common-place prosing of French declamation.
What can exceed the absurdity of the Misanthrope, who leaves his mistress, after
every proofofher attachment and constancy, for no other reason than that she will
not submit to the technical formality of going to live with him in a desert? The
characters which Celimene gives of her friends, near the opening of the play, are
admirable satires, (as good as Pope's characters of women), but not comedy. The
same remarks apply in a greater degree to the Tartuffe. The long speeches and
reasonings in this play may be very good logic, or rhetoric, or philosophy, or any
thing but comedy. If each of the parties had retained a special pleader to speak his
sentiments, they could not have appeared more tiresome or intricate. The
improbability of the character of Orgon is wonderful. The Ecole des Femmes, from
which Wycherley has borrowed the Country Wife, with the true spirit of original
genius, is, in our judgement, the masterpiece of Moliere. The set speeches in the
original play would not be borne on the English stage, nor indeed on the French,
but that they are carried off by the verse. The Critique de l'Ecole des Femmes, the
dialogue of which is prose, is written in a very different style.
Our author attributes the ambitious loquacity of the French drama to their
characteristic vanity, and the general desire of this nation to shine on all occasions.
But this principle seems itself to require a prior cause, namely, a facility ofshining
on all occasions, and a disposition to admire every thing. It has been remarked, as
a general rule, that the theatrical amusements of a people, which are intended as a
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relaxation from their ordinary pursuits and habits, are by no means a test of the
national character; and it is a confirmation ofthis opinion, that the French, who are
naturally a lively and impatient people, should be able to sit and hear with such
delight their own dramatic pieces, which abound, for the most part, in sententious
maxims, / and solemn declamation, and would appear quite insupportable to an
English audience, though the latter are considered as a dull, phlegmatic people,
much more likely to be tolerant of formal descriptions and grave reflections.
Extremes meet. This is the only way of accounting for that enigma, the French
character. It has often been remarked, indeed, that this ingenious nation exhibits
more striking contradictions in its general deportment than any other that ever
existed. They are the gayest ofthe gay, and the gravest ofthe grave. Their very faces
pass at once from an expression of the most lively animation, when they are in
conversation or action, to a melancholy blank. They are one moment the slaves of
the most contemptible prejudices, and the next launch out into all the extravagance
ofthe most dangerous speculations. In matters oftaste they are as inexorable as they
are lax in questions ofmorality: they judge ofthe one by rules, ofthe other by their
inclinations. It seems at times as if nothing could shock them, and yet they are
offended at the merest trifles. The smallest things make the greatest impression on
them. From the facility with which they can accommodate themselves to
circumstances, they have no fixed principles or real character. They are always that
which gives them least pain, or costs them least trouble. They can easily disentangle
their thoughts from whatever gives them the slightest uneasiness, and direct their
sensibility to flow in any channels they think proper. Their whole existence is more
theatrical than real - their sentiments put on or offlike the dress ofan actor. Words
are with them equivalent to things. They say what is agreeable, and believe what
they say. Virtue and vice, good and evil, liberty or slavery, are matters almost of
indifference. They are the only people who were ever vain ofbeing cuckolded, or
being conquered. Their natural self-complacency stands them instead of all other
advantages!
The same almost inexplicable contradictions appear in their writings as in their
characters. They excel in all that depends on lightness and grace ofstyle, on familiar
gaiety, on delicate irony, on quickness ofobservation, on nicety oftact-in all those
things which are done best with the least effort. Their sallies, their points, their
traits, turns of expression, their tales, their letters, are unrivalled. Witness the
writings of Voltaire, Fontaine, Le Sage. Whence then the long speeches, the
pompous verbosity, the systematic arrangement of their dramatic productions? It
would seem as if they took refuge in this excessive formality, as a defence against
their natural lightness and frivolity: and that they admitted of no mixed style in
poetry, because the least interruption of their assumed gravity would destroy the
whole effect. The impression has no natural hold / of their minds. It is only by
repeated efforts that they work themselves up to the tragic tone, and their feelings
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[97 /98) SELECTED WRITINGS OF WILLIAM HAZLITT: VOLUME 1
let go their hold with the first opportunity. They conform, in the most rigid
manner, to established rules, because they have not steadiness to go alone, nor
confidence to trust to the strength of their immediate impulses. The French have
no style of their own in serious art, because they have no real force of character.
Their tragedies are imitations of the Greek dramas, and their historical pictures a
still more servile and misapplied imitation of the Greek statues. For the same
reason, the expression which their artists give to their faces is affected and
mechanical; and the description which their poets give of the passions, the most
laboured, overt and explicit possible. Nothing is left to be understood. Nothing
obscure, distant, imperfect - nothing that is not distinctly made out - nothing that
does not stand, as it were, in the foreground, is admitted in their works of art.
The dark and doubtful views of things, the irregular flights of fancy, the silent
workings of the heart - all these require some effort to enter into them: They are
therefore excluded from French poetry, the language of which must, above all
things, be clear and defined, and not only intelligible, but intelligible by its previous
application. It is therefore essentially conventional and commonplace. It rejects
every thing that is not cast in a given mould - that is not stamped by custom - that
is not sanctioned by authority; - every thing that is not French. The French,
indeed, can conceive of nothing that is not French. There is something that
prevents them from entering into any views which do not perfectly fall in with their
habitual prejudices. In a word, they are not a people ofimagination. They receive
their impressions without trouble or effort, and retain no more of them than they
can help. They are the creatures either of sensation or abstraction. The images of
things, when the objects are no longer present, throw off all their complexity and
distinctions, and are lost in the general class, or name; so that the words charming,
delicious, superb, &c. convey just the same meaning, and excite just the same
emotion in the mind of a Frenchman, as the most vivid description of real objects
and feelings could do. Hence their poetry is the poetry of abstraction. Yet poetry
is properly the embodying general ideas in individual forms and circumstances. But
the French style excludes all individuality. The true poet identifies the reader with
the characters he represents; the French poet only identifies him with himsel£
There is scarcely a single page of their tragedy which fairly throws nature open to
you. It is tragedy / in masquerade. We never get beyond conjecture and reasoning
- beyond the general impression of the situation of the persons - beyond general
reflections on their passions - beyond general descriptions ofobjects. We never get
at that something more, which is what we are in search of, namely, what we
ourselves should feel in the same situations. The true poet transports you to the
scene - you see and hear what is passing - you catch, from the lips of the persons
concerned, what lies nearest to their hearts; - the French poet takes you into his
closet, and reads you a lecture upon it. The chef-d'oeuvres of their stage, then, are,
after all, only ingenious paraphrases of nature. The dialogue is a tissue of
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commonplaces, oflaboured declamations on human life, oflearned causistry on the

passions, on virtue and vice, which any one else might make just as well as the
person speaking; and yet, what the persons themselves would say, is all we want to
know, and all for which the poet puts them into those situations. It is what
constitutes the difference between the dramatic and the didactic.
All this is differently managed in Shakespear: And accordingly, the French
translations of that author uniformly leave out all the poetry, or what we consider
as such. They generalize the passion, the character, the thoughts, the images, every
thing; - they reduce it to a common topic. It is then perfect - for it is French. It
would be in vain to look, in these unmeaning paraphrases, where all is made
unobjectionable, and smooth as the palm ofone's hand, for the 'Not ajot, not ajot,'
in Othello, - for the 'Light thickens,' of Macbeth, - or the picture which the
exclamation of the witches gives us of him, 'Why stands Macbeth thus amazedly?'
When Othello kills himself, after that noble characteristic speech at the end, in
which he makes us feel all that passes in his soul, and runs over the objects and
events ofhis whole life, the blow strikes not only at him but at us: When Orosman
in Zaire, after a speech which Voltaire has copied from the English poet, does the
same thing, he falls - like a commonplace personified. We do not here insist on the
preference to be given to one or other ofthese two styles; we only say they are quite
different. The French critics contend, we think without reason, that their own is
exclusively good, and all others barbarous.
Not so our author. If Shakespear never found a thorough partisan before, he has
found one now. We have not room for half of his praise. He defends him at all
points. His puns, his conceits, his anachronisms, his broad allusions, all go, not
indeed for nothing, but for so many beauties. They are not something to be excused
by the age, or atoned for by other / qualities; but they are worthy ofall acceptation
in themselves. This we do not think it necessary to say. It is no part of our poetical
creed, that genius can do no wrong. As the French show their allegiance to their
kings by crying Quand meme!- so we think we show our respect for Shakespear by
loving him in spite ofhis faults. Take the whole ofthese faults, throw them into one
scale, heap them up double, and then double that, and we will throw into the
opposite scale single excellences, single characters, or even single passages, that shall
outweigh them all! All his faults have not prevented him from showing as much
knowledge of human nature, in all possible shapes, as is to be found in all other
poets put together; and that, we conceive, is quite enough for one writer.
Compared with this magical power, his faults are just as much consequence as his
bad spelling, and to be accounted for in the same way. In speaking of Shakespear,
we do not mean to make any general comparison between the French and English
stage. There is no other acknowledged English school of tragedy, - or it is merely
a bad imitation of the French. We give them up Addison; but we must keep
Shakespear to ourselves. He had even the advantage ofthe Greek tragedians in this
299
respect, that, with all their genius, they seem to have described only Greek manners
and sentiments: whereas he describes all the people that ever lived. That which
distinguishes his dramatic productions from all others, is this wonderful variety and
perfect individuality. Each of his characters is as much itself, and as absolutely
independent ofthe rest, as ifthey were living persons, not fictions ofthe mind. The
poet appears, for the time, to identify himself with the character he wishes to
represent, and to pass from one to the other, like the same soul successively
animating different bodies. By an art like that of the ventriloquist, he throws his
imagination out of himself, and makes every word appear to proceed from the
mouth ofthe person in whose name it is spoken. His plays alone are expressions of
the passions, not descriptions of them. His characters are real beings of flesh and
blood: they speak like men, not like authors. One might suppose that he had stood
by at the time, and overheard all that passed. As, in our dreams, we hold
conversations with ourselves, make remarks or communicate intelligence, and
have no idea of the answer which we shall receive, and which we ourselves are to
make, till we hear it; so, the dialogues in Shakespear are carried on without any
consciousness of what is to follow, without any appearance of preparation or
premeditation. The gusts ofpassion come and go like sounds ofmusic borne on the
wind: Nothing is made out by inference and analogy, by climax and/ antithesis; all
comes immediately from nature. Each object and circumstance seems to exist in his
mind, as it existed in nature; each several train of thought and feeling goes on of
itselfwithout confusion or effort: In the world of his imagination, every thing has
a life, a place, and being ofits own!* 'The distinguishing property,' says our author,
ofthe dramatic poet, is the capability oftransporting himself so completely into

every situation, even the most unusual, that he is enabled, as plenipotentiary of
the whole human race, without particular instructions for each separate case, to
act and speak in the name of every individual. It is the power of endowing the
creatures ofhis imagination with such self-existent energy, that they afterwards
act in each conjuncture according to general laws ofnature: the poet institutes,
as it were, experiments, which are received with as much authority as ifthey had
been made on real objects. Never, perhaps, was there so comprehensive a talent
for the delineation ofcharacter as Shakespear's. It not only grasps the diversities
ofrank, sex, and age, down to the dawnings ofinfancy: not only do the king and
the beggar, the hero and the pickpocket, the sage and the idiot, speak and act
with equal truth; not only does he transport himself to distant ages and foreign
nations, and portray in the most accurate manner, with only a few apparent
violations of costume, the spirit of the ancient Romans, of the French in their
* The universality of Shakespear's genius has, perhaps, been a disadvantage to his single works:
the variety of his resources has prevented him from giving that intense concentration ofinterest
to some of them which they might have had. He is in earnest only in Lear and Timon. He
combined the powers ofJEschylus and Aristophanes, ofDante and Rabelais, in his own mind. If
he had been only half what he was, he might have seemed greater.
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wars with the English, of the English themselves during a great part of their
history, ofthe Southern Europeans (in the serious part ofmany comedies), the
cultivated society of that time, and the former rude and barbarous state of the
North; his human characters have not only such depth and precision that they
cannot be arranged under classes, and are inexhaustible, even in conception:-
no - This Prometheus not merely forms men, he opens the gates ofthe magical
world of spirits; calls up the midnight ghost; exhibits before us his witches
amidst their unhallowed mysteries; peoples the air with sportive fairies and
sylphs:- and, these beings existing only in imagination, possess such truth and
consistency, that, even when deformed monsters like Caliban, he extorts the
conviction, that if there should be such beings, they would so conduct
themselves. In a word, as he carries with him the most fruitful and daring fancy
into the kingdom of nature, - on the other hand, he carries nature into the
regions of fancy, lying beyond the confines of reality. We are lost in
astonishment at seeing the extraordinary, the wonderful, and the unheard of, in
such intimate nearness. /
If Shakespear deserves our admiration for his characters, he is equally
deserving it for his exhibition of passion, taking this word in its widest
signification, as including every mental condition, every tone from indifference
or familiar mirth to the wildest rage and despair. He gives us the history of
minds; he lays open to us, in a single word, a whole series of preceding
conditions. His passions do not at first stand displayed to us in all their height,
as is the case with so many tragic poets, who, in the language of Lessing, are
thorough masters of the legal style of love. He paints in a most inimitable
manner, the gradual progress from the first origin. 'He gives,' as Lessing says, 'a
living picture ofall the most minute and secret artifices by which a feeling steals
into our souls; ofall the imperceptible advantages which it there gains; ofall the
stratagems by which every other passion is made subservient to it, till it becomes
the sole tyrant of our desires and aversions.' Of all poets, perhaps, he alone has
portrayed the mental diseases, melancholy, delirium, lunacy, with such
inexpressible, and, in every respect, definite truth, that the physician may enrich
his observations from them in the same manner as from real cases.
And yet Johnson has objected to Shakespear, that his pathos is not always
natural and free from affectation. There are, it is true, passages, though,
comparatively speaking, very few, where his poetry exceeds the bounds oftrue
dialogue, where a too soaring imagination, a too luxuriant wit, rendered the
complete dramatic forgetfulness ofhimselfimpossible. With this exception, the
censure originates only in a fanciless way of thinking, to which every thing
appears unnatural that does not suit its own tame insipidity. Hence, an idea has
been formed of simple and natural pathos, which consists in exclamations
destitute ofimagery, and nowise elevated above every-day life. But energetical
passions electrify the whole of the mental powers, and will, consequently, in
highly favoured natures, express themselves in an ingenious and figurative
manner. It has been often remarked, that indignation gives wit; and, as despair
occasionally breaks out into laughter, it may sometimes also give vent to itself
in antithetical comparisons.
Besides, the rights of the poetical form have not been duly weighed.
Shakespear, who was always sure of his object, to move in a sufficiently
301
powerful manner when he wished to do so, has occasionally, by indulging in a

freer play, purposely moderated the impressions when too painful, and
immediately introduced a musical alleviation of our sympathy. He had not
those rude ideas ofhis art which many moderns seem to have, as ifthe poet, like
the clown in the proverb, must strike twice on the same place. An ancient
rhetorician delivered a caution against dwelling too long on the excitation of
pity; for nothing, he said, dries so soon as tears; and Shakespear acted
conformably to this ingenious maxim, without knowing it.
The objection, that Shakespear wounds our feelings by the open display of
the most disgusting moral odiousness, harrows up the/ mind unmercifully, and
tortures even our minds by the exhibition ofthe most insupportable and hateful
spectacles, is one ofmuch greater importance. He has never, in fact, varnished
over wild and blood-thirsty passions with a pleasing exterior, - never clothed
crime and want of principle with a false show of greatness of soul; and in that
respect he is every way deserving ofpraise. Twice he has portrayed downright
villains; and the masterly way in which he has contrived to elude impressions of
too painful a nature, may be seen in Iago and Richard the Third. The constant
reference to a petty and puny race must cripple the boldness of the poet.
Fortunately for his art, Shakespear lived in an age extremely susceptible ofnoble
and tender impressions, but which had still enough of the firmness inherited
from a vigorous olden time, not to shrink back with dismay from every strong
and violent picture. We have lived to see tragedies of which the catastrophe
consists in the swoon ofan enamoured princess. If Shakespear falls occasionally
into the opposite extreme, it is a noble error, originating in the fulness of a
gigantic strength: And yet this tragical Titan, who storms the heavens, and
threatens to tear the world from off its hinges; who, more fruitful than
}Eschylus, makes our hair stand on end, and congeals our blpod with horror,
possessed, at the same time, the insinuating loveliness ofthe sweetest poetry. He
plays with love like a child; and his songs are breathed out like melting sighs. He
unites in his genius the utmost elevation and the utmost depth; and the most
foreign, and even apparently irreconcileable properties, subsist in him peaceably
together. The world ofspirits and nature have laid all their treasures at his feet.
In strength a demi-god, in profundity ofview a prophet, in all-seeing wisdom
a protecting spirit of a higher order, he lowers himself to mortals, as if
unconscious of his superiority; and is as open and unassuming as a child.
Shakespear's comic talent is equally wonderful with that which he has shown
in the pathetic and tragic: it stands on an equal elevation, and possesses equal
extent and profundity. All that I before wished was, not to admit that the former
preponderated. He is highly inventive in comic situations and motives. it will
be hardly possible to show whence he has taken any of them; whereas in the
serious part ofhis drama, he has generally laid hold ofsomething already known.
His comic characters are equally true, various and profound, with his serious. So
little is he disposed to caricature, that we may rather say many of his traits are
almost too nice and delicate for the stage, that they can only be properly seized
by a great actor, and fully understood by a very acute audience. Not only has he
delineated many kinds of folly; he has also contrived to exhibit mere stupidity
in a most diverting and entertaining manner. II. 145.
The observations on Shakespear's language and versification which follow, are
302
APPENDIX [103/104]
excellent. We cannot, however, agree with the author in thinking his rhyme
superior to Spenser's: His excellence is confined to his blank verse; and in that he
is unrivalled/ by any dramatic writer. Milton's alone is equally fine in its way. The
objection to Shakespear's mixed metaphors is not here fairly got over. They give
us no pain from long custom. They have, in fact, become idioms in the language.
We take the meaning and effect of a well known passage entire, and no more stop
to scan and spell out the particular words and phrases than the syllables of which
they are composed. If our critic's general observations on Shakespear are excellent,
he has shown still greater acuteness and knowledge ofhis author in those which he
makes on the particular plays. They ought, in future, to be an~~xed to every edition
of Shakespear, to correct the errors of preceding critics. In his analysis of the
historical plays, - of those founded on the Roman history, - of the romantic
comedies, and the fanciful productions of Shakespear, such as, the Midsummer
Night's Dream, the Tempest, &c. he has shown the most thorough insight into the
spirit of the poet. His contrast between Ariel and Caliban; the one made up of all
that is gross and earthly, the other ofall that is airy and refined, 'ethereal mould, sky-
tinctured,' - is equally happy and profound. He does not, however, confound
Caliban with the coarseness ofcommon low life. He says ofhim with perfect truth
- 'Caliban is malicious, cowardly, false and base in his inclinations; and yet he is
essentially different from the vulgar knaves of a civilized world, as they are
occasionally portrayed by Shakespear. He is rude, but not vulgar. He never falls into
the prosaical and low familiarity ofhis drunken associates, for he is a poetical being
in his way; he always, too, speaks in verse. But he has picked up every thing
dissonant and thorny in language, of which he has composed his vocabulary.'
In his account ofCymbeline and other plays, he has done justice to the sweetness
of Shakespear's female characters, and refuted the idle assertion made by a critic,
who was also a poet and a man of geniius, that
- stronger Shakespear felt for man alone.
Who, indeed, in recalling the names of Imogen, of Miranda, of Juliet, of

Desdemona, ofOphelia and Perdita, does not feel that Shakespear has expressed the
very perfection of the feminine character, existing only for others, and leaning for
support on the strength ofits affections? The only objection to his female characters
is, that he has not made them masculine. They are indeed the very reverse of
ordinary tragedy-queens. In speaking ofRomeo and Juliet, he says, 'It was reserved
for Shakespear 'to unite purity ofheart, and the glow ofimagination, sweetness and
dignity ofmanners, and passionate violence, in one ideal picture.' The character of
Juliet was not to be mistaken by our author. It is one ofperfect/ unconsciousness.
It has nothing forward, nothing coy, nothing affected, nothing coquettish about
it:- It is a pure effusion of nature. 'Whatever,' says our critic,
303
is most intoxicating in the odour of a southern spring, languishing in the song

ofthe nightingale, or voluptuous on the first opening ofthe rose, is breathed in
this poem. But, even more rapidly than the earliest blossoms of youth and
beauty decay, it hurries on from the first timid declaration oflove and modest
return, to the most unlimited passion - to an irrevocable union; then, amidst
alternating storms ofrapture and despair, to the death ofthe two lovers, who still
appear enviable as their love survives them, and as, by their death, they have
obtained a triumph over every separating power. The sweetest and the bitterest;
love and hatred; festivity and dark forebodings; tender embraces and sepulchres;
the fulness oflife and self-annihilation - are all here brought close to each other:
And all these contrasts are so blended in the harmonious and wonderful work
into a unity of impression, that the echo which the whole leaves behind in the
mind resembles a single but endless sigh.
In treating of the four principal tragedies, Othello, Macbeth, Hamlet and Lear,
he goes deeper into the poetry and philosophy of those plays than any of the
commentators. But we dare not now encroach on the patience ofour readers with
any farther citations.
The remarks on the doubtful pieces of Shakespear are most liable to objection.
We cannot agree, for instance, that Titus Andronicus is in the spirit ofLear, because
in his dotage he mistakes a fly which he has killed for his black enemy the Moor.
Thomas Lord Cromwell, and Sir John Oldcastle, which he praises highly, are very
indifferent. Pericles, prince of Tyre, is not much to our taste. There is one fine
scene in it, where Marina rouses the prince from his lethargy, by the proofs of her
being his daughter. Yet this is not like Shakespear. The Yorkshire Tragedy is very
good; but decidedly in the manner of Heywood. The account given by Schlegel,
of the contemporaries and immediate successors of Shakespear, is good, though it
might have been better. That ofBenJonson is particularly happy. He says, that he
described not characters, but 'humours,' that is, particular modes of expression,
dress and behaviour in fashion at the time, which have since become obsolete, and
the imitation of them dry and unintelligible. The finest thing in Ben Jonson, (not
that it is by any means the only one), is the scene between Surly and Sir Epicure
Mammon, where the latter proves his possession of the philosopher's stone, by a
pompous display of the riches, luxuries and pleasures he is to derive from it; and,
by a happy perversion of logic, satisfies himself, though not his hearer, of the
existence / ofthe cause, by a strong imagination of the effects which are to follow
from it. He is also very successful in his character of the plays of Beaumont and
Fletcher. They describe the passions at their height, not in their progress - the
extremes, not the gradations offeeling. Their plays, however, have great power and
great beauty. The Faithful Shepherdess is the origin of Milton's Comus. 'Rule a
Wife and Have a Wife' is one of the very best comedies that ever was written; and
holds, to this day, undisputed possession of the stage. Yet, as our critic observes,
there is in the general tone of their writings a certain crudeness and precocity, a
304
APPENDIX [105/106]
heat, a violence offermentation, a disposition to carry every thing to excess, which

is not pleasant. Their plays are very much what young noblemen of genius might
be supposed to write in the heyday ofyouthful blood, the sunshine offortune, and
all the petulance of self-opinion. They have completely anticipated the German
paradoxes. Schlegel has no mercy on the writers of the age of Charles II. He
compares Dryden himself to 'a man walking upon stilts in a morass.' He justly
prefers Otway to Rowe; but we think he is wrong in supposing, that if Otway had
lived longer he would have done better. His plays are only the ebullitions ofa fine,
enthusiastic, sanguine temperament: and his genius would no more have improved
with age, than the beauty of his person. Of our comic writers, Congreve,
Wycherley, Vanburgh, &c. M. Schlegel speaks very contemptuously and
superficially. It is plain that he knows nothing about them, or he would not prefer
Farquhar to all the rest. If, after our earlier dramatists, we have any class of writers
who are excellent, it is our comic writers.
We cannot go into our author's account of the Spanish drama. The principal
names in it are Cervantes, Calderon, and Lope de Vega. Neither can we agree in
the praises which he lavishes on the dramatic productions ofthese authors. They are
too flowery, lyrical, and descriptive. They are pastorals, not tragedies. They have
warmth; but they want vigour.
Our author may be supposed to be at home in German literature; but his
doctrines appear to us to be more questionable there, than upon any other subejct.
What the German dramatists really excel in, is the production of effect: but this is
the very thing which their fastidious countryman most despises and abhors. They
really excel all others in mere effect; and there is no nation that can excel all others
in more than one thing. Werter is, in our opinion, the best of all Goethe's works;
but because it is the most popular, our author takes an opportunity to express his
contempt for it. Count Egmont, which is here spoken highly of, seems to us a most
insipid and preposterous/ composition. The effect ofthe pathos which is said to lie
concealed in it, is utterly lost upon us. Nathan the Wise, by Lessing, is also a great
favourite of Schlegel; because it is unintelligible except to the wise. As the French
plays are composed of a tissue of common-places, the German plays of this stamp
are a tissue ofparadoxes, which have no foundation in nature or common opinion,
- the pure offspring of the author's fantastic brain. For the same reason, Schiller's
Wallenstein is here preferred to his Robbers. But we cannot so readily give up our
old attachment to the Robbers. The first reading of that play is an event in every
one's life, which is not to be forgotten.
Madame de Stael has very happily ridiculed this pedantic's taste in criticism.
By a singular vicissitude in taste, it has happened, that the Germans at first

attacked our dramatic writers, as converting all their heroes into Frenchmen.
They have, with reason, insisted on historic truth as necessary to contrast the
colours, and give life to the poetry. But then, all at once, they have been weary
305
oftheir own success in this way, and have produced abstract representations, in
which the relations of mankind were expressed in a general manner, and in
which time, place and circumstance, passed for nothing. In a drama ofthis kind
by Goethe, the author calls the different characters the Duke, the King, the
Father, the Daughter, &c. without any other designation.
Such a tragedy is only calculated to be acted in the palace ofOdin, where the
dead still continue their different occupations on earth; where the hunter,
himself a shade, eagerly pursues the shade ofa stag; and fantastic warriors combat
together in the clouds. It should appear, that Goethe at one period conceived
an absolute disgust to all interest in dramatic compositions. It was sometimes to
be met with in bad works; and he concluded, that it ought to be banished from
good ones. Nevertheless, a man of superior mind ought not to disdain what
gives universal pleasure; he cannot relinquish his resemblance with his kind, if
he wishes to make others feel his own value. Granting that the tyranny of
custom often introduces an artificial air into the best French tragedies, it cannot
be denied that there is the same want ofnatural expression in the systematic and
theoretical productions of the German muse. If exaggerated declamation is
affected, there is a certain kind of intellectual calm which is not less so. It is a
kind ofarrogated superiority over the affections ofthe soul, which may accord
very well with philosophy, but is totally out of character in the dramatic art.
Goethe's works are composed according to different principles and systems. In
the Tasso and Iphigenia, he conceives of tragedy as a lofty relic of the
monuments of antiquity. These works have all the beauty of form, the
splendour and glossy smoothness of marble - but they are as cold and as
motionless. /
We have, we trust, said enough ofthis work, to recommend it to the reader: We

ought to add, that the translation appears to be very respectable. /
306
NOTES
NOTES
1 an airy, notionalgood] a recollection ofPrior, Solomon, or the Vanity ofthe World, i, 11. 15-
17:
Fugitive Theme
Ofmy pursuing Verse, Ideal Shade,
Notional Good, by Fancy only made ...
2 impersonal.feeling] Howe refers to Table-Talk, 'On Familiar Style': 'I am fastidious in this
respect, and would almost as soon coin the currency of the realm as counterfeit the
King's English. I never invented or gave a new and unauthorised meaning to any word
but one single one (the term impersonal applied to feelings) and that was in an abstruse
metaphysical discussion to express a very difficult distinction' (see vol. 6, p. 218,
below).
3 James Usher (1720-72), An Introduction to the Theory ofthe Human Mind, was published
in 1771.
4 lean pensioners] not, I think, the reference to the 'Poor pensioner' in Young, Night
Thoughts, i, 66, as noted by Howe; Hazlitt probably has in mind Cowper, Task, v, I.
93, where birds in winter are 'Lean pensioners upon the trav'ller's track'.
5 Smith] Adam Smith (1723-90), The Theory <if Moral Sentiments (1759). Smith had been
a contemporary of Hazlitt's father at the University of Glasgow, 1756.
6 Eros, thou yet behold'st me . .. Even such a body] from Antony and Cleopatra, IV. xiv. 1-
13.
7 Rousseau . .. not a Frenchman] Rousseau was born at Geneva, where his family had lived
since 1529.
8 Berkeley's Essay on Vision] George Berkeley, Bishop ofCloyne, An Essay towards a New
Theory of Vision (Dublin, 1709).
9 The father ef the child . . . father] Hazlitt may at this point be recalling Wordsworth's
poem, 'My heart leaps up when I behold', which he probably saw in manuscript while
in Grasmere in 1803, and which asserts exactly the opposite: 'The Child is Father of
the Man' (I. 7).
10 Junius has remarked . .. returned] see Junius (3 vols., London, 1812), vol. ii, p. 88: 'The
first foundation of friendship is not the power of conferring benefits, but the equality
with which they are received, and may be returned.'
11 See the first volume ef his Confessions] Hazlitt was quite capable of reading the original
French text, but it is worth noting that Rousseau's Confessions had been available in
English since 1783.
12 See Preface to Wordsworth's Poems] Hazlitt is apparently recalling the following passage
309
NOTES TO PAGES 42-58
from Wordsworth's Preface to Lyrical Ballads: 'the perception of similitude in

dissimilitude ... is the great spring ofthe activity ofour minds, and their chieffeeder.
From this principle the direction ofthe sexual appetite, and all the passions connected
with it take their origin' (Prose Works, vol. i, p. 148).
13 short-lived pleasure . .. lasting woe] a recollection of Paradise Lost, x, 11. 741-2: 'O fleeting
joys I Of Paradise, dear bought with lasting woes!'
14 the Essay on the Inequality of Mankind] Rousseau, 'Discours sur l'origine et les
fondements de l'inegalite parmi Jes hommes', 1755.
15 faithful remembrancers . .. glad success] a combined recollection ofCowper, On the Receipt
ofMy Mother's Picture out ofNorfolk, I. 11, 'Faithful Remembrancer ofone so dear', and
Task, v, 11. 900-1:
From thee is all that sooths the life of man,

His high endeavour, and his glad success ...
16 Mirabeau . .. The System of Nature] apparently an error; the Systeme de la Nature ou des Lois
du monde physique et du monde moral (1770) was not by Honore Gabriel Riqueti, comte
de Mirabeau (1741-91) but Paul Heinrich Dietrich, Baron d'Holbach (1723-89).
17 I do not think I should illustrate ... good or eviij It was this passage (starting on p. 42),
according to 'Self-Love and Benevolence', that 'Southey said at the time was
something between the manner ofMilton's prose-works and Jeremy Taylor' (Howe,
vol. xx, p. 183).
18 Hartley and Helvetius] David Hartley (1705-57) was the author of Observations on Man,
His Frame, His Duty, and His Expectations (1749), which incorporated the theory of
association of ideas into a progressive view of humanity. A new edition appeared in
1791 with an introduction by Joseph Priestley. Claude Adrien Helvetius (1715-71)
was the author of De /'Esprit (1758).
19 Bishop Butler ... Chapeij Joseph Butler, Bishop ofBristol (1692-1752), whose Fifteen
Sermons (1726) preached at the Rolls Chapel defines his moral philosophy. The work
was a favourite of Coleridge's, as Hazlitt remembers in 'My First Acquaintance with
Poets' (vol. 9).
20 He says, page 69] It is not possible, on the basis of his page references, to work out
which edition ofHartley Hazlitt was working from, as the same pagination applies to
both the 1749 and 1791 editions of the Observations.
21 I have always had ... unbodied souij Hazlitt quotes Sir Kenelm Digby (1603-65),
Observations upon Religio Medici (1643), pp. 8-10.
22 See Priestley's Letters ... Unbeliever] Joseph Priestley, Letters to a Philosophical Unbeliever
(1780).
23 Mr Mac-lntosh ... in his lectures] Sir James Mackintosh (1765-1832), former apologist
for the French Revolution, who, in a series ofnotorious lectures at Lincoln's Inn Hall
of February-June 1799, attacked the progressive causes he had once advocated. His
apostasy drew comments in Hazlitt's essay on Mackintosh in The Spirit of the Age
(1825), see vol. 7, pp. 153-60.
24 Mr Mac-Intosh is no doubt ... distinction] The reviewer in the Annual Review took
exception to such comment:
Mr Macintosh, indeed, however unmetaphysical and destitute of subtlety his

lectures may have been, seems to have succeeded in making a pretty strong
impression upon our author's imagination, who goes out ofhis way more than
once to have a rencontre with him, and treats him with a degree of contempt
bordering upon the abusive. We mention this as an exception to the calm and
310
dispassionate temper that in general pervades the work. (Annual Review, 4

(1805), 657-64, p. 663)
25 the palace of St Cloud] Hazlitt refers to the former royal chateau in St-Cloud, a
residential suburb of Paris on the left bank, destroyed 1870 in the Franco-Prussian
War. Hazlitt may have seen it on his visit to Paris in 1802.
26 the hovel in which Jack Shepherd hid himselfwhen he escaped out of Newgate] Jack Sheppard
(1702-24) was a notorious eighteenth-century thief who managed four spectacular
escapes from London prisons, and became a folk-hero. The last ofhis escapes was from
Newgate prison where he had been manacled to the floor of a cell, September 1724.
He was hanged at Tyburn, 16 November.
27 in subduing the one . .. the other] a recollection of Desdemona: 'My heart's subdu'd /
Even to the very quality ofmy lord' (Othello, l. iii. 250-1).
28 building up of the human mind] a misremembered quotation from Wordsworth's The
Two-Part Prelude, which Hazlitt must have read in 1803:
Ah, not in vain, ye beings of the hills,

And ye that walk the woods and open heaths
By moon or starlight, thus from my first dawn
Of childhood did ye love to intertwine
The passions that build up our human soul ... (i, IL 130-4)
He is known also to have read Book III (concerning Wordsworth's Cambridge years)
and the Arab dream passage in Book V; see Catherine Macdonald Maclean, Born Under
Saturn: A Biography of William Hazlitt (1943), pp. 186-7, 592-3.
29 Essays by T. Cooper of Manchester] Thomas Cooper, M.D. (1759-1840), natural
philosopher, lawyer, and politician, the friend of Joseph Priestley, published his
Political Essays in Pennsylvania, 1799.
30 sentir est penser] This well-known aphorism of the Sensational School is attributed to
Destutt de Tracy (1754-1836).
31 more drossy and divisible] a recollection ofDryden, The Hind and the Panther, II. 318-20:
Souls that can scarce ferment their mass of clay;

So drossy, so divisible are They,
As wou'd but serve pure bodies for allay ...
32 the Logic of Condillac] Etienne Bonnot de Condillac (1715-80), whose Lo Logique

(1780) was published posthumously.
33 Me void . .. penser] The quoted passage comes from Emile, ou de L'Education (4 vols.,
Amsterdam, 1762), vol. iii, pp. 33-8.
34 discourse of reason] a recollection of Hamlet's account ofhis mother's short-lived grief:
'a beast that wants discourse ofreason / Would have mourned longer' (I. ii. 150-1).
35 the story of the Samaritan] see Luke, 10:30-7.
36 Adam Smith, The Theory of Moral Sentiments (1759).
37 Rochefoucault] Frarn;:ois, due de la Rochefoucauld (1613-80), is the best-known ofthe
French moralistes.
38 the author of the Fable of the Bees] Bernard de Mandeville (1670-1733) published The
Fable of the Bees, or Private Vices, Public Benefits (1714, 1723), which rejects the
optimistic view of benevolent human nature proposed by Shaftesbury. It was much
admired by Defoe, Johnson and Hume. It is probably worth mentioning Hazlitt's
discourse at Thomas Alsager's on the subject ofMandeville, recorded by Henry Crabb
311
Robinson: 'Mandeville was praised. Hazlitt asserted, and on a reference to the book it
appeared, that the leading ideas ofMandeville are contained in an essay by Montaigne
entitled: "One man's gain another's loss"' (Morley, 179).
39 the plan which I have begun] Hazlitt apparently regarded the Essay as the first part of his
History ofEnglish Philosophy; ofwhich such portions as were achieved, or survive, may
be found in Howe, vol. ii, pp. 113-284. The reviewer in the Eclectic used Hazlitt's
proposal to write further upon philosophical matters as the excuse for an admonition:
The author has intimated p.246, that the present work developes but a small part
of a plan which he has in contemplation. We hope he will take more care in
simplifying his style, and endeavour to preserve such a strict logical relation
between his sentences, as may enable him to detect and exclude any fallacious
argument or erroneous principle. He would find it an advantage to compel
himself to draw up an analysis of his performance. (Eclectic Review, 3.2 (1807),
698-704, p. 704)
Preface
1 It is observed by Mr Pope ... speaker] see Pope, vol. i, pp. ii-iii.
2 A gentleman of the name ofMason] An error: Hazlitt refers to Thomas Whately (d. 1772),
whose Remarks on some of the Characters of Shakespeare was published posthumously by
his brother, the Revd. Joseph Whately, in 1785, as 'by the author ofObservations on
Modern Gardening'. The Quarterly Review did not let Hazlitt off lightly, drawing
attention to the error in its opening paragraphs: 'He mentions, indeed, with some
indulgence, a parallel between the characters of Macbeth and Richard, "by a
gentleman ofthe name ofMason - (not Mason the poet)" -such is his accurate mode
of describing the late Mr Whateley!' (Quarterly Review, 18 (1818), 458-66, p. 458).
Thomas Whately's Observations on Modern Gardening was published in 1770.
3 not Mason the poet] i.e. William Mason (1725-97), poet, gardener, musician, and author
of The English Garden (1772-82), a poem in blank verse.
4 Richardson's Essays] William Richardson (17 43-1814), Essays on Shakespeare's Dramatic
Characters (1774-1812).
5 Schlegel's Lectures on the Drama] August Wilhelm von Schlegel, A Course of Lectures on
Dramatic Art and Literature delivered at Vienna in 1808 was first translated into English
by John Black (2 vols., 1815). Hazlitt's quotation is in fact made up of five distinct
passages, to be found in volume 2 ofthe 1815 edition on pages 130-1, 132-4, 137, 138,
and 142-3.
6 Gotthold Ephraim Lessing.
7 Johnson has objected to Shakespear ... qffectation] Schlegel has in mind the following
312
comment from Johnson's Preface: 'In tragedy his performance seems constantly to be
worse, as his labour is more. The effusions ofpassion which exigence forces out are for
the most part striking and energetick; but whenever he solicits his invention, or strains
his faculties, the offipring of his throes is tumour, meanness, tediousness, and
obscurity' (Sherbo, vol. i, pp. 72-3).
8 those who are notfor him are against him] Matthew 12:30: 'He that is not with me is against
me'.
9 to do a great right, do a little wrong] from The Merchant of Venice, IV. i. 216
10 alone is highfantasticaij from Twelfth Night, I. i. 14-15: 'So full ofshapes is fancy/ That
it alone is high fantastical'.
11 Boswell's Life ef]ohnson was first published in 1791.
12 Johnson's Irene, blank verse tragedy written 1736, performed 1749, but without much
success.
13 swelling.figures and sonorous epithets] Hazlitt has in mind the following passage:
Not that always where the language is intricate the thought is subtle, or the
image always great where the line is bulky; the equality of words to things is
very often neglected, and trivial sentiments and vulgar ideas disappoint the
attention, to which they are recommended by sonorous epithets and swelling
figures. (Sherbo, vol. i, pp. 73-4)
Incidentally, I find from a collation ofHazlitt's quotations that he was using the 1778
edition ofJohnson's Preface; all quotations from the Preface are therefore from the
1778 text.
14 such as he could measure with a two-foot rule, or tell upon ten.fingers] see [Edmund Burke],
Thoughts on the Prospect efa Regicide Peace, in a Series ef Letters (1796), p. 89: 'They think
there is nothing worth pursuit, but that which they can handle; which they can
measure with a two-foot rule; which they can tell upon ten fingers'.
15 mighty world of ear and eye] Wordsworth, Tintern Abbey, II. 106-7.
16 the description ef Dover cliff in Lear] see King Lear, IV. vi. 11-24.
17 the description of.flowers in The Winter's Tale] see The Winter's Tale, IV. iv. 112-27.
18 Congreve's description of a ruin in the Mourning Bride] Congreve's The Mourning Bride,
produced 1697, his only tragedy, was enthusiastically received. For the description of
a ruin see II, i, II. 58-69.
19 the sleepy eye ef love] Hazlitt is recalling 'The sleepy Eye, that spoke the melting soul'
(Pope, The First Epistle ef the Second Book of Horace Imitated, I. 150).
20 In his tragic scenes ... instinct] Sherbo, vol. i, p. 69.
21 His declamations ... reader] Sherbo, vol. i, p. 73.
22 But the admirers . . . frigidity] Sherbo, vol. i, p. 74.
23 in another work] see The Round Table, vol.2, pp. 61-4.
Cymbeline
From The Examiner, 12 March 1816, 'Shakespear's Female Characters' ('We have almost
as great an affection,' p. 180, to 'modesty and self-denial,' p. 183), with additions.
1 Dr Johnson is of opinion ... winding-up ef his plots] Hazlitt has in mind the following
passage:
It may be observed that in many ofhis plays the latter part is evidently neglected.
When he found himself near the end ofhis work, and in view ofhis reward, he
shortened the labour, to snatch the profit. (Sherbo, vol. i, pp. 71-2)
313
2 A certain tender gloom overspreads] from 'A certain tender Gloom o'erspred his Face',
Thomson, Castle of Indolence, canto i, 1. 507.
3 Cibber, in speaking of the early English stage ... back-ground] see An Apologyfor the Life of
Mr Colley Cibber, Comedian (2nd edn., 1740), pp. 76-7:
... before the Restoration, no Actresses had ever been seen upon the English
Stage. The Characters of Women, on former Theatres, were perform' d by
Boys, or young Men of the most effeminate Aspect. And what Grace, or
Master-strokes of Action can we conceive such ungain Hoydens to have been
capable of? This defect was so well considered by Shakespear, that in few ofhis
Plays, he has any greater Dependance upon the Ladies, than in the Innocence
and Simplicity ofa Desdemona, an Ophelia, or in the short specimen ofa fond
and virtuous Portia.
4 My lord . .. Britain] from Cymbeline, I. vi. 112-13.

5 What cheer ... bottom that] from Cymbeline, III. iv. 39-57, 112-15.
6 Why, good fellow . .. to my husband] from Cymbeline, III. iv. 127-30.
7 Oh,Jor such means . .. I would adventure] from Cymbeline, III. iv. 151-3.
8 Fear and niceness ... as the weazeij from Cymbeline, III. iv. 155-9.
9 Nay, be brief ... A man already] from Cymbeline, III. iv. 165-7.
10 My dear lord . .. sink for food] from Cymbeline, III. vi. 14-17.
11 And when ... entertain me] from Cymbeline, IV. ii. 389-94.
12 With fairest flowers . .. not thy breath] from Cymbeline, IV. ii. 218-24.
13 Cytherea ... cowslip] from Cymbeline, II. ii. 14-17, 18-23, 37-9.
14 Me of my lawful pleasure ... forbearance] from Cymbeline, II. v. 9-10.
15 Whose love-suit . .. siege] from Cymbeline, III. iv. 133-4.
16 The exclamation of the ancient critic . . . from the other] Hazlitt's source is Schlegel:
The ancients have already acknowledged the new comedy as a faithful picture
of life. Full of this idea, the grammarian Aristophanes exclaimed in a turn of
expression somewhat affected, though highly ingenious: 'O life and Menander!
which of you two has imitated the other?' (Schlegel, vol. i, p. 239)
17 Out of your proof . .. bondage freely] from Cymbeline, III. iii. 27-44.
18 Thegame's a:foot] Hazlitt has in mind two phrases, 'Hark, the game is rous'd!' and 'The
game is up', Cymbeline, III. iii. 98, 107.
19 under the shade of melancholy boughs] from As You Like It, II. vii. 111.
20 See, boys! . .. yon hilij from Cymbeline, III. iii. 2-4, 9-10.
21 Nay, Cadwall . . . for't] from Cymbeline, IV. ii. 255-6.
22 Stick to your journal course . . . of alij from Cymbeline, IV. ii. 10-11.
23 creatures not worth the hanging] from Cymbeline, I. v. 20.
24 Your Highness ... your heart] from Cymbeline, l. v. 23-4.
Macbeth
1 The poet's eye ... and a name] from A Midsummer Night's Dream, V. i. 12-17.
2 your only tragedy-maker] an allusion to Hamlet, III. ii. 125: 'your only jig-maker'.
3 the air smells wooingly] 'the heaven's breath / Smells wooingly here' (Macbeth, l. vi.
5-6).
4 the temple-haunting mart/et builds] from Macbeth, l. vi. 4.
5 the blasted heath] from Macbeth, l. iii. 77.
314
6 air-drawn dagger] from Macbeth, III. iv. 61.

7 gracious Duncan] from Macbeth, III. i. 65.
8 blood-boultered Banquo] from Macbeth, IV. i. 123.
9 What are these . .. And yet are on't?] from Macbeth, I. iii. 39-42.
10 bends up . .. terrible feat] from Macbeth, I. vii. 79-80.
11 The deed . .. confounds him] a recollection ofLady Macbeth's 'th' attempt, and not the
deed,/ Confounds us' (Macbeth, II. ii. 10-11).
12 preternatural solicitings] a recollection ofMacbeth: 'This supernatural soliciting/ Cannot
be ill' (Macbeth, I. iii. 130-1).
13 Bringforth ... Nothing but males.~ from Macbeth, I. vii. 72-4.
14 screw his courage to the sticking-place] from Macbeth, I. vii. 60-1: 'But screw your courage
to the sticking place,/ And we'll not fail.'
15 lost so poorly in himse/fl a recollection ofLady Macbeth: 'Be not lost / So poorly in your
thoughts' (Macbeth, II. ii. 68-9).
16 a little water ... this deed] a recollection ofLady Macbeth: 'A little water clears us ofthis
deed' (Macbeth, II. ii. 64).
17 the sides of his intent] from Macbeth, I. vii. 26.
18 for theirfuture days . .. masterdom] from Macbeth, I. v. 69-70.
19 his fatal entrance .. . battlements] from Macbeth, I. v. 39-40, where the raven 'croaks the
fatal entrance of Duncan/ Under my battlements'.
20 Come all you spirits . .. hold, hold~ from Macbeth, I. v. 40-54.
21 Duncan comes there to sleep] 'Duncan comes here to-night', Macbeth, I. v. 31.
22 Thou'rt mad to say it] from Macbeth, I. v. 31.
23 Hie thee hither . .. crowned withaij from Macbeth, I. v. 25-30.
24 Mrs Siddons] Sarah Siddons (1755-1831), said to have been the greatest tragic actress
ofthe English stage. Lady Macbeth was her most famous part; see A View ofthe English
Stage (vol. iii, pp. 144-6, below). For further comments on Siddons added to this
passage in proof but not included in the published text, seep. xxxvii, above.
25 There is no art ... Was great upon me] from Macbeth, I. iv. 11-16. As Howe notes, 'great
upon' for 'heavy on' in concluding line is a misquotation.
26 How goes the night . .. in repose] from Macbeth, II. i. 1-9.
27 Light thickens ... wood] from Macbeth, III. ii. 50-1.
28 Now spurs ... timely inn] from Macbeth, III. iii. 6-7.
29 So fair and foul a day I have not seen] from Macbeth, I. iii. 38. ·
30 Such welcome and unwelcome news together] a recollection of Macbeth's 'Such welcome
and unwelcome things at once / 'Tis hard to reconcile' (Macbeth, IV. iii. 138-9).
31 Men's lives ... sicken] as Howe puts it, a 'freely recalled' version of Macbeth, IV. iii. 171-
3.
32 Look like the innocent flower . .. under it] from Macbeth, I. v. 65-6.
33 To him and all we thirst] from Macbeth, III. iv. 91.
34 Avaunt and quit my sight] from Macbeth, III. iv. 92.
35 himself again] 'Conscience avaunt! Richard's himself again', Richard III, adapted by
Cibber (London 1818), V. v (p. 62).
36 he may sleep in spite of thunder] a recollection of Macbeth, IV. i. 86.
37 Then be thou jocund ... dreatlful note) from Macbeth, III. ii. 40-4.
38 Had he not resembled . .. I had done't) from Macbeth, II. ii. 12-13.
39 rejoice when good kings bleed] 'We should rejoice when good kings bleed' is a line that
appears in Bell's acting edition of Macbeth (1774), II. ii.
40 they should be women, but their beards forbid it) a recollection of Macbeth, I. iii. 45-7.
41 in deeper consequence) from Macbeth, I. iii. 126.
42 Why stands Macbeth thus amazedly?) from Macbeth, IV. i. 125-6.
315
43 the milk efhuman kindness] from Macbeth, I. v. 17.

44 himselfalone] one ofthose phrases that can be traced to two sources. The most obvious
is Gloucester's 'I am myself alone' (3 Henry VI, V. vi. 83), but see also John 6:15:
'WhenJesus therefore perceived that they would come and take him by force, to make
him a king, he departed again into a mountain himself alone.' It was apparently on this
text that Coleridge descanted when Hazlitt first encountered him in the Unitarian
chapel at Shrewsbury, January 1798 (see 'My First Acquaintance with Poets', vol. 9,
below).
45 For Banquo's issue . .. Banquo kings] from Macbeth, Ill. i. 64-5 and 69.
46 Duncan is in his grave ... sleeps welij from Macbeth, Ill. ii. 22-3.
47 direness is thus rendered familiar to his slaughtered thoughts] from Macbeth, V. v. 14.
48 is troubled ... ef her rest] from Macbeth, V. iii. 38-9.
49 subject to all the skyey influences] a recollection of Measure for Measure, Ill. i. 9.
50 My way of life ... and dare not] a recollection of Macbeth, V. iii. 22-8. Hazlitt was
attacked by John Russell in the Quarterly Review for omitting two words from this
quotation. For his response, see the Letter to William Gifford, vol. 5, p. 376.
51 John Gay (1685-1732), The Beggar's Opera, first acted 29 January 1728; see The Round
Table, vol. 2, pp. 64-5.
52 Ullo's murders] George Lillo, dramatist (1693-1739), author of Fatal Curiosity and
George Barnwell, popular tragedies in blank verse and prose, respectively.
53 A question ... Poetry] Hazlitt has in mind Lamb's note in his Spedmens ef English
Dramatic Poets (1808), appended to an extract from Middleton's The Witch. It begins:
'Though some resemblance may be traced between the Charms in Macbeth, and the
Incantations in this Play, which is supposed to have preceded it, this coincidence will
not detract much from the originality of Shakspeare. His Witches are distinguished
from the Witches of Middleton by essential differences' (p. 174).
54 the Witch ofMiddleton] Thomas Middleton (?1570-1627). The generally accepted view
is that The Witch dates from about 1614, Macbeth from 1605-6.
55 They raise jars . .. a thick scurfo'er life] from Middleton, The Witch, I. ii. 172-4: 'Well
may we raise jars,/Jealousies, strifes, and heart-burning disagreements,/Like a thick
scurf o'er life'.
Julius Cresar
1 the celebrated Earl ef HallifaxJ Charles Montague, Earl of Halifax (1661-1715), British
statesman and poet.
2 John Fletcher (1579-1625), King and no King, licensed 1611, printed 1619; John
Dryden, Secret Love, or, the Maiden Queen, first acted 1667, printed the following year.
3 Thou art a cob/er . .. in his triumph] from Julius Caesar, I. i. 20-24, 27-31.
4 Wherefore rejoice . .. ingratitude] from Julius Caesar, I. i. 32-4, 36-55.
5 once upon a raw and gusty day] from Julius Caesar, I. ii. 100.
6 The games are done ... think'st ofhimJ fromJulius Caesar, I. ii. 177-214.
7 Andfor Mark Antony . .. at this hereefterJ from Julius Caesar, II. i. 181-91.
8 0, name him not . .. men begin} from Julius Caesar, II. i. 150-2.
9 This disturbed sky is not to walk in] from Julius Caesar, I. iii. 39-40.
10 All the conspirators . . . made one ef themJ from Julius Caesar, V. v. 69-72.
11 How 'scaped, I. killing when I crost you so?J from Julius Caesar, IV. iii. 150.
12 You are my true . .. my sad heart] from Julius Caesar, II. i. 288-90.
13 They are all welcome . .. directly here] from Julius Caesar, II. i. 97-111.
14 It is no matter . .. so sound] from Julius Caesar, II. i. 229-33.
316
Othello
1 It has been said that tragedy purifies the affections by terror and pity] Hazlitt is alluding directly
to Aristotle, Poetics 6. 1449b.
2 It comes directly home ... business of men] Hazlitt is quoting from the dedication to
Bacon's essays: 'I do now publish my Essays; which, ofall my other works, have been
most current; for that, as it seems, they come home to men's business and bosoms' (The
Works of Francis Bacon, ed. James Spedding, Robert Leslie Ellis and Douglas Denon
Heath (7 vols., London, 1857-9), vol. vi, p. 373).
3 The picturesque contrasts . . . as ever] As Howe observes, the first three sentences of this
paragraph are from no. 38 of the Round Table series, 'Shakespear's Exact
Discrimination ofNearly Similar Characters' (Examiner, 12 May 1816); variants given
by Howe, xx. 407.
4 .flows on to the Propontic ... no ebb] a recollection of Othello, III. iii. 455-6.
5 the spells and witchcraft he had used] Brabantio accuses Othello of having used spells to
seduce Desdemona (I. iii. 61), and later in the scene Othello says, of his tales of his
adventurous past, 'This only is the witchcraft I have used' (I. iii. 169).
6 What! Michael Cassio?. .. fea,ful to be granted] from Othello, III. iii. 70-4, 76-83.
7 lf she be false . .. believe it] from Othello, III. iii. 278-9.
8 Look where he comes] from Othello, III. iii. 330.
9 I felt not Cassia's kisses on her lips] from Othello, Ill. iii. 341.
10 Now do I see 'tis true . .. aspicks' tongues] from Othello, Ill. iii. 444-50.
15 It is impossible . .. goats] from Othello, Ill. iii. 402-3.
11 never look back, ne'er ebb to humble love] from Othello, Ill. iii. 458.
12 Yet, oh the pity of it ... pity of it] from Othello, IV. i. 195-6.
13 My wife! ... heavy hour] from Othello, V. ii. 97-8.
14 his whole course of love] from Othello, I. iii. 91.
15 It is impossible . .. goats] from Othello, Ill. iii. 444-50.
16 'Tis not to make me jealous . .. chose me] from Othello, III. iii. 183-9.
17 Believe me . .. humours from him] from Othello, Ill. iv. 25-31.
18 I will my Lord . .. than he did] from Othello, IV. iii. 10-11.
19 her visage in her mind] an allusion to Desdemona's remark, 'I saw Othello's visage in his
mind' (Othello, I. iii. 252).
20 A maiden never bold ... at itselfj from Othello, I. iii. 94-6.
21 Tempests themselves . .. divine Desdemona] from Othello, II. i. 68, 71-3.
22 She is subdued . .. lord] from Othello, I. iii. 250-1: 'My heart's subdu'd / Even to the
very quality of my lord'.
23 honours and his valiant parts ... consecrates] from Othello, I. iii. 253-4.
24 remained at home a moth of peace] from Othello, I. iii. 255-6.
25 Alas, Iago . .. no other] from Othello, IV. ii. 148-161, 165-6, 168.
26 Ay, too gentle . .. certain] from Othello, IV. i. 194-5.
27 Would you had never seen him . .. grace and favour in them] from Othello, IV. iii. 18-21.
28 Our ancient] Othello calls Iago 'My ancient', Othello, I. iii. 283.
29 What a full fortune . .. some colour] from Othello, I. i. 66-73.
30 Here is herfather's house ... populous cities] from Othello, I. i. 74-7.
31 I cannot believe ... the Moor] from Othello, II. i. 249-53.
32 And yet how nature . .. and degree] from Othello, Ill. iii. 227-30.
33 the milk of human kindness] from Macbeth, I. v. 17.
34 relish ofsalvation in it] from Hamlet, III. iii. 92.
317
35 Oh, you are well tuned now ... honest as I am] from Othello, II. i. 199-201.
36 My noble lord . .. Too hideous to be shewn] from Othello, Ill. iii. 92-108.
37 0 grace! 0 Heaven forgive me . .. such <ffence] from Othello, III. iii. 373-80.
38 How is it, General ... Heaven] from Othello, IV. i. 59-60.
39 Zanga] see The Revenge, by Edward Young, first acted 1721. Hazlitt's point is clear
even from the opening speech of the play, spoken by Zanga:
Whether first Nature, or long want of Peace

Has wrought my Mind to this, I. cannot tell;
But Horrors now are not displeasing to me:
I like this Rocking of the Battlements.
Rage on, ye Winds, burst Clouds, and Waters roar!
You bear a just Resemblance to my Fortune,
And suit the gloomy Habit ofmy Soul. (The Revenge (1721), I, i, II. 1-7)
Timon of Athens
1 Follow his strides ... the free air] an edited version of Timon of Athens, I. i. 80-3.
2 What, think'st thou . .. bid them flatter thee] from Timon of Athens, IV. iii. 221-31.
3 A thing slipt ... it chefes] from Timon of Athens, I. i. 20-5.
4 true men] the phrase occurs twice in 1 Henry IV, firstly when Hal says that 'The thieves
have bound the true men' (II. ii. 93), and then when Bardolph reveals the plan ofthe
thieves to make their noses bleed 'and swear it was the blood oftrue men' (II. iv. 311).
5 ugly all over with hypocrisy] the quotation is from Wycherley's The Plain Dealer, IV. i.11.
25-6, which Hazlitt knew, though, as Howe points out, it also appeared in The Tat/er,
no. 38 for 7 July 1709: 'Mr Wycherly's Character of a Coxcomb: He is ugly all over
with the Affectation of the fine Gentleman' (The Tat/er, ed. Donald F. Bond (3 vols.,
Oxford, 1987), vol. i, pp. 273-4).
6 sphere of humanity] Lamb echoes the same phrase in 'On the Tragedies ofShakspeare',
attributing it to Jonson (Lamb, Works (2 vols., 1818), ii. 15).
7 This yellow slave . .. April day again] from Timon of Athens, IV. iii. 34-42.
8 Let me look ... Be merely poison] from Timon of Athens, IV. i. 1-32.
9 What things in the world . .. themselves] from Timon of Athens, IV. iii. 318-21.
10 loved few things better . .. himselfl from Timon ofAthens, I. i. 59-60.
11 Come not to me . .. your oracle] from Timon of Athens, V. i. 214-19.
12 These well express . .. low grave] from Timon ofAthens, V. iv. 74-9.
Coriolanus
Previously published in The Examiner, 'Theatrical Examiner', 15 December 1816, and
reprinted in A View of the English Stage; see vol. 3, pp. 180-3, below.
1 no jutting.frieze, buttress, or coigne of vantage] from Macbeth, I. vi. 6-7.
2 to make its pendant bed and procreant cradle in] from Macbeth, I. vi. 8.
3 it carries noise, and behind it leaves tears] from Coriolanus, II. i. 159.
4 Carnage is its daughter] a quotation from a recent Wordsworth poem, Ode. The Morning
of the Day Appointed for a General Thanksgiving.January 18, 1816, II. 279-82:
But thy most dreaded instrument,

In working out a pure intent,
Is Man - arrayed for mutual slaughter, -
Yea, Carnage is thy daughter!
318
5 poor rats] from Coriolanus, I. i. 249.

6 as if he were a God . .. infirmity] from Coriolanus, III. i. 81-2.
7 Mark you his absolute shall?] from Coriolanus, III. i. 89-90.
8 cares . . . fears]
Thus we debase
The nature of our seats and make the rabble
Call our cares fears ... (Coriolanus, III. i. 135-7)
9 Now the red pestilence . .. perish] from Coriolanus, IV. i. 12-13.

10 Methinks, I. hither hear . .. contending] from Coriolanus, I. iii. 29-30, 32-43.
11 These are the ushers . .. then men die] from Coriolanus, II. i. 158-61.
12 Pray now, no more . .. grieves me] from Coriolanus, I. ix. 13-15.
13 The whole history . .. Plutarch] The sentence quoted is by Pope; see Pope, vol. v, p. 90.
Troilus and Cressida

1 Troy, yet upon her basis ... not in her strength] from Troilus and Cressida, I. iii. 75-8, 85-
137.
2 without o'eiflowingfulij Sir John Denham, Cooper's Hill, I. 192: 'Strong without rage,
without ore-flowing full'.
3 of losing distinction in his thoughts] a recollection ofTroilus and Cressida, III. ii. 26-7: 'and
I do fear besides/ That I shall lose distinction in my joys'.
4 As doth a battle . . . flying] from Troi/us and Cressida, III. i. 28-9.
5 Time hath, my lord . .. in thy tent] from Troilus and Cressida, III. iii. 145-61, 163-77,
180-7.
6 J.-Vhy there you touch'd ... magnanimous deeds] from Troi/us and Cressida, II. ii. 194-200.
7 Come here about me . .. proceeding eye] from Troilus and Cressida, V. vii. 1-7.
8 Go thy way . .. to boot] from Troilus and Cressida, I. ii. 235-9.
9 It is the prettiest villain ... spa"ow] from Troi/us and Cressida, III. ii. 33-4.
10 a stamp exclusive and professionaij from Leigh Hunt's description of Paolo's face, The
Story of Rimini, iii, 11. 40-1:
Yet there was nothing in it one might call

A stamp exclusive, or professional ...
11 the web of our lives ... good and ill together] from All's Well that Ends Well, IV. iii. 71-
2.
12 He hath done . .. Bad him win alij from Troilus and Cressida, V. v. 37-42.
13 Prouder then when blue Iris bends] from Troilus and Cressida, I. iii. 379.
14 like the eye of vassalage ... majesty] from Troilus and Cressida, III. ii. 38-9.
15 And as the new abashed nightingale ... her intent] from Chaucer, Troilus and Criseyde, iii,
11. 1233-9.
16 Her armes small . .. soft] from Chaucer, Troilus and Criseyde, iii, I. 1247.
17 0, that I thought . .. infancy of Truth] from Troilus and Cressida, III. ii. 158-70. Hazlitt
quotes this passage with reference to himself at the end ofPart One of Liber Amoris; see
vol. 7, p. 22.
18 Rouse yourself . .. Be shook to air] from Troilus and Cressida, III. iii. 222-5.
19 J.-Vhat! preffer'st thou ... grave] from Chaucer, Troilus and Criseyde, iii, ll. 1461-2.
319
Antony and Cleopatra

1 like the swan's down:feather . .. inclines] from Antony and Cleopatra, Ill. ii. 48-50.
2 if it be love indeed ... new earth] from Antony and Cleopatra, l. i. 14-17.
3 The barge she sat in . .. love-sick] from Antony and Cleopatra, II. ii. 191-4.
4 like a doating mallard] from Antony and Cleopatra, Ill. viii. 19.
5 He's speaking now . .. old Nile] from Antony and Cleopatra, l. v. 24-5.
6 It is my birth-day . .. Cleopatra] from Antony and Cleopatra, Ill. xiii. 184-6.
7 To let afellow . .. high hearts] from Antony and Cleopatra, Ill. xiii. 123-6.
8 Age cannot wither . .. satisfies] from Antony and Cleopatra, II. ii. 234-7.
9 There's gold . .. veins to kiss~ from Antony and Cleopatra, II. iv. 28-9.
10 Dost thou not see . .. Oh Antony.~ from Antony and Cleopatra, V. ii. 309-12.
11 Antony, leave thy lasdvious wassels . .. as lank'd not] from Antony and Cleopatra, l. iv. 55-
71.
12 Yes, yes ... ended] from Antony and Cleopatra, Ill. ix. 35-8.
13 contracts] emended from 'contrasts', on the advice of Stanley Jones, 'A Hazlitt
Corruption', The Library, 33 (1978), 235-8, p. 238.
14 long, obscure, and infinite] As Howe surmises, Hazlitt echoes the following lines from
Wordsworth's The Borderers (composed 1797-9, published in revised form 1842),
which he had heard its author recite in 1803:
Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark,

And has the nature of infinity. (1797-9 text, III, v, 11. 64-5)
15 Eros, thou yet behold'st me . .. Even such a body] from Antony and Cleopatra, IV. xiv. 1-
13.
16 I see men's judgments ... all alike] from Antony and Cleopatra, Ill. xiii. 31-4.
17 a master-leaver and afugitive] from Antony and Cleopatra, IV. ix. 22.
Hamlet
This essay incorporates parts of Hazlitt's review of Kean's Hamlet in A View of the
English Stage; see vol. 3, pp. 15-18.
1 this goodly frame ... vapours] a recollection of Hamlet, II. ii. 298-303.
2 man delighted not, nor woman neither] from Hamlet, II. ii. 309.
3 too much i' th' sun] from Hamlet, I. ii. 67.
4 the pangs of despised love . .. unworthy takes] from Hamlet, Ill. i. 71-3.
5 the outward pageants and the signs ofgriefj a recollection of Hamlet, I. ii. 86: 'These but the
trappings and the suits of woe.'
6 we have that within which passes shew] from Hamlet, I. ii. 85.
7 that has no relish of salvation in it] from Hamlet, Ill. iii. 92.
8 He kneels and prays ... in a rage] a recollection of Hamlet, Ill. iii. 73-9, 88-9. 'He kneels
and prays' appears as part ofthe speech in Hazlitt's text, but it is more likely to be a stage
direction.
9 How all occasions ... or be nothing worth] from Hamlet, IV. iv. 32-66.
10 that noble and liberal casuist] this phrase occurs in the midst of one of Hazlitt's favourite
passages from Lamb's Spedmens (1808):
A puritanical obtuseness of sentiment, a stupid infantile goodness, is creeping
320
among us, instead ofthe vigorous passions, and virtues clad in flesh and blood,
with which the old dramatists present us. Those noble and liberal casuists could
discern in the differences, the quarrels, the animosities of man, a beauty and
truth of moral feeling, no less than in the iterately inculcated duties of
forgiveness and atonement. (p. 136)
11 the Whole Duty efMan] a reference to the popular ethical treatise by Richard Allestree,
first published 1660.
12 The Academy ef Compliments] by one 'Philomusus', was published first in 1640. It was
a handbook for courting couples.
13 his father's spirit was in arms] from Hamlet, I. ii. 254.
14 I loved Ophelia . .. Make up my sum] from Hamlet, V. i. 269-71.
15 Sweets to the sweet . .. thy grave] from Hamlet, V. i. 243-6.
16 Oh rose ef May] from Hamlet, IV. v. 158. The reviewer in the Quarterly failed to
recognise the allusion, attributing the exclamation to Hazlitt: 'Sometimes he would
seem, for his gorgeous accumulation of emblematical terms, which leave all meaning
far behind, to have formed himselfupon the model ofSamuelJohnson -not the author
ofthe Rambler- but, ofHurlothrumbo the Supernatural. Sometimes he breaks forth
into a poetical strain, as, at the mention of Ophelia, "O rose of May! 0, flower too
soon faded!" .. .' (Quarterly Review, 18 (1818), 458-66, p. 459).
17 a wave o' th' sea] from The Winter's Tale, IV. iv. 141.
18 a.friend has pointed out] Howe notes Zeitlin's suggestion that this is Lamb, adding: 'I do
not know that we know it to be so, but it pleasantly might be'. In Lectures on the English
Poets Hazlitt adopts the observation as his own; see vol. 2, p. 210.
19 There is a willow . .. glassy stream] from Hamlet, IV. vii. 166-7.
The Tempest
1 Eitherfor tragedy . .. light for him] a recollection of Hamlet, II. ii. 396-401.
2 a deed without a name] from Macbeth, IV. i. 49.
3 does his spiriting gently] from The Tempest, I. ii. 298.
4 to airy nothing ... and a name] from A Midsummer Night's Dream, V. i. 16-17.
5 semblably] used at 1 Henry IV, V. iii. 21.
6 worthy ef that name] see The Tempest, III. i. 37-9.
7 like the dyer's hand . .. what it works in] from Sonnet 111, 11. 6-7
8 the liberty ofwit ... the law] not, I think, an allusion to Hamlet, as suggested by Howe,
but to Pope, An Essay on Critidsm:
But we, brave Britons, Foreign Laws despis'd,

And kept unconquer'd, and unciviliz'd,
Fierce for the Liberties of Wit, and bold,
We still defy' d the Romans, as of old.
Yet some there were, among the sounder Few
Of those who less presum'd, and better knew,
Who durst assert the juster Ancient Cause,
And here restor'd Wit's Fundamental Laws. (11. 715-22)
9 ef the earth, earthy] from I Corinthians 15:47: 'The first man is of the earth, earthy'.
10 always speaks in blank verse] see Schlegel on Caliban: 'He is rude, but not vulgar; he
never falls into the prosaical and low familiarity of his drunken associates, for he is a
321
poetical being in his way; he always too speaks in verse' (Schlegel, vol. ii, p. 180).
11 As wicked dew . .. The rest o' th' island] from The Tempest, I. ii. 321-44.
12 I'll shew thee . . . from the rock] from The Tempest, II. ii. 160-1, 167-72.
13 Be not afraid ... I cried to dream again] from The Tempest, III. ii. 135-43.
14 I drink the air before me] from The Tempest, V. i. 102.
15 I'll put a girdle .. . in forty minutes] from A Midsummer Night's Dream, II. i. 175-6.
16 Your charm so strongly works them . .. than thou art?] from The Tempest, V. i. 17-24.
17 Come unto these yellow sands . .. I hear it now above me] from The Tempest, I. ii. 375-408.
18 The cloud-capp'd towers . .. palaces] from The Tempest, IV. i. 152.
19 Ye elves of hills ... drown my book] from The Tempest, V. i. 33-57.
20 Had I the plantation ... Save his majesty~ from The Tempest, II. i. 144-69.
The Midsummer Night's Dream

The Examiner, 26 November 1815; No. 26 ofthe Round Table series, already reprinted
by Hazlitt. The concluding paragraph is added from The Examiner, 21 January 1816.
1 This crew ofpatches . .. Athenian stalls] from A Midsummer Night's Dream, III. ii. 9-10.
2 He will roar . .. to hear him] from A Midsummer Night's Dream, I. ii. 70-1.
3 will roar you ... nightingale] from A Midsummer Night's Dream, I. ii. 83-4.
4 Have you the lion's part . .. roaring] from A Midsummer Night's Dream, I. ii. 66-9.
5 I believe we must leave the killing out when all's done] from A Midsummer Night's Dream, III.
i. 14-15.
6 Write me a prologue ... out offear] from A Midsummer Night's Dream, III. i. 17-22.
7 with amiable cheeks, and fair large ears] not exactly a quotation, but a recollection of
Titania's blandishments, A Midsummer Night's Dream, IV. i. 2-4.
8 Monsieur Cobweb . .. honey-bag] from A Midsummer Night's Dream, IV. i. 10-14.
9 Lord, what fools these mortals be~ from A Midsummer Night's Dream, III. ii. 115.
10 the human mortals] from A Midsummer Night's Dream, II. i. 101.
11 gorgons and hydras, and chimeras dire] from Paradise Lost, bk. ii, I. 628.
12 Be kind . .. do him courtesies] from A Midsummer Night's Dream, III. i. 164-74.
13 Go, one of you ... judge when you hear] from A Midsummer Night's Dream, IV. i. 103-
27.
14 the most fearful wildfowl living] from A Midsummer Night's Dream, III. i. 32.
Romeo and Juliet

1 whatever is most intoxicating ... in this poem] the exact quotation is even better; see
Schlegel, vol. ii, p. 187: 'Whatever is most intoxicating in the song ofthe nightingale,
or voluptuous on the first opening of the rose, is breathed into this poem.'
2 fancies wan that hang the pensive head] a recollection ofMilton's 'cowslips wan that hang
the pensive head' (Lycidas, I. 147).
3 We have heard it objected . . .fantasticaij by John Philpot Curran (1750-1817), the Irish
orator, at Home Tooke's Wimbledon parties. Curran was the defender ofthe leaders
ofthe United Irishmen when they were tried in 1798, and a sympathiser with Robert
Emmet's insurrection of 1803. See also A Letter to Gifford, and the Plain Speaker essay,
'On the Conversation of Authors', vols. 5 and 8.
4 too unripe and crude] another recollection ofMilton: 'I come to pluck your berries harsh
and crude' (Lycidas, I. 3).
5 Stranger] Benjamin Thompson's translation ofKotzebue's Menschenhass und Reue was
first produced in 1798.
322
6 gather grapes ef thorns norfigs ef thistles] Matthew 7:16.

7 My bounty . .. as deep] from Romeo andJuliet, II. ii. 133-4.
8 his Ode on the Progress ef Life] Hazlitt refers to the poem published in 1807 as Ode, and,
from 1815 onwards, as Ode. Intimations ef Immortality from Recollections of Early
Childhood.
9 they fade by degrees ... common day] a recollection ofline 76 of Wordsworth's Ode.
10 that lies about us in our infancy] a recollection of line 66 of Wordsworth's Ode.
11 the purple light of love] Gray, Progress of Poesy, I. 41: 'The bloom of young Desire, and
purple light of Love'.
12 another morn risen on mid-day] a recollection of Paradise Lost, bk. v, II. 310-311.
13 in utter nakedness] a recollection of Wordsworth's Ode, I. 63.
14 I've seen the day ... 'tis gone] from Romeo andJuliet, I. v. 21-4.
15 At my poor house . .. Inherit at my house] from Romeo andJuliet, I. ii. 24-30.
16 But he, his own affection's counsellor . .. to the sun] from Romeo andJuliet, I. i. 147-53.
17 the white wonder ef hisJuliet's hand] from Romeo andJuliet, III. iii. 36.
18 Mat lady's that . .. .!Ethiop's ear] from Romeo andJuliet, I. v. 41-6.
19 But stronger Shakespear felt for man alone] Collins, An Epistle: Addrest to Sir Thomas
Hanmer, I. 64.
20 Thou know'st the mask . .. hath so discovered] from Romeo andJuliet, II. ii. 85-106.
21 calls true love spoken simple modesty] from Romeo andJuliet, III. ii. 16.
22 Gallop apace . .. And may not wear them] from Romeo andJuliet, III. ii. 1-31.
23 It was reserved . .. one ideal picture] accurately quoted; see Schlegel, vol. ii, p. 187.
24 Here comes the lady . .. so light is vanity] from Romeo andJuliet, II. vi. 16-20.
25 Andent damnation! oh most wicked fiend] from Romeo andJuliet, III. v. 235.
26 frail thoughts dally with faint surmise] from Lyddas, I. 153.
27 the.flatteries ofsleep] the phrase is Pope's version of Romeo andJuliet, V. i. 1.
28 Mat said my man . .. should have marriedJuliet] from Romeo andJuliet, V. iii. 76-8.
29 If I may trust . .. so rich in joy] from Romeo andJuliet, V. i. 1-11.
30 Shame come to Romeo . .. mangled it?] from Romeo andJuliet, III. ii. 90-9.
31 father, mother, nay, or both were dead] from Romeo andJuliet, III. ii. 119.
32 Let me peruse . .. Thus with a kiss I die] from Romeo andJuliet, V. iii. 74-83, 85, 91-120.
33 as she would take another Antony in her strong toil efgrace] from Antony and Cleopatra, V.
ii. 357-8.
34 The Beauties ef Shakespear] collection offavoured passages from the plays assembled by
William Dodd (1729-77), published 1752.
Lear
1 Be Kent unmannerly, when Lear is mad!] from King Lear, I. i. 145-6.
2 Prescribe not us our duties] from King Lear, I. i. 275.
3 plain villain] Hazlitt appears not to be recalling anything in King Lear, but rather Don
John's description ofhimselfas a 'plain-dealing villain' (Much Ado About Nothing, I. iii.
32).
4 This is the excellent foppery . .. bastardising] from King Lear, I. ii. 118-33.
5 the dazzling fence ef controversy an allusion to Comus, 11. 789-90:
Enjoy your dear wit, and gay rhetoric

That hath so well been taught her dazzling fence ...
6 beat at the gate which let his folly in] from King Lear, I. iv. 271.
7 he has made his daughters his mothers] from King Lear, I. iv. 172-3.
323
8 Let me not stay . .. get it ready] from King Lear, I. iv. 8-9.
9 How now, daughter? . .. I have cast offfor ever] from King Lear, I. iv. 189-310.
10 0 let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heavens] from King Lear, I. v. 46.
11 Vengeance! . .. and his wife] from King Lear, II. iv. 95-7.
12 Good-mo"ow to you both ... O,fool, I shall go mad~ from King Lear, II. iv. 127-286.
13 See the little dogs ... they bark at me] from King Lear, III. vi. 62-3.
14 Let them anatomise Regan, see what breeds about her heart] from King Lear, III. vi. 76-7.
15 Nothing but his unkind daughters could have brought him to this] a recollection of King Lear,
III. iv. 70-1:
Death, traitor! nothing could have subdu'd nature

To such a lowness but his unkind daughters.
16 whether a madman . . . A king, a king] from King Lear, III. vi. 9-11.
17 Come on, sir, here's the place] from King Lear, IV. vi. 10.
18 full drcle home] from King Lear, V. iii. 175.
19 Shame, ladies, shame] a recollection of King Lear, IV. iii. 27.
20 Alack, 'tis he . .. singing aloud] from King Lear, IV. iv. 1-2.
21 How does my royal lord ... And so I am, I am.~ from King Lear, IV. vii. 4~9.
22 We are not the first . .. throw incense] from King Lear, V. iii. 3-21.
23 And my poorfool is hang'd! ... thank you, sir] from King Lear, V. iii. 306-10.
24 Vex not his ghost . .. Stretch him out longer] from King Lear, V. iii. 314-16.
25 approved ofby DrJohnson and condemned by Schlegeij Hazlitt has in mind two passages; the
first isJohnson's notes to King Lear in which he supports Tate's rewriting ofthe ending:
In the present case the publick has decided. Cordelia, from the time of Tate, has
always retired with victory and felicity. And, if my sensations could add any thing
to the general suffrage, I might relate, that I was many years ago so shocked by
Cordelia's death, that I know not whether I ever endured to read again the last
scenes ofthe play till I undertook to revise them as an editor. (Sherbo, vol. ii, p. 704)
The second is Schlegel's comment: 'After surviving so many sufferings, Lear can only
die in a tragical manner from his grief for the death of Cordelia; and ifhe is also to be
saved and to pass the remainder of his days in happiness, the whole loses its
signification' (Schlegel, vol. ii, p. 208).
26 The LEAR of Shakespear cannot be acted ... but to die] quoted from Lamb's anonymously
published article, 'Theatralia. No. I. - On Garrick, and Acting; and the Plays of
Shakspeare, considered with reference to their fitness for Stage Representation', The
Reflector, 4 (1811), 298-313, pp. 308-9. Hazlitt knew who wrote it, before it was
included in Lamb's Works in 1818.
Richard II
1 to strut and fret his hour upon the stage] from Macbeth, V. v. 25.
2 How long a time . .. breath of kings] from Richard II, I. iii. 213-15.
3 sighed his English breath in foreign clouds] from Richard II, III. i. 20.
4 The language I have/earned . .. to be a pupil now] from Richard II, I. iii. 159-65, 170-1.
5 is hung armour of the invindble knights of old] from Wordsworth, It is not to be thought of
that the Flood, II. 9-10: 'In our Halls is hung / Armoury of the invincible Knights of
old.'
324
6 keen encounters of their wits] from Richard III, I. ii. 115.

7 if that thy valour .. . my true appeaij from Richard II, IV. i. 33-51, 57-79.
8 barons bold] Milton, L'Allegro, 119.
9 This royal throne of kings ... conquest of itse!f] from Richard II, II. i. 40-66.
10 Ourselfand Bushy ... next degree in hope] from Richard II, I. iv. 23-36.
11 I thank thee . .. true love's recompense] from Richard II, II. iii. 45-9.
12 0 that I were a mockery king . .. Bolingbroke] from Richard II, IV. i. 260-1.
13 it yearned his heart ... Roan Barbary] from Richard II, V. v. 76-8.
14 My lord, you told me . .. pitied him] from Richard II, V. ii. 1-36.
Henry IV in two parts

1 we behold thefulness ... bodily] Colossians 2:9: 'For in him dwelleth all the fulness ofthe
Godhead bodily'.
2 lards the lean earth ... along] from 1 Henry IV, II. ii. 109.
3 into thin air] from The Tempest, IV. i. 150.
4 three fingers deep upon the ribs] from 1 Henry IV, IV. ii. 73-4.
5 it snows of meat and drink] from the description of the Franklin in the General Prologue
to the Canterbury Tales: 'It snewed in his hous of mete and drynke' (I. 345).
6 ascends me into the brain . .. shapes] from 2 Henry IV, IV. iii. 97-100.
7 a tun of man] from 1 Henry IV, II. iv. 448.
8 open, palpable, monstrous as the father that begets them] from 1 Henry IV, II. iv. 225-6.
9 By the lord ... of the tavern?] from 1 Henry IV, I. ii. 39-48.
10 But Hal . .. labour in his vocation] from 1 Henry IV, I. ii. 81-105.
11 who grew from four men in buckram into eleven] from 1 Henry IV, II. iv. 219-20.
12 Harry, I do not only marvel . . . of that Falst'!/J] from 1 Henry IV, II. iv. 398-485.
13 J.Vhat is the gross sum ... if thou canst] from 2 Henry IV, II. i. 84-103.
14 Would I were with him . .. heaven or helij from Henry V, II. iii. 7-8.
15 turning his vices into commodity] from 2 Henry IV, I. ii. 248: 'I will turn diseases into
commodity.'
16 their legs being both ofa bigness] from 2 Henry IV, II. iv. 244.
17 a man made after supper of a cheese-paring] from 2 Henry IV, III. ii. 309.
18 Would, cousin Silence . .. chimes at midnight] from 2 Henry IV, III. ii. 211-15.
19 I did not think Master Silence ... and once ere now] from 2 Henry IV, V. iii. 37-40.
20 in some authority under the king] from 2 Henry IV, V. iii. 111-12.
21 the regal infirmity of later times] a reference to George Ill's well-known propensity to say
everything twice.
22 You have here . .. Come, cousin] from 2 Henry IV, V. iii. 5-15.
23 To Falstaff's observation ... Come, cousin] This forms the concluding paragraph of
Hazlitt's Round Table paper, 'Shakespear's Exact Discrimination of Nearly Similar
Characters'.
24 what a poorforked creature man isl] an allusion to King Lear, III. iv. 107-8.
25 J.Vhen on the gentle Severn's sedgy bank ... valiant combatants] from 1 Henry IV, I. iii. 98-
107
26 By heaven methinks it were ... the moon] from 1 Henry IV, I. iii. 201-2.
27 Had my sweet Harry ... Monmouth's grave] from 2 Henry IV, II. iii. 43-5.
325
Henry V
1 the king efgood.fellows] from Henry V, V. ii. 242-3.
2 plume up their wills] from Othello, I. iii. 393.
3 the right divine of kings to govern wrong, Pope, Dunciad (1742), bk. iv, I. 188.
4 when France is his ... break it all to pieces] from Henry V, I. ii. 224-5.
5 the great modern catspaw] Edmund Burke.
6 in their cages in the Tower] the Tower of London housed a menagerie.
7 0 for a muse effire ... Crouch for employment] from Henry V, Chorus, 1-8.
8 the reformation] from Henry V, I. i. 33.
9 Which is a wonder ... in his faculty] from Henry V, I. i. 53-66.
10 And God forbid . .. with baptism] from Henry V, I. ii. 13-32.
11 the ill neighbourhood] from Henry V, I. ii. 154.
12 For once the eagle England . .. her princely e~s] from Henry V, I. ii. 169-71.
13 For government . .. Without difeat] from Henry V, I. ii. 180-213.
14 rich with his praise . .. sumless treasuries] from Henry V, I. ii. 163-5.
15 0 hard condition ... the peasant best advantages] from Henry V, IV. i. 233-84.
16 The duke ef York . .. noble-ending love] from Henry V, IV. vi. 3-27.
17 some disputations] from Henry V, III. ii. 95.
Henry VI in three parts

From The Examiner, 12 May 1816, 'Shakespear's Exact Discrimination of Nearly
Similar Characters', no. 38 of the Round Table series (except first four paragraphs).
1 fat and unraised] from Henry V, Chorus, 9.
2 Glory is like a circle . .. disperse to nought] from 1 Henry VI, I. ii. 133-5.
3 Voltaire's Pucelle] Voltaire's La Pucelle, mock-heroic epic about Jeanne d'Arc, 1755-62.
4 Yet tel/'st thou not ... shoot me to the heart] from 1 Henry VI, I. iv. 38-56.
5 Aye, Edward will use women honourably] from 3 Henry VI, III. ii. 124.
6 Edward Plantagenet . .. draw thy sword in right] from 3 Henry VI, II. ii. 61-2.
7 The Deputy elected by the Lard] add from The Examiner the following footnote to this
line:
Shakespear has here very clearly stated the doctrine ofDivine right, and referred
it to its proper origin, the opinion of an express interference of Providence in
the election of kings. On that hypothesis there is some sense in it. The
fashionable doctrine of legitimacy is flat nonsense. It makes the authority of
kings proceed neither from God nor man. It is like Mahomet's coffin,
suspended between heaven and earth, or like a lawyer's wig and gown, with the
man taken out. A notorious political scribbler of the present day has asked,
'Who is the madman who believes in the doctrine of divine right? Who is the
madman that asserts it?' We will tell him in two words, - all the kings that ever
lived, and all the sycophants they ever had! (Examiner, 12 May 1816, p. 300)
The 'political scribbler' was John Stoddart, at this date principal leader-writer of The
Times.
8 Mock not my senseless conjuration . .. Heaven still guards the right] from Richard II, III. ii.
23-6, 54-62.
9 But now the blood . .. upon my pride] from Richard II, III. ii. 76-7, 80-1.
326
10 cheap d~nce] a phrase that occurs in the midst ofBurke's rhapsody on Marie Antoinette
and lament for the age of chivalry in Reflections on the Revolution in France: 'The
unbought grace oflife, the cheap defence ofnations, the nurse ofmanly sentiment and
heroic enterprize is gone!' (Mitchell, p. 127).
11 Awake, thou coward Majesty . .. At thy great glory] from Richard II, III. ii. 84-7.
12 Where is the duke . .. I am a king?] from Richard II, III. ii. 143-77.
13 What must the king do now? ... an obscure grave] from Richard II, III. iii. 143-54.
14 This battle fares . .. wait on him] from 3 Henry VI, II. v. 1-4, 14-54.
15 had staggered his royal person] from Richard II, V. v. 109.
Richard III
1 the character in which Garrick came out] David Garrick (1717-79), appeared 19 October
1741, at the theatre in Goodman's Fields.
2 the second character in which Mr Kean appeared] Edmund Kean (1787-1833) appeared at
Drury Lane as Shylock, 26January 1814, on 1 February as Shylock, and on 12 February
as Gloucester in Richard III. Hazlitt reviewed his performance ofRichard in A View ef
the English Stage (vol. 3, pp. 11-14, below).
3 that rich and idle personage, Posterity] untraced.
4 But I was born ... scorns the sun] from Richard III, I. iii. 262-4.
5 Cooke] George Frederick Cooke (1756-1811). Lamb reviewed Cooke's Richard in
the Morning Post for 8 January 1802.
6 Sir Giles Overreach] inMassinger'sA New Way to Pay Old Debts; see A View ofthe English
Stage, vol. 3, pp. 104-6, below.
7 Oroonoko, or the Royal Slave] (1696), a play by Thomas Southerne (1660/1-1746),
based on Aphra Behn's novel.
8 bustle in] from Richard III, I. i 52.
9 They do me wrong . .. A plague upon you alij from Richard III, I. iii. 41-58.
10 I beseech your graces ... would'st thou betray me?] from Richard III, I. i. 84-102.
11 Stay, yet look back . .. For tender princes~ from Richard III, IV. i. 97-102.
12 Dighton and Forrest . . . ere she framed] from Richard III, IV. iii. 4-19.
Henry VIII
1 Nay, forsooth, my friends ... mine own country, lords] from Henry VIII, III. i. 87-91.
2 the meek sorrows and virtuous distress ... easily written] see Sherbo, vol. ii, p. 657.
3 Farewell, a longfarewell . .. Never to hope again.~ from Henry VIII, III. ii. 351-72.
4 him whom ef all men while living she hated most] from Henry VIII, IV. ii. 73.
5 While her grace sat down . .. As loud and to as many tunes] from Henry VIII, IV. i. 65-73.
6 The character ef Henry VIII . .. without their virtues] it was comments like this that got
Hazlitt into hot water with the reviewers (see 'Reception', p. !vii above). But there
was a precedent; Schlegel, too, had harsh words for Henry VIII: 'Henry the Eighth again
shows us the transition to another age; the policy of modern Europe, a refined court
life under a voluptuous monarch, the dangerous situation of favourites who are
themselves precipitated after they have assisted in effecting the fall ofothers; in a word,
despotism under milder forms, but not less unjust and cruel' (Schlegel, vol. ii, p. 222).
7 It has been said ef Shakespear . .. such a man] untraced.
8 the best ofkings] a phrase applied to Ferdinand VII of Spain in official documents. See
The Examiner, 25 September 1814, p. 612, where the words are ironically italicised.
327
King John
1 denoted aforegone conclusion] from Othello, III. iii. 428.
2 To consider thus . .. to consider too curiously] from Hamlet, V. i. 205-6.
3 Heat me these irons hot ... Much danger do I undergo for thee] Hazlitt reprints, intact, King
John, IV. i.
4 There is not yet ... such a villain up] from KingJohn, IV. iii. 123-33.
5 To me and to the state . .. assemble] from KingJohn, III. i. 70-1.
6 that love of misery] an allusion to KingJohn, III. iv. 35-6: 'Misery's love, / 0, come to
me!'
7 Oh father Cardinal ... fond ofgrief] from KingJohn, III. iv. 76-89, 92-8.
8 Aliquando sujJlaminandus erat] the phrase occurs in Jonson's recollection ofShakespeare
in Timber: or, Discoveries (1640): 'Hee was (indeed) honest, and of an open, and free
nature: had an excellent Phantsie; brave notions, and gentle expressions: wherein hee
flow'd with that facility, that sometime it was necessary he should be stop'd:
SujJlaminandus erat; as Augustus said ofHaterius' (BenJonson, ed. C.H. Herford, Percy
and Evelyn Simpson (11 vols., Oxford, 1925-52), vol. viii, p. 584).
9 commodity, tickling commodity] from KingJohn, II. i. 573-4.
10 That daughter there . .. ifyou marry them] from KingJohn, II. i. 423-45.
11 Therefore to be possessed . .. In wasteful and ridiculous excess] from KingJohn, IV. ii. 9-16.
Twelfth Night; or, What You Will

1 highfantasticaij from Twelfth Night, I. i. 15.
2 Wherefore are these things hid . .. the star of agalliard.~ from Twelfth Night, I. iii. 125-33.
3 chirp over their cups] As Hazlitt notes in 'On John Bunde', 'The title ofone ofRabelais'
chapters (and the contents answer to the title) is - "How they chirped over their
cups" ' (vol. 2, p. 52).
4 rouse the night-owl . .. one weaver~ from Twelfth Night, II. iii. 58-9.
5 Dost thou think . .. cakes and ale?] from Twelfth Night, II. iii. 114-16.
6 we cannot agree with DrJohnson that they are better than his tragedies] Hazlitt has in mind
the following comment from Johnson's Preface: 'In tragedy his performance seems
constantly to be worse, as his labour is more. The effusions ofpassion which exigence
forces out are for the most part striking and energetick; but whenever he solicits his
invention, or strains his faculties, the offspring of his throes is tumour, meanness,
tediousness, and obscurity' (Sherbo, vol. i, pp. 72-3).
7 What's her history? . .. and yet I know not] from Twelfth Night, II. iv. 109-21.
8 Oh, it came o'er the ear . .. Stealing and giving odour] from Twelfth Night, I. i. 5-7.
9 They give a very echo to the seat where love is throned] from Twelfth Night, II. iv. 21-2.
10 Blame not this haste of mine . .. May live at peace] from Twelfth Night, IV. iii. 22-8.
11 Ofellow, come ... Like the old age] from Twelfth Night, II. iv. 42-8, 51-66.
12 Here comes the little villain . .. What employment have we here?] from Twelfth Night, II. v.
13-82.
328
The Two Gentlemen of Verona

1 One of the editors (we believe Mr Pope) ... first he wrote] see Pope, vol. i, p. 155.
2 U'hy, how know you that I am in love? ... think you my master] from The Two Gentlemen
of Verona, II. i. 17-32.
3 I do not seek to quench ... A blessed soul doth in Elysium] from The Two Gentlemen ef
Verona, II. vii. 21-38.
4 And sweetest Shakespear . .. wood-notes wild] Milton, L'Allegro, II. 133-4.
5 The river wanders at its own sweet wilij a recollection of Wordsworth, Composed upon
Westminister Bridge, September 2, 1802, 1. 12: 'The river glideth at his own sweet will.'
The Merchant of Venice

Mr Cumberland's benevolentJew] Richard Cumberland (1732-1811 ), author of TheJew,
produced in 1795.
2 baited with the rabble's curse] from Macbeth, V. viii. 29.
3 a man no less sinned against than sinning] from King Lear, III. ii. 59-60.
4 the lodged hate he bears Anthonio] from The Merchant ef Venice, IV. i. 60-1.
5 milk of human kindness] from Macbeth, I. v. 17.
6 Jewish gaberdine] from The Merchant ef Venice, I. iii. 112.
7 laufuij from The Merchant ef Venice, IV. i. 231.
8 on such a day ... much monies] from The Merchant ef Venice, I. iii. 124-9.
9 I am as like . .. to spurn thee too] from The Merchant ef Venice, I. iii. 130-1.
10 To bait.fish withal . .. better the instruction] from The Merchant of Venice, III. i. 53-73.
11 U'hat judgment ... shall I have it?] from The Merchant ef Venice, IV. i. 89-103.
12 I would not have parted with it . .. monkies!] from The Merchant of Venice, III. i. 122-3.
13 civil doctor] from The Merchant ef Venice, V. i. 210.
14 On such a night] from The Merchant of Venice, V. i. 1.
15 conscience and the.fiend] from The Merchant ef Venice, II. ii. 1-32.
16 I hold the world but as the world ... this opinion] from The Merchant of Venice, I. i. 77-102.
17 How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank] from The Merchant ef Venice, V. i. 54.
18 Bassanio and old Shylock, both stand forth] from The Merchant ef Venice, IV. i. 175.
'Bassanio' is a slip for 'Antonio'.
19 the great vulgar and the smalij see Cowley, Horace. L. 3 Ode 1. Odi prefanum vulgus, &c.,
11. 1-2: 'Hence, ye Profane; I hate ye all;/ Both the Great, Vulgar, and the small'.
20 'Tis an unweeded garden ... gender in it!] a recollection of Hamlet, I. ii. 135-7.
The Winter's Tale

1 We wonder that Mr Pope ... play] Hazlitt has in mind the following remark in Pope's
Preface: 'And I should conjecture of some of the others, (particularly Love's Labour
Lost, The Winter's Tale, and Titus Andronicus) that only some characters, single scenes,
or perhaps a few particular passages, were of his hand' (Pope, vol. i, p. xx).
2 Ha' not you seen ... nor thought] from The Winter's Tale, I. ii. 267-75.
3 Is whispering nothing? ... My wife is nothing!] from The Winter's Tale, I. ii. 284-95.
4 the night that King took leave . .. Wedding-day] Thomas King (1730-1805) took leave of
the stage on 24 May 1802, at Drury Lane, in the part which he had created, Sir Peter
Teazle. Howe notes that King enjoyed several benefits prior to this, and suggests that
329
Hazlitt is thinking of 'the last appearance this season' of Mrs Siddons in The Winter's
Tale five nights earlier (19 May).
5 Thou dearest Perdita . .. curds and cream] from The Winter's Tale, IV. iv. 40-161.
6 Even here undone . .. my ewes and weep] from The Winter's Tale, IV. iv. 441-50.
All's Well that Ends Well

1 Oh, were that all . .. Must sanctify his relics] from All's Well That Ends Well, I. i. 79-98.
2 The soul of this man is in his clothes] from All's Well That Ends Well, II. v. 43-4.
3 the bringing off of his drum] see All's Well That Ends Well, III. vi. and, IV. i.
4 Is it possible ... that he is?] from All's Well That Ends Well, IV. i. 44-5.
5 Yet, I. am thankful . .. I'll after them] from All's Well That Ends Well, IV. iii. 330-40.
6 the story of Frederigo Alberigi and his Falcon] Boccaccio, Decameron, Day 5, 9th story
(Balguy, pp. 311-21).
7 the story of Isabella] Boccaccio, Decameron, Day 4, 5th story (Balguy, pp. 233-6). The
story was known also, of course, to Keats.
8 Tancred and Sigismunda] Boccaccio, Decameron, Day 4, 1st story (Balguy, pp. 209-16).
See also Dryden's Sigismonda and Guiscardo.
9 Honoria] Boccaccio, Decameron, Day 5, 8th story (Balguy, pp. 306-10). See also
Dryden's Theedore and Honoria.
10 Cimon and Iphigene] Boccaccio, Decameron, Day 5, 1st story (Balguy, pp. 265-73). See
also Dryden's Cimon and Iphigenia.
11 Jeronymo]Boccaccio, Decameron, Day 4, 8th story (Balguy, pp. 246-50).
12 the two holiday lovers] i.e. Pasquino and Simona; Boccaccio, Decameron, Day 4, 7th story
(Balguy, pp. 243-5).
13 Griselda] Boccaccio, Decameron, Day 10, 10th story (Balguy, pp. 579-89).
Love's Labour Lost

1 the golden cadences ofpoesy] from Love's Lobour's Lost, IV. ii. 122.
2 set a mark ofreprobation on it] a reference to Pope's footnote keyed to the scene heading
in his edition of The Two Gentlemen of Verona, I. ii:
This whole Scene, like many others in these Plays, (some of which I believe
were written by Shakespear, and others interpolated by the Players) is compos'd
ofthe lowest and most trifling conceits, to be accounted for only from the gross
taste ofthe age he liv'd in; Populo utplacerent. I wish I had authority to leave them
out, but I have done all I could, set a mark of reprobation upon them;
throughout this edition. (Pope, vol. i, p. 157)
3 the logic of Peter Lombard] Petrus Lombardus, died 1164.

4 as too picked . .. as I may call it] from Love's Lobour's Lost, V. i. 12-14.
5 as light as birdj.from brake from A Midsummer Night's Dream, V. i. 394.
6 Of and !forsooth in love ... and some Joan] from Love's Labour's Lost, III. i. 174-205.
7 Oft have I heard of you . .. in an hospitaij from Love's Labour's Lost, V. ii. 841-71.
8 the words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo] from Love's Labour's Lost, V. ii.
930-1.
330
Much Ado About Nothing

1 Oh, my lord ... ere I went to wars] from Much Ado About Nothing, I. i. 296-305.
2 No, Leonato . .. True! 0 God.~ from Much Ado About Nothing, IV. i. 51-62, 66-8.
3 She dying, as it must be so maintain' d ... Than when she /iv' d indeed] from Much Ado About
Nothing, IV. i. 214-30.
4 For look where Beatrice . .. our conference] from Much Ado About Nothing, III. i. 24-5.
5 What.fire is in mine ears? . .. than reportingly] from Much Ado About Nothing, III. i. 106-
116.
6 This can be no trick . .. I do spy some marks cf love in her] from Much Ado About Nothing,
II. iii. 220-45.
7 Disdain and scorn . .. merit purchaseth] from Much Ado About Nothing, III. i. 51-70.
As You Like It
1 .fleet the time . . . golden world] from As You Like It, I. i. 118-19.
2 under the shade of melancholy boughs] from As You Like It, II. vii. 111.
3 who have felt them knowingly] from Cymbeline, III. iii. 46.
4 They hear the tumult, and are stilij 'I behold/ The tumult and am still', Cowper, Task,
iv, II. 99-100.
5 And this their life . .. good in every thing] from As You Like It, II. i. 15-18,
6 suck melancholy . .. as a weasel sucks eggs] from As You Like It, II. v. 12-13.
7 who morals on the time] from As You Like It, II. vii. 29.
8 Out ef these convertites ... heard and learnt] from As You Like It, V. iv. 184-5.
9 In heedless mazes . .. cunning] an inaccurate recollection ofMilton, L'Allegro, II. 141-2.
10 For ever and a day! ... she will do as I do] from As You Like It, IV. i. 145-58.
11 We still have slept together ... inseparable] from As You Like It, I. iii. 73-6.
12 And how like you this . .. against my stomach] from As You Like It, III. ii. 11-21.
13 Zimmerman's celebrated work on Solitude] Johann Georg Zimmermann (1728-95),
physician to George III. Howe comments: 'His Treatise on Solitude (translated 1799)
remained celebrated at least until 1831, when Hood, designing book titles for the
Duke ofDevonshire's library door at Chatsworth, proposed among others: "The Life
of Zimmermann, the author of Solitude. By Himself".'
14 Blow, blow, thou winter's wind] from As You Like It, II. vii. 174.
15 an !fl from As You Like It, V. iv. 101.
16 Think not I love him ... to chide at me?] from As You Like It, III. v. 109-29.
The Taming of the Shrew

1 Think you a little din . . . farmer's.fire?] from The Taming ef the Shrew, I. ii. 199-209.
2 some dozen followers] from 1 Henry IV, II. iv. 174.
3 I'll woo her with some spirit . .. when be married?] from The Taming ef the Shrew, II. i. 169-
80.
4 Tut, she's a lamb, a dove ... never was before] from The Taming ofthe Shrew, III. ii. 157-
82.
5 Good mo"ow,gentle mistress . .. a reverendfather] from The Taming ef the Shrew, IV. v. 27-
48.
331
6 The mathematics, and the metaphysics ... you most qffect] from The Taming of the Shrew,
I. i. 37-40.
7 The Honey-Moon] highly successful play by John Tobin (1770-1804), produced at
Drury Lane, 31 January 1805.
8 Tranio, I saw her coral lips . .. was all I saw in her] from The Taming of the Shrew, I. i. 174-
6.
9 I knew a wench ... and so may you, sir] from The Taming of the Shrew, IV. iv. 99-101.
10 Indifferent well ... would 'twere done] from The Taming of the Shrew, I. i. 253-4.
11 I am Christophero Sly ... lying'st knave in Christendom] from The Taming of the Shrew
Induction, ii. 5-12, 17-24.
12 The Slies are no rogues] from The Taming of the Shrew, Induction, i. 3.
Measure for Measure

1 The height ofmoral a,;gument] an allusion to 'the highth ofthis great argument', Paradise
Lost, bk. i, 1. 24
2 sublimely good] probably an allusion to Pope, Epistle to Dr Arbuthnot, I. 187: 'And he,
whose Fustian's so sublimely bad'. Probably also thinking of Pope, Beattie has
'sublimely sweet', The Minstrel, i, 42, 1. 3.
3 one that apprehends death . .. and to come] from Measure for Measure, IV. ii. 142-4.
4 He has been drinking ... not be hanged that day] a paraphrased recollection of Measurefor
Measure, IV. iii. 53-6.
5 We do not understand why the philosophical German critic, Schlegel . .. 'wretches1 a reference
to Schlegel's comment: 'All kinds of proceedings connected with the subject [of
criminal justice], all sorts of active or passive persons, pass in review before us: the
hypocritical Lord Deputy, the compassionate Provost, and the hard-hearted
Hangman; a young man of quality who is to suffer for the seduction of his mistress
before marriage, loose wretches brought in by the police, nay, even a hardened
criminal whom the preparation for his execution cannot awake out ofhis callousness'
(Schlegel, vol. ii, p. 167).
6 as the.flesh and fortune should serve] from Measure for Measure, II. i. 253-4.
7 A bawd, sir? . .. turn the scale] from Measure for Measure, IV. ii. 28-31.
8 there is some soul ofgoodness in things eviij from Henry V, IV. i. 4.
9 Let me know the point . .. that it becomes a virtue] from Measure for Measure, III. i. 72-91,
93-135.
10 Reason thus with life . .. That makes these odds all even] from Measure for Measure, III. i.
6-41.
The Merry Wives of Windsor

1 commanded to shew the knight in love] a reference to Schlegel's remark: 'This piece is said
to have been composed by Shakspeare, in compliance with the request of Queen
Elizabeth who admired the character ofFalstaff, and wished to see him exhibited once
more, and in love' (Schlegel, vol. ii, p. 229).
2 some faint sparks . .. to set hearers in a roar] a recollection of Hamlet, V. i. 190-1.
3 to eat some of housewife Keach's prawns . .. with such people] a reference to 2 Henry IV, II.
i. 93-6, 99-100.
4 an honest, willing, kindfellow . .. but has hisfault] from The Merry Wives of Windsor, I. iv.
10-15.
332
5 very good discretions, and very odd humours] a highly inaccurate recollection of The Merry
Wives of Windsor, I. i. 44.
6 cholers and his tremblings of mind] from The Merry Wives of Windsor, III. i. 11-12.
The Comedy of Errors

1 How long hath this possession . . . to my own reproo.fl from The Comedy of Errors, V. i. 44-
90.
2 They brought one Pinch ... A living dead man] from The Comedy of Errors, V. i. 238-42.
Doubtful Plays of Shakespear

1 All the editors ... would have remained unknown] Schlegel, vol. ii, pp. 252-9.
2 a lasting storm, hurrying herfrom her friends] a recollection of Pericles, IV. i. 19-20.
Poems and Sonnets

1 as broad and casing as the general air] from Macbeth, III. iv. 22.
2 cooped, and cabined in] 'cabin'd, cribb'd, confin'd', Macbeth, III. iv. 23.
3 glandngfrom heaven to earth,from earth to heaven] from A Midsummer Night's Dream, V.
i. 13.
4 Oh! idle words . .. past all help oflaw] from The Rape of Lucrece, II. 1016-22.
5 Round hoof'd ... so proud a back] from Venus and Adonis, II. 295-300.
6 And their heads . .. the morning dew] from A Midsummer Night's Dream, IV. i. 120--1.
7 Constancy] Sonnet 25.
8 Love's Consolation] Sonnet 29.
9 Novelty] Sonnet 102.
10 Life's Decay] Sonnet 73.
333
BOOKS REFERRED TO IN THE NOTES
TOVOLUME 1
This list does not repeat details of items listed on the Abbreviations page or in the notes.
Beattie,James, The Minstrel; or, The Progress of Genius: and Other Poems (1816)
Chaucer, Geoffrey, The Complete Works of Geeffrey Chaucer, ed. F. N. Robinson
(2nd edn., Oxford, 197 4)
Congreve, William, The Complete Plays of William Congreve, ed. Herbert Davis
(Chicago, 1967)
Cowley, Abraham, Essays, Plays and Sundry Verses, ed. A. R. Waller (Cambridge,
1906)
Cowper, William, The Poems of William Couper, ed. John D. Baird and Charles
Ryskamp (3 vols., Oxford, 1980-95)
Denham, Sir John, The Poetical Works of SirJohn Denham, ed. Theodore Howard
Banks (2nd edn., New York, 1969)
Dryden, John, Poems, ed. James Kinsley (4 vols., Oxford, 1958)
Gray, Thomas, and William Collins, Poetical Works, ed. Roger Lonsdale (Oxford,
1977)
Leigh Hunt, James Henry, The Poetical Works of Leigh Hunt, ed. H. S. Milford
(Oxford, 1923)
Milton, John, The Poems of Milton, ed. John Carey and Alastair Fowler (Harlow,
1968)
Pope, Alexander, Imitations ofHorace, ed. John Butt (2nd edn., London and New
Haven, 1961)
- - , Pastoral Poetry and An Essay on Criticism, ed. E. Audra and Aubrey Williams
(London and New Haven, 1961)
- - , The Dunciad, ed. James Sutherland (3rd edn., London and New Haven, 1963)
Prior, Matthew, Poems on Several Occasions, ed. A. R. Waller (Cambridge, 1941)
Thomson, James, Liberty, The Castle of Indolence, and Other Poems, ed. James
Sambrook (Oxford, 1986)
Shakespeare, William, The Riverside Shakespeare: Second Edition, ed. G. Blakemore
Evans with the assistance ofJ. J. M. Tobin (Boston and New York, 1997)
Wordsworth, William, Poems in Two Volumes, and Other Poems, 1800-1807, ed.
Jared Curtis (Ithaca, NY, 1985)
- - , Shorter Poems, 1807-1820, ed. Carl H. Ketcham (Ithaca, NY, t 989)
- - , The Borderers, ed. Robert Osborn (Ithaca, NY, 1982)
Young, Edward, Night Thoughts, ed. Stephen Cornford (Cambridge, 1989)
334

The Selected Writings of William Hazlitt. An Essay On The Priciples of Human Action Characters of Shakespeare's Plays. Edited by Duncan Wu

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The Selected Writings of William Hazlitt. An Essay On The Priciples of Human Action Characters of Shakespeare's Plays. Edited by Duncan Wu

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THE PICKERING MASTERS

THE SELECTED WRITINGS OF WILLIAM HAZLITT

THE SELECTED WRITINGS OF WILLIAM HAZLITT

Consulting Editors: David Bromwich

Copyright ©Taylor & Francis 1998

ISBN 13: 978-1-13876-320-3 (hbk) (vol-01)

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Contents of the edition vu

General introduction by Tom Paulin x1

Introductory notes liii

AN ESSAY ON THE PRINCIPLES OF HUMAN ACTION 1

CHARACTERS OF SHAKESPEAR'S PLAYS 83

Henry IV, in two parts 186

APPENDIX: Hazlitt's Review of Schlegel 271

THE ROUND TABLE (1817)

A VIEW OF THE ENGLISH STAGE (1818)

POLITICAL ESSAYS (1819)

LECTURES ON THE ENGLISH COMIC WRITERS (1819)

TABLE TALK (1821-2)

LIBER AMORIS (1823)

THE PLAIN SPEAKER (1826)

UNCOLLECTED ESSAYS (c.1805-30)

In a long essay on William Hazlitt, published in the Comhill Magazine in 1877,

Shrewdly, though, Stephen notices the application ofhis philosophical idealism in

I do not know if I have much natural piety in my constitution, but Dr Channing

This passage is uncannily close to Eliot's 'dissociation of sensiblity', as was spotted

word 'sensuous' as a way of defining what late nineteenth-century Unitarianism

As so often, Shakespeare becomes the standard of Romantic sublimity and genius,

republican's celebration of the Allied victory.

But thy most dreaded instrument,

By alluding to this passage, Hazlitt is recognizingjust how completely Wordsworth

this guest of summer,

This, in a sense, is Hazlitt's answer to Stephen: he is saying that however much he

It is a curious speculation to take a modern belle, or some accomplished female

'plodding, persevering, scrupulous acuracy' of Jonathan Edwards's writing, he

I was with Hercules and Cadmus once,

My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind,

awe the world with the majeety of ber •PP"'·

Figure 1: Hazlitt's corrected page-proof for Characters of Shakespear's Plays (1817), by

P. P. Howe: Centenary Edition of Hazlitt's Works

nearly 30 years. 16 This is not, of course, surprising, because, as Howe himself

1 I must pay tribute to Barbara Rosenbaum, whose exemplary study of Hazlitt's

An Essay on the Principles

This volume comes before us very abruptly. Without preface, dedication,

Characters of Shakespear's Plays (1817)

It is true he [i.e. Shakespeare] was not actuated by an envious hatred ofgreatness; he

Russell concludes that Hazlitt is

BEING AM ARGUMENT IN FAVOUR OP

SOME REMARKS ONTHE SYSTEMS Of

HARTLEY AND HELVETIUS.

An Argument in Defence of the Natural Disinterestedness

connection between my present and future self, in consequence of which I am

* It is a gross mistake to consider all habit as necessarily depending on association of ideas. We

/ ceased it continues to be thought of and is afterwards recollected as pain, or in

* See the last note but one.

Antony. Eros thou yet behold'st me.

past impremons connecting them together in one uniform or regular train of

suffice to make them understand the truth or rightly conceive my meaning.'*

* Berkeley's Essay on Vision. 8

the same, as then it is impossible to mistake the true principle on which it is

supposition to be dwelt on for a moment. I do not will that to be which already

ofimagination and sympathy, the same illusion / and preposterous transposition of

* See Preface to Wordsworth's Poems. 12